by Angus Wells
“Quite. Well done.” Xenomenus pressed the handkerchief to his nose—Burash, but these soldiers smelled of sweat and blood and steel, of dragon-hide armor worn too long!—his smile unwavering, for this was, truly, a mighty victory, a vindication of his belief. “Let all the companies celebrate. Wine shall be sent them.”
“And the war?” his commanders asked. “When do we march on?”
“Word shall be sent you,” Xenomenus promised. “That decision I shall take on the morrow. For now, I’d take my ease.”
A languid hand dismissed the officers and they quit the pavilion, not complaining overmuch, for they were, largely, plain soldiers, their faith put more in steel than sorcery, and what they had witnessed in the taking of this town raised memories of the Sorcerers’ War, which most had sooner forgotten. But still none spoke against the aid they had, for Kesham-vaj had been horribly defended and without the cabal might never have been taken.
His captains gone, Xenomenus beckoned his sorcerers closer, Anomius stepping closest of all.
“Was I not correct?” he asked, anticipating only agreement. “Some among you, I know, would have left this man forgotten in the dungeons. Now see—has he not given us Kesham-vaj? Given us our first triumph?”
Anomius simpered, bowing and beaming. Lykander said, “Indeed, Lord Xenomenus. There was great wisdom in that decision.”
He ducked his head, hands folding across the swell of his belly, accepting the wave of acknowledgment the Tyrant granted him, not seeing the contemptuous glance Anomius flung his way.
“Aye,” said Xenomenus complacently. “There was, and now Kesham-vaj is mine again and Sathoman ek’Hennem in retreat. But”—his weak face assumed an expression he believed stern—“the war is not yet over. We’ve work yet to do. And this news out of Lysse disturbs me.”
“I think you’ve little need to worry on that score,” Lykander said. “That land is poor in thaumaturgists, and what there are scarce able to stand against us.”
“Mayhap,” Xenomenus allowed, “but still my spies tell me there’s a navy founded. War craft already anchored off Eryn and Wessyl—should Lysse decide to take a hand . . .”
He paused, handkerchief fluttering, and Lykander said, “They’ve not the time, Lord Tyrant. Before that fleet may sail we’ll once more hold the coastal cities, and still our navy is the greater, even now.”
Xenomenus pursed his lips. “Would that Bylath yet ruled in Secca,” he murmured. “That son of his—Tobias, may Burash rot his eyes!—looks to command the Narrow Sea, I think. There’s ambition in that whelp and I’d not be surprised did he look to make himself Tyrant of Lysse.”
“Surely not, Lord,” murmured Caranthus, his voice soft, his smile deliberately reassuring, “Were that his aim, he must conquer all the cities; and the cities of Lysse are renowned for their independence. Were that his aim, why—he must fight a war over all Lysse before he might think of assaulting Kandahar.”
“There’s that,” said Xenomenus. “But what if he persuaded the Domms of Lysse to offer alliance with ek’Hennem? What then, eh?”
“He’s still to see the navy built,” said Lemomal, “and to convince his fellow Domms to his cause. If that be his intention.”
“Before he can hope to do that,” said Lykander, “you shall have your victory over the rebels.”
“Shall I?” the Tyrant asked, the question directed at Anomius.
“You shall,” said the little man, his parchment pale scalp shining as he ducked his head. “My word on it.”
Xenomenus brought the handkerchief closer to his nose: for all that he was useful, still Anomius carried about him an odor most offensive, as if things rotted in his mouth, or some internal decay corrupted his flesh, loosing foulness where he went. Indeed, had he not proven his worth—and still promised success to come—Xenomenus would have ordered his sorcerers to unleash the gramaryes they assured him pertained and had Anomius destroyed. His smile was hard to retain, this close to the mage, and he leaned back in his great chair.
“I trust so,” he murmured.
“It shall be so,” said Anomius with utter confidence. “You shall see Sathoman driven from all your cities, back to Fayne Keep. And then that stronghold shall be razed. I promise it.”
He flourished a bow that was somewhat spoilt by the drip it loosed from his bulbous nose, falling to join whatever else decorated the frontage of his robe. Xenomenus preferred not to contemplate what those smears and stains might be; indeed, he preferred to avoid Anomius altogether. Had the ugly little man not been so valuable . . . He pushed the thought away, not entirely certain the wizard did not read his mind.
“I shall hold you to that,” he said. Then, softer, “But I wonder if something should not be done about Tobias den Karynth.”
“He can be slain,” said Anomius, eager as a fighting dog that scents blood. “There are ways, Lord, be I allowed.”
He raised his arms, the soiled cuffs of his robe falling back to expose the bracelets bound about his wrists, the gesture deliberately significant. At his back, Cenobar and Rassuman fixed warning eyes on the Tyrant; Andrycus shook his head vigorously.
Xenomenus’s smile thinned as he, too, shook his head, his response carefully ambiguous. “Not yet, I think,” he said. “I’d not have Kandahar accused of interference in the affairs of Lysse . . . not yet, at least.”
Anomius shrugged, letting his sleeves drop back, covering the magical bonds. The puppy weakens, he thought, he learns a need of me and in time he’ll order me freed. And then I shall teach these Tyrant’s sorcerers what real magic is. For now, though, I’ve enough—Cennaire in Lysse; the puppy learning trust. I’ve time. Oh, certainly I have time. He twisted fleshy lips in semblance of a humble smile, his watery blue eyes hooded.
“For now,” he heard Xenomenus announce, “we’ve sufficient. This Lyssian navy, this ambitious Domm: both problems for another day. I grow weary, gentlemen—do you leave me now.”
The sorcerers bowed and departed the pavilion for their own subfusc canopy as servants began to lay a table before the Tyrant and musicians commenced a soothing tune. Cenobar looked toward the ravaged town and shaped a small gesture intended for Rassuman’s eyes alone. Those, for all their age, caught it and answered, catching Andrycus’s attention, he nodding slightly. Later, the signals said, in privacy.
THE very air shimmered with the force of the spell the three cast, as if fire, cold and unseen, burned about them, securing the hut from unwanted observation both physical and occult. It lay outside the ravaged walls of Kesham-vaj, and some distance from the tents of Tyrant and sorcerers and commanders, likely once some herdsman’s hut, now, for all its frugal comforts, the site of conspiracy. They sat upon rough stools about a crude table, their faces illuminated by a light invisible beyond the bare stone walls, grave with the import—the inherent danger—of what they discussed.
“He waxes stronger,” Cenobar said, “and for all he’s the look of a grave-worm about him, his tongue is subtle.”
“Aye, and the taking of this place elevates him,” said Andrycus, stroking absently at a hand smooth-fleshed and pink as a babe’s. “Ere long he’ll have Xenomenus’s trust.”
“I think,” said Rassuman, older than his companions and calmer, “you misjudge our Tyrant there. I think he’s little enough love for Anomius, save as a tool. Do we bring Sathoman ek’Hennem down and then, I suspect, Xenomenus will order him slain.”
“If he may be, then,” said Cenobar gloomily. “There’s greater occult power in that one than I’d suspected.”
“You think he may find a way to break his bonds?” asked Andrycus.
Cenobar shrugged, leaving Rassuman to answer: “Not yet. In time, perhaps, were our vigilance relaxed. Or he found allies.”
“Lykander?” Andrycus demanded. “Surely not even he . . .”
“As Cenobar points out, he’s a subtle tongue,” said Rassuman, “and our plump colleague was never immune to flattery. Nor lacking in his own ambition.”
“What should Anomius promise him?” Andrycus asked. “What could he promise him?”
“Power unlimited.” The older sorcerer’s voice was soft with warning. “Power undreamed of.”
“The Arcanum?” Andrycus shook his head vigorously. “Surely Lykander must denounce him, did he make so insane an offer.”
“How should he know?” asked Cenobar. “He believes Calandryll and the others chase a grimoire, not that fell tome.”
“Do you forget Menelian?” Rassuman said, somber now. “Of all the lesser wizards he was the strongest—but still he died.”
Cenobar ducked his head, in both agreement and mourning. “But Menelian told the revenant nothing. Surely Anomius still believes he sends her after a grimoire?”
“He sent her to Lysse,” returned Rassuman, “and does she succeed—does she catch up with them—what shall she then learn? Surely that the object of their quest is no mere grimoire, but the Arcanum itself,”
“Even then,” Cenobar said slowly, assembling his thoughts, “they do not have the book. Poor Menelian told us that much—that this Rhythamun took it from them—so, though she may well take revenge on Anomius’s behalf, still she’ll not have the book.”
Rassuman nodded, his patrician features solemn. “I’d lief they escape her attentions,” he murmured, “but do they not, then surely she must learn the true nature of their quest and report that knowledge to Anomius. And once he knows . . . shall he prove so different to Rhythamun?”
“Would even he?” gasped Andrycus.
“I believe he would,” said Rassuman. “Cenobar?”
The younger sorcerer nodded. “I believe him mad,” he said. “I believe that if he learned of the Arcanum he’d vie with Rhythamun to have it for himself.”
“Then we must destroy him!” Andrycus cried. “Him and the revenant’s heart, both!”
“He’s protected too well,” returned Rassuman, his voice edged harsh with chagrin. “By his own gramaryes now, and by Lykander.”
“Surely if we told Lykander, told the others, what we know,” said Andrycus, “then they’d side with us. Given that knowledge, even Xenomenus must surely grant permission to slay him.”
“I think our Tyrant might well find a way to delay any such decision,” Rassuman said. “For all he’s a weaker man than his father—and he weaker than Dyomanus—still he’s no fool. None can deny the Fayne Lord is the greatest threat Kandahar has known, and until that temporal danger is ended, I think Xenomenus will keep Anomius alive; no matter what arguments we lay before him.
“More—Lykander and the rest saw the same disturbance in the occult fundus we discerned, but chose to ignore it. Shall they of a sudden shift their beliefs? We voiced our concerns before: with little enough effect, and I doubt they’ll change their minds now,”
“And their magic protects him,” added Cenobar. “No less than his own. We three, alone, could not destroy him.”
“Mayhap we cannot convince Lykander,” Andrycus argued, “but what of Caranthus? Lemomal and Padruar?”
“Lemomal allies with Lykander,” Rassuman said, “seeing him chief among our circle. Caranthus is blind in his allegiance to the office of Tyrant. Padruar, perhaps, might be persuaded; but Padruar is a great sitter on fences and I suspect that did we approach him, he might well look to balance our arguments against those of Lykander—which would almost certainly prove a roundabout way of telling Anomius all we know.”
“Still I cannot believe Lykander would lend himself to Tharn’s raising,” Andrycus said.
“Nor I,” Rassuman agreed. “Caranthus, Lemomal, Padruar even less. But neither can I believe they would agree to destroy Anomius. At least, not until his purpose is served.”
“When he may prove too strong to destroy,” said Cenobar.
“Perhaps,” said Rassuman. “But we of the inner circle, together—then I think it could be done.”
“You say we must wait?” asked Andrycus. “Until the rebellion is quelled? What then of this Lyssian navy? This Domm of Secca? Might Xenomenus not then find further use for Anomius?”
“Those things the inner circle and our own soldiery can defeat,” said Rassuman. “Should worse come to worst, then it may be we take Anomius’s course and slay this Tobias den Karynth. But until the rebels are defeated, I think Anomius stands inviolate.”
“Burash!” cried Andrycus. “He’ll find a place among us at this rate.”
“Has he not already?” asked Cenobar sourly. “More to the point—what are we to do? If we cannot convince Lykander and the others he should be slain—and I agree that’s an unlikely optimism—then his foul revenant continues to roam free, and does she find her prey . . .”
“Then Anomius must learn of the Arcanum,” Andrycus finished.
“Worse than that,” said Rassuman.
“Worse?” Andrycus stared in horror at the older man. “What could be worse?”
“That she slay them,” came the grim answer. “That she slay them and leave the field to Rhythamun, or Anomius. That she leave the way open to the resurrection of the Mad God.”
Andrycus groaned, hands—natural and new-grown—rising to brush helplessly at his long hair. Cenobar asked, “What of Vanu? Calandryll and Bracht came to Vishat-yi on a Vanu warboat, with Vanu folk, Menelian said. The woman, Katya, was sent by the holy men of that land. And all our scrying told of three questers. What part is taken by the holy men?”
“I know not.” Rassuman shrugged. “Only what Menelian told us—that the holy men of Vanu would have the book to destroy it.”
“Better it had remained in Tezin-dar,” Andrycus muttered.
“Undoubtedly,” said Rassuman. “But it did not. And had it, still I think there would have come another Rhythamun. So the world turns, my friend, and until the Arcanum is destroyed the threat of Tharn’s raising remains with us.”
“We should have seen it clearer,” said Andrycus. “We should have acted sooner.”
“Best we forget such should haves, such mayhaps,” said Rassuman, stern enough the younger man was shaken from his gloom. “Better we turn our eyes forward, to what we can do, not waste our time looking back at what we might have done.”
“What can we do?” asked Cenobar. “It would seem our hands are tied: Anomius is a danger we cannot as yet eliminate, and Rhythamun goes free—to Tharn’s resting place, we must assume—while those who might halt him are stalked by Anomius’s revenant. We cannot even rely on the aid of our fellow sorcerers.”
“Might we not slay the revenant?” wondered Andrycus. “End that threat, at the least.”
“Save we secure her heart, no,” said Rassuman.
“Then let us attempt that,” urged Andrycus.
“Of that we thought, “Cenobar said, “but Anomius binds it with gramaryes. Whether he carries it with him, or it rests in Nhur-jabal, we cannot know. Only that did we destroy it, he should know on the instant. Even did we draw close, he should know.”
“Let him know!” Andrycus rasped, extending his healed hand: a challenge. “This cost me pain and even did the destroying anger him, I’d willingly match my magic against his.”
“Again?” asked Rassuman, the mild question edged. “When we faced him before the cost was your hand and Zytharan’s life. He was powerful then; and now . . . now he’s stronger.”
“Thanks to Lykander,” grunted Andrycus. “But even so, prepared, we three in concert . . .”
“Should earn Xenomenus’s displeasure,” Cenobar interrupted. “Burash knows, Andrycus, that I mourn Zytharan—Menelian, too—and no less your pain, but the little worm’s seduced our Tyrant and Lykander, too. Remember his promise, when we brought him from the oubliette—that the revenant was the price of his aid.”
“Aye,” said Rassuman solemnly, “and he’s crazed enough with lust for vengeance that he’d hold that promise. Did we destroy the woman’s heart, then I think he’d sooner die than aid us in this war.”
“And Xenomenus looks to end it swift,”
said Cenobar. “And without Anomius to undo those gramaryes he cast, it must be a long and costly campaign. Ergo, while the Tyrant needs him he stands inviolate. Him and his revenant, both.”
“Then we can do nothing!” moaned Andrycus. “Save stand by and watch the world brought down in chaos.”
“Courage!” Rassuman advised, his voice stern. “For now I think we can only watch and wait—but as the hunter watches: patiently, biding our time, ready to strike. We must be subtle, and look to more than magic to further our cause. Certainly, Anomius’s ability to undo those gramaryes of protection that defend the rebel’s holdings endow him with importance, but still our skills are needed. Xenomenus must not be allowed to forget that—that while Anomius is valuable, still we are needed. Neither that Anomius served ek’Hennem and turned his coat—that he may look to turn again.”
“And Lykander,” Cenobar murmured thoughtfully. “We might well remind him that as Anomius’s star burns brighter, so is he overshadowed.”
“You see the gist of it.” Rassuman smiled. “Our tongues may do what spells cannot. We must look to undermine this upstart where we can.”
“But still there’s the revenant,” said Andrycus.
“Whom as yet we cannot touch,” said Rassuman. “But do we watch . . . carefully, patiently . . . then mayhap we shall find a chink in his armor.”
“Caranthus might be easily convinced,” Cenobar suggested, raising a hand as Rassuman’s brows lifted in warning. “Oh, not with direct warnings, nor blandishments, but—as you say—subtly, that Anomius must be, ultimately, a threat to Xenomenus. And did Lykander perceive him a threat to his own prominence, then Lemomal would surely follow his lead.”
“And then Padruar would likely climb down from his fence.” Rassuman nodded. “On our side.”
“All this,” said Andrycus, “must take time. What if the revenant finds the three meanwhile?”
“She’s not omnipotent, and their finding may take her time,” Rassuman answered, slowly and carefully, brow wrinkling as he pondered his words, “I think that she must report to her master then, and that when—if!—she does, then Anomius must find one desire balanced against another. Listen—he lusts for vengeance and for power in equal measure, no?” He waited as, in turn, Cenobar and Andrycus voiced their agreement. “And sooner or later the revenant will likely learn the grimoire is merely a fiction, that the quest is for the Arcanum; and that the Arcanum is held by Rhythamun. She will tell Anomius this and he must then make his choice: shall he bid his creature slay the questers, or look to use them for his own ends? Lust for power balanced against lust for vengeance.”
