The Paper Sword (16 page)

Panthemium

S
aheli
strode along purposefully. A strong salt wind was blowing in from the sea and the sun shone back from the crystal facets of the newly renovated buildings with a multiplicity of tiny suns that mirrored the shining joy in her heart. Xemion's sense of destiny was rising in him, and his heart was like a tiny boat on its great tide. It lifted him with a magical shimmer that almost made him want to cry. It wasn't the magnificence of the Elphaerean architecture all about him that so infused Xemion though. It wasn't that he would soon have a real sword in his hands and be able to pursue his lifelong dream. These things were important, but … that kiss … it was stunning him. He could only hold the thought of it a moment in his mind before his stomach went giddy and he had to let it go skidding away from him, leaving a strange, trembling uncertainty in its place. He had loved Saheli ever since that day he rescued her from the river, but that wilder thought — that she loved him in return, that she was his, sent to him to be his warrior beloved and that they were fated for glory together — had seemed so storylike, so like a dream, he had tried to give it no credence at all. But now she had kissed him — on the lips. Once again his heart thumped into the back of his chest like a stone dropped a thousand miles upon a damp heath and he felt the urge to either dance or sink into the earth forever out of sight. He hardly dared look at her. Yes, his eyes took in the newly excavated buildings; the beautiful crystal work cleansed of its dark carbon glaze and allowed to shine. He looked at them, but he didn't actually see them. He barely saw the green gardens whose high stems dangled long green beans down from the pillared roofs. Or that where there had once been jade panelling these new residents had fitted fine frames covered in light green hemp cloth to better approximate the way things were before the fall of the Republic. He wanted all this. He wanted this city of his ancestors. He wanted this chance at freedom. But most of all, and from here on in, he would really only want one thing — another kiss.

At the next corner they got their first sight of the great stadium of ancient Ulde, the Panthemium. Its high golden eastern wall intricately etched with obsessive runes, ideograms, and hieroglyphics ran all down an avenue that intersected the one they were on at an angle.

About fifty feet farther along it there were two large black closed doors beside which stood two Nains. The one closer to the doors, like all Nains, was short compared to Xemion and Saheli. He barely reached Xemion's chest, but was compact, broad-shouldered, and had that fierce look in his eye typical of his people. He wore traditional earthworking garb and sported a red beard that extended down to his stomach. The other Nain was of a similar size and stature. He wore a brown sackcloth tunic and was clean-shaven, even his well-rounded skull. The pointed leather hat slung about his neck on a thick leather band and currently hanging down his back indicated that he was an acolyte of the Nainish theology. Xemion thought from the similarity of their faces that they must be related.

“Hello,” Saheli offered politely. The bearded one did not acknowledge her in any way but the shaven one gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head.

“Is this the Panthemium?” Xemion asked the bearded one directly, rather insulted. The Nain's only answer was to take a big puff on his pipe and expel a gust of malodorous smoke in Xemion's general direction. The other Nain gave the slightest little bow of his head and made an eloquent gesture toward the area behind him. Unfamiliar with the protocols of lining up, having never done so before, Xemion took up a position facing the Nains, on the other side of the black doors.

“Back there,” the bearded Nain barked in a voice that was inordinately raspy and grating, like the sound of a file over a nail. He put his hands on his hips and looked up, chin out aggressively, as though he might be prepared to fight about it.

“I think that means we should stand behind them,” Saheli suggested.

“That's it,” the other Nain rasped.

And so as the sun approached midday, they took their places for the first time in a lineup. They turned and stood side-by-side so they could lean against the wall, but there was at first a bit of an awkward silence between them. Xemion could hardly bring himself to look at her directly lest he see something there that nullified or altered or even challenged that joyous feeling of certainty that was rising in him.

“I feel so suddenly free and completely right here in this moment. I feel as though anything is possible for me,” she said at last. With this she finally turned, and he turned too, and they looked into each other's eyes. Xemion's stomach fluttered and he blushed and he wanted to kiss her again.

But just then came the loud sound of a bell followed by many voices — more voices than Xemion or Saheli had ever heard — breaking into a cheer. The bell must have been a signal to those who were waiting at the eastern gate because the streets then began to fill with people and a long line slowly began to form behind them.

Many were youths who had come from their indentures in the rich farmlands and vineyards to the east. But there were numerous Nains and Thralls as well, both male and female, young and old. Some arrived alone, shy and uncertain, but there were others who came in groups, hooting and hollering and carrying on. A lot of them had their goods stuffed in bags, which they carried on the end of long thick poles balanced over one shoulder. Others, like Saheli, arrived with staffs. And many were barely more than dirty-faced children. They had run away. Or been lured away. Some had come with the man with the red hand on the good ship
Mammuth
. Most of them had been walking for days. They were all the children or grandchildren of murdered Phaer islanders. They were heirs to the greatest literary tradition the world had ever known but they'd had it yanked from their grasp, all its works burned and destroyed. Their parents had grown up illiterate in Pathan workhouses, destined for enslavement in the fields. This third generation should have been clean of the stain of what their oppressors called the “Phaer Arts.” But some of the culture and the truth of their history had filtered through to them by word-of-mouth in the captive cities of the north.

Whisper by whisper they had heard the tales. And now, as though in response to a clarion blast in one of those stories, they were all finding one another for the first time. The new cohort.

They arrived chaotically but there was order in the way they set about lining up. The line went down the wall behind Xemion and Saheli to the corner where it doubled back and once again reached the black door. Here it doubled back to the corner again and over and over until they were ten abreast and still more were coming. The sound of what must've been hundreds of people all at once murmuring in excitement, laughing and joking, holding hands or fooling with their staves or just jumping up and down and vibrating washed over Saheli and thrilled her to her very soul. And she knew she was among her people and it touched something in her that had been lonely a long time and she cheered with joy.

When Brothlem Montither and his retinue first appeared they came down the street from the opposite direction as everyone else. They must have gone around the other side of the Panthemium, Xemion thought. His initial impression was one of great admiration. For Brothlem Montither was the biggest and by far the most gloriously dressed of any who came that day. In fact, he looked a bit like Xemion's childhood hero, Amphion. Physically he was huge — very tall with massive shoulders and a broad chest. His hair was long and black, straight cut at the back to meet a square jaw somewhat speckled by black stubble but neatly trimmed to a chinstrap beard. He wore an elegant green military-style jacket over a leather jerkin, a knee-length kilt, and sandals strapped halfway up his calves. Behind him, a crew of much less finely dressed and much scrawnier fellows followed along, two of them huffing and puffing as they pushed a large golden trunk on wheels.

Montither stopped some distance away from the front of the lineup as one of his retinue, a wiry-looking fellow, fondly known by his colleagues as Gnasher, approached the bigger of the two Nains. Gnasher had a black eye and even blacker teeth, and it looked like several people at various times might have made several attempts at adjusting the position of his nose upon his sallow, narrow face.

“I wonder if you'd mind just backing up a little here,” he said. “My master there will be standing here.”

Xemion and Saheli obligingly backed away, as did those immediately behind them, but the two Nains stayed where they were. The one in front expelled a fierce snort of smoke, barely missing Gnasher's face.

“I think you'll agree,” Gnasher said, unperturbed by this, “that it would be a lot more fitting if someone of my friend's esteem and appearance was to stand here at the front of the line.”

“Here I stand. Here I remain,” the Nain growled, his eyes like blue flint, his voice even grittier than before. The other Nain remained silent.

“No. You see, my friend Brothlem
Montither
over there has paid good money for this position,” said Gnasher. He pronounced the name Montither with an extra emphasis as though it possessed some special, persuasive power. The bigger Nain's jaw moved forward a little and his eyes narrowed to slits.

“Well my name is Tomtenisse Doombeard,” he growled with barely contained menace. “This is where I stand.”

“I beseech you not to trouble him,” the other Nain said, almost sympathetically. “He is given at times to considerable violence.”

“Belphegor,” Tomtenisse Doombeard growled, turning on him. “If you're not going to fight, you stay out of this. Now go and stand over there.”

Belphegor bowed his head and stepped back against the wall closer to Saheli and Xemion. But he couldn't resist one last comment. “For your own sake, good sir, for the sake of your face, your fine face, I beseech you.” Another of the retinue, a massive bald-headed man known as Ring'o'pins due to the numerous rings and pins that punctured and hung from his cheeks, lips, and eyebrows, stepped forward and hissed, “Be off, dwarf, or I will slit your throat!”

In answer, Tomtenisse Doombeard let out a big billow of greenish smoke, right in the speaker's face. Angrily, Ring'o'pins lunged forward with both hands and shoved the Nain with all his might. But Tomtenisse Doombeard had his legs spread wide and knew where his centre of gravity was, so it hardly moved him. The lineup had now become a circle as people backed away and gathered round. The noble Montither, however, had become so engrossed in the minutia of a fresco upon the opposite wall he was apparently unaware of what was going on.

Though Doombeard's assailants were scrawny, they were strong fellows. But Doombeard was stronger and had huge fists that sent the first of them reeling back, holding his nose. In the melee that followed, Ring'o'pins' already ragged face had two of its prettiest piercings torn out while a third was punched so forcefully into his cheekbone it looked like it might be forever embedded there. He fell back screaming and bleeding and holding his face and then all five lunged at Doombeard at once. But he was a slippery, agile, vicious fighter, and even when they managed to hold on to him, his continued bucking, kicking, and spinning assured the onlookers that the fight was far from over. The other Nain still leaned against the wall, obeying his doctrine not to fight. But he was grinning broadly.

All this time, Brothlem Montither had been so lost in his scrutiny of the frescoes he had not been distracted, even by the shrieks and yells of his associates not five yards away. Now, as though just becoming aware of the fracas, he turned around. “No no! Stop it immediately!” he shouted. There was something authoritative and perfectly enunciated in his manner of speaking that Xemion, who had been about to intervene himself, found most fitting and impressive. So did Ring'o'pins and the others, apparently, for they did indeed cease in their efforts to move the fierce Doombeard.

Montither strolled over to the Nain named Belphegor. “There has obviously been some mistake here. Maybe you and I can work this out peacefully,” he offered. His face betrayed no hint of feeling, but Xemion noticed for the first time that his eyes were rather unbecomingly deep-set. Tomtenisse Doombeard remained standing firmly at the front of the line as Montither grinned affably. “Allow me first to apologize for these ruffians here,” Montither said to Belphegor in that beautifully enunciated voice. “My name is Brothlem Montither.” With the most affable equal-to-equal smile he proffered his goodly sized hand.

The Nain eyed it for at least three stunning seconds without making any move at all. Then with a smile of either ineffable modesty or very deep irony he intoned, “I, too, am sorry, but by my vows I am forbidden to touch … an unclean hand.”

The hand remained there for a second longer, and with it the fixed affable expression. In the next moment that expression shattered so quickly it might have been a reflection in a pool dashed by a rock. And through that departed demeanour a more lizard-like face gnashed forth. With one quick movement, Montither reached around and grabbed Belphegor's hat from behind, yanked it so the leather chinstrap dug into his neck, and lifted him up in the air at arm's length, kicking and choking.