Uneasy alliances - Thieves World 11 (25 page)

"You're armed," she noticed. "Going out?" He glanced at the sky. Twilight crept slowly over the heavens. It would be dark soon. Asphodel would be in the Promise like a mother hen protecting her clutch. He remembered the small dagger she wore in her garter and smiled grimly. If the Raggah were involved, she'd need a hell of a lot more than that.

"Personal business," he told Daphne. He turned and walked through the aviary, paying no attention to the other falcons in their cages. Birds

were Lowan's hobby, not his.

Daphne kept pace beside him as he headed for the estate. "Let me help," she offered.

Dayme paused. If there were Raggah to hunt, didn't Daphne have the right to join him? He shook his head. Despite all her training and skill,

she was a princess of Ranke. He had no right to risk her safety. Besides,

he had no proof that the Raggah were his prey. Only a suspicion.

"Personal," he repeated. He increased the length of his stride, leaving her behind. She didn't try to keep up, but stopped instead and glared. He

could feel the power of her anger at his back.

The twelve original gladiators who had accompanied Lowan Vigeles to Sanctuary had all been quartered within the estate. Two were dead; they were only ten now, but his grief was eased by the knowledge that his brothers had died bringing an end to Zip's tyranny. There was honor in that, so their deaths were goodHe sought Dismas and Gestus in the rooms they shared. Dismas was curled on the edge of the bed with a book of poems. His lover, Gestus, busied himself with a whetstone and a favored dagger. They looked up when Dayme entered.

"I'll be gone most of the night," he said softly. "Perhaps for the next

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few nights as well. I'd like it if the two of you took charge of the watch

tonight. Double the guards on all the other gates, too." Dismas closed his book. "Expecting trouble?"

"In this town?" He didn't need to say more. His comrades set aside their diversions and rose to follow him out.

"I won't ask your business," Dismas said as they closed the door behind them. "But do you need any help?"

"Personal," Dayme answered as he had to Daphne. Among the ten no other explanation was ever necessary. They were all auctorati, free fighters, at liberty to come and go as they pleased.

He left them, strode through the estate and out to the main gates. Leyn and a dark-haired giant named Dendur, one of the new recruits, stood duty. He exchanged a few words, then passed into the street. The entrance to the Promise was as dark as ever. There was no stone waiting on the pillar for him, though. It didn't matter; he didn't plan to

let Asphodel know he was here. He stole into the bushes and glanced at the sky again. One night past full moon, Sabellia still filled the world with

her pleasure.

Light enough to see by—enough light to be seen.

He crouched lower and began to move.

The Promise of Heaven was a large park, triangular in shape. Three entrances and three main walkways welcomed visitors, but dozens of smaller trails snaked among the trees and foliage. All along these trails in

small, secluded niches stood pillared busts and statues, little shrines to all

the various gods and goddesses that had ever been worshipped in Sanctuary, each cared for by their various priests. By daytime, the park was the shaded haunt of those priests and their acolytes, of philosophers and their students. It was a school where learned men met to share discourse, where supplicants sometimes came to pray.

By night, however, the niches belonged to the prostitutes—and to their supplicants who came to play.

Or prey, Dayme reminded himself as he crept from place to place. Here and there, a giggle rose on the breeze. Here and there, the sounds of

quick and furtive lovemaking. Dayrne was above embarrassment. He went about his search with a singleness of mind.

Sabellia sailed serenely through the night, marking the time. He wasn't sure when he first felt eyes upon his back. He realized only that someone watched him, someone as quiet and subtle as he. He moved to his right, and they moved with him. He circled left, and they followed.

Oh, they were good, indeed! Whoever his companion was, he couldn't spot him. But he knew someone was there.

He headed for the idol of the Ilsigi goddess, Shipri. A large niche, he remembered. There would be plenty of moonlight. If he was clever, he might lure his tag-a-long into that brightness. He fingered the pommel of

his sword and pressed on.

Then, he cursed. There were voices in the niche. Of course, there would be! Shipri was a goddess of love and motherhood. What better place for a prostitute to set up shop? He parted the bushes for a look. The voices stopped suddenly. At first, he feared he had been seen. But neither the man nor the woman there turned his way. Indeed, their eyes never seemed to move at all. After a moment, the man resumed the conversation, but the woman gave no answer. She didn't speak a word. Neither did her gaze leave her partner's face.

An alarm jangled in Dayrne's head. He peered closer at the blackcloaked man, unable to tell much about him save his height. A hood concealed his features, also any weapons he bore. But he was tall, much too tall for a Raggah. And he spoke Rankene.

"Come with me," the man said, crooking his finger. The prostitute smiled and fell into step beside her suitor. They left the niche and walked

down the pebbled path.

Their tread made no sound!

Almost, Dayrne leaped from his hiding place, drawing his sword. Sorcery! If he struck swiftly, the fiend might not have time to react. A clean

stroke through the neck—separate the head from the body—that was the best way to kill a wizard.

But he stopped himself. That might save this lady, but what of the other missing whores? He owed it to Asphodel to try and find them. He didn't relish the task, and he cursed his own sense of loyalty. Still, he

owed. There was no more to be said about it. Of one thing he was sure, though. This villain was no Raggah.

Dayrne followed the pair. Apparently, the wizard knew the park well. Shipri's grove was isolated in a little-traveled area of the Promise. The

walkways were empty. They wove a careful course toward the high wall at the southeast corner. Dayrne rubbed his chin. He'd expected them to make for one of the entrances. Where could they be going?

In the very corner where the two walls joined stood one of the tallest of

the park's god-sculptures. Dayrne ducked behind a shrub while the wizard and his catch approached the Father of the Ilsigi pantheon, mighty Us.

The wizard left the prostitute in the god's shadow while he went to the jointure of the walls. He put his left hand on a certain brick about shoulder high in the east face. His right found another brick in the south face

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at belly level. The two bricks were barely within his reach, and he strained to press them inward.

Dayme heard a grinding of stone against stone as the statue of Us moved on its base.

The wizard crooked a finger, and the prostitute went to his side. He led her down into a black crack at the idol's feet and the darkness swallowed

them. Dayrne bit his lip. She'd gone like a sheep to slaughter, without protest, smiling as if she'd smoked a whole bag of krrff. Again came that grating sound, and the pit suddenly sealed. Dayrne leaped out of his concealment and raced to the wall. Which were the right stones? He strove to remember. He was taller than the wizard, and his arms were longer. He chose a pair and pressed. Nothing happened. He tried again. Still nothing. He was sure he had the correct left-hand brick. But which was the right?

Suddenly, Us moved. Dayme thanked his own gods, stepped to the edge of the opening and looked down. A set of stone steps descended into utter blackness. He spent only an instant wishing for a lamp or a torch, then took the first step.

The air was oppressive and stale. He glanced back upward at the square of moonlight and drew a final fresh breath. He didn't take time to

search for the closing mechanism, but drew his sword and began to feel his way forward, brushing one hand along the slime-slicked wall. The tunnel led in only one direction. He'd heard rumors of such tunnels, but all reports had confined them to the Maze. Apparently the reports were wrong.

The darkness made him pause. It was worse than being blind because he knew that he could see. His eyes were wide open, shifting from side to

side, straining for some object or bit of light to fasten onto. His heart

thundered in his ribs. Still, he pushed on, mindful of the promise he'd made to Asphodel.

A web draped over his head. He opened his mouth, a shout rising in his throat. Barely, he choked it back, and he rubbed his sleeve over his face in a frantic haste to free himself from the sticky strands. Now, how in hell had that damn wizard dodged that?

He crept on, all too aware of the closeness of the walls, of the weight of

the earth over his head.

Then—was that a light?

He moved a little faster, careful still to make no sound. The tiny spot of light became a flame in the distance, then a sconced lamp with another

just beyond it. Dayme hovered at the edge of the darkness and listened. A low voice rode on the stagnant air. Impossible to distirguish the words, but by the rhythms and stresses, Dayme thought it some kind of

chant. He saw nothing ahead, though, so pressing against the wall, he ventured on into the light.

He stopped again. A too-familiar scent wafted through the tunnel. Dayme sniffed. His brows knitted together for an instant, and he clenched the hilt of his sword.

A death smell hung in the air, the unmistakable odor of rotting flesh. Too many years in the Rankan arenas as a slave and as an auctoratus had made him familiar with that stench. Gritting his teeth, trying not to breathe too often or too deeply, he followed the scent and the voice. A shriek ripped through the tunnel. The fine hairs on Dayme's neck rose straight up. A woman's voice! Another cry echoed after the first, then a pause, and a long series of screams and broken sobbings. Dayme abandoned stealth and ran forward. The chant had risen to match the intensity of the screams. A mad cacophony of sound swirled around him. He ran wide-eyed and fearful, yet the fear did not stop him. It drew him, instead, until he found the entrance to a side room off the tunnel.

He realized at once the tunnel's original purpose. He was surely close to the palace by now, and this was an old escape route used in times of emergency, built by the Ilsigs, perhaps still unknown to the current Rankan occupants. The side room was full of empty weapon racks where fleeing men might once had grabbed swords before emerging aboveground in the Promise. But not all his arena experience had prepared him for the rest of the sight.

In the light of a dozen oil lamps Dayme saw the bodies of Asphodel's missing prostitutes. They hung by their necks from metal spikes driven deep into the walls, twisted ropes biting through the bloated flesh of their

throats. Plainly, though, they had been killed before they were hanged. The first few women had merely been stabbed through the hearts. The purpled, crusted wounds showed visibly on their bare breasts. The next one had been disemboweled; the flesh of her belly had been peeled back to reveal emptiness; she looked like nothing more than a gutted fish. The

mutilations grew progressively more cruel. The skin and muscle had been sliced from one, leaving the organs in full view. Another had been left relatively intact with only dark holes showing where the organs had been removed. On yet another body the visible veins and arteries had been precisely, surgically opened, making a strange and gruesome mapwork. Blood had stained the wall a nauseating color where the corpses hung. Old puddles and rivulets of blood had dried and crusted on the floor beneath them.

Dayme reeled at the insanity of it.

354 UNEASY ALLIANCES

He fixed his eyes on the center of the room. Bound upon a crossshaped altar a woman screamed again, her terror filling the chamber and the tunnel beyond. It was the whore he'd followed from Shipri's niche. Whatever entrancement her captor had placed upon her had faded. Her feet and wrists bled as she struggled in her ropes.

At her head stood her captor. The wizard's eyes snapped open and fixed suddenly on Dayrne. The chant died in his throat. The gleaming knife he'd brandished over the prostitute turned point first toward the gladiator, and he snatched a second dagger from a table of instruments close at hand.

Outrage smothered any thought of fear. Dayrne started across the room, raising his sword. The wizard stepped swiftly to the altar's far side,

putting his victim between himself and his unexpected attacker. As he moved he brought the points of his two blades together and barked a short command in a language Dayrne didn't know.

A pain stabbed the gladiator's heart. The breath rushed from him, and he clenched his teeth. Still he forced another step forward, fighting the

sudden agony. The pain struck him again, and as he took another step, yet again stronger than ever. His knees buckled; the arcane fire in his chest consumed his strength. A red tide flooded his vision. His fingers trembled with seizure on the hilt of his sword.

He forced his head up, expecting a death stroke from one of the daggers. The wizard had felled him easily; Dayrne was helpless at that moment. Yet, his foe kept his place behind the altar and his victim. Then, Dayrne saw fear, not triumph, on his foe's face. Fighting the pain, he crawled back toward the entrance. With each retreating step the pressure on his heart lessened. He leaned on the jamb

and slowly pulled himself to his feet, gasping for one good breath. The wizard lowered his blades. A fine sweat sheened on his brow, and the glow of the oil lamps lent him a strange countenance. Still, the fear was unmistakable; Dayrne saw it in those dark. deep-set eyes.

The prostitute cried piteously. "Help me'" she begged Dayrne. "Don't let him kill me, I'm with child!"