Beyond Wizardwall

by Janet Morris

  But since it was a matter of honorbond, and since Stepsons never argued with an order or asked foolish questions, Randal didn't say a word, only signed his name and agreed to take the affidavit to the mageguild: with Niko as the bait, he couldn't refuse to go up against a witch, even if it was Roxane, Death's own queen.

  * 5 *

  Roxane was hiding in Frog's Marsh, hungry and weak. She'd sucked the life from more than one Tysian adept, but this time it might not be enough. She'd taken wounds in the wizard war that were hard to heal.

  She had no snakes here, either, no minions of consequence. Her warlock brethren had cast her out of Mygdon, a punishment for having failed them. All because of the accursed Riddler and his supernormal allies—gods and sprites from the twelfth plane, dream lords and the like.

  She was nearly as weak as a mortal, but her spirit was still strong. At night she snuck out of her marshy bower, making undeads, one by one, who'd serve her, or lurking by the mageguild's gates to catch an unlucky apprentice napping, a familiar she could munch.

  Most of all, she wanted to change her shape and hide among the throng in Tyse, become beautiful once more. For Roxane had been crippled by the war so that her body was infirm.

  She'd come so close to winning, she didn't know how to admit defeat. If she could get the power globe that Randal had, she'd be able to straighten broken limbs, suck souls now far beyond her reach.

  As night settled, she donned her foxfur robe and limped slowly down to the river's edge, reduced to eating fish like a mortal tramp.

  When she'd supped, she forded, and lurched toward Commerce Avenue where she'd go whoring, her foxfur helping to disguise her crippled gait.

  And as she limped along the back streets, she uttered spells between clenched teeth: one to loose her few undeads upon the party-goers uptown; one to bring her luck and bring ill-fortune to her enemies; one to lure young Nikodemos, the soul she longed for above all others, close enough for her to grab him. Should she conquer Niko, she'd stand head to head with heaven once again.

  It wasn't Nikodemos who crossed her path, but a towheaded teenaged boy named Grippa. Still, he was fair and whole and he trembled in her hand when, thinking her a whore and comely, he followed her into an alley close by Brother Bomba's. "Come, come, that's it, boy," she said, and as he swooned with ecstasy, she reached into his mind.

  And held her hungry self back from devouring him, for she found thoughts of Niko there.

  She read the boy's young mind and then she took her pleasure with him, as he'd taken his with her. Trying not to think how low she'd sunk or what sad estate the finest Nisibisi witch had earned, because of Tempus, she devoured his soul and then his flesh, discorporating him on the spot.

  She'd never masqueraded as a boy, never been a man, never thought nor chose to try it. Yet this boy was a friend of Niko's.

  When the tryst was over, only the youth came out again. Left behind in the alley was a woman's foxfur robe around a skeleton whose leg had once been broken, then mended wrong.

  And out into the night went Roxane, whole and hale in an athlete's sweet young form, a boy whom Niko favored, unless Grippa read the signs wrong, more than any girl—a boy Niko had sworn to coach and help to win at the Festival of Man.

  * 6 *

  Tempus himself went up to Wizardwall to fetch Niko—he'd have gone anywhere to get away from Cime before he succumbed and lay with her.

  Aŝkelon had made good his word, given Tern-pus's nemesis eternal youth and beauty, lifted her curse in exchange for a year of female company.

  How anyone could stand a year of Cime's bull-whip tongue and devious mind, Tempus couldn't understand, but once he'd said that donkeys would choose rubbish rather than gold. And Aŝkelon was nothing if not an ass.

  The spires of Wizardwall no longer gleamed with ensorceled light; the gods lived here now. A pinkish tinge was over everything—the rocks, the chasms, the steep defiles Bashir's guerrillas called their own.

  Tempus's Aŝkelonian mare rumbled a greeting as soon as the gate came down: if Tempus had doubted that Niko was here, the mare's reaction to the smell of her brother eased his mind.

  Getting Niko out of Bashir's clutches was not going to be easy, especially when the reason wasn't one with which Bashir would sympathize.

  But Niko must draw the witch; no other could be sure to do so. It was cruel, but necessary for everyone concerned: Niko needed to see a witch-corpse to heal his soul; Tempus needed a witch to blame for Cime's mischief; the mageguild needed to be strengthened before the thaw.

  And the witch would never venture up the high peaks, not while the god held sway.

  As Bashir's guerrillas crowded around him with ribald greetings in sibilant Nisi, Tempus reflected that life was teaching him a lesson he'd never thought he'd need: Tempus, who was afraid to love, admitted to himself how deeply he'd come to care for Niko.

  Climbing stairs which had once led to a Nisibisi wizard's aerie, he swore silently to find a way to save Niko from an eternity in thrall: even if the boy died young, it would be a gift if he died with his soul intact.

  Bashir greeted Tempus at the stair's head, his god-ridden eyes concerned: "You bring great peril, Riddler, treachery and pain—the god has shown me." Bashir's arms crossed. He wore only a Nisi tunic, despite the cold. His flat face glowed with sanctity; his flaring cheeks were hollowed; his tight-set jaw told Tempus the god had told this priest too much.

  "Bashir, you've got to let me help him. He'll end up just like me. Do I look happy? Fulfilled? Transported with joy at the life the god has given me?"

  "A different god," Bashir intoned; "a different life."

  But the priest stepped aside and let Tempus mount the stairs, then paced him.

  "I have to see him. If Enlil is wise, he'll let a mortal make a mortal's choice."

  "Sleepless one, Niko cannot sleep these nights, because of you and your magicians. Have you no sympathy? No soul? Let him be; the god and I can save him."

  "Soul?" Tempus rubbed his jaw. "Perhaps I don't, Bashir—it's been centuries since I've thought to look. As for Enlil—or any god—saving any man… if that's what you think gods do, you're not as wise as you look. Nothing I can do to Niko will hurt him like what you propose. You stare at me, you're staring at the horse's mouth. You ought to listen when I tell you: being god-ridden is as bad as any devil's curse. He told you once himself that he didn't want salvation at the price either one of us has paid."

  Bashir looked at his feet, his long braided sidelock swinging as he walked: "Riddler," he said, his voice thick and troubled, "I want the best for Niko. When we were boys together, plying banditry among the high peaks, he was my trusted friend. But now, where is that person? The man who's here loves drugs and drink, fears honest women, goes armed and armored all the time."

  "I know, Bashir. Just let me take him if he wishes it—don't stand in his way. Let me see if I can free him from the archmage, the witch, and then let him choose the god—choose freely, and not from fear."

  That brought the priest's head up. For a moment, fanatical light blazed in his eyes, then subsided. "I suppose it has to be this way." Bashir stopped, his voice a whisper. "He's in here. But be warned, Riddler: Father Enlil wants Niko's soul enough to fight the very dream lord for it. Don't think what you can do or say will stand in His way."

  "Would that I could, my friend. If Niko doesn't mend by the third week of the Festival of Man, I myself will help you with the final godbond rights."

  Bashir's forehead wrinkled. "I'll hold you to your word." He reached behind him, pushing open a heavy door. "In here. I'll be in the god's room; seek me when you're done."

  And then Tempus stepped inside, closing the door behind him, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dimness.

  "Who's there?" Niko called, his voice strained and nervous.

  From the sound of it, the boy must be sitting near the windowsill.

  Tempus joined him by the window. "Niko, I've come to take you home. We need you—the witc
h is loose. Randal can't fight her all alone, and the mageguild seers are all hiding in their closets."

  He hadn't meant to be that honest; he didn't want to be so cruel.

  The youth beside him turned his head. "I had to leave—the god came down to Partha's. I can't have the Stepsons cursed on my account. If the god wants me, then perhaps it will balance off the greed of the entelechy of dreams."

  "Don't talk that way," Tempus nearly snarled. "We've more immediate concerns. The witch…" "The witch. She seems enticing. I know what she wants—just my body, a bit of soul. The archmage steals my sleep and wants an avatar; the god wants a representative on earth." Niko coughed, and Tempus realized he'd been drinking. "If the witch can conquer gods and demigods, then she deserves me— she can have me. Maybe then I'll get some sleep." "You'll sleep forever, sleep a sleep you won't enjoy." Tempus took Niko's face between his hands. "Look at me. Listen well: there's a way out of this, there always is. Even my sister finally earned her freedom, and she's a wanton slut who still kills witches when and where she can."

  "A way out? Of this?…" The boy spread his hands, then dropped them, unresisting.

  "There's always hope. Without it, we'd all kill ourselves as soon as we learned we were born to die. And there's maat—you might yet regain it. Even failing that, I'll promise you a hero's death: I'll slay you myself in single combat before I'll let Ash"—he spat the dream lord's nickname, one only he and his sister were old enough and wise enough to know—"take charge of you, or let a god no better than Vashanka twist your soul."

  "There's that," Niko agreed tonelessly. "If you'll do it, if you'll promise…"

  Tempus let go of Niko and the boy leaned his head back against the sill. "Do you ever even nap? I'm so tired, I can't think straight. And even krrf, which used to wake me up, now just makes me sleepy."

  "I doze, now and then, after a good love match or a strenuous fight. Randal's waiting, down in Tyse. He'd have come himself, but we didn't want Bashir to have to purify this place all over again. Come on, I'll race you to Hidden Valley. If you can't sleep on your own then, my sister will be more than happy to help tire you out."

  Niko got to his feet, wavered there.

  Tempus steadied him.

  "I can do it. It just takes time," Niko said, and took slow steps while somewhere high above a hornet buzzed softly. "You've squared this with Bashir?"

  "I have until the Festival to convince you that the god's way isn't yours. If I can't do that, the sun may refuse to rise."

  Niko grunted and felt his way toward the crack of light that showed beneath his chamber's door. As he did so, Tempus heard the rustle of armor and knew that Niko wasn't as far gone as he seemed: whatever its provenance, that enchanted panoply of his could still keep body and soul intact.

  * 7 *

  On the last night of Fete Week, the Bombas threw a party, opening Brother Bomba's bar to all their friends, inviting Stepsons, Rankan rank and file, Tysian nobles—even 3rd Commando fighters and certain merchants from Commerce Avenue, sellers of flesh and fate and charm.

  Among those from the Avenue who came was one low-caste enchantress, a woman who was responsible for a scaly rash on the face of Sync, the 3rd Commando's colonel, and for the diminishment of his ranks by two: those who'd raped Madame Bomba would never rape another.

  But since Sync himself had never laid a hand on the Madame, and since it was Fete Week, when Sync came to her with apologies and hopes that she'd know someone to heal his face, she put him in the hands of the very woman who'd afflicted him, so that she could "set this poor man right."

  Thus Madame Bomba showed compassion and forgave a wrong in Fete Week, as the gods prescribed.

  Others, though, were not so mindful of the gods: Tempus lounged in the renovated bar's far corner, picking at the snowy linen on his table, dressed in his finest leopardskin and boar's-tooth helm, waiting for the witch to show, his sharkskin-hilted sword well-whetted, his Stepsons at the ready.

  Randal was sure the witch would come: he'd spun his globe and uttered phrases to assure it. He waited now, upstairs, his nose pressed to the oneway glass, a spell of "Seeing Through" invoked to pierce any wizardly disguise.

  Among the celebrants, Stepsons wandered, alert to any woman who might seem too interested in Niko, to any girl they hadn't seen before, to any unfamiliar courtesan or stately matron they didn't know.

  Bomba's was lit with paper lanterns; brightly colored streamers laced the beams. Pipers played and lutes were strummed and bell trees tinkled, carried on staves by Tysian boys approaching manhood, as youngsters who'd trade their wooden swords for iron in the morning said goodbye to childhood in the time-honored way.

  The Partha family had come downtown for the occasion. Old man Partha, in his patriarch's orange, matched Niko drink for drink, round for round, while the girl most Stepsons had wagered was the witch, comely Sauni, hovered near, refusing even Critias a dance to stay by Stealth.

  Her brother Grippa, among the youths who'd officially be men by morning, shook his bell tree at a dozen girls, racing up and down the stairs with one and then another, so that Crit remarked: "I don't care who he is, no man, let alone a stripling boy, can make that many dreams come true."

  Yet well on toward midnight, Grippa still was dragging girls upstairs and bringing them down dazed and smiling dumbly, while Niko sat, befuddled with wine, his chair tipped back against a freshly whitewashed wall, untroubled by any girl but Sauni.

  When the midnight chimes were struck and the celebration took the raucous tone of men and women chasing out the evils of the year gone by, Tempus forsook his watch and sought Randal, still alone, upstairs.

  "Life, Randal, how goes it?" Tempus had half expected to find his mage asleep, or dead by sorcery, or bewitched where he sat.

  But Randal was awake, on duty, and bleary-eyed. "Riddler, by all the Writ's power, there's something wrong here: she's in the room, but I can't tell which girl she is."

  "Maybe she didn't come; perhaps she suspects the trap." Tempus had convinced three mages to attend in deep disguise, to back up Randal should a battle of magics ensue. Everyone was briefed, and a concoction Cime guaranteed would subdue the witch if sprinkled on her had been doled out to the fighters as if it were poison for their arrows. Everyone was ready—everyone but the witch, it seemed.

  "Not a chance. Look here." Randal indicated his Nisibisi globe of power, spinning slowly on its stand: "See how bright the stones shine? See how it hums? Come close and you'll hear it. By these signs, she's here. I can't imagine why I can't tell where."

  Tempus, curious despite himself, approached the globe, which began to spark as he came near.

  Uh… Commander, my lord, that's close enough. It doesn't like you… that is," Randal tried to be polite, "it remembers the wizard war. Power pieces never forget a—"

  Randal broke off and pressed his nose against the glass. "By the Writ, that's it. She's not a she. That is, look here, Riddler—quickly! Drat and blast, I hope it's not too late!"

  "What's this?" Tempus grabbed the mage and shook him by the shoulder. "Too late? Speak plain, mageling!"

  But then he saw Niko, arm in arm with Grippa, Partha's son, headed toward the back door—whether to the drug dens below or the alleyways outside, Tempus couldn't tell.

  Even as Randal was gathering up the globe and telling him to: "Hurry! It's that boy! She's a boy, not a girl! Oh, hurry, Riddler, before it's too late!" Tempus was taking the stairs two at a time, headed for the rear door.

  "Get your mages, Randal, and Grit!" he called out over his shoulder. "Meet me around the back."

  As he ran, he drew his sharkskin-hilted sword, a blade that for years had slit the finest spell like silk and glowed pink with Vashanka's blessing. But without the Storm God's blessing, here in the north, it didn't glow at all; he wasn't sure what it could do against a witch.

  Pounding down the darkened back stairs, while somewhere out there Niko, drunk and terrorized by gods and magic, reeled right into the clu
tches of the witch, Tempus considered what had been, till then, unthinkable: with Vashanka gone, hiding or helpless, he had an option. By the Law of Consonance and in behalf of Niko, Tempus might make a bargain with Enlil.

  And as soon as he thought those thoughts, a rumbling began in his inner ear such as he hadn't heard since Fete Week last, in Sanctuary, when Vashanka had done battle in the sky, then disappeared.

  But it was not his familiar loved and hated Pillager who rustled in his head: this voice was deeper, the power older, the might of it enough to stop him in his tracks.

  "You called, blasphemer? You wish to go down on your bony knees, mortal? In extremis, My power and My glory, My battle and My fury, are not too frightful for thee?"

  "Listen, God, I need some help. I'll make a bargain with You—leave the boy untouched by Your Haughtiness, and I'll serve Thee for a year."

  Tempus wasn't on his knees yet, he was still standing; he didn't like the feel of this Enlil in his head. There was too much of the four-eyed, blazing Ravager, who'd begotten frightful battle before Vashanka had drawn a baby god's first breath, to make him comfortable. This god was already asking more than Tempus had thought to give.

  "Down on thy knees, then, creature; supplicate My Majesty. Then your battle will be terrible once more and your enemies grovel in blood up to their genitals. Wherever they go My ground will open up before them; My rain will blind them; the beasts of My fields and the predators of My mountains will gobble them up! They will know terror of Me and of thee, My servant, as you never dreamed when the boy-god Vashanka was thine—"

  "Hold, Enlil! The day I bend my knee to any god, especially one who treats a supplicant as You've treated poor, unknowing Niko, will be the day the moon eats up the sky! I called Thee forth to tell Thee what I think of Thee, who's done evil to Thine own faithful. Thou art a vicious god, and powerless, to let a paltry witch snatch a soul like Niko's from underneath Thy long and awful nose." He could see the god now, a shining manifestation on the staircase—a face with fanged mouth, a face from time's beginning, a face to swallow empires and make the ignorant bow down.