The Seventh Gate (The Seven Citadels ) (10 page)

*****

All the next day, the prisoners were left
to sit idle in their tent while O-grak was in council with his captains. The
noises of the camp - the rasp of boots on sand, the honing of blades, arrows
striking wood in target practice, the crackle of driftwood cooking-fires, the
fierce, guttural accents of Oraz and Mintaz - became maddeningly tedious as
they were repeated again and again. All attempts at conversation lapsed into
quarrels or self-pity.

At dusk, when the whine of insects
dominated the other noises, a serf brought a basket of coarse bread and slabs
of salt meat. He was accompanied by two warriors of O-grak's own household, who
ordered the Prince to his feet.

“The Khan's wife would speak to you,” said
one of the men, eyeing him curiously.

“The Khan orders it,” put in the other, “though
if she were my wife. I would not allow it.”

“Your Khan has no respect for any custom
that doesn't suit him,” murmured Gidjabolgo.

The Orazian chose not to hear and told the
Prince to walk in front of him.

When they were outside, Kerish said kindly,
“What the Khan orders is the fulfillment of a condemned man's wish. What could
be more honorable?”

The warrior's face cleared. “I will tell
the Men of the Household. They will be comforted and no doubt the snake will
recover.”

“Shageesa is ill?”

Conscious of having said too much already,
the warrior simply ordered him to walk faster.

Kerish was content to let the conversation
drop so that he could devote himself to noting each detail of the route through
the camp. The women's quarters were as far as possible from the temple of the
Goddess. The tent of the Khan's wife was no larger, or more splendid, than the
rest. Outside, the air was pungent with the smell of brine from the great tubs
used for salting meat. Inside, the tent was crowded with cloaks and jerkins to
be mended and banners to be stitched. Neeris herself was bent over a leather
baldric, punching an uneven row of holes with her bone needle.

The other women stopped sewing and
chattering as Kerish and his guard entered. The Khan's wife looked up to
discover the cause of the sudden silence.

“We have brought him.” The warrior's voice
was surly and Neeris stared at him dumbly, her fingers still stabbing at the
leather.

“You wished to speak to me, Lady?” said Kerish
gently.

With a visible effort, Neeris took courage
and whispered, “Leave the Prince with me.”

“It would be better if we stayed,” said the
second warrior.

Neeris looked desperately from the guards'
stern faces to Kerish and he answered her appeal. “The Khan's wife has spoken,
and the Khan charged you to obey her.”

“Yes, obey,” echoed Neeris.

“Then we must,” said the first warrior
reluctantly. “We will wait outside your tent to take the prisoner back.”

When the two men had withdrawn, Neeris
looked round at her ladies. They were all busily sewing again, but none the
less intent on hearing every word of the conversation between their mistress
and the captive Prince.

“Berka, fetch some wine.”

Neeris rose and led the Prince deeper into
the tent.

Drawing aside a leather hanging she
revealed the only private place allowed to her. The small space contained a
bed, draped with a plain coverlet, a folding stool, a carrying chest for her
clothes, and a bowl of polished bronze that served both for washing in and as a
mirror. It was as austere as a priest's cell and told Kerish nothing of her
character.

Neeris left the curtain open and sat down
on the bed, offering the stool to Kerish. She stared at him for a moment, as if
she was trying to make sure that he was real, and then whispered, “Is it true
that my husband means to kill you? Sometimes he says things just to grieve me,
or to laugh at me when I believe them too quickly. Is it true?”

Kerish nodded. “The Khan will execute me
when Galkis falls.”

“But why?” Neeris seemed appalled. “Why?
You are his captive, what harm could you do to Oraz? Perhaps he will kill you
to make me more unhappy. He hates anyone to please me.”

“So do all husbands who think themselves
unloved.”

“Why should I love him?” demanded Neeris,
her grey eyes flecked with angry green. “He must hate me to treat me so
cruelly!”

“He can't hate you,” protested Kerish. “He
chose you, when he could have raised any lady in the Five Kingdoms to be his
wife.”

“I was proud at first,” said Neeris
bleakly, “but then the women told me that it was only because I am like his
daughter.”

“And his first wife I suppose . . . It is
true that he is unhappy because you are not like them.” Kerish smiled at her. “Lady,
the only answer is to show him what you are like. Make him love you for
yourself. That cannot be a hard task.”

Neeris looked bewildered. “But how can I
show him?”

“Never be silent when you are angry, sad or
happy,” advised Kerish, “that maddens the Khan. Tell him everything you feel
and let him speak as freely to you.”

Neeris half turned away from him and drew
one finger round and round the edge of the bronze bowl.

“Why should you care about my husband? He
is your enemy and if he has said he is going to kill you, he will do it.”

“I care,” answered Kerish slowly, “because
I know what it is like to love someone and receive indifference, or even
dislike, in return.”

“I can't believe that! How could anyone who
saw you not . . .” Neeris blushed. “I mean . . . I knew, the moment you spoke
to me, that everything our people say about the Godborn must be false.”

“Lady, there is probably some truth in what
the Men of the Five Kingdoms say about us. Galkians have different faults and
different virtues from the Orazians, that is all.”

“Isn't it true that you are descended from Zeldin
the Betrayer?” asked Neeris.

“We call him Zeldin the Gentle,” said
Kerish. “Yes, it is true. Part of his divinity lies within us, deeply buried by
centuries of pride, but perhaps it is the same with all people and in all
countries. The Goddess Idaala dwells in your race. That is why she is jealous
of every woman, and why the women of the Five Kingdoms are worthy of worship as
well as love.”

“The Goddess herself?”

“Yes.” Kerish lifted Neeris's hand to his
lips. “Let that strengthen you.”

“But then . . .”

Neeris broke off as Berka entered with the
wine and their hands fell apart.

“Put it down and leave us,” said the Khan's
wife boldly.

Kerish thought quickly. As the woman set
down two earthenware bowls of red wine, he said, “Lady, I have heard a great deal
about the songs of Oraz. Will you have your women sing for me?”

“Yes. “ Neeris looked bewildered. “If it
will please you.”

She gave the order to Berka, and after a
few minutes stringed instruments were tuned and a cheerful spinning song began.

“Your health.” Kerish raised his bowl in
graceful salute. “We will not be overheard now.”

Neeris's eyes widened. “Ah, I should have
thought. . .”

Kerish sipped his wine warily; even watered
it was very strong. Accustomed to it from childhood, Neeris drank hers quickly
and began again. “You say I should think and act and speak as I please, and
that my husband will be glad?”

Kerish nodded. `Zeldin forgive me', he
thought, as Neeris said impulsively, “I cannot let him kill you. If I help you
and your friends, will my husband love me for that?”

“He would be very angry,” answered Kerish, “and
yet still honor you for it. But there is nothing you could do to help us
without putting yourself in danger.”

“I don't care about that.”

Kerish flinched as Neeris echoed Gwerath's
words.

“No one has ever minded what I thought
before, or understood what I felt. Let me help you! I know you will think of a
way.”

Kerish sighed. “There is perhaps one way.
All we would ask is a chance to get to the water's edge. From there we will
risk swimming the Jenze. Drowning, or even a stray arrow, would be better than
a long captivity and execution at the end of it.”

“Can you all swim? The river is wide and I
have heard that the currents are very strong.”

“All we ask is the chance to reach the
Jenze,” repeated Kerish.

“There are always guards at your tent.”
Neeris frowned. “I could bring weapons, hidden in the sleeves of my dress. If I
told the guards that my husband had given me permission to visit the Princess,
perhaps they might believe me . . .”

“Ask the Khan, there is no reason why he
should refuse you that.”

Neeris twisted the crimson bracelet round
and round her wrist as she thought. “The guards will come into the tent with me
so how . . .”

“Order one of the guards to come in with
you, before he has time to suggest it. We will distract him,” said Kerish, as
if he were just thinking it out, “while you pass a dagger to Forollkin. Then
you can call for the other guard and we'll deal with him too. We won't harm
them unless we have to.”

“But how am I to get you through the camp?”

“It must be done at night.”

Neeris's face was lit with nervous
excitement. “Tomorrow my husband will go to the north of the island to welcome
the ships of Fangmere.”

“Let it be tomorrow then. Forollkin and I
will wear the guards' cloaks and we'll be escorting you and Gwerath to the
women's quarters. There's Gidjabolgo though . . . could you hide a cloak for
him close by?”

“He's too short to wear a warrior's mantle.
Couldn't you leave him behind?”

“No,” insisted Kerish. “He is our friend. A
woman's cloak perhaps?”

The spinning song had ended and a soft
chant began. Neeris dropped her voice, “I will have to trust one of my women. I
can't come through the camp alone or everyone would notice. Berka will not
betray me. She was my nurse in Mintaz and comes from the mountains.”

“It must appear that I have put a spell on
you both,” said Kerish earnestly, “and that you cannot help yourselves. The
Khan won't believe it, but his men probably will.”

Neeris nodded. “Oh yes. They are saying now
that you have bewitched Shageesa. They don't blame you for it, but they say
you're ill luck.”

“Is she very sick?”

“She won't eat, and it would be a terrible
omen for the Towers of O-grak if she died.”

“I promise, I have done nothing to her,”
began Kerish as Berka hurried in.

“The guards keep asking for the Prince,”
she said, eyeing Kerish with disapproval. “There will be talk all through the
camp.”

“Say that he is coming.”

When her nurse had gone, Neeris turned
again to Kerish. “Tell me quickly what else I must do.”

Kerish told her his plan as concisely as he
could, and prayed that she would remember. By now they could hear the guards'
suspicious voices.

“Lady, you have great courage.”

As they got up, they were screened from the
rest of the tent.

“Khan O-grak chose better than he knew,”
said Kerish and he kissed her, first gently on the cheek, and then firmly on
the mouth.

“Trust me,” whispered Neeris, “I won't fail
you.”

Chapter
5

The Book of the Emperors:
Promises

And Zeldin said
to Mikeld-lo-Taan, “The last of my gifts to you is sorrow. I will carry the
griefs of Galkis and you, my son, and all the generations of your children,
shall understand a little of that burden.”

Just after dawn, O-grak visited his
prisoners. He was splendidly dressed in burnished snakeskin and embroidered
leather. Bronze chains spanned his chest and a great horn of crimson-stained
ivory hung from his badly stitched baldric.

“We are dazzled, Khan,” said Kerish coolly.
“What is the meaning of all this splendor?”

O-grak swirled round to display the full
magnificence of his cloak.

“What? Can a mere barbarian impress a
Prince of the Godborn; or indeed a Princess of the Sheyasa, whose tribe no
doubt outshines all the Five Kingdoms?”

“In modesty at least,” snapped Gwerath.

The Khan roared with laughter. “Well said,
Princess of Irollga. The splendor is for the Men of Fangmere. I go to sound the
Bloodhorn, to welcome their fleet to Vaish.”

“They have come quickly,” said Forollkin
bitterly, “in spite of your argument over Kerish.”

“I know the extent of their pride like the
length of my fingers,” answered O-grak carelessly. “Should you think to take
advantage of my absence, Forollkin, my captains have orders to check with your
guards once in every half-hour, just to make sure that you're safe in your
tent.”

“We are honored by such diligence,” said
Kerish lightly.

O-grak nodded and continued to pace around
the tent. “And thank you,” continued the Prince, “for letting me speak to your
wife.”

“It was a pretty trick to make her women
sing,” growled O-grak, “but I don't blame you for it. If you guessed that I
would set one of the women to listen, you were right. I was sorry I had, when
she reported your words to me.”

O-grak stopped pacing and stared intently
at Kerish. “You torment me with your innocence, Prince.”

“Forgive me, Khan,” said Kerish, with
perfect composure. “I will try to make amends.”

O-grak left for the north of the island and
all through that long day the prisoners rehearsed the parts they might each
have to play. Their joint memories of the layout of the camp were rigorously
examined and more than once the whole plan was rejected as hopeless. Through
fierce whispered arguments, Kerish clung stubbornly to his faith in Neeris and
eventually he asked the others to leave him alone.

While the Prince sat hunched up, with his
head resting on his knees, thinking or praying, Forollkin tried to hearten
Gwerath by making plans of what they would do in Galkis. Gidjabolgo picked up
Kerish's zildar and plucked it idly.

Most of the noon meal was put aside to be
carried with them. Forollkin was worried about a supply of water and wondered
whether to take the ewer, but Gidjabolgo shook his head. “They'll never believe
we've swum for it, if we take that.”

Their second meal was brought just after
dusk. Forollkin added three portions to the store of food already bound up in
the sash of Kerish's tunic but Gidjabolgo insisted on eating his, declaring
that it might be the last pleasure he'd ever have.

That roused Kerish. “Perhaps we should pray
together,” he said hesitantly, “before Neeris comes.”

Kerish reached for Forollkin's hand and
held out his own crippled hand to Gidjabolgo.

“Life is the only desire we're likely to
have in common,” said the Forgite, “but I'll ask that of anyone.”

Forollkin gripped Gwerath's hand and she
touched Gidjabolgo, completing the circle. They sat in silence for a long time.
Then, from outside the tent, came the gentle murmur of Neeris's voice.

Kerish tensed, willing her to be strong
enough to resist the other voices he heard raised in protest. He pictured
Neeris filled with gentle authority, beauty flooding into her face as she
forgot her own troubles for his sake. No, not for my sake, Kerish corrected
himself wryly, for a royal stranger, a Prince of daydreams.

The circle broke as the tent-flap was flung
open. One of their two guards entered with Neeris and Berka. Both women were
heavily cloaked but Kerish noticed that the guards had relieved Neeris of the
dagger she wore as her only mark of rank. Their tent had been checked when the
food was brought. Kerish calculated that they had about twenty minutes before
the next check. It was hardly long enough to reach the edge of the camp, even
if all went well, but it would have to be this moment or never.

“My Lady,” the Prince bowed and smiled
encouragingly, but Neeris stood dumb, her pale face pinched with strain.

`She will run away', thought Kerish, `and I
have made her believe that this is her only chance'.

“Prince. . .” The single word echoed with
cries for help.

“Gwerath,” began Kerish calmly, “I have
asked Lady Neeris if she will take you into her care. She has done us the
kindness to agree. Will you be as kind and consent to live?”

Forollkin stepped as close to Neeris as the
guard would allow. “I thank you with all my heart,” he began stiffly.

Gidjabolgo stood right against the canvas
at the far side of the tent, listening for the slow footsteps of the other
guard. He nodded at the Galkians.

“The Princess will thank you too,” said
Kerish, “when her grieving is over.”

“No,” cried Gwerath, “never!”

“It is true,” said the guard unexpectedly, “women
don't weep for long and it's bad luck to kill one.”

“Then give me your dagger and let me kill
myself!” Gwerath flung herself at the warrior, who covered the hilt of his
dagger with one hand and warded her off with the other. Gwerath bit the hand
that tried to hold her back. The man swore and struck out, just as Neeris
slipped the knife hidden in her sleeve to Forollkin.

A sharp blow sent Gwerath reeling
backwards, but before the warrior could straighten, Forollkin was holding the
knife to his throat, whispering, “If you move or speak, your blood goes to your
goddess.” Beads of blood already flecked the blade and the man stopped
struggling. “Stand back, Lady,” breathed Forollkin, “or your warrior will die.
Gidjabolgo, take his weapons.”

The Forgite unslung the shield and the long
spear from across the man's back and wrenched the dagger from his belt.
Forollkin forced the warrior to the side of the tent and set Gidjabolgo to
guard him at spearpoint. Then the young Galkian positioned himself just inside
the tent-flap. The whole maneuver had taken no more than forty seconds.

“My Lady,” said Kerish, just loud enough
for the captured guard to hear, “by the spells I have set on you, I charge you
to summon the other guard; gently now, as though nothing were wrong.”

Neeris moved towards the entrance of the
tent as stiffly as if she were really bewitched, and called out.

After a moment they all heard the heavy
tread of the second guard. He came through the flap cautiously, his hand on his
dagger. Seeing Neeris and Berka standing calmly in front of him, the man began
to ask why he was wanted, as Forollkin stepped up behind him.

The first guard gasped a warning that ended
in a grunt as Gidjabolgo struck him on the chin with the butt of his own spear.
Neeris gave a little scream as the man crumpled. The second guard had drawn his
dagger and half twisted round, before Forollkin could get a proper grip. For a
moment the two men grappled and then the Orazian was thrusting Forollkin
backwards to give himself room to stab but Gwerath snatched up the metal ewer
and brought it crashing down on the guard's head. With a groan he dropped at
her feet.

“The cloaks,” said Kerish. Gidjabolgo
stripped one cloak from the guard whose jaw he had just broken. Forollkin took
the other warrior's cloak and rolled both the unconscious men to one side of
the tent. There was no point in tying them up, they would probably be found by
the next patrol before they had recovered consciousness.

At a word from her mistress, Berka handed
over one of the two hooded cloaks that she had been wearing to Gidjabolgo to
disguise his squat form. In the lamplight, Neeris's downy hair was tipped with
gold and the shadows gave strength to her face. Watched suspiciously by the
anxious Berka, Kerish took the cold hand of Khan O-grak's wife. “That was
bravely done. Now take us to your tent.”

“I will go with you to the water's edge,”
protested Neeris.

Kerish shook his head. “I want you to be
telling the truth when you say you don't know where we went, and remember, it
must appear that I have bewitched you both.”

“We must hurry,” snapped Forollkin. “Put up
your hoods.”

Neeris walked out of the tent with Gwerath
beside her, as if the Princess of the Sheyasa had finally agreed to leave her
companions. Gidjabolgo scuttled along beside Berka like a second woman in
attendance. Kerish and Forollkin, each armed with dagger, spear and shield,
followed as their guards.

The first few yards were the most
dangerous. Remembering her instructions, Neeris had come by a roundabout route.
Now she walked directly south, past the camp-fires of men who had not just seen
the Khan's wife with only one attendant. Within a minute they were among the
quiet tents of warriors whom she knew to have gone north with her husband. Two
slaves shuffled out of Neeris's path, but the sight of them made her walk so
fast that even Berka hissed at her mistress to move more naturally.

Kerish was uncomfortably conscious that he
wasn't tall enough for an Orazian warrior and his over-sensitive ears magnified
every sound from his own heartbeat to the zildar that Gidjabolgo had insisted
on taking, thudding against the Forgite's thigh. Rowdy singing splintered the
calm of the evening as they were forced to pass by the tent of a contingent
from Gilaz.

As Neeris hurried past, the tent-flap swung
open and the Gilazian captain emerged, swaying slightly, and with his arm
around the neck of a young warrior.

“May the Goddess never envy you Khan's
wife!” he cried with drunken courtesy.

Forollkin stepped closer to Neeris and
Gwerath, like a conscientious guard, as the two warriors came towards them.

The Khan's wife stood paralyzed as the
Gilazian captain demanded, “Is that the barbarian Princess? The Khan said she
was too skinny to hide behind a stick. No harm in that I say, sticks were made
for kindling fires.”

He peered into Gwerath's face, while the
warrior supporting him murmured disapprovingly and Gidjabolgo pulled his hood
further down over his face. The Gilazian noticed and cried boisterously, “A shy
woman among the Orazians. I don't believe it! Let's see your face, pretty one!”

Clumsy hands tugged at Gidjabolgo's hood.
He wrenched away but the hood slipped back a little and there was just enough
light for the man to see what he had asked for.

“By Idaala's Breasts, she needs a mask not
a hood! May she never have a child, its mother's face would turn it witless,
not that the Goddess is likely to send her a man, except as a punishment, for
the man that is . . .”

“Captain!” Neeris was trembling with what
the Men of Gilaz took for rage. “How dare you insult one of my women so?”

“Forgive him, Khan's wife, blame the wine of
Oraz,” said the second warrior, hauling away his captain, who was still
mumbling with astonishment.

When they were out of sight, Neeris almost
ran forward.  At any moment she expected an uproar to break out behind them as
the escape was discovered. They passed three more groups of warriors, but no
one questioned the Khan's wife, walking well-attended towards her own quarters
with a female prisoner of no importance.

When they had almost reached Neeris's tent,
Kerish said, “Berka, give the Princess your cloak and lie on the ground as if
you had fainted. Neeris . . . you must do the same. Remember, tell everyone
that I put a spell on you. Then the Khan can protect you from any blame.”

“And is it true?” asked Neeris. “Did you
bewitch me?”

“If I did,” whispered Kerish, “the spell
has caught me too. Lie down.” He knelt beside her to arrange her cloak. “Stay
there until someone finds you. Pretend to be dazed and to have forgotten what
you've done.”

“He will be so angry,” murmured Neeris. “Whatever
will I say?”

“To him, the truth, and then get him to
talk about his daughter. May the Goddess bless you, Neeris.”

He stooped to kiss her forehead and the
others whispered their thanks as they slipped away.

Neeris lay on the cold grass, trying to fix
every detail of the Prince's face and voice in her memory, while Berka shivered
beside her.

Kerish led the others through the last few
tents before the dunes, hoping to come out level with the unguarded boat. He
climbed the first dune, the sand continually slipping from under his feet.
Cautiously, Kerish raised his head over the edge for a moment and saw by the
dim starlight that they were a little too far south. The last of the guarded
boats was moored just opposite him and he could make out the silhouettes of two
warriors with short spears, pacing the beach. Further north lay another boat,
shrouded in more than darkness.

The guards would certainly raise the alarm
if that boat were rowed away, but they were unlikely to notice four people
creeping into it from the other side. Satisfied, Kerish was about to move when
a faint shouting and the noise of a horn drifted across the camp. He wondered
if the boat guards had heard it too, but there was no break in their steady
pacing.

Kerish slithered rapidly down the dune and
whispered his orders. The companions moved silently northwards along the edge
of the tents and up another sand-dune. There was no cover on the strip of beach
between the dune and the gently rocking boat, but the moon had not yet risen.
Kerish and Forollkin had wrapped their cloaks tighter to cover the glint of
their weapons, and the four companions ran noiselessly across the soft sand.
Gwerath went last, trailing her cloak to erase their footsteps.