I did. I had put it down to obsequiousness, masking a desire to be employed for more assignments.
“I extrapolated your plasm from the roots and then I grew—”
“No!” I said.
She made the kind of dismissive gesture that would answer an overwrought child’s fearsome fancies. “No, I didn’t grow a whole Hapthorn. Only the limbic system and the olfactory bulb.”
I nodded. “And then you tried different pheromones until you found the one to which I was most susceptible.”
Devers the henchman mimed a mocking appreciation of my insight. I was beginning to think he was mute. Again, Madame Oole ignored his display and said, “Yes, and then I edited our bait’s autonomic output so that when stressed, her perspiration would contain the precise combination of substances that would most exercise you.”
“And no resort to sympathetic association? It was all a matter of science?”
“Only the thread in the ribbon, which was designed to remain inert until it was immersed in a strong ambience. That was one of the reasons I chose Shannery; it has no—what did you call them, dimples? You would have detected any lingering resonances and been on your guard.”
“I am impressed,” I said. It was the truth, though not the whole truth—I suppressed my repugnance. “You wanted me to become so protective of her that I must keep her by me, so that eventually I would admit her to—” I made a gesture that took in our surroundings, partly so that I could gauge the degree to which my nerves and muscles were back under my control; the answer was not very much. “—to all this.”
“Obviously,” Oole said. “As indeed you did.”
“And you made sure that I would notice that she was under surveillance, and therefore threatened—your man letting me see him at Candyk’s Spire; the peeper in her room. And you showed me that the stakes were high by killing the driver, Chumblot.”
The woman was picking through the books as I spoke. Now she made a moue of minor irritation and said, “Devers was only supposed to hurt him. Sometimes he lacks control.”
I saw the henchman’s face over her shoulder. If looks could convey poison, my veins would now be chilling. “What impresses me most,” I said, “is that you did all of it without resorting to magic.”
“Of course,” Oole said. “You would have sniffed out a spell in the blink of an eye. We needed you to be on guard, but watching in the wrong direction.” She picked up the Bell of True Resonance and tinkled it. “Does this summon something?”
I ignored the question. “And the means by which you removed her memories and bound her to your will?”
“A little concoction of my own.” She tinkled the bell again, this time listening to the fading reverberations. “Ah,” she said, “now what is that all about?”
“The concoction?”
“Are you worried I will use it on you?”
“You might.”
She put her hands on my knees and leaned toward me. “Not before I have plumbed your depths, Hapthorn. And in that process I may come to value you highly. We would make a potent pair, would we not?”
The poison in Devers’s eyes grew in toxicity.
“Your companion dislikes the concept,” I said.
Her eyebrows gave the tiniest flutter of dismissal. “He will alter his views,” she said. “If he ever wants his voice back. Or even if he just wishes to keep all of the attributes he still has.”
The man’s face paled and all foolishness drained from it.
“You still have not told me about the amnesiafacient,” I said.
“Why does it interest you so?”
I rolled my head about, finding my coordination still not much improved. “If we work together,” I said, bringing my eyes back to Oole’s, “you will see that I leave no loose ends. To you, Irmyrlene Broon-Paskett was a device to pierce my defenses; to me, she is a case not yet resolved.”
The sorceress shrugged. “Before I discovered sympathetic association and the coming opportunity, I dabbled in several fields. Some of them led inevitably to sudden departures. It was often better not to leave a clearly marked trail. I combined equal parts of paralethe with a distillation of forget-me-knot, then added a little discovery of my own.”
I translated: “You cozened and stole, then hampered pursuit by drugging your victims, leaving them unable to recall who had shaken the fruit off them.”
“It sounds so much harsher when you put it that way. At least I left them breathing.” She gave me a cool look. “How were Bristal Baxandall and Turgut Therobar when you last saw them?”
“And how do you mean to leave me?” I said.
She blew out her cheeks. “That is a question we will have to answer together. You represent both a great danger and a great opportunity. I am trying to decide which outweighs the other.”
A faint snore sounded from somewhere. Her eyes flicked about the room. “What was that?”
“The beast outside,” I said. “It needs feeding.”
Her face opened with curiosity. “What is that thing? You do not look the type who keeps a pet.”
“Why should I tell you? You make vague suggestions of partnership, but I cannot believe you contemplate an association of equals. You will drain me, then throw me into oblivion of one kind or another.”
Now her face closed and hardened. “Devers,” she said, with a meaningful twitch of her chin toward Hespira.
The man went to stand behind Hespira’s chair, waited until I brought my eyes up to his. Then, with a leering grin, he slid one hand down my client’s chest and into the bodice of her dress. Hespira struggled futilely, then tried to sink her teeth into his forearm, but he seized her hair and roughly yanked back her head.
I tried to get to my feet, but Madame Oole put one palm against my chest and pushed. I fell back into the chair.
Devers’s hand went deeper into Hespira’s bodice, found what he was seeking, and twisted. At her small cry of pain and humiliation, a pang went through me. Though I knew that my psyche was being manipulated at its deepest stratum, the mere knowledge made no difference. I agonized for her.
“Enough,” said Oole. Devers paused to cup and squeeze, then slowly withdrew his hand. “As long as we have her,” the sorceress said, “you will do as I say.”
“Do not hurt her again,” I said.
A chill smile moved my captor’s lips. “Is that a demand? Or a plea?”
“It is what you wish it to be.” The snore came again as I was speaking.
“That sounded as if it came from within the room,” Oole said.
“It can make itself heard in various ways,” I said.
She was listening now. “What is it? Why do you have it?”
I spoke loudly. “It is from the previous age. You may have heard of its like. It is called a grinnet.”
The word rang some faint note for her. “I have come across a reference to a grinnet,” she said. “It was some kind of familiar.”
“There you have it,” I said. “It performed functions analogous to those of an integrator. It was also useful for focusing its master’s will.”
“Or its mistress’s.”
“As you say. But first it must be tamed, then trained. This one is young.”
“How did you obtain it?”
“Must I tell all my secrets, all at once?” I said.
Her answer was to turn to where Devers still stood behind Hespira, the fingers of one hand still sunk in her hair.
“All right,” I said. “You knew of Baxandall’s attempt to capture and coerce a demon?” Her face told me she had. “Well, after I… dealt with him, I acquired the demon.”
Avarice sharpened her face. “And have you it still?”
“No. But I required it to tell me what I most needed to be a thaumaturge. When it revealed the nature and purposes of familiars, I had it bring me one.”
“And did it tell you how to tame and train it?”
“The problem with demons,” I said, “is a tendency toward literal
ism. Unless one specifies its task exactly, allowing for no easements in interpretation, the outcome can vary widely from one’s hopes and expectations.”
This time her smile was faintly mocking. “You were fooled?”
I inclined my head, modest in acknowledgement. “The most effective deceptions lie in telling the dupe what he wants to hear. I asked for a text, but neglected to specify that it be complete. By the time I realized the lack, the demon had escaped.”
“But you have enough to make a start?”
“I have, and have done so,” I said. “I believe that once I have laid down the basis of a relationship, I can use the grinnet to acquire complete instructions from the previous age.”
She stood up. “Where is the partial text?”
“In my study, on the table. I was wrestling with the translation when you came by.”
I watched her go, saw eager impatience. She was soon back with the handful of tattered pages covered in cursive script and Osk Rievor’s translation.
“What language is this?” she said.
“I do not know,” I said. “I use a translation spell, though its power is limited to only a few dozen words at a time. Again, the demon made sport with me.” I shrugged, the gesture of a defeated contender who has come to accept that the prize will not be his. “There must be a better spell, but I haven’t found it yet.”
“Hah!” Oole said. She turned to Devers. “Get my bag.”
He left. The sorceress went over to a low table, spread the pages on it, bent to lift it. Then she thought better of the effort. “See this,” she said. She made a complex gesture with one hand, mouthed a few syllables. A breeze from nowhere stirred the air of the room and the table rose a palm’s breadth from the floor. More motions of Oole’s tapered fingers, another word, and the object floated over to where I sat.
“Again,” I said, “I cannot help but be impressed.”
She preened, and strolled over to sit across from me. Hespira’s eyes were wide with emotion. I waited until Madame Oole’s attention was fixed on the grinnet training text and briefly raised one finger to reassure her.
From outside, there came a hiss and a succession of grumbles. They sounded deeper than before. I said, “Your man would do well not to annoy the beast. They are better when they are sweet-natured.”
Moments later, the mute came in, carrying a valise made of thick, scale-pocked leather. He held it before him, hands under the base, so that it was well clear of his body, though it had a carrying handle that also acted as a clasp to seal the top: this was of a gray, greasy-looking metal sculpted into the form of an armored arthropod whose segmented tail forked to end in twin barbed stingers. The sorceress hid one hand behind another, the hidden one touching the creature in several spots.
She looked over at me and said, “If we do work together, be careful of this.”
“I treat all around me,” I said, “human or otherwise, with the respect each deserves.”
My remark reminded her and she spoke firmly to her man. “Do not tease the grinnet. It is valuable to me.” I heard an unspoken corollary: more than are you. Devers heard it, too; he scowled and stalked off to sneer at the figures in a tapestry.
The metal stingtail had released its grip on the mouth of the valise and now scuttled down to cling to one side of the bag. Oole parted the top and poked about inside, coming out with a pair of antique spectacles. She perched them on her nose and read the text, her eyes moving from right to left.
I found myself holding my breath and gently let the air ease out of me.
She looked up. “It says here that the first step is to give it a name. Have you done so?”
“Yes,” I said. “The demon said it should be called Yeggoth.”
Another snore was heard, fortunately coinciding with a rumble from the pen outside. The sorceress said, “It responds to its name?”
“Indeed. It also likes to be within an ambience of magic. The stronger the better.”
She read some more. “This implies that they are housebeasts. You keep yours penned outside. Why?”
“It made messes.”
She returned to the text then paused. “Yeggoth,” she said. “It seems to me that I have heard that name before.”
I raised my voice to speak over the sound of the salamander’s growl. It was definitely deeper in timbre. “There is a memory-enhancing spell in one of the books,” I said. “I was going to try it but then could not recall where I had seen it.”
She threw me a quizzical glance which I read as a sign that she was wondering whether she had correctly estimated the strength of my intellect. Then she made a gesture and spoke two syllables. A tiny musical note sounded and a dancing mote of light appeared over one of the newer-looking books on the floor. She reached for it, flicked through the pages, then repositioned her spectacles. She read silently to herself, then touched her fingertips to her temples and read aloud a sibilant sentence that meant nothing to me.
Immediately her brow cleared and she said, “Yeggoth. A minor Eighteenth-Aeon deity. It took form after its devotees projected their desires onto it.”
“Interesting,” I said, over the automatic response the speaking of the divine name drew from out back. “I wonder if there is any connection.”
“No matter,” Oole said. “But the grinnet seems to be getting louder. It needs feeding, you say?”
“Yes. I was about to do it when you arrived.”
“What does it eat?”
“Fruit, mostly,” I said. “But until the creature is tamed it is dangerous to approach it too closely. I have been using Barzant’s Alimentation.”
“I have heard of that.”
I raised a limp hand. “I am afraid the spell is beyond me at the moment. Two applications of the shocker have affected my coordination.”
“Devers!” the sorceress called. The man turned from where he had been standing near a tapestry, eyes averted, then flickering toward the cloth, trying to catch the stitched figures in motion. “Stop wasting your time and search out some fruit for Yeggoth!”
The mute silently mouthed the deity’s name, while his hands spread and his eyebrows rose to offer an interrogative.
“Yeggoth!” the woman repeated. “Out there!” Each repetition of the name—even the henchman’s silent mouthing—was marked by an angry growl from outside.
“Hear it!” Oole snapped. “It hungers! Hurry!”
This time the grumbling came from the henchman as he departed the room. I heard cupboards and drawers banging from the direction of the kitchen, then he was back with a basket of karba and windapples and a look on his face that said, “Will this do?”
Meanwhile, Oole had used her finding spell to locate Barzant’s Alimentation and her spectacles to translate the ancient script. She took up one of the karba fruits, holding it heavy in her palm. “Should it be peeled?” she said.
“I don’t usually bother,” I said.
She stood, held the fruit aloft, and pronounced a string of gutturals that ended with “Yeggoth!” Immediately, a roar sounded from outside, startling Madame Oole. She looked at me sharply.
“It always does that,” I said. “Try one of the windapples.”
She repeated the exercise. Another roar came.
“Devers,” she said, “go out and make sure the grinnet is all right.”
Throwing black looks at her back, the henchman stomped away. In moments, he was back, his face agitated, his hands plucking at her sleeve.
“What is it?” she said.
He pointed with both index fingers to the door, then upward.
Now the sorceress’s face drew in, as if she smelled an unexpected unpleasantness. She indicated me. “Bring him,” she said, and went to the door.
Devers hauled me to my feet, bent one of my arms up behind my back at an uncomfortable angle, and marched me after his mistress. I disregarded the pain and concentrated on not letting him see that the miscoordination of my steps was exaggerated—though, in truth, I w
as still far from restored.
We went out and he shoved me toward the rear of the cottage. When we cleared the corner of the house, I saw Madame Oole standing, arms akimbo and fists planted on her slim waist. Beyond her, the salamander was raging in its enclosure, its mouth open to reveal needle teeth and a convulsing throat as if it sought to purge its belly. The creature was at least twice the size it had been when the sorceress and her henchman had arrived.
Not big enough, I told myself. But then I realized that Oole was not looking at the beast but beyond it, beyond even the tall trees at the rear of the property. She was gazing at the far-off sky in the direction of Olkney, against which a handful of dark motes showed. As we watched, they grew larger and I identified them as multipassenger volantes.
They bore no insignia, were not even all of the same color. Madame Oole turned toward me and demanded to know what was afoot. I feigned ignorance. But, as the first whisper of the oncoming vehicles’ obviators reached my ears and as the angry godling Yeggoth once more voiced its outrage at being named without receiving an offering—not to mention having had its divine innards molested by the intrusion of unwanted fruit—I would have been willing to give odds that Hak Binram, accompanied by a slew of the Olkney halfworld’s hardest hardhides, were about to pay us a visit. And they would be coming with a full agenda.
Chapter Eleven
Madame Oole shouted to Devers. He released me and rushed to their clouded ship, rose to the hatch as quickly as the disk would carry him. I tried a step, found my legs less than reliable, and leaned against the side wall of the cottage. Whatever was about to happen, I did not expect to take a leading role in the proceedings.
Devers emerged from the ship carrying an armload of objects. He rushed back to his mistress’s side and laid them on the grass before her. She knelt and began to select hurriedly among the items. She was between me and the things that had her attention—or most of it; she kept glancing up at the oncoming armada—so I could not obtain a detailed view of what the henchman had brought; but they looked to be rods, orbs, and pyramids of various metals and woods. Again, the descender remained where it had touched down.
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