The God-Touched Man

by Melissa McShane

  “And what did he want to know?”

  “Where it was and when the laws would be signed. You won’t tell no one I said, will you? No one will stay here otherwise.”

  “I assure you I will keep your revelations in the strictest confidence. Now, where is the reckoning?”

  “Down the main street, turn right at the sign of the black rose, then all the way to the end. You’ll see the city hall; it don’t look like anything else.”

  “Thank you.” Piercy dug out a much-crumpled note from his trousers pocket and set it on the bar in front of her. “Good fortune to you.”

  “I couldn’t hear. Did she tell you where to go? Is this Kemelen?” Ayane said when they were once again in the street.

  “It is, and Hodestis was here. I admit to some surprise that I was correct in my guess about his plan, if plan you can call it.” Piercy shifted the sword around to a more comfortable position. It was not as common for gentlemen in the capital to go armed, or at least not obviously armed, but here on the frontier it seemed every other man and about one in five women wore blades. “We should hurry. He is only a few hours ahead of us now.”

  The attention they drew still annoyed Piercy, but the annoyance was overridden by his relief that no one seemed likely to accost them. If anything, the crowds drew back, leaving them a clear path down the cobblestoned road. For all Kemelen was an old city, someone had designed it with an eye to growth. The main streets were wide enough to admit two wagons side by side with room to spare for pedestrians on either side, the drainage was well-kept and apparently effective, and raised stone walkways kept the animal waste from spilling out of the streets into the paths of the citizens. It even smelled clean, though not as clean as Matra, where spells disposed of animal waste and left behind a faint fragrance of pine.

  Piercy located the sign bearing a black rose and turned right onto a street as wide as the first. “She said we would know the building when we saw it,” he called out over his shoulder.

  “That’s not reassuring,” Ayane said. “She probably grew up here and it stands out to her.”

  “At worst, we can ask someone directions to the city hall.”

  “It is there,” Dolobeka said, pointing.

  The building he was pointing at towered over its neighbors, at least three stories taller than the next tallest edifice. It looked like the Foreign Office headquarters, though where that building looked like a confectioner’s dream, this was more like a metalsmith’s nightmare. Turrets emerged from the roof of the central building that, had they been more irregularly spaced, would have resembled the spires of the Yanceter Monastery, but built of yellow stone that sparkled in the sunlight. The roofs were sheathed in bright copper Piercy couldn’t bear to look at for more than a second. Blinking tears from his eyes, he focused on the squat, square base with its four shorter towers at each corner, also built of yellow stone.

  There were no windows in the lower building, but the tops of the walls were crenellated and a portcullis hung above a square opening, dark and cool by comparison. It looked exactly as if an Alvorian fortress had clashed with a child’s sandcastle and neither had won the battle.

  “You’re right,” Ayane said. “It can’t be anything else. Let’s hurry.”

  “I think we should be careful,” Piercy said. “They may not be very welcoming.”

  “We don’t have time to be careful, Piercy. We’ll just have to be as polite as possible. And then wring Hodestis’s scrawny neck.” She ran ahead of him, pushing her way through the crowds who didn’t register her appearance soon enough to get out of her way. Piercy swore and followed her, with Dolobeka once more bringing up the rear.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The road they were on was lined with tall buildings—none as tall as the city hall, of course, but three and four stories high, and all of them were of newer construction, with gray or red brick façades like gridded cliffs. On the right, countless glass windows caught the morning sunlight and reflected it almost as brightly as the copper roofs. Then, abruptly, the buildings stopped, and a garden flanked the street, blooming with wildflowers and shaded by the same gnarled trees they’d seen on the moor.

  It was so unexpected Piercy almost stopped to examine the garden more closely, but Ayane was outdistancing him, and he had to hurry to catch up. Behind him, Dolobeka was muttering something Piercy couldn’t make out and chose to ignore. He might feel some inappropriate responsibility for the man, but if it came to a choice between capturing Hodestis and coddling Dolobeka, the Santerran would be left behind.

  The street terminated at another that ran parallel to the city hall and looked as if it encircled that building entirely. Ayane was still ahead, dodging carriages and horses to cross the street, and Piercy ran faster, shoving people aside with a few brief apologies. His stick banged awkwardly against his leg one moment and the God’s sword the next, so he snatched the stick out of his belt and carried it, using it occasionally to prod people out of the way.

  He caught up with her just as she was clear of the road and heading up the short incline leading to the gate, which was guarded by two men in light blue uniforms. They looked like a pair of sugar sticks someone had won at a carnival and stuck upright to watch the gate. Piercy noted their weapons, truncheons and long knives, which made their appearances somewhat less amusing. “Ayane,” he said in a low voice.

  “We have urgent business inside,” she declared in Dalanese. “Please let us enter.”

  One of the guards moved to block the entrance, though his stance was awkward and his hand on his truncheon gripped it in a way Piercy could easily counter. He had a feeling those observations would become crucial in a few minutes. The other guard said, “What are you?”

  “These are noble Santerrans from our southern neighbor,” Piercy said, overriding Ayane’s response, which would almost certainly have resulted in violence. “They wish to observe the reckoning on behalf of their queen.”

  “We are not used to being insulted,” Ayane said, less angrily than Piercy had expected. “You will show respect.”

  The guard shifted his weight nervously. “Names?” he said.

  “I fail to see why that matters,” Piercy said.

  “The Lady High Chamberlain is sitting in judgment. You have to be on the list to go in.”

  “We have traveled a long way,” Ayane said. “You should allow us to enter.”

  “Why are we arguing with this pale?” Dolobeka rumbled. “Our quarry is inside. Let us strike them down and stop wasting time.”

  “What did he say?” The guard’s hand was now on his truncheon, like his partner, and he eyed Piercy’s and Dolobeka’s swords as if he could prevent them being drawn with the power of his mind.

  “That he has looked forward to witnessing the Lady High Chamberlain’s justice for many days,” Piercy said. “Come now, we don’t want a judgment for ourselves. We wish only to observe others receiving justice.” To Dolobeka, he said, “Remove your hand from your sword. We should not attack these men, who are doing their sworn duty. Or do you not understand honor?”

  “Do not insult me,” Dolobeka said, but his hand dropped to his side and he took a step back so as not to seem so menacing.

  The guards followed this exchange with mingled interest and concern. “They’re truly from the queen of Santerre?” the first said. The second was looking with some admiration at Ayane, who either didn’t notice or was demonstrating she did have self-control.

  “Truly,” Piercy said. “Will you let us enter?”

  The guard chewed his lip in thought. “You have to leave your weapons here,” he said.

  “Ah…Santerrans prize their weapons and it is an insult to them to ask them to disarm,” Piercy improvised. The idea of facing Hodestis’s magic unarmed made his skin prickle. Never mind that a sword was no good against spells; Piercy was even more reluctant to let the God’s sword out of his reach.

  “That’s the law,” the guard said. “No one goes armed inside but the Lady
High Chamberlain’s personal guard.”

  Ayane gave Piercy a meaningful look and rubbed her arm as if soothing a strained muscle. Piercy felt his little knife press against his calf. It was better than nothing. And the Gods alone knew what Hodestis was doing in there. “Very well,” he said, unfastening the sword belt. To Dolobeka, he said, “We must leave our weapons here.”

  “I will not!” Dolobeka shouted, bringing both guards to full nervous alert. “How dare these pales insist on humiliating me?”

  “If we do not, it will be another hour before we enter, and Hodestis may not even still be there,” Piercy said. “Besides, I do not believe you need a weapon to wreak havoc upon your enemies.”

  Dolobeka scowled. “That is true.” He removed the sword from his belt and handed it over with a snarl, saying, “This was my grandfather’s weapon, and they will treat it with respect.”

  Piercy repeated this to the guard, who took the sword as gingerly as if he expected it to turn on him. “The stick too,” he said.

  Piercy leaned more heavily on it. “This is not a weapon, it is my support,” he said.

  “You could use it as a weapon.”

  “But I assure you I never would. And I would be unable to walk without it.”

  The guard held his hand out. Piercy sighed dramatically, handed it over, teetered, and fell heavily to the flagstones. “No, no, I am very well,” he said, waving off the chagrined guard’s assistance. “Just allow me to—oh, no.” He fell over again and tried not to look at Ayane, who he was sure was close to laughter.

  “All right,” the guard said as Piercy tried awkwardly to rise, this time with Dolobeka’s unexpected help. “Just—don’t use it for anything else.”

  “I assure you there is nothing further from my mind,” Piercy said, and thanked the Twins that they clearly hadn’t seen him run across the courtyard. “And you will care for our weapons?”

  “They’ll be here when you return,” the guard said, edging away from Dolobeka very slowly, like a mouse unwilling to take its eyes from the owl.

  “Thank you,” said Ayane. “Where do we go?”

  He pointed. “Through there to the inner courtyard, where you’ll find the keep. Tell the guard at the door you’re there for the Lady High Chamberlain’s justice; he’ll show you where to go from there.”

  “Santerre thanks you,” Piercy said with a bow. “Hurry,” he said to his companions.

  “I was planning to dawdle,” Ayane said, and brushed past him. Piercy let out an exasperated breath and hobbled after her until he was sure the guards couldn’t see him, then he ran.

  The outer gate led to a short passageway, cool and dark with a curved roof just inches from the top of Piercy’s head, which opened on a small courtyard paved in the same yellow stone the city hall was built of. In summer, the place must be unbearably hot, even as far northeast as Kemelen was; there was no grass, no trees, no growth anywhere that would soften the stark lines of the courtyard and the inner keep and cool the heat radiating from the paving stones.

  The copper-clad towers still shone mirror-bright, but now they were too high to be visible unless one looked directly up. Statues of men and a few women stood sentry around the base of the keep, their dark or white marble contrasting sharply with the yellow stone. Well above head height, the walls were pierced by glass windows as modern as anything one might see in Matra. It was impossible to judge the building’s age, but then that wasn’t why Piercy was there.

  Piercy glanced once behind him to look at the wall, which wasn’t as thick as the passage but still looked sturdy enough to keep out five kinships of Welkennish raiders. Then he quickened his pace to keep up with Ayane, who’d reached the door of the inner keep and was talking to the guard there.

  “Because I do not look like you?” Ayane exclaimed, loudly enough for Piercy to hear her a short distance away.

  “How do I know you’re who you say you are?” This guard was burlier than the first two, he had his truncheon in his hands, and Piercy guessed immediately he was the sort of person who’d wanted to become a guard because it gave him a legal outlet for his bullying instinct. “Never seen a Santerran before. You might be one of the Despot’s troops, here to assassinate her Ladyship.”

  “Excuse me,” Piercy said, “but I believe your job is not to question us when we have already been questioned by your comrades. Please step aside.”

  “And ain’t you fancy,” the guard said. “Come here with your citified ways, trying to lord it over us provincial types. Well, I ain’t letting anyone suspicious—”

  Dolobeka grabbed hold of the truncheon, twisted hard, and the guard gasped as he ripped it out of his hand. He opened his mouth to shout, and Dolobeka rapped him sharply on the head, making his eyes roll up and his knees buckle. Piercy caught him and gently lowered him to the ground. “What—”

  “I am tired of interference,” Dolobeka said, and entered the keep. Ayane shrugged and followed him. Piercy looked around swiftly; the courtyard was empty. He left the unconscious guard lying there and went after the Santerrans, cursing under his breath. Hodestis had better be inside, because Piercy didn’t think he could endure much more of this chase.

  The antechamber beyond the door looked as if it stretched the entire front length of the keep. It extended upward two or three stories, with darkness filling the corners like clots of dried gray ink. It smelled musty, like a room never entirely cleaned, and motes of dust floated within the streams of light coming from the eastern windows.

  It was full of bodies, fallen in awkward heaps like empty suits of clothing. Piercy went to one knee beside the nearest, a woman wearing a law-speaker’s robe, and pressed his fingers to the side of her neck. “She’s alive,” he said. “Paralyzed.”

  “Then Hodestis is here somewhere,” Ayane said.

  Piercy stood and crossed the stone floor, which showed no signs of wear. Maybe the city hall was newer than he’d thought. Three closed doors, two to the south and one to the west, bore symbols Piercy didn’t recognize. The few chairs scattered around the room’s perimeter looked far too plain for the immensity of the room.

  “Where now?” Ayane said.

  Piercy put his stick through his belt, went to the nearest door and listened at it, then opened it. Beyond lay a room that was absurdly small next to the antechamber, mostly filled with a desk and a chair and several stacks of paperwork. Its owner stood leaning against a cabinet, hand still gripping a teacup, though the pot lay shattered on the floor.

  It looked much like Piercy’s own office, a thought which gave him an unexpected pang, not of homesickness but of dread that once this was all over, he’d have to return to his office and spend several days writing reports about his adventure. As if Ayane and Dolobeka and Hodestis could be so easily quantified. “I would not have imagined even Hodestis capable of completely paralyzing the entire city hall, which fills me with anticipatory dread. I am loath now to make any assumptions about what he is capable of.”

  Dolobeka opened another door. “This way,” he said. “I can hear someone speaking.”

  They hurried down the short hallway into another enormous chamber. This one looked unexpectedly like a chapel, with its walls lined with stained glass windows of abstract patterns and rows of wooden pews angled in the direction of the…it wasn’t an altar, it was a table, set on a raised dais. Behind it stood a chair occupied by a woman sitting very upright as if tied there, though Piercy could see no bonds. The pews were full of people who also sat unnaturally still.

  Lamps of golden glass on long chains hung over the table and the pews, casting a warm and tranquil glow over the grotesque scene. Hodestis stood with his back to them, two feet in front of the woman, with his hands held shoulder-high tracing patterns on the air, muttering command words unintelligible at such distance.

  “Stop!” Piercy shouted, but Ayane was already in motion, knife raised, and he wasn’t sure if he’d shouted at her or at Hodestis. The little man turned around. He seemed not at all afra
id of Ayane’s threat, nor of Dolobeka, barreling toward him on the other side of the pews from Ayane. He crossed his arms, fists closed, over his chest, flung them wide, and said, “Sepera sustelli.”

  Something grabbed Piercy and lifted him ten feet in the air, making him flail for balance. Ayane cried out, and Dolobeka shouted in anger, as both of them floated upward as well. “I didn’t want you to follow me,” Hodestis said. He sounded as if he were about to start crying. “You helped me so much, I don’t want to kill you, but I can’t let you stop me from saving Dalessa.”

  “We know the truth, Mr. Hodestis,” Piercy said. “Dalessa is the mad Witch of Marhalindor—”

  “Do not call her that!” Hodestis screamed, and Piercy saw the wall coming at him an instant before he struck it, sending pain up and down his left side. “She is all that is good and pure and she loves me and we will live together forever!”

  “I apologize,” Piercy said. From this angle, he could see the table more clearly, and the chair in which Iriya Gelventer, the Lady High Chamberlain, sat, frozen in the grip of desini cucurri. Now he remembered where he’d seen the woman in Hodestis’s drawing. “I should not have insulted your lady. I recognize her now.”

  He pointed at the Lady High Chamberlain, realized his limbs were free, and tried kicking off the wall. He moved only an inch before Hodestis made another gesture and the invisible force tightened its grip on him. He glanced briefly at Ayane, the barest flick of his attention, and saw her nod and slowly begin shifting her legs and arms, moving herself toward the magician.

  “You will free me, sorcerer, and you will restore my companions!” Dolobeka roared, thrashing about against Hodestis’s hold.

  “What did he say?” Hodestis asked.

  “That he will get free of your evil magic and drink your blood,” Piercy said.

  Hodestis cringed away from the Santerran. “It’s not evil magic. I let you live, didn’t I? I used desini cucurri on all these people instead of killing them. I just can’t leave anyone to follow me and Dalessa.”