The Gilded Chain

by Dave Duncan

  Nothing very much seemed to be happening. Gartok, the senior contestant, was holding forth to a dozen or so intent disciples, passing on his own observations of the monks’ personal styles, plus wisdom collected by others—the group folklore of a unique, ever-changing gladiator society.

  “Yarkan I have not seen. He is of great stature, like Sahrif, but may be known by his chest hair, which is black and in a cruciform pattern. He has been wounded either twice or three times in living memory, always on the left leg and always with a rapier. He is left-handed and often uses a broadsword. That is a very tricky combination, my friends, a broadsword coming from your right! They may well send him out against Khiva son of Zambul.”

  One of the listeners made a remark about Khiva son of Zambul that sent the others off into nervy laughter. Fortunately the giant was not within earshot, or else the joke had not been phrased in Puliarsh.

  A newcomer went by and started down the stairs. At once everyone fell silent and crowded around the railing to listen. He was older than most, with silver in his beard, but he moved well and bore a very long single-edged sword on his back. He peered through the bars at the two waiting monkeys.

  One said, “Give me your name and you will be called in turn.” Her voice was deep and throaty but perfectly intelligible. Her lips and tongue were black. She had dangling breasts, although not as prominent as a woman’s, and the nipples were black also.

  “Ardebil son of Kepri.”

  “You will be called, Ardebil son of Kepri.”

  “May I use this sword?”

  “It will be permitted.”

  Ardebil climbed back up the steps and was at once hailed as a welcome addition to the group. Had that been a person of grotesque appearance he had spoken with or an intelligent animal? Suppose Durendal went down and asked the monkey to deliver a message to Brother Everman—what then?

  The terrace was filling up as the hour of challenge approached, so he strolled off in search of a clear space of wall to lean on. Wolfbiter joined him on one side, Kromman on the other.

  “There must be forty contestants here.”

  “Forty-two,” said Kromman. “A good agent collects exact information. And here come another three. Those six over there with the women are unarmed, probably just spectators. So is the man with the boy.”

  “Would it be easier to enchant a monkey into a thing that size and make it talk or to enchant a woman into looking like a monkey?”

  The inquisitor sneered. “I am not a conjurer, Sir Durendal. My guess would be the latter, but conjuration is not always logical. Do you agree?”

  “Yes. They seem to be intelligent, not just trained animals, although I can’t be certain. The feat of memory still troubles me. Is there such a thing as a memory-enhancing conjuration?”

  “Possibly. We must find out what else the brutes do.”

  “I think they prevent anyone else interfering in the duel.” Wolfbiter was clearly having nightmares of his ward down there fighting for his life.

  One of the monkeys by the gate shambled over to the gong and reached up a very long arm to rap on it with her knuckles. A metallic note reverberated through the court. She went back to the gate as her companion there bellowed out a summons.

  “Jubba Ahlat!”

  Heads turned this way and that along the long line of spectators.

  “Jubba Ahlat!”

  “Master Ahlat has apparently thought better of his rashness,” Kromman said. “Prudent young fellow.”

  “I have never heard you speak sense before, Inquisitor,” Wolfbiter retorted.

  “You do not listen. One of the camel drivers told me that if a man comes back years later to try again, the monkeys will always remember him and refuse him a second chance, no matter what name he gives.”

  A third time Ahlat’s name was called, and still there was no response. More spectators were drifting into the square. Faces had appeared at the windows of the surrounding houses.

  “Gartok son of Gilgit!”

  “Here!”

  The Thyrdonian hauled off his tunic and then his shirt. Each was snatched from his fingers by a group of small boys who had gathered near the steps and promptly began fighting over the loot with many shrill curses. When he contributed his dagger, one of them grabbed it and ran; others pursued. Finally Gartok emptied his pockets, showering coins over the remaining scavengers, and hurried down the steps to the gate that now stood open for him.

  “This is barbaric!” Kromman growled.

  “My Blade and I do not disagree.”

  One of the monkeys clanged the gate shut and locked it. The other intercepted Gartok, pawing at him to make sure he had brought no concealed weapons. Then she stood aside and let him stride out into the sunshine, naked to the waist, flashing his scimitar as he flexed his arms for battle.

  He went to the gong and struck it with the flat of his blade, crashing out an earsplitting boom that echoed back and forth.

  Barbaric, yes, but there was some horribly primitive attraction in a contest to the death. Durendal could not have torn himself away for anything except immediate danger to his ward, the King.

  A second boom on the gong, then a third—the challenge delivered.

  The great iron-bound door of the monastery began to open, swinging slowly inward to reveal a blank wall of sunlit stone, which was to be expected in a castle, where an invader breaking down the front door would find himself confined to a passage and defenders dropping missiles on his head.

  A man strode in from one side and advanced until he was in the center of the arch, then turned to face his opponent across the width of the court. Experienced spectators began whispering a name, which in a moment worked its way along to the Chivians: Herat!

  Gartok had named three who could certainly kill him and two who toyed with their victims. Herat had belonged to both groups.

  The monk was clean-shaven and wore his black hair cropped short. He had the hollow belly and hairless chest of a youth barely into manhood, but appearances were reputed to be deceptive in Samarinda. He emerged from the archway and paused to raise his sword in a duelist’s salute while the great door silently closed behind him. His blade shone gold.

  Gartok returned the salute. The two men marched toward each other. They looked more like man and boy, though.

  They met in the center, Herat stopping first and raising his blade at guard to let the challenger strike first. He turned his right shoulder toward his opponent and placed his left hand on his hip, fencer style. Gartok leaped in at once with a dazzlingly fast two-handed slash. The youngster parried it easily, and the challenger jumped back. He began to circle, making feinting movements, now using a matching one-handed grip. The monk turned slowly to keep facing him.

  Kromman said, “An expert commentary, if you please, Sir Durendal.”

  “That was a very wild stroke. Gartok told me that Herat likes to play cat and mouse. He was gambling on surprise and assuming Herat would not strike him dead if it failed.”

  “Could he have done?”

  “I think so. Too early to be sure.”

  Gartok closed again, but Herat leaped back, barely parrying. And again. The fight moved swiftly across the court.

  “Now who’s winning?” asked the inquisitor.

  “Why play ignorant?” Wolfbiter snarled. “We know how good you are with a sword.”

  “Herat is,” Durendal said. “Did you see how neatly he avoided being pinned against the wall? Gartok’s good. Nothing fancy, but fast and accurate. Herat’s going to wear him out, though.”

  True enough. Herat let his opponent drive him three times across the full width of the court, until the older man began to tire. The third time the monk was almost backed into a wall, he changed tactics without warning and went on the offensive in a flurry of clangorous parries and ripostes. Round two had begun. Now the pace was even faster, and it was Gartok who was in full retreat. Monkeys shambled out of the way whenever the battle came near.

  “Do we hav
e to watch this?” Wolfbiter asked bitterly.

  “That bad?” said the inquisitor.

  “The only thing left to bet on is how long he’ll be made to suffer.”

  Or how long flesh and blood could stand that pace, Durendal thought. He had never seen a bout continue so long without a touch, and those were real swords, not lightweight foils. “The kid is superb. I wouldn’t last a minute against him. Well, maybe two. But he’d always beat me. You agree, Wolf?”

  “Loyalty forbids me to answer, sir. Look at that! Point, edge, point again. He hasn’t repeated a move. He’s just playing!”

  The crowd was becoming noisy. Even Kromman was showing signs of excitement, drumming his fists on the wall. “This is it!” he rasped as Gartok was expertly herded into a corner.

  But no. With a wild slash at the monk’s head he broke out of the trap—was allowed to break out. And round three began, for now Herat switched to a very dirty game, pricking his opponent here and there as the fancy took him: chest, arms, face, even legs. None of the wounds seemed serious, but soon the older man was streaming blood, while still fighting desperately. He was driven methodically backward around the courtyard, as if to allow all the spectators a clear view of his humiliation. In a moment they passed below the Chivians, both fighters gasping for breath.

  They did not progress much farther before pain and despair and sheer exhaustion triumphed. The challenger conceded. With a howl, he dropped his sword and spread out his arms, waiting for the coup de grâce. The two men stood in tableau for a moment, chests moving like bellows. Durendal was fairly sure that Herat had been slowing down near the end, so he was not without human limitations, even if he was immortal.

  The boy spoke and gestured, pointing at the ground.

  Gartok shook his head, and spoke a word that was audible over the whole silent square: “Never!”

  Herat laughed and flicked his golden sword in the older man’s face. Gartok screamed once and doubled over, but then he straightened up again, clasping his hands to his eyes, bleeding and blinded, still too proud to kneel. That was a game he could never win. Herat paced around him like a giant cat circling its prey, making random cuts, but seemingly just amusing himself, not playing to the gallery, for he never once looked at the spectators. Gartok was being flayed alive and could not see the strokes coming. He screamed and staggered; it sounded as if he was begging, but again he refused a command to kneel. Eventually Herat cut his throat and walked away, leaving him to bleed to death.

  The great door swung open to receive him. Something about the way he wiped sweat from his forehead and the relaxed way he walked suggested a young athlete returning from a strenuous but enjoyable workout.

  “I think we have seen all we need,” Durendal said thickly. His gut was heaving.

  “Why?” Wolfbiter asked. His face was pale under his deep tan.

  “What?”

  “Why, sir? What is the purpose of all this?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  It was a curious question. Did barbarity need a purpose?

  4

  They walked in silence through alleyways already stiflingly hot under the midsummer sun, bustling with people and carts and pack animals. Durendal chose to leave the square by the far side and continued to bear left, staying as close to the monastery as he could. A couple of times he had to retrace his steps at dead ends, but he had no serious trouble in circling all the way around. He found only two places where he could stand in the street and touch the fortress. Everywhere else it was behind houses. There was no other door.

  Having now given himself time to think, he led the way back to their room at the top of the precarious stairway of slabs. He saw at a glance that the packs had been emptied and carelessly stuffed back together. Cabuk had not been subtle. Knowing his guests expected him to snoop and steal, he would see no need to be devious about it.

  Durendal scrambled up the ladder to the roof, which was admittedly a superior feature of Hotel Cabuk. At one time the house had possessed another story, and most of the walls were still there, even to windows blocked by the stonework of adjoining buildings. When the original roof had burned away to a few charred beams, the owners had spread clay over the floor. The result seemed likely to collapse at any moment, but the resulting patio was private and as cool as anywhere in Samarinda could be.

  He kicked away enough litter to make a clearing on the shady side and sat down. The other two did the same. Finding he had a view of the monastery towers, he glared at them with sudden hatred. Why? Why murder a man every day? According to the legends, this had been going on for thousands of years. The Monastery of the Golden Sword had always been there. There was no record of its founding. Two years he had spent coming here, two years he would need to return, and it seemed as if it would all be wasted. He would go home with only failure to report.

  “Anyone want to eat?” he asked eventually, and his companions shook their heads.

  “Ideas, then. His Majesty told me to rescue Everman or at least find out what happened to him. We have—did have—an eyewitness who saw him fight, so he’s almost certainly still alive.” Was that progress? Yesterday at this time, he had not expected as much. “At worst we must linger here until he fights again and Wolf and I can identify him. But how we go about getting a message to him, I can’t for the life of me…The castle—or monastery, whichever you want to call it—seems to have no other door. Even if it has own well for water, they still have to get food in and night soil out. Cabuk didn’t know, but he wouldn’t care.”

  Wolfbiter was wearing his steady, calculating stare. “And women. Monks may abstain, but knights rarely do, even in theory. Those houses crammed against the walls, they bother me, they really do.”

  “You noticed the monkeys are all female? Perhaps they don’t always look like monkeys.” The alternative did not bear thinking about. “You think there’s a secret way in?”

  “Must be. Several, through the houses. One of the merchants told me that Samarinda is a good place to buy swords. We can try to find out who sells them and where he gets them.”

  “They may just leave them on the flagstones for the scavengers.”

  “Yes, sir. But why not put Inquisitor Kromman to work interviewing harlots and see if any of them ever get called in by the brethren? He’s good at that sort—”

  “Don’t you start being childish. He’s bad enough. Today we explore the town and ask some guarded questions. And we ought to find that merchant who sent the letter. What was his name—Quchan?”

  “Why?” Kromman asked with a disagreeable pout.

  “I’ll write one and give it to him to send on the next eastbound caravan. Then at least the King may learn that we arrived.” Assuming it ever arrived, which was probably not probable. “If we fail to return, he’ll be less tempted to send anyone else.”

  “But Quchan may very well be in league with the brethren. I suggest you wait a few days first.”

  Durendal conceded the point with a nod, knowing that the inquisitor was much better at intrigue than he would ever be.

  For a moment Kromman sat with a sour expression on his face. Then he sighed. “I wish I could show you both up as stupid musclebound louts for missing something obvious. I do think that’s what you are, but I can’t expose you at the moment. We must prepare an escape route in case we need to leave in a hurry. I suggest we buy five horses and saddles and stable them at one of those establishments outside the gates. If we pay a high enough daily rate, they should remain available.”

  “Five?” Wolfbiter said. “You think Polydin’s still alive too?”

  “Everman was only twenty-two when he came here. Few musclebound louts could be bribed with a promise of immortality at that age.” The inquisitor sneered. “The brethren found a Blade’s weak spot, that’s obvious.”

  He meant Everman’s ward, because if they held Jaque Polydin hostage, they could force Everman to do anything. It was a horribly logical way to explain how an honorable swordsman had been tur
ned into a cold-blooded killer.

  “Well, there’s our first day,” Durendal said. “We’ll see about horses, and explore the city and make inquiries. I suppose we had better eat something now before it gets any hotter. Tomorrow we’ll watch another man die.”

  It was small consolation that Kromman seemed to be as baffled as he and Wolfbiter were.

  5

  The next day began very much like the first, with the Chivians arriving at the courtyard as the sun was rising. Durendal walked only a few yards along the wall and stopped before he reached the house from which Khiva son of Zambul had emerged the previous morning.

  “I want to watch from here today.”

  “Why?” demanded the inquisitor.

  “Just a whim. You go ’round and talk to the human sacrifices if you want.”

  Glowering suspiciously, Kromman remained. So, of course, did Wolfbiter.

  The challengers were gathering by the gate, conspicuously including Khiva son of Zambul, that hairy giant standing head and shoulders above even the tallest. The sun crawled up over the buildings, spreading brightness across the flagstones. Yesterday’s bloodstains were a darker black, but the whole of the courtyard was a dark color, dyed by the dried blood of centuries.

  The previous day’s inquiries had done nothing to solve the mystery. Neither the inquisitor nor the two Blades had managed to learn anything about the monastery’s domestic arrangements. No stall keeper had admitted to delivering food or knowing who did, and the men who gathered the night soil claimed they did not collect any from the brethren. None of which meant anything if Wolfbiter’s guess about concealed entrances was correct.

  The expedition had purchased horses in case it must make a quick getaway. Whether a small party could travel across Altain unmolested was another problem, but if they could just reach Koburtin, they could wait there for a caravan.

  The trapdoor rose, and the first monkey clambered out.

  Durendal began to walk then, and his companions followed in puzzled silence. They joined the contestants, who greeted them cheerfully and asked if they were now ready to submit their names.