The Man of Gold

by M. A. R. Barker

  The N’luss girl was on her feet, stooping beneath the rough blocks of the ceiling. A long, dark slash ran down her back from her left shoulder to the broad Chlen-hide cincture that wound about her waist below her heavy breasts. She had cast aside her bloodied tunic and sopping skirt and now stood mostly nude, feet wide apart before him, her knife menacing the Heheganu.

  Motion behind them brought the girl around, weapon ready in fighting stance. The colourless radiance turned Simanuya’s leather skullcap into a ghastly mask. So, the glassblower had taken his counsel and jumped after all!

  “Ohe, hold your dagger, woman!” The merchant spat out something unpleasant and edged forward, hands open and empty.

  “The torches?” The Livyani’s lighter, foreign voice came from across the Crystal River.

  “There, on your side, by the buttress,” Simanuya called back. To Harsan he said, “We must swim to them—or they to us. Better the first, since we-—ah, certain comrades and I—have explored that side for some way. A few hundred paces and we come to a stair that leads back up to the dwellings of the Heheganu”

  “I will not use it,” Harsan retorted. “One betrayal is enough.”

  The Heheganu spoke for the first time. “No betrayal at all, human. Ormudzo led only the foreigner—the Livyani—to you. The assassins were Yan Koryani, I think, and the soldiers, too, were not our doing. What transpired was not our affair.”

  “Let me peel the face from his ugly skull,” the N’luss girl suggested pleasantly. Her voice was rough and deep, the accent harsh and yet purring.

  “Do as you would with me. Yet know that only I can bring you forth from this place. The glassblower there has only knowledge sufficient to lead you back into Old Town. If your foes have raised a hue and cry, our people will take no action. They will rearrange the mat walls and let you wander until you are taken by your enemies. The Heheganu will want no part of this.”

  “We must decide, then, and act together.” The thought of diving once again into the mute, secretive waters of the Crystal River nauseated him. Yet Itk t’Sa might not survive a second wetting.

  “This bank of the tunnel—” the Heheganu was saying. “I have not seen them, but my elders have told me of other exits—some beyond the city walls—”

  Simanuya interrupted. “I have heard the tales. Mayhap we can get out into New Town, or outside Purdimal entirely. Then you can go your way, and I can return to see what remains of my shop! Oh, I shall demand Shamtla indeed! Come, young man, tell your comrades to come over to us. The torches are tied in a bundle with a length of cord. If your woman cannot swim she can hang onto them and kick with her feet.”

  ‘‘It is the Pe Choi who cannot live in water. She will prefer the mercies of the Heheganu—and all of Sarku’s legions—to another soaking.”

  The Heheganu arose, his dripping robe clinging to the unfamiliar joints and curves of his body. ‘‘Since I am with you—for now—let me go to her. I can cast a dazzle upon her mind so that she will not know that she is in the water. Your comrades there can then float her across upon the glass-merchant’s bundle of torches.”

  ‘‘Do not trust! Let him not—” the N’luss woman began. She retrieved her garments, wrung them out again awkwardly, favouring her left arm.

  The creature shrugged. “I wish to live upon this Plane of Being as much as you. More, I honour the law of noble comradeship until such time as we may mutually and favourably end the matter. ’ ’ He clenched his fist, and the light he bore went out as suddenly as though a door had closed upon it. A splash told them that he was gone.

  Minutes passed, uncountable in the folds of darkness. Then the Heheganu’s cold light flared again on the other side of the river. Harsan could see only a huddle of figures there. The light went out, then appeared once more some distance downstream but on their side. Tlayesha knelt on the ledge above a bone-white huddle that must be Itk t’Sa.

  The Livyani, nude now save for a loincloth, a belt of many pouches, and his gleaming pectoral breastplate, splashed his way toward them. “Come,” he called, “Morkudz, the Heheganu, asks that we follow him.”

  Harsan hesitated. The N’luss girl pointed, however, and he saw that a long rectangle of dancing, ruddy light fell upon the surface of the river from above: torches held over the pit! Something—a rope ladder, probably—splashed down into the current. Prince Dhich’une’s soldiers would not so easily be denied their quarry!

  Water still trickled from the spiracles in Itk t’Sa’s abdomen when Harsan reached her. She was trembling, Harsan realised that he had never before seen a Pe Choi so miserable. He joined Tlayesha, and the two of them raised her, supported her, and half-carried her along the tunnel after the others. Itk t’Sa was not heavy, and a momentary vision of the Chakan forests blotted out the dank stones: so had he borne Nekw p’Ki, one of the Pe Choi friends of his childhood, when he had broken a leg in a fall. Harsan would have given almost anything for a breath of fresh air, the scent of green trees, the warm dappling of sunlight upon the leaves.

  “Here,” Morkudz broke into his revery. “The branch that leads down to the Mouth of the World.”

  This was no time for questions. A sloping oval passage opened into the wall to their left. A gentle breeze, cool and yet faintly alien, came up through it. The Heheganu set foot upon the slippery stone floor and gingerly began to descend. The others followed.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  They rested in a great-columned chamber where shapeless mounds of fallen masonry warned of danger from the unseen roof above. The current of cold air was greater here, whispering around the jagged blocks to give a semblance of life and movement to a place that seemed not to have known living things for aeons. Shattered effigies of unknown kings lined the walls, and panels of stucco glyphs, blighted and crumbling, climbed into the gloom above them as high as the Heheganu’s light could reach.

  “We can speak here, if not too loudly,” the Livyani breathed. He cast a cautious eye over the stones. “There, by that entrance in the far wall.”

  The tunnel he chose was the one from which the breeze came, however, and they settled instead for a sloping, rubble-filled space between two of the colossal statues nearest to it. Tlayesha wrung out her skirt and used a piece of the N’luss woman’s tom tunic to sponge and bind her wound. The girl refused to don the garment again but indicated that it should be given to her master. He waved it back to her, however, and sat down crosslegged upon a patch of dry earth. Simanuya the glassblower would have squatted near enough to the Heheganu to whisper privately with him, but Harsan foiled this by placing himself between them. There were enough secrets here already! Itk t’Sa crouched in front of them all, tail wrapped around her feet, her eyes still glazed with shock.

  The Livyani nobleman was shivering. Harsan could not repress a glimmer of amusement at the dance the red and black tattooes performed upon his narrow shoulders. The man was not young, and they must soon find warmth if he—no, if they all— were to survive.

  Harsan settled himself upon a carven block, the eroded, unreadable symbols upon its sides making comfortable places for his heels. “Your presence here indicates that you do not serve Prince Dhich’une,” he began wryly. “You may as well tell me who you are and which of the mighty, unseen players of this game pushes you about the board.”

  The Livyani affected to consider. “I am Taluvaz Arrio, of Tsamra, of the High Temple of Qame’el, and presently in Tsolyanu upon a political mission. Its essence concerns you not at all. A certain circumstance has arisen, however, that made my finding you imperative. Understand that you are only indirectly important to us, the Livyani, but you are a bridge upon which we would cross to other destinations.”

  “La,” Tlayesha pushed her damp tresses back from her face. “I have called Harsan many things myself, but never a bridge! Speak more plainly.”

  The Livyani ignored her. “At this moment, young man, I serve a power that is friendly to you: one of the servitors of the Lords of Stability and a mighty perso
n in your land.”

  “Who?” Harsan snapped. “I tire of invisible and unthinkably puissant masters who prod me hither and thither!”

  Taluvaz pondered again. “I see no harm in stating the case as bluntly as the girl demands. It is your Prince Eselne who seeks you through me. I was able to—to cause—the Heheganu to bring you forth where others could not.” Morkudz raised his bald, mottled head to stare expressionlessly. “Your Prince requires the thing you know of, Harsan, priest of Thumis. He must have it to defend against the Yan Koryani who invade your land. Without it, you Tsolyani may win, but it is unlikely. Baron Aid has summoned forth certain forces which only your treasure can combat. As for me, I aid Prince Eselne—and your Empire—in return for favours that concern you not. And, believe me, I am not here in this dungeon with you through any choice of my own!” He spread his hands so that the red and black patterns on his fingers stretched and twisted. “Is that plain enough for you?”

  “The soldiers in the shop—” Itk t’Sa put in. Harsan threw her a sympathetic glance. She seemed to be regaining some of her composure.

  “Not my doing—nor that of the Heheganu. The assassins, too, were, ah, unexpected.”

  “It is so,” Morkudz said. “We took precautions. A guest is, after all, a guest. And I sensed no sorcery. How did they come upon us?”

  “Probably by the oldest method known: the Temple of Sarku has spies in every place in , your realm. They must have observed my audience with your Prince; they followed me from Khirgar to Purdimal, right to the shop of the glassblower here. My bodyguard, Mirure,” he gestured to the N’luss woman, who gave him an enigmatic look, “is not inconspicuous, nor, for that matter, am I.”

  “As you say. And now? What if I cannot—or do not—choose to deliver my—my treasure—into your hands?” Harsan found that his fists were clenched, from the cold or from anger he was not certain.

  “Look you, priest. Do not imagine that you are yourself powerful -enough to resist the demands of such as Prince Eselne and Prince Dhich’une! There are others as well: rulers of empires, great lords and pontiffs who can turn the fates of nations upside down with a word. They will use you, whatever you might wish. Such powers care nothing if a few Dri-ants are crushed beneath their feet!”

  “I am sick unto vomiting with these things!” Harsan snarled. “Cha! I desired no more than my quiet studies in the Monastery of the Sapient Eye. Now I have been the cause of the deaths of men, the injuring of a Pe Choi friend who was dear to me, the suffering of those I—I love—” he could not look at Tlayesha, but he felt her eyes upon him. From somewhere inside a vision of poor Eyil also arose, quite unbidden. “—I would see all of your glorious potentates buried head-first in the wormy mud of Sarku’s lowest hell—!”

  “ ‘A bird who nests upon a volcano’s skirts cannot blame it for her fate,’ ” Taluvaz responded reasonably. “Now the lava rushes directly at you. Why not give over this thing you possess? Let those more skilled than yourself deal with the destinies of Gods and men. Prince Eselne is no foe to you. Of all of those who seek, he has the power—and the nobility, the generosity, and the highness of purpose—to give you what you seek: peace, riches, a place within the Temple of Thumis, or whatever your heart desires.”

  “The aristocrats he serves, the ancient clans, the clique of army generals—are they any better than the hierophants of Lord Thumis? The servants of Baron Aid of Yan Kor? Or even the minions of the Skull Prince?”

  “The Omnipotent Azure Legion?” Tlayesha added from where she sat with the N’luss girl.

  “The purposes of Prince Dhich’une you may know better than I. No one can fathorn his objectives in this,” the Livyani insisted imperturbably. “What you possess appears—to me, at least—to have importance mainly to military matters. As you have seen, the Yan Koryani might once have taken you to Baron Aid and made you give over your treasures, perhaps to aid their armies. Now it is clear that they mean to slay you instead—for what reason I am not certain.

  “The Temple of Thumis? Your grey-robes lack the nerve to use your device to save your land. They are no soldiers, no clever diplomats or shrewd politicians. The Yan Koryani would seize your northlands, ruin your cities, rape and pillage your people, and give your nation over to the Baron’s vengeful gods. That is what follows from that Skein! How many would perish because of you then?”

  He eyed Tlayesha. “The Omnipotent Azure Legion serves your Emperor in Avanthar, to be sure, woman, but its masters are only human; they dance for gold and for power and for the favours of princes just as smartly as any grubby merchant in the marketplace.” He leaned toward her. “And who is there in Avanthar who operates the puppets of the Imperium? Who appoints, the chiefs of your Omnipotent Azure Legion? Who is as nice at the intricacies of your bureaucracies as a Zrne is at its hunting—and just as rapacious? Prince Mridobu, of course: an ally if not himself a servant of the Temple of Lord Ksarul, the Doomed Prince of the Blue Room! For your priest here to give over the Man of Gold to him would empower the cleverest and most selfish of all of the Temples of the Lords of Change to win the Petal Throne when your Emperor dies, to seize and hold the reins of the Imperium possibly for centuries to come!”

  “What, then, if I were to keep the secret? Disappear? Find an exit from this awful place and vanish into the swamps? Travel to some distant city where none would know?” This was the path Tlayesha urged, he knew, and he felt her love reach out to him.

  “Possible, possible. Assuming that you could avoid those who followed—and those who might learn of your unique possession later.”

  ‘ ‘Or I could take the way the Heheganu offered me: a gentle death. I could even cast myself into the waters of the Crystal River—some bottomless hole here in this labyrinth—a place where none could retrieve my body and call back my soul from the Paradises of Teretane to speak for them!”

  “Also a chance, priest. And not an action that is noble, nor one that fits with your Skein of Destiny as I see it in your face.” Taluvaz mused and then continued, not unkindly. “No, I see only one course that offers you peace—and life—and some of the good rewards of this world. Prince Eselne can take this thing from you; he serves objectives that are not too far from your own; he can return you to the cloisters of your monastery; he alone can provide the threads for the Weaver to fashion a Skein of Destiny that will be pleasing to you, and to your clan, and to your quiet, scholarly, grey-robed God.”

  “My clan—?” Harsan began.

  Taluvaz caught the question, saw the expression that crossed Harsan’s face. “Yes, of course. And should your clan be not— grandiose enough to suit you, he alone, an Imperial Prince, can speak for you in Avanthar. He alone can cause your acceptance into another clan for whatever manner and station you desire. La, did not his sister, Princess Ma’in, recently compel the haughty and ancient Clan of the Golden Sunburst to accept two foreigners into its ranks? Two common soldiers, not even the dust of her sandals, were exalted thus because of an afternoon’s whim! Now they are officers of a good Legion, men of station and power.”

  He stopped, sensing that his point was made.

  Harsan rose, stretched, rubbed his icy hands together, wrung out the folds of his still-damp kilt one more time.

  It was well that he did so. There was a glint of movement amongst the columns on the other side of the hall, there by the door through which they had entered.

  The N’luss woman, Mirure, saw him stiffen and was on her feet beside him. The others stood as well.

  “Who are they?” the girl whispered in her thick, purring accent.

  Their pursuers had no torches, no lanterns. Harsan peered, then Tlayesha, sharper eyed than himself, exclaimed, “They are skull-faced—the soldiers of Sarku!”

  Stones and pebbles clattered, and a head rose over one of the mounds of fallen masonry no more than twenty paces away. Skull-faced, indeed! The eyes beneath the dull-gleaming coppery' helmet glinted with Other-Planar fires. The mouth showed teeth but no lips.


  “The Undead!” Morkudz the Heheganu cried despairingly. “Mrur—or Jajgi, those who retain all of the intelligence they possessed in life!”

  Harsan seized Itk t’Sa’s slender arm, pushed Simanuya ahead of him, pointed into the mouth of the tunnel from whence the breeze blew. Tlayesha brushed past him, then the warrior girl and the rest.

  He paused only for a moment there in the soughing wind. It was time to repay the servitors of Sarku for Chtik p’Qwe, for the guards in the Temple of Eternal Knowing, for the pain and shame he and Eyil had suffered, for the poverty Tlayesha had endured here in Purdimal because of him.

  He threw back his head and shouted.

  Dust fell. Then a block of stone, then another and another. Something groaned and cracked in the darkness above them. Masonry rained down.

  The roof collapsed in a thundering, blinding torrent. He waited no more but dived headlong into the open mouth of the wind tunnel.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  They ran, pursued by clouds of dust and the sustained clamour of collapsing stones behind them. Eventually there was silence, whether from cessation or from distance they did not know.

  The passage branched, and branched again. Each time the Heheganu chose that tunnel from which the wind blew forth to buffet them. Heads down and clutching what remained of their garments, they advanced into a continuous, whining, sighing blast. The air held a faint tang of something coppery, acrid, and alien.

  Harsan drew up short within the opening of yet another side corridor, one that opened off to the left of the windy main gallery. All were out of breath, the Livyani more than any of them. The man sank gratefully to the floor, and Tlayesha knelt beside him. (Ever the physician, Harsan thought to himself.) Mirure, red staining the dirty bandage upon her shoulder, stood apart to watch, one of their unlit torches held ready to use as a weapon. Itk t’Sa, Simanuya, and the Heheganu squatted on their heels within the branch gallery and leaned against the seamed blocks of the wall.