Sorrowing Vengeance
Page 6
Agors was seated at an open air marble table in the center of a wide courtyard with a trio of his soldier friends. The three looked up when Nihim approached and nodded respectfully. Agors frowned.
“If you will excuse my brother and me…,” Nihim suggested.
The three stood.
“The Athadians?” Agors asked.
Nihim nodded. “bin-Sutus just came to me; they will arrive here soon, and Ghen-ulu wishes us present at the audience.”
Agors motioned to his companions. “Go on. I’ll join you later. Our tavern in the Kinesh Square.”
They walked off, one of them calling back as they left, “Don’t lose your temper with them, Agors!”
Taking that as a compliment, the elder prince smiled, but the smile faded when he once more faced his younger brother. “Well. Shall we go back?”
But Agors did not rise, and Nihim himself did not seem to be in a particular hurry to return. He circuited the patio, appreciating the beauty around him, aware of Agors’s impatient eyes.
“Well?” Agors said, rapping his fingers on the marble table.
Nihim turned and faced him. His brother was always dressed in the wool and leather of a cavalry officer; always on his belts and boots he wore daggers and knives; always his hair was trimmed, his beard neat and pointed; and always he wore his dangerous yagu, that two-edged curved sword, hammered and folded from the finest steel by master forgers of the Ilro Mountains and proudly presented to Agors Ghen-mu by his father. “They do not come to us,” Nihim said, eyeing his brother critically, “these Athadians, to make war upon us.”
“I know this.”
“Do you? It seems to me, my brother, that you are contemptuous of these men of the West, but at the same time you are very much like them.”
Agors had ever regarded his brother as an irritant. He judged Nihim’s constant wearing of robes as a posture and an insult to manhood, and he deemed Nihim’s view of the world as an organism, his deference to the nature-wisdom of Wo Ayhat, as woefully naive and misguided. There was the faint tone of scorn in his voice as he replied, “I take from them whatever I can use against them. We, too, Nihim, are of the West now. Look at what we have become. It should be a thorn in your heart; it is in mine. We’ve become a nation of cities, a nation of…merchants and cities. A hundred years ago, the men of this city would have been warriors, with destinies; now they are scribblers, and buyers and sellers.” He grunted with disgust. “And because I believe that men should be men, and that we of Salukadia have a vision to fulfill, you think I mean to provoke war?”
Nihim smiled tolerantly; his brother his life long complained of being born too late. “The people of the West are settled; all they wish now is to maintain what they have gained: they have no desire to gain more. They have not changed in hundreds of years.
“But we, Agors, have changed. ‘The young tree is supple and bends with the changing wind; the old tree will not bend, and a strong wind topples it.’ It is true of trees, and men, and nations. If you think too much like your enemy, Agors, you become your enemy; who then is left to make war upon?” Nihim smiled. “When you go into your taverns, my brother, you should play usto with these men of the West. You would learn much from them. You could be a strong general, on the usto board.”
“I am not interested in games!”
“But you should be. To play games is the heart of these men of the West. They love all the regulations and rules they concoct; they love boundaries and laws, they love to build obstacles for themselves so that they can overcome them. You can appreciate that. They love numbers; they love systems. They create things so that they can be owned by them; they love what they can hold in their hands. Games to them are very serious.”
When Agors only glared at him but made no comment, Nihim continued. “There is a move in this usto that some westerners refer to as ‘raping the queen.’ Does that sound quaint, or merely barbaric? Think of it—these westerners have only one goal, and every move they make is designed to assure their gaining that goal. They see it in terms of conquest, profit, rape—not balance. When they take their opponent’s queen, they have ‘raped’ her.”
“I have played usto many times,” Agors reminded Nihim. “Why are you—”
“Because it’s possible to play the game in many different ways, but these Athadians do not see that. I see it in terms of strategy and balance; for them, strategy is only a method for defeating their opponent, and they do not respect balance. They use one set of rules, they seek only one goal. And they will sacrifice everything, if need be, to gain that goal.”
“Are you trying to enlighten me, brother, into the way these westerners think?”
“Their people come to us,” Nihim replied, “without weapons, to make a diplomatic peace. They have allowed us the control of this city. They have already made sacrifices—and why? We have gone so far as to desecrate a temple that is very important to their people. Why do they allow this? I tell you this: when these Athadians sit down to play usto, they follow one set of rules, and they will sacrifice everything to gain one goal. They are a passionate people, Agors—passion allied with strength and their own sort of dignity.”
Agors stared at his brother.
“What will they do, Agors, if we push the matter further?”
He remained silent.
“I know what you and your companions discuss, my brother. You are men of the sword. You should have been born when our father was born, out there in the plains. But a man must conquer himself before he can conquer others; our father is an example of that. ‘Seek wisdom from the ignorant as you would wine from a stone.’ You love to look at maps; I know what you see in them. You think the West is weak. You think our alliance with Emaria will open a door for you to ride through. Agors…look at me, my brother.”
Agors did so. His eyes were hot, his fists clenched.
“When Ghen-ulu’s audience with this Athadian, Lord Thomo, is ended, I think you should make a gesture to him. I think you should send word to Lord Thomo that you wish to engage him in an evening’s game of usto.”
Agors unfisted his hands, tapped the marble table, and cleared his throat. “You think I should do that, do you?”
“These Athadians with whom I played…these opponents who always thought in terms of one goal, and who would sacrifice anything to gain that goal—?”
“What of them?”
“My brother—I defeated every one of those players when I sat with them. They condemned themselves, and their way of thought, and their methods of strategy, each time I defeated them. And I did not try to emulate their ways.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Where Night comes down, a shadow bridge between lives, the sorcerer awakens with life as heat awakens into flame.
The address was on Akud Street. She had never been in this street before because Akud was in a prosperous district of the city. She had tried to make herself look as sophisticated as possible because Isudi had warned her that the man she was going to meet was not one of her usual arrogant bureaucrats. He was an outlander (or so Isudi had gathered), and he was in the city for only a short time; and though he lived in a vicinity where wealthy easterners were beginning to settle, he was not an easterner himself.
It was difficult to say just what he was.
But he had specifically requested that Serela be sent to him, Isudi had told her. The gentleman had seen her dancing at one of the public fetes last week, and she had drawn his interest. It would do Serela much good to cultivate the attentions of such a man.
“He paid me fifty in Athadian gold! Fifty! For just one night! Do you understand what that means’? This man is as rich as a king! And he’s no son of the gutter with a stolen purse, either! He is quality!”
The hired servants set down the litter, and the headman came around to pull back the drapes. Serela stepped out; the headman escorted her to the door, and there she paid him with a gold piece. He bowed several times and thanked her profusely.
Serela
entered the apartment building. Isudi had told her that this lord had rented the entire top floor. Entranced by the shining grandeur of the large foyer, dressed as it was in marble and gold leaf and polished woods, she made her way slowly up the wide stairs leading above, climbing three flights before pausing to catch her breath. On the third floor landing were plants and mirrors and exquisite bas-reliefs and wall tapestries. When she leaned for a moment over the rail of the balcony, Serela saw a wide tiled patio far below, open to the skylight above, and a group of giddy aristocrats sprawled on cushions around a monumental stone fountain. As she turned to continue up the stairs, she dizzied slightly. She was unaccustomed to such displays of wealth, and she began to wonder about this mysterious outlander who had made his home in these surroundings. She moved up the stairs a little hesitantly, but curiosity, more than fear of Isudi’s possible anger, prodded her on.
As she approached the fourth floor landing, Serela saw that the stairs went no higher. There were no entrances on either side, only a tall arched opening at the end of the wide corridor that was closed off with thick hanging drapes. When she reached the drapes, Serela carefully pushed them aside and looked in. The room was quite dark. She nearly gasped aloud when a voice beckoned her from the gloomy interior:
“Serela.”
She caught her breath. “Yes?”
“Come in, please.”
She stepped inside. Her sandals made a loud noise on the uncarpeted floor, and Serela tried to move slowly so that the sounds would not be displeasing. As her eyes became accustomed to the dimness, she looked in every direction but could not find the man who had spoken to her.
As though he’d read her mind, he spoke again. “I am here.”
“Lord Thameron?”
“Yes. Here.”
Instantly oil lamps along all four walls of the huge room increased in brilliance, and Serela was astounded by what met her eyes. It was not a room at all—not an ordinary room. Lord Thameron (or someone) had fashioned it into the semblance of a cave. It was astonishing. The walls of the grand chamber seemed to curve from floor to ceiling as though they were of hewn stone. The floor itself resembled something roughly leveled. The only light was given by the oil lamps, although drawn drapes against one wall indicated a balcony outside.
All furniture had been pushed to the sides of the room. In the center of the floor was a very large circular carpet with odd symbols and signs embroidered on it. And at the opposite side of the room, propped upon a platform draped in animal skins, sat Lord Thameron.
Serela paused as she stared at him; he was not at all what she had thought he might be. He was young—very young—and quite handsome. His beard and mustache were neatly trimmed, his long hair was combed and oiled and hanging to his shoulders. He was dressed in red silk trousers and a well-fitted brocade jacket. He wore few ornaments—only two rings on each hand, a light blue sulm or turban on his head, a few gold necklaces. His boots were new and shiny from polishing oil.
“Come ahead,” Lord Thameron invited her, his voice low and quite pleasant.
“I’m…afraid to step on your rug.”
“It’s only a rug.”
She came ahead, averting her eyes from his: she felt his gaze on her, studying her movements, her body, scrutinizing her more intently than any other man ever had. It made her very uncomfortable. Yet when she came close to his dais, Serela had necessarily to look up and face him, and then Lord Thameron seemed not at all sinister, only young and handsome and possessed of deep, penetrating dark eyes.
“Sit.” He lowered a hand, indicating the cushions beside his dais. “There is wine; would you care for some?”
“Yes, please.”
He stood and stepped from the platform, moving to a low table.
Instantly Serela was on her feet. “Lord Thameron! Let me serve you, please!”
He turned and smiled at her. “Oh, yes. Of course.”
Odd behavior for a man who had paid fifty in long gold for attentions the night through. But he continued with the wine, first pouring Serela a cup, then one for himself. He handed her a goblet, moved back to his dais, sat again in his chair, and turned his gaze upon her once more. “Make yourself comfortable, Serela.”
Presuming that he meant the obvious, she set aside her wine and began to undo the thin gown that she wore. She bowed her head slightly and lent Lord Thameron a sly, sensual glance.
He watched her as she removed her clothes. She wore very little—only her thin gown, her sandals, a few items of jewelry. Serela noticed how Thameron’s eyes glowed as he followed her hands, followed the folds of her falling gown, and watched how her body swayed as she stepped free of it. When she was finished, she stood proudly displaying herself (as she had done so many times before for countless bureaucrats, aristocrats, and crowds of men) and then with exaggerated grace moved slowly back to the dais to sit in the cushions and take up her wine.
Thameron smiled because Serela was a small woman, slim and quite pretty, with foamy dark hair falling down her back, dark eyes and full red lips, heavy breasts that swayed and rolled, and long slim legs that betrayed their muscles exquisitely whenever she moved.
“This has a…nostalgic value for me,” Thameron admitted to her.
Serela, not quite certain what that might mean, smiled and sipped her wine. She was wholly unused to this—a man hiring her for the night and yet taking no initiative. She wondered what could be the problem. Perhaps he had drugged himself? Perhaps he had…difficulties? Well, Serela was experienced, and once they had shared a cup or two of wine.…
It was as she set aside her goblet, turned to look up at Thameron, and stretched her slender legs that Serela noticed glints of light on the floor just around the side of the dais. She turned her head to see what the lights might be and leaned forward. Her hanging breasts brushed her knees; her dark hair fell in waves to obscure her face. She uttered a gasp.
Thameron said to her, “They are stones.”
Serela looked at him, then stood and stepped across the dais and knelt to inspect them. “Lord Thameron! They are gems!”
Rubies…emeralds…opals…diamonds—the wealth of a vault, scattered upon the floor!
Thameron laughed. “Inspect them carefully,” he told the beautiful courtesan. “See what I have done with them?”
Greedily, excitedly, Serela picked up many gems, large and small ones, and noticed that all of them had been cut precisely in half. Her brow creased, and she swiveled as she crouched and stared at Thameron. “Why have you cut them? Are they taken from old jewelry?”
“No. I created them. Then I broke them in half. That is easy to do. But it is impossible for me to piece any of them together again so that they are whole. It cannot be done.” To her strange expression: “I am a sorcerer, Serela.”
That announcement did not seem to inspire fear or anxiousness in her; such proclamations were ordinary enough in this city. “But…these are real gems, Lord Thameron! You created them?” She did not believe him, but she could not offend him.
“Keep them,” he told her. He drained his cup, stood, then stepped down to her. “Keep them. You may have them.” He made to move past her to refill his cup.
Serela rose instantly, dropping the jewels to the floor. Her eyes went wide, she shrieked with excitement, she threw open her arms and embraced Thameron, taking him completely by surprise. She rubbed her hands along his face, she pushed her legs and breasts against him, she whispered mild obscenities to him in thanks.
Thameron dropped his cup onto the table and wound his arms about her. He pressed his hands along her hips and hugged her, held her giving, soft flesh. The aroma of her was strong and enticing; the brightness of her eyes could well have been that of diamonds.
“A sorcerer!” she grinned at him, holding him tightly. She felt in control, now, with whoever this man might be; and the merest suggestion that such wealth in this room might be for her, that even one stone might be for her, sent floods of passion and desire through her.
She did as he told her, and she was astounded by how often he took her, and in such a variety of ways. He seemed tireless and inexhaustible, intense in his passion. Serela, as always, was playful, by turns conniving or childish or completely wanton. Toward dawn, she took up a handful of Lord Thameron’s broken jewels and, to seduce him a final time, pressed them onto her damp body. They adhered easily to her glossy skin, and Serela laughed and laughed, imagining herself a walking jewel.
When she dressed at last, and kissed Lord Thameron a last time, she placed all the jewels within her small wallet but dropped a small ruby into her mouth and sucked upon it as she might a seed. Her light laughter carried easily down the corridor and down the four flights of stairs into the humid early morning streets.
Meanwhile Thameron, no more exhausted by his night of continuous passion than he would have been had he spent those hours asleep, drew on his clothes and walked onto the balcony of his apartment. He threw his arms behind him and looked down into the street. He saw Serela hurrying away, walking quick-stepped and not even bothering to hire a litter or a carriage. She would not be returning to Isudi.
And he realized, too, there in the dawn, that it was time he left Erusabad.
Had this Serela been sufficient to sate his longing for Assia?
No. Not Serela, nor any of the young women he had turned into meals for his feasting imagination.