by Glen Cook
“Promote him, anyway, sir. You don’t have to reveal yourself.
If he’s running with the Herodian pack it’ll give him something he’ll want to report to his masters.”
“Yes. Bring writing materials.”
Bel-Sidek waited a long time while the old man wrote. The General’s efforts seemed weaker and more painful than they had been the evening before. Bel-Sidek worried silently. The old man wrote three notes.
“Take this one to the same place you went last night. Then take the others to Hadribel. This one is for him. He’s to deliver the other to Naszif himself after he has supper. You go to your friend’s house. Stay there till time for tonight’s meeting.”
“Yes, sir.” Bel-Sidek went, his leg aching so badly he began mumbling, “I will not yield. I am not beaten. I am among the living.”
Azel rambled in and dumped himself into a chair at the only open table in Muma’s Place. Muma himself came right away, settled opposite him. “Bad day?”
“Just rough. You got any of that Narbonian beer hidden in the cellar still? I feel like swilling a pail full.”
“There’s still a little down there. You can’t drink it out here.”
“I know.”
“You may not have time for it,” Muma said, rising.
Azel watched Muma cross to the kitchen doorway. A limping man arrived there moments later. The limping man was deft of hand. Azel almost missed the passing of the message.
Muma summoned one of his sons. The youngest went out with the crippled man. After a while, Muma returned to Azel’s table.
“For me?”
“For you. A sparrow.”
“Let’s go find that beer.”
Muma grinned. A few teeth were absent. “You’re not going to jump on it?”
“I’m going to relax and have something to drink and eat. The pot will simmer along as nicely without me to watch.”
“No doubt. You serve too many masters.”
“I serve only one. Myself.”
“Perhaps that one is too exacting.”
“Maybe.” Azel thought about a couple of weeks in the silence and solitude of the sinkhole country. Qushmarrah could simmer without benefit of his watchful eye. Surely.
Maybe in another week or two. Times were too interesting right now.
“A wonderful change of pace tonight,” Medjhah said, staring into his bowl in feigned despair. “Raw instead of charred.”
“Is it wiggling?” Nogah asked.
“Too ashamed.”
“Are the worms playing tag through it?”
“They’re embarrassed to show themselves in this glop.”
“Eat up, then. You’ll grow up big and strong and brave and fierce and smart like our beloved...”
Some glint of mirth in the eyes of those opposite him warned Nogah. He glanced over his shoulder. “Mo’atabar. We were just talking about you.”
“I heard the fierce and smart part, which touches on the truth as heavily as a maiden’s blush. Meantime, your beloved leader wants, to see you and the kid. No hurry! No hurry! I’m nothing if not civilized and compassionate. I’d be worse than a Turok savage if I denied men the once-in-a-lifetime chance to fill themselves with delicacies such as these. Eat up, Nogah. Eat hearty. Enjoy while you can. Shall I have the cooks bring you more? They probably have a taste or two left.”
“No. No. Wonderful as it is, I’ll have to restrain myself. Have to set an example for the men. Gluttony is an unforgivable and disgusting vice.”
Mo’atabar went away smiling.
Yoseh said, “Fa’tad.”
“Yes.”
His stomach knotted. “Again.”
“I’m thinking about gouging your eyes out, baby brother.”
“Maybe I’ll do it myself. Why does he have to see me?”
No one answered, not even to crack wise. Medjhah began muttering about how the damned ingrate Qushmarrahan charity-case cooks were trying to poison their benefactors.
They downed what they could stomach, Yoseh drawing it out. Nogah told him, “Stalling won’t help. You still got to go.”
The compound was more crowded than it had been the night before. They edged around to one side and that took them past the cause of the increased crowding, the pen for the prisoners taken in the maze. “Look,” Yoseh said. “Some of them are just kids.”
Four children huddled in a corner of the pen, terrified. Yoseh was not good at guessing veydeen ages but figured them for five or six. Two yards from them lay a dead man. His skin had the waxy look that characterized all the prisoners except the children.
The dead man had a black arrow sticking out of his side. Nogah said, “He must have tried something on the kids.”
Yoseh grunted. He looked at the rest of the captives and decided he did not want to find out what kind of hell existed deep in the Shu maze.
Yahada admitted them without bothering to announce them, indicating an out-of-the-way corner where they could squat. They did so. Yoseh was so awed he kept his gaze fixed upon his hands. His knuckles were bone-white.
Fa’tad’s commanders were all crowded into his quarters. They were not discussing the arrival of the civil governor, as Yoseh expected, but what had been learned from several prisoners who had been interrogated already. Having arrived at the end, Yoseh did not follow it except to understand that during the next few days, while the Herodians were preoccupied, Fa’tad meant to scour the city hidden beneath the Shu.
Yoseh got no sense of why that was important to al-Akla-except that Fa’tad was now angry because two men had been killed and seven injured during the morning’s invasion.
Fa’tad growled something about getting those damned kids out of that pen, he wanted them alive so he could parade them around in search of their parents. Somebody went to take care of it.
“Yoseh. Come here, youngster.”
Shaking, Yoseh rose and approached Fa’tad.
“They tell me you saw your friend from the labyrinth again today.”
“Yes sir. He was one of General Cado’s bodyguards. The one who stood nearest him on his right.”
“I pay little attention to the decorative people. Why didn’t you say something at the time, when he was there for all to see?”
“I tried. I was told to keep quiet in ranks. I’m new at this. I have to trust the judgment of my elders. Silence seemed to be their highest priority.”
Fa’tad grinned and snorted. Joab slapped his knee. Nogah looked like he would melt from embarrassment. Al-Akla said, “He’s inherited his father’s tongue.” Several of the older men chuckled. “Well, young Yoseh. What do you think? Why would Cado have his bodyguards stealing children?”
“I don’t know, sir. The ferrenghi are strange.”
“They are indeed. I don’t know why, either. It makes no sense. No matter how I look at it I can see nothing in it to profit Cado. And no way to find out.”
“Maybe it’s something the man does on his own, sir.”
“Maybe. The ferrenghi are a cruel and corrupt race. You may go. If you see that man again, drop everything else and find out whatever you can. I’d surely like to talk with him.”
“Yes sir.” Yoseh retreated hurriedly.
Nogah was right behind him. “What the hell did you have to go mouthing off like that for?”
“Sometimes I just can’t help myself.”
“No one is going to hurt you,” the Witch told the child, who could not stop crying. She could not keep the exasperation out of her voice. “You drink this and you’ll go to sleep for a little while. That’s all. When you wake up I’ll ask you some questions. After that you can go home.”
The child’s sobs did not slacken, but he looked up at her, wanting to believe, unable to do so.
Torgo extended one huge hand, offering the boy a cup. The child refused it.
“You’ll have to force him, Torgo.” Always, they had to be compelled.
The eunuch did it.
The potion worked quickly.
The child fought but soon drifted off. The Witch said, “I wish there was some other way to do this. Why do they fear so much? We don’t mistreat them, do we?”
“We treat them better than they get treated at home, my lady. But they’re too young to appreciate that.”
“I don’t need your sarcasm.”
“Ma’am?”
“I know you don’t approve of the way I’ve been doing this, Torgo. Too gentle-hearted, you think.”
Torgo did not answer her.
“Come. Get him moved to the catalfique. And get the things ready. You’re getting entirely too sloppy. Everything should have been ready before we started.”
It was not as if Torgo did not have plenty of time. But he was growing lackadaisical, clearly becoming convinced that they were wasting their time. The same little fear had begun to gnaw at her heart. Failure after failure, and never a positive to encourage them to go on... Except the probability that every failure meant that they were a step nearer success.
It was hard to see failure in a positive light.
All was prepared to her satisfaction when the child began to show signs of recovering. She said, “Time for you to go, Torgo.” And as he started to leave, “Has Azel been in today?”
“No, ma’am.”
“He’ll be back.”
Torgo did not reply.
The Witch stepped inside the heavy green velvet tent that enclosed the child. She checked the charcoal to make sure it was burning properly, then began drinking water she drew from a jar with a tin cup. She drank till her stomach ached. She was going to be in that hot tent a long time.
This part was far harder on her than it was on the children. It would take her two days to recover.
She removed a lid covering a silver bowl, used a glistening silver spoon to shake a little of the bowl’s contents onto the coals. A sour, bitter smoke puffed up. She leaned back, trying not to inhale too much too soon.
She had to walk the saber’s edge now, going into the twilight on the edge of sleep, where the wakening child would be held by the fumes, but remaining sufficiently in control to be able to lead the boy where she wanted him to go., It did not always work. Occasionally she had to do it over. She hated that.
It got no easier with practice.
She spooned more herb, delicately, waiting for the buzzing in her head to reach the right pitch. When it did she began groping for the boy’s name. That part was always tricky.
This time she could not remember. “Damn,” she said softly, and began feeling through her clothing. This time she had remembered to write it down but then had not remembered to leave the scrap of paper where she could see it.
She breathed shallowly, trying not to take in too much smoke.
Her fingers encountered the paper. She drew it out, frowned at it, wiped away the sweat that had begun to run into her eyes. Why couldn’t she ever remember to wear a sweatband? She puzzled out the name.
“Histabel. Histabel, can you hear me?”
The boy did not respond.
“Histabel. If you hear me, answer me.”
He made a sound.
“You must pay close attention to me, Histabel. This is very important. Say yes if you understand.”
His “yes” was a sparrow’s sigh.
“You are comfortable and relaxed and you feel very good now. Don’t you, Histabel?”
“Yes.”
“Good. That’s good. I want you to feel comfortable and relaxed. Now I’m going to ask you some questions. Answer them the best you can. And I’m going to tell you some things. The things I tell you will all be true. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“What is your name?”
“Histabel.”
“Who is your father?” “Who is your mother?” “How many brothers and sisters do you have?” “How old are they?” And so forth, the boy answering every time, the answers being unimportant to the Witch except in that they set his mind in an answering mode.
“What I tell you is true, Histabel. You are four years old. In fact, today is your fourth birthday. Where are you?”
For a time the boy’s mind resisted being loosened from its anchor in time. They always did, though with children the shaking loose was easier than it was with adults.
“It’s your fourth birthday, Histabel. You’re four years old today. Where are you?”
“At my grandmother Darragh’s.”
“What are you doing at your grandmother’s house?” Cautiously, she led him through the details of a birthday celebration. When they were coming freely she jogged him back to his third birthday.
Third birthdays were very important to children of Qushmar-rah. If a child lived that long it was likely to survive, so it received its real name on its third birthday. Whatever it had been called earlier was just a nickname. Fathers might pick names for their sons before they were born, but they would not reveal them till the exactly proper ceremonial moment. Premature disclosure would tempt fate too much.
Birthdays were good milemarks in tracing a young life. The Witch always used the fourth and third to establish her dominion. She had that now. She led the child backward into time, past recollections of people, places, and things, into a time when everything had been feeling and mood, and earlier still, into the closeness and warmth of the womb itself.
And back.
“What I tell you is true. It is a bright, sunny day, and one of the happiest you have ever known. Are you there? Do you see it?”
Confusion in the child’s face. The Witch wiped sweat and sprinkled herbs onto the coals.
“Do you see it?”
“Yes.” A little puzzled.
“Where are you?”
“Tel-Daghobeh, overlooking the Grey Reach.” The child’s voice had deepened subtly.
The Witch frowned. The answer did not make sense. “What is your name?”
“Shadid.”
Ah. “You are Dartar, Shadid?”
“Yes.”
Of course. Darters had died that day, too. She had not considered that before, nor had she encountered one before.
She controlled her disappointment. Going in she had not expected much of this one. Slowly, she took him through the details of his happy day-the date Shadid’s first son was bom. She gained her hold upon the previous incarnation and in time brought it forward to the day she had examined from thirty points of view already.
“There is so much smoke we can’t see twenty yards. They tell us if we want clean air we’re going to have to take the top of the hill. But the stubborn damned veydeen won’t stop fighting. We just fought off a band of old men and boys armed with tools and kitchen knives. What is the matter with the veydeen? Do we have to massacre every man, woman, and child?”
No, the Witch thought. You have to slay one man, Nakar, my husband, and all the killing will stop. The smoke will dear and the rains fall and the fires die and the death and devastation prove to be less widespread than everyone imagined. But it will be terrible enough to leave everyone’s thirst for murder slaked. She nudged the memory of the Dartar Shadid. “The Herodians have begun to move. This part looks like it might get to be house-to-house. We are drawing random missile fire from the rooftops. It’s more a nuisance than a danger. The snipers can’t find their targets in the smoke. There is a smell of burnt flesh in it strong, now. Now... Now...”
The Witch did not press. This stutter was a warning that the end was near. The soul remembered and did not want to get any closer to the pain. She asked questions to fix the place and time.
She had no reason to believe that information might be useful, yet she recorded it all in hopes of charting a pattern.
Mostly, she found cause for ever-increasing fear.
A lot of people had died that day. Far more than there had been babies born. So far it looked like only the strongest souls had attached to new flesh immediately. But suppose that was an illusion? Suppose luck and proximity were equally crucial? In this instance the Dartar had d
ied on the doorstep of a woman in labor.
She seldom knew enough, or unearthed enough, to see the transition so clearly.
Cautiously, she put Shadid to sleep and reawakened Histabel, restored him to his proper age, then told him to rest.
This had been an easy regression. Very little resistance. A pity all of them did not go as smoothly. A greater pity none of them ever turned up anyone more important than this.
If she could not unearth Nakar, her husband, then she wanted to find his murderer, Ala-eh-din Beyh.
“Torgo,” she called weakly. “I’m done.”
The eunuch appeared immediately. He had been outside the tent recording everything, in case her fragile, drug-sodden memory played pranks on her. “A Dartar,” he said, disgusted.
“Yes.”
“I suppose we can say we are a step closer to our goal, my lady. We knew it wouldn’t be easy when we started.”
For the first time she felt a spark of real resentment of the eunuch’s ritual reassurances. “Get me out of here before I go mad. I got too much of the smoke again.”
“Perhaps you should space the regressions more widely, my lady. So much concentrated exposure to the fumes cannot be healthy.”
“I want him back, Torgo. I don’t want to waste a minute I don’t have to waste.”
“And if a minute not taken now means having to pay with an hour or a day later on?”
His solicitude touched something deep. She flew into an instantaneous unreasoning fury. “You stop your fussing and nagging and do your damned job, Torgo! Let me worry about me. Get me to my bed. Bring me food and drink. Now!”
Inside the facade there was a very frightened woman.
The facade was starting to crack.
She ate and she drank and then she retreated into that place of warm sleep and pleasant dreams she found only after exposure to the drugged fumes. A still small but blossoming part of her fear was that she had begun to look forward to those hours of surcease.
“You sure favor that balcony these days,” Meryel said.
Bel-Sidek turned, smiled. “It’s a good place for thinking.”
“For brooding, you mean. What is it tonight? The new civil governor?”
