He strode straight to the bar. “Brandy.” His eyes wandered over the bartender appreciatively. “I think you might be looking for me, beautiful.”
She handed him his drink and met his eyes coolly. “I think you’ll find something more to your liking at the House of Charms.”
Gorgo recognized the name—an infamous brothel in the Sealord's District. Six & Seven gulped the rest of his drink, choking down laughter. The noble’s mouth quirked down. He quaffed his own drink and departed with quick steps. The bartender returned to polishing glasses.
The hairs hackled on the back of Gorgo’s neck. Why had the bartender insulted a customer? She had not responded that way to Six & Seven’s advances. Even odder, the noble had hardly reacted. It rang false to Gorgo, like a clumsy performance. He touched Six & Seven’s arm. “Let’s go.”
Out in the street Six & Seven gave way to real laughter. “That was worth seeing. Even a high-handed Kharvay noble can make a fool of himself. What a putdown!”
Gorgo shook his head. “He wasn’t trying for her, and she wasn’t refusing him.”
Six & Seven glanced sharply at him, not questioning his intuition. “What, then?”
Gorgo mulled for a moment. “A code, I think. A password.”
“Underworlders, then. Smugglers most likely. Devourer take you, how do you spot these things?”
“I watch everything.” Frustration goaded Gorgo. Something of interest at last in their nighttime revels, something important, and yet he couldn’t think of any way to use what he had seen. The Kharvay noble was already out of sight. The chance encounter was no more than a curiosity, a story to tell their Oribul cousins tomorrow. “Devourer curse us that we can’t use this.” Frustration thinned his voice, and it emerged flat and hard.
Six & Seven looked at him in surprise. “Of course not; what are you going to do, turn smugglers over to the jacks? What would that buy you except a long sleep with the fishes?” Everyone knew that the jacks, as the police were colloquially known, had limited power to protect informants from the retribution of the underworld.
They entered the innermost circular street, passing by a garden of tumbled rock shapes. In the central plaza lay an outlet of Wyverna’s least popular bazaar, the Hunger Market, deserted in the smoky light save for the sleepy-eyed seller. Beyond it rose a three-story casino. Above the casino door hung a little metal construct in the shape of an eel, fastened around jointed sticks that twisted at the slightest breeze. The eel writhed sinuously, with an uncanny illusion of life. This was their destination, the gambling house The Tricked Eel.
The inside pulsed with noise and movement. It was crowded already, warm with body heat, bright oil lamps glowing along the walls and ceiling. Voices rose in shouts and bets and jeers, and lowered again for private asides, the sound surging like the sea. Six & Seven headed straight to the central table, where the big evening game of Fates was going. He watched the spin of the wheel and the flow of bets for a few minutes, gauging.
Gorgo stood by his cousin’s shoulder, mostly bored. He occupied himself by scanning the patrons around the table and beyond. His eye was caught by a woman playing cards over at a corner table. She was slight, almost girlish, with long ash-blonde hair and delicate features. Her grey tunic glimmered with embroidery in blue and silver, like the light off the river at dusk. Her hands were graceful and deft, their long fingers handling her cards with ease. He had seen her around Blue Light a few times before, in various casinos and bars, and knew by the gossip that she was a Hologrim sorceress. As she gazed at her opponent, Gorgo could see the amusement tucked into the corners of her mouth. She’ll win this hand, he thought, and then decided he’d like to play her himself. If her tells were so obvious, he could take her.
With a tap on Six & Seven’s shoulder, Gorgo left him. His cousin was already heavily into the betting, playing a hunch. Gorgo wove through the crowd until he stood by the sorceress’ table. Her opponent lost steadily and at last pushed over his coins and stalked away. She glanced up at Gorgo. One faintly raised brow and a tipped-mouth secret smile inquired his business. Not to be intimidated by her speechless courtesy, Gorgo touched the back of the chair her opponent had lately occupied and raised one brow himself.
Her smile deepened. “By all means, Oribul—?”
“Gorgo.”
“Ah. I believe I’ve seen you before. You have the friend with the remarkable luck. I’m known as Water.” She pushed the deck over to him, allowing him to deal first.
He mostly watched her face and mouth as the hands played out, only glancing at his own cards. Three gryffons and an odd number of sharks had soon come to rest before him. Water’s mouth grew stiller as the game progressed, harder to read. Pushing over another half-gryffon pot, she inquired mildly, “Would you like to raise the stakes?”
“No.” He stacked his coins off to the side.
“No?” Her eyes widened; it was mannered rather than genuine, Gorgo thought.
“You’ll play better now.”
Amusement once again toyed with her mouth. “And you won’t risk yourself against a more skilled player.” It was a taunt, her grey eyes bright.
“Of course not. I play to win.”
She studied him. “Not every game is played at the tables. Perhaps you’d like to try another?”
Now he was startled, hearing the half-caress in her voice, making an offer which could hardly be mistaken. He mistrusted it. “What are you testing now?”
She laughed, a pleasantly throaty sound. “Come, you can’t be suspicious of everything. You’ll miss much pleasure that way.”
They weighed each other across the table. Water spoke first. “Perhaps I simply find you attractive. Is that so hard for you to believe?” After another moment of silence, she made a quick dismissing sound. “Bah! But I begin to change my mind. I think I might find you dull.”
Watching her lovely, secretive face, Gorgo almost regretted his caution. But she was right; he wouldn’t get within touching distance of a Hologrim sorceress, a woman who wielded unknown powers. What was her real motive? He juggled it in his mind, and felt his frustration rise. All his cautions accomplished nothing; he had wasted night after night in Ilkour. How many opportunities had he missed, too timid to reach for them? Like that underworld encounter earlier tonight, he had let them brush by. He was tired of it; he wanted more. Or perhaps the Yahsta’s Sperm had simply made him reckless. He would take his chances here. If she had some ulterior motive, perhaps he could turn the game on her as he had at the tables. He smiled slowly. “Are you sure, Water?”
Now she said nothing, leaning back in her chair with her grey eyes veiled and distant. She tossed back her drink, rose fluidly, and with one last penetrating look at him glided away through the crowd. Gorgo gathered up his coins and followed. Back in the far reaches of the gambling hall, she slipped through a pale wood door tucked away in an alcove. They were in a narrow stairwell with fine-carved wooden stairs circling up. As they climbed, she said, “Do you know who owns this house, Gorgo?”
“Na•ar, of the Hologrim family.” Gorgo made it his business to know the proprietors of every business he frequented. He knew Na•ar owned not only the Tricked Eel, but also the popular Green Market, making him one of the city’s richest merchants.
Water let them out of the stairwell onto the second floor. They were in a carpeted hallway that muffled all sound. It was close and dim, lit by widely-spaced, masked oil lamps. She padded down the hall until she reached a heavy door carved from redstone, with a prominent lock. “He rents this room out on occasion. Go down this hall, take a left, and go in the door marked with the eel rune. Pay Na•ar a half-gryffon, tell him you want the Red Room, and get the key from him. It’s steep, but—” she smiled for the first time since the card game downstairs, “—I believe you’ll find it to your liking.”
Apparently this assignation would cost him. But since he had won the money from her in the first place, it seemed only fair. “Very well.” He followed her directio
ns, passing down the deserted hallway. He guessed these were the back regions of the gambling house, where customers rarely came. The door marked with the eel rune was unlocked. It led to a small bare antechamber, where a plainly dressed man sat behind a desk. Gorgo judged him an underling, and said only, “I have business with Na•ar.”
“And your name?”
“Gorgo Pton.”
“Certainly, sir. Come with me.” The man led him through the room’s other door into a comfortable, well-appointed study, with a fire blazing on the hearth. He indicated a chair, then disappeared through another door.
Gorgo settled himself and studied the place, noting numerous bookcases and shelves holding artworks. One minute stretched to five, and Gorgo wondered if Water would wait this long. Restlessly, he got up and prowled about the room. There were three doors total, but the only window was a large one in the far wall, covered with thick velvet curtains. Gorgo crossed to it and flicked back the drapes to reveal a broad windowseat. The panes were of thick, distorting crystal. Through them he could hazily make out the plaza and the stalls of the Hunger Market.
The far door snicked open. Gorgo looked around, half-hidden by the window curtains in the room’s dim light. A young man entered the room. It was the elegant Kharvay from Screaming Midnight. Gorgo’s eyes narrowed, and he glided soundlessly behind the curtains, onto the windowseat, pulling his legs up out of sight. The crack between the drapes gave him ample viewing. Even as he hid, the realization crept cold across his mind: this was a decision he could never take back. If this man was truly on underworld business, Gorgo might soon know something that could get him killed. His heart raced, his breath turning shallow. For a moment, he considered revealing himself, getting away from this before it was too late. That would be the prudent play.
But he did not move. He had found something important at last, and this was one opportunity he would not let pass by, whatever it cost him. He clenched his fists, swallowed, and steadied his breathing.
The noble warmed himself before the hearth, staring pensive into its flames. He had been that way for a few minutes when another door opened. The man who entered was middle-aged and elegantly dressed. “Ah. It’s you. Korl told me there was a man waiting to see me.”
The young Kharvay scowled. “Yahsta’s balls, Na•ar, I don’t like your staff being so free with my comings and goings. I don’t exactly stroll in here openly, and I don’t announce myself to your underlings. I didn’t even see Korl.”
“Never underestimate him,” Na•ar said dryly.
The Kharvay watched him for a moment, then made an impatient sound. “Come, Na•ar. I was under the impression you wanted to see me. Thamba at least indicated it when she sent for me. Or was that merely an idea of hers?”
“I sent a message by her, yes.” Na•ar’s voice was mild, giving away nothing. “A matter has come up that might interest you. It might interest a great many people. Out of respect for our long association I’m giving you the right of first refusal. I needn’t say that this meeting is entirely confidential.”
“Of course.” The noble rose from the hearth and crossed to the table where Na•ar had seated himself. “We’ve never had reason to complain in our dealings with you. And Morbid has recently authorized me to make any settlements I see fit. If I like it, I have full power to close the deal at once.”
Morbid. That name was known throughout Wyverna; she was one of the most powerful of the Kharvay nobles. The Kharvay family had ruled the ice islands of their ancestral homeland for centuries, before the Warlord took power and brought their people here. Rumors said the loss of power did not sit well with Morbid. Gorgo’s interest heightened.
Na•ar poured wine for his guest and himself. “I recommend this vintage, Radice. It was just brought in from a captured merchant ship. It’s aged to perfection.”
“And what else did the merchant ship bring in?” Radice asked, his eyes searching.
“Merchant ships may bring in fine wine and carpets, but rarely anything that would interest Morbid. No. But Harpy came in three days ago from Mar’Kesh. One of her acquisitions has come into my hands.”
It went without saying, Gorgo thought, that this acquisition had not come into his hands by legal channels. Apparently in addition to his legitimate business, Na•ar enjoyed an occasional dabble on the Nameless Market. Six & Seven had been right; the coded message had pertained to smuggling.
“If you tell me you have an agent on Harpy, Na•ar, my respect for you has just doubled.”
“Actually it was more a matter of luck than anything else. But my methods are not important.” He sipped at the rosy wine. “Remarkable flavor.” Still studying it, he murmured, “Do you know much about the Old Empire, Radice?”
“A great deal, more than you do, I’d wager. You Hologrims never do place much value on education.” His tone held a Kharvay’s unthinking arrogance.
“A baseless myth,” Na•ar said levelly, seeming unoffended. “As it happens, the Old Empire has always particularly interested me. It ruled the mainland more than a thousand years ago, yet it still has relevance for us today.”
Radice quaffed his glass, his eyes intent on the older man. “What of it, then?”
Na•ar poured more wine. The hiss of the fire and the soft gurgle of liquid were the only sounds until his voice began to weave into the stillness. “The ancient city of Madness, in its site at the foot of the Greycowl Mountains, controlled the trade from the mines to the rich lowlands. It was a stronghold for all the religions of earth and stone, and they sent down cabals from their pristine mountain monasteries to stake their claims to the mines’ hoard. The castes squabbled like dragon hatchlings over the loot, and their games of power made the city a place of terror and death.
“The Kahlrites were one of the priest castes. They worshipped the weird of copper, and were as ruthless and cunning as any of them. They were even better at antagonizing than most. From what’s known of them, toward the end they were engaged in blood feud with nearly every one of the other castes. They weren’t prepared to be beaten, either. They bent all of their magics to the creation of a fearsome device that they loosed on the heretic castes.”
“I’ve heard of that, of course,” Radice said. “Credited with the final destruction of the city—or at least a major factor in it. There are so many myths about that event. I don’t know that there are any reliable records on the downfall of Madness.”
“Fortunately I know more than you. The Assassin of the Kahlrites was a golem, fashioned in human image, fated to kill its named target. It could not turn aside nor be turned from that goal. There was no way within Yahsta’s domain to stop it once launched.” Na•ar paused, then added dryly, “So the legend says.”
Radice laughed. “From all I know of Madness’ destruction, there’s no reason to doubt it.”
“From all I know of the Kahlrites, there’s no reason to doubt it.”
Radice drained his second glass. “You have some information on the making of this golem to sell?”
“Oh, better than that. I have the golem.”
Radice stared for a moment, then gave a half-laugh. “What?”
“What else? Do you think I would call you here to waste your time?”
“I think you’ve been taken, Na•ar.” Radice lolled back in his chair, face still full of laughter.
Na•ar slipped something from one pocket and held it up in the flickering firelight. A round cloudy globe sat on his palm, dull grey even in the light, except where something bright glittered in its very center. “It’s quite real. It doesn’t look like much in its dormant form, does it? Like an egg, the beast within remains hidden until the incantation calls it forth.”
Radice stared, eyes searching the innocuous globe. “That’s truly the Assassin of the Kahlrites in your hand?”
“The golem sleeping, yes, as it has been for centuries. It came here through a roundabout path, through Black Mar’Kesh. Mar’Kesh often sends parties into the Old Empire. The ru
ins of Madness still stand. This is perhaps the greatest prize they could have brought out of them.”
“And they sold it?” Radice scoffed.
“Their ways are inscrutable.”
“Have you tested this device out, Na•ar?”
“Of course. As a prudent trader, my integrity demands that I test all my merchandise.”
“On whom?” Radice grinned unpleasantly.
“You are not asking the right questions. While you pursue irrelevancies, true opportunity vanishes. If you are not interested, there are others who will be.”
“I’m sure. I haven’t said no. I need proof it is what you say it is, with powers as rumored.”
“You have always taken my word before.” The mild rebuke was, Gorgo wagered, more dangerous than it sounded.
Radice held silent for several seconds. “My apologies, Na•ar. How is the thing controlled?”
“There is an incantation. It is spoken in the old rite-tongue of the Kahlrites, of course. The egg then hatches and the warrior comes forth to be commanded. Don’t be fooled by its dormant size; the golem grows to a full seven feet. Once invoked by the incantation, it understands all languages.”
“And obeys all commands of the invoker?”
“Naturally. But the command to kill is its favorite. That is its purpose.”
Radice smiled in appreciation. “A Wyvernyr at heart. Very good.” He looked thoughtful, eyes distant. “Cockatrice. Cockatrice was the name of the artifice, was it not? ‘Single-minded and implacable, invulnerable and inexorable, the doom of the Cockatrice stalked the streets of Madness—’ ”
The Copper Assassin Page 2
