The Other Lands (52 page)

 

S
itting beside Devoth was the most unnerving experience Rialus had ever lived through. The Auldek had all the brutal physicality of their Numrek cousins. If anything, they had distilled it to its essence and then stirred into it a strange gentility that was all the more incongruous. Something like ferocious anger seethed beneath Devoth’s tanned features, but above it lay a veneer of boredom. Rialus could not decide whether Devoth was passionate about life or completely fatigued by it. That was confusing, but even more unsettling was that the Auldek oozed more aristocratic confidence than any Acacian noble Rialus had ever seen—and he had seen many.

Devoth leaned back in his seat, one arm propped at an angle, his knees splayed wide. It was a posture of complete relaxation that also managed to convey that he could spring to his feet at any moment and stride across the world lopping off heads. Devoth now wore a shirt, a thin, somewhat dandyish white cotton garment with crimson satin buttons that matched his trousers. A gold band ringed his thick neck. The tips of his long fingernails had been glazed silver, and his eyes—if Rialus was not mistaken—were lined with black makeup. If Rialus had seen a Numrek so dressed in Acacia he would have laughed at the absurdity of it; here, the effect was almost dashing.

“Rialus Leagueman,” Devoth asked, “how do you enjoy being our guest?”

They were sitting with a few others in a private box, beneath an awning of a silken fabric that sheltered them from the strength of the sun. Above and below them stretched a stadium to rival Acacia’s Carmelia. The terraced benches surrounding it rose at a steep angle to a dizzying height. Rialus knew that the field was actually dug into the earth; the appearance of height was actually one of depth. But, situated as he was at the midpoint of its height, the view below and the expanse above made him queasy.

“You’ve no complaints, I hope,” Devoth prodded. “Rialus Leagueman?”

Rialus Leagueman! What an annoyance! He had tried several times to make the Auldek understand that he was not part of the league. He hated them, as a matter of fact. They had brought him here as a prisoner! He spat on leaguemen and had nothing in common with them! So he had said, but it never sank in. One guard had even squeezed Rialus’s skull and murmured something about the egg shape of it, and then laughed at Rialus’s sputtering refutation that there was anything leaguelike about the shape of his head.

Curses and exclamations bounced around in a fury in Rialus’s mind, but he had to bite back his complaints and reply, “You’ve been most … kind.”

Devoth seemed pleased to hear it. He looked at the other high-ranking Auldek seated nearby, making sure they took note of Rialus’s response. They were all of his clan, except Calrach; his son, Allek; and his half brother, Mulat. The fact that they were allowed to sit with Devoth’s people was a considerable honor. Allek, in particular, drew stares and whispers wherever he went. If Rialus had not known the reason for their astonishment he would have thought the boy a long-lost prince. He was more than that: he was a miracle to a people who had not seen a child of their race in hundreds of years. Calrach, always more canny than Rialus expected, had known what he was doing when he brought him along.

Allek, who sat in the row in front of Rialus and Devoth, turned around and jabbed Rialus’s leg. “Tell the truth, Neptos. Which is the richer people: Acacians or Auldek? I know what I would say, but what about you?”

Rialus had the momentary desire to kick the grinning youth in the face, but he answered the boy calmly. He had actually expected some question like this, considering how much pleasure the Numrek seemed to take in publicly taunting him. “I can’t answer that. I’ve seen most of the Known World, which is wide and rich and wondrous, but I’ve seen very little of Ushen Brae—as yet only Avina.”

“And what do you think of it?” Allek pushed.

“Very impressive,” Rialus admitted, “from what I’ve seen—”

“From what you’ve seen?” Mulat broke in. He had just bitten a piece of roasted pork taken from the plates of food that occasionally passed from hand to hand. His chewing did not hinder his speaking. “What you’ve seen is less than nothing. It’s but a sliver. Avina stretches along the coast for thirty miles. Thirty miles of city, of palaces and stadiums and monuments: there is nothing to match that in your lands.”

Devoth did not seem pleased with the Numrek presumptions. He did not address them, smiling instead at Rialus. “You will see more, Rialus Leagueman. Many grand things. You’re our guest, so you’ll see the things that make us great. We will always treat you well, now and in the future. You can be sure of it. You believe me?”

He had to push it, didn’t he? Rialus thought. They always did. It was one way the Auldek were not so different from their Numrek cousins.

“Yes, of course,” Rialus began, but then faltered, unsure how to express his emotions. What was he? Grateful to be alive? Thrilled to have watched everyone he had traveled across the Gray Slopes with be slaughtered? Looking forward to whatever bloody spectacle he was here to watch? Overjoyed to be trapped in a land of brutes who threatened to stick red-hot pokers up his backside? Content to know almost nothing of his fate or what was expected of him? Resigned that if he did ever find his way back to Acacia, the queen would squash him beneath her shapely foot?

“I’m quite comfortable,” he managed.

“Good, good.” Devoth grinned and tossed his hair around. “It gives me joy to hear it.”

The man’s hard chin cut the air as he looked about, his eyes lit green by the sun. He kept brushing his hair back from his face, but he also moved in a manner to make sure it fell right back before his eyes a second later. Rialus almost suggested he tie it back with a cord, or perhaps get it trimmed. Not for the first time, Rialus wondered if Devoth was simpleminded. Or if he really might be unaware of the way in which Rialus’s life was a misery. He knew neither was likely. Devoth, Rialus feared, was in complete control of everything.

The crowd, which had waited amid a murmur of conversation, erupted in applause and shouts. Rialus kept his gaze on Devoth, who was on his feet, roaring with the rest of them. Lucky, because Rialus would not have managed to hide his animus if Devoth had been paying attention to him. He felt his indignation rising again. It did not get far, because his eyes caught the motion on the field. His mouth opened, silent while those around him cheered.

From six different openings in the wall of the arena, columns of armed soldiers strode onto the field. By their relatively normal stature, Rialus could tell they were not Auldek, but neither did they appear entirely human. One group wore wolf-head helmets. Another was composed entirely of squat, muscled brutes, their naked torsos gray, metal barbs jutting from their cheeks. They bore curved short swords in both hands. Yet another group were slim as acrobats and wore light blue, with plumes on their heads in place of helmets. They carried only slender pikes.

“You understand this, Rialus Leagueman?” Devoth asked.

“Not in the slightest,” Rialus admitted.

The Auldek laughed. “Ah, I forget your ignorance. So much to learn.”

“Those soldiers, they are not Auldek?”

“Of course, not!” someone in the row behind Rialus exclaimed. “Auldek do not draw Auldek blood. What do you think us?”

Devoth explained, “It was agreed that we would not kill our own. That is why our ultimate punishment is banishment, not death. We fight among ourselves, yes.” He grinned, making the statement seem an admission of a guilty pleasure. “But in something like this—a matter to be decided in blood—we let our slaves represent us. It is an honor for them. These are special slaves, selected to be divine children. They are elevated above other slaves. Before you are totem warriors of the eight clans of the Auldek. Here. See over there?”

He leaned across Rialus, pointing first toward groups of warriors who had feline facial tattoos, and then the others as he named them. “The Shivith, the spotted cats. Those over there are the Kern, the blue cranes. They look slim, yes? Delicate? Don’t be fooled. They’re deadly. The Anet clan worships the hooded snake. The Kulish Kra—those with their backs to us—black crows. Those gray ones—Antoks. The wolves represent the Wrathic from beyond the Sky Mount. The Fru Nithexek are brothers of the sky bear, but they are weak, few in number. The Numrek … have no totem.”

“And there”—Devoth drew back so that Rialus could see past him to the last group—”are the snow lions, the Lvin. Those are mine. My lions. My totem.” He timed this announcement perfectly, for the Lvin were the last to enter. Though Rialus had no idea what a snow lion was, there was no mistaking the impact of the slaves so named. They came roaring like some beast of the Talayan plains. Most of them had white faces, sometimes tattooed or painted down across their torsos. In the center were the largest men, several of whom sported tresses as white as snow. As they marched and yelled and smacked life into those around them, their locks danced about them like snakes writhing.

“There are other totems in the land,” Devoth continued, his voice low and filled with pride, “but they are small. Ants. These are the eight clans. We are the ones who decide the future; and today, we fight for the honor of being the spear point. None of your race has seen this. None other ever will. Enjoy and feel privileged.”

Both enjoyment and feelings of privilege lived somewhere far from Rialus’s present state of mind. He had yet to sort out the intricacies of Auldek social and political life. He doubted he would understand it all even if he spent years in Ushen Brae, which he prayed to the Giver that he would not. Over the last few days, Rialus had seen enough of the slaves to know that they were often tattooed, adorned with jewelry, and physically modified. But the changes were minor on the household servants. These warriors were monstrosities. Yet they were the Auldek’s own creations. Why do that to them? Why not do it themselves if the Auldek found such things attractive?

Perhaps it was evidence of his compromised mental state, because before he could censor himself, Rialus heard this question escape his lips. “Why is it the slaves who are so adorned?”

The group answered him with incredulous silence.

“I would have thought that—” Rialus stopped, unsure what he might have thought. He changed tack. “I mean, why not yourselves? Since the animals are your totems—”

Mulat murmured a curse under his breath, and then added, “Stupid piss pot of a man. The totems are not animals. They are gods who live in the animals!”

Several Auldek faces continued to stare at him. Words came from his mouth, unbidden. “Very interesting that they—just slaves, I mean—decide this spear-point thing.”

“That is what the slaves are for!” Calrach barked over his shoulder. “It is a blood test, you fool!”

“I see,” Rialus said. “That explains it, then.”

Devoth studied Rialus, making him unsure whether he was about to reach out and smash him across the nose or—

“Have a glass of juice,” the Auldek said, motioning that a passing tray should be held for the Acacian’s consideration.

Rialus obliged. He took the glass of red liquid in both hands, clenching it tightly to keep his hands from trembling.

“Calrach is correct,” Devoth said. “This is the way it is. Our slaves are our children. Their fate is inseparable from ours. The changes to their bodies are called ‘belonging.’ We don’t make all the belonging changes to them ourselves. Some they make themselves. Some things only the Lothan Aklun had the magic for. That, it seems, has come to an end because of the league. We will have to be repaid for this. Very much so.”

And that closed the subject. A relief, for Rialus. They turned their attention to the spectacle before them. To begin with, individual warriors from the different groups taunted others into single combat. Listening to the banter they threw around, the way they laughed and swore and taunted, put Rialus in mind of the children who dove for oysters at the docks of Acacia’s western harbor. Those suntanned, shirtless youths had the same easy competitive air about them. But the divers did not strike blows that severed a crow woman’s arm at the shoulder or split a cat man’s head so that the crown down to below the eyes went spinning end over end, or that smashed a lovely crane woman’s knee between two war hammers.

Rialus really, really felt he was going to be sick. He motioned as much with the fingers of one hand, vaguely calling for attention. It was the type of gesture that would have brought a servant to his side in Acacia. It was ignored here. A hot sweat broke out on his forehead and spread throughout his body. Saliva surged into his mouth and stayed there, no matter how much he swallowed. What was wrong with these people? Looking about him, he could not match the merriment on their faces with the scenes of carnage that evoked it. Before long he sat with his eyes closed, “watching” only with his ears, which he would have stuffed with wax if he thought he could get away with it and had any.

Thus he passed what seemed like several hours. The clash of weapons, the cheers of pleasure and the boasting and the occasional screams of agony went on interminably. He had begun to think they would never end, and he was rather surprised when they stopped. A great ovation took over the arena for a time, and when it finally died the sound faded to a low murmur of conversation and movement.