“I have killed three of Janna’s captors, without witnesses as you ordered. I have been unable to locate the fourth, Angel Eyes.”
“Why not?”
“None of my magical searches has been able to find a trace of him. I released the Seeker and it did not know where to go.”
“This is the competence of the mighty assassin?”
Cockatrice did not reply, standing expressionless like the automaton she was.
Gorgo made some rapid calculations. So in the sixteen hours or so since he had last seen the golem in the Sealord’s District, she had traveled several miles to Ilkour, then walked back to Sealord’s, hunted down and killed three thugs hiding in different locations, searched for Angel Eyes, and returned here again. The beast moved fast.
“We would not even have this problem if you had killed Janna without witnesses as I ordered.”
“The woman Janna was spilling secrets, Sender.”
“Yes, yes, I know, so you have said. So obviously you should have killed them all right then, to keep our secrets. Why didn’t you?”
“They were not my targets, Sender.”
Morbid let out a wordless growl, almost a scream. She stamped across the room. “Yahsta help me if I don’t kill you myself.”
Gorgo found himself grinning, though no one could see it, enjoying the spectacle of Morbid’s impotent rage. He found these new revelations fascinating. So he had guessed wrong last night—Cockatrice had held back at first, waiting behind the door, because she actually had been ordered to kill Janna without witnesses. But when the woman babbled, she had used her own initiative to silence her quickly, against orders. The golem had a great deal more mind and self-will than Gorgo had guessed. Still, it seemed she could not assassinate without explicit orders. The whole business made him wonder again what the golem planned to do with him. It seemed that whatever her game with Gorgo was, Morbid was unaware of it.
Morbid turned back to the golem. “It is said you do not rest until your victim is dead. Angel Eyes is not dead. Why are you here?”
“You ordered me to report by sundown, Sender.”
“You should have questioned the others before you killed them, and found out where Angel Eyes was hiding.”
“I did. They did not know.” Gorgo was sure they had been subjected to the same truth spell as he had.
“I have been quite disappointed in you,” Morbid observed acidly. “Somehow I expected more from the Assassin of the Kahlrites.”
“I am only as skilled as the hand that wields me, Sender.”
Morbid’s spine snapped straight, and her hand went to her sword hilt. “That sounded like an insult.”
“You constantly forget it’s only a golem, Morbid,” Radice said. He had been leaning on the table nearby and sipping his wine through the whole exchange, watching idly. “I say let Angel Eyes go. So he knows something. What can he do with it before our plan is complete?”
Morbid cast him a glance full of knives. “Don’t be more of a fool than you are.” She turned back to Cockatrice. “I expected the ultimate assassin to be less clumsy in its methods.”
“Many expectations are foiled in the march of time.”
“Do you think to play games with me? Remember I hold the incantation that controls you.”
Cockatrice stood like a graven statue, splendid and alien, the light splashing in golden rivers off her breastplate and greaves. No emotion showed on her beautifully sculpted face. Gorgo thought again of the Greycowl priest’s journal. He had called her a “perfect being.” Despite her human form, she was as inhuman as anything Gorgo had ever encountered.
Radice spoke around Cockatrice as if she was not there, or could not hear. “Really, Morbid. If you’re determined to kill everyone who knows of that thing’s presence, then even after Angel Eyes is dead, we’ve still got Strace—and Na•ar—to kill. Safer to give it up. I think it’s time we turned the assassin on our real target.”
“Who is this Angel Eyes?” Morbid muttered, rubbing two fingers across her chin.
“Chassi says his name is known on the docks. He’s a Nameless Marketeer of considerable power. Nothing more.”
“What family is he?”
“Oh, Hologrim, certainly.”
“Hmmph. Likely he’s a sorcerer.”
“No rumor says so.” Radice shrugged. “I think you’re giving him too much importance.”
“Then why couldn’t the assassin locate him? Something’s not right.” Morbid chewed at her lip. “I won’t have my plans foiled at this late date.” She meditated for some moments in silence. “I believe you’re right—rare as that is. The thing to do is to strike quickly. We must not lose the advantage of surprise.” Radice nodded judiciously. Morbid whirled on her comrade. “Leave us a moment, Radice.” As if he had expected this, Radice left without comment, brushing by Gorgo without seeming to notice him. Gorgo was getting used to his invisibility.
Morbid faced the motionless golem and began to speak, shaping the words as if they were unfamiliar to her. “Ist balaat un scortaslaat, va keen; ist mogtruna un vreel, va gorn; ist shasha un ohst, va fesch; ist nawthus un krif, va deem: Bakoshkry Oxfeen.” She waited.
Cockatrice said nothing.
“Well?” Morbid demanded at last.
“May I continue my search for Angel Eyes now, Sender?”
“No. I have new orders. Your new target is called the Warlord—”
“My target,” Cockatrice interrupted, “is called Angel Eyes. I have no other until he is dead.”
“Did you not hear me give the commanding incantation? I am redirecting you.”
“I cannot accept new orders until the old are carried out.”
Morbid gritted her teeth. Gorgo was greatly amused, but could almost sympathize. She owned the greatest assassin in the world, and it was now useless to her.
“Does the incantation not mean that you obey me?” she ground out, voice raw with anger.
“I am obeying you.”
How fortunate that he had not used the word Wakár had given him to call off the golem, Gorgo reflected. He must not use it now whatever the temptation. Until Angel Eyes was killed, the Warlord was safe.
Morbid smiled icily, gathering her composure, and spoke in clear flinty tones. “Cockatrice, the man Angel Eyes is one of the disguises of the Warlord. You will find him now in his true form as the Warlord. I will describe his new appearance to you.”
Gorgo listened incredulously as Morbid continued. Cockatrice could not possibly believe that a small man like Angel Eyes could really be the massive Warlord. It was so obviously a lie he was amazed Morbid would try it. Not to mention that Cockatrice had heard Radice and Morbid discussing Angel Eyes as a separate entity from the Warlord. It was a little late to try to fool the golem on this point.
Morbid finished her description. “Now, Cockatrice, what will you do?”
“I shall kill the man Angel Eyes in his form as the Warlord.”
Morbid smiled. “Excellent.”
Devourer take her. Gorgo was torn between disbelief, fury, and fear. His blood ran cold. Morbid had given the order, and the Warlord’s hours were now numbered. He would have to intervene. He must wait for the right moment, and hope that the word Wakár had given him did what she claimed. He might be the only thing now standing between the Warlord and death.
Morbid was still speaking. “To find the Warlord, you must pass through the Fence…” Morbid referred now to the magical wards around the Fence District, the source of the district’s name. As she spoke, Gorgo tried to commit her instructions to memory. He had known nothing of these secrets, and wondered where Morbid had learned them. Morbid emphasized to the golem that the Warlord must be dead before dawn. “Now carry out your orders.”
“As you command, Sender.” Cockatrice wheeled and strode from the room. As she passed Gorgo, the amphisbaena tightened against his neck, and Gorgo followed obediently. They marched back through the halls and down three flights of stairs. Cockatrice exited ou
t a back door, into a quiet alley. The early night of Wyverna was already well advanced; though the sky high above was still pearly grey, on the ground the gloom lay thick. As Gorgo stepped out the doorway after her, Cockatrice lifted the amphisbaena from his neck.
“What did Rashin think of the conference?”
It was not until the snake answered, in clear if sibilant words, that Gorgo realized she was speaking to it. “He was amused at first. When you refused the new orders, he was pleased. Then I sensed disbelief. When you took the new orders, he was angry and afraid. Now I sense determination.”
Yahsta, what would this alien being make of all that? Did she even understand emotion? Would she realize Gorgo meant to oppose her? He saw no sign of it.
Cockatrice released the snake. “Go, wise one. Watch Morbid for me.” It slithered beneath the foundation wall of the Cataracts with astonishing speed, both its heads rushing forward, its body writhing between them in rippling S curves.
When Gorgo turned back to Cockatrice he found her watching him. He could read no expression on her golden face. “Did you really believe what Morbid told you?”
She grasped his arm once more. “Let’s go to a gathering place. Suggest one.”
“What do you plan to do there?”
“Talk.”
Gorgo was not sure if this was an answer or a command. The silence lengthened while he wondered uneasily what she was planning. Yahsta, where could he take an ancient assassin?
7: The Carousel
“The Carousel, in Blue Light,” Gorgo said at last. If the golem had mayhem in mind, this tavern would be the place best suited to withstand it. It was a stronghold of the underworld, and used to violence.
“Lead the way.”
They still walked invisibly, Gorgo noted; no one noticed them in the streets. The twilight had thickened to night by the time they reached Blue Light. Cockatrice showed no curiosity at the blue radiance that gleamed in the air, striding through the blocks without slowing. The Carousel lay just across the Hunger Market from The Tricked Eel. Its windows were broken, its stone scarred with burn marks. Even at this early hour, a raucous din floated out through the shattered windows.
Gorgo had never been inside the place. Once, as he passed it, the roar of an explosion had ripped through the night air, and a body had crashed through a window in a hail of broken glass, landing on the street before him quite dead. Gossip said this was not an uncommon occurrence in the Carousel.
Cockatrice stopped just before the door, and laid one enormous hand on Gorgo’s forehead. “Say a name.”
Gorgo said the first name that came to mind. “Armida.”
The hand on his forehead felt suddenly smaller and softer. It dropped away, and Gorgo saw his aunt standing before him. Armida was a few inches shorter than he and a few decades older, with the same dark Oribul complexion. Silky black hair fell around her shoulders. Her face was a placid oval, her dark eyes sad and dreamy.
“Let’s go in,” the golem said in his aunt’s gentle voice.
“Not everyone in there may be fooled by an illusion.” Even as he said it, Gorgo wondered if the alteration was an illusion, or a real change. Her hand had changed to the touch, not just to the eye. If it was illusion, it was an extremely powerful one.
“Let’s go in,” the golem repeated, cooler and brisker, his aunt’s voice when she was tired of putting up with nonsense.
As they entered, Gorgo wished he’d thought to say the name of some burly warrior, some Catsclaw Pirate. Devourer, he’d never have taken his aunt into the Carousel. Even jacks didn’t patrol here. Gorgo would never have dared go in with any less ferocious company than Cockatrice herself at his side. Armida didn’t carry a weapon, and all he had was his long knife. She was as mild-looking as could be, a small woman whose soft body had settled into middle-aged curves. Gorgo feared he himself was only marginally more impressive, his only advantages youth and strength. His recent skirmishes with Angel Eyes and Strace had left him all too aware of his deficiencies as a warrior. Patrons glanced at them as they entered; as Gorgo had feared, they were no longer invisible.
He should have told Cockatrice this was the most dangerous bar in town.
Rafts of half-broken chandeliers covered the ceiling of the long room. Their multitude of candles cast an uncertain light; the chandeliers swayed with every breeze, sending shadows careening around the room. All the tables were of heavy stone, all home-mined from Yahsta’s Claws, and some of it expensive. Gorgo saw redstone, bluestone, and greenstone making colorful patterns in the furniture. The tables were crowded already, patrons eating, drinking, and shouting to be heard in the clamor. At the bar three bartenders served drinks in dented metal cups. At one end of the room lay a raised wooden stage. Two drummers sat playing, their instruments as hypnotic as heartbeats, the swaying lights catching sparks from the jewels in their hair. In the moving light and shadow, patrons danced before the stage. At the opposite end of the room stood two gaming tables, where loud-voiced arguments reigned.
Armida led the way to the bar, where they took seats. She glanced at Gorgo in mute appeal, and he obliged by ordering them both wine, a mild variety. He wondered if Cockatrice ever ate or drank, or if she could do so through illusion. Apparently so, as Armida sipped at the wine. Gorgo scanned the room. No one was paying them any mind. Perhaps this place wasn’t so bad after all.
Gorgo catalogued the patrons almost by habit, recognizing a few faces he had seen before around Blue Light. His interest sharpened when he saw Water, standing at the other end of the bar and speaking with a tall Kharvay woman. The Kharvay had brassy hair and wore a rapier at her waist; reviewing the gossip he had heard, Gorgo guessed she was the owner of the Carousel. Water looked slight and girlish next to her. Her manner was more serious tonight than it had been three nights back at The Tricked Eel; she gazed intently at the Kharvay, unsmiling. Perhaps he should not be surprised to see Water here; he had thought she might run with the underworld. She did not look around or see him, and Gorgo turned his attention back to the golem who wore Armida’s form.
“Why do you spy on Morbid?” Gorgo asked her, leaning close. Just past her ear, his voice became lost in the babble; they could converse as privately as though alone.
“I use every method possible to gather the information I need to carry out my orders. If the Sender will not tell me directly I must find out as I can.”
Logical, Gorgo supposed. He mulled his best course of action for a moment. His last resort was to use the word Wakár had given him. He did not trust the mind witch or her word. He would far rather try to talk the golem down, appealing to her reason. He had good ammunition for it.
“Did you believe Morbid when she said Angel Eyes and the Warlord were one?” She stayed silent. “Come on, Armida. You heard them say in front of you that they were letting the one go so you could kill the other instead; then they tell you the two are one and you believe it?”
She answered in his aunt’s voice as he had heard it so many times, telling stories of the past. “My duty is to obey the one who sends me out; whether they lie or not is no concern of mine.”
“But when they would have changed your orders you resisted.”
“That is how I am made.” It was only his aunt’s voice, Gorgo told himself, that made the words sound sad.
“How is it different because they lie?”
Armida laughed. “What, are you still expecting a creation of fanatics to make sense?”
Gorgo’s breath stopped in his throat. Surely that was his aunt speaking. Cockatrice would not have said that, but Armida, yes, she would—Gorgo told himself not to be stupid. The golem had taken Armida’s image and her voice from his mind; of course she could have taken Armida’s laugh as well, her way of speaking. She was a mimicry not of Gorgo’s aunt, but of Gorgo’s impression of her, of what Gorgo expected her to be.
A few heads had turned toward Armida now. Her laugh was beautiful, and even in the din it had carried a few feet down the bar. A man
from two seats down wormed through the crowd to Armida and laid a hand on her shoulder. Gorgo marked him for an underworlder; he was wiry, prematurely aged by hard living, with broken teeth and a face criss-crossed by scars. His eyes glinted on Armida. “I haven’t seen you here before. Let me get you a drink.”
“It’s not necessary,” Armida said, as mild and polite as Cockatrice always seemed to be. Politeness worked better when you were seven feet tall, Gorgo thought.
The man’s hand tightened on her shoulder, his thumb caressing her flesh. His smile grew. Gorgo realized he took Armida’s passivity for consent. “Bartender, some whisky for this pretty thing.”
Armida looked blank. If she had really been Gorgo’s aunt, she would have sent the man on his way with a few choice words, but the golem did not know the rules of these games. In the face of her silence, the man was only growing bolder. Yahsta’s blood, Gorgo realized, he would have to step in. “My aunt doesn’t want a drink. Leave us alone.”
“She knows what she wants.” The underworlder didn’t even look at Gorgo. He leaned close to Armida now, bellying up to her, his breath puffing against her face. Devourer, was he going to try to kiss her? Did the golem even understand what was happening? She was innocent to human ways. Gorgo reached for his knife, resigning himself to a fight.
Armida caught the man across the throat with a quick chop of her left hand. The little snap of bone was almost lost in the din, but it echoed loud in Gorgo’s ears. The man’s eyes widened, became unfocused. His legs gave way, and he crashed to the floor, his neck twisted sickeningly. Armida turned back to the bar, her expression placid.
Gorgo’s breath had caught in his throat, and he forced himself to draw in fresh air. The real Armida would never have had the strength to break a man’s neck like that, with a one-handed chop. That move might have been a stretch even for a Catsclaw warrior. The golem had just revealed herself as an alien, some strange being with unguessed powers. A killer. Innocent indeed, Gorgo thought in disgust at himself. He tensed, reading the faces around him, waiting for the fallout.
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