“Enter,” he said. “You are expected.”
Tarrik carried Ren inside, then stopped on the white-and-green checkered marble floor, not sure where to go. A dozen blackwood doors led off the entrance hall.
“The Ethereal Sorceress will see you alone,” said the man. “The demon is not invited.”
“Put me down, please, Tarrik.”
He did so and sneered at the servant. Why did he think Ren would leave him behind if she hadn’t last time?
“Agreed,” said Ren.
Tarrik gave her a sharp glance. What was she going to discuss with Sheelahn that she didn’t want him to hear? And where were Lin and Aeshma?
Ren hunched over, one hand pressed to her side. Under the alchemical-globe chandeliers lighting the entrance hall, he saw blackened veins under her skin where Indriol’s incantations had wounded her.
She held her hand out to the servant, who hesitated before taking it. They disappeared through one of the doors, and Tarrik looked around for a comfortable spot to wait. There wasn’t one. Just tiles and doors. He settled for leaning against a wall, his spear grasped in both hands. And waited.
And waited.
And waited.
He was about to start on spear forms when a door opened and Ren came out, struggling under the weight of their saddlebags. For his amusement, he took his time approaching to help.
Ren looked a lot better. The blackened veins had disappeared, and if she’d tried to carry their gear earlier, she would have collapsed. Whatever had happened between Ren and Sheelahn, part of the encounter had involved healing. He saw that her eyes were still shadowed, though, and she still wore her bloodstained clothes.
“Where are Lin and Aeshma?” he asked.
Ren frowned. “Was that the jikin-nakar’s name?”
“Yes.”
“Lin is safe. Sheelahn will make arrangements for her with the Red Gate Covenant.”
“And Aeshma?”
“Forget about her. You will not see her again.”
Tarrik recalled Sheelahn offering to buy him from Ren. Had Ren sold Aeshma to the sorcerer instead?
“Did you give her to Sheelahn as payment?”
“I said forget about the demon. Do not ask me about her again.”
Tarrik’s hands tightened about the shaft of his spear, but he managed to clamp down on his anger. A drink would help. He glanced toward his saddlebags.
“Bring them,” said Ren. “We’re going to the roof.”
Another journey through the night. “Where to this time?”
“Ruruc, a city northwest of here. It’s where the Nine will be gathering.”
For their attempt to free Samal? They would regret bringing the Adversary back to their world. But perhaps they couldn’t help themselves. Their minds had been corrupted, taken from them, and molded to Samal’s designs. In some ways he felt sorry for them, for were they not as he was? Enslaved? An uncomfortable thought that wouldn’t go away.
He returned his thoughts to the most important matter for himself: how to break free of Ren’s bindings. The easiest way was by Ren’s death. That had to be his focus. Everything else was a distraction.
He briefly touched Ananias’s essence in his mind, remembering how the shell protecting it had almost crumbled when Indriol hit him with the Wracking Nerves. Was he ready to absorb the remaining power without going insane? He felt he was close; perhaps another few trickles of essence and he’d be bolstered enough. Then he would needle Ren into using the Wracking Nerves on him. And if he was successful and could control the flood of demon essence and hold on to sanity, what then? He knew he should kill Ren and be done with this wretched world, but what was really happening between her and the Tainted Cabal and the Nine? Could he leave them to release Samal into this world and risk his malicious reach extending into the abyssal realms?
But Tarrik was only one demon, without significant power. What could he do?
“Sheelahn could transport us there quickly,” Ren was saying, “but the cost is too high. I’ll have to do it myself.”
“Another disc?” he asked. His planning would have to wait.
“Another disc.” Ren passed a hand across her weary face, then tugged at her soiled shirt. “I’ll change first. Come.”
Tarrik shouldered their saddlebags. He wished he had Veika’s bottle of spirits in his hand, but they’d soon be aloft, and he’d have time for a drink then. Ren led him to a door that opened onto one of the iron cages. Soon they emerged onto the flat roof. The door closed behind them, and Tarrik could hear the cage creaking as it descended.
“Do you have any of Veika’s whiskey left?” she asked.
“I do.”
“Fetch it, please. I’ll need a fortifying drink before I start.”
Tarrik rummaged around in his saddlebag for the bottle. The manticarrs on the label seemed to glower at him.
Ren swallowed a mouthful, then another, and handed the bottle back. Tarrik took the opportunity to drink from it himself but stopped when he found Ren gazing upon him.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Contian was right about you.”
Meddling old fool. If I’d known he lied about destroying his notes on me, I’d have wrung his scrawny neck.
“In what way?” he said.
“That you aren’t like other demons.”
“I’m exactly like other demons,” he said before he could stop himself. Blood and fire! He was supposed to be meek and trustworthy. “What I mean is, you already know that minor demons are ruled by their passions. Once enslaved by humans, they’re put to evil deeds. We higher-order demons have more self-control.”
“So you’ve said.”
“It is the truth.”
Ren sniffed. She went through her saddlebags and pulled out a crimson shirt and charcoal skirt and another short coat. All black except for the shirt.
“Turn around,” she said curtly.
Tarrik obliged and heard buckles click and cloth rustle as Ren changed.
“All right, I’m done,” she said.
Dressed in clean clothes, with her silver-buckled boots and studded belt, she might have stepped from a preparation room ready for her day—apart from her darkened eyes and the stray hairs that escaped her braids. One strand stuck out, and Tarrik resisted the urge to tuck it back in. He turned away, aching to be gone from here.
Ren created another flying disc out of water and steam and sorcery. Again, Tarrik could only sense a minimal draw of dawn- and dusk-tide emanations. Where did her power come from?
“Tarrik!” snapped Ren. “I’ve asked you twice. Get on. We have to leave.”
Tarrik hurriedly climbed onto the platform, dropped their saddlebags, and sat, cradling his spear in his arms. Heat waves cracked the stone roof as the shimmering blue disc rose swiftly into the air. He settled in for a long flight to whatever awaited them in Ruruc.
They spent the next three nights flying over a sandblasted, rocky wasteland. During daylight hours they rested under flimsy makeshift tents fashioned from their blankets. On the first night, when they reached a river, Ren directed them west to follow it; then the water veered to the north, and they continued along its reverse course. On the third night they came to hills, which rose to become mountains that climbed like jagged teeth on the horizon to the west.
Ruruc was nestled among the hills, a human city much like any other: buildings crammed together, too much smoke, and the stench of humans permeating the air. Tarrik had seen many of their cities by now and wasn’t impressed. They were all the same, apart from superficial differences. None were carved from rock faces or dug deep within the earth for protection like most demon cities, and he found himself longing for the enclosed spaces he was used to. When you hunted at night and the darkness surrounded you like a blanket, you didn’t feel so exposed.
Ren began their descent into a walled compound a few hundred yards north of the city’s walls. A well-worn road connected the two, though its only traveler was a man
towing a mule toward Ruruc. The disc landed on a packed-earth courtyard, barely attracting a glimpse of interest from another man forking hay from a wagon in a corralled area and three children running around and whacking at each other with sticks.
Perhaps a sorcerer descending from the sky was commonplace here, Tarrik thought.
Ren voiced a cant, and her crimson-violet tendrils dissipated. “Get off,” she snapped at him, and he gathered their gear and hurried onto the scorching-hot earth around the disc. His boots began to smoke, and he ran a dozen or so steps to escape the heat.
A bald man in an ocher robe cinched at the waist with a thin leather belt exited one of the buildings to their left and approached at a hurried pace. He glanced at Tarrik, his eyes instantly sliding off and dismissing him. They came to rest on Ren, and he smiled toothily.
He stank of goat. Another of the mad Nine, then. Or just an insane sorcerer.
“Lady Branwen! You’re here in good time,” said the bald man. He didn’t even have the grace to cover his head, devoid of hair that he could braid into a semblance of respectability.
Ren walked slowly toward him, seemingly unaware that the soles of her boots were smoking on the heated dirt. “Marren. I hadn’t thought to see you yet.”
He squinted up at the blazing sun, then shaded his eyes with a hand. “Well, here I am.” He crossed his arms, palms against his chest, and bowed. “Samal will rise.”
Ren repeated the gesture. “Praise Samal, Lord of Life.”
Definitely one of the Nine.
“Let’s get inside. It’s already warm, and the day will only become hotter. Come, please.”
He gestured for them to follow him into the building he’d emerged from, which was much cooler than outside. They passed through an entrance hallway and into a square chamber with divans and numerous cushions situated around a low table covered with plates of edibles: nuts and dates, sliced bread and cheeses, and hardboiled eggs.
Four muscular men were stationed around the walls, each wearing just a linen loincloth and armed with a pair of sheathed long daggers. All four waved giant fans to generate a breeze in the chamber, though from their chiseled torsos, callused hands, and scar-covered arms, Tarrik could see they were proficient warriors.
Next to the doorway stood a short-haired woman in a white robe. She kept her head lowered and eyes on the floor.
Marren gestured to one of the divans, which was upholstered with fabric patterned with pink flowers of some sort. “Sit, please. Help yourself to refreshments. I’ll have someone fetch wine.”
He clicked his fingers at the woman by the door, and she nodded without looking up and scurried away.
Ren unbuckled her chest strap and swung her sword to her hip. Tarrik tensed. For an instant he thought she would draw it and do away with Marren right then and there. But she moved to the divan and sat.
Tarrik positioned himself behind her and placed their saddlebags on the floor. Marren’s eyes never moved from Ren.
The woman hurried back into the room bearing a tray with three brass goblets. She slid the tray onto the low table and carried a goblet to each of them in turn, holding the cups carefully with both hands as if she’d be beheaded for spilling a drop.
Marren was served first; he grabbed the goblet and slurped noisily. Ren received hers with a nod of thanks to the woman and took a delicate sip.
Tarrik eyed the liquid, a red wine that looked watered down. He drained the goblet. The drink was weak and insipid but better than nothing.
“Do you have it?” Marren said suddenly. He placed his goblet on the table and clasped his hands in front of him.
“You never could control your impulses,” said Ren. She reached across and picked up a date.
“Well, do you?”
“Yes. As promised. One for you and another for Lera.”
Ren nibbled daintily on the date, but Tarrik could tell she was focused on the conversation. Her shoulders were tense, her movements too studied. What was so important here? Ren played her own game, of that he was certain, but what was that game? Did she want all of the Nine dead—for herself to be Samal’s only chosen?
“Where is it?” Marren wriggled to the edge of the divan, his face shiny with perspiration.
Ren finished the date, took another sip of wine, then placed her goblet on the table. “Tarrik, my saddlebag, please, if you will.”
He had no idea why she was being so polite. He lifted Ren’s bag and placed it beside her on the divan. She unbuckled the flap and drew out two black-velvet-wrapped items Tarrik had never seen before.
Marren leaned forward, licking his lips. Ren half stood and held one out to him, and he practically snatched it from her. He sat back, hands trembling, and unwrapped the object to reveal a silver statuette of a man covered with Skanuric script. The figure was blocky and crude, topped by a square hat, with his arms by his sides.
Tarrik felt a trickle of power from Marren. His hands tightened around his spear, but Ren didn’t react.
“Is this a joke?” said Marren. “Oh, it has an orichalcum core.”
“Correct,” said Ren. “The ancients saw fit to disguise the metal. Or perhaps they thought the silver looked better. One never knows with them; their thoughts don’t usually follow our logic.”
A slow smile spread across Marren’s face, and both of his slender hands stroked the statuette. The black velvet cloth lay discarded beside him. “You have outdone yourself, Lady Branwen. With these, we are sure to succeed. This world is ours. And soon the vermin and leeches will know our true power.”
“Indeed. My man will deliver the twin to Lera. She is here, isn’t she?”
“Oh yes, in the city at her residence.” Marren gazed at the silver man as if it were his lover.
Ren held the second wrapped statuette out to Tarrik. “Take this to Silver Spears Avenue, to the residence of Lera the Betrayer of Shadows. Take a cab—the driver will know where to go. Tell Lera you’ve been sent by me, hand her the statuette, then return.”
How do you betray a shadow? Tarrik decided not to ask. He took the artifact from Ren.
“Do not tarry,” she said, meeting his eye.
Marren frowned at Tarrik. “Hurry up, man! You’re dealing with things you cannot understand. Do as she bids!”
Tarrik shoved the statuette into a pocket and left the room.
“We have much to discuss,” he heard Marren say. “Did you hear what happened to Lischen? I’ve only just received word. And now Indriol has gone silent. Someone is moving against us.”
That would be Ren.
Chapter Eighteen
Outside was already hotter, or at least it seemed so to Tarrik. Or perhaps the weather only felt so after the cool interior. The children had abandoned their rough game and were sitting under a veranda, eating large pieces of a reddish fruit. No one else was about. Security was lax here, but maybe the population feared the Nine and the Cabal so much they remained cowed. The worms.
Would he return to find Ren had killed Marren? Another of the Nine added to her tally? Tarrik grinned at the thought of another of the sorcerous slavers dead. But somehow he doubted that would hinder the remaining Nine’s plans to free Samal.
He left the walled compound and walked south toward the city along the well-worn road. The sun beat down relentlessly, and a searing wind blew gritty dirt that pattered against his boots. For a few moments Tarrik allowed himself to enjoy the sounds and sensations that were so much like home. All that was missing was the sun setting and the faint cries of prey as they hunkered down to wait out the perilous night.
He shouldered his spear as he reluctantly trudged the last few hundred yards to the city gate. He squinted. There wasn’t even a gate, just an opening. And as he entered the city, he couldn’t see any guards.
Weeds and grasses sprouted from the pavers, surviving despite the heat and dryness, giving the place a desolate look.
On the other side of the entranceway stood a collection of stalls, all shaded by sheets o
f cloth tied over wooden frames. One sold huge rounds of cheese stacked atop crates; another, fruits and vegetables; and at another, a woman stood behind a sturdy table cluttered with bunches of dried herbs and numerous bottles and vials. As Tarrik wandered through the market, the vendors barely stirred from their chairs, too busy cooling themselves with colorful fans. Everyone wore a head covering of some sort to shield them from the midday heat: broad-brimmed hats, head scarves, hoods. A young boy carrying a basket filled with bundles of dried leaves meandered among them. Most of the vendors exchanged a coin for a bundle, then peeled off a leaf and began to chew.
“Cheeses fresh from the farm!” shouted a man. “Cow’s milk, goat’s milk, and sheep’s milk cheeses!”
Tarrik turned up his nose. No demon would eat such a disgusting creation.
“Potions and remedies!” cried the woman at the cluttered table, loudly but without enthusiasm. “Herbs and medicines to cure any ill and inject you with vigor!”
Tarrik ignored all their calls. Thirty yards up the almost deserted street stood a sorry-looking nag attached to an even sorrier-looking open-topped cab. The horse was mangy and thin, and the cab’s paint was peeled and cracked. The driver lay along her seat, a broad-brimmed hat covering her face. As Tarrik approached, he could hear her snoring.
He thumped a fist on the side of the cab, and she jerked awake and sat up. She rubbed her eyes and glared at Tarrik; then her expression softened. “Where to?” she said, patting down her wild blonde hair and putting on her hat.
Tarrik climbed up to a dirty passenger seat. “Silver Spears Avenue. The residence of Lera the Betrayer of Shadows.”
The driver stopped fiddling with the reins and glanced over her shoulder at him. “That’ll be extra.”
Tarrik sniffed, unconcerned. Money was just another human conceit. Barter was sufficient, arranged by your household and the demons subservient to you, and when you lived for as long as demons did, wealth wasn’t a focus. Ren hadn’t given him any coin, but he had his own, taken from the sorcerer he’d killed after being summoned.
They clattered off, the nag moving slower than Tarrik could have walked.
Shadow of the Exile (The Infernal Guardian Book 1) Page 27
