Wings of Omen tw-6

by Robert Lynn Asprin

  She tore her gaze away. "That means nothing to me, but the sound of it is pretty." The whisper barely escaped her lips, so softly did she speak. The moon sparkled on the dancing waves. The dock swayed and moaned beneath her. One hand crept slowly to her breast, and an old dream bubbled unbidden into her unsleeping mind. Savankala's face hovered, floating on the argent ripples; his lips formed the answer to her third wish....

  "You are not Beysib," the child beside her spoke. "You are not of the sea. Why do you stare so at it?"

  The dream left her, and the chill. She smiled a thin smile. "I've never seen the sea," she answered gently, "but we're old friends. Almost lovers." She sighed. "It's very beautiful, just as all the stories said it was."

  "So are you," the child answered surprisingly. "What is that you wear in your hair?"

  She touched the circlet on her brow. "An ornament," she said simply. "It bears the sign of my god."

  He leaned closer; his hand drifted up toward her face. "May I touch it?" he asked. "My parents are poor. We have nothing so pretty. It shines when it catches the light." She felt his fingers touch the metal above her temple; they slid around softly toward the sunburst.

  A brilliant flash of white intensity exploded in her eyes, blinding her. She fell backward, the edge of the pier under her spine, her balance tilting toward the water below. Then a strong hand caught hers, helped her to sit again.

  But for a swirling host of afterimages, her vision cleared. The Beysib child sat before her, both his hands on hers. On his brow a tiny blaze of shimmering radiance burned, a small sun that illumined the very air around him.

  His mouth moved, but it was not his voice. "Daughter." It was acknowledgment, little more.

  Chenaya clapped her hands to her eyes, bowed her head in reverent fear. "Bright Father!" she gasped, and could find no more words. Her throat constricted, breath deserted her.

  His hands took hers once more, pulled them away from her face. "Do not fear me, Daughter." His voice rolled, filled her ears and her mind, sent trembling waves all through her. "Have you not called me this night?"

  She bit her lip, wanting to be free of his touch, fearing to pull away. "I sought your priests," she answered tremulously, "I sought augurs, portents. I never dreamed..."

  "You did once," the god answered. "And I came to you then to reward you."

  She stammered, unable to look upon Him. "And I have worshipped you, prayed to you, but not once since then..."

  He gently chided. "Have I not favored you more than others of our people? Were my gifts not great enough? Would you have more of me?"

  She burst into tears and hung her head. "No, Father. Forgive me, I didn't mean..." Words would not come. She shivered uncontrollably, stared at the ambient glow that bathed her hand in his.

  "I know what you mean," Savankala spoke. "You called me, not for your own need, but for one we both love. And I will give what little help I can."

  "The 3rd Commando," she cried suddenly, blinking back her tears, realizing a prayer was answered. "Strike them down before they harm Kadakithis!"

  The god shook his head; the light on his brow wavered. "I will not," he said. "You must defend the last Rankan prince with the skills I have given you. You may not even see the faces of those who would do him injury. But you may know the hour."

  She protested, "But Father!"

  Those eyes bored deeply into her, fathomless and frightening, more alien than ever. She squeezed her own eyes shut, but it didn't matter. Those eyes burned into her, seared her soul. She feared to cry out, yet her lips trembled.

  "When the splintered moon lies in the dust of the earth, then you must fight, or your Little Prince will die and the empire of Ranke fade forever." He released her hands, leaned forward and stroked her hair, shoulder, breast. A sweet radiance lingered wherever he touched her. "Farewell, Daughter. Twice have I come to you. No man or woman can ask more. We shall not meet again."

  She opened her eyes as if waking from a long dream. The child stared out toward the sea, swinging his legs over the water. No light gleamed on his brow, nor did he give any indication that anything unusual had transpired. She touched his arm; he turned and smiled at her, then returned his attention outward. "It's very pretty, the sea, isn't it?"

  She exhaled a slow breath, reached out and rumpled his hair. "Yes, very pretty." She rose slowly to her feet, fighting the weakness in her knees. "But I really need a drink." She gave a whistle. High atop the nearest masthead, Reyk answered, spread his wings, and glided downward. Chenaya lifted her arm, and the falcon took his perch.

  The Beysib child gave a startled cry and scrambled to his feet, eyes widened with awe. "You command birds!" he stammered. "Are you a goddess?"

  She threw back her head and laughed, a sound that rolled far out over the waves. Turning, laughing, she left the child, his childish question unanswered.

  The streets twisted and curved like a krrf-hungry serpent. The moonlight fell weakly here, lending little light to show the way. Men walked more openly in these streets, but always in twos or threes. The blackened doorways and recesses were full of watchful, furtive eyes.

  She began to relax as the awesome dread of speaking with her god passed from her. She stroked Reyk's feathers and took note of her surroundings.

  She had not come this far on her morning tour. The air stank of refuse and slop. Invisible life teemed: a muffled footfall, the opening and shutting of a door with no light to spill through, a choked grunt from the impenetrable depths of an alley, mumblings, murmurings.

  She smacked her lips at Reyk. If a man glanced her way when she passed, he quickly found another place to turn his gaze when he spied the falcon.

  She slipped in something, muttered a curse at the foul smell that rose from beneath her boot. Close by, someone tittered in a high-pitched voice. Purposefully, she exposed half the length of her blade and slammed it back into the scabbard. The rasp of metal on leather gave sufficient warning to any too blind to see her pet. The titter ceased abruptly, and it was her turn to laugh a low husky laugh that scraped in her throat.

  She was going to like Sanctuary. She recalled the sundrenched arenas ofRanke, the glistening sands and cheering throngs, the slaughter of men who held no true hope against her. There had been good men, some excellent; she bore scars that proved their quality. But they could not defeat her. She gave the spectators a show, made an artful kill, and collected her purse.

  The game had grown dull.

  Here, things would be different, a new kind of game. Sanctuary was an arena of night and shadows. No cheering crowds, no burnished armor, no fanfare of trumpets, no arbitrators. She smiled at that. No appeals.

  "Home, Reyk," she whispered to the falcon. "Do you feel it? We have come home."

  She prowled the dark streets of the Maze, speaking to none, but studying those she passed, measuring their bearing, meeting their eyes. Truth could be read in a man's eyes, she knew, and all the lies ever told by tongue. The soul resided in the eyes.

  "Psst... a few coppers, sir, will buy you the delights of Heaven." A young girl stepped from the gloom, exposing dubious charms through a gaping cloak.

  Chenaya pushed back her hood enough to show her own blonde locks. "Stuff yourself, whore." But she reached into the purse she wore on a thong about her neck and tossed a few coins in the dust. "Now, tell me where a drink can be had, and maybe some information."

  The little prostitute scurried in the shadows, feeling about for the coins. "The blessing of Ils on you. Lady," she answered in excitement. "Drink? But four doors down. See the lamp?"

  As Chenaya walked toward the faint light, a door beneath it opened and slammed. Two burly, cloaked figures retreated up the street to be swallowed by the night.

  Above the entrance the lamplight illumined a sign. She cocked an eyebrow. However mythical the beast emblazoned there, she was sure it never did that to itself. She listened to the voices that drifted out to her and nodded to herself. This was not a place for nobles and gentlemen.
Or ladies either, her father would warn her.

  "Up," she said softly to Reyk. The falcon's wings beat a steady tattoo on the air as it rose, made a slow circle, and took a new perch on the tavern's sign. She folded the jess and stuck it through her belt, then pushed open the door.

  Conversation stopped. Every eye turned her way. She peered down through the dingy smoke that wafted from lamp wicks in need of trimming, from tallow candles placed high about. She studied hardened, suspicious faces. The smells of wine and beer and dirty bodies tainted the air.

  "It's a door, not a damn viewing gallery!" the barkeeper bellowed, shaking a meaty fist. "Come in or get out!"

  She stepped inside, swept back her hood. The light shone on her hair as she shook it free.

  A grizzled face suddenly blocked her view; fingers brushed her shoulder. "Welcomest sight I seen in a month," the man said, breathing stale brew. He winked. "You come looking for me, pretty?"

  She smiled her sweetest smile, slipped her arms about his neck, smashed her knee into his unprotected groin. He doubled over with an explosive grunt, clutching himself. She drove a gloved fist against his jaw, sending him to the floor, and stepped away. When he made the effort to rise she seized his belt and collar, ran him headfirst into the wall. He sagged in a heap and stayed down.

  "Happens every time," she said to anyone listening. She tossed her hair back dramatically, put a wistful note in her voice. "A lady can't get a peaceful drink anymore." She flung off her cloak then, making sure they saw the sword and daggers. But they no longer seemed interested. She frowned and made her way to the bar.

  "A mug of your best," she ordered, slapping a coin down before the barkeep. He grumbled, swept up her money, brought the drink. As he set it down she noticed the thumb of his right hand was missing. Sipping the beer, she turned to survey the other patrons over the rim.

  Three men caught her attention at once, and she stiffened; 3rd Commandos, she knew the uniform. These or their comrades had murdered the Emperor and set Theron on the throne-curse his name! They were scum that made even this refuse heap of humanity shine and smell sweet by comparison.

  She set down her mug and her cloak. One hand drifted to her sword's hilt as she judged the distance to the three. Then a hand caught her arm. "Stay," a voice murmured in her ear. "They have friends; you never know where a knife might come from." She turned and met the deepest, blackest eyes she had ever seen. The lashes looked kohlled, almost feminine, beneath brows so thick they nearly met over his nose. The effect was ruggedly mesmeric. "What makes it your business?" she said under her breath, noting that the barkeep had moved within earshot.

  That dark gaze ran up and down her body. "Business, is it?" he replied. "Well, let business wait a little. I'd like to buy you a drink."

  She indicated her mug. "I've already bought one."

  He grinned. "Then join me at my table and I'll buy your next one."

  Her turn to look him over. He seemed her own age, and they were a similar height. She might even have a pound or two on him. Yet, there was a kind of rangy strength about him that his shabby tunic could not hide.

  "You must be good with knives," she commented, pointing to the several he wore strapped about his person. His only response was a modest shrug. She went on, "I'll buy the drinks; you tell me something about those three in the comer."

  His thin lips parted in a brief smile. "You must be new around here," he said. "The price of information is more than a drink or two in this town."

  She drew a deep breath, looked him straight in the eye. "I've got a lot mpre to offer."

  He appeared to think about it. "My table, then?" He made a mock bow.

  The buzz of conversations had resumed. No one gave her or her young bravo a glance as he pulled out a chair and made a show of wiping the seat. A good table, she decided, positioned to give a view of the entire tavern and its entrance. She set her mug down, draped her cloak on the chair. They sat side by side.

  "What's your name?" she asked quietly, leaning over her beer.

  He began playing with a small pair of dice that had lain by his own mug. "Hanse," he answered simply. "I never liked that loud-mouthed braggart." He nodded toward the man she'd beaten; the barkeep had him under the arms and was dragging his limp form toward the door.

  Chenaya took another drink. "No one else seemed impressed."

  Hanse shrugged. The dice skittered over the table; he gathered them up again. "You're Lowan Vigeles's daughter, aren't you?" He rolled the dice between his palms.

  She sat back, hiding her surprise. "How did you know?"

  He tossed the dice: snake eyes. "Word travels fast in Sanctuary. That's your first lesson."

  "Is there a second?" she said, feigning nonchalance.

  A barely perceptible nod toward the 3rd Commandos. "People to avoid in Sanctuary." He changed the subject. "Is it true you fought in the Rankan arenas?"

  She leaned close so that her shoulder touched his. "When the purse was large enough to interest me." She batted her lashes playfully. "Why should I avoid those dung-balls?"

  The dice clattered on the rough surface. "They've got comrades. Lots of comrades."

  The barkeep passed them, bearing drinks for another table. Chenaya waited. "How many?" she asked finally.

  "Lots. They rode into town some days ago. Already act like they own it, too, though I wager the Fish-Eyes might dispute their claim." He looked up as the barkeep passed again. "One-Thumb, two more beers here. She's buying." He smiled at her and drained his mug. "They always go about in twos and threes. You tangle with one, you tangle with them all."

  She tilted back until her head rested on the wall, and cursed silently. It couldn't be coincidence that the 3rd Commandos were here. They must be plotting against the Prince. Of course, that meant danger for her father and herself, too. And Molin. Theron had spared no energy hunting any who might claim the crown.

  Hanse tapped her arm, and she started. "He wants to be paid," he told her. One Thumb loomed over her, looking surly. Two new mugs had appeared on the table.

  Hanse's eyes followed her hand as it dipped into the purse about her neck and extracted a coin. "You must do well in the Games," he said.

  "Well enough," she answered, dismissing One-Thumb. "I'm still alive."

  "To being alive," he whispered, raising his beer in a toast. A bit of froth snowed his black mustache. "And if you want to stay that way, leam to carry a thinner purse and a plainer sword." He glanced up at her brow. "There are men here who would slit your throat for that trinket alone and only afterward worry if the gold was real."

  She inclined her chin into one palm and met his gaze. She liked his eyes, so black and deep. "Since word travels so fast in Sanctuary, Hanse, you'd best spread this one. It's a new lesson to leam: don't play with Chenaya. The stakes are too high."

  He regarded her over the rim of his mug. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  She put on that sweet smile again. "It means I never lose, Hanse. Not at anything." She indicated the dice as he set his beer down. "How do you play those?"

  He picked them up, shook them in a closed fist. "High number wins," he explained simply. He cast them: six and four.

  She picked them up, dropped them without looking. A frown creased his forehead. "Two sixes," he muttered and gathered them to throw again.

  She caught his hand. "Do you have a taste for Vuksibah?"

  His eyes widened. "That's an expensive taste."

  She produced two more coins, solid gold stamped with the seal of the imperial mint. She slid them toward Hanse. "I'll bet you can buy anything in this dump. See if old Sour-Face has a couple of bottles stashed away. Do you live nearby?"

  He chewed his lower lip thoughtfully, cocked an eyebrow. His head bobbed slowly.

  She made a wry face. "The stench in here is overpowering." Her face moved close to his. "I'll bet there are lots of lessons we could teach each other." Her hand slipped under the table, fell to his thigh, encountering quite a surprise.


  He caught her look and shrugged. "Another knife," he explained.

  Chenaya grinned. "If you say so."

  "Really," he insisted, collecting her coins, pushing back his chair. His toe caught the table leg as he rose, sloshing beer from her mug. "Sony," he mumbled. He shoved through the crowd to the bar, began an urgent conversation with One Thumb.

  Chenaya looked back at the dice, picked them up, dropped them. Two sixes. She cast them again: two sixes. Once more she collected them, then with a sigh she dropped them in the beer.

  The night, her seventh in the city, was still. Chenaya paced around her apartment, stared out each of the windows over the broad expanse of her land to the silvery ribbon that was the Red Foal River. It ran to the sea, that river. She could almost hear the sound of it.

  She paced and debated if it was worthwhile going into the streets again tonight. All the officers and officials she had bribed the past few days, all the little men she had threatened, all her questioning and seeking had proven fruit less. If there was a plot against the Prince, no word of it had leaked carelessly.

  Yet Savankala himself had come to her, told her it would happen when the splintered moon lies in the dust. But what did that mean? Thinking that a splintered moon was, perhaps, some astrological reference, she had approached Molin and wound up in a terrible argument. She left her uncle with a string of curses and no more understanding.

  She kicked at a stool and threw herself across her bed. Her nails dug into the sheets. When her god was granting wishes, why. hadn't she asked for brains?

  She rolled over on her side and let go a sigh. Despite her mood a small grin stole over her features as her gaze fell on a table across the room. On it stood a bottle of Vuksibah.

  There was a gamble she certainly hadn't lost, she smiled to herself. That handsome little thief taught her a lot, and only a little of it about Sanctuary. After the first bottle of Vuksibah anything he said was merest accompaniment to what he did. Fortunately, she woke with a clear head able to recall every word. She doubted he could claim the same. She took the remaining bottle, reclaimed her circlet which he had slipped from her brow and secreted beneath a pillow, and left him asleep.