Angus Wells - The God Wars 03 (14 page)

           
"No," Calandryll replied,
and found himself involved in a lengthy description of his homeland as men in
simple white tunics and yellow pantaloons served the meal.

           
It was plain fare, such as soldiers
eat, but tasty enough, and plentiful—the Jesserytes seemed possessed of hearty
appetites—and the talk meandered back and forth, all there learning more of one
another's customs and countries. The tengs of the Jesseryn Plain, Calandryll
discovered, were less castles than cities, each containing a population of many
thousands, all linked by birth or marriage or adoption to one clan. Beyond the
walls, the holds were surrounded by farmland, the gettu living under the
protection of the warrior overlords, while beyond the arable steadings the
country lay wild, unclaimed by any save the outlaw bands of dispossessed kotu
Chazali named, with massive contempt, the tensai. It seemed, to Calandryll, a
society far more rigid than his own, a hierarchy dominated by the kotu, who in
turn were dominated by their kiriwashen and wazirs, the Khan little more than a
figurehead, subservient to the Mahzlen.

           
It came to him that Chazali was a
very powerful man—indeed, one of the leaders of Pamur-teng— and that his
presence demonstrated the weight he placed on Ochen's warning. That the
kiriwashen should come himself to the keep indicated the alarm he felt at
thought of the Mad God's awakening. No less was it a further guarantee of true
alliance.

           
"And Anwar-teng," he
asked, hoping he broke no protocol, "is that hold solely the domain of the
Soto-Imjen?"

           
"Anwar-teng is different,"
Chazali advised him.

           
"It is the home of the
Soto-Imjen, but also of the Mahzlen and the wazir-narimasu."

           
"But if the rebels are gone
from the Mahzlen ..." Calandryll paused, choosing his words with infinite
care, sensing that he trod delicate ground. "How stand the kotu of
Anwar-teng?"

           
Chazali grunted, staring a moment at
his wine cup. Calandryll feared he gave offense, but then the kiriwashen
chopped a dismissive gesture and said, "Those who left are tensai. No more
than that! They may claim no man's allegiance. Those who follow them are
tensai. Worse!"

           
His voice, guttural by nature, was
harsh, like the growl of an outraged hound. Calandryll would have inquired more
about the war, the order of march, and the likelihood of the rebel armies
broaching the walls of Anwar-teng, but Chazali's tone, his stance, even his
expression, which was no longer inscrutable but sharp-edged with fury,
disallowed further questioning. He filled his cup, drinking deep, as though to
rid his mouth of an unpleasant taste deposited by the condemnation, and
afterward concentrated angrily on his plate.

           
Calandryll thought it more
diplomatic to shift the subject, and turned to Ochen.

           
The wazir, however, was engaged in
animated conversation with Cennaire, and Calandryll found himself left awhile
in silence, watching them. Dera, but she was beautiful! He studied her animated
face, thinking of all the things he might have said to her, all the things he
might in the future say, did his tongue not stumble again and the pretty
compliments dissolve in gangling awkwardness. He cursed himself afresh for such
naive embarrassment, and then she caught his eye and he thought her smile lit
the dark room, and he felt his cheeks grow warm and could not understand why he
had to look away, fumbling for his cup.

           
He found it, and Chazali's gaze on
him, speculative, he thought, though it was difficult to judge. Less so the
raised eyebrows, and not at all the quietly murmured question.

           
"She belongs to you? I fear
these are warrior's quarters and we've no chambers larger."

           
"No," Calandryll mumbled.
"No matter. She's not . . . My chamber suits me well."

           
Chazali, as if seeking to atone for
his display of anger and himself sensing a delicate topic, smiled, returning
his attention to the fruit the serving men had placed before him.

           
No more was said, to Calandryll's
relief, of war or women, their talk returning to commonplace matters, and in a
while the meal was ended and Ochen announced that he would leave them and
continue his magical cleansing of the keep. His departure seemed taken as cue
that all should retire, and Chazali summoned a man to lead the guests to their
quarters.

           
Cennaire again took Calandryll's
arm, and he found himself murmuring banalities concerning the food and their
hosts, thinking that he babbled, though she smiled and answered in kind,
seeming not to notice his awkwardness. Indeed, she appeared a trifle withdrawn,
as if concerned with her own thoughts, murmuring a soft "Good night"
at her door and entering the chamber without a backward glance.

           
Katya was already gone, and
Calandryll ignored Bracht's amused stare, waving a farewell as he turned into
his own cell and closed the latchless door.

           
The window revealed a rectangle of
star-brightened sky, the moon close to full, and he leaned awhile on the sill,
aware that the night wind blew cleaner, the tainted aftermath of Rhythamun's
magic fading. Even so diminished it was an insult to the senses, to propriety,
and he shuddered as he thought of that visitation, of the awful despair that
had earlier gripped him, reminded then of Ochen's warning, wondering if his
enemy could, indeed, sense his presence, could reach out through the medium t)f
the aethyr to touch him. It was as well, he thought, that the Jesseryte wizard
should accompany him, a sentry against Rhythamun's fell sortilege. Then,
briefly from across the yard, he caught the scent of almonds, a pale flickering
of light that for an instant was shaped in the form of the strange sigils Ochen
painted, and guessed that the silverhaired sorcerer went about his magical
business, tireless it seemed. The impression of charnel stench faded more, and
he yawned and turned away, taking off his unfamiliar clothing and folding it
carefully before snuffing the candles and throwing himself gratefully on the
bed. He closed his eyes, the image of Cennaire's face clear as sleep took him.

           
IN her own chamber, Cennaire
undressed and sat awhile combing her hair absently, lost in troubled thoughts.

           
That Ochen was a wizard of power,
she did not doubt, and wondered if he knew her for revenant. He had said
nothing; indeed, throughout the meal he had proven an amusing companion, witty
and informative, but still she wondered. Did he recognize her for what she was,
why had he not spoken out? He had touched her mind, with his gift of language,
and she had thought then to be discovered, but he had seemed, rather, to
reassure her. Perhaps he had not seen so deep, perhaps he concealed that knowledge
for reasons of his own. She could not tell and such lack of certainty unnerved
her, rendering her indecisive, for she felt herself surrounded by hazards, her
choices leeched off, like a deer that hears encircling hunters drawing ever
closer, seeing no avenue of escape save headlong confrontation.

           
The mirror stood propped within an
alcove, and as she studied her face, she thought of Anomius, contemplating a summoning,
perceiving her master as another threat to her own safety. Did he wonder where
she was, how she fared? Did he grow impatient? Or was he occupied with the
Tyrant's war, too involved to concern himself with the doings of his creation?
Almost, she spoke the words, but knowledge of Ochen's presence, awareness of
his power, left them still-born on her tongue. Did she contact her master,
surely the Jesseryte sorcerer must know it, and how he might then react, she
had no idea. Instead, she completed her toilette, telling herself she had,
anyway, nothing to say, certainly nothing of any great interest to Anomius. She
sighed, setting mirror and comb, both, safely in her satchel, thinking that she
was caught in dilemma.

           
Did Anomius wax impatient, was it possible
he could find a way to escape the attentions of the Tyrant's sorcerers, return
to Nhur-jabal, to wreak some magic on her living heart? Did he do that, then
she was surely powerless against him. Yet to assuage his impatience, she must
use the mirror and thus—surely!—reveal herself to Ochen, who likely would
advise Calandryll and the others. And then . . . then perhaps such magicks as
could destroy her should be brought to bear. To act, or not, both seemed paths
fraught with danger: she caught a lip between her teeth, worrying at the soft
flesh, feeling herself trapped, her choices narrow as her miserable cell.

           
Patience, she decided finally, and
hope—that Anomius was burdened with sufficient as would prevent him both from
wondering what she did and returning to Nhur-jabal. Equally, that Ochen's magic
had not identified her, would not be used against her. There appeared no other
choice but inaction, and while such inertia sat uneasily on her mind, she could
perceive no alternative, save flight—which must surely earn Anomius's
displeasure.

           
With that poor comfort, she killed
the candles—as would any creature with beating heart—and climbed between the
sheets to await the morning.

           
The night grew older as she lay
sleepless, turning thought over thought without finding satisfactory
conclusion. Then the soft tapping of knuckles against her chamber's door
brought her instantly alert.

           
For a moment she delayed responding,
feigning the confusion of one caught asleep as her mind raced. Calandryll?
Certainly he had shown great interest, and great confusion, that night, and in
the midst of all her doubts she held the single certainty that he was mightily
attracted to her. She had enjoyed the stumbling compliments he paid her, even
his innocence, that being a rare commodity in the life she had known, and she
wondered if he plucked up the courage to come to her. Another man, one less
courteous or perhaps more confident of himself, would not have delayed so long.
She smiled, thinking that she would welcome his attentions: he was, after all,
a handsome young man. And should he come to love her—that she could ensnare
him, she did not doubt: did he spend the night in her arms, the morning must
surely find him love-struck—then she must surely win herself a powerful ally.
Both thoughts excited her; which the most, she was not sure.

           
The tapping came again and she ran
swift fingers through her hair, a tongue over her lips, drawing the sheet
modestly over her nudity, and bade her visitor enter.

           
She was unable to stifle a gasp of surprise
when the door swung open to reveal Ochen.

           
"Hush."

           
The mage raised a warning finger,
closing the door silently behind him, plunging the room into darkness as
Cennaire mouthed a silent, and most unladylike, curse, hoping he took her
startlement for the genuine surprise of a demure woman finding a man entering
her sleeping chamber.

           
"Who is it?" she demanded,
endeavoring to pitch the question somewhere between outrage and fright,
remembering belatedly that mortal folk lacked her nocturnal vision. "Who
are you?"

           
Soft laughter—mocking?—answered and
she tensed, preparing to fight for her undead life. If worse had come to worst,
then she would seek to overpower the mage, slay him if she must, and flee the
keep. Anomius would surely be angered, but still she could likely follow the
questers at a distance, which might satisfy her master. Beneath the thought
hung a barely recognized regret, and fleetingly she wished it had been
Calandryll who knocked. She steeled herself, taken once more aback by Ochen's next
words.

           
"You perceive me well enough, I
think. And do you only utilize those senses I understand your kind possess,
then you'll know I intend no harm. Do that, and you shall save us both
time."

           
The suggestion was entirely
unnecessary: Cennaire had, unthinking, opened all her preternatural senses,
finding fresh cause for confusion in what she learned.

           
She smelled no threat from Ochen.
Curiosity, rather, and a dry amusement as he arranged his overrobe, settling
himself on the bed casually as if he visited an old friend. Confidence, too,
that persuading her he was warded with spells against attack. She found no
indication of desire in him, but nonetheless drew the sheet closer about her,
pretending modesty even as she struggled to assemble her bewildered thoughts.

           
"No harm,” he repeated, his
gnarled features clear in the darkness. "Nor shall you harm me—as you
doubtless sense, I am guarded, and with such cantrips as would defeat even your
kind."

           
His voice was calm and utterly
confident; all Cennaire could think of to say was "What do you want?"