by Janet Morris
"Done."
"Good."
They shook hands in the fashion of the armies, a three-turn grip.
"And I can count on your support, Riddler? If so, the coup's assured."
Then Tempus's hoarse laughter echoed: "It's not that easy, the way the gods are now. You'll have my advice, but not my direct participation beyond enlisting an assassin for your cause."
Theron fingered his lips. "We'll do the best we can with that. I'm a servant of fate in this matter; if I were younger and wiser, I'd not let the priests use me either. But I'm old, my joints creak, I get angry at the way the empire's being driven full-tilt to ruin."
"So you'll give me free rein in the matter of Abakithis?"
"Of course. And I wish you well with it. And you, in your turn, won't blame me for doing what I have to do to save the empire?"
Tempus rose up and Theron walked him to the door.
"Not if you're the same man I remember. Life to you, old friend, and everlasting glory."
"And to you, Riddler," said the one-time mercenary who would be king.
* 9 *
Roxane, in her Grippa-form, lay tossing sleepless in her bed. Something was very wrong, she could feel it. Somewhere far away, the talisman of her protection was in the wrong hands.
She couldn't sleep; she couldn't leave this form. She wasn't strong enough. She had no globe to spin and few undeads; she couldn't keep snakes here, in Partha's holy, god-sworn home.
The god-taint everywhere was all she could contend with; she was busy keeping her disguise intact.
She longed to subdue the souls around her, take them as her instruments, bring evil back to its rightful place, but she needed time… time to grow strong again, time to make her plans.
Soon enough, she'd be able to hold her own.
Right now, all she could do was wonder, and weigh the consequences of leaving this just-claimed body, though an ancient part of her longed to change to eagle form, take wing, fly on down to Ranke where somewhere Niko, her beloved erstwhile minion, hovered close to death.
If she were there, perhaps she could claim his dying soul, lure him into service… even offer him an everlasting simulacrum of life.
But it was too risky; it was too soon. And there were others close around him, powerful forces she couldn't fight right now.
So she had to wait.
And if she had to wait, then Niko must not die.
So she told herself, rationalizing the stirrings of compassion and a purer love than Death's Queen ought to feel.
And in her bed, though it was risky to do good when evil owns your soul, she sat up straight and spoke some ancient words, sending what strength she could to Nikodemos, in the way of her kind, telling herself it was for evil that she'd save him.
She was only saving him for herself.
* 10 *
Niko was dreaming about wasps. They were buzzing around his head in his rest-place, bringing him caterpillars and fresh flowers to eat. The Hornet King had a white head, and when it hovered near his face it looked a lot like Randal.
But Niko was happy in the springtime of his rest-place, and if Randal wanted to be there as a hornet, he was welcome.
Here nothing hurt and everything was beautiful and new. His life, he remembered vaguely, was full of strife but he'd deal with it some other time.
Now he was content to recall all the good things, remember lessons learned on the islands of Bandara, walk the tiny islet of Ennina with his mentors, claiming his maat and trying not to be too proud that he had done so.
Those times were the best he'd ever had, on Bandara, away from war. He knew that maat would shield him, when he left again and walked in the world outside, from the desperate loss and loneliness of a war-orphan's youth. And he was willing to be an instrument of the discipline he'd mastered, embody the principles of truth and equilibrium in a dishonest and unsettled world. Maat was only peaceful where peace was: where disorder reigned, it struggled to bring things into balance.
That was fine with Niko; balance and a quiet heart were all he craved. He wanted to be the best that he could make himself, strive ever upward, seek perfection without ever demanding to attain it.
He wanted only to be free to try.
And in his rest-place, maat's finest gift, he was all of these—content to be discontent, peacefully struggling to attain impossible perfection, exulting in life by withdrawing from it.
Then his first left-side leader came walking across his star-shaped meadow, a man whom he respected with all his heart, a Syrese fighter a decade older who'd taught him much of what he knew of war, a man who'd died in Sanctuary and left Niko on his own.
"Time to go back, Stealth," said the suntanned ghost, scratching in his short gray hair as he'd always done when announcing a new mission.
"Now?" Niko hesitated. He was so comfortable, so happy here. But then, that was the way it always was. He couldn't disappoint his partner; he'd sworn an oath and never faltered. He'd do as he was bid, this one more time.
And when he thought that thought, and got to his feet in his rest-place with one regretful look around at the sweet green meadow of his mind's creation, it dissolved around him, dropping him into dark and pain, a struggle to survive his maat had let him forget a while, to rest and gain his strength.
When he opened his eyes next, he saw Randal's swimming face, and other faces: Tempus, he was almost certain, and the Riddler's sister, standing by-
And though he couldn't seem to remember how to speak, the faces floating in his vision obviously were pleased enough to see him.
At his bedside, some sort of celebration began.
Book Four:
FESTIVAL OF MAN
Three days before the Festival officially began, Tempus sent Randal out to the Festival village, which once had been pasture for the cattle of the gods, to greet Bashir's contingent and the mixed cadre of Stepsons and 3rd Commando rangers Crit led when they arrived.
The Riddler's timing was exquisite—Randal had promised the dream lord he'd drive that hell-forged chariot across the newly sanctified grounds and speak certain words at compass points to create a portal through which Aŝkelon might enter into the Festival village when and where he willed.
But Randal had been too busy nursing Niko. He'd told himself he didn't care if he had his allergies forever—he'd lived with them this long. It was Niko's health which mattered to the Hazard, mattered more than self-interest or promises made to dream lords.
Niko was healing slowly, his wounds so grave that no spell could just erase them—even Cime warned that Niko might never be the man he'd been before.
So Randal had put off this matter of a promise made to the entelechy of dreams indefinitely—truth be known, Randal blamed the dream lord for not taking better care of Niko.
Though Stealth was now the Riddler's partner, it was to Nikodemos Randal had sworn an oath and given his heart. Seeing Niko toss and turn in search of a comfortable way to lie abed, greased like a ceremonial pig and his clear eyes shrouded with pain whenever he was awake, Randal had second thoughts about his chosen way of life. If a First Hazard couldn't conjure health for a beloved friend, perhaps there was no such thing as white magic, no power which could circumvent the cruel and angry gods.
But when Tempus sent him out to the Festival grounds, adamant like fate, he'd come. Once here, he'd driven the Aŝkelonian team in the requisite arabesques, said the words and chanted where he should, then come up above the village on a hill from which the capital, fifteen miles behind, and the general's route due north could both be seen.
He half expected to see Aŝkelon materialize, striding down the road, but it was Bashir's contingent who raised the dust in sunrise, with Grit's mixed cadre alongside.
And for some reason Randal didn't understand, as Bashir's party neared the hill crest, Randal's kris began to rattle in its scabbard, as it did when an enemy was near.
"Hush," he told it, hand firmly on its hilt to keep the sword from jumping from
its scabbard. "Bashir doesn't hate me that much, he's just the god's man, and the Stepsons are my friends."
But the kris kept jittering and nudging his hand as the wagon with the Partha children in it and Bashir beside it stopped before him.
Bashir took one look at the sable stallions from the dream lord's stable and the chariot with its graven sides, low war flute, its bracers gilded with raised demons of the brood, and made godsign before his face.
It was all Randal could do not to counter with a ritual of his own. But he said, instead, "Niko's badly hurt, Bashir. The Riddler requests your presence as soon as possible. I'm here to take you—"
A commotion came from inside the wagon; then a scuffle ended and Sauni scrambled out, her brother close behind her.
"Niko's hurt?" Her face was pale; she hugged herself.
Grippa had her by the shoulder as if to pull her back inside. "If he is, it's not for you to see, sister dear, you've a god's child to think of, not yourself. Now get back inside before I—"
Randal was holding his kris still with all his might.
Bashir turned in his saddle. "Grippa, I won't tell you again: your sister is a holy vessel, not to be chastised by such as you. Get your hands off her, and respect her person, or in the name of Enlil I, myself, will teach you reverence—and you won't soon forget it if I do."
Grippa, flustered, his cheeks as red as the sunrise, let go his sister with a little push that almost sent her sprawling.
But Bashir had already looked away, saying to Randal, "These children feel they have a vested interest—Sauni for obvious reasons, Grippa because Stealth was going to sponsor him with the Stepsons. If it's possible, I'd like to bring them both along."
"That's… up to you, Bashir. But it's nothing for young eyes to see."
Bashir urged his horse up beside the chariot. Leaning down, the priest said, "Then perhaps it's time those eyes grew up."
From that, Randal deduced that the children had been troublesome on the trek and that Bashir, despite his priestly calm, was worried about Niko, though no man of the god would ever ask a mage for information and admit that there were some things the god hadn't told His servant in advance.
"I'll just get Crit and we'll be off, then," Randal said smoothly, trying to pretend he didn't see Bashir's shocked expression as the warrior-priest of Free Nisibis looked over the hilltop, down at the Festival village for the first time.
Bashir had never been farther south than Tyse, never seen the might of the overlords he flouted. The miniature city Abakithis had built on the Storm God's pastureland was supposed to cow, to convince the treaty signatories and rival states who came to win the game that they couldn't win a war against Imperial Ranke, that the empire was not so disarrayed or so penurious as they'd been told. And one look at Bashir told Randal that the gilt-domed, lacquered Festival village had done just that.
Randal was glad to leave the priest alone there and head on down the line to check in with Critias.
Crit asked all the questions Bashir was too proud to voice: "How? When? Has he been avenged? How badly is Niko hurt?"
When Randal said, "Badly. We're doing our best—he'll live, if that's a comfort. The Riddler won't leave him, though—you know Sacred Band oaths. You're to come with me, and bring Sync with you."
"Sync? Why Sync?"
Then Randal realized that Crit was actually upset, that Stepsons did love one another, that the whole Sacred Band mystique was really true. "Because," Randal said as gently as he could, "the Riddler ordered it, task force leader. You're to leave Straton in command, get Sync, Kama, a pair or two who care more for Niko than winning some silly game, and come along."
* 2 *
Niko's sickroom smelled of camphor, sweat, and rancid butter and, now that Bashir was present, incense and offerings to the gods.
Tempus was glad enough to see the priest and the endless stream of visitors he had in tow.
Until then, he'd been virtually alone with Niko, who slept a lot, and with Cime, the temptress of his soul.
So even the pair of Partha children, when they arrived, were a timely distraction. He told Cime of his suspicions and bade her watch young Grippa well.
The boy stood, pale-faced, while at Niko's bedside Sauni knelt and wept, her cheek pressed against Stealth's hand while the healing fighter tried to focus on her, half-raised his head and let it fall, then whispered, frowning with the effort: "Sauni… don't cry. It's the will of gods and…"
Then she sobbed so that Tempus didn't hear the rest, telling Niko she bore his baby, not the god's, and he must get well to see it born, so that Bashir put down his censor and intervened, lifting her bodily away and ejecting her.
Then Tempus caught Grippa smiling, and when the boy's turn came to kneel beside the sickbed, Grippa reminded Niko that Stealth had promised to sponsor him as a Stepson.
Cime stepped in quickly, saying, "Selfish brat. Don't tire him with this—"
But Tempus had a better idea: "Lie back, Stealth, it's as good as done."
Niko did. He was waxen and as ashen as his hair; the regrowth of so much flesh took time. Tempus would have given Niko his own regenerative nature if he could. He'd half-hoped that if Grippa was the witch, the sight of Niko in this state would flush her.
But if Roxane was Grippa, she was too canny for that. So Tempus added, when no one asked him to explain, "Grippa will be Randal's new partner; Randal's good enough to lead a team."
Niko groaned softly in his bed, but didn't argue.
If Grippa had been a normal boy, he would have: the rightman of a wizard wasn't what a young man joined the Stepsons to become.
"Riddler!" Randal was horror-struck, an hour later, when in a private conference room in the basement of the ancient Rankan mercenaries' hostel, the Riddler told him of his plan.
"I think it's a great idea," Crit glowered at Randal. "A masterstroke of a plan. If Grippa's Roxane, she won't be able to hide it long from you."
"That's no plan at all," Randal objected. "It's a sacrifice—of me!"
"Don't argue, Randal," Crit warned. "Just do what you're assigned to do, or you'll be mucking stables out at Hidden Valley all next season, Niko or no Niko."
"Well! You can't tell me—" Then Randal got control of himself, saying, "Yes, task force leader, sir!" and adding only one more objection: "I wish someone would tell me how I can abrogate my former oath, make an ersatz one to a possible witch, and still keep my integrity intact."
Tempus said nothing, just watched the mage whom he was putting in mortal jeopardy.
When the formal meeting was over, Tempus took the slight First Hazard aside. "Randal, I have something for you, to help with this assignment. If you can make it fit, it might just save you, or give you an edge, at least."
"Fit? Whatever it is, I'll manage. Anything that helps, I'll try." Randal's eyes were round with worry; First Hazard or not, keeping tabs on Grippa might be a killing task.
Taking Randal by the arm, Tempus led the mage-ling to his quarters, got a hide-wrapped bundle from beneath his bed, and uncovered Niko's charmed panoply—cuirass, dagger, and sword.
"There you go, Randal. Armor fit for a prince of magic, a fighting mage."
"But that's Niko's." Randal was aghast, blinking back sudden tears. "Let's not give up hope. He might recover, be able to—"
"Right now, this gear's no use to him. He wants you to have it—we discussed it."
"You mean you told him what to do and he nodded his head."
"Randal, that's the way of the armies. Your oath to Niko, you insist, is yet binding. Therefore, subsequent oaths you take are just like any of Grit's covert games. Now," Tempus sat back on his haunches, "let's see if we can make this cuirass fit you. You're going to need all the help you can get, and Aŝkelon's given you other… things…" Tempus alluded to the hell-chariot Randal now drove. "He won't begrudge you these."
* 3 *
Kama knew Ranke in a way Crit was never settled long enough to learn anyplace. She could chang
e from her uniform into a bronze-beaded gown in a twinkling and take him among the movers and shakers of Rankan society he'd never have had access to otherwise.
She was risking a lot, letting Crit see her as she was—politically connected, sophisticated, well known to the priests of Theron's faction and to the old war horse himself as only a trusted agent could be.
She knew Crit would make the obvious deductions. Whether he would forgive her lies of omission was another matter.
So when he broached the subject, at the festivities on the night before the games' official start in a chandeliered hall filled with Rankan nobility, she braced herself: tonight she might lose Grit's respect, if not his love, forever.
He said quietly, dancing close while a quartet played just loud enough for folk to talk freely, "You could have told me you were a Rankan agent. Or did you just assume a simple country boy wouldn't understand?"
Now that the moment had come, her silver tongue failed her; she didn't know what to say. She said nothing at all, just brushed his close-bearded cheek with her lips.
"Some of it must have been real, between us," Crit said then. "Surely you wouldn't get pregnant and lose a child for the good of empire?" He stopped dancing and his grip on her was firm. "Say something, damn it, before I have to conclude that I've been had by an expert and there's nothing more to it than that—that Strat's been right all along and you'll disappear when you're done using us for—"
"I can help you with things here, Crit," she said numbly. "I've been helping you all along."
"The lady and the barbarian? I don't need etiquette lessons, I need to know what the big secret is that all of you are keeping, how Brachis fits in now that Niko's out of commission, a list of the dramatis personae, at least…"
They were conspicuous, standing motionless on the dance floor.
She said, "You can have all of that, and more." And, though it was opportune, she would have told him anything, that night, even if it wasn't. "Let's go somewhere quiet and talk. Then I want to introduce you to some people."