“Ah. No, no goddesses. Anything else?”
The men talked together rapidly in their own language, its rough sounds unpleasing to the ear. Zarin caught a few words of High Mesanthian, once the universal language of the educated from one end of the northern coast to the other, but most of it was unfamiliar.
“There is a temple of the Secret God,” one of the men said.
“That sounds as if it would be appropriate,” Zarin said.
“Very well. Go to the right of the warehouse with the blue roof, then take the small street beside the rope-maker. Follow that…”
The directions were complicated, but the man repeated them until Zarin was quite sure of them. Then there were polite farewells on both sides, involving a number of bows.
“There, you see,” the Lath said, smugly. “They are perfectly civil to strangers.”
“That was too easy,” Zarin muttered.
And when he glanced back the way they had come, the four men were motionless, still watching them.
The temple of the Secret God was not as easy to find as the directions had made it sound. They went wrong a couple of times and had to ask again, and it took several attempts before they found someone competent in Low Mesanthian. Zarin began to wonder if perhaps the Secret God wanted to remain a secret.
And when eventually they found the place, it was not particularly prepossessing. They had passed through many streets lined with solidly imposing edifices, not over-decorated, but their very simplicity gave them a quiet elegance. The temple of the Secret God was not elegant. It was a drab, run-down building coated with depressing grey plasterwork. Two men with shaved heads were busy painting the outer walls, though, so perhaps it would look better when the work was finished. The wooden doors stood invitingly open.
Inside, there was a strong smell of incense. The room was square, with an obelisk in the centre which was so tall it protruded through a hole in the roof. A number of devotees sat about on cushions with bowed heads, in contemplation. They all wore full-length cloaks with raised hoods covering their heads, and they were all women. Not a good sign. Zarin’s heart sank.
The Lath walked around the perimeter, inspecting some rather badly drawn frescoes on the walls. Zarin scuttled after him, very conscious of the women, as one hooded face after another lifted and stared at them, before bowing again in contemplation. Were they hostile? He rather thought they were. One or two women got up and went to the obelisk, touching it with their foreheads. Then they left. Others came in to take their place, but still no men.
Zarin tugged at the Lath’s sleeve. “I do not believe we should be here,” he whispered. “This place is not for us.”
“Nonsense,” the Lath boomed, his voice echoing off the plaster walls. Several women turned, startled. “This is a temple, why should we not be here?”
“It is a women’s temple,” Zarin said.
“But the priests are men. Look.”
And it was true, two men in grey robes with hoods were emerging from an unobtrusive blue door, and crossing the floor, heading for the entrance. The Lath dashed across to intercept them. “Stop! Please wait! Zarin, tell them who we are.”
The two men flapped their hands and shook their heads. One put a finger to his lips. Then they turned and would have left, if the Lath had not raced round in front of them.
“Please, do not go! Zarin, explain.”
Again, the flapping hands. Another grey-robed man peered out from the blue door, then took a few steps towards the group, beckoning to them.
Zarin tugged the Lath’s sleeve again, and pointed to the man outside the blue door. Another wave, stronger this time. Clearly he wanted them to go to him.
“At last,” the Lath muttered, and strode down the room to the blue door. The grey-robed man ushered them through, but there was no friendliness in his face.
The room was larger than Zarin had expected, almost as large as the room with the obelisk. Several doors suggested a number of other rooms, or perhaps closets. There were high desks, set in a line under a row of windows, where scribes were busy at work. They glanced up at the entrance of two strangers, then bent incuriously to their work again.
Behind a large marble desk, completely empty, sat an elderly man, his hood pushed back to reveal a strip of white hair over the crown of his head, while the temples were shaved.
He rattled away in his own language, eyes narrowed in anger, then, seeing the incomprehension in their faces, switched to Low Mesanthian. “What nonsense is this? Why you talk in temple?”
“I beg your pardon for the intrusion, Friend,” Zarin said, bowing, and then bowing again. “My Friend here is a priest from the Seminary of the True Gods at the Western Keep, and we are looking for a temple of similar persuasion. I believe we have erred in entering here. I apologise. We will leave.”
To Zarin’s surprise, the priests all burst out laughing, exchanging a burst of their own language.
“Why is he laughing?” the Lath hissed in Zarin’s ear.
“I have no idea.” He switched back to Low Mesanthian. “Friends, I do not know what amuses you. If you wish us to leave, we will go at once.”
“Oh, by no means. You must stay and tell us of your faith.” Another bout of laughter. “Thrin, bring chairs for our guests. Jair-lor, run to the pantry and find some refreshments.” Then another spurt of his own language to two other men. They scurried off obediently.
“This is more like it,” the Lath said, as they sat nibbling some kind of sweet cake in pastry, and sipping a glutinous fruit drink. Zarin did not much care for either – he would rather have had a simple bowl of porridge or soup to fill his empty belly – but it would be churlish to complain.
The old man began a lengthy interrogation of the Lath, of his beliefs and the ceremonies and rituals required, which kept Zarin busy translating. But he could not quite shake the uncomfortable feeling that all was not as it seemed. There were undercurrents that he could not quite grasp, and the priests were still far too amused by the Lath’s recital. What was so funny about it?
They sat there for at least an hour, until Zarin was positively drooping, although the Lath seemed energised by the discussion. Then the door opened and in walked four men in uniforms, with batons. They were not the four from the wharf, but Zarin groaned all the same. Even the Lath faltered and fell silent.
There was a quick exchange between the leader of the men with batons and the elderly priest. Then the leader turned to Zarin and the Lath.
“Vagrants.”
“Us?” Zarin said indignantly. “No, certainly not.”
“You have proof?”
“Ah. No. Our ship was captured by raiders and we were sold to slavers. Everything we had was taken from us, including all our papers.”
“Slavers? You are slaves?”
“We managed to escape,” Zarin said, with as much dignity as he could. “Everything we owned has been lost. We came looking for aid, not accusations. Do you not help strangers in trouble here?”
“Need proof. No proof, you are vagrants. You come with me.”
“Come where? Where are you taking us?”
“Holding prison. For processing.”
“What sort of processing?”
The leader shrugged indifferently, but the elderly priest said, “You must satisfy authorities you have legitimate business here, or relatives to vouch for you. Otherwise, you go back to slavers. That knock silly belief in True Gods out of you.” His grin was annoyingly smug.
The Lath rose to his feet. “You may mock my religion if you wish, but I am not dismayed. I hold my beliefs sincerely, as I have been taught. I am not ashamed of that.”
The elderly priest looked up at him. “Hmm. You are interesting one. If ever you want to learn about real Gods, not your made-up nonsense, I be happy to take you as initiate here.”
“Made-up nonsense?” the Lath said, the blood draining from his face.
“Made-up. Have you ever seen your True Gods? Witnessed feats impo
ssible for men to perform? Entered a state of oneness with your deity? No? Yet we have. All who humbly surrender their lives to the Secret God may attain a sublime state of spiritual exaltation.”
“Spiritual exaltation.”
“Indeed. We who serve the Secret God are greatly blessed. Now go. Get out of my sight, you and your friend.”
~~~~~
The Lath’s lips were compressed in mute distress. Zarin was quite upset himself. Not half a day of freedom, and here they were locked up again. He hoped Garrett and Dru were having better luck.
The holding prison was in another anonymous building, set on the perimeter of a large square filled with trees and shrubs trimmed to spheres, and planted underneath with colourful ball-shaped flowers in straight lines. It should have looked vibrant and cheerful, but to Zarin, the rows of perfectly arranged blooms, yellow in one line, red in another, were dispiriting. Or perhaps it was being bundled past them by the unsmiling men with batons that spoilt any pleasure in them.
They had been taken in through a narrow side door, then down a long, featureless corridor painted in drab brown. A short flight of stairs had deposited them at a small room with well-muscled guards armed with short swords, who gave each of them a wooden token, unlocked a heavy door and pushed them through it. Behind them, the lock had clanked loudly as it imprisoned them.
There was a single large room beyond the door, lined with wooden benches. The smell was the first assault on Zarin’s senses, the product of many unwashed bodies. An archway in one wall led to another room, its purpose obvious from the even stronger smell wafting out. But even if it had been filled with moonrose blooms, the room would not have been attractive. The walls had been painted once, but only a few patches of some pale colour remained. High, barred windows admitted some sunlight, but since there was no glass in them, they would admit the rain equally well.
The room was full. All the benches were taken, people sat hunched against the available wall space, and it was barely possible to walk across the floor without tripping over those sitting cross-legged, or stretched out fast asleep. Children clung to their mothers, and somewhere a baby cried in a low, miserable way, as if it was in pain.
Zarin would have crept into a corner and tried to escape notice, but the Lath was not given to hiding away. He strode about the room, stepping randomly on protruding hands and feet.
“Good morning to you! Oh – I beg your pardon! Good day! The Blessing of the True Gods upon you. I am so sorry, Mistress, do forgive me. Is there anyone here who speaks my language? Zarin, ask them— Oh, your pardon, Master. A thousand apologies.”
Zarin, lifting the skirts of his coat and placing his feet with care, followed behind, translating, but his Low Mesanthian brought no response, either. These were mostly peasants and simple workers, he decided. Anyone of education would be able to understand him. Further east, in the remnants of the old Akk’asharan Empire, Low Mesanthian was the primary language in even the smallest settlement, but Drakk’alona had never been part of the Empire.
Eventually, even the Lath gave it up. They found a small unoccupied spot, and the Lath plumped himself down, knocking over a small child who was watching him with huge, dark eyes in a thin face. Zarin lowered himself down more cautiously, then awkwardly rearranged his legs.
“What is this?” the Lath said, waving his wooden token at Zarin.
Zarin looked more closely at his own. It was a simple square of wood, painted blue. On one side, a shape – perhaps meant to represent a building with a dome. On the other, a series of dots and lines.
“These are numbers,” Zarin said. “A line is five, a dot is one. So number twenty-seven. What is yours? Oh, twenty-six. Well, I have no idea what it means. Perhaps it is a sleeping room assignment – like at an inn.”
But even as he spoke, he was sure it was nothing like that. There were too many people spread out on the floor here. There would be no sleeping rooms. He wondered about food. He had never been in prison before, so he was unsure of the arrangements.
The door opened. The guards entered, carrying a painted board on a pole. “Red thirty-eight! Come on, red thirty-eight.”
A middle-aged woman struggled to her feet, and produced her token. The guards checked it, and she was led away. The door clanged shut again.
“Ah, a waiting system,” Zarin said. “We wait for our number to come up.”
“But ours are blue,” the Lath said.
“We wait a long time, then,” Zarin spat. Then he was smitten with guilt at the childish disappointment on the Lath’s face.
The guards came in regularly to take people away. Red thirty-nine and red forty were called, then the numbers began again with yellow. As soon as anyone got up from a bench, their place was taken. Once or twice, new people were ushered in.
After a while, a different interruption. Two elderly men in aprons wheeled in a pair of trolleys with huge metal vats, which emitted a putrid meaty aroma. There was instant pandemonium. Sleepers woke up, those sitting scrambled to their feet and the whole crowd raced across the room. In moments Zarin and the Lath were alone, the floor around them empty.
The vats, however, were surrounded. Children screamed, adults shouted, the previously passive crowd pushed and shoved and elbowed friends aside in a desperate race to get to the food first.
“Shall we find a more comfortable seat?” the Lath said, looking plaintively at the empty benches along the wall. One or two other people had had the same idea, forgoing a meal for the chance of a better spot to sit.
“Perhaps we should get something to eat first,” Zarin said.
But when he made his way across to the battleground, he could not quite bring himself to force his way through the heaving mass of bodies. By the time people had drifted away, and the crowd thinned out, there was nothing left. The vats had been wiped clean, the buckets of bread held nothing but crumbs, and even the water flasks were empty.
He wandered back, disconsolate. He had eaten nothing substantial since the previous evening, and his belly was not at all happy about it. The Lath had gone from their position on the floor. When Zarin looked around, he spotted him waving cheerfully from a tightly-packed bench. No room for Zarin to squeeze in. He inched himself down to the floor again, wincing as his muscles protested the awkward position. No food, nowhere to sit, locked up in a miserable hole with the scum of society – it was intolerable. He was a scholar, and a man of some standing in society. He should not be treated like a criminal.
He could not even begin to think about what might happen beyond this room, when his number was called and he was taken away – somewhere. No one came back once summoned, he had noticed.
The afternoon wore away, with regular calls for more yellow tokens. When the light began to fail, the trolleys appeared again, and Zarin was ready this time. Abandoning the Lath, he raced across as soon as everyone began to move, pushing as hard as anyone else. Even so, the food was more than half gone before he reached it, but he was able to grab half a loaf and scoop some tepid stew onto it.
Gleefully, he held his prize safely aloft, and made his way out of the shoving throng. As soon as he reached a quiet spot, he held the bread under his nose, savouring the delicious aroma. His mouth watered.
And then it was gone. A barely-seen streak of a boy had raced past him, snatching the food straight from his hands.
Zarin was not given to fits of temper. He was famous for his mildness, in fact. But then he had never experienced anything in his life that had made him quite so angry.
“Hey!” he yelled. “Curse you to the deeps, you evil demon!”
And he gave chase, accompanied by yowls and squeals of pain from those in his path. It took him the full width of the room, but he caught the wretched child, and wrestled him to the ground just in front of the door, shrieking curses he had almost forgotten, it was so long since he had uttered them.
He was so focused on the boy, he failed to notice the door opening.
“Oy! Stop that, you!” One
of the guards hauled him bodily to his feet. “No fightin’, got it?”
The boy slithered between the guard’s legs and vanished. The food had disappeared long since, scooped up by some quick-witted bystander, no doubt.
Zarin’s face was burning. What the Blessing had he been thinking? The humiliation! His reputation would be destroyed if anyone found out. It was fortunate that the Lath was the only witness who knew him, and it was his job to forgive such transgressions.
But Zarin’s disgrace was not yet complete. A low rumble of laughter in a familiar tone made his heart plummet. He looked up, looked around, saw two faces half-hidden behind the guard. Dru, blank-faced, and Garrett, grinning widely, his expression a mixture of amusement and incredulity.
Wonderful. That was all Zarin needed to make his day complete.
16: The Holding Prison (Garrett)
“Zarin, what the fuck are you doing?” I said, trying my best not to laugh at the mortification on his face as he dusted himself down.
“Trying to get something to eat, believe it or not. But this place is full of thieves and ruffians.”
“I’m sure it is. You’ve had a trying day, by the look of it. Where is the priest? Ah, I see him. Let’s sit together, and then you can tell me all about it.”
“There is no room for us on the seat there.”
Gods, but Zarin was such a baby sometimes.
It was true that the priest was squashed in by an array of peasants, but fortunately for me they were a weedy, undernourished bunch. “You there! Shift yourself, we’re sitting here. You too. Bugger off, all right?”
A couple slunk away, but the rest glared a challenge at me. That’s the trouble with being on the short side, no one takes you seriously. But you don’t need to be tall to have muscles. I picked one man up and tossed him across the room. He landed with a squawk on a whole heap of people, who set up an affronted caterwauling. After that, two more moved promptly before I needed to force the issue.
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