Wings of Power

by Carl, Lillian Stewart

  Yes, she was a valuable if irritatingly efficient ally. He indulged himself by kissing her cool jasmine-scented lips. “Shall we go?”

  “Yes. Let us end it now.”

  “End it?” Gard repeated quietly as he set her hand upon his arm and started toward the door. “I think we are much more likely to start it.”

  Deva considered the light in his eyes, the gleam of a fine steel blade, and said nothing.

  Chapter Eleven

  The corridor was as wide and as empty as the gullet of some great marble beast; the distant murmur of voices, the light patter of music and cutlery, hung in the air like a growling purr. The bedchamber was unguarded. “They certainly are complacent,” Gard said. “They call themselves civilized, because their murder is done so discreetly?”

  Deva’s smile glinted and her hand tightened on his arm.

  The dragonet was tangled in Gard’s viscera, its tongue lolling, its eyelids so heavy that only a thin silver gleam escaped. He jabbed it into alertness. It leaped up, and a gust of nausea caught Gard unaware; for a moment his knees trembled like a runner’s after a race. But no, the race had just begun— They have challenged me, let them face the consequences!

  Deva inhaled deeply and assumed her loveliest face, a transformation not as drastic as that of the monks of Dhan Bagrat who changed themselves into animals, but definitely more gratifying. It was a magic of line and form and color, of flesh and bone, of carriage and movement. The swanlike grace of her limbs, the sapphire light of her glance—Saavedra! She was more than beautiful, she was divine perfection in earthly form. Surely even what’s-her-name—Shikar’s wife, Yasmine—could not hope to achieve such loveliness!

  Just a glimpse, and her beauty modified itself into an alluring prettiness and settled there. Yes, Gard admitted, we want to impress the Ferangi, not blind them.

  The corridor widened, skirted a small garden, entered and then left a bench-lined room, beyond which were the tall doors to the banqueting hall. And there, at last, were guards, wearing mirror-like scale mail and filigree helmets crowned with plumes. They leaned negligently upon their spears, exchanging jokes about the brazen appetites of this year’s Fool.

  Inside the hall, the durbar, the formal audience with the Rajah, was in progress. Tarek’s voice was as smooth and sweet as the oil of cloves that had masked the poison in the wine. “. . . reduction in tariffs and free passage for Allianzi ships, past Ferangipur up the Mohan. Not that the Alliance needs the trade, of course, but since the ties between Apsurakand and Muktardagh and Ferangipur are ancient and strong . . .”

  Someone laughed rudely. Vijay? The laughter spread. “What ties?” Jamshid inquired. That took arrogance, when Rajinder’s Apsuri wife sat right in front of him. Gard imagined the glint in Tarek’s flinty eyes.

  Rajinder said placatingly, “Tarek-ji, you know as well as I that Menelik controls the land routes from the hinterland. We buy gold and agate, wool and myrrh from the Alliance, as you buy . . .”

  This was boring. Time to stir things up. Gard and Deva swept on. The sentries boggled, spears clunking raggedly against the floor. The dragonet made a rude gesture. Gard kicked open the doors. He and Deva waltzed by the gaping mouths and, announced by the clash of wooden panel against stone wall, burst into the chamber.

  Several servants lighting the lamps were the first to turn. Tapers splatted against the floor and sparks flew upward. The music stopped in mid-phrase. So did the voices. Every face turned toward the door like a flower garden bowing to a gust of wind. Excellent!

  “Shakhmi!” hissed a voice. Bogatyl, of course; the Vizier’s eyes bulged like black raspberries at Deva. Her lip curled slightly.

  Tarek’s expression was not at all flinty. It was almost bland, mild amusement at the game of diplomacy glossing but not quite hiding acute interest at Gard’s entrance. “Fire-demon?” he suggested under his breath.

  Gard offered Tarek a brief nod, part sneer, part claim of equality. One brow and the corner of Tarek’s mouth arched upward and he stepped back from the line of fire.

  With Deva still on his arm, with the dragonet grinning in the clangor of his bones, Gard advanced upon Jamshid. Hanging lamps like captured stars swayed above them. Incense swirled in thin blue vapors around them.

  The Rajah sat cross-legged upon his khaddi, like an old spider at the center of his web. At the approaching apparition his bronze complexion took on a patina of green. On a stool at his feet crouched Srivastava, one hand holding the end of her sari before her face, the other making the gesture to ward off the evil eye.

  The priests of Vaiswanara and the lesser deities moaned and gesticulated. Vijay leaned his elbow upon the table, set his chin in his hand, and peered with knit brows at Deva. Rajinder drew Ladhani close to his side but neither one of them quailed. He signed to the priests to be quiet.

  Gard stared at Jamshid. Jamshid stared at Gard. Before that limpid gray gaze the greenish bloom faded from the old man’s cheeks. Deva’s elbow played a tune on Gard’s ribs—please note that everyone is still uncertain. Speak now, before uncertainty becomes suspicion.

  Yes, now! A voice—Deva’s, Gard realized—emanated from the canopy of scarlet silk above the khaddi. “Hail Gard ed Minras, great wizard, who has come to serve the house of Jamshid!”

  The dragonet’s wings unfurled and fluttered and its small snout crumpled into a smirk. That faint choking sound was probably Bogatyl. That scribbling noise should be Tarek taking notes. Srivastava lowered the fabric from her face; her eyes crossed for a moment, as if she were going to faint. But by the time Gard had noticed her swoon it had passed, and she was glaring up at him with an expression less friendly than some he had seen over advancing ranks of spears.

  Fire-demon. Yes, by all means. Gard laid down Deva’s hand and raised both of his own, making his fingers into a cup. A bright silver flame, a sneeze of power, leaped from his hands. The light glanced off the Rajah’s face, seeming for a moment to pare the flesh from his bones and leave only the sere and shadowed skull.

  Jamshid shrank back. The audience gasped. The priests chirped, “An omen! An omen!” The guards rattled their weapons. In a rustling flurry of silk Srivastava leaped to her feet. “Bad luck will befall Ferangipur,” she declaimed, “if the Fool is not sacrificed as the law states!”

  The flame sputtered in Gard’s hands.

  But only Jamshid seemed to hear the princess; he sat up and frowned while everyone else glanced up or down or right through her. “Touched in the head,” muttered Deva. “Be polite and ignore her.”

  The caravaners had thought Senmut touched in the head . . . Gard forced his eyes away from Srivastava. He saw Tarek, that slight smile still lurking in his beard, hovering unobtrusively behind the sinister bulk of Bogatyl. He saw Vijay watching him and Deva standing shoulder to shoulder, his mouth quirked in combined bafflement and hurt, the expression of a child as another receives a special privilege.

  “The old prophecies say,” came Jamshid’s reedy voice, “that the Fool must be sacrificed or bad luck will befall Ferangipur.”

  The priests cackled like broody hens. Gard’s palms tingled. That tickle in his gut, another sneeze. The tiny fire flared upward, spread outward, and became a bubble of luminescence like an insubstantial crystal ball. Deva spread transparent images across the surface of the bubble; mighty armored elephants parading up the banks of the Mohan, trumpets caroling in eerie silence, spears glimmering . . . A rain of arrows. Gard glanced to the side—Tarek, interfering with his magic? The man’s nonchalant expression had not changed.

  The bubble burst and disappeared. The Rajah and his daughter blinked. The dragonet strummed upon Gard’s bones so that his body sang like Sumitra’s zamtak. The pentacle hissed against his damp skin.

  Rajinder rose to his feet. Gard quelled irritation—I want to do this myself, thank you!—but Deva’s hand touched his arm, counseling restraint. The dragonet flopped down to listen, lower lip outthrust.

  “If we put too much faith in prophecies
,” said Rajinder calmly, “we would have had to send Srivastava-ji to Apsurakand to participate—fatally—in the Last Rites of the Innocents, since our late and beloved mother was taken unaware and gave birth to her there on that particular day of the Sun’s Awakening.”

  Demon’s teeth! Not that prophecy again! Gard was getting a bad case of indigestion from that prophecy.

  Vijay murmured, “Why should a prophecy that speaks of the destruction of Apsurakand be of concern to us?”

  Did Tarek flinch? Gard was not sure just what caused that quick ripple of indigo around the man’s form. The pentacle against his chest chimed in reply, the sapphire in Deva’s nose flickered. Srivastava sagged and Jamshid patted her hand affectionately. “But,” he said. “But . . .”

  “If we have chosen, from all the people in the maidan, a wizard,” Rajinder continued, sweetly reasonable, “is this not a sign of change?”

  Play to Rajinder, then; an investment in such spirit could not go wrong. Gard turned slightly to face him, raising his hands with palms touching. He spread them apart, pulling out a rainbow like a piece of taffy. The colors were reflected in Rajinder’s face and the prince smiled, pleased.

  Gard exhaled and blew the rainbow to settle around Ladhani’s shoulders. She, too, smiled, admiring the colors edging her sari. Quite a few of the watching faces relaxed, Gard noted, following the young couple’s lead.

  The rainbow evaporated. “An omen, an omen,” intoned the priests. Bogatyl closed in, a sharp-toothed gharial gliding just beneath the smooth surface of courtesy. “Cheap tricks,” he spat.

  “Are you counting the cost of the tiger’s whiskers you added to the poisoned drink?” Gard retorted. A mutter of indignant surprise rattled through the room and Bogatyl’s eyes darted from side to side guiltily. Aha, Gard thought. A good shot. Strike again. “How many conjurors can you find in the maidan who could withstand such poison?”

  “Cheap trickery,” asserted Bogatyl more loudly. He jabbed Deva with his forefinger. She regarded him with stony indifference. “He comes with a demoness on his arm, meaning no good for Ferangipur.”

  “My wife,” Gard said distinctly, “is no demoness, but a wizard like myself . . .” His lips stayed frozen in the fricative. What had he said? Wife? Deva’s lashes flicked in half a wink. Damn the woman’s casting of illusions, those had been her words. She wanted to be permanently inaccessible to Bogatyl. Well, that was not unreasonable . . .

  Gard’s thought foamed and rushed like an incoming tide. The room rotated gently before his eyes. The dragonet clambered up his rib cage and raised its paws. Each claw gleamed red from traces of the wine. Its wings rippled magenta and orange, lavender and gold.

  Rajinder watched Bogatyl, his eyes narrowed to obsidian blades. Srivastava and Jamshid leaned together, brows creased. The princess lacked the courage of her convictions, it seemed. An effect of no one listening to her.

  “If you have such power,” Bogatyl sneered, his hand playing with the dagger in his sash, “tell me the date of your own death.”

  “The day before your own,” rejoined Gard through his teeth.

  Rajinder laughed openly. Jamshid looked slightly puzzled. “An omen!” chorused the priests.

  Bogatyl’s face went a dusty purple. He grasped his dagger, half drew it, and at Rajinder’s shake of the head spat a curse and released it.

  From the corner of his eye Gard saw Tarek’s fingertips drumming upon the hilt of his scimitar. Was he concerned with Gard’s fate or was he just enjoying the entertainment?

  That scimitar. The prophecy, and Jofar sparring in the dust of Dhan Bagrat. These inlaid marble floors were a much more appropriate proving ground for a prince. Even if they did sway disconcertingly to the fever in his blood.

  Srivastava muttered to Jamshid. The Rajah nodded. His lips parted on a verdict. Srivastava looked mollified; that was not a good omen at all. Rajinder stepped forward to intercede yet again.

  The dragonet giggled maniacally. The pentacle crooned, its golden wings opening wide. Gard moved faster than Rajinder, leaping to the foot of the khaddi. “Nazib-ji,” he called. “Let me dance for you. Tell your soldiers to try and strike me down; if they succeed, your problem is solved. If they fail, then you have no problem but a powerful new servant.”

  Deva winced. Jamshid stared and Srivastava glared. Rajinder’s chin went up, intrigued. Vijay fished some foreign object from his cup, pretending a disinterest belied by the gleam of his eyes. “Do not listen to the blandishments of this evil creature!” called Bogatyl.

  “Bad luck,” Srivastava protested. “Very bad.”

  Oh yes, I am bad luck for everyone. Bogatyl’s dagger leaped from his sash into Gard’s hand. Gard twirled the weapon upon his fingertip; fire-demon, hot heart, hot hands. A quick blaze, and the bronze blade wilted like a wax taper left in the sun. He inhaled deeply. Odd, how warm and close it had become in here, the perfumed air so sweet as to seem rotten. He returned the ruined dagger to Bogatyl, spinning it tauntingly over the back of his hand.

  Jamshid’s seamed face cracked into a grin. “Very well then, show yourself, wizard!”

  Tarek, oozing a certain sarcastic charm, proffered his weapon to Bogatyl. With an incoherent snarl Bogatyl threw the dagger across the floor, snatched the scimitar and gestured to several sentries.

  Gard suddenly remembered that he had a legionary sword thrust behind his sash. But that had not yet been, and would not be now, a solution.

  Rajinder escorted Ladhani from the table as servants flocked forward to move it. Deva shot Gard a partly aggrieved, partly resigned look when Vijay rose and solicitously led her away.

  The dragonet caromed about Gard’s stomach, flexing and bending, wings outstretched. Four sentries? he asked himself. And Bogatyl is twice as broad as I am. But if he is so unimaginative he relies simply on greater force, then surely I shall prevail.

  From the corner of his eye Gard saw Deva jump and cast an indignant look at Vijay. Vijay returned his hand to his side with an affable smile.

  Why that . . . First things first! Gard inhaled—shakhmi, shakhmi—fire flooded his limbs. His skin glowed. He balanced on the balls of his feet. Five swords caught the light of the lamps. Five, like the points of the pentacle. Senses, elements, and sheer desperate nerve modified by inherited grace . . .

  His heart gulped. Grace inherited, power inherited—it was too late. Be bold, be daring, or be dead! Bogatyl lunged at him with a mighty blow. The other swords sliced the air, accompanied by gasps and cries from the onlookers.

  A unity of body and mind, intent and motion—Gard leaped and spun. The swords clashed where he had been standing, while he stood smiling tightly a few paces away. His blood shrieked through his veins like the pervading hum of bees at Dhan Bagrat, an undertone both provoking and inspiring. Sting! he shouted to the power within him. Sting me then, and have done with it!

  Strike and leap. Strike and leap again. The blades whistled a pattern of light around him so that his limbs cast interlaced shadows across the floor. The rhythm of his feet upon the stone was a light, brisk counterpoint to the heavy clumps of Bogatyl and the sentries. He spun about the axis of the winged pentacle; the dragonet steadied him, anticipating each move by an eye blink. He heard his breath rasping in his chest, and yet each breath was easily languorous. He saw each sword jabbing as fast as a serpent’s tongue, and yet they moved as slowly as through honey, the glistening honeyed light of the hanging lamps. This was power! Making love to himself, passion and magic, drunk and incredibly clear-headed at once.

  Faces whirled by; Bogatyl spitting epithets, Rajinder enrapt, Tarek nodding sagely. Well, who had taught Jofar, anyway? Jamshid’s face gleamed, for the first time fully lucid. Deva’s eyes were pools of blue and green and violet, depth after shifting depth of liquid flame. The sapphire, a third eye, cast a tenuous azure shadow around the forms of the guards. I do not need your help! Gard cried silently. I have backed myself into this corner, let me fight my own way out!

  The canopy
above the khaddi floated, a scarlet cloud across his horizon. The banqueting tables lunged toward him and then receded. The tall doors flashed by. Strike. Leap. Duck, spin, turn, step, strike and leap.

  Gard’s body was fluid flame. The sword strokes were deflected by the glow emanating from his ivory skin and his fiery hair, and at his bidding the blades sketched arcane shapes. His face stretched into a rictal grin of ecstasy. Unity of sensation and purpose—sexual rapture, mental bliss, ethereal glory. The daemon twisted with impossible suppleness in his gut.

  Two sentries struck each other and parted with cries of alarm and apology. The others faltered, stopped and stood gawking. Bogatyl closed in, strangely quick for one so large. But Gard was quicker.

  The air swirled with the acrid odor of sweat. And with a brief scent of hazelnut liqueur. Tarek was casting magical obstacles before Bogatyl’s feet, making the man flounder like some great sea lion upon a beach. Stay out of this! Gard screamed soundlessly. The Apsuri wizard made a placating gesture and laughed under his breath.

  Odd, part of Gard’s mind sputtered. Bogatyl and Tarek were not in league. He would have thought them joined in some brotherhood of thieves . . . A sword sliced the loose sleeve of his jacket. Tarek be damned, he was more trouble than he was worth—concentrate!

  Gard concentrated, his heart hammering and his lungs pumping like Senmut’s bellows. The hum in his mind was deafening, blotting out the thumps of booted feet upon the floor. A tidal wave of noise and image and movement, building, building—surely the climax would bring the palace itself tumbling down, alabaster shivering into shards as long and pale as his own fingers, dark eyes glimmering like jewels among the ruins, amazed even in death . . .