The larger man cursed as the limb slapped into his shoulder and Ensara followed up.
But Sarken caught the thrust, locked the blade, then punched Ensara in the face with his off hand.
The captain spun away, tripped, fell flat on his back. His sword sailed off into the darkness.
He knew he needed to rise, but there didn’t seem to be enough energy in his legs to move him, or enough air in his lungs to breathe. And what was that distant shouting?
He heard the smile in Sarken’s voice as the mate loomed over him, a darker shadow against the black jungle. “Nice knowing you—”
A scuffling sound and then a heavy thunk interrupted the first mate. Sarken grunted. Another blow, and Ensara felt liquid splatter down on his face and shirt and knew it for blood.
Sarken sank. Still fighting to regain his breath, Ensara scrambled out of the way, eyes lighting on a slim figure.
Charlyn stood over Sarken’s body holding a sword in two hands. She breathed heavily. “The other one ran off when I cut him in the side. I barely hit him.”
“Belvic always was a coward,” he said weakly. “Good thinking,” he added.
He bent to reach for his sword, only to find a long, sharp spear at his throat.
20
NET OF FIRE
IVRIAN
They told him everyone was dead.
He had no illusions that they meant anything better for him, but they’d kept him alive so far and had gone to the trouble to tie him to the half-rotted chair. Venthan still moaned sluggishly in the other one. The countess had tried to make the poor fellow scream three separate times, but he’d shown more mettle than Ivrian expected.
“I don’t actually enjoy inflicting pain, Lord Galanor,” Rajana was saying. “I just like answers. The problem is that I didn’t ready enough spells for asking questions. I was prepared for combat.”
“That sounds inconvenient,” Ivrian said.
Narsian slapped him, and he rocked back in his chair. The man grinned into his eyes.
“You will speak only when I require an answer,” she ordered. “Is that clear?”
Ivrian waited a moment, looking back and forth between the sadist and the wizard.
“You may speak,” Rajana said, helpfully.
“Your man has made that abundantly clear, m’lady.”
“How very nice. Let’s not labor under any false apprehensions, Lord Galanor. I trust the pain I’ve inflicted upon your associate has proved my point? There will be no mercy if you do not cooperate.”
“I see.”
“I read your hand-pressed assemblage of paper and ink. I think I give it too much credit to describe it as a book. You assign motives without precedent, you tell rather than show, and you present information without due research.” She paused to put her hands behind her back. “You knew nothing of me, but you referred to me as ‘an aging beauty, sinister and malicious.’ I bear no one malice, Lord Galanor, not even you. Not even your late friend, Mirian Raas. Emotional investment in any particular person or object is a waste of time. If you had bothered with any research, you might have learned that about me.”
“When it’s reprinted, I’ll add footnotes.”
Narsian smacked him again.
“No, let him speak.”
Ivrian wondered what he should say. He couldn’t imagine that Mirian and Jekka were truly dead, no matter the assurances from Rajana that they and Jeneta and Tradan were buried beneath the burning mansion, and that Rajana had personally collapsed the egress to the vault with a titanic spell.
Ivrian either needed to keep Rajana talking long enough for Mirian to free herself and come for him, or somehow suggest to the wizard he was more valuable alive. The latter, he thought, might actually be harder than the former.
“I didn’t realize I’d been captured by a literary critic,” he said, “but I do apologize.” The words were bitter in his mouth, especially with Venthan sagging in the chair under the lantern, bleeding from his nose and mouth.
Ivrian forced calm. “You have to understand the market for which you write. My market demands a certain…” had his hands been free he would have waved them in the air, “melodramatic flair. If my taking of artistic license offended you, it was hardly my intent.”
“I know you cared not a whit for my feelings, and I don’t need an apology. What I want to know is whether you know anything in particular about the cones, and the eyes. My guess is no, and that I already have everything I need, but I do like to be careful. I hardly ‘race unconsidered with vengeance seething in my breast.’”
If she could so easily quote his words about her, it suggested to Ivrian that the words had struck home far more than the woman was willing to admit. And there, then, lay his salvation, for he knew nothing about the accursed cones or eyes—whatever they were.
“I detect,” he said, “a natural facility for language in you, m’lady. And despite present circumstances, I can’t help but be impressed with your ability for memorization.”
“Memorization comes easily to those who apply themselves to the magical arts.” Did he imagine that her tone had softened just a modicum after his praise?
“Do you write your own spells? Do you set words to paper under your own name?”
“M’lady,” Narsian interrupted, “he’s stalling.”
Bastard.
Rajana snapped at her subordinate. “I know very well what he’s doing. Lord Galanor, do you take me for a fool with your attempt to distract me? You think I would want writing advice from one such as you?”
He thought that she might, though she was unwilling to admit it. He laughed shortly. “I know what I write isn’t work for the ages. I’ve been working on something more along those lines, though I’ve a feeling I won’t live to finish it. But I can tell you that I’ve spent years studying my betters.”
“Such as?”
“Well, first among all is Ailson Kindler. Her writing is suffused with dark lyricism that I can’t even hope to emulate.”
“Ailson Kindler,” the countess sniffed, “gets the details right.”
“Oh, yes.”
“I am speaking. You can tell when she writes of the blood-hungry dead and the phantoms and necromantic objects that she has encountered them firsthand. Whereas in your work … even though I’m well aware you witnessed some of the events you describe, the whole might as well be invented, so poorly do you describe it.”
“Ouch. Well, you know what they say about critics, Countess.”
“I do not.”
“A critic,” Ivrian said, forced to paraphrase, and quickly, for he couldn’t remember the precise wording, “is someone who arrives at a battle after its conclusion and kills all the wounded.”
“You find yourself unfairly accused.”
“To what standard should I be held? A work should be judged by its intended purpose. Attack me for writing poorly if you will, but don’t say I wrote poor comedy when I crafted a tragedy. Don’t attack me for lack of agricultural details in my sea epic.”
“Oh, you’re a victim, are you?” Rajana asked with mock sympathy. “You have a sad tale of woe? Well, Lord Galanor, so does everybody.” Her teeth shone. “You’re nothing special.”
“I know that,” he said, though he’d rather hoped he might be a little special.
“It’s good that you have no pretensions as to your own place and value.”
He wasn’t sure he had much more he could say to keep her talking. “M’lady, if I tell you what you wish to know, is there anything you can promise me apart from a swift death? Or will even that be painful?”
“I have no interest in either your life or death.” Rajana brought up one gloved hand. “Save that if you are allowed to live, you will no doubt one day write more drivel about me.”
“With Mirian dead, there’s no incentive,” he said. “No one would want to hear about a failed expedition. What’s the fun in that?”
“You’re taking your comrade’s death rather easily. I
thought yours was ‘a friendship forged in the fires of turmoil and sacrifice.’ Dreadful.”
“Everything’s exaggerated for effect.”
“So what do you know?”
“I know a lot of things.”
She sighed. “Narsian, show him what I do to people who waste my time.”
Her assistant grinned, then stepped over to Venthan and casually sliced his throat.
Ivrian cried out in disbelief as the man rocked in pain. Blood spattered and Venthan produced a horrifying wet choking noise as he wobbled in his seat, finally falling to one side, the chair coming with him so that both lay in an expanding pool of blood.
Narsian laughed.
“Gods—what … why would you—heal him, m’lady! I know you can heal him! I’ll tell you whatever you want to know!”
“Tell me and I will heal him. Speak!”
“I…”
“He doesn’t know anything, Countess,” Narsian said. “Or he’d have given it up right now.”
“Too bad for you, Lord Galanor.”
Venthan still kicked feebly. Ivrian was more angry than frightened, even though he could guess he was next.
Suddenly the door slammed open and a huge pirate leaned in. “The woman’s escaped!” he shouted. “And the captain’s in on it!”
Narsian tensed. Rajana’s eyes narrowed.
“Go get her,” she said. “And him. But be careful you don’t try to frame him, Sarken. I happen to value the captain. I will be able to tell if you lie.”
“I’m not lying,” the pirate declared. “I saw him running into the jungle!”
“I will retrieve them both,” Narsian volunteered.
Rajana faced him. “I know you intended on making the woman your new project, but I think Sarken can handle matters.” She looked once more to Sarken. “Get some men and solve the problem. But bring the captain alive.”
“And the woman,” Narsian added quickly.
Rajana’s expression soured and she kept her eyes upon the pirate. “You do as you wish.”
“Right away, m’lady.” Sarken closed the door and shouted to his men as he pounded down the stairs.
Venthan was still, but Ivrian had seen those who looked just as bad brought back by a powerful spell or healing draught. In vain he looked to his captors. How could he plead with them when drawing their attention would likely result in his own death?
Rajana’s voice to Narsian was like an icy whip. “You don’t give the orders here!”
“Yes, m’lady.”
“This is the second time in as many days you’ve overstepped your bounds! I think I rewarded you too quickly. I think I forgave you too soon!”
“No, m’lady.” He licked his lips.
“It shall be a long road before you have my trust once more.” She turned her attention once more to Ivrian. “It’s difficult to find good help. But then your late employer had that issue herself. A wiser woman would have used better guards. And she would surely have used a better promotional agent.” She stared a moment longer at him, sighed with distaste, and turned wearily to her sadistic adjutant. “Narsian, he has nothing I need. Kill him.”
Ivrian steeled himself as Narsian bowed his head to the wizard. He didn’t think he’d be greeting his mother in the afterlife so soon, and hoped Mirian and Jekka wouldn’t be there with her. His eyes drifted to Venthan’s body, noticed that the chair had mostly collapsed with the dead man’s fall.
A desperate hope … As Narsian advanced, Ivrian threw himself to the side.
He heard the chair splinter beneath him. He took the brunt of the fall on his shoulder but rolled, the chair disintegrating further, and he came up in a crouch, tied now by one hand to the chair back.
“Father of lies!” Rajana spun on Narsian. “I thought you, of all people, could tie a proper knot!”
Narsian snarled. He lunged at Ivrian, then whirled at the sound of smashing timbers. A dark figure crashed through the shutters and landed on his feet. Rajana spun in surprise, but couldn’t stop what looked like a burning coal tossed from the fellow’s hand. It expanded into a net of fire which wrapped Narsian. The bodyguard screamed as he was webbed in flame.
Rajana threw a fiery globe of her own, but the shirtless, muscular intruder caught the seed of the spell in a black gauntlet and crushed his fingers around it. Instead of an explosion, only smoke rolled forth.
Narsian dropped, setting the floor aflame as he rolled, shrieking.
Rajana backed through the door and bolted away. Her heels rattled on the stairs as she hurried down.
The stranger contemplated the now-silent, burning corpse. Ivrian lifted the shattered remnant of the chair like a club. He’d never before seen a native like the stranger, with white facial paint that suggested a skull. The intruder padded forward on powerful bare legs, reached down to touch the fire net. It immediately collapsed into a glowing coal, which fastened itself to the palm of the gauntlet. The intruder waved hands over the flame as though stroking an animal, and the fire subsided to tiny winking flames before vanishing in a puff of smoke. There was no sign it had ever been—apart from the ghastly corpse and blackened floor planks.
From below came screams, an explosion, the clank of sword against sword. The smell of burned human flesh was thick in Ivrian’s nostrils.
Yet he said nothing, did nothing but eye the native sorcerer. The man wore only a kiltlike green tribal loincloth and the ebon gauntlet—apart from those and his face paint, he was naked, and completely sheathed in muscle.
“So the colonials fight among themselves,” the stranger said in a slow, thoughtful voice. His accent chewed consonants. “I think you are of the salvagers, yes?”
“I work for Mirian Raas,” Ivrian answered.
“And you have fire in you. That is good. What did you tell them?”
“Nothing,” Ivrian said.
The glowing coal in that strange gauntlet flared, and the stranger’s teeth showed in a grin. “Your thoughts agree with your words. You are braver than you look. Such loyalty to a woman not of your race.”
“She’s my friend.”
Again his nostrils flared.
Ivrian wondered if this was the man behind the Mzali attacks. Surely there wasn’t another group interested in their doings. Even if he guessed right he saw no reason to assume hostilities. “I definitely owe you my thanks.” He bowed his head. “I am Ivrian Galanor. Who are you?”
“I am Telamba, servant of the Great Walkena. And you owe me no thanks. I mean to drive you and your kind into the sea, or send you burning down to the devils you worship.”
“You have me confused with the Chelaxians. I’m no devil worshiper.”
Telamba grunted. If he did have a thought -reading spell working, he would have found confirmation in Ivrian’s answer.
“Speak truth to me and live, then, Sargavan. Tell me what you know of the dragon’s tear, and tell me what it is the Chelish woman wanted.”
21
THE OPEN WINDOW
JEKKA
Jekka heard Charlyn’s cry just as he was poised to plunge his spear under the captain’s chin.
“Don’t!” She threw up a hand. “He saved me!”
The man beneath him locked eyes but was still, save for his strained breathing.
He heard the sizzle of Mirian’s wand and a scream abruptly cut off with a gurgle only a few yards to the right and knew she had dealt with someone else.
A human hand touched his shoulder, and he recognized by scent it was Charlyn Raas, who also smelled of sweat and fear.
“He freed me from the house, and then fought this one to protect me.” She waved vaguely at the dead man nearby. “Jekka, they told me you were dead. Are Tradan and Mirian alive?”
“Yes.”
She choked back a sob. “Praise the gods! And they’re all right? What about Jeneta? Where are they?”
“Mirian is nearby. Jeneta is with Tradan. He was wounded, but will recover. They are summoning soldiers.”
“How badly hurt is he?”
But Jekka had communicated all that was necessary about wounds, and was more concerned about understanding what to do with the fellow below him.
“Why did you help her, human?” Jekka hoped there wouldn’t be a lengthy explanation. He wasn’t in the mood for complications.
“They were going to hurt her,” he said. “And I didn’t think that was … gentlemanly. Do you mind if I stand?”
“Yes,” Jekka answered.
“Gentlemanly.” Mirian emerged from the brush, her voice hard. “You worried about being gentlemanly?”
Charlyn embraced her sister even as the captain answered, his eyes flicking to Mirian before returning to the spearpoint.
“I am, believe it or not,” he said. “Events spiraled out of my control. I decided to do something about it before it got … worse.”
Mirian disentangled herself from her sister, whispering that Tradan was going to be fine and that they’d talk in a moment. She stepped to Jekka’s side and dropped a glow stone. Ensara flinched as it landed near his foot. The thick foliage touched him with sharp, leafy shadows.
“Thanks to you,” Mirian told the captain, “things have already gotten pretty bad.”
Ensara actually sounded pained. “I know. And I’m sorry about that.”
Jekka looked to Mirian for guidance.
She was frowning. “What the hell’s going on back there? All the shouting?”
“I don’t know,” Ensara admitted. “That didn’t happen until after your sister and I got out.”
“What about Ivrian?” Mirian asked, her tone sharply mocking. “Did you feel gentlemanly about him as well?”
“Rajana had him. And yes, I did … but there was no way I could pull him out of there. Not when Rajana and her assistant had him.”
Mirian let out a mild oath. “Is he still alive?”
“I think he was when I left. Believe me, I would have freed him if I could have.”
“It would have been nice if you’d had your attack of conscience a few weeks back,” Mirian snapped.
“Mirian,” Charlyn said, “he really did save me. Don’t kill him.”
Pathfinder Tales--Through the Gate in the Sea Page 19
