21
“Is it not beautiful?” Gharlas asked, stroking the blue gem. “But small. So small, to have so much importance.
“Veytoth was the first King to write about this. It is called the Ra’ira. It was sent to the Kings from Raithskar, where it had been found in their rakor mines. Veytoth was practical. When he became King, he inquired about breaking the pretty bauble into jewelry-sized pieces. But his gemcutters warned that, if it could be cut at all, the lines within it indicated that it might shatter.
In time Veytoth grew fond of it, and kept it near him. He quickly learned that in its presence, his mindpower—the thoughts of people who were days away from him, were made clear. People around him obeyed his wishes, as well as his spoken orders.
“It was then that the Kings began to breed for the mindpower, a custom continued to this day in Eddarta.” His hand closed around the blue stone, and began to tremble. “The High Lord of Eddarta must be a child of Harthim’s descent, the product of a legal union between the last High Lord and a woman of the family of a Lord. If none of those children have the mindpower, the children of the High Lord’s siblings may be considered—provided they are the products of a legal union.”
He was shouting again, staring at the ceramic curved-brick furnace, but not seeing it.
“I am cousin to Pylomel,” he said, “his father’s sister’s son. And I have the mindpower. I have it! When we were tested, as children, even then my skill was greater than Pylomel’s, and it has grown even more these past few years. Now Pylomel is puny by comparison.
“But am I Eddarta’s High Lord? No. Those self-righteous fleasons declared me ineligible, beause my mother loved a servant. She had only one opportunity to lie with him, and she took it, knowing she would conceive from the union. I have despised her for that, yes, despised my own creation. But no longer.
“I am a bastard!” he shouted, shaking his fist in the air. “But I am also the new, the next, King of Gandalara!”
He seemed to recall where he was, then, and spent a moment calming down. Tarani chanced a quick glance at me, and I shook my head slightly. I was free now, but a little dazed by what I had been hearing.
Why didn’t Thanasset tell me? Because I told him I wasn’t going to get involved with this crackpot. I convinced him that I just wanted a vacation to think about the Council’s offer …
The Council! Of course, the true nature of the Ra’ira has to be top secret, available to confirmed Supervisors only. What was it Thanasset said? “You may need information Markasset didn’t have.” He meant about the Ra’ira. He wanted me to join the Council so he could tell me the truth.
“But I am wandering from my purpose,” Gharlas said, his voice oily again.
He changes so quickly. There’s not a doubt in the world that he’s as nutty as an almond grove. Let’s get the timing just right …
“The Lords have grown soft and self-satisfied, resting in comfort in Eddarta. There hasn’t been a High Lord for generations who has suggested seriously a plan to re-establish the Kingdom. When I found that book, I knew that it was my destiny to possess the Ra’ira and rule Gandalara.
“So I came to your uncle and persuaded him to make a duplicate. We went together to Raithskar, to view the stone on Commemoration Day, which honors that despicable traitor, Serkajon.
“I came to pick up the duplicate a few moons ago—that was the evening we nearly met, my dear—and found that Volitar had constructed two copies. They were slightly different from one another, but even at close viewing, either would have passed for the real gem. To those who do not know its special quality, that is. And those fools in Raithskar are sworn never to use it—how could they discover that the real Ra’ira had been replaced?
“I chose one of the copies, and took it to Raithskar. By fortuitous accident, I lost that duplicate before I could complete my original plan. It was only then that I realized the folly I had been about to commit.
“It must be clear to everyone in Gandalara that I, and only I, have the Ra’ira. As before, no one shall know its true power, but it has a strength and a charm of its own. It carries its own feeling of history, of grandeur. Some people will follow me, simply because I have it.
“So there must be no one else who might have the stone,” he said. He leaned toward Tarani. “I needn’t worry about the copy I lost in Raithskar. It was disguised as a clod of dirt; the street sweepers probably gathered it up and dumped it outside the city that very day, and it is well buried by now.
“But I want the other duplicate,” he said, getting to the point at last. “And you will tell me where it is. Now.”
Gently, Tarani laid her uncle’s head on the floor. He flopped his arms and kicked his legs weakly in protest. To comfort him, she kissed his bruised forehead. She stood up and moved around Volitar. Gharlas fell back to give her room. He was just outside my sword range.
“Yes,” said Tarani. “Now!”
I lunged forward, aiming for Gharlas’s back. But he had caught something—a change in Tarani’s expression, perhaps, or even her thought. An instant before I lunged, and Tarani reached for her sword, Gharlas threw himself sideways and down to the floor. He rolled over Volitar and came face up with the old man in front of him as a shield. He was pressing the blade of a knife against Volitar’s throat.
“You are a most uncooperative man,” he said scornfully. “How interesting that you can break my command. Must be that doubleness of yours.”
“Let Volitar go,” Tarani said. “I’ll give you your filthy copy. Let him go!”
She was standing to one side, her sword shaking in her hand. I was looking right down at Volitar’s face. He closed his eyes for a moment. Then he opened them, looked at me, and said four words. In the confusion, Gharlas hadn’t maintained his silence control on Volitar.
“Take care of Tarani,” the old man said. Then, his arms and legs still nearly useless, he bucked his body violently upward, driving the knife blade deep into the bruised flesh of his throat.
Tarani screamed.
I lifted my sword for an overhand slash. Gharlas was trying to scramble out from under Volitar’s body, and I had a flash vision of the way Molik’s head had bounced when it fell off the lifeless trunk of the roguelord. The face changed to Gharlas’s narrow features.
Off with his head, I thought, amazed at the savagery of my hate. Off with the sonofabitch’s head.
I put all my strength into that deathstroke—but a sword came out of nowhere to block it, and Gharlas slipped out of reach.
Furious and frustrated, I jumped back to get room to fight this new threat. My stomach started to churn when I saw what it was. Thymas was coming after me, his face contorted with self-disgust. Gharlas was controlling him; it probably amused him to see Thymas’s reaction to what he was being forced to do. The boy’s face was a pathetic plea for help—but how could I help him?
It was all I could do to stay alive.
Dharak hadn’t exaggerated his son’s fighting skills. He must have been a little slower, a little clumsier, than usual, moving under the control of another man’s mind. But he was still a strong and cunning fighter.
I backed away from him, blocking when I had to, trying desperately to think of a way to avoid hurting him and still save my own skin.
I couldn’t find one. I had to fight back.
I aimed a two-handed swing to his midsection. He blocked it, slid his blade across mine, and brought his sword down hard, slashing at my left shoulder. I ran out from under it; he changed it to a diagonal cut at my legs. I dodged his blade, and managed to score a cut across his left forearm. I backed away, facing him, waiting.
I tripped over Volitar, and landed flat on my back. The wind was knocked out of me, and my vision blurred for a moment. When it cleared, Thymas had kicked away Rika and was standing over me, arms and sword raised in almost the same position I had held over Gharlas.
Thymas didn’t move. His face was a mask of sickness and fury.
I lifted my h
ead and looked around. Across the room, Tarani was standing stiffly, awkwardly. Gharlas was beside her. He grinned, and came toward me, holding Tarani’s sword. He stopped beside the furnace and lifted a square ceramic tile out of the floor. He dropped Tarani’s sword into a hole; we could hear it sliding into the firebowl underneath the furnace.
*Keeshah!* I called.
*Coming,* Keeshah answered, impatient and anxious. *City big. Can’t smell.*
*I’ll show you,* I said, and we merged for an instant, into that closeness that required no images for complete communication. *Do you know it now?*
*Yes, Coming.*
*Bring Ronar.*
His reply was the equivalent of a snort of derision, as if to say that Ronar could find his own way; Keeshah didn’t have time to fool with him right now.
I broke the contact, which had taken only a few seconds, to find Gharlas standing over me, still grinning.
“Well, my dear,” he said, over his shoulder, “now that you are safely tied down, I wonder if this meddling fool means as much to you as your uncle. I offer the same trade—his life for the duplicate Ra’ira. I think I’ll let you speak, so that you may agree.”
“You’ll kill us all, anyway, you bastard,” she said.
Gharlas’s face turned dark, and a pulse beat visibly at his temple. He strode over to her, struck her across the face. She glared at him, her limbs frozen awkwardly.
“Bastard,” she said softly.
He hit her again, so hard that I winced. Her headscarf was knocked loose; it twisted so that its trailing edge fell across her right shoulder.
What the hell is she doing? Did Volitar’s suicide send her over the edge? Or … could she be stalling Gharlas again?
I looked at Thymas. There was a fierce light, joy or fury, shining in his eyes.
She’s leaving herself trapped, and helping Thymas break Gharlas’s control. The girl has courage. It will be tougher with Thymas, but she’s had practice now, and she’s madder.
“There is more than one way to die,” Gharlas hissed at Tarani. “Volitar’s death will look easy, compared to this one, I promise you. Now, where is that duplicate?”
She hesitated just long enough to irritate him into lifting his hand again, then she spoke out in a hurry. “Under the workbench behind Thymas. Where the table joins the wall, there is a loose tile with a compartment behind it.”
“Show me,” he said, and grabbed her arm. She walked with him, jerkily, toward the table. As she passed me, she looked down. Again, I nodded. There was no smile in reply this time, only a grim determination.
She knelt on the floor and crawled under the worktable. Gharlas bent down to see what she was doing. Thymas gave a violent start, then grinned savagely and turned toward Gharlas, lifting his sword for a killing blow.
Either Gharlas had heard something, or he had sensed the abrupt break of his control. Before Thymas was halfway turned, Gharlas surged up from his bent-over position. His knife was in his hand, and he drove it to the hilt into the boy’s side. He released the knife to catch Thymas’s sword hand as the boy struggled to bring the sword to its target. Then Thymas’s face went blank suddenly, and he sagged to his knees. He fell over and lay still on the floor.
Gharlas held the sword and stood over me, his face growing dark with rage.
Ts this more of your doing?” he accused me. “For yourself, I could see it. But for this one—how—?”
“I am the one who did that, Gharlas,” Tarani said. As she stood up, the edge of the worktable caught her loosened headscarf and pulled it clear off. Ever since we had come into the workshop, she had been kneeling, crouching, fighting. Now she raised herself to her full height, and gathered around her the regal bearing she had worn at our first meeting. The dark head fur was startling, revealed so suddenly, and Gharlas stepped back a pace in surprise.
“My name is Tarani,” she said. Strength seemed to reverberate in the low voice. “I see now why Volitar so hated the misuse of power. You will pay for what you did to him, Gharlas!”
Seeing them face to face this way pointed up the similarities between them: their height and general slimness, the unusual head fur, the glow behind their eyes. Gharlas seemed to see it, too, for he fell back further, and his face went pale.
“You look like—your name—Tarani? Where have I heard it—the illusionist!” he gasped. “The dancer who can cast images!”
“Do you think only Eddartans can carry power?” she challenged. She stepped forward, following him, but aiming her steps toward Rika, which had skidded toward the furnace, and lay across another of the fuel doors in the floor.
“But you—” He stopped suddenly. He cringed—physically cringed—away from Tarani. “Great Zanek, you’re her daughter. I thought Volitar was trying to hide his past from his niece. But he was hiding you from me. He knew I’d see the resemblance at once.
“The old fool succeeded, too, may his tusks rot! Not until this very moment did I connect Tarani the illusionist with his phantom ‘niece.’ ”
A derisive laugh exploded from him, and was quickly choked off. “And I thought I had played a fine trick on Pylomel. I give Volitar credit. I never thought to hide the child of the High Lord’s promised wife!”
He had been backing toward the workshop door that opened directly out on the road. Thymas’s sword was in his right hand; his left hand clutched the pouch that held the Ra’ira. Tarani had moved within reaching range of Rika. Gharlas was facing the girl, now, with a shaky confidence. He spared a glance for me, but looked quickly back at Tarani.
“You will both have to die,” he said matter-of-factly. “But not today. We will settle this another time.”
He dashed out the door.
I threw myself across the floor and caught up Rika, even as Tarani was reaching for it. She struggled with me until I said, “Keeshah.” She understood, and let go.
I saw her kneel beside Thymas, as I went out the door.
*Keeshah, how close are you?*
*Almost there*
As I came outside, I saw Gharlas running around the hexagonal stone foundation of the workshop, heading down the slope. I ran after him, with too little caution. I skidded and fell in the slick grass. I grabbed the stone wall and hauled myself to my feet, slipping and swearing.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of color at the left hand edge of the wall.
Gharlas—waiting for me! I thought. I tried frantically to get my balance, but the slope was steep and uneven, and my feet kept striking it wrong. A figure ran out, away from the wall, and behind me.
There was a sharp, piercing pain in my back, just above my right shoulder blade. A knife. It pulled out, struck again.
I let myself fall and slide down the steep slope. I skidded to a halt, a few feet past the lower edge of the workshop. I pulled myself up on one knee and brought Rika around to face Gharlas.
It wasn’t Gharlas.
It was the little man who had tried to steal my money pouch the night before.
*Rikardon?*
*Don’t let Gharlas get away, Keeshah* I ordered. *No matter what happens to me. Understand?*
*Yes.*
The thief skidded to a stop a safe distance away from my sword point. He grinned at me.
“Handsome sword,” he said. “Even in the poor street lighting, I could tell it wasn’t bronze. Only one sword in the world made of rakor. Only one man who’d have it.”
He was moving back and forth in front of me, the knife ready in his hand. I kept the sword between us, fighting the weakness creeping into my bones.
If pass out, he’ll kill me. Why is this happening now, of all times? Damn you and your reward, Worfit! In the back of my mind, I could picture Gharlas walking away, without a care in the world. No—Keeshah will get him.
“Thought you’d be safe, hiding inside your headscarf?” the thief sneered, lunging in on my left side. I slashed at him; he ducked and retreated. “I wasn’t looking at faces,” he said, moving back and forth
again. “I was watching for that sword. When I saw you with Tarani, I knew where you’d be—I only needed to wait for you.”
He moved in close on the right, and I made the sword follow him. I had to hold it with both hands, now.
He moved further right; I twisted to face him. Then, suddenly, he leaped to the left and lunged in past my guard. As though I were watching a slow-motion film, I saw the dagger drawn back in the man’s fist, ready to gut-stab me.
Something white flashed in front of the man, and he screamed. He brought his free hand up to his face, but not before I had seen the livid, bleeding wound that crossed his face diagonally, exposing bone at cheek, nose, and chin.
Lonna pulled up her dive, flew back to attack the man with claws and bloody beak. The gentle, hooting call was silent now; she uttered a piercing shriek as her claws sank into the man’s forearm. He dropped the knife.
I staggered up and followed the struggling pair. “Lonna, enough,” I said. My voice was barely a whisper, but the bird understood. She disengaged, flew upward, hovered over us, beating her wings slowly in the air.
I fell forward, driving Rika straight through the man’s midsection. I landed on the grass and rolled a few feet downhill, leaving wet red spots where I passed.
What’s happened to Gharlas? I wondered urgently. Where is he?
I propped myself up on my left elbow, and forced my vision to focus as I searched the downslope for his running form. I spotted him, running across the grassy field between this row of workshops and the next one. He hadn’t reached the road yet.
Coming up that road were two large-size cats, one on the heels of the other, both of them making riotous noise. I felt such a sweeping relief that I could spare the energy for a small chuckle at the confusion the sha’um must have left behind them in the congested downtown area of the city.
But the next minute, I wasn’t laughing.
Ronar was chasing Keeshah. Mad with rage and grief, lacking even Thymas’s insincere control, Ronar was giving free rein to his old grudge against my sha’um. He didn’t care about Gharlas. Considering how suddenly Thymas had been wounded, and how quickly he had lost consciousness, it was possible that Ronar didn’t even know about Gharlas. To Ronar’s perception, the last danger Thymas had faced might have been me. That would amplify his fury toward Keeshah.
The Glass of Dyskornis Page 19