Heroes Die

by Matthew Woodring Stover

  And the final, most potent whisper, least rational and buried the deepest: They were in it together, against him. Caine and Pallas had concocted this whole fantastic plan to make him expose himself, to draw him out where they could humiliate him before the world and destroy his last chance for happiness.

  All of these back-of-the-head whispers combined into a powerful feeling of justice—a conviction that he’d really thought this whole thing through and what he was doing was not only necessary, but was right.

  He’d begun to deal with what he privately termed the Caine Problem last night, after he and Pallas had come back alone from their conference. After Lamorak had been settled into his nest and Pallas had gone off somewhere to brood by herself, the King of Cant had climbed up next to him and begun half-casually questioning him about Caine.

  Lamorak realized with growing delight that the King—however reluctantly—suspected Caine of working for the Imperials!

  Once he understood, it was simple to inflame those suspicions while appearing to attempt to allay them. The way Caine had vanished—as Lamorak was forced to put it, “He didn’t explain, he just left without a word”—made everything all the better. Lamorak knew that not only could he get away with betraying Pallas and the tokali, but he’d be able to pin it all on Caine.

  Majesty half believed it already, against his will; that Charm Pallas had laid on him made him fanatically, paranoically protective of her. He’d take any Imperial interference as proof that Caine had betrayed them.

  The evidence of the morrow would remove all doubt.

  And so when Pallas Ril left that morning, a half hour before dawn, with her four tokali in tow, Lamorak had set to work without the faintest twinge; with, in fact, a swelling sense of righteousness and delight in his own skill and imagination.

  It was a tricky business: finding a way to ensure that the Grey Cats would interfere at the docks without exposing himself once again to Berne’s lunatic temper. The solution that Lamorak hit upon not only satisfied that requirement, but there was a certain sense of tradition to it as well, a sort of metaphoric rightness that lent an additional air of conviction to his assurance of success.

  Rats were everywhere in this warehouse; the paper, the oil, and the knife to cut the strips of leather were easily obtained from the Subjects of Cant with the explanation that he needed them for the healing magick he planned to do on his leg. Knowing nothing about real magick, the superstitious mopes hadn’t even raised an eyebrow.

  He found himself a secluded compartment in which to work, and Talann was more than happy to guard the door and ensure that he would not be disturbed. It was the work of mere minutes to pull enough Flow to trap the will of a suitable rat, which he then sent scampering off toward Old Town. He had to stay there and maintain mindview, continuing to pull in order to keep the rat under control, but even that was no danger. If Pallas returned and inquired about the Flow currents swirling toward his compartment, Talann and the Subjects would tell her he was still working on his leg.

  It was perfect; it was easy. The indecision that he faced once the rat had crossed the bridge was not a hesitation to betray—he was simply trying to decide which would be the quickest, safest route to the headquarters of the Grey Cats.

  3

  THE RAT SCUTTLED along Gods’ Way with a back-humping lope. It stayed just far enough beneath the boardwalk to be in shadow, dodging curses, horses’ hooves, and the occasional boot or hurled brick; the hazards of this open route were much easier to avoid than the dogs and feral cats that prowled Old Town’s smaller streets and back alleys. It barely escaped the steel-bound wheel of a nobleman’s carriage as it sprinted past the Colhari Palace onto Nobles’ Way, then south off Old Town, across Kings’ Bridge to the South Bank.

  The closest the Grey Cats came to an actual headquarters was the walled compound of the townhome that Ma’elKoth had granted to Count Berne as part of his ennoblement. The rat slipped easily between the iron bars of the gate and ran for the house. All the doors and windows were spread wide, and men lay here and there sprawled in the elbow-to-eyes posture of hungover slumber.

  One of them happened to lift his head. Rubbing sleepily at his face, he spied the rat. The Cat jerked awake with a yip of surprise that brought other heads up with dismaying speed and alertness.

  The rat did not see Berne anywhere among them—perhaps an upstairs bedchamber? It dashed for the stairs. Despite what appeared to have been some sort of drunken revel the night before, the Cats were awake in an instant with mocking shouts like huntsmen whose dogs have started a fox.

  A thrown dagger thrummed into the floor only inches in front of the rat’s nose, causing an abrupt change of direction. Suddenly the air was filled with a rain of steel, hacking into the floor, the walls, chipping large chunks from the hand-carved woodwork of the banisters—all to the sound of the Cats’ delighted laughter.

  The rat scampered this way and that, still trying for the stairs, and when a pause came in the shower of daggers—perhaps they’d thrown them all?—it sprinted once again for the bottom step. Something heavy struck it in the spine and drew a line of ice across its back; its hind legs twitched convulsively, beating against the floor, and it twisted and squealed and bit at the knife that had struck through its haunches and pinned it to the floor.

  All semblance of intelligence fled; now there was only its last instinctive desperation to wound what had killed it, its attempt to leave a mark of its life behind it when it passed.

  4

  ONE OF THE Cats bent over the dead rat and squinted blearily at the oiled-paper packet before slicing through the leather thongs that held it in place. He examined it against the morning light. “What do you make of this?”

  The other Cats gathered round.

  He unfolded the paper packet and read:

  Simon Jester moves the Aktiri today on a downstream barge for Terana from the Industrial Park docks. A full hood of silver net, draped over your head, will defeat the spell that hides them all.

  His eyes went wide, and his heart surged. “Where’s the Count?” he snapped. “Who knows where Count Berne spent his night?”

  Instead of answering his question, the others babbled questions of their own: The message on the paper, what had it said? Whom was it for? Who’d sent it? He waved the paper over their heads.

  “Someone has given us Simon Jester once again; this time we must not fail! Ride to Onetower; command them to stand ready at the antiship nets—and find the Count!”

  5

  TOA-SYTELL WAS SUMMONED from his breakfast by a breathless page instructing him to attend the Emperor immediately.

  He had no need to ask where the Emperor might be; at this time of the morning the Emperor was invariably in the Lesser Ballroom, constructing the Great Work. Art, he had always said, is done best from dawn to noon, its power rising with the sun; done after noon it becomes decadent and reducing, draining power from the artist to replace what it should get from the fading sun above.

  In the Lesser Ballroom, Toa-Sytell found Berne already in attendance. The Count wore his fighting clothes, the formfitting tunic and pants of patchy strawberry serge. His stolen blade was shoulder-slung. Instead of his usual hungover surliness at this hour of the day, Berne looked rested and ready for action. The glitter in his eyes spoke of an excitement that, for him, came only from the prospect of slaughter.

  The Emperor stood beside him, at the cauldron’s rim, clay drying and cracking on his crimson kilt. Barefoot and bare chested as he always was when working here, flushed with the heat of the coals that kept the clay boiling, muscle rolled like boulders beneath his skin as he extended his hand to Toa-Sytell.

  “Come, My Duke. What make you of this?”

  He pressed a fold of paper into Toa-Sytell’s hand, but Toa-Sytell’s eyes were caught by the manikin that bobbed gently in the steam-misted air, hovering forgotten over the boiling clay of the cauldron.

  It was of Caine, yet again; Ma’elKoth had spent all the time all
otted for his Great Work yesterday attempting to fit Caine into the gigantic puzzle-piece sculpture, trying innumerable postures and expressions, but finally coming to frustrating failure. Now he must be trying a new strategy, for this Caine manikin was vastly larger, perhaps seven feet tall, matching the Emperor’s own stature.

  Toa-Sytell frowned. This seemed faintly blasphemous, somehow, though he couldn’t put a reason to his feeling. A fundamental pragmatist, he had long ago accepted his inability to appreciate art, but it was disturbing that Caine had come to occupy so large a place in the Emperor’s thoughts in so short a time.

  Toa-Sytell looked down at the paper in his hand and read there the message of Simon Jester’s intention to move the Aktiri, and of the hood of silver net.

  “Who is the writer?”

  “Lamorak,” Berne said tightly. “I know his hand.”

  “Hmpf.” He turned the paper over; the back was blank. He shrugged.

  “You don’t look surprised.”

  Toa-Sytell permitted himself a razor’s edge of smile. “I’ve known for some time that Lamorak had been, before his capture, your source close to Simon Jester. My impression, however, was that you have had some, mm, falling out. Breaking his leg, ordering that he be tortured to death—these are not signs of a close working relationship.”

  Berne spread his hands. “He’d outlived his usefulness.”

  Toa-Sytell lifted the note consideringly. “Apparently not. Though if I’d used a source as you did him, I would never trust his word—”

  “We do not.”

  Ma’elKoth’s distant thunder cut off all possibility of discussion. The Emperor laid massive hands on the shoulders of his two servants.

  “We cannot deduce what profit Lamorak can hope of this; we must assume that it is part of some tactic. Berne and his Grey Cats will pretend to be taken in by it; they will watch, and search the barges.”

  “What of this silver hood?” Toa-Sytell asked. “It seems that I’ve heard some rumor of such a thing—”

  “Mmm, yes. Master Arkadeil from time to time employed a certain artificer, Konnos by name, who constructed some of his equipment for the Theater of Truth. The most recent such piece was a suit made entirely of fine-worked silver mesh that would supposedly render him immune to any of the subtler magicks accessible to a Donjon-bound thaumaturge: an expensive piece of work, for which Arkadeil paid, I believe, by having Konnos denounced as an Aktir.”

  The Emperor sighed heavily. “I Myself considered this creation to be of limited utility—anyone wearing it is cut off completely from Flow, and hence is essentially powerless. I may have been too hasty: My feelings were prejudiced by My own strengths. I have ordered several full-sized versions of this silver net constructed, after which I shall conduct My own experiments. For the nonce, I have sent to the Donjon for Arkadeil’s suit, which can be cut into material suitable for three or four hoods, in addition to the one that is already part of it. We shall test Lamorak’s message in action, as soon as the hoods are ready.”

  Toa-Sytell nodded up toward the oversized manikin of Caine. “What word do you have from him? What does he think of Lamorak’s message?”

  Ma’elKoth wheeled on him; the hand upon his shoulder became a grip of iron that lifted him into the air. Sudden fury twisted his beautiful face into a demon’s mask, and his eyes flared scarlet as the rising sun.

  “I do not know!” he roared, so loud that Toa-Sytell’s ears felt as though they’d been pierced by knives. He felt the actual heat of Ma’elKoth’s gaze upon his skin. All the breath left his lungs along with the strength from his limbs. He hung like a hare in the jaws of a lion.

  Throughout the Lesser Ballroom the pages jumped at the crash of the Emperor’s voice and exchanged fearful glances; no doubt every sleeper in the Palace awakened in panic as though from a nightmare. Toa-Sytell had a sudden feeling that across the city, throughout the entire Empire, every man and woman and child who had undergone the Ritual of Rebirth paused as the routine of their lives was suddenly interrupted by a rush of indefinable unease. He felt that every Child of Ma’elKoth had a premonition of some unforeseen disaster.

  An instant later Toa-Sytell was returned to his feet. The crushing grip on his shoulder had become a warm and fatherly hand of support to steady him until he could once again stand.

  “You have My apology, Toa-Sytell,” Ma’elKoth said softly and calmly, though echoes of that titanic fury still hummed beneath his tone. His chest expanded near to bursting and fell again in a long, long sigh. “The Work goes poorly, and My temper is short.”

  The Duke said nothing, still slowly recovering from the scorching rage with which he’d been struck. Like a child feeling a parent’s fist for the first time, he couldn’t quite sort through his emotions: he was hurt and frightened and ashamed and uncertain what to say or what not to say.

  Tiny beads of sweat prickled out all over his body, sweat that only peripherally related to the Lesser Ballroom’s saunalike heat, and even Berne looked shaken.

  “Observe.” Ma’elKoth turned away from them, so that neither could see his face.

  “When Berne first came to Me this morn, I attempted to Speak to Caine, to get his word on this missive. If he is still in Lamorak’s company, Caine would be able to confirm this report or tell Me of its falsity. At the very least, I would have a vastly clearer vision of what is happening. Observe the result.”

  The outsized manikin rose higher over the rim of the cauldron, drifted toward the three, and descended to the floor nearby.

  Ma’elKoth extended his right hand as though offering benediction, his outspread fingers shading the manikin’s face from the morning sun. An in-drawing tension, as though the palace itself held its breath, and the air around Ma’elKoth heatshimmered with power.

  “Caine . . .”

  The word echoed within Toa-Sytell’s head like a whisper in a cave, but the manikin remained mere blank and lifeless clay.

  Always before, the posture, attitude, even the spirit of the target would come to animate the manikin through which the Speaking took place. Ma’elKoth spoke to it, and it would answer as though it were the very man to whom he Spoke. Now, though, now . . . Toa-Sytell squinted and moved closer, bending his neck to look up into the manikin’s face of blood-worked clay.

  There was something indefinable missing here, something beyond the obvious lifelessness of the Speaking’s inexplicable failure. Some quality of life, of truth, of implicit motion was missing from this figure. The manikins of which Ma’elKoth constructed his Great Work always carried an impression of immanent activity, of not-too-deeply buried life, as though they might move and speak and laugh and love as soon as one turned one’s eyes away—but this Caine looked as dead as a discarded doll. Though each individual feature appeared as perfect as one would expect, some ineffable crudity of their combination made it merely a large hunk of Caine-shaped clay.

  “You can see,” said Ma’elKoth, deep in his chest, “that this goes beyond a simple refusal to answer. Somehow, somewhere, Caine is beyond the reach of My voice.”

  “But how can this be?”

  “I am surrounded by mystery. Why can I not penetrate the magick that beclouds Simon Jester’s every move? Why is Lamorak so eager to betray that he will forgive a sentence of death? Where is Caine?”

  “You think maybe he’s dead?” Berne asked hopefully.

  Ma’elKoth snorted contemptuously. “Have you no eyes?” The manikin swung around the Emperor to bob pugnaciously a hand span from Berne’s nose.

  “This is not the face of a corpse! This is the face of a man who never was! Caine has been wiped from existence as though he were a phantom of our collective daydreams. I will know how. I will know why. I will bend My magicks to this end, but Caine has, in the past, proven too slippery for such a grip.”

  The manikin suddenly jerked high over the cauldron’s rim and splashed down into the boiling mud as though tossed by a careless giant. Ma’elKoth stood between his two nobles and cracked h
is knuckles like a wrestler.

  “Berne, take your Cats to the barges. Perhaps the note is a diversion, a bait; if Simon Jester thinks we have bitten, perhaps he will move openly elsewhere. Or perhaps the note is honest, and we will take him today at the river. Toa-Sytell, you will place every man, woman, and street-child ever associated with the King’s Eyes on alert. I wish to know everything that happens in this city today. Everything. And you personally,” Ma’elKoth leaned close to the Duke, his breath hot and bloody, “will turn your whole attention, Toa-Sytell, to discovering where in the world a man can go that he cannot hear My voice, where it is that My will does not extend. This is, at the very least, equal in importance to the capture of Simon Jester; it is vital to the return of My serenity.”

  He turned away and vaulted up over the cauldron’s rim, walking barefoot across the liquid surface of the boiling clay. He raised his arms, and a new figure arose from the mud, forming again into a man, ten, twelve feet tall. As his will began to sculpt its broken nose and fringe of beard, he turned his face toward Toa-Sytell one last time: his eyes smoked emerald fire, and his voice scraped and rumbled like a mountain avalanche.

  “Find Caine.”

  6

  “AND YOU KNOW, I can’t figure out if he planned it this way, or not. I can’t even figure out if it matters one way or the other.”

  Because standing still hurt too much, Hari Michaelson sat by the small square window on an uncomfortably hard examining stool.

  His right arm was strapped to his chest to partially immobilize his ventilated trapezius. The wound could not be visibly treated beyond debridement and crude stitching; use of advanced medical technology would cause a continuity flaw when he transferred back to Ankhana. He’d taken several injections of timed-release universal antibiotics and had a week’s supply of pinhead-sized analgesic caps slowly dissolving within the muscle. His left shoulder and his knee both ached fiercely from the beating they’d taken as well as from the steroids that had been pumped into both joints; and even though an anti-inflammatory had been injected into each one of the innumerable purple-black bruises from the gelslugs that had hammered him into unconsciousness, his entire torso was strapped with surgical tape to help keep down the swelling.