M. Barker - The Man of Gold

She rose, as supple as a spray of Ja'atheb — blossoms herself, to wash away the telltale signs of their night of pleasure. The flower-filled pool that occupied a quarter of this, the topmost terrace was cool enough to sting her golden skin and drive away the fumes of the evening’s wine. Between the ornate columns, the pre-dawn breeze fluttered the Thesun-gauze draperies, brought from distant Tsolyanu, like the wings of little birds, and made the glass-chimes twitter and tinkle upon their tall poles at the comers of their couch.

Soon the sun would stride forth from the Halls of the Underworld to strip away Siyuneb’s illusions of youth and beauty. It were best if she were gone before then. The slight thickness beneath her chin, the delicate web of lines at the comers of her eyes, the too-ripe roundnesses of hips and thighs, all would be laid bare by the merciless glare of Lord Qame’el’s ball of pale flame.

Siyuneb slipped out of the filmy garments of Lord Ketkorez had chosen for her. She bathed completely and washed the sparkling Niritleb — powder from her hair. She also washed the curious implements that enhanced the joys of their coupling. With these-and with the arts her body knew-she could hold Lord Ketkorez for yet another year, two at most. After that she did not want to think. He might never reduce her to the ranks of the serving maids, but to live on in solitary comfort in some back apartment of the palace, to pass her days in gossip and idle make-work tasks, to grow old and fat and raise the children of some chamberlain or guardsman, was no life for one who had slept upon her master’s High Terrace!

Oh, there were other fates: she might become a priestess of Lord Qame’el: a functionary within one of the temples, glorying in each exercise of petty power; she might take the jewellery and gifts Lord Ketkorez had bestowed upon her and purchase a villa in some remote-and inexpensive-seaside town; she might become a courtesan, a shop-assistant for one of the mercantile clans-many things.

It took a great deal of self-control for her to bring herself back to the much more enjoyable present.

She stretched and spread her black mane to dry. The insect-netting was still closed; her master slept. Siyuneb sat down cross-legged upon the marble balustrade and ran the golden comb Lord Ketkorez had given her through damp-tangled locks. The lines of red and blue tattooed Aomiiz upon her wrists caught her eye. She was not allowed the symbols of an aristocratic clan and a high position within the temple hierarchy, mayhap, but her present status as First Concubine was not without its rewards. It was a far cry from her peasant forebearers, she thought: better the lady of a great aristocrat than a farmer’s wife with no tattooing other than the mud of the fields and the wrinkles of a life of toil.

She was awakened from her revery by Chakkunaz, the least obnoxious of Lord Ketkorez’ body-servants. He was both young and well-made, and his infatuation for her was no secret. Her master was not unkind; he turned a blind eye to an occasional dalliance, and she had wheedled more favours from Chakkunaz than even Lady Lailueb, the Chief Wife. Certainly Chakkunaz was more to her taste than Esudaz or Qelyuz or any of the other chamberlains. She carefully refrained from comparing him, even to herself, with Lord Ketkorez. Her master might be as young, as learned, as mannered, and as well turned out as any noble in the Five Empires, but he lacked a certain fire; he was a trifle cold, indifferent, and hard to arouse. He had been thus, the old crones of the palace said, ever since he had turned eighteen, after some sort of undiscussed accident in the mountains near the city of Dlash. Lately Lord Ketkorez had seemed preoccupied and even less susceptible to her wiles than usual. It was this that made Siyuneb’s array of special implements so necessary.

“He is not awake, lady?”

“He has not moved since I arose. The wine and the drug-powders and all of Retumez’ greasy cooking last night…” Chakkunaz pulled the netting aside. He bent over the sleeping figure on the dais, and the red-dawning sun upon his muscled shoulders awakened desire within her. She would have summoned him and whispered of an assignation later, but his stance gave her pause. The young chamberlain stood frozen, astonishment-shock-apparent in the lines of his back, even though she could not see his face.

“Siyuneb,” he called softly. “Come here.”

She did not protest the use of her personal name as she might otherwise have done. His tone told her that there was something very wrong.

She obeyed. He had pulled back the coverlet, and at first she thought that Lord Ketkorez was not there at all, that he had risen and departed in the night. Then she saw what lay on the patterned mat: glistening mucus, a heap of chalky, yellowish-bluish-white wet things. A parody of a human shape, a mass of garbage-what was it? A prank? Lord Ketkorez never played pranks, nor did she ever recall seeing him smile spontaneously.

“Lady, what occurred last evening?” Chakkunaz backed away. He held his nose.

“Naught unusual. We made love, we feasted-”

“Nothing else? No one came? No sorcerer visited here?”

“No-He was moody and wanted no guests. Why?”

“There are stories afoot in the quarters-tales of others who vanished this very night. A general of one of the legions, a merchant from the Plaza of the Diadem of White, a priestess from the temple of Kirrineb, a pair of traders in the Foreigners’ Quarter, servants, clansmen-at least a dozen…”

“What? Like this? Is that-is that-stuff-Lord Ketkorez?” “The Gods know. It is the same elsewhere. So run the wagging tongues.”

“Call the guards-!” Siyuneb started toward the staircase that led down from the terrace. There would be a squad of soldiers on duty below.

“Yes-no! Wait. You were the last to see him before-before this. The Vru’uneb will take you to the temple. You will be questioned-as many others have been already.”

“What to do?” A knot of panic was forming just under her heart. “I know nothing. I swear-I had naught to do with it-with this.” The sight and smell of what might have been Lord Ketkorez made her queasy.

Chakkunaz straightened up. “You must take what you can and flee.” His tone was hard and crisp. “Get your jewellery, all of your money, the best of your things-I will accompany you as far as the harbour. There are ships there for other lands-Tsolyanu, Mu’ugalavya-even the nations of the Shen.”

She began to quake. The horror of her situation was only now beginning to seep into her limbs, a dank and deadly feeling, like a bath in cold oil. The disappearance-or death-of a great nobleman, and she his sole companion, the last to see him alive…?

“You-would you go farther-come with me?” She lacked the courage to go alone.

He gave her an appraising look. “I-might.-Yes, why not? What have I here? And we have-cared-for one another.”

She knew him all too well. He might be as greedy as Demon Prince Origob himself, but she thought she could manage him. She must have someone!

Chakkunaz came to her and embraced her easily. “Do not fear, lady-my love-for I shall protect you. We must move quickly and with all of the circumspection of the gods themselves!” Frantically, shivering with a terror she could neither explain nor master, Siyuneb allowed herself to be led down to her apartments within the palace. A bundle of clothing, her money, and her jewels were all Chakkunaz let her take. Then they departed by the back gate, ducking between the lumbering Chlen- carts full of the day’s supplies for the palace kitchens. The Feather-kilted cooks and naked slaves paid them scant attention.

The Vru’uneb-, the ever-efficient arm of the Livyani theocratic state, the iron dagger beneath the silken coverlet, apprehended them just after they had purchased passage on a round-hulled merchantman bound for Jakalla.