The Copper Assassin

by Madolyn Rogers

  “You cannot turn me to stone.” His voice came as cool as ever.

  Cockatrice inclined her head. “I have no quarrel with you, ancient one.”

  The Hands flexed his legs and sprang down, landing lightly in front of the golem. “Then stand aside.”

  Cockatrice raised a hand to her throat, then flung her arm outward toward the Hands. The body of a serpent seemed to blossom from her hand, its body whipping through the air. The Hands leapt back, swatting the snake aside. By the time the serpent hit the ground it had reached python size, its body thick and muscular, and it was still growing. Seven heads crowned its blue-black body, weaving and hissing. The Hands snarled back at it and grabbed a writhing neck. He squeezed the snake’s throat until it popped, the head flopping over his arm. Meanwhile the other heads dove and bit at him. His free hand knocked them aside, moving so fast it became a grey blur. He grabbed for another head while he ducked away from a fanged bite. The snake wrapped a coil around his body, seeking to pin his legs, his arms.

  While the Hands fought, one of the onlookers gave a strangled cry, drew his sword, and charged at the golem. The mob surged, half of them rushing forward, half drawing back. Screams and cries filled the air. Cockatrice glanced at the throng, raised her hand to her throat again, and tossed something that coruscated orange and gold. When the flaming bundle hit the ground, it separated into seven streaks of fire. Some of the fire asps zipped toward the crowd, while others slithered away toward nearby buildings, flames licking down their scarlet backs. The mob roared. Those with swords chased after the asps, hacking wildly. Others ran into buildings and emerged carrying buckets or rolling barrels of water. The first asp reached a porch, darting up the steps and shooting toward the door. With a shout of rage, two merchants hurled a water barrel. The barrel burst in a shower of staves and liquid, dousing the serpent’s light. The merchants closed in with knives.

  Amid the chaos, Cockatrice turned to the gate and lifted the enormous bars. She swung the huge leaves wide, creaking. Morbid strode into the Fence District, her mouth curved up in satisfaction.

  14: Murder in Mind

  The Warlord and Gorgo stood directly under the mountain face. Before them hulked an enormous mansion of dark grey stone and greenstone, its many windows dark. Gorgo had no more than a moment to take in the scene, because the Warlord strode without pausing up to the mansion’s double doors of greened bronze. Elaborate carvings and bas-reliefs in greenstone and iron surrounded and overhung the entrance. As they passed beneath the carvings into dim greenish light, Gorgo had the impression of entering some undersea jungle. He half expected to find water behind the doors. But there was none, only a dark entryway, high-ceilinged, with doorways opening off it in three directions and a wide stairway with an iron balustrade coiling up before them.

  “Heizhen,” the Warlord called, in a voice like the boom of the surf.

  Running feet sounded above; a moment later a girl appeared at the top of the stairs, gangly and startled as a doe. She was sloppily dressed in smock and trousers, and barefoot. She took in the scene for a moment and then came bounding down the stairs. She looked like a skinny adolescent to Gorgo, all bony knees and elbows and long limbs, with a wild mass of red-brown hair floating behind her.

  “I hope you have a good reason,” she said breathlessly as she reached the bottom of the stairs, “for disturbing me from what may well be my magnum opus.” She frowned as she saw the dried blood caking the front of the Warlord’s tunic. “And a scratch or two isn’t enough of an excuse.”

  At her voice Gorgo forgot his thoughts of adolescence. Hers was a self-confident woman’s voice, lower-pitched and more cultured than he’d expected. Inspecting her at close range, Gorgo saw the tiny lines around her eyes that indicated she was in her thirties at least, and he realized the impression of flighty youth was all an illusion. Yet the impression remained. The sleeves of her smock were frayed, and daubs of paint decorated its surface, while a bright blue streak of it was smeared across her cheek. Then Gorgo’s mind caught up with him and he recognized her name. Heizhen was one of the famous figures from the time of the Uprooting, one of the seven influential young people who had first supported the Warlord back in Ptalmilkour.

  The Warlord spoke with mock severity. “Settle down and attend, Heizhen; this is a matter of urgency. See if you can fulfill your office. This young Oribul is suffering from a mind block put on him by a Panam Kell; we need to break it.”

  Heizhen’s eyes widened. “Indeed! You must travel widely, young Oribul; I’ve heard Mar’Kesh is beautiful in the spring. Weren’t you warned to watch your manners with the Panam Kell? They don’t like prying.”

  Gorgo grinned despite himself. “So I’ve learned.”

  “Here, come this way, let’s all sit down. I’m Ambassador Heizhen, by the way. The Warlord never bothers with proper introductions when she’s in a hurry. My field was history before it was politics, and I’ve studied many of the cultures of the continent. The Panam Kell are my province, not that even I can claim to know that much about their ways.” Heizhen ushered them into a dark sitting room, shutters drawn across its windows. She indicated a leather chair to Gorgo, then lit two oil lamps in colored glass globes and glanced back at the Warlord. “There’s really no excuse for having emergencies at dawn; this is one of my few times to paint. On top of last night’s excitement, too. You missed a lovely scene.”

  “So I’ve heard.” The Warlord loomed like a shadow in the small room, her voice a deep rumble. She almost seemed a golem herself, huge, blood-stained, and dangerous, but Gorgo caught a glint of amusement in her eyes. “Both crises may have the same cause, it appears. But now see to the mind block.”

  Heizhen pulled up a chair and sat down before Gorgo. “Tell me what’s blocked.”

  “Only one word.”

  The Warlord interrupted. “Where did you meet the Panam Kell?”

  “In Hotbed Arena. She was inhabiting the body of the Tiger Strace.”

  Heizhen let out a startled hiss.

  “When was this?” the Warlord asked.

  “Yesterday morning.”

  “When did you discover the mind block?”

  “Last night.” Gorgo remembered it with terrible clarity, that moment in the cobalt gloom of the Blue Light District when he’d tasted death. The memory washed over him, lending menace to this moment, the Warlord standing silent as a sentinel, the girlish woman in her cloud of red hair looking grave before him.

  Heizhen started again. “Think of the word that’s blocked. What do you see?”

  Reluctantly Gorgo reached for the word. The hungry darkness Wakár had left in his mind uncoiled to meet him, extending razor-sharp claws. They prickled at the fabric of his mind, like a cat kneading flesh. Pinpricks of pain trembled through him in a shimmering warning. Gorgo retreated.

  He became aware again of Heizhen sitting before him, all her restless movement stilled. She looked shadowy in the dim room, motionless in time while the darkness stretched lazily in Gorgo’s mind. “What do you see?”

  “Nothing. Just darkness.”

  “Think of the word again. Search for it, keep pressing on, right into the darkness. Hold to it firmly.”

  Gorgo steeled himself and obeyed. He summoned the word to him, forcing himself to remember the moment of Wakár’s saying it. He would hear the word. With all his will he dove into his memory.

  Claws raked through his mind. They had grown from delicate needles to daggers in an instant; streaks of agony splintered his skull like jagged ruby lightning. He recoiled from the beast, and his vision slowly cleared. He was not aware he had cried out until he saw Heizhen and the Warlord looming over him, their concerned expressions blurry through the tears of pain that filled his eyes. He was shaking and unable to stop, though he cursed his weakness. “It has claws,” he gasped.

  They exchanged a glance. “This isn’t really my field, Warlord,” Heizhen said. “I know very little about the mind powers of the Panam Kell. I wouldn’t dare
to do more; it might damage him irreparably.”

  “You know more than anyone else in the city. We have little choice. We must have the word.” The Warlord’s tone was implacable.

  Of course she was ruthless, Gorgo thought. What had he expected? She had brought together a nation of the most proud, independent, and powerful people alive. She had crushed all opposition, bent them to her will, and forced them to bow to her laws. She would not let the welfare of one young Oribul stand in her way. Gorgo wondered briefly if trying to save her had been a mistake. But then, he had not done it for her, but for Wyverna.

  Heizhen scowled and dropped her forehead onto her hands, grabbing fistfuls of her hair and tugging as if the action could stimulate her thoughts. After a moment she looked up at the Warlord. “There is one in Wyverna who knows more than I. Luoxjarn’s people have been enemies of the Panam Kell for centuries.”

  “Then I shall bring him here.” The Warlord was gone from the room in two strides.

  Gorgo felt a wash of relief at her exit, a lightening of the air in the room. He sank back in his chair and steadied his breathing. His shakes were passing. The pain had left no residue in his mind, but the memory of it was still white-hot.

  Heizhen shook her head as though exasperated. She turned to Gorgo. “Would you like some tea? What name do you go by, young Oribul?”

  Gorgo grinned at her. No one ever asked his family; his appearance gave it away. “Gorgo. I’d love some tea.”

  Heizhen surprised him by fetching it herself. Someone who owned such a mansion was sure to have slaves, but she brought the teacup into the room cupped in her long graceful hands. It was steaming hot bhinroot tea of excellent quality.

  Gorgo pondered while he sipped the bitter stimulant. He recognized the name Luoxjarn—third in command of the Catsclaw, a mighty general, a Jaguar by title. In the ice islands, Luoxjarn had been a recent exile, not a member of any family. He came from an exotic race, the green-skinned people of Tryjan, the country that neighbored the city of Black Mar’Kesh. What would his coming mean for Gorgo? They were going to try to wrest the word from Gorgo’s mind at the risk of “damaging” him, that much was clear, though Gorgo had no clue how bad the damage might be. Should he try to refuse?

  The thought barely held meaning. Morbid was storming the Fence. The Warlord’s forces were loyal; they would not give up the fight. Civil war was inevitable now. Wyverna would burn as Madness had burned. Heaviness settled in Gorgo’s stomach, as though he had swallowed stones. No, he would not refuse, no matter the risks.

  Voices and footsteps rang in the foyer, the clatter of military boots beside the Warlord’s almost soundless tread. Yahsta, how had they gotten here so quickly? Not more than five minutes had passed, though Luoxjarn’s home in the Catsclaw District must be at least a mile from the Fence. A cold, chiseled voice said, “The Panam Kell are a deviant cult. My people have little truck with them. Their mind powers are a perfect example of rationality turned to soiled purposes—like everything about them.”

  “No moral judgments are required of you today, Luoxjarn, only whatever knowledge you possess,” the Warlord said. “This is business.”

  “You understand business so well.” There was a kind of formal courtesy in the words.

  Heizhen went to meet them. At the doorway Gorgo heard her exclaim, “I share delight in your presence, Luoxjarn, by reason of first affinity.”

  “I too.” A shade of warmth entered the flinty voice. The general marched into the room. He was tall and angular, his skin green as jade. His eyes looked like precious stones of gold-flecked amber. His face was expressionless, his posture erect and proud. Not one wrinkle or speck of dust marred his grey uniform. He gave Gorgo no greeting, merely strode up to his chair and addressed him. “The Warlord has told me the word is surrounded by darkness. You are attacked if you try to penetrate it. Is this correct?”

  “Yes. The darkness has claws. The more I press it, the harder it attacks.”

  The Jaguar seated himself before Gorgo. “The claws are an image provided by your own mind. They have no reality.” Behind him, Heizhen stood twisting a strand of curly hair around her finger, face troubled. The Warlord watched intently. “All that a Panam Kell may place in your mind is her will. You are giving the compulsion its animal form. You may banish the claws by an application of your own will. It is your mind; you make the rules.” Luoxjarn fell silent for a moment. When Gorgo said nothing, he continued. “Seek the word again. Keep firmly in your mind that it is only the Panam Kell’s will that denies you. The darkness is only an order she has given you. Brush it aside. It is beneath the honor of a true man to submit to a Panam Kell’s manipulation.”

  It was almost startling to Gorgo, the realization that the three of them had no power over him. Luoxjarn could not force Gorgo to seek the word, nor could he do anything to help him. The Jaguar was an observer, a guide at best. It was all up to Gorgo. His choice, his battle. If he chose not to fight Wakár, the Warlord would never hear the word. But he had already made his choice when he started this mission. “All right,” he said at last.

  Gorgo closed his eyes and probed again at the dark place in his mind. Tiny claws pricked him in mocking warning. He brought his will to bear on the belief that there were no claws. Rivulets of pain flickered through his skull, and he realized, as he had in the Fence of Darkness, that his imagination was not that good. He could not believe in the unreality of something he could feel. But if he himself was creating the claws, could he create something else? He imagined hands coming in from both sides to hold the angry darkness still. The hands appeared and clamped the darkness between them. It writhed and yowled like a furious animal, and claws punctured across his mind, rending and tearing. Gorgo felt the shock all through him, streams of pain coursing down his arms and legs, tearing his breath away. He almost lost his grip on the beast. He heard a scream, and realized dimly it had been his own. He pushed the thought aside and redoubled his concentration. He visualized gauntlets on the hands, and they crushed the beast small and still between them. The claws still scrabbled furiously, slashing at his thoughts, but weaker now. He kept his mind focused on the blot of darkness held tight before him. He pressed at it with his thoughts, trying to pull it apart strand by strand.

  Slowly an image formed where the darkness crouched. The face of a woman he had never seen stared haughtily back at him. It was a face both cruel and sensual, her eyes heavy-lidded, hiding a contemptuous gleam, and her mouth full, with a slight disdainful curl to it. Her skin was faintly olive, her black hair bleached with white streaks like tiger stripes. Gorgo knew he looked on the true face of Wakár.

  He demanded the word from her as he had before. She smiled back, red lips like a scythe of blood. He pushed harder, pulling apart more of the thick gloom that surrounded her. He saw her whole body now, clad in a dark red robe. Gorgo pressed again, trying to see more. He felt as if he were diving through water. His body turned cold. Wakár seemed to be at the end of a long tunnel. He knew he must reach her to conquer her.

  And then he was there. He stood on the bank of a river, only a few feet from her. It looked almost like the river he had grown up beside, but it flowed slower, in lazy eddies. The bank was shallow here and the grass under his feet was wet, almost boggy. They stood in a twilight murk. Was this place an illusion? More likely he was simply deep in his own mind.

  “Give me the word,” Gorgo said.

  Wakár turned toward him, her lip lifting at one corner. “Make me.”

  Gorgo took two strides and wrapped his hands around her throat. Though he knew none of this was real, she felt real and human under his hands, her skin warm. He hesitated. But her eyes mocked him, and he squeezed her throat, feeling the pulse of her life jump under his thumb. “Give it to me or die.”

  She laughed, a freezing sound. She brought her right hand up between them, and he saw it was tipped with long metal claws. She slashed down his chest. He felt his flesh rend, saw blood pouring down, the white gleam of bone. T
he claws scraped against his ribs, and then laid open his belly. His exposed guts glistened. Weakness coursed through him; his knees collapsed as though their strings were cut. Cold twined itself through his bones. Pain washed over him in crashing waves. He was on the ground, writhing, trying to press his guts back together. His hands slipped in blood.

  Wakár stood smiling down at him. “You are weak, little man.”

  Gorgo grasped for thoughts through the pain. How could she do this? Had Luoxjarn not said it was only her will in his mind? She was not a real foe. Gorgo stared up at her, a dark shadow against the leaden sky. Maybe what he faced was only her will, but her will was strong. She was a witch of the mind, twice his age, hardened by years of training, poisoned with ambition and greed, and ruthless. He sensed her character as if he had known her all his life. She had left a powerful spell in his mind, and Gorgo had no idea how to break it. He had never fought a mental combat before. How real was this? If his mind believed what was happening, would his body die?

  Gorgo fisted his hands in the wet grass. No, he would not. She was only a compulsion. He would break it. What had Luoxjarn said?—it is your mind, you make the rules. She was in his world. He could change the game on her. He would find a weakness. None of this is real, he told himself—you are not wounded, not writhing in the grass. He tried to rise and could not. The grass turned black with his blood, and his sight darkened.

  Fury strengthened him. He would not lose this fight. But a direct assault was not the way to defeat her. She was waiting for that. What was her weakness? She was arrogant, he answered himself. She did not believe he could best her; she was not watching for trickery. She would not see a slow attack. It was his mind; he could change the rules on her. Gorgo focused on the river. Rise, he told it. The grass already oozed with the power of the river. Rise up, cover us. He felt the water lap over his hands, felt it run cold into his broken body. He welcomed it. Soon it would cover them both with its power.