Angus Wells - The God Wars 03 (41 page)

           
"Are we so strange?" he
heard Bracht mutter, and nodded, murmuring, "Aye, to them we are."
Then to the innkeeper and his folk, "Greetings. We ride in company of the
kiriwashen, Chazali Nakoti Makusen, and the wazir, Ochen Tajen Makusen, of
Pamur-teng. They bade us await them here."

           
The innkeeper took a wary step
forward, folding his ample belly in a bow. Calandryll saw his head was bald,
though he wore both mustache and beard. He ran a pink tongue nervously over
fleshy lips and said in a faltering voice, "Greetings to you, honored
guests. We were appraised of your coming, and bid you welcome. I am Kiatu Garu,
owner of this humble establishment. How may I serve you?"

           
"Ale, do you have it,"
Bracht declared, cheerfully ignoring the man's obvious discomfort. "Wine,
else."

           
"I'd take a bath," said
Katya.

           
"All is available," Kiatu
assured them, bowing afresh.

           
"Then, Katya, do you and
Cennaire use the bathhouse," Calandryll suggested, "while Bracht and
I await you here?"

           
The Vanu woman nodded, Cennaire an
instant later: this would be the first time she was alone with Katya since
confessing her revenancy, and she wondered what might be said. No matter, she
decided, for she was committed now, and did Katya scorn her, or decry her, still
words should not harm her. She followed the taller woman across the ill-lit
chamber, to the door Kiatu indicated, where a nervous serving woman waited.

           
Calandryll, for his part, wondered
what might pass between him and Bracht in this moment of privacy, thinking that
it might well be an opportunity to speak openly of their differences. He felt
abruptly nervous: they had spoken hardly at all since the night of Horul's
manifestation, and he was afraid that free discussion might drive wider the
rift between them. He followed the Kern to a table set along one wall, taking a
seat beneath a lantern as Kiatu brought them ale.

           
Bracht took a healthy swig and
grunted his approval. Calandryll drank slower, unsure whether he should broach
the subject of Cennaire or remain silent. It was, as it happened, the Kern who
spoke first.

           
"We've not said much, you and
I," he declared, glancing first at Calandryll and then at his mug.

           
To his surprise, Calandryll realized
Bracht was embarrassed. He said, "No. Not since . . ."

           
He shrugged, letting the sentence
die. Bracht took another swallow and finished for him: “Horul appeared to
you."

           
Calandryll turned on the faldstool
to face the Kern. "You believe he did? It was not some conjuration?"

           
"I've spoken long with Katya on
this," Bracht answered slowly, frowning at his ale, "and she's
persuaded me it
was
likely Horul.
Ochen is convinced, and you've no doubts. So ..."

           
He broke off, shrugging. Calandryll
said, "It was the god, Bracht. Of that I've no doubt at all, nor of what
he said."

           
"That Cennaire becomes our
ally?" Again Bracht shrugged, his frown deepening. "Perhaps. But I
cannot forget what she is, nor who made her that. Neither that you love
her—even knowing all she's done."

           
Calandryll was silent awhile. Then:
"Aye. But think you that does not trouble me?" His voice trailed away
and he shook his head helplessly. "Dera, I know not whether I should love
her or loathe her! Horul said I should forget her past, follow my heart—that
she's reborn, and should be forgiven what she's done. But think you I can
forget that? No, I cannot!"

           
"This is no easy thing."
Bracht tilted his mug and called for more. "And these past days I've
thought only of my own feelings, not at all of yours."

           
Calandryll recognized the apology
and smiled briefly. "Save that I love her, I'm no more certain what they
are," he said softly. "The killings—aye, those I can forgive. At
least, I think I can, for she acted then on pain of Anomius's wrath, in fear of
her . . . life . . . and I've shed blood enough along this road."

           
"None innocent," Bracht
interjected.

           
"Perhaps," Calandryll
sighed. "Perhaps that's a thing for the gods to decide."

           
Confidently, Bracht said, "The
Younger Gods can find no fault in you, my friend. Ahrd! Those you've slain,
you've slain for this quest's sake."

           
"And now Cennaire becomes a
part of that," returned Calandryll. "Horul said as much, and Ochen
believes it so. Yet what am I become, that I love a woman without a
heart?"

           
"Unlucky," said Bracht,
his mouth shaping a tight and humorless grin.

           
"Would that she might regain
her heart and become no more than mortal," Calandryll murmured. "It
should be easier then."

           
"Perhaps Ochen might find a
way," Bracht suggested.

           
Calandryll glanced sharply at the
Kern. "How so? Save we reach Anwar-teng and defeat Rhythamun, my concerns
are of no importance."

           
"Perhaps after, then,"
Bracht said, and chuckled. "Do we succeed. Do we not, I think all our
concerns shall be ended."

           
Calandryll nodded, himself chuckling
at that grim humor. "Aye. But meanwhile? Shall we go on as before, or do
you name Cennaire ally now?"

           
Bracht paused before replying,
toying with his mug. "Katya is largely convinced," he said slowly,
"and she persuades me that Ochen is a true friend. I think perhaps my
doubts were born of anger. Ahrd, but I thought these Jesserytes our enemy
before I came to know them better. I was mistaken then—perhaps I was wrong,
too, about Cennaire."

           
Calandryll stared, wondering if the
Kern was truly won over, or if he merely looked to patch their friendship.

           
Bracht shrugged, drank ale, and went
on: "I'll not say I like what she's done, nor that I trust her yet. But
there have been divisions come between us, and those can only threaten this
quest—I'd not see them grow wider. I tell you now—can I trust this gijan we're
to consult, and she pronounces Cennaire one with our cause, then I'll name her
ally."

           
It was, Calandryll knew, as close as
the Kern would come to confessing a wrong, an elaborate apology offered by a
proud, hard man. He accepted it gratefully, thankful that the gap sprung up
between them was closed.

           
"But does she prove
false," Bracht added grimly, "then I'll slay her if I can."

           
"Aye." Calandryll ducked
his head, accepting that. "And betwixt here and Pamur-teng? Shall you
treat her as a friend?"

           
Bracht, in turn, nodded. "I'll
not promise I can forget what she is," he said, "but you've my word
I'll endeavor to be more courteous."

           
"My thanks," said
Calandryll.

           
"Ahrd, shall comrades such as
we fall out over a woman?" The Kern chuckled, some measure of good humor
returned. "Even be she heartless. Now—do we drink more of this Jesseryte
ale?"

           
"Surely." Calandryll
shouted for fresh mugs, his spirits lifted, as if a weight were taken from his
soul.

           
Katya and Cennaire joined them in a
while, and from the expression on the Kand woman's face, and the way they spoke
together, Calandryll saw that a similar conversation had taken place in the
bathhouse. It cheered him that their differences were mended, for all he must
still wrestle with his own conscience: that Bracht and Katya chose to accept
Cennaire resolved but one problem—there remained the disquieting fact that he
loved a woman animated by sorcery.

           
It was difficult to think of her as
such when she smiled and he felt his heart lurch, marveling at the perfection
of her face, the glossy spill of her raven hair, and he once more took refuge
behind a screen of formality. It was easier when Ochen, accompanied by Chazali
and the kotu-zen, entered the tavern. Easier, too, for Kiatu and his staff,
though Calandryll could still read amazement on their faces, that wazir and
kiriwashen should so casually accept the presence of foreigners, indeed, should
converse with them as if with old friends.

           
That discipline that seemed a
natural part of the Jesseryte character stood the landlord in good stead then,
as he oversaw the serving of the meal, for all his eyes wandered frequently to
the outlanders' faces and he started each time he heard them speak his
language.

           
The fare was excellent, a luxury
after the long days on the road, fish served in spicy sauces, and cuts of pork
and venison roasted with strange herbs, a gravy fragrant with wine. They ate
well, listening to what news of the civil war had come south. The siege of
Anwar-teng continued, they learned, though the sorcerers standing with the
rebel forces worked hard to prevent the transfer of news by occult means, what
messages had broached their barriers sporadic. The priest had advised Ochen
that the armies of Pamur-teng and Ozali-teng moved north, while the rebellious
kotu- zen of Bachan-teng remained within their hold, ready to block the line of
march. As best he knew, no major battle was yet fought, the main forces of the
rebels still en route to
Lake
Galil
, where Anwar-teng yet stood inviolate.

           
"And Rhythamun?" asked
Calandryll. "Is there news of him?"

           
Ochen and Chazali exchanged a look
at that, and the wazir nodded somberly, the kiriwashen's face dour.

           
"Ten days past a kotu-anj came
here," Ochen replied. "He declared himself a messenger sent from the
keep, riding for Pamur-teng. He took a fresh mount and continued northward
without delay."

           
"Did the priest not recognize
him for what he is?" gasped Calandryll.

           
"No." Ochen shook his head
regretfully. "He'd no cause to suspect the man, and only wished him godspeed
on his way."

           
At his side, Calandryll heard Bracht
mutter a curse. For his own part, he sighed and murmured, "Ten days? Dera,
but he gains on us."

           
"We've one small
advantage," said Ochen. "He gave his name as Jabu Orati
Makusen."

           
"A very small advantage,"
Calandryll observed.

           
Ochen smiled faintly, nodding
agreement, and said, "But still a gain, for we know his clan now."

           
"What use is that?" asked
Bracht.

           
Chazali answered, his voice grim:
"Does he look to join the army out of Pamur-teng, he must first explain
his presence—why he did not remain at the keep. Does he succeed, then he must
continue his charade, and find himself assigned to the column of the Orati
clan."

           
"Ahrd! Think you if we call out
his name, he shall spring forward?" Bracht grunted, shaking his head
slowly. "Or shall the clan stand in line while Cennaire studies each
face?"

           
Chazali took no offense at the
Kern's bitter humor, only shrugged, opening his hands in a gesture of
helplessness. "We can overtake the columns," he declared. "That,
at least. Then, do I speak with the kiriwashen of the Orati, he can check
through his men."

           
"Save Rhythamun possess some
other," Calandryll said. "Or avoids the army altogether."

           
"He must still enter Anwar-teng
to reach that gate," Ochen said quietly. "Or go on to the
Borrhun-maj."

           
"And Anwar-teng stands
yet," Chazali added. "And the Borrhun-maj is a long ride off."

           
"And Rhythamun ten days
ahead," said Bracht, "with more delays likely left in our way. And he
able to shift his shape again."

           
A ruminative silence settled then,
the enormity of their task daunting. It seemed impossible they should overtake
the sorcerer, but rather trail forever after him, until he reached his goal and
Tharn was raised. They each became lost awhile in private thoughts, none happy,
until Ochen broke the spell.

           
"But still we go on, no?"
he asked. "Do we but gain Anwar-teng, we've the aid of the wazir-
narimasu."