The mood was almost that of a village fair, and Mnesun purchased a bundle of Khaish, long white tubers as sweet as honey. Sa’araz then outdid him by obtaining three Jakkohl, small edible beasts indigenous to these plains and devilishly hard to catch. Hele’a of Ghaton contributed a clay jug of Ngalu wine, and the Lady Eyil added another. The Shen bought a basket of sugary blue Dlel- fruit, which he himself did not fancy but which he knew would please his human comrades. Bejjeksa and the Mu’ugalavyani brothers walked half a Tsan to the nearest village and returned with fresh-baked loaves of coppery-red bread of Dwa-flour. Harsan alone had no money to spare, but he contributed his forest-learned skills by skinning and dressing the Jakkohl, and no one grumbled.
The feast in Mnesun’s tent was a pleasant success. Afterwards the squat trader would have sent for singers, dancers, and even for harlots to cheer the slaves. All of the entertainers had been reserved already by others, however.
The evening seemed yet incomplete. The Mu’ugalavyani trilled a bright roundelay on his flute, and his brother sang the words in their own staccato language. Then, to the surprise of all, the Lady Eyil sent Tsatla to rummage through her baggage and bring a Sra’ur, a potbellied little instrument with six strings. She slipped silver plectra over nimble fingertips and proceeded to draw forth a Tumissan air. After a moment the flute-player joined in, and she sang the lyric in her low, throaty voice. Harsan would gladly have exchanged his life for the Isles of the Excellent Dead on the spot, had only mighty Belkhanu promised him an aeon or two more of the Lady Eyil and her singing.
She finished, and all snapped their fingers in applause in the Tsolyani fashion. The Shen, whose forelimbs ended in scaled three-fingered claws, contented himself with hissing like a blazing iron plunged into water.
Harsan’s pleasure was interrupted by the merchant Sa’araz, who had seated himself nearby on a bale of cloth. “Worthy priest,” he began, “during our days together you have enlightened us with wisdom and with tales of your Tsolyani gods. Yet never have we heard what you will do when we reach the capital.”
Harsan hesitated. He had wondered when Prior Haringgashte had forbidden him to speak of the Llyani artifacts or of his mission in Bey Sii. Not even the Lady Eyil had been told. Now he replied, “I go to serve as Thumis wills.”
Sa’araz was not satisfied. “I have friends in the Temple of Eternal Knowing and may assist you there. You, on the other hand, can introduce me to your colleagues and thus aid me. ‘Steel and flint make fire together.’ ”
“I know little yet of my duties in Bey Sii.” That was true enough. “I do whatever the Weaver has woven into my Skein of Destiny. ‘A rock rolls downhill until it stops.’ ” He finished, answering Sa’araz’ proverb with one from the Chakas.
“Perhaps Harsan goes to make water in the well of wisdom,” inteijected Bejjeksa in his gruff, guttural accent. He looked flustered when the group burst into laughter. “Is it not the idiom? Is it not to be said thus?”
“Perhaps, Oh learned savant of Salarvya, someone should make water in your ear and thus inject wisdom into it!” This from Mnesun.
“If someone would proffer me one more sip of wine,” Harsan laughed, “I would let the sleep-demons have my soul for the night.”
The conversation turned back to the interminable talk of wares, brokers, and profits. Harsan wandered outside. He hoped that the Lady Eyil would follow, but she sat now on the other side of the fire, all ruddy with its light, eyes sparkling as she related something to Mnesun.
He picked his way through the maze of tents, bundles, chests, and sleeping bodies towards the parapet. From inside a tent a woman giggled, and a man’s voice guffawed in return. Music shrilled from one of the encampments, and there came the rhythmic clashing of wrist and ankle bells. Slaves sat about a fire under the bored watch of a caravan guard. Some played at Den-den, moving the rough-cut wooden pieces from square to square of a board scratched in charcoal upon the stones. Others slept.
He reached the coping at last, drew a breath of smoke-tinged air, and gazed down into the velvet darkness beyond the platform. A rushlight betrayed the presence of peasant huts at the base of the access ramp. Neither moon was up as yet, and the guard tower loomed black upon black, orange light sketching a window upon its massive flanks. From below a baby cried, and a woman’s tired voice sounded a plaintive reply.
“Worthy priest…”
Harsan started and turned to see the thin, bowlegged form of Hele’a of Ghaton behind him.
“Good priest, I mean no fear to you.” The oddly accented syllables whispered forth in a breathy rush. “What you do is of peril, and there are those who are opposed. Do you know this?”
Harsan stared. Hele’a was silhouetted against the campfires, and his features could not be seen. “What-?”
“I am one sent. Be assured.”
“What is this you tell me?” Harsan was still numb with surprise.
“I perceive… feelings. I am-how is it spoken? — a sensitive. I lack the power to see minds, as some priests and scholars do, yet I can see feelings. When you spoke just now, I sensed hatred, worthy priest.”
“From-from whom?”
“In a group I cannot tell. My ability is not directional. But I know that hatred was there.” The shadowed head seemed to twist this way and that.
“Of what use this warning, then, if you cannot see where the danger lies?”
“The one who hates guards his mind. Only if you were to speak to each in turn, alone, might the enmity leak past the barriers and be plain to me.”
A thrill of apprehension crept along Harsan’s limbs. Prior Haringgashte had never hinted that this mission could involve danger. For a moment he wondered if Hele’a’s warning had to do with the Lady Eyiclass="underline" jealousy from Sa’araz or the Mu’ugalavyani. Moreover, who was this Hele’a anyway? A madman? One who would extract nonexistent money from him?
Hele’a continued. “I feel your doubts. Yet I must protect you if I can. This hatred has naught to do with the girl. It is cold and without pity, a dagger in its sheath, hidden from the eye. Two days remain before we reach Hauma, and my feelings tell me that it will leap forth before then.”
“I have seen nothing to make me think your words are true. But if so, I should go at once to the captain of the tower, sleep there this night, and continue on alone tomorrow.” He knew not whether he was serious or was simply humouring the man. But in his stomach a cold ball grew ever larger.
“Not so. Again, it is only my… feeling. But I sense that this is not the path of safety.” Dry, skeletal fingers brushed his arm, and something hard, round, and cold was pressed into his palm. “What I give you now will protect you. Do you know what an ‘Eye’ is?”
“I do. They are devices made by the ancient sages, long before Llyan of Tsamra ruled, and before the Time of Darkness which preceded him. I have seen an ‘Eye of Raging Power,’ as my tutor named it, in the vaults of our monastery. He. told me that its magic was gone, however-”
“Good, then. I must not tarry, for some may watch. What I give you now is the ‘Unimpeachable Shield Against Foes.’ Can you feel it-carefully now-the little stud on the back?”
Harsan fumbled the device in his fingers. It was of the size and shape of a river pebble-or of a human eye-a shallow, circular depression on one side, a tiny squarish protuberance on the other. “I feel it.”
“If you are endangered, face the iris-the circle-towards yourself and depress the square projection. No weapon can then strike you. The power does not last long, however. Do you comprehend?’ ’
“Yes, but-what does it do precisely? I-”
“We cannot speak further. It will keep you safe from any weapons not charged with enchantments of their own. Now I go, priest Harsan.”
Another figure was picking its way past the huddles of sleeping slaves. A foot grated against a chest of goods, and there was a muffled curse in some foreign tongue. Harsan turned back to Hele’a, but the Ghatoni had gone.