by Dave Duncan
One night in my dreams I perceived an old woman in a bluish cloak, sitting by a well near a banyan tree. Early the following morning I found the square, the tree, the well, and her, as prophesied. I knew her by her great age, her cloak, and a prominent mole. There was no doubt. Indeed she peered up at me with age-dulled eyes and shrunken face and said, "You come at last!"
I sat with her for many hours, while the shadows crept around the square, and we traded many tales. She was originally of Zanadon, and had been … but her own history is immaterial now. I shall enlighten you with that another day.
She told me wonders without number—why the gods of Dol Fark went mad, and where the people went when they fled from Kishmair, and who stole the Nipple of Xa-Vok—so many secrets that my head spun. And when the crows flew homeward in the dusk, I promised that I would return upon the morrow, and she sighed as if feeling blessed and said gently that she would not, because her penance was complete. But that she did not explain.
As the stars appeared I wandered back to my lodgings without remembering doing so and fell upon my pallet. All those wondrous narratives buzzed in my brain, and I did not know which one to think of first. I slept at last and in my dreams I saw a towered city on a hill, entered only by a great ramp from the plain below. I recognized Zanadon from her words and knew that I was summoned.
Among all the other marvels, the old woman had described Zanadon and had told me how it alone of all the cities of the Spice Lands had never been conquered. It was the will of Balor, she said, and she apprised me of Balor in this wise: Of the many gods that Father Sky sired upon Mother Earth, only Maiana and Balor were twins.
"Oh, come!" Thorian protested. "What of Ashfer and Bin Dos, or Sailmok and—"
"Desist!" I said sharply, and he fell silent. "Truly the tales men tell of the gods are unnumbered, and our lives are short. To make a whole of them is beyond our mortal wit. Some may be false or incomplete, and many that seem contradictory to us may make sense to the gods themselves. Let us fix upon this one story as it is told in Zanadon, for while we are within its ancient walls, we must honor its gods.
"Cities come and cities go. Empires rise and fall, but only Zanadon bears the name of the Unvanquished. This is acknowledged fact throughout all the Spice Lands and all the world.
"It is told in Zanadon, then, that Maiana and Balor were twins. And when the gods went forth to raise up the races of humankind, then Maiana and Balor, being twins, founded Zanadon together and decreed it to be eternal. They made it great, and dwelt within it, as was the way of the gods in the Golden Days. And Zanadon prospered mightily under their rule.
"You know how the Golden Days ended, and how Sky summoned all the gods to his dwelling Beyond the Rainbow, and held Great Council, and how he there delegated certain gods and goddesses to bear thenceforth certain attributes and fulfill certain duties. All men admit the truth of this. Balor, protesting, was ordained the god of war."
Thorian made a noise as if about to complain and then fell silent.
"Of course the Fickle One has other names," I admitted. "Krazath, and Gar Grunn, and Phail. In Polrain they call him Sztatch, do they not?"
"So I have heard tell."
I wondered why he would not admit that he was from Polrain, first victim of the Vorkan invasion. There had been so few survivors that I still had not heard a good firsthand account of the disaster and was most anxious to do so. "And some who give those names to the god of war recognize Balor, also, but assign other attributes to him. As I said, we can debate theology another time.
"Thus Balor departed with lamentation to take up the duties the Father had decreed. Maiana remained behind, mourning, and ruled alone in Zanadon from that day forward.
"The legend continues. As god of war, Balor remains impartial. If he favors a people in one century, he must turn from their children in another. Thus Father Sky commanded, so that justice may be shared over the world, and truly we see that Balor plays no favorite for long. He raises up and he casts down. He inspires the weak to madness and glory, the powerful he unmans and exterminates. In Urgalon they claim that he is blind.
"The exception is always Zanadon. In Zanadon they say that in his agony at the awful burden placed upon him at the Great Council, Balor cried out until he won the pity of all the other gods, and they added their pleas to his. But Father Sky was adamant, until even Earth herself added her voice, and then the First One made a single concession—that Balor need never bring destruction upon the city he himself had founded.
"And so it has been. When an enemy comes to the gates of Zanadon, then Maiana makes special appeal to her brother. She reminds him of their twinship and the happy days they shared here, ruling jointly. She reminds him that he fathered the people and they are his children. She summons him again to be her consort and lover, as he was of yore. And because of the especial love that Balor has for Maiana, he remembers his debt to his former city and his sister. Then Balor takes on mortal form and comes to Zanadon, and leads its army forth in person. And with Balor himself at its head, that army must always triumph over its enemies."
The morning after the old woman told me all this, I went searching for her again. All day I hunted, but she was nowhere to be found, and none knew of whom I spoke. So at evening I kissed Roathina with many tears, and I walked down through the noisy bazaars to the banks of the great Nathipi, and boarded a craft heading upriver, through the gorges of the Pearls of the Sky. I came to the Spice Lands. Two years I had been journeying, and now I had arrived.
"So you came to Zanadon?" Thorian said. "And landed in a war."
"I knew I would land in a war. The gods lead me always to great events, to witness epic deeds and high romance. Love and sacrifice I have seen aplenty. Also storm and famine, earthquake and war. But I have never seen a god, Thorian! Not yet.
"Now the Vorkans are at the gate.
"Now Balor will return in wrath and save his city!"
My tale was done, but all Thorian said was "I hope you are right."
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8: Maiden in Distress
Muttering gratefully, we crawled out from under the slab. Thorian stretched and rubbed his back.
I was already peering around the darkened court. No lights showed in the windows, and the city was silent. The moon was not due until just before dawn, but in the Spice Lands then the stars were brighter and more numerous than they have ever been at other times or in other places, and the sky was a golden glory. I tried not to look at it, because stars distract me.
Our needs were simple, but not few: water to remove our bloodstains, cloth to cover our nudity, tools to remove the collars, and a place to rest. The gods must know them as well as I.
First we must escape from the yard itself. The sheds at one end were likely to be storage; those at the other seemed stables and a carriage house. My brawny assistant and I could boost each other up to their roofs easily enough, but in summer they would certainly be paved with slumbering servants. The roof of the house itself was higher and out of reach. The windows were barred. All the doors and gates would be locked and bolted.
Thorian took the weight of the slab again; I removed the amphora. The rock settled back into position with a grating sound that seemed to echo across the city, but was in truth almost inaudible. Only then did I remember the chain, left inside. We would need the chain to climb over the gate—but then what? Naked, wearing metal collars …
I did not need to outline our predicament for my companion.
"Well?" he demanded in a menacing whisper. "Have we merely exchanged one sort of captivity for another?"
"The gods will provide."
"They had better do it soon!"
Something rattled at the street side of the court.
I dived for a corner and squeezed myself into it, trying to look like a water pipe. Only then did I search for Thorian, who had vanished with a speed incredible in a man so enormous.
We had come in over the big wagon gate, but it w
as the smaller postern at its side that now creaked open. Thorian was flattened against the wall behind it. A pale swath glittered in starlight as a man entered and turned to lock the gate behind him. Thorian's great hands closed around the newcomer's neck, then lowered the limp body to the ground.
I hurried over. "Don't kill him!"
Thorian was kneeling over his victim, one great paw on his throat. The look he gave me had the power to intimidate even in starlight.
"Sorry!" I whispered. He had never warned me that he was a warrior. I was supposed to guess. Warriors are tricky companions, quick to take offense and even quicker to seek retribution.
"Just fingertips on the arteries," he whispered. "From the smell of him, he's two-thirds drunk anyway. He'll have a sore head, but he won't even remember my touch."
Truly, for a self-proclaimed baker of cupcakes, my associate had some surprising talents. He nodded at the gate. "Be gone. I'll follow."
"Wait!"
Our victim was a largish young man with an enviable square black pillow of beard. His swath was an elaborate thing of pale silks, covering his legs to the ankle, and the brooch that held it was fist size, fiery with gems. Obviously he was no mere flunky, and I wondered why he would travel unescorted and enter by the trade entrance. The hour was late and the city silent.
I took up the ring of keys he had dropped. There were about a dozen of them. I selected the smallest and bent over my companion. Too small … the next produced a satisfying click. It was pure coincidence, of course, but I do not believe in coincidence.
Locksmiths tend to be as lazy as other men, and most use the same molds over and over.
I unfastened my own collar also, with much relief.
Thorian chuckled. "Now?"
"No." I hurried across to the door of the house. It took me a few moments and a ewerful of sweat to find the right key. The hinges squeaked painfully. I hurried back across the yard, pushed the gate shut, then knelt to replace the ring in the folds of the sleeping man's swath. Thorian's broad shoulders were shaking with silent laughter.
Two seconds later we were inside the mansion.
Starlight gleamed through a barred window, offering us a choice of steps down, steps up, or a door. I chose the door, and found a closet full of brooms and jars and shelves, reeking of wax and lye. There was barely room for both of us; I had one foot in a bucket. But I also had one eye to a convenient knothole.
A few moments after that, our victim staggered hard against the outer door, then a bell jangled somewhere in the cellars. The response was too slow, evidently, for the man outside began clattering keys in the lock.
As he did so, light advanced up the stair from the servants' quarters. An elderly man climbed slowly into view, carrying a lantern. He raised it when he reached the door, revealing a key hung on a nail above the lintel.
The action now became complicated. The man outside and the man inside were both trying to unlock the door, neither realizing that there was no need. The lock clicked to and fro several times. Eventually the hinges squeaked again, and the newcomer staggered forward into the light.
"Milord!" the servant exclaimed, steadying him with his free hand. "Is something wrong?"
"Just some bad wine, Hasmar," the young man muttered, his voice blurred. "Banged my head." Both he and his costly swath were smeared with dirt. "Sorry to drag you upstairs like this …"
"The master has been asking for you, milord."
The answer was an indistinct obscenity.
"If you wish to lean on my shoulder, milord?" The watchman was likely a slave, for he bore no weapon. His swath came barely to his knees. He was slight, stooped, and gray. He did not look capable of supporting the other's weight.
"'Shnot neshessh …" The lordling straightened himself and took several deep breaths. "It—is—not—necessary. No, you keep the light. I can manage." He moved carefully up the steps, placing each foot deliberately, and disappeared. With a shrug, the slave closed and locked the door, replacing the key. Then he headed back down to his kennel in the basement.
I removed my leg from the bucket and emerged from the closet. Thorian followed. We climbed the steps the younger man had taken and soon observed him ahead of us in silhouette, weaving along a corridor toward light.
The great house was built to a plan common in those lands, an open rectangle. The central atrium was garnished with trees and flowers and an altar to the household gods. Torches burned there, scenting the air with tarry fumes. A staircase led up one side, to a gallery on the upper story. The large open space and fine furnishings bespoke impressive wealth.
We stopped in the shadows. The returning resident had crossed this central court and was poised at the bottom of the staircase. Another figure stepped out of the darkness behind him.
"Good evening, Jaxian."
I sensed the unspoken imprecation. Steadying himself carefully against the banister, the young man turned.
"G-g-good evening, Father."
"Did Hasmar not report that I wanted to see you as soon as you returned?" The older man was middle aged and stocky, but he seemed to be composed more of hard gristle than muscle or fat. His nose was prominent and hooked like a claw. In the ways of the Spice Lands, he proclaimed his exalted rank with his raiment, a rainbow cloak—scarlet, piped and embroidered and pleated in turquoise and peacock blue—but he also wore six or seven gold ribbons looped across his chest, gleaming in the torches' unsteady light. His graying hair was thin, his white-streaked beard comparatively short.
"I was g-g-going upstairs to wash first," Jaxian explained. He sounded much less drunk than before. Fathers can be very sobering people, of course, but Jaxian seemed somewhat old to be reacting that way, probably in his early thirties. He was surprisingly large, almost as big as Thorian—apparently I was destined to be surrounded by giants in this Zanadon affair—but size is a reliable indicator of wealth. The children of the poor eat sparingly.
Glaring up at him, his father made a sound of disgust or contempt. "Pah! Drunkard!"
The younger man was much larger, yet he cringed like an errant child. "Just a few friends after the militia d-d-drill. The wine was a bit off, I susp-p-pect."
"Male friends, I suppose?"
Jaxian hiccuped. "Yesh." He edged a couple of steps up the stair, and the shift in position moved his face out of shadow, for he had been under a palm. I saw that he had the same curved-blade nose as his father. In the father's case it conveyed arrogance. On the unassertive son it seemed inappropriate.
"I could forgive the whorehouse more easily than the taverns," his father snarled.
"There is nothing to forgive, Father." The big young man hung his head but failed to conceal his blushes.
"I wanted to talk to you about bread. Last night we agreed to raise the price another two mites per loaf, did we not?"
"Well, you d-d-d … You d-d-d …" The words would not come.
"Yes. I listened to your arguments, very patiently, but in the end we agreed, did we not? Two mites more. And I discovered this afternoon that you never issued the order!"
"The others hadn't! The P-p-p-pomaniuk b-b-b-bak-eries—''
"Fool! They were waiting for us. They would have followed instantly!"
"But the p-p-people—"
"The people be damned!" the older man roared. "They can find the money or they can starve—that is not our concern. Have you any idea where prices will go once the siege begins? No, you haven't. Imbecile! And here you are, giving away our precious grain! Well, as of tomorrow, the price goes up by four mites. I did your work for you and sent out the orders. Do you understand?"
The reply was almost inaudible. "Yesh, Father."
"I wonder if you really do? If the others do not follow, then they can waste their supplies at whatever price they want, and we shall have all the more left for later. Got that?"
"Yes, Father."
"Go to bed, you drunken slob."
"Yes, Father."
The charming scene of domestic tra
nquility was ended. Sent to his room like a toddler, Jaxian trudged up the stairs. The seventh and the twelfth treads creaked. His father stood and watched his progress.
At the top, the big young man started to turn to the left. Then he glanced down and saw that he was still being observed. That seemed to change his mind, for he staggered and veered to the right, vanishing through the third door. It closed with a thump.
Shaking his head angrily, the older man stalked across the court and disappeared into the shadows. Another door shut.
"Filthy profiteer!" Thorian muttered angrily.
"Astute businessman," I replied. "Come along."
"Where to?"
"Upstairs. Find a bathroom."
"Idiot! There are probably people asleep in half those rooms!"
I was about to repeat my lecture about trusting the gods, when a bell jangled down in the bowels of the house. Someone would come to answer that summons.
Thorian and I rushed in barefoot silence to the stairs and raced up them, avoiding the seventh and the twelfth treads. I chose a door at random, and of course it was the bathroom. I waited before closing the door. I saw old Hasmar hobble across the court with his lantern, and in a few moments I heard voices … More arrivals? At this time of night? Interesting!
The fittings were impressive—marble and fine porcelain, and downy soft towels, which I recognized as produce of the Silver Shores cotton fields. A golden spigot dispensed water from some hidden cistern that was doubtless filled from the roof by winter rains. There was even a drain to carry the discarded water down to lower levels for other uses.
To risk a light would have been foolhardy—trusting the gods is not the same as tempting them. We completed our toilet as best we could, inspecting each other by starlight under the window. The bathtub would be left stained with blood, there were two abandoned slave collars down in the broom closet, food and wine had disappeared. Hasmar would have some explaining to do in the morning, but probably other watchmen would relieve him during the night. If the owner of the residence flogged several men for the sins of one, his injustice would make all his servants resentful and uncooperative.
