"Ah." The Sabatean's eyes lit up. "I see. You wish to know if his goods can assist you in claiming the position of court wizard."
The sorceress nodded ruefully, as if admitting an unwelcome truth.
Inwardly, Zelandra rejoiced that Mithrelle was not as perceptive as she believed herself to be.
"Ethram-Fal is a laughingstock. I presume that you have heard how he came to Sabatea seeking membership in the Black Ring. Even the feeblest student of the dark arts knows that the Black Ring recruits its own members, yet still the dolt came calling. Perhaps he imagined that his greatness had escaped the notice of the Black Ring. They were more merciful than might be expected, however, merely casting him out of the city in disgrace. If Thoth-Amon had been about when Ethram-Fal made his plea, the upstart would probably still be screaming under the Steel Wings."
"Do you know where he dwells?"
"Ethram-Fal was born in Kheshatta, though I believe that he left the City of Magicians in order to take up residence here in Sabatea. The Dark Gods alone know where he has fled since his exile. You have seen him in Akkharia?"
"Yes, but his home is elsewhere."
Mithrelle's eyes grew hooded and lazy. "Why should this be so important to you? Ethram-Fal has little to his credit save his considerable skill in the magic of plants, fungi, and such. Still, I hardly imagined that his rejection by the Black Ring would drive him to become a merchant.
What manner of magical talismans did he offer, that you felt it necessary to call me?"
"Just a handful of potions and philters. Magic intensifiers, mostly."
Zelandra fought to keep the tension out of her voice, smiling sheepishly. "I shall need all the aid I can muster to be chosen as King Sumuabi's court mage."
"Yet you don't seem curious about your rivals. What is it that truly concerns you about Ethram-Fal, Zelandra?"
"It is small wonder that I do not converse with you more often, Mithrelle. You are the most suspicious woman I have ever known."
Zelandra's hands crept across the table toward the shining spheres of hematite. The image of Mithrelle swelled and throbbed brighter.
"Oh no, milady. Don't think to end this audience just yet. I can't abide unanswered questions, and you have made me very curious."
"Goodbye, Mithrelle." Zelandra slipped her hands down on two stones.
The flat image of the Sabatean sorceress flickered and dimmed, then abruptly flared to brilliant life.
"You would desert your old friend?" Mithrelle's voice dropped to a guttural growl. "Come to me, little Zelandra. Come to me and answer my questions and be my slave." The oval image expanded rapidly and acquired depth. Zelandra felt as if she stared into an open portal carved from empty air.
Mithrelle's bare, white arms shot out of the image. Her hands seized Zelandra about the throat. Black nails scored Zelandra's flesh as the Sabatean sorceress reached into the chamber as if leaning over a windowsill.
"You would toy with me, Zelandra? Did you forget that I was always your better? Come!" Mithrelle's long-fingered hands squeezed off her breath, lifting Zelandra from her seat.
The blood roared in the sorceress's ears. She pulled back against the Sabatean's embrace, lifting her hands from the silver-glowing stones and clapping them upon Mithrelle's temples. Crimson lightning crackled from her palms. Mithrelle's mouth fell open like a castle's drawbridge, but no sound emerged. Her hands sprang from Zelandra's throat and clawed spastically at the air.
"You were always overconfident, Mithrelle," said Zelandra hoarsely. She dropped her hands onto the stones. Mithrelle's arms were wrenched forcibly back into the image, which shrank and flattened until it once again resembled a floating mirror.
"You can't!" The Sabatean found her voice. She snarled like a beast, a lank lock of black hair falling across her pale face. "You can't!"
"I can," said the Lady Zelandra. Her hands moved upon the stones and the image winked out in a scarlet flash, like a bursting bubble of blood.
The sorceress stood, stretching wearily and rubbing her bruised neck as the secret room's door swung open behind her. She returned to her bedchamber, where the torches burned ruddy and low. Casting a glance at the forsaken bed, Zelandra shook her head and sighed. There would be no more sleep tonight. She moved silently about the room, gathering her belongings for the long journey ahead.
Chapter Eleven
Broad beams of golden sunlight stretched across the floor of Shakar's study. The black sorcerer stood quietly, staring out the open window into the verdant splendor of his garden. A cooling breeze bore both the songs of birds and the perfume of greenery into the room, but the tranquil pleasures of the garden went unnoticed by the Keshanian mage today. He walked slowly from the window seat across the study, leaned listlessly against his wide mahogany desk, and tried not to think of the silver box mat he had placed within it.
The sound of a slamming door came to him and he started violently, turning eager, sleepless eyes to the study's curtained entrance.
Gulbanda burst in, panting, his crested helmet clutched under one dark-armored arm.
"Master," Gulbanda said between gasps. "The barbarian, Lady Zelandra, and two of her servants have left the city!"
For a moment Shakar looked as though he might fall; then a surge of rage seemed to buoy him up.
"You lie!" screamed the Keshanian. His hands twisted through a series of swift movements, ending with his left hand raised, its fingers crooked into talons. Gulbanda knew the gestures that preceded the death-spell and fell to his knees.
"Master, I swear that it is true. I saw them leave by the caravan gate, and even now they ride the Caravan Road toward Sabatea. The amulet was gone from the barbarian's neck. I swear it." The sweat of fear shone on the warrior's face.
Shakar spun away from the kneeling man, waving his fists in uncontrolled fury.
"By the Black Gods, am I to be thwarted at every turn? Where were they bound?"
"So help me, Master, I know not. I watched the lady's house as you instructed and, when they departed, I followed them to the caravan gate. Then I came directly to you."
Facing the window, Shakar's arms dropped limply to his sides. He turned back to his bodyguard, face haggard but calmed.
"Arise, Gulbanda" he said quietly. "Forgive me for threatening my finest servant and most loyal friend." As Gulbanda faltered to his feet, Shakar took him by the arm and led him to the window seat.
"Here, sit down. You must be tired after your long vigil."
"I slept not a moment last night, master." Heavy lids half veiling his eyes attested to his honesty.
"Nor did I," said the mage. "Come, let me take your breastplate and helmet. We shall relax, eat, drink, and plan what is to be done." The Keshanian helped Gulbanda out of his breastplate, mail shirt, and helmet, setting them on a table across the room. He brought a split loaf of bread and a crystal decanter of wine from a cupboard against the far wall, and set them before Gulbanda as though he were the master and Shakar the servant. The bodyguard hid a grin of bemusement. A surprise until Shakar had turned away again. He reflected that, if his master was losing his mind, then he had certainly picked the right way to go about it.
"Is the wine to your liking?" asked the Keshanian, slipping into the chair behind his desk and silently drawing open a drawer. Gulbanda sipped thirstily from the bottle, finding the wine's taste odd but quite agreeable.
"It is sweet," said the warrior, tearing off a bit of bread. "I've never had its like."
"It is brewed from Brythunian apples and is a bit stronger than it may seem." Shakar's hands were busy in the drawer of his desk. 'Tell me, my friend, how shall we avenge ourselves upon the barbarian and claim the cask from Lady Zelandra?" Gulbanda took another swallow of the sweet wine and found that it snaked a path of heat down into his belly.
"Well, if we move swiftly we could follow them to whatever their destination might be, then ambush and kill them. I would say that we could do it alone if not for my wounded hand and your¦" he f
altered, "¦
your sickness."
"Ah," said the Keshanian, "you suggest that I hire more men?" His hand drew the silver-chased casket from the velvet-lined interior of a drawer, set it on the desktop, and flipped open the lid.
"Yes, two or three bravos with ready daggers would even the odds."
Gulbanda washed down a bite of bread with another swallow of wine and found that the sweet stuff was going to his head. Behind him, Shakar lifted a tiny spoon to his mouth twice in rapid succession. "Of course," added the bodyguard, "I would duel the barbarian alone if it were not for my wound."
The sorcerer tensed his body against the shudders that racked it. He blinked back tears and drew a deep breath, shaking off the pain.
"Do you know where such men can be hired?" Shakar's voice had gone hoarse, but his bodyguard paid no heed. Gulbanda was taking another pull on the jug and relishing the warmth blossoming through his body.
"Yes, yes," he said. "I have a few men in mind right now."
"Tell me about them," said Shakar, though he wasn't listening. He was removing a number of distinctive items from the drawer of his desk and setting them before him. First was an eight-inch length of hollow bamboo, cut diagonally so that its base was an enclosed cup and its top a long tapering blade as sharp as broken glass. He stood it on its base. Next was a small vial of black crystal, which he uncorked, pouring a honey-thick, translucent fluid into the base of the bamboo spike. Last was a lace handkerchief baring a darkly crusted stain of dried blood. With a thumbnail Shakar scraped flakes of coagulated blood from the fabric, dropping them into the bamboo receptacle. He then clutched the spike with both hands and muttered a word in a dialect sacred to the priests of Keshia. A thin, almost invisible, curl of smoke arose from the bamboo spike. He palmed it as though it were a dagger and rose from behind his desk.
"Worthy cutthroats all," finished Gulbanda. "A few gold coins will secure their loyalty unto death, Shakar." His voice had taken on a barely noticeable slur.
The Keshanian showed nothing but calm interest, but he bristled inwardly as he advanced upon his bodyguard. The dog had addressed him by name rather than as master. That would make his task easier. He laid a cold hand on Gulbanda's shoulder, studying the thin leather jerkin that was now the only barrier protecting the warrior's full-muscled torso. The bodyguard shifted in his seat to face his employer. His bleary eyes focused on Shakar's expressionless countenance.
"But you, Gulbanda," said Shakar almost tenderly, "you will be loyal to me far, far beyond death." And he slammed the bamboo spike into the center of Gulbanda's chest with all of his strength. The bodyguard cried out, lurching to his feet with Shakar clinging to him like a leech. The Keshanian jammed the length of bamboo into Gulbanda's body, pouring the weapon's contents into the wound. A wild scream tore from the bodyguard's throat and his body spasmed, falling to the floor with Shakar still holding tight.
"Ayah Damballah!" chanted the sorcerer. "Kill Zelandra, bring me the casket, kill the barbarian, bring me the casket! Zereth Yog Ayah Damballah!"
Gulbanda thrashed convulsively on the floor, screaming like a man being flayed alive. His cries and Shakar's chanting mingled in an unholy chorus, each fighting for prominence until the screams died away and Shakar's voice rang alone in triumph.
Chapter Twelve
Ethram-Fal sat alone in a room carved from living rock and toasted his good fortune. His goblet was fashioned of gleaming silver set with lozenges of polished black onyx. It was brimming with an unwholesome-looking greenish liquid: wine blended with a heavy portion of Emerald Lotus powder. The Stygian swirled the thick mixture in the goblet, then tossed it back. He clamped his eyes shut, his thin throat working as he swallowed, guzzling the goblet's full contents. Pulling the emptied vessel from his lips, he gave a soft, shuddering cry. His gaunt, hunched body shivered within its gray robes.
"Hah! Yes, by Set!" Ethram-Fal's lips writhed away from his green-stained teeth, and his eyes blazed with a terrible light. He released the goblet, which remained suspended in mid-air before him.
The Stygian's pupils rolled back and his emaciated frame stiffened with effort. The floating goblet crumpled in upon itself as though in the grip of an invisible vise. A chip of onyx popped free of its setting and fell to the floor, while the rest of the vessel was slowly crushed together into a shapeless lump of metal. Ethram-Fal laughed with delight and allowed the rough ball of crumpled silver to drop.
He had become stronger than he had ever allowed himself to dream. Let Zelandra try to resist him now. The sorcerer sprawled back in the room's only chair, bulbous head lolling on narrow shoulders. Drugged ecstasy pulsed through him, fueling his fantasies. He remembered standing before her in the sorcerous disguise of Eldred the Trader. He remembered the way that her silver-threaded hair fell upon her slim, white neck. How beautiful she was! And a sorceress as well, by Derketo!
Surely here was a woman who could appreciate the true scope of his ambitions. Here was a mature sorceress worthy to stand at his side.
Yet she had rejected him. The memory lashed Ethram-Fal and his eyes flew wide, rolling as he gazed unseeing about the chamber. How could she be such a fool? It was all too obvious that she still had much to learn about him and his Emerald Lotus. But she would doubtless learn her lessons quickly as her supply of the drug dwindled away and her newfound power faded, replaced by the all-consuming hunger that presaged madness and an agonizing death.
The Stygian deliberately slowed his breathing and calmed himself. He needed only to wait and she would be his, crawling and begging for that which she had scorned.
All things that he desired would soon be his. Was he not master of the Emerald Lotus?
The sorcerer rose abruptly and picked his way with exaggerated care through the cluster of tables that stood about the stone room. Each held its own distinctive collection of sorcerous paraphernalia. He shuffled past the large central table whereon sat a glass box enclosing a small bush thickly covered with fat, ruddy leaves. The table he sought bore a darkly stained mortar and pestle, a collection of fluid-filled vials in a metal rack, and a long box of glossy ebony sealed with a small, golden clasp. With shaking hands, Ethram-Fal twisted the clasp. He opened the box and stared within with reverent eyes.
The black box was a little longer than a man's forearm and as wide and tall as a man's hand. It was about half full of deep green powder.
"Half gone," whispered the Stygian, unaware that he spoke aloud. He pursed dry lips as a frown wrinkled his protruding brow. The exuberant confidence that had lifted his spirit a moment ago now seemed a long-dead memory, distant and useless. A chill anxiety tightened his guts. He had been spending too much time experimenting with his new power and not enough tending to that which enabled him to exercise the power in the first place. He must see to the Emerald Lotus, and perhaps harvest more for his personal stock.
He swept aside the blanket that hung over the doorway”there were no doors in the Palace of Cetriss. The dark hall was a smooth shaft cut through solid stone. Ethram-Fal hastened along its length, his sandaled feet raising the dust of centuries. He passed down a spiral stair that coiled through the ancient rock and entered a short,
vaulted room that ended in another hanging blanket. Beyond the blanket stood the Great Chamber, doubtless used as an audience hall by Cetriss in the days of Old Stygia. Now it served as an impromptu barracks for Ethram-Fal's twenty men-at-arms.
The three warriors lounging in the Great Chamber leapt to their feet when Ethram-Fal entered, slapping their right palms over their hearts.
The sorcerer smiled thinly, nodding his approval of their attentive devotion. When he had left Kheshatta in search of the Palace of Cetriss and his dreams, he had taken pains to hire the finest and most expensive squad of free lances that he could find. His riches and the fat, red leaves of the Vendhyan kaokao plant had fostered a powerful loyalty in them.
Threading his way among the cots in the Great Chamber, Ethram-Fal smiled. The wizards of the Blac
k Ring had belittled him for devoting himself to the magics of plants and growing things. Such arrogance!
They had likened him to a Pictish druid, as if he had anything at all in common with those meek and feeble tree-worshippers. Those ignorant savages feared to so much as disturb the delicate balance of nature, much less to seize it and bend it to their will. Surely the pompous fools of the Black Ring would think differently of him now. He, a wizard whom they had mocked and rejected for his youth and unlikely fields of study, had truly come into his own. The specialized researches that they had disdained had finally led him to the lost palace of the mage Cetriss, creator of the mythical Emerald Lotus. Soon enough the Black Ring would learn that the lotus was no mere myth, but an ancient reality that he, Ethram-Fal, had personally resurrected. How they would marvel at his power! How they would beg to sample it! From the dust of three thousand years, he would breed a vengeance such as the world had never known.
Lost in his drugged reverie, Ethram-Fal moved down another hallway into a vast, unlit chamber. The Stygian started when he realized where he was and hastened his stride. To his left towered a sable shadow, a deeper darkness amid the dark. It was a great crouching statue of black stone, a sphinx-like, hulking god-thing whose name and nature were unknown to Ethram-Fal. When he had first found the palace and wandered through its deserted halls”the only visitor in many lifetimes”he had found something in this room as disturbing as the black and nameless idol itself. On the stone altar that lay between the proffered talons of the god was a dusty pile of offal. The tiny, desiccated corpses of dozens of rodents, lizards, scorpions and other even smaller vermin lay in a neat mound before the silent and implacable avatar. Now he hurried through the darkened temple and did not look upon the featureless face of the god of Cetriss where it loomed in the murk, staring blindly into the darkness as it had ever since the distant days of purple-towered Acheron.
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