"Three thousand shillings!" said Cheerful Giver, rapping with his knuckles on the wooden wall in the way he did when bidding for oil fields. "My final offer. Take it or leave it."
So he paid five thousand shillings, and the girl was his. By some mysterious sixth sense, the tribute traders had divined the exact sum he had brought with him, and they made him pay it all. His only consolation was that no one would ever know how much he had paid. The price was so stupendous it would turn him into the laughing-stock of the city if it got out. But he would never tell, and the tribute traders swore they would keep the secret.
"Better for business that way, good sir. No one ever knows for sure what's been paid and what hasn't. After all, who's to say you didn't pay ten thousand?"
Cheerful Giver had to be content with that.
The bullock carriage was waiting outside the hostel, and he and the tribute rode home in it, unseen by all. The carriage was driven into the courtyard of his large house, and the outer gates closed, and the servants dismissed, before he took the tribute out. He carried her himself, in his own arms, down into the windowless cellar room in which, until recently, the escaped spiker had been kept. His wife followed.
"Oh, husband!" she exclaimed. "She's beautiful! How clever you are! Oh, she's perfect! You're a good, good i" man!
"And a poor, poor man now, thanks to you."
"Can we take off the bindings?"
"Let me get her securely on the leash first. I'm taking no more chances with you and open doors."
"I never left the door open. I'm not as stupid as you think. It was that key. It doesn't turn all the way."
"Not if you don't turn it all the way, it doesn't."
He screwed an iron wristband tightly on the tribute's left wrist. A light but extremely strong chain was forged to the wristband at one end and to a ring sunk in the cellar wall at the other. Throughout this process the tribute stood still and offered no resistance.
"Now," said Cheerful Giver, addressing the tribute directly for the first time, though still not meeting her eyes. "I'm going to remove your gag. But if you scream or cause me any trouble at all, it goes back on again. Nod to show you understand."
The tribute nodded.
Cheerful Giver unbound the gag. The tribute licked at her dry lips and wriggled her jaw. Then she spoke to Blessing.
"Thank you, my lady," she said.
"Oh!" cried Blessing. "She's so beautiful!"
Cheerful Giver studied his expensive purchase with a critical frown. He had to admit he had done well. There was an air of innocence about her that would be especially well appreciated on the day.
"What's your name, little one?" said Blessing.
"Morning Star," said the tribute.
"I'm so sorry you had to have your mouth all bound up. We'll get you something to eat and drink. I'm sure you'd like that. My dear"—to her husband—"see to it, will you?"
"She stays on the leash," said Cheerful Giver, and left the cellar.
Blessing stepped forward, and a little nervously she reached out one hand.
"You're such a darling! I just want to pet you and pet you!"
"Who are you?" said the tribute in her dear little voice. "Where am I?"
"You're in the house of a highly respected family. My husband is Handler of the Royal Corona. I myself am the lead soloist in the temple choir. I think you have reason to be proud."
"What will you do with me?"
"Little one," said Blessing solemnly, "you are to perform a pure and wonderful service. May I hold your hand?"
Morning Star let her take her hand. Blessing gazed on her with wide ecstatic eyes and stroked her hand as she spoke.
"You are to bring new life! You are to save the whole world from the black grasp of night! Because of the pure and wonderful service you will perform, the crops will grow and men and beasts will have food to eat. Because of you, there will be life!"
"I think," said Morning Star hesitantly, "you mean me to die."
"To give your life for all!" cried Blessing as fervently as if it were she herself who was to make the sacrifice. "To be received into the bosom of the Radiant Power! To plunge into the very heart of life!"
Morning Star watched the dumpy, round-faced woman before her, with her big round eyes rolled upward to the cellar ceiling and her palms too now uplifted, as if in communion with her god, and rapidly ran through the courses of action open to her. She had already examined the wristband, discreetly, and knew she could not release herself without help. Seeker and the Wildman would come looking for her, no doubt, but she could see no way they could find her. That meant she must save herself.
She had been able to make a thorough assessment of the master of the household during his negotiations for her purchase. His colors had shown him to be vain and vindictive. His wife was another matter. She glowed with a pale turquoise shimmer, which Morning Star had encountered before, and that gave her some small hope: her colors showed her to be a brainless believer. With a little work, she could be made to believe almost anything. Therefore Morning Star decided, as a first step, to make her her friend.
"You don't know me," she said in a small and humble voice, "and yet I feel the love streaming out of you towards me. You must have so much love in you."
"Child!" cried Blessing. "You understand me so well!"
"I feel—I feel that you want only what is good and fine for me."
"I do! Oh, I do!"
"I suppose," said Morning Star, all wonderingly, "I suppose everyone's life must come to an end one day. And you offer me an ending that has a purpose."
Blessing gazed at her in awe. All her life she had dreamed of such a moment. Could it really be happening?
Her husband reentered the cellar, carrying a tray of food and drink. He had decided not to let the servants into the cellar at all.
"My dear!" cried his wife, running to his side. "My dear, good, generous husband! I believe—truly, I believe—that at long last—after so many years—we have a willing tribute!"
PART FOUR
Sacrifice
They are watching.
The old ones grow restless now. Their plans
are unfolding too slowly. They are angry.
They are hungry for eternal youth.
They dream of the harvest.
26. The Wildman's Bite
THE CITY OF RADIANCE WAS OFFICIALLY A CLOSED CITY, its perimeter patrolled by border police. Residents had identity papers which permitted them to come and go. Visitors had to seek permission to enter the city. Radiance had grown rapidly in recent years, and its residents had become ever more wealthy, with the result that a large number of workers were needed to do the low-paid jobs that the citizens of Radiance scorned to do for themselves. These migrant workers were issued temporary papers, which had to be countersigned by a reputable employer every day. Those who could not find work or who were dismissed from their place of work, and so failed to get their papers signed, were obliged to leave the city that same day. Those picked up by the street patrols with unsigned papers were sent to the public tanks.
Seeker and the Wildman crossed the city boundary after dark. Here they were accosted by two border policemen. They declared themselves willing to work and were issued temporary papers.
"Go down by the lakeshore," advised the first border policeman. "Go to the floating gardens. There's always work to be had there. Keep your papers with you at all times. And stay away from the market area. That's where the tribute traders do their business."
"And here's some more advice for free," said the second policeman. "Always give way to priests and don't brawl. You don't want to land in the tanks. There's only one way out of there."
He nodded ahead towards the high crag that was the temple rock. No more needed to be said.
As they headed on their way into the city, the Wildman spoke low to Seeker.
"There'll be brawling all right. When we find those blubber-piss traders, there'll be brawling all right."
> "We have to be very careful," said Seeker. "We can only help her so long as we're free."
The Wildman groaned, recalling the sight of Morning Star trussed up in the tribute traders' net, disappearing up the river.
"I should have known. As soon as I saw the ferryman was gone, I should have known."
"Don't blame yourself."
"Why not? I'm to blame. I put her in danger. Of course I blame myself."
For a while the Wildman said no more. Then he groaned aloud again.
"I want blood!" he said. "I want killing!"
"There are other ways," said Seeker.
"What other ways?" The Wildman turned on Seeker with all the savage force of his frustration. "Here's the only ways I know. Eat alone. Sleep light. Strike first. Give no chances, because you'll get none. Watch men's hands; it's the hands that do the hurting. You know what I get my way? I'm still alive at the end of the day. Don't talk to me about other ways."
Seeker said nothing in reply, aware that the anger was not for him. The Wildman was in the grip of an emotion he had never experienced before, which was guilt. He thrashed the air with his arms as if trying to free himself once more from the entangling nets.
"I do what I do," he growled. "I live as I live. I'm ready to take what comes. But this other thing—ugh!"
He shook his entire body.
"How am I to do it for her?"
"That's when it gets difficult," said Seeker. "When you're not on your own any more. When you care about other people. When it's they who suffer, not you."
"Ugh!" said the Wildman again, and he spat onto the ground. "It's like a bad taste in my mouth that won't go away."
"I don't think anything will ever take it away again."
"Except blood! Except killing! Just let me alone with those traders for as long as it takes me to shake their hands—"
"Hush!"
There were others on the streets, and the Wildman had begun to raise his voice once more.
"We're on our way to find them now."
He spoke to calm his friend down and to turn his thoughts away from rage and towards tactics.
"We start by the marketplace. My guess is they're still in the city. They'll stay until they've sold—until they've completed their sale."
The Wildman groaned again.
"I'm going to kill them!"
"We have to find out where Morning Star is first. We want that more than we want to kill them. If they're dead, they can't tell us anything."
They were making their way down the streets of the city proper, and though neither of them admitted it, they were awed. Building after building on either side was larger and more magnificent than any house they had ever seen. Not only the roofs, but pillars and arches, window and door frames, were clad in gold. At every street corner there were water fountains for the people, and water troughs for the beasts. The paving stones on which they walked were kept clean. Here and there they saw men with shovels, scraping up the bullock droppings. The people on the streets talked and laughed as they went, swishing their expensive clothing and jingling their jewels. Fine carriages passed by, drawn by sleek-coated bullocks. Bright lamps burned in window after window. So many people, so many houses.
"I wonder where it is," said Seeker softly.
"Where what is?"
"The weapon that will destroy Anacrea."
The Wildman looked round at the windows glowing in the night.
"I want to slit necks!" he hissed. "I need to slit necks!"
"Your time will come."
They were stopped at a street corner by a street patrolman.
"Papers!"
They handed over their papers. He barely glanced at them.
"Just arrived?"
"Yes."
"Find work tomorrow or get out."
"Please," said Seeker. "Can you direct us to the market?"
"What do you want with the market? Everything's shut now."
"We're meeting a friend there."
"A friend, eh?" His bored gaze took in the Wildman and lingered over his long golden hair. "What are you, then? Dog or bitch?"
Seeker felt the Wildman shiver into stillness, his whole body tensing for a strike. He took back their papers and pulled him away.
"We're late already."
"Follow the street all the way. You'll find it."
Seeker dragged the Wildman across the intersection. They could hear the patrolman laughing after them as they went.
"Let it go!" Seeker whispered. "Just let it go."
The Wildman jerked his arm out of Seeker's grip and rolled his shoulders, growling aloud as he walked.
"Soon," he said. "Let it be soon."
As they walked on, the pavement rose up higher than the street and became narrower. The building they were passing filled the entire street block and was even more imposing than the rest. From behind its high doors came the sounds of voices and laughter, and through the imperfectly drawn curtains of its high windows they glimpsed long tables, where rows of very big men sat eating and drinking by candlelight. The sight made them hungry and cold, for the night was becoming chilly.
Ahead a bright little procession was approaching. A servant with a lantern was followed by a gold-robed priest, his train carried by a train bearer, and a second servant with a second lantern came behind. The four of them were walking fast, keeping to the middle of the narrow pavement, unconcerned about who might be in their way Seeker drew the Wildman into one of the doorways of the long building to allow the procession to go past. As he did so, the door opened, and a massively big man came blundering out, smelling of wine.
"Out of my way, scum spikers!" he boomed, and barged Seeker over the edge of the high pavement to the street below. As Seeker fell, his flailing hand struck the lantern held by the servant bringing up the rear of the priest's procession, and it too fell and smashed onto the cobbles.
Seeker landed hard. For a few moments he lay winded and bruised, his cheek to the ground. When he opened his eyes, half stunned by the shock of his fall, he found he couldn't see clearly. Somewhere close by was a glowing light. As his eyes slowly found focus, he saw that the smashed lantern lay a few inches from his face. Burning oil was trickling out from a crack in the lantern's reservoir and running between the cobblestones in a little river of flame. Unable to move, he watched, helpless but fascinated, as the flame made its way towards him. Because his eyes were right on the cobbles themselves, the flame seemed as tall as he was, and to move with a terrible and deliberate purpose. Then, just as it must reach his face, the rivulet of burning oil took a turn between the cobbles and passed him by. The flame passed close enough for him to feel its heat on his cheeks. His eyes tracked its passing, and a sensation came over him that this was no accident. This was a sign. As soon as this thought had entered his mind, he recalled the voice he had heard in the Nom, as clearly as if it were speaking to him again.
Surely you know that it's you who will save me.
All of this must have taken no more than a few seconds, because as he clambered back to his feet, he found that the big man was still on the pavement above, and the Wildman was attacking him.
"You great heap of pig-dung! Come and get me! See how I bite!"
The big man was staring at the Wildman as if he couldn't believe his eyes.
"You sick in the head, boy?" he said. "I'm an axer! In there"—he gestured at the open door—"there's another fifty axers!"
The Wildman had no weapon, but he knew how to use his powerful hands. He threw a diversionary punch with his left fist, while his right hand struck hard at the axer's throat. The axer gave a gurgling grunt of pain and started to choke. The Wildman struck again, this time with his right foot, a driving punch-kick up into the axer's groin. The axer staggered and sank to his knees.
"Who's sick in the head now?" crowed the Wildman.
Seeker reached up and pulled at him.
"Wildman! Run!"
He had seen other big men rising from the table in resp
onse to the sounds from the street.
"You can't fight them all! Run!"
Together they set off at a run down the street. Behind them they heard a roar of rage as the injured axer finally regained his voice. Ahead they saw yet another street patrol.
"Walk," said Seeker. "Walk."
They slowed to a walk and so passed the patrol without attracting undue attention. The Wildman was still charged up and hopping with aggression.
"If I had my spike, that ox would be a dead man!"
"He was a monster!"
"And I'm the Wildman! I can take him down!"
He danced from foot to foot, shadow-boxing the night air.
"You can, too," said Seeker. "You did take him down."
For all the danger they were in, Seeker had been impressed, and his voice showed it. The Wildman liked that.
"You didn't believe me before, did you? You thought I was all mouth and no teeth. But I know how to bite!"
The broad street they were following became narrower, and the houses became humbler, until it was little more than a rutted lane. On either side, other even narrower lanes ran off into the night. The people they passed here made no noise and avoided their eyes. The streetlamps became farther and farther apart, so that at the halfway point between lamps they were making their way in darkness.
Then, just when they had begun to doubt the patrolman's directions, they found themselves in the market. It was a long open space, down which ran lines of wooden stalls, all of which were bare. The ground between the stalls was littered with refuse from the day's trading, and here and there dark, crouching figures were at work scouring the droppings for anything that could be eaten or sold. A few lanterns hung from house eaves round the market perimeter, but in the center there was no light, and the scavengers were working by feel and smell.
"Now where?" said the Wildman.
"Now we ask."
Seeker accosted one of the scavengers.
"Can you help us, sir?"
The scavenger rose and stared. He was a very old man, and his face was disfigured by a broad scar that ran down one side, pulling his mouth into a perpetual snarl.
"No, sir," he said, and returned to his scavenging.
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