The Blackgod

by Greg Keyes

  Perkar stared for a moment, then nodded, blushing. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Feel free to die with me, then.”

  “Thank you.”

  It was almost as if that agreement were a signal for a handful of riders to rush up to them, shrieking. Perkar snarled and snatched for Harka.

  “They are not attacking,” Harka said. “Not yet. Keep me ready.”

  Perkar eased his breath out then, and the riders parted around him, shouting, brandishing axes and thick curved swords. Perkar knew none of these, but like the riders at the stream, they had their war plumes on. Each wore a Human skin as a cloak, the empty arms and hands flapping like the wings of spirits.

  He and Ngangata sat their horses as the riders circled them, enduring the Mang curses. At last, one of them parted out and brought his stallion stamping and gasping to relative stillness. He was a young man, thickly muscular.

  “You!” he shouted at Perkar. “Cattle-Man. We will fight.”

  Perkar avoided the man’s eyes: meeting them squarely was considered an affront by the Mang. Instead he gazed up at the sky, as if wondering where the clouds were. “I have no wish to fight you, man,” he replied.

  “We are here on the invitation of Brother Horse,” Ngangata added. “We are not here to fight.”

  “I am not speaking to you, Brush-Man,” the warrior said, “And I do not care whose protection you are under.”

  “It’s true,” Perkar heard someone say. “They were hunting with us in the high country.” A few others echoed the sentiment.

  “Hunting in the high country. Is that where he got my cousin, there?” He jabbed his thick fingers toward Sharp Tiger, and Perkar realized that if things could get worse, they had. They were Mang. Of course they would recognize the horse and wonder where its rider was.

  Perkar was spared having to answer when a second man rode up beside the first. He was quite young, and his eyes were a peculiar color for a Mang—almost green. “Be still, Chuuzek. Brother Horse told us of these two.”

  “Someone get Brother Horse,” someone else called from the side. “Bring him here quickly!” Perkar did not turn to see who it was, but thought he recognized Huu’leg, with whom he had hunted and shared beer.

  “As I said,” Perkar repeated, “I have no desire to fight.”

  The man who had been called Chuuzek glared at him. The crowd seemed split on the matter of their fighting; Perkar could hear many urging Chuuzek on, but others were as loudly proclaiming that such a breach of hospitality could not be tolerated. “What is your quarrel with me?”

  “You are the pale man and the Brush-Man. You began this war,” Chuuzek proclaimed loudly, matter-of-factly.

  Perkar could only stare, openmouthed. It was Ngangata who answered the charge. “Who told you this?”

  “The gaan. The prophet.”

  And at that, there was silence for a moment, before Brother Horse’s voice rose up.

  “Well, my nephews are back!” he said dryly, not loudly at all. But in the quiet after Chuuzek’s assertion he was more than audible.

  “A Mang’s nephews are Mang,” Chuuzek spat.

  “Well, so they are,” Brother Horse agreed. “And so they are—in this camp, at this moment.” The old man pushed through the crowd, two younger clansmen trailing closely. He glared up at Chuuzek. “Mang know how to behave properly in a relative’s camp.”

  “Yes,” the green-eyed boy assented. “Yes, they do.”

  Chuuzek, whose face had been set in a fierce scowl, suddenly grinned broadly. He turned to Brother Horse. “You misunderstand, Shutsebe. This is the time of the Ben’cheen, of feasting and games. I was only asking your nephew if he wanted to go at the bech’iinesh.”

  “He does not,” Brother Horse snapped.

  Perkar pursed his lips, trying desperately to place the word. He had heard it before, and it meant something like “flat”… No. It meant “they slap.” It was a game, and a rough one.

  Chuuzek shrugged off Brother Horse’s pronouncement.

  “He can tell me himself,” Chuuzek said, “if he is too small and soft for a Mang pastime.”

  “Well,” Perkar said softly, “I have no wish to fight you. But if it is only a game you wish to play…”

  Brother Horse was frowning and shaking his head no, and the lift in Ngangata’s brow also told him that he was agreeing to a bad thing. But if he did not do something, he would not know peace long enough even to get Hezhi. And if he did, there was nothing to stop a party of these men from following him from the village and attacking him in the open desert, away from Brother Horse and his hospitality. No, it was time for him to do something. And Chuuzek was looking at him expectantly.

  He had five hundred leagues of Mang territory to ride through to reach his home. Best get this over with—or at least begin it—now.

  “Of course. I accept your invitation,” he said, and the crowd burst into a hoarse cheer. Chuuzek bared his teeth in satisfaction.

  “Fine,” Brother Horse said. “But let my nephew get a bite to eat, something to drink. There is plenty enough time for Slapping today.”

  “No,” Perkar said. “No, I feel well enough to play now.” As he said this, he stared fully into Chuuzek’s eyes and saw the malicious light there.

  Brother Horse sighed. “Perkar has no paddle. I will loan him mine.” He turned and strode off.

  For an instant, no one spoke, but then the crowd surged around them, and it almost seemed as if they lifted up Perkar and his mount and carried them to the track around the camp. Still shouting, they parted about the hoof-beaten path and lined the sides of it. Perkar wasn’t certain, but many of them seemed to be taking bets.

  Presently Brother Horse returned, bearing a wooden paddle as long as a man’s arm and a hand’s breadth wide. It looked to be hardwood wrapped with leather over some sort of padding. Brother Horse handed it up to him, and he took the felt-wrapped grip. It weighed almost as much as a sword.

  Chuuzek was nowhere in sight.

  “What do I do?” Perkar asked.

  Brother Horse shook his head. “Tell me what you want buried with you. Chuuzek is going to kill you.”

  Perkar smiled and nodded. “Yes, yes. What do I do!”

  The old man pointed around the track. “He’s around on the other side of the village. In a moment, someone will blow a horn. You ride toward each other. You hit each other with the paddles.”

  “How is the winner known?”

  Brother Horse spit. “Oh, you’ll know,” he said. “You just keep going until someone can’t or won’t. My advice to you is to fall off right away. Very dishonorable, but then again, it will give Chuuzek only one chance to break your neck.”

  “Can I parry his paddle?”

  “You can do whatever you want. It won’t matter.”

  “You’ve never seen me fight.”

  Brother Horse laid a hand on his leg and looked up frankly. “You bear a godsword; I know that. No doubt with it in your hands you are a great warrior. But today you are just a man on a horse with a wooden paddle, facing a Mang who was in the saddle nine months before he was born.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes. Normally, people are careful enough when they play this game. Accidents happen, though, and if it looks like an accident, people won’t call it murder. With you, it won’t even have to look good.”

  Perkar nodded grimly. “Well,” he muttered. “Let’s go, then.”

  Brother Horse nodded. “When someone blows a horn, ride that way.” He pointed north.

  Perkar tightened his grip on the paddle, swung it experimentally a few times.

  And someone blew a horn, two sharp notes. The crowd cheered raggedly, and Perkar dug his heels into T’esh. His mount leapt forward almost without that, as if it knew the significance of the horn. Perkar flexed his hand on the grip, then tightened.

  “You can still help me, Harka?” he snarled into the wind.

  “Some. Not much. Draw me and I can help you much more.”

&nbs
p; Perkar gritted his teeth but did not answer. T’esh had fallen into a fluid gallop, what Ngangata called an “archer’s gait.” Where was Chuuzek?

  The howling of the crowd, already deafening, rose in pitch. Chuuzek and his mount appeared in the curving track. For an instant, Perkar felt a dismay so powerful and shocking he nearly bolted his steed from the course. Chuuzek resembled a bear, his obsidian eyes glinting with a feral ferocity that smote Perkar with nearly physical force. Mang avoided eye contact normally, but for Chuuzek, only Perkar existed. There was no wavering there, no second thoughts, only murder.

  Perkar bit his lip furiously and dismissed his fear. He was Perkar of the Clan Barku. He had faced the goddess of the Hunt on her lion, felt the steel of her lance in his throat. No Human horseman could match the terror of that.

  So he narrowed his eyes, counted hoofbeats, and when the time came, he swung. The moment seemed to slow, as the hurtling mounts converged, eyes rolling but no hesitation in their strides. Chuuzek struck simply, hammering his weapon in a flat, sidewise arc designed to catch Perkar in the face. He was passing on Perkar’s right, and there was little he could do save block the furious swing, so Perkar cut around at his enemy’s paddle.

  The boards clapped together, and a staggering shock raced up Perkar’s arm and jarred his teeth. The blow lifted him up and out of his saddle, and it was only luck that one of his feet stayed in its stirrup. Brother Horse’s paddle went spinning from his grip, and his head banged against his horse’s rump. For a moment, Perkar couldn’t grasp what was happening; then he slammed into the dusty ground. His foot still in the stirrup, the earth cut and burned him as T’esh thundered on another ten paces before slowing, realizing that his rider was no longer mounted.

  Perkar twisted out of the stirrup and spat the sudden taste of iron from his mouth. His lungs were burning and the air seemed like a rain of golden fire, drowning his senses. The hooting of the crowd was distant, like a faraway flock of blackbirds chattering. Chuuzek, paddle held high, vanished around the edge of the track.

  Grimly Perkar fought to his feet. A boy of perhaps ten hurried toward him, bearing the paddle, and he lurched forward to take it, stumbled back to T’esh, and remounted. For a dizzy moment, he wasn’t sure which direction to ride in, but T’esh seemed to know, and he crouched in the saddle as the great beast beneath him returned to a full charge.

  Chuuzek reappeared, a happy snarl on his face. Perkar felt anger, white hot, surge through him, and suddenly all he cared to do was to shatter those smiling teeth into the big man’s throat. He heard a hoarse cry and realized that it was himself. Bouncing in the stirrups, leaning forward, he struck straight overhand. Chuuzek’s blow arced out as before, but Perkar ignored it; Chuuzek’s face, his stupid leering face, was his target, and he cared for nothing else. At the last instant, he stood as tall as he could and felt his blow land, even as Chuuzek’s paddle cracked into his sternum. Something in his chest shattered, and he saw sky, earth, sky reel around him for what seemed a long time before the dust claimed him once more.

  XI

  The Codex Obsidian

  Ghan looked up wearily at the boy Yen.

  “If you want help finding a book,” he muttered, “then I will help you. If you’ve come merely to bother me, leave before you waste any of my time.”

  “No, in fact,” Yen said, “I have come for help in finding a book. My order has set me to work on a repair of the ducts in the Great Water Temple.”

  “And they sent you here to find a book concerning such repairs?”

  The young man looked suddenly uncomfortable, fingering his unfashionably high collar nervously.

  “Well, to tell the truth, Master Ghan, they did not specifically tell me to look here, and I was afraid to ask them. They were impressed enough by my earlier work, and I think that they believe me more capable than I am.”

  “You had excellent help before,” Ghan reminded the young man.

  “Indeed, Master Ghan, I did. When I was in here last, you kindly offered—”

  “I know what I offered,” Ghan snapped. He did not like Yen. He had not liked him when he was so transparently courting Hezhi, but the fact that he insisted on reminding him of her was intolerable. Though, to be fair, the young man had been discreet enough not to bring her up this time. So far. And Hezhi liked him, would help him if she were here.

  “I can help you rather simply,” Ghan said. “There are no books concerning the Great Water Temple in this library. Not of the sort that you might want, anyway.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that the priesthood is exceedingly jealous of its secrets. The construction and content of the temple is their most ancient secret.”

  “Nothing here at all?”

  Ghan readied a surly reply but paused. “What is it you want to know?” he asked slowly.

  “Well, if there is nothing here on its construction, I will surely be supplied with plans of what I am to work on. But… is there nothing of its history here? Of its dedication?”

  “Why would that interest you?”

  “If I am to have the honor of working upon something sacred, I think I would like to know more about it.” He blushed. “I suppose I am merely curious.”

  Ghan regarded the young man steadily. What was his hidden motive? Everyone in the palace had one. He had seen that in Hezhi instantly, though it had taken many months for him to untangle her secret. It was important to understand that no one told you what they really wanted and that sometimes they themselves did not know. Now here was this merchant’s son, a member of the Royal Engineers but a junior one, just in his first year of service. He wanted to know about the temple, and the assertion that he was to work upon it was clearly a lie. But why did he want to know?

  But the answer was clear enough to Ghan. He wanted to know because of Hezhi. He was clearly obsessed with her, frantic to discover her whereabouts. He had heard something or seen something that made him certain she was not dead.

  Ghan realized that his mind had wandered far enough afield that the boy had noticed.

  He will think me a senile old man, Ghan thought.

  “I can help you with that, perhaps,” he said. “Wait here while I consult the index.”

  Yen nodded as Ghan unfolded his legs and stood; he winced inwardly as his stiff joints popped and complained at the shift in position. Moving into the adjoining chamber where he kept the index, he took the huge volume down and carefully spread it open.

  He flipped through the subject headings until he came to Wun Su’ta, “temples,” and scanned through the lists, trying to remember which ones were most suitable. As he recalled, Yen could read only the syllabary, not the ancient glyphs, so he excluded many right away.

  He felt a little catch in his throat as he noticed the last few entries. They were nicely formed, very distinctive characters. Hezhi’s writing.

  “Such a bright girl,” he muttered, and wondered what she was doing at the moment. Sitting in some Mang hut, bored to tears, or riding about the world, seeing things he himself had only read about?

  He paused and faced the dread he had been avoiding. There were other possibilities. Only the word of a few Mang horsemen—certainly men of less than untouchable repute—evidenced that she had escaped the city at all. He had received no reply from the letter he sent with the horsemen, though he had not expected one soon. The simple facts were that Hezhi could be dead, or below the Darkness Stair with her monstrous relatives, or…

  Why did Yen want to know about the Water Temple? What did he know, or suspect? Was she there, for some incredible reason?

  He noticed that his hand was trembling, and he frowned. Weak old man, he chastened himself. Weak. Stupid. She is safe and far from here.

  What had he been thinking, though? Entrusting her to that pale-skinned foreigner on no more substance than a dream? He had given her hope, and he desperately wanted to believe that her hope had been rewarded. But he was an old man, long familiar with failure and disappoin
tment. Things never worked out as one hoped.

  If he could only know what Yen hoped, and why.

  With a heavy sigh he noted down the references. Best that he watch, for the moment. Yen was an engineer, whose organization rested somewhere between the priesthood and the emperor. It could well be that he knew something that Ghan did not, especially now, since he had been cautious of late. There were many in the palace who disliked him—hated him even—and rumors that he had something to do with Hezhi’s escape were not lacking. Not common, either, but certainly not lacking. If he were to show the slightest interest in her whereabouts, the Ahw’en investigators would take note with their hidden eyes, and then he must kill himself, ere they could torture Hezhi’s location from him.

  But perhaps this Yen could look for him.

  And so, sighing heavily, Ghan noted down the best reference he could find by shelf and location.

  He took it out and handed it to Yen.

  “You remember how to find things from an index reference?” he asked.

  “I look for this number on the shelves.”

  “Yes. The volume you are looking for is entitled Notes on the Codex Obsidian.”

  “I don’t understand. This tells of the Great Water Temple?”

  Ghan smiled thinly. “If it said as much in its title, the priesthood would have taken it from me long ago. This is a modern translation of the Codex Obsidian, a book written in the ancient hand. But the Codex Obsidian itself contains a long citation from the Song and Consecration of the Temple, the holy text that describes the origin and building of the temple and its associated fanes.”

  Yen shook his head in wonder. “Amazing. Books within books within books. I see now why she…” He paused, embarrassed. “Why some spend so much of their time here,” he finished lamely.

  “Indeed,” Ghan intoned flatly. “Now, if you please, I have much to be about.”

  “Yes, yes of course. Thank you, Master Ghan.”