Azure Bonds

by Kate Novak

  “Gentlemen,” she addressed Phalse and Zrie Prakis, “you already know our dear Puppet and the thing on the floor. The handsome mage,” and with that description her eyes seized on the Turmishman like the talons of a hawk about a hare, “is Akabar Bel Akash, powerful in both magic and cooking. Your peppered lamb is notorious even here, Akabar.”

  Akabar furrowed his brow in puzzlement.

  For a third time Cassana laughed. “Come now, mageling,” she mocked. “Surely you did not expect us all to be as out-of-date and foolish as the moldy old god you so amusingly destroyed? We have followed your journey, at first in bits and pieces, but more steadily since Shadowdale.

  “We decided to let you continue on to Yulash and free Moander. Once the Abomination was loosed, it was only a matter of time before the old fool met its fate—humankind has grown much in power since that garbage pile last reigned here. The sooner we got it out of the way, the better. And with its demise we need no longer worry about the bizarre schemes its followers had for you, Puppet.”

  Alias wondered if Cassana had any inkling that Moander had planned the same double-cross for her.

  “Once Moander dropped you off in our back yard, it was child’s play to track you down and pick you up.”

  “You can track me,” Alias said in a flat, emotionless tone.

  “Well, to be honest, no. We were too clever by half. You see, your very being is impregnated with a powerful spell of misdirection. You cannot be detected by scrying, nor can anyone who travels with you. Since we did not expect you to slip from our grasp, we never thought the misdirection spell would pose any problem for us. A serious miscalculation on our part. One of many, I’m afraid. But you can’t create art without a few mistakes. The best we can do is correct them in the future.

  “Fortunately for us you were intelligent enough to wonder about your brands. Whenever magic is detected on your arm it acts as a beacon to locate you. We relied on our black-leathered allies to capture you in Suzail. Their failure was almost our undoing. But by some stroke of luck you stumbled upon an old haunt of Zrie’s and revealed yourself to us again by displaying the magic content of your brand. But, alas, you were also more than a match for the heavy-handed methods of my love here.”

  At this, Zrie Prakis bowed deeply, and Alias could hear the skin stretching and popping over his bones.

  “And then, even more luckily, my kalmari spotted you coming through Shadow Gap. It could be no coincidence that you continually alerted us of your whereabouts. I knew you wished to come home to us, Puppet. So we made it easier to keep an eye on you. We contacted one of your followers and planted a tracking device on her. And, as I said before, once you came to Westgate, finding you and defeating you was easy. A halfling’s trick.”

  Alias felt as though the chilling fist of a frost giant had closed about her heart. “No,” she whispered.

  Phalse motioned to a hidden figure, who edged cautiously into view. She was decked out with the finest robes, glittering imitations of those worn by Cassana. She looked like a little princess, a child-bride from the east. She smiled sheepishly at Akabar and Alias.

  Olive Ruskettle.

  “Hullo, everyone,” Olive said, nervous sweat beading beneath her headband. “If I’d known you were in trouble—”

  “Hush, child,” Cassana interrupted. “You jumped at the opportunity to help us, as any good halfling would.” Cassana smiled at the prisoners. “Gold coins weigh more than friendships. Now, mageling, I’ll give you the same chance that we gave the child here. You’ve been misled by the false charm of this puppet. Forsake the slave and join its masters. I’m sure we can find a use for you.” Prakis put a possessive skeletal hand on Cassana’s bare shoulder, and the sorceress squeezed it affectionately to underscore her point.

  The fury building in Akabar’s gut spilled out. “I’d rather roast in the lowest hell—”

  Cassana, with an angry frown, muttered something and motioned with her wand. Alias backhanded Akabar in the jaw. Backhanded him hard with all her warrior’s strength.

  The mage toppled backward, staring at the swordswoman. Her legs were rigid; her fists clenched and unclenched in sharp, fast spasms. The remaining runes on her arm writhed and glowed. Cassana’s insect-squiggle shone the brightest of all.

  “Alias?” Akabar gasped as he rose to his feet.

  “One chance is all you get,” Cassana said, “for now. Hit him until he is unconscious, Puppet.” She motioned with the wand again.

  Alias spun in place like a sentry and caught Akabar in the belly with her foot. The air rushed from his lungs, and he collapsed. He tried to rise again, but the woman warrior brought both fists down on the back of his neck, knocking him from his knees so he sprawled out on the floor. The mage rolled on his back, trying to ward off the rain of blows and kicks with his chains.

  He froze when he caught sight of Alias’s face. Her eyes burned with a wild anger, and tears ran freely down her cheeks.

  Gods! Akabar thought, Cassana is doing to her what Moander did to me. She has no control of her actions, and she is even more aware of the evil she does than I was. Pity for the swordswoman overwhelmed him, and he dropped his guard completely.

  A kick to his jaw plunged him into a spiraling blackness.

  Cassana laughed as her puppet stood poised over the helpless body of the Turmishman. “Look, Zrie,” the sorceress said, “she’s crying. I bet I know who taught her that trick.” With a second wave of the wand, the sorceress returned Alias to unconsciousness. The swordswoman collapsed on top of Akabar.

  With a lazy wave of her free hand, Cassana signaled the lich. Zrie Prakis let his spell elapse, and the transparent wall turned back into stone and mortar.

  Cassana applauded her little play. Olive sat in shock. Every hair on the back of her neck, no, every hair on her body, had stiffened as she watched the beating. The sorceress slid out of her throne and, beckoning the lich, headed down the hallway. Phalse and Ruskettle fell in behind them, but dropped back to confer in private.

  “Did she have to …” Olive let the question dangle.

  “She’s a human,” Phalse replied. “Humans tend to be cruel, as we both know.” He paused for several paces, then added, “You know she did that for your benefit, as well as his.”

  “Oh?” The bard was certain that beating up mages had never been on her list of entertaining events.

  “Sure. She wanted to point out how lucky you are to be joining our little family. Eventually, the mage will get the same message.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “Sorceress Cassana is loath to use magic to get her way with a man,” Phalse explained. “But she will use it rather than damage this Akash fellow beyond repair. I think she likes him.”

  Olive shuddered inwardly at the thought of what Cassana might have done to Akabar if she hated him.

  “She could have made the One kill Akash,” Phalse pointed out, as if reading the halfling’s mind. “But she didn’t.”

  Olive felt the return of the nervous sweat beneath her headband. She forced the idea of money, lots of it, to the forward part of her mind. “You all have different names for … for her.”

  “The One? Yes, I suppose we do. Another mistake to be corrected. Cassana calls her Puppet. Moander’s priest called her The Servant. The Fire Knives called her Weapon. The lich calls her Little One, as if he were her grandfather or something.”

  “Who called her Alias?”

  “Not important,” Phalse replied sharply. “Come, there’s much to done.”

  They were in a simple, two-story merchant’s house just inside the city wall. The cellar led to underground passages that delved under the wall and surfaced in an abandoned ruin beyond. Upstairs and down were long hallways with rooms jutting off them. The prisoners were being held in one of the upstairs rooms.

  Nearing the top of the steps leading down to the first floor, Phalse and Olive heard Cassana’s voice below. She spoke in Thieves’ Cant, which Olive had no trouble trans
lating.

  “Grandfather, has the task been carried out?”

  “All are cared for, milady,” replied a thick, guttural voice.

  “And you will take their place?”

  “Aye.”

  “Morning, then, we’ll complete the pact.”

  The sound of Cassana’s gown swished off in one direction, while the cat-foot patter of the one called “Grandfather” faded away in another. Olive wondered where Prakis had got to. The undead magic-user could move more silently than the most graceful halfling.

  Phalse flashed Olive an impish grin. “You understand the Argot?” He took the halfling’s shrug as an admission of ignorance and explained, “He was the leader of the Fire Knives, reporting the death of Moander’s surviving followers—all the ones that did not hurl themselves from tall places at the death of their god. The Fire Knives will take the place of Moander’s minions at dawn when we seal the pact.”

  “When you make that final correction to the human woman,” Olive said.

  “And when you receive final payment,” Phalse added.

  Yes, the halfling thought to herself. Try to keep your mind on the money Olive-girl.

  * * * * *

  In Olive Ruskettle’s estimation, the midnight dinner she was presently sitting through was one of the most frightening events in her life. For sheer terror, Olive thought, it rated somewhat above being discovered and accused by that pig paladin in the Living City, but just below being swept off a wagontop by Mist’s dewclaw.

  The dining room, a solemn, musty hall, was dominated by a huge oak table. The windows were covered with heavy, black velvet drapes. Hundreds of candles burned in candelabras, but the room was still dim.

  Cassana, draped in scarlet satin that seemed to flame with brilliance, dominated one end of the table. Rubies dripped from the sorceress’s throat, ears, and fingers. Prakis sat unmoving at the far end of the long table. He was dressed in yellow robes of equal finery. Before him had been placed the mounted bones of a goose, a haunting joke about his undead status.

  Olive was seated midway down the table at Phalse’s side. The halfling bard kept a firm grip on her mind, trying to channel her thoughts away from abstract ideas like cruelty, sadism, and perversion, and tried to focus on real objects, like the food laid out before her.

  In the food department Phalse put even the most gluttonous of Ruskettle’s race to shame. He wolfed down vast quantities of dark-roasted venison ringed with stuffed mushrooms and the pickled vegetables carved into the shapes of skulls. He also downed mug after mug of mead, motioning for refills by swaying his goblet. Table was waited by silent men and women in dark tabards. Fire Knives, was Olive’s guess. Apprentice murderers.

  Though Olive was quite hungry and the repast was delicious, the food sat like a brick in her stomach. As out of place as the bard had felt among her former companions-Alias with her perfect voice, Akabar with his learning, Dragonbait with his virtue—here she knew she was the proverbial fifth wheel.

  There’s something else at this table, the bard thought, something that outranks me. Power. That’s why they’ve seated me beside Phalse instead of opposite him. Olive imagined she could see the power rippling between her three hosts—Cassana, the lich, and Phalse. The Fire Knives are servants, Olive realized, nothing more. Phalse has his aura of charisma, an almost tangible swirl of attraction. Prakis exudes all the authority of dry, dusty, ancient tomes, and Cassana sits like a spider in the center of her web, aware of every movement within her realm—Mistress of Life and Death. If these three ever get into a disagreement, the bard decided, I don’t want to be around to get caught in the middle. I don’t even want to be close enough to watch.

  “So, what do you think of our little group, small bard?” the sorceress asked.

  Olive almost choked on her meat, unable to resist the idea that her new allies could read her mind. “Well,” she held up a finger as she chewed and swallowed and gulped mead down to give herself time to phrase a suitable reply. “To tell the truth, I was unaware of how successful your alliance already was when Phalse offered me the chance to join. I understand you were subduing my … traveling companions even as I was speaking with him.” She chose her words carefully, picking her way through the conversation as delicately as she would pick the lock of a cleric’s trunk.

  “Yes, we broke into two groups,” Cassana explained. “One to check out The Rising Raven, the other to follow the lure of your ring. Prakis or I would likely have relied on clumsy, human means to keep track of Puppet, but Phalse, smart, wise Phalse knew that a halfling would easily topple to the lure of power and gold. And how better to reward your faithful service.”

  Olive’s mouth was dry, and she took another gulp of mead before she nodded.

  “And so we have another member of our band,” concluded the sorceress. “A good thing, too, because our numbers are rapidly dwindling. Moander is dead, the crafter useless to us, the Fire Knives thinned in rank. We could use young blood.” She emphasized the last word just a little too much, leaving Olive with memories of the legends of vampires.

  The silence hanging over the table was oppressive. Struggling to lift it, the bard began to ask, “Crafter? Who’s—” but before she could finish Phalse gave her thigh a sharp squeeze. Olive almost jumped from her chair. She turned to glare at him for an explanation, but he was busy draining his goblet. Holding out his glass for a refill, he bestowed her with a wink from one of his peculiarly blue eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” Cassana prompted. “You were saying?”

  “Nothing. I was too wrapped up in your tale.”

  “Of course,” Cassana replied. She began nodding and murmuring to herself, and Olive wondered if Cassana had channeled too much of her power into keeping up her good looks and let her mind go a little mushy. The sorceress’s head snapped up and she announced, “Now, the three of us will be very busy for the next few hours, preparing for the ceremony to be held at dawn. But you, Olive, were up very early this morning, before dawn. And since then you’ve been a very, very busy little girl. You must be exhausted. Take a nap, and Phalse will send for you.”

  Whether it was the suggestion, the food, or the long hours and miles between Yulash and Westgate, Olive suddenly felt very weary. She swayed in her chair, trying to shake the cobwebs from her brain. Phalse put a hand out to steady her, his grip like iron.

  “Now that you mention it,” the bard said, not bothering to stifle a yawn, “I’m dead on my feet.”

  “Good. Prakis my pet, why don’t you take the small bard up to Phalse’s room for her nap?”

  “I would prefer—” Phalse began to protest, but Cassana cut him off with a motion of her hand.

  “You and I have some private matters to discuss,” the sorceress insisted.

  “Just how private do you intend to get?” Phalse bantered.

  The lich rose silently and stood behind the halfling’s chair as she tumbled from it. She staggered from sudden exhaustion, then began weaving her way to the staircase.

  Cassana laughed behind her, calling out, “Sleep tight, little one.” When the lich had maneuvered the bard up the first flight of stairs, the sorceress turned her cold, hard eyes on Phalse. “Well?”

  “She’s scared witless, but that’s understandable,” Phalse replied in the halfling’s defense. “But it’s a rather delicious sort of terror, don’t you think?”

  “She seems a bit unstable. She’ll sleep through the ceremony. When she wakes, her former allies will be dead or under our control. The choice will be easier for her once her options have been limited. I would prefer it, though, if you would use her and get rid of her tonight,” said Cassana.

  Phalse flashed his inhuman smile. “I’ll slay her myself if you similarly dispose of your lovers, including the Turmite.”

  Cassana pouted “You’d deprive me of my pets?”

  “You’d deprive me of mine.”

  The two glared at one another, locked in a contest of wills. Then slowly, both began to laugh.


  * * * * *

  When the halfling collapsed on the second landing, Prakis bundled the childlike bard in his yellow cape and cradled her in his arms, carrying her to Phalse’s opulent bedroom. He lay the halfling woman on the satin coverlet and leaned in close to her face, muttering a few words. Then he touched her on the forehead and shoulders.

  Olive sat bolt upright, her eyelids flying open like pigeons startled by a temple bell. “What!” she gasped, then cringed away immediately from the mockery of humankind hovering over her.

  “Hush,” the death’s head rattled. “I’ve cast a spell on you to counteract the magical suggestion Cassana the Cruel used to make you sleep,” Prakis explained. His voice sounded windier than before, as though suddenly it was a greater effort for him to speak. “How do you feel?”

  “I feel … I feel like I’ve slept for a week. Did I miss the ceremony?”

  “No, only a few minutes have passed since you left the table. But my counteractive spell will give you energy now for hours. I woke you to make you an offer. Have you killed?” the lich asked. The red points of light in his eye sockets were suddenly still like a magical light.

  “Killed? Of course. Easy as falling off a log.”

  “Can you do it again?”

  “Uh … sure. Who do you want killed?”

  “Cassana.” The red pinpoints in the skull’s eye sockets danced again.

  “Wait a minute. I thought you and she were …” The halfling groped for polite words. “Close, I guess.”

  “I am Cassana’s tool, her pet, much like you are—or will be—Phalse’s pet, if he gets his way. The wand that controls the Little One also controls me. The farther I am from the wand, the more dead I become. Cassana keeps the wand on her person at all times, and when she travels too far away, I die entirely, only to come back as a shambling form when she returns. She is literally the sun my world revolves around.”