A Sword for a Dragon (28 page)

In the dungeon, the hours slid by slowly and the night gave way at last to another dawn. Relkin was grimly aware that if he didn’t escape soon, it would be the last dawn he would ever see. He grew increasingly nervous as the daylight hours went by. Where was Miranswa? If she didn’t hurry up, it would be too late. He would end up on the altar stone high above his dungeon.

At length, he sensed the waning of the daylight. His heart began to sink. Miranswa had failed. Perhaps she had been caught in the act of taking the keys. Perhaps she had simply decided that it was too risky. Perhaps she would be there watching, among the throng of junior priestesses, when they cut his throat with the obsidian blade and then dug his heart out of his chest and offered it to the moon.

He felt his throat constrict at that thought and again when he considered the next. For as soon as they had finished with him, they would place Lagdalen on the same stone, repeat the sacrifice, and blend their blood on the thousand steps that descended from the altar.

Relkin hunched down by the wall and tried to blank out all thoughts. It was too painful otherwise. But the day was gone, and it was definitely turning dark now. The moon would rise shortly, and then they would come for him.

At that very moment, he heard the outer door opening. Then the inner door swung open. He steeled himself. He would not show the fear he felt, he would hold his head up. He would die like a soldier of Argonath.

But instead of the guards, it was Miranswa, at last, panting from her efforts and carrying the precious key.

“I have it,” she whispered. She struck a light.

The key went into the cuffs, but there it stuck. Miranswa found it hard to turn. Her fingers did not have the strength. She struggled with it while Relkin tried not to panic. Again and again she worked at it while Relkin advised her to shift the key around in the lock, sometimes a certain set was required, a certain position, especially if the lock was old and perhaps a little loose.

But nothing seemed to work and now Relkin began to pray that it was the right key. Had she made a mistake? If so, then he was doomed.

And then there came a click, and she gave a grunt of triumph and made one more effort. A gasp escaped her lips and then with a rusty
ka-chunk
, the lock turned and the cuffs fell open. A moment later, Relkin was out of the cell and at the outer door peering out poised to run.

“Wait,” hissed Miranswa, thrusting a bundle of clothing at him. “Put these on. You must pass as a temple slave.”

Quickly, he stripped off his Marneri wool breeches and his good cotton shirt. He noticed that Miranswa did not turn away, but watched him closely. He felt a sudden embarrassment and quickly donned the white tunic and breechclout, each of which carried a wide, vertical red stripe.

“Now you are safe unless someone asks you a direct question. In the unlikely event that someone does, pretend to be mute. Nod as if you understand, bow from the waist, and then go away quickly as if you are obeying a command. When you leave here, turn right and you will soon find a main passage that passes beneath the temple from north to south. Go north, and once you’re outside the temple go on down the avenue. You will see lights ahead. That is the port. There is a barracks there for slaves, so it will be quite normal for you to be walking in that direction. When you get there, you must find a way to get aboard a boat heading to the city. Several leave every night.”

“I must thank you, Miranswa.”

“You will thank me best if you hurry away now. Very soon they will come, and once you are missed there will be a hue and cry raised. You don’t want them to recapture you, do you?” But he did not leave as bidden.

“Where is the girl you spoke of?”

Miranswa frowned. “Do not speak of her; you cannot save her. Go now!”

“Where is she?”

“Go, you fool.” Miranswa pushed at him.

Relkin seized her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes.

“You are a friend, Miranswa, and I would never wish to harm you, and I am in your debt, but you must tell me where the Lady Lagdalen lies. If I am to be taken again, I will make sure they kill me, I will not betray you.”

She could see that he was immovable. Nothing she could say would change his mind.

“Ah, what is the use?” she said to herself in Uld. “You are barbarian anyway, and everyone knows they are all mad.”

Still her heart felt heavy, and she had to fight back tears.

Well anyway, she herself was quite safe. There was no need to worry. If they recaptured him, which they would surely do, they would just sacrifice him, and there would hardly be time for them to question him and force him to give up her name. So she would just blink back her tears and return the stolen key before priestess Guda ever woke up from her nap.

Miranswa sighed. Her efforts had been wasted. Perhaps here the goddess was giving her a lesson. Those that the goddess had selected for sacrifice would die for her, and there was no way to change their fate.

In a broken whisper, she told him where to find the Argonathi girl. “On the upper tier of the ziggurat, in a room close to the high altar. They washed her in the milk of the Mother this afternoon. Since then, she has been wrapped in swaddling and awaits the knife.”

He relaxed his grip, but did not move away.

“Thank you, Miranswa, for everything.” He bent forward suddenly and kissed her on the lips. There was an electric tingle in that kiss. He hadn’t expected her to return it as she had. Could it mean that she cared for him as he did for her? And how would he ever see her again? It was as if they lived on different worlds.

“Wish me luck,” he said.

“Go,” she said still stony-faced, but then she softened. He was a mad barbarian, yes, but such a nice young barbarian. Really it was a terrible pity that he was going to waste his life in this way. And he had saved her life, she would always be in his debt on that score. She would infinitely prefer sacrifice to the goddess on her altar to the living death of enforced prostitution, and he had rescued her from that. She had had to try and save him, if only because she had a conscience that wouldn’t let her sleep once she knew of his imprisonment. He was a barbarian, but he had behaved with such decency that he had captured her heart.

“Go then, and may the goddess forgive me and let you live. Good-bye.”

Still he hovered there peering into her eyes, entranced, smitten.

“Miranswa.”

“Go.” She pushed him away. He took a few steps. “Good luck,” she whispered after him.

Relkin slipped away and hurried through the outer passage to a wide oval door guarded by two massive men with turbans and scimitars. The guards barely glanced at him. The servitor’s garb hid him perfectly.

On the main passage he was even safer, temporarily. This passage was thirty feet wide and crowded with considerable numbers of temple servants who looked much like himself.

He returned to the task ahead. Somehow he would have to obtain some weapons. Then he had to climb the ziggurat, find the room in which Lagdalen was imprisoned, and somehow rescue her.

There was very little time. The moon was rising.

He came to a crossing. To the right was a broad staircase that ascended to the ground floor. He was now on the grand passage, some sixty feet wide with horse-drawn traffic in the center lanes.

The crowds here were largely composed of women, and he noticed with a shock that here, at last, the women of Ourdh went without the all-covering garub and veil. Here, within the temple of the goddess, they wore their hair openly and dressed in gowns of silk and satin with exquisite coloring and designs. Their walk here was different, free of constant deference to men. There was an independence, a strut that he hadn’t seen in Ourdh before.

He hurried along, looking for a stair to ascend. There were side passages here, lined with shops and temple offices. There were also fanes to the goddess in her many incarnations. Some were empty and shuttered up, while others were filled with worshipers in the midst of their ceremonies. Hymns were sung while the priestesses performed the arcane gestures and lit the candles of significance.

He dodged out of the way of an elegant brougham pulled by a pair of beautiful black geldings. There was quite a lot of horse-drawn traffic all of a sudden, and the air had changed, there was a breeze.

He’d reached the end of the great passage. It seemed that there were no accessible internal staircases. He would have to climb the great tower by the open public ramps. The crowds there would be thick, his progress would inevitably be slow. At the top, there would be a throng and some kind of barrier between the public space atop the pyramid and the altar. It seemed a hopeless task. He needed a more private space.

He decided to try to find an inner stair once more. Perhaps the side passages lead to such stairs. At random he turned and plunged down the first side street. He found himself on a narrow pavement perhaps nine feet across. On either side were rows of small doorways fronting tiny shops where skilled seamstresses plied their trade. In their windows were displayed the lavish gowns that were worn within the temple bounds, beautiful concoctions of turquoise silk, white satin, lace, and ribbons. Caught up with amazement at the beauty of these fabrics and the artistry of the styling, Relkin failed to notice quickly enough that he was the only male in sight, apart from a couple of guards who were leaning over a stall that sold hot tea.

The tea woman saw him first and pointed him out with a sharp word. The guards lurched up with oaths and gesticulations. Relkin realized his mistake at once. He bowed and then started back. In his haste, alas, he walked right into a portly woman swathed in a vast gown of purple silks with puff sleeves and lace collar. She stumbled backward with a shriek of dismay, and Relkin fell on top of her. Her outcries redoubled in volume.

He was back on his feet in an instant, but the damage was done. The woman in purple continued to voice her complaints and the guards dropped their tea and leapt toward him.

Relkin ran back up to the main passage. At the corner, he ran into another woman, a lemon seller, and sent her plate of cut lemons flying. More loud complaints went up.

A hue and cry was building up behind him.

A white carriage blocked his way for a moment. Something about it was familiar and then he glimpsed Aimlor, the surly coachman of the Princess Zettila. At the back of the carriage was a running board where footmen could ride during a processional.

The carriage suddenly picked up speed, traveling in the opposite direction from which he was coming. For a moment, he was obscured from his pursuers, they were scattering to avoid Aimlor’s blundering horsemanship. Relkin sprang up onto the running board and was carried back through the pursuit. No one noticed him, they were all intent on the hurrying fugitive somewhere ahead in the throng.

Nor did Aimlor look back, Aimlor’s attention was fixed on the horses as he guided them out of the passage into the open air. Outside, under the night sky, a vast crowd was moving up the outer stairs to the first tier of the ziggurat. Lamps were lit at every corner of the stair, thousands of women devotees carried candles. Relkin’s eye flicked up and caught the mass of the pyramid at last. Tier after tier rose above him, each aglitter with thousands of candles and lanterns. Relkin felt a naked awe; there was no structure on this scale in the Argonath. It was a mountain built by men.

The carriage rolled on, picking up speed slightly as the passage broadened into a wide avenue that continued on to some smaller buildings about a mile away. Relkin hung on as Aimlor suddenly turned and took a side road that ran down a short gulley and then hooked back to the base of the pyramid on the eastern side.

Relkin had been preparing to jump off, but now kept his place as they jounced along a much rougher road to a set of stables tucked under the eave of the temple mass.

They came to a halt at last, and Relkin slipped off the running board and skipped into the nearest stable door.

From the sheltering darkness, he watched Aimlor open the carriage door and assist the Princess Zettila as she stepped out. She hurried into the stables and was met just within the far door by a man whom Relkin could not see very well.

Aimlor resumed his seat on the carriage. Relkin listened carefully. There were many open stable doors here and dozens of horses. Many wealthy devotees of the goddess kept a coach and pair here solely to bear them up and down the avenue from the docks to the temple. However, most of the coaches and horses were out on this evening, promenading on the avenue.

Stable workers were gathered together somewhere, he could hear their cheery conversation and exclamations. There was a certain excitement due to the festival atmosphere.

Relkin slipped back into the darkness. Perhaps he might find a weapon back there.

He avoided the stable workers and kept to the shadows as much as possible. There were occasional lanterns hanging from the pillars supporting the ceiling. He took one to examine a room filled with equipment, but found no weapons. It was all horse and carriage equipment.

Some stable workers came by laughing together. He extinguished the lamp and dodged back in the dark and fell over something. One boy laughed, and they all made loud meowing sounds and went on their way.

Relkin’s back hurt where he’d landed on a wheel. With a groan, he staggered out and continued the search.

He kept to the shadows until he found a rear area that was relatively quiet. The light here was very dim, since the stable lamps were all in the front. He dodged around a corner into a side passage with storerooms filled with hay.

Behind him somewhere in the dark, a cat yowled and several horses snorted in their stalls. In the storage space, he hid himself behind some straw and tried to think of a way to get a sword.

The task ahead of him seemed insuperable. It was agonizing to think that Lagdalen would die up there on that altar when he was down here simply unable to come up with a plan. He had to have a plan!