Echoes of the Great Song (23 page)

“We could all die here, Yasha!” objected the first man.

“You die if you want to, Podri. I’m going to live to be rich. Now let us bury this bag of bones and get on with the Wonder.”

“You honestly believe we’re safe?” asked another man.

“Safe?” replied Yasha with a chuckle. “Safe? When has a laborer ever been safe? But for eight thousand silvers I’ll risk a little danger.” He swung to Anu. “Am I safe from your magic, Holy One?” he asked.

“You are. I promise you,” Anu told him.

“Good enough for me,” said Yasha. “Now I’m off to find the least ugly whore.”

With that he strode away, his laurel crown still in place. The crowd broke up. The bones of Jadas crumbled to dust and blew away on the breeze.

“He is a good man,” said Shevan.

“Yes,” answered Anu absently. He was already planning for an increase in the absorption rate of wooden pegs.

•  •  •

The gardener was kneeling on an old cushion in the sunshine, carefully weeding the rockery. A straw hat, wide-brimmed and frayed, protected his neck from the harsh noon sun. Brightly colored flowers were growing all around the rockery, pale pink rock jasmine, golden bloomed alyssum, white and yellow bellflowers, with their delicate, drooping blooms. The gardener’s fingers gently tugged at the weed stems while he probed the roots with his copper fork. Placing the weeds in a canvas basket by his side he climbed over the higher rocks to continue his work among the scented thyme that grew against the garden’s rear wall. He worked with the endless patience of a man in tune with the earth, never tearing at the weeds, never disturbing the roots of the plants he sought to protect. There was no tension in him, and his mind was perfectly at peace.

An older man moved along the paved path beneath the rockery. He was a big man, heavy-boned and broad in the shoulder. His close-cropped hair was peppered with silver, and his skin was deeply tanned and leathered by a lifetime of work in the open. The gardener saw him, smiled and climbed back down to the path.

“It is looking fine, Kale,” he said. “You have done well. But I am concerned with the violets.”

Together the two men strolled across the rock garden to a deep pocket of royal blue speedwell growing alongside a crimson wild thyme. At the border of the rocks was a stand of yellow wood violet. The leaves were dull and speckled.

“The soil is not holding enough moisture, lord,” said Kale, kneeling down and pushing his fingers into the earth. “It could do with some peat or rotted straw. I will fetch some this afternoon.” He glanced over his shoulder at the rising sun. “And they are getting too much sun.”

The gardener nodded. “It had enough shade until the
juniper died. We need to build a screen to the west, with a fast-climbing flower, to give time for the weeping birch to take hold. A jasmine, do you think?”

“A screen is a good idea, lord. Though I prefer the yellow clematis as a climber. But I think you put too much faith in the birch. Such trees do not like this soil. It is too thin.”

“A garden needs trees. They lift the eye, and the spirit, and they add depth and shadow. Anyway the cypresses are doing well here.”

“Indeed they are, lord, but you spent a fortune for the irrigation work. Without it they would die within a month.”

The gardener laughed. “What else is money for? It is there to be spent. A garden is a thing of beauty, and pleasing to the Source.”

“Speaking of money, lord, the marsh marigolds will be here tomorrow. It appears that most survived the journey.”

“Excellent. That is what the far pond needs, Kale. A touch of gold. Now remember they should be planted just above the water’s edge, the soil kept continually moist.”

“I have never seen a marsh marigold, lord,” said Kale. “I will not know how to nurture it.”

The gardener smiled and clapped the man on the shoulder. “You will learn, Kale. And if they die I’ll buy more. Eventually we will get it right.”

A newcomer moved along the path. Kale bowed and backed away as the Avatar approached. “Your gardens are a constant delight, Viruk,” said the Questor General. “So many colors and scents.”

Tension returned and the gardener faded back. Viruk the warrior brushed the dry dirt from his hands and led the General to a rest area where comfortable chairs had been set under a canopy of vine leaves. It was cool in
the shade. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, cousin?” he asked, removing his straw hat and dropping it to the ground.

“Ammon is training a regular army. My spies tell me that they are well disciplined and hardy.”

“How many men in this army?”

“Five thousand, split into fifty groups of one hundred each. Every man has a bronze breastplate and helm, and a bronze-reinforced shield of hard wood. Most are armed with short swords, though the front rankers use twelve-foot spears.”

“An interesting development,” said Viruk. “You want me to kill Ammon?”

“No. We may need this army.”

Viruk laughed. “You think the Mud People will fight alongside us?”

“If they don’t they will be either assimilated or annihilated by the newcomers.”

“You fear they will be that strong?”

Rael leaned back in his chair and rubbed his tired eyes. “We have maintained control with a mere five hundred. The newcomers—and their major cities—have survived. There will be thousands of them, Viruk. The Source alone knows what kind of weaponry they possess.”

“What would you have me do?”

“Go to Ammon. Tell him what has happened. Assure him that if the Erek-jhip-zhonad are attacked we will support him in any way we can. But do not ask for his help. There must be no show of weakness. If he offers it, accept graciously.”

“Would this … embassy … not be better undertaken by a Questor, cousin? I am no diplomat. I would as soon cut the savage’s throat as dine with him.”

“That is why you are the best man for the role, Viruk. Ammon knows of you and your skills. He will
be wary, but he will listen. I have watched him closely since he became king. He is a stronger man than his father, and wiser than any chieftain we have dealt with so far. He could be a strong ally.”

“Or a deadly enemy.”

“Indeed so. Remain in his capital as my ambassador. I have sent him a message that you are coming.”

“I would prefer to be here when the newcomers arrive,” objected Viruk.

“I am sure that you would.”

“This means you have turned down my request to join Talaban on the
Serpent?”

“There will be battles enough, I fear. When they come I want you to support Ammon.”

Viruk rose and filled a goblet with cool water from a stone jug. “The five cities could soon be under attack, cousin. You have no one who fights as well as I. It is folly to send me away at such a time.”

“You may be right, Viruk. But what if their ships sail past us and into the mouth of the Luan? What if their first assault is into the lands of the Mud People? Then they would be both before and behind us. If I were attacking this coast that is what I would do. The five cities are strong, the Mud People less so. It would be hard for us to fight on two fronts, Viruk. And since this is my
greatest
fear I am sending my
greatest
warrior. Take ten Avatars with you. The very best.”

Viruk chuckled. “You seek to win me over by flattery. And damn my soul if it hasn’t succeeded. Very well, cousin, I will do this for you.”

Rael nodded and rose. “If they come, Viruk, defend Ammon as if he was your own blood. If they attack they will seek to kill the king. They must not succeed. And if they break through get him here, with as many of his men as you can.”

Viruk laughed. “Only a few days ago I sent him a
promise to rip out his entrails. Now I am to defend him? Life is never dull with you, Rael. Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do in my garden.”

Rael smiled. “I notice your gardener is looking well. I could have sworn the last time I saw him he looked older.”

“Working with me obviously agrees with him,” said Viruk.

Rael shook his head. “You break too many rules, cousin. Be careful.”

“Kale is very valuable to me. He saved my
Pulsatillas
by improving the drainage and cutting back surrounding growth to allow them more light. They would have died without him. And what would a garden be without
Pulsatillas?”

“I have changed my mind,” said Rael, with a broad smile. “Do not think of Ammon as one of your blood, but as one of your flowers.”

“Well, it’s true I’d like to see him planted in the earth,” replied Viruk.

Questor Ro had been sitting in judgment for two hours and he was growing bored. In the main the cases brought before him were petty, and only two defendants had been sentenced to be crystal-drawn—and these would lose only five years each. He gazed down at the two lists before him. One detailed the cases, the other the needs of the Crystal Treasury. According to the latter they needed today twenty-two full sentences of death in order to meet the treasury requirements. Ro fully understood the need to maintain power, and he had little regard for Vagars. Yet the law was the law, and no amount of pressure would make Ro yield on any point of it. If a man stole bread—without use of violence—to feed his family it was a misdemeanor, punishable by a maximum of five years. Ro had rounded on
the prosecutor who tried to claim that when the victim gave chase to the thief he fell and sprained his wrist, making this a crime of violence.

Questor Ro was not in a good mood. He did not like courtroom three in the eastern district. It was small and cramped, the magistrate’s dais raised only two feet from the floor, the magistrate being forced to enter from a side room, walking past and beneath the public seating. This alone left Vagars looking down on Ro, which he felt was not becoming. The magistrate should enter from behind the dais, as in all other courtrooms.

Ro tugged at his forked blue beard and fixed his gaze on the public gallery. There were no Avatars present, and the benches were only half full. Ro adjusted his royal blue robes, sipped water from a crystal cup and nodded to the guards to bring in the next defendant.

The case was one of rape. The victim, a rich fat Vagar woman of middle years, claimed her gardener had climbed into her room and subjected her to a horrifying ordeal—an ordeal that was only ended when her husband burst in. The prosecution called for the death sentence.

“Were any weapons found on the scene?” Ro asked the prosecutor.

“No, Lord Questor. The man used his physical power to overwhelm the lady.”

Ro idly examined the evidence sheet, then looked up at the short skinny defendant. The man was blinking nervously and sweat was dripping into his eyes. “I see his clothes were found downstairs, along with the lady’s gown. How, pray, did he convince her to go upstairs with him?” asked Ro.

The prosecutor—already aware of Ro’s growing irritation—visibly paled. “He threatened her life, Lord Questor.”

Ro read the evidence sheet once more. “According to
this he has been employed by the lady and her husband for four years and lives, with four other workmen, in a small house on the estate. Is it your intention to try to convince this court that a man would risk his life and his livelihood, in the sure and certain knowledge of being caught, in order to bed his employer’s wife against her will? I do hope not, prosecutor. According to the evidence there was no bruising upon the alleged victim, nor any tearing of her clothes. Her gown, I understand, was neatly folded over a couch. Added to which two goblets of wine were found in the bedroom. Come forward.”

The man approached the dais. He was a young Avatar, the son of a minor Questor serving the eastern district. Ro leaned across the desk. “You are not—one supposes—a foolish man. So why has this ridiculous case been brought before me? It is obvious she was seducing her employee when her husband caught her. She has invented this tale. And a poor invention it is.”

“Her husband is one of our staunchest supporters, Lord Questor. He is a man of some standing among the Vagars.”

Ro waved him back. “The charges against this man are dismissed,” he said. “Bring in the next defendant.”

The guards brought in a tall young woman with long dark hair. She was dressed in a simple gown of green homespun wool, poorly dyed. She was charged with three offenses: magicking—contravening an ancient law first brought in by the Vagars long before the Avatar conquest; taking employment within the city limits without a permit; and having upon her person less than five silver pieces, thus falling foul of the law governing vagrancy. The vagrancy charge could cost her two crystal years, the lack of a permit another five. But the ancient law could invoke the death sentence.

Ro read the evidence sheet carefully and slowly. The
woman was a newcomer to the city, and had—apparently—healed a baby sick with fever. A crowd had gathered, calling out for healing of boils, headaches and various other minor disorders. She had laid her hands on them all. Before long the crowd was so large it was blocking the thoroughfare and two Avatar soldiers had pushed their way through and arrested the woman.

“Your name?” asked Questor Ro.

For a moment the woman looked distracted, gazing up towards the fluted ceiling. She was exquisitely beautiful. Ro pushed such thoughts from his mind, and asked the question once more. Her deep blue eyes focused on him. “I am Sofarita, lord,” she said, her voice husky.

“Your place of birth?”

“The village of Pacepta, lord.”

“Occupation?”

“I have none, lord, for I am recently arrived and not yet in possession of a permit.”

“Is this why you sought to earn coin with magicking tricks?”

She seemed to be struggling with her concentration, as if she had been taking opiates. Perhaps she has, thought Ro. Or perhaps she is merely mentally afflicted. Yet when she spoke her voice was firm again. “I took no coin, sir. The silver pieces the officers removed were mine. I came to the city three days ago with twenty-six coins, but I have had to take lodgings, for which they charge me a half-silver a day. Added to this I have bought items of clothing. But the remaining money is mine.”