Chosen of the Changeling

by Greg Keyes

  The man eyed him with a new, more intense disdain—which Perkar would not have thought possible. He spoke very slowly, spacing his words. “Priests … serve … the … Ri-ver,” he said.

  “I know your language,” Perkar said, restraining himself from snapping. “I don’t know your ways as well.”

  “Why are you, an outlander, even concerned?”

  “I’m curious.”

  The boy nodded. “I will tell you then. Listen to the sound of Running Water. Long ago, our people lived in the great desert. We had nothing, and monsters surrounded us. The daughter of one of our primitive chiefs had a child by the River, and he freed us from the demons, brought us here, to the River, and began the city of Nhol.”

  Perkar nodded. “My people have children by gods, as well.”

  The boy’s face reddened again. “If you continue to blaspheme, I will cease speaking to you.”

  “I apologize,” Perkar said. “You were saying?”

  “The Chakunge—the Son from the Water—was the first of the Waterborn, the first of our kings. In them the blood of the River flows most deeply.”

  “And you priests? You are also Waterborn? Relatives of this Chakunge?”

  “No,” the boy said. “No, that is another story. The Waterborn, you see, are a part of the River and so they cannot serve him, worship him. They let us know his will, they wield his power. But to those of us who serve him, the River sent another man—a stranger. This man was known as Ghun Zhweng, the Ebon Priest. He taught us how to worship the River, built the Great Water Temple, established the flow of water into the palace. The River gave us his blood and thus our rulers, but it was Ghun Zhweng who brought us civilization. He gave us our rites, the spirit brooms, the knowledge of writing.”

  Perkar nodded. “I understand. The priests serve the River, the Waterborn are the River. So, then, does your priesthood serve the Waterborn?”

  “Yes, of course,” the boy said—but Perkar sensed a hesitation in that answer. “Though we serve the River more directly, sometimes.”

  Perkar allowed himself to look puzzled, even exaggerated the expression.

  “What I mean to say—” The priest frowned and looked down at his palms. “Do not mistake me,” he said. “The Waterborn are the children of the River, and so we worship them, especially the Chakunge, the emperor—may he live a thousand years. But there are others who have far less of the blood, whom the River is not so much a part of. They are ruled by their coarser, Human half—which we as priests understand. We are also closer to the people—we mediate between the Waterborn and these people you see in the streets.”

  Perkar thought that somewhere in that rambling answer was the implication that the priesthood did not always bow to the will of the Waterborn—but he was confused enough not to be certain. What did seem certain was that this priesthood served the Changeling directly, though they were not related to him. Those who were of the Changeling’s blood ruled the city.

  This girl he was seeking, then. She was a part of the River. Who could her enemy be? Why did she call him?

  “Do the Waterborn have any enemies?” Perkar asked.

  That startled the young priest. “What do you mean? Barbarians like yourself, I suppose. Foreign tyrants who wish to conquer our city. Foes of the Waterborn are the foes of us all.”

  “None in the city? Criminals, treacherous men?”

  The priest shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

  Perkar thought he had enough to absorb for the moment, and though the boy seemed to have warmed a bit to talking, he had not become much more pleasant.

  “How long have you been a priest?” Perkar asked.

  “I was initiated three years ago, and have attained the third stitch,” he said, some pride glowing through the words.

  Perkar nodded. “You seem very young to have such responsibility. Congratulations.”

  The boy—dark, of course, like everyone in Nhol—became a peculiar shade of purple. “I am twenty-two years of age,” he snarled.

  “But … your voice,” Perkar stammered.

  The priest appeared to be trying to decide whether to swallow his tongue. “I forgive you because you are a barbarian,” he finally said in a tight voice. A tight, eleven-year-old voice. “Priests of the River are … removed from certain gross physical realms.”

  Perkar stared at the man in horror as that sank in. “You …” He didn’t say it, didn’t say gelding, for he had no desire to become engaged in a duel at the moment. He finally settled for a polite “Ah.”

  The man continued to glare at him for a moment, adjusted his robe and kilt, fiddling with the incense.

  “Do you mind,” Perkar said, uncomfortable now, “do you mind if I watch the boat for a while?”

  “For what reason?”

  “I want to see if it will move again. That would be interesting, I think.”

  The priest snorted. “Do what you will. It doesn’t violate any laws, though I must caution you against approaching the boat. It belongs to the priesthood.”

  “I’ll just watch then,” he assured the priest, and sat down next to the wall. He was not certain why he did so, not sure why he shouldn’t. It seemed reasonable that the boat would go where the River wanted him to, in which case he was where he belonged. Of course, he might be too late for whatever-it-was, or, without him in it, the boat might have wandered about aimlessly. Still, the immense palace was only a stone’s throw away; the canal vanished into a black hole with a steel grate, and he suspected the water went into the royal dwellings themselves. Perhaps that was all the boat meant by being here, that he should enter the palace. Surveying it critically, Perkar could not imagine scaling its walls or avoiding the many guards and soldiers who would likely question him. In that case, he shouldn’t be here, he should be back at the Crab Woman, pursuing the possibility that some noble might hire his sword. That was probably the only way he was likely to enter such a daunting fortress. And if he got in, if he found this girl, what then? She was the River’s child, or at least of his blood. Here she was in his city. What would she need with him, a “barbarian” from a thousand leagues away? And most critically of all, when he found her, would he kill her or save her? He wondered, briefly, if he could kill a little girl, and was overcome by a sudden, almost dizzying burst of anger. Yes, he thought, remembering the ghost of his king, Eruka’s empty eyes. Yes, if it will thwart the River I can kill anyone.

  He was turning all of this over in his mind for at least the third time, when a great, deep voice rang out, just down the street.

  “That has to be him,” it said. Perkar was startled to see the Giant—or another man much like him—striding toward him. With the Giant was a small, wizened man in dark blue robes. It seemed that he had seen those robes back at the Crab Woman, too, and so it stood to reason they had followed him here intentionally. He scrambled to his feet, hand on Harka’s hilt.

  The old man was bald, Perkar could now see, though he had tied a sort of cloth around his head. It was he, not the Giant, who spoke when the two stopped before him.

  “Gray eyes, light hair, pale skin,” the old man muttered. “Well, well.”

  The Giant shook his massive head, parted his lips to reveal what resembled a mouthful of knucklebones. “There are many strangers at the docks. It is just a coincidence.”

  “Hezhi can tell us,” the old man said. “If he isn’t the one, what have we lost?”

  “Everything, perhaps. Foreigners are thieves and cutthroats.”

  Perkar felt that he had been spoken of in the third person for long enough. “What are you two talking about?” he demanded.

  The old man looked mildly surprised. “You speak our language passing well, for one from so far away, from the Cattle-Lands.”

  That stopped Perkar’s ready retort. “You know my people?”

  “By reputation only. I have read one or two of your …” He frowned. “Higaral?” he said at last, a question.

  Perkar blinked. “Ekaral,” he
corrected. “Songs.”

  “Yes. An officer of the Second Dynasty sailed up-River some time ago and lived with your folk for a while, wrote down a few of your Ekaral because he thought they might interest someone, I suppose.”

  The Giant growled and then looked abashed when the old man shot him a sharp look. The elder nodded, though, as if in agreement with whatever sentiment the Giant conveyed.

  “We can talk about that later. Tsem reminds me that we have no time to discuss poetry. The other men in the Crab Woman told us we might find you here. I want to engage your services.”

  Perkar nodded. “So you are my destiny, caught up with me finally. Do you, by any chance, know a girl, perhaps twelve years old, with black eyes and a pointed chin?”

  The Giant’s jaw dropped, but the old man glanced furtively at the priest near the boat.

  “Elsewhere,” he hissed. “I wish to discuss this, but elsewhere.” He gestured for Perkar to follow, and the Giant beckoned as well, with somewhat more insistence. Perkar pursed his lips, his only hesitation. This was what he was here for.

  “There is much to explain,” the old man said as they once again approached the docks. “Many questions I have for you, as well, but precious little time. So I must ask the most important ones first.”

  “My name is Perkar Kar Barku,” Perkar informed him.

  “Yes, yes.” The old man nodded. “I am Ghan, and the half Giant is Tsem.”

  “Ghun, Tsem,” he repeated.

  “Ghan,” the old man said sharply, “not Ghun.”

  Teacher, not priest. And the Giant’s name meant Iron.

  “Ghan,” Perkar repeated apologetically. But he marked that—this old man seemed no friend of the priests.

  “You mention a young girl,” Ghan went on sharply. “What do you know of her?”

  Perkar considered his answer, but settled on telling at least part of the truth. “Not much. I dream about her, that’s all. I have dreamed about her for months.”

  “You have been in Nhol for that long?”

  Perkar shook his head ruefully. “I only just arrived.”

  “Why did you come to Nhol, Perkar?”

  “I didn’t have much choice,” he answered. “The River brought me. It is a long story, an Ekar, but you say we don’t have much time. So, shortly, the River took hold of my boat and brought me here.”

  Ghan raised his hand. “Did this make you bitter? Do you resent this?”

  He grinned a little sourly and lied, though it was a lie twisted closely to truth. “It did. I think this girl called me, the way a shaman calls a familiar or a man a dog, and I came. I have had a long time to think about this, however. She was able to call me—as opposed to some other person—only because of certain acts I committed on my own. Acts that, for me, demand … redressing. I have determined that finishing out this part of my destiny—answering this girl’s summons—is the first step in my atonement.”

  “Perhaps the last, as well,” Ghan warned, him. “What I will ask you to do is very dangerous.”

  “I assumed as much,” Perkar said. “You said you are familiar with our songs. Do you also know the meaning of the word Piraku?”

  “I read those long ago, and memory betrays,” Ghan said, shaking his head.

  “It means many things. Wealth, honor, glory. It means doing what must be done, even if death is the only reward. It is what my people live and die by.”

  The Giant, Tsem, chewing his massive lip, suddenly erupted into speech. “This is ridiculous. We can’t trust him, Master Ghan.”

  “If he is the man Hezhi dreamed of, we have no choice,” Ghan muttered. “He may be of some help.”

  “I believe I am he,” Perkar assured them. “Though I have no idea of what task I must perform.”

  “I will keep this story simple, too,” Ghan promised. “I believe the girl you dream of is Hezhi Yehd Cha’dune, the daughter of the emperor of Nhol and its empire. As you say, I believe that she called you here to help her escape the city.”

  Perkar looked from one to the other of the two men. “Why must a princess escape her own city?” he asked.

  Ghan shook his head. “It is complex, and not something Tsem or I may speak of. Hezhi can tell you, later, when all is well. But she must escape today. I’m afraid you must agree or disagree on what I’ve already told you.”

  Perkar nodded slowly. “I don’t know anything about this city,” he said. “I don’t see what help I can be.”

  “Can you use that?” Ghan asked, pointing to Harka.

  “Oh, yes,” Perkar said. “I can use Harka.”

  “Harka?”

  “The god who dwells in my sword.”

  Ghan lifted his eyebrows again, but did not dispute the existence of gods as the priest had.

  “That may be your use. Frankly, I don’t know, either. But Hezhi dreams of you, and I feel certain that there is a purpose to that.” His face worked around some unspoken thought, and he let out a long, weary breath. “If only I could know,” he groaned at last.

  “I see her emerging from the River,” Perkar whispered, closing his eyes. “The River is blood, and I am in it. The River is trying to swallow me, but it also offers me up, to her. She is weeping, and her tears are blood, too. She wants me to help her.”

  He opened his eyes again, so that sunlight could clean away the remembered vision. Ghan and Tsem were staring at him. The Giant’s eyes were narrow. Ghan was nodding.

  “I see no other choice,” he said at last. “This is all moved by her blood, Tsem. If we do not trust her, we cannot save her.”

  Tsem almost snarled, but then his brutish face quieted. “You are wiser than I,” he said at last.

  “I doubt that,” Ghan answered. “But I am more learned.” His face hardened with decision.

  “Perkar of the Clan Barku, we will trust you. We will help you earn your … perku?”

  “Piraku,” he corrected. “But I have a single question for you.”

  “Ask it then, quickly.”

  “The enemies of this girl. Is one of them the River himself?”

  Ghan and the Giant both stared at him before the old man, almost imperceptibly, nodded yes.

  Perkar smiled faintly. “I was told to trust no one in Nhol,” he replied. “But I will do as destiny demands. Then perhaps my life will be my own again.”

  “Perhaps,” Ghan allowed.

  By now they had retraced their steps to the docks. Ghan led them through the maze of quays, out to a small, single-masted vessel. He called out, and a sharp, weasely-looking man poked his head from the cabin.

  “Ghan,” he said, his voice pleasant-timbred, low, completely unweasel-like.

  “As we arranged,” Ghan told him. He turned to Tsem. “Tsem, this is my cousin; you may call him Zeq’. He will take you and the princess down-River to my clan’s holdings. I have prepared a letter for my family that contains both truths and lies—they would not help if they knew the complete truth. Have Hezhi familiarize you with its contents, so that what you say and know will be consistent with my story. My clan will then arrange overland transportation to Lhe. I have written another letter to the archivist there, whom I correspond with. I know that he will help us. In Lhe, Hezhi will be safe, and so will you.”

  “I can read it myself,” Tsem rumbled. Ghan did not look as surprised as he might.

  Ghan turned back to Zeq’. “This is Perkar, an outlander,” he explained, though his cousin’s suspicious stare made it plain that he had already ascertained that much. “I will pay his passage, too. His sword may prove useful if trouble comes.”

  Zeq’ nodded at Perkar, doubt plain on his face.

  “What of you, Master Ghan?” Tsem asked. “It will go badly for you if your part in this is discovered.”

  Ghan lifted his frail shoulders. “If all goes well, my part will never be known.”

  “Unless the priests question you. They can make you speak, you know.”

  “I do know.”

  “Then they will k
now where Hezhi has fled to.”

  “No,” Ghan said. “Because the priests will never actually question me. Trust me about that.”

  Tsem regarded him thoughtfully. “Without you, my mistress has no chance at all. I will trust you.” Tsem then turned his rugged features on Perkar. “Know this,” he said softly. “Hezhi is the most precious thing that lives. If harm comes to her through you, nothing will stop me from snapping your neck. Not that sword or a hundred. Do you understand me?”

  “I understand,” Perkar said, holding his gaze steady on the Giant’s own. Both of these men clearly loved this girl, were willing to give their lives for her. Could Perkar make the same commitment to a person in no way related to him, a person he had never met? The Giant didn’t believe so, that was evident. And the Giant, of course, was right. Things were not as clear as he had hoped they would be; perhaps when he met the girl he would know for sure. In the meantime, how could he reassure the Giant without lying? For he did not want to lie to this strange, huge man, so like Ngangata.

  “I have never met your princess,” Perkar said softly. “But many good people—friends of mine—died because of me. I can never be redeemed for that, my friend. I have no love for this River; it hurts someone I love, it took my life from me. You imply that your girl—this Hezhi—has somehow turned the River against herself, I believe that she intends to steal from him, rob him. I once swore to kill the Changeling Rivergod, Giant. That was stupid, and it led to all of the deaths I spoke of just now. But if she and I can steal from him—especially if it is her life we steal—then I will feel that I have taken at least that much revenge against him. I have been willing to die for less noble things than saving the life of a princess.” Or killing one, if need be, he finished silently, though he felt a sudden, surprising guilt for the thought. But if what these men told him was true—if in saving this girl he was thwarting the River—then he would not betray his words. Only if he had been lied to would he have lied.

  Tsem listened carefully, with narrowed eyes.

  “I love her,” he said at last. “Remember that, along with all of your other pretty words.”