insupportable. Had the temple maidens been caught, they would have paid for their pleasures with the coin of some considerable physical discomfort, but dagger-tongued Znaqulu hiGurika rarely frequented the nether regions, and others of the temple personnel either joined in or winked at the matter. As long as the girls chewed Lisutl-mot and produced no unwanted priestlets, complaints would not be made. Are not soldiers to be soldiers, after all, and girls to be girls?
Harsan took little part in these diversions. Some of the priestesses were lissome enough, and two or three there were who cast sidelong glances at his not unhandsome figure. But the barracksroom atmosphere was not to his taste. He requested further permission to move his sleeping mat to the antechamber below, where the night guards stood watch. Thereafter at the end of the day’s labours, he had only to wait for the laconic trooper Reshmu to seal the Llyani relics into their stone and metal cabinet and lock up the papers and notes in the chest at the back of the inner room. Then Reshmu and his companion, Gutenu, took up their posts in the corridor outside the antechamber (this being the two guards’ concession to Harsan’s desire to sleep rather than to talk or play at Den- den), and Harsan was left alone in the outer chamber. It was both lonely and oppressive, with the silent weight of the great temple pressing down upon him as Sru’um Peak had tried to crush Subadim the Sorcerer in the legend. Nevertheless it was peaceful.
In due course the two priests of the Lords of Change put in an appearance. One wore the particoloured purple and mauve vestments and the black velvet hood of the sect of Wuru, the Cohort of Lord Hru’u. He introduced himself as Heshelu hiDaishuna and said little thereafter, going about his examinations of the golden hand and the map symbol with secretive care. The second was attired in the black robes, flattish square headgear, and ever- smiling silvery mask of the priesthood of Lord Ksarul, called the Doomed Prince of the Blue Room, Thumis’ counterpart amongst the servitors of Change and just as interested in the acquisition of knowledge-though for the glory of his minions alone. Lord Ksarul’s interests were purely selfish: power and authority for Him amongst the Gods, and naught but the dregs for humanity as a whole.
This latter individual, Kerektu hiKhanmu, was more talkative, and the silver mask was soon laid aside to reveal ivory features of an almost inhuman beauty, pale and still as the deathmask of a god. Harsan knew he was male only because of his name, Kerektu, which could not belong to a woman.
The priest of Ksarul lost no time in approaching Harsan. “Scholar of Thumis,” he said, “we are all boxed up here like Etla- crabs in a fishmonger’s basket. Let us at least agree to be civil, though we may disagree upon the proper way for the gods to rule the universe. You would have the cosmos a stagnant pool of changelessness, while we would make it a rippling stream. Yet for us to be hostile in this dungeon profits neither of us, nor our faiths.”
“ ‘Civility is the livery of the man of noble honour,’ ” Harsan quoted from his childhood lessons. He cast a sidelong glance at Chtik p’Qwe to see what the Pe Choi’s reaction might be. He seemed to be totally engrossed in scraping verdigris from around a tantalising glint of coppery metal in his blob of rust.
“ ‘And noble action is the first step on the stairway to godhood,’ ” Kerektu finished the quotation. “If you would listen, I might propose that we climb even farther than the first step.” The delicate, over-full lips curved up in a smile like that of his mask. “Perhaps we could even agree to a modicum of cooperation. Nothing, naturally, that would compromise anyone. But why should we each do the same work as the other? It is a waste of time for each of us to translate that heap of mouldering pages only to come up with a well-nigh identical translation. Of course, we need not-and should not-share our conclusions.” “Your point is well taken. As we say in Do Chaka, ‘One stomach needs but one mouth.’ Yet I doubt that I can add anything worthwhile to your knowledge.”
The priest of Ksarul gave him another smile, radiant, almost loving. “Another perspective, another approach. All is of value. We shall also avoid duplication of effort, finish, and be out of this catacomb all the faster. More, the contents of our temple libraries may well complement one another. What you lack, we may supply-and conversely.”
The offer seemed both attractive and harmless. Yet Harsan temporised, saying, “We shall see. Let me first judge the scope of the work.”
Kerektu hiKhanmu bowed gracefully and said no more. The priest of Wuru turned enigmatic eyes upon them both from behind his black hood. And later when Harsan mentioned the matter to the Pe Choi, the latter only gave him another Do Chakan proverb: “The most appetising prey is the hunter’s best bait.”
Thus the days drifted by, almost unremarked in the lamplit stillness below the temple. Work became routine. Chtik p’Qwe got the first lump of corrosion open, revealing no more than a handful of gleaming gems of no great value, contained in the remnants of a copper casket and a leather pouch. These were examined by all, declared to be of no interest, and were placed in the storage cabinet to be sealed by the guards. Undaunted, the Pe Choi applied his tools to the second chunk of oxidised metal.
Harsan was jolted one day from his humdrum round of manuscript analysis by the arrival of the priest Siyun.
“Priest Harsan, I bear you two gifts! The first comes from our learned savants above.” He tossed a small object toward Harsan, who automatically reached up and caught it. It was Hele’a’s “Eye,” the “Unimpeachable Shield Against Foes.”
“Alas, I am to tell you that your mighty device has all the magical power of a heap of Chnehl droppings!” Siyun laughed. “One can buy better fakes from the wandering peddlars in the marketplace. ’ ’
Harsan could only stare at him in stunned confusion. What had happened? Had Hele’a known the thing was useless? If so, the little Ghatoni would answer several pressing questions if ever he saw him again!
“The second gift is perhaps more to your taste.” Siyun produced a folded scrap of paper with a flourish. “Some swooning admirer, it seems, would speak to you of talents other than Llyani conjugations.”
Harsan glared but opened the note. It contained a crudely sketched clan emblem, that of the People of the High Pillar, a local winemakers’ clan. Below this was the next day’s date and the single word “sunset.” It bore no signature but ended with a crude and girlish drawing of a litter.
He hardly knew whether he was oveijoyed or dismayed. All that night he pondered the matter, his memories of the Lady Eyil pitting themselves like soldiers against his present absorption in his work and the warm cocoon of temple security in which he was so much more at ease. To go to her would be wonderful but might involve him in unforseen entanglements. Not to go… well, not to go would certainly be the wiser, safer course, the way to avoid imbroglios, possibly to make strides in his work, and to achieve rank and prestige in his temple…
Of course he went.
He found the clanhouse of the People of the High Pillar easily.
It was a landmark in the city’s teeming commercial section, a place of tall stone walls, rambling storehouses, many courtyards, and dark cellars from which CWen-carts rumbled forth groaning under their cargoes of sweet wine for all comers of the Empire. A rugged giant of a servitor admitted him to the outer portico where the common folk stood to purchase their clay jugs from the rows of perspiring clerks. A busy clan official asked his name, consulted a list, and had him ushered on into the warren of rooms within the building. Here chambers could be rented for short periods by those who preferred to hold their parties at a public-but discreet-place, rather than take their purchases home to drink. A silver Hlash or two bought privacy, and the vintners’ clans had connections with others who would provide food, music and dancing, and various entertainments.
The room he entered was long and pleasant, smelling of sharp wine and wooden casks and new cordage. The nearer end opened onto a verandah hung all about with vines and waxy-orange SaM^MM-flowers. Screens of grass matting were suspended along the farther walls, and these had been splashed with water to provide coolness. A sweep-fan stirred the turgid air overhead. The cords that drew it ran clucking along little pulleys to an aperture high up in the wall, behind which sat the fan-boy, unable to see or interfere with the activities within. Rumour had it that fan-boys had oversize ears, however, and a winemakers’ clanhouse was no place for meetings demanding real secrecy. The best of these establishments provided servitors who were deaf-and sometimes mute as well.
The Lady Eyil sat upon a dais beside the dripping grass mats, a little table before her spread with viands and bronze goblets. Harsan gazed upon her for a long moment, for she was much changed. Her Tumissan costume had been cast aside for the fashions of the capital. She wore a flounced floor-length skirt of gauzy blue Giidru- cloth, sandals of silvered leather with buckles shaped like laughing little Renyu faces, and a wide collar of stiff gold wire all decorated with filigree work and set with tiny stones. Her thick black hair was done in a single heavy tress bound about with ribbons of gold and blue, and this now hung down over one smooth, bare shoulder. Her breasts (not so small that they were not shapely, for all her apprehensions!) were painted with little curlique designs in many colours, and their dark nipples were rouged and touched with glittering mica dust. A street-cape of dark blue lay
