Beyond Wizardwall

by Janet Morris

  "I'm dead." She held out her dye-stained hands. "I can't tell you anything."

  Strat craned his neck and looked at the dye on her back: "You're dying, maybe, not dead—yet. And this game may have gone too far. Talk and save us all apologies tomorrow when it's over," Strat suggested, slapping his sand-filled, canvas truncheon against his palm.

  Beyond them, Stepsons on their bellies worked their way to the pine grove's edge. Someone called back: "They're definitely going over the wall: they've got grappling hooks and ropes… maybe business quarrels."

  "Kama," Crit said very softly, "we don't have time—if this is real, you'd better tell us. Nobody wants to hurt you."

  Strat just watched her like a hungry wolf.

  She thought about honor, about surrendering without a fight while all these Stepsons watched. And then she thought about the coming coup, about an end to Abakithis, and about Brachis's mission here, which she'd been called upon to abet: Niko was inside those walls.

  "You're right, Crit… it's too serious to wait. Those are real arrows; the assault's not play. Sync wants a piece of Niko—his charmed Aŝkelonian panoply, a horse, whatever he can get. As far as he's concerned, once a Stepson, always one."

  Crit was up before she'd finished, calling out orders in a jargon she'd only half-mastered: "Truss her, Strat; we'll pick her up later."

  She couldn't even argue that it wasn't fair, but Strat, sensitive in his way, said, "Come on, soldier," and bound her to a tree where she could see the estate and the men before it. With a final jerk on her wrists, he said, "Don't go way, now, will you?" and jogged down the hill to find his partner.

  So Kama had long agonizing moments to consider what it meant to be trysting with a Stepson who already had a partner: Strat was to Critias what she could never be. The Sacred Band pairs who formed the Stepsons' core were teamed for life. Strat wasn't jealous of her; there was no reason for him to be.

  Though she understood the 3rd Commando, she despaired of ever understanding the motivations of the Stepsons. And she must… it was the Stepsons, not the 3rd, who'd be her subject for the heroic saga she'd tell in the bard's contest at the Festival of Man.

  Immersed in her own thoughts, tied ignomini-ously to a tree, it took Kama a while to realize that something odd was happening at the walled estate: the sky was growing dark overhead; thunder rolled in on a winter sky, and the men who climbed the walls on ropes seemed to move too slowly, as if time itself had slowed.

  Kama, the 3rd's historian, had seen the heavens do battle in the wizard war; she'd seen a wind of stones suck fighters from a battlefield, and a tunnel of cloud come to take her father's weary contingent home when the war was done.

  But you never expected magical intervention; you couldn't, and remain sane. Gods and magicians warred through men, most times; when they warred on them, simple human fighters couldn't win.

  As the sky blew black and the clouds dipped down, her heart skipped beats: she couldn't tell what god or witch the storm was serving; she feared for Crit so that she called out his name and only then realized how loud was the rumble coming down from the vault of heaven.

  And though she was not pious, Kama prayed: she prayed for Crit and the Stepsons first, and then, feeling guilty, she prayed for Sync's 3rd Commando. But most of all, as the storm winds shook the trees and howled, she prayed for it to stop. If she hadn't been tied securely to the tree, she might have been blown away like the men who tumbled from the walls of the estate.

  She heard yells upon the wind, saw men trying to hold ropes steady so those high up could climb down.

  Crossbows were useless in the maelstrom; men held onto one another, making human chains.

  Then, from above, lightning flashed and speared down like a serpent's forked tongue amid the men who struggled now to save each other, not to fight each other.

  Again the lightning flashed and this time, looking at the raging sky, Kama thought she saw a face: eyes like holes in the firmament; an angry mouth from which the lightning spat; and on its head, so bright she had to squint and turn away, was the crown you saw on every statue of Enlil— the crown of heaven.

  Her eyes tearing, terrified, Kama watched the lightning which ran along the ramparts of the estate and quested down along its walls, driving back the fighters, herding them together, chasing them up the hill.

  And when they reached its crest, as suddenly as it had come, the wind abated, the thunder rolled away, and the sky began to clear.

  Men dashed past Kama without stopping, so that she began to fear she'd be left to die here.

  Then Crit and Straton crested the hill, looking backward every now and again as they came toward her.

  "I told you that place was weird," Strat was saying as they reached her; Crit already had his knife out to slit her bonds.

  "You should have told Sync," Crit grunted, cutting Kama loose.

  Rubbing her wrists, she blurted: "Sync—the 3rd… any casualties?"

  "Some broken limbs, nothing major," Crit said. And: "If you want, you can ride home with us— we've horses down in the rift. Someone's got to tell the Riddler…"

  "Tell him what?" Sync demanded, breathing hard, limping as he came up beside them.

  "That's up to Kama… that we war-gamed a little too close to some holy place nobody knew about, and the god took a hand," Crit suggested without looking up from his feet, more than a touch of cynicism in his voice.

  "That's right, Sync—it's Fete Week," Strat agreed generously. "Everybody expects some manifestation of the gods, this time of year. What would New Years be without some god's prank?"

  The question hung in the air while Sync thought the matter over. Then he hawked into the pine needles and said: "Fine with me. If you think that's all it was, that's all it was," and limped away to regroup his men.

  "Coming, Kama? I'll need you to back me when we tell this tall tale to your father," Crit told her, while Straton grumbled that Critias always strode right in where even gods feared to tread.

  * 3 *

  Niko was out in the exercise yard behind the great house belonging to Partha, his host, doing as he'd been asked, giving two of Partha's children pointers on their event training for the coming games, while around his head a pesky hornet buzzed.

  The day before, the sky had turned black on the heels of dawn and Niko's stallion had chosen that moment to break out of his stall and mount some hapless mare in the stables.

  At that very instant, Niko had been doing the same to Partha's daughter, Sauni. He hadn't meant to do it; he was trying not to do it: any woman might be Roxane in disguise.

  But the girl wouldn't leave him alone. She found excuses to brush against him in the halls and developed cramps during training only he could seem to ease.

  It had gotten to the point where Partha himself had interceded on Sauni's behalf: at dinner the night before, Partha had belched good-naturedly and sent his teenage son and daughter off to bed, then turned to Niko, asking:

  "Is there something wrong with my daughter?"

  "Not at all," Niko demurred. "She's coming along fine. She's fast as the wind and strong as a deer. She'll place in the footrace, certainly."

  "Nikodemos, you know what I mean."

  "I wouldn't abuse your hospitality, my lord," Niko had replied, taking a drink of Machadi wine and brushing at a buzzing insect circling above his head. The estate, commodious otherwise, had a hornet problem; Randal could have solved it, no doubt, but Niko had no intention of asking for the wizard's help.

  "Then it's settled," said the father contentedly.

  "What? What's settled?"

  "It's Fete Week. Sauni's fifteen and a virgin. You wouldn't have me send her down to a public temple to sit in the dirt until some fat merchant deigns to do a favor for the goddess?"

  Niko looked into his wine cup. "I'm not…"

  "Even if you prefer boys—and I've heard the Stepsons do—as you've said, you shouldn't abuse my hospitality. The gods love you; I'm not asking you to marry her, just
give her a good start on life."

  "I—did Bashir have anything to do with this?"

  "Bashir?" the father said with exaggerated surprise. "He's had his eye on Sauni for years; we need a priestess of the Lady down here in the lowlands. But Bashir had nothing to do with it… it's the girl herself."

  "How's that?" Niko emptied his wine cup and his host eagerly refilled it.

  "She's in love with you, Stealth. Any fool could see it; she moons around after you—'Stealth did this, Stealth said that." If it weren't so propitious, I'd be jealous."

  "But, under the circumstances, you're in favor?" Niko said doubtfully. He didn't even know if he was capable of doing his host this service. He didn't like the idea of being contracted like a stud, and he knew Bashir was involved: Bashir was bound and determined to make Niko a productive citizen of Free Nisibis, a permanent adjunct to his staff.

  "Not only in favor, I'm about to shower you with gifts as soon as you make my lucky house the proud repository of Our Lady's new priestess. Thus it's decided, as the gods foretold. Drink up, my friend." And with a bearlike paw, he clapped Niko on the back.

  So in the dawn, the girl had come creeping into his bed, dressed in nothing but a Fete Week virgin's silks, and Niko did what the god intended, while in the stables his horse had done the same and, outside, the heavens had roared and bellowed like the stallion as he climbed the mare.

  Niko couldn't remember how it had been with the girl—he'd been too drunk. But she was happy and trying to please him, so it must have gone well enough for her.

  He kept telling himself that this girl couldn't possibly be a representative of the Nisibisi witch, that Bashir wouldn't have done that to him, and that he'd get out of here in the next few days, before he became any more entangled in the Partha family's affairs.

  But the next day he found himself sitting on his horse with a wineskin in his hand and the pestilential hornets plaguing him, watching Partha's children train with javelin and bow and mumbling pointers whenever he remembered what he was there for, whiling away the time.

  When the sun was settling and the three of them went to the stone house to steam the soreness from their muscles, Sauni was boasting to her brother about having become a woman of the god.

  Naked, she rubbed her flat belly and stretched out, her head on Niko's knee, regaling them both with a tale of Niko's performance which must have been apocryphal: if the gods had attended their tryst, Niko surely would have remembered it; and if he'd been as much the stallion as she claimed, he would have had some recollection.

  But then Grippa, Partha's tow-headed son, started telling them how men had come scaling the walls at the very instant that Sauni became a woman, and that Father Enlil had appeared in the sky above with his lightning and his thunder to drive the men away.

  "What? You mean figuratively, of course." Niko sat bolt upright.

  The boy pouted: "I saw it, didn't I? Rangers, then Stepsons. Then the god…"

  Niko got up and left the two children there, grabbing his clothing as he strode through the anteroom with its water buckets and sponges, suddenly sober and not liking it one bit.

  Sauni came racing after him, wide-eyed and shivering, half-naked: "Niko! Niko! Don't mind Grippa, it's…

  "It's what?" he snapped unkindly. "I never should have gotten involved with—here."

  She shivered as if he'd struck her: "You're going to leave, aren't you? Bashir said I shouldn't expect it to last long, but…" Tears welled in her eyes; she bit her lip. "I've just found you; please don't go."

  "Gods, girl, don't you understand what's happening? They're using you like they're using me. And mortals always get hurt when the gods play games."

  She was shaking her head: "But I… love…you."

  "You don't even know me. I'm just the first acceptable candidate who came your way. Look at me.

  Chin high, she stared at him soulfully, a perfect Tysian beauty with a heart-shaped face and a body like a nymph.

  "If the gods," he said slowly, hopeful of making her understand, "have got you with child, then that's one thing. If I did, then that's another. Only you will know the truth of it. If you're pregnant and you come to me at the games and ask me to, I'll make good on what's happened here. Do you understand? I'll marry you. But if you're some daft little priestess with Father Enlil for a husband, then you don't need me anymore."

  "Niko… I…" She came into his arms.

  He felt reprehensible and foul, holding her, her sweet hair brushing his nose. But he had to get out of here; he couldn't sink any deeper into the morass of his own fear.

  If the god really had staved off an attack on the estate, then the omen spoke clearly: he couldn't run, he couldn't hide. Others were being hurt because of him.

  He was tired of drinking and nearly immune to drugs; he was making errors his conscience couldn't support. Still holding the girl by her quaking shoulders, he said softly, "Come, Sauni; help me pack."

  An hour later, armed and armored, he was riding out of the estate on the big sable stallion, who danced with joy when Niko turned him toward Wizardwall and gave him his head.

  * 4 *

  Rumors of Enlil's sanction upon the militia and of mage-killers abroad in Tyse sent Randal hurrying to Grit's safe haven in the Lanes as soon as he got into town. For once, Critias seemed glad to see him.

  Even Straton was polite: "Where have you been, Randal?" Strat greeted him. "We've been looking all over for our favorite mage."

  Not "Witchy-ears," not "mageling," but pleasant words accompanied by what, for Strat, was a civil smile.

  "I've been to see the archmage, Aŝkelon," Randal said proudly. "I've been to Meridian and back." "Well, it can't be him, then," Crit sighed. "We've been looking all over for you, Randal. Strat's right. I suppose you know that the mageguild's shut tight, Fete Week or not; that the latest First Hazard expired—this time by suicide?"

  "Suicide?" Randal repeated dumbly, all his joy at having come home triumphant from Meridian bleeding away. "Impossible. Mages don't commit suicide—we don't consider death a refuge. Especially not an archmage… not that archmage! You don't know what death means to one such as he…" Randal shivered; he wasn't looking forward to his own dying day, and he'd been very careful— he'd only bargained away pieces of his soul and pacted with one demon, and that once it had been for Niko, not himself. Before pairing with the Stepson, Randal had been content to be a low-level adept, and sleep at night.

  "The Second and Third Hazard have been here, telling us all about what it means, and how it couldn't have happened that way, and why no new First Hazard will be appointed until the mage-killer is apprehended," Crit said in his sardonic way. Taking his feet off his littered desk, he leaned his head back against the safe haven's iron shutters, staring at Randal pensively.

  "That's why we've been looking for you," his partner said. "You're just the man to help us identify and apprehend the culprit who's killed two guildmasters of yours." Strat put an arm on Randal's shoulders. "Sit right down here and tell us about Meridian. You went to see the mightiest wizard of all. Could he be persuaded to help us find—"

  Randal shook Strat's arm away. "We don't need Aŝkelon for that. I know who it was; I know how it happened. I—"

  "Who, then?" Crit sat forward.

  Randal took a deep breath: "Roxane." The mages knew; he'd told them. He didn't understand why they hadn't told Crit until Strat said, "Crap, no wonder they dropped this in our laps." Straddling a chair, the big Stepson took out his beltknife and began digging at the wood of Grit's desk.

  Randal, too, sat down on a ragged hassock: "Our laps?"

  "That's right, Randal," Crit sighed, getting up and beginning to pace. "The mageguild is a necessary evil, you know: the mageguild network transfers intelligence north and south. The sorcerers are useless to us now, sequestered like that. They won't come out until we find the murderer, they say. We 'owe' them that, they say. The wizard war may well be hotting up again, Tempus thinks, and this whole thing a
ploy by the Nisibisi renegades to lay our underbelly open for a sorcerous incursion."

  Crit stopped pacing: "Get the point, Randal? Damned inconvenient time you picked to disappear. The Riddler's been here looking for you every day."

  Strat said dourly: "Better tell him, Crit—he'll find out soon enough."

  Randal looked between the two Stepsons; both men were almost trembling, and not with eagerness.

  Crit said, "Right," went back to his seat, forsook it, and sat on the desk instead. "Randal, Cime's back. Don't panic, we've got her word she'll leave you be."

  "But she's sworn to kill me!" Randal was up on his feet but Strat was faster: Strat got between him and the door.

  "I told you he wouldn't have the belly for it, Crit," Strat rumbled. "Let's give him to the mage-guild—say it's him that's been slaying their…"

  "They'd never believe it," Crit said nastily. "Randal, you don't have any choice in this. Let's get busy, before it's too late. I need a signed affidavit from you that it was Roxane, something we can slip under the mageguild's door." He tapped a stylus.

  Randal knew that look. He went to sign the paper, not really understanding what Crit had in mind. "Then what?" he asked, stylus in hand.

  "Then we set a trap for Roxane, Randal, with Niko as the bait. And by then you'd better have figured out some way to deal with her. We've got to deliver her to the mageguild—Riddler's orders. And by the end of Fete Week."

  Randal, putting ink to paper, said slowly: "But what if they don't believe me? I told them once. What if they think the Riddler's sister did it? By every page and line of the Writ, she's capable enough."

  "We don't care," Crit said, enunciating carefully, "if she's Roxane in disguise. Cime's the Riddler's sister, and her name's not to come into this. If you saw Roxane, then we'll assume Roxane's behind the second slaying also. Got that?"

  Then Randal realized just why the Stepsons were involved, and what had made the Riddler promise to help the sorcerers, whom he deplored: Tempus, Crit, and Straton were involved in this to protect Cime from whatever retribution she'd doubtless earned.