The Children of Anthi

by Deborah Chester

  “Welcome, noble,” he said smoothly, looking quickly at Picyt and then away again as he bowed a second time. “The Tlar leiil awaits.”

  Overhead a broad spear of lightning stabbed from the sky, seeming to skim the protective bubble that reflected blue light. Thunder boomed with a vehemence that made the slaves cringe. Even Picyt flinched.

  Nervously the majordomo raised his fingertips to his brow in quick supplication to Anthi before gesturing with yet a third bow. “Come, noble,” he said, preceding Picyt courteously through the wide doors, his back carefully turned from Picyt and his eyes averted so that he had to scuttle sideways with awkward little bobs of his plump body.

  Picyt strode after him at a contained pace, seething behind his mask. Lea’dl! To squander food on fattening slaves while the Henan starved in the squalor of Altian’s slums and the Bban’n scavenged the Outerlands in desperate hordes was one too many of Hihuan’s galling string of injustices! Anger swept aside the inner rings of caution, and Picyt’s pace quickened, leaving his Bban escort out of step. On they went through magnificent archways of smoked crystal and jate stone, and along corridors that widened into galleries hung with woven tapestries. Soft-footed servants—the men clad in tabards of scarlet leather and the maidens in green silk—moved aside with startled grace, the jewels set in their collars and ankle-bands winking in the soft clear light. No smelly torches blazed on the walls. No braziers stood in corners with singing coals. They were unneeded, for in the palace of Leiil Hihuan heat and light were plentiful, provided from deep in the mysterious power base that hummed below the city. Indeed, an open flame was a mark of poverty and shame…or religious abstinence.

  They approached a guarded door and halted there while the masked sentinels relieved Picyt of both his jen-knife and his escort.

  “On your blood, start no incident this night,” murmured Picyt to the Bban’jen, knowing too well how easily the storm and Tlar’jen taunts could rouse unstable Bban natures to folly. “On your blood,” he repeated sternly, enlarging the ring of his authority around the five.

  They saluted with a clash of heavy gauntlets upon knife hilts. “It is sworn.”

  Satisfied, he pulled his dark-blue cloak more closely about his tall frame and followed the majordomo again. He had come this way many times before, too many times to be awed by the wealth of beauty surrounding him. Thick carpets now covered the polished jate stone floor, and mosaics fashioned from brightly hued enamels and precious metals adorned the walls. The glitter of light off such magnificence hurt Picyt’s eyes, even through his mask. The warmth in these chambers grew oppressive. He longed to throw back his heavy cloak and divest himself of mask and gloves, but he made no attempt to do anything so casual. They passed many doors. Now and then one stood open, permitting glimpses into opulent chambers where members of the court relaxed on low couches, banqueting with low witty laughter or accepting the trained caresses of ty-boys.

  Picyt’s gaze remained sternly ahead, and within him the rings of caution and alertness drew taut, protecting him from the distraction of revulsion. They approached a spacious foyer whose vaulted ceiling swept high on the support of fluted columns. Here many corridors converged, including the guarded one that led to the private gardens and the court of women beyond. Picyt looked down at his guide. Much of how this meeting would go depended on whether he was received in the halls of state or in Hihuan’s private apartments. The fact that he had been separated from his armed escort suggested a private meeting. Picyt’s muscles tensed uneasily, and he groped within his wide sleeve for the comforting feel of the yde vial. The unwary too often found assassins in the dark corners of Hihuan’s private court. He could not depend upon Hihuan’s sense of prudence to hold a check on their rivalry for Ruantl.

  Other courtiers stood in the foyer before him, talking to one another in low, excited voices, now and then laughing rapidly. One saw him and, with a gesture of respect, came forward.

  “A fiendish night for late audiences, eh, Noble Picyt?” he said, tugging off his mask as he spoke to reveal a hawkish face, the high sharp features now blurred beneath dissolute flesh. His dark reddish-brown hair swept, straight and coarse, back from his brow above slanted weary eyes ringed in green and amber flecks, which stared out with level directness at Picyt. The priest started at the sight of that face he knew so well.

  “Noble Stregth,” he said, unable to keep surprise from his voice. “How many seasons have raged since last I saw you?” Careful as always of protocol and watching eyes, he did not remove his mask, but as he spoke he made a discreet signal of warm welcome.

  “They are too many,” replied Stregth, tucking his mask under his left elbow in the jen way. He glanced briefly at the tall doors that led to the halls of state, thus turning his profile to Picyt, who smiled within his mask at the sight of the scarlet brand burned into one cheek. “But as you see, I stand here once again.”

  “And reclaimed to honor by your house,” said Picyt, his eyes still upon the burn, which was recent.

  “Ah? Yes.” With a self-conscious smile Stregth tapped the mark of his high birth. “Reburned by Dame Agate’s own hand.”

  “Impressive. The Soot’dla so rarely forgive,” murmured Picyt, withdrawing slightly as the doors to the halls of state opened to allow a man to emerge. He dragged along a cloaked, hooded figure who was weeping with ugly wrenching sobs. Picyt frowned. If Hihuan had chosen a new concubine tonight to add to his court of women, he would be puffed with arrogance and hard to frighten.

  “No markings,” muttered Stregth as he watched the departing pair. “I wonder which house has bought favors this night with the innocence of a daughter?”

  The majordomo caught Picyt’s eye and beckoned. Drawing himself erect, Picyt gestured to still his friend’s ill-judged words and said formally, “It pleases me to welcome the return of your honor to the House of Soot’dla. May it also please the Tlar leiil to remove the shame of exile from your name.”

  Stregth bowed, but as Picyt moved away, he laid his hand briefly upon Picyt’s wrist. “It has pleased me well to see you this night,” he said, his green eyes serious.

  Startled by the unexpectedness of that touch, Picyt halted, staring, unable to shake off the certainty that blackness had brushed between them. His senses heightened by the yde, he frowned and dared look upon Stregth with truth. At once Stregth stiffened and denied him sight, but it was enough. A cold chill passed through him. Picyt extended his hand and said urgently, “Even the honor of the Soot’dla is not worth what lies in your heart. Do it not, Stregth.” He paused, troubled by the defiance in Stregth’s green eyes. “I need your stance with mine—”

  A gleam flickered in Stregth’s gaze. “You have found one worthy?”

  The raw bitterness that lingered in Picyt like a shard of poisoned crystal twisted more deeply. He looked away. “One was found,” he said in a low voice, clenching his fist. “He has been lost.”

  “By the Tlar leiil?” Stregth raised his head. “By the four moons of Lea’s court, I shall—”

  “Noble Picyt!” called an impatient voice.

  Cursing this meeting ground, Picyt dared linger for a moment longer. “Will you not have patience? I have not exhausted my—”

  “Patience? Merdarai!” Stregth snorted, no longer taking care to school his unmasked features. “How much longer can we wait, Picyt? As of today he controls the merchants’ fields; even the private lands of Dame Agate are no longer sufficient to hold the Soot’dla beyond his grasp. Will you have patience while our starving bellies betray us?”

  “Noble Picyt!” called the majordomo again, more loudly this time.

  Picyt whirled away from Stregth, too shaken by the news of the Spandeen conciliation to be able to react. A cloud of guilt smothered him. Had he listened to Basai and been more attentive to the merchants…no. He withdrew from such thoughts. His judgment of their motives had been correct, and groveling to please them would have perhaps only delayed this blow. But the fields! Merdarai, even K
kanthor could starve now if Hihuan chose for that to happen. His eyes sparked with anger as he strode forward, shedding mask, cloak, and gloves in response to a signal from hovering minions. He must put a stop to Hihuan. Stregth was right; this could not continue.

  Bowing his head as he crossed the threshold into the first hall of state, he asked Anthi to preserve him and swiftly put all from his mind save Leiil Hihuan.

  The enormous hall was triangular in shape, with the apex opposite the door. It was also empty. Picyt paused, in no mood for Hihuan’s games. Folding his hands within his wide sleeves, Picyt stood in the center of the vast room and went no farther. Cautiously he extended his senses, well aware of mental traps that could be laid here for him. Finding Hihuan in an alcove, he withdrew his senses as softly as he had extended them and waited, holding his rings firmly about himself.

  After a moment Hihuan strode into sight as Picyt had expected. The leiil was young, with a tall, well-knit frame softened by an abundance of food and dissolute living. He came forward, his handsome head held high so that his straight black hair just touched his shoulders. His were the pure features of the old line: the straight nose, sharply ridged cheekbones, glinting black eyes full of boredom and conceit, sensual lips curving above a petulant chin. Only a certain narrowness of skull betrayed the inbreeding that had become so rampant as the diminishing Tlar’n strove to keep their lines pure. He wore tonight a short wide-sleeved robe of rich purple brocade handwoven by skilled Henan women in the merchant district of the sixth vector, and soft scarlet thigh-tall boots. Rings adorned his fingers, and jewels glittered vividly from the hilt of the jen-knife at his belt.

  Picyt watched him come and, at a moment just short of actual discourtesy, bowed.

  The Tlar leiil’s eyes narrowed. He jerked to a halt. “We have just communicated with Pon Fflir at the outer gates,” he said, his rich voice sharp with anger. “You purposefully refuse to raise the shields, leaving us exposed to danger. It might almost be considered a deliberate act against us, Noble Picyt. Why do you toy with treason this night?”

  Picyt thought of Riidul, and his eyes grew cold. “I come regarding a different matter, Noble Leiil.”

  “You come because we summoned you to explain this disobedience!” shouted Hihuan, turning away with a violent gesture. “You must learn your place, noble. You are not as irreplaceable as you think.”

  Picyt met this outburst with a voice like ice. “Is that why my leiil sends men to bribe neophytes into becoming assassins?”

  The coppery hue of Hihuan’s cheeks darkened. But when he faced Picyt, he appeared unashamed.

  “We have sent no assassin yet,” he snapped.

  Picyt stiffened and said softly, “Perhaps my good leiil blinds himself to the actions of his servants.”

  “You go too far!” His face twisted by fury, Hihuan whipped out his knife and sprang forward before a startled Picyt had time to build a natural force field. The knife point pricked against Picyt’s chest. “Now, by Lea herself,” snarled Hihuan, “we shall have no more of this! Raise the shields, priest, or I swear on this blade you’ll not leave my hall living.”

  Picyt sighed with unconcealed impatience, leaving his defenses down and curbing the urge to slap away Hihuan’s toy. “It is only the first storm, Leiil. Not enough—”

  “The city has been struck three times in the outer vectors!” said Hihuan, digging in the knife as Picyt started to speak. “It takes only one strike of lightning to shatter the protective bubble, and if that is lost, we are all lost, priest.” He jabbed again with the knife, and this time Picyt felt the skin break.

  Fury surged through him at this insult. His blood rose, but his Kkanthor training superseded the hotter reflexes of his Tlar breeding, and he held himself in control.

  “Yes, Picyt, you had better hold back,” said Hihuan, his black eyes boring insolently into Picyt’s. “You had better remember that I am Tlar leiil. You had better see that you protect the city, the palace, and the Jewels of M’thra for me.”

  An involuntary shiver moved up Picyt’s spine at that mention of the Jewels. And at the same time his veins shrank in the first stirring of need for yde. Not so soon! he thought in despair as he stepped back, answering with as much scorn as he dared.

  “My leiil knows I am sworn past blood to protect the Jewels,” he said, raising rings of control over a surge of hatred for this stupid hedonist. For a moment he was tempted to bring Hihuan’s greatest fear to life and put himself into the sacred body of Leiil Asan, but even as he savored the idea the leaden coldness of cowardice sank in. He did not dare, and Hihuan must have read the lack of courage in his eyes, for with a short laugh the leiil sheathed his knife.

  “So you are sworn, Noble Picyt.” The amusement in his young face darkened to anger. “Then keep your oath! Raise the shields now!”

  There was nothing to do but accede. But the resentment built up through the years since Hihuan had come to power could not be completely submerged. He was not the rightful leiil; this palace had not been built to honor his glory. Taking savage comfort in that, Picyt lifted his left wrist, but instead of activating his communicator he glared at Hihuan, his look as cold as the ice needles raining down outside.

  “The power generators are old, Noble Leiil,” he said bluntly, making no effort now to maintain the pretense of serenity. “If the shields are raised too swiftly, they may fail. That is why I hold back.”

  Hihuan’s black eyes widened with rage. “Fail!” he shouted, panic tinging his voice. “Merdarai, Picyt, you dare too much—”

  “Kkanthor has kept the repairs for centuries,” broke in Picyt. “But even we have our limitations. No doubt had the n’ka not vanished,” he said tightly, daring at last to bring the matter into the open, “he could have solved the problem. But—”

  “Silence!” screamed the Tlar leiil. “No more of this is permitted! Guards!”

  Perhaps he had gone too far. Tensing as the doors were flung open behind him, Picyt raised his wrist and summoned Teecht by communicator. Mind-touch was swifter, but he dared not open himself here, especially not in Hihuan’s presence. “Picyt speaks,” he said hurriedly into the communicator, turning to one side so that he could watch the guards closing in on him with purposeful strides. “Raise shields. Now!”

  Rough hands seized him, pinioning his arms even as Teecht began a startled query. Breaking communications, Picyt curbed the instinctive urge to raise his force field, knowing that to do so was an open confession of guilt, and stood erect and motionless in the cruel grip of the masked guards.

  “Too late, priest,” spat Hihuan. “Tonight you shall learn a lesson of obedience.”

  “I am no underling for thy pleasure,” snapped Picyt, unable to hold back his defiance further. “Will thou raise the Bban’jen and my house to retaliation?”

  Hihuan’s face darkened with fury and he slitted his black eyes. “Treason has been spoken here,” he said. “Take him out!”

  Picyt was jerked around so roughly that he nearly lost his footing on the polished floor. Within him fear battled self-recrimination. After all his prudent warnings to Stregth, he had been the fool this night. At least Stregth would have plunged a knife into the heart of the Tlar leiil and not merely stood mouthing defiance.

  But before Picyt could be dragged out, an enormous explosion deafened him, and the entire palace shook violently enough to fling him and his captors to the floor. Chunks of rubble and dust rained down from the ceiling. Abruptly the lights cut out, plunging them into total darkness.

  Stunned, Picyt rose unsteadily to his hands and knees, faltering as he tripped on his robe, and struggled to drag air back into his lungs. His rings had left him; he might as well be blind for the moment. Through the darkness he could hear Hihuan coughing and someone else swearing. The smell of dust hung thick in his nostrils. Somehow he staggered to his feet, desperation driving him as his hand fumbled inside his sleeve. He heard grunts and the scrape of boots over stone and knew the guards would seize him
at any moment. Lea’dl! Where was that last vial of yde? Tensely hunting, he found what he searched for and threw the powder down his throat in one rapid gulp, his heart pounding.

  “Lli take you, Picyt!” shouted Hihuan through the darkness. “You have brought destruction on us. Let it fall upon you as well!”

  Picyt’s rings formed, and at that moment only the extension of his senses saved him. He heard the hiss of metal through air as the jen-knife hurtled toward him. He twisted to one side, his unsteady powers deflecting the blade. It clattered harmlessly on the stone floor. As it missed, Hihuan responded with an oath.

  “Guards!” he shouted. “Spread his blood!”

  Picyt started to run, but he knew escape from the palace was hopeless. Suddenly the lights flickered on, blinding him, then winked out again. The power was coming back, and once it did, he would have no chance at all. Desperately he collected himself, sending all his strength into his inner forces as he closed his mind to the fear of such recklessness. To seizert during a storm was madness. He could easily lose control and end up inside a wall or scattered as widely as the wind. But it was too late for prudence; they were coming at him fast.

  He gathered himself and leapt. Vertigo gripped him, spinning him through a gray void. Then he blinked an instant later. He was safely in the transport bay, which had emergency torchlight blazing against the darkness. The bitter reek of fire and smoke hung in the air.

  “Revered noble!” cried an astonished priest, and at once a babble of thankful, panicked voices surrounded him.

  He staggered out of sheer surprise at his success. He glanced only briefly at the destruction around him, then regathered his wits. He drew himself erect as the smell of burning ozone and shorted circuitry stung his nostrils, and he flung out his hand to ward them off.