Forbidden Magic

by Angus Wells

  The place they chose was called The Mermaid and had sawdust on the floor and sweet-smelling smoke hanging thick in the air, drifting from numerous pipes to hang beneath the low ceiling in a haze of swirling blue, the smokers smiling indolently as the narcotic took effect. Several gaudily dressed women, their hair and necks and wrists heavy with beaten gold jewelery, eyed them speculatively as they approached the plank counter, reminding Calandryll of the doxy whose irritation had first brought him to Bracht’s attention.

  The Kern, too, was reminded, because he grinned and murmured, “This time pick your company more carefully.”

  Calandryll’s only answer was a shamefaced smile.

  “Friends, what’s your pleasure?”

  The innkeeper was stouter than ek’Jemm, but taller, his scalp glistening sweatily through a thin layer of oiled black hair. He wiped thick-fingered hands on a bright yellow shirt, displaying stained teeth as he beamed, using the pidgin tongue called the Envah that was the lingua franca of the Narrow Sea.

  “Ale,” said Bracht in the same dialect. “And information.”

  The man nodded and drew two pots of dark beer. Calandryll noticed that the pots were fashioned of the same leathery material as the soldiers’ armor. He guessed it was swamp dragon hide.

  “This’ll cut the dust.” The innkeeper slapped foam from the pots. “The gaheen’s started blowing, and that makes a man thirsty.”

  Calandryll realized he spoke of the hot, dry wind coming off the Shann. Both Medith and Sarnium mentioned that in spring northern Kandahar was plagued with the gaheen. He sipped the ale: it was warm.

  “You’re not Kands,” the man declared amiably. “What are you? From Lysse?”

  Calandryll nodded. Bracht said, “Cuan na’For.”

  “Kern?” the innkeeper’s smile grew wider. “We don’t see many Kerns here. You merchants?”

  Bracht grunted an affirmative and asked, “Where’s a good place to stay?”

  “Depends what you want,” the man shrugged.

  “Clean sheets. No bugs.”

  “One thing about the gaheen, it kills the bugs,” the innkeeper chuckled. “Gives us other problems, but it does kill the bugs. Now—someplace to sleep. You have money?”

  Bracht nodded. The man pursed his lips and said, “Mother Raimi’s got soft beds, and she’s a devil for washing. Good cook, too. Tell her Hammadrar sent you. You’ll find her place three streets across and one left. The Sign of the Peacock. You want another pot?”

  Bracht shook his head and Calandryll saw that he had emptied his mug: he swallowed his own ale and set the pot down.

  “Remember—tell her Hammadrar sent you,” the innkeeper called as they walked out.

  The wind was stronger as they recrossed the plaza, and very dry, tingling on their skin, skirling dust along the narrow streets in miniature whirlwinds. Calandryll spat grit, a passage from Medith springing to mind: “The gaheen (the ‘devil wind’) is said to drive men mad, and certainly it is a most irritating breeze, bringing as it does, a material taste of the Shann Desert. Fortunately, it afflicts only the northern parts of Kandahar.”

  Well, before long they would be riding inland, hopefully away from the gaheen, and so far they had encountered no madmen. Nonetheless, he was grateful when the bulk of buildings checked the prickly gusting.

  They left the taverns behind and passed a series of shuttered emporiums, the streets empty, ghostlike as full dark fell. Then lights showed ahead, brighter as they turned into the street described by Hammadrar. Here, signs clattered listlessly, advertising beds and food and baths. They saw one bearing an ornate depiction of a peacock, the paint dulled beneath a layering of dust, and went inside.

  The windows were shuttered and glass-encased lamps burned on the walls of a sizable room, its floor spread with gaily patterned carpets, empty chairs and tables along the walls, a small counter to one side. As the door swung shut behind them a bell tinkled and a bead curtain hung across an entrance behind the counter was thrust aside to reveal a small, very dark woman dressed in a robe of startling vermilion and cyan. In contrast to her tanned skin, her hair was silver, held in a net of fine gold mesh.

  “Welcome to the Sign of the Peacock,” she said. Her voice was thin and high, birdlike. “I’m Mother Raimi.”

  Calandryll bowed politely and said, “Hammadrar recommended you to us.”

  Mother Raimi nodded and asked, “You want rooms?”

  “If you have them.”

  Trilling laughter answered him. “All you want,” she chortled. “With the gaheen blowing, Mherut’yi’s empty. You can take your pick.”

  He translated for Bracht and the woman switched to the coastal argot.

  “A room apiece and dinner will cost you one var each. A bath, fifty decimi.”

  “We’ll take it,” he said.

  “Good. Follow me.”

  She disappeared through the curtain, reemerging from a side door to beckon them into a long corridor running the length of the building.

  “Dining room. Baths.” She swung her head to indicate the facilities, each movement jangling the necklace she wore. “I’ll give you rooms at the back—they’re the quietest.”

  Such consideration seemed unnecessary, given the sleepy atmosphere of the town, but she showed them to chambers facing one another across the corridor, announcing that baths would be drawn and dinner served when they were ready. Unlike Hammadrar, she showed no interest in their origins or their purpose in Mherut’yi, merely opening each door and fetching a lantern from the hall to ignite those inside. Calandryll smiled his thanks and examined his quarters.

  After the cramped cabin on the Sea Dancer, the room seemed spacious. A carpet that was only slightly worn covered most of the floor, the windows were shuttered and the lantern cast long shadows over the wide bed. Beside it stood a small table with a ewer, a chest of drawers on the other side, a wardrobe against one wall. The air smelled vaguely musty. “Not been used in a while,” Mother Raimi explained, “and with the gaheen blowing it’s best to keep the shutters closed.” She bustled off. He tossed his baggage on the bed and sat down, wondering if all the towns of Kandahar were as dry and dusty and dull as Mherut’yi.

  A knock and Mother Raimi’s shrill voice announced that their baths were ready and he joined Bracht in the corridor, his sword and the satchel in his arms. He was pleased to see that the Kern took the same precautions, is falchion on his waist. They followed the woman to the bathroom, where a single vast tub filled the air with steam.

  After the cold salt water on the Sea Dancer it was sheer luxury to bathe in the hot tub and the mild embarrassment he felt at sharing his ablutions with the free-sword was rapidly forgotten as he sank into the steaming liquid.

  “Tomorrow we find a stable,” Bracht said through the steam. “How far to Nhur-jabal?”

  Calandryll pushed wet hair from his eyes and shrugged. “Some weeks. Less to Kharasul.”

  Bracht nodded, grinning. “At least we travel in a civilized manner. It’ll feel good to get back on a horse.”

  “A boat could reach Kharasul faster,” Calandryll murmured.

  “You think of that warboat?”

  He nodded and Bracht said, “That wind blew it away. Even if it rode that storm, how could she know we travel to Kharasul?”

  The Kern’s spirits were raised now that he was on land again and Calandryll felt somewhat guilty for his own vague apprehension. “How did she know we were on the Sea Dancer?” he asked.

  “Azumandias’s spies,” said Bracht, refusing to allow his good humor dampened. “The warboat hid along the Lyssian coast and set out after us when she got word. And now she’s likely blown back to Lysse.”

  “You’re probably right,” Calandryll allowed.

  “If not,” said Bracht, “we’ll face her when the time comes. But until then, let’s make the best of things. I’m hungry for decent food after ek’Jemm’s slop.”

  He climbed from the tub, toweling himself cheerfully, and Calandryll fo
llowed suit. Then, dressed in clean shirts, they found the dining hall, where the innkeeper’s promise concerning the standard of Mother Raimi’s cuisine was fulfilled. She served them a rich fish soup, and then thick slabs of a gamey pie accompanied by cold vegetables. Cheese and fruit followed, and they drank three bottles of some tangy Kandaharian wine, after which they both felt pleasantly replete and more than a little drowsy. The prospect of exploring Mherut’yi held little interest, and as they preferred to remain anonymous they decided to find their chambers and make an early start come morning.

  Calandryll undressed and propped his sword beside the bed, tucking the satchel beneath the pillows. He snuffed the lanterns and climbed gratefully beneath the sheets, delighted to find them clean and free of dust. He grew daily less concerned with such comforts, the luxury he had known in his father’s palace dimming in his memory—and given what lay ahead, that was to his advantage—but it was still pleasant to once again sleep in a bed wider than the Sea Dancer’s bunks, with crisp linen and soft pillows. He yawned, listening to the faint droning of the gaheen outside the shutters, and drifted readily into sleep.

  HE was not sure what woke him, thinking at first that he roused from some dream and rolled over with a sigh, slitted eyes ascertaining that no light showed at the window to herald dawn, grunting comfortably as he composed himself to return into slumber. Then faint sound drew him back from that tempting threshold. He grunted again, less comfortably, and forced his sleep-blurred eyes to open. The room was dark, his adjusting vision slowly picking out the dim outlines of the window, the ewer on the table, the wardrobe, the chest of drawers. The gaheen murmured through the sleeping streets and he decided it was that he heard: he burrowed his head deeper into the pillow, hand reaching to touch the satchel beneath. And heard a board creak. Sharp, cold fingers of apprehension danced the length of his spine. The hair on his heck prickled as realization forced him to acknowledge that someone—or something—was in the room. He shivered as he thought of the wolf-headed creatures Azumandias had sent to the caravanserai, suddenly—incongruously—aware that he was naked. He forced himself to lie still, resisting the impulse to snatch at his blade, savoring the air. It smelled hot, but there was no scent of almonds. Would there be, had the conjuration already manifested? He clenched his teeth, feigning sleep as he opened his eyes a fraction, peering from under hooded lids into the gloom. The room was still. There was nothing there that should not be: perhaps he had dreamed it all.

  Then a shadow moved between the wardrobe and the door, detaching itself from the angle of the cupboard and the wall. It was a man-shaped shadow, a more solid black than its surroundings, and it moved toward him.

  He could contain himself no longer: with a shout that was part outrage and more fear, he lurched from the bed, snatching at his sword.

  His fingers locked about the hilt and he swung the weapon up, sending the scabbard flying across the room. It clattered against the door and dropped to the floor. The shadow was on the far side of the bed and he saw steel glint briefly as it propelled itself across, agile as some hunting cat. It rolled over the crumpled sheets, landing on its feet before him, a long, narrow-bladed dagger darting at his ribs. He swung the sword again, hearing steel ring on steel, and jumped back as the shorter blade thrust for his belly. He sucked his stomach in, bending and turning, and felt a brief stab of pain that was instantly forgotten as the blade drove at his throat. He danced away, terror lending him strength as he countered the blow, cannoning against the shutters, the latch stabbing viciously beneath his shoulder.

  The shutter banged open a fraction, permitting pale silver moonlight to enter the room. In its band he saw a lean figure dressed in shirt and loose pantaloons of midnight hue, the head wrapped round with a bandagelike hood in which only the eyes were visible. They were cold and dark; implacable. He backed away and his attacker dropped to a crouch, advancing with a silent, scuttling motion, the dagger weaving a hypnotic pattern before his face. He raised his sword defensively. And felt it swept aside by the dagger, twisting his head barely in time to avoid the blade that stabbed at his eyes.

  Turned, he had no chance to avoid or deflect the foot that lashed at his knee. He shouted as he felt the kick slam hard against the bone, pain erupting in a fiery explosion, paralyzing his leg so that it gave way under him and he fell heavily to the side. He struck the wardrobe and thudded to the floor, struggling to raise his sword as he saw the dagger flash toward him.

  Then halt in midstroke as the door burst open and Bracht charged into the room. The Kern was naked, his long hair wild about his face, the falchion outthrust. His blue eyes took in Calandryll, helpless on the floor, and the black-clad figure poised above him, and he roared a battle cry, turning the direction of his charge toward the assassin. The dagger rose to parry his attack, but the momentum of his charge drove the figure back, clear of the fallen Calandryll. Sparks glittered as falchion and dagger met. The assassin backed, seeking room to maneuver; Bracht followed him—or her, Calandryll was not sure—across the chamber. A second time, a third and then a fourth, the dagger turned the freesword’s blows. Calandryll pushed awkwardly to his feet. Fire burned in his knee and he could feel warm liquid oozing down his belly. He ignored it as he leaned against the door, the straights-word held before him. He saw Bracht cut at the assassin’s head and the figure duck, slashing at the Kern’s abdomen. Bracht danced clear and cut again, his stroke again deflected. The shadowy shape rolled back across the bed, darting toward Calandryll even as the falchion slashed the sheets. Chaipaku burned in his mind. He raised his sword, knowing he had no chance against one of the Brotherhood. And yelped as fire blazed in his damaged knee and he felt his leg give way.

  Time seemed to slow then and he saw the deadly game played out as if he were a spectator, indifferent to his own fate, protected by the very knowledge that he was about to die. He fell below the assassin’s thrust and saw the force of the blow lodge the dagger deep in the paneling of the door. Saw Bracht roll, no less nimble than the Chaipaku, over the bed to land on his feet behind the assassin. Saw the falchion driven forward by all the strength of the freesword’s powerful shoulder, all his weight behind the blow. He saw the killer turn, spinning with inhuman speed, left hand dropping to sweep the blade aside, right thrusting stiffened fingers at Bracht’s face. And saw that not even the Chaipaku was fast enough to beat the Kern.

  Bracht swung his head clear of the murderous blow, stabbing his sword at the killer’s midriff. The falchion pierced the rib cage. Calandryll saw the tip emerge from the assassin’s back. Then the door shuddered in its frame as the body was slammed against the wood. He saw Bracht snarl with animal ferocity as he twisted the blade loose, and winced as hot blood splattered his naked chest. A strangled moan erupted from beneath the hood and the figure took a single step forward. Bracht swung the falchion in a savage cut and more blood sprayed from the belly. The assassin tottered. The Kern cut back and the figure grunted, abruptly limp, the knees folding, clawed hands dropping. It fell heavily to the floor. Bracht drove the falchion into its back and it jerked, bare feet drumming briefly on the bloodstained carpet. Then it was still. Bracht tugged his sword loose and turned to Calandryll.

  “You’re wounded?”

  “I … Yes … I don’t know …”

  He shook his head as time resumed its normal passage and he realized that he heard a fist pounding on the door, Mother Raimi’s fluting voice demanding entry.

  Bracht tossed the falchion aside and hauled him to his feet. He groaned as he put weight on his knee. The Kern lowered him to the bed. He was dimly aware that he still clutched his own sword. The door opened to reveal Mother Raimi, dressed in a loose sown of iridescent green that shimmered in the light of the lantern she held. Its glow showed her the body and the two naked men, the blood that oozed darkly over her carpet. She screamed, and two more faces, one male, the other a woman’s, appeared behind her. The woman echoed Mother Raimi’s scream; the man mouthed an oath.

  Bracht said,
“He was attacked,” indicating Calandryll.

  Mother Raimi said, “Surinim, fetch the lictor. Quick!”

  Bracht took the lantern from her and brought it close to Calandryll, studying his blood-splattered torso.

  “A scratch. No more.” The Kern touched his knee. “A kick?”

  He nodded. Bracht glanced over his shoulder and said, “Bring cloths and cold water. There’s a healer in this godforsaken town?”

  Mother Raimi nodded dumbly.

  “Then send for him.”

  “Her,” the silver-haired woman corrected automatically, staring. Calandryll was suddenly aware that she was brought from her sleep to a room where a corpse lay on the floor and two naked men, one smeared with blood, sat upon the bed: he began to laugh.

  Bracht slapped his face and said, “Now! Cloths, cold water, and then the healer. Do it!”

  The old woman started as though his hand had landed on her cheek. She nodded to the gaping woman at her back and said, “Go, Lyhanna,” in a muted voice.

  Calandryll stopped laughing and began to shiver. Bracht tugged the sheet across his midriff and he stared as the white linen grew slowly dark. The Kern rose, ignoring his own nudity, and retrieved his blade. “I’ll dress,” he said, and left the room. Mother Raimi stared at Calandryll, her eyes huge, her mouth moving silently.

  “I was attacked,” he said, aware that his teeth chattered. “I was asleep and I woke to find him here.” He gestured at the corpse. “He tried to kill me.”