The Reaver Road

by Dave Duncan

  "Down," I said, and down we went.

  The walls were rough and damp in places, the treads often treacherous. The stonework was narrow and uneven, in marked contrast to the fine finish of the rest of the temple. Thorian went first, carrying the lantern, and I had to stumble along as best I could in his shadow. The passage seemed to go on forever, down and down into the heart of the pyramid. One thing I was sure of was that we were not going to meet fat Nagiak running up to meet us.

  In fact, the draperies of cobweb said that no one had traveled those stairs in centuries. They might well lead to a dead end, and in that case we should be trapped within the temple until nightfall, without food or drink. Worse—with the high priestess keeping vigil in the House of the Goddess, worshippers might soon become so rife throughout the whole edifice that we should be unable to escape for days. The gods had brought me to Zanadon to be a witness; they had never promised I would grow fat on the job.

  Nor had they ever promised that I would see Balor appear in glory. Thorian's deadly logic was becoming more and more convincing, because my divine masters were backing him up—obviously I had been led to the chapel of the high priestess to overhear the conspiracy. I had been prevented from rescuing the lovely Shalial because she was a necessary part of the plan. Whatever she might be going to suffer from the odious Gramian Fotius, and however much I might deplore her suffering, that also was decreed. The tale I would carry from Zanadon was not the tale I had expected.

  Thorian stopped dead and I walked into him. It was a similar sensation to ramming a moderately sized cedar. He hardly seemed to notice.

  The stairs had ended and we were underground. The lackluster yellow glow of the lantern revealed a dismal catacomb stretched off on either hand. Arches divided it at intervals, helping to support the corbeled roof. The air was fetid with decay and a stink of rats, making my head swim.

  Thorian grunted and headed to the right, holding the lamp high. Dust rose around our feet. The first two sections were empty. The next was not. We walked over together and looked down at the debris against the far wall. My belly knotted, and the lurching throb in my head grew worse.

  At first I saw only a spread of dry sticks, all coated with monochrome dust to match the floor, indistinct in the shadowy light, and yet I knew I was seeing more than that and my mind would not accept what my eyes were telling it. Among this litter, round things like ostrich eggs stared with empty sockets and grinned with teeth.

  "Six of them," Thorian muttered. "I think six."

  "At least five," I agreed. It was hard to speak without gagging. There might even have been more than six, for the oldest bones had crumbled, and shards of pottery mimicked skulls. At least one of the skulls had been cleft by a blade, but I could make out chains and fetters. Shreds of skin and dried flesh and cloth clung to others … hair, too, in the dust.

  Thorian bent and lifted a long bone. He measured it against his own thigh. "A big man."

  He threw down the relic and turned away. I tottered along the crypt behind him without another word, my legs wavering like cornstalks. We must escape quickly, or the foul air would add our bones to that gruesome ossuary.

  I still have nightmares about that place. The pottery bothers me more than anything. I can believe that the chains were no more than an oversight, left there because leaving them was easier than stripping them off corpses, but pots suggest food, and water jugs. I want to believe that the victims were already dead or as good as dead when they arrived. For all I truly know, they may have been criminals or renegade priests or anyone, but I knew then what Thorian was thinking, and I believed it myself. I still do.

  A chirurgeon or apothecary could learn much from those bones. He could tell us whether any of the victims had been women. He might reassure us that some of the men had been old when they died. I would like to believe that Balor, once he has saved his people, is allowed to reign over Zanadon for a human span, if he wishes. After all, a living god must eventually return whence he came, vanishing as mysteriously as he arrived. Even if he eventually expires peacefully in bed, he must not leave a rotting corpse behind him. The temple does need a secret tomb to hold his remains. I want to believe that Thorian and I that night stumbled into nothing more than that, a communal tomb.

  But earlier in the evening Thorian had asked what happened when Balor had completed his task of saving Zanadon. If the gods had not now answered the question, at least they had dropped a weighty hint. Little as I cared for Gramian Fotius, I could never wish such a fate upon him—chained and helpless in that tomb, waiting to die. Worse yet was the possibility that Balor's consort might sometimes suffer the same grisly fate. I dearly wished that I could drag Bedian Tharpit and War Lord Arksis down there to show them the evidence.

  We passed the stairway by which we had entered. The next few sections of the tunnel were empty. The two after that were cluttered with collapsed remains of shelving, rotted chests, piles of decaying leather. A few scrolls had rolled away from the others and were recognizable as having once been documents. These were the temple archives, and some of them must be centuries old. The rats had enjoyed them.

  Now we had traversed the catacomb from one end to the other, and were faced with a flight of steps and a trapdoor. Perpetual night reigned in the crypt, but outside the day was beginning, and the temple dwellers would be stirring.

  "Well, Trader of Tales?" Thorian said, studying my face in the spectral light of the lantern. "Will your gods guide us safely out?"

  "Of course." I mounted the steps. In truth, I was so ill from the foul air that I hardly cared what was waiting for me—but I thought it better not to say so. I placed my hands against the stone and heaved.

  It rose silently, and apparently into darkness. Reassured, I lifted it farther. Light poured in so suddenly that I almost dropped the trap—the crash would have roused half the temple. At the same time dust swirled into my eyes. I was under a rug, and I had not realized that. I listened and heard the unmistakable sound of snoring. As I wriggled through the gap, Thorian took the weight, and I thrust my head out from under the cover to survey the room. It was large and luxuriously furnished, with colorful hangings and shiny woodwork. Dawn shone in through a high window. The brutish snortings came from High Priest Nagiak, bloated in crimson silk pajamas, sprawled on a downy bed.

  Had he awakened in the next few minutes, he would have observed his carpet doing some very strange things—bulging, excreting a skinny man with a close-cropped beard, then rising even farther as a second, larger man emerged, also. He might have heard whispered curses when the two intruders broke fingernails in lowering the flagstone gently back into place. But the gods and a very late night kept him snoring.

  We straightened the rug, padded silently across to the door, and departed. The corridor was, of course, deserted.

  I have a very good sense of direction, and I had no doubts that we were now on the west side of the temple, and at ground level. We marched quickly ahead, heading for the patch of brightness that spelled exit, and safety—relative safety, that is. We must still avoid the city guard, but once away from the sacred precincts, we need fear nothing worse than a quick death. Flogging and slavery seemed minor perils now.

  Perhaps it was the aftereffects of the foul air in the cellars; perhaps I was merely shocked into insensibility by the bludgeoning of a long, hard night, but I was too numb to be worried. I think Thorian was in much the same mood.

  "Where do we go now, Trader?" he growled, without bothering to lower his voice.

  "To find the lover, of course."

  "The girl's lover? Shalial's? You know who he is?"

  "I know who can identify him for us."

  Just before we reached the exit, a side door opened and a young priestess emerged. We stopped dead to avoid running into her. She clasped her hands to her mouth in rank disbelief. Then she slumped silently to the ground.

  We stepped over her and kept on going.

  "You always have that effect on women?" I asked.


  Thorian grunted. "No. They usually fall backward."

  We swung out boldly through the main portal. The sun was not yet up, but there was plenty of light. To our right, the gate to the temple garden was just closing behind someone. Ahead, in the cloisters, five or six priests were immersed in conversation. They did not notice us as we turned left, went out between the pillars, and continued our journey across the Courtyard. Now we were off forbidden ground and could breathe a little easier.

  A few diehard worshippers still knelt before their chosen gods, but the guards had gone. Tiny as bugs, we passed Maiana's lofty ankles and headed across the Courtyard of a Thousand Gods.

  Thorian had been thinking. As we passed through the arcade of pillars onto the Great Way, he demanded, "You are going to talk with her brother?"

  "Of course."

  "It is unthinkable!"

  "I don't think he is part of the plot. He has a conscience—you heard how he felt about the price of bread."

  Thorian snorted furiously. "That was a minor detail compared to this!"

  "Exactly."

  We passed a few arriving worshippers. They glanced curiously at our irregular attire, but seemed to conclude that it was none of their business—which it wasn't, of course.

  I risked an upward glance. Maiana glared down at me out of the corner of her eye as if warning me never to reveal the terrible secret I had learned. Hastily I checked Balor. He seemed no more threatening than he had the previous day—indeed, perhaps less so, almost amused. Balor or Krazath or whatever other name he is known by, he is always the Fickle One.

  I had come to Zanadon believing I had been summoned by Balor himself, but now I wondered if some other god might have been meddling. Any mortal who becomes involved in divine politics can anticipate serious trouble. Here in Maiana's city, I was totally in the power of the Passionate; few of the gods can withstand her at the best of times. If she chose to stamp on a humble trader of tales prying around in Zanadon itself, then what god would dare incur her wrath by coming to my defense?

  Thorian was still scowling ferociously. "You think the brother will help us?"

  "If he doesn't, then I don't know who will."

  "The girl said he would never oppose their father."

  "She also said he is devout."

  "You will tell him about the trickery?"

  "I expect so," I said, yawning. "Let's try this alley here."

  We turned aside from the Great Way, which was becoming dangerously well populated.

  "You are crazy!"

  "So you keep saying."

  Roosters crowed hoarsely in the yards and dogs barked. Once or twice we saw people moving in the distance; we heard voices and caught tantalizing whiffs of bread baking. Shutters were being thrown open. Soon the sun's first rays would rouse the eagles that nest on Balor's helmet, and already there was a sense of the heat of the day to come. I forced my aching legs along the shadowed canyons, seeking always to move downhill. I was pondering all the things that had happened to me since the previous dawn, and my mind was as clogged as the weedy bayous of the Nathipi delta. I could feel twinges from every weary muscle in my carcass.

  "Omar," Thorian growled, "this is folly! You have amply shown me that the gods will aid you, but you told me yourself that there is a difference between trusting them and tempting them. We have no reason at all to expect succor from Jaxian Tharpit! He is more like to have our heads chopped off, for we possess information inimical to the fortunes of his house."

  Alas, in my fatigued condition I had no patience for my companion's misgivings.

  "You are wrong," I said. "The gods have given me a way to win his support."

  "How?"

  "You saw it yourself. Remember that Jaxian Tharpit is a devout man and was for some time his father's agent in Urgalon. The gift told us so."

  "My life is at stake. I will not play your silly guessing games!"

  "Then trust me!" I snapped. The alley we had been following now divided, and I was trying to choose between two equally insalubrious alternatives. Both sloped steeply, both were rank with garbage, and both so narrow that we could not walk abreast.

  "I am not inclined to do so. Be reasonable! Surely we can find some safe refuge in this warren—an attic, or a granary? We are nimble and resourceful. I will guarantee to rip open any shutter you care to select, and we shall spy out some place to lie low until dark, even if we must endure hunger and thirst. I would rather bake on a roof all day than fall into the hands of the city guard. To return to the Tharpit establishment is madness. Abandon such folly!"

  Regrettably, I allowed my weariness to overrule my customary good manners. I did not even bother to reply.

  "Fare you well, friend," Thorian snarled behind me.

  "You, also."

  I stumbled along the cobbles in silence. When next I looked around, sunlight blazed on Balor's golden helmet, and I was alone.

  The gods guided my feet back to the gate I had left unlocked. For a few minutes I leaned against the wall, mourning my discourtesy and the absence of my doughty companion. I was so weary that I could have stretched out on the dirt of the alley and tumbled at once into sleep. I was too weary to be nervous. I pushed open the gate and slipped into the yard—familiar, yet seeming larger in daylight. I fumbled in the folds of my swath to find the key I had stolen, and that episode felt like years ago, instead of merely a few hours. Once inside the mansion, I relocked the door and replaced the key on its nail.

  The house was silent still. I advanced from vantage point to vantage point, neither seeing nor hearing a soul. Eventually I forced my wobbling legs into a run and scampered up the stairs. I headed for the door of Jaxian's bedchamber.

  It was time for me to become a god.

  In my bemused state, I rehearsed for myself the arguments I wished I had bothered to speak aloud for Thorian: "Jaxian Tharpit was posted in Urgalon. A merchant in that city must of necessity be greatly concerned with the passage of vessels through the Gates of Rosh, and his sister said he is a devout man. He will have prayed often to the god of tides. Since he returned to Zanadon, will he not have continued the practice?"

  I opened the door with all the slow deliberation of a flower opening petals. I slid through it and closed it again with equal diligence.

  In a room both spacious and bright, the wide bed lay empty, a smooth plain of silken weaving. Everywhere I saw riches: wall hangings of flowers and seashells, garment chests inlaid with precious stones, floors softened by rich wool, low tables of onyx and jasper bearing golden combs and pins, alabaster jars, and a polished silver mirror as large as dinner plate.

  At the far side, wide doors led out to a trellised balcony. The couch there was occupied. In summer the people of the Spice Lands sleep below the stars.

  "You see, Thorian," I said in my mind, "even in the uncertain light of a torch, you noticed the resemblance. Such a coincidence can only be sent by the gods as a sign."

  I unfastened my swath and let it fall.

  "The enemy is at the gate," I explained. "The inhabitants of Zanadon expect a god to appear to them within the next few days."

  Mother-naked as the statue, I paced across the floor.

  "If one god can appear, then surely another can?" I asked the absent Thorian. "And Jaxian is a devout man. He will recognize the likeness." I was on the patio, standing by the bed. My heart was pounding in a most ungodlike fashion.

  "It is a blasphemy to impersonate a god, I admit, but I have been directed to do this."

  I put my hands against my thighs and donned the cryptic smile of Rosh.

  "Mortal!" I proclaimed. "Awake! I have business with you!"

  The figure in the bed rolled over.

  She sat up, honoring me with a view of lush but shapely breasts. She stared at my nudity in horror. Equally dumbfounded, I stared back at hers. We awoke from our trances simultaneously. She pulled the cover up to her sagging chin. I spun around and headed for the door. She … I have heard some screams in m
y time, and perhaps even some louder screams, but for sheer persistence, never any to better hers.

  | Go to Table of Contents |

  17: Another Hard Day

  I was halfway down the stairs before I noticed the four armored men waiting below with drawn swords. Deciding that the upper floor might yet be more hospitable, I reversed direction. Three more soldiers were closing in at the top. I stopped, trapped in the middle. The screams continued unabated, like a fire alarm. More people were emerging from doorways all around the gallery and innumerable servants came flooding into the atrium.

  I had no clothes on.

  The usual penalty for rape is torture followed by slow impalement. In cases of attempted rape, the torture may be omitted—but not necessarily. It depends. I had no evidence that penal laws in Zanadon would be more enlightened than those elsewhere.

  The situation called for clear thinking and a cool head. Unfortunately, while the shivers traversing my spine were cold enough, my brain seemed to be packed with boiling mud. I had certainly blundered badly. I can only blame my fatigue. Obviously those bronze-scaled thugs had been waiting for me, and they should not be able to breathe without making leather creak and metal clink. I ought to have heard them, or sensed them. I had not.

  The gallery military force continued to advance, prompting me to resume my descent. When I stood on the bottom tread and the captain's sword point hovered in front of my navel, I stopped and smiled winsomely. Upstairs, someone cut off the screaming with a hard slap.

  Bedian Tharpit himself came jostling through the crowd to stand at the captain's side. He wore a simple bathrobe of blue cotton. His gray beard and hair were tousled, his eyes blurred with sleep, but his hard, coarse face bore a scowl of pleasure.

  "You were quite correct, Captain! They did plan to return."

  Probably Tharpit had discovered evidence of intruders soon after escorting the high priest to his carriage. Perhaps he had decided to take a bath or check some record in his accounts room. Naturally the civic guard would jump when a mogul like Tharpit jerked its string. The missing key and the unlocked gate … I am not usually so careless, but this seemed a poor time to say so.