“Onker!”
I stared at her in puzzlement. “Mother Firben?”
A short, stout woman, she shook her head in perennial female disbelief at men’s stupidity. She bustled forward. She whipped out a particularly long and vicious-looking needle and — snick! — in it went. At once the pain vanished.
She nodded with satisfaction and went to work on my wound. Mother Firben could not know that thanks to my dip in the Pool of Baptism in far Aphrasöe any wounds I collected adventuring around on Kregen healed with incredible speed. And, anyway, in my line of work pain is something you have to turn to your own advantage. Given a few days the wound would have healed of itself, and the pain would have vanished. I said, meekly: “Thank you, Mother Firben.”
She just clicked that needle-sharp tongue around against her teeth and finished tying the yellow bandage.
As to the leather brass-studded jack, one of Ranaj’s men had already taken that off to the armory for repair.
That, of course, made me think of the two swords that had broken in combat. Think, I may add, very darkly indeed, very darkly indeed, by Krun!
“The Kurin-forsaken blades,” I growled. “I just hope the two braxters Dimpy took don’t break so easily for him.”
The steel of the trident that had wounded me was of good Lohvian quality, apparent at once. The name Prodigal within a frame of chiseled decoration, I recalled, appeared a mere part of that decoration and unreadable to any but those who had studied the old manuscripts out of the Empire of Walfarg — and to me equipped with the Savanti gift of languages. A kind of half-regret passed over me. The trident was lying about somewhere, unless, as was far more probable, one of Naghan the Barrel’s people had picked it up as a likely weapon. At least, Prodigal wasn’t going to snap in two at the most awkward time of a fight.
When Tiri’s answer came and I found a silver Bhin for the messenger, I first went down to the armory. Ranaj in his open numim way told me to select the best weapon I could find. Fweygo came with me to offer sound advice. In the upshot I had to content myself with a couple of the ordinary braxters of the country, without a scrap of confidence in either.
Still, I still had belted on the rapier and main gauche, the Jiktar and the hikdar. Would they, I brooded uneasily, be of any real use if I confronted that monstrous red-robed thing?
Whatever uncanny manifestation it was, no reports of anyone sighting it came in — it might as well have ceased to exist. Word from the runnels seeped up to the hills well enough. Maybe, and the grisly thought chilled, everyone — apart from the folk in the lifter — had been torn to bits by the creature. I wasn’t at all sure Byrom had seen it and I certainly did not want to question him quite yet.
That red-robed maniac monstrosity spelled trouble. Trying to push the Djan-condemned thing out of my mind, I hitched up my swords, and took myself off to the Shrine of Cymbaro and Tirivenswatha.
Now what did the little madam want?
They did not ask me to remove my weapons in the Temple of Cymbaro the Just. Had they done so in this cloistered sanctuary I would in the normal civilized way have had no objection. Remembering the attacks and the fights that had flowered in blood all along these arcades and flower beds the first time I was here, I might have remonstrated with the priests.
The young priest, who’d greeted Tiri and me on that occasion, called Logan, smiled. “You are welcome, Drajak the Sudden.”
I acknowledged his greeting and we passed through the outer courtyards where the peace of this place could be felt as a tangible presence of the spirit. He conducted me to an inner chamber simply furnished where soft drinks and fruits lay appetizingly on a small table. “San Paynor and Tiri will be here shortly. Now I ask you to excuse me. I have duties.”
“Certainly, San Logan. And thank you.”
Whatever the young madam wanted, they were making an occasion of it, that was certain sure, by Opaz.
Presently San Paynor appeared and with him Tiri. The san was dressed as I expected, in a long brown robe. He did not lean too heavily on his curiously carved staff. Surprising me, though, Tiri, instead of her attractive shape charmingly displayed in a shamlak, wore a brown robe down to her feet. When she walked I noticed her feet were bare. Every scrap of her hair was covered by a brown four-pointed cap. She wore no jewelry of any kind.
After the polite greetings had been exchanged, San Paynor said: “I owe you not one but two thanks, Drajak.”
“Oh?”
“We of Cymbaro abhor fighting but will fight if it is just in the eyes of Cymbaro. Your actions here were praiseworthy—”
“I chance interrupting you, san,” I said, interrupting. “These thanks are entirely unnecessary. My actions were necessary.”
His thin face betrayed a quiver of a smile. “Indeed. You know San Padria?”
San Padria I had met on the road with his protégé, Nath. A pair of shoes had exchanged feet. I nodded, guessing what was to come, and so was able to say: “Again thanks are unnecessary, as I indicated at the time. Rather, as I said, my thanks were due to San Padria for so graciously accepting the shoes.”
Again he smiled. “I think Tiri has chosen wisely in you.”
Some of the old Dray Prescot abruptness sharpened my words. “Yes. Just what is it you have in mind for me, young lady?”
Before Tiri could speak, Paynor said: “There are many things about us you do not know. Tiri is a temple dancer, true. But she has a higher vocation.”
Very soon after meeting Tiri I’d sensed there was a lot more to her than appeared. From the way she was dressed I’d had a sudden startled thought she was to be the victim in some pagan sacrifice. Still, that wouldn’t be in accordance with what I knew of Cymbaro the Just.
San Paynor went on to tell me that certain women had strange powers. Well, by Vox! All women have strange powers over men. Paynor indicated that Tiri could become a mystic, which didn’t surprise me. He wouldn’t say more than that about her actual powers.
Again I asked what she wanted me to do.
There was to be a ceremony. The way they explained it, Tiri would have to undergo some complicated and extremely arcane rites. In this ritual pain was involved. From past experience the priests were aware that these young girls could not stand that pain. So they had champions who, in some spiritual way, linked up and drew off the pain leaving the girls free to concentrate on absorbing the knowledge of the keys to unlock the powers within their brains and spirits.
“To choose as champion someone outside the temple is so unusual as not to have been heard of before. But Tiri insists.”
“I do!” flared Tiri. So I saw there had been an unholy row before she’d got her own way.
The whole business was somber and serious. Paynor warned me that if a champion failed his lady, then: “The full weight will fall on her. Her mind and ib will be blasted forever. This is a most serious responsibility, Drajak.”
Tiri turned her head to look up at me appealingly.
“You will agree, won’t you, Drajak?”
There was no room in this place, it seemed to me, to call upon Makki Grodno or the Divine Lady of Belschutz. All the same—
“Yes, Tiri, and thank you for the honor.”
And if you want to call me a creep, then a Herrelldrin Hell take you!
More surprises were to follow. The Temple of Cymbaro on the surface was indeed a small and insignificant structure compared to the grandiose temples and palaces around. I had penetrated into almost the whole of the ground area by now. A group of brown clad priests entered and bowed. They formed an escort for the san and Tiri as we left the chamber. We went down. By Vox! We went down all right.
Spacious rooms were here piled one upon another connected by wide staircases. This subterranean temple was rather like an inverted skyscraper, an earthscraper, perhaps. Everything I saw appeared tasteful. There was no vulgar ostentation, as Sjames would say. Soft light from samphron oil lamps illuminated and enhanced the decorations. The air tasted sweet upon the tongue. I followed on, silently, down and down.
Just about every hill in Oxonium was honeycombed with tunnels and secret chambers. In this the builders merely followed the custom of Kregen in providing palaces and temples with many secret passages. The color schemes soothed. Down we went. The gravity of the situation was not lost on me, yet I felt calm in face of the ordeal before me.
We reached a chamber draped somberly in earth brown. Lamps glowed in chandeliers. At the far end an altar reared a single black block. I could see no ominous bloodstains there.
There was no idol.
Six girls were waiting, all dressed in brown gowns, with flowers woven into their hair and in loops and belts about their waists. They carried Tiri off through a side door. At the door she half-turned and favored me with a smile that trembled her lips. I nodded.
A man approached San Paynor. His brown robe was tightly belted and he carried two swords and daggers. He was apim, with a face pale with passion, gaunt, the face of a man obsessed, driven by the needs of the spirit. His very intentness appalled.
“San.” He bowed.
“I have tried, Duven, as Cymbaro is my witness, I have tried.”
Duven’s strong hands clenched, clenched and relaxed, shaking.
“But it is against all tradition, all we believe in. Cymbaro the Just is the only true force in all the world! We cannot gainsay him! We are of Cymbaro. We are of the Just.”
“Some of what you say is true, Duven. But not all. We do not gainsay Cymbaro, for we follow the precepts. The chosen girl has the right to choose her own champion.”
The trembling passion in this Duven struck out like a physical force. He was controlling himself only by the exercise of will. His dark eyes surveyed me with a distant, all-encompassing look.
“And this is the man, this is the champion. He is not of Cymbaro.”
“He has proved himself.”
“A pair of shoes!”
“Aye. And in the battle for us all here.”
Duven lifted a fist, helplessly. “I was on my way back from Farinsee!”
“There is no blame attached to you, Duven.”
San Paynor’s words were calm and strong. He would not be deflected. He had asked Tiri and she had insisted on having me. This Duven would have been Tiri’s champion had I not turned up. Then, and I felt with a genuine emotion, he acquiesced. He bowed his head.
“It is the will of Cymbaro, before which everything — everything! — must bow. Cymbaro the Just must rule the world!”
He took a few paces towards me and stuck out his hand. As we shook, he said: “I wish you well, in the sacred name. Bear yourself bravely. Tirivenswatha has the gifts. Do not fail her.”
“All that I can do, that I shall do. I swear.”
He nodded and stepped back, satisfied. His very fanaticism drove him on to the greater glory of Cymbaro, and in the grip of that over-riding passion he would do anything for Cymbaro.
The priests took up positions around the walls, and Logan and Duven joined them. Paynor and I waited in the center. He said: “Duven is so unlike his twin brother, Drendi. He went off to be a paktun when Duven joined us in Cymbaro. One is intense and passionate, thin, the other easy-going and stout. Sometimes twins are like that, totally dissimilar.”
I did not say that any paktun worth his salt is not too easygoing, and stout mercenaries slim down after a few battles, until they become crumblies. I stood lightly, waiting for Tiri and what was to happen.
Presently more dignitaries entered the room. They moved with the deliberate motions of people who knew exactly what they were doing and the reasons for each action. Other priests high in the hierarchy joined Paynor. Priestesses, too, formed in their allotted places. Paynor told me I must remove all my weapons and clothes. They put a long brown gown over me which was wrapped loosely across the front. A small orchestra trooped in and took station to the side. The preparations were made. The silence rang profoundly in all our ears.
A trumpet blasted. The silver notes soared, hovered, died.
A bevy of flower clad maidens entered, escorting Tiri.
They opened out to allow her to glide gracefully into the central space. The music began, low at first, swirling, beating, growing in tempo and violence.
And Tiri danced.
She wore flowers. In any other circumstance the eroticism of her dance would have shrieked to the skies. Here, the dance expressed the true joy of Cymbaro, the flowering of life, of happiness, of a oneness with all created things upon Kregen. I watched as she moved, seductive, more voluptuous in her sinuous twinings than any Sylvie, enraptured within herself, beautiful.
When at last the dance ended and Tiri sank down, head bowed, one leg tucked beneath her, the other extended, her arms reaching out before her, I felt emotionally purified.
Not a sound disturbed the silence of that subterranean chamber.
Like the astonishing smash of a bolt of lightning a flame leaped up beyond the altar. The trumpet pealed. I was led forward to the altar where Tiri was conducted by her handmaidens. We met.
Stone steps were cut into the block. We two ascended. Many hands removed my gown and wove ropes of flowers about us. Tiri would not look at me. We stood, firmly pressed together, as the scented blooms formed their coils about us.
Music continued to play in a slow languorous melody. The priests chanted in sonorous levels and the priestesses joined their voices to soar above the melodies like larks ascending into the blue.
My surroundings became hazy. I knew I held Tiri in my arms, as she held me. I could hear the deep strong voices of priests chanting, and more felt than saw San Paynor and a sweet-faced woman laying their hands upon Tiri. The flame writhed silently. I felt heat, cold, dryness, dampness. Tiri moaned. Something like a red-hot sword drove cleanly through my midriff.
The world turned corpse white before my face.
I was standing on the quarterdeck of a little sixty-gun ship not fit to sail in the line and a monstrous great hundred and twenty-gun four-decker sailed effortlessly past our stern. In turn, gun after gun, he raked us. A stern rake, a destroying broadside that pulverized the ship, whirled in a conflagration of iron, smoke and flame.