Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  "Warrior's Oath! This is blamed spooky! I don't like the look of this, not one bit."

  "Neither do I. Pick us an inn, she'enedra; pick one fast. If the locals don't want to be out-of-doors after sunset, they must have a reason, and I'd rather not be out here either."

  Tarma chose an inn with the sign of a black sheep hanging above the door, and the words (for the benefit of those that could read) "The Blacke Ewe" painted on the wall beside the door. It looked to be about the right sort for the state of their purses, which were getting a bit on the lean side. They'd been riding the Trade Road north to Valdemar, once again looking for work, when Kethry's geas-forged blade Need had drawn them eastward until they ended up here. The sword had left them pretty much alone except for a twinge or two—and the incident with the feckless priestess, that had wound up being far more complicated than it had needed to be thanks to the Imp of the Perverse and Tarma's own big mouth. Tarma was beginning to hope that it had settled down.

  And then this afternoon, Kethry had nearly fainted when it "called" with all of its old urgency. They'd obeyed its summons, until it led them at last to Delton.

  Tarma saw to the stabling of their beasts; Kethry to bargaining for a room. The innkeeper looked askance at a mage wearing a sword, for those who trafficked in magic seldom carried physical weaponry, but he was openly alarmed by the sight of what trotted at Tarma's heels—a huge, black, wolf-like creature whose shoulders came nearly as high as the swordswoman's waist.

  Kethry saw the alarm in his eyes, realized that he had never seen a kyree before, and decided to use his fear as a factor in her bargaining. "My familiar," she said nonchalantly, "and he knows when I'm being cheated."

  The price of their room took a mysterious plunge.

  After installing their gear and settling Warrl in their room, they returned to the taproom for supper and information.

  If the streets were deserted, the taproom was crowded far past its intended capacity.

  Tarma wrinkled her nose at the effluvia of cheap perfume, unwashed bodies, stale food odors and fish-oil lanterns. Kethry appeared not to notice.

  Tarma's harsh, hawk-like features could be made into a veritable mask of intimidation when she chose to scowl; she did so now. Her ice-cold stare got them two stools and a tiny, round table to themselves. Her harsh voice summoned a harried servant as easily as Kethry could summon a creature of magic. A hand to her knife-hilt and the ostentatious shrugging of the sword slung on her back into a more comfortable position got her speedy service, cleaning her fingernails with her knife got them decent portions and scrubbed plates.

  Kethry's frown of worry softened a bit. "Life has been ever so much easier since I teamed with you, she'enedra," she chuckled quietly, moving the sides of her robe out of the way so that she could sit comfortably.

  "No doubt," the swordswoman replied with a lifted eyebrow and a quirk to one corner of her mouth. "Sometimes I wonder how you managed without me."

  "Poorly." The green eyes winked with mischief.

  Their food arrived, and they ate in silence, furtively scanning the crowded room for a likely source of information. When they'd nearly finished, Kethry nodded slightly in the direction of a grizzled mercenary sitting just underneath one of the smoking lanterns. Tarma looked him over carefully; he looked almost drunk enough to talk, but not drunk enough to make trouble, and his companions had just deserted him, leaving seats open on the bench opposite his. He wore a badge, so he was mastered, and so was less likely to pick a fight. They picked up their tankards and moved to take those vacant seats beside him.

  He nodded as they sat; warily at Tarma, appreciatively at Kethry.

  He wasn't much for idle chatter, though. "Evening," was all he said.

  "It is that," Tarma replied, "Though 'tis a strange enough evening and more than a bit early for folk to be closing themselves indoors, especially with the weather so pleasant."

  "These are strange times," he countered, "And strange things happen in the nights around here."

  "Oh?" Kethry looked flatteringly interested. "What sort of strange things? And can we take care of your thirst?"

  He warmed to the admiration—and the offer.

  "Folk been going missing; whores, street trash, such as won't be looked for by the watch," he told them, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, while Tarma signaled the serving wench. He took an enormous bite of the spiced sausage that was the Blacke Ewe's specialty; grease ran into his beard. He washed the bite down by draining his tankard dry. "There's rumors—" His eyes took on a certain wariness. He cast an uneasy glance around the dim, hot and odorous taproom.

  "Rumors?" Tarma prompted, pouring his tankard full again, and sliding a silver piece under it. "Well, we little care for rumors, eh? What's rumor to a fighter but ale-talk?"

  "Plague take rumors!" he agreed, but his face was strained. "What've magickers and demons got to do with us, so long as they leave our masters in peace?" He drained the vessel and pocketed the coin. "So long as he leaves a few for me, this Thalhkarsh can have his fill of whores!"

  "Thalhkarsh? What might that be? Some great lecher, that he has need of so many lightskirts?"

  Tarma filled the tankard for the third time, and kept her tone carefully casual.

  "Sh!" the mercenary paled, and made a cautionary wave with his hand. "'Tisn't wise to bandy that name about lightly—them as does often aren't to be seen again. That—one I mentioned—well, some say he's a god, some a demon summoned by a mighty powerful magicker. All I know is that he has a temple on the Row—one that sprang up overnight, seemingly, and one with statues an' such that could make me blush, were I to go view 'em. The which I won't. 'Tisn't safe to go near there—"

  "So?" Tarma raised one eyebrow.

  "They sent the city guard trooping in there after the first trollops went missing. There were tales spread of blood-worship, so the city council reckoned somebody'd better check. Nobody ever saw so much as a scrap of boot leather of that guard-squad ever again."

  "So folk huddle behind their doors at night, and hope that they'll be left in peace, hmm?" Kethry mused aloud, taking her turn at replenishing his drink. "But are they?"

  "Rumor says not—not unless they take care to stay in company at night. Odd thing though, 'cept for the city guard, most of the ones taken by night have been women. I'd watch meself, were I you twain."

  He drained his tankard yet again. This proved to be one tankard too many, as he slowly slid off the bench to lie beneath the table, a bemused smile on his face.

  They took the god-sent opportunity to escape to their room.

  "Well," Tarma said, once the door had been bolted, "we know why, and now we know what. Bloody Hell! I wish for once that that damned sword of yours would steer us toward something that pays!"

  Kethry worked a minor magic that sent the vermin sharing their accommodations skittering under the door and out the open window. Warrl surveyed her handiwork, sniffed the room over carefully, then lay down at the foot of the double pallet with a heavy sigh.

  "That's not quite true—we don't really know what we're dealing with. Is it a god, truly? If it is, I don't stand much chance of making a dent in its hide. Is it a demon, controlled by this magician, that has been set up as a god so that its master can acquire power by blood-magic? Or is it worse than either?"

  "What could possible be worse?"

  "A demon loose, uncontrolled—a demon with ambition," Kethry said, flopping down beside Warrl and staring up at nothing, deep in thought.

  Their lantern (more fish-oil) smoked and danced, and made strange shadows on the wall and ceiling.

  "Worst case would be just that: a demon that knows exactly how to achieve godhood, and one with nothing standing in the way of his intended path. If it is a god—a real god—well, all gods have their enemies; it's simply a matter of finding the sworn enemy, locating a nest of his clerics, and bringing them all together. And a demon under the control of a mage can be sent back to the Abyssal Planes by discovering the summ
oning spell and breaking it. But an uncontrolled demon—the only way to get rid of it that I know of is to find its focus-object and break it. Even that may not work if it has achieved enough power. With enough accumulated power, or enough worshipers believing in his godhood, even breaking his focus wouldn't send him back to the Abyssal Planes. If that happens—well, you first have to find a demon-killing weapon, then you have to get close enough to strike a killing blow. And you hope that he isn't strong enough to have gone beyond needing a physical form. Or you damage him enough to break the power he gets from his followers' belief—but that's even harder to do than finding a demon-killing blade."

  "And, needless to say, demon-killing weapons are few and far between."

  "And it isn't terribly likely that you're going to get past a demon's reach to get that killing blow in, once he's taken his normal form."

  Tarma pulled off her boots, and inspected the soles with a melancholy air. "How likely is that—an uncontrolled demon?"

  "Not really likely," Kethry admitted. "I'm just being careful—giving you worst-case first. It's a lot more likely that he's under the control of a mage that's using him to build a power base for himself. That's the scenario I'd bet on. I've seen this trick pulled more than once before I met you. It works quite well, provided you can keep giving your congregation what they want."

  "So what's next?"

  "Well, I'd suggest we wait until morning, and see what I can find out among the mages while you see if you can get any more mercenaries to talk."

  "Somehow I was afraid you'd say that."

  They met back at the inn at noon; Tarma was empty-handed, but Kethry had met with a certain amount of success. At least she had a name, an address, and a price—a fat skin of strong wine taken with her, with a promise of more to come.

  The address was in the scummiest section of the town, hard by the communal refuse heap. Both women kept their hands on the hilts of their blades while making their way down the rank and odorous alleyway; there were flickers of movement at various holes in the walls (you could hardly call them "doors" or "windows") but they were left unmolested. More than one of the piles of what seemed to be rotting refuse that dotted the alley proved to be a human, though it was difficult to tell for certain if they were living humans or corpses. Kethry again seemed blithely unaware of the stench; Tarma fought her stomach and tried to breathe as little as possible, and that little through her mouth.

  At length they came to a wall that boasted a proper door; Kethry rapped on it. A mumbled voice answered her; she whispered something Tarma couldn't make out. Evidently it was the proper response, as the door swung open long enough for them to squeeze through, then shut hurriedly behind them.

  Tarma blinked in surprise at what lay beyond the alley side door. The fetid aroma of the air outside was gone. There was a faint ghost of wine, and an even fainter ghost of incense. The walls were covered with soft, colorful rugs; more rugs covered the floor. On top of the rugs were huge, plush cushions. The room was a rainbow of subtle reds and oranges and yellows. Tarma was struck with a sudden closing of the throat, and she blinked to clear misting eyes. This place reminded her forcibly of a Shin'a'in tent.

  Fortunately the woman who turned from locking the door to greet them was not a Clanswoman, or Tarma might have had difficulty in ridding her eyes of that traitorous mist. She was draped head to toe with a veritable marketplace-full of veils, so that only her eyes showed. The voluminous covering, which rivaled the room for color and variety of pattern, was not, however, enough to hide the fact that she was wraith-thin. And above the veils, the black eyes were gray-ringed, bloodshot, and haggard.

  "You know my price?" came a thin whisper.

  Kethry let the heavy wineskin slide to her feet, and she nudged it over to the woman with one toe. "Three more follow, one every two days, from the master of the Blacke Ewe."

  "What do you wish to know?"

  "How comes this thing they call Thalhkarsh here—and why?"

  The woman laughed crazily; Tarma loosened one of her knives in its hidden arm-sheath. What in the name of the Warrior had Kethry gotten them into?

  "For that I need not even scry! Oh, no, to my sorrow, that is something I know only too well!"

  The eyes leaked tears; Tarma averted her gaze, embarrassed.

  "A curse on my own pride, and another on my curiosity! For now he knows my aura, knows it well—and calls me—and only the wine can stop my feet from taking me to him—" the thin voice whined to a halt, and the eyes closed, as if in a sudden spasm of pain.

  For a long moment the woman stood, still as a thing made of wood, and Tarma feared they'd get nothing more out of her. Then the eyes opened again, and fixed Kethry with a stiletto-like glare.

  "Hear then the tale of my folly—'tis short enough. When Thalhkarsh raised his temple, all in a single night, I thought to scry it and determine what sort of creature was master of it. My soul-self was trapped by him, like a cruel child traps a mouse, and like cruel children, he and his priest tormented it—for how long, I cannot say. Then they seemed to forget me; let me go again, to crawl back to myself. But they had not forgotten me. I soon learned that each night he would call me back to his side. Each night I drink until I can no longer hear the call, but each night it takes more wine to close my ears. One night it will not be enough, and I shall join his other—brides."

  The veils shook and trembled.

  "This much only did I learn. Thalhkarsh is a demon; summoned by mistake instead of an imp. He bides here by virtue of his focus, the bottle that was meant to contain the imp. He is powerful; his priest is a mage as well, and has his own abilities augmented by the demon's. No sane person would bide in this town with them rising to prominence here."

  The woman turned back to the door in a flutter of thin fabric and cracked it open again. One sticklike arm and hand pointed the way out. "That is my rede; take it if you are not fools."

  Tarma was only too pleased to escape the chamber, which seemed rather too confining of a sudden. Kethry paused, concern on her face, to reach a tentative hand toward the veiled mystery. The woman made a repudiating motion. "Do not pity me!" she whispered harshly. "You cannot know! He is terrible—but he is also glorious—so—glorious—" Her eyes glazed for a moment, then focused again, and she slammed the door shut behind them.

  Kethry laced herself into the only dress she owned, a sensuous thing of forest green silk, a scowl twisting her forehead. "Why do I have to be the one pawed at and drooled over?"

  Tarma chuckled. "You were the one who decreed against using any more magic than we had to," she pointed out.

  "Well, I don't want to chance that mage detecting it and getting curious!"

  "And you were the one who didn't want to chance using illusion."

  "What if something should break it?"

  "Then don't complain if I can't take your place. You happen to be the one of us that is lovely, amber-haired, and toothsome, not I. And you are the one with the manner born. No merchant-lord or minor noble is going to open his doors to a nomad mercenary, and no decadent stripling is going to whisper secrets into the ear of one with a face like an ill-tempered hawk and a body like a sword blade. Now hurry up, or the market will be closed and we'll have to wait until the morrow."

  Kethry grumbled under her breath, but put more speed into her preparations. They sallied forth into the late afternoon, playing parts they had often taken before, Kethry assuming the manners of the rank she actually was entitled to, playing the minor noblewoman on a journey to relatives with Tarma as her bodyguard.

  As was very often the case, the marketplace was also the gathering-place for the offspring of what passed for aristocracy in this borderland trade-town. Within no great span of time Kethry had garnered invitations to dine with half a dozen would-be gallants. She chose the most dissipated of them, but persuaded him to make a party of the occasion, and invite his friends.

  A bit miffed by the spoiling of his plans (which had not included having any com
petition for Kethry's assets), he agreed. As with the common folk, the well-born had taken to closing themselves behind sturdy doors at the setting of the sun, and with it already low in the west, he hastened to send a servant around to collect his chosen companions.

  The young man's father was not at home, being off on a trading expedition. This had figured very largely in his plans, for he had purloined the key to his father's plushly appointed gazebo for his entertainment. The place was as well furnished as many homes: full of soft divans and wide couches, and boasting seven little alcoves off the main room, and two further rooms for intimate entertainment besides. Tarma's acting abilities were strained to the uttermost by the evening's events; she was hard put to keep from laughing aloud at Kethry's performance and the reactions of the young men to her. To anyone who did not know her, Kethry embodied the very epitome of light-minded, light-skirted, capricious demi-nobility. No one watching her would have guessed she ever had a thought in her head besides her own pleasuring.

  To the extreme displeasure of those few female companions that had been brought to the festivities, she monopolized all the male attention in the room. It wasn't long before she had sorted out which of them had actually been to one of the infamous "Rites of Dark Desires" and which had only heard rumors. Those who had not been bold enough to attend discovered themselves subtly dismissed from the inner circle, and soon repaired to the gardens or semi-private alcoves to enjoy the attentions of the females they had brought, but ignored. Kethry lured the three favored swains into one of the private rooms, motioning Tarma to remain on guard at the door. She eventually emerged; hot-eyed, contemptuous, and disheveled. Snores echoed from the room behind her.