A Dirge for Sabis

by C. J. Cherryh

  "No doubt they were in a hurry to reach Lutegh," Eloti sniffed, "and Sabis afterward."

  "They don't pay much attention to lands they've already conquered," Doshi murmured, thinking of the north.

  The others said nothing, but began setting out the boards to make a landing ramp. Not only the mules yearned to set foot on solid land for an hour, or more.

  * * *

  Yanados didn't waken until the next dawn, and then she was ravenous. Fortunately, the larder had been replenished by the hunting and fishing parties. Breakfast for everyone was ample and, for once, served on solid ground.

  "If it's safe, we should go on by daylight," Yanados opined around a mouthful of grilled trout. "The wind and current are against us; we'll have to row or tack. Best do that while we can see where we're going."

  "In fact," Arizun added, glowering at the mules, "why not put into shore, leave the boat, and go on with the wagon? If the land's empty—"

  "We don't know how empty," Doshi cautioned. "We're not even sure yet just where we are."

  "I have a suspicion, though," Eloti put in. "By all means, let's sail on today—and keep an eye on the south bank."

  Everyone else looked at Doshi, who shrugged. He didn't know this part of the country well, and Eloti seemed to. By all means, let her be the guide.

  They set off an hour later, tacking across the slow but steady water, seeing no one across the empty leagues of the shore.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Close on sunset, they saw the first towers of an approaching city. The others wanted to put into the reeds at once, but Eloti smiled eagerly, took hold of the mast, and stood up for a better view.

  "No reeds tonight," she announced, smiling. "We'll spend the night in those ruins."

  "Ruins?" Zeren questioned. "A whole city? The Ancar would hardly leave it without some garrison, however small."

  "Not if they never came near it, and I doubt they would, since the Sabisan troops would have given it a wide berth, as always."

  "Eh? How wide? And why? A city, ruined or not—"

  "It is the City of Ghosts. Itoma. Sukkti ruins."

  "Oh." Zeren didn't say anything more. Even he had heard, during his years in Sabis, of the famous haunted ruins of Itoma.

  "They say it's full of plagues, pitfalls, hideous mummies, walls that fall on you without warning, and plenty of angry ghosts to push them," Omis recalled. "No safe place to take the children."

  Eloti laughed. "The last tenants indeed placed a number of pitfalls, and centuries of weather have done nothing to improve the buildings, but there are safe sections, if one knows where to find them."

  Sulun gave her a measuring look. "You've been here often?" he asked. "You know your way about the ruins?"

  "Oh, yes. My mother's side of the family came from there, originally. Unlike my brother, I never thought the old blood a taint or a social disadvantage."

  Eloti peered toward the silhouetted towers on the south shore. "Indeed, there's much advantage in not fearing old Sukkti ghosts, bothering to visit one's old home city, exploring the ruins during long summer days. . . ." She sighed, then sat back down in the boat. "Steer there. You'll find that the third stone dock is quite usable."

  * * *

  The sun was slinking among the massive ruins when they pulled up to the third of a series of stone quays, reaching a good distance out into the river. On the upriver side were steps going down to the water, and even a few massive bronze tie rings still bolted to the stone. Yanados made fast the boat, but no one save Eloti was eager to go ashore. A broad, stone-paved avenue ran beside the river at the foot of the docks, and directly across it from their anchorage loomed a huge flat-roofed temple. The architecture looked wrong to everyone raised among Sabis's domes and arches.

  Eloti marched up the water stairs, down the dock, and straight toward the temple.

  "Wait!" Sulun yelled, floundering after her. "Wait until I can fetch a lamp, at least! Lady—"

  "Just bring lamp oil," she chirped back at him, not breaking stride. "There are lamps enough within."

  Sulun shook his head, scrabbled among the supplies for oil, tinder, and striker. He remembered to grab some string too, just in case Eloti's promised lamp needed a new wick. Then he ran up the stars and down the dock after her retreating form, and no one in the boat elected to go with him.

  Sulun caught up to Eloti on the wide temple stairs, and they paced through the open dark doorway together.

  "Hmm, plain slab lintels, and close-set columns to support them," Sulun noted, trying not to look at the darkness beyond the doorway. "Were these folk ignorant of the arch, then?"

  "They learned it in later days, but this temple is very old." Eloti disappeared into the shadows, leaving Sulun to follow as best he could. "Ah, here. Just as I remembered. The lamp oil, please."

  Sulun dutifully handed over the jug of oil, then the striker and tinder. Eloti didn't ask for a wick. He saw sparks strike, then the tinder's glow, finally a clear flame that grew large enough to show the immediate surroundings—and he gaped at what he saw.

  Ranged around the walls, starting near the doors and reaching as far back as the light revealed, were great square-carved statues of every beast, bird, and fish known to man. Between their paws, or fins or talons, rested oil lamps carved from the same stone, and before these were carved depressions that must have been offering bowls. A litter of dried stalks showed that the common offering was flowers or grain. One third of the way in from the walls stood rows of columns, supporting the long stone beams that made up the ceiling. Between them lay a mosaic-tiled path depicting flowers, fruits, and leaves, more species of plants than he could recognize, forming a bright pathway down the wide central aisle. Eloti meandered down the length of the temple, filling and lighting occasional lamps—at the feet of a lion, a fish, an eagle, a bull, a stag—and gradually the shape at the far end of the central aisle emerged in the light.

  Foremost stood a wide stone altar, carved and tiled with images of garlands. Behind that was another stone lamp, by far the largest Sulun had ever seen, and behind that a statue easily twelve cubits tall. Despite the rigidly formal archaic pose and unfamiliar attributes carved on her robes, she was unmistakable: Kula, in her Fruitful Mother aspect, crowned with grain and starflowers. Even in the ancient, simplified carving style, her characteristic smile was familiar.

  Eloti sighed faintly and poured only a bit of oil into that huge lamp, lit it, genuflected, and stepped back. Sulun thought it wise to imitate the gesture. "So," he whispered, trying to sound respectful, "the Sukkti knew Kula also?"

  "Indeed, and under that very name." Eloti sniffed. "The Sabirns took up her worship with no great changes, once they settled these lands and learned they would have to farm for a living. I believe they had worshipped only water, war, and weather gods before then,"

  "Incredible. How many other deities, think you, were originally Sukkti?"

  "Quite a number of them: any that had to do with farming, herding, or manufacturing. Quite often they kept the old names and rites intact."

  "And . . ." Sulun felt a wild idea sprouting. "The priesthoods also?"

  "The priesthoods also," Eloti smiled. "Especially those which were exclusively female."

  "Family tradition!" Sulun almost laughed, staring at her.

  "In my case, an exclusively female tradition." Eloti gestured another salute to the smiling statue.

  "Did your brother ever know?"

  "He didn't care to know."

  "I see." Sulun looked up at the statue, studying it for some sign or omen, reading nothing but the encouraging smile. "Are there any other . . . little secrets of the priesthood that were passed on as tradition in the female line?"

  "A few," Eloti chuckled. "Some small magics . . ."

  "Toslagen!"

  "A distant ancestress, reputed to be a mighty sorceress."

  "Mighty enough that even her memorial chant has power?"

  "More precisely, she was a poetess who discovered th
e uses, principles, and techniques of hypnotic chant."

  "I see."

  "Other things . . ." Eloti glanced around the dimly lit temple. "I know the location of certain discreet chambers where we may be assured of safe rest. There is also a temple garden—long since run wild, of course, but still quite lush—where we can safely pasture the mules for the night. No, no hidden ancient treasure, I'm afraid; that was taken away long ago and put to prudent use. The women of my family have always learned certain trades and possessed their own wealth, usually quite unknown to the men."

  "Family tradition!" Sulun laughed, then took a second look at Eloti. "An excellent tradition. And . . . you are the last of the line?"

  Eloti bowed her head. "Unless, at my age, I can win a husband and produce a daughter, yes, the tradition ends with me."

  "That would be a great pity, Goodlady." Sulun thought of the glances he'd observed between Eloti and Zeren, and prudently held his tongue. Best let that grow without comment. Best change the subject, too. "But how did these buildings remain intact, unmolested so long? How did Itoma earn its fearsome reputation?"

  "Deliberate policy," said Eloti, turning to inspect the shadowed space behind the statue. "Itoma was a long time falling, and its people had perhaps a bit more prudence than those of Sabis. When the coastal towns fell to the Sabirns, and the river trade was cut off, Itoma could no longer support a large populace. The people departed for the countryside and other river towns, carefully spreading stories about curses and evil wizardry and ghosts and the like."

  "That wouldn't have sufficed without some evidence," Sulun noted. "One of the best antidotes I know to superstition is greed for loot."

  "Oh yes," Eloti laughed. "There was evidence enough. The outlying areas of the city were abandoned first, and the remaining people—seeing they no longer had the numbers to withstand a siege—built artful traps all throughout the empty neighborhoods."

  "No doubt enhanced with gruesome carvings, paintings, and other stage trappings," Sulun added, remembering stories he'd heard. "Is there truly a palace filled with mummies?"

  "There is. It was a prince's mansion, actually; the fellow was famed for squandering money on his lavish tastes, much to his own ruin. Later, defenders of Itoma thought it clever to raid the old necropolis and place the remains in odd places all over the former spendthrift's house and grounds. I'm told that the first Sabirn scouts were artfully led there, and then treated to a most dramatic exhibition."

  Sulun remembered the famous story of the Palace of the Dead, and laughed heartily. "The Sabirn tale may have been embroidered a bit, but by all accounts those poor explorers were scared out of their wits."

  "I should tell you the Sukkti version of that tale some time," Eloti grinned back. "In any event, the city was emptied by poverty rather than war—which is why you'll find the buildings thoroughly stripped of portable valuables, but otherwise intact. Legend protected it long after the inhabitants had gone."

  "Preserved it through the rise and fall of the conquerors," Sulun mused. "What power legends have, and rumors of magic . . ."

  Right there, a marvelous idea unfolded before Sulun's eyes: a completion so near perfection that he glanced up at the statue of the goddess to wonder if she had inspired it.

  "We should go back and tell the others to come in," Eloti suggested. "Otherwise they'll think we've been eaten by the ghosts. Does that smile signify something particular?"

  "Yes. Yes, it does." Sulun pulled his grin down to polite dimensions. "Do you think that the Ancar would have heard of the Lost and Haunted City of Itoma by now?"

  "Most likely, if they've spent any time at all in the northlands. The tales spread everywhere in reach of Sabis."

  "And . . . was Deese of the Forge originally a Sukkti god?"

  "He was that. Hmm, do you see an advantage in being Sukkti, now that Sabis has fallen?"

  "Sukkti magicians, more precisely—from the Lost City of Itoma, come out of hiding now that the rule of Sabis is gone."

  "Ah . . ." Eloti smiled as the idea took hold, smiled more widely than Sulun had ever seen her do before, until their delighted-idiot grins matched. They burst out laughing at the same time.

  Omis and Zeren, come searching cautiously after them, heard the gales of laughter roll out of the temple and were heartened enough to come in and see what the joke was.

  They learned soon enough, and they laughed too.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Thanig was a small town hidden in a fold of the Jarrya hills: small in size, smaller in fame. It served the needs of surrounding farmers and herders with simple goods, most of them locally made, the rest imported once a year from Athoa, the nearest larger Jarryan town. Aside from pack merchants and tax collectors, no one had much reason to remember its name. Neither did travelers, other than the occasional tax clerk or peddler, visit it from one year to another. Since the Ancar invasion, some ten years back, even those visitors had grown few.

  Therefore it was a matter of no little excitement and concern when the townspeople first observed the column of dust, and then the strange entourage causing it, approaching by the main—and indeed the town's only—road.

  The townsfolk reacted swiftly: mothers hauled children indoors, craftsmen carried display tables of their wares back into their shops, older children chased family livestock safely out of the street, householders pulled doors and window shutters closed and peeped out through the cracks. Only the innkeeper left his door open, and even he took care to hastily hide his better bottles. That done, everyone watched the strangers approach.

  The spectacle was indeed something to see, remember to tell one's grandchildren about. In the lead marched two big men in long iron-colored robes and hooded cloaks, carrying iron-shod staves bound with green branches. At the rear came four similar figures, slighter in stature. Between them rolled a huge wagon, covered with iron-colored sailcloth, driven by a tall man in the same dark vestments as the others while beside him sat an imposing woman garbed in green and crowned with a garland. The wagon was painted with stylized designs that suggested ancient letters, garlanded with leaves and flowers, hung with iron chains and brass bells, and drawn by a pair of large iron-colored mules. The mules' harness was hung with brass bells and luck charms of polished brass and iron, and jingled with their every step. The dark-robed figures were chanting softly, in what the more experienced townsfolk recognized as quaintly accented Sabirn, a hymn to Deese of the Forge—with proper reference to his Lady, Kula of the Wood. The procession marched into and through the village, not glancing to left or right, heading for the long building toward the far end of town whose chimney belched smoke and sparks even at this hour of day.

  "Goin' to the forge, they be," the town potter noted, much to everyone's agreement. "Pilgrims might be, but priestish sure as rain."

  And, right enough, the strangers drew to a precise halt at the doorway of the town's smithy. With the precision of courtly dancers, the two men in the lead stepped back to hold the mules' bridles, the four at the rear rearranged themselves at the wagon's back and sides, and one of them stepped forward to knock formally on the doorpost.

  "Blessings to all within," he intoned, in only slightly accented Jarryan. "Blessings to forge and fire, roofbeam and hearthstone, in the name of Deese of the Forge."

  Dunosh, the town blacksmith, carefully set down the horseshoe he'd been shaping, while his apprentices scurried for cover. "Uh, blessings to you, also," was all he could think to say. He tucked his trusty middleweight hammer into his belt, just to be safe, and edged toward the outlandish strangers at his door. "What would ye be wanting here?"

  "Food and shelter for two days, and trade also," the stranger recited as if he'd practiced it a long time. "In exchange for your assistance, brother-in-trade, we'll gladly share our knowledge with you."

  Dunosh blinked, taking all that in. Too much, too strange: best deal with one problem at a time. "Ah, the inn be back down t'street, six doors down on t'left. The beer be good, and the shepherd
pie likewise, but touch not the stew . . . And warn 'em well t'air out the bedding." He guessed he was babbling like a fool, but better that than to seem unfriendly—especially since he had no idea what to say to the fellows other requests.

  But the speaker smiled wide and thanked him profusely, ending with an elaborate blessing in the name of the Forge Lord. "And more," the man finished, with a conspiratorial wink, "would you like a useful bit of magic to help your work?"

  "Magic?" Dunosh lifted his head like a bird dog scenting game. In his trade there was so much that could go wrong, any helpful charm would be welcome. "Eh, a spell against splashing, p'raps?"

  "Better." The speaker grinned and waved one of the larger men forward. The fellow had to stoop to get in the door, and he rolled up his sleeves as he came, revealing arms as thick-muscled as an ox's leg and streaked with the identifying scars of a smith. Dunosh stepped back respectfully.

  The big stranger went to the forge, mumbled something over it, took up the tongs, and studied the horseshoe between their jaws. He waved his other hand over the darkening iron, mumbled something that included the name of Deese several times, then pointed to Dunosh and said something straight and clear in Sabirn.

  "Er, what'd he say?" Dunosh asked of the first speaker.

  The man leaned closer and whispered in his ear: "He said: Temper with cold oil instead of water.'"

  "Ey, I should do that . . . and that's all?"

  "That's all. The rest's already been spoken."

  "'Temper with cold oil' . . ."

  Dunosh was still thinking that over when the strangers rolled out of his dooryard and back down the street towards the inn. Cold oil? Where could he get that hereabouts? Butter? Far too costly. Seed oil? The same. Meat fat? Now that was possible. Rendered sheep fat was cheap enough. Cold? The town boasted no icehouse, but the inn's cold cellar might do. Best go ask at once; he wanted to try that spell quickly, while the strangers were still in town.

  Besides, if he followed them to the inn, who could tell what other secrets and charms he might learn?