Читать книгу The Complete Tamuli Trilogy: Domes of Fire, The Shining Ones, The Hidden City - David Eddings - Страница 22

The Peloi were nomadic herders from the marches of eastern Pelosia. They were superb horsemen and savage warriors. They spoke a somewhat archaic form of Elenic, and many of the words in their tongue had fallen out of use in the modern language. Among those words was ‘Domi’, a word filled with profoundest respect. It meant ‘Chief’ – sort of – although, as Sir Ulath had once said, it lost a great deal in translation.

The current Domi of the Peloi was named Kring. Kring was a lean man of slightly more than medium height. As was customary among the men of his people, he shaved his head, and there were savage-looking sabre scars on his scalp and face, an indication that the process of rising to a position of leadership among the Peloi involved a certain amount of rough-and-tumble competition. He wore black leather clothing, and a lifetime spent on horseback had made him bandy-legged. He was a fiercely loyal friend, and he had worshipped Mirtai from the moment he had first seen her. Mirtai did not discourage him, although she refused to commit herself. They made an odd-looking couple, since the Atan woman towered more than a foot over her ardent suitor.

Peloi hospitality was generous, and the business of ‘taking salt together’ usually involved enormous amounts of roasted meat, during the consumption of which the men ‘spoke of affairs’, a phrase with many implications, ranging in subject matter from the weather to formal declarations of war.

After they had eaten, Kring described what he had observed during the ride of the hundred Peloi across Zemoch. ‘It never really was a kingdom, friend Sparhawk,’ he said. ‘Not the way we understand the word. There are too many different kinds of people living in Zemoch for them all to come together under one roof. The only thing that kept them united was their fear of Otha and Azash. Now that their emperor and their God aren’t there any more, the Zemochs are just kind of drifting apart. There’s not any sort of war or anything like that. It’s just that they don’t stay in touch with each other any more. They all have their own concerns, so they don’t really have any reason to talk to each other.’

‘Is there any kind of government at all?’ Tynian asked the shaved-headed Domi.

‘There’s a sort of a framework, friend Tynian,’ Kring replied. They were sitting in a large, open pavilion in the centre of the Peloi encampment feasting on roast ox. The sun was just going down and the shadows of the peaks lying to the west lay long across the pleasant valley. There were lights in the windows of Basne a half mile or so away. ‘The departments of Otha’s government have all moved to Gana Dorit,’ Kring elaborated. ‘Nobody will even go near the city of Zemoch any more. The bureaucrats in Gana Dorit spend their time writing directives, but their messengers usually just stop in the nearest village, tear up the directives, wait a suitable period of time, and then go back and tell their employers that all is going well. The bureaucrats are happy, the messengers don’t have to travel very far, and the people go on about their business. Actually, it’s not a bad form of government.’

‘And their religion?’ Sir Bevier asked intently. Bevier was a devout young knight, and he spent a great deal of his time talking and thinking about God. His companions liked him in spite of that.

‘They don’t speak very much about their beliefs, friend Bevier,’ Kring replied. ‘It was their religion that got them into trouble in the first place, so they’re a bit shy about discussing the matter openly. They grow their crops, tend their sheep and goats and let the Gods settle their own disputes. They’re not a threat to anybody any more.’

‘Except for the fact that a disintegrated nation is an open invitation to anyone nearby with anything even remotely resembling an army,’ Ambassador Oscagne added.

‘Why would anyone want to bother, your Excellency?’ Stragen asked him. ‘There’s nothing in Zemoch of any value. The thieves there have to get honest jobs in order to make ends meet. Otha’s gold appears to have been an illusion. It all vanished when Azash died.’ He smiled sardonically. ‘And you have no idea of how chagrined any number of people who’d supported the Primate of Cimmura were when that happened.’

Something rather peculiar happened to Kring’s face. The savage horseman whose very name struck fear into the hearts of his neighbours went first pale, then bright red. Mirtai had emerged from the women’s pavilion to which Peloi custom had relegated her and the others. Strangely, Queen Ehlana had not even objected, a fact which caused Sparhawk a certain nervousness. Mirtai had taken advantage of the accommodations within the pavilion to make herself ‘presentable’. Kring, quite obviously, was impressed. ‘You’ll excuse me,’ he said, rising quickly and moving directly toward the lode-star of his life.

‘I think we’re in the presence of a legend in the making,’ Tynian noted. ‘The Peloi will compose songs about Kring and Mirtai for the next hundred years at least.’ He looked at the Tamul ambassador. ‘Is Mirtai behaving at all the way other Atan women do, your Excellency? She obviously likes Kring’s attentions, but she simply won’t give him a definite answer.’

‘The Atana’s doing what’s customary, Sir Tynian,’ Oscagne replied. ‘Atan women believe in long, leisurely courtships. They find being pursued entertaining, and most men turn their attention to other matters after the wedding. For this period of time in her life, she knows that she’s the absolute centre of the Domi’s attention. Women, I’m told, appreciate that sort of thing.’

‘She wouldn’t just be leading him on, would she?’ Berit asked. ‘I like the Domi, and I’d hate to see him get his heart broken.’

‘Oh, no, Sir Berit. She’s definitely interested. If she found his attentions annoying, she’d have killed him a long time ago.’

‘Courtship among the Atans must be a very nervous business,’ Kalten observed.

‘Oh, yes,’ Oscagne laughed. ‘A man must be very careful. If he’s too aggressive, the woman will kill him, and if he’s not aggressive enough, she’ll marry someone else.’

‘That’s very uncivilised,’ Kalten said disapprovingly.

‘Atan women seem to enjoy it, but then, women are more elemental than we are.’

They left Basne early the following morning and rode eastward toward Esos on the border between Zemoch and the kingdom of Astel. It was a peculiar journey for Sparhawk. It took three days, he was absolutely certain of that. He could clearly remember every minute of those three days and every mile they travelled. And yet his daughter periodically roused him when he was firmly convinced that he was sleeping in a tent, and he would be startled to find that he was dozing on Faran’s back instead and that the position of the sun clearly indicated that what had appeared to be a full day’s travel had taken less than six hours. Princess Danae woke her father for a very practical reason during what was in reality no more than a one-day ride. The addition of the Peloi had greatly increased the amount of stores that had to be carefully depleted each ‘night’, and Danae made her father help her dispose of the excess.

‘What did you do with all the supplies when we were travelling with Wargun’s army?’ Sparhawk asked her on the second ‘night’ which actually consumed about a half hour during the early afternoon of that endless day.

‘I did it the other way,’ she shrugged.

‘Other way?’

‘I just made the excess go away.’

‘Couldn’t you do that this time too?’

‘Of course, but then I couldn’t leave it for the animals. Besides, this gives you and me the chance to talk when nobody’s around to hear us. Pour that sack of grain under those bushes, Sparhawk. There’s a covey of quail back in the grass. They haven’t been eating very well lately, and the chicks are growing very fast right now.’

‘Was there something you wanted to talk about?’ he asked her, slitting open the grain sack with his dagger.

‘Nothing special,’ she said. ‘I just like talking with you, and you’re usually too busy.’

‘And this gives you a chance to show off too, doesn’t it?’

‘I suppose it does, yes. It’s not all that much fun being a Goddess if you can’t show off just a little bit now and then.’

‘I love you,’ he laughed.

‘Oh, that’s very nice, Sparhawk!’ she exclaimed happily. ‘Right from the heart and without even thinking about it. Would you like to have me turn the grass lavender for you – just to show my appreciation.’

‘I’ll settle for a kiss. Lavender grass might confuse the horses.’

They reached Esos that evening. The Child Goddess so perfectly melded real and apparent time that they fitted together seamlessly. Sparhawk was a Church Knight, and he had been trained in the use of magic, but his imagination shuddered back from the kind of power possessed by this whimsical little divinity who, she had announced during the confrontation with Azash in the City of Zemoch, had willed herself into existence, and who had decided independently to be reborn as his daughter.

They set up for the night some distance from town, and after they had eaten, Talen and Stragen took Sparhawk aside. ‘What’s your feeling about a bit of reconnoitring?’ Stragen asked the big Pandion.

‘What did you have in mind?’

‘Esos is a fair-sized town,’ the blond Thalesian replied, ‘and there’s sure to be a certain amount of organisation among the thieves there. I thought the three of us might be able to pick up some useful information by getting in touch with their leader.’

‘Would he know you?’

‘I doubt it. Emsat’s a long way away from here.’

‘What makes you think he’d want to talk with you?’

‘Courtesy, Sparhawk. Thieves and murderers are exquisitely courteous to each other. It’s healthier that way.’

‘If he doesn’t know who you are, how will he know that he’s supposed to be courteous toward you?’

‘There are certain signals he’ll recognise.’

‘You people have a very complex society, don’t you?’

‘All societies are complex, Sparhawk. It’s one of the burdens of civilisation.’

‘Someday you’ll have to teach me these signals.’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you’re not a thief. It’s another of those complexities we were talking about. The point of all of this is that all we have to work with is the ambassador’s rather generalised notion of what’s going on. I think I’d like something a bit more specific, wouldn’t you?’

‘That I would, my friend.’

‘Why don’t we drift on into Esos and see what we can find out then?’

‘Why don’t we?’

The three of them changed into nondescript clothing and rode away from the encampment, circling around to the west to approach the town from that direction.

As they approached, Talen looked critically at the fortifications and the unguarded gate. ‘They seem a little relaxed when you consider how close they are to the Zemoch border,’ he observed.

‘Zemoch doesn’t pose much of a threat any more,’ Stragen disagreed.

‘Old customs die hard, Milord Stragen, and it hasn’t been all that long since Otha was frothing at the frontier with Azash standing right behind him.’

‘I doubt that these people found Azash to be all that impressive,’ Sparhawk said. ‘Otha’s God didn’t have any reason to come this way. He was looking west, because that’s where Bhelliom was.’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ Talen conceded.

Esos was not a very large town, perhaps about the size of the city of Lenda in central Elenia. There was a kind of archaic quality about it, though, since there had been a town on this spot since the dawn of time. The cobbled streets were narrow and crooked, and they wandered this way and that without any particular reason.

‘How are we going to find the part of town where your colleagues stay?’ Sparhawk asked Stragen. ‘We can’t just walk up to some burgher and ask him where we’ll find the thieves, can we?’

‘We’ll take care of it,’ Stragen smiled. ‘Talen, go ask some pickpocket where the thieves’ den is around here.’

‘Right,’ Talen grinned, slipping down from his horse.

‘That could take him all night,’ Sparhawk said.

‘Not unless he’s been struck blind,’ Stragen replied as the boy moved off into a crowded byway. ‘I’ve seen six pickpockets since we came into town, and I wasn’t even looking very hard.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Their technique’s a little different here. It probably has to do with the narrow streets.’

‘What would that have to do with it?’

‘People jostle each other in tight quarters,’ Stragen shrugged. ‘A pickpocket in Emsat or Cimmura could never get away with bumping into a client the way they do here. It’s more efficient, I’ll grant you, but it establishes bad work-habits.’

Talen returned after a few minutes. ‘It’s down by the river,’ he reported.

‘Inevitably,’ Stragen said. ‘Something seems to draw thieves to rivers. I’ve never been able to figure out why.’

Talen shrugged. ‘It’s probably so that we can swim for it in case things go wrong. We’d better walk. Mounted men attract too much attention. There’s a stable down at the end of the street where we can leave the horses.’

They spoke briefly with the surly stableman and then proceeded on foot.

The thieves’ den in Esos was in a shabby tavern at the rear of a narrow cul-de-sac. A crude sign depicting a bunch of grapes hung from a rusty hook just over the door, and a pair of burly loafers sprawled on the doorstep drinking ale from battered tankards.

‘We’re looking for a man named Djukta,’ Talen told them.

‘What was it about?’ one of the loafers growled suspiciously.

‘Business.’ Stragen told him in a cold tone.

‘Anybody could say that,’ the unshaven man said, rising to his feet with a thick cudgel in his hand.

‘This is always so tedious,’ Stragen sighed to Sparhawk. Then his hand flashed to the hilt of his rapier, and the slim blade came whistling out of its sheath. ‘Friend,’ he said to the loafer, ‘unless you want three feet of steel between your breakfast and your supper, you’ll stand aside.’ The needle-like point of the rapier touched the man’s belly suggestively.

The other ruffian sidled off to one side, his hand reaching furtively toward the handle of his dagger.

‘I wouldn’t,’ Sparhawk warned him in a dreadfully quiet voice. He pushed his cloak aside to reveal his mail-shirt and the hilt of his broadsword. ‘I’m not entirely positive where your breakfast or your supper are located just now, neighbour, but I’ll probably be able to pick them out when your guts are lying in the street.’

The fellow froze in his tracks, swallowing hard.

‘The knife,’ Sparhawk grated. ‘Lose it.’

The dagger clattered to the cobblestones.

‘I’m so happy that we could resolve this little problem without unpleasantness,’ Stragen drawled. ‘Now why don’t we all go inside so you can introduce us to Djukta?’

The tavern had a low ceiling and the floor was covered with mouldy straw. It was lit by a few crude lamps that burned melted tallow.

Djukta was by far the hairiest man Sparhawk had ever seen. His arms and hands seemed to be covered with curly black fur. Great wads of hair protruded from the neck of his tunic; his ears and nostrils looked like bird’s nests; and his beard began just under his lower eyelids. ‘What’s this?’ he demanded, his voice issuing from somewhere behind his shaggy rug of a face.

‘They made us let them come inside, Djukta,’ one of the men from the doorway whined, pointing at Stragen’s rapier.

Djukta’s piggish eyes narrowed dangerously.

‘Don’t be tiresome,’ Stragen told him, ‘and pay attention. I’ve given you the recognition signal twice already, and you didn’t even notice.’

‘I noticed, but coming in here with a sword in your hand isn’t the best way to get things off to a good start.’

‘We were a little pressed for time. I think we’re being followed.’ Stragen sheathed his rapier.

‘You’re not from around here, are you?’

‘No. We’re from Eosia.’

‘You’re a long way from home.’

‘That was sort of the idea. Things were getting unhealthy back there.’

‘What line are you in?’

‘We’re vagabonds at heart, so we were seeking fame and fortune on the highways and byways of Pelosia. A high-ranking churchman suddenly fell ill and died while we were talking business with him, and the Church Knights decided to investigate the causes of his illness. My friends and I decided to find fresh scenery to look at right about then.’

‘Are those Church Knights really as bad as they say?’

‘Worse, probably. The three of us are all that’s left of a band of thirty.’

‘Are you planning to go into business around here?’

‘We haven’t decided yet. We thought we’d look things over first – and make sure that the knights aren’t still following us.’

‘Do you feel like telling us your names?’

‘Not particularly. We’re not sure we’re going to stay, and there’s not much point in making up new names if we’re not going to settle down.’

Djukta laughed. ‘If you aren’t sure you’re going into business, what’s the reason for this visit?’

‘Courtesy, for the most part. It’s terribly impolite not to pay a call on one’s colleagues when one’s passing through a town, and we thought it might save a bit of time if you could spare a few minutes to give us a rundown on local practices in the field of law-enforcement.’

‘I’ve never been to Eosia, but I’d imagine that things like that are fairly standard. Highwaymen aren’t held in high regard.’

‘We’re so misunderstood,’ Stragen sighed. ‘They have the usual sheriffs and the like, I suppose?’

‘There are sheriffs right enough,’ Djukta said, ‘but they don’t go out into the countryside very often in this part of Astel. The nobles out there more or less police their own estates. The sheriffs are usually involved in collecting taxes, and they aren’t all that welcome when they ride out of town.’

‘That’s useful. All we’d really have to deal with would be poorly-trained serfs who fare better at catching chicken-thieves than at dealing with serious people. Is that more or less the way it is?’

Djukta nodded. ‘The good part is that these serfsheriffs won’t go past the borders of their own estate.’

‘That’s a highwayman’s dream,’ Stragen grinned.

‘Not entirely,’ Djukta disagreed. ‘It’s not a good idea to make too much noise out there. The local sheriff wouldn’t chase you, but he would send word to the Atan garrison up in Canae. A man can’t run far enough or fast enough to get away from the Atans, and nobody’s ever taught them how to take prisoners.’

‘That could be a drawback,’ Stragen conceded. ‘Is there anything else we should know about?’

‘Did you ever hear of Ayachin?’

‘I can’t say that I have.’

‘That could get you into all kinds of trouble.’

‘Who is he?’

Djukta turned his head. ‘Akros,’ he called, ‘come here and tell our colleagues here about Ayachin.’ He shrugged and spread his hands. ‘I’m not too well-versed in ancient history,’ he explained. ‘Akros used to be a teacher before he got caught stealing from his employer. He may not be too coherent. He has a little problem with drink.’

Akros was a shabby-looking fellow with bloodshot eyes and a five-day growth of beard. ‘What was it you wanted, Djukta?’ he asked, swaying on his feet.

‘Sort through what’s left of your brain and tell our friends here what you can remember about Ayachin.’

The drunken pedagogue smiled, his bleary eyes coming alight. He slid into a chair and took a drink from his tankard. ‘I’m only a little drunk,’ he said, his speech slurred.

‘That’s true,’ Djukta told Stragen. ‘When he’s really drunk, he can’t even talk.’

‘How much do you gentlemen know of the history of Astel?’ Akros asked them.

‘Not too much,’ Stragen admitted.

‘I’ll touch the high spots then.’ Akros leaned back in his chair. ‘It was in the ninth century that one of the Archprelates in Chyrellos decided that the Elene faith ought to be re-united – under his domination, naturally.’

‘Naturally,’ Stragen smiled. ‘It always seems to get down to that, doesn’t it?’

Akros rubbed at his face. ‘I’m a little shaky on this, so I might leave some things out. This was before the founding of the Church Knights, so this Archprelate forced the Kings of Eosia to provide him with armies, and they marched through Zemoch. That was before Otha was born, so Zemoch wasn’t much of a barrier. The Archprelate was interested in religious unity, but the noblemen in his army were more interested in conquest. They ravaged the kingdom of Astel until Ayachin came.’

Talen leaned forward, his eyes bright. It was the boy’s one weakness. A good story could paralyse him.

Akros took another drink. ‘There are all sorts of conflicting stories about who Ayachin really was,’ he continued. ‘Some say he was a prince, some that he was a baron, and there are even those who say he was only a serf. Anyway, whoever he was, he was a fervent patriot. He roused such noblemen as hadn’t yet gone over to the invaders, and then he did something no one had ever dared do before. He armed the serfs. The campaign against the invaders lasted for years, and after a fairly large battle that he seemed to lose, Ayachin fled southward, luring the Eosian armies into the Astel marshes in the south of the kingdom. He’d made secret alliances with patriots in Edom, and there was a huge army lining the southern fringe of the marshes. Serfs who lived in the region guided Ayachin’s armies through the bogs and quicksand, but the Eosians tried to just bull their way through, and most of them drowned, pulled under by all that muck. The few who reached the far side were slaughtered by the combined forces of Ayachin and his Edomish allies.

‘He was a great national hero for a time, of course, but the nobles who had been outraged because he’d armed the serfs conspired against him, and he was eventually murdered.’

‘Why do these stories always have to end that way?’ Talen complained.

‘Our young friend here is a literary critic,’ Stragen said. ‘He wants his stories to all have happy endings.’

‘The ancient history is all well and good,’ Djukta growled, ‘but the point of all this is that Ayachin’s returned – or so the serfs say.’

‘It’s a part of the folk-lore of Astel,’ Akros said. ‘Serfs used to tell each other that someday a great crisis would arise, and that Ayachin would rise from the grave to lead them again.’

Stragen sighed. ‘Can’t anyone come up with a new story?’

‘What’s that?’ Djukta asked him.

‘Nothing, really. There’s a similar story making the rounds in Eosia. Why would this concern us if we decided to go into business around here?’

‘Part of that folk-lore Akros was telling you about is something that makes everybody’s blood run cold. The serfs believe that when Ayachin returns, he’s going to emancipate them. Now there’s a hot-head out there stirring them up. We don’t know his real name, but the serfs call him “Sabre”. He’s going around telling them that he’s actually seen Ayachin. The serfs are secretly gathering weapons – or making them. They sneak out into the forests at night to listen to this “Sabre” make speeches. You should probably know that they’re out there, since it might be dangerous if you happened upon them unexpectedly.’ Djukta scratched at his shaggy beard. ‘I don’t normally feel this way, but I wish the government would catch this Sabre fellow and hang him or something. He’s got the serfs all worked up about throwing off the oppressors, and he’s not too specific about which oppressors he means. He could be talking about the Tamuls, but many of his followers think he’s talking about the upper classes. Restless serfs are dangerous serfs. Nobody knows how many of them there really are, and if they begin to get wild ideas about equality and justice, God only knows where it might end.’