by Phil Tucker
“I shall do you one better,” said Tareos. “When we dock, I shall assign Magrib to your service for the rest of the day. He’s painfully lazy and of no use to me at all. He speaks fluent Maganian, however; he can guide you where you need to go, and ensure that you are not unduly cheated of your ill-gotten wealth.”
“My thanks,” said Acharsis, sketching a shallow bow.
“Think nothing of it. Now, if you will excuse me.” Tareos inclined his head to Jarek, kissed the tips of Annara’s fingers, and then left, calling out fresh orders to his crew.
The three of them turned back to the railing and gazed out over the river. The last of the villages had fallen away, revealing the ubiquitous patchwork fields.
“An hour till we arrive in Magan,” said Jarek softly. “I’m going to miss this peace.”
“No, you’re not,” said Acharsis. “As soon as things start to get exciting you’ll forget all about this idyllic boat ride, where our lives weren’t in danger and food was prepared for us by a proper cook.”
Jarek only snorted in response.
Annara rested her chin on her palm. “I can’t wait to see how much your plan contributes to this excitement.”
“Plan?” asked Acharsis. He crossed his arms and leaned forward on the railing, staring somberly at the passing water. “What plan?”
The city of Magan slid into view by slow degrees. The endless walls of the nobility’s riverside estates finally gave way to the harbor: a vast stone embankment along the river’s edge, cluttered with sailing vessels, barges, skiffs, and royal ships. Shouts and the cawing of birds filled the air as crews hurried to load or unload their cargoes, while crowds of porters, servants, sailors and more swarmed the docks, intent on their hundred and one tasks. Beyond them rose geometric buildings, most of them two storeys tall but all of them large, their facades painted a pure white and trimmed with the same bold colors as the lighthouse. Flat-roofed, they formed a warren amongst which Acharsis could glimpse narrow streets overshadowed by extended awnings of dusty reds and browns.
Beyond them rose a magnificent building, one that put even the ziggurats of the River Cities to shame. It too was painted alabaster white, with a vast frieze of carved figures around its upper quarter, their outlines painted in vivid hues. Black banners were draped between the figures and extended down the length of the nearly vertical walls, their fronts emblazoned with gold serpents.
As large and captivating as Magan was on the left bank, however, it was the right bank that drew the eye. There, a broad road of white rock extended with unnatural straightness across a mile of fertile yet uncultivated land to end at the base of a tower that put even the lighthouse to shame. Its base was ringed by an exterior wall, rich in carvings and inlaid with what looked like an endless amount of precious stones, with several vast archways leading into the interior. The tower burst up to challenge the heavens from its center. The first four storeys boasted galleries and balconies, hinting at the scope of the rooms continued within, but the tower tapered as it rose before suddenly spreading out to form a great table at its very peak.
“I’ve sailed this river since I was old enough to walk,” said a confident voice by Acharsis’ elbow. “But still the sight amazes me. The Third Tower of Heaven, it’s called. They say there’s one in every main Maganian city, though I’ve not seen them. See that flat part at the very top, up above even where the vultures fly? That’s where the lamassu himself is said to lie out and sleep. Course, it’s so high up nobody can really tell, can they?”
A young boy had wiggled his way next to Acharsis at the railing, on which he’d crossed his tanned arms. He beamed up at Acharsis, his teeth a perfect white, and then gave a wink. “Magrib at your service. You’ve saved me an afternoon’s back-breaking labor. You won’t regret it.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Magrib,” said Acharsis, turning back to the lamassu complex. “All of that. A temple, of kinds?”
“That’s right. And lots of priests doing whatever it is priests do, I suppose. Making sure the lamassu is happy with their performance. You can tell how seriously the Maganians take their religion by all that empty land there. You know how much grain they could grow on that bank if they wanted to? I’ll tell you: lots. But they don’t, because for some reason that makes the lamassu happy. Who knows? I don’t. But what an impressive way to waste land, right?”
“Right,” said Acharsis with a smile. “Though I’m sure they’re getting something in exchange. The lamassu is a living god, correct? His favor must be important.”
“Must be,” said Magrib with a happy sigh. “Still. I’ve never been on that bank, and don’t mean to go. I can tell you lots about the docks, though. The captain said you wanted to find a watering hole?”
“One frequented by foreigners like us,” said Acharsis. “I want to catch up on the news as quickly as possible, get a sense of what’s going on here.”
“Right. Easy enough. It’s been six months since we last visited, but there’s a good place I know of that should still be open. One thing you can tell even from here, though, is that the pharaoh has died.”
Acharsis straightened in surprise. “Died? How can you tell?”
“See them black banners on the palace up there? Tareos just told me they mark the pharaoh’s death. Whole city will be in mourning. Probably be all you hear about when we arrive. But I’ll take you to my favorite spot when we land.”
“Good man,” said Acharsis, and then Magrib was gone.
The sail was furled as they drew close to the great stone docks; oars were extended, and used to navigate the labyrinth of ships at anchor. The din of civilization was raucous after the silence of the past few weeks: the cry of gulls, the shouts of fishermen, the work songs of men mending nets or hauling away goods, the lowing of cattle, the snap of sails filling with wind, the splash of water along the embankment and against a hundred prows.
The smells, too, were suddenly pungent and vivid: the silty richness of the river mixed with the tang of drying fish, the scent of cook fires on the wind and fish guts on the wharf.
“You look pleased with yourself,” said Jarek, stepping up with Kish by his side, pack over one shoulder.
Acharsis spread his arms, taking in all of Magan. “Feast your eyes, my friend. Civilization! Which means beer, spiced food, comforts, song, crowds, laughter, unnecessary purchases! I’m an enthusiastic proponent of some time spent in the wilderness, but this—this feels like coming home.”
Kish matched his grin. “I know you well enough now to pick out the one word that mattered there: beer.”
“True enough. Beer, and a chance to get back to work. We’re going to have to figure out a way to get into that palace up there. Get an audience with the ruler, and convince them while we’re at it that we’re worth paying attention to. Not easy.”
“Let me guess,” said Jarek. “We’re going to do it over beers.”
“Why not? Would you rather do it in the midday sun? Qun is as fine a god as any, but when deliberating I prefer the presence of the goddess Siris - liberator of men, and tongues.”
Cries greeted their arrival, and as they drifted in to the docks, sailors hurled coils of rope to waiting porters who tied them fast to mushroom-shaped rocks. With a groan, the side of the ship pressed against the dock; water rose up in a splash as it was squeezed between the two, then the ship settled. Gangplanks were extended down, which sailors immediately began to run.
“Where’s Sisu?” asked Acharsis. “Someone should tell him his torment is over.”
“There he is,” said Kish, rising to her tiptoes. “Please, Acharsis. Don’t mock him. He’s in a foul enough mood as it is.”
Annara and Elu crossed the deck to where they stood, dodging around hurrying sailors, and Sisu joined them a moment later, his pallid features almost waxen.
“Some inspiring words before we step off this ship,” said Acharsis, ignoring Sisu’s immediate groan. “We’re here. We’ve beaten the odds and reached Magan. Now, our true te
st begins. Crossing the steppe was hard enough, but we’ve now got to navigate a completely foreign culture, penetrate its most exclusive court, and convince them to send their armies into the hinterlands of their empire against a threat we cannot prove is coming. Which is why I’ve asked Magrib - there you are - to lead us first to a watering hole of low repute. I can’t even begin to imagine doing all this while sober. Magrib?”
The boy beamed at them. “I’m yours 'til sundown, so if you’re ready? This way. Stay close!”
He waited for a break in the traffic using the closest gangplank and then ran down to the broad dock. The stone radiated heat. Weaving a deft path through the crowd, he led them to one of the large buildings that faced the docks and whose front wall was open and shaded by a supported awning.
“That was closer than I expected,” said Acharsis as he paused by the entrance, looking for a bowl of cleansing water with which to wash his feet. Seeing none, he shrugged uneasily and followed after Magrib, who had already disappeared inside.
The tavern was a large, rambling affair, a maze of supporting walls and pillars about which were arranged countless benches and tables, many of them packed already by foreign sailors and merchants. Young women with shaved heads and iron collars around their necks hurried to and fro with trays of clay cups. Somewhere, a musician was plucking at a stringed instrument in a desultory manner.
Magrib had weaseled his way to the back of the tavern and taken possession of a recently vacated table. The group sat around it, pulling up stools and benches, and Acharsis couldn’t help but sigh in relief as he leaned back against the wall and looked out the closest window at a palm tree festooned with what looked like good luck charms.
A round of drinks was set before them, and when Magrib and Elu moved away to begin learning the local news, Acharsis leaned in, beckoning for the others to do the same.
“All right. Here’s the plan. As I told you in the Waystation, we’re going to be improvising heavily depending on what we learn from here on out. We need to ascertain who’s going to take power with the pharaoh dead - find out who the heir is - and how we can get access to them. Obviously, nobody is going to take us seriously in our current condition, so we’re also going to have to generate enough wealth to bedeck ourselves in the best Maganian finery. We’re probably going to have to buy gifts as well, gifts fitting for a new ruler, and then insinuate ourselves into their good graces - or those of the regent - so as to convince them that Irella really is sending an army of the dead to attack Magan from its unprotected rear.”
He looked around the group. Jarek was leaning forward on both elbows, face pulled into a skeptical scowl. Kish was sitting back, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised. Annara was nodding thoughtfully, while Sisu didn’t even seem to be listening.
Jarek cleared his throat. “You’re saying we’re going to first have to steal a lot of money?”
“Steal, borrow, make, earn - something, yes. We don’t have long, but I’ll take a little time to study the economy, perhaps find a gambling den or two we can either swindle or rob.”
“Then,” said Kish, her tone equally skeptical, “you plan to dress us like nobility? So as to get access to the royal court?”
“Sure. If it turns out the royal court is in power. Every ruler since time began wants one thing: stability in which to exercise their powers. If we can promise to increase that stability through gifts, wealth, and knowledge, then—”
Raised voices interrupted Acharsis. He turned in his chair and saw Elu confronted by four guards. They wore masks of weathered jade, their features arrogant, perfectly symmetrical and with their eyes outlined in black.
Acharsis rose and in five long strides was by Elu’s side, smiling affably. Hands on his hips, he leaned forward, trying to guess which guard was in control. “We’re but recently arrived in your fair city, good sirs. Whatever is amiss, let me apologize with a round of drinks.”
Magrib, looking like he wanted to run, quickly translated.
One of the guards took a step forward and pointed at Elu’s arm, barking out a stream of angry words.
“He says… he says Elu is a thief of royal property.” Magrib’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “That… that he must come with them and be interrogated.”
Elu raised his arm to stare at the golden serpent he’d wrapped around his bicep. “Royal…?”
“A mistake,” said Acharsis, keeping his smile in place. “Magrib, tell them we’ll hand the ornament into their care with gratitude, and that we but found it on our travels across the steppe. We’ve no wish to offend.”
Magrib gave a rapid translation, but the guard made a chopping motion and growled out what was clearly a negation.
“He says Elu must go with them. Now.”
Damn. Acharsis could feel his smile growing strained. The entire tavern had fallen quiet, and those closest had drawn away as surreptitiously as they could. Attack them? Throw beer in their faces and flee out the back?
Jarek stepped up behind them, Sky Hammer on his shoulder, and leaned forward politely. “There a problem here?”
The four guards drew back at the sight of the son of Alok. Their leader gave a curt command, and one of the guards backed away, then turned to run out the front door into the sunlight.
Reinforcements.
Three guards. They’d not yet drawn their khopeshes, but their hands were on their hilts. Killing guards within half an hour of arriving would potentially ruin their chances of impressing the local ruler. But if they didn’t kill them before escaping, these three would no doubt spread word of their description, making their entrance to court all the more impossible.
“No problem, Jarek,” said Acharsis. He spread his hands and nodded to the lead guard. “Magrib. Tell them we won’t resist. As innocent men, Elu and I will come and explain this mistake willingly.”
“We what?” asked Elu.
Magrib translated, and Acharsis saw the lead guard’s eyes swivel to examine him, followed by an annoyed query.
“He asks what your relation to Elu is,” said Magrib.
Acharsis took a deep breath. “Tell him I’m his father. And where he goes, so do I.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
They were escorted down the length of the crowded docks to a large guardhouse set on the corner where a tributary flowed into the main river. Their passage was marked with great curiosity; people of all ranks turned to watch, and Acharsis resisted the urge to wave. Instead, he focused on maintaining a pensive frown, seeking to project an air of dignified grievance.
The guardhouse was two-storied and as glaringly white as all the other buildings in Magan. Palms grew in its dusty forecourt, where a number of street vendors catered to what looked like a line of weary plaintiffs arrayed to one side. Acharsis and Elu were marched inside, where scribes sat at desks listening to their visitors' tales and making imprints on blocks of clay. High, vertical windows allowed light into the room, which was pleasantly cool, but before Acharsis could take in much more they were hustled down a corridor and into a large office.
An obviously high-ranking individual was seated on a cushioned stool, dressed in flowing robes of office and wearing a beautifully crafted jackal mask. Robes of white and green flowed down his length, and an ebon staff banded with gold and topped by a serpent’s head lay across his lap. His hands were those of a man in his middle years, strong, and bearing several rings of precious metal.
Three scribes sat on simple blocks along the left wall, tilted lecterns before them on which they were busy imprinting, while the right wall was open to a private garden dominated by a pool of water surrounded by all manner of flowering bushes. A wondrously beautiful bird was strolling about the pool, its plumage a metallic green, wings and tail so long that they trailed behind it by a good two yards.
A hearing was in process. Three older men in matching robes of tan and umber stood in the room’s center, anxiously watching one of the scribes, who was in the process of writing something on his tablet wit
h the serene expression of one who will not be affected by the terrible events he is taking part in. They all turned as the lead guard approached with obvious deference, and a quick exchange took place between the magistrate and the guard which resulted in the older men bowing their heads and leaving the room.
“Stop scowling,” said Acharsis quietly to Elu. “I know I’m not your father. We’re trying to portray ourselves as innocent men, not sullen thugs.”
Elu’s scowl deepened and then, with obvious effort, smoothed away. Acharsis turned to the magistrate as he was ushered forward, raising his eyebrows and affecting a polite smile. When he was motioned to stop, he bowed.
The lead guard stepped up to the magistrate and gave him Elu’s golden serpent. Its appearance caused even the scribes to sit up in shock. The magistrate turned the coiled band about in his hand, then held it up to read something on its inner surface.
Damn these masks, thought Acharsis. Makes it impossible to get a good read on their emotions.
The magistrate held the band out to his side and a slave hurried forward, holding a cushion on which the band was carefully set.
The magistrate then turned his attention to the two of them. Acharsis forced himself not to stiffen, not to smooth down his clothing or otherwise betray self-consciousness. This was as dangerous a battlefield as any he’d fought on, and the odds were steeply stacked against them. He didn’t know the legal system, the exact nature of their offense, nor the punishment that they might be facing.
Finally, the magistrate spoke, but not to them; he was dictating to the scribes, all three of whom set fresh clay tablets before them and set to making imprints with their styluses.
Again, Acharsis fought the urge to tense. They would be doomed if they were not allowed to defend themselves. Patience. The magistrate was watching them even as he spoke. Don’t betray yourself.
