Angus Wells - The God Wars 03

by Wild Magic (v1. 1)

  "If they name this a town," he called, "what must their great holds be like?"

  "Vast, like Nhur-jabal," she answered, with a smile he thought was nervous, assuming she anticipated her contact with Anomius.

  "You've naught to fear," he said by way of reassurance. "Only do as Ochen advises, and Anomius shall be none the wiser."

  She nodded, unspeaking, and he fell silent, staring at Ahgra-te as the walls began to fill with folk, like an audience lining the upper levels of an amphitheater, and Chazali's two forerunners came thundering back. Faces peered from the ramparts, and from the gates came a double column of halfarmored pikemen who formed an avenue between guardhouse and gate.

  "I thought all kotu gone to the war," he called ahead.

  Ochen turned briefly, swaying awkwardly in his saddle, and answered, "Kotu-anj are left here as rearguard."

  It was all the explanation the wazir had time to give, else he should have lost his precarious seat as they crossed the bridge and the drumming of hooves on wood gave way to the clatter of shoes on stone. There was a moment of darkness as they entered the gates, and then light and confusion as they emerged into a shadowed square filled all around with the figures of kembi and other dignitaries. Chazali and Ochen reined in, though neither made any move to dismount as a deputation—of notables, Calandryll assumed from the magnificence of their robes—stepped forward, bowed low, and offered profuse welcome to the honorable kiriwashen of Pamur-teng, the revered wazir, and their most honored guests.

  Calandryll guessed that Chazali's forerunners had warned the leaders of Ahgra-te that outlanders rode with the column, but even so he was aware of sidelong stares, filled with curiosity, as the kiriwashen gave formal answer and the notables shouted for the crowd to part, the pikemen trotting ahead, leading the way into the town.

  It was, to eyes better accustomed to the avenues of Lyssian cities or the open spaces of the world, a claustrophobic place. The streets were barely wide enough a cart might pass between the buildings that stood to either side, four stories high, so that they reached almost to the inner walkways of the walls against which they were built, as if the entire town were a single huge fortress cut through with narrow passageways. Dusk was falling now, and though lanterns were lit and windows bled light, still the path was gloomy, oppressive despite the welcome of the inhabitants. The air, after the clean scent of the woodlands, was heavy with the myriad, near-forgotten odors of any city, but here the stranger for the mingling of unknown spices, the scented sticks that burned in doorways, the smell of exotic food. Faces peered from every opening, and now that he was more familiar with the Jesseryte physiognomy Calandryll could see the curiosity writ there, the wonder that kiriwashen and wazir should ride in company with foreigners.

  It was a relief to emerge into an open square for all the bulk of the Ahgra Danji loomed overhead: at least the sky was visible here, dark blue and already sprinkled with stars, the risen moon a promise to the east.

  Like Ghan-te before it, this square was faced with a temple, stables, and inns. The kotu-anj disappeared into the most splendid of the latter, while the kembi and their fellow notables offered their backs for footstools, precipitating the same confusion as had arisen in Ghan-te. When Calandryll finally succeeded in dismounting unaided, he saw the kotu-anj herding folk from the inn, guessing the hostelry was cleared for occupation by the visitors.

  He stared about, intrigued by this odd city— "town," Chazali and Ochen had named it, but it seemed too large for such diminutive appelation, prompting him to wonder again about the size of the northern tengs—and through the milling crowd saw a priest emerge from the entrance of the temple. This was a vast structure, occupying most of the square's north flank, the horsehead symbol of Horul magnificent with gold leaf and jet above the wide doors. The priest was equally splendid, his robe iridescent silver, sparkling in the lanterns' light, but, Calandryll saw, much younger than Ochen. He was attended by six acolytes in robes of green and gold, each bearing a thurible, all swinging in perfect unison, trailing faint streamers of perfumed smoke. He halted a few steps from the doors, the acolytes moving into precise line at his back, and raised his hands, chanting a prayer that was also a greeting.

  Formality reined now, Ochen explaining that he and the kotu-zen must pay due respect to their god.

  Calandryll answered with a bow. "We'll see our animals stabled and await you in the tavern."

  Ochen murmured his thanks and walked toward the waiting priest. Chazali followed, his men coming after, leaving their horses in care of the kotu- anj. None seemed overly eager to take charge of the larger horses, and the outlanders led their mounts toward the stable, finding stalls readied. They unsaddled and set to currying the animals, seeing them comfortable before making their way to the inn.

  The place was empty, save for the owner and his serving people, a large, low-ceilinged room set round with long tables and the faldstools that were the usual seating of the Jesserytes. What windows existed were cut into the frontage of the building, small and square and already shuttered. Lanterns were lit at intervals along the walls, but they afforded no more light than those of the keep, so that the chamber was dim, shadow pooling beyond the scant radiance. Instinct sent Calandryll's eyes roving the shadows, aware that Bracht and Katya followed suit. He smiled and called a greeting. And saw the Jesserytes flinch, gasping, stark surprise showing on their faces as they heard their own language issue from the mouth of an outlander.

  "Are we so strange?" he heard Bracht mutter, and nodded, murmuring, "Aye, to them we are." Then to the innkeeper and his folk, "Greetings. We ride in company of the kiriwashen, Chazali Nakoti Makusen, and the wazir, Ochen Tajen Makusen, of Pamur-teng. They bade us await them here."

  The innkeeper took a wary step forward, folding his ample belly in a bow. Calandryll saw his head was bald, though he wore both mustache and beard. He ran a pink tongue nervously over fleshy lips and said in a faltering voice, "Greetings to you, honored guests. We were appraised of your coming, and bid you welcome. I am Kiatu Garu, owner of this humble establishment. How may I serve you?"

  "Ale, do you have it," Bracht declared, cheerfully ignoring the man's obvious discomfort. "Wine, else."

  "I'd take a bath," said Katya.

  "All is available," Kiatu assured them, bowing afresh.

  "Then, Katya, do you and Cennaire use the bathhouse," Calandryll suggested, "while Bracht and I await you here?"

  The Vanu woman nodded, Cennaire an instant later: this would be the first time she was alone with Katya since confessing her revenancy, and she wondered what might be said. No matter, she decided, for she was committed now, and did Katya scorn her, or decry her, still words should not harm her. She followed the taller woman across the ill-lit chamber, to the door Kiatu indicated, where a nervous serving woman waited.

  Calandryll, for his part, wondered what might pass between him and Bracht in this moment of privacy, thinking that it might well be an opportunity to speak openly of their differences. He felt abruptly nervous: they had spoken hardly at all since the night of Horul's manifestation, and he was afraid that free discussion might drive wider the rift between them. He followed the Kern to a table set along one wall, taking a seat beneath a lantern as Kiatu brought them ale.

  Bracht took a healthy swig and grunted his approval. Calandryll drank slower, unsure whether he should broach the subject of Cennaire or remain silent. It was, as it happened, the Kern who spoke first.

  "We've not said much, you and I," he declared, glancing first at Calandryll and then at his mug.

  To his surprise, Calandryll realized Bracht was embarrassed. He said, "No. Not since . . ."

  He shrugged, letting the sentence die. Bracht took another swallow and finished for him: “Horul appeared to you."

  Calandryll turned on the faldstool to face the Kern. "You believe he did? It was not some conjuration?"

  "I've spoken long with Katya on this," Bracht answered slowly, frowning at his ale, "and she's persuaded me
it was likely Horul. Ochen is convinced, and you've no doubts. So ..."

  He broke off, shrugging. Calandryll said, "It was the god, Bracht. Of that I've no doubt at all, nor of what he said."

  "That Cennaire becomes our ally?" Again Bracht shrugged, his frown deepening. "Perhaps. But I cannot forget what she is, nor who made her that. Neither that you love her—even knowing all she's done."

  Calandryll was silent awhile. Then: "Aye. But think you that does not trouble me?" His voice trailed away and he shook his head helplessly. "Dera, I know not whether I should love her or loathe her! Horul said I should forget her past, follow my heart—that she's reborn, and should be forgiven what she's done. But think you I can forget that? No, I cannot!"

  "This is no easy thing." Bracht tilted his mug and called for more. "And these past days I've thought only of my own feelings, not at all of yours."

  Calandryll recognized the apology and smiled briefly. "Save that I love her, I'm no more certain what they are," he said softly. "The killings—aye, those I can forgive. At least, I think I can, for she acted then on pain of Anomius's wrath, in fear of her . . . life . . . and I've shed blood enough along this road."

  "None innocent," Bracht interjected.

  "Perhaps," Calandryll sighed. "Perhaps that's a thing for the gods to decide."

  Confidently, Bracht said, "The Younger Gods can find no fault in you, my friend. Ahrd! Those you've slain, you've slain for this quest's sake."

  "And now Cennaire becomes a part of that," returned Calandryll. "Horul said as much, and Ochen believes it so. Yet what am I become, that I love a woman without a heart?"

  "Unlucky," said Bracht, his mouth shaping a tight and humorless grin.

  "Would that she might regain her heart and become no more than mortal," Calandryll murmured. "It should be easier then."

  "Perhaps Ochen might find a way," Bracht suggested.

  Calandryll glanced sharply at the Kern. "How so? Save we reach Anwar-teng and defeat Rhythamun, my concerns are of no importance."

  "Perhaps after, then," Bracht said, and chuckled. "Do we succeed. Do we not, I think all our concerns shall be ended."

  Calandryll nodded, himself chuckling at that grim humor. "Aye. But meanwhile? Shall we go on as before, or do you name Cennaire ally now?"

  Bracht paused before replying, toying with his mug. "Katya is largely convinced," he said slowly, "and she persuades me that Ochen is a true friend. I think perhaps my doubts were born of anger. Ahrd, but I thought these Jesserytes our enemy before I came to know them better. I was mistaken then—perhaps I was wrong, too, about Cennaire."

  Calandryll stared, wondering if the Kern was truly won over, or if he merely looked to patch their friendship.

  Bracht shrugged, drank ale, and went on: "I'll not say I like what she's done, nor that I trust her yet. But there have been divisions come between us, and those can only threaten this quest—I'd not see them grow wider. I tell you now—can I trust this gijan we're to consult, and she pronounces Cennaire one with our cause, then I'll name her ally."

  It was, Calandryll knew, as close as the Kern would come to confessing a wrong, an elaborate apology offered by a proud, hard man. He accepted it gratefully, thankful that the gap sprung up between them was closed.

  "But does she prove false," Bracht added grimly, "then I'll slay her if I can."

  "Aye." Calandryll ducked his head, accepting that. "And betwixt here and Pamur-teng? Shall you treat her as a friend?"

  Bracht, in turn, nodded. "I'll not promise I can forget what she is," he said, "but you've my word I'll endeavor to be more courteous."

  "My thanks," said Calandryll.

  "Ahrd, shall comrades such as we fall out over a woman?" The Kern chuckled, some measure of good humor returned. "Even be she heartless. Now—do we drink more of this Jesseryte ale?"

  "Surely." Calandryll shouted for fresh mugs, his spirits lifted, as if a weight were taken from his soul.

  Katya and Cennaire joined them in a while, and from the expression on the Kand woman's face, and the way they spoke together, Calandryll saw that a similar conversation had taken place in the bathhouse. It cheered him that their differences were mended, for all he must still wrestle with his own conscience: that Bracht and Katya chose to accept Cennaire resolved but one problem—there remained the disquieting fact that he loved a woman animated by sorcery.

  It was difficult to think of her as such when she smiled and he felt his heart lurch, marveling at the perfection of her face, the glossy spill of her raven hair, and he once more took refuge behind a screen of formality. It was easier when Ochen, accompanied by Chazali and the kotu-zen, entered the tavern. Easier, too, for Kiatu and his staff, though Calandryll could still read amazement on their faces, that wazir and kiriwashen should so casually accept the presence of foreigners, indeed, should converse with them as if with old friends.

  That discipline that seemed a natural part of the Jesseryte character stood the landlord in good stead then, as he oversaw the serving of the meal, for all his eyes wandered frequently to the outlanders' faces and he started each time he heard them speak his language.

  The fare was excellent, a luxury after the long days on the road, fish served in spicy sauces, and cuts of pork and venison roasted with strange herbs, a gravy fragrant with wine. They ate well, listening to what news of the civil war had come south. The siege of Anwar-teng continued, they learned, though the sorcerers standing with the rebel forces worked hard to prevent the transfer of news by occult means, what messages had broached their barriers sporadic. The priest had advised Ochen that the armies of Pamur-teng and Ozali-teng moved north, while the rebellious kotu- zen of Bachan-teng remained within their hold, ready to block the line of march. As best he knew, no major battle was yet fought, the main forces of the rebels still en route to Lake Galil, where Anwar-teng yet stood inviolate.

  "And Rhythamun?" asked Calandryll. "Is there news of him?"

  Ochen and Chazali exchanged a look at that, and the wazir nodded somberly, the kiriwashen's face dour.

  "Ten days past a kotu-anj came here," Ochen replied. "He declared himself a messenger sent from the keep, riding for Pamur-teng. He took a fresh mount and continued northward without delay."

  "Did the priest not recognize him for what he is?" gasped Calandryll.

  "No." Ochen shook his head regretfully. "He'd no cause to suspect the man, and only wished him godspeed on his way."

  At his side, Calandryll heard Bracht mutter a curse. For his own part, he sighed and murmured, "Ten days? Dera, but he gains on us."

  "We've one small advantage," said Ochen. "He gave his name as Jabu Orati Makusen."

  "A very small advantage," Calandryll observed.

  Ochen smiled faintly, nodding agreement, and said, "But still a gain, for we know his clan now."

  "What use is that?" asked Bracht.

  Chazali answered, his voice grim: "Does he look to join the army out of Pamur-teng, he must first explain his presence—why he did not remain at the keep. Does he succeed, then he must continue his charade, and find himself assigned to the column of the Orati clan."

  "Ahrd! Think you if we call out his name, he shall spring forward?" Bracht grunted, shaking his head slowly. "Or shall the clan stand in line while Cennaire studies each face?"

  Chazali took no offense at the Kern's bitter humor, only shrugged, opening his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "We can overtake the columns," he declared. "That, at least. Then, do I speak with the kiriwashen of the Orati, he can check through his men."

  "Save Rhythamun possess some other," Calandryll said. "Or avoids the army altogether."

  "He must still enter Anwar-teng to reach that gate," Ochen said quietly. "Or go on to the Borrhun-maj."

  "And Anwar-teng stands yet," Chazali added. "And the Borrhun-maj is a long ride off."

  "And Rhythamun ten days ahead," said Bracht, "with more delays likely left in our way. And he able to shift his shape again."

  A ruminative silence
settled then, the enormity of their task daunting. It seemed impossible they should overtake the sorcerer, but rather trail forever after him, until he reached his goal and Tharn was raised. They each became lost awhile in private thoughts, none happy, until Ochen broke the spell.

  "But still we go on, no?" he asked. "Do we but gain Anwar-teng, we've the aid of the wazir- narimasu."

  They each then looked at him, surprise in some eyes, solemnity in others, and Bracht said, "Aye, of course we go on. What else?"

  The Kern's tone suggested the wizard's question was redundant, a foolishness. Calandryll chuckled, his spirit rising. "Dera, but we've seen only a little bit of the world yet," he announced. "Think you we'd leave the Jesseryn Plain unexplored?"

  "Or the Borrhun-maj," Bracht added.

  "Or whatever lies beyond," said Katya.

  "Nor forget Vanu," the Kern continued, grinning now. "Remember there's a matter I'd discuss with your father."

  Katya's smile grew broad, laughter sparking in the grey of her eyes, though her voice was deliberately grave as she said, "But only after the Arcanum is delivered safe to destruction."

  "Oh, aye," Bracht replied, matching her tone. "Only after that small matter is settled."

  Calandryll saw Chazali watching their exchange with narrowed eyes, as if he wondered at their sanity, and found himself laughing. Across the table, Cennaire looked from one to the other, herself bemused that they found such humor in a situation so fraught with peril, and realized her own lips stretched in a smile: such optimism, such laughter, was infectious.

  "We depart at dawn," Chazali declared, his tawny eyes solemn, wondering if he would ever properly understand these strangers.

  "And there's some small business to conduct this night," said Ochen, turning toward Cennaire, "be you ready."

  Her laughter died; her expression grew somber. She ducked her head: "As you wish."

  THEIR rooms were located on the topmost floor of the inn—the height commensurate with status, Ochen explained—with narrow windows affording a view over the rooftops of Ahgra-te, the beds wide, the floors richly carpeted. They were spacious quarters, but still Cennaire's grew crowded as they gathered there, listening to Ochen advise the woman what she should tell Anomius, and what hold back.