“Meaning me,” Kickaha said.
Clatatol nodded. “I do not know why these people should want you so greatly. Do you?”
Kickaha said, “No. I could guess. But I won’t. My speculations would only confuse you and take much time. The first thing for me is to get out and away. And that, my love, is where you come in.”
“Now you love me,” she said.
“If there were time …” he replied.
“I can hide you where we will have all the time we need,” she said. “Of course, there are the others …”
Kickaha had been wondering if she was holding back. He wasn’t in a position to get rough with her, but he did. He gripped her wrist and squeezed. She grimaced and tried to pull away.
“What others?”
“Quit hurting me, and I’ll tell. Maybe. Give me a kiss, and I’ll tell for sure.”
It was worthwhile to spend a few seconds, so he kissed her. The perfume from her mouth filled his nostrils and seemingly filtered down to the ends of his toes. He felt heady and began wondering if perhaps she didn’t deserve a reward after all this time.
He laughed then and gently released himself.
“You are indeed the most beautiful and desirable woman I have ever seen and I have seen a thousand times a thousand,” he said. “But death walks the streets, and he is looking for me.”
“When you see this other woman …” she said.
She became coy again, and then he had to impress upon her that coyness automatically meant pain for her. She did not resent this, liked it, in fact, since, to her, erotic love meant a certain amount of roughness and pain.
CHAPTER FIVE
It seemed that three strangers had fled from the inmost parts of the temple of Ollimaml a few minutes ahead of von Turbat. They were white-skinned, also. One was the black haired woman whom Clatatol, a very jealous and deprecating woman, nevertheless said was the most beautiful she had ever seen. Her companions were a huge, very fat man and a short skinny man. All three were dressed strangely and none spoke Tishquetmoac. They did speak Wishpawaml, the liturgical language of the priests. Unfortunately, the thieves who had hidden the three knew only a few words of Wishpawaml; these were from the responses of the laity during services.
Kickaha knew then that the three were Lords. The liturgical language everywhere on this world was theirs.
Their flight from von Turbat indicated that they had been dispossessed of their own universes and had taken refuge in this. But what was the minor king, von Turbat, doing in an affair that involved Lords?
Kickaha said, “Is there a reward for these three?”
“Yes. Ten thousand kwatluml. A piece! For you, thirty thousand, and a high official post in the palace of the emperor. Perhaps, though this is only hinted at, marriage into the royal family.”
Kickaha was silent. Clatatol’s stomach rumbled, as if ruminating the reward offers. Voices fluttered weakly through the air shafts in the ceiling. The room, which had been cool, was hot. Sweat seeped from his armpits; the woman’s dark-brass skin hatched brass tadpoles. From the middle chamber, the kitchen-washroom-toilet, came gurgles of running water and little watery voices.
“You must have fainted at the thought of all that money,” Kickaha said finally. “What’s keeping you and your gang from collecting?”
“We are thieves and smugglers, killers even, but we are not traitors! The pinkfaces offered these …”
She stopped when she saw Kickaha grinning. She grinned back. “What I said is true. However, the sums are enormous! What made us hesitate, if you must know, you wise coyote, was what would happen after the pinkfaces left. Or if there is a revolt. We don’t want to be torn to pieces by a mob or tortured because some people might think we were traitors.”
“Also …?”.
She smiled and said, “Also, the three refugees have offered to pay us many times over what the pinkfaces offer if we get them out of the city.”
“And how will they do that?” Kickaha said. “They haven’t got a universe to their name.”
“What?”
“Can they offer you anything tangible—right now?”
“All were wearing jewels worth more than the rewards,” she said. “Some—I’ve never seen anything like them. They’re out of this world!”
Kickaha did not tell her that the cliche was literally true.
He was going to ask her if they had weapons but realized that she would not have recognized them as such if the three did have them. Certainly, the three wouldn’t offer the information to their captors.
“And what of me?” he said, not asking her what the three had offered beyond their jewels.
“You, Kickaha, are beloved of the Lord, or so it is said. Besides, everybody says that you know where the treasures of the earth are hidden. Would a man who is poor have brought back the great emerald of Oshquatsmu?”
Kickaha said, “The pinkfaces will be banging on your doors soon enough. This whole area is going to be unraveled. Where do we go from here?”
Clatatol insisted that he let her blindfold him and then cover him with a hood. In no position to argue, he agreed. She made sure he could not see and then turned him swiftly around a dozen times. After that, he got down on all fours at her order.
There was a creaking sound, stone turning on stone, and she guided him through a passageway so narrow he scraped against both sides. Then he stood and, his hand in hers, stumbled up 150 steps, walked 280 paces down a slight decline, went down a ramp 300 paces, and walked 40 more on a straightway. Clatatol stopped him and removed the hood and blindfold.
He blinked. He was in a round green-and-black striated chamber with a forty foot diameter and a three foot wide air shaft above. Flames writhed at the ends of torches in wall fixtures. There were chairs of jade and wood, some chests, piles of cloth bolts and furs, barrels of spices, a barrel of water, a table with dishes, biscuits, meat, stinking cheese, and some sanitation furniture.
Six Tishquetmoac men squatted against the wall. Their glossy black bangs fell over their eyes. Some smoked little cigars. They were armed with daggers, swords, and hatchets.
Three fair-skinned people sat in chairs. One was short, gritty-skinned, large-nosed, and shark-mouthed. The second was a manatee of a man, spilling over the chair in cataracts of fat.
On seeing the third, Kickaha gasped. He said, “Podarge!”
The woman was the most beautiful he had ever seen. But he had seen her before. That is, the face was in his past. But the body did not belong to that face.
“Podarge!” he said again, speaking the debased Mycenaean she and her eagles used. “I didn’t know that Wolff had taken you from your harpy’s body and put you—your brain—in a woman’s body. I …”
He stopped. She was looking at him with an unreadable expression/Perhaps she did not want him to let the others know what had happened. And he, usually silent when the situation asked for it, had been so overcome that …
But Podarge had discovered that Wolff was in reality the Jadawin who had originally kidnapped her from the Peloponnese of 3,200 years ago and put her brain into the body of a Harpy created in his biolab. She had refused to let him rectify the wrong; she hated him so much that she had stayed in her winged bird-legged body and had sworn to get revenge upon him.
What had made her change her mind?
Her voice, however, was not Podarge’s. That, of course, would be the result of the soma transfer.
“What are you gibbering about, leblabbiy?” she said in the speech of the Lords.
Kickaha felt like hitting her in the face. Leblabbiy was the Lords’ perjorative for the human beings who inhabited their universes and over whom they godded it. Leblabbiy had been a small pet animal of the universe in which the Lords had originated. It ate the delicacies which its master offered, but it would also eat excrement at the first chance. And it often went mad.
“All right, Podarge, pretend you don’t understand Mycenaean,” he said. “But watch your tongue. I have
no love for you.”
She seemed surprised. She said, “Ah, you are a priest?” Wolff, he had to admit, had certainly done a perfect job on her. Her body was magnificent; the skin as white and flawless as he remembered it; the hair as long, black, straight, and shining. The features, of course, were not perfectly regular; there was a slight asymmetry which resulted in a beauty that under other circumstances would have made him ache.
She was dressed in silky-looking light green robes and sandals, almost as if she had been getting ready for bed when interrupted. How in hell had Podarge come to be mixed up with these Lords? And then the answer tapped his mind’s shoulder. Of course, she was in Wolff’s palace when it was invaded. But what had happened then?
He said, “Where is Wolff?”
“Who, leblabbiy?” she said.
“Jadawin, he used to be called,” he said.
She shrugged and said, “He wasn’t there. Or if he was, he was killed by the Black Bellers.”
Kickaha was more confused. “Black Bellers?”
Wolff had spoken of them at one time. But briefly, because their conversation had been interrupted by Chryseis. Later, after Kickaha had helped Wolff recover his palace from Vannax, Kickaha had intended to ask him about the Black Bellers. He had never done so.
One of the Tishquetmoac spoke harshly to Clatatol. Kickaha understood him; she was to tell Kickaha that he must talk to these people. The Tishquetmoac could not understand the speech.
The fair-skinned woman, replying to his questions, said, “I am Anana, Jadawin’s sister. This thin one is Nimstowl, called the Nooser by the Lords. This other is Fat Judubra.”
Kickaha understood now. Anana, called the Bright, was one of Wolff’s sisters. And he had used her face as a model when he created Podarge’s face in the biolab. Rather, his memory had supplied the features, since Wolff had not then seen his sister Anana for over a thousand years. Which meant that, as of now, he had not seen her for over four thousand.
Kickaha remembered now that Wolff had said that the Black Bellers were to have been used, partly, as receptacles for memory. The Lords, knowing that even the complex human brain could not hold thousands of years of knowledge, had experimented with the transfer of memory. This could, theoretically, be transferred back to the human brain when needed or otherwise displayed exteriorly.
A rapping sounded. A round door in the wall at the other end swung out, and another smuggler entered. He beckoned to the others, and they gathered around him to whisper. Finally, Clatatol left the group to speak to Kickaha.
“The rewards have been tripled,” she whispered. “Moreover, this pinkface king, von Turbat, has proclaimed that, once you’re caught, he’ll withdraw from Talanac. Everything will be as it was before.”
“If you’d planned on turning us in, you wouldn’t be telling me this,” he said. But it was possible that she was being overly subtle, trying to make him at ease, before they struck. Eight against one. He did not know what the Lords could do, so he would not count on them. He still had his two knives, but in this small room … ah, well, when the time came, he would see.
Clatatol added, “Von Turbat has also said that if you are not delivered to him within twenty-four hours, he will kill the emperor and his family and then he will kill every human being in this city. He said this in private to his officers, but a slave overheard him. Now the entire city knows.”
“If von-Turbat was talking German, how could a Tishquetmoac understand him?”, Kickaha said.
“Von Mrbat was talking to von Swindebarn and several others in the holy speech of the Lords,” she said. “The slave had served in the temple and knew the holy speech.” The Black Bellers must be the as-yet unhooded lantern to illumine the mystery. He knew the two Teutoniac kings could follow the priest in the services, but they did not know the sacred language well enough to speak it. Thus, the two were not what they seemed.
He was given no time to ask questions. Clatatol said, “The pinkfaces have found the chamber behind the wall of my bedroom, and they will soon be breaking through it. We can’t stay here.”
Two men left the room but quickly returned with telescoping ladders. These were extended fulllength up the air shaft. On seeing this, Kickaha felt less apprehensive. He said, “Now your patriotism demands that you hand us over to von Turbat. So …?”
Two men had climbed up the ladder. The others were urging the Lords and Kickaha to go next. Clatatol said, “We have heard that the emperor is possessed by a demon. His soul had been driven out into the cold past the moon; a demon resides in his body, though not comfortably as yet. The priests have secretly transmitted this story throughout the city. They say for us to fight this most evil of evils. And we are not to surrender you, Kickaha, who is the beloved of the Lord, Ollimaml, nor should we give up the others.”
Kickaha said, “Possessed? How do you know?”
Clatatol did not answer until after they had climbed the length of the shaft and were in a horizontal tunnel. One of the smugglers lit a dark lantern, and the ladder was pulled up, joint by joint, bent, folded, and carried along.
Clatatol said, “Suddenly, the emperor spoke only in the holy speech, so it was evident he did not understand Tishquetmoac. And the priests reported that von Turbat and von Swindebarn speak Wishpawaml only, and they have their priests to translate orders for them.”
Kickaha did not see why a demon was thought to possess Quotshaml, the emperor. The liturgical language was supposed to scorch the lips of demons when they tried to speak it. But he was not going to point out the illogic when it favored him.
The party hurried down a tunnel with Fat Judubra wheezing loudly and complaining. He had had to be pulled through the shaft; his robes had torn and his skin had been scraped.
Kickaha asked Clatatol if the temple of Ollimaml was well guarded. He was hoping that the smaller secret gate had not been discovered. She replied that she did not know. Kickaha asked her how they were going to get out of the city. She answered that it would be better if he did not know; if he was captured, then he could not betray the others. Kickaha did not argue with her. Although he had no idea of how they would leave the city, he could imagine what would happen after that. During his last visit, he had found out just how she and her friends got the contraband past the customs. She did not suspect that he knew.
He spoke to Anana, who was a glimmer of neck, arms, and legs ahead. “The woman Clatatol says that her emperor, and at least two of the invaders, are possessed. She means that they suddenly seem unable, or unwilling, to talk anything but the language of the Lords.”
“The Black Bellers,” Anana said after a pause.
At that moment, shouts cannoned down the tunnel. The party stopped; the lantern was put out. Lights appeared at both ends of the tunnel; voices flew down from the rigid mouths of shafts above and ballooned from mouths below. Kickaha spoke to the Lords. “If you have weapons, get ready to use them.”
They did not answer. The party formed into a single file, linked by holding hands, and a man led them into a crosstunnel. They duckwalked for perhaps fifty yards, with the voices of the hunters getting louder, before they heard a distant roar of water. The lamp was lit again. Soon they were in a small chamber, exitless except for the four-foot-wide hole in the floor against the opposite wall. The roar, a wetness, and a stink funneled up from it.
“The shaft angles steeply, and the sewage tunnel to which it connects is fifty feet down. The slide, however, won’t hurt,” Clatatol said. “We use this way only if all others around here fail. If you went all the way down this shaft, you’d fall into the tunnel, which is full of sewage and drops almost vertically down into the river at an underwater point. If you lived to come up in the river, you would be caught by the pinkface patrol boats stationed there.” Clatatol told them what they must do. They sat down and coasted down the tube with their hands and feet braking. Two-thirds of the way down, or so it seemed, they stopped. Here they were pulled into a hole and a shaft unknown to the authorities, rubbe
d into existence by several generations of criminals. This led back up to a network above the level from which they had just fled.
Clatatol explained that it was necessary to get to a place where they could enter another great sewage pipe. This one, however, was dry, because it had been blocked off with great labor and some loss of life thirty years before by a large gang of criminals. The flow from above was diverted to two other sewage tunnels. The dry tunnel led directly downward to below the water level. Near its mouth was a shaft which went horizontally to an underwater port distant from the outlets being watched by the pinkfaces. It was near the wharf where the rivertrade boats were. To reach the boats, they would have to swim across the mile wide river.
Three streets up, within the face of the mountain, the party came to the horizontal shaft which opened to their avenue of escape, the dry tunnel slanting at fifty-five degrees to the horizontal.
Kickaha never found out what went amiss. He did not think that the Teutoniacs could have known where they were. There must have been some search parties sent at random to various areas. And this one was in the right place and saw their quarry before the quarry saw them.
Suddenly there were lights, yells, screams, and something thudding into bodies. Several Tishquetmoac men fell, and then Clatatol was sprawled out before him. In the dim light of the lantern lying on its side before him, Kickaha saw the skin, bluish-black in the light, the hanging jaw, eyes skewered on eternity, and the crossbow bolt sticking out of her skull an inch above the right ear. Blood gushed over the blue-black hair, the ear, the neck.
He crawled over the body, his flesh numb with the shock of the attack and with the shock of the bolt to come. He scuttled down the tunnel and into one that seemed to be free of the enemy. Behind him, in the dark, was heavy breathing; Anana identified herself. She did not know what had happened to the others.
The World of Tiers Volume One: The Maker of Universes, the Gates of Creation, and a Private Cosmos Page 43
