by Larry Niven
They were both silent as she led him away from the Octagon, through a network of shadows and two secret doors, and to a flat, dark building, quite unprepossessing. Once they were through the door, he was dazzled by the opulent draperies and furnishings.
She took him down a side hall and through another door, and then they were in her private quarters.
Shyena threw her hood back, revealing the beautiful, angular features he had seen through the tricky spyglass.
The Red Nun lit a candle, then doffed her cloak. Finally, she spoke. “So. I was correct. It is Neoloth-Pteor. I thought so. Was puzzled only by the way you followed that barbarian around like a lap dog. What is your interest here?”
“Interest?” he asked.
“Do not seek to play me for a fool. Don’t you realize that I can raise my voice and you will be torn apart?”
He smiled without humor. “And why don’t you?”
“Perhaps I will.”
He studied her. “No, I don’t think so.”
She slid around the table toward him, approaching more directly. The air in the room shifted, and suddenly he caught her scent. It was not entirely perfume, or soap.
“You think my memory of your skills in the boudoir will silence my tongue? That perhaps I will find better use for it than betrayal?”
Shyena’s face was very close.
“No,” Neoloth said.
When she spoke again, her voice was extraordinarily intimate. “What, then?”
“I think you need to know who I have told of you. And what my intentions are, and whether they conflict with yours.”
She smiled, pleased by his acumen. “You have lost nothing of your vision, wizard. Come. Drink with me.”
Neoloth looked at the wine flagons, suspicious.
Shyena laughed. “You may choose the flagon,” she said. “You may choose the wine bottle. And remember—killing you accomplishes nothing if you have spoken of me in the wrong quarters.”
“That … is truth,” Neoloth said. “We are equally exposed, I think.”
He poured both glasses, and they sat on the divan, eyeing each other. “You were waiting for me.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve known I was here for quite a while.”
“Yes. Since the sail race.”
“I saw you,” he said.
She smiled. “I felt you see me.”
He shook his head. “Proximity sense?”
“Attention sense,” Shyena replied.
“I … never saw that in you.”
“I know how to keep my secrets,” she said. “Knowing when someone is focused on me has kept me alive and helped me rise here.”
“I’m sure,” he said. “So this is your place, and these are your people. And this is your work.”
The Red Nun narrowed her eyes. “Are you judging me?”
Neoloth paused. A tense moment. He gestured to the east. “Necromancy.”
“Yes.”
“You are doing something to create these strange machines.”
She shook her head, but smiled.
“Something. Not creating. But … obtaining?”
She nodded.
“From another land. From the spirit realm … They are made in fairy workshops.”
Her smile was only a faint curl … but told him he was on the wrong track. “You lack imagination.”
He pondered.
“They are not of this land. But not of another land. They are not made by fairies, or spirits, but by men. But not our men. You like riddles?”
He frowned and then stared at her.
Then took a deep breath and tried again. “What could be done with unlimited mana, gained by slaughtering men, women, and children—”
The Red Nun recoiled, raising a hand, her long sharpened fingernails like claws. “No! Not children. I have limited influence with the Ten, but was able to confine them to prisoners of war and adult slaves. No children.”
When Shyena next looked at him, her eyes blazed. He couldn’t look away.
“You, above all others, should know me better than that.”
“So … you have not forgotten?”
“Who could?” she said, allowing her voice and face to soften. “How could you even wonder?”
“And with that memory burning bright, as bright as the houses aflame, you serve the man who killed your family?”
She glared at him.
“No,” he said. “And that is why you did not betray me.”
“And you. Following that ignorant barbarian like a dog. Pretending to be a servant. You serve the queen of Quillia.”
“How do you know this?”
She smiled again. “The Ten has their own secrets and sources.”
“So,” Neoloth said. “You know.”
She nodded. “Yours is a mission of rescue.”
“And yours,” he said, “one of vengeance.”
“You think you know revenge? Did you ever have anyone you cared about, Neoloth? Ever? I had everything taken from me, by the very man who now seeks the power to rule the world. I will bring him low; I swear it. And if you will help me … I will help you.”
“And if I don’t? Or can’t?”
Her eyes were blazing cold. “Do not stand between me and my vengeance. I swear that if you do, I will destroy you.”
Neoloth nodded. “We are both vulnerable here. We each have secrets. My goals do not conflict with yours … even if they are not in alignment.”
“You seek the princess. I need her to complete our spell.”
“And I cannot let you destroy or corrupt her.”
The Red Nun matched him stare for stare. “Then we are at an impasse. Each of us can destroy the other. Neither of us will help the other. We do not trust. I don’t know what you want here, but, whatever your purpose, you have made a mistake.”
Neoloth’s mind buzzed. This moment could totally make or break his entire mission. Finally, he spoke. “What if there was a way?”
Her expression was guarded. “To what?”
“For us to trust each other. To know each other’s mind.”
Now, for the first time, her expression seemed … pleased. “You don’t mean…”
“The Yellow Rose. Yes.”
Her posture changed. Became some odd mixture of tart and priestess. Her smile was cynical. “I thought you were in love.”
“Love is love,” he said. “Business is business.”
TWENTY-FOUR
The Yellow Rose
The candles were freshly lit, incense curling from the scented sticks to ghost-dance around the shadowed room. They had drawn a magical circle on the floor, candles burning, and she mounted him in seated position, tightly intertwined. They gazed deeply into each other’s eyes, timing their breaths to synchronize with each other.
At first it was just penetration and envelopment, but then they began to experience a variety of powerful shifts, the room around them melting, and Neoloth saw the girl within the woman.
He saw things, memories from her past: The village that burned. The lost parents. The vow of vengeance. Becoming a courtesan. The day she became the mistress of a great wizard, where first she met Neoloth. And, finally, her ceremony of Becoming, when she stepped into her power and joined the Thousand. One focused decision at a time, working her way up to being one of the Ten.
His mind exploded with her memories.
* * *
The sun was just shining through the window as the two of them lay sprawled on the beam floor, their bodies intertwined.
Shyena’s breath was wine and honey. “You…,” she began, but could not complete the thought. “That was magic.”
He chuckled, low in his throat. “We are magicians, after all.”
More chuckling from both. Then she grew more serious. “So,” she said. “You do love her.”
“Yes, I do.”
“And you are willing to die in your quest.”
He hesitated, then answered. “Yes.” And
was surprised to realize that he meant it.
“My silence is as yours, things being equal … which of course they never are.” Her smile was wan, and her naked hips withdrew an inch. “We interfere not with each other’s plans. But I need more, because your interests are directly opposed to mine … unless you have something to add.”
“I’m still trying to believe … the cavern … we never knew any of that, ever. Let me think.” He thought, while she watched his face. “If I have the princess … it weakens your plans.”
“Unless?”
“Unless there is a way that a living princess advantages you.”
“And how might that be?”
“If the Thousand, or their leaders the Ten, accomplish their aims, this world changes. Magic becomes a shadow. In that world, what have you really won?”
She thought. “Power. Revenge.”
“What if you could have all three? Power, revenge … and magic?”
She frowned. “How?”
“If the general dies, you have your revenge. Need you kill him yourself?” He thought he saw a touch of hunger in her eyes.
“I thought to, as there is no one I trust enough to have engaged as an assassin.”
He smiled. “I may have just the man. And if he dies and the princess disappears … what then?”
“When the truth is learned? War between Quillia and Shrike?”
“And?”
“Shrike will use its new weapons and win.”
“Unless the other seven kingdoms rise against her,” Neoloth said.
“And Shrike will be destroyed, at great cost to the kingdoms.” Her face darkened. “There is no joy in that thought. Most of the dead are blameless.”
“Unless…” He paused, feeling the tension. “Unless the princess was found to have been captured by bandits and returned by Shrike.”
The breath caught in Shyena’s throat. “Even if you agreed to such a thing, how could we be certain the princess herself would. She knows where she is. And who has her. Make no mistake.”
Neoloth felt more confidence now. He had her. “It is in the princess’s interests to see peace. If the cavern were destroyed or blocked and the general destroyed … where then does that leave you?”
“In a power vacuum,” she mused. “In need of allies.” She raised an eyebrow in implied question.
“While I will be the consort of the next queen of Quillia, a man deep in your debt. I wish to live my life in peace, would have no reason to betray an ally. In fact … I believe that you would find me, and the princess, to be extraordinarily grateful to you.”
The distance between them vanished in warmth and softness. “Would you, now?”
“You came to Shrike seeking vengeance and power.”
She nodded.
“I can provide both—not in the form you sought, but in a manner that should satisfy your appetites. The general dead. The Ten vanquished. A power vacuum. The gratitude of the greatest kingdom of the Eight in support of your ambitions. What poor magic remains in this world would still be the most powerful force.”
“I can be certain of this, precisely how?”
They smiled at each other. Neoloth felt his loins tingling again. Magic was a wonderful thing. “Our first ceremony brought us close enough to dream. It seems another may be needed to complete the deal.”
“The princess for the general. Your assassin, my knowledge. We … share. You and I, Neoloth … we are two of a kind. It is a shame…”
“Yes. But we have this moment. And any moment, lived deeply enough, is all the time that there is…”
* * *
As their bodies cooled again, Neoloth rolled onto his back, sighing. “Under what circumstances can I trust you?”
“Only those in which I may have my revenge. Stand in my way, and I will destroy you, even at the cost of my own life.”
Neoloth smiled. “But destroying yourself will prevent you from accomplishing your aims.”
“But my willingness to die is the only thing that will neutralize you, my old lover.”
“What if there was another way. Another way to destroy him.”
“And his aims. The Ten have opened the door to the future.”
Neoloth nodded. “I never saw that coming.”
The Red Nun seemed thoughtful. “They cannot see that, in time, what they do will destroy them. They see only the power that can be gained now, not what our descendants will lose if magic is no longer primary in the world.”
“So…,” Neoloth asked, “if the general and the tunnels were destroyed … you would not mourn.”
“With you, I might survive this.” She fidgeted, and he intuited that they were closer to some truth. “And that is not something I had dreamed of. I thought to die with him.”
She turned on her side and softly began to cry.
“Why do you cry?” Neoloth asked, gently.
“When we joined, I saw,” she said.
“What did you see?”
“You speak the truth. You are willing to die for her. You … love her.”
“Yes,” Neoloth admitted. “Yes, I do. Why do you cry?”
“Because we could do this. You and I. A man like you. Willing to do what you have been willing to do for your love.”
“And the power, Shyena,” he said. “Please, don’t paint me as a saint.”
She smiled at him wanly. “So wise. So foolish.”
He flinched. “What do you mean?”
“I saw into your heart, Neoloth. I know what you are afraid to say to yourself.”
She rolled over and caressed his face. “I will be damned. You are a good man, after all. But can a good man sacrifice a friend?”
“Aros is not my friend.”
“Then what is he to you?”
Neoloth considered. “I suppose that as long as he keeps his word and does as he has agreed … he is an ally.”
“So … you will task him with killing the general. And if he refuses?”
“Why would he?”
Her expression hardened. “I must know he will.”
Neoloth’s eyebrows drew together. “It is important?”
“More than you know,” she said.
“Then I promise you, I will convince him,” Neoloth swore. “But … why is it so urgent?”
“Because if I can’t trust you, your man is dead.”
“Dead?” Neoloth asked. “When?”
“I would say three days from now,” the Red Nun said.
“What are you saying?”
“The general dies in three days, and Aros with him.”
Neoloth frowned. “Ah. You set up a game?”
She tensed, considering, and then sighed. “The Ten,” she said. “He grows too powerful. When he takes the kingdom, he will turn on us. So … now that he has served his function, we have arranged an … incident.”
“Where is he now? I saw him only hours ago.”
“But with the dawn, he took his men on patrol. By now, long gone. He and all with him will die. Including your ally. Would that disturb you?”
He thought of the abuse he had suffered at Aros’s hands … but also that the man had kept his word and displayed considerable wit, nerve, and … even charm.
“Yes,” Neoloth said, amazed to hear the words from his mouth. “I would be disturbed.”
“I understand. Well … if I can trust you, if you promise that the general will die … I will tell you how to save your man and help you free your precious princess.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Bad Ground
For three days the column of soldiers and tarp-covered, horse-drawn wagons had raised dust through the mountain trails and now along the plains beyond.
General Silith clenched his teeth and whistled, drawing the attention of an officer. “Keep them steady.”
“Yes, sir,” the man replied.
The general rode back in the column to where Aros rode. The Aztec’s long black hair swayed as he looked side to side, alert.<
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“What do you think?”
“I think,” Aros said, “that we are in enemy territory.”
The general chuckled. “And why do you think this?”
Aros gestured behind them. “I saw a burned wagon and simple graves. Someone buried someone quickly, then moved on.”
“Hmmm. And what does that say to you?”
“An ambush,” Aros said. “But the attackers were not strong … just deadly.”
“And why do you say that?”
“Because they left someone behind alive enough to bury the dead.”
The general roared with laughter. “An interesting mind. Keep it active.”
“Yes, sir.”
The general rode off, galloping like a centaur. Aros watched him, again feeling more genuine admiration than seemed appropriate … or comfortable.
* * *
That night, as the previous three nights, the men were camped beneath the stars. Sentries posted. Aros sat at the campfire with some of the other men, laughing, drinking, and joking.
“—so I told her: then don’t do that with your legs, if they weren’t made to bend that way!”
The men erupted with laughter.
Aros laughed as loudly as any of them and added his own bawdy embellishments to the story. Sergeant Fflogs approached.
“Kasha!” Fflogs said. “You are on watch. Eyes worn open. The cost for falling asleep on watch in a war zone is death.”
Aros watched the man’s nostrils flare, recognizing, not for the first time, that there was real anger and personal animus on display. He concealed his amusement. “I suppose I’ll just have to stay awake.”
“See that you do.” Fflogs paused. “I can’t imagine why, but the general has taken an interest in you.”
“He’s a great man.”
“That he is.” The sergeant gazed up at the sun, a red ball heading for the horizon. “See that you don’t abuse it. It won’t save you, you know. He’s had favorites before.”
“I don’t need saving,” Aros said.
The sergeant’s heavy lips curled in a smile. Not a pleasant expression. “We all need a little saving, from time to time.”
The sergeant stalked away.
Aros looked out over the mountainous territory around them. The night was chilly. He heard footsteps approaching and recognized them without turning. “Making rounds, General?”