The Reaver Road

by Dave Duncan

  "Well?" Thorian rumbled. "The girl will be within the temple by now. What are you planning to do, Trader of Tales? Take the temple of Maiana by storm, perchance?"

  "I don't know," I said, and my mouth was dry. "And those guards are heading this way. Let us go over to one of the gods and pretend to pray, while we think."

  "You lead, then."

  I set off across the endless dark Courtyard as if I were a servant bearing a light before my master. I picked the widest unlit expanse I could see, headed for the middle of it, choosing a god at random.

  Strictly counting, there are three hundred and forty-eight figures of gods in the Courtyard at Zanadon—the Thousand is a poetic exaggeration. I examined them by daylight later; I have seen similar collections in other cities. Wailman has over four hundred. Most are unnecessary repetitions, the same deity represented under many names. Some are obscure protectors of minor cities, or guardians of various lakes, streams, and so on. Some are so trivial that no one remembers who they are. A few are other than human, with animal heads, or wings, and those are usually exotic imports from distant lands.

  The great majority are merely representations of handsome men and women, life size or slightly larger, standing on knee-high plinths. The men are mostly clothed, the women not, although there are exceptions in both cases. About half bear attributes, like wine jugs or sheaves or sometimes a child.

  When we had arrived before one of the holy figures, I knelt down as worshippers do and touched my face to the ground. Thorian knelt at my side.

  Silence. The night was warm and still, for the Zanadonians pray quietly, unlike many peoples I have known.

  I felt strangely at a loss. To seek out the portal of the temple and blunder in seemed madness. I wanted to find the beautiful Shalial, although I was not at all sure why—to warn her of her danger, perhaps. But her fate might be ordained, and by now she would have been inducted into the priesthood, and even to talk with her would be criminal sacrilege.

  Were we to be arrested as vagrants by the city guard, we should be soundly flogged and then evicted from the gates, or more likely chained up as slaves again and send to work on the walls.

  But were the priestesses of Maiana to catch us trespassing within the temple, then Thorian's prediction would come true. He was right—it did not bear thinking about. We should be turned over to the city guard eventually, but bereft of our manhood. I have heard tales of dull knives, red-hot metal to staunch the blood, and even worse stories of fingernails … most men die of the shock, and are glad to do so.

  What was I supposed to do here? Why had I been shown that strange scene in the night, a man giving away his daughter against her will? If I could not find a reason for being here, Thorian was going to laugh and call me insane. I needed to sleep, and I needed to dream.

  Thorian, for variety, reared back on his heels, raising both arms in the air. "Hear my prayer, O Holy …" He paused and peered. "Rosh?" he muttered, reading the name on the plinth. "The name of this god is Rosh. Who is Rosh?"

  He went down, and I went up, raising my arms. It keeps the blood circulating, and it would look convincing.

  "Rosh is the god of history, and tides, and sometimes memory."

  I went down and he went up.

  "Why should tides need a god?" he demanded. "A god, just to shove water to and fro?"

  "Do not mock," I said sullenly.

  Suddenly Thorian jumped to his feet. He drew in his breath with a hiss. Then he grabbed the torch from my hand and thrust it in the god's face.

  I rose, also, peering up where he was staring. Carven of old weathered granite, the god Rosh was a comely youth, naked and almost beardless, smiling cryptically down at us from his plinth. In the flickering light, his lips seemed to move, as though the smile widened. I could almost believe he was about to raise his hands from his sides in greeting.

  Thorian dropped back to the ground and made obeisance again. But this time he was doing it to me.

  | Go to Table of Contents |

  10: A Familiar Back

  I knelt also. Thorian kept his head on the tiles. I rubbed my beard thoughtfully.

  "It's only a coincidence," I said. "Just a chance resemblance."

  He said nothing. I could hear his teeth chattering.

  "I am a man. Omar, a Trader of Tales. Not Rosh the god."

  Slowly he raised himself to look at me. Again the two tiny lights shone in his eyes like flames. Above his beard, his cheekbones were ashen.

  "You swear this to me—that you are mortal?"

  "As far as I know, I am mortal. I can't be certain, because I would have to die to prove it."

  "How old are you?"

  "Ah. That's tricky. I have lost count. Older than I look, yes. The gods have preserved me well because I am useful to them, I think. But I breathe and sweat and eat and piss like other men, and tell lies to girls." I smiled as genuinely as I know how, for I was truly sorry for him. "I fear and suffer and hate broccoli. It's only a vague likeness in a poor light."

  "You swear this, that you are mortal?"

  "May Morphith spurn my soul if I lie to you." That was not a totally convincing oath, because Morphith would have no chance at me if I were the immortal Thorian feared.

  Thorian did not seem to notice the paradox; held out a hand, as if to shake. I took it. He squeezed. He could have crushed bricks with that grip. Soon sweat ran down my face and I bit my lip to suppress the cry of agony I dare not risk. At last I began to whimper. Only then did he release me.

  "You misbegotten whelp of a poxed pig!" I sniffed, rubbing my hand. "If I had thought to bring a thunderbolt with me, I would toast your guts for that!" I wiped an arm over my mouth to remove the blood. I blinked away tears.

  He snarled. "Did I not still believe that you have more than human powers, I would break you in pieces. What do you want of me?"

  "Friendship. No more and no less."

  His coal-black eyes burned in the torchlight, yet were cold as graves. "I do not give friendship lightly. It carries mortal obligations." He meant a warrior's friendship, of course. That was something that could never be extended to encompass a mere trader of tales.

  "Then let us merely agree to enjoy each other's company and deal fair."

  "I need no oath to make me deal fair, Trader. I suppose I find you amusing, and apparently without guile. Friends on those terms, then. Now—why tides and history? Why is the god of history shown as a boy?"

  "History ebbs and flows, I suppose." I looked up at the statue and then grinned. "He's a little more than a boy, isn't he? He has whiskers on his chin, too. I would certainly keep him away from my daughters, if I had any. As History Rosh is generally depicted elderly, I think. As Memory he is young."

  "Why? It seems wrong."

  "Ask a priestess. Maybe because youthful memories are happiest; we all remember our youth. Furthermore, as I recall the tale … in his aspect as god of tides, Rosh ages like a mortal until he is old. Then he grows young again, and so on forever."

  The big man scowled. "I do not find this intelligence comforting under the circumstances."

  "Thorian, do not brood on it," I said. "Gods never pose for their own statues—mortals do! Some king or rich merchant, when pressed by the temple for a tithe, may be moved to give the money to his nephew the sculptor instead. Or he may wish to immortalize his mistress or lover or child. Here is Aunt Hazard as the Goddess of Pestilence … So there is a resemblance? I have never posed to have my likeness chiseled; I am not so proud of it. Some long-forgotten citizen here bore my features centuries ago in his youth. The gods reused them when they made me."

  "Maybe." He did not sound convinced.

  I chuckled. "It may even come in handy if I need to do some monumental lying. You know, I have carried off some strange pretenses in my day. Many years ago I spent some time on Ahu Sawish. I discovered by chance that I bore a striking resemblance to the queen's junior deputy husband and—"

  "Not now, please. Tell me what we are doing her
e?"

  "I have to go into the temple and find the woman, I think."

  He stared hard at me, as if trying to measure sanity by looks. "You stretch friendship hard already! The girl is very lovely and was snared tonight by dire deceit. I think my courage will stand with any man's, but you must tell me what can we do to aid her that is worth the risk, for if the priests catch us, we shall certainly be no use to her or any other woman in future."

  I had no answer to his question, but fortunately the gods saved me from having to respond. Footsteps were approaching in the cloister behind the statues.

  "Someone is coming!"

  Thorian and I turned toward Rosh and touched foreheads to the paving. I felt no great anxiety, for all that would be visible of us would be two bare backs. There was some danger that I would go to sleep. The curled over posture was very relaxing after an unusually strenuous day.

  Voices murmured as the newcomers went by, heading for the temple. One was the soprano of a eunuch, and there were at least two others, a harsh baritone and a guttural bass.

  That one was familiar.

  I glanced sideways at my companion. I saw the white of his eye, and I also saw bared teeth. I frowned caution at him.

  "This is not the time," I whispered.

  As soon as the strangers had passed, though, we scrambled forward on our knees and peered around the column. Three men were walking abreast, heading away from us. A torchbearer went before them, and they were outlined against his light.

  The one on the right was a soldier, and him I did not know.

  The short, broad one waddling along in the middle was a priest, but his cloak was purple, so it was not Nagiak himself. I suspected that purple meant someone important, though.

  The giant on the left wore a drab-colored swath, and it left one calf bare, so his civilian status was low. His hat floated two cubits higher than the priest's shiny scalp; his back was as broad and muscular as Thorian's. I had noted earlier how well matched they were.

  What was the brutish Corporal Fotius doing in this mystery, and out of uniform at that? Again I twisted my head to smirk at Thorian. "We follow?"

  He nodded in grim silence.

  The guards noticed nothing unusual in our move as we rose and headed toward Balor's mighty feet. Dauntless, or trying to seem so to each other, we stalked along as fast as was fitting in a holy place. To our right, our quarry followed the curve of the cloisters, their torch flickering behind pillars. They could only be going to the temple itself.

  I was thinking about Ahu Sawish. In a moment Thorian said, "Shouldn't I kill the torch?"

  In fact, the torch was guttering as if about to die a natural death. It had lasted very well.

  "I feel safer with it lit. I promise you we look a lot less suspicious! Let's pretend we've decided to pray to some minor, forgotten god tucked away over here in the corner. Ol-Ku-a-Rann, for example, who was patron of much-lauded Pollidi. If he is present anywhere in this courtyard, it will be somewhere very insignificant. Pity the poor deity who let his city die—how the others must laugh at him! Of course he will have plenty of time to listen to us. The first rule of deception is to think like—"

  "You babble!"

  "Possibly," I admitted. "I do that when I'm nervous. Remember, I am not trained to courage like a warrior."

  I was not alone in my fear. Whether or not he was a warrior, Thorian was sweating so hard that his skin shone bright under the flame. Courage is acceptance of danger, not unawareness of it. Brave men are just as afraid as cowards. The difference is that they do their duty.

  He grabbed my shoulder and stopped me completely. "They must be going to the temple. You do not propose to follow them inside?"

  "I certainly do."

  "And pretend to be a priest, perhaps?"

  No one was going to mistake us for priests; not with Thorian's beard and chest visible, nor even my own humbler foliage.

  "No. I shall trust the gods to keep me unobserved."

  "This is raving insanity!"

  "You needn't come if you don't want to," I said. Of course I hoped he would come, to keep me company.

  We were already fugitives. The instant we set foot beyond the pillars, we would be trespassing, and liable for the fate worse than death. In the torchlight, Thorian's face twisted in agony. "I will face steel in battle and I have spilled my blood in a righteous cause. I am not afraid to die! But that? Fingernails? Chained?"

  I shrugged his damp hand from my shoulder. "May Krazath guard you, friend," I said. I walked off and left him standing there with the torch. I felt a little disappointed, I must admit. I have heard and told so many heroic tales that I tend to assume all heroes are heroic. I sometimes forget that heroes are human. Thorian was fallible, as we all are. I admit I even have a few faults of my own. And of course I could make allowances for him—a warrior is trained to trust naught but his eye, his arm, and his comrades. I have had many years' practice in relying on the gods to distract attention from me. His was the sensible response.

  I had not gone more than a few steps, though, when the torch he was holding expired—I was still close enough to miss the light. I turned around.

  "Do you believe in signs?" I asked.

  He made a rumbling noise, very low in his throat. Then he came, and I had my hero back.

  We paced together around Balor's great feet. I think the little nudge from the gods had merely speeded his decision. I think he would have come anyway, because warriors are always loath to let other men outdo them in courage. I have seen more warriors outwitted by a dare than by anything else.

  "I'll tell you how the temple is arranged," I said. "Roughly, at least. The center of a pyramid … Something wrong?"

  Thorian hissed like a snake. "Never been to Zanadon before, you said!"

  "I haven't. At least, not that I can be sure of. Remember earlier I said I'd been to Ahu Sawish, where I looked so like the queen's youngest—"

  "Be quiet," Thorian said, and the intensity of his emotion belied the softness of his diction. "I do not wish to hear any more of your maundering rubbishy fantasy. If we are apprehended, I shall gouge out your eyes with my thumbs and manually preempt the amputatory privilege of the priestesses. Now be quiet!"

  I decided to sulk in silence.

  All I had been about to explain to my brusque companion was an extrapolation from my knowledge of the palace on Ahu Sawish. That also is built to a step-pyramid design, although it has only eleven steps instead of eighteen. Nor is it made of red-brown granite, but rather a white, very smooth limestone. I suppose that point is irrelevant.

  Regardless of color, a pyramid makes an imposing structure and seems to enclose a vast amount of space. In fact, it cannot. However much it may look like a square version of a dome, there is apparently no way to make the inside hollow without having the walls collapse—or roof collapse, depending on what you want to call the sides. And if you build internal walls to support them, then how can you light or ventilate the central rooms? The core of a pyramid is as useless as the core of a mango.

  The palace on Ahu Sawish was originally a temple, a step pyramid of solid masonry. It was so old that no one could remember which god it was supposed to honor. The queen decided to make a palace out of it because her subjects were always revolting, and the Sawishians are devilishly good archers. Her previous three palaces had been torched by flaming arrows in the night, zong! through a window. She'd lost several husbands to master bowmen, too.

  What she did—or had done, as queens don't do such things themselves—was to build a wall on the edge of every step, all the way around. The top of each wall was level with the next step up.

  Then she roofed over the bits she wanted.

  She had created, you see, a series of walled alleys, each one going all the way round in a square … can one go round in a square? This is hard to describe without using my hands. These alleys were wide enough to divide into rooms, usually with a corridor left alongside for traffic. Ahu Sawish is a very dry isl
and, and all the ventilation and lighting could be done with skylights. Many rooms had almost no roof at all.

  From the outside, the new palace was very impressive. It had no windows, which meant there was nothing to shoot through. The master bowmen couldn't see the skylights. Not knowing where to put their arrows, they were reduced to shooting at random. It was quite sporting, in a bizarre sort of way. Sometimes we would be lying in bed and hear an arrow go zonk! in the roof overheard. Once a servant dropped dead at my feet as I walked along a corridor. Palace life is often boring, but not on Ahu Sawish.

  The arsonists were equally baffled. The roofs were made of timber, but the floors were stone. The worst a fiery arrow could do was burn down a room or two. That was no more serious than losing a barn or a shed, because the fire could not spread, and a few hours' work would replace the room. Cuddles enjoyed interior decorating, anyway.

  Oh, I forgot one thing. The stairways had to be notched down into the old pyramid structure. I expect you worked that out already.

  | Go to Table of Contents |

  11: The Upper Echelon

  The cloister curved its way around behind Balor's gigantic heel and ended at the base of the pyramid, at the midpoint of the eastern face. Faint light spilled from the doorway. Thorian and I were perilously close to our quarry then and could hear voices raised in greeting. The priest ushered the two soldiers ahead of him, inside.

  That was as expected, but they could have turned off there, through a gate in the wall. I assumed that it led to the temple grounds. Even a temple needs space for laundry and sanitation, and so on. I would have guessed at vegetable gardens, also, and I would have been right, but only a really fanatical horticulturist would come to inspect vegetables in the middle of a moonless night, and that seemed out of character for Corporal Fotius.

  For a moment the voices continued, maddeningly indistinct. Then they faded, and the light faded, also. Our prey had gone on, into the bowels of the temple. If my guesses were correct, they would have had three directions to choose from. I waited a few seconds—about a thousand heartbeats under the circumstances—and then I stalked over to the door and peeked in. I was just in time to see Fotius himself disappear up a stair, directly ahead. A glimmer of light from torches up ahead of him jiggled his shadow back down on the floor. Corridors stretched off to right and left, but they were dark.