There were guards on the doors, as there always were. Ostensibly paid by all five Stones, but Irrien’s men in truth. That was why they crossed their pikes in challenge, a small reminder to any lesser Stone of their place.
“Who goes?” one called.
Ulren smiled at that. “The new First Stone of Felldust.”
He had a moment to see the shock in their eyes before his men stepped from the dust, raising their crossbows. He did not have the sheer weight of arms that Irrien did or the cunning spies of Vexa, the wealth of Kas or the noble friends of Borion, but he had enough of each, and now, finally, he had the boldness to use them.
He enjoyed the sight of crossbow bolts feathering the guards’ chests after they’d held him back so many times. It was petty, but this was a moment to give in to pettiness. This was the moment when he got to do everything he’d ever wanted.
He opened the door with his key, stepping inside into the light of the tower. What did it say about the city that the lamp smoke–filled air inside was still better than that outdoors? Still, even that seemed sweet today.
“Be swift,” he said to the men and women who followed. “Strike quickly.”
They spread out, the gleam of their weapons dulled with lamp black. When guards came from one of the corridors, they leapt forward in silence, striking out. Ulren didn’t stop to watch the blood and the death. Right then, none of that mattered.
He set off up the seemingly endless flights of stairs that led to the top chamber. He’d done this so many times now, and each time, it had been in the expectation that he would be there as a lesser thing, second or third or less in a city where the First of Five was the one place that mattered.
That was the cruel joke of the city, in Ulren’s eyes. Everyone fighting to be on top, five working in concert, but everyone knew that the First Stone was the strongest. Ulren had been plotting to be First for so long that he couldn’t remember a time when he’d wanted anything else.
He’d been cautious, even though this should always have been his. He’d built his power, starting with the lands of his family but adding to them, tending his resources the way a gardener might have tended a plant. He’d been so patient, so very patient. He’d worked himself to the very edge of taking the First Stone’s seat.
Then Irrien had come along, and he’d had to be patient again.
Around Ulren, the killings continued as he climbed. Servants in the First Stone’s colors died, cut down by his men. No hesitation, no remorse. Felldust was a land where even an innocent-looking slave might hold a dagger, hoping to advance.
A soldier charged from the shadows, and Ulren grappled with him, looking for leverage.
The man was strong, although maybe that was simply age weighing against him. Ulren found that his body ached now when he’d been in the training ring in his home, and the slave girls who’d once come to him quite willingly now had to hide their looks of disgust and dismay. There were days when he walked into rooms and could barely remember why he’d bothered.
But he’d lost none of his cunning. He turned with the force of the other man’s rush, hooking his foot behind his attacker’s leg and pushing with what strength he had. The soldier stumbled, and then tumbled, going head over heels down the spiral stairs that led up the five-sided tower. Ulren left him for his warriors to finish. It was enough that he hadn’t seemed weak.
“Everything is in place in the rest of the city?” he asked Travlen, the priest who had given up his order to walk beside him.
“Yes, my lord. Your warriors are hitting those of Irrien’s people who remain in the city even as we speak. A number of his business enterprises have offered to come over to your side, while in those that haven’t, I’m told the slaughter has been enough to please the gods themselves.”
Ulren nodded. “That’s good. Accept any who wish to join us, then see who can replace the ones who run them. I have no time for traitors.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Gods,” Ulren said, “will these stairs never end?”
Another man might have considered moving the heart of Felldust’s power once he had control of it, but Ulren knew better than that. In a land such as this, tradition was just one more way of keeping control.
They reached the highest floor, where servants and slaves cut fruit and carried water, waiting on any whim of the other Stones. Ulren stood there, his warriors spreading out around him.
“Are any here slaves or servants of the First Stone?” he demanded.
Some moved forward. How could they do anything else? Irrien had abandoned them here. Perhaps he wanted them in place when he came back. Perhaps he simply didn’t care. Ulren surveyed the men and women who stood there. He imagined that Irrien would be savoring the fear on their faces right then. He’d spent enough time around the First Stone to know exactly what kind of man his rival was.
Ulren simply didn’t care. “From this moment, you are all my slaves. My men will determine which of you are worth keeping, and which will be given to the temples for sacrifice.”
“But I am a free man,” one of the servants there complained.
Ulren stepped in and stabbed him with a serrated blade, up through the sternum and then out of his back.
“A free man who chose the wrong side. Does anyone else wish to die?”
They knelt instead. Ulren ignored them, stepping over to the great double doors that marked the main entrance to the council chamber. There were other entrances, one for each of the Stones. It was meant to show their independence. It certainly gave them a way to run if it came to it.
He didn’t think that they would run from this, though. Not if he did it properly. Ulren signaled for his people to hang back and wait. There were ways to do these things. It was something that Irrien had never understood, being a barbarian from the dust. It was the one advantage that the Second Stone had over the First, and he intended to make the most of it.
He held out his hand, and one of his servants passed him his dark robes of office. Ulren wrapped them around himself, keeping the hood pushed back as he made his way to the doors. The bloody sword was still in his hand. It was better to be clear about what this was.
He stepped over to one of the high windows there, looking out over the city. The dust made it hard to see anything, but he could imagine what would be happening below. Warriors would be moving through the streets, hunting those Irrien had left behind. Criers would be following them, proclaiming the change. Thugs would be telling merchants whom they now owed their taxes to. The city was shifting beneath that dust, and Ulren had made certain that it would shift his way.
Even so, he was cautious. He’d been ready to take the First Stone’s seat once before. He’d prepared the strongest mercenaries, built up a stock of secrets, only to find an upstart taking the throne before he could get to it.
Who had been the First Stone then? Maxim? Thessa? It was hard to remember, the rulership of the city had shifted so often in those days. The only part that mattered was that Irrien had come in and taken what should have been his. Ulren had survived by accepting that. Now, the First Stone had overreached, and it was time to do more.
He stepped into the room where the Five Stones made their decisions. The others were there already, as he’d hoped they would be. Kas was stroking his trident beard in worry. Vexa was reading through a report. Borion had the bravado of a man who knew that there was trouble.
“What is this?” he asked.
Ulren didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “I have decided to challenge Irrien for his seat.”
He watched the others’ reactions.