“You have?” Jamie rumbled in surprise.
“For amusement,” Cappen said hastily, before Danlis could disapprove. “Some are quite elegant, virtual exercises in three-dimensional geometry.” Seeing interest kindle in her, he added, “I studied mathematics in boyhood; my father, before he died, wanted me to have a gentleman’s education. The main part has rusted away in me, but I remember useful or picturesque details.”
“Well, give us a show, come luncheon time,” Jamie proposed.
Cappen did, when they halted. That was on a hillside above the White Foal River. It wound gleaming through farmlands whose intense green denied that desert lurked on the rim of sight. The noonday sun baked strong odours out of the earth: humus, resin, juice of wild plants. A solitary plane tree graciously gave shade. Bees hummed.
After the meal, and after Danlis had scrambled off to get a closer look at a kind of lizard new to her, Cappen demonstrated his skill. She was especially taken—enchanted—by his geometric artifices. Like any Rankan lady, she carried a sewing kit in her gear; and being herself, she had writing materials along. Thus he could apply scissors and thread to paper. He showed how a single ring may be cut to produce two that are interlocked, and how a strip may be twisted to have but one surface and one edge, and whatever else he knew. Jamie watched with pleasure, if with less enthusiasm.
Observing how delight made her glow, Cappen was inspired to carry on the latest poem he was composing for her. It had been slower work than usual. He had the conceit, the motif, a comparison of her to the dawn, but hitherto only the first few lines had emerged, and no proper structure. In this moment—
The banner of her brightness harries
The hosts of Shadowland from off the way
That she now wills to tread—for what can stay
The triumph of that radiance she carries?
Yes, it was clearly going to be a rondel. Therefore the next two lines were:
My lady comes to me like break of day.
I dream in darkness if it chance she tarries.
He had gotten that far when abruptly she said: “Cappen, this is such a fine excursion, such splendid scenery. I’d like to watch sunrise over the river tomorrow. Will you escort me?”
Sunrise? But she was telling Jamie, “We need not trouble you about that. I had in mind a walk out of town to the bridge. If we choose the proper route, it’s well guarded everywhere, perfectly safe.”
And scant traffic moved at that hour; besides, the monumental statues along the bridge stood in front of bays which they screened from passers-by—”Oh, yes, indeed, Danlis, I’d love to,” Cappen said. For such an opportunity, he could get up before cockcrow.
When he reached the mansion, she had not been there.
****
EXHAUSTED AFTER HIS encounter with Illyra, Cappen hied him to the Vulgar Unicorn and related his woes to One-Thumb. The big man had come on shift at the inn early, for a fellow boniface had not yet recovered from the effects of a dispute with a patron. (Shortly thereafter, the patron was found floating face down under a pier. Nobody questioned One-Thumb about this; his regulars knew that he preferred the establishment safe, if not always orderly.) He offered taciturn sympathy and the loan of a bed upstairs. Cappen scarcely noticed the insects that shared it.
Waking about sunset, he found water and a washcloth, and felt much refreshed hungry and thirsty, too. He made his way to the taproom below. Dusk was blue in windows and open door, black under the rafters. Candles smeared weak light along counter and main board and on lesser tables at the walls. The air had grown cool, which allayed the stenches of the Maze. Thus Cappen was acutely aware of the smells of beer—old in the rushes underfoot, fresh where a trio of men had settled down to guzzle—and of spitted meat, wafting from the kitchen.
One-Thumb approached, a shadowy hulk save for highlights on his bald pate. “Sit,” he grunted. “Eat. Drink.” He carried a great tankard and a plate bearing a slab of roast beef on bread. These he put on a corner table, and himself on a chair.
Cappen sat also and attacked the meal. “You’re very kind,” he said between bites and draughts.
“You’ll pay when you get coin, or if you don’t, then in songs and magic stunts. They’re good for trade.” One-Thumb fell silent and peered at his guest.
When Cappen was done, the innkeeper said, “While you slept, I sent out a couple of fellows to ask around. Maybe somebody saw something that might be helpful. Don’t worry—I didn’t mention you, and it’s natural I’d be interested to know what really happened.”
The minstrel stared. “You’ve gone to a deal of trouble on my account.”
“I told you, I want to know for my own sake. If deviltry’s afoot, where could it strike next?” One-Thumb rubbed a finger across the toothless part of his gums. “Of course, if you should luck out—I don’t expect it, but in case you do remember who gave you a boost.” A figure appeared in the door and he went to render service.
After a bit of muttered talk, he led the newcomer to Cappen’s place. When the minstrel recognized the lean youth, his pulse leaped. One-Thumb would not have brought him and Hanse together without cause; bard and thief found each other insufferable. They nodded coldly but did not speak until the tapster returned with a round of ale.
When the three were seated, One-Thumb said, “Well spit it out, boy. You claim you’ve got news.”
“For him?” Hanse flared, gesturing at Cappen.
“Never mind who. Just talk.”
Hanse scowled. “I don’t talk for a single lousy mugful.”
“You do if you want to keep on coming in here.”
Hanse bit his lip. The Vulgar Unicorn was a rendezvous virtually indispensable to one in his trade.
Cappen thought it best to sweeten the pill: “I’m known to Molin Torchholder. If I can serve him in this matter, he won’t be stingy. Nor will I. Shall we say hm—ten gold royals to you?”
The sum was not princely, but on that account plausible. “Awright, awright,” Hanse replied. “I’d been casing a job I might do in the Jewellers’ Quarter. A squad of the watch came by towards morning and I figured I’d better go home, not by the way I came, either. So I went along the Avenue of Temples, as I might be wanting to stop in and pay my respects to some god or other. It was a dark night, overcast, the reason I’d been out where I was. But you know how several of the temples keep lights going. There was enough to see by, even upwards a ways. Nobody else was in sight. Suddenly I heard a kind of whistling, flapping noise aloft. I looked and—”
He broke off.
“And what?” Cappen blurted. One-Thumb sat impassive.
Hanse swallowed. “I don’t swear to this,” he said. “It was still dim, you realize. I’ve wondered since if I didn’t see wrong.”
“What was it?” Cappen gripped the table edge till his fingernails whitened.
Hanse wet his throat and said in a rush: “What it seemed like was a huge black thing, almost like a snake, but bat-winged. It came streaking from, oh, more or less the direction of Molin’s, I’d guess now that I think back. And it was aimed more or less towards the temple of Ils. There was something that dangled below, as it might be a human body or two. I didn’t stay to watch, I ducked into the nearest alley and waited. When I came out, it was gone.”
He knocked back his ale and rose. “That’s all,” he snapped. “I don’t want to remember the sight any longer, and if anybody ever asks, I was never here tonight.”
“Your story’s worth a couple more drinks,” One-Thumb invited.
“Another evening,” Hanse demurred. “Right now I need a whore. Don’t forget those ten royals, singer.” He left, stiff-legged.
“Well,” said the innkeeper after a silence, “what do you make of this latest?”
Cappen suppressed a shiver. His palms were cold. “I don’t know, save that what we confront is not of our kind.”
“You told me once you’ve got a charm against magic.”
Cappen fingered the littl
e silver amulet, in the form of a coiled snake, he wore around his neck. “I’m not sure. A wizard I’d done a favour for gave me this, years ago. He claimed it’d protect me against spells and supernatural beings of less than godly rank. But to make it work, I have to utter three truths about the spellcaster or the creature. I’ve done that in two or three scrapes, and come out of them intact, but I can’t prove the talisman was responsible.”
More customers entered, and One-Thumb must go to serve them. Cappen nursed his ale. He yearned to get drunk and belike the landlord would stand him what was needful, but he didn’t dare. He had already learned more than he thought the opposition would approve of—whoever or whatever the opposition was. They might have means of discovering this.
His candle flickered. He glanced up and saw a beardless fat man in an ornate formal robe, scarcely normal dress for a visit to the Vulgar Unicorn. “Greetings,” the person said. His voice was like a child’s.
Cappen squinted through the gloom. “I don’t believe I know you,” he replied.
“No, but you will come to believe it, oh, yes, you will.” The fat man sat down. One-Thumb came over and took an order for red wine—”a decent wine, mine host, a Zhanuvend or Baladach.” Coin gleamed forth.
Cappen’s heart thumped. “Enas Yorl?” he breathed.
The other nodded. “In the flesh, the all too mutable flesh. I do hope my curse strikes again soon. Almost any shape would be better than this. I hate being overweight. I’m a eunuch, too. The times I’ve been a woman were better than this.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Cappen took care to say. Though he could not rid himself of the spell laid on him, Enas Yorl was a powerful thaumaturge, no mere prestidigitator.
“At least I’ve not been arbitrarily displaced. You can’t imagine how annoying it is, suddenly to find oneself elsewhere, perhaps miles away. I was able to come here in proper wise, in my litter. Faugh, how can anyone voluntarily set shoes to these open sewers they call streets in the Maze?” The wine arrived. “Best we speak fast and to the point, young man, that we may finish and I get home before the next contretemps.”
Enas Yorl sipped and made a face. “I’ve been swindled,” he whined. “This is barely drinkable, if that.”
“Maybe your present palate is at fault, sir,” Cappen suggested. He did not add that the tongue definitely had a bad case of logorrhea. It was an almost physical torture to sit stalled, but he had better humour the mage.
“Yes, quite probably. Nothing has tasted good since—Well. To business. On hearing that One-Thumb was inquiring about last night’s incident, I sent forth certain investigators of my own. You will understand that I’ve been trying to find out as much as I can.” Enas Yorl drew a sign in the air. “Purely precautionary. I have no desire whatsoever to cross the Powers concerned in this.”
A wintry tingle went through Cappen. “You know who they are, what it’s about?” His tone wavered.
Enas Yorl wagged a finger. “Not so hasty, boy, not so hasty. My latest information was of a seemingly unsuccessful interview you had with Illyra the seeress. I also learned you were now in this hostel and close to its landlord. Obviously you are involved. I must know why, how, how much—everything.”
“Then you’ll help—sir?”
A headshake made chin and jowls wobble. “Absolutely not. I told you I want no part of this. But in exchange for whatever data you possess, I am willing to explicate as far as I am able, and to advise you. Be warned: my advice will doubtless be that you drop the matter and perhaps leave town.”
And doubtless he would be right, Cappen thought. It simply happened to be counsel that was impossible for a lover to follow … unless—O kindly gods of Caronne, no, no!—unless Danlis was dead.
The whole story spilled out of him, quickened and deepened by keen questions. At the end, he sat breathless while Enas Yorl nodded.
“Yes, that appears to confirm what I suspected,” the mage said most softly. He stared past the minstrel, into shadows that loomed and flickered. Buzz of talk, clink of drinking ware, occasional gust of laughter among customers seemed remoter than the moon.
“What was it?” broke from Cappen.
“A sikkintair, a Flying Knife. It can have been nothing else.”
“A—what?”
Enas focused on his companion. “The monster that took the women,” he explained. “Sikkintairs are an attribute of Ils. A pair of sculptures on the grand stairway of his temple represent them.”
“Oh, yes, I’ve seen those, but never thought—”
“No, you’re not a votary of any gods they have here. Myself, when I got word of the abduction, I sent my familiars scuttling about and cast spells of inquiry. I received indications … I can’t describe them to you, who lack arcane lore. I established that the very fabric of space had been troubled. Vibrations had not quite damped out as yet, and were centered on the temple of Ils. You may, if you wish a crude analogy, visualize a water surface and the waves, fading to ripples and finally to naught, when a diver has passed through.”
Enas Yorl drank more in a gulp than was his wont. “Civilization was old in Ilsig when Ranke was still a barbarian village,” he said, as though to himself; his gaze had drifted away again, towards darkness. “Its myths depicted the home of the gods as being outside the world—not above, not below, but outside. Philosophers of a later, more rationalistic era elaborated this into a theory of parallel universes. My own researches—you will understand that my condition has made me especially interested in the theory of dimensions, the subtler aspects of geometry—my own researches have demonstrated the possibility of transference between these different spaces.”
“As another analogy, consider a pack of cards. One is inhabited by a king, one by a knight, one by a deuce, et cetera. Ordinarily none of the figures can leave the plane on which it exists. If, however, a very thin piece of absorbent material soaked in a unique kind of solvent were laid between two cards, the dyes that form them could pass through: retaining their configuration, I trust. Actually, of course, this is a less than ideal comparison, for the transference is accomplished through a particular contortion of the continuum—”
Cappen could endure no more pedantry. He crashed his tankard down on the table and shouted, “By all the hells of all the cults, will you get to the point?”
Men stared from adjacent seats, decided no fight was about to erupt, and went back to their interests. These included negotiations with street-walkers who, lanterns in hand, had come in looking for trade.
Enas Yorl smiled. “I forgive your outburst, under the circumstances,” he said. “I too am occasionally young.”
“Very well. Given the foregoing data, including yours, the infrastructure of events seems reasonably evident. You are aware of the conflict over a proposed new temple, which is to outdo that of Ils and Shipri. I do not maintain that the god has taken a direct hand. I certainly hope he feels that would be beneath his dignity; a theomachy would not be good for us, to understate the case a trifle. But he may have inspired a few of his more fanatical priests to action. He may have revealed to them, in dreams or vision, the means whereby they could cross to the next world and there make the sikkintairs do their bidding. I hypothesize that the Lady Rosanda—and, to be sure, her coadjutrix, your inamorata—are incarcerated in that world. The temple is too full of priests, deacons, acolytes, and lay people for hiding the wife of a magnate. However, the gate need not be recognizable as such.”
Cappen controlled himself with an inward shudder and made his trained voice casual: “What might it look like, sir?”
“Oh, probably a scroll, taken from a coffer where it had long lain forgotten, and now unrolled—yes, I should think in the sanctum, to draw power from the sacred objects and to be seen by as few persons as possible who are not in the conspiracy—” Enas Yorl came out of his abstraction. “Beware! I deduce your thought. Choke it before it kills you.”
Cappen ran sandy tongue over leathery lips. “What … should we … expect
to happen, sir?”
“That is an interesting question,” Enas Yorl said. “I can but conjecture. Yet I am well acquainted with the temple hierarchy and—I don’t think the Archpriest is privy to the matter. He’s too aged and weak. On the other hand, this is quite in the style of Hazroah, the High Flamen. Moreover, of late he has in effect taken over the governance of the temple from his nominal superior. He’s bold, ruthless—should have been a soldier—Well, putting myself in his skin, I’ll predict that he’ll let Molin stew a while, then cautiously open negotiations—a hint at first, and always a claim that this is the will of Ils.”
“None but the Emperor can cancel an undertaking for the Imperial deities. Persuading him will take much time and pressure. Molin is a Rankan aristocrat of the old school; he will be torn between his duty to his gods, his state, and his wife. But I suspect that eventually he can be worn down to the point where he agrees that it is, in truth, bad policy to exalt Savankala and Sabellia in a city whose tutelaries they have never been. He in his turn can influence the Emperor as desired.”
“How long would this take, do you think?” Cappen whispered. “Till the women are released?”
Enas Yorl shrugged. “Years, possibly. Hazroah may try to hasten the process by demonstrating that the Lady Rosanda is subject to punishment. Yes, I should imagine that the remains of an ancilla who had been tortured to death, delivered on Molin’s doorstep, would be a rather strong argument.”
His look grew intense on the appalled countenance across from him. “I know,” he said. “You’re breeding fever-dreams of a heroic rescue. It cannot be done. Even supposing that somehow you won through the gate and brought her back, the gate would remain. I doubt Ils would personally seek revenge; besides being petty, that could provoke open strife with Savankala and his retinue, who’re formidable characters themselves. But Ils would not stay the hand of the Flamen Hazroah, who is a most vengeful sort. If you escaped his assassins, a sikkintair would come after you, and nowhere in the world could you and she hide. Your talisman would be of no avail. The sikkintair is not supernatural, unless you give that designation to the force which enables so huge a mass to fly; and it is from no magician, but from the god.
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