Beyond Sanctuary

by Janet Morris

  It was not the right thing to say, but he didn't want to start explaining.

  "There's a curfew, child. You'll not make it that far without kissing Rankan asses." This was from the first, who'd come out from behind the rail and had drawn his sword. "Get down now. Let's have a better look at you."

  "And at what's in these fat bags on the mommy horse. No professional takes a mare in foal on as long a haul as she's showing. Slit his throat for cruelty to animals and I'll report him to the guild for impersonating a grown man."

  He just didn't have the patience for this sort of thing. Without conscious decision, his booted foot kicked up and caught the man at his saddle under the chin. He heard the neck snap back but not the succeeding thud. From his belt came throwing stars; with his left hand he cast two: one at the closest mounted mercenary, on his right, one at the grizzled companion of the fallen man. By then the sword Askeion had given him was drawn in his right, the two remaining stars moved into throwing position. "Anyone else?"

  The man he'd kicked was moaning. The two he'd cast at, both throws meant only to wound, were clutching thigh and arm, where only the slimmest point of each star protruded. One was cursing; the other, the mounted man, was trying to pull the star out of his thigh.

  The men at his rear had their crossbows cocked, however. He'd known this wasn't a good idea, but he turned in his saddle: "I've got two of these left, gentlemen. You want to play or you want to ride away? If I'd meant it, those two would be dead. You'll get me, maybe, but you won't live long enough to boast about it."

  "Who in the god's name are you?" one of the two mounted riders asked intently, face screwed up, peering through his crossbow's peep sight, not yet decided.

  "Someone who doesn't want to introduce himself to the wrong people," the other mounted man hazarded.

  "That's right. Now get out of my way. Unless these friends of yours get those stars out in the next few moments, the poison will kill them before they bleed to death." There was no poison on the stars, but Niko wanted to be away.

  The men backed off, muttering among themselves. Niko saw the one he'd kicked make an effort to gain his knees, fall back. No casualties, then.

  As he maneuvered his horses between the two who still held him at crossbow's point, he could hear one exhort the other: they couldn't just let him go.

  The second was dismounting: "Then go with him, man. I'll stay with these. Wait until Grille hears about this—four men of first tier hire downed by a single teenage delinquent. That is, if he'll allow you to accompany him."

  The one still mounted gestured with his bow. "All right with you, fighter? We'll just check your credentials, and then if you're bracketed halfway where your skills should put you, we'll see the commanders. You really want hire, you'll get it." "Good enough." Niko, taking a chance, sheathed his sword. The bowman's slitted eyes were still on his stars as Niko carefully backed his horses the rest of the way and the rider came abreast of him.

  "I'm Ari," the mounted man, flipping the lever back to safety-lock his bow, held out his right hand. His eyes, in the torchlight, weren't angry; his tone held just a trace of laugher. "And this is—or was—my team. That's Haram, there—team leader of the sortie unit known as—"

  "Ari, don't tell him your life story. Find out his. Go on, before these three forget their wounds enough to object and we've got to kill him."

  "Life to you, then, leader. And everlasting glory," Niko called softly as he kicked the bay into a dispirited lope, still looking back at the man who'd lost a team on his account. It wasn't a good beginning, he was certain.

  "My ass to you," he thought he heard the man called Haram retort, but he could not be sure over the sound of his own blowing horses and creaking gear and the words of the fighter riding beside him: "Where'd you pick that up—those things you threw? The speed of it..."

  "West."

  "How many have you?"

  "Enough."

  "All poisoned?"

  "None," Niko lied. On his left hip, six poison-tipped stars rode, undisturbed.

  The other chuckled, then laughed aloud. "Left up here, at this fork. What kind of hire did you want?"

  "I can't say yet. I'll see what's offered." The left fork wasn't the quickest way to the mercenaries' hostel, which was southeast of town, but he went with his escort. The curfew sounded real enough; he didn't want to explain himself to airy Raakan garrison sergeant.

  "I think there'll be something for you, when I tell 'em what I just saw back there. Teach me that? The 'stars," I mean?" "Gladly." They rode awhile in silence. Then Ari said: "West? Machad? I never saw anything like that there. You speak Machadi."

  "Not Machad."

  "I don't mean to pry… Maybe we could use you in our own unit… we'll have a vacancy or two—temporarily, anyhow."

  "Paired fighters, isn't it?"

  "Some are. You?"

  "Once. No more."

  "Real communicative, aren't you?"

  "I don't know you."

  "You're going to need a friend, someone to speak for you— you just put down three men, any of whom makes more in a month than you've seen this whole season."

  "Then they're overpaid."

  Again, Ari laughed. "Have you a name, guildbrother? By the gods, I hope you're at least that. If you're not in good standing, dues paid up and all, we'll have to do something about all this..."

  "Stealth. And I'm up to date."

  "Good enough, then, Stealth."

  They rode on, west of town, never getting close enough for Niko to see more than the brownish haze of lights and smoke that hovered over it. He recognized the Outbridge quarter as their destination long before they rode among the upscale estates and the vinehung inns. When they came to cobbled ways he asked Ari to slow their pace, saving his horses' hooves.

  They had been riding along a two-story masonry wall topped with outward-curving spikes for a while when Ari gestured toward it: "This is it. Gates ahead. If there's some reason you can't give your whole name in there, to our field commander or the intelligence chief, you'd better run for your freedom now. Inside, there's no chance of it."

  Niko thought seriously about that. If Tempus was this man's quarry, for some reason, and not one of the "commanders" then Niko was in serious trouble.

  It was his last chance; the other fighter was right.

  Niko said, "This isn't the hostel."

  "We're specials; we don't work out of the hostel."

  They approached the gate, and sentries appeared from the shadows. Ari gave a password and some scatological banter was exchanged. Both peltasts looked at Niko but neither questioned him. They called within, and a creak and whine of heavy timber over metal sounded. The gate was drawn back, revealing a stone corridor through which they must pass single file. In it, they were subject to further scrutiny and possible execution through staggered slits in the high walls behind which bowmen and spearmen were posted.

  But nothing untoward occurred, and the farther gate was opened.

  Men came running to take their horses in an inner courtyard bright with statuary-borne flames. Niko hesitated there: "I'll stay with my horses. Whoever I have to see can come this far. I've come far enough."

  An gave him a reproving look and wondered aloud where he'd gotten away with this sort of behavior, but jogged off to "bring somebody back to see you."

  Waiting, Niko slipped from the bay and walked his horses in slow circles, cooling them. He thought about loosening their girths: he couldn't get out of here if anyone decided to try to prevent him. Walls were guarded; he could see the glitter of flame off spearpoints. There had been a fire here recently; the stones beneath his feet were blackened and the air about still smelled of it; charred wood was piled in a corner. The whole situation reminded him of the early days of the Stepsons out at Jubal's. Specials, Ari had said. Well, it could have been worse—it could have been that he'd run into an army patrol. And everything Ari had said—so far as Niko could tell by ear and eye and what use he'd been able to
make of his peripheral perception—had been true.

  He sensed that the sentries and guardpost personnel were edgy; he was careful to make no sudden moves.

  After a time he heard voices; discipline was bowstring-taut here, so it wasn't the guards or the sentries. Soon three men came into view. One was Ari; one was in civilian clothes; and one was in spartan field armor of unadorned leather and tarnished mail but had no helmet. Both the civilian and the officer wore blades.

  Niko stopped his horses and waited, telling them "stay" and dropping the bay's reins and his mare's tether.

  When the three came up to him, Ari a little behind the other two, the civilian stepped forward and offered his hand: "Stealth, is it? I'm Grille."

  Niko clasped and released it; it had been dry, strong, hard with calluses only swordplay can raise. "I remember you, my lord." He met eyes crinkled with amusement and relaxed a bit. This man had been a friend of Niko's left-side leader.

  "This is our esteemed Tysian guild representative, Vasili. Vasili, this is Stealth, called Nikodemos."

  The guild official saluted him. Niko returned the gesture, not liking the grim countenance of the uniformed man.

  "Ari tells us you've put the lie tonight to some of our most overblown reputations," Grillo said easily. "I knew we were paying that lot more than they were worth."

  Vasili said: "They were worth it. They still are, Grillo, and you know it. This one here," he pointed at Niko, "has a lot of tricky Bandaran moves. We've heard you and your cohort from the south are not going to be easily assimilated, Nikodemos. You should have gone straight to the guild hostel and taken what assignment we offered."

  "I would have. Ari persuaded me otherwise."

  "And your tour in Sane—"

  Grillo elbowed the guild representative in the ribs.

  Vasili was undaunted: "—your previous commission? We don't like the way your squadron fulfilled its obligation."

  "By the rules, my lord. We did it by the rules."

  "But not the spirit. That's the thing, isn't it? Enough. Grillo, you want him, you've got him. We'll work out a pay scale for this crew now that the first of them is here. But don't come to me if they slay more within your walls than beyond them. Sacred Bands and elite squadrons aren't what the mercenaries' guild is about. Field them at your peril."

  "Fine with me," Grillo said, and the guild representative stalked away. "Well, Niko, I suppose you'd like to see the Riddler before you and I have our talk?"

  Not waiting for a reply, Grillo headed off. Niko looked after him, at his horses, at Ari. Ari waved him on: "I'll watch them."

  Niko signed his thanks and caught up with Grillo, aware that this could be some elaborate trap: Grillo was a canny double-dealer who took ten per cent of everything that passed under his nose and whose Rankan allegiance was perfunctory at best.

  Niko could be "seeing" Tempus in a dungeon built for two or a mass grave awaiting more bodies to fill it. He tried not to be impressed by the massive masonry of the grounds; he saw further evidence of fiery sack: this place had changed hands recently, or withstood an attempt to cause it to do so.

  Grillo asked him casual questions; he answered in non se-quiturs until the other man volunteered the information that Tempus had sent a message to Bashir, received no reply, and thus would be doubly glad to see him: "Both he and I think your old acquaintance with the Successors might be the most valuable weapon in our arsenal right now."

  They were climbing wide granite steps; Niko ventured: "So it's 'we'?"

  At the top of them, Grillo answered, "It is. This way."

  Beyond an oak door, reinforced with wrought iron and guarded, was a second, inner court where the sack hadn't reached. They entered the low stone building centering it, trod the corridors and stairs. Then Grillo stopped: "I'll wait here." He lifted a latch and pushed a door inward. "The next door on your right is his… and, Niko?"

  "My lord?"

  "Our condolences on the death of—"

  "Thank you." He didn't want to talk about it. He turned his back on Grillo and knocked where he'd been told to.

  "Come," he heard; the Riddler's gravelly voice was unmistakable.

  The door was unlocked. He pushed it open and paused, shocked by the infirmity of the man on the bed. He'd thought Tempus to be indestructible. The man he saw was bristle-chinned and sweating, arm in a sling. Around the sharp, long eyes dark shadows hovered.

  "Close it. Sit. You're a fortnight early. Tell me how that is."

  Niko did as he was bid, pulling a chair up beside the bed. On a nightstand was a pitcher, two goblets standing on their rims, one on its base with wine it it. Tempus picked up that one, bade Niko serve himself. Sipping watered wine, he tried to explain what he himself didn't understand: "Short cuts. I was delirious part of the time. The mare—I brought her, couldn't leave her… She picked the route. Everyone's coming. Critias ruled that each must find a substitute first to satisfy the guild." He knew he was rattling on, but all he could think of was the Riddler's obvious wounds and what could have made them.

  "It's all right, Niko. You can relax."

  He saw Tempus's mouth twitch, half a smile dance there. "I had a run-in with some Nisibisi-fielded demons and fiends. I'll be well enough in another week or two. Meanwhile…" The Riddler pushed himself up on one stiff arm, and Niko was reminded of last full moon in Sanctuary, when their positions were reversed. "… I'm pleased you're here. Jinan's gone, disappeared."

  Niko held the other's gaze, unspeaking.

  "She took both Trôs horses."

  "What?"

  "We suspect foul play. Nisibisi magic, possibly."

  "Where? How?"

  "Those are questions I'd like your help answering. Until the other Stepsons come, you are the single man I can trust. You know Grille's background?"

  Niko nodded.

  "Then I don't have to explain. These men here, as well as this place, are ours. Mix among them and take their measure, but carefully."

  "I will."

  "Too, if you are up to it, I'd ask special favors…"

  "Command me."

  "Bashir. I have to meet with him. Personally. You know the free zone?"

  "I knew it once. Better than I'd have liked."

  "Little's changed, I wager. Vouch for me with the Successors."

  Niko smiled at that, shaking his head slightly, a hand gesturing: "Surely there's no need. But if you wish?…"

  "As in Sanctuary, I'd like you to work apart from these others at first, construct what rationale you please; let me know what you need in the way of support and verification. Check in at the guild hostel; infiltrate the free zone; find Bashir and convince him to meet with me; come back then and tell me where and how."

  "But Grille will know. He said the same to me." "If we can't fool him, we'll have to trust him. You had trouble with some of his specials, he told me. You've a reputation for temper. We'll say your price was too high, and Sanctuary soured you—with the loss of two partners, it sounds likely enough."

  "I'm not sure, commander…" He was tired, suddenly. He'd thought he'd get a different welcome. He wondered if the Riddler was trying to keep him out of the avenging obviously under way.

  "Sure of what?"

  "That I can…" Half into a complaint that he, too, could use a few nights' rest where sleep was secure and danger minimal, Niko backed away from it. Before Tempus, he could not show weakness. "… convince Grille that we've come to a parting of the ways."

  "Just a temporary dispute over wage and accommodation. The guild will rate you below what you're worth."

  Squinting at him, Tempus reached under his mattress, pulled forth a pouch, shook it. "Tysian currency. Work money, not pay." He tossed it, and Niko caught it in his hand, hefting it.

  "I'd like to leave my mare here, Commander, where she's safe."

  "Take any of mine, then. I'll give orders. And be sure you get a curfew pass before you leave."

  The audience was over, Niko thought. He rose, tryin
g to stand straight, not to look disappointed, not to show his hurt. Perhaps Janni and some few others had been right: perhaps the Riddler still resented Niko declining his offer of pairbond. He almost offered himself once more to Tempus as a right-side fighter, but his commander's next words saved him from it:

  "Has your moat not returned? Are your dreams still troubled?"

  "No. Yes."

  "I see. We have the same sort of problem with death squads up here that we had in Sanctuary. Is that going to bother you?"

  "Undeads? Love 'em. Got a few of my own who claim to be taking special care of me. If that's all?…" He backed toward the door.

  "Stepson… you don't have to accept this… I can send you elsewhere, put you in here. If you're not able, say the word."

  "I'm fine, Commander. Life to you." He loosened the latch's leather strap and pulled open the door, not waiting to hear Tempus respond in kind, not looking back to see his commander salute him as an equal. The loss of the Trôs horses was a terrible one; from his commander's condition, enemies here were as formidable as he remembered.

  And Tempus was sending him, alone, across the Nisibisi border.

  He wished, securing the door and leaning against it, eyes closing of their own accord as he rested for a moment before going to seek out Grille, that he'd been able to refuse.

  But there was nothing else for him to do. Tempus knew it. He couldn't strut around inside these barracks walls and play politics with status-conscious sellswords. He shouldn't resent his commander making best use of him. And yet something inside him wanted to stay with the Riddler.

  He pushed off and headed for the door where he'd last seen Grillo. His own thoughts made no sense to him. He'd always maintained that a man's primary obligation was to think clearly; ever since his encounter with the witch, he'd been second-guessing himself.

  There was nothing else for him. He was a fighter; it was what he did and what he knew, what had kept him alive all these years. In the Sacred Band, code of honor was the only reality Niko understood—harsh, but life was harsh. Here in Tyse, where he had been enslaved, where he'd promised himself that freedom, should he ever regain it, was something he'd never lose again, he had a chance to avenge not only Janni, and the treatment he'd suffered at the witch's hands, but all the hell his childhood had been. He didn't understand why he wasn't eager to begin it, unless his fear of the mages had eaten through and hollowed out his heart.