"Here I stand!" DeMacabre shouted the words from six inches behind Freetrick's head.
Freetrick jumped away and spun around. He managed to make sure his fluttery cape didn't snag on any torches or ogre toenails, and tried to fix DeMacabre with a stern glare. "DeMacabre. I've been expecting you."
"Indeed, 'tis I, my lord," DeMacabre smiled crazily and bent in bow. "If I may be so bold as to call you 'my lord,' Fiend. We will, after all, soon be family, no?"
Evidently, DeMacabre had gotten over the un-wedding postponement. That was…good. Plus with the Duke here, Freetrick had someone less hideous to look at than Skystarke. As long as he didn't examine DeMacabre too closely, anyway.
"…apologize abjectly for my tardiness, Malevolence," DeMacabre was saying, "there were certain tasks…" a knobble-jointed hand waved before Freetrick's nose. He caught a whiff of embalming fluid. "But enough of such tedium. Yes, tedium, my lord, when compared to the sheer catharsis of conversation in your monstrous presence."
It was going to be a long morning. "Thank you?"
"My praise is nothing but the honestly-engendered truth. True words as the Rationalists say. Ah ha ha." White lace spilled across black velvet as DeMacabre put one hand below his chest, as if his diaphragm needed extra support when he laughed. "Ah ha. But sorry I am indeed, my lord, to have left you so long, alone, waiting, forlorn." With each word, his voice dropped. "The thought of it would make an ogre weep, my lord, indeed."
Freetrick glanced at the nearest body-guard in his wall sconce. No, that ogre was smiling quite happily, his big round eyes pointed in slightly different directions.
"I wasn't alone. I was with " Freetrick gestured vaguely at the guards. "These guys." Skystarke's lean body stiffened.
"Oh?" The smile had disappeared. "Were you?"
"Yes," hissed Skystarke, "we gah-ad the body of the Soon-to-be Ultimate Fiend! We, and not you-ah puppets, DeMacabre."
DeMacabre drew himself up, peering at the guard with a raised eyebrow. "And you are? Identify yourself, monstrosity."
"Com-man-dah Skystarke of the Secret Police!"
"Can't be much of a secret if you keep introducing yourself like that," muttered Freetrick.
"I am sure that your display would impress me more had the last king not recently expired in his own apartments." DeMacabre's smile was like the expression of an ancient reptile, frozen by a million-year winter. "Neither very long ago, nor very far away from this spot, was it?"
"Now—" Freetrick began, then stopped, as he looked from DeMacabre's face to Skystarke's, and his brain screeched to a halt.
Skystarke was snarling. His upper lip curled, then flared, then peeled back. It receded like a window blind, laying bare a set of fangs that would have put the fear of god into a crocodile. The fleshy nose, then the eyelids, popped off the bone underneath, compressing into a wrinkled crest over the brows of the revealed monster.
Lidless eyes glared, the six inch teeth separated. A long black tongue slid out. Freetrick expected his commander of guard to speak, but then realized he probably couldn't. Not with his upper lip pulled back over his eyebrows.
For a moment, DeMacabre stood before Skystarke, his expression unmoving. "What shall we do now?" He said, lips still spread in a smile that Freetrick might have called hideous, if Skystarke hadn't presented him with a better example.
Skystarke hissed, his shoulders rising like the hackles of an animal.
"My lord?" DeMacabre's voice slid like a serpent through the greasy air. Freetrick noticed the slow ooze of blood down the man's fingers. When had he cut himself? "It requires but your permission." His voice shook with sickening emotion. The very air seemed to grow hot and heavy with rising power as red gleams kindled in his eyes. Ribbons of blood extended into the air around his hands, as if diffusing through dark water. "Then it will require but your amusement."
"No!" said Freetrick, horrified. Then, "no no! Strike it out, everyone! Stop. I mean—Stand down, strike it."
The questing tendrils of airborne blood stopped, as if confused. "My lord?" said DeMacabre. Even Skystarke hissed at him in a sort of quizzical way.
"I mean it," Freetrick said. "I have no desire at all for either of you to kill the other one. I will not find it amusing. So stand down. DeMacabre, stop whatever the hell you're doing."
"Hell, indeed, my lord," said DeMacabre, but his stance relaxed. There was no sign of the blood that had covered his hands only a moment before.
"And you," said Freetrick, glaring at Skystarke, "Put your striking face back on."
Torchlight gleamed on bone as the captain of guard nodded. Then the upper lips slid down his forehead. Skystarke's hands came up, pulled down and pressed firmly, and the monster's human mask was back in place. He blinked.
"I obey the o-dahs of the Mas-tah of Dahk-ness and no one else!"
"Good. Very nice." Now that Freetrick knew where to watch, he could see the nose bob up and down over the fangs underneath. Freetrick smiled tightly.
"Now," DeMacabre's voice filled the silence like warm honey poured onto a knife wound "what lies on my lord's dark agenda?"
***
Zathara's palanquin surged upwards. Then it crashed down as the traitorous bearers all released it.
There was the sound of splintering wood and pain-filled howls from the guardsmen below. At the peak of the palanquin, Zathara was thrown onto her father's side. Ashes from the incense braziers flew up in choking clouds. Torn silk and ripped flowers flew.
Zathara was first out the silk-curtained door. She swung around the wooden frame of the palanquin and leaned out over the scene of carnage below.
"Zathara!" Neeshthura cried from inside. "Get back in here!"
Esteem flowed out of her mother. It was a stupid thing to say.
"Our palanquin bearers have all turned traitor!" Zathara shouted. "I see one guardsman killed. Another on the ground. And…" she ducked back into the palanquin. "We need to get out. One of the bearers is preparing to light us on fire."
"They dare!" Her father was beside her in a rush of perfumed smoke and a blaze of charisma. "You down there!" His voice rolled off the warehouses that lined the streets. "For your affront to the house of Suyamuga, you will die! Now everyone," he said in a lower tone, "we must jump. For the love of Love, make it look good."
And Zathara was flying through the air. Love-Magic power spun her as she fell, billowed her wrap out, made it glow around her like flames. She struck the ground without a sound and stood to face their attackers.
The guardsmen were well-trained and loyal to the death. But the palanquin bearers were larger and more numerous. And it was clear they had had training too. One of the traitors died as Zathara watched. But the guard who had killed him now fell under an attack from two other huge men. A fifth assassin cast sparks from a flint wheel onto the draperies of their palanquin. And the remaining four had encircled the guardsman. Who screamed above the sound of steel and igniting fire: "Run my lady, my lord!"
"We have to help them." Zathara started forward.
"Zathara! No!" Neeshthura's hand grabbed her wrap. "We must run! Back to our districts. The watchmen we brought will---"
Mother hadn't come to grips with their situation yet. "Be outbid by whoever arranged this trap." Father had, though. "We have to get to my warehouse."
"Who would do such a thing?"
"It must be Sapo," said Father. "He's smart enough to discover our plans and stupid enough to think that killing us is a good way to stop them."
Zathara watched as their third guardsman fell.
"Zathara!" Neeshthura screamed again, and tugged her into a clumsy run.
There was a rush of air behind them. And their shadows shot forward across the cobbles. Their cowardice was outlined in the orange glow of their burning palanquin.
Esteem began to flow out of them.
"We're showing out backs to our enemies," Zathara managed to shout to her father. "They will use the esteem they gain to catch up. And. Kill us."
>
"Not much farther," panted Nashtang.
"Too far!" Insisted Zathara. "We have to make a stand."
Before he could argue, Zathara stopped and spun.
"Who would fight me!" She screamed at the remaining six assassins, outlined by the burning tower of their palanquin. The esteem, thank the Goddess of Love, reversed its flow. The killers appreciated a heroic stand. Their respect for her fueled the Love-Magic that threw Zathara's wrap up in a spectacular blaze of red and orange.
"Who would fight us!" Nashtang and Neeshthura stopped, too.
"I'm sorry." Nashtang spoke in an undertone to Zathara. Then he projected his voice again at the assassins. "We are the house seSuyamuan! How dare you turn against your betters, you dirt-encrusted mountebanks! Honorably drive your blades into your bellies now, or face shame at our hands!" His shoulders were back. His hand was on the elegant loop of his sword-hilt. He projected the Love-Magic glamour that made his clothes glow with color and his eyes sink into pools of shadow.
But it was clear the men were no simple bullies to be intimidated by a merchant-prince's charisma. They were trained assassins. They advanced. "Damn," Nashtang spoke to her, "I'm not cast for fighting."
No, you're cast as a wily and sartorial old merchant. Zathara thought, and I as a seductive young heiress. Neither of us fits the archetype that would impress these men. But…
"I can change my casting, Daddy."
"Zathara, you've spent the last two years in The Rationalist Union," said Neeshthura. "I would prefer for you not to do any great works of Love-Magic."
The men were walking forward now. But they were moving. They moved like panthers, smiling. They are trying to intimidate us, boys and girls. She responded by raising an eyebrow and cocking a hip at them. Daring them with her broadcast unconcern. You see, boys and girls, how we each try to make the other give up his esteem? The battle has begun even before the swords are drawn.
"No." Neeshthura continued. "We must drive them off with glamour. Ruffians, I understand your needs!" She called to their attackers. "You must be hungry indeed to sell your steel to a man so contemptible as Lord Sapo. For that man's slime corrupts all he touches. I know you have too much respect for yourselves to be swayed by talk to base gold, jewels, and women..." Her voice trailed away suggestively. "But give yourselves to the House of the Sunflower! And I swear you will know true honor and luxury."
The attempt at glamour failed. The four assassins chuckled. The sound was like the quiet growl of a stalking predator. It sent a shiver up Zathara's spine. Damn! She felt the esteem begin to flow from her to the approaching men. Well played on their part, boys and girls.
"Zathara!" her father sensed her loss of control. "Don't let yourself admire them." He raised his voice, "Why are you offering them succor, wife?" Nashtang said. There was no quaver of fear in his voice. "I wouldn't take these men on if they paid me." His contemptuous comment was a hurled stone in the building Love-Magic battle. "They have let themselves become the tools of Sapo. By Love's sweating ass, we have destroyed the lives of men a hundred times better than you. You bullies. You gutter-trash!" he shouted. "Get out of here. Before I make you kill each other for my amusement!"
They were closer now. Their mouths were open now. Their growling chuckling was louder. Glamour-bent light gleamed off their teeth.
They are only playing a game, boys and girls. Zathara focused on the internal dialogue. We are, all of us, playing a game. A game of impressing the other force so much that they give up. She concentrated. She dug into her training. She calmed herself. They're winning right now, because our bids to gain their esteem aren't working. We respect them in their casting as killers, but they don't respect us. They've cast us as weak. Easy meat. I must therefore re-cast myself. Zathara called forth a Love-Magic dance.
In his club in The RU, Freetrick had taught gara, Love-wielder dances. But to him, in The RU, the gara dances were only exotic and cultural. In The RU, the dances don't do anything, boys and girls. But here in The Nation of Love, in the heart of the capital city of Pranyapura…here I can wield the love.
"Oh Daddy, you are so old fashioned. And you don't know what men want." Zathara took a step forward. Her shoulders were back. Her stare was challenging. Seductive.
"No, Zathara!" Neeshthura hissed. "You can't seduce these men!"
"I know," she said. Then in a carrying voice. "Don't tell me who I can and can't have, mother! Goddess of Love! I'm nineteen years old. I'm sick of those boys you throw at me. Not one of them could beat me in a fight."
Love-Magic made sure they could see her brilliant smile. "These men look like they might be a challenge." These are hard men, boys and girls. If you'll allow me the use of Rationalist slang, these men are the sort who appreciate bad-assery.
Zathara pivoted on a foot, spun around to face her father, grabbed his sword handle, drew the blade, and whirled back around to brandish the weapon at their attackers. "So how about it?" she called to them. "Who wants to play?"
"We're gonna rape you," came the call. It was low. Evil. Calculated to terrify her. To rob her of her esteem. "First me, then all of my buddies. We'll bloody you up. We'll make your family watch. Then we'll rape your mother. Then we'll take your heads."
"Oh will you?" But he does not scare me, boys and girls. I am deep in my new role. I am the femme fatal. I am sex and death and pain. "I will sever your penis between my legs. I will chew off your balls. Then I'll make you thank me for it." Zathara expended a burst of charisma. And she did a step she was sure her mother did not know she knew.
Esteem peaked. That was likely one or more of the assassins ejaculating, boys and girls.
"Now thank me." She purred.
"Oh, I am going to enjoy you," their leader said. His expression was indescribably terrifying.
Damn. Zathara lost esteem to him. But not much. And if he was any judge of battles, he would know the time for banter was done. He would attack. And indeed, he was tensing. Zathara said a brief and fervent internal prayer to the Goddess of Love. And she attacked first.
The step would not have worked in The Rationalist Union. In Freetrick's gara club, she would never have been able to cover the distance between herself and her attackers. Then, once blocked, she would not have been able to bounce off the blade of the assassin and drop to the ground, ready to dart another jab at him. But this was The Nation of Love, and the esteem of the men flowed into her as she demonstrated her sword-work.
Unfortunately, boys and girls, these men have esteem, too, and more practice at actually killing people, and there are more of them. Another burst of esteem shot Zathara back away from a thrust that would have skewered her kidney and her superhumanly strong defense thrust the assassin backward into a wall. I must focus on my advantages.
In their performances at Eldritch college, the step had only been a dramatic flourish in a dance. Here, when Zathara tossed the weighted end of her wrap at one of the men, it flew as if winged. Caught in the grip of her Love-Magic, the cloth flowed like water around his body. The cloth sash tightened. Zathara yanked.
As the man rocked forward, spinning like a top, she pulled herself through the air to meet him.
Her thighs closed around the man's head as it emerged from the fabric of her robe. She squeezed, twisted, and used all the esteem she had left. Goddess, lend me strength. Goddess, make this work!
The assassin's neck snapped between her legs as she rode him to the ground.
Zathara stood, wrap dangling half off her, legs apart, feet straddling the head of the assassin she had killed. His comrades looked at her. Their eyes were wide. Now the hardest part, boys and girls. She had less than half a second before they attacked. Half a second to deliver my line. Most professional killers had catch-phrases memorized, but Zathara had scarcely expected to have to use one. What could she say? Ah, yes.
"Tell me, lover" she asked the broken-necked corpse. Her voice was husky and sensuous, like burned honey. "Was it good for you?" She looked at the other assassin
s with a gaze that she knew could give a hard-on to a eunuch.
"Wow," said one of the men. And the esteem swept over her.
Zathara's wrap slithered over her body. It pulled tight, stretched, tugged, shaped her into a warrior's wet dream. She crouched, left leg sliding out and back, her father's sword flicking up into her hands. She looked up at the toughs from under heavy eyelids and steeply slanting brows. "Who wants a turn?"
She imbued that word with as much power as she dared. Sure enough, only one stepped forward.
The hero feint. It was the classic trick to make a numerically superior enemy give up its advantage of numbers. The problem is, boys and girls, Zathara thought as her sword flashed in front of her in the patterns she had learned at Eldritch College, that even individually, these men are all better at fighting than I am. Her advantages of surprise sex and esteem weren't going to be enough to overcome her opponent's skill and strength. So my best option would be to take the esteem I have stolen from them and…
"For the fallen guardsmen!" Zathara used esteem to give her the strength to batter back her huge attacker's blade. "For my family's honor!" Another flash of glamour to dazzle the man while she drew the weapon back. "And for myself!" In a single, ecstatic release, all of Zathara's remaining esteem again rushed out from her heart through her hands to her sword. The sword that swung through the torso of her attacker as if his muscles and bones had turned to water.
That impressed them. In the wash of esteem the move generated, Zathara could throw her sword at the next closest man. It spun threw the air, separating his head from his shoulders before spinning back to her grip. "So your evil will always come back to destroy you." Zathara said. And cursed herself. What the hell kind of one-liner was that?
And there were still three enormous assassins readying themselves to kill her. They looked much less impressed by her most recent move. They were no longer smiling. But they advanced together.
The Kingdoms of Evil Page 14
