The Man of Gold t-2

by M. A. R. Barker

  Although no count was ever made, the diligent scribes of the Palace of the Realm in Bey Sii estimated that, all across the Five Empires, perhaps five or six hundred (a thousand, whispered some) persons-human and nonhuman alike-died during the Night of the New Ailment of Arkhuan Mssa. There was anxiety for a time, but when the plague ceased and did not reappear, the matter was filed away. More important doings were afoot, and only a few of the presumed victims were anybody important anyway.

  Eventually the Omnipotent Azure Legion presented a thick sheaf of reports to Lord Chaimira hiSsanmirin, the High Prefect of the Chancery of Avanthar. In turn, that worthy laid these before the Servitors of Silence, who guarded the Emperor in the Golden Tower. An edict was subsequently issued commanding greater sanitation throughout the cities of Tsolyanu. A council of scholars and priests and physicians was later called into secret session, nevertheless, in the Hall of the Petal Throne itself.

  The results of this conference were not made public.

  A hundred lumbering Chlen — beasts pulled the wagon. The dust of their passing was a dun-coloured cloak spread over the sere wastelands of the western marches of the Desert of Sighs. Upon the cart rode the Baron’s “Weapon Without Answer”: a cube the size of a small house, swathed all in black cloth. Worked upon the fabric in silver and green were the insignia of Yan Kor, of the Gods of the north, and of the promise of death to all the Baron’s foes. Ten pairs of wheels, each two man-heights tall and a quarter of a man-height thick, groaned and screamed and jolted upon the rough stones. The wagon was far too large to travel upon the Sakbe road that ran from the city of Hlikku in Yan Kor southwesterly to Khirgar and thence into the rich Tsolyani heartland. A full thousand masons and carpenters and labourers toiled in advance of the column beside the road to make a way for it.

  Two contingents of green-clad troops flanked the march: the elite First and Second Legions of Mighty Yan Kor. Three more Legions preceded the grumbling wagon; still others followed. An auxiliary Cohort of Hlaka scouts, the little flying nonhumans from beyond Kilalammu in the distant northeast, swooped and soared overhead, their ribald chittering drifting down the wind.

  From a vantage point upon the highest level of the Sakbe road one could see all of the long serpentine columns: the scurrying insects around the ebon block that was the “Weapon”; the dark squares beyond that were phalanxes of marching soldiers, arms and legs flashing in jerky unison; the hordes of camp followers; the Chlen — carts laden with arms and supplies and waterskins; and the smaller bodies of scouts and stragglers and local tribesmen, all the way to the horizon; all rolling inexorably on toward Khirgar as the sea-tide rolls up onto the sand.

  The central column, that containing the “Weapon,” had halted. No one yet knew why. The flanking contingents continued to trudge on by, and clusters of officers and aides and General Ssa Qayel’s elite guardsmen leaned down from the Sakbe road parapets to see.

  The ponderous wagon that bore the “Weapon” now stood immobile in the drifting dust, surrounded by swarms of soldiers, Chlen- handlers, and hangers-on. The subaltern who had clambered up to the third tier of the Sakbe road to fetch Lord Fu Shi’i shouted, mopped the sweat from his brow, and waved his pennoned lance, but the crowd only milled about, muttered, and gawked. Their numbers grew by the moment.

  Lord Fu Shi’i pushed aside the flap of thick cloth that concealed the entrance to the little chamber within the “Weapon” and came out to stand upon the little platform at the rear of the great cart. His expression was bland and pleasant as always, but lines of strain showed around his clean-shaven mouth, and his eyes were cold and furious.

  The officer behind him in the passage held a comer of his mantle over his nose. He said, “Lord, the damage? Shall we summon General Ssa Qayel and Lady Mmir? The army-’ ’

  “Not yet. Go away. Leave me to assess the matter.-Yes, halt the legions, bivouac here for the night, and get rid of these people.”

  “There is no water here, Lord. We had planned to reach the village of Tnektla by sundown.”

  “Sink the village of Tnektla into the sand! Do as I say. And send me the scribe Truvarsh. A report must go this very day to Baron Aid in Ke’er.”

  The man sketched a tired salute and climbed down the ladder into the crowd. His emerald crest renamed visible above the cylindrical helmets of the troopers for a time, like a beetle surrounded by a horde of Drz'-ants. Lord Fu Shi’i stared after him, then went back within.

  The damage was certainly done. It was far more serious than the legion captain could have suspected. Beyond the still-smoky outer corridor, in the control chamber that lay within the heart of the “Weapon,’ were five heaps of grey-white putrescence, puddles of thick mucus, and a smell that made Lord Fu Shi’i gasp. Worse, however, were the silence and the darkness. The soft humming of the “Weapon” had ceased. The banks of little purple lights, so deep in colour that one could hardly say when they were lit, were black and vacant. Some were charred. Sadly, Lord Fu Shi’i touched a slender hand to a lever, as those who had supplied the “Weapon” had instructed. Nothing resulted. “Lord.” It was the scribe, Truvarsh.

  “Come within. We summon a conference.”

  “Others may see.” The man’s eyes glinted ruby-red in the hot light reflected from the vestibule.

  “None dare enter here. And we will not be long.”

  The scribe wavered, flickered, and became a furred, longsnouted creature, a Mihalli. It drew forth a translucent sapphire sphere from within its mantle: a “Ball of Immediate Eventuation,” the special other-planar tool of its race. It concentrated.

  They stood upon a glassy plain.

  The sky was of no colour, the landscape flat and weirdly foreshortened. Myriad pale tendrils, vines of white that bore no fruit and had never known sun or rain, emerged from a single point beyond the horizon to writhe across this plain and disappear here and there into what might have been the ground. Every one of these filaments was withered, shrivelled, curled, and dead.

  “Not here,” said Lord Fu Shi’i, a trifle sadly. “Not where ‘Those Who Are Seen and Yet Remain Unseen’ have perished. The vines that bloom as men on other Planes are gone.”

  The Mihalli nodded and bent over its globe again.

  They stood in the place that was not a place, where little beads of light darted to and fro like fish within a turgid pool. A figure glowed before them, its edges brightening first, then its centre filling in with colour and detail, as dye seeps into a length of fabric. A second appeared.

  “My Lord Prince. Lord Baron.”

  “Four of my personal staff are gone. Others are missing,” Prince Dhich’une said curtly. “This means that the priest-boy has won through.”

  “So it is. Half a dozen of my people are piles of rotting curds too-not even the Dlaqo — beetles will eat the stuff.” Baron Aid sat down upon the dais that the Mihalli produced before him. He wore no armour but a hunting costume of green leather.

  Lord Fu Shi’i shrugged, gracefully. “All of the Goddess’ minions, her He’esa, are severed from our Plane. Without the umbilical cord that sustains them from Her Plane, they perish. The Man of Gold has wrought as its ancient makers intended. We came to the feast tardily and brought too little food.” He carefully forebore from mentioning that this had been the decision of his master.

  “Our agents-my Vridekka?” Prince Dhich’une asked.

  “We have heard nothing,” Lord Fu Shi’i cupped a hand and turned it over, a sign that any player of Den-den would recognise as one of surrender. “Our Mihalli in Purdimal-gone beyond this Plane, out of reach of contact. All of our people there as well. Some must be dead, others taken.”

  The Baron spat a string of crackling oaths in his own fierce northern tongue. “And my ‘Weapon’?”

  “Cut off as the He’esa were, master. All of the Goddess’ entrance points are gone, sheared away as a butcher cleaves the head from a Hmelu with his axe. No force penetrates now from Her Plane into ours.”

  “Cha! What’s t
o do?”

  Prince Dhich’une said, “Continue to advance the ‘Weapon,’ of course. Who is to know that it-temporarily-no longer functions.”

  “All too many know, mighty Prince. Half the army saw the smoke billowing from the door. The officer who entered it to investigate will tell his tale. It will be old gossip by nightfall.

  Spies in the camp-Tsolyani, Milumanayani tribesmen, and others- wi ll carry it to Prince Eselne within the six-day.” “Repair it. Restore the access points.” The Baron clenched brawny fists upon his knees.

  “That can be done, master. But it will take time to find another path through the Planes Beyond, one that the Man of Gold does not block. Then will come the work of building connections, replacing the key people with the Goddess’ He’esa, as was done before.”

  “Do you tell me that it will again take as mamy months- years-as it did to progress this far?” The Baron thundered. He leaped to his feet, and the place that was not a place trembled and quavered. The Mihalli looked over at him in silent reproach.

  “We can still defeat the Tsolyani,” Lord Fu Shi’i murmured silkily. “We have the troops, the military skill-your own great skill, Lord-and your high determination.”

  “Gull me not, man! It was risky enough with the ‘Weapon,’ but well you know that the Tsolyani have thrice the legions we can muster-older, better trained, more cleverly generalled! Serve me no Ahoggya piss in place of wine!”

  Fu Shi’i bowed his sleek head before his master’s wrath. This, too, would pass.

  “And what of me?” Dhich’une broke into the brittle silence. “What of our plans-your promise to relieve certain of my siblings of life? Who now will smooth away my opposition in the Kolumejalim? Well you know that I cannot face my half-brothers in all of the tests that comprise the ‘Choosing of Emperors!’ The He'esa were to-”

  “The Gods know that you cannot surpass even your silly half-sister, Ma’in Kriithai! Not even if the sole contest were to get yourself successfully sodomised by a Shen!” The Baron paced to and fro. He threw off the fingers Fu Shi’i laid upon his arm. “Go! Resign the ‘Gold!’ Hide in your worm-riddled City of Sarku! Forget the Petal Throne or else learn swordsmanship and agility and those other arts that will be tested! Hire champions-!” He snorted. “Cheat!”

  The skull-painted face was unreadable. “I will hear no more, barbarian. Now will I let Eselne and Mirusiya crush you, defeat your puny armies, and skewer you upon a pole, just as General Kettukal’s man Bazhan did to your foolish fish-wife Yilrana! My half-brothers will slay you, and you will weaken them just enough to allow me to come forth again as the heir to my father’s Empire! When you are done chewing upon one another like an arena-pit full of Mnor, I shall be there, Baron, to claim my patrimony.”

  Baron Aid would have drawn the steel dagger that hung at his belt, but there was no substance here in this place that was not a place. He turned his back to conceal his rage.

  Prince Dhich’une gestured and was gone.

  “And you!” Baron Aid fixed his baleful gaze upon Fu Shi’i. “You are correct at least in one matter. Turn the ‘Weapon’ around, back to the City of Hlikku! Call up more troops, order the manufacture of weapons, build me more armies. My vengeance will not be gainsaid. Time it may take aplenty, yet indeed we shall defeat the Tsolyani, and it shall be by the victory of our arms alone! No more of these magical meddlings, no more pacts with slimy things from beyond our Plane! A pox upon the Goddess…!”

  “As you decree, my master.” Lord Fu Shi’i sighed. Halting the army and trudging back along the dreary road through the barrens to Hlikku would be a thorny conundrum in logistics and supply. There would be problems of politics and diplomacy as well. But there was no help for it.

  More, both he and Baron Aid knew that Yan Kor had little chance of defeating the ponderous might of the Seal Emperor. Armies? Weapons? A Tsolyani torrent against the petty rivulet of Yan Kor!

  No, now he must hone another sword, work another plan, set a different snare. His own masters, those of whom he did not like to think even in his sleep, would not be pleased, but they were more patient than this thick-brained Zrne of a man.

  They would wait.

  He signed to the Mihalli, and once again the place that was not a place was empty of all life-or at least of that which men might recognise as such.

  Chapter Forty-One

  “And still you are unhappy?” Tlayesha chided.

  She leaned upon the sculpted marble balustrade, thoroughly aware of her newfound elegance, like Lady Avanthe herself, Harsan thought, in the simple tunic of sapphire Gudru- cloth she had chosen, her new veil of creamy Thesurt-gmze draped most gracefully over one shoulder to be tucked into her girdle of embossed silver plaques. Even now, even here, she must hide her blue eyes; people were superstitious, after all. The spray of Kheshchal-plumes in her hair set off her oval face and the dark waves of her tresses. It was as though Tlayesha had always belonged here, a princess herself, in mighty Avanthar.

  Harsan hesitated. To be honest, he could find no reply to her question, not one that really satisfied him.

  “ ‘A hungry man eats whatever the tree bears,’ ” he quoted, a little wistfully. “I am not sure-I shali never be sure-whether I have given my discoveries over to the best-the noblest-of the players of this game. At least Prince Eselne will use the cache for the good of Tsolyanu-as he sees it.”

  “And the Man of Gold?”

  That, alone of all, was the bitter rind to the fruit. He could not answer her.

  The damned thing had not worked! Oh, Lord Taluvaz had suggested that it might somehow be bound up with the New Ailment of Arkhuan Mssa that had so recently and mysteriously ravaged the land. But was that not most likely a sop for Harsan’s feelings? Who had ever heard of a device of the ancients that slew a victim in such a way, like a ghastly disease: randomly, with no purpose, one here, another there, as far away as Jakalla, Tsamra, Ke’er, or Tsatsayagga in Salarvya?

  Alas, so much for visions of glory…

  He pulled at his chin. “Why, let it stand there and blink its pretty lights for another aeon or two. High Prince Eselne may peddle it to Prince Dhich’une-or to the Yan Koryani-for a basket of rotten Die I- fruit for all I care! Old Vridekka is worth more in trade than any Man of Gold! To the Unending Grey with it!”

  Tlayesha gave him a sidewise smile. “It got you here, to Avanthar.”

  “Not really. The cache of relics did that. They are more useful.”

  They turned to look down the stair. Below the landing upon which they stood, arches set at angles to one another bore the staircase on down until it was lost to view in the amber twilight of the lamps and the coiling smoke of Wes-wood incense. Above, from whence they had come, were the aureate Gates of Sublime Visitation, the antechamber of the Hall of the Petal Throne itself. The warm, honeyed air pulsed with the cadenced chanting of praises to the God-Emperor, sung day and night throughout the centuries without end. When one venerable singer in the Gallery of Adorations tired, another was there to take up that self-same note. Thus, men said, not one syllable of the Paean of Exalted Glory had been missed for over a thousand years, not even when the armies of Mu’ugalavya had besieged Avanthar some three hundred years past. Continuity, custom, and tradition: these were the bonds of the Tsolyani Imperium. They were more lasting than any mortar or cement.

  The blue-veined marble balustrade was cold and slick under his hand, polished by reverent fingers for over two thousand years. Each ample step was adorned with golden bosses and mosaic petals of chalcedony and malachite, like flowers strewn upon the threshold of a bridal chamber. At each end of every step stood pairs of guardsmen resplendent in the blue and gold livery of the highest sanctuary of the Imperium. Wealth, opulence beyond any dream of avarice, lay everywhere: camelian, porphyry, other semi-precious stones, and the omnipresent gleam of gold. Gold, gold, like honey upon a cake!

  Tlayesha was looking at him, but Harsan had lost himself in some revery of his own.

  The
y awaited Prince Eselne. He and his priests and officers had not yet come forth from their audience before the oblong, lacy screen of translucent green-white jade high up in the far wall of the throneroom. This screen hid the Petal Throne from view-or, as some said, it was a part of the Petal Throne itself. A single lamp was lit behind that screen to signal the presence of the Emperor, Hirkane hiTlakotani, styled “The Stone Upon Which the Universe Rests,” the sixty-first Bearer of the Seal of Tsolyanu.

  Harsan had been within, too. The chamberlains had ushered him inside to prostrate himself before the God-King: the goal of every Tsolyani, the fantasy of his lonely childhood, the epitome of all desire. He had heard the Speaker cry his name aloud before the Petal Throne, and his head still reeled from the decree that had come forth from behind the screen: membership in whichever clan of medium rank he chose, promotion to the Fifth Circle of the Temple of Thumis, money-he did not remember how much-and mention with honour in the Sacred Book of the Leaves of Azure…!

  It was all at Prince Eselne’s behest, ostensibly for discovering the cache of artifacts below Purdimal. There had been no mention of the Man of Gold.

  The Gates of Sublime Visitation were opening. Prince Eselne himself appeared, followed by Lord Taluvaz Arrio and the senior members of their retinues. In the rear, a head taller than the rest, came Mirure. Her broad, sharp-boned face was nearly invisible beneath the headdress of saffron-dyed Chlen — hide scales that marked her as the personal bodyguard of a Livyani Legate. Only Harsan and Tlayesha had seen the red and black glyph the tattooers had already placed between her high breasts: the Aomuz of the proud Arrio lineage of Tsamra.

  Prince Eselne wore the glittering court-armour of a High General of the Empire, appropriate to his role on the western frontier. The plumes of his flanged, gamet-inlaid helmet trailed behind him, almost to his feet, and these he thrust back with a brave gesture. His broad, bluff, heroic features were flushed; he was in high good humour.