War of Powers

by Robert E Vardeman;Victor Milan

  Strangely, the Sky City disconcerted Fost even more by daylight than it had at night. Dark had masked the buildings, revealing only hints of intricate stonework. That had been eerie enough, but the daylight heightened the effect. The proportions of the buildings did not fit themselves to Fost’s eye. The balance of space and mass, the flow, the curve, all of it grated. It was wrong only subtly, but still wrong.

  His reaction was not mere provincialism. Fost had been in most of the cities of the Realm, seen buildings from the stately colonnades of Medurim to the particolored pastel houses scattered among the hills of Kara-Est and the onion-squat domes of Bilsinx and Brev. In the great seaports of the land he had seen embassies and residences built in the fashions of Jorea, the Northern Continent, and even the Far Archipelago in the Antipodes. He’d found some exotic, some amusing, some pleasing, and others not to his taste—but none disturbing. Nothing among all the many works of humankind he’d seen affected him the way the city did.

  “The works of humankind,” he repeated aloud. Luranni looked at him sharply. So did a dozen passersby. While he ruminated, they wandered into a bazaar lined with narrow stalls carved into the facades of buildings.

  The answer blazed like a comet in his brain. The City in the Sky was not a “work of humankind”. It had been constructed by an alien race thirty thousand years ago. The idea had seemed far-fetched when Luranni had told him the night before. Now it came to him with a force that made him a bit shaky. He had read accounts of the Hissing Ones and the War of Powers and Felarod when he was a youth in High Medurim, and had dismissed them as fantasy. Now, observing the alien architecture of the Sky City, he couldn’t deny that some of those fairy tales were true.

  “Good day, excellents,” a voice said. “Would it please you to pamper your palates with such delicacies as I have to offer?”

  A ginger-eyed youth with hair like a bonfire stood behind one of the graven stone counters. Its bins .overflowed with fruit. Fost looked at him, surprised at how good the offer sounded.

  “Would you like some?” asked Luranni.

  He nodded. “I’ve been on the road for weeks. It’s hard to get fresh fruit in the south. But isn’t it late in the season for fruit?”

  “Yes, quite.” Luranni picked up a three-lobed yellow fruit and held it up for Fost’s inspection. Out of the shade of the booth, its surface showed moist mottlings. “We get them packed in snow, but they don’t keep forever. How much for this bedraggled specimen, Herech?”

  “For one of your discriminating tastes, Lady Luranni, eleven klenor.” Fost blinked. He was no stranger to haggling, but the price was higher than the central spire of the Palace of the Clouds.

  “If this spinas wasn’t so elderly, it might be worth it,” she said, tossing the fruit back into the bin. “Come now, Herech, you know better than to toy with me in this fashion. Don’t embarrass me before my friend. Give us something worthwhile.”

  “For you, then,” the boy said. He turned into the recesses of the stall and came back with a tray half-filled with melting snow. A globe the size of two fists rested in a cone of white snow. It was pale blue in color, with a silvery sheen that made it as iridescent as a butterfly’s wing.

  “What’s this, Herech? It’s lovely!” Luranni exclaimed.

  “Unique,” the youth said proudly. “A magical hybrid, raised in the hothouse of a Wirixer horticulture mage.”

  Fost raised an eyebrow. Wirix had no arable land, being located on an island in the midst of Lake Wir at the top of the Quincunx. With the perversity for which they were noted, the Wirixers made an obsession of cultivation. Their savants had developed techniques of growing plants without soil; their mages devoted themselves to creating new and ever more wondrous varieties of plants. Wirix decorative plants, whether miniature trees small enough to flourish on tabletops or shrubs that produced blossoms the size of shields, were valued around the world. A new Wirixer fruit would be a treasure, indeed.

  “What do you ask for it?” inquired Luranni, her eyes gleaming at the sight of the fruit.

  “A mere hundred klenor.”

  Fost almost choked at that A “mere” hundred klenor was a contradiction in terms. Fost earned that for a month’s work as courier, and he was among the highest-paid couriers in the Realm. It would buy the favors for the night of a Tolviroth courtesan of the second class, and perhaps even one of the first class if she were not engaged with a ranking banker or corporate head; or a hauberk of heavy scale armor of the type favored by the cataphracts of the Highgrass Broad. To hear such a princely sum mentioned as the price for a piece of fruit made Fost’s head spin.

  As he stood open-mouthed, Luranni haggled Herech down to eighty klenor, a price for which Fost could have bribed the Bishop of Thrishnoor to denounce the Doctrine of Imminent Confabulation. Her hand darted into the pouch hung from her belt, emerging to rain a brief shower of gold onto the counter in front of Herech. Almost reverently, the youth picked up the fruit and presented it to her.

  She broke it in two, handing a piece to Fost. He stared at it, numbed at the prospect of putting three weeks’ wages into his mouth, chewing it, then swallowing it. Luranni bit into her half. The flesh within glowed translucent and pink, with yellow veins prominent.

  Fost took a bite. The meat dissolved on his tongue into a flavor of sweetness and smoke with a tart edge that kept it from being cloying. Before he knew it, he had devoured the entire piece. Young Herech hadn’t lied. The flavor was unique. Never had he known a fruit so luscious.

  “Thank you,” he said to Luranni.

  “It was worth the price?” she asked needlessly. She turned and started walking up the street. Fost followed her but not before he caught a comradely wink from Herech.

  It stopped him in midstride. He realized that Herech thought the highborn, successful, and lovely merchant had imported a strapping groundling barbarian to amuse herself. An initial upwelling of anger gave way to sheepish amusement. It wasn’t all that far from the truth, and it was a role Fost had played before.

  He winked back and set off at a long, loping pace.

  “Our prices are high,” Luranni confessed, waving at the stalls laden with colorful goods of every description. “But everything must be imported. Raised up from the surface by balloon. In fact, we’re going now to the cargo docks on the starboard side of the city.”

  “‘Starboard?’”

  “The city changes directions every time it arrives at a juncture of the Quincunx. To say something is on the north side and something on the west makes little sense when the bearings change every few weeks. Here we have port and starboard, and fore and aft, just as you do on a seafaring ship. In a way, that’s what we are, a ship that sails the sky.”

  They left the street of merchants, turned a corner and found themselves by one of the compact clear spaces dotted around the city. A fountain in the center arched water from the mouth of a monster with sideways-hinged jaws into a wide, shallow stone basin. Luranni touched Fost’s arm and nodded toward the odd fountain.

  “An aeroaquifer.”

  Fost swallowed hard, uneasy at the sight. It felt as if tiny insects crawled over his flesh, and the cut across his back seemed to pucker and bind. Water springing from thin air disconcerted him. The idea that even the adepts of the City of Sorcery failed to understand how the aeroaquifer worked frightened him even more.

  They walked on. Sky Citizens passed them in both directions, going about their business. Watching them, Fost noted that they almost scurried, as if they were afraid it was about to rain. In the sounds of bargaining at the bazaar he’d heard a slightly shrill note; he put the two observations together and realized that the residents of the city, as much as they tried to hide it, were very, very scared.

  From what Luranni had told him about the candidate for their next queen, Fost didn’t blame them.

  Luranni alone seemed unaffected by the fear. He reflected that she probably felt her position as daughter of High Councillor Uriath protected her from harm.
All of the underground youths he’d seen the day before looked well-born. They probably all harbored similar feelings. It certainly accounted for the lack of skill at clandestine activity. They didn’t—couldn’t—take it seriously. It was only a game they played, in which the stakes were no more than embarrassment and inconvenience should they lose.

  Fost hoped Luranni wouldn’t learn the truth the hard way. It would almost certainly be Prince Rann who would teach her.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “I don’t wish to be pessimistic,” High Councillor Uriath intoned, “but our chances of rescuing the Princess Moriana are slim. Very slim.” He shook his great white-fringed head with ponderous regret.

  Seeing Fost’s scowl, Luranni squeezed his hand. The courier grunted and glanced across the table. For the first time since he’d entered the wine warehouse, led blindfolded to this rendezvous by Luranni, Fost wasn’t the object of Erlund’s hate-filled glare. The straw-haired youth frowned at Uriath instead.

  Luranni confirmed what Fost had already surmised. Young Errand was of the city’s petty nobility, almost as far below Moriana in rank as was the slum-bred courier. That hadn’t kept him from falling in love with her.

  Fost welcomed this alliance in urging Moriana’s rescue. The meeting in the murky storeroom, surrounded by tar-sealed casks of wine, was composed half of men and women Fost’s age and half of men like Uriath, lords and merchants of advanced years. Despite the gap in ages, the mood was almost unanimous; the sour smell of wine and pessimism hung thick in the air.

  “You see, young man,” Uriath said, leaning toward Fost, “the princess has, beyond doubt, been under questioning by Prince Rann for hours. We can only assume that she’s told her captors anything they wish to know.”

  “That’s a lie!” Errand boiled to his feet, shaking with rage, his face as red as the High Councillor’s. “Moriana wouldn’t tell those scum a thing!”

  “Don’t be a groundling, Erlund,” a voice growled from the dimness that filled the storeroom despite the bright morning outside. “Rann could make the Vicar of Istu confess to worshipping Felarod. She’s sung like a raven in mating time by now, you can bet your last sipan.”

  Erlund dropped into his seat as though stunned by a mighty blow. Fost’s eyes widened. The name “Rann” must hold powerful magic if it could quench Erlund so easily.

  “Who is this Rann, anyway?” he demanded. “The mere mention of his name makes everyone goggle as if they’re about to birth a whale.”

  “You don’t know of Rann?” a girl asked, incredulous at such ignorance. Fost shook his head.

  “Rann is prince of the city, first cousin to Synalon and Moriana,” Luranni explained, pitching her voice low as if afraid that speaking the prince’s name might cause him to appear in a puff of brimstone. “His mother was Ekrimsin the Ill-Favored, as unlike her sister Derora as Synalon is unlike Moriana. He was always a wild and unmanageable child, but not uncommonly so. He showed an early aptitude for war.

  “Then he led an expedition against the tribesmen who plague the passes through the Thail Mountains. An accident crippled his war-bird; he landed alone and was captured. His men found him and rescued him. But not before the Thailint had burned away his manhood with a torch.”

  Fost shuddered. Rann might be a fiend straight from Hell, but Fost could pity anyone who’d undergone such an ordeal.

  “His spirit was warped,” Uriath said. “Denied more natural outlets for his passion, he vents his lust in torture, to which he brings all the intelligence and imagination of the Etuul line.” He puffed himself up slightly at the mention of the dynasty. Luranni had mentioned to Fost the night before that her line traced descent from an Etuul monarch.

  “So not only is it likely that Moriana has revealed everything she knows about your underground, but that…” He paused, testing the flavor of possible ways of phrasing it, and liking none. “…that, in her present condition, the princess might not conceive it a favor to be rescued. I fear that all she desires now is the palliative only death can bring.”

  The silence grew more dense than the wine-smell. Post’s mind spun. If Moriana dies, I’ll never find Erimenes, he thought. But worse was another thought, like a spear of ice in his gut: the woman with whom he’d lain beneath the stars might soon be reduced to a shapeless, broken thing that wept blood from eyeless sockets and mewled for death. Sweat cascaded down his forehead, stinging his eyes.

  The door swung open. The conspirators gasped as one. By the time the interloper had fully entered the storeroom, Fost stood with curved blade in hand, ready to take out his rage and frustration in hot blood.

  But it was another young conspirator, whom Fost recognized from the night before. “Soldiers,” he said. “A troop of them just coming down the street”

  Uriath paled. The conspirators all began to talk at once.

  “Hold on a moment,” Fost said. The panicky clamor mounted. He slammed the pommel of his sword against the table. “Hold, dammit! And keep the noise down, or we’re lost for sure.”

  The noise subsided. He turned to the frightened messenger. “Now tell me, are these bird riders or the Monitors everyone fears so?”

  “Common soldiers of the watch.”

  Fost nodded. “And would Synalon dispatch such dross to arrest the High Councillor?”

  He didn’t know if she would or not, but he knew that if the conspirators’ fears weren’t soothed, they’d bolt into the street like frightened cattle. If, by some chance, the soldiers hadn’t already guessed something was amiss, that would give them the idea soon enough.

  “You are right, boy,” Uriath said, straightening unconsciously. “You, Testin, go and watch them. If they approach the warehouse, give the alarm. But be certain.” The youth bobbed his head and disappeared.

  If Fost had ever lived longer minutes than the ones which followed, he’d long since forgotten them. Every eye in the dank chamber fixed on him. The wait sparked the certainty that he’d guessed wrong. In spite of Uriath’s vanity, the dark princess had sent low-caste troops to bring him to account. In a moment the doors would burst apart, the room would fill with men, and Fost Longstrider, outlander and courier, would shortly learn all he’d care to about Prince Rann’s personality quirks.

  The door burst open. It was only Testin, carrying a sheet of birdskin parchment in trembling hands.

  “They nailed this to the front of the storehouse across the way and went on,” he said. He passed the sheet to Uriath. The High Councillor squinted, held it at arm’s length, and scanned it rapidly.

  “This changes things,” he said. “‘Be it proclaimed: tomorrow at the fifth hour after dawn, the false traitor Moriana is, for the crimes of regicide, matricide, and treason, to be sacrificed to Holy Istu for the good of the city. With this seal confirmed, Synalon, Queen.’”

  “The Rite of Dark Assumption!” Luranni breathed.

  “Lies!” Erlund shouted. “She would not dare!”

  Everyone ignored him. Uriath’s eyes were as huge as his daughter’s. “We must act,” he said. “We must free the princess. The Rite must not take place. If Synalon gains the demon’s power, we are doomed.”

  “I thought it would be no favor to rescue Moriana,” Fost asked.

  Uriath shook his head. “I was wrong. Rann won’t have touched her. The Bride of Istu must be unsullied when she goes to the Vicar.”

  If that means she has to be a virgin, Moriana is going to disappoint the Vicar, whomever he might be. Fost almost reeled at the impact of returning hope.

  “You must help us,” said Uriath.

  “Not so fast,” Fost said. “I’ve no interest in your civil affairs. All I’m interested in is getting back my parcel.”

  . Uriath frowned. “You’ll get your parcel back. If you help us free Moriana, you can have any parcel in the city. You can have my whole trade stock if you so desire, wine, salamanders, everything.”

  “Salamanders?” Fost asked.

  The High Councillor gestured irritably. “Of
course. I own a concession to export small fire elementals under spells of obedience. They’re our main item of trade.” Uriath allowed himself a rueful smile. “The prevalence of the sprites is one reason Rann’s found it so easy to use them against us.”

  “All I want is the property I’m to deliver,” Fost stated with absolute honesty. “If you can guarantee me that, I’ll help you as best I can.”

  “Done.” A hint of suspicion lurked in Uriath’s blue eyes. Did he wonder at the courier’s determination to risk the wrath of Synalon and Rann merely to regain a parcel? Fost didn’t delude himself that the question would fail to occur to the Councillor. He only hoped that the pressures of the crisis kept Uriath’s mind from worrying the puzzle too hard.

  “One more thing,” Fost said as the meeting began to dissolve. Fost held up his short Sky City scimitar. “You need me to fight for you, and I’d rather work with the type of blade I’m accustomed to. Have you any broadswords in stock, or do you know where I can get one?”

  “Yes,” Uriath responded, his brow creasing as he thought. “I have one that may suffice. Luranni will see that it reaches you before tomorrow. Go now. My daughter will show you what you must know to plan the rescue. Well meet tonight to plan further.” He looked at Luranni for a moment “Take good care of him, Luranni.”

  “I will, Father,” she said innocently. Turning, the older man missed the look she gave the courier.

  The girl screamed as the whip bit her flesh.

  Moriana’s scream rose with hers, scarcely less agonized, though the princess was untouched. “Catan-nial” she cried. “Oh, Holy Ones, why is this happening?” The girl whimpered. Moriana didn’t know whether the pitiful noise was a response to her cry or just a mindless protest against pain. The brutal caress of the many-thonged whip had changed the lovely, active girl Moriana had played with as a child into a mass of shredded, bloody rags of flesh hung from the ceiling of the dungeon.