Hammer Of God (35 page)

Dexterity shook his head. “Don't be silly. I'm coming with you.”

Into Jatharuj? To see Vortka? Maybe to see Yuma and Dmitrak after? “Wei. Wei. You stay in boat.”

“I can't,” said Dexterity, staring. “Weren't you listening, back in Kingseat? I'm responsible for you, I can't let you go traipsing off alone. Besides, when we get home I have to be able to say I saw with my own eyes what happened here. Nobody's going to take your word for it, Zandakar. Someone like that Gutten will call you a liar and that'll be that.”

He did not want Dexterity in Jatharuj, it was too dangerous, Dexterity was his friend. He looked at the witch-man. “Sun-dao can come.”

“Don't be ridiculous. Sun-dao's unconscious! And even if we could wake him, he needs to stay in the boat and rest if we're to have any hope of getting home. Anyway, he's Emperor Han's witch-man. The ambassadors won't believe him any more than they'll believe you. But I'm Mister Jones, the burning man of Ethrea. They've seen me and my miracles. They won't dare call me a liar.”

Dexterity sounded bitter, he did not sound pleased to be a miracle man. He was in his god's eye, he did not want to be there.

“Dexterity—”

“Wei,” said the toymaker. “I'm going with you and that's final. I can tell you it's what Hettie would want. And Rhian.”

Hettie and Rhian, there was no arguing with both of them. Zandakar sighed and pressed his fingers to his face. A small pain pulsed behind his eyes. “Tcha, Dexterity. Zho. You come.” He doused the lamp. “We row.”

They rowed, not smoothly, too much splashing at first. Zandakar had to work hard to match his pull with Dexterity's, the older man was slower, he did not have the same reach. They entered the harbour, it was crowded with warships, crowded so close it was hard to row between them. Zandakar felt his beating heart falter. There were warships enough here to carry the largest warhost in Mijak's history.

If I fail in Jatharuj they will sail to Ethrea, they will sail into Kingseat, the kingdom will fall.

The words were like a tasking, he felt beaten by his thoughts.

I am one man, I am Zandakar, I am outcast from my kind. How can I stop them? How can I make Vortka listen to me?

He did not know, the god must see him. It must see him in its helping eye.

See me, god, see me save Mijak for you and for Yuma. See me save it for Vortka and for Dimmi. For me.

They reached the dock. There were torches burning, showing spaces between the ships, wide enough for the small Tzhung boat's passage. Zandakar rowed looking over his shoulder, with hisses and grunts he told Dexterity how to row. At last, with a gentle thud, a kiss of wood on wood, the Tzhung boat struck an empty sliver of pier between two looming Mijaki warships.

They had reached Jatharuj.

It was an awkward scramble to get out of the Tzhung boat, there were no steps, they banged their knees and scraped their fingers. They stood on the pier and stared down at Sun-dao in the boat. The witchman did not stir, his chest barely moved with breathing.

“He looks dreadful,” whispered Dexterity. “As good as dead. Are you sure it's safe to leave him?”

Safe? What was safe? They were in Mijak where every warrior wanted to kill them. He was a warrior with no snakeblade at his side.

“We must, zho?” he said, shrugging.

Dexterity sighed. “Zho. We must.”

They turned their backs on silent Sun-dao and walked along the empty pier towards the streets of Jatharuj.

There were warriors at the gates guarding Jatharuj harbour. Zandakar felt Dexterity falter, heard his uneven breath as they came upon the torchlight and the warriors standing guard in the night. He took the toymaker's wrist in a warning grasp, fingers tight. In the spreading torchlight Dexterity's eyes were wide with fear.

“Trust Sun-dao,” he whispered. “These warriors wei see us.”

Lips tight, Dexterity nodded. There was sweat on his forehead. They walked past the guards as though the warriors were blind, or dead. Looking at their faces, Zandakar did not know them.

These are Dmitrak's warriors, they do not belong to me.

They left the harbour behind and made their way like mist along the dark winding street that led to the township. As they drifted silent and unseen in the night, Dexterity sniffed.

“What's that smell? It's not the harbour, or the ocean. It's something else. Something…”

Zandakar breathed deeply, he felt his old life stir. He knew what it was, he did not want to say.

“It's blood!” said Dexterity, he sounded horrified. He stood still. “I can smell blood, Zandakar. It's not fresh, it's old, as though the stink of it has soaked into the air itself.” His fingertips touched the stonework beside him. “Into the streets and the walls of the buildings.”

“It is Mijak, Dexterity,” he replied, his voice low, stopping also. “We are in Mijak, Mijak smells of blood.”

So many godmoons in a strange place, so long since he had breathed Mijak's blood-touched air. He let his head fall back, he breathed in his home, he breathed it out. Memories surged and swirled, with his eyes closed this could be Et-Raklion.

But Et-Raklion does not smell of salt also, there is only blood there. In Et-Raklion I did not hide in the wind, I rode the streets in the god's eye, as its warlord, I feared nothing and no-one, I did not wear shadows. I was the god's hammer there, I wore its gauntlet of power. Aieee, god, so much has changed. I have changed, I am a stranger.

“Zandakar,” said Dexterity, and tugged at his sleeve. “Zandakar, what's the matter?”

He opened his eyes. “Nothing.”

“It's so silent, this place,” said Dexterity, voice hushed. “As though the township's deserted. Kingseat's never this quiet, even in the small hours. There's always something going on.” He looked around them. “Silent, practically pitch black. There's not a soul stirring, Zandakar. Can this be right, or has something gone amiss?”

Zandakar shook his head. “Wei. This is chalava-takrazik.” Dexterity stared at him, not understanding. He could not think of Ethrean words to explain the quiet time. “Men sleep. Chalava in the world. Sunrise come, men in the world.”

Dexterity was frowning. “You mean it's a kind of curfew?”

Curfew. He did not know that word. He shrugged. “Zho. Maybe.”

“Well, if everyone's indoors, Zandakar, if no-one's out and about, how do you think we're supposed to find this Vortka of yours?”

He shrugged. “Chalava.”

“Of course,” muttered Dexterity, pulling a face. “Chalava. Silly question, Jones.”

Zandakar started walking again, and Dexterity walked with him. They walked to the end of the narrow, crooked street where it joined a wider street that sloped up from the harbour, leading towards the main township of Jatharuj.

At the end of the narrow crooked street stood a godpost.

Dexterity gasped. Yellow light played over the godpost, a torch had been left burning so it might be seen in the night. The torch was burning down, flickering and inconstant.

“What's that?” said Dexterity. “It's – it's horrible. So ugly. Grotesque.”

“Chalava,” Zandakar whispered, and dropped to the ground. There was pain as his knees struck the stone street, he welcomed it, he gave it to the god. An offering. A sacrifice. “Chalava, Dexterity.”

“Oh,” said Dexterity, his voice sounded small.

Zandakar felt sinning to kneel before it, no godbraids, no godbells, no amulets. He stared up at the scorpion, at the coiled snake of Et-Raklion, he stared at the god's face and felt tears in his eyes.

I am here, god, do you see me? You called me, your voice was in my heart. I am come to Mijak, show me what to do.

In the night's silence, the sound of leather soles slapping the street.

“Get up, get up,” said Dexterity. “Quickly. Some-one's coming!”

He stood. Dexterity grabbed his arm, tried to drag him away, but he resisted.

“Zandakar, what are you doing? I know those guards didn't see us but Sun-dao's poorly, who knows how long his power to keep us hidden will—”

“Wei, Dexterity,” he said. “Hush. Chalava hides us.”

The slapping sound came closer. Closer. A slight, robed figure stepped out of the night, it was a godspeaker novice, he served the god in the quiet time of Jatharuj. Strapped to his back was a bundle of fresh, unlit torches. As they watched, unseen in the god's eye, hidden in the wind, the novice took the almost spent torch from its holder, touched the fresh torch to its guttering flame, and when the new flame was strongly burning put the fresh torch in the holder.

Sun-dao had said touch would reveal them, if they desired it. Zandakar stepped forward and took the novice's wrist. “I am Zandakar, I must see the high godspeaker.” He spoke in their own tongue, in the sweet voice of Mijak.

“Aieee, the god see me!” cried the novice, dropping the spent torch. “A demon, a demon!”

“Zandakar, have you lost your mind?” said Dexterity. “What are you doing?”

The novice could not hear the toymaker, but it was foolish to speak. He silenced Dexterity with a look then tightened his hold on the novice's wrist and dragged him close, till they were touching. “I am no demon, novice. You do not know my face, you must know my name.”

“Zandakar,” said the novice, his voice was thin and high. So young, he was a child still, the godhouse must be desperate. “But Zandakar is dead, the god smote him for sinning. You are a demon, I die strong in the god.”

Tcha. Lies told about him, who had done that? “I am no demon, I did not die. The god used me for its purpose and brings me here to Vortka.” He could break this child, he could snap him like a dry bone. “Will you thwart the god and die, novice?”

The novice's mouth opened and closed, he looked like a caught fish. His eyes rolled, he looked witless, fear had stolen his wits.

Zandakar shook him. “Serve me and you serve the god. You will not be tasked for it, you will be rewarded by Vortka.”

“The empress – the empress—”

“The empress is my mother, she is in the god's eye and so is her son Zandakar. Take me to Vortka high godspeaker, novice. If I lie he will know it and you will see me cast down. Vortka has the god's power over demons, his scorpion pectoral will kiss me to death.”

As the novice frowned, considering those words, Dexterity cleared his throat. “Zandakar, do you know what you're doing?”

He nodded, but did not speak so the novice would not be further frightened. Poor child, he was too young for this business.

Tcha. That is an Ethrean thought, we are in Mijak, the god chose him for the godhouse. He is not too young, he is a man in the god's eye.

“I will take you to Vortka,” said the sweating novice. “And if you lie he will kill you.”

“What did he say?” said Dexterity. “I can't understand a word of his gibberish!”

If he said one word in Ethrean the novice would think it was demon-tongue, and flee. So he shook his head at Dexterity, then crooked a finger to say he must follow.

“Oh dear,” said Dexterity, fretting. “I do hope you know what you're doing…”

The novice led them through the silent streets, they did not see another godspeaker or warrior or slave or any foolish sinner defying the quiet time. They were in the god's eye, it wanted them to reach Vortka. They walked in silence, they walked swiftly, up the steepening streets towards the shadowy buildings that overlooked the town.

“There is the godhouse of Jatharuj,” said the novice at last, slowing and pointing ahead to a tall building set back from the roadway. A wall encircled it, there were trees and a garden. It did not look like a godhouse, it had two great godposts at the gates, but it looked like a home some rich man might own. “Vortka is in the godhouse, he prays always to the god.”

The godhouse of Jatharuj had many windows, light shone through four of them. The god's business continued through the night, no godhouse in Mijak was permitted to sleep.

“Take me inside,” said Zandakar. “Take me to Vortka.”

“Oh, I don't like this,” whispered Dexterity. “My mouth's so dry I can't spit.”

The novice sighed, and nodded. “Come. I will take you.”

Five paces inside the godhouse the novice was challenged by a godspeaker who was burning golden cockerel feathers in an iron wall shrine. “Banto, what do you do here? You are tasked to work the quiet time, newsun is not arrived.”

The novice Banto flinched. “Ardachek godspeaker, I am…alone.” It was almost a question, his gaze darted left and right.

Ardachek stared. “Yes, novice, you are alone. Why are you here?”

Banto slumped, he stared at the floor. “The god sends me to Vortka high godspeaker.”

Ardachek did not challenge the claim. No godspeaker, not even a childish novice, would dare to say such a thing if it was not true.

“Why?” he said. “Have you sinned? Do you seek tasking?”

Banto looked up. Fishlike again, he opened and shut his mouth. “No, Ardachek godspeaker,” he said at last, his voice small and bewildered. “Godspeaker, I must see him.”

Ardachek frowned, then nodded. “Vortka high godspeaker prays in his private chamber. Go up to him, novice. If you are in error then you will be tasked.”

“Godspeaker,” whispered Banto, and walked on through the godhouse to the staircase leading to the godhouse's next floor and beyond. Zandakar walked behind him, Dexterity at his side. Ardachek did not see them, they were in the god's hiding eye.

On the godhouse's second floor they passed a room with its door removed, inside the room a novice knelt for tasking. The cane struck her naked flesh, she wept for the god. The room beside that one was without a door also, inside it a godspeaker sacrificed for the god. His knife slit the lamb's throat, the lamb's blood filled the sacrifice basin.

“Oh, sweet Rollin,” said Dexterity, his voice was full of pain. “This is barbaric. Zandakar, I'm going to be sick.”

He did not speak, he gripped Dexterity's arm at the elbow and held him hard until the toymaker cried out in soft protest. Then he looked at Dexterity and shook his head once.

“This is a dreadful place,” whispered Dexterity, there were tears in his eyes. “Why did I come here? I must've been mad.”

If he answered Dexterity the novice would hear him, he did not wish the novice to be distracted or call for help. He was sorry for Dexterity, he made a face to show his sorrow. Dexterity sighed. They walked up more stairs, the novice Banto silent and trembling.