The Tears of Kas̆dael

It was well past midday before Lord Barbaru departed, leaving Tēmānu to look over their 'plans' alone. The situation was less than encouraging. Lord Akkû was more deeply intertwined in the social fabric of Kār-Apû than Tēmānu had realized and, even if he were not, his nephew had a legitimate claim - arguably the best claim - to the now vacant throne.

Preventing his ascension would be a difficult and, truth be told, Tēmānu was uncertain if it was a task he should even attempt. The political situation was already volatile enough; two rulers had been assassinated in short order, and if there was any hope of a third surviving long enough to stabilize their realm, they would need to have a broad measure of popular support. Not that that helped Ḫaḫḫuru much.

It was unfortunate that the best claimant would likely have a personal grudge against him, but it was Tēmānu's duty as an ambassador to act in the best interests of the Empire, not his own. If I resigned, Lord Akkû and his nephew would probably still be willing to work with the Empire. But if I do…

Tēmānu's gaze shifted to the letter his brother had sent him, the letter he was still too angry to finish reading, and, in that moment, he knew he couldn't resign, duty be cursed. Besides, he rationalized, Lord Akkû has already shown his willingness to act against me, the Empire's representative, over a petty grudge before he held any real power; if he becomes the man behind the throne, can we really rely on him to behave any better?

He knew it was a sketchy argument, but with enough shreds of truth to temporarily assuage his guilt as he rose from the table, and, fetching his coat, headed for the door.

Brilliant sunlight flooded into the dark hall of the embassy as he flung the door open and glanced down at the doorstep, where just a few hours earlier, Ḫaḫḫuru had died. The cleaners, whoever they were, had done an excellent job; not even a trace of blood remained on the smooth granite steps, but it still felt wrong to walk on them.

Murmuring a prayer to the Lady of Last Light for the man's soul, Tēmānu skirted the edge of the steps and down the garden path toward the road. But he was met with an unpleasant surprise when he reached the gate.

A dozen men guarded it, clad in the colors of the royal guard. "What's this for?" He asked as he reached for the latch on the gate, but one of the guards barred his way while the others clustered around him. "By order of the king, all foreigners are confined to their quarters for a sennight."

The king was dead - this Tēmānu knew for certain - but it was clear who was behind the order. Has Lord Akkû already sunk his fangs into the government? "And why, exactly, are foreigners to be confined?" He asked coldly.

The guard shrugged insouciantly and spat on the ground near Tēmānu's feet. "They say our lord's illness came from the ports; wouldn't want anyone else catching what our lord has, eh?"

It was a tremendously stupid idea; thanks to the harsh winters of the region, the Strythani relied on foreign grain to feed them. The foreign merchants might not be able to protest militarily, but wealth was its own form of power, and the clans would regret it very quickly if they pissed them off. But Tēmānu was skeptical that the supposed order was even real.

As his gaze swept over the group of guards that gathered around him like a bunch of thugs, he spied a familiar face - a man with ears two sizes too large for his head and a mole on his left cheek. He was one of Lord Akkû's guards at the wedding, wasn't he?

His hand twitched as the realization dawned on him, and an eddy of wind sprang to life at his feet as his essence stirred. If Lord Akkû thought Tēmānu would quietly sit aside while he grasped power, the Strythani noble was an even greater fool than he had thought. Royal order or not, the fundamental truth was that the laws of the Strythani did not apply to an ambassador of the Empire, and it was an insult to even attempt it.

"How unfortunate for the merchants," he replied dryly. "However, I have places to be. Step aside, boys."

The guards seemed wholly unaware of the wind stirring around him as they closed him in, cutting him off from the gate. "As I said," the arrogant one replied, "the king has ordered-"

"The king," Tēmānu sneered, "has no authority over me, so unless you wish to pick a fight with the Empire, you will step aside."

The men exchanged uncertain glances, and several took a step away, but the guard barring the gate refused to budge. "You think you're so high and mighty, but we see you for what you are. A crippled messenger for a crippled emp-"

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Confusion and terror filled the guard's eyes as he tried, and failed, to continue speaking until, with a wet thwop, his head slid off his shoulders, sliced through by a wind blade so fine the others hadn't even seen it.

Tēmānu felt his stomach revolt, but choked the vomit down, knowing he couldn't afford to show any weakness. "Does anyone else have any aspersions they wish to add? Any more lies you wish to pile on?" He asked coldly.

None of the guards could meet his eyes, backing away in horror from the now headless corpse at his feet. "Good," he spat out, "then go." The guards broke into a run, but as the man with the mole ran past him, Tēmānu's arm snaked out. "Hold," he commanded.

The guard whirled around like a wild man, eyes wide with fear as he slashed his knife at Tēmānu's gut, but a burst of wind blocked the blow, sending his dagger spinning harmlessly into the garden. "I know you're not the royal guard - no, don't try to deny it," Tēmānu growled as the man struggled to twist his arm free. "But I need you to give your lord a message."

As the realization that he wasn't about to be killed sank in, the man calmed down. "I-I don't know that I can do that; my lord-"

"Find a way," Tēmānu interrupted him flatly. "And tell Lord Akkû this: I will overlook his foolishness today if he desists from any further attempts. If your lord can set aside his personal animosities and work with the Empire and me, I will not interfere in the outcome of Lord Ḫaḫḫuru's 'illness' - but I will not stand by and watch idly as an enemy of the Empire ascends the throne. Understand?"

"I-I can't say that - he'll kill me," the guard protested.

"Then he'll have made his choice." Tēmānu lifted his hand, and, manifesting an eddy of wind around his fingers, floated it over to the man. "The winds shall follow you, and if you do not tell him, I will know," he lied brazenly, but the guard bought it. With a frenzied bob of his head, the man bolted down the street as soon as Tēmānu released him, the smell of fresh urine wafting in his wake.

Tēmānu watched him go, waiting until all of the guards had disappeared down the street before losing his breakfast in the nearby bushes. "This day just keeps getting better and better," he grumbled as he wiped the vomit out of his mouth and stared down at the dead thug.

It was a shame he'd had to kill the man; the guard was nothing more than a pawn in a fool's game, but when he'd impugned the honor of the Empire, Tēmānu had been forced to act. They could not allow themselves to be slandered without response, could not allow themselves to be seen as weak - especially not from their so-called allies.

With a sigh, he stepped around the body, leaving it for the servants to collect and headed down the street. As he'd expected, when he reached the port, he found the merchants open as usual, though their cries were a bit more subdued than normal. It only made the situation worse; Akkû had been foolish to directly target him, the living, breathing embodiment of the Empire, instead of a blanket order against foreigners that could have been arguably defended as neutral.

In any case, it told him everything he needed to know. Lord Akkû could not be relied on to act reasonably, and the thin hopes he'd had of riding out the succession as a neutral party were inescapably dashed. But though he'd spent the morning debating other claimants with Lord Barbaru, there weren't any he felt reasonably confident throwing his weight behind. There was one claimant, though, that hadn't been on the list - one that if he truly was who he claimed, none could stand against.

His feet turned unbidden toward the temple, and when he arrived, he was hardly surprised to find the priest waiting for him outside. "Have you come to give your offerings?"

"You could say that," he replied wryly. The two climbed the stairs in silence, not speaking until they had entered the temple's dark sanctum.

"They say the king is ill," he finally ventured. "A curious illness, though, to allow a man to die on my steps last night, and yet continue to give orders."

The massive priest cocked his head, amusement in his eyes. "There are many strange sicknesses these days, but I know little of this one."

Tēmānu wasn't certain if he believed him. While he knew the Ilrabû bore little love for the current king, the demigod had not struck him as one fond of intrigue and subtlety. Still, he had seemed to have a surprisingly good pulse on events in the capital, which made him doubt the Ilrabû hadn't seen it coming. "Is there no word, then, from whence this strange illness came?"

"Twas not us," the priest shrugged, "but perhaps if you ask the merchants of House Zâru, you'll find your answer."

Tēmānu had his answer. Zâru was a minor house, a known affiliate of Akkû; there was no way they had acted on their own. Even his own allies back-stabbed him, he thought, with a sudden burst of pity for Ḫaḫḫuru. "Then you know who stands poised to seize the crown if, gods forbid, the king's illness takes him."

"Does he?" The priest grinned. "Tell me, servant of the Empire, how much do you know of our succession rites?"

Having spent the whole morning discussing them with Barbaru, Tēmānu was more than able to answer. "It's not exactly dynastic, but near enough. Though a council of the clans is called to make a decision, they almost always pick a child of the last king, or if none exists, their closest adult relative. Perhaps a few votes can be bought or swayed for one of the more distant claimants, but Lord Akkû's nephew has a clear advantage."

"The council is not the only one with a say," the priest countered. "After their vote, the chosen successor is sent to the temples to receive their blessing. And if a temple chooses not to offer its blessing, they have the right to propose their own candidate."

"Lord Barbaru didn't mention that," Tēmānu frowned, "and I find it hard to believe he wouldn't know about it if it was something that regularly happened."

"It may have been a few centuries since the last time their right was invoked," the priest shrugged, "but the law has never been changed. When the time comes, my lord will cast his name into the ring - and you will have your chance to prove your worth."