When the Gods Slept

by Allan Cole

  Nerisa couldn’t help but look. Sure enough she saw a long, very male part of the thief, dangling from his dungeon-rotted costume. The thief was a good natured fool and went along with the game. To the immense pleasure of the crowd he held up the two stumpy things that were arms and jerked his hips back and forth, humping the air. The crowd howled delight and rained coins onto the platform to bribe Tulaz to make the thief’s agony short for rewarding them with such fine entertainment. Tulaz saw the copper mount up and dispensed with his usual ceremony, which consisted of ominous cuts in the air and much stance and grip shifting.

  "Get him down," he shouted to the jailers.

  Instantly the thief’s guards threw him to the ground and jumped out of the way. Tulaz took one mighty pace forward and swung just as the thief’s head bobbed up.

  It was so swift there wasn’t a cry or a gasped breath. Just a snick of resistance then blood fountained from a suddenly empty neck. The thief’s head, broken-toothed grin still fixed to his face, sailed into the crowd where pigs, dogs and children quarreled over it.

  "Oh, well done, Tulaz! Well done!" Nerisa heard the stallkeep cry. He’d obviously had a wager on the first cut of the day.

  Nerisa thought she saw her chance when they led out the second victim. The stallkeep was highly interested, raising himself on his toes to get a better look. Nerisa started to slip off the wagon. All she needed was a single moment of inattention and she’d snatch her prize and disappear into the crowd before anyone was the wiser. A barrel shifted under her and she had to grab to steady herself. Although there was little noise, the stallkeep sensed something was amiss and jolted around. Nerisa swore and ducked back into her hiding place just in time.

  The girl settled down to wait. She’d have to be patient to get the better of this sow’s breath of a stallkeep. Nerisa prided herself on patience and stubborn intent. Put a goal in her head and she’d achieve it no matter how long it took. The best time, she thought, would be when they brought the adulteress out. The jailers most certainly had been paid to strip the woman before she was killed. The stallkeep, along with the rest of the viewers, would be so fixed on all that doomed nakedness he’d never notice Nerisa’s bit of business.

  As she crouched there waiting for the moment to come, Nerisa thought of the poor woman waiting in the tent. The terror she had to be feeling made Nerisa’s heart pang in empathy. What a price to pay for something so natural as being in your lover’s arms. The unfairness of it clawed at her. For a moment it was painful to breathe.

  Stop it, Nerisa, she commanded herself, fighting for control. It’s not like you haven’t seen it before.

  * * *

  Safar sat in a small outdoor cafe, shaded by an ancient broad-leaf fig tree, counting coins piled in a sticky puddle of wine. A pesky wasp made him lose count and he had to tot it all up again. A little drunk, he rubbed bleary eyes and decided that he had enough for another jug of the Foolsmire’s best. Which is to say it was the worst and therefore cheapest wine in all Walaria.

  It was late afternoon and the summer heat lay thick over the city, stifling thought and movement. The streets were empty, the homes and shops shuttered for the hours between the midday meal and evening call to prayer. It was so quiet that in the distant stockpens the bawl of a young camel, lonely for its mother, echoed across the city. The people of Walaria dozed fitfully in shuttered darkness, gathering their energies to face the day anew. It was a time for sleep, for lovers’ trysts. A time for self reflection.

  Safar rapped politely on the rough wood of the table. "Katal," he cried. "My strength is fading. Fetch me another jug from the well, if you please."

  There was a muttering from the shadowy depths of the bookshop abutting the cafe and in a moment an old man emerged, carelessly dressed in worn scholar’s robes. It was Katal, proprietor of the Foolsmire, an open air cafe and bookshop tucked into the end of a long dead-end alley in the Students’ Quarter. Katal had a book in his hand, index finger pushed between the pages to keep his place.

  "You should be resting, Safar," he said, "or tending to your studies. You know as well as I that the second level acolyte exams are less than a week away."

  Safar groaned. "Don’t spoil a perfectly good drunk, Katal. I’ve invested a week’s room and board to reach my present condition of amiable insobriety. It’s drink I need, sir. So dig into your holy well for the precious stuff, my dear purveyor of bliss. And dig deep. Find me as cold a jug as these coins will buy."

  Katal clucked disapproval, but he set his book on the table and hobbled to the old stone well. A dozen ropes were strung around the rim, tied to heavy eyebolts imbedded in the stone and disappearing into the cool black depths. He hauled on one of the ropes until a large bucket appeared. It was full of jugs made of red clay, all the width of a broad palm and standing a uniform eight inches high. Katal took one out and fetched it to Safar.

  The young man pushed coins forward, but Katal shook his head, pushing them back. "I’ll buy this one," he said. "My price for you today is talk, not copper. A Foolsmire special, if you will."

  "Done," Safar said. "I’ll listen to your advice hour after hour, my friend, if you’ll keep my cup full."

  He sloshed wine into a wide, cracked tumbler. He stoppered the jug then held it up, studying it. "Three years ago," he said, "I helped my father make jugs like these. They were much better, of course. Glazed and decorated for a fine table. Not turned out in factories by the scores."

  Katal eased his old body into the bench seat across from Safar. "I could never afford such a luxury," he said. "If I had bucketsful of Timura jugs in my well I’d pour out the wine and sell the jugs. Think of all the books I could buy with the price I’d get!"

  "I’ll tell you a secret, Katal," Safar said. "If you had Timura jugs you could make your own wine, or brandy or beer, if you prefer. My father makes a special blessing over each jug he produces. All you need then is some water, the proper makings for whatever brew it is you desire and you’ll have an endless supply of your favorite drink."

  "More pottery magic!" Katal scoffed. "And this time water into wine. No wonder your teachers despair."

  "Actually," Safar said, "there’s no magic to it at all. My father would dispute that. But it’s true. Part of the spell, you see, is that we pour spirits from an old tried and true brewing bowl into the new jug. We shake it up and pour it back. And the little animals left in the clay will produce spirits until the end of time - as long you don’t wash the jug."

  "Little animals?" Katal said, bushy gray eyebrows beetling in disbelief.

  Safar nodded. "Too small for the eye to see."

  Katal snorted. "How do you know that?"

  "What else could it be?" Safar said. "As an experiment I’ve made several such jugs. Some I chanted the spell over, but failed to use the brewing bowl liquid. Others got the liquid, but not the chant. The latter produced a good wine. The former nothing but a watery mess."

  "That still doesn’t explain the small spirit making animals," Katal pointed out. "Did you see them?"

  "I told you," Safar answered, "they’re too small for the unaided eye to behold. I theorized their existence. What other explanation could there be?"

  Katal snorted. "Be damned to theory," he said. "When will you learn that supposing doesn’t make it so."

  Safar laughed and drained off his cup. "Then you don’t know anything about magic, Katal," he said, wiping his chin. "Supposing is what sorcery is all about." He belched and refilled his cup. "But that answer is a cheat. I admit it. It’s scientific observation you were speaking of. And you were right to chastise me. I’ve never seen the little animals. But I suspect their presence. And if someone gave me money I could grind a glass lens so powerful I might be able to see them and prove their existence."

  "Who would give you money for such a thing?" Katal said. "And even if your proved your point, who would care?"

  Safar was suddenly serious. He jabbed a finger into his chest. "I would," he said. "And so should everyone els
e. If we are ignorant of the smallest things, how can we know the larger world? How can we guide our fate?"

  "We’ve had this argument before," Katal said. "I say the fate of mortals is the business of the gods."

  "Bah!" was Safar’s retort. "The gods have no business but their own. Our troubles are no concern of theirs."

  Katal glanced about nervously and saw no one in earshot, except his grandson, Zeman, who’d come out while they were talking and was brushing fig leaves off the tables on the other side of the patio.

  "Be careful what you say, my young friend," Katal warned. "You never know when one of the king’s spies will be about. In Walaria the penalty for heresy is most unpleasant."

  Safar ducked his head, chastened. "I know, I know," he said. "And I’m sorry to be so outspoken in your presence. I don’t want to get you in trouble because of my views. Sometimes it’s difficult to remember that I must guard my tongue here. In Kyrania a man of twenty may speak his mind about any subject he chooses."

  Katal leaned close, a fond smile peeping out from his untidy beard. "Speak to me all you like, Safar," he said. "But discreetly, sir. Discreetly. And in well modulated tones."

  The old man had been a kindly uncle to Safar since he’d arrived in Walaria some two years before. In that spirit Katal dipped into his robe and fished out a small cup. He cleaned it with a sleeve, then filled it with wine.

  He drank, then said, "Tell me what this is all about, Safar. If your family were here they’d be worried. So let me worry for them. I’ll tell you what your own father would say. You’ve been drinking heavily for nearly a month. Your studies must be suffering as much as your finances. You’ve had no money for food, much less books. I’m not complaining, but I’ve been feeding you for free. I’d even be willing to forgo my usual rental fee for any books you required, if only I thought you’d make some use of them. There’s an exam coming up. The most important in your career as a student. All the other second level candidates, except the sons of the rich whose success is assured by the fact of their wealth, are studying hard. They don’t want to bring shame to their family."

  "What’s the use?" Safar said. "No matter how well I do Umurhan will fail me anyway."

  Katal’s eyebrows shot up. "How can that be?" he said. "You’re the best student Umurhan’s had in years." Umurhan was Walaria’s Chief Sorcerer. As such he supervised the temple and attached university where scholars, priests, healers and wizards were trained. He answered to no one but King Didima, ruler of the city and its environs.

  "He’s going to fail me just the same," Safar said.

  "There must be some reason," Katal said. "What did you do to earn his wrath?"

  Safar made a sour face. "He caught me in his library," he said, "making notes on a forbidden book."

  Katal was aghast. "How could you take such a chance?"

  Safar hung his head. "I thought it was safe," he said. "I’ve slipped into his study before without being caught. I knew the risk I was taking. But I’m on the trail of something important, dammit! And I thought one more trip might turn up what I needed. I slipped in well before first light. Everyone knows old Umurhan likes his sleep, so there shouldn’t have been any danger. But this time I’d barely entered the room and lit a candle when he suddenly appeared from the shadows. As if he’d been waiting there for me."

  "Did someone alert him?" Katal asked.

  "I don’t see how they could," Safar said. "It was a last minute decision. No one knew. My only guess is I left some clue on my last visit. And he’s been waiting all this time to pounce."

  "You were fortunate he didn’t expel you at once," Katal said. "Or, worse, report you to Kalasariz as a dangerous heretic." Lord Kalasariz was Didima’s chief spy. There were so many in his employ the joke was that in Walaria even the watchers were watched.

  "Umurhan said the same thing," Safar replied. "He said he could have me thrown into one of Kalasariz’ cells where I could rot for all eternity for all he cared. And the only reason he didn’t call one of Kalasariz’ minions right then was because I was such a good student."

  "You see?" Katal said. "There is hope. You’ve completed four years of work in two. No one else your age has ever qualified to take the second level acolyte exams in so short a time." He indicated the wine jug. "Now you’re destroying the chance he’s giving you to make amends."

  Safar grimaced, remembering Umurhan’s wrath. "I don’t think that’s possible," he said. "The only reason I wasn’t thrown out immediately is because my sponsor is Lord Muzine, the richest merchant in the city." Muzine was Coralean’s friend, the man he’d said he’d call on to help get Safar admitted to the university. "Umurhan doesn’t want a scandal and he certainly doesn’t want to offend Muzine. He’ll fail me, then report the sad news to Muzine. It’s the cleanest way to be rid of me."

  "Well I for one won’t be sorry," came a voice. The two turned and saw that Zeman had worked his way across the patio and was now cleaning the table next to them. Zeman was about Safar’s age and height. But he was so thin he was nearly skeletal. His complexion was bad, his face long and horse-like, with wall eyes and overly large teeth.

  "It’s leeches like you who keep my grandfather poor," Zeman said. "You all eat and drink on credit, or for nothing at all. You rent books and scrolls and keep them as long you like without paying for the extra time. And it isn’t only the students. What of that bitch Nerisa he’s taken under his wing? A thief, of all things. No, I fear my grandfather is too charitable for his own good. And for mine. I go without as well because of your sort."

  He indicted his costume - tight brown leggings, green thigh-length smock, slippers with curled toes - a cheap imitation of what the fashionable lads wore. "I’m forced to clothe myself in the alley markets. It’s an insult to a young man of my class and prospects."

  Katal was angry. "Don’t speak to my friend like that! Safar only receives what I beg him to take. He is a friend and he possesses one of the finest young minds I’ve met in many a day."

  Safar intervened. "He’s right, Katal. You are too generous. I’ll wager you haven’t raised the prices since you opened the Foolsmire forty years ago. That’s why we all come here. You have a right to a decent profit, my friend. And at your age you deserve to live a life of ease."

  Zeman pushed in. "I’ll thank you to let me defend myself to my own grandfather," he said to Safar. "As if I need defending. I’m only being sensible, not mean."

  "Both of you speak with the arrogance of youth," Katal said. "Neither has the faintest notion of why I live my life as I do."

  He pointed at the faded sign hanging from a rusty iron post over the door of bookshop. "The name speaks it for all to see - ‘Foolsmire.’ I was a young man when I hung that sign. I planted that tree at the same time. It was just a stick with a few leaves then. Now it shades us with its mighty boughs." His old eyes gleamed in memory. "I was a bright young fellow," he said. "Although probably not as bright as I thought. Still, I had a mind agile enough to compete at the university. But I had no money or influence to gain entrance. Yet I loved books and knowledge above all else. And so I sought a fool’s paradise and became a seller of books. I wanted the company of the most intelligent students to discuss the ideas the books contained. I created a place to attract such people, offering my wares at the lowest prices possible. You see before you a poor man, a foolish man, but a happy man. For I have achieved my dreams at the Foolsmire."

  Safar laughed and nodded in understanding. Zeman frowned, more unhappy than before. "What of me, Grandfather?" he protested. "I didn’t ask for this life. I didn’t ask for the plague that killed my parents. My mother - your daughter - was comely enough to attract a man with prospects for a husband. But he died before he could prosper and see that I had a chance to prosper as well."

  "I gave you a home," Katal said. "What more could I do? Your grandmother died in the same plague, so I lost my whole family, except for you."

  "I know that, Grandfather," Zeman said. "And I appreciate the sa
crifices you’ve made. I’m only asking that you try a little harder. Don’t give so much away. And when I inherit this place someday you can go to your grave in peace, knowing I’ve been cared for." Zeman glanced about, noting the shabbiness of his inheritance. "It does have a good location, after all. Right in the heart of the student quarter. It should fetch me a decent sum."

  Safar had to fight his temper. In Kyrania it was unheard of for a lad to speak so coldly and rudely to his grandfather. But to leave Zeman’s comments completely unanswered would bedevil his dreams.

  "If it were me," he said, "I could never sell all these books. To misquote the poet - What could you possibly buy that was half so precious as what you sell."

  "A brothel, for one," Zeman said. "With a well-planned gaming parlor attached." He gave the table an angry swipe and stalked off.

  "You shouldn’t let him get away with that," Safar said, hotly. "He shows no respect."

  "Never mind him," Katal said. "Zeman is what he is. There’s nothing to be done about it. It’s Safar Timura I’m worried about just now."

  "There’s nothing to be done about that either," Safar said.

  "What possessed you to take such a chance with Umurhan?" Katal asked, giving his beard a tug of frustration.

  Safar lowered his eyes. "You know," he said.

  Katal’s eyes narrowed. "Hadin, again?"

  "Yes."

  "Why are you so obsessed with a place on the other side of the world?" Katal said. "A place we’re not even certain exists. ‘The Land Of The Fires,’ it’s called. For all we know it might really be ‘The Frozen Lands.’ Or ‘The Lands Of The Swamps.’"

  "I know what I saw in the vision," Safar said. "And I know deep in my bones it’s vital that someone find out what happened."

  "I gather you think the trail leads into Umurhan’s private library," Katal said, dryly. "Among his forbidden books."

  Safar nodded, then leaned closer. "I’ve run across a name," he said, low. He gestured in the direction of the book shop. "It’s repeated many times in some of your oldest scrolls. Scholars refer to an ancient they call Lord Asper. A great magician and philosopher. He measured the world and also the distance from Esmir to the moon. He made many predictions that came true, including the rise of Alisarrian and the collapse of his empire."