by Teri Mclaren
"She'll stay that way until I revoke it," assured Og. "I think."
Claria, recovering her composure as they moved into an anteroom of sorts, looked over her shoulder at the rattlesnake, then pulled on Og's sleeve. "Why does he call her 'sister'?"
Og smiled. "Because she is Rotapan's sibling. One day they were having an argument, and quite by accident, he claims, he bewitched her with the ajada. Then he couldn't undo the magic, but I don't think he tried very hard, either. Now he keeps her out here because he can't control her like the others. She tries to kill everyone who passes. Can't blame her," he replied. Yob stopped walking and laughed nervously.
"Others?" said Cheyne, his eyebrows raised. Og shrugged as Yob cut in.
"He's over there. I will go before you and make my report."
In the dim light of the temple's rotunda, Cheyne waited for his eyes to adjust, the sound of gentle friction all around him. When he could see again, he instantly preferred the blindness. From every corner, every niche, and statue, snakes of all colors, patterns, and lengths clung and draped, hissed and coiled, dropped and slithered. And every one of them bore the marks of being poisonous.
"By the seven stars and the three sisters!" Claria's fingers flashed through all of the warding signs she knew. "I've had enough. No treasure is worth this. I'm going back to get my inheritance. I'm cutting my losses, and that will be that last I see of you two and your friends here," she muttered.
"Why do you wish to part company before we have met, woman? I think I must take that personally. That sort of attitude will irritate the Lord Chelydrus," a cracking voice from somewhere in the midst of the snakes boomed under the rotunda, the chamber's acoustics magnifying the tones and scattering the sound all over the building. Something in that voice made Cheyne's skin crawl even worse than the snakes did. Yob snapped his feet together at the heels and bowed deeply.
"Yob reports to Rotapan with quarterly tribute," he shouted. "Six dozen warriors slain from Glom's tribe. Fourteen from Puffer's. Five drams, eight hundred kohli, and two heads, taken in combat from Riolla's spies. Three lost. But their bones were recovered," he finished, after a pause to count everything up on his fingers and toes.
Silence answered him. Cheyne shifted his weight to the boot Claria wasn't standing on. She seemed completely disinclined to move; the several inches around Cheyne's feet looked to be the only place the snakes shied away from.
"Og, you say? Og is back? Well, of course he is- you would be moaning in pain from Krota's greeting otherwise. Oh, do bring him over here. Send the heads to the masons. Tell them to place them facing west, so that Riolla's other spies may easily notice them. That was a good piece of work, Yob, though somewhat late in coming. You must tell me, after the feast and the great sacrifice, how you managed it. The Schreefa thinks she does not need Rotapan anymore. From her safe city, she sends her spies to kill me. She does not honor my Lord Chelydrus. We will see if she can't find it within her power to reopen the caravan route now. I do so despise that woman. And you have something else, I see," he crooned.
Yob released his breath at last, his report seemingly acceptable.
"Yes, Overking. I was confused and decided to let you decide what to do with these humans and Og."
Gently nudging a couple of twenty-foot-long yarn-snakes out of the pathway, he ushered his charges to the throne, somewhat more visible after Yob brushed handfuls of baby bushmasters from Rotapan's feet. Cheyne looked on with interest. Rotapan's throne must have been part of the original furnishings of the building; some of the same seashell decorations had been worked into its design. Its carved red marble gleamed with a high polish.
Somewhere during the short walk to the throne, Claria's fear of the deadly reptiles turned to curiosity. None of the snakes seemed the least bit dangerous, their movements languid and lazy. She knew some to be natural enemies-why did they tolerate each other, and how was it that Yob could handle them? Just as she was about to ask, Rotapan raised himself from the throne and stood before them, smiling.
Though she recognized traces of a resemblance, Claria decided instantly that the statue in the desert had been sculpted by an artist whose flattery bordered on deceit. But at least now she knew how he had gotten his name. Rotapan stood only four feet tall to begin with, and looked older than the rock in which he'd been immortalized. Blue eyes, set far too closely together, peered out from a slightly overhung brow, and gray fuzz covered his chin. Wisps of pale hair crowned his head rather than the lush waves the desert artisan had provided. His upper lip lay completely hidden under a huge silver mustache, leaving the lower one to protrude prominently over his weak chin. His features, like his speech, were decidedly human, though his skin tone and the clawed hands and feet gave away his half-ore heritage.
Uh-oh, she thought. That probably means he's much smarter, and much more dangerous.
Rotapan dismissed Yob with a wave of his staff and stood watching as the ore gingerly made his way to the door, the sea of writhing reptiles closing quickly over his wake. The overking then rested his cold gaze upon Claria.
"I am Rotapan, Rex Serpens to the ten tribes. You will answer me, woman. Why do you offend me by declining an audience? You may address me as 'Overking,'" he said, his right hand wandering up and down his staff.
Claria had forgotten his first question. She stood transfixed by the scepter's glowing red stone, cleverly set as a third eye in a gold viper's head, its fangs bared, at the very top of the staff. Cheyne prodded her gently and she found her voice.
"I meant no disrespect, Overking. Snakes make me very nervous. I don't like them," she replied, flustered.
Rotapan grinned slyly, showing the two tiny, sharp fanglike teeth left him. "Neither do I, woman. But what is your name, and who is your tall companion? Something about you smells familiar, like a rat we saw lurking around the outside of the temple once. Speaking of rats, have you any notion of the esteemed person who travels with you?" he ended sarcastically, and motioned to Og, who had remained remarkably quiet since they had come through the door, his focus entirely upon the red stone in the staff.
With the mention of his name, Og bowed to Rotapan.
"Forgive the woman, Overking. She knows nothing," Og said, pitching his voice in a pleasant, warm range. Claria shot him a deadly look, but let him continue. "Her name is Claria, and her companion is Cheyne, a digger." Cheyne's dazed face matched Claria's.
"Archaeologist," Cheyne interjected.
Og went on. "We seek only passage to the Borderlands. We hope to return with treasure, and with such would gladly pay your fee for safegoing."
With the word treasure, Rotapan's nose crinkled up like a dried fig, and he cackled loudly.
"You come into my temple with two stinking humans who don't have so much as a second name between them and expect me to believe you are hot on the trail to treasure? You cannot be serious." He began to cough with laughter, finally doubling over in some sort of spasm and almost dropping the staff.
One of the puffadders lying near Cheyne's ankle made a sudden movement toward Claria, its mouth wide with aggression. Rotapan hastily tightened his grip on the rod and brought it down sharply on the marble step. The adder dropped harmlessly to the ground, leaving Claria gritting her teeth to keep from shrieking.
"But perhaps you think you are serious, I see," the overking continued. "Hmm… You have told me lies before, Og. Your head is already promised to me. Should I collect your bones now, or wait for you to make me richer? It's also time for another sacrifice."
He eyed Cheyne suspiciously. "You are a digger? You hunt for lost things, lost hoards? What time has buried, from the glorious days of antiquity?"
Cheyne nodded.
"You smell strange, digger. I wonder if you are not sent here to dig up my kingdom. Perhaps you are sent by Riolla? Remain where you are. I must consult my cabinet."
He stepped gingerly through the coils of a boras and over a ghost cobra, its white scales reflecting the glow of the red gemstone in the orna
ment, and banged the staff on a large wooden cupboard,
"All right, Og, what's this about a sacrifice and when is he going to let us go? We have to get out of here," whispered Cheyne, adjusting the cord on his amulet. "That's your ajada, isn't it?"
Og nodded. "Yes. He hasn't really got the hang of it, though. The ajada trues my music. The way he's working it, that power looks to have somehow drawn nearly every snake in this part of the world to him. Interesting. And the sacrifice-apparently for Chelydrus-the monstrous water snake he says lives in the cauldron-is something he does every now and then, when things aren't going all that well. Like now, I guess-the closed caravan route means he never sees most of what the northern tribes take off the longer road to Fallaji. There's talk that one of the underkings is getting pretty powerful up there. Oh, and don't worry; nobody else has ever seen Chelydrus-it's a figment of Rotapan's imagination."
"How comforting. Og, what precisely does he sacrifice?" asked Claria, tight-lipped and pale.
"Um, well, I'm sure we'll figure something out before we have to talk about that. Keep your eye on me. We may have to run for it, if this gets personal," said Og, silently working out a scheme to retrieve the ajada.
"Silence!" shouted Rotapan. From the drapes of his robe, the half-ore slowly took a long bone carved into the shape of a key and unlocked the cabinet doors, swinging them wide.
This time, Claria was beyond shock. When three shelves full of shrunken heads began to bat their eyes and yawn, she just dug her nails deeply into Cheyne's hand. He wondered how snake bites could possibly be more painful.
"His enemies," whispered Og. "He uses my stone to animate them and make them tell him the future. Again, the stone governs truth, so they can't prophesy lies. They still hate him, though. He can't do anything about their venomous words."
"Why the two empty spots?" murmured Cheyne.
"One is for the riverking, Wiggulf. Didn't you hear him when we came in? He sings all the time in the water dungeon under this temple. Rotapan would have
killed him by now, except that he enjoys torturing him with captivity and he's more than a little afraid of selkies, even though ores have been known to eat them…"
"Ores eat anything, even other ores. Why is Rotapan afraid?" said Claria.
"Well… some time ago, Drufalden-"
"Drufalden? You mentioned her before," said Cheyne.
"She's queen of the cold country, has a fortress of ice up on the biggest mountain in the range, along the Borderlands," answered Claria. "The last of the Three Sisters, they call her. A long time ago, when everything was locked in ice, her ancestors' kingdom covered most of Almaaz. They've never gotten over the Thaw."
"As I was saying, Drufalden had another of my stones. The caravan route passes through her lands, so Riolla had to pay her off, also. But the ice queen got a little careless with her water sapphire. Lost it as she was bathing in a stream that feeds Into the selkies' river. The stone washed right down into a fish's mouth, quick as you please, and in a day or two, it was on Wiggulf s table, decorating his lunch. Of course, he knew what it was-that harpy had been using the stone to freeze the waters upstream from him for years. Little by little, she was advancing toward his kingdom, pushing his clans together and starving them out, trying to take control of his waterways, forcing his fishing farther and farther toward Rotapan and the Silver Sea."
"And his poison," added Cheyne.
"Yes. And drying up the sea at the same time, just to irritate Rotapan. So Wiggulf, or rather his family, has held the stone for awhile-as both a balance against his life with the ores and as a threat to Drufalden."
"How so, Og?"
"The best I can figure, the waterstone works with sound that can make solids of liquids and liquids of solids. No doubt Riolla taught each of her minions just enough to make them dangerous with the stones, and their lack of natural ability makes things even more uncertain, but if Drufalden could freeze Wiggulf out, he could possibly bring down her mountain of ice just with the same stone. And Rotapan is afraid that all that melted ice will make the Silver Sea suddenly rise and swallow his kingdom. Ores don't swim, remember? If Rotapan were to survive that, and still have his stone, he could do some harm to Drufalden, too. It's been a delicate balance. I don't know how he survives, but Wiggulf keeps singing his strange song down there in the dungeon, year after year, waiting for help."
Cheyne nodded as he recalled the eerie wail they had heard as they climbed the stairs. "The other space in the cabinet?"
"Is for me. Gambling debt. I went for double or nothing on the staff and lost. Game was rigged, of course; you should never trust an ore, much less a half-ore,1* Og ended, motioning their attention to the cabinet, where the heads had begun to chatter.
"Hallooo! Well, it's about time, now. Puffer, are you still up there? Shake the straw from your ears and wake up," said one of the heads on the lowest shelf.
"Of course he's still up there. Where else would he be? You say that every time the doors open, Glom," snapped another one, its eyes sewn shut with long, black stitches.
"You know it's the rule of order to recognize the speaker for the house. Mind your tongue, Rasper," replied the first head, managing to sound as wounded as possible.
"Order! O-O-Order!" sputtered the head on the top shelf. "Now, this session of the war cabinet will begin." He called roll, and when all the heads had answered, he announced, "We are all present and accounted for, Overking. How may we serve you today?"
"I have need of determining whether these humans are sent to imperil me. You may commence to prophesy," intoned Rotapan, facing the cabinet, closing his eyes and banging the staff down three times. The red stone cast a pestilential glow on the shriveled heads.
Puffer opened his puckered mouth and began, the relish in his voice all but garbling his words. "Not since you took me in your greatest battle, Overking, have I been so honored to tell you that, though they are not sent by Riolla, indeed, these three are come to work you the gravest of harm-"
"I wanted to tell him about the gravest of harm part! Overking, upon my sworn oath to destroy you, I say they will bring down your kingdom, and there will be nothing left of it but white dust," Rasper broke in. The other heads began to cheer wildly.
"Order! O-O-Order! The Right Honorable Rasper will refrain from interrupting. The speaker recognizes Clutch," bellowed Puffer.
Clutch snorted and giggled, savoring his response. "By the spear you put through my eye, the tall one is the nemesis of Chelydrus himself, the one you fear above all, and he will break your staff and let the short one take your magic!"
"Ooo-me next, Puffer," said a shrill female voice, somewhere from the left side of the cabinet.
"Proceed, Sawsa," said Puffer,
"Ooo-by the fang of the adder you sent to bite me, the girl will laugh at you."
"And why is that, you simpering whinny?" Rotapan raged at the head, shaking his staff in her face.
"Because they have all escaped!" Sawsa gleefully shrieked, and the other heads began to trill and gibber with abandon, Puffer calling for order every second or two, only adding to the uproar.
Whirling to face Cheyne, Claria, and Og, Rotapan opened his eyes. True to the prophecy, they were nowhere to be seen, having slipped away as easily as the snakes slithered into the cracks of the temple walls. He banged his staff and slammed the heavy wooden door shut on the council's hilarity, catching Glom's left ear in the hinge. A hideous muffled wail arose from the cabinet. Rotapan rapped the staff sharply on the door and the wail ceased, but the exertion brought on one of
his coughing fits, and he hacked and spit for a full minute before he could even summon speech.
"Yob!" he boomed, the rotunda's chamber echoing his anger out in great waves to the steps outside.
Yob, his eye warily on the entranced Krota, snapped to attention and raced back into the temple. "Yes, Overking?" he answered tentatively.
"Where are they? They have escaped! Were you asleep at your post again? They m
ust have run right past you! I knew it-they smelled like trouble from the beginning! I will hunt them down and feed them to these writhing reptiles and make of their blood the supreme offering to my Lord Chelydrus. You brought them here-if you wish to live, you bring them back-dead!" he screeched, pounding his staff on the head of an unfortunate mamba, "Your daughter, who, by the way, I had seized as surety against your tribute report, just in case you came up short yet again, will now serve as my hostage until such a time as you come back with their bones."
Yob gulped and bowed, then dug in his claws as he leapt over the coils of vipers and back out of the temple after Og, Cheyne, and Claria. Rotapan was hard on his heels, shaking the staff and ranting about a laughing woman. Yob stopped short at the steps, an odd roar, seemingly from under his feet, shaking the building ever so slightly. Yob looked down, but forgot the noise immediately when he saw, in the soft sand at the bottom of the staircase, human footprints leading toward the inland sea, the only part of the temple's grounds that fronted no wall. For generations, the sea itself-and its raging whirlpool, the cauldron-had served to protect Rotapan's western front. He looked toward the wind-whipped water, meeting the prospect of the chase with utter chagrin.
He seemed to remember that ores cannot swim. That was just before he remembered Sister Krota.
Who had come out of her trance.