Read Online The Seventh Gate (The Seven Citadels ) by Geraldine Harris - Free Book Online
Authors: Geraldine Harris
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be
royally dressed. Choose!”
He pointed to the scattered clothes but
Kerish shook his head. “Finery stolen from the dead is more dishonorable than
any slave collar.”
The captain looked puzzled. “They are
honest spoils, the Khan's by right of battle.” He picked up the gaudy cloak and
the discarded tunic. “If you fear dishonor, save us the trouble of stripping
you. Ugly one, help your Master dress. Prince, you have no choice.”
For a moment Kerish stood obdurate, and two
of the guards moved towards him. Then he tugged at the lacing of his tunic and
Gidjabolgo darted across the room to help him. The green tunic was too large
and the Forgite had to delve in the chest to find a sash to bind it in. Then he
hung the heavy cloak from Kerish's shoulders and the captain handed him a
golden coronet to set on the Prince's head.
“Are you satisfied now?” asked Kerish
quietly. “Is this mockery enough?”
“Our Khan intended no mockery,” said the
captain uncomfortably, and without looking into the Prince's eyes, he ordered
the Galkians to follow him.
Kerish and Forollkin were taken to the
highest chamber in the tower. Its floors and walls were painted with simple
patterns of scattered leaves and bright feathers. Its only furnishings were
crude benches and trestle-tables scratched and stained with years of use. Half
seen in the smoky darkness, O-grak's warriors and the retinue of the Envoy of
Chiraz were crammed together along the benches. About a third of the tables
were still empty, as if more guests were expected. The blank faces of slaves
were lit by glowing coals as they stooped over braziers and cauldrons, and the
skins that usually covered a hole in the roof had been stripped back to let the
cooking smoke spiral upwards and taint the stars.
An old man relieved the guards of their
weapons and added them to the heap at his feet. Then he paused uncertainly in
front of the Galkians.
“They have no weapons,” bawled O-grak, “except
the Prince's eyes and we'll leave those where they are. Bring our guests here!”
The guards led them through the braziers
that encircled the stairwell, to where O-grak sat, at a table no grander than
the rest. The Khan had not bothered to change his clothes for the feast but
beside him the Envoy of Chiraz glittered in a cloak and tunic that seven
serpents had died to make. He was a young man with close-cropped hair and a
sparse beard, combed out to make it look thicker. A dozen rings gleamed on the
nervous fingers that plucked at a haunch of meat and the Envoy's small eyes
flickered towards the strangers.
“So, cousin,” O-grak clapped the Envoy on
the shoulder, “what do you think of my captive Prince?”
The Envoy of Chiraz chewed at his meat and
looked the Prince slowly up and down. Kerish stood perfectly still and seemed
unaware of the scrutiny.
“Prince? He's pretty enough to be a
Princess. Were you thinking of a new alliance, O- grak?”
Color flooded into Kerish's cheeks but
nobody laughed and the pause before the Khan said, “Of a kind,” was long enough
to make the Envoy shift uncomfortably.
“You need not be so distant, Prince,”
continued O-grak. “Lord Cil-Rahgen is your kinsman too. The Empress, your
stepmother, is his aunt.”
“And yet you plan to attack her?” put in
Forollkin, who was tired of being ignored.
“All the best fights are kept in the
family,” said the Khan amiably. “Cil-Rahgen, this is the Prince's brother, by
one of the late Emperor's numerous concubines. Lord Forollkin is in the habit
of saying exactly what he thinks and my guards inform me that he is likely to
be a bad influence on his brother. What should I do with him?”
The Envoy shrugged. “If he is a warrior,
kill him. If not, make him your slave.”
“All according to custom, but I,” announced
O-grak, “am a great breaker of custom. Tonight I feel less bound by the past
than ever. Perhaps you should both try harder to keep me in such a mood.”
Forollkin
royally dressed. Choose!”
He pointed to the scattered clothes but
Kerish shook his head. “Finery stolen from the dead is more dishonorable than
any slave collar.”
The captain looked puzzled. “They are
honest spoils, the Khan's by right of battle.” He picked up the gaudy cloak and
the discarded tunic. “If you fear dishonor, save us the trouble of stripping
you. Ugly one, help your Master dress. Prince, you have no choice.”
For a moment Kerish stood obdurate, and two
of the guards moved towards him. Then he tugged at the lacing of his tunic and
Gidjabolgo darted across the room to help him. The green tunic was too large
and the Forgite had to delve in the chest to find a sash to bind it in. Then he
hung the heavy cloak from Kerish's shoulders and the captain handed him a
golden coronet to set on the Prince's head.
“Are you satisfied now?” asked Kerish
quietly. “Is this mockery enough?”
“Our Khan intended no mockery,” said the
captain uncomfortably, and without looking into the Prince's eyes, he ordered
the Galkians to follow him.
Kerish and Forollkin were taken to the
highest chamber in the tower. Its floors and walls were painted with simple
patterns of scattered leaves and bright feathers. Its only furnishings were
crude benches and trestle-tables scratched and stained with years of use. Half
seen in the smoky darkness, O-grak's warriors and the retinue of the Envoy of
Chiraz were crammed together along the benches. About a third of the tables
were still empty, as if more guests were expected. The blank faces of slaves
were lit by glowing coals as they stooped over braziers and cauldrons, and the
skins that usually covered a hole in the roof had been stripped back to let the
cooking smoke spiral upwards and taint the stars.
An old man relieved the guards of their
weapons and added them to the heap at his feet. Then he paused uncertainly in
front of the Galkians.
“They have no weapons,” bawled O-grak, “except
the Prince's eyes and we'll leave those where they are. Bring our guests here!”
The guards led them through the braziers
that encircled the stairwell, to where O-grak sat, at a table no grander than
the rest. The Khan had not bothered to change his clothes for the feast but
beside him the Envoy of Chiraz glittered in a cloak and tunic that seven
serpents had died to make. He was a young man with close-cropped hair and a
sparse beard, combed out to make it look thicker. A dozen rings gleamed on the
nervous fingers that plucked at a haunch of meat and the Envoy's small eyes
flickered towards the strangers.
“So, cousin,” O-grak clapped the Envoy on
the shoulder, “what do you think of my captive Prince?”
The Envoy of Chiraz chewed at his meat and
looked the Prince slowly up and down. Kerish stood perfectly still and seemed
unaware of the scrutiny.
“Prince? He's pretty enough to be a
Princess. Were you thinking of a new alliance, O- grak?”
Color flooded into Kerish's cheeks but
nobody laughed and the pause before the Khan said, “Of a kind,” was long enough
to make the Envoy shift uncomfortably.
“You need not be so distant, Prince,”
continued O-grak. “Lord Cil-Rahgen is your kinsman too. The Empress, your
stepmother, is his aunt.”
“And yet you plan to attack her?” put in
Forollkin, who was tired of being ignored.
“All the best fights are kept in the
family,” said the Khan amiably. “Cil-Rahgen, this is the Prince's brother, by
one of the late Emperor's numerous concubines. Lord Forollkin is in the habit
of saying exactly what he thinks and my guards inform me that he is likely to
be a bad influence on his brother. What should I do with him?”
The Envoy shrugged. “If he is a warrior,
kill him. If not, make him your slave.”
“All according to custom, but I,” announced
O-grak, “am a great breaker of custom. Tonight I feel less bound by the past
than ever. Perhaps you should both try harder to keep me in such a mood.”
Forollkin
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