"Excuse me, gentlemen. I don't know whether you're interested, but I'm told the king is approaching. He'll be crossing the market in a few moments. I thought as you gentlemen seem to be visitors to the city--"
The landlord was standing beside them, smiling obsequiously and pointing out through the entrance.
"Thank you," replied Elleroth. "That's very good of you. Perhaps--" he slid another gold piece into the landlord's hand--"if you could contrive to find some more of this excellent stuff--charming girl, your daughter--oh, your niece? Delightful--we'll return in a few minutes."
They went out into the colonnade. The square had become hotter and more crowded and the market servants, carrying pitchers and long aspergilla of bound twigs, were walking hither and thither, laying the glittering, sandy dust. At a distance above, the north front of the Barons' Palace stood in shadow, the sun, behind it, glinting here and there upon the marble balustrades of the towers and the trees on the terraces below. As Mollo stood gazing in renewed wonder, the gongs of the city clocks sounded the hour. A few moments afterward he heard, approaching by the street down which he and Elleroth had come that morning, the ringing of another gong, softer and of a deeper, more vibrant pitch. People were drawing aside, some leaving the square altogether or slipping into the various doorways around the colonnade. Others, however, waited expectantly as the gong drew nearer. Mollo edged his way between those nearest to him and craned his neck, peering over the beam of the Great Scales.
Two files of soldiers were coming down the hill, pacing slowly on either side of the street. Although they were armed in the Beklan style, with helmet, shield and short sword, their dark eyes, black hair and rough, unkempt appearance showed them to be Ortelgans. Their swords were drawn and they were looking vigilantly about them among the crowd. The man bearing the gong, who walked at the head of and between the two files, was dressed in a gray cloak edged with gold and a blue robe embroidered in red with the mask of the Bear. The heavy gong hung at the full extent of his left arm, while his right hand, holding the stick, struck the soft, regular blows which both announced the king's approach and gave their step to the soldiers. Yet the beat was not that of marching men, but rather of solemn procession, or of a sentinel pacing on some terrace or battlement alone.
Behind the man with the gong came six priestesses of the Bear, scarlet-cloaked and adorned with heavy, barbaric jewelery--necklaces of ziltate and penapa, belts of inlaid bronze and clusters of carved wooden rings so thick that the fingers of their folded hands were pressed apart. Their grave faces were those of peasant girls, ignorant of gentle ways and accustomed to a narrow life of daily toil, yet they carried themselves with a dark dignity, withdrawn and indifferent to the staring crowd on either side. At their center walked the solitary figure of the priest-king.
It had not occurred to Mollo that the king would not be carried--either in a litter or on a chair--or drawn in a cart, perhaps, by caparisoned and gilt-horned oxen. He was taken unawares by this curious lack of state, by this king who walked through the dust of the marketplace, who stepped aside to avoid a coil of rope lying in his path and a moment after tossed his head, dazzled by a flash of light reflected from a pail of water. In his curiosity he climbed precariously on the plinth of the nearest column and gazed over the heads of the passing soldiers.
The train of the king's long cloak of blue and green was raised and held behind him by two of the priestesses. Each blue panel bore in gold the mask of the Bear and each green panel the emblem of the sun as a lidded and radiant eye--the Eye of God. His long staff, of polished zoan wood, was bound about with golden filigree; and from the fingers of his gauntlets hung curving silver claws. His bearing, that neither of a ruler nor a warrior, possessed nevertheless a mysterious and cryptic authority, stark and ascetic, the power of the desert-dweller and the anchorite. The dark face, haggard and withdrawn, was that of a man who works in solitude, the face of a hunter, a poet or a contemplative. He was young, yet older than his years, going gray before his time, with a stiffness in the movement of one arm which suggested an old injury ill-healed. His eyes seemed fixed on some inward scene which brought him little peace, so that even as he looked about him, raising his hand from time to time in somber greeting to the crowd, he appeared preoccupied and almost disturbed, as though his thoughts were struggling in disquiet with some lonely anxiety beyond the common preoccupations of his subjects--beyond riches and poverty, sickness and health, appetite, desire and satisfaction. Walking like other men through the dusty marketplace in the light of morning, he was separated from them by more than the flanking soldiers and the silent girls: by arcane vocation to an ineffable task. As Mollo watched, there came into his mind the words of an old song:
What cried the stone to the chisel?
"Strike, for I am afraid!"
What said the earth to the ploughman?
"Ah, the bright blade!"
The last soldiers were receding at the far end of the square, and as the sound of the gong died away, the business of the market resumed. Mollo rejoined Elleroth and together they returned to The Green Grove and their place on the settle. It was now less than an hour to noon and the tavern had become more crowded but, as is often the way, this added to their seclusion rather than otherwise.
"Well, what did you think of the kingly boy?" enquired Elleroth.
"Not what I expected," answered Mollo. "He didn't strike me as the ruler of a country at war, that's the size of it."
"My dear fellow, that's merely because you don't understand the dynamic ideas prevalent down on the river where the reeds all shiver. Matters there are determined by resort to hocus-pocus, mumbo jumbo and even, for all I know, jiggery-pokery--the shades of distinction being fine, you understand. Some barbarians slit animals open and observe portents revealed in the steaming entrails, yum yum. Others scan the sky for birds or storms. Ebon clouds, oh dear! These are what one might term the blood-and-thunder methods. The Telthearna boys, on the other hand, employ a bear. It's all the same in the end--it saves these people from having to think, you know, which they're not terribly good at, really. Bears, dear creatures--and many bears are among my best friends--have to be interpreted no less than entrails and birds, and some magical person has to be found to do it. This man Crendrik--you are right, he could neither command an army in the field nor administer justice. He is a peasant--or at all events he is not of noble birth. He is the wonderful What-Is-It who stepped out of the rainbow--a familiar figure, dear me, yes! His monarchy is a magical one: he has taken it upon himself to mediate to the people the power of the bear--the Power of God, as they believe."
"What does he do, then?"
"Ah, a good question. I am glad you asked it. What, indeed? Everything but think, we may be sure. I have no idea what methods he employs--possibly the bear piddles on the floor and he observes portents in the steaming what-not. How would I know? But a crystal ball of some kind there must surely be. One thing I know about the man--and this is genuine enough, for what it's worth. He possesses a certain curious ability to go near the bear without being attacked; apparently he has been known even to touch it and lie down beside it. As long as he can go on doing that, his people will believe in his power and therefore in their own. And that no doubt accounts, my dear Mollo, for his having the general air of one finding himself in a leaking canoe with a vivid realization that he cannot swim."
"How so?"
"Well, one day, sooner or later, the bear is fairly sure to wake up in a bad temper, yes? Growl growl. Biff biff. Oh dear. Applications are invited for the interesting post. That, in one form or another, is the inevitable end of the road for a priest-king. And why not? He doesn't have to work, he doesn't have to fight: well, obviously he has to pay for it somehow."
"If he's the king, why does he walk through the streets on his own two feet?"
"I confess I'm not sure, but I conceive that it may be something to do with his being different in one respect from others of his kind. As a rule, among these roughs, th
e priest is himself the manifestation of God. They kill him now and then, you know, just to keep him in mind of it. Now here, the bear is the divine creature and the gentleman we have just been admiring represents, as long as he can keep on going near it, a proof that the bear means him, and therefore his people, good and not harm. The bear's savagery is working on their side and against their enemies. They have cornered it until it, as it were, corners him. It may well be the whole point that he is plainly vulnerable and yet remains unharmed--a magic trick. So he takes pains to show that he is indeed a real and ordinary human being, by walking through the city every day."
Mollo drank and pondered in silence. At last he said, "You're like a lot of men from Ikat--"
"I come from Lapan, from Lapan, jolly man: from Sarkid, actually; but not from Ikat."
"Well, like a lot of the southerners. You think everything out, trust in your minds and in nothing else. But people up here aren't like that. The Ortelgans have established their power in Bekla--"
"They have not."
"They have, and principally for one reason. It's not just that they've fought well, and it's not that there's already been a great deal of intermarriage with Beklan girls--those are just things that follow from the real reason, which is Shardik. How is it that they've succeeded against all probability, unless Shardik is really the Power of God? Look what he did for them. Look what they've achieved in his name. Everyone who knows what happened--"
"It's lost nothing in the telling--"
"Everyone feels now what S'marr felt from the outset--they're meant to win. We don't reason it all out like you; we see what's before our eyes, and what's before our eyes is Shardik, that's it."
Elleroth leaned forward with his elbows on the table and bent his head, speaking earnestly and low.
"Then let me tell you something, Mollo, that you evidently don't know. Are you aware that the whole worship of Shardik, as carried on here in Bekla, is knowingly contrary to the Ortelgans' traditional and orthodox cult, of which this man they call Crendrik is not and never has been the legitimate head?"
Mollo stared. "What?"
"You don't believe me, do you?"
"I'm not going to quarrel with you, Elleroth, after all we've been through together, but I hold authority under these people--they've made my fortune, if you like, that's it--and you want me to believe that they're--"
"Listen." Elleroth glanced around quickly and then continued.
"This is not the first time that these people have ruled in Bekla. Long ago they did so; and in those days, too, they worshiped a bear. But it was not kept here. It was kept on an island in the Telthearna--Quiso. The cult was controlled by women--there was no priest-king, no Eye of God. But when at last they lost Bekla and fell from power, their enemies were careful to see that no bear remained to them. The chief priestess and the other women were allowed to stay on their island, but without a bear."
"Well, the bear's returned at last. Isn't that a sure sign?"
"Ah, but wait, good honest Mollo. All is not told. When the bear returned, as you put it--when they acquired this new model--there was a chief priestess on the island--a woman with the reputation of being no fool. She knows more about disease and healing than any doctor south of the Telthearna--or north of it either, I should think. There's no doubt that she's effected a great many remarkable cures."
"I think I've heard something about her, now you mention it, but not in connection with Shardik."
"At the time when this bear first appeared, five or six years ago, she was the recognized and undisputed head of the cult, her office having descended regularly for God only knows how long. And this woman would have nothing to do with the attack on Bekla. She has consistently maintained that that attack was not the will of God but an abuse of the cult of the bear; and consequently she has been kept in virtual imprisonment, with a few of her priestesses, on that Telthearna island, even though the bear--her bear--is being kept in Bekla."
"Why hasn't she been murdered?"
"Ah, dear Mollo, the penetrating realist--always straight to the point. Why, indeed, has she not been murdered? I don't know, but I dare say they fear her as a sorceress. What she has undoubtedly retained is her reputation as a healer. That was why my brother-in-law traveled a hundred and fifty miles to consult her at the end of last summer."
"Your brother-in-law? Ammar-Tiltheh is married, then?"
"Ammar-Tiltheh is married. Ah, Mollo, do I see a slight shadow cross your face, stemming, as it were, from old memories? She has the kindest memories of you, too, and hasn't forgotten nursing you after that wound which you were so reckless as to get through saving me. Well, Sildain is a very shrewd, sensible fellow--I respect him. About a year ago he got a poisoned arm. It wouldn't heal and no one in Lapan could do it any good, so at last he took it into his head to go and see this woman. He had a job to get on the island--she's kept pretty well incommunicado, it seems. But in the end they let him, partly because he bribed them and partly because they saw he'd probably die if they didn't. He was in a bad way by that time. She cured him, all right--quite simply, apparently, by applying some sort of mold; that's the trouble about doctors, they always make you do something revolting, like drinking bats' blood--have some more wine?--but while he was there he learned a little--not much--about the extent to which these Ortelgans have abused the cult of the bear. I say not much, because apparently they're afraid that the priestess's very existence may stir up trouble against them and she's watched and spied on all the time. But Sildain told me more or less what I've told you--that she's a wise, honorable and courageous woman; that she's the rightful head of the cult of the bear; that according to her interpretation of the mysteries there was no sign that they were divinely intended to attack Bekla; and that this man Crendrik and that other fellow--Minion, Pinion, whatever he called himself--appropriated the bear by force for their own purposes and that everything that's been done since then has been nothing but blasphemy, if that is the right term."
"I wonder still more why they haven't murdered her."
"Apparently it's rather the other way round--they feel the lack of her and they haven't yet given up hope of persuading her to come to Bekla. In spite of all he's done, the Crendrik man still feels great respect for her, but although he's sent several times to beg her to come, she always refuses. Unlike you, Mollo, she won't be a party to their robbery and bloodshed."
"It still doesn't alter their extraordinary success and the confidence with which they fight. I've got every reason to support them. They've made me governor of Kabin and if they go, I go."
"Well, they've left me as Ban of Sarkid, if it comes to that. Nevertheless, the number of hoots I give for them is restricted to less than two. Do you think I'd sell the honor of Sarkid for a few meld from these dirty, murderous--"
Mollo laid a hand on his arm and glanced quickly sideways without moving his head. The landlord was standing just behind the settle, apparently absorbed in trimming the wick of a lamp fixed to the wall.
"Can we have some bread and cheese?" said Elleroth in Yeldashay.
The landlord gave no sign that he understood.
"We have to go now, landlord," said Elleroth, in Beklan. "Do we owe you anything further?"
"Nothing at all, good sirs, nothing at all," said the landlord, beaming and presenting each of them with a small model, in iron, of the Great Scales. "Allow me--a little souvenir of your visit to The Green Grove. A neighbor makes them--we keep them for our special customers--greatly honored--hope we shall have the pleasure on another occasion--my poor house--always glad--"
"Tell Tarys to buy herself something pretty," said Elleroth, putting ten meld on the table.
"Ah, sir, too kind, most generous--she'll be delighted--a charming girl, isn't she? No doubt if you wished--"
"Good morning" said Elleroth. They stepped out into the colonnade. "Do you think he may perhaps make a point of hiding his linguistic abilities from the common light of day?" he asked, as they strolled once more a
cross the market.
"I'd like to know," answered Mollo. "I can't help wondering why he trims lamps at noon. Or why he trims lamps at all, if it comes to that, seeing it's women's work and he has that girl to help him."
Elleroth was turning the ugly little model over in his hands.
"I feared it--I feared it. He must take us for utter fools. Does he think we can't recognize the Gelt iron-mark when we see it? So much for his neighbor who makes them--weighed in the Great Scales and found nonexistent."
He placed the model on a windowsill overlooking the street and then, as an afterthought, bought some grapes from a nearby stall. Having put a grape carefully into each scale, he handed half the remainder to Mollo and they walked on, eating grapes and spitting out the pips.
"But does it really matter whether the fellow understood you or not?" asked Mollo. "I know I warned you when I saw him standing there, but that's become second nature after all these years. I can hardly believe you could be accused on his evidence, let alone convicted of anything serious. It'd be his word against mine, anyway, and of course I can't remember hearing you say anything whatever against the Ortelgans."
"No, I'm not afraid of being arrested for that sort of thing," answered Elleroth, "but all the same, I've got my reasons for not wanting these people to know my true feelings."
"Then you'd better be more careful."
"Indeed, yes. But I'm rash, you know--such an impetuous boy!"
"I know that," replied Mollo, grinning. "Haven't changed, have you?"
"Hardly at all. Ah, now I recall where we are. This brook is the outfall of the Barb, which runs down to what was once the Tamarrik Gate. If we follow it upstream along this rather pleasant path, it will bring us back close to the Peacock Gate, where that surly fellow let us out this morning. Later on, I want to stroll out beyond the Barb as far as the walls on the east side of Crandor."
"What on earth for?"
"I'll tell you later. Let's talk of old times for the moment. Ammar-Tiltheh will be delighted to hear that you and I have met again. You know, if ever you had to leave Kabin, you'd always be welcome in Sarkid for as long as you liked to stay."