Spy, Spy Again

by Mercedes Lackey

  She woke with the dawn and took inventory, then wrapped her feet again and put the boots back on. She’d taken a big risk by going barefoot the last time, but it had been the only way she could have climbed that wall. They wouldn’t fall for that trick again—although she very much doubted the Karsites would be able to convince their men to make a third attempt on her—so there was no point in risking her feet in a fight. If any of them were smart enough to concentrate on stomping hard on a bare foot with their hard-soled boots, they’d break every bone in it and disable her. And at that point she could easily be overrun.

  The loot this time was three more breastplates, three half-helms, three tunics, six daggers, three swords. Quite the embarrassment of riches when it came to weapons, even if they were dead average work. Also three torches. No more personal goods; these men had properly prepared for a fight. In their minds, they weren’t guards anymore, they were soldiers confronting an armed and dangerous enemy, and they were preparing themselves accordingly.

  The breastplates were fundamentally useless to her, unless she wanted to use one as a shield, which she didn’t. That wasn’t a style Sleepgivers trained in. But having them meant that her enemies didn’t, and that had been reason enough to take them. Most prison guards didn’t go armored; there was no reason to. So it might just be she currently held most of the armor in the building in her cell.

  Maybe.

  If she was lucky.

  Well, the breastplates and the half-helms were useful for one thing at least. She piled them up against the door, where anyone rushing in would have to stumble over them. So if for some reason her alarm spell didn’t wake her, the clamor of people stumbling over loose hunks of metal would.

  I’d give a great deal to have that ability Cousin Mags has, to see the thoughts of others. She would love to know what the Karsite priests were thinking.

  Well, if wishes were fishes, she could feast for a year.

  She turned her attention to the belts.

  They were all alike; long leather straps with twin rings on the end; no buckles, no holes. . . . ideal for her purposes. But she would have to be very careful with them; she couldn’t risk ruining a single finger-length of them.

  If she actually thought about what she’d just been through, things would be very bad . . . but she’d been trained to keep her emotions under tight control until the moment it was safe to let go of them. So instead of reacting, she went on with the next logical thing: putting a good edge on every single one of the weapons she had. Water and the whetstone; an exercise that was as calming as it was useful. And if the Karsites were scrying her, they’d see her sitting there apparently at her ease, calmly sharpening steel, as if contemplating all the throats she intended to cut.

  What she was actually contemplating was if eight leather belts was going to give her the length she needed to climb down from this cell on the outside of the tower. If she cut them in half lengthwise and spliced them together, she was pretty certain she’d get within dropping distance of the ground, even if she didn’t get all the way there. For her purposes that was quite near enough. She had no idea how she was going to get out of that cell window, but one thing at a time. Make her leather “rope,” attach one of those helms to it to hold it across the bars, that was the first thing to be done. No, the second thing. The first thing was to get a good enough edge on one of these daggers to be able to slice the belts in a controlled manner.

  And she was going to need time to do that, and more time to slice the belts. Preferably without anyone observing her.

  So. It was just after noon. Now was the moment to see if there was anything to these ancient Talismans, or if whatever had been bound to them was too weak to do anything when released.

  She paused long enough to take off her necklace, as if to adjust it, and removed the Talisman she’d been studying the longest. She put the necklace back on, and surreptitiously tossed the Talisman halfway into the cell. Then she created her little magical “spike,” a kind of “immovable object,” waited for the binding spell to cycle around to the right “place,” and drove the “spike” in the “hole.”

  Then she put up the best magical shields she knew how to create and waited, sharpening a dagger the entire time.

  Disrupting a magic spell in this manner was not instantaneous. And since she was behind her shield, she really couldn’t “see” the tension building up as the spell strained against the thing that was blocking it. All she could do was wait. But eventually, things would build to the breaking point and the spell would shatter, and when it did. . . .

  She had finished one edge of the first dagger and was working on the opposite edge when the spell broke.

  For someone who did not have the ability to see magic, there was just a little glint of light on the floor where the Talisman lay, as if the sun had reflected from it for a moment. But for someone who did—the cell filled with a blinding flash. And her ears popped. And her shields bowed, and nearly broke.

  But you didn’t have to be able to see magic to see what rose up out of the floor, uncoiling and unfolding out of nothingness. That was visible to anyone who had the eyes to see it.

  And with a shock to the heart, she knew what it was immediately.

  A water afrinn, a creature of spirit with an affinity for water.

  It was transparent, made of living water, faintly tinged green. It looked like a finned serpent with the needle-toothed, multi-antennaed, spike-spined, blind-eyed head of a nightmare.

  And it was staring straight at her.

  If I don’t drop my shields, she realized, it will think I am an enemy. But if I do drop my shields, it can tear me to shreds before I can blink if it so chooses.

  On the other hand, you can’t bind an afrinn without its consent. So maybe it didn’t think it was going to be bound for centuries, but it volunteered to be bound in the first place . . .

  She stood up and dropped her shields.

  The afrinn flashed across the space between them instantly and hovered there, its teeth so close to her face you could barely have inserted a piece of paper between them, staring into her eyes with its blank, featureless orbs.

  “I did not bind you,” she said softly, in the language of the Nation. “But I did release you, and I am sorry it has been so long that you have been bound. I am sure whoever did bind you in the past never intended that. Your Talisman was lost, and I only recently found it and discovered how to break the binding spell.”

  It continued to stare, saying nothing, unmoving and apparently unmoved.

  Oh, of course.

  “Take your freedom,” she said. “But be wary, there are magic walls about this place, and everyone inside it but me is your enemy. And if you feel any gratitude to me, you will take out your ire at having been bound for so long on them. They certainly deserve it, for I am as surely their prisoner as you were imprisoned in that Talisman.”

  For one more moment, it stared at her, as if it had not heard a word she had said.

  Then in the next moment, it uncoiled and flashed across the cell with a splash, forcing itself under the cell door.

  Then the faint screams began.

  She went back to sharpening her dagger, and when it was finished, braced it between her feet, and began slowly slicing the first leather belt.

  It took some turns of the glass before she felt the shields around the building suddenly drop, then come back up again. By that time, she had sliced all the belts into two equal pieces and had attempted to apport a loaf of bread.

  But what had come up was soaked and inedible. And a second attempt just brought up a mound of raw dough.

  She knew what must have happened at that point; the afrinn had been racing through the building, putting out every fire it could find, before it turned its attention to the humans and their goods. So every fire in the kitchen was dead. Every torch, out and soaked through. Every lamp, exti
nguished. Every fire in every fireplace, also soaked. If there was a forge and a blacksmith, those fires were out too.

  And, very probably, everything in the prison that could be ruined with water, had been. All the clothing. All the bedding. All the weapons would have to be dried immediately, or they would start to rust. Herbs had surely been soaked, so seasonings and medicines and spell components had been ruined.

  Which means it was thinking, and thinking only of escape, so rather than attacking people, it was just terrifying them with the way it looks and making an utter nuisance of itself so the priests would drop the shields and let it out.

  And eventually, the priests must have gotten the idea—or resorted to dropping the shields in sheer desperation—and let it go.

  The fact that the shields came right back up again was proof that the afrinn had merely taken the opportunity offered and sped away, probably in search of the nearest body of water in which to renew its powers and itself.

  Meanwhile . . . well, the Karsites could initially have had no idea where it had come from, but they’d probably decide before very long that it had somehow been her doing. They’d probably consider it some new form of demon; so far as Sira knew, her Nation was the only one that knew about afrinns, which were rarely found in the mountains of their territory and were generally left alone unless the afrinn approached a Mage with a bargain or out of curiosity. Amber Moon certainly did not deal with them, and they were physically the closest Mage School to the Mountain. And mostly, all that the People knew of afrinns these days were tales and legends and those rare sightings, because the Mages of the People rarely left the safety of the Mountain.

  So why had seven afrinns agreed to be bound into Talismans? And for what purpose? There had to have been some reason why it was advantageous for the afrinns.

  Maybe in the long-ago past they were being hunted, and this was a way for them to be safe? Or maybe there was some other danger to them. And in return . . . there may have been an actual release to the spell, as opposed to breaking it, that would allow them to come out and help their wearer.

  Speculation for another time. Right now, not only were the Karsites possessed of a “guest” who had proven to be far more dangerous than any of them had reckoned on, but now they were faced with a cold building that was getting colder, ruined food, and no way to cook it.

  Hrmm. So am I.

  She contemplated the stack of three torches she had set off to the side. She had a firestarter. And she had a mound of raw dough. And one of the breastplates could serve as an adequate grill to make flatbread. If only she had more wood.

  She went over and picked up one of the torches, and discovered that it was nothing more than a stick of wood wrapped in oily rags. Well. . . .

  She unwrapped the partially burned rags; they’d serve as kindling. Meanwhile, provided the wood for this torch had come from a common woodpile . . .

  It had, and in a half turn of the glass, she’d apported enough to make a decent fire. In another half turn she had patted the dough into circles that were merrily grilling on the breastplate. By the time the dough was gone, she had a very nice pile of grilled flatbreads of the sort the People commonly made; she had extinguished the fire but had poured a half-helm worth of water from her bucket into the shallow dish of the breastplate and dropped some of the dried meat in. In the last of the twilight she feasted on bread dunked in hot broth, and hot stewed meat.

  The meal tasted even better knowing that at that same moment the prison was full of miserable Karsites whose every possession had been soaked clear through and who were probably chewing soggy, cold trail biscuits instead of their usual hot dinner.

  She sat down in her corner on a padding of torn tunics, knowing that, although her circumstances were far from ideal, tonight she was the most comfortable person in the prison.

  * * *

  • • •

  She woke only once, alerted by the alarm spell, heard two sets of footsteps on the stairs, and called out into the darkness, “Did you enjoy the attentions of my friend? Would you like him to come back and visit you again?”

  There was no answer, of course, but she had no doubt that her message would be taken straight to the priests. They might have entertained the thought that the appearance of the afrinn in their midst was the result of some coincidence; she had just made sure they knew exactly where it had come from. And she had planted the idea that she could call it back, even through the shields. Of course, even if she’d known how to do that, she couldn’t; she didn’t have the power to break through those shields to get a summons out.

  But she did have six more Talismans to choose from.

  I’ll try Air next. Keep them guessing.

  She heard footsteps—one pair—retreating down the staircase. So they’d left a guard on the door. Not that this was going to impact her in the least, since by this time she was absolutely certain there was nothing the priests could threaten their guards with to make them enter her cell. But it did suggest something more interesting.

  That for some reason, they were now unable to scry her. If they had ever been able to at all. It was possible they were not Mages.

  It wasn’t the shields she had put up on herself—she’d never put them back up after she had taken them off to confront the afrinn. But the Karsites were not trained in deprivation as the Sleepgivers were, and that was doubly so for their priests. So . . . down there in the bowels of the prison were two priests wearing cold, wet, clothing, possibly sitting in front of a guttering fire that was producing more smoke than heat, too uncomfortable to do any magic at all. So they’d resorted to an ordinary pair of eyes to at least make sure she didn’t creep out of the cell in the dead of night and start slaughtering them.

  A delightful thought. I certainly would, if I could.

  Of course, without knowing the exact layout of the place, she couldn’t actually do that. But they didn’t know that.

  This is probably the worst night of their entire lives.

  The thought made her grin with savage pleasure.

  Well then, before I sleep, I wonder if I can think of any other ways to increase their misery.

  10

  Now that their little party was within reasonable striking distance of wherever Sira was being held, the first order of business was transportation. Sadly, there were no magical portals that would get Tory, Kee, and Ahkhan to the other side of the Karsite Border. Or, rather, if there was such a thing, it would be in Karsite hands, so, obviously, using one was not an option even if Amber Moon had had access to it. Tory and Kee had come well supplied with money by the Crown, however, and because of their parsimonious ways on the trip through Valdemar, they still had most of it left, so they put some of it in Ahkhan’s hands and sent him off to get two more horses.

  Or rather, Ahkhan had volunteered himself, when they had suggested the idea.

  “Your pardon,” he had said dryly, “But even understanding the language, I think you are neither good judges of horseflesh suitable for these parts nor good bargainers. I shall get the horses.”

  Tory refrained from telling the Sleepgiver that he’d had plenty of experience in bargaining as one of his father’s agents. Because Ahkhan was right on his first point. He didn’t know the first thing about horses, other than how to ride them. All the horses he and Kee had ridden back home had been the best in the kingdom, well-bred beauties from the Royal Stables. And he especially didn’t know how to choose a horse for desert conditions.

  Besides, while Ahkhan went off and did that, one of the Amber Moon apprentices volunteered to help get them garbed in something that wasn’t going to get them shot on sight in Karse. This seemed like an excellent plan to Tory.

  She took them into the little village that was attached to the school; Tory was dubious that they’d find anything in a place so small, but she brought them to a cottage that turned out to be literally crammed with use
d clothing of every description. The main room was full of stacks and stacks of neatly folded garments, with paths running among them. Tory had never seen so much clothing in one place at one time, not even in the used-clothing shops in Haven. And it was all clean, too; no musty smell, no scent of things left unwashed, and not even a hint of mouse. He couldn’t imagine how the owner managed that.

  Well, this was right near Amber Moon. A spell to repel pests and mildew, perhaps?

  “This is May,” the apprentice said, introducing them to the little old gray-clad woman who lived here amid the maze of clothing. “She has been outfitting travelers going through our portal for as long as she’s been alive.”

  “And my father before me, and my grandparents before him, and back as long as Amber Moon has been here,” May agreed, smiling, a smile which transformed her wrinkled face into a web of friendliness. “You’re not the first to want to go somewhere without standing out, and you won’t be the last. Where are you going?”

  “Karse,” said Tory, anticipating trouble already.

  “Pfft. Pick something harder,” she scoffed. “Wait right here.”

  She vanished into the heaps of clothing and returned with a towering armload of earth- and sand-colored fabric, which she dropped at their feet. “You’ll be able to use most of the clothing you’ve got,” she informed them. “But with Karse, at least here in the south, it’s all about the wrappings and the layers. I’ll show you.”

  And so she did. “In the desert, you have to use layers,” she explained, as she fitted both Valdemarans with long, open robes of very light linen to go over their existing shirts, tunics, and breeches. “Light layers by day, heavy by night. To keep the sun off you in the day, and keep you warm in the cold desert night. To keep the sand out of the inside of your clothing. To muffle your face in during a dust storm.” As she spoke, she bound the robes around their waists with long sashes, then took another such sash and wrapped it around their heads, and a third around their necks, loosely. “Wrappings to keep the sun directly off your head, wrappings to keep it off your neck; it might seem ridiculous at this moment, you might think this will make your head hotter, but I promise you, it won’t. There. Now you look like proper Karsite travelers.”