The amulet was of purest gold inset with expensive stones. The child grabbed it and tugged it, pulling Adred close. He tried to put the amulet into his mouth.
“Jaso, no, here, here, leave the nice man’s pretty things alone!”
“Oh, it won’t hurt him.”
The mother pried the baby’s fingers loose, and an enormous frown filled the child’s face, the eyes and nose and mouth wrinkling with shock and resentment.
Adred reached his hands behind his neck, unclasped the chain, and handed the amulet to the baby. “Here you go. Play to your heart’s content.”
It took a moment for the young mother to understand. “Oh, sir, we can’t let you—”
“Oh, go ahead, take it. It’s nothing.”
The amulet was worth perhaps thirty-five or forty in long gold. It was enough to keep this woman alive for a year, likely longer. It had been given to Adred by a lady friend in Sulos, but it had no sentimental value for him. He fully expected that the young mother would sell it at her first opportunity, the moment the Delios landed, and he wanted her to do so.
“We really can’t—”
“Oh, go on, now. See? He really likes it.”
The baby held the amulet to his mouth with small, pudgy hands and turned large brown eyes up at Adred.
The mother was extremely nervous. “Thank you, then. Thank you—”
“Have a good voyage.”
The woman stammered and moved away. Adred watched her go, his smile fading. It was not charity that had moved him to do what he had done; charity is the deprived helping the deprived. This was rectification, balancing. When he turned again toward the rail, he noticed one of the sailors, the one who had conversed earlier with the woman, watching him. Aristocrats were notorious for buying the favors of unfortunate women. The two pairs of eyes held for a moment, and then the brown-faced sailor made a gesture to Adred, quick and familiar: thumbs up.
Adred nodded to him. The sailor looked away. It was done.
An old man in the white and gold robes of a scholar joined Adred at the rail, keeping a respectful social distance. Adred considered saying something, making some greeting or comment, but he refrained. And his companion seemed content, likewise, simply to watch the lightening landscape.
A flock of birds appeared in the sky, flying from the east behind them. Strange. Adred tilted his head to watch them. It was a huge flock: hundreds and hundreds of birds swarming in a dotted pattern in the gray-blue sky, aiming away from the mainland. They could not be on migration; it was not the season, and besides, birds in this part of the world didn’t migrate west. There was nothing to the west but ocean.
“Odd,” muttered the scholar.
Adred glanced at him, then returned to the birds. They were not plovers or terns or ship-followers. They appeared to be ignoring the merchanter entirely. But why?
As Adred and the scholar watched, the birds circled in the sky, forming a dark, spotted ring. Then the ring broke and formed a line as the birds flew straight down to the ocean.
“What are they doing?” Adred exclaimed.
A number of sailors and passengers had by now noticed the flock’s strange behavior and were lining up at the rails, too.
Within moments, the birds had plunged into the ocean, all of them, the straight line of them shortening and shortening and disappearing upon the edge of the horizon and not rising again.
“They’ve dived into the sea!” exclaimed someone.
Adred continued to stare at the far waves, supposing that the birds had only dived out of sight and would soon reappear. But they did not.
“They’ve dived into the sea!” came the same voice again. “Isn’t that the strangest thing you’ve ever seen?”
Adred’s brow wrinkled; he couldn’t understand it.
But the scholar to his left let out a deep breath, glanced at Count Adred, and shook his head. “This portends something,” he muttered. “This is a bad omen.”
“What do you mean?” Adred asked him. He was reminded immediately of King Evarris’s untimely death.
“When do animals ever behave so radically?” the old man rejoined, shaking his head once more. “This is unheard of. Surely this is a bad omen.”
He walked away, crossing the middeck and going down into the hold. Adred watched the sea. The flock did not reappear. Truly, the birds had done themselves suicide in the water. It was beyond belief. He glanced at the others there, but already they had forgotten the wonder and were sauntering about, discussing breakfast or political events or fashions.
Adred slouched down against the rail, chin on his fists, staring at the sea and sky that were no longer, for him this morning, bright and promiseful and good.…
CHAPTER TWO
The bier was a framework of gold and silver and iron; atop it, glistening in the rain, sat the long cedar wood box containing the purified body of King Evarris of the Athadian Empire.
Queen Yta stood with her family and royal entourage directly before the funeral bier. Around her swelled the respectfully hushed multitude. From the towering white-walled capital city resounded the loud braying of oliphants and the endless rumbles of bronze gongs.
Yta, tall, gray-haired, stately, as became the queen of the realm, stared upon the ocean of people. Hypocrites and sycophants she knew them to be—pompous and false, politicians and liars, gathered in the rainy mist of Death.
Death.…
She had not even been there when Evarris had succumbed, when his heart, suffocating, had screamed in his chest, ripping him with pain, stealing him from—
“My lady,” whispered Abgarthis. He was beside her, and lightly he touched her shoulder.
Abgarthis: old when Yta had first come to the palace as a happy-mad young bride.
“My lady.…”
“I am strong, Abgarthis. Listen to the priest.”
She did not care to do so—priests lie, some with great skill—but still, Yta turned toward the High Master of the Temple of Bithitu, who stood upon a platform before the bier and lifted his arms for the call to worship.
The ocean of people bowed their heads in waves.
“Divine watchers! Bithitu, Messenger and Prophet of the Eternal Ones! Look down now and lend your charity to us! O ye gods of high heavens, O Bithitu, who sits in judgment and knowledge, guide us.…”
Yta let her gaze travel to those close by her, her sons. There—Elad in his ceremonial robe, her eldest, too much like Evarris in his weak ways. Yta, with a mother’s ability and a queen’s insight, saw the usurper beneath the patient son and marveled at Elad’s skill in seeming penitent while a serpent waited in his heart.
And Cyrodian, beside him. Could he really be her son? Or had some incubus possessed her one night? Was he some changeling? His life was the army and the battlefield, even as Elad’s was the court and ceremony. Yet Cyrodian outdid his elder brother in cunning and in cruelty. Yta had heard from trusted sources that Cyrodian made new recruits to his squadron of retainers drink a bowl of blood before admitting them to his trust. The queen could believe such a thing of her second son.…
“Guidance!” called the high master. “Essa te porru ke anta bei usus! Guidance for our weeping empire! Guidance for the king of Athadia in his journey through the Valley of Shadows!”
“Guidance!” responded the chorus of thousands. “Guidance through the Valley of Shadows and safety in his journey across the Sea of Spirits!”
“Guidance…,” whispered Yta.
Dursoris, her third-born, lowered his head in prayer. Surely Dursoris was one of the few truly bitten today by the bitter serpent of sadness.
Standing not far from Dursoris was Orain, Cyrodian’s wife. What mockery that this beautiful, love-hearted woman should be married to the changeling son. A test of the gods? Yta, even at this moment of public grief, could not dissuade her heart from dwelling on her sons, for they must eventually inherit the empire, even as she must inherit the corpse of that empire’s monarch.…
“Itsusu…,” whispered Yta. “Peace.…”
Or was it as folklore contended—that the firstborn is ambition, the second is anger, the third, hope?
“Essusu! Grant guidance to him who gave guidance to his children of field and tribe and town, the children of the endless empire!”
Itbosi di anta bei rarum. Children of the endless empire.…
Trumpets sounded, unnerving Yta for a moment, followed by the mad, ugly braying of the oliphants and the resonant ache of temple gongs. Too much noise, too many prayers. Yta could not read the harmony or the honesty in any of it.
She saw that Orain, overcome, had begun to weep. Galvus, Orain’s son, gripped one of her hands. Far across from them, Cyrodian, husband and father, paid no attention.
Yta looked upon Galvus. He was tall, like his mother, and handsome. Fifteen, and perilously close to manhood. He and Evarris had shared a simple, direct love, the pure affection, unalloyed, that can come between the very young and the very old. Between grandfather and grandson, wisdom and eagerness. Life without pretense, without deception.
As though that were possible.…
“Itsusu!” cried the priest, unstoppering an ornate wine jug and pouring a libation upon the cedar wood box.
“Peace,” whispered Yta, fearful of soul, afraid to look beyond the master to the naked raining skies with their promise of eternal sunlessness. For the gods were here, surely, staring down at her with her own eyes, seeing into her bruised heart, knowing her anguish, her fear.
Not fear of death. Fear of life.
Not fear for Evarris; he was safe. But fear of his sons.
Not fear of Bithitu or his gods, but fear of a far older prophecy.
The high master motioned to the ring of Khamars, the palace guard, perfect in their solemnity, who circled the bier. Each one held a flaming torch. At the priest’s gesture, the Khamars turned and dropped their torches into the kindling at the base of the bier.
The fire caught quickly and flames leapt high, jumping up the metal framework to the wine-soaked cedar casket. Yta looked, looked away. Gusts of damp wind whipped the inferno, making fast, slapping sounds that boomed across the plain. Thick billows of scented black and gray smoke lifted to touch the clouds, the seat of the gods.
“Sia bu sulula!” chanted the master. “Mercy upon all things!”
“Mercy upon all things!” answered the crowd of congregants, as one.
“Mercy…,” whispered Queen Yta to herself.
Not fear of Bithitu or his gods, but fear of a far older prophecy, fear as old as flame and wine, as old as guilt.…
CHAPTER THREE
Five days out from Sulos, the Delios docked at Bessara, a cosmopolitan port. Not as large or as populous as Athad, it was nevertheless looked upon by the capital as a sister city. Bessara boasted great schools of learning as well as important businesses. But like Athad and other cities in the empire, it teemed with multitudes of the poor. As Adred walked the brick and cobbled streets, he saw richly caparisoned mounts wend through the crowds as mendicants lifted cups to high-seated lords, begging coin. He saw formations of troops, soldiers of the city guard, pass down the lanes and avenues on patrol, sullenly eying the street dwellers that lined every wall.
The wealth of the empire, Adred thought. War veterans, asleep in the sun, resting on their crutches, with flies buzzing around their amputations. Fourteen-year-old mothers with babies on their hips, short-tempered and snapping at young men in the street. Blind old women with eyes puffed and seeping, trying to dodge stones thrown by street urchins.
In Miru Square, as Adred noticed when he entered it, a troupe of acrobats was performing gymnastic exercises. He joined a crowd of spectators and watched them, enjoying the display of physical prowess. A tall young man balanced two lissome girls on his shoulders; the girls called for attention and, as everyone watched, they somersaulted into the air, holding hands, and landed on the bricks, fingers still clasped. The motley audience of paupers and children and low-level city bureaucrats applauded them and tossed coins, which the father of the group—a thin, balding man with tattoos on his chest and back—collected in an old oil lamp slung about his waist.
Adred went on until he came to the public baths at the end of the square, directly across from the Temple of Bithitu. The huge statue of Bithitu the Prophet raised its arms to the sky and cast its shadow across the square. Below Bithitu, supporting columns that flanked the main entranceway, were statues of two creatures that remained from an earlier era of primitive belief. These figures were still popular as characters in bedtime stories and in dramatic plays and comedies: Sirimu, a beautiful woman with six fingers on each hand, and Atetos, a strong, handsome man holding a scale of justice in his right hand and a two-bladed sword in his left.
Adred was about to enter the bathhouse when his attention was drawn to an orator who stood just beneath the statue of Atetos. She was a very pretty young woman, red-haired and dressed loosely in rags. Adred wondered seriously if this were her everyday attire or if she wore this small bit of clothing to get attention. She had slender hips and beautiful legs.
“There are nobles in the streets wearing clothes so luxurious that the money they spend would feed most families for a month!” this woman announced. “Enough money is wasted by our government every day to feed the poor of Bessara for an entire month! Who wastes this money? Not you! Not me! Where is our money? Where are our jobs? I’ve seen old men and old women in this city picking food from the alleys that even dogs wouldn’t eat! Why are they living this way? Why are they eating everyone else’s garbage? Have you seen how the holy priests of this temple dress? And they take vows of poverty! I’d rather have their kind of poverty than the kind I see in this avenue right now! Have you seen how the politicians help the people? Have you seen how the city troops attack us and break into our homes? Have you seen how the guilds turn away people who want to do honest work? Do you know why? Who’s telling them to do that?”
On and on she railed to a stream of passers-by, fiercely eying anyone in the square who smacked of wealth or influence, yelling for the poor to join her in her cries for justice, and defiantly glaring at the city patrols, who did not arrest her. Nor would they arrest her; there was nothing to be gained by chaining her and making her a martyr. She argued against corruption in government and the hypocrisy of religion, against the unfairness of the wealthy, the ineptitude of the bureaucracy, the malignancy of bankers and financiers—the erosion of values and principles, the loss of dignity and justice, that had been going on forever, like the prearranged descent of a wheel in a track.
Everyone in the square knew that these crimes and lies existed and had always existed, so what did complaints matter? As long as this young woman swore and spoke and yelled in public and did not take a knife to a city official, she was a diversion for the masses and an outlet for their frustration, and any money she collected she could do with as she pleased.
“Thank you! Thank you!” she called to those who tossed her coins. “This money is not for me. This money goes for food and medicine for people in this city who really need it. Thank you, citizens! Thank you!”
Perhaps, as an aristocrat in a crowd of paupers, Adred simply felt self-conscious, but it seemed to him that the socially deprived gathered there stepped away from him or kept their distance, as though contact with his good clothes or fine jewelry might transmit a deformity or an illness. Giving in to an impulse, he took out his purse and looked at his money. He had rather a large sum on him, though no more than he was prone to carry when he traveled. More money awaited him in Athad. One gold coin would certainly cover all his immediate expenses.
Replacing that gold coin in his purse, he stepped ahead and motioned with a closed fist to the young woman. She paused to give him a cold stare.
Adred opened his hand. In his palm rested two silver udas, three lar
ge gold ieds, four small mises, and sixteen copper douds—enough to buy, perhaps, a dozen books or a serviceable pony…or food sufficient for the entire crowd in this avenue for the next ten days. Adred tipped his hand and spilled the coins, and the young woman had to move quickly to catch them all.
“What’s this?” she asked, uncertain, counting quickly. “Have I touched some guilty nerve in you, aristocrat?”
Adred smiled into her cold eyes. “I agree with you.”
“You agree with me?”
“Yes.”
“You must be touched by the moon!” There were, of course, liberal aristocratic sympathizers in Bessara and elsewhere in the empire, but none like this man, who dumped a handful of wealth into a street crier’s open palms.
“Not touched by the moon,” Adred assured her. “But I do agree with you. Take the money and do what you can for people. But I ask you this: What good will it do?”
“What do you mean?”
“You can help these people for a little while, but you can’t change a society that’s existed like this for hundreds of years, can you?”
She stared into his eyes, looked at him and into him, and replied to his challenge in a quiet voice. “Yes, we can. We can change it. We are changing it.”
Behind her a strong youth growled, “Take the money, Rhia! It’s good money.”
Several in the crowd laughed.
Adred glanced at the youth, again at the young woman, then turned and walked off, while the crowd muttered in the square.
He was no longer in the mood for a bath.
* * * *
When the merchanter left port, Adred was in his cabin, reading through a small notebook in which he had kept, ever since his father’s death, the man’s private letters and diaries. He had argued the same things with his father—an aristocrat and a bureaucrat well rewarded by his government, yet a man who had been privately appalled at the injustice he saw everywhere, the corruption and crime that served as the foundation for the empire. Although the two of them had drifted apart during the older man’s last years, as time had passed since then, Adred felt himself becoming more and more like his father—becoming, perhaps, his father in more than just a symbolic or sympathetic way. He had died, this good man, a victim of government negligence, poisoned by many years’ service in the Galsian mines, his lungs ruined, and left to suffer by a bureaucracy that refused to acknowledge its responsibility.
The West Is Dying Page 3