by Karen Miller
“Aieee, Aba,” he said, pouting with displeasure. “Must we travel with a godspeaker caravan? There are so many of them in a caravan. You know what it will be like. They live and breathe and sweat out the god. To be close like that, it makes me frightened! I lose my appetite, I cannot eat. Would you have me skin and bone by the time we reach Et-Raklion?”
“Better skin and bone in Et-Raklion than dead on the road between here and there with all your plumpness bleeding,” said Abajai. “The god saw us, Yagji, when it sent us that chosen slave. No other price would buy us the protection of a godspeaker caravan. If the other warlords should send warriors against Et-Nogolor only godspeakers will be safe on the road to Et-Raklion. You know it, we have seen trouble like this before.”
“And had hoped to never see it again!” cried Yagji. “Warlords fighting are bad for business!”
“Yes,” said Abajai, and patted his shoulder. “But do not dwell on that. We have good profit from this caravan, and business at home that must be tended, remember. We have been many godmoons on the road.”
Yagji sighed. “Yes. I know. Our villa is likely a tumbled ruin, that Retoth cannot care for it properly without my strict supervision.”
“You know he can,” said Abajai, laughing. “He always does. But we will both be relieved to see it again.”
The Et-Nogolor Traders returned with their payment. When the sale was completed and the money safely added to the coin box, Abajai nodded to Obid and the other slave. They harnessed themselves to the heavy cart, and followed Abajai and Yagji away from the slave pens.
Walking between the Traders, Hekat looked up. “Abajai, why did the god see that slave?”
“So it might serve in the godhouse.”
She frowned. “Serve how?”
“That is not our business.”
“That slave,” she said, after a moment. “He had a name. He told me.”
Abajai tugged her godbraids. “Slaves have no names, Hekat. Not until a master gives one, with the giving of the scarlet slave-braid.”
She smiled inside. She had given herself a name, and she wore no scarlet slave-braid. She was as special as the slave Vortka, gone to serve the god. “If I held the godstone, Abajai. Would it see me? See my heart? Tell the god?”
Yagji snorted. “Your heart, monkey? My Hooli’s heart will be seen by the god before yours.”
“The god sees all hearts,” said Abajai. “Godstones are for godspeakers, who are less than the god. Now be silent, Hekat. It is a long walk to Et-Nogolor’s godgate.”
She was silent because he had said she must be silent, but she still didn’t understand. She wanted to know how the godstone knew to burn, or stay dead. To know what would happen to that special slave Vortka who had gone to serve in Et-Nogolor’s godhouse. How he would serve, and what the god wanted from him.
That slave Vortka had called her Hekat. He had called her beautiful. She had given him bread.
Surprised, she realized she felt sorry, that she would not see him again.
They made their slow way along the crowded streets towards the godgate, which Abajai said was on the far-distant other side of Et-Nogolor city. Hekat walked close beside him, she had never seen so many people in one place before, the noise of them battered her ears, their stink clogged her nose.
They walked and they walked, and came across an open place where there were tall red wooden godposts set into the cobbled ground. A skinny slave was nailed alive to one of them with his belly cut open and all his gizzards spilling free. His ankles were broken, his eyes were put out. He wore no clothes, just a blanket of flies. Hekat knew he lived only because of his horrible moaning, his begging for the god to let him die.
She felt her belly clutch tight, she tasted muck in her mouth. This was worse than the boy who put his body in the village well. This was the worst thing she had ever seen.
“He tried to run away,” said Abajai. “The god abhors wicked runaway slaves. This is their fate, Hekat. The godspeakers smite them for the god.”
She nodded, she had no words for the dying slave in his tunic of flies. They kept on walking.
Et-Nogolor’s godgate was an anthill place, with wagons and carts and oxen and slaves and godspeakers coming and going without cease, and pens for many complaining animals. The air was heavy with smells and smoke and sounds. The gates themselves stayed shut, huge black scorpions towering over the tallest man. They looked like they could sting. They would not open until the caravan was ready to leave for Et-Raklion.
The wayhouse for travelers intending to journey with the godspeaker caravan was small and spare, with no-one wanting to travel except Abajai, Yagji and Hekat. There was nothing to do there but eat, and sleep, and wait. Each day at highsun they stood by its godpost to watch a godspeaker ask the god if the time had come for the caravan to leave Et-Nogolor. The question was asked by sacrificing a golden cockerel, burning its entrails in a scorpion bowl and breathing deep of the sacred smoke. If the god’s answer was no, the godspeaker fell to the ground twitching and foaming and drumming bare heels on the ground.
Three times now they had witnessed the asking. Three times the god had answered no.
The godspeaker who came to make sacrifice on the fourth highsun was naked except for a loincloth and the scorpion-shell bound to his brow. His scorpion sting marks were all on show, angry red welts covering the dark skin of his belly and back. Many of them looked fresh. Hekat remembered the village godspeaker with only five, so old they’d turned dull and muddy. The village godspeaker was nothing, a dried-up husk, compared to the godspeakers of Et-Nogolor. She was angry to think such a shrunken, unbitten old man had frightened her so much . . . and surprised the god would accept him as its speaker.
Although, to be fair, the god had not had many men to choose from in the village.
The Et-Nogolor godspeaker sprinkled his circle of sacred sand. It was crimson, the color of golden cockerel blood, and it sparkled strangely on the stony ground in front of the wayhouse. At the circle’s completion the sand burst into life, leaping black tongues of night-cold flame. Though he’d seen the god wake over and over, Yagji swallowed a little shriek and kissed his snake-fang amulet.
The godspeaker picked up the golden cockerel and his sacrifice knife. Like the others before it the beautiful bird died soundless, slit from crop to tail in a single blow. Its entrails slipped into the waiting scorpion bowl and became hot fire. As the sacred circle’s black flames danced around him the godspeaker fell to his knees and plunged his face into the offering’s greasy blue smoke, breathing deeply, his eyes rolled back in his head.
He did not fall twitching and foaming to the ground.
“Aieee!” squealed Yagji. “The god has answered!”
“The god always answers,” Abajai scolded. But he was smiling.
“I know, I know,” said Yagji, impatient. “But this time it has answered yes !”
The godspeaker breathed in the last of the sacrifice smoke, breathed it out, and stood. From his left hand dangled the gutted golden cockerel, from his right the bloodied knife.
“The god speaks!” he cried to the distant sky. The whites of his eyes had turned a greasy blue and the scorpion bites on his body glowed like living coals. “The caravan to Et-Raklion departs at newsun!”
He threw the sacrifice into the air. As the golden cockerel’s feathers caught fire, burning it into nothingness, the sacred circle’s black flames roared higher than the godspeaker’s head, then vanished, the last of the sacred sand consumed.
“And a good thing too,” said Yagji, watching the almost naked godspeaker walk away carrying his knife and his scorpion bowl. “If I pray hard I might survive one more night in that dreadful wayhouse. But only one. And only if the god is good!”
Hekat hid her face so Yagji wouldn’t see her disgust. She had a bed in the wayhouse too. It was the most wonderful thing she’d ever slept on, with softness beneath her and too many blankets. She’d never dreamed there could be too many blankets. Let Ya
gji sleep on a baked earth floor under a table, or chained to a wall where dogs could sniff him, dogs that longed to devour his bones, and a man to beat him if he was so cold and stiff on waking he could hardly walk. Let Yagji sleep like that and then complain of blankets and a bed.
He was a stupid, stupid man.
Abajai patted him on the shoulder. “Hush yourself, Yagji. It is known the god is always good.”
As the god desired, the godspeaker caravan left Et-Nogolor next newsun. Hekat rode with Abajai and Yagji at the rear, in an open wagon pulled by a team of stolid oxen. Behind them, Obid and his fellow slave hauled the cart carrying Abajai and Yagji’s possessions and wealth. She watched Obid sweat and strain and smiled so he could see it. No more jabby spear, Obid. No more eyes full of maggot questions. He was just a slave now, while she was still precious and beautiful.
There were ten Et-Nogolor godspeakers in the carvan. Six drove covered carts laden with mysterious godspeaker goods, one drove an open cart full of caged birds for each newsun sacrifice. The other three walked. The sun climbed higher, the caravan passed the high-walled barracks where Abajai said Nogolor warlord’s warriors lived, it passed farms, and orchards, and pastures full of grazing cows. Hekat thought the land looked fat but Abajai and Yagji frowned at each other and called it sad.
Two fingers past highsun they came upon a band of warriors riding towards Et-Nogolor city. Some wore red-and-black feathers in their hair and hunting birds on their leather chests, but others covered their godbraids with caps of spotted grey catskin, long tails bouncing down their straight backs, and on their leather chests brilliant green stones picked out a snarling cat face.
Hekat shifted on her wagon seat to watch the straight-backed warriors ride by. They did not yield the road to the godspeakers like the other few travelers they had encountered, but they did drop into single file and slow from a canter to a trot. So fierce, so proud, she thought they were beautiful.
Yagji leaned close. “Aba, Aba, what can this mean? The falcon and the woodcat riding together? Et-Nogolor and Et-Bajadek are not friends!”
“Shhh,” hissed Abajai, glaring. “Wait until we are alone!”
Hekat counted sixty riders, half were birds and half were cats. When the last warrior had trotted sedately past them and they were once more cantering towards distant Et-Nogolor city, Abajai let out a sigh.
“Here is a tangle, Yagji.”
“A tangle ?” said Yagji, and clutched his green snake amulet. “Aba, it’s disaster . Why do warriors of Bajadek and Nogolor warlords ride together? Bajadek warlord is a sworn enemy to Et-Raklion, and Raklion warlord is to mate with Et-Nogolor’s Daughter! Nogolor warlord must not smile at Bajadek warlord, their warriors must not ride shoulder to fist along the road!”
Pinch-faced, Abajai toyed with a beaded godbraid. “Bajadek warlord has two sons and bears no love for either,” he said slowly, as though thinking aloud. “He is a lusty man, he could yet sire a third son worth loving, but—”
“The god took his wife and besides, she was old,” said Yagji. “ Aba !” His voice was a shocked whisper. “ No ! Surely not!”
The scorpion in Abajai’s cheek rippled. “I think so.”
“But Aba —”
Abajai smoothed his robe. “If Raklion warlord dies sonless, Bajadek warlord can make a claim on his lands. I suspect he does not trust that a son sired by Raklion upon Et-Nogolor’s Daughter will die, like all his other sons have died. I suspect Bajadek warlord reasons it is better that Raklion does not mate with the Daughter at all. Better that he have her, kill Raklion when the Daughter’s theft leads to war, claim Et-Raklion lands as his own and afterwards sire a son worth loving.” He nodded. “It is a sound strategy.”
“But Aba, Et-Nogolor’s Daughter is godpromised to Raklion. Nogolor warlord cannot give her to Bajadek.”
“No?” said Abajai, and tugged his godbraids. “I wonder, Yagji. Truly, I wonder.”
Confused, Hekat slid along the wagon seat towards him and touched his sleeve. “Abajai? What is godpromised?”
“Promised in the presence of the god,” Yagji snapped. “In the godhouse of Et-Raklion. Et-Nogolor’s high godspeaker himself sealed the oath with sacrifice before the warlords and Et-Raklion’s high godspeaker Nagarak and selected witnesses.” He preened a little. “Aba and I represented the Traders.”
She was not interested in Yagji’s silly boastings. “What is high godspeaker?”
Yagji rolled his eyes. “Stupid monkey. Abajai . . .”
Abajai lifted his hand, frowning. Yagji fell silent, his feelings hurt. Hekat said nothing but inside she smiled. Yagji had lost, and she had won. She always won. She was precious and beautiful.
Abajai said, “A high godspeaker rules all the godspeakers of a warlord’s lands.”
“Who rules high godspeaker?”
Yagji tittered. “The god, of course, you silly brat.”
She ignored Yagji. “Like caravan, Abajai? Obid rule slaves, Abajai rule Obid?”
Abajai smiled. “Clever Hekat. Exactly like that.”
Pleased with his praise she smiled back and thought, So this is the world. Slaves, and rulers. Anyone not a ruler is a slave. I will remember that . She said, “Abajai. Godpromised means the god wants Et-Nogolor she-brat for Raklion warlord?”
He pursed his lips. “That is one way of putting it.”
“Then how can Nogolor warlord give she-brat to Bajadek warlord? The god cannot want Et-Nogolor she-brat for Raklion and Bajadek. Which warlord the god want for Et-Nogolor she-brat?”
“That depends on which warlord’s high godspeaker you ask,” said Yagji, under his breath.
Abajai gave Yagji a dark look, then shook his head at her. “Hush, Hekat. It is the god’s business. Do not question its workings in the world, that way lies madness.”
Yes. Madness. If high godspeakers spoke the god’s want, then how could they speak different words? Was the god mad, not knowing which want it truly wanted?
Petrified, not breathing, she waited for the god to strike her dead for asking such a question. The god did not, so she asked another question, inside her head where only it could hear her.
If the god did know its want, then did Et-Nogolor high godspeaker lie when he said the she-brat should go to Raklion warlord? Or was the lie it should go to Bajadek?
Why would the god let a godspeaker lie?
She did not know, the god did not answer. Abajai would know but she didn’t dare ask him. She would wait, and in time perhaps the god would tell her. When it wanted to. If it knew.
Yagji chewed his lip, glancing ahead at the walking godspeakers. “I wonder if Raklion warlord knows Bajadek’s warriors ride freely in the lands of Et-Nogolor?” he asked, softly so they might not hear him. “I wonder—”
Abajai kicked him. “You wonder too much, Yagji! Hold your prattling tongue!”
Chastened to silence Yagji stared and stared, his eyes slowly filling with water. “I am sorry, Aba,” he whispered at last. “I am weary, I am homesick. I long for our villa in dear Et-Raklion.”
With a deep sigh, Abajai patted his cheek. “I know, Yagji. I am homesick too. I will be well pleased when this caravan is over. Do not weep, friend. We will be home soon.”
It took the godspeaker caravan thirty-seven highsuns to reach the lands of Raklion warlord. In that time they saw warriors of Et-Bajadek five more times. Abajai and Yagji said nothing about them, they closed their eyes and pretended not to see.
Hekat knew better than to speak on that.
When at last she saw Et-Raklion she knew then what a fat land truly looked like. So much water! Streams and lakes and rivers and bubbling springs, so much green grass, countless fruit-laden branches and fields of grain, fat grazing cattle and sheep, singing birds and well-fed wildlife. She understood that Abajai and Yagji were right, the rest of Mijak was turning brown.
She did not want to think what might happen when all the green was gone from the other warlords’ lands.
As they s
lowly journeyed, caged in their uncomfortable wagon, Abajai continued to teach her. He gave her all the words in his possession, so many words she thought they must fall from her mouth every time she opened it or blow out through her nose whenever she sneezed. He bade her use them to talk of her life in the savage north, the caravan they traveled with, each newsun sacrifice, the road, the sky, the clouds, the trees, the flowers, the fruit, the crops and the herds of beasts in their open pastures. The villages they passed by and the harmless travelers they encountered. Everything she could see and remember she could talk about, said Abajai, so she did, because that was his want.
It was her want too, she would be more than a village goat bleating and shitting and waiting for the knife.
Twenty-three highsuns after crossing the border into Et-Raklion she was asleep on the wagon’s hard jolting floor and dreaming again of the man’s bone-crunching dogs when Yagji’s finger poked her ribs and his voice said, crossly, “Lazy monkey! Open your eyes and look upon perfection! We have reached Et-Raklion city!”
The dogs’ slavering growls fading, she opened her eyes. The sky was dimming, only a finger remained till lowsun. She sat up, ignoring the creaks and moans in her muscles. Abajai walked beside the wagon, he never tired. Even though his face was quiet it seemed to her that it was shouting. His strong dark face and its scarlet scorpion, shouting with happiness to see the city.
She looked ahead, where he was looking. Where Yagji was looking, stupid wasted water rolling down his fat cheeks.
“Oh,” she said, and felt a silly pricky burning in her own eyes. Her heart heaved and twisted and split wide open, all the blood in her turning red hot.
Raklion warlord’s city was beautiful.
Unlike Et-Nogolor, squatting like half a melon on a plate and skulking in man-made shadows, the city Et-Raklion spread around the base of a towering hill, which rose resplendent from the green and growing plain as though the god’s own fist had punched upwards from beneath the earth’s skin. The road they traveled led straight to the city gatehouse, then into the city itself. Bright lamps and torches burned in myriad dwellings, their warm flames lighting pale cream rock, and blood-red rock, and rock as green as the fields of growing wheat. So many roofs in the city Et-Raklion, Hekat could not count them all. Trees, too, heavy-laden with blossoms. On the perfumed breeze a trilling of songbirds, and silver godbells calling down the night.
