by Jo Clayton
He glanced at the wallcabinet, wondered if he should take another dram of the cordial, but he didn’t want to break the pentacle and have to lose more energy reactivating it. Reluctantly he spread his hand over BinYAHtii and drew on it; it was restive and hard to control, but the disciplines of that control were engraved in his brain by now, in his blood and bone, so he dealt with the brief rebellion so quickly and effectively he hardly noticed what he was doing. When he was ready, he smoothed his hair again, straightened out his linen robe and the soft black overrobe, pulled BinYAHtii through the neck opening and set it flat against the snowy linen. He swung the staff around and held it vertical beside him, then he began to chant, letting his deepest notes ring out, the sound filling the chamber with echoes and resonances.
“I0 I0 DOSYNOS EYO I0 10 STYGERAS MOIRO I0 I0 TI TILYMON PHATHO I0 I0 LELATAS EMO.”
And as the echoes died he gestured with hand and staff in ways both erotic and obscene (which is one of the reasons he did most of his primal magic in private; a sorceror in many ways is stuck with what his submind dredges up for him; powerful magics require powerful stimulants no matter how upsetting or ridiculous they might seem to onlookers.)
“PAREITHEE, OY YO ROSAPER ROSPALL. PAREITHEE ENTHA DA ROSPA.”
He beat the end of the staff against the stone three times, the sound faint after the power of his reverberant basso. A misty column appeared in the smaller pentacle.
The mist thickened and solidified into a creature like a series of mistakes glued together. A cock’s comb and mad rooster eyes, spiky gold feathers, a black sheep’s face where the beak should be, narrow snaky shoulders and torso, spindly arms with lizard hands-and lizard skin on them, male organs bulging in a downy pouch, huge heavy hips and knees that bent the wrong way, powerful in the wrongness, narrow two-toed feet with lethal black claws on the toes. Rosaper Rospall whined and panted and swayed in the small space allotted to him and fixed frantic evil eyes on Maksim.
Maksim let his voice roll (not so solemn and sonorous this time, he was fond of the deplorable little gossip), “Rosaper Rospall, I demand of you, tell me who among the gods are plotting and working against me.”
Rospall’s arms jerked with each of the words, his hands flew about with feeling gestures; he whimpered as he touched again and again the burning unseen wall about him. His blunt muzzle writhed in a way to confuse the eye and sicken the stomach, but he managed a few words. “No one works against you, chilo, no one no want no cant no can none works against you.”
Maksim frowned. Rospall never lied, but his truths were strictly limited. He reworked his next question. “Mmgjii and the Godalau are scheming against someone, perhaps several someones. Who is it? Who are they?”
“Juh juh juh, scheme dream stir the pot not not who but what.”
What’s the what?”
“BinYAHt.”
Maksim’s eyes snapped wide, then he smiled and nodded. “I should have been expecting that. Amortis is in this?”
“Amortis disportis cavortis, BinYAHt’s the hook in her, who cares, the fisherman dances to her tugging, hugging, happy sappy Amortis. No. No change for her no danger in her.”
Maksim nodded, answering his own thoughts more than Rospall’s words. “Who works with Thngjii and the Godalau, who set the hook in them and got their help?”
“In the wind, a whisper, Perran-a-Perran, lord of lords, piranha of pirhanas, he consents, in the wind, a whisper, Jah’takash perverse, spitting snags and checks and worse your way, in the wind a clink of links, the Chained God blinks and blinds and minds the mix.” Hooting laughter. “From the rest no nay or yea, they gossip and they play. And they wager who will win and when.”
Maksim felt a tremble of weakness deep within, saw Rospall’s bold black eyes get a feverish glow. Enough, he thought, I’ve got enough to think on now. He gathered himself, let his voice roll out, filled with power, never a tremble in it. “APHISTARTI, OY YO ROSAPER ROSPALL, APHISTARTI ENTHA DA ROSPA.” And his hands moved again through their erotic dance.
The visitor’s body shuddered, for a moment he seemed to fight his dismissal, then he broke into fragments and the fragments faded.
Maksim didn’t move until the last wisps of the presence had vanished utterly, then he sighed, shuddered, lay back limp in the chair, eyes closed. For several minutes he lay there breathing deep and slow. Finally, as the need to sleep began to overwhelm him, he forced his eyes open, used the staff to lever himself out of the chair. He stood and stretched, yawned enormously, then flicked himself up to his bedroom for a few hours of the sleep he needed so badly.
Todichi Yahzi cooed protests as he hovered about watching Maksim dress himself for the Lot ceremony. “Sleep,” he warbled, “anyone can see you are exhausted, Mwahan, you do not need to be there, you do not enjoy being there, why do you go?” He repeated this until Maksim snarled him into silence.
Later, as Maksim strode through the murmuring park toward the Yron, he regretted his harshness and made a mental note to apologize when he got back. Poor old Tbdich, he kept pecking and pecking at a place, but he couldn’t know how sore that spot already was. One had to take responsibility for one’s acts, one doesn’t slide away and pretend that nothing’s happening. He’d set that burden on himself in those wild first days when Cheonea teetered on the verge of a slide into chaos. when he knew he’d have to use BinYAHtii. The stone had to be fed when it was used or it fed itself from the user. Forty years he’d fed BinYAHtii, ten times a year, once a month. Forty years, once a month he’d walked this path and climbed to the high seat behind the austere stone railing and watched the children file in. Self-flagellation, reminding him not to forget why he was doing these things. If he allowed himself to be corrupted by wealth, power, by the infinite capacity in the human soul for self-justification, then these children were torn from their parents for nothing, then one of the three chosen died for nothing at all.
At his private entrance the waiting Servant opened the door for him and bowed him inside.
“Kori.” Polatea’s voice broke into confused dreams suffused with sick anxiety.
Kori stirred, sat up, rubbed at grainy eyes. “What time…”
“Breakfast in five minutes; wash and dress, come down as soon as you can, I’ll save some food for you. “ Polatea brushed the straggles of hair out of Kori’s eyes. “You can sleep some, more, if you want, after the Lot.”
“If I’m not chosen. “
A long sigh. “If you’re not chosen.
Tre looked her over. “Your skods are crooked. “
Kori clicked her tongue, adjusted the covered cords that held her headcloth in place. She and Tre were together in the Hostel court, waiting to be put in line. She used one end of the headcloth to rub at her eyes, not sure she could manage to keep on her feet till the Lot was over; she felt as if she were walking two feet under water that was sloshing about, threatening to knock her over. “I got everything done,” she muttered, hiding her mouth behind the corner of the cloth. “It’s started. “
Tre stepped closer, nestled against her. “You think it’ll make any difference, Kori? Do you think she’s got a chance against HIM?”
“A chance? Yes. There’s more than just her. Daniel’s in. You didn’t dream?”
“No. -
Sinan blew the cow’s horn and the lines began sorting themselves out, girls in one, boys in the other, eldest at the front. The gave her arm a last squeeze and drifted back to the end of his line, he was the youngest boy this year. She was two from the front of her line. Dessi Bacharikss was two months older, Lilla Farazilss a week and a half. Dessi’s twin Sparran led the boys’ line, he was a tall rather skinny boy with a wild imagination and a grin that was starting to make Kori’s toes tingle. He looked around at her winked, then straightened and sobered as the signalhorn hooted and the lines began to move.
Maksim watched the children file in, grave and rather frightened, their sandals squeaking on the polished marble. Ignoring the boys, he scanned the firs
t few girls, smiled tightly as he saw Kori’s red-eyed, weary face. He crossed his arms, his hands hidden in the wide black sleeves of his heavily embroidered and appliquйd formal overrobe, began the gestures and the internal chant that would bring the blue lot to Kori’s searching fingers. His smile broadened a hair. There was no sign of the interference that had protected her last night.
Kori thrust her arm deep into the bowl; the capsules seemed oddly slippery this year, it was a breath or two before she could get hold of one and bring it out. She took a deep breath and moved on, hearing the capsules rattle behind her as Sallidi Xoshallarz reached for hers. She crossed to the gilt bowl, tried to ignore the feeling that HE was staring down at her ill-wishing her; it was easier to grab this time, she got her second egg and went to take her place on the girls’ bench.
It is done. I have her, little ferret, ah what a fine fierce girl she is, tired now but she doesn’t give in to it. Look how straight and bold she sits, waiting to see if fate will pass her by. Not this year, little ferret. Your last year, isn’t it. You shouldn’t have got so busy with things you don’t understand. We’ll have to do something with you; not one of Amortis’ whores, that would break you faster than marrying one of your clod-cousins and disappearing into the nursery with half your mind shut down; lunm, you could be trained to teach… With some difficulty he repressed the laughter rumbling in his belly. Not with what you’re apt to teach my restive folk. Would you like to be a scholar, child? I wonder. I could send you east to study in Silili. Study what? Magic? Have you got a talent there? There’s something in you that calls to me. Yes, you have a talent in you waiting to unfold, oh child, if you deny it, how terrible for you. I’ll make you see it. Why weren’t you born a boy? It would be so much easier if you were born a boy.
The black capsules grew sweaty in her hand; she changed hands and wiped the sweaty one surreptitiously on her overtunic. Over half done. Tivo capsules for every Owlyn child. Kori didn’t feel like a child any more; she wanted this to be over with so she could get back to Owlyn and get her life in some sort of order again. Maybe because she was so tired, she wasn’t much worried this time, not for herself anyway; so many important things had happened to her the past two months, she felt bone deep sure the Lot would pass over her, one more thing would be just too much. She watched the girls file past her going to take their places on the bench and wondered which of them would get the blue lot and be kept here in the Yron, then wondered which one would get the gold, would it be a boy or a girl this time? If I had a choice, she thought, I’d take the gold, how terribly exciting to go so far away. Havi Kudush. A wonderful magical name, it stirred desires in her she didn’t want to deal with and had to keep pushing away. She gazed down at the enigmatic black eggs. The capsules each had a ball of lead inside them, most were simply gray, one was painted blue; the girl who got that one stayed at the Yron to study as a teacher or if her tastes and talents ran that way, to serve as one of the temple whores. Kori’s mouth twitched. She fought her face straight and swallowed the smile. Polatea would scold her for saying whore, but that’s what they were, those that called themselves Fields of Amortis, plowed and replowed those fields if the gossip she heard was true. Gahh, that was almost as bad as that girl in the tavern. One of the balls in the boys’ bowl was painted red, the boy that got that one went to the army to learn a soldier’s trade or into the Yron schools to study how to Serve. But the gold yolk, oh the gilt one, the child who got the gilt one went to Havi. Kudush and did wonderful things, she was sure of it. Have a golden yolk, she thought at the black things in her hands, if you can’t have the good old safe and steady leaden gray, have a golden yolk. She glanced quickly around, lowered her eyes again. I couldn’t stand it if I had to stay here.
Sarana Piyolss, the baby of the line walked past her. The drawing’s over for this year, Kori thought. Now we find out who got the colors. Two doors opened beside the High Seat, two small processions filed down the narrow steps slanting from both sides of the high dais, first a Servant dressed in white linen, white leather sandals, short white gloves, then a boy and a girl, also dressed in white, carrying a wide shallow basket between them.
Deep silence in the court, a sense of almost intolerable waiting. One servant stopped before Sparran, the other before Dessi. Their movements slow and measured, as close to synchronized as a good marching team, they took the capsules from Sparran, from Dessi, opened them. Together both the Servants intoned NO and let capsules and lead balls fall into the basket. They moved to the next in line, repeated their movements, repeated the NO, then the Servant on the girls ‘ side stood before Kori. His face impassive, he took the damp capsules before her, broke one. A plain lead ball rolled on the palm of the white glove; he broke the second capsule. A blue ball, nestled next to the gray.
Kori stared at it, unable to believe what she saw. She lifted her eyes. HE was looking at her. You, she thought, you did it to me on purpose. She opened her mouth, then clamped it shut. What could she prove? Nothing. She’d just bring trouble on her kin if she protested. She glared up at the huge dark man on the High Seat. I’ll get out of this somehow, she thought fiercely, I will, you can’t beat me so easy as that.
You aren’t stupid are you, little ferret. Yes, it was me did that to you. I doubt you’ll ever thank me for it, but you should. I hated old Grigoros when he sold me to the House, but he did me a favor. He smiled as Kori dropped her eyes to clenched hands when the Servant shouted BLUE; when he pushed it at her, she took the blue ball with angry reluctance, then sat staring at the floor, refusing to look at Maksim or anyone else until the RED and GOLD were announced. He saw her shoulders tremble; she turned her head, glared up at him again, but this time there was a triumph in her face and eyes that he didn’t understand. What have I missed? There’s more to you than I thought, warrior girl. What is it? I will know, child, in the end I will know. He got heavily to his feet and stood watching as the Servants led the chosen children (two boys and the girl) up the stairs to stand beside him. He could feel the heat of her anger, the intensity of the effort she was making to keep silent.
He lifted his hands. “It is done.” His voice rolled out and filled the court. “Honor the chosen and their lives of service, honor yourselves for the grace of your compliance. For three days the city is yours, rejoice and be content.”
He watched them file out. The youngest boy kept turning to look up at the chosen, anguish in his face; he stumbled against the boy ahead of him, but straightened himself without help and went stiffly out the door. Maksim glanced at the girl and saw an echo of that anguish in her face. Your brother, is it? Is that why the triumph, that he was passed over this year? I will know. But not now. He bowed he head in a stately salute to the children, but he didn’t speak to them, merely made a sign for them to be taken away. He stood at the balustrade looking out over the empty court until the last sounds faded, rubbing absently at his chest. He had to be at Deadfire Island when the boy arrived, but that was a good six hours off and he wasn’t sure how he wanted to pass those hours. He needed sleep. He had to listen to Todichi Yahzi report on the activities of the council he’d assembled and decide who he wanted to add or delete, what other changes he needed to make. He had to take a look at the blank spot and see if Baby Dan had moved himself and the others out of Silagamatys which would mean he could turn Amortis loose on them. He tapped long fingers on the marble, irritated by the hurry of all this, then snapped to his workroom to start with the easiest and most urgent of the things he had to do.
10. Fighting Their Way To The Chained God: Brann, Yaril, Jaril, Ahzurdan And Daniel Akamarino, With Some Help From Tungjii And The Godalau.
SCENE: Daniel Akamarino finds a ship for them, discomforting Ahzurdan who is locked into the room because he can’t leave the wards without endangering himself and the rest of them. On the ship Skia Hetaira traveling between Silagamatys and Haven.
“Had a bit of luck.” Daniel Akamarino squatted by the beggar, held out the wineskin. “Found me a patro
n.”
“Aah.” The old man squeezed a long stream of the straw gold wine into his toothless mouth, broke the flow withdut losing a drop. He wiped his mouth, handed the skin back. “An’t swallowed drink like that sin’ one night of Parast Tampopopea got drunk’s a skink and busted six kegs in the Ti’ma Dor.”
“Luck,” Daniel said and smiled. He squirted himself a sip, chunked the stopper home. “Quiet day.”
“Some. Lot day. Come afternoon, it’ll perk up. You thinkin about a pitch?”
“Nuh-uh. Patron wants to sail tonight. She hates fuss, she wants to go out like a whisper.”
“Aah.” The old man’s warty eyelids flickered, the tip of a pointed whitish tongue touched his upper lip, withdrew. “A like the way you play that pipe.
“I hear.” Daniel slid the carrystrap of the wineskin over his shoulder, shifted out of his squat and brought out the recorder. He looked at it, thought a minute and began playing a slow rambling bluesy tune that made no demands but slid into the bone and after a while took over enough to bring crowds drifting around them. He ended it, raised a brow. The old man closed his eyes to slits and looked sleepy. Daniel laughed, played a lively jig, then put the recorder away. The small crowd snapped fingers enthusiastically, but Daniel was finished for the moment, at least until they paid something for their pleasure. He sat as stolid and sleepy as the old beggar. With a flurry of laughter, they tossed coins into the begging bowl and wandered off, some returning to their stalls, others drifting about looking for bargains.
