Every month at festival time, the shops remained open all night. Food, drink, and street entertainment abounded. Even now, some distance away, faint strains of music reached her ears.
Malken withdrew a pouch from his shirt and tossed it to Rozalia. “Here.”
Rozalia opened it and gaped at the coins it contained. “What’s this for?”
“New clothes, shoes, tools—whatever you need.”
“You are most generous.”
He belittled her comment with a coarse oath. Rozalia blinked. The contrast between the smooth voice and the gutter words was startling. “I am not generous. I am in business. You must look your part.” When she frowned, he added, “Unless, of course, you want to haunt the plains as your fellows do.”
There was, as Malken knew, no answer to that save agreement.
At last, they reached Bergovitsa. The main street was lined with lanterns and torches. The sounds of tambourines, drums, flutes, and drunken voices filled the air. People thronged past, wearing garish holiday costumes and masks. At one booth, roasted chickens turned slowly on a spit.
Malken sniffed appreciatively. “I’m ravenous,” he declared, marching up and ordering an entire hen. “You’ll join me, of course, my dear?”
Rozalia grimaced, shaking her head. The smell of cooking flesh was strangely offensive to her, although she’d had little enough to eat today.
Malken stilled at her refusal. “You’ll take my gifts, girl,” he rumbled in a low voice.
The booth keeper removed the chicken from the fire and handed it, spit and all, to Malken. Malken tossed him a coin and strode a few steps away from the booth, where a tent flap cast a shadow. He ripped off a leg of the chicken and shoved it at Rozalia. She took the hot, greasy offering and stared at it, certain that if she forced it down her throat she would vomit. Malken turned his attention to his own meal, carefully turning his back on her before pulling down his scarf.
He ate like a starved dog, snorting and snuffling. Rozalia wrinkled her nose as Malken shoveled the chicken into his unseen face, gulping and smacking. The Vistana girl glanced around and tossed her chicken leg to a thin, hopeful-looking dog. Malken was finished a few seconds later. He pulled back the scarf and turned around. The chicken was picked clean.
He tossed the carcass away and sighed. “Delicious.”
At that moment, one of the revelers tripped and fell heavily against Malken. Malken whirled on the offender.
“Pardon me,” the young man said apologetically. He gestured to the black leather mask that hid half his face. “The eyeholes—it’s hard to see—”
Malken stepped closer, pushed his scarf-covered face into the youth’s. When he spoke, his voice was the soft hiss of a snake about to strike. “You’re careless,” he said. “Careless people pay a price.”
Malken’s gloved hands shot out. One seized the man’s mask, smoothly lifting it from its wearer’s face. The second struck the youth firmly in the throat. He fell backward, choking, knocking down two other festival-goers. An angry murmur rose, and for an instant Rozalia thought the crowd was going to turn on her protector. Her hand went to her dagger. But then the indignant faces raised to Malken’s paled, the determined eyes wavered and fell. One by one, people backed away from Malken, leaving him with his trophy. Malken slipped the mask on and turned to Rozalia.
“Fits perfectly, don’t you think?” He strode off toward another booth, leaving the wounded man groaning in the street.
Over the next hour, Rozalia learned she could overlook Malken’s behavior when amply compensated with his gold. The wellborn—for his accent betrayed him, if not his manners—was incredibly free with his money. They went from store to store, purchasing rich foods and beautiful jewelry. Some clothes she selected for herself; others Malken demanded she wear.
Rozalia paused to admire one such outfit Malken had given her. It was a long cloth-of-gold gown. Slits ran up both sides, revealing her strong, dark legs, and the bodice was sleeveless. A thick gold necklace draped her neck, and similar adornments graced both wrists and ears. A jeweled girdle encircled her waist. On her chest, contrasting sharply with the gold and glitter, was pinned a huge ebony brooch in the shape of a cat’s head. Malken stepped beside her, clothed in an identical outfit. He had purchased a second mask, the golden face of a cat, which completely hid his face.
Rozalia knew some of the wellborns in Nova Vaasa and wondered just who it was behind the disguise. “An interesting costume,” she said. “What’s it for?”
“These are not costumes,” replied Malken. There was a quiver of mirth in his voice. “They are vestments. Come. We may yet be in time.”
“Where are we going? What—”
“Shut up and follow me.” Malken, thought Rozalia, was obviously not a man of great patience. She remained obediently silent and followed him until they were well away from the main thoroughfare.
It was darker now, and quieter. People here had foregone the festival and were asleep. As she walked behind Malken, his golden garb fluttering, Rozalia wondered again who he was—and why he wanted her and her skill with poisons. He made her nervous, but also vibrant and, somehow, more alive.
Whose face was it?
Malken, meanwhile, turned down a small, residential street, looked around, then paused. There was a dark house nearby. That would do. Malken went to it and halted, facing one of the house’s stone walls. Slowly, he passed his hand over the stone. “Open to me,” he bade it. Like everything else Malken decided to use for a door, the wall obeyed him without question. Its solid surface softened, dissolved. A few seconds later, the stone transformed into mist by Malken’s desire.
Behind him, he heard Rozalia gasp, and he smiled to himself. Tendrils of fog began to tentatively twist into the street, brushing over Malken’s booted feet. They crept upward, like lonely, grasping hands. When they reached his face, caressing it coolly, Malken stepped forward into the door.
He turned back to Rozalia. “Come along, girl, we haven’t got all night.”
Without knowing who he was, how he had done this, or where he took her, Rozalia grasped his hand and stepped through the unnatural portal.
Ivaar swayed back and forth in the saddle. Trying to stay awake, he rubbed his eyes hard with his knuckles, stifling a yawn. Tristan had gotten home late, and Ivaar had been afraid to leave before Tristan had gone to bed. The long ride to Kantora did nothing to rest him, but he had to come. The others depended on him.
Like everyone in the city, he had heard about the murders. The last few weeks, the gates to the city had been closed at dusk. Travelers who wished entrance had to pass through a small entryway cut into the stone wall that surrounded the city. When he came through this “eye of the needle,” as it was called, he was questioned briefly by a mounted guard. The sentry knew him by his father’s reputation and let him pass.
Although he himself was clad plainly, his horse was obviously the mount of a wealthy man and attracted covetous looks from the few souls who were out at this time of night. Ivaar continued down the High Road, Kantora’s main street, at a pace that was brisk but would not attract undue attention. He turned left on Colt’s Foot Road, heading into the part of Kantora known as the Horse District. Here were all the shops that dealt with equine matters. Here also was the Great Corral, where the horses trained by the Vistani were auctioned every midsummer. The Horse District radiated affluence, and Ivaar relaxed as he left the High Road. While he loved the common people, he was well aware that their poverty could—and often did—force them to acts of violence. Much as he wished there was no need for the presence of the guards, he was grateful for them.
In the off-season, when there were no horses being bought or sold, several dozen stables stood empty. It was to one of these that Ivaar went now. The noble family of Tavolys owned many of these stables. Their youngest son, Raphael, had struck up an acquaintance with the head groomsman, Cavell. As a consequence, Raphael had access whenever he desired to the deserted stables, and many a meetin
g of the group whose members called themselves the Lights of Liberty had taken place under the very nose of House Tavolys.
The dark-cloaked groom materialized out of nowhere when Ivaar approached the fenced-off stable. Though the groom recognized him at once, there were formalities to be observed, and Cavell spoke.
“What do you bear, stranger?”
“The light of liberty,” responded Ivaar.
“Who shall carry it?”
“All who fight for freedom.”
Cavell nodded his graying head. “Enter, Master Ivaar. You’re late. They’ve been waiting for several hours.”
Ivaar winced. “I know, I’m sorry.” He slipped off his horse and hurried in as Cavell opened the gate.
Meetings of the Lights were held in the third stall on the left. He heard the murmur of voices as he opened the door. At the sound of the door creaking, the talking was abruptly silenced. “Oh, it’s you, Ivaar,” said Raphael. The youngest Tavolys boy was seated, as were all the others, in the straw that littered the stable floors. His golden hair glinted in the light of the few lamps that provided dim, smoky illumination.
Ivaar, embarrassed by his late arrival, didn’t catch the strained glee in Raphael’s voice.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” Ivaar began, “but Father—”
“It is of no consequence,” came a smooth, mature voice.
Ivaar frowned. The voice seemed familiar somehow, but the man who stood up from his obscured place in one of the stable compartments was a total stranger to him. The man was not overly tall nor well built, but there was something about him that raised a warning signal in Ivaar’s head. His clothing, a cloth-of-gold tunic with a cat’s head brooch on it, was bizarre. He rose smoothly, and Ivaar saw that his face was hidden by a golden mask of a cat’s head.
“My name is Malken, and this is my sister in faith, Rozalia.” He indicated the Vistana woman who stepped out from the shadows and bowed.
“Have you come to arrest us? Is one of you a traitor?” cried Ivaar, turning angrily on his fellow Lights. The seven young men, all sons of the upper class, shook their heads violently.
“He’s not going to turn us in,” said Raphael.
“Hah, not yet,” snorted Cueth Laars. The slight, dark-haired youth was the eldest son of the mayor. His face, normally as open and friendly as his father’s, was clouded with mistrust. “I still think he’s sent by Papa, Raph. He knew where to find us. He’s talking now, but arrests’ll come later, you’ll see. His name—I mean, honestly. Malken? Like a cat?” He snorted with disgust.
Raphael shot Cueth an angry glance, then returned his attention to Ivaar. “Brother Malken has been talking to us for an hour now, and he thinks just like we do.”
“I’d like to decide that for myself, thank you,” retorted Ivaar.
Though Raphael had whispered, Ivaar had not.
Cueth smiled. “Hear, hear,” he muttered to himself.
“Fine,” agreed Raphael, ignoring Cueth’s interjection. “That’s what we want. But he’s—” the youth fumbled for words, but his face still radiated an almost sublime joy. “He can make it happen for us, Ivaar! He can! We can stop dreaming about helping people and finally start doing something! Please—don’t be angry. Come and listen to him and Sister Rozalia for a little, and make up your own mind.”
Ivaar searched his friend’s eyes. By the look on Raphael’s face, and on the faces of most of the other Lights, they had made their minds up already. “All right. But if I don’t like them, out they go.”
Raphael nodded, and he and Ivaar returned to the others. “You weren’t invited here, but apparently my friends think you deserve a hearing,” Ivaar said.
“That’s kind of you, Ivaar,” replied Malken. “I realize I trespassed. But, you see, I was led here.” His voice was smooth, as cool and creamy as butter.
“Led?” asked Ivaar.
“As I said, Sister Rozalia and I were guided here. We serve the cat god; as young Cueth pointed out, Malken is not my real name. I use it to honor the god. He is called Sehkmaa, and I am bound to obey him.” Malken spread his hands, indicating the rapt young men who gazed up at him. “Just as you, the Lights of Liberty, see the worth in all men, from the prince himself to the poorest tiller of the soil, so Sehkmaa is the god of all cats, from the mighty plains cat to the humble tabby. He is swift in punishment, but gentle with those who follow him faithfully.”
Ivaar still did not sit with the others, but leaned up against a stall toward the back. He saw Cueth roll his eyes and flash him a you-see-what-I-mean look. Initially, Ivaar had been inclined to agree with Cueth. Now his original dislike, so strong in its intensity, was somehow evaporating.
The lantern lights cast a golden nimbus around Malken’s masked head as the priest of Sehkmaa continued to speak, but Ivaar no longer heard the words. The mask hid Malken’s face, which was of course, just as human as anyone’s … or was it? Perhaps the cat mask hid a cat’s face, or the face of a beautiful, divine being. Malken’s voice was sweet, honey-sweet.…
A sudden nudge startled him. Cueth had risen and was now beside him, glowering. Ivaar blinked, dazed.
“That is why I was able to find you—the Guardian led me to you,” Malken was saying. “You wish that all be equal, that there be no hunger, no covetousness: that is the way of Sehkmaa! I have come on a divine pilgrimage to your country of Nova Vaasa. Help me to spread his word, that all who follow and love Sehkmaa shall feast equally on the fruits of their labor!”
Ivaar shook his head. He felt dizzy, a little weak. “You said you were led here. How? Who is this Guardian? Do we know him?”
Malken laughed. Ivaar saw Cueth cringe a little at the laugh, saw a flicker of fear across his friend’s face. But Ivaar heard no malice in the laugh.
“You shall,” said Malken.
A low growl began behind Ivaar, and he whirled, frightened. Out from one of the stalls came a plains cat. It paused between him and the doorway, but other than that, it made no hostile move. It didn’t need to; its very presence shocked the youths into terrified silence.
“Behold one of the Guardians of Sehkmaa, Sehkmaa of the shadows, Sehkmaa the slow stalker, Sehkmaa whose claws are sharp and whose paws are velvet, Sehkmaa …”
The words faded as Ivaar gazed at the cat. Why had he never noticed the terrible beauty the creatures had? The voice of Malken the Cat caressed his ears until, without realizing it, he was whispering in synchronization with Malken, “Sehkmaa … Sehkmaa …”
“Go to the Guardian,” Malken urged. “The Guardian will accept you or reject you.”
“You’re mad!” cried Cueth. “Ivaar, Raphael, Theogar—Don’t you see?”
Rozalia, forgotten by the boys, now moved with astonishing speed. Springing up, she seized Cueth’s arm. He cried and tried to twist away. “Be still!” Rozalia whispered harshly. “Do you wish your friend to die? Do not upset the Guardian!”
This is crazy! wailed Ivaar silently. He heard Cueth’s outburst and the Vistana woman’s reply, but he found himself unable to flee. The plains cat, the Guardian of the faith of Sehkmaa, gazed at Ivaar with unblinking green eyes. Ivaar wondered, what will it do to me if it finds me unworthy? No! I don’t want it to! If it rejects me, I don’t think I’d want to live anyway! Trembling, he walked toward the cat, then fell to his knees before it. Tears of fear and strange joy slipped down his cheeks.
It moved its great head closer to his face. The rumbling of the cat’s breathing filled Ivaar’s ears. Hot breath scented with dead flesh brushed his face. Yet he did not pull back. Daringly, he reached and stroked the cat’s black head. It closed its eyes and submitted to the caress.
“I … I want,” Ivaar whispered.
Malken leaned forward, tense. “Yes?”
“I want to know more. I want to serve Sehkmaa.” Ivaar swung round to stare at Malken. His eyes glittered with unshed tears. “I want to be a priest, like you!”
The words broke a dam of sorts among the other Lights. They were a
ll talking at once, crowding around Malken. Theogar, a big, beefy youth, humbly reached to touch Malken’s foot.
“Yes! Yes!” laughed Malken, raising his arms and throwing his head back. “The spirit of Sehkmaa has touched you all! Together, we can work miracles!”
“What do you want us to do first, Brother Malken?” asked one of the young men, his eyes afire with enthusiasm.
Malken laughed and rested his hand on the youth’s head. “Go to your homes and sleep,” he said gently. A chorus of male voices protested his decree, but he waved them silent. “Sehkmaa needs healthy, wise clergy, not sleepy fools. In five days’ time, I shall make priests of you all. Sister Rozalia will contact you before then. Good night, and may Sehkmaa bless you.”
One by one, the Lights of Liberty put on their cloaks and left, talking animatedly among themselves. Only Cueth stayed behind, leaning up against one of the stalls and gazing at Malken and Rozalia with barely concealed contempt.
“And what is it you wish, my son?” asked Malken. This time, there was no mistaking his patronizing tone.
Cueth shook his head disgustedly. “You are so transparent,” he said. “I’m only sixteen, but I can see right through you. You hire some Vistana wench, tame yourself a plains cat, and you’re set to rule the world.”
“I can tell you’re the son of a politician. Such tactful words,” drawled Malken. He rose slowly. Without the flickering shadows cast by his friends to obscure the stranger, Cueth saw a slight hump in the man’s back.
“You are sent by my father, aren’t you?”
“Actually, no,” admitted Malken. He raised a hand, and suddenly the plains cat was standing behind Cueth. It growled low and crouched in the straw.
Sudden fright flooded Cueth. He stared, dry-mouthed. He had thought the man a fraud, certainly, but not dangerous. “Look,” he rasped, licking his lips, “I can’t do anything to hurt you—I mean, I’m breaking the law myself, aren’t I?”
The Enemy Within Page 9
