by Mel Odom
SEVENTEEN
A chill stole over Cholik at Kabraxis’s announcement about Lord Darkulan’s presence in the church. The man had never come there before. “Lord Darkulan entered the church disguised,” Kabraxis went on. “No one knew he was here except for his bodyguards and me. And now you.”
“He may have hired the assassin,” Cholik said, feeling his anger rise. He gazed down at his chest, seeing the crimson-stained robe and the hole where the quarrel had penetrated. Only unblemished flesh showed beneath now.
“No.”
“Why are you so certain?”
“Because the assassin strove alone to murder you,” Kabraxis said. “If Lord Darkulan had organized the murder, he would have ordered three or four crossbowmen into the church. You would have been dead before you hit the floor.”
Cholik’s mouth went dry. A thought occurred to him, one that he didn’t want to investigate, but he was drawn to it as surely as a moth was drawn to the candle flame. “If they had killed me, would you have been able to return me to life?”
“If I’d had to do that, Buyard Cholik, you would not have recognized the true chill of death. But neither would you have known again the fiery passion of life.”
An undead thing, Cholik realized. The thought almost made him sick. Images of lurching zombies and skeletons with ivory grins came to him. As a priest for the Zakarum Church, he’d been called on to clear graveyards and buildings of undead things that had once been humans and animals. And he had nearly been damned with coming back as one of them. His stomach twisted in rebellion, and sour bile painted the back of his mouth.
“You would not have been merely animated as those things were,” Kabraxis said. “I would have gifted you with true unlife. Your thoughts would have remained your own.”
“And my desires?”
“Your desires and mine are closely aligned at this time. There would have been little you would have missed.”
Cholik didn’t believe it. Demons lived their lives differently from men, with different dreams and passions. Still, he couldn’t help wondering if he would have been less—or more?
“Perhaps,” Kabraxis said, “when you are more ready, you’ll be given the chance to find out. For now, you’ve learned to hang on to your life as it is.”
“Then why was Lord Darkulan here?” Cholik asked.
The demon smiled, baring his fangs. “Lord Darkulan has a favored mistress dying of a slow-acting poison that was given to her by Lady Darkulan only yesterday.”
“Why?”
“Why? To kill her, of course. It seems that Lady Darkulan is a jealous woman and only discovered three days ago that her husband was seeing this other woman.”
“Wives have killed their husbands’ mistresses before,” Cholik said. Even past royal courts of Westmarch had stories about such events.
“Yes,” Kabraxis replied, “but it appears that Lord Darkulan’s mistress of the last three months is also the daughter of the leader of the Bramwell merchants’ guild. If the daughter should die, the merchant will wreak havoc with Bramwell’s trade agreements and use his influence in the Westmarch royal courts to have his daughter’s murderess brought to justice.”
“Hodgewell means to have Lady Darkulan brought up on charges?” Cholik couldn’t believe it. He knew the merchant Kabraxis was talking about. Ammin Hodgewell was a spiteful, vengeful man who had stood against the Church of the Prophet of the Light since its inception.
“Hodgewell means to have her hanged on the Block of Justice. He’s working now to bring charges against Lady Darkulan.”
“Lord Darkulan knows this?”
“Yes.”
“Why doesn’t he enlist the aid of an apothecary?”
“He has,” Kabraxis said. “Several of them, in fact, since it was discovered yesterday that his mistress is doomed to a lingering illness. None of the apothecaries or healers can save her. She has only one salvation left to her.”
“The Way of Dreams,” Cholik breathed. The implications of the impending murder swirled in his mind, banishing all thoughts of his near death.
“Yes,” Kabraxis said. “You understand.”
Cholik glanced at the demon, hardly daring to hope. “If Lord Darkulan comes to us for aid and we are able to save his mistress from the poison, save his wife from being hanged, and keep the peace in Bramwell—”
“We will claim him on the Black Road,” the demon said. “Then Lord Darkulan will be ours now and forever. He will be our springboard into Westmarch and the destiny that lies before us.”
Cholik shook his head. “Lord Darkulan is no young man to give into his passions with a woman of Merchantman Hodgewell’s standing.”
“He had no choice,” Kabraxis said. “The young woman’s desire for him became overwhelming. And Lord Darkulan’s desires for her became strong as well.”
Understanding flooded Cholik, and he gazed at the demon in wonder. “You. You did this.”
“Of course.”
“What about the poison that Lady Darkulan used? I can’t believe that all of Lord Darkulan’s healers and apothecaries couldn’t find an antidote.”
“I gave it to Lady Darkulan,” Kabraxis admitted, “even as I consoled her over her husband’s infidelity. Once she had the poison, she wasted no time in the administration of it.”
“How much longer does Hodgewell’s daughter have before the poison kills her?” Cholik asked.
“Till tomorrow night.”
“And Lord Darkulan knows this?”
“Yes.”
“Then today—”
“I believe he meant to come forward today after the service,” Kabraxis said. “Your attempted assassination caused his bodyguards to get him clear of the church. Some of the church’s guards—as well as the lord’s protectors—were killed in that maneuver, which helped cover the real assassin’s escape.”
“Then Lord Darkulan will still come,” Cholik said.
“He must,” Kabraxis agreed. “He has no choice. Unless he wishes to see his mistress dead by nightfall tomorrow and witness his wife’s hanging shortly after that.”
“Lord Darkulan might take his wife and try to run.”
Kabraxis grinned. “And leave his riches and power behind? For the love of a woman he betrayed? A woman who can no longer love him back in the same manner as before? No. Lord Darkulan would see them both dead before he would willingly abdicate his position here. But even that won’t save him. If all of this comes to light and the women die—”
“Especially when the people believe he could have saved them both by turning to the Church of the Prophet of the Light as they have all done with their own problems,” Cholik said, halfway stunned by the devious simplicity of Kabraxis’s scheme, “Lord Darkulan will fall out of favor with the populace.”
“You do see,” Kabraxis said.
Cholik stared at the demon. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”
“I did,” Kabraxis explained. “As soon as you needed to know.”
Part of Cholik’s upbringing in the Zakarum Church whispered into the back of his mind. Demons can influence men, but only if those men are willing to listen. At any point, Kabraxis’s multitiered scheme might have come apart. The mistress might not have fallen for the lord. The lord might not have betrayed his lady or might have broken the relationship off and confessed his indiscretions. And the lady might have taken a lover out of vengeance rather than poison the woman who took her husband.
If the plan had not worked, Cholik would never have known, and the demon’s pride would have been intact.
“I humbled them all,” Kabraxis said, “and I have brought these lands under our control. And we will have some of the most powerful people here as our allies. Lord Darkulan will be thankful for the salvation of his mistress, just as Merchantman Hodgewell will be grateful for the salvation of his daughter.”
Cholik examined the plan. It was bold and cunning and duplicitous—exactly what he would have expected from a demon. “We h
ave it all,” he said, looking back at Kabraxis.
“Yes,” the demon replied. “And we will have more.”
Someone knocked on the chamber doors.
“What?” Cholik said with some annoyance.
“Master Sayes,” the priest called from the other side, “I only wanted to know that you were all right.”
“Go to them,” Kabraxis said. “We will talk again later.” He retreated to the back of the room and passed through the secret door.
Cholik strode to the door and flung it open. The priests, acolytes, and mercenaries stepped back. One of the mercenaries held a small girl before him, one hand clapped over her mouth as she struggled to get free.
“Master,” the head priest said, “I beg your forgiveness. Only my worry over you prompted me to interrupt you.”
“I am fine,” Cholik said, knowing the priest would continue to excuse himself out of his own fear.
“But the arrow went so deep,” the priest said. “I saw it for myself.”
“I was healed by the grace of Dien-Ap-Sten.” Cholik pulled his robe open, revealing the unmarked flesh beneath the bloody clothing. “Great is the power of the Prophet of the Light.”
“Great is the power of the Prophet of the Light,” the priests replied at once. “May Dien-Ap-Sten’s mercies be eternal.”
Cholik pulled his robe back around himself. He looked at the struggling girl in the mercenary’s hands. “What is this child doing here?”
“She is the sister to the boys that Dien-Ap-Sten made whole today,” the mercenary said. “She also saw the assassin.”
“This child did, and yet you and your men did not?” Cholik’s voice held the unforgiving edge of bared steel.
“She stood beside him when he loosed his shaft at you, Master Sayes,” the mercenary replied. He looked uncomfortable.
Cholik stepped toward the man. The priests and the other mercenaries moved back, as if expecting Cholik to summon down a lightning bolt to reduce the mercenary leader to ash. The thought, Cholik had to admit, was tempting. He looked away from the quaking mercenary and at the girl. The resemblance between the girl and the conjoined twins was striking.
Tears leaked from the girl’s eyes as she shuddered and cried. Her fear had turned her pale.
“Release her,” Cholik said.
Reluctantly, the mercenary removed his big, callused hand from the girl’s mouth. She drew in a deep, quaking breath. Tears continued to trickle down her face as she glanced around, seeking some way to escape.
“Are you all right, child?” Cholik asked in a soft voice.
“I want my da,” the girl said. “I want my ma. I didn’t do anything.”
“Did you see the man who shot me?” Cholik asked.
“Yes.” Her tear-filled eyes gazed up at Cholik. “Please, Master Sayes. I didn’t do anything. I would have screamed, but he was too fast. He shot you before I could think. I didn’t think he was going to do it. I wouldn’t hurt you. You saved my brothers. Mikel and Dannis. You saved them. I wouldn’t hurt you.”
Cholik put a comforting hand on the girl’s shoulder. He felt her shudder and cringe at his touch. “Easy, child. I only need to know about the man who tried to kill me. I won’t hurt you, either.”
She looked at him. “Promise?”
The girl’s innocence touched Cholik. Promises were easy to give to the young; they wanted to believe.
“I promise,” Cholik said.
The girl looked around, as if making sure the hard-faced mercenaries had heard Master Sayes’s promise as well.
“They will not touch you,” Cholik said. “Describe the man who shot me.”
She gazed at him in big-eyed wonderment. “I thought he killed you.”
“He can’t,” Cholik said. “I’m one of the chosen of Dien-Ap-Sten. No mortal man may take my life as long as I stay in the prophet’s favor.”
The girl sipped air again, becoming almost calm. “He was burned. Nearly all of his face was burned. His hands and arms were burned.”
The description meant nothing to Cholik. “Is there anything else you noticed about him?”
“No.” The girl hesitated.
“What is it?” Cholik asked.
“I think he was afraid that you would know him if you saw him,” the girl said. “He said that he was surprised that he was let into the building.”
“I’ve never seen a man burned so badly as you say who still lived.”
“Maybe he didn’t live,” the girl said.
“What makes you say that?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t see how anyone could live after being burned so bad, is all.”
Pursued by a dead man? Cholik turned the thought over in his mind for a short time.
Come, Kabraxis said in his mind. We have things to do. The assassin is gone.
Cholik reached into the pocket of his robe and took out a few silver coins. The amount was enough to feed a family in Bramwell for months. Once, perhaps, the money might have meant something to him. Now, it was only a bargaining tool. He placed the silver coins in the girl’s hand and folded her fingers over them.
“Take this, girl,” Cholik said, “as a token of my appreciation.” He glanced up at the nearest mercenary. “See that she gets back to her family.”
The mercenary nodded and led the little girl away. She never once looked back.
Despite the fact that more than a year had passed since he’d found Kabraxis’s gateway under the remains of Tauruk’s Port and Ransim, Cholik’s mind wandered back to the labyrinth and the chamber where he’d released the demon back into the human world. One man had escaped that night, a Westmarch sailor who had even evaded the skeletons and zombies Kabraxis had raised to kill everyone there.
Cholik felt that no one in Bramwell would have dared attack him in the church. And if the man were burned as badly as the girl described, someone would have come forward to identify him and hope to earn a reward from Dien-Ap-Sten or himself.
So it had been an outsider. Someone not even the populace of the city had known about. Yet it had to be someone who had known Cholik from before.
Where had the man who had escaped from Tauruk’s Port gone? If this was him, and it made no sense for it to be anyone else, why had he waited so long before he’d stepped forward? And why approach Cholik now at all?
It was unsettling. Especially when Cholik thought about how near the quarrel had come to piercing his heart. Thoughts churning, Cholik reentered his private chamber to plan and scheme with the demon he had freed. Whatever chance the assassin had had was now gone. Cholik would never be caught unprepared again. He consoled himself with that.
* * *
Back and shoulders on fire from all the lifting he’d done during the day, Darrick entered the Blue Lantern. Pipe smoke and the closing night filled the tavern with darkness. Men swapping stories and telling lies filled the tavern with noise. To the west, near where the mouth of the Gulf of Westmarch met the Frozen Sea, the sunset settled into the water, looking like dying red embers scattered from a stirred campfire.
A cold north wind followed Darrick into the tavern. The weather had changed in the last hour, just as the ships’ captains and mates had been thinking it would. Come morning, Sahyir had told Darrick, there might even be a layer of ice covering the harbor. It wouldn’t be enough to lock the ships in, but that time wasn’t far off, either.
Men looked up as Darrick walked through the small building. Some of the men knew him, and some were from the ships out in the harbor. All of their eyes were wary. Seeker’s Point wasn’t a big village, but the numbers swelled when ships were in the harbor. And if a man wanted trouble in the village, the Blue Lantern was where he came.
There was no table space in the tavern. Three men Darrick knew slightly offered their tables with their friends. Darrick thanked them but declined, passing on through the tables till he spotted the man Sahyir had talked about earlier that day.
The man was in his middle years, gray showing
in his square-cut beard. He was broad-shouldered and a little overweight, a solid man who had seen an active life. His clothing was second-hand, worn but comfortable-looking, and warm enough against the cool winds blowing in from the north. He wore round-lensed spectacles, and Darrick could still count on the fingers of both hands how many times he’d seen such devices.
A platter of bread and meat sat to the sage’s left. He wrote with his right hand, pausing every now and again to dip his quill into an inkwell beside the book he worked in. A whale-oil lantern near the book provided him more light to work by.
Darrick stopped only a short distance from the table, uncertain what he should say.
Abruptly, the sage looked up, peering over his spectacles. “Darrick?”
Startled, Darrick said nothing.
“Your friend Sahyir named you,” the sage said. “He told me when he talked to me last night that you might be stopping by.”
“Aye,” Darrick said. “Though I must confess I don’t truly know what I’m doing here.”
“If you’ve seen that symbol as Sahyir seems inclined to believe that you have,” the sage said, “it’s probably marked you.” He gestured to the book before him. “The Light knows that the pursuit of knowledge about it has marked me. Much to my own detriment, according to some of my mentors and peers.”
“You’ve seen the demon?” Darrick asked.
Renewed interest flickered in the sage’s deep green eyes. “You have?”
Darrick paused, feeling that he’d admitted more than he should have.
An irritable look filled the sage’s face. “Damnation, son. If you’re going to talk, then sit. I’ve been working hard for days here, and weeks and months before that in other places. Looking up gets hellaciously tiresome for me.” He pointed at a chair across from him with the quill, then closed his book and put it aside.
Still feeling uncertain, Darrick pulled out the chair and sat. Out of habit, he laid his sheathed cutlass across his thighs.
The sage laced his fingers together and rested both elbows on the tabletop. “Have you eaten tonight?”
“No.” Unloading imported goods from the ship and then loading exported goods had filled the day. Darrick had only eaten what he’d carried along in the food bag, which had been empty for hours.