"Happily, the boy was not the heir apparent, having two older brothers; and, if not especially intelligent, he was good-natured and docile. Named Fusarius, he grew up to be a famous warrior, being twice as strong as the average man, with a hide of such remarkable toughness that he hardly needed armor, although he wore it in battle, disliking the scratches and bruises that would have been mortal wounds had they befallen other men.
"About the paternity of Fusarius, Fusinian doubtless had his own private thoughts. But, being a philosophical man, he made the best of things."
Jorian glanced around. One of his escorts had gone quietly to sleep, curled up against the base of i tree. Of the rest, several should have been sleeping so as to be wide awake when their watches began. Instead, they were all hanging eagerly' on his words.
"They tell a tale," he went on, "about this Fusarius and the lonesome lion…"
So he continued for hours, reeling off story after story: some dredged out of his memory, some made up on the spot. Speaking in a low, undramatic voice, he shamelessly padded the tales and strung them out, deliberately keeping them from becoming too exciting. In consequence, by midnight every man of the escort was asleep. Watches had not been posted, because Glaum had dozed off before he thought to do so. The clearing buzzed gently with the snores of the Gendings.
Jorian rose to his feet. He searched inside his waistband for the one possession, besides his clothes, of which he had not been robbed: the little bag of pick-locks. The Gendings had been so elated over his weapons and money belt that they had neglected to search his garments more minutely. Once Jorian had one of the bent wires in his hands, it was only a matter of a few breaths before the manacles opened.
He laid the fetters down carefully to keep the chain from clanking, and picked up the scabbarded sword that one of the escort had laid on the ground beside him. It was a straight, two-edged horseman's blade, even longer than Randir, with a plain cross-hilt. Jorian did not like it so well as the one he had taken from Rhithos the smith; but it would do.
He would like to have stolen one or more purses from the Gendings. They had, he knew, brought a considerable sum of money wherewith to bribe the officials of Solymbria and Ir if it should prove necessary in order to hustle Jorian through those countries without interference. But, since each man had his purse firmly tied to his girdle, Jorian did not see how he could do this without the risk of awakening somebody.
Oser swiveled his ears and made a small equine sound as Jorian, moving like a shadow, stepped to him, stroked his nose, and untied him. For such nocturnal work, he would have preferred a horse of a darker color than the chestnut roan, but this factor was much outweighed by the fact that this animal knew him, whereas the others did not and might make a row if he tried to lead one of them away.
Holding the reins in one hand and the stolen sword in the other, he quietly led Oser out from among the other animals and up the nearest ridge to the south. Atop the ridge, out of sight of the camp, he paused to study the stars. The crescent moon had set two hours before, but the stars, visible through the branches of trees not yet in leaf, gave him his direction. With a quiet smile to himself, he set off down the further slope towards Tarxia.
Chapter Nine
THE SMARAGDINE GOD
THE RIVER SPHERDAR MEANDERED THROUGH THE CENTRAL plain of Tarxia, where teams of buffalos pulled wooden plows through the wet, black earth. The meadows and the borders of roads and fields, where the plow had not trenched, were gay with millions of wildflowers.
Beside the Spherdar, a few leagues from the Inner Sea and at the head of navigation for seagoing ships, stood Tarxia City. Its wall looked imposing from a distance, but a closer view showed that it was out of date and in poor repair. It was made of brick instead of stone and hence would not stand up under the battering of modern seige engines. Many merlons had crumbled away, and here and there a big crack, caused by uneven settling, ran zigzag through the brickwork. For defense, the Tarxians relied more on their god and the supernatural powers of his priesthood than on arms and fortifications. Since the establishment of the theocracy, Tarxia's neighbors had held these powers too much in awe to test them seriously.
The city itself was smaller and shabbier than one would have expected of a major port of the Inner Sea. The streets were narrow, winding, and filthy. Most of the houses were either tall, jam-packed tenements or hovels patched together with odd pieces of brick and board. Even the houses of the richer Tarxians were modest in size and subdued in decor. The streets swarmed with drably clad laymen and black-robed priests of the god Gorgolor.
The city was dominated by one huge, towering structure: the temple of Gorgolor, the patron god of Tarxia and—according to the theocracy —the supreme god of the universe. It was the largest, costliest, and gaudiest temple in all Novaria, not even excepting the splendid fane of Zevatas in Solymbria. The salient feature of this temple was the enormous dome at the center of the cruciform structure.
Supported on a drum and pendentives and braced by half-domes and buttresses, this dome soared over 350 feet into the air. The spring sun blazed blindingly on its gilded tiles. Four slender towers, whence the priests of Gorgolor called the Tarxians to prayer thrice a day, stood in a square at the corners of the structure. Around the temple spread a temenos of park and subsidiary buildings, including the theocrat's palace.
From the temple of Gorgolor, the ground sloped downwards to the waterfront, with its docks and ships and sailors' haunts. Swollen by several tributaries, which joined it above and below Tarxia City, the Spherdar meandered eastward through the great Swamp of Spraa to the sea. Sea cows were strictly protected in Tarxian waters because, by feeding on the swamp plants, the creatures helped to keep them from blocking the river.
On the sloping ground between the temple and the waterfront rose a multitude of dwellings of Tarxia's more prosperous laymen, including that of Valdonius the magician. Around noon on the nineteenth of the Month of the Crow, Jorian knocked on the door of Valdonius' house. When the porter opened the peephole, Jorian said:
"Is Doctor Valdonius at home?"
"What if he is?" said the porter, eyeing Jorian's ragged garments and shaggy hair and beard with distaste. On Jorian's left arm a yellow band was tied, bearing the words, in the archaic characters used in Tarxia:
LICENSED HERETIC—ZEVATIST
"Pray tell him a messenger from Doctor Karadur is without." The peephole closed, and presently the door opened. As Jorian stepped inside, the porter recoiled with a wrinkled nose. Jorian grumbled:
"If you hadn't a bath in two months, old boy, you'd stink, too!" When the porter led Jorian down a hall and into a handsome living room, Jorian stopped and stared in amazement. Of the two men seated at lunch, one—a huge, bald, fat man—he took to be Valdonius. The other was Karadur. Valdonius said:
"Greetings, Master Jorian. One need not see a mouse through a millstone to perceive that you somehow gave the barbarians the slip." Then, to Karadur: "You see, old man, my divination worked. Said I not he would be here around midday?"
"Greetings, Doctor Valdonius," said Jorian; then, to Karadur: "What in the forty-nine Mulvanian hells are you doing here? The last I saw of you, you had abandoned me and your mission to become Cham Vilimir's hired spooker!"
A tear rolled down Karadur's wrinkled brown face. "Ah, my son, blame me not over-harshly! It would have availed you nought for me to have been sent back to Xylar with you, or to have been slain on the spot. What else could I—with the most morally upright intentions— have done?"