Beyond Wizardwall

by Janet Morris

  Kama took Critias through crowded streets full of strangers gathered for the games: natives of Uraete, Sivis, Altoch and Mygdonia (here under a flag of truce), sporting the intricate turbans that made the Rankan army call them Rag-heads, rubbed shoulders with athletes from Caronne and Azehur; dusky Ilsigs from as far south as Sanctuary reeled drunkenly down bunting-hung streets arm-in-arm with Machadi nationals; here and there the sibilances of Nisi mixed with the rolling r's of Grit's own mother-tongue, Syrese. There were even a few Bandaran initiates, here for the weaponry competition, their hands in their sleeves and their eyes downcast, their mystery surrounding them like guardians so that men gave them room unconsciously.

  Some gamers had their pets with them: hawks on padded shoulders, leopards on jeweled leashes, hunting dogs as big as ponies who bayed at the leopards who hissed at the hawks who screamed wild challenges into the crisp night air of winter's end.

  At the house Kama's mother had bequeathed her, she stopped, took a deep breath, and told the Syrese fighter whom she loved: "This where I live; it's been shut-up but it's safe inside—and empty. Come on."

  She slit a ward she'd bought from a friendly witch, untied her knot, keyed her lock, and opened the wrought iron gate doors wide. Her home was going to seem too rich to him; his impression of her as a woman of the armies might be canceled out by its opulence, its silk rugs, it silver mirrors.

  She lit oil panniers borne by agate lions, and in their light, she watched Crit reassess her: there was nothing else to do. Critias's patrician nose drew down with his frown: mercenaries disdained inherited wealth—most of them had turned their back on it, or been cheated out of it.

  He said, "Am I now supposed to call you 'my lady'? Or be impressed? Forgive near a year of lies?"

  She'd bought a charm this morning, a spell to pacify him if he'd drink a cup of wine with her. The flagon and the goblets were waiting, but she found she couldn't do it. She wanted Critias, but not that way.

  She said, "My mother earned all this. She was a leading courtesan, a confidant of politicians, a whore-mistress. I'm not proud of it, but I won't reject her legacy. Anyway, it's not what I have, but what I am, that ought to matter."

  "That's right," he said, the slap of his oxhide boots as loud as her heartbeat as he made a circuit of her front room, touching scrolls and tapestries, then came back to her again: "And you're a Rankan spy. I ought to denounce you to your father…"

  "Crit," said Kama, "give me a chance to explain…"

  "What's to explain? You've wormed your way into my confidence. I went against the Riddler's counsel, against orders, and took up with you. Now I know why he disapproved so. I'm feeling a little bit foolish. I should have known."

  She was afraid he was going to leave. She said: "There's no way I can prove to you that you're jumping to conclusions if you won't give me a chance." She unlatched her woolen cloak and let it fall, longing to touch him. But she had a job to do, interests to serve that were more important than her own.

  And he said, as she'd hoped he would: "Right. Then you explain. I'll listen."

  She told him she hadn't gone in Tyse in bad faith. "Theron's faction seeks to restore the empire, not destroy it. The Riddler's worked for him before. He knew what I was from the beginning," she half-lied, for god and country. "And now the coup's nearly a reality. Except…"

  "Except?" Arms crossed, he waited, chin tucked in, stern and unyielding.

  "Except that Niko's not… competent. I helped to choose him. I have to help find another."

  "Don't look at me—that's a suicide mission. We know all about it; we've known since Tyse."

  She hid her surprise. What, then, did he expect that she could tell him? She took a chance: "My father's said he'd find another, someone willing. But with the war god missing, and Abakithis's faction sworn to revenge their dead priests upon the Riddler, it might go awry. We need someone else, ready in the wings, prepared to step in if…"

  "So that's the point, then? Help you find an assassin? And that's the secret—that Abakithis plots against us? Any child could have guessed all this. Surely, you can do better than that."

  But she couldn't. She shrugged miserably, raised her eyes to him and said softly: "I'm a 3rd Commando first; I'm everything I said. I've never lied to you, just held back things. Crit… I love you. You have your duty and I've never questioned it—to my father, to Straton, to your Sacred Band. I've found room for my love in the cracks of your life and never pushed for more. Can't you do the same for me?"

  "Woman, if I heard you right, you're asking the Stepsons to involve themselves in treason. I can't allow that. Not my unit, especially when the coup's not sure…"

  "I trusted you with this." She stood up and they were eye to eye. "I wanted you to know, now—not find yourself tricked into something later."

  And that made Crit look away. "I know, Kama… but this thing can't go on, between us. I don't want to light your pyre or have to give your eulogy."

  He backed a pace. She followed. "I'll resign," she whispered. "From the 3rd, from everything… for you."

  She hadn't meant to say it. She didn't believe her own ears.

  But it must have been exactly the right thing to say and she thought the god must have prompted her, for he put his arms around her and held her close, unspeaking.

  Since it might be the last time, she was content with that. Recruiting Crit, whose honor was worth more to him than life itself, had been an assignment she'd half-known she couldn't carry out. A part of her was proud of him; a part wanted to be like him.

  But she had to do what she'd been ordered: alert him to the threat Abakithis posed; put the Stepsons on their guard; make sure that her enemy was theirs.

  When lie touched her throat, she put her hand on his swordbelt. When he whispered harshly, "We shouldn't do this. We ought to make a clean break," she hushed him.

  Perhaps it was because their love was doomed, but no man's touch had ever been so sweet to her.

  Afterward, when she shed tears, he didn't understand why. He consoled her, told her she wouldn't have to be dishonored; they'd find a way for her to resign from the 3rd and he'd induct her into his own task force.

  From that moment, Kama commanded Critias, Tempus's task force leader—and the coup, finally, was as sure as Kama's victory in the bard's contest at the Festival of Man.

  * 4 *

  Grippa formally became a Stepson on the second day of the games, the same day that Sauni's footrace was being held.

  Roxane had been horrified when she'd learned she was to be Randal's partner, but there was nothing to do but see the matter through to its conclusion.

  Out behind the red-lacquered Festival barracks, where Bashir's Successor team had pitched black tents rather than spend their nights inside, the pairing ritual took place with Bashir, not Tempus, presiding.

  This too was trouble: the warrior-priest of Free Nisibis looked at Grippa as if he were looking through the manly guise to Roxane underneath.

  Tempus was there, leopard-mantled as if going into battle, and Niko lay inside a black tent on a stretcher, where he could see the bonfire of the ceremony and all the Stepsons who attended, and the Riddler's sister Cime, in scale-armor and doeskin, knelt by Niko's side.

  Enjoying the hospitality of her enemies, with the mightiest of them watching her through narrowed eyes, shook the valor of even Nisibis' finest witch.

  Grippa's big hands were trembling as he took the cup of blood wine and he stumbled over the words that bound him to Randal as a Sacred Bander and a member of the Stepsons.

  Swearing to die, shoulder to shoulder, to never shirk or quail or run, to defend his partner's honor as his own and protect the hated First Hazard with Grippa's last breath was difficult in the extreme for Roxane.

  The oath of allegiance to Tempus was so foreign to her nature she could barely get the words out.

  But under Bashir's watchful eye she promised all in the name of a god she hated and a goddess she despised.

&nb
sp; When the blood wine was passed a second time, she could hardly bear to let it touch her lips. And as it did a rain began to fall from heaven that was black and greasy, full of pumice.

  It rained upon the bonfire and the flames there sputtered out. It rained upon the soldiers and they began to mutter restlessly among themselves.

  But the ritual was nearly over, the celebration to follow in the black tents about to start.

  Randal came forward for her to embrace him, and as he did the mageling cast aside his fur-lined cloak.

  And there, upon Randal's person, was the armor forged by Aŝkelon, entelechy of dreams. Its raised snakes and enameled demons seemed to writhe and hiss at her.

  She almost broke and ran: she was expected to embrace this Hazard, who wore armor that heated up in the presence of hostile magic.

  Grippa began to sweat as Randal advanced, one foot before the other at a ritual's slow pace with his arms outstretched, a strained but welcoming smile upon his freckled face as the grimy rain streaked down it.

  Should she refuse to embrace the wizard, all her effort would be lost. And there were too many forces here—Tempus, Cime, Bashir, the Storm God's priest—to chance being unmasked there and then.

  She knew it was going to hurt her; she could see the armor heating up.

  Bracing Grippa's flesh for the searing contact, she went to hug the wizard, all her skill marshalled to make sure Grippa wouldn't faint, or blister, or even burn. The rain, heavier now, was oily, greasy, unnatural as the meeting of two hostile magics before the eyes of men.

  Then Randal's arms enfolded Grippa and there was a hiss as Grippa's skin began to sear.

  Fighting the pain and spelling furiously, Roxane protected the flesh which was her flesh, the bone which was her home, from the conjured panoply of the entelechy of dreams.

  Anguish rippled through her in waves as she took the damage to her inner person to avoid the boy whose shape she shared being marked as a witch before so many onlookers.

  And Randal, who surely knew what was happening, said not one word about it, but just hugged her tight, mouthing ritual welcoming phrases, until she couldn't stand the pain, and stumbled backward.

  Weaving momentarily on her feet, she caught herself, then straightened; in an instant, the raw, blistered skin no one could be sure they'd seen was gone, replaced by smooth and youthful flesh as Grippa ought to have.

  The crowd broke into a half-hearted cheer, some squinting at the sky, and hurried into the celebration tent.

  Sauni came running up, threw her arms around Grippa's neck, and wailed, "Oh, it's awful—what a heinous omen, what a shame."

  And Randal was standing right there, just watching Grippa, when Roxane made the boy say: "What do you mean?"

  "My event—it might be canceled. A pox on whatever's brought this rain."

  "It won't be, Sauni, never fear," said Randal. "And my rightman will be there to cheer you on." Then the mage turned to Grippa, an evil twinkle in his eye as he picked dry film like sunbaked snakeskin from his armor: "Coming, Stepson? It's your party you're missing."

  Roxane had no alternative but to follow Randal, Sauni hanging on him, chattering as she went, not realizing the pain she caused flesh which looked unmarred, but really was burned deep.

  Inside the tent, the revel lasted well past the trumpet calling contestants to their first events. Men came up and congratulated Grippa with hearty slaps upon the back and the foul jokes.

  Cime and the Riddler, together, wished Grippa well and drifted back into the crowd. Bashir was the only one who kept his distance, and Roxane was relieved at this one small favor from the lords of hell. When Sauni's event was called, Grippa hurried to his sister. "Let's go. You can't be late. You didn't eat or drink too much, did you, sister dear?" And the brainless receptacle of the god's child said, "Oh, no. I wouldn't do that. I'll just kiss Niko…"

  And off she went, fluttering like a butterfly from Niko to the Riddler, to the Stepson Gayle who'd become her bodyguard, and back.

  Outside the tent, the rain had stopped, leaving the ground treacherous and slick.

  But this was the moment Roxane had been waiting for: Randal was otherwise engaged; his stolen globe of power, a rightful Nisibisi heirloom, was snug in his barracks.

  When Sauni, with a final peck on Grippa's cheek, trotted to the starting line, Grippa edged backward against the press of the crowd.

  And then, free of it, she turned to trot back to the barracks.

  "Forgotten something?" came a tenor voice beside her as she reached its door.

  It was Randal's voice. The scrawny mage, spiteful and smug, stood on the threshold, an oilskin cloak held out.

  "I was just… looking for that, Ran— left-side leader," Grippa said.

  "That, rightman, is what a partner's for," said Randal, and tossed the cloak to Grippa. "Hurry now, rightman, or we'll miss your sister's contest." She almost hissed; she nearly cast a spell to char the wizard where he gloated: he knew who and what she was, she had no doubt.

  But two could play this game. The globe was there, she could feel it, waiting for her to reclaim it. And tomorrow was another day.

  Tonight she'd meditate on a fate fit for a First Hazard, and contemplate how well she'd feel when Randal's soul was on her plate.

  * 5 *

  Bashir had chanced upon a Bandaran master on the Rankan Street of Temples. Bashir had come into town to lay a sacrifice before Vashanka, the Rankan equivalent of Enlil.

  What the Bandaran, a secular adept, was doing here, he couldn't say. Bandara wasn't threatened by renegade wizards looking to reclaim their mountain home, or the godless Mygdonians fomenting revolution and training troops for spring assaults. Nor was Ranke an enemy of Bandara: the island chain was independent, uncontested, a place of elder gods and spiritual wealth.

  The two fell in together naturally, once Bashir had said, "What brings a teacher to the Street of Students?"

  The Bandaran, a man easily fifty, looked calmly up at him. "A priest's question from a fighting man? Perhaps it's you I seek then," his sea-change gaze serene and introspective.

  "Perhaps," Bashir agreed. "I've long wondered about the relationship of the elder gods to the islands of human mystery. I have a friend who trained there…"

  "You do." The Bandaran, barefoot, paced Bashir as they passed Vashanka's state-cult temple. It wasn't a question, but an affirmation. "Then you are just the man I'd hoped to meet. Could your friend be a full initiate of maat, a worthy soul called Nikodemos?"

  "Shrivel me, that's Stealth, all right!" Bashir clapped the Bandaran on the back and felt muscle like a bull beneath. "You know him, then?"

  "We've met. I hoped he'd be here himself. We… want to tender him an invitation."

  "You do?" Bashir's natural caution was aroused.

  "Well, I'll take a message to him. I'd heard that he was cast out of Bandara in disgrace. He's a favorite of Enlil, you know—you do respect the elder gods, you men who vie with the lesser ones."

  Tell him that his master died, when a boat with rainbow sails came back. And tell him that on his deathbed the sun shone and the teacher wished to see his student."

  Bashir knew that something serious was being entrusted to him, a message more important than it appeared. He could feel the god, restless inside him, as Enlil listened through his ears. "Anything more—a name? Yours? The dead adept's?"

  "My name is unimportant," said the sea-eyed Bandaran. "But Nikodemos's is not. Is the student well?"

  Bashir considered lying: Niko was the god's now, not the property of any mind-reading plane-climbers who fooled with powers men shouldn't covet. But he didn't; he could feel the spirit animating this Bandaran master, and it was strong.

  Bashir said honestly, "He's beset by demons, witches, even the entelechy of dreams. He's been ill; he's healing slowly."

  The Bandaran nodded again as if this, too, were no surprise. "A purge. We sensed it. When one of us suffers, all know it. He should know that his teacher asked for him
—by name."

  They were on the corner of a main thoroughfare; there was a Rankan alehouse near. "Let's get a drink, friend Bandaran. Then you can tell me what all this means. I'm Bashir, priest of Enlil, warlord of the Successors, keeper of Wizardwall and Father of Free Nisibis. Any message for my blood brother, Nikodemos, is safe with me."

  But the Bandaran declined to drink, saying: "If there's a response, you can find me with my delegation. If it pleases you, we'll meditate upon Niko's swift recovery…"

  It was definitely a petition for permission. Bashir said, a bit uncomfortably, "Whatever Niko's fate, it's in the god's hands. But meditate all you will."

  "We'll do that," said the Bandaran, his beatific smile beaming in the torchlight. "Farewell, priest. And luck to you in your event."

  Watching the Bandaran disappear into the crowd, Bashir reflected that he hadn't told the adept he was competing. But then, it was a natural assumption, given Bashir's fighting stature and his god's love for arms, he told himself.

  It wasn't until much later that he returned to the Festival grounds; he'd drunk off his disquiet at all this Rankan might and met Straton, who was entered in the boxing tomorrow, calming his nerves in a drug parlor.

  Together they lurched into the Festival village an hour before the dawn.

  "Take this, Strat, lest someone see you snookered." Bashir held out a little box of pulcis, shared it with Straton, and then, as the drug knifed through to clear his brain, remembered the Bandaran he'd chanced to meet.

  "Bless you, Bashir," Strat called out, stumbling on the stairs to the Stepsons' barracks, "and your god in my god's name." Strat paused, retched on the lacquered balcony, and with exaggerated poise, shouldered his way inside.

  Bashir heard a crash, then some curses as he walked away.

  Niko was billeted with the Riddler and his sister, in the team leaders' houses away from the raucous contestants.

  With a squint at the lightening sky, Bashir decided that it might not be too late to look in on Niko, and knocked on the Riddler's door.