Angus Wells - The God Wars 03 (18 page)

           
Katya said, "Were the world not
so disordered there'd be no need. But given where we go and who we go against,
it's as well Cennaire be able to protect herself."

           
Calandryll nodded, sobered by that
reminder, and they shed their jerkins, returning along barely remembered
corridors to the yard where the kotu-zen had drilled.

           
The sun stood beyond its zenith now
and the place was emptied of the black-armored warriors, men in tunics of grey
cotton—presumably, Calandryll decided, denoting some lower caste— busily
tending an array of weaponry. Fletchers feathered arrows, others worked on mail
armor, two grinding wheels filled the air with the shriek of sharpened steel.
It seemed the keep readied for the war, though all fell still as the outlanders
entered, the grey-clad men watching them in silence, reinforcing the somewhat
unnerving feeling that they were, indeed, strangers in this land.

           
None spoke until Calandryll asked
where they should stow the practice gear, and then a man stepped forward,
bowing deferentially, offering to take the jerkins, as if so humble a task were
beneath the dignity of the four.

           
"Ahrd, but all this
subservience sets my teeth on edge," Bracht muttered in the Envah.

           
"I think they rank us
kotu-zen," Calandryll returned. "And it seems the kotu-zen enjoy such
privilege."

           
The Kern snorted, glancing round at
the still- silent onlookers, who appeared to await further instructions, or for
the departure of the visitors, before commencing their duties. “I’m more at
ease with the ways of Cuan na'For," he murmured. "Even Secca was not
so formal."

           
"Still, we're here."
Calandryll grinned and handed the waiting man his jerkin. "And in a
foreign land we'd best accept foreign ways."

           
Bracht grunted, but made no further
comment, merely tossing the padded leathers into the waiting arms. Katya and
Cennaire passed theirs over and the man scurried off.

           
"Do we find the dining hall
again?" Katya suggested. "I've an appetite."

           
"Save we lose ourselves in this
maze," Bracht agreed, his earlier good humor a little waned. "The
sooner we take the road, the better."

           
"Bracht," Katya advised
Cennaire with deliberate solemnity, "is never entirely happy save he sits
his horse awhile each day."

           
"So Calandryll suggested,"
Cennaire replied, smiling.

           
And was abruptly struck by the odd
thought that she felt at ease with these three, as if they were, truly,
comrades. She held her smile, frozen, as the concomitant thought came hard on
the heels of that first, instinctive, feeling: that it would be a sad thing
were she forced to slay them.

           
She drove the notion away, assuming
a careless gaiety, as they quit the yard and found the dining hall.

           
The great room was no better lit
than before, and deserted by all save Ochen, who sat alone at the high table,
platters of cold meat, cheeses, and bread before him, a cup of wine in his
age-gnarled hand.

           
He greeted them cheerfully,
motioning them to the seats on either side, explaining that the
midday
meal was taken some time past, the cold
cuts left for their delectation.

           
"I fear," Calandryll said,
filling a cup with pale wine, "that we breached some protocol with our
sword practice."

           
The wazir nodded, chuckling.
"The kotu-zen are a trifle rigid in their sense of etiquette," he
declared. "But no matter,- it need not concern you."

           
"We've much to learn,"
Calandryll apologized.

           
"No less do we," said
Ochen. "We've closed ourselves away so long our customs stultify somewhat.
The notion that a woman should bear a sword is anathema to some here. Yet did
you not"—he smiled in Katya's direction, managing to encompass Cennaire in
the same look—"I think perhaps Rhythamun should already have won the
day." ,

           
"And we two be likely
slain," Bracht agreed, raising a cup in toast to the warrior woman.
"Had Katya not come to our aid in Kharasul, I think the Chaipaku might
well have left us dead."

           
Katya smiled, more intent on the
food than flattery. Calandryll said, "Even so, I'd not offend our hosts.
Have you time, some outline of your customs would be welcome."

           
"I've time now," Ochen
returned. "The keep is cleansed; better, I've set the walls with occult
defenses. Chazali and Temchen look to the physical aspects, so save you've some
better way to pass the afternoon ..."

           
Calandryll feared Bracht would
suggest they put the horses through their paces, and said quickly, giving the
Kern no time to speak, "Aye, that would be useful."

           
"Well then." Ochen topped
his cup, sipped, leaning forward with elbows on table. "Some little I
think you know already, from Chazali."

           
"Who is kotu," Calandryll
said, nodding. "The warrior caste."

           
"All here are kotu," Ochen
explained. "But even among the kotu there are degrees of rank. Chazali,
Temchen—those warriors you encountered this morning—are kotu-zen, who are the
highest of the caste."

           
"And wear the black
armor?" asked Calandryll.

           
"Indeed," said Ochen, his
wrinkled face splitting in a deeper smile. "Only the kotu-zen may wear
such armor, which in turn is marked with the insignia of their rank and clan.
Did my magic allow, rd invest you with knowledge of our written language. But,
sadly, that is beyond my powers."

           
"The gift of your tongue is
great enough." Calandryll returned the wazir's smile. "Who, then, are
the men clad in mail and leather?"

           
"Kotu-anj," said Ochen.
"They are usually foot soldiers, though they may ride as need
dictates."

           
"The men I saw, across the Kess
Imbrun," Cennaire interjected, "they wore mail and leather. The one
Rhythamun . . . took ... he was so dressed."

           
"Then he was kotu-anj,"
Ochen murmured, thoughtful now. "Which must render him the harder to
find—the kotu-zen are relatively few in numbers, the kotu-anj many."

           
Bracht mouthed a curse, met with a
rustling of the wazir's tunic as he shrugged, saying, "That shall not
prevent our hunting him down, Horul willing. But do we forget Rhythamun and his
foul intent for the moment? We can do nothing now— nothing until dawn—so let us
speak of more palatable matters."

           
Calandryll was content enough with
that: his curiosity about this strange land was mightily aroused. "The
servants," he said, "those men we met in the grey tunics—are they
kotu?"

           
"All here are kotu," Ochen
repeated. "These keeps that ward our borders may be manned only by
warriors. Hence there are no women, save"—he ducked his head to Katya,
Cennaire—"such honored guests as you. Those who serve at table, who
perform the more menial duties, are kotu-ji. They aspire to become kotu-anj,
but must first prove themselves."

           
"And the kotu-anj," asked
Calandryll, utterly intrigued now by this multilayered society, "do they
aspire to become kotu-zen?"

           
"They cannot," Ochen told
him. "The kotu-zen come only from the highborn families. Theirs is a
privilege of blood right."

           
"Ahrd, but you inhabit an odd
land." Bracht shook his head, frowning. "In Cuan na'For all men are
equal. Or can make themselves so."

           
Ochen's wrinkles assumed a vaguely
apologetic expression. "So it has been down the centuries," he
murmured blandly. "I think that perhaps Cuan na'For is a freer land than
most, for are Lysse and
Kandahar
not ordered in similar degrees of rank?"

           
"The Tyrant rules
Kandahar
," said Cennaire.

           
"And the cities of Lysse are
ruled by their domms," Calandryll added. "After them, the great
families."

           
"And Vanu?" Ochen asked of
Katya. "What of that mysterious land?"

           
"All are deemed equal,"
she replied, "and all choose who shall speak for them in our councils,
that the voice of every man and woman be heard."

           
"To each his own," Ochen
murmured, seeming a little taken aback by so revolutionary a notion. Then he
chuckled: "Horul, but a fresh wind should blow through this land did our
women take up such ideas,* or the lesser castes."

           
He appeared to find the idea greatly
amusing, for he sat awhile shaking his head and rocking slightly, his eyes
narrowed to slits as his smile grew broader. It seemed to Calandryll he found
the notion not without appeal, as if he might even welcome the wind of change.

           
"And the wazirs?"
Calandryll asked. "Where does your caste stand in all of this?"

           
Ochen sobered a little, though still
his smile was wide. "We are privileged above all, I think," he
answered, "for any—man or woman—gifted with the occult talent may become
wazir, no matter their family's station. The talent is noticeable in childhood
and those so gifted are watched carefully, until it is agreed they should train
as ki-wazir. Sometimes the gift fades, but those who go on to become wazir are
considered equal with the highest of the kotu-zen. Save for the wazir-narimasu,
who stand with the Shendii—the greatest of all."

           
"But still, for all their
greatness," Bracht remarked, "unable to defeat these rebels who
threaten Anwar-teng."

           
"So it is," Ochen
confirmed. "But look you, did the wazir-narimasu turn to the dark ways
their ability to hold closed the gate should be gone, and then . . . Then did
Tharn awake, how should they deny the god entry into the world?"

           
Bracht frowned, swirling wine around
his cup, then said, "// the Mad God wakes, why should he come back by way
of Anwar-teng? Might he not cross the Borrhun-maj? Or do the wazir-narimasu
guard that road, too?"

           
"A good question," Ochen
said, grave now, no longer beaming, "and no, the wazir-narimasu do not
guard that road. The First Gods set such magicks about the Borrhun-maj that not
even Tharn may come that way."

           
Now Calandryll frowned. "But
you believe

           
Rhythamun might reach Tharn by that
route," he said carefully. "Across the mountains or by way of
Anwar-teng, you said. How is that possible, be there such wardings and
guardians in attendance?"

           
"I say the crossing of the
Borrhun-maj is nigh impossible for any mortal man," replied the wazir
slowly. "And the existence of the gate in Anwar- teng is a secret kept
close. But ..." He paused, sighed, his face suddenly ancient beyond even
the years etched there. "But . . . Rhythamun has the Arcanum, no? And that
book is both guide and guardian—with that, Rhythamun doubtless knows of the
gate,
and
holds the means to survive
the crossing of the Borrhun-maj."

           
The import of his words struck deep,
like a honed blade. Calandryll swallowed, his next question voiced gruff:
"Say you then, does he succeed in reaching either goal—teng or
mountains—the day is his?"

           
Ochen looked into his eyes, at each
waiting face, solemnly, and shook his head once, a small movement, suggestive
of doubt. "It may be," he said softly, "but not necessarily so.
To use the hold's gate, he must first reach Anwar-teng, enter the city. Guised
as he is in stolen shape, he can likely do that, but it will not be easy. More
likely—does he choose that path—he'll league himself with the rebels, hoping
the siege proves successful and he find entry in the confusion. Should he
choose to attempt the Borrhun-maj, then still he must travel there, and even
bearing the Arcanum I think his progress must be slowed. Horul willing, we
shall intercept him ere then."

           
"And if we do not?" It was
Bracht who spoke, blunt as ever: Calandryll sat silent, momentarily awed by the
terrifying prospect of failure. "If he remains ahead of us, crosses to . .
. whatever lies beyond?"