by Phil Tucker
The magistrate spoke a question, the tone curt, almost accusatory. Magrib, who stood just behind Acharsis, spoke up, his voice trembling with fear. “He wishes to know your names, your countries of origin, when you arrived in Magan, and your business here.”
“Acharsis and Elu, of Rekkidu in the River Cities. We arrived, as you know, this morning. As for our business, we were separated from our trading caravan due to a nomad attack while crossing the steppe, and now await their arrival.” Magrib didn’t smile back, but nervously translated.
The magistrate spoke at length, at one point lifting the band from the cushion and holding it up for them to see as he made a point. When he set it down, Magrib translated, beads of sweat appearing on his brow.
“He says that you stand accused of stealing royal property, of heresy, and of insulting the royal family and the lamassu by wearing the snake band. The penalty for doing so is death. He demands to know from where you acquired Prince Senacherib’s royal band, and what you know of the prince’s fate. If you can provide any information that might help recover the prince, there is a chance your death will be made a swift one.”
Acharsis sucked on his teeth as he absorbed this, never taking his eyes off the magistrate. A number of different answers leaped to his lips, but he spoke none of them. Instead, he considered, turning the words over in his mind. The band was clearly unique to this prince; the magistrate had identified it by reading an inscription along the inside. The prince was missing; he must have been the royalty that Guthos boasted of selling to the Athites, who in turn must have claimed the band and kept it as treasure upon taking their royal slave.
But what to do with this information? Should he stick with the claim that he was innocent, and the band but accidentally acquired? No. Ignorance here would most likely not avert their deaths.
If only he could speak with the man directly. Alas, he’d have to work with what tools he had.
“Magrib, do you know when this prince went missing?”
“I, ah, not exactly. Perhaps ten years ago?”
“And how old was he when he disappeared?”
“Master Acharsis, I don’t really know. I’m sorry. He was supposed to have been young.”
“Very well. Ask the magistrate the following question in exactly these words: does he refer to the prince who disappeared ten years ago at the age of eight years old?”
Magrib took a steadying breath then repeated Acharsis’ question. The magistrate’s response was as sharp as it was curt.
“He says the prince disappeared in the seventeenth year of the last pharaoh’s reign, and was six years old.” Magrib narrowed his eyes as he did the sum. “That would make it… thirteen years ago.”
Acharsis’ thoughts swirled, a storm of conjectures and risks. The penalty was death. A six-year-old, gone from court these past thirteen years. The magistrate’s ignorance as to the boy’s fate. Heresy. The pharaoh’s death. Their need to enter the court, to convince Magan to go to war. The odds. The impossible odds.
Acharsis took a deep, shuddering breath. “Translate as I speak, Magrib. Loudly, now. You help me pull this off, I’ll pay you your weight in gold. Understood?”
“I—what?” Magrib hunched his shoulders. “What are you going to do?”
“Acharsis?” hissed Elu. “What are you—?”
“Your honor,” said Acharsis, changing his demeanor as he stepped forth, adopting a tone that was at once commanding and forbidding. “You ask who we are, and our business in Magan. You question Elu’s right to wear the serpent band, and accuse him of heresy for daring to display it on his arm before the world. You desire knowledge as to the location of the missing prince, and wish to know his fate. I can answer your questions. I shall tell you the truth, a truth that shall change the fortunes of Magan forevermore.”
The jade-masked guards had stepped forward, hands dropping to their khopeshes, but a wave from the magistrate’s hand sent them back to their posts against the back wall.
Magrib finished his translation, his voice faltering as he cast wild-eyed looks at Acharsis. The magistrate responded, impatient.
“He commands you to speak and to stop wasting time.”
Acharsis raised his chin as if affronted. “Tell him that he shall go down in history as the first Maganian to welcome their lost son home; the official who bore word of this moment of rejoicing to the palace. Tell him that after a daring rescue against the Athite nomads, after risking life and limb, we have sojourned here from the heart of the steppe bearing the most precious gift that could ever be presented to the lamassu: the return of their lost son, Prince Senacherib!” Acharsis bowed low to Elu, who was staring at him incredulously.
Magrib’s translation trailed off as he gaped. Then he caught himself, stammered, and finished in an almost apologetic tone.
Silence filled the hall. The scribes were staring. The magistrate sat frozen. Only the ornamental bird moved, pacing its eternal circuit around the emerald pool outside.
Sweat trickled down Acharsis’ back. He remained bowed over, an arm extended to Elu, who, to Acharsis’ great pride, had managed to swallow his shock and now stood impassively, staring out into the middle distance.
The magistrate laughed. Loud and surprised, the man guffawed with obvious amazement and delight, then waved his hand and spoke, poking a finger through his mask to rub at his eye.
Acharsis straightened. “Well?”
“He says… he says you are as amusing as you are mad. And that you have one last chance to tell him the truth before he hands you to the guards for, ah, more physical questioning.”
“Acharsis?” Elu’s whisper was harsh. “What are you doing?”
“Ask the magistrate,” said Acharsis with all the wounded hauteur he could muster, “by what right he is denying our claim? Who is he to make this decision? This is a matter of royal blood. He cannot risk being wrong.”
“You’re going to get me killed,” whined Magrib. “Don’t make me say it.”
Acharsis glared at the magistrate and didn’t answer.
Magrib sighed and did as he was bid. This time, the scribes turned to glance at each other, shocked, and the magistrate sat up straight, eyes narrowing as all amusement left him. He began his irate response, but Acharsis spoke loudly over him.
“Yes, I do dare! I dare because you sit before royalty, because you presume to judge his value, because you condemn him to death without the authority or wisdom to do so!” He pointed to Elu. “Here is your prince, missing these past ten years, wearing the armband of royalty and come home at last - and you dare laugh? You dare? As worthy a man as you may be, you cannot judge his worth! No! The only being capable of weighing his measure is the lamassu itself!”
Magrib cringed but continued translating, his tone dripping with fear and apologies. No matter. Acharsis summoned all his dignity, his gravitas, the authority once invested in him by his father Ekillos, and glared at the magistrate.
To his immense relief, the man did not immediately respond. Instead, he shifted his weight on his stool, hands tightening and relaxing around his serpent staff. The seconds drew out in agonized silence. At long last, the magistrate asked a question.
“No,” said Acharsis. “We are done here. Only a higher authority can judge the veracity of our claim.”
Silence.
Magrib didn’t translate. It wasn’t necessary. After a moment, the magistrate spoke to the guards. Their leader barked at Acharsis and pointed at the door. Acharsis nodded, then followed the guards down the hall to a much smaller room with no windows. Once Elu and Magrib entered behind them, the door was firmly closed.
Elu moved to face the wall, fingers to his temples, then turned, jaw working. Acharsis sat down on the sole bench, crossed an ankle over his knee and leaned back, waiting.
“What… what manner of madness… of insanity… was that?”
“A pretty bold move, I’ll grant you,” said Acharsis. “A little risky, to be sure. But I’m feeling good about it.”
“Bold? Risky?” Elu’s voice was rising. “You mean ‘suicidal’? ‘Stunningly stupid’?”
“There are some dangers, yes. But before you get too carried away with your praise, think on this: we’d none of us be in this predicament if it wasn’t for your penchant for looting the dead and wearing royal symbols openly on your arm.”
Elu flushed. “I didn’t know that was the Maganian royal crest.”
“Didn’t look like your ignorance was about to sway that magistrate. And since it looked like the truth was only going to earn us a swift death over a slow one, I had to improvise.”
“Why didn’t we just run away back in the tavern? Jarek could have stopped those three guards. We could have lost them in the alleys.”
“First, I don’t think we’d have lost them so easily. Not with the royal crest involved. They would have continued to search for us for days, if not weeks after. And we’re a memorable crew. Second, we’d have lost the services of Magrib here, leaving us lost in a city we don’t know and don’t understand. All of which would have made it even harder - if not impossible - to accomplish our plan.”
“More possible than convincing them I’m their long-lost prince.” Elu slid down the wall to a crouch, head clutched in his hands. “I don’t even speak Maganian.”
“You don’t have to. You were stolen when you were six. You weren’t raised here. Which also explains why you don’t remember the culture, your family, your religion, any of it. You’re a perfect stranger.”
“Well, fine. But I don’t look Maganian. I probably don’t even look like this Senacherib.”
“Hmm, I don’t know. Black hair, your skin’s tanned dark enough. And who’s to say what a six-year-old will look like by the time he’s eighteen?”
“The lamassu,” said Magrib in a hollow voice. “That’s who.”
Elu sat up. “You think they’ll actually take me to him?”
“I don’t know,” said Magrib. “But if they do, you’re out of luck. He’s a god. It’s a god. It knows everything. It’ll see through your lies and eat you.”
“Eat him?” asked Acharsis skeptically.
“Eat him,” said Magrib.
“Great,” said Elu, sinking his head into his hands. “Great.”
“Would Senacherib have been next in line to inherit the pharaoh's throne?” asked Acharsis.
“He wasn’t the eldest, no,” said Magrib. He was staring straight ahead, as if unable to comprehend what had just happened. “I don’t know much about the royal family, but I know there’s an older brother. But it doesn’t matter. That’s not how Maganians pass on the kingdom.”
“No?” Acharsis turned to the boy. “What do you mean?”
“I’m telling you, I don’t know much. But the lamassu picks the next ruler. There’s a process called the Quickening, or—or the Kindling, or something. I don’t know. There hasn’t been one in thirty years, or however long the last pharaoh ruled. But the lamassu, he decides everything in this city.”
“This city?” Acharsis rose, unable to remain still, and began to pace. “Not all of Magan?”
“No,” said Magrib. “There’s a lamassu for every major city.”
“Just like home,” said Acharsis. “Which means they’d have to reach an agreement… interesting. But that’s fine. We don’t need to make Elu the ruler of Magan. Just being a royal prince would be enough. That would gain us the perfect access to the court—”
“Weren’t you listening?” yelled Elu, throwing his hands down. “The lamassu’s going to bite my head off!”
Acharsis stilled. “You don’t know that. We’ve thrown the die. And so far, it’s going well.”
“Well?” Elu laughed bitterly and looked around their cell. “You call this 'going well'?”
“The guards didn’t touch you when they escorted you here - did you notice? They weren’t shy before. Which means they’re unsure of themselves. Which means we’ve created enough doubt that our case is going to be escalated. There’s a lot that can happen between now and our being presented to their god. A lot of opportunities for us to take advantage of before we meet the lamassu, to twist to our benefit. And, if we’re actually dragged before this god? Whom better to explain the threat to? We’ll make our case to the lamassu, prove the danger Magan is in, and convince it to muster its armies. This isn’t over, Elu. It’s just begun.”
They subsided into silence. Acharsis paced for a while, then sat down once more. Leaning back against the wall, arms crossed, he tried to recall everything he’d ever heard of Magan, all the lectures he’d slept through when he’d been the ruler of his home city. Eventually, he closed his eyes, and slept.
He awoke with a start when the door opened, and a jade-faced guard stepped inside. Many more stood in the hallway behind him. Elu climbed to his feet, and Acharsis did the same, smoothing down his shirt.
The guard studied them and then spoke a firm command.
Magrib heaved a huge sigh and slipped off the bench. “We’re being taken to the Third Tower of Heaven.”
Acharsis blinked. “What? Now?”
Magrib nodded. “Now.”
Acharsis studiously avoided Elu’s glare. “Very well. I’m glad to see they’re taking us seriously. Let’s go.”
They were escorted out of the guardhouse and into the front courtyard, where a crowd awaited them. The magistrate stood to one side beneath a broad parasol held by a shaved slave girl in an elegant white robe. Three other figures of seemingly equal rank were arrayed beside him, one with another jackal mask, the second in that of a cat, while the last wore a genderless mask of gold. A dozen jade-masked guards stood to attention to one side, while a score of servants and slaves knelt by the walls, faces pressed to the dirt.
A guard took Acharsis by the elbow, his grip painfully strong, and pulled him aside. Two more flanked Elu and ushered him forth to stand before the four magistrates. Nobody spoke. Elu raised his chin, hands clenched into fists. The four officials studied him and, at a signal from their original magistrate, the guards guided Elu around in a tight circle, as if he were a prize bull being examined for sale.
The genderless figure bowed their head, and Elu was led back to where Acharsis and Magrib stood. There, they were ushered onto a plain palanquin, which was hoisted up with trained expertise onto the shoulders of eight slaves. The masked officials each climbed into their own palanquin in turn, and at a cry from the guards the convoy moved out of the courtyard and onto the docks, guards trotting alongside, slaves following behind.
Acharsis fought to regulate his breathing as he gazed out over the crowd, which parted reluctantly before them. Had word already gotten out? It would seem so; several hundred commoners had gathered to stare, to whisper and point. Acharsis caught a flash of Jarek’s stern visage in the crowd, his brows lowered, and resisted the urge to give a little wave. Jarek didn’t look amused.
The palanquin moved forward rapidly, the slaves timing their strides to avoid unnecessary bounces, and they sped down the length of the docks, the cries of the guards ahead causing people to scatter or move carts aside as they went. The waters of the river glimmered to their left, and Acharsis sought out their ship but failed to spot it. Would Tareos be questioned? Most likely. Acharsis offered up a brief prayer to Ekillos to safeguard the captain.
They reached a gargantuan gate at the end of the docks and passed between two massive statues. Acharsis turned in his seat to examine them, impressed by their size and the elegance of their carving: two huge lions with heads of wise-looking men, beards tightly curled and reaching down to their chests, wings stiffly raised and pointing behind them.
Lamassu
The sanctum beyond featured a broad ramp descending to the river’s edge, where a glittering barge awaited them. Broad, ornately carved and already crowded with servants, it was clearly transportation fit for a noble or king. Did this mean they believed Elu to be Senacherib? Or did the magistrates always cross to the Third Tower of Heaven in such manner?
The palanquins were set down. The magistrates boarded the boat and seated themselves in a semi-circle beneath an arbor of living vines, and soft music began to play. Acharsis followed their guards to the rear of the boat, where they waited out of sight behind the sole cabin. Twelve guards watched them impassively. He could probably dive off the back of the boat into the muddy water, but to what end? They’d no doubt fish him out before he could get far.
The barge pushed away from the stone docks, and a dozen delicate oars extended out to dip into the river’s waters and propel them to the far shore. Acharsis inhaled deeply of the fresh air, savoring the smell of silt and the city. There were no guarantees that he would ever see this sight again.
Magrib was a small shadow at his side, while Elu stood, hands on his hips, glaring at the guards and then raking the grand city of Magan with his gaze. At the very least, he looked princely.
They rowed for a long time, moving at a sedate pace, and Acharsis allowed himself to relax, to enjoy the beautifully played music. Would it be too much to ask for a beer? Probably. The sun was warm, and despite the tension of the moment he found his thoughts drifting, returning to previous times when he’d sailed the Leonis on his own imperial barge, so that when they finally jolted against the far dock he blinked, looked around, and realized that they’d arrived.
They waited while the others disembarked, and then were escorted down a ramp to a second palanquin that awaited them. This one was crafted entirely from cedar wood and draped in white cloths that hung nearly to the ground. They were borne forward with impressive smoothness, the slaves loping after the other palanquins toward the distant temple, surrounded on all sides by new guards wearing alabaster masks.
“Expensive,” said Acharsis to Elu, rapping his knuckles on the wooden side. “They’d have to have imported this from the northern range of the Aloros mountains. Probably worth more than gold.”
Elu’s flat stare showed that he wasn’t interested.
Sighing, Acharsis turned to study the tower. It rose to truly phenomenal heights, yet no birds circled it. He studied the high platform where the lamassu was supposed to rest, and despite himself found his heart beating a little quicker. What chain of events had he set off here with his lies?