Demon King by Chris Bunch Read Free Book Online

painting leaning against the wall. Amboina stood and bowed, while Marán gave me a quick and formal kiss on the lips.
    “The landgrave has a present for us,” Marán said, “and was kind enough to keep me company while I was waiting for you.” She turned and indicated the painting. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
    I don’t know if beautiful was the word for it. Awesome certainly was. It was about ten feet long by eight feet high, in an ornately carved wooden frame that was stained black and a very dark scarlet. I guessed I was grateful I was now rich enough, courtesy of the Seer Tenedos and my wife, to have several palaces with walls large — and sturdy — enough to hang the piece.
    In the foreground was a moil of humanity, from peasants to lords, in marvelously tiny depictions of the life of Numantia and many of our provinces, from the jungles of the west to the high deserts of the east. Behind this landscape was the Wheel, turning, ever turning. To one side was Irisu, judging; to the other was Saionji, sweeping her taloned fingers across the landscape, bringing fresh deaths — and then rebirth — to the Wheel.
    Behind all was a brooding, bearded figure that could only be Umar the Creator. Perhaps he was considering the splendor of what he’d created, perhaps about to destroy all and begin once more. Around these gods flocked many of their manifestations: the Guardians, with Aharhel the God Who Speaks to Kings in front, then the gods and goddesses of fire, earth, air, water, and many more.
    I had to admire the hours, perhaps years, of work the artist had put into his work. But it, like other paintings and carvings, did little for me. If I am to love art, it should show something I am familiar with, perhaps a scene of a jungle farm in Cimabue or, better, a map from one of my campaigns. Such an admission no doubt brands me as a peasant, and so I am. Only music, of all the arts, has ever had power to move me.
    I stared at this painting while dark thoughts grew within me. I turned back.
    “It is very impressive, Landgrave. What made you choose to give it to us?”
    Before Amboina could say anything, Marán spoke, and her voice was nervous.
    “It’s called
The Judging
, and it’s by one of Kallio’s most famous artists, a man named Mulugueta, who died over a hundred years ago. There are already two of his paintings at Irrigon. Damastes, isn’t it wonderful? Won’t it look nice with the others at Irrigon … or maybe at the Water Palace?”
    I took a deep breath. “Excuse me, my dear. But I still don’t understand. Landgrave, where did this come from?”
    “From the estate of Lord Tasfai Birru,” the landgrave said.
    “I know him not,” I said. “When did he die, and why did he choose to leave such a work to me? Has he no family or heirs?”
    Amboina laughed tentatively, as if I’d told a poor jest. His laughter died when he saw I wasn’t joking. I decided I didn’t like him.
    “He is still alive, Count Agramónte.”
    “You may refer to me as Tribune rather than Count, since that title has precedence over all, especially in Kallio at this time.”
    “My apologies, Tribune. As I was saying, Lord Birru is alive, although I predict he’ll return to the Wheel within the next two weeks. At present he’s held in this fortress’s dungeon, charged with treason. There’s only one verdict imaginable.”
    “I see. And this belongs to him?” I asked.
    “Belonged. It, along with the rest of his estate, will become the property of the state. After a percentage is sent to the emperor, the remainder will be disposed of by an official chosen by Prince Reufern. Of late, he has been delegating this rather exacting task to me.”
    “Forgive me,” I said, “for appearing a bit thick. But isn’t it Numantian law that no man’s property may be seized, whether land, slaves, or a painting, until he has been convicted?”
    Amboina smiled, and there was more than a bit of gloating in his expression. “Such
is
the law,