Exiled: Keeper of the City

by Peter Morwood

  Laas looked up at the darkness in silence. “I saw this from a long way off,” she said, “as we were coming in. I wondered what it was, but no one could tell me. And from the city, I kept forgetting to ask people—this can’t be seen from most places.”

  “Yes,” Reswen said softly. “That’s a problem.” They turned the last curve on the path. The building stood up before them, huge, dark, ruinous: Where a door or gate had once been, now there was an empty maw of somewhat paler darkness. “Watch your footing,” Reswen said. “There are loose stones.”

  They went in. There were crumbling steps leading up onto the walls of the place. It was a fort of some sort, very old, long abandoned. Grass and bushes grew in the middle of it. Some small creature of the night lairing there squeaked at the sight of them, a disgruntled sound, finally settled down to muttering, then to silence. Reswen led Laas over to one side, toward one of the flights of steps. Together, carefully, they made their way up. The silence was total, except for the occasional clatter of a dislodged pebble falling down the steps, or into the shattered, overgrown courtyard. Finally they came up to the wall, and started to walk around it—and Laas froze, seeing someone standing on the old battlement before them, someone with an arm raised—no, a sword raised—poised, dangerous, still—

  Reswen patted her arm. “Yes,” he said, “she looks that way, sometimes. Come on.”

  They walked toward the waiting figure. She did not move. A she-mrem in middle years, she was a little thick about the middle, nothing special as regarded muscles or grace, but there was a danger about her that no amount of mere physical training or prowess could have given her. Reswen stopped a few yards from her, leaning against the waist-high battlement.

  “It was the original fort,” he said. “When they built the first city, they abandoned it, left it outside the walls. Now it’s inside again. But this was the first Niau. And Sorimoh there,” he gestured with his head, “she saved it. She died, of course. But here she stands.”

  Laas leaned beside him. “Tell me.”

  Reswen gazed at the statue reflectively. “She was one of the first settlers who came from down North, wanting a place to live that was a little less safe than the kind of place that the housecats lived in, up there.” A smile in the darkness. “Nothing special: she was a weaver, with a few kits. They grew up down here—it was nothing but grassland then—they grew wild, as kits will. Everyone grew wild down here, until someone suggested that they should build a city of their own. There was argument among the people who had made the trip. But she said”— he nodded at the statue—“that there was no reason we couldn’t live in a city and be hunters too. ‘Others can forget,’ she said. ‘But some of us can remember. They, and I, will remind you.’ ”

  Reswen shifted position a little. He saw the moons glance cold fire in Laas’s eyes as she shifted to watch him. “So they built this place. They had to drag the stones a long way, from the south. Word of it got around, I suppose; word always gets around.” He breathed out. “The liskash, the lizards, came to raid the place. That’s how long ago this was. There weren’t many of them, but there didn’t have to be, since they were sorcerers. One of them was greater than the rest. He threatened to throw the fort down stone by stone and kill everyone in it unless they left it to the lizards for their own.” A breath of laughter. “They would all have been killed, they knew that. A lot of the settlers were tired and afraid, and wanted to do what the lizards said. But Sorimoh there, she told them to buy time, to bargain. She still knew how to hunt, she said, and how to hunt for her kits. And she stole out by night, and she went into their camp, at the cold time before dawn, when they were slowest, and she killed them one after another, with their own swords, and when the chief of their sorcerers woke up, the one who was protected against any wound any sword or spear or knife might give, Sorimoh went for him and tore his throat out. He killed her too, of course,” Reswen said softly. “How not, with those claws they had? But it did him no good. Not one of those lizards ever went home again to tell the tale. And it used to be said that that was why they never came back—that they had a legend after that about how this part of the world is protected by demons, and will never fall to their kind.”

  Laas nodded, said nothing.

  “So here she is, where they put her, a long time afterwards,” Reswen said, “with one of the lizards’ swords; see how big it is? No one of our people could manage such a thing normally, with that strange grip. But Sorimoh could manage anything she said. And what she had said was, ‘I will take care of my own.’ And so she did.”

  He hunkered down on his forearms next to Laas. “I would come here,” he said, after a while, “and be with her, and I would say to myself, ‘Here is the heart of it all. Here is what being a mrem is all about.’ ” He felt Laas’s soft breath near his ear. “Silly, I suppose. But she is the best thing in the city.”

  He looked at her for a little while, and then out at the city, under the moonlight, with all its mellow, fallen stars, and then he held quite still, as something touched him.

  Very gently, Laas began to wash his ear.

  He did not move. He held quite still, feeling the warmth move about his head, and after some time he shut his eyes and bent his head sideways and simply sank into the warmth, the sweet touch, and the way his own warmth began to answer it. All the night held its breath. There was nothing but the gentle stroking and the warmth of her breath and the subtle scent of her, nothing else at all.

  Finally he said, “Shall we go home?”

  Her purr in his ear was his answer.

  How long the walk home took, he never knew. He had never cared less whether he had left his clothes all over the furniture, what state the couch was in, that there was no fire in the grate. They lit no lamp. The moons’ light came in the windows and lay warm on the floor; that was enough. The warmth built in him was heat, was blood; he felt fur between his teeth, he clutched with claws, was fought, was welcomed, both at once. Ferocity and desire, mingled, rose up and clutched at him in turn, pulling him down to the couch. She offered herself to him and he took what was offered as it was offered, roughly, needing it now, taking it now, abrupt, hungry, as she was abrupt and hungry. They rolled, they fought; claws were bared, claws drew blood. And then there was her cry, and his, again and again; and then the panting, the rush of breath, the sinking down, both spent.

  Later there was time for gentleness; later her tongue touched him everywhere, and his did the same for her. Later they slept tangled, later they woke again to wash, and love, and love, and wash again, and sleep. But even in dreams, there were claws, sometimes unsheathed, sometimes hidden.

  Reswen awoke from one such dream—to feel the claw digging into him, hard, just above his heart. He felt of his chest and found something there, something on a cord, smelling vaguely like fish.

  He tore it off his neck and threw it across the room, into the cold grate, and went back to sleep in Laas’s arms.

  LAAS SLEPT late. For Reswen, it was impossible; he woke with the sun, as always, and lay there blinking, rather astonished that there was someone else in his couch and he was at the same time so calm about it. Normally Reswen liked to be more in control of a situation than he had been last night; now he lay there curled around her, gazing about him at the morning light on everything—the clothing dropped or laid neatly over furniture, the paperwork that he had brought home with him last week and which now lay on the floor in the corner, gathering dust and looking at him accusingly—and wondered how he had gotten himself into this, and discovered to his astonishment that he had no desire to get himself out of it.

  Very quietly he extricated himself, got up, got dressed in his ordinary uniform kit, and picked up a note tablet from a dusty table. This place is a mess, he thought regretfully, as on the tablet he scratched in the dusty wax, Stay. Back shortly. He left it on the low table by the couch, and paused there to look down at her as she slept. Laas lay
curled like a kitten, her mouth a bit open, breathing softly, a sound that rested on the borderline of a snore but never quite became one. I wonder if I snore? Reswen thought. It had never occurred to him before to wonder if he did, or to care what anyone else would think of it.

  He glanced briefly at the shriveled-looking little fish-smelling thing lying in the grate, its thong trailing half out onto the floor.

  Reswen left it there. He went out, locking the door behind him, and walked sedately to Constables’ House, heading up to his office. Krruth was waiting for him there, looking rather disturbed; he jumped up from a seat as Reswen came in.

  “We have your mrem,” he said, and held out a sheaf of papers.

  “I thought so,” Reswen said, leaning over his desk and rummaging through some other parchments as he looked for a note he had made for himself. “I saw him last night; he looked nervous. Where is he now?”

  “Goldsmiths’ Street, in the Whites,” Krruth said. “That’s where his rented lodging is. His name is Choikea, he’s a traveler, a merchant’s agent, supposedly, from the Western cities ... the last one he was in was Raihok, according to his papers. He’s been here about two months on this trip. That’s all we’ve had time to find out so far.”

  Reswen found the piece of parchment he was looking for, scribbled on it, and folded it up. “All right,” he said, “get on him. Be cautious. What kind of place is he staying in?”

  “A house, rented. He paid cash up front for four months’ rental. In that neighborhood, that’s quite a bit.”

  “Find out how he paid it,” Reswen said. “I want to know where his money comes from. I want to know everyone he talks to, everyone he sees.” He waved in a runner who was peering in the door, handed the mrem the scrap of parchment, shooed him out. “How is Thailh doing?”

  “He’s at the drapers’ again.”

  “When our friend Choikea is out of his place,” Reswen said, “bribe the landlord or the housekeeper or whoever and get in there. I want it searched, but have the lads and lasses keep their claws in when they do it. I don’t want them to leave any sign we’ve been there. Make sure Thailh is with them.”

  “Yes, sir,” Krruth said.

  “One more thing. Anything from Haven?”

  Krruth shrugged. “Nothing but the continuing adventures of Deshahl.”

  Reswen grinned a little. “Getting bored with her, are you?”

  “Bored isn’t exactly the word, sir....”

  “Ah,” Reswen said, “we’re losing staff through exhaustion, eh? They can’t keep up with her? Or rather, with the effect she has on them....”

  Krruth looked a little nettled. “They’re doing the best they can, sir.” .

  “Better than they need to, I suspect. Take her off the watch list, Krruth; I’m convinced she’s a waste of our time.”

  Reswen thought Krruth looked faintly relieved at that.

  “As you say, sir. But begging your pardon—who do you think isn’t a waste?”

  I don’t have to tell him, Reswen thought, and then breathed out a little. There was no point in playing the great mrem detective with his senior staff. “Old jinglebells Hiriv, for one,” he said, “and master Rirhath, our closemouthed merchant prince. I only have hints as to the whys, though. I’m working on it all; I’ll let you know as soon as things start to fit together closely enough to hold an accusation.”

  “And the lady Laas ...?”

  Reswen looked sidelong at Krruth, then smiled slightly. “The lady Laas is assisting the police with their inquiries,” he said.

  Krruth’s face didn’t move, not by a whisker, and Reswen had to admire his restraint. Gods, with control like that, the mrem ought to be promoted. Except that the only place to promote him to would be my job. “I’m taking today off,” Reswen said, “and possibly tomorrow. You and Sithen can handle the office between you, yes? Or is Haven keeping you too busy?”

  “Indeed not,” Krruth said. “They’re having parties every night, but the staff have their ears open as usual. They’ll send for me if anything of interest comes up.”

  “Very well, then. See you tomorrow, or the next day, it might be.”

  “If we need to reach you—”

  “Don’t,” Reswen said, waved, and hurried out the door. He could feel Krruth staring after him.

  He didn’t care.

  •

  Lorin sat in his house, bent over the books, muttering to himself. He had always had difficulty with books; that was another reason why he had never made more than an indifferent wizard. There was nothing wrong with his scholarship—in fact, he was better with languages than most—but his eyes hurt him when he tried to read in any light but daylight. And he was not about to take these books out in the street and read them—indeed not.

  He groped sideways for the damp cloth that he had been using to wipe his tearing eyes, dabbed at them, tossed it aside again. The paraphernalia of his bookmaking business had been pushed off to one side of his rough table, and a heap of books lay atop the ledgers and the little piles of cash money wrapped in notes that told for whom they were intended. The books were for the most part not as old-looking as wizards’ books were usually thought to be. That was protective coloration, and a very purposeful thing. People tended to suspect ancient tomes at first sight, or at least to be interested in them. But books in a modern hand, that looked like accounting ledgers—no one cared particularly about those, especially when they were labeled as accounts for the past ten years, and the first ten or fifteen’ pages of them seemed to bear out the labeling. It was a wizard’s business, Lorin’s father had told him, to copy out all the reference works that had been left to him, and destroy the old ones. Lorin and his sore eyes had rebelled at this, but Lorin’s father had not been interested in the complaints, and Lorin’s ears had ached from much cuffing when he started the long business of copying his father’s books.

  Later he had begun to wonder whether the “protective coloration” explanation was all of the story, for copying the spells and stories and legends out was certainly a good way to learn them. His father had not had that many books, but Lorin had begun to pester him for more books to copy after the first ones were done, and as discreetly as possible, his father had gotten him more.

  That was what had gotten him and Lorin’s mother executed, at last, in that other city a long way from here. Lorin’s first reaction had been to decide to burn the books, all of them. But then he realized that that would have made everything his father had gone through count for nothing. So he had loaded up the books, taken them elsewhere, finished the copying, and burned the last ones that had not been in his own hand.

  Lorin suppressed the old inward gripe of pain that the memory still brought him, and went on turning pages. Nowadays these books had a slightly different form of protective coloration: Lorin’s handwriting, which was almost illegible even to him. He squinted at a paragraph in which he had paused to doodle in the margins: There was a picture of a mrem with a long tail, badly out of proportion and definitely female. Who was I thinking of? he wondered, and scratched idly at the parchment as he tried to read what it said. Hmm. “An infallible cure for Themm that hath a suppuration of the fur, or Mange—”

  He swore softly to himself—there were more spells in this book purporting to cure the mange than there were for anything else. And everything was all jumbled together out of order: tales of the older days, legends, and (supposed) natural history about the animals of the world; old stories, in which the usages of magic were rooted; the actual spells which grew out of the stories (or the actual events of which the stories were age-corrupted remnants); chants, discussions on the theory of magic, discussions of the discussions, commentaries, jokes, the occasional piece of poetry. It made fascinating browsing. It also made it impossible to find anything quickly. Lorin’s father had often said that “one of these days” he was going to do all his copying over and
this time add an index and cross-referencing, but all Lorin’s father’s days had abruptly come to an end on the walls of that other city, and Lorin had never had the heart, or the time, to do the job himself. Now, as usual, he was wishing that he had.

  He went past two more mange cures, muttering. He was not satisfied with his results for Reswen on the stone-and-water front. He kept having a nagging feeling that there was something about the business that he was missing. And worse, there was the matter of that brooding presence that he had sensed in dream and soulwalk: that slow, cruel, subtle presence that had been eyeing the city with increasing bloodlust. The sense of it had broken into his dreams twice more recently, and there was no sense that it was even aware of him at that point. That meant that it was somehow exercising its power. But the kind of power that would indicate meant a wizard of great talent, far greater than any wizard Lorin had ever heard of—certainly far greater than himself. And far greater than the Eastern priest, if he even was a magic-worker—for he had shown no sign of it when Lorin had looked him over. That, though, by itself, was not diagnostic. So either there was another wizard—or there was something else. Lorin was looking for the “something else,” having had (as with the stone and water) a feeling that he had missed something in his hurry the first time around.

  He turned more pages, skipping past a dissertation on the teeth of the akoos and the uses to which a wizard could put them. Lorin clucked his tongue in annoyance; he had no time for love potions. There was too much of that kind of thing going around at the moment anyway, without potions even being involved. Those two at the police house—Lorin shuddered a little, wondering whether Reswen knew what he was getting himself into, having anything to do with one of those at all. A charismatic in a bad temper could drive a mrem to his death without even trying, and their tempers, supposedly, were variable and unpredictable things. No, indeed, Reswen would be well away from the situation, but he seemed to be getting deeper into it instead. Lorin simply hoped that he wouldn’t get his paws burnt off.