by Angus Wells
That official halted, nervous, where a great vaulted hall was faced with oaken doors, all bolted. At the center of the hall stood a rack and to the side a wheel, beyond it the spike-filled bulk of the device called The Maiden. Braziers filled the place with heat, instruments hung ominous beside them, though it was the presence of the warlocks that brought sweat to the forehead of the argus.
“The common criminals lie there, masters.”
He indicated a door, hand dropping as Anomius said, “I want no common criminal. Where do you keep the worst?”
“There.” The argus indicated a second door. “Below this level are the murderers, the child-defilers, and the enemies of the Tyrant.”
“Then lead on.”
Such enthusiasm rang in the voice of the little man that the argus darted a look his way, then averted his eyes from the anticipation he saw. He wondered what transpired: why the other seven were so uneasy; why several wore expressions of such distaste. He did not recognize Anomius, nor venture questions—beneath the Tyrant, these were the land’s greatest. He nodded dutifully and drew back the bolt.
Torches shed wan light and oily smoke over the sooted walls of a narrow stairway that descended into the rock. At the foot was a corridor flanked to either side by heavy doors, each inset with a small grille. The stench of unwashed bodies and ordure joined the perfume of the torches as the argus gestured at the first door.
“Within is one Kassium, who slew his father and mother for the pittance they owned. He is scheduled for racking.”
“A suitable candidate, I’d think,” Lykander suggested, clearly anxious to be gone from this dismal place.
“But perhaps not the most suitable,” Anomius returned. “Tell me of the others, gaoler.”
The argus shrugged and frowned, confused, and pointed to the other doors, one by one. There lay a cutthroat, next a raper of children, beyond a woman condemned as a poisoner; there a bandit, his neighbor a procurer of unwilling maidens; there one who had preached sedition, a fratricide, a handsome man grown wealthy at the expense of suffocated wives. There were numerous cells and a horrendous catalog of crimes to which Anomius listened attentively, waiting until the argus was done and then saying, “The woman—Cennaire?—tell me of her again.”
“A courtesan,” the gaoler said. “She stole the purse of an admirer and put a knife in his belly when he threatened to expose her.”
“Is she comely?” Pale blue eyes narrowed in interest. “She is not diseased?”
“Aye and nay,” the argus said. “She escaped the pox and ere she came here she was lovely. Indeed, she’s sought on more than one occasion to seduce my men, to offer her body in return for her freedom.”
“And was her offer taken?” asked Anomius dryly.
“We adhere to our duty here,” the argus promised, though his furtive eyes denied the implied negative.
“No matter,” Anomius said, “so long as she’s not damaged. Bring her out.”
The argus glanced at the others and Lykander nodded, the gaoler crossing to the indicated cell and sliding back two heavy bolts. He swung the ponderous door open and beckoned.
From within a melodious voice said, “So, brave Gurnal, would you use me again?”
“Silence!” the gaoler blustered, darting a guilty glance at the watchers. “There are visitors would inspect you. Come out into the light.”
“What? No promises to lure me? No blandishments or gifts?”
The argus stepped a long pace forward, raising his hand. Anomius barked, “Leave her be! Only bring her out where I may see her.”
Gurnal lowered his hand and the woman asked, “Who are these visitors? Am I now the plaything of your friends?”
“They are the Tyrant’s sorcerers,” the argus said, “and they’d take a look at you. Now do you come out, or must I drag you?”
“I am, I fear, not at my best,” the woman said, “but if you insist, then so be it.”
Gurnal stepped back as she emerged into the torchlight, smoothing tangled hair from the oval frame of her face, staring boldly at the eight watching men. Her skin was grimed, but from the dirt huge brown eyes sparkled defiantly and a wide, luscious-lipped mouth smiled, exposing white teeth. Her hair was long and, beneath its coating of filth, a lustrous black, tumbling about her shoulders, one artfully exposed by the threadbare gown that also revealed a body slender save where breasts and hips thrust out the material, a ragged slit showing a shapely leg.
“Masters, forgive my appearance.” She curtsied mockingly. ‘But do you only allow me to bathe and I am confident I shall satisfy you all.”
“Silence!” Gurnal barked again. “You’ll show respect, or suffer punishment for the lack.”
The woman favored him with a smile no less mocking than her curtsy and said, “You found softer words before, Gurnal.”
“She lies,” the argus declared. “She’s the tongue of a viper.”
Anomius raised a hand, silencing him. “It matters not,” he said, staring thoughtfully at the woman; to her: “You are named Cennaire?”
“Aye,” she answered, staring back. “And you?”
“Anomius,” he said absently. “And for what crimes are you held here, Cennaire?”
Her eyes hooded an instant and then she shrugged. “Doubtless you’ve an accounting, and were I to tell you I am innocent—the victim of my enemies—you’d name me liar. So: I stand condemned of the slaying of a lover.”
Anomius nodded thoughtfully, moving forward to pace around her, as might some farmer examining a heifer offered for purchase, grunting approvingly at what he saw and saying, louder, “She’ll do.”
“For what?” Cennaire’s defiance faltered under his relentless inspection. “Am I to be used by you?”
“Not as you think,” Anomius told her, his smile failing to reassure her. “But I offer you freedom from these miserable confines. Shall you accept?”
“What would you have me do?” His scrutiny sent her back a step, closer to Gurnal, as though she sought the comfort of a more familiar oppressor. “What use am I to a sorcerer?”
“Much, I hope,” the bald mage answered, “though that I’ll explain later. For now—do you come with me? I offer you baths and perfumes; gowns more befitting your beauty; good food, wine. I offer you respite from your cell and the torments of this place. Do you accept?”
Slowly, frowning her curiosity, Cennaire nodded. Anomius offered her his arm, a gnomic courtier, and she took it nervously. Gurnal said, “Masters, how shall I record this?” and Lykander said, “She’s given into our charge now, argus. Should anyone come asking, tell them she’s taken by the mage Anomius, in service of the Tyrant.”
Gurnal mumbled his acceptance and the sorcerers, Anomius and Cennaire in their midst, quit the dungeons.
They went back up from those lower depths of Nhur-jabal to the part of the citadel where the warlocks resided, the black-clad men a living screen about the woman, as if they would hide her presence and the use to which Anomius would put her.
They came to the quarters set aside for Anomius and halted at the door. He said, “Send servants with hot water and such other things as women use. Clothing such as the high-born of Kandahar wear; ornaments. And food.”
“No doubt our finest wines, too,” Cenobar said, less in mockery than bitterness.
“Aye, that, too,” Anomius answered calmly. “And leave us be, for this I’ll do alone.”
Lykander nodded, his agreement echoed by the rest: none wished for any part of this. Anomius thrust open the door and ushered Cennaire inside with an almost-courtly gesture. She glanced at the seven watching men and licked her lips, hesitating a moment, then stepped into the chamber. Anomius followed her inside and closed the door.
She found some fresh measure of defiance then, a camouflage for her trepidation, and said, “So I’m to be bathed and perfumed and dressed in ‘clothing such as the high-born of Kandahar wear’—to what end, if you do not intend to bed me?”
“You recall my
precise words.” Anomius chuckled approvingly. “You’ve a good memory, then?”
“I was a courtesan,” she said, and a hint of pride entered her voice, “a most successful courtesan. As such it was important I remember things—to confuse one lover’s name with another was bad for business. Aye, I’ve an excellent memory.”
“Better and better.” Anomius rubbed his hands enthusiastically. “Here in Nhur-jabal?”
“I was born in Kharasul,” she said, “and worked awhile there, but mostly here. I repeat—am I to become your mistress?”
His smile grew sly at that and he gestured at the chamber. “Is it not enough for now you’re free of the dungeons? Free to enjoy this comfort?”
Cennaire turned slowly round, surveying the room. Even had she not just come from a stinking cell it must have appeared luxurious. Panels of pale marble covered the walls, save where silken curtains were drawn back from high windows that afforded a view over the city, and a fire burned in a low-arched hearth, thickly padded benches set before it. A great carpet of patterned wool warmed the floor, a table and two chairs at the center, on that a silver bowl containing sugared fruits. Two doors led to other rooms and Anomius opened them, revealing a bedchamber and a bathroom. Cennaire ducked her head.
“I’ll agree it is a pleasant alternative. But for how long? Am I still condemned to death?”
“You’ve my protection now,” Anomius said, prevaricating subtly, “and you’ll not meet the Tyrant’s executioner if you do my will.”
Cennaire fixed speculative eyes upon him, still wary, but curious now, too. “And yet you say I’m not here to warm your bed. Then why?”
The tapping of a servant’s knuckles on the door saved him further evasion as he called for the men and women bearing hot water, soaps and perfumes, a selection of clothes and jewels, to enter. They came in, depositing their various loads, and stood awaiting further instructions. Anomius ordered them gone and indicated the bathroom.
“Your tub awaits, Lady. Would you not bathe off that prison grime? After, we may talk of the future.”
Cennaire nodded and walked into the steam-filled chamber. Anomius followed her, watching as she carelessly vested herself of the filthy gown, aware that she slid it off with a deliberate languor, seeking, perhaps instinctively, to entice him with her body. That, he was delighted to note, was all he had hoped for: slender and long-limbed, her breasts firm, her hips smooth arcs. No blemishes that he could see marred her form, and had he not another use for her, he would have felt desire stir. Certainly, he thought, she must arouse desire in any other man. He chortled his approval: all went well. She was beautiful and seemed quick of wit; her memory was good and she met the rigors of her fate with defiance. Aye, he decided, he had chosen well in this one.
He continued to watch as she lowered herself into the water, sighing and stretching out so that her long hair floated about her. She appeared oblivious of his presence, luxuriating in the cleansing warmth, her eyes closed, steam rising in scented clouds. After a while she took up soap and set to scrubbing herself from head to toe, rising up in the tub, still ignoring him as dark, tanned skin shone through the dirt.
Finally she was done, and climbed out to smooth perfumed oil into her flesh, dry her hair with a heavy towel. When she was satisfied, she turned at last to Anomius and asked, “Are there brushes? Combs?”
“In the bedchamber,” he replied, and she smiled as if at last he acknowledged his intent.
Naked, she walked slowly past him, hips undulating rhythmically, to find the dressing table where those things were set out in readiness. She seated herself before the mirror, studying his reflection as he halted in the doorway, smiling slightly, and took up a brush, working it with long, slow strokes through her luxuriant hair.
“You are very lovely,” he murmured, drawing closer. “A man might lose his heart to you.”
“Men have,” she said, still smiling. “Shall you?”
“I am a sorcerer,” he said, as if that were answer enough.
“Do sorcerers not possess hearts?” she asked. “Are they not men beneath those black robes?”
“Men of higher purpose,” he returned.
She pouted then, coquettishly, and thrust back her hair with both hands, the motion emphasizing the jut of her breasts, her eyes still fixed on his reflection. “What higher purpose exists between men and women than the art of love?” she demanded.
Anomius shrugged, not answering directly. Instead he asked, “Would you know power?”
Cennaire’s expression shifted at that, becoming for an instant furtive, her long lashes falling over the great brown orbs of her eyes. Then she shook out her hair, the mane cascading about her face and shoulders. “I have known power,” she murmured, “over men. It was an enjoyable thing.” Defiance set a harsh edge on the melody of her tone.
“A greater power might be yours,” Anomius said. “That I can give you.”
Interest sparkled then and she turned to face him. “You do not condemn me for that?” she wondered.
Anomius shook his head. “No. It was that—and your beauty—that persuaded me you are the one I need.” He touched her cheek, fingers light on the soft skin. “Though there’s a price to pay.”
“Name it,” she demanded, “I’ll pay, be it in my ability.”
“Oh, it is,” he said, moving past her to the bed.
Her eyes followed him and she smiled afresh, starting to rise until he motioned her back.
“No—not that.” He poured wine. “Another price, but hard.”
“Name it,” she said again.
“First prepare yourself,” he suggested, indicating the cosmetics left upon the dressing table. “I’d see you in all your glory.”
Cennaire ran her hands down over the contours of her body. “Am I not already glorious?” she asked. “But still, if you desire paint . . .” She swiveled on the seat, facing the mirror again, but with her eyes lowered, hands moving among the pots and brushes.
Anomius watched awhile, waiting until she was done, then smiled his approval and held out a silver goblet, red wine brimming. “A toast,” he murmured. “To the power I offer you.”
Cennaire took the goblet and sipped daintily, brows arching as she saw he had none.
“You do not drink?”
Anomius shook his head, not speaking, waiting. Cennaire drained the cup and wondered why it felt so heavy in her hand. The figure of the ugly little man swam before her eyes and she smiled languidly, giggling as the cup fell from her grasp to roll across the carpet. Then her eyes closed, and with a careless gurgle of laughter, she toppled from the stool.
With a strength that belied his gnomish stature, Anomius lifted her, carrying her to the bed. Carefully, he settled her on the silken covers, arranging her limbs, then crossing to an armoire from which he fetched two boxes.
One was a pyxis, small and ornately enscribed, that he set aside. The other was larger, and plain. When he opened it, sharp instruments such as chirurgeons use glittered in the light of the lanterns. From that he took knives and scalpels, murmuring the while, his words filling the chamber with the scent of almonds. He set out the tools and touched Cennaire on the lips and eyes, the chest, over the heart, then brought a stick of black wax from beneath his robe and painted on her body a sigil that for an instant glowed with a dark, unholy fire. Then he took the chirurgeon’s devices and cut deep into her flesh, down to her heart.
Cennaire cried out once then, but drowsily, bound by his magicks as he excised the living organ and raised it, bloody, in his stained hands. With infinite care, chanting softly all the while, he placed her heart in the pyxis and voiced a spell of containment: within the sigil-scribed box the bloody flesh beat on.
He returned to the woman’s body, and from inside his robe brought a lump of clay. He spat on the clay and into the gaping wound, and placed the lump beneath her ribs. Then he touched her, mouthing another cantrip, watching as the clay pulsed and reached out, sending tendrils that connected
with the conduits of her body, the wound closing until the flesh was healed and fresh, as though never cut. He knelt over her, breathing into her mouth, and stood back as she shuddered, gasping.
As her eyes fluttered open, filled with panic and the memory of pain, he began to incant a fresh cantrip, staring intently at her supine form.
Cennaire trembled then, racked as if some internal battle were fought between death and life. Anomius’s chant died away, the scent of almonds with it, as slowly her chest rose, then fell, the healed ribs expanding as the clay that was now her heart began to beat. Anomius squatted at her side, gently stroking her cheek, smiling triumphantly.
“Now,” he said, “you are risen from the dead to do my bidding. Now you are my creature, my revenant. Listen, and I shall tell you what you are to do.”
LIKE some weary beast the Vanu warboat crept past the cliffs into the mouth of the Yst. Her black sail was lowered and what sound the sweeps made was drowned by the tumult of the river as it fought the sea for mastery of the bay. Salt shone white on the snarling dragonshead of the prow, and on the weather-worn boards of her flanks, the shields hung there; she seemed to limp. Nor were those on board in better shape. The journey south from Gessyth, beating against a contrary wind, the wintry storms, the rounding of the cape, these had taken their toll on a crew depleted by the denizens of the swamplands and the cannibals of Gash. Both Calandryll and Bracht had taken their turns at the oars on that journey, and while that labor had hardened muscle it had also allowed them time to contemplate what lay ahead, to think on the obstacles they must face, the advantage their quarry gained through use of magic while they must transport themselves by physical means. It seemed impossible that they should succeed, but to concede the victory had occurred to none of them. Most likely Rhythamun—or Varent, whatever name he took now—was returned to Aldarin, to gather his resources before commencing his search for the resting place of the Mad God. Therefore they must go back to Lysse, to pick up his trail and follow wherever it should lead. The magical stone Katya wore pointed them in that direction, but before they dared attempt the crossing of the Narrow Sea they needed to haul the boat and take on fresh supplies. On that Tekkan was insistent, and Tekkan was the helmsman—the three questers, Katya, Calandryll, and Bracht, must curb their impatience and hope they were not too late; the quarry not flown.
