The Seventh Gate (The Seven Citadels )

by Geraldine Harris

  “My Lady,” said Kerish, just loud enough for the captured guard to hear, “by the spells I have set on you, I charge you to summon the other guard; gently now, as though nothing were wrong.”

  Neeris moved towards the entrance of the tent as stiffly as if she were really bewitched, and called out.

  After a moment they all heard the heavy tread of the second guard. He came through the flap cautiously, his hand on his dagger. Seeing Neeris and Berka standing calmly in front of him, the man began to ask why he was wanted, as Forollkin stepped up behind him.

  The first guard gasped a warning that ended in a grunt as Gidjabolgo struck him on the chin with the butt of his own spear. Neeris gave a little scream as the man crumpled. The second guard had drawn his dagger and half twisted round, before Forollkin could get a proper grip. For a moment the two men grappled and then the Orazian was thrusting Forollkin backwards to give himself room to stab but Gwerath snatched up the metal ewer and brought it crashing down on the guard's head. With a groan he dropped at her feet.

  “The cloaks,” said Kerish. Gidjabolgo stripped one cloak from the guard whose jaw he had just broken. Forollkin took the other warrior's cloak and rolled both the unconscious men to one side of the tent. There was no point in tying them up, they would probably be found by the next patrol before they had recovered consciousness.

  At a word from her mistress, Berka handed over one of the two hooded cloaks that she had been wearing to Gidjabolgo to disguise his squat form. In the lamplight, Neeris's downy hair was tipped with gold and the shadows gave strength to her face. Watched suspiciously by the anxious Berka, Kerish took the cold hand of Khan O-grak's wife. “That was bravely done. Now take us to your tent.”

  “I will go with you to the water's edge,” protested Neeris.

  Kerish shook his head. “I want you to be telling the truth when you say you don't know where we went, and remember, it must appear that I have bewitched you both.”

  “We must hurry,” snapped Forollkin. “Put up your hoods.”

  Neeris walked out of the tent with Gwerath beside her, as if the Princess of the Sheyasa had finally agreed to leave her companions. Gidjabolgo scuttled along beside Berka like a second woman in attendance. Kerish and Forollkin, each armed with dagger, spear and shield, followed as their guards.

  The first few yards were the most dangerous. Remembering her instructions, Neeris had come by a roundabout route. Now she walked directly south, past the camp-fires of men who had not just seen the Khan's wife with only one attendant. Within a minute they were among the quiet tents of warriors whom she knew to have gone north with her husband. Two slaves shuffled out of Neeris's path, but the sight of them made her walk so fast that even Berka hissed at her mistress to move more naturally.

  Kerish was uncomfortably conscious that he wasn't tall enough for an Orazian warrior and his over-sensitive ears magnified every sound from his own heartbeat to the zildar that Gidjabolgo had insisted on taking, thudding against the Forgite's thigh. Rowdy singing splintered the calm of the evening as they were forced to pass by the tent of a contingent from Gilaz.

  As Neeris hurried past, the tent-flap swung open and the Gilazian captain emerged, swaying slightly, and with his arm around the neck of a young warrior.

  “May the Goddess never envy you Khan's wife!” he cried with drunken courtesy.

  Forollkin stepped closer to Neeris and Gwerath, like a conscientious guard, as the two warriors came towards them.

  The Khan's wife stood paralyzed as the Gilazian captain demanded, “Is that the barbarian Princess? The Khan said she was too skinny to hide behind a stick. No harm in that I say, sticks were made for kindling fires.”

  He peered into Gwerath's face, while the warrior supporting him murmured disapprovingly and Gidjabolgo pulled his hood further down over his face. The Gilazian noticed and cried boisterously, “A shy woman among the Orazians. I don't believe it! Let's see your face, pretty one!”

  Clumsy hands tugged at Gidjabolgo's hood. He wrenched away but the hood slipped back a little and there was just enough light for the man to see what he had asked for.

  “By Idaala's Breasts, she needs a mask not a hood! May she never have a child, its mother's face would turn it witless, not that the Goddess is likely to send her a man, except as a punishment, for the man that is . . .”

  “Captain!” Neeris was trembling with what the Men of Gilaz took for rage. “How dare you insult one of my women so?”

  “Forgive him, Khan's wife, blame the wine of Oraz,” said the second warrior, hauling away his captain, who was still mumbling with astonishment.

  When they were out of sight, Neeris almost ran forward. At any moment she expected an uproar to break out behind them as the escape was discovered. They passed three more groups of warriors, but no one questioned the Khan's wife, walking well-attended towards her own quarters with a female prisoner of no importance.

  When they had almost reached Neeris's tent, Kerish said, “Berka, give the Princess your cloak and lie on the ground as if you had fainted. Neeris . . . you must do the same. Remember, tell everyone that I put a spell on you. Then the Khan can protect you from any blame.”

  “And is it true?” asked Neeris. “Did you bewitch me?”

  “If I did,” whispered Kerish, “the spell has caught me too. Lie down.” He knelt beside her to arrange her cloak. “Stay there until someone finds you. Pretend to be dazed and to have forgotten what you've done.”

  “He will be so angry,” murmured Neeris. “Whatever will I say?”

  “To him, the truth, and then get him to talk about his daughter. May the Goddess bless you, Neeris.”

  He stooped to kiss her forehead and the others whispered their thanks as they slipped away.

  Neeris lay on the cold grass, trying to fix every detail of the Prince's face and voice in her memory, while Berka shivered beside her.

  Kerish led the others through the last few tents before the dunes, hoping to come out level with the unguarded boat. He climbed the first dune, the sand continually slipping from under his feet. Cautiously, Kerish raised his head over the edge for a moment and saw by the dim starlight that they were a little too far south. The last of the guarded boats was moored just opposite him and he could make out the silhouettes of two warriors with short spears, pacing the beach. Further north lay another boat, shrouded in more than darkness.

  The guards would certainly raise the alarm if that boat were rowed away, but they were unlikely to notice four people creeping into it from the other side. Satisfied, Kerish was about to move when a faint shouting and the noise of a horn drifted across the camp. He wondered if the boat guards had heard it too, but there was no break in their steady pacing.

  Kerish slithered rapidly down the dune and whispered his orders. The companions moved silently northwards along the edge of the tents and up another sand-dune. There was no cover on the strip of beach between the dune and the gently rocking boat, but the moon had not yet risen. Kerish and Forollkin had wrapped their cloaks tighter to cover the glint of their weapons, and the four companions ran noiselessly across the soft sand. Gwerath went last, trailing her cloak to erase their footsteps.

  No challenge came. Forollkin reached the water's edge and held the boat steady as Kerish lifted part of the awning that covered it. Gwerath leapt deftly up, pushing aside unseen obstacles to crawl inside the boat. With subdued gruntings and complaints Gidjabolgo followed her; then Kerish. Lastly, Forollkin heaved himself up and dropped down between the benches of silent figures, just as a closer horn call sounded the alarm.

  The four travelers crouched in the narrow aisle between the benches. At first there was complete darkness, barbed with small, disturbing sounds. Forollkin groped his way past twisted wooden feet, to the side of the boat not overlooked by sentries, and folded back part of the awning. The moon was rising now and its ominous light seeped in, showing just enough of the shapes huddled on the benches to make the travelers wish for darkness again.

&
nbsp; To Kerish's right, the bench was occupied by one huge figure, still hooded in shadow. On his left two images were closely entwined. One had his arm about the other's shoulders, as if they were tenderly embracing, but the long wooden fingers tore at his companion's heart. Kerish looked up at the faces, and recognized one from the night of the feast.

  “They've changed!” he whispered.

  “I wouldn't know,” answered Forollkin hoarsely. “I took care not to look at the things too closely.”

  “They're only wood.” Gwerath's voice came from the dimness behind the Galkians. “Someone must keep carving them.”

  “It would be pleasant to think that the slaves deceive their masters into believing they have souls,” said Gidjabolgo.

  “I expect they just pretend not to know what happens,” answered Gwerath scornfully, “like children of the Sheyasa pretend to be frightened of the Irollga dance, before the gifts are given out.”

  Horns sounded again, this time much closer, and Forollkin pulled the awning back into place. The travelers crouched in tense silence, straining to catch a recognizable word in the confused uproar spreading towards them.

  Soon there came the muffled tread of boots on the sand, shouted questions and the negative answers of the sentries. During the ensuing conference, each of the travelers became aware of their cramped positions and longed to move a stiff arm, or an awkwardly folded leg.

  “What's going on?” whispered Gwerath, unable to bear it any longer.

  Forollkin moved slowly towards the other side of the boat, squeezing past a figure that seemed to be covered in spines. There was just room for him to kneel upright and lift the awning a little.

  “They're searching the dunes.” He narrowed his eyes against the light of a dozen torches, carried by running men. “And I think some of the boats are about to be launched . . . Zeldin, I hope you're right about this boat, Kerish. There are two men coming straight for us.”

  Forollkin dropped the awning and Kerish heard the rasp of a dagger being drawn. He clutched awkwardly at his own stolen weapon. There was a sound of armed men running, gasping breath, the clank of weapons on mail and then a splash as they entered the water. They were past, and running northwards along the edge of the beach before Kerish could think out a prayer.

  Forollkin peered out again, to see the first of the longboats being launched. More and more men were appearing with torches and the beach was now bright as noon.

  “We would have had no chance swimming,” said Forollkin grimly, as half a dozen archers clambered into the next boat.

  “Do we have any chance now?” asked Gidjabolgo, “or must we sit here until this boat has four more souls?”

  “We wait till the search turns inland,” whispered Kerish. “However long that takes.”

  His eyes were becoming accustomed to the dim light and he was almost sure that he knew one of the mute figures.

  “Well, while there's all this noise to cover us,” said Forollkin, “let's see what we can do in the way of oars.”

  One-handed, Kerish could be of very little use, so he changed places with Gwerath, bumping into Gidjabolgo, who swore in a venomous whisper. Forollkin knelt between the two spears that he had laid out along the aisle. Kerish handed over his stolen shield and retrieved the sash that had been wrapped around their store of food. Forollkin used Kerish's sash and his own to bind the shafts of the two spears to the leather grips on the backs of the shields. With the poor light and restricted space, it was a slow task and Gwerath was soon demanding to take over.

  “Well, if you think you can do it any better,” said Forollkin irritably, as the two changed places.

  “They are not going to be tight enough,” Gwerath announced almost at once.

  Grumbling bitterly, Gidjabolgo stripped off his leather belt and she knotted it around the shaft, to fix it firmly to the shield.

  “I need something to secure the other one.”

  There was no response, and after a moment, Gwerath took Forollkin's gift from around her neck and knotted the scarf mercilessly tight about the iron and leather. Forollkin felt for her hand and drew it to his lips.

  All but one of the longboats were now launched. Forollkin considered their situation. Even if they could slip away from the shore, once the river search was over, their makeshift oars might not get them out as far as the fierce current that would sweep them towards Viroc. If they were pursued, a boat full of oarsmen would soon be within bow-shot, and they would be a sitting target.

  Aloud all he said was, “We could do with more oars.”

  “We've got daggers,” answered Gidjabolgo. “Let's hack up some of these statues.”

  “No!” exclaimed Kerish, rather too loudly. “To do that when it might not be necessary would be wrong.”

  “Why?” demanded Gwerath.

  “To damage his soul is the worst thing you can do to a Man of the Five Kingdoms,” answered Kerish. “They have treated us honorably . . .”

  “They've condemned us to death!” protested Gwerath. “How can it be wrong to try anything against them?”

  “I'm afraid that Gwerath is right,” whispered Forollkin, “but I'll try to do as little damage as possible.”

  He knelt beside the nearest soul figure. His dagger had a cutting edge but it was not easy to get it into the right position in so cramped a space and he was afraid of making too much noise. Cautiously, he brought the blade down to make a cut in the thinnest part of an arm. Almost at once, he dropped the weapon with a gasp.

  “Forollkin, are you all right?”

  Kerish wished that he could see his brother's face.

  “Didn't you hear . . . I'm all right,” said Forollkin shakily, “but we'll leave the figures for the moment and make do with the spears.”

  “But why?” began Gwerath.

  “Can't you just accept what I say for once?”

  Another horn sounded, offering Forollkin an excuse to crawl to the side of the boat again and crouch there, giving a whispered commentary, without having to look at the others.

  It was two hours before the first boat returned and the men came ashore to be met by a warrior Forollkin thought he recognized as one of O-grak's own captains. After a brief conference, all but one of the crew marched back into the camp, carrying their oars.

  The same thing happened when the second and third boats came back. Then the beach became very quiet again and moonlight replaced torchlight. Finally, the last of the four boats moored along that stretch of Vaish came ashore. There was a long pause while the men milled about on the beach and two of the leaders seemed to be arguing. Then the fourth crew also left the beach. This time a single sentry remained to pace beside the four boats.

  Forollkin watched his route, noting exactly how long it took the man to cross the area he was guarding, and where he turned.

  “I'll swim along behind the boats and try to take him by surprise,” whispered Forollkin. “Watch me, Gwerath. If I bungle it, you'll have to help. Kerish, give her your dagger.”

  He raised the awning on the north side of the boat and prepared to slip as quietly as possibly into the water. Gwerath clasped Kerish's dagger and took up her position on the other side, also lifting the awning a fraction.

  “Stop! There's someone coming.”

  Kerish grabbed at his brother's feet to haul him back and Forollkin thudded down beside him. The sentry called out a challenge and was answered.

  “It's the Khan!” whispered Gwerath, letting the awning drop.

  Each of the travelers froze: Forollkin as he had tumbled; Kerish kneeling beside him; Gidjabolgo with a crust of bread halfway to this lips. Every breath, every heartbeat seemed far too loud as the heavy tread drew closer.

  The boat rocked suddenly as a hand was laid against its bows. Stifling the nervous cough that tickled his throat, Kerish listened to the slap of the waves, trying to judge where the Khan was. He failed, and when the voice sounded only two feet away, his body jerked with shock.

  “Where are you?
In the center? At the heart? The furthest edge would be more fitting, but doubtless you deceive other souls, just as I hide you from other men.” The Khan stood waist deep in the sea, resting both hands against the Boat of Souls. “Shageesa is dying and my household wails of omens. We don't believe that, do we? She is only a snake, another dumb creature for me to speak to and receive no answer; like you, my soul. But my questions change you, and what will the legacy of this night be? The hand I held out is broken by the very touch that it desired. Will you show that, soul twig, soul lump? Idaala, how the Galkians must mock at us . . . but not the Prince. Do you remember what I told you about him?”

  Beside him in the darkness, Forollkin could feel his brother trembling. The sound of his companions' breathing seemed so loud that Forollkin couldn't understand why the Khan didn't hear it. Surely four people couldn't make so much noise, and the rustling and creaking . . .Forollkin suddenly remembered the first terror of his childhood. He had been playing at Seek with some other children and had chosen to hide in a hole at the base of the wall of the Emperor's garden. It was much deeper than he had expected and very dark.

  After a few moments he had heard movements and a voice, horribly close, had whispered to him in a language he didn't understand. He had fled to his nurses, and cried so hysterically that a search had been made of the outer gardens. Nothing was found, but for a long time afterwards he had refused to go to sleep without a lamp burning beside his bed. Forollkin wouldn't acknowledge why he was reminded of the story now. He gripped Gwerath's hand, to reassure her, and hardly listened to the Khan's low, unhappy voice.

  “I was right to respect the Prince. He plays my own game all too well. Forgive me, Khan,” mimicked O-grak, “I will try to make amends - he warned me and I didn't listen. I would give my honor to get him back, yet I could almost wish him freedom. No, we both know that escape is impossible and I will have to kill him now to pacify my men. All his pretty deceptions will have been wasted. They didn't simply intend to swim the river, whatever Neeris may believe. Deception . . . perhaps that's unjust. She is content with what he gave her and so must I be. I wanted the unexpected, now she has provided it. Soul . . . would she scream and cower if she saw you? A wise man would never try to show her.” O-grak's voice had sunk to a faint growl: “And what manner of soul did she see when she looked in the Prince's eyes?”