Anok moved warily, trying to watch his opponent, his footing, and concentrate on the wheel all at once. It was like trying to pat one’s head and rub one’s belly at the same time, only one degree harder.
He felt the first taste of fear. Though Sattar had said neither of the two would have an advantage, Bai-Ling’s training clearly included a degree of balance and agility that Anok could not match.
The student of the Jade Spider seemed to sense weakness. He smiled slightly, then lunged forward, stabbing the end of his staff at Anok’s face.
Anok ducked to one side, causing the staff to miss, but in the process threw himself off-balance. He tripped, jumped heavily to the next pole, and struggled to keep the wheel turning.
Bai-Ling moved rapidly past him, crossing one pole, two, three. He swung his staff by the end, low, trying to cut Anok’s feet from under him.
Anok jumped just in time, the staff striking his toes painfully as it just passed under him. He landed back on the pole with a thump, jumped to the next, trying to balance, then became aware that his wheel of Aten was wobbling.
It would have been so easy to let the wheel fall. The contest would have been over, no one hurt, and Ramsa Aál’s master plan, whatever it was, would be thwarted.
Bai-Ling grinned wolfishly, circling him.
Let it fall! End this! His mind spoke, but his heart denied it, and his pride would not allow him to lose.
Anok watched Bai-Ling. The Jade Spider was always on the move, never off-balance. Then, overconfident, he stepped too close to the rail.
A cheer went up, as one of Sattar’s men jammed the end of his bamboo rod between Bai-Ling’s shoulder blades, and pushed.
Bai-Ling staggered, ran three steps down the pole, then turned to glare at his attacker.
Realizing that his opponent was distracted, Anok swung his staff at the back of his head.
Bai-Ling ducked at the last instant, shifting his weight so that he stood on one foot and swung the other high, leaping through the air to land two poles farther away from Anok.
Instantly, the Jade Spider began to move back toward him.
One pole, two poles.
Bai-Ling swung his staff two-handed down on Anok.
Anok blocked with his own staff.
Bai-Ling reversed the staff, striking again.
Again Anok blocked him, but he was forced to move one foot back to keep his balance.
Again, Bai-Ling struck.
Anok moved.
Attack.
Move.
Too late, Anok realized that he had been pushed too close to the railing.
Two bamboo poles poked into his right side, jamming painfully against his ribs as he was shoved back toward the center of the chamber.
His feet squeaked on the polished bamboo poles.
The room whirled. He saw the look of alarm on Kaman Awi’s face, the cheering of Sattar’s men.
He struggled to keep his balance, staggering from one pole to another, his foot almost missing. He was going to fall.
Unless.
He threw the bamboo staff away from his chest as hard as he could, providing just enough push to keep him standing on the pole. Quickly, he regained his balance, remembering as he did to spin up the wheel of Aten.
Bai-Ling laughed, stepping lightly along the length of a pole, several over from Anok, twirling his staff. Anok was unarmed now, easy pickings in the garden of pain.
Anticipating how he would be distracted by the impending attack, Anok tried to spin his wheel as rapidly as possible. The faster it spun, the longer it could endure his inattention. But the magic was so weak here he could hardly spin the wheel at all.
Then he had a thought. This contest could not be won by making his own wheel spin, only by making Bai-Ling’s fall. He reached out with his mind, feeling Bai-Ling’s wheel as well as his own. Unlike the one at the temple, the engravings on it allowed it to spin in one direction only. He could not reverse it, could not slow, it, but he could feel it, relative to his own wheel.
Bai-Ling stepped closer, still spinning his weapon.
Anok had a memory, of a time when he and the other Ravens were little more than children in the Great Marketplace at Odji, and they played a game they called “monkey.”
They would steal a piece of fruit from a particular vendor’s stall. He would chase them, but they would run to a fish vendor’s stall nearby. The fish hung drying from long poles. They would leap up, swing around the poles onto a nearby wall, then run away to safety.
It had been a long, long time since Anok had played “monkey.” He hoped he hadn’t forgotten how.
He stepped toward Bai-Ling, who raised his staff to attack.
Anok leaned backward as he stepped forward. His feet missed the pole and he started to fall down between them.
His wheel began to wobble, more and more.
He reached up, caught the pole with both hands, swung his body under, his feet brushing just above the terrible spines below.
His wheel wobbled more, slowing. He felt where Bai-Ling’s wheel spun, fast and steady.
As his body swung, he pointed his toes, jackknifed his legs upwards toward Bai-Ling’s stomach.
As his wheel threatened to topple, he did not spin it. He pushed, felt his wheel spiral drunkenly across the little platform toward Bai-Ling’s.
He caught Bai-Ling unaware in both fields of battle. The air was forced from Bai-Ling’s lungs as Anok’s feet caught him in the belly, and his wheel of Aten struck Bai-Ling’s just as Anok spun it up to speed.
With a clang, Bai-Ling’s wheel was sent flying off the platform, falling between the bamboo poles to land in the shrubbery below.
Bai-Ling, stunned, fell backward, his staff flying, banged his head against a pole and fell through, barely catching himself with one hand.
Anok fell gracelessly across two poles. It was far from an elegant landing, but a solid one.
A cheer went up.
He could see Kaman Awi pumping his fist into the air in triumph.
He could see the look on Dao-Shuang’s face, of concern for his student.
Anok rolled over, trying to grab Bai-Ling’s wrist, but his fingers slipped before Anok could get to him.
He fell into the stinging plants, flailed about madly, and began to scream.
Anok quickly removed the tie to his robe and formed the end into a noose, which he dangled down, and tried to loop over Bai-Ling’s wrist. Dao-Shuang’s student was too maddened by pain to assist in the operation, but Anok managed to catch his arm anyway.
As he tried to pull Bai-Ling free of the thorns, he was aware that the other Jade Spiders were there with him, making similar loops from their own clothing. One carried several of the bamboo rods, which he placed between the poles to provide something of a platform from which to lift Bai-Ling.
Working together, they were able to hook both of Bai-Ling’s wrists and pull him up.
As they got him across the makeshift platform, a laughing Sattar tossed out heavy leather gloves to them. “Do not touch his skin,” he cautioned. “He is covered with poison.”
“We must tend to him,” said Dao-Shuang.
Sattar shrugged. “There is little purpose. He will be dead by nightfall. You could do him a mercy by slitting his throat now.” He grinned. “The blood nourishes the plants.”
Anok glared at him. “You said there was an antidote.”
“I said there was one. I did not say that I would offer it to any unfortunate who fell into the garden of pain.”
Dao-Shuang jumped onto the railing, grabbing the front of Sattar’s coat. “Give him the antidote!”
He was instantly surrounded by Sattar’s men, knives drawn and held to his throat.
“I couldn’t give the antidote to the loser, without offending the winners of my contest.”
Bai-Ling’s scream echoing in his ears, Anok stood defiantly before the Lord Poisoner. “Give him the antidote!” So great was his rage, that even the Mark of Set was wakened
from its slumber. Perhaps there is magic enough in this place to kill just one man!
Something in Anok’s stare caused the brash poisoner’s resolve to falter. He frowned in concern. “It is—very expensive.”
Anok’s gaze did not waver. “We will pay!”
Kaman Awi gasped. “Anok!”
“We will pay any price,” said Dao-Shuang.
Sattar frowned, then made a signal. One of Sattar’s men disappeared and returned quickly with a sealed bottle, which Sattar handed to Anok. “Give half by mouth,” said Sattar, “then pour the rest over him to neutralize the poison.”
Using their makeshift ropes, they dragged Bai-Ling over the railing onto the floor. Anok uncorked the bottle and carefully poured the red liquid into the Jade Spider’s screaming mouth. The foul, stuff sprayed everywhere, but at least a part of it went down his throat, and immediately, he seemed to experience some relief.
Anok poured the rest over his hands, feet, face, and neck, where the exposed skin had been punctured by the terrible spines.
Bai-Ling’s thrashing slowed, his screams became less frequent, and, finally, he dropped into blessed unconsciousness.
Anok stood and threw the empty bottle over the railing into the plants below. He stepped toward Sattar. “The prize,” he said firmly, “belongs to the Cult of Set. And since you and your men have had your entertainment today at our expense, you will take the initial price offered to you by our cult. No higher!”
Sattar stared into his eyes for a moment, started to speak, then faltered. Reluctantly, he nodded. “That is acceptable.” He glanced down at Bai-Ling. “The antidote,” he said, “is a gift. Perhaps we can do other business in the future.”
Anok scowled at him. “I hope not.”
Sattar sighed. “That, too, is a satisfactory outcome.”
Two of the other Jade Spiders formed a stretcher from two coats tied together and carried Bai-Ling down the stairs. The other spectators began to make their way down as well.
As Anok waited his turn, a muscular hand fell on his shoulder. He turned as Dao-Shuang leaned close to his ear. “You have bested us in the name of Set, and that cannot be a good thing. You may yet have cause to regret it.” He paused. “But it will not be I behind it. I am in your debt. If there is honor this day, it is yours, and yours alone.”
THE RIDE BACK to the temple passed in silence, Kaman Awi clutching the bottle they had purchased tightly to his chest.
It was barely noon, and yet Anok felt they had been gone from the temple for a month. He felt weak and shaky. The Mark of Set buzzed and tingled on his wrist, restless from having been tempted with such rage and still having its power denied.
Dao-Shuang had said he might regret his victory, and already he did. He had delivered to the cult some important part in their evil scheme, and he had done it for nothing more than pride.
The one thing he did have now, was more information, for all the good it did him. He had to wonder, what kind of great spell would require an elixir made from water that leeched magic?
As their chariot stopped in the temple’s forecourt, Anok noticed a number of camels tied up near one end of the building but thought little of it. Though most caravans stopped outside the city, private caravans containing heavy goods sometimes continued on into the city, and he had seen camels at the temple before on occasion.
He had barely passed through the front door of the temple when a familiar voice called his name, a voice that made his stomach knot. “Anok! How fare you, brother?”
He turned to see an acolyte walking quickly toward him across the marble floor, an elaborate magical staff in his right hand.
It was Dejal.
The former Raven walked up and embraced Anok, who could only stand stiffly and endure the foul touch.
Dejal released Anok and stepped back, a smile on his face. “Our caravan traveled into the night and arrived here last evening. I was told you were staying away from the temple and received directions to your lodgings. I was about to go there and summon you at Ramsa Aál’s request.”
Kaman Awi stepped up next to him, glancing at Dejal curiously. “The Priest of Acolytes is here?”
Dejal bowed his head. “Yes, master. I just saw him a moment ago.”
Anok tried to act surprised, though Rami had given him notice. Only the speed of their arrival was unexpected.
Dejal held up his chin proudly. “He is Priest of Acolytes no more, master! He is now promoted Priest of Deeds, charged directly with fulfilling the plans of our master, Thoth-Amon.
Anok blinked in surprise. This was more than a minor promotion, even greater than a High Priesthood. There were only a few dozen Priests of Deeds in the cult, and they were attached to no individual temple. The temple High Priests, the temples themselves, and all the resources of the cult were at their disposal, as Thoth-Amon willed it. In truth, they answered only to him, or to the designated High Priest of the cult while he was traveling abroad.
“You said that Ramsa Aál had summoned me? For what purpose?”
“A Priest of Deeds needs no purpose, acolyte,” said another familiar voice behind him, “nor need he explain himself to anyone but Thoth-Amon himself.”
Kaman Awi bowed his head in respect. “Ramsa, congratulations on your ascension. It is well deserved.”
Ramsa Aál suddenly noticed the bottle he carried. “You have the Elixir of Orkideh. Excellent!”
Anok cringed. He wasn’t ready for this, but he would have to make the best of it.
He bowed to Ramsa Aál, who he now noticed wore a golden yoke decorated with jewels, a mark of his new office. “Master, it is an honor to serve you again.”
“Is it really? I am told by the priests here that you have been enjoying your new freedom and spend little time at the temple. Perhaps you do not wish to be an acolyte at all.”
He glanced at Kaman Awi, hoping for some show support after turning the day’s mission into a success. But the High Priest said nothing, apparently hoping to keep all the glory for himself.
Anok tried to look wounded. “Master, I have been hard at work studying the ancient texts of power.”
“Under the tutelage of Sabé, long known as an enemy of our cult.”
“And a keeper of ancient knowledge, denied to the cult, master. I have won his trust, and I will bring this knowledge to those who can rightfully use it.”
Ramsa Aál looked at him skeptically. “Yet Kaman Awi reports that you have brought him little but crumbs from those ancient tablets of Sabé’s. Where are these spells of power of which you claim to know?”
“The old texts are arcane, complex, and difficult to translate, even for Sabé. He writes nothing down, and so the texts must be translated anew each time. It will take time for me to learn the great spells, but learn them I shall.”
The priest considered this for a moment, then nodded. “Very well. I am satisfied, if not well satisfied. Long have we coveted Sabé’s secrets, though it suited us well enough merely that others did not learn them to use against us.”
Others like me.
He continued. “But perhaps you will wish this day that you had studied harder and learned quicker. For today, as I promised you sometime back, is that day of your audience with Thoth-Amon!”
20
ANOK’S MIND RACED. Things were happening far faster than he had ever imagined, and he was ill prepared. His greatest concern was his father’s medallion, which he wore under his robes, and the Scale of Set hidden within. He wished now that he had, as in Khemi, found a secure hiding place for it, or at least entrusted it to Teferi.
But, in his heart of hearts, he knew the real reason he hadn’t done these things was that some part of him wanted the Scale of Set close to him.
The part that covets its power.
But it was too late now, unless he could slip away.
“Master, I did not come today expecting to see you, much less our master Thoth-Amon. My clothing is dirty and rumpled. Let me return to my dwelling for fresh
robes.”
Ramsa Aál smiled slightly. “Thoth-Amon does not care about your clothing, acolyte. Your value to him is in your knowledge and power, and on those you will be judged.” He gestured Anok to follow him. “Come, his personal chariots should already be awaiting us by the side entrance.”
Dejal looked at him and nodded, and as he did, casually tilted his staff in such as way that the top of it tapped Anok’s shoulder. Anok noted the touch, but his concerns were elsewhere and far more pressing.
Dutifully he turned and followed Ramsa Aál. As they walked, Anok mentally reviewed everything he’d ever read or heard about spells of deception and disguise. There had been a great deal of it, as sorcerers were always trying to smuggle some object of power or to hide one from their enemies so it could be used in a surprise attack.
Yet even as he thought his way through those spells, he dismissed them one by one. They would succeed only in attracting the attention of a master sorcerer like Thoth-Amon, and he would immediately know that something was being hidden.
They walked through an arched side door onto a portico, where two chariots and their guardian drivers waited. Anok’s first impression was that each chariot was pulled by a team of two white stallions, much like the ones he’d ridden earlier.
Only when one of the huge steeds turned back and looked at him with flame orange eyes and bared its pointed teeth, did he realize differently. In a flash he reexamined the “horses” and noticed all the details that were wrong: the too-pointed ears, the hairless tails tipped with sharp spines, the cloven hooves.
He looked at Ramsa Aál questioningly. “Demon-horses?”
The priest nodded. “Strong, fast, and tireless, though temperamental. They eat only fresh meat, with a preference, I am told, for human flesh.”
The sight of the frightful creatures filled him with dread. Not fear of the beasts themselves, but rather the casual use of great magic that they represented.
“But master, for such a brief journey, surely regular horses would serve as well. The temples regular chariots are already harnessed in front of the temple. Why use these?”
Heretic of Set Page 20
