Startled, the woman answered, “My name is Karanissa of the Mountains,” she said.
“And you aren’t helping Teneria; why not?”
“Because she doesn’t need help,” Karanissa said. “I would if she wanted me to; I was going to try it myself, but Teneria thought...”
She was interrupted by Arl’s lunge—and his falling headlong on the marble floor, as Pharea dodged neatly and drew the Black Dagger. Before anyone else could react, the false servant grabbed Arl by the hair and stood over him with the knife to his throat.
“It’s not that easy,” Pharea said to Tabaea. “I’ve got the dagger, and I’m keeping it. And I’ll use it to defend myself if I need to.”
Tabaea frowned. “You think you can handle all my followers so easily?”
Pharea smiled grimly. “Why not?” she asked. “You handled the city guard. And they’re on our side, too, by the way—Lord Torrut is still in command, and only a few dozen men deserted or went over to you.”
Tabaea stared at Pharea, trying to decide if that was a bluff. Hadn’t Lord Torrut fled with the others, sailed off to wherever they all went? “Who are you, anyway?” she demanded, stalling for time to think. “You’re no magician, so far as I can see, and you don’t look like a soldier.”
The woman Tabaea called Pharea smiled an unpleasant smile. “I’m Lady Sarai,” she said. “Minister of Investigation and Acting Minister of Justice to Ederd the Fourth, overlord of Eth-shar.”
“Ederd’s not the overlord anymore,” Tabaea replied angrily. “I’m empressl” She tried to hide how much she was shaken by the discovery that she was facing Lord Kalthon’s daughter; for all her life until the last few sixnights, Tabaea had lived in terror of the Minister of Justice, and for the last few months of that time Lady Sarai had been feared, as well. Tabaea had tried to dismiss her as a harmless girl, but here was that harmless girl, in her own throne room, holding the Black Dagger.
“You’re Tabaea the Thief,” Sarai said. “Four years ago you stole a spell from Serem the Wise, but it came out wrong and made this dagger I’m holding. For a long time you didn’t do anything with it—maybe you didn’t know what it did—but then you killed Inza the Apprentice, and Serem the Wise, and Kelder of Quarter Street, and others. And when the guards came to arrest you for those murders, you declared yourself empress, and used the knife’s magic to occupy the palace.”
“I am the empress!” Tabaea insisted. “I rule the city—the old guards don’t dare show their faces, and the overlord and his family all fled before me!”
“But that,” Sarai said, holding up the dagger, “was when you had this.”
“And I’ll have it again! Give it back to me!”
Outrageously, mockingly, Sarai laughed. She dared to laugh at the empress of Ethshar!
Moving faster than humanly possible, Tabaea lunged for Sarai, intending to snatch the knife away from her.
Moving faster than humanly possible, Sarai dodged, flinging Arl aside, and spun to face Tabaea again, with the enchanted knife raised and ready.
“Think a minute, Tabaea,” the noblewoman said. “We both have stolen lives and stolen talents—but I have the dagger. If you stab me, I lose a life—but if I stab you, you not only lose a life, I gain one. And maybe, you know, maybe this dagger will take more than one at a time. Maybe I only have to kill you once.”
Tabaea, hearing this, started to turn, then stopped herself. No ordinary enemy would have seen the tiny little twitch, but Sarai saw it.
“And yes, you’re right; I’m not a witch nor a warlock,” the overlord’s Minister of Investigation said. Then she pointed with the dagger to her companions, and added, “But they are, over there, and they’re on my side.”
Tabaea glanced at Arl—but there was no need for Sarai to say a word about the rat-faced little chancellor; he was crawling away from both women, heading for the stairs, obviously wanting only to be out of sight.
But Sarai hadn’t cut his throat when she had the chance, when Tabaea had attacked; Lord Kalthon’s daughter was apparently not as bloodthirsty as her father was said to be.
“Are you planning to kill me?” Tabaea demanded.
Sarai blinked, catlike and quick. “I suppose we ought to,” she said. Tabaea thought she sounded almost startled, not at the question, but at her own reply. “After all, you’re a murderer. But there were some exceptional circumstances here, and I think my father and I, acting in the overlord’s behalf, would accept a plea for mercy and commute the sentence to exile from the city—if you surrender now and don’t force us to do any more damage to depose you.”
“You think,” Tabaea said. “And what if I don’t surrender, then? I’ve seen you move—you’re fast, all right, and yes, you have the dagger, but I think I’m still faster and stronger. Your magicians and I cancel each other out. Are you ready to take me on and try to kill me, here and now?”
“Oh, no,” Sarai said, smiling again. “I don’t have to. All I have to do is get us all out of here alive, and I think I can manage that much. And after that, we’ll let the wizards and the demon-ologists try out their spells on you—now that you don’t have the Black Dagger. Or maybe we’ll just wait.”
“Wait for what?” Tabaea demanded, shaken by the woman’s confidence and the threat of demons and wizardry. She could still counter witchcraft, since she had the talent and more raw vitality than any three normal witches; she could still counter warlockry because of the inherent limits on every warlock; but without the dagger she had no defense against other magicks.
“For the Seething Death to get you,” Sarai replied, pointing to the pool of wizard-stuff. “True, it didn’t get you immediately, but it will keep spreading until it does—unless we use the countercharm to stop it.”
Disconcerted, Tabaea turned to stare at the puddle—and the instant she did, the two witches and the unhurt warlock dashed for the stairs. The assassin, still unconscious, sailed along behind them, unsupported through the air—his fellow warlock was doing that, Tabaea sensed.
She let them go. This was between Sarai and herself, now. Sarai seemed very sure of herself—but was she really? The sight of the fleeing witches reminded Tabaea of her own witchcraft—she had so many choices now, so many things she could do, that there were times when she forgot some of them. “That stufF is going to go on spreading?” she asked. “That’s right,” Sarai said—but Tabaea, witch-senses alert, knew that was a half truth. Sarai was hiding something. “Until it kills me? It’s after me, specifically?” “That’s right,” Sarai said—but this time it was a lie, Tabaea knew.
“Unless you use the countercharm?” “A wizard working for us,” Sarai said, “not me.” And that was a lie, too. It was all lies and tricks.
Except, perhaps, the part about using wizardry to kill her. Tabaea was between Sarai and the nearest staircase; the other exits were far across the throne room. Sarai was fast, but Tabaea thought she was faster. Sarai had the Black Dagger—and Tabaea needed it. Only the dagger could guard her against wizards.
She had killed a Guildmaster; even if Lord Kalthon gave her mercy, the Wizards’ Guild never would. She knew that. They hadn’t killed her yet—but Tabaea remembered when Sarai had first shown the dagger. The other magicians had been surprised. The Wizards’ Guild must not have known about the theft, either. And only the fact that they didn’t know Lady Sarai had gotten the Black Dagger away from her had kept Tabaea alive this long, she was suddenly certain.
She might lose a fight with Lady Sarai, but at least she’d have a chance; if she didn’t get the dagger back, she was as good as dead.
She lunged.
CHAPTER 39
Oarai had watched from the stairs as Teneria worked at her healing and had watched as the Seething Death dissolved the bowl Tabaea had used to cover it, had seen and smelled that Tabaea was on the ragged edge of panic, and had realized that the situation was critical.
Tabaea had to be removed, and the Seething Death had to be stopped.
The wizards could handle Tabaea now, once they knew the dagger was gone; all Sarai had to do was to tell Tobas, or even just Karanissa or Teneria, that she had stolen the Black Dagger.
Stopping the Seething Death wouldn’t be so easy.
Or would it? The Black Dagger negated most wizardry; would it be able to stop the Seething Death?
That was something to think about, maybe something to try if Tabaea ever left the room—but at that thought, something occurred to Sarai that she should, she told herself, have considered sooner: Bringing the Black Dagger so close to Tabaea might have been a foolish risk to take. If the self-proclaimed empress were to realize that the knife was there...
Just then, Tabaea demanded, “Art, bring those people in here.”
The funny little man who was acting as Tabaea’s majordomo looked up. “What people, Your Majesty?” he asked.
“Those people on the stairs.” Tabaea waved for them to come forward, and said, “You, all of you—come closer.”
Sarai cursed herself for getting into this dangerous a position. She should have slipped away while she had the chance, gone to the Guildhouse, and told them everything.
“Line up,” Tabaea ordered. Then she turned and shouted at Teneria, “Go on healing him!”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Teneria replied. Tabaea pointed at Karanissa. “You,” she said, “get over there.” She ordered Vengar to the dais, as well.
And then she turned back and pointed directly at Sarai and said, “And you, Pharea.”
For an instant, Sarai froze; how had Tabaea recognized her? “Pharea” had had a different face.
But then she realized what had given it away, what must have given it away: her scent.
She should have known; after all, she could now recognize the odor of anyone she had been near herself, and Tabaea had killed not just one dog, but several.
The method didn’t really matter, though; all that mattered was that Sarai had been spotted.
But of course, Tabaea didn’t know everything; she didn’t know who “Pharea” was, didn’t know everything that was going on. She couldn’t. She had magic, she had superhuman senses, but she wasn’t omniscient. If Sarai let Tabaea control events now, that might ruin everything. Tabaea might take the dagger back, she might kill Thurin and Teneria and Karanissa and Vengar, and she might let the Seething Death spread unchecked; Sarai hoped that if it was dealt with while it was still small the spell could be stopped.
She didn’t dare let Tabaea tell her what to do—but what choice did she have?
She had to bluff. She had had four years of practice in talking information out of people; maybe she could talk Tabaea into giving herself up. And what choice did she have?
“I don’t think so,” Sarai said, as confidently as she could. She let her hand fall to the hilt of the Black Dagger.
It seemed to go well at first; she dodged Tabaea’s first attack, removing whatever threat Art might pose. A moment later, the distracted would-be empress let the four magicians escape.
And it all seemed to be working, right up until Tabaea dove at her.
Sarai just barely dodged; she had not been ready for it this time, as she had before. And the little empress looked so small and harmless—it was hard to remember that she had torn men apart with her bare hands.
Tabaea whirled and struck again, and again Sarai dodged. She couldn’t keep this up, though, and she didn’t dare actually fight; Tabaea was much faster, vastly more powerful, and had her magic, as well. Sarai had to escape, to get away—and even that would be difficult. She remembered the assassins Tabaea had run down and butchered. She had to do something they hadn’t, something unexpected—but what?
Lord Torrut had mentioned a trick once, when he and Captain Tikri had been joking with each other; Tabaea came at Sarai again, and she tried it, putting her hands on Tabaea’s shoulders and vaulting over her head.
If the throne room had had a normal ceiling, it would never have worked, but there under the great dome, with cat-reflexes and her augmented strength, the move sent Sarai sailing a dozen feet through the air. She landed, catlike, on her feet, and immediately sprinted for the stairs most nearly straight ahead, which happened to be the right-hand set as seen from the dais. Tabaea needed a second or two to whirl on one toe and set out in pursuit, but she closed much faster than Sarai liked. At the very brink, Sarai dodged sideways and ran along the throne-room wall toward the rear stairs.
Tabaea was unable to stop until she was four or five steps down; Sarai had gained at least a second this time.
As she ran along the side of the throne room, Sarai’s feet stirred through the trash that had accumulated during Tabaea’s reign; she took a fraction of a second from her narrow lead to stoop and scoop up a handful of garbage. She flung it over her shoulder, in Tabaea’s face. The empress screamed with anger as a chicken bone hit her in the eye, but she hardly slowed at all. As she neared the corner, wondering why Tabaea had not cut diagonally across the room to head her off, Sarai scooped up more debris; this time she tossed it, not at Tabaea, but at the Seething Death.
Trash rattled and skittered across the stone floor—and then some of it skidded into the Death, and dissolved with a loud hiss and a billow of stinking white vapor.
Startled, Tabaea turned, and stumbled, then caught herself— but by then Sarai was on the stairs, descending in four-step leaps, constantly on the verge of tumbling headlong.
At the foot of the stairs she turned left, ignoring the broad straightaway directly ahead; she wanted to get back to Tobas and his wagon, in hopes that he would be able to help. Besides, there were fewer people in the way by this route; that long southeast corridor had several dozen of Tabaea’s “guests” scattered along it, sprawled on the floor or seated against the wall, and any one of them might decide to trip her or try to grab her. Furthermore, Tabaea might not expect her to turn.
But that last hope was dashed almost instantly; she heard Tabaea’s steps on the stairs and knew that the empress had seen her make the turn. Running with all her might, not daring to look back, Sarai ran on, leaping over the one startled, rag-clad figure in her path.
Tabaea had stolen more strength and more speed, Sarai reminded herself, but her legs were still shorter, and her skirt longer; there was still a chance.
She cut toward the inner side of the curving passageway at first, then back toward the outside as she neared the next turn. She skidded around the corner so fast, making her right turn, that she almost collided with the left-hand wall of the passageway and with a frightened old woman who crouched on a ragged blanket there.
Tabaea made the turn more neatly—Sarai could tell by the sound. Her own breath was beginning to come hard, while Tabaea still seemed fresh.
Fifty yards ahead she could see the rectangle of sunlight that was the open door; she charged for it full tilt, trying to think of somewhere she could dodge aside, or some ruse she could use. Nothing came, and Tabaea was gaining, inch by inch, step by step—but Sarai judged she would reach the door first, and maybe if she dove aside...
And then, when she was less than a dozen yards away, the sunlight vanished; a drapery of some kind had fallen across the door.
Sarai’s heart sank, but she had no choice. She could only hope that Tabaea would become entangled in whatever the obstruction was. She dove forward, hoping to hit it low and crawl underneath.
As she crossed the last few feet, as her eyes adjusted, catlike, to the dimness, she could see that it was a tapestry, one that showed a very odd design, an amazingly realistic depiction of an empty room. Who would want something like that on his wall?
And then she dove, and her hand touched the tapestry, but there was nothing there—she felt no fabric at all, nothing that would slow her headlong plunge onto the pavement of the plaza. Magic, obviously, she thought, an illusion of some kind. She closed her eyes, anticipating the impact.
And sure enough, she struck hard stone—but not the warm, sun-drenched pavement of the plaza; instead, s
he sprawled on a sloping floor of cold smooth stone in chilly darkness.
She still managed to scrape one cheek raw and give herself several bumps and bruises, as well as banging her head. Dazed, she scrambled up on all fours, eyes open again, and started forward, down the slope, sure that Tabaea was right behind her.
Then she stopped and stared.
Tabaea was nowhere to be seen. In fact, there was nothing to be seen; she was in near-total darkness, a deeper and more complete darkness than any moonless midnight she had ever seen. The only place Sarai had ever before encountered anything so dark as this was in the deeper dungeons of the palace.
It was not perfect darkness, however; she could make out very faint differentiations around her, places that were tinged with the darkest of grays, rather than utter blackness.
But her eyes were unable to adjust. Even a cat, she decided, couldn’t see here.
She listened for Tabaea, but there was no sound of pursuit; in fact, there was no sound at all, of any description. Sarai had never before experienced such absolute silence, not even in the dungeons.
And she couldn’t smell anything.
That wasn’t right; at the very least, with her canine senses she should have smelled her own clothes, her own sweat, and the stone of the floor she had landed on. But she couldn’t.
Was she dead, then? Was this darkness part of an afterlife of some sort?
What sort of afterlife was built on a slant? But no, she could sti&feel perfectly well; she could see, however faintly, and she could hear the sound of her own hand slapping on the stone. She wasn’t dead, she had just lost her sense of smell.
Or rather, she had lost the sense of smell she had stolen; she realized that she could still detect odors, very slightly. She lifted her skirt and sniffed at the hem, and the familiar scent of wool was there, faint and muffled.
Maybe a cat could see here, after all, and she had lost that, as well.
Where was she, then? And why hadn’t Tabaea come after her, wherever it was? She crawled down the slope, feeling her way in the darkness.
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