Robert Hughes - The Prophet of Lamath

Certainly this horse of Pezi’s was the most marvelous she had ever ridden. But was the incredible effort entirely due to the horse? Or was this Pelmen the player calling down the powers he said rode on the winds, and using them to buoy the horse up in its flight? When the beast began to flag, his energy fading, Pelmen would bend to speak a word in his ear. Just a word, and the great-hearted animal would leap forward again, goaded not by pain but by his pride. The rhythm of its hoofbeats hypnotized her. Bronwynn slept again.

When she woke this time her bottom was numb. She shifted position to get some feeling back into it, and wished immediately that she hadn’t. “I’m so sore I may never walk again!” she moaned. “When are we going to get there?”

“So, you’re awake again,” Pelmen observed. He patted her hand, then leaned forward to dip his hand into the bag that hung from the saddle. He pulled out a piece of dried meat and passed it over his shoulder. She pulled her hand free from the wrappings that tied her to him, and took it.

“What’s this?” she grumbled.

“Food. I thought you might be hungry.” She sniffed at it, and made a face he didn’t see. “I’d rather die,” she said crossly, and tossed it into the bushes.

“Your choice.” Pelmen shrugged. Pulling more meat from the bag, he began to chew. An hour later, when she announced she had changed her mind, he wordlessly passed her another piece.

Long after Bronwynn had given up hope of ever seeing Dorlyth Castle, they crested a small hill and Pelmen pointed. It was not much of a keep, just two rather plain towers surrounded by a rough stone wall, standing on an uninviting escarpment of rock. But Bronwynn was exhausted. It didn’t matter what the castle looked like; to her it was beautiful.

Pelmen rode slowly down into the small field that stretched to its base, watching with interest a tall young man who was chopping wood nearby. Rather than using an axe, the lad chopped with a greatsword, the heavy, five-foot-long blade that was the favorite weapon of the Maris. It was so long and hard to manage that most flat-landers had long since moved to shorter swords, but in the hands of a large man it could be a formidable weapon. And this man, young as he was, was certainly large enough. He did not look like most Maris—his hair was not blond, though it was bushy, and his legs were long and straight rather than squat. He was so intent on his work he didn’t see them until they were but twenty yards away. Startled by their sudden appearance, he leapt atop the woodpile and turned the sword into full wheel around his head. Then his jaw dropped open and he stared in shock. He had recognized the rider.

“P-p-Pelmen! P-p-powershaper!” he stuttered. Without another word, he dropped the sword and vaulted up the hill toward the gate of the keep and disappeared inside.

“Some welcome,” Bronwynn sniffed, and Pelmen laughed. He patted the horse’s side and untied the cloths that had held the girl to him. “I hate this,” she murmured as he lowered her to the ground, and her groan told him that she’d had good reason to dread. He felt it too, as soon as he slung himself out of the broad saddle and down. He walked a few tentative steps, then came back to take the head of their stolen steed between his two hands.

“I don’t know what Pezi called you, but to me you are Minaliss, the steel-shouldered one—and a very fine friend.”

Bronwynn didn’t hear him, for she was bending and stretching and prancing around, doing all she could to get life back into her legs. Pelmen took the horse by the reins, offered his hand to the lady, and said grandly, “Shall we walk the rest of the way?” She half smiled, the best she could manage under the circumstances, and took his hand. Arm in arm, they strolled together into Dorlyth Castle and safety.

Visitors to Flayh’s mansion on the southern plain of Lamath often told him he lived like a King. This was a mistake, for Flayh considered that he lived better than a King. He lived like a merchant, thank you, and in Flayh’s mind a merchant outranked a King by a large margin. Those who visited his main dining room could scarcely help being impressed.

Great chandeliers hung the length of the hall, each one illuminated by a circle Of twelve oil-burning lamps. The pieces of cut crystal that dangled below the lamps directed flashes of sparkling light to all corners of the room, and the gentle breeze that blew through open windows at either end of the hall kept them turning and shimmering throughout the course of the evening meal.

As always, the tables were heavily laden with fruits, nuts, vegetables of every kind, and exotic candies from faraway islands. There were colorful beverages in still more colorful decanters, and piles and piles of steaming meats of every sort, which filled the room with an aroma that was, to Pezi, quite heavenly. As he finished off the last of a venison steak, his belt unbuckled out of sight under the table, he was already dreaming of what culinary delights awaited him in his evening snack. Pezi felt the people of Lamath were the only people who truly recognized the finer things in life: beef, pork, venison, etc. He loved the time he spent at his uncle’s—most of it, anyway. In fact, Pezi believed that except for one thing, Flayh’s residence was the most wonderful place on earth. The exception, of course, was Flayh.

At this very moment Flayh was coming in the side door, and Pezi almost groaned aloud when he saw his uncle was headed straight for him. He dutifully pasted a smile across his broad, greasy face. “Good evening, uncle—”

“I want to see your slaves,” Flayh said flatly.

“But—you never inspect slaves—”

“I’m inspecting these,” Flayh snapped. “They’re—they’re in the dungeon, where I normally—”

“You’re coming too.”

“Why, yes sir, of course, sir—” Pezi began to send messages to his body to get up, but Pezi was bigger than most men and it took a little longer for his legs to get the word. “I—I wonder—do you not trust me?” he said.

Flayh sneered at him. “Trust you? Of course I trust you, nephew. I trust you as far as I could throw you.” Since Flayh was only a little over five feet tall, and weighed only one hundred thirty, Pezi did not consider this testimonial particularly encouraging. “Get up!” Flayh demanded.

Pezi was trying, but halfway to his feet he had remembered his belt was unbuckled, and he was now trying to make some inconspicuous adjustments under the table. Some ladies on the far side of the room had noticed and were giggling and whispering together. He smiled wanly at them, and stood. His uncle was already almost out the door.

Below the dining hall was a gigantic kitchen. Below that was a dungeon. Flayh had felt this a very efficient arrangement. He had cut slits in the stone floor of the kitchen, and instructed his cooks not to pick up food scraps or take much concern for the appearance of their work place. At the end of the day they would simply sweep the scraps into the floor slits, and what fell through to the slaves below was what they ate. Some days some slaves were lucky, some days others were. But no one was lucky enough. Then the kitchen would be mopped down, and buckets of dirty water sloshed across the floor. The slave who knew enough to stand under a slit at the right moment got the only thing approaching a bath that was to be had in the slave quarters. Often new slaves, unlucky enough to fail in the scramble for scraps, would cry out through the floor for food. Or. they would be too stupid or too proud to stand openmouthed below the floor slits while the floor was being washed, and would plead for a drink of water. Flayh had instructed his guards to beat these new slaves until they learned not to speak to the cooks. If a baker burned several loaves of bread, or a cook burned a roast, they would often blame it on a noisy slave, and that slave, guilty or not, would suffer for it. Most of the slaves learned quickly. Flayh’s house might be a paradise for invited guests—for the slaves, it was little short of a hell.