by Janet Morris
So saying, Brachis held out his hand. In it was a small figure, that of the Storm God on his bulls, worked in silver. "A token, to identify you to the priesthood as our agent. Show it, if you're in need of help."
Niko looked at the outstretched hand, at the little amulet on its leather thong, then up at the pasty-faced priest.
Then slowly he reached out to take the token of the Storm God.
* 4 *
Brother Bomba's ground-floor bar looked as if it had been struck by the wrath of the gods when Tempus arrived there the next evening.
The pecan bar was in splinters, the copper mirror behind it eaten through with acid; fire had charred the beams above and no table had four legs under it.
In the wreckage, Madame Bomba wandered, dazed and bruised; by the archway leading up to rooms rented by the hour and down to her drug den of renown, Critias leaned against a smoke-damaged tapestry, a wistful smile on his lips and a faraway look in his eyes.
Beside Crit, scrawled in blood three cubits high, the 3rd Commando had left its calling card: a rearing horse with lightning bolts clenched between its teeth.
A half-dozen Stepsons labored amid the shambles. Madame Bomba was their self-proclaimed den-mother; she'd taken the band under her wing when they'd first come upcountry to Tyse. Her "boys" hadn't waited to be asked when the Madame needed help: they'd volunteered.
Tempus headed straight for Madame Bomba without a word to those who greeted him. Crit intercepted him: "Commander, let's get the bastards. No matter where Niko's gone or what he's done, Sync's 3rd Commando needs a lesson and a dozen of my men are ready to teach it."
The 3rd had gutted Madame Bomba's the night before, looking for Niko. They'd blockaded themselves inside and terrorized the Madame all night long, hoping to force her to reveal Stealth's whereabouts.
"Revenge, is it, Crit? Vengeance is what started this," Tempus rasped. "We hurt them; they hurt us. Where will it end? Fight each other all winter, and we won't be fit to fight Mygdonians by spring, let alone win our events at the Festival. Tell your task force," Tempus's voice lowered, "that accidents may befall the 3rd, but none we'll be blamed for." Then, louder: "Niko's forsworn his oath to us; we won't shed a drop of blood for him. As for the Madame, if she wants to count on our protection, she'll cease harboring fugitives and murderers. Clean this place up, post a guard, and let it go at that."
"Yes, sir," Crit said equably, his cynical smile under wraps. "I'll do that. Now, if you're ready to interview the Madame…"
Just then Straton, Critias's right-side partner, came in, swearing copiously at what he saw.
"Bring Strat when you come upstairs," Tempus whispered as he left Crit and took the unresisting Madame Bomba by the arm.
Up a flight of stairs in Bomba's office was a small room which overlooked the bar. Tempus seated the puffy-faced woman in her favorite chair and went to stand before the alchemically-crafted one-way glass, staring down upon his men at work, trying to think of something to say to this woman, who was suffering on his account as all who loved him did.
It was Tempus's curse that those who loved him died of it, and those he loved were bound to spurn him. Once, the god Vashanka had mitigated his curse and the pain it brought; now, like the Rankan empire which faltered without its war god, Tempus staggered under the malediction's weight.
As if reading his mind, Madame Bomba said: "It's not your fault. I should have known better. But who would have thought that Niko would kill a—
"Tell me about Brachis," Tempus interrupted. "What did he want with Niko?"
"You know, then," the Madame sighed. "I can't say." The Madame's voice was dull and hopeless: caught between the Stepsons and the 3rd Commando, she saw no safe course to take.
"You can't say?" Tempus turned, incredulity in his voice. The Madame and he had been through the wizard war together; she'd not turned a hair when magic had collapsed her wine cellar, or mistrusted him when death squads had wreaked havoc in the bar below and left the Stepsons' calling card.
But the 3rd was another matter: he'd trained them, formed them, written the manual they plundered from and the oaths they swore. He'd been younger then, and angrier; they were the most vicious and brutal strike force his three centuries of expertise could concoct.
They must have raped her, he decided; her face was too pale under its bruises, and her spirit, for the first time in his memory, too low.
"That's right—Niko didn't confide in me. As for his whereabouts, Riddler—save your breath. I didn't tell that monster Sync, despite everything. I'll not tell you." A trace of the fire he remembered sparkled in her eyes. "Whatever's wrong with Niko is your doing—he loves you like a father. Whatever he did, he had good reason. Before you destroy that boy, the best you've got, think of this: it's your curse which brings harm to those who love thee." She blinked away tears and her hands went to her face.
Tempus could count the women he respected on the fingers of one hand; the Madame was the foremost of these. And she was right: all Niko's troubles sprang from him.
But before he could answer, Crit appeared in the open doorway, Straton beside him.
Strat was saying, "What? Why didn't you tell me?"
And Crit replied, easing in and shutting the door behind them, "I couldn't. It had to look right. Niko doesn't know, himself. We can't be sure the witch isn't spying on us through him; we need somebody out there to draw fire. And we need to know what Brachis is doing here… it had to be done this way."
Madame Bomba looked from Crit, to Strat, who was shaking his head in disgust, to Tempus, who was wishing Crit didn't trust Madame Bomba quite so much.
Then she said, her face so suffused with rage that the purpling bruises on her cheeks seemed to pale: "You did that to Niko purposely? Maneuvered him into the state he's in for some unholy operation to test the empire?" She spat Tempus's way. "I'm appalled."
Strat grunted in agreement, his huge arms crossed.
Crit started to make excuses, raking a hand through his short feathery hair: "Who'd have guessed he'd kill a ranger? He seems so calm, you forget about his temper. Brachis isn't just any priest, Madame—he's here on business for Theron's faction, and that's serious. We have to know what, why, maybe even how and when, if it's the sort of business we think—"
"That's no excuse for turning a fighter into a renegade," the Madame retorted. "And driving him to drugs and drink. The way you Stepsons treated him—"
"We drove him to drugs and drink?" Crit took a step toward the Madame and balled his fists. "If you weren't—"
"Crit. Madame. Cease," Tempus thundered, not as angry as he sounded: this was the Madame Bomba he knew and loved; concern for another had roused her from her shock.
"I didn't want to involve you, Madame, but now you know what only a few task force members suspect. We'll retrieve Nikodemos when the time is right; I've got Randal looking out for his welfare, body and soul."
"Soul?" Straton snorted. Crit shot him a withering look which Strat ignored.
"Straton, we're counting on you to get to Niko and tell him—" Tempus began.
"That the whole thing's a fix?" Strat interrupted. "I hope he takes it well."
"No," Crit said. "That we need to know what Brachis is planning. He asked you to take care of his mare; you're the only one who can get to him without arousing suspicion."
"And if the witch is possessing him again?" Straton asked. "What then?"
"Forget the witch." Crit turned to Madame Bomba, his face grim. "You see, Madame, you've got to help us. We need to know where he is before the 3rd finds out. Otherwise, we can't protect him."
Madame Bomba sighed and shook her head, then reached into her skirts and pulled out a pouch from which she took broadleaves, pulcis, and a little box of krrf. "Soldier, if you were a belly-son of mine, I'd spank you. But since you're not, I'll make it clear another way: if any ill befalls Niko because of this plan of yours, Crit, I'll take it out on you in ways you haven't dreamed could hurt."
Strat
, out of her sight, smirked: Madame Bomba continually tried to reform Crit, treated him like an errant child. And Crit, with whom no man but Strat dared argue, took from Madame Bomba chastisement and lectures not even Tempus would have offered.
"But you'll tell us where he is?" Crit pressed.
Then she turned to Tempus: "And if I do this," her eyes glinted mischievously, "and one or two Rangers die, there is no blame?"
"None," he said, giving her permission to take revenge as she chose—the Madame was not without resources.
"Good." She nodded, stretched, and began rolling broadleafs. "It's a long time since I've worked so intimately with the armies. Come, soldiers, let's seal our bargain with a bit of smoke."
* 5 *
In the Tysian mageguild, Randal stood at his chamber's high window, staring out upon Mageway and the traffic far below.
He had sweat on his brow and his kris in his hand; behind him, in the center of the mosaic floor, the globe of power he'd won in the raffle for Wizardwall gleamed, its inset stones catching torchlight as it spun lazily on its stand.
The globe and its stand might be the problem, Randal thought, running the kris Aŝkelon had given him through his fingers. His kris had been forged by the dream lord's own hand and no mage had a weapon so powerful.
But today, when he must use his powers to their fullest and every magical attribute he had, the kris was not behaving. Randal had said the words and stroked the blade as Aŝkelon had taught him, but as yet, not a single hornet had issued forth from the kris's tip.
The magic of the kris and the magic of the power globe were of different planes, different sources. Randal had been using both the whitest and the blackest of magics, and now, when Tempus had decreed that Randal must protect his partner— when he most needed all the magic a seventh-level Hazard could command—neither tool was working right.
The globe's stand must hold the key, he'd thought; he spent the morning sequestered, trying to determine what that key must be. But the globe was very old, and of Nisibisi manufacture, and the glyphs incised in its base gave only single commands, no explanation of how or why they worked or when to use them.
So he'd set the globe to spinning with the command to "summon power" invoked. It had spun the morning long, and nothing had happened.
It had to be that the globe's magic and the kris's magic were canceling each other out. So he departed the circle of invocation and, at the window, spoke words in an ancient tongue, stroked the blade as Aŝkelon had taught him, and envisioned a stream of hornets issuing forth, his eyes tightly closed and his brow furrowed.
In his mind's eye, clearly pictured, a veritable plume of hornets swarmed. But when he peeked, there was nothing but the kris's blade glinting in the sunlight.
"By the Writ," he cursed, morose and angry, "Aŝkelon, who art… wherever Thou art, get off Thy butt and hear this supplicant's plea—it's for Niko, after all!"
Eyes closed again, he stood there, every muscle tensed, willing the magic into being. And finally, when he was about to give up, he heard a "Bzzzz-zzz."
His eyes popped open. He held out an arm to direct the mighty hornet swarm, the proper words upon his tongue.
But he saw no great swarm. It seemed that there was nothing there, and yet, the "Bzzzz" continued.
He looked again, holding the kris up to the light, turning it to squint down at the point.
And there, hanging from its tip, was one hornet— a single large wasp, stinging the kris's tip with all its might.
"One hornet? One measly hornet!" he muttered querulously, and shook the kris in disgust, as if he could shake the others out.
The single hornet stopped its manic stabbing of the blade and held on tight, its wings fluttering as it tried to keep its balance. Then, dislodged, it plummeted through the air and landed on the floor, where it crawled toward his foot. Furious with himself and disappointed with the kris, Randal flung the weapon; it clattered to the floor. Then he raised his foot to squash the bug.
The buzzing he'd heard before came louder: the hornet took wing and flew right at his face.
"You want a swarm of hornets, witchy-breath? Squash me, and you'll die the death of a thousand stings."
"Who said that?" Hands up to protect his face, Randal retreated from the window.
"I did," said the hornet, hovering before him. "Don't you know it's winter? Whatever you want, it better be important."
Amazed, Randal lowered his hands. The hornet landed on his nose, stinger poised. "Don't move," it suggested.
Randal's eyes crossed, looking at the tiny antennae, the vicious little head.
"That's better. Step on me, will you—not likely. Name your enemy. I haven't much time—the cold is making me sleepy."
"Enemy? I have no enemy… that is, I do, but… I want you hornets to go protect Nikodemos." Randal gathered his courage. "I want you to watch him and I want daily reports."
"You do." The hornet bore down just a bit with its stinger. "That's right, sweat. It'll warm me up. We don't do that sort of thing. We just sting your enemies. What about the Nisibisi witch-queen, Roxane? Isn't she your enemy?"
"Roxane? She's routed… isn't she?"
Waspish laughter buzzed in Randal's ears. "She's Roxane, isn't she? If you want us to protect your Nikodemos from Roxane, that's one thing. But don't disturb our sleep for something an ant could do."
"Yes, yes, that's what I want. Protect him from Roxane. And let me know how he's doing." More than anything, Randal wanted the hornet off his nose. He didn't want to be stung. Randal was allergic to many things. Hornets were just big wasps and Randal was allergic to wasps. "Get going, wasp. There's no time to lose."
"King Hornet. That's what you call me. Don't you black artists have any respect? Aŝkelon's apprentice or not, you've got a lot to learn." The hornet lifted off, its wings beating.
Randal rubbed his nose, relief flooding him.
"Have fresh flowers waiting—or some fat caterpillars, if you can manage it. And don't bother saying thank you—" The hornet spiraled upward, toward the open window, and dwindled rapidly against the pale winter sky.
"Wait, Ki—" But the hornet was gone before Randal had a chance to ask it about Roxane the Nisibisi witch or anything else.
As he picked up the kris he'd thrown and headed toward the globe, still spinning in the middle of the room, there was a knock at his chamber's door.
"Oh drat," he muttered, looking between the spinning globe, which now had a pale nimbus around it, and the door.
The knock came again.
Carefully sidestepping the mosaic spiral-within-the-circle in the middle of which the globe spun, Randal hurried to open the door: it could only be one personage.
And it was, indeed, Randal's First Hazard, the nameless archmage who ruled the Tysian mage-guild. And the ancient one did not look happy.
Parchment lips pursed and a nearly translucent hand reached out to touch his forehead: "My son, what are you doing? To whom are you talking? The wards are disturbed. Are you… have you…" Looking beyond him, the First Hazard saw the spinning globe of power, the nimbus around it now milky and filled with sparks.
"Come in, Master." Randal scurried out of the old man's path. "I was just trying the "Summon Power" command; nothing much is happen—"
Then he turned around and saw what the First Hazard was looking at: in the middle of the white nimbus, as if in a robe of white fox fur, was the piquant, sanguine form of Roxane, Death's Queen.
The old First Hazard seemed to float past Randal toward the power globe; the witch seemed to grow more substantial. Every hair on Randal's body stood on end.
"Ah, Randal, my inept little friend. I see that you're busy now; I'll come back another time," came the witch's velvet voice from the middle of the nimbus.
And as she began to fade, beside Randal the ancient adept quivered; his breathing became labored and his vestments started to smoke.
Randal wanted to rush forward, to put himself between the Nisibisi wi
tch and his archmage, but his limbs wouldn't obey him.
Before his eyes, the archmage's robes caught fire. Beyond the smoke, only the witch's smile was visible—her red lips, her white teeth, her darting tongue.
The smoke from the archmage, whose moans were horrible and whose flesh was beginning to stink, was drawn into that smiling mouth, which worked as if chewing a delectable delight.
As the archmage crumbled in upon himself and what was left of his person crumpled to the floor, the witch laughed again and Randal's kris lifted itself from its scabbard and levitated toward the smiling mouth.
The tongue licked up the last wisps of smoke; the velvet voice said: "Thank you, Randal, for the snack. Next time, bring me a younger offering."
Then the kris stabbed the place where the mouth was, just an instant too late: Roxane was gone. His paralysis lifted, Randal stumbled forward, grabbing his kris from midair.
Trembling like a leaf, he went to his knees before the archmage, now just a pile of charred flesh and clothing—all but for the skull, which was untouched by flame. The face there was contorted into a silent scream and black eyes stared sightlessly from yellowed whites at a horror so terrible that Randal hugged himself and nearly cried.
There was no way to disguise what had happened here: fooling around with his Nisibisi power globe, Randal had somehow made it possible for Roxane to breach the mageguild's wards and murder the First Hazard.
With his kris clattering in its scabbard and his teeth chattering in his head, Randal ventured into the mosaic circle and took the globe from its stand, thinking to throw it from the window.
But if he smashed the globe on the street below, then he'd be helpless before the witch.
So he didn't; he decided to tell the truth about what happened and pay the consequences. Even if he was expelled from the guild, he'd survive it. Somehow.
