Soul of the City tw-8

by Robert Lynn Asprin

  The rain finally stopped. It would be days before the streets dried-if they dried at all before the next storm swept through. Molin tucked the scarf in a pouch and threw a cloak over his shoulder. There wouldn't be a better time to find Tempus. He didn't have to go far, just a sidelong glance out the window. The Riddler, followed closely by an exceptionally grim looking Critias, was coming to pay him a visit.

  "That picture," the nearly immortal mercenary snarled, pointing above Molin's head as the heavy wood door slammed against the wall.

  Pointedly ignoring the priest, Crit walked around to examine the picture closely. After touching it with his fingers he used his knife to scrape off a bit of the background-and got plaster-shavings for his efforts.

  "It's not there, Critias," Molin warned.

  "Get it," Crit ordered.

  "You don't come in here giving me orders."

  "Let him see it," Tempus asked wearily. "/'// make sure no harm comes to it."

  Molin tried to concentrate. He'd been childishly pleased with himself when he'd hidden the actuality of the canvas while leaving its semblance plainly visible on the wall. It was hard enough for an apprentice of his experience to tuck something away in magic's shadows but now, with Tempus and Crit watching him impatiently, it was proving impossible to find it again. He had almost located the frayed edges when the door slammed open again and he lost them.

  "You can't bum it," Randal said, the words coming between gasps for air. "No one knows what will happen when you do."

  "We bum the witch-bitch when we bum it-that's what happens." Critias touched his knife to the facsimile ofRoxane's face as he spoke. "Find it," he added for Molin's benefit.

  "We don't know what happens to Niko... or Tempus," Randal continued.

  Critias fell silent and Molin, getting desperate, lucky, or both, closed his mind around the canvas and gave it a little tug. The image on the wall shimmered before vanishing and, with an unpleasant sulphurous discharge, the rolled canvas dropped to the floor at Tempus's feet. He reached down and held it in his fist.

  "No," the big man said simply.

  "We can't destroy the globe," Critias said as Randal shuddered in agreement. "We can't kill the Stormchildren." Molin's knuckles went white. "And now you're telling me we can't bum the picture. Commander, what can we do?"

  Molin saw his opportunity open before him. Opening the pouch, he laid the scarf across the worktable and waited for reaction. Randal stared, Crit looked nervous, and Tempus jerked upright.

  "Mother of us all," he sighed, laying the canvas on the table, taking the scarf in its place. "Where did you get this?" His fingers read the uneven stitches as he spoke.

  "Stormbringer," Molin answered softly enough that only Tempus could see or hear.

  "Why?"

  "To convince you that you have to sleep; that you have to talk to ASkelon because Askelon's decided he'll only talk to you. And, more important, because Stormbringer thinks Askelon's got a way to reach Roxane."

  "Thinks? The god thinks? He doesn't know?" He closed his eyes a moment. "Do you know what this is? Did he tell you?"

  Molin shrugged. "He thought it would be sufficient to convince you to go where I'd already told him you had no intention of going."

  "Damn her," Tempus said, throwing the scarf on the table and taking the picture again. "Here," he threw it at Critias, who let it drop to the floor, "do what you damned well want with it."

  DEATH IN THE MEADOW by C.J. Cherryh

  I

  The floor creaked to the slightest step, and Stilcho moved quietly as he could across to the old warehouse door, not trying escape, no, only that it was so everlasting cold and he wanted the sun to warm his flesh, the sun that shone bright through a crack in the shutters. He wanted it, and he had thought a long time about getting up from that board floor and venturing outside-

  -he had thought about going further too, but the front step would be enough, the front step was all he dared think of, because Haught sleeping back there had ways to know what he planned-

  -so he thought, o gods large and small, gods of hell and gods of earth, only of getting out into that light where the sun would warm the stone step and the bricks and warm his dead flesh which right now had that lasting chill of rain and mud and misery. He could not abide the stink and the cold of mud, that made him think all too much of being dead, in the ground, in the river cold-

  I'm not running, I'm not going anywhere, just the sun.... That, for Haught's benefit, should he wake-with his hand on the door.

  The hair stirred at Stilcho's nape. His flesh crawled. He stopped still and turned and looked, and saw Haught sitting up in the shadows, a bedraggled Haught with a bloody scrape on his face and the whites showing dangerously round his eyes. Stilcho set his back against the door and gestured toward it with a shrug.

  "Just going out to get the-"

  Do you play games with me? With me, dead man?

  No, he thought quickly, made that a torrent of no, letting nothing else through, and felt every hair on his body rise and his heart slow, time slow, the world grow fragile so that for a moment he knew the progress of Haught's mind, the suspicion that his one failure had diminished the fear of him, that a certain piece of walking meat needed a lesson, that this thing Ischade slept with (but not with him) could be dealt with, shredded and sent to the deepest hell if it needed to learn respect-

  -Stilcho knew all that the way he suddenly knew Haught was running through his thoughts, knowing his doubt, his dread, his hate, everything that made him vulnerable.

  "On your knees," Haught said, and Stilcho found himself going there, helplessly, the way every bone and sinew in him resonated to that voice. He stared at Haught with his living eye while the dead one held vision too, a vision of hell, of a gateway a thing wanted to pass and could not. But if he was sent there now, to that gate, to meet that thing-

  "Say you beg my pardon," Haught said.

  "I b-beg your pardon." Stilcho did not even hesitate. A fool would hesitate. There was no hope for a fool. Ischade would banish him down to hell to confront that thing if he went back to her now after what Haught had done, and Haught would tear his soul to slow shreds before he let it go to the same fate. Stilcho knelt on the bare boards and mouthed whatever words Haught wanted.

  For now. (No, no, Haught, for always.)

  Haught gathered himself to his feet and ran a hand through his disordered hair. His pale, elegant face had a gaunt look. The hair fell again to stream about it. The smile on his face was fevered.

  He's crazy, Stilcho thought, having seen that look in hospital and in Sanctuary's own street lunatics. And then: 0, no, no, no, not Haught! No!

  The prickling of his skin grew painful and ceased. Haught came closer to him, came up to him and squatted down and put his hand on Stilcho's cheek, on the blind side. Chill followed that touch, and a deep pain in his missing eye, but Stilcho dared not move, dared not look anywhere but into Haught's face.

  "You're still useful," Haught said. "You mustn't think of leaving."

  "I don't."

  "Don't lie to me." Silken-soft. And the pain stabbed deep. "What can I give you to make you stay?"

  "L-life. F-for that."

  "No gold. No money. No woman. None of that."

  "To b-be alive-"

  "That's still our bargain. Isn't it? They know about us. They took care enough to set a trap for us. You think then that She doesn't know? You think then that we have infinite time? I've covered us thus far. They might not know who we are. But careful as 1 am, dead man, Stralon came close to us. He probably knew us. He probably passed that on. And that damnable priest and that damnable mage may know who they're looking for now. They might have thought it was Her. Now they may go to Her and tell Her our business. And that won't be good for us at all, will it, dead man?"

  "No." It came out hoarse and strangled. "It won't."

  "So let's don't take chances in the daylight, you and I. I have my means. Let's just be patient, shall we? I'll ta
ke the Mistress. I'll deal with Her. You wait and see." Gently Haught patted him on the cheek and smiled again, not pleasantly. "The thing we need went back to the priest. It's not there and it is. I know how it works now. And I know where it went. Right now we need to move a little closer uptown-when it's dark, do you see?"

  "Yes," Stilcho said. If Haught asked him if pigs flew he would have said yes. Anything, to make Haught go away satisfied short of what he could do, and what he could ask.

  "But in the meanwhile there's a trip for you to take."

  "Oh gods, no, no, Haught-there's this thing, I see it, gods, I see it-"

  Haught slapped him. The blow was faint against his cheek. The dark gateway was more real, the thing ripping at it was clearer, and if it looked his way-

  "When it's dark. To Moria's house."

  Stilcho slumped aside on his knees, rested his back against the door, his heart hammering away in his chest. And Haught grinned with white teeth.

  The old stairs creaked under any step (they were set that way deliberately, for more than one Stepson used the mage-quarter stables and the room above)-and Straton trod them carelessly, which was the best way to come at the man whose sorrel horse was stabled below.

  He had left the bay standing in the courtyard. It would stand. He left it just under the stairs, out of line of the dirty window above, if Crit had come to look, if he were wary. But perhaps he would be careless. Once.

  Or perhaps Crit was waiting behind the door.

  Strat reached the top landing and tried the latch. It gave. That should tell him enough. He flung the door inward, hard; it banged against the wall and rebounded halfway.

  And Crit was standing there in the center of the room with the crossbow aimed at the middle of his chest.

  The stream Janni followed ran bubbling over the rocks, among the trees, cold and clear; and a wind sighed in the leaves with a plaintive sound, like old ghosts, lost friends. The trees stood, some unnaturally straight, some twisted, like old monuments. Or memories. They afforded cover, and the place had a good feel to it, this shade, this shadow of green leaves.

  The brook left that place and flowed into sunlit grass. The meadow beyond hummed with the sound of bees, was dotted with wildflowers, was eerily still, no wind at all moving the grass, and Janni looked out into that place with a profound sense of terror. That meadow stretched on and on, lit in uncompromising day, and the grass that showed so trackless now would betray every step. There was no cover out there.

  If he were so foolish she could find him, Roxane could track him down in whatever shape she chose, and he could not stand against her. He knew that he could not. He had failed once before, and that failure gnawed at his pride, but he was not fool enough to try it twice. Not fool enough to go out where Roxane waited in the bright sunlight, in a center defended by such emptiness and calm that there was no surprise possible; but he had the most terrible feeling that the sun which had stood overhead had at last begun to move toward its setting, and that that sunset would signal a change and a fading of life in this place. The moment he conceptualized it, that movement seemed true, though he could not see it clearly through the trees-he saw shadows at this margin of the woods, cast out on the yellow grass, and they inclined by some degree.

  "Roxane!" he called out, and Roxane-ane-ane the forest gave back behind him; or the sky echoed it, or the silence in his heart. He felt small of a sudden and more vulnerable than before. He had to keep moving in the woods, constantly seeking some place of vantage, some place where the trees ran nearer to the heart of that meadow where the trouble lurked.

  But wherever he went, however far he circled this place, the brook reappeared in its meanderings. He knew what it was, and that if there was a place where it did not exist, then it would be very bad news indeed.

  It ran slower than it had, and more shallow. Now and again some dead branch floated down it, which presaged something. He was afraid to guess.

  "Come in," Crit said. "Keep your hands in sight."

  Strat held his hands in view and walked into the doorway of the mage-quarter office. He kept the door open at his back. That much chance he gave himself, which was precious little. In fact there was such an ache in him it was unlikely that he could run. It had been anger on the way here. It had been resolution going up the stairs. Right now it was outright pain, as if that bolt had already sped. But he cherished a little hope.

  "You want to put that damn thing down, Crit? You want to talk?"

  "We'll talk." But the crossbow never wavered. "Where'd she go, Strat?"

  "I don't know. To hell, how should I know?"

  Crit drew a deep breath and let it go. If the crossbow moved it was no more than a finger's width. "So. And what are you here for?"

  "To talk."

  "That's real nice."

  "Dammit, Crit, put that thing down. I came here. I'm here, dammit! You want a better target?"

  "Stay where you are!" The bow centered hard and tendons stood out on Crit's hands. "Don't move. Don't."

  It was as close as he had ever come to death. He knew Crit and what he knew sent sweat running on him. "Why?" he asked. "Your idea, or the Riddler's?" If it was the one, reason was possible; if it was the other. ... "Dammit, Crit, I've kept this town-"

  "You've tried. That much is true."

  "So you try to kill me off a friggin' roof?"

  The bow did move. It lifted a little. About as much as centered it on his face. "What rooP"

  "Over there by the warehouse. And come bloody fnggin' along with me last night, that's why I came here, dammit, this morning, to see whether you'd gone crazy or whether you think I didn't bloody see you up there yesterday. I figured I'd give you a good chance. And ask you why. His orders?"

  Crit shook his head slowly. "Damn, Ace, I saved your life."

  "When?"

  "On that roof. It was Kama, you understand me? It was Kama that was at your back."

  A little chill went through him. And a minuscule touch of relief. "I hoped. Why, Crit? Is she under his orders?"

  "You think the Riddler'd do it like that?"

  "You might. If he was going to. I don't know about her. You tell me."

  Crit swung the bow off a little to the side, turned it back again, then aimed it away and let it angle to the floor. He looked tired. Lines furrowed his brow as he stared back. "She's into something of her own. Into-gods, something. That's all. The Third's got interests here and she has, and gods know- What the bloody hell is it about this town? Damn woman goes crazy, up on the roofs with a bow-. It's Walegrin she's after, I'm thinking; and then I'm not so sure-"

  "You were following me."

  "Damn right I was following you. So was she. She bends that bow,. I put a shot right across to discourage her and put the wind up you, what the hell d'you think I'm doing? IfI'd've meant to shoot you I'd have hit you, dammit!"

  Strat wanted to think that. He wanted to believe every word of it. It was all tangled, Kama with Crit-that was old business; but maybe not so old to either of them. And Kama the Riddler's daughter. He saw the trouble in Crit's eyes, saw the pain which was the real Crit, behind the nothing-mask. "I guess you would," he said hoarsely. It was not so easily patched up. There was nothing mended but maybe the roughest of the edges. "I guess that was what set me to thinking. It didn't feel right."

  "Dammit, wake up! What does it take? Tempus is going to have your guts for string if you don't solve it, hear me? He's given you more room than you've got a right to, he's left you your rank, he's left you in titular command, for godssake, how long is he going to be patient, waiting for you? You know how patient he's being? You know what he'd have done with another man?"

  "He left me in command. I still am. Till he takes it." The last came out hard, and left a dull shock behind. Tempus could ask. And get nothing from him. He knew that, the way he knew rain fell down and sun came up. He was hollow inside. Crit could have shot him. That would have been all right. That would have solved things. As it was, he failed to care.
He walked over to the table and the cheap bottles of wine they had here because it kept and the water here tasted like lye and copper. He pulled a loose cork and poured a little glass, knowing it was a deadly man at his back and matters were no more resolved now than they had been. He turned and held it out to Crit. "Want one?"

  "No." Crit still stood there with the bow aimed at the floor. "Where's the horse? You leave that damned horse down there in the yard in full view?" .

  "I don't plan to stay." Strat drank a mouthful of the sour wine and made a face. His gut was empty. Even a little wine hit it hard. "I've patched up a peace in this town. I figured it could make me some enemies. And Kama has contacts in the Front, doesn't she? I figure-I figure maybe she's got her answers, and they're not mine."

  "She tried to shoot you in the back. I stopped it. You come in here madder than hell at me; and her, you just-No. You're not bloody mad, are you? You came in here-what for? Why did you walk in here, if that was what you expected?"

  "I told you. I thought if you'd meant to hit me you would have. Didn't get a chance to talk to you last night. That's all." He downed the rest of the wine in the cup and set it down before he looked around again at Crit, at the bow and the open door. "I'd better go. My horse is in the yard."

  "That damn horse-that damn spook. Ace, the damn thing doesn't sweat, it doesn't half work, like the zombies, f'godssake, Ace, stay here."

  "Are you going to stop me?"

  "Where are you going?"

  He had not truly considered that. He had not known whether there was truly any time beyond this room. Nothing he did presently made sense: there was no need to have come, no need to have patched things up with Crit, only it was something he had not been able to avoid thinking on since yesterday and last night, and now there was no more need to think about that. His partner was not trying to kill him. Tempus was not. Unless Tempus had sent Kama, but somehow other things rang more true. Like the PFLS. The Front. Like the agencies that wanted chaos in Sanctuary. He felt himself carrying the whole town on his back, felt his life as charmed as if the gods that watched over this town watched over him, who was trying to save it. And they both were corrupt, and they both were wreckage, he and the town. He perceived compromises that he had made, by degrees. He knew where he was now, and it was on the other side of a wall from Crit and all his old ties.