The Seventh Gate (The Seven Citadels ) (16 page)

At halts, the convoy broke up and people
wandered freely. Kerish and Gidjabolgo could not fail to attract attention.
Courteous enquiries were made to Gidjabolgo by old men, anxious to show off
their Zindaric, or even the odd snatch of Forginish. Many small kindnesses were
pressed on Kerish. He kept his temper and responded with cool politeness. When
one garrulous woman asked directly about Kerish's illness, Viarki suddenly
appeared at his side, to change the subject and send her away.

“Your friend has got into an argument with
Feg, so I'll stay with you to fend off well-wishers. You mustn't blame them.
Most people like talking about their ailments, it makes them feel important. I
would guess that you don't need that kind of encouragement. Is it because of
your music?” asked Viarki. “If there's one thing you're truly good at, you
don't have to lengthen your shadow.”

“My music?” They would be moving off again
soon and Kerish was gripping the edge of the cart. “You've never heard me sing.”

“No,” admitted the young actor, “but your
speaking voice is lovely and Gidjabolgo has told me a little about your
talents.”

“And what about you?” asked Kerish,
suddenly warming to Viarki. “What is your one true talent?”

“I can turn my hand to most things, “
answered Viarki, “and my tongue too, but there's nothing that I'm better at
than anyone else.”

“Not even acting?”

“No, I'm just competent and reliable.
Leth-Kar is pleased with me. I used to dream of playing gods and emperors in
the Golden City itself . . . but I'm no fool. Desha still dreams like that and
she has a right to. You'd take her for a shallow, bad-tempered chit, but ah,
when the masks are on . . .”

“Perhaps her emptiness is greater than
yours,” suggested Kerish.

“That's what Marliann says and she's
usually right. She said something curious about you last night,” continued
Viarki. “What was it now? Something about being given blindness to perfect your
sight.”

“What were Feg and Gidjabolgo arguing
about?” Kerish asked hastily.

“Oh, impending doom. That's Feg's favorite
subject. Now things are really bad he's beginning to look quite cheerful. I
suppose they weren't really arguing, just agreeing maliciously, except that Feg
insists that only Galkis is doomed, because we've all sinned and turned away
from Zeldin. Your friend says that people are the same everywhere and that no
one deserves happiness . . . Is he always so bitter-tongued?”

Kerish nodded absently. A familiar scent
was overwhelming the sharp smell of the sweating ox and its leather harness.
The scent of moxia: Traveler’s Joy. Kerish pictured the tall amber flowers. How
long was it since he'd seen a clump growing beside a Galkian road? Two years at
least.

“Yet he must be kind-hearted,” Viarki was
saying. “He cares for you like a brother.”

“For some reason, Gidjabolgo enjoys my
company,” answered Kerish, with the first real smile that Viarki had seen on
his lips. “So he would disclaim any virtue in looking after me.”

“How perverse!” said the young actor. “There
must always be pleasure in serving God through serving men. Still, you can't
expect a foreigner to look at things the way we Galkians do.”

Kerish almost laughed aloud. “No, but
you're right. He is a good friend to me.”

“I'm glad,” said Viarki, with surprising
earnestness, “I often think that people make too much of love; between men and
women that is. Everyone thinks their life will be incomplete without it, but
who can love as truly as Zeldin and Imarko? For ordinary people, friendship is
easier to catch and keep.”

“You have a friend . . .” began Kerish
gently.

“Sharvin, our fourth player,” said Viarki. “I
would have stayed in Viroc with him, but he wanted me to look after Desha. She
doesn't seem to worry about him, though he's never held a sword in his life.”

Kerish could imagine Viarki's anxious
expression.

“Still, we have a new Lord Commander,”
continued the young actor, “and with the Third Prince to pray for them, how can
the men of Viroc lose?”

*****

In the late afternoon, four soldiers of the
escort rode up into a village built on a plateau and half-hidden from the road
by a hedge of flowering thorn trees. They found it deserted, but animals still
bleated in the pens and the aroma of lentils and spices came from the communal
fire-pit. After a brief search of the hastily abandoned houses, the four
soldiers signaled to the waiting convoy that it was safe to come up and planted
the standard of Jenoza in the village square, in front of the mud-brick temple.

The curtain of the sanctuary stirred and an
old man crept out. The priest, who had refused to leave his temple, now told
the soldiers that the villagers had fled when the children they used as scouts
had reported troops on the road. They had been raided once by a small party of
Orazians and were already sheltering refugees from villages further west. The
old priest rang the temple bell and gradually the villagers came down from the
caves that riddled the hills, to greet their new guests.

Though under Galkian law they could not be
compelled, most of the young men had gone to Viroc to fight. So it was mainly
old people, women and children, that Gidjabolgo saw gathering in the square and
staring with some suspicion at the newcomers. The old men were dressed in plain
kaftans but the women and children wore richly embroidered robes, caught at the
waist by strings of the same brilliant beads that entwined their dark hair.

“Don't they know they're at war?” asked
Gidjabolgo. “It looks like a festival.”

Viarki overheard him. “In Jenoza, Death is
respected. We put on our best clothes to greet her.”

“No doubt the worms are impressed,”
retorted Gidjabolgo and he turned his attention to the houses. They were
chiefly square, two-storied buildings in mud-brick, surrounded by small, neat
gardens. The windows were shaded by patterned rolls of matting and the flat
roofs were crowded with racks and trays of drying vegetables and herbs. The
walls were whitewashed and painted with scenes of family and village history,
renewed several times in each generation. Sometimes the pictures were accompanied
by passages of verse, which had lost all meaning after countless recopyings.

Gidjabolgo examined a birth scene. The
woman lay spread-eagled on the ground with her husband gripping her wrists and
her mother her feet, while Imarko stood waiting to bless the child. On the next
house was a freshly painted feast scene in which the whole village seemed to be
depicted. Gidjabolgo described it to Kerish. “Oh, and above the door there's a
circle made of feathers and a date written inside it. What does that mean?”

“I don't know,” said Kerish simply. “I've
never been this far south before and I've never entered a village house. I
probably know more about how people live in Lan-Pin-Fria or Erandachu than I do
about my own Galkians.”

The captain of the escort was explaining to
a relieved Headman that the convoy only intended to stay for one night and
quarters were quickly arranged for all the travelers. The temple actors found
themselves staying with the village baker and his two daughters. One of these
had twin boys clutching at her skirts, but her husband was in Viroc. An
embroidered border of flowers in bud on her sister's dress showed that she was
unmarried. In accordance with southern custom, both were unveiled and the
sisters stared with frank curiosity at their guests until their father chivvied
them into the kitchen yard.

The proper greetings and blessings were
exchanged and the guests were invited to wash in bowls of water scented with
flowers from the garden. The baker proudly pointed to a tattered scroll
containing part of
The Book of the Emperors
which was kept in the main
room, and promised that his younger daughter would read from it before supper.

Having got through the expected courtesies he
then asked for news.

Leth-Kar told him all that he could about
the state of Viroc. He deplored Lord Jerenac's death but praised the new Lord
Commander who had been brought to them by Zeldin's mercy from the very camp of
the enemy. The baker enquired by name about several villagers, young men and
women skilled in healing, who had gone to Viroc. Marliann, who as a priestess
served as comforter and counselor to many people, recognized some of the names
and was able to give reassurance. Kerish listened to none of it. The sun was
setting and his thoughts were with Forollkin.

The travelers were then led to the upper
room. It was simply furnished with heaps of lovingly patched cushions, a single
chair, a wooden stool and bowls of garden flowers. The guest chair was at once
allotted to Leth-Kar, but because of his disability, Kerish was offered the honor
of the stool. Afraid of being separated from Gidjabolgo, Kerish declined and
said that it was Marliann's place. In an accent almost too thick for Kerish to
understand, the baker seemed to be insisting, but Marliann herself intervened.

“The greatest courtesy is to be allowed
discourtesy.”

The baker and his daughters chuckled at the
proverb and Marliann sat on the stool beside her husband's chair. Gidjabolgo
led Kerish into the darkest corner and found him a comfortable cushion. Cold
water, delicately flavored with crushed petals, was brought for the guests to
drink. Lamps were lit and the scroll was sent for. The baker asked his chief
guest to choose a favorite passage.

Tactfully ignoring the history of Prince
Jezreen, whose teachings were not fully accepted in the south, Leth-Kar chose
an episode in the life of the Silent Emperor. It was falteringly read by the
younger daughter, who was beamed on by her father and thanked and praised by
his guests. Kerish marveled to find this ancient custom, no longer observed in
palaces and great houses, still kept in a small village far from the heart of
the Empire. Each guest was expected to comment briefly on the chosen passage
and if they could, quote other sacred texts. When it was Kerish's turn, he
murmured something about the flame of Truth bringing both light and pain and
quoted from The Book of Sorrows. Heads were sagely nodded, but Kerish wondered
if the villagers could understand his court accent any better than he followed
their country one.

When everyone had spoken, the two girls
brought up food from the kitchen. The village had sent much of its store of
provisions to Viroc but the baker did what he could to honor his guests. There
was a great pot of spiced lentils cooked in the communal fire-pit, bowls of
yoghurt and fresh star-shaped loaves. Having prepared the meal, the daughters
were served first and then the food was handed to the guests.

As they ate, Kerish heard the two sisters
whispering about Gidjabolgo and debating whether all foreigners were as ugly.
He hoped that the Forgite's Galkian was too poor for him to understand them.
With a murmured blessing, food was set in front of him. Gidjabolgo put a piece
of bread into Kerish's hand. “I'm holding up a bowl of lentils.”

Kerish imagined the mocking eyes of the two
girls and the children watching his clumsy movements.

“Nobody's taking any notice of you. Go on,”
hissed Gidjabolgo.

Kerish successfully dipped the bread into
the steaming lentils and carried it to his mouth.

The baker did his best to entertain his
guests with a meagre fund of stories ranging from local legends concerning the
naming of rivers and hills to anecdotes about the extraordinary precocity of
his daughters. Courtesy forbade weary travelers to be asked for a song or story
but after the baker related for the second time how his younger daughter had
once deceived him into baking mud-loaves, there was no shortage of volunteers.

The children were sent to bed, protesting
vigorously, and Feg's instrument was brought up with the other luggage. He
played several lugubrious airs before Viarki coaxed him into accompanying a
comic song about a failed poet and a lady who preferred action to mangled
verses. Some of the baker's precious supply of rich sweetmeats was handed round
and the singing would have continued late into the night if Marliann had not
gently reminded the company that they were due to make an early start.

The baker withdrew to sleep on top of his
clay oven. Desha and Marliann were to share the daughters' small chamber while
the men had the upper room. But they were not yet ready to separate.

“Now we have rested and are out of danger,”
said the old priest, “we must not neglect our craft. Viarki, fetch the mask
box.”

Kerish at once asked if he and Gidjabolgo
should withdraw but Leth-Kar shook his head.

“No, you are both musicians and will
understand what we do, but we would appreciate your silence, now and after.”

Viarki hauled the box into the middle of
the room and the four players sat down around it. Feg squatted just outside the
circle, re-tuned his instrument and began to strum a gentle tune. The music
summoned no images to Kerish's mind. Instead, it seemed to cleanse him, leaving
a serene emptiness. Beside him, in the shadows, Gidjabolgo watched the circle
of the players intently.

He saw Leth-Kar open the battered chest and
draw out a mask that blazed in the lamplight. Raven hair surrounded a peerless
golden face with eyes of amethyst and crystal. The old priest put on the mask
of Zeldin the Ever-young and his voice resounded inside the gilded wood. “I am
Zeldin: when rivers were streams, when mountains were hills, when the Jungle of
Jenze was a single tree, when the land was empty, I walked in Galkis. I am
older than night and younger with every dawn. I am Zeldin.”

The other players knelt with bowed heads
and crossed hands as if they prayed before an image of the god.

“I am Zeldin the Gentle. The stars danced
at my command and the Desolation of Zarn was fruitful, but the burden of my
love was heavy, for there was none to receive it.”