Valash puffed himself up slightly, and his expression took on a knowing, secretive cast. ‘You understand the situation perfectly Vymer,’ he said. ‘It wouldn’t be proper for me to reveal things Lord Scarpa’s told me in strictest confidence,’ He pointedly picked up his papers again.
‘We won’t keep you from important matters, Master Valash,’ Stragen said, backing away. ‘We’ll nose around town some more and let you know if we find out anything else.’
‘I’d appreciate that, Vymer,’ Valash replied, shuffling his papers as his visitors departed.
‘What an ass,’ Talen muttered as the three of them carefully descended the rickety staircase to the alley again.
‘Where did you learn so much about tapestry?’ Sparhawk asked him.
‘I don’t know anything about tapestry.’
‘You were talking as if you did.’
‘I talk about a lot of things I don’t know anything about. It fills in the gaps when you’re trying to peddle something that’s worthless. I could tell by the way Valash’s eyes glazed over when I mentioned the word “tapestry” that he didn’t know any more about it than I did. He was too busy trying to make us think that he’s important to pay any real attention. I could get rich from that one. I could sell him blue butter.’
Sparhawk gave him a puzzled look.
‘It’s a swindler’s term,’ Stragen explained. ‘The meaning’s a little obscure.’
‘I’m sure it is.’
‘Did you want me to explain it?’
‘Not particularly, no,’
‘Is it a family custom? Or just a way to honor your father?’ Berit asked Khalad as the two of them, wearing mail-shirts and grey cloaks, lounged against the forward rail of the scruffy lake-freighter plodding across the Sea of Arjun from Sopal to Tiana.
Khalad shrugged. ‘No, it’s nothing like that. It’s just that the men in our family all have heavy beards – except for Talen. If I decided not to wear a beard, I’d have to shave twice a day. I clip it close with scissors once a week and let it go at that. It saves time.’
Berit rubbed at his altered cheek. ‘I wonder what Sparhawk would do if I let his beard grow,’ he mused.
‘He might not do anything, but Queen Ehlana would probably peel you like an apple. She likes his face just the way it is. She’s even fond of that crooked nose.’
‘It looks as if we’ve got weather up ahead.’ Berit pointed toward the west.
Khalad frowned. ‘Where did that come from? The sky was clear just a minute ago. It’s funny I didn’t smell it coming.’
The cloud-bank hovering low on the western horizon was purplish black, and it roiled ominously, swelling upward with surprising speed. There were flickers of lightning deep inside the cloud, and the sullen rumble of thunder came to them across the dark, choppy waters of the lake.
‘I hope these sailors know what they’re doing,’ Berit said. ‘That has the earmarks of a very nasty squall.’
They continued to watch the inky cloud as it boiled higher and higher, covering more and more of the western sky.
That’s not a natural storm, Berit,’ Khalad said tensely. ‘It’s building too fast.’
Then there was a shocking crash of thunder, and the cloud blanched and shuddered as the lightning seethed within it. Both the young men saw the shadowy shape in the instant that the bluish lightning thrust back the darkness to reveal what lay hidden in the cloud. ‘Klæl!’ Berit gasped, staring at the monstrous, winged shape half-concealed in the churning storm-front.
The next crash of thunder ripped the sky, and the shabby vessel shuddered in the overwhelming sound. The inverted wedge of Klæl’s face seemed to ripple and change in the midst of its veiling cloud, and the slitted eyes flamed in sudden rage. The great, batlike wings began to claw at the approaching storm, and the awful mouth opened to roar forth the thunder of Klæl’s frustration. He howled in vast fury, and his enormous arms stretched up into the murky air, reaching hungrily to clutch at something that was not there.
And then the thing was gone, and the unnatural cloud tattered and streamed harmlessly off to the southeast to become no more than a dirty smudge on the horizon. The air, however, was filled with a sulphurous reek.
‘You’d better pass the word to Aphrael,’ Khalad said grimly. ‘Klæl’s loose again. He was looking for something, and he didn’t find it. God knows where he’ll look next.’
‘Komier’s arm is broken in three places,’ Sir Heldin rumbled when he joined the mail-shirted Patriarch Bergsten, Ambassador Fontan, and Archimandrite Monsel in Monsel’s book-littered study in the east wing of the palace, ‘and Darellon’s still seeing two of everything. Komier can travel if he has to, but I think we’d better leave Darellon here until he recovers.’
‘How many knights are fit to ride?’ Bergsten asked.
‘Forty thousand at most, your Grace.’
‘We’ll just have to make do with what we’ve got. Emban knew that we’d probably come this way, and he’s been sending messengers by the platoon. Things are coming to a head in southeastern Tamuli. Sparhawk’s wife has been taken hostage, and our enemies are offering to trade her for Bhelliom. There’s a rebel army in the Arjuni jungles preparing to march on Matherion, and two more armies massing on the eastern frontier of Cynesga. If those armies all join up, the game’s over. Emban wants us to ride east across the steppes until we’re past the Astel Marshes and then turn south and lay siege to the Cynesgan capital. He needs a diversion of some kind to pull those armies back from the border.’
Sir Heldin pulled out his map. ‘It’s workable,’ he said after a moment’s study, ‘but we’re going to be a little light for that kind of job.’
‘We’ll get by. Vanion’s in the field, but he’s badly outnumbered along that Cynesgan frontier. If we don’t create enough of a disturbance to relieve some of the pressure on him, he’ll be swarmed under.’
Heldin looked speculatively at the huge Thalesian patriarch. ‘You’re not going to like this, your Grace,’ he said, ‘but there’s not much choice in the matter.’
‘Go ahead,’ Bergsten told him.
‘You’re going to have to lay your cassock aside and take command. Abriel’s been killed, Darellon’s incapacitated, and if Komier gets into a fight, the weight of his axe will cripple him.’
‘You’re still here, Heldin. You can take charge.’
Heldin shook his head. ‘I’m not a Preceptor, your Grace, and everybody in the army knows it. I’m also a Pandion, and the other orders have strong feelings about us. We haven’t made very many friends in the past couple of centuries. The other orders won’t accept me as commander. You’re a Patriarch, and you speak for Sarathi – and the Church. They’ll accept you with no argument.’
‘It’s out of the question.’
‘Then we’ll have to sit here until Dolmant sends us a new commander.’
‘We can’t wait!’
‘My point exactly. Do I have your permission to tell the knights that you’re taking command?’
‘I can’t, Heldin. You know that I’m forbidden to use magic’
‘We can work our way around that, your Grace. There are plenty of accomplished magicians in the ranks. Just tell us what you want done, and we’ll see to it.’
‘I’ve taken an oath.’
‘You took another one earlier, Lord Bergsten. You promised to defend the Church. That oath takes precedence in this situation.’
The hugely bearded and black-robed Archimandrite Monsel looked speculatively at the reluctant Thalesian. Then he spoke in a neutral sort of way. ‘Would you like an independent opinion, Bergsten?’
Bergsten scowled at him.
‘You’re going to get it anyway,’ the Astellian churchman said with unruffled calm. ‘Given the nature of our opponent, we’re face to face with a “Crisis of the Faith”, and that suspends all the other rules. God needs your axe, Bergsten, not your theology.’ He squinted at the Thalesian Patriarch. ‘You don’t seem convinced,’ he said
.
‘I’m not trying to be offensive, Monsel, but “Crisis of the Faith” can’t just be pulled out and dusted off whenever we want to bend some rules.’
‘All right, let’s try this one then. This is Astel, and your Church at Chyrellos recognizes my authority here. As long as we’re in Astel, I speak for God.’
Bergsten pulled off his helmet and absently polished the glossy black Ogre-horns on his sleeve. ‘Technically, I suppose,’ he conceded.
‘Technicalities are the very soul of doctrine, your Grace.’ Monsel’s huge beard bristled with disputational fervor. ‘Do you agree that I speak for God here in Astel?’
‘All right, for the sake of argument, yes.’
‘I’m glad you agree; I’d hate to have to excommunicate you. Now then, I speak for God here, and God wants you to take command of the Church Knights. Go forth and smite God’s enemies, my son, and may heaven strengthen your arm.’
Bergsten squinted out the window at the dirty-looking sky for a long moment, mulling the clearly specious argument over in his mind. ‘You take full responsibility, Monsel?’ he asked.
‘I do.’
‘That’s good enough for me, then.’ Bergsten crammed his helmet back on his head. ‘Sir Heldin, go tell the knights that I’m assuming command of the four orders. Instruct them to make all the necessary preparations. We march first thing in the morning.’
‘At once, General Bergsten,’ Heldin replied, coming to attention.
‘Anakha,’ Bhelliom’s voice echoed in the vaults of Sparhawk’s mind, ‘thou must awaken.’
Even before he opened his eyes, Sparhawk could feel a light touch on the thong about his neck. He caught the little hand and opened his eyes. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he demanded of the Child Goddess.
‘I have to have the Bhelliom, Sparhawk!’ Her voice was desperate, and her eyes were streaming tears.
‘What’s going on, Aphrael? Calm down and tell me what’s happened.’
‘Sephrenia’s been stabbed! She’s dying! Please, Sparhawk! Give me the Bhelliom!’
He came to his feet all in one motion. ‘Where did this happen?’
‘In Dirgis. She was getting ready for bed, and Zalasta came into her room. He stabbed her in the heart, Sparhawk! Please, Father, give me the Bhelliom! I’ve got to have it to save her!’
‘She’s still alive?’
‘Yes, but I don’t know for how long! Xanetia’s with her. She’s using a Delphaeic spell to keep her breathing, but she’s dying, my sister’s dying!’ She wailed and hurled herself into his arms, weeping uncontrollably.
‘Stop that, Aphrael! This isn’t helping. When did this happen?’
‘A couple of hours ago. Please, Sparhawk! Only Bhelliom can save her!’
‘We can’t, Aphrael! If we take Bhelliom out of that box, Cyrgon will know immediately that we’re trying to trick him, and Scarpa will kill your mother!’
The Child Goddess clung to him, sobbing uncontrollably. ‘I know!’ she wailed. ‘What are we going to do, Father? We can’t just let her die!’
‘Can’t you do something?’
‘The knife touched her heart, Sparhawk! I can’t reverse that! Only Bhelliom has that kind of power!’
Sparhawk’s soul seemed to shrivel, and he smashed at the wall with his fist. He lifted his face. ‘What can I do?’ he hurled his voice upward. ‘What in God’s name can I do?’
‘Compose thyself, Anakha!’ Bhelliom’s voice was sharp in his mind. ‘Thou wilt serve neither Sephrenia nor thy mate by this unseemly display!’
‘We have to do something, Blue Rose!’
‘Thou art not at this moment fit to decide. Thou must therefore be ruled by me. Go at once and do as the Child Goddess doth entreat thee.’
‘Thou wilt condemn my wife!’
‘That is not certain, Anakha. Sephrenia, however, doth linger on the brink of death. That much is certain. It is her need that is most pressing.’
‘No! I can’t do that!’
‘Thou wilt obey me, Anakha! Thou art my creature, and therefore subject to my will! Go thou and do as I have commanded thee!’
Chapter 12
Sparhawk dug into his sea-bag, throwing clothes on the floor.
‘What are you doing?’ Aphrael demanded urgently. ‘We have to hurry!’
‘I’ve got to leave a note for Stragen, but I can’t find any paper.’
‘Here.’ She held out her hand, and a sheet of parchment appeared in it.
‘Thank you.’ He took the parchment and continued to rummage in the bag.
‘Get on with it, Sparhawk.’
‘I need something to write with.’
She muttered something in Styric and handed him a quill and a small inkpot.
‘Vymer,’ Sparhawk scribbled, ‘something’s come up, and I’ll be gone for a while. Keep Reldin out of trouble.’ And he signed it, ‘Fron.’ Then he laid it in the center of Stragen’s bed.
‘Now can we go?’ she asked impatiently.
‘How are you going to do this?’ He picked up his cloak.
‘We have to get out of town first. I don’t want anybody to see us. What’s the quickest way to the woods?’
‘East. It’s about a mile to the edge of the forest.’
‘Let’s go.’
They left the room, went down the stairs and on out into the street. Sparhawk picked her up and half-enfolded her in his cloak.
‘I can walk,’ she protested.
‘Not without attracting attention, you can’t. You’re a Styric, and people would notice that.’ He started off down the street, carrying her in his arms.
‘Can’t you go any faster?’
‘Just let me handle this part of it, Aphrael. If I start running, people will think I’ve stolen you.’ He looked around to make sure no one on the muddy street was close enough to hear. ‘How are you going to manage this?’ he asked her. There are people out there who can feel it when you tamper with things, you know. We don’t want to attract attention.’
She frowned. ‘I’m not sure. I was upset when I came here.’
‘Are you trying to get your mother killed?’
‘That’s a hateful thing to say.’ She pursed her little mouth in thought. ‘There’s always a certain amount of noise,’ she mused.
‘I didn’t quite follow that.’
‘It’s one of the disadvantages of having our two worlds overlap the way they do. The sounds of one sort of spill over into the other. Most humans can’t hear us – or feel us – when we move around, but we can definitely hear and feel each other.’
Sparhawk crossed the street to avoid a noisy brawl that had just erupted from a sailors’ tavern. ‘If the others can hear you, how are you going to hide what you’re doing?’
‘You didn’t let me finish, Sparhawk. We’re not alone here. There are others all around us – my family, the Tamul Gods, your Elene God, various spirits and ghosts, and the air’s positively littered with the Powerless Ones. Sometimes they flock up like migrating birds.’
He stopped and stepped back to let a rickety charcoal wagon creak past. ‘Who are these “Powerless Ones”?’ he asked her. ‘Are they dangerous?’
‘Hardly. They don’t even really exist any more. They’re nothing but memories – old myths and legends.’
‘Are they real? Could I see them?’
‘Not unless you believe in them. They were Gods once, but their worshippers either died out or were converted to the worship of other Gods. They wail and flutter around the edges of reality without substance or even thought. All they have is need.’ She sighed. ‘We go out of fashion, Sparhawk – like last year’s gowns or old shoes and hats. The Powerless Ones are discarded Gods who shrink and shrink as the years go by until they’re finally nothing at all but a kind of anguished wailing.’ She sighed again. ‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘there’s all this noise in the background, and it makes it very hard to concentrate or pick out specifics.’
They passed another smelly
tavern loud with drunken song. ‘Is this noise something like that?’ Sparhawk asked, jerking his head toward the singing. ‘Meaningless sound that fills up your ears and keeps you from hearing what you’re really listening for?’
‘More or less. We have a couple of senses that you don’t, though, so we know when others are around, for one thing, and we know when they’re doing things – tampering, if you want to call it that – for another. Maybe I can hide what I’m doing in all that other noise. How much further do we have to go?’
He turned a corner into a quiet street. ‘We’re coming to the edge of town now.’ He shifted her in his arms and continued on up the street, walking a little faster now. The houses here on the outskirts of Beresa were more substantial, and they were set back from the streets in aloof, self-important pride. ‘After we go through the charcoal yards, we’ll come to the woods,’ he told her. ‘Are you sure this noise that I can’t hear will be loud enough to hide your spells?’
‘I’ll see if I can get some help. I just thought of something. Cyrgon doesn’t know exactly where I am, and it’ll take him a little while to identify me and pinpoint my exact location. I’ll ask some of the others to come here and have a party or something. If they’re loud enough, and if I move fast enough, he won’t even know that I’ve been here.’
There were only a few workmen tending the sullen fires in the charcoal yards that ringed Beresa, incurious men, blackened by their tasks and far gone with drink, who lurched around the smoky flames like hellish imps dancing on eternal coals. Sparhawk walked even faster now, carrying the distraught Child Goddess toward the shadowy edge of the tangled forest.
‘I’ll need to be able to see the sky,’ she told him. ‘I don’t want any tree-limbs in my way.’ She paused. ‘Are you afraid of heights?’ she asked.
‘Not particularly, why?’
‘Just asking. Don’t get excited when we start. I won’t let anything happen to you. You’ll be perfectly safe as long as I’m holding your hand.’ She paused again. ‘Oh, dear,’ she murmured. ‘I just remembered something.’
The Hidden City Page 20
