The Wraeththu Chronicles (127 page)

/ dreamed.

It is a hot, hot day. The sunlight is almost too bright to bear. lam standing alone at the edge of what seems to be a great battlefield; it is scattered with the debris of conflict. I can smell a hot, sweet yet sour aroma and the air is full of small, desperate sounds. Ragged birds investigate the flesh of the fallen. I cannot tell which tribes have been involved, or whether the fight has been between hara and humans instead. The Gelaming are in black leather and silver, their hair like haloes of steam, turning bodies, looking for survivors. I decide to follow them because I know they cannot see me. As I walk, the smell

of carrion becomes stronger, a taste of sweet metal. A pavilion appears on the horizon and suddenly I am standing right in front of it. Two hara of obviously high rank are seated beneath a tasselled canopy, one on each side of a wooden table. Attendants stand silently behind them in the shadows of the tent. The seated hara are drinking sparkling wine from tall, stemmed glasses. The battlefield stretches all around them; a testament of carnage. I recognize one of them. The recognition comes slowly, but soon lam sure it is Zackala sitting there. The other has fair hair and the confident aura of someone who knows fame and power. He has a nasty wound above the left eye, blood in his hair, which is tied behind his head. There is another stitched wound on his shoulder. I can hear them talking, but not the words. Then, Zackala lifts his

glass; sunlight makes it come alive with bubbling fire. He smiles. "To Cal," he says, "wherever you are ..."

I awoke with a start, jerking back, and the darkness above me was spinning, writhing. There was an echo of a cry in my throat. Panthera leaned over me. "What is it?"

"A dream," I answered. "Gelaming." There was a foul taste in my mouth, stale and sour.

"Forget them!" Panthera hissed wildly. "Don't let them frighten you."

"I'm not afraid," I said, and I could feel Panthera's breath above me in the darkness, but it was not the time.

"Thanks," I said.

"That's alright." He lay down again and I reached for his hand. Contact of fingers in the dark. He did not move away.

Sahale

"For they are creatures of dark air,

Unsubstantial tossing forms . . .

In mid-whirl of mental storms.

 
—Robert Graves, Mermaid, Dragon, Fiend

From a distance, Shappa is virtually indistinguishable from the surrounding mountains. It is built entirely from gray stone; built into the rock itself, in fact. Nanine pointed out a curl of smoke rising above the city. That's how we knew where it lay. We came to a paved road, and here the Elhmen consented to ride doubled with me to save time. As we drew nearer to Shappa, other travelers joined us on the road, appearing from other tracks that converged onto the main route. Panthera and myself were regarded suspiciously but hara spoke to Nanine without reserve. The gates of Shappa loomed up before us, casting a long, black shadow on the road. There was a lot of activity, but the guards on the gate were still sharp-eyed enough to order Panthera and I to halt, so that they could examine our luggage. I can't imagine what they were looking for.

Eventually, their curiosity satisfied, we were waved on into the streets of the city. As Shappa is built into the side of a mountain, one would expect the streets to be rather steep, but some of them are virtually impassable. All the ground is cobbled; mainly so that hara can have footholds as they climb. It is a very clean city; the buildings high and narrow. Shop-fronts are unobtrusive and not many of the inns provide tables outside; presumably, so that their customers don't go sliding down to the city gates after a few drinks! A lot of the buildings go way back into the rock, so that Shappa is a great deal larger than it appears from outside. Elhmen hara in Shappa seemed more sophisticated than Nanine and his brothers; they were primly dressed in long robes, their long hair woven, bound and confined in a variety of styles.

"Well, first we find an inn," Nanine decided, "then try and hire you a decent guide to take you to Eulalee."

"What do we need a guide for?" Panthera asked in a voice that implied he thought Nanine was spending our money for us unnecessarily. "Ask that again after you've been there," Nanine replied. It was late afternoon. Nanine led us to a hostelry he knew to be comfortable and cheap, leaving us alone while we scoured the streets for a guide. Panthera and I decided to sample some of the local food in the inn's dining room. We sat near the back window, which overlooked a yard whose floor was unleveled rock. Bright flowers bloomed in cracks; a chained, black dog stared contemplatively into

space, head on paws. I could not help feeling that Shappa had almost a holiday atmosphere about it, as if it catered mainly for tourists.

"It is the only stopping place before Kar Tatang," Panthera said. "And of course a lot of hara come here from other districts to take the air and mineral waters. There is a meditation center in Shappa, quite reknowned further east. Many rich hara send their sons here for caste education." "You haven't been here before though."

Panthera shook his head. "No, although my father has, many times. The Jaels trade with Elhmen here; we have regular customers. One of my father's paintings hangs on the wall in the foyer of the Meditation Center. Elhmen might be careful about which strangers are wandering about the countryside, but once you are known to them, visits are encouraged. If they feel they'll gain something from your presence, of course! You must remember, they have little to trade but their knowledge."

About an hour later, Nanine turned up again with a young Elhmen har named Kachina, who was looking for work. He told us he'd already made fifteen trips to Sahen.

"None of my clients ever complained," he said, earnestly. "I get them to Sahen by the quickest possible route."

Nanine assured us that we would be in safe hands if we agreed to hire Kachina, and in pocket because his services were cheap. We saw no reason not to trust his judgment, even though Kachina did look rather young. We took our leave of the city early the next morning. Nanine embraced me and wished us luck. As in Gimrah, an invitation to return some day for a social visit was extended. Panthera waited grumpily. I had spent the night with Nanine in a separate room and Panthera's foul silence because of that was almost unbearable. We followed Kachina to the east gate of Shappa, where we took a northern path, cut through the rock. Kachina told us that, at Kar Tatang, the gate to Eulalee, we would be able to stable our horses at livery for a reasonable price.

"The keepers of the stables at least must be confident that travelers will re-emerge from Eulalee," I said.

Kar Tatang was merely an hour's ride from Shappa. The gate itself was an awesome sight; a gigantic, gaping face carved into the rock, whose heavy-lipped mouth formed the entrance to the land below. The blind, stone eyes were turned skywards, as if each mouthful of travelers was exceedingly difficult to swallow. The village of Kar Tatang itself, clustered around the chin of the gate, comprised inns and stables and very little else. I had imagined that the doorway to this eerie, underground kingdom would be silent and lonely, but was surprised to find it a bustling, crowded place. There was much to-ing and fro-ing; that was clear. We found lodgings for our horses and paused to take a meal in one of the inns before venturing through the gate. I was beginning to feel a little nervous; anything could be waiting for me down there, but I was comforted by the thought that many other travelers would be following the same route as ourselves.

Elhmen guards, hooded and dressed in black, questioned all travelers as they passed through the gate. We were asked our business, whereupon Panthera produced our letter of introduction from Ferminfex. It was studied with insulting thoroughness before one of the guards thrust it back growling "Pass!" and waving us through. Beyond the gate, we came upon a vast cave. Stalls selling provisions (and, oh dear, talismans of protection) were set up precariously on galleries around the walls.

"From now on, it's downwards all the way," Kachina said. At first, the road was wide and gently sloping. We had time to admire the surroundings, which were impressive to say the least. In some places water ran down the walls, into clear pools where travelers could pause and drink. Great, white, gnarled stalactites depended ponderously from the roof. After an hour or so, Kachina pointed to a dark opening to our left.

"This is a short cut," he said. "Not as comfortable as the main ways, but it will save a lot of time." He looked at us hopefully. Panthera shrugged.

"Lead on," I said. "Whatever's down there, I might as well get it over with as quickly as possible."

The new path was so steep in places that it made me dizzy, as if I could pitch forward at any moment and fall and fall. We walked sideways. Sometimes, the passage would level out, and the ceiling would be lower so that we couldn't stand upright. I wondered whether the main routes became half as treacherous as this one. Presumably not, for how could the Sahale transport goods below if they did? Kachina informed us that the journey would take about a day and a half. This was a blow to me, who had estimated a figure of several hours at the most. Oppressed by the heavy weight of the mountain above us, I was already twitchy with claustrophobia, something I'd not experienced before. The air was stale, smelling oily and sour. Dim illumination was provided by strangely glowing bulbs of orangey-red light. I could not work out how they were powered, but there didn't appear to be any wires. It couldn't have been electricity. Kachina led us onwards effortlessly, knowing instinctively which branch of the road to take when it forked. I was curious as to where the other passages led. Kachina told us about other Sahale settlements; temples and havens of retreat. There were no signs to mark the way.

Inconvenience struck. Half-way along a twisting, narrow passage, the lights went out. Kachina swore mildly.

"What now?" Panthera asked nervously. "Can we continue?" He had reached for me in the dark; now we clung to each other's arms. I'm quite sure that, if it hadn't been for Kachina's calm, we would have panicked like animals.

"Yes, we can continue," Kachina answered. "We won't be in utter darkness. I have this." It was a kind of emergency light-cell, similar in many respects to Nanine's glowing staff, powered by psychokinesis alone. It only gave off a dull glow, but this was enough to stave off hysteria.

When we were tired, we lay down in resting places cut into the rock. Our water tasted sour and neither Panthera or myself felt like eating anything. Panthera confided that he too did not enjoy being so far underground.

"I don't like feeling trapped," he said. "We'd be helpless if anything should attack us, or if the roof fell in. I hate not being able to get myself out. Let's face it, we'd wander about until we starved to death or went mad if we got lost down here. My sense of direction has gone completely."

So had mine. Even Kachina's spirits had dampened since the lights went out. As we lay in the darkness, resting our protesting muscles, I thought, "Why am I doing this? Someone is going to pay, I swear it!" Then I slept . . .

. . . And dreamed. I am in Phaonica, the palace of the Tigron in Immanion. The rooms are all of dark, Etruscan colors; red and brown and gold. Bizarrely patterned curtains fold to the floor, pooling on the lustrous tiles. Amongst the drapes, I see the glint of metal, the luster of jet. The floor is black and red, black and red. I walk across it. Here is the doorway to the Tigron's bedchamber. It is empty and I pass right through, past the canopied bed, whose hangings are waving in a gentle breeze from the open window. The room is dark. Beyond this room, I can see light, hear the sound of water. I follow it. This is a white and green place. The bath is really a pool set into the floor, approached by marble steps, the water gently spuming. Lilies ride the wavelets, cut petals and scattered ferns. There is a sharp, herby scent in the air. Oh, there he is: Pellaz, rising from the water like a young god; a goddess. His body looks harder than I remember it, but of course, he is much older now and this is a different body. He has bound up his hair for the bath, and now he is pulling out the pins. Hair tumbles down to stick to his wet flesh. He shakes his head. He is still beautiful. He is still dreaming. There is a small, private smile on his face. He senses movement and calls to the other room, "Who's there?" Does he sense me? No.

"Only I, your humble servant!" a voice replies, and then a tall, scruffy-looking har is leaning on the door-frame between the rooms. His hair is gray from road-dust. He has a dried wound above his left eye and his face is still stained by old blood. This is a warrior; I have encountered many of his kind. His clothes are gray. He looks

weary. Pellaz calls him Ashmael and, of course, I have heard of him. Who hasn't? Another of Immanion's immortal stars. Pellaz has wrapped himself in a towel. These two are close friends, lean tell, but not that close.

"You look a little unkempt," Pellaz mocks him.

Ashmael shrugs. "I just got back."

"Ah, you've completed the task of single-handedly subduing Megalithica then, have you?"

Ashamel raises an eyebrow. He says nothing. Pellaz flicks a towel fringe over his shoulder, pulls his hair from under it. He gestures at the water. "Take a bath, Ash; be my guest." He begins to call for servants, but Ashmael takes the Tigron's wrist, shakes his head.

"No, just let me soak alone, " he says, and Pellaz pulls away fastidiously, somewhat affronted. I watch him wander through to his bedroom, but I do not follow. Maybe I can't. I watch Ashmael pull off his clothes instead. There is a dark, sulky bruise all along one side of him. His shoulder has been stitched together. I sympathize with his deadened weariness. He stretches and winces, testing the water with a grimed, tentative toe. He shudders, glancing around him, as if sensing unseen eyes. Mine? I don't suppose he has ever been watched before. He is one of the privileged. It is he, and his kind, who usually do the watching, the spying. He eases himself carefully into the water; grimacing. Bubbles swirl around him. He sighs and smiles, leaning his head back, against the side of the bath. After a while, Pellaz comes back, carrying two goblets of wine. Ashmael is dozing, and the Tigron watches him for a moment. Then he kneels down on the marble tiles. He puts the cups down beside him and reaches to touch the stitched wound on Ashmael's shoulder. Ashmael yelps in surprise and sinks, floundering, beneath the water. Pellaz is laughing.