by Tia Reed
“Gor’sh gi-erl.”
On steady feet, Ishoa stepped between Gor and Erok. “Not that girl.”
The ogre hefted his club. Ishoa raised her staff. The clouds dropped from the sky, enveloping them in mist. Gor swung. Club banged onto staff. A crack carried across the field as Gor’s club broke in two. The top end tumbled to the ground. The man-ogre stood motionless until a spear pierced his thigh. His roar dispersed the mist. He jabbed the jagged end of his club into Ishoa’s chest. She toppled, knocking her head on the speaking rock. Sian gasped. Men swarmed on Gor, toppling him to the ground. The hunters lay in a pile, keeping the roaring ogre down.
“Gi-ive Gor Gi-erl. Gor’sh gi-erl.”
Her knees were shaking and her breath shallow but Sian ran to Ishoa. Erok and Draykan helped the soothsayer to her feet as others brought vine and bound Gor hand and foot. Sian picked up Ishoa’s staff. Two of the pods had fallen off, the feathers had matted and a crack ran the length of the shaft.
“Carry it to her cave,” Draykan said.
“Give it to me,” Ishoa said.
Deferent, Draykan and Erok gave her room. Sian took Ishoa’s hand and placed it on the staff. Ishoa gripped it in both hands, resting her full weight upon the flawed wood.
“Erok and I can make you another,” Sian said.
Cries of alarm burst out. Sian whirled to see Gor had broken free of his bonds.
Bent over the staff, Ishoa reached out, her hand moved this way and that until she found Sian’s face. “Be strong,” she said. Her hand left too soon. She pointed at the ogre’s chest. “Come, Gor.” She sounded feeble as the last leaf in the autumn wind. “May this rest on the head of the foul being who granted you claim to a human woman.” She staggered through the dry grass, the hair on her forehead sticky with blood, feathers falling from her bound hair. Athletic Brax rushed to help her, and Farina clucked behind, but Ishoa held them off with a shake of her head.
“The ogre will go free,” Orin said. He tapped his staff upon the ground. “Let him free,” he said above the protests of the crowd.
It was a soothsayer who asked. The grumbling men did as he bid. Gor threw his fisted hands high and beat his chest. Sian snuck closer to Erok. He raised his spear and assumed a sure-footed stance.
“Come, Gor,” Ishoa said. She had sagged so low she would fall to her knees before she got to the village. The ogre loped after her. The branches of all the trees swept away from the natural creature as a wind rose to a howl. Sian took two steps in the same direction. She was a coward, and needed a deep breath to find the courage to go on.
Joser blocked her way.
“She might need me,” Sian said, aware how arrogant that sounded. She was an afflicted child; Ishoa was a soothsayer.
The greying Te’Akerin soothsayer with the kind face and spikey hair laid a hand on her shoulder. “Not for this, girl.” She looked into his milky eyes. They dragged her into their depths, to the wisdom of the spirits. “You must be strong. Your time is come.”
The words sent a chill down her spine.
Chapter 22
TIMAK TIPTOED FROM his room in the morning to find Lady Jordayne, Lord Matisse and the mages lunching on a venison pie the cook who trekked from the city each day had prepared. Santesh beckoned him over and cut him a huge portion, but they continued their talk and laughter oblivious to his silence. That was good. Timak had worked very hard to become invisible. He liked being invisible just fine. He had wanted to run away when the lighted crystals had turned all the flustering grown-up attention on him last night.
“I wish to talk to you, lad,” fair-haired Lord Matisse said.
Timak froze, a spoonful of pie halfway to his mouth. Outside, a circling gull cried. It sounded like his heart.
“What can you tell us of Ahkdul deq Hudassan?”
The spoon went down of its own accord. His eyes fixed somewhere on the table and he tried very hard not to hear. How large is the palace? What habits does Ahkdul have when he dresses? When he eats? What armed forces gather in the capital? Have you ever seen them train? The questions punched him into brutal memories. It was best to keep silent, keep his mind blank. He might keep invisible then. They might not even see him quiver.
“I think that’s enough,” Master Magus Drucilamere said. He interlocked his hands on his stomach. “The lad was kidnapped just prior to Ahkdul’s visit to Terlaan. I doubt he has any intelligence that can help if it comes to war.”
Timak swallowed. “He takes porrin,” he offered in a small voice, still fixated on the unremarkable spot on the table, because a tiny part of him way deep inside wanted to help.
The grown-ups were silent. Then the master magus said, “That is an exceedingly useful piece of information, Timak,” with a mellowness that suggested it was not useful at all.
Lady Jordayne rose and stretched. “Since we have all got what we came for, I regret it is time to leave.”
Lord Matisse and the mages got up.
Master Magus Drucilamere shovelled Timak’s forgotten spoonful of pie into his mouth. “Mmm,” he said, like it was his favourite dish in the world. “Would you like to visit the palace, Timak? Perhaps there are people you wish to see or items for you to collect?”
The gull dived for a fish that was invisible from up here. Timak shook his head. The palace was a stressful place full of teasing bullies, but he did have somewhere he wanted to go. “Can I visit the temple?” he whispered.
Master Magus Drucilamere nodded. “Indeed you can. It is fitting you visit Vae’oeldin’s altar before you begin your apprenticeship.”
“He may accompany me,” Lady Jordayne said. “I am heading that way.”
The master magus drew a deep breath and placed a fist over moustache and mouth. His eyes held a message that Timak couldn’t understand.
“After your last performance, you will not be welcome,” Lady Jordayne said, with no such trouble. “We will talk again at the palace.” She held out her hand, but to him and not the Master Magus. “Come along, Timak, there’s a good boy. A dose of sunshine will do you the world of good.”
So he left with the lord, and the lady, and a backwards glance, wondering if he had made a mistake to go from the one place where everyone had made an effort to be nice to him with the people who had taken Princess Kordahla’s crystals and then thrown her to the monster. As they walked the rocky path out of the sheltered cove, Lord Matisse persisted with questions he could not answer until the lady demanded her brother leave him be.
Four guards were waiting for them at the junction of path and road. They had brought horses. One, Dario, hoisted Timak onto a bay mare and mounted behind. He liked Dario. The soldier had been nice to Princess Kordahla when they travelled across the plains to Kaijoor.
They parted from Lord Matisse at the city walls. A little later Lady Jordayne left Timak gaping at the glittering Temple of the Vae with its massive golden dome and curved walls. The temple he needed to explore.
✽ ✽ ✽
Amid the dusty clutter that defined Weng Wu’s Eastern Emporium, Jordayne toyed with soapstone horses, long curved teeth etched with eastern symbols and moths encased in amber. Sergeant Rokan stood tense and unhappy as he watched her from in front of the entrance door. Her guards, it seemed, had not forgotten the malevolent light she had released from this house.
A youth a few years into manhood, with the slanted eyes and black hair of the east, appeared through the inner door, no doubt alerted to her presence by the bell hanging over the front door. “A fruitful day to you. Are you interested in a purchase? Perhaps a dragon carved of the finest jade?” he asked in perfect Laanan. Since nothing had disturbed the fine layer of dust sprinkled over the shelves, he couldn’t have sold a single one since her fateful last visit. But then, they both knew the cheap knickknacks were a front for the real business conducted inside these walls.
Jordayne waved an arm, a pretext for dismissal while she stirred air thick with incense. Her gold bracelets made a most satisfying tinkle.
Of course, it was nowhere near as pleasing as Drucilamere had been last night. “Don’t insult my intelligence, young man. Please tell Weng Wu I am here.”
“Master Wu is not present. Perhaps I can help you?”
“And you are?”
“My name is Ming, Lady.” Though he folded his arms, his face remained pleasant.
Wearing a bright blue vest of silk, tied with a wide kamarband over a black shirt and shalvar of expensive twill, this boy was no apprentice. His jaw was square where Weng Wu’s was slender, but both men possessed an extra fold on skin at the side of their perceptive eyes. “Ming Wu?” she asked, noting the overgrown fingernail on his little finger, a concession to eastern fashion.
He laughed. “Weng Ming. You are clever, Lady.”
She slid a jade dragon along the counter. “I am demanding, Ming. Where is your grandfather?”
“Great-grandfather, Lady. He is not here.”
“I believe we have already ascertained that.” She strode forward and flung open the interior door. The inner room was crowded with crates.
“Lady, you cannot enter without express invitation.”
“Your reticence invites me.”
The crates had a safer arrangement than she recalled. Fragile vases were lined against the walls. Another terracotta warrior stood in the far corner where a fatal mishap was improbable, unless, of course, it was planned. “Sergeant Rokan,” she called. “I do believe the business has not paid taxes on these items.”
“No, my lady,” he said, flashing his crazed smile. “Shall I order them confiscated?”
Ming looked stricken. “You cannot. Great-grandfather has not recovered from the losses you inflicted last time.”
So, the young man was aware of her history with Wu. She could not help a sardonic smile. “I do believe your great-grandfather capitulated in the end.”
Ming sighed. “There was an incident at the waterfront last night. Great-grandfather felt his presence was necessary. He has not yet returned.”
Good Vae, her hope the eastern magician had captured the soulous was in vain. “Cheer up, dear boy. I’m sure he will approve,” she said with false cheer. “Especially since I’ve need of a wedding gift for the shah. Something tasteful but shockingly dear. Please organise a few items for my consideration. I need to speak to your Grandfather, but I shall return to make a choice.”
During the middle of the day the oak-shaded gardens by the waterfront teemed with splashing youngsters, strolling elders and courting couples granted a leisurely lunch. To cater to pangs of hunger and thirst, bustling hawkers walked among them, selling cups of cardamom tea, roasted hazelnuts, and rice cakes flavoured with minced meat or soft, ripe cheese, or sweetened with berries, cinnamon and honey. Today was no exception, which, Jordayne supposed, was good indication the soulous was not wreaking havoc, but poor warning of where the abominable creature might lurk. According to the guards who had been waiting with the horses, Satrap Mamid’s baby-faced boys had not reported from their night’s surveillance. That boded ill for the inexperienced youths.
They rode in the direction the soulous last took, away from the recreational areas and into the dingy warehouse district which reeked of fish and refuse. She would have to remember to organise a more regular rubbish collection, perhaps employ recovering addicts now word of the tougher stance on drugs was out. Among the narrow lanes bordered by sandstone buildings of various heights, merchants welcomed customers into their offices while their hires packed crates onto wagons. If two or three men on each block hadn’t stared with vacant eyes or wandered unaware across their path, the district would have been a picture of industry.
“Summon that man,” she ordered Rokan, noting a barking city guard prodding an addict down a muddy, narrow alley choked with debris.
“You!” the sergeant called, while her second guard, Dario deq Pitran, walked his horse closer. “Lady Jordayne wishes a word.”
The hefty man’s boots squelched his haste to the corner. The scowl didn’t leave his face as he bowed. “I apologise, my lady. I was not aware you had a visit scheduled.”
Jordayne made no attempt to engage her feminine charms. “Where are you herding that man?”
“The addicts offend the sensibilities of decent folk. This quarter is unpopulated –”
“But not untenanted. The men who work here have a right to a safe environment, though I dare say you are moving these unfortunates to the one place they can feed their habit. Take them to the hospice.”
“All of them, my lady? There are too –”
“Every last one, soldier. And don’t take no for an answer from the physics.”
She walked her horse on, forcing the guard to splash into whatever refuse had drained into the alley before he bowed. This problem was becoming a nightmare. At a time when they needed every able body.
“My lady,” an eager voice called. Jordayne blinked herself out her reverie. One of the cinnamon-haired Slope boys sprung off a low roof, onto an awning, and down to the street. The startled horses snorted. “We’ve captured the culprit and the dead man is holed up, well he’s walking against the wall so he can’t go anywhere, but Hardin caught the necromancer in the act and –”
“Slow down, son,” Rokan said.
The lad paused mid-sentence, cleared his throat and straightened, a boy playing at being a soldier. “The dead man is ahead, sir,” he said, saluting.
“My lady,” Rokan corrected. “Lead on, Sordan. We’ll figure out the rest when we get there.”
They turned through lanes, passed under a roofed passage, and after a sharp left entered a paved courtyard just wide enough to permit two wagons to pass. Jordayne’s hand flew to her mouth. Dismembered bodies lay strewn over the cobbles, the pools of blood beneath them smeared in all directions. Red footprints trod in haphazard fashion all over the yard, and blood splattered over the high walls. The space was cold, not from lack of sun but from the taint of an unnatural death. An unarmed man broke from the cover of a doorway and raced away. Rokan’s eyes followed him. Both he and Dario forbore to give chase.
“What is this?” she asked turning her nose from the stench of blood and spilled guts. “Who is responsible for this?”
Sordan gagged. “The dead man. He cut down everyone in his path.” Tottering to a corner, he bent over and retched. Judging by the lack of vomit, he had long ago emptied his stomach.
“Could they not run? Were they foolish enough to engage a monstrosity that cut their fellows down?”
“They were intoxicated, my lady,” Sordan said, still bent over, and supporting himself with one hand on the wall. His stomach protested yet again.
“Do you mean to tell me the city guard intended to herd the addicts this way?” The panicked look in Sordan’s eyes was answer enough. “Dario, find that guard or his sergeant and make it crystal clear if one more addict dies there will be a court-martial.”
Aribelle, untrained for battle, shied as Jordayne urged her on. Gentle coaxing guided dainty hooves around the slaughter. When she reached the adjoining alley, she allowed herself a brief respite, a closing of her eyes, a deep breath.
“My lady,” Rokan queried.
“I fear this is my fault, Rokan.” He was wise enough not to pursue that confession.
“Through here,” Sordan said, slipping into a dead-end alley littered with broken crates. She could see his knees shake from the saddle. At least the lad had the sense to press himself against the wall. The dead man was indeed walking into the stone, as though he lacked the wit to understand a barrier stopped him. The sword he carried was all the protection he required against guards foolhardy enough to contemplate tackling him. Its tip scraped the stone as the mindless corpse kept walking on the spot.
“How is this?” Rokan asked. “The fiend can slaughter a thinking man yet cannot comprehend a wall blocks his path.”
She glanced at him askance but held her nonplussed tongue.
Rokan shook his head. “What nonsense did you spout about a
culprit, Sordan?”
Sordan warbled like a finch and his older, taller, but otherwise similar brother, Hardin, emerged from behind a stack of broken crates. He bowed and launched into an incoherent babble until Rokan interrupted. Flashing a nervous grin, he began again.
“We found a necromancer following that thing, and muttering these evil sounding words when everyone else was running away.”
“Who?” Rokan demanded, with narrowed eyes.
Hardin ducked through an unhinged door and pushed his bound and gagged prisoner out. The ancient man with bowed legs tripped over the step but managed to right himself with a challenging glare.
Jordayne arched a critical eyebrow. “I presume you have a good reason for detaining a gentleman with whom I have a pressing engagement this afternoon?”
Poor Hardin gaped and fell against the door while Sordan looked about to burst into tears. “Are you sure there’s a man inside these boys?” she asked Rokan.
He chuckled, which alarmed the lackwits further.
“Report to Lord Matisse, and tell him Lady Jordayne says he has a week to turn you into men before she sends you packing.”
The lackwits stared.
Rokan leaned forward. “Get out of here, before I decide to whip some life into you.”
They fled as Rokan dismounted. He untied the gag that pressed the old man’s long white hair to his head and unbound the prisoner’s hands. Weng Wu rubbed his raw wrists. The corpse continued to walk against the wall.
“There no dead men if they allow me do magic,” Weng Wu said.
“There would not be dead men if people had a modicum of compassion,” she replied. “Can you stop it?”
“Not here.”
“Where did it get that sword?” Rokan asked.
“It steal from guard it kill.”
“How do we stop it?”