Ulgais, the youngest of the three brothers, raised his sleek black head to stare at one of the mosaic squares of the chamber floor. He often sensed things, although he had not yet seen his third birthday when his head would be shaved to make him into a real person. Now he was just a baby.
“He sees someone,” Sihan stated darkly.
It was so. The air above the square shimmered, turned muzzy gray, and became a flickering oval. The children drew together to watch. The atmosphere thickened, and a being took shape there.
It was not a man. Skin of a deep bronze-red hue, with darker fur so short that it was like the nap of a carpet down its back and around its jaws and ears, a fanged bestial snout, six dark nipples on its belly, hands that had five fingers and a thumb, a costume that consisted of no more than a harness of straps and pouches: it was a Mihalli. Ridek, who fancied himself a warrior, took up the great sword. It was almost too heavy for him to lift.
“Hoi! It’s only Aluja.” He let the weapon fall again and ran around the table to greet the creature.
“Master Ridek! What do you here?” Like all Mihalli, this one spoke Yan Koryani with a lilting, musical accent. The gutturals and crackling consonants of Ridek’s language seemed beyond its abilities.
The Mihalli were creatures of legend; few among the Baron's vassals knew that the old tales were true and that this nonhuman species still existed upon Tekumel. Fewer still were aware of the Baron’s alliance with them and of their aid to Yan Kor. None, not even Ridek, could say what hold the Baron had over them, for the Mihalli were otherwise said to be so whimsically alien that none could fathom their purpose or name them as friends. They were great sorcerers; they traveled between the Planes; and they were shape-changers, able to take on the semblance of almost any being of their own size and hence move about freely in the midst of humankind in a variety of guises. Dangerous, strange, and yet—to Ridek, who had seen them come and go throughout his childhood—as familiar as his own brothers.
“You won’t tell?”
“Father will impale us,” Sihan muttered gloomily.
“No fear of that. We keep our secrets, eh?” The Mihalli gathered Ridek up in its arms, and he inhaled the gamy, animal scent of its body. People said that the Mihalli were both male and female at once, but Aluja always acted more like a male than otherwise. Ridek wriggled free; he was no longer an infant.
“Father comes,” Ulgais said. No one could say how he knew, but he was usually correct. All four of them scattered off into the nether regions of the hall, leaving Aluja alone upon the figured mosaic in its center.
The bronze doors boomed open, and two chamberlains entered to touch long tapers to the torches in the sconces along the walls. They were still at it when Ridek’s father, the Baron Aid of Yan Kor, tramped into the room.
The man who styled himself Arsekme—“Baron”—of Yan Kor, was both tall and wide. “The Gate That Does Not Open,” his present wife and the mother of his children, Lady Mmir Chna Qayel, styled him. Ridek was proud of his father: as thick through the chest as a fortress donjon and visibly almost as formidable, in spite of the encroachments of age. He had the longish torso and short, bowed legs of a Saa Allaqiyani mountain man, however, a feature Ridek was secretly glad he had not inherited. The Baron wore a square-cut black beard, but his head was shaved in the fashion of the chieftains of Saa Allaqi, one of whom he had originally been.
Ridek knew that story by heart: how his father had fled Saa Allaqi to avoid being slain by his brother who yearned to become Ssao—king—and had the ambition and the troops to do so; how he had served as a mercenary in the army of the terrible Seal Emperor of Tsolyanu; how the venal Tsolyani generals had betrayed him and left him to die upon Kaidrach Field; how he had sold his sword to the victors, the Yan Koryani, as a defeated mercenary had the right to do; how he had gone on to fight for Yan Kor and later to unify much of the north under his own banner; how he had offered the Tsolyani his submission and feudal allegiance—the original reason for his title Arsekme, “Baron”—in return for a measure of independence for the northlands; and how the Tsolyani had answered by sending expedition after expedition to crush him. None had succeeded.
Then came the terrible part of the tale, the part Ridek knew only through snatches of gossip overheard in Ke’er’s cavernous corridors: how Aid had taken the Lady Yilrana of the High Clan of Ke’er as his mistress—she would have been his wife, but he was not so mighty in those days, and her clan-matriarchs spurned the match; how the Tsolyani general Kettukal hiMraktine had been ordered north to defeat Yan Kor, and how Kettukal had sent his sub-commander, Bazhan hiSayuncha, to besiege Ke’er when Aid was absent upon another campaign; how Bazhan had demanded Yilrana’s surrender; how she had nobly—and naively—refused; and then when the citadel fell, how Bazhan had had her impaled upon a tall stake before the shattered gates, as the Tsolyani did to any stubborn rebel.
There was more: how, after the Tsolyani had left, Aid had returned to Ke’er and found her there; and how, still later, his allies, the nonhuman Pygmy Folk, whom the Tsolyani called Nininyal and the Yan Koryani Nyenu, both of which denoted “Little Ones,” had captured Bazhan in an ambush.
What the Baron had done to Bazhan then was not part of any tale; doubtless it did not bear repeating.
The rest of the story was sad. Yilrana was dead. Even now it was obvious that the pain of her passing lay ever just below the surface of the Baron Aid’s heart, a fanged shoal beneath cold gray waters. He cried out in his sleep, the servants whispered, though he had gone on to marry Yilrana’s clan-cousin, Ridek’s mother, Lady Mmir. The tides of time may sink a man’s sorrows deep into the abysses of memory, but well do the sleep-demons know how to dredge them all up again! Some reefs do not wash away but cause the recharting of all of the courses of one’s life thereafter.
Now Yan Kor was at war with Tsolyanu, and the Baron Ald would carry his revenge beyond Bazhan hiSayuncha to those who had sent him: to General Kettukal hiMraktine, to the proud aristocrats of Avanthar, and even to the Seal Emperor himself, he who had been Aid’s friend before ascending the Petal Throne of Tsolyanu. The Baron Aid was no unskilled clan-maiden, as his Lady Yilrana had been, to be beaten by such as they! Not he! His enemies would run like squealing Hmelu-beasts when he came. Ridek only wished he were old enough to fight beside him.
Tonight the Baron wore a jerkin of dark green leather, a short kilt embroidered with the emerald blazon of his wife’s people, the High Clan of Ke’er, and buskins of black-dyed Vrigalu-hide. He tossed a long, jewel-encrusted rod down into the clutter already on the table: the “Amethyst Scepter of the Clans United.” He must have just come from another interminable meeting with his vassals: the clan-patriarchs, the noble lords, the supreme pontiffs, and all the other high-titled rulers of the petty principalities from which he had cobbled together this present nation of Yan Kor.
He looked around, saw Aluja standing in the middle of the hall, and grunted, “Ohe, Mihalli! News?”
“Some, Sire. The Tsolyani have reinforced the town of Mar. Their Milumanayani puppet, Firaz Mmulavu Zhavendu, has come over to our side, however, and his people will aid us in its retaking.”
The Baron picked up the goblet and peered underneath the table for a wine-jug. He came up empty-handed. “That is well. The bastard finally believes us: he’s not to be Governor of eastern Milumanaya after all. He slew his own father to earn the post, but now the Tsolyani won’t give it to him!” He chuckled, deep in his throat. “That’s very like them!”
“So it is. The Emperor has ordered General Kuruktashmu hiKetkolel away from his Legion of the Lord of Red Devastation and given him the governorship Firaz coveted for himself.” “I know Kuruktashmu. Another of Lord Vimuhla’s blazing religious fanatics! Prince Mirusiya must be overjoyed—and his brothers dismayed to the same measure! Mridobu in particular: he’s probably chewing on the Petal Throne itself by now! Almost all of their eastern army serve Gods friendly to Mirusiya’s Lord of Flame. Who will command Red Devast
ation, then?”
“Probably the one they call Karin Missum, ‘the Red Death.’ General Kadarsha hiTlekolmii of the Legion of the Searing Flame is to be promoted to Senior General of the eastern front, under Prince Mirusiya himself.”
“La! Some of the Prince’s ‘New Men’: little folk who rose to power when he did. This Karin Missum is well nigh a foam-lipped maniac, a member of the Incandescent Blaze Society. Flaunt one Yan Koryani arse in his direction, and he’ll snatch up a brand from the nearest campfire to chase it! We can easily lure him into doing something stupid. The other—?”
“A moderate, Lord. New at war, a man more suited to conning scrolls and dithering with theologians than commanding troops. ...”
The Baron smiled lopsidedly. “ ‘A weak bow soon breaks,’ eh? They are like Mirusiya’s other toadies, the greedy General Kutume and General Mnashu of Thri’il, who began his distinguished career as a market roustabout. Cha, we’ll handle them!”
“Ah, Sire. General Mnashu has shifted to the party of Prince Eselne. He is being transferred to their western army. It is said that he could not stomach the zealots of the Incandescent Blaze. ...”
“ ‘A sharp axe cuts any tree.’ We’ll deal with them all.” The Baron waved the empty goblet, and one of the chamberlains slipped out, his felt slippers making hushing noises upon the flagging. The other squatted in a comer, to all appearances a statue of emerald-robed bronze.
“So, Aluja? What of our battle-plan?”
The Mihalli’s eyes were pupilless ruby orbs in the flaring torchlight. He—for want of a better pronoun—spoke in a quick, brusque tone, an unconscious imitation of a human soldier reporting to his commander. “Mirusiya’s army is mostly in Sunraya. Your people stand ready to retake Mar and thus cut the Tsolyani supply lines. Mirusiya must send reinforcements to clear the road, but General Ssa Qayel—” “Ohe. How is he? Mmir will ask.” General Saa Chna Qayel was Lady Mmir’s brother.
“Hot and sunburned, Lord.” The Mihalli essayed a human smile. “He has prepared a trap in the mountains along the Sakbe road east of the Pass of Skulls. The Tsolyani must keep to that road, for their wagons cannot travel off of it—their Chlen-beasts would find only gravel to drink and thom-bushes for fodder. Their legions are too heavily armored to deny you the hinterlands, and all Mirusiya has for scouts are his squadrons of flying Hlaka. Your Hlaka outnumber his and will drive them off. The Tsolyani will thus stay both blind and thirsty until the trap is sprung, and then your units will attack their column from every side at once and slaughter it. Thereafter General Kuruktashmu must come out of Sunraya or starve, rte’ll be caught in your pincers: your own troops down from Tleku Miriya in the west, and the Saa Allaqiyani from the east. The Milumanayani tribes—more or less united under Firaz Mmulavu Zhavendu—will harass them—”
The Baron would have spat but thought better of the time-hallowed sanctity of the hall. “1 trust that sand-worm about as much as I do the Tsolyani! No, less! A little gold, and he tilts back into the Emperor’s hand. The tree sways in the direction of the wind.’ ”
“He is useful—for now.” The Mihalli turned his sleek, beastlike head to look at the doors of the chamber.
Someone else was coming.
It was Ridek’s mother, Lady Mmir Chna Qayel. With her was another: a tall, exotic-looking woman of nearly thirty summers. This was the Lady Si Ziris Qaya, named “the Princess of the North,” ruler of the Lorun tribes who wandered the desolate wastes beyond northern Yan Kor, all the way up to the Cold White Land where nobody went.
When she had first come to Ke’er the Lady Si Ziris Qaya had worn a beast-skin about her waist, a half-cape of silvery Mnor-fur, leather leggings—and that was all. She had perforce adopted the Yan Koryani court costume of loose overblouse and long, fringed skirt, but it was clear that she hated it. She had never quite surrendered to all of the dictates of the civilized south and still wore the wide cincture of Zrne-hide that marked her as a chieftainess of the Lorun. Her heavy tresses, too, were done in foreign fashion. They were as dark as anyone else’s, but they were wavy rather than straight, and in the sunlight they glinted red instead of blue-black. Tonight she had bound them up in a net of glossy-green leather cords and did not wear the little skullcap of begemmed and enameled Chlen-hide that most Yan Koryani women favored.
She and Ridek’s mother made an odd picture together: where Lady Mmir was small, wiry, slender, and dark, Lady Si Ziris Qaya was big-boned and fair—as fair as people ever were on Tekumel: a light-copper, ruddy-saffron hue, like a gold coin seen by candlelight.
Ridek knew, as did all Yan Kor, that his father slept with both of these women. Lady Mmir was his legal wife and a highborn clan-heiress in her own right, but Yan Koryani society was not monogamous. The clan-matrons ruled nearly everything and told the menfolk whom to marry; yet once wed, custom permitted any free person—male or female—to take further spouses, concubines, or temporary bed-mates as he or she willed. To display jealousy was a sign of weakness; it was not “noble.” Lady Mmir therefore gracefully made the best of the situation and had become fast friends with this barbarian ‘‘Princess of the North.” Outwardly, at least. Ridek could sense an underlying tension between them, just as Ulgais could “feel” the presence of sorcerous power.
If there was jealousy—and there was—it was not altogether sexual by any means. The Baron did not feel the same love for Lady Mmir as he had for Lady Yilrana; this present marriage was founded not so much upon devotion as upon mutual advantage. The High Clan of Ke’er needed his charisma to keep Yan Kor from crumbling back into a muddle of puny, squabbling city-states, just as he required the power of his wife’s clansmen in order to maintain it. Lady Mmir was the brooch that pinned the cloak together. Once Aid felt himself totally secure, she could be replaced by any woman who could dislodge the memories of his lost Yilrana— improbable though that seemed—or who could serve his purposes better than Lady Mmir. If this fair-complexioned northerner managed to snip the threads that bound Aid to her, Lady Mmir would lose much—though not all, by any means. As senior wife, and eventually clan-matriarch, she would wield power as long as she lived. She bided her time.
The Lady Si Ziris Qaya might be shrewd, but the Lady Mmir was still cleverer. The Lorun woman must watch her step in Ke’er.
For now, the Baron’s affair with Lady Si Ziris Qaya was good politics. Her uncouth tribesmen were indisputably loyal to her. and they were necessary to his war of revenge against the Tsolyani. How he got them was a matter of statecraft, not something to be criticized on such “ignoble” grounds as who slept with whom. Ridek could name at least a score of women who had shared the sleeping-mat of the Baron of Yan Kor. He himself was only twelve, but he could hardly wait until his fourteenth birthday, when he would become a man and his father would gift him with a concubine or two of his own. He already had his heart set on a certain Hris, the' daughter of Lord Ku’arsh of Yan Kor City . . .
Ridek could not hear what his mother was saying, but she was laughing. Her eyes sparkled, and her heavy bracelets jangled as she recounted some bit of gossip. He heard the Lorun woman’s lower, foreign voice purr something in reply. They had come to enjoy the night breeze, then, here at the very summit of the keep—and probably neither wanted the other to be alone with the Baron. For his part, Aid showed no favoritism but waved them both to sit upon the lower stools set around the table. He seated himself crosslegged upon his own higher chair. It looked as though it might be a long evening.
The Baron made a great show of sniffing the air. “Hoi!” he cried. “There are foes in this room!”
Lady Si Ziris Qaya flinched and stared about, but Lady Mmir only smiled. Ridek knew that his father had noticed that the sword of state had been moved from one side of the table to the other. He had the sharp eye of a Kiini-bird—or of a Saa Allaqiyani mountain huntsman.
“Come forth! Else I shall have Aluja call up demons!”
Sihan sidled out into the light. The wretched craven was probably dribbling into
his breechclout! Naitl followed, clutching Ulgais’ hand. Ridek crouched lower behind the huge bronze Engsvanyali shield where he had taken refuge. He managed to catch Sihan’s eye and sent him a fierce glare.
“No foes but friends, then!” Aid laughed. He bent to kiss Naitl and hoist Ulgais up to his massive shoulder. Sihan went to stand by Lady Mmir.
“Where, then, is your captain? Is not the warrior Ridek with you?”
Ridek felt a sinking sensation in his stomach, but all Sihan said was, “We only wanted to see the swords. Now you will impale us.”
The Baron snorted. “Know that the High Lord of Yan Kor pardons your crimes!” He added Naitl to the burden already upon his shoulder. “If you three are here, then Ridek cannot be far away.”
The Lorun woman approached and reached up affectionately to Naitl. Lady Mmir watched impassively.
“Your Ridek,” Lady Si Ziris Qaya said, “he is the brave one—a Thargir, a ‘young warrior.’ ” Both the Lorun and the Yan Koryani sent their adolescents, boys and girls alike, to learn the arts of warfare first as camp servants and later as skirmishers and slingers in actual battle. The Lorun started this training somewhat earlier: by age ten or so their offspring often saw service as scouts and foragers for their warbands.
“Ai, Ridek is ever the explorer, the adventurer. He will do anything, dare anything. But he must answer when I summon him. If he is here, he can go on squatting under some hauberk or other—in considerable discomfort, I expect—until we are done with our wine. When we go down to bed, I shall have the chamber searched, and if he is found he will stay in his room for a six-day! He still has something to learn about ‘noble action.’ ”
Ridek bit his lip. That would certainly ruin the little tryst he had planned with pretty Hris! There was no way out of the hall save through those doors. He debated coming forth in abject surrender but thought better of it. His father would not respect that. Then, too, by the time they were ready for sleep, the Baron might have forgotten to look for his errant son.
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