The Shaman Read online

  Ohaern followed quickly, his shock receding under concern for his friend. But he hesitated near the mouth of the street, recognizing the trader who had invited the Biriae to Ulahane’s temple, and reached out to catch Lucoyo, calling to the trader, “Ho, friend!”

  The trader looked up in surprise. “Ho yourself—but I hope we shall be friends. What would you, stranger?”

  “Can you tell me if a man can truly trade goods for a woman’s favors in the Street of Lantern Houses?”

  The trader’s mouth widened into a grin, and he punched Ohaern’s heavy chest with a knowing leer. “Aye, a big husky lad like you would wish to know that, would he not? Be certain, it is true!”

  Ohaern looked away, shaken. “Surely the women must hate this!”

  The trader was silent awhile, then said slowly, “I cannot say—only a woman would know.”

  “No woman would hate what I would do to her,” Lucoyo boasted. Ohaern tried not to look at him.

  The trader shrugged. “I have seen Vanyar traders in that street, and cannot see that any woman could take pleasure in them. The Vanyar are stocky, bandy-legged, and hairy—ugly as jackals.”

  Lucoyo’s head snapped up. “Do you say I am as ugly as a jackal?”

  “Certainly not, though I would not say you are handsome, either. Of course, a woman might.”

  “A woman would.” But in his heart, Lucoyo doubted. Nonetheless, he turned and hurried away, filled with a strange clamoring urgency that he did not fully understand.

  Ohaern stood, dazed, then finally remembered himself and nodded to the trader. “Thank you for your information, sir.”

  “You are welcome.” The trader returned the nod. “Enjoy your foray!”

  Ohaern turned away—to find that Lucoyo had already disappeared into the crowd.

  The broad street from the dock plaza was full of people, and the crowds became thicker as he went along. Ohaern caught sight of the half-elf far ahead and tried to catch up, but soon he was having to elbow and jostle his way through, to a chorus of protest in the foreign tongue—but Lucoyo, slight, slender, and quick, made much faster progress. Before long Ohaern had lost sight of him again.

  Then there was an outcry behind him. Ohaern turned and saw a man clutching at severed thongs that hung from his belt, crying, “Akor!” Ohaern decided that the word meant, “My purse!” but more importantly, meant that Lucoyo had passed by. The man proceeded to howl and yell, but Ohaern ignored him, pressing on. Then, ahead of him, another man cried, “Akor!” and began to rant and rave, so Ohaern knew he was on the right path.

  On he went, following a trail of protest, dismay, and anger, of severed purse strings and angry citizens—but he did not catch sight of Lucoyo again until he turned into the fifth paved street from the dockside plaza and saw that every hut was large, quite large, twice higher than a man and more—and each had a post sticking out above the door, with a lantern hanging from it. There was Lucoyo, going in under just such a lantern! Ohaern started to follow, but as he came near the doorway, he hesitated. He certainly had no need to go into a place where women gave themselves so casually—well, no, he had a huge need, actually, and a wish so great that it hammered inside him with an intensity that frightened him. He, who had never turned away from any foe that waked fear in him, now paused on the threshold of a house of weak, soft women, a house that promised to fulfill his most secret, but most frantic, desire. Why should he fear ecstasy?

  Because of his dead wife.

  It wasn’t that he feared Ryl’s ghost would be jealous, really; it was that she might be grieved, for surely taking the favors that a woman offered to a stranger—a total stranger! And for no better cause than hunger! It would hurt Ryl grievously. For a moment Ohaern pondered why that would be, but could only think that it debased women in some way, though he could not say how.

  Then a woman came out beneath the lantern—a disheveled woman, with hair in disarray and clothes awry, yawning and scratching. She looked up and saw Ohaern. A look of distaste flashed across her features and was gone, buried under a sort of shiny hardness that offered a smile, but a smile that was practiced and polished by long and frequent use. It was a heavy-lidded smile, an inviting smile, and her hips circled and thrust as her shoulders pulled back too far.

  Ohaern hid his shudder and turned away. Let the half-elf bury himself in pleasure, then. He would be safe, at least in body, and he would certainly know where to find Lucoyo.

  He turned away, walking back down the Street of Lantern Houses, out into the broad hard-paved boulevard ...

  And saw the temple of Ulahane looming before him.

  Chapter 17

  Ulahane’s temple stood atop a step-pyramid, like all the others—but it was made of a reddish stone, and the edifice at its peak was painted scarlet.

  Scarlet, but the war chief’s eye could see that the paint covered huge stone blocks. It was a temple, but it was also a fortress—a fortress that soared up into pinnacles from which men could shoot arrows or even throw boiling water down upon attackers; and Ohaern would have wagered that he would find a well within its enclosure.

  So much blood color made Ohaern shudder, but so did the number of people climbing up and climbing down. They were no myriad, but there was certainly steady traffic—and they were not only the people of Cashalo, but also Biriae and Myrics, dark men of the south, yellow men of the east, and even some men who were so dark they were almost black! There were many more males than females, but there were enough women to make Ohaern remember what the trader had said about Ulahane’s rites, and to make him shudder. If there were so many people as this by day, what would the temple steps look like at night?

  He decided that he did not want to know. He turned away, resolved to come here no more—and found himself staring at another temple, obviously much older in both style and wear. It had only four steps, made of a pale stone with a greenish cast—and the smith’s eye noted the presence of copper in the stone. The temple itself was low, little more than colonnades supporting a roof, painted the rich green of summer leaves. It seemed more a house than a monument, alive and welcoming.

  Ohaern stared. Why had Lomallin’s temple been built so close to Ulahane’s?

  The answer struck him with outrage. Lomallin’s temple was the older; Ulahane’s worshipers had built him a house as near to Lomallin’s as they could, in hopes of stealing his congregation! And from the look of the numbers trooping up his stairs, they had succeeded.

  Well, here was one Lomallin worshiper who would not be deterred—or seduced away or cozened, either. Ohaern straightened his shoulders, lifted his chin, and strode proudly up the steps of Lomallin’s temple, not caring who saw—and hoping that many would.

  After all, he was the only person on that whole expanse of stone.

  He came in under the lintel and was instantly enveloped in shadow, coolness, and the heady aroma of cedar. Lomallin’s temple seemed modest, but it had been built of expensive imported wood, and its fragrance was like a breath of breeze from a northern forest. He felt as if he were surrounded by a friendly living presence; he felt at home. Looking about him, he saw only a broad expanse of open floor, cleansed by the wind, and at the far end the high reach of a living tree surrounded by bushes, with the vague form of a bearded face seeming to grow out of the trunk, ancient and reassuring: Lomallin’s symbol, with Lomallin’s face—or as much of it as any living man could perceive. Slowly, he stepped forward before the tree, bowing his head in prayer.

  “Who comes to Ranol’s temple?”

  Ohaern looked up to see an elderly man coming out from behind the tree. He leaned upon a gnarled staff—a branch that had been polished, but otherwise left as the tree had made it. His hair and beard were long and white, and he wore green robes.

  “I am Ohaern, a smith and warrior of the Biriae,” Ohaern answered. It was courtesy to tell the name of his nation, though obviously unnecessary—the old man had known him for what he was at a glance, or he would not have spoken in the B
iriae tongue. His accent was not even heavy. “I greet you, sir—and I beg your pardon, for I had thought I was in the temple of Lomallin.”

  “You are, though we call him ‘Ranol’ here. Still, he is the same—the green god, the lover of humanity and defender of all the younger races.”

  “Are you the priest here?”

  “The servant of Ranol.” The old man came to peer up into Ohaern’s face. “Call me not a priest, for I have no special powers, no more than yourself—though I have some skill in healing.”

  “I have no need of that, praise Lomallin. Would you deny it if I called you a sage, though?”

  “There is some truth to that,” the old man admitted, “for I am wise in the ways of Ranol—though I would not claim to know much more than any other man might, at my age. I would rather you called me simply by my name; I am Noril. It is good to see you here, young man. Few come to Rand’s temple anymore.”

  “Yes, I see that.” Ohaern frowned. “Ulahane has stolen your congregation, and I do not doubt he set about doing it quite deliberately. Is all your city decaying to his worship, then?”

  “Sadly so,” Noril answered. “I could wish we had not become prosperous, for Ulahane’s worship seems to grow with our wealth.”

  “I see that many of your people fish for their living,” Ohaern said. “Have they become wealthy?”

  “Oh, yes, for there are many more mouths to feed, now that there are always two or three thousand traders in the city.”

  “Two or three thousand! So many as that?”

  “Indeed,” Noril confirmed. “Most of our people are still fishermen, but the bulk of the city’s wealth now comes from the great storage sheds by the water, where the traders barter the goods from both seas.”

  “I have seen men of the north trading marten pelts and amber for gold beads,” Ohaern said, “but those beads shall be of little worth in the cold northern winter.”

  “Perhaps, but before they leave Cashalo they shall go to one of the warehouses and trade their gold beads for copper pans, fine pottery jars, bronze spearheads and arrowheads, stout cloth, even the spices of the east and the dried fruits and medicines of the south. They shall receive good value for their marten pelts and amber, be sure.”

  “I can see no harm in that—in fact, a great good,” Ohaern said slowly, “if the trade benefits both.”

  “It is the warehouses that bring it about,” Noril explained.

  “Our merchants take the goods from traders from the Eastern Sea in exchange for goods of Cashalo’s making—or for gold beads; that is something new brought from the east, and very useful, for everyone always wants gold.”

  Ohaern lifted his head as understanding dawned. “So even if your merchants do not have any goods that the folk of the Eastern Sea want, they can exchange for golden beads, and the east-men can exchange those later, when they find the goods they do want!”

  “Even so,” said Noril. “In fact, foreign traders have begun to take gold from the first trader who approaches them, then go to look for the goods they seek. It is easier to guard a handful of beads than a whole boatload of cargo.”

  “But would not the beads be easier to steal?”

  “Aye, and they can be exchanged for lavish food and wine, fine lodgings, and entertainments, none of which can be taken home—so foreign traders must need to have strong self-rule if they wish to go away with as much as they brought.”

  “The goods they seek are those that come from the Middle Sea?”

  “Indeed; our ancestors blessed us more than they knew when they built their fishing village between two seas. So, a week or a month after the eastern traders, southern and western traders come from the Middle Sea ...”

  “Not from the north?”

  “No; northerners generally come down the Great River. Anon they come, and exchange their southern goods for the eastern goods.”

  “Or for gold, if the eastern goods they seek are not yet in the warehouse.” Ohaern nodded. “But because your warehouses are so big, there is almost always something that the foreign traders want.”

  “Even so. Thus the eastern ships can spend less time in port—and so can the southern and western and northern— thereby being freed to make more voyages in less time, and to limit the number of golden beads their crews spend in lodging and ‘entertainment.’ “

  “Surely these warehouses are a marvelous invention!”

  Noril nodded. “So if the traders of Cashalo keep a bit from each trade for themselves, who could begrudge them? Certainly their labor is worth it! Though perhaps not their entertainment ...”

  “Call it ‘vice’—I know the sort of entertainment you speak of,” Ohaern said with some distaste. “I have seen your Street of Lantern Houses and have seen that it is so named because each house there has a huge lantern over its portal. Why?”

  Noril sighed. “The women light their lanterns at nightfall so that men passing by can clearly see them posing in their doorways, to attract ‘customers’ who wish to pay to touch them and caress them, even to the ultimate intimacy.”

  “Women really do such things for gold?” Ohaern felt like the veriest bumpkin, but he could not help staring. He also felt sick to his stomach.

  Noril answered, “There are many women who are so poor that they will bed a man for a coin.”

  “Surely not!” Ohaern said, shocked.

  “Unfortunately so.” Noril shook his head sadly. “It is that, or starve—for in the cities there is no way to get food by your own effort.”

  Ohaern looked away, shaken. “Do the Vanyar do worse to them than that?”

  Noril was silent a while, then said slowly, “I cannot say— only a woman would know. I hear of men who claim that such women enjoy bedding every man they meet—but I have seen some of those men, when I have gone into that street to try to persuade the women to find some other way to live, and to persuade the men not to despoil them. Of course, the women decry me for seeking to cut off their livelihood, and the men decry me for seeking to deprive them of pleasure—but I cannot believe it can very often be pleasure for the women, for many of those men are ugly as hogs. I doubt very much that any woman would enjoy a night with such a one.”

  “None who worship Lomallin would so despoil a woman.” Ohaern turned thoughtful. “At least, if he did, it would be because his resolve weakened. And no woman who worshiped Lomallin would need to tempt him, for her fellow worshipers would make sure she did not starve.” He looked up to see Noril watching him keenly and asked, “The eastern folk have brought more than their goods, have they not?”

  “It is even as you say,” Noril confirmed. “The traders from the Land Between the Rivers brought us the worship of Ulahane. We had known of him before, of course, but none thought to pray to him. The traders, though, built him a temple, praising him as the source of their wealth and luxury, and many listened. Still, his gathering of a congregation has not been the work of a single night, nor even of a single year, for there are temples to many different gods here, at least one for each of the nations who come to trade. Oh, our ancestors worshiped Ranol, but they were tolerant of other gods and did not mind if foreigners built temples. It is perhaps because there were so many that I did not realize the danger of Ulahane gathering so large a congregation—until I had lost half my own. I should have realized that the Ulin War had not truly ended, only shifted its battleground from the heavens to the hearts of humankind and the other younger races.”

  “The Ulin War?” Ohaern frowned. “I have heard of that, but only that it did occur. In the north we know only that Lomallin is the god of Life, and the protector of our kind—and that Ulahane is the god of Death, but most especially the death of humankind!”

  “That is so.” Noril nodded. “When the Creator first made the younger races, Ulahane sought to slay them all—but our race more than any other. Lomallin sought to prevent him and protect us, and they did war.”

  “Over us?” Ohaern frowned. “Why did beings so great and mighty as
the Ulin care about ones so much smaller and weaker?”

  Noril shrugged. “Who can tell? The Ulin do as they please, and have no need to explain. My own guess is that they, who had been the only beings who could think or speak, now resented other, younger races being raised up to do even that much of what they could do.”

  “You do not mean that the Ulin saw some threat in us! In the elves, perhaps, for they have strong magic, or even the trolls and dwarves and dwergs and goblins—but humankind, who alone of all the races have no magic?”

  “But can learn it.” Noril raised an admonishing forefinger. “Though few wish to devote the time and labor to do so, they nonetheless can. No, I think that for some reason the Ulin saw us as the greatest threat to their supremacy, perhaps because we alone are not willing to keep our place in the order of Creation. We are proud, we humans, and overweening in our pride. Perhaps it is for that reason that Marcoblin was so angered at our creation that he determined to mock the Creator by making parodies of humanity.”

  “Marcoblin—he was the king of the Ulin, was he not?”

  “As much as they had a king.” Noril shrugged. “He was their best fighter, though how much use is skill with weapons when everyone else is a wizard, and some more skilled at magic than he? Still, if the Ulin had a king, it was he, even if only because no one chose to dispute the claim.”

  “Was he wizard enough to raise up mockeries of humanity?”

  “No; for that he had need to go to the wondersmith Agrapax. Picture it—think of Marcoblin striding from mountain peak to mountain peak, the earth shaking with his tread and boulders flying loose to go bounding down the slopes ...

  “Ho, Agrapax!” he cried. “I have work for you!”

  “I have work for me, too, a great deal of it,” the smith replied sourly, and stared pointedly at the boulders that flew from Marcoblin’s tread. “You deceive no one with your spectacle, Marcoblin. You are no bigger than the rest of us, and no heavier, so you might as well show yourself as you really are and leave off damaging my mountains.”