Blood on Bronze (Blood on Bronze Book 1) Read online

  Folk of a dozen nations filled the plaza. Men with oiled and plaited beards and women with black plaited hair from Sarsa, the cities of the league of Kasim, or Zakran itself brushed shoulders with dark, shaven-headed G’abudim from across the sea to the southwest. Purple-clad seafarers from the great western isle of Kratis, their eyes lined heavily with kohl, walked with slaves carrying baskets of shells and pearls. Men of Siraxis or its many rival city-states in the far northwest stood out with their spiral-patterned clothes and pale skin.

  Folk other than human went about their business as well in this most cosmopolitan of all cities. Dwarves with their glimmering gold-bronze skin and red beards like flame, huge lumbering Ogres with tusked mouths and hairless chins, apelike Garks, a few of the hairy and hoofed wild folk from the plains of Ruun, far inland, and even some of the tall slender serpent people from Tarai, southeast beyond Sarsa, crossed paths as if they did so every day.

  In Zakran, they in fact might.

  On the south side of the plaza were covered porticos, facing north. The deep space behind the lotus-carved pillars offered shade even in the intense light of spring in Zakran. In a part of that shade, a group of young men and women, most though not all in rich garb, sat cross-legged on the ground on mats facing an old man in a plain woolen kilt, sitting on a low stool.

  Among the young men was one of medium height, broad shouldered and strong. He had dark eyes with heavy lashes and hair that fell in loose black rings to his chin. His bronze skin marked his descent from the Hayyidi people native to Zakran, Kasim, and the countries nearby. Like most young unmarried men, he was clean shaven. Typical for Zakran, he wore a knee-length kilt and sandals, with a thin cloak to ward off the sun, but no shirt or tunic. However, his kilt and cloak were of fine material in purple and black, and he wore bright-polished bands of bronze on his arms, bracers on his wrists, a heavy gorget on his neck, and bronze rings in his ears. An ornate bronze sword suspended from a belt of discs of the same. This appearance of opulent luxuriousness was countered by the severity of his expression, as he listened intently to the teacher, taking notes on clay tablets.

  “And since Sinin dra Dekkuru has chosen to place his attention elsewhere…” said the teacher, gesturing towards a young man in a gold-bedecked green kilt who was himself watching a pair of lightly clad young women with baskets balanced on their heads, “I turn this question to Arjun dra Artashad.”

  The matter was a complex one, involving an understanding of the respective theological doctrines of Ar-Galesh and of Se’emat the Guardian of the Dead, and of some difficult geometrical calculations. Arjun had been paying attention, and turning the problem over in his mind as it unfolded. He answered, and the answer was perfect.

  “You see!” said the teacher, “It is not so difficult for those of open eyes and minds.”

  Arjun winced inwardly. Hisham was the greatest living mathematician in Zakran, perhaps the world, but he was too fond of giving praise. Arjun threw himself into learning as he did because he was driven by an inner fire even he didn’t understand, not so he could receive the honor of instructors and the resentment of peers.

  Regardless of his wandering thoughts, he simply bowed his head, and said, “Thank you, master Hisham.”

  ~

  Ashur stood at the balcony on the third floor of his home. Beside him was his loyal servant, the freedman Eb-Sim. Behind him were the rooftop gardens, his brightly painted and tiled private quarters, and the open-air wooden pavilion that had been a favorite gathering place of the family before his wife, his beloved Nasida, had died.

  He looked out over the courtyard and the white-plastered surrounding buildings where the actual work of the family business was done. There by the forge, as expected, was his son Arjun, in a plain kilt of leather, sparks flashing from the bronze he worked, sweating in the midday heat. Alongside him toiled many other smiths in the employ of the family.

  “Master Ashur, he works too hard,” said Eb-Sim.

  “He is all any father could ask for,” said Ashur, with an expression that was less happy than his words.

  “I think he will someday rival you as a smith, master Ashur, he masters the management of the business even faster, and from the sophist scholars learns much of such esoteric matters as I cannot fathom,” said Eb-Sim.

  Ashur looked at the smaller, older man, whom he’d purchased from the slavers many years ago, and promptly freed.

  Eb-Sim continued, “But should he not enjoy life from time to time, master?”

  “Neither he nor I have enjoyed life as we should, since his mother died,” said Ashur.

  “Perhaps now is the time, master,” said Eb-Sim with a smile.

  “You may be right, old friend,” replied Ashur, “though these are troubling days.”

  “You refer to the ascension of Ayab iru Heb to the council, master?”

  “And of his alliance with the house of Zash-Ulshad, and even more, the strange friendship he has formed with Bal-Shim iru Shulggi.”

  “What indeed does a bronze maker, one who honors Zamisphar of the Flame, have to do with the biggest slaver in all the Hayyidi lands, master?”

  “Nothing, if indeed Bal-Shim still holds true to the teaching that nothing with a mind should also be a slave.”

  “But if he does not, master?”

  “Then anything is possible for him, and from him.”

  Eb-Sim frowned.

  ~

  “But what of the caravans to Har, father?” asked Arjun.

  “Matters in the sacred city cannot be rushed, my son,” replied Ashur, “The caravans will return when the priests have, in their own slow way, concluded all business.”

  “If we purchased shares in ships from the isle of Kratis, as we do with Tema and Selmokir, we could sell bronze directly there, and dispense with the trade with Har. I’ve calculated the costs, father, and though it is five times the distance, being all at sea it is cheaper than a land caravan to Har. We could cover our costs on the return trip if we bought purple dye from the traders of Hymarikos and sold it here. Why should the Zash-Ulshad continue to control that trade? We could undercut them and still do very well.”

  “We could do all of that, my son, if Naram dra Zash-Ulshad did not sit on the council, and if he were not likely to react forcefully to any such challenge to the monopoly he and his friends have long enjoyed on the dye trade.”

  “Father, you are almost as wealthy as he, and you have friends, why not ask for a place on the council yourself?”

  Ashur laughed. He poured more wine for his son’s cup, as they sat in the cool shade of the pavilion. A serving girl fanned them. Fiery-spiced food in the G’abudim style, of late becoming more popular in Zakran, sat fresh on plates before them. Even now, his restless son wanted to talk business.

  “My son, you are too trusting of the honesty of that process. I do not have the… correct sort of friends, and you vastly underestimate the true wealth of the Zash-Ulshad. They have many hidden operations, some of them most repulsive, which earn them round golden slaves beyond count.”

  “But father, should we let them use corrupt means to keep us small and our horizons narrow?”

  “To build the power to stop them would require means of my own that I am unwilling to acquire or use, my son. For my part, I prefer to remain a maker and trader of bronze, and one who honors Zamisphar of the Flame.”

  “Father, Zamisphar gave mankind bronze and taught us how to create forge fires hot enough to make and work it. He asked nothing of us but that we should use our minds and free will, yet how was he rewarded by the other gods for his deeds?”

  “You know the answer as well as I, my son.”

  “But therein is my point, my father. The other gods either demand worship from us, or are so wild and dangerous that we can but propitiate their wrath with offerings. In either case, they profit, while Zamisphar was first tormented, then cast out, and is even now held in suspicion by the other gods. Should we also work in narrow bounds for little profit, wh
ile others exploit their power?”

  “We earn much profit from our bronze-making and trade, my son”

  “My father, you know I mean something more broad than coin.”

  “Be at peace, my son. When you are master of dra Artashad, you may choose to join battle for the freedom to do all that the white-hot fires of your imagination can conceive. For now, let your horizons be those of a bronze maker of Zakran.”

  “Yes, my father”

  ~

  Ashur sat with Bal-Shim iru Shulggi, in the latter’s richly, if tastelessly, paneled audience hall. He had a look of grave concern on his face.

  “Bal-Shim, do you understand what you are asking?”

  “Only that you choose the right friends, Ashur. It is but the friendliest of advice, not a request.”

  “Then I reply with advice to you. In choosing a slaver for a friend, however rich, you choose poorly.”

  Bal-Shim’s ponderous cheeks rose and teeth bared in something that might appear to be a smile, to one who had never seen the real thing. His left hand stroked the gaudy colors of his robes, his right hand clenched a stylus, rather too tightly.

  “Not all of us benefit from old lineages, Ashur. Some of us have had to make our lives the hard way, and must live in the real world, not the abstractions of philosophy or theology.”

  “A philosophy you gave oath before gods and men to follow, Bal-Shim, when you joined the Brotherhood of the Flame. Do you renounce it now?” Ashur looked at him with a piercing gaze. Both of them knew that, council or no, it would mean the other bronze makers going out of their way to try to put Bal-Shim out of business.

  “Not at all, Ashur! Don’t jump to unfounded conclusions. I merely state that such ideals must be tempered with… compromise.”

  “Make those compromises on your own, Bal-Shim. I will have nothing to do with them.”

  Bal-Shim considered that reply, and then spoke again, “Your trade is a very profitable one, perhaps instead of joining yours in alliance with my friends, you could sell it to me.”

  “Have you gone mad?”

  “I have the wealth, or rather can get it with but a word. In fact, I happen to have prepared a figure, if you will look at this tablet.”

  Bal-Shim handed Ashur a clay tablet under seal. The latter eyed him with greater suspicion than ever, but out of curiosity, lifted the seal.

  “Bal-Shim, this is an offer so low as to be insulting, but even if it were twelve times as much, I would not sell to you. By your seal you declare you make this offer in earnest. Even so, from what I know of your operations, I do not see how you have the means. And, son of Shulggi, I do not see why your new friends, rich they may be, would spare you such sums to buy a business for your own gain.”

  “I shall worry about that, son of Anlil of the lineage of Artashad,” and Bal-Shim spat into the bowl of water he’d offered his visitor, “but perhaps now you should worry about your own affairs.”

  Bal-Shim’s attempt to end the discussion with a contemptuous gesture fell flat, as Ashur was already rising to leave, with no more of the customary courtesies than Bal-Shim had offered.

  As the latter departed, Bal-Shim again made the face that was like a smile without mirth. He thought with satisfaction that Ashur, haughty heir of an ancient lordship dating to the time of the old kings, before such titles became empty, and one who clung to outmoded beliefs, would soon find out how much the world had truly changed.

  ~

  Arjun sat cross-legged at the shrine of his mother, in a corner of the rooftop gardens. He meditated on her loss, and with quiet words honored her memory. The pain he felt stayed in his heart, guarded from an uncaring world.

  His old nursemaid and tutor, Keda, walked quietly up behind him. She wore a simple woolen dress, and her gray hair was tied back in braided plaits behind her head.

  “You might honor her more if you applied some of that passionate nature you inherited from her to more pleasant ends.”

  “Keda, I enjoy all that I do…”

  “It can be hard to tell under those solemn expressions of yours. But I mean something more conventionally pleasant. You are almost nineteen now, and most young men your age, even the studious ones, are taking some time to explore life.”

  Arjun frowned, looking ever so slightly abashed.

  “I explore life in my studies and work. Every tale on an old tablet is a new world to discover, every manifest from one of our shipments is a new puzzle to be solved, each thing that I forge in bronze is a new piece of life, made real in my hands, I…”

  “Boy,” she said, with the tone she’d used with him when he was being contrary as a child, “you need a girl, and a little music and song wouldn’t hurt you either.”

  “But…”

  “And that bit of poetry you just shared with me about your work and creation, if you ever tried putting that kind of energy into the things you said to young women, you’d have the most beautiful and brilliant ones in all Zakran lining up for the chance to be your bride.”

  “Bride!”

  “You’re getting old enough to at least begin the search, my handsome boy, and if you start now you’ll have some time to enjoy the courtships with them before the pressure really starts for you to settle down.”

  Arjun, normally confident and polished, looked for a moment like the scolded boy he’d once been.

  “I know, Keda. I’ll make the time, I promise,” he said with some hesitation, “There is just so much to do…”

  “And so many things to cling to in your heart, Arjun,” she said, “Your mother was one of the most wonderful women I ever knew, and the best I could ever imagine serving. There is not a day that goes by that I don’t miss her. The only thing I could ever fault her for was being so tiny, and so depriving you of your father’s height, though you seem to have his strength.”

  Arjun smiled in a way that was almost sheepish. Keda hadn’t seen it in years.

  “But,” she said, “she is now in the land of the dead, and you are in that of the living. It is time you started acting like it.”

  “Yes, Keda,” he said with more earnestness, “I will.”

  ~

  It was late at night, and the scent of incense and spices mingled with that of copper, tin, and fire from the houses of the bronze makers. The larger silver moon and the smaller red one shined full and brightly in the starlit sky.

  Ashur sat with Eb-Sim in his private office at the back of his audience chamber, between the stairs to the second floor hallway on the left, and the ground floor hallway on the right. He had the curtains pulled open and looked out across the chamber to the bronze-bound wooden doors at the main entrance.

  Naram-Enki stood guard in his breastplate and helmet, with his shield slung on his back and a sword at his waist. He was patient and calm, as always. Keda had just left, and was to be on her way back with a pot of water and another of dates. The other servants had long since gone to sleep.

  In the office, Ashur discussed the latest disturbing news with his longtime major-domo.

  “If that is true, Eb-Sim, then they are deep in affairs they ought not meddle with, and which they will find most difficult to undo. Unless it were not their goal to undo them, but to acquire sufficient power that none would dare question…”

  “My sources swear by oath that it is true, master Ashur, and can produce proof.”

  “Then we must act swiftly, and let the others know,” replied Ashur.

  They heard Keda’s footsteps in the hall.

  The doors came smashing in as two dozen armed men entered with a battering ram.

  Naram-Enki drew his sword and moved to block them.

  3. The Tale of Gems Amidst Dross

  Arjun crawled forward in complete darkness, his left hand on the rim of the gully, his right holding as steady as he could. He felt his skin prickle at thought of the thing, cold, silent, and patient that followed him in the darkness.

  It was in no hurry. In a way, it would have felt better if it sim
ply walked along after him, but instead it would scurry forward, in motion told only by the slight rush of air, then pause to wait for him as he passed. He could feel its eyes on him. Arjun prayed to all the gods he knew that it would not reach out its cold long-fingered hand to touch him again.

  Then, at last, there it was.

  The bridge, the small footbridge across the gully, barely two feet wide and three long, spanned a gully he could easily jump across. But in the darkness, it was his only guide to the passage he needed, to the passage out of this cold, black waking nightmare, to escape…

  Escape!

  Fast as he could, he stood up, drew his sword, and flashed it around him. Whether or not he’d momentarily driven off whatever it was, it made no sound. Arjun crossed the footbridge and ran as fast as he could go, shifting the sword to his left hand and skimming his right along the wall for guidance.

  He still couldn’t see a thing, but something that could see him was following, back there in the seemingly infinite dark. Its presence was revealed only by the motion of air and the lightest patter of what sounded like anything but human feet.

  Arjun ran, his bare feet slipping on the foul stone. He hit a patch of wet slime and water dripping from some unseen culvert. He fell, hit the stone hard, and the sword went clattering from his hand. For the briefest painful fraction of a second he waited for the splash that would tell him his sword was lost forever. But there was none. He jumped up and desperately felt the ground before him, found nothing, gave up and ran only to stub his toe against the pommel of the sword. He winced in pain and silently cursed, reached down and grabbed the sword, spun round and slashed wildly.

  The blade hit something. It yielded in a way that didn’t feel right, didn’t feel like flesh, at least not living flesh. Something leapt backward with a silent gust of air. Arjun ran on.

  Finally, up ahead, Arjun came to a place where a small shaft allowed light to filter down. He must be past the large manors lining the Street of Flames now, and into the densely populated neighborhood beyond. That meant more shafts, but smaller. Little beams of faint light became more common. His heart leapt, and his legs flew.