by David Drake
From above shoulder height the sidewalls were frescoed with a design of birds on a seashore, but the lower walls were wainscoted in age-darkened oak. During a party there'd be crowding and drunken spills; rough usage wouldn't harm the wood, but plaster would flake off with the expense of repairs.
"His highness will see them now, Master Bessin," Liane said coolly, then returned her attention to the three stacks of documents laid out on the long table before her.
During the intervals between petitioners, she and Garric were going over proposed lists of officials for the new royal government on Haft. All of Garric's senior staff had clients and relatives to place, so the decisions had to be made as much on politics as merit.
Garric would've been happier to answer the servant himself-by Duzi, he'd rather have opened thedoor himself!- but everybody else seemed to want things complicated. Part of the point of his travels through the capitals of the western islands was to convince people that Garric was a prince, not some mumbling shepherd from the boondocks as they might have heard. That meant he had to act like a prince, however silly and uncomfortable he felt doing it.
"A lot of life is play-acting, lad," remarked the grinning image of Carus. "The silver plate on your armor won't turn a blade one whit better than plain bronze, but you have to wear it so that all your men can see you there leading them."
Behind Garric trilled birds in a silver cage, a gift from the Shepherd's priesthood earlier this morning. The birds were literally gold: four creations of metal which fluttered on their perches and sang with undiminished musicality so long as anyone was present in the room. A system of weights powered the device; the priestess who delivered the automaton said that it should be wound every the morning, but that the task could be performed by any scullion capable of turning a spit. The birds' song was oddly soothing, more so than the music alone should have been.
The servant made a signal to the ushers on the other side of the door; they drew back the double panels and bowed. Moisin, a tall man in silken robes, entered. He was flanked by a pair of Blood Eagles. The priest was bald to mid-skull and had an ascetic expression, belied perhaps by the fact his garb must have cost as much as a good horse. Behind him, four underlings carried a large object draped in brocade on a hand barrow.
Moisin bowed deeply. "Your highness," he said, "the congregation of the Lady asked me to bring this token of our joy at your visit to us here in Carcosa."
He turned and nodded an order to his juniors; they set the barrow on the parquet floor and stepped aside. With a conjuror's flourish, Moisin whipped off the cover. Beneath was a wide-mouthed urn more than four feet high. It was made of translucent, gray-green stone polished to a mirror sheen.
"It's lovely," murmured Liane under her breath. She got up from the table where she'd been working on accounts and walked toward the urn as if entranced. Moisin smirked minusculely. "The pattern is… lovely!"
Garric rose also, even more impressed than he'd been by the mechanical birds. Neither gift would change his behavior toward the priesthoods of Carcosa, but they were marvelous things beyond question.
Light from the room's north windows behind him struck a pattern through the walls of the urn. The gray to gray-green to green shadings were as faint as the mergings of color within a rainbow, but they made Garric feel happier andsafe; as safe as when he was an infant wrapped in his featherbed, knowing his parents would protect him.
"The stone is cryolite, ice spar," Moisin said, anticipating the question which Garric hadn't gotten around to asking. "It's only found on the Ice Capes and rarely in blocks so big as this one. Some say that it's ice from the bottom of glaciers, compressed into stone."
"It's lovely," Liane repeated. She reached out but didn't quite permit her fingers to touch the smooth walls. They had the sheen of liquid light; it was hard to tell where the stone ended and the air began.
"I want to be very clear," Garric said, raising his voice beyond what his arm's length separation from Moisin required. "My government will almost certainly make major changes in the structure and power of the priesthoods in Carcosa. You already know that. Absolutely nothing you give me, not this-"
He gestured without looking. It was hard to keep his train of thought and his necessary harshness if the urn were in his line of vision.
"-not a pile of gold as big as this palace, nothing, will affect the decisions of my government."
"That much gold would pay the army's wages for three years…," mused Carus. His image was smiling, but his reminder that everything-even rectitude-required moderation was serious.
"Of course the congregation of the Shepherd understands your honesty and the needs of the kingdom, your highness," Moisin said, bowing again. "Our concern is only that you realize that those who worship the Shepherd rejoice as warmly in your visit to Haft as every other citizen does."
The priest smiled knowingly. His half-nodmight have been meant to indicate the birds twittering in their joy.
Garric cleared his throat. "Very well," he said. "You may assure your fellows that their gift has been accepted on the terms that they offered it."
Moisin bowed again and turned. His underlings continued to stare at the urn, as entranced as Liane herself. With an angry snap of his fingers Moisin recalled them to their duty; they trailed from the room with him. The Blood Eagles marched out also, though one darted a final glance over his shoulder at the stone's lustrous beauty.
Liane's hand sought Garric's. Only when she touched him did she meet his eyes and smile, then walked back to her duty.
"I'm leery about accepting gifts from the priesthoods," Garric said, "even if we're not going to change our minds because of them. But I guess these things may as well be here with us as in vaults in the basement of some temple."
"Yes," said Liane. "I think so too."
And the birds trilled music sweeter than anything that came from a living throat.
***
Ilna stood silent, her mind looking out over the warm, lush world where the net bag had been woven. A shallow sea stretched from horizon to horizon, marked by coral heads and masses of vegetation which hid whatever land there was for them to root upon.
A soft wind barely riffled the water. Through it, some as high as the sun itself while others skimmed the glassy surface, flew the winged men, the Rua. They were as inhuman as so many cats, but like cats their slimly-muscular bodies were beautiful and their movements were perfectly graceful.
Ilna's fingers stroked the bag, barely touching it. The long, strong fibers spun to form the meshes came from the inner bark of shrubs growing on the distant islets; sheknew that as she would know the sun was shining by the feel of its rays on her skin. Her body wasn't in this waking dream, but the senses that made Ilna a weaver like no other person alive saw and heard with a clarity that her eyes and ears could never equal.
The Rua called to one another in high, fluting voices. Had Ilna heard the sound in Barca's Hamlet, she'd have taken it for gulls' cries, but these were rich and didn't have the birds' metallic timbre.
When a flyer passed close to her vantage point, Ilna saw that its skull was more oval than a human's and that its teeth were small and blunt. Its wings stretched from little fingers longer than a human forearm and back to its thighs. The material was stiff though thin as air, like a fish's fin rather than the taut skin membranes of a bat.
Ilna was standing on-she was watching from; she had no body, only senses-the top of a volcanic cone which rose steeply from the water. Only a few shrubs with small waxy leaves managed to grow on the gray slopes beneath her.
One of the Rua coursed the sea just below Ilna's vantage, dipping its legs with the quick, precise motion of a bird drinking. After each dab the legs kicked forward, tossing a gleaming object into the bag the creature held in both hands.
After the fourth grab, the creature flew up the side of the cone with the short, powerful wingbeats of a hawk. It-she: the Rua had two flat dugs to either side of her deep breastbone-swooped past Ilna
to drop into the volcano's sheer-walled interior. Her bag was full of belemites, their tiny tentacles writhing over their iridescent shells.
Ilna opened her hands, feeling the rough fibers fall from her fingers. With the bag, the world of her vision slipped away. She blinked in the dim light of Sidras' warehouse.
Sharina was watching her sidelong with a worried expression. Ilna smiled tightly, picked up the bag-it was only network of tough cord now-and handed it her friend.
"They'll be delivered to your vessel tonight, then, and I wish you joy of them!" Sidras said.
"Aye," said Chalcus with a laugh that wasn't as wholly carefree as it usually sounded. Ilna's eyes narrowed. He spat on his right palm and held his hand out to Sidras to grip, sealing the bargain they'd made while Ilna was in her reverie. "It may be that I'll find myself in a place where they'll be the only hope of joy there is. Though that's not a thought that pleases me, Master Sidras."
Chalcus threw up his outer tunic to reach the money belt he wore beneath it. Before he could open the supple leather flap, Sidras laid two fingers on his wrist.
"Hold a moment, lad," the factor said. "You mean this cargo for Lusius, is that not so?"
"It may be that I do," said Chalcus. Then with an edge of challenge in his voice as he went on, "Aye, if I deliver it at all, I'd judge it would be to your Commander of the Strait. What is that to you?"
"Just this," said Sidras, withdrawing his hand. "Take the goods on consignment for me, then, rather than paying for them. I'm an old man or perhaps I'd go with you myself to help with the delivery."
Chalcus laughed merrily and clasped arms with Sidras. "You're not such an old man now, Master Sidras, that I wouldn't press you to join us were not my crew full for the voyage," he said. "But aye, I'll deliver them in your name."
He turned with laughter bubbling behind his eyes and said, "Now, my fine ladies, let's take ourselves to the palace. You have your duties to attend, my blond friend; Mistress Ilna and I have good-byes to say and many a thread of business to tie up!"
***
"Halt!" ordered the officer of the guard. The Blood Eagles in front of and behind Cashel and Tenoctris clashed their boots down on the flagstones. Cashel didn't see why soldiers had to do everything with flash and noise, but it wasn't his place to tell them their business.
The guards were with Tenoctris. Cashel figured that if he needed help, it wasn't something a bunch of soldiers could give him. Garric had agreed.
Temples weren't a part of Cashel's life before he left Barca's Hamlet less than a year before, so he hadn't had any clear notion of what the Shrine of the Prophesying Sister would look like. It turned out to be a trim little semicircle of pillars with a tile roof, built into the rocky slope. It looked down on Carcosa Harbor and what Garric had said was the oldest part of the city.
It all seemed pretty old to Cashel. The millhouse where he'd grown up dated from the Old Kingdom, but that was home; he'd never thought of it as being ancient, the way he did Carcosa's crumbling city walls and the weed-grown hills that once were buildings.
The two hired bearers set down the sedan chair in which Tenoctris sat reading a scroll. One man wiped his forehead with the dangling ends of the kerchief he wore as a sweat band. "It's heavy work," Cashel said in sympathy.
"Yeah, but she don't weigh nothing," said the bearer. He patted the seat back. "All the weight's in the chair, and that's a right plenty when the road's so steep they cut steps."
"We're there, then?" Tenoctris said, looking around brightly while her fingers rewound the book. It was a simple leather scroll wound on sticks of plain wood without the gilding and decoration some books had. It looked old, though, and if Tenoctris was choosing to read it now, it was probably important.
"Yes, milady," said the palace servant who'd been the party's guide up the path's steps and switchbacks. "The Shrine of the Prophesying Sister."
The roofed portion of the building was small, but Cashel could see that the rock had been dug out deeply beyond. A stern-looking man with a full black beard came from the doorway and bowed to the newcomers. Instead of priestly robes, he wore a pair of gray tunics-plain but of cloth tightly woven by a skillful craftsman.
Cashel grinned as he helped Tenoctris out of the chair. Ilna'd approve of the tunics, both of their workmanship and their simplicity.
"Lady Tenoctris," the bearded man said, ignoring Cashel as well as the guards and attendants, "it's an honor to greet a scholar of your stature! I'm Horife or-Handit and I've written a little work debunking the superstitious belief in prophecy. I'm sure you won't have read it…?"
He bustled toward them, apparently expecting to push past the soldiers. The officer of the guard grabbed a handful of Horife's beard and jerked him back. The priest-hewas a priest, wasn't he?-gave a startled squawk.
"I'm afraid I haven't read your book, Master Horife," Tenoctris said. A faint smile was her only acknowledgment of the way the guards had handled the fellow. "My reading is sadly out of date, which I regret. I used to wonder what it would be like to live an active life. Now that I'm living one, I find I have very little time to read, my greatest pleasure when I was a poor scholar."
"Ah," said Horife, smoothing the beard which the soldier had released when he stepped backward. "Well, of course, I didn't think you had…"
Though he'd certainly hoped it.
Horife cleared his throat and continued, "In any case, Lady Tenoctris, I'm happy to welcome you to the Shrine of the Prophesying Sister. Ours is, I'm proud to say, the oldest continuously-used religious structure in Carcosa."
He raised his right hand with the index finger extended. "Now, I know what you're thinking-that the Temple of the Lady of the Sunset is older, but in fact that temple has been rebuilt seven times since its original construction. The excavated portion ofour shrine dates back to the pre-dynastic settlement of the area. The-"
"Excuse me, Master Horife," said Tenoctris, politely but firmly. "While this history would be interesting in its place, we came here hoping to enter the structure and examining it. Would that be possible?"
"It sure would," growled the officer of the guard, who'd been promoted from the ranks. He was a scarred veteran, bald when he took off his helmet. "And if you'd like Master Fuzzy here to stop chattering in your ear, you just say the word and you won't see him again. All right?"
"What?" said Horife angrily. Then he must have realized what the soldier meant-and that hedid mean it. "Oh my goodness!"
"I'd like Master Horife to come with us quietly," Tenoctris said with her faint smile. "I'd like him to be able to answer any questions we have."
"I've got a question," said Cashel. He guessed he sounded like he was offering a fight; which maybe he was, if he'd heard what he thought he had. "You're a priest, right? And your shrine tells the future, that's what prophesy means, Sharina told me. So how did you write a book that says it's superstition?"
Horife blinked and turned to Tenoctris. "Pardon me, milady, but who is this person?"
"My companion, Cashel or-Kenset," Tenoctris said dryly. "I've never in our association found his judgments to be flawed. I'm sure that's more important to a scholar like you, Master Horife, than the fact he's Prince Garric's closest friend from childhood."
Horife gaped at Cashel, his eyes lingering longest on the thick, polished length of the quarterstaff. Cashel wasn't even angry. Horife was a puppy; he didn't know how to behave, but you don't kick puppies.
"Ah," said Horife. "Master Cashel, I assure you that no one could be more faithful in the preservation and restoration of this wonderful cultural icon than I am. I've spent years…"
His voice trailed off as he realized that he wasn't answering the question. Starting over, Horife said, "The basin in which Carcosa lies is an ancient volcanic crater, you see. Gas seeps through cracks in the rock and into the cave that was the original sanctum of the Sister. I, ah, describe this fully in my book. The gas induces, ah, dreams which, ah, conventionally religious people have believed were pro
phetic."
Horife cleared his throat. "Ah, in recent generations there haven't been gas flows of the strength of those in the past, but if you'd care to enter the sanctum I'd be delighted to show you the cracks?"
"Yes, we would," Tenoctris said. To the officer of the guard she added, "I don't believe that Master Horife will be a danger to us, sir, and space inside is obviously limited."
"You've got that right," the soldier said, probably referring to both Tenoctris' statements. "Siuvaz, you're the smallest. You go in with them and the rest of us'll stay out here. Just take your sword."
A soldier who wasn't any taller than Ilna handed his spear and shield to his fellows, then took off his helmet as well and drew his sword. Cashel didn't see much need for a guard, but there probably wasn't need either for his quarterstaff, which he was going to take anyway. "Go ahead," he said to Horife.
The priest led them into the pillared porch. He paused and gestured to the floor, a mosaic of simple white rosettes on a black background. "When I became director, that ispriest…," Horife said, "of the shrine, I had the garish modern pavement taken up and restored the pattern which we found on the lowest level."
Tenoctris nodded and gestured him on. Horife bowed, then bowed again to Cashel when he recalled that Cashel was a person. He entered the square anteroom.
As Cashel followed Horife, he glanced at the black and white marble and wondered what the garish decorations had been. He liked pictures; they were the best part of living in cities, it seemed to him. Of course, to Cashel there weren't many other good parts about cities.
Horife pulled back the curtain of white linen which separated the anteroom from the tunnel in the back. It'd started as a natural cave, but it'd been squared up and the walls polished a long time ago. Somebody'd even cut fluted half-columns to either side of the opening to look like pillars.