Dark Vengeance (4 page)

Munthur grinned wryly. “For you, life is an unending series of cruel treacheries and deceptions, isn't it? So should we be doing our utmost, just now, to slay Jalandral Evendoom?”

Clazlathor shook his head. “Let him rebuild Talonnorn first, and do battle with the Holy of Olone. They'll probably manage his slaying, but he should be able to bring them down to the level of we mere mortal Nifl, first. Even Jalandral Evendoom has his uses.”

Munthur's grin widened. “You don't much care what you say, do you?”

The spellrobe shrugged. “I don't much care if I live or die, now. The Talonnorn I loved has been smashed, hurled down, and lost forever, and most of our friends with it. To say nothing of the Nifl-she I loved.”

“Oh? One of the dancers at the Dark? Or the lasses at the—”

Clazlathor's coldly murderous look brought Munthur's words to a halt in an instant. “Draurathra, the Eldest of Raskshaula,” he snapped. “If you
must
know.”

“A ruling House
crone?
I—I mean . . . Forgive me, Claz, I never knew more of her than her name, and for you to set your heart in
that
direction she must have been special indeed, but . . .”

“But a crone? And twice my age at that?” The spellrobe smiled bitterly. “Of course you're forgiven, old friend. Not all the crones are tyrants made gleeful by practicing their cruelties on the rest of us. Just most of them. She was different. She saw a Nameless of the Araed as something more than a night's pleasure among the dangerous downtrodden. A Niflghar whose mind and wants were as worthy as anyone else's . . .” His hand had been closing into a fist, but Clazlathor flung it open in a dismissive wave as violent as any sword thrust. “But she is with Olone and . . . and fading in my memories already, curse it.”

He produced a belt-flask, and took a long sip from it that made his eyes tear and his thin nose flare visibly. “When Niflghar say they'll never forget, they lie. We all forget. Except the things we want to forget; they stick. So I can't forget what I saw done by young Jalandral Evendoom as he grew to be the flippant thrusting blade in collective Talonar sides, nor the streets of Talonnorn ankle-deep in Nifl blood, or for that matter the sneering maliciousness of all our nobles in the days before Ouvahlor attacked. I
want
them to suffer. All of them. Wherefore I sit and watch Jalandral butcher lordling after lordling, harvesting the heads of the Houses almost as fast as they proclaim themselves, and gather to him all the Talonar who want one ruler over the city—Jalandral, of
course
—and not the decadent, ever-feuding noble Houses. And I watch the nobles bluster and mutter, and seek to rally what's left of the priestesses to their side.”

Whatever Munthur was going to say in reply to that was lost in the sudden blare of horns echoing over the city.

“What by Olone's fury—?” he growled instead, turning again to the window.

“Jalandral,” the spellrobe said, raising his flask again. “Summoning us all to the forecourt of House Evendoom. He's ready to do whatever his next clever deed is, and wants an audience.”

“So, shall we—?”

Clazlathor shrugged.

“I'm staying here. I'll work a spell to show us what befalls. Unless you want to walk all that way just to stand and gawk, on hand to be slaughtered if Jalandral happens to need an example or two to make the rest of us cower.”

“You think it'll come to that?”

“I'll lay a good glittering handful on it,” the spellrobe replied, lifting his belt-pouch of gems meaningfully. “Watch, and be made wiser—and sadder. He'll be getting tired of just lopping the heads of Houses; now the
real
slaughter is going to begin.”

 

The junior Watcher of Ouvahlor blinked.

He was, yes, standing in his own bedchamber!

Here, not in the Watch chamber where he'd been a moment ago!

He found himself shuddering with excitement. Wetness pattered down onto the smooth stone underfoot, all around him. He was sweating—so hard and fast that it was running from his nose—and, by the Ice, from his naethyng
fingertips!

“By the Ever-Ice,” he whispered, shaking his head. “That's—that's—”

“It is not considered good form,” Luelldar informed him gravely from the doorway, “to be amazed that a whorl-spell worked. Watchers are
supposed
to be masters of whorl-magic, as confident in its working as are the priestesses of Coldheart when invoking the Ice.”

Aloun nodded, chuckling in mingled relief and delight as he strode aimlessly and gleefully across the room. “One moment in the Watch chamber, striding into the whorl and feeling as if it's scores of daggers, all of ice, streaming through me . . . and the next, here! Just like that!” He grinned at Luelldar. “That's . . . ah, certainly something.”

The elder Watcher of Ouvahlor did not quite smile, but Aloun could hear clear amusement in his voice as he replied. “Indeed. Moreover, it is good to hear prudence return to your tongue. Cast it again.”

“Here?”

Luelldar nodded. “Without my assistance, this time.”

“My destination?”

“The Watch chamber. Of course.” Luelldar disappeared back into the passage beyond the door, leaving Aloun alone and momentarily uncertain.

He let out an explosive sigh, shook himself to drive off more sweat, drew in a deep breath, and cast a whorl.

Its glow flooded out across the room; he let it spin, growing and deepening, as he carefully strode through the working of the translocational spell in his memory. This, and then that, and
thus
. . .

So he did those things, stepped boldly into the icy grip of the whorl, and let it take him.

He was back in the Watch chamber, with an unsmiling Luelldar watching from the doorway.

“Hah!
That's
not so hard!”

“Indeed.” The elder Watcher strode across the room to embrace him, and as Aloun's relieved and triumphant laughter raged around them both, murmured, “So now learn from me the next vital thing.
Keep laughing
; assume we are being spied upon.
Always
assume we are being spied upon, from this moment on.”

“Whaaat?” Aloun replied, struggling to keep up laughter and form words at the same time. “Are we?”

“Of course. Yes, I'm sure your whorl-spyings on pretty Nifl-shes
have provided sour entertainment for more than one priestess. Wise of you not to dare pry in the direction of Coldheart.”

Aloun's laughter died in a shocked instant, but Luelldar filled both their ears with the roaring of his own whorl-casting, wilder and larger than he was wont to conjure.

“Watch!” he snapped, tapping Aloun's wrist, and then muttering and gesturing through a brief, deft casting Aloun had always assumed was just an old Nifl's flourish.

“You saw?”

Aloun nodded, and Luelldar let his whorl collapse in ear-clawing chaos around them; its chill washed over their boots as it died, rocking the chamber. “Chill of the Ice!” he cursed, feigning anger. “They do that, every so often! You try!”

Aloun stared hard at the elder Watcher of Ouvahlor, caught the barely perceptible nod, and carefully conjured his own whorl, carefully adding the extra casting. As the whorl expanded, he could feel a tugging, a counterspin racing around its edge. Luelldar leaned close, running his arms under Aloun's as if steadying the whorl, and muttered in the younger Watcher's ear, “Creates a second whorl, hidden from most who don't work whorl-magic often, if you take care to keep it hidden. Use it to spy on something else, aside from what your main whorl is watching.”

He murmured something that made Aloun's main whorl rise suddenly up around them both, englobing them in its keening, rushing power. “Can only hold this a
very
short time,” Luelldar snapped, “to speak to you unheard. So heed:
always
cast a second whorl, hidden by your main one—and you must take care to keep it so—to do its own task . . . under your bidding, of course.”

“So this'll let me spy on anyone I please?” Aloun's grin was gleeful. “Even here in Ouvahlor?”

The elder Watcher wasn't smiling. “Yes. Though there are many who have the means to detect your scrutiny, and if they also have the suspicion to use it . . .”

“Such a whorl can betray me,” Aloun replied, nodding as his grin faded. “Still, this is a formidable tool, a weapon where I had
none before. Have my thanks, Luell. For trusting me with this, too.”

The elder Watcher bowed. “As I said, it is time for you to have it.
Not
as a plaything, to entertain you by your peerings-from-afar at unclad shes or the pratfalls of foes, but as something that just might let you save your own skin. Not from the foes of Ouvahlor, but from those of our city who wish us ill.”

“The Anointed of Coldheart.”

“And others.”

“There are others?”

Luelldar sighed, shook his head wearily, and told the whirling whorl around them, “I have considerably more work to do, I see.”

 

Before Ouvahlor's armies had attacked Talonnorn, House Evendoom had stood apart from the rest of the city, behind its own high walls and forbiddingly magnificent gates, gardens that Nifl of the Araed could only glimpse from afar and dream of treading rising in gentle, slave-shaped slopes up to the soaring walls and towers of the Eventowers itself.

Yet those armies had come, and their dung-worms with them, and much had been hurled down and despoiled. Now the space between the crowded, winding streets of the Araed and the doors of the shattered and hastily patched Eventowers was a vast, uneven forecourt of trodden dirt, bare cavern stone, and broken-stone paving, the largest open space within the city except for the jagged rock fringes around the edges of the vast cavern that held Talonnorn.

Usually that forecourt was empty of all but a few wandering Nifl—and an ever-vigilant guard of Evendoom warblades, who advanced threateningly on anyone they deemed to not have a good reason for approaching the Eventowers; House Evendoom had no intention of allowing the Araed to expand to reach their very front doorstep.

Just now, however, in the wake of the horn-calls, the forecourt
was filling up with Niflghar, with more converging on it from all over Talonnorn. In front of the Eventowers, warblades and servants wearing the Black Flame of Evendoom were standing seven or more deep, wearing weapons and looking sternly ready to use them. The guard that customarily swept unwanted arrivals back out of the forecourt seemed to have melted away, or receded back into this unprecedented wall of Evendoom livery.

Their departure left the forecourt to a milling, ever-thickening crowd of Nifl who'd come to stare up at the podium House Evendoom slaves had recently erected at the Eventowers end of the forecourt: a towering, upswept stone staircase to nothing, which ended in a platform high above the forecourt. Jalandral Evendoom was wont to declaim thunderous speeches from it, denouncing all who disagreed with his dream of one lord to rule over all Talonnorn, and restore the city's vaunted greatness. Though no one stood atop it now—and grim Evendoom warriors and spellrobes on its stairs kept matters that way—no one doubted that the horns meant Jalandral Evendoom intended to proclaim something important from it shortly.

Tongues were busy speculating as to just what that announcement would be, but the owner of every last one of them knew what the eloquent Lord Evendoom was striving toward: establishing himself as ruler of Talonnorn, to rule the city as the fabled Yaundril had once lorded it over the lost Nifl city of Murkalandorn, or as Devaurre the Darkqueen had ruled the distant Niflghar city of Aumrael, in the time before her six daughters had turned to Olone, together slain her, and founded the six ruling Houses that so many other cities—including Talonnorn—now echoed.

Would it be a bold announcement, here and now, or was this only the next stride toward the throne for Jalandral, a pretext for seizing more power or gems or a title? Or would he seek to goad the priestesses or the five other Houses of Talonnorn into swords-out dispute with him?

If the latter scheme was what he intended, it seemed his rivals were both ready for such trouble, and expecting it. Bands of Nifl
were approaching the forecourt now with House banners fluttering at their fore: the Grim Skull of Dounlar, the Talon of Oondaunt, and a little way behind the Glowgem of Oszrim, with Raskshaula and Maulstryke still far off down distant streets. The spellrobe Clazlathor and his friend Munthur, watching magically from afar, did not have to peer hard at the Nifl already gathered in the forecourt, or the groups striding to join them under House banners, to know that everyone was well armed and probably armored beneath cloaks and robes, though not a war-helm nor doorguard's heavy metal plating could be seen. The wary way the gathering Nifl kept hands near their belts, the sharp glances they shot this way and that, the general air of grim readiness . . . Talonnorn was expecting trouble.

The head adorning the longlance, earlier, had belonged to Oszrim, which—if Clazlathor wasn't mistaken—now left Raskshaula as the only House whose lord survived from before Ouvahlor had attacked. He peered hard at those walking under the many-eyed Raskshaula banner, but could see no one that might be Lord Morluar Raskshaula. Not that noble lords didn't have magic aplenty to disguise themselves, if they wished.

Horns rang forth again, startlingly loud, from the black turrets of the Eventowers—and the small Evendoom army parted at its center like two curtains being drawn smoothly apart, to let a far larger stream of gleaming Evendoom warblades out into the forecourt, flowing forward in menacing numbers and haste to surround the soaring stone podium. Clazlathor smiled tightly and bent his attention to the podium stairs, grimly curious to see if his hunch was right: that Jalandral Evendoom would use a spell or a hidden inner stairs to appear atop the podium, and never appear on the outer stairs at all.