by Glen Cook
At fourteen he had gone to sea and had gotten to know most of the ports around the rim of the sea. He had survived them all and most of them had survived him. At twenty-one he had returned to Qushmarrah.
It had not been long before he had fallen in with the remnants of the Gorloch cult. Its grim philosophy appealed to him, though he took from it only what suited him and discarded the rest. He was not weak. He had no higher god than himself.
Soon he caught the eye of the High Priest, Nakar. The sorcerer gave him odd jobs. He handled them swiftly, efficiently, no matter how difficult or cruel. In a moment of humor Nakar had begun calling him Azel after the demon who carried Gorloch’s messages to the living world. Azel the Destroyer.
Never did he commit himself to the god or to the man. Not entirely. Azel could not give himself wholly to anyone but Azel.
He had missed Dak-es-Souetta. He hadn’t been trapped in any of the towers at Harak Pass. He hadn’t participated in the rout on the Plain of Chordan nor had he been there for the hopeless defense of Qushmarrah after the pride of her youth and manhood had been slaughtered or scattered, chaff driven by the hot breath of Death.
His absence did not shame him. It would not have shamed him had he done nothing for the city that had done nothing for him. He knew nothing about shame. But he had in fact been doing something. He had been in Agadar, west along the coast, where the Herodian armies had landed. His few carefully struck blows against Herodian commanders had-unfortunately, as it had developed-delayed the invading armies the month necessary for Fa’tad al-Akla to gather his tribal warriors and race to Dak-es-Souetta.
Thus do the Fates conspire.
Azel paused across the street from the house that was his destination. Almost the instant his feet stopped moving the door opened over there. Azel eased back into deeper shadow.
Could it be?
Of course not. The Fates neither loved him so well nor hated Sagdet so much. He sank down onto his heels, tucked his hands in, turned his face down, and watched under his brows. The man passed within ten feet without seeing him.
It was the one called Edgit. Perhaps the old man would want to know that he had been here.
Azel moved almost before Edgit was out of sight. He had scouted the house. The best way in was through the front door. If he got there quickly whoever had let Edgit out might think the guest had returned for something.
He knocked. In seconds the door opened. An irritated voice started to say, “His Lordship...”
Azel shot his left hand to the man’s throat, gripped. He brought his right around in a hook to the temple. A brass knuckleduster took the impact. The man sagged.
Azel lowered him to the floor, easing him out of the way of the door, which he closed but did not latch. Quickly, but with care because he did not know the interior layout, he passed through the house to the back, then to the east side, to unlatch the doors there and open alternate avenues of retreat. Only then did he approach the one room from which sounds of life could be heard.
The door was not latched. And the sounds were what he’d suspected them to be: those of a man and woman rutting.
Gorloch be praised! Or the Fates, if it be deserved. The woman was astride, facing away, and the man had his eyes closed. Azel slipped into the room. He picked up a discarded sash as he crossed the room, wrapped one end around his left hand, let the other fall free. The woman sensed his approach in the last step, started to turn. His blow stilled her curiosity before she caught a glimpse of him
No stopping the man from seeing him and loosing a startled, squeaking, “You! What the hell are you doing?” as he thrashed out of his entanglement with the woman and started to flee on all fours. “Who sent you? The General? Is he trying to scare me? I don’t have to put up with this!”
Fat jiggled olive skin. Absurd broad buttocks humped and swayed. He gained ground. He reached the corner where Azel wanted him, scrabbled at the walls to get to his feet, spun with a mouth full of bluster and threats.
None of which got spoken.
“Oh, Aram! You mean it! Damn it, man.... I’ll back down. Tell him! I’ll do it his way. You don’t have to do this! We can deal!” He raised pudgy hands, pushed at the air. “Don’t! What do you want? I’ve got money.... Please?”
Azel was close enough. Leaving one imaginary opening to his right, he feinted with the sash in his left hand.
Sagdet darted for the perceived opening.
Azel’s fist smashed into the side of his head. He spun against the wall. Before Sagdet could recover his wits Azel had the sash around his neck and a knee in the middle of his back.
Sagdet struggled, as any dying thing must, but his efforts only served to put him facedown on the floor, where his assailant had a greater advantage. Once there he could do nothing but paw and claw and pound the stolen carpet against which he was being crushed.
Azel felt the body shudder, smelled the stench as sphincters relaxed. Sagdet must have had an abominable diet. He held on for a count of another twenty, then knotted the sash in place.
He went to the woman, touched her throat. Her pulse was strong and regular. Good. None should be hurt who had not earned it.
He walked a reverse course through the house, leaving the side and back doors open wide. He checked the pulse of the man he had left inside the front door, found it a little ragged but not dangerously so. He looked outside carefully before he departed. Leaving the front door standing open, too.
It would not be long before thieves accepted the invitation and swept to the plunder, obliterating completely the reality of what had happened.
The General wakened to the whisper of the street door. The light of the lamp moved across the outer room. “Is that you?”
“Yes.”
“Back already?”
“Yes.”
“It’s done?”
“It’s done. The man Edgit was leaving as I arrived.”
Something stirred in the old man’s innards, settled in the pit of his gut like ten pounds of hot, poisonous sand. He could not become accustomed to ordering executions. “Good, then.”
The lamp moved away, back toward the street door. “He promised that he’d mend his ways. That he’d never do it again.”
The old man listened to the door close, perhaps shutting him off from half a thought. What the hell had the man meant?
That had not been a taunt, nor an accusation, nor even a bald statement of fact. It had had an odor of admonition about it, a smell of the cautionary parable.
The mass in his gut grew heavier.
He drifted off to sleep without having figured it out.
4
Aaron tore chunks off a sheet of unleavened bread and used them to dip bites of whatever it was that Mish had made for breakfast. He did not notice that the bread had been burned on one side or that the rest of the meal could not be identified even by someone paying close attention. He barely noticed what Mish was doing while Laella still slept.
After the late night with Reyha and Naszif they had come home to find Stafa restless and whiny with a mild fever and stubbornly insisting that he had not been weaned.
Aaron thought Laella had made a mistake nursing the boy as long as she had but that was not on his mind. Nor was he preoccupied with the task that faced him at work. He had not built and set a mast step before, but it was just a job of carpentry and he had faith in his skills as a carpenter.
No. His preoccupation remained Naszif and what, if anything, to do about him. And he knew he had come to an impasse because he was unable to remove himself from the situation far enough to view it dispassionately. He could not discern, much less untangle, his chains of personal and moral and patriotic obligation. If such existed. He was not sure they did.
It all depended, first, upon the depth of his conviction that Naszif had opened that hidden postern. If the accusation was mere prejudice, if there was doubt about the guilt, if someone else had been the malefactor, then there was no problem. Naszif could be ignored.
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But if Naszif was guilty, then the Living might be clutching an asp to its bosom.
Was it his place to be concerned? He had a sentimental, romantic attachment to the Living, but no commitment. He wasn’t sure he really wanted them to do anything about the occupation. Some out-of-the-dark, miraculous triumph by the diehards might hurt him more than it helped.
Before the coming of Herod his life had been good. But it was better now. He got paid more. And there was as much work as he wanted, so that he could take home as much money as he wanted. And the Herodian operators never tried to cheat a man of his wages.
He had prospered under the Herodian occupation. He had been lucky. To balance the extra mouths in his household Aram in his kindness had given him no daughters to dowry. He had almost enough saved to get his family out of the Shu, over the hill, and into the Astan, where they could have a decent life. If Laella did not become pregnant in the next year...
He could work for himself in the Astan, doing work he enjoyed. Building ships required craftsmanship but allowed no scope for individual vision or artistry.
Among the few concrete certainties in Aaron’s world was his conviction that Naszif had opened that postern in that tower.
Coming home last night he had asked Laella who she considered to be her best friend. He had gotten the expected answer without hesitation or reflection: Reyha. Then he had asked who she considered her worst enemy, or who she most hated. Consciously he had anticipated hearing the name of a neighbor with whom she had been feuding for years. But unconsciously, maybe, he had expected something akin to the answer he did get after several minutes of reflection. “The people who made Taidiki kill himself.”
And that was ambiguous enough to include almost everyone.
He had wanted to narrow it a little, maybe get a hint of how she would feel if he told her about Naszif and the postern, but just then the man had come out of the fog like a specter, startling and frightening them, and had gained reality only after he had passed them and his feet had begun hitting the ground. After that they were too nervous to do anything but hurry for home and a door that could lock out the frights of the night.
Aaron wanted to talk. To Laella preferably, but to anyone who might show him a path out of his quandary. The situation had led him to a shocking realization. He had no friends. He did not know anyone he trusted enough to ask advice. His ties beyond his family were tenuous and transitory, involving men with whom he worked. Men who, for the most part, he never saw again after a job was over.
What had become of the close friends of youth?
Dak-es-Souetta, mostly.
Mish asked, “Are you working today, Aaron?”
The boys started in before he could answer. “Don’t go to work today, Dad. Stay home, Dad.”
It was a minor Herodian religious holiday and he could take the day off. If he did, though, tomorrow he would have to present his Herodian employers with an attendance token from one of the Herodian temples. A price he did not care to pay. Not to mention not wanting to lose the income. And maybe get a bad reputation. That mast step had to go in today.
“Yes. I’m working.”
“Oh, Dad!”
Mish scowled. That meant she had to manage the household at least till Laella rose.
The Herodians did not take off for minor holidays.
Aaron said nothing to Mish, but he added her to his mental agenda. He was fed up with her sulks and pouts and shirkings. If she thought she had it so bad here, let her go out there and try to whine her way through the real world.
“Dad! Stafa’s got to pee.”
“No, I don’t!” Stafa stood slightly hunched, one hand gripping his crotch.
“Go pee in the pot, Stafa.”
“No.”
“Stafa, go pee in the pot.”
“No!”
The boy had reached that stage of housebreaking where he was aware of what he had to do but still fervently opposed having to do it for himself. “I’ll spank your butt.”
“Carry me, Dad.”
“Carry you? You get over there.”
“No. Carry me.”
“Come here, you argumentative little rat.”
All trust, Stafa came to him. He grabbed the boy’s right foot, lifted it while Stafa clung to his shoulder for balance. “You see this, Stafa? What’s this?”
“That’s my foot.”
Aaron shifted to Stafa’s left foot. “And what’s this?”
“That’s my other foot.”
“And why do you think the Good Lord Aram put feet on the ends of your legs?”
Stafa did not pause to think. He just said it. “To keep my toes pointing out.”
Everyone laughed but Arif. Even Mish. Stafa grinned, though he understood no better than Arif. Aaron rose. “All right, brat. You win.” He grabbed Stafa under the arms and carried him to the chamber pot. The boy wiggled and kicked happily.
It was a story to tell at work.
It took his mind off his troubles. Mish handed him his usual lunch of bread, cheese, and sausage and he took off.
The sun had not yet risen.
Glop! Plop! Slop! In quick succession the Qushmarrahan cooks filled Yoseh’s bowl with a three-ounce chunk of blubbery flesh cooked forever and an hour, six ounces of some mushy stuff that might have started life in a grain field, and half a small loaf that was meant to be broken into pieces and used to dip the mush.
“Oh, boy,” Yoseh said. “I was hoping we’d have this stuff again this morning.” They had had the same thing every morning since he had come to the city.
Mo’atabar, whose duties approximated those of a sergeant to a commander of a hundred in the Herodian army, said, “Every day is feast day in Qushmarrah, where the streets are paved with gold.”
That came every morning, too, just like the mush. It was one of Mo’atabar’s daily rituals, like his inevitable serenade in the barracks each morning, while dawn was still an uncertain impulse in the councils of the gods. “Rise and shine, my children. Rise and shine. It’s another glorious day in service in the city of lead and gold.”
The men always laughed when Mo’atabar did one of his things. Yoseh knew he was being sarcastic and making mock of tribal ideas about Qushmarrah, but he did not see the humor.
He and his brothers and cousins settled to eat. Nobody said much. Nogah was in a grim mood. What last night had looked like an opportunity to do something unusual and maybe make a splash had turned on him. This morning the word was that the whole troop was going in to work on the Shu maze. One hundred eighteen men, not eight. Mo’atabar and his uncle Joab, the captain, would bask in the warmth of Fa’tad’s approval if the operation uncovered something al-Akla wanted to find.
Yoseh suspected Fa’tad had had one of his visions, or intuitions, or inspirations, or whatever they were, and had decided that the Shu maze was sufficiently important to rate more manpower and the watchful eye of one of his oldest cronies.
Joab was one of those half dozen men who had flown wingtip-to-wingtip with the Eagle for forty years.
Nogah ought to think about that and not about his hurt feelings.
The sun was still just an imminent threat when the troop rode out of the compound and turned toward the Gate of Autumn. Yoseh and his companions rode point. An honor, of sorts, but one Yoseh was willing to forgo if things should look like they were getting sticky.
He had not come to Qushmarrah to become the hero of epic adventures, nor to get dead.
The gate was not yet open. Other traffic was arriving, too, piling up in the small square the gate towers commanded. Joab rode forward and began cursing the sleepy Herodian gatemen in their own language, calling them the sons of whores, feeders on the dung of camels, and suppurating pustules upon the manhood of their god. Joab did not like Herodians. He insulted Herodian soldiers every chance he got, in repayment for the insult implicit in the fact that the Herodian military commander required the tribesmen to be out of the city and in their compound by nightf
all every evening.
Yoseh said, “He’s provoking them. Deliberately. Someday somebody is going to get mad and try to kill him.”
“No,” Nogah said. “He scares the shit out of them. They think he’s crazy.”
“So do I.”
“It’s all an act. Something Fa’tad put him up to, to make them think we’re all crazy. I think.”
“You think?”
“You never know with Fa’tad.”
Joab’s fulminations had their effect. The gate groaned open. Arrogantly, Joab led his troop through before the merchants. The regular patrols were arriving. They attached themselves to the column. The merchants had to wait while a thousand tribesmen entered the city.
Yoseh hadn’t been north a week before he had realized there was a very complicated and subtle game going on between Fa’tad and Cado, the Herodian military governor. Herodian troops held all the key points of the city, and what had been the palace of the city’s impotent figurehead prince was now called Government House and was occupied by Cado and his captains. Cado kept his men out of sight as much as possible. Their standards were seldom seen in public. The hand, the mailed fist, of the occupation was always Dartar.
Fa’tad had responded by making his men work as a police force of sorts, meting out instant and ferocious retribution to the city’s human predators whenever and wherever they were unearthed. They settled disputes impartially. They scared up employers who needed workers and people who needed work and put them together. Where it was within their power they tried to relieve the suffering of the poor.
“So we end up helping old women cross the street and change the young ones’ babies,” Nogah grumped. “And for what? Answer me that, kid. So we can win the sympathy of the lower classes? They don’t have any power and their sympathy won’t send one head of livestock down south.”
“I think Fa’tad’s mind encompasses more than the chore of keeping the tribes from starving.”
“That’s the problem. He’s so busy scheming he can’t keep his mind on the business that brought us here.”
The patrols dispersed into the city but Joab’s troop kept on westward, down one of the broad avenues of the Astan, across Goat Creek, a hundred fifty yards along the foot of the tumbled and brushy remnants of the Old Wall. One of the older men behind Yoseh began reminiscing about how the damned stubborn veydeen had tried to make a stand along here and the damned fool ferrenghi had wanted Fa’tad to make a mounted charge across the boggy ground and creek and up the rubble to dislodge them.
