The Amber Enchantress

by Troy Denning

  A few feet later, it was clear to the sorceress that she would never escape this way. Her only hope was to cast another enchantment and hope Dhojakt did not dispel it, too. The sorceress reached for her bag.

  A sandaled foot pinned her arm to the street. "There's no time for that," said a familiar voice.

  The sorceress looked up and saw Raka's boyish face bending over her. Though one side of his jaw was mottled with the scabs of a day-old burn, he looked more or less the same as he had when she last saw him.

  "You escaped!" Sadira gasped, delighted.

  "Yesterday, at least," the youth said, grabbing her under the arms. "Today, we may not be so lucky."

  Sadira followed his gaze to the tower. Dhojakt was coming down the wall headfirst, easily clinging to the rocky cracks with the sharp claws of his two dozen legs.

  The sight brought new vigor to the sorceress's legs. She managed to push herself up high enough to slip an arm over Raka's shoulder. The youth led her into one of the narrow lanes down which the Sun Runners had fled. Instead of following the elves deeper into the city, however, he ducked into the doorway of a half-collapsed hovel.

  "What are you doing?" the sorceress asked.

  "My master sent something along to hide us from the prince," he answered, pulling a small ceramic plate from his purse. "This will put him off our scent for a while and give us a chance to escape."

  "Then you were looking for me," Sadira surmised. "I guess it makes sense that this is no chance meeting."

  "Correct," Raka answered, laying the plate on the floor. "After you disappeared from Sage's Square, we set a watch on the gates of the Forbidden Palace. When Dhojakt left this morning with a company of templars and another of half-giants, we knew we'd find you by following him."

  "Then the Alliance will help me?" Sadira asked hopefully.

  "As much as we are able," Raka answered. He passed his hand over the plate and whispered a command word. The disk melted into the ground and faded from sight. "But not as much as you would like. We cannot take you to the Pristine Tower."

  "Why not?" Sadira asked.

  Raka took her arm and guided her through the ruins of the hovel. "Because we don't know where it is," he answered. "From what my master can learn, only the elves have visited it—and even then, just the most courageous have dared to attempt the journey. There might be no more than a dozen warriors in the Elven Market who know where to go. We'll try to help you find one, but time is running short. We've learned that the northern cities sent their levies to the Dragon many weeks ago while the Oba of Gulg is gathering her slaves even as we speak. My master believes this means—"

  "That the Dragon is going from north to south," Sadira surmised. "Tyr is after Gulg, leaving Balic for last."

  Raka nodded, then helped the sorceress climb through the hovel's back wall. "You have perhaps three weeks left to stop him."

  "Then I can't waste time searching for a guide," Sadira said, looking toward the tower where her father had been captured. "But I do know someone who can take me there—provided you'll help me get him back from the prince."

  "We'll do our best," Raka promised.

  The muffled rattle of Dhojakt's feet echoed through the hovel. Raka smiled and held his hand to his lips. An instant later, an enormous hiss sounded from the other side of the shack and a spray of green sparkles shot into the sky. Dhojakt roared in anger, then such a terrible stench filled the air that Sadira could not keep from retching.

  "There," said Raka. "Now you'll be safe—at least long enough to leave this part of the city."

  TWELVE

  The Emporium

  They found Faenaeyon crammed into a stall at the back of the emporium. He sat with his knees pulled to his chest, staring blankly at the cracked flagstones of the floor. One hand incessantly searched along his belt for his missing purses, and his haggard face was twisted into a scowl. With a long line of drool dripping from his pointed chin, he mumbled incoherent phrases and seemed completely oblivious to what was happening around him.

  Clearly, the elf was in no shape to attempt escape, but the emporium agents had restrained him the same way as every other slave in the market. Around his neck, the chief wore a collar of coarse black rope. Spliced into this was a cord running a few feet back to the wall, where the other end was attached to a bone ring set between the stone blocks. From her own days in bondage, when she had slept with a similar rope around her neck, Sadira knew that even Magnus could not have snapped it. Nor could the line be easily cut, for it was braided from the hair of giants. The resulting cord was so tough and resilient that even steel blades would be dulled on it.

  "I hope you're alert enough to know how being tethered feels," Sadira whispered, looking away from her father's pen.

  Even had he been lucid, the sorceress doubted that her father would have recognized her. She had used henna root to dye her hair swarthy red, the bark of an ashbush to darken her skin, and black kohl to decorate her eyelids. She had also exchanged her customary blue smock for a green sarami.

  As Sadira and Raka moved down the aisle, she paused several times in front of other slaves, as though evaluating their suitability for her home. The Slave Emporium of the Shorn Merchant House was larger and more crowded than any Sadira had ever seen. It was a single cavernous gallery, lit by huge windows and buzzing with the drone of hundreds of bickering buyers and sales agents. The chamber's ceiling was high and shadowy, supported by hundreds of double-stacked arches and marble columns. These pillars were almost hidden beneath lush climbing vines loaded with aromatic blossoms.

  Beneath each row of arches ran a wide aisle, flanked on either side by stalls barely large enough to hold the men and women lying in them. Along the back of the pens stood the high brick walls to which the slave ropes were attached.

  As they reached the end of the aisle, Raka asked, "Is that the elf you seek?"

  Sadira nodded, then led the way around a pillar so entwined with vines that its stone surface was not visible. "I saw no sign of templars or royal guards," she said.

  "Nevertheless, they are here," the youth answered. "One of our agents tried to buy him this morning, but the price was outrageous. House Shorn does not wish to sell this particular elf—no doubt because Dhojakt has concluded that he is your guide. The prince is using him as bait."

  They passed a bony old man watering the galley's vines from a huge bucket. He kept his eyes focused on his work, paying no attention to pleas for water coming from his fellow slaves.

  "You're right, of course," Sadira answered, casting a wary eye toward the crowd ahead. For all she knew, half the sarami-clad women in it were templars, and the agents wearing the tabards of House Shorn could just as readily have been royal guards. "It'd be too simple if all we had to do was buy him back."

  They made their way up the aisle, to where Magnus and Huyar were studying the gangling arms and squat heads of two tareks. Though the windsinger had used his magic to heal the injury he had suffered during yesterday's battle, he seemed tired and could not quite keep his massive body from swaying as he stood waiting. He wore a dark burnoose with the hood pulled over his bead. The robe did little to hide his immense size, but at least it concealed the burn marks on his chest.

  "Did you find him?" asked Huyar, who had not bothered with a disguise. If Dhojakt's agents were present, they would not be able to tell him from a warrior of any other tribe. "Has he recovered from his stupor?"

  "We found him, but he's still sick," Sadira said. "Our agreement stands?"

  "Of course," the elf answered. "Provided Faenaeyon returns to his senses and tells us where to find the Priatine Tower."

  Sadira did not expect Huyar to keep his word, of course. The warrior would say anything to recover his father, but she knew he would not absolve her of Gaefal's death so easily. The sorceress was also keenly aware that once Faenaeyon returned to the tribe and was given the antidote, the final decision about going to the tower would rest in his hands.

  Still, Huyar's
promise and the fact that Sadira was the one who had rescued him could only help persuade the chief to take her to the Pristine Tower. He could still refuse—but the sorceress would deal with that possibility when it occurred. For now, what was important was rescuing the elf.

  Sadira was more worried about the motives of Rhayn and Magnus for helping her. They were both cunning enough to realize that she intended to use the antidote to clear the chief's mind, yet they had agreed to her bargain as readily as anyone else. Perhaps, as Rhayn had claimed all along, they had no wish to see Faenaeyon come to any physical harm. Or perhaps they had a different scheme-such as using the wine they had secreted away to poison him again.

  Whatever their plan, the sorceress did not want to concern herself with it. As long as the Sun Runners took her to the Pristine Tower, she did not care what happened to Faenaeyon—at least that was what she told herself.

  Sadira turned to Raka. "The Alliance is ready to help?"

  Before the youth could answer, a tremendous crash sounded from the other end of the emporium. Terrified screams echoed down the aisles. When Sadira looked toward the noise, she saw a plume of dust rising from a pile of debris that had once been an arch. Next to it stood the stump of a marble pillar, its clinging vines still smoking from the effects of a fire-based spell.

  Raka smiled at Sadira. "The Alliance is already testing our enemy's response."

  The gallery filled with alarmed cries and more than a few buyers moved to leave. A handful of Shorn agents joined the stream, ignoring the pleas of the slaves they were leaving behind. Most vendors, however, remained at their posts, reassuring their shocked customers that it was much wiser to remain where they were and finish the deal. Those with exceptionally nervous patrons even managed to turn the event into a negotiating advantage, grabbing the arms of their frightened clients and making it clear they would not let go until a bargain had been struck.

  A handful of guards bearing shields with House Shom's triple dragonfly rushed toward the collapsed arch, but no one else. "If Dhojakt's templars are here, they aren't showing themselves," Raka observed. "Tell me when you're ready for the next move."

  Sadira looked to Huyar. "After today, I suspect House Shorn will want to avenge itself on Faenaeyon's tribe," she said. "I hope you're right about how easy it will be to recover your kanks and leave the city."

  "I didn't say they would be our own kanks we recovered," he answered. "As for leaving the city, our warriors should have left at dawn. When we meet Rhayn, she'll tell us where the tribe is gathering." He gave Magnus a spiteful glance, then added, "Unless she decided it would be easier to name herself chief by abandoning us here."

  The windsinger scowled. "You know better," he snapped. "Faenaeyon's warriors would never stand for such a thing."

  "Go on, Huyar," Sadira said, motioning him toward the door.

  The elf did not obey. "I should stay with you," he said "Faenaeyon is my father—"

  "Someone must wait at the door, to keep a watch in case Dhojakt is setting up an ambush outside," Sadira said. "And only an elf will look natural loitering out there. They'll think you're trying to pick pockets."

  "If you insist," Huyar agreed. "But I warn you, if something happens to Faenaeyon—"

  "He'll be no worse off than now," Magnus snapped, shoving the elf toward the exit.

  Huyar glared at the windsinger, then turned and stalked off.

  Raka left next, saying, "When you hear thunder, you'll know we've attacked. Wait a few moments after that before freeing your elf. Meet me in Sage's Square at first light, and I'll sneak you all out of the city."

  After the youth disappeared around the corner, Magnus and Sadira lingered in front of the tareks, waiting for the diversion to begin. Soon, the sorceress noticed a house agent moving toward them. She signaled their disinterest in bargaining by taking Magnus's arm and guiding him up the aisle. "While we're waiting for Raka, answer a question I've been curious about."

  "If it's in my power," the windsinger promised.

  "Why are you so close to Rhayn?" Sadira asked. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you're in love with her."

  "Do you think I can't love because I'm of the New Races?" the windsinger demanded, an angry glimmer in his black eyes.

  "I don't doubt you can," Sadira answered. "It was Rhayn I referred to. Elves are the ones who can't love."

  Magnus flattened his ears. "Why would you think that?"

  "Look at Faenaeyon," Sadira said. "My mother loved him until she died, yet he abandoned her into slavery."

  "You're confusing love with responsibility," Magnus said.

  "They're the same," Sadira objected. "When I love a man, I care about what happens to him."

  "Care, perhaps," the windsinger allowed. "But you don't trap him by taking over his life. When elves love, they do it freely—with no obligations and no promises. That way, everyone can do as he chooses."

  "My mother did not choose bondage!" Sadira hissed.

  "She didn't choose freedom, either," the windsinger countered. "She could have escaped—or died trying."

  "She had a child to think of!" the sorceress growled.

  "Which explains why she chose to stay," Magnus replied. "You can't blame Faenaeyon for that. He may have loved your mother as much as he ever loved anyone—but that doesn't mean he could have taken her with him."

  A deafening boom shook the emporium, then echoed through the gallery like a peal of thunder. Hundreds of bats dropped from their hiding places among the ceiling rafters and swooped toward the windows in black streams, their screeches barely distinguishable from the astonished cries of the throng below. Before the first of the swarm had reached its goal, the air began to sizzle and roar with the sound of a dozen different spells all being cast at once. Bolts of light and sprays of orange flame erupted from the main entrance, blasting pillars into bits and washing down the aisles in fiery torrents.

  "Death to the slave merchants!" cried a man's angry voice.

  "Death to the slave buyers!" added a woman.

  Panicked screeches and cries of terror rang through the gallery. Frightened agents and buyers rushed toward Sadira and Magnus in a mad tide, those in the rear trampling those in the front. From behind them blared a clap of thunder, and, for the briefest moment, their pumping legs were silhouetted by white light. In the next instant, a swath of singed bodies fell to the floor, leaving a long, smoking furrow in the center of the crowd. At the other end stood a veiled sorcerer, the tips of his fingers glowing pinkish white.

  "Slaves, rise against your masters!" cried Raka's voice. The young sorcerer spread the fingers of his hand as he prepared another spell. "The time has come to free yourselves!"

  In response to the youth's cry, many slaves tried to slip their black collars over their heads, and others tugged at the greasy ropes securing them to the walls. When they could not work themselves free, Raka created a shimmering sword of golden energy and began cutting their bonds. These people immediately launched themselves at those who had imprisoned them, wrapping the ends of their slave lines around the throats of nearby merchants. The traders who escaped the angry slaves only ran faster. Magnus placed his bulk in the center of the aisle, forcing the mob to part and flow around him. Pressing herself against the windsinger's back, Sadira yelled, "Quite the diversion!"

  "I should have known they'd do something like this," the windsinger answered. "The Nibenese Alliance will use any excuse to attack slave traders."

  Sadira heard the agonized scream of a Shorn agent who had just run past her. She spun around and saw a stolen dagger in the hands of the bony slave who had been watering vines earlier. He was using the weapon to hack at the agent's flabby neck.

  As the fat man fell, the slave raised his blade and rushed Sadira. The sorceress sidestepped his clumsy charge, throwing her foot out to catch his ankle and bringing the back of her fist down between his shoulder blades. The old man fell to the floor, then Sadira planted a foot on the wrist of his weapon arm. She reached down and
pulled the dirk from his hand.

  "Not bad," Magnus said.

  "Rikus taught me," she replied, stepping away with the knife in her hand.

  The man rolled over, cringing and covering his head. A terrified eye, yellow with jaundice, peered out from the crook of his elbow, but the slave did not cry out or beg for mercy.

  "We're on your side," Sadira said.

  The sorceress reached down and pulled the old man to his feet, then looked around to see if Dhojakt's followers had shown themselves. Here and there, a few women were calmly watching the revolt from the safety of an empty slave pen, but they had not yet done anything to reveal themselves as templars. Sadira thrust the dagger into the slave's hand, then pushed him toward the exit. "You don't have much time. Make good use of it."

  The slave's toothless mouth fell open. He gave Sadira quick bow, then turned to lash out at a woman wearing a silk sarami and a copper bracelet. A long arc of blood shot from the wound, spattering Magnus's knobby face.

  Wiping the sticky fluid away from his eye, Magnus asked, "Did you have to return the knife?"

  "If you'd ever been a slave, you wouldn't ask that question," Sadira said.

  Without waiting for a reply, she took the windsinger by the arm and led him down the aisle. Behind them, the sounds of battle grew louder and more tumultuous.

  When they neared the pillar at the end, a pair of Nibenese templars rushed around the corner, throwing off their saramis and calling upon their sorcerer-king for magic. They stopped two paces into the corridor, and one dropped something on the floor. There was a small pop and the smell of sulfur came to Sadira's nose.

  A tiny sphere of fire appeared on the ground, quickly growing to the size of a kank. The woman threw her palms out before her as though pushing the flaming ball. It rolled down the aisle, picking up speed and size with each revolution. As the fiery globe passed, it left nothing behind save blackened vines, charred bodies, and scorched flagstones.