by Janet Morris
"You see?" Randal said to Niko with exaggerated sorrow. "It is his tooth. The tooth demon has visited him. It lives inside his tooth and it means to kill him by way of it. But first, it eats up his reason with its pain. Too bad, Straton. We'd thought, Niko and I, that you were the bravest, the strongest, of all the Stepsons. Even Tempus, we were saying just the other day, seems unable to excel you in feats of valor and stamina. But tooth demons bring the strongest men to their knees. We will remember you," Randal winked at Niko, urging him to agree, "the way you were before—a man of bravery unparalleled and a paragon of common sense and soldierly pragmatism—"
Strat eyed Randal with a look so promissory that Randal's kris rattled in its scabbard.
"He means," Niko cut in, realizing that Randal's choice of words was not making matters clear to Straton, whose face was white with pain and who shuddered every now and again and even closed his eyes once in agony, "that you'll die a coward's death, when you don't have to, if you won't let the Madame pull that tooth. Then what place will you have in heaven? You'll meet the Storm God and he'll say, "What enemy hath slain thee?" and you'll have to reply, "A tooth I wouldn't let my friends pull out." After a life of honor and glory, you'll lose your place in heaven after all. What heroics you can claim will never stand against a fool's death. You'll go down," Niko pointed repeatedly, dramatically, to the floor, "and wander eternally in the dark and rocky caverns of—"
"Cease! Desist! It hurts my head to listen to you both. My lady Bomba, do it, then. But be quick about it, before I change my mind." Straton eyed the iron, long-handled prizing tool of the sort a vet might use to pull a horse's tooth, and shuddered.
Niko couldn't blame him. He and Randal excused themselves to go downstairs to fetch Strat a drink "—with your leave, my lady, the strongest draught you've got; he'll need it."
Brother Bomba's wine cellar was extensive, a maze of casks. A steward at its entrance bade them wait and disappeared within to fill their order. Niko, waiting and counting what casks he could see, estimated that even his uncle in Caronne had no larger or finer cache. From his vantage he could see amphorae bearing crests and devices of a dozen nations, some so old that the countries of their origin no longer existed. Niko hadn't realized the Bombas were so wealthy or so cultured.
Critias caught up with them as they were climbing the stairs with a jar of anaesthetic wine in hand meant for Straton and told them he'd take it up. "Grille's disappeared—right out of his office," Critias said. "Some kind of magic, no doubt. Find him."
Randal, hand firmly on his kris, bristled. "When you give me my globe's stand. If there's witchery about, we'll need all the help we can—"
"Randal." Niko shook his head. "Let's go."
"Go? No! Where's my stand, Critias? What's your new excuse? You come here without so much as a thank-you when without us your grumpy rightman would never have consented to—"
"Randal!" Niko could sense the excitation in Grit's aura, the heat coming from his task force leader, and didn't understand why Randal would force the issue now, when Crit obviously had other things on his mind.
"Tonight, at Outbridge, when you've brought Grillo back. I meant to bring it with me. I just forgot. Niko—"
"There's something else?"
"Jihan's outside. She's misplaced Shamshi again— the boy's an inveterate runaway. If you should come across him, Stealth, make sure he gets back to Hidden Valley safe and sound—under guard. Questions?"
Niko didn't have any and Randal withheld his, following his left-side leader's example, until they had slipped out the back door where their horses were tethered.
Once they were mounted and safely away, sneaking like thieves through the back alleys to avoid an encounter with Jihan, Randal began complaining about Critias. "Besides being a welsher and an unprincipled scoundrel who's holding back the stand he promised me despite the fact that I brought you home in plenty of time, he is an ungrateful lout. Madame Bomba's faith in the Stepsons is restored, thanks only to you."
"No thanks to me," Niko said absently, guiding the bay he'd taken from the Hidden Valley stables toward the Lanes, where he hoped to pick up Grille's trail. "And the Madame never believed that rot about Stepsons gutting their favorite watering hole—it was her husband who had to be convinced. She's too much a woman of the armies not to have realized that if we'd sacked her place, we'd have burned it to the ground."
As he spoke, Niko was casting about for some trace of Grillo in the astral, some indication he might notice of a disturbance, an abduction, a struggle. His maat could help him only so much; he wished Randal would be quiet, let him think. He wished his mare was fit to ride, not fat with foal in her stall, or that Tempus hadn't taken the sable stud up to Wizardwall. But he'd given the Aškelonian horse up, along with any part in the profits of breeding farm or invested spoils from the summer war. If now he twinged with regret and wanted back everything he'd spurned, it was only a sign that he'd come to terms with his problems and was comfortable again in the world he'd fled.
Tempus, Niko knew, would return the horse to him if he asked or even allowed it; as for the rest, he'd not decided what he'd do. If he had to swear allegiance, become an adherent of some personage, man, immortal, mage, or god, it was and had always been Tempus he longed to serve. Aškelon's demands lay heavily on his shoulders now, here where his commander's spoor was strong."Somehow, Niko was not surprised when, as they crossed Broadway to head up Embassy Row and from there enter the convoluted alleys of the Lanes, young Shamshi called their names and came running up to them. Even in the misty dark, the youth's towhead gleamed in reflected torchlight from the sconces high above Tyse's best-kept street.
They stopped their mounts, and while Randal scolded the errant child for sneaking out of bed, and the boy answered in a defensive tone with just the slightest whine that he was only looking at the floats and the preparations for the sunrise parade, Niko wondered, peering up at the overhanging three- and four-story embassies which lined the wide and sidewalked avenue, if it was out of one of these the boy had come.
And thus he saw, on a balcony above, half-hidden by a curtain, a girl staring down at him, an oil lamp in her hand. And the look upon that young face was so wistful and so comely that he could not look away. Their glances met. She smiled. Niko waved.
"Who was that?" Randal demanded, sliding back to accommodate the young prince of Mygdon before him on his horse. And: "Come on, boy, use that statue there to climb up on. That's it." Then again to Niko, with an odd grimace: "I'll take Shamshi out to Hidden Valley right away, if you'll be all right on your own, Stealth."
Knowing Randal as he did, Niko understood that the mageling was discomfitted by the proximity of the Mygdonian boy and trying to hide it. Why, he wasn't sure, but he too had heard Randal's kris rattle like a diamondback and seen Randal's jaw clench tight.
"Good. And thanks. We'll meet at Outbridge. I want to be there to see that Crit makes good his promise. Task force leaders, Stepson, always keep their word."
"Hrrmph. We'll see that you're right, I hope. If not, this is the last night I spend as one. By the Writ that serves me—"
The Mygdonian boy broke out in a fit of coughing then and Randal turned solicitous. "Poor thing. Come along then; both you and I are better off far away from horses." The junior Hazard snuffled meaningfully and brought out his most precious prize—the handkerchief Aškelon had given him, which eased his allergies enough, with an occasional swipe or whiff, that he could ride a horse without tearing eyes or congested nose—and put it over the boy's nose and mouth. "Breathe deeply, thrice. That's it. Good boy." Randal put the linen carefully away and kicked the fat old gelding into a lethargic lope.
Niko wondered if Randal had noticed how the boy had stiffened, frozen still, when Randal put the linen to his nose, but then dismissed it: the girl he'd seen had come downstairs. The building's thick oak door opened and there she stood, smiling. She waved again.
It was the Machadi embassy's threshold which she lit with
an elegant presence, he realized. Machad had been taken by Mygdonia in the summer war; refugees of high estate from Machad often asked for and received asylum here. The free zone was not for girls like this, accustomed to damask gowns and delicate lace and tiny sandals with heels. The girl's heels tapped as she came a few steps farther toward the street.
"Greetings, soldier," the young girl said, her cultured voice full of wicked pleasure at speaking first and coming out unescorted.
"My lady." Niko's horse danced forward in response to the pressure of his knees. "What service can I do a guest of the Machadi embassy?"
"I was just wondering, young sir," she replied, coming yet another step forward so that he could see the wide brown eyes and sun-gilded hair in gentle curls about her throat, "where the best vantage might be for tomorrow's parade. We're so far from the reviewing stand that I can't even see the Spring of the Prophet from my window."
Almost, he dismounted. He wanted to get a closer look. But he was under orders to find Grillo, and so he said, "If my lady wishes, I'll come by an hour before sunrise and take you to the reviewing stand myself—every Stepson is entitled to one guest."
"A Stepson? Oh, I didn't know." She backed a pace. "I've been forward. I can't accept. I don't even know your name. And my uncle… might not approve."
"I'm Nikodemos," he said softly, toying with the helmet at his knee.
"And I am Aisha," she replied, "niece of the Machadi ambassador."
"I'll be by to collect you. If your uncle disallows my invitation, I'll understand, Aisha, but I hope he'll let you come. Where are your parents?"
"My parents," she blinked back tears, "are prisoners of the foul Mygdonians in Machad. My uncle, the ambassador, takes care of me."
"Tomorrow, then." Niko had met the Machadi ambassador. His heart lightened; a well-bred girl with earthly problems was just the thing to soothe him. "I've got to go."
"Bide well, then, soldier—Nikodemos," said Aisha, raising her skirts to turn and go inside.
An hour later he'd ridden every byway in the Lanes and found no heat-track, reddish trail, or even wisp of Grillo fresher than a half-day old. He was giving up. This job needed a magician, not a western-trained fighter with a bit of maat.
He dismounted and tied his horse before the door of Grille's Lanes office, climbed the steps, and knocked. Within, he could sense the men in agitated discussion—some passion there, hot argument, even Grillo's peculiar aura: red and pink and tinged with bluish lines which shouldn't be there. Blue, in Niko's private mental code, was for mages, the ensorceled, the bewitched, the witches, and the damned.
When the door opened, to his consternation, Grillo's aide slipped out and shut it, then leaned back against it. "Ssh! Stepson, never mind! We sent out a dozen messages, trying to call off the search. Grillo's here—guess he never left. Or anyway, that's what he says. Some kind of witchy prank or harassment from the mageguild. He swears he never left the room, but couldn't see us the way we couldn't see him. He'll be mad enough to break us all to stable duty if he hears we let news of this slip out. Now go, go on! Get back and tell your Critias what I've said—we'll owe you one if you Stepsons keep our secret. Otherwise," the pasty-faced aide shrugged and looked away, "it's nasti-ness as usual, your side and ours. A deal?"
"As far as I'm concerned. Good luck with this deception." Niko turned and left, angry at this whole affair—his wasted time, crossed lines of communication—and certain that this explanation was not going to satisfy Critias.
As a matter of fact, it didn't suit Niko either, but he had no choice. He headed his mount toward the Outbridge station to give Crit his report, and as he was about to round the corner, heard a horse behind him and turned to look. A local type, a man named Oman who made ceremonial swords and rich-man's armor, was just riding up to Grillo's door. Stranger agents than Oman might be used by Grillo, but Niko had never seen one. He filed that bit of news away for further study without halting his horse or giving any sign he'd seen or recognized the man.
He had more pressing concerns: Randal would have his globe's stand this night, or Niko was going to have from Critias the reason why not. And in the morning, he would escort a lady named Aisha to the harvest festival's most wondrous event.
* * *
When Oman, self-confessed leader of one of the rebel groups which had been making Grillo's life miserable for the last few months, left his office, Grillo seriously considered siccing his specials on the fool, consequences be damned.
But it was Grillo himself who was damned. And Oman knew it: the cocky, puffy-eyed Tysian, whom Grillo had met in Frog's Marsh, coolly proclaimed just how and where Grillo's specials would interdict a shipment of Caronne krrf and mountain pulcis meant for the Stepsons' den mother, Madame Bomba.
Grillo knew he should have thrown the revolutionary out on his ear, at the very least—better, he should have arrested him. But he just could not.
Sitting at his desk, alone in his office, he nudged the little golden statue a witch had given him. It was proof that what he remembered was no nightmare.
Beside his oil lamp, it gleamed dully, no bigger than his middle finger. He touched it again and its slightly conical head turned; its golden legs quivered, separated; it moved a step, then two, toward his finger, then rubbed against his knuckle like a lonely cat.
He drew his finger back slowly and it followed, just as slowly, but moving more steadily with every step.
All his hackles raised, he sat back in his chair. He knew he was in deep trouble. He couldn't forget the witch's face as she'd passed her hand before it and her countenance changed from raven-haired, sultry Nisibisi to pale and fair young girl. In the midst of its transition, he had seen a crone, ancient lips pulled tight over a jutting chin. He imagined rheumy eyes staring at him even now.
What could he do? Report the witch? To whom? Plead for help from the mageguild? Rankan magic had fared poorly against the Nisibisi wizard-caste in the summer war. And what the witch had said was right—he really didn't care which faction held Tyse, although he did care deeply about Bashir and the mountain-dwelling folk of Free Nisibis. As long as she didn't ask him to betray Bashir, Grillo told himself, he'd go along with her.
The homunculus, or whatever it was in front of him, had reached the edge of his desk. One more step and it would tumble into an abyss of air and crash upon the floor. Perhaps if it could be destroyed by fall or fire or a stamping foot then he could shake this feeling that he was helpless—that the witch was watching him, that his soul was in danger of forfeiture.
Grillo prided himself on disbelieving equally in gods and magics, in luck and fate. And yet, no logical disclaimer had availed when the witch had spirited him from his quarters into the midst of her followers. Something inside him knew that she'd been controlling him ever since.
It wasn't like him to give up without a fight. Even now, knowing it to be futile, he thought to free himself from Roxane's gossamer web.
He nudged the little golden figure, cold as metal but indubitably animated, toward the desk's edge.
It teetered but, arms flailing, righted itself.
Again Grillo extended his finger toward it, his knees well out of the way so as not to break its fall. Sympathetic magic, symbolic action, call it what one willed, he had a hunch that if he could free himself of this evil little trinket, he could break Roxane's hold.
It reached out its tiny arms toward the finger inexorably approaching and, as Grillo jabbed at it to force it over the brink, it grabbed his finger with both arms, its metal hands digging into his flesh, its grip tight as a vise.
Grillo sucked in a breath; there was pain, surprise, anger. Then, even as panic set in and he started shaking his whole hand violently to throw it off, the room began getting hazy.
Desperately, Grillo grabbed its feet with his other hand and pulled as hard as he might. But strength was leaving him. With it went purpose; even the fear he had been experiencing was gone. In its stead came a fatalistic calm, a feeling he could on
ly term foolishness. He didn't recall why he had been hostile to the tiny golden statuette—it was his future, his good luck charm.
He cradled it in his palm now. Only tiny, dry punctures showed where its claw-sharp fingers had gone deep into his flesh. He didn't notice the imprint of minuscule teeth, either, or understand that he was drugged by its venom, rendered tractable and pliable by magical means.
He held it up to his face in the lamplight, kissed it, put it to his ear.
It began speaking to him in a chirping voice, giving instructions to which he could only nod his assent: now he understood that the golden figurine that Roxane, Death's Queen, had given him was the best friend and protector he would have in this world or the next.
* * *
Tempus, cloak and helmet covered with trail dirt, on the great Aškelonian steed whose flanks were caked with dust and sweat, slipped unremarked through Tyse's back streets under a fey sky shot with colored light.
There was mist everywhere, steaming up as if from the cobbles themselves. This combination of mist and preternatural light in these last few hours before the sunrise parade to the Spring of the Prophet sent veterans of the summer's wizard wars hustling off to temples and open-air altars to pray, or to soothsayers and card-readers to buy prognostications, or to magicians in their lair on Mage way for protective amulets and all manner of prophylactic spells.
No one doubted, even before the paving stones on Embassy Row cracked wide apart and then smacked back together, catching men and oxen and wagon wheels in bear-trap jaws, that magic was abroad. Those seasoned in the field or long of memory worried most: if there were a worse sign than wizardry against the populace during the harvest moon, nobody could think of one.
More than a flock of birds lost their lives that predawn, pinioned to fortunetelling boards, copper nails through their wings. More than fifty livers of sheep and goat and pig were lifted quivering out of still-warm bellies to see how the bile was flowing. Virgins were hypnotized and sent walking, blindfolded, through the mageguild's garden maze, but not even this produced unequivocal results.
