The city, which had been reprieved from devastation, was everywhere discussing the wonders of gods and sorcery, and everywhere ignoring them. Trade and commerce flourished. Men argued and hassled in the dust. Two girls fought shrieking by a wine-shop. Incense and the rasp of gongs rose from the temples. Five of the sacred prostitutes, the Daughters of Anackire, crossed an avenue, guarded by temple soldiers. These women were bare-breasted, their nipples capped and rimmed by gilt, gold in the yellow veils of their skirts, their hair bleached, topaz in their ears and navels.
Rarnammon turned to look after them, dully amazed. Not only at the absurdity of the world.
Vencrek, Warden of Anackyra, said, “You’re here, as he mentioned you would be. Your disguise must have been a nice one to get you through the streets.”
“And Raldanash?” Rarnammon asked.
“He lies at Moiyah, with the fleet. There are Vathcrian ships there now, from the Homeland.”
The Storm Palace was cool, and perfumed with shrubs and trees and the unguents of costly women. The languid gestures of Zastis, the scents of Zastis, breathed about them, everywhere.
“The council will be convened in the hour, my lord,” said Vencrek. “You have that much time. The royal apartments were opened and made ready. As he ordered it.”
“What is the council to be told?” Rarnammon said.
“What the city’s to be told. That you were ordered to Zakoris-In-Thaddra on a secret mission, at the wish of the Storm Lord. That this mission was accomplished with honor, and should the war have proceeded to its logical ends, your valor would have placed you at Raldanash’s side, his chief commander.”
“Did you agree to this?”
“He’s written to me,” said Vencrek. “I have the letters and the proclamation here, the latter still under his unbroken seal. He reposes utter trust in you. I can’t do otherwise.”
“But you can,” said Rarnammon, “do precisely otherwise.”
“Yes, you would have got that from Kesarh, no doubt. Yl’s pirates fed the fish with him, I gather.”
Rarnammon did nothing, waited. After a time, Rarnammon said, “Do I assume Raldanash informed you of all his plan?”
“I take it he informed you, my lord.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Rarnammon shrugged, deliberately. He said. “I thought that in Vathcri mind speech between brothers was not unusual.”
Vencrek paled under his pale skin’s tan. One could not ascertain why; it could be from many reactions.
“Yes, then,” he said, “you and I both know that Raldanash means to give up the crown of Dorthar. Means to abdicate and wander the backhills of Vathcri instead, as some starveling priest.”
“If he can find solace that way,” said Rarnammon, “why not? He never wanted this.”
“While you, of course,” Vencrek said, “always wanted it.”
“Maybe. I won’t deny I may have done. I am, after all, Raldnor’s son. What was he? Priest and King. I’m the part of him that coveted glory in the gaze of men, perhaps. And Raldanash is the priest—meditation, and the hills of home. What do you want to do, Vencrek? Raldanash gives me his voice. If you can’t stomach it, you must go.”
“I’ll stomach it,” Vencrek said. “I don’t want the backhills any more than you do. You’ll see how well I’ll stomach it. I can earn your favor, my lord.” The blond head lifted, the Vathcrian smiled. “Let’s see, my lord, if you can earn mine.”
Later, when the council was done with, the shouting and dissension—had not Raldnor himself cast away this very kingship in the wake of victory?—the paid gossips were sent out to ply their trade through the city, just as in Istris all those short years ago. The people would be manipulated. The council would be manipulated. The customary bribes were negotiable here, as anywhere. Rarnammon who had been Rem knew the business, and dealt ably. He had besides Raldanash’s decree to back him.
One considered Raldanash, picked up almost dead on the deck of that ship, lying dreaming the Dream of the goddess in the Lowland port of Moiyah. And the vessels of Vathcri evolving on sunset water, like an omen.
And Rarnammon wanted Dorthar. Yes, it was sure.
When the correct amount of days and nights were judged past, he rode through the city in procession and a gem-encrusted chariot. Standing in the Imperial Square on a dais beneath the giant statue of his namesake, he addressed the crowds, employing every gambit Kesarh had ever shown him, and won them, and heard them roar for him, the huge cry going up like birds. Kingship was more than triumph, more than a shout. But the King’s blood that had come down to him, from Raldnor and Rehdon, remembered the sound a people make for their King, and welcomed it, as a right.
“The coronation’s for the last quarter of Zastis. You must wed all his wives,” said Vencrek. If there was a cutting edge in that, it was softly gloved. “Every king in Vis is obliged to send his representative or be present in person. Apparently, Yl himself will arrive. The kingdom of Zakoris-In-Thaddra is no longer building war-galleys. He’s promising to give you slaves and palutorvus tusks.”
“Is there any news of a man named Kathus, an Alisaarian?”
“Yl put his counselors to death on his return. He said they’d gone against the edict of the gods, advising him to unholy conflict. One man evaded the sentence. An Alisaarian.”
(So, he was landless again, Kathaos the Fox, running, and too tired to run, Kathus-Kathaos, who despised all religion and disbelieved all gods, saddled with a continent run amok with piety. Once he had ridden for the only break of light in the sky. But the light was an illusion. Or else illusion was a reality he had not bargained on.)
“And Kesarh Am Karmiss feeds the fish,” said Rarnammon quietly.
“Pirates,” said Vencrek. “They unswore allegiance to Yl when he capitulated, did for Kesarh, and now roam the sea in packs again. The oceans north and east may need some cleaning up before the snow. We note, even the miracle,” said Vencrek, “didn’t conclude every battle, my lord.”
There were no longer Amanackire about the court. They had gone away into the hills above Koramvis. Ashni was there, men said. But it did not seem to Rarnammon that she was. The glints of the psychic beacons had died down in his mind. He no longer kept unconscious track of Yannul’s son, or Amrek’s daughter in the Zor. Raldanash had retreated on an inner tide. Ashni, like some all-pervasive light, seemed to surround them, and yet was nowhere in particular.
“There was a priestess the Amanackire may have followed,” Vencrek said, shadowing Rarnammon’s thoughts in the endless way of telepaths. One grew accustomed to it. “There’s also a priestess on Ankabek again.”
“Yes,” Rarnammon said, not listening. Music rippled somewhere. The trees beside the colonnade were sinuous with Zastis, when sex invaded everything. And there had seemed to be no time. . . .
“Astaris, according to some.”
“Astaris no longer exists.”
“Do you recall the Xarabian princess, Xa’ath’s daughter?”
In Karmiss, it was the Festival of Masks. In the east, where Istris was rebuilding, lamps strung the scaffolding, and banners dripped from gutted houses. When Free Zakoris came, the volume of smoke had blown to smear Ioli, but there was only torch-smoke now. The beer and wine flowed as it had always done. And on this occasion of war, the wines had been spared. Next year would be a fine one for the vintage they called now Salamander. It seemed one wine merchant, at least, still loved him.
Karmiss had much to talk of, between the drinking and the kisses. The Warden had fled the island. There was a Shansarian regent from over-the-ocean. A King-Elect was found among the rubble of Suthamun’s house. Something clever was managed. The boy had been got on a Karmian woman and had coppery skin to set off his fairness. Nor was he a eunuch.