The Godspeaker Trilogy (168 page)

“ Tcha !” said Zandakar, triumphant, and leapt for the witch-man. His face was an unholy mask of murderous rage.

With a despairing shout Dexterity threw himself into Zandakar's path. Zandakar stumbled and fell, shouting now with furious surprise as he sent clay pots of that dreadful salt fish tumbling to break into shards. Panting, choking, the burn on his hand still sickening him with pain, Dexterity leaned on Zandakar's heaving ribs.

“Just you lie there and listen to me!”

The last time they'd wrestled like this, Zandakar had been sore distressed, not himself, and still not at his full strength. That wasn't the case now. With terrifying speed and strength Dexterity felt Zandakar flip him over onto his back…and then his heart stopped.

The scorpion knife was pricking his throat, and in Zandakar's blue eyes the sure promise of death.

“Zandakar, don't do this,” he whispered. “If you kill Sun-dao we will never get home.”

Had the knife's blade drawn blood? He couldn't tell, he was too frightened to feel anything. Even the pain in his hand had faded, swamped by terror at the look on Zandakar's face. He could hear Sun-dao moaning somewhere behind him.

“You've stopped him, Zandakar,” he said. “Sun-dao hasn't hurt Vortka, or your mother, or your brother. They're safe. Now let's leave Jatharuj, shall we, before somebody finds us. I'd really like to go home. Please . Let's just…go.”

Provided they could go, of course. Provided moaning Sun-dao wasn't so badly hurt he couldn't whisk them back to Ethrea with his strange witch-man's powers.

Zandakar blinked. Gradually the rage faded from his face, his eyes, until it seemed almost certain he'd decided not to kill. Then, with excruciating slowness, he eased the pressure on his knife.

“ Zho ,” he said, and uncoiled to his feet. “We go now.”

For a moment Dexterity could only lie there, feeling his heart pound, hearing the air whistle in and out of his chest. His trembling fingers felt the flesh of his neck. Was he whole? Was he unbreached?

Oh, Hettie. Oh, Hettie.

Zandakar reached down his hand, all his hot feelings penned behind a cool mask. “ Yatzhay , Dexterity.”

He let Zandakar tug him upright, air hissing through his teeth as the warrior's fingers tightened on his burned hand.

“I'm all right, it's nothing,” he said as Zandakar frowned. “It's Sun-dao I'm worried for.”

Emperor Han's witch-man was conscious, but in terrible pain. The dreadful burn on his face exposed a bloody gleam of bone and his right eye was swollen to a slit, eyelashes and eyebrow completely charred away.

Dexterity felt his empty stomach heave. “Sun-dao. Sun-dao, can you hear me? Can you—”

And then he turned, startled, at the sound of shouting from the far end of the dock, at its entrance. Many voices, coming closer. He looked round at Zandakar. “Is that—”

“ Zho ,” said Zandakar grimly. The scorpion knife was still in his hand, little flickers of blue light running up and down its blade. “Warriors come.”

So. They were discovered.

“Zandakar!” he said sharply. “Don't you dare get off this boat! Knife or no knife you can't fight a whole army!”

As Zandakar hesitated, one hand on the boat's side, he turned back to Sun-dao. “Witch-man, we need you. I don't know how it is you do what you do, and frankly I don't want to know, but unless you fancy becoming one of Hekat's human sacrifices I suggest that you do it right now !”

With a hideous groan, Sun-dao staggered to his feet. “Oars,” he mumbled. “Open water.” He was swaying, the blood sweat dried garish on his face.

“You heard him, Zandakar,” said Dexterity. “Hurry!”

Scrambling, terrified, the shouting and sound of running feet coming closer, he threw himself at the nearest oar. Zandakar, the wretched knife shoved back inside his shirt, took the other one and together they inched the Tzhung boat backwards, towards a miserly stretch of open water.

Digging his muffled oar into the harbour's still-choppy surface, Dexterity stared at Sun-dao. The man looked deathly ill.

I don't think he can do it. I think this is it. Oh, Hettie, darling, I think I'm coming to join you…

Three feet from the dock. Five feet from the dock. Ten – twelve – fifteen – twenty—

A dreadful clamouring of voices, a howling of rage. A score of burning torches, lighting up the dregs of night.

“Sun-dao!” he shouted. “It's now or never! Please !”

A pain-racked voice, commanding. A gust of wind, obeying. High overhead the fading stars wheeled…

… and the world disappeared.

Hekat raged about her chamber, godbraids swinging wildly, their silver godbells discordant with her spitting fury. “ Demons ?” she shouted. “Demons in Mijak? Demons in the harbour? Vortka high godspeaker, how did you not know this? Are you grown an old man? I think you are!”

“I have warriors dead, Empress,” said Dmitrak, boldly standing before the room's shattered glass window, standing on its slicing shards, daring those shards to pierce his flesh. “I have warriors killed by demons. How can demons be here if Mijak's godspeakers are in the god's eye?”

Hekat paused her stamping long enough to spear Dmitrak with a baleful look. Then she snorted. “Tcha! My warlord says a true thing, true words spill from his tongue. Are your godspeakers wicked, Vortka? Is the god blind to them? Is the god blind to you , high godspeaker? How are there demons in my harbour of Jatharuj? ”

Vortka met her blazing eyes calmly, though his stone scorpion pectoral drubbed in time with his heart.

“You say there are demons, Empress. I say a wind blew. There are storms in the world, we have seen them in other places. Storms are not demons. The god speaks not of storms.”

“Vortka, they were seen !” Hekat spat at him. “In the harbour. They were seen !”

He did not look at Dmitrak, he looked only at Hekat. Dmitrak should not be here, it was not right that he see a high godspeaker disrespected. Hekat's anger he could stomach, she was Hekat, she was precious. But Dmitrak was not precious, he was not godchosen, he was insolent. Behind his dark eyes insolent thoughts grew like weeds.

If he had seen Zandakar, I think he would have killed him. If Hekat had seen him, he would be dead. I was right not to show them my son.

“Empress,” he said reasonably, “demons are not seen. I am high godspeaker, I know this to be true.”

“Do you call my warriors liars, do you say they tell me lies ?” snarled Dmitrak. “My warriors saw what they saw, they saw demons on the water, they saw those demons disappear!”

He could not smile, he could not laugh, he could not show Dmitrak his smiling, laughing heart. Zandakar and the burning man of Ethrea had escaped Jatharuj in the god's hiding eye. The god protected them, they had a purpose.

I have a purpose, I must tread with care.

“Then your warriors did not see demons, warlord. I am high godspeaker, this is my word.”

Would Dmitrak challenge him? He feared the boy might. Nagarak was in him, he would challenge the god.

“Then what, if not demons?” said Hekat. She stood now, by her lounge. One hand held tightly to it, all her furious stamping had stolen her strength. “What did they see?”

“It was a fierce wind, Empress. Perhaps they saw wreckage of a ruined boat, sinking under the waves.”

“Perhaps,” she said, frowning. “Vortka, does that storm mean the trade winds return?”

Aieee, the god see him, he wanted to say yes. But he knew that would be untrue, the trade winds were gentle. “I do not think so, Hekat, I think a storm is a storm.”

Her head came up, her eyes glittered, he did not like her look. “Then when those slaves arrive that I have sent for, I will give the god its strongest blood. Ten thousand slaves come to Jatharuj to die. I weary of waiting, it is time to leave this place.”

“Empress, the warlord should leave us,” he said. “We must speak of the god.”

“We can speak of the god in front of my warlord, he serves the god as I do. We live in its eye.”

Which meant she knew what he would say and did not wish to hear it, she wished Dmitrak to stand with her and defy the god's want. He was a killing man, in this he was her true son. Like his mother, he wanted the world soaked in blood.

Vortka felt the pain of the burning man's words sear him anew. His joy at Zandakar leaving Jatharuj safely died in that pain. His heart wept, for he had failed to hear the god's true voice.

I failed before, I must not fail now. I must tell Hekat the truth until she can hear.

“I am Vortka high godspeaker, in the god's seeing eye. I swim in the godpool, I hear its voice in my heart. The god has spoken, it does not want the world. It does not want ten thousand slaves pouring out their blood. Mijak is Mijak. We are done. We are done .”

Silence. Then Hekat laughed. Her godbells laughed with her, the chamber rang with their laughter.

But her eyes are not laughing, her eyes are cold, I think she hates me. There is hate in her heart because she does not hear the god.

“Vortka, you are weary, you have slaved for the god,” she said, so angry. “Sleep and you will hear it, what you hear is not the god.”

“Perhaps he hears demons,” said Dmitrak. “Perhaps he is done.”

Vortka looked at him. “You say this to me, the god's high godspeaker of Mijak? Do you wish to tempt a smiting, should my stone scorpion wake?”

“ Enough , Dmitrak,” said Hekat. “Vortka is high godspeaker, you hold your tongue. Go now. See that our warships are safe in the harbour. Gather your warriors to dance with their blades. Prepare for the arrival of those ten thousand slaves. Their blood is mine, Dmitrak. I will spill it for the god.”

Surly, scowling, Dmitrak walked out. When he was gone Hekat sat, she was so weary, all her weariness she let show on her face.

“Why do you say these things, Vortka?” she whispered. “Is Dmitrak right, are you lost in the god's eye? Are you swallowed by demons? What has happened? Tell me . I would know.”

Tell her of Zandakar? Tell her of Jones? How could he? In this mood she would call him demonstruck, she would call him her enemy, she would kill him with her snakeblade.

If she kills me, who will speak for the god?

But if he said nothing, he might as well be dead.

“Demons have not swallowed me,” he said. “I speak the god's want.”

“I think you are wrong, Vortka,” she said coldly. “You were wrong in Et-Raklion, when we were young. You said I could not hide from Nagarak when Raklion warlord was at his tasking. You said Nagarak would see me, he did not see me, you were wrong.”

“I was wrong then, I am not wrong now, Hekat,” he said, his heart beating so hard. “The god does not want the blood of those ten thousand slaves. You must listen to my words, you must trust me.”

Her fingers clenched, her scarred face tightened. “I must do what my heart says! I have never been wrong. Are you an old man now, Vortka? Are you timid for the god? I do not need you old, I do not need you timid. I need you with me in the god's eye.” Her blue eyes burned with her zeal. “All our lives, Vortka, we are godchosen and precious, all our lives we listen to the god. It wants the world, Vortka, we are close. So close.”

He turned away. Close to disaster, Hekat. Can I tell you? I cannot .

She was in no mood to listen. She was headstrong, so sure of her heart. The slaves she wanted to sacrifice were not come to Jatharuj yet. He had time, some little time, to change her mind. To open her eyes. To show her how very, very wrong they both had been.

“Rest, Vortka,” said Hekat kindly. “You are weary for the god. Your weary heart plays tricks with you. Sleep, and the god will tell you its true want.”

“Yes, Hekat,” he whispered, and left her to the dark.

Despite his dreadful burning, despite draining his strength to raise that awful storm, Sun-dao wrapped them in the wind and blew them almost home to Ethrea. Four times he had to bring them back to the real world, for he was very weak, and suffering from his wounds.

Zandakar did not say yatzhay to him.

The fifth time they returned to the world it was not Sun-dao's doing. Instead of the gentle slide from otherness to sunshine or moonslight, the boat was flung out violently, like a toy tossed by a child in a tantrum. It was morning, still early, and the cool salt air echoed with Sun-dao's screaming.

Bruised and shocked, tumbled against the side of their small boat, Dexterity looked for Zandakar. The warrior was folded about the mast, groaning for air. “Zandakar! Are you hurt?”

Zandakar shook his head. “ Wei. Wei .”

That was a relief. Bruised and shaken, Dexterity untangled himself and crawled to Sun-dao. The witch-man's screams were fading to thin moans, and his carmine fingernails scrabbled feebly at the deck.

Dexterity took one of his cold hands in his and held tight. “Sun-dao, Sun-dao, what's happened? What's wrong?”

“Mijak,” said Sun-dao, his one good eye open and glazed. His voice bubbled, as though his lungs were full of soapy water. “Ethrea.”

“What about them?” he said, leaning closer. The witch-man's burned face was putrid, glistening red and black, his charred cheekbone sickeningly visible. “Sun-dao! Can you hear me? What about them?”

His unburned eye bright with anguish and agony, Sun-dao stared up at him. “Ethrea. You see it?”

See it? Already? But how could that be? On the journey to Icthia, Sun-dao had returned them to the world nine times.

“Zandakar,” he said, looking up. “Are we home? Can you see Ethrea?”

Zandakar was standing at the front of the boat, shading his gaze against the unclouded sun. “I think – zho .” He pointed. “Ahead. Far away. Shadow on water.”

“There, you see?” he told Sun-dao. “We're nearly home. You can rest. You must rest.”

Sun-dao shook his head. “Mijak. Mijak.” His face twisted in a grimace, and his spine bowed his body in a terrible contortion. “The trade winds. They come. Blood, blood, blood in Mijak. My brothers have failed.” He contorted again, head to toe, his lips peeled back from his teeth in a soundless scream. “My emperor – my emperor—”

He collapsed to the deck, thick black blood gushing from his mouth.

“Sun-dao?” Dexterity whispered. “Sun-dao?”