by Dave Duncan
The merchant scowled. Reluctantly he lifted one of the gold chains from around his thick neck and hung it on the waiting fingers. The fingers stayed where they were, waiting for more.
"The terms were agreed upon, Nagiak!"
"'Holiness' is the correct form of address, or 'Father.'" The fingers lingered yet.
The merchant could more easily part with a daughter than with wealth. He flushed furiously. "What need have you for gold? Why should a gelding need gilding?"
The priest's eyes shrank to nothing amid the bulges of fat. "Remember to whom you speak, my son." The high voice sounded shriller.
"And you! I lead the merchants of this city, Nagiak. We raised you up, we can cast you down!"
"No, I don't think so. Dear me, no. That is highly improbable!" The priest had a smile to panic crocodiles, but he made the chain vanish into his cloak.
Tharpit continued to glare at him—seldom had I seen a pair of conspirators less amicably disposed.
"When? How soon?"
Nagiak shrugged his shoulders like down pillows. "Do not worry so, my son! I do believe that War Lord Arksis is of the opinion that there is yet time. I think the sly fellow intends to let the Vorkans fatten on the rabble below our gates." He giggled shrilly. "That way we can take it all when Balor leads us to victory, can't we?"
The merchant turned away to pace the room, but now his agitation seemed much more genuine than the posturing he had used on his daughter. "It takes forty years to grow an olive tree! Have you seen the smoke in the eastern sky? I am not alone in this, Nagiak! Half the families in the city are being ruined while you shilly-shally!"
"Half of what families?" The priest puckered his lips. "Olive groves? Vineyards? Herds? We must also consider the lives of our brave boys of Zanadon, mustn't we?"
Tharpit turned on him furiously. "We have an agreement! When will that mad hag do her duty?"
Nagiak spread his silken arms, opening like a great crimson rose. "When Maiana wills, of course. At the new moon, or the next new moon."
"Rumor says that she has had another stroke."
"Do not believe bazaar gossip, my son! Do not distress yourself. Cultivate serenity and faith! Tomorrow the heralds will proclaim your sacrifice for all to hear. The populace will greatly marvel at your donation of an only daughter to serve the Great Mother. Such devotion! They will applaud such dedication!" He simpered. "I do believe they may even overlook the current prices in your stores—for a day or two. They will wonder also at the matching sacrifices being made by several other notable citizens."
Seemingly vague, yet the threat was potent—it made the merchant blanch. "We have an agreement!"
The high priest held out his hand again.
Purpling with fury, Tharpit lifted the remaining gold chains from his neck and passed them over.
"Your dear sweet daughter will be the jewel in the crown of Maiana," Nagiak said, and the fat lips leered. "Your honor is unquestioned. Now kneel, my dear Bedian, so I may give you my blessing."
| Go to Table of Contents |
9: A Familiar Face
"To the temple!" I said.
"Most certainly."
With Thorian at my heels, I sped around the pool. Bedian Tharpit was bowing the high priest out the door of the room. By the time they had crossed the atrium and were approaching the street entrance, we had emerged from the dining room and were on our way back to the kitchen quarters. I grabbed a torch from a sconce in passing.
"What's that for? You're crazy!" Thorian protested.
"You want to look like a burglar or something? Trust the gods!"
The servant had locked the back door when Jaxian Tharpit entered. I raised my sputtering light and found the key on the nail. I locked the door again from the outside, tucking the key in a fold of my swath. The gate I had left unsecured, of course. Without hesitation, I hauled it open and stepped out into the alley. Thorian hissed nervously but followed.
The priests would travel by coach, and we could not hope to arrive at the temple before the gift did. But then I had no inkling of what I expected to achieve when I got there. Perhaps the walk would clear my thinking.
"I find it ever harder to credit your denials of magic, Trader of Tales." Thorian's long legs had no trouble matching my hurried pace. "How did you know that there would be no watchers out here in the alley?"
"I wouldn't care overmuch if there were. We are clad now and beating a light. Only the guard will question us." Of course our swaths were makeshift affairs that would not bear close inspection. We had no hats or shoes. Discreetly not mentioning such petty details, I swung round a corner and hastened along another narrow way. The air stank of camels, and the footing was unpleasantly soft in places.
"In such troubled times guards pullulate everywhere," Thorian said.
"Then we must avoid them. I think we can approach the temple without using the Great Way."
For a little while we strode along in silence, always angling uphill. The stars were a beach of jewels over our heads, lighting the back streets and alleys I was following. The summer night, warm and muggy, was patterned with curious pockets of conflicting scents—ponies, kitchen odors, flowers unknown to me.
The city was hauntingly familiar. I have seen so many cities that they blur in my memories like trees on a foggy morning. I shall never forget the diamond spires of Pael or the boat cities of Fallange, of course. There is timeless Daöl, deserted by day but thronged by night with shadows that will not meet the eye. There are the Silent Cities, where to speak is a crime. There are a few others of which I will not tell. But, by and large, step aside from the aorta and you will find the small veins in any city feel much the same.
My head jangled with a tumult of thoughts. Why had that lordly merchant tricked his daughter into the priesthood? He could have used her to make an advantageous alliance with some other prominent family. That was what daughters were for, in his gold-walled world. And why had the high priest himself connived and assisted? The two of them had admitted to having a secret agreement, but I could not imagine what it might involve.
As I said, I try to keep my emotions in check when the gods call me to witness great events, but the woman's beauty had touched my soul, and her face was a haunting ghost of a memory, or of a desire. And she was in great danger.
"Omar?" Thorian muttered.
I grunted.
"You are so sure that the god will come?"
I said I was sure.
"Miracles are rare in these prosaic times. These are not the Golden Days. How long since Balor last walked the earth?"
"Some centuries—I have no exact tally. I do not delve into chronicles or converse with the learned. The common folk are my grist."
"And what happens after? It seems to my recollection that Zanadon has several times gathered itself an empire."
"I believe so. Hardly surprising. Most cities have. The empires crumble, and oftentimes the cities, also. What ails you?" I was forcing the pace, but it was making me pant, and sweat streamed down my chest.
Thorian's deep voice was low, his breathing annoyingly untroubled. "And what happens after? When the god has come to the world and smitten the Vorkans—what then? Does he just return Beyond the Rainbow after the battle? Or does the war god himself continue to lead Mighty Zanadon? Half its rivals are dust already. Does Balor found empires for his people?"
"I don't know!" I grunted. I had not given the matter a thought.
"Does he age like a mortal and die? Does he sire sons to reign after him?"
"I don't know!" I shouted. "I don't care!"
"I do," Thorian said quietly.
He was from Polrain, where the slaughter had started. I was sure of that from his voice. He was a warrior, at the least.
After a moment, he began again. "The king of Pulst is known as Mothin. The incumbent claims to be the forty-third of that name, but he may be the fifty-ninth for all he really knows. All the kings of Pulst have been called Mothin."
"So?"
"Surely you see? Zanadon remains always unvanquished because it is impregnable upon its hill, that is all. Apparently it has water and can withstand a siege. The only miracles are those cliffs and those walls. And when a war leader arises, whether for defense or for conquest, he is hailed as Balor. As Mothin means king in Pulst, so Balor means king in Zanadon!"
"Let's cut through here … That is not what the people believe. The woman I spoke with on the Silver Shores was adamant. On the Reaver Road I spoke with many natives returning, scurrying home to safety, and they all expect the living god."
"I put my trust in priestly subterfuge! It will be a trick."
"I am distressed that you do not believe in the gods, Thorian, my friend."
"I believe in the gods of my homeland. They stay in their places. I distrust these strange, meddling gods of the plains."
I stopped suddenly and faced him under the pungent, sputtering flame. Two smaller flames burned in the darkness of his eyes.
"I have no call upon you," I said angrily, "nor you on me. Go in peace."
For a moment I thought he would do so. Then he said, "Answer me one question, declaring that Morphith may know of it when he culls your soul."
"What question?"
"Have you ever been in Zanadon before?"
I hesitated.
"Well?" he growled. "You have a choice of two words; neither is exactly hard to pronounce."
But it was not so simple. "In dreams, yes."
"In the flesh?"
"I don't know," I said. "I have dreamed it so often in the last two years that I just do not know. When first I dreamed it, it seemed familiar, comforting. But dreams are oft like that, are they not? Now I am here it seems familiar from my dreams." I sighed, for I knew I was not making him content with such words. "Friend, if I have walked these streets before, then it was so long ago that my memories are blurred."
He scowled, baring teeth in his beard. Indecision must be a rare experience for him.
I laughed. "I could have sworn this road led out to a square. They must have changed it since my last dream! One city is like to another, and I have seen so many! Come, let us go this way."
I walked away, but in a moment he was pacing at my side again, under the stars. Bats flitted overhead with their thin piping. Once a cat screamed, far off. When he next spoke there was a colder note in his voice.
"There are two Reaver Roads, you know."
"No. Tell me of them."
"For an army, there are but two ways into the Spice Lands. You cannot ship a mounted horde up a river—it would be neither seemly nor logistically feasible. Northward stands the Kulthiar Range, southward the Pearls of the Sky. Invaders must always come from the east or the west, by Maidens Pass or by the Edge of the Sown. Conquerors fall first upon Polrain or upon Thang, and then they head for the other. They sweep the length of the land, because they have no choice."
"Which is why the route is called the Reaver Road," I said breathlessly. I was much afraid now that I was lost and would have to cut over to the Great Way to catch my beatings. The buildings were higher, cutting off my view of the stars, and I do not like to stare at the stars anyway, I paused, irresolute, and the night was cool on my sweat now.
"And in the center stands Zanadon," Thorian persisted.
"So?" But I had not considered the geography so. The only landscape that ever interests me is contained within the bounds of the horizon. Thorian thought otherwise, but Thorian was a warrior, however much he had joked about cupcakes. Warriors are trained to think in ways that storytellers do not.
And the geography of this Zanadon warren was bothering me enough by itself then. I headed west.
"So two Reaver Roads, and they meet on the Jolipi, at Zanadon. Obviously, when the cities of the plain unite, it will be here that they make their stand, always, whether it is against Vorkans or against the hosts of former times—Kulpians, or Waregs, or the Ocher Men, or any of the multitudes who have flowed over the land in blood and tears. From east or west, here the final battle is joined."
I could see the expanse of the Great Way ahead now. "So you think the cities unite under Zanadon?"
"Under Zanadon possibly. At Zanadon certainly. And whoever is chosen leader is hailed as Balor. It would be a clever move because—"
"They show no signs of doing so now. You saw, as I did, the emissaries being turned away from the gate. Or do you think they will acclaim Corporal Fotius war lord as you suggested?"
Had that only been the previous evening? It felt like a week ago. My bones were crumbling from exhaustion, and the night barely old enough to shave yet.
"Stop!" I said, and backed into a doorway, holding the torch at my back. We were only a few paces from the Great Way. Thorian moved in beside me.
"What's wrong?"
"I need a breather." I twirled the torch against the stonework, dwindling its flame to a flicker, "You may be right, of course. That may be what happened in ancient times, and today's lesser men have fallen into folly and hubris, deceived by encrustations of exaggeration and mythification. If so, then I shall witness the first sack of Zanadon, and that will be a memorable story, also."
After a moment he chuckled. "And perhaps a more satisfying one!"
A troop of soldiers went marching past the end of the alley, heading down the Great Way. They did not see us.
Thorian uttered his lion growl. "You knew of them!"
"No. I needed a breathing spell. I told you."
A single huge hand closed on my throat, lifting me up on my toes and ending the breathing spell. "You knew they were coming!"
I choked, and the pressure was eased slightly, to let me speak. "I have told you that trusting the gods is not the same as tempting them! They are keeping us unobserved. It never hurts to make things as easy for them as possible.''
The hand was removed, but slowly, and with reluctance.
"When a man lies to me I kill him," Thorian said softly.
"I suppose I shall learn that eventually. Now we can go. Those louts will not look back."
We emerged together onto the wide darkness of the Great Way, but I could sense the distrust that now walked between us. The temple lay straight ahead, and so close that we might as well head straight for it. There were lights there. Glancing behind me, I saw lights scattered all the way down the slope to the gates: fireflies, or fallen stars. I hurried along, foolishly annoyed at Thorian's easier pace. Being made to feel small is an unpleasant sensation for me, for I am as tall as most.
"Omar," he said, "this is madness! We shall be seen."
"Who is looking? I told you—only the guard will question."
The road was wide. Small groups were coming and going—groups of one or two, mostly, each with a servant beating a torch. I assumed they were suppliants, visiting the temple or leaving it. Debts or sickness or a lack of children—when a man goes to pray for important things, he prefers to go unseen, in the quiet hours. He does not want his friends to see him praying to Machus! Besides, the gods may be less busy than by day, and more able to heed the petitions of mortals.
In these troubled times there would be more petitioners than usual: merchants like Tharpit whose estates were being pillaged, wives whose husbands journeyed in foreign lands, mothers whose sons had been inducted.
We went by them all at a distance, ignoring them, and they ignored us. They would not notice our bare feet. We were not wearing the foolish pot hats of the Spice Lands, but not everyone else was, either. Soon we reached the colonnade that ends the Great Way. We stepped through the arches and were at the temple.
The Courtyard of the Thousand Gods in Zanadon is the largest open space I know of in any walled city, except perhaps the Grand Plaza in Againro. I have seen larger in the cities of the Island Kingdoms, which rely on their navies for defense, but only there. That night it struck me speechless.
It is approximately oval, enclosed on either hand by curves of high wall, and at the rear by the great pyramid of the temple. The col
onnade that ends the Great Way continues in cloisters that curve around, abutting the walls. The ziggurat rises in eighteen giant steps, each step three times the height of a man, bat a flight of mortal-size stairs extends up the center of the nearest face to the summit and the House of the Goddess, whose golden roof glitters near the stars. Flanking the near comers of the pyramid and overtopping it easily stand the great Maiana and Balor.
They dominate the Courtyard. I rolled my head back to look up at them, dark against the starlight. Their heads touched the sky. They stared down at me accusingly with eyes that seemed to glow, although that was likely just my fancy embellishing again. Worried, I looked away.
Only the priesthood may walk within the cloisters or the temple itself, but layfolk may enter the Courtyard to pray. While the back of the Courtyard is defined by the temple and the great statues, the front and sides are marked out by the pillars of the cloisters and the colonnade. Before every pillar stands a god or goddess.
The plaza was empty. Oh, there may have been a hundred people or so there, but that space can hold the entire population of a city and would look deserted were it occupied by four cohorts of cavalry practicing spear drill. Perhaps two dozen lights glowed like lost stars in all the vacant blackness. In the background, a few parties of priests or priestesses paced slowly within the cloisters, as if two wheels mined in opposition; their torches blinked on and off behind pillars. Three or four small squads of soldiers moved across the central space, as did some suppliants arriving or departing.
At least half the lights were stationary, an irregular circle of specks defining the perimeter of the Courtyard like a string of beads. Each tiny flame represented a worshipper or two, pestering some god or other. The torches showed the groveling suppliants on the ground, of course, but they also lit up the god. Perhaps a dozen of the Thousand stood out in the darkness, listening to the whining at their feet. Each was flanked by a fainter neighbor on either side, like supporters come to witness. The sight made my scalp prickle.
