Soul of the City tw-8

by Robert Lynn Asprin

  Molin was alone in his sanctum when Illyra arrived at the palace to deliver Chiringee's new cage. She had been instructed to take it directly to the nursery, but she was the natural mother of one of Sanctuary's Stormchildren and when she insisted that she would see Vashanka's priest first no one argued with her. She dumped the iron-wire contraption on the floor and ordered Molin's scrivener, Hoxa, from the room.

  "Is something wrong, Illyra? I assure you: Alton receives the same care as Gyskouras." Molin stood up from her table and gestured to take her heavy cloak.

  "I have Seen things." She kept the cloak tight at her neck though braziers and windows made the sanctum one of the more comfortable private rooms in the palace. "Torchholder- it's getting worse, not better."

  "Sit down, then, and tell me what you've Seen," He dragged his own chair around to the front of the worktable for her. "Hoxa! Get some mulled cyder for the lady!" Propping himself against the table, he addressed her with calculated familiarity. "Since the... accident?"

  "That night."

  "You said you Saw nothing," he chided her.

  "Not about Arton or the other boy; not something I even noticed or understood at the time. But the others have felt it too." She pulled the cloak close around her; Molin understood that once again Illyra was violating some S'danzo taboo with her revelations. "There are stones-spirit stones-from the times before men needed gods. When they were lost that was when the S'danzo were born and when men began to create gods from their hopes and needs....

  "If men possessed these stones again there would be no need for gods."

  She paused when Hoxa came into the room with two goblets.

  "Thank you, Hoxa. I won't be needing you again tonight. Take the rest of the cyder and have a pleasant evening." Molin handed Illyra the goblet himself. "You think that with these stones we could free your son and Gyskouras?" he suggested when it seemed she would say no more but only stare at the twisting plumes of steam.

  Illyra shook her head. Tears or the fragrant vapor of the cyder had smeared the kohl under her eyes. "It's been too long. One of the lost stones was invoked and destroyed that night- some of its magic was directed against the children, some went into a woman who came to me with death in her eyes, some of it is still falling to the ground like rain, but all of it was evil, Torchholder. It had been damaged when the demons hid it in the fires of creation. Our legends have played us false. Men can no longer live without gods.

  "The other women have felt the falling but I've felt something else in the shadows. Torchholder-there's another stone in Sanctuary and it is worse than the first one."

  Molin took the goblet from her trembling fingers and held her hands between his own. "What you call spirit stones are, in fact, the Nisibisi Globes of Power, the talismans of their witches and wizards. The one that was destroyed was the source of most, if not all, of the witch Roxane's power. She was evil, it is true, and the demons will have their sport with her, I'm sure. But the globes themselves are only pottery artifacts. The S'danzo needn't worry about the second one, whatever its previous owners might have been." He stopped short of telling her that Randal's globe still rested, enveloped by nothingness, on the table behind him.

  Illyra shook her head until her hood fell back and her dark, curling hair fell freely around her shoulders. "It is a spirit stone and the demons have tampered with it," she insisted. "It is not safe for men to possess it."

  "It could be destroyed, like the other one."

  "No." She shrank back as if he had struck her. "Not destroyed-Sanctuary, the world, wouldn't survive. Send it back to the fires of creation-or to the bottom of the sea."

  "It is safe, Illyra. It will hurt no one and no one will hurt it."

  She stared distractedly at the table; Molin wondered what her S'danzo sight could actually reveal. "Its evil cries out in the night, Torchholder, and no one is immune." She lifted her hood and moved toward the door. "No one," she reminded him as she left.

  The priest finished his cyder, then opened the parchment window. Time always passed strangely when he was with Illyra-it had seemed no later than early afternoon when she arrived, but now the sun had set and a fog bank was moving across the harbor to the town. He should have arranged an escort for her back to the Bazaar. Despite her prejudices Illyra was one of his most prized informants.

  "Isn't it rather early to be sending them home. Torch?" a familiar voice inquired from behind.

  Molin turned as Tempus settled himself into the chair which creaked and was dwarfed by his size.

  "She is the mother of the other child. Sometimes she brings me information. I don't mix business with pleasure, Riddler."

  They used mercenaries' names when they met; their personalities always created the aura of a battlefield between them.

  "What was her information?"

  "She is worried about the globes and their owners."

  "Globes, owners: plural? Aren't we left with globe, singular, and owner, singular?"

  Molin smiled and shrugged as he dragged Hoxa's stool across the room to sit beside his guest. "I suppose you'd have to ask an owner."

  "Why haven't you? You're supposed to be Randal's apprentice."

  "Haven't seen our long-eared Hazard since he left to find you sometime after last midnight. It seemed young Niko had some sort of relapse."

  Tempus put a mild edge on his voice: "I haven't seen Randal in days and I saw Niko just before I came here. He was up and complaining about Jinan. No one mentioned any 'relapse'."

  "Well, our little mage is a bit naive about these things, chaste and virgin-pure as he is. He saw something he didn't want to see, though, something he called a 'relapse', and went running from the room like he'd seen a ghost. You put it together, Riddler."

  The edge, and some of the confidence, faded from Tempus's voice: "Roxane. Death doesn't stop Death's Queen. She reaches me where I cannot defend myself. Hasn't Niko suffered enough?" he asked a god who no longer listened.

  "We never did find Roxane's body, you know. And by your own reports she could steal a body as easily as a soul. She pacted with demons that night; she had the power to slip inside his skull like a whisper-and we'd never know!"

  "But Jihan would. She says there's not one iota of Niko that isn't pure. Pure pain. I tried to make him hate me once, and he suffered more."

  "Damn you, man! He wasn't suffering when I saw him last night," Molin shouted, slamming his fist on the table to get the mercenary's attention. "If Roxane hasn't possessed Niko, then he's calling her back himself with these dreams. We could have a serious problem on our hands."

  "I'd go to hell itself to set him free of her," Tempus resolved, starting to rise from his chair.

  "Roxane's not in hell-she's in Niko. In his memories. In his lusts. He's bringing her back, Riddler. I don't know how but I know what I saw."

  "The curse won't have him."

  "Which curse? Yours, hers, or his? Or hasn't it occurred to you that Niko loves the witch-bitch far better than he loves you?"

  "It is enough that he loves me at all."

  "Very convenient, Riddler. This Bandaran adept, reeking of moat, brings the world's own chaos in his wake and it's all because he has the misfortune to admire you. I suppose you'll tell me Vashanka's gone because he loved you, too after his fashion."

  "All right," Tempus roared, but he sat down again. "My curse-all mine-on the people I love. Does that satisfy you?"

  "Well, at least I should be safe from it," Torchholder replied with a smile.

  "Don't play games with me, priest. You're not in my league."

  "I'm not playing with you; I'm trying to set you free. How many years have you been dragging that around with you? You think the universe spins in your navel? The only curse you've got is the arrogance of believing yourself responsible for everything." It was sudden death to provoke Tempus's wrath- everyone in the Rankan Empire knew that-so the priest's audacity left the immortal mercenary flat-footed and muttering • about magicians, love, and other things
that passed the understanding of ordinary, uncursed, men.

  "Let me tell you what I do understand, Riddler. I understand that a curse is only a threat-a potential. No wizard-no, more than that: no god-can curse a disbelieving man. No acceptance-no curse: it's as simple as that, Tempus Thales. You made some backwater mage's curse a prophecy. You rejected love in all its forms."

  The shock was beginning to wear off; Tempus stiffened, his lips a taut line of displeasure across his face. Molin rocked back on the stool until its front legs were off the floor and his shoulders rested against the worktable: a posture so vulnerable it was insolent. "In fact," the priest said amiably, "a mutual acquaintance of ours-the highest authority in these matters, as it were-assures me that your curse is, shall we say, all in your mind. A bad habit. He says you could sleep like a babe-in-arms if you wanted to."

  "Who?"

  "Jinan's father: Stormbringer," Molin concluded with a smile.

  "You? Stormbringer?"

  "Don't look so surprised." The stool thumped back to its normal alignment with the floor. "We were both, in a sense, orphans. I..." Molin groped for the appropriate description, "-experience him quite regularly. Now that is a curse. Our paternal ancestor is head-over-heels in lust with the Beysib's Mother Goddess-except they don't have a matching set of heads, heels or whatever."

  "Torch, you push me too far," Tempus warned, but the power wasn't there. "The Empire's coming back. Vashanka's coming back." His voice was more hopeful than commanding.

  Molin shook his head, tsk-tsk'ing as if he spoke to a child. "Open your eyes, Riddler. Unbelievable as it might seem, the future is here in Sanctuary. There's an empire coming, and a war-god as well, but it won't be Rankan and it won't be Va-shanka. You came here, I imagine, to tell me to toe the line when the imperial ship arrives. Let me make a counter-proposal: Make your commitment to your son-keep Brachis, Theron, and all Ranke alive only until Sanctuary is ready to conquer it."

  "You'll see your guts spinning on a windlass for that, priest," Tempus hissed as he stood up and headed for the door.

  "Think it over, Riddler. Sleep on it. You look like you need some sleep."

  The big man said nothing as he disappeared into the darkness beyond Molin's apartments. If he could be brought into line, or so Stormbringer said, the ultimate triumph of the Storm-children would be ensured. There were things even the primal war-god didn't know, Molin mused as he closed the window, but he might be right about Tempus.

  "I tell you-she's gone mad. She's lost control. She's gathering her dead-but she can't find them all."

  The young man wrung his hands together as he talked; his words slurred and broke in a constant agitation of pain and chronic drunkenness. The fog of his breath in the cold, damp air was enough to intoxicate a sober, living man. Both witches raised better looking corpses, better smelling ones for that matter, but Mor-am wasn't dead-yet.

  "S-She's l-l-lost c-control. S-she's l-l-looking for s-someone to k-k-k-k-" he gasped and coughed his way into incoherence.

  Walegrin sighed, poured two-fingers of cheap wine, and slid it across the barrel head. In a backwater town renowned for its depravity and despair, this one-time hawkmask had drifted beyond the pale. Mor-am needed both white-knuckled hands to get the mug to his lips; even then a dirty stream oozed out the comer of his ruined mouth. The garrison captain looked away and tried not to notice.

  "You mean Ischade?" he asked when the wine was gone.

  "Seh!" Mor-am's back straightened and his eyes cleared as he uttered the Nisi curse. "Not Her name. Not aloud. S-She's l-l-looking for s-someone to k-k-kill someone p-powerful. I c-could find out h-his name."

  Walegrin said nothing.

  "I s-saw Her w-with T-T-Tempus-at m-m-my s-sister's h-h-house. S-She w-w-was angry."

  Walegrin studied the stars overhead.

  Mor-am gripped the cup again, throwing his head back, sucking loudly, futilely on the rim. He made a supreme effort to control his wayward tongue. "I know other things. She's looking for the witch. Got to have power-have her focus back. I can follow Her-She trusts me."

  A flock of the white Beyarl made their way to the palace. A falcon's cry echoed across the rooftops. The white birds swooped back toward the harbor. Walegrin watched their slow-circling patterns and Mor-am lurched forward across the barrel head to grip his wrist with moist, sticky hands.

  The young man began to speak in a rapid, malodorous whisper: "M-Moria's changed. G-G-Got f-friends w-w-who aren't Her f-friends. D-Deads at the P-Peres h-house w-w-who s-should b-b-be in h-hell. T-Taken a 1-1-lover. M-Moria's a th-thief-1 1-like H-Her. H-He's a m-mage-m-maybe b-b-better th-than H-Her. S-She'll t-t tell you w-w-what e's-"

  The captain wrenched his arm away and whistled sharply. A burly soldier emerged from the inky doorway where he had been posted.

  "Take him to the palace," Walegrin commanded, taking a cloth from a sack at his feet and carefully cleaning his hands.

  "S-s-she'll know. When I d-d-don't come back. She'll look for me." The ex hawkmask's voice was shrill with desperation as he was hoisted to his feet. "You said gold-you said: 'gold for information'."

  "It doesn't pay to sell out your family-pud, I thought you'd've learned that by now," Walegrin replied coldly. "Take him to the palace." He nodded and another soldier stepped forward to see that the command was carried out quietly.

  Walegrin threw Mor-am's mug into the garbage that lay everywhere in the burned out, sky-roofed warehouse. It had come this low: Rankan soldiers holding forth in ruins; listening to the ramblings of the city's scum; talking to the dead and the undead. A delegation was coming from the capital. His orders were to keep Sanctuary quiet, to keep it free of surprises and, above all, to keep an ear out for rumors about the Nisi witch. He rested his hand on his sword hilt and waited for the next one.

  "He might be right, you know," a voice called from the darkness.

  A man separated from the shadows-mounted and armed. He came through a gap in the walls-the man's head wreathed in shifting moisture, the horse as cool and shiny as a marble statue. Walegrin stood up, his hand remaining on the sword.

  "Slow up there," the stranger ordered, swinging his leg over the saddle. "Word's out you're talking to anybody-even other Rankan soldiers." His words emerged in a plume but the bay horse, though it snorted and shied from the lingering scent of the fire, made no mark on the night air.

  "Strat?" Walegrin inquired and received a confirming nod. "Didn't think you came uptown much these days."

  The hawk cried again. Both men glanced up past the charred, skeletal roof-beams, but the sky was empty.

  "I was up here the other night at Moria's dinner party." Straton kicked the broken barrel Mor-am had used for a seat aside and selected another one from the rubble. "This place secure?" He glanced around at the gaping walls.

  "It's mine."

  "He might be worth listening to," Strat said, shrugging a shoulder toward Mor am's path.

  Walegrin shook his head. "He's drunk, scared, and ready to sell the only ones who've stood by him. I'm not looking to buy what he's selling."

  "Especially scared-especially scared. I'd say he knows something no cheap wine can hide. I've seen the new face Moria's wearing these days; Ischade didn't put it there. I'd talk to him about that-get his confidence. Ease the burden on his mind."

  Strat was known to live within the necromancer's curse- and without it, if current rumor were true. He knew Ischade's household as no other living man knew it. Likewise, he was the Stepson's interrogator-a superb judge of a man's willingness to talk and the worth of what he said.

  "I'll talk to him, then," Walegrin agreed, wishing he had a larger fraction of Molin's canniness. The Stepson had gotten the upper hand in their conversation. He was sitting, silent and smiling, while Walegrin was sweating. The younger man pondered possibilities and motivations, listened to the lonely hawk, and abandoned all attempts at subtlety. "Strat, you didn't come here to help me do my job with that wrecked hawkmask and it's not safe for a S
tepson to be east of the processional-so why're you here?"

  "Oh, it's about a hawkmask: Jubal." Strat paused, bit an offending fingernail, and spat into the darkness for effect. "He made an agreement with me and I want you and yours to honor it."

  Walegrin snorted. "Commander-this had better be good. Jubal made an agreement with the Stepsons?"

  "With me," the Stepson said through taut lips. "For peace and quiet. For no confrontations while Sanctuary has imperial visitors. For business as usual as it used to be. He's pulling back; I'm pulling back. The PFLS will be exposed and we'll take care of them-permanently. Consider yourself honored that I think we need your voluntary cooperation."

  "What cooperation?" Walegrin snapped. "Are we the ones rampaging through the streets? Are we running rackets? Strong-arming merchants? Did we turn the town on its ear, then run off to war leaving the locals masquerading in our places? You want to take care of the PFLS-there wouldn't be any PFLS without the high and-bloody-mighty Third Commando and there wouldn't be any Commando without you and yours. Dammit, Commander, I haven't got a headache you didn't cause one way or another."

  Straton sat in stony silence. There'd never been any love lost between the regular army soldiers, enlisted to the service of the Empire, and the elite bands like the Stepsons or the Hell-Hounds, bound only to the interest of the gold that paid them. For Straton and Walegrin, whose orders-keep the peace in Sanctuary-were identical and whose positions-military commander-were untenably identical, the antagonism was especially acute.

  Walegrin, having spent the better part of his life in blind admiration of the likes of Straton, Critias, or even Tempus, expected the Stepson to blast them out of their conversational impasse. He felt no relief when, after long moments of staring, enlightenment overcame him: Strat was out of his depth and sinking faster than he, himself, was.

  "All right," Walegrin began, leaning across the makeshift table, forcing the anger from his voice the way Molin did. "You've got the garrison's voluntary cooperation. What else?"

  "We're changing the rules-some of the players won't like it. The PFLS is going to push-"