The Gossamer Plain (27 page)

“Then I guess there’s no real reason to tell you that you have a son,” the deva said.

Aliisza felt a shiver pass through her. A son? I have a son!

“Can I see him?” she asked, eager. “Would you show him to me?” She pointed at the fountain.

Tauran stared at her for a long time before speaking. “No,” he said at last. “Not yet.”

Aliisza felt anger flush her cheeks. “Why not?” she demanded. She crossed the open space to where he sat, intent on confronting him, though she knew she could not physically

affect him in any way. Neither of them were truly there, in that garden of illusion. “Why won’t you show me my son?” she asked, her voice much softer, more pleading than she had intended.

“Because,” the angel replied, “he is nothing more than a weak, mewling thing, something for you to use as a stepping stone to true power.”

Aliisza opened her mouth to retort, but she had no words. What he said was true. She couldn’t both love her son and see him as a means to an end. The two could not be reconciled.

Tauran stood. “I think you finally understand,” he said. “You’re right—I cannot change you. I never meant to try. You, and only you, can change yourself.”

“I don’t want to change!” she whispered fiercely. “What you show me is nothing but pain and sorrow and loneliness! How can people want that? They never deal from a position of strength! They never have the ability to take what they want! How can that be better than being strong, independent, powerful? How can succumbing to silly romantic notions be preferable to steeling yourself against all those who would take from you?”

“I will come to you again,” the angel replied, “when I sense that you know the answer to that question yourself.”

“Don’t go,” she said. It was the first time she had asked him to stay. “Don’t leave me here.”

He smiled softly then and reached out to stroke her hair, her cheek. It wasn’t an amorous touch, not filled with the heat of passion and arousal. It was gentle and kind, a touch of compassion and love. “Exactly,” he said.

Watching the angel vanish was the hardest thing Aliisza had ever done.

There,” Lakataki said. The azer who had originally accosted Vhok and Zasian pointed down into the valley far below them. The cambion peered where the fire-dwarf indicated and spied the efreet’s mine. A great wall of shiny brass, pierced by a gate and protected by towers at regular intervals, surrounded a pit dug into the slope of a mountain. The molten glow of magma shone from within that pit. The only feature that jutted up from the interior that the half-fiend could see was a spindly, peculiarly shaped tower. Everything else was hidden. The whole scene shimmered and wavered, distorted by the heat that permeated the plane.

“What do they mine?” Zasian asked, staring alongside Vhok. The priest seemed impressed with the sight.

“Liquid glass,” Lakataki replied. “It spills out of the ground there, just bubbles up to the surface. They gather it and pour it into molds right there within the fortress, before it cools. It’s the purest, clearest glass anywhere,” he said, but his tone was more bitter than proud.

“And the efreet make their slaves work the mine,” Vhok said. “Members of your clan are down there.”

“Yes,” the azer said. “But more importantly, it used to be

ours. The efreet came and stole it from us, captured or killed many and drove off the rest. We want it back.”

“Where does the glass go after it is molded?” Zasian asked. He still stared raptly at the mine.

“Caravans take it to the City of Brass, where it is sold,” Lakataki answered. “Merchants from every part of the multiverse bid for glass that pure.”

“How many efreet are there?” Vhok asked. “How many should we expect to deal with?”

The azer sergeant shrugged. “Perhaps a dozen,” he said. “Maybe twice that many live within the fortress, but half of them are usually away, raiding for more slaves to work the mine. Most of them are just cruel and greedy. There is one, though, the overseer. He is very clever. Hafiz al-Milhab. You must be wary of him. He is a giant even among his own kind.”

“And how many slaves?”

“Perhaps a hundred, maybe more,” Lakataki said. “Not all are azer. The efreet bring slaves of all types who are suitable to work the mine. Not all of them will thank you for their freedom, outlander,” the fire-dwarf warned.

Vhok grunted in acknowledgment. That’s going to be the least of our problems, the cambion thought.

“We will wait for you here,” Lakataki said. “As Lord Cripakolus promised, if you free the slaves and return our mine to us, we will provide you with a guide to the City of Brass. Though why such sensible beings as yourselves would want to go there is beyond me,” he muttered, half to himself.

With no reason to delay, Vhok and Zasian prepared to set out. The route down to the valley was steep and there was no trail from their vantage point, so Zasian performed his divine magic, granting both of them the ability to walk on air, as they had done the day before. Together, they descended. The pair

kept their route close to the mountain, not wishing to have another unpleasant encounter with flying things that might mistake them for a meal.

The clan lord, Cripakolus, had been adamant. The two travelers were ordered to aid his clan in recapturing their prized mine and freeing the azer enslaved there. He had refused to even entertain the thought of releasing his two visitors, much less providing them a guide anywhere, until they had agreed. The duo were, in effect, his prisoners,

Of course, the azer lord had couched it in far different terms. He had told Vhok and Zasian that he could not in good conscience let honored guests roam the open plains beyond his mountain range while such dangers as efreeti slavers existed. The only way to ensure safe passage, he argued, was to eliminate the threat at its source.

Never mind that we’re going to face them all at once, in their own territory, Vhok thought wryly.

After the half-fiend and priest agreed to the leader’s terms, the azer held a great feast in their honor. It became apparent soon enough that none of the fire-dwarves expected the two to return from their rescue mission. The majority opinion among the azer was that the force of efreet was far too strong to be ousted by only two.

Vhok and Zasian had to provide their own food—nothing the azer consumed was of a temperature suitable for them—but they did sleep in relative comfort overnight. The shaman of the clan was able to create a chamber cool enough by enchanting a milky white sphere around it that kept out most of the heat.

After an equally festive breakfast with Cripakolus, the cambion and the priest were led outside, through a different cavern, to the back side of the mountains. There, Lakataki had taken them to the vantage point. From that point on, they would be on their own.

“Not very bright of them to just let us walk off,” Zasian remarked as they worked their way down the mountain. Walking upon the air, even at the steep angle they chose, offered the decided advantage of being able to bypass the crystalline trees that peppered the slopes. “They didn’t really dangle much incentive for us to return,” he added.

“I see no reason to,” Vhok said. “The foolish sergeant admitted that caravans travel to the City of Brass to sell the glass. I think we can figure out a way to go the same direction,” he suggested, chuckling.

“It makes me wonder which of us had the more realistic expectation. Is Cripakolus that foolish, or did he bait us into departing, figuring he got two bags of gems out of the deal, if nothing else?”

“He really doesn’t lose, I suppose,” Vhok remarked. “Either we do as we say and he gets his mine back, or we try and fail and he gets rid of us without any trouble, or we just leave, and he gets rid of us without any trouble.”

“I guess the real question is, should we pay a visit to the efreet when we get down there?” the priest said. “Do you think he’ll be interested in finding out that a troop of azer is hiding in the mountains, spying on him?”

“It might convince him to find a way to get us to the City of Brass more quickly,” Vhok said. “I wonder how hard it will be to get in to see him?”

“Perhaps we should try the back entrance,” Zasian suggested with a smile.

When the two of them got close enough to the fortress that they feared being spotted, they paused. “This is probably close enough on foot,” Vhok said. “To the top of the tower?” he offered.

“Seems as good a starting point as any,” Zasian replied. Vhok nodded and put new magic into use. With a word

and a touch, he transformed them both into vapor. They could no longer speak, but their destination was unobstructed and visible. Together, they continued on, traveling as gaseous clouds. They were virtually invisible among all the blowing smoke and ash that perpetually wafted through the plane. They closed the rest of the distance to the brass walls and maneuvered to one side, far from the main gate. Then they went up and over the wall.

The interior of the fortress seemed barren and utilitarian to Vhok. Other than the tower, there were two other buildings, long and low, against the two side walls of the place. They appeared to be either barracks or prison cells.

Probably both, the cambion mused.

By far the largest feature of the mine was the pit itself. Like a great, inverted ziggurat, the hole in the ground was terraced at regular intervals, growing smaller with each successive level down. Slaves worked at every level. They lined the terraces, struggling to maneuver huge copper basins into place beneath sluggish flows of white-hot material that oozed from the walls. Above them, cranes hoisted filled basins into the air and to the side, to be replaced with empty ones. Other slaves worked the substances into molds, using large hinged and counterweighted frames to tip the basins sideways. The liquid glass, cooling to a bluish color, seeped into the molds, hardening into clear, pristine objects. Vhok witnessed an endless cycle of harvesting.

Their transformation spell would expire soon, Vhok knew, so he pushed onward, rising easily with the heated air currents toward the top of the tower. He flowed into the domed and columned enclosure of a cupola there, where a lone efreeti served as a lookout.

The efreeti leaned against the banister and stared over the work being done in the pit below. The creature was

thick-limbed like a giant, though his bony head, with its smallish horns, reminded the cambion more of a demon than anything. The efreeti’s skin, brick red in color, seemed to shimmer and smoke from the heat he gave off. Vhok knew that such genies normally stood twice as tall as the half-fiend, but the one before him was no more than his own height. The efreeti had used magic to reduce himself, to compensate for the low ceiling within the tower, which had been built by dwarves.

The cupola was perhaps six paces wide, large enough for the cambion and the priest to slip inside and transform unnoticed by the genie. As Vhok restored himself to solid form, Zasian appeared beside him. The priest gave the half-fiend a gesture to hold, then fetched something from within his tunic. He nodded to the cambion to proceed.

Vhok crept up behind the efreeti and slipped Burnblood around his neck, at the same time sliding the creature’s oversized falchion from his sash and tossing it away. The genie tensed, but the half-demon pressed the blade tighter against the creature’s throat. “Easy there,” he said. “Don’t ruin it all by dying. We just want to talk.”

The genie held still a moment longer, then slowly relaxed. “I yield,” he growled. His voice was a deep, crackling rumble, reminding Vhok of a burning blaze. “Do not slice up poor Amak.”

“Excellent,” the cambion said, spinning himself and his captive slowly away from the banister to face Zasian. The priest clutched his necklace in his hand and seemed prepared to invoke divine magic at the slightest hint of trouble. “My companion there,” Vhok continued, “is ready to end your life with a word of power if he thinks you are not dealing justly with us. Do I make myself clear?”

The efreeti tried to nod and nicked himself on the

half-fiend’s blade. “Undoubtedly clear,” he said. “Amak will not turn on you.”

Vhok smiled. “Good. We wish to speak with the overseer. A big, nasty genie named Hafiz?”

“Yes, yes,” the efreeti said, trying to nod enthusiastically. “You must speak with Hafiz at once. He is the overseer here.”

“Excellent. This is working out well, don’t you think? Now, how should we go about finding Hafiz?”

“I will take you to him, yes, indeed,” Amak said. “If you will just release me, I will show you the way at once.”

“Now, if I let you go, I can trust that you won’t give me any trouble, right?” Vhok said. “Otherwise, my companion here will be forced to disintegrate you or something equally unpleasant. You don’t want that, do you?”

“Absolutely not,” the efreeti said with all sincerity. “I promise, no nonsense.”

“All right, then,” Vhok said. He stepped back from the efreeti and removed his blade from the creature’s throat.

Amak the efreeti half-turned and gave a glance at his tormentor. When he saw Vhok, he seemed to start the slightest bit, but he did not otherwise acknowledge the cambion. “This way,” he said simply, and motioned toward an opening in the floor leading to a set of stairs. “I will take you to the overseer.”

Vhok went down first, in order to keep Amak between himself and Zasian, who brought up the rear. They followed the staircase down, which wound around the hollow inside of the tower for several turns. The walls of the tower were pierced with narrow openings that permitted light to enter the vertical chamber, though it was dim. At the bottom of the stairs, Amak motioned that they should pass through a large door set into the wall. The door appeared made of thick brass set into an equally stout frame.

When Vhok pulled on the door, it wouldn’t budge. He gave the efreeti an accusing look.

Amak frowned, seemingly puzzled. “Pull harder,” he urged.

The cambion slipped his sword into its sheath and took hold of the handle with both hands. He gave the door a hard yank but it would not open. “All right,” he said, turning to chastise the efreeti. “What’s going o—”