Rael laughed aloud. “I might argue that we contribute greatly to the stability of the region. We are the enemy. We give them reason to unite. Without us there would be constant tribal wars and great devastation. All the while they look to us with hatred the general peace is maintained.”
Talaban smiled. “You say you might argue that. I take it you do not believe it.”
“I tell no one what I believe,” said Rael. “I am the Questor General. Do you know why Ro supported you?”
“No. It was a surprise.”
“It should not have been. He supported you because Niclin called for the deaths of your crew. Ro hates Niclin. It is that simple. I know you struck Ro, because he came to me, calling for your crew to be crystal-drawn. I asked him to wait until the meeting to raise it, and then made sure that Niclin was apprised of the incident. Had Ro called for your crew to be killed, Niclin would have opposed it.”
“I thank you,” said Talaban. “Once more I am in your debt.”
“You are an intelligent man, Talaban, but you are cursed—or perhaps blessed—with a romantic turn of mind. You see absolutes where there is only shifting sand. In many ways you are like the Pajists. They see us as tyrants and believe that the world would be better, and more just, if we were overthrown. What they do not realize is that the world is created for tyrants. It always has been. You were a student of history. Can you tell me of a time where there were no rulers? No lawmakers?” Rael moved to the far table and poured himself a goblet of watered wine. “Society,” he said, “is like a pyramid. The poor make up the base, and slowly the whole building narrows until a single stone is placed at the top. The king, the emperor, the god. It can be no other way.”
“I am not convinced of that,” said Talaban.
Rael chuckled. “Of course you are not. You are a romantic. Well, let us deal with history again. Three thousand years ago, when the empire was very young and a rigid class system was in place there were several revolutions. The most interesting—for the sake of this argument—was the third, when the people killed the king. An assembly of senators was created with no overall leader.”
“It could have been a golden age,” said Talaban. “Fairer laws were passed. Universities were created.”
“Indeed they were. But within ten years there was a king again.”
“Not so, surely. Perjak took the title First Senator,” objected Talaban.
“Who cares what he called himself? He might have taken the title Fourth-sheep-from-the left. The title was immaterial. He had absolute power and he ruled like a king. His enemies were put to death. The poor remained poor, the rich got richer. What I am saying is that Man requires leadership. We are like the wolves, the elk, the deer, the tuskers. Always there is a leader of the herd. At this time in history the leader is the Avatar race. One day it will be another race. It may be unjust, but it is natural.” Rael poured Talaban a goblet of wine and handed it to him. “But these political matters are not what concerns me most about you, Talaban.
“In all my life I have only truly loved two people—loved them with all my heart. My wife, Mirani, and my daughter Chryssa. When Chryssa became crystal-wed I wanted to die. If it were possible to give my life for hers I would have offered it gladly. But when she died I accepted it. I buried her. And I moved on, Talaban. I chose to live, as fully as I could. It is time for you to do the same.”
Talaban nodded. “I know that now. I learned it on the voyage home. What is it you would have me do, Rael?”
“First put some blue in your hair,” said Rael, with a weary smile. “Then take a few days’ rest. After that gather your crew. None of them has ever fought on a fully charged Serpent. Take them out to sea. Train them. I shall also give you thirty Avatar soldiers.”
“All the ship’s weapons need to be recharged,” said Talaban. “That will require more than a hundred crystals.”
“I will send them to the ship.”
“You think the newcomers will seek a war?”
“It is inevitable.” Rael gave a weary smile. “For they will be arrogant, just like us, and believe in their superiority and divine right to rule.”
The tavern was deserted, the diners departed, the tables empty. Yet still Sofarita did not sleep. She sat on the windowsill, tense and fearful, gazing down at the silent square. She could not relax for if she did, images would flow past her mind’s eye, people she did not know, places she had not seen, words and conversations she had never heard.
Each time the visions came she felt as if she were flowing with them, drowning in a sea of lives. She feared the flow. Once, as a small child, she had fallen into the Luan, tumbling down the mud bank to disappear beneath the fast-flowing water. A farmer had plunged in to rescue her, dragging her clear. But there was no farmer now to pull her back from this river of other people’s dreams.
Sofarita could not understand why this mystical phenomenon should be happening to her. She had never before experienced visions. She wondered if it could be a sign of approaching madness. Perhaps the visions were not real, but just her imaginings. Perhaps she had a fever. She lifted a hand to her brow. It was not hot. Rising from the sill she walked back into the room and drank a cup of water. Weariness dogged her, and she longed for the bliss of sleep.
But what if she never woke? What if the river of dreams carried her away?
She knew no one in the city to whom she could turn for help. You are alone, she told herself. You must help yourself. This thought was curiously helpful. True, she could rely on no one and yet, conversely, no one relied upon her. She was truly free for the first time in her life. Not subject to the whims of a father who believed women were of little worth, nor of a husband she had liked and respected—but never truly loved. No longer chained within a close-minded village society.
The river of dreams at least offered excitement.
Sofarita lay down upon the bed, her head upon the pillow. Drawing the blankets over her shoulders she closed her eyes. There were no visions, no haunting scenes.
She was in the cellar of the tavern. Baj was sitting at a narrow table, his head in his hands. He was weeping. A man was sitting close by. He was middle-aged, with silver-streaked yellow hair and beard. There was a golden-haired child asleep on a cot bed by the wall. Sofarita watched the scene, dispassionately at first, but then Baj’s distress touched her. She moved forward to comfort him—and realized she was floating above the scene. The men could not see her.
“Stop your crying, man, and tell me what happened,” said the older man.
“He killed them. It was horrible.” Baj looked up, his face a mask of anguish. “I did nothing, Boru. I stood frozen in the shadows.”
“He would have killed you too,” said Boru. “To attack Viruk was stupidity beyond belief.”
“Forjal saw him walking to the meeting. He was unarmed. If I had acted …”
“But you did not,” said Boru harshly. “Did Forjal talk before he died?”
“Yes, but he only told Viruk that someone would kill him. He refused to say who sent him. But what if they find the bodies? Forjal worked for me. I could be implicated.”
“Stop your whining, man! They will find the bodies, but not the heads. They are in a weighted sack, which I hurled from the dock. But understand this, Baj, there must be no further acts of individual violence. Everything must be planned. You and Forjal risked everything by one act of indescribable stupidity. Now he and the other fool are dead. And, were it left to me, I would cut your throat now. But you are to be given another chance. From now on you will follow orders. You will take no precipitate action. Do you understand this?”
Baj nodded. “I am sorry.”
“Apologize to the spirits of Forjal and his friend.”
Sofarita opened her eyes. The bedroom was dark, lit only by a shaft of moonlight coming through the small window. She felt incredibly rested, though she could not have been asleep for more than an hour. She had blown out the lanterns before climbing into bed, and she had no means n
ow of lighting them.
Even as the thought occurred to her, one of the lanterns flickered into life and a gentle glow filled the room. Sofarita sat up. Looking across at the second lantern she pictured it alight.
The wick flamed instantly. Sofarita leaned back on the pillow. There was no panic now.
For this had to be a dream. Settling down and pulling the blankets around her she slept again.
Chapter Fifteen
The home of Methras was on the eastern outskirts of the city, close to the lumber yards, and closer still to a slaughterhouse, built two years ago on the old meadow. A hundred years ago the area had been highly popular with well-to-do Vagars, men who were not yet rich but who were climbing through the ranks of the merchant classes. Now it was run-down and shabby, though some of the older homes were well built, and occasionally fronted with marble.
Methras had walked the four miles from the wharf and, as he opened the small gate that led to the rear garden, he saw two horses tethered in the shade behind the house. He was tired and in no mood for company as he strolled along the garden path. A figure in a dress of sky-blue satin stepped into the garden. She saw him and ran to meet him. In her late forties, his mother was still a handsome woman, though her once-trim figure had thickened a little and there was now grey in her golden hair. She kissed his cheek. “Welcome home, my son,” she said, taking his arm and leading him inside.
“Who is here?” he asked her.
“An old friend of yours, come to greet you upon your return,” she told him. “And his uncle from beyond the Luan.”
Pausing in the kitchen he poured a long, cool drink of water from a pottery jug and drained it. Then he turned to his mother and smiled. “It is good to see you. You are looking well. Is that a new dress?” With a wide smile she stepped back from him, and twirled. The heavy satin of the dress lifted briefly as she spun.
“Do you like it?”
“It is very becoming. Does this mean you are in love again?”
“Don’t be sarcastic,” she scolded him gently. “You think I am too old for love?”
“You don’t look a day over twenty-five,” he assured her. “Who is this lucky man?”
“He is a merchant, recently arrived from Pagaru. He is a fine man. Very witty and entertaining.”
“How old?”
“Fifty—or so he says. I think he’s closer to sixty. But he’s a fine figure of a man.”
“He would have to be,” said Methras. “Now tell me who is here?”
“Don’t you want to be surprised?”
“I don’t like surprises.”
“You used to,” she said. “I remember when you were very young …”
“Not now, mother,” he said, gently. “Who is here?”
“It is Pendar.” She leaned in close. “And he is rich now,” she whispered. “You should have accepted his offer and joined him in partnership. Perhaps he still wants you.”
“I am sure that he does,” said Methras with a wide smile.
His mother reddened. “Oh you know I didn’t mean that,” she said. “I know Pendar—” she struggled for words “—prefers the company of young men. But I know he values your judgement.”
Methras kissed her cheek. “Of course. He loves me for my mind,” he said.
“What he needs—” she began.
Methras held up his hand. “If the phrase the love of a good woman is hovering on your lips, do not say it. You are far too intelligent to be caught in that cliché.”
“What I was going to say is that he needs the guidance of someone he can trust. He has a way with money, but he is like a straw in the wind. You could help him, Methras, and become rich yourself.”
“I have no interest in wealth or power,” he said. “I am a soldier. It suits me well.”
“You are very much like your father,” she told him.
“Too much—and not enough,” he said sadly.
Moving through the house, he entered the wide living area. Two men were seated in the archway leading to the front garden. Pendar, as always, was immaculately and expensively dressed. His pearl-grey tunic and leggings were woven from heavy silk, his shoes crafted from lizard-skin. He was tall, very slim and still boyish, his hair dyed with streaks of gold. The man beside him was more strongly built, with wide shoulders and powerful hands. His beard was silver and yellow.
“My dear friend,” said Pendar, as Methras entered. Moving smoothly across the room he embraced the soldier and kissed his cheek. “It is so good to see you. How are you?”
“Fit and well, Pendar. Who is your friend?”
“Not a friend, exactly,” said Pendar. “More a business acquaintance. He is a fine man. Trustworthy. His name is Boru. He is of the Banis-baya, a tribe who dwell close to the Well of Life.”
Boru rose and moved forward, his hand outstretched. Methras shook it briefly.
“Good as it is to see you, my friend,” said Methras, turning once more to Pendar, “I must tell you that I am very weary, and was looking forward to some sleep this afternoon.”
“We won’t keep you long,” said Boru. “I understand you have just returned from a long voyage.”
“Yes, to the southern ice. It was successful.”
“By which you mean …?” asked Boru.
“We found what we were looking for,” he answered. “That would seem to me to constitute a successful trip.”
“As I understand it, Vagars died upon the ice,” said Boru, “and what was found made the Avatars more powerful than they were before. Some might argue that as a great failure.”
“A soldier of the empire would not argue so,” Methras pointed out.
“He might,” said Boru. “These are changing times. The hourglass of history is about to be spun. Some men believe that within a few years these cities will once again be controlled by Vagars. What then will befall those loyal to the old empire?”
Methras did not reply. Ignoring Boru, he turned to Pendar. The golden-haired man was about to speak, but Methras lifted his hand and shook his head. “Say not a word, my friend. It is best you leave, and when you return come alone. What I have not heard I cannot report.”
“He is right,” said Boru. “We are wasting our time here.”
“No, it is my time you are wasting,” snapped Methras. “Leave now.”
Boru swung on his heel and stalked from the room. Pendar stood still for a moment, confused. Methras put his hand on his friend’s slender shoulder. “Walk with care, Pendar, for the road you travel is very dangerous.”
“Boru is right,” said Pendar softly. “The days of the Avatar are coming to an end. Once they are overthrown all their friends and allies will be killed. I do not want to see you hurt.”
“How can you believe the Vagars will be allowed to rule their own cities? If the Avatars fall then the Erek-jhip-zhonad or the Patiakes will conquer them, and they will have merely exchanged masters. Stay out of politics, Pendar. It will destroy you.”
“Their own cities?” countered Pendar. “Do you not mean our own cities? Or is your Avatar blood taking hold? You are like me, a half-breed, caught between two races. If the truth was discovered even now we would both be crystal-drawn. The Avatars will never accept us. I will not give my loyalty and my life to people who would wish me dead if they knew of my blood. They are the enemy, Methras. One day you will see it too.”
“They are not all enemies. There is Talaban.”
“Ah yes,” said Pendar, with a mischievous smile, “the beautiful Talaban. Do not be deceived, my dear. He is still a member of the god-race, and his long life is maintained by the deaths of Vagars, crystal-drawn against their will.”
“You must go now,” said Methras.
Pendar nodded, and gathered up his heavy black cloak. “I think of you often,” he said. Methras walked past him and out into the late afternoon sunshine.
He stood there for some time, until he heard the two horsemen ride away. His mother joined him, linking her arm through his.
“Yes.”
“Will you?”
“I don’t believe that I will.”
“You could be making a mistake,” she said.
“One of us is,” he agreed.
The problems facing Anu were many. His 600 workers had begun work on the pyramid in good spirits, making jokes about the seemingly perpetual sunshine. After ten days, with the sun having inched its way to its first noon, the mood among the Vagars had changed. Anu felt the tension. It was bizarre to work for hours with the sun almost frozen in the sky, to sleep for five hours, and to awake with the sun still high. It jangled the nerves. Many men reported sick, others found difficulty in sleeping. Tempers flared, and on the fourth day one man slammed a hammer into the skull of a coworker. One of the Avatar guards slew the murderer. Separated from the holding magic of the chest the two bodies rotted instantly, becoming covered in maggots. A hundred workers saw the scene, and it frightened them. Accelerating time, as Anu was discovering, produced a host of allied problems.
Bread became stale within minutes, fruit rotted even before it could be removed from the barrels. Grass grew at twenty times the speed. A man could sit and watch it grow. Anu eventually solved the food problem by adjusting the power of the chest to encompass the supplies. The same method was used on the plants and grasses that grew in the valley. But even so the mood among the hired men was deteriorating. Thirty had so far asked to be relieved, and this request was granted. They trooped home on the next occasion that Anu slowed the Dance to allow supplies into the valley.
At Shevan’s suggestion he sent a request for fifty whores to be brought in, and built a series of huts for them on the edge of the valley. The service provided by the whores was free. The men were given special coins of baked clay, which the women collected against payment from the Treasury at the end of their allotted service. This mollified the workforce for a while. Then came the interminable twenty-day night. Now the men grew more fractious, and several fights broke out. One of the workers committed suicide during this first period of night. This puzzled Anu for a while, until he concluded that sunlight was somehow important to the brain, and without it men became depressed. Along with the services of the women he now allowed strong drink and opiates to be offered to his workers, and organized dances, competitions and other forms of entertainment for those who had finished their labors.
Echoes of the Great Song Page 17