Gorel and the Pot Bellied God (6 page)

He did not see the other, the merchant’s apprentice, in the procession. He waited until the last of the mourners passed him. Then he continued on his way. His presence elicited some glances, but not too many – it was the time of carnival, after all, and there were many foreigners in the city, human and Merlangai, Diurnal and Ebong and Duraali, to mingle amongst the native falang, to drink and throw water and deal and trade in matters lawful or otherwise, and wench and drink – and that was what Gorel, too, intended to do, and so he headed away from the main road and into the side-streets, following a dank, scum-covered canal until he reached a long-house with a sign at the entrance that said, The Sorcerer’s Head: the sign further depicted a rather graphic image of a blood-dripping, human head with ethereal fire burning around it. The head was held in a hand possessed of long, green, webbed fingers. What long forgotten war, if any, the name was meant to celebrate Gorel didn’t know. But he appreciated the sentiment all the same. He did not approve of sorcerers.

He stepped through the open doors onto the long corridor. The long-house sat alongside the scummy canal, but its clientele was not interested in a water-side view, pretty or otherwise. The rooms first – some with their doors closed shut, others standing invitingly open. As he passed some he was aware of the overwhelming surge of stench in the air, a mixture of sweet-smelling smoke, cheap perfume, expensive perfume, cigars, rice whiskey, body sweat, piss, cleaning material, old blood, stale smoke to mix with the fresh one – a vista of smells he found intoxicating. The rooms were private universes, some inviting, some forbidden. In one he saw a Nocturne mistress, swathed in shadows, in her hand a burning whip, and at her feet an Ebong warrior, cowering, bowed, his moving feelers signifying excitement. In another, a huddle of species, each figure on its own, each with a mat and a dim brazier by its side, lying motionless, staring at the ceiling. He longed to join them. But not yet.

Other rooms: a group of naked women, laughing, two equally-naked falang boys moving between them like toys; in another a group of human males standing in a circle around two falang girls; in another a free-for-all, men, women, Ebong, a sleepy Diurnal being ridden by two Merlangai, one male and one female; more rooms where the stench of burning gods’ dust was overpowering, and Gorel breathed it in and shuddered, and almost stopped. But not yet.

In the long corridor those who wished a respite from the neverending orgy (or who found themselves coming short on the expense required) reclined on cushions, singly or in small groups. Servants passed with drinks. In the half-way point of the long house a long bar ran along the wall. Gorel saw behind it a cauldron of bubbling liquid. The bartender, a short, fat falang, looked up at him knowingly. ‘Falang-Et’s finest brew,’ he said. ‘Sorcerer’s Head’s Special Punch.’

‘What’s in it?’

‘What isn’t –’ the bartender smiled. His teeth looked like algae-covered, dying coral. ‘Alcohol. Sugar. Fruits of the season. And dust.’

Gods’ dust. He could taste it on his tongue, it burned his nostrils, and want of it, desire of it, clouded his mind. He found himself saying, ‘Give me a shot,’ and the bartender smiled wider and handed him a smoking glass. Gorel downed it in one. The feeling of it spread through him at once. The black kiss, the death-gift of the goddess Shar to her murderer. Her curse. But how good it felt. Better than sex, better than breathing. He would have stopped then, gone into one of the rooms, found a mat and a smoking brazier, and hooked himself up to one of the needles, surrendering to the black kiss’ oblivion, but for one thing: the thought of his lost home, the thought of Goliris, which brought him this far and would take him on yet, take him all the way back, until he returned, until he –

‘Hello, gunslinger,’ a husky voice murmured close to his ear. He turned and saw an uncertain shape, a figure clad in shadows: the Nocturne he had seen in the room, and she was still holding her flaming whip. ‘Looking for a good time?’

He looked at her curiously. Nocturnes kept mostly to themselves. He tried to guess at what shape lay beyond the darkness, catching glimpses here and there, a naked thigh, the hint of a breast, parts displayed and disappearing like a full bright moon behind an eclipse. He didn’t know what made him tell her the truth, so that when it came he surprised himself. ‘I’m looking for home,’ he said.

For a moment the shadows seemed to drop, and he caught the hint of a face, older than he supposed, and eyes deep and weary that matched his own. ‘Aren’t we all,’ she said, and abruptly she turned away, and the whip cracked and bled light; then she was gone.

‘You have a way with the ladies,’ the bartender said.

Gorel reached across the counter and grabbed his throat in one hand. The bartender gargled. ‘Keep your ears to yourself in future,’ Gorel said, squeezing, ‘if you don’t want to lose them.’ He released the choking falang, threw some money on the counter, and walked away. He had to admit it was a good punch they served here.

He stalked down the long corridor and was not disturbed. The door of the second room from the end was closed. He opened it and went in. Kettle and Sereli were standing by a window, looking out. They turned when they heard him come in.

‘Any problems?’ Kettle asked. Gorel shrugged. He did not bother to mention the funeral procession. ‘None so far.’

‘Good.’ The Avian turned back to the window, signalling for Gorel to come nearer. He moved towards them. Sereli smiled and squeezed his arm. ‘Out there,’ Kettle said, pointing. Gorel looked, and then looked up.

Wat Falang rose out of the marshy ground like an ill-begotten treasure chest. To call it gaudy would have been to use kindness, which was something Gorel did not possess in any great measure. It looked like someone had stolen a dragon’s hoard of precious stones and trinkets and then upended the whole collection onto the ground, and left it there. There were towers that looked like silver needles and walkways that glittered like strings of pearls, and outhouses that glittered in rainbows of jade and amethyst and rubies, and the whole ungainly thing shimmered in an eternal haze, a humid, suffocating cloud that glistened on the Wat’s walls like a silent, watchful, living ooze. It was a frog temple, and the home of the frog-tribes’ god. It was a maze of vegetation and marshy lanes and haphazard buildings, of gardens and workshops and prayer houses and storage hangars, kitchens and libraries and armouries and the falang god alone knew what else. It was a miniature city within the city of Falang-Et. And somewhere inside it, hidden, guarded, was the mirror. Perhaps it was a mere trinket to the god. Perhaps it lay in a roomful of treasures, of sorcerous items pillaged over the centuries, rings and swords and books and wands and all the other useless things sorcerers were so obsessed with making. Nothing beat a gun, when it came right down to it. As it might come down to yet. ‘Are you sure you only want to steal the mirror?’ Gorel said, and Kettle laughed. ‘I’ll take what we can find,’ he said. ‘But, yes. I seek mainly knowledge, which the mirror can provide. Not monetary gain. Well, not only, I should say.’

‘More for me, then,’ Sereli said.

‘As much as you can carry,’ Kettle agreed gravely, and Gorel laughed. Kerely stuck her tongue at him.

‘So where is it?’ Gorel said.

‘I can find out,’ Kettle said. Both men turned to her. She pirouetted on one foot and grinned at them. ‘I have a widowed aunt in town,’ she said, ‘who is
very
devout. If anyone knows the layout of the temple it would be her. I met her once down river, a few years ago. She might talk.’

‘So will you go to her?’

Kettle’s smile, Gorel had learned, could look as truly innocent as it was devious underneath. ‘Oh, I doubt she’d have much interest in me, the old bitch,’ she said.

‘But –?’ both Gorel and Kettle said simultaneously.

‘But,’ Sereli said, ‘she might be amenable to a bribe –’ and she leered, and her eyes were on Gorel – ‘at least, if you can prove your worth to her, O Most Holy Questing Knight.’

His name was Sir Drake of Kir-Bell, Kir-Bell being a minor principality in the far west, known mainly for a type of wine called draeken, which the people of that place make with the aid of their small population of indentured tree-sprites, who are remanded under Kir-Bell’s rule for their own safety. The process, which is not in the least – so say Kir-Bell’s master fermenters – painful, involves the annual slow bleeding of the sprites, said liquid being collected carefully into vats, and then left to brew by secret means. The resultant liqueur, the draeken, is much prized but seldom seen outside of that principality. It was a measure of the grave respect Sir Drake clearly felt for Mistress Sinlao of the Third Pond Lineage, that on visiting her at her modest abode he brought with him a small vial of the stuff.

Mistress Sinlao resided in an imposing, and not in the least bit modest, if truth be told, abode not far from the walls of Wat Falang, but in the opposite direction to the Sorcerer’s Head. Where the Head was squalid and dank, Mistress Sinlao’s place was opulent and airy; where it was dubious, Mistress Sinlao’s place was a lesson in respectability. It was a short while, then, before the similarities between the two places made its appearance to the knight.

‘Please, do come in, sir knight!’ The arms that dragged him in were soft and plump. Their owner looked like a well-fed toad, though he was not sure toads could beam in such a disconcerting way. ‘It is so wonderful to have such a distinguished visitor as yourself at our humble house! Please, follow me! We have so much to talk about!’

Mistress Sinlao (of the Third Pond Lineage) was effusive; she smelled of pond-water and expensive perfume; her skin was a dark, mottled green; she wore heavy rings on her fingers and her scalp was an imposing bald dome. She held him close to her as she led him through the gate and into the large garden that lay beyond. She also kept a running monologue, and an assumption that her visitor had a deep abiding interest in horticulture: ‘And over here we have the samtora flowers, very rare, their natural habitat is in Quicksilver Lake beyond Der Danang – we’re
most
fortunate to have obtained these specimens, you know, they are said to aid
procreation
–’ here a big, lusty laugh which made him uncomfortable – ‘oh, and these, not much to look at them, are they, they’re called
urnak-dorn
by the natives of Duraal – they do have the most
barbarous
language, don’t you think? – but quite wonderful, used by their medicine men for the aid of –’

‘Procreation?’ Sir Drake said, and Mistress Sinlao whooped a laugh and said, ‘How did you guess?’

Most of the plants and flowers in the garden, as it transpired, were of a nature to aid reproduction; which made Sir Drake uncomfortable all over again, though he couldn’t quite say why. The gardens were spacious and extensive. Above them the house rose like an imposing jade monument. There were many windows but one could not see through them. There were balconies with no one sitting on them. The doors to the building were high and imposing and closed. The house sat there like a silent, closed-eyed toad; and yet Sir Drake had the feeling that, at any moment, the doors of its mouth might open, and a long tongue would snake out, and snap him up, and swallow him inside. ‘The Gorgol Saber plants only flower at night,’ Mistress Sinlao said conversationally, ‘when the river tides are high and the moon is waning. All other sorts of conditions too. Very useful plants.’

‘Procreation?’

‘Colds. I do tend to suffer in the rainy season. Come, sit.’ There was an open green parasol and a table underneath it and three chairs. Sir Drake took one, and Mistress Sinlao another. ‘My niece,’ Mistress Sinlao said, with only the barest hint of distaste in her voice, ‘told me you are on a quest.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Do you mind me asking where you met the little half-breed?’ the distaste was now palatable.

‘She ran into me,’ Sir Drake said, ‘trying to liberate me of my valuables, as it happens.’

Mistress Sinlao snorted. ‘I hope you gave her a good hiding.’

‘I did what was necessary.’

Mistress Sinlao grinned. ‘I hope you made it long,’ she said. ‘And hard.’

‘She didn’t complain,’ Sir Drake said, and Mistress Sinlao burped another laugh. ‘I think you’ll do,’ she said cryptically. ‘I think you’ll do just fine.’ She raised her hand and snapped long, fat fingers. ‘A drink, Sir Drake?’

‘That would be most pleasant.’

‘One must never forget the duty of hospitality,’ Mistress Sinlao said. ‘Although here in this House, we prefer to think of it as a… pleasure.’

Sir Drake nodded. A girl materialised – where had she come from? A side door? Or had she been waiting unseen for a summons in the garden? – and brought over a tray. She was falang, with pale, almost translucent skin, and her eyes were large and frightened. Mistress Sinlao dismissed her without a word being spoken. She poured a fizzing blue drink into two tall glasses, and raised one glass in toast. Sir Drake mimicked her, and they drank. It made Sir Drake’s lips and tongue go numb for a minute after he drank it. A dark bird-shape flew overhead.