The Godspeaker Trilogy (5 page)

The Gatekeeper examined both carved stones, then nodded to one of the tall city guards. The guard walked with his bladed spear all the way to the end of the merchandise and back again. When he returned he nodded to the Gatekeeper and took his place at the gate.

“And what is this?” said the Gatekeeper, jerking his chin.

Hekat shrank from the Gatekeeper’s gaze. His eyes were hot, they had no whites, they glowed yellow in the shade beneath the dagger-tooth gates. Abajai’s finger touched the small of her back. “A bauble,” he said, his voice soft and calm.

She didn’t know what a bauble was but she sensed he was trying to make the hot-eyed Gatekeeper cool. That was good, she wanted him cool. Something about him reminded her of the man, he hated she-brats, she could tell. His hot eyes frightened her. She hated being frightened, it made her angry. She stared at the white camel’s neck so he wouldn’t see her anger.

The Gatekeeper growled in his throat. He sounded like a dog again. “For sale?”

“Alas, this one is sold already,” said Yagji, and his voice was pouty. “To a very special client. We would not dare to sell it twice, Gatekeeper Et-Nogolor. Not and keep our name as honest Traders.”

Hekat held her breath and risked a look through her lowered lashes.

The Gatekeeper grunted. His hot yellow eyes were disappointed. He handed back the two carved stones and jerked his thumb. “Pass.”

“ Thank you, Gatekeeper,” said Yagji. “The god sees you in its eye.”

“Well done, Yagji,” Abajai murmured as they entered Et-Nogolor. “Your tongue is as persuasive as ever.”

“And my brain is upside down,” said Yagji, sour as goat-milk. “What a chance to get rid of the brat, Aba. Aieee, the god see me in its eye. The foolish things I do for you . . .”

Hekat said nothing, just pressed her blue snake-eye against her lips and breathed a sigh of happiness.

Et-Nogolor city’s godpost stood just inside the open gates, grim and glorious as the god itself. Not wood, but solid shiny black stone. All its carved scorpions were purple and crimson. Abajai gave its huge godbowl more than gold, he gave it amulets and godbells and tiny snake-skulls bound with charms. Yagji gave it a fistful of gemstones, and they both bowed their heads to the ground before it.

The god appeased, Abajai and Yagji climbed back on their camels and led the slave-train along a crowded narrow street lined with buildings made of stone and brick and wood. Hekat stared at the buildings and the men and the women and the brats and the skinny dogs running free around their feet. The hot air of Et-Nogolor city was thick with man stink, animal stink, smoke fires and cooking meat. No trees. No grass. The street was stony, lots and lots of little stones jammed and crammed together, black and grey and white and red. The camels groaned as they walked and their ears flicked crossly. The buildings unwinding above them to the sky shut out the light, it was as dim as lowsun at the bottom of Et-Nogolor.

Hekat didn’t like it.

The narrow street curved around the base of the city. At last they reached an open place divided into pens. Most of them were full of goats and sheep and cattle, the air was ripe with pish and dung. There were huge black dogs chained at the front of each pen, as mean as the man had ever owned. But these dogs didn’t bark, they just climbed growling to their feet, the hair on their massive backs standing stiff like the spiny collar of the deadly striped lizards that sometimes crawled in from The Anvil.

A man sat on a stool nearby. He stood as they approached and shouted at the growling dogs. The dogs dropped to their haunches but didn’t hide their teeth and their shiny white eyes stayed open.

Abajai made his camel kneel five paces before the man and got down. Behind him the slave-train stopped too, in a clanking of chains and a grumbling of pack-camels.

“Penkeeper,” Abajai said, his purse in his hand. “I am Trader Abajai. How much to pen these slaves and the camels?”

The penkeeper was old and bent over. One arm stuck out from his body strangely, as though the bone had broken and never knew its right place after. He wore amulets in his saggy ears and on a thong around his scrawny neck. His grubby clothes were brown and white goathide, rubbed bare and shiny in big patches. Around his sunken middle was strapped a leather purse, its laces strung with charms. Staring up into Abajai’s face he hawked, and spat.

“Two silver coins till this time next highsun.”

The look on Yagji’s face said that was a lot of money. Hekat thought it sounded a lot. But Abajai nodded undismayed and counted silver into the penkeeper’s hand. As the penkeeper put the money away, Abajai turned.

“Obid!”

Obid came, dirty and tired. “Put the merchandise in the large pen there,” said Abajai. “Take off its chains, give it feed and water. Camels in the other pen.” He pointed. “There is Hekat on my camel, you see her now. She goes in the pen, she does not leave it.”

Obid looked at her. His eyes still writhed with maggot questions but the rest of his face was quiet. “Yes, master.”

As Obid withdrew to do his master’s bidding, Abajai crooked a finger. “Hekat.”

She slid off the camel and joined him. “Yes, Abajai?”

“Yagji and I go to do Trader business. You will stay here. You will attend Obid. That is my nod.”

She didn’t want to wait in a pen, or be told what to do by a dirty slave. She wanted to see this city Et-Nogolor, and a godhouse so big its godpost could be spied from a distance in the road. But Abajai’s word was his word. Like dirty Obid, she must obey.

“Yes. Abajai.”

With pricky eyes she watched him and Yagji walk away. When they were gone from sight she turned. The penkeeper was watching her, she could feel his hungry gaze.

“You not stare at Hekat,” she said, making her voice hiss like a snake. “Hekat belong to Abajai.”

The penkeeper’s wrinkled face went still, and his eyes rolled like a goat’s when the knife approaches. He shook his fist at her, then went to help Obid and the guards prod the merchandise into a large empty pen.

Hekat smiled, and folded her arms.

The pen’s black guard dog stood quietly, its white eyes watching, but did nothing to stop them. When all the slaves had shuffled in, and the guards had taken off their chains and dropped them outside the pen with a clanking thud, Obid crooked his finger at her.

“I see you now,” he said. “I see you in this pen.”

Scuffing her shoes on the tiny colored stones she walked past the staring dog and the penkeeper and Obid to join the naked slaves. They stared at her in wondering silence, standing as though they still wore chains. Obid pulled the pen’s gate shut and the penkeeper fastened its lock. She heard the penkeeper say to Obid, “Your master’s a mad one, keeping that. Don’t you see its evil eye?”

“I do not speak of my master,” said Obid. He sounded sullen. Hekat thought he wanted to agree with the penkeeper but did not dare.

“My eye not evil,” she said, loud enough for them to hear her. “My eye beautiful. Hekat beautiful. So the mirror say, and the woman Bisla, and Abajai when he look at me.”

The black dog with white eyes growled, and Obid said, “I see you no talking. I say the word. Abajai’s nod.”

If she made trouble he’d tell Abajai, and Abajai would be angry. So, no making trouble. She pulled a face at Obid because that was not talking. Obid slitted his eyes at her, then went with the other guards to unpack supplies from the pack-camels so she and the merchandise could eat and drink. The penkeeper returned to his stool and made sure he didn’t look anywhere near her.

The floor of the pen was dirt, not colored stones like the road. She’d had too many highsuns of sitting on the camel, her legs itched to run. But the pen was crowded, no room for running, instead she walked around its inside edge and smiled to see Abajai’s slaves cringe as though they were goats and she a prowling sandcat. Like a sandcat she bared her teeth, laughing aloud as they remembered their chains were gone and fought each other to get away.

It was a good feeling, to see them fall over in their fear.

Obid and the guards fed and watered themselves first. After that they watered the camels, then they carried bowls and cups, bags of food and jars of water into the pen with the merchandise. “Sir!” said Obid, and all the slaves bumped their skinny haunches to the ground and held out their hands for a bowl and a cup. The bowls were filled with bread, cheese and cold roasted corn. Each cup received a ladle’s worth of water. The slaves’ eyes were greedy, their tongues licked their lips, but they could not eat or drink until Obid gave his nod.

Hekat did not sit. She could see Obid wanted to make her but did not dare. He knew if he could make trouble for her she could make it for him, too. He shoved a bowl and cup at her, his face angry.

“Eat,” he said, and the merchandise obeyed him.

She stared at the bowl, letting her face show her distaste. She had not eaten slave food once since Abajai saved her from the man. She did not want to eat it now, it reminded her of that life she no longer lived, the nameless she-brat she’d left behind in that village. But her belly was empty and her mouth was parched.

She drank the water, then put dry bread in her mouth and chewed, and chewed, and swallowed. Outside the pen the penkeeper told Obid and the other guards to help him clean up pish and dung. Obid’s eyes showed he did not want to, but he could not say no. He was a slave, the penkeeper was free.

Hekat smiled, and ate her food.

On the other side of the pen she heard a scuffle. Grunting. Still chewing, she went to see. One of the slaves had dropped its bowl. Its bread and cheese and corn were in the dirt. Other slaves were stealing them. They would never dare to steal from a bowl, Obid beat slaves who sinned like that. But food in the dirt belonged to whoever picked it up fastest.

The slave who’d lost its food was on its hands and knees, it was trying to cover its bits of bread and cheese so the other slaves’ sneaking fingers couldn’t snatch them. Its face was wet, it was wasting water.

“No! Mine! You’ve eaten your food, this is mine!”

She leaned against the pen’s railings and watched. The slaves were so busy growling and snatching and pinching they didn’t care or try to run away.

Very soon there was no bread or cheese or corn kernels left to steal. The hungry slave sat in the dirt with its empty bowl, its face muddy because its eye-water had mixed with the pen’s dust.

Surprised, she realized she knew this one. This one was the fat boy from the lizard-roofed village Todorok where the woman Bisla had called her beautiful. But it wasn’t fat anymore. It had used up its fat running on the road behind Abajai and Yagji’s white camels.

Beneath the fat, this slave was beautiful.

He said, “You could have helped me.”

She chose a piece of sticky white cheese and pushed it between her teeth. “Why?”

The slave was maybe five seasons older than she was. He looked at her, his beautiful eyes dull with hunger and hurt, then dragged his fingers through the dust, searching for any corn kernels the others had missed.

“Slaves should help each other.”

She spat out cheese-rind. “ Tcha ! Slave? Hekat is not slave. I have name. I wear clothes. I ride with Abajai.”

“I have a name too,” the slave said. His voice was low, and unhappy. “My name is Vortka.”

She nodded at the chafed places on his wrists and ankles. “You wear chains, not clothes. You run on the road behind the white camels. Your name far behind you.”

The slave’s scabby fist struck his chest. “Not in here! In here I am Vortka. I was sold because my father died and the god gave my mother to another man. He had his own sons. He did not want my mother’s son. He wanted gold. He got gold and I got chains. Why do you have clothes? Why do you ride with Abajai?”

She shrugged. “I am beautiful.”

“You are not so beautiful,” the slave muttered.

“The god not see you!” she said, scorched with rage. “The god not see you, stupid slave!”

“The god already not see me,” he said, sounding sad again. “The god not see me when it blew out my father’s godspark.” He squeezed water from his eyes with a dirty finger, then smiled at her. “I lied. You are beautiful. What are you called?”

There was one piece of bread in the bottom of her bowl, and one piece of cheese. All the corn was eaten. She picked out the bread and threw it at the slave’s feet.

“I am called Hekat.”

The slave Vortka snatched up the bread and crammed it into his mouth. “The god see you, Hekat,” he said, his lips smeared with dirt.

She turned her back and walked away. She did not know why her fingers had picked out the bread and thrown it at that slave. Give her food to a slave? Talk to a slave? Had a scorpion stung her, to do such a thing?

She swallowed the last lump of cheese, threw her empty bowl to the ground, then sat down, far from the merchandise, to wait for Abajai’s return.

H
e came at last, with Yagji and a godspeaker and two other men. Behind them panted a young male slave harnessed to an empty cart. The slave unstrapped itself from the cart’s leather traces, then went away.

The men with Abajai wore plain dark robes and Trader charms around their necks. They were maybe a little younger than Abajai, their eyes were sharp. They didn’t seem like men who were easily fooled, or foolish.

The godspeaker was young and her robe was the finest Hekat had ever seen, sewn all over with gold amulets and bronze charms and singing silver godbells. Stitched into the robe’s hem were lumps of the blue stone her snake-eye amulet was carved from, that Abajai had told her was lapis lazuli. The scorpion-shell bound to the godspeaker’s forehead was white. Its claws were painted crimson, its sting banded purple and gold. She had never seen a scorpion-shell so fine.

Around her neck the godspeaker wore a chunk of green crystal, large as a fist and threaded onto a leather thong. She pulled it over her head and held it in her hands. When the crystal touched her flesh it flared into life. Abajai’s slaves cried out then, pressing against each other and the pen’s railings. Yagji and the two Traders snatched at their amulets and closed their eyes, trembling. Abajai stood quietly, his gaze calm upon the godspeaker.

The godspeaker said, “The godstone sees the hearts of those known to the god.”

Abajai bowed his head. “What slaves the god sees I gladly gift to its godspeaker and the godhouse of Et-Nogolor. Come into the pen with me, that the godstone might seek for hearts known to the god.”

The godspeaker nodded, then released the crystal to dangle from its leather thong on the end of her finger. There it swung gently, all its blaze dead like a cold fire. Abajai opened the pen’s gate. The black dog cowered as the godspeaker passed by, it did not growl or bite.

“Hekat,” Abajai said, not looking at her. “Leave this pen and stand with Yagji.”

The godspeaker said, “The god looks at all offerings, Trader Abajai.”

“Forgive me, godspeaker,” said Abajai. “This one is not mine to offer.”

The godspeaker nodded, and Hekat went to Yagji. For once he touched her, his fingers taking hold of her shoulder. He felt frightened.

Abajai clapped his hands. “Obid!”

Obid came and poked the slaves with his spear until they stood in a line around the pen’s edge. The godspeaker walked to the nearest one and held up the leather thong so the crystal was in easy reach.

“The god sees you,” she said. “Take the crystal.”

Panting with fear, the boy clutched the crystal but nothing happened.

“The god sees you,” said the godspeaker. “But not your heart.”

She took back the crystal and gave it to the next slave. “The god sees you,” she said. “Take the crystal.”

Whimpering, the woman took it. For the second time, the crystal did not wake.

“The god sees you, but not your heart,” said the godspeaker, and moved to the next slave.

Hekat had counted, there were thirty-seven slaves in Abajai’s caravan. One by one the godspeaker gave them the crystal and said her words and waited. One by one, the god did not see any hearts. If the godspeaker was angry or disappointed her face did not show it.

She gave the crystal to the slave calling himself Vortka. When that slave’s fingers closed around the rock it came alive in a blaze of light. The slave Vortka gasped, and stared without words at the godspeaker.

“The god sees you,” said the godspeaker. “The god sees your heart.” She took back the crystal. “Stand apart from the unseen. You belong to the god until it strikes you dead in its eye.”

Dazed, the slave Vortka stumbled away from the others. Hekat looked at Abajai, to see how he felt about the god taking one of his slaves. She couldn’t tell. His face was quiet, and so was the scarlet scorpion in his cheek. Yagji’s face she could tell like the open sky. He was pleased to please the god, he was sorry to lose more coin.

The godstone saw no other slave’s heart after Vortka’s. The godspeaker put the leather thong with its threaded green crystal around her neck and clicked fingers at the chosen slave Vortka. He followed her out of the pen and waited, looking only at the ground.

“The god sees your gift, Trader Abajai,” said the godspeaker. “The god is pleased. Ask one thing of the god and that one thing shall be granted.”

As Yagji gasped, Abajai bowed to the godspeaker. “The god is good. The one thing I ask, for myself, my fellow Trader and our possessions, is passage from Et-Nogolor to Et-Raklion in a godspeaker caravan.”

The godspeaker nodded. “Granted. Go to the godgate wayhouse when you are ready to travel. You must wait there until the next godspeaker caravan departs.”

Abajai bowed again. “The god see you in its eye, godspeaker.”

“The god see you also, Trader Abajai,” the godspeaker replied. She walked away then, with the slave Vortka a pace behind her.

“Obid,” said Abajai. “Fetch your fellow guards and the camel-boy.”

As Obid did as he was told, Abajai turned to the two Traders waiting silently for the god’s business to be done. “Trader Ederog, Yagji will show you our camels.” Yagji and Trader Ederog went to haggle over the beasts, and Obid returned with the other guards and the camel-boy. Abajai nodded to him and one other, almost as tall and strong as Obid. “Stand away,” he said. “You remain in my possession. You others stand with the merchandise.”

Watching the guards Abajai no longer wanted, Hekat saw their eyes go wet with fear and sorrow. But they said nothing to Abajai, they obeyed his nod. They were slaves.

“Trader Rogiv?” said Abajai. “Here is our merchandise. Inspect it. I invite you.”

Trader Rogiv looked at the waiting slaves, then turned and pointed. “Trader Abajai, what about that one?”

Hekat held her breath, she stared at Abajai. Trader Rogiv’s pointing finger was a stab in the heart.

“That one belongs to me,” said Abajai. “She is not for sale.” His deep dark voice was cool, and strong. In his face a warning not to argue.

Hekat felt herself melt inside. I will not sell you in Et-Nogolor . So he had told her, and so it was proved. He was Abajai, his word was his word.

Then it was Trader haggling, as the camels and the slaves were sold. When it was over and the Et-Nogolor Traders had departed to fetch for Abajai the promised coin, Obid and the other slave began unloading the camels and packing all their goods into the empty cart. Yagji supervised them for a small time, then returned to Abajai.

“Aieee, Aba,” he said, pouting with displeasure. “Must we travel with a godspeaker caravan? There are so many of them in a caravan. You know what it will be like. They live and breathe and sweat out the god. To be close like that, it makes me frightened! I lose my appetite, I cannot eat. Would you have me skin and bone by the time we reach Et-Raklion?”

“Better skin and bone in Et-Raklion than dead on the road between here and there with all your plumpness bleeding,” said Abajai. “The god saw us, Yagji, when it sent us that chosen slave. No other price would buy us the protection of a godspeaker caravan. If the other warlords should send warriors against Et-Nogolor only godspeakers will be safe on the road to Et-Raklion. You know it, we have seen trouble like this before.”

“And had hoped to never see it again!” cried Yagji. “Warlords fighting are bad for business!”

“Yes,” said Abajai, and patted his shoulder. “But do not dwell on that. We have good profit from this caravan, and business at home that must be tended, remember. We have been many godmoons on the road.”

Yagji sighed. “Yes. I know. Our villa is likely a tumbled ruin, that Retoth cannot care for it properly without my strict supervision.”

“You know he can,” said Abajai, laughing. “He always does. But we will both be relieved to see it again.”

The Et-Nogolor Traders returned with their payment. When the sale was completed and the money safely added to the coin box, Abajai nodded to Obid and the other slave. They harnessed themselves to the heavy cart, and followed Abajai and Yagji away from the slave pens.

Walking between the Traders, Hekat looked up. “Abajai, why did the god see that slave?”

“So it might serve in the godhouse.”

She frowned. “Serve how?”

“That is not our business.”

“That slave,” she said, after a moment. “He had a name. He told me.”

Abajai tugged her godbraids. “Slaves have no names, Hekat. Not until a master gives one, with the giving of the scarlet slave-braid.”

She smiled inside. She had given herself a name, and she wore no scarlet slave-braid. She was as special as the slave Vortka, gone to serve the god. “If I held the godstone, Abajai. Would it see me? See my heart? Tell the god?”

Yagji snorted. “Your heart, monkey? My Hooli’s heart will be seen by the god before yours.”

“The god sees all hearts,” said Abajai. “Godstones are for godspeakers, who are less than the god. Now be silent, Hekat. It is a long walk to Et-Nogolor’s godgate.”

She was silent because he had said she must be silent, but she still didn’t understand. She wanted to know how the godstone knew to burn, or stay dead. To know what would happen to that special slave Vortka who had gone to serve in Et-Nogolor’s godhouse. How he would serve, and what the god wanted from him.

That slave Vortka had called her Hekat. He had called her beautiful. She had given him bread.

Surprised, she realized she felt sorry, that she would not see him again.

They made their slow way along the crowded streets towards the godgate, which Abajai said was on the far-distant other side of Et-Nogolor city. Hekat walked close beside him, she had never seen so many people in one place before, the noise of them battered her ears, their stink clogged her nose.

They walked and they walked, and came across an open place where there were tall red wooden godposts set into the cobbled ground. A skinny slave was nailed alive to one of them with his belly cut open and all his gizzards spilling free. His ankles were broken, his eyes were put out. He wore no clothes, just a blanket of flies. Hekat knew he lived only because of his horrible moaning, his begging for the god to let him die.

She felt her belly clutch tight, she tasted muck in her mouth. This was worse than the boy who put his body in the village well. This was the worst thing she had ever seen.

“He tried to run away,” said Abajai. “The god abhors wicked runaway slaves. This is their fate, Hekat. The godspeakers smite them for the god.”

She nodded, she had no words for the dying slave in his tunic of flies. They kept on walking.

Et-Nogolor’s godgate was an anthill place, with wagons and carts and oxen and slaves and godspeakers coming and going without cease, and pens for many complaining animals. The air was heavy with smells and smoke and sounds. The gates themselves stayed shut, huge black scorpions towering over the tallest man. They looked like they could sting. They would not open until the caravan was ready to leave for Et-Raklion.

The wayhouse for travelers intending to journey with the godspeaker caravan was small and spare, with no-one wanting to travel except Abajai, Yagji and Hekat. There was nothing to do there but eat, and sleep, and wait. Each day at highsun they stood by its godpost to watch a godspeaker ask the god if the time had come for the caravan to leave Et-Nogolor. The question was asked by sacrificing a golden cockerel, burning its entrails in a scorpion bowl and breathing deep of the sacred smoke. If the god’s answer was no, the godspeaker fell to the ground twitching and foaming and drumming bare heels on the ground.

Three times now they had witnessed the asking. Three times the god had answered no.

The godspeaker who came to make sacrifice on the fourth highsun was naked except for a loincloth and the scorpion-shell bound to his brow. His scorpion sting marks were all on show, angry red welts covering the dark skin of his belly and back. Many of them looked fresh. Hekat remembered the village godspeaker with only five, so old they’d turned dull and muddy. The village godspeaker was nothing, a dried-up husk, compared to the godspeakers of Et-Nogolor. She was angry to think such a shrunken, unbitten old man had frightened her so much . . . and surprised the god would accept him as its speaker.

Although, to be fair, the god had not had many men to choose from in the village.

The Et-Nogolor godspeaker sprinkled his circle of sacred sand. It was crimson, the color of golden cockerel blood, and it sparkled strangely on the stony ground in front of the wayhouse. At the circle’s completion the sand burst into life, leaping black tongues of night-cold flame. Though he’d seen the god wake over and over, Yagji swallowed a little shriek and kissed his snake-fang amulet.

The godspeaker picked up the golden cockerel and his sacrifice knife. Like the others before it the beautiful bird died soundless, slit from crop to tail in a single blow. Its entrails slipped into the waiting scorpion bowl and became hot fire. As the sacred circle’s black flames danced around him the godspeaker fell to his knees and plunged his face into the offering’s greasy blue smoke, breathing deeply, his eyes rolled back in his head.

He did not fall twitching and foaming to the ground.

“Aieee!” squealed Yagji. “The god has answered!”

“The god always answers,” Abajai scolded. But he was smiling.

“I know, I know,” said Yagji, impatient. “But this time it has answered yes !”

The godspeaker breathed in the last of the sacrifice smoke, breathed it out, and stood. From his left hand dangled the gutted golden cockerel, from his right the bloodied knife.

“The god speaks!” he cried to the distant sky. The whites of his eyes had turned a greasy blue and the scorpion bites on his body glowed like living coals. “The caravan to Et-Raklion departs at newsun!”

He threw the sacrifice into the air. As the golden cockerel’s feathers caught fire, burning it into nothingness, the sacred circle’s black flames roared higher than the godspeaker’s head, then vanished, the last of the sacred sand consumed.

“And a good thing too,” said Yagji, watching the almost naked godspeaker walk away carrying his knife and his scorpion bowl. “If I pray hard I might survive one more night in that dreadful wayhouse. But only one. And only if the god is good!”