Scion of the Serpent Page 13

  “Come back!” The anger in Anok’s voice surprised even him.

  Teferi stopped, looked back over his shoulder.

  “I say this to you with a clear mind, old friend. I have not spoken to you before of my father and his death—his murder—but it weighs on me every day. I have long ignored my past, pretending to be something—someone—I am not.

  “But I am my father’s son. I must know why he died, and I must avenge his death. The answers I seek can only be found within the forbidden walls of Set’s temple. Only there can I extract my vengeance.”

  Teferi just looked at him, a pained expression on his face.

  “That is how it must be done.”

  “You haven’t told Sheriti this, or her mood would be even more dire than mine.”

  He hung his head. “No, I haven’t told her. I don’t know how I can.”

  “But you’ve told me.”

  “I need your help, Teferi. Once I join the temple I’ll be watched, my movements will be limited. I need an accomplice who can act freely in my stead.”

  Teferi’s face was grim. “You ask much.”

  “I do. I know you wished only to be free of Stygia. If you went and found another ship and left this place forever, I would not blame you. I might even be relieved. But for my own selfish reasons, I ask you to follow me closer to Stygia’s dark heart. Refuse if you will, but I must ask.”

  Teferi stood silently. Anok could see his broad shoulders tense, his jaw muscles bunching beneath ebony skin. “I would do this for no other, Anok Wati. No other man, anyway. There is one other who we both hold as dear, for whom we would pay any price, do any deed.”

  Anok nodded.

  “She should know.”

  “I realize that, but I tell you this only because I must, and because you can understand the meaning of Usafiri. It is bad enough I’ve dragged you to this dark place. She need not follow.”

  Teferi nodded. “It’s better that at least one of us escape this slum to a finer life. If it is only one, let it be her.”

  “Agreed.”

  Teferi took a deep breath. “I know a way we can explain your joining the cult, one that will make it seem necessary without drawing her into the rest.”

  Anok blinked. “That would please me.”

  “There will be danger.”

  “There always is.”

  Teferi nodded. “I need to go then and spread rumors of your improving health. Until then, I leave it to you to make those rumors true. We’ll speak of it again later.”

  Teferi turned to leave.

  “Teferi.”

  “Yes?”

  “Send word to Dejal. Tell him I wish to speak with him.”

  Teferi’s face twitched, but he only nodded. He left quietly, latching the door behind him.

  The wind of the closing door blew out the candles in the room, and Anok sat on the edge of the bed, lost in shadows.

  He and Teferi, they had became coconspirators, planning a deception against their closest friend.

  He’d always believed that no good ever came of sorcery. Now he was sure of it.

  11

  IT FELT GOOD to strap on his swords. It had been nearly two weeks since Anok had walked the streets of Odji. He’d felt like an invalid child the whole time, and it had grated on him constantly. Yet he knew he couldn’t show himself at anything less than fighting strength. He had too many enemies on the street.

  He knew that well. In fact, he was counting on it.

  He heard the trapdoor to the upper floors squeak open and Sheriti’s soft footsteps descend. He tightened his belt, squared his shoulders, and drew himself to his full height. Even the sandals felt unfamiliar on his feet. How long had it been since he’d been properly dressed?

  Sheriti peered carefully around the curtains into his sleeping alcove. “Are you dressed?”

  He grinned broadly. “Yes, in fact, I am.”

  She stepped into the archway. She was dressed in a flowing purple robe of iridescent silk. Belted around her narrow waist, it covered her from ankle to shoulders, baring only her arms, neck, and a tantalizing triangle of chest. A pink headcloth covered her hair, held in place by a thin ring of brass around her forehead. It was city attire, more appropriate to a scribe than a rogue of the streets.

  She looked him up and down, smiling. “You look especially fine today. My strong warrior has returned.”

  He found that her compliment touched him more than he could have expected. But he was still transfixed by her appearance.

  She noticed his stare and glanced down at her garments. “You don’t approve?”

  He rubbed his chin, glancing away in embarrassment. “That isn’t it. I’m just surprised. I’ve never seen you dressed like this. You look like one of the noble class, not gutter trash like the rest of us.”

  “Anok—”

  He silenced her with a wave. “You know what I mean. I knew this day would come, and yet nothing could have prepared me for it. You will be leaving these dark streets behind forever.”

  She looked suddenly uncertain, uneasy. “Only to trade them for dark towers and castles, peopled with full-blooded Stygians born to evil.”

  “Still, it’s better than this.”

  She hung her head. “I’m not sure I should go, Anok. This is my mother’s dream, not my own. She wishes for me a quiet life of safety, at any price. I’m not so sure I wish to pay the toll on this journey. I am expected, without fail, back at the Temple of Scribes in two days’ time. The master scribes are already angry at my absence, and only lush bribes sent by my mother have earned this degree of forgiveness. Perhaps it’s better that I not go at all.”

  Anok shook his head. “That’s nonsense. It’s for the best, Sheriti. There’s nothing left in Odji for you. If you stay here, what will become of you? Will you be a wanted and despised rogue as I have become? Will you become a whore like your mother?”

  Anger flashed across her face as her mother was mentioned. “And what if I did become a whore? Would it be so terrible?”

  He stared at her for a long time. “Yes,” he said finally. “It would be a terrible waste. Your mother knows that, and whatever else your mother is, she’s a wise woman.”

  She avoided his eyes, frowning into the dark corner of the room. “A rogue then.”

  “You’ll end up dead, or worse.”

  “And you?”

  “Dead, probably. Just dead.”

  He jaw clinched. “It wasn’t supposed to end like this, Anok.”

  “You’re getting out of this slum.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “That’s worth any price, any sacrifice.”

  She turned and glared at him. “Why, then, are you still here?”

  As I had hoped.

  At that opportune moment, Teferi rushed in, smiling. He couldn’t have timed it better if he’d been listening from outside, which perhaps he had. He stopped and looked at both of them. “Am I intruding on something?”

  “No,” said Anok. “We were just talking.” He patted his friend on the shoulder. “It’s good to see you. This place has become my prison. I thirst for escape.”

  “Then away with us,” he said cheerily, though Anok knew that most of it was an act.

  The stated plan was simple, a trip to the Great Marketplace, some shopping, some entertainment, a good meal, an evening drinking at their favorite tavern. That was what they’d told Sheriti anyhow. In fact, Anok and Teferi had quite a different scenario in mind.

  It was a fine day outside. The sky was blue, striped with thin, lacy clouds like furrows in some celestial farmer’s field. A cool breeze swept in from the Western Ocean, driving the heat back into the desert and sweeping away the cloud of smoke and stench that sometimes hung over Odji and replacing it with a tang of salt.

  The mood on the streets reflected the weather. Odji was not a joyful place, but today people acted almost as though it was a holiday. Squealing children chased each other around parked donkey carts, and goats and geese rooted happil
y through the garbage heaps in the alleyways, looking for tasty morsels.

  Sheriti’s dark mood quickly passed, and as Anok studied her face, he felt growing unease with their actions. It’s a fine day for lying, he thought. But he and Teferi were only trying to protect her the only way they knew how.

  The market was busy, though the pace seemed less hectic than usual. Browsers took their time, watching the merchants. Some sellers stood on raised platforms hawking their merchandise, others sang or pounded drums or gongs to gain attention.

  There were roving bands of performers—musicians, dancers, jugglers, acrobats, magicians—living off donations and bribes from merchants to stay near their shops, or to stay away, depending on the quality of their performance.

  The Ravens stopped at a leathersmith’s, where Anok purchased a set of scabbards that would allow him to wear his blades crossed over his back. He explained this to Sheriti by describing its advantages in allowing stealthy movement in confined spaces. In truth, he anticipated the arrangement would be more compatible with the robes of an acolyte.

  Yet as he tried the scabbards on, even the thought of wearing those robes sickened him. This will be the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. Even the Usafiri will seem a trifle by comparison.

  He was glad to move on.

  Like most women, Sheriti was uncommonly attracted to shiny things, and as she had often done before, she dragged her male companions into a silversmith’s shop. What was uncommon was that she was drawn to a tray of men’s rings. She looked through them, found one she was taken with.

  She showed it to Anok. It was ornately carved, as though circled by ancient vines, and was decorated by a strange two-faced creature.

  The smith, a humpbacked man with long, black hair and carefully manicured hands, scuttled over to see. “Yes,” he said, his voice high and nasal, “the lovely maiden has made an interesting choice.” He took the ring from her, slid it loosely over his extended pinky, and pointed at the faces. “This is Jani, an obscure demon worshiped by some of the nomads who wander the sea of sand. His cult is small, but he is said to be good luck for those facing peril. Two faces, he has, you see, and can watch for danger approaching from all sides.”

  Sheriti smiled. “That sounds right. How much?”

  He named a price, and her smile turned into a pout. “It’s just a little silver ring.”

  The smith pulled it closer to his chest. “I didn’t make this one. Very old, very well crafted, and from very far away. I can show you other rings.”

  She reached out and grabbed his wrist as he started to turn away. “I like this one.” She drew his hand closer and, while looking unflinchingly into his eyes, bent down and took his pinky into her mouth. She lifted her head slowly away from his hand, the pink tip of her tongue moving between her barely parted lips as she stood. “How much, again?”

  The smith blinked, his mouth hanging open. He swallowed hard. He named a much lower price, barely more than the ring’s weight in silver.

  She nodded, removed the silver from her purse, and placed it in the smith’s palm, allowing her fingers to stroke his as she withdrew her hand.

  The smith seemed to choke on his own saliva and convulsed in a coughing fit. By the time he’d recovered, Sheriti had slipped the ring on Anok’s right hand. “A gift,” she said, patting his hand, “a remembrance.” Before he could argue, she was headed for the door with Teferi a few steps behind.

  Anok lingered, glancing first at the ring, then the silver-smith.

  The smith eyed him anxiously. “I meant no disrespect toward your woman, good sir. She was—very bold.”

  “She’s nobody’s woman but her own. This ring, it isn’t cursed, is it?”

  “Cursed? No, as I said, good luck.”

  Anok nodded and turned to leave.

  “Except—”

  Anok paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

  “This Jani, because he can see all around, he travels only in circles. He can never leave the desert.”

  Anok glanced at the ring on his extended finger again. The two faces mocked him. He had half a mind to put it back.

  But Sheriti had chosen it for him, and he didn’t want to hurt her feelings. Finally, he clenched his hand into a fist. “Leaving the desert,” he said to the smith, in parting, “is harder than it seems.”

  Anok stepped out of the shop and quickly caught up with his companions. He caught Sheriti’s eye as they walked. “What did that mean?”

  She tilted her head, obviously puzzled by his mood. “What? That I acted like a woman for once? I wanted to buy you a gift. I used all my powers of persuasion to get a good price.”

  “It’s not like you.”

  “I’m not a child any longer, Anok. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

  “I’d noticed. You’re usually just not so blatant about it.” She laughed harshly. “Perhaps you weren’t paying attention.”

  Teferi was glancing back at them, eyebrow raised. He shook his head and turned away.

  They walked silently for a while. A blind beggar sat on the edge of a fountain, shaking his beggar’s rattle over a small leather cup with a few small pieces of silver in it. Sheriti paused to toss a gold coin into the cup.

  Hearing the heavy thud of the coin against leather, the beggar’s cloudy eyes opened wider. “Thanks to you, kind stranger. May Set smile upon you!”

  Anok felt his face twitch at the mention of Set but said nothing.

  Sheriti glanced at Anok. “You haven’t got the sense of a beggar.”

  “What?”

  “I bought you a gift, and you say nothing.”

  He glanced at the ring. Any other day it would have pleased him, but today it gave him no pleasure at all. In fact, it added to his sense of foreboding. Still, she was right. “Thank you. It’s a fine gift. I’ll wear it always.”

  “Or,” added Teferi, “until he breaks it against someone’s face in a brawl.”

  Anok almost smiled. “Until then, anyway.”

  “That will have to be enough,” said Sheriti. A stall up ahead caught her attention, and she walked purposefully toward it, leaving her companions behind. “I need something from the poisoner.”

  In another land, that simple statement might have caused stares, or at least some sense of concern, but Anok just nodded, and Teferi, distracted by a nude Shemite slave girl being shown at a nearby stall, hardly seemed to notice.

  Stygia was famed for its poisoners, who were treated as respected craftsmen and operated in plain sight. This one was typical, a stall lined with hundreds of small bottles and jars containing mixed, brewed, and distilled extracts of lotus, snake venom, the poison sacks of various crawling creatures, and various poisonous plants. They did not deal in magical potions, though those practicing sorcery sometimes bought their base ingredients at such shops.

  Each container was carefully marked both for contents and its intended use, for any mistake could be fatal, and that was not always the intent. A poisoner did sell deadly poison, of course, to kill an enemy or simply rid a granary of rats. But they also sold poisons mixed and diluted to produce other effects. Their potions could calm a willful slave, break a fever, relieve a pox, or even, it was claimed, cure a body suffering from corruption. A bitter sip from the right bottle could rid a person of lice or fleas for weeks or clear a gut troubled by worms.

  Poisoners also sold antidotes to poison, making money off both ends of the trade. Of course, each poisoner had his or her own special—and very expensive—poison for which they claimed there was no antidote, and of course the poisoner across the street always claimed to sell the antidote for that.

  So Anok thought nothing of Sheriti going to make a purchase from the poisoner. At least, that is, until he saw that there was already another female customer in the stall. “Gods,” he muttered, quickening his pace. Today’s plan included an arranged “chance meeting,” but this was not it.

  Anok had almost caught up to Sheriti when the woman in the booth turned. Anok had
recognized her from behind, but Sheriti only now realized who was standing there.

  Sheriti stopped at the edge of the stall. “It’s the barbarian,” she said.

  “So it is,” said Anok, his heart sinking.

  Fallon of Clan Murrogh recognized Anok and smiled broadly. To his embarrassment, she walked up between him and Sheriti, held his head in her hands, and kissed him hard on the lips. “Anok of Wati, I hoped I might see you again before I left this city!” She frowned slightly. “You look pale. Have you been ill?” She wiped her lips, as though having noticed something unpleasant.

  Sheriti stood her ground, watching the two of them quizzically.

  “I—” He looked from Fallon to Sheriti and wondered why this bothered him so. “I was lost in the desert for many days and nearly died.”

  Fallon’s smile returned. “But you yet live! Perhaps there is a bit of Cimmerian blood in you then. We’re harder to kill than Stygians”—she grinned—“or so has been my experience during my time here. Let’s find a tavern and raise a glass. I’ll tell you tales!”

  Anok looked uncomfortably at Sheriti, whom Fallon seemed suddenly to notice for the first time.

  Fallon looked Sheriti over. “I didn’t know you, dressed thusly. You dressed like a fighter last we met. This”—she reached out and pinched a bit of fabric from Sheriti’s dress between her fingers—“makes you look like some kind of whore.”

  “Fallon!” Anok glared at her.

  Fallon frowned back at him. “I mean no offense. I’m not used to city finery. I suppose the local whores wear nothing at all, so that isn’t it, anyway. I just meant that it doesn’t look right on her.”

  “She’s training to be a scribe.”

  “A scribe? How can someone who’s tasted battle settle for life as a scribe?”

  Sheriti stared back at her. “Some of us don’t live to kill, barbarian. A quiet life would suit me fine.”

  Fallon laughed. “Well, you would know best.” She glanced back at Anok. “You defer to this woman. Are you pledged, Anok, to this . . . scribe and her quiet life?”

  Anok looked uneasily at Sheriti. After a long pause, he said, “No, I’m not pledged to her. Or anyone.”