Beyond Sanctuary

by Janet Morris

  "Keep it. If he wants it, he'll collect it." Pregnant girl?

  He wheeled his horse and rode away, wondering if he had patience enough left in him for baby Hazards and mistakes such as Niko seemed continually to be making lately.

  * * *

  Roxane, a/k/a Cybele, cursed so that the snakes, once again in her service, rushed for cover as soon as they'd slithered into her study to announce that Tempus was at the front door.

  She wasn't prepared for him; she wasn't about to try him in battle, her magic against his deific mandate. All the tests she and Datan had undertaken suggested that the Storm Gods still favored him.

  And anyway, she meant to use him to destroy Datan, not let Datan use him to destroy her. Having to apologize for what she'd done with Shamshi, and to stand by while Datan had taken the boy out of her hands in mid-adventure, had only hardened her resolve. And she knew Datan was watching her closely; he'd bade her come down here and work openly, doubtless expecting her to come up short against this dangerous "mortal" called Tempus. She didn't intend to let that happen.

  She'd been busy, this evening, collecting souls and farming out murder to the death squads. The warlock who'd burned to death in the root cellar during Tempus's sack of the Outbridge headquarters was a restless, tortured spirit still—Datan hadn't lifted a wand to help him.

  Roxane, long established in Tyse in the guise of a human revolutionary, knew all the death squad leaders of the insurgency, and fielded dead squads besides. This evening, the undeads had brought her three fat and dissipated souls stained with sin: she'd just been consigning them to a demon who would send them in coffle down to weigh against the slain warlock's soul. She'd wanted to wait and watch to make sure the scales balanced. The dead adept was a friend and confidant; he'd be right to expect her help.

  Now she had to put her scrying bowl aside. A little water slopped out as she did so. She ran a finger through it and used its charm to hasten and strengthen her change into the "Cybele" persona, a body devoid of sorcerous indicators, unsullied and virginal so that even Niko's enchanted panoply didn't react to it. This and her presence in Stealth's confused mind were her most potent weapons at the moment.

  She'd use them, she decided, and went to let the Riddler in, changing her home's decor as she strode through rooms, adding dust and scratches and creaking floorboards and moth-chewed holes in velvet drapes. Tempus must see what he'd expect, if she was to prevail. Too rich and fine a home would not do at all.

  Nervous as the girl she seemed, she lifted the latch and loosened the thong and pulled the door back just a crack. "Yes?" she quavered, smoothing down a wrinkled, high-necked robe she'd conjured. It was ecru and modest and spotlessly clean, threadbare at one elbow, but just the sort of bedclothes a noble child, chased homeless down from Vandor or Machad, might wear.

  As a final precaution, she sent the snakes a wordless command which propelled them tumbling out the back door into the night. They were Datan's spies as well as useful thralls: she couldn't quite forgive them for the pain they'd caused her when the Osprey called them from her belly. Stupid snakes might misinterpret what she said or what she did…

  "I'm looking for a maid called Cybele," came Tempus's hoarse and raspy voice. Through the crack she could see him, towering, helmet under arm; his face, lit by the oil lamp on the doorpost, arranged—nonthreatening, noncommittal. "I'm a friend of Niko's," he added when she did not respond or open up the door, as if that explained it all.

  She thought quickly, then exclaimed: "Niko? He's not hurl? You're of the army? Please!" She jerked back the heavy door with an artful, flustered stumbled. "Tell me he's not slain! Oh… In, come in, kind sir. Tell me it's not bad news you bring!" He stepped within, shoulders blocking the hall, leather and armor creaking, the smell of horse and whetstone and man and rain coming with him. She'd never thought to be this close. She backed away with mincing steps, a girl whose fingers shook as they covered her lips, who had obviously had experiences with soldiers come bearing tidings of loss and mourning, but who stood up straight and gave back glance for glance through wide and gentle eyes.

  And he surmised what she'd hoped he would, assuring her that Niko was "on a mission… for me. I just thought to stop by and let you know whom to call on should you need anything while he's away."

  She slumped at the "good news" and he reached out to catch her by the elbow. This was the test: she would see whether his flesh could contact hers without him sensing anything amiss— that she was no more or less than what she seemed. She mumbled her relief and welcomed him: "There's not much here… a bit of beer he's left, some young potato wine. He'd want you to have it, sir… Are you Grillo, then? He's said that name to me…" Making girlish guesses, prattling on, she led him into the front sitting room, more modest than it had been moments before, and fetched pottery cups and a wine jug from the sideboard, asking questions the Riddler wouldn't want to answer—about where Niko was and why and how long he'd be away.

  "We can't say, I'm sure he told you. Has he left you enough money? Don't hesitate to say if he has not."

  She tossed back tawny hair and demurred bravely that Niko had provided for her, then hesitated: "—as best he could." And she let her face show caution, then, and a pretense of dissembling he'd see right through: "And I have my own means, my inheritance…" Then, a trace of fear to spice it: "I shouldn't be talking with you this way. You haven't even said your name. How can I be sure you are a friend of his, and not an enemy? How can I know I'm not endangering him?" She rose."You'd better go!" She saw to it that he noticed how her hands, wringing one another, trembled.

  He chuckled, an odd laugh with gravel in it, and cocked his head at her: "Grille's name's on many tongues hereabouts. You've not broken any confidence by using it to me. But I wouldn't tell anyone else who might come by that Niko's even gone. Do you understand me? A girl your age in a house like this… alone… you'd want to give the impression that he'll be back at any time." He put down the ceramic cup he was holding and stood up: "I'll be going, as you've asked. If you come to think you need protection, or find you're short of funds if he's gone longer than he expected—or if you worry and need news of him, send word to the mercenaries' hostel or the Outbridge station by any soldier with crossed lightning bolts or bulls upon his armband. Or call at Brother Bomba's and tel! Madame Bomba you need a loan. Security in my name— Tempus. She'll give you what you need."

  She thanked him and rushed toward him, grasping his hand and pressing it to her cheek. She hoped she hadn't overdone it. But her success had emboldened her, she'd try to enlarge upon this contact, see him again. "I've been so worried, so lonely," she blurted out."I feel much better now you've come. I'm afraid to go out, and since the dog died I'm afraid in the night..."

  Until he'd crossed her threshold and donned his helmet and mounted, she stood watching. Except for his odd little smile and the alertness in his eyes, she'd have been sure mat she had fooled him. As it was, she'd gained the promise of a watchdog, courtesy of the armies, and even a way to insinuate herself into the Riddler's very company, should she dare or need to try.

  When he'd gone, she conjured guests for a celebration: three undeads, friends of Niko's, who might just be drafted into service before too long.

  It was time to pull tight Niko's string; pregnant girls and magelings bearing messages from the dream lord were no part of Roxane's plan. Niko mustn't get back with word to Tempus; or he must forget again. Or she must find some way to use the meddling of the entelechy of the seventh sphere to her advantage: if Tempus sought out Datan and made an end to him, not Roxane or any other witch or adept of Wizardwall would scour the hills for souls to buy him peace. He'd not lifted a finger for any of them. And each time she did what Datan should have done, for spirits languishing in immemorial recompense for the favors they'd enjoyed in life, she made sure that each shade in question knew that it was she, not he, who bought them out of purgatory.

  * * *

  Thunderbolts clashed in the sky over T
yse and along the Nisibisi border lightning furrowed the earth in rows as if the gods had turned to farming, though gods had no hand in calling the tempest raging overhead: the wizards of Nisibis were testing the Tysian mageguild's strength.

  Now and again a canny bolt came to ground in Tyse, un-parried. One had struck the old stones of the palace; whether any had survived within, none could say. One had struck the altar pits within the free zone, crawling blue and bright along the ground until every god's abode was singed and blackened. One had struck the northern garrison, lighting fires which touched off magazines of corn and wheat and naphtha: the entire north-em quadrant was ablaze.

  At midday, the black smoke from the north on the black wind from Nisibis under the black clouds above made the staunchest man doubt his senses: those without knotted ropes which burned away the hours soon lost all track of night and day.

  In Peace Falls, mercenaries stayed close by their horses; some slept with favorites in their stalls, in wetted straw with blindfolds near and wineskins filled with bubbling water mixed with soda to soak kerchiefs for their noses if they had to fight their way through noxious smoke; some gamed and argued in the tackrooms over whether the Tysian mageguild could hold its own; others simply waited for the change of ad hoc shifts: twenty men here had drawn straws for the early watch over more than sixty horses. No one groused or shirked this duty: without their mounts, any cavalry such as the newly-arrived Stepsons were next to useless.

  Entering Brother Bomba's with three Sacred Band pairs in their wake, Critias and Straton were offered hot towels to wipe the ash and trail dust from face and hands by a yet-comely matron who introduced herself as Madame Bomba: "By the god, are ye Sacred Banders or chimneysweeps? If you've reservations, it's our pleasure to serve ye? Come now, lieutenant, I didn't catch the name?…"

  Pulling out a slate, she pursed her lips, detaining them in the foyer so that Straton looked about for hidden traps or hostiles crowding in behind the six Stepsons in the narrow, darkened hall.

  Crit slapped the towel down into the woman's hand. "Critias, I'm called, if it's any of your concern. Either let us in or turn us out. We're eight and we're not in the mood—"

  "There, there, Critias. Yes, I've your name right here. And these others?…" to Crit's surprise, she named each of his men, nodding at the end: "That's it, then. The whole lot, present and accounted for. Come this way, gentlemen."

  And she led them in, around a blind corner to a smoke-filled, taper-lit dining room with linen on the tables and clean, well-dressed women at the bar. "The Riddler wants you all to make yourselves at home here," she confided, taking Critias by the arm, "where a man can do as he might please without being misunderstood. In there—" she pointed to a curtained arch with filigree at its apex "—you'll find an upstairs and a downstairs… upstairs is for what upstairs is always for—rest and mattress sports; downstairs we've smoking rooms and substances of many sorts."

  "Just food, a little wine. We were told we'd meet with our—"

  "I know why you're here. We'll send word to the Riddler, as we've done with your mates. You've a full twenty-four hours entertainment here, by Tempus' decree and mine. So enjoy, gentlemen… it's on the house."

  And she left Critias by a window table in the room's far corner, set for four, though only he and Strat sat there. The others, when he looked about, were scattered throughout the room—deployed, he admitted, as well as he could have done it, so that every entrance was covered and yet no one sat alone—and he hadn't had to ask, as he usually did, in a place like this, to be seated against a wall.

  "What do you think?" Strat asked him. "Or have you fallen in love?"

  "Half," Crit smiled bleakly. And: "This is where we were told to report. If there's a trick to it, we'll deal with it when it comes."

  What came was a peaches-and-cream serving wench with a bosom modestly covered in lace to her throat, who gave a recitation of the menu and recommendations as to what was best, then lemon-chicken soup and crown of lamb in quick succession, with a light white wine to wash it down and asparagus and rice with onions on the side.

  "Am I dreaming?" Straton wondered, wiping his bearded lips. "This is hardly the 'three hots and a flop' I'm accustomed to."

  "The poison hasn't hit yet; dream on." Crit wasn't entirely joking. He'd let the girl choose their menu but waited until she'd seen Straton clear half his plate before partaking of what surely must be black-market delicacies. There was quite a bit wrong about this place, so calm and sedately mannered when magewar raged outside. Every now and then the floorboards shook, or a flare of lightning brightened convivial dimness, reminding him of where he was, and why. But Tempus's orders had been specific: they were to rendezvous here even before they talked to any officials at the hostel. And that hadn't been easy to do.

  When Tempus appeared in the curtained archway, Crit had just decided to find the Bomba woman again and have a heart-to-heart.

  "That's the biggest dog I've ever seen," Straton remarked as Tempus, in sooty corselet and cloak, and the huge black dog with the ferocious demeanor came their way.

  "Well met, Critias. And just in time." Tempus sat, and the dog—or wolf, for it was that big and strong—crawled under the table from where emanated a sneeze and a growl which made Straton tilt his chair back, one foot up on its rung. "Straton, life to you."

  Straton saluted Tempus, eyes on the tablecloth's hem.

  "It is with great relief and pleasure that I return your band to you," Crit said, only a sidelong glance at Straton revealing his wish to make his report privately.

  But Strat knew him; the fighter was already getting up. "I'm ready to see what lies beyond those curtains. If you won't be needing me, commander?" He grinned mischievously.

  "In an hour, come back down." Tempus smiled a tiny smile all Stepsons knew well: some action or other was in the offing, blood about to be shed, fur to fly: it was in the Riddler's noncommittal, glittery eyes.

  "With pleasure, my lord. The trip's been dull, long and too full of boring reminiscences I've heard before. May I assume we'll be—?"

  "Strat, you've got an hour," Crit broke in.

  "Right." And he was gone.

  "I regret I'll have to cut your recreation short… you've seen the state of things, Critias."

  "What I can do about it? I don't know, but I expect you'll tell me. The woman here, Bomba, knows more about us than I'd think prudent."

  "She's a good friend. You'll billet here, with this last six of yours. Objections?"

  "None. Everyone else in all right? The advance pair? The balance? She said we're 'all accounted for'."

  "Stepsons, yes. But Jinan's gone, and both Trôs horses. Niko is out seeking Bashir—we've much to cover, and no time to spare." And Tempus proceeded to debrief him concerning the state of affairs he'd left in Sanctuary, the replacement Stepsons, what had been done for Tamzen's father, whether the bodies of the children had been found, matters of covert enterprise concerning the Beysibs, Jubal's hawkmasks, One-Thumb and the vampire who lived in Shambles Cross.

  Though he had some successes to report, Crit had thought to leave those stones unturned—Sanctuary's problems were in essence insoluble; they would keep until the avenging was done and glory won in battle. If not for the fact that he'd left the town in the care of guttersnipes and slitpurses who were free to maraud in the name of Stepsons, he'd not have given the blighted south a second thought, he admitted. The wise and the prudent fled Sanctuary by the score, like fleas departing a dead Downwind dog.

  Tempus nodded matter-of-factly, looked around, leaned closer and said, "Speaking of dogs, this one's to go to a house on Peace River, a mile downstream from the falls. I want you to deliver it to a young woman who calls herself Cybele, one of Niko's girls. The house is large, and the girl is suspect, and you're to tell her it must have its krrf three times daily—this much." Tempus pulled a silver box from his belt and apportioned enough of the drug for a long evening's revel into a packet, then held it out. Crit took it. "Sus
pect?"

  "Niko's having problems. Possession is a serious charge. We need to confirm the allegations or dismiss the charges. The dog will do that."

  Crit knew better than to ask how the dog could help: "Possession? He's still not right? I'm sorry. But about the woman— anything we should know?"

  "You and Straton shouldn't have any trouble. She's expecting the dog and swears she lives alone. Tell her you've come from me and you're a friend of Niko's, but don't be forthcoming. I'll brief you thoroughly when you return, but right now… what you don't know, she can't find out." "A witch, then?"

  "Maybe. Maybe just a girl. He's been picking up strays. There's another at the mageguild, a girl of thirteen who has just given birth to a son—"

  "Not even Niko works that fast."

  Under the table, the dog whined. Tempus shook more krrf into his palm and stuck his hand under the table. The dog, in its haste to have its treat, made the table shudder and the wine cups teeter.

  Crit did some mental addition: Trôs horses gone; Jihan missing; billet here instead of the hostel or Outbridge. "Well at least you've got some interesting work for me. I won't pretend I like mollycoddling that bunch of ersatz swordsmen we left behind any more than chaperoning this lot up here." Grit's eyes shifted to one of the Sacred Band pairs just disappearing beyond the curtain.

  "When you finish with the dog, go familiarize yourself with Grillo's specials—Haram's their task force leader; insert a team as close to Grillo as you can without seeming obvious—set up your own network, use whomever you like, reassemble your old task force… whatever you think the situation requires. But watch Grillo—he's one for playing angles. Stay away from the guild representative, Vasili, as much as possible, or he'll read you the rulebook. We'll be writing our own rulebook for this one."

  "Just what I hoped you'd say."

  * * *