The Man of Gold t-2 Read online

  “Cha!” the swordsman called Etqole put in sarcastically. “Both the Prince of Worms and the grey-robes will have watchers out. And likely the girl’s people as well. You’ll be Xwm'-birds chirping in the net before a six-day is done!”

  “No. We need fear only Prince Dhich’une,” the shape-changer murmured. “None other has reason to seek these two along the way to Purdimal-unless they, too, have spies within the Legion of Ketl.”

  “Then?”

  “The best hiding place is in plain view. My orb has other uses than those you saw. Once we Mihalli were a mighty race, as skilled as your human ancestors before the Time of Darkness- and more. A touch within the priest’s brain, and he shambles along as a poor victim of the shaking sickness, unable to speak, to write, or even to feed himself. When we are amongst friends in Purdimal he can be restored and made to do our bidding.” “The same for the girl?”

  The shape-changer seemed to consider. “An addict to Zu’ur. Not in reality for she will also be needed. But my orb will give her the semblance of one: a pallid, frozen cataleptic. All within your human realms know that such a one can be roused to further frenzies of sexual ecstasy by another grain or two of the drug. There are those who buy such hapless slaves.”

  “And the sending of them, master?”

  “Openly. With Chnesuru the Salarvyani. Soon he takes a cargo of slaves to Khirgar, and he can carry these two as far as Purdimal. We know him: he loves gold more than any god.”

  “A slaver’s caravan!” Etqole’s voice was full of scorn. “The first place I’d look, were I Prince Dhich’une!”

  “The priest shall be disguised. His head is shaved, his face painted blue with Livyani tattooes. The shaking sickness hides his walk and his posture. None will heed him amidst a herd of field slaves. The girl, too, will be altered; she’ll travel in a sealed litter, the purchase of some lordling known for his curious tastes. Zhu’on, can you name such a one?”

  “There is a certain Lord Keleno, master, a High Priest of Ksarul lately posted to Mrelu. Men say that he favours eccentric delights: the waxen pallor of a Zu’ur addict would send him into spasms of lust. No ordinary watcher would question a slaver bringing such a present to him.”

  “This is madness,” the swordsman snarled. “We do not deal with ordinary watchers! Great master-lord-we humans may be innocents in your ancient and all-knowing eyes, but-!” He broke off and began again in a more conciliatory tone. “We shall certainly be caught out, Lord! The Tsolyani are not fools. Even if the grey-robes think that the priest is being sent to Ch’ochi, there are only two routes west: the direct one across to Tumissa, and the northern road through Purdimal, Khirgar, and Chene Ho. They’ll be sitting on both, as a bird squats on her eggs! We must plan, master, devise a means, make arrangements…”

  “And find the Worm Prince’s huntsmen sniffing upon every path? We dare not give him time to organise a pursuit.” The creature added slyly, “There is, of course, a third way to Purdimal: the tunnel-cars built by your ancestors before the Time of Darkness. We could be in Purdimal-or even in Ke’er-in a trice. I know where they lie in the Underworlds beneath the city for I travelled hither by that means. Those who guided me would demand further payment, of course, which I cannot now provide. The labyrinths are risky-and the favoured province of the Worm Lord. Would you dare that route, Etqole?”

  “You do not hoodwink a child, Mihalli-master! I have heard tales of those places-and of what guards them! You paid me money for my services, and you shall see me earn it. But I’ll not offer my tasty flesh to the Dlaqo-beeties or to any others of the horrors of the pits! Still, your slave caravan is no better-nay, worse! Try it, and the last journey we take is the ‘high ride’ on the impafer’s stake!”

  “Ah, brave Etqole! No one asks you to go. Indeed, Zhu’on and I can travel in a separate party-charcoal merchants, tanners of Chlen-hde, coppersmiths-and thus keep an eye clapped to old Chnesuru.”

  “Shall I then be cheated of the bigger share of my pay?” the swordsman cried, “and of my revenge upon the priest-and a little time with the girl? You would cast me aside so soon?”

  The creature made an odd, non-human growling sound. “Then join us. Or shut your shop and go your way!”

  For a time there was only the soft wash of the oars. Finally the swordsman grumbled: “Cha, I’ll not be left behind! Yet let us risk no more than is needful. We make no visible connection with the slaver but remain apart-as you say. I shall travel as a noble, with sufficient coin for good food, wine-”

  “Ohe, and a golden palanquin, and a cortege of little girls to sin g as you journey, and a pisspot all set with emeralds, and-” “Shut up,

  Zhu’on. Else you’ll wear a second gullet!”

  “Be silent, both of you! We approach the river gate. Tell me, Zhu’on, when does Chnesuru depart?”

  “Tomorrow is the twelfth of Pardan. He leaves the day after, master. ’ ’

  “Find him. Give him several golden reasons to advance his calendar a day. We must make haste.”

  “Ohe, there’s one more crack in the pot,” Etqole interrupted in still-sulky tones. “What of the white globe and the silver rod? Quro said the Worm Prince got the first, but the second…” “The globe has no value now. As for the rod, who knows where it is? Still in the temple of Thumis, mayhap? And perhaps our employer has no need of the rod but seeks only to find the Man of Gold and destroy it… This is no affair of ours.” Fingers of mist and a dappled greyish light curled along the deck before Harsan’s staring eyes. They were out upon the river, then, and it was dawn.

  Zhu’on’s voice came once more: “Master, what of the real Lord Arkhane?”

  The Mihalli gave a low chuckle, almost human. “Why, let him wake where I put him, in the Chalice of Silence. His Legion of Ketl may believe his pleas and pull him forth-or they may serve him boiling water for his breakfast…”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  This was the task Tlayesha hated most: ministering to the field-slaves. The women she did not mind; the children she treated with affectionate patience; and Chnesuru’s “special wares” were interesting, if sometimes sad or strange. But the field-hands-! A blister here, a stomach pain there, a suppurating sore, a fever, a flux, a nose mashed in one of the interminable fights in the pens! Often they teased her, pinched her, laid hands upon her, or even tried to pull aside the thin veil she wore to conceal the deformity of her face.

  That thought she. pushed firmly from her mind.

  Far back down the Sakbe road Bey Sii lay to the southeast beneath the blanket of pre-dawn mist. Somewhere there the sun would shortly stride up into the sky to begin another weary day. Tlayesha sighed and set down her bucket of water and bag of medicaments. They were ten days out of the capital now, and pompous old Chnesuru was in the worst mood she could remember: a trustee slave had decamped, taking a woman and two sacks of Dna — flour with him, and the pair had not yet been recaptured. -And already Tlayesha. had more than she could handle to keep her charges healthy!

  Was this the slave Mtiru the cook had sent her to cure? Yes, he lay with a cheap clay amulet of Balme, the healing Aspect of Mother Avanthe, pressed to a red and infected cheek, and he moaned softly in his sleep. He must be treated. Chnesuru kept his merchandise in the best possible health. Soon the month of Halir would come, when the crops were, cut and the demand for field-hands would beat its peak. At every village and Sakbe — road tower the overseers of the manors of the nobility, the stewards of the temple farms, the officers of the Emperor’s state lands, and the elders of the agricultural clans awaited Chnesuru’s coming with impatience. Slaves might not do all the work-, but if the Chlen-caxt of the Empire had four wheels, then the slave population certainly made up two of them.

  She squatted down on her heels beside the man and took out a clay pot of salve, a relatively clean rag, and her most treasured instrument, a needle of rare iron fixed in a wooden handle.

  “You’re not asleep,” she said. “Get up, and let me look at that ch
eek.”

  A sullen eye opened, and the fellow made a great pretense of waking up, a big muscular man burned almost black by the sun. Tlayesha was used to such responses; she brought her needle up to point directly into the open eye. The slave sat up.

  “In the name of Qon, girl, it’s only a boil.” He was probably trying to ingratiate himself. Many thought she worshipped Qon, Lord Belkhanu’s canine-headed Cohort. The clergy of the Temple of Qon wore veils to conceal their faces-some odd tenet of their sect-but theirs were invariably yellow while Tlayesha made do with any bit of fabric she could find.

  “It must be seen to, man. No pretty Aridani lady will buy you for her harem until that carbuncle is gone.”

  “Cha! Go tickle the boy with the shaking sickness there! He needs healing more than I!” He reached out a hand to caress her thigh, but she set the needle’s point firmly against the skin of his wrist.

  “Be patient. Bountiful Chnesuru arranges harlots for all of you tonight when we reach Tkoman Village.”

  “The decrepit hags he provides are only useful to frighten demons!” He gave a coarse laugh. “Why not minister to me yourself? Are you not a physician? Some say that you are ugly, but others claim you are so lovely that you hide your face to keep us all from going mad. For my needs, my lady, you can keep your head-scarf; the parts I want are lower down.”

  “I am no slave to lie upon the open road with field-hands. Master Chnesuru employs me-for what his coppers are worth. Come-let me lance your cheek, else I must advise him that he would profit by having you altered for service as a eunuch. Mayhap you would enjoy the soft life of a servant in some clanmaster’s harem!”

  The slave grunted and spat, but he held up his face and made a show of feeling no pain. Tlayesha salved the boil and rose, dodging a final pat on the backside. She walked on down the line.

  There sat the boy with the shaking sickness. They had picked him up outside of Bey Sii, the Gods knew why! Some demon must have muddied Chnesuru’s wits that day! They’d be lucky to get twenty Kaitars for him. A hereditary disease, people said, and reason enough for his clan to sell, him off for a pittance. No room for such in a peasant’s household! At first they had had to feed him, and he had not even been able to hold his bowels. He bore bruises and manacle-scars on his wrists as well. Fright and nervousness at being sold into strange hands had doubtless added, too, to his condition. Now he was steadier, and she had only to see that others did not steal his food or kick him too severely when he stumbled and drooled.

  She stopped beside the boy. Actually he was a youth as old or older than Tlayesha herself. She had got into the habit of thinking of him as a boy, a child almost, because of his malady. He had no name, or if he did he could not control his tongue to tell it. She did not even know if he understood Tsolyani. He was almost certainly from some low clan of Livyanu, for his face and torso were covered with Aomiiz, the arabesques of red, blue, and black tattooes every Livyani received in childhood. They indicated the wearer’s clan, city, and religious affiliation. Yet when two of Chnesuru’s Livyani slaves had tried to question him, they had got no farther than had Tlayesha. There was a riddle indeed.

  Like most of Master Chnesuru’s slaves, the boy wore no shackles. The lot of a slave was no worse than that of many peasants, and at least a slave’s belly usually stayed full. A squad of overseers, a few guards, and the ever-present row of impaling stakes that graced the gates and plazas of the cities of the Five Empires were enough to vouch for good behaviour under most circumstances. When they had first left Bey Sii the boy had hung back or stumbled away from the column two or three times; Chnesuru had put this down to his illness rather than to any wish to escape and had not even scolded him, much less had him beaten. Now there was a second puzzle!

  “Here,” she said, and held out a sponge of water and a blob of greasy V'e-root paste for him to soap himself.

  He looked up at her with some odd emotion showing in his eyes, and for a moment it seemed as though he would speak. But then his tongue lolled out, his eyes unfocussed, and he fumbled for the sponge with shaking fingers. Tlayesha poured water over his back and noted idly that the skin there was still sunburned and peeling. His previous owners must have kept him indoors. She wondered again what his history might have been.

  “Hoi! — Ohe!” Someone called from the front of the column, and the slaves groaned and stumbled to their feet. The day’s march was about to begin.

  Behind her the horizon showed as angry-red as that slave’s boil, but to the north the Kraa Hills still bulked black beneath diadems of cloud. Only the sword-bright pinnacle of Akonar Peak thrust above the foothills there, blood-splashed by the dawning sun. Tlayesha looked to the northwest, but Thenu Thendraya Peak was not yet visible. Once the road turned after the town of Tsuru, they would journey under the shadow of that granite monolith-“The Sentinel of Hrugga” people named it- for many more days before reaching the swamps surrounding old Purdimal. Thenu Thendraya Peak guarded the jumbled mountains and deserts of the impoverished and fragmented nation of Milumanaya, it was said, although there was nothing there to see but wild nomads and sand and barren stones. Beyond, however, lay Yan Kor.

  Tlayesha picked up her bucket and medicines and walked along beside the caffle, ignoring the calls and obscene pleasantries of the slaves. She had heard all of that since she was twelve years old and had fled her clan in Butrus in Pan Chaka. Her deformity had stirred up the superstitious fears of her clanspeople. But the fault lay more with a certain facile rogue who had called himself noble and called her by many more honeyed names! Cha, he had sold her soon enough into the brothels of Jakalla! There she had spent five miserable years earning her freedom again by “the tasks of the bed,” as fat Tanere the brothel-keeper charitably named them.

  Remembered hurt and insult arose to plague her memory. She was not unbeautiful. Were it not for her birth-curse, she might have attained the higher status of courtesan. As it was, she was forced to cater to those who were too low, too uncaring, too strange in their desires, or too drunk to notice. As Tanere said, “Darkness makes everyone beautiful.” She had taught Tlayesha to keep her room shuttered, the candle low, and to dance nude save for a veil upon her face. “Mystery adds attraction-and coins upon the brass plate.”

  After Jakalla there had been a dozen cities. Freedom does not fill the belly, and those days were not easy ones. At least she had learned about medicines, drugs, and treatments-among other things-and when Master Chnesuru offered to hire her as physician for his merchandise, she had accepted gratefully. For two-no, almost three-years now she had accompanied the slaver’s caravan from Thraya in the southeast to Khirgar in the far northwest of the Empire. Twice she had gone beyond: once to Kheiris in Mu’ugalavya, and once to Pijnar on the shores of the foggy northern sea. Now she counted herself experienced, travelled, and able to look upon her Skein of Destiny without fear-though with no particular joy.

  Qoyqunel, the chief of the caravan guards, was coming back along the column to pick litter bearers for the morning shift. The pretty girls, the trained courtesans, the dancers, the children, the old, and the sick were not required to walk but rode instead in palanquins or in the trundling Chlen-carts.

  There were a few closed litters as well, tended by selected female slaves or by some of the slaver’s nonhuman henchmen: Shen, Ahoggya, a Pe Choi or two, and others. On this trip Tlayesha had been called to minister to the occupants of two of these. One was a beautiful little girl of ten or twelve, to whom she had given dream-potions to help her forget her lost home in Haida Pakala, a land so far away across the southern ocean that Tlayesha had heard no more than its name. The other was a delicate-looking, long-limbed girl, a victim of the dreaded Zu’ur, who lay like a corpse behind the heavy curtains of her litter. The Gods take pity upon that one! But then the poor wretch would never know what was done to her, and that, at least, was a mercy. Her mind was gone, and within a few months she would surely die. Such was the way of Zu’ur. Those who supplied it risked their lives
, but there were those, even in the highest places, who made use of its addicts for their own morbid pleasures. This, to Tlayesha, was the worst part of slavery, and she realised only too well why the profession of slaver was held to be the lowest of the low in all the Five Empires. Master Chnesuru might become as rich as a God, but never would he be received within the gates of any clanhouse save those that followed the same greedy occupation.

  Qoyqunel waved his scalloped sword of hardened Chlen — hide and shouted. The fool had never used the weapon and wore it only to impress the village trollops. He chose a score of slaves from among the plodding field-hands and sent them trotting forward to help with the litters. Tlayesha saw that the boy with the shaking sickness was in the group. Well, he seemed fit enough to hold up a litter pole.

  Tlayesha let herself fall into the mindless rhythm of walking, her thoughts far away from the dusty vistas of yellowing grain and baked-brick hamlets. The morning passed.

  She was awakened from her revery by shouting and the sound of blows ahead. Someone was being flogged. She hitched her bag of medicines higher on her hip and went forward to see what was amiss.

  As she drew nearer she saw that Old White-Side, the Ahoggya overseer, had somebody down upon the roadway, belabouring him with its knurled cudgel and hooting obscenities in a mixture of human languages and its own gurgling, gobbling tongue. The victim was the boy with the shaking sickness! Tlayesha broke into a run.

  She had always disliked this particular Ahoggya for its needless cruelty. Now she ran up to it and snatched the staff from its four-fingered hand.

  “What do you, woman?” Old White-Side cried, and reached for its cudgel with another of its four arms. Everything about the Ahoggya came in fours: a knobbly grey carapace of homy material sheltered a brown-furred, barrel-shaped body. Just below this carapace, four arms were set equidistantly around its circumference, and below these, at the base of the barrel, four gnarled legs bent outward in a permanent crouch. Between each pair of arms, high up under the carapace rim, it had two wicked little eyes on each side. Below one of these pairs of optics was its fanged, crude-looking mouth, and in similar positions on the other three sides were its organs of hearing, smell, and reproduction. No human could pronounce an Ahoggya name, and hence Chnesuru’s people called this one “Old White-Side” because of a patch of bristly silver fur on one of its “shoulders.” The creature smelled rank, like a barnyard in a swamp, reminiscent of its homeland in the sea-marshes along the southern Salarvyani coast.