Yama said, “How do you know about my bloodline?”
“My master’s bloodline is long-lived, and he is one of the oldest. He has taught me much about the history of the world. I know that he will be interested in you. Of course, he may want you killed, but I will try to prevent it. And so you owe me your life twice over. Think of that, when you talk with him. We can do things for each other, you and I.”
Yama remembered that the pilot of the voidship lighter had said that it knew his bloodline, and understood that he was a prize which Iachimo would offer to his master in the hope of advancement or reward. He said, “It seems to me that this is a very one-sided bargain. What will I gain?”
“Your life, to begin with. My master may want to kill you at once, or use you and then kill you, but I can help you, and you can help me. Damn these things!”
Iachimo was standing beside the statue of a naked boy—or perhaps it had once been a living boy, encased or transformed in some way—and the statue had managed to grasp the hem of his tunic. Iachimo tugged impatiently, then broke off the statue’s fingers, one by one. They made a dry snapping sound, and fell to dust when they struck the floor.
Iachimo brushed his hands together briskly and said, “My master has revived certain technologies long thought forgotten. It is the basis of his fortune and his power. You understand why you will be of considerable interest to him.”
Yama realized that this was a question, but he did not know how to begin to answer it. Instead, he said, “It is a very old edition of the Puranas.”
“Oh, the book. Like you, it is not an original, but it is not far removed. You have read it?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t tell my master that. Tell him you stole it, nothing more. Lie if you must; otherwise he may well have you killed on spot, and that is something that will be difficult for me to prevent. He controls the guards here. Let us go. He is waiting.”
On the far side of the courtyard was an arched doorway and a broad flight of marble steps that led down toward a pool of warm white light. Iachimo’s long, pointed nails dug into Yama’s shoulder, pricking his skin through his shirt.
“Stand straight,” Iachimo said. “Use your backbone as it was intended. Remember that you were made in the image of the Preservers, and forget that your ancestors were animals that went about on all fours. Good. Now walk forward, and do not stare at anything. Most especially, do not stare at my master. He is more sensitive than he might appear. He has not always been as he is now.”
Chapter Twenty
The Hollow Man
When Yama reached the bottom of the stairs, he knew that there was a large number of machines ahead of him, but the size of the room was still surprising. Golden pillars twisted into fantastic shapes marched away across an emerald-green lawn, lending perspective to a space perhaps a thousand paces long and three hundred wide. The lawn was studded with islands of couches upholstered in brilliant silks, and fountains and dwarf fruit trees and statues—these last merely of red sandstone or marble, not petrified flesh. Displays of exotic flowers perfumed the air. Constellations of brilliant white lights floated in the air beneath a high glass ceiling. Above the glass was not air but water—schools of golden and black carp lazily swam through illuminated currents, and pads of water lilies hung above them like the silhouettes of clouds.
Thousands of tiny machines crawled amongst the closely trimmed blades of grass or spun through the bright air like silver beetles or dragonflies with mica wings, their thoughts a single rising harmonic in Yama’s head. Men in scarlet-and-white uniforms and silver helmets stood in alcoves carved into the marble walls. They were unnaturally still and, like the fallen guard at the gate, emitted faint glimmers of machine intelligence, as if machines inhabited their skulls.
As Yama walked across the lawn, with Iachimo following close behind, he heard music in the distance: the chiming runs of a tambura like silver laughter over the solemn pulse of a tabla. A light sculpture twisted in the air like a writhing column of brightly colored scarves seen through a heat haze.
The two musicians sat in a nest of embroidered silk cushions to one side of a huge couch on which lay the fattest man Yama had ever seen. He was naked except for a loincloth, and as hairless as a seal. A gold circlet crowned his shaven head. The thick folds of his belly spilled his flanks and draped his swollen thighs. His black skin shone with oils and unguents; the light of the sculpture slid over it in greasy rainbows. He was propped on his side amongst cushions and bolsters, and pawed in a distracted fashion at a naked woman who was feeding him pastries from a pile stacked high on a silver salver. Without doubt, this was the master of the house, the merchant, the rogue star-sailor.
Yama halted a few paces from him and bowed from the waist, but the merchant did not acknowledge him. Yama stood and sweated, with Iachimo beside him, while the musicians played through the variations of their raga and the merchant ate a dozen pastries one after the other and stroked the gleaming pillows of the woman’s large breasts with swollen, ring-encrusted fingers. Like her master, the woman was quite without hair. The petals of her labia were pierced with rings; from one of these rings a fine gold chain ran to a bracelet on the merchant’s wrist.
When the concluding chimes of the tambura had died away, the merchant closed his eyes and sighed deeply, then waved at the musicians in dismissal. “Drink,” he said in a high, wheezing voice. The woman jumped up and poured red wine into a bowl which she held to the merchant’s lips. He slobbered at the wine horribly and it spilled over his chin and chest onto the grassy floor. Yama saw now that the cushions of the couch were stained with old spillages and littered with crumbs and half-eaten crusts; underlying the rich scents of spikenard and jasmine and the sweet smoke of candles which floated in a bowl of water was a stale reek of old sweat and spoiled food.
The merchant belched and glanced at Yama. His cheeks were so puffed with fat that they pushed his mouth into a squashed rosebud, and his eyes peered above their ramparts like sentries, darting here and there as if expecting a sudden attack from any quarter. He said petulantly, “What’s this, Iachimo? A little old for your tastes, isn’t he?”
Iachimo inclined his head. “Very amusing, master, but you know that I would never trouble you with my bed companions. Perhaps you might look more closely. I believe that you will find he is a rare type, one not seen on Confluence for many an age.”
The merchant waved a doughy paw in front of his face, as if trying to swat a fly. “You are always playing games, Iachimo. It will be your downfall. Tell me and have done with it.”
“I believe that he is one of the Builders,” Iachimo said.
The merchant laughed—a series of grunts that convulsed his vast, gleaming body as a storm tosses the surface of the river. At last he said, “Your inventive mind never ceases to amaze me, Iachimo. I’ll grant he has the somatype, but this is some river-rat a mountebank has surgically altered, no doubt inspired by some old carving or slate. You’ve been had.”
“He came here of his own accord. He brought a book of great antiquity. I have it here.”
The merchant took the copy of the Puranas from Iachimo and pawed through it, grunting to himself, before casually tossing it aside. It landed facedown and splayed open amongst the cushions on which the merchant sprawled. Yama made a move to retrieve it, but Iachimo caught his arm.
“I’ve seen better,” the merchant said. “If this fake says he brought you an original of the Puranas, then that too will be a fake. I’m no longer interested. Take this creature away, Iachimo, and its book. Dispose of it in the usual way, and dispose of its companion, too, once you’ve caught it. Or do I have to take charge of the guards and do that myself?”