by Don McQuinn
Moonpriest lurched to his feet, hands clasped to his ears, eyes shut. He staggered forward in tight, uncertain steps. A smoking hole marked where the bullet plowed through the carpet and into the earth underneath.
Turning back toward Moonpriest, Conway found the other man staring at him in round-eyed shock. Conway waggled the pistol at Moonpriest’s middle. “You talk about death like it was abstract. It’s real. It lasts forever. I’ll make a deal with you: Help me get out of here so I can at least try to help the others, and I’ll solve the Katallon problem for you.”
Altanar burst through the flap entry. His first glance took in Moonpriest facing a crouching Conway and the seeking eye of the pistol. Color fled Altanar’s face. He dropped, facedown. “I’m a servant, a slave. I came to serve my master. Please, let me go. I saw nothing. I want nothing.”
“Shut your mouth and get out.” Moonpriest’s swiftly regained composure surprised Conway. He turned from it just in time to see Altanar dart back out the door. Moonpriest returned to his sofa, stiffly, as if his joints pained him. He sat the same way. “That was foolish. Dangerous.”
Conway apologized. “My temper. It seems to get worse. I’m sorry.”
“I understand. We’re surrounded by barbarism. It shrivels the soul after a while. We must guard against it. Our problems are too subtle for gunpowder.”
“I said I was sorry.”
Chiding with surprising gentleness, Moonpriest said, “We’re still of a kind. We must work together.”
Conway was reminded of two cats. Until they actually tore at each other, fang and claw, they pretended cool unconcern.
Outside, the wind was stronger. It shoved and bullied the tent walls. The material sighed and groaned under the buffeting. Restraining support lines whispered, occasionally creaking sharper complaint. Inside, more and more of the candles burned out, lending greater menace to the graying weight of the trapped smoke.
Conway said, “We have to eliminate Katallon. Even if we humiliate him, he’ll be a problem. Such men are never beaten. Destroyed yes; beaten, no. If you order Katallon to attack Church Home, he’ll balk. In your name, I’ll challenge him. Swords.”
“He’ll cut you to pieces. I don’t care if your vaunted dogs are by your side and you’re riding that horse these savages drool over.”
Bridling, Conway holstered the pistol. “I might surprise both of you. Instead, I’ll settle for a sure thing. When you were putting together your moon altar, did the words Faraday cage ever come to you?”
Blankly, Moonpriest repeated the phrase, then, resuming his stern mien, he said, “My mother used no such language. What you said means nothing to me.”
“It will.”
Moonpriest sniffed disdain. Conway refused to be baited. “Insist Katallon strike directly at Church Home. Tell him your brother—that’s me—demands he acknowledge his first allegiance is to Moonpriest. I’ll be ready in three, four days at the most. I mean to see Church ruined. What you and your mother do after that is entirely up to you. I’m out of it. I have your word on this? Once I’ve finished Katallon, we drive on Church Home?”
“Fight Katallon and you’ll die.”
Conway’s hand made an involuntary twitch toward the holstered pistol. “Your word. Let me hear you say it.”
Heaving a histrionic sigh, Moonpriest capitulated. “You have my word. I’ll say a special prayer for you.”
“Wonderful. I’m grateful.” Conway turned on his heel and left.
Alone, Moonpriest sat stroking his turban for quite a while. Only two candles still burned, creating tiny spheres of light where the flames swayed in the eddying pressures of the moving walls. Moonpriest clapped, twice. Behind him, a fold in the cloth wall slowly spread and a white, ghostly form slipped through the revealed doorway. Bayek, in a flowing gown, made her way to the front of Moonpriest. She turned her head from side to side, adjusted her position a step to her right, then bowed.
Moonpriest chuckled. “You amaze me. You knew exactly where I was. Magical.”
She smiled, a gentle, soft expression. “No magic. Many blind people can sense others’ location. In your case, the power is very strong. I hear you, a sound of rushing water. Wind. It’s the sound of mountains.”
Folding his hands across his chest, Moonpriest nodded appreciation. “Really? The mountains. You never mentioned that before. What a nice thought.” He gathered himself reluctantly, became serious. “You listened to my brother?”
Quick disapproval marred her features. “He speaks too boldly, even if he does have your best interests at heart. He’s a cruel man, but a good man is dying inside him. Who has hurt him so badly?”
“All that matters is that he helps me. Us. Moondance.”
“You were brilliant. But can he defeat Katallon? Kill him for you?”
Moonpriest rose to her. Hands on her shoulders, he stroked them as he spoke. “My brother is one who survives. It’s his talent. Katallon will die. My mother has ordained it. Afterward, you and I will bring Church and Moondance together in peace.”
Bayek reached to still his hands, holding them. Slowly, wearing the same soft, enigmatic smile, she guided them to her breasts, pressed them firmly to her. Her voice turned breathy. “I’m seducing you. I have a confession, and I want your forgiveness before I speak. I’m terrible, am I not?”
“Terrible.” It was almost a croak. Sweat beaded Moonpriest’s eager features. He tried to pull away, tried to lead her from the room. She held firm, drew his hands back into place. Bending her body to his, she said, “Forgive me. First.”
He laughed, a strained, hoarse sound. “Temptress. What is this great sin I should know about? You know I can’t deny you anything.”
The smile disappeared, replaced by genuine concern. “The girl who worked with me, the one who was killed. Zeecee. I know who killed her. They didn’t have to do that. She was a harmless little thing.”
“Is that all?” The laughter this time was relieved. “I knew you knew. It had to be done. She was just a slave, and a spy, at that. Poor Bayek, poor little thing, troubled for no reason.” He embraced her tightly, then stepped away to lead her toward the slit in the wall. “The man who is me needs the mystery of you. The god who is me knows everything about you. What woman can claim so much? And how lucky I am that my mother directed you to me.”
Moving along beside him, Bayek hugged him with the arm she’d wrapped around him. “There are no secrets from you, are there? I look forward to thanking your mother in person. What a wonderful day. Will we really go to her in the moon together?”
“When I go, so shall you. I promise.” He held the gap open, ushered her through. He was pulling off his robe as he followed.
Later, staring up at the blackness of his bedroom, he reflected on the evening. It had gone incredibly well, he decided. He stretched luxuriously, savoring. Power. Control. Sex. How marvelously, how wondrously, they mixed. Indistinguishable, really. The delights of one magnified the delights of the other.
Bayek. A universe of pleasures.
Clever. What was it she’d said? “…a harmless little thing.” Nasty spy, that’s what. Fooled Bayek. Easy enough: such a trusting nature. A tribute to her, considering all the abuse she’d suffered. Good of her to worry about a nothing like the other one. Nasty spy. Fox heard. Fox hears everything. Foolish woman, talking to Conway, his first day in Windband. Well, that’d be cleared up soon, too. Conway could join his little drowned friend. Whatshername.
Sighing, Moonpriest rolled onto his side, draped an arm across the soft, pliant body next to him. He was asleep as soon as he closed his eyes.
Chapter 11
Cautiously, Man Burning bent to the entryway of Conway’s tent. “Master?”
He called softly. Since the fiery argument between Katallon and Moonpriest, it wasn’t safe to be too closely identified with either group of supporters. Men had already died for declaring Katallon an unbeliever; others called Moonpriest an intruder and false siah, and died just as quickly.
A haggard Conway, face still full of sleep, peered out. He glanced about, then gestured Man Burning inside.
The slave squatted by the small cooking fire. Conway scooped stew out of the simmering pot into a bowl and handed it to Man Burning. The scarred man took it with both hands, holding it high while he smiled thanks. Head bobbing, he said, “I was near Katallon’s tent before I came here. His slaves got no meat this morning.”
“Why?” Conway ladled his own bowl full, sitting across from Man Burning. Karda inched closer, crawling, not actually getting to his feet. Mikka held her place, eyes fixed on Conway’s hands. Conway absently admonished them to stop begging. The dogs dropped their heads to the floor, clearly mourning cruel starvation and neglect.
Man Burning said, “Some Moondance supporters crept close enough to Katallon’s tent last night to sing hymns to him in the dark. Katallon didn’t like it: ‘They were close enough to sing, they were close enough to shoot arrows.’ All the guards were sent back to their own camps with instructions to send better men as replacements. The slaves were whipped.”
Conway’s grin gleamed whitely in the dim tent. “Do more people favor Katallon than me?”
Shaking his head Man Burning grew serious. “Most people won’t speak. They wait.”
“To see who wins?”
“Yes.” Man Burning shifted awkwardly, studied his stew as if expecting something unpleasant to surface.
“Out with it.” Conway bent forward, jabbed Man Burning’s knee with stiff fingers. “What else?”
“Oh, they’re waiting to see who wins. I speak true.” He shot a quick glance at Conway’s uncompromising glare and surrendered to full disclosure. “They expect Katallon to kill you without taking a deep breath. What concerns them is, what happens next? If Katallon can kill a god’s brother, can he kill a god? Will the god strike Katallon dead? What about Windband? Will the god take revenge on everyone for his brother’s death? These questions worry everyone.”
Conway spooned up the last of his stew, rose stiffly, groaning. “I’ve got to get more sleep. I was up most of the night.” He grinned wickedly at the glum Man Burning. “Why worry? I die tonight. Lots of rest, then.”
Man Burning moved forward, putting down the bowl, rising onto his knees. He knelt, almost supplicating. “You treat me as a man, Matt Conway. In here, with you, I’m not a slave. I serve you because it’s my work. Hear me now as another man, one who’s seen too much tyranny. Use the lightning weapon. I’ve seen what it can do. Kill Katallon. You’re too good a man to die for Moonpriest.”
“I’m not dying for anyone.” Conway busied himself rooting two huge wildcow thigh bones out of a leather sack. The dogs bounded to their feet to claim them, then drew off to the farthest corner. Loud cracking and crunching noises followed. Only then did Conway continue. “My fight is with Church. It ruined my life.”
Man Burning rose to full height. “So you’ve said before. I find it hard to believe. Church was always good to me.”
“Well, not to me. No more talk about it. When I’ve killed Katallon, Moonpriest will take Windband and crush Church. If Katallon were willing to do that, I’d never have any argument with him. That’s as much as you need to know.”
Man Burning continued to stand in front of Conway. Nervous, uncertain, his hands flexed at his sides and he shifted his weight from foot to foot. His chin jutted belligerently. Finally, Conway could stand it no longer. Gruffly, he said, “Oh, come on. What is it this time? Are we going to spend the whole morning like this, you looking put upon, me trying to get you to say what’s on your mind?”
The dogs suddenly fell silent in their corner. Ignoring that warning, or too emotional to be aware of it, Man Burning said, “It may be time to share some things. I’m not ignorant. Or stupid. I know about you.” At Conway’s quick step back, Man Burning hurried his words. “A Peddler stopped near the camp of the Long Sky People. Slaves and Peddlers have an affinity for each other. Despised people usually do. They gossip. Every slave in Windband, and most of the people between here and Harbor, know how you lost the woman named Tee.”
Snarling, Conway reached for the man’s throat. The dogs roared, leapt to attack. Their action shocked Conway back to reason. Still, he was almost too late to save Man Burning. Pivoting, he twisted him around, got his own body between the slave and the raging dogs. Simultaneously, he commanded the animals to lie down. They continued to growl even as they obeyed.
Man Burning backed away, licking his lips. “Someone has to tell you what the Peddler said: The small sister didn’t betray you.” Man Burning was bent at the knees, not quite crouched, poised to leap for the exit. The dogs rumbled like distant thunder.
Wearily, Conway said, “You know nothing. The Peddler knows nothing. Get out of my sight. Go back to Katallon’s slave quarters, tell them I’m returning you. Come near me again and I’ll let the dogs have you.” Turning his back Conway bent to fuel the fire.
From his position a few tents away, Altanar watched Man Burning’s hurried exit, saw the nervous glances the slave sent over his shoulder as he trotted away. When Man Burning was almost abreast of the horses shielding Altanar, the latter moved quickly to block him. Man Burning stopped instantly, twisting away in defensive reaction.
Altanar’s smile cut. “You told him you knew about the woman?”
Man Burning nodded. Altanar reached out, took the other man’s hand in both of his. With his thumbs on the back, and his fingers curled under, he bent the hand down and back. Man Burning’s face wadded with pain. He pulled away, not hard enough to free himself. Altanar said, “Never shake your empty head at me. I expect a decent answer. Not an intelligent one, but at least one I can hear.” Letting go, he went on, “Did it bother him when you told him?”
Sullen, Man Burning hung his head. “He grabbed me. My throat. The dogs came. I almost died.”
“Almost.” Altanar repeated the word with a gay lilt. “Conway blames Church?”
“Yes.”
“Good. That explains several things; apparently the Peddler’s story was accurate. Now, when Conway fights Katallon, will he use the lightning weapons?”
“No.”
“You’re certain.” It was a challenge, not a question.
“He said.”
“Then we have nothing to fear. Katallon will kill him.” Altanar angled forward, tapped Man Burning’s aching wrist. “Never forget your manners. Broken wrists never really heal well.” He left with a spring in his step, humming a tune.
Man Burning wiped a hand across his face. It left a mark across a sheen of fear sweat. Looking down at the hand, at its shaking, he shook his head angrily and resumed his walk. He mumbled to himself. “Conway’s greatest ambition is to destroy Church. Moonpriest’s greatest enemy is Church. Altanar, who is nothing without Moonpriest’s protection, wants to eliminate Conway. That dangerously weakens Moonpriest, may even destroy him. Why? Altanar would hurt anyone, any time. Yes. I know about that. But Moonpriest is more clever than that. So why destroy Conway?”
Some distance from Katallon’s slave pens, Man Burning looked up and took stock of his progress. There appeared to be no one following him. He stepped between two tents, hurrying past them, doubling back, alert for watchers. A few children laughed and pointed. A woman at the back entrance of her tent shouted at him to get away.
Breaking clear of the tents, he moved into the brush lining the banks of the stream running past the bath tent. From a point upstream, he worked his way near the facility. Assuring himself no one was nearby, he gave a loud hawk’s cry. Then he dropped low and waited.
A flap opened on the tent. Bayek came out. She took a few steps, shook the drying cloth she carried over her arm, then returned inside.
Following that all-clear signal, Man Burning crept forward, keeping well concealed. Adjacent to the tent, he darted across the open space between it and the untrimmed scrub. Throwing himself on the ground, he rolled under the cloth wall. Inside, he scrambled to his feet, crouched wa
rily. Off to the side, soft laughter welcomed him.
“Bayek?” His eyes strained to adapt to the poor light.
“Of course. What happened?”
Man Burning related his morning’s activities, ending with, “What are they planning? What possible benefit can either Altanar or Moonpriest expect to gain from Conway’s death?”
Bayek was thoughtful for a long while. Finally, she shrugged. “If we’re successful, it’ll make no difference.”
“What if we fail?”
The blond woman’s laughter rocked through the twilight interior. Man Burning winced at the sound. There was departure in it, a resigned melancholy that made him think of endless roads, of campfires abandoned and gone cold.
Her seeking hand rested fingertips on his lips. From there they traced the lines of his scar with easy familiarity. “My dearest friend. How predictable you are to me, and how fortunate we are that no one else realizes what a devious schemer you really are.”
Gently removing her hand, continuing to hold it in his own, Man Burning said, “I saw new chain mail in Conway’s tent. A shirt long enough to reach below his knees. It’ll make him slow. Katallon won’t fail to realize that.”
“Conway knows armor protection won’t help him as much as loss of mobility will hurt him. Can it be we’re not the only people here being untruthful?” She burlesqued shock.
Shaking his head, Man Burning said, “Sometimes your newfound peace of mind frightens.” Her hand twitched in his, and he quickly tightened his around it. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I’ll be with you through the whole plan. It just doesn’t seem like a thing one laughs about.”
Bayek was immediately sympathetic. “I keep forgetting it’s not the same for you. I dearly wish you could share my peace, my joy. It’s not an end, it really isn’t. It’s a beginning. Try to believe that.”