The Man of Gold

by M. A. R. Barker

  A ghastly, squealing roar from the latticed windows along the side of the chamber made Taluvaz jump. Somebody must be peeling the hide from a Chlen-beast down there! This operation had to be performed every six months or so to keep the animals’ skin from growing ragged. The tanners then took the plates of raw hide, applied their smelly liquids and their secret skills, and produced the light, flexible, and immensely strong sheets from which armour, weapons, and a thousand other things were made.

  The bellowing was followed by the heady scent of Chlen-dung: fright often caused the beasts to void their bowels. Taluvaz surreptitiously extracted his pomander of Kilueb-esscnce from his robe and pressed it to his nose. In the name of the Lords of Shadow, why so close to an Imperial residence? Prince Eselne was indeed supposed to be an informal, blunt, military sort of man, but this was carrying that image too far!

  The chamberlain beckoned them on. The ornate doors at the far end of the hall gave upon a pleasant, polygonal room— probably in one of the comer towers—that overlooked the grey-brown deserts beyond. Graceful Engsvanyali pillars held up the painted vaulting of the ceiling, and marble lattices opened out onto a narrow balcony, its tiled floor shimmering with hot sunlight.

  Within the chamber, two slavegirls pulled on the cords of the dusty sweep-fan that hung from the ceiling. A third ground spices in a mortar for Chumetl, the ghastly buttermilk concoction the Tsolyani favoured. Taluvaz wished fervently for a cup of wine, a tiny goblet of scented Tsuhoridu-hquem, or even a draught of cold water. He knew that he would be unlikely to get any of these; the Prince had his “common-soldier” military facade to maintain, after all.

  There were two others in the room: a short, middle-aged military officer, and the Prince himself, now rising from his dais to greet his guest.

  Prince Eselne hiTlakotani was impressive, a soldier from head to foot. He towered over his companion, brawny, bronzed by the sun, and as thick through the shoulders as any Chlen-beast. His sharply hooked nose and broad forehead bespoke the heritage of the most ancient and aristocratic clan of Tsolyanu, and his fierce, proud gaze was of the sort that would someday look most noble indeed upon a golden Kaitar. The women of the court, Taluvaz knew, called him “the Hrugga of the Age.”

  Yet there was something lacking in this man; when one summed him all up, he seemed a bit bland and not quite fulfilled. The eyes were too far apart, the brow too unlined, the craggy jaw not as strong and determined as first impressions indicated. There were other names for Eselne in Avanthar: “the Chlen-beast in Azure Robes” and “the Two-legged Ahoggya” were two that Taluvaz had heard. This Prince would be as soft as warm wax in the hands of his advisors, the generals of his Military Party, and the Omnipotent Azure Legion. Once within the Golden Tower, he would make a splendid and heroic-appearing Emperor. But it would be others who would rule.

  Prince Eselne would require much assistance to overcome his brothers and his sister in the Kolumejalim, the Rite of the Choosing of Emperors, Taluvaz thought. He might win over Hrugga himself in the trials of physical endurance and soldierly prowess, but he would have to choose his allotted three champions carefully from amongst the best of his followers to defeat Mridobu or Dhich’une—both shrewd and devious men—in the contests of cleverness, knowledge, statecraft, and sorcery that must follow. No, this man might be what the Tsolyani Imperium needed—a glorious soldier-emperor figurehead—but the priests who oversaw the Kolumejalim would be hard put to make him win it!

  Taluvaz’ superiors in Tsamra wanted Prince Eselne to gain the Petal Throne. He was precisely what was needed for Livyanu’s broader goals.

  Prince Eselne wore only a breechclout and a light shirt of Thesun-gdMze. A heap of Chlen-hide swords—and two that glittered with the silvery grey of rare iron—lay upon the carpet before the two Tsolyani, attesting to the topic of their conversation.

  This was good; the audience would be informal, just what was needed. It would have been impossible to speak freely in some stilted court ceremonial. Taluvaz’ agents in Khirgar had given excellent counsel: this Prince was best approached as one soldier speaking to another. Taluvaz took only a moment to push his own more delicate tastes to the back of his mind and take on the outward attitudes of a tough man of affairs. This was another reason why the High Council in Tsamra had chosen him for this mission.

  “Most gracious Prince—” Taluvaz bowed and launched into the required roster of honorifics. Even this was too much; he was cut short.

  “Ohe, Lord Taluvaz! I see you have ascended to our eyrie once again.” Prince Eselne omitted the “you of wide journeying,” appropriate to a high-ranking foreigner, and used the simple “noble you” instead. His voice was light and smooth, a trifle too gentle for the gruff soldierly picture he wanted to project.

  “Most mighty Prince, accept the gifts of Tsamra!” That ought to be short enough! Taluvaz’ slaves obediently began opening chests and parcels wrapped in brocaded Giidru-cloth.

  Eselne waved them aside. “Accepted, with thanks. Give them to Shiretla—the chamberlain who brought you.”

  This Prince moved faster than common etiquette allowed! Taluvaz struggled to keep in character. A glance sent the slaves scurrying from the room, packages and all.

  “Know you my Senior General, Lord Kettukal hiMraktine?”

  The fame of this man—and the intrigues that had for a time cost him his generalship of the First Legion—were indeed part of Taluvaz’ briefing. It had taken the war with Yan Kor to persuade the Imperium to bring General Kettukal out of semi-exile in Chene Ho and put him back in command of his troops! Taluvaz kept this from his face and made polite responses.

  “Get the money for the steel weapons from Shiretla,” the Prince gestured to the General. “The Chlen-hide swords are too poor to be worth buying. I’d have the smith-tanners impaled were they not clan-cousins of the dung-smeared pederast who passes for a governor here. Send them back and demand better.”

  General Kettukal grinned, reminding Taluvaz of the stone .Sro-dragon on the cornice of Lord Qame’el’s temple in Tsamra. If his information was correct, this stocky, leather-faced soldier was the best tactician the Tsolyani had. He would be useful in today’s discussion, though possibly dangerous. The General snapped his fingers, and a servant appeared from a concealed doorway to gather up the offending weapons and carry them away.

  “Now. Sing your song, noble Taluvaz. Two days back you offered us a pretty melody or two. I want my Lord Kettukal to hear it.”

  So the Prince needed advice from his backers in the Military Party? The General’s presence today was certainly no casual accident. Taluvaz swung smoothly into his argument, omitting the usual preamble of eulogies.

  “Mighty Prince, as I humbly urged two days back, we in Livyanu have for centuries endured the wicked attacks of the pirates of the Tsolei Archipelago. Each year, when the sea winds are right, they come forth to raid our provinces of Kakarsh and Nufersh. As you and noble General Kettukal are no doubt aware—’ ’

  “Yes, yes,” the Prince interrupted, “your High Council of the Priesthoods now proposes to take several legions away from your northern frontier with Mu’ugalavya and sail off westward to gobble up Tsolei.”

  General Kettukal’s grimace became wider.

  Prince Eselne raised a fingertip to his cheek to express a clever discovery. “A neat and timely move! A handful of miserable white counters captured with a very few black ones. But nice because you then control the Sea of Aishul and the Gulf of Teriyal and block the Red-Hats of Mu’ugalavya from expansion farther west. Nice, if done smoothly.”

  “Also an end to Shenyu’s hegemony over the southern ocean there, and a bridge to the unexplored and uninhabited lands of the southern continent, eh?” General Kettukal remarked in a rumbling bass voice. The slavegirl proferred brass cups of Chumetl to the three men. Kettukal drank his off at one gulp. “I assume there’s a turd in the stew somewhere?”

  Eselne smiled broadly. “La, my Lord, no turd at all—only a lack of meat! Our no
ble Livyani friends have not the troops to hold their enclave north of the Tlashte Heights against the Mu’ugalavyani and swat the pirates of Tsolei both at once! Hence our distinguished Lord Taluvaz, come all this way to push us to push my father to push the Mu’ugalavyani, who can then not afford to push down into Livyanu and seize Neihai or Khemektu.” He made little brushing motions with his fingers, as an apothecary sweeps powders into a prescription-paper.

  General Kettukal had the look of a stone idol receiving sacrifice. “Ohe, but what would Tsolyanu gain from joining in this feast?

  A chance, perhaps, to go to war with the Red-Hats of Ssa’atis? As though we have not enough to do with the Yan Koryani invasion! Three months, and we have yet to regain the Atkolel Heights—and the Baron’s armies threaten both Chene Ho and Khirgar here!”

  Taluvaz made no reply. These devotees of the war-gods had a disconcerting habit of dumping all their couners out openly upon the board. It was like talking to an Ahoggya—or, worse, to a literal-minded Tinaliya! He sipped at the Chumetl the girl had brought him—and nearly spat it out upon the delicate wine-coloured carpet; the wench had laced it with too much hot Hling-seed! The Prince and the General seemed oblivious to his distress.

  Prince Eselne rubbed his cleft chin. “If only that idiotic worm-kissing officer had not started the war with Yan Kor before we were ready to strike!” He made an obscene gesture. “All over a fine sense of noble dignity! If the fellow had been in one of my Legions instead of Dhich’une’s Battalions of the Seal of the Worm, his heart would have been steaming upon Lord Karakan’s altars long ago!”

  No reply seemed to be expected. All three were silent for a time. The Prince mused. General Kettukal peered into his cup.

  Eselne spoke again. “The Baron sits upon the Atkolel Heights. His troops occupy Pijena. His ‘Weapon Without Answer’ pushes south towards Khirgar—or possibly southwest to Chene Ho, whichever he sees the weaker. The Salarvyani on our eastern frontiers nibble at Chaigari and Kerunan. My God-Emperor father grows old, and my brothers oppose me—Mridobu and Dhich’une—Rereshqala is too busy with his scholars and his concubines to compete for the Gold. My sister Ma’in Kruthai might well marry me, as is our custom, and exchange Imperial rule for a quiet life in the Golden Tower. But she might also draw enough support from the temples of the two Goddesses and their Cohorts to stand by herself in the Kolumejalim ...”

  He took a turn about the room, strong splayed toes digging into the fragile arabesques of the carpet. “Now too, of all times, the priesthood of Thumis chooses to bring forth one of my father’s brood of secret heirs, the whimpering little temple clerk Surundano. Damn their High Adept Gamulu and his old toady, Lord Durugen hiNashomai! Half of my support amongst the temples of the Lords of Stability either disappears or wavers like smoke in the wind!”

  Taluvaz had heard about these manoeuvrings of Imperial politics. They complicated the lives of diplomats, he thought, but that was the nature of the task.

  The Prince rounded to face Taluvaz. “It might be well for us to aid you Livyani in your little excursion. If we cannot keep the Mu’ugalavyani off our western flank—and out of an alliance with the Baron—the Empire will be as luckless as a Chlen-beast beset from all sides by Zrnel"

  As though hearing its name mentioned, the Chlen outside bellowed, shaking the marble window-lattices. Taluvaz and the three slavegirls were the only ones who appeared to notice.

  “I cannot send troops on my own authority, you know, nor do I dare do anything to bring the Mu’ugalavyani in openly on the Baron’s side. Arms, a few mercenaries, and some ships to you people. A little rumbling along the Chakan frontier and a medley of negotiations and threats to worry the Red-Hats: these are the only strings I can fit to my bow for now.”

  “This will not discourage the Baron, Lord.” The General actually laid a hand upon the Prince’s brawny wrist. These Tsolyani had so little sense of Imperial dignity! “Yan Kor does not need Mu’ugalavya. To Baron Aid the Mu’ugalavyani are Qasu-birds awaiting their chance to scavenge. They yearn to snatch the Chakas if we lose the north, but they won’t risk a fight by themselves—another defeat like the War of 2,020 would ruin them—and the Baron abhors them and gives them no encouragement. Beg your father for permission to attack around the northeastern flank, through the Pass of Skulls! Take Milumanaya—Lord Firaz Zhavendu there is a strutting popinjay— he cannot resist us—and on into Saa Allaqi or up to Tleku Miriya to knock upon the Baron’s back gate!”

  “I have already been on my knees before my glorious father at Avanthar a dozen times. I’d kiss the backside of a Ssu to do as you suggest, my Lord, but brother Mridobu only smiles and counsels sweet patience.”

  “Foolish,” Kettukal growled, “if I were the Baron—or the High Prince of the Red-Hats—I would do my best to hammer out an alliance and invade Tsolyanu from two sides at once. Aid must be mad to refuse the opportunity! Mu’ugalavya is strong now, and the Baron has unified Yan Kor into a real nation—not the gaggle of miserable city-states it was before he took power. If the Baron and the Red-Hats were to combine, we’d have a war that would make that of 2,020 look like a skirmish! My Lord Prince, it is best that we strike first, now, before either the blockheaded Mu’ugalavyani or the Baron decides to make common cause and serve us defeat for our supper.”

  “Lord Taluvaz asks little enough. I need no permission from my glorious father to send a few ships and light a few fires along the borders.”

  “Forget not the colonies on the southern continent, mighty Prince,” Taluvaz injected gracefully. “If we take Tsolei, we counter the power of the reptiles of Shenyu in the-southern seas. Even now they dicker with Mu’ugalavya for concessions and alliances there. Accompany us, and Tsolyanu plays a role in settling the unknown lands beyond.”

  “And how had you Livyani planned to deal with Shenyu? The reptiles’ ships and warriors may be fewer than yours and they cannot match you in sorcery, but any Shen can slay two humans with a blow!” The Prince refilled his cup and offered more Chumetl to the others with his own hands. Taluvaz thought it prudent to accept. A burning bowel movement in the morning was a very good price to pay for success this afternoon.

  “The Shen are divided into egg-groups, mighty Prince, as you know. Each is hostile to the others. We have made alliance with the Shen of Mmatugual and the other little states of their species to our south. They hate Shenyu more than any human can imagine: insensate, instinctive... They will fight for—with—us.”

  General Kettukal spat out a Hling-seed and fixed a jaundiced eye upon the girl who had ground the spices for his Chumetl. “Aside from a few ships, a handful of troops, and whatever else we can manage, how can we really help you? Tsolei is too distant, and we can send too little.”

  “Busy the Red-Hats and it is sufficient. They then cannot seize our northern provinces. But there is more.” Taluvaz made himself draw a careful breath. “We know that our armies are not, ah, well seasoned and strong, mighty Prince. We depend overmuch upon sorcery: magically, Livyanu is a ‘fertile’ area, where the many skins of reality are thin and easily pierced. The Red-Hats and the Shen do not invade Livyanu for fear of our sorceries. On the other hand, the islands of Tsolei are a ‘barren’ region; it is impossible to draw power from beyond this Plane in such a place. Spells and those devices of the ancients that depend upon such forces do not work there. We must thus rely upon our military prowess, which is, ah, not so great as to make our landing a speedy success. We can therefore make good use of a few Tsolyani officers, some troops from whatever Legion you can spare, some ships from your coastal fleets—unneeded in any war here in the north or the west—and permission to raise mercenaries in your Empire. Military expertise, mighty Prince, and experience—these things we require. The rest we can do ourselves.”

  “So, we firm up your Chlen-hide with our iron,” the General said.

  Prince Eselne frowned. “I know that the Temple of Thumis has already sent some sort of secret mission to your colonies in the southern con
tinent. My dear Taluvaz, you play not only with me but with the grey-robes—and their new Prince Surundano.”

  This was all too true, but it seemed more politic not to own up to it—not unless it became an issue here.

  The new Prince might indeed become a problem. He did seem to worry Prince Eselne; unduly, Taluvaz thought. The Temples of the war-gods ought not to be alarmed by this new counter on the board. Some support would vanish, of course, and some new alignments might result, but Eselne’s backers and those of the Flame-Lord, Vimuhla, should still be able to come to an understanding. Prince Surundano might be an unexpected impediment, but he was too weak, both personally and in his backing, to be more than a minor annoyance.

  What an insane system of government this land had! The Seal Emperors of Tsolyanu proclaimed only some of their offspring to be Princes and Princesses as soon as they ascended the Petal Throne; others were given as infants into the keeping of the great temples, the clans, and the highest noble houses to be brought up in secrecy and declared later—like white counters suddenly turning black upon a Den-den board! The Tsolyani said that this guaranteed the throne to the cleverest, strongest, and most resourceful contender. It was better to keep all of the heirs awake and prepared, the theory ran, rather than let the succession pass to a child already spoiled by a surfeit of luxury and power. The Gods alone knew whether the idea had merit or not. Taluvaz doubted it; had not Livyanu existed far longer than the Tsolyani Imperium, and was it not more efficacious to select one’s rulers through the recondite deliberations of the High Council of the Priesthoods of the omniscient Shadow-Gods?

  Carefully, Taluvaz said nothing.

  “No, Lord Taluvaz, you must know that Tsolei is the smallest thorn upon my Tsural-blossom,” the Prince said. “Even if we aid you, I fear it is too late to halt the Baron’s ‘W'eapon.’ By the time you take Tsolei—or Thumis’ all-too-blatant secret mission reaches its destination—our Skeins will have been unravelled for us by the Yan Koryani. We stand; we fight; we live or we die here at Khirgar or at Chene Ho, as Lord Karakan decrees. What more can we say?”