The Other Lands (27 page)

It was not until they had turned onto a narrower street that he got a true glimpse of this city’s residents. His gaze came to rest on a shirtless man’s back. He was heavily muscled, bulges that quivered as he heaved sacks into the back of a cart. The first strange thing about him was the uniformly dark gray of his skin. A greater shock came when the man turned to watch the passing strangers. Dariel drew back in horror, momentarily jerking his Ishtat handlers to a halt. The man’s face was barely a man’s face at all. Instead of eyebrows he had knobby ridges. Long black whiskers ran along his jawline, so stiff and straight they were like metal pins driven into the bone. Worse than that were the golden tusks that protruded from his jaw, just beside the corners of his mouth. They were thick and curved like a boar’s. The man betrayed no indication that he considered himself a horror. In fact, his eyes fixed on Dariel’s and studied him as if
he
were the oddity.

Perhaps Dariel was, for the next few minutes of stumbling progress through the streets brought one bizarre person after another: a woman whose face, neck, and arms were patterned like a leopard’s coat; two boys with jet-black faces and white whiskers jutting from their cheeks; a man whose arms and legs were striped like a zebra’s, though his face was that of a normal man, perhaps of Candovian origins. Another man seemed to have a snake coiled around one arm, starting at his palm and wrapping around the forearm, bicep, shoulder, up his neck until the head came to rest on his cheek, its tongue flicking out toward his eye. Dariel was near enough to see that the serpent was an elaborate tattoo. Dariel’s eyes shot around to take in others. Again and again, he found more strange patterns and accoutrements. Every human person was tattooed, pierced, or altered. He had seen some odd bodily decorations in his time as a Sea Island brigand, but nothing like this.

They marched through a thronging outdoor food market. The air carried a whirl of scents, sweet mixed with peppery, pungent enough to make his eyes water, with an underpresence of death. Food stuffs both familiar and new crowded the rows of stalls, monkeys hanging beside green-plumed birds, next to fruit he had never seen before and live lizards hung by their tails and writhing. One of the Ishtat overturned a vat of some chunk-filled liquid. The man jumped back from it, retched at what he saw, and hurried to rejoin the procession as one of the leaguemen called him an idiot and a bumbler. Though he tried to, Dariel could not get a glimpse of what the soldier had seen. They moved on too quickly. He was sure of so little and felt himself in a waking nightmare, as if in a dream where he was compelled to specific actions and powerless to change course, to stop, look up, or face the thing that pursued him.

He gasped and fought for breath as the group turned, ascended a stone staircase, and stepped into the great mouth that was a hall opening. They carried on into it, Dariel stumbling even more in the dim interior. When they finally stopped, the prince nearly collapsed. He sucked breaths in through his nose, but seemed to lose the air’s effect each time he exhaled. His eyes slowly adjusted to the light, bringing the dimensions of the chamber into perspective. It was a grand rectangular space, high ceilinged, with squares cut into the roof through which shafts of light fell, making a geometric confusion of light and dark. Standing on his toes to peer over the rows of Ishtat around him, Dariel could see a great host in the shadowed areas, hundreds of hulking shapes, all the more menacing because he could not see them clearly. Dark forms, they waited silent and menacing. He blinked furiously to keep the sweat from blurring his vision.

Sire Neen and the other leaguemen stepped forward, following the tall figures toward an illumed square between the two groups. Opposite them, several figures came from the shade into the bright light. They were similar to the Numrek in their size and musculature. They were garbed differently, though, in knee-length leather skirts and sandals with straps that laced up their calves. Most of them wore loose, open-necked shirts that had a look of careful disarray, an effect Dariel had managed in his brigand days.

One of them stepped before the others. He carried a curved long sword, a horror of a blade that Dariel doubted he would even be able to swing properly. A gasp flew through the league contingent. The Ishtat archers behind Sire Neen snapped their free hands back and pinched their arrows, ready to pluck them from their quivers. The Auldek registered them with a flick of his eyes. He took a few more steps. Beyond his loose-limbed strength and size, there was nothing martial in his demeanor. He paused, studied the group a little longer, and then stabbed the sword down into the stone. It was a whip-fast motion, and he had stepped back from it before the archers could even decide if the gesture was a threat. The sword swayed but stayed upright.

Bare chested and powerfully muscled, he planted his hands on his hips, cocked his head, and sniffed the air as he studied the leaguemen. He had long wavy hair like the Numreks’, but his was an auburn, gold-flecked shade that Dariel had never seen on them. He seemed in no rush to speak to the newcomers. He turned and said something over his shoulder to the man there. They both laughed, as did several others who heard the comment. The lead man looked back at Sire Neen and said something, a quick barrage of guttural words. To Dariel’s surprise—and the Auldek’s—Sire Neen responded in kind. He began a steady discourse, punctuated with bows and gestures.

Dariel could not understand a word of it. Spotting Rialus a few guards away, he squirmed toward him. The Ishtat guards barely noticed, intent on the interaction before them. Nudging Rialus with his shoulder, Dariel made sounds low in his throat to get his attention. Rialus looked at him, dazed and seemingly surprised to find him so close. Dariel wrinkled his nose, rolled his eyes about, and gestured toward the Sire Neen and the Auldek leader. Rialus seemed to have no idea what Dariel was trying to convey. The prince, seeing this, put his fingers to Rialus’s lips, snapped them opened and closed, and then moved them to his own ear.

“Ah,” Rialus said, looking back at Sire Neen and the Auldek, “you wish me to translate? It is strangely accented Numrek. Or perhaps Numrek is really Auldek. I don’t know. Must I? It’s hard enough just making out what they’re saying.” He exhaled a fatigued breath.

Dariel wished he could smack him.

One of the Ishtat guards grumbled at Rialus’s talking, but another shushed him. “Let him speak,” he whispered. “Talk, Neptos, just keep it quiet.”

Rialus lifted his chin and cocked his head slightly to hear better, but he did not say anything for a while. Dariel jabbed him with an elbow. “Nothing of interest yet,” Rialus snapped. “Sire Neen is making formal greetings: that’s all. In praise of this and that, honor and the best intentions for mutual enrichment: the usual. The one in the center is called Devoth. The others are Herith, Millwa … Oh, I don’t know! I can’t catch it all. Something about the clan of Snow Lions … and antoks.”

Rialus went silent for some time, though Sire Neen droned on. Dariel tugged on Rialus’s arm. Rialus listened a moment longer and then hurriedly whispered, “Devoth wants to know why Neen is here. Sire Neen says he’s come offering them a new arrangement, new opportunities for trade that will benefit them both, and so on.”

Devoth turned away from the leagueman and spoke with his companions. Sire Neen folded his hands at his waist and waited, composed. He was a statue compared to the quick, free, and expressive motions of the Auldek representatives. Dariel could see only the back of his egg-shaped head, but he imagined Neen’s face was a mask of composure. Where did he get such confidence? Or was it arrogance? It surely helped that there were Ishtat Inspectorate guards and archers just behind him. But so, too, did Devoth have a mass of grumbling shadows behind him. Not to mention the sword still erect in the stones between the two groups.

Devoth turned back. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and snapped it outward, as if flicking off moisture. It looked like a ritual gesture, though. Then he fell into a barrage of questions. Rialus picked up immediately this time. “‘Where are the Lothan Aklun?’ That’s what Devoth asked. ‘Where are they? Why are they not here?’ He named someone that he wants to speak to. One of the Auldek who led him here started to answer, but Devoth wanted the squashed one to answer. The ‘squashed one’ is Sire Neen. He’s answering. … Oh, that’s rich! Neen says that he is a representative of the greatest power in the Known World—the League of Vessels.”

“That’s us,” one of the Ishtat said, grinning.

“The Lothan Aklun are no more. They are finished, dragged down by their own greed. The league is willing to offer a better trade agreement than the Lothan Aklun ever allowed. I didn’t catch what Devoth said to that. He doesn’t seem—Oh, Neen’s mentioned you. He offers you as a gift. The brother of the so-called queen of Acacia. Those are his words—’so called.’”

Sire Neen turned and pointed toward Dariel. Devoth looked briefly in his direction. Dariel thought the moment might be his chance. He thought of bolting forward through the Ishtat while the attention was on him. Devoth would surely wish to hear from him. He might have the bit removed and then Dariel would turn the tables on Sire Neen and show him for the villain he was. Rialus would speak for him. But in the few seconds it took to think this, the moment passed. Devoth looked away, uninterested, and the leagueman carried on.

“Neen says he understands that the Auldek will have to learn to trust him, but the league is well known to some from Ushen Brae. He has even brought agents to testify to the league’s power and the possibilities for their partnership.”

And then, as if on cue, the Numrek arrived. They tramped in, shouting out a chant in their language, a booming percussion of sound like warring drumbeats. Everyone turned to watch them. Even Devoth rose on the balls of his feet, mouth agape as the Numrek approached. They jostled their way through the Ishtat contingent and arrived before Devoth and the other Auldek. They stopped their singing and fell forward, smacking their foreheads on the stones. Devoth and the other Auldek stared at them, their faces stunned, drained of color. The masses behind them edged forward, the front ranks of them stepping into the bright light to see better.

Sire Neen’s satisfied voice slithered into the hush, rising above it and, for a few moments, seeming to command the chamber. Before he had gotten far, Calrach snapped to his feet, the others just after him. Calrach glanced at the leagueman and silenced Neen with a wave of his hand. Sire Neen sputtered to a halt, clearly surprised. Calrach turned to address Devoth. Rialus murmured a translation, trancelike now, smooth and nearly matched to the speakers themselves.

“‘We who were banished have returned,’” Rialus translated Calrach’s voice, which had boomed to reach beyond Devoth into the entire crowd. “‘You may slay me now, if you wish. We give you our souls. If you would hear us, though, we will tell you truths to make you joyful.’”

Devoth considered this for a moment, and then nodded. Sire Neen began to say something, but Calrach spun on him. “Shut your mouth!” he said, speaking Acacian. “Men are speaking. You wait.”

Sire Neen stopped.

Speaking in his booming voice, and translated by Rialus’s thin one, Calrach carried on with his address to the Auldek. When they were exiled for their crimes, he said, they followed the banishment as the clans ordered. They did not falter. They did not hesitate. They marched—men, women, children—into the north and out of the realms of the Eight Clans. They wintered in the bitter regions where no plants grow, where white bears hunted them and were hunted by them. They learned to eat seal meat. At times they walked on ice and heard it crack beneath them.

At this claim, a collective gasp went through the Auldek host.

“Yes,” Calrach said, “this is all true. We lived years in lands no Numrek was made for, and yet we learned how to live there. We were brave. No one can deny it. We marched north, as you told us to. But we marched so far north that it was no longer north. It became south instead, and we marched down into another land, the land from which the divine children come. We found that place; and we made war there and killed many and took joy in slaughter.”

“Why have you returned?” Devoth cut in.

“To give you joy. These fools,” Calrach said, waving toward the league contingent, “brought us across the black water. They brought us home, and we came because we can bring you a new world. We can take you there.”

“Why should we go there?” another Auldek asked.

“Look, that boy is my son.” Dariel could not see the Numrek to whom Calrach pointed, but the effect on the Auldek was considerable. They stepped forward, seemingly awed, many of them talking at once so that Rialus lost the substance of it for a moment. Calrach’s voice rose above the din, declaring, “In Acacian lands our women are fertile again. In their lands the curse holds no sway.”

Sire Neen chose this moment to pipe up again. Calrach shouted him down furiously and then said, “The leaguemen have killed the Lothan Aklun. Like cowards, they poisoned them all! There cannot be another soul collection. The Aklun are no more.”

The grumbling grew. The mass of lanky, long-haired forms crowded forward, many of them yelling angry questions or stamping their feet.

Devoth turned and shouted them down. His voice erupted from his abdomen and shot out with force. Once there was silence, he pointed at Sire Neen. “This one killed the Aklun? I don’t believe it, but I don’t like him.”

“He is an ant.” Calrach turned, studied Neen, and then spat at his feet. “He is nothing. Squash him if you wish. His spirit will give you no strength, but if he offends you—” For a moment Rialus stopped translating, but then, as if more afraid of holding the words in than of releasing them, he spoke quickly. “Kill him. We no longer need his kind. Kill him, and we will lead you to a land ready to be reaped. We will have a great hunt.”

Devoth did not confirm whether he agreed, but he did draw his sword from the stone. If
draw
was the right word for it. It was as if at one moment his hand was empty and the next it held the massive, curved blade out to his side. Only in the stillness after the action, as Devoth let the onlookers study him, did Dariel’s mind register that he had, in fact, watched the entire movement. It was no magic trick. It was just the smoothest, quickest motion he had ever seen. No Marah was that fast. Not even Mena was that quick. No Numrek either.