Before the chariot of Arjala walked her archpriest and pontiff, a towering man of impressive mien and stentorian voice.
Both processions wound their way slowly from opposite sides of Ardha toward the great Forum of the Ptolian Kings at the heart of the metropolis. The procession of Akhmim amazed the populace with its display of costly gems and metals; the procession of Arjala, however, struck awe and wonder into its heart, but for an entirely different reason. They met at the center of the enormous stone plaza, and a gasp of amazement went up from the Royal Faction when they beheld what rode with Arjala in her jewel-studded chariot. Silence fell over the immense throng. Akhmim paled and bit his lip with vexation.
Into the silence the deep voice of Arjala’s pontiff boomed out a proclamation, timed for maximum effect.
“Behold, O King of Ardhal Behold, O our beloved and faithful subjects! The Lords of The World Above have honored the Holy Goddess Arjala above all mortals and the hour of Her divine apotheosis is come! The Divine Ones now command that the ceremonial nuptials of King and Goddess be celebrated without delay… and in token of this, behold the blessed messenger of the Gods who hath descended to The World Below to bear the commandment!”
There could be no doubt even in the minds of Akhmim’s most loyal faction, for there, bearing the sacred torch that was his emblem, a winged and terrible amphashand rode behind Arjala.
And only Janchan knew him for Zarqa the Kalood!
Chapter 18
DANGEROUS MISSION
Arjala had stage-managed her apotheosis with a superb sense of drama. When her huntsmen brought to her the captive Kalood, she knew at once what the creature was, for she had read the ancient legends of his race, and, although she had always considered the Winged Men to be merely creatures of myth, she was clever enough to revise her opinions when evidence appeared to the contrary.
The Kalood was enough like the amphashands her religion taught were the blessed messengers of the Gods to pass for one with a bit of makeup. In fact, it now seemed likely the amphashands of legend were based on early Laonese memories of the last surviving Kaloodha. For the sacred scriptures described these heavenly messengers as winged men in golden armor, taller and nobler than mortal men, and with imposing beards and flowing manes. The golden armor was evidently mistaken for the leathery, pale-gold hide of the naked Kaloodha, and the beards must be purely the result of human imagination, for Zarqa’s folk, like himself, were completely hairless. With the great Flower Boat Festival only twelve days away, the Goddess instantly perceived what a dramatic coup it would be to ride in procession with a heavenly messenger accompanying her. She instantly began spouting commands. Her physicians were to work night and day to heal the injuries Zarqa had suffered from her huntsmen, and strict secrecy was imposed on the entire Temple staff, who were sternly warned not to utter a word concerning this gift that had come down from the skies, on peril of their lives. As they well knew the fiery temper of their divine mistress, and had more than once felt the lash of her wrath, they complied. Thus, no slightest hint of the coming revelation reached the ears of Akhmim’s spies.
The day of Festival dragged through somehow. The regatta of flower-decorated boats, the aerial races of zaiph-drawn chariots, the ceremonial games and dances. And through them all, Akhmim seethed and simmered, seated in the high cupola of honor, with the smug, smiling Arjala at his side. He was forced to defer to her at every turn, and his humiliation was almost more than he could bear, as were the gloating glances she cast at him from time to time, and the demure but pointed remarks she made concerning their coming nuptials. There was absolutely nothing he could do except nod and smile; but once the Festival was over and he had returned to the palace, he paced his council chamber like a raging beast, summoning his councillors, among whom came Unggor, with Janchan in his train.
Plan after plan was offered, discussed, and ultimately rejected. Akhmim was not above having Arjala poisoned or done away with in some similar manner; then it was pointed out to him that she had already purchased the allegiance of the powerful Assassins’ Guild, and there was no one else to do the deed but one of the Assassins.
One of the royal councillors, however, had a plan that merited some thought. This was a plump, placid, Buddha-like little man, the Lord Onqqua, who served as chamberlain to the Tyrant.
“Sire, if it is impossible to do away with Arjala herself, it has yet to be demonstrated impossible to do away with her amphashand,” he purred in a buttery voice.
Akhmim shot him a keen glance from cold, slitted eyes.
“Go on,” he grated in a harsh voice. The fat little chamberlain rubbed his jeweled fingers together judiciously.
“I will warrant that few of us are so credulous as to entertain any belief that this peculiar winged creature is actually an amphashand. Whatever it may be, it is a living monster, doubtless some inhabitant of the upper skies, either sold to Arjala or captured by her. The creature has the light of intelligence in its eyes; I studied it carefully, during the pontiff’s oration. But whether it is merely a manlike and winged beast or some species of intelligent being, it doubtless desires its freedom. Well, I submit that we should set it free.”
“What good would come of that?” snapped Akhmim peevishly.
The chamberlain spread his hands with a benign smile.
“Why, the poor creature would fly away home… leaving Arjala without an amphashand to support, by its very existence, her claim to apotheosis. Helpless to display the winged monster before the people, to further dazzle and impress them, it becomes her word against ours—her interpretation of the message, I should say. For who is to say that Arjala had correctly understood the commandment borne to her by the blessed messenger of The World Above?”
“Well, who is to say she hasn’t?” Akhmim snarled.
“We are, Sire; or, rather, you are. For we can give it out that on the very night of the great Festival, the amphashand left the quarters of Arjala and flew into your own chambers, with the word that in her haste and impatience the Holy Arjala perverted or misinterpreted or failed to fully understand the essential meaning of the message the blessed one bore to her from the Gods. The meaning of her apotheosis is that the Gods desire to raise her at once among them; that is, Sire, that she must die…”
A gleam came into the eyes of Akhmim.
“Not bad, Onqqua… really, not bad at all… but will anyone swallow it?”
The Buddha-like little man smiled gently.
“Everyone will, Sire—since Arjala will not be able to produce the winged messenger in person and thus refute your claim that he left her to visit you.”
Akhmim rubbed his long chin and smiled a reluctant smile.
“I perceive considerable merit in your plan, Onqqua; yes, there is much to it. However, with the Assassins pledged to the support of the Temple, who is to steal into the Temple precincts and release the flying monster?”
“Preferably, someone unknown to the Temple priests; any common citizen may enter the major shrines at any hour of day or night without question. Once that has been accomplished, it will require tact, intelligence, stealth, and cunning to traverse the private regions of the complex and locate the suite wherein the flying monster is imprisoned. Thus, I suggest we recruit one whose face will not be known to the Temple staff, and certainly one who has not identified himself with the Throne Faction.”
“Yes, it becomes better and better, my lord chamberlain,” the Tyrant said, smiling craftily. “Now—where can we find such a man?”