by ich du
"You bled me, you bitch!"
She was fully dressed, some of the bedclothes converted into a practical skirt and shawl.
She looked at him, unreadably.
"It was only fair. You took your pleasure of me."
He fingered the wounds on his throat. They still itched.
"What have you done to me? The light hurts."
She took a physician's look into his eyes.
"You'll be a little sensitive for a few days. Nothing more. You won't be my get. Not that you'd have any right to complain if you did. How many girls have you left pregnant on your campaigns, eh?"
"That's..."
"Not the same? I know. Come on, get up. We've a day and a night to get to Zhufbar."
Vukotich remembered it all. The assassination. His bargain with the leech. He'd had some unsavoury masters and mistresses in his years as a sword-for-hire, but this one was the crowning glory of a murky career. No one was ever going to sing songs about him.
She helped him dress. It was humiliating, but his movements were slow, as if he had all the physical symptoms of drunkenness without the exhilaration, and hers were deft. They were getting used to managing the chain, and it vanished without much fuss up his sleeve and under her new shawl.
Downstairs, the Night Man was still on duty. At least, he was still there. And there were others waiting for them. A couple of local bullyboys with the symbols of the Moral Crusade pinned to their sleeves, a steeple-hooded Acolyte of Purity, and a timid, spinsterish Cleric of Verena.
The Night Man pointed at them. "That's Mr and Mrs Schmidt," he said, trembling.
Vukotich's heart slumped in his chest.
"Made quite a night of it, by the looks of them," said the Acolyte.
Vukotich wished he had thought last night to steal a weapon.
"Married, are you, then?" asked the Acolyte.
"For three years, now," replied Genevieve. "We've two children, left with their grandmother in Zhufbar."
The Acolyte laughed nastily. "Pull the other one, it's got Taal's antlers on it."
"Marriage," began the Cleric, "is a sacred thing. Its name should not be abused and sullied for the furtherance of base carnal lusts."
Vukotich thought the Worshipper of Learning and Wisdom would have been truly upset to learn what had actually happened in their room last night. His blood, what little of it was left, started to race again.
"If you're married," said the Acolyte, "then you won't mind taking a few vows before the Goddess of Truth, would you?"
The Cleric pulled out a sacred text from under her cloak, and started looking through it for the marriage ceremony. There must be a condensed version for urgent occasions.
The bullies were smirking. Vukotich knew this charade had more to do with the universal desire to poke into everybody's business than with any notion of spiritual purity. He remembered that Claes Glinka's idea of just punishment for fornication was a thorough stoning.
"Do you, Johann Schmidt, take this woman..."
Suddenly, every scrap of furniture in the room burst into splinters. The chairs, the desks, the low table loaded with religious tracts, even the beams in the ceiling. Everything made of wood. One of the bullies had false teeth, which leaped out of his mouth. The staircase beneath Vukotich and Genevieve collapsed.
Instinctively, he covered her with his body, and his back was lashed by innumerable needles.
The wooden fragments danced in the air.
The Acolyte dropped to his knees, a chairleg protruding from his heart. He tore at his hood, pulling it away from an open, ordinary face. One of the bullies was bleeding and moaning on the floor, the other had been thrown out of the hostelry. The Night Man made a dash for the window, but the sill and the crossbars reached out for him. The cleric looked for the rite of exorcism.
This must be some cursed Celestial magic.
The wooden whirlwind was assembling into a manshape.
Vukotich dragged Genevieve out of the Easeful Rest through a new-made hole in the wall. She was lucky not to have suffered the Acolyte's fate. A length of oak or ash through her heart would have ended her eternity.
The wood daemon erupted from the ruins of the inn, pursued by the chanting priestess. It had a face, and its face looked angry. The streets were full of panicking people.
The Moral Crusaders had come in a carriage, which stood waiting at the kerb. Vukotich hauled Genevieve, who was picking bits and pieces out of her clothes, up onto the seat, and grabbed the reins.
"Hang on tight."
He whipped the horses, and the carriage tottered away from the Easeful Rest. People got out of the way, fast. The wooden creature loped after them, but it wasn't used yet to physical form, and they outdistanced it. It was hampered by its size and the buildings in its way, but it kept steady on their trail, smashing whatever got in its way.
"What was that?" Vukotich asked as they cleared Chloesti, and followed the beaten-earth Blackwater Road. The horses had had enough of a fright to give them added speed. The carriage rattled as it jumped in and out of the wheelruts.
"A Cathayan Wood Master," Genevieve breathed. "I hoped I'd never see one of those things again. It's an Elemental."
"Wood? That's not an element."
"It is in Cathay. Along with the usual ones... Air..."
A wind blew up, knocking the horses over, tilting the carriage. Two of the wheels spun backwards in mid-air. Vukotich hauled on the reins, but felt himself slipping...
"... Earth..."
The road in front of them erupted like a volcano, spewing muddy soil into the sky...
"... Water..."
A small pond rose out of the ground, shaping itself as it twisted. The carriage was on its side now, and they were sprawled, feeling the movements in the road as the Elementals formed.
"... and Fire!"
There was a terrific explosion.
Genevieve tried to remember the tales Master Po had told her in Cathay. One of them had some relevance to their current situation. The Monkey-King, when he was a Monkey-Prince, had faced all five Masters, and bested them through trickery.
They were under the carriage now, with the Masters standing over them, more-or-less in oversize human form. The Wood Master exchanged a ferocious look with the Fire Master, and Genevieve remembered the fable.
It was ridiculous, but it was the only thing she had that might work.
"It's like the dragon swallowing its tail," she muttered, "or the scissors-paper-stone game."
She crawled out from under the wrecked vehicle, dragging Vukotich on his chain.
She bowed in the Cathayan fashion, and addressed the elementals in their own language.
"Masters, I recognize that my time has come to pass beyond the gates of life. I grant you an honourable victory. However, in view of my many years I would request that my death be solely the responsibility of the mightiest of the mighty. May I enquire which of you is the most powerful, the most terrible, the most feared?"
She thought she had the Monkey-Prince's speech down to the last word.
The Tales of Master Po were evidently prohibited on the Pagoda, for the five giants looked, bewildered, at one another.
"Come now, one of you must be mightier than the others. It is to him I would offer my surrender."
The Fire Master roared. The Air Master blew a hurricane. The Earth Master rumbled like a tremor. The Wood Master creaked like an aged tree. The Water Master showered them with rain.
"Surely, all of you cannot be the mightiest? One of you must be Lord of All Others. Each must have his place on the Pagoda."
Vukotich was open-mouthed, unable to understand.
The Masters clamoured again, each insisting on his superiority over all the others.
"This, I do not believe," Genevieve said. "Five Masters, all of equal mightiness. Truly, my death will be quintuply honoured."
The Fire Master lashed out a tentacle of flame, and Genevieve flinched. But she need not have, the Water Master ha
d knocked the flame aside. The Fire Master shrank away from the Water Master, causing the Wood Master to take a few steps backwards to avoid the Fire Master's burning body.
The Elementals argued among themselves.
Finally, arguments were not enough. The Masters turned on each other, and the area was devastated. Vukotich and Genevieve, spared in the fight because they were the prize, stood in an island of calm amid the chaos.
"While the Monkey-Prince laughed," Master Po had said, "the Fire Master burned up the Wood Master, the Wood Master broke the hurricanes of the Air Master, the Air Master blew away into dust the Earth Master, the Earth Master absorbed the moisture of the Water Master, and the Water Master doused the flames of the Fire Master. Eventually, Lord Tsien-Tsin transported all the Masters back to the Pagoda, and subjected them to his wrath."
In the fable, it sounded a lot neater and cleaner than it was. Mud rained down on them, and charred chunks of wood. The Elementals merged into one body, and that body tore itself apart. They were deafened by the shrieks of the suffering daemons.
"Thank you, Master Po," Genevieve said, bowing her head.
Finally, calm fell. The area was littered with burned wood, and splatters of mud. The air was still. Boiling pools hissed.
Vukotich gave thanks to his gods in a tongue Genevieve didn't know.
"What did you say?" he asked.
"I told them a story."
He was satisfied.
Their carriage was useless. One of the horses was lamed, the other dead.
"So," she said. "We walk to the Blackwater, and then to Zhufbar."
They trudged through the mud, and left the remains of the Element Masters behind them.
They reached the shores of the Blackwater by nightfall. Vukotich felt strange as the sun set, the weakness that had nagged at him all day fading with the light. Evidently, there were compensations to being bled by a vampire. The day's journey had been hard on them both, and they had abandoned all pretence of hiding their chain. If they were taken now, they could at least tell their story and pass on their responsibility. But they met no one on the road save a party of dwarfs who vanished into the forests at the first sight of them. Genevieve had been quiet since she convinced the Elementals to destroy themselves, and Vukotich had saved his lungs for walking. Something invisible hung between them, a communion of blood that linked them as surely as their chain of silver and iron. Weary under the sun, Vukotich had tasted the vampire's dreams. There was nothing coherent, just a set of impressions, of tastes, of images. Last night, taking her into his bed, he had felt a certain shame mixed in with his desire. Although he could not deny his attraction to the girlshape, he had still felt almost a disgust at himself for so wanting the monster. Now, he had changed his opinion. Genevieve Dieudonne was a creature of the night, but she was no thing of Chaos. Her flesh might be cool, but she was more truly human than many he had known. Feelings he had never allowed himself danced just beyond his thoughts, waiting to move into his mind just as the forces of Chaos wait forever to overwhelm the world.
The Blackwater was still, two moons reflected in its dark, glassy surface. All the harbours and jetties for pleasure boats and fisherfolk were on the other side, at Zhufbar and Karak Varn. This was the further shore, where the forests stood at the edge of the inland sea, and the mad wolves drank the salt water.
It would take too long to travel around the Blackwater. They must find a boat and cross.
The moons were high, and Vukotich's blood was singing. He could hardly contain his energies, and found himself fidgeting with the chain.
"Stop that," Genevieve said. "It'll wear off in a few days. You've a trace of my blood in you. With Ulric's blessing, it will give you the strength to get us across the sea."
Vukotich wanted her again. Here, where the dark waters lapped the stony shore, he wanted to make a bed and force himself upon her. He was dizzy with lust. But more than he wanted her, more than he needed a release for his desires, he wanted her to open the wounds on his neck, and bleed him. If she drank from him again, he felt sure that the vague impressions she had left him with would become glass-clear in his mind. Knowledge would be his. He would be stronger, better, purer. He pulled his shirt away from his bites. They were bleeding.
Delicately, like a clean-minded cat, she licked his throat. A thrill coursed through his body. He could taste the spices in the night air. His hearing was as acute as hers. He waited for the prick of her teeth.
"Come on," she said, yanking his chain, "we've no time for that. Stop mooning like a lovestruck poet, and help me find a boat."
Her words were like slaps across the face. She turned, and pulled, and he stumbled along after her.
He thought of the silver he was being paid, and he was ashamed of himself. He thought of her flat, closed, understanding face as he made love to her, and he hated himself.
He thought of her sharp-furred tongue cleaning away the blood seeping from his wounds... and he made himself pick up his feet and trail after her.
They found an old rowing boat tied up at a disused quay. Genevieve thanked the gods, and Vukotich examined it closely.
"It's rotten," he said. "The bottom will give way. It's a miracle it hasn't sunk at its mooring."
"But it will get us across the Blackwater," said Genevieve, the bloodfire in her eyes. "Because it must."
Emerging at dawn from his trance of preparation, Dien Ch'ing pulled on his Acolyte's robes. He would join the others of the Temple of Purity outside the city walls, on the shores of the Blackwater. This small inland sea, one hundred miles in length, fifty miles across, was famous for the impenetrability of its depths. A fabulous monster was rumoured to inhabit it, and the fishermen were always competing with tall tales of the creature's size, ferocity and mysteriousness. After today, there would be other stories told about the Blackwater. The story of Claes Glinka's death on its shores.
Ch'ing joined the procession as it left the Temple, and bowed his hooded head. Under his robe, he carried the magical blade that could strike from afar.
Wladislaw Blasko would have his speech of vengeance rehearsed. And his confederates in the conspiracy would have an especially hideous mutant - a dog-headed retard - ready to take the blame and be promptly put to death by the militia. Then, quietly, he would be able to depart the city for Kislev, where Lord Tsien-Tsin and High Priest Yefimovich would have other missions for him. The Invisible Empire rewarded its faithful servants.
The sun shone down on the inky black waters, and the delegates to the Festival of Ulric were waiting in the especially erected stands. It had been a hard week of ceremony, secret negotiation, planning, bargaining, speech-making and decorous feasting. Glinka's coffee houses had been overflowing with officers searching in vain for entertainment.
Glinka was at the head of the procession of purity, his hood thrown back. Ch'ing was a few Acolytes behind him, focusing his attention on the small of the Moral Crusader's back, where the shadowblade would strike.
Everyone was quiet. Glinka would have no music for this parade. Ch'ing had read the speech the Crusader intended to deliver, and mused to himself that even the staunchest defender of the Empire would secretly bless him for cutting it short.
There was a stage put up on the beach, the shimmering black waters lapping at its foundations. Blasko stood upon it, with several of his men-at-arms, and with some heroes of the Empire. Maximilian von Konigswald looked bored and sullen. A week without strong drink or a pretty girl does that to a soldier.
Blasko was calm, collected, prepared. There would be no trouble there. He was perfectly schooled in his part.
Blasko shook Glinka's hand as the Crusader took the lectern, and was brushed off. He smiled at the slight. Ch'ing kept well away from Glinka, but felt the magical buzz building up in the knife. Without removing it from his robe, he could thrust into the Moralist's vitals...
Glinka began his address, and the distinguished audience grew restless.
Ch'ing called for the stren
gth of Tsien-Tsin to do the bidding of the Invisible Empire of Chaos.
Glinka got worked up about the sorry state of the Empire's morals, and pointedly looked from face to face as he listed the sins even the most exalted were prone to. Lechery. Drunkenness. Dishonesty. Gluttony. Questioning of Authority. Sacrilege.
Ch'ing's fist grew hot as the magic charge grew.
Suddenly, from behind, there was a commotion. Glinka paused, and everyone turned...
There was a small boat on the water, near the stage. Two people were climbing out of it, hauling themselves up the support beams. A man and a girl, chained together at the wrist.
Ch'ing pulled out the knife and pointed. A bolt of blue flame squirted across the stage. The vampire twisted out of the way.
Maximilian's sword came into his hand, and Ch'ing had to give him a jolt. He couldn't waste the magic. Glinka had to die.
The Moralist was white with terror. He turned to run, and Ch'ing discharged the killing fire in his direction.
Someone got in the way - an unlucky Acolyte - and burst into flames. Robes streaming fire, he leaped into the waters.
Vukotich and Genevieve were on him now, and he was using the magical implement as a simple dagger.
The mercenary was heavy, but would be an experienced hand-to-hand fighter. The vampire seemed frail, but he knew that must be an illusion. He would not underestimate these foes.
He stabbed, and slashed, but there was a coil of rope under him and he lost his footing. The gods were being unkind to him, punishing him for his arrogance. So be it.
The devil-dagger clattered across the stage. He threw off his assailants, and leaped upright, balancing perfectly. He called for the strength of Lord Tsien-Tsin.
He was alone among his enemies. Very well. It was time to demonstrate his own mastery.
It was time these big-nosed westerners learned the meaning of the Mystic Martial Arts.
The Celestial took up an unfamiliar fighting stance, standing lightly on his feet, his arms casually outstretched, his hands like chopping blades. Vukotich had heard something of the combat techniques of Cathay and Nippon. Now, he supposed, he was going to get a taste of them.