by Janet Morris
"Neither am I. Talk to the Riddler. Or Niko. Later. Now, you're going to read this dead man and tell us who we're looking for." "Whom." "What?"
"Looking for whom."
Though Randal, angry himself, had been correcting Critias, the task force leader misunderstood. "I saw his papers before he was robbed. The name on them was Belize. Very comprehensive safe-conducts, issued in the capital. Grillo says he hadn't heard anything about a new agent being sent up here, which is what this man must have been. I know one when I see one; the papers just confirmed it. I want to know if Grille's lying. Can you tell me that?"
"Perhaps." Randal squared his shoulders. They did need him. He didn't feel so short, so put-upon, or so resentful. "But reading the dead… it's not pleasant."
Grit's grin flashed. "I imagine not."
"So you'll have to bear with me. Ask me again what you want to know when I've got him—made contact with whatever's left, that is. It's just impressions… I might act… strangely." They were passing by a pair of specials who had a groom with them.
Once they were past, Randal continued. "So bear with me. It's… frightening."
"I understand. No one's going to draw any conclusions about you from this. Just don't let on to Grillo that we're wondering how it is that he didn't know about this fellow. I'll buy you a round of whatever strikes your fancy afterward. But my gut's telling me this isn't just a random incident. I came upon this Belize in the souk about curfew and escorted him here myself. Checked him out. He didn't know anything about the town, not even enough to get a room before dark."
So that was it: Critias was afraid he might be implicated. The task force leader didn't make friends easily, and he and Grillo were de facto rivals. Of all the private militias in Tyse, the Stepsons and the specials enjoyed the most open contention. When they weren't chasing Mygdonian-backed death squads or Nisibisi refugees in the free zone, they were rousting each other. The army, of which Tyse had a surfeit—four garrisons, one at each compass point—was Rankan, and thus Grillo, should he choose to, could call on garrison aid. None speculated on what arrangement existed between Tempus and Grillo, but everyone knew it was strained, now that they weren't fighting a common enemy. During periods of inactivity, with no declared or obvious foe, mercenaries and career soldiers engaged in urban war gaming to keep sharp their "edge." Part of Grille's "edge" was caravaning contraband surreptitiously; Critias had recently interdicted a shipment entering Tyse which Grillo couldn't have owned, but in which he surely had invested heavily. The proceeds from the auction of this "unclaimed" salvage were now in the Stepsons' pension fund.
It was, Randal knew, a war within a war, kept under wraps only by Tempus's and Grillo's need to keep up appearances—and to some extent by their shared interest in the continued survival of Free Nisibisis and its charismatic leader, Bashir. Technically, Tempus outranked Grillo, being a Rankan general. Long off the active-duty list, however, in order to employ questionable methods and lead the mercenary life with his Sacred Band without being subject to the constraints of Rankan oversight, he'd come to Tyse seeking vengeance upon the Nisibisi mages. Some said the interests in Ranke he served weren't those of the emperor. Randal didn't want to find out the truth of it. Even a seventh-level Hazard was mortal; the Riddler was not.
Critias was talking to him as they mounted the steps, where Grillo could hear every word. "… a woman's weapon, or a child's. Just lay your hands on him and give us your impressions, or whatever you do. Then we can close the matter."
"Maybe," Grillo amended. His features were aristocratic, Rankan perfect; he was dressed like a Tysian hillman, but then he never wore a uniform, and even his hair changed colors. Grillo's eyes, however, were a piercing Rankan blue, and his intellect was not to be underestimated.
Randal would have lied for Critias, but he hoped Critias realized he wouldn't be able to: one read what one read; one saw what one saw. In the deep trance he'd need to summon to see what Belize had seen, such matters as white lies and quotidian advantage would fade from him: he would be Belize. And he would be dying.
He shivered, told both agents to back off a bit. "I need quiet, room to relax."
They did, and he saw Critias's hand slip into his pouch where the Stepson carried his charms and amulets.
Then Randal touched his own amulet, whispered a ward so that his mind could not be snatched or tainted by hostile forces while he gave it up to a dead man, and folded into a squat beside the corpse who'd been called Belize.
His fingers brought incense out of his belt. He lit it with a flint and steel, feeling the tingling of trance begin in his toes, and put the joss stick in the dead man's mouth.
Even before his palms had gone to the temples of the dead man, as he felt the cool lips touch his fingertips, he got an impression: another pair of lips the dead man had seen, lips with a gold coin between them, teeth biting down on a Tysian half-crown to prove it was no gold-washed copper: he saw the face of the head groom.
Then it faded. Randal's heart was pounding, pushing the trance-calm away. He called it back, breathing deeply of the joss, causing his knees to feel as if water ran over them and wondering why the "he" he sought could not remember that Belize was its name. He called that name thrice, got no further impressions, and then realized he was trying too hard.
He didn't want to call back the dead, only visit a fading mind. He closed his own eyes and felt the cold flesh, telling the corpse he would avenge its death, if only the murderer could be determined. Then he was in a stable with the smell of marsh hay in his nostrils, then coming out.
Belize was not this man's real name, he realized as he recalled like his own memory the rooftops and escape routes this sharp-eyed operator had detailed before he climbed the steps. Then he lost all sense of "Randal." His palms were sweating and he was wondering if the bad luck he'd had in meeting a Stepson who fastened on him like a leech in the souk was an evil omen as he climbed the stairs…
He'd heard a footfall, he was sure. Snnk! His throat stung. He slapped a mosquito. Then there was a burning pain and a determination to beat back death and see his assailant. The dart in his palm. Falling. Being turned, paralyzed, helpless. Wanting to hold the mugger off; then hands at his belt, at his wallet. Belize saw the face of his attacker, but it was swimming in pain and death: pale eyes, pale hair, dirt obfuscating what the poison did not. A child; a girlish, beardless face; a youth… "Randal? Randal!"
He knew that voice: Critias. He opened his eyes, knowing he couldn't yet feel his extremities, and then realized he was sprawled on top of the corpse in the exact position as was the body under him.
Legs like wood, his heart pounding loud in his ears, he scrambled off it and sat, arms around his knees, to quell his shaking. "What did I say?"
"Nothing," Grillo replied. "Not a thing."
"He's… he was… up here to contact someone, deliver a message. He wasn't thinking about that until the girl, or boy, or whatever, robbed him. Then he was just thinking that he'd been at pains to protect the message."
"The face, Randal. Did you see a face?" Crit asked.
"Blond. Pale eyes. Teenager. Girl or boy, can't say. Very dirty face. And he was partially—almost fully—paralyzed by then. But it was a child, an urchin, a street waif—someone from the free zone. Or a Rankan." Randal looked at Grillo: There were many blond Rankans; even Grillo's dark ash-blond head might once have been pale.
"Or a Mygdonian?" Grillo countered.
"Yes, a Mygdonian. There aren't that many Mygdonians in town. Plenty of youngsters in the free zone who'd fit what I saw."
"So you don't think you could recognize him or her again? If you saw a group of children, could you pick out the right one?" Critias, with narrowed eyes, asked clipped questions, no relief evident, but tension spelled out clearly on his Syrese face.
"No. Not unless I were dying of the same poison. It was a chance event, a mugging. Nothing more. Can I go? Oh, one more thing."
"Yes?" Grillo leaned forward.
> "The head groom. The man gave him a gold piece for extra service. Maybe he saw something."
Grillo pulled on his nose and unfolded from his squat. Looking down, he said, "I've got to admit I didn't think there was any point to calling in one of you people. I was wrong. Thank you, Randal. And my best to your First Hazard. Crit, I'll have my man interrogate the groom. We don't want Straton's overzealous sort of assistance on this. Or yours. It's a local item, now, something for the garrison police squads. Our regards to the Riddler." He stepped over the body and descended the stairs.
Critias blew out a long breath. "Bless you, Randal, or whatever equivalent thereof is acceptable to your kind. Ready for that round of krrf I owe you?" Critias helped the shaky young mage to his feet.
"That's not necessary. It wasn't even really magic… merely a mental trick." But Randal was proud of himself, and he'd developed a taste for krrf, the stimulant which was the fighters' recreational drug of choice. When he'd been working closely with the Stepsons he'd used it frequently; it kept his allergies in check when he was assuming animal forms.
They were walking away from the specials then and Crit gestured toward the alley which would lead them to Commerce Avenue and Brother Bomba's.
"What about Straton? Aren't you going to wait for him?"
"He'll find me." Crit bent down as if to pick up something from the dusty street, then straightened. Randal saw him peering behind to see that no one was in earshot. Then Crit said, "You'll need the krrf. I'm not through with you. And I have a feeling you've not told me everything."
"Wrong. You're wrong. See here, task force leader, I've paying customers to attend to: a spell to cast for no less than Madame Bomba herself, or one of her girls will get pregnant…"
"Randal, did the face you saw remind you of anyone? Anyone at all?"
"No. Yes. I don't know." He could see that face now, wide-eyed and towheaded. But he was telling the truth; it looked like any of a dozen urchins' faces. In the free zone, where refugees from the war lived in a squalor too bleak to be contemplated, he'd seen more faces like that than he'd like to count. He said so.
"Was there anything unusual, then—anything at all?" Crit was like a dog worrying a bone.
"No. But you know something, don't you?" Randal ventured.
"Indeed. A number of things."
They came out onto Commerce, where no curfew was observed and ladies of the evening escorted gentlemen into establishments which catered to the siege mentality that prevailed in Tyse: anything, these days, could be had on Commerce for a price.
"Something specific, something you want me to confirm."
"That poison isn't local; it's Mygdonian."
"Oh. Oh, my." The Stepsons had a hostage from the war, a highborn youth who was pale and blond and very valuable: the son of General Adrastus Ajami, the Mygdonian warlord's brother.
But before Randal could object that the boy, Shamshi, was surely well guarded and not running about the streets in rags, Critias posed a question. "That man was too good a skulker to have been surprised by a free-zone delinquent. Magic had to have been involved, or one of these mind tricks you spoke of. Did it seem like that to you?"
"No. Yes, Maybe. Please, Critias, I've got to go back. I don't think it's wise for us to be seen together in public."
"You're not going back for a while. You're going to Bandara."
"Pardon?"
"You heard me. You are to seek out your partner and inform him he's returned to active duty."
"You jest! Do you know how long that will take? You don't send an adept of the mageguild to Bandara. They won't let me in the gates. And, on top of that, what if he won't come?"
"If he'd been here, I wouldn't have needed you. Niko could have tracked down the assailant before sunrise."
"Well, he won't be able to do it by the time we get back here. He tracks by aura, so he says, and that will be long dissipated; heat trails disperse."
"Randal." Critias stopped still, fists on his sword belt. "Read my lips: You're a Stepson, dispatched to fetch your left-side leader. You've received a direct order. You don't ask questions, unless they're pertinent. Ask me how long you've got to get back here, or what I expect you to do with this money." Critias pulled a pouch from his belt. "Here."
Randal was speechless, hefting the pouch. He thought of all the reasons he couldn't do this. Then he realized he was wondering whether Nikodemos would come back at all.
"Now, let's go snort some krrf, Stepson." Randal found that he was pacing Critias and heard himself say, "As you wish, Critias. But I do have to know what the money's for and how long I've got to bring him back. He probably won't want to come by cloud-conveyance."
"You're getting better, Randal, much better. The money is for a boat. Buy one in Caronne and sail over to the Bandara Islands. Tell the secular adepts there that it's our gift to them if someone sails back to Caronne with the two of you. While you've got Niko there, have him stop by his uncle's. He's to finalize some business he's doing for Madame Bomba with his family. And you've got," Crit looked up at the sky, where the full moon was clearing the rooftops, "a maximum of ten days."
"Ten days? I was jesting, when I said cloud-conveyance," Randal sputtered.
"Ten days. You're a Hazard, aren't you? You've got Datan the archmage's mighty globe of power, don't you?"
"Well, yes, I do, but…"
"Ah, I forgot." Critias grinned. "You don't have the stand for it, do you? The golden stand with all that funny writing on it, the one it spins on. Well, I forgot to tell you: I took the stand as part of my share of the spoils. And I'll give it to you, Randal, as soon as you bring your partner back."
"You've got that? Oh, Crit… that is, sir: it's invaluable. I'll be able to utilize the globe much more effectively. Bring Niko back more easily, more quickly, if you'll just let me have it now…"
But Critias was shaking his head, chewing a piece of marsh hay he'd had behind his ear. He said around it, "Later, mageling, later. Go fetch Niko home."
* * *
As a haughty young philosopher, ages ago, before the curse which had made him a tireless wanderer, bereft of sleep and love and what men call peace, Tempus had said that "God is day/night, winter/summer, war/peace, satiety/hunger…" Further, he had proclaimed that out of all things can be made a unity, and out of a unity, all things.
The most daunting consequence of the curse which afflicted him was that he must live and learn the truth of those things he'd said when talk was idle and wisdom cheap. He called himself Tempus because time was his, unending: he was the river of it—always changing, always the same. Once he had been called The Obscure by those who knew him; now they called him the Riddler, the sleepless one, and worse behind his back.
For he was death's prophet, a living talisman of war. Those who loved him died of it; those he loved were bound to spurn him: this burden an archmage had laid upon him. He never slept; he could not die. His body regenerated itself tirelessly, even without the help of the Storm God whom he had served so long and who finally—like everything else he loved—had deserted him.
He was alone among men, no matter their quality or their number. Even surrounded by his Stepsons, his curse kept him solitary: he loved them dearly. They were mortal, to a soul. Every one of them would die and he would not. There would be many requiems to be said for them, many biers to light in the days and years ahead. So he tried not to care too much for them, the Sacred Banders and the rest.
And yet, he thought, sitting in Brother Bomba's with Bomba's wife in her office, looking down and over the patrons in the ground floor barroom through alchemically crafted one-way glass, he was not quite so alone or quite so unhappy as he customarily liked to think he was. The woman whose hospitality he enjoyed was unabashedly middle-aged, a former barber-surgeon of the armies, tough-minded and pragmatic in the face of fate and dissolution. A weathered and wrinkling smile (which would have sent a lesser woman running to the mageguild to sell a bit of soul for the illusion of youth and bea
uty) always greeted him. Eyes which had looked on fields of casualties sustained in defeat and victory always met his steadily. She was what few were to him: a respected, trusted friend. Once, long ago, they might have had congress; he couldn't remember. Women in general he found tiresome, even less likely than men to live up to their potential. But Madame Bomba had no illusions: she knew death intimately, she was free from fear and loved life too much to forget what lay at the end of it. Like her bones, her spirit was yet strong.
With her, he could speak freely. With him, she always did. If not for her husband, he continually teased her, their liberties could be extended. But that was not what they spoke about tonight.
"That woman there, the one in silk and leather like a Rankan fighting lord—you do see her, Riddler?—came in asking for you."
"How long ago?" He had come up the back stairs, as was his custom; but not gone down into the drug dens beneath as he usually did. He was avoiding someone—a female someone, a Froth Daughter from the twelfth plane come to earth to spend a year as a mortal. Six months of that year were up, and the rest of it loomed unending before him. Jihan, daughter of the nameless Stormbringer who'd spawned the world's pantheons, was spending her mortal year with him. She was his companion, perhaps his equal, but not his friend. He peered down through the smoke and the crowd. The woman who had laid her Machadi helmet on the bar and wore cavalry boots like a Syrese fighter and a cuirass some smith had had to mold from a plaster cast made live on her physique was not Jihan. This woman was not muscular enough, nor tall enough, nor was her hair burnished like copper. Jihan, though she had many superhuman attributes, could not change the shape she had chosen, the shape in which she had entered the world of men.
"How long ago?" Madame Bomba repeated, shrugging and holding up one hand to indicate with thumb and index finger the span between knots on a Tysian rope which a flame would have burned in that interval. "A Rankan hour, perhaps. She ate and drank; now she waits."
The woman drank between mercenaries at the bar; more, she drank like one. The man on her far side had his head bent to hers: a dark head, short-haired. "That's Crit with her?" Tempus ventured. The angled face was hard to make out from his vantage point.
