A Dirge for Sabis

by C. J. Cherryh

  "Gods' blight! What would you have me do?"

  Zeren leaned back in his creaking-new chair and looked at Omis. "The new bombard is overdue for testing, is she not?"

  Omis stared at him, horrified. "You—you don't mean to attack Yotha's temple with her, do you? Great gods, we don't even know where it lies! And untested—"

  "No, no." Zeren laughed. "Among other considerations, I doubt if our friend Wotheng would take kindly to a new military power at his doorstep. What I have in mind is a simple public display, something interesting, to amaze and delight our friends and . . . warn off our enemies."

  Omis sat up, eyes narrowing a bit. "Just what," he asked, "do you have in mind?"

  * * *

  On the next afternoon, Doshi passed among the workmen at the nearly complete wall and warned them to keep away from the northern field for the next hour, for the priests of Deese would be testing a new magical device there. The work gang swore, one and all, that they had no intention of going anywhere near the northern field—indeed, had no reason whatever to go near that field, that not even goats bothered grazing in that barren field—which was quite true, especially since Arizun and Yanados had carefully herded the beasts elsewhere. Doshi expressed his delight at that news, and went back to the house. The work gang climbed the scaffolding and clustered on the new wall, straining to see the mysterious test.

  Everyone saw the two largest and most muscular of Deese's wizard-priests lugging a strange object up the stile steps and onto the northern wall. The magical device appeared to be a thick, brass-colored tube, set in a sturdy wooden mount, treated with great reverence. The priests set it carefully on top of the wall, turned it slightly here and there, raised and lowered the tube in its cradle until it was placed to their satisfaction.

  Next, up onto the wall came two smaller wizards, one carrying a leather sack as if it contained powdered gold, the other bearing a heavy canister of what looked to be well-greased, stiffened leather. The more sharp-eyed witnesses noted that the canister was as big around as the inside of the brass-colored tube, and guessed that the one was meant to go inside the other.

  Next came two very young priests, plainly apprentices. One bore an odd assortment of tools: long-handled round brushes and dashers as if for a butter churn. The other carried thin tapers or waxed-stiff cords in one hand and a tinderbox in the other.

  After them, dressed in fine robes and carrying a meditation gem of black glass, came the Wizardess Eloti. Her face was stern and composed, she moved with slow and measured tread, and none could doubt the importance of her presence there.

  As the workmen watched, the priests opened the sack and shovelled carefully measured handfuls of some mysterious black powder into the tube. They used the dasherlike tool to tamp the powder firmly in the bottom of the tube, then eased the greased canister down after it. The smaller of the apprentices delicately maneuvered one of the oiled cords into a small hole at the back of the tube, working it in as far as it would go.

  The wizardess rapped out a quick order, and all the other priests made a ring about the strange device and joined hands. The lady began to chant, and the others followed suit. The workmen couldn't quite hear the words, but none of them doubted that the chant was a powerful protective charm.

  "Why be they doin' that, now?" Gort asked his companion. "I thought they'd bespelled all the house and grounds, even beyond the wall. Could yonder thing be especially dangersome, or would it need extra charms now that it be all put together?" His usual work was manning and repairing the derrick, and he had some skill at mechanics, as he was always quick to point out.

  "Perhaps 'tis because it sits upon the wall," Hobb considered. His family had endured a long squabble over precise borders of sheep pastures, and he took careful note of physical boundaries. "Might be, their protection is set on the wall, and all below it, and all within it—but not on what rests above it. I hear spells can be particular that way."

  "Like land deeds," Gort started to say, but stopped as his attention was drawn back to the wizards. The spellcasting was apparently finished, for the wizard-priests dropped hands, broke up their circle, and moved several paces away from the mounted tube. One of the priests struck a light from the tinderbox, set it to the projecting tip of the waxed cord, then hastened away to join the others. Everyone held their breath and watched as the flame sizzled redly up the cord and into the tube.

  Thunder roared! Lightning flashed! Tiny storm clouds rose above the jerking tube, and a whizzing like enormous hailstones filled the air.

  Out in the north field, a gout of earth leaped skyward and fountained in all directions.

  The work gang cowered on the wall, jabbing quick lucky signs in the air and gulping bits of safety charms. But the priests of Deese gave a great cheer, ran closer to peer at the ravaged field and point to where the fountain had erupted. Others ran to the thunder tube and inspected it, patting it over and peering down its mouth as if it were a fretful baby. One of them took the long-handled brush and poked it down the tube, worked back and forth a while, then removed it and peered into the tube again.

  "Perfect!" everyone heard the burly priest announce. "Not a sign of strain."

  "She landed right within the flour circle," another shouted, peering out at the field.

  Other priests whooped and hugged each other, and danced clumsy circles on top of the wall.

  "Do it again," the burly wizard-priest insisted. "Another three times, at least, to be certain."

  The apprentices ran back down the steps, to return shortly with more waxed cords and canisters.

  "What, again?" gulped the head of the work gang, peeping out from between his fingers. "Do they mean to plow the whole field with thunder and lightning?"

  "Nay, look." Gort pointed to the field, where a small apprentice ran out and scattered flour in a circle. "I think they be testin' his aim, like an archer with a new bow."

  "Be that a thunder bow, then?' the gang chief marveled. "Gods defend, I'd hate to be struck with such an arrow!"

  "I doubt not," Hobb considered, scratching his chin, "that Yotha himself would not care for it, either."

  "Oho," said the chief, turning to look at his neighbors. "And do you note, he be aimed not a little in the way of Yotha's temple?"

  "Aha," his audience answered knowingly.

  By nighttime the tale had reached the villa, and by the next day it had spread all the length of Ashkell Vale.

  * * *

  "This is where the fist of Deese struck, Master," Yawth said, pointing.

  "I have eyes." Wotheng stood up in his stirrups for a better view. "A most impressive hole in the ground. Yes, well worth the ride, Yawth. See that the messenger is thanked properly."

  "Aye, m'lord. There be other holes yonder. . . ."

  Wotheng shook his head, still peering at the nearer hole. "One to study be enough for him with wit," he murmured. "They can aim this thing, you say?"

  "Ay, Master. They were out measuring and all. . . ."

  Wotheng, preoccupied, didn't look up. "So great a hole and such a distance. Could it do thus to earth, what might it do to walls? Or to oncoming ranks of men?"

  "Ey, sir," Yawth shuddered. "I wouldn't care to think."

  "I daresay our most gentle and civilized friends wouldn't, either." Wotheng raised his head, lips pulling back from his teeth in a startlingly cruel smile. "They've the means, but not the will. No heads for warcraft. But if that might be changed . . ."

  Yawth, knowing he was out of his depth, said nothing.

  "A way can be found," Wotheng murmured. "A way to change their will, make more than one of them think like warriors. Aye, and then the northern lords might find my land less tempting."

  He reined his horse around and spurred back toward home, Yawth following silently.

  * * *

  High Priest Folweel stood looking out the window of his study, saying nothing, his stiff back eloquent with outrage. Behind him Jimantam and Patrobe argued in furious half-whispers.
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  "—but your usual procedure failed! The rebound thereof has cost us badly in donations, not to mention the loss of faith among our herd."

  "Well, what action have you taken? I haven't seen our herd giving more donations on your account."

  "My account? I'm but the groundskeeper! I've delivered enough Blood of Yotha to fire half the vale; 'tis for you to put it to proper use. The Deese wizards have only the one thunder tube—"

  Jimantam stopped there and bit his lip, as if he'd caught himself in an obscenity. He glanced to see if the high priest had heard.

  Folweel had. He turned from the window and stalked back to his colleagues. "Enough recriminations, please; they gain us nothing. 'Tis clear that we deal with a knowledgeable enemy—and, now, a dangerous one. Have you learned further about this thunder tube?"

  Both priests looked at the floor and shook their heads.

  Folweel sighed exasperation. "'Tis also clear we must engage more subtle tools, and right quickly. Beginning tomorrow, start prophesying that the works of these new wizards are dangerous, treacherous, harmful to the innocent. Also, warn the faithful that the very construction of this thunder tube is an outrage to the gods and a threat most undeserved by Yotha and his herd. Say, 'By what right do servants of Deese of the Forge steal the prerogatives of the storm gods?' Stress the impiety first, the undeserved threat to Yotha's herd second."

  "Ah, Brother," Jimantam dared to interject, "a thousand pardons, but will not the weaker among the faithful assume that such warnings are simple jealousy?"

  "Let them think what they will, but plant that warning well in their ears."

  Patrobe noticed the hidden pattern in the instructions. "Brother, do you . . . expect . . . some disaster connected with the works of Deese's wizards?"

  "Some subtle evil," Folweel admitted. "Brother Jimantam, pray fetch Brother Oralro for me. Then go fetch me an accounting from stores concerning the following herbs." He plucked a tablet from his worktable and handed it to the priest, who wilted a trifle as he realized he was being dismissed.

  The other two waited until he'd gone before resuming the discussion.

  "Excellent for accounting, but no head for strategy, that one." Patrobe remarked toward the closed door.

  "He serves his function, which has kept us from poverty." Folweel leaned closer and lowered his voice. "Still no spies established in Deese House?"

  "No such fortune," Patrobe admitted. "They're a very closed lot, and the laborers at their wall aren't much better. The work will be finished soon, in any event, and the workmen dispersed, so there's no profit making further attempts among them. Bassip the Wagoner says they've even ordered less beer."

  "Hmm . . . And Brother Duppa?"

  "He reports regularly, that lessons proceed apace in mathematics, geography, history, and literature." Patrobe snorted, dismissing such prosaic subjects. "He says the lessons on mechanics, chemistry, and medicine are so simple and basic in nature that no one could mistake them for any arcane lore. At this rate, says he, they might consider him for acceptance in their order within a year, if at all. I doubt we can wait that long."

  "We cannot." Folweel smacked the table in frustration. "Tell me the moment Duppa reports teachings of magic, or any art which the simple might construe as magic or impiety. . . . Hmm, bid him suborn one of the other students into asking questions on such subjects. Any answer the sorceress gives might be useful. Particularly, ask about Sukkti beliefs—but be sure to use the local word for them, to avoid suspicion. We may get something there."

  "How great an excuse do we need?" Patrobe asked, pondering degrees of offense that common folk might accept.

  "Enough to merit a small plague," said the high priest, glancing to the space on his table where the list of supplies had lately rested.

  Patrobe raised an eyebrow. "Dangerous, Brother, to so risk our only well-placed agent."

  "Place another," Folweel snapped. "Put him in the beginners' class—and make certain he be subtle, quick fingered, and deft. Also send for Bassip."

  Patrobe raised his other eyebrow, but said nothing.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The trouble began near the close of day, when the work gang were weary and hungry enough to think longingly of home and supper. The oldest of the lot, who'd been complaining of bellyache since lunchtime, succumbed first. He clutched his stomach, gasped, then howled. The workmen at the mortar trough ran to him just as he fell over. The gang on the crane and block had the training, or presence of mind, to finish lowering and setting the block before coming to see what the trouble was.

  By then, some few of them had belly pains also.

  When the uproar reached Sulun's ears, the problem had spread to more than half of the work gang. Arizun rushed into the laboratorium to report widespread sickness, pains, chills, numbness of extremities, delirium, and terrifying visions striking down the work gang.

  Sulun slapped off the drive gear engagement of the lathe and jumped up from his bench. "Yotha!" he spat. "It has to be. Find Eloti and Vari, quick."

  "They're already out in the courtyard, unless Vari's back in the storeroom hunting remedies."

  "Thank the gods for that, at least," Sulun muttered, running for the courtyard.

  The sight that met him was ugly: dozens of men rolling and shivering on the ground, others huddled against the wall, groaning through chattering teeth. Doshi and Yanados were just lighting a scrap-wood fire in the center of the courtyard as Ziya came running with a sloshing kettle of water and a packet of willow bark tea. Omis and Zeren followed, bearing as many blankets, rugs, and wraps as they could find. Vari and Eloti stood near the center of the crowd, peering frantically through a basketful of medical texts.

  "Gods," Sulun groaned, seeing the sheer number of the afflicted. "Chills and fever—and the sun is going down." No one needed to tell him that the evenings could be chilly now that First Harvest was past. He snagged Omis on the way to hand out blankets. "Is the forge still lighted?"

  "The forge? Yes, I was working on some tool-heads. But why—"

  "The heat, man! That open fire won't be enough, nor those blankets for so many. Get the worst afflicted inside, close the shutters and curtains, and pump up the fire in the forge."

  "Gods, of course!" Omis dropped the blankets and ran to Zeren to explain.

  Sulun descended on Eloti and Vari, yanked out one of their scrolls, and hunted through it, dismayed to learn that he didn't recognize half the terms therein. "Is it a curse or not?" he asked, thumbing through the scroll for some hint of an answer.

  "No ill-wish: it's too specific," Eloti snapped back. "Its either plague or poisoning, and we've found no mention of any plague that attacks like this."

  "Besides," Vari added, "we've taken good care to keep the work camp clean. Those belly cramps speak strongly of bad food or bad water."

  "But we drink of that stream ourselves," Sulun protested, "and none of us fell sick for it."

  "Besides," Vari barely smiled, "this lot don't drink water when they've a regular ration of beer."

  "Could it be their beer, then? How would Yotha's priests get at it?"

  Eloti glanced up, face unreadable. "You think it's those priests' doing, then?"

  "Of course it is! Zeren warned me . . ." Sulun ground a fist into his forehead. "Ah, gods, he warned they would strike, and I took no care to think how they might do it. I'm ten times a fool!"

  "No, no," Vari soothed, patting his arm. "You're just too honest to think like such rogues. Now, how shall we examine their beer, if indeed they've left any?"

  "The barrels." Eloti snapped her fingers and turned to look out the gate. "They keep their rations all in one shed out there, one of the ruins they haven't yet pulled down for building stone. Even the leavings at the barrel bottoms would contain any poison from the beer. Ask one of the less afflicted where they keep their rations."

  "What if it wasn't the beer? The bread, perhaps, or the cheese, or—"

  "Bring a dozen goats," said Eloti, already
striding toward the work gang chief, who was still in the cramps and shivering stage.

  Yes, the gang chief remembered where the stores were kept—in the basement of what must once have been a wine shop, which still possessed a stout door. Yes, all food and drink for the workmen was kept there, and no one was allowed—or able, given how easily he'd be seen—to go plunder the same until proper lunchtime.

  Sulun ran for the stables, shouting at Yanados to fetch out half a dozen goats from their shed. A few minutes later the big wagon came rumbling out of the stables, Sulun driving the mules in a manner that discouraged argument; Doshi, Vari, and Arizun riding in the wagon bed behind him.

  "Be they abandoning us, think ye?" Gort asked, between rattling teeth.

  "And leaving their friends, too?" Hobb shook his head, which made it hurt worse. "No, off upon vengeance or healing, say I."

  "We'll see soon enough. Ah, gods, is that fire well lighted? Me for sitting thereabouts, do I have to crawl."

  Half an hour later the mule wagon came thundering back, echoing the impact of every paving stone through the near-empty barrels in its bed. There, too, thumped sacks of bread, cheese, sausage, and apples: all the stores of the looted basement.

  Sulun reined the mules to a hoof-skidding stop, jumped off the wagon, and ran to the nearest workman, which happened to be Gort. "Man," he asked, looking straight and guiltlessly into the bloodshot eyes, "tell me: what did you eat and drink this noon?"

  "B-beer," Gort chattered, "and bread. Sausage. An apple . . ."

  "Good, good," Sulun patted his shoulder and went to the next man. "And you?"

  "Same," Hobb shivered, "except I had ch-cheese instead of the apples."

  "Not cheese, not apples," Sulun muttered, hurrying to the next coherent man he could find. "How shall we make goats eat sausage?"

  Hobb turned to his partner and grinned as best he could. "Y-you thought they'd be l-leaving us," he jeered.

  "W-was only askin'," Gort muttered, holding shaking hands to the fire.

  "Pardon me, pardon me," Omis muttered as he shouldered past them, carrying a struggling, howling derrick hauler in his arms as surely and gently as if it had been one of his own children.