FOUR
THE RETURN VOYAGE to the mainland was uneventful, the seas calm and the winds fair. They enjoyed the company of a Rudd Skimmer for most of their journey. The glittering lights trailed in their wake, keeping what must have been a snail’s pace. They turned off only when the black hull of the Pegasus pointed toward the mouth of the lagoon.
It was near dawn of the third turn by then. The prospect of the rising sun made the heavy tasks of anchoring and stowing easier. By the time they had launched the longboat, there was a rosy glow in the East.
Their march toward Brigantia was slow and unhurried, for there were only three of them. Although Ryder was enjoying the reverse view of his previous journey, the Pat’Riark was in a somber mood. His few attempts at conversation met with grunts.
As the morning progressed, Ryder’s misgivings grew and the scenery gradually turned lackluster. It was the moon of leaves falling, signaling the cycle’s end, though in this land of bright sunshine and warmth the seasons seemed forever frozen. Yet he knew each turn brought the inevitable union of Ashara and Zel closer to fruition. What had become his greatest desire in this strange world would be forever lost. And how would he fulfill his reckless promise? For all his newfound balance, he was but an embryo taking shape with agonizing slowness.
Where was power? Only as an Adept could he challenge Zel and somehow force him to abandon the marriage. Either willingly or…what? The dark thought returned unbidden. Challenge him in combat? Take his life? What vanity was this? Could he hope to defeat him—a task even the most proficient among the Swordkind could not accomplish? And even if he could, would this not truly render him a Code-breaker? Would such an act make him worthy of Ashara Sid’s love?
The thoughts tumbled around in his brain like kernels of wheat in a gristmill, yet they always returned with the same grim conclusion. He barely noticed Mendiko walking alongside until his voice suddenly intruded.
“There is no need to ask the direction of your thoughts, my friend. They are written on your brow, more easily read than anything set down by the pen of Kronus.”
“Tell me something of Zel,” Ryder asked. “What sort of man is he?”
Mendiko answered readily enough. “I have known him since we were boys, for he is only two cycles older. I remember him possessing both vanity and haughtiness in equal measure, yet these are not unusual traits for the heir-apparent to the most powerful seat in the empire.
“Women would say he is comely, I suppose, and he has strength of purpose. It was always his ambition to be Riark. There was a great deal of selfishness about him, and a coarseness that now turns to brutality. He rarely leaves Triton, the home planet of the D’ia Mor…”
Mendiko faltered. “I have heard whispers he has bonded with a Trine. It may be so, for he travels in company with two of their number at all times: the broken Trine known as the Kern. If it is true, he is now more D’ia Mor than Earther. His hunger for the Kryll dominates his life. I have not seen him since the last Great Moot five cycles past, yet what I witnessed there…”
Mendiko hesitated once again. “You have seen the Korda, but you have yet to witness the Great Moot. It affects the Swordkind the way the moon affects the waters of Earth. Most Adepts resist the pull for a time until they are more seasoned, more familiar with the ways of High Power. Those who resist the longest are the most successful. Thorgrim, Shaka, Roland…all won in their chosen time, yet each decided not to contest again. Even this is not unusual. It would seem that once having savored the thrill of the Great Moot, one becomes sated. All but the most driven. Argus fought four times and was victorious until—as many believe—his courage failed him.”
“Zel?”
“He waited a century. The D’ia Mor guided him, honing and heightening his skill in otherworldly ways. He has now become an engine of destruction, achieving victory four times.
“What happened in the last Great Moot?” Ryder asked. “What did you see that worried you?”
Again the Sword Thane hesitated. “Ulric Germanicus,” he finally replied. “Some considered him the greatest prospect since Argus, for he had waited far longer than any other. He is an Adept of the First Rank, and as I told you, he was also Commander of the Rim Fleet. There are only four others who hold the rank of commander in the Gardai. He fought against Zel in the last bout. For a time, it looked as though he would prevail…but he faltered.”
“Faltered? You mean he grew weak?”
Mendiko shook his head. “I did not see it that way. It looked to me—and others—as if he was pressing home his attack when he suddenly froze. A moment only, yet that is all the advantage one needs at such an advanced level. What was even more astonishing was the viciousness of Zel’s counter-attack. It was as though he knew what would happen and was ready for it. He struck at the exact moment with his full power, rupturing Ulric’s shield. The blow was devastating.
“And that is the worry. Many believe Zel used a mind thrust contrary to the Second Rood of the Code—though it is a hard thing to prove against one of Zel’s rank. There was no blame laid at any rate since Ulric made no complaint. We feared for a time he would succumb to his wounds, but he recovered. He still functions and remains an Adept, even though crippled. He no longer serves with the fleet but lives in semi-seclusion as the Warden of Gehenna, prison planet of the Pentarchy.”
“Why would he remain crippled?” Ryder asked as he had once before. “Surely the abilities of the Genetic Engineers could remedy whatever ails him.”
Mendiko’s shrug was expressive. “I have only the greatest admiration and respect for Lord Ulric, yet he is proud and stubborn. He refuses any aid, preferring to live with the constant and torturous reminder of his defeat.”
“So there is no one who can overthrow Zel,” Ryder observed grimly.
“There will always be those who will try,” Mendiko countered. “Yet there is but one who has any hope: my cousin Shaan, the Rian of Faerwyn-Joss. He has trained long and hard, and he too was a student of the Pat’Riark. And yet, I fear for him.”
They continued walking through the morning and afternoon, each man sunk deep in his thoughts. As the sun touched the horizon, they came within sight of the city. The vast expanse of the spaceport stretched out on their right, and they could see the slim shapes of the shuttles and tugs winking in the fading light.
They came to the broad stone walkway marking the outskirts of the city proper, where the first scattered dwellings lined the hills bordering the seashore. With the falling darkness came rain-laden clouds that dumped their moisture in a brief but torrential deluge.
The people enjoying a sunset walk along the shore scattered for shelter, yet the three travelers walked on unconcerned, protected by shield-glow. A line of tall trees rested on either side of the walkway, and lamps of teklume hung from their branches. They glowed like fireflies, blinking in and out of focus in time with the shifting leaves. The rain slackened, then ceased, and a faint smattering of stars peeked out to greet their arrival.
As they reached the shoulder of the harbor, the land curved inward. Across the bay, the tiered ramparts of Castle Mondragon stood high on the promontory. Lower was the well-remembered shape of the Star Chamber. It felt like a lifetime ago when Ryder had stood in that hall, waiting for a verdict to decide his life. She would be nearby, a guest of honor in the castle. Would he be able to see her? Talk to her?
A bright mushroom of light rose over the city as the darkness closed its heavy fist. Behind them, the great beacon of the spaceport cut the sky like a scythe, its stroke regular and endless. In front of them was the greatest glow of all. The city within a city: Ravel.
Fortunatus broke his lengthy silence. “We’ll cut through No-man’s-land and make for the chute at the beginning of Niobe’s Way. From there you must continue on your own, for I have business with the Lady.” Without waiting for a reply, he strode off, angling away from the sea and toward the loom. His staff was a beacon lighting the way.
They followed close upon his heels and soon came to a rough path. Instead of following it, Fortunatus continued across and into a thick jumble of buildings, none of them much higher than a tall man.
“The path we recently crossed is the Outer Way, the unofficial frontier of Ravel,” Mendiko explained. “This area is No-man’s-land since it lies just outside the boundary proper. It contains a scattering of salariat from various worlds. A few are lesser merchants, but most have only the loosest ties to the Guild. They could not hope to afford a place in the actual confines of Ravel, so they have set up their stalls and their crude dwellings here.”
“How far is the center?” Ryder asked, wanting to know more about this infamous place now that he could explore it.
“Not far. Ravel is a pentagram, with the primary vertex facing north to the sea. The actual boundary is Border Road. From each of the five vertices is a passageway leading toward the center: a circular area known as the Hub. Starting from the north and traveling clockwise, these paths are Ocean Way, the Haggle, the Path of Players, the Path of Pens, and the Street of Slatterns. The tracts of land formed by these byways are the Stalls, the Common, the Arcade, the Pens, and the Lucre. Primary chute points rest at each vertex, and one at the center of the Hub. There are smaller junctions scattered throughout. Border Road begins where Ocean Way meets the sea and ends at the juncture of the Street of Slatterns. From there it becomes Niobe’s Way. Her Retreat lies in the triangle at the northernmost part of the Lucre. That is the Pat’Riark’s destination.”
They passed what Ryder now recognized as a chute entry. Mendiko smiled at him when the Pat’Riark carried on without a second glance. ‘Not far’ became an hour’s walk, which made Ryder appreciate the size of Ravel. He knew when they were approaching the center. The level of noise rose until it roared in his ears like a siren.
There was no actual line of demarcation between No-man’s-land and Ravel proper. The juncture of Niobe’s Way and the Street of Slatterns was so congested it was unrecognizable. As far as Ryder could see, it was also unnavigable. Fortunatus strode ahead with the confidence of Moses parting the Red Sea. Like the Sea, the multitudes gave them room, only to close in upon their wake after they had passed.
A cornucopia of sentient beings from every corner of the vast Pentarchy inundated the road. The variety was far greater than any menagerie could ever be—royal or not. As he had over four moons previously, he gaped in awe, yet it was only seconds before he encountered an even stranger oddity. He finally beheld something beyond the bounds of credibility.
“By the Rim! What is that?”
Mendiko peered where he was pointing and nodded. “That is an Edyan Bol’Arse, a rather disgusting creature when gauged by human standards.”
“Where is the…er…head?”
“That stalk-like appendage in the middle.”
As though aware of their interest, the creature turned and stared at them. Ryder saw a pair of oval slits perched atop the stalk that could have been eyes. An even longer appendage resembling an elephant’s trunk waved around like a slack antenna. At the end was a mouth with a tiny pair of lips. The largest part of its anatomy was a pair of fleshy mounds like buttocks, attached to four spider-like legs two meters long. The only parts of the body Ryder recognized were the arms. These were little more than stumps, with six delicate fingers on each.
“Why are the hindquarters so large and everything else so small?” he wondered.
“Ah…” Mendiko shook his head. “That is not the ass but the stomach.”
“How can it pick up food with those stubby arms?”
“There is a sticky membrane—a tongue if you will. It is over two meters and snaps out of the orifice at astonishing speed. The trunk-like appendage is their organ of disposal. Needless to say, watching a member of their race eating or shitting is a certain way to lose one’s appetite.”
All recognized them as Swordkind and tried to give them room, though they often suffered jostles in the packed throng. Because of their shields, this was merely an annoyance. Still, it made Ryder wonder.
“This looks like a thieves’ paradise,” he remarked.
“I am sure there are a few about,” Mendiko agreed, “yet the threat of Gehenna deters all but the most foolhardy.”
The congestion suddenly lessened, and Ryder assumed they had reached Niobe’s Way. As they passed the chute point, they heard a disturbance. When they turned their heads, they saw a squad of Grimman-Seth dreen in full battle armor exit and plough through the milling throng as though they were the tip of a spear. In the rear strode an officer whom Ryder recognized as Warlord Vull.
Their paths crossed, and Ryder could not move aside in time. The dreen in the lead was so intent on bashing and shoving, he failed to notice him until too late. He caromed off Ryder’s shield, lost his balance, and stumbled sideways into Mendiko. This equally non-moveable barrier sent him sprawling into his comrades. Two more went down in a confused tangle of jerking limbs, accompanied by angry shouts in Grimman-Seth.
Fortunatus stood calmly as Vull strode up to them. The remaining dreen formed a cordon, and Ryder noticed how eagerly they fingered their disruptor rifles. The Grimman-Seth leader was the only one wearing a growler, and he was quick to vent his anger.
“Why do you block our way, Beadsman?”
Fortunatus’ reply was civil, though tinged with sarcasm. His brows had not yet lowered. “Apologies, First Talon. Your dreen were in a hurry, and regrettably...” he nodded in Ryder’s direction, “…I have not yet taught him to give way.”
Ryder saw that Vull had noticed him for the first time. Though he could not say he understood, he didn’t like the sudden change in the other’s expression. The High Halcyon leaned close to peer at him. “You are the newly risen one?”
Ryder nodded, and Vull’s eyes seemed to glimmer from within.
“Very well, we shall overlook your indiscretion this one time only. May your visit to Ravel afford you much pleasure.” He bowed stiffly and screamed a series of commands. The dreen once more formed up and left at a trot, only to become quickly lost among the crowd.
Fortunatus stared after them. “Strange. I would not have expected him to be so forgiving. As a point of honor, he should have cursed us in his tongue before setting off.” He shook his head, dismissing the altercation. “I must leave you here. We will meet at Owen’s Fountain in three hours.” He gave them both a stern look. “Do not be late.”
The Pat’Riark strode off in haste, and the two were left standing alone amid a milling crowd that flowed around them like a rushing current around a projecting reef.
“What now?” Ryder asked.
Mendiko gestured toward the side and they made their way to a holo near the chute exit, portraying a three-dimensional replica of Ravel. Ryder studied it with interest.
“We are here.” Mendiko pointed at the chute from which the Grimman-Seth had exited. “We have only a limited time to peruse the wonders of Ravel. A man might putter away his life here before he has seen every way and byway, or tasted the fruits of all its pleasures. And if he should make it, when he stands once again at the boundary of No-man’s-land it will have altered beyond recognition. Even I who have visited here times beyond counting have seen only a minute portion.”
His finger traced the boundary of Border Road. “Each side of the outer pentagram is five klicks. I suggest we travel up the Street of Slatterns until we reach the Middle Way.” He pointed to a portion of the smaller pentagram standing at the mid-point between the Hub and Border Road. “We can then follow it past the Block to the Path of Pens. We shall cross the Path but keep to the Middle Way until we reach the center of the Arcade. Therein lays the Grand Theatre. We should be in time for the show.” His eyes twinkled with merriment. “It is a new play by F’Arundel, called the 'Saydin Mak Doom’.”
Ryder raised his eyebrows.
“Would you not like to see yourself idolized under the lights, the object of a hero’s accolade?” Mendiko teased.
“I prefer anonymity,” Ryder retorted. “Like the Pat’Riark, I have grown wary of crowds.”
“Ah…then I suggest you raise your cowl,” Mendiko advised. “We are drawing an unseemly amount of attention.”
Many passers-by had stopped to gawk and point in their direction, causing a snag in the flow of traffic. And the snag was growing.
Ryder took the advice and they moved off in haste. Many tried to follow, yet it was impossible to follow anyone through the madness of the thoroughfare. They quickly outdistanced their pursuers.
***
The Street of Slatterns was an endless series of gaily colored cubicles with large fronting windows. Behind them sat males and females in various sultry poses intended to accentuate their charms. Ryder could not distinguish their gender in all cases. He saw a Bol’Arse and could find no way to identify its sex. There were humans and humankind of exceptional beauty, though the eyes of each possessed a hardness he did not find attractive. In his opinion, this profession had changed little from his time.
Mendiko kept his eyes straight ahead as they strode past, but this did not protect him from a certain amount of abuse.
“Drop your shield, Sword Thane…”
“Come here and use your sword on me, Thane…”
Mendiko cleared his throat as though he had swallowed something vile. “Unlike the Block, these individuals sell their favors for a scant time. There is a rapid turnover since many become disillusioned. Most prefer to opt for the contract, where the rewards are slower but…er…less rigorous.”
They walked as fast as the crowd would permit. Fifteen minutes later, Mendiko turned right. Ryder could see no sign of a road or path.
“This is the Middle Way,” the prince explained. “The path has grown congested over the cycles, and its existence is only through traditional agreements passed down from father to son. It meanders and we may find ourselves retracing our steps, but it will eventually lead us to the next major artery.”
They weaved along an ill-defined path through a multitude of small vendors and hawkers engaged in intimate discussions. In every case, Ryder noted the product for sale was a living specimen of some race.
“This is the first stage of the contract,” Mendiko told him. “It is known as the parlay. Here prospective buyers and the contracted may thrash out the terms of sale. It is also a time for each side to inspect one another and discuss fine details not included in the bill of lading. In certain cases, a contract may finalize here if both parties are agreeable. Yet most opt for the Block. It affords greater exposure, and therefore a better chance for a more lucrative encounter. Even at the last, the contracted does not always accept the highest bid. They often choose the buyer with whom they feel the most comfortable.”
“It all sounds very civilized,” Ryder remarked tonelessly, wondering how often those selling themselves regretted their decision after it was too late.
Mendiko nodded. “The Judicata strictly enforces the rules of the contract, though truthfully they limit their jurisdiction to the salariat. They hold little sway over the Noble Houses.”
The tour continued. They passed an endless number of low, sprawling buildings, all of them identical. Around these were an even greater number of close-knit gatherings.
“These domiciles are pens,” Mendiko told him, “hence the name of this area of Ravel. They are the temporary living quarters of the contracted, replete with the most advanced wizardry of the Techniks. The brokers of the Crofters Guild count their wealth and influence by the number of pens they support.”
They kept moving along the Middle Way until they came to a huge clearing cordoned off from the surrounding structures. A raised platform stood at the center, covered with neatly trimmed grass. A massive throng surrounded it, a rich blend of color and fine-spun fabric. Ryder smelled the unmistakable odor of wealth. His footsteps slowed and he came to a halt. Though it did not seem to please Mendiko overmuch, he decided he would like to watch the activities.
At the moment, a tall man with blonde hair and skin the color of dull gold stood upon the stage. He was a handsome figure, smiling as he cradled his lute as though it were an infant, all the while staring boldly at the crowd. Ryder was looking straight at him when he could have sworn the man’s features shifted. It was akin to the wobbling of a mirage in the desert heat. He shook his head, wondering if he had imagined it.
A much shorter man stood to one side, holding a long staff-like rod rising well above his head. He was bald as an egg, with a bull neck that disappeared into sloping shoulders. A gold earring dangled from his left ear. As he moved his head, it glinted in the multi-colored shafts of light playing over the stage.
“The Tallyman,” Mendiko said. “He is the go-between and the caller of the current price. The man offering himself in contract is a changeling. They can alter their appearance to varying degrees depending on the innate skill of the individual. Such men and women are often gifted artisans and rarely offer themselves. I predict he will fetch an outrageous price.” The prince’s frown deepened as he continued to inspect the man. “There is something familiar about this one, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.”
The Tallyman stepped forward and ran through the man’s impressive list of attributes. He was offering himself for one cycle, and the asking minimum was five hundred and fifty-five pents. Ryder didn’t understand the sum.
“The price is even steeper than I thought,” Mendiko said, then explained in a tone reflecting his boredom. “The lowest monetary unit is the quintal, or quint. There are a hundred quints to the pent. The pent is further divided into two units called the demi-quant or twenty-five quints, and the quant or demi-pent, equal to fifty quints. There are also denominations of five, ten, twenty, fifty, and one hundred pents. A sum of one thousand pents is equivalent to a tark. A man who is fortunate enough to possess five hundred tarks is known as a pentark—an irreverent form of slang denoting someone so wealthy they are probably from a Noble House.
“The tark is the only coin with the visage of Archduke Owen. The others bear the likeness of Archduke Victor. On the reverse side are many varied emblems belonging to the five realms.” Mendiko dug a coin from his robe and handed it to Ryder. It was a ten-pent piece in the shape of a pentagram. One side bore the stamped face of Victor Mondragon. On the other was an intricate scene of a Rudd riding a dolphin.
“I will give you an example of relative values,” Mendiko continued, slipping the coin back into his robe. “Five quints can buy you a sumptuous meal or several beverages in the stalls. One hundred quints or a pent can buy enough basic staples to last a family of four a week. A mid-level plebe of the salariat must work an entire moon to earn the amount you just held in your hand…” Mendiko paused. “Am I losing you?”
Ryder waved airily and grinned. “It’s simplicity itself. A quintal is nothing more than a fancy name for a penny. A pent is a dollar, only one can buy much more with it.”
“A dollar?”
Ryder wagged his forefinger and his voice dripped sarcasm. “There is much you have to learn about Pre-Cloister. I promise to answer all your questions in good time.”
The bidding had begun while they spoke. Already it had reached a level of eight hundred pents. Mendiko whistled under his breath. “I have never heard of so much being offered for any artisan on a first showing.”
“One tark!”
There was an appreciative murmur from the crowd, and they looked over to see who had bid. It was a tall woman with striking, steel-gray eyes and hair. She wore a shimmering azure robe with a thick gold braid on the sleeves.
“Riva Bard,” Mendiko breathed in surprise. Slowly, a satisfied smile etched his face.
“What are you grinning at?” Ryder wondered.
“I thought there was something unusual about the man. Watch closely. You are about to see a play that will delight you.”
“Sing us a song!” someone yelled.
“Let us see if you are worth the price!” another cried.
A choir of other voices took up the plea. The face of the blonde man was neither angry nor afraid as he unlimbered his instrument. He wore a beatific smile as he played and sang in a clear and beautiful voice.
Love doesn’t wait for any lover,
It just flies right on past to someone new,
And it breaks your heart when you discover,
The chances of love are mighty few,
‘Cause there’s an ocean of people that surround us,
And most of them have love they’d like to give,
But the special one that suits you to perfection,
Might never walk the street where you live,
Yes, it’s a sad situation,
And it beats upon the heart until it’s sore,
So cross your fingers, close your eyes,
Don’t think of looking back,
If the hand of love comes knocking at your door.
Cupid wears a smile cloaked in mystery,
As he fits another arrow to his bow,
‘Cause he’s pierced the hearts of many through the ages,
And he holds the secrets we can never know,
So if Venus drops her cloak upon your shoulders,
And with gentle fingers tries to touch your soul,
You’d be foolish if you refuse to listen,
Like a diamond trying to change back into coal,
Yes, it’s a sad situation,
And it beats upon the heart until it’s sore,
So cross your fingers, close your eyes,
Don’t think of looking back,
If the hand of love comes knocking at your door.
The song drifted into silence and the crowd applauded. Ryder believed many others besides Mendiko knew who this man was. As the Tallyman raised his rod, another voice rose loud and commanding and unmistakably feminine.
“I bid two tarks!”
There was pandemonium for a brief space. A hush fell over the gathering as the speaker strode forward.
Ryder was taller than most and had an excellent view of the bidder. It was the dark-haired beauty from House Mondragon who had voted against him. With her were a tall Adept and a lean, dark-robed retainer whose cowl hid his features. Mendiko was no longer smiling.
“The baroness,” he muttered. “She spoils the game on purpose.”
“What game?” Ryder asked.
“Riva Bard is Chieftess of the Blue Cords. She and F’Arundel have been lovers for over a century. This was but a game they were playing for the crowd.”
Ryder had heard the name of F’Arundel but could not remember in what context. “Will Riva Bard not bid again?”
Mendiko shook his head. “She is a powerful woman in her own right, but she is not of the blood royal. She cannot afford to earn the enmity of the baroness, and the baroness well knows it. She does this purely for spite.”
Ryder saw that Riva Bard appeared calm enough, though her lips had compressed to a thin line. He turned his head as the crowd gave a sudden exclamation of wonder and delight. A different man now stood upon the stage. He retained the same golden skin and tall, slender frame, yet the blonde hair had turned jet-black. His features now had more character than beauty, yet Ryder preferred this new face over the other.
F’Arundel wore a bemused expression as he regarded the baroness. The Tallyman looked flustered. His fingers moved nervously upon his rod of office as he glanced back and forth between the two.
“You now have an offer of two tarks, my lord. Will you accept?”
F’Arundel’s lips twisted into a mocking smile and he shook his head. “I’m afraid I must decline. I merely wished to reassure myself of my worth.”
With startling suddenness, he jumped from the stage and strode to Riva Bard. The hush remained.
F’Arundel bowed low. In a golden voice that all could hear, he said, “My lady, I now wear my true face—not so handsome as before, I am sure—yet I offer you my company freely for as long as you may wish.”
Riva Bard smiled and linked her arm in his. They moved off, accompanied by the