iar," she said nonchalantly, "and he knows when
I'm being cheated."
The price of their room took a mysterious plunge.
After installing their gear and settling Warrl in
their room, they returned to the taproom for sup-
per and information.
If the streets were deserted, the taproom was
crowded far past its intended capacity.
Tarma wrinkled her nose at the effluvia of cheap
perfume, unwashed bodies, stale food odors and
fish-oil lanterns. Kethry appeared not to notice.
Tarma's harsh, hawklike features could be made
into a veritable mask of intimidation when she chose
to scowl; she did so now. Her ice-cold stare got
them two stools and a tiny, round table to them-
selves. Her harsh voice summoned a harried ser-
vant as easily as Kethry could summon a creature
of magic. A hand to her knife-hilt and the ostenta-
tious shrugging of the sword slung on her back into
a more comfortable position got her speedy service,
cleaning her fingernails with her knife got them
decent portions and scrubbed plates.
Kethry's frown of worry softened a bit. "Life has
been ever so much easier since I teamed with you,
she'enedra," she chuckled quietly, moving the sides
of her robe out of the way so that she could sit
comfortably.
"No doubt," the swordswoman replied with a
lifted eyebrow and a quirk to one corner of her
mouth. "Sometimes I wonder how you managed
without me."
"Poorly." The green eyes winked with mischief.
Their food arrived, and they ate in silence, fur-
tively scanning the crowded room for a likely source
of information. When they'd nearly finished, Kethry
nodded slightly in the direction of a grizzled mer-
cenary sitting just underneath one of the smoking
lanterns. Tarma looked him over carefully; he looked
almost drunk enough to talk, but not drunk enough
to make trouble, and his companions had just de-
serted him, leaving seats open on the bench oppo-
site his. He wore a badge, so he was mastered, and
so was less likely to pick a fight. They picked up
their tankards and moved to take those vacant seats
beside him.
He nodded as they sat; warily at Tarma, appre-
ciatively at Kethry.
He wasn't much for idle chatter, though. "Eve-
ning," was all he said.
"It is that," Tarma replied, "Though 'tis a strange
enough evening and more than a bit early for folk to
be closing themselves indoors, especially with the
weather so pleasant."
"These are strange times," he countered, "And
strange things happen in the nights around here."
"Oh?" Kethry looked flatteringly interested.
"What sort of strange things? And can we take care
of your thirst?"
He warmed to the admiration—and the offer.
"Folk been going missing; whores, street trash,
such as won't be looked for by the watch," he told
them, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, while Tarma
signaled the serving wench. He took an enormous
bite of the spiced sausage that was the Blacke Ewe's
specialty; grease ran into his beard. He washed the
bite down by draining his tankard dry. "There's
rumors—" His eyes took on a certain wariness. He
cast an uneasy glance around the dim, hot and
odorous taproom.
"Rumors?" Tarma prompted, pouring his tan-
kard full again, and sliding a silver piece under it.
"Well, we little care for rumors, eh? What's rumor
to a fighter but ale-talk?"
"Plague take rumors!" he agreed, but his face
was strained. "What've magickers and demons got
to do with us, so long as they leave our masters in
peace?" He drained the vessel and pocketed the
coin. "So long as he leaves a few for me, this
Thalhkarsh can have his fill of whores!"
"Thalhkarsh? What might that be? Some great
lecher, that he has need of so many lightskirts?"
Tarma filled the tankard for the third time, and
kept her tone carefully casual.
"Sh!" the mercenary paled, and made a caution-
ary wave with his hand. " 'Tisn't wise to bandy
that name about lightly—them as does often aren't
to be seen again. That—one I mentioned—well, some
say he's a god, some a demon summoned by a mighty
powerful magicker. All I know is that he has a
temple on the Row—one that sprang up overnight,
seemingly, and one with statues an' such that could
make me blush, were I to go view 'em. The which I
won't. 'Tisn't safe to go near there—"
"So?" Tarma raised one eyebrow.
"They sent the city guard trooping in there after
the first trollops went missing. There were tales
spread of blood-worship, so the city council reck-
oned somebody'd better check. Nobody ever saw so
much as a scrap of bootleather of that guard-squad
ever again."
"So folk huddle behind their doors at night, and
hope that they'll be left in peace, hmm?" Kethry
mused aloud, taking her turn at replenishing his
drink. "But are they?"
"Rumor says not—not unless they take care to
stay in company at night. Odd thing though, 'cept
for the city guard, most of the ones taken by night
have been women. I'd watch meself, were I you
twain."
He drained his tankard yet again. This proved to
be one tankard too many, as he slowly slid off the
bench to lie beneath the table, a bemused smile on
his face.
They took the god-sent opportunity to escape to
their room.
"Well," Tarma said, once the door had been bolted,
"we know why, and now we know what. Bloody
Hell! I wish for once that that damned sword of
yours would steer us toward something that pays!"
Kethry worked a minor magic that sent the ver-
min sharing their accommodations skittering under
the door and out the open window. Warrl surveyed
her handiwork, sniffed the room over carefully,
then lay down at the foot of the double pallet with
a heavy sigh.
"That's not quite true—we don't really know what
we're dealing with. Is it a god, truly? If it is, I don't
stand much chance of making a dent in its hide. Is
it a demon, controlled by this magician, that has
been set up as a god so that its master can acquire
power by blood-magic? Or is it worse than either?"
"What could possible be worse?"
"A demon loose, uncontrolled—a demon with am-
bition," Kethry said, flopping down beside Warrl
and staring up at nothing, deep in thought.
Their lantern (more fish-oil) smoked and danced,
and made strange shadows on the wall and ceiling.
"Worst case would be just that: a demon that
knows exactly how to achieve godhood, and one
with nothing standing in the way of his intended
path. If it is a god—a real god—well, all gods hav
e
their enemies; it's simply a matter of finding the
sworn enemy, locating a nest of his clerics, and
bringing them all together. And a demon under the
control of a mage can be sent back to the Abyssal
Planes by discovering the summoning spell and
breaking it. But an uncontrolled demon—the only
way to get rid of it that I know of is to find its
focus-object and break it. Even that may not work
if it has achieved enough power. With enough accu-
mulated power, or enough worshipers believing in
his godhood, even breaking his focus wouldn't send
him back to the Abyssal Planes. If that happens—
well, you first have to find a demon-killing weapon,
then you have to get close enough to strike a killing
blow. And you hope that he isn't strong enough to
have gone beyond needing a physical form. Or you
damage him enough to break the power he gets
from his followers' belief—but that's even harder
to do than finding a demon-killing blade."
"And, needless to say, demon-killing weapons are
few and far between."
"And it isn't terribly likely that you're going to
get past a demon's reach to get that killing blow in,
once he's taken his normal form."
Tarma pulled off her boots, and inspected the
soles with a melancholy air. "How likely is that—an
uncontrolled demon?"
"Not really likely," Kethry admitted. "I'm just
being careful—giving you worst-case first. It's a lot
more likely that he's under the control of a mage
that's using him to build a power base for himself.
That's the scenario I'd bet on. I've seen this trick
pulled more than once before I met you. It works
quite well, provided you can keep giving your con-
gregation what they want."
"So what's next?"
"Well, I'd suggest we wait until morning, and see
what I can find out among the mages while you see
if you can get any more mercenaries to talk."
"Somehow I was afraid you'd say that."
They met back at the inn at noon; Tarma was
empty-handed, but Kethry had met with a certain
amount of success. At least she had a name, an
address, and a price—a fat skin of strong wine
taken with her, with a promise of more to come.
The address was in the scummiest section of the
town, hard by the communal refuse heap. Both
women kept their hands on the hilts of their blades
while making their way down the rank and odorous
alleyway; there were flickers of movement at vari-
ous holes in the walls (you could hardly call them
"doors" or "windows") but they were left unmo-
lested. More than one of the piles of what seemed
to be rotting refuse that dotted the alley proved to
be a human, though it was difficult to tell for cer-
tain if they were living humans or corpses. Kethry
again seemed blithely unaware of the stench; Tarma
fought her stomach and tried to breathe as little as
possible, and that little through her mouth.
At length they came to a wall that boasted a
proper door; Kethry rapped on it. A mumbled voice
answered her; she whispered something Tarma
couldn't make out. Evidently it was the proper
response, as the door swung open long enough for
them to squeeze through, then shut hurriedly be-
hind them.
Tarma blinked in surprise at what lay beyond
the alleyside door. The fetid aroma of the air out-
side was gone. There was a faint ghost of wine, and
an even fainter ghost of incense. The walls were
covered with soft, colorful rugs; more rugs covered
the floor. On top of the rugs were huge, plush
cushions. The room was a rainbow of subtle reds
and oranges and yellows. Tarma was struck with a
sudden closing of the throat, and she blinked to
clear misting eyes. This place reminded her forci-
bly of a Shin'a'in tent.
Fortunately the woman who turned from locking
the door to greet them was not a Clanswoman, or
Tarma might have had difficulty in ridding her
eyes of that traitorous mist. She was draped head
to toe with a veritable marketplace-full of veils, so
that only her eyes showed. The voluminous cover-
ing, which rivaled the room for color and variety of
pattern, was not, however, enough to hide the fact
that she was wraith-thin. And above the veils, the
black eyes were gray-ringed, bloodshot, and haggard.
"You know my price?" came a thin whisper.
Kethry let the heavy wineskin slide to her feet,
and she nudged it over to the woman with one toe.
"Three more follow, one every two days, from the
master of the Blacke Ewe."
"What do you wish to know?"
"How comes this thing they call Thalhkarsh
here—and why?"
The woman laughed crazily; Tarma loosened one
of her knives in its hidden arm-sheath. What in the
name of the Warrior had Kethry gotten them into?
"For that I need not even scry! Oh, no, to my
sorrow, that is something I know only too well!"
The eyes leaked tears; Tarma averted her gaze,
embarrassed.
"A curse on my own pride, and another on my
curiosity! For now he knows my aura, knows it
well—and calls me—and only the wine can stop my
feet from taking me to him—" the thin voice whined
to a halt, and the eyes closed, as if in a sudden
spasm of pain.
For a long moment the woman stood, still as a
thing made of wood, and Tarma feared they'd get
nothing more out of her. Then the eyes opened
again, and fixed Kethry with a stillettolike glare.
"Hear then the tale of my folly—'tis short enough.
When Thalhkarsh raised his temple, all in a single
night, I thought to scry it and determine what sort
of creature was master of it. My soul-self was
trapped by him, like a cruel child traps a mouse,
and like cruel children, he and his priest tormented
it—for how long, I cannot say. Then they seemed to
forget me; let me go again, to crawl back to myself.
But they had not forgotten me. I soon learned that
each night he would call me back to his side. Each
night I drink until I can no longer hear the call, but
each night it takes more wine to close my ears. One
night it will not be enough, and I shall join his
other—brides."
The veils shook and trembled.
"This much only did I learn. Thalhkarsh is a
demon; summoned by mistake instead of an imp.
He bides here by virtue of his focus, the bottle that
was meant to contain the imp. He is powerful; his
priest is a mage as well, and has his own abilities
augmented by the demon's. No sane person would
bide in this town with them rising to prominence
here."
The woman turned back to the door in a flutter
of thin fabric and cracked it open again. One sticklike
arm and hand pointed the way o
ut. "That is my
rede; take it if you are not fools."
Tarma was only too pleased to escape the cham-
ber, which seemed rather too confining of a sud-
den. Kethry paused, concern on her face, to reach a
tentative hand toward the veiled mystery. The
woman made a repudiating motion. "Do not pity
me!" she whispered harshly. "You cannot know! He
is terrible—but he is also glorious—so—glorious—"
Her eyes glazed for a moment, then focused again,
and she slammed the door shut behind them.
Kethry laced herself into the only dress she owned,
a sensuous thing of forest green silk, a scowl twist-
ing her forehead. "Why do I have to be the one
pawed at and drooled over?"
Tarma chuckled. "You were the one who decreed
against using any more magic than we had to," she
pointed out.
"Well, I don't want to chance that mage detect-
ing it and getting curious!"
"And you were the one who didn't want to chance
using illusion."
"What if something should break it?"
"Then don't complain if I can't take your place.
You happen to be the one of us that is lovely,
amber-haired, and toothsome, not I. And you are
the one with the manner-born. No merchant-lord or
minor noble is going to open his doors to a nomad
mercenary, and no decadent stripling is going to
whisper secrets into the ear of one with a face like
an ill-tempered hawk and a body like a sword-
blade. Now hurry up, or the market will be closed
and we'll have to wait until the morrow."
Vows And Honor Book 1: The Oathbound Page 21
