The God-Touched Man

by Melissa McShane

  The light from the useless window grew dimmer as he worked away at his bonds. Piercy’s stomach was hollow from hunger, and his fingers were growing numb. He heard nothing except his labored breathing and the occasional prickling noise of the rat, who seemed to be gnawing through one of the bags. Piercy wasn’t afraid of rats, but the feeling of being alone in a space he couldn’t see the limits of was making him claustrophobic.

  Finally his hands were free, and he rubbed feeling back into them before cutting the ropes around his ankles. That went more quickly, and when the final strand parted, he shoved the knife back into his boot and breathed more deeply, then coughed on the dust remaining in the air. He closed his eyes and began composing a prayer of thanks to whichever of the Gods watched over men like him, along with a request for divine favor. He wasn’t particularly religious, and he had a vaguely uncomfortable feeling that perhaps the Gods disliked worshipers who only came to them when they were in desperate need, but surely a little thanks might make them more inclined to bless him. He tried not to think about the possibility that this was all part of some divine plan.

  Chapter Nine

  The rasping skree of the key in the lock made him sit up. The door opened, revealing the giant form of his captor. “Out,” he said.

  Piercy stood, not very steadily, and bowed. “I would be happy to oblige you, but I have yet to recover from your abundant hospitality.”

  The giant’s dark face creased in a frown. He muttered something in Santerran that might have included the words “free” and “sorcery.” Then he took hold of Piercy’s arm and dragged him into the hall, twisting his arm painfully up and around and making Piercy grunt in pain. “Truly your hospitality is the stuff of legends,” he said through gritted teeth. “I will be sure to tell all my friends to arrange to be captured by you.”

  The man cuffed him across the face, probably not as hard as he was capable of but hard enough to make Piercy’s ears ring, and frog-marched Piercy back down the coffin-dark hall and up a flight of stairs almost too narrow to admit the two of them at once. At the top of the stairs, a door on the right opened on a low-ceilinged room with a floor covered by a dirty carpet, warmed by a merry fire. It would have been cheerful except for the presence of the other four Santerrans, who stood in various poses throughout the room, all of them relaxed in a way that told Piercy they were prepared to kill him if he so much as looked at them in a funny way.

  Lady Sethemba sat in a comfortably padded chair near the fire whose high back looked like it was sheltering her. She looked unharmed, and a weight of worry slipped away. Of course she could take care of herself, but there were five of them, and even she might have trouble with five.

  One of the men, a burly but handsome fellow with skin the color of burnt caramel and a shaved head, took a step away from where he’d been standing next to Lady Sethemba. “You dared kidnap a princess?” he said, and Piercy recognized his raspy voice and the strange accent, as if he had a pebble under his tongue. “For your depraved lusts, no doubt.”

  “I did not kidnap the princess,” Piercy replied politely but firmly. “That is, she is not the woman you believe her to be, but in either case no kidnapping occurred.”

  “I expect nothing but lies from a smooth-talking sorcerer such as yourself,” the raspy-voiced man said. “Kidnapped her, worked your foul magic on her, forced her to dress like a pale, deceived her into lying with you—”

  “Not one word of that is true,” Piercy said calmly, though he’d barely understood all of it. Losing his temper would probably be fatal. “I am no magician and she has not been kidnapped. Ask Lady Sethemba. She will tell you.”

  “I did tell them,” Lady Sethemba said irritably. “I’ve never even heard of this Princess Fahari. They’re convinced I’m under a spell.”

  “You can tell us the truth, your Highness,” the man said, dropping to kneel by her seat. “There is no shame in having been deceived and stolen away from your loving family and husband-to-be.”

  “My name is Ayane Sethemba, and you are the deluded ones, because I’m sure I don’t look anything like your princess.” Lady Sethemba was controlling her anger much more poorly than Piercy. “I’m sorry you’ve lost her, but I want to leave now.”

  The man stood again and pointed at Piercy. “You see the damage your spell has done,” he said. “Reverse it, and we will not kill you.”

  “I’m not a magician—a sorcerer,” Piercy said. “There is no spell.”

  “You freed yourself,” the giant rumbled. “You could only have done that through sorcery.”

  Piercy didn’t want them searching him and possibly finding some of the other surprises he had stashed away, so he let it go. “Gentlemen, I assure you, whatever Lady Sethemba’s resemblance—”

  “There is no woman named Ayane in the Sethemba line,” one of the other men said, his accent easier to understand. “Your ruse is a poor one.”

  Piercy closed his eyes and prayed for patience. “Whatever the lady’s name, it is not Fahari Kuniwazi,” he said, fixing his eyes on the leader and willing him to believe the truth. “How certain are you of her identity? Is she truly so much like your princess?”

  “She can be no other,” said the raspy-voiced man. “No Santerran noblewoman would go so deep into the country of the pales without her retinue. Princess Fahari was stolen away in the night by some unknown force. Now that we know you have cast a spell altering her memory, her disappearance makes sense.”

  “So what you are saying,” said Piercy, “is that you have never actually seen this princess.” Who probably fled her home because of men with your keen intellect and understanding.

  “We do not need to see her to know her identity.” The raspy voiced man drew a knife from his belt and approached Piercy. “Restore her memory.”

  “I cannot,” Piercy said.

  The man laid the sharp edge of his blade along Piercy’s throat. “Reconsider.”

  Piercy swallowed, and the knife’s edge stung. Time for a different approach. “If you kill me, you’ll never get her back,” he said.

  “Mr. Faranter, do not be a fool,” Lady Sethemba said in Dalanese.

  “I am a fool about many things,” Piercy said, “but not about this.” In Santerran, he said, “I will reverse the spell, but you must stand back.”

  The man glared at him for a moment in which Piercy was sure he was about to end his days lying on the dirty floor with his blood soaking the filthy carpet, then walked around behind him and went to stand near the door, blocking it. Piercy rubbed his hands together to limber up his fingers, thinking furiously. He was fairly certain no one had ever made a spell that did what they believed he’d done to Lady Sethemba, which indicated a lack of understanding of magic—that made sense, given that Lady Sethemba had said Santerre had never had many magicians. So…

  “You swear I will go free?” he said, to give his performance a touch of reality. The man nodded, too quickly, and Piercy suppressed a smile. No subtlety whatsoever. He shook his hands out, drew himself up to his full height, and brought his hands up in front of him. “No reaction, please,” he told Lady Sethemba in Dalanese in a monotone, as if reciting ritual words. “Just sit there as if nothing is happening to you.”

  She gave him a look that clearly said Because nothing will happen to me, you idiot and folded her hands neatly in her lap.

  Piercy gestured in a way that, if he’d been Evon, would have preceded desini cucurri, and said, “This is not the threat I thought we would face today. I think I preferred it when you were worshiped as a goddess. Go ahead and say something.”

  “You are without a doubt the most brazen, overconfident man I have ever met,” she said, closing her eyes and mimicking his monotone.

  “It’s hardly overconfidence if I succeed.” In Santerran, he said, in a tight, pained voice as if he were exerting himself to his limit, “It is a difficult spell to remove. Please have patience. I am drawing the false memory from her, as you can no doubt hear in her voice.”<
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  “Stop talking and do it,” said the raspy-voiced man.

  Piercy gestured again. “We cannot pretend you have regained your memory,” he said.

  “I know. Because they will kill you and force me to return to Santerre, where the real Princess Fahari’s loving family will have me executed for impersonating her. Do you know where Mr. Hodestis went?”

  “Time enough to worry about that later. For now, I intend simply to give us time to concoct a better plan. Can you escape their gentle captivity?”

  “I can. What of you?”

  “With the ease of a butterfly slipping free of its chrysalis. It is nightfall already. Let them believe we are powerless, and we will escape as they sleep. Then we will track down Mr. Hodestis and speak very sharply to him of the consequences of betraying us.” Piercy waved his hands once more, then sagged to his knees and put one hand on the floor as if to prop himself up. “It is beyond my power at this time,” he wheezed. “I will need a greater ritual. In the morning.”

  He froze as cold steel again touched the side of his throat. “I think you lie,” the raspy-voiced man said.

  “I have no reason to lie to you,” Piercy said, trying to move as little as possible. “You have convinced me I am a foul, desperate villain whose only hope of redemption is freeing her Highness from the despicable spell I have cast over her. I beg you only to allow me the chance to save myself from the Maelstrom of Cath’s Death-Lands.”

  The knife was removed. A moment later he was dragged to his feet and held roughly between two of the Santerrans. “Feed him,” the leader said, “then bind him again so he does not escape. In the morning we will see you work your magic or we will see you dead.”

  Piercy caught Lady Sethemba’s eye. She nodded, the barest movement of her head. He was lifted off his feet and carried back down the stairs and into the storage room. The giant stayed with him, leaning against the door and grinning at him in an unpleasant way. It was like being menaced by a mountain.

  Soon the other man came back with a giant turkey leg and a hunk of bread, as well as a waterskin that sloshed wetly when he tossed it at Piercy. Piercy fumbled it intentionally. Every opportunity he could exploit to make himself look incompetent was one step closer to freedom. He ate messily, drank and then splashed water over his greasy hands before drying them on his trousers. The men took the remnants of his meal, tied his hands more tightly than before, and left him locked in the room again. Piercy sat on the familiar sacks of grain and listened. When all he could hear was the skritching of the rat, he dug in his boot for his knife and with a long, exasperated sigh once more cut himself free.

  Once the little knife had done its job, he sheathed it and contemplated his position. The lack of other noise indicated the inn was empty except for their captors, which seemed strange—except in this era, any Santerrans venturing this far north would be wealthy. If they thought of the Dalanese as “pales”—in modern times a derogatory term for the Despot’s invading forces, but one that historically had applied to anyone not Santerran—they might easily rent an entire inn to protect themselves from whatever threat it was they thought pales were to them. In any case, it was likely he and Lady Sethemba wouldn’t have to fight their way out through scores of guests, none of whom ought to be involved in the conflict. That was something in their favor.

  He stood and went to the door, feeling for the lock. It was ancient even by this era’s standards, and big enough that he could almost put his pinky finger all the way through it. His slim little lock picks might not be sturdy enough to handle it. Piercy slid them out of their casings in his boot seams anyway. It would give him something to do while he was waiting for Lady Sethemba to come for him, and he had no doubt she would come for him.

  It was a strange feeling, having someone to work with. He’d never been partnered with anyone before—hadn’t had assignments where that would matter, and certainly hadn’t had assignments like this before. He stopped prodding the lock and felt along his chin; he was definitely in need of a shave, his original clothes were ruined, and he’d just wiped grease all over his trouser legs. He grinned into the darkness. He hadn’t had this much fun in years.

  Someone fumbled at the other side of the lock, and he stepped back and put his lock picks away. A rasping click, and the door swung open, revealing a pale smudge that was Lady Sethemba’s linen shirt. “I’m surprised you’re still here,” she said. “I thought you would have escaped already.”

  “And fail to give you the opportunity to rescue me? The Gods forbid,” Piercy said. “Where now?”

  “Where’s Hodestis?”

  “I have no idea. I was busy being tied up and carried off like a particularly aggressive sack of grain. I assume he took the horses and wagon and fled.”

  “Then we’ll need mounts to track him down. He’s got all the money, too.”

  “At least we know the route he will—”

  An explosion cracked the night open, followed by the tinkling sound of broken glass, and red and gold firelight blossomed at the far end of the passage. Piercy fumbled for Lady Sethemba’s hand and dragged her along to the outside door. As they neared it, heat and light battered at them, preventing them from moving forward. Another explosion, this one above their heads, drove them back a few steps. “What now?” Lady Sethemba shouted over the noise of the fire and, more distantly, screaming.

  “We find another way out,” Piercy shouted back. They ran back toward the storage room, past the sound of heavy boots on the stairs, and ducked around a corner. “They’ll come looking for us in a minute.”

  Lady Sethemba tugged his hand. “This way,” she said, and they ran down the new hallway, ducking under the smoke that had begun to fill it, to a kitchen that was empty and dark save for the coals burning on the hearth. Light coming through the window was just bright enough to show the outline of a door. They dove at it, tried to go through at the same time, then Piercy stepped back and let Lady Sethemba go first.

  The kitchen door opened on a yard fenced in by slender pickets woven with withies like a basket. A henhouse sat in the center of the yard, and despite the now distant sound of the fire, Piercy heard the low-voiced coos and chirrups of the hens drowsing in their nests. Lady Sethemba pulled free of his hand and started feeling along the low fence for a gate. “My apologies,” Piercy said, stepped over it, and grasped Lady Sethemba around the waist and swung her over before she could protest. “I hope you have no objection to becoming a horse thief.”

  “If it’s these idiots’ horses we steal, I call that a fair trade.”

  The stables, which looked far too rickety to contain even the weakest foal, were adjacent to the kitchen. The noise and the fire, though not very near, had made the horses nervous, and Piercy kept a lookout while Lady Sethemba ran down the line of stalls, choosing acceptable mounts. “Here,” she said, and went into the second stall from the end.

  Piercy continued to keep watch along the road. There were a lot of people milling about in front of the inn, where the explosions had been. The disaster was keeping them all busy, but eventually the Santerrans would think to look for their captives, and they needed to be gone before that happened.

  A figure detached itself from the crowd, coming rapidly their way. Piercy ducked out of sight. There was no way to tell if it was a Santerran, it was too dark and the figure was backlit by the fire, but he readied himself to attack anyway. Let us see how you feel when the boot is on the other foot and kicks you in an intimate location.

  The figure came through the gate to the stables. Piercy grabbed him and twisted his arm behind his back, kicked the back of his knees to make him fall, and said, “Your curiosity will be your downfall, sir.”

  “Mr. Faranter?”

  “Mr. Hodestis? What in Cath’s five hells are you doing here?”

  “Freeing you, I thought. Will you let me go?” Piercy released him and the man rubbed his arm. “I followed you when those men captured you both. I hope you don’t mind that it took me so lon
g, but I thought I should wait to cast the spells until full nightfall, to have the most disorienting effect.”

  “I think you succeeded.”

  “Mr. Faranter, hurry!” Lady Sethemba said. She was almost done saddling one of the chestnut horses and was pointing at the stall next to hers. Piercy joined her and began saddling the horse’s neighbor. “Why is he here?” she said.

  “I was trying to help,” Hodestis said. He sounded hurt. “I hoped you would believe I mean to follow through on my promise. I even brought your stick.” He pulled the walking stick free from where it had been stuck through his belt and offered it to Piercy, who took it with some bemusement. He hadn’t thought Hodestis was that level-headed.

  “We could have escaped without the noise.”

  “Not as readily.” Piercy wasn’t sure why he defended Hodestis. They probably could have run more easily if the explosions hadn’t drawn the Santerrans’ attention to their escape. Even so, Hodestis had come back for them, hadn’t stolen away, and a tiny part of Piercy felt obliged to acknowledge that. “Thank you, Mr. Hodestis. Do you have the wagon?”

  “Yes, and Lady Sethemba’s horse. I left them a few streets away.”

  “Very logical thinking,” Lady Sethemba said, somewhat to Piercy’s surprise, “assuming no one has stolen them,” and hauled Hodestis up behind her. “Now, let us leave.”

  “Wait,” Piercy said. “They will certainly follow us if they are able. I suggest we delay them.”

  “How?” said Lady Sethemba.

  “Hold this one’s reins,” Piercy said, “and keep watch.” He located the tack almost by feel, then bridled each of the three remaining horses while trying to stay out from under their restless feet. Finally, he led them out of their stalls, mounted, and said, “Ride.”