The Seven-Petaled Shield (48 page)

“Thank you, no,” Tamir said. “I believe we’ve had enough.”

They drained their mugs and paid their bill. Shadows deepened between the buildings. The street, which had seemed so peaceful and innocuous, took on a faintly sinister air. Zevaron did not know what he expected to find in Gelon. Arrogance on the part of officials, soldiers, nobles? The sense of order and disciplined intellect he had seen on the battlefield? Yet another exotic country?

An undercurrent of hatred directed at Meklavar?

“I did not know Gelon was such an enemy to my people,” he said to Tamir.

“I do not say this as an insult, my friend, but Meklavar is widely thought to be a land of ancient magic. Aside from their household idols, I have never seen any such thing here in Gelon. It is natural, I suppose, that the Gelon would fear such an enemy, even in defeat.”

Zevaron made a gesture of exasperation. “Meklavar is ancient, yes, and learned. But a
hotbed of sorcery
?” He snorted. The idea was so ridiculous as to be unworthy of further comment.

Yet how else could he account for the sea king, who had risen from the storm, who only he had been able to see and hear, who had spoken prophecies to him? Was it only a vision
sprung from his own mind, woven of the shapes of wind and wave, and the fantastical tales from his childhood?

No, the sea king and his words had been real enough. If they were magical, then magic must be as real as anything a man could touch or taste.

As Zevaron and Tamir talked, their path carried them in the direction of the Qr temple. A young man in white robes, his head bound with a cloth bearing a symbol of some sort, came out on the steps. He carried a barred staff from which hung three brass bells, each the size of a man’s head. Setting the tip against the paving, he tapped the bells in sequence.

The reverberating tones built on one another, clashing to a peak and then dying down. Zevaron wanted to clap his hands over his ears to shut out the discordant, strangely compelling sound.

“Come, all you who hunger, who thirst, who mourn,” the young priest called in a ringing voice. “Bring your sorrows to Qr, and you will know peace! Enter, enter! Qr welcomes you all!”

A trio of women, their faces hidden behind veils of silk embroidered in threads of gold and silver, hurried past. One of them dragged a half-grown boy by the hand.

“—mustn’t be late for the service.”

“—waited all day for this—my cousin…”

“Yes, you told me, the one who was barren—”

“The midwives swear it will be a son…”

Their voices faded as they passed within the temple. Other women joined them, some carrying baskets of spun, dyed wool, and wine jars. One led a pure white lamb and another carried a cage of doves.

Tamir, who had not reacted visibly to the clamor of the gongs, said, “Shall we witness these wonders?”

No.
But Zevaron actually said, “Why not?” trying to sound indifferent. He followed Tamir up the steps, seeing now that the emblem on the priest’s forehead was a scorpion. He drew a breath, hesitating. The scorpions of Meklavar,
and their smaller Sand Lands cousins, were deadly to cats and small children. When he was a boy, Tsorreh had killed one in his bedroom with her slipper. He still remembered the expression on her face, the single-minded, protective rage. She would have attacked anything that threatened him with equal fervor.

The scorpion did no wrong, defending itself. Most likely, it had wandered into the palace in search of water. It was a natural creature, following its own nature.
Then why did the stylized image on the priest’s brow raise the hairs on the back of his neck?

The priest with the bells went inside, but two others, stolid older men, greeted the congregation as they passed through the open doors. They indicated where the various offerings were to be taken. One of them frowned when he saw that neither Zevaron nor Tamir had brought anything.

“You are new to the ways of Qr. Nevertheless, the great god offers his blessings to all, and from their gratitude, this holy work is continued.” The priest stood back for them to enter.

Caught up in the movement of the crowd, they passed through an entrance hall, lined by torches on either side despite the early hour, and then under the arch of an interior door. The torchlight flickered across paintings of giant many-legged figures, giving them a semblance of animation. Walking below and between the wavering images, Zevaron felt as if he were entering a nest of giant scorpions. Within the darkness of the sanctuary, a gust of air, cold and hot at once, brushed the back of his neck. The shadows no longer suggested a nest of tiny creatures, but a single, overarching shape, like a scorpion and yet more.

The moment passed, the shadows fell away, and he stood in the center of a crowd. At the front of the chamber, the young priest with the bells and another, this one hooded, bent to receive offerings of fruit and flowers, cloth and wine, and other goods. The altar itself was shrouded in layers of dark gauze, so that Zevaron could not guess what lay beneath. Around him, people began singing and swaying.

The force of the concentrated prayers, the immense drawing
pull
of their power, swept through Zevaron. He felt as if he were standing in the midst of a gigantic lodestone, fueled by the temple and its worshipers. They reached out, spanning unimaginable distances. Wordlessly, he sensed the same ritual repeated in a hundred other such congregations. Each one merged into an irresistible singleness of purpose.

The chant repeated, swelling until the last
“Come to us! Come to us!”
rose in a single roar. Beside the altar, white-clad figures swung pots of incense. Caustic smoke billowed into the air. Zevaron’s lungs burned.

Zevaron glanced around, feeling increasingly uneasy. To every side, people lifted their hands, rocking from side to side, heads thrown back, eyes closed or rolled up in their skulls. Even Tamir seemed caught in the waves of impassioned cries. A man—one of the merchants they had bargained with earlier that very day—bumped into Zevaron, who was not moving in rhythm with the others.

The hooded priest lifted his hands, turning slowly as if he were reaching out to every person in the congregation. A feeling grew in Zevaron’s mind, that the priest was drawing something from the assembly and funneling it. Where? To whatever lay beneath the gauzy wrappings? Or—no, it was impossible!—to the heavens themselves?

The priest’s focus moved across the room, drawing ever nearer to Zevaron. Zevaron felt he must leave immediately, before the priest realized that not everyone was in the thrall of chant and smoke. He grabbed Tamir’s arm and pulled, knowing his voice could not be heard above the undulating cries.

Tamir responded sluggishly, resisting as they stumbled back through the entrance hall. One of the older priests, holding a staff tipped with a sharp brass hook, barred their path.

“You would leave
now
, before the holy presence descends?” the priest asked.

“My friend is ill,” Zevaron improvised. “I must take him home.”

“Where else should he be, but in this place of healing? Who else has the power to aid him, except for Qr?”

“We brought no offering,” Zevaron improvised. “Therefore we are unworthy to receive a blessing. We must return with a suitable sacrifice.”

At that, the priest grunted and stood aside. Zevaron half-dragged, half-carried his friend down the steps. Only when they were well clear of the temple did Tamir cease struggling. He bent over, coughing.

“What—what happened? By the leviathan, I feel sick.”

Zevaron glanced back at the temple. “The incense, I suppose. It smelled foul enough. You were dancing and singing with the rest of them.”

“My thanks, then, for getting me out of there. Ach! My mouth tastes like bilge water!” Tamir turned his head and spat.

Zevaron chuckled. “That was the tavern brew, as like as not. Come on, the sooner we’re back aboard the
Wave Dancer
, the better you’ll feel.”

Tamir trudged beside Zevaron. “How is it you were not also made sick? Don’t tell me it was Meklavaran magic!”

“Shh, I don’t think it’s safe for anyone here to speak that name. It’s hardly magic when one man drinks twice as much brew as another and then faints like a girl from smoke and singing.”

“Aye, likely that’s it. One thing’s sure, I’ll feel better with a ship beneath my feet and not this cursed solid land.”

Suppressing a shudder, Zevaron agreed with him. The sooner they were back on the open seas, the better.

T
HE next week passed smoothly, as the
Wave Dancer
’s hold emptied and her treasury filled. Returning to the docks with Tamir after helping with the delivery of the last of the cinnabark, Zevaron spied Chalil in earnest talk with two men in long robes. Although he had not seen another of his people in the last four years in Denariya, Zevaron recognized them instantly. It was not the honey-dark skin and black hair nor their dress that gave them away, for they seemed indistinguishable from any other somber, conservatively dressed men. Rather, something in the intent way they bent close to Chalil, their gestures, the rhythm of their speech, all struck a resonant chord.

The younger of the two glanced up nervously as Zevaron and Tamir approached. The conversation stopped abruptly. Chalil gestured,
Back off, return later.
Zevaron stared, astonished, but Tamir pulled him away, down the next pier and rapidly out of sight.

“Best to let the captain handle business as he sees fit,” Tamir said, “though why he didn’t meet in a more private place, I don’t know. Most likely, it’s no mystery at all, only rivalry, traders come to offer a better deal.”

The Meklavarans looked like any other merchants, but
Zevaron knew, somehow, that their business was not about selling sandalwood incense or brocades.

When Zevaron and Tamir returned to the ship a short time later, the two Meklavarans had gone. Chalil looked immensely pleased. Instead of the risk of remaining in a Gelonian port and sorting through which Gelonian goods might turn a profit back in Denariya, with each passing day increasing the chance of being recognized as pirates, they were to leave on the morning tide. Their cargo this time was human, a collection of Meklavaran families, along with whatever goods they could carry. The
Wave Dancer
would take them to Durinthe, in Isarre, and from there would continue south around the Fever Lands to the Firelands Straits and home, her treasury enriched doubly from the sale of the Denariyan goods and the passage fees.

Only a few hours later, the two Meklavarans returned, along with an old grandfather barely able to walk, their respective wives and three sisters (two of whom had husbands and children) and a collection of cousins, thirty in all. They arrived in separate groups, mostly likely having taken different routes through the city. Their faces looked drawn, even the young ones pinched and silent. Each carried as much as he could manage, except for the old man, who bore only a single item wrapped in thick, undyed silk. He held it carefully, as if it were more precious than his life. The boarding plank was almost more than he could manage, inching along with his eyes fixed upon the wood beneath his feet, but he would not let any of the others take his burden. Zevaron, aboard the
Wave Dancer
, reached out to steady him. The old man mumbled his thanks in heavily accented Gelone.

“‘Reverence for wisdom is twice blessed,’” Zevaron said, quoting the
te-Ketav
. “‘It brings grace to him who gives and him who receives.’”

The old man looked up, his eyes glittering in the light from the
Wave Dancer’s
lanterns. “You—you are Meklavaran,” he said in that tongue.

“Come this way, grandfather,” Zevaron said. “Let me
take you to the captain’s cabin, where you may rest before going below. And tell me,” he added, lowering his voice, “why you must leave Roramenth in such haste, under cover of darkness.”

“You have not heard?” The old man’s reply was interrupted by the process of maneuvering to the little cabin, settling him in Chalil’s single chair, and securing the door.

“No, I have had no news of home since…for a long time.”

“It was bad enough when we left Meklavar thirty years ago,” the old man said. “Such a sadness to go, but business was poor and my wife with child. We had to eat and Gelon was rich in trade. It was a civilized land, we thought, and so it was under the old Ar-King, he who was father to this Cinath. But now…we have word from my son in Aidon that Cinath believes there is a Meklavaran conspiracy against his throne. Conspiracy! Why would he think such a thing, when we have been good citizens for these many years? The man has gone mad. I heard he has been executing or enslaving our people in the capital city.”

He paused only an instant to draw breath. “Cinath’s decree will soon reach Verenzza and all the provinces around. We must leave while we can, while I still have the strength. Your captain, this Chalil, he has a face both honest and wild. Tell me, by the Shield of Khored that saved our people in times gone by, can he be trusted? Will he betray us, sell us into slavery and take our money?”

“You may rest assured that once Chalil has made a bargain, he will keep it,” Zevaron said. Even as a pirate, even negotiating the ransom for the Gelonian captives, Chalil had never broken his word. “If he says he will take you to Durinthe, then to Durinthe you will go.”

The old man closed his eyes in relief. “Thank you, my child. This place has been a good home to us and it grieves me to leave it. Yet wherever we go, our hearts remain in Meklavar. We will have one another, and word will come of our brothers throughout the wide world.”

Zevaron nodded. Although he had little contact with
them, spending much of his time at sea or in the company of Chalil and his crew, he knew of the far-flung network of Meklavaran merchants, craftsmen, and money-changers. They exchanged news and helped one another in trade. He had been too young to care about such arrangements when he and Tsorreh fled.