Empire of the Worm (13 page)

“Here,” she said, motioning toward
the wall near her bench.

At first he didn’t see it. The wall
was so old and worn away by time . . . But then he saw a section where three of
the ebon blocks fit together so that an empty triangular shape was formed, a
shape filled in with a smooth adobe patch.

“Strange,” he said. “But I don’t
see—”

“It’s a window.”

He smiled indulgently. “A window?”

She nodded, earnest. “Yes, don’t
you see? But it’s been filled in with mud bricks.”

That
was
certainly what it looked like, a filled-in triangular window. He
shook his head. “Why would the Avestines build a wall with a window—
underground
?”

“That,” she said, “is an excellent
question.”

That night he dreamt he trod the dark halls of the Palace’s
lower catacombs. He passed beyond the Door and through the strange netherworld
before the Altar of Subn-ongath. He dreamt he passed the Altar and kept going,
and at last he came into a place of eerie wonder, of great glowing towers and
strange people, of all different shapes and sizes, some barely human if human
at all, and many played fantastic musical instruments. The whole city—and yes,
he saw, it was a city—seethed and hummed with joyous, thunderous life. He
passed marvelous palaces and temples wherein bizarre beings croaked and
gibbered, and he understood that these were the places of the Great Ones, those
who belonged to the Circle of Subn-ongath. And the people and non-people here
were the people of the Circle, and they sang and danced and made merry, all in
worship and love of the Great Ones.

They called to him. “Come to us,
Davril,” they said, lissome arms outstretched to him. “Come and join us. We
have a place for you.”

He saw his father, and his
brothers, and they were smiling and dancing. They, too, beckoned to him. “This
is the final home of all true Husans,” his father said. “It’s your place. Come.
Come, Davril,
come
.”

Davril felt a keen longing that he
did not understand, and for a moment he hesitated. Then he shook his head.

“Never,” he said.

The city faded, and the songs grew
distant, and he woke up bathed in cold sweat, on a narrow bench in the
underground warrens of the Avestines, a thin blanket about him. His heart beat
rapidly in his chest.

I’m
safe
, he told himself.
I’m safe.

But it was not victory he felt. It
was grief, a strange pang at a thing that could have been and now would never
be. Unless . . .

He tried to return to sleep, but
sleep would not come. When he closed his eyes, he could still hear the singing.

BOOK TWO:

RETURN

Chapter
11

“Are you sure you would not like another glass?” Qasan
Ulesme motioned toward his scantily-clad servant girl.

Davril pursed his lips as if in
thought, then smiled. “I think three is quite enough, thank you. Excellent
wine, by the way—from Trian, my favorite—but I must keep my wits, if it’s not
already too late.”

“What few you have left need the
protection,” Qasan agreed.

Davril lifted his glass with its
one remaining sip. “To old friends.”

“Old friends.”

Warm sunlight flooded the high-ceilinged
room, shooting down from the ornate sun-hole above and washing in through the
high windows that looked out over Sedremere. Davril enjoyed the pleasant
drowsiness that was the gift of the wine, smiling as he looked about at the
beautiful women in myriad stages of undress lounging on the couches and pallets
all around. They lived here in Qasan’s mansion and provided him his every
desire. A girl wearing only a string of gold discs about her waist and a few
golden armbands and anklets waved a fan, cooling the two friends. Qasan, once
the beloved of Sareth and would-be brother-in-law to Davril, was keeping
himself indoors in his own mansion and out of sight of General Hastus and his
new allies these days. Qasan had been a senator before the General disbanded
the Senate, and it was not good to be associated with the old regime.

With his drink still in hand, Qasan
sobered quickly. “It’s frightening how swiftly they chased off the Ctai and the
others.”

“
Miraculous
,” Davril corrected him, earning a snort.

Looking out a window, Davril could
not even tell that war had come—and gone—from Sedremere. Vanished were the
clouds of smoke and screams of panic. As soon as the General’s leadership had
been announced, his pet Lerumites had mounted the walls of the city and begun
their campaign to rid Sedremere of those who would destroy her. They’d caused
earthquakes to swallow the besieging barbarians, lightning to blast them from
the skies, had caused some individuals to simply burst apart as though having
exploded from within. Others went insane and slew their mates—all feats that
were now being dubbed “miracles” by the General and those that supported him.

“One man’s miracle is another man’s
nightmare,” Qasan muttered.

“All the more reason why I need
your help.”

For a long moment, Qasan stared at
Davril, and Davril did not prod him. For a month Davril had been coming to
Qasan in secret, trying to solicit his aid, and for a month Qasan had brooded
on it. Now it seemed he was ready to make a decision.

Instead of answering directly,
Qasan said, “You know, the other day I went to the Arena, just like in old
times. Well, not quite. I disguised myself as a commoner and sat in the common
areas to avoid attention from the New Nobles.” These were the ones who had
flocked to the General’s banner. Davril could tell Qasan had not liked
disguising himself or, for that matter, sitting with the commoners. “He still
does it, you know. General Hastus. He still goes out on his elephant and runs
down prisoners. Only now many of the prisoners are those who speak against Uulos.
Those who speak loudest get an even worse death—public torture, then being
burnt alive, right there in the Arena. Can you imagine—the Arena used like that
?
”

Davril nodded slowly. His eyes
never left Qasan’s. “They must not be allowed to stay in power, my friend. They
must be removed.”

“And you think this . . .
resistance of yours . . . is the best way to do it?”

“It’s the
only
way.”
For a long moment, neither spoke. There was only the whisper of the fan.

Finally, Qasan said, “No one can
know.”

Davril didn’t let himself smile. “No
one will,” he said. “And your involvement will be minimal, I assure you. Your
family still owns several warehouses along the River, near the Temple of Lerum?”

“You know very well we do, Davril.”

“Forgive me.”

“So you need access to the
warehouses? You want to store something?”

“Not quite. But we’ll get to that
later. For now it’s enough that you’ve agreed to help.”

Qasan motioned to the serving girl,
and she refilled his goblet, smiling. Davril hoped these girls were as discreet
as his friend maintained; otherwise his plans could be in serious jeopardy. But
Qasan would not be without them. He claimed that they provided him sanity in an
otherwise insane world, and it was difficult for Davril to gainsay him.

The former senator tossed back his
drink and made a sour face. “How could I not help, Davril? How could I not? The
General has
openly declared
his
worship of the Old One.” He laughed, and there was a touch of madness in it. “He’s
converted all the temples in the city to temples
to Him
.” He visibly shuddered. “Already the prisoners of war the
Lerumites took are disappearing from the prisons.”

“Oh?”

Qasan rolled his eyes. “I have eyes
and ears throughout the city, Davril—as you’re well aware. Anyway, we all
wondered why the General ordered so many of the Ctai and Ygrassa and Aesini taken
prisoner instead of simply killed.” In a lower voice, he added, “But I can
guess.”

Davril nodded. “Sacrifice.”

“And what happens when they’re all
used up?
What then, Davril?
Then,” he
said, stabbing a finger, “
he
will
come for innocent Sedremerans. I know it in my bones. When will it end? How
many will it take to satisfy his appetite?”

Davril held his friend’s gaze. “That
is why he must be defeated.” He sighed and motioned to the serving girl, who
had gone pale. “I think I
will
take
another,” he said.

Wesrai was waiting outside with the camels.

“It went well, I take it?” asked
the priest, reading the expression on Davril’s face.

“He’s agreed to help.”

“At last.” Wesrai visibly relaxed. A
broad smile creased his ageless face as he assisted Davril into his saddle.
“Where to, my—ah, Sir Rianon?”

“Better,” said Davril, who now
often went by various false names, among them Rianon Hyrcunis. He’d been forced
to grow a beard (a wispy one, and streaked with gray) and wore a turban over
his head in the style of the Ctai. The Ctai who lived in Sedremere were
understandably unpopular these days, and Davril received more than a few angry
glances and occasionally more than that, but it was better than being recognized.

“I have a meeting in the Gold
Quarter,” Davril said.

Wesrai looked at him oddly. “Are
you sure, Sir Rianon? Lerumites are sometimes seen dealing with the Asqrites
there. They come and go at odd times.”

“We’ll be cautious.”

Davril prodded his camel and led
the way through the crowded, colorful streets. Sedremere looked much as it had
before the invasions, but the faces of the people told a different tale. Some
looked wan and nervous; others moved with grim purpose. Many seemed bowed by a
great weight. As Davril passed one of the converted temples, he glanced within
to see rows of people bowing before a twisted statue of Uulos, all tentacles
and mouths. There was something alive moving on the black slab before it, alive
and bleeding. The sacrifices were sometimes very slow, Davril knew; Uulos fed
not just on blood and souls, but fear and pain, as well. Davril had to look
away.

“How can it have come to this?”
Wesrai muttered, his mind running parallel to Davril’s.

“The General didn’t give the people
much choice,” Davril reminded him.

Immediately after seizing power,
General Hastus had begun converting the temples and chapels, and he and his
followers (of which there were a surprising number, the fish-priests evidently
having visited many, mostly from the aristocracy, before they made their move)
had claimed to have had visions in their dreams proclaiming the glory of the
One True God. Overnight prophets of Uulos had sprung up all over, and they had
prowled the streets preaching of the Old One’s return and eminent triumph.

Uulos was clever, Davril had to
admit. His agents had waited until many Sedremerans had begun attending his
temples before unleashing the first of the “miracles” —- saying that Uulos
would only save the city if the people turned to him for guidance—and this had
in turn fueled more waves of converts. By the time the besieging armies had
been driven off or captured, most of the people in the city regularly attended
the many Uuloson temples. And at every one, every day, there was a sacrifice.

As for the people that refused to
worship the Old One, Davril had no doubt that they were being watched and
numbered, and that when the General’s supply of prisoners of war were used up,
they would be the first Sedremerans to find their way to an altar. Already
those that actively spoke against the Worm were meeting bad ends, as evidenced
by those tortured and burned alive in the Arena.

Davril wended his way through the
curving, labyrinthine streets, at last coming to the Gate of Gold and, after
supplying false documentation, was admitted to the Gold Quarter. Wesrai looked
about apprehensively.

“We’ll be all right,” Davril said.

“How can you be sure?”

“How can you not? You’re a man of
faith.”

“My god is far away, my—Sir Rianon.
And now with the Old One’s coming, I can’t even feel the
presence
of the Fire. The Light. I am completely cut off from it.”

“You’re not alone,” Davril said. Then,
remembering his recent spate of dreams: “I wish
I
were cut off from my god . . .”

“Pardon, sir?”

“Nothing. Here we are.” Davril stopped
his camel not for from a certain café. He allowed Wesrai to assist him down
from his mount, then gave the reins to the priest and said, “I won’t be long. Stay
here and out of sight. I don’t want my dinner guest to see any more of our
operation than he has to.”

Using his cane, Davril hobbled to
the café, where many people sat at the street-tables enjoying wine, beef chips
and spicy
pila
bread, as well as
flavorful goat cheese, grapes and perfectly soured dates. Davril’s companion
waited for him at a table for two under a canvas shade, as far from the street
as he could get. He too had come disguised, wearing a stained white travel
cloak with its hood up. Davril had to smile at that; his guest probably
attracted more attention than he evaded.

“Well met,” said the man, whose
cowl shadowed his features.

“Well met,” Davril agreed, bowing
his head slightly. He took his seat and poured himself yet another glass of
wine from the jug on the table. He took small sips, his head still swimming
from his visit with Qasan. “Exquisite,” he said.

“It should be. I ordered the most
expensive thing they had. You’re buying.”

Davril sighed. Why were clergymen
always so miserly? His guest certainly had no reason to be.

Father Elimhas dipped a sesame
mutton chip into a sweet, tangy sauce and munched on it thoughtfully. “I almost
didn’t come,” he said.

“I know how difficult it is for
you.”

“I would be killed if they found
me.”

Davril smiled ruefully. “I would be
lucky if they just killed me.”

“You’re bold, I’ll give you that. I
thought you would stop trying to contact me after your first pigeon never
returned. You are persistent.”

“I’m sure the population of trained
pigeons in the area is less impressed by that than you.”

“What I’m impressed by is that you’d
try so hard to win the support of one who betrayed you.”

Davril rolled a shoulder. “You
thought you had no choice. You
had
to
give the Jewel up to the Lerumites. I think I understand that much. And you
were probably right. Anyway, I had an idea you would see reason, once the
armies had gone, once the Uuloson temples started to take over.”

Father Elimhas nodded gravely. “You
needn’t be coy. I’m all too aware that my little church may be next.” He smiled
bitterly. “Actually, that’s not
quite
true. I am fairly certain it will be
last
.
It’s too big, too strong, and too much a symbol of the city. Were the
Light-House to be converted before the populace is ready, the people might well
turn on the Uulosons.” He drained his glass and poured another. His aged hands
trembled. “Alas, I think we’re almost there. Even my own flock is turning.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes, and it is not simply the
‘miracles’ of the Lerumites, or the fear of invasion, or even public pressure. They
report to having strange dreams, sensations . . .”

Davril winced. “Uulos is growing
strong. Sending out his will. His Altar is here, right in the middle of the
city, and he can call out from it. So all the priests in my group have told me.”

Father Elimhas’s look was troubled.
“It must be so.”

“His foothold on our world is
gaining. The door is opening. We must do something, and quickly, before he
returns in the flesh.”

“And you think that because I aided
him in gaining that foothold, that my guilt will sway me to your side? Hardly.”

Davril was starting to lose his
patience. “If not guilt, then at least a sense of duty—of decency. For pity’s
sake, you’re a man of Asqrit!”

Father Elimhas’s eyes narrowed. They
were bright and sharp in his liver-spotted face. “My guilt is lesser than you
think. As you yourself just said, I merely did what I thought necessary, and I
am still unconvinced that I acted wrongly. The time of the Worm has come. We’d
better be by his side than in his way.”

“Let’s be frank, Father. You won’t
live long enough to enjoy being by his side for long. Why struggle so hard to
betray everything you’ve worked for all your life?”

When Elimhas spoke, it was almost a
whine: “Why would you trust me anyway? I’ve already betrayed the realm once.”