A Path to Coldness of Heart (22 page)

Carrying a small pack, looking like just another vagabond, the newly minted Bert slipped out the back of the apothecary shop half an hour later.

Chames Marks sat alone, contemplating a candle nearing the end of its life. Everyone else was covered. Now to cover himself.

He had tempted fate by tugging the royal beard. The stunt had snapped back in a big way.

...

Babeltausque chatted with the injured publican while tired old Dr. Wachtel tried to repair the man’s face. The sorcerer convinced the bartender, Rhys Benedit, that the explosion had not been meant to happen inside the Wrench. Those men should have taken the medallion to their boss.

“Doctor Wachtel is the best doc in Kavelin. He’ll make you right. There’ll be an annuity, too, while Inger is Queen. Mr. Wolf has already told the troops that the Wrench is the official watering hole of the garrison again.”

Babeltausque inscribed strings of characters and symbols in precise calligraphy on strips of the same heavy paper he had used to carry his tracer spell. He used five pens and five inks, sometimes including several colors in a single glyph. In addition to black he employed an intense scarlet, a dark green, a fierce yellow, and an ink that could not be seen at all, thus leaving spaces that looked like blanks.

Dr. Wachtel said, “I’ve done everything I can for Master Benedit. From now on he’ll have to depend on luck and clean healing. He’ll probably lose sight in his right eye. Unless you can do something.”

“Other than reducing the risk of infection all I can contribute is moral support. My healing skills are limited. Although I do have the ability to find the best medical man available.”

Wachtel gave him a brief, inscrutable look, as though unsure he had just heard that.

Babeltausque said, “Mr. Wolf, I have something for you.” He folded a paper strip. “I’m creating protective spells to surround my space here. I expect to hear from Kristen’s gang before long. I want to be protected but I don’t want to have to drop everything whenever somebody trustworthy needs to get in. That script will get you through the barrier spells. Come. I need to prick your thumb and draw a drop of blood. Once that’s in the paper it won’t do anybody any good to steal your pass. It won’t work for anybody but you. Doctor, I have one for you, too. I’ll see Toby, the Queen, and some others tomorrow. But right now I’m ready to collapse.”

Wolf was not happy about having to wound himself, however trivially, but did what needed doing. As did Dr. Wachtel.

Babeltausque then said, “Friend Benedit is miserable. He’s in pain, he’s scared, and he’s exhausted. Doctor, do you want to take him with you? Or should he stay here? I have the spare cot Toby uses sometimes.” Which was, right now, occupied by the man killed in the explosion at the Wrench.

The barkeep mumbled.

Babeltausque said, “He says he’d be more comfortable staying with you.”

“As you wish. Come along, then, sir. There is an infirmary off my quarters. We’ll keep you there till you’re fit to go home.”

Wolf stayed. Once the others were out of earshot, he asked, “You got what you wanted?”

“I did. But I can’t do anything about it now. I am exhausted. We’ll deal with it tomorrow.”

“Let me know when you’re ready. I’m enjoying this.” Wolf slipped his pass into a pocket as he departed.

Babeltausque went to bed right away. He stared at the ceiling, wondering how best to enjoy himself once they captured the girl.

The prospects were delicious.

†

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

1017 AFE:

EYES OF NIGHT

N
epanthe deposited Varthlokkur’s dinner on the table designated for the purpose, close by where he was working. “Hey. You. Wake up. Time to eat.”

He did awaken, displeased with himself for having fallen asleep.

Not good.

Sorcerers who fell asleep at work became known as late lamented sorcerers.

“I was resting my eyes.”

“Right. Why are you taking chances? What are you doing?”

“Looking to build a better rat trap based on the latest research.”

It was too damned cold for rats in Fangdred. “Ethrian tried to talk this afternoon. He couldn’t put a sentence together right but he tried hard.”

The wizard moved to the food. Nepanthe settled opposite him. She had brought something for herself. She could pretend to share a meal.

“That sounds good. Why not let him help with Smyrena? Teach him to change diapers.”

“Oh! I don’t know. He’s really clumsy. And he gets frustrated.”

“Sometimes I think he must have had a stroke. Sometimes it feels like he’s completely aware but is trapped behind a wall he can’t break through.”

“You told me…”

“I know. But I’m no life-magic specialist. If the Old Man was here…”

“He’s gone. Wishes and fishes.” She noticed a change. “What happened to the mummies?”

“I got worried that the Star Rider might find a use for them. I put them where he’ll never get to them.” Each now resided inside a block of concrete distressed to look like an old aggregate boulder in the shadowed bottom of a distant canyon. And that was temporary. He wanted to reduce mummies and concrete to dust that Radeachar could scatter across a thousand miles of wilderness.

“Part of your strategy of denying him his resources?”

“Exactly.”

“Any plan for the Place of the Iron Statues?”

Varthlokkur’s spoon halted inches from his mouth. His eyes went vague.

“You didn’t think about that.”

“I didn’t.” That stronghold of the Star Rider had not intruded on his consciousness for decades. “I’m amazed that you did.” With her memory problems of late. “I don’t even recall where it is.”

“Somebody went there during the wars. Maybe Michael. Maybe one of my brothers. I don’t remember.”

She had had memory problems since the night they died together. He had some himself. Even concentrating he could come up with only the vaguest recollection of someone ever having gone looking for the Place. He could not recall who, when, why, or what the result had been.

Nepanthe said, “The night we all died…” And quit. The pain was too intense.

“You’re right. Iron statues were there. They tamed the Princes Thaumaturge.”

“You had something to do with that place, too, once, didn’t you?”

“Maybe when I was Eldred the Wanderer. I don’t remember it now.”

That troubled him. He was having ever more trouble remembering details of his earliest years. It would be awful to lose those memories altogether. Things he had done, bargains he had made, impacted the world every day, even now. And his mother lived on nowhere else but inside the reaches of his mind.

Ekaterina and Scalza bustled in. They wore heavy clothing so must have been playing outdoors. Scalza hollered, “We’re going to see what Mother is doing, all right?”

“Don’t touch anything but your scrying bowl.”

He had set them up with their own means of farseeing. They could use the bowl any time, though he insisted on being told first. He wanted to be aware that he needed to keep an eye turned their way.

Neither child ever thought much before acting. A reminder to take care might be resented but was never wasted.

Nepanthe said, “I wish I had a tenth of their energy.” She sighed. “I’d better go. Smyrena will wake up soon. She’ll be hungry. Have the wild animals bring the tray down.”

The sorcerer touched her hand lightly, then resumed eating. Mention of the Place of the Iron Statues reminded him that he had not paid much attention to the outside world lately.

Things happened where he was not looking. A lot, in Kavelin, during those intervals.

Scalza bellowed, “We found her, Uncle Varth! She’s in that tower place again.”

He pushed back from the table. This might be interesting.

...

Ragnarson thought he had the emotional instability whipped. He had to. Total control was now necessary. He had no time to waste on self-indulgence.

He had a chance to get out. Mist had something in mind. It was a razor-slash of light at the end of a ten-mile tunnel but it was there.

He had no idea what they were thinking. He meant to give no excuse to stop that thinking. This prison came close to his idea of hell.

The only way to make it worse would be to reduce the size of the cage.

“I’m living pretty damned high on the hog here, aren’t I? When you get right down to it.”

“Excuse me?” Mist stepped in. “Who are you talking to?”

“The smartest man in the room. A fat tangle of superlatives, he is.”

“I see. Lord Ssu-ma thought you might be interested in seeing the assassin before we release him.”

Ragnarson aced the test. His heart hammered and his vision reddened but he kept his composure. “You’re going to turn him loose, why?”

“Our interest was purely curiosity. He broke none of our laws and harmed none of our subjects. He was forthright when questioned. He’s a sad case. He has been alone and enclosed so long he doesn’t know any way but the way he’s followed forever.”

“We’re all like that anymore.”

“You could be right without actually recognizing why.”

“And without understanding what you mean.”

“This assassin isn’t quite a real man. He’s more like a devil manufactured by the darkness inside us all. Though that isn’t what I’m really trying to say.” She clapped her hands in frustration. “I saw elements of all of us in him. He’s hollow inside.”

Ragnarson was baffled. Mist did not get philosophical.

Mist said, “One reason I call him supernatural is, he doesn’t remember his own name.”

“How can you not know your own name?”

“I think because he’s used so many. I found him intriguing. Lord Ssu-ma was taken by him, too.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“Come along. You’ll see.”

Mist left. The door did not close behind her.

Ragnarson moved that way like a mouse intent on sneaking past a cobra. This could not be what it seemed. It had to be a cruel prank. Something awful would happen. He was safe as long as he did nothing. He should climb into bed and shut his eyes. There would be no pain in sleep.

Sherilee crossed his mind, then Elana, who had given him so many children, all of whom he had outlived. Then Fiana, so remarkable in her passion. She had given him a child he never got to know. And Inger, who had given hope and love in a time of deep despair, and a beautiful son, but who could not overcome her blood.

He stood before the door but did not consider it. He fixated on Inger. His wife had done little that was wicked before hubris drove him to destruction by Ssu-ma Shih-ka’i.

He bore Shih-ka’i no ill will. The Tervola had done his duty, defending his empire. The man had gone out of his way to repay a debt once his duty had been satisfied.

“Are you coming?”

Ragnarson could not see Mist. Her voice came from above. He stepped into the gloom beyond the doorway, spied steps leading upward, to his right. He managed twenty-eight of those before he stopped to fight for breath.

Mist called down, “One more story.”

She lied. It was two. He managed eight steps, took a break, then did six more. After that he took the steps one by one. He caught up unable to talk and unsure if he would get his breath back before he collapsed.

“You are leading too sedentary a life.”

He gasped, “Nor am I an eighteen-year-old stud anymore.”

“Get your breath. We still have twenty steps to go.”

It took Ragnarson ten minutes to clear those. He developed a cramp in his right thigh and an uncontrollable twitch in his left calf. He could not stand up straight. It seemed he would never stop panting. And he was much too aware of every overexcited thump of his hammering heart.

Mist said, “Go lean on the rampart. Don’t sit down. I’m not big enough to shift you if your muscles lock up.”

She was teasing. He hurt too much to care. “Just get on with it.”

“As you wish.” Mist moved several steps away. “Shin-jei. Bring the prisoner.”

Ragnarson paid no attention. He feasted his eyes on the cityscape. He enjoyed the breeze. He absorbed sounds he never heard in his apartment. He drew in alien smells, especially the rich, spicy odors of eastern cooking.

The Empress had known deprivation in her time. She was patient. But minutes were all she could afford. “Look at this man, Bragi. Tell me if you know him.”

Ragnarson looked at a westerner about six feet tall, well-weathered, and gaunt. His eyes were a changeable blue. He appeared to be totally resigned. “Have we ever met?”

“I doubt it.” In a feeble monotone, not avoiding Ragnarson’s eyes. He was not afraid.

“The Guild. With Hawkwind. Before the El Murid Wars.”

That startled the man but his face closed down immediately.

Ragnarson said, “We may have been in the same regiment when we were young. There would be nothing else to connect us. Except Sherilee.”

“I am disappointed. I’d hoped there was some drama of deep time coming to a head.”

“He might not be the man I’m remembering. He would have been just another recruit who went into the desert with Hawkwind.”

Mist gestured. Her bodyguards took the assassin into the tower.

“Did I pass the test?”

“You controlled your temper admirably. Though I do hope you can tell us more about that man.”

Ragnarson said, “No such luck. An arrow from a broken bow.”

Mist looked to Lord Ssu-ma, who had done his best to remain invisible. He had nothing to contribute now.

Mist said, “We will take time to enjoy the sunset. I’m told the wondrous colors are by grace of the wars with Matayanga and the Deliverer.”

“A sky painted with the dust of souls,” Ragnarson observed. “Don’t attribute that to me. Derel Prataxis said it.”

Mist did not believe him, but why argue? “Those wars are over. Their horrors have been sucked down into the quicksand of time. If gaudy sunsets are their memorial, let the survivors enjoy them.”

Ragnarson grumbled, “Aren’t we deep into a philosophical pocket of night.”

Mist said, “Time to go back to your quarters. The trip should be easier this time.”

“Harsh.”