David Gemmell - Echoes of the Great Song

The man and woman returned. Both bowed. 'Your bath is ready, lord,' she said. 'Will you be requiring us further?'

'No. My thanks to you,' he said. Rising, he gave each of them two silver coins. They bowed again and left the house.

'You don't like see them die,' said Touchstone.

'What?'

'Servants. You watch grow old. You sad then. I see your life. When we flew.'

Talaban nodded. It was true. His first servants in Egaru — a man and his wife — had been with him for twentyfive years. He had grown fond of them. When the wife became ill Talaban had healed her. Word got out and he was summoned to the Council. It was against the law for Avatars to use crystal magic on inferior races. Talaban had been ordered to dismiss them. Either that or watch the woman die. Since then he had hired temporary servants.

Touchstone was busily munching his way through the food. Talaban rose and stretched. 'I am going to bathe,'

he said.

As he lay in the scented water he thought again of Chryssa, of her joy and how everything she saw seemed to fill her with wonder: sunshine on spring flowers, a white dove at dusk, the moon dancing fragmented on the night-dark sea.

The memory of the two moons flashed into his mind, and with it the shimmering figure of One-Eyed-Fox. He had not spoken to Touchstone about the apparition. Not yet. He needed time to think it through.

Climbing from the bath he towelled himself dry, then knelt on a rug and slowly took his mind through the Six Rituals.

An hour later he was dressed in a tunic of dark blue silk, edged with silver, his long, dark hair held in place by a silver circlet inset with a white moonstone. Around his waist was a jewelled belt hanging from which was a hunting knife, its black hilt embellished with silver wire. His leggings were white wool, his knee-length boots of silvered lizard skin.

Touchstone grinned at him, and he could see the light of mockery in the tribesman's eyes.

'It is palace garb,' said Talaban, somewhat defensively.

Touchstone nodded. 'Very pretty,' he said.

'I seem to recall you dressed in a cloak of eagle feathers, wearing a beaded cap, for your marriage to Suryet.

You were also wearing a codpiece made of shells and your lips were painted white. I too shared your memories.'

'Different,' said Touchstone. 'Eagle feathers bring great magic. Shells bring virility.'

'It is all a question of style,' said Talaban, smoothing down his tunic.

'Very pretty,' repeated Touchstone, with a booming laugh.

Talaban grinned and shook his head. It was impossible to argue with Touchstone. 'We need to talk when I get back.'

'About going home?'

'About the One-Eyed-Fox.'

'You wake me. We talk.'

The carriage arrived on time and Talaban sat in the back, gazing over the city. It had grown in the last fifty years, almost doubling in size. Many of the older buildings, on the five hills of the original city, were finely constructed, but most of the new were built from fired mud-bricks. In narrow streets and packed centres they housed the worker population — potters, bakers, stonemasons, clothes makers, carpenters, house servants, and many more. The Vagars now outnumbered their Avatar overlords by a hundred to one. And the ratio would continue to increase.

Talaban's mood was sombre as the carriage continued, crossing the old stone bridge in the Avatar centre of the city.

Here the buildings showed a sharp rise in quality, huge houses fronted by expertly worked marble, flanked by beautiful statues. Here there were fountains and man-made lakes, parks with elaborate walkways. The carriage moved out onto the wide avenue and past the Library and the Museum of Antiquities. Both these structures had been designed when the old empire was at its height, the massive 80-ton blocks lifted into place by a handful of workers using the legendary music of the Avatar Prime. Talaban had seen just such an exercise when he was a child back in Parapolis. First a Questor would play a simple tune on a long flute. Then the trumpets would sound.

Avatar stonemasons would step forward, their movements in perfect rhythm to the music. Huge blocks would be lifted as easily as sacks of grain. People would gather alongside the construction sites to marvel at the magic and listen to the music.

The Library was huge, the great lintel stone above the doorway held on the shoulders of two 30-foot-tall statues. Seated on a massive throne set upon the lintel was a statue of the last Avatar Prime, his hands outstretched towards his people. The original idea had been to symbolize that, although he was raised above other men, it was only by the will of the people. Hence the two Vagars holding him. Now, to Talaban, it merely highlighted that the weight of Avatar rule fell squarely on the shoulders of the Vagars.

The carriage moved on. Hundreds of people strolled along the perfectly laid stone footpaths, stopping to peer in at items on display in the many shops. The people here were better dressed. Most were Vagars, the families of rich merchants.

Many Avatars saw the Vagar merchant class as their greatest allies among the sub-species. Talaban was not fooled. The merchants were the most eager to see an end to Avatar rule. Their profit margins would increase dramatically if they had full control of the city's commerce.

The carriage trundled on. Talaban could see the palace outlined against the night sky. Bright lights shone from its windows, and he knew that one of the chests had been installed there. The palace had been built 200 years before, designed by Avatar architects, and built when the empire still possessed the power and the energy for such projects. It was probably the finest building left above the ice. The roof was covered with gold sheeting, the walls decorated with a multitude of statues and scenes from Avatar history.

The huge bronze gates were open, and two Avatar guards waved the carriage through.

Talaban stepped down as the carriage drew to a halt. Then he climbed the steps to the massive double doors.

There were sixty-four steps. They were divided by symbols into groups of eight, and represented the journey of life. Conception, birth, puberty, adulthood, maturity, wisdom, spirituality, and death.

On either side of the steps statues had been placed, their regal faces frozen in time, their blank eyes staring impassively at the mortal men who climbed by them. Heroes and teachers, mystics and poets. Their names and their deeds were recorded on the marble beside them.

Talaban paused at the statue of Varabidis, the poet mystic, the creator of the Six Rituals. The statue depicted a young man holding a dove aloft, its wings spreading for flight. Below the statue was the inscription: The bird does not seek the past, it flies ever hopeful into the future.

Not any more, thought Talaban.

Once inside the palace a Vagar servant led him through to the wide waiting area outside the council chambers. Couches and deep chairs had been set against the walls, and food and wine placed on three long tables. Most of the councillors were present. Fat Caprishan, dressed in a billowing silver robe, sat by the western window deep in conversation with his aides. Niclin, the richest and therefore most powerful of the councillors, stood beneath the high gallery chatting amiably to several of his colleagues.

Talaban scanned the room. There was no sign of Questor Ro.

A tall lean figure moved into Talaban's line of sight. 'Good evening, cousin. I hear you had an eventful trip.'

Viruk was dressed in a tunic of heavy black silk edged with silver thread. His hair and beard were freshly washed and oiled, and he sported no weapons. 'Good evening, Viruk,' said Talaban. 'I am sure that life here, for you at least, has not been boring.'

'Indeed not. But let us not dwell on my humble activities. You are the hero of the moment. Thanks to you, Avatar supremacy is assured for a few seasons.' Talaban looked into the man's pale grey eyes.