by Hugh Cook
When all the guests were seated, a minor functionary approached. He regretted that Lord Meddon and Lord York were delayed; they were reviewing urgent despatches from the southern borders, giving details of an incursion by the Swarms. In the meantime, would Yen Olass deal with two urgent matters of discipline?
She said she would.
Trumpets blared, and guards led in a young, pale, frightened woman. A herald advanced with a sheaf of papers.
He bowed.
'This is the evidence against the accused. Do you wish to have it read in public?’
T will examine it with the eye's silence,' said Yen Olass, glad that she had reviewed the section on Trial Proceedings in the Book of the Sisterhood.
The herald advanced, knelt before her and yielded up the papers. Yen Olass began to read, swiftly.
The Silent One dealt with delinquent oracles and with people who tried to suborn the Sisterhood for their own purposes. The woman now in front of Yen Olass was an oracle who was said to be delinquent. In this kind of trial, there was no bill of particulars; the accused had no right to know the nature of the charges being brought against her; evidence could be presented in writing, without the accused ever knowing who was bringing such evidence against her, or, indeed, what that evidence was.
In this case, it was mostly rumour, gossip, hearsay, and, quite possibly, outright fabrication. On the principle that where there's smoke there's fire, Yen Olass assumed that the girl before her had certainly done something wrong.
But what? She might have stolen a kiss on the sly with the baker's boy, or she might have whored her body through half the army. Yen Olass knew that the maintenance of good order and discipline required the administration of immediate punishment; at the same time, she had to endeavour to protect the mystique of the Sisterhood.
In a penetrating voice, Yen Olass proclaimed her judgment:
'You have dared altogether too much. You will restrict yourself to your quarters until you have completed a suitable period of penance. Now, out of my sight!’
Weeping bitterly, the girl withdrew. Yen Olass spoke to the herald, directing him to deliver any and all additional or supplementary copies of the evidence to her quarters by nightfall. She had not yet been assigned quarters, but did not trouble herself about that – she would most certainly have a suitable suite of rooms before dayfail, or know the reason why.
Already she knew what she would have to do. She would have to interrogate the girl in private, and find out exactly what had happened. Then, if the offence was minor, penance could be fixed at two or three days of solitary confinement; if there was some major scandal, Yen Olass would have to root it out, and might have to send some people back to Gendormargensis for execution.
She did not find the challenge formidable. Instead, she found it quite delicious. In the past, faint rumours of amazing scandals had reached Gendormargensis from the provinces – members of the Sisterhood involved in prostitution, or money-lending, or gambling, or opium rings. If there was a real full-blown scandal here in Garabatoon, Yen Olass would find it exquisitely interesting to poke and probe and get to the bottom of it.
Her investigation would also allow her to interrogate oracles in depth about the politics of Garabatoon and the intentions of its leaders.
Serendipity, she thought.
(To be precise, what she actually thought was 'dara ta kara', an idiomatic phrase from her homeland of Monogail, meaning 'apples from heaven'; as there were no apples in the northern wastelands, this indicates that within the last four or five thousand years, the people of her racial stock had lived in warmer lands further to the south.)
While Yen Olass was cogitating, a squad of armoured guards led in the second prisoner. At first she did not look at the prisoner, but feasted her eyes on the four guards, who were armoured, not with the simple cuirass and open-faced helmet standard in the armies of the Collosnon Empire, but with a gilded panoply of full body armour, the crowning glory of which was jewelled and visored helmets decorated with flowery plumes of green and gold and blue. She had once had a plumed helmet herself – but it had not been as pretty as these, and she had soon lost it.
She turned her attention to the prisoner, and was surprised to see it was the Ondrask of Noth. He stood there before her in his stinking animal skins; as always, he was loaded down with feathers, beads, skulls and assorted other talismans. There was a faint smile playing across his face.
'What is this prisoner accused of?' said Yen Olass. 'An act of impropriety in relation to an oracle,' said the herald.
This was a serious charge, yet the Ondrask seemed amused by the proceedings. Yen Olass was annoyed. He was in the presence of the Silent One; he should comport himself accordingly. Perhaps there was something wrong with him. Perhaps he was slightly touched.
'What is the nature of this act of impropriety?' said Yen Olass.
The herald did not answer. He seemed embarrassed. He looked at the papers relating to the case, coughed, then looked away.
'Well?' said Yen Olass.
The herald hesitated.
'If it's too obscene to say in public,' said Yen Olass, 'then give me the papers and I will examine them with the eye's silence.’
'No need,' said the Ondrask of Noth boldly. T will demonstrate.’
'You will do no such thing!' said Yen Olass, outraged.
The Ondrask of Noth cackled madly. He dropped down on all fours and came bounding toward her. He mounted the dais, reached her throne, and began to lick her hands. Yen Olass swatted him. and shouted:
'Guards!’
The four guards in gold-gleaming armour removed their visored helmets and stood revealed as the Lord Emperor Celadric, his brothers Meddon and York, and the pirate chief Draven. The Ondrask tore away Yen Olass's veil.
'Welcome, Yen Olass,' said Celadric. 'Welcome to Garabatoon.’
'But… but you're in the Greater Teeth!' said Yen Olass.
Draven laughed.
Meddon wheeled to face the seats where Yen Olass's followers were waiting, undecided as to whether everything was entirely lost.
'Seize them!' shouted Meddon, pointing.
The reaction was instantaneous.
Morgan Hearst threw aside his grey robes, revealing arms and armour. Left-handed, he drew his sword with a scream of defiance:
'Ahyak Rovac!’
And Watashi was drawing his own blade to fight beside him. They leapt forward – and went down as lead-weighted nets plummeted from the ceiling. An entire section of flower-upholding nets had been dropped at Meddon's shout. Men swarmed forward to overpower and disarm their captives before they could cut themselves free of the nets.
Yen Olass got to her feet. But before she could try to escape, the Ondrask of Noth grabbed her. His arm came throttling round her throat and jerked her backwards. He pressed his body against her. She felt his urgency.
'Let her go,' said York. 'She's not for you.’
'What?' said the Ondrask.
At his exclamation of outrage; Yen Olass smelt the stench of his breath adding itself to the stink of his body.
'She's mine,' said York. T claim her.’
'What would you want her for?' said the Ondrask. 'You've got women-’
'She would amuse me for a night,' said York. 'After that… the armies are waiting.’
Yen Olass felt the Ondrask's grip slacken. She was able to breathe more easily. Her breathing was quick, frantic, shallow, shocked. She felt her skip-quick heart rabbiting for the horizon.
'My lord,' said the Ondrask, appealing to the emperor.
Celadric smiled, and shook his head.
'But you promised!' shouted the Ondrask. 'Your word! Are you going to deny
His voice trailed away. Celadric was waiting. Waiting and watching. For what? Yen Olass, familiar with the politics of the Collosnon Empire, understood exactly what Celadric was waiting for. He was waiting for the Ondrask to say something unpardonable. Once that happened, he would find himself negotiating with the sharp
edge of an axe. Celadric, with his new ideas for a sanitary, streamlined empire, was ready to do away with the religion of Noth with its sweat and its dirt, its dances and horse sacrifices, its shamans and dream-saying. The Ondrask of Noth understood too; he said no more.
Celadric spoke to the silence:
'Do you expect your emperor to be your pimp?’
'My lord,' said the Ondrask, 'the woman is old and ugly. I thought your brother might care… might care for an opportunity to review his declaration.’
The Ondrask was stumbling. He was finding it difficult to find suitable words. This was not surprising: his life was in the balance. Unlike Yen Olass, he was not used to confronting people who wanted to kill him. Celadric cocked his head at York. 'Well?’
'Old earth ploughs easily,' said York.
This brought a laugh from the assembly. Yen Olass was unfamiliar with this agricultural idiom, as it had entered the language and had become popular while she had been living on the Lesser Teeth. Nevertheless, it conjured up images – earth, horse, plough, sun, sweat, fluid, blood. She remembered something which she had entirely forgotten about in the excitement of reaching Garabatoon.
'I have my months,' said Yen Olass.
Her penetrating voice was heard by everyone. Someone stifled a giggle; someone else failed to stifle a hearty guffaw. York did not look disconcerted, not even for a moment. A slow smile spread across his face, then he spoke:
'Messy but nice.’
Celadric frowned; he found his brother rather too crude and earthy for his taste.
'You,' said Celadric curtly, pointing at the Ondrask. 'As a favour to compensate you for the loss of the slut, I dedicate a human being for you to sacrifice tomorrow, instead of a horse. The human being is Morgan Hearst.’
The Ondrask's face fell. This offer, ostensibly a special honour, was an insult to his religion. In war, captive horses were more valuable than captive men; to kill a prisoner was nothing, an empty gesture, but to slaughter a horse demanded a real commitment to the values of religion.
'As my lord wishes,' said the Ondrask, and bowed.
Like many other people faced with the alternative of immediate death, the Ondrask chose to eat the shit that was set before him. Yen Olass knew just what it tasted like. To her surprise, she felt a momentary pang of sympathy for him. It passed swiftly, for she had other things to think about.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
By tradition, the Yarglat did not eat with their womenfolk. It was true that, during the reign of the Witchlord, the dralkosh Bao Gahai used to dine with Onosh Gulkan on a regular basis – but she had been an exceptional woman in more ways than one.
Since Celadric came to power, however, the tradition had been declining. Celadric had deliberately held a series of banquets to which men and women were invited. Some important Yarglat generals who had refused to attend those banquets had subsequently been demoted, exiled or assassinated.
Over the generations in which the Yarglat had ruled the Collosnon Empire, the old traditions had been reinforced by wave after wave of immigrants coming south from the homelands of the horse tribes. But, under Celadric's rule, nomads coming south no longer received a warm welcome. He was breaking down the last vestiges of tribal culture, deliberately fostering a cosmopolitan atmosphere.
By breaking the old patterns, Celadric hoped to destroy the power and prestige of the high caste Yarglat warlords, ending their independence and subjecting them to the full discipline of imperial law. He wanted to put an end to the disastrous feuding and duelling of past generations. Breaking the old tribal monopoly on power would also allow him to recruit talent from elsewhere in the empire.
Remembering the fearsome lesson of the Blood Purge, talent had been reluctant to let itself be recruited. But now, at last, Celadric was starting to have some success. In a few more years, he would no longer be in the ridiculous situation of trying to run an empire with only a handful of competent bureaucrats; over the next few decades, he hoped to be able to start tackling the empire's larger problems, such as dredging the Yolantarath River to avoid the annual spring floods.
On the day on which Yen Olass Ampadara was captured, Celadric held one of his famous mixed banquets. In part, he was pursuing his policy of cultural change. But, quite apart from that, he wanted to celebrate. And he certainly had plenty to celebrate.
While Celadric's brothers had debated about whether to raise the ransom Draven had been demanding, Celadric had negotiated his own release. Tomorrow morning, his sister Quenerain – the source of so much unpalatable scandal – would be married off to Draven. And a solemn treaty would be signed, thanks to which the Greater Teeth would become a part of the Collosnon Empire, administered by Draven.
Celadric knew that the times had favoured him. With the reduced trade in the Central Ocean, the pirates had fallen on hard times of late. After the treaty was signed, the Greater Teeth would be used as a base for Operations against the Swarms, and Celadric had been able to offer hefty payments in the form of rents for military bases and harbour dues. To put it simply, he had bought out the pirates. Nevertheless, the fact remained: he had conquered the Greater Teeth, which had successfully resisted some of the world's most formidable military minds.
He was in a good mood.
The only thing that irritated him was his concubine, Yerzerdayla. She had asked him to release the captive oracle, Yen Olass Ampadara. Over the years they had spent together, her cool judgment and her carefully calculated advice had served him well. But lately…
More and more, over the last year or so, Yerzerdayla had been making little requests of him. Spare this man. Free this woman. Restrain the torturers. Let the hostage go. Sometimes, she didn't really seem to appreciate how difficult it was to rule the empire. Given a perfect world, of course he would have been the perfect ruler. He was not given to gratuitous cruelty, like his father, Khmar. But the world was not perfect. And, in an imperfect world, it was sometimes necessary to be a little bit ruthless in order to expedite the efficient administration of the empire.
Once, quite recently, Yerzerdayla had embarrassed Celadric badly by making one of her requests for mercy during the course of a banquet. He had refused – but, doing so, had put himself in quite a bad light. To avoid any similar scenes at this evening's entertainment, he ordered Yerzerdayla to confine herself to her chambers until the morning.
He wanted to enjoy himself.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
At the banquet that evening in Castle Celadric, Yen Olass sat in a place of honour, on York's right; from time to time he thumped his fist on the table and shouted out, calling for special treats and titbits to be brought forth for her. Serving maids scurried to obey.
York spoke to her with elaborate courtesy, addressing her as 'my Lady Ampadara', 'my beloved honey-sweet', 'light of my life', 'consort of the seventh moon' and 'star of stars, joy of the summer heavens'.
When a low-ranking warrior down the far end of the banqueting table cried out that she was a dralkosh, York got to his feet, stalked the warrior (he tried to run, but guards barred his exit), slashed his face, smashed his jaw, bit off his nose, cut off his ear, broke his neck, opened his throat, then rammed the wreckage with a roasting spit. (His father, the late Khmar, would undoubtedly have approved.)
Such little courtesies were the honours properly due to a royal consort, and a naive young girl might have thought her luck was changing. But Yen Olass was not fooled for a moment. York had spoken clearly enough in front of the assembly earlier in the day. Her fate was to be raped by royalty then handed over to the army to be raped to rubble and then, in all probability, smashed with rocks in a muddy field, with her remains being left to rot in the open until the scavengers came to dog down their hunger.
For the moment, she played the game. She returned York's compliments, she got him to compel the kitchens to yield up a gaplax (grapes unfortunately proved unobtainable – indeed, she was informed that none grew in Estar) and she applauded her hero when he defended
her honour by junking the man foul enough to call her a dralkosh.
(Her applause was genuine; she had no sympathy whatsoever for anyone ready to call her by that obscene name.)
While Yen Olass played this cruel game, she kept her wits about her. She ate well, but did not gorge herself, and she watered her wine heavily. Toward the end of the banquet, she excused herself so she could go to the toilet. As she left the room, two brawny serving maids fell in beside her; they escorted her to the stink pits and stayed with her until she returned to the banquet. Yen Olass was not disappointed: she had not expected escape to be that easy.
Shortly after she returned to the banquet, heralds shouted for silence, guards ejected those drunks too intoxicated to know when to shut up, and Celadric rose to speak.
'It is late,' said Celadric.
An incautious warrior groaned, and he, too, was ejected without ceremony. But many at the banquet table would have shared his sentiments. When the Lord Emperor Celadric indulged himself, he did so only very mildly, for he was something of a kill-joy; in his father's day, on a night like this the whole court would have partied until dawn, with at least one warrior drinking himself to death, but it was almost certain that Celadric was now going to tell everyone to go to bed.
'It is late,' said Celadric, emphasizing the point. 'And we'll all be up early tomorrow, for the river festival. So, very shortly, we'll all be going to sleep.’
There was another groan, but this time the guards failed to detect the culprit.
'Good sleep makes for good health,' said Celadric.
The truth was that he did not like drunks roistering through his castle late at night, fighting, shouting, swearing and vomiting over the floor. And he certainly saw nothing heroic in those drinking men who liked to compete in drinking matches until at least one of their number was dead.
'But first,' said Celadric, 'we have a presentation to make to a very important person.’
