The 13th God (The Cycle of Galand Book 8), page 16
While these structures were bright and pretty, the dalaxa's living quarters in the compounds were all very plain. Either they thought of the dalax-halls as their true homes, and decorated them accordingly, or the Gorgos wanted to make sure that the dalaxa always had a wonderful time when they were at their drinking and games.
As Kelen had predicted, they caught sight of the capital of Thippia late that afternoon. The city wasn't as sprawling as Dante had expected, more like one of the compact city-states of Alebolgia than a gigantic seat of power like Bressel or Setteven. It was set alongside a river and while most of it was on relatively level ground, the back quarter of it projected from a sharp fold in the land so that it almost hung over the lower part of the city.
Dante pointed to the upper section, where a series of grand buildings were separated from their surroundings by a wall. "I'm guessing that's the palace?"
"Unless it's there to deceive people into thinking it's the palace," Kelen said.
"Do they do things like that here?"
"I don't know. I haven't been to this world in a very long time, and I haven't ever been to this city."
There was a fair amount of traffic on the road outside it, both coming and going. A fraction were obviously Gorgos, mounted as they were on the dog-pony things, not to mention being dressed in clothes more sophisticated than a bed sheet. But most were dalaxa, smiling happily as they pulled wheeled carts behind them with straps tied around their shoulders and waists. When the dalaxa bothered to glance at the strangers, their wide smiles didn't falter for an instant. Yet the first time a Gorgos looked their way, he stopped in shock, then flipped about and drove his mount straight back to the capital, its paws landing on the road with light thuds.
"Pathetic," Kelen muttered. "They strut around with such lordly airs, but the sight of a few travelers is enough to make them piss down their legs."
The city was surrounded by a wall that was patterned with squares of colored glass, except in the handful of places where it had been battered down and later repaired. At the gates—two tall connected arches—a detachment of a dozen soldiers hustled outside and beelined toward the four travelers.
"You!" Soldiers were often contentious types, particularly the ones assigned to stand sentry, but the people of Harasphont seemed especially so. In fact, given what Kelen was like, maybe it was true of all Olastar. "Are you seeking entry to Thippia?"
"That depends," Blays said. "If we are, is it going to get us executed?"
The soldier blinked to hear an obvious outlander speaking his language. "You don't look like you're of this world! Are you devils?"
"We're not of this world," Dante said. "But we're not devils, either. We're lords on a mission from Rale. We must have an audience with your king."
"They speak like madmen," the man said to Kelen. "Are they telling the truth?"
Kelen shrugged. "If I'm traveling with madmen, would you trust me to tell you the truth?"
The soldier drummed his fingers against his chin, then glanced back at the palace district that almost looked like it was stuck to the side of a cliff. "Not just foreigners…but off-worlders. Gifts or trade…if this were to fall into the hands of another realm, I'll be hanged thrice." He'd been murmuring this to himself, but now raised his voice. "You will come with me. You will stop for nothing, and speak to no one, or you will be harmed. Understand?"
"Understood," Dante said.
"Follow me."
The man turned on his heel and strode back toward the gates. The other soldiers filed behind the foreigners. One of them ran ahead to the gates, delivering quick orders to yet more soldiers there, who then ran off into the city.
"Is this fine fellow really about to deliver us straight to the king?" Blays said, speaking Mallish; he'd removed his talisman again. "If so—"
"No speaking!" The soldier whirled on them, reaching for the elaborate handle of his sword, which looked like a cage for his hand. "And when you are allowed to speak, it will only be in Hypation!"
"Their language," Kelen said.
Blays raised an eyebrow, then gave the man a bow, a gesture they'd found was almost universally understood even if the people in question didn't use it. The man glared at them before turning around and stalking toward the gates again. Blays slipped his talisman over his neck and raised his eyebrows at Dante, who tapped his finger against his lips; Blays nodded.
As they passed under the shadow of the gates, it occurred to Dante that if Kelen were recognized, they could all be in great trouble. He didn't seem to be worried, though, and claimed to have never been here, so Dante supposed he didn't have to be worried, either. At least not about that.
They immediately entered a grand bazaar, where dozens of pavilions hosted vendors selling clothes, spices, little paintings in frames of an unknown greenish metal, and even smaller glass vials of every color filled with gods only knew what. There were nearly no dalaxa to be seen, only Gorgos, but some of these were browsing shawls and jewelry that didn't look like anything a Gorgos would wear. As they left the bazaar, Dante understood that was because they weren't meant for Gorgos: rather, the Gorgos were purchasing things to adorn their dalaxa with. He didn't know if this actually pleased the dalaxa, or if it was just done to impress their fellow Gorgos.
The soldier angled past a pair of compounds so large that they seemed to have multiple sub-compounds within them and came to a locked gate that he had a key for. The grille opened to another road. This one was very straight, wide enough for a large wagon to roll down, and actively guarded by soldiers even though it was almost empty. Because, of course, it was supposed to be empty, or close to it: it was a king's road, reserved for those on the most pressing business of Harasphont. Dante didn't have any such thing for himself and immediately wondered if he should excavate one under Narashtovik.
The road was enclosed on both sides by purple-gray stone walls and there was little to see except when they passed one of the grilles, where they caught glimpses of expansive pavilions packed with dalaxa. Sometimes they got whiffs of vegetable cakes frying in oil, or else a bland, starchy smell of boiling roots that Dante was disturbed to think was the only thing the dalax-drinkers ate. On the whole, though, the city's odors were as mild as all the other smells of Olastar were.
The road brought them to another gate, larger than the one they'd entered the road through, where the soldier flashed a badge of office to another sentry. Beyond, the ground sloped upward: they had entered the palace district.
The Gorgos they glimpsed through the side-grilles were visibly wealthier than the ones they'd been seeing previously, and there were even more dalaxa here than elsewhere. Still, while they often occupied and moved through the same places with each other, there was very little interaction between the two groups. It was almost like they were invisible to each other. Dante supposed, in a sense, that they were.
The previous portion of the city tilted behind them until it was all but hanging over them. They came to a high wall, where the soldier leading them once more proved he was allowed to be there. On the other side, he stopped in a broad courtyard spread out between the wall and the keep, which was comprised of three contiguous round, stout structures.
"You'll wait here!" the soldier informed them. He pointed to the other armsmen. "And you'll watch them. Don't let anyone else talk to them."
The other soldiers responded with a single clap, apparently a form of acknowledgement. The soldier spun about and all but ran into the keep.
The courtyard was no less busy than the street, and as if by gravitic attraction the outlanders drew a small crowd of wary but curious Gorgos, who would have kept a safe distance from the bizarre-looking foreigners even if the soldiers hadn't insisted on it. Several tried to ask Dante where he was from, but after being answered with threats from the soldiers, the gawkers turned their questions to each other instead.
Back at the gates, a rider arrived. He dismounted and his maea (that was the name Kelen had given the strange pony-dogs) was immediately swarmed by a team of smiling dalaxa. As one of them attempted to remove its saddle, he dropped it to the ground.
"You damned idiot!" The rider stomped toward them, removing a cane from a strap on his belt. "What have I told you about the saddles?"
The dalaxa bobbed his head, clutching the saddle to his chest. "Two people, always use two—"
The cane crashed down on his head, ripping open his scalp. His head jerked downward, but he held fast to the saddle, and didn't cry out or even touch the bleeding wound.
"I was just about to ask Haros, sir," the dalaxa went on as if nothing had happened. "But the saddle was already slipping, do you see? There wasn't time."
The Gorgos whipped the cane down upon the man's head again. This opened a second wound, spilling blood into the dalaxa's left eye, which he mopped up without so much as wincing.
"What is the matter with you?" the Gorgos demanded. "Even animals are wise enough to fear pain. You stand there speaking to me like you have the intelligence of a man when you don't even have the wit to care that you're bleeding!"
"I don't understand, sir. Don't you want me to go clean the saddle? I'll clean it till the whole thing shines."
The Gorgos struck him a third time, square in the face. The crunch of his nose sounded across the courtyard. The dalaxa staggered, but his only reaction was to hold the saddle away from his body so he wouldn't get any of the blood spurting from his nose on it.
"Why won't you scream? Why won't you cry? Even if I beat the brains out from your ears, you'd still be looking at me like we were discussing your favorite uncle!"
"But if I have any uncles, I don't know who they are, lord."
The Gorgos cracked him across the nose again. The other man barely swayed.
"You don't know fear, you don't know what it takes to defend a kingdom from those who would steal it or destroy it, you don't know the frustration of depending on things like you to tend to the most basic affairs. All you know is your stupid tincture!"
The Gorgos turned away from the other man, yelling wordlessly, and flung his cane across the courtyard. Then he lowered his arms to his side and cocked his head. He smiled.
"But that's not quite right, is it?" he said to the empty air in front of him. "You can know fear. You will be locked up for five days—and during that time, you won't be allowed a single drop of dalax."
The dalaxa's face darkened. Blood continued to flow down his chin. "But no, sir. That's not fair. That's just not fair. The saddle—"
"Was already slipping. That's what you tell me, and it is a lie. And that is why depriving you of your dalax for five days is a mercy compared to what I ought to have done to you."
"Sir, I'm not lying sir, you're mistaken—"
The Gorgos snapped his fingers. "Men! Take him to the screamer."
A pair of soldiers had been following this closely, as if awaiting this. They rocked forward and advanced on the bleeding man.
The dalaxa's expression twisted and his blue face went green. He threw the saddle at the Gorgos and ran at him, screaming. The Gorgos sidestepped the saddle and then the charging man. With a laugh, he swept the man's leg out from under him, knocking him to the hexagonal paving stones. Still screaming, the dalaxa struggled to push himself up, but the Gorgos kicked him in the side of the head, delivering him back to the ground.
Dizzied, the man tried again. But the two soldiers were already falling upon him, battering him with truncheons, the sound of it even more grotesque than the cane. The dalaxa's screams became shrieks.
By the time they were done with him, Dante had lost count of how many bones they'd broken. Horribly, almost impossibly—driven, almost certainly, by the dalax—the man had never lost consciousness despite having his skull caved in. Even when they picked him up by his broken limbs and hauled him off, the dalaxa pulled an arm free and reached out for something only he could see. The sound of his unshaped moans only stopped when the two soldiers dragged him into the keep.
All of this had barely drawn notice from the other Gorgos, and none at all from the other dalaxa. Blays looked disgusted while Gladdic looked resigned. Kelen looked impassive enough, but Dante had traveled with him for just long enough to see the wrath tightening the corners of his eyes and mouth.
The dalaxa led the rider's maea off to the stables. One of them picked up the saddle and hugged it tight to her chest, toddling after the others.
The soldier who'd brought them to the palace banged through the oversized front doors and plowed his way back to them.
He extended his left hand. "Your weapons!"
"Correct," Blays said. "They're mine. What do you want with them?"
"If you wish to enter the palace, you must relinquish them."
"But that can't be right. This is like asking me to hand over my hands."
"I am sure we'll get them back," Dante said. "We always have before."
Blays smiled. "This is true. All right, but you better take care of them." He unbuckled his sword belts and passed them to the soldier, then the long knife strapped to his shin.
The soldier tipped up his chin, then let it fall back into a resting position. "And your mace?"
"I don't have a mace. I'm more of a cutting man."
"The one on your belt, sir."
"This?" Blays motioned to the ball-headed rod. "This is just an object of my station. Like a scepter, you see. Look, it doesn't even have a grip."
The soldier bent at the waist for a closer look. "For a scepter, it is not very elaborate."
"My line are very humble folk. That's why everyone loves us so much."
The man frowned, then straightened and moved to Dante. "And you."
Dante relinquished his sword. Gladdic had nothing to hand over besides a knife-of-all-trades the soldier determined was too small to worry about. The same was true of Kelen. With his charges disarmed, the soldier executed another one of his heel-spins and brought them into the palace.
The sun was setting, but the interior was well-lit with blue-white globes that Dante was sure must be fancy torchstones and of which he was very jealous. The ceilings were high and arched. The walls were inlaid with copper designs of parallel lines running between circles filled in with inscrutable symbols. Dante took them for the kind of meaningless designs woven into rugs and tapestries to look nice, but something about the narrow rectangles that connected the circles kept catching his eye. They were full of little X's. X's arranged in ways that almost looked like…constellations. The designs weren't random at all: they were depictions of portals between places and realms.
He might even be looking at a map.
These thoughts wrapped up his mind well enough that before he knew it they were being delivered to what must be their destination. The room was certainly expansive enough to be a throne room. By the looks of it, the king was a proud hunter: he'd filled the chambers with preserved animals of all kinds, most of them big and menacing. One was a tusked lizard the size of a crocodile. Another looked like an oversized maea with much larger jaws. One specimen looked just like a Gaskan brown bear, a creature Dante had become quite familiar with around Narashtovik, while another might possibly have been the source of an animal rumored to exist far to the east across the Woduns that Dante had always taken for fantasy: a terrifyingly huge tiger with canine teeth you could fashion daggers out of.
His gaze caught short. Exotic as some of the creatures were, they all looked like things that could live on Olastar. But what he was looking at now absolutely didn't. Because it was a bladeling.
The room wasn't filled with the fauna of Olastar. It was filled with the fauna of everywhere. The bear and the tiger were Ralish—as were the two human bodies on display: one intact, the other skinned.
His skin was still crawling as the door at the back of the room swung open. A middle-aged woman appeared. A severe-looking man followed behind her. She sailed across the room to a church door-sized table in the middle of the room.
"My time is not spent lightly," she said, as the man stood behind her. "Be seated."
The four of them did as they were told while the soldiers that had escorted them separated to stand beside the two doors. As Dante settled into his seat, the woman closed her eyes and took several breaths of varying length and force. The room was dim, and when the veins in her face and arms began to glow blue, it was apparent at once.
Beside him, Kelen went green. "Lie as little as you possibly can," he murmured. "She is a Rantic. Trained—"
"Speak Hypatian or speak nothing." The woman's words were in a different tongue than whatever Kelen had just been using. She had had to open her eyes and pause her breathing routine, the color in her veins fading slightly.
"Yes, my lady," Kelen said.
The woman resumed her ritual. Once her veins had grown so bright it made Dante's eyes water to look at directly, she opened her eyes. The veins then dimmed until they only glimmered when she turned her head at various angles.
"Now." She looked Dante in the eye. "You say you are from Rale?"
"That's right," he said. "And we're here—"
"What is your name?"
"Dante Galand."
"And yours?" she said to Blays.
"Blays Buckler."
She turned to Gladdic. Her movements were crisp and precise as the king's guard during their drills. "And yours?"
"Gladdic of Bressel."
"And lastly yours."
"Arkelen," Kelen answered without pausing.
She continued to stare at him. "Arkelen of where?"
"Xinis."
The answer was as smooth as the first, but Dante wasn't convinced it was the truth. Kelen seemed infamous here. Too much so to just announce that he was in fact the famous infidel and traitor that other Olastarans had been trying to hunt down and execute for decades. Was he lying, but as little as he had to? Hewing as close to the truth as he dared? Dante supposed, if he had to, that he would try to do the same.
"And you three say you are all from Rale," she said to the others.
