"I have something which you want," he said, "and you have something which my master desires. Will you make a contract of exchange, so that your heart's desire might be answered?"
"I will," she said. She felt as though she was lost in a dream, and in dreams one does not ask too many questions.
"Here is what you need," said the dwarf, and she felt a rough and hairy hand as he gave her a parcel of rags which had something hard and sharp-edged within it.
As the other turned to go, Adalia said: "Take whatever I have to give, in return."
And he replied: "It is already taken."
Then she took the parcel back to her room, and carefully hid it away before she went to sleep.
On the next night, when all had become quiet, she uncovered the window to let free its turbulent light, and took out her prize. She carefully unwrapped the bundle, exposing half a hundred pieces of coloured glass and a few twisted slugs of lead.
The fragments of glass were mostly small and misshapen, and it was clear that it would be no easy task to fit them together in the correct order. It had been a long time since she had so many new shards to work with, and she was delighted by the challenge. Her nimble fingers began the work of turning and sorting, flying as though impelled by an intelligence other than her own, and she felt meanwhile as though she was laughing inside. She was very quick in slotting the pieces into place, for each one seemed to know exactly where it belonged.
The eyes she placed last, and when she placed them, she knew that her work was finished - that although a hundred tiny cracks and crannies remained in the grand design, she had done enough.
Incandescent light sprang from the heart of the window, and the figure detailed there was suddenly present in all its resplendent glory.
For a few fleeting seconds she still thought that the figure was the head of a bird - perhaps that legendary firebird which was still occasionally glimpsed above the cliffs of Parravon. Then, she thought that it might be the head of a griffon, like the one displayed as a trophy in the Great Hall of the Governor's Palace in Quenelles. While its colours were still limned by curves of clotted lead it might have been either of those things. But then, as the cataract of light poured through the window between the worlds, the lead which held the pieces of coloured glass seemed to melt and shrivel, so that the image ceased to be an image, and became reality.
Then she saw that the central figure was neither bird nor griffon, nor any other mere animal intelligence. Plumed and crested with gorgeous feathers he might be, but this was a person, whose gaze was brighter with wisdom and knowledge than the eyes of any human or elven being she had ever seen.
There was a tiny voice of warning within her, which tried to cry "Daemon!" in such a way as to make her afraid, but the voice seemed to Adalia to be no more than a tiny echo, feeble and forlorn - and if, as she supposed, it was the last vestige of that love and adoration which she had once given freely to Shallya, then its insignificance now was clear testimony of the transfer of her loyalty to another power.
The face which looked at her, out of that other world which was so wondrously filled with ecstatic light, was incapable of smiling - for the beaked mouth was set as hard as if it was carved from jet - and yet she was in no doubt that he was glad to see her. She was perfectly certain that he longed to enfold her in his feathery embrace, to cover her tenderly with the splendour of his fiery plumage.
The sheer beauty of the prospect overwhelmed her, and she threw wide her arms to welcome that transcendent embrace.
Behind her, crowded upon the cold and narrow walls of that space which had been given to her for her allotted share of the world of mortal men, a hundred coloured shadows strutted and jostled, utterly unaware of their own thinness and insubstantiality, uncomprehending of the fact that they were mere whimsies of a light from beyond the limits of the earth.
Adalia, who had once been a Sister of Shallya, gave voice to a liquid trill of pure pleasure - and those eyes which she had so recently restored to their proper place focused upon her an astonishing, appalling look of love, which was full of laughter and the joy of life...
When Sister Adalia did not appear for morning prayer Sister Columella and Sister Penelope were sent to inquire whether she was ill.
They discovered her naked and supine upon the floor of her room, with her arms thrown wide and her legs apart.
It was, they said, as though she had been seared from top to toe by some incredible fire, which had burned her black. The walls of her room, and her discarded robe, were similarly black and ashen. And embedded in Adalia's vitrified flesh, sparing not a single inch of it, were thousands upon thousands of tiny pieces of glass.
These coloured fragments, as Mother Thelinda was able to observe when she was summoned by her horror-stricken messengers, gave Adalia's corpse the appearance of being encrusted with an extraordinary quantity of precious gems.
Had they not known that it could not possibly be another, Columella and Penelope told their friends, they might never have guessed that it was poor Adalia. She had been so utterly transfigured by her mysterious death that she might have been anyone at all.
THE SONG
by Steve Baxter
"Nice ring, Sam. What's the sparkly stuff, glass? Or something less expensive?"
Buttermere Warble, known to his friends as Sam, looked up with a start. On the other side of his table was a small figure with a grinning face and a thatch of brown hair. "Oh. Tarquin. It's you. Your boat's in, then. Oh, good."
Now more halflings came crowding into the tavern after Tarquin. Jasper, the barman of Esmeralda's Apron, pot-belly wobbling, growled at them to shut the damn door. Even here, deep in Marienburg on the murky rim of the Elven Quarter, the winds off the Sea of Claws had power.
The halflings pulled up stools and began settling around Sam's table. Soon he was ringed by a jostling rabble. "Join me, why don't you," Sam said drily. In his line of work it was useful to have contacts at all levels of society - but you could have too much of a good thing...
"Aw, Sam, aren't you glad to see us?" A skinny young halfling called Maximilian dug a worn pack of cards out of his woollen coat and began shuffling them.
"Oh, sure. I was getting so sick of calm, peace and quiet."
Tarquin sat opposite Sam. "So what's the story with the ring?"
Sam's ring was a fat band of gold; shards of crystal caught the light. Another young sailor bent over to see. "Broken glass must be in this year."
Sam covered the ring with the palm of his hand. "It's personal."
Tarquin shook his head in mock disapproval. "Oh, come on," he said. "We're just off the boat. Tell us while we're still sober."
"I told you, it's personal."
"How personal?"
"A tankard of ale."
Maximilian laughed. "Ah, keep it." He slapped cards on the rough tabletop. "Three Card Pegasus. That's what I want to spend my sober time on..."
But Sam pushed back the hand he'd been dealt. "Sorry, lads. Deal me out."
Tarquin sat back, mouth wide. "You're kidding. Dragon High Sam, refusing a game?"
"What is it?" Maximilian asked. "Funds low? No juicy cases recently?"
Sam shook his head. "No. I'm sworn off Pegasus, that's what."
"Why?"
"Well, it's kind of connected to the ring. But it's basically because of what happened last time I played..."
The circle of faces were fixed on him now. "Come on, Sam. Tell us."
Sam looked significantly at his tankard.
Tarquin picked it up. "Don't tell me. That's personal too, right? Well, you win, Sam. I'll get your ale. But it had better be worth it..."
Sam leaned forward and folded his arms theatrically. "Right. Picture the scene," he began. "It was in the Apron; in this very bar. This table, I think. I can't remember too clearly." Briefly the halfling's face grew dark, belying his jocular tone. "I'd... had a bad day. I'd taken it out on one or two tankards - " "So tell us something new."
&n
bsp; "I was playing Pegasus. And losing. I couldn't even cover the pot. But there were only two of us left in the hand." He paused. "And?"
"And I held three Dragons." A collective sigh rippled around the table.
My only opponent was called Eladriel (Sam went on). An elf. Tall, with a streak of gold in the silver of his hair; quite distinguished looking, like a Lord almost, even with his knees crammed under the halfling-sized tables. Slumming it a bit down here in the Apron, obviously. (Jasper growled in warning.)
I remember his eyes. Black as a bird's, they were; they pinned me as I tried to decide what to do. "Well, Sam?" Eladriel said. "Do you fold?" I took another pull at my tankard and tried to think straight. Only three Unicorns can beat three Dragons; we all know that. But I'd lost too much. "No," I said. "I don't fold." "Then cover the pot." "You know I can't," I said a little bitterly. Eladriel smiled, showing even teeth. "Fold or cover," he said. I stared at my three-Dragon hand. "I'll use a marker." Eladriel ran a delicate finger over the edge of his three cards. "Now, come," he said slily. "Markers in a place like this? I think not. You don't have anything of value?" I knew without looking. "Nothing." Eladriel tutted. "Everyone owns something, no matter how low they sink." "Thanks a lot." I stared at those black eyes. "Fold or cover," he snapped.
"Name it," I said thickly. "Name the stake you want."
His voice was low. "Are you serious?"
"Name it."
"Your mind," he said rapidly. "Your very being. Your last asset. Gamble your mind, my friend."
Another player reached out of the darkness and touched my arm. "No, Sam. Fold."
"I know you, Warble," Eladriel hissed. "You are... an investigator, are you not? And one of some repute. Your mind is good... for a halfling - "
Now anger mixed in with the booze and the fatigue - just as the elf wanted, I suppose now - and I decided I was going to teach him a lesson.
The coal eyes glowed. Three Dragons leapt at the edge of my vision.
"I'm in," I said.
"Sam, this is crazy - "
"I'm in. And I'll see your hand."
Eladriel smiled. And he laid his cards on the table.
You know what they were.
"I know a little battlefield magic," said Eladriel briskly, and he drew a small, wasp-waisted bottle from his coat. "I'm an old soldier, you see. This won't hurt, Sam."
He passed his fingers before my face, once, twice -
I stared at his three grinning Unicorns and the world fell away.
I felt warm, but numb. As if I'd lain in a bath for too long. But my head was still working. So I was alive.
Or was I? Could this be the Afterlife? I tried opening my eyes. I saw a fat face, round ears, a huge pot-belly.
It was Jasper, bending over me.
"I'm finding the Afterlife a little disappointing so far, I have to say." My voice was thick, my mouth dry, but it all worked.
Jasper straightened up and snarled in disgust. "Eight days out flat haven't dulled your tongue, then."
"How long?" I tried to sit up. My back - and backside- were stiff and cold. I'd been lying on rough sacks in what seemed to be the cellar of the Apron.
Jasper began shifting crates around the cold brick floor. My view of him was oddly washed-out, as if I was looking through a thin mist. "It was like you were asleep. Kept you clean and fed, though," he added gruffly.
I stood shakily, legs tingling. "Yes, but by the fields of the Moot, Jasper, couldn't you have moved me around a bit? Haven't you ever heard of bedsores? The blood pools, you see - "
Jasper grunted. "You're lucky to be able to give cheek, after that damn fool bet. Remember?"
I nodded, rubbing my neck. "But, Jasper. I held three Dragons. What could I do?"
"Not risked your life. I didn't expect you to wake."
I thought it over. "To be honest, neither did I. People who have their minds taken normally don't, do they?"
He hoisted a barrel over each broad shoulder. "And by the way. You had a visitor."
"What? Who?"
"While you were asleep. A messenger from an Elven Lord, he said. Go to the large house at the north end of Lotharn Street. You'll find something of value. That's what he said."
"What Lord? What thing? What?"
"What? What? I preferred you when you were asleep... You're the investigator; you work it out." Jasper trudged up the cellar stairs. He called back without turning, "There's food in the kitchen. And your gambling companion kindly left you the pack of cards. I put it in your pocket."
"Thanks. Ah... Jasper," I said, following him. "I owe you."
Jasper grunted. "Just leave money for the food."
"Lotharn Street, eh..?"
I climbed out of that cellar into an early morning. A thick mist lay over Marienburg. The mist glowed with sunlight. I walked north through the Elven Quarter, breathing deep.
Now, you know Lotharn Street. You climb gradually until, at the northern end, you reach a fine view of the city as it sprawls over the islands in the mouth of the Reik. That morning the Hoogbrug Bridge seemed to arch into the sky and I could see the sails of a Kislevite frigate jutting out of the mist around the feet of the Bridge-
Yes, all right, Tarquin; I am getting on with it. The point I'm making is that it was a great-to-be-alive morning, a morning when your skin tingles and your blood runs so fast you feel like doing handstands...
Except I didn't feel like that. I felt as if I was hardly there at all.
To me the colours of the city were pale, as if I was standing in a faded painting. I strained to hear the fog bells of that Kislevite freighter, but my ears seemed stuffed with wool.
Earlier I'd walked past a Tilean street trader, a fat, swarthy human who sold broiled meat on sticks. I couldn't smell the hot meat. And when I bought a piece it tasted like soft wood.
I didn't feel ill, you understand, despite my days unconscious. Just - absent. Not complete.
For the first time I began to feel frightened. After all, I'd had my mind, my very self, taken away - and given back.
Or had I? What if I was no longer complete? How would I feel? And why would anyone play such a trick?
I had a feeling this mysterious Elven Lord would have the answer. And I wasn't sure I'd like what I'd hear.
At the northern end of the Street a house stood alone. It was surrounded by a head-high wall topped with iron spikes. The spikes were barbed. Cute, I thought.
There was a thick wooden gate, standing open; I walked through into a courtyard of cobbles. The house itself sat like a huge toad in the middle of the courtyard, a box of dreary stone with tight window slits.
The door was a slab of weathered wood with a brass knocker in the shape of a war dog's head. I thought it would bite me when I lifted it.
The door creaked open and out of the darkness thrust a face like a melted mask.
I jumped back. I couldn't help it. A scar like a strip of cloth ran from the scalp right down one side of the face. The chest on that side was crumpled like a crushed egg, and one arm was a lump of gristle.
That wreck of a face twisted into a half-grin.
I managed to say, "My name is - "
"Sss-ammm." The lips would barely close, and spittle sprayed over a distorted chin. "I know. He'shh ex-pected you."
"Who?"
But the creature just turned slightly and, with the good arm, gestured me in. The door was barely open. I had to squeeze past, and the wrecked arm brushed against me, cold as old meat. I thought I'd throw up. The old cripple grinned wider.
The house was built around a single large room. A little light leaked through the slit windows as if by accident.
The room contained a bottle.
The bottle was about the size of my fist and it had a wasp waist. It sat on a simple table at the centre of the stone floor.
Yes, Tarquin, there was more in that room than a bottle. In fact there was a whole lot of precious stuff. I'll come to that. But to me, you see, that bottle glowed like a pear
l in mud. I walked up to it and stared, drawn, almost afraid to touch -
"Hands off."
The voice was painfully familiar. A tall figure emerged from the shadows at the back of the room. I wrenched my gaze from the bottle long enough to take in a fine, middle-aged face, a golden streak in silver hair.
"Eladriel," I said. "The card player. Of course. So you really are a Lord..."
Talking was an effort. My eyes dropped back to the bottle and I felt my hands rise, tugged to the glass as if by magnetism -
There was a growl at my neck, a breath that stank of sour milk.
"Down, Aloma!" Eladriel snapped.
Yes, Tarquin; he said Aloma, a girl's name. I was as surprised as you are.
"And you," said Eladriel. "Arms by your side."
I did as he said. The foul breath moved away. Eladriel relaxed and walked closer. "No need to be frightened of Aloma," he said, smiling. "As long as you behave yourself."
"Aloma? He's a she? I mean... it? Er - you're kidding."
"Not at all. Used to fight at my side in my younger days. Without her I doubt if I would have done half as well on all those campaigns. Mightn't have survived, even. With her help I got out with enough profit to buy my way into a Marienburg shipping concern and to settle into this - " he waved an arm " - comfortable retirement. Dear old Aloma - "
The Aloma-thing blushed. Yes, blushed. It was like watching a side of mutton go foul.
Eladriel went on, "Her strength's extremely rare, of course." He whispered behind a delicate hand, "I suspect there's a little Ogre blood in the mix there somewhere... Yes, dear Aloma," he said more loudly. "Getting a bit long in the tooth now, of course, but still as tough as any two warriors... and in case it should occur to you to try anything let me point out that her single good arm could crush your spine like a twig."
"Uh-huh. I'm reconsidering the pass I was planning."
"And she was quite a beauty before her injury."
"Really?"
Eladriel's smile faltered. "Well, no, not really. But she has her uses. Now then, gambler, no doubt you're wondering why I've asked you here."
Warhammer - Red Thirst Page 16
