by David Drake
Aria was crying softly. Cashel couldn't blame her. At least he didn't have to look back as he'd been doing during daylight to make sure she was still with him.
Trees rustled. At first Cashel thought that something—or perhaps many lesser somethings—was above him, but when he looked up he could watch bare branches writhe against the unfamiliar stars. During daylight he hadn't been able to see the sky through the canopy of leaves.
Aria cried louder.
“Look!” said Zahag, tugging the hem of Cashel's tunic. He spoke with a desperate need to believe, a tone far removed from that of real belief. “Up ahead there—it's a real light. We're safe now, we just have to get to the light!”
“Well, we'll see when we get there,” Cashel said quietly, scanning both sides of the trail as they ambled onward. He thought he'd seen the winking flames of a fire through the trees also, but there was too much strange in this forest for him to take anything for granted.
Cashel grinned. He was walking along with a talking monkey and a princess, but he wasn't sure the light he saw ahead of him was a real fire. People back in Barca's Hamlet would think he was crazy.
He didn't let the smile build to a chuckle. Aria and Zahag would think he'd gone crazy too if he started laughing now.
The branches whispered above them. A wave of undulating phosphorescence had paralleled their track almost since the sun went down. Cashel couldn't be sure how far out in the night it was, but it seemed to be drifting closer.
He was probably seeing a layer of marsh gas finding its level in the air. Nothing to worry about.
“It is a fire!” Aria said. “Oh, I can see it now!”
In a choked voice she added, “Oh, please, Mistress God, may it be a fire!”
They'd reached a clearing. Before them stood a tower of honest, lichen-stained blocks of stone—not pink confectionery that dissolved if somebody stumbled down the stairs.
And there was a fire, as well, a beacon of wood burning in an iron basket lifted on a spike above the tower. Its flaring light silhouetted figures manning the battlements.
“Hello the house!” Cashel said as he stepped beyond the last clinging branches. Should he have said “tower” instead of “house”? He was so glad to see human habitation that he'd called as if he'd stumbled onto a farmhouse after being benighted.
“Go away, monsters!” a voice shrilled. “Or we'll kill you!”
The beacon dribbled a line of sparks; it sank to a throb of orange and rose. The fire had nearly consumed itself. The wood you found in this forest would be either too wet to burn or rotted into punk that didn't give a good bed of coals.
Cashel stepped forward. “We're not monsters!” he called. He held his staff upright at his side so that it didn't look threatening—not that anybody could make out details from the top of the tower. “We need a place to sleep for the night, that's all.”
And maybe an explanation of where this place was. That would be nice.
“Go away!” the voice repeated.
Cashel heard a clicking sound from the battlements. A gear, he thought. A ratchet and pawl—
Somebody using a windlass to crank a powerful crossbow!
“Hey!” he bellowed, striding forward. He didn't pause to think about what he was doing. “You stop these silly games or I'll pull this place down around your ears. By the Shepherd I will!”
He slammed the butt of his quarterstaff on the ground before him. The staff flared blue fire, bathing Cashel in a moment of cold brilliance. Hairs prickled all over his body.
“He's a man!” somebody in the tower cried hurriedly. “What's a man doing out there?”
“Let me and my friends in right now,” Cashel said, vaguely embarrassed at both his anger and the flash he'd created. The light had surprised him, but at least the folks in the tower had seen that he wasn't any monster. “We just want a place to sleep.”
The beacon gave a last gulp and died. The bones of light that remained were scarcely enough to display the bars of the cage, let alone anyone beyond it
“We're putting down the ladder,” the first voice called. “Don't waste any time, though. They'll attack any moment now.”
Something rustled and clacked down the wall of the tower. Cashel judged its location by starlight, then reached out. It was a ladder with rope stringers and wooden battens for steps.
“Come on!” he called over his shoulder in what he hoped was a carrying whisper. He hadn't wanted his companions close to him if somebody started shooting arrows, but he didn't want them left behind either.
He could well believe there were monsters in this forest, that was a fact.
Zahag scrambled past and grabbed the ladder; Cashel caught his hairy arm and held him back. The ape screeched with frustration but didn't quite try to bite.
“Can you make it by yourself, Princess?” Cashel asked. Instead of answering, Aria snatched the ladder and began climbing strongly. She quickly faded to a blur of pale fabric against the stone.
Cashel released the ape. “And don't try to climb over her!” he warned.
Though at the rate Aria was going up, that wasn't the danger Cashel had feared it would be. Her tower's steep steps had given her a lot of exercise. They hadn't done anything for her politeness, but that was probably true of a lot of princesses.
“It's a woman,” a different voice on the battlements said. “Oh, is it really a woman?”
Cashel started to climb. He held the staff before him in the crooks of both elbows, making it a slow, clumsy job. If he'd kept the rope he'd used to climb Aria's tower, he wouldn't have to wobble up like an old man with pains in his joints. He didn't have the rope, and he surely wasn't going to leave his staff on the ground.
“Hey, a monster!” a man screamed. Steel clanged red sparks from the battlements.
Zahag was jabbering twenty to the dozen somewhere in the darkness, so he must be all right. It sounded like he'd jumped from the ladder to the side of the wall. The stones were so weathered that Cashel figured that in a pinch even a human could find enough hand- and toe-holds between the courses to climb this tower.
“Hey!” he bellowed. He held the quarterstaff in one hand as he snatched his way up the last of the climb in a fashion that wouldn't have been safe if he weren't in such a hurry. “Stop that! He's not a monster, he's my friend!”
Cashel went over the battlements. The top of the tower flared out a little from the shaft so for the last two upward strides his toes weren't touching the wall anymore. It was good to have stone and not a wavering ladder under his feet; especially since the battens hadn't been meant for somebody Cashel's size in a hurry.
“Now you quit that!” Cashel said. “Who's the master here?”
He slammed his quarterstaff on the floor. The brass ferrule didn't spark on the stone the way the iron caps of his usual staff would've done, but the whock! was loud enough to get the attention of the dozen or so men present.
A squat, mustached fellow with a helmet and halberd cleared his throat. “I'm Captain Koras,” he said. “You say that fellow with you's a true man? He looked pretty hairy to me.”
“Hairy?” Zahag shouted in fury from close below the battlements. “I'll pull your scraggly whiskers off if you hate hair so much you'd take an axe to me!”
“Zahag, be quiet!” Cashel said. He cleared his throat and went on, “He's an ape, not a man, but he isn't any monster. And like I told you, he's my friend.”
It was funny to think of Zahag as a friend. He guessed it was pretty much true, though.
Aria came out of the crowd and squeezed against Cashel's side, apparently uncomfortable with the soldiers around her. She'd be in the way if he had to use his quarterstaff, but he didn't think it'd come to that.
“We ought to get the ladder up,” a man muttered. “They're going to attack any time, I'd guess.”
Koras held his fist to his mouth and gave a rumbling cough. “Not to doubt you, sir,” he said, “but it sounded like the creature was talking. Your friend,
I mean.”
“Right,” said Cashel. There was no light but that of the stars, so the men facing him were merely dim presences. “He talks, but he's an ape. He used to belong to a wizard.”
A man stepped close to Cashel, reached past him, and began pulling up the ladder. The battens tinkled on the blocks of the wall like a xylophone. A mummer, one of a trio who'd visited Barca's Hamlet during the Sheep Fair a few years ago, had played the xylophone. Cashel had been amazed that wooden tubes could make sounds so richly musical.
“Well, since you vouch for him,” Koras said. “It's the first time I'd met an ape who talks, is all.”
“Come on up, Zahag,” Cashel said. “They're going to let us sleep here.”
He stuck his staff down over the wall so that the ape wouldn't have to struggle with the top's flare. Zahag instead gripped an arrow notch with the fingers of one hand and flipped himself over by that contact alone. The ape was really strong for his size.
“Sleep?” said one soldier. “We only sleep during the day here, stranger.”
“They'll be attacking soon,” Captain Koras agreed. “You coming the way you did probably confused them, but—”
“Here they come!” cried a soldier.
Hideous screams came from the forest all around. A soldier resumed cranking his crossbow; another man drew an arrow from the quiver at his side and nocked it in his hand bow.
Cashel peered over the battlements. He could see motion on the ground but with no more details than if he'd been watching the tide on a moonless night.
A rosy flash danced through the soil to light the night like a thunderbolt. Against it Cashel saw the creatures attacking the tower. The angle foreshortened them, but it wasn't that which made them monsters.
Some had beasts' bodies; some had beasts' heads. They wore scraps of armor and human clothing, and their weapons ranged from long swords to stones gripped in one or more hands. They went on two legs or four; and one monstrosity undulated on more legs than a centipede and had a torso whose four arms waved axes.
Some carried scaling ladders.
The flash was there and gone, leaving only the impression of movement behind.
“Aria, get down inside if you can!” Cashel said. He slid his hands along his quarterstaff, getting the feel of it while he waited for the first of the screaming horde to climb to a level he could reach.
The plaza where three roads met near Ilna’s tenement had a fountain that didn't work. She intended to get the water line repaired as one of her next projects, though she hadn't as yet determined whether to use bribery or extortion to bring city officials to her way of thinking.
Even without water the plaza was generally busy; it was as close to a park as the Crescent could boast. The magic act being performed there today would have drawn a crowd in any district of Erdin.
Ilna was at the front of the spectators. Folk in the Crescent knew Mistress Ilna and made way for her. If they didn't, one of their neighbors taught them proper courtesy with an elbow—or a brick. Ilna didn't encourage that sort of thing, but she couldn't have stopped it if she tried. And anyway, there wasn't enough courtesy in the world.
The young man wearing red silk muttered a word that Ilna heard but didn't understand; he struck down with his. athame. A flower of ruby light grew, opened, and expanded into a sphere that Ilna couldn't have spanned with both arms outstretched. In its heart was a city of light—low houses and a harbor with ships moving on the water. Ilna could even see people walking along the streets.
“Oooh!” sighed the spectators.
“That's Pandah!” cried a man in the wide pantaloons and bright silk sash of a sailor ashore. “By the Lady's nose, that's Pandah or I'm a farmer!”
The image sucked in on itself and vanished. The young man stepped back and wiped his brow. He was sweating like a stevedore and looked tired.
As well he might. Most of the crowd probably thought they were watching an expert illusionist. Ilna had seen enough wizardry to recognize it when she saw it again.
Voder had said the young man's legless helper was named Cerix. He propelled his little cart into the crowd with thrusts of one hand on the right wheel while his left held up a wooden bowl. “While the great Master Halphemos rests before his stunning climax,” the cripple said, “it's time for you good people to show that you appreciate his art. Give to the master who gives to you!”
To call the Crescent a poor district was to praise it; half the residents were probably planning to flee at the end of any given week to avoid the rent collector. Despite that, several folk dropped coins into the bowl. Copper, of course, and in one case the clank of a wedge-shaped iron farthing from Shengy—but more money than any street entertainer had seen in this plaza since the mud was bricked over.
It wasn't a fraction of what the show was worth. Halphemos—and his helper, who'd drawn the circles of power before each incantation—could have performed before the earl himself for a fee paid in gold.
The cripple shoved his cart up to Ilna. “Will the wealthy lady show her appreciation of Master Halphemos?” he said as he rattled the bowl.
Ilna nodded curtly. Her clothes were clean and hadn't been patched; in the Crescent, that made her a member of the elite.
She dropped a silver coin in the bowl. Several of those nearby gasped when they heard the unmistakable chime. The cripple snatched it out and put it in his mouth for safekeeping, giving Ilna a look of amazement as he did so.
“I'll see you after the show,” Ilna said. “I believe you're looking for me.”
The cripple skidded his cart back to Halphemos even though he'd only worked half the crowd. The two whispered. Ilna smiled grimly at them. She didn't know why a wizard should be looking for her; but one was, and she saw no reason to delay learning.
It was probably bad news. There was never a reason to delay getting bad news. That was cowardice.
The cripple quickly scratched a new pattern on the bricks, using a bit of charcoal as before. During the performance the “stage” on which Halphemos performed had moved steadily to the right so that his helper had unmarked bricks on which to write the next time. Ilna didn't think the symbols were actually legible even to someone who could read, but they were apparently necessary for the incantation to have effect.
Halphemos stood and made a slight bow of acknowledgment to Ilna. He still looked tired, but there was a nervous enthusiasm in his voice as he began to murmur sounds that were not words to human beings.
Light swelled from a ruby-colored bead in the air. For a moment, Ilna thought there was nothing but swirling mist. A serpent of bloody light struck outward—
“No!” shouted the crippled helper. He reached for the circle of power to smudge the words out of existence, but Halphemos had already thrown down his athame.
The image vanished like blood soaking into dry sand.
Ilna’s fingers had twitched her lasso out by reflex. She tucked the silken coil back beneath her sash.
The crowd reacted with screams', gasps, and—when the image vanished—cheers and foot-stampings of applause. They'd been frightened, but they thought the shock was all part of the entertainment. When it passed, they were delighted.
Halphemos sat. Ilna winced to see his silk robe on the filthy pavement. His athame, a length of spiral horn or possibly tooth, lay before him. He reached for it absently, then jerked his fingers away before he touched the tool.
Cerix was gray-faced. He waved to move the spectators away and cried, “The show is over! Master Halphemos must rest now!”
A prostitute with a room in Ilna’s tenement leaned forward to drop a coin in Cerix's bowl. The cripple glared so fiercely that she backed away in surprise.
“What in the name of all gods did you do?” Cerix said to Halphemos, his voice harsh with fear. He felt Ilna’s presence and jerked his head around to snarl before he recognized her.
“Let's get him into Anno's” Ilna said. “That's the tavern behind you. We can use the room in back.”
“It should have been King Valence in his palace,” Halphemos said, as much to himself as to Cerix or Ilna. “I'd used the Earl of Sandrakkan when we opened, so I just switched the names to have something different for the close.”
“Come,” Ilna said, putting her hand on the young man's arm. She gave it a tug when he didn't react quickly enough.
Halphemos was wobbly, but he rose obediently to his feet. With her free hand she picked up the athame.
They staggered the few steps to the tavern. Four pewter mugs were chained to the stone counter facing the street. The back was the family's living quarters, but Anno would set up a table and stools whenever somebody was willing to pay three coppers instead of two for his wine.
Anno's wife—or perhaps sister, Ilna didn't choose to inquire—flopped the wooden gate in the counter back to let them through. She must have been listening.
A man wearing broad gold rings on both his thumbs plucked Halphemos' sleeve as he started to follow Ilna within. “My good young sir!” he said. “With a man like me who knows local business conditions as your agent, you can become richer than you dream!”
Ilna looked at him. “Get out of here, Mangard,” she said. “And while I think of it—don't ever let me hear about you threatening one of your girls with a knife again. If I do, I'll put a knot in a place you'll notice more than if it was your throat. Do you understand?”
“I, ah...” Mangard said. He thought the better of whatever he'd planned to say, which meant he probably did understand.
Ilna scowled as the pimp scuttled away. What she thought she'd seen in Halphemos' last vision must have disturbed her more than she'd realized. Normally she didn't make threats of the sort she'd spoken to Mangard. Not because she couldn't carry it out; rather, because now that she'd used the words she'd have to carry it out. The thought disgusted her.
Halphemos sat, though he seemed still to be in a daze. When Cerix wheeled his cart close, his chin rose just above the level of the table. It made for an awkward way to carry on a conversation but a practical one.
