The Man of Gold

by M. A. R. Barker

  He was tom.

  He considered for a moment. The others watched. Then he drew a ragged breath and said, “The Chakas, my Lords.—Thank you, anyway, Lord Taluvaz.”

  The Livyani bowed. Prince Eselne lumbered up to his feet, very much like the Chlen-beast with which the palace wags compared him. So, even more stiffly, did Lord Durugen. Kashi had risen, and its ruddy moonlight transformed the sculptured columns of the gallery into a jungle of tangled ochre vines. It was time to go.

  Tlayesha met Harsan and took his hand. She said nothing, but he thought that she must have heard.

  The great citadel still rippled with life and motion, even at this hour of the night. The Tunkul-gong of the Temple of Lord Ksarul sang down through the arched halls and high-vaulted ceilings, calling the faithful to the Service of the Investiture of Indigo. Every sect had its own shrine here, and each of the ten Gods and ten Cohorts was served in accordance with ancient custom and ritual. Throngs of courtiers swept up and down the staircases: nobles on their way to an entertainment, stewards intent upon privy missions, foreign emissaries gawking and gaping at the wonders displayed, soldiers, servants, lackeys, scribes. A hundred, a thousand, meetings and assignations and whispered trysts in the golden, lamplit shadows.

  The statues in the Hall of Eminent Rememberings were dark-looming collossi above them as they passed: noble Emperors whose blank stone eyes looked beyond the world to gaze upon the Gods, heroic generals, stem ecclesiastics bearing the cryptic symbols of their sects.

  Prince Eselne halted. A young woman had detached herself from a crowd of chattering comrades and was coming toward them. She wore a skirt made of strips of emerald and purple, a collar of green beryls, a silver tiara from which iridescent Kheschchal-plumes drooped down to sweep the floor behind her. Delicate silver chains glittered at her wrists and ankles, and her intricately coiffed tresses were powdered with silver as well. Her full, rounded breasts sparkled with artful patterns of dusted gold.

  “Lady Misenla,” Eselne said heartily.

  “Mighty Prince, Lord Durugen, my Lords.” The woman was little more than a girl, yet her face struck Harsan as old, clever, and altogether too lovely to be believed.

  Lord Durugen saluted her brusquely, bid his companions goodnight, and stalked on by. The Prince motioned Harsan and the others to stay.

  “My Prince, highest one, who is most dear to all of the Empire, let me introduce you to certain new friends.” The priestess’ eyes glowed yellow topaz in the lamplight. “General Kadarsha hiTlekolmii; his house-wizard Eyloa; General Karin Missum—men say that his ferocity in battle makes him truly ‘The Scarlet Death,’ as his nickname denotes; Lord Kutume; Lord Shenesh ...” She named several more.

  “Some I know already.” Prince Eselne waved a hand to include them all. They were Prince Mirusiya’s “New Men,” companions of his army days drawn along to the zenith of glory by Mirusiya’s own advancement. If Misenla had befriended these, then there would be more realignments and subtle shifts within the kaleidoscope of Imperial power.

  Harsan, however, had eyes only for one in Misenla’s entourage. Eyil.

  She stood in the rear of the group, in conversation with the shaven-skulled, gigantic soldier Misenla had called Lord Shenesh. Eyil was staring at Harsan. Neither moved.

  Misenla raised one artful brow. “Oh, la, I had forgotten that your friend there—what is his name?—knows this lady, the priestess Eyil hiVriyen.”

  Harsan could smell the fusty cushions of Eyil’s litter upon the road to Bey Sii, the scent of her limbs, the perfume of her hair. It was as though no time had passed at all.

  “Harsan .. . .” Eyil said.

  He moved toward her. He could not help it.

  “Mighty Prince, I had meant to bring her to your quarters tomorrow,” Misenla was saying. “She had so wanted to see this priest, this hero of yours. Something about a useful connection between her clan and his new one. Is it not to be the Clan of the Grey Cloak?”

  “I—we have not yet quite decided,” Harsan managed.

  “I am sure that he would be happiest in that clan,” Eyil murmured. Her eyes never left Harsan’s. “My clan and the Grey Cloak are old friends, though we differ upon various minor religious matters.”

  Small, urgent fingers reached through from behind to encircle Harsan’s arm. Tlayesha said, “Even so, perhaps your clan and that of the Grey Cloak are too far apart for easy joining, my Lady. As for Harsan, he has chosen to return to the Monastery of the Sapient Eye in Do Chaka, and will likely spend the rest of his days buried under a heap of scrolls: a scholar, a researcher, a teacher.—As he himself desires. I doubt whether his Skein will include much of the dazzle of courts and high temple ceremony.”

  Eyil’s long eyes flicked up and down, just once, over Tlayesha. “One who has been named before the Emperor in the Hall of the Petal Throne is no nonentity, my lady, no mere scribe, no scruffy village schoolmaster to parse Llyani sentences for peasant boys. My clan-elders would be honoured to meet him, to discuss—alliances. ’ ’

  Her nearness was overpowering. She thrust one smooth, copper-gold thigh forward through the swinging purple and green strips of her skirt. Her lips were parted, her eyes ashine.

  Harsan said, “Ah, much remains to be resolved. Later, when there is time...’’He was as tongue-tied as ever he had been in old Chnesuru’s slave caffle.

  “As you say, love,” Eyil laid delicate stress upon that last word. “Your Monastery is not far from Tumissa, which is home to me and to my clan. The great temple of Lord Thumis in our city contains books, artifacts—even a clockwork simulacrum said to have been constructed by the wizard Thomar himself. A fine place to study and to work. To settle.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. But all for the future—”

  “We are to be married, lady,” Tlayesha let her words fall as firmly as a smith’s hammer strikes upon iron. “Once we have reached the Monastery of the Sapient Eye.”

  This was the first Harsan had heard of it. In Tsolyanu it was not unusual for a woman, an Aridani, to broach the subject of marriage to a man, but at least it was customary to inform the husband-to-be before proclaiming it to all the world!

  Tlayesha and Eyil confronted one another. Where Tlayesha was curved and voluptuous, Eyil was tall, lissome, and much more the elegant lady. Eyil’s face was the more perfect, but Tlayesha’s showed greater charm and animation. One could even become used to her startling blue eyes, ill-omened though they were! Yes, Eyil was the more polished, but Tlayesha was warmer, earthier, and more worldly-wise. Both were women of poise, determination, courage, and intelligence. People would respect them, and any normal, hot-blooded young man would doubtless write poetry, fight duels, or commit murder for either one!

  Harsan discovered, not very much to his surprise, that he loved them both—and for quite different reasons. How had he been fortunate enough to deserve their affections. More to the point, how could he choose between them?

  Eyil gave Tlayesha look for look. “As Harsan says: all remains for the Weaver to weave.”

  Prince Eselne had grown tired of waiting. He grinned down at Misenla who had come to lean into the crook of his arm. “Oh, come, priest Harsan,” he said in his brave, powerful voice. “ ‘One pillar cannot hold up a roof.’ Marry them both and raise yourself a dynasty!” He yawned hugely. “Ai, marry both these ladies so that we may be off to bed! And this you must take as an Imperial decree!”

  “Great Lord Prince—!”

  “Cha! It is good for your clans, for your faiths, and for me—it gives me a chance to make you two wedding gifts instead of one, priest Harsan. Thus it must be. I’ll hear no more of it.”

  He saluted Mirusiya’s officers, nodded to Lord Taluvaz, and let Misenla’s deft fingers twine his own about her slender waist. He turned to depart.

  Harsan gazed after him in open-mouthed dismay. What would happen if he obeyed the Prince? The two women stood appraising one another from no more than a man-height away. Tlayesha did not seem in the le
ast put off by Eyil’s superior height: Lord Vimuhla against Lord Ksarul, two_ gladiators poised against one another in the Hirilakte Arena, a pair of female Zrne tensed to fight over a tasty, trembling Jakkohl, Hrugga against Hasfodel the Purge in the epics... Further comparisons were both unnecessary and unpleasant.

  He would require all of the help of the Gods indeed, were these two ever to combine against him!

  Harsan stared wildly around. Lord Taluvaz Arrio caught his eye.

  “I have reconsidered, my Lord,” he announced. “Livyanu is indeed the place for research, for the study of Llyani, for—for all that you said. I accept your offer! Other matters can—must— come later.”

  Eyil smiled, licked her full lower lip, and said, “Why, of course, love. Tsamra is old, sophisticated, a city of culture and fashion and pleasure and beauty. A place created by the Gods for just such as we.”

  “Thsre are schools of medicine there,” Tlayesha’s arm linked him to her as firmly as any chain of steel. “Physicians, techniques, a whole pharmacopoeia of medicaments little known here in Tsolyanu—there is much in Livyanu that I would learn.”

  Lord Taluvaz sighed. “You are more than welcome, priest Harsan. I am glad that you have changed your mind. We have much to show you—and Mirure and I would keep you close to us.” He could not repress a chuckle. “—And your two lovely wives, of course.”

  There are times when even the Weaver of Skeins can make an awful tangle of a perfectly simple tapestry.

  THE END

  About the Languages

  Tsolyani, Mu’ugalvyani, Livyani, Salarvyani, and Yan Koryani— the languages of the Five Empires—belong to the Khishan linguistic family. They trace their descent back to Engsvanyali (the tongue of the Priestkings of Engsvan hla Ganga—or Engsvanyalu, as some modem Tsolyani call it), thence to Bednalljan Salarvyani (spoken by the rulers of the First Imperium), possibly through the little-known tongue of the Three States of the Triangle, and eventually to Llyani. Before that, no one knows.

  Of the Khishan languages, Yan Koryani is the most different from the rest; it is in turn related to the languages of some of the other northern states: e.g. Ghaton and Milumanaya. Mirure’s N’Luss dialect belongs to the Nlii’arsh stock (as does Pijenani and the ancient tongue of the Dragon Warriors, from whom the N’luss are descended), and her speech is thus as distant from Harsan’s Tsolyani—or Taluvaz Arno’s Livyani—as Arabic is from English.

  Tsolyani is not really difficult for English speakers, although it does contain a number of unfamiliar sounds and combinations. It is important to note that each letter always has just ONE pronunciation: e.g. s is always j as n “sip” and never z as in “dogs”—or zh as in “pleasure.” This is true both of consonants and vowels.

  The following consonants are pronounced much as an English speaker might expect: b,d,f,g (always “hard,” as in “go”), h,j (as in “Jim”), k,l,m,n,p,s,t,v,w,y, and z.

  The q is a problem; it is a “back-velar k,” as in Arabic “Qur’an” or “Qadi.” Those unfamiliar with this sound may pronounce it as an ordinary English k—not a kw sound, as in “quick” nor “quote.”

  The Tsolyani r is like that of Spanish “pero.” When r is doubled (i.e. rr), it is trilled: Spanish “perro,” or as r is “rolled” in Scotland. Kurrune, for example, is “koor-roo-NAY.”

  The glottal stop (’) is common between vowels, especially in Mu’ugalavyani, which, in “English spelling” might look something like “moo-’oo-gah-lahv-YAH-nee.” The glottal stop also occurs after consonants, as in Dhich’une (i.e. “theech-’oo-NAY”). In some languages, too, it glottalises the following consonant: e.g. N’luss. In these cases, this “catch in the throat” is a bit difficult for those not used to it.

  The digraphs (sequences of two consonantal letters used to represent just one sound) are: ch as in “chin”; dh as in “thee” or “this” (thus keeping it separate from th; see below); gh as in Arabic “ghazi” (a velar voiced fricative—English speakers can get by with an ordinary “hard g”); hi is a “voiceless l,” as in Welsh “Llewellyn” (the other h-initial digraphs all represent pre-aspiration: e.g. Hnalla is “h-NAHL-lah”); kh as in Scots “loch” or German “ach”; ng as in English “sing” (and ng can occur at the beginnings of Tsolyani words!); sh as in “ship”; ss is a retroflex voiceless sibilant found in Sanskirt but not in any modem European language: the tip of the tongue is turned up to make an s-sound against the back of the alveolar ridge; th as in “thin”; tl as in Aztec “atlatl” or “Tlaloc”; ts as in fits (again this is found in word-initial position); and zh as in Russian “Zhukov” or English “pleasure.”

  Other sequences of two consonantal letters are pronounced as written; this applies to two identical consonants as well: e.g. Llyan is “1-LYAHN,” Mmir is “m-MEER,” etc.

  The vowels are likely to give still more trouble, but this is due more to the confused writing system of English than to any fault of Tsolyani. There are NO “silent letters” (e.g. the “e” of “above”); EVERY letter—vowel or consonant—is pronounced. The vowels, with one exception noted below, are pronounced as in Spanish: a as in “father”; e as the “ey” in “they”; i always as in “machine”; o as in “no” or “oh”; and u as in “flute” or “Zulu.” In English spelling, these might appear as “ah,” “ay,” “ee,” “oh,” and “oo.” The vowels of “cat,” “above” (either one), “pet,” “pit,” or “law” are not found in Tsolyani, although Yan Koryani has them. There are two common diphthongs: ai as in “I” or “bite,” and au as in “cow” or “how.” Other vowel sequences (e.g. ua, uo, io) are all pronounced as written: e.g. Arrio is “ahr-REEOoh,” and Arjuan is “ahr-joo-AHN.”

  The non-Spanish exception is the u. In western Tsolyanu this is the “umlaut ii” of German “fur” or “iiber,” while in the east it is pronounced as- a high-back (or central-back) unrounded vowel not found in any European language, but which does occur as the “undotted l” in Turkish. Some practice is necessary, therefore, to pronounce hru’ii properly; an English-speaker might get by with something like “h-roo-’OO.” Bey Sii is approximately “bay soo.”

  Word-stress—“accent,” as some may call it—is important in Tsolyani, just as it is in English (which confuses everybody by not writing it at all: compare “PER-mit,” the noun, with “to per-MIT,” the verb). Properly speaking, this feature should be shown by an “accent mark” upon the stressed vowel, but this would detract from the reader’s enjoyment of the story. (Diacritics would also be a bear to publish!) “Accents” are therefore omitted. A person learning English cannot guess from the letters alone whether to pronounce “syllable” as “SILL-uh-bull,” “sih-LAH-bull,” or even “sih-luh-BULL.” In the same way one cannot tell whether Dhich’une is “THEECH-’oo-nay,” “theech-’OO-nay,” or “theech-’oo-NAY.” The last is correct, but without diacritics there is no means of knowing. (Since EVERY vowel letter is pronounced, it CANNOT be “dheech-’OON” to rhyme with “tribune.” The final “e” gets its full value, as in the French word “souffle.”)

  The names used in the story cannot all be listed here, nor will every reader care whether it is “HAHR-sahn” or “hahr-SAHN” (the former is how Harsan himself would say it, the last syllable rhyming with “swan” and not with “span”). Some, like Dhich’une, are stressed on the last vowel; e.g. Mirure is “mee-roo-RAY,” Avanthar is “ah-vahn-THAHR,” Eselne is “ay-sayl-NAY,” Ahoggya is “ah-hohg-GYAH,” and Eyil hiVriyen is “ay-YEEL hee-vree-YAYN.” The prefix hi- “of” is pronounced “hee-”; it is equivalent in Tsolyani lineage-names to German “von.” Another example is Durugen hiNashomai: “DOO-roo-gayn hee-NAH-shoh-mai. ’ ’

  Other words have the “accent” elsewhere: Tekumel is “TAY-koo-mayl” and Simanuya is “see-mah-NOO-yah.” Thumis is “THOO-mees,” and Vimuhla is “vee-MOO-hlah.” Taluvaz Arrio is “TAH-loo-vahz Ahr-REE-oh,” and Tlayeslia is “tlah-YAY-shah.” Tsolyanu is “tsohl-YAH-noo,” and Livyanu is “leev-YAH-noo.” These are easy, but some wor
ds are stressed in odd places—for English speakers: e.g. Mu’ugalavya is “moo-’oo-gah-lahv-YAH,” Salarvya is “sah-lahrv-YAH,” and Aomiiz is “ah-oh-MOOZ” (with the “umlaut u”). The adjective-forms made from some of these are more as an English-speaker might expect: e.g. Salarvyani is “sah-lahrv-YAH-nee” and Tsolyani is “tsohl-YAH-nee.”

  There is also a “secondary stress” in Tsolyani: a vowel that is less loud than that which bears primary stress, but which is still louder than others in the word: e.g. kolumejalim, which might be represented as ''KOH-loo-mayl-JAH-leem. ’ ’ This can be thoroughly ignored by all but the language scholars—and for those few lonely people, a grammar and dictionary of Tsolyani are available in print; see below.

  Several languages have word-tones, like Chinese. This is especially true of the otherwise unpronounceable Pe Choi tongue. Since Harsan is the only human who ever learned to pronounce Pe Choi anyway, this will not matter much to anybody. The other peoples of the Five Empires struggle along with the clicking Pe Choi names as best they can.

  And NOBODY can pronounce anything in the tongue of the Ahoggya!

  For those with an interest in the linguistics of Tekumel, a grammar and dictionary of Tsolyani were published in 1981 by Adventure Games, 1278 Selby Avenue, St. Paul, Minnesota 55104. The sourcebook for Tekumel, issued as Volume I of “Swords and Glory; Adventures on Tekumel” by Gamescience, Inc., 01956 Pass Road, Gulfport, Mississippi 39501, should be in print by the time this novel appears; besides the history and cultures of Tekumel, it contains further information about the languages and scripts of the Five Empires. Several of the ancient scripts have also been printed as individual articles in the “Journal of Tekumel Affairs,” 2428 1st Avenue South, Minneapolis, Minnesota 55404.