Chapter 26 Metuza the Dog
That evening, the Athena anchored near the northern bank of the river. Clay left Zendor, who was not feeling well, and wandered on deck. There he watched with disgusted fascination as Captain Quirinus sacrificed a pigeon in a stone bowl, while mumbling some sort of spell.
The fat, dark-browed man noticed Clay’s attention. “You wonder why I kill the pigeon, young kroz?” He waved toward the trees. “This is an uncanny place. My father taught me to sacrifice here where Purgos once was, the city of Howdan.”
All Clay knew of Howdan was that he was a sort of chief goblin to the common people, someone to scare their children with. Jules and the other hoboes told stories of such Crumblies, stories spooky enough to ruin their sleep but clumsy and tame by Clay’s movie-influenced standards.
“If you too want to sacrifice,” the Captain suggested, “we’re sending a boat ashore. One of the other passengers has asked for an hour. No, I’ll watch your sick friend; he’ll be well taken care of. But it’s good that a young man should learn to respect the Old Powers. If you pay them due reverence, your life will be long and lucky.”
Clay was sickened. “What’s this other passenger going to do, sacrifice a goat?”
“No, no goat on the ship. I don’t know what he’ll do. He has a dog.”
Clay set his jaw and backed off a step. He decided to change the subject. “If this was a city, how come I don’t see anything?”
“It was long, long ago, sir. Purgos was destroyed more than two-hundred fifty years ago by the great General Sampson Genbas of Eschor.”
“So where was Howdan then?”
“Don’t mock the Powers, young kroz.” The Captain waved again toward the shore. “Even Genbas never found the Black Hall. It’s here somewhere, and people say that Howdan and the other Immortals meet there with Fowroz himself. It’s an uncanny place. The ships that pass here without sacrificing meet with bad luck.”
“Whatever,” Clay said impatiently. “But what about the ruins? Anything interesting? Any inscriptions or statues or that sort of thing?”
“I suppose so, sir.”
“Well, I’ll go then.”
“Do go, young kroz, but not too far from the river.”
As the sun set, Clay and another passenger were rowed ashore in the ship’s boat. They left the two crewmen who rowed them, and the other man—a wine merchant—prepared his sacrifice on the beach. Clay was relieved that the man had not brought his dog: the Captain had provided a chicken.
Rather than join in the sacrifice, Clay told the man to do it on his own. He struck off alone, wandering up the beach until he found a neglected footpath leading in among the trees. He smiled. Now was a chance to use some of the things Zendor had recovered, things he had not dared to use in Farja or on the river because they would have drawn too much attention.
From a bag at his side he produced his army surplus flashlight and hung it on his belt. This flashlight was L-shaped, like a periscope, so that it could light his way ahead while leaving his hands free; and it included colored light filters concealed in the handle. So cool. As emergency lighting he also had two camper’s light sticks which, when broken, would glow dimly for many hours. He tested his cassette player, playing at low volume a few notes of a song by the rock group Moldy Socks. He wasn’t sure what use this would be, but thought that at full blast it might be effective at scaring away animals. Putting away the player, he took out a small camera. It looked OK. He didn’t want to test the flash while still within sight of the Athena. Binoculars and a few other small items remained in the bag. Now, with the camera hung around his neck on its strap, he felt ready for a little tourism, a little fun at last.
But before Clay could begin the trail inland, he looked back at the Athena and saw another ship rowing toward her from downstream—from Farja then. And he did not need his binoculars to see in the last rays of sunlight the three dog’s heads on the newcomer’s prow. He abruptly backed into the shade under the trees.
He was both frightened and bitter. Everything that had happened in this ‘lost world’ had been the opposite of the sort of adventures he had hoped for. He was always running too scared and fast to appreciate what was around him. So far, any report of his to the National Geographic Society would consist almost entirely of: a. the interior of slave galleys and b. slipping through Silent Cities at night. He hoped Simone was doing better.
As he backed up the footpath, he was struck by the thought that his experience of the Sigapoleis was at least typical. The majority here struggled, evaded the law, hoped to escape enslavement. Bekah—was she imprisoned now? Probably. He felt an odd oneness with these foreigners, so poor and oppressed. If only they could fight back; if only he himself could do something: tell off the callous, proud kings, open the prisons and set free the innocent—burn that hideous ship the Cerberus! He did not want to hurt anyone, he never had in his life. But were not some things worth fighting for? Even a cornered rat will fight. Clay felt cornered.
He watched a boat come ashore from the Cerberus, landing between himself and the Athena’s boat, cutting off his escape. The binoculars showed him witches, some of whom remained with the boat while three came slowly up the beach in his direction. They seemed to be looking for something, probably the trail. Clay crawled away into the underbrush and waited, trying not to breathe, while stealing glances around the thick trunk of a tree. In a few minutes the three passed up the trail, still going very slowly as if one of them—the shortest—was lame.
Clay considered his options. He could try to find a way through the thick woods and around to the Athena’s boat, while out of sight of the witches still on shore. Or he could leave behind the Athena, and Zendor, and make his way eastward along the bank, hoping for another ride. The first option seemed foolhardy, for the two ships’ boats were only separated by about thirty yards. The witches would catch him before he could get away from shore. As for the second alternative, it meant more skulking and running, this time with neither Jules nor Zendor as a guide.
Or he could follow the three witches and try to do something to them. Just what he was not sure. He certainly did not intend to try to use the sword at his side. But the thought of behaving as a man, after so long, had gripped him, and he could not abandon it. He went after them.
After less than half a mile, he saw the witches pause in a bit of clearing. He came as near as he dared in the dusk and listened. The wind was low and the voices carried.
“The trail ends here?” asked a young woman.
The voice that answered was cracked and wheezing, laden with great age. “Clear away these leaves and sticks, Castor. Metuza, light the lamp.”
In a moment an oil lamp glowed among them, so that Clay could see a big, fleshy man brushing off a stone pavement. As he worked, the man made sounds approaching speech but blurred and meaningless. Clay had once known a man who made such sounds and nothing else: a mute. The two heavily veiled women stood by, the taller and younger one shielding the lamp flame with her hand. Presently, the big man, Castor, used a rod of some sort to pry up one of the flat paving stones. He heaved it almost vertical and propped it somehow.
The old woman held up a burnt and deformed hand. “This is the Great Midraeum,” she said. “Keep your mouths closed and do only as I say. When we are done here, one of you will sit a throne in the world below, and the other will be initiated into the Watch of the Black Hall. Consider the honor and be silent.”
She began to move down into the opening at their feet, and the short drops of her descent told Clay that they had uncovered a stairway.
What surprised him most was that they obviously were not looking for him. The witches really had given up the search. Perhaps, if he returned to the Athena, he would not be challenged by the witches back at the river bank. But then he would never know what this was all about.
When all three had descended the stair and a few minute
s more had passed, he crept forward to the edge of the opening. A few rays of lamplight were visible, but the witches had moved on into an underground passage. He listened to them again.
“Now, Metuza,” said the ancient, “I want your account of what happened to Perze. Don’t attempt to lie to me.”
“What do you want me to tell you, Priestess Zavira?” said the girl.
Clay knew from Zendor that this was the name of the notorious Smoke Hag.
“How she died.”
Metuza answered unhesitatingly. “You must know first, Priestess, that Perze was a danger to you and plotted against you.”
“She was not and did not,” said the Hag. “But I chose her to compete with you. All the danger was on your side.”
“That is exactly what I mean,” said Metuza, “because your plan to marry me to Prince Tavit of Eschor was in danger, and with that, all our hope of winning the East. This Perze was insinuating, was ingratiating, yes, but she could never have brought it off in my place.”
“So—old Zavira could not estimate Perze’s worth as you can. She outwitted me. This old fool?”
“No, Priestess, not at all. You were aware of her inability—her age—her low birth. So you never assigned her to anything. She didn’t mislead you a bit, you who are a goddess in wisdom.”
“I weary of your flattery, Metuza. And don’t try to guess the twists and turns of my wisdom. Simply tell me that the woman’s drowning was no accident. You hesitate? I tested you with Perze, and all I need to know is that you have passed the test. What did you do?”
A long pause. “Have I passed a test then?”
“It seems you have.”
“I’m sure I have. I behaved as an Immortal, as someone with a blade at her heart. I prepared fresh traveling clothes for Perze and gave them to her as a present. The cloak was heavy, and to make it heavier yet, I had my slave girls sew small weights into the corners. Then—last night on the Cerberus—I persuaded Perze to take the air with me on the high rear deck. No one was watching us. As she faced the rail, I took up a club I had placed there for my purpose and struck her in the back full force. It not only put her over the rail but knocked the wind out of her, Priestess, so she couldn’t scream going down. I hid myself until the splash attracted some of the others and then joined them, asking what had happened.”
“And why did you do it? Why?”
“I did it, Priestess, because she might have taken my place in the Plan.”
“She would have if you had not murdered her. That was the test.”
Clay gripped the edge of the opening harder.
“You’re wisdom is perfect,” Metuza said. “What do you wish of me now?”
“Before us is the court of sacrifice,” said the Smoke Hag. “Metuza the Dog will not shrink from wielding the knife?”
“I haven’t in the past, Priestess.”
Castor now made some vague sounds, and Clay heard them moving away underground. Nothing else except, once and distantly, Metuza laughing. Then for a long time nothing at all in the darkness. He felt for the first stair.
A daughter of witches, Metuza the Dog had been hand chosen by Zavira at the age of eleven to be the arranged bride of Tavit, Prince of Eschor—if all went well in negotiations with Tavit’s father Solomon. Metuza was to have children by Tavit and secretly train those children in the ways of Fowroz. Someday a witch king would reign in Colonia. Thus would the Midras cult of Farja gain control of the Empire of the East. Then the last light of the Pidemoi would be extinguished and the Silence would cover the continent.
All this if the Dragons and Ulrigs of the south did not overrun Eschor first, as the witches also intended. But the Dragons’ threat to do so made the marriage alliance between Eschor and Farja all the more probable: Solomon was desperate for allies. These complementary plans, threats from within and without, made Eschor’s doom doubly sure.
So Metuza had been prepared. Bright and beautiful, she entered a coven at the age of twelve and was first spell-burned at thirteen. At so young an age, she had already proved devoted, ruthless, and masterfully deceitful. Born of the noble family of the Zeezurs, she was betrothed at fourteen to Brutus Hytra, age thirty-three; Brutus the Lion of the founding witch family of Farja; son of Amoz the Snake and grandson of the Scorpion himself. This marriage made Metuza the most exalted young noblewoman in Farja, in effect a princess in a city ruled by a Council and not a king. Brutus’ suspiciously well-timed death several months later made her an eligible princess.
Metuza could not say what had happened to Brutus. Certainly, he had been murdered in a tavern brawl. Perhaps it had been arranged by the Hag. The girl disciplined herself not to think about it, for Brutus had unexpectedly shown real affection toward her.
Since that time, she had been personally trained by the Smoke Hag, and under this tutelage her exaltation had continued. When only two Immortals walked the Fold, Metuza had been added to that number. Monophthalmos, Zavira, Metuza: these were the only names that mattered under the sky.
And now at age sixteen—at last the Great Midraeum. She had performed the sacrifice with her usual steady hand and as her reward had been taken into a small room and left to prepare herself with prayers and spells. Soon Zavira would return for her and lead her deeper into the hidden chambers.
The oil lamp that she placed on a stand nearby revealed the room as empty, filthy, ugly; the walls covered with images of crawling things. She dropped to her knees and dug with her fingers in the thick dirt that had been spread over the floor by design. This was the usual attitude of prayer in her cult. One by one, she began to call upon the Powers, beginning with Midras, who once had wrenched the eternal spheres into a new alignment. Inside herself she was crowing with triumph. Nothing had been withheld from her. She was beautiful, powerful, immortal. Tonight she would enter the Black Hall. Again she praised Midras.
She paused. Was that a footstep? If so, then Zavira had returned quickly. Throwing back her veil, she lifted her face to a blinding light, white as the moon, steady as the sun; and behind it stood someone—not the Hag. She shrank back, shielding her eyes.
“What is it? Who are you?”
Clay was prepared neither for the question nor the beauty of her face. He adjusted the angle of the flashlight at his belt till it was not directly in Metuza’s eyes. Now she could see his drawn sword.
“My name’s Clay. I’m the Lila-me you’ve been trying to catch. And you’re a filthy murderer.” He waved with the sword back toward the court of sacrifice. “I saw Castor’s corpse on that stone altar as I came in. The Smoke Hag’s too little and spindly to have laid his throat open like that. It had to be you.”
Metuza stood up against the weirdly carved wall, her eyes bright, her mouth working silently.
“Well?” Clay said.
“He was a willing sacrifice.”
“I could see that. He came here freely, and you didn’t tie him to the altar. Do you think that let’s you off?”
She didn’t answer.
“And what about Perze?” he added. “Yeah, look surprised. Did you think no one would ever find out?”
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said, as if suddenly recollecting where she was. “This is the Great Midraeum. Only the Devoted have ever entered here. For anyone else it’s a sacrilege punishable by death.”
Clay shrugged his shoulders. “Drop that knife on the floor.”
She took it from a sheath at her belt and dropped it. The glare of Clay’s flashlight revealed a blade like a wriggling worm, a handle carved as a chain of skulls.
“Is that what you did it with?”
She knew he meant Castor but did not answer.
“What’s going on? What’s the Smoke Hag up to?”
“We’re seeking the will of the gods,” she said in a humble voice. “This is our religion. You must leave here if you have any respect for the beliefs of others.”
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“Don’t make me sick,” Clay said. “Respect for human sacrifice? Some of your people almost sacrificed my sister and me. Was I supposed to respect that, Metuza?”
“You know my name,” she said, “and other things about me. But I know about you, too. I know, for example, that the Fijata Razabera is here with you—the one who brought you and your sister through the Door in the Valley of Thunders.”
“Bad guesses, Metuza. Razabera’s dead. Your people got her, another thing I have to thank you for.”
She looked at him with a blank, still face. “Who of my people?”
“Who? What does it matter? Someone named Ven and another named Icky.”
“Icarus,” she whispered.
“You knew them!” Somehow this made Clay more angry than anything else had.
“I knew they were looking for the Pretender,” she said.
“Pretender? Who’s pretending? You better get it straight, stupid, I’m the real thing. Now I want you to show me this place. Let’s go down the passage outside this door.”
“I’ve never been here before,” she said.
“Well, go in front anyhow. I’m sure not going to let you get behind me. Move it.”