The Gate of Fire (69 page)

Faridoon raised a tired eyebrow at the priest's name but made a shallow bow.

"Well met, then, Master Arad. I remember, you were getting out of the way of the guardsmen. What drives you to follow me on this black night?"

Arad leaned on his staff and motioned with his head toward the doss-house. "I am equally poorly provided with coin. It seemed that you might know the way to lodgings that might provide for me as well."

Faridoon laughed and relaxed a little. Arad moved closer and dug in his own purse, pulling forth four copper coins. "You see, here are the sum of my riches. Will this suffice?"

Faridoon nodded, his weather-beaten old face settling into a long familiar grimace. "For tonight, at least, friend Arad. Come, let us dine on the watery gruel they call soup here."

"Master Faridoon? That name is well known to me from the readings of our temple—are you descended from the great hero's line, or is it a name of honor?"

Faridoon turned on the step, his hand on the latch. Great sorrow seemed to pool behind his eyes. "I am the five hundred and fifteenth to bear this glorious name," he said in a sad voice. "But I cannot spring from mountaintop, or break a dragon's back with my bare hands. Time has attenuated that blood in my veins. Now I am only the vessel of strange dreams and portents, without the strength to raise the spear of fire against the darkness." Faridoon stopped the rush of long-pent words with his hand, bowing his head in embarrassment.

Good
, Dahak purred, and black strength flowed into Arad's limbs. He stepped forward and placed a hand on the old man's shoulder. "You must rest," Arad said, feeling his voice and the sorcerer's overlay in a gruff echo. "Sleep and put these troubling dreams aside."

Faridoon frowned at the odd tone in the priest's voice and looked up. He was too late, for Arad's grip closed on the old man's throat and his fingers, burning with the hidden venom of the sorcerer's ancient hatred, crushed his larynx. Faridoon struggled, thrashing, his hands clawing at the priest's face. The pain was nothing, only a distant memory. Arad raised the old man from the ground, letting his feet kick fruitlessly. There was a cracking sound, and old Faridoon, the last of his noble and blessed line, went limp.

Ah, this is a day of joy
. The sorcerer's voice bubbled with glee and an all encompassing relief.
I never dreamed that it would be so easy!

Arad carried the body of the old man into one of the alleyways and laid it gently on the ground. With a short prayer, he folded the man's arms on his chest and closed his eyes. Then he walked away, trying to ignore the voice of the sorcerer chattering in his mind. Arad settled his mind, trying to keep the buzz of questions and conjectures from his conscious thought. He did not mark that the reed taper by the door of the doss-house had gone out.

Arad came once more to the door of the palace, though this time the sorcerer had crept forward enough in his consciousness to peer out through the windows of his eyes and mark the formidable barrier of the
Pushtigbhan
. The same scarred captain was still on watch, though now that a deeper night had fallen, most of the hangers-on in the courtyard had left. Only the two bonfires continued to crackle and blaze, holding back the night a little. Down in the city Arad had acquired a parchment and—at the direction of the sorcerer—had made some marks upon it. Though Arad knew six languages well, he could not ken the meaning of the spiky letters.

The
Pushtigbhan
captain raised his wooly eyebrows to see the mendicant come before him again, but accepted the proffered sheet of paper with equanimity.

"When I was here before, noble sir, you said that I needed a patron's token. I pray this suffices."

The captain squinted at the paper in the poor light, but on the sheet he saw what he expected to see.

"Enter, then, good priest, and may you find the hospitality of the twin Empresses to your liking."

Arad nodded and entered the great vault of the first entrance chamber.

Lord Piruz sat
before
the western gate of the city on a stool with three legs. His personal guard stood at the watch, nearly 120 men in lamellar half-armor with parade helms, longswords in tooled leather scabbards, and their bowcases strapped to their backs. Piruz accounted his duty both honorable—was this not the main gate into the city and the very artery of the Empire?—and easy tonight. Only one ragged priest had come through the gate since the sun had set behind the rampart of the Zagros Mountains. A folding table with copper legs and a porphyry top rested beside him, holding a silver kettle covered in parallel designs of men hunting and small porcelain cups of tea. Piruz smoothed his mustache, considering what to wear in the morrow, when he appeared before the twin Empresses to swear his pledge of loyalty.

He had come well equipped to the court, not only with hardy fighting men from his province, but with silks and jewels and finery of all kinds. None of these things would suffice for a
gift
to the
Empresses
—they had any luxury they might desire—but
he
needed them, for one could not make a mark in the court of the Birds of Paradise without a sufficient wardrobe. Piruz smirked to himself, for he knew himself a handsome man and well endowed with vast estates. Balkh may be at the uttermost east of the Empire—by the accounts of the courtiers at Ctesiphon, a howling wasteland filled only with savages and the Hun—but Piruz could count as well as any. With the Imperial capital in ruins and the land between the two rivers shocked by massive flooding, plague, and famine, remote Balkh had suddenly become not only the most populous city in the Empire but the richest as well.

He smiled again and fingered the supple silk doublet he wore under his armor. It was a pure gold color like nothing seen in the western half of the Empire. The Chin merchants who had sold it to him called it
"dew of the sunset,"
and it had cost him thirty talents of silver to gain enough for a shirt. Of course, here in the west, or even farther, in the cities of the Romans, it would sell for a hundred talents or more... such was the wealth that flowed through
his
hands.

"Lord Piruz!" One of his guardsmen had stiffened and pointed out onto the dark plain that lay west of the city. "Someone is coming."

Piruz rose, his hand already on his saber hilt. One could not fault the Prince of Balkh for going unarmed or unready for battle. For all their wealth the lands along the Amu'Darya were not peaceful. The collapse of the Gok Turk khaghanate that had ruled from Ferghana in the east to the Russ forests in the west had not engendered stability. The men of Balkh knew battle and raid and alarms in the night from birth. Around the Prince, his men shifted to block the gate and two squads moved inside, ready to swing the massive oaken portals closed at a moment's notice. Piruz squinted out at the darkness.

There was a light on the plain, flickering and bouncing.
A rider
, thought Piruz.

The light grew closer, and Piruz could see that it was following the road. Then another light appeared behind the first, then another. Within a minute, Piruz whistled in alarm as the plain lit up with lines of flickering lights. One great column was advancing down the road at a walk, while two others followed on either side.

"Close the gate," he rasped, waving his lieutenants back through the passage. He stepped forward, onto the brick paving before the towers. His bodyguards closed in behind him. There was a booming sound as the portals closed and a rattle of chains as the locking bar was dropped. Piruz grounded his saber and rested his hands on it. No man would say that the Prince of Balkh fled in the face of an unexpected visitor. Many of the great
spabahadan
of the realm were expected here: it would not do for them to find the gate closed against them, and met with spears and arrows.

The tramp of marching feet came out of the darkness, and the bouncing lights resolved into a troop of armored cavalry riding on the road. Two figures led them on coal-black stallions. Piruz squinted again, trying to make out the crest on their banners, but failed. Every man seemed to be garbed in black, and it reduced them to faint outlines in the darkness. The horsemen were clad in mail from head to toe, in the style of the
clibanari
, with barely a slit for their eyes to peer forth from conical helms. Lances, bows, and heavy maces hung at their saddles. Out on the plain, the other two columns came to a halt a hundred yards from the gate, and fell out into ranks.

Piruz guessed that they must be infantry with long spears and rectangular shields of laminated wood and round iron bosses. There were many of them.

The two horsemen in the lead of the column cantered up to the edge of the light cast from the gate towers. They turned their horses, looking down upon Piruz. The Prince was impressed; their horses were as fine as any Sogdian charger, glossy and black as a raven's wing, spirited and tall in the shoulder. Like the men who stood on the plain, the tack of the two horses were black as night, fading almost to invisibility against the glossy hide.

"Greetings, noble lords." Piruz's voice hung in the air, calm and even a little cheerful despite the possible danger.

"Greetings, Captain of the Gate." The voice filled the air with power and strength. The speaker was obviously the lord of this host: a tall, thin man with a clean-shaven face and dark eyes. His skin was pale, but Piruz could see a lean, wiry strength in the set of his shoulders. Too, the charger knew his master was astride, and was calm and poised. Supple armor like a snakeskin gleamed at the man's chest, though he did not seem to bear a sword or a bow. "I have come to pay my respects and pledge to the Empresses, those known as Azarmidukht and Purandokht. Pray, noble Captain, may I enter the city?"

Piruz's left eyelid twitched at the slight implied in the man's speech. Still, the stranger was polite and possessed of strength.

"It is late, my lord. The Empresses will have retired. Too, I see that there is no room in the city for your men. I will send a messenger to the court, saying that you have come... what was your name?"

The man on the horse smiled, inclining his head a little at the rebuke. "I have been remiss," he said. "Say to them that their uncle comes to bend his knee before them. Tell them that Rustam Aparvez has returned unlooked for to aid them in this difficult time."

Piruz hissed in surprise despite himself. He had not known that the dead Chrosoes Aparvez, once King of Kings, had a living brother. This was news indeed. He made a half bow to the man on the horse and turned to the gate. The portal ground open a crack, and he stepped to the opening. "Send a runner to the palace in all haste," he said, his voice low. "A man claiming to be the uncle of the Empresses has come to the gate of the lions with an army." Within, Piruz's captain nodded sharply.

The Prince turned back to the men on the horses. "A delay may ensue, noble lords. Would you care to sit and take tea with me?"

Dahak smiled politely and swung down from his horse. His eyes were distant and unfocused. Khadames followed, rubbing the side of his nose as he looked around in interest. It had been some time since he had passed through Ecbatana. Little had changed. The general grinned up at the guardsmen watching from the rampart. Their faces were stony in response. Khadames did not think they would wait long at the gate; perhaps they would not even wait for the messenger to return.

Arad climbed a broad flight of travertine steps. Fat-bellied columns lined it, rising up to support a vaulted roof paneled with cypress and pine hexagons. Many lanterns blazed along the walls, though the palace was deep in slumber. The lower floors showed all the signs of a lavish feast and lengthy entertainment. The great hall that bisected the building was still being cleared by dozens of slaves. Many of the guests slept on couches against the walls, and some, in the rooms curtained off from the main hall, still celebrated. The watchful eyes of the
Pushtigbhan
were everywhere. A dozen of the stocky guardsmen loitered about the base of the grand staircase. Arad had shown the parchment and, again, was allowed past.

A hallway lined with sconces and flat wall panels showing scenes of the hunt and battle led him to a foyer. Here the floor was tiled with alternating silver- and gold-washed bricks. Arad looked around, marking the hanging silks and the fine stone and marble. Here, ostentation and raw wealth expressed the power of the Persian state. A memory came to him despite his resolute desire to keep all such things from his thought—a memory of a quiet garden and slim pillars of alabaster. That had been a place no less costly in construction, but it held grace and beauty and refinement. There had been peace there. This place was filled with nervous energy and the desire to impress.

But this stands,
whispered the sorcerer,
and that so-peaceful city is now filled with the bones of the dead
.

Arad shook his head, trying to drive out the cloying words and the horror lurking behind them. It was useless. He paused, seeing that the main doorway out of the foyer was closed. No guardsmen stood before it, and there was a low mutter of voices beyond. The priest frowned and moved to the door, raising his staff to knock on the burnished cedar wood panels.

"Hold there, stranger!" The slap of sandals on the stone of the floor drew Arad's attention. He turned, lowering the staff. A short, round man in enveloping white and crimson robes hurried up, his face flushed red with effort. An orange sash over his shoulder and a heavily ornamented staff told Arad that the man was one of the magi, the priests of Ahura-Madza, the Lord of the Eternal Fire. This one's plump face was tight with suspicion, and his beard, trimmed short to make an arc along his chin, jutted forward belligerently. "What business do you have with the Queens of Heaven at this late hour?"

"Your pardon, Holy One. I come bearing a message for the Empresses from a close relative. I come late as I have just arrived from a long journey. Pray, is there someone to announce me?"