[Age of the Five 03] - Voice of the Gods

by Trudi Canavan

  He had sent the servant away with a small jar of spice he’d been keeping for himself in the hope this would fend off the beating the man was expecting. From then on, he was generous to all the servants who came to buy wares. He told them the tale of half-truths that had allowed him to set up shop in Dunway—that his mother had been a Dunwayan servant woman who had run away to Sennon (true) and married a Murian trader (false—she’d become a whore), who had employed their son as an assistant (delivery boy). Taking over the business when the Murian died (true—but it had been arranged by the Pentadrians), Chemalya had come to Dunway out of a curiosity to see his mother’s homeland (false—his mother’s hatred for her people had killed all curiosity years ago).

  To his surprise, he had enjoyed his time in Dunway so far. Not all warriors were cruel and stupid. Some treated their servants as if they were family. There was a tradition of poetry of surprising beauty and their honest and open attitude toward physical lust was refreshing compared to the coyness and embarrassment of Southern Ithanians.

  He wasn’t going to be as glad to leave as he’d thought he’d be, and now that one of the White was here he was expecting that moment to arrive any day now. The thought filled him with sadness and a little resentment.

  He looked down at the tablet.

  Maybe that’s more to do with the profit I’m making. At times like these I have to remind myself that I’m here to serve the gods. Riches will not get me a place with them, when my soul is released from my body.

  The door creaked. Chemalya looked up and smiled as he saw it was one of his latest recruits: Ton, a servant of the Nimler clan. It would not be long before he helped this one “escape” to the south.

  Chemalya put his tablet under the bench, out of sight. Ton stepped forward hesitantly, wringing his hands.

  “That arrangement you talked about,” the man said, his voice quivering. “Can it happen today?”

  Surprised, Chemalya looked at the man closely. Ton always looked a little strained and anxious. Had he finally been pushed too far by his master, or was it something more serious?

  “It can,” Chemalya told the man. “What has happened?”

  “The White. She was at dinner last night. Said there were spies in the household and that Gim should set a trap.” He reached across the bench and gripped Chemalya’s arm. “If I go back he’ll find me. He’ll kill me. I have to go.”

  Chemalya patted the man’s shoulder. “And you will. What did you come here for, and what else are you buying today?”

  “Spiced fwa. Grain. Oil.” The man let go of Chemalya’s arm and drew a pouch of coins out of his shirt.

  “Good. Tell me the names of the shops and I’ll send someone to meet you. He will take you out of the city.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. My friends and I took the precaution of knowing only as much as we needed, in case our minds were read. You have to trust me.”

  Ton nodded and shrugged. “It’s a risk. I have to take it.”

  “You will be the last for a while,” Chemalya told him.

  The man looked stricken. “But…my wife and children? You said they—”

  “Will escape later. They will, once the White has left and we can set things up again.” He paused. “I may need your help with that.”

  Ton straightened. “You’ll have it.”

  “Thank you. Now you had better tell me which shops you plan to visit.”

  After Ton had left, Chemalya called one of the street boys into the shop and paid him a coin to deliver an order for five and a half barrels of fwa. He scratched Ton’s name and the shops he planned to visit onto a scrap of parchment and gave it to the boy.

  Then he locked the shop door and sat down behind the bench. Closing his eyes, he pressed a hand to the star pendant under his tunic and sent out a call.

  :Deekan.

  After a moment the Dedicated Servant that had trained Chemalya replied.

  :Chemalya? What is it?

  He told her what Ton had said.

  :Should I close the shop and leave?

  :I will seek permission.

  There was a long silence in which Chemalya heard knocking on the shop door. He ignored it.

  :No, Deekan’s reply came. Continue sending converts south.

  :And if the White finds me?

  :She will not learn any more than you know. Deekan paused. I’m sorry, Chemalya. Those are Nekaun’s orders. He must have good reason to want you there.

  Chemalya sighed and tried to suppress a feeling of rising panic.

  :And I will obey them, he replied.

  :Good luck.

  Opening his eyes, Chemalya looked around the shop. When the White found him—and he was not foolish enough to think she wouldn’t—he would go from rich trader to imprisoned enemy. He doubted prisoners survived long in Dunwayan jails.

  For a moment he considered running away. But the price of survival would be to betray the gods. He would not gamble that losing one’s soul was less terrible than capture by the White.

  Another knock came from the door. He sighed and hauled himself to his feet.

  At least I saved a few poor souls along the way. He smiled. And mother will be proud of that.

  The wide, interconnected wooden porches of Kave were crowded but quiet. People sat on reed chairs in the shade, fanning themselves. Decorated fans were the height of fashion this year. Mirar had noted some truly gaudy ones in the hands of women dressed with equal flamboyance.

  The men, women and children of this wealthy district of the city fell silent as he strode past and he sensed intense curiosity. Though he still dressed in the same worn Dreamweaver clothing, somehow they always recognized him. Kave was not a large city. Just as all the houses were connected so were the people, and gossip travelled as quickly as traffic. Within a few days of revealing his true identity to Tintel and the Kave Dreamweavers, the news had spread throughout the city.

  Dreamweavers were even more effectively linked. The news spread much faster by dream-links and he had been contacted by Dreamweaver Elder Arleej, in Sennon, the next night. She had demanded to know why he hadn’t warned her of his intentions.

  He smiled. I like her. She’s not intimidated by me at all. Pity the local Dreamweavers can’t see that. They might get over their awe of me a little faster.

  Tintel was the exception, though he still had to stop her from deferring to him on occasion. The only time he accepted it was at times like this, when she called upon him to deal with seriously ill or injured patients.

  The murmur of many subdued voices reached him from somewhere ahead. Turning a corner, he saw a house and the porches around it crowded with people. They fell silent and turned to stare at him. The servant that had fetched and guided him through the city hurried across an ornately carved bridge and disappeared among the crowd.

  Mirar strode after him, the people moving back as he passed. Stepping through a door into a sparsely furnished room, he stopped to take in the scene within. A boy lay on the floor, unconscious. His parents kneeled beside him, weeping and clinging to each other. Tintel stood over them. She looked up at Mirar as he entered, and beckoned.

  “What happened?” he asked as he moved to the boy’s side and crouched down.

  “A fall,” Tintel said. “His spine is broken and his ribs and skull are cracked.”

  “They laid bets on who could leap across the gap,” the mother said in a small voice. “He didn’t make it.”

  Mirar guessed the gap was the space between the house and a neighbor’s. Yet another foolish game between boys. He laid a hand on the boy’s throat and sent his mind into the young body. Tintel’s assessment was right, but didn’t describe the full damage. Organs had been torn and bruised and the boy was bleeding internally. He was fortunate he was not already dead.

  Drawing magic, Mirar set to work.

  He lost himself in the binding of flesh and bone. Time ceased to matter. It was good to be able to do this without pretending to take l
onger, and use more effort. As the restoration drew close to finishing he began to catch flashes of memory from the boy’s mind. He saw a familiar story forming. The wager had been an imitation of the father’s many bets, as well as an attempt to gain money, spurred by the recent selling of the family’s furniture to meet debts.

  Completely healing an injury caused by foolishness sometimes did more harm than good. He had seen people, convinced they could recover from any injury, court danger over and over again until they harmed themselves once more, or worse.

  In this case, the parents would benefit as much from the boy spending a few weeks healing as the boy would. Who says we Dreamweavers don’t make judgments? Mirar thought. He felt a quiet amusement. I did.

  But no ordinary Dreamweaver could do what he had just done. They didn’t have to face the consequences of perfect healing. He left the boy with enough bruising and soreness to give him cause to rethink any future wagers, then drew his mind away.

  As Mirar leaned back the boy’s mother called her son’s name. The boy’s eyes opened and he began to grumble about his hurts. Mirar advised rest and gentle exercise. He accepted the parents’ grateful thanks, but when the father offered money Mirar gave the man a direct stare. The father flushed and looked away.

  It was dark outside when he and Tintel walked back to the Dreamweaver House. The porches and bridges were alight with lamps, turning Kave into a glittering, suspended city. Tintel said nothing and he sensed she was not bothered by his silence. She was content.

  And me? He considered. I am not unhappy. Abruptly he thought of Auraya and felt a small pang of sadness. No point mourning what could have been. Besides, I caused her enough grief by simply being someone I wasn’t, even if I didn’t mean to.

  Now he was himself again. Completely. As they arrived at the Dreamweaver House he stepped forward to open the door for Tintel. She smiled crookedly at his manners.

  “Thank you. Smells like we’re just in time for dinner,” she said.

  The hall was full of voices and the aroma of cooking. The chatter diminished as he entered, but as he took a seat beside Tintel it returned to a normal level. Despite this, he felt the Dreamweavers’ suppressed excitement and nervousness. A particularly strong emotion of mixed fear and longing drew his attention to one side. His eyes met Dardel’s. He smiled and she quickly looked down at her plate.

  She had stopped visiting his room the night she had learned who he was, too overwhelmed by the revelation that her fantasy was real to even speak to him. He had hesitated to tell her that she was still welcome in case she thought she had no choice but to accept his invitation. It was a disadvantage of reclaiming his identity that Emerahl had found immensely amusing.

  The door to the House opened and a group of young Dreamweavers arrived. The room quietened again as attention shifted to the newcomers.

  “I have news,” one of the young men announced. “The Trials for the new High Chieftain will begin tomorrow.”

  At once the mood of the room changed to one of anticipation. Mirar had heard of the ritual for choosing a new leader, a spectacle that came once or twice in a lifetime. It seemed all Dekkans wanted to see it. Everyone turned to regard Tintel expectantly.

  Good, Mirar thought. They’re looking to her for leadership at last.

  “I wouldn’t dream of stopping anyone from attending,” Tintel said, rolling her eyes. “But I would appreciate it if a few of you volunteered to remain here, in case our services are needed.”

  Heads nodded, and one or two offered to stay. Talk turned to the likely contestants. Mirar listened closely, intrigued by this method of making a great game out of the selection of a ruler.

  “You’ll be going?” Tintel asked him quietly.

  He smiled. “Yes—unless you have other uses for me tomorrow?”

  “No,” she said. “I can’t help but think of it as your first public appearance. How will the Voice attending the Trials react to you, I wonder?”

  “I doubt he or she will notice me at all,” he said, chuckling. “I have no intention of dressing up for the occasion or strutting about asserting myself.”

  The corner of her mouth twitched into a half smile. “No, I don’t imagine you have. I have to admit, I’m relieved to hear it. You announcing your presence here when Dekkar was leaderless did give a few people cause for concern.”

  Mirar sobered. He hadn’t thought of that. It’s always the way. You think you’ve considered all the possible problems an action might cause, but miss the most obvious one.

  “They have nothing to fear,” he told her. “From what I’ve heard, the contestants have to run around Kave seven times. I’m a little old for…”

  The table fell abruptly silent. People had turned to look at the main door. Following the gaze of his fellow Dreamweavers, Mirar saw a man in a fancy uniform standing at the end of the hall.

  The man cleared his throat.

  “Is the sorcerer known as Mirar here?”

  All heads turned to Mirar. He rose. “I am he.”

  The man strode around the table and bowed formally. “I bring an invitation to you from Fourth Voice Genza, Holy Servant of the Five, to join her in witnessing the Chieftain Trials tomorrow. I am to ask if you are free to attend.”

  Mirar felt a muscle in his belly tighten. A meeting with one of the Voices. I should have expected this. He could sense nothing but nervousness and curiosity from the messenger.

  “I will be honored to attend,” he said.

  “A servant will come here at an hour past dawn to escort you to the ceremony.” The messenger bowed again, then strode out of the room, leaving it quiet but full of both excitement and fear.

  18

  The caravan leader, Korikana—known as Kori to the caravaneers—was a small man. One of his legs was shorter than the other, so he walked with a jerky, pronounced limp. He was more at home on his arem than on his feet, and doted on the creature so much it was clear he regarded it as a companion as much as a beast of burden.

  During the day Kori travelled up and down the line of carts and platten, checking that passengers and goods were in order. Two days ago he had pulled up beside the platten Emerahl had bought a seat on and pointed to a dark line that had appeared on the horizon.

  “Hannaya!” he had declared before riding on.

  Now she witnessed the same scene repeated. This time, however, his finger directed her attention toward what the dark line had become: a high cliff. Or, more specifically, a section of the rock wall.

  She hadn’t had more than the occasional glimpse of it in the last day and she couldn’t see much now. The country she travelled through was covered in strange trees. They varied in size and also appeared to come in a few similar types. The largest had either a single or several trunks springing from its base. Sometimes they were straight, sometimes they twisted sinuously. Their bark could be smooth or rough, pale or dark. All were remarkable in that they had no branches. At the top of each trunk was a mop of large, stringy leaves of varying colors. Some bore odd fruit that was popular with the locals. Its flesh was sweet and dense. Others bore richly flavored berries that could be eaten fresh or dried. Another smaller variety produced spicy seeds. Emerahl could see potential for cures in the seeds and berries.

  Another common variety of local plants were the ones with sharp prickles. They grew in all kinds of bulbous shapes, from tiny stone-like ones that quickly discouraged any traveller from walking barefoot or sitting down without first checking the ground, to enormous spheres twice as tall as a man with spines as long as her arm. Most varieties were edible, apparently, and Kori had demonstrated this once by slicing open a head-sized plant with a sword and scooping out the surprisingly sweet, watery contents for them to taste.

  The platten turned and Emerahl realized the road they had been following since the coast had met a wider thoroughfare. People, animals and vehicles travelled back and forth on this new road. Looking up, she caught her breath.

  So that’s what Kori’s all
excited about, she thought.

  The cliff was now in full view, and the sight was like nothing she’d ever seen. The high rock face had been carved with tier upon tier of windows and balconies. Near the center, enormous arched windows suggested grand halls within. Toward the edges, smaller ones hinted at more humble abodes. Smoke wisped from what looked like horizontal chimneys and water cascaded out of the mouths of carved faces.

  “The palace!” Kori said to her as he rode past, gesturing grandly.

  It was both fantastic and ridiculous. In one place the face of the cliff had collapsed, revealing abandoned rooms within. Emerahl wondered how far the tunnelling went into the rock face and if any other collapses were hidden within. She knew she wouldn’t feel completely at ease in this city; she would always be expecting the ceiling to fall on her, or the floor to drop away.

  As the caravan drew closer to the cliff face, Emerahl was relieved to see plenty of buildings at the palace’s base. The citizens of Hannaya didn’t just live in the rock wall. More buildings filled the gap between the rock wall and the river.

  She regarded the boats on the river wistfully; she had wanted to buy a place on one, but the fee had been too expensive. Kori halted the caravan in an area alongside the river where several other collections of carts and platten had camped. She paid him the final quarter of his fee and asked where she should look for accommodation. He drew a symbol in the dust, a star inside a circle, then gave her directions. When she was sure she had memorized the instructions well enough, she bade him farewell and set off in the direction he’d indicated.

  She found the accommodation easily and was amused to discover it was a place for women travellers run by Pentadrian Servants. They gave her a bed in a room with three other middle-aged women, who appeared to be travelling together. The women tried to strike up a conversation, but Emerahl pretended she didn’t know the local language well enough to hold one. Which was partly true. Though The Twins had taught her Murian during her long journey, the speed at which the locals spoke made it difficult to understand at times.