"And for that, I am banished from court for ten days? And must pay a small fortune to your whoremonger of a brother?"
She gave him a cool look. "That was your fault. There was no need to jump to my defense, I would have handled it in time. But when fate throws the dice on your behalf..."
"Spare me the metaphors! It has cost me enough. And for him?" Lugalzaeer turned to Azaran. "What does it matter if he rots in a cell? A barbarian counts for nothing in the end."
"This one does," Zeyaana retorted. "When the time comes, we will need him."
"I doubt that." Lugalzaeer looked him over. "Does he have a tongue in him? Can he even speak our language...ah, right. You have him under your spell. What witchcraft is this?"
"Something that gives me an advantage in the game," Zeyaana said. She raised a hand to the base of her throat, hesitated, then let it fall. "I have our friend here completely under my control. He is a tool, nothing more."
"And your father? And half men of the court? Are they tools as well?"
"The useful ones. The rest are just amusements."
"And which am I?" Lugalzaeer asked, turning to her.
"The only real man among the lot," was her reply.
Lugalzaeer smiled. "You're a scheming bitch," he said affectionately.
"Which is why you love me." She place a hand against his cheek for a moment, smiling as his skin turned warm at her touch, then let it fall away. "And do not fear about the ten days. You will be be back in court long before then. The time to act is closer than you think."
Lugalzaeer frowned. "I though we had a month to prepare..."
"Today's events have changed things. My father - the gods bless his stupidity - alienated you and my brother by his actions. His strongest ally and his heir. No one would blame you for harboring ill-will towards the King, and as for my brother, anger makes him foolish. He insulted the entire court with his behavior. He now looks weak. This is our moment."
"It's not enough time..."
"Then make do." She drew in close, slipping an arm around his back. "Now, look as if the Princess is trying to seduce you."
"No need to try...ah, right. Here comes your brother."
And indeed, Prince Ithoshaara strode down the corridor, fists clenched, face twisted in anger. His gaze flicked at Azaran for a moment, then fixed on his sister and greatest rival. "Again with your plots?" he snarled.
"Brother dear," Zeyaana said. "Is there something you want?"
"For you to cease with this scandal!" Ithoshaara snarled. "Step from the Princess, Lugalzaeer! She's not some back alley strumpet to spike against a wall!"
Lugalzaeer smirked. "I don't hear her complaining, Prince."
"And you're not one to judge," said Zeyaana. "How many concubines do you keep in your palace? How many slave girls do you rut with before the noon hour approaches? Reform your own behavior!"
"It is not the same," Ithoshaara shot back. "You are daughter of our father's loins. You dishonor our family with these acts! Father should have you whipped as a harlot! If your mother could see this..."
"Don't you talk about my mother!" Zeyaana turned to face him, eyes blazing with anger. "You don't get to speak of her. Not you!"
Ithoshaara laughed. "Why not? She would not be shamed in the least, she was as much of a whore as you are, dear sister!"
"Careful Prince." Lugalzaeer stepped before her. "Shall I give you a lesson in manners?"
"Try it and die."
"Is that a challenge?"
Both men tensed, ready to batter each other to death. Zeyaana cried out, "Enough of this! Azaran, protect me!"
Why should I? Azaran wanted to reply. Instead he stepped in between Ithoshaara and Lugalzaeer. The Prince took a step back. "Is he your lover too, sister?" he asked. "Or yours, Lugalzaeer?"
"Buggery is your vice, Prince!" Lugalzaeer answered.
Ithoshaara stepped away, giving all three a look of venomous hatred, his gaze lingering the longest on Lugalzaeer. "Whatever you are planning," he said, "count on it to fail! You'll never get what you want. Not the throne...or my sister by your side! " The Prince spat on the floor and stormed away, his footsteps echoing down the hall.
Zeyaana said nothing, waiting until her brother was out of sight. "Still think it's too soon?" she finally said.
"On the contrary," Lugalzaeer responded, "I think we've waited long enough. Just one request on my part, however. No one kills your brother but me."
"As you wish, my love. And take your time, when the opportunity comes." She smiled. "Make him scream."
This time, Segovac made the trip during the day.
The streets were crowded. Countless numbers of Kedaji filled the avenues and alleyways, the public squares and smaller spaces tucked behind buildings. Red colored rags were tied about their heads (for the men) or waists (for the women.) Drummers beat out rhythms on every street corner, as men wearing coats from which trailed long cloth streamers dyed in brilliant colors spun about, pushing themselves into a frenzy even as the crowds watched and cheered. Everyone who wasn't dancing, singing or getting themselves drunk held a small round cake in their hands, baked hard as a rock and with a similar taste. One was shoved into Segovac's hand. He took a bite, then carefully slipped into a pocket, "Maybe later."
Telascar shrugged. "It's good fortune," he said. resolutely chewing his way through a piece.
"It tastes like a rock."
"That's the whole point. The Demons of Sickness look upon a man or woman eating something so harsh as too strong to be sickened."
"I'll keep that in mind," Segovac said, leaving the cake in his pocket.
It was the Festival of the Sacred Ibis, commemorating the birth of the demigod Tugash, son of Sagosh by a mortal Princess and if one believed the legends the progenitor of most of the ancient houses of the city's nobility. Telascar explained as they ducked past dancers, drunkards, laughing women and screaming children, occasionally taking a detour through a side street to avoid more rambunctious mobs. "Used to be only the nobles took this day seriously. Most everyone else was too busy working to care...watch it there...ah, don't worry, it'll clear off nice one it dried. Anyway, these days there's not much for the commons to do with their time, so any excuse for a festival is better than none..."
Segovac leaned back against a wall as a pair of woman ran by holding hands, one of them swinging about a mug filled with cheap wine, the smell of which lingered long after they had passed. "What do the red rags signify?" he asked.
"Blood, I think." Telascar stepped black into the crowd, motioning for Segovac to follow. "To be honest, I don't really know. And don't much care. The streets are best avoided on a day like this...ah, bugger me backwards, this might be a problem."
They were on the edge of a small public square. A fountain dribbled out a trickle of water on one end. Next to it a large wooden box was set. Standing on it was a man in ragged brown robes and long unkempt hair, holding a staff in one hand and straining to be heard above the mocking of the crowd.
"Sin!" he roared. "Degradation! Hear the warning of heaven, O Kedaj! We have fallen from the path of the gods, we turn from the divine and embrace fleshly abomination! The anger of the gods is growing and it will soon fall on this rotten city, burning away all that is rotten with its purifying fire!"
"Shut up" shouted a man in the front. "You're boring!"
"Go back to the desert and bugger a sheep!" shouted another man.
""What are you afraid of?" a drunk woman said, forcing her way to the front. She pulled down the top of her dress, exposing a pair of sagging breasts. "Have a suck at these," she slurred loudly while the rest of the mob hooted, "and you'll forget all about the gods!"
The preacher pointed his staff at her. "Harlot!" he roared. "Fornicator!" He swept the staff around, his force gaze cowing them for a moment. The women covered herself up, while the men took a step back. "Repent, people of Kedaj! Turn away from this evil path! Return to the gods, fall to your knees and beg their mercy! Or the demons that
plague this city will rise up and consume you all...ugh!" A rock flew out of the crowd and struck him in the face. The preacher staggered, nearly falling off his box. Blood ran down from a cut above his eye. "The gods curse you all!" he shouted.
More stones flew out, and the preacher fell to the crowd. The crowd clothed in, stones, fists and feet raising down. Their faces were twisted by rage...and something else. Something cruel, rising from a dark space in the soul that this city had let free. The restraints that governed their impulses were weakening, and those who made the mistake of pointing this out would find it to be deadly.
Telascar dragged him on. "No point in staying," the merchant said, "once the mob has it's blood up."
"Do these things happen often?" Segovac asked, feeling sick.
"Yes." Telascar spat on the ground. "Especially these days."
They pushed on. Signs of the same degradation were everywhere to Segovac's eyes. In one alley, a pair of dazed-looking women wearing nothing from the waist up staggered out onto the street, one of them bleeding copiously from a cut on her cheek. In another street, a pair of young men rolled about in the dust, battering each other with fists and rocks, while onlookers cheered them on. One raised his hand high and smashed it down hard with a crack loud enough to be heard over the mob. He stood high, roaring like a beast, while his opponent lay still on the ground. On the next street a platoon of city guards charged towards a mob of revelers plundering a wine merchants store. The people watched this as they would any other entertainment, dancing and singing while men fought and died not more than fifty feet away.
And everywhere were signs of the Tears. Addicts slumped against walls, blissed out from reality, for on festival days the ration was doubled. And for many even that was not enough. At one intersection they came across a pair of caged wagons. A man stood before them, holding a handful of the familiar brown cloth packets. "Who will trade?" he shouted. "Twenty for one! It is a fair price!"
Surrounding him was a mob of women, all clutching children. One of them pushed her way to the front, raising up a little girl not more than two years old. One of the guards protecting the merchant took the bawling child from her mother. The merchant handed over a small bag filled with doses of the Tears. The mother took it, her face twisted in a misery of want and grief. She hesitated for a moment, looking at the girl she'd traded away.
"You are young," said the merchant. "You can have another. And I will pay double next time!"
The woman took the pouch and clutched it tight to her chest. She turned away from the wagon, wailing loudly and forcing her way through the crowd. She only got near the end when another woman grabbed at the bag. Blows were exchanged and the bag was ripped open, sending packets into the street. The addicts swarmed in like rats, grabbing what they could, even as the mother fell to the ground, knocked unconscious.
The guards paid no mind. The cage was opened and the squalling child shoved inside to join a dozen others, all bound for the slave market.
Segovac wanted to vomit. He turned away, hand reaching for the sword at his side.
Telascar shook his head. "There's nothing you can do," he said.
They pushed on. The temple of Sagosh was in sight now, rising above the rooftops. However Telascar abruptly turned to the left, headed down another side street. They went by a pair of passed-out drunks, through a low archway...and stepped into another world.
It was a street, much the others. Only here there was no violence or degeneration. The cobblestones were swept clear, the walls of the houses freshly painted. The sounds of the festival and associated disorders were around them, but here there was silence. Painted on the lintel of each door were three circles, each with an eight-pointed star in the center.
One of the doors opened. Out stepped a child...or at least that's what it appeared at first, until Segovac saw the white beard and bald head. The man's skin was a dark gray color, his face a map of wrinkles. His eyes were surprisingly bright in his head, almost jewel-like. He wore a dark tunic that went down to his ankles, and on his head was a boxy hat with four corners painted blue and lines of script written on the side.
The man looked at the two newcomers with shock. He bowed once, then scurried across the road, where another door opened to receive him and just as quickly closed.
"A new mystery," observed Segovac. "You have kuligs in this city?"
"A few, yes." Telascar nodded. "Used to be more. This entire quarter of the city belonged to them. Now it's down to just a few streets. Most have left and those that remain," he waved his hand about, "are soon to follow if they have any sense."
They walked down the street. Segovac could sense the people in the house watching them, bright jewel-eyes peeking through shutters at the strangers. "When Enmer-Galila came to power," Telascar explained, "the kuligs numbered around ten thousand. As they did for every new king, their elder sent a gift of gold and spices, as a sign of loyalty to the new royal house. In the past that would have been enough for the Kings to leave them be, which is all any man really wants from his rulers. But those were strange times. The Corsairs had closed off the trade routes and the city was suffering. Soon after he came to power, they raided the estates on the coasts."
"You mentioned that, how they attacked the estates of his enemies."
"Just so. His opponents were weakened. But they were still around and complaining about their hardships. And there were many in the city willing to listen. So Enmer-Galila made the kuligs a scapegoat for their sufferings. He claimed that the little folk were in league with the Corsairs, that the houses were filled with plundered wealth and that they planned to betray the city to Enkilash then next time Teregi sails appeared on the horizon...and so on."
Segovac saw where this was headed. "How long did the riot last?"
"Three days. That's how long the King ordered the city guards to abandon the kulig quarter to the mob. Three days of murder and pillage. A third of their number perished. More would have died, but some merchants of the city gave shelter to those we could..."
"You among them?"
Telascar nodded. "I did business with them in the early years, when I was just starting out. The Kedaji turned their noses up at an Eburrean, but the kuligs would work with any who might bring them profit. Sheltering them in my house while the mob ran wild seemed the least I could do in return."
The reached the end of the street. The sound of the festival grew louder. "After three days, the King ordered his soldiers to put down the unrest, for fear it might spread to other parts of the city. Those kuligs who survived gathered what wealth they had left and fled Kedaj. Only a remnant stayed behind, and every year their numbers dwindle."
They ducked through another side street ending in an archway. More revelers lay beyond, this lot better dressed and better fed than the ones from before. The Temple of Sagosh rose up before them, dominating the surrounding houses like a mountain over hills. High stone walls made from blocks so large they could only have been placed there by the hands of giants, the faces carved with friezes depicting scenes form the life of the god; Sagosh slaying the dragon Tabzuaz, the embodiment of chaos. Sagosh anointing the hero-god Nen-kidu, before his descent into the underworld to free the spirits of his brothers. Sagosh, sitting atop his throne in the Mansion, the rest of the gods seated at his feet. Sagosh the Thunderer, there at the beginning and there at the end.
The doors to the temple were open. A crowd of folk were headed through them, sober-looking men and women, many doing their best to ignore the chaos in the streets behind them. Despite all the changes in the city, Kedaj still had men and women who honored the gods.
Telascar halted. "This is as far as I go," he said. "My god is Saerec, not Sagosh. It would be a sign of disrespect for me to enter that temple."
"Then how am I supposed to walk through those doors? I am a Rhennari."
"In your case, the priests will make an exception." Telascar held out his hand. "It has been an honor, Segovac Rhennari. Remember my family in your prayers
to the one."
Segovac clashed his hand. "Saerec guide you steps my friend..." He hesitated a moment. "And if you would take some guidance now, while you still have the opportunity?"
"I am listening."
Segovac asked, "You have friends and contacts in other cities, yes?"
"Of course."
"And if you were to leave for one of those cities, they might aid you and yours in establishing yourself?"
"This is an odd conversation."
"Then I will speak plainly." Segovac waved a hand around at the city, its people, its buildings, its walls. "What happened to your kulig friends will happen to you in time, as it will to everyone the mob takes a disliking too. Death is coming here. Terrible things are about to happen. Do you have a ship?"
"I...do."
"Then take your family, your servants and any of your workers and their families who are willing to leave, along with as much wealth and goods as you can carry. Put Kedaj behind you, while you still can."
Telascar was pale with fear. "You are certain?"
"Yes." Segovac nodded slowly. "As the sun will rise and set."
"I...I will do as you suggest." Telascar licked now-dry lips. "My thanks, Segovac. You...you should come with us! If you see this coming, then why stay?"
"There is something I need to do."
"Your friend?"
"Yes, though I now think he is but part of something larger...either way, it is decreed that I must be here. So I shall stay." He clapped Telascar on the shoulder. "Heed my warning. May Saerec protect you and yours, friend Telascar."
"And you, Segovac Rhennari." They shook hands. Telascar left, headed back into to the city, to his family and a safer future.
Segovac turned to the temple, crossing the small square before the gates. More dancers were spinning about before the walls to the accompaniment of flutes, drums and tambourines, competing with ranks of chanting priests lined up some distance before the walls, all but bellowing out a prayer to their god and giving the impression that they were competing with the revelers in term of the racket they could raise. Worshipers were headed through the wide stone doors, flanked on either sides by twenty foot tall seated stone leopards, both with four wings sprouting from their back, one with the head of a man, the other woman a women, both sporting a beatific expression that contrasted with their fearsome appearance. Inside the bright sun was replaced by a gloominess lit up by brass oil lamps set on tall iron stands along the walls. Each was twice the size of a man's head and the flames flickering from them impressive up close, but the interior of the temple was enormous, the roof so high that the ceiling seemed wreathed in darkness, the lamps themselves seemingly overwhelmed by primordial night.
Fires of Mastery (The Tale of Azaran Book 3) Page 13
