by Janet Morris
And the place smelled of dog, smelled rank and fetid. Dogs were anathema in temples and so, Randal supposed, dogs were the mascots of the Rankan mageguild, here where the battle between religion and sorcery had been ongoing for centuries.
Rankan mages vied with priests for the hearts and minds of the populace; their war was barely under wraps. Only the empire's war with Mygdonia had cooled the struggle between the mages and the priests, for the Rankan people and the Rankan nobility's allegiance.
Things weren't like that in Tyse, where Ranke's rule was tenuous at best.
The dog dander in the air was a difficulty Randal hadn't expected: his nose stuffed up, his eyes began to water, his lungs labored for breath. When he'd lost Aŝkelon's patronage, he'd lost his immunity to fur and feathers.
Glumly, he was thinking that he'd probably lose his First Hazardship if he went back to Tyse and the wizards there found out he couldn't control his allergies anymore, when he realized that the apprentice leading him through the corridors had stopped before a particular door.
"Here we are, noble Hazard. Shall I introduce you, or is your Presence enough introduction on its own?"
Randal looked sharply at the apprentice, but the boy wasn't being snide. "Announce me," Randal decided. "I'll wait here."
So in went the apprentice and Randal had time to blow his nose on his sleeve and swallow what he could of his pride's denouement and wish he'd never come.
Then the boy came back and, with a sweeping bow, stood aside and told him, "Please go in."
Within the Rankan First Hazard's chamber, three people, not one, awaited him.
All three were backlit by a wall that glowed amber as if behind it a fire were contained.
He couldn't see their faces; they were black shapes against the glow.
Wishing the Riddler wouldn't get him into these things, he strode up to the raised dais on which they sat and said, though he hadn't meant to: "I'm Tyse's First Hazard and I've come here, as is my right, to claim your assistance in a matter of some gravity."
"We know of you, Hazard," one voice boomed out, basso profundo and distinctly amused. "What aid do you request?"
Somewhere nearby, a dog whined. Randal was supposed to tell these Hazards not to mix in, not to interfere on one side or another in the coming coup. But the appearance of the Nisibisi witch and the vulnerability of the Stepsons to witchcraft made Randal want to do more. The Riddler, who couldn't die, didn't understand what death meant to men—or mages. The idea of fighting his way out of Ranke with all of Tempus's mixed militia to protect, or of ensorceling that many men so far all by himself, was more than distasteful—it was frightening.
So he said: "There's a coup coming, in case you didn't know. There'll be a new emperor on the throne tomorrow, and if we don't help—achoo!— things along, we'll be the enemies of the new regime."
One figure sat up; the other two didn't move.
Randal wiped his nose and continued, wishing the dog in here would leave as his nose closed up completely and his't's turned into d's. "And if you'll dake my word for id, dere's someding we can do dad mighd make da difference."
"Go on," said a feminine voice, and Randal was startled: it wasn't usual for a female to be a ranking Hazard, but these were obviously Ranke's top three.
"Well, we can keep da prieds from inderfering, dad's whad—Abakidis's prieds. Make id clear which side we're on."
"Obviously, you have a plan," said the bass-voice Hazard, "some machination in mind by way of which we can prove ourselves an essential adjunct to this new administration?"
"Of course," Randal lied, though he didn't have a plan, not a clue, just wanted some help transporting all those fighters if push came to shove and the onus fell upon him. "Bud you've god do ged rid of dese dogs, if you wand my help."
The female tittered, waved a hand, and something gave a forlorn, receding howl as if it were falling through a long tunnel.
"Done," said the basso profundo voice. "And now, your plan, honorable Hazard." This adept, too, raised a hand and, as it waved, from the four corners of the room light sprang into being: a dozen torches lit.
And there, upon the First Hazard's elegant dog-headed throne, sat Aŝkelon, lord of dreams, with Tempus's sister Cime beside him, and a wizened Rankan adept beside her.
"Come, come, Hazard," Aŝkelon said, and by the dream lord's face Randal knew he was to pretend they weren't acquainted. "Let's hear this plan of yours, by which the mageguild's value to empire can be demonstrated, and the priesthood brought to its knees."
The dream lord fingered his own nose and Randal could breath again.
"I'm not talking about bringing anyone to his knees, Hazards," Randal said, "just helping things along a little." With intense foreboding and extreme disquiet, he looked from Aŝkelon to Cirne and realized that he'd made a mistake—that with Aŝkelon and Cime involved, things were already out of hand.
It was too late to back out now.
* 7 *
"Kama, I want to talk to you and Sync after I'm finished with Niko, so please stay," said Tempus when the two brought Niko before an ad hoc tribunal consisting of one priest from Abakithis's faction, one from Theron's, and three generals, of which Tempus was one at Theron's request.
Kama and Sync, in their dress blacks, settled down uneasily next to Sauni and Bashir. They were late to the Winners' Day celebration because of this matter of Niko's alleged crime.
The priests got out their divining bowls, their holy water, and their sacrificial birds, and proceeded to "determine the guilt of the accused" by swishing tea leaves in the bowls, sprinkling Niko with water that was supposed to burn him if he was guilty or if he was consorting with a witch, and pinning the birds to boards with copper nails to see where their wingtips pointed when they died.
Intermittently, as the priests mumbled their prayers, Sync coughed in the incense-heavy air of the guardhouse and Kama looked out the window wistfully.
When the priests had reached their verdicts, they spoke them:
"He's unequivocally guilty," said the priest of Abakithis's faction, an albino in a lightning-spangled velvet robe, whose "holy water" had burned the back of Niko's hand when sprinkled on it.
"He's indubitably innocent," said the red-haired priest of Theron's faction who wore a plain robe suitable for a priest of the armies, and whose "holy water" had taken away the angry red spots on Niko's hand when sprinkled on the burns.
"Well," said Tempus, "that's encouraging—the priests are leaving it up to us, gentlemen."
The other two generals, one from each faction, shifted restlessly in their seats.
Abakithis's general said, "The testimony is inconclusive without the appearance of this Randal, who saw the whole thing."
Theron's general said, "What good is a magician's testimony in a matter of magic? The priestess, there, is above reproach—" he pointed at Sauni, white-faced at the back of the room "—and so are all of Nikodemos's character witnesses. I vote for acquittal."
Both generals looked at Tempus, who said nothing, but approached the two priests. "Sprinkle your holy water on the table, priest," he said to the albino who served Abakithis.
"The water of the gods is too precious to waste," the priest objected.
"I'll gladly sprinkle mine there," said the priest of Theron's faction.
"Do it or I'll do it myself," Tempus said with a little smile.
When Abakithis's priest sprinkled his "water" on the table, the finish began to bubble where the drops hit it.
"If Nikodemos is guilty of murdering priests, then so is this table," Tempus said loudly, stepping away so that the others could see the bubbles. "Nikodemos is innocent, but this priest is not."
"The condition of the priesthood isn't what we're here to determine," the albino spat.
Tempus would have argued that, but the other two generals, seeing mayhem in the offing, interposed themselves.
When the inquiry was officially ended, Tempus thought he saw a gray face with a
shock of orange hair peering in the window as everyone but Abakithis's lackeys congratulated Niko.
"Niko," Tempus said carefully, "I want you to go with Bashir and stay with Bashir. Prepare your gear and your horses and be ready to ride. You're not to go to the winners' tent and you're not to be alone at any time."
"Yes, Commander," Niko said, eyes downcast, abashed at having caused so much trouble.
"Bashir, Sauni, you heard me. Keep a close watch on my partner, who can't seem to stay out of trouble on his own." It was harsh, but for Niko's own good. Tempus had more to worry about this day than just his right-side partner. As Bashir and Sauni were ushering Niko out, Tempus thought he saw a grayish form flit by the door, but he wasn't certain.
And he had other things on his mind. "Kama, Sync, come here."
"We're late," Sync said without preamble, eyeing Kama significantly. "She's got a prize to collect."
"So does he," said Kama. His daughter's face was full of suppressed excitement.
"Sync," Tempus said slowly. "There's too much risk in this for you—and for the 3rd. I've changed my mind and you're relieved of your assignment. Go enjoy the fete—you've earned it—but ready your men for a quick exit when I give the signal."
"This is all your fault, your doing." Sync crossed his arms and glared at Kama.
"Me?" Tempus's daughter rejoined. "I don't know what you're talking about, Sync. But I know I don't like your tone!" She turned to Tempus, big-eyed and guileless. "Perhaps my father will explain just what it is I'm being accused of?"
"Are you two soldiers or an old married couple, bickering over who will prepare the dinner? You'll follow orders exactly as I give them, both of you. And those orders are to collect your prizes, your gear and horses, and protect yourselves. That's all."
Dismissed, the two stalked off toward the winner's tent, arguing with one another.
Tempus went another way, out behind the guardhouse shed where he'd seen the gray face with its orange shock of hair.
In his hand he had a talisman, a bit of hair and bone, and since there was nothing behind the guardhouse station but some brush and dirt, he hunkered down there and began to build a little fire.
Just as he put the talisman on the pile of sticks and leaves and was getting out his flints to strike a spark, a cold wind chilled his neck.
A voice said, "Yessss… you called, my ancient enemy?"
Calmly, Tempus turned to face Roxane, Death's Queen, who had an orange-haired fiend attending her.
"You want this back, don't you, witchy?" He picked up the talisman and held it tightly in his fist.
To give Roxane credit, she didn't pale or quail, just sat down on the ground beside him. "Could be, Riddler. What will you take for it? A nap? An eternity of sleep?"
"I'd like your help with something," he said. "And I think that, because of Nikodemos, you'll see that our interests have converged."
Roxane's fiend hadn't sat down; it stood at a sort of attention, its gangly arms swinging between its knees. It clacked its jaws now. "Murder? Is it murder? We like murder, we do." Its eyes were rolling every which way as it tried to watch for intruders.
"Shush, Snapper." The witch was beautiful, lovelier than Tempus remembered, and when she didn't try to ensorcel him straightaway, but said, "Make your proposition, Riddler, if you dare," Tempus knew his plan was going to work.
* 8 *
It didn't take Niko long to get around Bashir. "What can it hurt, Bashir, just to go and watch? Sauni must collect her prize, or snub the empire. And we should be there to see it."
They were drinking in Bashir's quarters—the warrior-priest's first mistake. And both Bashir and Sauni, who almost never drank, had drunk too much, considering it a consolation prize for missing the fete because of Niko.
Soon enough they were strolling through the crowd together, arm in arm, Sauni's head resting on Niko's shoulder as she admitted how glad she was she'd get to go.
Niko had drunk nearly nothing, just pretended to be tractable and drunk. Drink had served him ill; he'd stay away from it henceforth. He'd had time to think about his life while awaiting judgment for a crime he hadn't done. He'd thought about Randal and Roxane, the pair of mages who loved him, and decided that neither one had any claim on him.
He was a child of maat, son of the armies, and it made sense that the legions of evil would be drawn to him, try to turn him to their cause. It was hard to think of Randal as evil, and lately he could say the same of the Nisibisi witch. But he'd learned, this winter season, not to fear sorcery as all-powerful or unnatural. And this meant that it couldn't compromise him as once it had: Bandaran lore taught that once a problem was defined, its nature understood, it was halfway to being solved.
And turning away from the seductive lure of Aŝkelon, from Randal's help, from the witch's caress, had brought his maat and his secular center together: he was feeling as if his life had just begun.
But there remained the matter of a promise he'd made to Brachis, priest of empire, in order to secure Free Nisibis for Bashir, whom Niko loved despite the amount of god which had crept into the soul of his oldest, dearest friend.
He had to be there, close enough and ready to lend a hand, take command, do what he'd said he'd do, even if it killed him. An entire state, a country where freedom reigned and men didn't prey upon their brothers was worth his life, and more.
He considered himself lucky to have the opportunity to give it for such a worthy cause. Life would be taken from him eventually, probably for some mean or meaningless transgression, or for no reason at all but time. Loving life as Niko did, within the harmony of his mystery, made it a gift he'd be honored to give to Free Nisibis, if things turned out that way.
Niko didn't want to die, nor to assassinate an emperor, but it was his bargain, his responsibility, and his opportunity now at hand. If the gods willed otherwise, it would be shown to him and he'd ride up to Wizardwall and then on to Bandara for a well-deserved rest.
Inside the winners' tent, Sauni gasped at the magnificence of the decorations that Abakithis's staff had collected to honor the winners of the games. The tent itself was thrice as high as any Niko had ever seen. A stout young tree was its center pole and its tenting was black and red, emblazoned here and there with the gilt lion-tearing-the-world of Ranke. Inside were chairs, not bleachers—chairs like miniature thrones with lion-headed arms and claw-feet, each one gilded with red-velvet seats. On a sideboard five yards long were pigs and lambs and ducks roasted with caterpillars, all seasonable fruits from the empire's southernmost reaches, samovars of tea and great urns of wine, as well as casks of beer.
Nearly fifty winners filled their plates, opposite the presentation stand. On this, below pleats of bunting, was Abakithis's own Lion Throne of Empire, plus three lesser thrones for courtiers. And beside the stand was a silver bathtub on claw-and-ball feet, the prize to give the overall champion of the games.
Abakithis and his courtiers were not yet in attendance, but two squadrons of pretorians were, and nearly twenty Rankan slaves, their collars bur-nished, from all over empire circulated among the celebrants.
And the slaves made Niko's throat tighten. He'd been a slave for a time when Ranke conquered Tyse; he'd been a child, and terrified. Once a man feels a collar, he knows no man should ever wear one. And every time he saw one, it reminded him of Abarsis, the departed Slaughter Priest, who'd been gelded by the Rankans and made a slave, though he was a king's son, when his father was defeated.
But Sauni wasn't old enough to remember life before the Rankan empire had reached north into the mountains. Her eyes sparkled with excitement at every elegantly dressed lady she saw and every exotic treat on the laden Festival board. Only once did her face fall, when she saw Kama in her 3rd Commando dress uniform.
Bashir was quick to tell the priestess that women looked better in soft and flowing robes, and when she said, "Oh, look! There's Crit and Straton! Aren't they handsome in their parade gear! What a pair they make!" Niko offered to take
her over there so she could tell the Stepsons personally how well they looked.
And Bashir was glad to let him. Bashir remembered fighting Ranke all too well, for far too long. The two friends knew each other so well that they didn't have to speak about it: shared feelings were exchanged with a touch.
Then Niko guided Sauni through the crowd, thinking that his little priestess was perhaps the prettiest girl there that day, and that somewhere inside her a child was growing that was part his, if officially the god's.
"Crit! Strat! Life to you, brothers. Sauni wants to tell you something." Niko urged her forward.
She stood wordless for a moment before the Stepsons' task force leader and his huge partner, then brushed her hair off her forehead and said, "Sirs, the two of you look exactly and completely like Stepsons should—better than any men here, more valorous and elegantly brave."
Crit took off his helmet, his sly grin kind and wise. "Thank you, priestess. Does that mean we qualify for the god's blessing? We'll need all the blessings we can get, today." Over Sauni's tawny head, Grit's eyes met Niko's, not questioning what Stealth was doing here, but approving that he'd come.
Straton was trying to return Sauni's compliment. Although Strat had lost in boxing, the pair had won in team chariot-racing, and Tempus (Crit confided as Sauni solemnly blessed Strat's head once he'd knelt down where she could reach it) had relaxed the prohibition on attending when Crit argued that it would look worse if all Stepsons stayed away.
"So I'm glad you're here, Stealth. We may need your sword arm yet." Grit's lips hardly moved as he talked and his eyes roamed the crowd. "I hope your horses and your gear are ready—packed."
"I'm ready," Niko said. "Just tell me where you want me."
"Right up front where the priests can see you. We'll worry them, watching you, since it's you they know about. It'll be a good diversion."