by Janet Morris
"No!" Bashir's voice rang out. "No deals with magelings or their devils."
"No!" Randal looked from Tempus to Critias. "Who's this? Look here, my lords, I've got to go… if you want me to get back in there…" He started to rise.
Crit strode over, put a hand upon his shoulder. "Tempus?"
"He's right, a trade won't do. Randal, come with me: Critias, confer with our guest about personnel and troop strength. If Mygdonia is entering Machad, we haven't got much time. We have to secure the peaks before they reach Tyse's borders, or all this will be in vain. Meet us at Bomba's in an hour or so."
And, to Bashir: "Son of my brother, work well."
"Gods go with you," Bashir replied, and blessed him openly so that Randal scrambled up and, shuddering, backed across the room to bolt up the stairs and Tempus had to chase him.
At the stairs' head, he caught the mage."Be calm, mageling. He won't hurt you."
"Who was that? Nisibisi sidelocks… was it?… No, you wouldn't. It couldn't be… one of the murder-god's lovers ...Could it?"
"Randal, you've a lot to learn about expediency and war. The real constitution of things is accustomed to hide itself. That is, an unappirent connection is stronger than an apparent. Those factions whom I join together in this venture are all expressions of the same force, like wind and water, fire and ether, the wet and the dry, which feed upon their opposites. Do you understand me?"
"No. Without gods there is the order of magic; with gods, there is the chaos of emotion. Magic is logic; gods are il-logic…"
"Exactly. There, you do comprehend. Nothing exists without its opposite. To triumph in this matter, we will bring opposites to bear. How would you like to become a Stepson?"
"What? A fighter? You jest. I'm not cut out for—"
"Your bravery is proven. Most of your sort would have fled when they learned the identity of the witch. Your weapons will be those with which you are familiar: spells and so forth; we'll not have time to make you a man at arms. But I'm asking you to become Niko's right-side partner in the action brewing, to climb with us up Wizardwall and do battle with your hereditary enemies, every one of Datan's clutch of evil beings...from demon to witch."
"Why don't you just make me do it; go over my head and have the First Hazard give the order? No, I'm being unfair. I… like Niko too."
"Is that an answer? Have you volunteered?"
"We'll need the Hazard's permission. And, I mean… do I get a horse? I don't have to be fourfooted, do I?"
Tempus chuckled. "I'll give you one of mine."
"Does this mean I don't have to go back to Roxane's… Cybele's that is?"
"Are you endangered here?"
"No more than Niko is." The mageling squared his shoulders: "A Stepson… who'd have thought it? All right, given the mageguild's assent, I'm yours to command for the duration… master."
"Stepsons have no master. I'm their commander, Critias is my second, Straton is next in line."
"What of Grillo?"
"An advisor, a co-worker. Don't pass him any information; he gets too much through the mageguild network as it is."
"He's very… close… to you-know-who—the priest down there."
"We've gathered that. It's none of our affair. Now, back to work, Stepson. I'll expect to hear from you in three days' time. If Niko doesn't return home tonight, we'll have lured him out here or to the mageguild, where I hope to get a second opinion on his condition. Do you think he favors that girl you brought in for him enough to pay a visit there?"
"Niko? He likes his ladies. You might get him there… but the witch will know, and the girl and child may be in jeopardy… Oh, I see: you want to lure Roxane forth, is that it?"
"Go on, now, Randal. If Straton doesn't come to the Peace River house looking for Niko, stay in place. If he does, that's your signal to get out of there as fast as you can and come straight here. Understood?"
The mageling held out a sweaty hand.
He'd be sufficient to his tasks, Tempus realized, as the youngster strode away.
Then he had to face his own responsibilities: no reason left to delay, no way to put it off.
Niko's note had been quite plain; all Tempus had to do, to begin unraveling this mess he'd made, was humble himself before the lord of dreams and call his sister, his heart's bane, down from her sojourn among the planes.
He really didn't want to do this. But too many fates had become entangled with his own.
In the stable, saddling up to ride out among the mists and the intermittent lightning of the mages' feints which made late autumn out of summer skies, he nearly said a prayer for Niko, but managed to refrain. He shouldn't let himself feel so much for these youngsters, or love his Stepsons the way he did. But without the god to occupy his mind, his curse owned him fully.
Having Cime back would put things in perspective, if Aškelon listened to his plea and let her come.
Without her, he had a feeling all his plans would come to naught—Niko die with soul enthralled, consigned to deep damnation; Bashir would learn that gods were not so omnipotent or omniscient as they claimed and bury Successors rather than pylons deep in the high peaks earth; and himself—well, if Datan wanted battle-won souls to do his bidding, an old one such as his might be the prize of all the ages.
He would have to wait and see, he thought, stopping only long enough to stroke Niko's pregnant mare and promise her he'd have him back home soon, safe and sound and soul intact.
She whinnied softly, reassured.
* * *
When the last sounds of Niko's horses had faded and she was sure that he was well away, Roxane cast aside her Cybele-form, made a scullery maid of her one remaining snake and oversaw the clean-up of the kitchen. She could have willed the mess away, but the snake, its sibling gone, was being punished. Stupid snake must learn enough to stay out of the watchdog's way. Impulsive and foolhardy, the snake her dog had chewed the life from deserved its fate thrice over. But its death presented problems—she hadn't used her water bowl to report to Datan or sent her soul on high in person because when she did she'd have to say one snake was dead.
And she'd nothing crucial to report yet; when Niko came back from this meet with Tempus and his Stepsons, she hoped to know more; she hoped he'd bring Bashir back here, where "natural causes" would soon end the Successor's life.
In the kitchen she picked up Niko's cuirass gingerly, as if it were offal, not metal, then changed her mind and left it with sword and dirk upon its drying rack. She'd had to prompt him not to take it with him; he'd gone out in dark shirt and tollman's trousers, not giving it a second thought. She'd find a way to claim it lost or stolen; it cramped her style. To keep it cool she'd needed to take extra care with her disguise and never once let hostility to Niko overwhelm her: it was magic hostile to the wearer which energized the dirk and sword and cuirass into action.
This loving Niko was not difficult; it was too easy. So long inside his mind had taught her to appreciate qualities she'd never understood: kindness, youth, naivete. She spoke a curse which froze the snake in horror, and it dropped a stoneware plate. Would that Datan, lover-lord, had half the sense of duty to which this child adhered so willingly, a heavy burden proudly toted that gave meaning to a life of struggle no Nisibisi warlock would endure.
She sighed and wiped her brow and sat up on the kitchen table where so recently they'd "made love," as Niko said. She'd never for a moment had to feign her passion; she'd almost let her Cybele-face slip away when first he came inside her, so transported by ecstasy was she.
Once she'd thought to murder him and nibble on his sweet young soul a morsel at a time; she might make it last a year. Now she thought of saving him intact, keeping him a minion in delectable servitude—alive, a willing servant who would give her pleasure year by year.
And this complicated simple measures: she could not send the snake with a few undeads to slay him as he rode home with Bashir. She told herself that she yet needed him to spy on Tempus, though the cr
afty Riddler gave out precious little information to any man, somehow thwarting her at every turn as if by accident, though she knew no "fate" or "luck" was so consistent.
She'd failed to turn Bashir away with the undeads sent in Niko's wake to daunt the priest and cast a shadow over their reunion. She'd take the soul of Enlil's priest instead, though she felt with Niko every pain and shared his sadness and his troubles. If she could, she'd have whisked her Stepson up to Wizardwall tonight and kept him there; she'd soon make him a willing captive of the pleasure she longed to share with him.
But Datan waited, and war was nigh, and witches never failed. She knew that half of what she felt was the taint of Niko's suffering; sometimes she wanted to give him back his moat and let him find his rest-place and be Cybele for him forever…
She laughed a harsh and angry laugh, and her snake, its work done, scuttled away.
She'd have him spurn the slut he had waiting for him in the mageguild, the one Tempus kept reminding him to see. That whole encounter with the wolf-mage had been inauspicious; much energy had gone into making Nikodemos forget, and then the Riddler had found a way to get the dream lord's message from him. She'd done the best she could; she couldn't chance destroying Niko's mind completely; he was too useful.
But she needed something favorable, a triumph to report to Datan, not merely a listing of aborted possibilities, a chronicle of little failures.
And he'd let the dog out; she heard it scratching at the door right now. Almost, she arose to let it in, but Niko was even then approaching Brother Bomba's and the dog would learn a lesson; let it wail all night upon her stoop, at least till Niko and Bashir came home.
She deepened her trance and, leaning back, closed her eyes so that she could see through his.
And because of her preoccupation with Nikodemos and her scheming, it never once occurred to Roxane to wonder why Tempus had refrained from mentioning to Niko anything about the Riddler's trip to see her or that he'd given her the dog, but only remarked, "Do you?" when Niko said that he'd a friend down by the river, and there Bashir had agreed to lodge.
When Niko arrived at Brother Bomba's, Bashir's horse in tow and his crossbow in his hand, Madame Bomba herself showed him through the crowd and down the stairs to where Crit and Bashir sucked on bubbly pipes awaiting Tempus.
"Now, Stealth," she said, "don't think I'm being forward, but I've a proposition for you… your uncle in Caronne, you see… he's a man I crave an introduction to."
"It's been years—"
"He loves you, kin and all. Just a note from you; I'd like to be his client. I'll make you wealthy, you won't have to do a thing." She let go of his arm, stepped back. "Here we are. They're right in there. What say you? Do an old woman of the armies a favor, soldier?"
She was a friend of Tempus', he knew. Still, he never traded on that family relationship; he owed his uncle far too much… and he'd refused to come into the family business; they'd parted on uneasy terms. But then, life was full of obligations: "A note, you say? Give me paper and I'll write it. But as a favor, Madame; you're a good friend to the Stepsons. Show the Sacred Band your usual generosity; help the Riddler. I don't want anything more for this. It's nothing much to write a letter." As he spoke, with the quill and paper she pulled out of her voluminously pocketed apron, he wrote his uncle: Madame Bomba would have her contraband at half the going price.
"May I read it?" Eager as a child, she scanned the lines, then stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. He grinned at her and shook his head; he saw the child within her: what a wench she must once have been.
Then she slid aside the thin partition and Bashir rose up to embrace him; their lips met in northern greeting, and he heard a derisive snicker come from somewhere among the dozen men within the smoke-filled chamber. Whether it was at his expense, he couldn't say. Half these men stretched out on mats with pipes and blown-glass jars before them were Stepsons, Sacred Banders; the rest were specials and a pair of side-locked free men of Nisibis; none of them had the right to smirk. But upstairs as Madame Bomba brought him through he'd seen others of his squadron and got no more in greeting than a wave or nod of head. From the two who'd ridden with him out of Sanctuary he'd asked for more—some indication that their promises to act in his behalf had been fulfilled. Distant stares and taut mouths were what he'd gotten; no one wanted him too close, that much was clear.
Bashir's hug was fierce and lingered: "Are you all right, my friend? Where's your gear?"
Niko saw Grit's hawk eyes watching. He tugged on Bashir's laden belt and slipped free of him, replying, "There are weapons at hand here if I need them. I had to sneak away without waking a certain lady." He hoped he'd hidden the uneasiness he felt as he squatted down between his task force leader and Bashir. He'd worn that panoply too long; he was glad to be free of it. In his belt he had his stars and blossoms and a hunting knife, single-edged with serrations on the curve from point to flat of blade. The only difference between a hunting knife and a combat knife was what you stuck it in. He laid the crossbow by his knee: "Expecting trouble, are we?"
"Not unless you brought it with you," Crit said, his eye-whites red from sucking on the waterpipe, whose mouthpiece he held out.
Thinking that he'd never be at ease socializing with his task force leader, Niko dragged deeply and sought to pass the mouthpiece on. This time Bashir spoke up: "Smoke on, we're well ahead of you." And as he did he thought that in this room where those he loved the best lay about, relaxing, he felt totally alone. The Stepsons stepping wide of him he'd half expected, tried to understand. But Bashir, too, was acting strange, and this was sudden. Bashir was not one to criticize or worry; Enlil granted the warriors he favored a calm heart and far-seeing eye. And Bashir knew Niko's skill with Death Touch and found objects; together in the old days they'd thought and fought their way out of many a tight spot against ridiculous odds. He coughed, then drank the wine his old friend proffered and put speculation by. It was his lot to be alone, he'd had omen after omen of it.
When Straton and Tempus came in together, every man upon the floor sat up or raised his head or straightened shoulders, but the Riddler waved them back and put them at their ease.
By then Niko's head was spinning and voices loud and colors brighter than they should have been and he found it difficult to speak.
Tempus said, "I'm late. Your pardon, fighters. Sometimes it takes longer than expected to prove oneself a total fool," and sat where Bashir and Crit moved over to make room for him with Straton on his right.
"Commander?" Critias asked his meaning.
"Never mind. It doesn't matter." The Riddler's eyes were on him so that Niko shifted, pulling on his tunic.
The pipe was passed and talk turned, as talk will, to women, and then to the girl Niko'd found north of the border, and Strat suggested that they go take a look at her: "You can't leave her in the mageguild forever, Stealth. They've few provisions for women there. We don't need to be beholden to those sorcerous ants. And, too, if you don't want her, you could give her to a friend…"
He thought he'd say no, decline, explain he had no interest beyond preventing an innocent's death. But somehow they all got up and staggered out of there, headed for the mageguild, Niko wondering if he were dreaming this: one didn't go reeling through hostile streets in the middle of the night carousing with one's commander and one's task force leader. Neither Critias nor Tempus were known as public revelers; having them on either side like drinking buddies of the rank and file was disconcerting; he couldn't decide whether it was for good or ill, whether he was being accorded some due privilege, or just there to ease Bashir.
If not for all he'd smoked and drunk too much wine, he would have balked outside the mageguild. He expected Bashir to do it for him, to the extent that he could anticipate or think out anything at all.
He never should have let himself indulge in drug and drink so carelessly; he concentrated on walking upright; when his eyes left his feet he saw the Tysian mageguild's colonnaded front. By th
en he was leaning on Straton's shoulder, and he could hear voices behind him: Bashir's, and Tempus', and Critias in occasional monosyllabic comment, all speaking Nisi low and fast, trouble riding whispered sibilances and urgency in their tenses and their tone. But the sense of their discussion was beyond his befuddled capacity to fathom and, next he knew, Straton was telling him: "That's it, Stealth, just one more flight."
Then there were nightmarish halls thick with shadows and incense so sweet he gagged when he breathed. He'd never in his most tortured dreams thought to set foot inside a mageguild. To be there with the Riddler, who disdained all power arts— including gods, of late—and with Bashir, who was on the other side from mages, and be there barely under his own power, leaning on Straton, most superstitious and cautious of all the Stepsons… he must be dreaming: passed out safe in Brother's Bomba's, hearing their voices through his stupor, letting their presence spark the nature of his dream.
But then Strat said, "There you go, Stealth," and, "Sit right there, don't move. We'll be back to get you," and all familiar voices ceased.
He was propped against a wall, and his eyelids were weighted closed. He struggled to get them open and when he did he closed them straightaway against what he saw.
He was in a long, narrow chamber with lofty ceiling and painted walls depicting ceremonies of adepts working classified acts of magic; at its end was a raised and shrouded dais with a shriveled mage upon its throne.
The eyes he'd seen in that brief glimpse were cavernous and ancient; the head was barren of hair and the mouth pleated and open: the words that came out of it danced in fiery letters before Niko's eyes and then turned to ropes which bound themselves about his limbs. He had time to think it consummately sad that those he'd trusted most and loved the best had betrayed him. Then the invocation of the wizened creature took over his spirit and he could not think at all.
* * *
"I'm sorry," the archmage of Tyse said, shaking his bald and ancient head as he came out of a room only Straton had been allowed to enter, just long enough to seat Niko there.