Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

On arriving at the elaborately carved sacred gates, Marcus was surprised to see that the hill’s buildings seemed more or less intact. He’d pictured a smoking ruin, Divine Cocks pulled down onto the temples they’d decorated and everything that would burn put to the torch. Apparently, the masters of the Redemption hadn’t been certain enough of their support among the populace to make such a visible gesture against tradition. It was midmorning, and the shadows of the obelisks still threw their irregular striped pattern across the streets of the lower city. Past the gate, courtyards that had once bustled stood empty and silent. The massive brazier in front of the Temple of the Eternal Flame was cold and dark, and Marcus could see that the painted sandstone walls of the nearest buildings had been defaced by great cracks and slathered with graffiti, mostly the ubiquitous squat V of the Redeemers.

Janus paused at the gateway. He paced, unable to contain his energy, and his deep gray eyes were never still. After a moment he turned to look at Marcus and his soldiers, and apparently reached some sort of decision.

“You want to know what we’re doing here,” he said, his gaze lingering on Marcus in particular. “I wish I could tell you, but I am enjoined to silence on the matter. I can say that I am following an express royal command, and that I am humbled by the trust placed in me by His Majesty. This morning, I am sharing this trust with all of you. I ask only that you follow me, obey orders, and keep silent as to anything you may see.” The colonel paused. “Anyone who feels himself unworthy of His Majesty’s trust may step away now, and I will forget you were ever here.”

There was a long pause. After a moment, Senior Sergeant Jeffery Argot raised a hand like a boy in class. Marcus cringed, but Janus nodded to him, unperturbed.

“Yes, Sergeant?”

“This trust,” he said. “Is it likely to involve any fighting?”

There were a few mutters from the rest. The men were armed, but they were all Old Colonials, and they knew the inside of the hill was a nightmare of stone buildings and warren-like alleys.

Janus smiled. “No, Sergeant. At this point the opposition consists of a few elderly women. The worst you’ll face today is a bit of manual labor.”

Argot nodded. “Fair enough. I guess I can keep my mouth shut.”

A few of the others nodded agreement. Marcus gave them an appraising look, but said nothing.

“Follow me, then,” Janus said. “Do nothing until I say.”

He strode confidently through the gate, and Marcus and the soldiers followed. It was deathly quiet on the hill. The whole city had seemed unnaturally silent, residents cowering and barring the doors against a relative handful of Vordanai, but walking through the streets Marcus had still been able to feel the eyes on him. Here the silence was the quiet of the grave.

The layout of the hill was a haphazard maze, but Janus led the way without hesitation, cutting through narrow passageways and across flagstone courtyards. They passed the base of one of the ubiquitous obelisks, a four-sided spike reaching a hundred feet into the air. A few of the men stared up at it, and under ordinary circumstances Marcus would have expected a rude comment or two, but there was an air about the hill now that weighed against flippancy. Abandoned, it possessed a quiet aura of sanctity that it had never had in bustling life, as though they had walked into a gigantic sepulcher.

They were nearing the center when Janus found what he was looking for. He quickened his steps in the direction of a small building, barely bigger than a farm shed, with sandstone walls and a slate roof. The doorway was tiny, barely big enough for a grown man to fit through, and it was blocked by a sun-bleached wooden door. On each side of it stood a crude statue, worn away by the years to smooth-faced mannequins only just recognizable as human.

It was not a building Marcus had ever seen before. He glanced questioningly at Fitz, who raised one eyebrow and shook his head. The Khandarai had a great many gods, and Marcus certainly wouldn’t claim to know them all, but he was familiar with the major divinities. This had the look of a shrine to a minor deity, albeit an ancient one. What does he expect to find here?

The colonel went to the door and, to Marcus’ surprise, knocked. There was a long moment of silence.

“What do you want?” The voice from inside was a woman’s, dusty-dry and ancient-sounding. She spoke in Khandarai. Among the soldiers, Marcus guessed, only he and Fitz understood.

“We would like to come in,” Janus said. The colonel used the politest form the language allowed, accent perfect as always. “If you would open the door, I would be grateful.”

Another, longer silence. Then the crone said, “There is nothing inside for you.”

“Nevertheless,” Janus said.

When there was no response, he straightened up.

“If you do not open the door,” he said, still pleasant and polite, “these men will break it down.”

Marcus could hear mutterings from inside, in at least two voices. The door swung inward.

The inside of the little shrine was a single room. At one end was an altar, a long, flat stone resting on two blocks, adorned with a clay statue of a fat-bellied woman. Lamps burned on either side of the idol. Other than that, there was no furniture, just a few ragged rugs spread across the stone floor. The crone, withered and bent-backed, stood protectively in front of the altar, while off to one side a much younger woman in a plain brown robe knelt as though in prayer.

Janus crossed the room, his step still jaunty, but there was a certain amount of muttering from the rankers. Marcus caught a couple of superstitious double-circle gestures, traditional for warding off evil. There were no windows, and the doorway was shadowed by one of the larger buildings, so the inside of the little shrine flickered yellow in the glow of the two lamps.

“Good day,” Janus said to the crone. “I am Count Colonel Janus bet Vhalnich Mieran.”

“There is nothing for you here,” the old woman repeated. “You can see that now. Go away.”

“I would like you to show me the entrance,” the colonel said, still smiling.

The old woman glared at him, but said nothing.

“This does not need to be difficult,” he said. “I know the yod-naath is here. Show me the way in.”

“There is no such thing,” the woman said stoutly.

“As you like.” Janus turned back to his men. “Restrain the women and move the altar.”

Marcus snapped a salute and told a pair of soldiers to take hold of the two women, pulling them to the far end of the shrine. Four more men took hold of the altar stone and lifted it with a chorus of grunts. The lamplight flickered as they maneuvered it carefully out of the way and set it down against the wall. At the last moment, one of the men lost his grip, and one corner of the heavy weight crashed against the floor loudly. The fat-woman statue toppled and shattered into ceramic shards, a cloud of fine dust rising from her innards and filling the room with a sweet, pungent smell.

Two more men shifted the blocks that had held the altar up. The young woman had her eyes closed, her mouth moving silently, but the crone watched Janus’ every move like a snake. The colonel smiled at her and walked to where the altar had been. He brought one foot down sharply, and the stone underneath gave a hollow boom . The soldiers grinned.

“As I suspected,” Janus said, stepping aside. “If you would, Sergeant?”

Marcus beckoned Argot forward. The stone was flush with those around it, offering no obvious handholds, so the sergeant shrugged and reversed his musket. Two sharp blows were enough to crack the thin slate, sending fragments of it tumbling into the hollow space underneath.