Lost Gods

by Micah Yongo

  Neythan shrugged, groping for another piece to the lie. “She was to come here,” he said, slurring. “And then return home. But she did not return… and has sent no word… my mother… she worries.” Neythan, satisfied by this last improvisation, sat back and reclined on his elbow.

  “Ah, what mother does not, my friend? These things happen of course, but it needn’t follow that harm has come to the girl. Perhaps she has enjoyed the city and wishes to remain. She’d not be the first. It can be a seductive place, no?”

  “Still, I must know one way or the other.”

  “Of course you must. Our having happened upon one another is good. I knew so from the beginning. It’s the very reason I wanted for you to meet my young cousin here.” Nouredín gestured toward a man sitting in the corner.

  The man was sitting upright with crossed legs, perched like some king on a cushion. Strange Neythan hadn’t noticed him there. The man was golden-haired, something Neythan had seen just once before. He was big too, though not in a bulky way; lithe and muscular, his build as much a dancer’s as a soldier’s. Stranger still, he had blue eyes, as blue as the sea, and skin paler than Neythan had ever seen. He stared steadily at Neythan. Unlikely this man was truly Nouredín’s cousin. Neythan wondered about his origins, wondered vaguely about why Nouredín would say they were kin. After a while he could no longer summon the effort to care. He propped himself up again from his slouch and watched the man tip his head in acknowledgment.

  “So, you…” Neythan pointed, his finger swaying unsteadily as he did so, “are the ranger.”

  The man considered him a moment before answering. “Huntsman, I prefer,” he said, gently.

  Neythan glanced at Nouredín, who made a quibbling shrug.

  He looked again at the man. “Huntsman…” the word dragged. His lips were starting to feel swollen.

  The man looked down into his lap, examining his fingers as he spoke. “As I have been since my youth. In truth, my work has changed little from then till now.”

  “No?” Neythan looked at Nouredín, then back to the man. “A strange sort of prey you hunted then.”

  “Some might say so.” The man’s voice was soft, yet somehow carried through the din. “It was given to me to provide for the dining tables of the princes of Tresán, in Calapaar.”

  Neythan frowned, trying to sit upright, the room sliding as he did so. “Tresán is a long way from here.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do these princes not have men of their own to hunt for them?”

  The man lifted a thumb-sized cup from his lap and sipped at something steaming within. “They do,” he said. “But they are princes, and princes, especially those of Tresán, are extravagant banqueters. When their spirits are especially high, their tastes run to mammoth meat and mountain cats, things not easily found, and harder to kill.”

  “Takes a skilled hand.”

  “Quite so.”

  “And so they employed you.”

  The man gave a bow of his golden head.

  Neythan smiled, looked to Nouredín, who smiled back, dropping a nervous, single-syllabled laugh.

  Neythan looked back to the man and squinted. The room was beginning to blur. “So, there you are, in lovely Tresán,” he said. His words were growing increasingly untidy, tripping over each other. “Having the favour of princes… and then…” He dangled his goblet in the air as he formed the thought. “You somehow come to be here, all this way… Did you tire of your mountain cats?”

  A corner of the man’s mouth twitched. “Let us say I discovered a bounty more rewarding. Princes pay well for mammoth and cats, but men pay better for men.”

  “Hmm.” Neythan finished off his drink.

  “Besides, in the end they are not so different, men and beasts.”

  Neythan looked up from the dull worn brass of the emptied vessel. “No?”

  “No. A man’s appetites…” He glanced at Neythan’s emptied cup. “His habits, they rule him as well as do a beast’s. They shape his wants, his acts, his comings, his goings. A man is as much a slave to his belly as any creature.”

  “That so?”

  The man’s still blue eyes held Neythan’s gaze. “Yes. It is.” He put his small cup carefully to one side. “It is his only weakness, but the only one needed to join him to every animal. And it is this weakness, as with every beast, that often tells the way he will be found. Or caught. Or killed.”

  The words hung awkwardly, chased by the quiet patter of the music. Nouredín, his eyes working between the pair, pushed out another hesitant chuckle to fill the void.

  “All this talking, when you ought to be drinking.” He clapped his hands and beckoned back the young almond-skinned girl. “More wine for them,” he said. “There will be time for talking and business later. Now is time for celebrating. Drink. Drink.”

  From then the evening slid by in bits and pieces, each sloshing, like poured wine, into the next.

  Nouredín cackling at something Neythan has said as he hands him yet another goblet of wine. Women dancing in low skirts, bodies turning like ribbons through the air. Blurred light. Men arguing, Neythan joining in, something about camels, a needful point being made. Food passing around on wooden platters, berries and red grapes. Everyone dancing, drumbeat hammering loud and quick.

  Then outside somewhere, shivering in the cooling air. Clear starry night, pulsing overhead as if in time to the music’s constant throb.

  Staggering, arm wrapped around a stranger, no, the almond-skinned girl from before. She’s laughing, telling stories, people she’s known, patrons – men, women, old, young, blind, seeing.

  Somewhere else, a tavern, seats and tables, raised drinks, shouting and toasts, Nouredín’s cousin calling, that strange blue gaze no longer watchful but lazy, peering back through heavy eyelids and a sluggish smile.

  A slumped man, face hanging over an empty mug, muttering, weeping.

  A tapped pan drum and bells and cymbals, the almond-skinned girl pulling him to dance, Neythan falling back down. More wine. The steady thud of the drum, shrugged shoulders and raised hands, all bouncing in time.

  Nineteen

  R A N G E R

  “I saw the night speak to me, Neythan. I saw the stars draw near as doves. When the moon was black, with a ring of light around it. And that was when it fell, into the sea. The moon, I mean. I saw it, watched it sink to the very bottom like a rock. It was then the stars told me I must follow, I must go and retrieve this fallen dark moon. But when I looked down into the sea, in place of my reflection there was an animal, like a jaguar, only bigger. Its eyes were like suns, and its coat, so dark, as black as the night around us. It leapt out from the water to stand against me, to keep me from the dark moon beneath the sea… It was then, as I looked into the beast’s eyes, that I understood, Neythan. The jaguar was me, a shadow of me, and it was also the Brotherhood. It did not want me to do as I ought. They do not want me to discover the dark moon.”

  Neythan awoke to the cloying heat of what felt like an oven and the sounds of children playing outside. His tongue felt chafed. His throat, clammy and dry, as though he’d swallowed a meal of feathers.

  He’d dreamt of memories again. Memories he’d forgotten he had – this time of Uncle Sol, sitting with him back in Ilysia by the forest beneath the village as he shared one of his visions. Neythan couldn’t have been much older than seven at the time, fascinated by the vividness and detail of Sol’s words but unable to make sense of what they meant or why he shared them. Sol had always said he’d explain when Neythan was older, teach him the meanings. But he never did. Never could. Time ran out…

  Neythan blinked and looked around. There was hushed amber light glowing from the low canvas walls surrounding him. A goatskin blanket lay draped across his body. Something similar lay on the ground beneath him. He was in a tent booth. He lifted his head to see what else there was and flinched at the stray slips of sunlight wickedly breaching the entrance by his feet.

  “Gods have
mercy…”

  So this is what it felt like. Memories of a snoring Tutor Hamir lulled to sleep by too much of Yulaan’s summer brew came to mind. Neythan groaned and yanked away the goatskin blanket to find himself dressed in a wrinkled tunic that didn’t belong to him. He tried to remember the night before, where the tunic had come from, then gave up and tried to lever himself upright.

  He could hear the sounds of ambling routine from outside – the proud clucks of a hen, the distant murmur of voices, the soft crunch of footsteps passing by, and riding over it all a deep aching throb at his temples and along the back of his scalp.

  “Aha, alive to the world at last.”

  Neythan grimaced and squinted, lifting an arm to shield his eyes from the light as Nouredín poked his head in.

  “Ooh, sorry. Still delicate, are we?”

  Neythan grunted grumpily.

  “Well. I hope you’ll be better in an hour. You will need to be. Yevhen is to meet us in the market.”

  “Who is Yevhen?” Neythan croaked.

  Nouredín blinked. “My cousin… You met him last night.”

  Neythan, slit-eyed, stared back blankly.

  “The ranger?”

  Neythan, still squinting, sighed sulkily and muttered.

  Nouredín just chuckled, shaking his head, and then withdrew.

  After nursing his headache for a while, Neythan manoeuvred himself onto his hands and knees and crawled gingerly toward the tent’s exit, taking a breath before pushing his head through to the outside. The sun whited his vision. He squeezed his eyes narrow, shading them with the flat of one hand as he came out and rose to his feet.

  Sunny. A sea of tents stretched out in every direction, billowing gently in the weak breeze and backed by the familiar sprawl of piled up terraces behind them. Beyond the tents to the east the broad shore of the marketplace extended out in rows of low stone buildings and stalls.

  “So, you finally decide to join the land of the living.”

  Caleb was sitting on a stool nibbling a dish of nuts and berries next to the tent.

  “How do you feel?”

  “I’ve felt better.” Neythan picked up the vessel of water at Caleb’s feet and swigged heartily. He wiped his mouth and looked down again. The water was warm from the sun. “What hour is it?”

  “Guess.”

  “I’ve not the stomach for games, Caleb.”

  Caleb looked at him as if to see if this was true, then shrugged and chewed on another berry. “Noon.”

  Neythan rubbed his jaw.

  “You are to meet Yevhen soon?”

  Neythan glanced down at him. “You know of this Yevhen too?”

  “Of course. It was you who introduced me to him… here, last night.”

  Neythan stared.

  “You don’t remember? You were very eager for us to meet. Woke me up even, which I wasn’t grateful for. You said you’d made an agreement with him of some kind, that he was willing to help us, and that you would meet today to discuss payment.”

  “Payment? We gave the last of the silver to Nouredín.”

  “Funny, that is exactly what I said to you last night.”

  “And what did I say?”

  “Not to worry. All was agreed. You were quite cheery about it all. I was looking forward to your waking up just so I could hear all about why.”

  Neythan’s headache was worsening. He rubbed his neck.

  “You remember nothing?”

  Neythan shook his head.

  Caleb kept looking.

  “You find this funny,” Neythan said.

  “A little… the way you were last night. It was… well… unexpected.”

  “Glad you found it entertaining.”

  “You should eat.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Caleb smiled. “Ah, that’s right, perhaps not the stomach for food yet either. No need to look so dark though. I’m sure you’ll remember what you must soon enough. Let’s hope it’s in the next hour though, Nouredín says he is to take you to Yevhen then.”

  Nouredín was true to his word. He arrived just as Neythan was finally managing to make himself eat, tentatively scooping shallow spoonfuls of lukewarm porridge from the pot Caleb had made that morning. His headache had dampened down to a dull simmering pressure behind his eyes. He badly needed to go back to sleep. Nouredín duly led him into the marketplace.

  The stalls were huddled together in tight rows. People moved hurriedly in the narrow gaps between. A small copper-skinned boy walked on ahead of them in the crowd, barechested and barefooted, leading a young goat by a rope and every so often nabbing items from the stalls – small trinkets mostly, and at one point what looked to be an expensive ornament of ivory – and slipping them into the goat’s mouth. Neythan watched, waiting for the goat to gag or choke. It didn’t. Well practiced, apparently.

  His gaze drifted to a troop of women wandering through the narrow aisles between the stalls in pale-coloured shawls like Filani had worn, hiding from the sun. Two turbaned marketers were arguing with one another from behind opposing counters, their heads leaning over and around the passing crowd to continue the dispute. Neythan found himself ducking as he passed between them.

  They continued on through the stalls for around a quarter of an hour, shoving and shouldering through the glut of shouting men and women like tadpoles against the tide.

  They eventually found Yevhen in a clearing at the heart of the market. He stood with his back to them observing the Stone of Arvan: a broad column of carved slatestone marked by the Sovereignty’s First Laws on every side and crowned by the tall blade of a sundial. He was wearing a white sleeveless coat of linen that hung to his ankles and a pale vesture beneath, revealing muscled forearms. His conspicuously long golden hair was tucked beneath a turban, pulled fast around his head and tied into a ball against the back of his skull.

  “King Karel the Young, son of Yusan of Hagmeni, Lord of Sumeria, first sharíf and father of the Sovereignty, author of peace, prosperity and hope…” Yevhen glanced over his shoulder as Neythan and Nouredín approached. “What do you think? Are we feeling especially prosperous or hopeful today?” He turned fully, saw the weary ill look on Neythan’s face and smiled. “Perhaps not so much.”

  “Good day to you, cousin,” Nouredín said. “How are you?”

  Yevhen nodded at Neythan, still smiling. “I think the question is how our new business partner here is. Let us hope you carry your blade better than you do your drink.”

  Neythan looked away to the market and sighed impatiently.

  Nouredín took the hint. “Speaking of business…”

  “Yes, of course,” Yevhen said. “Let’s walk this way.”

  From the clearing the market split into quarters along four main roads extending away from the column. Yevhen led them along the easterly street into the quadrant of the market furthest from the square of traders’ booths they’d come from. Neythan watched him walk. Something in the way his hips moved, the balance of his weight, the stillness in his shoulders. The gait of a combatant. Neythan had suspected as much the previous night as they sat together, though only vaguely through the fog of the wine.

  “I feel you are a man acquainted with conflict,” Yevhen said softly, echoing Neythan’s thoughts. “I felt it so when we met last night. It was because of this I agreed to help you.”

  Neythan, walking at his shoulder, just looked at the taller man. Yevhen turned to Nouredín. “Cousin, how about you let Neythan and I get acquainted properly? Now, in the light of day.”

  Nouredín hesitated, cleared his throat, and then peeled away, wandering reluctantly into the crowd. Yevhen glanced at Neythan over his shoulder and smiled.

  “I understand your reticence. He is a good man truly, but his ears at times, well… they can be as keen as his lips are loose.”

  “Is he really your cousin?” Neythan said.

  “Ah, well, that depends. Most say kin is chosen by blood, some say by other means. I am one who believes
the latter. As do you.”

  “Do I?”

  “Of course. All your kind does.”

  “My kind.”

  “Yes, those of the Brotherhood. The Shedaím.”

  Neythan stood still.

  Yevhen had walked on a few paces before realizing Neythan had stopped. He turned, looked at him standing there, and then walked back to him.

  “The lapdog knows the voice of his master, Neythan. Rangers, some of us, the most skilled of us, have worked so often for your kind – ferrying word, spying decrees – we cannot help but grow familiar with your ways. I am a watchful kind, I suspected you might be one of them the longer I sat with you. Though I could not be certain, until now.”

  Neythan didn’t speak.

  Yevhen, again, gave that thin and easy smile. “It is perhaps the Shedaím’s only flaw; that they entrust some of their work to youths. Like you. It betrays you. You have the bearing and manner of a man twice your age, yet the face of a boy. And your eyes, Neythan, even when taken with the wine, are always so watchful. Full of mistrust. It’s an uncommon habit. To the man who is looking, these things can be noticed.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Not to anger you, or any others. As I’ve said, I know your kind, your works as well as your ways. I seek no quarrel.” Yevhen glanced at the crowds passing either side. “But please, let us walk.”

  They resumed.

  “And what of Nouredín, your loose-lipped cousin?”

  “He knows I am a ranger, yes. But he knows little of my business beyond that – nothing of the Brotherhood. Your kind are no more to him than a child’s tale to be grown out of.”

  They turned off the road into an alley of stalls. The canopies of the tables were nearly touching each other. Yevhen leaned in close, closer even than Nouredín would have, and spoke into Neythan’s ear as they went.

  “I know of the one you seek,” he said. “Your ‘sister.’”

  They turned to pass by a table of hens. Their clawed feet were tethered to a nearby beam supporting the high roof sheltering the stalls beneath. They were clucking and shrieking and flapping their wings. Blood and dismembered chickenfeet and scattered feathers lay on the table by them, and the vendor, a foot away, worked with a cleaver.