"And if the journey proves unlucky?" asked Kerish.
Ibrogdiss shrugged. "Then I will make offerings to Lig-a-loda and spit on the shaman of Log-ol-ben."
The Merchant Hunter pressed his passengers to more meat but both refused. Ibrogdiss cut himself another slice, heedless of the grease dripping down his cloak, and said, "Tell me, young Lords, about the gods of your country. Are they many? Are they wild and difficult to please?"
"In Galkis we have only one god and his name is Zeldin the Gentle." It was Kerish who answered. "He was and is beyond Zindar, yet he walked in Galkis in the form of a man and loved the Lady Imarko, and grieved for her death. Their children were the Godborn, who ruled Galkis as the mirrors of the power and wisdom of Zeldin."
"Ruled? Are they not Lords of Galkis still?" asked Ibrogdiss.
Kerish looked down into his cup, stirring the girgan with his little finger before it could give him his reflection.
"The blood is weak, the power wanes and the wisdom is gone. Except in a few who still follow the paths of love."
"Love?" Ibrogdiss grinned. "This Zeldin is a god of lovers?"
Forollkin laughed. "Not as you mean it, Ibrogdiss. It is our goddess, Imarko, who blesses lovers."
"A goddess?" The Merchant Hunter was incredulous. "A god who is female? How can your Zeldin endure it? Why does he not strike her down? I see now why you call him gentle and do not fear him."
"You are mistaken," said Kerish soberly, "his gentleness is greatly feared."
There was a long silence and then Forollkin reached out to pour himself a fifth cup of girgan. "Kerish, we've gone so quiet I can hear the mud forming, make us a song.”
Gidjabolgo was dispatched to fetch the zildar from the Galkians' tent. Kerish was soon seated, cross-legged, tuning the instrument. When Ibrogdiss had ordered, and got, silence from all his serfs, Kerish strummed a lively tune and improvised a song of victory. The song was extravagant in its praise of Forollkin, and complimentary to the Merchant Hunter. It exaggerated the size of the monster and glossed over the clumsiness of the killing.
Forollkin was well satisfied, Kerish was not. He swept straight into The Grief of Zeldin, the ancient song that told of the Gentle God's agony as he watched his dying bride. The words were in High Galkian and Kerish's high, pure voice gave them little colour and yet the Frians understood their poignancy. When the song ended Kerish was shocked to see tears on Ibrogdiss' smooth cheeks. He would have set down his zildar but the Merchant Hunter tugged at his sleeve. "Play on, young Lord, sing to me of your own country, show me Galkis."
In Zindaric this time, Kerish-lo-Taan sang the Lay of the Nine Cities. He sang of Galkis itself with its three great walls and the fabled gardens of the Emperor; of Tryfis, ringed with cliffs of lapis; and Holy Hildimarn and its ninety temples. He sang of Montra-lakon, guarded by horses of stone; of Yxis where the silver wind-chimes rang through day and night; and Far Tryfarn on the easternmost edge of the Empire. He sang of Joze, the Dreaming City; Viroc, the mighty bastion of Jenoza and copper-walled Ephaan, the greatest port on the purple Sea of Az.
Ibrogdiss listened, his mind drifting with Kerish's song from city to city. When the clear voice stopped the Merchant Hunter demanded more. Kerish played a chord but Gidjabolgo's voice broke the attentive silence. "Pardon, worthy Merchant, but my young Master is surely tired. Let his humble servant play for you instead."
Ibrogdiss' face wrinkled into laughter. "What, ugly one, can you sing? You look like a marsh-croaker and their voices are not sweet enough for me."
"You shall judge my sweetness, Masters all. Let me sing you a chant from the temples of Forgin. Will my Lord let my unworthy fingers touch the strings of his zildar?"
Kerish was too startled at the anger in Gidjabolgo's face to deny him.
The Forgite hunched over the fragile instrument and splayed his broad fingers across the strings. Stumbling a little at first, he began to play and then, to sing. Astonishingly, his voice was as sweet and flawless as Kerish's. That such a sound should issue from Gidjabolgo's face seemed almost blasphemous. It was several moments before Kerish could bring himself to attend to the words.
`Praised be the smiling God of the Strong who exalteth the cruel and murders the meek. Praised be the God who laughs at the slaughter of children and the prayers of the weak. Praised be the Wise who know that the world is fallen fruit of a crooked tree and men the maggots that crawl . . .'
"No!" Kerish tore his zildar from the Forgite's hands. "Liar, you defile all that you touch."
He was shaking with anger but Gidjabolgo answered calmly, "Prove me a liar."
Roused from his drowsy contentment Forollkin said hurriedly, "Well, I've had enough music for one night. I am for bed."
"Tomorrow you shall sing again, young Lord," said Ibrogdiss. "But not you, ugly one; your voice is fair but your dreams are dark."
Chapter 2
The Book of the Emperors: Chronicles
And two of the Princes came to him from the temple after prayer and fasting but the Third Prince had been drinking and feasting in his own chambers. The two elder Princes rebuked their brother but Jezreen-lo-Kaash said to them, "From god or from wine cup all three of you sought comfort and the mercy of forgetfulness. What did any of you offer in return?" Then they were silent.
The next morning Forollkin had a monstrous headache. He refused all Kerish's offers of breakfast, cool cloths for his forehead or general soothing and eventually found the strength to throw a cushion at his over-solicitous brother. Laughing, Kerish bound back his hair with a crimson fillet, put on a simple blue robe and left the sticky heat of their tent for the comparative cool of the deck.
One of the crew brought him some unappetizing broth and a flat Frian loaf with the taste and texture of well-baked brick. Kerish thanked him in the few words of Frian he had picked up on their voyage, but there was no response. He watched the man return to his task of mending nets, and wondered what the life of a Frian serf could be like. Ibrogdiss seemed to treat his crew well enough but amid the danger of the marshlands that might be more a matter of sense than feeling.
Ibrogdiss himself had gone to the nearest village to arrange with its headman for the curing of the or-gar-gee hide and the sale of most of its flesh. Gidjabolgo was nowhere to be seen. Abandoning his breakfast after a few sips of broth, Kerish decided he ought to pretend concern for the flowers and birds stored in the hold. He went down through the hatchway and groped past the rowers' benches as his eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness.
In front of the stern cabins a space had been reserved for wooden cages and tall pottery jars for storing whatever the Galkians chose to collect. Over one of the jars stooped Gidjabolgo, stroking the flame-coloured lilies and murmuring softly. Kerish felt immediately that he ought to leave before Gidjabolgo saw him.
Instead he stepped noisily forward. "Why, Gidjabolgo, I didn't know you were so fond of flowers."
The Forgite snatched his hand from the lilies as if they had bitten him but after a moment he said smoothly: "I am merely seeking information, the better to assist my Masters, since the Lord Forollkin does not appear to know an orchid from a stingweed, and the mad Emperor must have his garden."
"The Emperor of Galkis is not mad."
"No?" Gidjabolgo tested the bars of the wooden cages and did not look at Kerish as he spoke. "In Forgin they say he is crazed by the death of his Erandachi queen and sits in his garden howling over her corpse while the Empire rots. No doubt my Master knows the truth of it."
"Do you want to see her?"
"No, please, no!"
Kerish backed away from Gidjabolgo and from the memory of his father kneeling by a white sarcophagus.
"He is not mad," Kerish repeated tonelessly and Gidjabolgo smiled as he tugged at another bar until the frail wood snapped.
"My Master knows, and my Master would be wiser to conceal his knowledge better."
"You think Ibrogdiss is suspicious of us?" demanded Kerish.
"Of you.
He fears you almost as much as his spineless serfs do and wonders why the older brother must always obey the younger."
"But he doesn't. I follow Forollkin's lead, " protested Kerish, genuinely surprised.
"When it agrees with your purpose. You are too used to giving orders to notice that you never take them," answered Gidjabolgo. "I do not think Ibrogdiss would be too surprised if I told him that you were no petty lordling, if I told him he had a Prince of the Godborn in his power, the Emperor's darling . . . How high would you set your ransom?"
"But you will not tell him," said Prince Kerish-lo-Taan, "because if our voyage stops, so does yours. I don't know why you wish to reach the sorcerer of Tir-Zulmar and you do not know our purpose. Let us leave it at that and try to be courteous to each other until we have the pleasure of parting."
"Or the pleasure of a shared grave when Ibrogdiss cuts our throats," growled Gidjabolgo.
"If any harm comes to us, he will not get the other half of his payment from Engis' agent in Pin-Drouth."
"Yes, but is that payment equal to the treasures that you carry with you? Think about that, my Master, next time our merchant invites you to go hunting."
Gidjabolgo scuttled away into the darkness of the hold, satisfied by the look on Kerish's face that the blow had gone home.
Kerish thought carefully of his gold and irivanee jewels, the coins concealed in Forollkin's sword belt, his precious zel set, the purple gem and the emerald ring Ibrogdiss daily saw him wearing. Together they might well tempt the Merchant Hunter to treachery. He could only be grateful that Gidjabolgo's presence of mind had removed the High Priest's dagger from the list. What could they do? In the middle of the Frian marshes there was nowhere to run to, and what Frian could they trust?
Distractedly, Kerish moved among the jars and cages. As he bent over the lilies he noticed that they seemed to have acquired a scent that they had lacked the day before. A faint sickly smell permeated the hold but when Kerish held one of the lilies to his nose, the scent decreased. Straightening, with a puzzled frown he wandered from jar to jar. None of them seemed to be the source of the powerful scent. It was at its strongest around the door to Ibrogdiss' cabin. Curious, Kerish tried the handle but the door was locked. Dismissing the puzzle for the time being, Kerish went back on deck to see if Forollkin was recovered enough for bad news.
*****
During the next two days the Green Hunter rowed vigorously up-river and there was no opportunity for the Galkians to extend their collection. They spent a great deal of time in their sweltering tent, fruitlessly discussing Ibrogdiss' possible treachery. For the rest, Forollkin lost endless games of zel and paced round the deck, bored with the vistas of reeds and mud, while Kerish read from the Book of the Emperors, and Gidjabolgo appeared to sleep.
On the third day, the Green Hunter anchored in mid-river at noon and, when the worst of the heat was over, Kerish and Forollkin went out with Dau to explore a gir grove. Scrambling on almost solid ground through the huge, fantastically contorted gir roots, they caught some green and scarlet lizards and gathered rare mosses. Dau named everything they saw and Forollkin asked him if he had been born in a marsh village. The Frian shook his shaven head and explained in his hesitant Zindaric that his mother came from the northern city of Lokrim.
"And your father?"
Dau looked at him blankly. "The Master is of Pin-Drouth, but his house is in Lokrim too."
It was Kerish who understood what he meant. "Ibrogdiss is your father?"
Dau nodded. There was nothing to mark him out from any of the other serfs, except his Zindaric. He wore a simple linen kilt, his body was thin and the marks of former whippings were plain on his back.
`We are both sons of a concubine,' thought Forollkin numbly. `I should have thanked Imarko for my father's generous indifference.'
"Is Ibrogdiss a good master to you?" Kerish was asking gently.
"He is . . ." Dau searched for the word, "just, though if the dreams are
bad . . ."
He stopped as if suddenly conscious that he had said too much.
"Dreams?"
"He is just, Lord," repeated Dau. "Do my Lords want birds? I will set traps."
Respecting the Frian's reticence, Forollkin helped him to fix a clap net between two gir roots and Kerish wandered deeper into the grove, thinking about the Merchant Hunter. His thoughts were gradually disturbed by a faint, insistent sound, perhaps made by an animal in fright or pain.
Kerish walked towards the sound and ducked under a root to be confronted by a spiny tangle of bushes. The cries came from very close. Kerish began calling in a soft voice. For a moment the noise stopped and then continued more loudly to signal distress or anger. Kerish tried to push the branches aside but they were too strong for him. Reluctantly, he knelt down and crawled under the bushes. Thorns caught in the fine cloth of his robe, pricked his shoulders and tugged at his hair.
It was dark but Kerish saw at once the brilliant golden eyes of the small green creature crouching before him. Then the eyes saw Kerish and, with a mew of fright, the animal began to climb up into the thorn bushes. The Prince grabbed it and swore with a fluency that would have shocked Forollkin as the creature dug its claws and teeth into his hands.
Holding on tightly, he crawled back through the bushes. By the time he had got to his feet again, his robe was torn in a dozen places and covered with mud and his hands were beaded with blood but Kerish was jubilant. He held up the spitting, scratching creature and called out, "Forollkin, come and look, I've found a marsh kitten!"
The cats of Galkis were descended from a pair brought in the first ship by Imarko herself. Rare and precious, they now lived only in her temple at Hildimarn, where Kerish had spent many happy hours coaxing them to notice him. Marsh cats were almost as rare, and sought after to be the beautiful companions and fierce guards of the noble and the rich. The creature Kerish held would grow to be four feet long, from the tip of its nose to the base of its tail. Its pale, fluffy fur would darken into a glossy green but its eyes would always be golden. Kerish stroked the kitten's head and got another scratch.
Forollkin and Dau came squelching through the grove.
"Look, look, isn’t she beautiful?"
Grinning, Forollkin put out a hand and withdrew it quickly as a slender paw lashed at him.
"They are fierce, Lord," said Dau, "for they are children of the Green One, the Lord of Animals, who hates men. You must beat her, then she is tame. I will fetch a cage."
"There will be no beating or caging," answered Kerish, and he wrapped the furious kitten in his cloak and carried her back to the ship.
Ibrogdiss congratulated him on his catch. "A fine strong kitten, Lord. The mother must be dead or she would have come at her mewings. Forty gold kekors a merchant of Forgin would give for such a kitten. Your Emperor will be pleased?"
"No doubt," murmured Kerish absently. "I shall call her Lilahnee, after the cat of the Poet Emperor."
"Yes, he will be most pleased," said Forollkin hastily, "so we shall raise your payment at the end of our voyage."
Ibrogdiss gave a bow of thanks but Forollkin could not see his face.
"Well, Kerish," he continued, "I'm afraid she must have a cage. She would tear her way out of our tent in no time."
After some argument, it was agreed that the kitten be allowed the run of the second stern cabin. When Kerish took her there, she immediately sprang from his arms up into the rafters and could not be coaxed down, even with a bowl of fresh meat. She sat there with her ears flat against her skull, pouring out feline abuse. She looked so thin that Kerish was tempted to force some food down her, but wisely decided to leave the kitten alone until morning.
Kerish and Forollkin were up at dawn on the next day to watch the crew drape a fine-meshed net over the Green Hunter, fixing it to the top of the mast and the ship's sides. It was like standing inside a large, dimly lit cage, but a cage to keep wild things out not in. The Green Hunter was due to sail through a yalg gr
ove and to the yalg trees clung the gauza orchids, from whose pollen a powerful drug was made.
Where there were gauza orchids there were zzaga: brilliant black and green insects, each the size of a man's fist, and with a deadly sting. They built their mud nests in the yalg trees and made their pale sweet honey from the gauza pollen. Precious as that honey was, few merchants tried to obtain it, for the zzaga guarded their hives ferociously and often moved in great destructive swarms.
Ibrogdiss had every inch of the net checked before he ordered the serfs to their oars. When the ship came abreast of the shadowy yalg groves Ibrogdiss and four of his serfs wrapped themselves in thick strips of green cloth. Only their eyes and nostrils were left exposed and nets were draped over their heads for partial protection.
The Children of the Wind (Seven Citadels) Page 3