'I do thank the gods, Admiral Bhzana,' she said. 'I thank them for sending these strangers to my side. They saved our lives.'
Bhzana's features motded. 'You owe them curses, not thanks, Princess,' he barked. 'These scum freed The Sarzana. He's already mounted his first attacks. And I was sent out to hunt these dogs down!'
He motioned to his soldiers and they were on us, kicking and hammering us to the deck, despite cries of protest from Xia.
In minutes all of us were beaten into submission and chained. Actually, we were all too surprised to put up much of a struggle.
'How did they find out?' Cholla Yi muttered to me as they lined us up to be hurled into the waiting boats.
My mouth was too full of blood from the beating I'd taken to answer. Even if I could have, I was as bewildered as he.
I was thrown headlong into a boat, my knees and elbows taking all the shock, so it was a wonder nothing was broken. I looked up in time to see Gamelan being tossed over the side. I did my best to roll under him to soften his fall. It must've worked, because when he hit my ribs were nearly stove in and my breath whooshed out. I fought to draw in air and kept getting his beard in my mouth.
'Get off me, wizard,' I finally managed to grit out.
'Is that you, Rali?' he said. He rolled off me and I shuddered in a long breath. 'I feared they'd already killed you.'
'I think they're saving the honours for the torturers,' I said.
Gamelan nodded. 'I suppose so,' he said, remarkably mild. 'Still, we're alive. When you get to be my age you'll marvel at that simple fact when you awaken each morning. A good day is when you don't hurt someplace new.'
'Wizard,' I said.
'Yes, Rali?'
'If you please
...
just shut up!'
Seventeen
The Dungeons of Konya
I
solde claims to
be the most beautiful and gracious of all the hundreds of islands that make up the kingdom of Konya. Mythmakers say the islands were born from the gardens of the gods when a magical wind scattered flower seeds across the Western Ocean - and Isolde, they say, is the daughter of the loveliest flower of all. Konyans wax most lyrical in praising the charms of the island. Haunting farewells have been created, telling many a tale of Isolde heroes and lovers who've been forced from the land and struggle mightily to return. They sing of perfumed air, bees who make honey headier than any wine, birds whose voices rival the very lyres of the gods, and warm suns and balmy winds that forever bless those shores. Even the seas, whose bounty never ends, according to the balladeers, produce fish whose flesh is sweeter than any milk-fed calf that ever graced a royal table.
There was a fellow four dank cells down from mine who sang those songs whenever melancholy o
vertook him - which was frequentl
y, since he was madder than a lead-maker's apprentice. After listening to him for more days than I care to number, I was ready to cut out his tongue. On really bad nights, as we listened to his warblings echo along the dungeon corridors, I would've traded a chance for freedom if they'd only let me wring his neck.
'It'll almost be a relief when the torturers come to get us,' I told Gamelan. 'There's nothing they can do that's worse than being forced to listen to that son of a poxed alley whore.'
‘I
must admit,' Gamelan said, 'when we were first shown to our
...
guest quarters
...
I thought his voice a delight. And I wondered what manner of men could these Konyans be to punish such talent. So, he was fool enough and drunk enough to compose a song comparing the Council of Purity to nine warts on a crone's behind. In civilized lands
they make allowances for artists. We say the gods must, by necessity, leave out common sense from the holy clay they use to form such a person. But I've changed my view. If I ever get my powers back, the first thing I swear I'll do is turn that croaker into a fat toad whose curse it shall be to dwell among eternally hungry cranes who will slowly pick him to pieces each day, and shit him whole again on the morrow so he can make another meal for them.'
I brightened at the vision he painted and went back to sucking the marrow out of the rat bone I'd saved from the watery stew we'd cooked up the night before. Gamelan always had a way of cheering a woman up, no matter how low her circumstances.
Oddly enough, we owed our lives to the very man who'd put them in jeopardy - The Sarzana. He'd broken out of the Cevennes - the large island group that had the misfortune to be his birthplace - and with thousands of berserkers and a steadily growing fleet of warships, was laying waste to everything in his path.
'The Council of Purity is too bus)' to deal with the likes of you just now,' Admiral Bhzana had said as we were led away in chains. 'But do not fear - they will not forget you. When the time comes you will suffer most horribly for what you have done.'
The dungeon they put us in was carved out of a small mountain. The main city crawled up that mountain on crowded terraces that narrowed to a sharp pinnacle where the old, red-domed Palace of the Monarchs sat. The palace, we learned, housed the offices of the Council of Purity and their legion of clerks, tax collectors, wardens and petty officials. Over much time the city's sewers had leached through what soil can cling to those rocky
slopes, and seeped between countl
ess cracks and other deformities until the filth made its way to us in the form of ever-drizzling walls and ceilings.
A prisoner - who through stealth and a willingness to engage in any crime or obscenity had managed to live more than forty years in that odoriferous tomb - said the dungeon had been dug by the first men and women sentenced there. New populations had enlarged it to its present great size over the centuries.
'Mark my words, there'll be more rock crackin' soon,' he chortled. 'Al 'as happens like that wh'n there's a war on. Gotter make room, room, room for alia traitors that get sniffed out. They's th' good times for old Oolumph, they is. 'Cause wi' a traitor, you gots your families that's gotter be locked up's well. 'N old Oolumph gotter show 'em th' ropes, 'n fetch 'em treats, 'n do 'em all sorts of favours, he does. 'Course, I gets me price, but I sees it me duty to alia poor misfortunates what comes down here to get their bones stretched and skin took off.' He exposed stumps of rotted teeth. I suppose it was a smile. 'Last time things was this good, The Sarzana was runnin' things. Pickin's been slim since then. I s'pose old Oolumph's th' only feller in Konya what's got cause to thank you Orissans.'
Then he eyed my earrings speculatively. 'So, when th' time comes, Sister,' he said, 'I kin put in a word wit th' sergeant what runs th' rack. Price a one a those get yer neck snapped first go. Won't feel a thing a'ter that.'
I'd been alone in the heavily barred cell for four days by the time Oolumph had come scuttling along the corridor. The guttering torch he held was the first light I'd seen in all that time. I'd also been without food, and the only water I'd been brought was a rusty bucket with more scum than drink. The cell was bare, wet stone, with a hole cut in one corner for me to do my business. So, Oolumph was a welcome sight, indeed.
I didn't turn away from his ruined face, which looked like it had been melted on the bone. He wore filthy rags, but the cloth had once formed a fine garment, and his toes curled out of the rotted boots of a long-gone nobleman. Other than my weapons, I'd been allowed to keep whatever I had on me at the time of our surrender, including my jewellery and wide leather belt, which was studded with gold coins struck with Maranonia's face. Oolumph's watery red eyes travelled a slow path to that belt, starting with the earrings, then my breasts, skipping down to my feet and then lingering up my bare legs until the tunic hem blocked further view, and finally to the belt at my waist. I made no protest as he examined me, but only smiled so he'd believe I was no threat.
His eyes widened when he saw the belt and he forgot his foulest thoughts. I plucked a coin off the belt and held it high for him to see.
Licking his lips, he came closer to the bars. 'So, what kin old Oolumph do fer th' pretty lady?'
My other hand shot out and grabbed him by the hair. He howled in pain as
I
crushed his face through the bars. I bared my teeth and snarled: 'If old Oolumph wants to live to draw another breath of this filthy air, he'll mind his manners.'
'Sorry, your ladyship,' he groaned. 'So sorry. Please!'
I abruptly let loose and he nearly fell to the floor. He straightened as much as his rack-hunched spine would let him, watery red eyes simmering in that ruined mask. Before he could speak I tossed the coin through the bars. He snatched it from the air with the reflexes of a market thief. The anger turned to interest.
'Do I have your attention, now?' I said.
'Oh, yes indeedy yer does, your ladyship,' he said.
'That's Captain,' I corrected. 'Captain Antero, if you please.'
'Well, Cap'n Antero it is, then. Or, General, if yer like. Makes no never mind to th' likes a me.'
'To start with,' I said, 'I'm not too fond of these quarters.'
Oolumph nodded, eager. 'Better kin be had your -
I
mean, Cap'n.'
'I also want company,' I said. 'I have a friend. An old blind man. Goes by the name of Gamelan.'
More nods from Oolumph. 'I knows where they keeps him, I does,' he said.
'Then get about your business,' I said. 'I want quarters large enough for the two of us, and blankets, lots of blankets. Food, of course. And
...'
'Old Oolumph knows what th' Cap'n needs,' he broke in. He held up the coin. 'Yer needn't worry I'll cheat yer. This'll buy a lot. 'N I'll let's yer know when more'll be due.' He gave my belt another long look. 'From what I hears,' he said, 'you Orissans ain't long for this life. So that belt'll mo
re'n last yer.' And he scuttl
ed away.
I don't know how much time passed before the guards came. It was impossible to count the hours much less the days in that foul blackness. The new cell was a royal chamber compared to the last. It was fairly large, not quite so damp, and had two stone shelves on either side for beds. There was a musty straw mattress on each shelf, and - thanks be the gods - a large pile of mouldy blankets that were nearly vermin-free. And to add to these delights, there was even a supply of fuel to burn to keep warm - with a nearly rat-free hole above to carry away the smoke - and material to make torches.
I was busy smoking the vermin from the blankets when they brought Gamelan. His hair was stringy, his flesh grey, but he had a spring to his walk that let me know he was as well as could be expected.
'Welcome to your new home, wizard,' I said. 'Come warm yourself by the fire.'
Gamelan whooshed relief. 'Thank the gods it's you, Rali,' he said. 'I thought I was being taken to have my bones bent, or worse.'
He carefully made his way to the fire - he'd have taken offence if I'd led him there - and squatted down. He sniffed at the bubbling stew Oolumph had provided. 'Is that meat, I detect? Real meat?'
'It's rat,' I said, ladling out a bowl with a nice plump thigh in it.
'I could learn to like rat,' he said. He sipped the weak broth. 'Not bad.' The thigh bumped against his lips. Gamelan fished it out and gnawed on it with vigour.
'There's more where that came from,' I said. 'I know the innkeeper.'
I shook out the blanket and put it around his thin shoulders. He hugged it close, a smile of great bliss gleaming through his dirty beard.
'Oh, to be warm again,' he said. 'I didn't mind the thought of dying. As for the pain our hosts promised, I'm too old to pleasure them long. But the idea of going to my grave half-starved and chilled through to my backbone did not please me.'
'You've been speaking of death too much, wizard,' I said. 'Eat your fill. And warm those old bones to the marrow. I need your wisdom to get us out of here, my friend.'
'I doubt escape is possible, Rali,' he answered. 'We're so deep in the bowels of these dungeons you'd need a full year's production of a pipe-maker just to get the sunlight to us. And magic is no good. The Konyan wizards have so many layers of spells on this place that even the great Janos Greycloak would've had trouble raising a boil on a pox victim's hide.'
I didn't quarrel with him. I'd encountered the block with the very first spell I'd tried when I was dumped into that Konyan hole.
'Still, there must be some way,' I said. 'I've no intention of giving up without an effort. My brother escaped from a place much worse than this, and he was up against the Archons, to boot. Besides, I have my soldiers to think of. I got them into this mess. It's up to me to get them out.'
It was then that the singing started. A plaintive ballad in a remarkably sweet voice echoed along the dungeon corridors. It was a love story - the tale of a young woman who died tragically, and her lover who slew himself so they could be joined together as ghosts.
I was about to remark on its beauty when another voice rang out: 'Shut yer gob, Ajmer!'
I was shocked at the crass treatment the singer drew, as was Gamelan. But the song continued without interruption.
'You heard 'im, Ajmer!' rang out still another critic. 'I swear I kills yer if'n yer don't stop.'