We are men of Walaria, good men and pious. Blessed be, blessed be. Our women are chaste, our children respectful. Blessed be, blessed be. Devils and felons beware of our city. Blessed be, blessed be. You will find only the faithful here. Blessed be, blessed be…
When the song ended Safar laughed aloud. He was still a little drunk and found the song's sanctimonious lies amusing. The prayer was a creation of Umurhan's, coined in his youth when he was second in command of the temple. It was considered by manymeaning Umurhan's most fervent political supportersto be the mightiest spell against evil in the city's history. Umurhan had used the acclaim to help topple his wizardly superior. Once that had been accomplished he'd joined with Didima and Kalasariz, both ambitious young lords at the time, to make Didima king and Kalasariz the chief wazier. The three ruled Walaria to this day with brutal zeal.
To Safar the nightly spellsong had become an ugly jest, a riddle that would be a worthy creation of Harle, himself, that dark jester of the gods. Was the evil outside the walls of Walaria? Or within?
He'd heard the song the first time only a short two years before. The setting sun had been in his view that day, just as it was now…
It was a small caravan, a poor caravan, carrying castoffs from the stalls of distant markets. The finest animal was the camel Safar sat upon, a fly-blown, bad-tempered male he'd hired for the journey. He'd made the jump from Kyraniamore a wobble, actuallyin three stages. The first was a traveling party to the river towns at the foot of the Gods Divide. The second was with a group of drovers herding their cattle across the dry plains to new grazing grounds. He'd come across the caravan during that leg of the trip. It was heading directly for Walaria and so he'd joined it, saving many days and miles.
The sun was falling fast as he approached the city, rolling in his camel saddle like a fisherman in troubled waters. Walaria was backlit by a rosy hue casting the city's immense walls into shadow so they looked like a forbidding range of black mountains. Palace domes and towers of worship glittered above those walls, with high peaked buildings steepling the gaps in between. The night breeze brought the exotic sounds and scents of Walaria: the heavy buzz of crowded humanity, the crash and clang of busy workshops, the smell of smoke from cooking fires and garbage heapsgood garlic and bad meat. The atmosphere was sensuous and dangerous at the same timeas much was promised as was threatened.
Guarding the main gate was a squad of soldiers bearing Didima's royal standardgilded fig leaves, harking back hundreds of years to when Walaria was nothing more than a small oasis for nomads. The gate was menacinglooking like the cavernous opening of a giant's mouth. The gate's black teeth were raised iron bars thick as a man's waist and tapering to rough spear points. The caravan master, a vaporous little man with shifty eyes, bargained with the soldiers for entrance. But he couldn't, or wouldn't meet the bribe price and so the caravan was ordered to camp overnight outside the wallsjust beyond the enormous ditch encircling the city. The ditch was as much for waste disposal as it was a defense and it was filled with garbage and offal and the cast-off corpses of citizens too poor for a proper funeral. Smoke-blackened figures scurried along the ditch, tending the many fires kept burning to dispose of the waste. These were the city's licensed scavengers, so low in station it was considered a curse to stare at them overlong, much less suffer their touch.
Safar, hoping to avoid an unpleasant night, shyly approached the sergeant in charge of the squad and presented him with Coralean's letter of introduction. It was written on fine linen and bound by thick gold thread and so impressed the sergeant that he waved Safar through the gate. Safar hesitated, peering into the huge tunnel bored through the walls. It was long and dark with a small circle of dim lightlooking like the size of a plateannouncing the exit on the other side.
It was then he first heard the spellsong, a wailing voice from far away, and seeming so close…
"We are men of Walaria, good men and pious. Blessed be, blessed be…
It filled him with such dread he tried to turn back. But the sergeant shoved him forward. Get your stumps movin lad, the sergeant said with rough humor. I've had a long day and there's a flagon of Walaria's best missin me down at the tavern."
Safar did as he was told, treading through the darkness to the gradually widening circle of light, the spellsong wailing in his ears:
… You will find only the faithful here. Blessed be, blessed be…
It was with immense relief that he exited the other side. The spellsong had faded, boosting his spirits. He looked about to see which way he should go, but the night had closed in and he was confronted with dark streets glooming in every direction. Here and there light leaked through heavily-shuttered windows. Only the hard cobbles beneath his feet hinted there was a path through that darkness.
Then torches flared and he saw the sign of a nearby inn. Beneath it the inn's crier extolled its virtues for all to hear: Soup and a sleep for six coppers. Soup and a sleep for six coppers…"
Safar hurried toward the crier, a wary hand on his knife hilt. Cheap as it was, the inn proved to be a cheery stopping place for travelers and he spent the night in comfort. The following day he presented himself at the house of Lord Muzine, letter of introduction clutched in his hand.
The Lord's major domo was not so impressed by the fine linen and gold thread as the sergeant. His face was stone as he took the letter, glanced boredly at Coralean's wax seal.
"Wait here, he said in imperious tones.
Safar waited and he waited longpacing a deep path in the dusty street outside Muzine's gated mansion. For a time he marveled at the passing crowds and traffic. Although he'd been to Walaria before, he'd been in his father's company and seen things through a child's eyes. Now he was an adult on his own for the first time. He eagerly searched the crowds for signs of the decadence Gubadan had warned him against. He wondered what he'd missed during the previous visits besides the evening spellsong. But if there was anything to tempt a young man in that neighborhood it was kept hidden behind the walls of the mansions lining the avenue. He became bored and hungry but he didn't dare leave his post and miss the major domo's return.
Finally, when the day was nearly done and the time approached for the nightly spellsong, the man emerged. He sniffed at Safar as if he smelled something bad.
"Here, he said, limply handing Safar a rolled up tube of paper bearing Muzine's seal, so recently dripped it was still soft to the touch. The linen was of poorer quality than Coralean's letter of introduction and there was only a black ribbon binding it instead of gold thread.
"The Master directs you to present yourself at the Grand Temple tomorrow. You will give this to one of Lord Umurhan's assistants."
The major domo brushed empty fingers together as if they'd previously held something offensive, then turned as if to go.
Safar was confused. Excuse me, friend, he said. The major domo froze in his tracks. He looked Safar up and down, wrinkling his nose in disgust. Safar ignored this, saying, I was hoping for an appointment with your master. I have gifts to give him from my father and mother who also send their wishes and prayers for his good health."
The major domo sneered. My Master has no need of such gifts. And as for an appointment… I will not insult my lord with such a request from someone of your station."