by Chris Bunch
Peirol tried to keep from making a face. “That seems fairly thorough,” he said mildly. “I suppose you don’t have many blasphemers in these parts. I assume this death means that he’s being sacrificed to your gods.”
“Of course,” the old woman said indignantly. “Do you think we’re barbarians?”
“Certainly not,” Peirol said. “And I assume the sacrifice has consented to what you are going to do?”
There was confusion.
“Consent?” the old woman said. “The man’d be a fool to agree to a death like that.”
“Not where I come from,” Peirol said. “Our priests inflict deaths worse than that, but because of the great glory, we never lack for volunteers.”
The villagers looked at each other in amazement.
“You must come from a very holy place, dwarf.”
“So it is said,” Peirol said, trying to look pious. “But I would not take on such airs of gods-granted holiness, for I know each day must be spent working hard for greater enlightenment, rather than arrogantly wallowing in what one thinks salvation.”
“You yourself are a priest?”
“No,” Peirol said. “A mere merchant. But I’ve always had an interest in religious matters. Tell me this. Might I ask the sacrifice a few questions, to enlighten myself before the ceremony begins?”
“Not really a ceremony,” someone grumbled. “We’re just killing the brown bastard. Giving him to the gods is the salt on the roast.”
“Go ahead,” someone else said. “But make it quick. It’s midday, and we want him dead before midnight.”
“Tell me, Man of Lysyth,” Peirol asked. “What sin, in your eyes, did you commit?”
“None,” the man said, struggling to his feet. “I serve the Invisible Gods, without Shape or Form, who must be worshiped, or the world will be destroyed and all in it cast into eternal fires. That is why I, and men like me, go forth into desolation, to carry the Word, and do what we can to help the benighted.”
“I’ll benighted you,” a heavyset man snarled, about to strike the Brown One. Peirol held up his hand. “Do you have a name?”
“I do,” the man said. “Perhaps, if you go to Restormel, you might go to the Great Temple, and tell them Ossetia, son of the High Priest Warleggen and the Lady Broda, grandson of the Supreme Priest Kaitbai, died in the faith, doing his duty.”
“You sound noble.”
“My family has been exalted in service to the gods, it is true.”
Peirol considered Ossetia thoughtfully. “Forgive me, you people. For my question is in ignorance, not meant to insult nor injure. Would you consider accepting a ransom for this Ossetia, good red gold, perhaps, or something equally valuable, in exchange for his life?”
There were shouts of no, yes, possibly, overridden by Ossetia’s lusty bellow: “No! That would be cowardice, and no Man of Lysyth dies a coward!”
“Ossetia, be silent,” Peirol said. He looked at the old woman. “In the confusion, I couldn’t make out what the answer to my question would be.”
“In the past,” the woman said reluctantly, “we have ransomed those who’ve only slightly offended against our customs, since we’re a truly tolerant people. But I don’t see how we could ransom this one, since all others that we have allowed to live and go their way have repented, and this man is firm in his sin.”
“In my righteousness,” Ossetia shouted.
“Hmm,” Peirol said, stroking his chin, pretending great gravity. “Considering the holiness of you villagers, I should not dissemble further. I am, as are you all, a great enemy of the Men in Brown. They have despoiled all that I’ve come on in my travels, and as a man who studies the gods, I look at their arrogance without affection. When I saw you tormenting this one, my heart leapt within me, although I must say, if he were in my hands, he would think the death you propose to be quite gentle.”
“You can do worse?” someone asked, incredulously.
“I can do worse,” Peirol said firmly. “For as that man there correctly saw, I have some magical talents, although little compared to the wizards in my homeland, which is why I wander as a merchant. I can, for instance, start a fire burning inside a man’s bones, slowly consuming him, day after day, as he writhes in agony. Like your witch, I also know spells forbidding death.
“That is but one death that occurs. Another might be to summon demons, who’ll use him as men use women, save with barbed genitals that rip and tear, instead of giving pleasure. Such a man, given to those demons, will die beyond all gods, so whatever the Men of Lysyth think comes after death will not be allowed. Instead, the demons will have his soul to use, day after day, year after year, until the end of time.”
The peasants were silent, shaken. Ossetia glared defiantly.
“But these ideas,” Peirol said slowly, “pleased me not, for my faith insists on justice. It is you men and women who’ve trapped this creature of the depths, and if you are not given the pleasure of killing him, you still should reap benefits, which is why I asked about ransom. Let me suggest something. I am a merchant, a trader, as I said. I came to buy the stones you bring from the ground. But I could provide you with a greater gift, if you would give me this Ossetia as a slave for a moment of time, then I shall kill him as no man has ever died before.”
“What are you offering?” a young man asked.
“I have learned, when you seek these gemstones, the manner of your search. I could teach you a prayer that would prevent you from wasting time on barren fields that offer only blisters and pain, a prayer that would almost always take you directly to the great underground tubes where diamonds proliferate, if made with sufficient devotion and in the correct place and time.”
“Wouldn’t that offend the gods? Don’t they send the diamonds to us when we’ve shown sufficient sincerity?” someone asked. “What say you, Abdi?”
A woman stepped out, not old, not young, but with the light of authority in her eyes. Peirol supposed her to be the village witch. She held her hands to the north and south, then turned, extended them once more, eyes closed. She opened her eyes, lowered her hands.
“I see no reason,” she said in a calm contralto, “for the gods to object. They have never found it ill that we use shovels to dig, instead of our bare hands, for instance. And who knows at what time the gods choose to seed the fields for us? Certainly not I.”
“Dwarf, would you be willing,” the old woman who’d spoken to him first said cannily, “to linger in our village while we learn this prayer, and make sure it works? For if it does not, we would have to consider you a blasphemer like this wretch, and give you a similar doom.”
“I’ll teach you the prayer,” Peirol said, stomach sinking a little. “And I’ll remain with you, giving you a chance to try it not once, but three times, for the gods don’t always grant success on the first try.”
“If it works, no shoveling our hearts out, starving, while other villages get rich,” a man said softly.
“Our children won’t ever be hungry,” a woman breathed.
The old woman looked around. “For that great boon,” she said, “we’ll grant you the life of this Brown Man. If it works. If not …”
• • •
The witch Abdi was chosen to learn the secret prayer. By the time the choice was made, Peirol had written a page of gibberish to teach her. While she memorized it, Peirol rode around the countryside, making careful notes. He was heavily guarded by spear-carrying men, to make sure he didn’t escape.
Ossetia did not have an easy time of it during those days. He was kept in a bamboo cage, where everyone who passed by was advised to spit on him or pelt him with offal. He was fed garbage and drenched with a bucket of water twice a day, for bathing and drinking both.
When Abdi had the prayer committed, Peirol told her to be ready an hour before dawn. The two walked a league away from the village, flanked by guards, until Peirol reached the area he’d chosen.
“The gods who grant us diamonds in my land lo
ve yellow over all other colors,” he told her. “I should think that would hold true here, as well. You see this rocky waste has yellowish clay? That’s pleasing to them. Now, you’ll take a small trowel, which represents the digging your village will do, and dig a small trough for each foot, ankle-deep. This is to connect you with the great mother of us all, earth, where the diamonds will occur. If you have secured a blessing, you should find some blue or gray rocks in your diggings. If not, find another field of yellow, and try once more.
“Now, these men and I will go out of sight, and you repeat the prayer three times, loudly, to the heavens. Then you may summon diggers and begin work.”
Peirol and his guards moved off. After a time, she came to him. “I achieved no enlightenment.”
“Because you have not yet dug,” he said.
Abdi told a man to call the villagers with their tools, water, and food for a day’s work. “What sort of pit should we dig?” she asked.
“The same sort as you always have.”
The men and women set to work. It wasn’t that warm, but Peirol was sweating gently. But the sun hadn’t climbed more than a finger-width before the first digger shouted in joy, ran to Abdi and Peirol. In her dirty hand she held a few unprepossessing dull, greasy pebbles.
“And there you have it,” Peirol said. “You should never have doubted my prayer.”
The villagers cheered. The old woman came to Peirol. “There is such a thing as luck,” she said. “Would you chance lingering on to see if that prayer works a second time?”
“I promised three trials,” Peirol said, and it was now his turn to pray, although he didn’t know who he was praying to.
• • •
The second attempt yielded only some sorry stones, but diamonds they were. Peirol told them to try again, and this time the field was rich with gems. He said he was now interested in trading for those gems. The ecstatic villagers didn’t bargain, but took whatever he offered in silver and gold. His saddlebags laden with uncut gems, Peirol made ready to leave.
“I thank the gods for your coming,” Abdi said. “And for this secret prayer, and for the conditions for its use.” She eyed him thoughtfully. “I, of course, would be stoned by my own people if I wondered what would happen if I went to a field of yellow clay, dug until I made sure bluish stone was under my feet, and then said ‘habble, habble, habble, habble’ or other nonsense before I dug.”
“A deserving fate for being an unbeliever,” Peirol said, hiding a smile.
“For what you brought us, regardless of what surrounds it, Peirol of the Moorlands, take your slave and go.”
• • •
Peirol had Ossetia bound, seated on his packhorse, and they rode away, the villagers cheering. An hour later the priest spoke.
“Know, demon, you’ll have no joy from the screams of your slave, for I know I can withstand the most terrible torture without giving up my faith or my strength.”
“I’m glad you’re so sure of that,” Peirol said. “And, by the way, you can leave off this slave nonsense. I free you, I free you, I free you, or whatever nonsense it takes in this land to manumit a fool.” Ossetia goggled. “We’ll stop at the next river,” Peirol continued, “and you can wash your filth off and clean your robes. I prefer not to travel to Restormel with someone as smelly as you.
“And by the way, the next city we come to, I’ll loan you the money for new robes, or whatever you want to wear, which you’ll repay me for when we reach Restormel, just as you’ll give me gold for what I spend on your meals and lodgings. Perhaps magicians can provide such for free. But we poor traders have to keep our books balanced.”
• • •
As they rode north, then turned east, Peirol welcomed Ossetia’s questions, at least those that encouraged him to think a certain way about Peirol: Of course he wasn’t a magician, nor even a man particularly gifted by the gods. He felt that was a matter for those properly called, and it was but his lot to serve. Well, he was a bit of a nobleman, actually the second son, which was why he was traveling, rather than tending to the family estates. No, being a merchant, at least a merchant dealing with certain items, such as gold or gems, wasn’t regarded as disgraceful in his land.
Why was he journeying to Restormel? First, of course, to see its marvels, marvels long fabled in Peirol’s homeland. He hoped while he was there to show the nobility of the city some of the interesting things he’d constructed with gems and precious metals.
How long did he plan to stay? Who could tell? If he was welcome, if the city fathers felt he was adding to the greatness of the city, who knew? A year, forever. Certainly no longer than Restormel wanted him around.
In turn, he found out much about Restormel and the Order of Lysyth. Lysyth was the name of a great battle, fought centuries ago, but Ossetia knew, or admitted knowing, little about it. Once Peirol asked, as casually as he could, about something he’d heard called the Emperor Stone, or something like that.
Ossetia’s lips went thin. “Talk of something such as that is forbidden, for the Men of Lysyth have no time to truck in childish legends.”
Peirol wanted to caper wildly. He was getting very close.
• • •
They reached the straits, and took passage on a plush ferry to the great island across. There were two galleys escorting it. Ossetia said the Sarissans had not only raided this far east but, rumor had it, attacked and conquered lands beyond Restormel. Peirol noted the galleys and their sweating slaves, shuddered, and suggested they find something to eat. Two days later, the ferry sailed into Restormel.
17
OF RELIGIOUS CATERPILLARS AND POOR RICH
Restormel sat a league upriver from the wide mouth of the Sugat River, on the north bank’s steep and easily defended hills. Here the river widened into a tidal pool, which over the centuries, as Restormel grew, had been dredged into an admirable harbor, nestled away from pirates and winter storms. As time passed, wizardry had compacted and solidified the marshy southern shores, and skyscraping tenements, some as high as eight stories, were built. Most of Restormel’s poor lived there.
Restormel ruled the huge island it sat on, and was huge, more than twice as big as Sennen, its population estimated at two, three, no, four million. Peirol doubted if even the Sarissans, with all their strength, could invade the city. The mostly wooden houses, three or more stories, leaned together for support. The streets below, some narrow enough for a man to touch either side with his outstretched hands, twisted like writhing snakes. This was deliberate, Ossetia told Peirol: “Back when men were superstitious, they built like this to keep demons from being able to run amok through the streets, for all know that demons cannot easily turn.”
“I wonder how that was determined,” Peirol said. “Did a succession of wizards evoke evil spirits and test them until one magician escaped by dashing into a maze?”
Ossetia, who Peirol had already decided had little humor, looked at him strangely.
There was only a scattering of open squares in Restormel, since land was at a premium, but the waterfront was open, paved, and had bandstands, speakers’ podiums, stone planters, and statues of fabulous beings and heroes for the citizens to stroll past.
The first thing to strike Peirol as the ferry closed on Restormel were the number of spires: each a temple, Ossetia told him. The gods of Restormel may have been invisible, but that didn’t mean they were in short supply. Ossetia said there was no greater reward for a citizen than to build a temple or to donate a house, the larger the better, to the gods.
“And there,” Ossetia said proudly, “is the very heart of my order.”
He pointed to a large, light brown octagonal tower high above the other pinnacles of Restormel.
“Does it commemorate anything special?” Peirol asked politely.
“Our great victory at Lysyth, where we earned our name,” Ossetia said.
“Doesn’t appear to be very big,” Peirol said. “Do you meet there in rotation, or are there great ca
tacombs underground, where you go to work your magic?”
“I assume you jest,” Ossetia said without a smile. “The tower is just a … a symbol, no more. We have palaces, retreats scattered throughout Restormel.”
Peirol wondered why the momentary hesitation before Ossetia chose the word “symbol,” but shrugged it away, looking to the other side of the hillcrest, at the royal palace, its huge stone walls looming over the city. Here, Ossetia told Peirol, was the home of the Dowager Custodian and her royal charge.
The ferry tied up, and its gangplanks dropped. Traders hurried off, travelers looked for kin or friends, stevedores began unloading cargo. One of the escort galleys had sped to Restormel during the last night, carrying messages of arrival, and so Ossetia was looking for someone. An old, bearded man beside a small, somewhat battered carriage waved frantically. The monk burst into tears and fell into the man’s arms, recovering enough to introduce him as Turmaf, his family’s head servant and oldest-serving retainer. Ossetia’s family was waiting impatiently, Turmaf said, and there was a great feast laid, so they must come at once.
Their baggage was loaded into the carriage, horses tied behind, and they made their way up steep cobbled streets through the city. The second thing to strike Peirol about Restormel was the number of religious sorts. He saw robes of white, red, green, black, the more familiar brown of the Men of Lysyth, others. Some were parading, some chanting, some praying, others singing.
“We’re proud,” Ossetia said, “to serve all of the Invisible Ones who choose to reveal themselves, with new ones appearing regularly to lucky prophets. There’s an example,” and he pointed to a dozen men wearing red-striped robes, swinging incense burners and singing a rather pleasant song. “I know not who they serve, for instance, since I didn’t see any robes like theirs when I set forth on my mission half a year ago.”
“What prevents,” Peirol said, thinking of Makonnen, “a false prophet, seeking only personal gain, from claiming he’s been enlightened by the great god Hoola-Hoola who wants all to serve him?”
