Errol shielded his eyes from the glare.
Their road joined with others, and traffic began to slow. Painted women and men in dirty white robes jeered at them in the Merakhi tongue, making cutting gestures across their throats. Their guards boxed them in, and the kayeed sent riders ahead to clear the way.
They passed through enormous iron-bound gates of wood, swung wide to accommodate the traffic. The clamor from the market rose to a deafening crescendo with screams and epithets for the guards as Captain Rayn forced his way toward the inner part of the city. Strange-looking animals with long, curved necks and slit noses rested by a well.
One of the animals spat as they rode by, striking the talkative guard on the chest. “Filthy creatures. You are lucky you do not have to ride such as those, infidel. They are a trial to the spirit.”
The farther away from the market they rode, the more the noise faded. The hooves of their mounts no longer crunched on sandy gravel but clopped instead on broad white sandstone. Always they ascended toward the golden spire. They passed a huge amphitheater on their left, and noise washed over them like a tidal wave.
Errol tried to see into an arena revealed between the massive pillars.
“You may see the stadi soon enough, my friend,” the guard said. Then he gave a raucous laugh.
Half an hour after entering the city they arrived at the inner wall, behind which rose the central spire and a score of other buildings. Guards in white with red sashes and bared swords patrolled the entrance. At a salute from Kayeed Rayn, they opened the iron gates and stepped aside to let them pass.
Inside, they were relieved of their horses and escorted toward the central building. Weir walked next to the kayeed with darting looks behind at the gate that now blocked their retreat. Servants or slaves—Errol couldn’t tell which—moved through the alleys, intent on the myriad tasks it took to keep the capital city functioning.
At last they stopped. A dozen white-robed guards stood watch at iron-grated doors. A man in rich blue robes stepped forward, and as one, Kayeed Rayn and the guards surrounding him dropped to one knee.
Hands forced Errol down into the same position.
“Get your hands off me,” Weir yelled. “I am a lord.”
Errol jerked his head up to see a pair of guards in the act of forcing Weir to obeisance. Their hands, heavy on his shoulders, pressed down, and he struggled to shake them off. The man in blue held up a solitary finger. The guards stilled.
“Please forgive our soldiers’ rough handling,” the man said. His voice flowed like honey, but his dark eyes, lids painted red, glittered with malice.
Either Weir did not notice or chose to ignore the man’s intent. “I do not bow until I know whom I address.”
The man in blue smiled. Despite his numbness, it chilled Errol to see it. “The world has need of such boldness. I am Ilakhen Osiri, servant of the council.”
Weir drew himself up. “I do not bow to servants.”
The guards hissed. “Foolish man,” one of them muttered.
Osiri’s cold smile never wavered. “A messenger tells me you have delivered a valuable captive into our hands. Who might this be, and how might we verify his identity?”
Weir pointed at Errol. “That is the one you seek, Errol Stone, omne of the conclave. As for verification, you have no need of it. I have just told you who he is.”
The guard next to Errol shook his head and mumbled something under his breath that sounded like a prayer.
“Bring them all,” the ilakhen snapped. He moved deeper into the building without waiting to see if they obeyed. The guards rose and escorted Weir and the rest inside. Errol noted with grim satisfaction that a quartet of guards now surrounded Weir. They did not walk so closely as those who kept the prisoners, but they left no doubt that Weir must obey.
Slaves and servants in the halls prostrated themselves as the ilakhen passed. Errol raised his assessment of Osiri. The man might serve the council, but there remained no doubt he wielded the power of life and death. Most of the slaves and servants who bowed themselves out of their way wore looks of profound respect—some wore terror.
Light from grates in the ceiling overhead threw scrollwork shadows across the intricate patterns in the tiled floor as they moved inward. Fewer guards and more servants patrolled the halls. A dozen guards in white with gold sashes across their chests stood before a dark, ornately carved door. At a signal from the ilakhen, they bowed and opened them both. The guards drew swords and put them to the necks of their prisoners. Even Adora and Rokha had bare steel against their skin.
Errol stepped into a world such as he had never seen—or imagined.
Opulence on a staggering scale filled the huge hall. A pool twenty paces on a side filled the center of the room. At the far end, on a raised dais of stone, bare-chested guards, their skin as dark as midnight, protected men and women who reclined on long couches covered with colorful pillows. Next to each, an elaborate water pipe bubbled, and wisps of aromatic smoke drifted, swirling on eddies in the room. To one side below the dais, courtiers lounged, their clothes a riot of color and styles. A babble of voices floated from that direction, excited and mocking.
Their escort halted at the door, and the prisoners were turned over to black-skinned guards wielding huge curved swords. Weir came with them, moving as if he owned the palace. Perhaps he didn’t notice the hulking servant holding a bared sword behind him. Guards marched them around the pool to face the men on the dais.
A man with a dark, bored face in the center couch lay surrounded by four men and two women in gold silks who watched the prisoners with the avid concentration of vipers about to strike.
Ilakhen Osiri stopped short of the steps that led up to the dais and bowed. “Exalted ilhotep, your servants have brought you a gift.”
The bored-looking man raised his head and surveyed the men before him without interest until Weir’s presence caught his attention. “A kingdom man.”
Weir possessed enough sense to bow to Merakh’s ruler. “Lord Weir—at your service, most exalted ilhotep.” His head nearly scraped the floor.
The men and women reclining near the ilhotep regarded Weir like snakes watching a rat. Wrong emanated from them in waves, and Errol stifled a chill as he recalled the malus in Morin’s dungeon and the Gitan, Sahra, who almost managed to kill him in Minaccia.
The ilhotep clapped his hands like a child. “A well-mannered kingdom man at that. What have you brought us, kingdom man?”
Irritation flashed across Weir’s face at the omission of his title, but he bowed again and pointed to Errol with a savage grin. “One you seek, most exalted one—the peasant Errol Stone, omne of the conclave.”
The six surrounding the ilhotep jerked in surprise, their mask of indulgent self-control slipping.
“Impossible,” one of them, a young man with hot eyes and a hooked nose, yelled. “The circle has said nothing of this.”
The ilhotep laughed, obviously enjoying his council’s dismay. “Perhaps your security is not as impenetrable as you believe, Belaaz.”
Weir bowed again. “I assure you, most exalted ilhotep, the man is indeed Errol Stone.”
“Have the prisoner speak,” Belaaz said. “What is your name, slave?”
The guard behind exerted the slightest pressure on the sword at his neck. Errol hesitated. The guard shifted his sword and clubbed him across the head. “Speak, cur. What is your name?”
Errol’s vision swam, but he said nothing. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the ilakhen gesture to a servant and say, “If I may suggest a course of action, Exalted One?”
The ilhotep, no longer lying down but sitting and leaning forward in anticipation, waved his assent.
“In this very room we have the means to procure the slave’s name,” Osiri said. “A pipe with ahrat sumac will loosen his tongue.”
“Make it so, Ilakhen,” the ilhotep said. “Let us see now, honorable Belaaz, whether Valon’s circle is as powerful as you believe.”
“Who are you?” the ilakhen asked.
Errol tried to remember why he was supposed to hide his name, but the thought wouldn’t come. The room seemed very beautiful, and the ilakhen’s smile comforted him.
“Who are you, friend?” Osiri asked.
There, the ilakhen called him friend. It must be safe to speak.
“Errol Stone.”
39
SLAVE
THE ILHOTEP LAUGHED, his joy apparent at the consternation among the six who yelled and jerked like puppets under the control of a drunken puppeteer.
Belaaz recovered first. He snapped his fingers at a black-skinned servant and pointed at the exit.
“Bring Sarin Valon to us.”
The servant left at a run. Belaaz bowed, slightly, to the ilhotep. “I do not know how his art was thwarted, Exalted One, but the stars shine on your kingdom. Without its omne, Illustra will move hesitantly, leaving itself vulnerable to attack.”
Errol blinked at the mention of omne. The word seemed important somehow, but he couldn’t quite place why. The room felt very warm, and the cool tile under his feet invited him to lie on it.
The ilhotep indulged in a lazy smile. “I should like to add those northern lands to my rule. Tell me, Belaaz, with the omne captive, why should I not order the attack now?”
Belaaz laughed, his face swimming in and out of Errol’s focus. He looked like a man trying to deflect the question, and his eyes stared off in different directions. “O Ilhotep, the stars are not yet aligned. Soon, however, the way will be open and all barriers will be removed from your glorious conquest.”
The ilhotep pursed his lips above his neatly trimmed beard. “I hate waiting. My family has waited half a millennium for its revenge.”
Belaaz blinked and gave the ilhotep an oily smile. “Then what is a few days more, O light of the stars?”
The ilhotep settled back, puffing on the tube to his pipe. Bluish smoke wreathed a splotchy crown around his head. The room waited for Valon to appear. Errol bent his legs to lower himself to the floor, but the guard jerked him upright. When he looked up, he found himself looking at Karele. The little man’s lips moved without ceasing. A corner of Errol’s brain tried to tell him there was something important about Karele, something having to do with Valon and the people here in Merakh, but the thought slipped from his grasp, like a perch in the waters of the Sprata.
The guard holding him up shifted, and Errol forced his eyes to focus on a tall, slender man with a neatly trimmed beard sauntering in the room. From feet to head, he emanated meticulously groomed confidence that made Weir appear rough and uncouth by comparison. Decked in loose yellow silk, he glided across the room, his steps light and graceful. Only the man’s eyes contrasted with the fastidious care he exercised with the rest of his appearance.
They burned in their sockets with undisguised hatred.
Through the drug-induced fog that lay across his mind like a sodden blanket, Errol knew this to be Sarin Valon, the man who’d tried countless times to kill him. More, he knew Valon to be hopelessly insane.
Belaaz looked on the former secondus with savagery. “Come, Valon. This northern lord”—he pointed to Lord Weir—“claims this”—he pointed to Errol—“is the omne Earl Stone.”
He glared at Valon. “Since one of your circle has seen him face-to-face, perhaps you can confirm this.”
Valon shrugged as if the command was of no import, then closed the distance, gliding toward Errol. His eyes flared, and breath hissed from him like that of a trapped animal. “How did you get here? The ships did not let you pass.”
Errol didn’t answer. He knew the answer, or rather, he knew he should know the answer, but he couldn’t seem to bring it forth from his mind.
“So his reader’s art has failed him.” The ilhotep bringing. “Perhaps you should find yourself a more reliable traitor, Belaaz.”
Valon wheeled toward the ilhotep, brought his rage under control with a visible effort. “I know not which of my circle has been suborned, O light of the stars, but I shall find him and flay the skin from his bones. The music of his screams will fill your palace for years.”
The ilhotep chuckled, his eyes languid. “And what shall I do with these prisoners?”
“Kill them.” Valon made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “If they have discovered a means to subvert my circle, they are dangerous.”
“Yes,” Belaaz said. “We could make an example of them. I’m sure your council could devise an amusing end for them, Exalted One.”
The ilhotep frowned, his face petulant. “I don’t want to just kill them. They don’t look dangerous to me. They look scared.”
For the briefest instant, hatred raged in the glance Belaaz gave the ilhotep before the advisor managed to smother it. “As you wish, light of the stars. What do you desire?”
The ilhotep rubbed his hands like a miser over his hoard. He pointed at Rale, Naaman Ru, Merodach, and Cruk in quick succession. “Those four have the look of fighting men. Let them test their skill in the arena. I will place them in my stable. You have been winning too much from me of late, Belaaz. Perhaps these northerners will set the balance right.” He paused. “Give the other men to my slave master. Perhaps they have some skill that will make them useful.”
His eyes moved at last to Adora and Rokha, who still knelt, heads down. “Kingdom women. I don’t usually care for the large, ungainly females. And they are dressed like men!”
Tittering laughter came from the courtiers. The ilhotep reclined on his divan. “Bring them to me.”
Errol struggled against his drug-laced lethargy to protest, but no words would come.
Guards escorted Rokha and Adora to the ilhotep with firm hands. Both of the women kept their heads down, refusing to meet the ilhotep’s inspection.
“Let me see their faces,” the ilhotep ordered.
As hands forced their heads up, Rokha’s dark mane and Adora’s golden hair tumbled loose. The two women directed their defiance at the ilhotep. His eyes sparked with interest. “What have we now? Kingdom women, but hardly ungainly. One is as dark as the night, while the other wears the light of the morning.” He laughed. “And both with spirit. But they smell of horses and dust.
“Guard, take them to my chief eunuch. Tell him to have them bathed and dressed in silk and satin. If they please me, I will keep them for myself. If not, I will give them to my ilakhen. Would you like that, Osiri?”
Weir stepped forward. “The golden-haired one belongs to me.”
The ilhotep frowned at the intrusion. “Why is this one not a prisoner?”
The ilakhen bowed. “This is the one who delivered the kingdom spies into our hand, Exalted One.”
Lord Weir sneered. “And the price for my aid is the girl. She belongs to me.”
The ilhotep’s casual manner evaporated like water on a sun-scorched rock. “By way of thanks, I will overlook the fact you make demands in my palace.” He waved a hand. “Take my forgiveness and go. The females remain.”
Weir goggled. “You would dismiss me and deny me what is mine? Do you know who I am and who my father is?”
The ilhotep’s face darkened. Without taking his eyes from Weir, he crooked a finger at his ilakhen. Osiri mounted the dais and stooped to whisper in the ilhotep’s ear. After a moment the ilakhen straightened and stepped away.
The ilhotep stood. “My ilakhen tells me you are the son of a powerful ally in Illustra. But you are not in your kingdom, worm. You stand in my throne room beneath the greatest of the three hundred and sixty spires. I rule here. However, I offer you my forgiveness a second time. Take our blessing with you and go . . . now.”
Weir’s face reddened. “You stupid barbarian. Nobody�
�”
The lord’s next words never made it from his mouth. The ilhotep lifted his arm, and in a single motion the guard next to Weir drew his sword and cut Weir’s head from his shoulders. Blood fountained, splattering thickly on the tile floor, as the body collapsed at the guard’s feet, arms and legs twitching.
The ilakhen closed his eyes and sighed. “Your ally the duke will be displeased at the dispatch of his son, Exalted One.”
The ilhotep looked bored and petulant once more. “He dared offer an insult to me in my palace.”
“Agreed,” the ilakhen said, “but the duke is a powerful man within the kingdom. He has agreed to withhold his support from the kingdom’s war effort in exchange for the crown. News of his son’s death, deserved as it is, may change his heart.”
Belaaz laughed. “Then he shall not hear of it that way. The duke’s son was killed by the omne, Errol Stone. The ilhotep, wise beyond measure, imprisoned the omne and all his companions and sentenced them to a life of slavery in recompense.”
The ilhotep waved a hand. “Make it so.” He looked to Adora and Rokha. “And take those kingdom women to my eunuch.”
As they passed, Rokha stared straight ahead, showing no fear, but Adora stopped and looked to Errol, her eyes wide. Errol struggled to say something, do something, but all he could manage was a feeble “Ad . . . ora.”
Prodded by the guard behind her, she bowed her head and stumbled forward.
As the women left the throne room, the ilakhen asked, “And what of Errol Stone?”
The ruler of Merakh no longer attended Osiri. He sucked on his pipe, and his lids grew heavy as he lay indolent on his couch. “Let us see how well the omne fights in the arena. Perhaps he will provide some amusement before he dies.”
Hero's Lot, The (The Staff and the Sword Book #2) Page 38
