by Jay Requard
Her wounded smile dimmed as the silk-clad priestess looked at the thief for a moment and nodded, closing the door gently. Manwe faced Simo and stepped close. Nose to nose with the young man, the whites of his eyes seemed to glow as he spoke. "Whose orders do you follow?"
Chest out and his arms tight, Simo sneered at him. "Kosey, thief. A man who doesn't murder lords in their bed, but faces them, brave on battlefields."
"That's enough, Simo." Kaarle placed himself between the two of them. "If that is true then we are to follow Kosey's order, and his order was to follow The Panther's. If succeeding in this mission requires us to go into a Gypian temple, so be it."
"But Kaarle, she is a whore," said Simo. "Voduni Calla says that Gypian whores are—"
"Watch your tongue," rumbled Manwe. His face a mask of quiet promise, the thief’s words muted the rebel and his defiant pose. Simo looked down at his feet with a half-frown, half-snarl, hands away from his knife.
Kaarle sighed, his scarred shoulders rising and falling as he nodded to Manwe. The thief knocked on the door for a second time; Magera answered, slowly opening the portal. Her expression of concern faded when she saw all four men still standing, and with a quiet wave, she welcomed them into the bordello.
The first room, a simple chamber littered in the things one expected to find in Gypian temples—prayer flags, mosaic floors, offering fires—but joined with a population of different reliefs and statues, each one an effigy to acts of romance and carnal pleasure. Manwe and the priestess walked past rows of tapestries nailed to the walls, scenes of men and women caught in the throes of pleasure, sometimes in pairs, sometimes with animals and gods. Kaarle averted his eyes and smiled as he followed, a heat still finding its way into his cheeks.
The next room, however, stopped him in his tracks.
Basking in the light of a hundred oil lamps, a knot of bodies writhed upon the hard floor, lost among an uncountable number of brightly colored and beaded pillows. A mass of both Gypians and native Juutans, men's tongues met with other men's tongues while women's fingers probed places left uncovered for all to see.
Some couples engaged in the deepest acts of love groaned and thrust at each other, flesh slapping flesh in uncontrolled beats of ecstasy. Oil dripped down curves and crannies of toned, lithe forms. Some of those who partook in the orgy wore masks carved in the manner of the invader's gentler gods, or the beasts and birds that were to be found out on the savannah. Incense hazed the air, heady scents of vanilla and rose, mingling with the fragrant potpourri of the dried flowers hanging from the ceiling’s supports.
Manwe glanced back at Kaarle, paying the scene little attention. "Are you three coming, or do you need more time to gawk?"
Kaarle blinked a few times before he realized he had been staring at one Gypian, who looked back with a tawdry grin as she pushed her fingers into the opening of her vagina. Breaking eye contact, he checked on his two compatriots.
Much to his amusement, Nobou had indeed stood there the entire time, gawking as the young man reached in his loin cloth to fondle himself. Kaarle slapped at the offending arm, shoving Nobou along with a chuckle and light insult.
Simo, standing to Kaarle's left, could not have been more the opposite—his white teeth clenched tight as he held firm to the handle of the knife in his belt, muttering quiet curses.
"Come on," Kaarle whispered, tugging on his arm. "We're not here for bloodshed. Not yet, anyway."
"Look at this evil," his friend seethed. "Gypians and our brothers...our sisters! How could our people defile their own flesh with such..."
"Just come on." Kaarle pulled Simo toward the next doorway.
They entered a long hall, its walls carved from the dark rock the temple proper rested upon. Manwe had followed Magera to the left, down past a series of stout wooden doors set on both sides of the hall. They came to the last door on the right.
Magera extracted a key from one of the rings holding up the silk around her hips and handed it to Manwe. "Let me know when your meeting is finished. I'll have rooms made up for you and your friends." The priestess glided past Kaarle, grinning at the young man as his eyes followed the sway of her hips.
Manwe slid the bronze fork into the gilded slot, lifting the latch bar to free the lock. "Say nothing," he told them, glaring at Simo with warning.
The four entered the lone chamber, a medium-sized bedroom furnished with a pair of chairs, a bed, and a small table. Sitting beside a lit oil lamp, a thin man waited on the down mattress, wearing nothing but a red chiton and a pair of road-worn sandals that laced up to his knees. He glanced up from the pile of papers on his lap, quiet as he caught sight of Manwe.
"Good evening, Sophicus," said the thief as he approached the foot of the bed. "Does the night find you well?"
"Well enough for a traitor's work." Sophicus reached down and lifted a bottle of putrid wine. He slaked his thirst with a long draw and wiped his bearded face with a forearm. "Let's not dally, Panther. These boys part of that damned rebellion out in the hills?"
"They are my guests. That is all you should concern yourself with." Manwe placed his hands out to the side, a common gesture of peace among both Gypians and Juutans. "Do you have what I need?"
"Depends," said the man sitting on the bed, taking another draw of wine. "Do you have it?"
"Allow me a moment." Manwe pulled forward the band of his loin cloth, using his free hand to fish out a long, glittering strand. Kaarle's breath caught when he recognized the diamonds, a legendary length of glory held together with interwoven leather thongs.
"The Savannah's Tears, as promised," said Manwe, laying the necklace on the end of the mattress.
Sophicus, his face cut into two by the lamp's light, frowned. "Oh shit, Manwe."
"Is there a problem?" the thief inquired.
The Gypian sighed deep as he reached forward to collect his payment. "I thought you were joking when you said you'd steal it. I never thought you'd actually..."
"You're the best fence in Tolivius, Sophicus," Manwe said, taking up the tense silence. "You'll find a way."
Sophicus rose to his feet and headed toward the door, shaking his head with every step. "If I don't end up dead first."
The fence exited the room quickly without farewell or warning and, left on their own, Manwe bade the three over to the bed. "Sit down, all of you. We only have so many hours to plan out tomorrow morning."
"You gave away the Savannah's Tears," Simo said as he neared. "That was our people's treasure."
"Baubles or freedom, boy," said Manwe, spreading the sheets of parchment out on the bedding. "Which do you want more?"
Simo plodded his way to one of the chairs in the room. Kaarle sat down at the foot of the bed while Nobou leaned against the chamber's door.
"These are maps of Aemon's Fort, which is located on the eastern side of the city's center, near the Senate Consul's sanctum and his philosopher courts." Manwe moved the lamp off the side table and rested it on the bed, taking great care to ensure it did not tip over and spill its contents. On the hide was sketched a series of careful designs in a firm hand, the black ink sharp and defined. The thief rotated each sheet and layered them. The corners connected into a large view of the city's layout, which revealed the entirety of the fort and the surrounding governmental buildings.
Manwe looked to Kaarle. "How many of Kosey's lieutenants were captured?"
"Twelve, but we know at least six of them were tortured to death," Kaarle said. "Many of them are the sons of loyal chieftains who have given much to The Cause. To lose these men would be too much of a blow. Kosey worries that they might withdraw support."
"That happens when you don't win battles," replied Manwe, rubbing his eyes with his dark fingers. "Aemon's Fort is penetrable, more of a showpiece than an actual garrison. This execution is just a show for visiting dignitaries who will be in attendance. The Senate Consul must be worried enough about the rebellion to put on such a display."
Nobou spoke, his youthful barito
ne filled with hurt. "You make us sound like flies to the invaders as they supper."
"Everyone is an insect to the rich." Manwe tapped the spot where the maps' corners met. "Most of the city's guard will be at the walls tomorrow morning, or in the streets. There are too many spears and shields to keep at the fort and that can make a lord sweat with worry. With The Latian Lion in attendance, they will pay deference to their hero before they embarrass him with the notion he cannot keep them safe."
"Who?" asked Kaarle, his rough hands rested on his lap.
"The man in the chariot," said Simo, his belligerence opening to realization. "That was who passed by us outside, wasn't it?"
"Indeed," said Manwe. "He's a great champion of a kingdom to the south of Gypus, a legend in his own time who pulls the heads off of his enemies with his bare hands and may be the son of Adias, the lightning king of their gods."
"Why is he here for an execution?" Simo asked. "What does a Latian have to do with Gypus?"
"Nothing. Everything." Manwe glanced up from the constructed map, searching the liminal space of darkness and light for something, an idea Kaarle imagined no other man would think of besides the thief, a figure that was spoken of in many of the same tones as this "Latian Lion" supposedly was. "For what I know of Latia, I'm glad we only have to throw back Gypians. Most likely this visit from one of their dignitaries is a show that all things are in order as well as a reminder to the Latians that Gypus enforces its sovereignty, even on the frontier."
"So what are we to do?" asked Kaarle.
Manwe returned to his study of the map. A dangerous grin formed. "We show both sides otherwise."
"That blasphemous, traitorous, savage whelp of a whore," screamed Voduni Calla, his arms up and waving. Shadows played on the cave wall, one an outline that matched the enraged mystic’s, the other a tall, stoic silhouette that remained firm in its bearing.
Kosey stared hard at his co-conspirator. "The Panther has his reasons for giving up The Savannah's Tears, and like Kaarle relates, what is a mere bauble for the freedom of our people?"
"Don't you dare defend him! I tire of your defending this lout," shouted Voduni Calla with a long, skeletal finger pointed at Kosey. "To sell the Gem of Acitus to the Gypians was a sweet irony I could abide, but to sell drops of starlight stained with the blood of our ancient queens..." The shaman's frail body shook within the confines of his black wrap, a writhing shadow disturbed by every movement. He noticed Kaarle's stare. "And then to take our young men, the pride of Juut, into a Gypian whorehouse, where race traitors are rutting with western filth? What indignities will you allow this cur to stain us with before you finally see him for what he is?"
"Who Manwe works with is who Manwe works with," Kosey said, bordering on anger. "We must take our allies where we can get them, Voduni. No man is an island, and no island can turn the tides of a sea."
"Cease with pretty poems, Kosey," Voduni Calla snarled, his hairless face screwed in a mask of discontent. "I tolerated your brother, both his larcenous habits and his baser ones."
Kosey's jaw clenched. More than six feet tall and carved from hard, black ebony, his intense eyes fixed on the mystic, and for a moment Kaarle feared that the leader of Juut's just rebellion would attack this holy man for ill words spoken of a heroic brother—even if the man had fenced for Tolivius' greatest thief. The silver taken from The Panther's exploits had gone back into the fight for freedom, and to hear someone speak so poorly of one who had gone to join their ancestors was a grave insult.
Yet much to Kaarle's surprise, Kosey merely turned away and retook his seat on the stool. Voduni Calla stared daggers at the warrior but remained on his spot, neither leaving nor coming as close as he had been to the bed.
Kosey's exhaustion, trapped in the crevices of his face, shoulders, and legs, revealed itself as he spoke to Kaarle. "Go on, little brother. What happened at Aemon's Fort?"
Stuck between the shock of his leader cowed and the seething voduni, Kaarle remained quiet for a moment. He recalled the hot day, the stale scent of the fort's limestone, and the first question.
"Can they run fast?" Manwe asked, his attention tied to the long strips of black linen he bound to his hands and wrists. He walked down the narrow lane at a brisk pace, paying no attention to the rats or beggars who scurried out of his way. A cat, feasting on the carcass of one of the diseased vermin, hissed at him as he passed.
Kaarle followed, buckling on the sword belt the thief had handed him the moment they had left Tolivius' busy streets. "Nobou, definitely." He jammed the metal bit into one of the belt's ragged holes, hoping the length of leather would hold tight enough that the sword's naked blade could not bite with its uneven edge. "Simo might run the wrong way, toward the enemy."
"A fool is a fool, alive or dead."
Behind them the long lines of rabble choked the road, a morass of olive and black bodies stinking of oil and sweat. Seagulls flying above the cluttered roofs cried out in the sweltering morning, the rare day where the humidity of the city's wells, baths, and latrines coated all things in a layer of almost-invisible grime. The farther into the alley they went, the more the metropolitan sounds faded, replaced with the patting of bare feet on stone and dirt, the skitter of the rodents, and a foreboding quiet. Up ahead loomed a towering wall of limestone, pitted and scarred, which made up the western side of Aemon's Fort.
Kaarle felt his eyes widen the higher he craned to look for the edge, a bare line that he knew separated him and the thief from the den of their great enemy. The fort had once been the site of a temple dedicated to Ogan-Badah; the Iron Prince of his gods, long before the Gypians demolished what had been there and erected a place of death and punishment.
Never shy from battle, Kaarle muttered a small prayer, hoping the Lord of Bravery and Change still resided somewhere in the behemoth—at least enough so to see him out alive.
"When we get up there, you need to follow me and not get lost," said Manwe, showing no trepidation. Loose and relaxed, he shed his red cloak when he finished tying the wrappings around his hands and wrists. "Stay close."
"There's no way," Kaarle exclaimed, his eyes to the wall. "We aren't monkeys."
"No one is anything beyond what they do." The thief grabbed one of the pits in the wall, finding a handhold that Kaarle had not detected. Like some black spider, he started to climb, hands and feet finding every crack, hole, or seam in the wall that allowed him to ascend. Amazed at this feat of strength and dexterity, he followed beneath Manwe, his fingers hurting every time he touched the stone.
Foot after foot, nose to the wall, a shock set in after a few short minutes when Kaarle's hand grasped a soft yet defined edge, the grit in his palms powdery. Manwe offered a hand to help pull him over, and standing at the top of the wall, the young rebel looked back down into the alley, shocked at the feat he had achieved.
"How?"
"Simply do." Manwe started along the parapets, crouched low to avoid being seen by any of the guards who patrolled the tops of the walls. Much to Kaarle's surprise, the heights of Aemon's Fort were remarkably empty, a series of flights and landings that crisscrossed the entire inside of the fort in a sloping lattice.
Down below and set before the wall stood a long, wooden platform in the sun, home to a series of simple gibbets and a few posts for the lashings of the Gypians often held before the public as reminders to the enslaved. Stark in its bleached wood and dingy appearance, it remained apart from the fort's great keep, a pyramid bricked in the same limestone as the walls.
"They really did take everything, didn't they?" Kaarle asked aloud, more to himself than his companion.
Manwe descended the steps like a liquid shadow. "Only what we allowed."
The pair came to the last few levels above the gory stage, and looking around, Manwe pointed to a series of wagons set in the courtyard holding pallets of upright clay amphorae. "See those pots? If the notes given to me by Sophicus are accurate, those are containers of serpent's blood. I want you to sneak o
ver there during the execution, when the crowds have arrived, and use them to cause a distraction. If Simo and Nobou are able to kill a few senators in the offices of the government district, the guards left behind will be forced to converge there out of necessity, leaving me time to free the hostages."
"By yourself, Panther? Even with your great skills, one man cannot face off against the might of the Gypian guards by himself."
The thief's eyes flashed in challenge of the statement. "Why not?"
"All the things they say about you cannot be true," Kaarle said. "Some of it is just impossible."
Manwe looked ahead with a different sort of focus, a curiosity that did not seem worried, Kaarle thought, but a mindfulness of what was said and of how it was said. He crouched down on hands and feet, knelt much in the way of his namesake, a ferocious beast of cunning and surprising resourcefulness.
"What do they say?" the thief questioned.
Sitting down beside the squatting shadow, Kaarle studied the layout of the dusty courtyard, trying to imagine what his companion saw. "Lots of things. Did you truly slay a Gypian lord in his bed while his lover slept beside him?"
Manwe's chest rose with a sigh. "She was quite awake. Probably still is."
"But you did do it?" Kaarle's voice heightened with hope. "Just like you stole the Gem of Acitus from the depths of the underworld?"
"So they told you I went to the underworld, did they?"
"Of course. You entered two mouths in the mother, the places from where we rose. They say that true vodunis spend years in that darkness, finding out the secrets of the oldest ancients."
When Manwe spoke, his tone was bleak in both brevity and emotion. "If that is where souls go after they die, I'd rather be a ghost."
Kaarle gasped at the idea. "A ghost? Unsown and unfinished?"
"Why not?" Manwe tilted his head. "Maybe I'll be a new spirit of The Highest One, and one day you'll all pray to me."
People entered the fort through the main gates to the south, gigantic doors of hardwood studded in nails with heads the size of shields. Many had brought bottles of wine, a flaky loaf, even their wives and children to see native Juutans die, a gross celebration of one people’s domination.
