The Demon's Call

by Philip C Anderson

  “How patrician of you,” Trent said. The cab turned out of sight. “Do you forget her name now or only after you’ve slept?”

  “Ha-ha.” Grenn pulled his gauntlets on. “There are some things that don’t require the contrivance of names, and passion is one of them.” They headed inside the Tower. “How was your meeting with Kingy?”

  “Reacted as expected. Believed me easier than you did, even.”

  Grenn huffed. “Excuse me if the past year-and-change took a second to revise.”

  “Nothin’s changed.” They approached a desk, behind which an attendant sat. Her auburn hair hung in a ponytail, and her robe’s neckline plunged to below her naval. “You just know who I am now.”

  “You speak so easily,” said Grenn, “but perception is everything.”

  Trent reached for the rune ring. “The king wanted to believe I am who I say. He’s bit of a fan, actually.”

  Before Trent had a chance to show her the ring, the attendant said, “Mr. Geno, Mr. Abernathy, please allow me to thank for your service to the scepter. His Majesty made us aware of your imminent arrival. A portal awaits you at stall fifty-three.”

  Grenn spoke before Trent could. “Thanks, Kirstren.”

  “You’re welcome, Grenn,” she said, beaming a straight-toothed grin.

  “Thank you, miss,” said Trent. He started toward the Tower center but stopped when he noticed Grenn not with him. The younger Karlian had leaned over Kirstren’s desk and quietly spoke to her.

  The young woman blushed and hid half her face behind her right hand. “I’ll tell her.”

  Grenn tucked a strand of hair behind her left ear and said, “Thanks again,” before he rejoined Trent.

  Goddess alive, Trent thought, another one.

  As they walked through the Tower’s outer hall, the portaler who’d served him the night before headed the opposite way. Trent nodded to him as they passed each other. The man paused in silent recognition, nonplussed.

  Grenn continued their conversation. “How can you say nothing’s changed, though? Already more shit’s happened in the last day than I reckoned would happen in my lifetime.”

  “Course things have changed,” Trent said. “But not me.”

  They entered stall fifty-three through its back door. The Portal Master had just finished sweeping Ley dust off the portal’s leeward side in final preparation for their travel. Through the opening, a woman stood behind a podium, her heavily-lined eyes half-closed as her fingers swiped over a screen in front of her. A cloak fully enwrapped her body.

  The Leynar turned when he heard them enter. “Gentlemen,” he said, then cocked his head in surprise. “Mr. Geno. I didn’t expect to see you here again so soon.”

  “Something came up,” said Trent.

  “I imagine. Barely going to make it, I think.”

  “You used a portal last night?” asked Grenn. “Were you at the party?”

  “Yeah,” Trent said. “Awful thing.”

  “You didn’t tell me that.”

  “A few other things have been on my mind, Grenn.”

  “So you weren’t dressed up like that for Madge or whatever?”

  “Why would I dress up for Madge?”

  “I figured you liked her.”

  “No. I was trying to set you two up.”

  “Why would I need set up—especially with someone like her? She’s not even my type.”

  Trent scoffed. “Ah, right, your type. Smart, witty, ambitious—those aren’t character traits you go for. I’ll keep that in mind next time.”

  “Ambitious—please”—

  “Gentlemen,” the Portal Master said and tapped on his watch. In his hands, he held a notebook and pen, making notes. “There is a bit of need for haste.”

  “Indeed,” said Trent, a little annoyed with his counterpart, who looked on the edge of speaking but remained quiet.

  “I was surprised when the scepter informed us of need for two by portal,” the Leynar said. “I thought the king might be going somewhere. And so close to the edge of the ash storm.” He pulled a ribbon into place, closed the journal, and checked his watch. “Officially, thirteen-twenty-four to Munsrow. If you would, please, before they lose service.”

  Grenn walked through. He turned, saying, “I’m not going for anything right now, by the way.”

  “Thanks for clearin that up,” Trent said as he stepped through.

  Leynar Towers all had the same architecture due to necessary synchronicity, but the furnishings differed from place to place. Grass had replaced the stone floor of Arnin’s tower, and wildflowers bloomed underfoot. Tree boughs grew in place of walls, and Trent could see through gaps between them to other stalls and to the building’s ticketing lines. Bees hopped from blossom to bud, playing their song against the birds that flitted between branches above them.

  “Thirteen-twenty-four from Arnin,” the attendant said in a bored drawl. She made a mark in the notebook next to her screen, then looked at them from between sheets of raven hair that framed her face. “Please head to the access gate marked on your portpass.”

  “Don’t have one,” Trent said.

  Her expression didn’t change. “Oh right. You must be the—arrivals—that got put onto our docket on such short notice. I’ll be honest, I don’t know what to do”—

  “Excellent work, Katerine,” a man said, hurrying into the stall. “Oh, thank the gods, you’ve ensured their safe arrival.”

  Katerine’s eyebrows stretched toward her bangs, and she returned her attention to her tablet.

  “Forgive the apparent lack of buzz,” said the Leynar, his voice an excited baritone. “We’re quite a busy tower normally, but”—he checked his watch—“yes, I think you’re the last ones getting through here before the storm messes up our lines completely.” He hurried toward them to shake Grenn’s hand, then Trent’s. “I am this tower’s Portal Master—Ranold, at your service. And my goodness, you’re the fanciest recipients we’ve had in a while—not counting last night, of course.” Ranold headed toward the end of the stall. Trent and Grenn followed.

  Daisies and violets and bushes of strawberries grew across the Tower’s main floor. Gardens of vine climbed the walls and stretched across the ceiling to hang over the hedges that made the cordons for the Tower’s ticketing lines. Tree branches hung over the halls they passed through, low enough to graze their heads. Blue-and-yellow magnolias bloomed upon them.

  “I can’t tell you how dramatic it was to have the bustle of so many dignitaries coming through our little shack here. All to do with the dragons—oh, and what a wonderful time of year they make it. Soon the little guys’ll be fledging, and our emissaries will go meet the new Host at midsummer. You know”—he looked over his shoulder at them—“I’ve heard her Grace will attend the Apposition this year.”

  “Fascinating,” said Grenn, though it sounded like he thought differently.

  The Leynar smiled. “Indeed.” The spring in his voice abated. “But this is the worst storm I’ve seen in—must be fifty years, outside War-times. The last time it got this bad, we had to set up stopgap waypoints in forests.” He chuckled and swept his arms in front of him. “Imagine, just out there in the middle of nowhere. Hopefully it won’t come to that this time, or in the least that we can stay out of Crowe’s Weald.” Ranold led them around a corner to the stables and turned toward them. He went on, backpedaling. “Anyway, gentlemen. The scepter made us aware of your need for haste, and I assure you we have granted you our finest. Lorithena and Raverord, at your service.”

  Behind him, a pair of beasts waited, saddled and loaded.

  “Albunes?” Grenn said. “Why don’t we have a car?”

  The Leynar stopped, aghast. “Apologies if they’re not to your liking, sir. His Majesty himself commissioned their use, insisted they’d be more reliable than a vehicle. I agree with him, of course. Believe you me”—he leaned toward Grenn and lowered his voice—“you don’t want to get caught in an ash storm with a dead automobile.
You are aware why the dragons buffet the ash, I presume.”

  “To cause problems? I’ve honestly never had to worry about it.”

  “Pray you never do,” Ranold said, imploring. “Being hunted by a dragon is—torturous.” His gaze turned distant for a few seconds before it returned to Grenn. “I’d imagine, at least.”

  “These’ll be fine,” Trent said. He walked toward the one on the left. Its eyes glowed an electric orange, and its fur sheened the color of fine chocolate.

  “More than fine, I can assure you.” Ranold said. He trotted to the other, her hide dappled soft pink and black. “Have you ever ridden one before?”

  “Used to own one, back during the War. Always a pleasure.”

  Ranold nodded. “I’d imagine if you were active during War-times, you’d have had to. The dragons, bless them, kicked up so much ash back then, visibility couldn’t have been more than”—he shrugged—“ten kilometers, I’d say, even crossing the Green Sea.”

  “Less at its worst,” said Trent.

  Grenn stopped next to Ranold, who petted the black-and-pink albune across its neck. “I haven’t had said pleasure.”

  “Just like riding a cassowary,” said Ranold. “Except these have four legs.”

  “Never ridden one of those, either.” Grenn reached out. The albune pulled her face away. A basso growl emanated from her throat; otherwise, she remained still.

  “Hope you don’t mind.” Ranold swatted a bag on the albune’s right side. “You’re transporting some freight that’s been here for weeks—at the scepter’s discretion, of course. About, uh, five-hundred pounds a side, I’d guess. Practically nothing for them, though. Can tow several-dozen times their weight easily. Up to a hundred on some. The strongest I’ve ever seen pulled almost twice that for fifty kilometers.”

  “Sounds great,” said Grenn.

  Trent read the mislike on the young man’s face. “And even with that weight, wicked fast,” he said. “Should reach Karhaal late tomorrow morning, and that’s if we stop and rest tonight.” He reached up to lash his hammer across his albune’s right side.

  “Indeed,” Ranold said, then he muttered to the beast. “Did you hear the nice man? Such a good girl, aren’t you, Thena?” He pressed his head against hers. “You’ll make your way back home, don’t you worry. Serve anyone well, should you come into their service.”

  The albune rubbed her head against Ranold’s and huffed.

  “Keep Rav safe.” The Leynar sighed, then he spoke to Trent and Grenn. “I guess you won’t need riding cloaks, seeing as you have your armor. My gentlemen, please let me know if there’s any other way I can assist you.”

  “Ya can,” said Trent. “I’m trying to find someone who used to work here.”

  The Portal Master’s face pinched with remorse. “Not sure how much help I’d be on that. I’ve been here a while, but I must say I’m not good with names and faces. I’m sure one of our attendants at the front desk could more readily help.” He gestured toward the Tower-end of the stable. “Just around the corner there.”

  “Sure.” Trent headed that way.

  “So how do I get on this thing?” Grenn asked of Ranold before Trent turned the corner.

  The lines for the ticketing agents had emptied before they arrived, but a sparse few remained open in the main atrium. One agent, a lanky Leynar with a head of pink hair, spoke to the man at the front of his line, his voice dulled: “There are no more outbound portals from this Tower until we can reestablish connections. I’m sure the attendant made you aware of that walking in here.”

  “This happens every year,” the man said. “How are you not prepared for it?”

  “We are, sir. Operations will continue in a few days. The initial front always has latent energy coursing through it. This is normal.”

  “Look, I need back in”—

  Trent rounded the corner and arrived at the front entrance foyer. Its cordoned line, too, stood mostly deserted. A dark-haired woman, who’d pulled her hair into a bun that hung low on the back of her head, sat in front of a terminal behind a long desk. She jumped when she saw Trent.

  “Oh,” she said and minimized what she had on her screen. She wrapped her cloak around her body. “Can I help you, sir?” Her face had flushed.

  “Ranold told me you could help me find someone who used to work here.”

  “I might be able to.” She tapped her screen. A search bar appeared. “Their name, please.”

  “Went by Kendra. Drander.”

  She input the query, then raised her left hand to her chin as her gaze moved down the screen. “Kendra. Kendra. White hair?” The girl pointed at a picture.

  Even if Kendra had colored her hair, the woman on the screen looked nothing like her. Trent shook his head.

  “All right.” The attendant swiped through more results.

  “Wait,” Trent said. He gestured for her to scroll back up until the picture he’d recognized came back on screen. “There, that’s her.”

  “Oh.” The young woman raised her eyebrows. “That Kendra. I remember her. Gods, she’s beautiful.”

  “Some said.”

  “I definitely understand why you’re trying to find her.” She put her hands together. “But it says here Kendra left seventeen years ago.”

  Trent licked his lips. “Doesn’t say where she lives?”

  The Leynar moved through other applications. “It doesn’t. Anywhere. But her stipends go to a bank in”—she consulted the screen—“Yrelnat.” She squinted her eyes. “I’m not sure I shoulda told you that. But I doubt she even lives there anyway.”

  Course, Trent thought. “Just on the off-chance, does it say anything about Tanvarn?” The witch Grenn had talked about could be anybody, but someone had searched from him from that city. “I’m heading there,” he added when the Leynar questioned him with a glance.

  Boxes of information zipped across the monitor. She shook her head. “Nothing. Ya think that’s where she is? I could put in a word with the Tower there and ask around.”

  “Nothin like that. Probably using an alias anyway. Thanks for your help.”

  “Is there anything else I can help you with today, sir?” She shrugged. “It’s—a slow day.”

  Trent checked either way and leaned over the counter. Though Russell Hollowman didn’t partake in the tales of the Tower, Trent Geno might as well if it could serve his purpose. “Heard any good rumors?”

  “That armor you and your friend are wearing, that’s already churning some gossip. Something happening at Karhaal?”

  Trent exhaled and tapped the counter in front of him. “You have no idea.”

  The Leynar cast a side-long look at him, her face playfully neutral. Trent bumped his brow at her before he walked back the way he’d come.

  “Can I rent an albune?” the man asked, still speaking with the ticketing agent.

  “Our stable is empty, sir. I’m sorry.”

  “But, gods, I need back”—

  “Grand Master, really?” Ranold said. He turned toward Trent when he entered the stables. Grenn sat atop Lorithena and had retracted the left arm of his armor. The albune stepped in place while they waited.

  “I hope you found what you were looking for,” said Ranold.

  “Your Leynars have been helpful,” said Trent. He walked past Ranold and hopped onto Raverord’s back.

  A strange connection forged between rider and albune once mounted, one that Trent remembered from the War. Albunes had served the only means of reliable transportation apart from nether transport—something Leynars had uncovered in old texts from the War of the Bridges. Karhaal and High Tower had forbidden it in solidarity with Arnin at the last’s end. Trent had never liked it anyway.

  “Telepathy,” the quartermaster at Karhaal had told him when they’d first purchased albunes from breeders. “Symbiotic domestication, kinda like with hounds. They let us into their minds, and we keep them safe.” Trent had left his in the care of Karhaal’s stablemaster when he left.
He wondered if she’d still be there. Or if Karhaal even still had the same stablemaster.

  He thought to head for the stable’s open end, and Raverord understood. Grenn followed them into the afternoon sun, under which rolling fields spread in every direction. Every few miles across the countryside, a lone house pocked the green, and from the northeast a breeze carried the stale scent of long-burned dust.

  “Gentlemen,” Ranold said, his silvery-white robes rippling in the midwinter air. “It was my pleasure to serve you, and I hope I can again.”

  “I pray you get to,” said Trent. He tapped a switch on his neck. A mask unfolded from behind his head and curved over his face. Grenn nodded to equip his own, then they shot northward.

  2

  “What do you mean?” Kendra asked. She finished taping the end of a bandage she’d wound around her hand, then resettled her gaze on Reight.

  “There’s an agent on the other side of the search.” Reight stood at the end of the hallway that connected the sitting room to the bedrooms along the back of the house. “They seem aware of my intent to find Hollowman and are—active—in their anti-probe.”

  “Gods damn it.” Kendra tossed the rest of the bandage roll into the aid-kit that laid open on the floor. “Can you get through to the guy who’s blocking you?”

  “No, ma’am, I haven’t been able to,” Reight said, his voice awash with irritation. “He’s not responding.”

  “Keep trying.”

  “Of course, ma’am.” The urlan headed for a back room.

  Kendra called after him: “And if you get through, call for me. First thing, Reight.” She waited for her urlan to respond, and when he didn’t, she leaned back in her chair.

  The evening sun shined through her front window. Its rays caught in the air, unable to reach the stone floor. She watched people pass by outside, hoping any one of them would be her old friend, that he would seek her and serendipitously find her expecting him. But regret washed through her. If he lived, he had only one reason to want to find her. Still, her desperate mind folded around the idea that their needs would somehow become mutual.