The Godspeaker Trilogy (6 page)

Hekat hid her face so Yagji wouldn’t see her disgust. She had a bed in the wayhouse too. It was the most wonderful thing she’d ever slept on, with softness beneath her and too many blankets. She’d never dreamed there could be too many blankets. Let Yagji sleep on a baked earth floor under a table, or chained to a wall where dogs could sniff him, dogs that longed to devour his bones, and a man to beat him if he was so cold and stiff on waking he could hardly walk. Let Yagji sleep like that and then complain of blankets and a bed.

He was a stupid, stupid man.

Abajai patted him on the shoulder. “Hush yourself, Yagji. It is known the god is always good.”

As the god desired, the godspeaker caravan left Et-Nogolor next newsun. Hekat rode with Abajai and Yagji at the rear, in an open wagon pulled by a team of stolid oxen. Behind them, Obid and his fellow slave hauled the cart carrying Abajai and Yagji’s possessions and wealth. She watched Obid sweat and strain and smiled so he could see it. No more jabby spear, Obid. No more eyes full of maggot questions. He was just a slave now, while she was still precious and beautiful.

There were ten Et-Nogolor godspeakers in the carvan. Six drove covered carts laden with mysterious godspeaker goods, one drove an open cart full of caged birds for each newsun sacrifice. The other three walked. The sun climbed higher, the caravan passed the high-walled barracks where Abajai said Nogolor warlord’s warriors lived, it passed farms, and orchards, and pastures full of grazing cows. Hekat thought the land looked fat but Abajai and Yagji frowned at each other and called it sad.

Two fingers past highsun they came upon a band of warriors riding towards Et-Nogolor city. Some wore red-and-black feathers in their hair and hunting birds on their leather chests, but others covered their godbraids with caps of spotted grey catskin, long tails bouncing down their straight backs, and on their leather chests brilliant green stones picked out a snarling cat face.

Hekat shifted on her wagon seat to watch the straight-backed warriors ride by. They did not yield the road to the godspeakers like the other few travelers they had encountered, but they did drop into single file and slow from a canter to a trot. So fierce, so proud, she thought they were beautiful.

Yagji leaned close. “Aba, Aba, what can this mean? The falcon and the woodcat riding together? Et-Nogolor and Et-Bajadek are not friends!”

“Shhh,” hissed Abajai, glaring. “Wait until we are alone!”

Hekat counted sixty riders, half were birds and half were cats. When the last warrior had trotted sedately past them and they were once more cantering towards distant Et-Nogolor city, Abajai let out a sigh.

“Here is a tangle, Yagji.”

“A tangle ?” said Yagji, and clutched his green snake amulet. “Aba, it’s disaster . Why do warriors of Bajadek and Nogolor warlords ride together? Bajadek warlord is a sworn enemy to Et-Raklion, and Raklion warlord is to mate with Et-Nogolor’s Daughter! Nogolor warlord must not smile at Bajadek warlord, their warriors must not ride shoulder to fist along the road!”

Pinch-faced, Abajai toyed with a beaded godbraid. “Bajadek warlord has two sons and bears no love for either,” he said slowly, as though thinking aloud. “He is a lusty man, he could yet sire a third son worth loving, but—”

“The god took his wife and besides, she was old,” said Yagji. “ Aba !” His voice was a shocked whisper. “ No ! Surely not!”

The scorpion in Abajai’s cheek rippled. “I think so.”

“But Aba —”

Abajai smoothed his robe. “If Raklion warlord dies sonless, Bajadek warlord can make a claim on his lands. I suspect he does not trust that a son sired by Raklion upon Et-Nogolor’s Daughter will die, like all his other sons have died. I suspect Bajadek warlord reasons it is better that Raklion does not mate with the Daughter at all. Better that he have her, kill Raklion when the Daughter’s theft leads to war, claim Et-Raklion lands as his own and afterwards sire a son worth loving.” He nodded. “It is a sound strategy.”

“But Aba, Et-Nogolor’s Daughter is godpromised to Raklion. Nogolor warlord cannot give her to Bajadek.”

“No?” said Abajai, and tugged his godbraids. “I wonder, Yagji. Truly, I wonder.”

Confused, Hekat slid along the wagon seat towards him and touched his sleeve. “Abajai? What is godpromised?”

“Promised in the presence of the god,” Yagji snapped. “In the godhouse of Et-Raklion. Et-Nogolor’s high godspeaker himself sealed the oath with sacrifice before the warlords and Et-Raklion’s high godspeaker Nagarak and selected witnesses.” He preened a little. “Aba and I represented the Traders.”

She was not interested in Yagji’s silly boastings. “What is high godspeaker?”

Yagji rolled his eyes. “Stupid monkey. Abajai . . .”

Abajai lifted his hand, frowning. Yagji fell silent, his feelings hurt. Hekat said nothing but inside she smiled. Yagji had lost, and she had won. She always won. She was precious and beautiful.

Abajai said, “A high godspeaker rules all the godspeakers of a warlord’s lands.”

“Who rules high godspeaker?”

Yagji tittered. “The god, of course, you silly brat.”

She ignored Yagji. “Like caravan, Abajai? Obid rule slaves, Abajai rule Obid?”

Abajai smiled. “Clever Hekat. Exactly like that.”

Pleased with his praise she smiled back and thought, So this is the world. Slaves, and rulers. Anyone not a ruler is a slave. I will remember that . She said, “Abajai. Godpromised means the god wants Et-Nogolor she-brat for Raklion warlord?”

He pursed his lips. “That is one way of putting it.”

“Then how can Nogolor warlord give she-brat to Bajadek warlord? The god cannot want Et-Nogolor she-brat for Raklion and Bajadek. Which warlord the god want for Et-Nogolor she-brat?”

“That depends on which warlord’s high godspeaker you ask,” said Yagji, under his breath.

Abajai gave Yagji a dark look, then shook his head at her. “Hush, Hekat. It is the god’s business. Do not question its workings in the world, that way lies madness.”

Yes. Madness. If high godspeakers spoke the god’s want, then how could they speak different words? Was the god mad, not knowing which want it truly wanted?

Petrified, not breathing, she waited for the god to strike her dead for asking such a question. The god did not, so she asked another question, inside her head where only it could hear her.

If the god did know its want, then did Et-Nogolor high godspeaker lie when he said the she-brat should go to Raklion warlord? Or was the lie it should go to Bajadek?

Why would the god let a godspeaker lie?

She did not know, the god did not answer. Abajai would know but she didn’t dare ask him. She would wait, and in time perhaps the god would tell her. When it wanted to. If it knew.

Yagji chewed his lip, glancing ahead at the walking godspeakers. “I wonder if Raklion warlord knows Bajadek’s warriors ride freely in the lands of Et-Nogolor?” he asked, softly so they might not hear him. “I wonder—”

Abajai kicked him. “You wonder too much, Yagji! Hold your prattling tongue!”

Chastened to silence Yagji stared and stared, his eyes slowly filling with water. “I am sorry, Aba,” he whispered at last. “I am weary, I am homesick. I long for our villa in dear Et-Raklion.”

With a deep sigh, Abajai patted his cheek. “I know, Yagji. I am homesick too. I will be well pleased when this caravan is over. Do not weep, friend. We will be home soon.”

It took the godspeaker caravan thirty-seven highsuns to reach the lands of Raklion warlord. In that time they saw warriors of Et-Bajadek five more times. Abajai and Yagji said nothing about them, they closed their eyes and pretended not to see.

Hekat knew better than to speak on that.

When at last she saw Et-Raklion she knew then what a fat land truly looked like. So much water! Streams and lakes and rivers and bubbling springs, so much green grass, countless fruit-laden branches and fields of grain, fat grazing cattle and sheep, singing birds and well-fed wildlife. She understood that Abajai and Yagji were right, the rest of Mijak was turning brown.

She did not want to think what might happen when all the green was gone from the other warlords’ lands.

As they slowly journeyed, caged in their uncomfortable wagon, Abajai continued to teach her. He gave her all the words in his possession, so many words she thought they must fall from her mouth every time she opened it or blow out through her nose whenever she sneezed. He bade her use them to talk of her life in the savage north, the caravan they traveled with, each newsun sacrifice, the road, the sky, the clouds, the trees, the flowers, the fruit, the crops and the herds of beasts in their open pastures. The villages they passed by and the harmless travelers they encountered. Everything she could see and remember she could talk about, said Abajai, so she did, because that was his want.

It was her want too, she would be more than a village goat bleating and shitting and waiting for the knife.

Twenty-three highsuns after crossing the border into Et-Raklion she was asleep on the wagon’s hard jolting floor and dreaming again of the man’s bone-crunching dogs when Yagji’s finger poked her ribs and his voice said, crossly, “Lazy monkey! Open your eyes and look upon perfection! We have reached Et-Raklion city!”

The dogs’ slavering growls fading, she opened her eyes. The sky was dimming, only a finger remained till lowsun. She sat up, ignoring the creaks and moans in her muscles. Abajai walked beside the wagon, he never tired. Even though his face was quiet it seemed to her that it was shouting. His strong dark face and its scarlet scorpion, shouting with happiness to see the city.

She looked ahead, where he was looking. Where Yagji was looking, stupid wasted water rolling down his fat cheeks.

“Oh,” she said, and felt a silly pricky burning in her own eyes. Her heart heaved and twisted and split wide open, all the blood in her turning red hot.

Raklion warlord’s city was beautiful.

Unlike Et-Nogolor, squatting like half a melon on a plate and skulking in man-made shadows, the city Et-Raklion spread around the base of a towering hill, which rose resplendent from the green and growing plain as though the god’s own fist had punched upwards from beneath the earth’s skin. The road they traveled led straight to the city gatehouse, then into the city itself. Bright lamps and torches burned in myriad dwellings, their warm flames lighting pale cream rock, and blood-red rock, and rock as green as the fields of growing wheat. So many roofs in the city Et-Raklion, Hekat could not count them all. Trees, too, heavy-laden with blossoms. On the perfumed breeze a trilling of songbirds, and silver godbells calling down the night.

Seeing Et-Raklion city once, Hekat knew this wondrous place owned her. And she was content to be its possession, until the god closed her eyes and gave her bones to the hungry dark.

“Ah, Et-Raklion,” sighed Yagji, his voice quivering. “The god is good, that I see you again.”

Abajai’s stern face was gentle with smiling. “See Raklion’s Pinnacle, Hekat, gift of the god. There is the godhouse on its peak, and its godpost reaching for the world’s ceiling, its godmoon and its stars. It is the greatest godhouse in all of Mijak.” He pointed. “There below it, the warlord’s palace. And below the palace at the Pinnacle’s base, within strong walls, the barracks where his warriors live, guarding the warlord. Keeping everyone safe.”

She looked where he pointed, and marveled how the palace grew out of the hillside. Felt awe at the height and spread of the godhouse. Et-Raklion’s godhouse made the godhouse Et-Nogolor look small. Look nothing .

Truly the god loved the lands of Et-Raklion.

“The god, the warlord, his mighty warriors, like eagles they keep watch over the city.” Abajai crooked a finger. “Take off your sandals and walk with me, Hekat. Feel the rich cool soil of Et-Raklion beneath your feet.”

Willingly she walked with him, and so did Yagji, still sniveling. They walked right up to the gates of Et-Raklion, and as they walked Hekat felt herself smile.

Home, home , her heart sang softly. Here I am, god. I am home .

T
he caravan’s senior godspeaker joined them at the gates to Et-Raklion. Hekat felt her skin crawl but she did not give him ground. Showing fear was foolish.

The city Gatekeeper was a tall woman with muscles like a man and godbraids reaching below her knees. She had a blue lizard tattooed over her face; its eyes were her eyes, lazily blinking. She looked at the carved birds pinned to the senior godspeaker’s robes and nodded.

“Godspeaker of Et-Nogolor,” she said, hands lightly fisted on her leather-clad hips. Her earlobes stretched low with the dangling weight of many amulets. Her nose was pierced six times. The lizard’s tail caressed her chin, and the single pink jewel studded in it. “State your business in Raklion’s city.”

The senior godspeaker looked down his nose at the city Gatekeeper. “Our business is the god’s business, and the business of Et-Raklion’s high godspeaker Nagarak.”

The Gatekeeper snapped her fingers, and a small he-brat leapt out of the gatehouse’s shadows. “Make haste to the godhouse,” she told it. “Tell the first godspeaker you see that there are visitors from godhouse Et-Nogolor, craving Nagarak high godspeaker’s permission to enter.”

The brat pressed a fist to its brown woollen chest and darted up the roadway leading from the gatehouse into the city proper.

The Gatekeeper nodded at the godspeaker caravan. “Nagarak high godspeaker will see you in his time. Until then, godspeakers, you must wait.”

The godspeaker’s eyes narrowed. “It is not our custom to be kept waiting.”

“Alas,” said the Gatekeeper. “It is my custom to obey my warlord, and the decrees of Nagarak high godspeaker.”

Displeased but thwarted, the senior godspeaker of Et-Nogolor returned to his caravan, and the Gatekeeper turned her attention to Abajai. “Trader Abajai,” she said, her voice all warmth and smiling now. “Trader Yagji. Long has been your absence from us.”

“And many tales to tell,” replied Abajai. “We will sit over sadsa and I will tell them that you may laugh and wonder. We may pass in your good graces, Baruve Gatekeeper?”

Hekat stared, unflinching, as the Gatekeeper’s curious lizard eyes considered her. “In my good graces always, Trader Abajai,” the Gatekeeper said. “Do you require a litter? I can send a brat for one, if you like.”

“Thanks, but no litter,” said Abajai, before Yagji could speak. “To walk the streets of Et-Raklion after so long an absence is the god’s great gift.”

The Gatekeeper snapped her fingers a second time, and another brown-wool boy appeared. “Take this brat, Trader. It will light your way home.” There were many torches burning in the wall of the gatehouse. She tugged one free and thrust it at the he-brat. “Send it back when you are done with its service.”

As Yagji withdrew to fetch Obid, the other slave and their cart, Abajai took a purse from his robe pocket and gave it to the Gatekeeper. “A Trader’s thanks.”

She pocketed the purse, her tattooed blue lizard leaping as she smiled. “The god sees you, Trader. It likes to see a generous man.”

Yagji returned, their possessions at his heels. Abajai nodded at the Gatekeeper, put his fingers to Hekat’s elbow, and they followed the he-brat with its flaming torch through the wide gateway into the city.

“What does this mean, Aba?” Yagji whispered, as they stopped before the gateway godpost and its offering bowl, to gift the god with exquisite amulets and four fat purses of coin. “It is not like Nagarak to keep Et-Nogolor godspeakers waiting at the city gates. Do you think he knows—”

“ Tcha !” said Abajai, his voice a warning. “Not here, not now. Let us keep walking. You there, gate-brat—to the Traders district.”

The sun was gone now, the godmoon and his wife striding the night sky together. Obid and the other slave’s harsh breathing was loud in the hush as Hekat walked in silence between Abajai and Yagji. Flowering trees lined both edges of the smooth pavestones beneath their feet. Floating on the stirring night air, faint strains of music, of voices, and still the ringing of silver godbells. A teasing aroma of spicy meat.

“The Dining district dances,” said Yagji, sounding mournful. “We could stop and eat, Aba. Roast lamb, sweet wine. I pine for something other than godcakes and ale.”

“No,” said Abajai. “I want a private night within our own walls before venturing to visit with Trader friends, Yagji. There will be questions we have not decided how to answer.”

“But what if the villa has no food for us?” Yagji fretted. “That Retoth and the rest, the worthless slaves, they have likely eaten us out of all provisions.”

Abajai laughed. “Retoth knows better. He knows your belly when it returns from caravan. And he knows well to keep the villa in readiness for our sudden arrival.”

Hekat plucked at Abajai’s sleeve. “Who is Retoth?”

“Our villa’s chief slave. You will mind him, Hekat, for his word is my word,” said Abajai, looking down at her. “If you disobey him Yagji will have his wish to see you beaten.”

Yagji tchut-tchutted under his panting breath. “I should have had my wish many highsuns before now.”

“Save your air for walking,” said Abajai, kindly enough. “The Traders district is a distance yet.”

Yagji groaned. “You should have called for a litter, Aba. A fine thing if I fall to the ground with a spasm at my own doorstep after so many godmoons on the road!”

“After traveling so far on a camel and in wagons, a little walking will do you good!” said Abajai, lightly scolding. “And think how it will spice your appetite!”

“My appetite needs no spicing, Aba. The godcakes of Et-Nogolor are the worst I’ve ever tasted!”

For the first time since she and the fat Trader had met, Hekat thought that he was right.

“What amuses, Hekat?” said Abajai.

She would have liked to hold his hand, but that wasn’t a gesture for her to make. He must touch first, always. She smiled at him instead. “I am pleased to be here, Abajai. Et-Raklion is the city of cities.”

“Tchut!” said Yagji. “Can it be possible? For once the monkey speaks words worth hearing.”

Abajai just nodded, and kept on walking.

It took a long time to reach Abajai’s villa. Once they reached the city proper they saw other people in the streets, on foot or traveling in litters carried by strong tall slaves. Abajai and Yagji were recognized over and over; many times they were stopped and welcomed home with smiles and invitations to share food and wine and all the gossip.

“Let us take the discreet way home,” said Yagji at last. “Or we won’t see our bed before newsun, and I’m tired!”

So Abajai dismissed the gatehouse he-brat, because now the roads were lit with torches, and they walked along narrow side-streets into the heart of the Traders district, a section of the city almost halfway between its gatehouse and the base of Raklion’s Pinnacle.

The Traders district was peaceful, sweet-smelling. Every street was lined with dwellings, some with grass and trees and flowers between their closed doors and the cobbles, others hidden behind stone walls with doors built into them. Some of the houses had beautiful slaves by the doors. When they thought Hekat and Abajai and Yagji approached them they stood very tall, only to slump when she and Abajai and Yagji walked by, Obid and the other slave puffing behind them with the cart.

She wished she knew what they were for.

Abajai said, “Where there is a slave, Hekat, either the master is out and the slave will say so, or he is willing to see a visitor and the slave will give that visitor entrance.”

Aieee, he was like the god to read her mind so easily. “And if there is no slave, the master wishes to be alone?”

“Exactly so,” said Abajai. “No civilized person will argue with a slave, or attempt an unattended door. Such an arrangement prevents unpleasantness.”

She nodded, sighing. “Aieee, Abajai. Hekat has so much to learn.”

He tugged her godbraids. “And Hekat is learning. You speak beautifully now. I am pleased with you.”

She gifted him with her widest smile. Pleasing Abajai was all she asked for.

At last they came to a blue wooden door set into a high wall of pale cream stone. The most beautiful slave stood guard before it. He was tall and muscled, clad in black silk pantaloons, with a fistful of amulets round his neck and his bare chest tattooed with snakes and lizards. His scarlet slave’s godbraid was heavy with godbells. He saw them and dropped hard to his knees, his face lighting up in a radiant smile.

“Master Abajai! Master Yagji! The god sees you, masters! It sees you in its eye!”

“Stand, stand, Nim,” said Abajai, laughing. “And open the door. Your caravanning masters are finally come home.”

The slave Nim leapt to his feet and flung open the blue wooden door so they might enter the villa’s grounds. “Retoth will weep to see you, masters! Everything is beautiful, as you left it!”

“And what of Hooli?” Yagji demanded. “Does Hooli thrive?”

The slave bowed low. “Master Yagji, he thrives.”

As Yagji made silly happy sounds, Abajai gestured at Obid and the other slave. “Take these ones and the cart to the villa’s rear entrance, Nim. Help them unload the coin boxes into the strong room, then see them to the slaves’ quarters for food and a mattress. We will receive no visitors tonight.”

“Yes, Master Abajai!” said the slave Nim. Hekat could see him wondering about her, his gaze kept slipping sideways to stare, but he didn’t say a word. He just stood back so she and Abajai and Yagji could pass by.

“Hmm,” said Yagji, grudging, as they walked up a paved torchlit pathway to the villa. “It would appear my gardens haven’t died .”

Hekat marveled at Yagji’s gardens, stretching as far as the largest goat pasture in the village. Flowers rioted in perfumed profusion, pink and yellow and pale blue and mauve. There were fountains, bubbling, their deep bowls filled with flitting green-and-silver striped fish. Delicate trees with silver branches and whiskery seed pods drooped towards the dark green grass. More torches flamed from tall poles. There was a crimson godpost, topped with a black scorpion. A vivid carved snake sinuously embraced it; the fat drop of poison at the tip of each exposed fang was a green gemstone larger than her own clenched fist. Hekat clutched her snake-eye amulet, amazed.

“The godsnake of Et-Raklion,” said Abajai. “It is our symbol, given by the god itself. Proof that Et-Raklion is its most blessed city.”

Ahead, the villa. Built of that same pale cream stone, perhaps one hundred tall man-paces wide, its roof was tiled in black and gold. The enormous double front doors were painted black and bound with bronze. Hekat stared. Aieee, it was beautiful!

The paved path ended at four wide stone steps. As Abajai put his foot on the first one the doors were thrown open.

“Master Abajai! Master Yagji!”

Another slave, wrapped head to toe in blue and golden fabric. His head bristled with godbraids like a spiny zikzik, shy sly predator of the desert. Over his robes he wore a green silk shawl, edged around with tinkling amulets. He wasn’t a young man, Hekat realized. He was just well fed, and that made him look younger.

“Yes, Retoth,” said Abajai. “Your masters are home.”

“And we’re starving,” announced Yagji. “Get out of the doorway, you stupid man, and find us some food at once!”

Retoth bowed low, then retreated into the villa. “Of course, of course, master. Baths are being prepared for you now. I have roused the kitchen and your chambers are being scented as we speak.”

Hekat followed Abajai and Yagji inside, and Retoth closed the double doors behind them. Stranded, struck dumb, she looked around her, at the shiny blue-green stone floor, at the green walls with images of people and places bound inside golden borders and hung from hooks, at the gold and silver tables covered in carved-stone people and animals, at the bowls and bowls of freshly cut flowers. Inside the villa was light as day, there were so many lamps and candles burning.

“This is Hekat,” said Abajai to Retoth. “You and I will talk of her in due course. For now she goes below, but not with the others.”

“Yes, master,” said Retoth, smiling as though he knew a secret. He clapped his hands, and moments later a short woman slave with greying godbraids and lines on her face appeared. Her robes were wool, and dyed a soft yellow. “Nada! Take this Hekat below the stairs. See to her comfort and settle her in the single chamber.”

“Abajai?” said Hekat, uncertain.

“Go,” said Abajai. “Keep your counsel and obey Retoth and this slave Nada, or you will displease me.”

Displease Abajai? She would rather throw herself from the top of Raklion’s Pinnacle. The slave Nada turned and walked away. Following, Hekat was proud her eyes did not waste water.

The slave Nada led her along a wide lamplit passageway to the back of the villa, then down a long steep flight of twisting stairs to more lamplit passageways and many rooms. Hekat stared, astonished. Rooms below the ground? She had never heard of such a thing. She would ask Abajai what that meant when she saw him at newsun; there was no point asking the woman Nada. She was a slave. What would she know?

The slave Nada took her to a bath chamber, where the water flowed from bronze fish-heads stuck on the wall. Amazing! While the bath filled, the slave Nada undid Hekat’s godbraids. Then she pointed to a cupboard against the wall. “There is soap and a sponge. I will fetch you a clean robe.”

Not afraid this time, Hekat stripped off her filthy clothes and slid into the bath. She washed her body, she washed her hair, all crinkly from the godbraids. The soap foam stung her eyes but she didn’t care. She was clean, she was clean, she would never be dirty again. She lived in Abajai’s villa. It was beautiful, and so was she.

The slave Nada returned with towels and a brush and a dark blue robe. Hekat climbed out of the bath, water streaming down her lovely clean skin. As the slave Nada waited, she dried herself, pulled on the robe, then dragged the brush through her hair over and over until it was smooth and barely damp.

The slave Nada led her to a lamplit kitchen, where she sat at a table with four slaves who stared at her and would have spoken, but the slave Nada frowned them to silence. Not caring she was stared at, Hekat ate hot meat and drank cool sadsa. When her belly was filled to bursting she followed the slave Nada out of the kitchen, past other rooms and two more staring slaves until they reached a small chamber with a bed in it, but no windows.