by Glen Cook
That idiot Sullo!
An ensign came running. He was little more than a child and did not belong here where his story might be cut short before it began. “Sir, the physician said to tell you Colonel Bruda is coming around and it looks like he’ll be in control of his faculties.”
“Very well. I’ll be along in a minute.” He checked one more post, stalling while he composed himself. He told Reyha, “So ends Naszif bar bel-Abek’s day of glory, with nothing accomplished.”
Reyha did not reply. She did not speak unless he made that necessary. Her last voluntary statement had been a generalized expression of gratitude for the help given Raheb Sayed.
Bruda had, indeed, made a dramatic recovery. He was sitting up, working on a heavy breakfast, when Naszif arrived. “It as bad as they’re telling me?” he asked through a mouth full of apricot.
“Probably worse. I don’t know. We’re cut off. I expect they control the city. No one has tried to relieve us or even to reach us. I’ve had all I can do just to hold on.”
“Did a good job, too, for only having kids and superannuated veterans. Might as well tell me everything. Don’t worry about repeating something these kids might have told me. They probably got it wrong.”
Naszif told it as he knew it.
“That’s Fa’tad al-Akla. Pick the moment to perfection, then strike like lightning. Having Sullo take over must have been a sweet that made him drool.”
“What should we do?”
“What we can do and what those old farts in Herod will tell us we should have done, in retrospect, are two different things. If any of us get out of here they’ll want to know why we didn’t fight to the last man. You and your wife light somewhere, have something to eat while I give this a think.”
Bruda pondered for fifteen minutes. Then, “Our problem is that we don’t know what’s happening. Take a white flag and go find out what al-Akla has in mind.”
Naszif’s heart tripped. “Yes sir.”
Colonel Bruda had spoken in Herodian. Reyha did not understand till Naszif told her.
The labyrinth could have passed for one of the hells that awaited those who rejected Herod’s nameless god. Terror and madness were the twin regents of the subterranean dark. The crazies from down deep continued their insane push toward the surface, attacking anyone they encountered. In turn, the Herodian troops had taken to attacking anyone who approached them.
The flooding continued to worsen.
Nonetheless, General Cado had gained a measure of control in his own vicinity. He guessed that as many as two thousand of his men had been killed, wounded, or drowned already.
He forbore swearing a mighty oath of vengeance only because the passion might rule him when he broke free at last and the effort to requite Fa’tad might prove suicidal. Who knew what disasters had transpired in the rest of the city?
Had the Living come out of hiding?
Had Nakar returned to grind everyone beneath his iron boot?
He would know in a few hours, he hoped. His tribunes thought they had found a way out through one of the drains carrying runoff water down from the third level. But it would take a lot of work yet to widen the passage enough using only weapons for tools, the soldiers wedging themselves into the drain with their bodies, working blind, under a continuous fall of water.
An officer came to report, “They’ve found Governor Sullo, sir.”
“Yes?”
“He’s dead. Murdered by his own bodyguards.”
Cado grunted. Another political complication. “Stupidity is one capital crime for which there’s never a pardon.”
Would he, too, be found guilty and have to pay the supreme penalty?
Aaron had grown so accustomed to the rain that his only accommodation to it was to keep his head bowed so the drops would not hit him in the eyes. Yoseh muttered, “We’ll all catch our death of cold.”
Aaron agreed. “At least she seems more optimistic on this side.” In two hours of probing, the witch had not lost another prisoner and only twice had her explorers encountered any obvious danger.
His stomach wound ever tighter. The sorceress had whispered a long time. Now Mo’atabar had Faruk aside for instruction...
Mo’atabar slapped Faruk on the behind. He scooted off around the citadel. Aaron shaded his eyes and studied the place, sensing its awareness of their presence, feeling something more, something like a great dread, or a great storm, slowly wakening. He thought he recognized that feeling Qushmarrah had lived with all the time till six years ago.
He looked at Yoseh. The boy felt it, too. They all did.
His heart plummeted. But he refused to believe that anything had happened to Arif. His son was all right. He had to be.
Yoseh’s brother Medjhah came trotting around the side of the citadel. “Company coming, Mo’atabar. Ferrenghi officer with a white flag.”
A moment later Naszif and Reyha appeared. Naszif was decked out as a Herodian. He exchanged looks with Aaron, sneering mildly at the company Aaron was keeping. He asked, “Who’s in charge?”
Aaron indicated Mo’atabar.
Naszif approached the Dartar, who looked at him curiously, surprised to encounter a Herodian officer who had his hair and looked Qushmarrahan.
Reyha stayed a step from Aaron, staring at the wet pavement. She glanced up, then down again quickly. Softly, Aaron told her, “We’re going in there pretty soon. We’ve found the way. We’re just waiting for reinforcements.”
“Oh.” No more than a whisper. She peered at the citadel.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” In a voice like a mouse, defeated and embarrassed.
“It’s all right, Reyha. Nobody blames you for anything. It’s not your fault.”
She just shook her head, stared at the pavement. After a moment, she said, “I want to stay here, Aaron. I want to get Zouki when you go in there.”
He wanted to say that was impossible, that there was no place for a woman among men storming a fortress, but said instead, “It’ll be dangerous.” He knew her desperation for her son better than he knew the few men he called his friends.
“I know. But I want to be there. And if he’s not all right... If something’s happened... Then the danger won’t matter.”
“I don’t like the way you’re talking, Reyha.”
“Zouki is the only thing I have to live for, Aaron.” She had scary stuff going on in her head, barely edging her words.
He did not know what to say so he said nothing.
Mo’atabar was telling Naszif something about the Herodians getting out of Qushmarrah.
For the first time, suddenly, Aaron realized that when dawn broke tomorrow and the workweek began he might be unemployed.
Azel clumped downstairs, ignoring his pain. He roared, “Torgo! Torgo! Where the hell are you, you ball-less bastard? We just ran the hell out of time!” He stampeded toward the Witch’s chambers, roaring all the way.
Torgo popped out, pallid.
“We’re out of time!” Azel yelled. “They’re going to come. Wake her up.”
“What happened? I thought...”
“I don’t know what happened. You think I can read their minds? All of a sudden they’re around working on the Postern of Fate. Won’t take them long to work through the pattern. So let’s hit it!”
Trouble was, though they had talked about it, they had no plan for meeting this challenge. Decisions were the province of the Witch. Even to Azel it had seemed there would be time enough to get organized after she woke up.
“Take care of her. Get her moving. I’ll go try to arrange something to slow them down.”
Torgo just stood there, mouth open, face pale, eyes dull.
“Move it, Torgo! Or we’re all dead!”
Torgo drifted back into the Witch’s chambers.
Azel limped on down to the main floor. He found the staff assembled already, terrified, alerted by his bellowing earlier. Here were all of Gorloch’s surviving believers, ei
ght men and twelve women. Not much to brag on. Azel told the men, “You guys get out some weapons. They’re going to come through the Postern of Fate. Nakar left a hundred tricks and traps. Set them up. Turn them loose. We got to buy time till she can get down here to help.”
They responded with no enthusiasm.
“Hey! You think about this. You remember this. They ain’t going to leave nobody alive if they get in here. Not you, not me, not nobody.” He eyed the women. What the hell was he going to do with them? “Any of you want to help the men, grab a weapon and go.” Surprising him, four chose that course. “All right. The rest of you go upstairs and see what Torgo has for you.” He had a nasty idea. “Wait! You. You. Go keep an eye on those kids. Be ready to move them if I tell you.”
The last two hurried off. Azel grabbed a lighted lamp and went down to visit Nakar and Ala-eh-din Beyh, only once he got there he ignored them. He stepped around one and over the other, carried the lamp into the darkness behind the image of Gorloch. He passed through a doorway closed by dusty black curtains, entered a suite of rooms that had been used by priests before and after ceremonies. Those chambers had remained inviolate since Nakar had stepped out shortly before the arrival of Ala-eh-din Beyh. The Witch had been forbidden trespass.
He hadn’t forgotten his way around. He made several minor arrangements, then went to a wardrobe cabinet where sacerdotal robes and accessories still hung. He eased between hangings, used a knife to probe a seam in the cabinet’s back.
Something clicked.
The cabinet back swung away into darkness. Azel followed it into a hidden room eight feet by eight. He lighted three lamps from his own, inventoried the room’s contents.
Everything was there, as it had been when one of his duties had been to maintain the bolt-hole.
There were three ways out. One tight crawlway wormed through the citadel walls to debouch near the Postern of Fate. A vertical shaft climbed the citadel’s tallest tower, the top of which was the highest point in Qushmarrah and could be seen from nowhere else. It could be reached only from this room.
The third exit lay beneath the floor. It burrowed deep into the earth.
He was satisfied. The escape option was covered. He topped off the oil in the three lamps, left one burning. There would be no time to piddle away lighting one if a retreat became necessary. He closed up and went to find out how Torgo was doing with the Witch.
He muttered all the way, cursing his wounds.
Bel-Sidek sensed something amiss the moment the soldier let him into Meryel’s house. Something had changed. He could not lay a finger on it immediately...
He had left one of his own men on the door when he had slipped out. The man who let him in was not one of his own.
The khadifas were waiting where he had left them with orders to compare their resources in case it became necessary to take action. Hadribel was all puffed up with anger. King was red with embarrassment. Salom Edgit would not meet his eye. Carza was smiling like a cat with feathers in its whiskers.
So.
Bel-Sidek faced Zenobel, who showed him nothing. “Surprise. You made your move before the fact.”
“What?” Startled.
“I’d thought you’d make your play later. I’d forgotten you tend toward overconfidence.”
Zenobel did not look confident now.
King said, “We took a vote...”
“I know. Four to one to overthrow the overly cautious General, with Hadribel casting the dissenting vote and miffed enough to withhold the strength of the Shu at a time when the organization is enfeebled already by its loss of control in the Hahr. Which now owes allegiance to the khadifa of the Shu. So what do we have here? Shall I become a prophet and foretell the future?”
“By all means,” Zenobel said, with less composure than he had possessed a moment ago.
“The movement will fall into two factions, the smaller loyal to the General’s picked successor, the other the more successful. Once the invaders evacuate the city the war faction will split again when you and Carza try to shake off nuisances named King Dabdahd and Salom Edgit. We may see Living blood shed by the Living. Then the final act, as you and Carza struggle for the right to shape Qushmarrah’s destiny.
“About the time you get it sorted out Herodian legions will come to reclaim a city which has been too busy playing faction to prepare for their return.”
He looked them all in the eye. Even Zenobel flinched.
He pushed out the door, to where four of Zenobel’s men waited. “Take me wherever you’re supposed to keep me confined.”
The carpenter’s conversation with the veydeen woman seemed personal, deserving of privacy. Yoseh drifted nearer Mo’atabar and the envoy.
The envoy wanted to speak ferrenghi. Mo’atabar refused. He was not going to let the man hide from witnesses.
The man gave in. “Colonel Bruda sent me to find out what terms Fa’tad might offer.”
“Go over to the Residence and talk to Fa’tad, then.”
“I stopped there. No one was there. Your group are the only Dartars I can find.”
“Is that so?” Mo’atabar smiled nastily. “Then I’ll have to tell you for him. He wants all ferrenghi, military or civilian, and all veydeen with the ferrenghi allegiance, to leave the city. You’re to go on foot, taking only the clothing and shoes you’re wearing, carrying only a small amount of food. You’re to go out the Gate of Autumn and march eastward. The deadline for compliance is dawn tomorrow. Ferrenghi not on their way by then will be killed or sold as slaves.”
The envoy wanted to argue but he knew finality when he heard it. “I’ll relay that to Colonel Bruda.”
“Do that. I’m sure he’ll want to spread the word and find out how desperate his situation is. He can send messengers through the streets so long as they go in uniform, unarmed, alone, with a red cloth tied around their left arms.”
The veydeen ferrenghi struggled to keep his temper.
Mo’atabar smiled again.
The envoy spun around, stalked toward his wife. Mo’atabar pointed, indicating that Yoseh should stay near him. The man snapped at his woman, “Let’s go!”
The mouse growled back. “I’m staying here. I’m going in there with them.”
The man started to shout, froze, slammed his jaw shut, and whirled again. He glowered at the citadel. “I’ll be right back. I’ll go with you.” He ran off.
The carpenter said, “His son is in there, too.”
“I was there,” Yoseh reminded him. He faced the citadel himself. That child-taker was in there, probably. That short, wide killer to whom he had shown the Face of Death... But only the carpenter knew. Right? And he would not know the significance of the act.
Yoseh was afraid. And felt guilty about his fear, though he knew if he asked, his brothers and cousins would admit they were frightened, too. But that was different, somehow.
Oh, did he wish that he had not come to Qushmarrah.
Mo’atabar and the ferrenghi sorceress were whispering up a storm, the woman’s gestures growing more animated by the moment. They were ready.
A score of Fa’tad’s picked veterans, armed and armored as heavily as ferrenghi heavy infantry, trotted around from the far side of the citadel.
She could not get her mind to function. She felt like she had been drugged. Nothing made sense. Torgo was begging her to get herself together. She could not. She could not remember why it was important that she wake up, though Torgo had told her several times.
Azel bulled his way into her bedchamber. “What the hell is this? I told you to get her up and get her down there.”
“She’s awake. She’s just having trouble getting her bearings.”
“What the hell are you being so delicate for? You going to curtsey your way to the gallows?”
Azel’s abrasive voice began to draw her out of the fog. She watched him storm toward where she sat on the edge of her bed, his hand rising. She willed her body to move but it did not respond before the bl
ow fell.
Pain shot through her, reached into that hidden place where anger slept, wakening it. Her surroundings came into focus.
Torgo hurled himself at Azel. Azel stepped aside. She snapped, “Torgo! That’s enough! Azel, I shan’t forget this.”
“I hope not. I probably just saved your life. Candyass here would’ve dicked around till they were in here chopping you up for dog meat.”
“Who? What are you talking about?”
“Damn you!” he bellowed at Torgo. “You didn’t tell her?”
“I told her.” Torgo sulked.
“He told me but the message didn’t get through. I would appreciate it if you’d calm down and get to the point.”
Azel said, “We got Dartars pounding on the door, woman. They’re going to be inside any minute.” He had a smug I-told-you-so look.
Some residual mental fog stalled her momentarily. Then she asked, “How can that be? Nobody has found the Postern of Fate before.”
“They got their own witch and she unraveled the way in. Are you going to do something or are you going to sit there and just let things happen?”
The fear hit like a blast of steam. Nakar! If she did not do something she would lose him-and everything else, just when she had found the right child.
She lunged forward. The women who had been standing around, silent and helpless and embarrassed, tried to stop her, insisted they dress her. She shook them off. There was no time. Her dream was under attack. Her love was in peril. For even entertaining that idea she would see those savages lose their souls.
Torgo and Azel and the women swept after her. The men muttered at each other angrily. She paid them no heed.
As she marched downstairs she asked what steps had been taken. Azel told her and made a few suggestions. Torgo sulked some more, a gigantic infant with feelings easily bruised.
“You take charge of stalling the attack, Azel. Do whatever you have to, to buy time.”
“What I need is a little help from you. You bloody their noses and they’ll back off.”
She did not bother answering. “Torgo, stay with me. I want two women to light the lamps in the temple. The rest go with Azel.”
She caught an exchange of looks between the killer and the eunuch. Azel was disappointed in her again. He seemed, almost, to despair.