DAW 30th Anniversary Science Fiction Part 32

He watched the man's back, unable to read very much into his stance or musculature.

Then, finally, "As long as you're not Jaahtcar, and I don't hear it in your voice."

"That, I will swear upon my life. I am not Jaahtcar." Nor of any other race of this world, he added silently, and did not let the thought shadow his eyes.

The man turned then, surveyed him with a face etched in grief and regret, then gave a nod.

"You," he said quietly, "could hardly bring more shame to the name than I have. I will not dispute your claim to be the anj' of my anj' but neither will I embrace you. You understand that?"

Brennan bowed. "Understand and accept." He took a purse from his belt and laid it on the stone floor of the chapel, near the door. "The first stipend for this year. The others will be sent by messenger, as is appropriate. I will honor your house, and your name, and your daughters and their heirs."

"And if you have an anj'?"

Brennan smiled faintly. "He will be of the line of Risalavan and make you proud." It was not likely, but he needn't disclose more than he already had.

The sire of the house of Risalavan bowed his head, turning back to his altar and grieving.

Brennan had paused but a moment longer, whispering words of mourning for his own lost father, and then he'd left.

Brennan slipped through the arched doorway quietly and departed the holding much the same way he'd come in, by shadow and unlocked door, and night. He still found the quiet ways more comfortable than such fanfare as society demanded of him today, but today was another matter altogether. Today he knew being unseen was out of the question, which was why he had purchased a sh.e.l.l of a life to use. The faint stirrings which had led him to Risalavan had grown louder, were now rumbling-the mystery of the nation that called itself the Jaahtcar. They manipulated trading lanes and quarrels, financed wars and uprisings, and prospered. They were like leeches looking for a b.l.o.o.d.y wound to feed upon, constantly.

And now Mannoc was here. Could his luck be any greater? This was his chance to find out what the Jaahtcar wanted, what they believed their manifest destiny to be. Brennan savored another swallow of brandy, a bare sip lest he disturb the chemistry of the potions he'd ingested earlier, as he surveyed the patio and hoped for a sighting. A low growl of a voice near the outer edge of his hearing range caught his attention, and he pivoted slowly, languidly, to hide his interest.

Mannoc stood head and shoulders above the general population, even though he was bent slightly in conversation with the wealthy merchant standing next to him on the patio, both slightly veiled in blue-gray smoke from the gambling rooms which opened onto the far end of the gardens. As though by unwritten rule, despite the monied and eligible men millingaround in that part of the grounds, there were no females nearby except a few servants who did not linger but came and went with quiet efficiency. Although matchmaking seemed to be one of the main intents of this gathering, the gambling room and its gamblers were not to be disturbed.

Even more important liaisons of men and money were taking place therein.

Without seeming to, he watched Mannoc. The register of his lower voice made it difficult to catch what he was saying from this distance, although the others were fairly easy to pick up.

He would have to go through the recorder later for the nuances and what he flat out could not hear.

"More brandy, sur?" someone said at his elbow, and he looked down smoothly and immediately swapped gla.s.ses. She faded off with her tray, and the first sip told him that he'd given up half a gla.s.s of good drink for a full gla.s.s of a vastly inferior brandy. Brennan frowned in irritation, of half a mind to chase his original drink down to the kitchen and retrieve it.

To hide his annoyance, he turned back into the manor proper and was promptly swept into a dance, gla.s.s in hand and all, and his senses reeled in a swirl of color, laughter, perfume, and motion. He bowed out after two dances to stand quietly in the vast doorway which had been thrown open to the afternoon breezes while he brought both his pulse and breathing quickly down to norms before anything could be unleashed. A little sweat peppered his forehead under the hair that had fallen forward, and the breeze felt cool against it, and he could smell the very faint hint of brandy in it as it pa.s.sed through his pores, carrying with it the even fainter hint of the tonic he called allquick and other herbs.

"Anj' of anj' of Risalavan."

He swung about at the very feminine voice, saying, "Please, call me Brennan," even before he saw her. This was probably a good thing for she had large eyes, a soft bow of a mouth, fair skin, and the most incredible bosom delicately hinted at by a low and lacy necklace, and it momentarily took the words from him. He was grateful for the nonchalant tone in his voice, and managed to hold onto it as he faced her.

"Master Brennan, then. No more dancing?"

"Afraid not at the moment."

She held a bulging coin purse up to him, pouting slightly. "I think this fell from your waistband, then, and I was going to claim a dance as my reward."

He took it from her slender fingers. "I would be very remiss for not rewarding you."

"Perhaps a cold drink and a sandwich in the gardens?" She brought up a fan, waving it slightly, soft tendrils of hair ruffling along her forehead.

"Allow me, then." Fie put out his hand to escort her, and she took it with barely a touch between them as he tucked his coin purse back into his jacket. He had intended to drop it but chided himself for not catching that it actually had fallen. "I'm afraid I did not catch your name, m'lady."

She blushed slightly, answering, "Please ... I am syanji' Gryden."

"Terribly formal." He escorted her through a trellis gate into the gardens where a refreshment area had been set up and a canvas canopy rippled in the afternoon breeze, gilt-threaded G neatly embroidered on every scallop. He was escorting his host's daughter, then. "Do all your friends call you that?"

"Oh, no. Please. Call me Fyleen.""It would be my pleasure." At the stand, he ordered two chilled fruit drinks which looking promisingly clear and not cloy? ingly sweet with nectar and pulp and two sandwiches of fowl and chutney, and carried them to a small table. Fyleen, to his delight, did not eat like a bird pecking at the bread, but rather ate heartily and with enjoyment.

The drinks were as good as their promise and he enjoyed their mild sweet-tart coolness.

They had been watered down, he was certain, but that was not undesirable as far as he was concerned. He let Fyleen chatter away, answering her pleasantries amiably, and he waited.

They had all but finished when someone came up behind Brennan and tapped on his shoulder. Fyleen blinked and looked down, a faint expression running over her face so quickly Brennan could not quite catch it. He made a note to see what the camera recorded, later. He let his shoulder flinch slightly but showed no more surprise than that.

"Anj'anj'Risalavan?" A pleasant, deep voice, rolling out of the man behind him, smelling faintly of green beer and tobacco.

He twisted about in his chair to face the greeter. "Aye, that would be me. And you . . . ?"

He looked up into the broad, portly face of a man who really needed no introduction, at least in this part of the world, the very moneyed and important merchant Balatin. Balatin's weathered face showed the years he'd traveled with his caravan, not only as merchant but as guard, his hands gnarled and scarred with the signs of combat, three heavy lines etched deeply into his forehead.

Balatin bowed deeply. "Humble Balatin, trader, at your service. Forgive me for interrupting, Sy'Lyleen, but my partners and I thought anj'Risalavan might enjoy a game or two of chance." He tugged his fas.h.i.+onable waistcoat back into place about his formidable torso as he straightened and stood, smiling, waiting for Brennan's response.

Trap baited and sprung. But he could not have asked for lovelier bait, he thought, standing.

"That would be most enjoyable!"

Lyleen's soft lips parted as if to utter a small complaint, but she never got it out as Balatin grunted, saying, "Let me lead the way, it's like a jungle in here," and Brennan fell in dutifully behind, noting that although the trader had grown older and prosperous, it was mostly compact muscle under those fine clothes and he grunted, not because of exertion but more out of exasperation with the fineries that had been forced upon his frame. His supple boots were made for walking and riding rather than dancing, and he moved accordingly. Brennan sized him up, almost as much as they had undoubtedly sized up him and his coin purse earlier. With a smile just at the edges of his mouth, he counted his victory as he headed to the gambling rooms where Mannoc the Jaaht-car and others waited for fresh blood.

Upon entering the room, and suffering a hearty round of introductions, Brennan took stock of the three games going. Qwill was being played at two tables, and the third seemed to be a sophisticated version of bangar dice, the bangar table surrounded by throwers and bettors. He could do well at either, but preferred neither game, particularly, and his purpose here was talk.

Mannoc sat playing Qwill, holding the paint-and-gilt cards in one hand, tapping the other on the table idly, seemingly contemplating the mix he held.

As if hearing Brennan's unconscious wish, a balding and spindly player at the Qwill table threw his hand in and stood up, saying, "I think it's time to change my luck."

Trader Balatin pulled the chair out with a gnarled hand, indicating Brennan should sit."Don't worry, I have new blood."

Mannoc looked up, barely smiling. "Good." He had the darkest eyes Brennan had ever seen, pools of night that made the whites around the pupils look like freshly fallen snow. His skin was uncommonly fair with the purple-and-blue tracings of his veins seen easily at the neck and wrist. The pallor might have looked unhealthy on another, but his entire aura was one of strength and vigor, belying any thought of illness. He was simply a very pale man. From what Brennan had seen of most Jaahtcar, they all were.

He wondered at the lack of tanning pigmentation and if they were originally a s...o...b..und people, perhaps. To hide his examination of Mannoc, Brennan fussed a bit with his waistcoat and trousers as he sat down.

Mannoc smiled thinly. "By all means," he commented, "make sure the family jewels are comfortable. We'll be here a while."

Brennan placed his hands on the table and, while smiling, raised an eyebrow at Mannoc.

"My jewels," he said amiably, "are quite in order and well taken care of. My father should have been so lucky."

A m.u.f.fled snicker ran around the table as the dealer gathered up the cards and began to shuffle them. The lace at his wrists hid the motion as he mixed the cards and quickly dealt them, and then there was a pause. Balatin put his heavy hand on the shoulder of a young man on Brennan's right. "How are we doing, Nedo?"

"I've been keeping your cards warm," said the affable young man. He stood then, and bowed, giving up the seat to the trader. Balatin sat down, throwing his markers into the table's center without even looking at his hand.

The dealer quickly sold Brennan a fair number of markers, tucking the coins away in a common leather purse branded with a stylish G. The first card went out face up to all the players, and the qwill landed in front of Brennan.

"Auspicious," Mannoc murmured. He did not stir his dark gaze from his cards as if he'd known the qwill would land where it did.

Brennan quickly made his choice of draw cards, and the dealer took the qwill, buying it in the discards. There were three more to be had, but no others would show as the remainder of the cards would be dealt facedown. He won quickly, heard no grumbles, and kept winning off and on through most of the afternoon. The anj' of the anj' of Risavalan was not a good winner, in that he gloated a bit, and remarked how the day's work would added to the nest egg he used for his trade of antiquities, the lifework of his heart. The markers piled up steadily in front of him, gamblers dropped out and new ones came in, and Mannoc remained seated across from him, nearly silent, and almost as good at winning.

"Trader, are you?" Mannoc noted as the day wore into dusk, and servants quietly lit lanterns about the room as well as an overhead chandelier, and opened a window for the breeze to clear out the smoke. Balatin sat in the corner, at a table, partaking of a dinner which had been brought in.

"Only in oddities. Antiquities, rare artifacts, remnants of long ago," he answered absently, arranging his hand. The qwill lay in front of Mannoc, and he'd seen the Jaahtcar use it in startling ways several times today already. An interesting opponent. "I am barely a pa.s.sing scholar in the Fallen, but I find their usage of metal for adornment intriguing. Their creatures,while scarcely fathomable, have a certain charm."

"Charm is about all they had, and little good it did them." Mannoc paused long enough to tap the ash from his smoker, and then inhale another gray-blue flume slowly. "Do you find a market for your oddities?"

"Oh, yes. There is a small but interested group of buyers. A few are scholars, some are merely collectors." Brennan paid a great deal of attention to arranging his cards. "I dabble in it for card money, and my card money keeps me dabbling. It's the pastures that keep my holding going. I came down to the city for a bit to look at the new shearing scissors and place a few orders, see what the winter looks like. My beasts bore well, my staff is carding now, and it looks like there will be a cold winter coming. We'll have the yarn for it. I should do well."

Mannoc tapped the ash off again. "It will be," he said quietly, "very, very cold. I'd hold onto that yarn of yours a while."

Balatin looked up sharply from his bread bowl of stew, a gleam in his eyes.

"Think you so? That might be a wise idea, then. What omens have you read? My herders tell me the caterpillars tell them that."

A slight smile cracked the Jaahtcar's face as he fanned his cards out, closed them into his palm and then placed a few markers in the pool, betting. "I have slightly more reliable methods," he answered slowly.

Brennan nibbled on one lip slightly, eyeing his cards before saying over his shoulder to an anonymous servant in the background, "I think we'll need a new deck, after this," and went back to staring morosely at his cards. He knew just how long he could draw out his response in betting before Mannoc would get restless and demand to see the hand. The Jaahtcar was very good at remaining still, but his right shoulder ticked ever so slightly and Brennan knew he was going to reach for the qwill, in effect demanding a resolution whether Brennan was ready or not, and in answer, Brennan fanned his cards down, putting his bet on top of them.

Mannoc stared but a moment, then rocked back in his chair. "Winner," he said, nodding toward Brennan. "And I could use some fresh air, and some advice from you."

"Of course," he answered smoothly, standing. It had been a long afternoon, but it seemed the wary prey had finally begun to take the bait. He followed Mannoc out of the rear of the card room onto a private patio. The hour had grown late, and the party could be heard somewhere inside, music, laughter, the sound of drinking and eating.

A servant wheeled out a cart heaped with covered plates and backed away quietly, then returned with a second cart of gla.s.s decanters and clay jugs, and a capped skin. Brennan reached for the iced juice before Mannoc could pour him a gla.s.s of much, much stronger stuff than he wished to take in. The sap he'd drunk in the morning to render his normally deep voice into a pleasant tenor had begun to ease, his larynx returning to its normal size, and he feigned hoa.r.s.eness from the smoke, roughening his tones. He strode across the flagged terrace, listening to and enjoying the light strains of music reaching them.

A third person joined them, half shadowed, taking a seat on a stretched hide hammock stool. The leather creaked as he sat down in the dusk, all but hidden except for his heavy, striking boots pushed out in front of him. Mannoc poured a thick amber-red drink from the capped skin, and Brennan recognized it for what he thought it was, lyhur, the coppery smell of the added blood in the liqueur reaching him. It was a drink of pure savagery and he could notstomach it, although he'd had to, once or twice. It would play havoc with his senses and his stomach and he was only too glad to avoid it.

He could see from the other's pupils that the true purpose of this break, the card game, indeed, the whole day, was about to unfold.

Mannoc spread open the hedge surrounding the terrace, revealing Lyleen's bloodied, crumpled body. "She hasn't been seen smce she stepped into the garden with you earlier. Her blood might be construed as being on your hands." He then proceeded to make Brennan an offer he could not refuse.

ACT III.

The Sentinel shook him like a terrier seeking to break a rat's back. Red streaks of pain lightninged across the backs of his eyes and the maze reeled about him, leaving him completely disoriented. Even if he could break free, his senses reeled in vertigo. There was no up, no down ... no escape. He cried out. Brennan went suddenly limp in the Sentinel's hold as if it had succeeded in breaking him and its jaws relaxed the barest of a fraction. Brennan kicked up, hitting it hard in the throat. His boot cracked . . . something. Hard-ridged sh.e.l.l? Armor? He was not sure as he used his momentum to flip about and somersault back onto his feet. The world righted itself, and he leaped away. He was gone, but it came after him with a grunt.

Brennan sped through the maze, no time for ropes and harness, jumping and catching the wall's top edge if he could, or vaulting onto an exhibit or cabinet if not, and then leaping again.

It pursued him, soundless, breathless, heatless. It came over the wall tops or around the corners, antic.i.p.ating his every move until it was obvious to Brennan. It knew he was fleeing, getting out. It could cut him off at any moment. It was toying with him, exhausting him.

He paused in a corner to catch his breath, pulse roaring in his ears. Certainly he heard the thing lunge past, headed toward the main doors, armored feet rattling on the wooden floors.

Brennan threw his head back, staring up. And up. A faint spark of light from the vaulted ceiling caught his eye. A break. An exit.

In moments he had his spikes and rig set to climb. The hardwood held each spike tightly as he ascended, drawing his ropes after him, going as fast as he dared, knowing the thing would sense it had missed him and double back. He climbed, fast but not fast enough, thoughts and pulse pounding in his temples. What was it? He knew he couldn't outrun it. Could he stop it if it caught up with him again?

His weight brought a spike out of splintering wood and it fell away, clattering far below.

His harness held, kept him from a similar fate, and he shook another spike loose to anchor it. A handful left. He looked up at the spark of light which had grown to crescent size. Yes. He'd make it. He dared to breathe a moment, feeling the beginning ache and fatigue as the allquick metabolized out of his system. In a few moments he'd be as weak as a newborn.

Brennan drew himself up, set his spikes and ascended as quickly as he could, till one hand reached the cup of the crescent opening, and he pulled himself onto a ventilation hatch and punched out the oxidized grille. Fresh night air roared in as he wiggled through, body now starting to ache in earnest. He straightened on the roof, nimbly crossing tiles, eyes on the streets far below, gauging the time. He was dangerously close to missing the rendezvous. Sprinting across the slanted roof, he paused at the edge for a jump to the next wing. Catlike, he sprangand made it, with ease, and yet his legs felt like lead as he straightened.

A heavy thud sounded behind him.

Brennan whirled, bringing a dagger to hand, knowing it would doubtless be of no use. The thing was on him before his heart could skip a beat, bowling him over, but he let it, rolling with it, bringing his boots up into the center of the thing's gravity and sending it tumbling over him.

He scrambled about into a crouch.

It did not look much better in moonlight than it had in the maze. Enameled black, an immense suited being, perhaps even hollow from its quickness. Animated? Yet . . . how? He sensed no transmissions from it, knew of no technology in Sshen that could do it.

It moved with him as he circled.

"You will not leave," it said flatly.

Hearing the voice left a faint, coppery flavor in his mouth. Brennan licked his dry lips, discovered a minute cut, and sucked on it a moment.

He had every contingency covered except for this one.

And it would be the death of him.

He felt sweat under the wax appliance of his fake nose, and it crawled down his skin and into the gluing of his goatee, itching horribly. His breath rattled slightly in his lungs and the back of his neck and his shoulders were beginning to knot up. Perhaps if he dropped the Eyes and moved away . . . but then, no, he would not get what he needed from Mannoc and he might as well be dead if he did not.

Brennan drew the baton of the ArchMage out of his sleeve. The thing's attention riveted to it.

"You sense it, then."

"It burns brightly even on my plane," the Sentinel said.

Its voice vibrated flatly. Without breath, how could it talk . . . transmit? Perhaps he only thought he heard what he heard.

Perhaps.

Brennan circled. "Will you take it and let me go?"

"No. You have done that which is Forbidden, and the penalty is Death."

Brennan felt for a cloth tucked into his waistband. The Sentinel had fixated on the baton with its eyeless, featureless face, and followed every movement of his outstretched right hand.

It never saw, if it could see, what Brennan drew clear.

"Let me go, or I will destroy it."

"Blasphemy!"

Brennan snapped the null cloth over the baton. Like whisper-soft silk, it tented over the baton and settled into place. The fine, electronic screen enmeshed within the cloth dampened whatever fields existed and set up its own, decoying.