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Authors: R. Scott Bakker

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BOOK: The Warrior Prophet
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Drawn by the throb of drums, Achamian crossed a portion of the camp that seemed deserted, then quite without warning found himself in the precincts of the camp-followers. Suddenly all the activity seemed concentrated between the fires. With every step he bumped some shoulder, pressed some back. In some places, he pressed through crowds in almost total darkness, with only heads, shoulders, and the odd face frosted by the Nail of Heaven’s pale light. In others, torches had been hammered into the earth, either for musicians, merchants, or leather-panelled brothels. Several avenues even boasted hanging lanterns. He saw young Men of the Tusk—no more than boys, really—vomiting from too much drink. He saw ten-year-old girls drawing thick-waisted warriors behind curtained canopies. He even glimpsed a boy wearing smeared cosmetics, who watched with fearful promise as man after man passed. He saw craftsmen manning stalls, walked past more than a few impromptu smithies. Beneath the rambling canopies of an opium den, he saw men twitch as though beset by flies. He passed the gilded pavilions of the Cults: Gilgaöl, Yatwer, Momas, Ajokli, even elusive Onkis, who’d been Inrau’s passion, as well as innumerable others. He waved away the ever-present beggars and laughed at the adepts who pressed clay blessing-tablets into his hands.
For tracts of his journey, Achamian saw no tents at all, only rough shelters improvised from sticks, twine, and painted leather, or in some cases, a simple mat. While wandering one alley, Achamian saw no less than a dozen couples, male and female or male and male, rutting in plain view. Once he paused to watch an improbably beautiful Norsirai girl gasp between the exertions of two men, only to be accosted by a black-toothed man with a stick, demanding coin. Afterward he watched an ancient, tattooed hermit try to force himself on a fat drab. He saw black-skinned Zeumi harlots dancing in their strange, puppet-limbed manner and dressed in gaudy gowns of false silk—caricatures of the ornate elegance that so characterized their faraway land.
The first woman found him more than the other way around. As he walked through a particularly gloomy alley between canvas shanties, he heard a rattle, then felt small hands groping for his groin from behind. When he turned and embraced her, she seemed shapely enough, though he could see little of her face in the dark. She was already rubbing his manhood through his robe, murmuring, “Jusht a copper, Lord. Jusht a copper for your sheed …” He could sense her sour smile. “Two coppersh for my peach. Do you want my peach?”
Almost despite himself, he leaned into her whisking hands—gasped. Then a file of torch-bearing cavalrymen—Imperial Kidruhil—rumbled by, and he glimpsed her face: vacant eyes and ulcerated lips …
He pressed her back, fumbling for his purse. He fished out a copper, meant to hand it to her, but fumbled it onto the ground instead. She fell to her knees, started combing the blackness, grunting … Achamian fled.
A short time after, he found himself prowling the darkness, watching a group of prostitutes about their fire. They sang and clapped while a wanton, flat-chested Ketyai woman pranced around the flames, wearing only a blanket that reached her hips. This was a common custom, Achamian knew. They would each take turns, dancing lewdly and calling out into the surrounding blackness, declaring their wares and their station.
He reviewed the women from the shelter of darkness first, so as to avoid the embarrassment of choosing in their presence. The girl who danced didn’t appeal to him—too much of a horse’s mien. But the young Norsirai girl, who rolled her pretty face to the song like a child … She sat on the ground with her knees haphazardly before her, the firelight chancing upon her inner thighs.
When he finally walked into their midst, they began shouting like slavers at auction, offering promises and praise that became mockery the instant he took the Galeoth girl by the hand. Despite the drink, he felt so nervous he could barely breathe. She looked so beautiful. So soft and unspoiled.
Picking a candle from a small row of votives, she pulled him into the blackness, led him to the last in a row of crude shelters. She shed her blanket and crawled beneath the stained leather. Achamian stood above her, panting, wanting to breathe deep the pale glory of her naked form. The far wall of her shelter, however, consisted of little more than rags knotted into ropes. Through it, he could see hundreds of people pressing in this direction and that through a shadowy thoroughfare.
“You want fuck me, yes?” she said as though nothing could be amiss.
“Oh, yes,” he mumbled. Where had his breath gone?
Sweet Sejenus.
“Fuck me many time? Eh, Baswutt?”
He laughed nervously. Peered through the rag curtain once again. Two men were cursing at each other, scuffling near enough to make Achamian flinch.
“Many times,” he replied, knowing this to be the polite way to discuss price. “How many do you think?”
“Think four … Four silver times.”
Silver? Obviously she’d confused his embarrassment for inexperience. Even still, what was money on a night like this? He celebrated, didn’t he?
He shrugged, saying, “An old man like me?”
In this particular language, the man was forced to deride his own prowess in order to strike a fair bargain. If he was poor, he complained of being old, infirm, and so on. Arrogant men, Esmenet had told him once, usually fared poorly in these negotiations—which, of course, was the point. Harlots hated nothing more than men who arrived already believing the flattering lies they would tell them. Esmi called them the
simustarapari,
or “those-who-spit-twice.”
The Galeoth girl studied him with nebulous eyes: she’d started petting herself in the gloom. “You so strong,” she said, suddenly thick-tongued. “Like Baswutt … Strong!
Two
silver times think?”
Achamian laughed, tried hard not to watch her fingers. The ground had started a slow spin. For an instant she looked pale and skinny in the dark, like an abused slave. The mat beneath her looked rough enough to cut her skin … He’d drunk too much.
Not too much! Just enough …
The ground steadied. He swallowed, nodded his agreement, then pulled the two coins from his purse. “What does ‘Baswutt’ mean?” he asked, slipping the silver into her small, waiting palm.
“Hmmm?” she replied, smiling triumphantly. She stashed the two white-shining talents with startling swiftness—What would she buy? he wondered—then looked back at him with large questioning eyes.
“What does that mean?” he repeated, more slowly. “Baswutt …”
She frowned, then giggled. “For ‘big bear’ …”
She was full-breasted, mature, but something about her manner reminded him of a little girl. The guileless smile. The rolling eyes and bouncing chin. The knees opening and closing like butterfly wings. Achamian half-expected a scolding mother to come barging between them. Was that part of the pantomime as well? Like the shameless banter?
His heart hammered.
He knelt where her toys should have been, between her legs. She squirmed and writhed, as though the threat of his mere presence would make her climax. “Fuck me, Baswutt,” she gasped. “
Emmm
baswutt … Fuck-me-fuck-me-fuck-me … Mmmm,
pleassseee
…”
He swayed, caught himself, chuckled. He began hitching up his robe, glanced nervously at the shadowy stream of passersby through the curtain. They walked so close he could spit on their shins.
He tried to ignore the smell. His smell.
“Oooh, such
big
bear,” she cooed, stroking his cock.
Suddenly, his apprehension melted away, and some deranged part of him actually exulted in the thought of others watching. Let them watch! Let them
learn!
Always the teacher …
Cackling, he seized her narrow hips, pulled her across his thighs.
How he’d yearned for this moment! To have licence with a
stranger
… It seemed there could be nothing so sweet as a fresh peach!
He was trembling! Trembling!
She moaned silver, cried gold. Faces turned in the passing crowd.
Through the knotted rags, Achamian saw Esmenet.
 
“Esmi!” Achamian hollered, barrelling through arms and shoulders. The Galeoth girl was crying out something behind him—some gibberish.
He glimpsed Esmenet again, hurrying along a row of torches that fronted the canopies of a Yatwerian lazaret. A tall man, sporting the matted braids of a Thunyeri warrior, held her arm, but she seemed to be leading.
“Esmi!” he cried, jumping to be seen above the screens of people. She didn’t turn. “Esmi! Stop!”
Why would she run? Had she seen him with the drab?
For that matter, what would she be doing
here?
“Dammit, Esmenet! It’s me!
Me!
”
Did she glance back? It was too dark to tell …
For a heartbeat, he debated using sorcery: he could blind the entire quarter if he wished. But as always, he could sense the small points of death scattered throughout the surrounding crowds: Men of the Tusk, bearing their hereditary Chorae …
He redoubled his efforts, began lunging through the mobs. Someone struck him, hard enough to leave his ears ringing, but he didn’t care. “Esmi!”
He glimpsed her pulling the Thunyeri into an even darker byway. He stumbled free of what seemed the last thicket of people, then sprinted to the mouth of the alley. He hesitated before plunging into the blackness, struck by a sudden premonition of disaster. Esmenet here? In the Holy War? There was no way.
A trap
. A thought like a knife.
The ground had resumed spinning.
If the Consult could fashion a Skeaös, couldn’t they fashion an Esmenet as well? If they knew about Inrau, then they almost certainly knew about her … What better way to gull a heartsick Schoolman than to …
A skin-spy? Do I chase a skin-spy?
In his soul’s eye, he saw Geshrunni’s corpse pulled from the River Sayut. Murdered. Desecrated.
Sweet Sejenus, they took his face
. Could the same have happened …
“Esmi!” he cried, charging into the darkness. “Esmi!
Essmmii!
”
Miraculously, she paused with her escort in the light of a single torch, either alarmed by his cries or …
Achamian staggered to a stop before her, utterly dumbstruck. He reeled.
It
wasn’t
her—the brown eyes were smaller, the cheeks too high. Almost, but no … Almost Esmenet.
“Another madman,” the woman snorted to her companion.
“I-I thought …” Achamian murmured. “I thought you were someone else.”
“Poor girl,” she sneered, turning her back.
“No, wait! Please …”
“Please, what?”
Achamian blinked at his tears. She looked so … so
close
. “I need you,” he whispered. “I need your … your comfort.”
Without warning, the Thunyeri seized him by the throat, hammered him in the gut.
“Kundrout!”
the man bellowed.
“Parasafau ferautin kun dattas!”
Winded, Achamian coughed and clawed at the man’s massive forearm. Panic. Then gravel and rock—ground—slammed against his chest and cheek. Concussion. Bright blackness. Someone screaming. The taste of blood. A dim image of the wild-haired warrior spitting on him.
He convulsed, rolled to his side. Sobbed, then pressed himself to his knees. Through tears he saw their retreating backs disappear in thickets of people.
“Esmi!” he bawled. “Esmenet, please!”
Such an old-fashioned name.
“Esssmmiiii!”
Come back …
Then he felt the touch. Heard the voice.
“Still fetching sticks, I see … Tired old dog.”
BOOK: The Warrior Prophet
12.71Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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