“Where are the Defenders?” Myreon snarled, eyes following the fight with manic attention.
The mark-slave looked down at where Jaevis had attempted to cut him and laughed. Before the bounty hunter could scurry out of reach, he seized Jaevis by the scruff of the neck and threw him bodily against the stone wall between Myreon and Tyvian, who heard at least one bone break on impact and hoped it wasn’t Jaevis’s skull. The bounty hunter slumped against the wall, stunned.
“Jaevis! Jaevis, wake up!” Myreon prodded the Illini frantically with her casterlocked hands. The mark-slave, still chuckling, advanced slowly, cracking his knuckles in preparation for the final blow. Despite Myreon’s prodding, Jaevis didn’t stir. “Where the hell are the Defenders?”
“Kroth!” Tyvian swore. Jaevis dying would put a serious hole in his plan. There had to be something he could do . . . but what?
He noticed, then, that his right hand—his ring hand—was tingling. It wasn’t pain, per se, but rather a feeling of restlessness, as though his hand needed to be wrung or swung around to get out some kind of stored energy. Tyvian yanked against his chains—nothing. He yanked again, this time as hard as he could. He felt something give. Could he actually . . . ?
It took one more pull to snap the chain that held Tyvian captive. Everyone—Myreon, the mark-slave, even himself—stared at what he had done. “Hann’s boots,” he whispered, looking at the broken chain in his hands.
This was the distraction Jaevis had been waiting for. The bounty hunter, evidently not as stunned as he had appeared, leapt from the ground, knife in hand, and slashed the blade along the one other place besides the eyes that mark-slaves didn’t have tattoos. More blood than Tyvian had seen in some time spilled from between the slave’s legs, and the man screamed at a pitch that seemed likely to shatter windows. Jaevis shoulder-checked the slave onto his back and watched him writhe in pain for a moment before recovering his sabers and turning to Myreon and Tyvian. “You will come with me now.”
Tyvian fished the keys to Myreon’s chains from one of the dead guards. “Nothing would give me more pleasure, Mr. Jaevis.”
A pair of Defenders—breathless, wounded, with their firepikes gleaming—appeared at the top of the stairs. “Hurry up, bounty hunter! We’ve got trouble!”
When Myreon was freed, Jaevis pointed to some spare shackles on the wall and said, “Put those on Reldamar. He is prisoner.”
Myreon grinned, rubbing the feeling back into her hands. “Nothing would give me more pleasure.”
Tyvian grinned back. “I told you you’d take me with you.”
CHAPTER 9
THE OL’ SWITCHEROO, REDUX
The cavernous halls of the Theliara Palace were strangely silent as Artus darted from column to column, his soft-soled boots barely creating a whisper of sound over the lush carpets and smooth marble floors. It had been about ten minutes since he had followed the Defenders and Jaevis through the knocked-open doors, and he had become irrevocably lost. The galleries seemed to run in circles, the stairways never seemed to bring him where he thought they would, and the corridors all looked precisely the same. The halls seemed to change when he looked away, too. If Tyvian hadn’t warned him that the place was awash in illusion, he would have thought he was losing his mind.
It had been some time since he’d seen anybody. Artus pulled out the seekwand to check if he was going the right direction. The swirling pool of shadow that enveloped the wand’s tip jerked and flickered, which Artus thought was a good sign, but he wasn’t sure. For the tenth time that day, he wished he had paid closer attention when Tyvian was telling him how it worked.
An alarm bell sound somewhere deeper within the palace (or farther out, depending on whether Artus was deep inside the place or not, of which he couldn’t be sure). Guessing that the Defenders had finally triggered some attention, Artus resolved to go in the direction of the alarm, as stupid as that seemed to be on the face of things.
His instincts proved to be accurate. At the foot of a narrow spiral staircase, Artus found a pair of bodies—a mark-slave with his throat cut and a Defender with his head tilted at an unnatural angle, his mirrored armor spattered with gore. Holding back a wretch at the sight of it, he moved on, trying to remain as stealthy as possible.
Before long he heard the sound of fighting and the screams of injured men. Several female slaves fled past him in the corridor, so hurried that they didn’t even recognize he was there. Artus wondered whether they were an illusion, too, but couldn’t figure out why you would have your illusory servants run away.
Creeping along the edge of the corridor in the direction from which the slaves had fled, Artus poked his head through a doorway that led to a balcony. Keeping himself low so as not to garner much attention, he stepped onto the balcony, to find himself situated above an extravagant indoor garden, featuring geometrically precise rows of fountains, topiary, ponds, and flowers that stretched off seemingly into the horizon. He found himself staring, bug-eyed, at the scale of the opulence before him—an indoor garden? Saints, it was the size of his family farm, and it was warm as springtime!
Another clash of steel on steel refocused his attention on what was happening in the garden. There, not too far from him and near a jewel-encrusted gazebo, he saw Hacklar Jaevis cutting down a slave armed with spear and shield while Myreon Alafarr dragged a shackled Tyvian Reldamar along behind her. Three mirror men were covering their backs, their firepikes occasionally spitting bolts of white flame into distant galleries and down corridors, discouraging any pursuers from taking a shot at them. Artus shook his head—the scene was exactly as Tyvian had described it would be. How in blazes did the man do that?
Artus kept himself hidden as the trio passed, heading for the opposite end of the massive garden complex, where an arched exit yawned. With his inherent sense of direction he could have sworn that particular direction led farther into the palace, but it didn’t matter—Tyvian had told him just to follow and not do anything until “the time was right.” Though he didn’t have any clear idea of what the right time would be, Artus was confident that now wasn’t it. Grabbing a silk banner hanging off the front of the balcony, he slid down its length, dropped into the garden, and stole after Tyvian and his captors.
Once in the garden, following them was easy enough, but remaining unseen was far more worrying. Just before they reached the edge of the garden area, Artus’s arm brushed a neatly trimmed bush. The sound made Jaevis to stop short and spin around. Artus barely had enough time to drop to his face and hope the cluster of flowers in front of him were enough to conceal him. His shoulder throbbed, as though remembering what Jaevis had done to it not so long ago, and he held his breath. It was a full minute before badgering from both Myreon and Tyvian got the bounty hunter to move on.
When they left the garden and began to roam the long, broad corridors, things became even more complicated. The keenly honed senses of Hacklar Jaevis, professional bounty hunter, and the disciplined formation of the Defenders, far exceeded the shadowing skills of an adolescent street urchin and erstwhile farmboy. After another close call involving his toe scraping along a polished marble floor tile, Artus was forced to extend his following distance to almost the length of whatever chamber or hallway through which Jaevis and company were moving. He found himself listening at doors and catching the barest glimpses of his “quarry” from yards distant, just to avoid detection. He held the seekwand up from time to time, just to check if he was going the right way.
The alarm that had been clamoring about Tyvian and Myreon’s escape had ceased, and an eerie silence again descended on the Theliara palace. No guards challenged their passage through the corridors and not a soul showed themselves as the escapees, with Artus still behind them, sought a way out. It did not seem forthcoming. Finally, as Artus skulked in the shadows behind a circular door frame, he heard Myreon call a halt to the procession.
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“This is ridiculous. We are clearly walking around in circles—that witch Theliara is probably leading us back to the bloody dungeon!”
“We need window only,” Jaevis grumbled. Artus noted that he sounded tired and his words were labored.
“When was the last time you saw a window?” Myreon countered.
“Cast spell, then. See the way out.”
“And how, exactly, would you have me do that? Perhaps if I had a Truthlens I could pull that off, but I don’t and I don’t know of any auguries that will make the illusory things glow and the real things whistle. Then there’s the problem of phantasms—they are half real, so they aren’t as easy to detect. If I start pitching counterspells around, I might vaporize a load-bearing phantasmal pillar or something and the whole bloody roof will come down!”
“Ma’am,” one of the Defenders said, his breathing labored, “we could try to contact outside again.”
Myreon sighed. “By all means, Sergeant, but I doubt the sending stone will start working all of a sudden.”
Jaevis grunted. “Is problem.”
“Would anyone like to hear what I think?” Tyvian offered.
Jaevis and Myreon responded in unison. “No!”
“Fine. Suit yourself.”
Silence followed for a few moments, and Artus thought they might have moved on. He almost poked his head out, but then Myreon said, “Fine, since you are the one with all the jailbreak experience, what would you do?”
Artus could almost hear Tyvian’s grin. “Jaevis, Sergeant—how many guards, marked or otherwise, have your company killed this evening?”
“Twenty-three,” Jaevis said.
“I’ll confirm that,” the sergeant said. “Twenty, at the least. We’ve lost five, though,” he added.
Tyvian whistled. “That’s quite impressive—my congratulations. I daresay that is the majority of armed guards at the Hanim’s disposal. She is, after all, only one member of an Imperial Kalsaari House living in a foreign city, and an unmarried one at that. This means she probably isn’t all that popular—I imagine all the good little girls live closer to Daddy and the Emperor and have for themselves important husbands whom they can order about. So, by the standards of Imperial Kalsaari Houses, she is relatively poor—she can’t afford more than a dozen or so mark-slaves, most of whom Jaevis here has so aptly dispatched. I’m guessing her last few—her most important ones—she is saving to do two things.”
“Which are?” Myreon asked.
“The first is obvious—bodyguard herself. The second is almost as obvious—set a trap for us. She can’t have us escaping, after all—think of the embarrassment! Think of the slight to Kalsaari Imperial power! No—a trap is awaiting us, and all of our wandering around has been to buy time for her to set it.”
“And your plan is?” Myreon prompted.
“Well, trip the trap, of course. It’s the only thing we can do.”
“This is bad plan,” Jaevis announced.
Tyvian sighed. “I don’t expect you lot to understand, but let me put it to you this way: Myreon, remember Akral, a year ago?”
“I had you right were I wanted you,” Myreon growled.
“And what did I do?”
“You escaped.”
“I promise you, my ever-graceful Saldorian nemesis, that we will do the same thing here that I did there.”
Myreon sighed. “He’s right, Jaevis. Let’s spring the trap.”
When they left the room, Artus followed again, but this time he was more than nervous—he was terrified. Trap? What else can I do? Artus thought. Just keep following them, stupid!
When the trap was sprung, Artus didn’t see it so much as hear it.
Tyvian, Myreon, the Defenders, and Jaevis had just descended a broad staircase that passed through a wide, arched portal. Artus, from the opposite end of the corridor leading to that portal, heard them yelling in excitement, but only managed to make out Myreon’s voice say, “We’re out!” Then there was the ear-splitting screech of metal grinding against stone and the bellows and shouts of dozens of Kalsaari voices.
When Artus peeked at where the six of them had gone, he saw a brass gate blocking the portal. He could only guess that similar gates had risen or been dropped into place, barring all the exits from where Tyvian and company were trapped. Seeing nobody between him and the gate, he quickly crept closer so he could see what was going on.
He was looking down from a gallery that ran around the edge of a wide, circular rotunda. Tyvian, Jaevis, Myreon, and the mirror men stood back-to-back-to-back at the center of the floor below, surrounded by about forty slaves who had all leveled spears to form a perfect circle of sharpened steel around the would-be escapees. The two other exits to the room—one of which seemed to lead outside—were barred with similar brass gates as the one at the top of the stairs.
“I must say I am impressed, Master Reldamar,” a woman’s voice said with a sultry air. Peering from his hiding spot to the opposite side of the gallery, Artus saw a beautiful, dark-haired and olive-skinned woman dressed in golden silks standing between a pair of burly mark-slaves.
Tyvian bowed deeply. “I am happy to have been so impressive, milady. I only regret that I could not impress you just a bit more.”
The Hanim’s lips curled into a smirk. “Amusing, as always. Tell the Illini and the Saldorian stooges to drop their weapons.”
Tyvian held up his chained wrists. “I think you will find that said Illini and stooges don’t take orders from me.”
“Your business is with me, witch!” Myreon said firmly, pulling herself to her full height. Her blond hair, wild and ragged from her treatment in the dungeons, seemed to whip and writhe, as though tousled on some phantasmal breeze. “This attempt at kidnapping is a violation of the Tasis Accords. You risk war by holding me here!”
The Hanim’s laughter was dissonant music. “May I point out, Magus, that the invasion of my palace by these . . .” she sneered at the mirrored armor of the Defenders. “ . . . ‘soldiers’ is likewise a violation of the Tasis Accords? You are as guilty of starting a war as I.”
Tyvian nodded. “She’s got you there, Myreon. Your Master Tarlyth is acting with surprising recklessness to save little old you. Do you happen to owe him money or something?”
Myreon shot Tyvian a baleful look. “You give me no choice but to invoke destruction upon this place. Release us at once and spare yourselves my wrath!”
“Look around you, mage!” the Hanim countered. “This room has been warded against your magical bolts and blasts. My mark-slaves are immune to any attack you could possibly muster. Come come—this needn’t end in violence. Surrender and be handled gently.”
“Death before surrender,” Jaevis barked.
The Hanim glared at him. “That offer does not extend to you, Illini. Whatever you do, your agony will not cease until the Eye of Ishar boils the oceans dry.”
Myreon cast a brief look at Tyvian. “Well? What about Akral?”
Tyvian shrugged. “Oh, this is nothing like Akral.”
“Enough,” the Hanim said, and spreading her arms and crooking her fingers into positions of power, she spoke in a thundering voice, “DROP YOUR WEAPONS AND SURRENDER AT ONCE!”
The enchantment caused the air to tremble, but it was met by Myreon, who crossed her fists before her face and pushed outward while uttering a single eldritch syllable. This caused the temperature in the room to spike to a nearly unbearable degree for a brief moment and then the two mark-slaves on either side of the Hanim dropped their weapons and put their hands on their heads. The Hanim stared at them, dumbfounded.
“You’ll not be winning any sorcerous duels against me, Kalsaari,” Myreon announced. Even from his hiding place, Artus could see how her blue-gray eyes flashed.
“Now,” she ad
ded, cupping her hands at her breastbone in a Gathering maneuver, “try this.” The Mage Defender released a lode-bolt that screamed through the air, but rather than freezing the Hanim dead, it passed directly through her to strike a wall on the other side.
The Hanim laughed. “You might be a better wizard, Defender, but I am the smarter opponent.”
“Idiot,” Tyvian growled, “she’s an illusion. She wouldn’t risk herself like this.”
“Then she has to be nearby,” Myreon snapped back. “A simulacrum can’t cast enchantments!”
The slaves took a threatening step forward, Jaevis began to weave his blades in anticipation of the fight, and the Defender’s firepikes glowed fiercely with burning energy. Tyvian gathered up his chains in his hands to form an improvised weapon. “Well,” the smuggler shouted, “perhaps if we had the leisure to search all the adjoining rooms, that piece of information would be worthwhile!”
Tyvian’s words jolted Artus from his horrified observation. She was somewhere nearby! A moment ago he had been wondering just how long he’d last while chained to an oar in a Kalsaari galley, and now, burning through his terror like hot sunlight, came a plan. A crazy, harebrained, hopeless plan, but if he was going to do something, the time was right now.
Slipping back from the edge of the gallery into the shadows along the wall, Artus crept carefully, drawing Jaevis’s hurlant out from under his cloak. It only took him a minute to spot her, dressed in a long black robe, half hidden behind a pillar and shrouded in darkness—the actual Hanim. He could see her long, bloodred fingernails curling into complicated patterns as she wove the spells that made the illusory “her” dance. Artus heard her mutter something under her breath, and then heard the illusion say, “This is your last chance. Surrender now, or suffer my wrath.”
From behind her, he advanced, placing each foot carefully on the hard stone floor. If she turned around . . . if he so much as made a single, solitary sound, she would hear him, and he was dead. He held his breath, his heart thumping hard enough to bruise his ribs. Step after step, inch after inch, and then he was there, right behind Angharad tin’Theliara Hanim, Kalsaari enchantress. This, Artus realized, would be his finest mugging yet.
Iron and Blood Page 10
