David Gemmell - Echoes of the Great Song

Shevan watched the procession and smiled. 'They seem happier now, sir,' he said.

Anu nodded. The work was still slower than he had expected and he decided to make changes to the rotas.

From now on the crews would work in three shorter shifts instead of two long ones, and there would be rewards for those who matched the work targets set them. 'What is the hourly rate for placing the blocks?' he asked Shevan.

'A week ago it was six, but now we are closer to nine. It is getting better, sir.'

'It needs to be higher than twelve. What is the situation at the quarry?'

Shevan looked troubled. 'The tools are wearing out much faster than anticipated, sir. And there is a problem with the pegs. It appears—'

'That the wood is not absorbing water.'

'Yes, sir. You anticipated this?'

'I wish that I had,' replied Anu wearily.

Stonemasons drilled holes in the sandstone then drove dry wooden pegs into the holes. When water was added the pegs expanded, splitting the stone neatly. This is how the blocks were created. But, somehow, the acceleration of time was affecting the absorption rate.

Anu strolled across to the Gepha pyramid. It had been the first attempt, seventy years ago, to build a power source. It had failed. As Anu had known it would, for it was built without the Music. Now it served as a base for his own work, and labourers were busy chiselling out the blocks, harnessing them and, by careful use of massive hides full of water, were counterbalancing their weight and lowering them to the ground. The work was slow and dangerous. Had he possessed two chests Anu would have used the enhanced power of the Music to lessen the weight of the blocks, but with only one he needed to conserve the energy for the courses of his own pyramid.

A commotion began some way to his left. It was close to the mist barrier he had summoned around the valley. He and Shevan hurried across to where a crowd of workers had gathered.

An incredibly old man lay on the ground. His limbs were twitching, and, as the men watched, the flesh fell away from him, the skin drying, becoming leather, then peeling away from his bones like worn papyrus.

'It was Jadas,' whispered one man. 'He crossed the mist last night to meet his wife.'

Anu stepped forward. 'Be calm!' he said. 'You have all been warned about the magic used here. I told you all that it would be death to cross the mist.'

'We are prisoners here!' shouted another man.

That is not true,' said Anu. 'I explained the dangers when you agreed to the work. But any who wish to leave can do so when the supplies are due, and the mist is lifted. I am Anu. I do not lie. This man was a fool. There are many fools in the world. He was told of the dangers and chose to disbelieve them.'

'What happens if the magic goes wrong?' shouted the first man. 'We could all end up like Jadas.'

'Come now, lads,' said Yasha, the Foundations King, striding forward to stand among them. 'You've all heard of the Holy One. He's not a liar. And I, for one, am looking forward to going home with eight thousand silver pieces. I'm going to build this wonder for Anu, and then I'm going to buy a home. Not build it. Buy it! I'm going to sit in the shade and drink fine wine. And upon my knee will sit the prettiest whore in Egaru.'

'We could all die here, Yasha!' objected the first man.

'You die if you want to, Podri. I'm going to live to be rich. Now let us bury this bag of bones and get on with the Wonder.'

'You honestly believe we're safe?' asked another man.

'Safe?' replied Yasha with a chuckle. 'Safe? When has a labourer ever been safe? But for eight thousand silvers I'll risk a little danger.' He swung to Anu. 'Am I safe from your magic, Holy One?' he asked.

'You are. I promise you,' Anu told him.

'Good enough for me,' said Yasha. 'Now I'm off to find the least ugly whore.'

With that he strode away, his laurel crown still in place. The crowd broke up. The bones of Jadas crumbled to dust and blew away on the breeze.

'He is a good man,' said Shevan.

'Yes,' answered Anu absently. He was already planning for an increase in the absorption rate of wooden pegs.

The gardener was kneeling on an old cushion in the sunshine, carefully weeding the rockery. A straw hat, wide-brimmed and frayed, protected his neck from the harsh noon sun. Brightly coloured flowers were growing all around the rockery, pale pink rock jasmine, golden bloomed alyssum, white and yellow bellflowers, with their delicate, drooping blooms. The gardener's fingers gently tugged at the weed stems while he probed the roots with his copper fork. Placing the weeds in a canvas basket by his side he climbed over the higher rocks to continue his work among the scented thyme that grew against the garden's rear wall. He worked with the endless patience of a man in tune with the earth, never tearing at the weeds, never disturbing the roots of the plants he sought to protect. There was no tension in him, and his mind was perfectly at peace.

An older man moved along the paved path beneath the rockery. He was a big man, heavy-boned and broad in the shoulder. His close-cropped hair was peppered with silver, and his skin was deeply tanned and leathered by a lifetime of work in the open. The gardener saw him, smiled and climbed back down to the path.

'It is looking fine, Kale,' he said. 'You have done well. But I am concerned with the violets.'

Together the two men strolled across the rock garden to a deep pocket of royal blue speedwell growing alongside a crimson wild thyme. At the border of the rocks was a stand of yellow wood violet. The leaves were dull and speckled.

'The soil is not holding enough moisture, lord,' said Kale, kneeling down and pushing his fingers into the earth. 'It could do with some peat or rotted straw. I will fetch some this afternoon.' He glanced over his shoulder at the rising sun. 'And they are getting too much sun.'

The gardener nodded. 'It had enough shade until the juniper died. We need to build a screen to the west, with a fast-climbing flower, to give time for the weeping birch to take hold. A jasmine, do you think?'

'A screen is a good idea, lord. Though I prefer the yellow clematis as a climber. But I think you put too much faith in the birch. Such trees do not like this soil. It is too thin.'

'A garden needs trees. They lift the eye, and the spirit, and they add depth and shadow. Anyway the cypresses are doing well here.'

'Indeed they are, lord, but you spent a fortune for the irrigation work. Without it they would die within a month.'

The gardener laughed. 'What else is money for? It is there to be spent. A garden is a thing of beauty, and pleasing to the Source.'

'Speaking of money, lord, the marsh marigolds will be here tomorrow. It appears that most survived the journey.'

'Excellent. That is what the far pond needs, Kale. A touch of gold. Now remember they should be planted just above the water's edge, the soil kept continually moist.'

'I have never seen a marsh marigold, lord,' said Kale. 'I will not know how to nurture it.'

The gardener smiled and clapped the man on the shoulder. 'You will learn, Kale. And if they die I'll buy more. Eventually we will get it right.'

A newcomer moved along the path. Kale bowed and backed away as the Avatar approached. 'Your gardens are a constant delight, Viruk,' said the Questor General. 'So many colours and scents.'

Tension returned and the gardener faded back. Viruk the warrior brushed the dry dirt from his hands and led the General to a rest area where comfortable chairs had been set under a canopy of vine leaves. It was cool in the shade. 'To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, cousin?' he asked, removing his straw hat and dropping it to the ground.

'Ammon is training a regular army. My spies tell me that they are well disciplined and hardy.'