Harsan also requested and got permission to move from the noisome dormitory cell to the upper chamber within the pyramid. He was thus both closer to his work and also cooler. It was the middle of Drenggar, and the heat of the plains swathed the city in a blazing, suffocating blanket of misery.
He soon regretted this move, however, for the off-duty troopers who slept in this room were not slow to perceive the virtues of cool underground quarters. First they took to bringing in jugs of heady Ngalu-wine, then their comrades from the sweltering barracks, and finally their mistresses and courtesans to go with it all.
They were joined by not a few of the temple’s female acolytes, for who might not appreciate the cool relief, liquid refreshment, and ever-festive company? The attractions of a brawny soldier’s embrace, instead of those of the scholars of the Lord of Wisdom, also probably had something to do with it. The noise and ribaldry rapidly grew insupportable. Had the temple maidens been caught, they would have paid for their pleasures with the coin of some considerable physical discomfort, but dagger-tongued Znaqulu hiGurika rarely frequented the nether regions, and others of the temple personnel either joined in or winked at the matter. As long as the girls chewed Lisutl-mot and produced no unwanted priestlets, complaints would not be made. Are not soldiers to be soldiers, after all, and girls to be girls?
Harsan took little part in these diversions. Some of the priestesses were lissome enough, and two or three there were who cast sidelong glances at his not unhandsome figure. But the barracksroom atmosphere was not to his taste. He requested further permission to move his sleeping mat to the antechamber below, where the night guards stood watch. Thereafter at the end of the day’s labours, he had only to wait for the laconic trooper Reshmu to seal the Llyani relics into their stone and metal cabinet and lock up the papers and notes in the chest at the back of the inner room. Then Reshmu and his companion, Gutenu, took up their posts in the corridor outside the antechamber (this being the two guards’ concession to Harsan’s desire to sleep rather than to talk or play at Den-den), and Harsan was left alone in the outer chamber. It was both lonely and oppressive, with the silent weight of the great temple pressing down upon him as Sru’um Peak had tried to crush Subadim the Sorcerer in the legend. Nevertheless it was peaceful.
In due course the two priests of the Lords of Change put in an appearance. One wore the particoloured purple and mauve vestments and the black velvet hood of the sect of Wuru, the Cohort of Lord Hru’u. He introduced himself as Heshelu hiDaishuna and said little thereafter, going about his examinations of the golden hand and the map symbol with secretive care. The second was attired in the black robes, flattish square headgear, and ever-smiling silvery mask of the priesthood of Lord Ksarul, called the Doomed Prince of the Blue Room, Thumis’ counterpart amongst the servitors of Change and just as interested in the acquisition of knowledge—though for the glory of his minions alone. Lord Ksarul’s interests were purely selfish: power and authority for Him amongst the Gods, and naught but the dregs for humanity as a whole.
This latter individual, Kerektu hiKhanmu, was more talkative, and the silver mask was soon laid aside to reveal ivory features of an almost inhuman beauty, pale and still as the deathmask of a god. Harsan knew he was male only because of his name, Kerektu, which could not belong to a woman.
The priest of Ksarul lost no time in approaching Harsan. “Scholar of Thumis,” he said, “we are all boxed up here like Etla-crabs in a fishmonger’s basket. Let us at least agree to be civil, though we may disagree upon the proper way for the gods to rule the universe. You would have the cosmos a stagnant pool of changelessness, while we would make it a rippling stream. Yet for us to be hostile in this dungeon profits neither of us, nor our faiths.”
“ ‘Civility is the livery of the man of noble honour,’ ” Harsan quoted from his childhood lessons. He cast a sidelong glance at Chtik p’Qwe to see what the Pe Choi’s reaction might be. He seemed to be totally engrossed in scraping verdigris from around a tantalising glint of coppery metal in his blob of rust.
“ ‘And noble action is the first step on the stairway to godhood,’ ” Kerektu finished the quotation. “If you would listen, I might propose that we climb even farther than the first step.” The delicate, over-full lips curved up in a smile like that of his mask. “Perhaps we could even agree to a modicum of cooperation. Nothing, naturally, that would compromise anyone. But why should we each do the same work as the other? It is a waste of time for each of us to translate that heap of mouldering pages only to come up with a well-nigh identical translation. Of course, we need not—and should not—share our conclusions.” “Your point is well taken. As we say in Do Chaka, ‘One stomach needs but one mouth.’ Yet I doubt that I can add anything worthwhile to your knowledge.”
The priest of Ksarul gave him another smile, radiant, almost loving. “Another perspective, another approach. All is of value. We shall also avoid duplication of effort, finish, and be out of this catacomb all the faster. More, the contents of our temple libraries may well complement one another. What you lack, we may supply—and conversely.”
The offer seemed both attractive and harmless. Yet Harsan temporised, saying, “We shall see. Let me first judge the scope of the work.”
Kerektu hiKhanmu bowed gracefully and said no more. The priest of Wuru turned enigmatic eyes upon them both from behind his black hood. And later when Harsan mentioned the matter to the Pe Choi, the latter only gave him another Do Chakan proverb: “The most appetising prey is the hunter’s best bait.”
Thus the days drifted by, almost unremarked in the lamplit stillness below the temple. Work became routine. Chtik p’Qwe got the first lump of corrosion open, revealing no more than a handful of gleaming gems of no great value, contained in the remnants of a copper casket and a leather pouch. These were examined by all, declared to be of no interest, and were placed in the storage cabinet to be sealed by the guards. Undaunted, the Pe Choi applied his tools to the second chunk of oxidised metal.
Harsan was jolted one day from his humdrum round of manuscript analysis by the arrival of the priest Siyun.
“Priest Harsan, I bear you two gifts! The first comes from our learned savants above.” He tossed a small object toward Harsan, who automatically reached up and caught it. It was Hele’a’s “Eye,” the “Unimpeachable Shield Against Foes.”
“Alas, I am to tell you that your mighty device has all the magical power of a heap of Chnehl droppings!” Siyun laughed. “One can buy better fakes from the wandering peddlars in the marketplace. ’ ’
Harsan could only stare at him in stunned confusion. What had happened? Had Hele’a known the thing was useless? If so, the little Ghatoni would answer several pressing questions if ever he saw him again!
“The second gift is perhaps more to your taste.” Siyun produced a folded scrap of paper with a flourish. “Some swooning admirer, it seems, would speak to you of talents other than Llyani conjugations.”
Harsan glared but opened the note. It contained a crudely sketched clan emblem, that of the People of the High Pillar, a local winemakers’ clan. Below this was the next day’s date and the single word “sunset.” It bore no signature but ended with a crude and girlish drawing of a litter.
He hardly knew whether he was oveijoyed or dismayed. All that night he pondered the matter, his memories of the Lady Eyil pitting themselves like soldiers against his present absorption in his work and the warm cocoon of temple security in which he was so much more at ease. To go to her would be wonderful but might involve him in unforseen entanglements. Not to go... well, not to go would certainly be the wiser, safer course, the way to avoid imbroglios, possibly to make strides in his work, and to achieve rank and prestige in his temple...
Of course he went.
He found the clanhouse of the People of the High Pillar easily.
It was a landmark in the city’s teeming commercial section, a place of tall stone walls, rambling storehouses, many courtyards, and dark cellars from which CWen-c
arts rumbled forth groaning under their cargoes of sweet wine for all comers of the Empire. A rugged giant of a servitor admitted him to the outer portico where the common folk stood to purchase their clay jugs from the rows of perspiring clerks. A busy clan official asked his name, consulted a list, and had him ushered on into the warren of rooms within the building. Here chambers could be rented for short periods by those who preferred to hold their parties at a public—but discreet—place, rather than take their purchases home to drink. A silver Hlash or two bought privacy, and the vintners’ clans had connections with others who would provide food, music and dancing, and various entertainments.
The room he entered was long and pleasant, smelling of sharp wine and wooden casks and new cordage. The nearer end opened onto a verandah hung all about with vines and waxy-orange SaM^MM-flowers. Screens of grass matting were suspended along the farther walls, and these had been splashed with water to provide coolness. A sweep-fan stirred the turgid air overhead. The cords that drew it ran clucking along little pulleys to an aperture high up in the wall, behind which sat the fan-boy, unable to see or interfere with the activities within. Rumour had it that fan-boys had oversize ears, however, and a winemakers’ clanhouse was no place for meetings demanding real secrecy. The best of these establishments provided servitors who were deaf—and sometimes mute as well.
The Lady Eyil sat upon a dais beside the dripping grass mats, a little table before her spread with viands and bronze goblets. Harsan gazed upon her for a long moment, for she was much changed. Her Tumissan costume had been cast aside for the fashions of the capital. She wore a flounced floor-length skirt of gauzy blue Giidru-cloth, sandals of silvered leather with buckles shaped like laughing little Renyu faces, and a wide collar of stiff gold wire all decorated with filigree work and set with tiny stones. Her thick black hair was done in a single heavy tress bound about with ribbons of gold and blue, and this now hung down over one smooth, bare shoulder. Her breasts (not so small that they were not shapely, for all her apprehensions!) were painted with little curlique designs in many colours, and their dark nipples were rouged and touched with glittering mica dust. A street-cape of dark blue lay crumpled at her feet.
“Do I address a certain Harsan, priest of Thumis of the Second Circle?” She laughed, low in her throat, as he well remembered her. “You stare at me as if I’d grown four arms, grey skin, and a sword, like the Enemy of Man, the Ssu!”
“I had thought to meet a noble lady from Tumissa.” It grew easier as he spoke. “But all I see is someone from Bey Sii. The little brown egg has hatched out into a many-hued Kheshchal-bircV."
“Do you like the transformation?” She slipped to her feet and turned before him, displaying a length of graceful calf through the clever slashes of her skirt.
“Indeed.” He let himself admire her openly and was surprised to see that his fingers appeared quite steady as he poured himself a goblet of wine. “I did not hear—I thought of you—”
“La, you thought I would not keep my sworn oath? To break a promise is ignoble, and to deceive a priest is to offend the Gods! Would you have had me anger your mighty Thumis?”
He laughed but made no reply. More important matters came to mind.
“You are married?” he asked.
“Oh, no, not yet... or perhaps I should say that I am as much married now as I shall ever be. Our clan-elders have set our nuptials for the third month hence, Halir, when all the harvests are done. My noble clan-cousin is a busy man and will be married only after all the crops are in, the accounts made, and tithes and taxes paid—” She was still smiling, but her lips trembled. “I am much valued, Harsan. Lord Retlan is a kindly and important person. He gives me everything—” Her voice broke a little. “I am valued, valued as a Kheshchal-bird is valued, or talking Kuni-bird ... He dresses me and sees that his slaves make me beautiful. He commands me to eat and become sleek. And he has given me over to his third wife, the Lady Giu, for training in the arts of etiquette, for he is popular at the governor’s court—” Her voice broke entirely, and she took a step towards him.
Harsan did what seemed to be expected and took her in his arms. He comforted her as he had done upon the Sakbe road, held her, and touched her as he knew she wished to be touched. Soon the black Tsunu-pasle upon her eyelids was all tear-washed and kissed away, and the designs upon her breasts were rubbed and blurred beyond repair.
The sun had sunk below the horizon when they arose, but its vermilion and magenta banners still filled the western sky. Lady Eyil stood and stretched before him, ruddy light gleaming off the supple lines of breast and buttock and thigh. She bent to pick up her skirt from the floor, but she twisted away when Harsan would have reached for her.
“Oh, no, my love, not again! My dear Lord Retlan hiVriyen cares little where I go and whom I see, as long as I do not dishonour him by public display. But if I am late for supper the Lady Giu will purse her vinegary lips and vent her bile upon me. No. Wait for my message. I will send to you again within the six-day. Though you may forget me for love of your wise, cold God, yet I am not so fickle as to abandon you!”
That night the cool darkness of the underground antechamber seemed lonelier and more oppressive than ever.
Thereafter they met more and more frequently. Always Eyil arranged the place and the time, usually at the clanhouse of the People of the High Pillar, occasionally at the establishment of one of the other winemakers’ clans, and once even at a caravanserai in the Quarter of Foreign Persons. Each time they ate and drank, made love together, and then parted.
At first Harsan was apprehensive of her clan’s possible surveillance and displeasure, but she quickly disabused him of this.
“Oh, la, Harsan! My noble fiance desires only that I become a suitable companion for him at the governor’s feasts. Lord Retlan is a mild man, perhaps thrice my age, going bald and wrinkled. He is too old—and dried up—to beget more children. His first and second wives have borne him sons, and the oldest of these is already an officer in the Legion of Kaikama—” She broke off and gave him an sidewise look before continuing. “The Lady Giu attends to his personal needs. He has even offered to buy me a slave lover and a plentiful supply of Lisutl-root to keep me content. You see, my love, I am being groomed as a pet Renyu is groomed—all for show! Were it not for my clan-elders’ greed for ties with our wealthier brethren here in Bey Sii, I would now be safe at home in Tumissa.”
“And more than likely betrothed to some provincial popinjay!” Harsan drew a teasing finger along the silky thigh pressed so pleasantly against his own. “Were you in Tumissa, you would never have met me on the road.”
“You have no faith in the Weaver of Skeins!” She ruffled his hair. “Let me summon my barber-slave and have him rid you of that Do Chakan coiffure, my love. It is time you joined the world of greater Tsolyanu! There are feasts and fetes and festivals in the harvest season, and I can take you with me, so long as Lord Retlan does not care to go himself. It’s all the fashion now for noble women to be attended by at least one suitor to sing her praises—nowadays even matrons too old to waddle appear with a troupe of swains to fawn upon them. Oh, please let me show you these things, Harsan!”
He laughed and protested. In truth, he did not much like the idea of appearing at functions with her as her adoring gallant. In the end, however, he gave in and allowed the temple barber (and not her slave!) to shear off his forebraids and trim his locks to a more fashionable length. When the old man muttered something about it being more proper for a priest of Thumis to get his head shaved, rather than to have his hair done like a dandified noble, Harsan silenced him with a sharp word—and then added a silver Hlash as an apology. It disturbed him, nevertheless. At times he felt rather like a huge, dumb Chlen-beast, led by its halter willy-nilly wherever its master willed. Yet the Lady Eyil was here, she was beautiful, and she was full of Iovq for him.
Chapter Eleven
The month of Firasul came to bestride the land, ravaging all with its heat and dust and
baking winds. During the day the wealthy retreated to suites of underground apartments below their clanhouses; the nights were spent amidst the greenery of their lofty roof-gardens. The poor sweltered, cursed, sweated—and laboured—as the poor have always done in all times and places everywhere since the Age of the Immortal Gods.
Pardan at last took the place of Firasul, and all the world heaved a sigh of relief at the passing of yet another summer. The grain now stood tall in the fields, and men spoke of crops, harvests, prices, rates, and the autumn festivals of the month of Halir to come.
The Lady Eyil had said truly. In the intricate society of the capital none thought it strange to see a pretty daughter of a good middle class clan (or, to be charitable, a clan of the lower aristocracy) in the company of a grey-robed priest of Thumis. The mighty lords of the city went about with retinues of cronies, courtesans, slaves, and hangers-on. Their wives and concubines likewise surrounded themselves with suitors: foppish courtiers, soldiers pricked out in fancy armour, and delicately mannered bravos whose hands were quicker to the wine-cup than to the sword. Indeed, the richest dowagers competed with one another for variety: one must have a warrior, a poet, a musician, an artist, a tall youth, a short one, a jolly one, a pensive one—and onward unto the limits of one’s purse! Those who favoured the Lords of Change sought oddities, nonhumans, misfits, and sports. The most extreme of these were the devotees of Lady Dlamelish and her Cohort Hrihayal, who delighted in escorts of unclad girls and boys, great-thewed gladiators from the Hirilakte Arena (who might just as well have been nude for all that their brief kilts concealed), dwarves, giants, and a host of other aberrations.
All during Firasul and the first days of Pardan the Lord Retlan hiVriyen remained closeted with his field-stewards and accountants, so the Lady Eyil said. She thus took Harsan with her to the Hirilakte Arena and to the salons of certain nobles famous for their feasts and ever-changing rounds of fashionable partying. The name of Retlan hiVriyen seemed to get her into almost any clanhouse or mansion she chose.
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