Chapter 13
Of the Lugsa's crew of fourteen sailors and six fighters, five sailors, including the captain, and three of the fighters were dead. Virtually all the others had been wounded, two of them so severely they died the day after the battle. Shorthanded as she was, the Lugsa was in no danger from the river itself. It flowed broad and straight and deep all the way to Gonsara, and even in bad weather it had no winds or waves high enough to endanger a well-built craft like the Lugsa. What Blade feared was another attack by men-either ordinary pirates or another boatload of Warriors and Death-Vowed sent by the cult of Ayocan. With half her crew dead or disabled, the Lugsa could never fight off such an assault.
As it happened, the rest of the voyage down the river was uneventful, unmolested, and more than a little boring. Gradually they passed out of the belt of tropical forest and into a broad river plain. The trees there grew in clusters well back from the river bank, with cultivated fields and white-painted houses spreading along the bank. The air there was even hotter than it had been in the forest belt, but less humid.
On the sixth day they passed into Gonsara itself. For all the peace between the two countries, both sides had forts marking the border on both sides of the river. And the river itself swarmed with the swift-moving patrol craft of both kingdoms. These stopped and inspected ships bound in either direction.
Two Gonsaran officials boarded the Lugsa and listened to the mate's tale of the battle that had decimated the ship's crew. It was a carefully edited tale, that made no mention of the cult of Ayocan. Blade had thought of giving a full account, to sound out Gonsaran opinions of the cult. But he had decided against it. Even if the officials were against the cult, they might talk about what they heard-and others might listen. The less said about the fate of the cult boat until Blade reached his destination, the better.
The Gonsarans were little shorter than Blade himself, but considerably thinner. Their bony faces were largely hidden behind bushy coal-black beards. How they wore their hair Blade could not tell, since they wore high tightwound white turbans. They wore black slippers, white pantaloons, and black sashes. A curved short sword and a curved dagger, both in silver sheaths, were stuck into the sashes. The men who rowed their boat were naked except for breechclouts, but carried six-foot spears with barbed bronze points. Altogether the Gonsarans looked to Blade very much like the warrior race they were supposed to be.
On the tenth day they reached Dafar, capital of Gonsara. Sweating gangs of naked slaves drew the Lugsa into a great basin under the eyes of the guards on the city's walls, and moored her to a long brick jetty. At that point the mate ceased to pay any attention to Blade. His orders had been to take this man-supposedly a merchant's agent-down the river to Dafar. He had done so. Now it was time for him to go about his own business-disposing of the Lugsa's cargo, hiring new crewmen and fighters, renting sweep-slaves, paying port fees and customs duties, and the like. He therefore dismissed Blade from his mind and his ship.
Blade went ashore without resentment. From this point he would be on his own in any case. And he already had a plan, one worked out with great care on the journey. It involved a good deal of danger, which didn't bother him. It also involved gambling that what he had been told about Gonsara was largely correct. That did bother him. But he didn't think he had any choice. If the secret of his mission was out-and he had to assume it was-sooner or later another cult ship would come downriver. And then the hunt would be on. He had to move fast, whatever the risks.
Visitors from Chiribu could move about freely in Dafar. No one questioned or challenged Blade as he drifted up the streets from the docks toward the heart of the city. He considered for a moment making his move here, in the dockside quarter. But the streets were narrow and litter-strewn — it would be hard to run. And the nearest temple mound was well over a mile away. Ducking occasional salvos of garbage and bathwater falling from the windows, Blade continued up the hill.
Another half hour of walking brought him to the marketplace. Here there were still too many people and booths around for a clear run. And so many people could easily start a panic, in which many innocent people and perhaps Blade himself could be killed. Neither prospect pleased Blade. He stopped at a booth to buy blue and white chalks, and walked on.
When he reached the next square, he decided that he had finally come to the right place. A continuous ebb and flow of people and wagons passed through the square. There were even more people on the ornate balconies of the buildings surrounding the square. Blade knew that he would have plenty of witnesses. But he would also have plenty of room to run. All four streets leading out of the square were wide, although their paving blocks were cracking. At the end of one of them loomed the familiar blue and white shape of a temple mound of Ayocan. And to his right was a large blank wall.
Blade walked over to the foot of the wall and took out his blue and white chalks. Working quickly, he sketched in white the outline of a man with a bat's head and outspread wings. By the time he had finished that, he heard the unmistakable murmur of voices behind him. For the moment he ignored them. Instead he concentrated on filling in the details of the outline.
The head he colored white, except for the wide-glaring eyes and the mouth, where teeth showed jagged against a blue interior. Then he started working on the wings. Behind him the murmur of voices rose still higher. He heard anger in it, one or two curses, and a distinct «Shame!» He continued to ignore the crowd that must be gathering behind him. He could only hope that none of them would be provoked enough to simply stick a spear into him from behind. He could also hope that none of the priests or votaries of the cult of Ayocan were artists. He certainly wasn't. Fortunately Ayocan was ugly enough so that the hideousness of the drawing would be blamed on the god rather than on the artist.
By the time Blade had finished the drawing of Ayocan, the murmurings from behind him suggested an angry crowd of at least two or three hundred people. That would be large enough for his plans. He turned and stared out at the crowd., He noted the men in pantaloons and turbans or breechclouts, the women in pantaloons and embroidered bodices. He also noted the sullen or enraged expressions on numerous faces and the number of drawn swords and upraised spears. Here in Gonsara the people went armed.
For a moment he wasn't sure that he hadn't already gone too far. His eyes roved over the crowd, sizing up its mood. It was threatening, but not yet out of control. Then he looked toward the temple mound, again measuring the distance. He would have a good run if the crowd got completely out of hand.
His eyes fell on the crowd again. He stood silently, fixing them with his stare, until they began to notice it. Gradually the mutterings died away, spear points dropped, and swords slipped back into scabbards. Good. They weren't so likely now to skewer him on the spot. He took a deep breath and began to speak.
«People of Dafar! Behold the image of the great god Ayocan. Behold the image of him who shall come to accept the strong spirits, to feed on them, to be pleased by them! And Ayocan shall be pleased! I-«
«You can go to hell, you priest's pig!» yelled someone.
«Not I,» shouted Blade. «You, perhaps. You have a weak spirit, to reject the counsel of one who speaks for mighty Ayocan. A weak spirit indeed. Ayocan will never feed on it when he comes. It would displease him. And Ayocan shall not be displeased.»