by Doyle, Debra
Eventually regular play commenced again in the cube. As it did so Faral said to his cousin, “So tell me. What are you planning to do once we get off-planet?”
“Go to Khesat,” Jens said. “And continue my plan to become wealthy and famous by means of influence peddling.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Frightfully.” Jens’s blue eyes had the bright, sharp-edged expression that usually meant he was looking for trouble. “But it should be amusing.”
“In that case, I’m going with you.”
He had been running, running, most of the night. His side hurt, and his breath came in racking sobs. He wore the orange and grey of a Cracanthan peace enforcer, and knew when he looked at himself that such was what he was, but it all seemed so unimportant now. What was important was to find …
He didn’t know what he wanted to find. He pushed his legs on, moving them through sheer force of will.
Just keep going, and I’ll know what it is when I find it.
A light above the corner ahead threw a pool of blinding white down beneath it, making the rest of the night darker by contrast. His breath steamed a bit in the cool night air. In the light was a kiosk, which announced that this was a place of transportation. That one of the places served was a spaceport.
He was certain that he didn’t know the language in which the writings were made, but equally certain that he understood them. His foot splashed in a puddle. He had run once before, and it was important to get to the spaceport: another hint of his task.
Yes, get to the spaceport, and then …
He would know what it was he had to do when the time came.
In the brick alley, Mael turned to face his attackers. He knew the type—city-bred troublemakers, all of them, resentful of outsiders and willing to commit assault to make their opinion clear. The streets of Ruisi Spaceport had been full of such people, back in the days of the Republic’s occupation. Fear and poverty bred them, and helplessness nourished them. Mael remembered the feelings well.
He almost felt sorry for the bullies who confronted him. The street fighters of his youth had known that they could blame the Republic and its Adepts for their troubles. Some of them had been lucky enough to find the Resurgency—or the fellowship of the Circles—before their bitterness turned inward and they died in pointless battle over a fancied insult or a bit of illegal trade.
These three would not be so fortunate. His staff was gone, but those who had been trained in the Circles had other resources to aid them.
The street thugs had not spoken since he turned around. They had attacked him from behind, seeing only a cloaked and unfamiliar figure. Perhaps they had not expected to find a Mage. Still, they had not retreated.
“You wish me to fight you because I am in your territory?” Mael asked. “That is easily remedied. Come to mine.”
He stepped … sideways … and drew the three along with him into the Void.
It was at once the simplest thing that the Mage-trained could do, and the hardest to learn. Not everyone who came to the Circles could attain the level of true sight that showed the path away from reality, into that place where Power was not, but where fact and illusion became one. But once seen, the road was an easy one—garaeth sus-etazein, the Circles called it, the Great Lords’ Way.
The Void was as he remembered it. No sky, no horizon, only a grey mist-that-was-not-mist all around him, and a ground under his feet that had no reality but what his own mind gave to it. The three bullies huddled together and stared about wide-eyed with fear. They had grown up, perhaps, on grannies’ tales of Mages and Adepts, and on what those who worked with Power could do to people who were reckless enough to anger them.
“Here, what I will becomes real,” Mael said.
He gestured—an unnecessary flourish, but something the three would remember later—and called forth a night-whip from the mist of the Void.
The creature was a thing out of legend on the homeworlds, all floating fog and long, ropy tentacles that sucked away a bit of a man’s life every time they touched flesh. This was a young one, and not especially hungry. Mael had no desire to kill his assailants, only. to escape from them and—if their minds were receptive—to educate them somewhat in the folly of throwing bricks at off-worlders.
“If what you will here becomes real,” a voice whispered behind him, “does that mean you have willed me to exist?”
Mael turned. It was the ekkannikh, cloaked in black as he had seen it before on Maraghai. This time its pale skeleton hand gripped an Adept’s staff.
It has remembered that much more of what it was, Mael thought. If it remembers everything, we are lost.
“I grow stronger,” the revenant said, “and closer. The final victory has always been mine.”
“If that is so, then I will delay it while I can.”
“While you can.” The ekkannikh laughed, a sound like seeds rattling inside a dry gourd. “Let me show you the future.”
It lifted its free hand, and Mael saw that the bony fingers held a square piece of polished silver. His own face looked back at him from the mirror’s surface: his own face, and the flesh rotting from off the bones, and the bare skull beneath.
“You see,” said the ekkannikh. “We come to the same place in the end, you and I.”
“Not while I have strength to will it otherwise,” Mael said, and called up the shadow of his Mage-staff out of the all-enveloping mist.
He raised the staff in his right hand, guarding his chest and head, and stepped back with his left foot to take the proper stance. As he had expected, the ekkannikh let the silver mirror drop into the swirling fog, the better to lift up its longer staff in an Adept’s two-handed grip.
A quick motion of the revenant’s bony hands, and the staff—almost two meters of polished wood—spun and flashed downward. Mael brought his staff up in a block against it. The Void deadened the sound of the impact to a dull thock. He twisted away as the staves met and the blow slid off harmlessly to one side.
The revenant hissed in frustration.
Mael had learned long ago that the tall staves of the Adepts were best suited for distance work. Get inside of their length and they became a liability to the wielder. The difficulty lay in passing through the deadly arc of their strike. But now he was inside, and smashing his staff against his enemy’s ribs in a move that should have broken bone.
The blow passed through the body of the ekkannikh with no more resistance than through the mist of the Void. Mael himself was out of position now. The ekkannikh’s long staff shot forward, end on, and Mael—unable to block, unable to sidestep—could do nothing but watch it come.
The staff took him in the midsection like a spear, and passed through him as his own staff had passed through the body of the revenant. It left a trail of ice in his guts, not painful, but cripplingly cold.
He tried to raise his staff, and failed.
The ekkannikh spoke. “Look for me on Khesat,” it said, and vanished.
VIII. OPHEL
THE HOTEL room in Nanáli was dim and quiet. The holovid tank in the far corner had its sound turned off, so that the images inside it moved silently, without meaning. Faral and Miza were asleep, the gentle sound of their breathing a constant susurration in the background. Jens sat, wakeful, in the lounge chair and conversed, as was his habit, with the shadows around him.
He had slept for a while after the last of the news reports had ended, only to come awake again later. He was not surprised to find the far corner of the room occupied by a quiet, dark-haired man who was not, in the usual sense, present there at all.
“It’s been a while,” he said, as if speaking to an old friend. “Was that really you on board Bright-Wind-Rising?”
“After a fashion,” said his visitor, with a faint smile. “I do what I can.”
“Faral saw you. Then, and again later.”
“Your cousin is not without his abilities,” the man said. “Although he doesn’t think of them as such.�
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“Then why don’t you talk to him instead?”
The man smiled again. “Faral Hyfid-Metadi will get along in the world without my advice.”
“And I won’t?” Jens raised an eyebrow. “Should I be insulted, do you think?”
“If it pleases you. But you were wishing for advice not so long ago, or I would not have come.”
Jens regarded his visitor thoughtfully. “It was a practical matter … not your sort of thing at all.”
“I was a practical man once. A good while ago, I think, but not everything changes. Tell me.”
“All right.” Jens drew a deep breath. “Do you have any idea how to get from here to Khesat—safely, that is? People are chasing us for some reason, and I’d prefer not to draw their attention.”
“You could walk past them, unseen—”
“Maybe you could. But I couldn’t, and Faral certainly couldn’t, and I don’t think Gentlelady Lyftingil has any hidden talent in that direction either.”
The visitor looked at him thoughtfully. “In that case … a long time ago, I worked on a ship moving Eraasian goods across the border zone from Cracanth to Ophel. Smuggling them, to be precise. And unless everything in the known galaxy has become legal since then, such people—and their ships—must still exist, and their loyalty can be bought with coin.”
“I’ve got coin,” Jens said. “Huool made those letters of credit generous enough to handle almost anything. I don’t know why.”
The visitor shrugged. “Perhaps he felt an obligation.”
“I’d like to know to whom,” said Jens. “And something else I’d like to know: what do all those people have against Faral and me in the first place?”
“They don’t have anything whatever against you, strictly speaking,” the visitor said. “They have their own uses for you, that’s all, which aren’t necessarily in your interest.”
“Not terribly ethical of them,” Jens said.
“I suppose it isn’t. Though you’ll do worse than that before your life has ended, I assure you.”
“Say something to cheer me up, why not?”
The other smiled again. Laugh lines formed around his dark eyes. “Very well. Convincing a smuggler to get you off-planet shouldn’t take long. Money is the hard part, and as you say, you have the money. For the initial contact—” He nodded toward the sleeping Miza. “—She’s your key. Ask her for help, if you aren’t too proud.”
“Proud? Me?” Jens’s voice rose indignantly.
Across the room, Faral’s steady breathing changed rhythm, and Jens heard a faint snort as his cousin awoke.
“Hey, Jens,” Faral said. He palmed the lightplate beside him, and the reading light popped on. “Who’re you talking to?”
“No one,” Jens said. The room was empty again. “Myself, I guess.”
“Okay. I’ve been thinking—”
“While you were asleep?”
“Doesn’t everybody? I’ve been thinking—we’ve been here too long. Let’s move.”
“Is that a joke?”
“Not even a little,” said Faral. “Thinking like prey instead of a hunter, that’s all. We’ve frozen in place when we should be running.”
“I’d pretty much reached the same conclusion myself,” Jens said. “Wake up Miza and tell her it’s time to pack her toothbrush and hit the road.”
“She didn’t bring a toothbrush,” Faral pointed out.
“We’ll pick one up at the transit station,” Jens said. “And on the way we’ll ask her if she knows where to find a nice, reliable pirate.”
The yard outside the Guildhouse was dark. There had been a streetlight once, but the glowcube inside it had burnt out and no one—neither Sombrelír City Services nor the local Guild—had bothered to replace it. Klea called Power into her staff and let its blue-green glow light the way as she hastened down the deserted street. Master Evanh followed, panting.
Klea spared the Ophelan Guildmaster a disapproving glance. “Lord Taleion left the grounds, and you didn’t follow him?”
“I granted him the privileges you asked.”
She pressed her lips together for a moment before answering. “Use some initiative, Master Evanh. He is still a Mage. Haven’t you got any idea where he might have gone?”
“None.”
“Then we’ll stop here for a moment,” she said, “and search for him. Wherever he is, the currents of Power will make his presence felt. He can’t help it, being what he is and working as he does.”
The two Adepts stood quiet. At last Klea said, more in puzzlement than frustration, “He isn’t here.”
“You know the man better than I do,” Master Evanh said. “How far could he have gotten in the time he had?”
“Quite far,” said Klea. “Where some things are concerned, the Mages are much more … casual … than we are. If he has gone into the Void, we may spend more time looking for him than we really wanted.”
“It isn’t even safe to be out on the streets at this hour,” said Master Evanh unhappily. “Never mind other places.”
“Not safe? Don’t the Ophelans have any respect for an Adepts’ staff?”
Master Evanh shook his head. “I don’t seek—I don’t like confrontations. They make everyday business so difficult … .”
Klea pursed her lips again. Evanh was hopeless, or close to it. It was the Ophelan Guild’s right to choose a spineless nonentity for the local Guildmaster, but there were ways to shake up that complacency … . . Later, she told herself. After this affair is over we can deal with the Guild on Ophel.
“We’ll search for him one more time,” she said. “Sooner or later he’s bound to return to the universe that we know, and then—”
She stopped.
“What is it?” asked Evanh.
“He’s here.” She closed her eyes for a moment and let the currents wash over her. Then she opened her eyes again and pointed at the side street ahead. “Or, more precisely—over there. Follow me or not, whichever you please.”
She set off at a fast walk, not looking to see if Evanh came after her. The staff in her hand made a pale green beacon against the darkness. The way was fronted on both sides with nameless industrial buildings, their doors of rolled steel closed against the night. Tall metal fences blocked access to weed-grown squares filled with rubble. She lifted her staff, and saw by its light the opening of a narrow alley, hardly more than a passageway walled in by high brick on either side.
Protruding from the opening, visible in the glow of her staff, were the legs of a prone and motionless man. His torso was hidden in the shadows of the alley.
Mael Taleion’s ebony staff lay on the pavement near the man’s feet. Klea slowed her pace long enough to stoop and pick up the staff with her free hand, but she didn’t stop. The discovery made her even more alert. Master Evanh was far behind her now; if he caught up at all, it would be after everything was over. The air here tingled with power, making her skin prickle at its touch, and somewhere up ahead, Mael Taleion was deeply upset about something. Not about the man on the ground, she could tell that much, but something.
She entered the alley. The Magelord stood there, robed and masked, his empty hands ablaze with crimson light. Three motionless bodies, young men in shabby work clothes and heavy boots, lay on the pavement before him. Not dead—the one nearest the mouth of the alley was twitching slightly—but very thoroughly chastised.
Klea ignored them. She came forward into Mael’s line of sight and offered him his staff.
For a few seconds more he remained unmoving: then he took the staff from her hand, and the red glow that surrounded him died. He clipped his staff onto his belt and took off the mask. His face was pale and streaked with sweat.
“Mistress,” he said, “I believe that we have a problem.”
“We knew that hours ago,” Klea said. Her relief at finding Mael alive and on his feet, and his assailants still breathing, made her voice sharper than she had intended. “Will you come back with
me to the Guildhouse?”
“Yes … but we can’t stay there for much longer. Mistress, we have to talk.”
“Later, in private,” she said. Hesitant footsteps in the street beyond the alley signaled the tardy approach of Master Evanh. “Tell me one thing—were you in the Void?”
For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to answer; then she realized that he was translating the concept from Galcenian into his own tongue. His everyday use of the common star-traveler’s language was fluent, if accented; it had not occurred to her that there were some things he was accustomed to thinking of in Eraasian, when he thought of them at all.
“Yes,” he said finally. “It was necessary.”
Klea waved a hand at the unconscious bodies sprawled on the pavement. “These?”
He nodded. “But they aren’t important, except that they pushed me into going where I could find out what I needed to know: the ekkannikh has slipped its bonds to Cracanth, and goes now to do mischief in a particular place.”
Klea glanced over her shoulder. Master Evanh was just coming into sight, puffing from the unaccustomed exertion of a brisk walk. She lowered her voice. “Where?”
“If not to the worst possible place,” said Mael, “then surely to the most inconvenient for our purposes.” He paused. “Mistress Santreny—will you come with me to Khesat?”
Blossom’s partner Bindweed didn’t show up at the gallery until after sunset. She turned out to be a lean, grey-haired woman—old for a thin-skin, like her partner, but equally trim and vigorous. She wore dark trousers and an embroidered vest; and, like Blossom, she entered through the front of the shop.
Blossom looked up from the card game as she walked in. “What kept you?”
“I was involved in some troublesome legal matters,” Bindweed replied. “Depositions, and insurance, and entirely too many questions from people who weren’t at all familiar with the ways of spacers. It was all I could do to explain how I came to have a blaster in my hand.”
