Kingdoms of the Night (The Far Kingdoms) (43 page)

When we reached the amphitheater, gates were again flung open at Fizain’s command. Whips cracked but this time to slow the pace. We trotted onto the field, moving toward the pavilion. All around us the stands were packed with what seemed to be every citizen of Kahdja. They were silent and except for an errant child or two there was no motion in the crowd except heads swiveling to watch our progress.

As we passed the idol it belched foul smoke and flame and my eyes burned and I found it difficult to breath. My will weakened and I felt small and unworthy to come into the presence of such majesty as King Azbaas.

Janela’s hand flashed under my nose and I shuddered in drafts of sweet air tinged with the scent of pine. I felt strong and confident again. I also had the measure of this king. Such trickery, in my experience, is used by princes who have much to fear, and if you don’t keep them under your feet they will be at your throat. There is no in between.

I whispered to Janela: “Follow my lead.”

She whispered back: “Keep me close, so I can help.”

Fizain barked orders and the chair came to a halt in front of a high platform. Without being asked, Janela and I slid out of the chairs. Fizain looked surprised as I ignored him and motioned imperiously to Quatervals and Mithraik to join us.

I brushed past Fizain and mounted the platform steps as if it were I who ruled here.

Azbaas sat upon a barbaric throne made from the bones of mighty forest animals. Their skins were his cushions and their fierce heads his decorative vanity. The king was a big man whose golden robe had consumed the feathers of a wondrous bird and it pained me to think such a creature should be slaughtered for this purpose. Pride made him leave his torso bare and his muscles rippled under a sheen of red paint. Rings hung from the skin of his flesh, as did the tiny bejeweled skulls of fanged animals. He had the head of a big forest cat for a crown, its canines leering down over his brow.

I paid no mind to this savage display, only drawing myself up higher, treading more heavily on the platform boards, my face a haughty mask.

When the king saw me he hid his amazement well — betrayed only by a flickering glance at Fizain.

His black-painted eyes narrowed as he peered at us. His lips sneered into a smile.

He nearly got the better of me when he spoke, for his voice was magically amplified and his words boomed across the massive amphitheater.

“It was gracious of you to come so quickly, Lord Antero,” he said. “I hope my hasty summons didn’t inconvenience you.”

He snickered as if it were a jest. Fizain and his other aides jerked into life like marionettes and guffawed loudly at their master’s humor.

Janela plucked at my sleeve and I made my most courtly leg, bowing with exaggerated flourish. I felt wetness as Janela pressed something into my palm. As I came up I rubbed it against my lips. It was a small, oily pebble and I popped it into my mouth.

When I spoke my voice was his equal. “I was only slightly put out, your Majesty,” I said. “I was engaged in a game of naughts and crosses with my wizard.” I nodded at Janela. “For a change I was winning.”

I heard Fizain and the other courtiers hiss surpass at my sorcerous parry. Mithraik whispered: “He’ll get us killed!” And Quatervals said: “Quiet, fool!” He laughed as loudly as the aides who’d jollied the king.

Once again Azbaas was forced to hide amazement. “Naughts and crosses?” he chortled. “I think we have better amusements than that to offer, Lord Antero.”

I made a slight bow. “Then I am at your service, Majesty.” I said. “I’ve grown weary whiling away my time in your guest chambers — magnificent as they may be.” I turned to Janela. “Although they are a trifle chilly, don’t you think?”

“Quite so, my Lord,” she agreed.

Azbaas stared at Janela, ignoring my small sally. “I’ve heard you were a most powerful sorcerer, Lady Greycloak,” he said. “Is this true or have you merely blinded your admirers with your beauty?”

“Perhaps both are true, your Highness,” Janela said. “I’d be most interested in your opinion on the latter. After all, who better to judge one wizard than another?”

“I was thinking that might be part of today’s amusements,” Azbaas said with another of his black-lipped sneers.

I looked about the broad arena. “Is this crowd for us, Majesty?” I asked. “I fear we’d be taxed to supply entertainment for so many.”

“Actually,” Azbaas said, “I’ve invited you to witness a witch sniffing. We have trouble with witches on occasion and I’ve found the best way to deal with it is to regularly purge them from our midst.”

He motioned for Fizain to fetch us two stools. I noted they would put our heads well below his. I waved to Quatervals and Mithraik to sit in them instead.

“If you don’t mind, Majesty,” I said. “I’d rather stand. I fear my behind has become numb from so much sitting in our quarters. A goblet of wine, however, would go quite well — if you would be so kind to offer it.”

More hisses from the courtiers at my rudeness. In the stands the crowd was whispering to one another at my audacity.

The king and I locked eyes for a moment. One word from him and we would be cut down as easily as a washerwoman’s line. But he knew as well as I the cost to his image would be most dear. A prince may rule with the cruelest of hands, he may keep his subjects cowering before him night and day. But let them once spy weakness and his reign is over — no matter how many spears or demons he has at his command. Azbaas was angry, to be sure. His anger, however, was turned inward for making this contest so public. I saw his jawline firm as he determined that he would bend us to his will. Once again we were blessed with a kingly smile.

He settled back in his throne and nodded to Fizain. His aide shouted orders and drums thundered across the arena. Gates swung open beneath the stands and a horde of men and women stumbled into the light, kicked and lashed by soldiers.

They were a most pitiful lot, half-naked and starved so their bones jutted out alarmingly. I heard cries for mercy and the king laughed, his laughter echoed first by his court and then by the suddenly jeering crowd.

Over by the idol I saw half-a-dozen priests unveil an immense horn, such as the one Quatervals had described. Several of the priests steadied it as a squat mountain of a man approached — thick rolls of fat jostling as he walked.

“That is Bilat,” King Azbaas murmured. “My chief shaman.”

I said nothing but watched in horrified fascination as Bilat put his lips to the horn and blew.

The sound was deep, penetrating to the very bone. It stirred an animal in me, a fearful animal that suddenly wanted to run to his master and ask forgiveness. I heard Quatervals curse and glanced to see him straining mightily against a powerful force. Mithraik, however, showed no emotion — other than an odd gleam of curiosity. Bilat blew again and my desire to bow and scrape and please made tears well up in my eyes.

Azbaas laughed — harsh.

Janela stepped forward, hand coming up to pluck the feather decoration from her cap. I remember it was green, like the tunic she wore over her black leggings. She placed it on her palm and blew. The feather floated up and Janela blew again and the feather shot across the arena like a spear. She made motions with her hands, muttering a spell I couldn’t hear, and then the feather became a great, ugly black bird that swooped above the shaman, squawking: “Bilat! Bilat!”

Then it shat and the shaman jumped away from the horn, howling in angry humiliation. The crowd burst into laughter, which made him madder still. He shook his fist at the bird which squirted white feces on him again.

Janela clapped her hands and the bird vanished — after one final squawk of “Bilat!”

She turned to Azbaas, whose own lips jerked in amusement. The king was a man who immensely enjoyed the humiliation of others. Janela pulled off her cap and her mouth rounded into a “O” of surprise.

“Where’d that feather get off to?” she said, scowling. Then she snapped her fingers and Azbaas jolted as one of the golden feathers from his robe leaped off and flew into Janela’s hands. “Do you mind terribly, Majesty?” she asked with a pretty pout. “This hat desperately needs a bit of color.”

The king was still amused and laughed his permission. Janela stabbed the feather into her cap and turned back, her face smoothly innocent as she watched Bilat snarl at the priests and slap one of them on the head for laughing.

Finally, the king tired of Bilat’s antics. “Tell the fool to get on with it,” he said to Fizain. He sighed impatiently as Fizain rushed to do his bidding.

Somehow Bilat regained his composure. He gestured and magical drums renewed their thunder. Another gesture and rattles joined the drums, sounding like a nest of disturbed vipers. He reared back and howled like an animal and suddenly he and the priests were clutching the jawbones of direwolves mounted on ebony sticks with scarlet ribbons streaming from the black handles. Bilat began to dance and weave across the arena, shaking the jawbone this way and that. He moved lightly, no more the comical figure but a wizard on the stalk. His priests danced around him as he moved toward the mass of prisoners. As he came closer men shouted in terror, women screamed and I saw children clutch their parents and weep.

Bilat chanted:

Witch... witch...

You cannot hide.

Witch... witch...

You cannot sleep.

Witch... witch...

The crowd took up the chant:

Witch... witch...

You cannot hide.

Witch... witch...

You cannot sleep.

Witch... witch...

Bilat and the priests circled the prisoners, drawing that circle tighter and tighter as the crowd pinched in to avoid contact. People fainted and were crushed under the heels of their fellow victims. One man dashed out and fell to his knees in front of Bilat, begging to be released.

Bilat struck at him with the jawbone, crushing his face. Soldiers swept in, hoisted up the moaning figure and dragged him to the idol.

There, more priests were at work stripped to the waist and streaming sweat. A grate set in the belly of the crouching stone beast had been flung open and the priests were throwing logs into the furnace. The soldiers pushed by them and hurled the man inside. He made no sound and I thanked any gods who might be watching for making certain the poor man was dead before the flames touched him.

Bilat was worked up to a fury, dancing like a demon on fire his voice wailing over the chanting crowd:

Witch... witch...

Where is the witch?

Witch... witch...

Come to me witch.

Witch... witch...

Azbaas awaits...

Witch... witch...

Bilat stopped. He threw up his arms and the crowd hushed.

“My king,” he said, his words rolling across the arena. “All are witches! All are traitors!”

The prisoners screamed frightened denials, but soldiers hammered them into silence.

Azbaas rose from his throne. I saw he had a direwolf staff like Bilat, only his was gold and encrusted with rare gems. He turned to the demon idol.

“O, great Mitel,” he intoned. “Once again your subjects have failed thee. Once again we have found witches walking among us. Help us, O great Mitel. Rid us of this plague of disbelievers.”

He shook his staff at the idol, then drew a figure in the air.

“Take them, Mitel,” he shouted. “Remove them from our sight.”

Fire and smoke boiled from the idol’s mouth; then it came to life, rearing up taller than a building and roaring in fury. It leaped across the arena, reaching the prisoners in two great bounds. The soldiers scattered as the idol leaped into the mass of people.

I turned away from the carnage, not caring when I saw Azbaas’ sneers at my display of weakness.

“Now, are you amused my dear Lord Antero?” he asked.

My fury vanished to be replaced by a sudden awareness of what was to be done. My temples and wrists grew warm and the delicate odor of a rose graced the air about me.

I looked at king and made a sneer of my own. “Such a display might dazzle your subjects, Majesty,” I said. “But as for me, it only made me glad I had no time for breakfast.”

Then I said to Janela: “I usually find travel more broadening than this. But I suppose one can’t expect much more from a savage.”

Janela took my cue, adding, “Especially a savage whose master is a dog.”

“Master?” Azbaas shouted, his enraged voice echoing across the arena. “I have no master! Only Azbaas rules here!”

I yawned. “I won’t argue,” I said. “It’s impolite to disagree with one’s host.”

Azbaas turned toward the demon, who was slaking his hunger on the bodies of the accused. “Mitel!” He roared. “Come to me!”

Janela and I looked to see how the demon was taking such rude orders. He lifted up his head, fangs drooling blood. Then he lowered it again to return to his gory work.

I snickered, driving Azbaas to greater fury. He screamed: “Did you hear, Mitel? Come to your master at once!”

Once more the demon lifted his head. Azbaas swiftly changed his tactics. “More disbelievers await thee, O Great Mitel,” he implored. “Come see what a tasty feast I’ve prepared for you.”