Turning Points (22 page)

“Ring of fire?”

“You will know it when you see it,” came the hollow reply. With his hideous, kohl-painted eyes, Halott glanced up at the sun. “Now go.”

Using an oar, Durel pushed away from the slip, then with him rowing and Ariko manning the tiller, the little ketch moved away, while, behind, Halott began to chant:

“
Agsh nabb thak dro
…”

Free from the docks, Durel turned the ketch about, then shipped the oars and raised sail and angled the boom to make the most of the wind, and out into the bay they moved. To the fore, a luminous fog arose, a fog unaffected by the wind. And now the occlusion completely covered the sun, all but a ring of fire running entirely ‘round. And reflected in the ghostly mist before them, a ring of fire appeared, and toward this ring they did sail.

And still to the aft, Halott’s hollow voice yet whispered:

“…
dik dro ngar thebb
…”

Into the mist they went, and through the ring of fire, and in but moments the occlusion passed onward and an arc of the sun appeared. The ring of fire had vanished, and so too had vanished the little ship along with Ariko and Durel.

“Have you the stone?”

Halott turned. Naimun stood on the dock.

“Yes,” whispered the necromancer, and he slid a desiccated hand into a voluminous pocket of his black robe and drew out the ebon gem.

“Ah, my sire will treasure this,” said Naimun as he took the stone from Halott, trying to avoid touching the necromancer’s skin. “Striped as it is, it represents Irrunega’s black tiger, or so my sire said when he first saw it.” Naimun glanced at the gradually emerging sun. “Are you certain that this marvel is natural, no matter what the shamans of my tribe say?”

Halott nodded and whispered, “Completely natural, though it and others like it greatly aid castings.”

Naimun smiled tentatively, as if trying to come to grips with a new thought. But then he shrugged and said, “Well, thanks to our scheme we both got what we wanted: me, the stone; you, the body of Soldt to do with as you will.” At this last, a shiver ran down Naimun’s spine. He took a deep breath and, glancing once more at the returning sun, said, “If I need aught else, you will hear from me.”

Halott bowed, and Naimun turned on his heel and left the necromancer alone on the docks.

As the young Irrune strode away, Halott sneered… if a faint twitch of a lip can be called a sneer.
Fool! Yes he got what he wanted, and so did I; yet it was not Soldt’s body I desired, but that sword of his instead. In spite of my vital organs being secreted away in my enspelled canopic jars, that blade may be the only weapon in Sanctuary that can truly slay me
.

“How did you awaken when you did? I mean, Halott’s step is like that of a feather.”

“A tiger told me that danger was nigh.”

“A tiger?”

Ariko nodded. “At least I think it was one, though it seemed made of shadow, and mayhap had two heads. It certainly sounded like one,
chuffing
as it did.”

“And… ?”

“And I watched as Halott treated my blades.”

“And then… ?”

“And then when Halott was gone, the tiger returned and chuffed once more and I followed it down a set of stairs, down through a laboratory of some kind, and on down into dank basements below, with water adrip, slime on the walls, and rats running everywhere. Three levels I went down, but not to the level below. On that third underlevel I found Rogi naked and asleep… all over his body the hair on his left side is completely gone, while on the right it seems doubled. —Did you know he has a tattoo of a dragon twined about his, um, rather lengthy member?”

Durel looked askance at Ariko, but said nought, though he motioned for her to go on.

“You know that I told you if there were a way to foil Halott’s scheme, I would. And I guessed from Halott’s late-night visit that Soldt would be dead should I nick him. And given he needed to appear dead for Halott to send us back to Arith, well… you know how Rogi used to crow about putting ‘ratth athleep,’ and he told me all about the paste he used, and how to judge the dosage needed for ‘ratth’ and ‘catth’ and ‘dogth’ and other such animals, some quite large. That given, I simply, um, borrowed a tin of Rogi’s paste and, gauging how much it would take, I replaced the poison—I think it was poison—Halott put on my blades…”

Durel’s laughter rang out over the waters of the Valagon Sea as a gentle wind wafted the little ketch toward the city of Ibarr in the land of Azrain on the elsewhere world of Arith.

In a tower north of Sanctuary, Soldt awakened to find himself lying on a long metal table in a faintly lit laboratory. He swung his legs over the edge and stood, swaying slightly from the aftereffects of whatever had been done to him. And he took up his soot-laden, oil-disguised Enlibar blade. Where he was and how he had gotten there, he had not a clue, but someone was about to pay.

The sea shimmered like a dark mirror, still and smooth as glass beneath a windless, starlit sky. The faintest sliver of a waning moon hung like a beacon low in the west. To the south, it was impossible to discern any demarcation between the water and the heavens. Not even the barest breath of a breeze teased the placid surface, and all the world seemed smothered in an unnatural hush.

Along the coast to the north and northwest, it was the same. The hour was late, and only a few lanterns and torches glimmered on Sanctuary’s shoreline. The distorted shadows of warehouses and fisheries stretched over the wharves, and the masts of the few sailing ships anchored in their berths rose stark and unmoving.

Then from around the brief peninsula called Land’s End, an Ilsigi trireme glided on banks of oars that broke the water with lumbering precision. The muffled throb of its master-drum, issuing from deep within the ship, counterpointed each sloughing oar-stroke as the vessel rounded the point and eased into the city’s harbor.

A lantern brighter than the few that burned along its deck suddenly appeared in the trireme’s prow. It cast a beam that rippled out across the black water. A moment later, the beam winked out. Then it flashed again, over and over in rhythm with the drum.

At the end of Empire Wharf, another flashing lantern appeared, and a small skiff launched out across the harbor. Following the now-steady beam of light from the trireme, it approached the Ilsigi ship. An old man, thin as a fish bone and weathered as driftwood, sat alone in the skiff. He worked the pair of oars with the skill and strength of long practice.

A deep voice called down from the trireme’s prow. “Ahoy, Mar-kam! Ahoy, the harbor pilot!”

The harbor pilot shouted back gruffly. “You’re Wrigglie-ass late.”

“No winds, Markam!” came the answer. The speaker could not be seen against the lantern’s glare. “We’ve been working the oars since noon this whole damned day, and we’ll have to put to sea again by dawn to keep our schedule. But we’ve got passengers and freight, and no matter the hour, our berth is already paid for. So lead us in, and no more of your flatulent mouth.”

Markam grumbled a low curse, but turned his skiff. The master-drum throbbed again, softer now. A single bank of oars dipped into the water, and the trireme slipped into Sanctuary’s port. Guided by the pilot, it nestled gently into a berth and dropped anchor. A dozen men leaped over the rails to the wharf. Thick ropes sailed through the air, uncoiling, and in no time, the ship was lashed and secure.

A gangplank slid down from the deck.

Regan Vigeles paused at the top of it and gazed from under his hood down the wharf toward the Wideway and the warehouses and the dark silhouettes of the rooftops beyond, and he wrinkled his nose. After days at sea with the sweet salt air filling his lungs, the stench of Sanctuary was a rude perfume. His black leather trousers, polished boots, and fine matching cloak marked him as a man of wealth. In one hand, he gripped a pair of gloves; in his other hand, a small purse.

A wagon drawn by a team of horses creaked slowly down the wharf as it approached the ship.

Footsteps on the deck behind him. Regan Vigeles turned slightly as the Ilsigi captain approached. The captain wore a smile as he chatted with the woman at his side. Her flawless skin was as black as shadow, her eyes large and dark over sharply defined cheekbones. Her full lips were parted slightly as if in a bemused grin, perhaps at some joke or comment of the captain’s. She was dressed for sea travel, not in women’s clothing, but in trousers of brown leather with a white silk tunic whose sleeves flowed at her easiest movement, as did the jet black hair that hung straight to her waist. On her belt, she wore a pair of sheathed daggers.

Arriving at the gangplank, the captain unfolded a brown cloak he’d carried over his free arm. In gallant fashion he draped it around her shoulders. She smiled and made the smallest courtesy.

“I believe you’ve charmed Aaliyah, Captain,” Regan Vigeles said, looking down at the Ilsigi. He held out the purse in his hand and lowered his voice. “For your inside pocket. The voyage has been pleasant, and you’ve treated us well.”

The Ilsigi captain bowed his head in thanks as he quickly thrust the purse under his sash before anyone else saw it. “I’m loath to abandon you, Lord Spyder,” the captain said as he stared at the wagon that pulled to a stop by the ship. “I’ve set into this port many times, and it’s no place by night for you and your lady.”

“No need to worry, Captain. We’ll be quite safe.” Regan Vigeles took Aaliyah’s hand. “Perhaps I could impose upon you to have your men load my freight into the wagon.”

The captain patted the purse under his belt and bowed as he backed away.

Aaliyah’s vacuous smile faded. A look of alert concern took its place as she gazed toward the city.

“
Nha su preo, shahana Aaliyah
,” Vigeles murmured as he placed an arm around her shoulders and drew her close. He pushed back his hood as he looked down at her. His hair was black and cropped short, and his tanned, strong-featured face was beardless. She turned in his embrace to face him, and he looked into the dark warmth of her eyes as he drew a finger along the velvet line of her cheek.

A noise on the wharf below caught his attention as crewmen began unloading his crates and stacking them in the wagon. Each crate bore his seal, a painted emblem of a black spider that was visible even in the faint light of the ship’s lanterns.

Regan Vigeles walked down the gangplank to the wharf, and Aaliyah followed, her soft footsteps making no sound at all.

The driver of the wagon climbed down. His name was Ronal, a short man, but powerfully built, in his mid-fifties although he looked much younger. Disdaining a cloak, he wore only trousers, boots, and a plain leather vest that laced across his broad chest. An old burn-scar showed on his bare right biceps, the brand of a slave-gladiator. It marked him as the property of House Donadakos. Years ago, however, he had won his freedom in the arena with fifty kills to his credit.

Ronal ran a hand through his short gray hair. “I’d nearly given up waiting, Spyder,” he said quietly to Vigeles. “It’s past the third hour of morning, but it’s good to see you. Welcome to the anus of the empire.” He ran an appreciative eye up and down Aaliyah. “Aren’t you a beauty!” He gave a low whistle. “Where did you find her?”

“She’s not a slave, Ronal, so watch your tone,” Regan Vigeles, called Spyder, said stiffly. Then he relaxed again as he took her hand. “Aaliyah comes from a land beyond the western edge of any formal maps.” He changed the subject as the last crate was loaded into the wagon. “I assume you’ve handled everything with your usual efficiency.”

Ronal pursed his lips and nodded. “The renovations are completed. The shop and apartments are as you ordered, and the contracts are paid.” He slapped one of the crates and walked around the wagon to make sure the load was secure. “It’s on Face-of-the-Moon Street in the very armpit of Ils’s temple. And except for the temple, it’s the highest point on the Hill. From the rooftop, you have an unobstructed view of the harbor.”

Aaliyah had strayed to the end of the wharf where she stood staring out toward the sea. The lanterns on the trireme’s rails cast a nimbus of light about her that sent her shadow spilling across the old boards and over the water below.

Ronal’s voice dropped a note. “There’s something lonely and strange about that one,” he whispered almost to himself.

Leaving Ronal by the wagon, Spyder came up behind Aaliyah. “
Shahana
,” he said softly, “
ven veiha ma elberatb. Ten ki
.”

She seemed to hesitate before she turned and came to his side. Together, they returned to the wagon, and he handed her up to the seat.

“What language was that?” Ronal asked. He had good ears. “It’s beautiful—like the wind through leaves, or like water lapping the shore. I’ve never heard it before.”

“Her language,” Spyder answered, as he climbed up beside her. “You should know, however, that Aaliyah doesn’t speak at all.”

Ronal stood gape-mouthed for an instant before he, too, climbed into the wagon and took the reins. With a clucking of his tongue, he turned the team and headed into the city.

By mid-morning, the crates were unpacked and The Black Spider was open for business. Groups of rough-looking men, surprised to find a new and well-appointed shop in such a run-down neighborhood, ventured through the door with narrow-eyed curiosity. Most quickly exited to alert their compatriots. One or two lingered to scrutinize the shop for weaknesses, possible entry points, figuring the proprietor for a fool and the shop for easy pickings.

Swords of the finest manufacture and from many nations depended in their scabbards from pegs on three walls. Racks of bows, lances, and intricately worked staves stood along the fourth wall.

There were barrels full of arrows and crossbow bolts. Tall wooden display shelves held daggers, knives, darts, and shuriken of various shapes. Expensive glass cases placed throughout the shop contained more exotic weapons—brooches with spring-loaded needles, belt buckles with concealed blades, still other objects whose surprises could not be guessed.