The Silver City, page 4
She closed her eyes, willing the cat to understand. The bond between them was close, and strange. Halthris had known only one other Tanathi, an elderly man from the Ustath clan, who had earned the allegiance of a hunting-cat, and he had not been able to explain it either. She knew, though, that Fess seemed in some peculiar way to be aware of her thoughts, for often she obeyed a signal before it had even been given. But Halthris had no idea whether the cat would be able to understand what was required of her, for this situation was completely new, and far more complicated than a simple hunting expedition.
She sorted her thoughts out into a logical progression of simple ideas, presenting them as pictures inside her head. Fess. Halthris going into the city. Fess staying behind, watching her. Fess hunting, eating, sleeping alone on the steppe. Halthris emerging from the city. Halthris putting the narrow, carved, silent bone whistle in her mouth, to summon the cat wherever she might be. And the last, happy image of Fess, leaping through the fields to meet her, and springing up in joyful welcome.
She opened her eyes. The cat was looking at her with that large, intently golden gaze, the oval irises dilated. Halthris felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck as a sensation of rather irritated and reluctant consent filled her mind.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said aloud. ‘I know you don’t like cities — noisy, smelly, restricting places! But I have to do this, Fess, I have to — and you’ll be much happier out here for a few days than you would be if you were cooped up and gawped at in Zithirian. They might even want to put you in a cage.’
Fess growled, and the tip of her tail began to twitch very slightly. Halthris smiled at her, and slid down from Ennim’s back to embrace her, and rub the tickly spot between the pointed, dark-furred ears. ‘Don’t worry. Stay here, and wait for me — I’ll be gone a few days, at the most. I’ll call you. And good hunting!’
Fess stood on the hilltop, looking down as Halthris rode through the last of the grass to the boundary wall. Then, she turned and slid sinuously back into the steppe.
There was a rough track leading between the fields, and Halthris urged her tired horse along it, Urdray’s chestnut trailing wearily behind. She had intended to unpack her best tunic, with the leaping stags coloured red and yellow on chest, arms and back, and the glittering gold discs sewn at neck and hem: the Zithiriani admired brilliant colours and lavish displays of bullion, and the Tanathi always dressed in their finest clothes when bringing their horses to the Gathering Fair, so as not to seem at too much of a disadvantage when driving a hard bargain. Nevertheless, the city-dwellers undoubtedly considered them uncouth barbarians.
But it was too late now: if she stopped to change her clothes, she would not reach the city before sunset, when the gates were shut. And here, with four men hoeing cabbages only two fields away, was not the place to strip off her tunic.
They were staring at her, and one of them called something that she failed to catch. Doubtless they were wondering where the rest of her tribe were: the Tanathi never rode alone.
But Urdray was dead, and Fess left behind, and she had no choice. So she waved a greeting at the farm-workers, and went on, down into the wide rich valley of the River Kefirinn, and the silver city of Zithirian.
Inevitably, people began to follow her as she drew near to the walls. They laid down their tools, glad of the excuse, and left the fields to run after her, shouting questions. Their language was almost the same as hers, a different intonation, a more formal grammar, and after the first few moments of confusion, she found understanding flooding back.
‘Tanathi woman!’ a boy shouted, jumping up and down perilously close to the chestnut’s heels. ‘Where are the rest of you?’
‘Where are your horses?’
‘Is this one all you have?’
‘Have you had sickness?’
She smiled and shook her head, pretending ignorant stupidity, and waved a vague arm back at the distant hills of the steppe. ‘They follow. Soon.’ If the Ska’i were indeed planning to descend like winter wolves upon this peaceful, lovely, gentle land, it would do no good at all to blurt it out now, and set everyone in a panic. She should first tell their Chief, or King, or whatever he called himself, and he could decide how best to defend his city and his people.
The great Sunset Gate lay open, flanked by its huge double towers, each from ground to pinnacle more than ten times the height of a tall man. The sun was dropping down to the tumbled horizon of the western hills, and flushed the white walls of Zithirian with a soft, glowing, rosy red. She could not halt Ennim, not with all these crowds around her, but the beauty of the silver city lay in front of her as she rode slowly up to the gate, and filled all her gaze.
There were several soldiers on guard at the Gate, with plain round helmets, bronze fishscale armour, and long, steel-tipped spears. They were huddled together, evidently conferring: then, as she drew near, two of them leapt in front of her, crossing the wooden spearhafts with a crash and blocking her passage. Despite his weariness, Ennim snorted and threw up his head. She tightened her hold on the reins and brought him to a sharp halt, so that he stood proudly in his blue harness, dappled and shaded like shadows on snow, a perfect and splendid example of Tanathi horse-flesh.
‘Halt!’ one of the soldiers cried, rather redundantly. ‘State your business here, Tanathi woman, or leave Zithirian forthwith!’
The crowd around her had fallen silent, and waited in hushed expectation. Halthris regretted her red and yellow tunic, but it was too late now. She stared down at the soldiers with all the arrogance she could command, and said at last, ‘I want to see your Chief. It’s urgent, and very important.’
‘Do you mean the King?’ The young guard obviously took his duties very seriously. His square jaw was thrust belligerently forward, and his knuckles were white where they gripped the spearhaft too tightly. ‘His High Mightiness, King Varathand of Zithirian, Fourth of his Name and Descendant of the Divine Ancestor Tayo, does not grant audience to such as you.’
If she made the effort, Halthris knew that she could match his high-flown language. But the Tanathi used words to ease communication, not to hinder it, and after the death of Urdray and her long hours alone, she was in no mood to be elaborate. ‘I think you’ll find that he will, when he discovers how important this matter is.’
The soldier laughed. ‘Important? I assure you that none of your trivial barbarian affairs could possibly interest His High Mightiness.’
She resisted the temptation to inform him that thousands of bloodthirsty Ska’i could shortly be hammering on this very gate, all eager to separate his thick head from his shoulders. ‘You’re wrong,’ she said briefly. ‘I have news for your King, news which might affect all the people of Zithirian. If you don’t take me to him, you may live to regret it.’
‘You dare to threaten me, you uncouth unwashed barbarian woman?’
There was a rustling of voice and movement around her. Halthris wished that she had kept Fess with her: the cat would surely have deflated this ridiculous boy’s conceit with a single growl. She said with deceptive calm, ‘No, I don’t threaten you. But if your King finds that you have prevented me from giving this news to him, he won’t be pleased.’
Another soldier pushed his way out of the congested gate, and joined his comrades. His helmet had a bright red plume in it, and he was considerably older than the two guards. ‘What is it, Ranneko?’
‘She says she must talk to His High Mightiness, Sir,’ the aggressive soldier explained. ‘She says that it is important, but she refuses to say why. And the sun will soon set — shall we drive her off, and shut the gates?’
‘No,’ said the officer. He looked up at Halthris assessingly. Like many wealthy Zithiriani, he was fair-skinned, with blond hair and blue eyes, and possessed an unquestionable air of authority. ‘One Tanathi female hardly poses a grave threat to us, after all — and they have always been friendly, in the past. Is this true, woman? Have you news of importance for His High Mightiness?’
‘Yes,’ Halthris said, curbing the natural impatience that urged her to inform him that she would hardly waste time standing around talking about it, if she did not. ‘And it’s urgent — I must see him immediately.’
The officer glanced at the riderless horse beside her, and at the hundreds of eager, curious people pressed all around. ‘You have come here alone?’
‘My companion was killed. The rest of my friends are following more slowly, with the horses for the Gathering Fair. They sent me ahead with my news.’ She stared intently at the officer, willing him, as she had willed Fess, to understand and to obey her wish. ‘I don’t want to talk about it here — at least let me in, let me see someone in authority — ’
‘Very well.’ The man turned and waved the two soldiers aside. ‘Tethan — Ranneko — let the woman pass. You may escort us to the Palace.’
A low buzz of surprised comment rose from the people around them.
‘The Palace!’
‘What news does she bring?’
‘Must be important, then.’
And a lower voice, darkly cynical. ‘Wants to see the King, does she? Bet she gets fobbed off.’
Ranneko seized Ennim’s bridle, and the horse tossed his head free, butting the young soldier’s face in the process. Halthris grinned unsympathetically. ‘My horse is trained to resist any stranger who tries to handle him. He doesn’t need your guidance, and neither do I. You can lead the chestnut, if you like.’
‘Ranneko!’ the officer said sharply, and the guard, nursing his bloody nose, took the reins of Urdray’s horse with a look of acute resentment. With the red-plumed officer by her side, and the two spearmen following a respectful distance behind with the chestnut, trying to keep the crowds at bay, Halthris entered the city of Zithirian.
Last year, she and Abreth, escorted by a group of friendly and curious young citizens, had been given a quick tour of the sights, so she knew what to expect, but Ennim did not: his unshod hooves slipped and jarred on the stone paving, his eyes rolled as people jostled him, and only his rider’s soft, unceasing encouragement, and his innate obedience to his training, kept him calm.
Zithirian held some thirty or forty thousand people — the equivalent of eight whole tribes of the Tanathi, who wandered over vast areas of empty steppe and moorland, penned up inside this walled-off bend of the River Kefirinn. She had often wondered what it would be like to live in a house, always to be in the same place, to have the same people as neighbours year in and year out, stone under her feet, stone all around her, and the only greenery the delightful but formal public gardens that were the city’s most famous feature after its white walls and tall towers. Now, it seemed that she would at last be given a small taste of the life that had at once attracted and repelled her, ever since she first saw Zithirian.
The wide street that led from the Sunset Gate to the great Temple of Tayo in the heart of the city, was lined with trees growing in huge stone tubs. These were not the gnarled and wind-blown bushes of the steppe, but proud stately plants, freshly and vividly green, their shapes so neat and so similar that they must surely be trained and clipped by an army of gardeners. In their shade, people sat and gossiped and drank wine or fruit juice or aromatic, refreshing cups of kuldi, and stared with open amazement and curiosity at the barbarian woman riding past, with her escort of three solemn soldiers and several hundred noisy, excited Zithiriani.
Outside the main gate of the Temple, there was a little group of men and women in white robes, embroidered with golden birds. Halthris knew that the Priests of Tayo were a powerful force in Zithirian, feared, hated and respected. The young citizens who had befriended her and her brother, last year, had whispered that the Priests knew magic, and that their spirits could leave their bodies and fly anywhere, to spy unseen upon those who thought themselves safely alone.
She and Abreth had laughed at these wild notions, but now, seeing the implacable, ancient faces — why did all the Priests seem so old? — she began to wonder whether there might after all be some truth in the tales. A feeling of deep unease crept into her mind, a sudden sensation of acute self-doubt that was entirely foreign to her. Who was she to laugh at fanciful stories, when her own was more ridiculous by far, and even less likely to be believed? Surely the best, the only thing to do was to admit her error, turn her horse around and ride away from Zithirian. Such a proud, powerful and wealthy city could not possibly be at risk of attack from a wild rabble of nomadic tribesmen, however warlike and bloodthirsty.
A movement caught her eye, just before her hands twitched the reins to bring Ennim round. Two boys stood under the tree nearest to the Temple, one dark, the other so brilliantly fair that it must have been the flash of blond hair as he turned his head that had attracted her attention. She had a brief but indelible impression of a small, grubby yet perfect face, and a dark gaze that was disturbingly intent and unchildlike.
Then adults pushed in front of him, and the two children were lost to her view. She found her usual confidence abruptly restored. Her duty was plain: she must tell His High Mightiness of the pompous title, King Varathand, Fourth of His Name, about the menace lurking in the steppes, whether the Ska’i threatened Zithirian or not, whether her warning was heeded or not. And, stubborn and determined to the last, she would tell him to his face, however many obstacles, real or imaginary, blocked her path.
She had half expected the Priests to step out into the street and halt them, but they stayed by the Temple Gate, isolated in a circle of emptiness, fear and awe. Their eyes followed her, though, as she rode past, and she could sense once more that horrible unease, raising the hairs on the back of her neck.
The Temple occupied the centre of the city, and was circular, the outer perimeter studded with gold-capped towers. They had to ride right round this stone-built assertion of wealth and power, and then up the broad Ceremonial Way that led to the Royal Palace.
Here the wealthy lived, in sumptuous white stone houses that were very different in size and opulence, if not in basic design, from the crowded rubble-and-plaster homes in the poorer quarters of the city. Each dwelling in Zithirian, large or small, was built round a courtyard lush with greenery. All the rooms faced inwards, so the streets were lined with tile-capped walls, their blankness broken only by hefty, studded wooden doors, usually with a watch-grill set in them. This meant that, apart from the bright shops, taverns and eating-houses near the Sunset Gate, the city at first glance seemed an unwelcoming place. The effect was softened, though, by the profusion of plants, flowers, trees, growing in tubs, hanging from brackets, spilling over walls. Halthris had seen the arid steppe burst into glorious and transitory flower after the annual spring rains, but even hill after hill of scarlet poppies, bright blue windflowers, and the purple and cerise spikes called Hegedon’s Wings, could not compare with this richness and variety of shape, colour and scent.
And everywhere there was water, running in conduits along the side of the street, pouring down artificial waterfalls, trickling into drinking-bowls, bursting from fountains. Ennim, who had not enjoyed a drink at all that day, could not resist the temptation. For the first time since his training, he took the bit in his teeth and turned aside, trampling across a verdant lawn of some low-growing, fragrant plant to stick his nose into the stone bowl beneath a public fountain, drenching himself, his rider and his escort in the process.
Halthris laughed, revelling in the spray of fine droplets, like warm rain on her dry, dusty skin and hair. She pulled off her cap and shook her head like a dog, while Ennim snorted and slobbered up the water and the sharp, tangy aroma of bruised herbs filled the air around them.
The three soldiers, soaked and discomfited, beat an undignified retreat, and the crowd laughed and pointed. She heard the word ‘barbarian’ repeated again and again, and grinned at them. These soft, extraordinary people might think her uncouth and savage, but their nice ways and fine clothes would be useless out on the wild steppes. She suspected that a group of pampered Zithiriani would not survive even a day’s trek on horseback through the snows of winter: she herself had endured such conditions hundreds of times in her life.
Her sense of natural superiority restored, she managed to haul Ennim’s nose out of the fountain, and guide him back to the Ceremonial Way, leaving a trail of hoof-prints across the battered thyme and camomile. Fortunately, he had shown no interest in any of the lovingly tended exotic plants in the garden, although the look of appalled horror on the officer’s face indicated that his detour to the fountain was crime enough.
The Ceremonial Way climbed up the increasing slope of the rocky outcrop, jutting into the River Kefirinn, on which the Palace stood. Larger, and far more splendid even than the Temple of Tayo, it was similarly surrounded by glistening white stone walls, and garlanded with towers. Halthris looked up at the gold pennants capping each graceful sharp pinnacle, brilliant in the last of the sunlight against the deepening blue of the evening sky, and felt a sense of wonder. So much labour, to create something so beautiful, that was yet, to a Tanathi, as much of a prison as any dungeon.
She should surely be fearful of passing between those huge double towers, flanked by walls six men high, and guarded by enormous soldiers in gleaming bronze armour and luxuriantly plumed helmets, each wielding ceremonial lances twice as tall as they were. But she found no terror within her, no panic, only a strange, awed delight in this lovely edifice, mingled with an inquisitive and less exalted urge to see the inside of it.
It took some time to gain entrance, for the Zithiriani were addicted to elaborate ritual, and the Palace was protected from the vulgar common people by a dense and complicated wall of etiquette and formality. The crowds had dropped back as they approached the gateway to the Palace, and now watched from a respectful distance while the red-plumed officer requested safe passage for himself and Halthris, was refused it, requested it again in slightly different terms, was refused it once more, and finally demanded entrance in the name of His High Mightiness King Varathand, Fourth of His Name, in language so formal, convoluted and repetitive that small children were probably lulled to sleep with it. She was just beginning to think that they would be standing here until moonrise, when the soldiers whipped their lances upright, slapped their bronze-plated gauntlets against their shoulders with a startling, metallic clash, and chanted in unison. ‘We hereby declare you friend, not foe, so you may pass within these walls, and your guest alongside you, by gracious permission and favour of His High Mightiness … ’
