THE GOD BOX Page 2

  "Forgive you!" I looked for an appropriate item with which to beat him.

  He picked up a stick, handed it to me, and presented his back. "Beat me, master. I deserve it. Please beat me!"

  "Make up your mind, idiot!" I broke the stick across my knee and threw the pieces into the dust. "Give me your message, Dorc, before I obtain a small piece of drainpipe and reacquaint you with the experience of birth."

  "Eh?" He froze as he attempted to discern the meaning of my words.

  "Never mind what I said, fool. Just give me the message."

  "Message?" His expression appeared somewhat confused.

  "What message do you have for me?"

  Dorc appeared to panic. "Forgive me, master, but it seems that I have forgotten—

  "What?" I took a step toward him and he fell backward onto my remaining rugs. As fate would have it, in the process of falling upon those rugs he also landed upon my remaining mahrzak beetles, ruining both beetles and rugs forever. I have never found a cleaner who could remove the dark purple mahrzak stains. So much for the vaunted wizardry of Iskandar.

  I rubbed my eyes as I shook my head. The gods of commerce play jokes every now and then, and I do not begrudge them their recreations. However, the number of times I have been singled out as the object of their humor often gives me pause. Surely there are others who could amuse the gods for a bit.

  "Master?"

  I opened my eyes and Dorc was standing. He nodded toward the market's Sunset Gate. "The magician said that he was going for the King's Guard—to have you flayed alive for fraud?"

  "Did you have anything else to impart to brighten my day, Dorc? Has the Heterin faith reopened the Unbeliever Pogroms again? Have the bug monsters of Chara's Sea attacked the city?"

  "B-b-b-bug monsters?"

  "I was only joking, idiot."

  "You aren't laughing, master."

  "It was only a joke!" I shouted. "Tell me what you want now. Ruined carpets? I have a fine selection."

  "This." In his outstretched hand was a piece of paper. "Here is the message I was supposed to deliver."

  He dropped the piece of paper and ran. From every side of me there were snickers as my colleagues and their customers found amusement in my suffering.

  I pulled out my whistle and blew assembly. Only three of my mahrzak beetles-Amram, Tiram, and Iramiram managed to struggle out of the carnage. I put them in the pocket of my robe, wiped away a tear in memory of their faithful comrades, and picked up the paper containing the message.

  It read:

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  Korvas, My Benefactor,

  Years ago an old beggar asked you for the price of a cup of soup, and you gave him instead ten gold reels. I was that beggar, and I took that small fortune and used it to buy my way into a business. It has become quite a success, enough so that I was able to hire help in locating the family from which I was stolen as a child many decades ago.

  I am dying now, and am returning to Ehyuva to be with my dear sister for my remaining days. I have left my valuables and instructions at the Nant Temple where I have found comfort these many years. Seek the priestess there called Syndia and give her this message as proof of your identity.

  When the dark closes over me, I will intercede on your behalf with the Nant gods, and I have no doubt that they will honor my wishes for you, for the Nant gods favor the compassionate.

  With grateful thanks,

  Olassar

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  After reading those words, my feelings were quite uncertain. It was warming to feel so generous, as well as so generously remembered. However, I could not for the life of me call to mind any beggar named Olassar, nor indeed any beggar to whom I would have given ten gold reels without the fellow first holding a razor at my throat.

  Still, with the demise of my beetles, and the subsequent fouling of my carpets, I headed my footsteps past the end of the bazaar and up the hill toward the Nant Temple. There was little point in waiting here for the King's Guard, and perhaps my inheritance might be enough to purchase the indulgence of Jorkis the angry magician. It should be at least sufficient, I thought, to have my carpets replaced.

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  I suppose if there were a god of justice with a realistic sense of proportion regarding humor it would have been sufficient that even the thought of approaching the fearsome mercenaries who guarded the Nant Temple curdled my phlegm. Of course, I wouldn't have a tale to tell if the gods led more balanced lives. It is always wise to remember that it was the gods who put nipples on men, seeds in pomegranates, and priests in temples.

  Temples make me nervous, priests and priestesses bring anxiety, conversation not concerned with making money causes stress, and my least favorite color is black. In addition, I am not fond of the dark. So there I was, in a black anteroom in the Nant Temple speaking to a Nant priestess named Syndia about a beggar whom I had no memory of ever having met, for the purpose of—

  Well, I had quite forgotten the purpose. Perhaps I should also mention that the priestess Syndia was a great beauty. She was beyond beauty. She was a veritable goddess. Her beauty was such that it made me feel unworthy to look upon her.

  "Your name, sir?"

  "Yes! My name!" I swept my hat from my head, caught a feather from it with my teeth, and stood there looking as though I had just eaten raw pheasant. Quickly I pulled the feather from my mouth and attempted to hide it behind my back. The swing of my hand knocked over an immense iron candle stand. The clatter was shattering, to say the least. In addition, the room was now even darker. Again, the humor of the gods. It does not take much to amuse them, for they keep playing the same tired jokes over and over again.

  "You appear to be a bit nervous," she said with a smile. Oh, that smile! For another such I would have taken on the entire Nant Guard with a hairpin. She nodded at a temple servant and the fellow bent to the task of restoring the candle stand to an upright position and cleaning the wax from the flagstone floor. Oh, friends, her diamond-ticked black gown was so, and contoured just so; their temple gowns are nothing like those dull rags they wear on the street, for that I can vouch truly.

  Her face, her hair, her lips, her scent, by the Great Nasty's toenails I would have converted on the spot could I have remembered the god or gods to which I belonged. The form beneath that cobweb of a gown, Great Elass, my hair fairly smoked with imagination!

  "Korvas!" I burst out.

  Her lovely brow knit in a wee sign of confusion.

  "Korvas?"

  "Yes! My name! Korvas!" I must have sounded like some pimpled whelp trembling in the parlor of a bordello for the first time. My face was so red it must have glowed in the darkened room. There was nothing left to do, so I pulled the message from my sash and held it out.

  Her hands gently enclosed mine. Mine could feel the warmth of thine, and she held my hand for so long that I could see us writhing in endless passion, rearing children, growing old together. Why else would she have held my hand so gently, so long?

  "Korvas, I cannot read it until you let go of it."

  My fingers sprang open and quickly hid within the folds of my robe. The movement was done with such deftness and speed that I managed to punch myself right in my, eh, heritage. "Of course," I gasped. "My apologies, Syndia."

  She held Olassar's message to the light of another candle stand to read it, and with her face so near the light my heart fairly burst. I turned my head and backed a step away, and tripped backwards over the servant who was cleaning the floor. I hit the flagstones with a splat—

  It was a horrible time, friends. Simply horrible. I don't know why I feel compelled to put all of my warts on display. I suppose, however, that you must know the real me then if you are to appreciate the real me now. But I digress.

  Between Syndia and the servant, I was placed in a chair for my own protection. While I sat there feeling like a fool, Syndia sat
in another chair and read the message. "So," she said at last, "you are Olassar's benefactor." She studied me with those deep oceans she had for eyes. Her look evoked a very strange feeling within me. It was as though I, Korvas the Whatever, was a very special person to the Nant priestess.

  By Angh's tender claws, the entire matter was too deeply immersed in temples, religions, and spooky weirdness for me. "Priestess Syndia, by my mother's bones, I cannot remember this Olassar." It is true, friends. I said those words before I had gotten even a single glimpse of the inheritance. I told the truth, for I could not lie to this priestess. It was a terrible pickle for a carpet merchant to be in. I could not lie. Not to Syndia. It must have been a spell, and it mattered not. Dear Syndia, what need have we of riches or lands? What need we of fame or power when we will have us?

  "Master Korvas," she said as she folded the message, "perhaps there has been an error. Are you certain that you have no memory of Olassar?"

  "None."

  "Or of any beggar to whom you might have given some coin? Perhaps you simply did not remember the name."

  "None."

  "Are you certain? The incident might have slipped your mind."

  I looked down at the floor. "I am a selfish wretch, Syndia. I hardly make an effort at paying off debts I owe. Look at my rags. Charity is not a part of me. I can remember no such beggar."

  The priestess studied my face. "Korvas is not a common name."

  "My father, Rafas, was a native of Ahmrita across the great ocean Ilan. He named me."

  She nodded slightly and looked again at the message. "Olassar was quite specific in his instructions as to your name, description, and where you might be found. It is important that no mistake be made."

  "Oh, I agree."

  "Master Korvas, we have a way to bring back darkened memories. Are you willing to undergo the ritual?"

  "Yes." I would have undergone white-hot pokers thrust into my armpits to remain with her. She stood and glided from the room. I began to rise from my chair when a face from a bad dream arrived in front of me.

  "My name is Iamos. You have agreed to undergo the dream raking?"

  "Dream raking? I think so, but I have no recollection of it being called dream raking." Keeping the humorous nature of the gods in mind, I asked, "Does this ritual have anything to do with hot pokers and armpits?"

  Have you ever seen anyone who looks uglier grinning than frowning? That's Iamos. The Nant priest chuckled. "Why do you ask?"

  "I thought a rather hasty thought to myself a bit ago, well within the hearing of any passing spirit. If my maunderings were taken seriously, the remainder of my visit here could be quite unpleasant."

  "The process is painless, Korvas, provided the memory itself is painless. There are memories that can cause great suffering, and other memories that can even kill."

  "Where is Syndia?" I asked.

  "She prepares for the dream rake. Do you have an interest in history?"

  "When I can afford it."

  "The dream rake is quite an ancient ceremony, dating back to Itkahn times. Come."

  He gestured with his hand, and I pushed myself to a standing position and followed on wobbly feet. Iamos led me through a corridor into a great hall, the back of which contained a set of large iron doors. The hall was so huge that the lights from the few candles that burned there seemed not to reach the walls or ceiling. I tugged at the priest's black robe." This does seem like an awful fuss to make over one little memory."

  Iamos frowned, then his face assumed an expression of one who must deal with infidels. "Memories are the treasures of the goddess Raven. She decides, for reasons of her own, where a memory rests: either with Amu the light or with Horax, mist and darkness. When you think you remember something, the memory is in the possession of Amu. When we forget, Horax is the keeper."

  "Horax must be the stronger of the two," I offered, "due to the burden he must carry. Certainly more is forgotten than remembered."

  "Of the two, Amu is the stronger," said Iamos as he placed his hand upon the huge latch of the iron doors. "Horax must only hold the raven-goddess's treasures safe. Amu must, in addition, bear the weight of what mortals do with what they remember."

  "What they do?"

  "Yes. What they do to themselves and to others," Iamos answered gravely. He nodded with the weight of many memories. "Yes, and what they do to truth."

  The sound of the latch opening reverberated around the cavernous hall loudly enough to disturb the lantern spirits, who slept in dark corners on beds of dust kitties.

  The doors swung open by some unseen hand revealing an immense chamber, the floor of which was formed by the hill's natural bedrock. The room's dome reflected a dim blue light that backlit the craggy features of the floor. Each sharp rise of the floor was capped with candles waxed onto the rock. Iamos led me to one of the rises. Once we had successfully made the climb, he stood with his hands clasped in front of him, so I did the same. The heat and odor of the incense from the candles was heavy in the air.

  Looking down from our perch, I could see a level area that looked much like a stage that had been cut from the living rock by the ancients. Iamos pointed at the stage and whispered, "This was our first place of ceremony and worship many centuries ago when we were called the Itkah. This," he gestured at the room's great dome, "was built much later under the Nants."

  At each end of the stage coals burned in huge braziers.

  Perhaps it was only my imagination, but I swear there were instruments heating up in those coals. I was about to take my leave when the dreamy chords of lap harps filled the air. There were black shapes above—huge black birds! Their wings moved majestically as they circled above. There was something strange about them, however. They had the wings and heads of enormous ravens, but as my eyes adjusted fully to the dark I could see that they had the naked bodies of young men and women.

  I pointed up and whispered a question to Iamos. "Wires?"

  He arched an irate eyebrow at me. "Wings."

  "Sorry. No offense."

  One of the raven-women plunged down from the circling bird creatures, flared out as she reached the center of the stage, and came to rest as gently as a down feather. I knew I should be thinking of the inheritance, perhaps of the great religious drama before me, maybe even of those instruments heating upon the braziers. However, my attention was devoted to the naked raven woman on the stage. I don't know how I knew, but I knew it to be Syndia.

  "Tell me, Iamos, how does one go about obtaining instruction in this religion?"

  "Hush."

  The raven-being on the stage held out her wings, and I was certain the wings were real rather than costume. I have seen real ravens before, and that is how the wings moved; that is how the head moved. The raven's eyes sought me out. Suddenly I knew what a grasshopper in the open felt like. I turned to hide behind Iamos, but he was gone! Disappeared!

  The room became filled with horrible piercing screams. The sounds were so painful that I held my hands over my ears, to no avail. The sounds were not lessened one whit. The screams were in my own mind.

  The ring of raven-beings dropped down until they circled me at eye level. The Syndia bird screeched louder than the rest and flew up from the stage, above the circle, then plunged to come to a landing immediately in front of me. It was quite amazing how this ritual helped to bring back memories. In an instant long-forgotten prayers from my childhood leaped to my lips.

  The circle grew tighter, the Syndia-raven enclosed me with her wings, and there was a darkness I have no words to describe. Let it suffice to say that anything you might ever have called darkness was blinding light by comparison.

  I felt lifted into the air, but could feel no hands or wings on me. I must have been thousands of strides above the ground, but had no sensation of height. There was a hardly noticeable glimmer of light in my mind, for I did not see it with my eyes. It grew brighter, and at its center in a mere particle of a second I saw everything that I had ever seen, thought,
or felt. It was all there, from my mother's womb to my terror before the raven-beings in the Nant Temple.

  My father, my mother, my twin brother Tayu who my father had told me had died, every girl and woman I ever lusted for, every shady deal I had ever made, every wrong I had ever done, and every wrong that had ever been done to me. An entire life served up on a platter. Then it was all gone save the interior of the Red Dog Inn, the smells of fabulous cooking in the air, and before me a huge tankard and the luscious shape of Lona.

  Ah, indeed I was back in time. Those were the days of fine fat and gold, too. I had coin jingling in my purse then, a flock of darlings upon my arm, and men of culture and commerce seeking me out for my favor and advice. I traded then in precious gems, and no one in the world had such a fine life and reputation as I.