"Run away, man!" the girl shouted. "You can't help me."
Running away from Werists was not an option. Holy Anziel had always been generous with Her aid to Benard. Could She help him, now, though? Dare he appeal to Her in such a cause, and in such a state of drunkenness? If he didn't, he was about to be mashed or diced. Forcing himself to concentrate, he planned a rogation.
"I say she's my girl," he proclaimed aloud. "You want to fight me for her?"
"Do we what?"
The thugs exploded in helpless mirth. They leaned against the walls or clutched one another's shoulders while their laughter echoed raucously along the alley, momentarily silencing even the crickets; but their eyes never left the prisoner and Cutrath did not release the girl. It was understood, of course, that a Hero must die rather than lose a fight, so fairness was sacrilege. Benard had automatically challenged all three of them, one at a time or all together as they chose.
"Fight me for her." Having established a calm silence in one corner of his mind and furnished it with the images he needed, he silently sent the rogation to his goddess: thongs dangling, strips of leather rising, a dance of beauty, for this innermost prayer was written in pictures. He dared not look at the reality, but he did not need eyes to find figures in stone or see the face he would draw out from clay and glaze, and he did not need his eyes for this. Everything was shape, symmetry, pattern. Beauty.
Meanwhile he said, "Tell your friends to stay out and I'll beat all the crap out of you, you baby barbarian. It's time somebody did. There's mush too ... I mean much. Much too mush of it in there."
Cutrath seemed truly unable to believe his ears. "You speak to me like that, you southern trash? Dauber! Muck-dabbling, muddy-fingered, cowardly follower of female gods—you think you can fight me?"
It was fortunate that the satrap's son always needed time to work up his fury before a fight, because Benard needed time to move and shape and pattern. He felt the blessing of his goddess fill him like a holy fire, but he must do his tampering without alerting his foe to what was happening. Nor must he provoke the warrior so far that he would battleform into some fearsome carnivore, an abuse of Weru's powers that Cutrath would not regard as in any way unfair.... justice is beauty... knot is beauty, curves and loops... double knot, triple knot... all beauty...
"Coward, you call me? I'm the one who's offering to fight. You're all big talk and bad breath. Put up your fists, stinkard!"
"What are you waiting for, Hero?" asked one of the others. "You don't need help, do you?"
"Hold this!" Cutrath yelled, hurling the woman at his friends, "while I murder the mudface." He spat on his hands.
The woman redoubled her screaming and struggling until the third man joined in and clapped a hand over her mouth.
"Prepare for maiming, scum!" Cutrath's eyes gleamed.
"Come and try!" Benard raised his fists with very little idea of how they were supposed to be used.
Veteran of innumerable brawls, Cutrath knew exactly what to do, and would undoubtedly have done it with style and murderous grace had he been fully cognizant of the situation. He chose a judicious opening by lashing out with a kick at his opponent's kneecap, no doubt planning to stamp him to mud as soon as he was on the ground. In fact, that one move would have settled the fight right away had the laces of Cutrath's fancy ankle boots not been tied together. He reeled off-balance, bewildered, wheeling his arms wildly. Benard slid into the gap and planted two punches so hard he thought he'd broken every knuckle. The kid's belly was as solid as a block of marble and his chin even harder, so Benard added two more hits, and the Werist fell. Given room, he would probably have just sat down very heavily and then come back up screaming mad without his boots; alas, his head struck the wall, solid adobe. He slithered down it and crumpled into a heap, feet together, knees apart, mouth open.
Benard applied more blessing, untying the knots without a glance at them. His heart was pounding faster than the crickets chirped, his hands trembled with reaction. He could not hope to work such a trick on the other two brutes, so he must bluff.
"Mine!" he said firmly, pulling the girl away from them. "I won. My prize. Come, darling, ish bedtime. You boys get your buddy home before anyone else sheesh him."
To his astonishment they not only released her, they let him walk away with her. That was unheard-of leniency from Werists. It was a reasonable assumption that Hero Cutrath, when he awoke, would not be so forgiving.
♦
The only real street in Kosord was the riverbank. All other paths were merely gaps between houses—dust baths in summer, mud wallows in winter. They widened and narrowed, bent and divided, went up and down at random, and ended unexpectedly. In some places a man had to turn sideways to get through. With rare exceptions, buildings were made of sun-dried mud brick, cool in summer and relatively draft-free in winter. Outer walls showed no windows, because even the humblest homes enclosed a court for vines, bean shrubs, vegetables, a few pigs and ducks, and the privy. Roofs were thatched with reeds.
Benard paid no heed to where his new friend was taking him. Never before had he registered his upper arm as an erogenous zone, but it was rapidly becoming one as she stroked and fondled it. In the summer heat he wore only sandals of plaited reeds and a work smock—a sheath of clay-smeared canvas hung on shoulder straps, well furnished with pockets of various useful shapes.
She wore a red wrap that reached from her armpits down to her thighs, just, but so flimsy that her breasts were clearly visible through it. Even in the dim light, he could see that her beauty was stunning, her proportions classical. He needed models—would it be blasphemous to use a harlot as a model for a goddess?
"Call me Hiddi."
"Benard Celebre," he said.
"You are so brave!"
So drunk, lady ... He had been crazy! "Any man would want to rescue a woman as beautiful as you."
"To challenge Werists!" She squeezed his biceps admiringly. "So strong! A potter?"
"An artist. Sculptor, mostly."
"What's that?"
"A stonemason." Near enough.
"You don't talk like a stonemason." She was probably trying to calculate what sort of fee she could extract from him. "You talk like palace folk."
"I was brought up in the palace."
She laughed excitedly. "That explains it, then. Oh! You're not a slave?" Her busy hands had found the seal tied to his wrist, the mark of a reputable freeman.
"No."
"You look like a Florengian!" Meaning he had black hair and skin browner than any Vigaelian would achieve in the height of summer.
"Not all Florengians are slaves. I'm a hostage."
"What's a hostage?" Obviously Hiddi's education had been limited. Her lovely mouth produced an ugly peasant growl, fresh from the irrigation ditch.
"Well, when I was eight years old... Oh, pig litter!" What was he wasting time on that for? "Ask me when I'm sober." He kissed her. Her lips tipped fire into him, a thrill of passion pouring downward to explode in his loins. He felt sweat break out all over his skin. He almost walked her into a wall.
"Not far now, lover," she whispered. "Oh, I can't wait..."
"Did Horoldson hurt you much?"
"Him? Naw, he's one of those men who like to think they're hard and cruel. If I cry and squirm that excites them."
"You know him well?" Benard asked glumly.
"A few times. He thinks he's good, but he's very clumsy and obvious. Here we are!"
They had arrived at a flight of steps, the entrance to a large building clad in painted tiles. Wall lamps cast a flickering light on a welcoming image, one Benard both knew and detested, a life-size nude combining female breasts and vulva with male beard and phallus. That was Eriander, androgynous divinity of coitus and madness, and the ugliest image Benard could imagine, an offense against all laws of beauty.