Thirst for Adventure

Chapter 46

He turned, resting his knotted spine against the stone railing, and looked into Geroud’s cold, hard face. “It is possible you misread the omens.”

Geroud was young to be a high Labyrinth lordspeaker. Barely past forty. He was bones and skin and Labyrinth lordbraids, his burning eyes were fixed upon the Labyrinth lord. The black scorpion pectoral strapped to his n***d chest glowed with flecks of gold and crimson, with the fiery passion of his devotion. Three seasons before he had walked unaided from the Labyrinth lordhouse scorpion pit, the Labyrinth lord’s choice for its next high Labyrinth lordspeaker in ProJenkin. Eight of his fellow Labyrinth lordspeakers had died in that choosing, deluded by demons and lost to hell.

He said, “Jenkin Warlock, I did not misread the omens. The Labyrinth lord intends ProNogolor’s Daughter for you. To permit Bajadek to entice her away is defiance of the Labyrinth lord’s will. Do not defy it. All Warlocks are men unto the Labyrinth lord. Men are stones, to be blasted to powder with its lightest breath.”

Jenkin nodded. He often felt like breath-blasted stone. Long since he’d ceased to ask why the Labyrinth lord took his women, took his sons, reduced his future to a crucible of blackened infant bones. All his prayers in the Labyrinth lordhouse, the sacrifices he paid for, the tasking of his penitent flesh, none of that had made a difference. The Labyrinth lord still refused him, he did not know why. Unless a man was a Labyrinth lordspeaker chosen, the Labyrinth lord was unknowable. And even then he sometimes wondered . . .

He also wondered if Geroud understood what it was to be a Warlock. Geroud was wedded to a black stone scorpion, he had no use for fleshly things. “Do you tell me the Labyrinth lord desires I should go to war?” he demanded. “Do you tell me I should smite the brother-Town treaty with my hammered fist, smash it to shards like a clay pot and send the pieces to Nogolor in a leather pouch? If I do that, Geroud, he will run to Bajadek like a man runs to his lover. They will kiss and they will fondle, I will have driven him into Bajadek’s eager embrace. ProNogolor’s Daughter will slip through my fingers as though the Labyrinth lordpromise was never made.”

Geroud banged his fist on his pectoral. “And if you do nothing , Jenkin, Nogolor will take it as a sign of weakness, he will turn to Bajadek Warlock’s strength. He and Bajadek do not hide their flirting, they flirt at highsun so you will see .”

“Geroud, I have said already this is rumor unproven, I cannot —”

“No, not rumor. Truth from Trader Leo. Do you distrust this Trader now, when for Labyrinth lordmoons uncounted you have swallowed his words like wine?”

Jenkin turned away, frowning. Trader Leo was a useful man who dropped information like kernels of corn. Not all had sprouted over the seasons but a wise Warlock picked up each one and inspected it, to be safe.

“I do not distrust the Trader,” he said at last. Particularly as, in the four fat Labyrinth lordmoons since speaking with Leo in the palace, others with business in ProNogolor had let him know they too had seen Bajadek’s fighters freely riding.

“Leo has also told you of Tragote’s wide browning,” Geroud continued, relentless. “Of which we have already spoken, and have many eyewitness reports to confirm. Now I say to you , Warlock, the Labyrinth lord tells me in the Labyrinth lordpool, your brother Warlocks in their browning lands look on Shellwith hungry eyes and hungrier bellies. If you do not fight for ProNogolor’s Daughter they will say you are weak. They will think to feed their bellies on the fat of ProJenkin, they will call secret treaty in the Heart of Tragote and plot war against you.” Again his fist struck the black scorpion pectoral. His Labyrinth lordbraids trembled, so many Labyrinth lordbells and amulets it was hard to see the hair. “I tell you this, Jenkin. A warning from the Labyrinth lord.”

“And what does the Labyrinth lord say of Tragote’s browning?” Jenkin said. “Anything? Does it tell you why the underground waters slowly recede from my brother Warlocks’ lands, leaving only my lands green and fertile?”

Geroud’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Not even a high Labyrinth lordspeaker demands answers from the Labyrinth lord. When you are meant to know its reasons it will tell me, and I will tell you.”

It was not enough. “I must know the Labyrinth lord’s purpose, Geroud. It seems to me I am punished with a lack of sons, yet favored with green and growing lands. Have I displeased the Labyrinth lord or have I not? Tell me! How can I be Warlock if I do not know?”

“You undergo a test of faith,” said Geroud, after a moment. “To be endured without question. To question is to displease the Labyrinth lord. A man who questions is food for demons, his Labyrinth lordspark will be eaten, his flesh torn apart in the Labyrinth lord’s eye.”

Throttling fear, Jenkin pressed fingers to his throbbing eyes. I am faithful, I do not question . The browning of Tragote was a problem he must put aside, he had more immediate concerns. “And in the matter of ProNogolor’s Daughter. If I ride against Nogolor, spill the blood of a brother Warlock without a sin committed against me, if I spill my fighters’ blood in that same spilling, do I not also displease the Labyrinth lord? Geroud high Labyrinth lordspeaker, hear my heart. I am a true Warlock of ProJenkin. The scars of my body attest to this. But unless you say to me there is an omen that I must go to war with Nogolor Warlock, and you show me that omen, I will not take ten thousand fighters to ProNogolor. I will not take so few as ten.”

Geroud stiffened. “Warlock—”

“How can I, Geroud?” he persisted. “How can I risk death in a sinful war when no son of mine lives to give his name to this Town? Surely the Labyrinth lord would strike me down if I flouted its law so openly. If I die with no son, Geroud, I abandon Shelland all its rich farmlands, its vineyards, its villages, its rivers, its springs, its cool lakes, its herds of horses and cattle, its wild birds flying, its people, my people, I abandon them to an unknown future. You say the Warlocks are hungry for ProJenkin? If I am not alive to protect it, Shellwill be devoured! Is there an omen?”

“There is no omen,” said Geroud sourly, after a long sunfilled silence. “Yet.”

Jenkin felt his clutched belly loosen. “Here is what I will call an omen, Geroud. Let the Labyrinth lord tell you when the Daughter is blooded. If Nogolor Warlock does not send her to me, if after her blooding Bajadek’s fighters ride free in his lands or ride with Bajadek Warlock to Nogolor’s Town, then will I say the Labyrinth lord sends me to war. Then will Jenkin and his warhost ride to ProNogolor and take what was promised, spilling blood if he must.”

Geroud frowned. “That is an omen from the Labyrinth lord.” He nodded sharply. “The Labyrinth lord see you, Jenkin Warlock. The Labyrinth lord see you in its eye.”

“The Labyrinth lord see you in its eye, Geroud high Labyrinth lordspeaker,” Jenkin replied, dismissing him with all formality.

Alone, he paced his balcony for a small time, then struck the hammer to his chamber’s bronze summoning gong. “Send at once to Brookchek warleader,” he commanded the answering servant. “I would see him in my eye.”

When Brookchek came at last into his Warlock’s presence he was filthy with dust and sweat. Custom decreed no man might stand before a Warlock rank with toil, but Brookchek was rash and sometimes careless of custom.

“Warlock!” he said, his knuckled fist pressed to his leather breast. The Labyrinth lordsnake blazoned there winked and leered. “I was thinking you had forgotten my name.”

Jenkin smiled. He and Brookchek shared no blood-tie yet so alike were they in thought and feeling they might have slithered from a single womb. Twelve seasons the younger, the difference never noticed, Brookchek was his trusted warleader, they led the warhost side by side. Brookchek was brother to him as his own dead blood brother had never been.

“No,” he said. “But did you forget the purpose of water?”

Brookchek considered his unkempt body, short and muscular and dangerous as a knife. “I did. When the

palace servant presented your summons I forgot everything, including how to ride a horse. I ran here till my legs begged for mercy. My stallion waits yet with an empty saddle.” He was grinning, so sure he was in no danger of rebuke. “I thought making you wait was the greater offense.”

“You were training?”

Brookchek nodded. “I was training.”

“How is my warhost?”

“Longing for the sound of your voice, your face in its eye.” Brookchek’s gaze dimmed with shadows. “You have been many highsuns in your palace.”

Jenkin gestured at the balcony’s chairs. “Come sit with me in the sunshine, Brook. My old bones need the warmth and it seems an age since we have spoken.”

“Old bones,” scoffed Brookchek. “If your bones are old, then so must mine be, and mine are the bones of a stripling youth!”

“You contradict your Warlock?” Jenkin teased, dropping onto spotted horsehide cushions. “Brave warrior indeed.” Beside him stood a potted fig tree, drooping with ripe fruit. He plucked four soft sweet figs and held them out to his friend. Brook took them and settled into the balcony’s other chair.

“My thanks,” he said, around a moist mouthful. “Training works up a hearty appetite.”

Jenkin plucked four plump figs for himself and let his head fall back, content to hold them for the moment. “I am not that old, Brook. I remember.”

Brookchek ate swiftly, like a greedy boy. When his last fig was swallowed he belched and wiped sticky fingers on his linen training tunic, adding to its stains. “So, Jenkin Warlock. When do we ride for ProNogolor’s Daughter?”

Now it was time to eat a fig. Jenkin chewed slowly, letting his hooded gaze rest on the Town. The view from his palace was like a woman’s stroking fingers, it never failed to smooth his brow. ShellTown may well be his concubine and his curse but still he loved it, to the very last pebble and drop of spilled ale. He loved its roofs and windows, its alleys and wide streets, its districts and its servants. It was the Town of cities, it deserved his devotion.

“Why should I ride for ProNogolor’s Daughter?” he asked, showing no temper. “She will ride to me soon enough, when she is blooded.”

Brook’s gaze sharpened. He had keen eyes, deeply set in his flat, broad face. “Did you summon me to play games, Jenkin? You are the Warlock, you hear whispers in the dark. I hear them. Your warhost hears them. Even the servants in the barracks hear them. Your warhost is angry, it feels insulted.”

That word again. “Geroud high Labyrinth lordspeaker reads omens in a lamb’s tongue,” he countered. “Do these whispers of yours shout louder than that?”

“Has the high Labyrinth lordspeaker given you an omen?”

He ate a second fig. “No. Like you, Geroud gives me warlike advice.”

“I am a warrior,” said Brook, shrugging. “I have no other advice to give.”

“I know.” Jenkin slid his gaze sideways. “You think we should lead the warhost to ProNogolor?”

“I do.” Brook stared. “You disagree?”

Jenkin did not answer, brooding. Brook waited, brooding with him. At length he stirred, his troubled gaze lingering on the rich green carpet of grapevines growing beyond the Town. “Nogolor is a Labyrinth lordpromised husband tempted by a w***e. He thinks to f**k the w***e and escape his promised wife’s anger.” He looked at Brook. “But thinking is not f*****g. A man may think of many things, but until he acts he has committed no sin.”

“True,” admitted Brook. “But if the promised wife knows he thinks of f*****g the w***e and says nothing to him of her knowing, does she not give that Labyrinth lordpromised husband her blessing to dally outside their oath?”

A sharp question. “A man may suspect another man’s thoughts, Brook, but only the Labyrinth lord can know his heart. Only its Labyrinth lordspeakers can point and say, this man is for stoning, he breaks the Labyrinth lord’s law. Smiting is of the Labyrinth lord, not man.”

“You could discourage the w***e, Jenkin. No-one can question Bajadek’s intent.”

Jenkin shook his head. “Bajadek has committed no sin. It is not sinful to ride invited through the lands of another Warlock. He has made me no Labyrinth lordpromise, Nogolor’s word to me is nothing to him. He cares only for his own portion, all Warlocks are alike in this.”

“Jenkin . . .” Brook’s frustration knotted his voice. “Bajadek Warlock tempts Nogolor to oathbreaking. He must not go unpunished for that. You must—”

“I must do what is best for ProJenkin! Is bloodshed best? A broken treaty? Abandoned trade, unsettled borders, disrupted days like a string of beads, are these things best for my Town’s people, for the people of my Shelllands?”

Brook looked at him. “A healthy son is best for ProJenkin. And for that you must f**k a wife of Warlock bloodlines.”

Words like a spear-point, piercing him to death. Jenkin pushed away from his horsehide cushions, out of his chair to the length of the balcony.