“This Lady,?” The priest inspected Trinesh’s companions. He seemed sophisticated enough to know grain from chaff: lower-class troopers, an odd but clearly peripheral nonhuman, and three nondescript tribespeople—Tse’e, Chekkuru, and the Lady Jai. Aside from Trinesh himself, only the Lady Deq Dimani had the look of quality—and authority—about her.
She saw what was needed: an immediate assertion of rank and class. “I am the sole Matriarch of Vridu, an island in the northern sea off the coast of Yan Kor. I am also the High Priestess of the Lord of Sacrifice, whom you may know as Lord Vimuhla—”
“Vimuhla? One of the Tlokiriqaluyal, the Five Lords of Change?”
“So He is.” She raised her strong, squarish chin. She might be bedraggled and hungry, but Trinesh thought her very beautiful.
The priest undid the catches of his closed, gold-chased headdress and pulled it off. The face beneath the gem-encrusted mask was less imposing than the serpentine monster it de-
picted: clean-shaven, with the bluish jowls of one whose beard requires two razorings a day, thick eyebrows joined in a solid bar above close-set eyes, and a thin, weak nose that ended in a red-veined bulb just above fleshy lips. His skin was pale ivory, smooth and unmarked save for a telltale crinkling about the eyes. Trinesh guessed his age at about fifty, but he could not be sure. This Chunatl Dikkuna looked Salarvyani, though subtly different from those whose trading caravans brought black Dronu-wine and bales of gay-striped fabrics to Tumissa.
The man frowned and ran begemmed fingers over his sweat-gleaming bare skull. “Lord Vimuhla is not favored here, nor are any of the Lords of Change. Were I to tell the High General, he would order you—ah—degraded to the black Klai Ga, the walkway of slaves and commoners.” He smiled ingratiatingly. “Yet there is no need to say more than one wishes, of course. ‘A good huntsman tests the wind before approaching the prey,’ eh? Lord Hnalla rules this land, and after Him Lord Karakan; Lady Avanthe is beloved for Her attentions to the crops, the yearly river-flood, and the animals; then come Lord Thumis and Lord Belkhanu. These comprise the five Tlomitlanyal of Stability. The Lords of Change have Their temples, too, but those are small and mean—of no power.”
“Then it is time you—” Chekkuru began hotly. Horusel himself put a scarred hand upon his shoulder, and the priest’s protest ended in a squeak.
“Enough,” Trinesh interrupted. “Where are we? You must know that we came here by chance via the tubeway car. We intend no harm.”
“This is Mihallu, the easternmost province of Engsvan hla Ganga, the glorious Empire of the Priestkings—”
“How can that be?” Trinesh did not know whether to be amazed or angry. “Do you tell us that we have crossed the seas of time? Engsvan hla Ganga is ten thousand years gone, the Isle of Ganga itself sunk beneath the waters of Msumtel
Bay, the northern sea risen to become a plain! The Priestkings lie drowned, and their dominions are no more than ink-tracks upon musty parchment!”
“Let us discuss these matters in a private place.” The priest nodded' judiciously at the throng pressing about them. “I will explain. There are things you must know.”
It seemed best to obey. Chunatl Dikkuna spoke to the High General, who waved a curt hand and stalked off surrounded by his entourage. The priest then led the way across the hall, indicating that they should remain upon the black walkway, the lowest. They passed beneath an archway and halted in a ' smaller side chamber filled with flat stools and folded wooden screens stacked against the walls. Chunatl Dikkuna himself paused just within the door to stand upon a single raised tongue of green stone that extended out into the black tiling with which the rest of the floor was paved.
“An antechamber adjoining the feast-hall,” he remarked apologetically. “It will serve until matters are plainer.”
‘ ‘What will you do with us?” The Lady Deq Dimani’s cheeks were flushed; she must still be smarting from this priest’s cavalier rejection of her deity.
“Listen, and you will be well treated.” He raised a monitory finger. “Know that I myself am a foreigner here. I come from the city of Jgresh in Salarvya, and I was not always called by the Engsvanyali name of Chunatl Dikkuna. My parents were of the Gurrushyugga clan—the lords of much of the southeastern coast of our nation—and my original name was Horrukhu Jaggash. I journeyed hither as a physician seeking herbs and elixirs—”
“What has your personal history to do with us?” The Lady Deq Dimani was impatient enough to be rude.
“Peace! Hear me! I was raised a worshipper of our Salarvyani Goddess, Lady Shiringgayi, but I—ah—improved myself vastly here by taking on not only an Engsvanyali name but also the profession of a priest of Lord Karakan. My knowledge of his doctrines is admittedly casual, but still it
exceeds that of the locals as the sea is greater than a river. Most of the hierophants of Mihallu can neither read nor write, and their wisdom is limited to chanting Engsvanyali catechisms by rote—of which they understand less than does an Ahoggya of the ballads of the bards!”
Trinesh drew up one of the low stools and sat upon it. To Lord Vimuhla’s icy hells with etiquette! “These folk did not know you? They have never seen a Salarvyani?”
“You have to understand. Mihallu is isolated, cut off as no other place is cut off; to the south are the jungles, mountains, and fierce savages of Rannalu—all of whom I eluded to get here. Go north, and you come to Moringana Massif, even denser forests, and the wild lands of Mudallu and Nuru’un. To the east are the Plains of Glass, a barren desert that makes all else appear as lushly fertile as Lady Shiringgayi’s loins by comparison, while to the west are the barbarians of Jannu and Lake Parunal.”
“Lake Parunal?” the Lady Deq Dimani cried. “I know of it! We have only to cross it to reach Saa Allaqi and Yan Kor.”
“Madam,” Chunatl Dikkuna replied sadly, “you are now in Ninue, the capital of Mihallu. The River Naru rises out of the mountains bordering the Plains of Glass; it flows westwards for two thousand of your Tsan to reach Ninue; thence it journeys on for another thousand Tsan before it debouches into Lake Parunal. This valley of Mihallu is only three or four hundred Tsan across from north to south, but it would take half a lifetime to walk it end to end!”
“And Lake Parunal is still eighteen hundred Tsan from Vridu,” Tse’e added with malicious good humor. “A few hours in the Ancients’ tube way car but years on foot!”
The despair that seized Trinesh was like the gloom of thunderheads over a summer landscape. Tumissa—home—was farther away than the paradises of the Immortal Gods! He changed the subject. “But this— this matter of the Priestkings— Engsvan hla Ganga?”
“To these people Engsvan hla Ganga is very much alive,” answered the priest. “That is the key to Mihallu: the Engsvanyali Empire still lives. The Priestkings’ legions expelled the nonhuman Mihalli who dwelt here aforetime. They (hen settled this land with humans from the tribes roundabout and established their rule for millennia thereafter. That same rule continues here to this day. According to these folk, the Priestkings’ Isle of Ganga never sank. Their ‘High Governor’ —the title of Gaichun is a corruption of the Engsvanyali word Zhaitolan—claims his mandate directly from the Priestkings’ chancery! All is ostensibly as it was before Pavar’s island disappeared beneath the waves.”
“Madness,” Trinesh breathed. “They do not know? Are there no merchants—travelers—to break the sad news to them? After ten thousand years?”
“They know. But they do not admit it. Ganga lies halfway across the continent, a legend, a history, a fable. The fiction of its existence must be maintained, for Mihalli government and society rest upon it, nay, cling to it like leeches to a Nmatl-ihW. It gives these folk their justification to rule!” He pursed his lips. “Merchants? Ai, at this moment there are a dozen Salarvyani caravan-masters in Ninue, such as he who rescued me from the jungles of Rannalu, and a few wanderers from other lands to boot. All must pretend to the existence of Engsvan hla Ganga. To do otherwise mean
s imprisonment or a decree of death.”
“But these folk are not Engsvanyali,” the Lady Deq Dimani exploded. “1 have seen the Priestkings’ portraits—statues, coins, paintings in books! These people look no more Engsvanyali than Thu’n here!” She ran her fingers through her thick mane in exasperation.
“True, true, Lady. Racially these folk are no heirs of Ganga, yet every lordly house claims descent from some Engsvanyali lineage or other. You saw General Tekkuren? He traces his ancestry back to a Chaishyani ancestor. Tankolel, Ssaivra, Ssanmirin, Chagotlekka, Ketkolel, Mraktine—their peerage reads like a roster of the legendary heroes of Dormoron Plain!”
“The language?” Trinesh puzzled. “We heard no more Engsvanyali after you first addressed us.”
Chunatl Dikkuna gave him a regretful smile. “I probably speak less Engsvanyali than you do. The common tongue here is Tka Mihalli, a language of the Aom family, related to Saa Allaqiyani and the dialects of the northeast. The locals throw Engsvanyali words into their speech as a Jakallan cook tosses hot Hling-seed into a stew—the more one uses, the higher one’s status.”
“Let us speak of ourselves,” the Lady Deq Dimani persisted grimly. “What happens to us? We came by the tubeway car, and we are not Engsvanyali. Do we change our names and religions? Do we tell these lunatics that we serve the Priestkings, though only sea-monsters now sit upon the throne of Ganga? Shall we pretend to this fantasy, this relic, this parody of the past?”
Chunatl Dikkuna stroked his nose. “That is for you to choose. You may stay on here as 1 have done, or you may walk home. They will not permit you to regain the tubeway portal—that lies within the old palace, the Many-Chambered Sanctuary of the Gaichun.”
Trinesh thought of something. “Why was that place deserted? Does no one live there?”
“They say it is inhabited by ghosts. The halls swim with ancient sadnesses ...”
“Cha!” Chosun snorted.
“Oh, if you prefer more mundane reasons, then know that the present Gaichun is old. He does not enjoy the height, the climb, the crossing of the river, and the distance from his cronies here in the city. There are political urgencies as well. He therefore resides in the Palace of the Realm, with his clan-cousin who holds the title of High Prefect.”
“So that is what we saw: the four palaces!” Chekkuru exclaimed. “We ourselves still follow the Engsvanyali sys-tem in Tsolyanu: four 'palaces’ which govern the realm under the central authority of the God-Emperor in Avanthar! The Engsvanyali divided their administration into the ‘Palace of the Realm,’ the ‘Palace of the Priesthoods,’ the ‘Palace of Ever-Glorious War,’ and the ‘Palace of Foreign Lands,’ We continue their pattern in Tsolyanu, and so do they here.” ‘‘True, but here the Palace of the Realm is occupied by the Gaichun and his adherents, that of the Priesthoods belongs to the clans which provide the hereditary hierophants of the temples, that of Ever-Glorious War—in which you now stand—is home to the descendants of the Priestkings’ legionaries, and that of Foreign Lands is empty, a ruin, ever since the civil war a century and a half ago.”
“You speak as though the Four Palaces were al! independent powers,” Tse’e put in. “Yet ail are supposed to be the arms of the Imperium. They should not be fiefdoms!”
“Time and distance blur all things. In Mihallu, the Palaces are not completely autonomous, but they do maintain a certain nice aloofness. The Gaichun is ill-disposed toward his generals, and the priesthoods love neither. 1 shall instruct you in local politics later, as need arises.”
“This could not happen in Tsolyanu,” Tse’e scoffed. “The ruler—the Emperor, the High Governor—would have only to command, and tradition and religion would come thundering down upon his foes as surely as Thenu Thendraya Peak crushed the Demon Qu’u in the Epic of Hrugga! The army would oust any rebel generals—”
“What army? Here we have generals but no troops! These people have never seen a battle! The Thirty-Fifth Legion, the ‘Seekers of Indelible Victory,’ contains no more than a few score of Lord Tekkuren’s relatives. The other nine Engsvanyali legions posted in Mihallu are similar: clans of inbred aristocrats and popinjays. They war only with one another, with the tribes of Rannalu, or with the chieftains of the states to the north. My master, the High General, cannot tell the hilt of a sword from its blade! There are Illustrious
Scribes who cannot read, Supreme Pontiffs who do not know one God from another, Refulgent Chamberlains who have no functions and hardly a chamberpot to piss in! Reports are prepared daily to be forwarded to Ganga, carried by runners all the way to Arbala, a city in Jannu on the shores of Lake Parunal over which Mihallu has yet some sway. No reply ever comes back, of course. Doubtless even now some Chief Scribe of the Supernal Household scribbles the news of your arrival and requests instructions from far-off Ganga.”
“A joke!” Chosun cried. The others muttered agreement, but no one laughed.
Chunatl Dikkuna remained unruffled. “Oh, true. Each month the ship-captains of Lake Parunal are paid to pass on coffers of documents to the High Governor of Chai Aijjakhan—what you now call Saa Allaqi. I suspect they throw them into the lake to be perused by the fishes and the nonhuman Nyagga who dwell beneath its waters. But the Saa Allaqiyani cheerfully accept the taxes and treasures our noble Gaichun forwards to the Priestkings! Those they do not refuse!”
This was insanity. Trinesh sat in stunned silence, but Saina giggled. “1 do not fancy myself a slave. Better an Engsvanyali noblewoman! I do not look well in black.”
“If you fit into the High General’s purposes, woman, you may indeed end as a Mihalli aristocrat as I—and others— have done.” Chunatl Dikkuna eyed her with great seriousness. “I can aid you: the High General requires new stones for the wall of power he builds to contain the Gaichun. You may well fit into his design.”
“We are not stones or bricks,” the Lady Deq Dimani snapped. “Neither mortar nor cement!”
“All pieces must fit into the plan. Either that or be discarded.” The Salarvyani favored her with another smile. “Peace, Madam, please! At least allow the architect to unroll his scroll. You and your soldiers—”
“Not my soldiers—”
“Forgive me. Whoever they are. You and these soldiers may fulfill some of the High General’s needs. Then no harm will come to you, and if all goes well, he may even permit you to return home. These smelly-cloaked tribespeople here arc naturally another matter.”
“They are not such at all.” The Lady Deq Dimani moved to stand beside the Lady Jai. “Their attire is an accident of travel.”
“Even better. The soldiers will likely be allowed to walk upon the red Klai Ga. Priests use the green or the yellow, depending upon their Circles. Courtiers are allowed the green, high persons the yellow, and princes are dignified by the white. Once a color is assigned you must keep to it. Never leave it to step upon any other hue.”
“What?” Horusel gasped. “How does one visit the markets? The latrines?”
“Within the palace each walkway leads to all facilities appropriate to that rank of society: bedrooms, privy chambers, dining halls, corridors, and stairways to the upper verandahs where one may take the air. As for markets and the city outside, one employs slaves—who may walk upon the streets or even the naked earth—or else one travels thither in a litter floored with one’s color, never letting one’s feet touch the ground unless a carpet of the correct hue be spread there first. The highest praise that can be engraved upon a Mihalli nobleman’s epitaph is: ‘Here is one who never strayed from his color.’ ”
“Is there no limit to this foolishness?” the Lady Deq Dimani jeered. “We are tired, hungry, thirsty! If we are guests, then perform the duties of a host. If we be prisoners, then at least give us food before we are taken to your slave-pits!”
Chunatl Dikkuna exhibited remorse. “Your pardon, my Lady of Vridu. I am remiss. But you must know the custom of the land; else you would indeed end your Skeins in some hole—or worse. Now we are ready to progress to Lord
Tekkuren’s audience. There is no question of slave-pits, particularly if you let me serve as your interpreter. My role is, alas, crucial. Were you to deny the existence of Ganga, it would go hard with you. If you were to speak Engsvanyali to the High General—a tongue he must pretend to know but does not—he would be discomfited, which would be unwise. And so with other customs, usages, and fine points of etiquette.”
One more thought occurred to Trinesh. “And what,” he asked, “do we owe you for this timely aid, my Lord Priest?” The other spread his arms ingenuously. “Why, ‘naught but a smile and a wave of the hand,’ as we say in Salarvya.” Dineva had heard the expression. “Ai, ‘a smile of acquiescence when you ask for favors later, and a hand that waves riches into your purse.’ I think we know this priest, eh, Hereksa?”
Chunatl Dikkuna rocked his head gently from side to side, the Salarvyani expression for an agreement clearly understood.
14
They had little opportunity to admire the gilded, baroque I elegance of the High General’s audience chamber. Chunatl 1 Dikkuna donned his golden mask once more and assumed the role of translator. The Engsvanyali, he said, had their interpreters wear masks in order to conceal their identities, a practice recommended in the one hundred and fifty-third stanza of the Paean of Psankothoth of Nirukkai. He quoted:
“And Charkhuvra the Interpreter heard naught save his mistress’s voice, spoke naught but her words, and saw naught, even through the dark-lit windows of his adoring soul.”
Many, Chunatl went on, took this text literally and gave their translators masks with no eye-slits at all. The father of the present Gaichun had been still more conservative: he had ordered his spokesmen blinded and masked. Such piety was
rare nowadays, fortunately for Chunatl and his colleagues in Ninue.
No one ventured to comment.
Trinesh would have launched directly into an explanation of their presence in Ninue, but Chunatl Dikkuna motioned him to silence. The High General must first display hospitality. A wave of the hand, and they were told that food would be provided as soon as the audience was over. Another wave, and they were awarded clothing, armor (hurriedly rummaged from some unguessably wealthy storehouse: Trinesh’s harness was silvered steel!), and quaintly antique costumes for the Lady Deq Dimani and her maid. Elegant Chlen-hide swords, short, heavy, and embossed with the arms of Ganga, were offered the soldiers, but Trinesh chose to wear Tse’e’s steel blade instead, even for ceremonial purposes. The old man himself, Chekkuru, and even Thu’n were presented with garments according to their stations and tastes.
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