The Hidden City (33 page)

‘You fellows are overworking my brewer,' Senga replied. ‘He can't keep up with the demand. We have to let the beer age a
little
while before you drink it. Green beer does funny things to a man's guts.'

‘You haven't raised your prices again, have you?'

‘No. Same price as before.'

‘Ten times what you paid for the beer in the first place, I'll wager.'

‘Oh, not quite
that
much. Where do you want me to set up?'

‘Same place as last time. I'll pass the word, and they'll start lining up.'

‘I want some guards this time, Mondra,' Senga told him. ‘I don't want another riot when the last cask runs dry the way there was last week.'

‘I'll see to it. Save some for me.'

The ox-cart clattered through the gate and into a wide street where most of the moss had been worn off the cobblestones. A great deal of work had clearly taken place here in Natayos in the past few years. The squared-off stones of the broken walls had been rather carelessly re-stacked and then shored up with peeled log braces. Long-vanished roofs had been replaced with crude thatching made of tree-limbs, providing nesting sites for raucous tropical birds, and here and there blackened piles of half-burned trees and bushes marked the places where indifferent workmen had attempted to dispose of the mountains of brush that had been cleared from the streets and houses. The men living here lounged idly in the streets. There were Elenes from Astel, Edom, and Daconia, as well as Arjunis and Cynesgans. They were a roughly dressed, unshaven lot who showed no signs that they even knew the meaning of the word ‘discipline'.

‘What price are you getting for this?' Kalten asked, patting one of the beer barrels in the cart.

‘A penny a gill,' Senga replied.

‘That's outrageous!'

‘They don't
have
to buy it,' Senga shrugged. ‘Get the money
before
you start to pour. Don't take promises.'

‘You've put my moral qualms to rest, Senga,' Kalten laughed. ‘At
that
price, this is hardly honest.'

‘There's that building I was telling you about.'

Kalten tried to look casual as he turned to stare at the substantial-looking ruin. ‘They
really
don't want anybody to look into that place,' he said. ‘Those bars on the windows make it look like a jail.'

‘Not quite, Col. Those bars are there to keep people
out,
not in.'

Kalten grunted, still staring intently at the building. The barred windows had panes of glass in them, cheap, cloudy glass that had been poorly installed. Drapes on the inside cut off any possibility of seeing anything or anyone who might be in there. There were guards at the door and other guards stationed at every corner. Kalten wanted to howl with frustration. The gentle girl who had become the center of his life was possibly no more than twenty yards away, but she might as well have been on the other side of the moon; and even if she were to look out through that clouded glass she would not recognize his altered features.

Senga paid the guards in the square with beer, and then he and his friend got down to work. Scarpa's rebels were rowdy, shouting and laughing, but they were generally in a good humor. They lined up in an orderly fashion and came to the rear of the cart two by two, where Senga and Kalten filled their containers with the amber beer. There were a few arguments about the capacity of the assorted tankards, jugs, and pails, but Senga's word on the subject was final, and anyone who objected too loudly was sent back to the end of the line to think things over for an hour or so while he worked his way back to the front again.

It was after the two entrepreneurs had drained the last barrel and sent the disappointed late-comers away that Kalten saw a familiar figure come weaving across
the mossy square toward the ox-cart. Krager was not wearing well. His head was shaved and as pale as a fish-belly, and his dissipated face was eroded by decades of hard drinking. His clothing, though obviously expensive, was wrinkled and filthy. He shook continually with a palsied tremor that ran through him in waves.

‘I don't suppose you brought any wine,' he asked Senga hopefully.

‘Not much call for it,' Senga told him, re-fastening the tail-gate of the cart. ‘Most of these fellows want beer.'

‘Do you know any place where you can
get
wine?'

‘I can ask around. What's your preference?'

‘Arcian red, if you can find any.'

Senga whistled.
‘That
will cost you, my friend. I could probably chase down some of the local reds for you, but the imported stuff – that's going to take a
big
bite out of your purse.'

Krager smirked at him. ‘It's no problem,' he said in his slurred voice. ‘I'm what you might call independently wealthy at the moment. These local reds taste like pig-swill. I want
real
wine.'

‘It might take a while,' Senga told him dubiously. ‘I've got contacts in Delo that might be able to find some for you, but Delo's a long way off.'

‘When are you coming back?'

‘A couple of days. The brewery where I buy this slop's running day and night, but I still can't keep up.'

‘Bring me a couple of barrels of the local pig-swill then – enough to tide me over until you can find me some Arcian red.'

‘You can count on me,' Senga assured him. He gave Krager a hard look. ‘I'll need something in advance, though. I'll have to
buy
the Arcian red before I can sell it to you. I'm doing fairly well, but I'm not
that
rich yet.'

Krager fumbled for his purse.

Kalten was suddenly gripped by an almost intolerable impatience. He was sure now that Alean was here. Krager's presence virtually confirmed it. The prisoners were most likely being held in the building with barred windows. He absolutely
had
to get back to Narstil's camp so that Bevier could pass the word on to Aphrael. If Xanetia
could
enter Natayos unseen, she could either penetrate the prison walls or reach into Krager's wine-sodden mind to verify what was almost a certainty now. If all went well, it would be no more than a few days until he and Sparhawk were reunited with the women they loved.
Then
they could all come here and do unpleasant things to the people responsible.

Vanion and Betuana reached Sarna late that afternoon, and the Atan Queen scarcely paused before setting out for the border.

‘It was ghastly, Sparhawk,' Vanion said, leaning wearily back in his chair and putting his visored helmet on the table. ‘They're like no soldiers I've ever seen before. They're big, and they're fast, and their hides are so tough that most of the time my sword just bounced off them. I don't know where Klæl found them, but they've got yellow blood, and they made mincemeat out of my knights.'

‘Kring and Tikume ran into them as well, I guess,' Sparhawk told him. ‘Anosian was trying to pass the word to Aphrael, but he garbled the spell so badly that she couldn't make any sense out of it. She's a little unhappy with Tynian. When he was gathering up the knights he brought back to Matherion, he accidentally picked every Pandion who has the least bit of skill with the spells. That's why she can't get any reports from Komier.'

‘We might have to send somebody to join him and
handle communications – except that it'd take weeks for him to get there.'

‘Not if Aphrael takes him, it won't,' Sparhawk disagreed. ‘She carried me from Beresa to Sopal – almost a thousand miles – in about a half an hour.'

‘You're not serious!'

‘You'll
love
flying, Vanion.'

‘You're carrying tales, Sparhawk.'

They turned quickly.

The Child Goddess was sitting in a chair at the far end of the room with her grass-stained little feet up on the table.

‘I
wish
you wouldn't do that,' Sparhawk told her.

‘Would you prefer some kind of announcement, Sparhawk? Multitudes of spirits bawling hymns of praise to introduce me? It's a little ostentatious, but I can arrange it.'

‘Just forget I said anything.'

‘I'll do that. I had a chat with Anosian. He's practicing now – very hard. Kring and Tikume ran across Klæl and his soldiers out in the desert, and they discovered something you gentlemen should know. I was right, Vanion. Klæl's soldiers have bile in their veins instead of blood because they breathe with their livers, and that means that the air where they come from isn't anything like the air here – probably something like marsh-gas. There's something in it that they need, and they can't get it out of our air. The Peloi used their standard cut-and-run tactics, and after a little while those monsters started to collapse. Next time you come up against them, just turn around and run away. If they try to chase you, they'll choke to death. Did Betuana leave?'

‘Yes, Divine One,' Itagne replied.

‘Good. The quicker I can get Engessa to my island, the quicker I'll have him back on his feet.'

‘I've been meaning to ask you about that,' Sparhawk said. ‘You said that his brain's been injured.'

‘Yes.'

The brain's very complicated, isn't it?'

‘Yours aren't quite as complex as ours, but they aren't simple, by any means.'

‘And you can heal Engessa's brain on your island?'

‘Of course.'

‘If you can fix a brain, you should be able to fix somebody's heart. Why didn't you just take Sephrenia to your island and heal her there? Why did you come to Beresa and try to steal Bhelliom?'

‘What's this?'
Vanion exclaimed, coming to his feet.

‘Wonderful, Sparhawk,' Aphrael said dryly. ‘I'm awed by your subtlety. She's all right, Vanion. Bhelliom brought her back.'

Vanion smashed his fist down on the table and then controlled himself with an obvious effort. ‘Would it inconvenience anybody to tell me what happened?' he asked them in an icy voice.

‘We were in Dirgis,' Aphrael shrugged. ‘Sephrenia was alone in the room, and Zalasta came in and stabbed her in the heart.'

‘Good God!'

‘She's fine, Vanion. Bhelliom took care of it. She's coming along very well. Xanetia's with her.'

Vanion started toward the door.

‘Oh, come back here,' the Child Goddess told him. ‘As soon as I get Engessa to the island and deal with his injury, I'll take you to Dirgis. She's asleep now anyway, and you've seen her sleep before – lots of times.'

Vanion flushed slightly and then looked a bit sheepish.

‘You still haven't answered my question,' Sparhawk said. If you can fix a brain, why can't you fix a heart?'

‘Because I can shut a brain down to work on it, Sparhawk,
' she replied in a long-suffering tone. ‘The heart has to keep on beating, and I can't work on it while it's jumping around like that.'

‘Oh, I guess that makes sense.'

‘Do you happen to know where I could find Zalasta?' Vanion asked in a dreadful voice.

‘He's probably gone back to Natayos,' Aphrael replied.

‘After I visit Sephrenia, do you suppose you could take me there? I'd
really
like to have a talk with him.'

‘I get his heart,' the Child Goddess said.

Vanion gave her a strange look.

‘It's an on-going joke,' Sparhawk told him.

‘I'm not joking, Sparhawk,' Aphrael said bleakly.

‘We can't go to Natayos,' Sparhawk said. ‘Ehlana might be there, and Scarpa will kill her if we come pounding on the gate. Besides, I think you'll have to talk with Khwaj before you do anything to Zalasta.'

‘Khwaj?' Vanion asked.

‘Tynian told Aphrael that Khwaj has his own plans for our Styric friend. He wants to set him on fire.'

‘I've got some more interesting ideas,' Vanion said grimly.

‘I wouldn't be so sure, my Lord. Khwaj wants to set Zalasta on fire, but he doesn't want to burn him to death. He's talking about an eternal flame – with Zalasta screaming in the middle of it – forever.'

Vanion considered that. ‘What a merry idea,' he said finally.

‘My lady,' Alean whispered urgently, ‘come quickly. Zalasta's returned.'

Ehlana drew the linen head-cloth down over her forehead and joined her maid at the defective window. The wimple had been Alean's idea. It fit snugly over the Queen's ravaged scalp, and covered her throat and
the underside of her chin as well. It was uncomfortable, but it concealed the horror Krager's knife had made of her hair. She bent and looked out through the small triangular opening in the window.

Zalasta's gaunt face was twisted with grief, and his eyes were dead. Scarpa came hurrying up, his face eager. ‘Well?' he demanded.

‘Go away, Scarpa,' Zalasta told him.

‘I only wanted to be sure you were all right, Father,' Scarpa replied with obvious insincerity. Scarpa had fashioned a crude crown for himself out of a serving-bowl made of hammered gold. He was evidently unaware of how absurd he looked with the lop-sided adornment perched on his shaved head.

‘Leave me!' Zalasta thundered. ‘Get out of my sight!'

‘Is she dead?' Scarpa ignored the dreadful threat implicit in his father's voice.

Zalasta's face hardened. ‘Yes,' he replied in a strangely neutral tone. ‘I drove my knife straight into her heart. I'm deciding right now whether or not I can live with what I've done. Please stay, Scarpa, by all means. This was
your
idea, after all. It was such a marvelous notion that I may want to reward you for it.'

Scarpa backed away, his suddenly rational eyes now filled with fear.

Zalasta barked two words in Styric and reached out his hand, his fingers curved like hooks. Scarpa clutched at his belly and screeched. His makeshift crown fell unnoticed as Zalasta implacably dragged him back.