The Dead of Winter- - Thieves World 07 (16 page)

"It's not a crime-like you said, My Lord Hierarch-it's not a crime. I'm an artist, a painter of portraits. I paint the faces of the people I see to keep in practice-like a soldier in the arena."

Yet the Ilsigi painter was plainly afraid that he had committed a crime.

"Let me see your picture," Molin ordered.

Lalo broke free of the Beysibs, but not quickly enough. Molin's fingers latched onto the painter's neck. The three of them: Molin, Lalo and the portrait moved back into the carriage lantern-light just as a shaken, sober Niko emerged.

"Nikodemos," Molin said as he studied the unfinished, frayed canvas tacked onto a battered plank, "look at this."

The limner had painted Niko, but not as a drunken mercenary in a whitewashed tavern. No, the central figure of the painting wore an archaic style of armor and looked out with more life and will than Niko, himself, possessed. And yet that was not the strangest aspect of the painting.

Lalo had included two other figures, neither of which had set foot in the Alekeep. The first, staring down over Niko's shoulder, was a man with glowing blue eyes and dark-gold hair: a figure Molin remembered as Vashanka moments before the god vanished into the void between the planes. The second was a woman whose half-drawn presence, emerging from the dark background, overshadowed both man and god. Lalo had been interrupted but Molin recognized a Nisibisi witch like his mother had been, or as Roxane still was.

He was still staring when Niko dismissed the Ilsigi limner. The Stepson began to speak of Arton and Gysk-ouras as if he alone understood their nature. The children, Niko announced, needed to be educated in Bandara-an island a month's sailing from Sanctuary. When Molin inquired how, exactly, they were supposed to transport two Storm Children, whose moods were already moving stones, across an expanse of changeable ocean, the Stepson became irrational.

"All right, they're not going any further unless and until my partner Randal who's being held by Roxane, I hear tell-is returned to me unharmed. Then I'll ride up and ask Tempus what he wants to do-if anything-about the matter of the godchild you so cavalierly visited upon a town that had enough troubles without one. But one way or the other, the resolution isn't going to help you one whit. Get my meaning?"

Molin did. He also felt a tingling at the base of his spine. Witch-blood rushed to his eyes and fingertips. He saw Nikodemos as Roxane saw him: his maat, his strength and his emotions displayed like the Emperor's banquet table-and the priest knew witch-kind's hunger.

Niko, oblivious to Molin's turmoil, continued with his demands. He expected Molin to get Askelon's armor out of the Mageguild and to storm Roxane's abode with a company of warrior-priests.

"Are you sure that will be enough?" Molin inquired, his voice turned sweetly sarcastic by the witch-blood appetites.

"No. I will free Randal, but your priests will free me. I will be Roxane's champion-facing your priests-one man against many. You will arrange to capture me unharmed, but you'll make it look good. She must never suspect my allegiance. She must think it's all your doing: priest-power against witchery."

"We are ever eager to serve," the priest agreed.

"And the timing. It must be Mid-Winter's Eve at midnight-exactly. Timing is everything, Hierarch. You know that. When you're dealing with Death's Queen, timing is everything."

Molin nodded, his face a rigid mask of obedience lest his laughter emerge.

"And I'll need a place to stay afterwards. Wherever you've been keeping those children and their mother will do. It's time they had the proper influences around them."

It was all Molin could do to keep silent. Whatever maat gave a man, it wasn't a sense of irony. Stormbringer and the rest of his Storm-kind were leaning hard on this drunk mercenary. His picayune demands became prophecy the moment they slurred out of his mouth. His babble trapped Stormbringer in Sanctuary like a fly in a spider's web. Already Molin could feel the necessary strategies and tactics crowding into his thoughts. Success was inevitable -with one, unfortunate, shortcoming: Molin would become Roxane's personal enemy, and what she would do when she found out who had been his mother was beyond even a Storm God's guess.

Niko was still drunk. He bumped into the carriage as he headed back inside the Alekeep, still muttering orders. The Beysibs moved to haul him back.

"No, Jennek, let him go. He'll be ready when we need him again; his kind always is."

"But, Torchholder," Jennek objected. "He asks for the sun, the moon, and the stars and offers you nothing in return. That's not the bargain you described back at the Palace."

"And it's not the bargain he thinks it is, either." The witch-hungers vanished as quickly as the Stepson. Molin grabbed the carriage door to keep himself from collapsing. The door swung open, Jennek lurched forward and Molin barely had the presence of mind to haul himself onto the bench opposite the children.

"To the Palace," he commanded.

Molin closed his eyes as the carriage rattled forward along the uneven streets. He was weak-kneed and exhilarated enough that he held his breath to stifle a fit of hysterical laughter. He had felt the naked power of his witch-blood heritage and, much as it had horrified him, he had mastered it. He was revelling in the wonder and simplicity of the strategies unfolding in his mind when Lalo's picture shifted under his arm. With a shiver, the priest reopened his eyes and pulled it away from Gys-kouras's candy-coated grasp. The child's eyes glowed more brightly than the lanterns.

"Want it."

"No," Molin said faintly, realizing that not even Storm-bringer could anticipate the influence and desires of a Storm Child.

"/ want it."

Seylalha, Gyskouras's mother, tried to distract him, but he pushed her back into the comer with a man's strength. Her eyes were as fearful as the child's were angry. Torchholder heard the rumble of thunder and did not think it was his imagination.

" 'Kouras-no," Arton interceded, taking his brother's hand. The children stared at each other and the light ebbed gradually from Gyskouras's eyes. Molin sighed and relaxed until he realized that the light had moved to Arton's eyes instead.

"He is ours already, Stepfather. We do not need to take him," the dark-eyed child said in a tone that was both consoling and threatening. They made the rest of the journey in silence: Seylalha huddled in the corner; the children sharing their thoughts and Molin staring at the triple portrait. There were two hectic days until Mid-Winter's Eve. Molin had the satisfaction of knowing his plans could not be thwarted and the irritation of knowing the events already in motion were of such magnitude that he had no more power than anyone else to alter them.

By the time the sun set, Torchholder had become hardened to the cascade of coincidence surrounding his every move. He went out of his way to stop the Mageguild from donating Askelon's, and Randal's, enchanted armor to Shupansea in gratitude for her permission to meddle with the weather at their Fete. He even considered refusing it when she suddenly turned around and offered it to him "as we have no Storm Gods nor warrior-priests worthy to wear it." But, in the end, he accepted all her gifts gratefully-including the authority to name Jennek and his rowdy friends as his personal honor guard.

He retired to his sanctum to await the unfolding of fate alone-except for Lalo's portrait. There would be no surprises until Randal walked through the door at midnight-then there would be surprises enough for gods, priests, witches, soldiers and mages alike.

Robin W. Bailey

A horse careered insanely along the Governor's Walk, heedless of the cold, drizzling mist that treacherously slicked the paving stones. Its breath came in great steaming clouds. It made the corner onto the Avenue of Temples at a speed that threatened to unseat the two cloaked riders on its back. From the shadowed steps of the Temple of Ils a small, lithe figure leaped into the road. There was the glint of metal in its clenched fist. With a wild shout the figure flung out its arms. The horse whinnied in terror, reared, and crashed to a stop.

The rider in the saddle answered with a curse, swung downward with a sword, and made a swift end of the attacker on the ground.

"More behind and coming fast!" the second rider warned, wrapping arms even more tightly about the first rider. "Go, damn it!" Again, the horse raced onward, past the park called the Promise of Heaven where half-starved women sold their bodies for the price of a lean meal. The beast wheeled to the right and down a street between two dark and immense edifices. A set of massive iron gates loomed.

The first rider jerked sharply on the reins, threw a leg over the mount's head, and jumped to the ground. The second rider slid backward over the damp, lathered rump, stumbled, then sagged to the pavement.

A hood was flung back; a pommel smashed against the unyielding barriers. A voice called out full of desperation and anger. "Father! Let us in! Dayrne-anyone awake!"

"Chenaya!" The second rider rose to a timid crouch and drew a small dagger.

"They're coming!"

Four men ran down the street, weapons drawn. Even as they came on, three more emerged from the shadows to join them. Chenaya whirled to face them, cursing. Gods knew what the hell they wanted! This was too much trouble for a common robbery. Perhaps it was vengeance for the two she'd already slain that drove them.

"Get behind me," she ordered, dragging her companion by the arm. Then she put a pair of fingers to her lips, gave a sharp whistle, and called, "Reyk!" The lead runner gave a choked scream, then a long gurgling cry of frightened pain. He dropped his sword, fell to his knees, beat at his face. But he was much too slow. The falcon, Reyk, climbed back into the sky, leaving the man's eyes in bloody ruin. He winged a tight circle, then settled on his mistress's arm. She sent him aloft once more. "Can't carry you and fight," she whispered tersely. Without turning away she banged her pommel on the gate again. "Father!" One runner stopped to help his fallen comrade. The rest rushed on. She couldn't make out their features or identify their dress, but she could feel their hatred.

Her companion beat on the gates with a dagger. "Open! For pity's sake, let your daughter in!"

Chenaya ripped off her cloak and drew a second sword. With the two blades she stepped forward to meet her attackers. "All right, you miserable dung-balls!" She twirled the weapons in dazzling double arcs. "I don't know what you want, but I'll play your game. Try to entertain me, you sons of whores!" Before the first blow could be struck the gates swung wide. Six giants, in various stages of arming themselves, spilled into the street, steel gleaming in their fists. Che-naya's pursuers caught themselves up short, then ran in the other direction, dragging their blinded friend with them. They were quickly swallowed by the damp gloom.

Chenaya spun to face the tallest of the giants. "Dayme, what the hell's going on around here? We've barely arrived in Sanctuary, but we've been attacked twice. Some group hit us in Caravan Square at the end of General's Road. Then these attacked as we came along Governor's Walk. Nobody's on the streets but madmen!" Dayrne's gaze lingered on her face a bit longer than was proper, and he gave a distinct sigh of relief even as he chewed his lip. "Politics later. Mistress," he said finally as he ushered Chenaya and her hooded companion inside the estate grounds. He paused to make sure the gates were sealed then continued. "Things have gone to hell in the city since you've been gone. We can talk more of it later, but first you must see your father. Lowan Vigeles has been nearly ill worrying about you." His brows knit in consternation. "You promised to return before the onset of winter."

"Something important came up," she answered defensively, avoiding his eyes. She extended her arm again. In the light of the few torches that illumined the interior courtyard the metal rings of her manica glimmered. Again, she whistled. It was impossible to see the bird in the dark, but she heard the soft beat of its pinions, felt the rush of air by her cheek as he took a familiar place on her wrist. Chenaya slipped a jess from her belt and fitted it over Reyk's leg. From another small pocket she extracted a hood to cover his eyes. Only then did she pass him into Dayrne's care. "Have one of the men clean his talons immediately." She stroked her pet. "He scored one of them. Don't let the blood crust. And have someone take care of that poor horse. He's carried the two of us a long way."

Chenaya took her traveling companion by the elbow then and led her across the court. Dayrne gave quick orders to the other men and fell into step behind. As they crossed the grounds she noted how well the restoration of the old estate was progressing. Land's End, the locals called the place, though she was damned if she knew why.

Light streamed through an open doorway. She stepped inside a grand entrance hall and gazed up the wide staircase that curved along the east wall. Lowan Vigeles stood at the top. His face was full of relief at the sight of her, but he couldn't hide his anger.

Two of her gladiators, the former thieves Dismas and Gestus, flanked him according to standing instructions. Lowan was not to be left unguarded during a disturbance. But there was someone else at the top of the stair who she could barely see. The woman seemed to hang back.

Lowan descended the stairs and stopped halfway down. "You've been gone far longer than your three months, Daughter." There was a hard edge to his voice, but it couldn't mask the deeper joy he felt. "You broke your promise. You're long overdue." Then he relented and extended his arms. "Welcome home." Chenaya unfastened her weapon belt and dropped it at the foot of the stair. She ran up to her father, threw her arms about him, and pressed her head against his shoulder. Lowan Vigeles was a tall man, but the past months had made him appear haggard. He had lost weight and there was little color left in his cheeks. "You worried too much!" she admonished with a whisper only he could hear.