Gog (Lost Civilizations: 4) Page 9

“Are you calling me?” she asked, in a querulous tone.

  “Get up here,” said the Enforcer.

  She eyed the deep-voice killer, and her heart beat faster, although it didn’t show on her placid features. She spoke with something closer to respect. “This is prime hunting time.”

  The older, much smaller attendant took out two copper coins, rubbing them together. “A quick word earns these, and the certainty that we won’t have to check your canal warrant.”

  All rat hunters had to purchase one from the Temple. They were stamped every third month, for a small fee.

  Her lips quirked and she poled beside the pavement bank. All attendants, it seemed to her, lived to threaten. They wielded the law like a club. With a practiced toss, she moored her craft to an old piling and clambered to them.

  “You’re Tamar?” asked the gray-haired attendant.

  “How do you know my name?” she said.

  She only came to the attendant’s shoulder and was thus dwarfed by the Enforcer. He loomed like a predatory animal. She had never been this near before to one with the blood of the bene elohim. His yellow eyes were uncanny. His shoulders were so wide. He seemed… beastly, like a creature given human wit, human speech. There was extra vitality to him, unnatural or supernatural. Here was one, she knew, stronger, faster and more deadly than a mere man was.

  “Did you watch the parade this morning?” asked the attendant.

  “Who are you?” she said. “Why do you want to talk with me?”

  The attendant made a bland gesture. “I am Naaman. This is Vidar. As you may have surmised, he is from Giant Land.”

  “I thought giants were taller,” she said.

  “Our good Enforcer is half Nephilim, of the third generation, as such things are termed. I believe his father was a giant.” Naaman glanced at the Enforcer.

  The Enforcer’s lips parted. He had big square teeth, in a too-wide-of-a-mouth. “We have a pastime in Giant Land of killing those who irritate us. Those who quote lineage are the worst offenders.”

  Naaman bowed his head. “I crave your pardon, Enforcer.”

  “Speak to this gilik. See what she knows.”

  Naaman regarded Tamar. “You must have watched the parade today, yes?”

  “You mean those wretches from the Captain’s Fleet?”

  “The rebels against Gog,” corrected Naaman.

  “As you say,” she said, glancing at the half-Nephilim. He watched her with unnerving, absorbing interest. “Yes, I saw them.”

  The Enforcer leaned over her. “Do you see Lod touch the leper?”

  Deadness swept over her features, as a chill whistled through her body.

  The Enforcer cracked his knuckles the way a lion might snick his claws.

  Naaman cleared his throat and rubbed the two coppers under her eyes. “You do want these, yes?”

  “If you’re giving them away,” she said.

  “Tell us about the leper,” suggested Naaman.

  She hesitated, and then asked, “What for?”

  The Enforcer grabbed the scruff of her furs and hoisted her off her feet.

  Her fingers flew to his wrist. His muscles felt like steel. His fingers were like iron. Fear filled her. She felt like a child again in her father’s hands.

  “The ‘what for’ is because I’ll feed you to the rats if you don’t speak.” The Enforcer let her go.

  Tamar’s feet struck pavement. It jolted her. She bent her head submissively.

  “Tell us about the leper,” said Naaman. “Tell us about the beggar you’ve been nice to.”

  “I don’t know what—”

  “We know that you spoke with him each noon,” Naaman purred.

  “Dare lie to me,” said the Enforcer, “and I’ll stretch you on a rack.”

  Tamar shuddered. She believed him. This beast before her, this half-Nephilim, seemed capable of any conceivable evil.

  Naaman smiled with perfect insincerity. “Hurling tridents will be difficult after your shoulders are wrenched from their sockets, yes?”

  Tamar’s head drooped even lower. She spoke in a monotone. “I talked to a beggar.”

  “One with useless legs?” asked Naaman.

  “…Right,” she said. “He was dying. I’m sure he’s dead by now.”

  “Never mind about that,” said the Enforcer.

  With his fine brown boot, Naaman toed a pebble, kicking it into the canal so that it landed with a plunk. With two of his slender fingers, he reached into his pouch, withdrawing another copper, adding it to the others. “Did you give this beggar water?”

  Tamar chewed her lip, glancing up at the half-Nephilim and then at the three waiting coins. “A few times,” she admitted.

  “Why bother?” asked Naaman.

  “Why not?” she said.

  “Did the beggar speak with you?” asked Naaman.

  “Maybe,” she said.

  The Enforcer growled low in his throat.

  Tamar hunched her shoulders. “It was hard to make out what he said. He mumbled, and he coughed a lot. I suppose you could say he spoke with me, but as to what he said….”

  “You have been warned not to lie,” said the Enforcer.

  She stared at the pavement, at a crack where stubborn blades of grass grew. “I didn’t have much time for him. It’s not easy being a—”

  “Where was he from?” asked Naaman.

  Tamar hesitated.

  “This is useless,” said the Enforcer. “Take her.”

  “Wait!” she said, looking up. She felt faint, nauseous.

  “Speak quickly,” said Naaman.

  “He was from the west,” she said.

  “Oh, you can do better than that,” said Naaman.

  “He was a hill man. Yes, I remember him mentioning that.”

  “What does that mean?” asked the Enforcer.

  “Kedar, Shur, something like that,” she said.

  The half-giant and his attendant exchanged glances.

  Naaman cleared his throat. “Has he approached you lately?”

  “What? No, no.” Tamar shook her head.

  “Do you think he’ll seek you out?” asked Naaman.

  Understanding lit in her eyes. “He was really healed, wasn’t he? The rumors are true.”

  The Enforcer studied her.

  “He might come to you,” said Naaman. “He’ll need a boat to escape through the swamps.”

  Tamar glanced at her narrow boat. Three tridents lay beside a water jug. A blanket covered a basket of bloody bones. “I don’t see why he’ll come to me.”

  “Who else does he know?” asked Naaman.

  Tamar chewed her lip.

  “Yes,” said Naaman. He had a cunning grin. “He might come to you.”

  “You have a plan?” asked the Enforcer.

  The gray-haired attendant touched his burn scar. He grabbed one of Tamar’s hands and dribbled the copper coins into it. “There will be more of these, girl, many more. And here’s how you’re going to earn them….”

  Chapter Nine

  The Priest

  “It is to a man’s honor to avoid strife, but every fool is quick to quarrel.”

  -- Naram the Prophet

  Keros noted the sneers and the way people muttered behind his back. He had never realized just how much Jogli were disliked. The idea of disguise was to hide. So he quit returning people’s glares after one drunken pirate drew his cutlass and roared threats. Keros slunk off to shouts of laughter. His ears burned, and he wondered what One-Eye would have done to the lout.

  Shamgar with its squat buildings, the crowds, the rudeness, noises and vicious smells, to say nothing of the giant rats watching him from the canals, Keros longed to flee the swamp city.

  It was an odd place, a patchwork of tiny islands and fortresses. A company of pirates denned in each stronghold, each barracks-like bastion. Some controlled a single galley, others as many as thirty ships. The law of blade and bribe ruled in those holds, force and fraud. Between the vari
ous pirate and mercenary bands, the merchant wharves acted as neutral territory and as a place to sell stolen loot. Whatever civic unity thrived in Shamgar came solely from the Temple of Gog, and the fear it invoked.

  In his fake Jogli robes, Keros hurried past stone docks and over wooden canal crossings. In the larger canals plied barges and merchant ships. Each had threaded up the delta from the Suttung Sea.

  He purchased a bucket of beer and a sack of pig’s knuckles. Then he crossed two more bridges, until he stepped onto Butcher Isle. It was crowded, fronted with stone shops that had fenced pens in back. There cows lowed in terror, goats bleated and pigs squealed. A smell of gore hung in the air.

  “Fling some blood on the Jogli,” shouted a butcher. He had spatters of blood on his apron, and handed a bucket of entrails to a boy.

  Keros hurried on.

  Too many men watched him, noted his passing, perhaps wondering what a Jogli did in the slaughter yard. He strode to the holding pens, a bigger area in the middle of the isle. There, while tramping through muddy lanes, he spotted who surely must be his man.

  The ex-priest carted a rusty feed-bucket to grunting hogs waiting at a trough. They were huge pigs, boars, tusked and shaggy. The man had wild hair and a narrow, tight face. He hefted his pail, and with unreasonable concentration, poured pods into the trough.

  The boars snorted, grunted and shoved as they began to feed.

  The man let the empty pail clunk against his knee as he studied the beasts. He put a hand on a wooden rail and leaned over. His facial skin seemed to stretch. He had bony cheeks. The greedy beasts eyed him as they chomped their food, but seemed unconcerned at his concentration.

  Keros lowered his beer pail. Had he misjudged the man? Yeb had said he’d had dealings with him. Keros had believed that meant the ex-priest was corrupt. Maybe the man was crazy.

  Abruptly, Keros leaned against a stall. Three pirates ambled toward the ex-priest of Gog. One pirate went bareback and had swirling-blue tattoos on his torso. The second was bald and wore an eye-patch. He minced behind the ex-priest, who remained oblivious to all but the boars.

  “Bessus!” shouted the bald pirate, practically in the priest’s ear.

  The ex-priest crashed against the fence, entangling his arms among the squealing boars. He yelled in horror as pig snot bubbled onto his hand.

  “That’s right!” laughed the bald pirate. He grabbed Bessus, holding him down. The other pirates rushed in to help.

  “No!” screamed Bessus. He thrashed, but the pirates were stronger. They forced his hands toward the pigs.

  “Gobble him up,” shouted the bald pirate. “Tell us what he tastes like.”

  “Hold still, Bessus,” said another.

  The boldest boar, a monstrous creature with yellow-stained tusks, wetly nibbled Bessus’s hand. The ex-priest screamed as tears leaked from his eyes.

  “He’s kissing you, Bessus,” roared the blue-tattooed reaver.

  “Maybe you’d like to kiss him back?” said the bald pirate, grabbing a fistful of Bessus’s thick hair.

  “Please, no,” sobbed Bessus.

  “I agree,” said Keros, and he shoved the bald pirate from behind, so that the man stumbled against the fence.

  The others let go of Bessus, as Keros stepped back.

  The bald pirate Keros had pushed, stood and dusted his tight-fitting jacket. “You shouldn’t have done that, friend.” The pirate had a jeweled scabbard belted high on his waist. Instead of a heavy cutlass, he had a short sword with a well-worn hilt. He spoke with silky deadliness.

  “That’s right,” said the blue-tattooed reaver. “You should have minded your own affairs.”

  “Exactly,” said Keros, his features hidden behind his veil. “Bessus is my affair.”

  The pirates gave the ex-priest a startled glance, and then re-examined Keros.

  “You obviously don’t know who this is,” said the tattooed reaver, indicating the pirate Keros had pushed.

  “My pardon,” Keros said with a bow, “I indeed do not know you.”

  “That’s Esau Death-Hand, sword-master of the Kraken.”

  “Ah,” said Keros, who had heard of the galley and its notorious band of cutthroats. “My apologies, sir,” he told the bald pirate, Esau. “I never would have touched you if I had known your reputation.”

  The bald pirate sneered. He had a copper earring dangling from a lobe.

  “Teach him a lesson,” said the tattooed reaver. “Show him why he was a fool.”

  “Perhaps you will do that for me instead, my friend,” said Keros.

  “Eh?” asked the blue-tattooed reaver. He was smaller than Esau was, and had rat eyes and a narrow, almost twitching nose.

  “Braggarts always egg on others to fight their battles for them,” explained Keros.

  “You saying I’m scared?” asked the blue-tattooed pirate.

  Keros quoted a Shurite proverb, “Do not ask what you don’t want answered.”

  “You’re pretty sure of yourself, Jogli,” Esau said.

  Keros dipped his head, glad that the robes hid his soaked armpits.

  “He pushed you, Esau,” said the blue-tattooed reaver. “You can’t let him get away with that.”

  “He did push me,” said Esau, “but he called you a coward.”

  The blue-tattooed reaver blanched, and he glanced from Esau to Keros.

  “My pardon, sirs,” said Keros. “It is not my intention to begin a quarrel. Please, accept my generosity. Hire a harlot or guzzle at my expense, but let there be peace among us.” In his palm, Keros held five silver shekels.

  The blue-tattooed reaver stood stunned.

  Esau looked upon Keros with obvious professional interest. “You don’t want to fight?”

  “Do we truly have a reason?” Keros asked.

  Esau scratched his cheek. Each of his fingernails was black-painted.

  “He shoved you,” the blue-tattooed reaver said.

  “He called you a coward,” said Esau.

  “What about Bessus?” the blue-tattooed reaver asked. “We haven’t finished with him yet.”

  Keros jingled the coins. “Surely, you do not mind sporting elsewhere at my expense.”

  A cunning look entered those rat eyes. His lips twitched. “Double it,” said the tattooed reaver.

  “Alas,” said Keros, striving for a note of weariness, “that would mean the speaking of steel between us.”

  Esau laughed. “Well spoken, Jogli. You’re a man of courage. I accept your apology, and tonight I plan on getting drunk—on your silver.”

  Keros bowed his head.

  The pirates took his silver and strolled away, the blue-tattooed reaver urgently whispering into Esau’s ear.

  “Well done, stranger,” said Bessus. He had stood at rigid attention throughout the confrontation. “The wild ones do not like interruptions during their meal.” The ex-priest had a bizarre intensity to his eyes, and his thin fingers fluttered as he spoke.

  “The wild ones?” asked Keros.

  Bessus indicated the feeding hogs.

  “Ah, yes, of course,” said Keros.

  “Of course?” asked Bessus. His intensity grew as he examined Keros. He noticed the beer pail by the stall. “Did you bring them a gift?” The ex-priest hurried to the beer, dipping a finger and tasting it. “Excellent.”

  One-Eye had drummed into Keros the necessity during a raid for flexibility, for quick wit. He said, “I am not a priest, Bessus, and therefore, I wonder if you would do me the honor of giving them the gift.”

  The thin ex-priest stared at him, and his lips trembled. Reverently, he hefted the bucket and took it to the feeding boars, setting it over the rail. A boar rushed near and began slurping. That brought others, and soon, a pig-tussle spilled the contents. The fight stopped as each boar carefully lowered his snout to the puddle, and sipped what beer he could.

  Bessus nodded in approval. “The omens speak. They assure you of success in whatever your endeavor.” He frowned, which ma
de his features seem skeletal. “I thank you for aiding me earlier.”

  Keros nodded. “I wonder if there is a place we could speak.”

  Bessus looked perplexed. “Do I know you?”

  “No. But you know Yeb.”

  For the first time, Bessus’s fingers quit their fluttering and he grew pale. Then he exploded into a frenzy of nervous tics and trembling. “Yes, yes, come, come, I know of a place we can go.”

  Keros fell in step as Bessus hurried along the muddy lanes. They strode onto the paved lane where the butcher shops stood. There, lounging messenger boys jeered Bessus. The ex-priest ignored them. Soon, his bare feet slapped over the bridge’s planks. He led Keros toward tall statues, threading his way along the walkways, until they crossed a small stone bridge and onto the smallest isle yet.

  Obelisks and towering bronze statues were crowded here. A few solemn women gazed at the main statue of an armored warrior wielding a lightning bolt. The plaque on the granite base was smooth. Bessus muttered that it had been fashioned over twelve hundred years ago.

  Pigeons cooed, but in Keros’s opinion, there were remarkably few birds here. Then, he saw an urchin slinking from behind a bound statue of a man holding up an imploring hand. The dirty-faced child held a sling. His young eyes were riveted on a strutting pigeon. The lad began to twirl his sling.

  Keros knew starvation when he saw it, but this seemed like decidedly the wrong place for a child. He dug a silver shekel from his pouch, and shouted, “Boy!”

  Startled, the pigeon flew up.

  The urchin shot Keros a flash of hatred.

  Keros flipped him the shekel.

  Amazed, the skinny lad snatched the coin out of the air. Then, his eyes narrowed in calculation and fear. The boy backed away, turned and ran.

  “Why did you do that?” asked Bessus.

  “Eh?” said Keros. “Does it matter why?”

  “Oh, yes, indeed,” said Bessus.

  “Well… I didn’t want him slinging pigeons.”

  Bessus become absorbed, until a strange smile broke out. “You honor Magog. For the sling-stone might have marred a statue. Yes, clever, though a good boot in the arse would have left a more lasting impression.”

  “Perhaps,” said Keros.

  “Ah… the little urchin kept those nuisances from soiling the statues.” Bessus studied several of the bronze idols and then gave a cry of despair. He rushed to a nearby statue of a woman with a bowed back. With his forearm, the ex-priest rubbed pigeon droppings off the bronze.