The Eyes of God (32 page)

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Authors: John Marco

BOOK: The Eyes of God
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“You’re a very clever old man,” said Akeela with a forlorn smile. “Is it so obvious?”
“Just to me, Akeela. I’ve known you a long time. I know when something’s bothering you.”
“I won’t lose her, Graig,” said Akeela. “Not to sickness, and not to some notion of cowardice. I can’t let Mor get away with this, because that’s all she’ll ever see in me if I do.”
Graig shook his head miserably. “You’re talking foolishness. Cassandra’s your queen.”
“Oh, yes,” said Akeela bitterly. “And if that were the answer to everything I’d have no troubles at all.” He picked up Baron Glass’ untouched wine and took a deep drink, drowning his need to confess. He couldn’t tell anyone of Cassandra’s infidelity, not even Graig. Finally he lowered the glass and said, “Look after her for me, Graig. See that nothing happens to her while I’m gone. That’s the most important task I’m giving anyone, and I’m trusting you with it.”
“You don’t have to do this, Akeela,” said Graig. “You don’t have to go.”
“Yes I do.” Akeela moved toward the door. “I only wish I could explain it to you.”
Graig shouted after him, “But you’re no soldier!”
Akeela didn’t reply.
No soldier,
he thought blackly.
No Lukien . . .
16
 
 
G
anjor glistened like gold in the sun. The long trek south had finally paid off for the weary trio, and now they were rewarded with the sight of the city, perched on a sea of sand that stretched out endlessly beyond it. Sunlight made the dry earth seem to shimmer, and the breeze carried the smells of Ganjor, the first human habitat the travelers had seen in days. They had passed through Farduke and Dreel, avoided the principality of Nith, had slept in the forests of Dalyma and followed the Agora River, all to be led to this ancient crossroads.
To Lukien, who had never before ventured further than Marn, Ganjor seemed a remarkable ruin. The city reeked of age, even from a mile away. He could see the tall walls of Ganjor’s fortress, now abandoned. The funerary temple rose above the streets in a golden dome, just as Figgis had described. On the south side of the city grew olive groves, making do with the little rain that fed the harsh soil, and from the east came the trading caravans, well-stocked with goods and laden with dark-skinned children. A second, less-traveled road came from the north, bringing visitors from Dreel and Marn and, on rare occasions, Liiria.
Lukien reined in his horse, pausing in the shadow of the city. He removed his neckerchief and dabbed the sweat from his forehead. The southern sun had toasted his fair skin. The tips of his ears were burned red. He looked past Ganjor to the Desert of Tears, a vast expanse of blistering sand. The awesome sight crushed his already waning spirits.
“Great Fate, look at that,” he said. “It’s like an ocean.”
Figgis wore an exuberant smile. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Beautiful?” said Trager. “Are you mad? How are we supposed to cross
that?”
The old man’s smile didn’t wane. He gazed at Ganjor in a kind of happy homecoming. He had done a good job of guiding them this far, and Lukien was pleased. But he didn’t understand the librarian’s fascination with these southern cultures. During the days and nights of their long trek south, Figgis had taught them what he could of the Ganjeese, never tiring of his own tales. He had told them that the Ganjeese were a desert culture, like the Jadori, and how they were different from northerners. The hot climate made them quiet, easy-going people, never prone to wasting effort. Even their speech was simple, Figgis had explained, another means of conserving strength. No one of Ganjor ever used two words where one would suffice, nor spoke when a lack of words would do. They were a proud and ancient people, and thought themselves the center of the world. Liirians, Figgis had warned, would not impress them.
But Lukien didn’t care about impressing the Ganjeese, and didn’t plan on staying in their city more than a day. He needed to get to Jador, and that meant crossing the formidable desert. To do so they would need to trade their horses for drowa. Figgis had promised it would be an easy bargain to make, for drowa were everywhere this near the desert. If Lukien sniffed hard enough, he could smell their peculiar musk in the air. He had already seen some of the humped beasts on his way south. They were atrociously ugly and, according to Figgis, ill-tempered. Lukien didn’t relish riding one across the desert.
“I’m exhausted,” he said with a sigh. He took notice of the sun high overhead. “Come on. Let’s get into the city before we roast. I could do with a bed for the night.”
“That would be a nice change,” said Trager sourly. The lieutenant drew a hand across the sweat on his brow. He was a fit man, but the journey had wearied him. He turned to Figgis, saying, “Lead the way, old man.”
Figgis started off in a trot toward Ganjor. Lukien and Trager followed close behind. The city beckoned them, and Lukien felt his mood lighten. His ears quickly filled with the sounds of the bustling crossroads, and as they approached he could clearly see the white towers dotting the city, poking up from the thousands of squat, closely-spaced buildings of brown brick. Golden domes and silver spires with keyhole windows graced the ancient skyline, throwing sweeping shadows into the streets. The road widened as they reached the city outskirts, opening like a mouth to swallow them. Lukien swiveled in his saddle, suddenly enraptured by his surroundings. He had been many places in his many battles, but he had never seen anything like Ganjor. He slowed, eager to see it all. Even Trager seemed enamored by the city. The clay walls of ancient structures rose up around them, and the wide street quickly choked with travelers and the stalls of pottery and silk merchants. Barefoot men sat in clusters around small tables, sipping drinks and tossing dice, while others worked diligently with looms and hawked passersby to buy their weavings. White-faced monkeys like the one Figgis had left behind in Koth were everywhere, perched happily on the shoulders of children and shoppers, and exotic smells from cooking stalls suffused the air. Lukien’s stomach rumbled at the aromas. He saw a boy eating chunks of meat on a stick and wondered where he could get one of his own. Trager pointed at the boy.
“Food, Figgis,” he said. “Get us some.”
The librarian scowled. “Manners, Lieutenant. You’re not in Koth anymore, remember.”
“I’m hungry!”
“Yes, we all are. Just calm down and don’t make a spectacle of yourself. First we have to find a place to stay for the night. And we’ll have to get clothing.”
“Clothing?” asked Lukien. “What do you mean?”
“For the desert,” said Figgis. “We can’t go across like this. We’ll have to dress like everyone else, in gaka.” He pointed to a group of men, all similarly garbed in long white robes and headdress. “See? Those robes are called gaka. They keep out the sand and reflect the sunlight. They’ll keep us cool.”
“Cool?” Trager laughed. “Wrapped from head to toe like that? You’re joking.”
“Do you think they’d wear it if it didn’t work?” asked Figgis. “Believe me, they’ve lived here long enough to know what they’re doing. We’ll have to wear gaka or we’ll never make it.”
“And a guide,” Lukien reminded him. “What about that? We’ll need someone to guide us to Jador.”
“All the shrana houses have guides, Lukien, don’t worry. We’ll find someone to take us.”
“All right, what’s a shrana house?”
“Like a tavern, you might say. Shrana is a popular drink here. It’s a hot liquor made from roasted beans. You’ll see people drinking it all day long.”
“Hot drinks, hot clothes; what’s wrong with these people?” snapped Trager. “Don’t they feel the bloody sun? What are they made of, leather?”
“You’ll learn, Lieutenant,” said Figgis. ”Come. Let’s find a place to rest.”
Figgis led them through the crowded streets, gingerly maneuvering his horse past throngs of carts and people. Most of the folk were Ganjeese, olive-skinned and dark-haired, but there were northerners in the mix as well, and the knight recognized the crests of Norvor and Dreel in the crowd, carved into the sides of battered wagons that had chosen to trade this far south. They were a welcome sight to Lukien, who was quickly feeling foreign among the southerners. But he didn’t feel unwelcome, for there was a curious easiness about the Ganjeese, as though they had seen it all and outsiders held little interest for them. Curiously, most of the people crowding the streets were men, but there were also women sprinkled through the crowd. All wore robes similar to their male counterparts, and all had a veil of black cloth covering their faces, so that only their eyes could be seen.
“The woman all cover themselves,” Lukien remarked. “Why, Figgis?”
The librarian smiled. “Because Vala has told them to.”
It was another of the scholar’s riddles. “Vala? Is that their king?”
“No, not a king. Remember the Eyes of God? They are called Inai ka
Vala.”
“Ah, so Vala is one of their gods?”
“Not
a
god, Lukien.
The
god. The Ganjeese and the Jadori worship only one deity, whom they call Vala. It is the will of Vala that women cover themselves.”
“But why?” Lukien spied the women in the street. Young and old alike were hidden behind dark veils.
“The Ganjeese believe that men and women should be modest, and should not show their bodies. This way, they can be judged on their skills and intelligence, and not by the way they look. Women in particular must be modest, and not be flirtatious or corrupt a man. The holy book of Vala instructs women to guard their modesty, and not display their beauty to any but their husbands.”
Trager laughed. “You hear that, Lukien? That’s what the veil is for—to keep sniffing dogs like you away!”
“Still,” said Lukien. “It seems unfair. This would never happen in Liiria.”
“No,” agreed Figgis. “But then what’s in Liiria to believe in?” The librarian regarded Lukien. “Do you have a god, Lukien?”
Lukien thought for a moment. He had never really considered the question. Growing up in the streets hadn’t given him much time to ponder such things. As a Liirian he had his pick of religions. He could believe in the Fate as Baron Glass did, or the Great Spirit of Reec or the serpent god of Marn. But to him they all seemed empty, without truth.
“I believe in this,” he said, patting his sword. “And I believe in myself. Other than that, who knows?”
“That is the answer of a Liirian,” said Figgis. “And it won’t win you any friends here, I assure you. These people are devout. Say whatever you wish, but do not criticize their beliefs. If you do, they will kill you.”
“Figgis, I intend to say as little as possible to these people,” replied Lukien. “I just want to get back home as soon as possible.”
They rode in silence until the road widened into a village square, now converted into an open market. Lukien was stunned by the market. He had never seen such an exotic array of goods, not even in Koth. A young boy with a colorful bird perched on his shoulder caught his attention, as did a shapely young lady walking unhurriedly through the square. His eyes followed her. Like the other women, she was dressed in long white wraps that trailed behind her, but he could make out the curve of her body beneath the robes, and a trace of dark hair falling beneath her veil. She held a basket in her hands, full of bread. Two small boys scurried after her, but to Lukien she didn’t seem old enough to be their mother. In a moment she disappeared through a beaded curtain, entering one of the buildings.
“There,” said Figgis, pointing in her direction. “That looks like a shrana house. I’ll go in and ask around, see if I can find us shelter for the night.”
“And food,” added Trager. “Before we all collapse.”
“And a guide,” said Lukien. He looked at the entrance to the shrana house. “Shouldn’t we go in with you, Figgis?”
“No,” said Figgis. “Stay outside and watch the horses. There’s a lot of thievery in this city. If we lose the horses we’ll have nothing to trade for drowa, and it’s a long walk across the desert.”
Lukien was about to agree when he saw the most amazing creature emerge from the crowd. He stopped his horse just outside the shrana house, staring as the beast rounded the corner. A huge, reptilian head wrapped in leather tack stared back at him, its two black eyes blinking beneath membranous lids. It had four legs and a long, slender tail, and was as tall as a horse but much broader across, its muscles bunching beneath its scaly skin. There was a rider on its back, robed in crimson and black, his face hidden behind a cloth wrap. Dust and sand clung to every inch of him. Lukien’s horse noticed the creature and snorted in alarm.

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