The noble smiled, his teeth flashing white in the dark splendor of his beard and mustaches. "There is still trouble in the land, Holy One. Yet the hospitality of the Empresses knows no bounds. We wait for late arrivals. Come within and sup. If you make your way across the city, you will find that the magi are welcome in the court of the Queens of Persia."
Arad affected surprise. "The Birds of Paradise are in residence here? I had not known: surely every bed and nook in the city is filled."
The nobleman laughed and smoothed down his mustache with a habitual gesture. "Ahura-Madza bless them, yes, the Empresses Azarmidukht and Purandokht grace the old citadel with their presence. That hoary old stone monster wakes with new life as the spabahadan of all Persia come to do them homage."
The diquan, for there was no mistaking the casual arrogance and accent of one of the hereditary landowners who made up the backbone of the Persian state and society, turned and pointed down the avenue that led from the gate. "Follow the main road," he said. "You will cross a pillared bridge and see to your left the hill of seven gates. Ascend and present yourself at the palace- you will find a warm welcome- for the Empresses love holy men above all others."
That is fitting, laughed Dahak in the silence of Arad's mind. You have some experience of that!
Arad felt numb, for the jibe awakened memories so painful, he thought he would faint. The sorcerer did not allow it, making his body bow to the diquan and pass through the tunnel. Within the walls, fine two-and three-story buildings clustered close to the road, and the streets were filled with people and lights.
Agamaatanu has changed of late, mused the sorcerer. Yet it is still the same city I walked in my youth. Move, beautiful Arad, make haste to this palace of the seven gates.
Whatever the nameless diquan at the gate thought of the palace, Arad was impressed. Driven by the desire of the sorcerer, he had hurried across the city, passing over the swift current of the Alusjerd and through the districts that lay below the hill of the palace. As the Lord Dahak had said, seven battlements each overtopped by the one behind it rose up on a hill set square in the northeastern quarter of the city. Deep gates pierced each wall, and a road paved with broad stones switch-backed up the hill between the ramparts. It seemed a strong fortress to Arad as he walked up the road, looking up at the merlons frowning over him.
The sorcerer hiding behind his eyes was not impressed. In truth, in comparison to the stupendous fortifications of Damawand, it did seem paltry. At each gate and each turning of the road, a company of guardsmen stood, their armor burnished bright and their helms carrying the same peacock token. At each gate Arad bowed to the commander and begged entrance and at each gate he was allowed to pass. These men were watchful, but a single priest without so much as a wooden spoon to his name did not strike them as a danger. Arad at last came to the summit of the hill and the plaza before the palace itself. Temples crowded the edges of the square, and lanterns burned before their doors. Indeed, the whole of the palace hill was lit up with all imaginable kinds of lights, sconces, torches, and open fires.
How pious, Dahak snickered, and Arad marked that as he passed, flames flickered and sometimes went out. They feel the touch of night at the hem of their jeweled robes and they are rightly frightened.
The plaza itself was filled with people. Arad moved through them, marveling at the appearance of those who had come to this place. Merchants from a dozen lands, from India and Serica and Egypt, haggled among themselves. Tribesmen in colorful turbans and beaded headdresses squatted or stood. Many men in armor with peace-bonded weapons chatted among themselves beside the bonfires that lit the square. Slaves in light blue tunics moved through the throng, carrying wine and honeymead and plates of roasted lamb. Arad realized that these were the followers or servants of the spabahadan who had come to pledge themselves to the Empresses. Those, or embassies from surrounding lands, or those seeking favors from the new power that was trying to rise from the ashes of the old.
They have not wasted the trip! Dahak laughed again, a cruel, chill sound. Arad mounted the steps that led up into the palace itself. Here, too, the doors stood open, though now a band of massive men in surcoats of red with a yellow sign marked on their chests blocked the way. The guardsmen, mercenaries, and followers in the square seemed small beside these men. Too, they seemed alert and aware and their captain, when he stepped out to block Arad's advance, did not dismiss the priest before him. Here was a man who knew all too well that treachery and deceit came in every shape and size.
"What is your business here?" The man's voice was the growl of a dire wolf. Rings of gold were on his fingers and twisted into his beard. Scars marked his forearms in the small space between heavy leather gauntlets and armor of overlapping metal plates sewn to a linen backing. The other men were not distracted from their watch, either, though two of them observed Arad carefully with their hands on the hilts of bone-handled swords. These men wore long face masks of closeset iron links that exposed only their eyes. The masks gave them an ominous look.
Pushtigbhan, muttered Dahak and Arad could feel the sorcerer recede, slipping away from the man's consciousness. The Imperial bodyguards.
Arad bowed deeply to the man and said, "The captain at the gate of lions said that I could find shelter here in the hospitality of the noble Empresses Azarmidukht and Purandokht. If I have come in error, I will take myself away."
The Pushtigbhan captain grunted noncommittally and looked the priest up and down like a merchant in the marketplace viewinga fine ram. Arad could feel the man's almost perfect balance and the readiness with which violence could erupt.
"Do you have a patron?" It impressed Arad that such a deep sound could come from a man, even a man with a chest as broad as this one's. "Other than the word of that popinjay at the western gate."
"No, noble lord. I have just come to the city from the west and I know no one within these walls."
The captain nodded, and a stubby finger scratched the side of his nose. He made to speak, but there was a sudden shout from within the palace.
Arad leapt back, down the steps, and barely missed having his throat cut by the lightning-quick draw of the Pushtigbhan captain's long sword. His men spun, blades half-drawn, a shout on their lips.
A man staggered through the doorway and fell heavily on the steps. Two more of the Pushtigbhan came through the portal, dusting their hands of him. Unlike those who stood without, these men's faces were bare, showing their curled beards.
"The gracious and merciful Empress Purandokht bids you a good night, my lord Faridoon. Pray, take her mercy and have done- no one here is interested in the ravings of a madman."
Arad rose and straightened his tunic, hearing the sarcasm dripping from the soldiers' words. The man on the ground rose stiffly, brushing back long, wild hair from his face. He was quite old, past fifty, and his face was deeply lined by starvation and the cruel hand of long days spent unsheltered among the elements. His clothes had once been fine and well made, but a seeming eternity upon the open road had worn them down, leaving them patched and mended and ill-used. For all this, there was a fire in his eye as he stood, picking up his cap. His beard was ragged and shot with white, but there was the remnant of a noble bearing.
"Shout all you will at the night," he boomed, for Faridoon's voice was deep, deeper even than the guard-captain's. "Those things that walk in it are not afraid of the cries of children. Rather, my lords, they sup at fear, growing fat in the darkness. I have been to the great temple at Ganzak, not a score of days ago, and there is nothing in that place but dust. Heed me! Do you know what this means for the children of man?"