The Face of Chaos Part 12

'I have not doubted the truth of your words,' Prism warned. 'Do not be so foolish as to doubt mine. We will study this matter closely. The dead woman will be avenged. You will be remembered. Go now, with Bey, the Mother of us all.'

'If it wasn't you, then who was it?' Cythen demanded, though the women were already melting back into the shadows. 'It couldn't have been one of us. None of us has the venom, or knows of the Harka Bey ...'

They continued to vanish, as silently and mysteriously as they had arrived.

Prism lingered the longest; then she, too, vanished and Cythen was left to wonder if the alien women had been there at all.

Still full of the delayed effects of her terror, Cythen clambered loudly over the wall. The Maze was still black as ink, but now it was silent, caught in the brief moment between the activities of night and those of the day. Her soft footfalls echoed and she pulled the dark cloak high around her face, until the Maze was behind her and she was in the Street of Red Lanterns, where a few patrons still lingered in the doorways, shielding their faces from her eyes. The great lamps were out above the door of the Aphrodisia House. Myrtis and her courtesans would not rise until the sun beat on the rooftops at noon. But her staff, the ones who were invisible at night, were working in the kitchens and took Cythen's hastily scribbled, disappointed message, promising that it would be delivered as soon as Madame had breakfasted. Then, weary and yawning, Cythen slipped back into the garrison barracks where Walegrin, in deference to her s.e.x, had allotted her a private, bolted chamber.

She slept well into the day watch, entering the mess hall when it was deserted.

The gelid remains of breakfast remained on the sideboard, ignored by the endemic vermin. It would taste worse than it looked, though Cythen was long past the luxury of tasting the food she ate: one ate what was available or one starved.

She filled her bowl and sat alone by the hearth.

Bekin's death was still unexplained and unavenged and that weighed more heavily upon her than the greasy porridge. For more years than she cared to remember, her only pride had been that she had somehow managed to care for Bekin. Now that was gone and she stood emotionally naked to her guilts and unbidden memories. If the Harka Bey had not appeared, she might still have blamed them but, despite their barbaric coldness, or perhaps because of it, she believed what they had said. The warmth of tears rose within her as her brooding was broken by the sound of a chair sc.r.a.ping along the floor in the watchroom above her. Rather than succ.u.mb to the waiting tears, she went to confront Walegrin.

The straw-blond man didn't notice as she opened the door. He was absorbed in his square of parchment and the cramped rows of figures he had made upon it. With one hand on the door, Cythen hesitated. She didn't like Walegrin; no one really did, except maybe Thrusher - and he was almost as strange. The garrison's officer repelled compa.s.sion and friendship alike and hid his emotions so thoroughly that none could find them. Still, Walegrin managed to provide leadership and direction when it was needed - and he reminded Cythen of no one else in her troubled past.

'You missed curfew,' he greeted her after she closed the door, not looking up from his figures. His hands were filthy with cheap ink, the only kind available in Sanctuary. But the numbers themselves, Cythen saw as she moved closer, were clear and orderly. He could read and write as well as swing a sword; in fact, he had education and experience equal to her own, and at times her feelings for him threatened to take wild leaps beyond friendship or respect. Then she would remind herself that it was only loneliness that she was feeling and the remembering of things best left forgotten.

'I left word for you,' she stated without apology.

He kicked a stool towards her. 'Did you find what you were looking for?'

She shook her head and sat on the stool. 'No, but I found them all right.

Beysib, and from the palace, by the look of them.' She shook her head again, this time recalling the strange faces of the two women she had seen. 'They sneaked up on me; I couldn't see how many there were. One came after me with a pair of those long-hiked swords of theirs. She spun them so fast I couldn't see them any more. Fighting with them's like walking into the mouth of a dragon.'

'But you fought and survived?' A faint trace of a smile creased Walegrin's face.

He set his quill aside.

'She said they were testing me - but that's because she couldn't kill me like she'd planned. Her swords couldn't stop mine, and mine didn't break hers; that Beysib steel is good. I guess we were both surprised. And then she figured she better talk to me, and listen ... But she never blinked while I talked to her so this Harka Bey, whatever it is, really must be from the palace and around the Beysa, right? The closer they are to the Imperial blood the more fish-eyed they are, right? And while I was talking to her a snake, one of those d.a.m.ned red mouthed vipers, crawled up out of her clothes and wound up around her neck, lookin' at me as if its opinion was the one that really mattered. And the other one - the one who came forward after the test - her face was shiny and purple!'

'Then she should be fairly easy to identify if she's the one who killed your sister.'

Cythen froze on the stool, searching the past few days, the past few months for any slip of the tongue when she might have let him know what Bekin was to her; that she pursued the killer of a Red Lanterns courtesan out of anything more than outrage or simple compa.s.sion.

'Molin told me,' Walegrin explained. 'He was looking for a pattern.'

'Molin Torchholder? Why in the name of a hundred stinking little G.o.ds should Vashanka's torch know anything about me or my sister?' The anxiety and guilt transformed themselves into anger; Cythen's rich voice filled the room.

'When Myrtis asks Lythande and Lythande asks Enas Yorl and they ask for a specific person to escort the corpse from pillar to post then, yes - somehow Molin Torchholder hears about it and gets his answers.'

'And you're his errand boy? His messenger?' She had touched a sore point between them in her anger, and by the darkening of his face she knew to regret it. Back in the first days of chaos after the Beysib fleet heaved over the horizon, Molin Torchholder had been everywhere. The archetypical bureaucrat had kept his beleaguered temple open for business; his Prince well-advised, the Beysib amused and, ultimately, Walegrin and his band employed in the service of the city. In return, Walegrin had begun to hand back a portion of the garrison's wages for Molin's speculations. It was not such a bad partnership. Walegrin's duties kept him apprised of the merchant's activity anyway, and Molin seldom lost money. But for Cythen, whose family, when she'd had a family, had been rich in land, not gold, the rabid pursuit of more gold than you needed was degrading. And, though she would never admit it directly, she did not want Walegrin degraded.

'He told me,' Walegrin replied after an uncomfortable silence, his voice carefully even, 'because you are still part of this garrison and if something is going to make you act rashly he would want me to know about it. Bekin's death isn't the only one that's got us edgy. Each night since she died at least two Beysib have been found dead, mutilated, and the lord-high muckety-mucks are thinking about showing some muscle around here. We're all under close watch.'

'If he was so d.a.m.ned all-fired concerned about how rashly I might act, then why in his departed G.o.d's name didn't he keep Bekin from getting killed in the first place?'

'You hid her too well. He didn't know who she was until she was dead, Cythen.

You bought Myrtis's silence; she was the only one beside you who knew - and maybe Jubal, I guess. But, did you know she was working the Beysib traffic on the Street?' Walegrin paused and let Cythen absorb the information she obviously had not had before. 'Most of the women won't, you know. I guess it's not just their eyes that're different. But she was killed by a Beysib serpent - a jealous wife maybe? And, now that Beysibs are getting killed by an ordinary rip-and slash artist in numbers and places that can't all be written off to carelessness, you are a suspect, you Know.'

The anger had burned itself out, leaving Cythen with gaping holes in her defences; the grief slipped out. 'Walegrin, she was mad. Every man looked the same to her - so of course she'd work the Beysib, or Jubal. She didn't live here. She couldn't have known anything, or done anything to make someone kill her. d.a.m.n, if Molin cares who services the Beysib stallions he could have protected her anyway.' A few tears escaped and, shamed by them, Cythen hid her face behind her hands.

'You should tell him that yourself. You're not going to be any use to me until you do.' Walegrin rolled the parchment, then stood up to fasten his sword-belt over his hips. 'You won't be needing anything - let's go.'

Too surprised to object, Cythen followed him into the palace forecourt. A handful of gaudy Beysib youths, brash young men and lithe, bold women, pushed loudly past them, the exposed, painted b.r.e.a.s.t.s of the women flashing from beneath their capelets in the sunlight. Walegrin affected not to notice; no man in Sanctuary would notice the flaunted flesh - not if he valued his life. The Beysib had made that very clear in the first, and - thus far - only, wave of executions. Cythen stared, though not as well as the Beysib could stare, at their faces and finally looked away, unable to find any individuality in the barbaric features. Prism could have walked beside her and she would not have known it.

One of the Beysib lords strode by, magenta pantaloons billowing around him, a glittering fez perched atop his shaved head, and a well-scrubbed Sanctuary urchin struggling with a great silk parasol behind him. Both Walegrin and Cythen halted and saluted as he pa.s.sed. That was the way now, if you accepted their gold.

She was grateful for the shadows of the lower palace and the familiar sound of servants shouting in Rankene at each other as they approached the much-reduced quarters of Kadakithis and his retainers. In truth, though, she no longer wanted to see the priest, if indeed she had ever wanted to see him. Her anger had escaped and now she only wanted to return to her tiny room. But Walegrin pounded on the heavy door and forced it open before the Torch's pet mute could lift the latch.

Molin set down his goblet and stared at Cythen in the old-fashioned way that said: What has the cat dragged in this time? Cythen tugged at her tunic, well aware that the clothes of a garrison soldier, no matter how clean or cared for, were unseemly attire for a woman - especially one who had been an earling's daughter. And if he knew about Bekin, then he might have known the rest as well.

She would have run from the chamber, had that been an option, but since it wasn't, she squared her shoulders and matched his appraising look with one of her own.

The priest was Rankan and he'd managed to retain all the implied power and majesty that that word had ever carried, despite the low ceilings and the laundry-women battling outside his window. Bands of gold decorated the hems of his robes, adorned his boots, and circled his fingers. His midnight hair was combed to surround his face like a lion's mane - yet it was not so dark or shiny as his eyes. If the Torch's G.o.d had been vanquished, as some claimed; if the Prince was simply a puppet in the hands of the Beysa; if his prospects for wealth and honour had been reduced, then none of it showed in his appearance or demeanour. Cythen looked away first.

'Cythen has some questions I can't answer for her,' Walegrin said boldly as he laid the parchment on the priest's table. 'She wonders why you didn't protect Bekin when you first suspected there might be danger in dealing with the Beysib, as she did.'

The Torch calmly unrolled the parchment. 'Ah, three caravans yesterday; seventy five soldats. We've almost enough. They agree the first boat should be bought with Rankan gold, you know. The longer we can keep the capital ignorant of our situation here, the better it will be for all of us. If they knew how much gold was floating in our harbour, they'd bring half the army down here to take it from us - and neither we nor they want that.' He looked up from the parchment.

'Have you found me a man to take the gold north yet? I'll have other messages for him to carry as well. The war's not going well; I think we can lure Tempus back to his Prince. We're going to need that man's unique and nasty talents before this is over.' He rerolled the parchment and handed it over to the mute.

Walegrin scowled. He had no desire to have Tempus back in the town. Molin sipped at his wine and seemed to notice Cythen for the first time again. 'Now then, for your companion's questions. I was not aware of the unfortunate woman's relationship to Cythen until after she was dead. And I certainly did not know there was danger in bedding a Beysib until it was too late.'

'But you were watching her. You must have suspected something,' Cythen snarled, grinding her heel into the lush wool-and-silk carpet and banging her fist on the priest's fine parquet table.

'She was, I believe, a half-mad - or totally mad, you'd know better than I harlot at the Aphrodisia. I can not imagine the dangers or delights of such a life. She entertained a variety of Beysib men, one of the few who would, and as the welfare of the Beysib is important to me, I kept tabs on them, and therefore her. It is a pity she was murdered - that is what happened, isn't it? But, mad as she was - sleeping with the Beysib - isn't it better that she's departed? Her spirit is free now to be reborn on a higher, happier level.'

Theology came easily and sincerely to the priest. And Cythen, who knew her own sins well enough, was tempted to believe the resonant phrases.

'You knew something,' she said pleadingly, clutching her resolve. 'Just like the Harka Bey suspected something when I told them.'

Torchholder swallowed his pious words and looked to Walegrin for confirmation.

The blond, ice-eyed man simply nodded his head slightly and said: 'It had been suggested by Yorl. Cythen seemed the most appropriate one for the task; she volunteered anyway.'

'Harka Bey,' the priest repeated, mulling over the words. 'Vengeance of Bey, I believe, in their language. I've heard rumours, legends, whatever about them, but everybody's denied that there's anything to the legends. Poison-blooded female a.s.sa.s.sins? And real enough that Cythen met with them? Very interesting, but not at all what I'd expected.'

'I believe, your Grace, that Yorl only suggested contacting the Harka Bey. It seems unlikely that they would have killed the girl: Indeed they deny it,'

Walegrin corrected, clenching Cythen's upper arm in a bruising grip to keep her quiet.

'What did you expect?' Cythen demanded of Molin, wrenching free of Walegrin and raising her voice. 'Why is it so important that she slept with the Beysib men?

Which one of them do you suspect of murder?'

'Not so loudly, child,' the priest pleaded, remember, we survive on sufferance; we can have no suspicions.' He gestured to the mute, who went to the window and began playing a loud folktune on his pipes. 'We have no rights.' Taking Cythen's arm, he ushered her into a cramped, windowless alcove, hidden behind one of his tapestries.

Molin began to speak in a hoa.r.s.e whisper. 'And keep quiet about this,' he warned her. 'The Aphrodisia is the favourite gaming place of our new lords and masters, especially the younger, hot-headed ones. There's an element among them that does not appreciate the current policy of restraint. Remember, these people are exiles; they've just lost a war at home; they've got something to prove to themselves. Sure, the older men say "Bide your time," "We'll go home next year, or the year after that, or the one after that." They weren't the ones on the battlefields getting their a.s.ses kicked.

'The Beysa Shupansea listens to the old men, but now, with the murders of their own people, she is becoming nervous herself. The clamour for a stronger hand is rising ...'

Molin was interrupted by the sound of someone banging on the outer door. 'The palace is a sponge,' he complained, and he was in a position to know the truth.

'Wait here and stay quiet, for G.o.d's sake.'

Walegrin and Cythen pressed back into the shadows and listened to a loud, unintelligible conversation between Molin and one of the Beysib lords. They did not need to understand the words; the shouts told them enough. The Beysib was angry and upset. Molin was having small success at calming him down. Then the Beysib stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him, and Molin rushed back into the alcove.

'They want results.' He rubbed his hands together nervously, releasing the scent of the oils he used on his skin. 'Turghurt's out there calling for vengeance and his people are listening. After all, no Beysib would kill another Beysib in such a crude manner!' Molin's voice spewed sarcasm. 'I've got no great love for the natives of this town but one thing they are not, to a man, woman or child of them - stupid enough to taunt the Beysib like this!'

Walegrin frowned. 'So they believe it's a Sanctuary man, or woman, behind it.

But at least one of the bodies was found on the rooftops, right here, in the palace compound. This place is guarded, Molin. We guard it; they guard it. We'd have seen him, at least.'

'Exactly what I've told them. Exactly why I'm sure it isn't one of us. But no; they've been frightened. They're convinced the town is smouldering against them - they don't intend to be pushed any further and they're not about to listen to me.

'I figure it works this way: there are malcontents in this court just like anywhere else. I knew the bulk of the hotheads congregated at the Aphrodisia. I didn't think there was danger to it; I just meant to keep those young men watched. Their leader is the eldest son of Terrai Burek, the Beysa's prime minister. And a child more unlike the father you can't imagine. It's no secret the boy hates his father and would do anything to spite the old man - though I expect bullying the townspeople would come naturally to him anyway. Yet, the father protects his son and the common laws of Sanctuary can't reach him.'

'You're talking about Turghurt, aren't you?' Walegrin asked, obviously recognizing the name, though Cythen didn't recall having heard it before.

'Still, Cythen's sister was killed by venom - and the Harka Bey are all women.'

'True enough, but if the Harka Bey is real then it's likely a number of other things are - like the rings with reservoirs for venom and razor-sharp blades to simulate the fangs. They've told me the venom can't be isolated, but I don't believe them now -'

'Who is this Terket Buger?' Cythen inquired, her thoughts warming to the idea of a name and face she could blame and take vengeance upon. 'Would I recognize him?'

'Turghurt Burek,' Walegrin corrected. 'Yeah, you've probably seen him. He's a big man, a troublemaker. Taller than most of the Beysib men here by a head or more. He's a coward, I'm sure, because we can never find him alone. He's always got a handful of cronies around. We can't lay a hand on him anyway - though this time we're talking about killing.' He looked hopefully to the priest.

'Not this time, either.'

They were once again interrupted by a hammering on the outside door and the sounds of masculine voices shouting in the Beysib language. Molin left the alcove to deal with the intrusion and fared worse this time than before. He was roundly berated by two men who, it appeared, had made up their minds about something. The priest returned to the alcove, visibly shaken.

'It fits together now,' he said slowly. 'The boy has boxed us all. Another Beysib woman has been found dead - and mutilated, I might add - down by the wharf. Young Burek has played his hand masterfully. That was him, and his father, to tell me that the populace must be controlled or wholesale slaughter of the townsfolk will be on my conscience. The men of Bey will not see their women defiled.'

'Turghurt Burek was here?' Cythen asked, her hands moving instinctively to her hip, where she usually wore her sword. She cursed herself for not having dared to lift the tapestry a fraction to see his face.

'The same, and he's convinced his father now as well. Walegrin, I don't know how you'll do it, but you've got to keep the peace until I can get the old man to see reason - or catch the murderers b.l.o.o.d.y-handed.' The priest paused, as if an idea had just occurred to him. He looked hard at Cythen and she fairly cringed from the plotting she saw in his face. 'Catch them b.l.o.o.d.y-handed! You - Cythen; how much do you want your revenge? What will you sacrifice to get it? Turghurt is full of himself, and he'll likely go back to the Aphrodisia to celebrate this victory. He hasn't been back since your sister died, but I doubt he'll wait much longer. If not tonight, then tomorrow night. He'll go back because he has to gloat - and because his kind get no satisfaction from these high-handed Beysib women.

'Now, somehow your sister learned something she shouldn't have and died for it.

Could you lure him into the same mistake and survive to let me know of it? I'll need proof absolute if I'm going to confront his father. Not a corpse, you understand; that will only fan the flames. What I'll need is Turghurt and the proof. Can you get it for me?'

Cythen found herself nodding, promising the Rankan priest that she would get her vengeance as she got him his proof; as she spoke another hidden part of herself froze into numb paralysis. The meeting had become a dream from which she could not seem to awaken: a continuation of all the nightmares that made her past so unpleasant to remember. Bekin was dead - but not gone.

She stood mute while the priest and Walegrin made their plans. Her silence was taken for attentiveness, though she heard nothing above the screaming other own thoughts. The priest patted her on the shoulder as she left his rooms, following Walegrin into the forecourt again. Knots of Beysibs had gathered there, talking among themselves with their backs to the Sanctuary pair as they walked back to the garrison. One of the men did turn to stare at her. He wasn't tall so he wasn't Turghurt, but all the same. the feel of the cold fish-eyes regarding her finally loosened her tongue.

'Sabellia preserve me! I know nothing of Bekin's trade. I'm still a virgin!' It was as much of a prayer as she had muttered since her father went down with an arrow in his throat.

Walegrin stopped short, appraising her in surprise. 'You told me you'd worked on the Street of Red Lanterns?'

'I told you that I'd tried to work on the Street of Red Lanterns and that I couldn't. Don't look at me like that; it's not that unreasonable. Don't I have my own quarters now, and no one who'd dare to bother me there? A woman who lives with the garrison is safe from all other men, and a woman who is part of that garrison is safe from her cohorts as well.'

'Then you've got more courage than I thought,' he replied, shaking his head, 'or you're an utter fool. You'd better let Myrtis know when you get there; she'll know how to turn it to our advantage.'

Cythen grimaced and tried not to think of that evening, or the next evening. She left her sword in Walegrin's care and made her way to the Street. It was nearing dusk by the time she got there and some of the poorer, more worn women, who did not dwell in any of the major establishments, were already on the prowl, though the Aphrodisia was not yet open for business. One of them jeered at her as she climbed the steps to the carved doors: 'They won't take your type there, soldier-girl.'

She stood there uncomfortably, ignoring the comments from the street below and remembering why she always came in the morning. The doorman recognized her, however, and at length the doors swung open to her. The downstairs was beginning to come to life with music and women dressed in brilliant, flower-coloured dresses. Cythen watched them as the doorman guided her to the little room where Myrtis was getting ready for the evening herself.

'I had not expected to see you again,' Myrtis said softly, rising from her dressing table and discreetly closing the account book, which crowded out the cosmetic bottles. 'Your note said your meeting did not go well. You had not mentioned returning here.'

'The meeting didn't go well.' Cythen eyed Myrtis's smooth, clenched white hands as she spoke. There was a barely perceptible nervousness in the madam's voice and a barely perceptible rippling to the edge of the table rug beneath the account books. Both could have any number of benign explanations, but Cythen had brought Bekin here expecting, and paying for, her sister's safety. Myrtis had not provided the services she had been paid for and Cythen's vengeance could be expected in several different ways.

'I've seen the priest, Molin Torchholder, and he's made a plan; a way to snare the one he suspects. I thought he would have sent you a message by now,'

Cythen said quickly.

Myrtis shrugged, but without unclenching her fists. 'Since Bekin there have been other deaths: gruesome murders, many of them Beysib women. All the reliable couriers have been kept busy. There isn't time for the death of a Sanctuary girl. Perhaps you can tell me who Molin Torchholder suspects of using beynit venom when the Harka Bey denies all knowledge of it?'

'He suspects a man, a Beysib man. He suspects that the death of my sister is not so different from the Beysib deaths.'

'Has he given you a name?'

'Yes, Turghurt Burek.'

'The son of the prime minister?'

'Yes, but the Torch suspects him anyway. He comes here, doesn't he?'

'That man has spies everywhere!' Myrtis grimaced as she relaxed and raised her fist towards the smouldering hearth. Cythen heard a small click; then watched as the flames leapt high and crimson. 'Once primed, it must be shot,' Myrtis explained, while Cythen shuddered. 'We called him Voyce here; and he was always a gentleman - for all that he's fish-folk. Bekin was special to him; such childlike innocence is not at all common among their women. He grieved over her death and hasn't been back since she died.

'But he was also the second person to suggest the Harka Bey to us.' Myrtis paused, and just when Cythen despaired of being believed at all, the starkly beautiful woman continued: 'I like him very much; he reminds me of a love I once had. I was blinded. I have hiot been blinded for ... for a long time. The signs were there; my suspicions should have been roused. Does Molin Torchholder have some notion of how we're to bring the son of the Beysib prime minister to justice before there is war in the town and we turn to Ranke for help?'

'Molin believes that since Bekin was the only Sanctuary woman who has been slain, she must have learned something dangerous to him. Molin thinks that Turghurt will make the same mistake again, now that he's convinced his father to see everything his way. But I will be less easy to kill than she was, and snare him instead.'

'You play a dangerous game between the priest and this Beysib, Cythen. Molin is no less ruthless than the fish-folk. And, here Burek is Voyce; none of my women knows the true names of the men here, and if you value your life you'll remember that. The Aphrodisia is a place apart; a man need not be himself here - and they expect me to protect them. '

'Now Voyce is clever, strong and cruel, yet it would be a simple matter to be rid of him, if that would serve our purposes. The Harka Bey are not the only women who understand killing. But he must be exposed, not slain, and that will be all the more dangerous.'

'I've come for my vengeance,' Cythen warned.

'He will not expose himself to a garrison soldier, my dear, neither figuratively nor literally.' Myrtis gave Cythen a slightly condescending smile. 'His tastes do not run towards strong-willed women, such as he was raised with and his father serves. You do not have the yielding nature that madness gave your sister.'

'I'll become whatever I must be to trap him.'