“For these murders,” Adala vowed, “they will pay.”
Wapah, though unconvinced, said nothing.
The others shouted and wailed their anger.
No longer was this a war only to preserve the sacred land of Khur from foreigners. Now, cradling her daughters’ torn bodies, her robe stiff with their blood, Adala of the Weya-Lu dedicated herself to Torghan, god of vengeance. No prisoners would be taken. No quarter would be given. This was a war to the death.
Chapter 6
Planchet and Hytanthas remained in the rooftop lean-to for hours, watching as patrols tramped up and down the streets, hammered on doors, and bellowed at each other across the empty squares. Whatever the original disturbance, Sahim-Khan’s soldiery had quelled it-no doubt with a heavy hand.
The need to remain under cover when they wished to be back with their Speaker tested their patience. The sun reached its zenith, then passed it, in the unbroken blue vault of the sky. The scents of cardamom pods and kefre bark in the little garden were as oppressive as the heat. Hytanthas gave up on his human disguise, pulling the black wig from his head and stuffing it behind a row of pots.
When a long period went by without sight of the patrols, Hytanthas slapped the older elf on the back, saying, “Let’s go!” With a terse remark about respect due to elders, Planchet followed.
The Khurish habit of building houses wider at the top than at the base made the elves’ trek much less difficult than it would have been elsewhere. And crossing Khuri-Khan by rooftop proved an edifying process. As the elves clambered over dwellings, they heard babies crying, laughter, shouted arguments, and lovemaking. A hundred different food smells vied with smoke, incense, and the stink of privies. The lives of the ordinary people of the city were open to view as Hytanthas and Planchet passed above their heads, out of sight. Khuri-Khan was indubitably foreign, yet it was also vigorously, robustly alive.
Near the Temple Walk, the buildings grew higher and larger. These were no longer private homes, but government storehouses, granaries, and colleges for the priesthoods of the various temples. Sunset was well past when they finally found themselves overlooking the great promenade lined with holy shrines.
The entrance to each temple was illuminated by torches thrust into iron ring-frames. By the wavering light, Planchet and Hytanthas watched small bands of Khurish troops, with halberds on their shoulders, march back and forth. Other than these patrols, the broad lane was empty.
“There’s the Temple of Elir-Sana,” Hytanthas whispered, pointing to their right.
The temple’s dome was lit from within and gave off a faint blue glow in the darkness. No acolytes or priestesses were visible in the courtyard. The chimes lining the low wall jingled in the night breeze.
The question now was how to get down. They were thirty feet above the road, atop a three-story, flat-roofed building. Its walls dropped smooth and straight to the pavement, offering no likely footholds for a safe descent.
A careful search of the roof revealed the solution: a trapdoor secured from the inside. Hytanthas was able to slip his slender fingers under its edges and free it. Slowly, silently, they eased the cover up.
No one cried out below, so Hytanthas lay flat on the roof and looked through the opening while Planchet gripped his legs.
“It’s a hall,” Hytanthas whispered, head-down in the opening. “Lined with doors.”
Planchet murmured a curse. No nice empty storehouse for them—they were trying to enter a priestly dormitory!
He started to haul Hytanthas back so they could try another building, but the wiry young elf lifted his feet, gripped the edge of the doorframe, and somersaulted through the opening. Catlike, he landed noiselessly. Lifting his hands, he urged Planchet to use him as a ladder to climb down.
“Insolent whelp,” muttered the Speaker’s valet. Although less agile than Hytanthas (who was a quarter his age), Planchet was no graybeard. He lowered himself through the opening, hung for a second, and let go. Unfortunately, Hytanthas, in his zeal to help, managed to trip him. The two elves went down in a tangle, hitting the wooden floor with a loud thump.
They froze, expecting sleepy priests to emerge from the rooms. None did. No light showed beneath the doors. The holy ones slept on, undisturbed.
The elves hastened down the hall, toward a stair landing. As Planchet rounded the top of the steps, he ran headlong into a woman. She was clad in a pale gray gown and turban, and carried no lamp. The two intruders, looming up suddenly in front of her, stole her breath, and Planchet’s hand clamped over her mouth before she regained it. He pressed her against the wall, hoping to forestall any magic she might try to use against them.
“Curse it, we’ve entered a college of priestesses!” he hissed. “This isn’t Sa’ida, by chance?”
Hytanthas shook his head and whispered, “Be silent, lady. We intend no harm. We are unjustly pursued by the Khan’s soldiers and seek refuge in the Temple of Elir-Sana. Do you understand?”
She nodded, and he smiled. “We’ll let you go, but you mustn’t raise an alarm. Yes?” Again, a nod.
The elves exchanged a look. After a moment’s hesitation, Planchet took his hand away. Immediately, the priestess hissed, “No men are allowed here! Ever!”
“Begging your pardon, holy lady, but we’re not men,” Planchet said reasonably, touching the tip of one pointed ear.
“Males! This is sacrilege!” Her voice was rising. “The Khan will hear of this violation!”
That was enough for Planchet. He snatched the scarf from her head, loosing a fall of gray hair, and gagged her with the cloth. She tried to yell, but only a thin gurgle emerged around the gag.
He took her by one arm, Hytanthas grabbed the other, and they propelled the priestess down the stairs. At the bottom, they found a small cupboard under the steps. Planchet pressed her inside. Whipping out his silk kerchief, he tied her ankles together. When he asked Hytanthas to surrender his own kerchief, the younger elf shrugged. He had none.
“What kind of uncouth stripling goes out without a kerchief?” Planchet snapped.
“A poor one, with no more possessions than he stands in!”
Planchet spun Hytanthas around and pulled off his geb, leaving him standing in leggings and low boots. The priestess’s eyes grew wider still at the sight of the bare-chested elf. Planchet had to admit he was an odd-looking sight. The dye he’d used for his disguise had been applied only to arms, neck, and face. His torso was several shades lighter.
Planchet tore a strip from the geb’s hem and used it to bind the woman’s wrists, then tore another to bind her wrists to her ankles, hoping to delay her escape. He tossed the ruined garment back to Hytanthas.
“And what am I to do with this?” Hytanthas asked sarcastically.
“Make yourself some kerchiefs,” Planchet rejoined.
The woman’s eyes, incandescent with fury above the gag, followed them as they closed the cupboard door.
They exited the building through a side door, which put them in an alley. The gate in the wall surrounding the Temple of Elir-Sana was directly ahead, across the promenade; the iron portal stood open. The patrol had already passed by, and all was quiet. They stepped out of the alley’s concealment and strode toward the temple gate.
As Hytanthas reached the gate, a deep voice rumbled behind them, “Stand where you are!”