Exiled: Keeper of the City

by Peter Morwood

  There were no overt indications of trouble. She turned slowly, gazing at the lines of light as they burned and faded, burned and faded again. They all led to her, of course, through numerous primary connections—her pets. One by one she examined them. There seemed to be nothing out of place—

  But wait. There, along that thread that had been most recently touched—the pet who had killed the ambassador-vermin’s body for her—a thread led from that one, and a second thread from the first, and the second thread pulsed faintly with a color that meant danger. It had made a secondary connection to another thread, and that thread to yet another one—the police master who was in turn connected, at the moment, to one of her pets.

  Perhaps this aspect of the game was in fact becoming too dangerous. Perhaps she should do something about it.

  At first she scorned the thought. They are only vermin, after all, she thought. What harm in letting them do their little worst?...

  But then it occurred to her that this course of action, in her masters’ view, might be perceived as laziness on her part—or greed. There was no use letting them get any ideas about that. Supposing they should demand she be removed from this mission? She could not bear the thought of the splendid feast that awaited her going to any other of her kind. Hers was the work so far, all this careful groundwork laid down. Hers should be the reward. She would become one of the masters herself.

  And once she had done that—

  No, there was no use being anything less than conscientious about all this. Let something be done about that new connection, and right away, before it should have a chance to mature into something dangerous. Still, she thought, I need not be hasty about it ... I may still draw this business out considerably for my pleasure. As long as I am seen to be doing something useful, if suddenly I am investigated, that is sufficient. And there will be satisfaction enough indeed, when I bring the matter to the conclusion that I wish ... yet another interlude, before the grand climax.

  She smiled with all her teeth at the thought of the taste of the policemaster’s blood ... and reached out into the spell to the mind and eyes of one of her pets....

  •

  When young Gellav had finished his report, Reswen sent him off to tell Thailh what had transpired, and when a runner came in and handed Reswen a message with the Easterners’ peculiar wax seal on it, he smiled all over his face. It was definitely his day. He broke the seal. Tonight, it said, just one word, but the one was enough. Getting the message was almost enough to distract him from the distasteful spectacle he had to watch from his office window an hour later. His office view was normally one of the glories of the place: It looked out onto the main square and across at the Law Courts on one side and the Arpekh’s House on the other. Today, though, rather than being able to gaze out the window and let his eyes rest in their classically perfect contours while thinking about things, he had to watch the white stone square fill up with curious townspeople, and his own men on crowd duty; and finally, to not too large a turnout, the Eastern priest Hiriv and the merchant Rirhath received “the bones and blood of the city Niau” from the hands of the Arpekh, in the person of Mraal. Reswen watched it all, watched the priest sweat and smile and bow, rather diffidently, watched Rirhath stand there as if he would much rather be somewhere else. And so he would, Reswen thought, knowing from the listeners at Haven that the man was off for another meeting with the corn-factors, as they played with what the price of Niau’s grain was going to be in the Eastern markets.

  Reswen craned his neck a little to see what Mraal held out: a glass bottle in one paw, in the other a stone, sharp-edged, doubtless chipped out of the wall—Mraal had a keen eye for symbolism in some ways. Hiriv took them and spoke some words that Reswen couldn’t hear, something ceremonial that he sounded bored with. And then all went down from the steps of the Arpekh’s house together, probably off to Haven to continue the negotiations.

  Idiot, Reswen thought, and picked up a sheaf of parchments he had been waiting to see. It was young constable Shilai’s report of his first day in the marketplace, and there was a lot of it; he had dictated it to one of Krruth’s people last night, and a note at the top of the report stated that the dictation had taken almost two hours. Reswen was pleased; Krruth had told him that Shilai was another one with “the gift,” the ability to remember everything heard. And here it all was, gossip, backbiting, news useful and useless, or seemingly useless; faces remembered and described, sometimes in almost lyrical detail, sometimes in hasty abbreviations that suggested that the talk going on had fascinated Shilai into not caring about the face. Reswen plunged into it, feeling exhilarated ahead of time. Since listening to the interview in the cell, he had a feeling that the annoyances and halts and stumbles of the last couple of days were suddenly beginning to dissolve in front of him. Things were suddenly beginning to connect, to make sense. It was not a sense he particularly liked. The city is in danger, he thought, worse danger than anyone thinks. But it didn’t matter whether he liked the sense or not. At least it was there. He began reading, expecting to find gold.

  It was there, though well buried in dirt, as gold tends to be. Nitchash (tanner’s assistant) talking to Kolu (meatcakeseller). N: There goes that one again. K: Which one? Oh, him. The big spender. N: He was over at the skin-seller’s this morning— K: Oh, old Vunun. N: Not him, he’s off today, his Wife’s kittening. K: Again? At his age? The mrem’s amazing. N: Oh aye, the only way he’ll stop is if someone cuts them off. I meant Pihai. K: Oh, right. What was that mrem after this time? N: Not skins, that’s all I know. Talked to him for almost an hour. Every time customers came near him Pihai would shoo them off. Finally the mrem points at one skin and gives him a claw of gold and doesn’t take change back, just walks off! K: Gods, wish he’d do that for me. N: You and me both, brother, from your mouth to their ears, you know what I’d do with a change of a claw? I’ d—

  Reswen skipped past some intriguing and humorous plans for what might be done with one of the joy-shes from one of the uptown pleasure-houses. He made a note to himself that if one really could get such services, the place probably needed raiding again, then passed on to Shilai’s description of the alleged “big spender.” Large mrem, burly, brown-striped, cream front and paws, cream patch beside nose, kink in tail, green eyes. Well-dressed, brown kilt, brown/cream cezhe—{that was the half cape, half throw that Niauhu of both sexes sometimes wore in summer or winter for warmth or to keep the sun off, depending: in summer it would be made of something light and usually bound around the head)—clothing of good quality, no jewelry, no other identifying characteristics—

  Reswen scanned down through the rest of the document, finding nothing further of interest except a prim little note at the bottom: Sold: three bottles essence of sparkflower, one large bottle decocted washing-herb, one small bottle white lotion of heal-leaf, two bottles of electuary of furweed, one boil simple, one small bottle lose-scab, seventeen bottles oil of mangebane, one claw-buffer.

  Reswen smiled at that and wondered whether there was another strain of mange going around all of a sudden. Really must ask the Chief Physic about that. There’s always a rise in the crime rate when a new strain hits— Purring, he pulled over a tablet and scratched on it a copy of the Shilai’s description of the “big spender.” Beneath that he added a note to Krruth: Find out where this mrem lives. I want information on dates of arrival, stated business, all social and business contacts. Frequents marketplace, makes large purchases or small ones with large payments for information. In light of interview with prisoner Nierod (see attached), I suspect subject is agent for foreign government. Query: which one? Query: source of subject’s funds? Reply soonest. When subject is located, start level two surveillance but do not otherwise approach. Notify me immediately on location and identification. Coordinate with Thailh re: nature and provenance of murder weapon in the case he’s working on. Connection? R.

  Reswen called in a runner to take the messages aw
ay, and then stretched luxuriously. There was nothing else but routine business to keep him occupied for the rest of the day ... so he went about it with a good heart. But the thought kept intruding, the thought of the one word:

  Tonight ...

  He spent more time than usual over his grooming, that evening, and left home early for Haven. This was not entirely a matter of eagerness to see Laas (or so he told himself). There was another small matter that was bothering him.

  He walked in and found things much as they should have been, the staff, both the Easterners’ and his own, bowing and scraping as usual. Reswen accepted wine, and more hortolans—with something of a smile—and reclined and made small talk with two of the Eastern merchants while he waited for Laas.

  Shortly he heard what he had been hoping to: the light, rather astonished voice from upstairs. “Oh, he has finally come to grace the house—” And down the stairs, in a small storm of bells and robes, came Hiriv the priest. Reswen, looking at him, still found him rather pitiful: his earlier extreme dislike seemed to have passed off a bit. Perhaps it was a result of the aftermath of the riot, having seen Hiriv’s glossy calm broken by something genuine.

  Reswen started to stand to greet him, but— “Oh no, please, I beg you,” said the priest, and took both his paws and sat down beside him, clasping them both enthusiastically. This is embarrassing, Reswen thought, but he managed not to pull away; there was no point in offending the mrem. “Reswen-vassheh, I have been waiting for a chance to thank you again for some time. The last time you were here, you left so suddenly—”

  “It had been a bad day, Hiriv-chagoi. I had had nothing to eat all day ... I confess my stomach was rather on my mind. And then that night, the murder, you’ll remember. I was unable to bring the lady Laas back as I would have liked, when I would have had a chance to talk to you at more leisure; and naturally my time since has been very circumscribed. But I trust you’ve taken no hurt from that afternoon.”

  “No indeed, nothing at all, but what a fright! Nothing of the sort ever happened to me before.” The priest fanned himself with one of the many objects hanging from his robe’s belt, a fan of folded parchment. “Such things do not happen in the East, I’m afraid. Why, the last person to try to create such a public disturbance had his—” And Reswen had to listen to an energetic description of an old-fashioned execution, and had to nod politely all through it. “I trust,” Hiriv said, “that something similar will happen to the miscreant who incited the mob against us.”

  “Something similar,” Reswen said, feeling a positive pleasure in lying. If there were some way that Nierod could be turned to his benefit in this whole business, he would much sooner do that than hang the poor creature up to feed the winged scavengers that waited patiently around the spikes and hooks on the Punishment Wall.

  “You will invite us, I do hope,” Hiriv said.

  “Infallibly,” Reswen said, “if our justices are through with him before you leave for home.”

  “Justices?” Hiriv said, somewhat surprised. “Certainly justice is too precious to spend on scum like that. They would never appreciate it; they haven’t the education.”

  “Perhaps our criminal classes are better educated,” Reswen said, in a moment’s sarcasm, and was vastly relieved when Hiriv laughed heartily, thinking Reswen had made a joke.

  “Oh, very good, very good indeed,” said the priest, and laughed harder. “It is true what we hear of you, that you’re a wit as well as a clever officer.”

  Reswen shrugged genteelly. “Rather than clever,” he said, “perhaps say thorough. As in, ‘I am thoroughly enjoying this wine.’ Will you take some?”

  “Always,” Hiriv said, laughing again as Reswen poured him a cup. The priest made some small sign over the cup and drank it straight off with a speed that astonished Reswen.

  “You bless your wine before you drink it?” Reswen said.

  “Oh no,” said Hiriv, “the sign merely drives away the influence of Enuib the False, the bad genius of wine. Excuse me, our religion probably bores you, and certainly you have your own. I don’t mean to proselytize.”

  “Oh no, indeed, it’s not boring,” said Reswen, for this was what he had been trying to think of a way to get Hiriv to talk about. He poured another cup. “I had thought, though, that you served a grain-god.”

  “Ssamos the Fair, yes, but wine is part of his business as well, one might say,” Hiriv said, and he went off on a rather roundabout explanation of the Eastern pantheon. Reswen filed it for later use, but privately thought it was a pretty confused situation: a party of “good” gods and another of “evil” gods eternally arguing over the domination of the world, and none of them totally controlling anything.

  “So let me get this straight,” Reswen said, when there was a pause in the flow of exotic names and tales of bizarre attributes and, to put it gently, peculiar relationships. “Ssamos rules the grain and the wine, their good aspects at least—”

  “That’s right. And Enuib rules their bad aspects, and the two of them fight in the nature of each. As, wine may make a mrem merry, but it may also make him brutal. Or bread may satisfy, but too much of it may also lead to gluttony, or make one discontented with his lot.”

  Reswen nodded, thinking privately, Aha: the starve-your-poor-and-keep-them-in-their-place school of thought. “Very wisely put. What I’m curious about is exactly what a priest of Ssamos does.”

  Hiriv fanned himself with a pleased air, obviously flattered by the interest. “Well, he conducts the rites of Ssamos, of course, the usual seasonal observations, and sees to it that grain and wine are not misused, or used to excess, and counsels the merchants on how this may be done—”

  “I see,” said Reswen. I do indeed. Helps control the prices paid and the amounts bought, so that the nobles and priests get enough of the grain and wine, but the lower classes don’t have enough made available to get out of place.... Yet they’re arranging to buy more from us: a great deal more than we had thought they needed, considering our intelligence about their buying habits in other markets closer to the East. Is their population expanding suddenly? Or are they preparing to have it expand suddenly?...

  Hiriv went on for some time, and Reswen didn’t try to stop him, just let him rattle. Ssamos was apparently another of those gods who got themselves killed once a year, and then came back again, to the astonishment or annoyance of other gods and the delight of their worshippers ... who overindulged in bread and got very drunk on wine to celebrate. “—And of course since the wine and the bread are blessed, it’s a very holy occasion,” Hiriv said, describing one of these festivals, but Reswen considered that the fees the priests charged for officially blessing bread and wine probably contributed a great deal to the atmosphere of rejoicing in the temples, at least on the priests’ part. There were also fasting periods during the year, during which one was not supposed to use grain or wine, because Ssamos was buried under the weight of the world, struggling to rise again, having been killed by Enuib the False ... though Hiriv mentioned that those who for health or other reasons could not refrain (say, mrem too poor to afford meat more than once in an oct of days) could still buy an exception to the rule at the temples.

  “Very compassionate,” Reswen said.

  “Oh indeed, for the people must not suffer. At least, not more than necessary.”

  “Indeed not,” Reswen said, thinking, This is what Lorin told me to beware of? This petty hypocrite, this businessman in priest’s clothes? Reswen had never considered himself particularly religious, but what religion he had was better than this. At the same moment he heard a sound he had been waiting for, a light, laughing voice saying something to someone upstairs, and he was intensely relieved.

  “But I’ve been doing all the talking,” Hiriv said, as if just’ noticing it. “You haven’t told me which gods you worship, Reswen-vassheh.”

  “Our expensive friend Justice, mostly,” Re
swen said, restraining himself from telling the priest that it was none of his business, and he wasn’t going to get a chance to sell him anything, thank you very much— “And most definitely Truth.”

  “Right you are, very right indeed,” said Hiriv, but Reswen paid no attention to him as he rose to greet Laas and bowed over her paw.

  “I didn’t keep you waiting too long, I hope,” she said as he straightened up.

  “Oh, no indeed, the good Hiriv and I have been having a fascinating discussion,” Reswen said, and was inwardly amused to see the quirky look in Laas’s eye, an expression that said, Oh really? and was gone again. They turned together to the priest, and Reswen said, “And Justice requires that a lady not be kept waiting, though Justice herself, being a lady, takes as long as she pleases. Please excuse us, Hiriv-chagoi.”

  “Of course,” Hiriv said. “You two have a good time.” Reswen and Laas went away together, Reswen with some relief; Hiriv’s pseudofatherly manner annoyed him. “Is he going to wait up for you?” Reswen said in an undertone to Laas, as they slipped out the front door together.

  “I doubt it,” she said. “You know his habits, I suspect. He worships Ssamos pretty enthusiastically before he goes to bed.”

  “Now how should I know his habits?” Reswen said as they swung out of the courtyard and down Dancer’s street together.

  “Oh come,” Laas said, and laughed at him, a sweet sound but a wicked one, and the conspiratorial note made Reswen laugh too. “Do you really expect me to believe that you don’t own everyone in that place? Or some of our own people, at this point? I have ears—” And she flicked one of them at him most charmingly; the jewel in it, deep red like blood, flashed at him in the lamplight from a nearby tree.

  “So I see,” Reswen said. “Tell me: He obviously takes his religion no more seriously than he feels necessary. Are all your people that way? What do you believe in?”