The Face of Chaos Part 14

There was a collective gasp from the crowd and Yorl drew back the curtain for the third time. The Beysa was holding a small, b.l.o.o.d.y knife, while her serpent wound around her arm. Turghurt was already dead. The crowd broke into cheering, just as Yorl felt the sharp p.r.i.c.k of fangs on his own neck.

Poison burned and gripped him in hands of red-hot iron. The sunlit courtyard grew dim, then black. The homed gateway to the seventh level of paradise shone before him. The ancient magician's spirit stumbled forward and fell, with the gate just beyond his reach.

Failure - and with the land of death almost within his grasp. He wept and brushed the tears away with a s.h.a.ggy paw. The room was dark and filled with the odour from the pyre on which they'd immolated the criminal, depriving his spirit of eternal life within the G.o.ddess Bey. And Yorl was left with only the memory of death to sustain him.

VOTARY.

David Drake

'Hai!' called the Beysib executioner as his left blade struck. The tip of his victim's index finger spun thirty feet across the Bazaar and pattered against Samlor's boot. 'Hai!' and the right sword lopped the ends off the fourth and middle fingers together, so that the victim's right hand ended in a straight line, the four fingers all the length of the least, the only one to which a fingernail remained for the moment. 'Hai!'

The auction block in the centre of the Bazaar had been used for punishment before, but this particular technique was new to Samlor hil Samt. It was new as well to many of the longer-term residents of Sanctuary, judging from the expressions on their faces as they watched. The victim had been spread-eagled, belly against a vertical wooden barrier. That gave the audience a view of the executioner's artistry, which an ordinary horizontal chopping block would have hidden. And the Beysib - Lord Tudhaliya, if Samlor had understood the crier was an artist, no doubt about that.

Tudhaliya held his swords each at its balance and twirled them as he himself pirouetted. The blades glittered like lightning in the rain. The Beysib bowed to the onlookers before he spun in another flurry of cuts. The gesture was a sardonic one, an acknowledgement of the audience's privilege of watching him work. Tudhaliya was not nodding to the locals as peers or even as humans. For his performance, the executioner had stripped to a clout that kept his genitals out of the way when he moved. His arrival had been in a palanquin, however, and the richly brocaded Beysib who stood by as a respectful backdrop to the activity were clearly subordinates. And at the moment, his lordship was slicing off the fingers of a screaming victim like so many bits of carrot.

Well, the governance of Sanctuary had never been Samlor's concern. Blood and b.a.l.l.s! How the Cirdonian caravan-master wished that he had no other concern with this cursed city either.

The first link of the information he needed had come from an urchin for a copper piece, sold as blithely as the boy would have sold a stale bread twist from the tray balanced on his head. The name of a fortune-teller, a S'danzo whose protector was a blacksmith? Oh yes, Illyra was still in Sanctuary... and Dubro the smith, too, if the foreign master's business was with him.

Samlor's intended business was in no way with the blacksmith, but the information was none the less good to know. Before entering the booth, the Cirdonian set his thumbs on his waist belt and tugged the broad leather a fraction, to the side. That was less obtrusive than adjusting the belt-sheathed fighting knife directly.

'Welcome, master,' said the woman who had been reading the cards to herself on a stool. Samlor looped the sash across the doorway hangings. There were the usual paraphernalia and a table that could be slid between the S'danzo and the lower, cushioned seat for clients. The young woman's eyes were very sharp, however. The Cirdonian knew that her quick appraisal of him as he slid aside the curtain of pierced sh.e.l.ls gave often as much information as a reading would require, when retailed back to the sitter over cards or his palms or through 'images'

quivering in a dish of water.

'You came about the luck of your return -' and Samlor would have said that his face was impa.s.sive, but it was not, not to her. 'No, not a journey but a woman.

Come, sit. The cards, I think?' Her left hand fanned the deck, the brilliant, complex signs that some said reflected the universe in a subtlety equal to that of the icy stars overhead.

'Lady,' said Samlor. He turned up his left palm and the silver in it. It was uncoined bullion, stamped each time it was a.s.sayed in a Beysib market. 'You gave a man I met true readings. I need a truth that you won't find in my face.'

The S'danzo looked at the caravan-master again, her smile still professional, but something new behind her eyes. Samlor's boot heels were high enough to grip stirrups, low enough for walking, and worn more by flints than by pavements. He was stocky and no longer young; but his waist still made a straight line with his rib cage, with none of the bulge that time brings to easy living. Samlor's tunic was of dull red cloth, nearly the shade of his face. His skin never seemed to tan in the sun and wind that beat it daily. His only touch of ornament was a silver medallion, its face hidden until the man moved to show the bullion in his calloused palm. Then toad-faced Heqt flashed upward, G.o.ddess ofCirdon and the Spring rains - and the S'danzo gasped, 'Samlor hil Samt!'

'No!' the man said sharply in answer to the way Illyra's eyes flicked towards the doorway, towards the ringing of hot iron heard through it. 'Only information, lady. I wish'you no harm.' And he did not touch the hilt of his belt knife, because if she remembered Samlor, she remembered the tale of his first visit to Sanctuary. No need to threaten what his reputation had already promised, wish it or not. 'I want to find a little girl, my niece. Nothing more.'

'Sit, then,' the S'danzo said in a guarded voice. This time the visitor obeyed.

He held the silver out to her between thumb and forefinger, but she opened his palm and held it for her gaze a moment before taking her payment. 'There's blood on them,' she said abruptly.

'There's an execution in the square,' Samlor said, glancing at his cuff. But it was unmarked, and even his boot had been too dusty for overt sign where the severed fingertip had touched it. 'Oh,' he said in embarra.s.sment. 'Oh.' He raised his eyes to the S'danzo's. 'Life can be hard, lady... and there are matters of honour. Not my honour since I went into trade -' his lip quirked in a wormwood grimace - 'but of the family, of the House ofKodrix, yes. I've found little enough that brings me pleasure. But not that, not slaughter. Life is hard, that's all.'

Illyra released his palm. The silver clung to her fingers in what was almost a sleight of hand, professional in that, though the reading was no longer simply professional or simple at all. 'Tell me about the child,' the S'danzo said.

'Yes,' the stocky man agreed slowly. Little enough of pleasure, and none at all in some memories. 'My sister Samlane was ...' he said, and he paused, 'not a s.l.u.t, I suppose, because she didn't bed just anybody, and the decision was always hers. And not a wh.o.r.e, except as a lark, as little coin as there was to be had in our House ... She had a disdain for trade that did credit to the n.o.ble House of Kodrix. Our parents were proud of her, I think, as they never were of me after I found an honest way to buy their food - and replenish their wine cellar.' The grimace again, calling attention to a joke that bit the teller like a shark.

The woman was quiet, as cool as the sh.e.l.ls that whispered in the door curtain.

'But she was very - experimental. So we shouldn't have been surprised,' Samlor continued, 'that she'd whelped a b.a.s.t.a.r.d before her marriage, while she still lived in Cirdon. Samlane's personal effects were sent back after she, she died '

Six inches of steel, her brother's boot knife, were buried in her womb, and vision as clear in Samlor's mind as the edge of the knife with which he had replaced that one. 'I think Regli wanted to pretend she'd never been born. Alum won't hide stretch marks, but she'd pa.s.sed for a virgin with Regli. I guess Rankan n.o.bles are even stupider than I'd thought. The tramp! G.o.ds! The worthless tramp!'

'Go on,' Illyra said with unexpected gentleness, as if she heard the pain and tortured love beneath the curses.

'The story was there in a diary, enough of it,' Samlor continued. He was deliberately opening his hands, which had clenched in fury at nothing material.

'The child was a girl, fostered with a maid of Samlane's, Reia. I probably saw her myself -' he swallowed '-playing in the halls with the other servants'

brats. You could get lost in the house, a whole wing could crumble over you and you'd never be found.' The hands clenched again. 'My parents tell me they never knew about the child, about Samlane, in that big house. Pray G.o.d I never learn otherwise, or I'll have their hearts out though they are my parents.'

The S'danzo touched his hands, relaxing them again. He continued, 'She's four years old by now. She has a birthmark on the front of her scalp, so the hair is streaked white on the black curls. They called her Star, my sister did and the maid. And I came back to Sanctuary -' Samlor raised his eyes and his voice, neither angry but as hard and certain as a sword's edge'- to this h.e.l.l-hole, to find my niece. Reia had married here, a guardsman, and she'd stayed after the after what happened when my sister died. And she'd kept Star like one of her own, she told me, until a month ago, and the child disappeared, no one to say where.

'That's how late I was, lady,' the Cirdonian went on in a wondering voice. 'Just a month. But I will find Star. And I'll find any one or any thing that's harmed the child before then.'

'You've brought something of the girl's for me to touch, then?' said Illyra.

Professional calm had rea.s.serted itself in her voice as she approached her task.

This was the crystalline core on which all the mummery, all the 'dark strangers'

and 'far journeys' were based.

'Yes,' said Samlor, calm again himself. With his right hand, his knife hand, he held out a medallion like the one around his own neck. 'It's a custom with us in Cirdon, the birth-token consecrating the newborn to Heqt's bounty. This was Star's. It was found in the mews of the barracks where she lived. Another child picked it up, a friend, so she brought it to Reia instead of keeping it herself.'

Illyra's hand cupped the grinning face of Heqt, but her eyes glanced over the ends of the thong that had suspended the medallion. The surface of the leather was dark with years of sweat and body oils, but its core at the ends was a clear yellow. 'Yes,' Samlor said, 'it had been cut off her, not stretched and broken.

Help me find Star, lady.'

The S'danzo nodded. Her eyes had slipped .off into a waking trance already.

Illyra's gaze stayed empty for seconds that seemed minutes. Her * fingers were brown and capable and heavy with rings. They worked the surface of the medallion they held, reporting the sensations not to the woman's mind but to her soul.

Then, like a castaway flailing herself up from the sea, the S'danzo spluttered again to conscious alertness. Her thin lips formed a brief rictus, not a smile, at the memory of things she had just seen. Samlor had let his own breath out in a rush that reminded him that he had not breathed since Illyra entered her trance.

'I wish,' said the woman softly, 'that I had better news for you, or at least more. No -' for Samlor's face had stiffened to the preternatural calmness of a grave stele'- not dead. And I can't tell you who, master -' the honorific professional as habit rea.s.serted itself'- or even where. But I think I have seen why.'

With one hand Illyra returned the medal as carefully as if it were the child herself. With the fingers of the other hand, she touched her own kerchief-bound hair. 'The mark that you call the "star" is the "porta" to some of the Beysib. A sea-beast with tentacles ... a G.o.d, to some of them.'

Samlor turned his eyes towards the curtain that hid the execution, as within him his heart turned to murder. 'That one?' Nodding, his voice as neutral as if all the fury at Lord Tudhaliya were not foaming over his mind as he spoke.

'No, not the rulers,' Illyra said positively. 'Not the Burek clan at all, the hors.e.m.e.n. But the fisher-folk and boatwrights who brought the Burek here, the Setmur - and not all of them.' The woman smiled at the trace of a memory so grim that its fullness wiped her face with loathing an instant later. 'There was,'

she explained, looking away from the caravan-master, 'a cult of Dyareela in Sanctuary in the - recent past. The Porta cult is like that. Only a few, and those hidden because it's sacrilege and treason to worship other than the Imperial G.o.ds.'

'The Beysib have closed the temples here?' Samlor asked. Her last statement had jarred him into the interjection.

'Only to human beings,' Illyra said. 'And the Setmur are human, even to the Burek.' She smiled again and this time held the expression. 'We S'danzo are accustomed to being animals, master. Even in cities Ranke conquered as long ago as she did Cirdon.'

'Go on,' said Samlor evenly. 'Do these Beysib think to sacrifice Star to their '

he shrugged '- octopus, their squid?'

The S'danzo woman laughed. 'Master - Samlor,' she demanded, 'is Heqt a giant toad that you might find near the right pond?' The man touched his medallion, and his eyes narrowed at the blasphemy. Illyra went on, 'Porta is a G.o.d, or an idea - if there's a difference. A fisher-folk idea. Some of them have always had images, little carvings on stone or sh.e.l.ls, hidden deep in their ships where the n.o.bles never venture for the stink ... And now they have something else to bring them closer to their G.o.d. They have -' and she looked from the child's medal, which had told her much, to the Cirdonian's eyes, which in this had told her even more '- the girl you call your niece.'

Samlor hil Samt stood with the controlled power of a derrick shifting a cargo of swords. The booth was suddenly very cold. 'Lady,' he said as he paused in the doorway. 'I thank you for your service. But one thing. I know that the Rankans say their storm-G.o.d bedded his sister. But we don't talk about that in Cirdon.

We don't even think about it!'

Except when we 're drunk, the stocky man's mind whispered as his hand flung down the sash. His legs thrust him through the pattering curtain and again into the square. Except when we're very drunk, but not incapable ... may Samlane burn in the h.e.l.l she earned so richly!

Amazingly, the execution was still going on. Lord Tudhaliya's breechclout was black with sweat. His body gleamed as it moved through its intricate dance. His swords shone as they spun, and the air was jewelled with garnet drops of blood.

The victim's forearm was gone. Tudhaliya's blades were sharp, but they were too light to shear with a single blow the thick bone of a human upper arm. Right sword, left sword - placing cuts only, notching ... Tudhaliya pivoted, his back to his victim, and the blades lashed out behind him, perfectly directed. The stump of the victim's elbow bounded away from the block. She moaned, a b.e.s.t.i.a.l sound... but she had never been human to Tudhaliya, had she? The Beysib entourage gave well-bred applause to the pa.s.s. Their left fingertips pattered on their right palms.

Samlor strode out of the Bazaar. He was thinking about a child. And he was thinking that murder might not always be without pleasure, even for him.

In the years since Samlor's first visit to Sanctuary, the tavern's sign had been refurbished. The unicorn's horn had been gilded, and his engorged p.e.n.i.s was picked out with red paint, lest any pa.s.serby miss the joke. The common room stank as before, though it was too early to add the smoky reek of lamp flames.

There were a few soldiers present, throwing knucklebones and wrangling over who owed for the next round. There were also two women who would have looked slatternly even by worse light than what now streamed through the grimy windows; and, by the wall, a man who watched them, and watched the soldiers, and - very sharply - watched" Samlor as he entered the tavern.

No one was paying any attention to the fellow in the corner with the sword, the lute, and a sneer of disgust at the empty tankard before him. 'Ho, friend,'

Samlor called to the slope-shouldered bartender. 'Wine for me, and whatever my friend with the lute is drinking.' The instrument had inlays of ivory and mother-of-pearl, but Samlor had noticed the empty sockets, which must recently have been garnished with gems.

The women were already in motion, lurching from their stools - remoras thrashing towards the shark they hoped would find their next meal. It was to the pimp against the wall that Samlor turned with a bright smile, however. 'And for you, sir -' he said. His thumb spun a coin through the air. Its arc would have dropped it in the pimp's lap if the fellow had not s.n.a.t.c.hed it in with fingers like eagle's talons. The coin was silver, minted in Ranke, a day's wage for a man and as much as these blowsy wh.o.r.es together could expect for a night. 'If you keep them away from me. Otherwise, I take back the coin, even if you've swallowed it.' Samlor wore a smile again, but it was not the same smile. The women were backing off even before the pimp snarled at them.

The minstrel had risen to take the cup Samlor handed him from the bar. It was wine, though poverty had drunk ale on the previous round. 'I thank you, good sir,' the man said as he took the cup. 'And how may Cappen Varra serve you?'

Samlor pa.s.sed his left hand over the sound box of the lute. The coin he dropped sang on the strings as it pa.s.sed. 'A copper for a song from home,' he said. He knew, and from the sound the minstrel knew also, that the coin had not been copper or even silver. 'And another like it if you'll sing to me out on the bench, where the air has less - sawdust in it.'

Cappen Varra followed with a careful expression. He gave the lute a gentle toss in his hand, just enough to make the gold whisper again in the sound chamber.

'So, what sort of a song did you have in mind, good sir?' he asked as he seated himself facing Samlor. The minstrel had set his wine cup down. His left leg was c.o.c.ked under him on the bench; and his right hand, on the lute's belly, was not far from the serviceable hilt of his dagger.

'A little girl's missing,' said Samlor. 'I need a name, or the name of someone who might know a name.'

'And how little a girl?' asked Varra, even more guarded. He set down the lute, ostensibly to take the cup in his left hand. 'Sixteen, would she be?'

'Four,' said Samlor.

Cappen Varra spat out the wine as he stood. 'It shouldn't offend me, good sir,'

said the minstrel as he up-ended the lute, 'there's folk enough in this city who traffic in such goods. But I do not, and I'll leave your "copper" here in the gutter with your suggestion!'

'Friend,' said Samlor. His hand shot out and caught the falling coin in the air before the sun winked on the metal. 'Not you, but the name of a name. For the child's sake. Please.'

Cappen Varra took a deep breath and seated himself again. 'Your pardon,' he said simply. 'One lives in Sanctuary, and one a.s.sumes that everyone takes one for a thief and worse ... because everyone else is a thief and worse, I sometimes fear. So. You want the name of someone who might buy and sell young children?

Not a short list in this city, sir.'

'That's not quite what I want,' the Cirdonian explained. 'There is - reason to think that she was taken by the Beysib.'

The minstrel blinked. 'Then I really can't help you, much as I'd like to, good sir. My songs give me no entree to those folk.'

Samlor nodded. 'Yes,' he agreed. 'But it might be that you knew who in the local community - fenced goods for Beysib thieves. Somebody must, they can't deal among themselves, a closed group like theirs.'

'Oh,' said Cappen Varra. 'Oh,' and his right hand drummed a nervous riff on the belly of his instrument. When he looked up again, his face was troubled. 'This could be very dangerous,' he said. 'For you, and for anyone who sent you to this man, if he took it amiss.'

'I was serious about the payment,' Samlor said. He thumbed a second crown of Rankan gold from his left hand into the right to join the piece already there.

'No, not that,' said the minstrel, 'not for this. But... I'll give you directions. Go after dark. And if I thought you might mention my name, I wouldn't tell you a thing. Even for a child.'

Samlor smiled wanly. 'It's possible,' the caravan-master said, 'that there are two honourable men in Sanctuary this day. Though I wouldn't expect anyone to believe it, even the two of us.'

Cappen Varra began fingering an intricate sequence of chords from his lute.

'There's a temple of Ils in the Mercer's Quarter,' he began in a rhythmic delivery. It would have suited the love lyrics his face was miming. 'Just a neighbourhood chapel. Go through it and turn right in the alley behind ...'

It had been three hours to sundown when Samlor left the Vulgar Unicorn, but it took him most of the remaining daylight to shop for what he would require during the interview. Nothing illicit, but the city was unfamiliar; and the major purchase was uncommon enough to take some searching. He found what he needed at last at an apothecary's.

The streets of Sanctuary had a different smell after dark, a serpent-cage miasma that was more of the psychic atmosphere than the physical. Under the circ.u.mstances, Samlor did not feel it would be politic to carry his dagger free in his hand as he might otherwise have done. He kept a careful watch, however, for the casual footpads who might waylay him for his purse, or even for the wine bottle whose neck projected from his scrip.

The chapel of Ils had once had a gate. It had been stolen for the weight of its wrought iron. There was nothing pertaining to the cult in the sanctuary except a niche in which the deity was painted. There might at one time have been a statue in the niche instead; but if so, it had gone the way of the gate. Samlor slipped through un.o.btrusively, though he was by no means sure that the drunk asleep in the corner was only what he seemed.

The alley behind the chapel was black as a politician's soul, but by now the Cirdonian was close enough to operate by feel. A set of rickety stairs against the left wall. A second staircase. The things that squelched and crunched underfoot did not matter. There were other, stealthy sounds; but the guards Samlor expected would not attack without orders, and they would fend away less organized criminals as the Watch could not dream of doing.

A ladder was pinned against the wall. It had ten rungs, straight up into a trap door in the overhanging story. Samlor climbed two rungs up and rapped on the door. He was well aware of how extended his body was if he had misjudged the guard's instructions.

'Yes?' grunted a voice from above.

'Tarragon,' Samlor whispered. If the pa.s.sword had been changed, the next sound would be steel grating through his ribs.

The door flopped open. A pair of men reached down and heaved Samlor inside with scant ceremony. Both of them were masked, as was the third man in the room. The third was the obvious leader, seated behind the oil lamp and the account books on a desk. The men who held Samlor were bravos; more perhaps than their muscles alone, but certainly there for their muscles in part. The leader was a black.

The mask obscuring his face was battered from age and neglect, but the eyes that glittered behind it were as bright as those of the hawk it counterfeited.

The black watched during the silent, expert search. Samlor held himself relaxed in the double grip as the guards' free hands twitched away his knife, his purse, his scrip; s.n.a.t.c.hed off his boots, the sheath in the left one empty already but noted; ran along his arms. his torso, his groin. The only weapon Samlor carried this night was the openly sheathed dagger. To leave it behind as well would in this city have been more suspicious than the weapon.

When the guards were finished, they stepped back a pace to either side. Samlor's gear lay in a pile at his feet, save for the dagger, slipped now through the belt of one of the burly men who watched him.

Unconcerned, the Cirdonian knelt and pulled on his left boot. The man behind the desk waited for the stranger to speak. Then. as Samlor reached for his other boot, the masked leader snarled, 'Well? You're from Bal.u.s.trus, aren't you?

What's his answer?'