The Judging Eye

by R. Scott Bakker

  “Certainly,” Achamian replied. “Many Wracu survived the First Apocalypse, and they’re as immortal as the Nonmen … But like I said, they avoid Men.”

  “And if,” Galian pressed, “we were to wander into one’s lair …”

  The Wizard shrugged. “It would simply wait for us to leave, if it sensed any strength in us at all.”

  “Even if—?”

  “He’s saying they’re not like wild animals,” Pokwas interrupted. “Bears or wolves would attack because they don’t know better. But dragons know … Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes. Dragons know.”

  Achamian found himself speaking against a queer reluctance, one that he confused with shyness at first. Some time passed before he realized that it was in fact shame. He didn’t want to be like these unruly men, much less respect them. Even more, he didn’t want their trust or their admiration, things that both men had obviously granted him days ago, given the way they had risked their lives for his lie.

  “Tell me,” Pokwas said, staring with an interest that seemed almost threatening for its intensity. “What happened to the Nonmen?” Whether it was the way he steered his voice or the wariness in his eyes, Achamian knew that the Sword-Dancer was every bit as worried about Cleric as he.

  “I thought I already told that story.”

  “He means what happened to their race,” Galian said. “Why have they dwindled so?”

  A momentary flash of cruelty passed through the old Wizard, not for them as men, but for their beliefs. “You can look to your Tusk for that account,” he said, taking peevish relish in the word “your.” “They’re the False Men, remember? Cursed of the Gods. Our ancient fathers destroyed many a Mansion as great as this.” In his soul’s eye he could see them, the Prophets of the Tusk, as stern and as spare as the words they would carve into ivory, leading hide-clad savages through deep halls of glory, calling out in guttural tongues, murdering those who had been their slavers.

  “But I thought their back had already been broken,” Pokwas said. “That the Five Tribes came upon them in their twilight.”

  “True.”

  “So what happened?”

  “The Inchoroi came …”

  “You mean the Consult?” Galian asked.

  Achamian stared at the man, not quite stunned, but speechless all the same. That a mere scalper could mention the Consult with the same familiarity as he might mention any great and obvious nation seemed beyond belief. It was a sign, he realized, of just how profoundly the world had changed during his exile. Before, when he still wore the robes of a Mandate Schoolman, all the Three Seas had laughed at him and his dire warnings of the Second Apocalypse. Golgotterath. The Consult. The Inchoroi. These had been the names of his disgrace, utterances that assured the mockery and condescension of any who might listen. But now …

  Now they were religion …The holy gospel of the Aspect-Emperor.

  Kellhus.

  “No,” he said, feeling that peculiar wariness when one crossed uncertain lines of knowing. “This was before the Consult …”

  And so he told them of the millennial wars between the Nonmen and the Inchoroi. The two scalpers listened with honest fascination, their eyes lost in the middle ground between the telling and the glorious riot of the told. The first Wracu descending. The first naked hordes of Sranc. The Nonmen Ishroi whipping their chariots into screaming horizons …

  Even Achamian found himself curiously overawed. To speak of distant grounds and faraway peoples was one thing, but to sit here, in the derelict halls of Cil-Aujas, speaking of the ancient Nonmen …

  Voices could stir more than the living from slumber.

  So instead of lingering in his explanations as he might have otherwise, Achamian struck through the heart of the matter, relating only what was essential: the treachery of Nin’janjin, the Womb-Plague and the death of Hanalinqû, the doom slumbering in the bones of the survivors’ immortality. The two scalpers, it turned out, already knew many of the details: Apparently Galian had studied for the Ministrate before, as he put it, drink, hash, and whores had saved his soul.

  Achamian laughed hard at that.

  Every so often he glanced at Mimara to make sure all was well. She sat like a cross-legged vase with Somandutta, indulging the young caste-noble’s vanity with questions about Nilnamesh. He liked the man well enough, Achamian supposed. Somandutta seemed to be one of those peculiar caste-nobles who managed to carry their sheltered upbringing into adulthood: sociable to a fault, almost absurdly confident that others meant him well. Were this Momemn, Invishi, or any other great city, Achamian had no doubt he would be one of those dog-eager courtiers, one everyone would dismiss with smiles rather than sneers.

  “Do you know,” the caste-noble was saying, “what my people say about women like you?”

  Even still, the old Wizard remained wary. He knew enough about scalpers to know they weren’t easily known. Their lives demanded too much from them.

  “Tell me,” Achamian asked Galian directly. “Why do you do this? Hunting Sranc. It can’t be for the bounty, can it? I mean, as far as I can tell you all leave places like Marrow as poor as you arrive rich …”

  The former Columnary paused in reflection. “For some, it is the money. Xonghis, for instance, leaves most of his share with the Custom House—”

  “He’ll never spend it,” Pokwas interrupted.

  “Why would you sa—?” Achamian pressed.

  But Galian was shaking his head. “Your question, sorcerer, is not so wise. Scalpers scalp. Whores whore. We never ask one another why. Never.”

  “We even have a saying,” Pokwas added in his resonant, accented voice. “‘Leave it to the slog.’”

  Achamian smiled. “It all comes back to the slog, does it?”

  “Even kings,” Galian replied with a wink, “shod their feet.”

  The conversation turned to more mundane fare after this. For a time, Achamian listened to the scalpers argue over who was the true inheritor of the Ancient North’s greatness, the Three Seas or Zeüm. It was an old game, men taking pride over meaningless things, passing time in good-natured rivalry. He thought of how strange it must be for long-dead Cil-Aujas to hear the glory of small and petty words after so many entombed ages, let alone to feel the polishing touch of light. Perhaps that was why the entire company seemed to fall mute sooner than their weariness merited. There was a greater effort in speaking overheard words, an effort that, though infinitesimal, quickly accumulated. And this dark place, whether from the drowsing edge of dreams or with ears pricked in malice, did listen.

  The disappointment on Somandutta’s face was almost maudlin when Mimara abandoned him to rejoin her “father.”

  They had slept side by side since she had joined the company, but somehow, this night, they ended up laying face to face as well—a position that Achamian thought uncomfortably intimate but didn’t seem to trouble Mimara at all. It reminded him of her mother, Esmenet, how the habits of prostitution had coloured so much of what she said and did. Wearing her nakedness the thoughtless way a smith might wear a leather apron. Talking cocks and congress the way masons might discuss trowels and arches.

  So many calluses where he had only tender skin.

  “Everything …” she said in a wistful tone. Her eyes seemed to track the passage of ghosts.

  “Everything what?”

  “The walls … The ceilings. Everywhere, limbs and people cut out of stone—images atop images …Think of the toil!”

  “It wasn’t always such. The Wolf Gate is an example of how they once adorned their cities. It was only when they began forgetting that they turned to this … this … excess. These are their annals, the accounting of their deeds—great and small.”

  “Then why not simply paint murals the way we do?”

  Achamian found himself approving of this question—another long-dead habit, tingling back to life. “Nonmen can’t see paintings,” he said with an old man’s shrug.

  A frowning smile. De
spite the anger that always seemed to roll about the nethers of her expression, her skeptical looks always managed to promise a fair accounting.

  “It’s true,” Achamian said. “Paintings are naught but gibberish to their eyes. The Nonmen may resemble us, Mimara, but they are far more different than you can imagine.”

  “You make them sound frightening.”

  An old warmth touched him then, one that he had almost forgotten: the feeling of carrying another, not with arms or love or even hope, but with knowledge. Knowledge that made wise and kept safe.

  “At last,” he said, closing eyes that smiled. “She listens.”

  He felt her fingers press his shoulder, as though to poke in friendly rebuke but really just to confirm. Something swelled through him then, something that demanded he keep his eyes shut in the pretence of sleep.

  He had been lonely, he realized. Lonely.

  These past twenty years …

  “A place where my line can outlive me,” the High-King said.

  Seswatha frowned in good-natured dismissal. “You have no need to fear …” Achamian leaned back in his chair, forced his thoughts from the conundrum facing him on the benjuka plate between them. Most of the private rooms in the King-Temple Annexes were little more than slots between walls of cyclopean brick, and Celmomas’s study was no exception. The towering scroll-racks only added to the cloistered air. “Our foe has no hope against the Ordeal you have assembled. Think. Nimeric … Even Nil’giccas marches.”

  The names seemed to relax his old friend.

  “Ishuäl,” Celmomas said, smiling at his own wit—or lack of it. He reached for his chalice of apple mead. “That’s what I call it.”

  Seswatha shook his head. “Is it stocked with beer or with concubines?”

  “Seeds,” Celmomas replied, his eyes smiling over the rim of his cup. The golden wolf’s head braided into the centre of his beard seemed to glower from beneath his wrist.

  “Seeds?”

  The High-King’s demeanour faltered. There was always such an aura of care about him, at least when it came to the little things, like making sure he replaced his cup on the same ring of condensation.

  He could be so reckless otherwise.

  “For the longest time,” he said, “I refused to believe you. And now that I believe …”

  “Yes?”

  Celmomas had a long face, one that suited the dynastic glory of his name. Solemn. Nimble yet strong-jawed. But it was too given to expressions of melancholy, especially in rooms where the gloom lay heavy. He laughed as much as the next man, Seswatha supposed, but the looks that inevitably followed—eyes slack with quiet sorrow, lips drawn into a pent line—always seemed more primitive somehow, closer to the native tenor of his heart.

  “Nothing …” the High-King said with a release of old and weary air. “Just premonitions.”

  Seswatha studied him with new concern. “The premonitions of kings are never to be taken lightly. You know that much, old friend.”

  “Which is why I have built a ref—”

  The creak of bronze hinges. They both yanked their gazes to the shadows that concealed the entrance. The fires pulled and twirled in the tripods set to either side of the game-table. Achamian heard the scuff of little feet, then suddenly Nau-Cayûti hurtled into his father’s arms and lap.

  “Whoopa!” Celmomas cried. “What warrior leaps blindly into the arms of his foe?”

  The boy chortled in the grinding way of children fending fingers that tickle. “You’re not my foe, Da!”

  “Wait till you get older!”

  Nau-Cayûti grinned with clenched teeth, struggled against his father’s ringed hand, growling as much as laughing. The boy surprised him by jerking and twisting like a summer pike, clutched his white-woollen robe in an effort to brace his feet on his father’s thighs. Celmomas pulled back, nearly toppled in his chair.

  Achamian roared with laughter. “A wolf, my King! The boy’s a wolf! You better hope he’s never your enemy!”

  “Cayû-Cayû!” the High-King cried, holding his hands out in surrender.

  “What’s this?” the young Prince asked, fumbling in the interior pockets of his father’s robe. With a little grunt, he pulled a golden tube into the wobbling light. A scroll-case, cast in the likeness of twining vines.

  “For me?” he gasped at his grinning father.

  “Nay,” Celmomas replied with mock gravity. “It’s a great and powerful secret.” The High-King’s look found Seswatha past the boy’s flaxen curls. Nau-Cayûti turned as well, so that both faces—the one innocent, the other careworn—hung motionless in the pale light.

  “It’s for your uncle Seswa,” the High-King said.

  Nau-Cayûti clutched the golden tube to his breast, more in a delighted than a covetous way. “Can I give it to him, Da?” he cried. “Please?”

  Celmomas nodded in chuckling assent, but a gleam of seriousness lingered in his gaze. The Prince bounced from his father’s lap, made both men start in alarm when he almost bowled into one of the tripods, then he was leaning against Seswatha’s knee, beaming with pride. He held out the scroll-case in hands too small not to be clumsy, saying, “Tell me, Uncle Seswa. Tell-me-tell-me! Who’s Mimara?”

  Achamian bolted from his blanket with a gasp …

  … only to find Incariol kneeling over him in the deep shadow. A line of light rimmed his scalp and the curve of his cheek and temple; his face was impenetrable otherwise.

  The Wizard made to scramble backward, but the Nonman clasped his shoulder with a powerful hand. The bald head lowered in apology, but the face remained utterly obscured in shadow. “You were laughing,” he whispered before turning away.

  Achamian could only squint, slack-mouthed.

  As dark as it was, he was certain that Cleric had sobbed as he drew away.

  Achamian awoke far older, it seemed, than when he’d fallen asleep. His ears and teeth ached, as did every joint he had words to describe. While the Skin Eaters busied themselves preparing to depart, he sat cross-legged on his crude mat, forearms heavy against his knees, glaring more than watching. The twin lights hung above them as before, the differences in their cast as subtle and as profound as the differences in their casters. His eyes traced the verge of their illumination, from the hanging bronze of the fallen lantern wheel, along the slot-windowed walls, to the great fragments of face leaning in the debris of the ruined head. Part of him was horrified, even affronted, to discover that the previous day had not been a dream—that Cil-Aujas was real. He breathed deep the indescribable must hanging in the air, fought the urge to spit. It seemed he could feel the black miles hanging above them.

  When Mimara asked for a third time what was the matter, he decided that he hated the young. Smooth faces and lithe strong limbs. Not to mention the certainty of ignorance. In his soul’s eye he saw them doing jigs down blasted halls, while all he could do was hobble after them. Pompous wretches, he thought, with their dark hair and hundred-word vocabularies. Pissants.

  “Huppa!” Somandutta called to him at one point, shouting the word they used to goad their mules. “Huppa-huppa! No bones are so heavy!”

  “And no fools are quite so dense!” he snapped in return. He didn’t so much regret the words as the general laughter that greeted them. He stared down Mimara’s look of reproach, felt the petty satisfaction of winning petty contests of the will. A stab of fear accompanied the thought that he might be taking ill.

  With the others watching, he had no choice but to quickly gather his things. He reminded himself that foul humours were the most slothful humours of all, and that, just as the old Ceneian slave-scholars insisted, one need only walk to escape them. He cursed himself for groaning aloud as he hoisted his pack.

  Sure enough, his mood mellowed as his limbs warmed to the company’s motivated pace. For a time, he did his best to recollect what Seswatha had known of Cil-Aujas, to build a map of sorts in his soul’s eye. But the best he could conjure was a hazy sense of myriad levels, with the
nimil mines tangling the mountain’s roots and the commons and habitations reaching Aenaratiol’s gouged peak. It seemed he could feel the Mansion’s hollows reach like roots through the buried distances: all the enclosed spaces you might find in a great mannish city, from granaries to barracks to temples to lowly hearths, stacked one upon another, hanging in the compressed heart of a mountain. But he could pull nothing definite from these imaginings, certainly nothing that would be of any use to their journey. Even in Seswatha’s day Cil-Aujas had been largely abandoned, and few were the Nonmen who could find their way through the Mansion’s outer reaches. The most the old Wizard could say was that Cleric seemed to lead them true. So long as they continued following the thoroughfares that traversed these great fissures, he knew they drew nearer the Mansion’s northern gates. There was comfort enough in that …

  For now.

  Not a watch passed, however, when the last fissure came to an end, closing above them like clutched palms. After passing through yet another hallway with historical friezes set like grillwork over deeper friezes, they came to a chamber so vast that the walls opened above and beyond the reach of either his or Cleric’s light, so that it seemed they crossed a ground suspended in the void. Shrinking from the abyssal dark, the scalpers pressed close, to the point where they continually ran afoul of one another. Even Mimara walked with her cheek pressed against Achamian’s arm. Not a moment passed without someone softly cursing this mule or that man. Few words were traded otherwise. Those who did call out were silenced by the sound of their own echoes, which returned so transformed as to seem another voice.

  Though unnerved by the blackness, Achamian actually felt more relieved than otherwise. For the first time since passing the Wolf Gate, he thought he knew where they stood in Aenaratiol’s mazed bowels. This, he was certain, was the Repositorium, where the Nonmen had shelved their dead like scrolls. And it meant not only that they had travelled almost half the way, but more importantly, that Cleric actually did remember the path through the ruined Mansion.