Echoes of the Great Song

by David Gemmell

  “You look younger. But I guess you’ll have learned a little wisdom, and that’s always a help for a city woman. You look after her, Baj. I will be back to check on her.”

  The fat woman patted Sofarita’s shoulder, then swung away and strode out of the tavern. Sofarita felt light-headed, as if a small storm had passed. “Is she always like that?” she asked Baj.

  The young man gave a wide, good-natured grin. “Always,” he said. “Come, I will find you a room.” She followed him through a dimly lit corridor and on up a flight of rickety stairs lit by a single lantern on the first landing. Baj removed the lantern and held it ahead of him as he climbed into the gloom. “It will be brighter later,” he called back to her. “I’ll have more lanterns lit.”

  The stairs ended at a gallery which circled the eating area below. Baj moved to a sturdy door, pressed the latch and opened it. Within was a small bedroom boasting a stone fireplace and a tiny window. Baj hung the lantern on a hook above the fireplace. “It is a little musty,” he said, “but you’ll not find better for a silver penny.”

  “A month?” she asked him. His laughter was unforced.

  “A day, pretty one. This is the city.”

  “Every day?” Sofarita was appalled.

  “Every single day. But you get three meals, and you’ll be safe here. Believe me, that is a special rate. This room would normally earn me ten silvers a week.”

  “I’ll take it,” she said.

  “Wait here and make yourself comfortable. I’ll bring you some food.” After he had gone Sofarita sat down on the bed. The mattress was thin, but the blankets were thick and warm. For the first time the enormity of her action overwhelmed her. She had left a secure life in the village for the utter uncertainty of life in an environment she knew nothing about. Rising, she moved to the window and stared down on the diners below. Their clothes seemed rich and wonderful, far more graceful than the homespun garments she wore. And the colors of the dyes: rich greens, bright golds, reds and blues. One of the women below wore a dress of heavy silk, embroidered with white beads. And her hair was braided with bright wire that glinted in the lantern light.

  Lisha!

  The name flickered into Sofarita’s mind, and with it came a sudden vision of the woman below. She was not dining nor dressed in fine clothes. She was sitting on a threadbare rug, holding a dead baby and weeping. A feeling of sorrow washed over Sofarita. Not her own, but that of the woman below. For a moment only, she saw what the woman was seeing, a chubby older man, spooning food into his mouth. He smiled at her. A piece of dark meat was lodged between his teeth.

  Sofarita squeezed shut her eyes, moved back from the window and almost sagged to the bed. The vision had been startling, and her hands were trembling. Baj returned carrying a heavy tray. He lowered it to a small table, which he then lifted and set down before her. Upon the tray was a plate of roast meat, covered with thick gravy, some heavy dark bread, a large pat of butter and a chunk of fresh cheese. “Eat,” he said. “You look very pale.” From the pocket of his apron he produced three candle stubs, which he lit from the lantern and placed in small pottery dishes around the room.

  Sofarita cut a piece of meat and tasted it. It was roast beef, and delicious beyond words. Slowly and steadily she finished the meal, mopping the last of the gravy with the bread. She looked up. He was squatting down some five feet away, his elbow resting on his knees, his chin in his hand. “I do take great pleasure from watching people enjoy my cooking,” he said.

  “It was a fine meal. But I am too full to eat the cheese. May I keep it for later?”

  “Of course. What kind of employment are you looking for? Or do you intend to work for my aunt?”

  “I don’t know. What does your aunt do?”

  “Do? You don’t know?” He looked closely at her, then smiled. “Of course you don’t. How stupid of me. Well, what can you do?”

  “Anything I set my mind to,” she told him. “I have planted crops, nursed them and gathered them. I can sew, spin, embroider. I can shear sheep, and know the medicines to ward off the blow-fly. I know the herbs that can help heal wounds and others to cure headaches and ease the pain of rheumatism. And I am strong now. I can work hard. Harder than any city woman.”

  “You are also trim and beautiful,” he said. “My aunt will point out that there is great money to be made by using those gifts.”

  “How?”

  “My aunt … entertains the wealthy and the powerful. She has a large house and many young women—and young men—are in her employ.”

  Another vision struck her. A large bedroom, with a circular bed covered with sheets of satin. Two women and a man cavorted upon it. What was happening to her? Sofarita struggled to appear calm. “Your aunt operates a whorehouse?”

  “Indeed she does, but her employees prefer to be called entertainers. They can earn more in one night than I make in a week. And much more than you will earn in a full season as a serving maid or a household servant.”

  “How much do they earn?”

  “My aunt tells me it depends on the requirements for the role, and the wealth and generosity of the recipient. In other words, if you find a rich man who likes you then you could earn a hundred silvers a night. More likely though, it will be twenty or thirty.”

  “So much?”

  “Are you tempted?”

  “Should I not be? Is there something you are not telling me?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “It is just that entertaining is not considered an honorable profession in Egaru. In some of the cities of the Mud People—so I’m told—whores are considered almost holy. Among the Patiakes they are highly regarded. But in Vagar settlements they are generally looked down upon.”

  “Could I work here? For you?”

  “You could, but on the wages I pay you would not be able to afford this room for long.”

  “I will think on it,” she said.

  Crowds gathered on Egaru’s docks to watch the Serpent as she sailed majestically into harbor. Some of the older Avatars were misty-eyed, the younger filled with a sense of wonder. Gone were the clumsy sails, the pitch and the roll of a crippled ship. Instead she sailed serenely into port. Most of the crowd were Vagars who had never seen a fully powered Serpent. They were even more astounded by the vessel.

  Talaban brought her close to the dock, where sailors threw out ropes to the waiting dockers. Once the ropes were fastened Talaban eased down the power. The ship settled in the water.

  Within the hour Questor Ro had organized the wrapping and removal of the four remaining chests, three full, one empty. He had argued with Talaban about leaving the Serpent’s chest in place. Talaban had overruled him. “If the Questor General requires the ship to be disabled once more then I will have the chest removed,” he said. “Until that time she remains empowered.”

  The chests were carefully carried to a waiting wagon. Ro ordered the driver to proceed to the palace. The little Questor climbed to sit alongside the Vagar. He did not look back or wave as the wagon trundled out of sight.

  Talaban assembled the crew, paid them, and ordered those taking shore leave to watch for the assembly lists pinned to the dock gates. “We may be leaving soon,” he said. “It is vital you are ready.”

  Leaving a skeleton crew, commanded by Methras, to protect the ship Talaban and Touchstone strode down the gangplank and onto the wharf. Moving through to the dock gates Talaban hired an open carriage to carry them to his home on Five Tree Hill. The house was situated close to an orchard of cherry trees. It was not an imposing dwelling, boasting only nine rooms. Its walls were bare of ornament and stained white, its long sloping roof of red terracotta tiles. Slatted wooden shutters covered the windows, shielding the rooms from the worst of the sun.

  Talaban climbed down from the carriage and paid the driver. The front door was open as he and Touchstone approached the building, and a middle-aged woman stepped from the doorway. She bowed to Talaban. “Everything is ready, lord,” she said. “My husband saw
the ship. He has aired your bedroom and prepared your bed. The water is heating for your bath, and there is food set in the couch room.”

  “Thank you,” said Talaban, moving past her.

  “And a messenger arrived from the palace, lord. There is a meeting of the Council at dusk. You are required to attend. A carriage will call here.” Talaban nodded and moved through to the couch room. It was on the western side of the building and a high white archway linked it to the gardens and the orchard beyond. The room, with its three large windows, was filled with light, the air perfumed by the scent of blooms from the garden, jasmine and rose, sweet-dew and honeysuckle.

  Talaban pulled off his boots and sat down on a long couch. A man entered and bowed deeply. Setting down a pitcher of watered wine and two goblets on a nearby table he bowed again and left the room. Touchstone poured wine for his captain, but took none himself. Instead he moved to the long table and helped himself to the sweetmeats there. Fresh fruit, cold salted meats—ham, beef and pigeon—a variety of cheeses and a loaf of fresh-baked bread. “Good, this,” said Touchstone.

  The man and woman returned. Both bowed. “Your bath is ready, lord,” she said. “Will you be requiring us further?”

  “No. My thanks to you,” he said. Rising, he gave each of them two silver coins. They bowed again and left the house.

  “You don’t like see them die,” said Touchstone.

  “What?”

  “Servants. You watch grow old. You sad then. I see your life. When we flew.”

  Talaban nodded. It was true. His first servants in Egaru—a man and his wife—had been with him for twenty-five years. He had grown fond of them. When the wife became ill Talaban had healed her. Word got out and he was summoned to the Council. It was against the law for Avatars to use crystal magic on inferior races. Talaban had been ordered to dismiss them. Either that or watch the woman die. Since then he had hired temporary servants.

  Touchstone was busily munching his way through the food. Talaban rose and stretched. “I am going to bathe,” he said.

  As he lay in the scented water he thought again of Chryssa, of her joy and how everything she saw seemed to fill her with wonder: sunshine on spring flowers, a white dove at dusk, the moon dancing fragmented on the night-dark sea.

  The memory of the two moons flashed into his mind, and with it the shimmering figure of One-Eyed-Fox. He had not spoken to Touchstone about the apparition. Not yet. He needed time to think it through.

  Climbing from the bath he towelled himself dry, then knelt on a rug and slowly took his mind through the Six Rituals.

  An hour later he was dressed in a tunic of dark blue silk, edged with silver, his long, dark hair held in place by a silver circlet inset with a white moonstone. Around his waist was a jewelled belt hanging from which was a hunting knife, its black hilt embellished with silver wire. His leggings were white wool, his knee-length boots of silvered lizard skin.

  Touchstone grinned at him, and he could see the light of mockery in the tribesman’s eyes.

  “It is palace garb,” said Talaban, somewhat defensively.

  Touchstone nodded. “Very pretty,” he said.

  “I seem to recall you dressed in a cloak of eagle feathers, wearing a beaded cap, for your marriage to Suryet. You were also wearing a codpiece made of shells and your lips were painted white. I too shared your memories.”

  “Different,” said Touchstone. “Eagle feathers bring great magic. Shells bring virility.”

  “It is all a question of style,” said Talaban, smoothing down his tunic.

  “Very pretty,” repeated Touchstone, with a booming laugh.

  Talaban grinned and shook his head. It was impossible to argue with Touchstone. “We need to talk when I get back.”

  “About going home?”

  “About the One-Eyed-Fox.”

  “You wake me. We talk.”

  The carriage arrived on time and Talaban sat in the back, gazing over the city. It had grown in the last fifty years, almost doubling in size. Many of the older buildings, on the five hills of the original city, were finely constructed, but most of the new were built from fired mud-bricks. In narrow streets and packed centers they housed the worker population—potters, bakers, stonemasons, clothes makers, carpenters, house servants, and many more. The Vagars now outnumbered their Avatar overlords by a hundred to one. And the ratio would continue to increase.

  Talaban’s mood was somber as the carriage continued, crossing the old stone bridge in the Avatar center of the city.

  Here the buildings showed a sharp rise in quality, huge houses fronted by expertly worked marble, flanked by beautiful statues. Here there were fountains and man-made lakes, parks with elaborate walkways. The carriage moved out onto the wide avenue and past the Library and the Museum of Antiquities. Both these structures had been designed when the old empire was at its height, the massive 80-ton blocks lifted into place by a handful of workers using the legendary music of the Avatar Prime. Talaban had seen just such an exercise when he was a child back in Parapolis. First a Questor would play a simple tune on a long flute. Then the trumpets would sound. Avatar stonemasons would step forward, their movements in perfect rhythm to the music. Huge blocks would be lifted as easily as sacks of grain. People would gather alongside the construction sites to marvel at the magic and listen to the music.

  The Library was huge, the great lintel stone above the doorway held on the shoulders of two 30-foot-tall statues. Seated on a massive throne set upon the lintel was a statue of the last Avatar Prime, his hands outstretched towards his people. The original idea had been to symbolize that, although he was raised above other men, it was only by the will of the people. Hence the two Vagars holding him. Now, to Talaban, it merely highlighted that the weight of Avatar rule fell squarely on the shoulders of the Vagars.

  The carriage moved on. Hundreds of people strolled along the perfectly laid stone footpaths, stopping to peer in at items on display in the many shops. The people here were better dressed. Most were Vagars, the families of rich merchants.

  Many Avatars saw the Vagar merchant class as their greatest allies among the sub-species. Talaban was not fooled. The merchants were the most eager to see an end to Avatar rule. Their profit margins would increase dramatically if they had full control of the city’s commerce.

  The carriage trundled on. Talaban could see the palace outlined against the night sky. Bright lights shone from its windows, and he knew that one of the chests had been installed there. The palace had been built 200 years before, designed by Avatar architects, and built when the empire still possessed the power and the energy for such projects. It was probably the finest building left above the ice. The roof was covered with gold sheeting, the walls decorated with a multitude of statues and scenes from Avatar history.

  The huge bronze gates were open, and two Avatar guards waved the carriage through.

  Talaban stepped down as the carriage drew to a halt. Then he climbed the steps to the massive double doors. There were sixty-four steps. They were divided by symbols into groups of eight, and represented the journey of life. Conception, birth, puberty, adulthood, maturity, wisdom, spirituality, and death.

  On either side of the steps statues had been placed, their regal faces frozen in time, their blank eyes staring impassively at the mortal men who climbed by them. Heroes and teachers, mystics and poets. Their names and their deeds were recorded on the marble beside them.

  Talaban paused at the statue of Varabidis, the poet mystic, the creator of the Six Rituals. The statue depicted a young man holding a dove aloft, its wings spreading for flight. Below the statue was the inscription: The bird does not seek the past, it flies ever hopeful into the future.

  Not any more, thought Talaban.

  Once inside the palace a Vagar servant led him through to the wide waiting area outside the council chambers. Couches and deep chairs had been set against the walls, and food and wine placed on three long tables. Most of the councillors were present. Fat Capri
shan, dressed in a billowing silver robe, sat by the western window deep in conversation with his aides. Niclin, the richest and therefore most powerful of the councillors, stood beneath the high gallery chatting amiably to several of his colleagues.

  Talaban scanned the room. There was no sign of Questor Ro.

  A tall lean figure moved into Talaban’s line of sight. “Good evening, cousin. I hear you had an eventful trip.”

  Viruk was dressed in a tunic of heavy black silk edged with silver thread. His hair and beard were freshly washed and oiled, and he sported no weapons. “Good evening, Viruk,” said Talaban. “I am sure that life here, for you at least, has not been boring.”

  “Indeed not. But let us not dwell on my humble activities. You are the hero of the moment. Thanks to you, Avatar supremacy is assured for a few seasons.” Talaban looked into the man’s pale gray eyes.

  “It would be good to think so,” he said.

  “Always the diplomat, Talaban. I hear you had an encounter with krals. Are they as ferocious as described?”

  “They are fast, and very deadly.”

  “I would like to kill one. Perhaps I could accompany you on your next voyage.”

  “Your skills would be very useful, but that is a question for the Questor General to answer.”

  The doors to the council chamber swung open. At exactly that moment Questor Ro appeared and, without a word to anyone, strode through to take his seat.

  “I suppose we will all have to sit through a pompous speech from the little man,” said Viruk.

  “He has earned the right to bore us rigid,” put in Talaban. Viruk chuckled, and placed his hand on Talaban’s shoulder.

  “I like you. I really do.” He paused, and his smile faded. “My astrologer tells me that one day you and I will fight to the death.”

  Talaban smiled. “Let us hope he is a poor astrologer. But if he is not, rest assured I will see you buried with full honors.”

  Viruk’s laughter rang out. “I really do like you, Talaban,” he said.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Viruk appeared to be listening intently as Questor Caprishan addressed the Council. In fact he was comparing Caprishan to the dead king of the Patiakes. Both were fat to the point of obscenity and both oozed sincerity like leaking oil. Viruk pictured Caprishan’s bloated body under the impact of a zhi-bolt. The thought of it made him smile. Caprishan saw the smile and faltered in his speech.