Chapter 25 Farja
Sharalda heard the door knocker clap and, after stretching and yawning at her leisure, hopped down from Queen Mara’s lap and padded into the darkness of the entrance hall, her tail twitching at every step. She leaped onto a box beside the door (a box of more than her own height) and, just as she opened a tiny window in the pilaster, heard and felt the knocker clap again urgently. Two men were on the step.
“Name yourselves,” Sharalda yowled in heavily accented Gellene.
“Zendor. Let us in, Sharalda, we’re being followed.”
“Zendor who? I don’t remember a Zendor.”
“You hairy little grotesque! This is no time for teasing! Let us in.”
With a silky paw, Sharalda began to playfully close the porter’s window. “Such language. No admittance to ruffians.”
Suddenly, a sword tip appeared in the remaining opening. Zendor was swearing.
“Not nice,” said Sharalda. “I always knew your smooth manners were just a veneer, Zendor. Who’s that with you, by the way?”
“Soldiers are after us! Now open up. The Emperor is with me, the Lila-me.”
Sharalda’s green eyes opened wide. She slid open the bolt, and Zendor and another human burst in like a gust of wind. The Unknown King slammed and rebolted the door and, sweeping Sharalda off her box, put his eye to the window’s slit.
“I don’t see them. They must be searching other houses up the street. But we haven’t much time. Where’s Mara?”
This last was addressed to the much offended Sharalda.
“The Queen,” she replied icily, “does not receive evening visitors.”
Zendor ignored this and went directly into the atrium. Candelabra light coming from the next room showed Sharalda the other human, a young man who followed Zendor slowly with a sidelong, wondering look at her. She met his gaze directly. He was dressed as a gentleman—rich cloak, fine boots, and sword—but with the addition of an unseasonable hat that covered almost all of his head, so that not a hair was visible. He was clean shaven. His eyebrows were yellow.
Sharalda slowly bowed her three foot tall figure. “Sharalda the Mangaree welcomes you, Your Eminence. I am your servant.”
Unknown Queen Mara was still asleep on her couch in the atrium, her white hair disheveled, her wrinkled face relaxed. Zendor had passed her and was looking out the back doorway. Clay looked around at the surrounding columns of this large room, the mosaic floor, the opening in the center of the roof to accommodate a fire pit just below (but no fire was lit in the August heat), and groups of oil lamps hanging on vertical poles.
Sharalda gently woke Mara and whispered to her in the language of the Sarrs, “Ka Lila-me lan veli. Zendor naran lijen.”
With a smile the old lady gathered herself, rose, and bowed to Clay. “Your Eminence,” she said, and added to herself, “Where’s my crown? Sharalda, where have I put it?”
The Mangaree found it nearby and Mara put it on, a richly bejeweled circlet.
“Won’t you sit down?” Mara said, offering another couch. “Sharalda, bring us something, please. Wine and fruit.”
As Clay sat down awkwardly, Zendor dashed by, making for the front of the house again and repeating a foul word to himself.
Mara kept her eyes on Clay. “Zendor will not be joining us for conversation,” she said. “Has your journey from the Old World been pleasant, Your Eminence?”
Clay found himself nodding to her.
“And how do you like the Fold? Do you think you shall like ruling here?”
“More than likely,” said Clay, not knowing how to explain that he was on the verge of being captured and executed.
“I’m sure you will. And we Unknown Rulers are all eager to help you. I wonder, have you met King Micah and Queen Leah yet? Such nice people. They visited me last year from Kulismos.”
Zendor came skidding around a corner and into another room off the atrium. Clay could hear his feet pounding up steps to the second floor.
“I haven’t met them,” Clay said, deciding not to mention their arrest. “But I did meet their daughter.”
“Their eldest Bekah? She’s such a sweet girl. But I haven’t seen her in a long time. Are they all well? Oh, here is Sharalda with refreshments.”
After placing a full tray on a small table by Clay’s couch, Sharalda went to Mara and laid a paw on her knee.
“What is it, dear?” The old woman stroked the Mangaree’s head and neck.
“Judging from the movements of King Zendor,” Sharalda said, “he is discovering that the house is surrounded by soldiers. He will come flying down the steps in a moment to ask if there is a secret exit.”
“Oh, but there is none.” Mara turned to Clay. “I always meant to have one put in, but—”
Zendor came flying down the stairs and burst in among them. “The house is surrounded,” he said. “Quickly, Mara, is there a secret passage out?”
She shook her gray head with downturned mouth.
“Hadris! Why can’t you keep up with the times?”
“I’m quite remiss,” Mara said sincerely. “When I think of how often I’ve told myself, ‘Mara, you really ought to have one—’”
“Lovely! Then in about half a minute they’ll be knocking at the door. Think, where can you hide us?”
“At the door?” Mara echoed. “Then I must speak to them.”
She wavered to her feet and started toward the entrance hall.
“No, old woman, we need a place to hide!”
“Oh, but they’re knocking now, Zendor. I’ll speak to them. Nothing that can’t be solved, I’m sure.”
Clay’s feet were riveted to the floor, his heart pounding. Zendor seemed at his wit’s end, for he too stood still. Presently, Mara could be heard conducting the soldiers toward the atrium.
“Yes, officer, two men are here, but they are certainly not criminals. Sharalda? Where has she disappeared to? Oh, but of course.... Well, anyway, if you’ll just speak to them, you’ll soon see that there’s no need for you to be here.”
She led in four well-armed soldiers, all smiling down at her. The smiles disappeared, however, when they saw Clay and Zendor. They surrounded them.
“I want your names and where you’re from,” said their leader. “And boy, take off that hat.”
Zendor reached over and removed the hat from Clay’s head. “There’s your explanation,” he said lightly. “We heard that fair haired young men are being rounded up, and I’m just trying to keep my young cousin out of custody. Perhaps you have enough suspects already? When some of you soldiers tried to stop us near the docks, we simply panicked and ran; but really we have nothing to hide. Furthermore, I can make sure that leaving us here would be a comfortable decision, a profitable decision on your part.”
The soldier’s face was like stone as his spear tip hovered near Zendor’s chin. “Names.”
Before Zendor could speak, yet another soldier appeared from the entrance hall, having come in the open door.
“Linus, we have new orders to drop the search and return to the fortress. General Pyrus has called us back.”
The spear tip lowered. “Very good.”
“We’re to meet at the top of the street.”
The man hurried on, and the other four filed out after him. After a moment, Zendor glided to the front of the house and could be heard closing and bolting the door. He returned with an expression of both relief and puzzlement.
“Monophthalmos has made an unbelievable blunder,” he said. “Something has caused him to think that Clay isn’t in Farja. The question is, what’s led him astray? Who fuddled him?”
A company of armed slaves carrying torches conducted their master through the night streets of Farja and up the marble stairs of his palatial house. He took the stairs slowly, seemingly half stupefied from weariness and the lateness of the hour. Finally, Amoz the Snake reached a couch in his atrium and
sank upon it thankfully. So tired. So stretched and pressured from constant attendance on the Hag. They had gone straight from the Cerberus to the City Council, attending a meeting which had lasted long into the night.
His heart pounded as a slave girl mopped his fat, sweaty face. Another slave brought wine. A whole month away from home for nothing. They had been chasing the wrong boy.
An elderly slave approached his couch. “The Dog has been waiting for you, Master.”
“Uh. Has she? Bring me peaches, Scipio. And bring her in.”
His daughter-in-law appeared, beautiful as always, dressed in the most expensive of gowns. She approached him quietly.
“So, Metuza, you know that they’ve heard from Ven?”
“Yes, Father. The message was much delayed, wasn’t it?”
She seated herself gracefully and stroked a bracelet that spiraled around her bare upper arm: a bronze snake with emerald eyes.
“That’s because of the plague in the Perg lands,” Amoz said. “But your brother was well when he sent the message, and we may hope for more good news. He was going into the Valley of Thunders to intercept Razabera. It’s said that the Fijata hoped to find there a hidden way into the Old World.”
“I know.”
“Which means, little one, that your poor, old father-in-law has been—” He paused, unwilling to say ‘wasting his time.’ One always had to be careful around Metuza. She was treacherous, might pass things on to the Hag. “—has been unusually taxed.”
“Correct me,” the girl said, “but isn’t this the case? Ven sent his message last month on the fifteenth, and the Fijata Razabera had only about then approached the valley area. So any Pretender who might have come in from the Old World only did so in mid-July at the earliest. Now, weeks ago we received a message-raven from the Vulture, saying that a Pretender had appeared and had been captured at Lucilla on July twentieth. That leaves just a few days between Razabera’s mission to find him and his supposed appearance in a place six hundred miles to the west.”
“You are perspicuous as always, daughter-in-law. We discussed that exact point in the Council meeting this evening. Yes, six hundred miles of bad roads.”
“So the boy captured at Lucilla can’t be that Pretender whose circumstances render him the most dangerous fraud.”
Amoz laughed tiredly. “And how long did you take to design that careful phrase: ‘he whose circumstances render him the most dangerous fraud’? Is that it? Did I repeat it rightly? Ha-ha. You are always so calculating, Metuza. And right on target, I might add, for it would be so easy to unthinkingly call him by some exalted title, and then someone might repeat your words out of context and have you in an uncomfortable position. But you are even this careful around me, Metuza, and you know that isn’t necessary.”
“I’m merely practicing prudent habits, father. Of course, we trust each other.”
Amoz nodded his sleepy agreement with this lie.
“What kept you so late at the Council, father?”
“Ah, the decision to recall the soldiers from searching. General Pyrus and the other generals have had enough of it, and said so. And the search was disturbing the whole city. Our people delayed a vote until Zavira came, but even she recommended that we drop it.”
“Who is the woman Zavira brought with her?” Metuza asked casually.
“Do you know everything already? You must have been busy since the Cerberus arrived, finding out everything. Always the little politician.”
“Not at all. I just wondered.”
“You never just wonder. You anticipate, you calculate. But be that as it may, the woman is Perze of the Quintusian covens.”
Amoz paused to drain a goblet. Now he must play his part well, for Metuza the Dog was very discerning, quick to notice the first hint of manipulation. He must say just enough without seeming to say even that much. Perhaps his exhaustion would aid him: he was simply too tired to be nervous.
“I think that’s a little unusual,” said Metuza, her lovely face expressionless.
“Unusual, yes. But Zavira sees merit in this woman, force of character, decisiveness. Not unlike you. The Priestess took such a fancy to her that she had her advanced from the first to the third level in just a few days. That was after we left Quintusia. Then she was whisked after us in a light boat to catch up with the Cerberus. They say—” he looked dreamily through his refilled glass “—they say that at her test Perze killed her human captive with one stroke, steady as a butcher plying his trade. Again, not unlike you, Metuza.”
“But she’s in her thirties, while I did it when I was twelve.”
“Yes, of course. I’m not making comparisons. Only that Zavira wants as many of that sort as she can find. And she wants Perze here where she can train her.”
“What will she train her for?”
As Metuza’s facade of indifference weakened, Amoz knew he must seem not to notice—or perhaps to misinterpret.
“I don’t know what. Metty, I’m very tired. Just let me give you your instructions for tomorrow morning so I can go to bed. Zavira wants to slip out of town with you. It will just be you, the Priestess, Perze, and a few servants. It’s Purgos, Metty. You go at last. You’ll be the youngest ever to enter the Great Midraeum.”
Metuza seemed unaffected by the honor. “But now, Father? What about the Pretender?”
“Monophthalmos is sending Zavira to Purgos to seek guidance on that very matter. Everything else has been tried: the Sibylline books, the birds of omen, even the burning cauldron. But the daemon spirits are silent about the Pretender’s whereabouts. Zavira must find our answer in the Black Hall or not at all. As for you and Perze, she takes you along to test you for further service. She expects great things from both of you.”
Metuza’s beautiful eyes were intent. “I know my role, father. What will this Perze be used for?”
“The Plan is set, Metty, and can’t be changed. She can only be held in reserve in case you should fail.”
Metuza made a derisive sound. “She’s too old.”
“Yes she is. She’ll never do, I agree, even though politically arranged marriages are strange things. I wonder if the alliance of Farja and Eschor isn’t a necessity outweighing the interests of the Prince and the lady concerned? But she’s too old, and she’s already married.”
Amoz closed his eyes and rested, giving Metuza a chance to remember how little her own marriage had mattered, how readily her husband, Amoz’s son, had been slaughtered to make way for Metuza’s greater usefulness.
“Yes, very interesting, father. You say we leave in the morning? Then I had best get fresh traveling clothes for Perze and myself.”
“For Perze, too? That’s very thoughtful of you, Metty.”
Zendor and Clay followed a cowled and dwarfish figure through the night streets of Farja till at length they came to the northern end of the canal that links the Olympus River to the Eleutheria. Here the dwarf halted on a grassy bank overlooking a small harbor.
“What now, Sharalda?” Zendor whispered.
The Mangaree answered in her screechy voice, “There’s little boat traffic upriver, but the Galley Athena takes passengers. You must tell Captain Quirinus that you are traders going to seek business with the Pergs in Prowts. You should manage that easily, Zendor, since lying is your native tongue.”
“Ah, Sharalda, Sharalda. At tense moments your underlying bad breeding doesn’t desert you.”
“Fop.”
“Peasant.”
Clay said, “How do we find the right galley in the dark?”
“You must wait a bit, Your Eminence,” answered Sharalda. “Soon dawn will show. For now, I ask to spend a few minutes with you privately. We could simply go aside here while Zendor keeps watch.”
“Sure,” said Clay, “but how will you get back to Mara’s house after dawn?”
“Not the way we came. I’ll return by th
e road of the city drainage pipes—a favorite route of mine and quite comfortable for a Mangaree. I will, of course, give your regards to the Queen. Now, if we might go aside....”
Zendor grumbled but stayed where he was. Clay followed Sharalda up the slope into the shadow of a retaining wall where they seated themselves on a large fallen stone. Sharalda spoke in Kreenspam.
“Now I must warn you, Emperor, about Zendor. It’s been years since he’s been an actual believer in the True Way. Do you observe that he’s a mocker?”
Clay had to agree. “He really scorns Bekah’s family.”
“And Queen Mara, too. Because he’s brilliant, active, and deceptive, he thinks of himself as virtually the only capable Unknown Ruler on the continent. Don’t misunderstand me; he really is quite capable. But though his cleverness may get you through to Eschor, you musn’t on that account become like him. Against the witch cult of Farja cleverness won’t stand.”
“It looks like nothing does,” Clay muttered.
“Don’t say it, please, Your Eminence. We Sarrs, at least, know what the end of all things will be, even when humans don’t believe their own Book of Books. And even before humans came, a few of us fought one of the greatest evils and triumphed. You’ve heard of Imalda Lusu?”
Clay had not.
“Not heard of the Fijata Imalda? Every Narvan, whether Sarr or Sarree, venerates her name.”
“What did she do?”
“We don’t know everything about it. This was more than three thousand years ago when even the Fijats did not keep adequate histories. But when the Fijata Imalda was born, already for more than five hundred years the great Dragon Zeel had ruled as tyrant here in the West. That was the age of the Imposter, for Zeel claimed to be the Sisska who had been prophesied. For that reason we call Zeel by the name Mangusisska.”
“The false Sisska,” Clay translated into Gellene.
“Yes, and he ruled a circular empire west of the Titans. Some say his Grand Temple stood on the same site as this city of Farja. All within his power were compelled to worship him, and even those beyond his empire feared him and sent him tribute. Everyone with even a little wisdom knew that this bloody clawed braggart couldn’t be the holy Sisska, but it was seldom that any two stood together to oppose him. A few stood, each alone, and were devoured. So generations of Sarrs passed until they had forgotten what it was to speak truth or walk with dignity. With many other Dragons to enforce his power, the Mangusisska’s reign seemed like the sun itself: exalted, inescapable, and co-eternal with the world.
“Then Imalda began her travels. I won’t relate any of the legends; only the few facts we know. Fijats lived all over the continent in those days, not just in the Nasseelkir; and Imalda went from group to group speaking of resistance. Soon other Sarrs besides the Fijats began to hope in her. Where she went, cowardly hearts became brave, and actual rebellion broke out. Zeel heard of her and put a price on her head, a price that grew and grew. Twenty times she was nearly taken, four times she was dreadfully wounded, but she never wavered and she was never captured. So for many years she traveled and organized and encouraged until her fur turned all white. That’s why they called her Lusu.”
“But wasn’t she invisible?” Clay asked.
“No, Your Eminence, this was long before the Fijats were cursed with invisibility by the maiden Gulla. Well, as I say, our histories are incomplete, but we do know that Imalda lived to a tremendous old age, at least long enough to see Zeel’s empire crumbling, even if she didn’t see the end of it. And we know that in the end many of Zeel’s own Dragons turned against him, his temple was attacked and destroyed, and Zeel was killed. His enormous corpse was buried under the plain and marked by black stones. But when humans came, the stones were removed, so that now no one knows where his bones lie.”
Clay was sleepy enough to feel that he was perhaps losing the point. “And Zendor’s no Imalda, huh?”
“Worse, yet, Emperor, he doesn’t want to be. I myself, if I could be said to be somewhat like her, would die happily on the spot. Zendor would no doubt speak well of Imalda’s practical methods, her resilience, and her industry; but he wouldn’t knowingly take up a seemingly lost cause, as she did. He has lost his faith.”
Sharalda dropped from the stone they sat on to the ground and pressed her forepaws against Clay’s arm. “You’re young, Emperor Clay, but don’t be led astray by Zendor. Remember whatever the Misara Razabera taught you.”
“Sharalda, it’s all I can do to stay alive,” Clay said, “and Razabera didn’t. I’m on the run; I can’t think about, you know, all that Ulrumman stuff and trying to stave off wars.”
“You must. You are the Emperor.”
“No, I can’t—”
“You must!” Clay felt Sharalda’s foreclaws through his sleeve.
“No, I’m not like Imalda. I’m more like Zendor.”
Sharalda leaped away from him a few feet down the dark slope and crouched still. A little time passed while they calmed down. Then Sharalda spoke again.
“Forgive me, it’s our desperation. Some of us foresee a great war such as the Fold has never known, greater even than the Leblok. The Dragons will devastate the whole continent. Nothing might restrain them but your voice, the words of the Lila-me.” She paused again. “Clay Gareth, what do you care about besides your own life? Anything?”
This was insulting enough that Clay did not answer at once. But he thought to himself that he had surely cared for Razabera; and of course, he cared for his mother and father and Simone. He also thought of Bekah.
Sharalda made an impatient sound.
“Razabera was trying to teach Simone and me to be self-sacrificing,” Clay answered. “But that was years ago, I was just a kid. And she went away after just a few months, so no wonder I’m not ready.”
“No one is ever ready until it’s done and the sacrifice is made,” Sharalda said sternly. “Simply do it, and you’ll find that you were ready.”
This made an odd kind of sense. “Yeah, like once you jump off a cliff, you can’t climb back on again.”
“Yes, like that.”
“Well, I’m not jumping.”
“Very well, then, Your Eminence. Go your way.” Sharalda was dripping with scorn. “Just run and save your life. Someone better than you will be found to save the Fold. Perhaps your sister. I will follow only the true Lila-me.”
“Fine, whatever.” Clay took several strides toward where Zendor was waiting. Then he stopped and called back to the Mangaree.
“What?” she answered irritably.
“The Princess Bekah, you’ve seen her?”
“Yes, I’ve seen her. What of it?”
“What does she look like? Is she pretty?”
“I’m sure it’s of no consequence, so I don’t mind saying I don’t know. Human ideas of beauty are beyond a Mangaree’s comprehension.”
“But you must have some idea about—”
“Not at all. Good evening, Your Eminence.”
An hour later Clay watched the morning light on the river as the Galley Athena moved up the Eleutheria.
He turned to Zendor. “Know anything about Imalda Lusu?”
Zendor laughed. “Our legendary Fijata? Not much. I suppose Sharalda’s been telling you about her. No, I know little more than some verses I learned in the Land of Unknown Kings as a child. How did it go?
From the Ebbil Semu to the Seelkir pin Rom,
From the West to where tamaracks grew,
The track of her paw prints went endlessly on,
The Fijata Imalda Lusu.
The Raza Staltara rose high as the stars:
She crossed them and went forth anew
And taught loftiness to the Sarrees and Sarrs,
The Fijata Imalda Lusu.
A nose that was keen and a coat that was white,
A heart that was gracious and true;
She cared for the
Narvans by day and by night,
The Fijata Imalda Lusu.
Zeel boasted he’d hang her white pelt in his hall,
But that’s more than a Dragon could do.
The maze-Silbs concealed her behind their curved walls,
The Fijata Imalda Lusu.
Then her spirit flew higher, by heaven’s design,
Than a flis or a Guardian flew,
When she hid in the earth and she waited her time,
The Fijata Imalda Lusu.
“There’s more, but I don’t remember it. But really, we know very little about old Imalda. So the poems are mostly sentimental inventions.”
“Of course,” said Clay. “But I like the poem. It makes me think. Say it again for me sometime. Say, Zendor, will you tell me what Princess Bekah looks like? It was so dark the other night that I never got a good look at her.”
“Sorry, I never actually saw her while I was passing through Kulismos. I only spoke to the people she and her sisters are staying with. Hmmm. She was a pretty little thing when I last visited her parents.”
“When was that?”
“Eleven years ago. She was about five.”
“That’s not a big help.”
Zendor laughed. “You just need some sleep. Why don’t you go to our cabin?”