The mist through which they sailed was unusual for the Inner Sea.
"Nothing to compare to what we're used to, of course," stated Khaavorn.
Valdar smiled. His companion had yet to admit that anything in these regions could compare with home. In this case, though, he had a point. The island of Lokhrein from which they'd departed a moon and a half ago was almost fogbound enough to justify its reputation. Here, the sun kept breaking through rifts to awaken eye-dazzling sparkles on the water. Still, this mist was enough to veil the northern coast of Schaerisa to starboard, and the galley seemed to glide through a pearl-white world of blended air and sea with no land at all.
But then, abruptly, they were out of the pocket of mist and back in the sunlight whose brilliance and clarity almost hurt their northern eyes, under the sky whose blueness Valdar had never gotten used to. Off to starboard was the coast of Schaerisa with its little whitewashed fishing villages. Ahead rose one of the rocky ridges that broke up this island's coast into a series of crescent-shaped coves, forming a headland.
As they drew abreast that headland, a cleft in the ridge gave them a glimpse of what lay beyond . . . and for once, Khaavorn was silent.
They'd heard tales of The City, of course. Khaavorn had scoffed loudly, and in his quieter way Valdar had agreed. But now, as the galley moved on and the cleft fell behind, the two of them turned to each other and exchanged a nervous glance, both wondering if they'd really seen what they thought they'd seen but neither willing to be the first to voice the question. Unconsciously, Khaavorn's hand went to the smooth-worn haft of the heavy war axe that was the weapon, emblem and soul of a Dovnaan warrior. Valdar smiled condescendingly . . . but then realized that his own hand had sought the hilt of his sword.
Then they rounded the headland. Ahead was another rocky prominence, not unlike it. At a bawled command from the captain, the steersmen hauled on the twin rudders and the galley heeled to starboard, turning into the channel between the two capes. Khaavorn and Valdar held onto the rail to keep their footing . . . and stared ahead at the vista for which no traveler's tale had prepared them.
The two curving headlands enclosed a vast harbor, universally conceded to be the finest in the world, rimmed by gentle hills where villas peered forth from groves of olive trees and date palms. Arguably it was two harbors, for it was divided almost precisely in half by a peninsula extending from the harbor's southern shore. The head of that peninsula now lay dead ahead, like a mountain rising from the water . . . not a natural mountain made by the gods, but an artificial mountain fashioned by men like gods, for this was The City.
That was all anyone ever called it. Its actual name was Schaerisa, the same as the island. But it needed no name on any of the coasts and islands of the Inner and Outer Seas that the Old Empire had once ruled. It was simply The City.
It rose in tiers and terraces of stone and masonry and ruddy-tiled roofs, climbing the slopes of two hills. One of those hills was crowned with the temple of Dayu, gleaming with decorative tiles and gold leaf. The other seemed to groan beneath the weight of the imperial palace, whose colonnaded and porticoed façade was like nothing the two of them—the son of one king and the nephew of another—had ever seen, or imagined.
And yet those two hills were only foothills of a conical mountain whose jagged cinder-gray peak loomed above all the clutter of buildings.
A volcano, Valdar found himself wondering, that once blasted its lava out and left the crater that is now a harbor? That's the kind of thing Nyrthim would have wondered about. He shied away from the thought, as he always did whenever such strange speculations entered his mind, which they they doubtless did at the behest of the old sorcerer's ghost.
The harbor was alive with ships—lean predatory war galleys and the broad-beamed merchantmen that were their natural prey, tied up at the docks as well as under way. A small but well-kept-up boat approached in a way that somehow exuded arrogance. In its stern stood a middle-aged man who, under his official dress of white kilt and formal over-both-shoulders mantle, suggested gauntness settling into softness. He bore a staff of office.
"What is your business here?" he demanded when his craft had drawn into shouting range. He used the Nimosei that was still the common language of commerce in the lands once ruled by the Old Empire.
"The harbormaster," grunted the captain. He was from the land the imperials still officially called Ivaerisa, where Khaavorn and Valdar had negotiated passage the rest of the way through the Inner Sea, and he had the strongly built hook-nosed look that went with that land's Escquahar blood. Unfortunately, a legacy of suspicion also went with it, here in the New Empire. "This is the Wave Leaper, out of Ivaerisa," he called out, leaning over the rail, "bringing distinguished visitors."
"We are uninterested in any louse-infested rebel or barbarian dignitaries you may have brought from Ivaerisa," the harbormaster sneered, using the first person plural in the way of all officials in all times and places. "And the investiture was weeks ago—as I should have thought everyone knew by now. Proceed to the commercial docks, along with the rest of the outlanders and the lower orders."
Khaavorn flushed. This was just the thing to bring him out of his paralyzing awe. He pushed the captain aside and glared across the water, axe held so as to be just visible over the gunwale. His Nimosei had been learned in childhood—his family, like many of Lokhrein's ruling clans, blended the bloodlines of the Old Empire's priesthood with those of the conquering Dovnaan. But now he spoke in the Ayoliysei dialect that was the New Empire's ruling language. He and Valdar had acquired it without undue difficulty, for it and the Dovnaan tongue had common roots going back not so very many generations. But Khaavorn's Dovnaan accent was now even thicker than usual—thicker, Valdar suspected, than it needed to be.
"This young gentleman," he declared, waving grandly at Valdar, "is heir to King Arkhuar of Dhulon. An' I meself am Khaavorn nak'Moreg, sister's son to Riodheg, High King of Lokhrein. I've also the honor of bein' half brother to the Lady Andonre, wife of Vaelsaru, chief general of your Emperor . . . who, ye may be sure, will be hearin' of any insolence we encounter from his servants!"
The harbormaster managed to grovel without capsizing his boat. "My humblest and most abject apologies, lord! I naturally never dreamed that this, uh, vessel carried passengers of such eminence. Please permit me to escort you to the imperial moorings." He gestured peremptorily at his steersman, who bawled at the oarsmen, thus confirming the immemorial proverb of the ancient sage Zhaerosa: "Shit flows downhill."
Khaavorn turned to Valdar and smoothed his mustache complacently. "One just has to know how to deal with those sorts of people, that's all," he explained in their more usual Dovnaan tongue.
"No doubt. But was that 'young gentleman' business really necessary? You make me sound like I'm still the callow little twit who arrived in Lokhrein ten years ago begging help from the High King for his old ally Arkhuar."
"And so you are!" boomed Khaavorn. He flung an arm around the younger man's shoulders. "You may have fooled some people into thinking you're a proper warrior of the Dovnaan, foreigner though you are. But I, for my manifold offenses against Dayu, was your mentor. So I know better!"
Valdar grinned, unabashed. "Yes. How well I remember the style of your instruction! It's no exaggeration to say you made me what I am today."
Khaavorn winced. "Now that was low!"
He was, Valdar reflected, remarkably little changed from those days, though now in his mid-thirties: tall, powerfully built, with the wide shoulders and heavily developed muscles that came from wielding the heavy war axe from early adolescence. His strong features were likewise of the sort Dovnaan warrior aristocrats were popularly supposed to have—hawklike nose, high cheekbones, heavy jaw—and he wore his hair in their style, long and gathered into a ponytail, with a drooping mustache but otherwise as clean-shaven as bronze razors permitted. But that hair was of a very dark brown, with only a slight coppery undertone, and his eyes were just as dark, a legacy of Lokhrein's older rulers.
Valdar was even darker-haired, and his slender build and straight features were those of the people who had spread the religion of Rhaeie the Mother—and with it the writ of the Old Empire—from the Inner Sea all the way to the cold northern land that was later to be named Dhulon by the Karsha conquerors who'd bequeathed Valdar his tallness and his blue-gray eyes. He wore the same kind of Dovnaan garb as Khaavorn: knee-length woolen tunic, broad belt with studs and buckle of copper, short mantle caught at the left shoulder by a massive gold brooch, the basic color deep blue in his case and forest green in Khaavorn's, edged with elaborate embroidery. But he asserted his heritage by wearing his hair shorter and shaving his mustache as well as his beard.
Neither of them had armor or helmets—this was a peaceful visit—although even without all that bronze they were sweating in the southern spring. But they bore the weapons without which they would have felt naked: Khaavorn's war axe and Valdar's sword.
"They say no one is allowed into the Emperor's presence with weapons," said Valdar, changing the subject.
Khaavorn expressed his opinion with a snort. He automatically lifted his war axe by its haft of fire-hardened wood. The head was a thing of sinister beauty, the product of a tradition that had worked the same shape in polished stone in the days before bronze. The thick blade curved backward in flowing lines to swell into a spiked ball through which the haft was inserted. Behind, the lines continued downward, forming a wicked hook. It was a weapon of terrifying potentialities in the hands of a large, strong wielder—the only kind who could wield it effectively.
"Ridiculous notion! They can't possibly expect a gentleman to go unarmed—even if he's only armed with that."
Valdar smiled easily at the familiar gibe. "You're hopelessly old-fashioned," he said, patting the hilt of his sword. Perfectly balanced, its two-and-a-half-foot blade was a slender leaf-shape designed for cutting and thrusting. It was an import from Khrunetore, whose weapon-smiths had developed a technique of coating bronze with chromium, enabling it to hold an edge keen enough to cut a hair. Some people whispered of demonic assistance. Khaavorn wasn't one of those. He'd merely fulminated loudly about newfangled tomfool foreign innovations . . . and, with no noise at all, learned to use a sword himself.
"Speaking of the imperial presence," said Valdar, shifting subjects again (partly because he knew it annoyed Khaavorn), "the harbormaster's dig about the investiture being over reminded me that there's now just one of them."
"Oh, yes." They'd heard the news of old Namapa's death at the newly reconquered imperial island of Sardiysa, where the ship had put in a week earlier. "Naturally I didn't give him the satisfaction of admitting we'd hoped to be in time for it! Hmmm . . . So now Tarhynda is officially the sole Emperor. Well, we can still pay the High King's respects to him." Khaavorn grew subdued. "Some of the stories we've heard . . ."
"I'll keep an open mind for now."
"Of course. And it will be good to see my half sister again. Little Andonre . . ." But Khaavorn's jovial mood was gone. He gazed stonily across the water, and Valdar followed his gaze.
The peninsula ahead was largest at its hilly tip around the volcanic cone where The City rose, so it was more like an island filling much of the center of the great lagoonlike harbor, connected to the south shore by a narrow isthmus. Valdar had heard that a massive wall cinctured that isthmus, though it wasn't visible from here. The Ayoliysei dynasts of the New Empire weren't likely to repeat the mistake of the Old, whose cities had been undefended save by their fleets. But only low sea walls faced the harbor, as became clear as they drew closer.
It also became clear that the harbormaster was exacting a functionary's petty revenge, for his boat was leading them to the naval docks, not to the private ones at the foot of the palace hill—those were, it seemed, too good for semi-barbarian lordlings from former imperial provinces, however well-connected. The quay to which they tied up was closer to the lesser hill on which the temple of Dayu rose in its gilded splendor. Nearby, at the foot of that hill and extending over the water on pillars, was a small shrine to Rhaeie the Mother, in her aspect of Mistress of the Waves.
As they disembarked, they made the appropriate signs of thanks for a safe voyage in the direction of the Mother's shrine. But Khaavorn could not conceal a frown at the temple's ostentatiously subordinate position. It was not his full-blown scowl, however. It was more a look of perplexity. He worshipped Dayu, of course. All Dovnaan warriors did—they even called him by the same name, and the priests were in surprising agreement that the Lord of Light and Good was the same in every land where the Karsha tribes had brought his worship. However, the ancient traditions ran strongly in his family. Valdar understood his companion's ambivalence, for he shared it.
The captain approached after hurried consultation with a bronze-helmeted officer. "I've arranged for you to be allowed to depart at once." He indicated a gateway in the sea wall, with broad shallow steps leading up to street level. There a crowd had already gathered, shrilly advertising themselves as guides . . . or for other services. "I know a guide who's almost honest. He'll conduct you to the palace, or wherever else you wish to go. Or if you would prefer for me to order litters . . . ?"
"No, just the guide," said Khaavorn with distaste. "We'll walk." He motioned to his servant to collect his belongings. Valdar did the same . . . except that Wothorg wasn't really a servant.
"Come on, Wothorg," he called. "Your pleasure cruise is over."
"Good name for it, in the pond water these southerners call seas," came a bass rumble from beyond the rail, followed by Wothorg, walking without apparent effort under the load he was carrying. He was a descendant of the original folk of Dhulon who'd stared awestruck at the ships that had heralded the Old Empire so long ago. Not as tall as Valdar, he was approximately twice as broad and twice as thick—at least if one counted his paunch, under which lay rock-hardness. His eyes, blue as northern ice, looked out from under shaggy yellow brows. Those eyes seemed squeezed into slits by his rubicund jowls—which, in turn, were barely visible above his dense reddish-blond beard.
When Arkhuar had sent his son—because there was no one else—to seek the help of the High King of Lokhrein, he'd also sent a trusted retainer to guard the boy's back. Afterwards, when Valdar had remained in Lokhrein in Riodheg's service—with the blessings of his father, who thought it the best possible preparation for Dhulon's future king—Wothorg had remained as well. And he was still along now, under the southern sun that caused his blunt red nose to peel continuously.
Not that I need a bodyguard this time, Valdar told himself. This is just a courtesy call on Tarhynda, now that he's become sole Emperor, to deliver the best wishes of the High King whose existence the Empire has never officially recognized, and to renew the trade agreement for the tin the Empire needs. No pirates or assassins or new tribes of untamed Karsha out of the grasslands this time.
So no wonder Wothorg is grumbling. He's never happy without a good fight—and without the gales and sleet-storms of the Outer Sea for which he's been pining ever since we entered the straits.
They passed through the sea wall and entered the teeming, bewildering maze of narrow streets. Proceeding in the wake of the guide, they looked around, Khaavorn with studied aristocratic sangfroid and Valdar with frank curiosity.
The street was stone-paved, and the buildings—white-plastered, often gaudily painted—crowded close. The people that filled the streets and swarmed about the awning-shaded shop fronts mostly belonged to Schaerisa's native stock: slender, olive-skinned, with curly black hair and regular features. A good many, though, were of the stockier, hook-nosed variety from the island of Alayisa to the east. And the aristocrats who rode in litters on the backs of sweating slaves were apt to be taller and less dark than the common ruck, for many bore the Karsha blood of the Ayoliysei conquerors from the mainland. And they themselves didn't draw nearly as many stares as might have been expected, for these cosmopolitan streets saw every human variety of the Inner Sea, and many from beyond it.
Valdar wondered—as Nyrthim would have wondered, he thought automatically, with the usual accompanying twinge of sadness—how so many people packed so closely together didn't smother in their own waste. But then he recalled tales of The City's underground drains.
Continuing along the street, turning leftward and uphill toward the palace, Valdar began to notice that the poorer classes—most of whom wore nothing more than a loincloth, or a skirt and shawl in the case of the women—didn't look particularly well nourished, and many of them bore the marks of disease. And when a patrol of helmeted soldiers passed, they cringed aside like oft-whipped animals. They also avoided a small square whose very specialized purpose was evident from a row of impaled corpses. Some of these had obviously been there a while; one, indeed, was beginning to decompose badly. Khaavorn gave his nose a fastidious wrinkle.
It was just beyond the place of executions, with the palace looming up above the crowded roofs, that a tough-looking, poorly dressed man lunged from the crowd and attacked with a shout a somewhat more prosperous-looking passerby. The latter defended himself just as vociferously. But neither the attack nor the defense seemed quite right somehow. Neither did the way several bystanders suddenly joined the fight, flailing wildly, knocking over awnings and stalls.
Valdar and Wothorg exchanged a quick eye contact. They knew a staged fight when they saw one.
Valdar started to say something to Khaavorn, who was looking with disdain at this misbehavior by the rabble. But the fight had spread, as such things always do in crowds, and now they were caught up in a tide of screaming rioters.
Valdar drew his sword, forcibly reminding himself to use the flat only. Not that it really mattered—these were the lower classes, after all. Still, he and Khaavorn were Tarhynda's guests, and these were his subjects. He noted with mild surprise that Khaavorn was exercising similar scruples; he saw the Dovnaan grasp his axe handle in both hands and drive the butt of it into the stomach of an attacker, who doubled up with a whoosh of escaping wind. Then, with a heave, he sent the man crashing into a stall. Wothorg was being less cautious; dropping his burdens, he grabbed two rioters, one with each hand, brought their heads together with an alarming sound, dropped them and reached for two more.
Shouts began to rise above the general uproar—shouts in an authoritative tone, for the soldiers who'd lately passed them were now coming back, fighting their way through the crowd. Like most of the New Empire's troops, they were mercenaries: Achaysei from the tributary states on the mainland of Zhraess, ethnic relatives of the Ayoliysei and speaking a related dialect, but descended from a later wave of invaders from the north and altogether rougher articles. They felt no kinship with the denizens of The City's streets, and were clearly taking fewer pains to avoid lethal force than Khaavorn and Valdar had. But they were still a good ways away, their bronze-bladed spears at work beyond a sea of heads . . . the heads of a crowd whose nearer members had suddenly focused their attention on the party from Lokhrein.
As Valdar looked around the circle of faces surrounding them, he felt a touch on his arm. He whirled around, raised his sword . . . and stopped.
"No," smiled the elderly man, through a beard that was a lighter shade of gray than Valdar recalled. "Not a ghost."
"But . . . but you died!" Valdar stammered. "And even if you hadn't, what are you doing here? And—"
Khaavorn heard the exchange, and turned. "Nyrthim!" he exploded. He was about to say more, but the older man gestured peremptorily.
"Plenty of time for questions and explanations later. For now, you must come with me. It's the purpose for which I arranged this little riot."
"You arranged it?" Valdar could only gape.
"Come on!" snapped he whom Valdar decided must really be Nyrthim—he certainly had the testiness for it. He took a deep breath. "I'll explain one thing right now: I'm here on the Order's business . . . which means the Mother's. And I need your help." He turned toward an alley without looking back. The crowd parted for him.
Valdar and Khaavorn exchanged a look. Valdar, without stopping to analyze his actions, set out after the sorcerer. Wothorg fell in behind him. After a moment's hesitation, Khaavorn scooped up the traveling bag his servant—now down, along with their guide—had been carrying, and followed.