Why would no one help him?
Suddenly exhausted, he stepped into a shaded alcove, sliding down to one knee and running a hand over his face. He'd never been good at asking for help—much to the amusement of his wife.
But Mari, I swear, if only one person would come forward, I'd give them anything they asked. Anything at all.
Reaching into his pocket, he drew out the picture of his daughter. Someone must have seen her: a fragile girl with shorn blonde hair....
"She was dressed as a boy,” a voice said.
Startled, he looked up. A girl stood in the street before him, hair matted into peaks beneath a pair of heavy goggles—the silent girl, he realized, who had been with the mehtar.
"What did you say?” he asked.
She sat beside him in the shade. “She was dressed as a boy. Yet, she did not fight back when Aloca-Coc stole her boots. I knew then she was an adult, for a child would always fight and with less provocation."
Mortar struggled to keep his voice level. “How do you know her?"
"You spoke of a reward?"
He smiled. “Treinte scalar."
"I do not want your coin."
"Then what?"
"Take me with you."
Mortar recoiled. “That's impossible."
"I know you have a ship,” she said. “I can work in your galley. I will do anything. Anything."
Settling back, he studied her face. She was so young. How could she hope to help him? “All right. Tell me. What have you seen?"
"She was lent to Lirtsban-Teralgo-Pas by a man who said he was her father. Lirtsban paid for her in good faith. That is why he would not answer your questions."
"The burned man,” Mortar prompted.
"Yes. He took us to the fire plains, a night's march from the city. During the trek, a girl and her brother befriended her. She accompanied them onto the flats. Of their find, I know nothing, for shortly thereafter there was an accident: the mehtar was injured, the girl killed."
"Was my daughter hurt?"
"No. She escaped with the brother. The two of them headed back toward the city."
Two of them. Mortar jumped to his feet. No wonder the security guards couldn't locate her—they searched for only one. “Can you tell me his name?"
"Of course. He is Pilar-Shay."
"Excellent!” He laughed. “You have been most helpful. I can't thank you enough."
"But, my reward...."
"I'll come back for you,” Mortar called over his shoulder.
He had to get this information to Abbas, he thought. Surely then the deputy would extend his search outside the city. He might even know the whereabouts of Pilar-Shay or his family.
Rushing down the street, Mortar plotted a course back to the main throughway. He'd have to walk to the Resort—he'd find no cabbers at this hour. He smiled, encouraged for the first time in days. What luck it had been to find that girl.
Her face came to mind then: her expression of betrayal as he walked away, her earnest request for asylum. She'd promised him anything in return for his help.
Hadn't he made a similar vow?
His step slowed. He should go back for her. But what would he do with a child in his galley? That isn't the point, a voice whispered in his mind. The pact he'd made was with Mari...
...and Anneliese. Mortar glanced at the sun. Sweat ran like rivers down the creases of his face. Turning, he went back the other way.
His footfalls seemed loud against the silence of midday. The street was deserted but for him. Ahead, he made her out—she still sat in the alcove. Sleeping, he thought as he approached.
"You might as well come with me now,” he said. The girl did not move. He knelt beside her. “Young lady,” he said, and then froze.
Her body slumped with his touch. Her robe fell away, and in her chest, he saw the ornate hilt of a knife.
Harmadeur's knife. He gasped with recognition, remembering the Master the first time they'd met. But, hadn't Anneliese taken the knife when she escaped the cage? Was she in Enceinte after all?
Suddenly, Bano leapt before him. A flash encased the biorg's bulk. Mortar tensed. Someone was shooting at him. Slowly, he straightened, staying within his bodyguard's shadow. His eyes flicked to the side. He saw a man running between the buildings.
Then Bano was gone, moving more swiftly than his size decreed, chasing the assailant. Mortar followed, catching up to them just as Bano cornered the man in an alley, just as the man turned to fire, showing his face.
Bossman, Mortar thought. Surah's man.
Pol stumbled backwards, firing repeatedly, hitting the biorg in the chest—and with each shot his dark face blanched a bit paler. “Demon,” he cried, “keep away. Don't touch me."
Bano moved toward him smoothly, sparks issuing from his blackened chest, wisps of smoke rising. Mortar thought the automaton incapable of emotion, but he couldn't prove it by his actions.
Stepping into the alley, Mortar called loudly, “Why did you murder that child?"
"Demon!” Pol cried. “Save me! Save me!” He fired point blank.
Bano's head jerked. His step faltered.
"The child, Pol,” demanded Mortar.
Pol fell to his knees, eyes wide in terror. “It was Surah's plan. She wanted to keep the search inside the city. She told me to leave the knife where it would be found to throw you off the trail."
"Anneliese's trail."
"I didn't want to give your daughter to the mehtar. It was Surah. Surah."
Just then, Bano reached him, wrapping his huge hand about the man's throat. Pol squealed like a stegort, his feet kicking as Bano lifted him in the air.
"Release him,” Mortar yelled, rushing forward.
Sparks crackled in Bano's chest. Mortar's nose stung with the stench of burning. He pulled at his bodyguard's arm but Bano didn't budge. Pol's eyes bulged, his tongue protruding from his lips.
"Damn it!” Mortar pried at Bano's fingers. “We need him as a witness."
Bano twitched, his circuitry failing. With a final spasm, he crushed the man's throat.
CHAPTER 33
Anneliese climbed the ancient steps of the Chamber, sitting beside Myetrae in the third tier of the huge amphitheatre. Beside her, a brazier threw coils of sweet-smelling smoke into the air. The sound of a gong filled the cavern then trailed away. For a moment, only the dancers moved, the ringing of their costumes meek in comparison.
Four men appeared in the recessed entryway. Each displayed scars of passage upon their cheeks. They wore dark colors, muted and brooding, somber against Sayer's crimson robe. The chiliarch stood beside them, facing the Llaird. Sayer's mien was open and composed, but Anneliese recognized lines of fatigue about his eyes, tension along his jaw.
One by one, the men stripped away their layered robes, revealing belted jerkins and leggings. Sayer's bright colors looked garish against the shades worn by his adversaries.
Myetrae leaned close. “They offer themselves to the scrutiny of the barrow."
"None wear the sash your father wears. Aren't they all chiliarchs?"
"They are speakers. Champions of opinion."
"They should listen to their own words,” Anneliese said.
Again, the gong sounded. The five men stepped away from one another, each intoning a mantra, creating a grating cacophony, as if every barrow had its own manner of prayer.
Anneliese whispered, “Your father looks tired."
Myetrae nodded. “They sought to sway his stance on the eve of assembly, but they do not understand. My parents argued the day my mother died: she wanted him to fight, and he wished her to remain in safety. Afterward, he blamed himself. He thought if he had joined the jihad, he might have saved her life. To support battle now would be to deny his loss."
Anneliese felt uncomfortable hearing about Myetrae's mother. She wondered if Kihn could feel that strongly about her, then she brushed the thought away. It mattered not that Kihn loved his dead wife. All Anneliese wanted was to go home.
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A man stepped forward. He stretched out his arms, scanning the seats as if seeking to make eye contact with each individual. His brow was heavy, dominating his face, his dark hair pulled severely back. He spoke eloquently, his voice booming in the acoustically correct Chambers.
Anneliese motioned with her chin. “That's the leader?"
"He is Sivlow-Rakin. Do you not know your previous master?"
"I never really saw him,” Anneliese told her.
But she recognized the voice, remembered the scorn in his words as he condemned Pilar to death. His bigotry was obvious to Anneliese. She thought that his stance would be as immutable as Sayer-Kihn's own, and she pictured the two of them facing each other, irreconcilably deadlocked.
Sivlow-Rakin bowed his head, his speech concluded. A second man took his place.
"Does he also support this Fool's War?” Anneliese asked.
Myetrae's face tightened. She listened to the speaker before replying. “He agrees to attack the spaceport. But he proposes further to rid our homeland of the affront of Enceinte, to murder every man, woman, and child living in the shadows of the Resort."
Anneliese flicked her gaze to where Pilar-Shay sat. The boy's eyes were frenzied, afire with excitement, as if he couldn't wait to begin the slaughter of his own kind. Mesmerized, she thought, by the speaker's words, the cadence of his voice.
She clenched her fists between her knees. “Hypnotism,” she said. “Brainwashing. This assembly is a sham. Why don't they simply order their barrows to comply?"
"No one can compel another to war. Each must make their decision. Most in attendance have been in battle before. They are not children to be easily swayed."
"Perhaps not,” Anneliese whispered, looking back at the rows of people. “But they are foolish if they think they can defeat the Resort with knives."
One by one, the speakers made their stand. At last, Sayer-Kihn stepped forward. For a moment, he held silence, his eyes downcast and his shoulders low, and Anneliese feared that even he had been affected by the litany of the warmongers.
But as he raised his gaze, his face was beatific as if beholding a vision only he could see. A trace of a smile touched his lips. Finally, he spoke, his voice pitched low enough that she had to strain to hear it.
Beside her, Myetrae caught her breath. “He tells a story my grandfather taught, of a time when the land was idyllic and the people were united in friendship and well-being.” She clasped her hands together, pressing them against her lips.
Anneliese closed her eyes. Again she felt the power of Sayer-Kihn's voice. Her head swam, and she felt as if his words were lifting her. She felt that, if she wanted to, she could fly.
But Myetrae gave a strangled sob. Anneliese looked at her in surprise, and then placed her arm about the girl's shoulders. Myetrae bent forward as if wracked with unbearable pain.
"And now he speaks of destruction and loss, the terrible despair of the people as they fled their ruined cities and denounced their heritage. In the shadow of the Resort, they debased themselves, losing all sight of who they were, begging only for the safety of their children.” Tears filled Myetrae's eyes and her voice hitched. “They are our brethren. He pleads for their lives."
Anneliese swallowed in a tightening throat. She glanced about in confusion. This was the wrong story, she thought. This will not turn these people from war. She looked again at Pilar sitting with his young friend.
Abruptly, Sayer's story ended. The chiliarch bowed his head, but Anneliese saw him wince and she grimaced in return, knowing his distress and helplessness. Conversation grew within the Chambers, rumbling like an approaching storm. A high-pitched ringing met her ears.
Two girls appeared in the recessed entrance. Each wore simple white tunics, their hair knotted into crowns. They carried silver staffs of tiny bells, shaking them as if heralding another's presence.
And, indeed, a woman stepped behind them. She wore a cape of deepest onyx, almost the absence of color, and a gown that shimmered like a fall of black water. Her eyes were amber but her gaze was dark, penetrating as if she could see one's thoughts, and Anneliese found herself hoping those eyes would not fall upon her.
Quietly, Myetrae said, “She is Duessa-Kimmer. She will conduct the Babesh."
A fortuneteller. Anneliese cringed inwardly. They hinge their lives on parlor games, she thought, on mysticism and sleight of hand. The Llaird were children, after all, and their naiveté meant their certain destruction.
The fortuneteller's presence was so strong she seemed taller and more commanding than the men. All around Anneliese, the onlookers leaned forward, their whispers falling.
Again, the staffs rang. A boy hurried across the floor, carrying a small stone bowl. The woman accepted the vessel ceremoniously, holding it toward the ceiling. Then she took a sip.
"What does she drink?” Anneliese asked.
Myetrae said, “It is a sacred potion meant to heighten her awareness and open her spirit to guidance. She has taken small doses throughout her life, acclimating herself."
"It's poisonous?"
"The potion is used to execute traitors. It wracks the body and bursts the heart. In diluted form, it tricks the person into thinking they have much strength. Long ago, it was fed to our armies before battle."
They would fight for days and never notice they were dead.
"Tea,” Anneliese said darkly. “Brewed from moss."
"How do you know of this? Only the anointed may touch such ingredients."
Anneliese bit back a bitter laugh. She wanted to tell Myetrae of how she'd rubbed the moss on her skin, anointing herself—but she thought better of it.
From folds of darkness, the fortuneteller produced her cards, offering them for the crowd to see.
Anneliese rubbed an ache behind her eyes. Beside her, the brazier guttered, belching a final ball of smoke. Her voice rose too loudly. “Don't tell me your people's decision will be swayed by the interpretations of this seer."
"The Babesh allows a glimpse into the tapestry of time,” Myetrae told her.
It's a pack of cards! Anneliese wanted to say.
The woman knelt, her cape billowing and falling about her. A pall of incense hung over the room.
Anneliese pressed her temples. Suddenly she saw the Chambers not as it was but as it might be after the Resort attacked—saw charred bodies sprawled over the benches, the beautiful ancient walls turned to ash. The image was so strong, she could almost smell the burnt flesh, hear the rumble of explosions, children screaming.
She covered her face with her hands, wishing she had never gotten to know these people, wishing she didn't care. A terrible panic rose from her gut. She couldn't breathe.
With a muffled cry, Anneliese leapt to her feet, running down the stairs. Vaguely, she was aware of startled looks and gasps. She ran along the base of the amphitheatre toward the darkened alcoves at the side of the stage. She looked for the stairwell she had used before.
Instead she saw Wathe-Taln. Anneliese pulled to a halt, staring at the bodyguard's shadowed form, his eyes glowing like a wolf. Her heart pounded unevenly, and resolve left her in a rush. Quickly, she stepped through a doorway.
The room was dark but for a gleaming crescent. Anneliese blinked, adjusting to the light. She saw unadorned walls, a single stone bench, and a small statue upon a shelf. A meditation room, she thought, moving nearer the statue. It was a stylized representation of Jefe-Naik.
Anneliese groaned, balling her fists in her hair. Her emotions tangled themselves, and she could not sort them. These people were going to die. Why should she care? How could she stop them? In her mind, all she saw were charred bodies.
Suddenly the tears came. She sank to the floor, sobbing silently, pressing her face against the cool surface of the bench. She could not save the Llaird, could not watch them die.
A footstep alerted her. Sayer-Kihn stood in the doorway.
"Do you pray to the prophet?” he asked.
Anneliese stifl
ed a fresh volley of tears. “She doesn't listen."
Stepping into the room, he lifted the lid from the urn of coals, bringing them to life. His eyes were dark wounds carved into his skull. He sat upon the bench.
Anneliese wiped her face with the heel of her hand. “Is it over?"
"Yes.” He took the circlet from his brow, dropping it to the floor.
Hesitantly, she rose from her knees and sat beside him. “What did the fortuneteller say?"
He took a deep breath, looking up at the ceiling. “She said this battle would begin as many others, but will end as none had before. Sivlow-Rakin took this to mean victory."
"Or annihilation,” Anneliese said sharply, and then regretted her tone. She forced a tentative smile. “Myetrae translated your story for me. It was beautiful. Touching."
"Thank you."
"I think she was a little surprised that you pleaded for Enceinte instead of speaking out against the destruction of the spaceport."
"I had intended such, but as I saw their faces, I knew we were already lost. At the last moment, I changed the tale."
"But someone has to stop this.” She shook her head. “The Resort will retaliate if even one ship is damaged. They can't afford disgruntled patrons."
"I understand."
No, you don't. Anneliese winced, blinking back her tears. “When does the battle begin?"
"Tomorrow. As the sun sets."
So soon. “And will you accompany the warriors?"
"No."
Anneliese slumped with relief then got up to stand at the door. She heard the Llaird filing slowly from the Chambers. Only the dancers remained, oblivious to all but their communion. Beseeching their gods. Anneliese held the chiseled doorway so tightly, her hand cramped.
And, in a voice that sounded not her own, she said, “You promised to take me to the Trader City when the doctor pronounced me well. I would like to leave tomorrow morning."
"This isn't a good time."
"Do you go back on your word?"
Resort Debauch Page 20
