Robert Hughes - The Prophet of Lamath

“I am sure you probably believe it to be a true statement, but—”

“It is true. At least fifty thousand Chaons, and they’re probably marching across your borders already!”

“It is not considered proper to raise one’s voice to an official of the Lamathian court.” The vizier frowned, both eyebrows raised. It was quite a noticeable gesture, for the vizier was totally bald, and his bushy eyebrows, bright red in color, were the most prominent feature of his otherwise uninteresting face.

Pezi throttled his temper, realizing that his voice had echoed loudly among the pillars and the dragons, and replied more softly, “Pardon my impatience, I just think the King should be informed that his land is under attack.”

“I’ll add that to my list,” said the vizier, showing Peri his bald head as he made some illegible scratches on a parchment before him.

“Your list?” Peri asked.

The vizier’s head rolled back up slowly, the tiny eyes r locking on Pezi’s. “Yes, my list,” he sneered. Then he produced something from within his vestments. Pezi saw it was an instrument of some sort that hung around the vizier’s neck on a silver chain. The bald official brought it to his lips and blew two notes, one a shrill high whistle, the other thin but sweet. There were at least a dozen doors opening onto this circular room. The one far to Pezi’s left now Slammed open and a guard in the livery of Lamath marched across the floor to the vizier’s side. “You will go with this man,” the vizier said to Pezi, reading another parchment as he spoke.

“To see the King?” Pezi asked brightly. The vizier’s eyes shot back up to glare at the fat merchant—but politely, very politely. “Of course not. To see the Chieftain of Defense and Expansion.” The vizier turned back to the page he’d been reading, but Pezi risked one last comment. “Will you tell the King he’s at war?” The vizier dropped the parchment in polite exasperation; as it fluttered out into the room, he scowled. “I said” he murmured quietly, “it is on my list.” At this he turned his back on Pezi and motioned the uniformed guard to take the merchant out. Pezi felt an insistent hand clinch onto his upper arm, and he went along with no further comment.

The guard led him through a maze of halls and doorways; in a matter of minutes he was hopelessly lost. His opinion of the might of Lamath grew at every turn, for nowhere had he ever seen such a wealth of polished marble or more artistically wrought statuary. He was passed from one guard to another, and felt he had walked two miles by the time the last guide in the series turned to motion him into a small, high-ceilinged office. There were two windows, but they were no more than three-inch slits cut through the wall, running from floor to ceiling. Beside them stood baskets of blue-feathered arrows, and bows hung from pegs in the marble walls. Pezi realized this room fronted on the outer walls of the Lamathian palace, and that from this vantage point two good archers could very effectively defend the palace gates below. The Lamathian King at least had the sense to place his best soldier’s office where it would be of some practical value.

There was no one in the room, so Pezi seated himself next to a cool wall and waited. He loosened his lime-colored belt, and struggled to get comfortable. It was a humid day in Lamath.

Suddenly a man burst through the doorway, tossed a sheaf of bound parchment onto an already messy desk, and turned to look at Pezi.

“War then,” he said. “Where? How many?”

“Ah, approximately, ah, fifty thousand—”

“Who?”

“Ah, ah, Talith of Chaomonous—”

“Why?”

“Ah, because he thinks you’ve stolen his daughter—”

“Ridiculous. Why would I want to steal his daughter.”

“Ah, he doesn’t think you’ve stolen his daughter, he—”

“Then who?”

“Ah, the King of Lamath—”

“More ridiculous. Who really took her?”

“Ah, ah, how should I know who—”

“You’re a merchant, merchants know everything.

Who took her?”

“Ah, I don’t think—”

“Can’t tell me. Very well, where will the attack come?”

“I, ah, I really don’t know—”

“I believe that. Any flotilla involved?”

“I—I’m sure there will be some—”

“Estimate how many ships.”

“I couldn’t really say—”

“Don’t know much for a merchant. Fifty thousand Chaons, possible flotilla, trumped-up accusation which points to imperialistic expansion as the prime motive. That’s it?” This was the first ordinary question the man had asked him.

The others had been demands. Pezi took a deep breath and started to reply.

The warrior interrupted him. “Captain!” he shouted, and another warrior in a blue tunic was immediately at his side.

“General alarm, immediate status, arrest any merchants lately from the south, including this one, for interrogation-house arrest after you’re convinced they are not actively involved. Send the standing Third Column south to secure the King’s Road, then cordon off Dragonsgate and stop all caravan traffic, in or out. Notify all watches along the Spinal Range to relay any unusual troop movement directly to this office by blue flyer. Alert all naval vessels under Lamathian colors that they must be battle-ready within three days, and contact the naval commander and have him see me regarding forcible impression of all available merchant vessels into service to our King.”

“Yes, sir,” the captain snapped, and he turned to hurry out.

The Chieftain of Defense stopped him short. “And, Captain.”

“Yes, sir?” the man replied, turning in the doorway to face his superior.

“It’s happened,” the Chieftain said quietly, and for the first time his expression changed. “It’s finally happened! We’re going south!” By the time he had finished his sentence both the Chieftain and his assistant were giggling like two excited schoolboys, slapping one another on the back and cackling with elation. Pea stared, openmouthed.

“That is all,” the Chieftain said, and all was businesslike again. They snapped salutes at one another and the captain departed quickly.

Pezi thought the salutes rather weird, but said nothing. He didn’t realize it, of course, but it was the same gesture of respect Vicia-Heinox had thought so curious when his worshippers did him homage: both arms raised above the head, then crossed, fingers curved into little dragon’s mouths. Must be difficult to salute with a sword in your hand, Pezi thought, but said nothing.

The Chieftain of Defense and Expansion now turned back to Pezi, seating himself behind his cluttered desk. “I’m sure you feel a little nonplussed at the speed of that operation, but wars don’t wait on anyone, and we try not to fall behind in our preparation. I’m Asher, General of the Army and Chieftain of Defense and Expansion.”

“Ah, Pezi’s my name, Pezi of Ognadzu.”

“Evident by your colors.”

“Ah, yes, so it is. I must say, I’m impressed with your organization. I, ah, I had some fears for your entire culture when I was told the King wouldn’t see me—”

“The King sees no one. I’ve never seen him.”

“Never?”

“Only spoken to him through a fabric partition.”

“Quite a contrast with the fellow from the south,” Pezi grunted, recalling the vanity of Talith. “Will he be told that he’s—ah—at war?”

“If he chooses to hear the vizier today, yes. He is a very secretive ruler, Pezi, and quite a worried man.”

“Worried? What about, if not about war?” Pezi asked, pleased that Asher had remembered his name.

“About death, and about the destiny of his soul.”

“What?” Pezi chuckled. “Worried about religious things? Why?”