Party fiddles and the priesthoods dance; how the Military Party sings sweetly in our Emperor’s ear of conquests in Yan Kor and the re-establishment of the halcyon days of the Bednalljan kings; how the Imperialist Party in Avanthar sulks and waits to pounce upon posts closer to the Petal Throne; how the royal Prince Eselne diddles and dallies with Misenla, High Priestess of Hrihayal in Bey Sii; how his brothers pout and glower, and the youngest, Dhich’une, yearns to call up all the undead demons of accursed Sarku and give the land over to the Mysteries of the Worm. I could whisper of certain heirs to the throne who are as yet unrevealed, kept secret by the Emperor and his Omnipotent Azure Legion until the time is ripe for them to be brought forth… All of these things I can tell and more; yet of this present instance I have less knowledge than an eel-fisher in the swamps of Tsehelnu.”
The Prior fixed Kurrune with a steady eye. “So you know not what dance is being danced, or which piper plays the tune? I would not have Harsan hurt, Kurrune. I know that you are not accountable for this transfer to the capital, nor can I exact the compensation of Shamtla blood-money if he is brought low through some scheming. Yet I do beg of you, as we both love the Lord of Wisdom, to keep ear clapped to earth and eye to door-crack, as I know you do in any case, and warn the lad of ill portents. This much I ask of you out of old friendship.”
“You have my oath on it.” Kurrune solemnly stretched forth his right palm, and Haringgashte pressed his own to it. Together the two men moved down the aisle between the looming, black-shadowed shapes.
Behind them a tapestry rustled. It might have been the “Silent Walker of the Night.”
Chapter Five
The Great Council of the Temples had been summoned to meet in the Palace of the Priesthoods of the Realm at one hour after sunrise. As usual, it began most tardily. The square-pillared portico at the eastern end of the chamber had first let in the cool, ruddy light of dawn to finger the blue and gold traceries of the ceiling. Now the hot, pale glare of midday pressed through the gauze curtains lowered by the attendants, and sunlight lay upon the flags nearest the columns like puddles of molten brass. The parched odour of summer hung upon the air, underlaid by the darker effluvia of the Missuma River. Here, high above Bey Sii, the breeze brought the clean smells of ripening crops from beyond Patyel’s Walls, and these mingled with the fragrances of woodsmoke, charcoal, cooking spices, incense, the vast markets, and the less-pleasing redolences of sewers and open gutters and crowded humanity, all baking together under the midsummer sun.
Humidity streamed up from below, too, where the jumbled wharves on the western bank of the river extended out through the yellow mudflats like the fingers of a drowning man through quicksand. Legions of slaves toiled there upon their dredges, endlessly clearing the channels for the galleys and the many-sailed ships that brought trade-and life itself-down from Avanthar in the north and up from Jakalla and the great ocean far to the south. Even through the gauzy drapes the heat shimmered from the blue slate roofs of the city, from the high spires of the temples, each set upon its pyramid above the stews below, from the long colonnades and the offices of the Imperial bureaucracies, from the domes and cupolas of the mansions of the nobles and the high clans, and from the distant walls and turrets of the governor’s palace, set like a gem in a ring within its preciously cool trees and parks, outside the city to the north.
Lord Durugen hiNashomai, the High Adept of the Temple of Thumis in Bey Sii, was already hot. The rustling robes of grey Giidru — cloth were stifling enough, but the ceremonial headdress of lacquered Chlen — hide and gold slowly drove a spike of dull pain down through his forehead. The Gods must love suffering to see their devotees tortured so! But, then, why involve the Gods? Man was marvellously expert at creating pain for himself.
The stiff brocade of the coif of his headdress prevented him from turning his head unless he twisted his entire torso. He did so, hoping that his colleagues in the High Council were all present and ready for the business that had summoned them here. The sooner done, the sooner back within the cool depths of the Temple of Eternal Knowing. The sooner a cup of dewy, chilled Chumetl. The sooner a nap.
Along the northern wall of the chamber stood five daises: stepped pyramids blazoned with the colours and insignia of the Tlomitlanyal, the Five Lords of Stability. There was the white of Hnalla, the grey of his own good Lord Thumis, the scarlet and gold of the war-god Karakan, the sky-blue of the goddess Avanthe, and the yellow of Belkhanu. Across the mosaic floor five identical daises lined the southern wall. These bore the blazons of the Tlokiriqaluyal, the Five Lords of Change, the counterparts of the Tlomitlanyal: the deep purple of Hrii’u, the flame- orange of Vimuhla, the black of Ksarul, the earth-brown of Sarku, and the emerald green of Lady Dlamelish. The High Adept of the Temple of Lord Ksarul, directly opposite Lord Durugen, had taken off his ritual silver mask in the heat. They nodded to one another with exaggerated courtesy. La, two rival suitors for the same maiden, Lord Durugen thought wryly.
He shifted to look down at the lower daises of the Hlimekluyal, the “Cohorts,” lesser deities who each served one of the Great Gods. Directly below Lord Durugen the sunlight made a bronze helmet of the bald pate of Elkhome hiBriyenu, the High Priest of Thumis’ Cohort, Lord Ketengku. The priests and scribes of Ketengku’s dais wore grey and white. Those of the other Cohorts of the Lords of Stability similarly wore white bordered with the colour of the deity their master served-all except for Dra the Uncaring, Cohort of Lord Hnalla, whose dais was decked in an indifferent white and tan. The five Cohorts of the Lords of Change were blazoned similarly in purple joined with the colour of their particular divine Master or Mistress.
In the deeper shadows at the far western end of the hall a single dais rose above all the rest. This was draped with the royal blue and gold of the Second Imperium, the dynasty ruled by Hirkane hiTlakotani, the Sixty- First Emperor of Tsolyanu. A golden disc, the replica of the Seal of the Imperium, hung like a miniature golden sun near the ceiling there. Today the Imperium would be represented by Lord Muresh hiQolyelmu, Prefect of the Omnipotent Azure Legion in Bey Sii. Lord Durugen was relieved to see that this worthy was already in place. Trust that the special servitors of the Emperor were never late!
A chamberlain sat on the topmost step of the Imperial dais, just below Lord Muresh. His duty was to speak for his superior, for Lord Muresh, like all members of the higher Circles of the Omnipotent Azure Legion, was a deaf-mute, made so in infancy in order that he might better devote himself to his Emperor-and speak no secrets of the Golden Tower at Avanthar. Thus had been the custom since the founding of the Empire some 2,358 years ago.
Lord Muresh spoke with his chamberlain through an intricate code of finger gestures. The chamberlain turned back to the room and struck two clappers of wood together. Lord Durugen sighed and rubbed his long, ascetic fingers. Now, at the age of sixty-two years, his extremities sometimes remained cold even when the summer heat danced upon the land like the nimbus of fire above an alchemist’s crucible. The helmet was a crown of stones upon his skull.
The susurrus of conversation died away. The scribes and functionaries on the lower daises ceased their gossip. Attendants and lesser priests moved silken-footed along the central aisle between the two rows of daises, down the narrow passages between them, and around to the back of the chamber where knots of lesser folk stood to listen and to ogle the mighty. Over all, high up under the inlaid roof beams, hung the hum of the ever-present Chri- flies.
There was no introductory ceremony-a relief. Lord Muresh, it was said, disliked lengthy rituals. The chamberlain consulted a document and signalled with his clappers to Lord Mirigga hiDuIumesa, High Adept of the Temple of Hrii’ii, he of the purple dais.
Lord Mirigga was a small, gnomish man, almost buried in his stiff, richly worked robe of purple, his features concealed by the black velvet mask decreed by his sect for state occasions. He stood up.
“My Lords, let us open the matter for which we come, and let us close it as speedily. We ail have other business.” He was totally motionless, except for one slender, ivory-hued hand which made chopping gestures in the air to emphasise each point. His words were abrupt and precise, snapped off as a man bites off sections of sweet Mnosa-too. Lord Durugen had disliked him roundly for a score of years-and never remembered quite why.
Lord Mirigga now raised both arms, a histrionic gesture meant to stress his thesis. “The issue is a simple one: the Temple of Thumis holds certain ancient artifacts found at Urmish. We of the Temple of lord Hru’ii have submitted our case in writing to the Imperium to demonstrate that they belong not to Thumis but to us. You have seen our arguments and the proofs thereof. Let the Imperium decide this, so that we may all go home.”
This was much too fast a dance! Lord Durugen struggled to his feet, silently cursing his elaborate vestments and all of the ornaments and pectorals that jingled and dangled from them. He stretched out his arms for
