Shadowspawn (Thieves' World Book 4)

by Andrew J Offutt

  Again a shudder shook Hanse’s voice: “Gods, man!”

  “You’ll find none of those around here, young man. Now as to dear Thuvarandis, here…”

  Marll put forth a hand. His finger touched, only touched the raw lip of the awful wound. Shadowspawn shuddered. Striving with all his might and will to move his arms and obtaining not so much as the twitch of a thumb, he saw that Thuvarandis shuddered, too, from the pain of that mere touch.

  “I really believe that I will keep him alive for a long, long time. You see, the genius Corstic tricked everyone; everyone.” A hand laden with an ornate ring proudly touched the chest of Marll, who was Corstic. “All have been my tools! All of them. My treacherous, lustful wife and her lover who betrayed my trust and kindness, and all ten of those so-willing men you have heard about, young man, young roach!”

  He despises them all, Shadowspawn realized, raging inside and fighting, fighting to regain use of his own arms. He ensnared and entrapped them all. And he has been gloating and delighting in it ever since!

  “Aye, I think that I will keep him alive for a good while, yet. You see, the human essences within those two cats you so kindly returned to me…whether the animals live or die, those kas will never know peace until all ten of Shurina’s rapists are dead. Of late too many of them have expired. Aye, I think that I will keep Thuvarandis alive for a long, long time. I like cats, don’t you, young roach?”

  Hanse’s brain staggered at this revelation of the limitless treachery and cheerful cruelty of this man. But Corstic had a further shock for him:

  “Of course! You must like cats — now wouldn’t you just love to be one!”

  Just then something caught Corstic’s attention and he jerked his head violently to the side. His eyes went huge and staring at what he saw. His voice was almost a bellow. “Stop tha — No!”

  Unable to turn, Hanse caught the blur of rushing movement only from the edge of his eye. Corstic had pronounced his intentions and given too much attention to Thuvarandis, and to Shadowspawn. Another person in that room heard and understood, though she was trapped in a small multicoloured body. She had acted; was taking action. The calico cat pounced onto the table next to that of Thuvarandis’ torment, and what she did there was certainly no accident. Even as Corstic jarred past Hanse in his desperate leap for Rainbow-Shurina, she succeeded in her mission. The calico cat knocked the pearly one from the table. It fell and shattered noisily. Bits of porcelain scattered across the floor.

  A thief’s hyper-observant eye saw that it had been only a little statue; nothing rolled or clattered forth.

  Corstic’s cry of rage was freighted with real horror. It told Hanse that the figurine had been inordinately valuable to the mage. Even his face and form flickered, as if all his attention was focused on his loss and on the offending Shurina, so that he could only just maintain the appearance of Marll. Hanse saw that he was a large man, with a large skull on which the forehead was growing loftier as his hair decamped.

  Unfortunately Shurina, too, was focused: on her task. The enraged mage seized her little body with both hands, and an instant later had slammed her across the table and against the wall. Hanse heard the sharp cracking sound that accompanied the impact of her small head with the wall. He recognized it as more than the sound of impact. Seeing the blood that came from the cat’s nostrils and mouth as she dropped back onto the table, he knew that she was mortally wounded. Rage boiled hot in him, so that it hurt, and suddenly sweat covered him in his attempt to free himself.

  His fingers twitched.

  I can mo — I can almost move…

  It did not matter. The shrieking, hideous cry that accompanied Rainbow’s falling back onto the table had not come from her. It was that sound called a caterwaul, and it was worse. Hanse was still effortfully turning his head when a streak of flame flashed through the air to hit the mage with a thud that staggered the big man. It was not flame, however; it was a large and enraged red cat. Claws thrust into clothing and skin and dug and worked; curved fangs slashed into the skin of Corstic’s neck. Into the skin, and deeper, while Notable champed. When the mage bellowed his agony and tore the animal from him, human flesh ripped away as well, in claws and in needly teeth. The cat crashed onto the table amid a rattle of jars and bowls. Dust or some powder spilled and rose in a pale cloud. A few inches away, Rainbow twitched. Bleeding, the mage swept up his arms and the big cat, all red-mouthed, drove straight up and between them. This time, from the higher vantage of the table, Notable struck Corstic’s face, which was Marll’s face. And tore, and ripped, and fastened his fangs, and wagged his head violently as he strove, with all his strength, to pull.

  The sound of the cat’s snarling growl was enough to make Shadowspawn wish that he were deaf. That sound, and Corstic’s moans.

  Nearly falling as full control of his body rushed back into him, Shadowspawn saw only part of it because Corstic’s back was to him while the man fought the demonic cat of his own creation. At the same time, Hanse saw the head and the shape of the apparent Marll change still more, and realized that the mage had lost all control of his spells. The master spellmaker was become only a man in agony. With both hands and all his attention he was striving to free himself of the cat. He gave himself more pain in the process, for teeth and talons were fast locked in face and chest. Locked, and working.

  “Let — go — Notable — because — this — monster will be — falling!”

  The mage whirled, tearing away the cat; literally tearing Notable from his face amid spurts of blood from ribboned flesh. Even as he turned, he was raising the cat high as a missile to dash at the man he had forgotten, the man whose weapons he had not bothered to take because of natural confidence in his own sorcerous talent. For a fleeting instant Hanse saw that Corstic had not concealed his features behind illusion because it was ugly or worse; the big man must have been handsome. No longer; not with bloody strips of his face dangling from the claws and fangs of the big red cat.

  He did not throw Notable, for Shadowspawn moved too fast. Corstic’s eyes went even wider when the blow low in his belly drove the six-inch sliver of steel into him. Almost simultaneously, Shadowspawn’s right hand slammed a second knife into the monster’s side. Corstic went rigid except for a spasmodic shivering throughout his body. Shadowspawn, his face twisted into an ugly snarl, jerked his arm to give the dagger a twist before yanking it forth. Even as Corstic began to sag and his hands relaxed on the cat, arms dropping, Notable dropped onto his head with all claws out. He resumed clawing and chewing.

  Shadowspawn stepped back and out of the way, for the master spellmaker of Firaqa was crumpling. He fell, still twitching.

  Hanse looked down at him. He saw no face; only erected red fur. “Notable. Notable!”

  “Pro…fesh’n’l…ki’w mee…”

  Shadowspawn jerked his head around to stare in renewed horror at the man strapped to the table. The horrible sounds, almost words, came from a tongueless mouth. Shadowspawn trembled, bit his lip, raised his dagger. He aborted that movement, looking with distaste at the blood-smeared blade. Whirling, he hurled it at the far wall. It was the knife that had slain the monster Corstic. He would not use it to end the misery of Thuvarandis, or for any other purpose.

  He drew the long, long knife from the Ilbars hills. He changed his position and his stance. He sighted carefully. Tensed to strike, he bit his lip. Slowly he lowered the sword-like blade and returned it to its sheath. He could not do it. Not yet, anyhow. Besides, he told himself, Thuvarandis had been one of Shurina’s rapists, and the injured cat needed attention.

  “Notable,” Hanse said again, for the big red animal was still at Corstic’s face, still emitting those dreadful growls. Hanse left him alone; he bent over the table to stroke the calico cat. “You saved us, Shurina,” he murmured. “Hold on now. You’ll be all right.”

  No she won’t, he thought. Not with a cracked skull. He was debating whether lifting her might be worse than leaving her when he heard the familia
r voice:

  “Hanse!”

  He turned in astonishment to face Mignureal. Cloaked, she was in the doorway. She raced toward him. Beyond her he saw four others, men. One was a uniformed Red, and Hanse recognized Gaise. Oh shit, Shadowspawn thought, but held out his arms to embrace Mignureal just the same. She stopped short, for the first time seeing the body at his feet.

  “Oh!” She stared down at the corpse, and a red-furred cat looked up at her. Darker red dripped from its whiskers and coloured its nose. “Oh, Notable, what have you d — Hanse? Is this…”

  “That’s Corstic. That was Corstic.”

  “It appears that we arrived just a wee bit late,” Gaise said, cheerfully.

  He was approaching with one of the other three, a fellow of average height with thinning reddish hair and a pale moustache in which the red was only a whisper. He wore a fine, scarlet-lined cloak. The other two, armed but not uniformed, remained at the door.

  “Maybe,” Hanse said. “Too late for what?”

  “Too late to help you, or to arrest Corstic either,” the other man said. “Hanse, I have just met and talked with your brave Mignureal, and I am happy to meet a man of your bravery; a genuine adrenaline addict! My name is Arcala.”

  *

  Swiftly Hanse learned that Arcala had “sensed emanations” from the Cochineal Street area, and traced them to the apartment. His mission was friendly. The two armed men were merely his bodyguards. Shadowspawn’s apprehension on seeing Gaise was misplaced; Hanse was not in trouble with Council or FSA or the law. Corstic was. Or would have been, had he been alive. Mignureal had told Arcala the whole story of Corstic, and he knew enough to recognize it as truth. They had run into Gaise, on his way to investigate reports that a man had fallen from a window to his death. He had rushed here with them to try to prevent Hanse’s certain death.

  Since Corstic was unquestionably the most powerful mage in Firaqa, Hanse realized that Arcala and Gaise and Mignureal were braver than he. For now he understood more about himself. He knew that what Arcala had said was true: Hanse called Shadowspawn was addicted to adrenaline; to adventure and the thrill of danger.

  While Hanse learned these things, Notable stayed close to him, peacefully licking his whiskers.

  “Ah,” Arcala said, looking down when his foot crunched on pearly white shards, “the famous porcelain cat! Good, good!”

  Hanse was both pleased and surprised; he had assigned its possession as Arcala s motive for coming here. He had assumed that Corstic’s rival would have coveted the figurine.

  “There are other things to say,” Arcala told him; “to talk about.”

  Mignureal, cuddling the injured cat, looked up. “Not now! Not in this place!”

  “There is something else I must do, first,” Shadowspawn said. He drew the Ilbarsi blade. “Gaise, do not try to stop me!”

  Gaise shrugged. “I wouldn’t dream of trying to stop you from destroying any and all of this dreadful junk,” he said. “Lord Arcala might not appreciate it, though!”

  “I have no intention of attacking Corstic’s things. A man must be put out of his pain.”

  He went to Thuvarandis then, and swiftly learned that the tall man was already out of his pain.

  “Corstic must have had a spell of un-life on him,” Arcala said. “The spell died with Corstic. So did Thuvarandis.”

  “But,” Mignureal said, “but there’s no change in the cats…”

  “That,” Arcala said quietly, “is quite another matter. The spell on Thuvarandis was a holding one. Corstic had not made it permanent. I’d say many spells have ended tonight, in Firaqa! The cats are not the result of any sort of spell, however; they are cats. The only spell on Nuris and Shurina, apparently, was one of awareness. In which case they may no longer be aware of their humanity. But since that was a permanent spell wrought years ago, I’d say it remains. Nor can any mage remove the human awarenesses from the animals; both humans are dead.”

  Hanse sheathed his twenty-inch blade and hurried to retrieve the knife he had hurled from him. “Spells! Let us get out of this hole!”

  As they descended the steps, Mignureal cradling Rainbow, Arcala said, “Do please come with me to my home. We need to do a bit of talking.”

  “Thank you, Lord Arcala,” Gaise said. “As you can imagine, I have other duties.”

  Hanse said, “Do you have strong drink there?”

  “Aye.”

  Hanse said, “Good. Oh, we will need to stop by the apartment, though. I want to check you-know-what, Mignue.”

  “We fetched along the coins,” Arcala said over his shoulder, “and the tablet.”

  “Wonderful,” Hanse said without enthusiasm, and he thought, This sorcerer knows everything. Gods! O gods of my fathers, how I hate sorcery!

  *

  Arcala lived down in the city, in Northgates. His large home on spacious grounds was located among trees at the very end of the tree-shaded street called Bitterwood. Interestingly then, he was a neighbour of Tethras the Changer. Hanse and Mignureal soon saw that the man favoured floors of inlaid tile and mosaic, rather than carpets, and preferred divans and couches to chairs. A short and portly woman of considerable age advised Arcala that the children were fine, and asleep. That he had children was somehow a surprise to his guests. She brought them wine and filled the strange request: she brought beer, and a bowl. Notable was soon assiduously lapping his reward.

  Arcala, meanwhile, was alone with the calico cat. He had made it plain that he wanted privacy. Hanse was immediately suspicious, but Mignureal definitely was not and the wine was good.

  When the mage returned to them, he stopped, gazing at that which lay on the low, mosaic-topped table before the couch draped in green and gold. Arcala knew their significance: a beeswax tablet of the folding kind, and two silver coins. The tablet was blank save for a single name.

  “Someone named Elturas remains,” the dark, sinuous young man said, “and one other.”

  He was talking to Mignureal, or to himself, but both looked up as their host rejoined them in his receiving room. Hanse was more than surprised to see that the man who was now master mage of Firaqa had removed his boots to pad about his home in stockinged feet.

  “As you said, Hanse, her skull is cracked. I administered a bit of frankincense, which is good for cracked heads in some cases, and, probably more productive, I laid on a spell to take away her pain. Either it will repair itself or it will not. I am sorry to tell you that I doubt whether it will. So. Two coins remain. That tells us that two of Corstic’s paid rapists still live, somewhere. Regrettably, I have never heard of an Elturas. There are, however, some things I want you two brave southerners to know.”

  Arcala poured himself wine, and took a seat to face them both.

  “To begin with, you have done a great service for Firaqa and, at the risk of sounding dramatic: possibly for all humankind. For some years several of us have known that Corstic’s were truly transcendent powers, and that not even a coalition of mages could match or hold him. We realized that he could take all power in Firaqa if he chose. We also knew that he would do it, and what such rule would be like. Among other things, Mignureal, he hated and despised the S’danzo. All S’danzo, irrationally. Five several laws in this city affect the S’danzo directly and were passed solely for — that is, against them. All were Corstic’s laws. He was so definite, so impassioned in proposing and urging them, that no one dared long oppose him.” He sipped from his flagon of ormolu decorated with a design in silver. “Those laws, I vow by the Flame Itself, will soon no longer exist!”

  Hanse asked, “Why did he hate the S’danzo so much?”

  “I know,” Mignureal said quietly. “Shurina was — is S’danzo.”

  “You never told me!”

  “I haven’t known long, Hanse. It was a, a realization. That’s why she and I have been able to communicate so well. That, along with the other abilities she learned while she was Corstic’s wife.”

  “Corstic was a rational
man in many ways, and irrational in others,” Arcala said.

  “He was a lunatic monster!” Hanse snapped.

  Arcala shrugged. “Do just help yourself when your cup runs dry, Hanse.”

  Hanse did.

  “Two years ago,” Arcala said, “several of us were convinced that Corstic had decided to take Firaqa as dictator, and that he soon intended to make his move. By that time one of my associates had already ridden up to Baabda and returned with the item we had secretly had made to use in our attempt to stop Corstic. With the utmost care, we saw to it that Corstic heard a rumour: I had come into possession of a certain talisman that afforded enormous occult powers. It was amusing, to realize from time to time that I was being so-o subtly pumped, so obliquely queried. I acted furtive even while I made denials, seeing to it that they were doubtworthy. That achieved our desire: Corstic and certain people allied with him were convinced that I did indeed possess such an object. This put enough doubt in his mind about the new extent of my powers that he decided he had best not make his grand attempt. At least not until he knew more about the supposed talisman, or…had it.”

  Arcala paused to smile. “We avoided having to submit to rule by Corstic alone, meaning that several of us averted being killed or at very least driven from Firaqa when he became dictator. This is what is called achieving a balance of power. We accomplished this by a rumour that was a lie. The supposed talisman was a small figurine: a perfectly ordinary statuette of a cat, in pearl-hued porcelain. I did imbue it with a webby, complicated aura of mystery; a smoke-screen of magic to disguise the fact that it was valueless. About a year later I was very glad that I had done, for it was stolen.

  “That, I do not hesitate to admit, struck genuine fear into those of us who were plotting on Firaqa’s behalf, for we were sure that the porcelain cat was in Corstic’s hands. We were right. And yet, as it turned out, that too served our purpose.