The Warrior Returns - Anteros 04 (6 page)

It was that smell I'd had in mind when I made the counterattack on the pirates—an odor so foul that only sorcery could worsen it.

After the smell, the second thing you noticed about Pisidia was that it always seemed cloaked by massive swirling dark clouds. And the third was the low buzz that seemed to permeate the air, as if the clouds were alive.

To my disgust, I learned they actually
were.
The clouds were composed of huge swarms of flies that hover over the city as if it were a giant, sticky-faced child who'd gotten into her mother's jar of prized jam.

Pisidia was a raw town built of undressed logs from the thick pine forests that covered the mountains that framed it. It was roughly divided into four parts. There was the harbor area, around which were the docks, warehouses, and tall rickety tenements that housed most of the city's workforce. Those buildings leaned crazily over roadways so narrow that it was always dark at street level. To the left were the tanneries— columnlike log buildings where kettles the size of farm carts boiled and frothed and fumed all day and all night. In the yards surrounding each vat building were the places where raw hides were worked and the finished hides graded and bundled for shipment. To the right, on a gently rising palisade covered with gardens, were the plush homes and villas of the people who made their fortunes on all those smelly hides.

They were a pretentious lot with the bad taste of the newly rich, and I found their high and mighty ways amusing, since when the wind shifted, the air over all those gaudy, multicolored homes and landscaped flower gardens became as foul as what the common people breathe. But they didn't notice it. For to live amid such an awful smell was to become as accustomed to it as if the air were sweet as lily fields.

A lovely maid from one of those families once became enamored with me. She made certain that we "accidentally" encountered one another in the garden of the family home. And there she sat amid posies of stunning color in her most revealing costume. She was as dewy-eyed and willing a maid as I've ever encountered, giving me a large goblet of wine and bidding me to sit beside her, saying her family was off to the market that day and we were alone—other than the servants, of course.

Then she'd coyly offered me a flower whose delicate pink and white petals formed a most arousing shape. She blushed, but the blush became a coy giggle as she gave it to me, letting her robe fall open at the shoulder so I could get a peek at her plump milkmaid's breasts.

We flirted for a while, but the day warmed quicker than my passions, awakening all those flies from wherever they go to escape the cool of the night Thick clouds of them took to the air, along with the tannery smells.

My love-to-be must've been shocked when my nose wrinkled at the odor. And she was probably wounded most grievously when she closed her eyes and puckered her lips for a kiss and I'd turned away at the sight of several flies alighting unnoticed at the corners of that tender mouth.

All I could think of were the heaps of maggots the Pisidians use to clean the rotted meat from the raw hides, which was the reason for all the flies that cloak the city. A fly's larvae is a wondrous creature, I suppose. Healers prize them as well as hide workers. Those ugly little wrigglers devour foul flesh and keep wounds free of infection. And I'll admit the gods should be praised rather than mocked for creating such things.

Still, the image of a maggot is not likely to stir romantic notions. All I could think of were great ugly piles of them squirming on some poor dead animal's skin. My stomach roiled and I quickly got up, made some feeble excuse or another
...
and fled.

Incidents like that tend to make one's life more chaste than a healthy woman would prefer. It might be good for the character, but it makes for many sleepless nights summing up regrets.

Once you get past the smell and rough manners of the Pisidians, however, y
ou realize they are a sturdy lot
more honorable than most and they have an independent frontier spirit. Their forebears were savage cattle herders who'd turned their skills at hide curing into a fortune. Anyone, no matter how poor the family, could become a person of means in Pisidia.

The port city was also the ideal starting point for my mission.

Once we'd docked, I left two men to guard our ship and set the others loose with a few extra coins in their purses to visit the taverns, spread our gem-hunters' tale, and gather what intelligence they could.

As for me, I planned to visit the Oracle of Pisidia.

It was not so well known then. The grand temple that sits on a windswept hill outside the city was in the early stages of construction. It was to be the only building made of stone for many leagues, and the shiploads of hides it took to finance the undertaking were said to be as numerous as the stars on a bright night. Thanks to the charity and guilt of Pisidia's newly rich families, the temple has become one of the most famous of its kind—dedicated to Te-Date. Supplicants from all over the southern regions visit there, heaping much gold into the temple's coffers to ask a boon or to get a glimpse of their fate.

When I visited that day, the temple was little more than a litter of rubble that workmen were beginning to mortar into the shape commanded by the architect's drawings.

It was late afternoon and only a few stonemasons were about I pushed past a crew of burly men to the sprawling log edifice that housed the original temple and quarters for the Mother Oracle and her priestesses.

There were only five supplicants waiting their turn inside. Three were young women with swollen bellies—there, no doubt, to ask the Oracle some question regarding their unborn children. The other two were old and infirm. A young priestess attended them, taking each in turn to a black altar stone in the center of the temple. This is the Oracle Stone of Pisidia, a disappointment to many who see it for the first time. They expect some grand, gleaming ebony monolith, no doubt, instead of something so plain as a dark stone about the size of a large cartwheel. -

A handsome, middle-aged woman—regal in the yellow, wide-sleeved robe and bejeweled tiara that marked her as the Mother Oracle—tended the faithful. As each approached she listened to their whispered request, nodded, or conferred further if it was necessary to get them to rephrase the question so it could be answered nay or yea.

A price was arrived at—based, I knew, on what the person could afford—and while the young priestess collected the money, the Mother Oracle prepared herself for the casting. When all was ready, the supplicant was handed a flat metal plate painted black on one side, white on the other.

I watched as a pregnant woman, not long out of her childhood herself, gripped the plate and stood trembling as she waited for what would happen next.

The Mother Oracle sprinkled magical herbs on the stone. It glowed into life and the dried herbs caught fire. Pale pink smoke with a pleasing odor whooshed up. The priestess waved a cupped hand slowly through the smoke, wafting it over the young woman several times, mumbling a swift prayer. Then she signaled and the young lady breathed deeply, braced herself, and tossed the plate as high as she could.

Her nervousness showed, for the plate nearly knocked against the ceiling timbers. Then it tumbled down—spinning slowly—and clattered to the floor. I saw the Mother Oracle bury a smile as the young woman saw the white side staring up at her and clapped her hands and squealed with delight. The almost smile shifted into an imperious frown as if she were displeased with such a display in a holy place. The girl stuttered an apology, whirled and fled. She was grinning hugely, however, when she went past me, and I could see she was eager to tell the good news to her family and friends.

When my turn came, I was the last in the chamber. The litde priestess bustled over to me, still full of youthful energy after many hours of tending the faithful.

"Come this way, please," she said. "Mother Daciar awaits."

The priestess was a pretty thing, with snapping black eyes and a coy smile. I'd caught her furtive looks of appreciation and knew she was intrigued.

I must admit I made a rather dashing figure that day. I was wearing a knee-length, dark blue tunic with matching tights. The sleeves were cut at the shoulder, displaying a fine silver shirt with billowy arms. A wide belt cinched my waist—an ornate dagger sheathed on one side, an empty sword scabbard on the other. I'd left that weapon with the bored guard outside the temple. High, tight-fitting boots encased my legs, which I'm vain enough to believe are long and shapely enough to wear such things. Setting the whole outfit off was my finest traveling cape, one side casually tossed back at the shoulder and held in place by a golden pin bearing the symbol of the House of Antero. I knew I looked every inch an adventurous young merchant, with adjustments and decorations here and there as befitted my sex, who relished the road and was open to new friends and experiences.

Before the priestess came to fetch me, I'd seen her adjust her robes to better show off her figure and poke her hair into place so a dark wave swept over a seductive eye.

It was good for my soul to see such a thing, and I couldn't help but give her a wink when she'd finished reciting her piece bidding me to come greet Mother Daciar.

When she saw my wink she blushed prettily and cupped a hand over her mouth to stifle a surprised giggle.

"I hope the Mother Oracle is patient with me," I said, low. "For one look at you and my question went right out of my mind."

The priestess wrinkled her nose in pretended displeasure. 'Tsk. Such behavior, my lady. Remember where you are!"

I bowed and murmured an apology, which she pretended to ignore.

She laid a light hand on my arm and led the way as stiffly and properly as she could. But just as we reached the Oracle Stone she gave my arm a quick parting squeeze full of promise.

Mother Daciar's back was still to me when I stepped up. Before she turned to tend to the last supplicant of a long trying day, I saw her rub a weary knot in her shoulder. And I heard her sigh before she said:

"The Lord Te-Date greets thee, wayfarer. If thy cause be true, thy thoughts pure, He may bless thee this day with an answer to what troubles thee."

Quickly, before she raised her eyes, I answered, "Ask Him if you can close up shop early, Daciar, so I can buy you a drink."

She jumped, shocked. Then she saw me and her mouth gaped open in surprise. It snapped shut and her mouth wreathed into a wide smile of delight

"By the red-arsed fires of the Hells," she growled in a low smoky voice, "if it isn't Rali Antero." She shot a guilty look at the stone, grimaced, then shrugged. "Sorry, O Great Lord Te-Date," she said. Then, to me, "Oh, well. I know He's heard worse."

"If not," I said, "I promise He will very soon if you don't fly away with me instantly to some place where the wine is strong and the will is weak. It's in the bylaws of the Soothsayers' Guild, don't you know? You get time off to sin every hundred years whether you need it or not."

Daciar laughed and embraced me. "You
are
a devil,
Rali
," she said. "And by the gods whose names we take in vain, I'm glad to see you."

unfortunately, it wasn't
possible, much less seemly, for the Holy Mother Oracle of Pisidia to adjourn to a tavern, low or high. Instead we climbed the several flights of stairs that led to the privacy of her rooms, where she had a good supply of strong drink.

Daciar was an innkeeper's daughter who'd been chosen for her current duties when she was a child. The Pisidians believe that when their Mother Oracle dies, her spirit lingers in the ethers until a suitable child comes along, then the spirit takes up residence in the infant's body shortly after birth.

Daciar was "discovered" by the Temple Elders when she was only ten summers old and was fully invested into office after two years of testing and training. She'd held the post for many years when we'd met, and was so hale and hearty that only accident or plague would keep her from reigning many more. Her people had gotten the best of the bargain, for not only had she proved to be an able soothsayer, she was also skilled in wizardry of all sorts. Among other things, she cast defensive spells to shield the entire city from evildoers. On my last visit we'd worked together to improve on those spells and had become fast friends in the process.

"I suppose it's a great honor to be the Mother Oracle," she'd confessed to me then. "But I still pine for the simple life I led at my family's inn. Those were great times and I was everyone's darling. I was dandled on knees, given sweets and gifts, and delightfully spoiled by one and all.

"I love people, Rali, I really do. And I miss meeting them as an equal on common ground. People look at me now and see the Holy Mother Daciar. When at heart I want to be nothing more than a bawdy wench with a jug to fill up your cup."

This is what she did soon as we'd retired to the privacy of her rooms and I'd sunk into the welcome softness of her old sofa.

The small chambers we were in were slightly shabby but quite comfortable, with all sorts of homey decorations and touches that showed Daciar's common origins: little idealized busts of her parents, such as the kind one has made by a market artist in a brief sitting; scraps of unfinished needlework from the times she felt she'd lost her way as a woman and so got her fingers busy doing "useful things to fill idle time," like her mother'd said was a good matron's duty.