Angus Wells - The God Wars 03 (46 page)

           
That came as the morning aged,
Chazali setting the same swift pace as the previous day, holding it until the
sun stood directly overhead, then halting where another butte marked another
spring. They drank the crystal water and chewed hurriedly on cold meat, a
little bread, and then recommenced their journey.

           
As dusk approached, the buttes that
had dotted the plain thinned, finally disappearing behind them, the way ahead
devoid of landmarks other than the ravines and occasional stands of stumpy,
twisted trees that grew in defiance of the arid soil and the seemingly eternal
wind. They halted in the poor shelter of one such stand as twilight gave way to
full night, their fires small for want of timber, the wind, unchecked by
bastions of stone, a fierce presence, howling over the flatlands to rattle
branches and streamer the flames, scattering sparks into the night.

           
"You spoke aright," Bracht
remarked as they ate, and when Calandryll frowned his incomprehension:
"That this is a glum place."

           
"There are worse," Ochen,
sitting with them, remarked. "The Borrhun-maj is a harder land than
this."

           
"But, at least,
mountains," Katya observed wistfully.

           
"Likely we'll see them soon
enough," Bracht said, grinning. "Shall you be happy then?"

           
Katya smiled back. "I'd sooner
my own mountains of Vanu; with the Arcanum safe in our hands."

           
THE days passed, the leagues eaten
up as a hungry man wolfs food. The terrain broke up into ridges of low hills
and shallow valleys, streams more numerous, and little
hursts
of stunted trees. Once great banks of dark
cloud blew southward on an icy wind, and once snow fell, no more than a brief
flurry, but clear warning of winter's advance. They saw no sign of habitation
in the empty landscape, neither villages nor farms, nor much indication that
any form of animal life existed on the Jesseryn Plain. It was, to Calandryll's
way of thinking, a depressing place, and on those few occasions he opened his
senses to the occult, he found the horrid reek of mounting evil ever stronger,
as if he came steadily closer to the gates of a charnel house new- filled with
rotting corpses. Ochen continued to tutor him in the lore and usage of
thaumaturgy, and those lessons, lasting long into the ever colder nights, were
a kind of boon, for he found his blanket chilled and weary, his head abuzz with
all he learned, and that made it a little easier to resist the temptation
Cennaire's presence afforded. When they found time to speak they said no more
of her heart and its restoration, tacit agreement between them, though neither
could forget the possibility that she not become again mortal, or perhaps die
in the attempt.

           
Then, on a day when cloud hung low
in the sky, stretching a forbidding grey curtain across the heavens, they came
in sight of Pamur-teng.

           
The hold stood at the center of a
wide strath, banded to north and south by ridges of gentle hills. It looked, in
the distance, akin to the keep on the Daggan Vhe: a square, squat block of
yellowish stone, rendered dull by the overcast, but as they thundered closer
Calandryll saw the resemblance to the keep was one of design alone. This hold
was infinitely larger, far greater than Secca even. It grew before him, vast
and cubic, utterly unlike any city he had seen. There were no external walls
such as surrounded the cities of Lysse, nor a moat, or barbicans. Like Ahgra-te
before it, Pamur-teng was fortress and city in one, its outer defenses
intrinsic with its internal buildings, all melded together in a single
homogenous entirety. It was constructed so that each enormous wall faced a
compass point, the southern facade, toward which they came, marked at its
center by a huge double gate, the outer surfaces covered with sheets of
hammered metal inlaid with the sigils of the Makusen clan. Closer still, he saw
embrasures like watching eyes set in the stone, commencing high on the wall and
running in regular lines out to either side, upward almost to the ramparts that
soon loomed above. From those, suspended from long beams, hung metal cages that
a further examination showed held prisoners. Some, he saw, held only bones: he
wondered at the nature of Jesseryte justice.

           
Then Chazali shouted a command and
two men brought their horses out of line, galloping ahead to halt at the gates
and pound upon the metal. The gates swung ponderously open, revealing a tunnel,
black as night, from which kotu-anj came running, forming in two pike-bearing
lines. As Chazali and Ochen drew level with the foremost pikemen the kotu-anj
raised their weapons, bringing the butts thudding down as they roared a
greeting. More lined the tunnel beyond, and within that confined space the
sound was deafening.

           
The tunnel spanned the width of two
buildings before emerging on a crepuscular plaza, the buildings that contained
the square six stories and more high, with stone stairways and windows from
which expectant faces gazed, narrow passageways running between. The sheer
weight of stone, the smooth, high faces of the buildings, was daunting,
oppressive: Calandryll was reminded of an anthill.

           
The more so as they progressed farther
into the teng, following a smooth-paved road flanked on either side by
pavements, those packed with cheering folk, more staring from windows, or from
small stone balconies that added to the obliteration of the sky. His first
impression, he saw, had been correct—this was as much a fortress as a city, a
place easily defended, and horribly difficult to take. It seemed they passed
between night and day as they went on, traversing avenues where shadow pooled,
into squares—always squares, geometric and precise—that allowed a little of the
day's dull light to enter. On and on, the shouting of the onlookers echoing off
the high walls, until they rode down a passageway that ended at a metal gate,
the wall above set with slender windows at which dark faces showed. Chazali
reined in, halting the column, and Ochen turned awkwardly in his saddle to
explain that they entered the kiriwashen's home.

           
The gate was opened by two elderly
kotu-anj and the outlanders found themselves riding down a second tunnel, this
devolving on a courtyard different to any they had seen before.

           
A marble fountain played at the
center of an atrium large as a Lyssian city square, paved with flagstones set
in a pattern of black and white rectangles, a colonnaded portico surrounding
the enormous plaza. Above, balconies extended in serried ranks, climbing up to
the topmost level, men and women in outfits of varying degrees of magnificence
standing there, watching eagerly. Calandryll gasped as it dawned on him that
this was, in fact, the home of the entire Nakoti clan, a virtual town within
the city. He stared about, identifying stables, smithies, workshops, armories,
as the yard filled with smiling, excited Jesserytes.

           
Servants came running to assist the
kotu-zen from their horses, four halted by a gruff command from Chazali that
held them back from the foreigners. Calandryll watched as a woman came forward,
three children at her side. She was short, and delicate as a porcelain doll,
her dark hair gathered in a long tail, her slanted eyes accentuated with
cosmetics, her lips small and painted a bright red, the same vivid color
evident on her long nails. She wore a robe of pale blue, chased with golden
threading about the hem and cuffs, and as she approached, its swaying revealed
golden slippers, the toes pointed. Two of the children were girls, dressed in
miniature facsimiles of the woman's robe, the other a boy, wearing a scarlet
tunic over loose pantaloons of shiny black silk, a child-size dagger sheathed
on his belt, his feet encased in low boots of black leather. The woman bowed
low; the children followed suit. Chazali bowed. Then removed his helmet to
expose a huge smile as he opened his arms, sweeping up the woman, who laughed
and draped her arms about his neck.

           
"The Lady Nyka Nakoti
Makusen," Ochen murmured by way of explanation. "The girls are Taja
and
Venda
_;
the boy is Rawi."

           
It appeared that Chazali's greeting
of his wife marked an end of formalities: folk came from all four sides of the
great courtyard to fall upon the kotu-zen in noisy welcome as servants led
their horses away to stables that Calandryll realized occupied one entire side
of the atrium. Several hovered close to the outlanders' mounts, clearly unsure
what protocol governed here, that settled by Bracht's suggestion that they see
their own animals stabled.

           
They waited, however, until Chazali
had released his wife and taken up each child in turn, his expression no longer
impassive, but alight with pleasure as he held them. When he was done, he
turned, ushering his family forward to meet his guests.

           
The Lady Nyka bowed deep, murmuring
that they were welcome in the home of the Nakoti, while the three children eyed
the strangers with curious looks, the two girls giggling nervously as they were
beckoned forward to offer carefully practiced bows before edging back to the
shelter of their mother's skirts. Rawi, although clearly disconcerted by the
presence of these tall, oddly dressed outlanders, marched up to them with a
stiff back, bent almost double, and declared in a loud voice that they were,
indeed, welcome if they were friends of his father.

           
"They are," said Chazali,
favoring his son with a proud look, and raised his voice that all should hear
him: "These are my guests, and friends to the Makusen. Indeed, friends to
our land and our god. Count them as blood kin, and serve them well while they
sojourn in our teng."

           
"And shall that be for
long?" asked his wife, to which Chazali shook his head and answered,
"I fear not. The war calls, and we ride out on the morrow."

           
Nyka nodded as if she had expected
no other answer, her expression unaltered, but in her eyes Calandryll read
sadness that their reunion should be so brief. She gave no other sign, but
turned to Ochen, bowing, and said, "I bid you welcome, as always, wazir."

           
"And I you, Lady," the old
man returned, answering her bow with his own. "And ask your forgiveness
that this visit be so hurried, and we with much to attend while we are
here."

           
"Better a short visit and a
long peace," she murmured, and turned her tawny eyes on the questers.

           
"Baths are prepared, and
chambers. I trust you will find the attire selected pleasing."

           
Calandryll said, "We are in
your debt, Lady Nyka."

           
"No." She shook her head.
"Rather say that we stand in your debt, for what you attempt. Do you leave
your animals here, they shall be well attended."

           
"I've no doubt of that,"
returned Calandryll with a smile, "but I suspect your servants had rather
we executed that duty. And it is our custom to attend our own mounts."

           
"Aye." When she smiled she
seemed scarce old enough to have borne three children. "They are somewhat
in awe of your great beasts, especially the stallion. Be it your custom then,
I'll have a man await you, and when you are done, he shall bring you to the
baths and your quarters."

           
"Our thanks," he replied,
and bowed again.

           
She clapped her hands and a servant,
dressed in a tunic of russet silk and yellow pantaloons, came forward. She
spoke briefly, the man bowed and turned toward the guests, his face held
carefully composed, as if the arrival of foreigners fluent in his tongue was an
everyday occurrence.

           
"Do you follow me, honored
gentlefolk?"

           
Calandryll paused, looking to Ochen,
and the wazir nodded, saying that he would find his own quarters and meet them
later, with the gijan.

           
They saw their mounts bedded down
and followed the servant out, across the atrium again, and through a low
doorway into a hall, up dim-lit stairs that climbed steadily higher to the
topmost level of the building. The servant—Kore, Calandryll learned was his
name—bowed them each into adjoining chambers, waiting patiently as they stowed
their gear in cabinets of inlaid rosewood, their weapons on racks, before
bringing them to separate bathhouses, whose ceilings were great panes of glass
that offered a view of the sky as they luxuriated in near-boiling water, soaps
scented with sandalwood removing the grime accrued on their journey. More
servants, these in short white robes, gathered to douse them with cold water
when they emerged, offering afterward huge towels of soft cotton that they
would have applied themselves, had Calandryll and Bracht not chosen to perform
that task unaided.