Sanctuary dj-3

by Mercedes Lackey

  He was soaked within moments of passing into the clouds, as if someone had emptied an entire bath over him. And the farther they dropped, the worse it got until, as they broke through the bottom of the clouds, he had begun to wonder if he was going to find himself swimming to the Tower.

  This was the central island of Alta City, the place where the elite of the elite lived. Here, too, stood the temples to the most important gods, the Royal Palace, and, of course, the Tower of Wisdom, the tallest building on the island, and the symbol of the power of the Magi.

  Though even in the semidarkness the damage wrought by Eye and earthshake on the rings was obvious, there was no obvious sign of any such damage here on the center island. There were no buildings in ruins, no burned-out places—

  But Kiron didn’t have much time to look either; he and Avatre were coming straight down to the top of the Tower to avoid being seen, and the faster he got her down, the better.

  And, of course, Avatre was all but blind in this light, depending on him to tell her what to do in time for her to do it.

  At the height of a single-storied house above the top of the Tower, he signaled her to backwing and start to land. She responded instantly, fanning her wings furiously and tucking her hindquarters under, then stretching out with her back legs as she felt for the surface she trusted would soon be there. This was the moment they were most likely to be seen—or heard, as her wings pumped, creating a kind of thunder.

  He felt it when a single talon touched that surface; she backwinged a little harder, and he felt her hindquarters stretching, then as she got her weight onto the surface, he felt her legs take it. She folded her wings and settled onto the Tower top with hardly more than a whisper of sound.

  Kiron sagged against her neck for a moment in relief. She’d never done this in the full dark before, and yet she had trusted him, trusted him even though they had no more communication than shifting weight, hand signals on her neck, and whispered voice.

  He told her fervently what a clever dragon she was, then slipped off her back and onto the wet sandstone of the Tower. He saw with relief that there was a knee-high parapet running all around the edge. So Avatre would not be immediately visible.

  Of course, when dawn came, there was the little problem of a scarlet dragon perching on the top of the pale stone of the Tower of Knowledge. Not all of her was going to fit behind that parapet.

  But first, she needed to be fed.

  There were two bundles of food for her, in baskets on either side of her flanks. Not butchered meat; this was all whole small animals, things she could, and would, swallow whole. There would be no blood and no mess.

  He emptied one pannier in front of her, and she gulped down everything while he untied the other and put it aside. He’d feed it to her in the morning, before he went—inside.

  He quickly untied the bundle he’d brought from behind the saddle and shook it out as she finished the last of her meal.

  It was, to all outward signs, a simple huge square of canvas, like one of the awnings that used to keep rain off the pens, or a sail of the sort you would find on any vessel moving up and down the Great Mother River and her daughters. But the moment he shook it out, this expanse of canvas began to radiate the same heat as a flat rock on a pleasant summer day.

  The same heating spell that kept the sands of the dragons’ pens hot kept this piece of fabric just as warm—courtesy of the Thet priests. This was how Avatre would be able to endure the cold and rain of the night. He shook it out over Avatre and made sure that she was entirely covered, before climbing in under it with her.

  His clothing quickly began to steam; this was every bit as hot as the sands. Avatre was already relaxing.

  It’s a pity this is so complicated a bit of magic, he thought, trying to keep his mind on something other than the fact that Aket-ten was somewhere below. Well, perhaps someday . . . someday when there are more of us. And no Magi.

  The canvas had another use besides keeping Avatre warm all night. It was nearly the same color as the sandstone; if Avatre kept her head down and her tail tucked in, chances were no one would see her from directly below. And it wasn’t likely anyone across the canal would look at the Tower long enough to notice a lump on the top of it.

  At least, no one would see her until he needed her to be seen.

  And Aket-ten was somewhere below. Hurt, perhaps. Kaleth said that she hadn’t been hurt, but how could he be sure? Frightened, she was surely frightened, and mourning her dragon. Praying that help would somehow come before it was too late.

  I’m here! he thought, hard, wondering if she could somehow pick it up. We’ll get you out, just hold on. . . .

  It was very comfortable under the folds of that cloth. The canvas was waterproof enough that his clothing was drying out. The Thet priests said that the Magi wouldn’t sense this magic, even though it was so close to them, because the thing in the Tower was so magical already. The sail would be like a lit lantern under the desert sun at noon; you wouldn’t see the flame unless you were looking for it, and even then you would have to be practically on top of it.

  How scared is she? How hurt is she? Have they already done anything to her? Was she in a bare, cold cell somewhere down below, chilled, aching, maybe hungry?

  What had they been doing to her? He didn’t really want to think about it. . . .

  He went over his plan in his mind. Before dawn he would have to get into place, moving while there was just enough light to see by, but not so much that anyone would be around to spot him. He hoped. There was a lot of hope involved in this. An awful lot of hope.

  Avatre was already asleep. He could feel her breathing; she was very comfortable under this sail. And with the rain drumming on it, it was like the old days, back when he was just beginning the new wing of dragons, with rain drumming on the canopy that kept the water out of the hot sand.

  Back when Toreth was alive. Before Aket-ten became one of them.

  If they’ve hurt her. . . .

  His stomach knotted, and not just with anxiety over Aket-ten.

  He wished he was doing something other than just waiting.

  Fear crept slowly over him, chilling his heart; he tried to drive it away by throwing himself into his planning.

  There wasn’t a lot of room inside the tower; he would probably not have to face more than two people, the Magus and whoever he brought to help him. A guard, probably. He would have to get rid of both of them. . . .

  Be honest. I’m going to have to kill them.

  This was going to be hard. He’d never killed anyone face-to-face before, and he might have to. Would have to. Almost a certainty.

  Actually, he hadn’t ever killed anyone—not that he was certain of. In that last fight when the tala ran out, he and the others had mostly just tried to make the Tian dragons angry, so they’d throw their riders. Or at least, get the dragons so agitated that they’d fight their Jousters, force them to make their beasts go to ground just so the Jouster could get off before the dragon could throw them. He’d wanted people dead, but he’d never done the deed with his own hands. He felt very conscious of the long knife at his hip. He was going to have to use that knife. . . .

  That, he tried not to think about. He just drilled himself in what he had to do next when dawn came, dozing off, then waking, to go over it all again. He willed himself to see every step, over and over, until, as the rain slackened just a little and the first hint of dawn lightened the sky, he shook off the last of his sleepiness and went to work.

  And it felt like he had done it a hundred times before.

  First, he unloaded the second pannier in front of Avatre; she wasn’t awake enough to be hungry yet, but when she was, her breakfast would be waiting right there for her and she wouldn’t have to move from under the comfortable canvas to eat it. And then, she could go right back to sleep again. She probably would.

  He fastened his rope to Avatre’s saddle, pulled on it to make sure it was going to hold. Avatre opened one eye s
leepily.

  “Stay,” he whispered to her. “Hold.”

  Not at all loath to do just that, she closed her eye again, and went back to drowsing.

  He slipped over the parapet at the corner, where the rope wouldn’t dangle in front of the window, getting soaked in the process, and walked his way down the wall until he got to a window. He’d been afraid it might be a narrow squeeze, but there was plenty of room for the windows were enormous, far bigger than he had thought, and there was nothing in the way of shutters or bars on them.

  Then again, why should there be shutters or bars? Who would be up here? Who would want to break into the stronghold of the Magi?

  Um, that would be me.

  He clambered in through the window, flipped the rope out of the way so it wouldn’t show if anyone looked out, and waited right in the opening in the darkness. He had to wait for his eyes to adjust, and he wanted to avoid betraying his presence to someone who was paying attention by dripping all over the floor and leaving patches of water there.

  The room in this tower was half full of something mechanical, and it was not what he had expected. He’d thought vaguely of statues of strange gods, of a room thick with incense, of—well, now he couldn’t put a name to what he’d expected.

  It stood in the middle of a “magic circle” of inlaid brass in the middle of the room. He knew it was a magic circle because he had watched the Thet priests lay out something similar when they made the canvas for Avatre—in chalk on the floor, not in permanent brass inlaid in the floor. But the construction itself looked like one of Heklatis’ little mechanical toys. Except that it wasn’t so very “little.”

  The mechanism itself was also made of brass. From the look of things, it could be swiveled and pointed in just about any direction.

  The heart of the thing was the biggest crystal he had ever seen. Shaped like two pyramids clapped together, an enormous, perfect octahedron, he had never seen anything like it. It was flawless, clear, and half again as tall as he was. For a long moment, all he could do was to stare at it in wonder. He hadn’t known quite what to expect, but whatever it had been, his imagination had not been able to anticipate this.

  Though why it should be called an “Eye,” he couldn’t think.

  He shook off his amazement, and began looking for a place to hide. He might be here a long time.

  There weren’t a lot of hiding places here; he finally found a kind of storage area, a three-sided cupboard in the corner between the windows opposite the place where he had come in. When he pulled the door open, it looked as if it hadn’t been opened in years. If there had ever been shelves in there, they were gone now. There were dusty bottles and jars on the floor, some of which inexplicably made his skin crawl. He shoved them aside and squeezed himself in, watching the room through the crack in the door. And it made him wonder, what had this place been used for, before it had been made into the home for the Eye? The Tower was older than the Eye. Probably the reason that the cupboard was still here was only because it was too much trouble to pull it out.

  So far, so good.

  Back to the hard part.

  Waiting.

  TWENTY

  THERE were two possibilities for what would happen next. Either the Magi would bring Aket-ten here before the rest of the wing began their attack, or they would do so because the wing had begun their attack. He thought he was ready in either case.

  It turned out to be the former rather than the latter.

  He heard them coming long before he saw them. The hollow tower amplified every little sound from below.

  A door opening and slamming shut, then footsteps, then voices.

  A harsh, angry voice. “Get her under control, curse you! OW!”

  “My lord specified that she is not to be damaged.” A second voice. Much calmer and deeper than the first.

  “Not being damaged doesn’t—OW!—mean you can’t secure her—OW!—legs—OW! Seft take you, bitch! But not before I’m—OW!”

  Kiron clutched the side of the cupboard, overcome by mingled elation and rage. Elation, because Aket-ten was clearly very much herself, and doing her best to inflict as much damage on her captor as she could. And rage—he wanted to fly down those stairs and slaughter both the men he could hear on the spot. Or the Magus, at least.

  “If my Lord would just permit me to knock the girl unconscious—” Perfectly calm, and matter-of-fact. Which only made Kiron’s blood heat as he clenched his fists. Not just the Magus, then. He’d kill both of them.

  “No! I need her awake and aware and undamaged in any—OW!—way!”

  The first speaker was obviously the Magus. The other—probably a guard or a servant. From the sound of things, Aket-ten was concentrating on taking out her anger on the Magus.

  “The stair is too steep to risk carrying a struggling girl up it, and carry her is what I shall be forced to do. So my lord will have to permit her the freedom of her legs, and bear with the consequences. Unless my lord is going to insist on my carrying her and is willing to take the chance of both of us falling and breaking our respective necks?”

  The long pause that followed the statement, and the sense that the Magus was actually considering the option, made Kiron wince in spite of the fact that he wanted to pound both of them into the floor. Whoever this Magus was, he hadn’t won himself any friends with that pause. “No, no of course not,” said the Magus, a little too late. “But—OW!”

  “If my lord would at least walk a few paces ahead, so that the girl cannot reach him—” Now the voice sounded wary as well as impatient, and Kiron wasn’t at all surprised. The Magi were not known for their forbearance toward their servants. And if anything went wrong, it would be the servant who was blamed for it.

  He wished he could see them. What kind of servant was this? A guard? Or someone less able to put up a fight if—when—Kiron attacked? It didn’t take being a guard or a soldier to talk about hitting a bound and gagged girl on the head.

  He’d like to think that no real soldier would think of such a thing—but he knew better. From the Tian Jousters who had hauled helpless Altan peasants (including women and children) into the air and dropped them, to the Altan soldiers who had put the Temple of the Twins under siege, there was rot in both armies, and the only way to stop it was to stop the war that had made atrocity acceptable and rewarded the officers who ordered it or looked the other way while it happened.

  “Seft take you! Just get her up these stairs, and I don’t care how you do it!” the voice snarled.

  He’s not gaining any goodwill from the servants today, that’s for sure.

  “My lord is surely aware that even if I do not carry her, the girl could succeed in pushing me down the stairs or tripping me if her feet are left free. Is this truly what my lord wishes?”

  The Magus paused, for too long, leaving the impression that he was considering the option of risking his servant’s life and limb.

  You’re not going higher in his estimation, you bastard.

  “Just get that halter on her neck and get her up here!” There was the sound of one set of footsteps moving a bit faster up the stairs, while the other two plodded along behind. “Walk in front of her and drag her if you have to! Come on! Get her moving, you lack-wit!”

  After that, there was only the sound of footsteps; evidently, Aket-ten wisely elected not to resist anymore. Kiron held his breath as they made their way up the staircase. The big question was what the nature of the man helping the Magus would be. And how big he was.

  Stay hidden, he warned himself. If you rush out without thinking, they can take you. If you wait until you can catch them both by surprise, you can take them. At some point fairly soon, the others will begin their attack, and it will attract a lot of attention. If you haven’t found an opening before then, that will be the time.

  But he didn’t want to wait, not at all. His stomach was in a knot, every muscle was alive with the need to fight, and he practically vibrated with tension. He wanted to get out
there and hurt them, the moment they appeared—

  But he wasn’t exactly trained or armed for a real fight, not the kind that was going to happen here. He didn’t have a sword, because he didn’t know how to use one. He had a club, and a knife, and his wits. Not so bad against a Magus, but suicide against a trained soldier.

  From his vantage point behind the crack in the door, Kiron saw the gleam of a light in the opening in the floor through which the staircase rose. Moments later, the Magus himself, carrying a lantern, emerged through the opening.

  He wasn’t one of the Magi that Kiron knew, but his clothing, a fine long robe of purple linen and short cloak of the same material, a belt of gold plates, and a matching collar, marked him as someone important. Otherwise, he looked perfectly ordinary, not the sort of man that Kiron would look twice at, if they passed each other in the street. Middle-aged, thinning hair cropped at chin-level, clean-shaven, with the kind of visage that Orest called a “face-shaped face” with nothing to distinguish it from a thousand like it.

  It struck him, as he looked at the perfectly average, beardless face, neither young nor old-looking, perhaps a little plumper than he should be, but nothing that could be called “fat,” that it was wrong that evil should look so banal. For evil this man was; he might or might not be personally responsible for the murder of dozens, the deaths of thousands, but he was involved, he knew about it, and he had willingly agreed to it, had probably participated in some fashion.

  He had definitely participated in draining the Winged Ones, and their inability to see into the future as a consequence had killed and hurt people all over Alta during the earthshakes they could no longer predict.

  So how was it that someone who had done all of this looked like a prosperous merchant about to make a great deal? There was a smug, self-satisfied smirk on the man’s face that made Kiron want to punch it.