The Hidden City

by David Eddings

  ‘It is proper, Betuana-Queen,’ he responded. I share your grief.’

  ‘But not my guilt.’ She turned and slowly left the room.

  Itagne looked at the stony-faced Engessa. ‘I’d better pass the word to the others,’ he said.

  Engessa nodded shortly.

  ‘Could you speak with the messenger before he leaves, Engessa?’ Itagne asked. ‘Lord Vanion will need casualty figures before he can change his strategy.’

  ‘I will obtain them for you, Itagne-Ambassador.’ Engessa inclined his head shortly and went out.

  Itagne swore and banged his fist on the table. ‘Of all the times for this to happen!’ he fumed. ‘If that idiot had only waited before he got himself killed!’

  Betuana had done nothing wrong. There had been no stain of dishonor in her concern for Engessa, and if she had only had a week or two to put it behind her, it would probably have been forgotten – along with the personal feelings which caused it. But Androl’s death, coming as it did at this particular time – Itagne swore again. The Atan Queen had to be able to function, and this crisis might well incapacitate her. For all Itagne knew, she was in her room right now preparing to fall on her sword. He rose and went looking for paper and pen. Vanion had to be warned about this before everything here in Sarna flew apart.

  ‘It all fell into place when I heard that old man call their little pond “the Well of Vigay”,’ Talen explained. ‘Ogerajin used exactly the same term.’

  ‘I don’t know that it means very much,’ Mirtai said dubiously. ‘Cynesgans call all these desert springs wells. Vigay was probably the one who discovered it.’

  ‘But the important thing is that this is one of the landmarks Ogerajin mentioned,’ Bevier said. ‘How did the subject come up?’ he asked Talen.

  ‘Stragen and I were spinning moonbeams for Valash,’ the boy replied. ‘Ogerajin had just arrived from Verel, and he was sitting in a chair with his brains quietly rotting. Stragen was telling Valash about something he’d supposedly overheard – some fellow telling another that Scarpa was waiting for instructions from Cyrga. He was fishing for information, and he casually asked Valash what route a man would have to follow to get to Cyrga. That’s when Ogerajin jumped in. He started rambling, talking about the “Well of Vigay” and the “Plains of Salt” and other places with names that sounded as if they’d come right out of a story-book. I thought he was just raving, but Valash got very excited and tried to hush him up. That’s what made me pay closer attention to what the crazy man was saying. I got the feeling that he was giving Stragen very specific directions to Cyrga, but the directions were all clouded over with those story-book names. This “Well of Vigay” business makes me start to wonder if the directions were as cloudy and garbled as I thought they were at first.’

  ‘What were his exact words, young Talen?’ Xanetia asked.

  ‘He said, “The pathway lies close by the Well of Vigay”. That’s when Valash tried to shut him up, but he kept right on. He said something about wanting to give Stragen directions so that he could go to Cyrga and bow down to Cyrgon. He told him to go northwest from the “Well of Vigay” to the “Forbidden Mountains”.’

  Sparhawk checked over his map. ‘There are several clusters of mountains in central Cynesga, and that’s the general region Aphrael pointed out back on the island. What else did he say, Talen?’

  ‘He sort of jumped around. He talked about the “Forbidden Mountains” and the “Pillars of Cyrgon”. Then he doubled back on himself and started talking about the “Plains of Salt”. From what he told Stragen, you’re supposed to be able to see these “Forbidden Mountains” from those salt-plains. Then there was something about “Fiery White Pillars” and “The Plain of Bones”. He said that the bones are “the nameless slaves who toil until death for Cyrgon’s Chosen”. Evidently when a slave dies in Cyrga, he’s taken out and dumped in the desert.’

  ‘That boneyard wouldn’t be very far from the city, then,’ Kalten mused.

  ‘It does all sort of fit together, Sparhawk,’ Bevier said seriously. ‘The Cynesgans themselves are largely nomads, so they wouldn’t have any real need for large numbers of slaves. Ogerajin spoke of “Cyrgon’s Chosen”. That would be the Cyrgai, and they’re probably the ones who buy slaves.’

  ‘And that would mean that the caravan of slavers we saw is going to Cyrga, wouldn’t it?’ Talen added excitedly.

  ‘And they were going northwest,’ Mirtai said, ‘the exact direction Ogerajin was raving about.’

  Sparhawk went to his saddle-bags and took out his map. He sat down again and opened it, holding it firmly as the desert wind started to flap its corners. ‘We know that Cyrga’s somewhere in these mountains in central Cynesga,’ he mused, ‘so we’ll be going in that direction anyway. If Ogerajin was just raving and his directions don’t go anyplace, we’ll still be in the right vicinity if we follow them.’

  ‘It’s better than just sitting here waiting for Berit and Khalad,’ Kalten said impatiently. I have to be doing something – even if it’s only riding around in circles out there in the desert.’

  Sparhawk wordlessly put a comforting hand on his old friend’s shoulder. His own desperate concern was at least as driving as Kalten’s, but he knew that he had to keep it separate, remote. Desperate men make mistakes, and a mistake here could put Ehlana in even greater peril. His emotions screamed at him, but he grimly, implacably, pushed them into a separate compartment of his mind and firmly closed the door.

  ‘Anakha would be made glad if we would do this,’ Ulath said in Trollish to the enormous presences.

  Ghworg, God of Kill, rumbled ominously. ‘Anakha’s thought is like the wind,’ he complained. ‘One time he said to us, “Go to the place the man-things call the Tamul Mountains to kill the children of Cyrgon.” Now he says to us, “Go to the place the man-things call Zhubay to kill the Children of Cyrgon.” Can he not decide which Children of Cyrgon he wants us to kill?’

  ‘It is the way of the hunt, Ghworg,’ Tynian explained. ‘The Children of Cyrgon are not like the red-deer, which feeds always in the same range. The Children of Cyrgon are like the reindeer, which goes from this place to that place as the seasons change to find better food. Before, they were going to this place, Tamul Mountains, to feed, but now they go to the place Zhubay to feed. If we hunt in this place Tamul Mountains, we will find no game to kill and eat.’

  ‘It speaks well,’ Ghnomb, God of Eat, said. ‘It is not Anakha’s thought which changes, it is the path of the creatures we hunt which changes. The way of the hunt tells us that we must go where they graze if we would find them and kill them and eat them.’

  ‘This hunt becomes more and more not-simple,’ Ghworg grumbled.

  ‘That is because the man-things are more not-simple than the deer-things,’ Khwaj, God of Fire, told him. ‘The thought of Tynian-from-Deira is good. The one who hunts where there is no game does not eat.’

  Ghworg pondered it. ‘We must follow the way of the hunt,’ he decided. ‘We will take our children to the place Zhubay to hunt the Children of Cyrgon. When they come there to graze, our children will kill them and eat them.’

  ‘It would make us glad if you would,’ Tynian said politely.

  ‘I will take our children into the Time-Which-Does-Not-Move,’ Ghnomb said. They will be in the place Zhubay before the Children of Cyrgon come there.’

  Schlee, God of Ice, stuck his huge fingers into the dirt. The earth shuddered slightly and contorted itself into his picture of the continent. ‘Show us where, Ulath-from-Thalesia,’ he said. ‘Where is the place Zhubay?’

  Ulath walked some distance along the southwestern edge of the tiny mountains of Atan, peering intently at the ground. Then he stopped, bent, and touched a spot a short way out into the northern end of the Desert of Cynesga. ‘It is here, Schlee,’ he said.

  Ghworg, God of Kill, stood up. ‘We will take our children there,’ he declared. ‘Let us make Anakha glad.’

  ‘They’re watching us, Vanio
n,’ Sephrenia said quietly.

  He pulled his horse in closer to hers. ‘Styrics?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘One of them is,’ she replied. ‘He’s not particularly skilled.’ She smiled faintly. ‘I may have to hit him over the head to get his attention.’

  ‘Whatever it takes, love,’ he said. He glanced back over his shoulder at the column of knights and then on ahead. They were coming down out of the mountains, and the Valley of the Sarna was beginning to broaden. ‘We should reach that bridge tomorrow,’ he told her. ‘After we cross the river, we’ll be in Cynesga.’

  ‘Yes, dear one,’ she said, ‘I’ve seen the map.’

  ‘Why don’t you cast the spell?’ he suggested. ‘Let’s give our inept Styric out there a chance to earn his keep.’ He looked at her gravely. ‘I’m having some second thoughts about this, Sephrenia. Klæl’s still out there, and if he thinks Sparhawk’s somewhere in this column with Bhelliom, he’ll be all over us.’

  ‘You can’t have it both ways, Vanion,’ she said with a fond smile. ‘You said that you were never going to let me out of your sight, so if you insist on going into dangerous places, I’m sort of obliged to go along. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll wake up that Styric.’ She began to speak softly in Styric, her fingers weaving the spell as she did so.

  Vanion was puzzled. He took a certain pride in his familiarity with most of the spells, but this was one he had never seen or heard before. He watched more closely.

  ‘Never mind,’ she told him crisply, breaking off the spell. ‘You don’t need to know this one.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Just look over there, Vanion,’ she said. ‘I can do this without any help.’ She paused. ‘Humor me, dear one. A girl needs a few secrets, after all.’

  He smiled and turned his head.

  There was a kind of vague blurring in the air about ten yards away, and then, as surely as if he were really there, Vanion saw Sparhawk appear, mounted as always on his evil-tempered roan. So real was the image that flies were attracted to the horse. ‘Brilliant!’ Vanion exclaimed. He sent out a probing thought and even encountered the familiar sense of Sparhawk’s presence. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that he was really here. Can you sustain this illusion?’

  ‘Naturally,’ she said in an infuriatingly offhand way. And then she laughed, reached out and fondly touched his cheek.

  ‘What took you so long?’ Talen asked the Child Goddess when she appeared on the edge of their camp outside Vigayo the following morning.

  ‘I’ve been busy,’ she replied with a little shrug. ‘This is a fairly complex business, you know. We all do want to get there at approximately the same time, don’t we? What’s the problem here, Sparhawk?’

  ‘We might have just had a bit of good luck for a change, Divine One,’ he replied. ‘Talen and I were in the village yesterday, and we heard one of the villagers refer to their oasis as “the Well of Vigay”.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Why don’t you tell her about it, Talen?’

  The young thief quickly repeated the conversation between Ogerajin and Stragen back in Beresa.

  ‘What do you think?’ Kalten asked the Child Goddess.

  ‘Does somebody have a map?’ she asked.

  Sparhawk went to his saddle-bags, took out his tightly rolled map, and brought it to her.

  She spread it out on the ground, knelt in front of it, and studied it for several moments. ‘There are some salt-flats out there,’ she conceded.

  ‘And they are in the right direction,’ Bevier pointed out.

  ‘Ogerajin’s been there,’ Talen added, ‘at least he says he has, so he’d almost have to know the way, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘There’s also a slaver’s route that runs off to the northwest,’ Mirtai said. ‘We saw a caravan following it when we first got here, and Ogerajin mentioned the fact that the Cyrgai keep slaves. It sort of stands to reason that the slave caravan’s bound for Cyrga, doesn’t it?’

  ‘You’re hanging all this speculation on the ravings of a madman, you know,’ Flute said critically.

  ‘We do have a bit of verification, Aphrael,’ Sparhawk reminded her. The villagers use the same term for their oasis as Ogerajin did, the salt-flats are where he said they were, and the slavers are going in that direction as well. I’m inclined to accept it.’

  ‘You said yourself that Cyrga’s somewhere in central Cynesga,’ Kalten reminded her, ‘and that’s where all of this points. Even if Ogerajin left some things out, we’ll still end up in the general vicinity of Cyrga. We’ll be a lot closer than we are right now, anyway.’

  ‘Since you’ve all made up your minds, why did you bother me with it?’ Her tone was just a bit petulant.

  Talen grinned at her. ‘We didn’t think it’d be polite to run off without telling you, Divine One.’

  ‘I’ll get you for that, Talen,’ she threatened.

  ‘How far ahead of us would you say that caravan is by now?’ Sparhawk asked Mirtai.

  ‘Ten leagues,’ she replied. ‘Twelve at the most. Slave caravans don’t move very fast.’

  ‘I think that’s our best bet, then,’ he decided. ‘Let’s put on those black robes and get started. We’ll trail along a couple of leagues behind that caravan, and anybody who happens to see us will think we’re stragglers.’

  ‘Anything’s better than just sitting still,’ Kalten said.

  ‘Somehow I was almost sure you’d feel that way about it,’ Sparhawk replied.

  ‘We’re little more than prisoners here,’ Empress Chacole declared, waving her hand at the luxurious furnishings of the Women’s Palace. Chacole was a ripe-figured Cynesgan lady in her thirties. Her tone was one of only idle discontent, but her eyes were hard and shrewd as she looked at Elysoun.

  Elysoun shrugged. ‘I’ve never had any trouble coming and going as I choose.’

  ‘That’s because you’re a Valesian,’ Empress Torellia told her with just a touch of resentment. ‘They make allowances for you they don’t make for the rest of us. I don’t think it’s very fair.’

  Elysoun shrugged again. ‘Fair or not, it’s the custom.’

  ‘Why should you have more freedom than the rest of us?’

  ‘Because I have a more active social life.’

  ‘Aren’t there enough men in the Women’s Palace for you?’

  ‘Don’t be catty, Torellia. You’re not old enough to make it convincing.’ Elysoun looked appraisingly at the Arjuni Empress. Torellia was a slender girl in her mid-twenties, and, like all Arjuni women, she was quite subservient. Chacole was obviously taking advantage of that.

  ‘You don’t see anybody restricting Cieronna’s movements,’ Chacole said.

  ‘Cieronna’s the first wife,’ Elysoun replied, ‘and she’s the oldest. We should respect her age if nothing else.’

  ‘I will not be a servant to an ageing Tamul hag!’ Chacole flared.

  ‘She doesn’t want you as a servant, Chacole,’ Elysoun told her. ‘She already has more servants than she can count – unless Liatris has thinned them out some more. All Cieronna really wants is a fancier crown than the rest of us have and the right to walk in front of us in formal processions. It doesn’t take much to make her happy. She’s not the brightest person in Matherion.’

  Torellia giggled.

  ‘Here comes Gahennas,’ Chacole hissed.

  The jug-eared Tegan Empress, covered to the chin in scratchy wool, approached them with a disapproving expression, an expression that came over her face every time she so much as looked at the barely dressed Elysoun. ‘Ladies,’ she greeted them with a stiff little nod.

  ‘Join us, Gahennas,’ Chacole invited. ‘We’re discussing politics.’

  Gahennas’ bulging eyes brightened. Tegans lived and breathed politics.

  ‘Chacole and Torellia want to get up a petition to our husband,’ Elysoun said. She raised her arms and yawned deeply, stretching back and literally thrusting her bare breasts at Gahennas.

  Gahe
nnas quickly averted her eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry, ladies,’ Elysoun apologized. I didn’t get much sleep last night.’

  ‘How do you find enough hours in the day?’ Gahennas asked spitefully.

  ‘It’s only a matter of scheduling, Gahennas,’ Elysoun shrugged. ‘You can get all sorts of things accomplished if you budget your time. Why don’t we just drop it, dear? You don’t approve of me, and I don’t really care. We’ll never understand each other, so why waste our time trying?’

  ‘You can go anywhere in the imperial compound you want to, can’t you, Elysoun?’ Chacole asked rather tentatively.

  Elysoun feigned another yawn to conceal her smile. Chacole had finally gotten to the point. Elysoun had wondered how long it was going to take. ‘I can come and go more or less as I choose,’ she replied. ‘I guess all the spies got tired of trying to keep up with me.’

  ‘Do you suppose I could ask a favor of you?’

  ‘Of course, dear. What do you need?’

  ‘Cieronna doesn’t like me, and her spies follow me everywhere I go. I’m involved in something at the moment I’d rather she didn’t find out about.’

  ‘Why Chacole! Are you saying that you’ve finally decided to go a little further afield for entertainment?’

  The Cynesgan Empress gave her a blank stare, obviously missing her point.

  ‘Oh, come now, dear,’ Elysoun said slyly. ‘We all have our little private amusements here inside the Women’s Palace – even Gahennas here.’

  ‘I most certainly do not!’ The Tegan protested.

  ‘Oh, really, Gahennas? I’ve seen that new page-boy of yours. He’s absolutely luscious. Who’s your new lover, Chacole? Some husky young lieutenant in the Guards? Did you want me to smuggle him into the palace for you?’

  ‘It’s nothing like that, Elysoun.’

  ‘Of course it isn’t,’ Elysoun agreed with heavy sarcasm. ‘All right, Chacole. I’ll carry your love-notes for you – if you’re really sure you trust me that close to him. But why go so far afield, sister dear? Gahennas has this lovely young page-boy, and I’m sure she’s trained him very well – haven’t you, Gahennas?’ She raised one mocking eyebrow. Tell me, dear,’ she added, ‘was he a virgin? – Before you got your hands on him, I mean?’