by Janet Morris
After all, it wasn't really his fault. He was doing what he'd been told to do—protecting Niko. And now he knew he had to do more. Though it frightened him, he was going to pay a call on Aŝkelon, lord of dreams.
* 6 *
Madame Bomba's friends, those who sheltered Nikodemos, lived right above the cataract for which Peace Falls was named. The estate was walled and whitewashed; its red-tiled roofs sparkled in the winter sun. Plump retainers scurried here and there about their business; children laughed and fat stallions paced Straton's mare as he rode up the fenced-in path beside their paddocks toward the great house.
This was the third time Strat had been here, seeking Niko; it seemed as if he rode into another world whenever he rode between the gargoyle-headed gates: no sign of wizard wars or sack, no hint that a siege spanning seasons was under way marred the pastoral beauty of this walled estate.
Children had made a snow goddess the last time he'd been here. Then she was graceful and imposing; now she'd melted and refrozen, smaller, distorted into a misshapen crone whose paper crown sat askew. As before, though, presents for the goddess and her consort, Father Enlil, lay at her feet: winter wheat, a haunch of meat wrapped in sheep's fat which would have fed three families in the free zone; amphorae of wine which would have brought the price of a healthy slave if auctioned in the souk.
The place gave Straton the creeps: these were more than pious folk—they were inordinately lucky; you could almost feel the god breathing down your neck.
Straton didn't like coming here—he didn't like his mission, he didn't like these folk who served the northern god, Lord Storm, and called Him Father Enlil with fond familiarity. You didn't tell lies in a temple or try to fool an oracle, and this place had the feel of the altar or the sybil's cave.
Every time he came here, Niko wasn't in; he never saw the noble family, just retainers. He was always treated impeccably—given "guest rights" of food, drink, gifts, and hospitality—but he never met his hosts.
He'd told Crit that this was the last time; either he found Niko today, or admitted that he'd never find him here without a search team. He slid off his horse at the great house, looking wistfully at the crossbow on his saddle—levering a bolt to ready might change a tune or two. But these folk were kin to the ancient Tysian nobility and Tempus had forbidden any show of force here.
So Strat could only knock, and smile, and ask once more: "Is Nikodemos in?"
This time, to his surprise, the little chipmunk-faced retainer who opened the door nodded, his hands in his sleeves, and said, "Yes, my lord, come right this way."
Inside, the house was warm and fragrant with cedar; the long corridors niched with alcoves hosted statues of the gods. Strat kept track of every turn they took, in case Tempus ever changed his mind and led a sack in here: since giving the Outbridge station to the 3rd Commando, the Stepsons were in need of a barracks closer to town than Hidden Valley.
But the god-feel was everywhere inside; the place was eerily quiet and overly calm, like Niko just before he exploded into violence. Strat wished that Crit would come up here and see for himself how strange the place was, but Crit had his hands full restoring amity between the Stepsons and the 3rd Commando in the wake of Niko's kill.
Six corridors from the front door, the waddling retainer before him stepped out into an atrium court, walked by a pool free of ice in which fat gold fish swam just below the surface, then went through a door leading into darkness.
Caressing his swordhilt, Straton followed. He always got these jobs: Crit was too headstrong, too impulsive; if it had to be done secretly and without repercussions, the Riddler and Crit always turned to him.
As Strat's eyes accustomed themselves to the semidark, he could make out racks of weapons against the walls, crates of crossbow bolts, manhigh jars which, from the smell, contained incendiaries.
Then, finally, Straton understood what kind of place this was: the old-guard nobles who lived here were a part, if not the head, of the Tysian faction which craved autonomy. There were enough weapons here to supply an entire militia, field death squads, start a revolutionary war. No wonder Madame Bomba had been hesitant to reveal where she'd hidden Niko. No wonder she'd insisted he was safe here from the 3rd Commando. A man could be safe here from anything.
He noticed other things now, as his guide led him down a narrow hall: arrowloops in walls thick enough to stop a Rankan battering ram; water casks; smoked carcasses high up in the rafters.
Then the fat retainer stopped: "Through here, m'lord."
Light split the gloom—a line, an oblong, a portal, as his guide pulled open a door and waved him through.
On the far side, as the door closed behind him and he blinked to adjust his eyes to the light, he saw three men silhouetted before a low-burning fire which had the look and smell of a sacrificial altar.
One man turned, turned back, nudged another.
The second man was Niko, who came his way. The first, who watched covertly as he poured drops of oil onto some burning offering, was Bashir, the warrior-priest who ruled on Wizardwall.
"Strat," Niko said, "my mare? Is she sick?" Niko's angular face was striped with priestly soot—some Nisibisi ritual marking. He wore hillman's garb, mottled and loose; around his neck was a thong from which an amulet dangled.
"She's colicky; I've come to consult with you about her feed. The colt's fine, though, if bad-tempered. No one told me you were praying. Is that Bashir?"
Niko nodded. "Come this way."
Following Niko into a side room, he said, when Stealth had shot the bolt: "Tempus sent me."
"So I surmised." Niko squatted down before a low table and poured two cups of wine from a lion-headed rhyton there. "Drink? It'll warm you."
Niko's hands were shaking as he held a goblet out. "Don't mind that; I get nervous around the gods these days, and here it's hard to avoid them."
Straton had a feeling he'd better take the goblet; when he did, the tension in Stealth's posture eased. The former Stepson's infectious grin came and went: "Good, you're not going to lecture me." He drank deeply and sat on his haunches. "Tell me about the band. Does Tempus hate me?"
"He's concerned. We all are."
"Don't worry; the 3rd won't take me alive." He grimaced to make a joke of it, then frowned. "Bashir's going to save me, whether I want to be saved or not—take me up to Wizardwall and rehabilitate me." He stopped, his brow furrowed, and emptied his goblet, setting it down with a thud. "More?"
When Straton shook his head, Niko refilled his cup and glowered: "Don't judge me, Straton. I know what I need." Then, as quickly as it had come, his hostility faded: "I wish I could make them understand—the Band—that it's all right. It had to be this way."
"Come home with me, then, Niko." Strat hadn't meant to say it. "Wizardwall's no place for you. You'll never be content among the guerrillas. You were a boy when you were happy there before. You're a man now. Running away does nothing but-"
"Strat," Niko's voice was thick; his eyes blinked rapidly, as if trying to focus through unshed tears. "How's Crit? Did he make peace with the 3rd?"
"After a fashion. We've warned them off. They gave Madame Bomba a bad night, but—"
"Because of me. Yes. They would." He uptipped his cup, then said, wiping his lips, "Strat, it's really good to see you. My mare's not sick—it's just a sham?"
"We want to know what Brachis said to you," Strat said flatly. "The Riddler needs all the intelligence he can get. We need your help."
"He said that?" asked the young fighter eagerly, then sat back, scowling darkly: "I can't help wondering what all my Sacred Band brothers would say if they knew that what I'm doing is exactly and completely what my oath demands." He peered at Strat earnestly. "You understand, Strat. You're the only one who does."
"Understand what, Niko?" Strat probed gently.
"That I can't bring my troubles home to roost. Bashir loves me; if he doesn't kill me with solicitude, it won't be from lack of trying. It's the stricture
s of the oath I took before the god—not the way men interpret my behavior—that matters. Isn't it?" Rage and frustration flashed over the ex-Stepson's stubbled face.
"Sure it is; you've got to please yourself. But we'd like to help. You let Bashir help, why not us?"
"Help? I don't need help. I need to get drunk." Once more he filled his cup and waggled a finger at Strat: "I'm two ahead of you, man. Drink up."
Wondering if he could get anything out of Niko with the fighter in this state, Straton drained his goblet and held it out: "Niko, if we're going to get drunk, then we've got to have a good reason. I'll tell you a secret worth drinking to, and you tell me one. Agreed?"
"Agreed," Niko grinned boyishly. "I knew you wouldn't hold all this—" he waved his hand aimlessly, "—against me."
"Witchy-ears disappeared from the mageguild the same night that the First Hazard, bless his departed soul, died of unrevealed causes so weird that the mageguild's been locked up tight in mid-purification ever since it happened, three days ago." "Randal's gone? The archmage is dead?" Niko rubbed his stubbled jaw. Above his head, a single wasp on a rafter buzzed softly. "Poor Randal; poor, poor little fellow… he took all this personally." Niko peered earnestly at Strat once more. "It's just that I'm sick of war, you know. Tired of fighting something that won't fight fairly. You've seen the witch, had your brushes with her. What am I to do?" Niko spread his hands. "I don't know, but I know you can't do it alone."
"Is that the Stepsons' consensus, or your opinion? They still think she's after me—if not right here, right now…" Niko looked around and Straton, too, glanced behind him, so that Niko added: "See, so do you. There's no hope for me, not for a normal life as a normal man, not until I've shed her taint." He wiped the back of his hand over his eyes. "Everyone's afraid of me but you… even Crit doesn't trust me."
"Tempus isn't afraid."
"That's true," Niko said judiciously. "He probably still loves me. But look what happens to those who get too close to the Riddler…"
"Niko, what did Brachis talk to you about?"
"About?" Niko looked sly. "About a way out, a worthy cause in which to labor. An end to this war…" He put his elbows on the table and his chin on his fists. "Do you know how long this war's been going on in Tyse? I was born here, and it was raging then. You should have seen this place. The gods brought me back here for a purpose. With Abakithis dead, at least we'll have a chance— Bashir's Nisibis, Tyse, all of us. Empires fall, Strat…"
So that was it. It was all Strat could do not to get up and say he had to leave. Instead, he sipped his wine. "If you're involved in some plot with Brachis, you're in trouble. We've worked for him before. He's a double dealer and a welsher—"
"Me? Involved? It's not me, Straton—it's the dream lord and the Nisibisi witch. I don't want to talk about it any more." He stood abruptly. "I've got to get back to the sacrifice. Bashir doesn't like it when I don't take the gods seriously." "Since when do you care what—" "Bashir has made me a brother, once again," Niko said lightly. "I'm a citizen of Free Nisibis, even one of their team for the Festival of Man." He looked down at Straton and held out his hand, weaving slightly on his feet.
Strat took the hand and got up; Niko's palm was cold and moist with perspiration. "Then we'll see you there, if not before…"
"On contesting teams, I suppose. It's sad," Niko said thickly, and Straton wanted to knock him senseless with a blow, hoist him on his shoulders, and drag him out of here, where someone could talk some sense into Niko before he killed himself. But then the boy smiled ingenuously and added, "When you and I contest, don't be angry when I beat you… I have to be a winner."
"Stealth," Strat said through gritted teeth, "the day you beat me to the outhouse, the shape you're in, I'll hang up my armor and put on an apron. Do you understand anything I've said? About the band? About the 3rd? About Randal, your blasted partner? By Vashanka's third and mightiest ball, if you didn't have yourself in so ticklish a spot, I'd beat some sense into you and drag you home."
"You would?" Niko said mildly, as if considering the thought. "I believe you would. Well, too bad it won't work—for both our sakes. Tell Tern-pus that if Randal's not about, he's with the dream lord. As for the 3rd Commando—all but the Riddler's daughter, Kama, of course—if they come near me, it's at their own risk. Tell them that."
"I will," said Strat dully, wishing he hadn't come, hadn't found Niko, hadn't learned what he'd come to learn. "You know, Stealth, none of us can protect you from yourself."
"Quite right, Straton. But it may be that I can protect you from the witch. Think about it. Aŝkelon's got an altar in the free zone—I built it. It's not imposing, but it does the job. Any Stepson who chooses is welcome to worship there. All you have to do is listen to your dreams, step beyond the veil, and take heed to what's in your heart."
So saying, Niko bent down, scooped up the lion-headed rhyton, and gave it to Straton: "Take this to the Riddler; token of my affection."
Then, swaying slightly as he walked, Niko showed him to the door.
* 7 *
Chasing a riderless, runaway sable stallion through Tyse's streets under a waning moon one night soon after, Tempus caught up to the horse in the free zone at the altar pits, where refugee Maggots supplicated a dozen gods to ease their fates.
Before an inconspicuous pile of stones, the wild-eyed Aŝkelonian stallion plunged and reared, blowing hard through distended nostrils, froth-covered flanks phosphorescent in the moonlight so that superstitious worshippers muttered wards against the "devil horse" and hid behind votive statues of their favorite gods.
As Tempus dismounted, rope in hand, he realized that someone else was closer to the maddened horse than he.
A dark-clad youth approached the horse, hand out, murmuring softly, from the beast's far side.
"Stay back! He'll break you in two!" Tempus called in his best battlefield bellow, but the slim tall figure didn't seem to hear.
And Niko's Aŝkelonian stud—who'd kicked down his stall door and run roughshod over two men who had tried to stop him as he bolted out of Hidden Valley—came down on all four legs, his ears pricked forward, and whickered softly, then put his muzzle into the youth's outstretched hand. By the time Tempus reached the pair, the great stallion was rubbing his head against Niko's shoulder, his blazing eyes half-closed, content under his master's hand.
Tempus almost turned and left when he realized it was Nikodemos—the last thing he wanted was a confrontation with the youth.
But Niko said conversationally, in the same croon he was using to calm the horse, "Just give me the rope, Commander, and I'll halter him for you. Then you can take him home."
Tempus found himself replying: "Not unless I can take you with him. It's clear where he wants to be. You should have taken him before this—he's made a shambles of my stable. And you must learn to take what you deserve."
The horse was Niko's, given him by the entele-chy of dreams; Tempus had his sister, but the stud was invaluable.
Niko replied, when the rope was not forthcoming, "I gave him up. He belongs to the Hidden Valley stud farm."
"Tell him that. He's more trouble than he's worth, like you. And I owe you a gift, fair exchange for the rhyton—a token." Tempus tossed the rope and Niko caught it as the horse, seeing it, tossed his head and danced backward.
"Token of the god," Tempus heard the Stepson say under his breath as, rope in hand and speaking softly, he approached the horse, fashioning a hack-amore as he went.
When he held out the makeshift bridle, the ill-tempered Aŝkelonian meekly lowered its head and snuffled the boy's clothing as Niko slipped it over the tiny, pointed ears.
Then Niko turned to him: "Take a ride with me,
Commander?"
But Tempus was looking at the altar, plain but plainly functional, with offerings scattered at its foot: an altar to Aŝkelon, the horse's breeder, the boy's patron, an archmage with delusions of godhead, the entelechy of dreams. "You built this travesty?" Tempus
couldn't help but say. "And invited men to worship here? You're worse off than I'd thought." He headed for his horse and swung up on it.
Niko, already mounted, reined the Aŝkelonian alongside. "Perhaps. Bashir thinks I must ask Father Enlil for help. It worked for you… invoking a god's aid against an archmage…" In the moonlight, Niko's ashen hair seemed silver, his eyes just deep black holes.
"And look where it got me. I'm in thrall to both, curse and god." Tempus felt a chill come over him: hanging from Niko's neck was an amulet of the southern storm god, Vashanka. Without thought, his hand lashed out, caught the talisman by its thong, and ripped it from Niko's throat.
Examining it, an awful foreboding overcame the Riddler, who'd labored for centuries in behalf of the god of rape and pillage: "Don't do this, Niko. Don't follow in my footsteps; don't let the priests use you." He leaned so close to Niko he could smell the youth's winy breath. "If you're so anxious to destroy yourself, I'll offer an alternative: become my right-side partner—if you dare."
And before the youth could answer, Tempus spurred the Trôs horse toward the altar. It snorted disapprovingly as his knees told it what to do, but obeyed him: its hooves came down repeatedly upon the altar of piled stones, scattering them until none lay upon another.
When Tempus's horse stood again on four feet amid the ruined altar, Niko and the Aŝkelonian were nowhere to be seen.
Tempus didn't mind losing the sable stallion, but he minded terribly about the boy: Tempus's own evil history seemed to be repeating itself in Nikodemos's life, and there was little he could do. Tempus had sought a god's aid to deflect a curse, and been doubly damned for his trouble. Now the god had deserted him and the curse remained. He doubted that Niko would fare much better.
Riding through the free zone gates, his yellow-lined mantle whipping around him in a sudden wind, he remembered the amulet he'd ripped from Niko's neck and found it still clenched in his right hand. Although syncretism was accepted by mortals, gods knew who they were: the southern Storm God, Vashanka, was not the same deity as the north's Father Enlil, though treaties equating them were signed routinely throughout the Rankan empire.
