'A woman from the Street of Red Lanterns has been murdered. She slept secure in the most guarded House in Sanctuary and yet someone was able to kill her leaving the mark of serpent fangs on her neck.' Cythen spoke the words Lythande had taught her, though they were far from the ones she would have freely chosen.
Though the Sanctuary woman believed it impossible. Prism's eyes grew wider, rounder and the glassy membrane fluttered wildly. Finally her eyelids closed and, as if on cue, the loose, dark clothing she wore began to writhe from her waist to her breasts, from her breasts to her shoulders, until the bloodred head of the woman's familiar peeked above her collar and regarded Cythen with round, unblinking eyes. The serpent opened its mouth, revealing an equally crimson maw and glistening ivory fangs. Its tongue wove before Cythen's face, drawing a faint murmur of disgust from her.
'You needn't fear her,' Prism assured Cythen with a cold smile, 'unless you're my enemy.'
Cythen silently shook her head.
'But you do think that I, or my sisters, killed this woman who was, in some way, dear to you?'
'No - yes. She was mad; she was my sister. She was protected there and there was no reason for anyone to want her dead. She lived in the past, in a world that doesn't exist any more.'
The cold smile nickered across Prism's face again. 'Ah, then, you see it could not have been Harka Bey. We would never kill without reason.'
"There were no marks besides the snakes fangs' puncture anywhere on her. Myrtis even called Lythande to examine the body -and he arranged for Enas Yorl to study the poison. And Enas Yorl sent us to you.'
Prism turned to the shadows and spoke rapidly in her own language. Cythen recognized only the names of the two magicians; the native Beysib language was very different from the mix of dialects common in Sanctuary. A second woman joined them in the moonlight. She unwound her scarf to reveal a face that shimmered orchid as it stared at Cythen. Cythen let her hand rest once again on her sword hilt while the two women conversed rapidly in their incomprehensible tongue.
'What else did your magician, Enas Yorl, tell you about us -besides how to contact us along the wharves?'
'Nothing,' Cythen replied, hesitating a bit before continuing. 'Enas Yorl's cursed. We left Bekin's corpse in his vestibule and returned later to find a note tucked in her shroud. Lythande said it was incomplete; that the shifting curse had claimed him again. Beyond saying that you, the Harka Bey, would know the truth, the note was indecipherable.'
There was another brief exchange of foreign words before Prism spoke again to Cythen. 'The shape-changer is known to us - as we are known to him. It is a serious charge you and he bring before us. This woman, your sister, was not our victim. You, of course, do not know us well enough to know that we speak the truth in this; you will have to trust us that this is so.'
Cythen opened her mouth to protest, but the woman waved her back to silence.
'I have not doubted the truth of your words,' Prism warned. 'Do not be so foolish as to doubt mine. We will study this matter closely. The dead woman will be avenged. You will be remembered. Go now, with Bey, the Mother of us all.'
'If it wasn't you, then who was it?' Cythen demanded, though the women were already melting back into the shadows. 'It couldn't have been one of us. None of us has the venom, or knows of the Harka Bey ...'
They continued to vanish, as silently and mysteriously as they had arrived. Prism lingered the longest; then she, too, vanished and Cythen was left to wonder if the alien women had been there at all.
Still full of the delayed effects of her terror, Cythen clambered loudly over the wall. The Maze was still black as ink, but now it was silent, caught in the brief moment between the activities of night and those of the day. Her soft footfalls echoed and she pulled the dark cloak high around her face, until the Maze was behind her and she was in the Street of Red Lanterns, where a few patrons still lingered in the doorways, shielding their faces from her eyes. The great lamps were out above the door of the Aphrodisia House. Myrtis and her courtesans would not rise until the sun beat on the rooftops at noon. But her staff, the ones who were invisible at night, were working in the kitchens and took Cythen's hastily scribbled, disappointed message, promising that it would be delivered as soon as Madame had breakfasted. Then, weary and yawning, Cythen slipped back into the garrison barracks where Walegrin, in deference to her sex, had allotted her a private, bolted chamber.
She slept well into the day watch, entering the mess hall when it was deserted. The gelid remains of breakfast remained on the sideboard, ignored by the endemic vermin. It would taste worse than it looked, though Cythen was long past the luxury of tasting the food she ate: one ate what was available or one starved. She filled her bowl and sat alone by the hearth.
Bekin's death was still unexplained and unavenged and that weighed more heavily upon her than the greasy porridge. For more years than she cared to remember, her only pride had been that she had somehow managed to care for Bekin. Now that was gone and she stood emotionally naked to her guilts and unbidden memories. If the Harka Bey had not appeared, she might still have blamed them but, despite their barbaric coldness, or perhaps because of it, she believed what they had said. The warmth of tears rose within her as her brooding was broken by the sound of a chair scraping along the floor in the watchroom above her. Rather than succumb to the waiting tears, she went to confront Walegrin.
The straw-blond man didn't notice as she opened the door. He was absorbed in his square of parchment and the cramped rows of figures he had made upon it. With one hand on the door, Cythen hesitated. She didn't like Walegrin; no one really did, except maybe Thrusher - and he was almost as strange. The garrison's officer repelled compassion and friendship alike and hid his emotions so thoroughly that none could find them. Still, Walegrin managed to provide leadership and direction when it was needed - and he reminded Cythen of no one else in her troubled past.
'You missed curfew,' he greeted her after she closed the door, not looking up from his figures. His hands were filthy with cheap ink, the only kind available in Sanctuary. But the numbers themselves, Cythen saw as she moved closer, were clear and orderly. He could read and write as well as swing a sword; in fact, he had education and experience equal to her own, and at times her feelings for him threatened to take wild leaps beyond friendship or respect. Then she would remind herself that it was only loneliness that she was feeling and the remembering of things best left forgotten.
'I left word for you,' she stated without apology.
He kicked a stool towards her. 'Did you find what you were looking for?'
She shook her head and sat on the stool. 'No, but I found them all right. Beysib, and from the palace, by the look of them.' She shook her head again, this time recalling the strange faces of the two women she had seen. 'They sneaked up on me; I couldn't see how many there were. One came after me with a pair of those long-hiked swords of theirs. She spun them so fast I couldn't see them any more. Fighting with them's like walking into the mouth of a dragon.'
'But you fought and survived?' A faint trace of a smile creased Walegrin's face. He set his quill aside.
'She said they were testing me - but that's because she couldn't kill me like she'd planned. Her swords couldn't stop mine, and mine didn't break hers; that Beysib steel is good. I guess we were both surprised. And then she figured she better talk to me, and listen ... But she never blinked while I talked to her so this Harka Bey, whatever it is, really must be from the palace and around the Beysa, right? The closer they are to the Imperial blood the more fish-eyed they are, right? And while I was talking to her a snake, one of those damned red mouthed vipers, crawled up out of her clothes and wound up around her neck, lookin' at me as if its opinion was the one that really mattered. And the other one - the one who came forward after the test - her face was shiny and purple!'
'Then she should be fairly easy to identify if she's the one who killed your sister.'
Cythen froze on the stool, searching the past fe
w days, the past few months for any slip of the tongue when she might have let him know what Bekin was to her; that she pursued the killer of a Red Lanterns courtesan out of anything more than outrage or simple compassion.
'Molin told me,' Walegrin explained. 'He was looking for a pattern.'
'Molin Torchholder? Why in the name of a hundred stinking little gods should Vashanka's torch know anything about me or my sister?' The anxiety and guilt transformed themselves into anger; Cythen's rich voice filled the room.
'When Myrtis asks Lythande and Lythande asks Enas Yorl and they ask for a specific person to escort the corpse from pillar to post then, yes - somehow Molin Torchholder hears about it and gets his answers.'
'And you're his errand boy? His messenger?' She had touched a sore point between them in her anger, and by the darkening of his face she knew to regret it. Back in the first days of chaos after the Beysib fleet heaved over the horizon, Molin Torchholder had been everywhere. The archetypical bureaucrat had kept his beleaguered temple open for business; his Prince well-advised, the Beysib amused and, ultimately, Walegrin and his band employed in the service of the city. In return, Walegrin had begun to hand back a portion of the garrison's wages for Molin's speculations. It was not such a bad partnership. Walegrin's duties kept him apprised of the merchant's activity anyway, and Molin seldom lost money. But for Cythen, whose family, when she'd had a family, had been rich in land, not gold, the rabid pursuit of more gold than you needed was degrading. And, though she would never admit it directly, she did not want Walegrin degraded.
'He told me,' Walegrin replied after an uncomfortable silence, his voice carefully even, 'because you are still part of this garrison and if something is going to make you act rashly he would want me to know about it. Bekin's death isn't the only one that's got us edgy. Each night since she died at least two Beysib have been found dead, mutilated, and the lord-high muckety-mucks are thinking about showing some muscle around here. We're all under close watch.'
'If he was so damned all-fired concerned about how rashly I might act, then why in his departed god's name didn't he keep Bekin from getting killed in the first place?'
'You hid her too well. He didn't know who she was until she was dead, Cythen. You bought Myrtis's silence; she was the only one beside you who knew - and maybe Jubal, I guess. But, did you know she was working the Beysib traffic on the Street?' Walegrin paused and let Cythen absorb the information she obviously had not had before. 'Most of the women won't, you know. I guess it's not just their eyes that're different. But she was killed by a Beysib serpent - a jealous wife maybe? And, now that Beysibs are getting killed by an ordinary rip-and slash artist in numbers and places that can't all be written off to carelessness, you are a suspect, you Know.'
The anger had burned itself out, leaving Cythen with gaping holes in her defences; the grief slipped out. 'Walegrin, she was mad. Every man looked the same to her - so of course she'd work the Beysib, or Jubal. She didn't live here. She couldn't have known anything, or done anything to make someone kill her. Damn, if Molin cares who services the Beysib stallions he could have protected her anyway.' A few tears escaped and, shamed by them, Cythen hid her face behind her hands.
'You should tell him that yourself. You're not going to be any use to me until you do.' Walegrin rolled the parchment, then stood up to fasten his sword-belt over his hips. 'You won't be needing anything - let's go.'
Too surprised to object, Cythen followed him into the palace forecourt. A handful of gaudy Beysib youths, brash young men and lithe, bold women, pushed loudly past them, the exposed, painted breasts of the women flashing from beneath their capelets in the sunlight. Walegrin affected not to notice; no man in Sanctuary would notice the flaunted flesh - not if he valued his life. The Beysib had made that very clear in the first, and - thus far - only, wave of executions. Cythen stared, though not as well as the Beysib could stare, at their faces and finally looked away, unable to find any individuality in the barbaric features. Prism could have walked beside her and she would not have known it.
One of the Beysib lords strode by, magenta pantaloons billowing around him, a glittering fez perched atop his shaved head, and a well-scrubbed Sanctuary urchin struggling with a great silk parasol behind him. Both Walegrin and Cythen halted and saluted as he passed. That was the way now, if you accepted their gold.
She was grateful for the shadows of the lower palace and the familiar sound of servants shouting in Rankene at each other as they approached the much-reduced quarters of Kadakithis and his retainers. In truth, though, she no longer wanted to see the priest, if indeed she had ever wanted to see him. Her anger had escaped and now she only wanted to return to her tiny room. But Walegrin pounded on the heavy door and forced it open before the Torch's pet mute could lift the latch.
Molin set down his goblet and stared at Cythen in the old-fashioned way that said: What has the cat dragged in this time? Cythen tugged at her tunic, well aware that the clothes of a garrison soldier, no matter how clean or cared for, were unseemly attire for a woman - especially one who had been an earling's daughter. And if he knew about Bekin, then he might have known the rest as well. She would have run from the chamber, had that been an option, but since it wasn't, she squared her shoulders and matched his appraising look with one of her own.
The priest was Rankan and he'd managed to retain all the implied power and majesty that that word had ever carried, despite the low ceilings and the laundry-women battling outside his window. Bands of gold decorated the hems of his robes, adorned his boots, and circled his fingers. His midnight hair was combed to surround his face like a lion's mane - yet it was not so dark or shiny as his eyes. If the Torch's god had been vanquished, as some claimed; if the Prince was simply a puppet in the hands of the Beysa; if his prospects for wealth and honour had been reduced, then none of it showed in his appearance or demeanour. Cythen looked away first.
'Cythen has some questions I can't answer for her,' Walegrin said boldly as he laid the parchment on the priest's table. 'She wonders why you didn't protect Bekin when you first suspected there might be danger in dealing with the Beysib, as she did.'
The Torch calmly unrolled the parchment. 'Ah, three caravans yesterday; seventy five soldats. We've almost enough. They agree the first boat should be bought with Rankan gold, you know. The longer we can keep the capital ignorant of our situation here, the better it will be for all of us. If they knew how much gold was floating in our harbour, they'd bring half the army down here to take it from us - and neither we nor they want that.' He looked up from the parchment.
'Have you found me a man to take the gold north yet? I'll have other messages for him to carry as well. The war's not going well; I think we can lure Tempus back to his Prince. We're going to need that man's unique and nasty talents before this is over.' He rerolled the parchment and handed it over to the mute.
Walegrin scowled. He had no desire to have Tempus back in the town. Molin sipped at his wine and seemed to notice Cythen for the first time again. 'Now then, for your companion's questions. I was not aware of the unfortunate woman's relationship to Cythen until after she was dead. And I certainly did not know there was danger in bedding a Beysib until it was too late.'
'But you were watching her. You must have suspected something,' Cythen snarled, grinding her heel into the lush wool-and-silk carpet and banging her fist on the priest's fine parquet table.
'She was, I believe, a half-mad - or totally mad, you'd know better than I harlot at the Aphrodisia. I can not imagine the dangers or delights of such a life. She entertained a variety of Beysib men, one of the few who would, and as the welfare of the Beysib is important to me, I kept tabs on them, and therefore her. It is a pity she was murdered - that is what happened, isn't it? But, mad as she was - sleeping with the Beysib - isn't it better that she's departed? Her spirit is free now to be reborn on a higher, happier level.'
Theology came easily and sincerely to the priest. And Cythen, who knew her own sins well enough, w
as tempted to believe the resonant phrases.
'You knew something,' she said pleadingly, clutching her resolve. 'Just like the Harka Bey suspected something when I told them.'
Torchholder swallowed his pious words and looked to Walegrin for confirmation. The blond, ice-eyed man simply nodded his head slightly and said: 'It had been suggested by Yorl. Cythen seemed the most appropriate one for the task; she volunteered anyway.'
'Harka Bey,' the priest repeated, mulling over the words. 'Vengeance of Bey, I believe, in their language. I've heard rumours, legends, whatever about them, but everybody's denied that there's anything to the legends. Poison-blooded female assassins? And real enough that Cythen met with them? Very interesting, but not at all what I'd expected.'
'I believe, your Grace, that Yorl only suggested contacting the Harka Bey. It seems unlikely that they would have killed the girl: Indeed they deny it,' Walegrin corrected, clenching Cythen's upper arm in a bruising grip to keep her quiet.
'What did you expect?' Cythen demanded of Molin, wrenching free of Walegrin and raising her voice. 'Why is it so important that she slept with the Beysib men? Which one of them do you suspect of murder?'
'Not so loudly, child,' the priest pleaded, remember, we survive on sufferance; we can have no suspicions.' He gestured to the mute, who went to the window and began playing a loud folktune on his pipes. 'We have no rights.' Taking Cythen's arm, he ushered her into a cramped, windowless alcove, hidden behind one of his tapestries.
Molin began to speak in a hoarse whisper. 'And keep quiet about this,' he warned her. 'The Aphrodisia is the favourite gaming place of our new lords and masters, especially the younger, hot-headed ones. There's an element among them that does not appreciate the current policy of restraint. Remember, these people are exiles; they've just lost a war at home; they've got something to prove to themselves. Sure, the older men say "Bide your time," "We'll go home next year, or the year after that, or the one after that." They weren't the ones on the battlefields getting their asses kicked.
The Face of Chaos tw-5 Page 14
