Wakár still smirked down at him. She did not attack if he did not. Luoxjarn was right; she was not a real being, only a static spell, a compulsion of great power. The water kept rising, tickling in his ears, flowing into his nose. It wrapped him in an icy embrace, blotting out the world. He lay still and waited. He did not try to hold his breath. He let the water enter, let it flow through his mouth and fill his lungs. It was his mind, he could breathe the water.
The world grew dark and strange. He was starting to float, his body turning numb. The pain was fading, and everything else. His thoughts went muzzy. Still he waited, biding his time.
He heard voices, echoing hollowly as if a great way off. One was Heizhen’s, its tones tense. “Talk to him, Luoxjarn; give him instructions.”
“Better not to break his concentration,” came a brittle, uninflected voice. “He must break the Panam Kell’s will with his own. There is no prescribed method for it.”
“Or he will die trying,” Heizhen said soberly. “Look at him. If we don’t intervene now it will be too late.”
“Shall I try to call him back, Warlord? Heizhen is correct in this: he has gone deep enough that if he fails, he will die.”
“Leave him be,” said a deep voice.
“Warlord!” Heizhen protested. “You must stop this. He’s too far gone. He can’t do this.”
The Warlord spoke with final authority. “He crossed the Fence wards. He can do it.”
The words meant nothing to Gorgo. He let the voices float away. All his attention was focused on the power of the river he had summoned. It had risen waist-high on Wakár now, and yet she had not moved, content to watch him die. Gorgo called out the river creatures, his minions. He pictured them as he had often seen them when he swam in the river’s blue depths. The freshwater eels came undulating, long bodies speckled yellow and brown, winding like ribbons through the water. Their jaws held rows of razored teeth. Tiny vipers, brilliant in red and black, slipped from their holes and sidled up to Wakár, circling her. Their bite would be deadly. Behind them scuttled a giant crab, one of the huge ocean beasts that sometimes crept in at the river’s mouth. Its claws could snap a man’s arm in two.
“Now,” Gorgo told his beasts. He could no longer feel his body, or move at all. The eels slithered in, slashing at Wakár’s sides, at her legs. Her blood ran black in the water. She snarled and grabbed for the eels, twisting one in her hands like a rag. It broke, spraying blood. But now the vipers had nosed beneath her robe, were twining up her legs and burying their fangs in her soft flesh. Wakár screamed, more rage than pain. She grabbed two of the eels by their necks and bashed their heads together. But there were too many of them. Gorgo directed his beasts, keeping them circling around her, darting in to tear and bite from all sides, slicing open her veins. She flailed and staggered.
“You cannot beat me!” She screamed the words at him, and tried to run. The water was up to her breasts now. She could not have gotten far. But it did not suit Gorgo to let her run. He caused the ground to suck at her feet, to turn into quicksand. She went ankle-deep, then calf-deep. She turned back to him, gasping, her eyes wide, her black and white hair tangled and sticky with her own blood.
Gorgo felt a moment of pity. The eels hesitated, stopping the attack, and the vipers drew back. Fear stabbed Gorgo. Pity was his weakness, and she had found it. He could not afford mercy. He had to destroy this thing in his mind. He ordered the beasts back to the fight.
Then he saw he had misjudged Wakár. She wanted no pity. Her eyes narrowed and she spat at him. She raised one hand, middle two fingers curled in, outer two fingers pointing at him. Gorgo understood it as a sign of triumph, a mockery. “I have left my mark in your mind,” she hissed. “Never forget it.”
She stumbled and fell to her knees, sinking under the water. The vipers’ poison was doing its work. Her eyes were losing focus. She tumbled onto the grass, lying only a few feet from him. Her eyes were wide and sightless now. Her striped hair waved in the water like seaweed. Her will was spent, but it was not enough. Gorgo needed the word she hid. He brought up the crab, to be his hands. The great claws snapped at her face, pulling it apart, digging into her flesh. Gorgo was sure the word was buried inside her. The crab stripped away flesh, and the pieces turned dark and sticky as grease. Wakár’s face was a blot of darkness now. It was boiling, yielding to the crab’s probes. Gorgo pressed harder. The sensations of his own body returned to him in a rush. It was his own hands pulling apart the sticky darkness now. It seethed around him like oil. It streamed past and vanished in gouts of smoke. He wrapped his hands through the remnants, fastening them around something heavy and precious. As the blackness poured back he saw the word he sought, falling cold into his consciousness like a diamond.
He held fast to it, even as the river scene dwindled away down a tunnel. He soared away from it, as though he were surfacing from a deep dive. Air returned to his lungs. He drew a deep breath, and it seemed like the first one he’d drawn in several minutes. He became aware of his real body again. He felt every ache and bruise, the throb of his lacerated leg, the burning wound in his shoulder, but they were real and he welcomed them. His head pounded and his stomach twisted, but it seemed to him he dare not lose his concentration until he had delivered the word. He felt the chair he sat in, the air against his face. He heard the breathing of the people around him. He opened his eyes and saw them: Luoxjarn, Heizhen, the Warlord. His eyes went to the Warlord, and it was to her he spoke.
“I have the word.”
She waited, without apparent impatience or concern, her eyes on him.
“B’yakay.”
Her wolf’s smile rippled across her face. “Indeed. The Kahlrite word that means ‘return to the beginning.’ Well done.”
Gorgo barely registered the compliment. He had let go of his focus when he surrendered the word, and now waves of weakness swamped him. He became aware that he was soaked in sweat; his borrowed uniform was sodden and his hair plastered to his forehead. He shivered with the chill of it. He closed his eyes and let the world recede. He felt drained. His body would not respond to his commands anymore. His head spun, sick and dizzy. His stomach knotted. He thought he might have thrown up if he had the energy.
“What is all this about a Panam Kell in Wyverna?” Heizhen asked. “How long have you known of it?”
“Less than an hour,” the Warlord said dryly. “I’ll see to it in due time. Another matter claims my attention first. Stay put here until I summon you. I’ll explain later. For now it’s enough for you to know that Morbid has finally made her move.” Heizhen tried to speak, but the Warlord overrode her. “No questions now—I have no time. I’m taking Gorgo and going.”
“Warlord, you can’t take him.” Heizhen’s voice had risen. “All he’s fit for now is bed upstairs. Look at him. I doubt he can walk.”
“He can walk,” the Warlord said. “Enough, Heizhen. Luoxjarn, thank you for your assistance. Stand up, Gorgo.”
Gorgo wondered if it would be a breach of protocol to say “Devourer take you” to his leader. Probably. In any case, he did not have the energy to fight her will, not now. He opened his eyes and pushed himself to his feet. His legs buckled, and he caught himself on the chair arm. He gritted his teeth and walked, or rather, limped. Pain shot up from his wounded leg. It felt hot and swollen.
Heizhen glared at the Warlord, who paid no mind. She took hold of Gorgo’s arm and led him from the room. He was staggering by the time they reached the entryway. The Warlord shifted her grip, wrapping her arm around his back to support him under the shoulders. Another step, and Gorgo blinked in sudden vertigo as the Fence of Mirrors surrounded him once more. He was past the point of trying to pay attention to the turns the Warlord took. He stumbled along beside her, trying to stay at least partly on his feet. He no longer had a good sense of time, but he realized vaguely they had not been walking long when they stepped from the mirrored halls.
Now they were surrounded by walls of pierced wood, elaborat
ely carved. Through the gaps candlelight flickered. Dusty air, smelling faintly of incense, tickled Gorgo’s nose. A rich, warm silence reigned. Even the Warlord’s soft boots sounded loud. Now they were passing through a shadowed room lit only by ranks of candles in an ebony rack. The Warlord knocked on a door of old ivory. Gorgo was not surprised to see M’Chay open it, bright-eyed as a little bird.
“Still alive, I see. I am pleased. Have your endeavors been fruitful?”
The Warlord grinned back, teeth flashing white in the gloom. “Very. We have the key we needed, but time is short. Come now.”
M’Chay’s eyes lingered on Gorgo. Gorgo saw concern in them, and wondered how bad he looked. “Can I offer you some tea, my boy? I have a delicious variety of Silver Rain this morning.”
“It amazes me the way you peddle your teas to every passerby like some marketplace hawker.” The Warlord’s smile had turned sardonic. With her free hand, she grabbed M’Chay’s shoulder and steered him into the room with them. “Gorgo is well beyond the help of tea. I have something else in mind. Take my arm.”
They stepped forward. Gorgo stumbled over his feet and nearly fell again. The Warlord’s arm caught him like a bar of iron at his back. Gorgo was beyond being embarrassed by his weakness; all his concentration was focused on staying upright. His vision wavered. He blinked, and saw the Fence of Mirrors around them once more. The world faded again, and he stumbled blindly. Someone shook him roughly, and he opened his eyes to see the stone walls of Mort Glave around them. M’Chay was trotting away, passing through a door. They were in a guard room, Gorgo thought, noting racks of weapons. Gorgo felt a wall against his back, supporting him. The Warlord had released him, was standing a step or two away. Her axe was slung across her back. She stood poised like a great hunting cat, listening. Gorgo heard it too; distant shouts and running feet. Enemies had entered Mort Glave.
Black sparkles danced before his eyes. The world telescoped away from him. His legs felt nerveless. Gorgo realized he had slid down the wall and was sitting on the floor. He ordered himself to stand again, but his body would not obey. Vaguely he remembered that he had not slept more than two hours in the last two days. The combat with Wakár had taken the last of his strength. At the far end of the telescope, he saw M’Chay back in the room, handing something to the Warlord. “As you requested, child, though I still think Gorgo would prefer tea.”
Then the Warlord was kneeling by Gorgo, a little vial of dark red liquid in her hand. “Here. Drink this.” She raised it to his lips and tipped it up.
The liquid burned down his throat like cheap whiskey. It settled into his stomach, and his belly turned into a ball of fire. Pain shot through his arms and legs, brilliant, blinding. His head cleared in an instant. The pain evolved into a tingling warmth, his limbs growing light and fiery. His heart was hammering, his breath fast. Energy surged through him. Gorgo pushed to his feet, and discovered it was no effort. All thought of sleep was gone. He was not conscious of pain anymore, either. Nonetheless he felt odd, as though he was not quite centered in his body. It was almost as though he were standing one step to the side of himself, not fully in the world. He tried his voice, and found he could speak, though hoarsely. “Devourer, what was that?”
M’Chay, hands folded across his belly, beamed at Gorgo. “A vile concoction the Catsclaw use on campaign to keep themselves going beyond human endurance.”
The Warlord grinned. “We call it Dragon Fire. The effects will not last long, but long enough, I think.”
“Long enough for what?”
“Morbid has already entered the Council Chamber to meet with the Fence, or so the Margays have just told M’Chay. There will be deaths soon, if I know my Fence. We must strip Morbid of the golem. You will say the word to call it off. You will be less conspicuous. Get as close to the creature as you can, and speak low: I do not wish to give away the keys to this beast. Can you do it?”
Gorgo took a breath. He had been working three days for this moment. Only one answer was possible. “Yes.”
15: Dicing With the Devourer
As word of Morbid’s advance spread, the Fence lords gathered in the Council Chamber. This large circular room occupied the nexus of Mort Glave, tying the place together like the heart of a spider’s web. The central vault of the chamber soared up three stories. Near its apex swung vast crystal chandeliers, showering the room with golden and rainbow light. Far below in the center of the great chamber, the floor sank down four feet into a kind of miniature amphitheater. The well contained one curved row of five seats facing a single chair. This was where the Fence lords sat in council.
Jonlan was the first to arrive, as he roomed in Mort Glave. The Implementer, Mayden, came close behind him. Jonlan ignored the council seats, loitering instead at the perimeter of the room. Here an eight-foot wide, low-ceilinged strip ran around the walls. This area served for smaller meetings and private conversations, and was scattered with couches and chairs. While they waited for the others to arrive, Jonlan occupied the time with a game of billiards, humming to himself. Shadowed from the chandeliers, the only light came from oil lamps guttering on the walls. The flickering light gleamed on the smooth crown of Jonlan’s head as he bent over the billiard table, and picked out his long bony fingers, very pale, as they aimed the billiard stick with skill. Jonlan made his shot and straightened up, watching the results with satisfaction. He moved around the table to take another.
The Implementer lounged on the table edge, idly watching him. His eyes were dark and liquid, his manner languid. He seemed sunk in a kind of reflective and sensual sadness. “It’s hard to conceive of her being gone.”
“Interesting to conceive, perhaps; not hard.” Jonlan lined up his shot with a practiced eye.
“She gave us so much, though. She was Wyverna.”
Jonlan shot, straightened up, and looked Mayden in the eye. “Why do you play this little game?” he asked with frank curiosity. “You would have killed her yourself in an instant if by doing so you could have gained her position.”
Mayden threw his head back and laughed, a caressing sound. “You wound me, Jonlan! How you must think of me.” His chuckles died away. His tone turned pensive again, with a sadness that had an edge of pleasure to it. “Anyway, what difference would that make? If I had killed her myself I still would have mourned her. There will never be another like her. Everything we have is her creation. She was our link to the past. How many people can you speak to now who remember the old days, before the Uprooting? We shared so much together; we forged an empire. Remember those days of haste and nights of fire? Remember the terror and the secrecy, the long arguments in council, sleepless red-eyed dawn following sleepless red-eyed dawn? Remember the great ships? But no; perhaps you were too young.”
Jonlan regarded him with a perceptive eye. “I was 22.” He leaned over the billiard table again.
Mayden ignored this. “And to you it means nothing. To you it’s only dry history, facts to be used. The Warlord was living history; she was the heartstone. Ay! Without her, what is left of us but a husk?” Mayden’s voice had grown ever more compelling as he spoke, with the whispery rush of poetry. He ended on a cry, his voice breaking with emotion, but the smile that curved his lips suggested a man in the throes of sexual pleasure.
“Go ahead,” Jonlan said. “Indulge yourself in sentimentality for a while. Your time would be better used planning for this council meeting. But I’ve no doubt you already have your plans.”
“Scoff as you like, Jonlan; I shall miss the Warlord. I believe I loved her.”
Jonlan laughed outright. As his peals rang, Ciano entered the room with a quiet tread. “Shall I be let in on the joke?” she asked, and Mayden turned and bowed to her. Her eyes were slate grey and her mouth tight, but she betrayed no other emotion. “It must be a good joke indeed for Jonlan to laugh so.”
“At my expense,” Mayden said, with a little shrug of his eyebrows and shoulders.
“He wishes us to know that he loved the
Warlord.” Jonlan’s phrasing was precise. A cynical amusement danced in his eyes.
“I’m sure he did. Does one not usually love one’s rival?”
“Hate is the word that is generally applied,” Jonlan said, moving around the table for a better angle on his next shot.
“Is there any difference?” Ciano asked.
“You two seem to forget,” Mayden said, “that I was one of the Warlord’s oldest friends. It was I, along with Heizhen and Gaithorn and the others, who supported her first and have ever since. I’m hardly to be ranked among her enemies. Morbid gains that honor.”
“Mayden is playing many games today,” Jonlan said.
“His way of meditating, I believe. You meditate while playing games with sticks and balls; Mayden while playing games with people.”
“And you, Ciano? What method do you use?” Mayden’s tone held both a caress and a challenge. His dark eyes gleamed in pools of shadow.
“True meditation only comes at the edge of death or the edge of love. Beyond that what is the point?” Ciano’s tone was unreadable.
“I wonder what the Warlord thought about as she died?” Mayden said, with no trace of his former sorrow. An interested gleam lit his eye.
“Her head was hewed off with a single stroke. She thought nothing,” Jonlan said, leaning low over the table. With a neat, proficient shot, he sent the last ball into the pocket.
“Morbid has entered Mort Glave.” Wormlight’s voice rang out like a bell. She stood in the doorway, having entered unheard on her slippered feet. Her grey eyes blazed like silver stars in the shadows, her face set. Her body held a faint lambent glow. “We must make haste to confirm the Catlord as our next Warlord.”
Jonlan bowed. “I have taken the liberty of sending the Margays for her already. She should be here soon.”
The Copper Assassin Page 20
