Ahiram looked at her, trying to assess her intent. “What do you know about the urkuun?”
Sheheluth blanched. “An urkuun? What degree?”
Ahiram shook his head. “He didn’t say.”
“He spoke with you?”
“On several occasions.”
She started pacing nervously. “I don’t understand. This makes no sense, unless of course—”
“Sheheluth, I am sorry to say, but I am reaching my limit. My temper is flaring and I don’t know—”
“If an urkuun found you, he would have snatched you by now. Once this creature sets its gaze on its victim, there is no escape. So, why are you are still here?”
“Sheheluth, I am going to ask you this one more time.” Ahiram’s tone was dark, threatening. “Who are you and how do you know these things? How can I know you are not an agent of the urkuun trying to convince me to let my friends die?”
“First sensible question you’ve asked me. Where I come from, théléos is common. Since childhood we are exposed to it. I know of the urkuun from stories my folks have told us. More I cannot say without endangering the life of a dear friend of mine.”
“Which is why I am not sure I can fully trust you. You can’t tell me why the urkuun has not attacked yet. But then again, the commander accepted you as a Silent, and if he vouches for you, that’s enough for me. All I know is that my friends are in danger and I will defend them.”
An inhuman scream, searing like the fire of the Pit and commanding like a dark storm, stilled Laymiir. A sense of dread fell on the company, as if their fate had already been decided. As if defeat awaited them at the end of the road.
“That’s one biiig chicken,” chuckled Frajil. “Who is hungry?”
“The tajéruun are to the Temple what money is to magic; money requires magic to grow and magic requires money to flow.”
–Philology of the Dwarfs, Anonymous.
That same night Master Galliöm entered the Hall of Medallions. As head of the tajéruun, or moneymen, he oversaw the main vault of the zakiruun’s fortune. The Hall of Medallions was built over the vault and was the tajéruun’s nerve center; the central command from which Galliöm directed his empire.
He sat on the chair of command; an iron seat welded out of actual medallions of power. Set on a raised deck, it overlooked an oval pit three hundred feet long and one hundred feet wide with a raised ceiling standing sixty feet overhead. Two identical sets of rails covered both the floor and the ceiling of the pit so that one hundred and fifty iron ladders locked to the rails moved soundlessly in a dizzying dance. Each ladder carried five silver seats that pointed in different directions, and each seat carried a clerk who wore a silver helmet with a retractable glass visor. These were the observers, who mediated all distant exchanges between thousands of zakiruun across the sixty-two kingdoms. As the ladders moved silently, they scanned the thousands of red medallions that hung from the giant circular wall. Whenever a medallion flashed, an observer would lower the visor, slide a black medallion into a slit, and wait until the requester’s face appeared on the visor’s surface. The requester, typically a zakiir, would tell the observer whom he wished to speak with. The observer would slide a white medallion into the same slit and wait for the recipient’s face to appear. Each of the requesters and recipients would use a red medallion identical to those on the wall, along with a glass orb. The observer would listen and consign the conversation to memory.
“Any news from Tanniin yet?” asked the leader of the tajéruun.
Iron bars welded to the platform in front of him held seven orbs. A disembodied voice flowed from one of them.
“Not yet, Master.”
“What of Milaniöm? Any progress in the Slippery-Slued case?”
“Nothing new, Master. They cannot explain how the thief managed to slew the scene and slip the extra bag past our defenses. His action is baffling. Why would a thief give us gold instead of stealing it from us?”
“What of Ibromaliöm? Do we know why he stole from us?”
“No Master, we are still investigating the crime. Shall we report him to the local authorities?”
“No. This is strictly the tajéruun’s business. Alert me when our men in Amsheet have found him.”
Galliöm dismissed his interlocutor. He spent the night in the hall, waiting and observing. The night had been uneventful with most conversations being mundane or technical and not warranting his attention. Morning brought no more details about Ibromaliöm nor the mystery behind Slippery-Slued’s actions. Leaving the hall, he followed a ten-foot-wide circular walkway. Thick cork panels, encrusted with four dull-looking iron medallions covered the floor, ceiling, and walls; they were equipped with interlocking curses that shielded the hall from magical attacks. Galliöm stepped out through one of the four available doors. Two creatures stood guard and opened an iron gate for him. As tall as giants, with green translucent skin and eyes slit like snakes, they wore iron chain mail, high leathery helmets, and carried fuming gray blades. They were the Massrifuun, guardians of the Hall of Medallions.
Galliöm stepped onto one of the four bridges that linked the hall to the walls of a huge cave. Seen from below the hall’s exterior, it resembled an iron egg suspended by massive iron beams from the cave’s ceiling. Below the bridge, the main vault lay in a colossal oval pit, six hundred feet wide, twelve hundred feet long, and four hundred feet deep. Slaves had excavated the hole, smoothed out its surface, and sealed it.
Ages ago, the tajéruun had commissioned dwarfs to build a device to showcase the size of their fortune. The dwarfs proposed the alignment of the planets as a measure of wealth and influence. Every gold coin falling into the Pit would help nudge the planets forward. When all seven planets will stand aligned in the center, the pit will be full to the brim. The moneymen immediately commissioned the project.
The dwarfs went to work. They designed a weight-sensing device for the pit’s floor. It consisted of a thick iron platform with seven holes through which mechanical arms were bolted and set over the pit. Like the legs of an inverted spider, they ran along the edge of the pit, rising thirty feet over its surface where the monstrous arms each stood clasping a crystal sphere. To hold the tajéruun’s massive wealth, the dwarfs had used a strong gold alloy to build a container the size of the pit, which rested on the iron platform. When the coins started flowing inside this container, their weight tripped the pressure-controlled mechanism, which then began to move the smallest sphere toward the center.
The pit is already half-full, thought Galliöm as he approached the exit. From the bridge, he watched the shimmering lake of gold with elation. Three planets were already aligned, with the fourth not too far behind. There is enough here to buy forty kingdoms.
The cave that housed the hall and vault was huge but ordinary. There were no curses protecting it, no glittering statues lining its sides, and no elaborate carvings along its walls. Despite this lack of magical protection, the cave terrified the slaves and clerks alike, for no one, not even Galliöm, knew of its precise location. It was completely sealed with no natural way in or out. The Arayat was the only known way to access the cave. Over the years, slaves had dug secret tunnels to escape, but they all led back to the starting point. Some tajéruun speculated that it was right above—or below—the City of the Dead. Others swore it was in the Vanishing Land, but none of them knew with any degree of certainty where the vault was located.
The dwarfs had dug a spiral passage into one of its walls. Outfitted with a complex of rails, it transported white carts filled with gold coins and returned them empty. A parallel system carved into the opposite wall used black carts; they were wheeled in empty and then returned filled with gold. With this simple system, the tajéruun kept a meticulous count of all their credit and debit operations.
Stepping off the bridge, Galliöm entered one of the five elevators, each powered by twenty slaves. Like the thousand other slaves Galliöm had acquired for the service of the vault, they lived an
d died there, never to see the light of day.
With bent backs, the slaves turned a large wheel that powered the elevator, which wormed its way up into a vertical tunnel. Galliöm waited for the fifty-sixth level, and then pulled the rope. A muffled horn sounded down below, and the elevator came to a stop at the fifty-eighth floor. He stepped out of the elevator and walked along a circular iron platform ringed with ten elliptical doors. Each of the remaining 199 levels was identical: a circular platform with ten elliptical doors. He covered his face with an oddly shaped mask, slid into leather boots, and put on a thick leather coat with gloves sewn into the cuffs. A group of clerks opened a door a few floors below him, and another group opened a door a few floors above. They brought in the gold, then pulled on a rope and two elevators moved up. Opening one of the doors, Galliöm stepped onto a small metal platform with a circular hole in the middle where a thick green soup oozed and bubbled. Carefully, he grabbed a medallion that hung on a nearby hook and placed it around his neck. Immediately, the coat, mask, and boots fused, and became one seamless, impermeable garment. The mask expanded and covered Galliöm’s head, then inflated until it became the size of a large pumpkin. He jumped into the green soup, which quickly sucked him downward. He dropped inside a tunnel somewhere in the Arayatian underground, a place where the priests of Baal never ventured. He waded through the green soup toward an elliptical door held in place by four medallions. He opened it, grabbed a ladder, and pulled himself up until he stood dripping on a smaller metal platform. He removed the medallion, hung it on a hook, and waited for the mask, coat, and boots to regain their original form before removing his outer garments.
The two hundred levels, with their ten doors and underground Arayatian tunnels, were the only way in or out of the main vault. Two thousand doors took the tajéruun to nearly every kingdom and provided them with unimpeded access to every major city in the world.
Galliöm opened an elliptical door and stepped inside a meager empty room, then into a small cave where gold trickled from the roof through a hole. This cave, the vault of a tajéruun's outpost, was a worthy treasure by any measure. Still, it was puny compared to the central vault. But thousands of locations such as this one fed the central vault through the Arayatian underground passage.
Shortly after, he emerged inside the Lanudonis tajéruun’s operation where clerks and a few zakiruun worked quietly. He pulled his hood onto his head and passed by them silently. Outside, the Lanudonis’ sky drizzled its usual sulking gray cover. Indifferent to the cold, he walked briskly to the Prickly Peacock, a select tavern for the well-to-do. He walked in, and a fawning lackey ushered him to a velvety table in a quiet corner where two men waited. Seeing him, they rose to their feet.
“Milaniöm, Silvaniöm, may gold preserve you from harm.”
The two men bowed and they all sat down to a scrumptious dinner. As an appetizer, they had pheasant marinated in an eggplant and basil sauce and a side dish of Thermodonian lemon truffles. A refreshing rosé wine formed the perfect accompaniment. The next course was honey-glazed duck in a light sesame sauce with a rich, smooth red wine. Next, they enjoyed the best ale-basted venison in all of Lanudonis. Finally, they washed it all down with a parsimonious green salad sprinkled with roasted almonds and dowsed with a raspberry sauce.
“Ah, this wine, I tell you,” said Galliöm, clapping his tongue with satisfaction. “The best in the northern realm.”
“Indeed, Master,” concurred Milaniöm. “The Prickly Peacock is by far the best inn in town.”
“I understand a second breach of our vault occurred under your watch, is that not so, Milaniöm?” The short, balding man clasped his hands and waited. Anguish kneaded his forehead and constricted his breathing. “Nevertheless,” continued Galliöm with a reassuring paternal smile, “this time around, someone added to our treasury instead of stealing from us. How odd. What do you think, Silvaniöm?”
“I don’t like it. We have a breach and maybe a mole.” Galliöm nodded in approval. “We must find out who is behind this and why.”
“Agreed. Nevertheless, this matter is of regional importance. Most likely, it is related to the covert war between Bar-Tanic, Togofalk, and Thermodon. We have dealt with similar situations in the past and this one may not be different. Milaniöm, I’m going to assign Silvaniöm as your assistant. He will help you manage this annoyance. More importantly, he will coordinate our regional response to the theft in Amsheet. Milaniöm, you will direct your Bar-Tanickian clients to delay their invasion of Tanniin until further notice. Understood?”
“Yes, Master.”
“You will cooperate fully with Silvaniöm and facilitate his work here.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Dismissed.”
Milaniöm got up, bowed deeply, and left the inn. He was relieved that Galliöm had not killed him on the spot. The League of the Tajéruun owned the inn and no one would have objected. The Lanudonisian sky looked friendlier and gentler than he had ever seen it before.
Inside the Prickly Peacock, Silvaniöm waited for his master to speak.
“Hire a group of murderers, the best you can find, and send them to Amsheet. I want Ibromaliöm dead, is that understood?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Be careful, he is growing stronger day-by-day, we may have underestimated him. Dispose of him quickly.”
“Understood.”
“Silvaniöm, one more thing: Once you complete your mission, get rid of Milaniöm, and blame his death on Ibromaliöm.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fool, shameful idiot, unrepentant failure. The Rahal take you! Lothan drag you to the deepest waters, and the Nininth carry your sorry self to the hellhound of the pit. You have shamed our family name, dishonored our parents, and brought a stinging rebuke to my title. If our father’s curse did not bind us, I would kill you and leave your despicable body to the carrions. I should have sold you in Metranos long ago. You are a sham, Olothe, a wicked miserable slime. May the Nephral devour your soul!”
Olothe, unable to speak, shook violently. He knew his older brother was right, he had brought shame to the family and disgraced his ancestral home. He was a cripple now, condemned to a life of misery. He wished he could die, oh how he wished his brother would pass his sword through his heart and release him from his misery; but he knew no one would dare touch him. Powerful curses hung over his head like a murder of crows in a darkened sky—curses his father had spoken when he was born to guard against anyone who tried to take his life. To cast self-proclaimed curses against assassins was the House of Lurca’s long-standing tradition. But these curses forbade suicide, and no assassin worth their salt would go near the Lurcas. Since the fate of Olothe’s servants was tied to his, they protected him with their lives. They would die when he died.
Nebo, Olothe’s oldest brother, paced angrily. Despite his anger, he had managed not to yell, for he did not want everyone in the inn to know that he, a high-ranking officer of the Baalite army, had a cripple for a brother. He would not recover from the shame.
“You did well to wait for me here, in Taleb,” he said addressing Olothe’s servants. “Taleb is the busiest port in the kingdom of Baraknun, a great ally of the Temple. A cripple will go unnoticed. Who among you is in charge here?”
“I am, Your Lordship,” said a short woman with a pudgy face and a fat mole on her chin.
“Do not continue on to Lurca. Instead, I command you to go to Babylon and spend the rest of your lives there until this trash is dead.”
“Babylon, sir? Under Baal’s nose?”
“Precisely,” replied Nebo. “No one will look for him there. Go to Babylon, purchase a mansion, and buy a husband or two. Enjoy life and lock Olothe away. When he dies, kill everyone, and kill yourself, or the curse will spread to your villages. Understood?”
“Yes, Lord, we will do as you command. Our lives belong to the Pit.”
Leaving them to their own devises, Nebo fetched his horse and galloped away under the cover of
night. May Antral, the god of the dead, be praised, for I managed to travel secretly to Baraknun. I am an hour or two away from Sowas. The slave that maimed my brother will pay dearly. He will taste the bitter blade of the Sowasian assassins.
“What does Lord Sharr command?”
Sharr, High Priest of Babylon, looked at Kalibaal kneeling before him. Kalibaal’s balding head was creased and wrinkled, and his neck was beginning to look like the trunk of a millennial tree. Age does not befit you my friend, he thought.
“Would you do me the favor of asking Lady Sarand, the Soloist, to join us here for a meeting?”
Does he know of the attempt to overthrow him? We are a few weeks away from carrying out our plan.“Certainly, My Lord. I will do so at once.”
Kalibaal rose from his kneeling posture, walked back while keeping his head low, and left the Hall of Judgment. Outside, he slipped into his leather boots and walked briskly down a wide marble hall. Tall statues of former high priests and priestesses eyed him somberly as he descended a short flight of stairs and stepped outside the Temple. He clambered down an additional seven flights of stairs that had been constructed in honor of Baal—the first among the seven major deities of the world. After a short walk in the streets of Babylon, he rang the Adorant’s doorbell. It had rained the night before, and a Babylonian storm in the month of Shubat was a bad omen. Still, the air was brisk and fresh.
The door opened silently and an Adorant welcomed him. He averted his eyes and asked to speak with Sarand. The Adorant told him she would be delighted to take him to her, and he replied that it would best if they could speak outside. The woman gave him a bewitching smile and disappeared behind the door. Kalibaal breathed a little better. Women had always been his weakness and he knew he had little resistance to the Adorants’ charms. Control yourself you idiot. You are a member of the Inner Council, not some minor priest. His words had little effect. Women will be my damnation, he thought with a trepidation that scared him. I should not think this way. Had he known how deeply attached he had become to Sarand, he would have called himself even worse. Any sailor devoted to his bottle would have told Kalibaal, had he asked, that Sarand’s noose was wound too tightly around his heart for him to escape. Sailors knew of only one way to kick the habit: Enroll for a year on a liquor-free boat and hope for the best. Even if boats were to sprout from the ground, Kalibaal would have refused to leave Babylon. He had ventured too deeply into Sarand’s web and did not even know it.
Wrath of the Urkuun (Epic of Ahiram Book 2) Page 39