The Seventh Gate (The Seven Citadels ) (6 page)

“And have you asked our people?” demanded
Kerish with quiet vehemence. “How do you know that they prefer death to dishonor;
despair to hope?”

“I'm not arguing for despair,” said
Forollkin unsteadily. “We shall fight and Zeldin will aid us.”

“Perhaps he has, by showing us a path to
peace.”

“A path soaked in the blood of our own kin
and walked by traitors . . . what?”

Gwerath was tugging frantically at
Forollkin's arm. Exasperated he looked down and Gwerath pointed to the thin
partition and the leather curtain. In the sudden quiet they all heard the rasp
of the guard's boots and the rustle of his cloak.

“Oh.” Forollkin was shaking with anger and
it was a moment before he could bring himself to say, “But I suppose you may be
right. You must consider the Khan's words.”

Gwerath released his arm and there was a
second, longer silence while Kerish and Forollkin stared at each other like
strangers.

“Well, you haven't asked me what I've been
doing in your absence,” began Gidjabolgo brightly. “I have been listening to
our guards. They are bored, cooped up in this tower with nothing to do but
polish their swords and relive old battles. They will talk about anything
except their goddess. The Men of Oraz may revere the Lady of Blood but they
don't seem to like being so close to her.”

Kerish sat down on one of the bedrolls and
tried to speak lightly. “And what have you learned to our host's discredit?”

For the next few minutes Gidjabolgo talked
about the curious beliefs and customs of the Orazians, maliciously pitching his
voice so that the guard outside would hear.

“Oh, and one last snippet,” he concluded, “there
are new ships in the harbor and they belong to the Prince of Chiraz's brother.
He is to be feasted in the tower tonight. Do you think we'll be invited?”

*****

At dusk lamps were brought and Gwerath was
fetched away to the Second Tower to eat with the women. Shortly after, three of
the Khan's personal guard entered the prisoners' room, carrying a heavy chest.

“You are to attend the feast,” said the
captain of the guard. “So the Khan sends you these clothes. Choose the richest
and put them on. No, not you, ugly one, “ he added, as Gidjabolgo eagerly
opened the chest. “Only your masters. We will come again soon to fetch you.”

Ignoring the rebuff, Gidjabolgo rummaged
through a tangled pile of silks, brocades and furs. “Here are Loshite silks for
you to dazzle in, and a genuine merchant's cloak from Forgin.” The gaudy
gem-encrusted folds were almost too heavy for him to lift. “Splendor indeed,
and the bloodstains are hardly noticeable. Or this now, surely some Galkian
once swaggered in it?”

He tossed a tunic of supple green leather
to Forollkin who saw the mended tear across the breast and let it drop. “This
is nothing but plunder. Do they expect us to wear dead men's clothes?”

“Go ragged then,” said Gidjabolgo, “but
pride makes a poor covering; once one man laughs you're naked.”

He continued to sort through the clothing,
commenting on each rent and stain, till they heard the guards returning. There
were five this time, followed by two slaves carrying heavy collars. The captain
gave a signal and Kerish and Forollkin were seized and pinioned while the
gilded collars were fitted around their necks. Forollkin kicked out at his
captors but they did not retaliate.

“These collars are the mark of a prisoner,
not a slave,” explained the captain, with unexpected kindness. “I have worn
such a collar myself when I was sent as a hostage once to Gilfalsotaz; there is
no dishonor.” He turned to the Prince. “The Khan has ordered that you be
royally dressed. Choose!”

He pointed to the scattered clothes but
Kerish shook his head. “Finery stolen from the dead is more dishonorable than
any slave collar.”

The captain looked puzzled. “They are
honest spoils, the Khan's by right of battle.” He picked up the gaudy cloak and
the discarded tunic. “If you fear dishonor, save us the trouble of stripping
you. Ugly one, help your Master dress. Prince, you have no choice.”

For a moment Kerish stood obdurate, and two
of the guards moved towards him. Then he tugged at the lacing of his tunic and
Gidjabolgo darted across the room to help him. The green tunic was too large
and the Forgite had to delve in the chest to find a sash to bind it in. Then he
hung the heavy cloak from Kerish's shoulders and the captain handed him a
golden coronet to set on the Prince's head.

“Are you satisfied now?” asked Kerish
quietly. “Is this mockery enough?”

“Our Khan intended no mockery,” said the
captain uncomfortably, and without looking into the Prince's eyes, he ordered
the Galkians to follow him.

Kerish and Forollkin were taken to the
highest chamber in the tower. Its floors and walls were painted with simple
patterns of scattered leaves and bright feathers. Its only furnishings were
crude benches and trestle-tables scratched and stained with years of use. Half
seen in the smoky darkness, O-grak's warriors and the retinue of the Envoy of
Chiraz were crammed together along the benches. About a third of the tables
were still empty, as if more guests were expected. The blank faces of slaves
were lit by glowing coals as they stooped over braziers and cauldrons, and the
skins that usually covered a hole in the roof had been stripped back to let the
cooking smoke spiral upwards and taint the stars.

An old man relieved the guards of their
weapons and added them to the heap at his feet. Then he paused uncertainly in
front of the Galkians.

“They have no weapons,” bawled O-grak, “except
the Prince's eyes and we'll leave those where they are. Bring our guests here!”

The guards led them through the braziers
that encircled the stairwell, to where O-grak sat, at a table no grander than
the rest. The Khan had not bothered to change his clothes for the feast but
beside him the Envoy of Chiraz glittered in a cloak and tunic that seven
serpents had died to make. He was a young man with close-cropped hair and a
sparse beard, combed out to make it look thicker. A dozen rings gleamed on the
nervous fingers that plucked at a haunch of meat and the Envoy's small eyes
flickered towards the strangers.

“So, cousin,” O-grak clapped the Envoy on
the shoulder, “what do you think of my captive Prince?”

The Envoy of Chiraz chewed at his meat and
looked the Prince slowly up and down. Kerish stood perfectly still and seemed
unaware of the scrutiny.

“Prince? He's pretty enough to be a
Princess. Were you thinking of a new alliance, O- grak?”

Color flooded into Kerish's cheeks but
nobody laughed and the pause before the Khan said, “Of a kind,” was long enough
to make the Envoy shift uncomfortably.

“You need not be so distant, Prince,”
continued O-grak. “Lord Cil-Rahgen is your kinsman too. The Empress, your
stepmother, is his aunt.”

“And yet you plan to attack her?” put in
Forollkin, who was tired of being ignored.

“All the best fights are kept in the
family,” said the Khan amiably. “Cil-Rahgen, this is the Prince's brother, by
one of the late Emperor's numerous concubines. Lord Forollkin is in the habit
of saying exactly what he thinks and my guards inform me that he is likely to
be a bad influence on his brother. What should I do with him?”

The Envoy shrugged. “If he is a warrior,
kill him. If not, make him your slave.”

“All according to custom, but I,” announced
O-grak, “am a great breaker of custom. Tonight I feel less bound by the past
than ever. Perhaps you should both try harder to keep me in such a mood.”

Forollkin suddenly found himself dismissed
and led away to one of the furthest benches.

O-grak reached out for Kerish and tugged
him down to sit at his left side. “Eat with us, Prince, if your pride hasn't
sealed your lips.”

“My brother deserves a place of honor as
much as I do.”

“He wears no death-rings...” began
Cil-Rahgen.

“Neither do I,” answered O-grak, “to choose
only ten from among so many dead would be unfair. Will it satisfy you, Prince,
if I order Forollkin to be served first, or should I have sent you to eat with
the women?”

“Do they always feast apart?”

“Oh, the women will come in with the wine.
Not before, “ answered the Khan, picking up a slab of meat. “Do you find the
custom strange?”

“No. I have met such customs before. In
Seld, the women eat by themselves because . . .”

“In Seld, the women do everything by
themselves,” interrupted O grak, “except beget more women.”

Cil-Rahgen licked the grease from his
fingers. “You have been in Seld? Men say the Queen is very beautiful.”

“And that she has as many lovers as a snake
has skins,” added the Khan, “and changes them as often.”

“Queen Pelameera is beautiful to look at,”
said Kerish coldly.

“You speak as if she didn't move you. What
kind of woman does a Prince of the Godborn admire?” asked O-grak.

“An unexpected one,” said Kerish.

“Hah,” O-grak threw down a bone. “That's so
in every country.”

“It's true enough of you, O-grak, “ said
Cil-Rahgen slyly. “No one expected you to choose a bud from Mintaz that might
never open, when all the flowers of Oraz were eager to be plucked.”

The Khan did not seem offended. “Open
flowers lose their petals sooner. Ah, here is your food at last.”

A greasy portion of meat thrust into a
split loaf was placed before the Prince. O-grak handed him a knife and Kerish
gingerly attacked the meat.

“Daintiness fills few bellies,” remarked
the Khan, “perhaps you'll be bolder if I don't look.”

He turned his back on Kerish and spoke
abruptly to Cil-Rahgen. “How many ships will be sent?”

“Sixty, if it's understood that the plunder
from the Governor's Palace is to go to Chiraz.”

“Strip it bare. All I want is space for a
garrison.”

Kerish listened numbly as the final assault
on Viroc was casually discussed. The ancient capital of Jenoza was a formidable
fortress but it had been weakened by continuous attacks, and how long could
Jerenac hold it without hope of help from the north?

“Why do we need to delay for a parley?”
Cil-Rahgen was demanding.

“We do not need a parley,” answered O-grak,
“but since the quarrel is over land and not blood, it is proper to offer terms.
Prince, you shall come with me to the parley with Jerenac . . . Ah, you've
hardly touched your food. Let me help you.”

To the amazement of the warriors at the
nearby tables, O-grak cut up the Prince's bread and meat with his own knife.

“I suppose the Galkians will have to see
him before they offer a ransom,” began Cil-Rahgen.

“Perhaps I shan't ask for a ransom,” said
O-grak, wiping his knife on his cloak. “There are other things one could do
with such a captive. Suppose we were to set him on his father's throne and have
him order the Galkians to lie down for us to trample on?”

“We need no puppet Emperor,” answered
Cil-Rahgen contemptuously. “We can take the throne for ourselves.”

“And fight over it like curs in the dust?
When will young men learn to take only what they can keep?” O-grak gave the
Envoy a jovial slap on the back and bellowed to a passing slave: “Tell my wife
to bring the wine.”

It was obvious that Cil-Rahgen was puzzled
and dissatisfied, but O-grak launched into a lively description of the
Emperor's court and the city of Galkis.

“There is gold enough on those walls,” he
concluded, “to fill every cauldron in Chirandermar. You look doubtful. Tell
him, Prince.”

“The Khan is right. I'm afraid,” said
Kerish dryly, “that you will be put to a great deal of trouble to melt it all
down.”

The words were almost lost as the chamber
reverberated with talk and laughter and snatches of discordant songs. O-grak
was watching the Prince's face. “Do you find my feast barbarous after the cold
courtesy of Galkis? Here we think it courtesy to let our guests do whatever
they want.”

Suddenly the noise lessened as a figure
rose up in the center of the circle of braziers. After a moment three more
women ascended like ghosts from the stairwell. There were hoots of welcome as
they sauntered among the tables with earthenware jugs of wine. The first woman
walked towards the Khan carrying a metal flagon that seemed almost too heavy
for her. Kerish looked into her pale face and saw that beauty was hiding there,
unwilling or afraid to appear.

“Wife,” said the Khan of Orze, “honor our
guests.”

Neeris bowed her head but instead of moving
to the right to pour out wine for Cil-Rahgen, she stood in front of Kerish.
Neeris stared at him so intently that for a moment her grey eyes were
remarkable. She whispered, “Give me your cup.”

As she held up the flagon Kerish glimpsed
the crimson jewels that had once circled his own wrist.

“Wife,” growled O-grak. “First you should
fill the warriors' cups.”

“I do. Surely one who does not fear the
jealousy of the Goddess is the bravest of warriors.”

Cil-Rahgen made a sign against blasphemy.
O-grak sucked in his breath and Kerish said quickly, “Lady, no one knows the
evil of jealousy better than I do, but to be served first by you is too great
an honor. I ask you to excuse me.”

Neeris hesitated for a moment and then
turned meekly to serve Cil-Rahgen. As she walked towards the next table,
O-grak's huge laugh suddenly erupted.

“Well, Prince, you nearly succeeded where I
have always failed and provoked her into disobeying me. Ah, what pleasure is
there in riding if you never have to use the spurs? I promise, I have tried to
explain the customs of Galkis to my wife, but she has no gift for learning. You
must forgive her confusion.”

“Teaching is also a gift,” said Kerish
curtly.

Neeris returned to fill the Prince's cup
last of all, tears clogging her pale lashes. Then she led the women out of the
feasting chamber.