Wings of Power

by Carl, Lillian Stewart

  Too bad that intimation of compassion was coming so late to Ferangipur Gard would not profit by it. The lens of his thought turned, the ray of light in his mind brightened. A tendril of silver smoke rose from the tinder in his bones. Senmut’s voice said, “You can only become an adept if you want to . . .”

  Rajinder’s younger brother shared the same handsome features, but of friable ceramic, not carved stone. Vijay lazed on his cushion like a lizard on a warm rock, smoothing his own mustache and contemplating the effect in a silver bowl. Then he craned over the table to scrutinize Deva. Gard scowled; he had seen such expressions on shoppers at the Iksandarun produce market.

  Deva pulled the end of her sari around her head and across her face. The expression in her eyes became, if possible, even more bland. “Vijay’s wife,” she whispered to Gard after the prince’s frustrated eye roved on, “died last year. He locked himself in his chambers for two months, not bathing, not eating, not speaking, and when he finally emerged was so hungry he began pinching every fruit available and many that were not.”

  “Oh,” murmured Gard. He could be sympathetic; apparently the young prince had not numbered Deva among his pluckings.

  The silver smoke wafted to the top of Gard’s skull and hung there in a fine mist. The daemon beneath his heart exhaled gently onto the smoldering tinder. Outside, near the fountain, invisible wings stirred. The hair on the back of his neck stirred in response. Just the peahen, he told himself, mourning its mate, who was now a gaudily adorned carcass.

  Deva stiffened. She drew the sari so far over her face he could see only her bright and baleful brown eyes, targeting a massive man who stood in the entrance to the courtyard. Backlit, his darkened form seemed to fill the doorway. The words leaped from Deva’s mind to Gard’s, “Bogatyl. The Grand Vizier. My former—owner. Amathe’s murderer.”

  The fire in Gard’s gut blazed up. The marigold blossoms crinkled on his tunic. His perceptions drifted on the silver smoke, coiling among the pillars surrounding the room, pirouetting above the gardens glimpsed beyond, brushing against the carved tracery of the ceiling. The smoke dislodged ephemeral flakes of gold leaf that danced sparkling in the updraft of his imagination.

  Bogatyl stepped into the banqueting hall, made a deep obeisance to Jamshid—to which the old man responded with a distracted nod—and pulled a scroll from his tunic. Crystals dangling from his turban collided discordantly as he began to read some long and involved prayer. A well-memorized prayer, for his eyes strayed away from the paper, fastened upon Deva, and widened, puzzled and then aghast, without his gruff voice missing a word.

  Gard snorted. The pentacle on his chest grumbled to itself. The little daemon’s hackles rippled. The flecks of gold melted into a shining nugget. Out of all the people here only Bogatyl recognized Deva’s eyes. Not fair; it was not her eyes which had once interested him.

  Deva looked down at the marble floor, her shoulders hunched defensively. And Gard had told her she would never see the man. He writhed; I am getting damnably tired of playing the fool!

  His silent cry threw the nugget of melted gold into the outstretched paws of the diminutive daemon. With a sly grin the creature tossed it, kneaded it, molded it until it began to take on a shape.

  Jamshid was dozing. No, wait, there was a brief cunning flicker between the seamed lids. He was not evaluating Bogatyl but Rajinder’s reaction to Bogatyl.

  The prince’s expression remained impassive except for a slight flare of his nostrils. So he did not care for the Vizier. Bogatyl, judging by his heavy-lidded glance at the heir, knew quite well that the days of his office were numbered equal to the days of Jamshid’s life.

  Bogatyl droned to a halt, bowed mockingly to Gard, and withdrew to stand behind Jamshid. Deva stifled what might have been either a groan or a laugh. The music ceased. The priests stood and began to wail. Stomachaches like his own? Gard wondered. An acid blaze leaping up the back of the throat?

  No, they were chanting, eerie glissandos of notes modulated by ululations and shrieks, as though the multitudinous Ferangi gods were quarreling with each other for precedence. One voice rose above the rest, Vaiswanara’s minion, no doubt.

  Several servants surreptitiously manhandled a giant earthenware pot into the garden. The dragonet’s eyes glittered in the light of the gold it worked. Gard’s heart hammered like Senmut’s mallet upon its anvil. What, by the old monk’s beard, was the small daemon-creature making? The shape shifted elusively as he peered at it, just as the defiant glint of magic in his veins teased his mind, his hands, his bones. “An adept,” sighed Senmut’s voice.

  The day was waning into late afternoon. Chamberlains ushered in various dignitaries, outlanders allowed to watch the important people at their feast . . . The dragonet yelped, burning its paws. Gard sat bolt upright, swearing under his breath. A dark face, a debonair smile—Tarek.

  Bogatyl sprinkled salt from the ornate cellar onto a bowl of cracked wheat and presented it to Jamshid, murmuring, “The ambassador of the Alliance to pay his respects on the occasion of the Festival, Nazib-ji.”

  Jamshid’s eyes opened a bit further, considered Tarek’s sweeping bow, dismissed him. Well, thought Gard, Jamshid could afford to dismiss him. As for those of us caught in circles of happenstance and coincidence, plot and magic . . . Tarek bowed, less sweepingly, to Gard. His flinty eyes did not spark with the least recognition, but a hint of glittering indigo stirred about his body in private acknowledgment, and, perhaps, challenge.

  Deva frowned curiously at Tarek, as if his face stirred some faraway memory—probably she remembered him from Chandrigore. The dragonet stamped, leaped, and flourished its gold artifact. A small pair of wings, Gard realized, crafted with such care that each tiny feather-strand was detailed. Falcon’s wings? Or the wings of something else? It did not matter, not now.

  I can only become an adept if I have to—to save my life, to save Deva’s life, to take up a challenge . . . Insolently the dragonet pressed the wings onto the gold pentacle. Its hum deepened. The pouch vibrated beneath Gard’s tunic. His spine rippled like the banners upon the battlements of the city. Deva stared up at him, the sapphire in her nose flashing blue, her aura rippling obstinately. Surely everyone else in the room could also hear the deep note of the winged pentacle, like thunder on a summer evening.

  But the lords and ladies of the court picked at their food, exchanging small talk. The servants shuffled about. The giant jar squatted malevolently beside the fountain; a breeze blew scented droplets over it, darkening the ocher clay into the color of dried blood. Tarek abandoned Gard and murmured something to Bogatyl about a stallion, a gift for Jamshid, from the windy plains of Giremon, where the best horses were bred.

  A servant presented to Jamshid a goblet heavy with jewels. With the help of all three of his children, Jamshid tottered to his feet. They advanced on the khaddi, the goblet floating before them like the flagship of a fleet.

  Gard rose from the throne and offered his most aristocratic bow to the Rajah. Deva stood beside him, tense as a bowstring. “My thanks, Nazib-ji, for allowing me to sit upon your throne. I have one more request, though, before I take my leave.” The dragonet cavorted across his belly and he smothered a burp. “I would like to spend an hour or so in your most sumptuous bedchamber, with my woman here.”

  Deva glared at him. Almighty Saavedra! Can you think of nothing else!

  “Hush!” he ordered her under his breath. Bogatyl’s reaction was most gratifying, his face darkening, his hands clenching. Vijay grinned, Srivastava frowned, Rajinder’s brows shot upward. Tarek smiled thinly, just the tips of his canine teeth showing between his lips, and eyed Deva speculatively.

  “This is not according to custom,” said Jamshid’s querulous voice, the distant echo of a bellow.

  Gard essayed a crazed grin. He raised his hand. The goblet lifted from the Rajah’s grasp, spun in midair, wafted to Gard’s fingertips. “Of course,” he purred, “I must have my cordial first.”

  Oh, he h
ad their attention now. Every eye in the room was upon him; he was surrounded by a sea of lustrous dark beryls. Servants peered from the doorways. A musician dropped his shenai with a clatter.

  The goblet floated upward and tilted. The liquid poured like a skein of scarlet thread over the rim. Gard threw back his head and opened his mouth to the stream. It was hot, aromatic with cloves that did not quite conceal a lurking acridity. Breath control, muscle control—his throat opened and the liquid ran like molten lead into his stomach.

  The pentacle jerked against his chest. The dragonet, drenched in the descending flood, made little red paw-prints upon his quivering muscles. Deva pressed her hand to her mouth, muting a cry that welled up to bulge in her eyes. Gard let the goblet settle into his hand. Every face followed it down.

  Tarek’s mouth tightened into a broad smile, revealing even more teeth. Because he wants to see me dead? Gard wondered. Or because he wants to see me prove myself? Bogatyl’s face curdled. Rajinder, enthralled, said to a servant, “Take them to my bedchamber.”

  Gard saluted them all with the goblet. Odd, how heavy it was. And how cold, to have contained a hot drink.

  Jamshid turned away, shaking his head so that the feathers in his turban shivered. The watching crowd chattered like magpies. Gard took Deva firmly by the arm. “Do you have our bundle?” he asked her.

  She hoisted it, sputtering like water poured into hot oil.

  As they followed the servant the poisoned wine began to congeal in Gard’s stomach, becoming quicksand, and the dragonet tried frantically to scrape it from its paws.

  * * * * *

  The door shut behind them, concealing the soft music, the animated voices, the soothing splash of water. What kernel of cruelty was at the core of the Ferangi, Gard wondered, that they could enjoy committing murder? The religious impulse is so often blinding, not enlightening . . .

  No time now for philosophy. He blinked. He and Deva stood in the midst of a vast room. A brilliant block of sunshine crept across a floor that was a mosaic of marble and semiprecious stones depicting various flowers. The walls were frescoed scenes of hunters racing after tiger and gazelle, then relaxing amid harp- and shenai-playing slave-girls. Strewn about were cushions, carved sandalwood chests, great fans of ostrich and peacock plumes, and objects which seemed to have no purpose other than to add to the dyspeptic splendor—cascading beads, sculptured flowers, trees carved out of jade and tiny incense burners emitting curling tendrils of smoke. Several miniature sheshamwood horses stood in a circle upon the floor as some child—Rajinder’s son?—had left them.

  The room and its furnishings whirled like the tides in the sea around Minras. Gard tasted cloves. Lotus. Patchouli. Hazel. Wine coated the back of his throat and yet his mouth was oddly dry. He threw down the garlands of marigold. Each blossom shattered upon the floor as if made of glass.

  Deva was no longer at his side. His side was cold. The dragonet scrambled around his stomach.

  Gard set the goblet down on a nearby table—why had he brought the damn thing? It was jeweled, yes, and valuable, but he could hardly count his riches now, just as he could hardly count his fears. The crash of metal against wood reverberated down the room, making each frescoed being glance sharply up. “Deva?” There she was, her form wavering like a sea-creature seen through water. “Deva, I had no choice but to drink it.”

  She was, strangely enough, rooting about under the huge bed. “You can intend only one thing,” she called. “We had better get busy.”

  No, he did not have to explain to her! He took a step. The mosaic stems on the floor twisted upward and seized his legs. The hunters on the walls reined in and turned to look at him, lances quivering like the teeth of hungry wolves. The slave girls laid down their harps and beckoned. The winged pentacle squirmed against his skin with small interrogatory mutters.

  Deva emerged from under the bed, brushed off her hands, plunged into a nearby chest. “Hurry!” she called.

  Gard dragged one foot forward, placed it, struggled to lift another. The pattern of his thought skewed and blurred. “Yes, my dear,” he mumbled. What a shame his lips were so numb. “I know how much you want me.” He reached for her, setting his hands on her hips.

  She unfurled from her crouch with a snap. She batted away his groping fingers. “You idiot! Get out Senmut’s herbs right now, or you shall never have me again, I promise you!”

  His face fell. How could she threaten him so cruelly!

  The dragonet reeled against Gard’s ribs. Its claws, clutching at his breastbone for purchase, tore away stupor and left bloody tracks of lucidity. Cup, poison, death. While Bogatyl would probably be only too pleased to add Deva to his ceramic coffin, and while the huge pot would be very cozy, they would be dead, so it would be difficult to effectively embrace . . .

  Deva held a slop bowl and a carafe of water. There were the herb packets. “Bryony,” Gard articulated, peering at the labels. “And antithora. Will that do?” His tongue had swollen to ridiculous proportions.

  “Walk!” Deva ordered him. “Shake out your wits! Hurry!” She began pouring the herbs into the carafe.

  Obediently Gard paced across the floor, slipping and sliding as the jeweled patterns formed and reformed in tiny slithery falls of pebbles beneath his feet. The toy horses pranced around him. The dragonet pulled itself erect, lifted its tail, and determinedly strode up and down Gard’s stomach.

  Breathe in, Gard told himself. Breathe out. Shakhmi, shakhmi . . . He bent and stretched and stepped off the patterns of his exercises. Good, his heart was not pounding quite so irregularly now, his hands and lips were losing some of their numbness. This mad scheme might actually work. He shoved the dragonet onto its face in the turgid red liquid. Earn your keep.

  Grumbling, the daemon began scooping out handfuls of the poison wine like a sailor bailing out a boat. The liquid gathered in the back of Gard’s throat and he spat into the bowl.

  “Here,” said Deva. “Drink. Magic can only do so much.”

  He drank. By the sardonic humor of Saavedra, what a vile mixture! The dragonet scurried aside as the herbs and water poured into Gard’s stomach, and then leaped in after them. It danced, squashing the leaves and stems into a repulsive potion.

  Gard braced himself upon the table. Breathe in, breathe out. Limbs curved like the strokes of an arcane symbol. Eyes fixed upon the flaring light in Deva’s face—a blue star in her nostril, throwing out rays of light that were reflected in her eyes, that rang the pentacle on his chest—the sound of blue, he thought. The tranquility of a still pool. Very pretty. Like her. The blood drained abruptly from his own face and his gut churned. With a whoop the dragonet scrambled out of the way.

  A few very disagreeable moments later Gard lifted his cheek from the rim of the slop-bowl and croaked, “Is that enough?”

  Deva mopped his gelid forehead with a corner of her sari. “It should be. They gave you enough poison to kill three men. No one without power could have rid himself of all of it. And if the poison had not worked, the chopped tiger whiskers would have.”

  “Chopped tiger whiskers?”

  She smiled grimly. “What Bogatyl gave to Amathe. Days later you die in terrible pain, and everyone thinks something burst in your belly.”

  “Someday,” Gard told her, “something might.”

  The dragonet crouched in the depths of his gut, tiny claws picking small glittering fragments from the carnelian scum. Gard gagged and spat again. His lips were gritty and he wiped them. He firmed the slight tremble of his limbs. “Bogatyl saw you with me. He knew that I knew there was poison in that goblet.”

  “He shall be nicely intimidated when you survive it.”

  “I hope so.” Wings brushed the back of his neck, the swooping raptor of consequences. They could climb out the window and run, chased by irate squads of soldiers and citizens alike . . . No, no more running. “What if I return to the banquet alive and well and they decide to uncomplicate matters with a spear thrust?”

 
“Sumitra’s letter would make a very nice shield.”

  “Hellfrost, why go through this charade and then use the letter?” A vile taste lingered in his mouth. He summoned another carafe of water with a snap of his fingers, and when it had slipped down the table to his hand, drank deeply. The dragonet leaned weakly against his spine, slid down it to a sitting position, sank its head into its paws with a weary sigh.

  “It would be a shame,” said Deva, “to go through this charade, only to die upon a point of pride.”

  She was right. She was always right. Her eyes shot blue flame over him, searing away the last remnants of his mental fog like sunshine clearing a misty morning. Gard snorted, cleaned his teeth with a damp rag and groped into his pouch. The pentacle was still blazing hot. Was the letter only ashes? No, there it was, as pristine despite its vicissitudes as the day Sumitra had given it to him. But something had changed.

  “I shall surely be damned,” he murmured. Deva peered into his hands. There was the pentacle he had made in Dhan Bagrat, embedded with entirely tangible gold wings. For a moment neither of them spoke. Then the dragonet began to snore, and with a grimace Gard thrust the enhanced amulet, along with the letter, back into the leather bag. Too late for the letter. The pentacle would be his shield, edged with damnation or not.

  A toy horse had fallen over. He gestured it back upright. “Thank you,” he said to Deva, “for helping me.”

  “Our fates are linked.”

  Her eyes were wide and guileless. If she had been complacent he might have been angry. As it was, he could reply only with his own wry smile. “Yes, I am afraid they are.”

  Deva turned to the noxious slop bowl, raised her hands, muttered an incantation. Steam rose. The contents turned into similarly distasteful but quite ordinary liquids. Her face averted, she replaced the bowl in its cupboard. “Domestic slave, domestic talents,” she told Gard with a wicked grin. Then she rinsed the jeweled goblet and stowed it in her bundle. “Have we not earned some payment this afternoon?”