by Larry Niven
There were giggles from the other end of the table—Clever Squirrel, amused by something Coyote’s priest had said. She answered, and both of them laughed.
Chapter Twenty-one
The King’s Duties
Sandry found Tower at breakfast in the banqueting room. Tower scowled and said, “Clever Squirrel was gone when I woke up around midnight. Any idea what happened to her?”
“I haven’t—Tower? I slept alone.”
“Sorry. Just—pay no attention.”
Squirrel came in while they were piling shells with corn, potatoes, and bird meat. Sandry pointed with his nose. “Shall we ask?”
They didn’t have to ask. Squirrel was bubbling. “There’s a face behind the mask. Good-looking man, with some tattooing that makes him like a coyote—but no name. They all give up their names when they turn archpriest. The one with no mask, you don’t name him at all. Coyote is Coyote, even in the blankets. A lot like my mother described the god.”
“How?”
“Well…vigorous, of course, but…vain. Playful. He’s playing games, and he knows I know it, and that’s part of the game. Hey, so am I. I learned a lot, Tower, and I think I didn’t give up much, but—Sandry, I don’t understand war, or the kind of bloody games you play, and that’s a good thing. He asked about you a lot. I didn’t have to hide anything…?”
“Right,” said Sandry. She seemed to need reassurance. “What I know can’t be taught with just words anyway. It takes years of practice.”
“I don’t know why he’s so interested in you when he doesn’t give a curse for the terror bird priests we’ve been at war with.”
“What else did you learn?”
“Middle of the night, we broke to take a sweatbath. It was wonderful. Just right. We’ve got to build some sweatbaths when we get home.”
Sandry and Tower exchanged edgy looks.
“He asked about you, Tower. I tried to explain why…approaching you would be a bad idea—”
“I’d kill him,” said Sandry.
“I explained that. Sandry won’t accept excuses, I said. Being Coyote is no excuse; being drunk wouldn’t be either. He might do it anyway. Coyote loves danger.”
Tower was staring.
“What, sister?”
“He was Coyote! And Coyote was your father!”
Squirrel looked serious. “Burning Tower, I have told you before, Coyote’s ways are not meant to be followed by everyone!”
“Well—”
“Think on it,” Squirrel said urgently. “Your father was Lordkin, and as a Lordkin acted in ways that the Bison Tribe would never accept.”
“Bane,” Burning Tower remembered. “Firegift—”
“Bison Tribe, men and women, always acknowledge their children,” Squirrel continued. “Lordkin don’t. They don’t even believe in fatherhood. And the Lords! They are very concerned, but mostly because of inheritances. And in Bison Tribe, hasty marriages are hardly unusual.”
“My mother harnessed the one-horns on her wedding day!” Tower insisted.
“Your mother was kinless, and takes such things even more seriously than ever did the others of Bison Tribe,” Squirrel said. “My mother has children by four men she never married, and it was Whandall Feathersnake that Coyote rode when I was conceived.” Squirrel laughed. “I am Coyote’s daughter and Coyote’s bride, and our ways are not your ways, little sister.”
Sandry frowned. “Nor mine. Make certain Coyote knows that!”
Squirrel grinned. “He knows.”
Tower continued to brood.
Sandry frantically tried to change the subject. “All right,” he said. “What else did you learn?”
“The Emperor knows things have been going wrong. He doesn’t do much about details. That’s up to the bureaus. When everything comes apart, then a whole bureau can be executed in a public ceremony. The bodies are eaten and the hearts go in the wall.”
“It gives me the creeps, that wall. I think we should have looked at it closer. I’ll ask Reggy to take me back,” Sandry said.
“Bad idea,” Squirrel said earnestly. “People who get curious about the wall—something bad can happen to them, particularly outsiders. The wall is one place where the Emperor does look at details. Taking care of the king is another. And when I wanted to know more, Coyote laughed. We’re missing something obvious, something very funny.”
“Something Coyote’s priest thinks is funny?”
“And Coyote too, and he won’t let me know.”
Sandry said, “Ah.”
“What?”
“He doesn’t even hide it!” Sandry gathered them in his arms, Tower’s and Squirrel’s heads against his, his mouth concealed in their hair. “This is not to be told to anyone else. We all saw the Emperor’s belly—”
“It’s awful. Scarred,” said Tower. “But he doesn’t…hide it.”
“But I’ve seen corpses after a battle,” Sandry said. “After we killed the Toronexti, we walked the field, and some of the older soldiers…pointed out…But my point is, there are organs missing inside the Emperor’s torso.”
He released the women. They drew back as if he’d turned into a snake. “I want to see the wall,” he said.
The king’s hospitality included the stables, where a dozen of the big four-wheeled chariots were ready at all times. After breakfast that day, their second in Aztlan, they used the chariots to visit Flensevan’s shop. It faced the River Road, away from the Little Rainbow River. Flensevan and his two sons showed them around. Sandry, Tower, and Squirrel all bought gifts, magical items that weren’t for trade. Willow would have a talisman like Tower’s, a tiny carved turquoise tree. Twisted Cloud would have a tiny tornado.
They still had time to visit the wall. Markings on the king’s chariots got them past the guard, but before they could approach the wall, three more ornately dressed guards and an officer appeared. The soldiers did not speak, but they watched.
They walked its length, always aware of the following eyes. The wall was old and often repaired. The Emperor was supposed to be a thousand years old, wasn’t he? And the wall assuredly was, and some of the niches. None of the niches were marked in any way, except that new bricks were obvious and randomly scattered. There were open niches, lots of them, each a little bigger than a man’s two fists. They too were scattered in no apparent pattern.
“I’m no wizard,” Sandry said later, his voice lost in traffic noise, “so I’m asking. Squirrel, if you took out a man’s heart, could you enchant it to make it beat forever? And he’d go on living too, wouldn’t he? Unless someone found where he hid it.”
“I couldn’t do it. No one I know could. But there are old stories like that,” Squirrel said. Old stories of magic were generally true, though many had become impossible in an age of fading manna. “Would we be looking for just a heart?”
“At least the heart. Maybe kidneys and a liver in separate niches. But would it be safe to look?”
“Not to look, not to ask, not even to be curious. Drop it, Lord Sandry.”
“Squirrel, is that you or Coyote speaking?”
“Both. Forget the wall. Never mention it again.”
“Done. I’m glad Reg isn’t with us. He might get the wrong idea.”
Arshur went daily to meet the Emperor and came back to plan strategy with Regapisk and the masked priests. At breakfast on the third morning, he and Regapisk found time to ask Sandry’s advice regarding military matters.
“I know too little,” Sandry protested.
“That is easily changed,” Arshur said. He clapped his hands.
Captain Sareg appeared. He bowed to Sandry.
“Your escort,” Arshur said. “High Captain, show Lord Sandry the King’s Guard. Listen when he comments.”
“With pleasure. And with my personal thanks, Lord Sandry.”
“For what?”
“You brought King Arshur to the realm, and because of you, we survived the battle at Sunfall. And from that came my promotion
to High Captain in the King’s Guard.” Sareg smiled warmly. “You do not know it, but now my rank is sufficient that I may court a Great Mistress.”
“Aha!” Regapisk said. “Hazel Sky.”
“Of course, Lord Companion,” Sareg said. “I can say now, it was a great strain to be captain of her guard but unable to tell her of my feelings. Nor could she speak of the matter. Not then, and this went on for months! Now, we are together, in Aztlan.”
Arshur grinned. The grin faded when another official came forward with reports of tax delinquencies.
Sareg’s chariot, like all the chariots of Aztlan, was too heavy. The increased weight made it more comfortable to ride in, but slow and less maneuverable. Sandry pointed this out on the way to the barracks.
“But how would you fight?” Sareg demanded. “They must be heavy to hold four.”
“I fight with two. Why do you need four?”
“A driver, a shieldsman, a wizard, and his apprentice. Do you not do things that way in…”—he fumbled for the words—“Lordshills?”
“Magic is costly,” Sandry said. “We find other means.”
He spent the day at the barracks. He worked with the Emperor’s soldiers. He did passably well at mock fights, yucca sword, chariot duel, horseback, and barehanded. He never tried to compete at archery. The Aztlan bows were simple bows crudely made. They’d have little accuracy. Sandry thought of his own bow in its case on his chariot, even now coming to Aztlan with Spike and the other animals. The emperor expected presents, but perhaps he wouldn’t be interested in a bow.
The Emperor’s officers wanted to talk. Sandry tried to trade stories, but the Emperor’s men had few. Their tales of combat were all older than they were, and there were no tales of defeat. For a thousand years, they had kept the Emperor’s peace. The Battle at Sunfall was the greatest battle in their lifetimes, and they made Sandry and High Captain Sareg tell it over and over. Sandry noted that each time the story was told, Sareg made Sandry a greater hero. It was always Arshur and Sandry who had won the battle.
“High Captain Sareg is too modest,” Sandry said. “He stood with Arshur the king and faced the birds without magic. If the birds broke through there, it would have been all over.” Sandry paused. “And that’s the lesson, you know. Battles are not won by a few heroes. When everyone stands together and does his part, then you get victory.” And don’t I sound like an old Lord! He recalled a class. Everyone wanted to laugh at the elderly instructor, but they didn’t dare, not under the watchful gaze of Master Peacevoice Waterman…
They asked other details of the battle. They were curious about the bow he’d used, and how it outranged the Thunder Bows of the Office of Rain, but they never asked how it was made. From what Sandry could see, the Empire didn’t really care about military technology. They had magic.
And each time he told the story, no matter how he tried to minimize his part in it, the officers looked at each other excitedly; then, led by High Captain Sareg, they bowed to Sandry. That was what they did in the presence of Arshur, and the bowing made Sandry uneasy, but he couldn’t have said why.
Tower had better luck.
A woman seen with a guard must have wealth. She could go anywhere, and there was more to shop for than gems. She tried on wondrous garments that shaped themselves to her, and had to reject them: she was sure they’d disintegrate where there was no manna. Half sure. Where was Squirrel now that Tower needed her advice?
On the fourth day, they walked about the city. Sandry and Tower attempted to dress like natives. Their clothing was too rich for that. They didn’t stand right; they gawked at wonders that must seem commonplace to those around them. They still enjoyed themselves.
Squirrel was off somewhere with Coyote’s priest.
Word reached them that the animals had arrived. Tower and Sandry arrived at a kraal below Mesa Fajada. Sandry’s chariot stood in a thicket of apprentices and cadets. They were cleaning and shining every part. Sandry smiled to himself. Polish wasn’t the secret.
Or was it? Gleaming armor impressed people, and sometimes that was enough, much better than fighting. How much of magic worked that way?
Two stallions, two bison, and Spike: all combed and groomed, all well fed and watered. The Emperor’s minions had been told to treat the animals well, and they knew how. Four young girls attended to Spike, who seemed larger than ever in the manna-rich air of Aztlan. Burning Tower bade a long farewell to the one-horn. Tomorrow she would see him only to give him away.
Coyote’s temple was a hole in the ground, a hidden place whose entrance was just inside the city gates. It looked like the entrance to a basement below an inn. Crowds passed it every minute of the day.
Inside…it wasn’t big, but it was magnificent. Daylight came through from somewhere overhead, and a brushfire burned without smoke. On the stone altar stood offerings: two fat prairie dogs in a cage, and a closed urn. Not just a temple, but a lair. Clever Squirrel was in awe.
Two lesser priests attended. They didn’t wear masks; their faces were tattooed with the nose and whiskers of Coyote. Coyote’s priest sent them elsewhere, into the city, and then he and Squirrel were alone in the temple.
“Where?” she asked.
“I’ll throw some blankets on the altar,” he said, “but not yet. Do you know what this is?” He opened the urn.
She knew the smell. “Pulque.”
“Have you ever—”
“Yes, we found some in a village at the edge of the Empire. It’s strong stuff. Dear, I’d better call before you get me drunk.”
“Call?”
“Feathersnake doesn’t know that the ceremony’s tomorrow. May I use the altar? I brought some colored sand.” She moved the cage and the urn to the ground, and then began drizzling sand onto the altar. “This will tell Coyote too.”
Coyote’s priest watched quietly, amused, while Clever Squirrel called Mountain Cat. Afterward, she brushed the sand off onto the floor. She asked, “Now what?”
“Have you eaten prairie dog?”
“Sure. What, do you mean raw?”
“Squirrel,” he said soberly, “this is Coyote’s ceremony before tomorrow’s official proceedings. Other masked priests are holding other ceremonies. You don’t have to participate, but you are Coyote’s daughter.”
She laughed, over a thrill of fear. “What, would you lure another woman down here if I refused you?”
“Sure. They know me at the inn.”
“Well, what kind of weirdness are we talking about?”
“Eat, get drunk, make love on Coyote’s altar.”
“Sounds good. May we cook the animals? You have a fire. Or are you locked into some specific format?”
Coyote’s priest grinned. “I weave my spells just the way my own god has these past ten thousand years. I’m making it up as I go along.”
“Squirrel? Clever Squirrel, dearest, please pay attention.”
“Nnn,” Squirrel said. Her mouth was numb. She could barely move. The altar was hard and cold beneath two blankets, but she felt wonderful.
“The pulque is hitting you much harder than I thought it would. I should have known: magic never touches the stuff they make in the border towns, not until it reaches the Crater for blessing. This stuff is blessed up to the eyeballs.” A wild giggle. “I’m used to it and it still knocks me on my ass.”
“Mmm,” she said urgently.
“Marriage, yes, tomorrow. I don’t know any way to sober you up. It would help if you could walk around. Burn it off. Can you stand?”
“Nnn.”
Coyote’s priest started to speak, then stopped. Then the blankets on the altar were suddenly thrown to cover Squirrel. The priest’s voice was muffled as he called, “This place is sacred. Enter at your peril.”
“Peril relieves boredom,” said a voice that rang within her skull.
She heard a wood-on-stone thunk below her. Coyote’s priest had knocked his forehead to the floor, and this was the Emperor. But wild colors flowe
d in the dark below her blankets, and Squirrel was drifting off into dream.
At the name Sandry, her attention flew back. Coyote’s priest was hiding a woman’s presence, and he was talking fast.
“Sandry is a mighty warrior. Sareg is in awe of him. Regapisk says so, and Regapisk doesn’t like him very much. I’ve watched King Arshur come to Sandry for advice. He sent Sandry to investigate the readiness of our military, and he accepted what he heard. Sandry is very fit to rule.
“We can send Arshur to the gods now,” said the earthly voice of Coyote. “Sandry is wonderfully qualified to be king. Not only an outlander but also a true hero.”
“I like that,” the Emperor said. “The news they brought made hard hearing. Let them suffer a little of what I suffered. Do you think King Sandry might be distracted by the women of Aztlan? Would Burning Tower seek revenge? With you? Even you would not be safe from the king.”
Wild chittering laughter. “Coyote loves danger more than I do….” And Squirrel faded into Coyote’s laughter.
Chapter Twenty-two
The Bird
He woke alone. He would not see Burning Tower until he was led to her at the wedding. The king’s servants dressed him in bronze armor copied from his own but inlaid with lapis and jade. It had tooled leather straps, and the breastplate was polished bronze. No iron at all, Sandry thought. It’s probably magical.
He didn’t trust magic.
His iron sword was nowhere to be seen, and there wasn’t a bronze replacement. It didn’t seem worth commenting on. High Captain Sareg led him outside. Arshur waited there, in an imperial chariot. The giant grinned and waved. A kneeling servant offered Arshur a golden goblet, and the king drank heavily.
“He’ll be too drunk to fight that bird,” Sandry said.
Sareg grinned. “The bird will be no more sober.”
Sandry’s chariot had been cleaned and decorated, but it looked small and mean compared with the magnificent royal and imperial chariots. There were spears, all polished, and each spearhead covered in jewels and leather. The bowcase had its own cover, also jeweled. No one said anything, but it was obvious: only those sworn to the Emperor’s service carried weapons anywhere near the Supreme One.