Stealers' Sky tw-12

by Robert Asprin

  Against all wisdom to the contrary-she drew her servants around her, revised the lines of her power-drew them from all over the city to protect them on this night: she felt Haught's battering at tlie wards that held him, felt the pleas he flung at her, like a moth battering at the glass-

  But one face she saw more than all the rest, one touch she wanted most, and, dyed by a thousand murders and a thousand more black sins, she tried to stop thinking about him, telling herself no, let him go, stop the anger, stop the wanting-

  He could be in Hell itself and she could draw him to her: pyromant, necromant, she could still raise the dead-singly and with effort, who once had summoned legions out of Hell's long patrol and set them to march against her rival-

  She had lost a great deal-she had blown a great deal of her power away on the winds, had seen the dust of a shattered Globe of Power settle like a dream over Sanctuary, making mages of beggars and diminishing the power of the mage-born irrevocably: if that were not so she could lift her hand, raise the lightnings, change the wind-take the failing Empire, make herself that power that would shake the world.

  As it was, the Empire would fail and fall, the greatness would slip away from Ranke, and the marbles crumble and the decline, centuries long, bring new powers, new mages, new wizardry-

  She was done with dreams of power. She let Ranke enter its long, long slide to destruction, she listened to the rising of the wind, the echo of that wind in empty fanes and altars, she said softly, ever so softly,

  "Goodbye, Strat."

  Knowing they would not meet again, even in Hell-her curse being immortality.

  "Damn you!" Strat said, when they had gotten him onto his feet. But Crit held him there, in the cold, dusty light of dawn, a stinging wind skirling through the streets of Sanctuary, Crit had his arms about him, held him like a brother.

  There was no sign of the bay horse. He ached from head to foot. His knee and his elbow were bleeding, and would stiffen.

  "Get up on my horse," Crit said then. "We'll get you another."

  He looked from one to the other of them in this beginning of dawnCrit and Randal,'and it was strange, as if having lost everything he had, he could feel so free-

  So damnably nothing-left-to-lose-except Crit, standing there holding him on his feet, Randal supporting him from the other side.

  He let them help him to the saddle, he let Crit and Randal lead him through the first stir of morning in the streets. He listened to Crit telling him how Shepherd had told him where he had to search, he listened to Randal saying there was something strange in this wind ...

  Shepherd met them at the turning. Shepherd said-leaning on the saddlebow of the big mud-colored horse, and looking straight at them, "Our service is done. Time we were moving on."

  A gust of wind rocked at them. A flash of light hit their faces. Crit's horse shied and stood with its ears back, Crit and Randal holding it while Strat held on-and whatever had been Shepherd became a burst of light, a grim figure on a dark horse; a rising whirlwind, and a boy's voice saying,

  "Follow the Shepherd... ."

  "Abarsis ..." Strat had no idea which of them had said it, or whether his eyes really remembered the figure in the light.

  Follow the Shepherd. ...

  Time we were moving on ...

  Winds out of the desert battered at Sanctuary's shutters, swirled stinging clouds of sand and dust against a brazen sun.

  Something fled shrieking on that wind, unbound-a witch's disembodied soul skirled three times about the towers of the Lancothis house, skimmed forlornly along the river and flew-formless and lost-before the gale.

  So Haught reported, arriving wind-scoured and dusty at the riverhouse that day. It was a much-chastened Haught who kissed the hem of Ischade's black robe and begged shelter from this wind.

  Ischade considered this contrition. "Don't trust him," Stilcho said coldly, Stilcho being at least the most privileged of her servants, and Haught's logical rival.

  "I don't," she said plainly, and picked up her cloak and put it on. "Stay here," she said. "You'll be safe, at least, whatever happens... ."

  She left then, took to the winds herself, and lighted in raven-shape by the city gate, where a sullen, closely wrapped crowd had gathered-a crowd through which she moved as a black-cloaked woman, willing no one to see her, or if they saw-to forget that they had seen; that gift she still had undiminished.

  She came on the rumor Haught had brought-was there to see the last of the Rankene forces ride through the streets, out the gates.

  They were very few-amazingly few, the crowd murmured, wondering if there were not more to come.

  A handful of meres; the few remaining of the 3rd Commando; and last to leave, the Stepsons, Randal the mage; Critias ... with Strat beside him, on a tall dun horse, no banners, no haste. Strat did not even turn his head as he rode past, near enough she could have touched him.

  The riders passed the gates, in blowing dust so thick it made shadows of them, made them nothing more than ghosts in the golden light.

  For a moment the crowd began to drift-but one left the gate, one went out leading a mule, quickly lost in the dust. Some said it was another mere; some said it was one of the rebels-looking for revenge, perhaps, Sanctuary's last violence aimed at Ranke.

  Ischade knew that boy-almost-man-a scoundrel named Zip, or some such, servant of a god inimical to her: she felt that presence strongly when he passed, before the crowd began to disperse.

  After that was just the dust, just the ghosts of buildings in what should have been bright day, the hill lost in haze and dust, yellow sand skirling along the streets.

  Roxane was gone, to heaven or to hell or whatever demon wanted her. The gods of Ranke deserted their shrines. Sanctuary was falling away from the Empire, the forces that had sustained Ranke were leaving and she might have followed them-but could not, not as far as they went, and not where the god might lead them. She was always a creature of the shadows, and of candlelight, and needed lives to sustain her life-

  Except his.

  She cherished that one claim to virtue.

  THE FIRE IN A GOD'S EYE by Robin Wayne Bailey

  The shallow waters of the White Foal glimmered blackly in the late night, purling with a suspiciously sweet rush and gurgle over its stony bottom. It whisper-whispered, as if it ferried secrets; deepening, as it went south between its inauspicious banks toward Sanctuary and Downwind and beyond to the sea. Sharp as a razor's cut was the line where the water touched the land at the fording point between Apple Lane and the Generals' Road, but looking far up or down its course there was no telling the river from the sky. For all that a fanciful mind could guess, it might have flowed down from a source somewhere in the dark heavens to touch the earth only briefly, here at the end of the world, before it plummeted over the edge and on, to the underworld. This river, with all the detritus that it carried, with all the dead who had washed up on its shores, with all the souls who had given themselves in despair to its waves, this river would make such a fitting link.

  But the lone rider, who sat quietly astride a huge gray horse in the middle of the ford, watching the water foam and rill around the animal's fetlocks, was no poet, just a soul weighed down with weariness and burdens of the spirit. Such thoughts were only the shrapnel of too many sleepless nights, easily kept at bay by drawing a dusty cloak tighter around the shoulders, and pulling a dusty hood closer to shadow one's face.

  Sabellia, too, Bright Moon-mother, had shadowed Her face this night, turned away from the world below, and surrendered the world to the darkness. Even the stars, those myriad sparkling tears She had shed for Her heavenly children and for the children of the earth, those, too, were hidden behind a thick, cloudy veil.

  The rider's gaze turned away from the sky and toward Sanctuary. At a nudge, the horse moved up the muddy bank and turned down the Generals' Road, its hooves clip-clopping smartly on the brick-and-stone paving, ringing even more loudly on the wooden planks of the tiny north bridge tha
t crossed Splinter Creek. The rider halted briefly. Off to the left stood the charred ruins of the house of the dead vivisectionist, Kurd. Next to it, though, stood a new house, shoddily built from scavenged lumber and stones. Lamplight shone through the cracks of hastily constructed shutters, and gruff voices echoed through the door. There was the smell of lime and sand about the place, and unfamiliar tools leaned against the outside walls. Some itinerant workers on the city's new fortifications probably had decided to stay, though the work was done.

  Suddenly, the door swung open a crack, and someone peered around the edge, alerted, no doubt, by the hoof-sounds on the bridge. They watched warily as the rider passed by. Obviously, they had quickly learned the ways of this city, this thieves' world.

  Off to the left stood the high, stark silhouettes of the city's granaries, barely discernible in the night, though they towered above the new wall. Nearer burned the lamps of the Street of Red Lanterns, where scented women plied special delights and special tortures, according to the appetites of their customers and the weight of their coins. Special effort had been made to extend the new wall around the granaries, while the brothels were left outside in its shadow.

  The rider thought about that, then shrugged. In Sanctuary, one might have expected just the reverse.

  After a massive construction effort that had been the talk of the Empire, the new wall was finished. It encompassed the entire city now. Atop the huge edifice, watch fires burned, and shadows moved about in the flickering glow. The new, iron-banded doors of the great Gate of Triumph stood open, but a pair of garrison sentries stood at the duty post just inside.

  "Whoa, there!" one of them called, coming forward as he curled one hand almost casually about the hilt of his sword. "What kind of foreigner comes visiting our town at such an unholy hour? Come out from under that damned hood. Show your face there."

  The sentry's hair and clothing exuded the odor of smoked krrf as he came as close as the rider's knee, and his eyes sheened with drug-glaze as they caught the torchlight from the duty post. His jaw hung just a bit too slackly, and his motions were languid. An addict, probably.

  The rider wanted no confrontation, so pulled just a corner of the concealing hood back and glared at the sentry, who backed up immediately.

  "My apologies, Lady!" he mumbled. He took his hand quickly away from his sword's hilt, and shot a fearful glance at his partner. "We didn't know it was you. Of course, you can pass. Welcome home'" He made a deep bow, and the rider passed him by without a word.

  Caravan Square was abandoned this time of night. So was the Farmer's Run, though one could never be too sure there, for it was too close to the Maze, and every shadow and dark cranny was to be watched. Governor's Walk was also quiet, and the sounds of the horse's hoof-falls cracked with uncomfortable volume on freshly repaired street cobbles. Even in the darkness the work on the smaller, inner wall that enclosed the palace was evident. The rider continued straight ahead, following that wall.

  At the place where West Gate Street joined Governor's Walk, a city watch patrol, six uniformed men, suddenly blocked the way. The oldest of them, a man whose graying curls spilled out from under his steel cap, and apparently the captain, held up a lantern and shined it on the rider.

  The light glimmered on a sleeve of metal rings that covered the rider's left arm and the hand that held the reins. It fell, also, on the hilt of a sword, whose tangs were shaped like the wings of a bird. As the rider shifted in the saddle, the cloak parted slightly.

  "Why, if it ain't the Daughter o' the Sun, 'erself, it is!" The old man laughed unpleasantly. "Come back to stir up more trouble, have ye?"

  A much younger watchman stepped up to his captain's side and grinned. "You know," he said nastily, "I had a cousin killed in that PFLS ambush she set up last year. I can tell it straight, I was glad to hear somebody fixed her ... '"

  The old man gave his subordinate a sharp elbow in the ribs and scowled. "Shut yer mouth, Barik!" The scowl turned into a twisted little smile that showed several missing teeth. "Can't ye see she's just on 'er way home after a long while gone?"

  The younger watchman gave his captain an insubordinate look as he rubbed his side. "Yeah," he said sullenly. "I guess I can see that."

  "Then bid 'er good nightie, boys, an' let 'er pass'" He motioned all his men back and made a deep, sweeping bow that was pure mockery. "Welcome home, Lady Chenaya!" he said grandly. "Our regards to yer noble Rankan family!"

  Chenaya was tired and rode on, forgetting about the watchmen and their meaningless taunts. But when she reached the Processional she stopped again. A wind swept up Sanctuary's most famous street, bringing with it the sweet tang of the salty sea, and there, in the silence, she thought she could just hear the rush of the breakers and the rocking creak of the old wharves at the Processional's farther end.

  Gods, it was good to be home, and it would be good to rest soon. She wanted to sleep, sleep for days, and wake up to the faces and laughter of those she loved- She had seen too much in her time away from Sanctuary, learned too much, perhaps dared too much. All she wanted was to close her eyes and forget it all.

  She rode on along Governor's Walk, past the park called the Promise of Heaven, until she reached the Avenue of Temples. She saw no one else in the streets as she went, and reflected on that. Sanctuary had quietened in her absence. From the park, it was only a short distance to the Temple of the Rankan Gods.

  Chenaya dismounted and dropped the reins other horse. She gave it an affectionate pat along the withers before she turned toward the temple steps. The animal was war-trained, bred in the finest stables of Ranke's capital. It wouldn't wander away while she was inside, and she pitied the hapless fool stupid enough to try to steal it, horse bites being a difficult thing for any physician to treat.

  She climbed the twelve marble stairs and passed between the columns that formed the temple entrance. A pair of oil pots burned there, providing light, for adherents were welcome at any hour. On either side of the temple rose the great stone images of Ranke's lost war-god, Vashanka, and Sabellia, the moon-goddess. Streamers of incense wafted up around them from circles of tiny holes cut into the floor about their feet. The sweet smoke curled and swirled, and rose out through round, open skylights.

  Between those two deities, though, was the great altar of Savankala, overhung with its massive golden sunburst and ringed with burnished oil pots, whose flames sputtered and danced. There was no statue, no image of Savankala, save the symbolic sunburst. Who, after all, could look on the face of the sun?

  Chenaya knelt wearily before the sun-god's altar, made proper obeisance, and fished out from inside her garments a heavy leather purse that hung on a thong around her neck. Loosening its strings, she poured into her hand an egg-sized diamond. It was warm with the heat of her body, and as she opened her fingers wider, its perfect facets caught the firelight from the oil pots. A rainbow of rays shot about the temple.

  The stone tiles of the floor vibrated suddenly, and the very air grew taut with an unutterable tension. Above the altar, Savankala's sunburst began to burn with a potent white light, until all darkness fled His temple, and the shadows shriveled into nothingness-

  Chenaya curled into a ball around the diamond, and trembled. The light stabbed her eyes, though she flung up her hood to hide her face and squeezed her eyes shut with all her strength until they leaked thick tears. She did not cry out, though, or call her god's name.

  Slowly, the light subsided. Chenaya put the jewel back into the purse and hid it in her clothing again. She rose, then, to stare at the sunburst. It no longer burned with the Bright Father's essence, nor did the temple stones. Yet, in her soul she felt Him near.

  She lifted one of the many oil pots, taking care not to drown the wick, and set it in the middle of the altar. Next, she drew a small dagger from her boot. The silver blade shimmered. She raised it quickly and cut a long blond lock from her hair and held it in the wick's flame. It went up in a flash. The singe-smell and the smoke curled upw
ard as Chenaya left the dagger as a further offering on the altar next to the pot. A moment later, she turned away and left the temple.

  Her horse snorted when he saw her coming. She gathered the reins and mounted, ready to go home to Land's End. Before she got far, though, something caught her eye, a gleam of metal lying on the ground by the outside corner of the temple. She cast a glance over her shoulder. No moon in the sky, no stars, nothing to cause such a glitter. Cautiously, she dismounted again.

  It was her dagger, point down, stuck in the earth. Her jaw gaped as she bent closer. No mistake, it was hers. She rose again, and peered suspiciously up and down the street. No one, not even the best thief in Sanctuary, could have got into the temple, snatched the dagger from the altar, and gotten out again without her notice. Even if such a thief lived, he wouldn't have been so clumsy as to drop it making his getaway.

  She frowned and thought about the gleam that had caught her eye. There was no such gleam now from any angle as she moved around it. The damn thing was barely visible in the temple's shadow.

  She was too tired for such puzzles. The hour was late, and home was near. If Savankala didn't want her offering, she wasn't going to just leave it in the dirt. It was a good blade. She bent down and grabbed the hilt.

  Her senses reeled suddenly, and the earth seemed to yawn as she fell crazily into a great black hole. A scream formed, burbling in her throat. She bit her lip, though, and clenched her jaws tight, refusing to give it voice. Down she tumbled into the strange darkness, deeper and deeper, until somewhere far below, or far ahead-she could no longer tell direction-she saw a greenish glow and a form like a body in its shroud cloth. It, too, was falling, falling toward her at fantastic speed, coming closer. Now the shroud slipped away from its head, and she saw a pallid, horrible face with no eyes rushing at her.

  Chenaya threw up her arms, on the verge of releasing the pent-up scream. She mustn't, she knew. But she couldn't help herself!

  Then, as she opened her mouth, she found herself outside the temple again, and the world was the world she knew. She collapsed back against the temple wall, gasped for breath, and slowly fought down the panic that had filled her. There was no hole, no corpse, no greenish glow. Just the dagger at her feet.