The Eyes of the Overworld (20 page)

The pilgrims now dispersed, some walking along the banks of the Scamander toward a nearby inn, others turning aside and proceeding into the city proper.

Cugel approached Voynod. “I am strange to this region, as you are aware; perhaps you can recommend an inn of large comfort at small cost.”

“Indeed,” said Voynod. “I am bound for just such an inn: the Old Dastric Empire Hostelry, which occupies the precincts of a former palace. Unless conditions have changed, sumptuous luxury and exquisite viands are offered at no great cost.”

The prospect met with Cugel's approval; the two set out through the avenues of old Erze Damath, past clusters of stucco huts, then a region where no buildings stood and the avenues created a vacant checkerboard, then into a district of great mansions still currently in use: these set back among intricate gardens. The folk of Erze Damath were handsome enough, if somewhat swarthier than the folk of Almery. The men wore only black: tight trousers and vests with black pom-pons; the women were splendid in gowns of yellow, red, orange and magenta, and their slippers gleamed with orange and black sequins. Blue and green were rare, being unlucky colors, and purple signified death. The women displayed tall plumes in their hair, while the men wore jaunty black disks, their scalps protruding through a central hole. A resinous balsam seemed very much the fashion, and everyone Cugel met exuded a waft of aloes or myrrh or carcynth. All in all the folk of Erze Damath seemed no less cultivated than those of Kauchique, and rather more vital than the listless citizens of Azenomei.

Ahead appeared the Old Dastric Empire Hostelry, not far from the Black Obelisk itself. To the dissatisfaction of both Cugel and Voynod, the premises were completely occupied, and the attendant refused them admittance. “The Lustral Rites have attracted all manner of devout folk,” he explained. “You will be fortunate to secure lodging of any kind.”

So it proved: from inn to inn went Cugel and Voynod, to be turned away in every case. Finally, on the western outskirts of the city, at the very edge of the Silver Desert, they were received by a large tavern of somewhat disreputable appearance: the Inn of the Green Lamp.

“Until ten minutes ago I could not have housed you,” stated the landlord, “but the thief-takers apprehended two persons who lodged here, naming them foot-pads and congenital rogues.”

“I trust this is not the general tendency of your clientele?” inquired Voynod.

“Who is to say?” replied the innkeeper. “It is my business to provide food and drink and lodging; no more. Ruffians and deviants must eat, drink and sleep, no less than savants and zealots. All have passed on occasion through my doors, and, after all, what do I know of you?”

Dusk was falling and without further ado Cugel and Voynod housed themselves at the Sign of the Green Lamp. After refreshing themselves they repaired to the common room for their evening meal. This was a hall of considerable extent, with age-blackened beams, a floor of dark brown tile, various posts and columns of scarred wood, each supporting a lamp. The clientele was various, as the landlord had intimated, displaying a dozen costumes and complexions. Desert-men lean as snakes, wearing leather smocks, sat on one hand; on the other were four with white faces and silky red top-knots who uttered never a word. Along a counter to the back sat a group of bravos in brown trousers, black capes and leather berets, each with a spherical jewel dangling by a gold chain from his ear.

Cugel and Voynod consumed a meal of fair quality, though somewhat rudely served, then sat drinking wine and considering how to pass the evening. Voynod decided to rehearse cries of passion and devotional frenzies to be exhibited at the Lustral Rites. Cugel thereupon besought him to lend his talisman of erotic stimulation. “The women of Erze Damath show to good advantage, and with the help of the talisman I will extend my knowledge of their capabilities.”

“By no means,” said Voynod, hugging his pouch close to his side. “My reasons need no amplification.”

Cugel put on a sullen scowl. Voynod was a man whose grandiose personal conceptions seemed particularly far-fetched and distasteful, by reason of his unhealthy, gaunt and saturnine appearance.

Voynod drained his mug, with a meticulous frugality Cugel found additionally irritating, and rose to his feet. “I will now retire to my chamber.”

As he turned away a bravo swaggering across the room jostled him. Voynod snapped an acrimonious instruction, which the bravo did not choose to ignore. “How dare you use such words to me! Draw and defend yourself, or I cut your nose from your face!” And the bravo snatched forth his blade.

“As you will,” said Voynod. “One moment until I find my sword.” With a wink at Cugel he anointed his blade with the salve, then turned to the bravo. “Prepare for death, my good fellow!” He leapt grandly forward. The bravo, noting Voynod's preparations, and understanding that he faced magic, stood numb with terror. With a flourish Voynod ran him through, and wiped his blade on the bravo's hat.

The dead man's companions at the counter started to their feet, but halted as Voynod with great aplomb turned to face them. “Take care, you dunghill cocks! Notice the fate of your fellow! He died by the power of my magic blade, which is of inexorable metal and cuts rock and steel like butter. Behold!” And Voynod struck out at a pillar. The blade, striking an iron bracket, broke into a dozen pieces. Voynod stood non-plussed, but the bravo's companions surged forward.

“What then of your magic blade? Our blades are ordinary steel but bite deep!” And in a moment Voynod was cut to bits.

The bravos now turned upon Cugel. “What of you? Do you wish to share the fate of your comrade?”

“By no means!” stated Cugel. “This man was but my servant, carrying my pouch. I am a magician; observe this tube! I will project blue concentrate at the first man to threaten me!”

The bravos shrugged, turned away. Cugel secured Voynod's pouch, then gestured to the landlord. “Be so good as to remove these corpses; then bring a further mug of spiced wine.”

“What of your comrade's account?” demanded the landlord testily.

“I will settle it in full, have no fear.”

The corpses were carried to the rear compound; Cugel consumed a last mug of wine, then retired to his chamber, where he spread the contents of Voynod's pouch upon the table. The money went into his purse; the talismans, amulets and instruments he packed into his own pouch; the salve he tossed aside. Content with the day's work, he reclined upon the couch, and was soon asleep.

On the following day Cugel roamed the city, climbing the tallest of the eight hills. The vista which spread before him was both bleak and magnificent. To right and left rolled the great Scamander. The avenues of the city marked off square blocks of ruins, empty wastes, the stucco huts of the poor and the palaces of the rich. Erze Damath was the largest city of Cugel's experience, far vaster than any of Almery or Ascolais, though now the greater part lay tumbled in mouldering ruin.

Returning to the central section, Cugel sought out the booth of a professional geographer, and after paying a fee inquired the most secure and expeditious route to Almery.

The sage gave no hasty nor ill-considered answer, but brought forth several charts and directories. After profound deliberation he turned to Cugel. “This is my counsel. Follow the Scamander north to the Asc, proceed along the Asc until you encounter a bridge of six piers. Here turn your face to the north, proceed across the Mountains of Magnatz, whereupon you will find before you that forest known as the Great Erm. Fare westward through this forest and approach the shore of the Northern Sea. Here you must build a coracle and entrust yourself to the force of wind and current. If by chance you should reach the Land of the Falling Wall, then it is a comparatively easy journey south to Almery.”

Cugel made an impatient gesture. “In essence this is the way I came. Is there no other route?”

“Indeed there is. A rash man might choose to risk the Silver Desert, whereupon he would find the Songan Sea, across which lie the impassable wastes of a region contiguous to East Almery.”

“Well then, this seems feasible. How may I cross the Silver Desert? Are there caravans?”

“To what purpose? There are none to buy the goods thus conveyed — only bandits who prefer to preempt the merchandise. A minimum force of forty men is necessary to intimidate the bandits.”

Cugel departed the booth. At a nearby tavern he drank a flask of wine and considered how best to raise a force of forty men. The pilgrims, of course, numbered fifty-six — no, fifty-five, what with the death of Voynod; still, such a band would serve very well …

Cugel drank more wine and considered further.

At last he paid his score and turned his steps to the Black Obelisk. “Obelisk” perhaps was a misnomer: the object being a great fang of solid black stone rearing a hundred feet above the city. At the base five statues had been carved, each facing a different direction, each the Prime Adept of some particular creed. Gilfig faced to the south, his four hands presenting symbols, his feet resting upon the necks of ecstatic supplicants, with toes elongated and curled upward, to indicate elegance and delicacy.

Cugel sought information of a nearby attendant. “Who, in regard to the Black Obelisk, is Chief Hierarch, and where may he be found?”

“Precursor Hulm is that individual,” said the attendant and indicated a splendid structure nearby. “Within that gem-encrusted structure his sanctum may be found.”

Cugel proceeded to the building indicated and after many vehement declarations was ushered into the presence of Precursor Hulm: a man of middle years, somewhat stocky and round of face. Cugel gestured to the under-hierophant who so reluctantly had brought him hither. “Go; my message is for the Precursor alone.”

The Precursor gave a signal; the hierophant departed. Cugel hitched himself forward. “I may talk without fear of being overheard?”

“Such is the case.”

“First of all,” said Cugel, “know that I am a powerful wizard. Behold: a tube which projects blue concentrate! And here, a screed listing eighteen phases of the Laganetic Cycle! And this instrument: a horn which allows the dead to speak, and used in another fashion, allows information to be conveyed into the dead brain! I possess other marvels galore!”

“Interesting indeed,” murmured the Precursor.

“My second disclosure is this: at one time I served as incense-blender at the Temple of Teleologues in a far land, where I learned that each of the sacred images was constructed so that the priests, in case of urgency, might perform acts purporting to be those of the divinity itself.”

“Why should this not be the case?” inquired the Precursor benignly. “The divinity, controlling every aspect of existence, persuades the priests to perform such acts.”

Cugel assented to the proposition. “I therefore assume that the images carved into the Black Obelisk are somewhat similar?”

The Precursor smiled. “To which of the five do you specifically refer?”

“Specifically to the representation of Gilfig.”

The Precursor's eyes went vague; he seemed to reflect.

Cugel indicated the various talismans and instruments. “In return for a service I will donate certain of these contrivances to the care of this office.”

“What is the service?”

Cugel explained in detail, and the Precursor nodded thoughtfully. “Once more, if you will demonstrate your magic goods.”

Cugel did so.

“These are all of your devices?”

Cugel reluctantly displayed the erotic stimulator and explained the function of the ancillary talisman. The Precursor nodded his head, briskly this time. “I believe that we can reach agreement; all is as omnipotent Gilfig desires.”

“We are agreed then?”

“We are agreed!”

The following morning the group of fifty-five pilgrims assembled at the Black Obelisk. They prostrated themselves before the image of Gilfig, and prepared to proceed with their devotions. Suddenly the eyes of the image flashed fire and the mouth opened. “Pilgrims!” came a brazen voice. “Go forth to do my bidding! Across the Silver Desert you must travel, to the shore of the Songan Sea! Here you will find a fane, before which you must abase yourselves. Go! Across the Silver Desert, with all despatch!”

The voice quieted. Garstang spoke in a trembling voice. “We hear, O Gilfig! We obey!”

At this moment Cugel leapt forward. “I also have heard this marvel! I too will make the journey! Come, let us set forth!”

“Not so fast,” said Garstang. “We cannot run skipping and bounding like dervishes. Supplies will be needed, as well as beasts of burden. To this end funds are required. Who then will subscribe?”

“I offer two hundred terces!” “And I, sixty terces, the sum of my wealth!” “I, who lost ninety terces gaming with Cugel, possess only forty terces, which I hereby contribute.” So it went, and even Cugel turned sixty-five terces into the common fund.

“Good,” said Garstang. “Tomorrow then I will make arrangements, and the following day, if all goes well, we depart Erze Damath by the Old West Gate!”

4
The Silver Desert and the Songan Sea

In the morning Garstang, with the assistance of Cugel and Casmyre, went forth to procure the necessary equipage. They were directed to an outfitting yard, situated on one of the now-vacant areas bounded by the boulevards of the old city. A wall of mud brick mingled with fragments of carved stone surrounded a compound, whence issued sounds: crying, calls, deep bellows, throaty growls, barks, screams and roars, and a strong multiphase odor, combined of ammonia, ensilage, a dozen sorts of dung, the taint of old meat, general acridity.

Passing through a portal the travelers entered an office overlooking the central yard, where pens, cages and stockades held beasts of so great variety as to astound Cugel.

The yard-keeper came forward: a tall, yellow-skinned man, much scarred, lacking his nose and one ear. He wore a gown of gray leather belted at the waist and a tall conical black hat with flaring ear-flaps.