by David Drake
The mercer was a sour man, though astute and scrupulously honest in his dealings. Ilna had gained a place in his household minutes after she and the two wizards had arrived in Divers four days earlier. The mercer was having a gastric attack. Ilna had cured it with a quickly knotted pattern that settled Ascelei's stomach as no healer's nostrum had managed in the decades previous.
“I've visited Third Atara in past years,” Cerix said. “But Romi I know from my studies. He was one of the greatest wizards of all time.”
The brontothere paced stolidly down the center of the roadway, crushing the coarse limestone gravel into dust with its three-toed feet. Two men walked beside the creature holding beribboned cords attached to its collar, but no one could imagine that they'd restrain it should it decide to bolt. The horsemen riding to either side with lances leveled at the brontothere's rib cage were the real control on its behavior.
“Robilard, Baron Robiman,” Ascelei said. “He claims he's going to regain the glory of his ancestor the Elder Romi. If it would bring back Romi and the golden age, I wouldn't grudge the way taxes have risen, but all we get for our money is pomp like this, gilded armor and brontotheres from Shengy!”
He gestured down toward the handsome young man with a goatee, a spike mustache, and—as the mercer had said—gilded armor, brilliant in the sunlight. Ilna had thought the chariot in which Robilard stood was harnessed to the brontothere, but she saw now that the double line of footmen following the vehicle pushed it along by means of a pole. The baron was apparently doubtful enough about the brontothere’s tractability that he didn't choose to tether himself to the beast.'
“What a ridiculous display!” Ilna said. She'd seen too much human folly to claim that this example surprised her, but familiarity didn't keep her from feeling disgust at each latest manifestation.
“Romi isolated Third Atara from the rest of the Isles,” Cerix said. He'd exhausted the strength of his arms, so he lowered himself awkwardly onto his chair again. Breathing heavily he continued, “While he lived, he could do that: no ship reached the island without Romi's permission. If they tried, though they sailed forever the island would move away as quickly as they moved forward. But when Romi finally died, Third Atara was no different from any other place, and the pirates came here too.”
Ilna saw movement behind the line of spectators. She leaned over the railing for a better view. Because the lofts of this and other houses facing the Parade overhung the ground floors, it was difficult to see pedestrians who walked close to the building fronts.
She'd been correct in her identification, though. “Here's Halphemos coming at last,” she said. “He wasn't required to, of course. An invitation isn't a command.”
She heard the bitterness in her own voice and grimaced. “A truth that I should listen to myself, I see,” she added.
Halphemos and Cerix had lodged at an inn, the Dog and Cat, with the last of their money. Ilna had become the guest of her employer as part of her wages. The wizards had held street shows while Ilna returned to weaving as a way to earn a living until she got a sense of the situation.
Ascelei had quickly judged the value of the feelings of well-being which Ilna’s woven panels brought. He'd have advanced her money to lodge at the Dog and Cat if she'd wished to. She didn't see any reason to do that; but she had expected both the wizards to accept her invitation to watch the spectacle from the vantage of the mercer's house.
Cerix had wheeled himself to the house under his own power, explaining with some embarrassment that Halphemos had another engagement but would be along shortly. Cerix hadn't been willing—or perhaps able—to say what the other engagement was. Ilna assumed it involved a woman. Though she didn't have the least romantic inclinations toward Halphemos (the boy!) she was irritated to note a flash of jealousy in her reaction.
“Your other guest, mistress?” Ascelei asked.
The chariot had passed Ascelei's house and was nearing another bend in the Parade that would take it out of sight. Baron Robilard had remained perfectly still during his progress.
Ilna’s lip wrinkled. The baron might better have dressed a statue in his glittering armor and used the time to do something useful himself—like clean the palace chamber pots.
Behind Robilard's chariot came a dozen or so litters and sedan chairs carrying courtiers of both sexes. Some of the nobles had the decency to look embarrassed—though from what Ilna knew of the nobility, those were probably folk who feared their display wasn't as splendid as that of their rivals in other conveyances.
Ilna hadn't had any contact with the nobility when she lived in Barca's Hamlet; if she thought about them at all, it was to wonder why people believed that what their ancestors had done somehow made them better than anybody else. Nothing she'd seen since she'd entered the wider world had given her a better opinion of the class.
Third Atara, the last of the smaller islands trailing Atara proper, exported its wines and the colored marbles of its quarries all over the Isles. Ilna noted that perhaps as a result of its far-flung trade, court dress here ran to marine colors. There were blues, greens, and even a pale violet that must have come from eggplant rind. The aubergine's smooth consistency impressed her with the dyemaster's skill.
Silks purchased by the nobility's agents on Seres and Kanbesa predominated among the fabrics. Ascelei's clientele came mostly from the class to which he belonged, wealthy merchants who favored woolens and fur trim. The small panels Ilna had been weaving from fine wool were already bringing queries from the palace, though—a matter of considerable satisfaction to the mercer.
The majordomo stepped onto the balcony and whispered in Ascelei's ear. The mercer gave an irritated wave of his hand and said, “Yes, of course he should be admitted. It doesn't matter that he came separately!”
He looked at Ilna in apology. She nodded curt understanding. Ascelei had a dozen servants in addition to the clerks in his shop below. He needed them because of his position in society, he'd explained to Ilna. Her opinion was that if Ascelei had at least ten fewer of the officious busybodies in his house, his position would have been a great deal more comfortable.
The very tag-end of the procession was passing, a pair of drummers and a body of palace servants on foot. The latter were probably only those who could afford impressive clothing, but there were still scores of them.
Ilna grinned. She imagined a horde of ragged scullery maids, stableboys, and undergardeners following to demonstrate just what it took to maintain one young fop in gilded armor in what he deemed his proper state. From what Ascelei had said, at least the taxpayers of Third Atara were already well aware of the cost.
“Master Halphemos, who does not give his patronymic,” the majordomo announced, making clear his disdain for a man he classed a common mountebank for all the young wizard's silk robes. To be fair, the red brocade was considerably the worse for wear since Halphemos had been jailed in it.
Ilna wasn't in a mood to be fair. Halphemos had left what he thought was paradise for her. In a cold rage she turned and grasped the collar of the majordomo's robe. She ran her fingers across the fabric, lace over a tight serge. With closed eyes she let its patterns flow into her conscious understanding.
Ilna opened her eyes again, taking her hand away from the garment and re-entering the waking world. The majordomo was gabbling; Ascelei watched with questions but no concern in his expression, and Halphemos slid past the tableau with his right hand in his left sleeve.
“Do you know who your father was?” Ilna asked harshly, her eyes holding the servant's. “I do.”
“I'm Otbem or-Almagar!” the majordomo said. “My father was Baron Orde's personal valet!”
He patted his collar to make sure that Ilna hadn't torn it. As if she'd take her anger out on innocent fabric!
“Your father was named Garsaura and he was a groom in the palace stables,” Ilna said, raising her voice so that the several servants standing beyond the balcony door could hear clearly. “Would you care to learn more abo
ut your real ancestry, Master Othem?”
“That's not—” the majordomo said. He didn't finish the thought. His mouth remained open as he turned. He left the balcony faster than his dignity of a few moments before would have allowed him to do.
Halphemos grinned appreciatively, though he seemed a little embarrassed to have needed a woman to stand up for him. “Thank you, mistress,” he said. He nodded in the direction the majordomo had vanished and added, “He won't sleep till he's proved there wasn't a groom named Garsaura in the palace forty years ago, will he?”
Ascelei's eyes moved in quick increments from Halphemos to Ilna. It was Cerix, looking over his shoulder because there wasn't room on the balcony for him to turn his chair, who said, “But there was a Garsaura in the palace then. Wasn't there, mistress?”
“Yes,” said Ilna with a smile that could cut glass. “As a matter of fact there was, Master Cerix.”
“She doesn't bluff, boy,” the cripple said to his gaping ward. “She doesn't lie. And by whatever gods you believe in, don't get her angry.”
“I apologize, Master Ascelei,” Ilna said, feeling the knot of self-loathing begin to form in her stomach. It always did after she realized she'd used her abilities for an end she couldn't justify as having made the world a better place. “I'm a guest in your household. It isn't my place to discipline your servants, and I shouldn't have done it in that fashion anyway.”
“Othem has been known to insult guests—friends and good clients of mine—when he doesn't feel their lineage is sufficiently exalted,” the mercer said. He spoke with perhaps more care than he would have shown if he didn't understand what Ilna had just done. “I didn't know how to break him of the practice without dismissing him, and in general he's a very useful servant. I'm still further in your debt, mistress.”
He dipped his head to Ilna in gesture that was almost a bow.
Ilna grimaced. It bothered her obscurely that she appeared to have done exactly the right thing when she knew perfectly well that her intentions had been bad. She didn't expect to find justice, but it seemed deeply wrong to be unjustly good.
Halphemos, his right hand still clutching whatever it was he hid in his other sleeve, sidled close to Ilna. “I have something to show you in private,” he announced in a barnyard whisper.
Ilna could have slapped him. Instead she said in a voice that came all the way from the Ice Capes, “My host Master Ascelei invited you here as a favor to me. If you have secrets you don't wish to share with him, boy, please take them and yourself out of his house. I'll join you when I'm able to stomach your discourtesy—which won't be in the near future, I assure you.”
Halphemos opened his mouth to protest, then looked stricken. He'd let his excitement run away with him, but he did know better.
“I'll leave the three of you here,” Ascelei said equably. “I'll see that you're not disturbed.”
He smiled. The mercer's sense of humor—indeed, his personality—were not dissimilar to Ilna’s own. “I don't think Master Othem was going to be intruding anyway.”
Ilna started to protest, then shrugged. This balcony was as good a place to talk secrets as any in Divers. The spectators were dispersing, but the normal traffic along the Parade formed a blanket of noise to smother words quietly spoken in the open air. Of course a servant might lean against—
“But do explain to your household...” Cerix said loudly. He'd backed his cart around into a corner so that he could look directly at the others on the narrow balcony. “...that Mistress Ilna would never use her powers to strike a spy deaf and blind.”
“What?” said Ascelei, looking at the cripple in surprise. He smiled again. “Yes, I see. I'll inform them.”
The mercer closed the balcony door behind him. When Ilna had quenched the instant's anger at what had been implied in her name, she smiled also. It was a clever trick, and harmless.
Halphemos knelt and withdrew a bag of soft red leather from his sleeve. “Look at this!” he said as he opened the drawstrings. “When I sell it, we'll have passage for three to Valles and a fortune left over besides!”
He poured a pearl the size and shape of a pigeon's egg onto his palm. It was mounted as a pendant with a gold cap, though the chain or cord was missing.
“Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?” Halphemos said.
“Occasionally,” Ilna said, though the pattern of light through the jewel's iridescent layers spoke to her as to few others, she suspected. “And I've seen things that were even more dangerous for castaways in a foreign land to hold, Halphemos. Occasionally.”
“Where did you get it, Alos?” Cerix said quietly. The cripple's hands kneaded his thighs just above the stumps. He looked as worried as Ilna was furious.
“I can't tell you that,” Halphemos said, defensive against his companions' unexpected lack of enthusiasm. “It's not stolen, that's all that matters.”
“No,” Ilna said coldly, “it's not all that matters. The best thing you can do with that is throw it in the sea.”
Halphemos stuffed the pearl back in its bag with trembling hands. He stood, white with anger. “You're just jealous!” he said. “Well, Mistress Ilna, it's time you realize that there's other people who can do things even when you can't! I'll buy us all passage to Valles. You can decide if you want to come search for your brother or stay here and sulk because I earned the money. By my art.”
He jerked the door open. Seemingly, Halphemos had forgotten the small sack he now held openly in his hand. “Cerix,” he said, “come along with me. The mistress doubtless has things to discuss with her wealthy friends.”
Cerix wheeled himself into the loft proper, bumping over the sill. He threw Ilna a worried look; Ilna nodded a reply. Halphemos flounced out angrily without meeting her eyes again.
Ilna hoped the boy would allow Ascelei's servants to help Cerix negotiate the stairs instead of doing it himself. In his present state, Halphemos was apt to tip his friend all the way down. That would be all the situation needed!
Though flinging Cerix down the staircase was less dangerous to the cripple and all of them than what Halphemos proposed to do with the pearl. Jewels like that one screamed, an owner's name louder than a summonsing bailiff did.
Maybe Cerix could talk the boy out of his foolishness. Ilna didn't see a better hope.
Though it wasn't a very good one, as determined as Halphemos had sounded.
* * *
“Awaken, Cashel or-Kenset,” the cracked voice said. “Your body is renewed, your spirit is refreshed. Awaken now and aid me as I have aided you!”
Cashel was drifting in a fog of purple smoke. He wasn't worried; the smoke buoyed him up like salt water, but he could breathe its tendrils as well.
“Awaken, Cashel,” the voice said. “I, Silya, command you by the virtues I have arrayed to tend your hurts!”
“Who are you?” Cashel demanded groggily. He felt his lips move, proving that he was speaking aloud. He opened his eyes, though the effort to do so amazed him.
He lay on his back on a board. He patted the surface with his fingertips, noted the chill, and realized it was polished stone instead of wood. So. He lay on a stone slab, stark naked, in a vault lighted by braziers which puffed rich-colored smokes as well as a lurid glow into the air.
He was lying like a corpse laid out for burial. “Hey!” Cashel said. He kicked his legs over the edge of the slab and stood, looking around wildly. No one was in the room with him except for Silya, the woman wearing the bones through her ears in Dalopan fashion. She was naked as well, but tattoos covered her body like a garment of knobbly lace.
“Cashel or-Kenset,” she said, waving a bone rattle at him. The box was made from a dog's skull, but the thigh bone laced to it for a handle was human or Cashel was blind. “I've brought you back from the portal of death. Now you will help me and—”
She thrust the rattle directly at Cashel's face; he suppressed an urge to crush the ugly thing in his fist.
“—between us we will be
the Beast's overlords in this world!”
“Where are my clothes?” Cashel said. The smoke was making him gag, though he supposed it was meant to be soothing. “And where are my friends, Zahag and Aria?”
He looked around without seeing his tunic or anything else he could throw over himself for the moment. The braziers' flickering illumination hid as much as it. revealed. On the floor about the slab was chalked a many-sided figure with words on the margin.
The wizard looked puzzled. Cashel supposed Silya had expected some other response than simple disgust and a desire to leave her presence. He wasn't afraid of her, and he certainly wasn't grateful. “You're the one who sent me and Zahag to the other Pandah, aren't you?” he said. “Keep away from me with that toy you're holding or I'll feed it to you, by the Shepherd I will!”
“That was a mistake,” she said. “Here, I have clothing for you in the next chamber.” “
Silya walked to a door which, with its frame, seemed to have been knocked together recently: the wood was still oozing sap. Similar wooden barriers closed the five other archways, though they didn't have doors set into them. The vault had been blocked out of the foundations of a large building, probably Folquin's palace.
Cashel slammed the door behind him, thankfully closing off the still-smoldering braziers. He coughed loudly to clear the cloying fumes from his throat.
This room was also a vault walled off by partitions, but here the bricks were covered with mats of colored grasses woven in attractive geometric designs. Ilna would be interested in those, he thought.
A hammock hung from hooks set across one corner. Patterned baskets with covers stood along the walls, and a pole stand held a variety of tools. Those could be intended either for cooking, torture, or wizardry.
A bronze oil lamp lighted the space. The lobes for the three wicks were each shaped like a man's private parts. Cashel's nose wrinkled.
“I thought your woman Sharina was the important one,” Silya said as she lifted the lid from a storage basket. It was cunningly made, requiring a twist rather than a straight pull to release it. “That's because my brother believed the girl was the scion of the old line who could lead him to the Throne of Malkar.”