Simon Hawke - The Seeker

Sorak and Ryana stopped to gaze in wonder at it. The side wings of the palace looked like shoulders, and the central upper stones like a neck. Sunken eyes with flames burning within them gazed out over the city. The huge brow was furrowed, and the jutting chin was proudly set.

The head was shaven, and the expression of the gigantic face was at the same time impassive and malevolent.

“By all that’s holy, who is that?” Ryana asked in a low voice.

“My father,” said Korahna.

“That is the Shadow King?” said Sorak.

Korahna nodded. “It took the city’s finest stone-masons decades to carve out his countenance from huge blocks of mortared stone. For most of them, it was their life’s work. They labored every day, from dawn to dusk, and then they were relieved at night by other stonemasons who continued the work by torch-light. It is said that many of them died in the task. Some fell from the scaffolding; others expired from sheer exhaustion. And while the stonemasons worked on the outside, teams of other artisans worked within, constructing the inner chambers from marble, alabaster, cinnabar, obsidian, and precious stones. And when they were finished, all were put to death.”

“Why?” said Ryana.

“So that none could ever speak of what lay within my father’s private chambers,” said Korahna. “At the completion of the work, Nibenay moved in, and no one has seen him since that day.”

“No one at all?” said Sorak.

“Only the senior templars who attend him,” said Korahna. She pointed toward the upper part of the face. “Each night, until dawn, the lights burn within those eyes, as if Nibenay were watching over the city that bears his name. There are some who say that he can see all transgressions and sends templars and half-giants to administer his law.”

“And you lived for all your life with that gazing over you?” Ryana said.

Korahna smiled. “When I was a little girl, I thought the stone face itself was my father. I used to stand beneath it in the palace courtyard and call out to it. But there was never any answer. Come, we must keep going. The patrols will be along soon.”

They hastened toward the opposite end of the city, past the palace compound and toward the area Korahna said was the elven quarter.

“There is a large population of elves in Nibenay?” asked Sorak with surprise.

“Half-elves, mostly,” said Korahna, “but among them are many full-blooded elves who have given up the nomadic, tribal life. It is said that more and more elves are gravitating to the cities these days. Life on the tablelands is hard, and the Great Ivory Plain, which lies to the south of the city, is as inhospitable as the barrens.

“Most of the elves in these parts used to live in the Crescent Forest and in the upper reaches of the Barrier Mountains, which we call the Nibenay Mountains here in the city. However, they have been largely driven out by the foresters and the hunters of Gulg. With the foresters cutting down the agafari trees and the hunters cleaning out what little game is left, the elves in the mountains have been left with almost nothing. A few tribes still dwell there, but they are mostly raiders, and their numbers dwindle with each passing year. No one knows how many elves live in the quarter, but their Population grows larger each year.”

“What do they do here in the city?” Sorak asked. “Work at what jobs they can,” Korahna replied.

“mostly jobs that humans will not take. Some steal, though the penalties are harsh if they are caught. Many of the elven women sell themselves. There is not much of a life for them here, but there is even less of a life for them outside the city.”

“They were a once proud people,” Sorak said, “and now they have fallen to this.”

The streets were darker in this part of town. Few torches burned outside the dilapidated buildings. The scant structures covered with decorative carvings were old and badly in need of repair. The rest were not much different from the ramshackle hovels in the warrens of Tyr. There were more people out on the streets here. As in Tyr, the authorities did not patrol in the poorest sections of the city. They did not much care what happened to the people here.

As they approached a tavern with two torches burning on either side of the entry, several elven prostitutes lounging against the building walls called out to Sorak and beckoned him, making provocative poses. Some were extremely explicit and graphically demonstrative of what they were offering for sale. Sorak and Ryana were both dismayed to see how young some of them were, scarcely more than children, debased by poverty and bigotry and lack of opportunity.

No one respected them, and so they did not respect themselves.

“This way,” said Korahna. “In here.”

They entered the tavern. A faded, painted sign on the wall outside identified the tavern as the Elven Blade. Sorak thought of his own elven blade and made certain it was well covered by his cloak.

Inside, the tavern was little more than a large, cavernous chamber with stone arches and an aging plank floor. People were seated on crude wooden benches at long tables. Most were drinking. A few were gambling with dice. On a small raised stage against one wall, a blind elf musician strummed an elf’s harp while two others accompanied him on flute and drum. A baby pterrax in a large cage snapped at food scraps thrown to it by patrons. Barefoot serving girls bore trays among the tables, periodically going back to the bar to refill their earthenware pitchers and fetch fresh bottles and ceramic goblets.

Most of the patrons were half-elves and elves, but they saw some human faces, as well. There would be no dwarves here, for elves and dwarves were not fond of one another, nor would there be any halflings. Halflings were feral, and no halfling would ever be found in a city, though Sorak thought the same could once have been said of elves, as well.

A few eyes turned to stare at them as they came in, but for the most part, no one looked directly at them. Directly meeting someone’s gaze in such a place could all too easily be taken as a challenge. Korahna glanced toward the bar at the back, then beckoned them to follow as she crossed the room, walking with purposeful strides.

As they passed among the tables, a bench suddenly came crashing down in front of Sorak. Its occupant leapt to his feet, knocking against him. “You lying piece of dung! I’ll cut your tongue out for that!”

The elf seated opposite him snarled and sprang up, launching himself across the table. Both of them crashed into Sorak, who was still trying to disentangle himself from the elf who had knocked into him—They all fell to the floor in a jumbled heap, the two elves shouting and screaming at each other.

Suddenly, Sorak felt expert fingers lifting his purse and realized the nature of the game. As several others pulled the two apart and off each other, Sorak got to his feet.

“All right, you two, out!” shouted the burly human tavern keeper, coming around from behind the bar with a large agafari club in his hands. “Settle it outside!”

“Just a moment,” Sorak said as the two elves turned to go.

“And what’s your interest in this?” the tavern keeper demanded, still holding the club ready.

Sorak pointed at one of the elves. “He has something of mine.”

“What?” the tavern keeper demanded.

“My purse,” said Sorak.

“He lies!” the elf protested. “I never touched his filthy purse—if he even had one when he came in here!”

“Your quarrel was merely an excuse to enable you to lift it,” Sorak said.

“You had best be careful of your accusations, friend,” the elf said menacingly while his companion, who moments earlier had seemed intent on killing him, now stood by to back him up. “This purse is mine,” the elf said, taking out his purse and shaking it. It rattled with a few ceramic coins. “My friend will testify to that, and so will the serving wench, who saw me pay her out of it. See, it is stitched with my name!”