Z - Zinn

“My lord Ambassador, there is news from Vaudekai.” The young woman did not enter the darkened bedchamber, choosing instead to call Stayven Zinn from the doorway. Stayven allowed himself to chuckle at that. The staff was learning. In the year since the cataclysm, he had found very little to his amusement. Often, a soiled bedpan greeted their interruptions. “A messenger awaits,” the page continued.

“Bring my chair,” he spat. “And my nurse.” He rolled to his side with some difficulty and spent some time trying to catch his breath. He wheezed and coughed, leaving specks of blood on his graying sheets. He wasn’t sure of the time, but could see white light behind his thick curtains, showing that it was well into the morning. Within minutes, a staff of orderlies appeared, bearing buckets of hot water and towels, a stack of fresh robes. With just one arm, a traditional tunic was of little use to him. He was cleaned and wrapped, and carefully placed in the wheelchair.

“Wine,” he said, and a glass appeared without hesitation. They had a full glass at the ready. Had this become a habit, that they should be so prepared? He vowed to pay closer attention to how he presented to others. But that was for a different morning. “Where is my messenger?”

The page appeared at his elbow. “In the salon, my lord. He was . . . famished.”

He grunted. The hunger of a messenger was of no surprise. Fatigue and want was often the sign of dedication, of a man or woman who would put their bodily needs behind those of the mission. Such self-sacrifice was to be applauded. “Take me to him,” Stayven commanded.

“As you desire,” the page said, taking her place behind the chair. Silently, she wheeled the broken ambassador through the Andikeran capital building.

“You are quite privileged, you know. What is your name?”

“Tsanka, my lord,” she said. “Tsanka Alega.”

“Tsanka?” Stayven craned his neck to get a better look at the girl. She was thin, wiry, with sandy brown skin, freckled with black, and long black hair. “That is a . . . your family is Bankeut?”

She smiled and nodded. “We are. Though I am the second generation to live in the capitol.”

Stayven huffed. “Never could stomach the Bankeut,” he said. “Your people drip honey from their tongues while they sharpen knives in the darkness of their dungeons.”

To his surprise, the girl laughed. “My people are cunning. My people are brave. And my people survive,” she said. “And we never had much use for you Padulans, either.”

“Take me to the messenger,” Stayven huffed. “And be quick about it.”

“Yes, my lord.” Stayven fumed as the Banekut orderly wheeled him through the long, polished corridors of the Andikeran capitol. A girl such as herself never would have mocked him before . . . before Vaudekai. The halls bustled with people rushing about to the duties of running their world. None gave any notice to Stayven, often blocking his way be it intentionally or not. He had fallen greatly since the fall. Since that blasted song which brought her own city down on his head. But now, the messenger held his redemption. His return to power. His body may have been crushed, but his mind was still sharp. And with this victory, he would return.

They found the messenger with his face nearly buried in a bowl of carterait and dumplings. The smell of it sent Stayven’s stomach to quiver. He adored the dish, a local favorite of Andikeran, but his stomach was still sour from last night’s wine.

The messenger behind the long table was no more than a boy, before his sixteenth birthday. He was filthy, his arms bedecked with scratches and cuts, and a crust of black blood matted light hair to the side of a gaunt, angular face. The page wheeled Stayven to the table, startling the boy, who jumped to attention.

“What news?” Stayven asked without preamble. The boy knew what he was here to say and needed not instruction.

“My lord . . .” The boy appeared shocked by Stayven’s appearance; the broken body being wheeled through the capitol’s grand halls.

“Tell me of Vaudekai,” Stayven said. He sought patience within himself. He turned to the page. “You. Bring the boy some wine.” She nodded and rushed off, leaving Stayven alone with the messenger. “Now, speak,” he said.

The boy wiped his face with his forearm, leaving a streak of black across his chin. And no doubt carterait gravy on his arm.

“Vaudekai . . . it . . .,” he stammered. “It was a slaughter, sir,” he said. “They are all dead.”

“Excellent,” Stayven smiled. He had planned and waited for months for this moment, to hear that Vaudekai had fallen. “That is excellent news. And when does my army return?”

“No, it is not that.” The boy’s eyes grew large, and he searched about the room, as if looking for help. But there would be none coming. “I’m sorry, my lord,” he said. “But I think you misunderstood me. It was your army that was slaughtered. I am all that is left.”

“I sent five thousand warriors,” Stayven said. “Five thousand of the capitol’s best soldiers. And you want me to believe . . .” he struggled to right himself in the chair, Tsanka assisting him with a hand under his good arm. “You wish me to believe that they are all gone?”

The boy winced. “I am afraid so,” he said.

“All of them!!?” Stayven’s shout echoed across the chamber, drawing glares from others in the room.

“It . . . it is possible . . .,” the boy stammered. “Some few may have survived as I did.”

“And how was that? Tell me how it was that you survived when the rest of my army died.”

The boy glanced around the room, looking for help. Finding none, he spoke. “By hiding, sir. By hiding, and running.”

“By hiding and running.” Stayven exhaled slowly. “Of course. Of course you did.” He pressed fingers to his head. “By Arn’s seedy grace, that Dailess woman will be my death. She will finish me off without ever leaving her city.”

“Yes, my lord,” Tsanka said behind him.

Stayven turned to look at the girl. She was still so young. But there was fire in her eyes. “Are you armed?”

“Of course, my lord. I am Bankeut.”

“Yes, yes. I should have known.” He cleared his throat, then gestured toward the messenger. “Kill the coward boy,” he said.

“What?” The boy stepped back, startled. Tsanaka took a step forward, and a knife flashed from her wrist, embedding itself in the boy’s chest. He collapsed into his chair, and Tsanka stepped forward. Without hesitation, she drew the knife from the boy and finished him with a single cut across the throat.

“Yes, my lord,” Tsanka said. She wiped the blade on the boy’s clothing, then returned to Stayven’s side.

He nodded at her, an idea blooming in his mind. His body was wrecked. But hers was young and strong. With his will, and her skill, something new might be born.

“Return me to my chambers,” he commanded, the messenger and his news forgotten. “And stay close to me. I have such further use for you.”

“Yes, my lord,” Tsanka said, and wheeled him from the room.

* * *

#AtoZChallenge