Shan narrowed his eyes. ‘Does she communicate with you?’
‘Rarely. We had ac disagreement shortly after I came here.’
Shan grinned. ‘Really? What happened?’
Taropat stuffed more tobacco into his pipe. ‘Thremius was here to greet me when I finally found my way to this house. It was just like coming home to an old friend. Taropat and Thremius go back a long way together. Sinaclara arrived shortly afterwards, along with several other magi and sorceresses of the forest. It was a homecoming party, and a happy time it was too! My new/old friends heard Khaster’s story and it was a great unburdening for me. A release. Then the dear Lady came out with the remark that was destined to stand as a wall of ice between us for the foreseeable future.’ He paused.
‘What?’ Shan said, eager to know.
‘You have heard this before, from Nip. Like her, Sinaclara believes in Valraven Palindrake.’
‘What do you mean, ‘believes’ in him.’
‘She thinks I misjudged him.’
‘How would she know?’
‘As I’ve said before, the adepts of this region are like cells in a vast intelligent brain. They know much that ordinary folk don’t. They might not interact with the outside world to any large degree, but they know everything that transpires in it. I am no different.’
‘But Palindrake is the Dragon Lord of the empire. He betrayed his country – and his friend.’
‘Such is the inference I made, but Sinaclara saw differently. We argued. We’d both had a lot to drink. She lectured me on the divine providence of kings and I railed back about betrayal and dissipation. I told her she did not know Palindrake, had never even met him. I’ve known him all my life, so I am better qualified to judge. I also told her that women tended to judge Palindrake on appearances. If he was ugly, no doubt they’d think he was a monster. Sinaclara would not accept my view. She told me I should forgive him, seek him out, offer him my support. The idea was laughable. I dread to imagine how the night might have ended if one of the other women hadn’t intervened. Since then, I have refused to be in Sinaclara’s company. She’s misguided, arrogant and autocratic.’
‘Yet you let her have her way with me – in every sense.’
Taropat rubbed his eyes. ‘Whatever my opinion of her, she is very knowledgeable and powerful, and an excellent teacher. I was not prepared to let my prejudices affect your training.’
‘How unselfish of you! But you must have been worried she’d try to infect me with her beliefs. You’ve already virtually admitted it.’
Taropat smiled wearily. ‘I wasn’t that worried. Her beliefs are a dream, Shan, and I don’t think you’re foolish enough to be seduced by dreams. Maybe, in a different world, what she said might be true or at least worthy of consideration. Caradore is a special country, and the Palindrakes are a special family, but they are tainted, and whatever hopeful future they had has been changed. I think Sinaclara identifies Valraven with her beloved peacock angel, and more than a touch of romance colours her convictions.’
‘You’re undoubtedly right,’ Shan said. He sighed. ‘Still, I don’t want to go to Mewt yet. Perhaps Thremius is right, and I should undertake this training, but I’m not ready. I feel there is more for me to learn here.’
Taropat nodded. ‘I sympathise, but the fact is you must leave almost at once. There can be no delays in the process you’ve started.’
‘I could refuse to go.’
‘You won’t, though. You know what I’m saying is right.’
‘But with Thremius? Can’t you come with me?’
Taropat seemed confused for a moment, then said, ‘No, you misunderstand. Thremius won’t be going with you.’
‘That’s a relief. Just you and I then?’
‘No, just you.’
‘Butc’ Shan shook his head. ‘I can’t go alone. I don’t know that country. I hardly know this one. It’s such a long way. How will I support myself, find my way?’
‘It will be taken care of,’ Taropat said. ‘You will leave in three days’ time.’
‘That soon? I can’t!’
‘It is time to face the world, Shan. You’ve learned all you can here.’
‘That’s not true! I know hardly anything. I don’t have the least measure of your knowledge and experience.’
‘You will learn more along the way. You have the tools. You are the journey-man. You must find the experience for yourself. I cannot give it to you.’
‘You are casting me out!’
‘Yes,’ Taropat said quietly. ‘That is the way it must be.’
Shan could see the pain in Taropat’s expression. This did not come easily to him. That alone told Shan he was facing the inevitable.
Chapter Fourteen: Prophecy of the Cat Goddess
On the feast day of the cat goddess Purryah, Merlan Leckery ate a god. He was drunk at the time, and probably would have refused otherwise. His friend, the young Mewtish commander, Herupka, had egged him on, telling him he was infested with demons, who were sapping his strength. Merlan was convinced the weariness that had oppressed him for the past few days was only the effects of the oppressive heat that preceded the annual flood, but because Herupka was so insistent, gave in.
In Mewt there were no discernible seasons. Once a year, the normally slow and lazy River Tahati burst its banks in a great flood that irrigated the land. On the day this began to happen, Purryah had a feast, which was necessarily rather an impromptu affair. It was said the inundation was caused by the weeping of forty river goddesses, who lived in caves in the uplands of Elatine, where the river was narrow and crashing and fierce. Mewt was a land where the gods outnumbered the populace. Why have only one river goddess when you could have forty? Any priest could make a god for you, on a scrap of parchment with some spit and a smudge of black ink. He would name it for you and then it might act in your favour. If you ate the god, or rather the parchment bearing his name, you might have visions or be able to smite an enemy with a thought. You could also banish demons who had procured temporary lodgings in your body.
Merlan hadn’t really taken it seriously. He had sat in the shade in the outer court of Purryah’s temple, while Herupka chattered to the presiding priest in Mewtish. He felt light-headed, dreamy, and the incense smoke came out of the temple in drifts, pouring like perfume down his throat. Later, when the priest, appeased by money, brought out the brown scrap and handed it to Merlan, he felt unnerved. He didn’t want to do it.
‘Now,’ said Herupka, and Merlan thought about how the Mewts secretly hated the Magravandians, and Herupka, under cover of friendship, might have organised a poisoning. No one knew they were there. His employer, Lord Maycarpe, was out in the desert. Merlan had spoken to no one before they’d left. Still, the heat and scent of the incense worked their own magic, and Merlan swallowed the scrap. It seemed to melt in his mouth; perhaps it was made out of rice paper.
‘You have taken Merytet into you,’ said the priest in Mewtish.
‘Merytet?’ Merlan felt as if he’d taken a draught of a powerful narcotic philtre and must wait for its body-racking effects.
‘A daughter of Purryah,’ Herupka said. ‘She will identify the demon and cast it out.’
What demon? thought Merlan, and then remembered a thousand of them. Not supernatural beings from beyond the veil, but very real ones: fears, anxieties. Sometimes, he felt privileged being part of Maycarpe’s magical machine, but at other times, he felt like a fly caught in the grease on the cogs, who would presently be ground up by the inexorable, slowly-turning metal. The Mewts were a very sensitive race. Perhaps it was these fears that Herupka had identified.
Merlan knew that Valraven Palindrake had been to visit Maycarpe at Queen Neferishu’s palace. Merlan only found out about it by accident, on an occasion when Maycarpe had been absent from the city and he’d had opportunity to nose through the papers in his employer’s office. There was a receipt from a Magravandian passenger vessel for monies paid in respect of a private cabin aboard
the ‘Lamia’. The vessel had sailed from Caradore, where it was known Palindrake was spending some time with his family, directly to Mewt. There was no definite indication the passenger had been the Dragon Lord, but Merlan knew it was. Why hadn’t Maycarpe told him about it? He remembered an occasion some weeks previously, which the receipt confirmed was only a day after the vessel docked at Akahana, when Maycarpe had gone to a reception at the palace without him. This was unusual, because Merlan was generally included in every event of this kind. Valraven had slipped into the city and slipped out again without causing even a ripple. It was absurd. If the Magravandian ex-pat matrons had caught even the slightest whiff of his presence, there would have been a frenzy of soirees, parties and excursions. Valraven was a celebrity. Everyone loved him. The fact that Maycarpe had excluded him was one worry, but why had the Dragon Lord himself avoided Merlan? The last time they had met had been at Caradore. Palindrake was supposed to be a changed man these days, with the knowledge of his family’s history revealed to him. He had found himself again, allegedly. Merlan had had a part to play in that drama. He had been present when Valraven had stood upon the shore at Old Caradore and invoked the ancient sea dragons. For a few days after that, Palindrake had been almost like a friend. Merlan had seen another side of the man, relaxed and convivial. But the friendship had not been maintained thereafter. Merlan was afraid certain information had come to light. Before Palindrake’s arrival at Caradore, Merlan had conducted a brief affair with the Dragon Lord’s wife, Varencienne. Had she confessed this infidelity to her husband? Surely not. Yet why had Palindrake avoided him? They’d parted as friends, and had even spoken briefly together of Khaster, which hitherto had been a taboo subject. Valraven had told Merlan something, a heart-breaking fact. Even now, Merlan found it uncomfortable to think about. The Dragon Lord had trusted him then.
The cabals of the Magravandian magi were terrifying, because it was so easy to fall out of favour within them. If Valraven had spoken badly of Merlan to Maycarpe, it could affect his position in Mewt. He couldn’t confront Maycarpe about it, because he’d have to admit poking around in his employer’s private papers. So, he suffered, and wondered. The sweltering heat of the city seemed to reflect the tensions that ran in lines of power from Mewt right to Magravandias. If Leonid the emperor was a lion, his sons were wolves, and now their eyes shone in the dark, brilliant with hunger and ferocity. It couldn’t go on like this. Something would happen. Everything would change, and when it did, Merlan very much wanted to be on the winning side.
‘You feel it,’ Herupka said, breaking Merlan’s reverie.
‘If there are demons, they have human faces, my friend,’ he replied and stood up. For a moment, he felt dizzy and the hot air sizzled in his ears like the hiss of a cat. Behind them, the darkness of the inner temple was a cool haven. Merlan addressed the priest. ‘May I go within to pay my respects to the goddess?’
The priest eyed him for a moment, until Merlan reached for his money pouch. ‘A donation for the sacred animals of Purryah,’ he said.
The priest smiled slyly and bowed, his lean hand snaking out to take the coins from Merlan’s fingers. Merlan did not feel his touch.
He went into the temple and immediately the breathing darkness claimed him. The air was alive with the music of cats, their cries, their purrs, for the temple was full of them. Strangely enough, it was rare a visitor caught sight of them, at least not here in the outer courts. Merlan went to the public shrine. Purryah, a golden cat-headed woman, stood majestically in drapes of coiling incense. She was surrounded by bowls of water in which cut petals floated. Lamps glimmered on the floor. Merlan feared the gods of Mewt. Maycarpe embraced them, invoked them, laid himself open to their subtle energies. Merlan was more cautious. He knew that Purryah might be a beautiful creature, who could trot towards you, purring, to accept caresses, but she was also the fierce, disdainful beast who could very well claw you once you reached down to stroke her. She was a cat, after all. Merlan suspected the petitions of her worshippers would merely bore her. You could not rely on a cat giving you attention when you were in the mood to desire it. ‘Well, my lady, will you speak to me?’ Merlan said aloud.
At that moment, a priestess emerged from the shadows, her face set in an expression that portrayed well her feelings towards disrespectful Magravandians. She spoke quickly in a desert dialect so thick Merlan could not understand a word. He presumed this was the desired effect. ‘I have paid for this privilege,’ Merlan said in Mewtish. ‘I have taken the essence of Merytet.’
The priestess continued to stare at him in a hard fashion for some moments, then said in strongly-accented Magravandian, ‘She says someone will come for the Eye, and then you will learn something you dearly wish to be true. You will never be the one, not you. It’s him, the other one.’
Merlan stood very still. ‘Of whom does she speak, your reverence?’
The priestess shook her head. ‘That is all. You will know when the time comes. You can believe what you hear then.’
Merlan frowned. ‘But what of demons?’
‘There is only one. You know its name. It looks you in the face, yet you try to push past it to see beyond, to see something that isn’t there.’
‘Explain this to me.’
The priestess grimaced. ‘You must go now. You have heard.’
Merlan reached for his money pouch, but the priestess only raised her hands and somehow glided back into the shadows until it seemed she had never been there at all. The shrine felt strangely empty. Merlan shivered. Somewhere, perhaps far away, something of significance had just happened. He looked at the statue of the goddess. ‘Thank you, lady,’ he said, and left the shrine.
Outside, the heat hit him like burning fists. Herupka was waiting on the wall, lazy and smiling. ‘Did she speak?’ he asked.
Merlan nodded. ‘In her fashion.’
Merlan’s head was pounding by the time he entered the cool offices of the governor. Maycarpe had returned from his business in the desert. As usual, he was a vigilant presence beyond his open door. He called out Merlan’s name as Merlan tried to steal past. ‘Here, boy!’ he called.
Merlan went into the room.
‘You’re as red as an open wound,’ Maycarpe said. ‘Try to stay out of the sun. You should know this time of year is not one when we pale-skinned interlopers can walk at ease in the treacherous labyrinth of this witch of cities.’
‘I went to Purryah’s temple,’ Merlan said. ‘Herupka believes I am infested with demons.’
‘Oh,’ said Maycarpe, disinterestedly. ‘Well, sluice yourself down, tidy yourself up. We have an appointment later.’
‘Where?’ Merlan asked.
‘The palace. Neferishu has had a surprise visitor.’
‘Who?’
‘Prince Almorante.’
‘By Madragore, he kept that quiet. No fanfare? No warning?’
‘He was in Elatine, attending the state funeral of Prince Nebunka, and decided to make a detour on his way home.’
‘Here, at this time of year? It’s hardly tourist weather.’
‘Almorante, as you know, is never the tourist.’
‘What does he want?’
‘I presume he wishes to whip us invisibly and make us dance on our toes. The winter was hard in Magrast, they say. Leonid has had a bad chest.’
‘Ah, I can virtually hear the flap of vulture wings atop the bed canopy.’
‘Nothing that serious, I’m sure, but Almorante will be here to assess loyalties, perhaps make promises. You never know.’
Merlan wasn’t sure whether Almorante knew Maycarpe’s true face. He kept secret his occult activities, behaving always as the urbane and effete governor of this incomprehensible and inhospitable country, slightly bewildered by it all. But Almorante was astute. Surely, he saw through the mask? The mere fact he was visiting Akahana and buttering up the queen meant he must sense Maycarpe was more than he appeared. Mewt was a danger because it was slippery. There were no rebelli
ons to put down, no apparent underground treachery to quell. The Mewts were perfect subjects, who had accepted their Magravandian conquerors philosophically, yet always there was the feeling that things were going on in private and one day the plan would be revealed. It would catch them unawares. Should that ever happen, however, Merlan was sure Maycarpe would be part of it. He was thick with the Mewtish priests, almost one of them. A man of many masks.
The Palace of the Sun lay a short distance outside the city, approached by a processional avenue lined with stone gods. The wide-flagged road sloped upwards as the palace lay in the foothills of the Peaks of Silence, where certain temperamental goddesses lived, one of whom was a sister of Purryah. The great tiered halls of the queen’s abode, reached by an enormous ramp, were made of pink granite. Seated statues of Purryah, over thirty feet tall, flanked either side of the main entrance where the most handsome of Neferishu’s guard stood to attention, their spears longer than the height of two men. Neferishu had only recently become queen, since the death of her far older brother eight months or so before. Mefer had always been a prince, never king, but Leonid, the emperor, had granted Neferishu the correct royal title upon her accession. Perhaps he felt she was less of a threat, being female. A rather short-sighted assumption.
Lord Maycarpe and Merlan went to the palace by carriage, but were obliged to alight at the foot of the ramp as horses were not allowed on the polished stone. Climbing the ramp, it was possible to look down to either side and see the lower storeys of the palace where the servants lived. Here too were the workshops and offices, whose functions ensured that the queen’s life progressed in a manner of continuous luxury. Merlan thought about the human dramas that must be enacted behind those ranks of narrow windows. So many people lived there.
Beyond the vast pylons of the ceremonial entrance, the guests entered a beautiful courtyard, filled with exotic plants and trees from all the hot countries of the world. They had been chosen for their scents, which combined in the sultry evening to excite the senses. Cushioned benches were arranged around the ornamental pools and fountains, and low tables had been set out, not yet laden with the banquet. Merlan loved visiting the palace. He knew it had not changed for thousands of years and that Neferishu was the youngest in a dynasty that stretched right back to the days of Harakhte the Great himself. There was a solid certainty about Mewtish tradition. It seemed impervious to change, as if the gods had designed it millennia ago and, content with their work, saw nothing in it that needed alteration. Other cultures might rush and stumble about, have revolutions, build empires, die of plague, even, but Mewt continued at her own pace, blessed by the otherworld. It bent its knee to conquerors, yet miraculously remained untainted by their presence. And the conquerors, having secured the diamond of the world, saw no reason to reshape its polished facets. For that, Merlan was thankful.
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