“Our Most Sacred Lady of the Air, may she carry you to the heights of her bosom above the clouds. Make a sign like a wind blowing.”
“Our Most Sacred Lady of the Air, may she carry you to the heights of her bosom above the clouds.”
Ly’Tana’s hand waved in an undulating manner, her hand gracefully weaving up and down above her buckskin’s thick black mane.
“May her Most Beloved Owl carry your spirit to Her, and in her Divine Wind you shall seek and find salvation,” Rygel whispered.
Obediently, Ly’Tana repeated, “May her Most Beloved Owl carry your spirit to Her, and in her Divine Wind you shall seek and find salvation.”
“Go, Warrior, and find your peace.”
“Go, Warrior, and find your peace.”
The man jumped up, smiling broadly, and came to kiss the hem of her white dress. Bowing low once more, he vaulted into his saddle and led his band on down the road. Kel’Ratan gazed at Rygel with admiration and Rygel straightened up, smiling slightly.
In answer to our silent questions, Rygel murmured low. “The Zhous are obsessed with the afterlife. They need constant assurance their goddess will take them with her after their deaths. Military men are the worst.”
I caught a glimpse of Ly’Tana’s face, her mouth working to rein in silent laughter, as she heeled her horse forward into a trot once more. The rest of us kept up with her, sometimes rudely shoving foot traffic out of our way. We absolutely had to get through those gates before they closed. Pedestrians choked on their curses, turning angry faces away, not inclined to seek the possibility of divine retribution of the Zhou goddess by offending her priestess. Priestesses were chancy to cross, for their curses followed the offender forever. Ly’Tana’s idea certainly seemed to be working thus far, I thought, smiling inwardly.
Walking our mounts amid the tight throngs of people, carts, teams of oxen, mules, horses, laden donkeys, loaded wagons, carriages of the more wealthy folk with sigils of their houses painted on the doors, I hoped we might pass the gates unnoticed by any of the Federal troops. I straightened in my saddle, peering over the heads of the people and animals steadily making their way through the wide gates. I could see the soldiers, five on the left, and six on the right, watching the living mass as it slowly slid between the tall stone walls. High above, more troops atop the walls peered down, arrows nocked into crossbows, also surveying the exodus both in and out of Soudan. Alert and watchful, they looked closely at everyone who passed through. If they looked just as closely at our small group, the game was up. As we were familiar to the royal troops, Ly’Tana’s white dress and my blond hair could not protect us from instant recognition. They also knew Rygel, with his time spent in the palace and in Brutal’s company.
This will not work, I thought. Perhaps we should turn back, scale the walls by in the dark. We could try the forest where Ly’Tana and I escaped a few days ago. I leaned forward to suggest such to Ly’Tana, when I caught a smile and a wink from Rygel, before he turned forward once more.
Puzzled, I sat back and said nothing. The crowd swept us closer to our doom. Stopped behind two ox-drawn wagons, I watched as the guards thoroughly checked the contents before waving them through. A small band of mercenaries stood on the opposite side of the gate, waiting to leave. To my dismay, the guards ordered them to dismount. I heard questions about their origins, masters and destinations. Then the troopers all but stripped and searched them.
We sat our horses and waited patiently, but Rygel’s prediction that the soldiers watched all mercenaries, or any armed men, proved itself. I caught another ghost of a wink from Rygel and then the guards released the mercs.
Ly’Tana’s buckskin would be abreast of them within moments.
“You bloody shit!”
I heard the angry shout rise above the noise of moving mass of people and animals. I instinctively turned my head toward the source, brushing my fingers over my sword hilt. Only Ly’Tana paid much heed to the insult also and, like me, turned toward the sound.
“Bite my arse!”
“You’re cheating! Damn your eyes, I’ll have your guts for garters!”
Now the gate troops ceased their inspections of the crowds and wheeled about, seeking the source of the loud insults. I had given the dozen or so poorly dressed but well-armed men just inside the wall scant attention. Several Sabathians squatting in the shade of the wall were apparently drinking, and playing dice with a few townsfolk. With the onset of the cheating accusation, they rose.
“I never cheat, Bost, and you know it.”
A burly Sabathian thrust his ugly angry face into the face of a townie, who responded by drawing his dagger.
“You don’t have the sense the gods gave a goat.”
The burly Sabathian shoved his town friend. More Sabathians backed up the burly fellow, while the townies backed up their friend. Burly shoved Townie, who staggered back. He recovered his balance and lunged, his double-edged dagger thrusting low.
Two Federal soldiers stepped toward them, ostensibly to order them to take their fight elsewhere, found themselves drawn into the escalating insult-shoving match. Burly and Townie slammed into one another and went down in a tangle of flying fists, curses and roiling dust. I lost sight of the dagger.
Swords flew from sheaths as the rest of the Sabathians and townies rushed one another, striking with fists, feet and swords. The Federates found themselves outnumbered and ignored. Three more soldiers trotted to their mates’ assistance, drawing their own steel. The brawl grew in strength, fifteen or more men fighting, swearing and rolling on the dusty ground as they punched, clawed and kicked. The royals struck heads with sword hilts, knocking Sabathians and townies to the earth, unconscious. Sorely outnumbered, they had as much effect as a spit in a sandstorm. The fracas raged on, unchecked.
The rest of the Federates ran to calm the tempest, leaving the gates unattended. Even the men on the wall watched the roiling fracas, their crossbows leveled to protect their mates.
Ly’Tana led our small party through, unmolested and unrecognized.
Once inside the gates, the walls fell away, and a broad plaza of cobbled stones greeted us. I glanced behind, seeing a steady stream of people and beasts entering the gates and spreading out into the plaza, much like a hole in a dam letting through a trickle of water that soon became a river. No troops came running to stop us, still occupied as they were with quelling the small riot in the shadow of the gates.
Laughing wildly in a most unholy fashion, Ly’Tana wheeled her stallion around to Rygel and flung her arms around him. He grinned like a fool, her weight nearly pulling him from his saddle as his black sidled sideways, her big stallion making him nervous.
“You are the best wizard that ever lived!” she crowed.
I saw Kel’Ratan wince, looking around for anyone who might have witnessed the spectacle of an Osimi priestess laughing wildly and hugging one of her guards. I looked about also, but no one paid us the slightest heed, and the gate soldiers still subdued the brawling Sabathian/townie fight.
“Bloody time you noticed,” Rygel smirked.
“How did you manage that stunt?” Kel’Ratan asked, once more ushering Ly’Tana ahead and posting us in our guard formation about her.
Rygel shrugged, his grin infecting even me. “When drink and Sabathians mix, it takes only a nudge here and there to begin a fight. I saw them and discovered an opportunity sent by the gods. It was perfect.”
I had to agree. I chuckled, shaking my head at his audacity. Only Rygel would think of a distraction like that.
“I hope those poor bastards weren’t hurt,” Ly’Tana said, once more nudging her stallion into a trot.
“Not likely, Your Holiness,” Rygel replied, his quirky grin surfacing once more as she glanced at him sharply. “They were too drunk to swing their swords very well. I suspect they’ll have a few busted heads, black eyes, most probably from the troopers breaking up the fight.”
“Where do we go, Rygel?” Kel’Ratan asked, his
eyes roving over the plaza and the milling people.
“We keep going as we are,” Rygel said. “About a mile down, we head to the left.”
The plaza narrowed the further we rode, becoming a wide street with merchant stalls to either side, alleys that ran between buildings, and homes that lay beyond them. If I turned my head to the right, I could see the high towers of the palace. Brutal would be there, I thought, running his new Federation, fighting his war to keep it. Not far from the palace lay the Arena. I could not see it, but knew it was but a mile or so from where we now rode. I seldom frequented this part of Soudan and looked about me with fresh eyes. I saw many slaves, their collars jeweled or plain, dozens branded with their owners’ emblems. Most had some clothing, ragged smocks and breeches, but a few naked slave children ran their masters’ errands on fleet feet.
I briefly thought of my own childhood, my sisters’ and mine. One lay dead these many years, brutally slain along with our parents on that day, long ago. The other lay but a few miles away. I wondered if she would remember me. Arianne. Will you remember me, sweet Arianne?
Rygel found his left turn and we took it, finding ourselves in parts of Soudan that soon grew more dirty and unkempt, the homes and merchant stalls sagging with unrepaired roofs, plaster chipped from walls. Refuse and trash littered the streets, skinny curs snarled and wrangled over something unthinkable from a midden heap. As though drawn by one mind, we reined our horses closer about Ly’Tana without comment, hands close to our weapons.
I saw naked and dirty slat-ribbed children watching us silently from doorways. Ragged men with hands hovering over daggers thrust through belts eyed us sidelong as we rode past. A few women in filthy skirts also stopped to watch us ride by, not bothering to curtsey. No doubt, the sight of an Osimi priestess in their territory warranted a few stares, but scant respect. Her well-armed bodyguard kept all at a safe distance, and I made use of the flat stare from my right eye that had intimidated many an arena opponent in the past. I hoped one fierce eye and a sinister black patch worked as well as my normal eyes. The men muttered and turned away, clearly not interested in trying my hand.
The day turned slowly to dusk, the setting sun bringing out the lamplighters. A few lamps lit our way, too many not maintained well enough to keep the wicks from sputtering out. Tension from Ly’Tana and Kel’Ratan radiated outward, but Rygel looked calm and unconcerned, his grin appearing to me out of the gathering darkness to reassure me he knew what he was doing. As the sun set completely and the darkness absolute, we found ourselves riding into a side of Soudan that bordered both the ill-favored and the moderately ill-favored.
Taking the lead, Rygel rode across the neat cobbles under lamps that lit the narrow street. Better maintained than the last neighborhood, I saw shops closed tight for the night, homes shuttered fast against both the darkness and potential burglars. A few people roamed the night, casting us curious stares as we rode by, this time offering Ly’Tana’s white dress a token bow or curtsey. I noticed most of the market stalls and shops sold sea wares: nets sold and repaired, fresh fish pies, boats and sails, rudders, barrels of eels, signs advertising huge fish freshly caught, taverns catering to sea folk called names such as the Whoring Whale, or the Dead Fisherman. While the capital lay near the coast, I knew the river Soare flowed close by only a short few leagues to the sea, where many simple people earned their trade. We had reached the Harbor District.
Rygel reined his horse at the front of the Whoring Whale, under the sign of two ugly whales mating. Dismounting, he tied his reins to the crowded hitching post. I eyed the poor quality beasts that stood patient and hip-shotten at the rail, and found places for Rufus and the others further down when Kel’Ratan and Ly’Tana also dismounted.
“Come have a drink, or something to eat here,” Rygel said tersely. “Wait for me. I’ll be back shortly.”
Ly’Tana looked to me questioningly, and I could only shrug in response. As Rygel disappeared into the darkness, I led the way through the doors into the hot, packed tavern, Ly’Tana close behind with Kel’Ratan bringing up the rear.
The presence of an Osimi priestess in the tavern caused barely a hiccup, as the tavern patrons eyed us up and down and returned to their drinking, eating, dicing and laughter. Finding no empty tables in the crowded smoky room, I cast a quick encouraging smile and a wink to Ly’Tana. She frowned slightly, puzzled, but stayed right at my back. I made my way through the throng, using my size like the prow of a ship, cutting through the packed room. People cursed, turning to exchange sharp words with the one who knocked them aside, only to blanch, choke on their curses, and return to their tables when they caught my cold stare.
A small table holding two quiet men dicing and drinking from foaming mugs of ale looked up as my shadow fell over them. They looked to be mean, battle-toughened mercenaries, swords at their hips, leather jerkins sewed with steel disks, unshaven faces that barely covered the presence of old scars.
“You gentlemen wouldn’t mind offering your table to my mistress,” I rumbled, “would you?”
Irritated, they started to stand up, lips thinned, mouths opening to tell me off, giving me a glimpse of half-rotten teeth. One even reached for his knife. Then they met my eye and the patch, saw the width of my shoulders, the weapons at my hip. I clenched my fists and leaned over them, giving them a good look at my bare muscles. Their mouths immediately shut tight on whatever they might have said, the one reaching for his blade froze with his fingers just brushing the hilt. In a mad scramble, they jumped away from the table, so fast they knocked over their chairs.
Hastily, as though fearing I would kill them for their clumsiness, they set them upright. With bows bordering on grovels to Ly’Tana, they backed away, still bowing. Turning, they made to flee into the relative safety of the crowd.
“Don’t forget your drinks and your wagers,” I called to them.
One mercenary scuttled, crabwise, toward me, eyeing me with obvious trepidation. His nervous grin, slicked with spittle, and wide white eyes informed me he was perilously close to drawing his weapon in self-defense.
To counter his panic, I showed him both hands, empty. I wanted to tell him without words that should he take his property and go, peaceably, I would do him no harm. He relaxed a fraction, and hastily seized his coins and shoved them into his purse at his belt. Now his friend joined him in taking their tankards of ale. With another set of hasty bows, they escaped, leaving me to sweep the remaining litter off the table and onto the filthy, straw-strewn floor. Bowing low, I politely offered a chair for Ly’Tana.
Ly’Tana sat, her mouth working once more to rein in her laughter, settling her white dress under her legs smoothly. Rather than lose her battle with her unruly wits and be seen laughing, she turned her face away toward the wall. Kel’Ratan also sat, his lips drawn into a bow and his brow puckered into a ponderous frown. Yet, I saw his red mustache quivering and his blue eyes flashing, as he, too, fought a battle against laughing aloud. I sat also, facing Ly’Tana, my brow quirked as I watched her as she managed to get her runaway amusement under control.
“Wolf, I am right glad you are on our side,” Kel’Ratan muttered, smoothing his thick mustache.
His comment threatened Ly’Tana’s composure, and a giggle popped from her mouth before she could stop it. She scowled for a moment before her priestess expression took over, enabling her to look simply imperious.
I shrugged. “I just wanted our holy mistress to have a table to put her feet under.”
Kel’Ratan nodded sagely. “That’s very courteous of you. Her Holiness hates to drink her ale standing by the wall. That tends to make her look like a trollop.”
“Cease,” she snapped. “Be silent, both of you.”
“What did I do?” I asked, injured.
She turned her scowl on me, and I raised my hands in surrender. “Your will, O holier than thou.”
“‘Holier than thou’?” Kel’Ratan asked, incredulous, his blue eyes wide. A chuckle escaped his control, f
orcing him to thin his lips to prevent another such escape.
“At least he’s learned to respect his betters,” Ly’Tana said loftily.
Kel’Ratan opened his mouth to retaliate, mustache bristling, until she glared at him. He quailed, his mouth turned down into a quivering bow. He reminded me of a child who had just received a spanking. I caught the ghost of a wink tipped my way before I looked toward the common room, knowing if I kept watching him I would lose control and shame myself.
“You always take his side,” Kel’Ratan complained.
The innkeeper, a skeletal man in filthy cook’s whites and an ingratiating manner, crept up to our table. He smiled, revealing one black tooth in a gaping maw of gums, his emaciated hands constantly wiping themselves on a stinking towel. He bowed courteously, visibly trembling as he stayed as far away from me as he possibly could and still speak to Ly’Tana with his voice below a shout.
“Most revered madam,” he whined, still bowing. “Honored I am to have your august presence under my roof. If there is aught I can do to make your visit more comfortable, you have but to ask.”
Ly’Tana nodded shortly, her emerald eyes boring into the man, as though intending to rip out his heart and eat it. I saw him cast a quick glance at me, his face growing even paler, and then back to Ly’Tana. He bowed again, his trembling growing with every passing moment. No doubt, he wished we had passed his tavern by and gone elsewhere.
His obsequious manner grew, and he visibly squirmed as though lice crawled over his skin under his clothes. My irritation grew, and I wished he would go away. If he did not move soon, I’d stand up and make a silent threat, perhaps a good stare with my one eye and a hand on the hilt of my sword would suffice to send him scurrying. Yet, rather than leave as I wished, he wrestled his tongue into some semblance of control. He bowed once more to Ly’Tana. “A boon, Most Holy, I pray. I beg Your Holiness to bless my poor house.”
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