Slow Turns The World (16 page)

“Torrin, do you see what grows there, upon that tree?”

Torrin looked to where Valhad pointed and saw fungus upon the trunk, fist shaped and honey coloured.

“Surely that is imbas,” said Valhad hurrying to it and breaking off a segment.

“There is much all around,” said Torrin, looking at the surrounding trees.  They returned to the column clutching the fungus in their hands, and His Lordship, seeing them, summoned Torrin to him.

“What do you hold, Vasagi?”

“Lord, it is imbas, it makes a powerful medicine.”

“Dispose of it.  At once.”

“But Lord, it cures poisoning of wounds and the blood.  It does what no other plant or herb can do.”

“Vasagi, the Text tells us which plants and animals God made for us to eat.  It tells us that Regis, third son of Amon, who was the first man God made, so disgusted his Maker in his sinfulness, that he was made dead, and then foul and putrid plants sprouted from his body.  Such plants as you have picked grow in dark and decaying places.  They are eaten only by heathens, heretics and the unholy.  The punishment for their consumption is most severe.”

Torrin did not argue further but threw the imbas away as commanded.  Then he hurried to find Valhad and warn him of the church’s teaching.

“I will keep what I have,” said Valhad, “it is too precious a thing to cast aside.”

“His Lordship said the punishment was most severe,” said Torrin, “you must leave what you have here.”

“I will not, Torrin.  The voice within tells me not to.  There is too much good that can be done with it.”

“Then promise me to hide it well and not speak of it to anyone.”

“I promise, Torrin.”

“Swear that you will, please, there is much danger here and I fear for you.”

“Torrin, if it makes you happy, then I swear upon the lives of all the Vasagi to keep this secret.”

As they drew nearer other roads converged upon the city and joined with theirs.  There were more travellers on the way now, some riding, some walking, others driving carts laden with strange fruits and vegetables.  All moved aside as the column passed, and bowed their heads subserviently.   The city wall was growing close, the outer rim of the wheel, an encircling ring of masonry that might serve as refuge or prison.  The road led directly to an arched gate with much traffic passing both in and out, but the column turned away onto a circular road that girdled the city and followed this to a second gate.  This entry was sealed tight, the black open mouth meshed across with a portcullis.  Priest-soldiers watched from the walls above and gave an order.  The spiked barrier, fashioned with the symbol of the triangle within the circle, drew slowly upwards and the leading riders clattered into the dim interior.

They entered a dark cutting between high walls and then rose slowly, climbing a ramp, until they emerged again into sunlight.  Torrin saw now that they were following a road set upon one of the eight spokes that radiated from the city's heart.  He could see down into the lower level on either side.  In each of these enclosed triangles were a jumble of buildings, some brick, others timber, the taller ones crowned with towers and the lesser thatched.  The structures were not set upon a neat grid; they angled this way and that creating a confused web of roads and alleys.  

People, carts and animals wound between them or gathered in the open spaces where brightly coloured fruits and fabrics were laid on benches.  Torrin snatched a glimpse here and there of busy people engaged in trading, arguing, or laughing.  But when those below glanced upwards, at the soldiers and the coach, the carefree smiles flickered from their faces and he saw that the great city was divided.  Here, upon the high sunlit ramparts, the priests patrolled and looked down into the shadow filled eight walled segments, each connected to its neighbours with a single gate.  There were two cities, two peoples, one set above the other, one watching, one watched.

Ahead now the central citadel grew closer; a ring formed by a high windowless wall at the hub of the converging spokes.  Within the circle a triangular tower arose that reared to a great height.  It was a mighty construction, taller, greater, and stronger than any that Torrin had seen in his recent travels.  They reached another gate and waited as huge iron doors were drawn slowly open, then they came within the walls of the citadel.  It was unlike the friendly chaos of the city outside; here all was ordered. There were ornate gardens surrounding imposing houses of stone, but the shadow of the central tower lay upon them, bringing each in turn into a realm of gloom with the slow turning of the world.  

A priest soldier of high rank greeted them and bowed low before His Lordship.

“Your Eminence, Saloxe, emissary of His Supreme Holiness will receive you at the striking of the fifth bell.”

“Saloxe?” replied His Lordship, with a suggestion of both surprise and distaste.

“Word has been sent to His Holiness of your arrival.”

“Sent to where?”

“To Matrodar, Eminence.”

His Lordship allowed another flicker of surprise to cross his face before recovering his composure.

“Very well.  You will ensure that the goods carried with me are taken to the vaults.  I will go to my villa now.”

They separated from the column and turned aside from the major road that lead to the high tower.  Within a short while the coach drew up before a large house where an elderly man, with flowing white hair and beard, bowed low.

“Lordship.  May God be praised that you are safely returned to us.”

“May He be praised indeed,” said His Lordship. “That you have been granted life long enough to see my return, Alasam.   Is all well with the house?”

“All is well Lord, save that our old gardener, Erun, has died.”

“All the other servants are in good health?”

“All of them, Lord.” There was a suggestion of emphasis on 'all' and a nod from His Lordship that acknowledged this.

“Lord,” continued Alasam, “we are sorry to hear that your protector Kalor has died in your service.”

His eyes turned to Torrin, who thought that he looked far from sorry.

“A loss indeed,” said His Lordship. “This is my new servant and protector.  He will need to be taught the ways of the house, and of the city.  Oh, there is also another servant to be trained.”  With a glance he indicated Valhad who still sat on the roof of the coach. “Perhaps he could be trained as a gardener.”

“Perhaps, Lord,” said Alasam, apparently unconvinced of this possibility.

They entered the villa.  Within were an expansive tiled hallway and a broad carved staircase leading to the upper floor.   A glazed dome in the roof admitted red hued sunlight to the upper landing.  There were paintings hung in rows upon the walls, each a drab portrayal of some episode in the Text, most involving grisly death and torment of the soul.  But there were flowers too, many bunches, fresh cut and fragrant as if some occupant of the house had determined to make a stand against cold austerity.  

“I will rest now,” said His Lordship.  “Vasagi, go with Alasam.  Later you will accompany me to the tower.”

Torrin and Valhad were led to the back of the house and into a room hot with cooking and rich in the smell of spices.  Sat around a long wooden table were the servants of the house.  

“His Lordship is resting,” announced Alasam.  “This young man is to be trained in the duty of the household,” he continued, indicating Valhad.  There were nods and murmurs of welcome.

“And this...” he said, turning to Torrin, “is His Lordship's new protector.” Suspicious eyes examined Torrin.

“I am Torrin.” No greeting followed. “I am to do Kalor's duty…” Still no one spoke. “But I am not Kalor.”

The silence was broken by a woman who turned from stirring a pot on the stove.

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

Torrin and Valhad sat at the table and ate from steaming bowls of stew.  Torrin looked at the faces around him.  Alasam sat at the table’s head, apparently lord of this subservient domain.   There were two other men of middle years; one a coachman the other a gardener, there was the rather large and fierce woman cook and then there were three young women who were all quite beautiful, each in their own way.   They were called Marasil, Cardura, and Graselle.  Torrin had heard girlish laughter before he entered the room, but now the trio watched him in sullen, brooding silence.  He wondered what Kalor had done to leave this legacy of fear.  

It was Marasil who gave Torrin the most searching look while her fingers nervously stroked her face, as if attempting some half-wished concealment of her features.  There seemed to be a purpose in her eyes, and more besides, a beauty too, that drew Torrin’s gaze.   Then Alasam asked what tribe and land they were from and they told their story, each in turn adding a detail here and there.  They spoke of the Vasagi, of the Asgal and the Ummakil.  They told of the serpents and the iceberg, how the ship found them.  Now the girls were listening with wide-eyed fascination and began to ask tentative questions.  

“Are your tribe fierce warriors?”

“No, simple hunters.  Peaceful people who made no war.”

They continued with their story, of how death came to Kalor, but no tears were shed from any around the table.  Valhad began to tell of the journey east, but Torrin interrupted.

“His Lordship has ordered that we should not to speak of that voyage.”  He looked at the faces turned towards him.  They were cautious again, reminded suddenly who this man was, and the half-guessed nature of his duties.  

“Know this, all of you,” said Torrin, looking at each of them in turn.  “His Lordship understands well that which I will do, and that which I will not do in his service.  We are Vasagi.  We know what is right, and what is wrong.”  There was silence for a moment.

“Then what god do you worship?” asked Marasil.

“The Vasagi worship no god,” said Torrin.

“And can you still know what is right and wrong?” she asked, with doubt in her voice.

The reply came from Valhad.

“Yes.  Of course.  And so can all men.  We have never needed god to know in our hearts what is right.”

There was a long moment as Marasil stared back into Valhad's blue eyes.  Then a bell rang three times.

“Three rings is your number, Protector,” said Alasam, “His Lordship summons you.”

Alasam led Torrin back to the entrance hall where His Lordship was already waiting, his usual simple clothing concealed beneath a robe of elaborate design.

“Vasagi, I have an audience within the tower.  Your services are not normally required within its walls but you may accompany me on this occasion; I must show some token of my travels.”

The coach that carried them to the tower was much finer and grander than the modest vehicle that had brought them to the city.  A short journey took them to a gate like a cave mouth set into an unclimbable cliff.  Guards saluted as they rumbled through into what was almost a tunnel, so massive and wide were the walls.  Then they emerged into an inner courtyard and before them rose the great central tower.  Triangular windows were set into each of its three sides, one line above another, stretching upwards until the rows seemed to merge.    Sunlight bathed one face of the tower while the others were in deep shadow, making the structure appear like the blade of some monstrous knife.   The journey had taken little time and might as easily have been walked but Torrin began to understand that men like His Lordship did not arrive on foot, especially not in their finest robes.

They stepped down from the carriage before a wide set of steps that rose to a triangular portal.   

“Vasagi, you will follow ten paces behind me.  And try not to look too overawed.  Remember that men of your profession are supposed to remain impassive with a slightly threatening air.”

Torrin set a stony face, only permitting his eyes to wander slightly, giving his best impression that he had seen a hundred cities that were grander than this.  They climbed the flight of broad steps and passed through the portal into a high chamber.  Many rows of windows admitted the sunlight in angled beams of red light.  There were massive pillars set in rows, bearing the great weight of the many floors above.    Set centrally was a single table where a single priest sat writing.  His quill scratched at a sheet of parchment and the sound seemed to grow and fill the echoing void.  His raised his head as they approached but did not rise.

“Lord Vagis, you are expected.  Is this your protector?”

“It is.”

“His weapon must remain here.”

“By whose command?”

“By the command of he who awaits in the synod chamber, Saloxe, Emissary of His Supreme Holiness.”

His Lordship nodded to Torrin who unbuckled his sword.

“You may ascend,” said the priest and resumed his scratching writing.

They came to the foot of a broad stair that rose in many flights following the three walls of the tower.  At each sharp angled turn a carved statue stood upon the baluster.  The first was the greatest, a stern father figure with only the slightest suggestion of compassion in the stone cold eyes.  His Lordship bowed before it and uttered a few words of contrition.

“Is that how you see your God,” asked Torrin, “so fierce and angry?”

“He is angry because we fail him.  Even Amon, the first man, did so.  See, his image is next.”

They stopped before the carving of Amon.  A handsome muscular form, but filled with hideous lust and guilt.

“After God made the world,” His Lordship explained, “he made the animals and then he made Amon to be his companion. He gave Amon life eternal, to live forever with God upon the world.  But Amon became obsessed with the ways of the animals who were soulless and bred by fornication and lust filled his body.  He craved the way of flesh, and begged for a mate.  And God was made angry, and took away the gift of life eternal, and punished Amon by granting his wish.”

They came to the next statue.  A fierce woman glowered at them, reeking of strength, sexuality and immense power.

“God said to Amon, 'I will give you a mate, and I shall make her according to your lust, but she shall not be as you, her desires will not be as your desires, her needs will not be as your needs.  She will torment you and have power upon you, and she shall be called Johanna.'  So God gave Johanna to Amon and great was the strife between them, but her womb was bountiful and many were their children.”