When the Gods Slept

by Allan Cole

  There was a saying about "getting your sweet and eating it too."

  Kalasariz wasn’t fond of sweets. But he did enjoy the sentiment.

  The spymaster slept well that night. But just before First Prayer he had a dream about a strange little creature with a man’s body and a demon’s face. It was gobbling up a sweet roll, scattering crumbs, left and right.

  When it was done it brushed itself off and looked him square in the eye.

  "Shut up!" it said. "Shut up, shut up, shut up!"

  He didn’t know what to make of the creature or its antics. But for some reason it frightened him.

  * * *

  Chapter Twelve

  The Grand Temple Of Walaria

  Unlike Kalasariz, Safar slept little that night. Every straw in his mattress and lump in his pillow made itself known. A few days before the only major worry he’d had was a vague and somewhat academic fear that the world faced some great threat. At the age of twenty summers he was incapable of taking it personally. The spy master’s visit, coupled with his recent difficulties with Umurhan, made him feel less immortal. He was in trouble and that trouble had grown from the granite hills of Umurhan’s displeasure to the bleak peaks of Kalasariz’ suspicions.

  In short, he was besieged from all sides and was in a confusion about what he ought to do. Adding to that morass was the confusion created by Nerisa’s gift plus his fears about Nerisa herself. Someone, for whatever reason, had marked her.

  Everyone on the streets knew Nerisa ran personal errands for anyone at the Foolsmire with a copper or two to pay. Most certainly some of the young men who hired her held controversial views. That didn’t make Nerisa a conspirator. This was also a fact all knew - including any of Kalasariz’ minions who made the Foolsmire their territory. So why had the informer lied? Why had he singled Nerisa out?

  Then it occurred to Safar that he was the target. Someone might be striking at him through Nerisa. But once again came that most important of all questions: Why? Then he realized that answer or not, his fate might be racing toward an unpleasant conclusion. The only intelligent thing to do was to flee Walaria as quickly as he could. Such an act would certainly turn Kalasariz’ suspicions into an outright admission of guilt. Safar thought, however, it would be even more dangerous to remain in Walaria at the mercy of the spymaster.

  He decided to run. He’d flee home to Kyrania as fast as he could. But what about Nerisa? He’d have to come up with some plan to protect her from any reprisals his flight might cause.

  Safar was relieved as soon as he made the decision. He’d learned much in Walaria, but it had been a mostly unpleasant stay in an unpleasant city. He missed his family and friends. He missed the clean mountain air and blue skies and molten clouds and snowy slopes.

  Only one thing stood in his way - a lack of money. To make a successful escape he’d require a hefty sum. He’d need a swift mount and supplies for the long journey home and money for Nerisa as well. Where could he lay hands on it? There was no sense asking his sponsor, Lord Muzine. Not only would the money be denied, Safar thought it likely the request would be immediately reported to Kalasariz.

  There was only one person he could think of who could help.

  But once that approach was made, there’d be no turning back.

  * * *

  Safar rose before first light. He washed and dressed and made a quick trip to a nearby bakery and bought a sticky roll filled with plump currants. He rushed home, brewed a pot of strong tea and while he drank it he summoned Gundara.

  The little Favorite popped out of a cloud of magical smoke, coughing and rubbing sleepy eyes.

  "Don’t tell me you get up early too!" Gundara whined. "The gods must hate me. Why else would they allow me to fall into the hands of such a cruel master?"

  Instead of answering, Safar held up the sticky roll. The Favorite’s eyes widened. "Is that for me, O Wise and Kind Master?" .

  "None other," Safar said.

  He extended the roll and the Favorite grabbed it from his hand and gobbled it up, moaning in pleasure and scattering crumbs and currants all over the floor.

  When he was done he sucked each taloned finger clean, smacked his lips, then said, "If you gave me another, I’d kill for you, Master." From his tone Safar knew it was no jest.

  "You’d kill for a piece of pastry?" Safar asked.

  Gundara shrugged. "Money is no good to me. Or jewels or treasures. I live in a stone turtle, remember? But a bit of something sweet... mmmm... Oh, yes, Master. Lead me to your victims this instant. I can help you conjure a decent poison guaranteed to reduce an entire city to a hamlet."

  "I don’t kill people," Safar said.

  "More’s the pity," Gundara answered. "Killing’s much easier than most tasks." He stretched his arms, yawning. "If it isn’t killing, Master, exactly what is it you want me to do?"

  "Make yourself as small you can," Safar said, "and hop up on my shoulder."

  "How boring," Gundara complained, but he clicked his talons together and instantly shrunk to the size of a large flea. Safar had to look very hard to see him. Gundara called out, voice just as loud as when he was full size, "You’ll have to help me with the shoulder part, Master. It’s too far to hop."

  Safar held out his hand and the black dot that was Gundara ran up it, scrambling over the rough cloth of his sleeve until he reached his shoulder.

  "I have some important business to conduct this morning," Safar said. "I want you to keep a close watch for any danger or suspicious people."

  "Do I get another roll when I’m done, Master?" came Gundara’s voice.

  "If you do a good job," Safar promised.

  "And one for Gundaree too?" the Favorite pressed.

  Safar sighed. "Yes," he said. "Gundaree can have one too."

  "Make it with berries, next time," the little Favorite requested. "Currants give me gas."

  * * *

  The city was stirring to life when Safar set out. Traffic was light but a few shops were opening and workmen were gathering in the front of others, munching olives and black bread while they waited for their employers’ arrival. Safar passed the wheelwrights’ shop, which always started early to repair wagons that’d broken down on the way to market. A hard-eyed man leaned against the wall near the entrance. He stared at Safar when he went by.

  Safar bent his head closer to shoulder. "Any trouble there?" he asked.

  "Just a cutpurse," the flea speck that was Gundara answered. "Don’t worry. You’re too poor for his taste."

  Safar went on, but kept his pace slow so his Favorite could sniff for spies. He was certain Kalasariz would order his informers to trail him. Although Safar was only a mountain lad, unwise in the ways of the city, he had much experience with nature to rely on. Animal or human, hunters always behaved the same way. Wolves on the stalk, for instance, might post a sentry near their intended victim. When the flock moved about the sentry would keep close watch on the sick sheep that had been chosen for dinner. As the flock moved from place to place the wolf would follow only so far, passing on his duties to another sentry so as not to arouse suspicion. And so on throughout the day until the intended victim fell behind the flock, or strayed too far from the rams. Then the sentry would howl the news and the pack would strike.

  This is how Safar imagined Kalasariz’ informers would work. They’d post a spy on the street near his home, who would alert the others when he emerged. Then he’d be passed along from spy to spy until he returned home for the night.

  As he neared the end of his street an old woman with rags for clothes and a torn horse blanket for a shawl rose up from beside her push cart. There were pigeons cooing in a wooden cage on one side push cart, hot meat pies steaming from a basket in the other.

  "Fresh pigeon pies?" she called out to Safar. "Two coppers a pie, sir."

  "No thank you, Granny," Safar said, moving by.

  The old woman gripped his sleeve. "That’s my usual price, sir. Two coppers a pie. And fresh and hot they is, s
ir. Fresh killed this morning. But you’re such a handsome lad, sir, if you don’t mind me saying so. You make this poor granny’s heart sing like she was a maid. For you sir, for bringing back my girlhood, I’ll charge only a copper for two."

  The spy saw Safar hesitate, then nod and hand over a copper in exchange for two pies which he tucked into his purse. He said thank you to the granny, polite as you please, and passed on - turning the corner and heading down a broad street. The old woman waited until he’d disappeared from sight then quickly opened the door to the pigeon cage. She grabbed the only white bird, which was also much larger and fatter than the others. She petted it, whispered soothing words and threw it high into the air, moving with a surprising agility for someone who appeared so old and bent.

  The pigeon flew up and up - circling the street as it oriented itself. Then it shot for the high tower that marked the entrance to the Central Market. The spy smiled, knowing what would happen next. The pigeon was trained to circle the tower three times. This would alert all the informers planted about the city that Safar was on the move. Then the pigeon would return to the pushcart for a nice treat and whispered praise that it was such a smart and pretty bird.

  The old woman, who was the spy, was quite fond of the pigeon. She’d raised it from the egg and spoiled it more than any other bird she’d had. She watched proudly as her little darling flew toward the tower. Then she gasped as a deadly black figure winged its way over the rooftops and headed for the pigeon. The hawk hurled itself at her prize bird, talons stretching out. The pigeon sensed its peril and tried to dodge but the hawk was quicker and there was an explosion of blood and feathers. The hunter flew away, the remains of the pigeon clutched in its claws.

  The spy groaned in dismay. She’d not only lost her favorite pet, but Safar as well. Quickly she grabbed a passing boy by the ear and gave him a coin to mind her cart, promising more if all was safe when she returned. Then she hurried off to warn her superiors that a hawk had spoiled their plans.

  Two streets away Safar cut around a corner at top speed, then slowed to a fast walk. It was a tenement neighborhood with high, crooked buildings. There was no one about except housewives illegally emptying chamber pots into the street, instead of paying the slopwagon men to carry away the filth. Shutters would bang open, slop would stream into the street, then they’d bang shut before anyone in authority could see. And woe betide the passerby who didn’t jump in the correct direction when he first heard the shutters open.

  Safar slipped smoothly to the side as a murky stream poured down the heavens, avoiding getting even a spatter of filth on his robes. He whistled and the hawk darted down from a roof. It landed on his shoulder, beak and chest feathers clotted with blood. Safar made a face at the mess, then gestured and the hawk transformed into Gundara who became a flea spot on his shoulder.

  "Look at me! I’m covered with pigeon blood," the Favorite complained. "The gods know I hate the taste of blood, especially pigeon blood. You don’t know where the filthy things have been. They’re worse than chickens."

  "I’m sorry," Safar said. "Still, you did a good job."

  "I have a ninny for a master," Gundara said. "Of course I did a good job. What did you think, that I’d just been spellhatched? I’ve been doing this for more centuries than I care to mention because it depresses me so much.

  "Yech! There’s blood in my mouth, too. And feathers. You have no idea what it does to you when you bite down on a feather."

  Safar felt sorry for him and soothed him as best he could. A few streets later he bought a dish of pudding, floating in sugared rose water. He ate half the pudding, then pushed the remainder aside with his wooden spoon so Gundara could jump in and bathe.

  He continued on, Gundara a fat wet black spot on the shoulder of his robe.

  The Favorite burped. "Maybe you’re not such a bad master after all," he allowed. "Do you eat rose pudding every day?"

  "I will from now on," Safar promised.

  "You hear that, Gundaree?" the Favorite said to his invisible twin. "I’m absolutely soaked with sugar water! Existence is wonderful. And I have the best master in all the world. So go sod yourself, see if I care!"

  Safar grimaced at the one-way conversation. He was glad he only had to deal with one Favorite at a time. Together they’d drive him mad.

  He was moving under a large awning shading the entrance to a rug shop, when he heard someone hiss from overhead - "Safar!"

  It was Nerisa. He covered his surprise, looking around to make sure no one was near. Then he chanced a look upward and saw a dark eye gleaming through a hole in the awning.

  "Don’t look!" the girl commanded.

  "I’m sorry," Safar whispered back. He toyed with a pile of rugs near the entrance, pretending to examine them for quality. "Are you all right?" he asked under his breath.

  Nerisa snorted. "Scared half to death, is all. What’d I do to get Kalasariz after me?"

  "You saw him?"

  "I hid outside until he left. I thought I was seeing things at first. Or maybe I was in the middle of a nightmare and couldn’t wake up. Then he went by my hiding place and I got a good look and knew it was no nightmare. Who could miss that face of his? Looks like somebody who doesn’t see the sun much. Or a ghost."

  Safar nodded, fingering another rug. "Listen," he said. "I don’t have time to explain what’s happening. They’re just using you as an excuse to get to me. I don’t know why. But I’m going to do something about it now. Just keep low. Stay away from the Foolsmire. And meet me tonight."

  "Okay, Safar," Nerisa said. "Tonight then. Say three hours after last prayer?"

  "Where? My place isn’t safe."

  "Don’t worry," Nerisa said. "No one will see me. Just be there. I’ll come to you."

  He started to argue, but there was a slight rustling noise above and when he looked up at the rent in the awning the eye was gone.

  Safar was troubled as continued on his way. Nerisa took too many chances for his liking. But there was nothing he could do about it now and so he pushed away the worry as best he could to concentrate on his mission. Before long he reached his destination. He smiled to himself as he approached, thinking all the spies who’d been set on his trail would be scurrying all over the city looking for him. But he’d be hiding in plain sight in a place they’d never think to look - the Grand Temple of Walaria.

  It was an ugly edifice - a series of massive buildings and onion-domed towers enclosed by high, fortress-like walls. The temple had begun as a simple stone structure. It had been built centuries before by the first high priest in the days when Walaria - which meant the place of the waters - was little more than a few ramshackle buildings encircled by immense corrals to hold the great cattle herds that enriched the original settlers. Legend had it Walaria was founded by a wandering wizard. It had been nothing more than a dry thorny plain then. According to the myth, the wizard had thrust his staff into the ground. The staff instantly grew into a tall tree and a spring had burst out from under its roots. Over time a great market city had been born from that spring, with a king to rule it and a high priest to build and tend that first temple.

  Afterwards each high priest constructed another holy structure - more to glorify his name then those of the gods. Temples were hurled up willy nilly, with each high priest competing with the bad taste of the man he’d replaced. Most of the buildings were dedicated to the many gods worshipped by the people of Esmir. It was Walaria’s boast there were idols to as many gods as there were stars in the heavens.

  Safar went through the main gate, passing by scores of shops and stalls catering to the business of worship. There was incense of every variety and price, holy oils, special candles and thousands upon thousands of idols of the different gods - large ones for the household altar, small ones to make talismans to hang from a chain. On both sides of the thoroughfare were hutches and small corrals containing animals and birds that could be purchased for sacrifice. Blessings and magical potions were also on sale and if you
were a pilgrim with foreign coin, or letters of credit, there were half-a-dozen money changers eager to service you from first prayer to last.

  A crowd was already gathering when Safar arrived and he had to elbow his way through the throngs. He turned right when he reached the end of the main boulevard and here the street was empty except for a few students like himself hurrying to the university - a low-slung building two stories high and three deep.

  The top level was where Umurhan and the other priests lived - although Umurhan’s quarters took up almost half that space. The ground level was for offices and classrooms - and the great meeting hall where they all gathered for special ceremonies and announcements. Two of the below-ground levels were given over to dormitories for students too poor to come up with the price of a private hovel or garret such as Safar’s.

  Leering gargoyles decorated the portals leading into the university. Safar shivered as he passed under them.

  "There’s no danger," Gundara said from his shoulder. "It’s only stone."

  Safar didn’t need the reassurance. He knew quite well the gargoyles were nothing more than lifeless symbols to ward off evil spirits. Still, even after being confronted with those leering stone faces every day for nearly two years, he couldn’t help the reaction.

  Just beyond the portal was a large courtyard with stone steps leading to an altar. It was here the students practiced making blood sacrifices to the gods. An animal would be driven out from barred cages to the left of the altar. The animals were always drugged so they rarely gave any trouble. A priest would direct a youth in the grisly task of slicing the creature’s throat. Others would dash in to catch the flowing blood before the animal fell. Then prayers would be said as the animal was butchered out and the meat and blood burned in sacrificial urns to glorify the gods. Safar had always been uneasy about blood sacrifices and the more he learned the less he thought they were necessary. He’d also noticed that the best cuts of meat were set aside for Umurhan and his priests - hardly an act that would please a deity.