The dagger he carried was suddenly hot in his hand. At the sun’s first touch the blade began to burn, giving off clouds of acrid yellow smoke. The Roman threw it to the ground and backed away, coughing and gasping for breath—the smoke felt like live coals in his lungs.
He thought he heard the metal wail as if in agony and resolved to clamp down on a runaway imagination.
The fire was so furious it soon burned itself out. After the breeze had dispersed the noxious fumes, Marcus warily approached the sorcerous weapon. He expected to see only a lump of twisted, fused metal, but found to his dismay that hilt, pommel, and even Gorgidas’ wrappings were still intact, as was a thin rod of steel extending the length of what had been the blade.
A cautious touch revealed the dagger to be cool enough to handle. Fighting back a shudder, the tribune picked it up and hurried on to the Academy.
A four-story building of gray sandstone housed the Videssian center of learning. Though both secular and religious knowledge were taught there, a spire and golden sphere surmounted the structure; here as elsewhere in the Empire, its faith had the last word.
The doorman, half-asleep over his breakfast of bread and hot wine, was surprised his first guest should be a mercenary captain, but polite enough to try to hide it. “Brother Nepos?” he said. “Yes, he’s here—he’s always an early riser. You’ll probably find him in the refectory, straight down this hall, the third door on your right.”
This early in the day, the Academy hallway was almost deserted. A young blue-robe looked intrigued as the Roman strode past him but, like the doorman, offered no comment.
Sunlight streamed through the tall, many-paned windows of the refectory and onto its battered tables and comfortably dilapidated chairs. But somehow, instead of accenting their shabbiness, the warm light gave the old furniture the effect of being freshly varnished and newly reupholstered.
Except for the fat, unshaven cook sweating behind his pots, Nepos was alone in the room as Marcus stepped in. The priest stopped with a steaming spoonful of porridge halfway to his mouth. “You look like grim death,” he told the tribune. “What has brought you here so early?”
By way of answer, Scaurus dropped what was left of the Khamorth’s dagger with a clank onto the priest’s table. Nepos’ reaction could not have been more emphatic had it been a fat viper in front of him. Forgetting the spoon in his hand, he shoved his chair back as fast as he could. Porridge splattered in all directions. The priest went first red, then pale, to the crown of his shaven head. “Where did you come by this?” he demanded; the sternness his light voice could assume was amazing.
His round face grew more and more grave as the Roman told his tale. When at last Marcus was done, Nepos sat silent for a full minute, his chin cupped in the palms of his hands. Then he bounced to his feet, crying, “Skotos is among us!” with such fervor that the startled cook dropped his spoon into a pot and had to fish for it with a long-handled fork.
“Now that you’ve been informed,” Marcus began, “I should also pass my news on to Nephon Khoumnos so he can question—”
“Khoumnos question?” Nepos interrupted. “No! We need subtlety here, not force. I will put the question to your nomad myself. Come!” he snapped, scooping up the dagger and moving for the door so quickly Marcus had to half trot to catch him up.
“Where are you going, your excellency?” the Academy doorman asked the priest as he hurried by. “Your lecture is to begin in less than an hour, and—”
Nepos did not rurn his head. “Cancel it!” Then, to Marcus, “Hurry, man! All the freezing furies of hell are at your back, though you know it not!”
When they got back to the barracks, the bound Khamorth screamed in despair as he saw the consumed weapon Nepos carried. The prisoner shrank in upon himself, drawing his knees up against his belly and tucking his head down into the hollow of his shoulder.
Gaius Philippus, a firm believer in the saving value of routine, had already sent most of the Romans out to the drill field. Now Nepos cleared the barracks of everyone save himself, the nomad, the two unconscious Roman sentries, and Gorgidas, allowing the doctor to act as his assistant.
“Go on, go on,” he said, shooing them out before him. “You can do nothing to help me, and a word at the wrong moment could do great harm.”
“Sure and he’s just like a druid,” Viridovix grumbled, “always thinking he knows twice as much as anyone else.”
“I notice you’re out here with the rest of us,” Gaius Philippus said.
“That I am,” the Celt admitted. “All too often, your druid is right. It’s a rare chancy thing, going against one.”
Only a few minutes passed before the sentries came out of the barracks hall. They seemed none the worse for what they had undergone, but had no memory of how their unwilled sleep had begun. As far as they knew, one moment they were on guard, while in the next Nepos was bending over them in prayer. Both of them were angry and embarrassed at failing in their duty.
“Don’t trouble yourselves about it,” Marcus told them. “You can’t be blamed for falling victim to wizardry.” He sent them on to exercise with their comrades, then settled back to wait for Nepos to emerge.
And wait he did; the fat little priest did not come forth for another two hours and more. When he appeared at last, Scaurus bit back a shocked exclamation. Nepos’ gait was that of a man in the last throes of exhaustion; he clutched Gorgidas’ elbow as a shipwreck victim clings to a plank. His robe was soaked with sweat, his eyes black-circled. Blinking at the bright sunlight, he sank gratefully onto a bench. There he sat for several minutes, gathering his strength before he began to speak.
“You, my friend,” he told Marcus wearily, “have no notion of how lucky you were to wake, and how much luckier still not to be touched by that accursed knife. Had it pierced you, had it even pricked you, it would have drawn the soul from your body into the deepest pits of hell, there to lie tormented for all eternity. A demon was bound in that blade, a demon to be set free by the taste of blood—or destroyed by Phos’ sun, as in fact befell.”
In his own world, the tribune would have taken all that as a metaphor for poison. Here he was not so sure … and suddenly more than half believed, as he remembered how the dagger had shrieked when struck by sunlight.
The priest continued, “You were right in blaming Avshar for setting upon you the poor, damned nomad inside your hall. Poor lost soul—the wizard linked his life to that of the demon he bore, and when it failed, he began to gutter out, like a candle in air unable to sustain a flame. But the destruction of the demon severed the hold Avshar had on him, and I learned much before his flame fell into nothingness.”
“Is your honor saying he’s dead?” Viridovix said. “Hardly hurt, he was, in the taking of him.”
“He’s dead,” Gorgidas said. “His soul, his will to live—call it what you like—there was none in him, and he died.”
Marcus recalled the doom-filled cry on the Khamorth’s lips when he saw the ruin of the weapon he had carried, recalled how he had crumpled in on himself. “Can you trust the knowledge you get from a dying man who was your foe’s tool?” he asked Nepos.
“A good question,” the priest nodded. Little by little, as he sat, his voice and manner were losing their haggard edge. “The chains the Yezda put on him were strong—I would curse him, but he has cursed himself beyond my power to damn. Nonetheless, Phos has granted those who follow him a means of cutting through such chains—”
“A decoction of henbane is what we used,” Gorgidas put in, impatient at Nepos’ elliptical phrasing. “I’ve used it before, Phos notwithstanding. It dulls pain and frees the guard on a man’s tongue. You have to be careful, though—too high a dose, and you’ve put your patient out of pain forever.”
The priest plainly did not care for Gorgidas’ casual revelation of a secret of his magical craft. But, impelled by larger concerns, he kept his temper, saying, “It is enough that we know two things: Avshar loosed this treacherous assault
on you; and he is a sorcerer more powerful in his wickedness than any we have met for years uncounted. Yet by the first action I named, he forfeited the protections all envoys, no matter how evil, enjoy.”
A smile of anticipation flitted across Nepos’ face as he went on, “So, my outland friends, the fiend has delivered himself into our hands! Now we send for Nephon Khoumnos!”
VI
THE THOUGHT OF AVSHAR’S HEAD GOING UP ON THE MILESTONE had so ferocious an appeal to Marcus that he charged away from the barracks hall before he realized he was not sure where to find Khoumnos. Neither was Nepos, who puffed along gamely beside him. “I know of the man, you understand,” he said to the Roman, “but I do not know him personally.”
Scaurus was not overly worried at his ignorance. He felt sure any soldier in Videssos for longer than a week could give him the directions he needed. The first group he saw was a squad of Namdaleni returning from the practice field. At their head was Hemond of Metepont, his conical helm tucked under his arm. He had seen the tribune, too—he waved his men to a halt and sauntered over to Scaurus.
“For a newly come mercenary, you make the oddest set of acquaintances,” he observed with a smile. “It’s a long road to travel from the wizard-envoy of Yezd to a priest of the Academy.”
Nepos’ robes were no different from those of any other priest of similar rank; Hemond, Marcus thought, was uncommonly well informed.
The Namdalener acknowledged his introduction of Nepos with a friendly nod. “Actually,” Scaurus continued, “you can do us a favor, if you will.”
“Name it,” Hemond said expansively.
“We need to see Nephon Khoumnos as quickly as we can, and neither of us is sure where he might be.”
“Ho-ho!” Hemond laid a finger alongside his nose and winked. “Going to twist his beard some more over his sleepy sentries, are you?”
Uncommonly well informed indeed, Marcus thought, but this time not quite well enough. He considered for a moment. Remembering that Hemond and Helvis had backed him against Avshar, he decided he could tell the Namdalener his story. “It’s not that—” he began.
When he was done, Hemond rubbed the shaven back of his head and swore in the broad dialect of his homeland. “The snake has really overreached himself this time,” he said, more to himself than to Marcus or Nepos. His face suddenly was that of a hunter about to bag his prey. “Bors! Fayard!” he snapped, and two of his men stiffened to attention. “Get back to quarters and let the men know the rest of us will be delayed.” As the soldiers hurried away, their captain turned back to the Roman. “I’d have given a year’s pay to drag that losel down, and here you offer me a free chance!”
He grabbed Scaurus’ hand in his double clasp, barked to his troopers, “First for Khoumnos and some help, then we peg out Avshar the wizard over a slow fire!” Their full-throated shout of approval made Marcus see again how widely the Yezda was detested.
Hemond may have preferred to fight on horseback, but there was nothing wrong with his legs. He set a pace Marcus was hard pressed to match, one that had Nepos in an awkward half-trot to keep up.
Ten minutes and three expostulating sentries later, they were in Khoumnos’ office, a well-lit room attached to the Grand Courtroom of the palace complex. The Videssian looked up from the paperwork he had been fighting. His heavy brows lowered to see Scaurus and Nepos with Hemond and his squad. “You keep odd company,” he said to the tribune, unconsciously paraphrasing the easterner he mistrusted.
“That’s as may be,” the Roman shrugged. “They helped me find you, though, when I needed to.” And he told Khoumnos the same tale he had spun out to Hemond shortly before.
Long before he was through, the same predatory eagerness that gripped him and Hemond had communicated itself to the Videssian. A triumphant grin spread over his face; he slammed his fist down onto his desk. Ink slopped out of its pot to mar the sheets over which he had been working. He did not care.
“Zigabenos!” he shouted, and his aide appeared from another room. “If there’s not a squad here double-quick, you’ll find out if you remember which end of a plow you stand behind.”
Zigabenos blinked, saluted, and vanished.
“My men and I want a piece of the wizard,” Hemond warned.
“You’ll have it,” the Videssian officer agreed. Marcus had expected Khoumnos to argue, but if the Videssian was unsure of the Namdaleni’s loyalty to the Empire, he had no doubt they hated Avshar more.
Khoumnos was still buckling on his swordbelt when a sweating Zigabenos led a squad of akritai into his superior’s office. Their arrival filled it almost to overflowing. The native Videssian troops sent suspicious looks at Hemond’s mercenaries.
But Khoumnos was master of the situation. He knew he had a cause bigger than any rivalry within the imperial army. A single sentence was enough to electrify his men: “What we and the islanders are going to do, boys, is march over to the Hall of the Ambassadors, winkle our dear friend Avshar the Yezda out of his hole, and clap him in irons.”
After a second’s disbelieving silence, the Videssians burst into cheers. Hemond and his Namdaleni, although they had already cheered once, were more than willing to do so again. In the confined space, the noise was deafening. All dissension forgotten, the double squad—and Nepos and Marcus with it—rushed for the Hall of the Ambassadors like hounds upon a leopard’s den.
The Hall, as was only natural, lay close by the Grand Courtroom, so foreign envoys could attend the Emperor at their mutual convenience. Above it flapped, fluttered, or simply hung the emblems of twoscore nations, tribes, factions, and other political entities less easily defined; among them was the leaping panther of Yezd.
The diplomatic calm ambassadors cultivate was not altogether proof against two dozen armed men swarming toward Avshar’s dwelling-place. Taso Vones of Khatrish was on the Hall’s steps discussing trade in spices and furs with a nomad from the far western plains of Shaumkhiil when he heard the troopers clattering toward him. He looked up, saw the source of the pother, murmured to the Arshaum, “You will excuse me, I hope,” and ran for his life.
The nomad ran, too—for the bow he kept in his chamber, to sell himself as dearly as he could.
But the warriors ignored him, just as they ignored the shouts of alarm that rang out in the Hall’s lobby as they rushed through it behind Nephon Khoumnos. The Videssian led them up the wide stairway of polished marble at the lobby’s back. As they climbed, he panted, “The whoreson’s suite is on the second story. More than once I’ve been here to ransom prisoners—this is a job I’d rather do!” The men with him yelled their agreement.
Gawtruz of Thatagush was carrying a silver tray loaded with fried meats and candied fruits back to his own suite of rooms when the stairs erupted soldiers behind him. Though fat and past fifty, he still had a warrior’s reflexes. He hurled his tray, food and all, at what he thought were his attackers.
Hemond knocked the spinning tray aside with his shield. A man or two cried out as they were hit by hot meat. Another tripped over the trail of grease a skidding fowl had left behind and went sprawling.
“Phos!” Khoumnos muttered. He cried to Gawtruz, “Mercy, valiant lord! We have no quarrel with you—it’s Avshar we seek.”
At his words, Gawtruz lowered the knife he had drawn from his belt. His eyes widened. “The man of Yezd? He and you are enemies, yes, but he is an embassy and cannot be assailed.” Marcus noted Taso Vones had been correct at the ill-fated banquet a few days before—at need, Gawtruz’ Videssian was perfect, polished, and unaccented.
“Ambassadors who live within the law of nations enjoy its protections,” Khoumnos returned. “Sorcerers who hire knives in the night do not.” His men and Hemond’s were already gathered before a stout door on which stood Yezd’s panther. Khoumnos ordered, “Rap gently once. I would not have it said we invaded the suite without giving warning.”
The warning rap was scarcely gentle; a dozen heavy fists slammed into the door. There was no resp
onse. “Break it down!” Khoumnos snapped. But the portal so staunchly resisted shoulders and booted feet that Scaurus wondered whether it was merely a strong bar or magic which held it closed.
“Enough of this foolery! Out of my way!” One of the Namdaleni, a dark-haired giant with tremendous forearms, preferred the axe of his Haloga cousins. Men scurried back to give him room to swing. Chips flew and boards split as his axe buried itself helve-deep.
Within a dozen strokes, the door sagged back in defeat. The troopers stepped into their enemy’s chambers, weapons at the ready. Khoumnos stood outside the door, repeatedly explaining to the startled, frightened, or angry diplomats who threw questions at him why the Videssians had come.
Marcus’ first thought was that, while Avshar’s lusts for power and destruction were boundless, he had no corresponding desire for personal luxury. Except for a Videssian desk, the embassy of Yezd was furnished nomad-style. Pillows took the place of chairs, and tables were low enough for men sitting on the ground to use. Cushions and tables alike were black, the walls of the room a smoky gray.
The door between Yezd’s public offices and Avshar’s private quarters was locked, but a few strokes of the axe dealt with that. But Avshar was no more to be found in his chambers than in the embassy portion of Yezd’s suite. Marcus was not surprised; the rooms had a dead feel, a feel of something discarded and forgotten. The Videssians had come too late.
The Yezda’s room was as sparely equipped as the office: more black-lacquered low tables, pillows, and a sleeping mat of felt stuffed with horsehair. Above the mat hung the image of a fierce-faced warrior dressed all in black and hurling a livid blue thunderbolt. He strode against the fleeing sun over a pile of naked, bloody victims. “Skotos!” the Videssian soldiers murmured to themselves; their fingers moved in signs against evil.
Misplaced Legion (Videssos Cycle) Page 13
