by Fiona Patton
Now, a scuttling sound brought Its attention snapping back to the present, and It watched as a lithe figure appeared on the top of the palisade. It paused to gather its bearings, then leaped to the puddled ground with a light splash, and Hisar felt a thrill of excitement race through It as It recognized the youth who’d been first to leave an offering behind.
The youth bent, set a small piece of stone by the western foundation wall, then backed away slowly.
“You could . . . you know, help some,” she said into the darkness, her voice both guarded and suspicious, and Hisar recognized the tone from hundreds of conversations It’d had with Spar. “I don’t promise nuthin’ back,” she continued, “No oaths nor vows nor none a that, but you’ve had two bits of stone from me now, so a bit of help from you’d be . . . kinda . . . helpful.”
Changing to Its Rayne-seeming, the young God stepped off the shed roof at once, then froze as the youth whirled about. “Yeah, I could help some,” She said clearly, pushing Her words and Her image more fully into the physical world and matching the youth’s dockside accent and cautious stance with eerie perfection. “Whadda ya need?”
The youth squinted suspiciously at Her. “Shine, bread, a new jacket,” she said with a snort. “But Gods don’t help with that kinda useful shite, do they?”
Hisar gave one of Spar’s one-shouldered shrugs. “Not so much,” She agreed. “But you musta thought of something else or you wouldn’t a asked.”
The youth snickered. “Guess so.” She folded her arms almost belligerently across her wet tunic. “So how do some say it, the strength of Creation for somethin’ and the weakness of Destruction for somethin’ else?”
“Yeah, that’s how some say it.”
“All right then, I want the strength of Creation for my crew to find a new safe and the weakness of Destruction for the piss-faced factor that turfed us out to fall in the strait an’ drown.”
Hisar cocked Her head to one side trying to sort out the youth’s street talk from what She had learned from Spar.
“I don’t know too much about safes,” She admitted, “ ’Cept this one,” She amended, indicating the shed with a jerk of Her chin. “Why can’t your crew stay here?”
The youth rolled her eyes. “ ’Cause it ain’t that kinda safe. It’s a coming by for thinkin’ and sittin’ quiet kinda safe.” She leaned one shoulder against the wall in a proprietary way. “Open for all crews, not just mine. No fights here, no liftin’, no hidin’ lifted goods. Just bein’ safe. But no eatin’ or sleepin’ neither.”
“There was someone sleepin’ here before,” Hisar pointed out.
“Yeah, that was Zeno. He was in my crew. He took a fall, so we all figured he could rest here till he got better. He got pinched for trespass. That’s why nobody’s slept here since.”
Hisar felt Her body stiffen. “Who says it was trespass?” She demanded in a dangerous growl.
The youth shrugged. “Garrison guards what patrol the docks at night, I guess.” She tipped her head to one side. “Say, could you help with that?” she asked.
Hisar nodded. “Oh, yeah, I’ll help with that,” She promised with an angry expression. “This is my temple site. Mine. Nobody says who’s trespassin’ here ’cept me.”
“So you can get him free?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I’ll go to my First Priest. He’s smart an’ he knows stuff.” Hisar frowned. “I should probably wait till morning though. He’s in vision an’ he hates bein’ interrupted. He gets right pissy.”
The youth cocked her head to one side again. “That be Spar?”
Hisar blinked in surprise. “Yeah.”
“ ’S it true he used to be a lifter on the western docks?”
“Yeah.”
The youth relaxed her shoulders. “Well, that’s all right, then. I can figure a priest with that kinda training might have somethin’ half useful to say. You go talk to him. In the mornin’. I reckon Zeno can wait that long.” She turned away, then paused. “An’ if it works out I might, you know, think about oaths,” she said without turning around. “Not like Spar’s a course, but some kind. Maybe. If it works out.”
As she disappeared over the palisade again, Hisar felt a newly formed thread of obligation follow her into the night and bounced up and down excitedly. Crossing to the youth’s offering, She bent and ran Her fingers over the smooth surface, recognizing another piece of etched marble, and feeling the strength inherent in the gifting of it. “Maybe,” She whispered. “Maybe’s good.”
Changing to Its familiar dragonfly-seeming, It lifted into the air, then passed over the youth with the faintest whisper of metallic wings, before heading out across the city, excitement causing It to flip through a series of barrel rolls in midair. It would help her and she would swear to It, and that might just give It enough strength to face the spirits growing in the darkness. It would talk to Spar in the morning, but It wanted to start helping Its potential new worshiper now. Not in the morning, now.
It snapped Its teeth at a nearby gull in annoyance. Spar should be willing to leave his visioning for this, It thought resentfully. After all, he was Hisar’s First Priest, and Hisar needed his advice. But Spar had spent the last day and half the night in Estavia’s Seer’s Shrine with Sable Company and he was always “pissy” after spending that much time with temple seers. It had better wait.
Pausing over the western docks, Hisar wondered what the other Gods did when They wanted to speak to one of Their First Priests in the middle of the night. It bet They wouldn’t wait until morning. Not by half, They wouldn’t. They’d probably just slam into their prophecy with a bang.
It almost turned toward Estavia-Sarayi, then checked as a thought occurred to It. Spar was busy, but Brax wasn’t. Brax was standing on top of his newly built trap for Graize; he’d been there all week.
Banking sharply, the young God shot across the Halic-Salmanak, heading for the North Trisect at a dizzying speed, ignoring the restless stirring beneath It, for now.
Far below, in the great stone cistern, the newly arriving spirits swirled about in vast, silver schools just below the surface, feeding off the tiny flakes of power that sparkled in the darkness. Their constant motion agitated the water, disturbing the slumber of the larger, heavier spirits lying on the bottom. The power was darker there and harder to find, but no less hungry, but these spirits were more patient, waiting—sometimes for years—for those upper spirits to slowly sink under the pressure of their own feeding. The largest of the bottom dwellers would then rise up just a little and devour them. Their tiny allotments of prophecy would fill their dreams and they would sink into slumber once again.
But lately, these heavier spirits had begun to sense the presence of another creature, one so bright with power that their blind hunger for it had driven them to nearly full awakening. If they could reach this new power, they could feast until even the most famished of their number would be satisfied.
If they could reach it.
Standing on the entrance to the reservoir, Incasa felt this growing agitation as a tingle through His own ties of obligation to Anavatan. In the past these spirits had required little tending. Most were destroyed in the reservoir itself by the cool breeze and the warm sun, the rest by the bottom feeders in the cistern. When those became too powerful, Incasa would direct the God of the Seasons to flood the cistern during Havo’s Dance, driving them back toward the bottom or spilling them out through the overflow into Gol-Beyaz itself where the Gods could devour them at leisure. But as Hisar had grown, It had sensed the hunger growing within the cistern, and as indignant as a young cat whose territory was suddenly under threat, It now crouched, poised and bristling above the entrance. It wouldn’t be long before impatience caused It to thrust a paw inside. But these spirits were stronger than the young cat realized. They had sharp teeth and, once in, It might find it difficult to get out again because they had sensed It, too, and they were as hungry as It was. The young cat would nee
d some help.
Floating slowly down to street level, Incasa passed His snow-white gaze across the buildings to either side. The God of Prophecy rarely left the center of Gol-Beyaz. The calming sense of waves and wind lent themselves to visioning far more than dust and wood and stone. However, now and again, it was necessary to actually see the place where the future was unfolding.
A tiny spark of unbound power drew His attention to a crude rectangular figure carved in the crumbling corner of a nearby doorway. Bending down, He breathed in the trace of the one who’d left it there: a young male, poor, hungry, and most importantly . . . unsworn, but with the finest thread of worship and obligation between himself and the new God of Creation and Destruction already in place.
The seed of power housed in the center of the tower symbol sparkled in the moonlight and He resisted the urge to harvest it Himself. As the eldest of the Gods, Incasa preferred the smooth stream of worship that flowed like a river from His temple and the many camis across Anavatan. The unsworn, especially among Anavatan’s youth, were a swirling vortex of unstable potential better suited to a young God. They would be the foundations upon which Hisar would build His new power base and just in time, for battle was imminent and every one of the Gods would need all the followers they could muster.
Rising above the rooftops, Incasa watched as an iridescent figure flitted across the moon, then turned His gaze to the north before returning to the calm stability of Gol-Beyaz with a satisfied expression.
9
The Aqueduct
HE STOOD HIGH ON a rocky promontory watching the construction of Anavatan coming to a close for another day. Below, Marshal Nurcan and the rest of the Battle God’s Commanders waited to take their supper with him, but he lingered for a few moments longer, unwilling to break the silence of his own thoughts.
His gaze swept across the vast building site. Although the Gods’ six temples and most of the civic buildings were complete, great, empty gaps still marred the city’s skyline with most of Anavatan’s future citizens still living in tents and makeshift wooden barracks. They would be properly housed come winter—the Gods had promised it—but with the warm, summer breeze off Gol-Beyaz freshening the air, many chose to take their meals outdoors. The mingled odors of woodsmoke and roasting meat wafted up to him from the hundreds of cooking fires below while, along the banks of the Halic-Salmanak, the navy’s twelve new penteconters stood guard over the western wharfs, already crowded with trade ships; all eager to supply the many markets which had sprung up almost overnight. Whatever the season, whatever the circumstances, he mused, trade always followed hard on the heels of either construction or destruction, often overtaking them both.
The cries of Estavia’s sentries on the newly built God-Wall sounding the all clear drew his attention to the northwest. Just within the protection of the Wall, the wide stretch of greenery, set aside to ensure the city’s meat supply, was already dotted with sheep, grazing peacefully beneath the reservoir and the wide, sweeping arches of the great aqueduct, built to ensure its water supply. Beyond the Wall, the grasslands merged with the wild lands, then disappeared in a swath of gray-green mist, colored orange by the setting sun. Empty of any threat.
For now.
The wide, twisting scar on his right thigh—a souvenir from the fighting against the Yuruk last season—twinged as he began to pick his way down the narrow trail. He rubbed at it with a thoughtful expression. Soon there would be little need for fighting. The God-Wall would protect them from the Yuruk and the navy would protect them from Volinsk. There would be peace and prosperity, just as the Gods had promised. He wondered absently what he’d do with himself then.
“The Wall will not stand.”
On the sentinel platform he’d had constructed at Havo-Cami, Brax dismissed the words with a growl. Beside him, Ghazi-Warrior Feridun made a questioning noise, then returned his attention to the northern hills when his Ikin-Kaptin just shook his head. Staring across the glittering waters of the Halic-Salmanak, Brax’s brows drew down in an impatient frown.
He’d had this second vision just this afternoon, caused, once again, by the subversive ministrations of Senior Touch-Healer Jazet, but this vision had been far more tactile than the first. He remembered the smell of woodsmoke and roasting meat and the twinge of pain in his right thigh. Its timing was suspect. He’d sketched it out for Spar but had otherwise kept it to himself. He didn’t know where these visions were coming from, and until he did, he wasn’t going to give Kaptin Liel any excuse to extend his training in cultivating stillness. He’d had more than enough of that during his convalescence.
Leaning against the cami’s outer wall, he turned to face the light rain that had just begun to fall, allowing it to cool his cheeks as he studied the vision as dispassionately as he was able.
He was used to being compared to Kaptin Haldin. Ever since Estavia had brought him and Spar to Her temple—practically forcing the command council to take them on as delinkon—his fellow warriors had drawn parallels between himself and Her legendary Champion. Everyone wanted to be part of a new story full of heroism and romance. Brax had grown used to both the favoritism and the responsibility that came with it, but what he wasn’t used to was being caught up in visions that slapped him down into Kaptin Haldin’s actual memories. That was new. And he didn’t like it. He was no seer, and feeling other people’s feelings and thinking other people’s thoughts—especially people who’d been dead for centuries, was for seers.
“Do you know what this book is about?”
He chuckled. Of course he’d known what the book was about. He knew about nearly every book that contained anything on Kaptin Haldin; Ihsan had seen to that. But he wasn’t about to admit that to Spar. It was way too much fun taking the piss on him. And he’d seen that particular picture many times. In the early days, when the heady buzz of Estavia’s lien had kept him from sleeping, he would sometimes slip quietly from the bed he shared with Spar and Jaq and make his way to the armory tower. There, standing alone in the shadowy lamplight, he would run his fingers over the brightly painted figure, wondering about Kaptin Haldin’s life, what he had felt and what he’d thought. How he’d died.
On the sentinel platform, Brax grimaced. “Be careful what you wish for, idiot,” he told himself. “It just might come back to bite you on the arse.”
“The Wall will not stand.”
“I heard you the first time.”
“Ikin?” Feridun turned again.
“Nothing, Ghazi, just thinking out loud.”
The older man snorted. “A bad habit for young commanders to get into,” he admonished in a gruff tone. “It makes their subordinates doubt their ability to lead.”
“Hm.” Brax’s first real command had ended in disaster with six of his troop dead and himself a prisoner of the Yuruk. If Feridun—himself badly injured—hadn’t doubted Brax’s ability to lead then, it was unlikely that a little thinking out loud would cause it now.
Deep within him, Estavia’s lien tingled, disturbed by the memory, and he laid his palm against his chest until it eased.
“Don’t think about any of that right now,” he told himself sternly. “Think about the job at hand. Think about the trap. Thinking about the trap will anchor it in the physical world and that will bring Graize right to it.”
Straightening, he stared into the darkness beyond the city wall. Somewhere out there, Graize crept ever closer; Brax didn’t need a seer’s abilities to know it.
He leaned against the side of the cami once again. He and Spar had taken his proposal to Kemal and Yashar, and then to the command council the very next morning after their visit to the Northern Trisect. It was the first time they’d stood together in that vaulted, windowless chamber in six years, and he’d found himself feeling just as belligerent as he had the first time.
And Kaptin Omal of Indigo Company had been just as unconvinced.
“And you know this man, this Graize, is going to attack the aqueduct? You’ve seen it?” The he
avyset ghazi-commander leaned forward, fixing Brax with an intense stare.
Brax just shook his head. “No, I haven’t seen it, Kaptin; I’m no seer. But the aqueduct’s in danger, that much has been seen.”
“By those who service the aqueduct and by the Oracles of Incasa themselves,” Kemal added.
“The Oracles of Incasa have seen a single stream that speaks to the possibility of danger,” Kaptin Liel corrected mildly, “not to any actual danger as of yet.”
“I know Graize,” Brax interrupted firmly. “I know how his mind works and I know what drives him. I know that as long as he remains at large with his movements untracked, he’s a danger to Anavatan. He orchestrated the surprise attack on Serin-Koy five years ago and he bartered an alliance between Volinsk and the Petchans that will see the hill people enter this season’s fighting on their side. He has to be stopped. I can stop him.”
“The Northern Trisect’s demanding more troops,” Yashar added. “This’d have the added benefit of shutting them up for a while.”
Kaptin Julide of their own Cyan Company shot him a dark expression, shot with reluctant amusement. “We don’t assign extra troops just to shut people up, Ghazi,” she admonished.
Beside her, Kaptin Alesar of Azure Infantry gave a bark of cynical laughter. “Because if we did, then no one ever would.”
Most of the council chuckled their agreement.
“We’re going to be facing attacks on multiple fronts this season,” Brax continued. “And you’ll be assigning everyone a place in Estavia’s defense. Make this my place. If I stand in that stream of prophetic possibility, Graize’ll see me, and he’ll come for me; he won’t be able to stop himself. He’ll set any other plans he may have aside for it and we’ll have the advantage of knowing it. We can lay a trap he can’t help but fall into. We can eliminate any possible danger to the aqueduct and the danger he poses at the same time. Prophecy fulfilled.”