a man with a scimitar, said Abajai. Sell him a sharpstone instead.
Hekat stared as the warband drummed towards Et-Mamiklia on their dusty, sweat-streaked horses. They were beautiful, those warriors. As beautiful as she was, in their way.
“If all we see are Et-Nogolor’s warriors we need not be afraid,” Abajai told Yagji. “Or even the warriors of Raklion warlord. But if we see warriors of Bajadek, or Mamiklia, or one of the other warlords . . .”
Yagji whimpered and was sick again down the side of his unhappy camel.
On and on and on they caravanned, and slowly the road grew crowded with other travelers, ox-carts and slave-litters and plain men on horses. Farms and fenced cattle pastures stretched on either side of them. Eleven highsuns after crossing the border they reached Et-Nogolor city. It rose from the plain like a rock on green sand.
“So big ,” said Hekat to Abajai, astonished.
“Not as big as Et-Raklion city,” said Yagji, and shifted on his camel. “Or as fine. Aba, I hope this means we are out of trouble. I hope we see no more galloping warriors. Are you certain you read the godbones right? We will be safe in Et-Nogolor city?”
Hekat knew Abajai well, now. She knew he wanted to shout at Yagji or smakck him till his godbraids clattered their charms. But she knew Yagji, too. Shouting at the fat man only made him sulk and when he sulked his cooking was bad.
So did Abajai know Yagji. “I have told you ten times, Yagji, they say we are safe here.”
Yagji fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a cloth. “The godbones will never speak to me,” he fretted, dabbing sweat from his face. “I wish I had the ears to hear them. Aba, we should spend coin to make sacrifice in Et-Nogolor’s godhouse. If the warlords squabble it is because demons prick them. We must make an offering against their wicked wiles.”
Abajai said, “Sacrifice is a good idea, Yagji. Deaf to the godbones you may be, but never deaf to the god.”
Yagji’s miserable face brightened. He always smiled when Abajai told him good about himself. “Never.”
So many others now traveled the road with them it was three fingers past highsun before they reached the tail-end of wagons and horses waiting to be allowed through the enormous city gates. Et-Nogolor rose up and up above their heads, ringed by a wooden wall, tall cut-down trees as wide as three Abajais, standing side by side by side, no space between. Each tree was carved and painted with the god’s eye, with snakefangs and centipedes, with scorpions and the same bird face that shrieked on the leather shells of Et-Nogolor’s warriors. Real skulls there were, too, glaring blind at the spreading plain. Horse. Goat. Bird. Man. Painted with god colors, dangled with amulets, jangled with charms. Godbells sang silver-tongued on the breeze.
With her head tilted back so her godbraids tickled the camel’s shoulder, Hekat looked past the city’s climbing buildings to the godhouse at its very top. The godhouse’s godpost was so tall that even from so far below she could see its stinging scorpion, tail raised to strike the wicked sinner.
She felt her voice shrivel in her throat. This place . . . this city . . .
“You are right to be awed,” said Abajai. He always knew what she was thinking. “Et-Nogolor is a mighty city. Only the city Et-Raklion is greater, because once it was Mijak’s ruling city.”
She looked at him over her shoulder. “Ruling city, Abajai?”
He nodded. “When Mijak was ruled by a single warlord, before the god decreed one must be seven. The city Et-Raklion was his home. It was not called Et-Raklion then, but still. It is the same.”
Warlords . She had been thinking about them. “Abajai, what is a warlord?”
“A man of power,” he said. “Appointed by the god to rule lands and villages and the people who live there.”
She frowned. “No warlord rules Hekat’s village, Abajai. Only godspeaker.”
“The savage north is different. Long ago it
Hekat stared as the warband drummed towards Et-Mamiklia on their dusty, sweat-streaked horses. They were beautiful, those warriors. As beautiful as she was, in their way.
“If all we see are Et-Nogolor’s warriors we need not be afraid,” Abajai told Yagji. “Or even the warriors of Raklion warlord. But if we see warriors of Bajadek, or Mamiklia, or one of the other warlords . . .”
Yagji whimpered and was sick again down the side of his unhappy camel.
On and on and on they caravanned, and slowly the road grew crowded with other travelers, ox-carts and slave-litters and plain men on horses. Farms and fenced cattle pastures stretched on either side of them. Eleven highsuns after crossing the border they reached Et-Nogolor city. It rose from the plain like a rock on green sand.
“So big ,” said Hekat to Abajai, astonished.
“Not as big as Et-Raklion city,” said Yagji, and shifted on his camel. “Or as fine. Aba, I hope this means we are out of trouble. I hope we see no more galloping warriors. Are you certain you read the godbones right? We will be safe in Et-Nogolor city?”
Hekat knew Abajai well, now. She knew he wanted to shout at Yagji or smakck him till his godbraids clattered their charms. But she knew Yagji, too. Shouting at the fat man only made him sulk and when he sulked his cooking was bad.
So did Abajai know Yagji. “I have told you ten times, Yagji, they say we are safe here.”
Yagji fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a cloth. “The godbones will never speak to me,” he fretted, dabbing sweat from his face. “I wish I had the ears to hear them. Aba, we should spend coin to make sacrifice in Et-Nogolor’s godhouse. If the warlords squabble it is because demons prick them. We must make an offering against their wicked wiles.”
Abajai said, “Sacrifice is a good idea, Yagji. Deaf to the godbones you may be, but never deaf to the god.”
Yagji’s miserable face brightened. He always smiled when Abajai told him good about himself. “Never.”
So many others now traveled the road with them it was three fingers past highsun before they reached the tail-end of wagons and horses waiting to be allowed through the enormous city gates. Et-Nogolor rose up and up above their heads, ringed by a wooden wall, tall cut-down trees as wide as three Abajais, standing side by side by side, no space between. Each tree was carved and painted with the god’s eye, with snakefangs and centipedes, with scorpions and the same bird face that shrieked on the leather shells of Et-Nogolor’s warriors. Real skulls there were, too, glaring blind at the spreading plain. Horse. Goat. Bird. Man. Painted with god colors, dangled with amulets, jangled with charms. Godbells sang silver-tongued on the breeze.
With her head tilted back so her godbraids tickled the camel’s shoulder, Hekat looked past the city’s climbing buildings to the godhouse at its very top. The godhouse’s godpost was so tall that even from so far below she could see its stinging scorpion, tail raised to strike the wicked sinner.
She felt her voice shrivel in her throat. This place . . . this city . . .
“You are right to be awed,” said Abajai. He always knew what she was thinking. “Et-Nogolor is a mighty city. Only the city Et-Raklion is greater, because once it was Mijak’s ruling city.”
She looked at him over her shoulder. “Ruling city, Abajai?”
He nodded. “When Mijak was ruled by a single warlord, before the god decreed one must be seven. The city Et-Raklion was his home. It was not called Et-Raklion then, but still. It is the same.”
Warlords . She had been thinking about them. “Abajai, what is a warlord?”
“A man of power,” he said. “Appointed by the god to rule lands and villages and the people who live there.”
She frowned. “No warlord rules Hekat’s village, Abajai. Only godspeaker.”
“The savage north is different. Long ago it
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