The Shaman (26 page)

“Pleasure
indeed, for in every ritual, we consecrate women to Ulahane’s service, and he
fills them with uncontrollable lust. When the worship is done, they mingle with
the male worshipers, and there is a merry time indeed! Nay, come and learn our
manner of worshiping the trader’s god.”

“Let
us do so, Father, I beg you!” one of the young men said.

“Aye,
let us do so indeed,” said another, “for the journey has been long, and it will
be years before I have enough battle scars to claim a wife!”

“I
am scarcely loath, myself,” the older man agreed, “though I might have been so
before your mother died.”

One
of the sons seemed disconcerted at that, but he made no protest as the father
said, “Aye, let us go to worship Ulahane!”

Ohaern
turned away, shaken.

“Will
you not speak to your countrymen?” Lucoyo demanded. “If anything, I should
think they need your words now more than ever!”

“They
would not listen,” Ohaern replied, but kept his face turned straight ahead. “Perhaps
not all of these Cashalo men are good.”

“Or
perhaps they are,” Lucoyo said, “but are becoming less so.” He gave himself a
shake. “I can certainly understand the appeal of their god!”

“You
have been too long without a woman,” Ohaern grunted, and was appalled at the
surge of desire he felt within him, at the memory of Ryl. Remorse and grief
followed on the instant.

“Will
Ulahane really give us the better bargain?”

Ohaern’s
head snapped around. The accent was thick, but he could understand the words—though
those speaking were not Biriae, but Myrics, the short, broad-faced men from the
far north, with whom the Biriae sometimes fought and often traded. In fact,
there were two Biriae climbing into the barge with the Myrics, which was why
they were speaking the mixed trading language the two nations had developed.

One
of the Biriae shrugged. “We are his worshipers now. We shall learn quite
quickly whether he will favor us in our dealings or not.”

“Even
if he does not,” said the other Myric, grinning, “his ritual was well worth the
conversion!”

“It
was indeed,” the other Biri agreed. “We shall have to see to building him a
temple and beginning his worship at home.”

Ohaern
could only watch, stone-stiff, stone-cold—watch, and listen.

“He
has certainly brought us good bargaining,” said a Myric. “The priest was right,
telling us to press for as many beads as we could, and to give none to the
beggars.”

A
Biri nodded. “One of the acolytes told me some word about Lavoc the cloth
trader, that he would not wish his wife to know.”

“What—that
he had been playing with the women in the Street of Lantern Houses?”

“Yes,
and trading his wife’s gold beads for their favors. I mentioned that to him
when I was bargaining my beads for his cloth, and he was suddenly willing to
give me three bolts of cloth for a single bead.”

His
three companions laughed, and Ohaern finally found the will to turn away, his
face thunderous. He paced quickly down the dock as the traders cast off the
line and began to paddle out into the current. When he was far enough away, he
hissed, “That Biriae should sink to such filthy tricks!”

“Almost
worthy of the tribe that raised me,” Lucoyo agreed, though he seemed much less
disturbed by it. “I cannot like the thought of them spreading the worship of
Ulahane in their homelands.”

“Our
homeland!” Ohaern snapped. “Tell me again that I should not turn about and go
to cut out the corruption as it arrives!”

“You
should cut out the source instead,” Lucoyo said, but he seemed to recite it
almost absentmindedly.

Ohaern
looked closely, and sure enough, the half-elf was gazing ahead into the city
with longing, his eyes not quite focused. “What ails you?”

Lucoyo
sighed. “I could almost wish that I had not offended Ulahane so clearly,
Ohaern. Willing women! The thought has great appeal to me now.”

Ohaern
held himself rigid, shocked all over again. Then he studied his friend’s face
and finally saw not only longing, but clawing hunger. He did not know which
disturbed him more, Lucoyo’s lust or the discovery that he had personal reasons
for avoiding Ulahane, rather than an affinity for Lomallin.

Lucoyo
hurried forward a few steps to a man with a wax tablet, who stood waiting for a
boat to pull into the dock. “Man of Cashalo! I greet you.”

The
trader looked up, and in very bad, very heavily accented Biriae, answered, “Greet
you, stranger. What wish?”

“How
do I find the Street of Lantern Houses?” Lucoyo asked, while Ohaern stood
rigid, unbelieving. “And how do I fare once I arrive there?”

The
trader gave him a sly grin. “Find it by going straight from sea gate toward
palace.” He pointed at a broad street that seemed to sweep in all the dockside
area. “Is fifth paved street. Turn left. Once there?” He shrugged. “Offer gold
or amber to pimp who owns house, then play with which woman you like.”

“Gold
or amber?” Lucoyo’s face fell. “Well, I shall have to see to .gaining that!
Thank you, man of Cashalo!”

Still
grinning, the trader made a sign that indicated Lucoyo was welcome, and the
half-elf hurried off, the hunger naked in his face.

Ohaern
followed quickly, his shock receding under concern for his friend. But he
hesitated near the mouth of the street, recognizing the trader who had invited
the Biriae to Ulahane’s temple, and reached out to catch Lucoyo, calling to the
trader, “Ho, friend!”

The
trader looked up in surprise. “Ho yourself—but I hope we shall be friends. What
would you, stranger?”

“Can
you tell me if a man can truly trade goods for a woman’s favors in the Street
of Lantern Houses?”

The
trader’s mouth widened into a grin, and he punched Ohaern’s heavy chest with a
knowing leer. “Aye, a big husky lad like you would wish to know that, would he
not? Be certain, it is true!”

Ohaern
looked away, shaken. “Surely the women must hate this!”

The
trader was silent awhile, then said slowly, “I cannot say—only a woman would
know.”

“No
woman would hate what I would do to her,” Lucoyo boasted. Ohaern tried not to
look at him.

The
trader shrugged. “I have seen Vanyar traders in that street, and cannot see
that any woman could take pleasure in them. The Vanyar are stocky,
bandy-legged, and hairy—ugly as jackals.”

Lucoyo’s
head snapped up. “Do you say
I
am as ugly as a jackal?”

“Certainly
not, though I would not say you are handsome, either. Of course, a woman might.”

“A
woman
would.”
But in his heart, Lucoyo doubted. Nonetheless, he turned
and hurried away, filled with a strange clamoring urgency that he did not fully
understand.

Ohaern
stood, dazed, then finally remembered himself and nodded to the trader. “Thank
you for your information, sir.”

“You
are welcome.” The trader returned the nod. “Enjoy your foray!”

Ohaern
turned away—to find that Lucoyo had already disappeared into the crowd.

The
broad street from the dock plaza was full of people, and the crowds became
thicker as he went along. Ohaern caught sight of the half-elf far ahead and
tried to catch up, but soon he was having to elbow and jostle his way through,
to a chorus of protest in the foreign tongue—but Lucoyo, slight, slender, and
quick, made much faster progress. Before long Ohaern had lost sight of him
again.

Then
there was an outcry behind him. Ohaern turned and saw a man clutching at
severed thongs that hung from his belt, crying, “Akor!” Ohaern decided that the
word meant, “My purse!” but more importantly, meant that Lucoyo had passed by.
The man proceeded to howl and yell, but Ohaern ignored him, pressing on. Then,
ahead of him, another man cried, “Akor!” and began to rant and rave, so Ohaern
knew he was on the right path.

On
he went, following a trail of protest, dismay, and anger, of severed purse
strings and angry citizens—but he did not catch sight of Lucoyo again until he
turned into the fifth paved street from the dockside plaza and saw that every
hut was large, quite large, twice higher than a man and more—and each had a
post sticking out above the door, with a lantern hanging from it. There was
Lucoyo, going in under just such a lantern! Ohaern started to follow, but as he
came near the doorway, he hesitated. He certainly had no need to go into a
place where women gave themselves so casually—well, no, he had a huge need,
actually, and a wish so great that it hammered inside him with an intensity
that frightened him. He, who had never turned away from any foe that waked fear
in him, now paused on the threshold of a house of weak, soft women, a house
that promised to fulfill his most secret, but most frantic, desire. Why should
he fear ecstasy?

Because
of his dead wife.

It
wasn’t that he feared Ryl’s ghost would be jealous, really; it was that she
might be grieved, for surely taking the favors that a woman offered to a
stranger—a total stranger! And for no better cause than hunger! It would hurt
Ryl grievously. For a moment Ohaern pondered why that would be, but could only
think that it debased women in some way, though he could not say how.

Then
a woman came out beneath the lantern—a disheveled woman, with hair in disarray
and clothes awry, yawning and scratching. She looked up and saw Ohaern. A look
of distaste flashed across her features and was gone, buried under a sort of
shiny hardness that offered a smile, but a smile that was practiced and
polished by long and frequent use. It was a heavy-lidded smile, an inviting
smile, and her hips circled and thrust as her shoulders pulled back too far.

Ohaern
hid his shudder and turned away. Let the half-elf bury himself in pleasure,
then. He would be safe, at least in body, and he would certainly know where to
find Lucoyo.

He
turned away, walking back down the Street of Lantern Houses, out into the broad
hard-paved boulevard ...

And
saw the temple of Ulahane looming before him.

Ulahane’s
temple stood atop a step-pyramid, like all the others—but it was made of a
reddish stone, and the edifice at its peak was painted scarlet.

Scarlet,
but the war chief’s eye could see that the paint covered huge stone blocks. It
was a temple, but it was also a fortress—a fortress that soared up into
pinnacles from which men could shoot arrows or even throw boiling water down
upon attackers; and Ohaern would have wagered that he would find a well within
its enclosure.

So
much blood color made Ohaern shudder, but so did the number of people climbing
up and climbing down. They were no myriad, but there was certainly steady
traffic—and they were not only the people of Cashalo, but also Biriae and
Myrics, dark men of the south, yellow men of the east, and even some men who
were so dark they were almost black! There were many more males than females,
but there were enough women to make Ohaern remember what the trader had said
about Ulahane’s rites, and to make him shudder. If there were so many people as
this by day, what would the temple steps look like at night?

He
decided that he did not want to know. He turned away, resolved to come here no
more—and found himself staring at another temple, obviously much older in both
style and wear. It had only four steps, made of a pale stone with a greenish
cast—and the smith’s eye noted the presence of copper in the stone. The temple
itself was low, little more than colonnades supporting a roof, painted the rich
green of summer leaves. It seemed more a house than a monument, alive and
welcoming.

Ohaern
stared. Why had Lomallin’s temple been built so close to Ulahane’s?

The
answer struck him with outrage. Lomallin’s temple was the older; Ulahane’s worshipers
had built him a house as near to Lomallin’s as they could, in hopes of stealing
his congregation! And from the look of the numbers trooping up his stairs, they
had succeeded.

Well,
here was one Lomallin worshiper who would not be deterred—or seduced away or
cozened, either. Ohaern straightened his shoulders, lifted his chin, and strode
proudly up the steps of Lomallin’s temple, not caring who saw—and hoping that
many would.

After
all, he was the only person on that whole expanse of stone.

He
came in under the lintel and was instantly enveloped in shadow, coolness, and
the heady aroma of cedar. Lomallin’s temple seemed modest, but it had been
built of expensive imported wood, and its fragrance was like a breath of breeze
from a northern forest. He felt as if he were surrounded by a friendly living
presence; he felt at home. Looking about him, he saw only a broad expanse of
open floor, cleansed by the wind, and at the far end the high reach of a living
tree surrounded by bushes, with the vague form of a bearded face seeming to
grow out of the trunk, ancient and reassuring: Lomallin’s symbol, with Lomallin’s
face—or as much of it as any living man could perceive. Slowly, he stepped
forward before the tree, bowing his head in prayer.

“Who
comes to Ranol’s temple?”

Ohaern
looked up to see an elderly man coming out from behind the tree. He leaned upon
a gnarled staff—a branch that had been polished, but otherwise left as the tree
had made it. His hair and beard were long and white, and he wore green robes.

“I
am Ohaern, a smith and warrior of the Biriae,” Ohaern answered. It was courtesy
to tell the name of his nation, though obviously unnecessary—the old man had
known him for what he was at a glance, or he would not have spoken in the
Biriae tongue. His accent was not even heavy. “I greet you, sir—and I beg your
pardon, for I had thought I was in the temple of Lomallin.”

“You
are, though we call him ‘Ranol’ here. Still, he is the same—the green god, the
lover of humanity and defender of all the younger races.”