Unclean hl-1

by Richard Lee Byers

  It still startled her, though. Seated at her dressing table, one bright blue eye painted, the other not and therefore looking smaller than its mate, Nephis Sepret lurched around, then sighed and pressed a hand to her bosom when she saw who'd interrupted her at her toilet.

  "Someday," she said, "you must tell me how you sneak in here without the servants knowing."

  He waved his hand to indicate the glittering gold-and-sapphire jewelry she'd laid out for herself. "That's a lot of finery, considering that the autharch is otherwise engaged."

  She smiled. "His fickleness doesn't mean I have to be lonely."

  Charmed despite himself as usual by her beauty and brazenness, Malark smiled back. "You play a dangerous game, Saer."

  "As opposed to spying for you and Dmitra Flass?" Nephis turned back to the mirror and brushed blue pigment across the remaining eyelid. "From time to time, I need the touch of a young man, and I can handle Ramas. That's what makes me valuable, isn't it?"

  "In fact, it makes you important. I assume you've kept abreast of recent events, the murders of two zulkirs, Szass Tam's failed bid for a regency, and all the rest of it, but what you don't know is that the lich is marching legions south to gain himself a throne by force of arms. Their intended route leads through Anhaurz on the way to Bezantur."

  She twisted back around. "You aren't serious."

  "Yes, I am. The question is, how fast will His Omnipotence's host cover the distance? Fast enough to reach the coast all but unopposed, or slowly enough for his rivals to field an adequate force to intercept him?"

  "The new bridge," she said.

  Malark nodded. "Very good. If the autharch allows it to stand, Szass Tam's warriors can cross the Lapendrar quickly. If he knocks it down, they'll still get across eventually, but it will cost them precious time. From what you've told me of Ramas Ankhalab, I assume that once he learns of the northerners' approach, his inclination will be to demolish the span."

  "Yes," Nephis said. "The fool long ago gave his loyalty to Aznar Thrul and his faction and hasn't wavered since, but don't worry. He may spend the occasional night with another trollop-and thank Sune for that, or when would I scratch my own itches? — but he's still besotted with me. I can persuade him to do whatever I want."

  Malark hesitated for a heartbeat. "I haven't instructed you to take any particular action as of yet."

  She snorted. "Did you think you had to? Szass Tam saved my father's life and restored his honor. He helped my brother gain entry to the order of Necromancy and shielded So-Kehur when the other apprentices wanted to hurt him. I'd do anything to help him."

  He sighed. "I knew you'd say that." And it was a pity Szass Tam and Dmitra Flass no longer shared a common purpose. "I'll say farewell then. Just be ready to counsel the autharch when he receives word of the northern army."

  She pouted. "Must you go so soon? Why not linger a while and help me scratch my itches?"

  "I wish I could, but I have another message to deliver. Good-bye, my friend."

  He crept back to her music room with its harp and lutes, then climbed out a window and down the wall. He slipped into a shadowy bower where he could stand and ponder unobserved.

  The note he carried inside his tunic read:

  Milord Autharch,

  Your mistress Lady Nephis is untrue. She intends a tryst with a lover in the Carnelian Suite this very night. She employs a talisman of invisibility to keep such assignations, so those who go to catch her in the act should deploy the appropriate countermagic.

  If the lord of the city was as jealous and choleric as Nephis had always claimed, the message should serve to end her influence over him for good and all. The only question was how to deliver it without being noticed. Fortunately, such problems rarely stymied Malark for long, and after a few more breaths, the solution came to him.

  The inn stood midway between two tax stations. Aoth suspected the proprietor had liked it that way, liked not having a publican looking over his shoulder every time he rented bed space or sold a mug of ale.

  Cowering before armed intruders in the caravanserai's common room, doing his inadequate best to shield his wife and three children with his pudgy body, he didn't look as if he liked it anymore. To all appearances, he would have given almost anything for a garrison of legionnaire protectors close at hand.

  The family's manifest terror gave Aoth a pang of guilt, for after all, they weren't enemy warriors and had nothing to do with Szass Tam and his ambitions. They just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. But war was made of such injustices.

  "You have to clear out," he said, "and stay gone for a while."

  The innkeeper, whose round, dark face seemed made for jollity rather than dread, swallowed. "Sir, please, I don't understand. This place is our home, and our living, too. It's all we have."

  A griffon rider lifted his sword and stepped forward. "Fine, imbecile, you had your chance."

  "Halt!" Aoth snapped, and then, when the soldier obeyed, returned his attention to the innkeeper. "You see how it is. You can take your coin with you, and anything else you can carry, but you must leave, and keep away till the end of the summer anyway. Believe me, you'll be safer that way."

  The innkeeper's wife whispered in his ear, and then he said, "All right. We'll get our things."

  "Just be quick about it," Aoth replied.

  They were, and before long, they slunk out into the pounding rain that was almost unheard of in Thay, except for late at night. Aoth assumed the council's weather wizards were responsible. It was yet another ploy to slow the northerners' advance, in part by turning Lapendrar's roads to muck.

  Unfortunately, the rain also made for cold flying with diminished visibility, but the Griffon Legion would simply have to cope. Aoth turned to his men and said, "Let's get to it. Poison the beer barrels, and the well, too."

  The warrior who'd threatened the innkeeper cocked his head. "You don't think finding the inn deserted will make the bastards suspicious?"

  "Common folk often flee the approach of an army," Aoth replied. "If it makes the northerners leery enough to refrain from pilfering an unattended keg of ale, they're not like any soldiers I ever knew."

  Dmitra surveyed the zulkirs seated around the table. It seemed to her that every face betrayed worry, no matter how the mage lords tried to mask it, and why not? They all had plenty to worry about.

  "Your Omnipotences," she said, "thank you for agreeing to meet with me."

  "You should thank us," Samas Kul said, round face and fat neck a mottled red, "for by the Golden Coin, I don't know why I came. Some of us listened to you before, and as a result we're at war with Szass Tam!"

  "Whereas if we hadn't heeded," Lallara snapped, waspish as ever, "the lich would be king already."

  "That might be better than the alternative."

  "No," said Nevron, glowering and smelling of sulfur, "it's not. I will never bend my knee to Szass Tam. I'd sooner drown the entire realm in hellfire."

  Yaphyll's lips quirked into an impish smile. "It would be nice if we could chart a middle course. A tactic that avoids both surrender and ash."

  "Your loyal servants in the Griffon Legion," Dmitra said, "are doing their best to hinder Szass Tam's advance. Unfortunately, a number of other companies are dawdling when they should be rushing to prepare for war. In some cases, they fear to take sides in a quarrel among zulkirs. In others, they're contemplating fighting for the lich.

  "You have similar problems among the nobles and commoners," she continued. "Many are loath to exert themselves or make any sacrifices to assist the defense. Some merely await the opportunity to work against you as spies and saboteurs."

  "We already knew Szass Tam did an exemplary job of endearing himself to the masses," Nevron growled. "Do you have a remedy?"

  "I hope so, Your Omnipotence," Dmitra replied. "You six must forsake the seeming security of your castles and speak directly with lesser folk: the captains, the lords, and whomever."

  Nevron glared at h
er. "You mean plead for their help?"

  "Of course not. You are their masters, now and forever. The problem is, so is Szass Tam. You need to loom as large in their thoughts as he does, so command them as always, but do it in person. Don't count on them to obey your deputies with the same diligence and alacrity they'd show to you."

  Samas Kul snorted. "I don't have the proper physique for chasing frantically about the realm."

  "Perhaps you should consider turning into something leaner," Yaphyll replied. "That's what transmutation's all about, or so I'm told."

  "In truth, Your Omnipotence," Dmitra said, "I didn't envision you doing a great deal of traveling. With an army marching against it, its tharchion and the commander of its legions assassinated, and the Shadowmasters still lurking about to hinder efforts at defense, nowhere in the realm needs more sorting out than Bezantur. You're the zulkir who lives there and heads up the guild that made the city rich. You can set matters right if anyone can, but not by hiding behind fortress walls."

  "Walls have their uses," Lauzoril said in his usual prissy, tepid manner. "Szass Tam or his proxies have murdered two zulkirs already. Now you propose that the rest of us expose ourselves unnecessarily."

  "Understand," said Mythrellan, her body patterned in brown and tan diamonds like snakeskin, "we have reason to fear traitors even within the ranks of our own orders. But I don't suppose I have to explain that to you."

  "I infer," Dmitra said, "you're alluding to the fact that though I'm an illusionist, for a long while I gave my greatest loyalty to Szass Tam instead of your exalted self. What can I say, except that I recall a time when you too were pleased to have him as an ally."

  Yaphyll chortled. "As were Lallara, Samas, and I, so let's forgo deploring old miscalculations and address current needs, to which end I'll say I believe Dmitra Flass is right. Whatever our concerns about our personal safety, we need to take the southern tharchs in hand while we still can."

  "I'm glad to hear you say so," Dmitra said, "for I have even more to recommend."

  Samas Kul snorted. "What else can there be?"

  "You're all used to Szass Tam working through agents and subordinates. As you do. As lords everywhere do. But I know him, and I promise you that when his army undertakes a major battle, he'll fight alongside his vassals. Obviously, his wizardry will all but guarantee a victory-unless we have archmages fighting on our side, too."

  The zulkirs exchanged glances. Dmitra felt as if she could read their thoughts. None was especially eager to risk himself on a battlefield, where, if Lady Luck turned against him, even the most formidable spellcaster could fall. Their underlings were supposed to face such hazards for them. But chiefly they all flinched from the prospect of a duel of spells with Szass Tam. The lich was their superior, and whether or not any of them would ever concede it aloud, they knew it.

  The moment stretched on until Lallara suddenly banged her fist on the table. "Damn us for cowards! It's six against one, isn't it?"

  Yaphyll grinned. "It is, and I think that if we're sensible, we must either fight as hard as we can or flee into exile. I'm not disposed to the latter. I just refurnished the south wing of my palace."

  "Fine," Samas Kul spat. "I'll tend to Bezantur and all the rest of it, but it's a bitter jest that I finally rise to be a zulkir, and then, instantly, everything turns to dung."

  Dmitra could see they were all of one mind, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Her masters cared for nothing but their own self-interest, which meant their brittle accord could fracture at any time, but for the moment at least, they'd follow where she led.

  For the time being, the rain had dwindled to a drizzle. Bareris supposed that was good. It wouldn't wash the pigment off his face or the faces of his companions.

  Unfortunately, his garments were already soaked, and a letup in the downpour couldn't stop him feeling cold nor exhausted. The days and nights of flying and fighting almost without sleep had taken their toll. He crooned a restorative charm under his breath, and a tingle of vitality and alertness thrilled along his nerves.

  Off to the north of the enemy encampment, light flashed, dazzling in the night. Aoth and Brightwing had swooped in to cast their fire magic. The supply wagons were as wet as everything else, and Aoth hadn't been certain the spell would actually suffice to set them ablaze, but the wavering yellow glow persisted, proof that he'd succeeded. Horses screamed, and men clamored.

  With luck, the fire had distracted everyone, even sentries. Bareris, Malark, and ten comrades, all clad in the trappings of the enemy and each with gray stain on his skin and streaks of amber phosphorescence above his eyes, jumped up from their hiding places and sprinted toward the perimeter of the camp.

  They got inside without anyone raising an alarm, and then they were just zombies shambling mindlessly about, waiting for some necromancer to command them. At least that was how it was supposed to look.

  Several enemy legionnaires stood babbling and gawking in the direction of the fire. Bareris and his companions circled to take them from behind. He eased his sword from its scabbard and slid it into a warrior's back. Malark broke a man's neck with a gentle-looking thump from the heel of his hand.

  Somebody saw and yelled a warning. Northerners scurried to grab their weapons and shields. Bareris and his comrades slaughtered several more, then it was time to go. Their disguises wouldn't bear scrutiny for long, nor could they hope to stand against all the foes within easy reach of them. They cut their way clear and fled back into the night toward the spot where their griffons-and Malark's flying horse-waited to bear them to safety.

  The loss of supplies should hinder the enemy a little. The confusion and dismay arising from the perception that some of their own undead warriors had rebelled might flummox them yet a little more. Anything to delay the advance for even another dozen heartbeats.

  For one terrifying instant, Aoth dreamed he'd fallen from Brightwing's back, then woke to find it so. Fortunately, however, in reality, he hadn't been riding her across the sky but using her for a pillow, and she'd dumped his head and shoulders onto the cold, wet ground when she sprang to her feet. Now she stood staring into the trees and the darkness like a hound on a point.

  Stiff, sore, and grainy-eyed, Aoth grabbed his lance and clambered upright. "What is it?"

  "I don't know," the griffon replied. "Something terrible."

  A shadow appeared between two oaks. "That's rather harsh."

  Aoth borrowed Brightwing's eyes so he too could see in the dark, and the murky figure became a gaunt, dark-eyed man. The newcomer walked with a straight, unadorned ebony staff, and the fingers peeking from the sleeves of his wizard's robes were shriveled and flaking.

  For a heartbeat, Aoth could only stand and stare, frozen by the certainty his life had come to an end. Then he started to level his spear and drew breath to chant. He was a warrior and could at least go down fighting.

  "Don't!" Brightwing screeched. "He isn't attacking!"

  Szass Tam smiled. "Your familiar has good instincts, Captain Fezim. At the risk of sounding immodest, I'm… formidable. When I kill with my own hands, the victim tends to be a fellow archmage, a demigod, or a whole army. Anything less is scarcely worth the bother, which is not to suggest that your brave and resourceful company doesn't merit some sort of attention."

  Aoth swallowed. "I don't understand."

  "I'd like a parley with you and your fellow officers." Szass Tam gestured toward the heart of the grove, where the exhausted griffon riders had camped in the evidently vain hope the trees would conceal them from hostile eyes. His sleeve slipped down toward his wrist, revealing more of his withered hand. "Will you grant me safe conduct?"

  "Yes," said Aoth.

  He felt as if he were still mired in a dream, and it was somehow impossible to say anything else. He led Szass Tam toward his slumbering, snoring comrades. Brightwing followed, positioning herself behind the lich so she could pounce on him if it became necessary to protect her master, even though Aoth could feel she shar
ed his conviction that Szass Tam could crush them like ants whenever he chose.

  Szass Tam surveyed the sleeping men and griffons. "Do you want to wake them or should I?"

  "I'll do it," Aoth replied. "Get up, everyone!" The mundane quality of the words made the moment feel that much more unreal.

  Men groaned and rolled over, rubbed their eyes and threw off their covers, then faltered as Aoth had done when they saw who'd tracked them down. Rather, all but one of them did. Bareris leaped up, drew his sword, and sprang, all in a single blur of motion. Aoth lunged to interpose himself between the bard and Szass Tam but saw he wouldn't make it in time.

  Bareris's sword flashed at the necromancer's head, and Szass Tam caught in his hand. The enchanted weapon should have cut the skeletal fingers off, but instead, Aoth saw some sort of malignancy flash up the blade. The sword shattered, and Bareris crumpled.

  Sword in hand, vaguely resembling Aoth at this particular moment, Mirror streaked at the lich. Szass Tam simply looked at the ghost, and Mirror froze into a statue of shimmer and murk.

  Warriors snatched up their weapons, and griffons gathered themselves to spring. They were all afraid of Szass Tam, but now that a fight had broken out, none intended to stand idle while the lich struck down their comrades. Nor, for that matter, did Aoth. He charged his lance with power.

  Szass Tam flourished his staff. Patterns of rainbow-colored light shimmered into existence around his body, then flowed into another configuration, and another after that. The ongoing process was fascinating, so much so that despite the urgencies of the moment, Aoth could only stand and stare. No doubt his comrades felt the same compulsion.

  "I entered your camp under sign of truce," Szass Tam said, "and this swordsman and the ghost had no right to attack me. Even so, I've done them no permanent harm. Now will you grant me the parley I seek, or should I smite you all while you stand helpless?"

  It was difficult even to think, let alone talk, while transfixed by the shifting lights, but Aoth managed to force the words out. "You can have your talk. No one else will raise his hand to you."