Blood on Bronze (Blood on Bronze Book 1) (2 page)

Besides the
ghouls, there were rumors of unsavory characters basing operations down here,
of wandering madmen, and of feral animals. Somewhere to the east, in the higher
ground nearer the citadel and the temples was the underground temple of
Ur-Laggu the Embracer, he who judged the dead without pity. One could well
imagine it connected with the sewers or the tunnels, and he had no desire to
find it or to meet the devotees of that gloomy cryptic god here, in the dark. 
On the occasions when they actually did their jobs and braved coming down here
to clean or repair, the city slaves came in large groups, and with armed
guards.

Grimly, Arjun
tucked the sword on his back, amid the straps of his bags and the cloth belt of
his robes. He hoped it would stay put. He crawled forward in slow silence. With
nothing to see and no way to judge the passage of time, it seemed interminable,
each inch forward on hands and knees an eon of pitiless darkness and
uncertainty.

His mind wandered
back to Bal-Shim iru Shulggi and his presence at the raid by the guardsmen.
Arjun decided there was no honorable reason the bronze maker could have been
there. Bal-Shim had never been a particularly good bronze smith himself, nor
was he even an especially shrewd merchant, but he was a popular man with a lot
of friends, including friends in high places. However undeservedly, he was
considered something of a self-made common man, in contrast to aristocratic
merchants like the house of Artashad. It was ironic, since however ancient the
lineage of Artashad, it had been impoverished for generations until Arjun’s
grandfather had restored its fortunes with his superlative skill as a
bronze-worker.

Bal-Shim had
enjoyed backing from somewhere for a long time, and had used those funds to
hire people with the skills he lacked. Though never one to pick open battles,
he was known to be a bit cool toward Arjun’s father. Bal-Shim had worn a
strange expression just before he’d noticed Arjun. One that looked almost… gloating.

Arjun’s thoughts
were interrupted by something. Not anything he heard, nor of course saw, but
something he felt. He froze, and cursed himself for dwelling on problems he
couldn’t solve at the moment, to the detriment of those he must.

Something, something
cold, touched his foot.

He couldn’t
panic now. He had to find that bridge. If he didn’t, he would be spending the
night, or forever, with whatever had just touched him. Arjun sped up, but
willed himself to continue crawling, feeling for the bridge.

Whatever it was,
it had fingers, long and lifelessly cold. They brushed his heel, and then
vanished again. He continued to crawl forward, and heard not a sound. Something
moved though, in the darkness. Arjun could feel the slightest shift in the air,
as if something moved forward past him, and then stopped.

It ran a chill
hand along his shoulder, found the sword on his back, and recoiled suddenly at
the touch of the bronze weapon. Still, it made no sound. Arjun’s nerves were
near their breaking point. He wanted more than anything to reach for his sword,
but whatever it was, it could see him clearly, and could react as soon as he
made any move, better and faster than he could blind in the dark.

Where was that
bridge?

2.
The Tale of Sunlit Youth

A few weeks
earlier, and a lifetime away…

Swarming crowds
carried on their business in the great plaza of Zakran. The immense white and
gold ziggurat of Ar-Galesh, god of the sun, loomed past the buildings to the
north. To the east were the stalls of the grand bazaar.

Folk of a dozen
nations filled the plaza. Men with oiled and plaited beards and women with
black plaited hair from Sarsa, the cities of the league of Kasim, or Zakran
itself brushed shoulders with dark, shaven-headed G’abudim from across the sea
to the southwest. Purple-clad seafarers from the great western isle of Kratis,
their eyes lined heavily with kohl, walked with slaves carrying baskets of
shells and pearls. Men of Siraxis or its many rival city-states in the far
northwest stood out with their spiral-patterned clothes and pale skin.

Folk other than
human went about their business as well in this most cosmopolitan of all
cities. Dwarves with their glimmering gold-bronze skin and red beards like
flame, huge lumbering Ogres with tusked mouths and hairless chins, apelike
Garks, a few of the hairy and hoofed wild folk from the plains of Ruun, far
inland, and even some of the tall slender serpent people from Tarai, southeast
beyond Sarsa, crossed paths as if they did so every day.

In Zakran, they
in fact might.

On the south
side of the plaza were covered porticos, facing north. The deep space behind
the lotus-carved pillars offered shade even in the intense light of spring in
Zakran. In a part of that shade, a group of young men and women, most though
not all in rich garb, sat cross-legged on the ground on mats facing an old man
in a plain woolen kilt, sitting on a low stool.

Among the young
men was one of medium height, broad shouldered and strong. He had dark eyes
with heavy lashes and hair that fell in loose black rings to his chin. His
bronze skin marked his descent from the Hayyidi people native to Zakran, Kasim,
and the countries nearby. Like most young unmarried men, he was clean shaven. 
Typical for Zakran, he wore a knee-length kilt and sandals, with a thin cloak
to ward off the sun, but no shirt or tunic. However, his kilt and cloak were of
fine material in purple and black, and he wore bright-polished bands of bronze
on his arms, bracers on his wrists, a heavy gorget on his neck, and bronze rings
in his ears. An ornate bronze sword suspended from a belt of discs of the same.
This appearance of opulent luxuriousness was countered by the severity of his
expression, as he listened intently to the teacher, taking notes on clay
tablets.

“And since Sinin
dra Dekkuru has chosen to place his attention elsewhere…” said the teacher,
gesturing towards a young man in a gold-bedecked green kilt who was himself
watching a pair of lightly clad young women with baskets balanced on their
heads, “I turn this question to Arjun dra Artashad.”

The matter was a
complex one, involving an understanding of the respective theological doctrines
of Ar-Galesh and of Se’emat the Guardian of the Dead, and of some difficult
geometrical calculations. Arjun had been paying attention, and turning the
problem over in his mind as it unfolded. He answered, and the answer was
perfect.

“You see!” said
the teacher, “It is not so difficult for those of open eyes and minds.”

Arjun winced
inwardly. Hisham was the greatest living mathematician in Zakran, perhaps the
world, but he was too fond of giving praise. Arjun threw himself into learning
as he did because he was driven by an inner fire even he didn’t understand, not
so he could receive the honor of instructors and the resentment of peers.

Regardless of
his wandering thoughts, he simply bowed his head, and said, “Thank you, master
Hisham.”

~

Ashur stood at
the balcony on the third floor of his home. Beside him was his loyal servant,
the freedman Eb-Sim. Behind him were the rooftop gardens, his brightly painted
and tiled private quarters, and the open-air wooden pavilion that had been a
favorite gathering place of the family before his wife, his beloved Nasida, had
died.

He looked out
over the courtyard and the white-plastered surrounding buildings where the
actual work of the family business was done. There by the forge, as expected,
was his son Arjun, in a plain kilt of leather, sparks flashing from the bronze
he worked, sweating in the midday heat. Alongside him toiled many other smiths in
the employ of the family.

“Master Ashur,
he works too hard,” said Eb-Sim.

“He is all any
father could ask for,” said Ashur, with an expression that was less happy than
his words.

“I think he will
someday rival you as a smith, master Ashur, he masters the management of the
business even faster, and from the sophist scholars learns much of such
esoteric matters as I cannot fathom,” said Eb-Sim.

Ashur looked at
the smaller, older man, whom he’d purchased from the slavers many years ago,
and promptly freed.

Eb-Sim
continued, “But should he not enjoy life from time to time, master?”

“Neither he nor
I have enjoyed life as we should, since his mother died,” said Ashur.

“Perhaps now is
the time, master,” said Eb-Sim with a smile.

“You may be
right, old friend,” replied Ashur, “though these are troubling days.”

“You refer to
the ascension of Ayab iru Heb to the council, master?”

“And of his
alliance with the house of Zash-Ulshad, and even more, the strange friendship
he has formed with Bal-Shim iru Shulggi.”

“What indeed
does a bronze maker, one who honors Zamisphar of the Flame, have to do with the
biggest slaver in all the Hayyidi lands, master?”

“Nothing, if
indeed Bal-Shim still holds true to the teaching that nothing with a mind
should also be a slave.”

“But if he does
not, master?”

“Then anything
is possible for him, and from him.”

Eb-Sim frowned.

~

“But what of the
caravans to Har, father?” asked Arjun.

“Matters in the
sacred city cannot be rushed, my son,” replied Ashur, “The caravans will return
when the priests have, in their own slow way, concluded all business.”

“If we purchased
shares in ships from the isle of Kratis, as we do with Tema and Selmokir, we
could sell bronze directly there, and dispense with the trade with Har. I’ve
calculated the costs, father, and though it is five times the distance, being
all at sea it is cheaper than a land caravan to Har. We could cover our costs
on the return trip if we bought purple dye from the traders of Hymarikos and
sold it here. Why should the Zash-Ulshad continue to control that trade? We
could undercut them and still do very well.”

“We could do all
of that, my son, if Naram dra Zash-Ulshad did not sit on the council, and if he
were not likely to react forcefully to any such challenge to the monopoly he
and his friends have long enjoyed on the dye trade.”

“Father, you are
almost as wealthy as he, and you have friends, why not ask for a place on the
council yourself?”

Ashur laughed.
He poured more wine for his son’s cup, as they sat in the cool shade of the
pavilion. A serving girl fanned them. Fiery-spiced food in the G’abudim style,
of late becoming more popular in Zakran, sat fresh on plates before them. Even
now, his restless son wanted to talk business.

“My son, you are
too trusting of the honesty of that process. I do not have the… correct sort of
friends, and you vastly underestimate the true wealth of the Zash-Ulshad. They
have many hidden operations, some of them most repulsive, which earn them round
golden slaves beyond count.”

“But father,
should we let them use corrupt means to keep us small and our horizons narrow?”

“To build the
power to stop them would require means of my own that I am unwilling to acquire
or use, my son. For my part, I prefer to remain a maker and trader of bronze,
and one who honors Zamisphar of the Flame.”

“Father,
Zamisphar gave mankind bronze and taught us how to create forge fires hot
enough to make and work it. He asked nothing of us but that we should use our
minds and free will, yet how was he rewarded by the other gods for his deeds?”

“You know the
answer as well as I, my son.”

“But therein is
my point, my father. The other gods either demand worship from us, or are so
wild and dangerous that we can but propitiate their wrath with offerings. In
either case, they profit, while Zamisphar was first tormented, then cast out,
and is even now held in suspicion by the other gods. Should we also work in
narrow bounds for little profit, while others exploit their power?”

“We earn much
profit from our bronze-making and trade, my son”

“My father, you
know I mean something more broad than coin.”

“Be at peace, my
son. When you are master of dra Artashad, you may choose to join battle for the
freedom to do all that the white-hot fires of your imagination can conceive.
For now, let your horizons be those of a bronze maker of Zakran.”

“Yes, my father”

~

Ashur sat with
Bal-Shim iru Shulggi, in the latter’s richly, if tastelessly, paneled audience
hall. He had a look of grave concern on his face.

“Bal-Shim, do
you understand what you are asking?”

“Only that you
choose the right friends, Ashur. It is but the friendliest of advice, not a
request.”

“Then I reply
with advice to you. In choosing a slaver for a friend, however rich, you choose
poorly.”

Bal-Shim’s
ponderous cheeks rose and teeth bared in something that might appear to be a
smile, to one who had never seen the real thing. His left hand stroked the
gaudy colors of his robes, his right hand clenched a stylus, rather too
tightly.

“Not all of us
benefit from old lineages, Ashur. Some of us have had to make our lives the
hard way, and must live in the real world, not the abstractions of philosophy
or theology.”

“A philosophy
you gave oath before gods and men to follow, Bal-Shim, when you joined the
Brotherhood of the Flame. Do you renounce it now?” Ashur looked at him with a
piercing gaze. Both of them knew that, council or no, it would mean the other
bronze makers going out of their way to try to put Bal-Shim out of business.

“Not at all,
Ashur! Don’t jump to unfounded conclusions. I merely state that such ideals
must be tempered with… compromise.”

“Make those
compromises on your own, Bal-Shim. I will have nothing to do with them.”

Bal-Shim
considered that reply, and then spoke again, “Your trade is a very profitable
one, perhaps instead of joining yours in alliance with my friends, you could
sell it to me.”

“Have you gone
mad?”

“I have the
wealth, or rather can get it with but a word. In fact, I happen to have
prepared a figure, if you will look at this tablet.”

Bal-Shim handed
Ashur a clay tablet under seal. The latter eyed him with greater suspicion than
ever, but out of curiosity, lifted the seal.

“Bal-Shim, this
is an offer so low as to be insulting, but even if it were twelve times as
much, I would not sell to you. By your seal you declare you make this offer in
earnest. Even so, from what I know of your operations, I do not see how you
have the means. And, son of Shulggi, I do not see why your new friends, rich
they may be, would spare you such sums to buy a business for your own gain.”

“I shall worry
about that, son of Anlil of the lineage of Artashad,” and Bal-Shim spat into
the bowl of water he’d offered his visitor, “but perhaps now you should worry
about your own affairs.”

Bal-Shim’s
attempt to end the discussion with a contemptuous gesture fell flat, as Ashur
was already rising to leave, with no more of the customary courtesies than
Bal-Shim had offered.

As the latter
departed, Bal-Shim again made the face that was like a smile without mirth. He
thought with satisfaction that Ashur, haughty heir of an ancient lordship
dating to the time of the old kings, before such titles became empty, and one
who clung to outmoded beliefs, would soon find out how much the world had truly
changed.

~

Arjun sat
cross-legged at the shrine of his mother, in a corner of the rooftop gardens.
He meditated on her loss, and with quiet words honored her memory. The pain he
felt stayed in his heart, guarded from an uncaring world.

His old
nursemaid and tutor, Keda, walked quietly up behind him. She wore a simple
woolen dress, and her gray hair was tied back in braided plaits behind her
head.

“You might honor
her more if you applied some of that passionate nature you inherited from her
to more pleasant ends.”

“Keda, I enjoy
all that I do…”

 “It can be hard
to tell under those solemn expressions of yours. But I mean something more
conventionally pleasant. You are almost nineteen now, and most young men your
age, even the studious ones, are taking some time to explore life.”