The Godspeaker Trilogy (17 page)

Nagarak stiffened. “Warlord—”

“How can I, Nagarak?” he persisted. “How can I risk death in a sinful war when no son of mine lives to give his name to this city? Surely the god would strike me down if I flouted its law so openly. If I die with no son, Nagarak, I abandon Et-Raklion and all its rich farmlands, its vineyards, its villages, its rivers, its springs, its cool lakes, its herds of horses and cattle, its wild birds flying, its people, my people, I abandon them to an unknown future. You say the warlords are hungry for Et-Raklion? If I am not alive to protect it, Et-Raklion will be devoured! Is there an omen?”

“There is no omen,” said Nagarak sourly, after a long sunfilled silence. “Yet.”

Raklion felt his clutched belly loosen. “Here is what I will call an omen, Nagarak. Let the god tell you when the Daughter is blooded. If Nogolor warlord does not send her to me, if after her blooding Bajadek’s warriors ride free in his lands or ride with Bajadek warlord to Nogolor’s city, then will I say the god sends me to war. Then will Raklion and his warhost ride to Et-Nogolor and take what was promised, spilling blood if he must.”

Nagarak frowned. “That is an omen from the god.” He nodded sharply. “The god see you, Raklion warlord. The god see you in its eye.”

“The god see you in its eye, Nagarak high godspeaker,” Raklion replied, dismissing him with all formality.

Alone, he paced his balcony for a small time, then struck the hammer to his chamber’s bronze summoning gong. “Send at once to Hanochek warleader,” he commanded the answering slave. “I would see him in my eye.”

When Hanochek came at last into his warlord’s presence he was filthy with dust and sweat. Custom decreed no man might stand before a warlord rank with toil, but Hanochek was rash and sometimes careless of custom.

“Warlord!” he said, his knuckled fist pressed to his leather breast. The godsnake blazoned there winked and leered. “I was thinking you had forgotten my name.”

Raklion smiled. He and Hanochek shared no blood-tie yet so alike were they in thought and feeling they might have slithered from a single womb. Twelve seasons the younger, the difference never noticed, Hanochek was his trusted warleader, they led the warhost side by side. Hanochek was brother to him as his own dead blood brother had never been.

“No,” he said. “But did you forget the purpose of water?”

Hanochek considered his unkempt body, short and muscular and dangerous as a knife. “I did. When the palace slave presented your summons I forgot everything, including how to ride a horse. I ran here till my legs begged for mercy. My stallion waits yet with an empty saddle.” He was grinning, so sure he was in no danger of rebuke. “I thought making you wait was the greater offense.”

“You were training?”

Hanochek nodded. “I was training.”

“How is my warhost?”

“Longing for the sound of your voice, your face in its eye.” Hanochek’s gaze dimmed with shadows. “You have been many highsuns in your palace.”

Raklion gestured at the balcony’s chairs. “Come sit with me in the sunshine, Hano. My old bones need the warmth and it seems an age since we have spoken.”

“Old bones,” scoffed Hanochek. “If your bones are old, then so must mine be, and mine are the bones of a stripling youth!”

“You contradict your warlord?” Raklion teased, dropping onto spotted horsehide cushions. “Brave warrior indeed.” Beside him stood a potted fig tree, drooping with ripe fruit. He plucked four soft sweet figs and held them out to his friend. Hano took them and settled into the balcony’s other chair.

“My thanks,” he said, around a moist mouthful. “Training works up a hearty appetite.”

Raklion plucked four plump figs for himself and let his head fall back, content to hold them for the moment. “I am not that old, Hano. I remember.”

Hanochek ate swiftly, like a greedy boy. When his last fig was swallowed he belched and wiped sticky fingers on his linen training tunic, adding to its stains. “So, Raklion warlord. When do we ride for Et-Nogolor’s Daughter?”

Now it was time to eat a fig. Raklion chewed slowly, letting his hooded gaze rest on the city. The view from his palace was like a woman’s stroking fingers, it never failed to smooth his brow. Et-Raklion city may well be his concubine and his curse but still he loved it, to the very last pebble and drop of spilled ale. He loved its roofs and windows, its alleys and wide streets, its districts and its slaves. It was the city of cities, it deserved his devotion.

“Why should I ride for Et-Nogolor’s Daughter?” he asked, showing no temper. “She will ride to me soon enough, when she is blooded.”

Hano’s gaze sharpened. He had keen eyes, deeply set in his flat, broad face. “Did you summon me to play games, Raklion? You are the warlord, you hear whispers in the dark. I hear them. Your warhost hears them. Even the slaves in the barracks hear them. Your warhost is angry, it feels insulted.”

That word again. “Nagarak high godspeaker reads omens in a lamb’s tongue,” he countered. “Do these whispers of yours shout louder than that?”

“Has the high godspeaker given you an omen?”

He ate a second fig. “No. Like you, Nagarak gives me warlike advice.”

“I am a warrior,” said Hano, shrugging. “I have no other advice to give.”

“I know.” Raklion slid his gaze sideways. “You think we should lead the warhost to Et-Nogolor?”

“I do.” Hano stared. “You disagree?”

Raklion did not answer, brooding. Hano waited, brooding with him. At length he stirred, his troubled gaze lingering on the rich green carpet of grapevines growing beyond the city. “Nogolor is a godpromised husband tempted by a whore. He thinks to fuck the whore and escape his promised wife’s anger.” He looked at Hano. “But thinking is not fucking. A man may think of many things, but until he acts he has committed no sin.”

“True,” admitted Hano. “But if the promised wife knows he thinks of fucking the whore and says nothing to him of her knowing, does she not give that godpromised husband her blessing to dally outside their oath?”

A sharp question. “A man may suspect another man’s thoughts, Hano, but only the god can know his heart. Only its godspeakers can point and say, this man is for stoning, he breaks the god’s law. Smiting is of the god, not man.”

“You could discourage the whore, Raklion. No-one can question Bajadek’s intent.”

Raklion shook his head. “Bajadek has committed no sin. It is not sinful to ride invited through the lands of another warlord. He has made me no godpromise, Nogolor’s word to me is nothing to him. He cares only for his own portion, all warlords are alike in this.”

“Raklion . . .” Hano’s frustration knotted his voice. “Bajadek warlord tempts Nogolor to oathbreaking. He must not go unpunished for that. You must—”

“I must do what is best for Et-Raklion! Is bloodshed best? A broken treaty? Abandoned trade, unsettled borders, disrupted days like a string of beads, are these things best for my city’s people, for the people of my Et-Raklion lands?”

Hano looked at him. “A healthy son is best for Et-Raklion. And for that you must fuck a wife of warlord bloodlines.”

Words like a spear-point, piercing him to death. Raklion pushed away from his horsehide cushions, out of his chair to the length of the balcony.

“I know that, Hano,” he said, and looked at his clenched fist. Ripe fig dripped between his fingers, the clean Pinnacle air was sweetened with fig juice. He made a face and smeared his hand along the stone balustrade. “And I know it is likely we will soon be at war, if Nogolor warlord stops thinking and acts, if he breaks his godpromise to me and gives the Daughter to Bajadek instead. That is why I summoned you, warleader. Nagarak in the godhouse awaits the god’s omen. Should it come, the warhost must be ready to ride.”

“It is ready,” said Hano. He sounded pleased. Relieved. “Come see for yourself. Leave your palace, come to the barracks and mingle with your warriors. Dance some time on the training field with them. You have godspeakers to manage Et-Raklion, they can manage it without you for a time. But only you can manage the warhost. How long is it since you set foot in the barracks?”

He had to think. “Two godmoons, twelve highsuns. You are right, warleader. Nagarak’s godspeakers do not need my help in counting taxes and smiting sinners. My place is in the barracks, not this palace.” He released a soft and sorrowful sigh. “It will hurt my heart to see my warriors, Hano. Knowing an omen will send them to war.”

“Warriors fight, warlord,” said Hano, brusquely. “Warriors live and die with the spear, the arrow, the sword, the knife. The god gives them fierceness, it drinks their blood. War is their purpose, it is their pleasure. Can you love them and deny them that?”

Raklion turned. “I do not shrink from bloodshed, Hano. I shrink from waste. From death without purpose.”

“Which is why your warriors love you,” said Hano. “And why they are eager to ride against Bajadek, the usurping sinner, and against Nogolor too if he proves a false friend. Now enough talking. Come . Ease your tired mind with sweat. Rest yourself in honest striving.”

Raklion smiled, he could not help it. “Very well, Hano. If you promise to cease your nagging.”

Hano stood and pressed a fist to his breast, his unspoken word. “Dress yourself in your finest training tunic, warlord, as I send a slave to summon your chariot. Your warriors are waiting, they will shout to see you.”

Hanochek was the finest charioteer in all Et-Raklion, he knew the horses’ minds as though they were his own, his touch on the reins was light and sure. The chariot horses loved him. Sheathed in thinly beaten gold, the warlord’s chariot was the most beautiful in the warhost, it made a man beautiful to ride within it. Two snake-bound godposts topped with crimson scorpions guarded the chariot’s occupants. Sunlight glittered on rubies and emeralds, on lapis lazuli and flaming firestone. Silver godbells sang and rang on the black horses’ crimson harness, from the lip and rim of the golden chariot. Sunlight sparked on their myriad amulets.

Raklion felt the fresh breeze in his face and laughed aloud. “This is good, Hano. Do not let me stay so long in my palace again.”

“I won’t, I promise,” said Hano, grinning. “A man cannot breathe within stone walls. Beneath the sky a man can breathe. He can breathe and he can see. Beneath the sky a man can think. He can run and throw a spear, he can sweat, he can sing.”

“All that is true,” said Raklion. “But alas, there is more to a warlord than sweating and singing.”

Hano glanced at him. “Yes. There is worry. There are treaties. Godspeakers with questions and tally-tablets and city problems you must solve.” He pulled a face. “There is Nagarak high godspeaker, who wills you to war. I confess that is curious, Raklion. War is the warlord’s business, Nagarak should feed his scorpions and leave it to you.”

They were alone on the road between the palace and the warriors’ barracks, but Raklion thumped Hano’s shoulder anyway. “Say that in company and he will feed his scorpions—with your stoned dead flesh.”

“You do not think his warlike advice strange?”

Raklion shrugged. “Where Nagarak is concerned I do not think at all.” Which was a lie, but he would not talk of high godspeakers to Hano. On some matters did a warlord hide his thoughts from all save the god. Hano was a good man but he had a warrior’s heart. Straight and true like an arrow in flight, it was not made for twisting shadows.

The chariot traveled swiftly, as they drew close to the warriors’ barracks. The main gates stood open, the warrior on gatekeep duty heard the chariot’s wheels upon the road, heard the horses’ drumming hooves and their godbells loudly singing, and came out to see who approached. She saw her warlord and waved her snakeblade in the air.

“Behold the god’s chosen!” she shouted, her voice carrying clearly from the gatekeep. She rang the gate’s godbell, still shouting. “Behold our warlord, Raklion warlord! The god see you, warlord, the god see you in its smiting eye!”

“Minka,” said Hano softly, as he eased the chariot horses back to a walk, that they might pass the barracks godpost sedately. “Daughter of Yolen. He lost a leg in—”

“I remember Yolen,” said Raklion. “When did he give a daughter to the barracks?”

“Last thin godmoon.”

“Do you know her? Does Yolen breed true?”

Hano grinned. “True enough. She’s sent four warriors to the healer’s tent since she started her training. I have seen far worse in my time.”

“Your warlord sees you, Minka,” Raklion said as they passed between the barracks’ open gates. “Does service in his warhost please you?”

Minka’s nose had been broken already. It skewed sideways on her narrow face, left her snuffling for air. With her snakeblade safely sheathed she punched her fist against her breast. Her eyes glowed, to be noticed by her warlord was an honor. “I like it well, Raklion warlord. I will serve you to my last red drop of blood.”

“A warrior’s oath,” he said, and nodded his pleasure as the chariot passed her by. The weight of her smile between his shoulder-blades was heavy as godsmite.

At the barracks godpost he pulled his solid gold snake-eye amulet from around his neck and dropped it in the godbowl, where it outshone the iron, the bronze, the clumsily carved carnelian. But the warriors liked to see his gold there, and so did the godspeakers sent to retrieve the warriors’ offerings. The godhouse always liked to see gifts of gold.

Hano nudged him with an elbow. “Did I not tell you the warlord is missed?” he murmured.

Raklion looked up. Gathering on either side of the main road through the barracks, his beautiful warriors in their tunics and godbraids. Some had emptied their shields from leather shield-bags, they held them high and tapped their spear-butts and knife-hilts hard against them, a joyful fierce tattoo of welcome. Every mouth shouted, over and over:

“ Raklion! Raklion! Raklion !”

Bare feet drummed against the ground, pipes whistled, while behind them Minka, daughter of Yolen, loudly sounded the barrack’s godbell.

“ Raklion! Raklion! Raklion !”

In the palace there was a brideroom, empty. A child’s cot, empty. In the palace were slaves and servants and empty rooms.

“ Raklion! Raklion! Raklion !”