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.
They 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.
“Hoi, priest Harsan!” he called. “Are you satisfied with my divine father’s generosity?”
He was. But his inner reservations still persisted. He made no reply but bowed low instead.
The Prince took his hand. “Come, there are many who would meet you—clanmasters eager to adopt you, sorcerers who would consult you about your musty relics, ladies yearning to test your manhood!” He smiled, a mite too handsomely, at Tlayesha.
“Mighty Prince—”
“Not now, not if you are still too addled. But one there is who will not wait.”
The Prince led the way down the staircase, through pillared corridors, into a portico of many arches and columns. Beyond was the night sky. A score of man-heights below, the Eridla River flowed beside the western cliffs of Avanthar, a mumbling torrent in the blue-velvet dusk. They were far too high for the spray to reach them here, but Harsan welcomed the moistureladen breeze; it blew away the somnolent thicknesses of incense and lamp-smoke and perfume from his brain.
Avanthar rose from the conflux of the Eridla and the Missuma Rivers like the prow of some gigantic ship, two hundred Tsan north of Bey Sii, in the midst of the eastern foothills of the Kraa Range. The citadel was the hollowed out mountain itself, pavilions and gardens and the Golden Tower adorning its summit like a crown. High, arched galleries opened out along its precipitous flanks from the labyrinthine halls and chambers within, and the only entrance was the Water Gate somewhere out of sight beneath them on the western side. To the rear, where the long promontory had once sloped down into the mountains to the north, a single mighty fosse had been cut away from one river gorge across to the other. Avanthar had defied all besiegers since before the Priestkings of Engsvan hla Ganga, before the arrogant masters of the First Imperium, before the ravaging Dragon Warriors from out of the northwest, and, indeed, who knew how many aeons before that. There were no records of the building of Avanthar. This Emperor or that had added to it, dug another gallery (though now the architects warned against this), and embellished it with ever-greater wealth and the spoils of captive nations. Yet no one knew who had created it.
Avanthar was unique; it was Avanthar.
A slight, elderly man sat upon a mat beside one of the casements. Harsan did not know him, but the pearl-grey mantle and ornate canonicals of a priest of Thumis were familiar. A complex headdress of opals, moonstones, and slate-hued plumes lay upon the mosaic floor beside him, obviously too heavy and uncomfortable to be worn once one had escaped the solemnities of the Hall of the Petal Throne.
“Greetings, priest Harsan. I am Durugen hiNashomai.”
Harsan knew the High Adept of his temple by name. He made obeisance as Zaren had taught him so long ago in the Monastery school. He had never imagined he would have a chance to use this bit of etiquette!
“Don’t bother. Your bow is three decades out of date. And we don’t require the Engsvanyali salutations any more.” The High Adept chuckled.
He motioned to a mat beside him. It lay upon a dais two finger-breadths lower than his own, as was proper. A plate of Mash-fruit and spice-scented Dlel-fruit glimmered next to him, their vivid yellows and blues reduced to pallid white and sooty black by the moonless darkness. He reached to select a Dlel-fruit with a sure, delicate hand.
Harsan looked about for Tlayesha, but Taluvaz and Mirure had steered her off to another of the arched window-alcoves overlooking the river. Prince Eselne sprawled against the scalloped stone railing. The two of them were alone with Lord Durugen.
“What Clan have you selected for yourself, priest Harsan?”
“I—I do not yet know, my Lord.—The Grey Cloak, if they’ll have me. Or the Scroll of Wisdom.”
“Either would be pleased to take you, a contributor to knowledge, indeed a hero of the Empire! The epic-singers are already scribbling verses in praise of your deeds!” Lord Durugen’s tone was faintly ironic. Harsan could not see whether he was smiling.
“Sir, I do not mean to push—to force myself upon anyone—” He really meant that. At first he had tried hard to convince his comrades and his rescuers that he was no hero, no Hrugga, no Warrior of the Age. Taluvaz and Mirure had been no help, and Tlayesha had been entirely too worshipful, as behooved a pretty girl whose mate has just unearthed the sensation of the century and set all of the sages and sorcerers by their ears! His story had b
een politely heard, but his protests were taken as no more than youthful humility—true or false, who cared? He suspected that much of this acclaim was motivated by politics rather than otherwise. Somebody—Prince Eselne, the Imperium, the hierarchy of Lord Thumis—needed a hero, and he had happened along to play the part. It all left a rather dark taste in his mouth.
“The Grey Cloak will take him in all right, eh mighty Prince?” Lord Durugen grinned over at Eselne. “They’ll make him a clan-brother. Ai, they’ll drum up a proper genealogy for him and give him the pick of their lineage-names! Not strictly ‘historical,’ perhaps, but satisfying, very satisfying, to everybody concerned. This Harsan is now famous—he can be Harsan hi-anybody-he-chooses. He’ll have to fight off their clan-daughters with a quarterstaff!”
“Whatever my father commands is—or rather, becomes—the will of the Gods,” Prince Eselne said. He, too, seemed amused.
“ ‘Noble acts raise even the lowest soul to become divine,’ ” Lord Durugen quoted piously from the Scrolls of Pavar. He sighed and settled himself against the parapet. “What a kettle of stew you have overturned, boy!”
Harsan was taken aback. “Holy Pontiff?”
“Cha! Do not pretend ignorance, young man! Already our delegates are sharpening their tongues for a battle over the custody of your fine black globes and polished silver devices—oh, and your Man of Gold, of course! That too. Now as a priest of Thumis upon an authorised mission, you are the logical claimant; we, the Temple of Thumis, are thus the proper owners. Prince Eselne here thinks otherwise. He, acting for the Imperium—or mayhap for the Temple of Lord Karakan, or possibly for his friends in the Miltary Party—would have his own scholars retain your booty in the Palace of the Realm in Purdimal.” He cackled. “Even the Temple of Sarku has had the amazing nerve to claim that what you did was done in service to them!”
“Next we shall hear demands from that grease-tongued Livyani,” the Prince growled.
“Then it begins all over again,” Harsan muttered glumly.
“Thus it has always been, ever since the Gods fought amongst themselves at the Battle of Dormoron Plain. There can be no real progress—the establishment of ‘noble action’—until we ourselves alter our own natures; that is why the Lords of Stability provide a better goal and a greater challenge than do the Lords of Change.” Lord Durugen inspected a slice of Mash-fmit, and, gratified, popped it into his mouth. “Whatever the disposition— and it may take years—the whole affair redounds to the credit of Prince Eselne here. Not, you understand, to that of Prince Surundano, the erstwhile protege of our own Temple of Thumis. Had you come to us in Purdimal, boy, we might have had the Hmelu by a different leg!”
“There were reasons, great Lord,” Harsan began, a trifle lamely.
“Reasons?” the old man snapped. “What ‘reasons’ could possibly take precedence over your own Temple? Because of you, Prince Eselne and his Military Party fly up like pretty Sahulen-birds into the favour of our divine Emperor’s eye, and poor Surundano gets not even a straw of the credit!”
“A straw? Cha, a dollop of bird-dung upon the pate is all he deserves,” observed Prince Eselne wryly. “Advise your clerkly little Surundano to give up the ‘Gold’ and leave the rest to me! With the aid of the three champions allowed me in the Kolumejalim, I shall become Emperor as surely as Lord Karakan’s sword is sharp! You know that brother Rereshqala is near to resigning his claim. I can marry Ma’in Kruthai—or slay her in the contests if she stays stubborn. Mridobu is no problem: a master of ink and paper, intrigues and officials, but without substance—a fine lack of nobility. Dhich’une, for reasons unknown, has gone off to sulk in the City of Sarku. He sees no one but his own priests and sorcerers, and it may be that will pass up the Golden Tower for a lifetime of worm-kissing and smelly rituals with his Undead catamites.”
“And Mirusiya?”
Eselne looked down, his handsome features lost in shadow. “You have found the one jewel in the chaff, my Lord. He and I may have to have it out one day, though some say he is too much the man of action to want to live mewed up in the Golden Tower with the Servitors of Silence and a gaggle of concubines. As for me, I have been trained all my life for just that fate, and I am ready for it when the time comes.” He rubbed his cheek thoughtfully. “Yes, I may offer Mirusiya the rule of Yan Kor and the northlands once we have taken them—my father has at last given permission for him to take a major army and advance up through the Pass of Skulls to invest Sunraya, you know. Mirusiya may like that.”
Lord Durugen felt about on the mat for a knife to peel another Mash-imii. “What of this priest Harsan here, then? Now that you have glorified him and well nigh turned his head around with all these dignities—taking credit for yourself, naturally—we would have him back. He is of the Temple of Thumis and rightfully belongs to us.”
“So that you can use him as your claimant in the matter of the artifacts? La, dear Lord Durugen!”
“Just as you would employ him as your instrument, if he were added to your staff! Ohe, Prince Eselne!”
Harsan could endure no more.
Slowly, but with increasing vehemence, he said, “And what if I do neither? What if I resign from this game of Den-denV' He warmed to his words. “What if I refuse to bear witness or play the advocate for either of you?”
They both stared at him as though he were an Akho, “the Embracer of Ships,” risen up out of the stone flagging.
“What, then—?” Lord Durugen put down the little knife. “My Lords, I am a scholar, a student of languages and wisdom. I am no politician, no hero, no courtier to mince about palaces, no barrister to slice arguments and pare clauses!” “There, now, young man,” Lord Durugen soothed. “You shall not be forgotten! You shall have access to the things you discovered—perhaps be made Chief Examiner in charge of them—”
“Stuff the relics—and the accursed Man of Gold, which is neither a man, nor gold, and which does not work anyway—into an Ahoggya’s furry arse, throw the temple libraries in after them, and set the lot afire!”
Harsan had astonished even himself. His fingers shook, and he felt a sudden dread of losing control and becoming as he had been under the Mihalli’s awful spell. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand.
Lord Durugen sat speechless, for once shocked into silence. Prince Eselne straightened up, and for a moment Harsan feared that the next words he would hear would be a call for the impalers and their stake.
Then Eselne began to laugh.
“Hai, a Zrne cub leaps snarling upon its foes, no matter their size!” he chortled. “Ah, priest Harsan, would you assault Avanthar and lay waste to the temples of the Gods—and both on the same afternoon? Would that my soldiers were as brave as you!” He choked, broke off to spit a Mash-seed out into the night, and gasped for breath.
“What would you have then, boy?” Lord Durugen inquired with ominous gentleness.
“Only a place in some peaceful temple—a monastery, an academy of learning, I care not—somewhere. A place in which to work, to fulfill my Skein of Destiny, to study, to learn. No more.”
“Aha, Lord Durugen!” Eselne crowed. “Oh, let us grant him this—agree to accept his written deposition regarding the relics, find him such a post, and trouble him no longer! His courage demands it.”
The High Adept’s face was stiff and cold. “Easy for you, mighty Prince, who possess the artifacts and the Man of Gold, whatever it may be. Easy for the Imperium, but not so for us. We have a right to this youth; we took him in, nurtured him, trained him, gave him the skills he would now bury in some rustic shrine!”
“Nonsense. He will warble the tune your grey-robes taught him. But not, mayhap, exactly as you and I would have him sing! Release him—a noble act upon our parts, and noble action is the sole salvation of all creatures, as the Scrolls of your Priest Pavar say, though I am damned if I can recall just where!” He gestured out beyond the railing, toward the world that slumbered there in the darkness. “Do you not have a temple post s
omeplace, the sort of thing this priest Harsan wants? Let us not be too harsh with our taskmastering!”
Lord Durugen’s face wore the expression of one who has just bitten into a pebble. “No—yes—oh, have it your way. “I suppose so. If you insist. There is a librarianship in Penom—”
“A stinking city, a sinkhole of swamps and insects and disease!”
“Thraya, then. A teacher died there recently, of that new plague.”
“Too remote—and not the sort of place where real research is done. The Monastery of the Sapient Eye, dear Lord Durugen! Prior Haringgashte grows no younger.”
“Well, Well,” Lord Durugen cleared his throat, coughed, and made to rise. “An Imperial Prince decrees. So be it.”
“Would you return to the Chakas, priest Harsan?” Eselne inquired.
Before he could reply, another voice asked, “Or may I suggest yet another Skein?” Lord Taluvaz Arrio stood there. No one had heard him come up in the darkness. They all turned about to look.
“And what might that be?” the High Adept asked in sceptical tones.
“Livyanu, great masters. As a member of the venture sent jointly by the Temples of Lord Thumis and Lord Karakan to explore the southern continent.—Or perhaps a post with your expeditionary force in Tsolei?” He glanced down at Harsan. “New things, learning, the ancient seat of Llyani wisdom—doors that only I can open for you within the archives of our temples! No threat to the interests of the Temple of Thumis or to those of Prince Eselne, either one. Out of harm’s way: no Skull Prince threading needles of revenge. No more of players and games.”
He gave Harsan a meaningful look.
Here was a possibility, a new idea. What Taluvaz Arrio offered did promise knowledge, adventure, and excitement. More, it would give him peace from the storms that had cast him up upon the shore here at Avanthar.
But then longing for the sweet, green canopy of the Chakan Inner Range welled up within him: the Monastery of the Sapient Eye—Zaren—his Pe Choi friends—his home. Too, there was Itk t’Sa’s mission, embedded within his heart like a gem set in a ring.
The Man of Gold Page 43
