by Janet Morris
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The mercenaries' hostel sat upon Tyse's southeast boundary, its front door in Tysian jurisdiction, its sleeping quarters, rear exits, postern gates and stables beyond Tyse's city limits and thus free from curfew or any other law the local police or Elite Guard might wish to enforce.
The hamlet in whose jurisdiction the balance of the hostel sat was called Peace Falls; there Peace River cascaded down three hundred feet of cliffs and wound about the farms like a lady's holiday girdle. On the river, Roxane had long maintained a home.
But tonight she was at the back door of the hostel, on a Peace Falls street dotted with other ladies whose skirts were shorter and faces painted brighter as they loitered, snaring mercenaries to take inside the red-lit houses of ill repute which intermingled with custom weaponers and taverns and gaming houses there to serve the mercenaries. The street was called Commerce Avenue and it was wide and busy day and night. Nowhere in Tyse were caravaners so free with contraband. Drug dens specializing in krrf or opiates advertised their wares along with others offering more arcane substances to flood the mind with psychedelic dreams and give more personal glimpses of the future than abutting psychics' shops or card-readers could offer. On Commerce you could have your fortune told by presenting head or hand or foot or more private parts, or choosing a painted turtle or a cup of tea—as long as copper coins accompanied your choice.
The fortune Roxane meant to tell was Niko's. She'd made a fine disguise he'd never penetrate, as he had almost done when she'd served him rehabilitating stew at the Shepherd's Crook, where she'd merely cohabited with a barmaid in a shabby body. This time she'd made a whole persona, that of a young and comely virgin girl of the sort that Niko liked.
She waited till she sensed him on the street and cued the snakes, disguised as drugged south-siders of the well-heeled sort that played at debauch here and paid for pleasures they'd never dare demand from their wives or indulge in at their homes. The snakes accosted her loudly, looking like Tysian popinjays, merchants' sons or politicians' spawn of the ilk that buy freedom from conscription by sending serfs to war in their stead.
Like a well-bred and frightened girl, as she heard Niko's horses, she tried to fend off the snakes. And like the fool he was, he vaulted down from his bay to intervene.
The snakes ran as they'd been told to; she swooned and Niko had to catch her. She'd been angry when he hadn't stayed with the Riddler, but Tempus was simply a more crafty quarry than others Roxane had sought. She'd lost two more minions fielding Adrastus' "son," Shamshi. She and Datan had already lost two warlocks to the Riddler in fair battle, and a hapless demon besides. Nisibis had not counted casualties of that magnitude in a century. These mortals would have much to answer for, by and by.
In Niko's arms she played the girl, calling herself "Cybele" and hesitating when he offered to buy her drink and dinner, as would any runaway from good family origins who was out of money but yet had pride.
Thus she lured him into an establishment known as Brother Bomba's, which served first-class food in front and offered anything a man might name behind a back door.
"Now tell me what you're doing on a street like this, Cybele," Niko prodded, drinking tea because she'd refused even watered wine as they broke bread together.
Her hair was fair, and her eyes were green, and her clothes were once noble, but layered with dust. She could see in his eyes that he was taken; she could feel in his mind his concern; Niko, whose youth had been a horror, would always save a young one what he could. She said, "It shames me, my lord. I cannot." She covered her eyes with her hands.
"Niko," he reminded her. "I'm not your lord. Where are your parents, Cybele?"
Still hiding her face behind her hands, she shook her head, using the time to put the suggestion in his mind that he give her money to find an apartment, that he shelter her and succor her, and perhaps…
He began to broach the subject, explaining carefully that his intentions were honorable, offering to use his guild connections to contact her relatives, if she had any.
Then she put down her hands and took one of his in both of hers, and kissed its rough, scarred back. By tomorrow she'd have him where she wanted him—at her river house; she'd be his confidant, perhaps his lover.
Datan faced his son, Shamshi, whose shoulders were squared and eyes shining brighter than the candelabras in the archmage's inner sanctum.
"She sleeps," said the boy, bursting with pride at a job well done.
Datan, too, was proud. A son such as this one could not be supplicated from the masters of the four elements or even the underword. Luck had played a part. "Well done," he replied, and hugged the boy to him. It was the first time they had ever embraced. Once he'd realized that the boy had been with Roxane, lain in carnal embrace and ritual copulation with Wizard-wall's finest witch, everything began to change between them: there was no need for further subterfuge.
Now he regretted the years his child had struggled to hide his light among Mygdonians. It must have been like living in with wolves, being educated by chimpanzees or fraternizing with pigs. "Come and tell me all about it—your sojourn in the free zone, your trip here."
He tousled the boy's pale hair and led him to a table in which a map of the known world was incised. A snap of fingers sufficed to bring food and drink from the kitchens: pheasant stuffed with almonds and grapes, watered wine, pastries he'd had prepared specially to please a child. He didn't need to hear Shamshi's account of his venture into Tyse; he'd overseen it personally, changing shape as circumstance required, always ready to intervene. Once waked by Roxane's premature caresses, the mageblood in this child could not be put back to sleep. He must be taught, he must be trained.
Listening, Datan nodded in the appropriate places; when the boy would falter, he asked the right questions. He'd not chastised Shamshi for lying with Roxane, as he'd made little of it with the witch. Enchantresses of such power often dreamed of dominance, and Roxane's nature was vengeful and mean. It was best to turn her devisive efforts to his benefit—for what benefited Datan benefited Wizardwall. So he'd sent her out to tend to Nikodemos and the Riddler in person, away from more disastrous pursuits.
When the boy hesitated, then trebled that his story was done, Datan broached a difficult and painful subject: his son must continue what he'd started, keep Jihan intrigued, even ride with her up into Mygdonia—if the Froth Daughter could be persuaded. Jihan had sworn to return Shamshi to his parents and safety; the blindstruck mother was in her husband's keeping, halfway to Mygdon by now.
The boy blinked hard, hiding tears his upbringing as a prince had made him too proud to shed. Before Shamshi could frame the words to ask how he'd failed, that Datan would so punish him when all he wanted was to stay here with his sire and learn to be as he, the Osprey explained as much as he dared—enough to soothe, not enough to be injurious should inexperience or Tempus pry the truth from that young, tender mouth.
Then, when the child's appetite assured Datan that the boy was content with the offered explanation, he went to greet his guest.
He'd kept her sleeping long, a thing one so new at life and so long in the company of the untiring Riddler would think entirely natural. He'd had things to do, an avatar to test, a witch's self-serving mechinations to contravene.
Nothing he'd seen in Roxane's errors or intentional misinterpretation of his orders troubled him as much as the Storm-bringer's blood red orbs appearing on the field of battle over Tempus as Datan and the Riddler stood face to face.
And yet, he was sure the Froth Daughter's father would not interpose Himself directly so long as the daughter was not threatened physically. No father's meddling is welcome when a child tries its independence.
He knocked upon her door and as he did so snapped the slumber spell, and she came to greet him, her scale armor corselet glimmering in the soft hall light, her magnificent figure limned enticingly in the open door.
"I trust you slept well, my lady Jihan," he said smoothly, not a hint o
f the impact her human form's animal magnetism had on him sounding in his words. A vision is one thing, a mental impression another, but a meeting in the flesh with Jihan made Datan almost forget whose daughter she was and whose lover she'd become. "I'm Shamshi's—"
"Father. He told me. I'll keep your secret, Osprey." Jihan stepped forward, out of the shadowed doorway. Datan spread his arms to embrace her in thanks as was Nisibisi custom. She caught his right hand as it swept by and shook it so firmly he thought he heard his bones complain.
"'Protector," I like to call myself. His mother would be executed, his father-of-record shamed unnecessarily, if his lineage were known." As she loosed her grip, he turned her hand in his and led her down the corridor.
"Not to mention the boys' inheritance… the power, the position… these too, I wager, would be lost to him—and you."
"Ah, I hear in your tone that you've accepted all the evil things said of me with not even the tiniest doubt. All men hate their enemies, and anyone the slightest bit smarter or more able. Surely you've seen this for yourself, even in so short a time among—"
"So you know my provenance?"
Datan couldn't stop looking at her; every inch of him longed to press against her; he headed them toward his seraglio, a plan forming in his mind. "It makes us even. And it should ease your mind: your father is respected here, as everywhere He is known. As long as you wish it, you are my honored guest. And I hope it will be long enough to let me plead my case, mayhap to change your opinion of me. Though you walk among men you needn't share their prejudices—your intelligence offers you so much more in insight…"
"I promised the boy to accompany him to safety—home to his mother. She's not here, your staff says. She had some sort of accident?…"
"Yes, unfortunately. She went north with her husband. What you and Shamshi have agreed is between you two, but I swear he's safe here and you may leave him—" Pausing, he pushed open the door at the hall's end and he heard Jihan's breath catch in her throat at the splendor of illusory vistas upon the walls and hanging silks and forgotten works of art from age-old cultures. The last of the seraglio's women, alerted by his unspoken signal, hurried out by the chamber's back door. "Leave him with me," he continued, leading her to the right where a room those women seldom entered could be found—if one could dematerialize a section of travertine wall.
The wall dissolved; Datan bowed low: "After you, Jihan."
She passed through the portal, her fine high buttocks making her scale armor slither like a sea serpent's coils. He followed, hearing her reply that she'd keep her word and see Shamshi home to Mygdoru'a since his mother wasn't here.
"He'll need a few days' rest."
"More? We've been here—"
"He's just a boy, my lady. And one who's had adventures arduous for a child his age."
"My… friends will be worried. I must send a message, then."
"Your friends? Or is it one in particular, who pretends to friendship, but in reality is an enemy of mine with thought for little else but bloodshed and..."
"I'll hear no ill word spoken of him." Her eyes flashed red as she turned about in the ante room, staring at him, her muscular arms crossed.
"Such loyalty. You've heard tomes of evil said of me, no doubt, without complaint. Let me make my case, dear lady. An intelligence such as yours should gather all the facts it can before choosing sides."
A smile danced in the corners of her mouth; her arms unfolded. She was looking beyond him now, where the doorway he had made was once more a solid marble wall. "You'd woo me, O fearsome, vilified archmage?"
"You loved an 'archmage' enough to take that form, or so my sources tell me. I wish only justice, a hearing, august Froth Daughter. And to prove it, I'll conjure the Riddler forth for you, and facilitate any message you choose to send him."
"You can do this?"
"Assuredly." He had her, then. He escorted her around the corner and into the vaulted chamber he used for summoning, and on a single daybed bade her sit. Then he went and spun the globe within its mosaic circle which stood in the very center of the room, starlight spewing on it from the roof's skylight. And as the gem-encrusted globe spun round, the light it caught flickered along the walls and streaked, and when he stopped it with an outstretched hand and then stepped back, the light coalesced, and where the globe had been a man took form, lying on his back with a woman riding high atop him. His eyes were closed, and one hand on her buttocks, and as these two began to thicken into flesh Datan heard Jihan's harsh indrawn breath and stayed the process: "Yes, my lady? It seems we've chosen an inopportune time to interrupt him."
"That's right," she snapped. "And I've changed my mind about the message: I'll let him worry."
And so Datan let the lifelike image of Tempus, his arm in a sling and his needs being tended by the widow Maldives, fade away.
Luck, this night, was doubly on Datan's side.
Book Four :
PEACE FALLS
Niko hadn't liked what he'd seen in the free zone. The specials he'd fallen in with—Ari and his left-side leader, Haram—called the refugees "Maggots" and couldn't tell a civilian from a Successor. To deem the situation in Tyse "explosive" was an understatement: among the half-dozen citizen militias and as many private armies, Elite Guards and Rankan garrisons and mercenary hordes who fought among themselves, casualties were a daily occurrence.
Niko had remarked to Ari that he should have been given a tally sheet along with the armband that let him pass where he willed and allowed him to ignore the curfew.
The wisest thing to do in such environs was to harden one's heart to the pathos, close one's ears to the fanatics of the factions, forget words like justice and mercy, and do one's job.
To that end, he'd come up here, northeast of town, to seek out Bashir in Free Nisibis. He'd tried convincing the Successors in the free zone to have Bashir come down to meet him, but his armband and pale skin spoke against him. He couldn't blame them: Tyse was little more than a baited trap or an open grave for a man who let his caution slip. And he couldn't send a message which might be intercepted, couldn't divulge what it was he wanted. Tempus had straightforwardly asked Bashir for a meeting and been ignored.
He let Janni's bay pick its way through the new moon night.
It was raining, and he'd been waiting for a night like this for nearly a week now. No scent or track would be left behind him; the sound of the rain would mask his movement. He'd be able to rate Bashir's security when he saw him. Over his shoulders he pulled the oilcloth mantle he'd been issued when he was inducted into Grille's special forces. The sight of its yellow lining was enough to send honest men running for cover and criminals fumbling for bribe or weapon. The repute of his profession had fallen, in these lands where he'd been born, to an all-time low. But the lining kept the rain off, and the color kept the curious away, and Niko, who couldn't trust himself, bereft of moat and partner, to steer a middle course or negotiate a fair solution as once he'd done, valued it for these reasons.
In the hostel, where he was billeted, he didn't rest easy. In Cybele's rented house down by Peace River he'd found a refuge which he guarded jealously, kept secret from the specials who thought themselves his friends here. He'd given up making friends. The pretense of it he kept up under orders: Tempus wanted these fighters' measure taken. Niko, to do that, was keeping company with men whose natures and entertainments (save for Ari, who simply mimicked his left-side leader) were reprehensible to him. If the elite among the mercenaries had been skimmed off to form the Stepsons, then its opposite was stationed here in Tyse, like the sediment at the bottom of a cheap wine jug.
Some might have said that what Niko was doing was less than honorable, but none of that sort resided here at the foot of Wizardwall.
Crossing the Nisibisi border he could feel the difference, as if the wards still lingering here from former times were cobwebs jeweled with rain which wrapped themselves about his limbs. He wasn't worried; the wards were ancient wraiths of lost
power: this was Successor country, and Wizardwall little more than an evil shadow on the horizon. Enlil's priesthood ruled here, warrior-priests who fought in the lines like Abarsis and blessed swords to cut through charms and eyes to pierce illusion.
After his release from servitude on Wizardwall, he'd spent a pleasant year here—or memory had made it seem better than it was.
He reined his horse to the right at a fork and soon saw haloed lights of a farm or tiny village up the road. He thought of stopping to secure a meal—guesting was taken seriously here where everyone had the sorcerous enemy in common— and was about to head his horse across a field when he heard a scuttling in the tall corn planted by the roadside.
He set the bay after the sound: anyone who ran away, time had taught him, should be chased and caught and questioned.
Between the rows of saddle-high corn over squishing, muddy ground his horse cantered slowly, ears pricked forward, nostrils wide—then leaped ahead suddenly and veered sharply left, and ran the skulker down, trampling its vestments, heavy with mud, so that as the figure fell it sobbed a bit, too winded to scream.
He knew it was a woman as he backed the horse and slid down into ankle-high mud; he didn't realize it was a pregnant girl until he tried to turn the curled-up form and was bitten on the wrist and clawed. He couldn't risk a torch; he couldn't wrest any answer from the pale, thin face smeared with mud or make the frightened eyes meet his own. But the child was near her term and hardly older than he had been when he came out of Bandara. He'd hurt her, too. Cursing his horse and his luck he hoisted her up on his saddle and led the bay through the field until, one hand holding the girl in place and the other on his reins, he came up to the farmhouse's back door.