[Mageworlds 5] - The Long Hunt

by Debra Doyle

  An elderly woman stood there, dressed like a midclass Khesatan matron on a holiday. She held a blaster in both hands. To Jen's surprise, he knew her.

  "You're Tillijen—Gentlelady Blossom from the tea shop!"

  The woman nodded. "And Armsmaster to House Rosselin. Took you long enough to move out of my way so I could get a clear shot."

  Jens went over to where Kolpag lay on the shallow steps with his head lower than his heels. The blaster-man was dead, his forehead marked with an ugly hole surrounded by seared flesh. Jens reached down and pulled the weapon from the man's hand.

  "Looks like I'm going to make a career of stealing blasters off of dead bodies," he said. He straightened and spoke to Blossom. "Do you know where my cousin is?"

  "Somewhere inside, I presume," she said.

  "Is your partner here too?"

  "Bindweed's gone around to the front."

  "Well, I'm going in myself. Please tell her not to shoot me on the way out. I don't want to ruin a perfect day."

  Then Jens looked down. The luck amulet lay on the pavement, cracked and broken, shattered by its fall.

  "Good thing the Adepts say that luck isn't real," he said. "Otherwise, I'd have to start worrying."

  With that he walked forward, past Blossom and into the house of Caridal Fere.

  Mael had lost his staff when he fell. He pulled himself to his feet, grabbing the woven cable of silver cord and using it to pull himself away from the blows of the ekkannikh.

  Ahead of him Mael could see the strands flying out from the end of the cable, like a rope unlaying. At the cable's end stood another figure like the one who still pursued him. Its staff was also a glowing white—and by that glow, Mael saw that its face was a younger twin to that of the creature who followed him.

  Mael felt himself begin to despair. He was trapped between the two phantoms, the cords of life all around him tangled, their right order gone, with the tarnish spreading in all directions and shooting off into the night.

  The wind sang among the wires.

  Mael stopped, and leaned his forehead against the cable. This was the end-point of his vision. No time now to arrange the cords into the pleasing pattern that he knew was required. No place to run.

  He lifted his head to look at his approaching foes with pain-dimmed eyes, then turned to the mass of jumbled cords. With bare hands he grabbed them, seeking the rot at the center to pull it forth and expose it.

  "I will be found doing my duty," he repeated to himself. "I will be found doing my duty."

  The light approached him from either side. In the combined glow of the staves, he could see the eiran cords, his hands small and weak beside the great cable. To what arrogance did he owe his belief that he could change this and make it right? All was lost.

  Then the phantom that had awaited him spoke—not to him, but to its elder double.

  "We met once before, on Sapne. You did not face me then—but now you must."

  "Have it as you will," said ekkannikh, and struck the first blow, not at Mael but at the newcomer.

  Mael watched them for a while as they fought. The glowing staves wove and plunged, while the crack of wood on wood was like a drumroll, rhythmic and steady.

  Then Mael turned away and began struggling once again to find the place where the great cable unlaid, sending its tarnished strands out into the universe, flying up beyond sight into the dark sky. A gap in the cords appeared, and he could see almost to the cable's inner core.

  He pushed on farther, though he was torn and scratched by the contact. Daring to grasp the essence of life and luck, that was what wounded men… There was the inmost, the final strand. Mael could hardly see it. It was lost in its own darkness, as if it sucked in the light.

  He reached out and grasped the deepest strand. It felt hot to his touch, hot and burning. The pain spread up his arm to his shoulder. He would not let go. He pulled harder. Two of the inner cords shifted slightly. Behind him, as he worked, he still heard the noises of combat—the clash of staves and the thud of wood against flesh.

  "I must break you," said one voice; and—"You shall not," said the other.

  Mael pulled again. Some of the inner, flexible, rotten cord broke free and slithered toward him. He fell backward, but kept his grip on the burning silver wire. The cord followed him. He seized it with both hands and pulled again. The pain was excruciating, but more of the cords came free. Perhaps it was a trick of the unsteady light from the moving staves behind him, but the eiran seemed to be less tarnished than before.

  Faster and faster the cords unwound. The rotted cord piled up at Mael's feet, and still he pulled. His wounded back throbbed with every effort, but he didn't dare let go.

  "They're both insane," said Rhal Kasander, drifting toward where Faral and Miza stood. Miza moved closer to Faral, and without needing to think about it, Faral put an arm around her. "You're off-worlders," Kasander added, "but at least I know what you are."

  Chaka growled under her breath.

  *I wouldn't,* Faral said. To Kasander he said, "My friend tells me that she took the weapon she's holding from the cold dead fingers of the person you sent to kill her. She wants to know if you prefer the blaster shoved down your throat or up your ass."

  "This creature is your friend?"

  "Friend, agemate, neighbor, all that. We grew up together. Never expected her to show up here, though."

  "Please be so good as to inform your agemate that any attempt to kill her was not by my command."

  Chaka replied, and again Faral translated, "You're still a mannerless thin-skin who spies on his guests."

  "All that, I do confess," Kasander said. "Now can we please take this opportunity to decamp?"

  "No," said Faral. "If it wasn't you mat screwed up bribing the crowd—"

  Kasander shook his head. "No, no… I was as shocked as you."

  "—then either Fere or Hafelsan set up Jens to get thrown off the Golden Tower. Now I want to watch the two of them try to kill each other."

  In the center of the room, the combat had already begun. Even to Faral's eyes, it was clear from the very beginning that the Master of Nalensey was overmatched. Fere's every move was anticipated and blocked, while Hafelsan—moving lightly in spite of his greater bulk—toyed with him, touching him here and there, light taps, as if to say, "I could kill you at any time, but I choose not to."

  Caridal Fere was getting pushed back, away from the window, toward the center of the room. His arms brought his staff up more and more slowly with every block and strike. A predatory smile came to the face of his opponent.

  Then Hafelsan paused and looked aside—at what, no one could tell. In that instant, Caridal Fere seized the opportunity and struck, spearing his staff into the other's midsection. But Hafelsan did not collapse. Instead, he split in two. For a moment Faral saw a dreadful vision of a skeletal figure covered in a black cloak and scraps of rotten flesh, standing between two layers of skin covered with morning-robes.

  Then the revenant vanished, taking his staff with him. On the floor, in a puddle of disgusting fluid, lay only an empty skin.

  The cords were unlaying faster and faster from the woven cable. And faster and faster, Mael pulled in the flawed cord that he held in his hands.

  And still, behind him, the Adepts fought, in a blaze of light and a clash of staves. When Mael looked in the direction of the combat, he saw that one of the two phantoms now had a clear advantage—he was driving the other one back, attacking while his counterpart was forced to defend.

  In the distance beyond the combatants, Mael saw another figure approaching.

  Who now? he thought. What chance is this?

  Then he saw: it was Mistress Santreny, and she had her staff. Another of the walking dead? He feared it. These Adepts were a cursed race.

  But while he had gazed even that briefly into the distance, the fight closer to hand had ended. The Adept who had waited for Mael's approach was the victor, and the ekkamikh was beaten to the ground. It knelt t
here, head hanging, its breath coming in ragged gasps.

  "Yield," the Adept said. "We are one; we must be together."

  "I yield," said the ekkamikh, and lifted its empty hand.

  They made contact, flesh to unliving flesh—and the one began to melt into the other.

  Still Klea approached, not seeing the drama before her. The light of the staves flickered out, and the sole illumination came from the lights of the distant city, reflecting from bent grass and hewn stone.

  The silver cords were untangling themselves now, pulling away from one another, springing up into the sky or sinking into the earth.

  The two phantoms, victor and vanquished, merged fully and became one, looking the same as before—a slight, dark-haired man in black, leaning on an Adept's staff. He raised his face to the sky, and to Mael's eyes his substance seemed to waver and fade.

  Then Klea walked unseeing through him, and the vapor that had been his being ascended.

  Mael felt very tired. The black cord that had piled around his legs nearly calf-deep was gone, dissolved into mist. He fell to the ground as the last of the eiran faded from his sight.

  Klea came up to him and helped him to rise up from the dirt.

  "Mistress Santreny," he said. "I feared that you were dead."

  "No," she said. "Hurt, but no more. Come—let me take us home."

  "The revenant has gone," said Caridal Fere, "and I remain. I rule those who rule the world of Khesat."

  "I don't think so," said a voice that Faral knew—and his cousin Jens stepped over the threshold with a blaster in his hand.

  "Another ghost," Miza said. Her voice trembled. "Jens, I didn't want this to happen."

  "It hasn't happened," Jens said. He turned to the Master of Nalensey. "There's only one ghost here, and that's you."

  He raised his blaster and shot Caridal Fere, there in his study with the windows overlooking the Plaza of Hope.

  "If you're real, let me touch you," Faral said to Jens.

  "Oh, I'm real," Jens said He reached out his hand, the one that didn't hold the blaster, and Faral gripped it hard Miza was hugging Jens and Faral both, and laughing and sobbing at the same time.

  Rhal Kasander came forward, delicately sidestepping the body of Caridal Fere. "Highest," he said to Jens, "command me!"

  "I'm not the Highest," Jens said. "They didn't shout 'huzzah!,' remember?"

  "Shouting 'huzzah!' is a minor thing," Kasander said. "The requirement is only that you be presented. You are already Highest at that moment, and—unless you choose to retire—you reign as long as you live thereafter."

  "Oh, I may choose to retire," Jens said, "but not just yet. If I am the Highest, I have things I need to attend to."

  Kasander paled slightly "What do you mean?"

  "I came in response to a message," said Jens, "saying that my parents were in danger here. Everything—the Presentation, the Tower, all of it—comes from that. And I will find out what happened to them if it takes the land, the sea, and the sky to do it."

  "You don't need to go that far." If Kasander had gone pale before, he was pink with embarrassment now. "I sent the message to secure your presence here, as a Worthy, for the changing of the rule—it cost me a pretty sum to get the codes, I'll have you know I wouldn't have dared to do it at all if your mother and father had actually been within a sector of Khesat."

  "Do you mean," said Jens, "that I went through all of this for nothing?"

  "Not exactly," said Kasander "You are the Highest now, after all—that should count for quite a bit."

  Jens stared at him for a moment longer, then laughed and shook his head "I suppose it does," he said "If I'm the Highest, then where do we go next?"

  "To my town house," Rhal said. "I've got dozens of invitations to your Acclamatory ball all written out I promise you, the celebrations will go on for days."

  Epilogue

  Maraghai

  « ^

  The Highest of Khesat had come to Maraghai. His security guards, his personal staff, and even the elderly nobleman of exceedingly Worthy Lineage who claimed the courtesy title of Hereditary Slipper-Bearer, discovered—too late for effective protest—that the Selvauran rulers of the planet would allow none of them closer to the surface than the nearspace docking station.

  They protested, vigorously, but the Highest merely looked amused. He divested himself of his jewel-encrusted travel coat, purchased with his own hands a cheap quilted jacket from a station-based clothes vendor, and borrowed a knife from one of the security guards "in case of rufstaffas on the way." Then he presented his passport—not the Khesatan one, which was written in purple ink on tablets of gold and ivory, but a common plastic affair with lettering in the local scnpt—to the Selvauran immigration clerk.

  With much chortling and hooting, the clerk accepted the passport and fed it through the reader. The Highest accepted the stamped and returned passport with a laughing comment in one of the local dialects. Tucking it into his pocket, he bowed a smiling farewell to his entourage.

  "Entertain yourselves until I get back," he told them, and disappeared through the blastproof door to the shuttle bay.

  In the South Continent High Ridges the season was midwinter, the time of the Year's Turn. The quilted jacket that Jens had bought on the docking station was of local make and designed for the weather. What it lacked in elegance it made up for in padding and interlining that kept him warm in spite of the falling snow.

  He had chosen to walk from the last stop on the hoverbus line, rather than renting an aircar in Ernalghan, in order to spend as much of his stolen time as possible among familiar landscapes. When at last he reached the final uphill trail, the sky had long since grown dark. A cover of thick snow lay over everything, bending down the lower branches of the great trees and muffling all sound except the sighing wind. No rufstaffas or other predators stalked the home woods tonight, and the borrowed knife he wore at his belt remained unused.

  Drifted snow obscured the path, and the snow on the trees hid many of the marks and blazes that pointed out the trail. But his feet still remembered the way; and ahead, at last, he saw the lighted windows of the house in the woods, all bright yellow and welcoming.

  He walked up to the house and mounted the steps. He hadn't yet reached the door when a giant burst outward onto the veranda, swept him into his arms, and whirled him into the air.

  "Jens! It's good to see you," said Ari Rosselin-Metadi, his voice a deep rumble. "We were afraid you wouldn't be able to come."

  "Let me breathe a minute," Jens said, laughing, as he regained his feet. "I told Aunt Llann that I'd be here if I could arrange it. As it happens, the Highest of Khesat can arrange quite a bit if he feels like it—and I did."

  "Come inside, then, and be welcome," said Ari, kicking open the door and pulling him into the immense, high-raftered reception room. "We're in the small room, in back… Llannat! Faral! Jens is home!"

  They hurried through the great room, which was as tall and echoing as Jens remembered it, and large enough to entertain most of Ari's Selvauran relatives at once. From there they went into the informal family hall behind it.

  The family hall was a cozier place altogether, a big room with one wall made of glass and another wall mostly fireplace. Chairs and benches and piles of cushions were scattered here and there across the floor. A warm light came from candles and from low-power amber glows, and from the orange-yellow flames on the hearth. Jens's nostrils prickled with the familiar Year's Turn smells of mulled wine and hot berry-cider and aromatic wood.

  As soon as he entered, he was clasped in more embraces, first from his Aunt Llann and then from Beka Rosselin-Metadi, and from her husband.

  "Mamma!" Jens said, still somewhat breathless, as he returned the hugs. "It's high time you and Dadda decided to reappear… where were you, anyway, while I was racketing all over the galaxy thinking you were locked up in a cell somewhere?"

  His parents looked at each other. "Hiding," his mother said. "People started
to sidle up to your father at parties and say things like, 'trifling questions of eligibility can be… dealt with'; so we decided that it was time to go check out some urgent security breaches in the Accardi Sector."

  "And left me holding the bag," said Jens, taking a seat on one of the piles of cushions near the fire. "I like that, I do."

  "You can always quit the job," said his mother. "I did. And threw the Iron Crown of Entibor out of the airlock into deep space afterward."

  "An inspiration to all of us," murmured Jens, "but I think I'm getting accustomed to the work."

  The conversation turned to other things as the evening wore on—in between wine and cider, and roasted fruit, and other traditional Year's Turn delicacies. The family gathering this year was made even larger by the added presence of Owen Rosselin-Metadi, who in the past had only sent Aunt Llann the traditional greetings and his apologies, and of Owen's trusted right hand, Mistress Klea Santreny. Another unexpected guest was Mael Taleion. The Second of the Prime Circle had recovered by now from his struggle to put right the life and luck of Khesat—and his newfound closeness to Klea Santreny appeared to be puzzling the Master of the Adepts' Guild considerably.

  An interesting set of relationships, thought Jens. Even money which one wins, I think. But it should be amusing to watch.

  All the Hyfid-Metadi siblings were there—Kei and Dortan and 'Rada-the-brat, and Faral home from studying with Gentlesir Huool on Ophel. He had Mizady Lyftingil with him; the pair of them were sitting close together on one of the high-backed benches.

  "How's life treating all of you in Sombrelír, coz?" Jens asked.

  "Well enough," Faral said. "Chaka's apprenticed on board the Dusty—she liked the taste of free-spacing she got there, and I think she plans to own a ship of her own some day. And Huool gets enough work out of me, one way and another, to keep me from getting bored. I'm not as famous as the Highest of Khesat yet, but give me and Miza time."