The idea of being physically ejected from the public baths for brawling wasn’t appealing, so I decided to settle for flattening their purses when I left.
I put a washcloth over my eyes and turned my thoughts to Thagoth, and whether Holgren had actually located it.
Holgren arrived a few minutes late, a bundle of parchments and scrolls under one arm and a look of grim determination on his face. He cleared off the delicate Helstrum-made table I used for dining and spread out a map he had sketched and inked himself.
“Here we are,” he said, stabbing the east coast of Lucernia with a forefinger. “Thagoth is almost certainly here.” He moved his finger a huge distance west—about two feet on the map, which worked out to roughly two thousand miles.
“Well, that’s it,” I said. “We can’t go after it, not if it truly is that far. If you’re wrong about the location or if there’s nothing left of it, we’ll have wasted almost a year, maybe more, getting there and back. Be reasonable, Holgren.”
“I am. I agree, the distance is daunting. Which is why I am going to attempt to gate us there.”
“What?”
“According to the Bosk texts you acquired for me, Thagoth was built at the nexus of several powerful ley lines. I will transport us to that nexus. The process should be instantaneous.”
“Whenever you say things like ‘attempt’ and ‘should be,’ my blood runs cold.”
“Your worries are baseless. If I fail, the magics will dissipate and the gate will not open. There is no possibility of you suffering any ill effects, I’ll make certain of that.”
“And what about you?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Spoken like a true liar. Tell me.”
“Honestly? I don’t know. There’s a chance nothing will happen. There’s also a chance for a whole range of effects, from the merely uncomfortable to the wholly unpleasant.”
“The worst of which would be . . . ?”
“The worst of which would be my being blasted to cinders. It’s a very outside chance.”
“Wouldn’t that sort of be missing the point of trying to find immortality?”
“Amra, if I spent my entire life avoiding danger, I would have no life at all. If I risk nothing, death and retribution will still come. Given the choice, I would rather die trying to alter my situation. I assure you, I have taken and will take every precaution I can think of to ensure my safety and your own.”
I sighed and shook my head. “When do we go?”
“We could leave tomorrow, but I think I might better do a bit more research. There are indications from what I’ve read so far that the city is . . . contained, I suppose, is the best word.”
“Eh?”
He leaned back, spread his hands. “When Thagoth fell, it was to a powerful sorcerer-king, perhaps the most powerful mortal the world has ever seen. He laid death magic on the environs around the city. According to the accounts of Mumtaz El Rathi, that magic was still potent a century ago when he lead an expedition there.”
I began to pace. “Describe these death lands. Place-names with the word ‘death’ in them tend to make me very wary.”
“In practical application, everything of the death lands will attempt to destroy anything not of the death lands that enter them. Grasses will reach out to bind you while more mobile creatures finish you off. Everything has some ability to kill, be it quick or slow. Or so wrote El Rathi.”
“Lovely. You’re sure we won’t have to deal with this? Why hasn’t the city been swallowed up?”
“I can only assume the residual power of the Twin Gods keep it at bay. The city had not been overtaken at the time of El Rathi’s expedition a century ago. He records seeing the golden domes of what he calls ‘the Tabernacle’ and other structures from the ridge above the valley itself. The death lands seem to border the remains of the city in a precise circle, with the Tabernacle at the center of that circle. Could you stop pacing? It makes me nervous.”
“No. This nexus you’re going to magic us to, tell me about it.”
“It should be well within the city, and completely safe if I manage to raise the gate.”
“I hope you’re right, Holgren.”
He cocked an eyebrow and shrugged his shoulder slightly. “I’ve made my calculations with the best data available. We should be fine.”
“Let’s leave that for the moment. What do we do once we’re in the city?”
“Well, that’s really more your end of things, isn’t it?”
I stopped pacing, tilted my head. “I spent a month getting you research material. There was nothing in all of that to indicate what you’re looking for?”
He sighed. “Amra, how often are you handed maps that say VALUABLE OBJECT LOCATED HERE?”
“I know a sailor down on the docks that could sell you one for every day of the month.”
“My point precisely. I imagine the best place to search would be in the Tabernacle that El Rathi mentions, since there appears to be some power there holding the death lands at bay. But I will know it when I find it, not before. I am quite certain it will be a difficult, possibly deadly task to locate and retrieve it. I need your skills. I know no one better at what you do.”
“Not who’s willing to help you with this, at any rate. No . . . I’m sorry, that was mean-spirited and uncalled for. I apologize.”
He shook his head. “No apology necessary. You’re right. No one else would be willing to attempt this. I need to keep that in mind and show my appreciation more.”
“You can start by feeding me.”
After an elaborate midday meal at Fraud’s we took a walk down the Promenade, the wide, straight avenue of brick that ran from the Ministry buildings to Harad’s Square. It was lined on both sides by the marble-fronted, slim-columned manses owned by minor nobility and powerful merchants. I had promised myself the first day I’d arrived in Lucernis that I’d own one of them, someday. I’d stumbled down the Promenade—penniless, starving and sick, and bitterly envying those who lived in such luxury. I must have stared at those great houses with real glass in their windows for an hour before the watch had moved me along. Then I went and stole a half a loaf of bread. That had been a long time ago. I didn’t have to steal bread anymore. I didn’t own one of those manses, either.
The Promenade was wide enough to accommodate four carriages abreast, although no hoof traffic was allowed on it. Wealthy merchants and their wives, government functionaries, and minor nobility took to it to socialize and be seen. Much subtle business was also conducted on the Promenade—important decisions were made here, between principals, and finalized elsewhere. I’d done a fair amount of business in this fashion myself.
The Promenade was also well policed. Lord Morno, governor of Lucernis, liked to drill his troops here. A small contingent of arquebusiers in fine new crimson uniforms was being marched around by a grizzled sergeant as Holgren and I strolled. The old campaigner kept trying to rest his hand on a nonexistent sword pommel as he barked commands.
“You see those weapons?” asked Holgren. “They are the future of warfare.”
I laughed. “Those are toys. The only way to kill someone with an arquebus is to beat them with it. A good bowman could kill five times over in the time it takes just to load one.”
“Ah, but how long does it take to become that good with a bow? Five years? Ten? One can become proficient with firearms in a matter of weeks. Someday they will be perfected; their rate of fire, range, and accuracy will be improved. People will die by the thousands without ever seeing their foe.” He put a friendly arm around my shoulder. “Inventions such as these will be what drives the world, Amra, not magic.” He stopped and looked at me with those piercing eyes of his.
“I want to tell you a secret,” he said.
“All right.”
“Magic is fading. The most powerful mages today cannot do half of what mages even a century ago could. Two thousand years ago wars such as the one that destroyed Thagoth were commonplac
e. Entire empires were laid waste in a matter of days. Now, the Laws of Thaumaturgy are being superseded by the laws of the physical world. Who knows how long it will be before magic disappears completely?”
“You sound almost cheerful about it.”
“Do I? Perhaps I am. Since I am in the secret-telling mood, I’ll tell you another. I’ve never particularly liked being a mage.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Truly. Once Yvoust was dead, I lost the interest I’d had in the Art. What else was I to do, though? I spent a decade trying to find some way out of the doom I’d created for myself. There were none—none I’d consider satisfactory, at any rate. By that time, it was the only profession I knew.”
“Wait. You’re saying there are other solutions to your problem besides haring off to Thagoth?”
“No, I’m not. Believe me, the cures I found were all worse than the disease.” He stopped and turned to face me directly. “I have a bit more research and preparation to do. You won’t see me for a few days. Will you prepare what we will need for two weeks in the field?”
“How long do I have?”
“Four days.”
“All right. Will we need pack animals?”
“No. I wouldn’t want to try to gate them as well as us.”
“I’ll have it all ready.”
“Thank you. Sincerely, Amra.”
“You’re welcome.”
He walked away then, a tall, almost gangly man in funereal black, black hair swept into a ponytail secured with a black velvet ribbon. Holgren had never much been one for fashion.
I walked a while on the Promenade, staring at the houses, trying to imagine what sort of “cures” he might have found in the past, and how they could be worse than some demon keeping your soul as a plaything for eternity.
My imagination wasn’t up to the task.
Holgren appeared at dawn on the fourth day. We lugged the packs down my narrow wooden stairs to the carriage waiting below. It was a gray, foggy morning. The driver looked like a wraith perched on the front of the carriage; the horse, with tendrils of breath writhing from his nostrils, looked like a nightmare.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Just outside the city proper. There’s a sparse grove of alders a short distance off the Jacos Road. It’s a suitable place to open a gate—not too distant, and no dwellings within a mile.”
“Afraid you might cause some destruction?”
“No. I’ve already told you there is no possible danger to anyone but myself. I simply don’t want to attract attention.”
I grunted, and tried to find a comfortable position. I intended to sleep the carriage ride away if possible. I’ve never been much of a morning person.
Sleep was a vain hope. The best of Lucernis’s streets were far from smooth, and the carriage bounced and jostled us brutally. I don’t know if it was him or me or the fool’s errand we were about to embark on, but I was in a foul mood that morning. Later, I thought about every little detail of the ride—the smell of Holgren’s soap, the low mutters the driver occasionally made, the clop-clop of horse hooves on cobblestones, and then the muted thud of them on the dirt of Jacos Road—I thought about all the insignificant details and wondered if I would have done anything differently, had I known what was going to happen.
The hack dropped us off in the middle of farmland. The morning fog had burned off during the ride. It promised to be a warm, sunny day.
The grove Holgren had decided upon was more than a mile distant. The only way to reach it was through fields of waist-high plants. I have no idea what they were, but they smelled horrible and attracted insects in droves. I made Holgren carry two of the packs. By the time we got there most of the morning had fled. I was sweating profusely and had half a dozen uncomfortable insect bites. Holgren seemed unaffected. I dropped my pack and took a long swig of water, cursing all mages silently.
“Why don’t you rest for a few minutes?” he said.
I glared at him. “Why don’t we get on with it?”
“All right.” He reached into his pocket, drew out a short length of red yarn and lay it as straight as he could in the grass before him. “A concentration aid,” he explained. He shouldered one of the packs and turned to face the yarn. “Stand next to me,” he said.
I put the second pack on my back and held the bulky third under one arm, uncomfortably. I wanted to have one hand free, just in case. I moved over to his right side. Our shoulders brushed.
“Not too close. Perhaps a few inches’ distance.”
He bowed his head then. He took deep, slow breaths. There was nothing gangly about him now—he was in his element, working with powers I had no ability to understand. His face took on something of the look of a bird of prey: fierce, wild, beautiful. The familiar chill that accompanied his use of power crept up the back of my neck. A breeze sprang up, and the grass swayed, then flattened as the breeze turned into a gale. I looked down at the length of yarn and it was pulled taut, as if by invisible hands. It thrummed as the wind ran across it—and then it was gone.
In its place stood a pearlescent, faintly glowing rectangle perhaps three feet wide by eight high.
“You must go first, quickly. I will follow.” His voice was strained.
I took a deep breath, and plunged through.
It was not a pleasant sensation. I have no words to describe it—suffice to say a body was not meant to exist in whatever nether world or space between worlds that doorway was made up of. The feeling was mercifully brief.
The first thing I saw was jungle. I smelled death, the putrid stench of corpses. I took two gagging, stumbling steps forward, caught a glimpse of rust-red, stone columns just ahead of me. Then something small, brown and hideously fast whipped past my head.
Behind me, Holgren screamed.
If I hadn’t been burdened with two packs, I could have gotten a knife out in time, could have skewered the thing before it reached him. I told myself this, and sometimes I believed it. It might even have been true. As it happened, I did pin it to a tree with one forceful, desperate throw. It squirmed and hissed and made a high shrieking noise that drilled through my eardrums and reverberated painfully in my head.
It was just too late.
The creature had struck Holgren on the cheek—just a shallow little gash, but he screamed and screamed, as if he’d been run through. I dropped the pack I’d been holding, grabbed him by the shirt front, and dragged him stumbling toward the stone columns I’d glimpsed. Around us the bloated, waxy foliage writhed, as if in agony or expectation. I pulled Holgren after me, as fast as I could go through the dense vegetation. He was still screaming. The rumbling cough of some predator sounded not far behind us. I tried not to imagine what it looked like. Holgren fell to his knees. Walking backward, I dragged him by his pack straps the last few feet. His face had begun to swell. He looked at me with agony in his eyes. His lips were drawn back across his teeth and the only time he stopped screaming was to draw a lungful of air. I put all my concentration into pulling him forward to safety.
Abruptly my heel touched cobbles. With a desperate grunt I yanked Holgren fully out of the jungle and lay him on his side. I tried to get the pack off him, but his entire body had begun to bloat. I cut the pack free of his shoulders, loosened his collar, his belt, his boots. I could think of nothing further to do.
He screamed until the swelling closed his throat.
I held his hand until it was over. When he was gone I sat there next to him for a time and thought nothing at all, felt nothing at all.
I looked down at the swollen, blackened hand in mine and thought about how ugly it was. His hands had always been so thin and delicate, almost womanly, perfectly manicured, and no calluses. They had been gentle hands. Now his fingers looked like fat black sausages.
I closed my eyes, turned my head, and vomited. When I was done I sat, still and cold in my soul. Then I heard it.
There was movement in the jungle. I looked up and saw do
zens of eyes looking back at me. Much rustling and shifting, but nothing ventured forth to finish the job. I could feel the hate pounding at me, silent, palpable. Perhaps those eyes could feel me returning it.
I dragged him a little distance away and took a brief look around. Crumbling buildings, some grand, some humble. I searched until I came upon an overgrown garden, walled in on three sides. I buried him there, under a towering yew tree.
There was no spade—it was in the pack that had been left in the death lands. Knife and bowl did the job. I don’t know how long it took—hours, certainly. The ground was relatively soft and the grave only about four feet deep. If I’d had the energy I would have dug a second grave for myself, since I was convinced I was going to die there in Thagoth. It just didn’t seem worth the effort.
He was hideously heavy. I had to roll him into the grave. He landed face down, and I couldn’t stand that, so I went in after him and eventually got him facing the sky. Using the bowl, I started filling in the grave, but couldn’t make myself throw dirt on his face. I dithered about that for a good while and finally decided to cut a section of canvas for covering. It went better after that.
I started to lose myself after the grave was filled in. I found myself smoothing the dirt with my hands, trying to make it perfectly level. I heard strange whimpering, realized it was coming from me. I made myself stop. I curled up there next to him, with my fists pressed hard to my stomach.
Without Holgren to reopen the gate I was trapped, the last sorry resident of Thagoth.
It rained that night, a slow, gentle rain that pattered on the leaves overhead and softened the bare earth of Holgren’s grave. The rain woke me, and I threw on a good wool cloak and sat under the tree, waiting for dawn.
Something nagged at me as I huddled there. It was quiet: There was no birdsong, no rustling of animals large or small. I wondered if, over the centuries, the death lands had somehow claimed all the city’s fauna.
By mid-morning the rain had passed. I’d begun to poke around the ruins a bit, mapping out the city in my mind, when I saw a hawk gliding and wheeling above the city. It was the first normal animal I’d seen anywhere near Thagoth. I stood there, watching it soar, envying it its freedom.
The Thief Who Spat In Luck's Good Eye Page 2
