Heretic of Set

by J. Steven York

  “Because then, as now, he has his uses despite his flaws. And frankly, I don’t know who else we could ask that I don’t trust even less.” He reached into his bag and extracted a sphere of crystal small enough to conceal in one’s hand. He passed it to Teferi, who stared at it curiously.

  “What is it?”

  “Magic,” he answered.

  Teferi started and almost dropped the crystal. Hurriedly, he put the crystal on the bed, found a scrap of black silk, and scooped the offending object inside, wrapping it away. With some disgust he tossed the object on the table. He glared at Anok. “You know how I feel about magic.”

  “That’s why I warned you. I won’t even tell you what it does.”

  “Then how am I supposed to tell Rami?”

  “I’ll tell him myself.”

  “But if you aren’t going to see him?”

  Anok chuckled. “Just give it to him and tell him to keep it with him. Warn him that if he sells it, or loses it, or bets it in a game of dice, I’ll know about it and put a curse on him that makes his man parts shrivel up like a raisin.”

  Teferi looked shocked. “Rami has man parts? Who knew?”

  THEIR FIRST PURCHASE at the Great Marketplace was a small handcart in which to collect their purchases. They then headed directly to the stall of a merchant who serviced the caravan trade.

  The booth was run by an old woman, by her dress and appearance one of the desert nomads who largely ran the caravan routes. Her skin was tanned and deeply wrinkled by long exposure to the desert sun, her hair thin and white, and her nose long and hooked as with many of her people. The nomads were a fiercely independent people, an ancient mix of Shemite, Kothic, and Stygian blood. Sometimes their elderly came to the city for comfort in their declining years, but they always returned to their sacred desert to die.

  The woman eyed them skeptically as they entered her stall.

  Anok addressed her. “We join a caravan bound for Kheshatta. We will need proper attire and whatever else a traveler may need.”

  “You worship the snake-god. Many of your kind take this journey, and they wear”—she reached out and tugged rudely as his sleeve—“their temple robes.”

  “Then,” said Anok, “they are stupid. A man would cook in the desert wearing these robes. He would have to carry twice as much water just to account for his sweat.”

  “You are a city boy. What do you know of the desert?”

  “More than you imagine, and far less than you, I venture. Tell me what I need to know.”

  The woman walked over to a table covered with clothing made of white and cream-colored linen. She glanced back at him. “You will not miss your temple robes, snake worshiper?”

  He couldn’t help liking the woman. It took courage to say such a thing in the presence of an acolyte of Set.

  He lowered his voice a little and leaned closer to her. “I would do well to be rid of them.”

  Her eyes twinkled, and she smiled just a little. She turned away from the table and headed toward the back of the stall. “That trash is for gullible city folk,” she said. “I have better for you.”

  She told them how to pick a proper circlet, and to wear it and their headcloth in proper nomad style. She gave them each a bag of honey-and-sesame candies said to be much favored as treats by the camels, and told them how to pick the best ones in the caravan. They were warned which caravan leaders were honest and which could not be trusted.

  Anok paid her with only a little bickering, and then, with a bow of thanks, placed an extra gold sovereign in her leathery palm. They left the booth with their cart well loaded, not just with clothing and a proper desert kit, but with something more valuable, information.

  As Anok and Teferi walked to the scriber’s shop, Teferi took one of the candies from the bag and cautiously licked it. He made a face. “I see why they give these to the camels,” he said, dropping the candy back into the bag.

  “Maybe it’s an acquired taste.”

  “I hope the desert isn’t that wide.” He looked thoughtful and a little glum. “There’s one part of this I’m not looking forward to, brother.”

  “You agreed to go. Have you changed your mind?”

  “No, of course not. I look forward to the adventure. I look forward to leaving this cursed city behind, at least for a time. It’s just that Kheshatta lies close to the border with Kush. Closer than I have ever been to its lands.”

  “The homeland of your people, yes. I’d think you’d be glad.”

  He frowned. “The sorcery-cursed land from which my tribe long ago fled in exile. It is my people’s land no more. It belongs to demons and evil gods. Some say they keep the true gods of our people in chains, all but Bovutupu the betrayer, and Jangwa, because they could not find him in the wilderness.”

  “Then perhaps one day we’ll go there, kill the evil gods, and restore order to your people.”

  Teferi grunted. “You fancy yourself a god-slayer, Anok. It is a dangerous conceit. Men do not slay gods. Gods toy with men.”

  “Perhaps I can’t kill gods, Teferi, but gods are still worshiped by men. Without followers, gods are nothing. Men can be killed. Men’s hearts can be won. Gods do not fall easily, but like kings, they can still fall.”

  The scriber’s shop was located on a narrow alley off the market. The wooden sign was small, and unlike most of the signs in the market, which were designed to attract the illiterate populace of Odji, it had no bright colors or pictures or carvings, just writing. It said, “The Word,” and nothing more.

  They slipped into the dark, cramped interior, with its stacks of clear papyrus, quills, reeds, and pots of ink. But Anok’s interest was in the back wall, where scrolls and books were to be found.

  The shopkeeper, a thin, pale man of Hyborian blood, watched them intently. “I know you,” he said. “You were Anok Wati, of the Ravens, the street urchin who could read and write.”

  Anok glanced at him. “I am still Anok Wati.”

  “You serve Set now.”

  “I serve truth,” he said.

  “We have no scrolls of Set here.”

  Anok examined a basket of dusty scrolls. “I already have some, thanks. We seek something for my friend here. He wishes to learn to read. Something simple, but with lots of words. Stygian is fine, but Aquilonian would be good as well.”

  The shopkeeper raised an eyebrow but reached under a counter and pulled up another basket of scrolls. “These are all the Aquilonian scrolls we have. I have some books over in that cabinet, but books cost much more.”

  Anok pawed through the scrolls. The first one he looked at recorded the adventures of some lost prince of Gunder land. It would do well. There were even illustrations, which Teferi would doubtless like. He put it aside to purchase.

  He was about to return the basket to its place when one particular scroll caught his eye. It was darker than the rest, the wooden handle on one end scorched and blackened, the paper dark and crumbling at the edge. He carefully lifted it from the basket.

  He looked sharply at the shopkeeper. “Where did you get this?”

  “That? I don’t know. It’s been here for a very long time. Some boys brought it in, I think. Young foreigners from Akhet, selling what they could to buy beer. Probably stolen from their fathers, I suppose, but what business is that of mine?”

  Stolen? Or found in the ruins of a burned-out house? “How much for these two?”

  The shopkeeper named an outrageous sum. Anok slapped the coin on the counter without dickering and rushed out into the sunlight.

  Teferi ran after him. “Anok, what’s wrong?”

  Anok held up the scorched scroll. “This,” he said, “belonged to my father.”

  5

  ANOK WAS UNREADY to return to the temple, and so they went back to the Green Lotus Tavern. For a little silver, the tavern keep agreed to let Teferi store the cart and its contents in his back room.

  Anok looked at Teferi. “Do you want some beer?”

  Teferi shoo
k his head. “It’s a fine day, and I’m starting to feel like myself again. There’s a courtyard behind the tavern where I can enjoy the sun.”

  Anok shrugged and followed Teferi through a rear door and outside.

  The courtyard was small and paved with flagstone. A stunted and scruffy-looking mulberry tree grew through a break in the center of the stone. Drying laundry hung from poles across the far corner, and empty beer jars were piled against the near wall. There were a stone table and two benches, but little otherwise to recommend the place.

  Anok was unsure why Teferi had wanted to come here, until he heard the sound of the big man’s sword being drawn from its scabbard.

  Anok instinctively reached over his shoulders and grabbed a sword in each hand, drawing them from the scabbards strapped to his back.

  Already Teferi was swinging his sword toward him in a horizontal arc, a vicious two-handed blow that could cut a man in half. It was too late to draw and deflect the blow, even if he dared try with his much lighter weapons, so he released his swords and dived into a shoulder roll.

  Teferi’s blow slashed over him as he rolled just out of reach, springing to his feet and drawing his swords.

  Teferi recovered quickly and slashed again. Anok jumped back, arching his back so that the blade just missed his stomach.

  Another swing, and he ducked under it, knees bent, bringing his left sword up toward Teferi’s throat.

  Teferi’s left hand swung up, something white trailing from the end of it. Something wet hit his left arm and whipped around it, tangling in his sword’s guard.

  Laundry! The clever devil had grabbed some wet laundry!

  He tried to release the sword and pull his hand free, but he was caught. Teferi used his superior size and strength to sling Anok in a semicircle, until he slammed into the trunk of the scrawny tree back first.

  Leaves and berries rained down, and Anok saw stars as his head hit the tree.

  He finally managed to extract his hand, and tried to bring up his sword to block the inevitable blow. The big sword clanged into his own with such force that his hand went numb.

  He dropped his guard just long enough to leave himself open for the next blow. He staggered back and ducked, so that Teferi’s sword took a deep bite of a tree limb instead of his skull.

  Then his right sandal caught on something—maybe a loose stone—and down he went. Again he hit his head. He tried to raise his sword but found the tip of Teferi’s sword against his breastbone.

  He lay back and sighed. “I yield!”

  Teferi grinned down at him, then tossed back his head and laughed. “You were too easy on me, brother! Not on my best day have I ever bested the two-bladed devil in a fair fight.” He swung his sword away from Anok and returned it to its scabbard. He reached down and offered Anok his hand.

  Anok took the hand and let Teferi haul him to his feet. His whole body ached, and he wasn’t moving too well on his own just yet. “I’m not sure how fair that trick with the wet laundry was, but as for me”—he frowned—“I wasn’t being easy at all.”

  Teferi laughed again. Then he saw Anok was serious, and his smile faded.

  “I haven’t touched my sword since that day at the Scorpion’s lair, and Ramsa Aál had them before that. I’m getting soft at the temple. I’m out of practice. I don’t like that. I don’t like it a bit.”

  Teferi hobbled over and sat down on one of the stone benches. Anok watched him hold his hand over his chest and saw a spot of blood on the clean dressing. “It’s nothing.” He smiled weakly. “It was worth it to beat you for once.”

  “We used to spar like this almost every day.”

  Teferi grinned just a little. “We used to use sticks, so we didn’t kill each other.”

  Anok rubbed his numbed hand, which still tingled. “Maybe we should go back to the sticks for a while.”

  Teferi chuckled. Then his expression turned serious. “You never told me what was on that scroll.”

  “You saw it.”

  “I can’t read, remember?” His tone was sweetly sarcastic.

  “Well, it doesn’t make much sense to me either, so we’re about even on that score.”

  “You can read it though?”

  “I can read the words. It’s written in Aquilonian.”

  “So, what does it say?”

  “It’s a temple scroll of some kind, from the Cult of—” He looked around to see if anyone else was near. “The Cult of Ibis. Obviously the shopkeeper never actually read the scroll, or he would have finished burning it.”

  “Ibis? I’ve heard you mention Ibis, but I don’t know that cult.”

  “The worship of gods other than Set is forbidden in Stygia, yet we both know it goes on. Many gods are quietly worshiped in Odji, and I hear even more are worshiped in Kheshatta. Even in the catacombs beneath the Great Temple, shrines to ancient and forgotten gods are maintained, and the High Priests sometimes have ceremonies there, cheating on Set as a man might cheat on his wife. But while such is usually tolerated by the High Priests and guardians of Set, worship of one god, above all others, is forbidden in Stygia, and that is Ibis.”

  “Ibis must be one of Set’s enemies.”

  “From what I’ve heard, blood enemies, ancient and deep. Yet Parath, the god I spoke to in the desert, claimed to be an ancient enemy of both Set and Ibis, and he claimed that my father, that all of my bloodline, worshiped him back to ancient times.”

  “But if that’s true, why would your father have a scroll of Ibis?”

  “Exactly why I’m puzzled. But this scroll is important somehow, I just know it. My father set me on a mission when he died, to find my sister and give her the Scale that he left me. Yet I’ve never been able to do it, never found any trace of a sister. I had no clue where to look. It was years before I dared return to the ruins of my father’s house, and by then there were only ashes.”

  Teferi looked thoughtful. “So what kind of temple scroll is it? Maybe that will tell you something.”

  “It doesn’t make sense, none of it. It’s written in Aquilonian, yet Ibis is mainly worshiped in Nemedia these days. And near as I can tell, it has something to do with the initiation rites of a priestess of Ibis.”

  6

  RAMSA AÀL’S PRIVATE chambers were located high above the main entrance of the Great Temple of Set, as were those of the other ranking priests in the temple. The temple looked west, and from this vantage point one could look down across the inner city and its towering black walls, out across Odji, to the harbor of Khemi and the Western Ocean beyond. The view was spectacular, and an expanse of large windows gathered the cooling ocean breezes.

  Anok stood in front of those windows, hands behind his back, watching the ships bobbing at their moorings, triangular white sails flying on merchantmen and the swift coastal warships of the Stygian navy as they came and went past the stone breakwater.

  To the north he could see the broad expanse of the mouth of the River Styx, with its many delta islands extending out to the horizon, its muddy brown waters spilling out into the dark blue of the sea. To the south, sandbars and barrier islands both protected the farming villages of the coast and provided hiding places for the scattered pirates that often raided non-Stygian vessels, often under the noses of the Stygian fleet, who cared little about outlanders.

  Above all, he thought, he would miss the sea. He had never been far from it for long. He would miss it like a parted friend.

  Ramsa Aál stood behind him, and he could feel the priest’s eyes staring at him. Anok continued to look at the sea.

  “Again. What did you say?”

  “I said, Aken Anu is a thief and a cheat. He’s been charging the temple too much for his camels for years, and he robs the pilgrims on his caravans blind. He’s not the worst caravan leader you could have chosen for my journey. He hasn’t murdered anyone—yet—that I know of. But he’s not far up the list.”

  “You question my judgment?”

  “Perhaps I should rather question
your motives. Why send me with such an unreliable guide? Perhaps you wish some harm to come to me on the journey? Perhaps you are testing me, or hoping he will goad me into using my sorcery in anger, so that it will overcome the weakness that I have suffered of late.”

  Ramsa Aál seemed to relax a bit. He smiled and stepped forward to lean against the windowsill to Anok’s left, as though drawn to the mark of power burned into Anok’s left wrist. But he smiled, and his demeanor was no longer that of a stern elder but of one equal dealing with another.

  Anok glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. He likes to be challenged, at least by those he hopes to influence.

  “You’re right. He isn’t the best caravan leader I could have found, and I had considered, even hoped, that you might have trouble with him. Your last guess was correct. I thought he might anger you into using your powers without thinking, avoiding the fear that currently binds you.”

  “I fear nothing.”

  He laughed. “All men fear. Only fools deny it to their equals—or their betters. You carry the sacred Mark of Set on your wrist. The power has not deserted you, it never will, and so it must be the will that is weak.”

  There was truth to that. He feared the power, what it could do, what he had done to the White Scorpions in a misguided attempt at justice, and what he had nearly done to Teferi in the heat of battle. At some point he had ceased to wield the power. The power had begun to wield him. It was not something he wished to experience again. But he wished to admit none of this to Ramsa Aál.

  Yet Ramsa Aál seemed to anticipate this and did not wait for him to speak. “You should know that it is the nature of sorcery to be inconsistent in its gifts. The power of all sorcerers, even the greatest, will wax and wane over time. If that were not so, how could a barbarian, even one as talented as the false king Conan of Aquilonia, have defeated our master Thoth-Amon? He was fortunate enough to encounter our lord at times of weakness and profited from his fortune. But a great sorcerer is always patient, and one day Conan will not be so lucky. One day he will meet his doom at the hands of our master.”