The Man of Gold

by M. A. R. Barker

  The sweet, rotting, sickly stench of dead flowers struck Harsan like a wall. Here the many varieties of Tsuhoridu were made, the most precious liqueurs of Purdimal and of all Tsolyanu. He helped Tlayesha down into the corridor beside the rows of stone vats. Gangs of human slaves and some of the Old Ones stirred a cauldron of Aluja as big as a room: the most strongly perfumed of all of the Tsuhoridu vintages, it was rumoured to deprive a man of his virility if more than a thimblefull were drunk each day. There bubbled the vats of Nezu’un, a grass-smelling essence that gave dreams of unendurable ecstasy; farther were the pots of Siyanukka, sweet-breathed as a child but bringing about the decay of the mind as surely as the clouds brought rain; beyond stood the green-corroded copper stills of the vendors of Diqonai, swamp-smelling and acerbic, providing an illusion of physical strength that the nobles of the Five Empires vied to obtain. A bottle of undiluted Diqonai no bigger than one’s palm sold for a thousand Kaitars in the marketplaces above.

  Torchlight glistened upon sweating shoulders, furnaces flared in the glassblowers’ shops down the way where the bottles and vials for the liqueurs were made. Over all hung the distant, rhythmic thump-sigh-thump of the great bellows, worked continually by gangs of chanting slaves, that brought in fresh air and kept this metropolis of no night and no day alive.

  Harsan stepped carefully over the bodies of the Meratorayal, the Woeful Seekers: men, and women, and others who lay beside the vats to lick up the spilled drops of the precious essences. These were the true derelicts, tolerated by the vintners, chained here by the bonds of their addiction more tightly than any prisoner in the Tolek Kana Pits. Some, he knew, had once been noble, clansmen and women of status; now they lay like beasts beside the dribbling cauldrons, certain to die of starvation or of their wretched habit within a few months at most. There were always others ready to fight, to kill, to take their places.

  The Old Ones had given them a dwelling place just behind the workshops of the bottlers. It was cramped, no more than a triangular alcove between the soot-encrusted foundations of two ancient Engsvanyali mansions, the upper storeys of which had later been levelled, razed, and roofed over during one of the Ditlana ceremonies of the Second Imperium. Empty save for dust and the stench of the distilleries, it had become their home— and their hiding place—during the long period of Harsan’s recovery.

  Someone stood now by the tom matting that served as their door. Harsan stopped, thrust Tlayesha behind him, and stood poised for flight. Then he recognised the satiny gleam of white chitin: a Pe Choi. Itk t’Sa! After their first six-day in Purdimal she had gone her way with no explanation; now she had returned. Tlayesha gave a glad cry and ran past him to greet her.

  Another waited with Itk t’Sa, one of the grey-skinned Heheganu, pockmarked and ugly as the stones' of the crumbling city itself.

  “You are well now,” Itk t’Sa said in the Pe Choi tongue. It was not a question. She touched Tlayesha’s hand and then Harsan’s cheek with her stick-dry fingers.

  “I am. It was your kindness.—And Tlayesha’s.” He motioned them inside, spread mats, and brought out the cracked pottery flagon that held wine whenever they had the money. It was half full of the cheapest of the vintages of the Kraa Hills. There were no coins to spare even for the poorest Tsuhoridu, not even for a goblet of the dregs. Tlayesha set four of their misshapen clay cups upon the flagstones before them, but Itk t’Sa made a gesture of refusal. The Heheganu accepted a mug in silence.

  “You live in ease? You are not nto’oltkT' The Pe Choi term covered all combinations of unhappiness, hunger, pain, illness, and distress.

  “It is well with us.” Harsan knew she would sense the lie: He longed for the forest, for the Monastery of the Sapient Eye— even for the bustling, scholarly life of the Temple of Eternal Knowing. Anything but this! a few copper Qirgal for copying petitions and letters for the lowest classes of Purdimal, the hiding, the distrust, the fears that came to wake him in the night.

  The worst dreams were those of opening his lips and finding that once again he could not speak.

  They had not dared to make friends, human or otherwise. The Heheganu remained courteously aloof, and all others might be spies. Life in the Splendid Paradise was lonely, dark, and hopeless. This Skein led nowhere.

  Itk t’Sa gave a whistling sigh. “And she?”

  “As I.” Another lie. If anything, Tlayesha’s suffering had been the greater—and yet he had dared tell her only a part of the story. There was always the chance that she would be caught, too, as poor Eyil had been. Tlayesha earned a pittance with her potions and salves. Harsan had not asked whether she had gone to New Town to use those other arts she had learned long ago in Jakalla. She did always seem to have a coin or two when they needed it most.

  “I bear news. Harsan, know that Chtik p’Qwe lives—our people in Bey Sii have sent word. He lay wounded and broken under the earth in the Temple of Eternal Knowing. He was pulled free, and now he is healed—partially, at least. He greets you.”

  A wash of love, relief, longing, sadness for the world left behind,—emotions too many to name—swept over Harsan. He leaned back against the rough stones of the wall.

  The clicking Pe Choi lauguage was lost upon Tlayesha, but she caught the name of Chtik p’Qwe, of whom Harsan had spoken. He smiled at her reassuringly, and she touched his arm in sympathy. The Heheganu waited.

  Itk t’Sa nodded to change the subject. “You went to the temple of your God, Lord Thumis?”

  “No. The Old Ones—the Heheganu—told me that watchers were posted at all of the entrances of the Splendid Paradise. They said that magic—spells—were being used, and that I would be known. Their skills keep us safe here.”

  “The Omnipotent Azure Legion... ? Friends could be summoned hither to take you from this place. Or the tunnels beneath the city... ?”

  Harsan stared moodily into his cup. “Even if I eluded the spies and reached my superiors—even if my people returned me to Bey Sii escorted by an Imperial Legion—-did not the Worm Prince once pluck me from the heart of our greatest temple? He could do the same again.”

  The matter was more complex by far; Harsan searched for words. “More... more—I sense that the priests of my own temple would use me little better than did Prince Dhich’une. I tire of being a piece in some high, invisible game of Den-den. I may have begun as a pitiful little white pawn; now, for the moment, I am a blue—or even a black. But I am still no more than a counter—a counter who likes the game not at all! I will either become a player or else hop off the board to be lost under the mat!”

  “ ‘Better the house of poor friends than alone in the forest.’ ” ‘‘I know, I know. My superiors must think I am either dead or a traitor to Lord Thumis—or both.” He put his palms over his eyes and pressed until colours writhed behind the lids. “How long can we go on hiding here?”

  “You know that others seek you besides the Worm Prince? The Yan Koryani—the followers of your war-god, Lord Karakan, the Omnipotent Azure Legion, the—”

  A vision of Eyil, smiling, arm in arm with a tall, jowly man whom the Heheganu said was one Jayargo, a priest of the Worm Lord, arose before Harsan’s eyes: how had they got her to do that? Perhaps Vridekka had ensorcelled her with his arts. Harsan and Tlayesha had hidden—remembered guilt arose to accuse him—and Eyil and the priest of Sarku had eventually gone away. She had not returned.

  Harsan cried, “Yes, the whole thrice-cuckolded Empire!—As if there was naught more important than this—this one artifact, whose location I know—and then know only vaguely! I cannot believe—”

  “You alone can assess its value. But you have asked the one question that must eventually be answered. You cannot go on hiding here forever. What is to be your move now, Oh newest player in the game?”

  Harsan could not reply.

  “They still search for us above?” Tlayesha spoke in Tsolyani. Itk t’Sa glanced at the silent Heheganu. Then she said, “It is so. More than ever now. Every path is watched, every exit to N
ew Town is guarded. You cannot leave without falling into one net or another. ’ ’

  “The Heheganu protected us when we came.” Harsan could not keep dejection out of his voice. “It was long before I recovered, thanks to you and to Tlayesha here. When I could speak again, I found things as they are now. I know'of no sure way to reach safety, and even if we did, I am not sure that it would be safety after all ... ”

  “This situation must change,” Itk t’Sa replied. “Ormudzo, here, met me when I returned to Purdimal. He will speak of it.” She settled back upon her gleaming chitinous haunches and nodded to the Heheganu.

  The Heheganu was old, puffed and wrinkled, bald and grey like all of his race, mottled as a serpent of the swamps. He blew out his cheeks. “Man Harsan, you came to us upon the words of the apothecary Gdeshmaru, who deals with us. You aid us and make no trouble, and the woman Tlayesha heals us and gives us consolation—”

  The careful, stilted words bore menace. Harsan looked a question at Itk t’Sa, but she only made a gesture of patience.

  “—The Gods do not like those who betray a hosting. Not our Gods. We are thus bound to you, as you have bound yourselves to us.”

  “What does he mean?” Tlayesha murmured.

  The creature would not be hurried. The tiny flame of the rush-candle limned the grey-stippled cheeks with orange shadows, painted fire upon the hairless skull, turned the round eyes to staring rubies. “Many sought you, and you were not found. It is so?”

  Harsan nodded. Tlayesha’s fingers closed hard upon his wrist.

  “There were others, persons whom we saw and whom you did not see. Men of different professions, soldiers, questioners, even some of my own species. There were a few whom even we did not recognise—creatures better left unnamed.” The Heheganu made a jerky, punctilious little half-bow. “In any case, none came upon you. When we guest someone, we perform all things well. You honour ‘noble action’; to us, this is noble.”

  “High One, why—?”

  The wide mouth seemed to stretch halfway around the noseless head. Harsan could not tell whether the Heheganu was amused or angry at the interruption.

  “Now I obey the mightiest of our commands of hospitality. When the host is required to break the guesting—to cease the protection it gives—it is a duty first to inform the guest. I bring you a warning, and a choice. Know that—one—has come who can compel us to deliver you into his hands. We cannot refuse him. ’ ’

  “One of the minions of the Worm Prince—?”

  “Not so. Another. We must acquiesce to him—or circumvent his commands.”

  It seemed that the most important of all of Harsan’s questions must now be resolved.

  “Who—?” Harsan began, but he was forestalled by Tlayesha’s angry cry of "Why?" The Heheganu turned his lumpy body to face her.

  “You are not affected, woman. No one seeks you. It is the man Harsan who is wanted. You may remain.”

  “I—I cannot. We are—”

  Emotions coiled within Harsan’s stomach: anger, despair, cold fear. “You must listen to him,” he said harshly to Tlayesha, “for I am the one they pursue. Why involve yourself further? You rescued me, and that in itself is more than I can repay. There are many caravans, many who would employ a physician...” He could say no more but gestured wordlessly at the squalor around them.

  Her oddly coloured blue eyes told him that all his reasonings would be in vain. Tlayesha would not leave him.

  Harsan let out his breath slowly. He had not realised that he had been holding it. “You mentioned a choice, High One.”

  “It is a tree of three branches,” the creature replied. “The first branch takes you—and the woman, if she desires—to the one who seeks. The second branch leads to a gate known to us, there beyond the quarter of the mat-weavers, on through a tunnel, and so to the outside, where a skiff can be given you to cross the Great Morass ...”

  Tlayesha interrupted him, “Harsan, we could reach Mrelu—go to Do Chaka—Itk t’Sa’s people could hide us, take us through the forests—to Mu’ugalavya—or north to Pijena ...” Her eyes sparkled red in the rush-light, and he could see how much she yearned to be free of this dreadful place.

  “Fugitives forever?” He sighed and considered. “No, love, I have already thought upon this. They could catch us with their sorceries, take us as we fled—and those who have aided us would be imperiled, a fine reward for their guesting! And even if we were successful, the Mu’ugalavyani or the Yan Koryani would use me as I have told you the Worm Prince would do.” “Yet you—we—cannot go on living here forever!” She clenched her fists and glared at him, angry for the moment. “Harsan, would you spend the rest of your life in a hole?—Oh, I know that you await an opportunity, for time to pass and all to be forgotten. But—but now ...”

  She was more right than she could guess. He had delayed, postponed the decision, been content to dwell in this lair, like a Mnor lurking in its den to let the hunting party pass by it. Nothing had been resolved. Now, however, he must make his move, willy-nilly. He turned back to the Heheganu.

  “And the third branch, High One?”

  Ormudzo held out a tiny vial of dull red glass in his rough, grey fingers. “This is Onka'om, the Tsuhoridu of Ultimate Destinations. What you would leave behind upon this Plane could not be revivified by sorcery, nor could your souls be made to speak from beyond the tomb.”

  Tlayesha drew back, eyes wide. Harsan waved the thing away. “It is not to be considered, High One. I—-we—”

  The Heheganu rocked back and forth upon the mat. “It is sad, man Harsan, for this is perchance the noblest of all the branches. A joyous feast which we would provide; a pleasant evening; a few farewells; a quiet toast and a drinking. All would be tasteful. Noble. The drawing-together of an exquisite Skein. It is an ending that appeals to us—that keeps certain secrets hidden, that raises no spectres from the lost graves of the past. ’ ’

  “You would not force us—me—?”

  “Who could compel a guest and yet remain noble? No, this branch must be of your own choosing.”

  ‘ They are too strongly bound to this life for any such honourable termination,” Itk t’Sa said. “Break this last branch from your tree, High One, and cast it aside. What of the first of your branches: the one who seeks? You said that this is no servitor of Lord Sarku? Who, then?”

  “The laws of our guesting permit no more. I have uttered too much.”

  “Tsolyani, Yan Koryani—or other?”

  “I must not say.”

  Itk t’Sa spread her upper pair of hands. She drew in a hissing breath, and Harsan could hear the spiracles in her thorax taking air into her abdominal lung-sacs as well. “Old One, Ormudzo of the Heheganu, look upon me. Say what you know of me.”

  The knobbly round head turned toward her. “It is your desire. You are Itk t’Sa, of the Pe Choi, sent by your people, we are told, to confer with all those races of sentient beings who dwell under the hand of humankind. With us you hold the status of an envoy.”

  Tlayesha frowned in puzzlement, but Harsan realised that he knew. Itk t’Sa was no exile or common criminal; she was a Tii Petk, a speaker for her people. He opened his mouth, but she forestalled him.

  “Yes, Harsan, I am entrusted with a charge,” she said in the Pe Choi tongue. “I am not of the ‘tame’ Pe Choi of your Empire, nor do I serve the Four Palaces of the Square of Mu’ugalavya. Your government would say that I am a ‘wild’ Pe Choi, one of those from the inner depths of the forests, who give no allegiance to any of the nations of humankind.”

  “But—”

  “I am here to test the wind, to speak to all of those races who have intelligence and yet who languish under the rule of humankind. The Heheganu are but one such.”

  “What do you—the Pe Choi of the forests—?”

  “Plan? A revolt? A war against your kind? Hardly! We would lose—be defeated, brutalised, exterminated, as the Mu’ugalavyani dealt with the Pachi Lei at Butrus some eight hundred y
ears ago. Two things you humans have that no other race can match: the first is your numbers, and the second is your callousness. You breed like Dri-ants, and you destroy whatever is alien to you, even when it does you no harm.”

  “There are some...” Harsan began. Itk t’Sa and her people knew all that. He, too, had heard these arguments during his childhood in the Chakas. Instead he said, “Then? What do you seek?”

  “Perhaps no more than a network of friends—nonhumans who can aid one another, pressure human officials for concessions and mutual cooperation... Thus far I admit that I have found no easy path. There are too many varied species, too many conflicting ideas and goals. The least we can do is to speak, to let others know that we are there. At most we can hope to exploit human weaknesses and attain autonomy within our own regions— places of our own, an end to our dependence upon human goods and resources, our own pride—no more foppish, twittering Pe Choi imitating human dress and customs.”

  Harsan had a brief vision of Chtik p’Qwe as he had first seen him. He replied, “Some races have these things now—the Shen, certain of the Ahoggya enclaves, the little flying creatures—the Hlaka—and others. They dwell apart in their own regions, of course, while some—the Pachi Lei, the Swamp Folk of Mu’ugalavya, the little pygmy creatures of Yan Kor, the Tinaliya of Livyanu—seem to live well enough in companionship with humans in our societies. I cannot see where your mission leads you—the Pe Choi. Do you not stir up mud from the bottom of what is best left as a quiet pool?”