The Warrior Returns - Anteros 04 (35 page)

Evocator Jhanns laughed that awful laugh. "Try to make sense out of that, Sergeant," he chortled.

I sat up straighter, drunken dignity offended. "It'sss sss-simple 'nough," I said. "I'm bein' cheated. Outta me rightful pension. Gonna see the paymaster in Orissa get it shhh
...
shhh
...
shhhtraightened out!"

Jhanns snickered. "Drunken fool," he said. He turned serious. "It makes you see what a terrible burden our leaders carry. Director Kato and the Goddess Novari are the most generous of rulers. And people like this drunken soldier are the first to take advantage of such generosity."

"You've said that before as well, Evocator Jhanns," the sergeant said. "And those words are as wise now, sir, as they was the first time you said 'em."

Jhanns' boyish face beamed pleasure at this. But I saw some of the troopers roll their eyes and hide grins, enjoying their sergeant's hidden insult.

"What about
her,
Evocator Jhanns?" the sergeant said. "Shall I let her pass? She may be drunk, but there's no harm in her."

The Evocator shrugged and started to turn his horse away. "I suppose you're right, Sergeant," he said. "Until we get some stricter vagrancy laws, I fear we're stuck putting up with such riffraff on the Goddess Novari's highways."

I hid my relief. It was short-lived, for the Evocator hesitated and turned back. I felt a warning prickle of magic and knew he was considering sniffing about my person and belongings for sorcerous contraband.

"Perhaps I should, uh," he was muttering, "investigate first
..."

I quickly made the contents of my saddlebags and pack seem like the vomit-soiled clothing of a committed drunk. I felt him probe, hit the spell of disgust, and quickly withdraw.

Evocator Jhanns' face had the look of a man who'd stuck his hand in a privy. He glared at me. I met the glare with a wide grin of "Who me?" innocence. Then I belched and he turned away, snapping, "Let her pass, Sergeant!"

The sergeant pulled a dirty sheaf of passes from the bulging pocket inside his tunic. He peeled one off and handed it to me.

"This'll get you where you're goin', Sam't," he said in a low voice. "And good luck to ya!"

He motioned down the road to Orissa. "Better get a move on, sister," he said. "Afore His freakin' Holiness changes his mind."

I belched my thanks, took a good hard pull on the jug, and kicked the mare forward.

And off I went, weaving and drinking and roaring my old first mate's favorite bawdy song.

"They sailed upon a boozy sea, my lads

At the Tavern by the Glade. They danced and sang till the kettles rang Then diddled all the maids. And diddled all the maids
..."

Over the next few days I traded that pass for several others as I made my way to the city. The once free highways of my homeland were now guarded at every major crossroads. At each point, you had to prove your purpose and present the pass that made it legal for you to travel into the area. That was stamped, and you were handed another to be examined at the next checkpoint. So the sergeant's gesture of sympathy proved of much more value than I had originally thought.

Most of the checkpoint warders gave me only a perfunctory glance, impatient as I told them my drunken woes, bitterly cursing that bastard of a paymaster in Orissa. Some were not so easy. But with a bit of magic to aid my angry pensioner's act, I always finally passed muster and was waved on.

The closer I came to Orissa, the more disheartening the surroundings.

In its whole history, Orissa had never known the heel of an oppressor. Our enemies had come close to overwhelming us before, but we'd always managed to turn the tide.

This time we'd not only lost, but the defeat had come from within. The scars of the civil war that had been fought were everywhere. Ruined villages. Fields and forests destroyed in battle. And the flag of the Lyre Bird flying from every official staff.

The most depressing thing of all was what the civil war had done to my people. Orissans are normally a warm and open people, noted for generosity to strangers. But now everyone scurried about, shoulders hunched in fear and suspicion in their every look. All conversation was guarded.

From the greedy eyes and twitching ears of all the spies I saw at the markets and inns, a set of locked lips was a prudent policy. As proof I saw the corpses of men and women hanging from gibbets in public squares. Most appalling of all were the gangs of chained laborers working under the lash of Novari's soldiers. Under Novari and Kato, loss of freedom was the most minor of all penalties for disobedience, and from the number of prisoners I saw, laws could be broken with tragic ease.

It seemed that not only had my family been wiped out, but the contribution the Anteros prized above all others—the end of slavery as an institution in Orissa—had been expunged as well.

I heard no news of the fighting at Galana. It was a subject not even a village fool would raise. Especially to a stranger. So I had no idea whether the rumors I'd heard from Mother Hana were true. Had Quatervals' soldiers and the remnants of the Maranon Guard really crumbled before Kato and Novari's forces? Had Emilie been seized and killed? Or was she still alive? And was the fight still raging? Palmeras, I recalled from Amalric's journal, was not only a powerful Evocator but as canny as they come. For all I knew, he'd erected a sorcerous shield that'd kept Novari at bay.

It was impossible to learn the answers to those questions in the countryside.

They'd have to wait until I reached Orissa.

all the entrances
were heavily guarded as I entered the city on market day, hidden by the crowds of farmers and villagers who flood into Orissa three times a week. I'd cached my horse and most of my belongings outside town so I was afoot and therefore even less noticeable.

It was a warm and sunny day, but the sky was a dirty gray from the fetid mist rising off the river. It stank of garbage and overburdened sewers, a condition no decent Orissan would tolerate in normal times. To soil the river would be the greatest of sacrileges. The streets were also filled with litter and pools of filth, yet another sign that the new government wasn't doing well. Ragpickers and junk dealers and pigmen had traditionally been licensed by the city to keep it clean. Filthy streets meant that even this simple, efficient arrangement had broken down.

The crowd was oddly subdued and spilled through the gates with heads down and conversation at a minimum. I quickly saw why when we passed between two enormous statues set on either side of the main market road.

One was the heroic mailed figure of a tall muscular man posing with a standard in one hand and raised sword in the other. The standard carried the banner of the Lyre Bird. Carved on the base of the statue were these words:
kato— defender of the goddess novari.

The other statue was of Novari herself. She was seated, stone face absorbed and gentle, fingers poised to stroke a glorious lyre.

My heart drummed against my ribs as I walked beneath her statue.

I tensed as a sniffing spell wafted over the crowd. It was emanating from Novari's statue, snuffling all around us for signs of threatening magic. I'd cast a shield so strong no one could penetrate it, but I was still nervous, waiting for one of the hovering soldiers to suddenly shout an accusation and rush me. The moment passed and I breathed a sigh of relief. My spell had worked. I was well-prepared for Novari this time.

To be certain, I'd have to be careful with my sorcery. I couldn't be too obvious. But I'd have my full powers at my command at all times. I had a masking spell surrounding me that would hide all but the most blatant and most powerful acts of magic from Novari.

I stuck with the main throng heading for the central market. Even the animals were silent as we passed under the shadow of the Palace of the Evocators. Not a chicken clucked or a donkey brayed. Though it was broad daylight, the palace seemed dark and forbidding. The windows glowed and the air stank of ozone. I tilted my head, peering at it with my ethereye. The palace had a red cast to it. Ghostly shapes swirled about, some moaning, some laughing. I concentrated and could hear lyre strings very faintly. And beneath that was a low rumbling sound, like a great fire raging many leagues away.

I pulled back to normalcy, letting the smells and sounds of the crowd root me in the natural world. But in that short time I'd gotten a definite sense that something was up. Novari was just as powerful as ever. Perhaps even more so. But I had the feeling her attention was elsewhere.

The city seethed with conspiracy and resentment. Many shops and homes had been gutted by the recent civil war. People had a gnawed, hungry look about them. I saw children standing alone in alleys, naked and crying for no apparent reason. I saw soldiers beating an old man. The crowd swirled around them without comment, but the looks they gave the soldiers smoldered with hatred. Scaffolding had been erected in the main square before the market. Bodies hung in chains from the scaffolding, ghastly reminders of what would happen to any who disobeyed the new rulers.

We all hurried by the corpses and entered the Great Central Market.

Here, as we still shivered from those awful displays, things were more normal. The sights and sounds and smells of Orissa's grand bazaar soon pushed away the feeling of dread. The atmosphere was charged with excitement—perhaps even more so than usual, for it had a hysterical edge of relief to it. Hawkers cried out from their stalls as I passed: "Pies! Fresh meat pies! Taters and beef and good gravy, too!"

"Honey! Sweetorange honey! Right outter the hive!"

"Pears, try me pears, dearie? Six fer a copper!"

The last came from an old crone, and I paused at her stall to get a juicy bit of fruit to clear the sour taste from my mouth. She had them on ice, and I picked a nice fat one to crunch into. I paid her a copper, waved away the change, and strolled on, looking as casual and innocent as could be, munching the pear.

I'd altered my pose slightly for the city. I was still the ex-sergeant, sorely wounded and badly treated by the pension board. But now I pretended my claims had been partly satisfied. I'd bathed, put on better clothing, and given the wooden bowl that covered my stump a good polish. My purse was fat with coin and I put out the aura of a person determined to have a good time after being so long and so unfairly denied.

I studied the crowd carefully, picking through fat-faced farmers and wide-eyed village lads and maids for a suitable target. I was soon rewarded.

I saw a barrow boy and his mate bump into a drunken bumpkin with their handcart. Fruit spilled on the ground, as did the bumpkin, and the barrow boy apologized profusely for his clumsiness. He helped the drunk up, patting the dust off of him as he did so. I saw him hook the man's purse and pass it swiftly to his friend, who hid it in his cloak pocket.

It was all done so skillfully that no one noticed, particularly the bumpkin, who was hoisted onto his feet and sent on his way with a final friendly pat on the back. That motion, combined with a brush against the bumpkin's side, carried away his kerchief.

It was heartening to see that at least some of Orissa's traditions hadn't been ended by Novari and her latest man toy. The thieves were still thick as the flies in old Pisidia. I'd been depending mightily on the ability of Orissa's criminal class to survive even Novari's onslaught. I had no idea who among my brother's friends or comrades still lived. I was betting heavily that at least one of them had been canny enough to slip the Lyre Bird's net. And that man had once called these villains brother. I didn't know where I might find him. But I knew where I might look and who I might ask.

I followed the barrow boys as they wended their way through the market, fleecing four others in less than half an hour. Framing the far end of the central market were the familiar tenements that marked Cheapside, where thieving families have thrived since the dawn of Orissa. During my days as a young soldier on the prowl, I'd frequented the area, carousing with my mates, and it'd cost me much to become wise to their ways.

It was in Cheapside, I prayed, that those costly lessons in the gaming dens would finally pay off. I'd need all the low knowledge I could command, plus magic as well, to bend the villains of Cheapside to my will. The closer I came, the rougher the streets became. The stalls were heaped with all manner of goods, household items, mostly. And of fine quality. I knew they were contraband from regular nightly forays into wealthy neighborhoods. Good citizens rubbed elbows with crooks here, eager to benefit from someone else's loss. Spielers harangued from the edges, calling the names of notorious grogshops, brothels, and gambling dens.

The barrow boys headed straight for a table where ten or twelve bumpkins were gathered about a lanky dinksman. The dinksman was shuffling three nutshells, or dinks, and urging his enthralled audience to guess which one hid the pea. The fruit-cart lads stopped near the table and had whispered conversation with a flashily dressed rogue who'd been watching the dinksman's action. Barrow boys are the eyes and ears of Orissa's underworld princes. They haul fruit and produce and other goods from place to place, working their own little bits of larceny and spying on all concerned at the same time.

The flashy rogue listened intently to what they had to say, then nodded, slipped them a coin, and sent them on their way. I let them go and pushed up to the dinksman's table, bumping into Flashy Clothes as I did so to make sure I had his attention. He glared at me and brushed himself off, full of self-importance.