Angus Wells - The God Wars 01

by Forbidden Magic (v1. 1)

  "Drink this." She passed him a phial of colorless liquid. "You have money?"

  He nodded and drank. The potion tasted bitter. Sulei- mana said, "Good, you owe me two varre. One more for each visit. Now, let me dress that cut."

  She daubed some other unguent over the wound and wrapped a bandage about his waist.

  "Clean that blood," she advised, "then sleep. Stay here until I say you can walk. Raimi will bring your meals."

  Mother Raimi nodded as though accepting an order. Calandryll said, "Thank you."

  The healer smiled again and shook her head.

  "Your money's all the thanks I need." She closed her bag and stood up. "Now—unless there's another needs me—I'll return to my bed."

  "No," the lictor said, standing aside as she strode regally past him. He fixed a stem eye on Calandryll. "You'll remain here. Your companion comes with me,"

  His men moved closer to emphasize the order. Mother Raimi asked, "What about ... that?" pointing nervously at the body.

  "Two of you haul it out," commanded the lictor.

  Calandryll watched the body dragged unceremoniously from the room. Mother Raimi stared aghast at her ruined carpet. "You," the lictor said to Bracht, "come with me. And leave your sword here."

  The Kern glowered, and for a moment Calandryll feared he would refuse. He sighed his relief as Bracht unlatched his swordbelt and flung it irritably to the floor. The lictor beckoned him. His men angled their pikes menacingly. Bracht nodded, offering no further protest. Instead, he looked to Calandryll.

  "Visit me when you can walk."

  Calandryll ducked his head, understanding the message.

  The next two days passed slowly. When he tried to stand, pain lanced his damaged knee and he was forced to acknowledge Suleimana's diagnosis, reluctantly accepting her advice and remaining supine on the bed. A nervous Lyhanna came in the morning to scmb the soiled carpet, avoiding his eyes and answering his questions with grunted monosyllables until he gave up the attempt to engage her in conversation. Mother Raimi brought him food, Surinim at her back with a stout cudgel, and they were no more forthcoming than Lyhanna. It seemed he was allowed to remain only because the healer had spoken against moving him, and he spent the day alternately cursing his immobility and worrying about the attack. He had too much time to think, and his thoughts spun circles about themselves, like mad dogs snapping at their own tails.

  Was the Chaipaku sent by Tobias?

  Or by Azumandias?

  If by the latter, then why send the warboat after the Sea Dancer? Had Azumandias sought to further his chances of success by employing both the woman and the Chaipaku?

  Or was it Tobia who sent the assassin?

  Would his father use such methods?

  He was not sure Bylath would stoop so low, but Tobias ... Yes, his brother would not hesitate to eliminate a threat to his accession. But that had to mean Tobias had known he was in Aldarin—could he have found out so fast? Or did the Chaipaku themselves have some means of passing information that swiftly? Carrier pigeons, or perhaps magic. He ransacked his memory for information, but could not recall any mention of the Brotherhood using magic.

  He lay on the bed, staring through the opened window at the small yard behind the hostelry, feeling the dry heat of the gaheen, lost in the maze of his troubled thoughts. Had Mehemmed simply recognized him as one sought by the assassins and seized the opportunity to strike? That likely meant his face was known to all the Chaipaku: that particular thought chilled him, for it magnified the dangers of his journey to horrible extent. Magic and Bracht had saved him this time: the next time, the Kem might not be so quick. Certainly not while he was incarcerated in the Rotor's jail. Calandryll clasped the sword rested across his hips and cursed his injury. Fit, he had been no match for the killer. Unable to walk, he had no chance at all should a second appear.

  That night he slept with the sword cradled in his arms, fitfully, and his hand was on the hilt when Suleimana came back.

  "I am no Chaipaku," the healer declared. "Had I wished to kill you, that draft I gave you would have been poison. Philomen is not very bright and I could have told him the blade that cut you was envenomed."

  He nodded, relinquishing the sword as she settled herself on the bed and opened her bag.

  "Why do they seek you?"

  She unwrapped the bandage as she spoke, her eyes critical on his knee. He saw that her rich auburn hair was streaked with strands of grey.

  "I travel on secret business," he replied vaguely. "There are trade contracts to be negotiated."

  The woman snorted, turning skeptical eyes toward him.

  "Ghombalar and Vishat'yi are Kandahar's trade centers, and the Sea Dancer sailed for Ghombalar yesterday."

  He shrugged, watching as she prodded his kneecap. It felt only slightly sore now.

  "We travel inland."

  Suleimana applied fresh ointment.

  "There's nothing inland save farms. Unless you travel to Nhur-jabal."

  "We do."

  He was reluctant to reveal even that much, but it seemed that further prevarication would merely heighten her obvious suspicion. She nodded and wound a clean bandage about his leg.

  "Now let me see your belly.”

  He leaned forward so that she could unwind the cloth. The wound was already healing, the skin puckered and pink.

  "A fraction lower ..." She chuckled; Calandryll blushed. "But you were lucky. It's little more than a scratch—in a day or two it'll be no more than a story to tell your children."

  She smeared a salve over the cut and encircled him with a fresh swathe of linen.

  "And my knee?"

  "More serious," she said briskly. "I'll have Surinim cut you a staff and you can walk a little tomorrow. But not for long! When it begins to ache, you must rest. Strain it and you'll limp all your life. You were lucky it didn't break."

  "How long before I can travel?" he asked.

  "You Lyssians." She shook her head. "Do you think of nothing but business?"

  "How long?" he insisted.

  "At least a week before you can walk unaided. Probably three before it's full-healed."

  His face registered his alarm. Suleimana shrugged, returning her unguents to the bag.

  "Your comrade remains in Philomen's care until then at least. The podesta makes his circuit and he's not known to hurry. And he'll want to interview you."

  "Three weeks," he muttered.

  Suleimana nodded.

  "There are stables in Mherut'yi?" he asked. "I can buy horses?"

  "Old Dahammen has horses for sale," she said, "but riding will do that knee no good. And Philomen will not permit you to leave."

  "He's the only authority in Mherut'yi? Is there none higher?"

  The healer chuckled.

  "No. Philomen is our lictor and a lictor's the highest official we merit here. You should have stayed aboard the Sea Dancer and traveled on to Ghombalar if you're in such a hurry."

  "But I didn't."

  "No; and now you must remain here until the podesta declares you free to go."

  "You think he will?"

  She pursed her lips, then ducked her head.

  "The one your fellow killed was Chaipaku, and killing them's no crime. Aye, the podesta will release you once the formalities are done. But Philomen will hold you until then—he likes to demonstrate his authority from time to time."

  "Might he change his mind?" He paused, not sure how she would take it, or if she would report back to the lictor. "Might money change it for him?"

  "No. Philomen's none too bright, but he's honest. Don't try to bribe him."

  He nodded. Suleimana smiled again, rising.

  "Curb your impatience. Three weeks is not so long."

  A lifetime, he thought. Long enough for the Chaipaku to find me; or the warboat to reach Mherut'yi. He said, "I suppose I must."

  "Yes," she said, businesslike again. "And now—you owe me three varre."

  He handed her the coins.
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  "Thank you. I suggest you visit me in two days' time. And be careful not to exert yourself."

  He nodded again and she quit the room, leaving him alone.

  Three weeks! It was too long to wait: an impossible time. He must test his knee, and when he could walk, purchase horses; free Bracht. He lay back, wondering how he would do it. Presumably the Kem was held in that stronghold on the mole. With Varent's magic to aid him he should be able to gain entpr ... find Bracht ... the key... Was the freesword held in a cell? How to bring him out? The talisman would render only one of them invisible. He shook his head, refusing to be daunted. He would succeed! He had to, because the fate of the world depended on it. As soon as he could hobble he would penetrate the fortalice and decide a stratagem.

  A little happier, he waited for his evening meal.

  The next morning Surinim appeared with a staff. It seemed that Suleimana must have reassured the man, for he carried no cudgel today and he smiled shyly as he set the stave beside Calandryll's bed. Calandryll thanked him and, as soon as he was gone, dressed and clambered awkwardly to his feet. A dull throbbing drummed in his knee when he stood, but he was able to limp, resting his weight mostly on the wooden pole, along the corridor to the entrance of the hostelry. Mother Raimi watched him as he fumbled with the door and he smiled at her, the greeting sending her scurrying back behind the protection of the bead curtain as he hobbled into the street.

  The sun shone bright out of a sky that seemed scoured to a steely blue-silver by the relentless gaheen. Within his room he had not realized how fierce the wind was, but now he felt its hot, heavy strength and understood why it was called the devil wind. It burned in his mouth as he breathed, bombarding his face with grit so that he blinked and spat, turning his head to avoid its onslaught. He began to sweat, feeling his lengthening hair slap damp against his neck, the strap of the satchel an irritation across his chest. The street was empty; indeed, Mherut'yi seemed empty, a somnolent place where dust skirled along the narrow thoroughfares and people hid from the oppressive gusting. He wiped his mouth and set out to explore the town.

  The investigation did not take long. Even slowed by the frequent need to halt and rest when his knee threatened to fold under him, he succeeded in patrolling the environs by nightfall. He found the stable Suleimana had described and negotiated the purchase of two horses and tack with Dahammen, explaining to the old man that he would collect them, when the podesta freed Bracht. He ate in a dusty inn and afterward limped to the waterfront, disappointed to find that the proximity of the sea offered no respite from the gaheen. The harbor was empty save for a few fishing boats and he leaned against the wall of a warehouse as he studied the grey bulk of the fortalice. It was the tallest structure in Mherut'yi, two stone stories rising above the harbor, the lower level cut with narrow embrasures and the upper with wider, barred openings. The roof was flat ana there was a single door granting entry on the landward face. Soldiers lounged about the door, but paid him no more attention than a glance. He wondered where Bracht was held, but decided against attempting entry until later, hobbling back to the hostelry in time for dinner.

  The following morning he rose early and wandered the town again, familiarizing himself with its pattern until he was confident he knew the fastest route out. The townsfolk had the habit of sleeping through the worst of the heat, leaving the place largely deserted for hours after the noonday meal. Despite Suleimana's advice he decided that he would not aelay: there was no time to waste, lest Azumandias or the Chaipaku find him. If he could only effect Bracht's escape they should be able to ride clear before Philomen even knew they were gone. The Kern's gear was already transferred to his room: it remained only to free his comrade.

  On the appointed day he sought Suleimana again. The healer examined his knee and pronounced it on the way to mending. The cut on his stomach was almost gone, only a narrow red line attesting to the wound.

  "Exercise the knee," she advised, "but not too much. There's no need to return here—you can apply the unguent yourself. Smear it on the bruise every two days, and change the bandage, and you'll be fit enough by the time the podesta releases you."

  He smiled his thanks, thinking that he would not wait so long, and paid her. Then, barely able to suppress his mounting excitement, he returned to the hostelry. It was the hottest time of the day and the folk of Mherut'yi kept themselves behind closed shutters until the worst of the heat had abated, the streets deserted until the ferocity of the gaheen eased a little. He ate and announced his intention of following the local custom by sleeping the afternoon away, asking that he not be disturbed. Behind his closed door he gathered their gear in a single bundle and counted out what he owed Mother Raimi. His sword was belted on his waist and he slung Bracht's falchion over his shoulder. Then he mouthed the spell Varent had taught him and felt his skin tingle, the scent of almonds powerful in his nostrils. Still unaccustomed to the use of magic, he found it hard to believe that he was truly invisible as he started toward the door, and paused as it dawned on him that he no longer limped. His knee no longer ached. In fact, it felt sound as ever and he grinned as he threw the staff to the bed: it seemed the faint fire of the red stone flowed through the damaged tissue, healing and strengthening. Still smiling, he traversed the corridor, slipping silently out into the empty street.

  Mherut'yi slumbered in the noonday sun, even the dogs seeking respite from the savage heat, and he was thankful for the solitude as he made his way briskly to the stable. There was no sign of Dahammen as he entered, nor as he saddled both horses and led them out, breathing prayers to Dera and Burash both as he took the reins and headed for the harbor. The narrow alley between two warehouses provided a hiding place for the animals, it's mouth shaded as he studied the fortalice. A solitary guard stood by the open door, leaning on his pike, the tails of his scarlet puggaree drawn across his nose and mouth. Calandryll took a deep breath and set out across the cobbles.

  The guard rested in the scanty shade of the blockhouse wall. Calandryll drew steadily closer, afraid the pounding of his heart beat loud enough to alert the soldier. He halted close enough to touch the man, staring at him. The Kand stared idly back, seeing nothing. The grin returned to Calandryll's lips as he tiptoed past into a spacious, shadowy chamber that occupied most of the stronghold's lower level. It was some kind of guardroom, to judge by the tables, still littered with food, at the center, and the bunks, each one holding a sleeping soldier, set along the walls. A narrow flight of stone steps led up to the second level and he guessed that Bracht was held there: he began to climb.

  He paused again at the head, studying this second story. Grey stone surrounded a bare central area, a further flight of steps leading to the roof, heavy doors set deep in the walls. One, across the hall, was cut with a small grille and he guessed that was the cell holding Bracht. He started toward it, then stopped as a door to one side opened and Philomen emerged.

  The lictor wore a flowing robe of a scarlet to match his puggaree, but his head was bare now, oiled black hair loose to his shoulders, his feet bare. He paused at the door, turning to speak, and Calandryll heard a feminine voice answer, the indistinct words eliciting a smile from Philomen. He crossed the open space, still smiling, and Calandryll flattened against the wall, holding his breath, as the lictor passed directly before him. The man's eyes looked straight at him—through him—and Calandryll voiced silent thanks to Varent for the spell. He watched as Philomen entered a room across the hall, reappearing moments later with a flagon of wine that he carried into the chamber. The woman laughed as the door closed, and Calandryll let out his breath in a long, slow sigh.

  He crossed to the grille and peered in. Sunlight shone bright through the bars covering the outer window, illuminating a spartan chamber containing tiered bunks. Bracht lay on a bunk to one side of the window, asleep. Calandryll examined the door. It was held by a sturdy lock: there was no sign of the key. He called Bracht's name softly, praying no other would hear. Bracht sat up and said, "Calandryll
?"

  He nodded, raising a finger to his lips before he remembered the Kem could not see him.

  "Aye," he whispered. "Here."

  Bracht climbed from the bunk, approaching the door. He seemed no worse for his incarceration, only irritated.

  "You use Varent's spell?"

  "Aye," he repeated.

  Bracht granted and said, "Then get me out of here."

  "I need the key."

  "The lictor has it. He keeps it on his belt."

  "Dera!" he muttered.

  "You're invisible," Bracht said.

  "But Philomen's behind a closed door. With a woman."

  The Kem glowered at the empty air beyond the grille, his blue eyes angry.

  "Then he's other things on his mind. And I'd not stay here any longer. Get me out!"

  Calandryll nodded, sighing.

  "Wait here."

  "I can do little else," said Bracht.

  "I'll try," Calandryll promised, and crossed to the door he had seen the lictor use.

  He pressed his ear to the wood, but could hear nothing through its bulk. He saw a ring set above a lock like that on Bracht's cell and hoped no key was turned on the inside. He took the ring in his hand, took a deep breath, and eased the ring a half circle round. The soft click of falling tumblers seemed to echo off the stone walls. He held his breath, ready to spring back should the lictor appear. Then, heart pounding, he gently thrust the door inward. Bars of light striated a darkened room. He saw the comer of a bed. Two pairs of bare feet, entwined. Heard the panting of the woman and Philomen's heavier breathing. He eased the door a fraction wider and slipped inside.

  Instantly, he was overcome with acute embarrassment. He felt an insane desire to giggle as he saw hirsute buttocks moving rhythmically above the paler hue of the woman's thighs. Her arms clutched the lictor to her and her face showed over his shoulder. Calandryll saw that she was pretty in a nondescript way, her eyes wide, unfocused in pleasure.