The Wraeththu Chronicles (135 page)

"Then why live it?" Panthera asked. "Couldn't you find work in Hadas-sah or Gimrah?"

Lourana shook his head. "You don't understand. The way we live is the right way. I am weak to yearn occasional respite from it, and shall no doubt have to pay for it some day. We cannot live like men; look what happened to them! We need order so that we may develop . . ."

"Oh come on!" I couldn't help interrupting. "No-one I saw in Morla could be described as a particularly enlightened soul!"

"The individual may only learn through suffering. We carry a great blood-debt on our hands ..."

"You do?" I couldn't hide the cynicism; I didn't want to.

"But yes," Lourana insisted with furrowed brow. "From the old times, the Destruction, the Agony of Birth. Wraeththu squandered their abilities; now they are undeserved. It will take many generations to appease the guilt.

I can see the sense of it all, but sometimes it's hard to live. That's part of it, I suppose."

Doors were beginning to swing open in my head. If Wraxilan had fled east, banished from Megalithica because of his evil, it was not impossible that he'd suffered some kind of warped revelation. He may be assuaging his own guilt by passing it onto his people. Curious. I couldn't wait to see what had become of the Har I'd so admired and feared in the past. Ariaric seemed the exact opposite of everything Wraxilan had stood for; which was riotous excess in everything and having a bloody good time while doing it as well. Perhaps I'd been wrong. Perhaps Ariaric wasn't Wraxilan; then we'd be in trouble. But then, hadn't Liss-am-Caar known what I'd meant back in Fallsend? I'd have to be patient. Soon I would know for sure.

Our flight was swift; by late afternoon the next day, Lourana was circling his car high above the outskirts of Oomadrah herself. To the north was the pale track of the caravan route, that looped around the farthest end of the gunmetal lake Syker Sade with its fringe of har-height reeds, its screeching birds. From there, the trail stretched southwest to Strabaloth (the second largest Maudrah settlement) and the plains of Wrake Tamyd. The flat grasslands roll from east to west unremittingly, unbroken by tree or hill. Herds of Maudrah horses graze unmolested, rubbing shoulders with cattle and deer, and beyond them rise the sheer, black walls of Oomadrah herself; female if ever a city is. Her walls are polished obsidian, soaring so high as to cast a perpetual shadow over the edge of the city within. Such protectiveness. Only the Rique Spire of the Lion's palace Sykernesse rises above them. Many gates stud the walls, but even as I was worrying about how we'd get past the guards, Lourana had dipped the car over the south wall of the city, which spread out her secrets before us.

"How come they let you pass so easily?" Panthera asked suspiciously.

"Because my car is known to them," Lourana answered. "I make this journey several times a week; I have to. To live."

We drifted down toward the black and silver streets below. To see it is to believe it. The predominant colors in Maudrah's streets, are silver, black, gray or darkest violet. Sometimes, high-ranking citizens can be glimpsed wearing clothes the color of dried blood red, indigo or brown, but for the lesser hara it's always unremitting gray or black. Maudrah hara have hair of deepest black or silver white. They are generally a tribe of striking appearance and their austere mode of attire somehow complements this. Outlanders—there are quite a few, which surprised me—can usually be recognized by their hair. Most people from outside affect Maudrah style of dress pretty quickly, but is never possible to blend in completely. This is because, more than a difference in appearance, Maudrah really do have a serene kind of inner quiet, which marks them, and is inimitable. It is said that they can kill and maim without a tremor in the name of progression, without even glancing away. They can love you and destroy you in the same instant; that is the legacy of the Lion.

Oomadrah

"A bloody arrogant power

Rose out of the race Uttering, mastering it."

—W. B. Yeats, Blood and the Moon

Lourana brought his car to a swooping halt upon a gray plaza. The stone beneath us was as polished as glass. Other cars were clustered there, beads of black and silver. Hara walking sedately among them; no-one hurries in Oomadrah. Although Panthera and myself had stayed awake for most of the night talking to Lourana, we'd managed to catch up on some sleep during the remainder of the journey in the morning. Now we had to suffer stiff limbs and a lurking sleepiness.

Lourana suggested that he took us to an inn that catered for outlanders. "They are more lenient there, but it would still be best if you kept your mouths shut. I'll be staying overnight; I haven't slept for two days."

We were more than happy to let him take control of us. Lourana left his vehicle unprotected because stealing is unknown in Maudrah. This is because the inhabitants nurse a healthy fear of the all-seeing Niz. Lourana told us to keep our heads lowered as we walked, but I couldn't resist the odd sly peep. What I saw amazed me. Nobody turned their backs on a har of higher rank than themselves; peers must also pass each other frontways. So, whatever strictures are placed upon merrymaking in that part of Jad-dayoth, the people of Maudrah certainly dance. They whirl and bob and glide amongst each other like the cranes nesting on the grasslands beyond the city. Everywhere the swish of robes, the tap of feet as the correct steps are made. Lourana made genuflections to indicate that Panthera and I were foreigners and thus absolved, to a certain degree, from the rules of their society. As long as visitors are seen and not heard, all seems to be well, but we were aware of the steely eyes of the Aditi vigilant on every street corner, alert for serious transgressions. Lourana had warned us what forms these could take; a sneeze in the street, an unfortunate raising of eyes should a high-caste har be passing by, an increase in walking pace when it was not warranted. I wondered what would happen were someone clumsy enough to fall over in the street. A hundred conventions would be broken in one stroke; a cry, an incorrect wobble, a flailing of naked hands. And yet, it must be said, the Maudrah are actually comfortable within the cage of their laws; they thrive. A perfectly executed walk through town, observing every nuance of custom and tradition, can provide untold satisfaction. Whatever outlanders may think of Maudrah, it would appear that the natives themselves are far from discontent.

Lourana took us to what he considered a commercial inn named the Grain and Bowl—no brimming tankards in Oomadrah! It was a plain but reasonably comfortable establishment. He signed the register for us and then announced that we must present ourselves to the Office of the Niz right away. Panthera complained of hunger. I would have welcomed a chance to freshen up.

Lourana shook his head at our complaints. "No. Take your luggage to your rooms. Don't do anything else. If you fail to identify yourselves with the Niz, you may find your next meal less than welcome—your toes for example. There'll be plenty of time for eating and washing later on. You need a Pass to come and go in Oomadrah; your letter of introduction should provide you with one. You are lucky that the name of Jael is fairly well-known in the city. I've heard that the palace is full of Jael artifacts, so the Niz should be willing to let you remain here. It's more than I'm being paid for, but I'll show you the way, if you like."

Panthera took a couple of spinners from his pocket and put them in Lourana's hand, staring at him owlishly. Lourana sniffed, put the money in his purse and led the way outside.

As we walked along the clean streets of Oomadrah, Lourana advised us on how to behave in the office of the Niz. "You would be wise to tell them that Panthera's father wishes him to make a tour of all the major cities of Jaddayoth as part of his education; that will appeal to their sense of pride. Mention that you are seeking out remote branches of your family and would like to be presented to your distant cousin who can be found in Sykernesse." This caused a moment's confusion because Panthera realized he couldn't even remember the name of his relative in the Royal House. This would not look very convincing. Lourana was outraged, his pale face actually flushed pink and he would not take a step further. "Are you out of your mind?" he hissed. "If you wander into the Office so ill-prepared, so casually, the Niz will have you flayed, and me too very likely!"

"Don't upset yourself," Panthera replied airily. "There can't be that many Kalamah in Sykernesse. From what I recall, he is employed in the service of the Lion's consort Elisyin, quite high-ranking too."

Lourana looked annoyed, mainly because that meant he had to say, "Oh, in that case, you probably mean Lalasa."

"In that case I probably do," Panthera replied, "the name does ring a bell."

"Let's hope it's the right one otherwise the Niz may wring our necks," I said; a weak joke, but still enough to start Panthera laughing. Lourana hurried us along, looking in every direction at once in case someone heard us.

The Administration Office of the Niz was a grim, imposing building, set in a square of its own, unadorned save for the main entrance. Here, pol-ished columns reared somberly to an arch where squealing birds squabbled among pendulous, tatty nests. The reception hall inside was enormous, the only sounds being those of brisk footsteps and hushed voices. The floor was so polished it was like looking into a black mirror. Lourana approached the low, unfussy desk to our left, which was staffed only by a single har. As we waited, black-robed hara drifted past us, heads bent together, never lifting their eyes.

"Panthera, this place is spooky," I murmured. Panthera pulled a forlorn face of agreement. He didn't want to risk speaking out loud. After a moment, Lourana came back to us, ushering us further away from the desk.

"You are to be interviewed by the Niz's Prefect," he said confidentially. This did not sound like good news to me. "Have you got your letter with you?"

"Safe in my pocket," Panthera said. "I never go out without it."

Lourana did not smile. Presently we were approached by a young har dressed in tight-fitting gray, who requested us to follow him to the Prefect's office. His hands were gloved, his eyebrows plucked bare. Lourana insisted on accompanying us, although the

Prefect's underling made it clear that he was far from happy about it. I presumed we were being honored in a way that Lourana was unworthy of sharing. I said, "This har is employed by us; he is our guide, our teacher in the lore of Maudrahness. His vocation was outlined personally by the Aghama, I believe."

The underling gave me a hard look, but nodded his head briefly at Lourana.

"Remember," Lourana said as we were taken away, "do not speak unless you are spoken to. Better still, do not speak at all. Let me do the talking."

The Prefect's office was on the third floor. We climbed a wide, shallow staircase carpeted in dark blue. The office itself was immense, ridiculously so. White, marble floor, ten foot drapes of dark purple velvet, windows all along one wall offering a view of the square and one large, gleaming desk. A gigantic portrait of a har I presumed to be Ariaric hung on the wall behind it, so stylised it was impossible to tell if he looked anything like Wraxilan. The Prefect stood up as we entered and dismissed his minion with an imperious wave of his hand. Aware that we were outlanders, he addressed himself directly to Lourana. This was a complicated procedure, involving a lot of words, but where very little was actually said. The Prefect seemed satisfied by it, however. He nodded and sat down, scanning the papers that Lourana had brought with him from the reception hall.

"Panthera Jael," the Prefect said. Lourana shot Panthera a quick glance, nodded. "That is I, tiahaar," Panthera replied in his best clear, regal voice.

"Your letter of introduction, if you would be so kind . . ." The Prefect held out his hand. To me, he was an unimpressive har, medium stature, unremarkable in feature or style; soft yet mean. Panthera stonily handed him the letter. The Prefect looked up, caught my eye, sniffed disdainfully, shook the letter and began to read. Gripped by a spasm of annoyance, I wanted to stare at this insignificant creature, perhaps wither him to dust. It shouldn't be difficult. He examined the letter for far too long; maybe he was a pathetically slow reader, but I took it as measured insult. Really, the letter was nothing to do with him at all. Such things were for the eyes of Sykernesse staff alone. Lacking in glory, the Prefect made the most of his brief moment of power over us.

"Lalasa, I understand, a courtier of the third tier and a valet of the Archon's consort. . ." We all made various noises of assent. "Hmm, well, your application will be passed on. Perhaps in a week or so . . ." Here the Prefect sniffed again in an insulting and derogatory manner. "You must appreciate we are plagued by outlanders' petitions constantly. Many claim to have relatives in the Royal House. You must wait your turn, I'm afraid."

That was when I decided I'd had enough. I've suffered most insults in my time, but never have I had it implied that I was a parasite. Fighting with a red mist before my eyes, I found I had the Prefect by his collar, and had half-dragged him over his desk. Clearly, he was unused to such behavior. His eyes were so round, I could see the whites all about them. "Excuse me, tiahaar," I said, "but I feel you have misconstrued the urgency of our request. We expect to be presented at the palace tomorrow at the latest, and would be grateful if you could see to it immediately. Not only is my companion a close relative of Lalasa, but I am an old friend of the Lion himself. I feel he might be upset if I am forced to wait ..."