by Janet Morris
"You fighters." Randal swung around and glared at Niko. "Everything's so pat, so easy—a woman's raped, and she's consecrated to the gods. A man's heart is torn apart, and it's fine… just what's needed. Oaths are sworn and broken and none of you—"
"Randal, we've had some good times. Don't do this," Niko warned. "Don't judge me. You, a mageguild Hazard, who ought never to have taken up with fighters in the first place, shouldn't talk to anyone about oaths broken or fit behavior. How many spells have you cast that were benign? How many lives have you ruined with the taint of magic? Didn't you break every law of man and god and devil to ride with us and claim that Nisibisi globe of—
"It's gone," Randal blurted. "She's got it. She came and took it back."
"She?" Niko was suddenly cold. "She's here?"
"We… didn't want to tell you. What good would it have done?" Randal was peevish, angry, striking back. "But since once you were my partner, I'll warn you—she's about, is Roxane, and she'll lurk and work her evil wherever you are, probably until you're dead. So you see, former leftman, you might need me sometime…"
Randal shot to his feet and, face averted once more, swept toward the door in a flurry of lacy mageguild robes.
"And where will I find you, if that's the case?" Niko said as gently as he could. "In the Tysian mageguild?"
Back still turned, Randal stopped, his hand on the door-latch. "I keep my word. I've sent my request for an extended sabbatical up to Tyse—it's that or resignation. The Riddler, unlike you, thinks he needs me. I'm going on a special mission."
"Where? When?" Niko almost went to the little mage and put his arms around him. But that, Randal might have misconstrued. Helplessly, Niko peered through the gloom at the mage who couldn't even face him, who'd kept from him the news that Roxane was on the Festival grounds, and who knew what else?
Randal's response was brusque. "I can't tell you that. If the Riddler wants you to know, he'll tell you. As for when—soon. This may well be goodbye, Stealth." Then Randal glanced over his shoulder and Niko thought he saw a reddened nose, trembling lips, the glint of tears: "No matter what happens, Stealth—Niko—I'll never, ever, forget you. You've changed my life."
Then in a rush the mage was gone, slamming the door behind him.
Niko lay back, staring at the now-familiar ceiling. Randal on a secret mission? Roxane here? He didn't know which news bothered him more.
But then he realized that what bothered him the most was that his new partner, Tempus, hadn't told him. Tempus had kept secrets from Niko in the past, but then they hadn't been paired. Pairing brought with it mutual responsibility. The Riddler might treat a Stepson thus, but a right-side partner could expect better from his leftman.
In the morning, Niko thought, he'd confront his left-side leader and find out what had been going on while he'd been bedridden. He was well enough now.
Tomorrow he'd get dressed, go outside, watch the games, and reenter the fellowship so long denied him—he wanted to be among his Sacred Band when Kama told her tale, and celebrate with the winners. It was his right, even if Cime kept insisting that no man so soon returned from death's door had any rights whatever.
Perhaps, if he went among the crowd, he'd meet a Bandaran and confirm what Bashir had told him— that Niko's name was no longer forgotten among the islands where he'd trained.
He closed his eyes, not to sleep, just to envision the Bandaran islands in their veil of mist, marvelous Ennina jutting out from the sea, her pines whispering and her gravel raked and smooth, the sparkling waves lapping her coastline…
Something touched him, soft as a bird's wing; warm breath tickled his neck.
He opened his eyes and there was his dream girl, solemn-eyed and glowing softly in the candlelight—Cybele. But since he must have fallen asleep dreaming about Ennina, he didn't worry about it.
Her hand on him was cool and nothing that felt so good could possibly be bad, even if Randal was right and Roxane lurked close by. Cybele was a witch and Roxane was a witch and though they might be the same witch, it was only a dream, a dream in which no witch would do him harm.
* 11 *
Crit and Kama, the same night, went into Ranke. She thought it was to tryst in her ancestral home and to twist Critias to her will in the matter of the coming assassination.
Crit knew it, but he had other things on his mind. He took her to an uptown bar and proceeded to get as drunk as he could manage.
When he'd borrowed what courage he could from wine, he mustered enough bravado to say: "I need your help, Commando—help without question."
Kama could drink most men under their horses. She peered into her wineglass, then stared around the barroom, where gamers and foreigners from all over empire drank and watched a pair of dancers wax erotic with long-haired monkeys: Rankan entertainment hadn't changed while she'd been upcountry.
A house-slave served them warily: any Rankan slave, eunuch or girl, lived in peril. And here, where the drunks were rich and their tastes eclectic, any night of work might be their last.
When the girl was gone, Kama said, "Out with it, Crit. Or shall I guess—your commander's forbidden you to even look on me and I'm to poke out both your eyes? You've quit the Stepsons, dissolved yoiur pairbond, and want an honest post in the 3rd as my—"
""Kama, this is serious."
"You think I'm not?"
"Strat can't win his match tomorrow."
"Ah, you want to place a surreptitious bet? No problem," she waved a hand magnanimously. "I cam arrange it without any of the Stepsons knowing you've come to your senses and realized Syncy's going to make Straton eat enough dirt to fill his—"
Syncy? Kama was drunk. "Kama, look at me."
She did, blinking owlishly.
"How drunk are you? Do you remember that conversation we had—about the fate of empire?"
She scowled: "Of course." She brushed an errant curl out of her eyes. "I'm not that drunk, only trying to get you drunk enough to take you home and tumble—"
"Strat can't win his match tomorrow," he said again, slowly, precisely.
She stirred her wine with a finger. "Yes. Of comrse. I see. You don't want to leave it to the gods." Solemnly, she waggled the finger at him. "Sync will probably win anyway, but this smells of my father's intervention." She hitched herself up, put her chin in her fists. "Let's see, isn't that some sort of mortal sin—a left-side leader conspiring to— Ouch!"
Crit, having kicked her under the table, said levelly, "We've got to find a way to assure it. I'll worry about my immortal soul, you worry about yoiur friends Brachis and—"
It was her turn to hush him. "I understand, Crit, what you're saying. Now let's see… You wouldn't settle for Strat having an accident… a broken wrist, even a finger would do the— No, I see you wouldn't." Kama was intrigued, her expression mischievous, her nostrils flaring as she suggested vicious but not fatal ways to keep Straton from entering the ring.
Watching her, for the first time Crit wondered how he ever could have imagined her feminine and soft. But then, they'd never shared a covert enterprise together. She was so much her father's daughter in that moment that she seemed inhuman. He found himself wishing he'd taken the Riddler's advice.
When she'd agreed to help him lure Straton out and administer a drug to make him slow and weak on the morrow, she laughed girlishly and said: "Don't get any ideas about doing this to me—I've got the bard's contest, you'll remember. And I expect you to be there to give me moral—well, that isn't quite the right word, is it?—let's say, spiritual support."
They rode out to the Festival village once Kama had stopped by a chemist attached to the Rankan army; while there, she'd pulled rank as shamelessly as any man he'd ever seen bully a subordinate.
And when, arm in arm with Straton, they sashayed through the makeshift village streets to "toast your prowess, and your luck," as Kama said, Crit left the talking to this woman who seemed suddenly like a soulless manipulator and not the girl he'd loved.
She poured the packet in Strat's drink so neatly that no one not informed before the fact would have noticed.
Strat drank the mug down, on her challenge, in one deep draught.
Crit squeezed his eyes shut, thinking it was all »or the good of empire… or at least it was for Tempus, which had to be the same thing. Stepsons follow orders.
Once the deed was done, Kama excused herself: "Well, loves, I'm off to find Sync. It's only fair to wish my unit leader all the luck I've wished his opponent."
When she left them, Strat was already beginning to sway and shake his head.
Half-carrying his rightman back to their billet, Crit told himself that he was lucky he'd seen this side of Kama so early—while he still had time enough to break away.
Strat, who deserved better, was going to need him badly in the morning and thereafter.
Levering the huge, snoring Stepson onto his cot, Crit promised himself that if any permanent ill befell Straton because of the drug Kama had administered, he'd collect from the Riddler's daughter in kind.
* 12 *
Randal drove the hell-wheeled chariot out to the highest hill above the Festival grounds at dawn.
The sable horses pulled on their bits until his arms ached in their sockets and he wrapped the reins around his wrists to hold them.
The sunrise was purple, red, and gold; it slit the night like rents, spilling through the clouds in rays.
And from the east, out of the sun, a dark shape came walking toward him, rainbow-hued around its edges, manlike but seemingly twice the size of any man.
Seeing it, the horses slowed to a walk and snorted as they approached their master, Aŝkelon, the lord of dreams.
"Is she here, apprentice?" Aŝkelon said while still a dark shape with light glittering through the foxfur of his robe.
"They're both here—the witch Roxane and the Riddler's sister." Chilled and nervous, Randal fum-bled with the bracers, set the chariot's brakes, and stepped down, handing the reins to Aŝkelon.
"Thank you, Randal. Well done. I trust the globe of Nisibisi power serves you well?"
"I… ah… I lost it. Or, that is, she took it. It's hers, after all—I don't really want it. Or need it— I've got power enough, without it, to be an adept who travels with the armies." Aŝkelon hadn't known—he wasn't omniscient, then, wasn't perfect. Somehow, this made Randal feel better.
Aŝkelon, without a word, stepped up into the chariot and released its brakes. The horses snorted; the lead horse pawed the ground. A team they were, like a Sacred Band team, trained to pull together, each with his job to do, not contesting, but coexisting and cooperating for the good of both.
As the horses surged forward, Randal raised a hand in farewell, relieved. He hadn't expected to ride down onto the Festival grounds with Aŝkelon— hadn't wanted to, truth be known.
But the dream lord swung the team around and drove the chariot back, encircling Randal once, twice, then saying: "Do you wish to be relieved of your apprenticeship, young master mage? Have you learned enough to suit you?"
"It's not that, you see, Regent… it's—well, yes, I do. It's causing me no end of trouble, being yours. The dream realm isn't… here, you see—I have to be.
Aŝkelon raised his palm toward the sunrise, cupped light in his hand, and spilled it down on Randal's head. "You're free, but not rejected, adept. Any time you need me, dream of me."
And he was gone to wreak his havoc upon the Riddler's sister, or work his will upon the unsuspecting throng, or whatever lords of dream and shadow did when they walked in the world of men.
A sharp pang of guilt shot through Randal, for making it possible for Aŝkelon to manifest in the world without even the warning of wizard weather, the disturbance of the planes that preceded him, most times.
Randal knew the Riddler wanted him to undertake a special mission; what kind, the Riddler hadn't said. And he was to prepare for it by the means a wizard uses to purify himself. Even if reneging on his apprenticeship to Aŝkelon meant that his allergies might return, he felt cleansed already.
But considering that he had a witch for a right-side partner, Randal still had quite a bit to do before he could tell the Riddler he was ready.
* 13 *
Niko was up early and out at the sand ring in the morning with Grippa and Sauni—early enough to see Sync win the boxing match and see Crit and Kama have some sort of lover's quarrel.
The match was over almost as soon as it began: Strat wasn't himself, some Stepsons growled afterward; Sync landed a decisive blow straightaway, the 3rd Commando Rangers insisted.
If Niko hadn't known better, he'd have thought some witch or god was at the root of Straton's loss. But Crit helped his partner from the ring and the Sacred Band pairs crowded around the loser, as loving in defeat as they'd have been in victory.
Niko, leaning on Grippa for support, told the boy: "That's what it's all about. Not performance, but endurance; not pride, but loyalty," and went to join the defeat celebration, taking Grippa, but not Sauni, with him. "Sauni, that much blood and sweat aren't fitting for a woman to see. Go find Bashir, or Kama. I'll meet you at Kama's event at sunset."
Sauni was quieter since the hostage-taking; she'd learned that life was not always so beautiful or so kind as it had been when Partha's estate comprised her world. "If you say so, Stealth," she answered in a melancholy way.
"That's right," Grippa preened. "He says so. And don't try to make us feel guilty, either. This is men's business—no place for a girl."
Some remnant of the fiery Sauni Niko once had known remained; she drew herself up tall: "Don't you talk to me that way, you nasty boy. I'm a priestess of Enlil and I can bring His wrath down upon you—like that." She snapped her fingers under Grippa's nose. "Remember what happened to those who dared violate my person—they're all suffering for it eternally in hell—and draw your own conclusions, brother!"
"Stop it, both of you. Sauni, that's close to sacrilege. Grippa, she's right—you should have more respect for a vessel of the gods." Niko, between brother and sister, wished he didn't feel in some way responsible for them both.
But Sauni flounced off, then, and as he and Grippa joined the Stepsons, while Niko was trying to explain that women cleaved to gods when men displeased them, Grippa held out something in his hand.
"What's this?" Niko took his arm from the boy's shoulders and stood unsupported.
"It's yours, isn't it?" Grippa seemed almost coy as he offered the amulet in his palm—a bit of hair, a shard of bone. "I found it in the city, on the Street of Temples, yesterday."
And indeed, it looked like the very amulet that Grippa had given Niko out at Partha's stone house that day in Tyse.
"You keep it, pud—a family heirloom works for the family to whom it belongs. If you'd had it, perhaps Sauni wouldn't be so much the priestess as she is now."
Grippa was crestfallen, but Stealth insisted. "Come on, let's find your partner and help Straton drink away his loss."
"Randall" Grippa's face fell, then he pouted. "I don't want to drink with him—he hates me. I'm a burden. He never wanted to be my—"
"Hush. He's your left-side leader. He deserves honor from you, respect."
"But it's true, he—"
Niko would hear no more of that and, with Grippa, joined the fellowship of his peers, who needed help in cheering up Crit, though Strat was taking his loss with wry good humor.
Hours later, well plied with drink, Strat was still wondering how it was that he never even saw Sync's first punch coming, when Randal came to remind Niko that Kama's event was about to start.
Grippa and Randal eyed each other with such obvious distaste that Niko pulled the mage aside as they were heading toward the little stage where the bards, in torchlight, would contest.
"That's no way to treat your rightman, Randal. You know better than to let personal matters between us intrude upon your oath. Grippa's well-meaning, harmless—just a boy."
"You're wrong, Stealth," Randal said harshly. Dres
sed in Nisibisi freeman's mottled grab, the mage looked more like a guerrilla than a sorcerer; in fact, Randal's tone of voice and stance were so fierce that Niko looked at him askance.
"Wrong? What do you mean?"
"Wrong. And if you can't imagine what I mean, then it's not time for you to know," Randal retorted portentously, then added: "Don't worry, Stealth. We'll take care of things—the Riddler and I. You just regain your health."
Grippa was waiting at a polite distance, watching them.
"Well, when it is time for me to know, I expect you to tell me what's going on here. Right now, let's not make the boy feel any worse than he does already."
"I… can't… go with you, Niko. And I really can't explain. You'll see… things will work out." And the little mage put a commiserating hand on Niko's shoulder as if comforting a troubled child.
Rather than start an argument, Niko walked away. His temper, when aroused, was hard to hold; he didn't want to fight with Randal. If the Hazard was deceptive, it was just the nature of his kind. And it was the Riddler, more than Randal, who'd been keeping things from Niko—Tempus, who demanded unqualified, uninformed loyalty without giving back in kind.
On the slow walk through the crowd of Festival onlookers and contestants to the bard's stage, Niko brooded. In his stomach was a hollowness that came from knowing that by omission he'd been betrayed. Niko still loved Tempus the way a Stepson should love his commander, and a rightman his left-side leader, and yet his faith in Tempus was shaken. Perhaps his valor was, too. Right now, he was feeling fragile, afraid of something nameless, a spectre that might not even exist except in Randal's mind.
And whenever he encountered the witch in his dreams, she didn't seem evil to him. In daylight, this frightened him as much as Randal's innuendo.
So when Grippa and he chanced across a shaven-headed Bandaran as they entered the wooden stands set aside for the bard's contest, Niko introduced himself: "I'm Stealth, called Nikodemos, friend Bandaran. May I speak to you?"
The Bandaran stared at Niko, then at Grippa, and his sea-changed eyes grew hard. But he nodded and said, with ritual precision, "Nikodemos. I know the name. Greetings from us all."
