by Angus Wells
“Surely he’ll bid her slay them”—Andrycus frowned—“and send her on in pursuit of Rhythamun.”
“Mayhap,” Rassuman allowed, “and mayhap not. There’s a design in this, albeit too complex for our discerning, and perhaps Anomius will sense that. Once already those three came close—they went where none have gone, did they not? Into fabled Tezin-dar; and came out alive to continue their hunt—and our scrying suggests there must be three to end Tharn’s threat. So: might it not be that Anomius bids the creature let them live? Until, at least, they’ve found the book.”
“That’s a slender hope,” Andrycus said.
“But all we have,” said Rassuman. “Save some agency beyond our comprehension intervene on their behalf.”
“Could we but send our magicks to aid them,” whispered Andrycus.
“We cannot.” Rassuman smiled wanly. “Only our prayers; and whatever undermining of Anomius we may contrive. Beyond that they have only their own skills.”
“May Burash and all his kindred gods be with them,” Cenobar intoned. “For such aid they’ll surely need.”
“Aye,” said Rassuman, “but meanwhile, we shall do what little we can. Subtlety, my friends! Let our tongues be cunning and our eyes keen.”
“And should that be not enough?” demanded Andrycus. “Should the revenant somehow bring the book to Anomius? What then?”
“Then,” said Rassuman, his voice resolute, “we make that sacrifice Menelian made—no matter the cost, we seek to destroy Anomius.”
“Amen,” said Cenobar as Andrycus ducked his head in grim agreement.
ALDARIN was, Cennaire thought, a city in which her former trade might have been plied with considerable profit. There was wealth here, and distributed more evenly than in Nhur-jabal, and for all the Seaman’s Gate and the Courtesans Quarter had their share of handsome women, still she was an exotic among these fair-skinned Lyssians, and it became rapidly obvious she might take her pick from the menfolk. It amused her—it always had—how easily men’s heads might be turned by an artful glance, a discreetly revealed portion of flesh. A skirt flared to show an ankle, a movement, seemingly careless, that exposed a little of her swelling bosom, and men became inflamed. A lowering of her lashes, a tongue drawn in demure promise over her lips, and they were hers to command: it was an additional pleasure that now she recognized their desire with senses infinitely more subtle, could smell it on them, see it like a flame burning behind their eyes. Were she not pressed by the urgency of her master’s business she might well have dallied, intoxicated by that power. But she had a task to perform, and that was paramount—her heart lay with Anomius, and whatever power she now exercised, that which he held over her was the greater. It was the power of life after death, the ultimate power, and she looked to do his bidding in this strange land.
She went first to the mansion of Varent den Tarl, and found it empty save for a handful of servants retained to keep the palatial building in good order. Their master, she learned at the gate, was dead, which gave her pause until she explained—concealing the amusement this truth afforded her—that she sought not Lord Varent den Tarl, but three acquaintances of his: a Lyssian named Calandryll, a Kern by the name of Bracht, and a woman named Katya. That and the assumption of a forlorn expression, a fluttering of her lashes, won her audience with an ugly little bald man, so immersed in his accounts, so dried up and withered, he evinced only the slightest reaction to her artifice. Symeon, he was called, and his lack of interest piqued her, though she hid that, concentrating on learning what she might.
“They were here,” he told her, oblivious to both the thrusting of her breasts and the ink he smudged upon his cheek. “They went. Find Darth. Ask him—he knew them better than I, and I’ve much work to do.”
Cennaire ignored the obvious dismissal, smiling demurely as she inquired where Darth might be found and how she might know him.
“He was paid off,” said Symeon. “He’s likely drinking his bounty away. Try the Mercenaries Quarter, or the docks.”
Cennaire thought perhaps he was unmanned, so faint was the anticipated odor, weaker than the musty smell of his books and the ink liberally spattered over his robe and skin, and it crossed her mind to slay him, for no reason other than his disinterest. That temptation she resisted, knowing it must endanger her hunt, and instead thanked him and went seeking Darth.
Tall and brown-haired, Symeon had said, with an ale flush in his cheeks, his family name Cobal. It was little enough and it took her several days to find him, her inquires leaving three men, overeager in their desire to have her dally with them awhile, with broken bones. A fourth, more pressing than the rest, she slew, but all were in the rougher quarters of the city and she doubted the venting of her anger would arouse undue suspicions. Indeed, save she be brought for examination before a mage, she did not think the city authorities would believe so slender a mere woman capable of inflicting such injuries. Darth she found in a tavern frequented by freeswords, the Bladesman.
He was settled beneath a window that cast warm sunlight over his face, emphasizing the mottling of his cheeks and the blood that shot his eyes, those taking a moment to focus as she took a chair across the table from him and favored him with a seductive smile.
“I am called Cennaire,” she said. “You are Darth Cobal, no?”
“My name,” he agreed, gaping.
His voice was somewhat slurred and she thought the flagon of red wine at his elbow was not the first he had drunk that day, but his eyes narrowed as he looked at her and through the wine vapors she smelled his instant desire. This was no Symeon: this one she could manipulate easily. She touched tongue to lips, hand to hair, arranged her skirts. Darth shouted for a fresh cup and another flagon of Alda red, making a show of the purse he carried, still heavy with coin.
“Symeon said I might find you here.”
She turned her head as if to survey the tavern, granting him her profile, knowing the movement drew her gown taut across her bosom, not needing the smell of him to advertise the effect because she heard it in the sharp intake of his breath.
Darth licked his lips, torn between curiosity and lust, the latter—Cennaire savored the musky scent—stronger, the wine leeching his common sense, vinous overconfidence in its place. He said, “Symeon? That dried-out little toad? What business had you with him?”
“I sought you.”
His odor grew heady in Cennaire’s nostrils; she held her smile as he straightened his back, flattered, taking the cup the serving wench brought and filling it unasked, pushing it toward her with a clumsy attempt at a courtly bow.
“Me? Dera, but my luck changes then.” It was an afterthought to ask, “Why?”
“Might we speak in private?” she returned, her voice husky, conspiratorial. “Somewhere alone?”
It seemed not to occur to Darth that it was improbable such a woman would seek him out with amorous intent: the smell of his desire became almost overwhelming as he nodded.
“There’re rooms above. We could go there.”
Cennaire frowned prettily and shook her head. Too many had seen her enter here, and taken notice of their conversation; more precisely, of her. It might be that she must slay this drunken sot, and did it come to that she preferred it be in some location his corpse would attract less attention, somewhere she’d not be linked to the killing.
“A private house?” she murmured, thinking that if they left together folk might well assume she hired him as a freesword. Surely none could believe she looked to bed him?
Darth nodded again, vigorously. “Drink up,” he urged.
Cennaire drained her cup and rose. Darth followed, less steadily, beaming as he tossed coins on the table.
He offered her his arm, but she pretended not to see, walking ahead of him, acting the part of some highborn lady come ahiring as they quit the tavern and went out into the afternoon sunlight. Darth paused a moment then, blinking and shaking his head, grinning foolishly before indicating a narrow street that ra
n down toward the harbor.
“There’re houses there.” His voice was lewd, his gaze no less innocent. “We can get a room.”
“Excellent,” she declared, old practice imbuing the single word with the promise of pleasure.
Darth’s smile grew wider and he stepped gallantly ahead, swaggering as he strode between the buildings. Cennaire studied his back, noting the long sword he wore, the dirk. His shoulders were broad, muscular, and she suspected that sober he might well be a useful fighter. Neither his likely strength nor his weapons gave her cause for worry: she knew herself the stronger, and blades offered her no threat, even did it come to that. She followed him, skirts raised daintily clear of the feculent cobbles.
He halted where the street disgorged on a quiet square, the houses seemingly innocent lodging places; he flourished a bow, a little more successful this time, and flung out an arm.
“Milady Cennaire, do you choose one?”
Cennaire glanced round, selecting a house on the farther side, and said, “Do you obtain us a room, Darth, and I’ll follow you.”
He was far too intoxicated with desire for her to think other than that some highborn lady chose to dally with him, and nodded, moving almost at a trot to the building she chose. Cennaire waited in the shadow of a balcony, and walked quickly across the square when he appeared again, beckoning.
Discreetly, no concierge observed their entry and Darth led her to a room on the first floor, a plain chamber, furnished with a sizable bed, a washstand, and an armoire. He had already drawn the shutters closed, dust drifting lazily in the bands of sunlight that filtered through the wood. He latched the door and turned toward her, his eyes roaming her body as he loosed his swordbelt and tossed it aside. Cennaire granted him a smile, removing her light cloak, folding it over the armoire. She smelled him come closer and turned to place hands against his chest, pushing him gently back, his breath wine-sour on her face.
“A moment,” she murmured. “To talk.”
“Talk?” His advance was halted by that unexpected suggestion rather than the pressure of her hands. “About what?”
“Calandryll,” she said, “and Bracht. A Vanu woman named Katya.”
“Them?” The odors of wine and lust were joined by the scent of confusion. “What about them?”
“They came seeking your master, no? To discuss some . . . affair . . . with Lord Varent den Tarl? A matter of a book.”
Darth frowned, head cocked, wiping his mouth. Cennaire noticed that his hands were callused, the nails dirty. “What’s that to you?” he asked. “Surely we’re not come here to talk of them.”
“They came,” she said. “No? And found Lord Varent dead. Tell me what they said, what they asked.”
“Milady . . . Cennaire.” Darth took a step toward her. “Do you toy with me? We’ve the chamber you requested, a bed. Let’s not waste it.”
He took another step. His hands were on her shoulders, drawing her close against his chest, his mouth descending toward her face. For an instant she thought perhaps she might grant him his wish, secure the information once he was sated: it could not take long and he was no worse than many of the clients she had entertained, better than some. But that was before—when she was no more than a pretty girl, with no more than her beauty and her wits to secure her way in life. Now she was more than that, and she need no longer bow to the whims of wine-soaked men; now there were other ways.
Darth was not sure how he came to find himself on the floor. He did not think he had drunk so much, nor did the bare boards have any carpet on which he might have tripped. He grinned, a trifle embarrassed, and began to rise. Then gasped as he was lifted, flung backward to land sprawling on the bed. He was shocked to realize Cennaire knelt above him; frightened as it dawned that she had thrown him, that she now clutched his shirt in one slender hand, the other cupped about his jaw, and that her eyes no longer held promise of anything save suffering. Abruptly, driven out by the intensity of her gaze, the heady effects of a morning’s drinking quit him. He had rather he was still numbed by the wine as he felt her fingers tighten and thought his jaw must crumble under the pressure.
Cennaire studied him a moment, drinking in his odor, savoring the terror that brightened his bloodshot eyes. The smell of lust was satisfying, amusing, but this was intoxicating. She checked herself before she crushed his jaw—he would need to speak.
“Tell me,” she commanded.
He clutched her wrists, the tendons in his own bulging as he fought to break her hold. He could not, and struck at her face; she caught his fist and squeezed, a hand silencing his scream as the bones in his fingers broke. He began to choke, tears in his eyes. When she took her hand from his mouth he asked, “What are you?” in a voice that creaked with fear.
“I am Cennaire,” she said, “and if you fail to tell me what you know of them I shall kill you, slowly.”
Acceptance of that promise shone in his eyes, in the suddenly sharper reek that came. She thought he might faint then and slapped him, once, rocking his head to the side. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, where cheek and teeth had met.
“Tell me,” she repeated. “Everything.”
Darth told her, holding nothing back, racking his fear-fuddled mind for every memory, speaking fast, the words a defense against the implacable pressure he knew could squeeze out his life.
When he was finished Cennaire released her grip and he made a terrible mistake: his last. He lunged from the bed, oblivious of the pain as his broken hand struck the floor, and snatched at his sword. Before the blade cleared the scabbard, Cennaire fell on him and broke his neck.
She rose then, no longer interested in the corpse, delicately straightening rumpled clothes, arranging tousled hair, and concentrated her mind on her own room. That was in a lodging house on the far side of Aldarin, in a more salubrious quarter, where visiting gentlefolk might find comfortable accommodation, and she had memorized every detail.
She mouthed the words Anomius had taught her and smelled the scent of almonds on the air. For an instant there was a sense of unbeing, of a void about her, terrifying, for it seemed a place in which she might be lost, condemned to exist there forever, heartless and consequently denied the release of death, save her master destroy her heart . . .
For an instant only . . . and then she stood in familiar surroundings, smiling again as confidence returned.
The sun as yet stood high in the sky and she luxuriated in a bath, for appearance sake ate dinner, biding her time until the hour came to report. Then, secure behind a locked door, she fetched a mirror from her baggage and placed it carefully on the dressing table, settling before the glass. For a while she admired her reflection, then spoke the second gramarye taught her. Once more the pungency of almonds wafted and her image wavered, the glass darkening, swirling misty, the darkness there becoming a whirlpool of colors that resolved into Anomius’s sallow features.
“What have you learned?”
His voice was faint, a whisper almost, but urgent: Cennaire leaned closer, her answer barely louder: “I found a man who knew them . . .”
“Knew them? Where are they?” She saw his watery blue eyes narrow, perspective distorting as he bent closer, his bulbous nose occupying the larger part of the glass.
“Gone from Aldarin.”
“What? Gone where?”
“North, I think.”
“You think? Do you not know?”
“Let me explain . . .”
“Aye, you’d best. I’m but a thought from Nhur-jabal, and your heart lies there.”
The threat implicit in his words was needless—did she not serve him loyally?—and Cennaire resented it. Even so, she thought, it told her things that might, someday, prove useful. He was at Kesham-vaj, the box in Nhur-jabal: his magic, certainly, could bring him there on the instant. But without the Tyrant’s sorcerers’ knowledge? She thought not; nor that the black-robed wizards, or the Tyrant himself, would agree to his departure. Courtesan she had been, but th
at did not mean her mind was slow; rather, the opposite, no less that she looked to the future, to her own safety.
The crossing to Lysse had afforded her time to consider her situation and already it had occurred to her that once her task was dispensed, Anomius might find no further use for her. And she knew his necromancy was frowned on by his fellow mages. Did he secure his grimoire—rather, did she secure it for him—would he, or they, permit her to exist still? A further thought: Once Anomius had delivered the Fayne Lord to Xenomenus, might the Tyrant’s sorcerers not destroy Anomius himself? Or try, at least. They resented him, she knew, and did they succeed, then surely her existence would be ended with his. Her only sure guarantee of safety, she had decided, lay in securing for herself the box that held her heart.
These rebellious thoughts flashed swift through her mind, finding no expression in eyes or gesture: for now Anomius was, truly, her master. She smiled an apology and said, “Varent den Tarl is dead.”
“What?” The wizard’s response was a whiplash.
Cennaire flinched and said swiftly, “They came here and found his body; they asked questions. They appeared interested in a man called Daven Tyras.”
In the mirror, Anomius’s image frowned; a finger, ragged-nailed, rubbed at his nose. Then he showed yellow teeth in an expression more snarl than smile and said, “Go on.”
“Daven Tyras is a trader in horses out of Gannshold, a half-blood Kern. He spent some time with Varent den Tarl—the last to see him alive—and is gone now. I questioned one of Varent’s household, but he could not say where this Daven Tyras went, only that once the three had that knowledge they left.”
