by Dave Duncan
From time to time two cities might draw into dispute and others take sides in the argument, but because the seven were roughly equal in size, they tended to divide into evenly matched alliances. The larger group was rarely strong enough or stable enough to oppress the smaller.
Furthermore, the ruling families of the seven cities exchanged daughters in marriage as readily as they exchanged birthday greetings. Every ruler was related to all of the others. Any hotheaded young king who stepped beyond the bounds of family decorum would find legions of fearsome aunts and uncles descending on him and admonishing him severely.
But the real reason for the long peace of the Land Between the Seas was that it had so very many gods. Every family cherished its own god. Families might rise and fall, but none ever turned away from its household deity, and the gods in turn looked after their children.
The gods' names were very ancient, so that whatever meanings they might once have had were now lost: Voxkan and Graim and Dralminth, for example. The people were named after them. Merchants from other lands might smirk in their beards when they traded with Upright-tree of Voxkan, Shining-helmet of Graim, or Fair-pearl of Dralminth, but the natives of the land saw nothing amusing in the practice, for that was how it had always been done.
Had the Land of Many Gods continued to prosper as it did in those days of yore, then I should have no tale to tell except directions on how to reach it. Alas, this was not to be.
Karzvan was the god of the ruling family of Uthom in the Middle. Old tradition claimed that Karzvan meant "mighty," but there was no written evidence to support this belief. Perchance he was not as mighty as he had been, or perchance the burden of centuries had made him inattentive to his duties, but it came to pass that a certain king of Uthom in the Middle grew old without heir.
His name was Brazen-horn of Karzvan, and one day he came to the tastefully appointed shrine in the palace where the image of the royal god abode. The image was very ancient, cunningly carved from a jade of the deepest green in the form of a grasshopper some two hands high. It stood on an altar of fretted marble, surrounded by jewels and precious trinkets that members of the family had donated over the years. This day Brazen-horn knelt and made offering in proper style of a pearl of unusual pink hue, one he had hoarded many years for just such a need. Then the king lamented in this wise:
"Most Holy Father Karzvan, hear my prayer! I am weary of years and my strength flags. My dear wife is barren and like to remain so. I have spoken to you on this matter oftentimes before, and you have chosen not to send us a miracle, so I accept that this be your will. I am loath to put her aside and take another wife, and I fear now that the substitution would be equally fruitless—barring miracles, that is. So it would seem that I must die without issue. My city will be left without a ruler, Most Holy Father, and you without worshippers to praise you and bring offerings.
"I have examined most carefully the lineages of my family and the ruling families of the other six cities. I have nephews and great-nephews uncountable, yea, aunts innumerable; uncles, nieces, and cousins to the farthest remove, but I can find no stripling whom I could adopt as my successor without stirring up serious dispute among his relatives and the other five cities. Grant me your divine wisdom upon this matter, I pray you."
After due consideration, the god replied. "My son, you have appraised the situation precisely. Loud-thunder of Maith is a malleable young man, but his brothers-in-law are jealous of him, and notoriously impetuous. Sweet-waters of Jang is a hothead, Pillared-virtue of Colim a libertine. And so it goes. Harken, therefore, and do as I say. Summon the people of our city to an assembly, and bid them choose eight persons of wisdom and integrity, who shall be your ministers for the next twelve months. Then let them rule in your name. Whatever edicts they lay before you, no matter how ill-considered, sign without demur."
"I hear, Most Holy Father," quoth the king, "but I fail to understand. I have reigned with your blessing for nigh on threescore years; my skill and sagacity are widely praised, although of course I make no such claims myself, attributing all goodness to your guidance. My wits, at least, continue to function. Surely eight amateurs—lesser nobles or perchance even commoners may be selected, for you know how folly flourishes when folk flock in large numbers—surely these eight will make a truly festering cacophony of running the government?"
Of course the god did not answer, for gods never explain. So Brazen-horn arose and went and did as he was bid. The people were surprised, but obedient. They elected eight representatives and he appointed them his ministers. As he had predicted, they squabbled and blundered and raised taxes, but all in all they did not do as badly as he had feared they might.
At the end of the year, Brazen-horn returned to his god and again made sumptuous offering in proper form. He said a prayer or two concerning certain medical matters and then got around to asking what he should do next about the government.
"Same again," the god said. "Have the people elect another eight, or the same eight if they prefer. They will learn, and their delegates will learn, also."
Although Brazen-horn was now convinced that God Karzvan had taken leave of his senses, he again carried out his orders, and the second year things went a little better. The people learned that they could grumble without being disloyal, because the ministers were not beloved kings above reproach, but only rather stupid people like themselves, probably even more stupid. The ministers discovered that office had undoubted advantages, but they knew they would not be reelected unless they governed well, so mostly they tried their best. Each kept watch that none of the others got away with more than he did, and this kept corruption within limits.
Several years went by. Brazen-horn of Karzvan died. He was mourned, but not greatly missed, for the government now ran without him. The people continued to elect their magistrates; the magistrates continued to want to be reelected. There was grumbling and argument, but the unsatisfied knew they had only to wait another year until they could throw the rascals out, and even if they did not throw the rascals out, they felt better for having had a chance to try. Merchants and farmers and artisans were raised to high office, and the laws they made naturally tended to favor merchants and farmers and artisans. Trade flourished. Great buildings transformed the city.
With his dying words, Brazen-horn had begged his ministers to take care of his family god, for now Karzvan had no surviving children to bring him offerings and speak his praise. Of course each of the magistrates had a household god of his own. To take home another would certainly provoke trouble, so after some debate the eight decided that the whole city should adopt the orphaned god—after all, it was he who had made it possible for them to hold office and enjoy the perquisites they were enjoying, although none of them put the matter quite so crudely as that.
Thus Karzvan became civic god of Uthom in the Middle and accepted its people as his family.
Soon the people of the other cities began to take notice. They wondered why the inhabitants of Uthom in the Middle were citizens while they were only subjects. They wondered why they were being taxed to install marble bathtubs in the palace when Uthom in the Middle was building public toilets. They wondered why they had to guard their tongues while the citizens of Uthom in the Middle were free to utter any slander imaginable, and often did, especially at election time.
The royal families noticed, also. The aunts and uncles met and agreed that they ought to impose a king again on Uthom in the Middle to end to such dangerous experimentation. The vote on that was unanimous. There remained only the question of which prince should be the one imposed. Years of discussion failed to reduce the number of candidates to less than six.
Even the gods noticed. They observed that Karzvan resided in a grand public temple instead of a poky little shrine somewhere in the back of a palace. They observed also that he had thousands of people bringing him offerings and speaking his praise.
City after city demanded the right to elect magistrates. King after king discovered to
his astonishment that his family god supported the idea. Some kings resisted. Alas, struck down by public violence or sudden fever, they all died young and childless. Others complied, but thereafter they sank rapidly to the status of ceremonial puppets, allowed to do nothing more significant than cut ribbons and read speeches written by their ministers.
Soon all the cities were functioning democracies and each had a magnificent temple. Sometimes now the land was referred to as the Land of Seven Gods.
The new regime worked well for a while—not an especially long while or an especially short while … a while that might seem long to men and short to gods, perhaps. When the grandsons of the grandsons of the first magistrates were selflessly serving their respective cities, trouble arose on both shores of the Land Between the Seas.
To the west, Kylam had been growing steadily larger and richer, taking trade away from its neighbors, Jombina and Lambor.
To the east, the harbor at Damvin was silting up. Business fell off, year by year, going instead to Ilmairg and Myto.
The magistrates of Damvin consulted their god Oliant, but the god was singularly noncommittal about silt. The magistrates ordered a new and larger temple built, to house a new and larger image of Oliant, who was always portrayed as a seated, potbellied man with a bear's head. The harbor continued to silt up. Other magistrates were elected. They ordered special offerings to the god, more frequent festivals in his honor, continuous chanting to entertain him, fresh wreaths hung about his neck daily. There was no visible improvement in the state of the harbor.
As the next elections grew closer and the magistrates of Damvin more worried, they were visited by a man who gave his name as Black-hair of Lusitair. He wore odd-colored motley and spoke with a funny western accent. There was something furtive about him; he insisted that the meeting be held in a private house, after dark. Even then, he seemed strangely reluctant to get down to business.
"Your Honors," he said eventually, glancing over his shoulder and edging forward in his chair, "here in the east, one city grows poor and two grow rich. On the other coast, the reverse applies. Two dwindle and one waxes."
"What of it?" demanded the current chairman, Honest-servant of Girb.
"Not so loud!" Black-hair whispered. "Now we all know that magistrates come and go. Some are good, some bad. Some are clever, some honest. By and large, though, it seems likely that all cities must have about the same run of luck in their officials, does it not? Over the long term, that is?"
His audience exchanged worried glances. Then they all leaned a little closer. Honest-servant murmured, "Continue!"
"So just possibly the varied fortunes of a city may depend upon the competence of its god? Over the long term, I mean."
"Well …"
"Yes?"
"Carry on."
Black-hair squirmed, then drew a deep breath. "It has come to my attention, Your Honors, that the cities of Jombina and Lambor are seriously considering taking action against the puffed-up, degenerate, greedy hyenas of Kylam!"
"What sort of action?" asked Shining-morning of Haun, who was not quite as bright as the other seven, although his honesty was never questioned.
"Oh … stealing its ships, throwing down its docks, burning its warehouses, looting its treasury, possibly abducting its leading merchants and seamen. I speak figuratively, of course."
"Of course," the eight agreed quickly.
"Now the brave citizens of Lambor and Jombina are confident that their righteous cause will prevail, if the two of them act together—and act soon, before the rapacious carrion-eaters of Kylam grow any fatter. However, the assistance of a third ally would certainly be advantageous in maintaining investor confidence."
"But how would that help us?" Shining-morning inquired.
"What he means is," Honest-servant said, and paused to consider the matter. "What we need to know is, how would a theoretical third ally, if there were such a party, benefit from the humbling of Kylam?"
"Well," Black-hair muttered, shifting even farther forward and glancing over his other shoulder, "while most of the, ah, compensation could be divided equitably between the two principals, there is one asset in Kylam that is indivisible. Neither would want the other to have it, you understand, and yet neither would wish to leave it where it is, if you follow me. But both might be willing to see it removed to some distant location where its potentially beneficial influence could not prejudice their respective interests."
Seven magistrates just pursed their lips thoughtfully, but Shining-morning said, "Huh?"
So it came to pass, a few weeks after this conversation, that three hurriedly gathered armies converged upon the unfortunate city of Kylam. Its ships were stolen, its docks thrown down, its warehouses burned, its treasury looted, and its leading merchants and seamen were carried off into slavery in a far country across the western ocean. The panther image of Jang, its god, was borne in triumph to Damvin and installed in the great temple. Oliant was removed to a very small temple on a back street and forgotten.
The other cities of the Land Between the Seas were shocked by this outrage. They waited to see what would happen.
What happened was that a series of heavy storms caused a certain tributary to burst its banks and permanently change its course. The flow of water in the Damvin River was increased and the silt washed from the harbor.
Then all the cities began building walls, training armies, importing weapons and horses, and generally preparing for war.
Preparing for war, as was well known in other lands but perhaps not then in that one, is usually a self-fulfilling precaution. Soon the people of the Land of Seven Cities were learning the joys and sorrows of sieges, looting, crop-burning, slavery, slaughter, and wholesale rape. Famine, pestilence, and excessive taxation followed.
The surviving population of Kylam, feeling bereft, made a daring midnight raid on Jombina and bore its god Colim home in triumph. The army of Jombina advanced on Myto, demanding that it deliver Holy Maith into its hands.
How long this might continue, only the gods knew, and perhaps not even they.
One god who did not approve was Karzvan of Uthom in the Middle.
"This," he told the assembled magistrates of his city one day, "has got to stop!"
The eight bowed their heads to the floor in consent. They were already on their knees, so even the oldest were able to participate in the maneuver. Karzvan's temple was one of the more splendid, if not the most splendid, in the whole Land Between the Seas. It had marble pillars and a very impressive granite floor. Karzvan himself was now almost as tall as a man, although the greenstone from which he was now carved was not as lustrous as pure jade, nor the artistry as subtle as before. His left mandible was slightly shorter than his right, for example. But the offerings heaped around him were beyond reproach.
"Half the revenues are being wasted on weaponry," the grasshopper said petulantly. "My new east portico is taking forever. I have no desire to find myself removed by force to a damp maritime climate. Is it not obvious that someone will have to take charge?" He did not wait for an answer. "Is it not obvious that Uthom in the Middle is destined by its unique location to be the premier city of all the land? And I to be its premier god?" he added, in case the magistrates were lagging behind his revelation.
"Verily it is so," the current chairman said.
"Then we need to take charge," the god continued. "As we cannot trust any of the other gods, I mean cities, to cooperate in realizing our grandeur, we shall have to look farther afield."
Woe, woe! My tale has grown dark, and now it grows darker. Instructed by their civic god, the magistrates of Uthom in the Middle sent out emissaries to the Horsefolk.
Beyond the ice-clad peaks, through perilous passes, lay a land of grassy steppes, where dwelt a savage race of nomad herders. I would have mentioned them sooner had there been any need. Since the world was young they had wandered in small tribes, savage and barbaric and much too intent on their own blood feuds to bother with the c
ivilized lands of the south.
Now it chanced that a leader had arisen among them, and his name was Hannail, who was later to be Hannail the Terrible.
Even as a young man, barely bearded, he became known as a fierce fighter, one whom the Horsefolk termed a drinker of blood. One day he rode alone far into the mountains. He was being pursued, his shaggy pony was lame, and he was near to death from hunger and cold, for he wore only the leather trousers of his people, inadequate garb for the high country.
He came at last to a stony slope, below a high cliff, and observed above him the mouth of a great cave. He dismounted and led his horse up the scree to inspect the opening, hoping it would provide safe refuge for the night. The wind was in the north.
Before he could enter, a great voice spoke to him out of the cave, saying, "WHOO ARE YOU?"
His mount shied. He struggled to hold it, and the two of them slid some way down the slope. When he had brought the beast under control again, he led it once more up to the cave, although every hair on his carcass had risen in fear.
"I am Hannail!" he proclaimed.
"Hannail of WHOM?"
"Hannail of no god," the young man replied. "I slew my father and uncles and their god cast me out. Now my brothers and cousins pursue me to kill me."
"I am HOOL," the voice said. "Bow down and worship MEEE and take MEEE for your god, and I shall make YOU ruler over AAALL the Horsefolk."
Hannail laughed joyously and fell on his face, worshipping Hool and taking him to be his god evermore.
"It is GOOD," the god replied. "Now sacrifice your mount to MEEE."
Hannail was benighted in a barren land, without food or water, or any transportation other than his faithful pony, but he drew his sword and cut its throat, offering it to Hool and smearing blood on his forehead in the way of his people.
Shortly thereafter his brothers and cousins rode up and surrounded him as he stood defiantly before the cave, making no move to take up his sword or bow.