by Angus Wells
“You bear impressive credentials, Cennaire.”
Did he play with words? She was uncertain: she smiled and said, “I am entrusted with such agency as may be vital to the Tyrant’s cause.”
“You speak of the rebels?” Menelian returned her smile. “We’ve seen none here.”
“I speak of traitors,” she said, “and alien spies.”
Menelian’s brows arched. “None here,” he murmured, “as best I know—and I should, were there any.”
Cennaire wondered if he warned her: this one was far harder to read than Quindar ek’Nyle. He concealed himself, hid his true feelings; and still she could not decide if that was through the use of magic, neither if it was instinctive nor deliberate. She eased back, settling an arm carelessly across the chair, deliberately emphasizing the thrust of her bosom, setting down her goblet to push long strands of glossy black hair from the pale oval of her face.
Still there was no discernible reaction. She assumed a serious expression and said, “Mayhap no longer here but recently present.”
“Ah!” Menelian nodded as if at last understanding; as if she had been needlessly obscure. “You speak of Calandryll den Karynth and Bracht ni Errhyn.”
Cennaire was startled by his honesty. Eyes widening in surprise, she murmured an affirmative.
“This is common enough knowledge,” Menelian said calmly, his expression inscrutable. “Quindar ek’Nyle and most of the garrison know of it, and doubtless our good vexillan has already advised you of their arrival and departure,”
It was difficult now to conceal her confusion, and she felt a hint of alarm. That Menelian knew she had spoken with ek’Nyle was likely due only to the report of his gatekeeper, but his cheerful admission ran against the grain of her presence in his home: unless he knew she was sent by Anomius—and how could that be?—he must surely believe she was come on Tyrant’s business alone, and therefore the mere asking of such questions about travelers and traitors should alert him to potential danger. She could not assume him so great a fool as to casually dismiss Nhur-jabal’s interest, so something else must lie behind his calm. Did he then suspect what she was? Holding her own face bland, she nodded.
“And no doubt he also told you they came on board a Vanu warboat mastered by Tekkan, with a woman named Katya.”
Cennaire murmured agreement, suddenly aware of a subtle shifting in the sorcerer’s attitude. Neither his expression nor his stance had altered, but on mention of the woman’s name his guard had dropped a fraction. She realized that his desire for her was muted by a greater attraction, an overwhelming desire for this Katya. She was surprised to find herself jealous, jealous and increasingly angry.
“And that I examined them and commanded they be set free,” she heard him add, “with all assistance given to the repairing of their vessel, which quit Vishat’yi some five days ago.”
His expression remained imperturbable. Cennaire’s lips pursed as her mind raced, increasingly convinced that he hid more than he revealed, that certainty disturbing. “They are proscribed by Tyrant’s edict,” she said sharply, seeking to gain advantage, to ruffle his implacable calm. “Deemed enemies of Kandahar.”
“I met them, as you know,” he returned, “and I found in them nothing to suggest they are our enemies. Rather, friends.”
“Mayhap,” she said, carefully now, “they employed sorcery to disguise their true natures.”
“Impossible.” Menelian shook his head, though his eyes never left her face. “Had that been so, I should have known it.”
“Can you be certain?”
“Absolutely.” He ducked his head confidently. “More wine?”
“Thank you, no.”
She could not prevent the frown that creased her brow as Menelian stretched out a hand and crooked his fingers, that simple gesture bringing the decanter floating from the table, whatever scent he gave off masked by the smell of almonds. Was that demonstration a warning? Did he toy with her? She transformed frown to smile: one servant of Xenomenus to another.
“Where did they go?”
The sorcerer poured red wine and sent the decanter back to the table, sipping before he spoke.
“To Lysse, as Quindar doubtless told you. Specifically, to Aldarin.”
“To Aldarin.” It was another piece in the jigsaw of her hunt. “Yet Calandryll den Karynth hails from Secca.”
“Indeed,” the wizard murmured, “but it was to Aldarin they sailed.”
“Why?” she asked.
“They’ve business there—money owed, a debtor to confront.”
Cennaire wondered if this smile mocked her. “Nhur-jabal would sooner they had remained here,” she said, “as prisoners.”
“On what charge?” Menelian demanded. “They broke no laws, nor are they enemies. Why hold them, then?”
“I do not question the Tyrant’s wishes,” she answered, “only obey the orders given me.”
“You bear a letter of marque,” he returned, “but you’ve shown me no script bearing their names.”
Cennaire was taken aback an instant. Then: “No, my instruction was verbal.”
“Odd,” Menelian said softly. “Were they truly enemies of Kandahar I’d assume their proscription would be written down, authorized with the seal of Nhur-jabal. Who issued this instruction?”
Now faint scent reached Cennaire’s attuned nostrils, though she found it difficult to read. Curiosity remained, but also definite suspicion, and—perhaps—hostility. Because, she wondered, he sought to protect this Vanu woman? Or for some other reason? His blunt question seemed a test: she said coldly, “The Tyrant Xenomenus.”
“Xenomenus himself?” Menelian set his goblet aside; Cennaire sensed his suspicion mount. “The Tyrant concerns himself with this affair?”
Cennaire nodded.
“Such matters would more usually be within the province of his sorcerers,” the mage said slowly. “Or Attam ek’Talus.”
His violet eyes fastened on her face then, intense, and in her expression he must have read doubt, for he added by way of explanation, “The commander of the army.”
“Of course.” She forced a wan smile, seeking to cover herself. “Attam ek’Talus.”
“Whose name you appear to find unfamiliar.”
His voice changed tone, edged now with the steel of mounting certainty. Cennaire held her features still as she shrugged, affecting irritation that was not altogether feigned: the sorcerer’s confidence began to anger her. “Do you question my authority?” she snapped.
Menelian spread his hands, a gesture that could be interpreted as either apology or unconcern. “Kandahar is reft with civil war, Cennaire, and you come hunting folk who are our friends—without written authority. I suggest you return to Nhur-jabal and tell them there that I have examined these men and vouch for their probity. I think you’ll find my word holds sway with both the Tyrant’s sorcerers and Attam ek’Talus.”
Her anger grew: she sensed a trap laid and sprung. “You take much upon yourself,” she said.
“I am one of the Tyrant’s sorcerers,” he replied. “It is my sworn duty to defend this city and my talent is easily capable of discerning enmity. From whatever source.”
Sharp white teeth closed on her lower lip as she contemplated his face and his words. Those last had the ring of a direct challenge and all the instincts of her newly undead being urged her to spring at him, to attack and rend him as she felt sure she could, be he sorcerer or no. She curbed the impulse, retaining her role as agent of Nhur-jabal, a high-born lady come on Tyrant’s mission. Her huge eyes narrowed, she said, “You defy the orders of the Tyrant?”
“I have seen no such orders,” came the cool response, “only heard you tell me they exist. In turn, I have advised you these folk you seek are not enemies of Kandahar, and that on my word they were let go. Should I be required to explain myself in Nhur-jabal, then I shall go there. When—and if!—I receive written instructions to that effect.”
Diplomatically it was
an impasse, and Cennaire had no choice but to accept that. She had, perhaps, learned as much as she could, and as much as Anomius would demand of her, but this man irked her—she would have more of him. She allowed her anger to show, rising as if propelled by irritation at his refusal to recognize her authority.
“You say they sailed for Aldarin five days gone?”
Menelian nodded.
“To seek some debtor—his name?”
“Varent den Tarl.”
It was another piece in the puzzle, another clue: she likely had sufficient that she could find them. Either find them in Aldarin or pick up their trail. Anomius would surely be content with that and perhaps it were better she go to him with the information, leave now; but she could not, for her own sake: she was anchored by her annoyance.
“You appear undecided.” Menelian’s voice intruded on her thoughts and she stared at him with unconcealed dislike. His next words struck sharp as a blade: “Mayhap you wonder what to tell your master.”
“My master?”
Her eyes slitted. Through anger and surprise she caught a fresh scent, neither knowing nor caring whether the sorcerer dispensed with camouflaging magic or if his emotions grew too strong to hide any longer. She scented open hostility, suspicion becoming conviction. Danger!
“Is Anomius not your master?” Menelian rose to face her. “Or had I better name him your creator?”
Slitted eyes opened wide. “What do you say?” she hissed.
“That you are a creation of foulest necromancy,” he answered. “A revenant! And that I shall not permit you to return to your maker.”
Cennaire tensed. Menelian laughed, a single, humorless bark of sound. “Did you think to deceive me? I am a mage, revenant.”
His loathing hung musky on the air, and with it confidence. He murmured, the words too low to catch, and again the almond scent came pungent to her nostrils. She experienced a momentary doubt: this man had known that he could best her and destroy her. “Yet still you welcomed me to your home,” she said, her voice harsh now.
Menelian’s lips curved in a thin line. “I’d a wish to learn how much you knew,” he said. “And I do not believe you can best me.”
“Mayhap not,” she allowed, unsure what gramaryes he might employ to protect himself; certain that she must, at very least, endeavor to slay him now. “How know you my master’s name?”
“Not all in Nhur-jabal favor his insane purpose,” came the answer: that admission open proof of the wizard’s confidence. “And some there are who would see it halted.”
“For a stripling out of Lysse and a freesword Kern? Or is it for the woman’s sake?” Now she laughed as his face registered shock. “Oh, Menelian, sorcerer you may be, but still a man. Your lust for her oozes from you at mention of her name. So, know this—that when I find them I shall slay her, too.”
“You shall not!” he cried, and Cennaire had the satisfaction of scenting his sudden alarm.
Her smile was mocking as she said, “I shall. You cannot destroy me, but I shall take this woman you’d protect and tear out her heart. Think on that as you die, sorcerer!”
She sprang forward as she spoke, swift as a stooping falcon, hands raised and hooked like a harpy’s talons, her face no longer lovely but transformed, like a window to her soul, into a mask of bestial fury. Menelian shouted a single word and the air was abruptly thick with the perfume of almonds. Cennaire felt the force of his spell wash over her, and knew that any living creature must surely be consumed by that occult power. Had she been a living creature, she would have died on the instant, but she was not: she was undead. Anomius had explained this to her—that the greater part of the glamours wrought by sorcerers were designed to work against the living, for it was usually against the living that they were needed. Undead, she was unaffected by such spells. She snarled laughter as she fell upon Menelian and saw the realization in his eyes.
Even then he was not entirely defenseless; the spells that invested her with the semblance of life were not entirely unaffected. Her furious attack was slowed and though she caught his shoulders in her hands, those mechanisms possessed of a strength that could crush flesh and snap bone, he fought against her, resisting her terrible fury. He raised his own hands, seizing her wrists as she sought to clutch his throat, and spat arcane syllables into her face.
She recognized that his sorcery depended, to at least some extent, on vocalization: she halted the forming spell by the simple expedient of driving a knee upward into his groin. From time to time she had employed the same action against some overly enthusiastic client and it worked as well against a sorcerer as any normal man. Menelian’s words became a shriek of pain. His hold on her wrists loosened and she snatched her arms away as, helplessly, he was bent by the agony flaring in his belly. Cennaire chuckled—it sounded like a snarl of triumph—and locked a hand about his windpipe. Her fingers gouged deep, closing his throat, as with her other hand she slashed red lines across his face.
The violet eyes bulged, his skin suffused with crimson as blood vessels burst, that coloration rapidly lost beneath the welling that came from the cuts. Less powerfully now he battered at her arms and face and she held him off, not sure what damage he might inflict, but her vanity prompting her to avoid the risk of unsightly bruising.
“You were too confident,” she rasped, and laughed once. “Men are always too confident.”
She tightened her hold and his fists ceased their pounding. She clutched a wrist for fear he might yet employ a gramarye that needed no words, exulting in her strength as she forced him to his knees. He bowed before her, his eyes staring wide and horrified at her naked form, empty of any lust, but filled instead with fear. She savored the odor, aware that their struggle had disturbed lanterns, burning oil taking hold on the chamber, layering the room with smoke. She felt the magically induced strength begin to go out of him as his body strained to inhale the air denied by her grip and with an almost casual motion broke the wrist she held. He seemed not to notice the pain; nor when she took the other and snapped that, leaving both his hands limp and useless.
“What price your magicks now, sorcerer?” she demanded.
And with a single tightening of her fingers tore out his throat.
Menelian loosed an awful sigh through the ragged opening of his windpipe and fell forward against her knees. She stepped away from the corpse, breathing fast and deep, not from her exertions, for she felt no toll from those, but from the sheer excitement of what she had done. She had bested a mage! Bested one of the Tyrant’s sorcerers! What might she not achieve?
She started as fists pounded wood, reminding her that smoke must now trickle beneath the door, Menelian’s servants come to investigate. In confirmation she heard a nervous shout—“Master? Is all well, master?”—and looked about. The chamber was dense with smoke now and flame blazed all around her. She stood in the midst of the conflagration, not feeling the heat, but neither sure whether, or not, the flames could harm her. And threatened with exposure, without convenient excuse for the body at her feet. It would be easy to open the door and force a way through the servants—none there could halt her!—but that would beg questions, the answers perhaps leading back to Nhur-jabal and Anomius. Her creator had allowed her free rein, even warning her that she might find it necessary to slay Menelian, but he had also suggested that tact was preferable. And the dead man had spoken of sorcerers plotting against her master; men who might, did they learn what she had done, unite to destroy her. Singly, she believed she could defeat them, but not together. Should sufficient move en masse against her, then likely she would perish. Best then that she flee, leaving a mystery behind her that with any luck would not reach Nhur-jabal before she quit the city again in pursuit of her prey.
She favored the wizard’s corpse with a last, scornful glance and promised, “All of them, fool. The men and the woman, too,” then flung open a window and sprang through to the ground beyond.
Flames lit the night as she ran across a garden, sc
aled the farther wall, and lost herself in the streets, the shouting of Menelian’s servants fading behind her. With luck, she thought, it would be assumed her body was consumed in the conflagration. Without, well, she would be gone from Vishat’yi before any could come seeking her, thanks to her master.
She halted in a dark and silent square, composing herself as she concentrated on the spell Anomius had taught her. She visualized his chamber in Nhur-jabal, mouthing the arcane syllables he had impressed upon her, and smelled the scent of almonds thick on the cool, moist night air.
ANOMIUS lounged upon a couch, propped against the silken cushions at his back, a disgusting epicure, seeming out of place in the luxurious surroundings of his chambers in the citadel, like a maggot in the clean, crisp flesh of a new-plucked apple. A decanter of crystal and silver stood beside a filled goblet on a low table of artfully worked copper at his elbow, his mottled hand delving in a bowl of sticky sweetmeats, their remnants already greasy on his jaw and clothing. Candlelight played on spilled sugar and the pale ivory of his hairless pate. He gulped down a tidbit as Cennaire materialized, his watery blue eyes registering no surprise, though his brows rose slightly, framing a question.
“It went well enough,” she said, shaking out her own thick hair, and smoothing her tunic. “Though they were gone.”
The wizard’s eyes narrowed at this and he wiped a hand across his mouth, spilling crumbs of pastry and grains of sugar over the symbols embroidered on his robe. Irritably, he cleaned his hand on the hem, motioning with the other that she should explain.
She took a seat and succinctly advised him of all she had learned and done. When she was finished he nodded thoughtfully.
“So, I have enemies here.” He plucked at the redveined bulb of his nose. “That my prowess gives rise to envy is hardly surprising. They’ve laid glamours, did you know?”
Cennaire shook her head.
“Oh, yes. These quarters”—his hands scattered more crumbs as he gestured at the room—“these were all set with gramaryes. Spells of observance, spells of listening. They even tried to use a quyvhal to spy on me. On me!”
