The Children of Anthi

by Deborah Chester

  Uble, his youthful self-assurance for once shaken, clutched his blue robes and stared aghast at the body. “My noble!” he exclaimed. “We all heard the great voice of Anthi! What—”

  Others were coming in a babble of disorder, Basai’s shrill voice above the rest.

  Great weariness struck Picyt, and he swayed, frowning as he felt within his sleeve pocket for a vial of yde. “Cover him,” he said shortly, stepping heavily down from the dais. “He was an assassin and will be disposed of without honor or word to his family. Let the matter be ended.” At the door Picyt paused, anger still raging beneath his heart. That Hihuan would dare strike at him…

  “What has happened?” demanded Basai, panting at the door with his robes drawn up in one hand. A crowd was forming behind him. “Revered noble…” His voice trailed off with a squeak as he looked past Picyt to a white-faced Uble, who was spreading his cloak over the body. “Great Anthi!”

  Picyt looked at him bleakly, in no mood to master himself for further questions. “Basai, inform the palace that it pleases me to seek audience at once with the Tlar leiil.”

  Collecting himself, Basai opened his mouth, then hastily bowed low at the expression in Picyt’s eyes. “At—at once, Noble Picyt!”

  With a gesture Picyt summoned his strength and pushed himself out into the corridor, moving through the crowd of curious and alarmed priests without a glance at anyone. He heard their murmurs, but he gave no notice to any; therefore, none could dare question him. It had been many seasons indeed since he had been forced to use the power of Anthi so violently. But let them look. Let them learn; let them fear.

  Reaching his private apartments at last, Picyt drew out the vial with shaking fingers and swallowed its bitter, powdery contents with a grimace before striking the chime that summoned Jutuu. By the time the elderly servant appeared, bowing reverently, the yde had permitted Picyt to compose himself enough to look no more than mildly distressed. Letting the stole of office slip to the floor, he seated himself unsteadily near a warm brazier and closed his eyes, giving way to exhaustion and grief and all the other pent-up emotions of the past few days.

  “Yde, Jutuu,” he said quietly, bringing up his hand to cover his aching eyes. When he closed them, he could still see a faint blue glare. “Bring it in a goblet, much spiced.”

  A pause followed his command. Then Jutuu’s soft voice said worriedly, “It has great potency in the liquid, my noble. Let me bring you a small dish of the pow—”

  “I have said what pleases me!” said Picyt sharply. He glared at the old man. “Riidul is dead. One of my most promising students, lost on the eve of service, to that…” He twisted his lips, but he held back the word. He sighed as his gaze darkened. “A goblet of yde, Jutuu. This once will not overwhelm me.”

  “I obey, my noble.” Jutuu hobbled away, and not until he was out of the room did Picyt draw out the empty vial to smash the thin glass between his fingers and sprinkle the tiny shards over the singing coals in the brazier, where with a faint burst of thin blue flame they melted away.

  Chapter 5

  Three days passed before the Tlar leiil permitted Picyt an audience, impatient days that saw the annual rising of the four full moons and subsequent nights of violence and riot within Altian. Henan brigands roamed the streets, falling on victims with a boldness increased by the advent of season. Tension hung in the air as clouds gathered in rolling purple masses overhead, struck now and then by a piercing ray of sunlight that stained them bloody. Omens of such evil were counted. Business in the marketplace rose to a frenzy, with theft and chaos rampant. Food vendors were set upon and robbed of their precious wares. Jen patrols, in a grim determination to keep order, blocked off streets leading into the avenues of the high-castes. Few ranking citizens dared venture forth from the walled protection of their villas, save to join heavily guarded processions to the temples of Lea, taker of men’s souls, and Anthi, who was the guardian of life.

  Even within the House of Kkanthor, where the evil days of season were understood as natural disturbances caused by the shifting orbit of the black sun around the powerful yellow one, order was not easily held, and serenity seemed lost forever.

  Wrapped in a long blue mantle, Picyt stood atop the tower of his domain, buffeted by the harsh wind that plucked at his clothes and threatened to rip away his mask. Within the protection his face was carved in grim lines as he looked out over the city below him, watching the Henan beggars clinging piteously to the barred gates of Kkanthor as other citizens struggled along the streets with their bodies bent nearly double against the wind. Picyt lifted his eyes to the ugly purple clouds spreading across the sky. The wind screamed about him, splattering a handful of raindrops across the tower with savage force. Picyt winced beneath the sting as it pelted against his back, and behind him he heard faint gasps from Uble. Still he lingered out in the elements, his burning gaze always returning to the north, where at the end of a broad avenue of graceful villas sprawled the vast palace of the Tlar leiil. Few lights shone there despite the deepening darkness beneath the storm. Picyt smiled slightly to himself. How Hihuan and his pompous court must be cursing Kkanthor now for this delay in raising the extra shields!

  Let him curse! The city would not be sealed yet.

  Lightning crackled across the turbulent sky in a veined network of blue-white energy, and almost simultaneously thunder boomed after it with volume enough to shake the tower beneath Picyt’s feet. Involuntarily he ducked, and a hand seized his arm out of the damp-stung twilight.

  “Come away, revered noble!” shouted Uble against the wind. “We must raise the shields.”

  Freeing his arm, Picyt turned in scorn. “Not yet!” he shouted back, and strode inside with a swirl of his mantle.

  Within the confines of the tower he unfastened his mask and tugged it free. The warmth struck his face like a gentle blow. Sighing, he sniffed gratefully the incensed air wafting up the stairwell from the lower levels. Overhead the door to the tower roof closed with a bang that was echoed by a crash of thunder. Picyt turned in irritation, then calmed himself, willing away the impatience he felt rising like a canker. Or was it yet another hungering for yde?

  “But Noble Basai says we dare not antagonize the palace at this time. The riots—”

  “We must conserve our resources,” Picyt said with purposeful sharpness, lifting his hand to silence Uble’s protests. “As for what Basai says…” Picyt swallowed and formed an inner ring to contain his anger. “You would do better, young Uble, to listen to what I say.”

  Uble, his mask held stiffly under his left elbow, paled. “Revered noble, I assure you—”

  “The shields will not be raised for one early storm,” said Picyt. “Regather yourself lest others be infected with your fear and know shame.”

  Uble frowned for a moment before docility glazed his face. He bowed low.

  But this show of submission did not please Picyt. He was weary of the intrigues running between factions within the House, intrigues that too often extended outward to the palace and beyond. He looked up as thunder continued to roll overhead. Soon season would be upon them in full spate, with black devis raging across the desert wastes of the Outerlands. Storms a dozen times fiercer than this one tonight would lash out with killing rains of ice needles, destroying the crops in the fields on the fringes of the wastes, and again the people of Altian would know hunger. But their riots would mean nothing to their tyrant, Hihuan, who cared not for their plight as long as his palace lay safe beneath the protective bubble.

  Picyt’s eyes blazed as anger flared within him, shattering his rings of control. He turned on Uble, startling the young priest. “Do you know, ka’n, that for the blessing of Anthi alone I would lower all shields and shatter the bubble of safety forever!”

  Uble faltered behind him on the stairs and gripped the banister hard with one gauntleted hand. “Revered Picyt!” he breathed, his eyes enormous. “Such words of treason are not safe even within our walls. Have care, I beg you. S
urely,” he asked querulously, “the hour of confrontation has not yet come—?”

  Picyt snorted in derision. If only he had the n’ka, he would strike, and Merdar take the consequences. But his outburst had been sufficient loss of control for one evening. Swallowing his bitterness, he contented himself by glancing over his shoulder and replying, “It will take more than Hihuan’s evil to bring down the House of Kkanthor, just as we cannot alone bring down Hihuan. Be at rest, Uble.”

  Gathering his mantle closer, he started down the steep spiral of stairs, the echo of their footsteps reverberating through the well. On he went past the landings with corridors leading to the chancery halls and dormitories, ignoring a faint stir of hunger. Not until he reached the lower levels did he step off the stairs, startling the brown-robed technicians in the transport bay with his unannounced appearance. Teecht came hastening forth, wiping his blackened hands with care before kneeling and lifting fingertips to his lips and forehead in a quick salute to Anthi.

  “Revered noble,” he said, lifting his eyes trustingly to Picyt’s face, an act that was permitted to all within the House. “Do we raise the shields?”

  Picyt stared at him for a moment, then said in an undertone, “Is there power?”

  The man lowered his eyes as he swept out his hand palm down. “No, revered noble. But by dawn, we can—”

  Picyt lifted his finger. “Not yet. The age of the machinery…We dare not strain it in our eagerness to avoid discomfort.”

  “But the palace! Leiil Hihuan and—”

  Picyt turned away, his restless gaze sweeping over the cavernous expanse of the bay. It was not as well lighted as in the past. He had no intention of sharing with anyone his real purpose in holding down the shields. “Where is the n’dl?” he asked softly. “Does she work well?”

  Teecht rose stiffly to his feet, a frown on his jowled face. “Ah, yes, revered noble. Harder than we can—”

  “Revered noble!”

  Startled by the interruption, Picyt turned sharply, his heart thudding in sudden expectancy. He extended his hand in permission for the tabard-clad slave to approach him.

  “Your pardon, revered noble,” gasped the shaven man, Henan by the look of him. Several of those standing near Picyt drew back with small gestures of disgust that normally were forbidden within the confines of the House, but Picyt was too intent upon the message to rebuke them. “A messenger from the palace awaits by the gates. The Tlar leiil has summoned your presence this hour.”

  Picyt’s dark eyes shone, but he gave no other outward sign of satisfaction. “I come,” he said, dismissing the slave, and turned to his technicians. “Has word come from the Pon Tuult?”

  “None, revered noble,” said Teecht.

  Picyt curbed the pang of disappointment and raised one finger. “It pleases me to have full jen guard as escort. And set Oliir to watch the n’dl.” Seeing Teecht’s craggy face cloud with doubt, Picyt added, “The boy is Bban. He will not fail his honor.” Tucking his mask more securely beneath his arm, Picyt left the transport bay with a faint, unreadable smile on his lips.

  The storm rendered seizert foolhardy and the violence in the streets made use of a litter unsafe. Thus Picyt crossed the city in the comfort of his transport, closing his conscience to the display of ostentation at such an ill-judged time. At the protected sector of the city no one delayed his admittance, for no pon of the Tlar’jen had sufficient arrogance to dare annoy the First Honored of Anthi. Once beneath the protective bubble, the transport jetted smoothly along broad avenues, no longer buffeted by the force of high winds. Overhead the storm clawed at the bubble with jagged blue-white forks of lightning, thunder booming ominously as the darkness continuously split wide in blinding flashes of stark light.

  The curtains hung back from the view window, but Picyt sat motionless, his gaze focused inward, heedless of the glimpses of villas and ornamental gardens slipping by in the darkness. No traitor stood in the guard escort tonight; the Bban’n did not shed their sworn loyalty readily, and all with him were blood-bonded to his service. Still, because Tuult was not with him this night and because the memory of Riidul’s death continued to sear his heart, Picyt looked hard on them with truth until they stirred restlessly. But he found no darkness concealed in their midst. He sighed. It was one small assurance to count on as the transport paused once again, giving a slight dip as the air jets cut to landing support. Before them rose the black palace walls. The pass was presented, and still they were not admitted through the towering gates. Picyt frowned, his long fingers flexing impatiently. In the narrow aisle behind his seat the jen escort stirred with faint clickings of their long jaws.

  The transport’s steward, a slender ty-boy who had retained his soft mannerisms and pale gracefulness despite being retrained from the ways of the brothels, which the priests had cleared away from the temple avenue, now glided back to where Picyt sat waiting impatiently. He bowed, his sensitive lips curving in a sweet smile that less pure-minded citizens would have found provocative.

  “Your pardon is craved, revered noble,” he said in his low musical voice. “The pon on duty insists on inspection.”

  Bban murmuring rose heatedly, causing a flicker of fear to cross the steward’s face, but with an uplifted finger Picyt checked his guards. He fitted his mask carefully into place, drawing up the hood of his cloak, and turned his palm up. “It pleases me to allow this,” he said without tone, curbing the angry pulse that hammered within him.

  The hatch lifted up and outward, letting in the shadows of the night with a slight hiss of air. Out of those shadows stepped a black-cloaked officer, the tracings on his mask vividly marking his personal caste and house, the band of scarlet at his throat giving his rank. Every Bban hand moved to the hilt of a jen-knife as the Tlar ducked his head to enter. He saw Picyt and saluted stiffly.

  “Your pardon, Noble Picyt!” he said brusquely.

  At the sound of his voice Picyt made a small sound of recognition. “Pon Fflir!” he said with an edge in his voice. “I thought you above gate duty.”

  The pon lowered his saluting fist. “A small indiscretion displeased the Tsla leiis. The assignment is not of long duration, however. Now, noble. Why have the shields remained lowered?”

  Picyt made a gesture of scorn. “Do you also fear the first storm of season?”

  “This is no minor blow!” Fflir gestured vehemently, and with an expulsion of pungent musk the Bban nearest Picyt sprang to a crouch of readiness, whipping out his jen-knife. “Merdarai!” said Fflir harshly. “Is this an example of the Bban tribes you would have us give place to? Call off your brutes, noble.”

  Lips compressed behind his mask, Picyt lifted his finger, and at once the Bban moved back and returned the jen-knife to its sheath with a soft snick.

  “Now, noble!” continued Fflir, setting one gloved hand on his hip in a manner that reminded Picyt of the n’dl. “The shields must come up. Vector six has been struck, and fire is raging through the Henan shacks.”

  Picyt raised his eyebrows. “The entire outer city will be swept into panic.”

  “Lea’dl! What care we about that?” snapped Fflir. “It is the inner city and the palace that matter.” He pointed impatiently at the communicator set into the bulkhead facing Picyt. “Call your technicians, noble, and give the order.”

  Picyt’s long fingers touched the vial of yde pocketed within his sleeve. “I did not come here for that purpose, Pon Fflir.” He paused. “Or did you summon me in the name of the Tlar leiil? I thought it was the Tsla leiis you served.”

  The insult of his words was not greatly veiled. Fflir stepped back in anger. “Take care with your words, noble,” he ground out. “Such accusations challenge many honors, all of which I am sworn to defend.”

  Picyt gathered the forces of his inner rings and focused them tightly as he leaned forward in his seat and swept out his hand. “I have business with the Tlar leiil,” he snapped, weary of this pon, who was as an insect in the major intrigues of power. “D
elay me further if you dare.”

  The cabin grew very still save for the low hiss of ventilated air. Picyt sat motionless, his masked stare unwavering as he waited to see if Fflir was stupid enough to risk carrying this further.

  Fflir stood so rigidly that his ribs stretched tautly against the sleek expanse of his tunic. Picyt, alert in ways this hotheaded young officer knew nothing of, sensed Fflir’s retreat even as the five Bban’jen tensed expectantly, their eyes glowing through the mesh eye guards of their masks. Smiling slightly, Picyt lifted his finger to quiet them.

  With a growl Fflir raised his fist in a vicious salute, turned on his heel, and exited the transport with his cloak whipping out behind him. A low barking chorus of amusement circled through the Bban’jen as the steward bolted down the hatch. After a moment the air jets boosted the transport forward through the tall bronze gates, which had swung wide.

  Not until the transport halted before the palace and the Bban escorts leapt out to split into their guard formation did Picyt have an opportunity to tilt up his mask and swallow the vial of yde unseen save by the furtive, discreet eyes of the steward. Then he refitted his mask and formed his rings with a surge of renewed potency. With his gloved hand resting lightly on the gleaming hilt of his jen-knife, he ducked out the hatchway and descended the three steps to the stone-paved courtyard with the serene demeanor of his position. Certain that many unseen eyes were upon him, he paused assuredly for a moment in the light of flambeaux held aloft by a contingent of slaves emerging from the entrance portico. With lights blazing boldly like Bban eyes stabbing into the night, the palace sprawled before him in two arched wings, vast, columned, powerful. Placing his fingertips together, Picyt lifted his head to an angle befitting the First Honored of Anthi and went forward past the crouched stone griflings, whose extended claws were tipped with gold. He climbed the broad steps that stretched to the flared columns of the portico. There the majordomo waited, bowing in his long, gilded tabard, a jeweled collar of servitude winking about his plump throat.