Storm Season- - Thieves World 04 (31 page)

He did. It was all there. The change from the silver coin was still in the draw top bag he was not stupid enough to wear on his belt. And there were five silver coins in his stash.

Hanse sat on the edge of his bed, thinking about that. Looks as i;fmy, uh, immortal allies want me to have no financial worries' They'd maybe not wish to be served by what I had to remind Kadakithis I am for was?}

"Just a damned thief!"

Over the next several days he spread the money around, happily giving a silver coin to dear old Moonflower ("because you're beautiful, why else?") and two to a one-armed beggar with two fingers missing, because Hanse recognized a victim of Kurd; and he gave to others. The krrf dealer was suspicious on receiving a silver Ran-kan Imperial ("for the future, just in case; don't forget my face, now!") but he took the coin.

And always when the spawn of shadows returned to his room above a tavern, always his secret hiding place offered one ring and five silver coins. Tempus, meanwhile, had been astonished, but certainly agreed to the training. He assigned Nikodemos called Stealth to the daily duty. And now it had gone on, and on, day after day of practice and sweating and cursing, and now Niko had told him that he was good, and a natural. Elated, Hanse had sunk a knife into the fellow's shield while of course pretending that it was a sneer become action. Then he had saluted and betaken himself around that building while Niko stood looking long-suffering and boyish, and on the way home Hanse had given away a silver coin. He had already spent another this day. And there were five remaining in his room, too.

He opened his eyes. He knew absolutely that a moment ago he had been sleeping soundly, and had come instantly awake. There was no time to wonder why; all he had to do was turn his head to see that it was still dark, the middle of the night, and that he had a visitor.

She was Mignureal, looking a bit older and truly beautiful, all in white and palest spring-yellow. And surrounded by a pale glow, a sort of all-body nimbus of twilight.

"Gird thyself, Hanse. It is time."

Weeks and weeks ago, when first he returned from that night up at Eaglenest, he would have shuddered at such words. Not now. Now Hanse was a trained fighter and he had given it plenty of thought and he was more than ready. He had not known it would come this way, but as he rose to obey he was glad that it had. This way he had no time to think about it, to worry about what might happen to him. It was time. He girded himself.

He donned tights and leathern pants; woolen footsers and a thief's soft, padded sole buskins. Next the new cotton tunic, long, and over that the padded one. The glow remained in his room; Mignureal remained, this Mignureal, from attractive moth into beauteous butterfly. The mail-coat jingled into place and he buckled on the sword. Not the practice sword; the sword of the Stepson, with which he had privately practiced.

The figure in his room stretched forth a hand. "Come, Hanse. We have to go now. It is time, Son of Shadow."

He picked up his helm. "Mignureal? Have you ... a brother? A twin?"

"You know that I have."

"And what do you call him?" He took her hand. It was cool, soft. Too soft, for Mignureal.

"You know what I call him, Hanse. I call him Shadow, for shadows he rules and births, Shadowspawn. Come Hanse, Godson."

He went, under the helmet. Surely there were some awake even at this hour, and surely some saw the strange couple. As surely, none recognized Hanse the thief in his warlike attire and under the helm, for anyone who knew him or knew of him would never expect to see him so accoutred and so accompanied. Under a frowning parlous sky, in an eerie almost-silence kept alive and made bearable only by insects, they went away out of the Maze, and out of Sanctuary, and up to Eaglenest. And into Eaglenest they went, all dark and ancient now that place of ghosts and gods. Their way was lit by the nimbus of a goddess, whose hand remained soft in Hanse's.

A place of gods indeed, for they went through the manse and out the back and the world changed.

Here was an eerie sky shot through with ribbons of gold and pale yellow and citrine and marred by clouds whose underbellies were mauve. Here was a weird vista from the nightmares of poison. Stone formations rose in impossible shapes, bent and snaked along the ground to rise again; ugly rockshapes in red and burnt ochre and siena, imitating vines fighting their way through an invisible stone wall or plants tortured into convoluted shapes by alkali or lime. The strange stone-shapes stretched out and out to become only shadows on a plain, a vista that stretched out gray to meet that nacreous sky. And there was no sound. Not the faintest hum of a single lonely insect; not the merest peep of a nightbird or the scuttle of tiny feet or of fronds whispering in a night breeze. Here was no sun and yet no night, and no flora or fauna either. Here were only Hanse, armored and armed, and Mignureal, and here came Vashanka, at the charge.

Purple was his armor, hawk-beaked his helm and tall-spiked atop; black his shield and the blade of his sword so that there was no gleam to announce its onrush. Hanse drew, hurriedly shifted his buckler into place, thought of Mignureal and knew he had no time to glance aside. Here came a god, armed and armored, charging to end this now, right now.

The god did not, nor did Hanse. Sparks were struck by a blow parried, and feet shifted and Vashanka was past and Hanse turning, unharmed. The god came in with the arrogant precipi-tousness of a god set to slay a snotty little mortal. In rushed his dark sword, to be caught and turned by a round shield so that he was jarred by the impact and the snotty human's return stroke nearly bit his leg. Still Vashanka did not leam, could not respect this wiry little foeman in its untested mail, and again he struck, his shield still down from protecting his leg, and this time Hanse jerked his shield on impact so that the god's blade was directed aside, drawing Vas-hanka's arm and thus his body that way, and only the projections of his unorthodox, twisted body-armor saved his neck from Hanse's edge. The god grunted as he was struck but un-wounded, and Hanse showed him teeth, sidestepping, back-stepping, feinting with sword and then with buckler and showing a preparedness that turned another godly attack into a feint.

Vashanka had been taught respect.

They circled, each with his shield-side to the other, each staring above the arcing rim of the shield. Pacing, watching. Each a moving target and moving menace. Arms slightly amove so that neither blade was still in that dead air. Somewhere the moon moved in the sky and hourglasses were turned, while those two circled and stared, paced and glared, paced and feinted as fighting men with respect each for the other. Now and again steel hissed and sang and steel rang or wood boomed under the impact of swordblade on reinforced shield. Now and again a man grunted, or a god. One swift awful flurry of strokes traded left each bruised under armor still intact.

How could Hanse knew that they fought so for an hour? Staying alive meant staying alert; being alert meant having no time to think of time or of tiring. It was guard and parry, strike and cover, and pace to seek another opportunity. Silver twinkled as the sword-bitten winding on Hanse's sheath came loose and dangled.

How long was it, ere Vashanka was there no more but become a rock-leopard that snarled and sprang with awful talons extended-to be met by Hanse become bear; a big bear that caught the huge cat and squeezed it in mid-leap, staggering back, feeling its claws as he shook it and hurled it from him to hit the ground, hard, and roll, snarling with a whining note, twisting, becoming a cobra.

Both were blooded now, and blood marked the hissing serpent that reared, strikingIt struck neither man nor bear, for neither was there, but a small ferocious collection of teeth and fur and boneless speed that avoided the strike and pounced to clamp its teeth on a hated enemyBut as soon as the mongoose had the cobra, the serpent swelled huge and then huger so that its tiny antagonist fell away. That still-growing cobra was blooded again, however, and when it became horse with Vashanka atop or part of it, it turned to canter away. And away, prancing easily over ugly shapes of stone . . . only to wheel and come back at the gallop. Charging, hooves pounding, striking sparks off stone, bounding over twisted rock-formations at the small shape who seemed gone all fearful, scurrying back and forth in its path, then whirling and racing away, fleeing on a straight line easily overtaken

. . .

The legs of that racing horse rushed into the long strip of leather Hanse had just bound in place for it, and it stumbled with a scream and flew through the air so that. Hanse, swerving, heard its mighty impact behuyd him. Then he whirled and rushed back, shiald ready and sword up and back, gathering velocity for the stroke to carry all.

He was forced to slow. A man-shape stood there waiting, a god in armor and helm beaked in imitation of a bird of prey, shield up and ready, sword a dark silver of death ready in his fist. Shield took blow and shield took blow, but its bottom edge was banged in to impact Hanse's body at the waist so that he groaned and half-doubled and staggered back, trying not to fall, but falling, sprawling backward, a grounded target ready for the death-stroke of a god he never should have fought. His elbow banged into a snake-shape of ochreous rock and the sword leaped from it as if eager to flee.

Hanse had the ridiculous thought I knew I should never have done this as he tried to writhe and wriggle and watched death rushing at him with upraised sword. Mignureal saved him, leaping in from the side with a screech. Hanse, flailing and groaning, trying to will himself onto his feet and yet despairing utterly, saw the vicious black-bladed stroke that cut her nearly in two almost precisely at the waist.

Now it was a god's turn to show his teeth in feral smile worthy of the lowest beast, and after spinning completely around from the exertion of destroying that poor pale-clad body, he came bounding again, sword rising for the second death blow in seconds, and the absolutely desperate Hanse reverted: he thrust his left hand up his tunic sleeve, half-rolling as he did to free his arm all the way, and hurled the long flat knife.

He watched its rush as he had never tracked a cast before, none of his thousands and thousands of practice casts. The leaf of shining metal seemed to take minutes, floating through eternity to reach the rushing oncoming god who, though racing toward Hanse, took as long to near. Lightning sundered the sky and thunder followed, but it was the voice of enraged, triumphant Vashanka, at the charge.

"I CANNOT BE SLAIN BY WEAPONS OF YOUR PLANE, IDIOT, LITTLE THIEF, POOR DEMI MORTAL, INCONSEQUENTIAL INSEC-"

And then his charge met the knife's. The knife struck, beautifully and perfectly point-first, just under the adam's apple. Vashanka shrieked and the shriek burbled. That impossible plane of infinity came alive with blinding and coruscating light.

. . . down in Sanctuary those up at dawn saw the late-rising moon vanish as the sky was hurled alight by heat lightning bright as day. . . that surrounded Vashanka utterly, that was Vashanka, as his bellow of rage and pain was thunder and lightning. Pierced, he went flying backward as if by smashing impact, and the wind of his passage was as the gale of a storm booming in off the sea. And on he went, until he was so distant to the staring, squinting Hanse that he was tiny, and then that tiny Vashanka vanished. Us appeared before Hanse then, radiant. His face was that of the statue in the destroyed temple.

At that, Hanse wondered; he saw the radiance and yet dimly. Why was it darker; why was his god not all triumphant in pure lambence?

Why can't I move my damned head, damn it? "m the end," Ils said, "he was right and yet not wise enough. He said true in that he cannot be slain by weapons of this plane. But the knife flew true, the mortal knife off its proper plane here on the Plane of Infinity, and it struck him a killing blow, so that he began to die. But that was not possible. Thus a paradox existed. That is against the nature of things, Hanse, for the God of Gods who created all existence-aye, and who created Me-that god is Reality. Since my cousin's son Vashanka could not be slain by weapons of your plane, this dimension, he could not die in this chamber of the House of Infinity that is the domain of Lord Reality." Of course Hanse said, "I don't understand."

"Hmp! I am sure you don't! It's heady stuff for a god! Explanations for all this won't be discovered by your kind for thousands of years, Son of Shadow. Suffice it to say that Vashanka is gone from here, and that meaning of 'here'

is a broad one, indeed and in deed! Vashanka is gone from here because he cannot exist here, in this universe. He has been blown backward through a wormhole in space, which is no easier for you to understand, eh? Accept this truth, Hanse: Vashanka is ElseWhere. And though there is an infinity of possibilities, of dimensions or chambers, one is closed to him forever; used up. That one-yours-is impossible to him and does not exist for him.

"That which can never exist is the combination of Vashanka on this plane of Reality. Since he is dead but gods may not die from the weapons of mortals, he cannot be here. He can never return to this chamber of the House of Infinity." Hanse felt that Ils had said the same thing three several ways, and all were nicely logical and avoided paradox, but ... A wormhole? In space? Yet he was not concerned with that and could not be. Vashanka was gone; Hanse must have won. He felt fine, too, except that he could not seem to lift his head or feel anything. Yet somehow being a hero made him behave as one; he did not mention that but asked a hero's question: "And Mignureal?"

"She is asleep in her bed. Was-she is risen now, and seeing to her siblings, for in Sanctuary it is dawn. As I and mine are all-powerful here now.... !" And Eshi rose, whole and unscarred, and rushed to the prostrate Hanse. She knelt beside him and he knew her hands were on him because he could see them. She looked up at the Lord of Lords.