Jim Baen's Universe

Serials - parts and parts.

Blade Light, Episode Three

Written by Michaele Jordan

CHAPTER TEN

Zhravig woke suddenly, alerted by a thousand inaudible voices to the presence of an intruder in his home. He was not exactly surprised, for he had been expecting an attack for roughly half a century. Still, he was annoyed. He had hoped to get the damned chit trained and out before this happened. But then, perhaps Asmodé had been counting on that.

He dressed rapidly, contemplating his sword. It would be suicidal to attempt the imminent confrontation without it. But equally, it would be criminal to let it fall into Asmodé's hands if he lost. At last he decided to thrust it through his sash, not before but behind, just under the small of his back, so that he might reach it or dispose of it discreetly. After all, despite its worth it was not what Asmodé was looking for, nor could it be securely hidden from anyone who knew the path to air.

He waited for his uninvited guest in the library, and shortly she found her way through the passages to join him, the torches on the wall bowing her a greeting as she came. She was lovely, and Zhravig was not entirely too old and dedicated to his art not to notice and appreciate the fact. He noticed also that she carried his old focusing disc, which had doubtless assisted her in tracing the mark of his mind.

She gazed around her with serene yet wondering eyes before remarking, "I am Aniya.” Well, she had cause enough to look around with wonder. For if the body named Aniya had lived an ordinary life on earth, the mind which now inhabited it had never before seen a thing more solid than the wind.

He considered the statement carefully, at last replying, "No. You are not Aniya. You are Asmodé’s creature."

A shudder passed over her, and for an instant she was not serene but frightened and unhappy and confused. "But I am Aniya, I am," she whispered, shrinking back a little. "Who are you?” Then the tremor was gone, and she had her quiet easiness again. She shrugged lightly, her eyes wandering over the thousands of racked scrolls. "As you will."

Zhravig sniffed in distaste. "I should have expected you would not trouble to kill poor Aniya first. That might have got a spot on Asmodé’s fresh linen.” She shrugged again, not letting him interrupt her perusal of the library. "My lord said it would deaden the nerve impulses if we killed the meat. Besides, you keep a bandywight yourself."

Zhravig might have pointed out that his bandywight had not been trapped and invaded, and that it spent the major portion of its life free to pursue its little animal pursuits. Indeed, the creature thought it had made a fine bargain, within its limited ability to understand bargains. But Zhravig was not in the habit of defending his actions, and the distinction would scarcely have been understood by one so newly come to flesh as she. So he let it pass.

She drew her eyes down from the manuscripts along the walls at last, but before she could quite bring them to focus on him she was distracted again—this time by the basket that stood by the side of the desk. With a gasp of delight she darted toward it, and Zhravig's heart lurched. But he had forgotten the nature of such creatures. She had only been attracted by the bright colors, not a suspicion of what was concealed within.

She flung aside the focusing disc, which glittered once and vanished, and tipped the basket over, letting a dozen painted balls and dolls and suchlike trinkets spill out over the floor. Then she turned around in circles, trying to watch them all rolling away from her at once, until she dropped to the floor, laughing, in their midst. She grabbed at one, a ball with dizzying designs on its surface and jingling bells inside. It did not roll in a straight line and so evaded her. Instead, she caught up a soft little clown with yarn hair which had the grace to stay still when she reached for it.

"Oh, oh," she cooed gleefully. "What... what..." Her voice drifted off. Perhaps somewhere inside, Aniya was still struggling, refusing to provide her with the words she wanted. Or perhaps she had reverted to a vocabulary she knew better: the dancing, blazing torches. At last she managed, "What are these things? What do they do?"

"They don't do anything," said Zhravig. "They're just toys. For the bandywight to play with," he explained.

The beauty of the notion brought tears to her eyes. "Can I have them?"

"No."

"But I want them.” Her eyes grew thunderous, and the torches in the wall sconces flickered and smoked.

He met her gaze levelly. "So does my bandywight. Have Asmodé make you some of your own, if you want them.” He stooped, a trifle stiffly, and gathered up the scattered trinkets. A wave of his hand and a whistle would have brought them scampering, but it was important to show such as Aniya that he was not afraid to turn away.

She contemplated his reply interminably. She did not, and probably never would, understand so abstract a notion as property. But she was delighted by the puzzle and ready to chase indefinitely after the strands of thought that were no longer quite instantaneous. Eventually she gave the problem up with a sigh.

"I'd best get on with it," she informed him. "

"I dare say." He could not have been accused of fear, but neither could he help wondering how specific her instructions might be. He slipped a hand behind his back to grasp the crystal hilt against whatever attack she meant to launch.

The blast of her power struck him like a wave. It flowed down and around him, washing him away from the realms of earth, water, and fire. Within the one world left to him, he clung to the sword, which was solid and real, the only bridge of contact possible between mere flesh such as his and the empty richness of pure air.

When the wave was spent and he stood again on solid stone, he risked a deep breath. She had not even been trying, he saw. She had merely shown him her home and what she was that lived there. "Am I strong enough to destroy you?” she inquired.

He turned on her the glare he had found the most successful for cowing Dreysa. "Do you also mean to waste my time with foolish questions?"

She blinked and thought, deciding at last to giggle. "You mean I am, I think."

He sighed deeply. His life had been unusually long and interesting. He hoped that he might someday find his way back to it. As unobtrusively as possible, he slid his sword from his sash and thrust it into the basket of toys. "You are indeed."

"Why, then, give me what I've come for and we shall go.” She laughed again, delighted by her own sweet reasoning.

"I don't recall saying that you were strong enough to force me to do anything," he pointed out carefully. "Strong enough to destroy me—yes, I said that much.” As he had hoped, she was too young to understand evasion. Although she stared at him, much disconcerted, it did not occur to her to disbelieve his implication—not when his statement was so clearly true.

"Oh dear, oh dear," she whimpered. "My lord will be so angry if you don't give it to me. He's bound to hurt me and not give me any toys. Please give it to me, please, even if I can't make you."

"If Asmodé tries to hurt you, you can always leave Aniya," Zhravig pointed out.

"But I don't want to leave Aniya," she wailed.

"Then don't," snapped Zhravig.

She glared and pouted. "I hope it hurts you a lot when I destroy you!"

He took care to keep his wince invisible. "Then it probably shall. It's entirely in your hands."

She was thrilled at the prospect. "That's so, it is, I can do anything I like. I can hurt you if you're nasty or not hurt you if I like you...." She drifted off briefly before inquiring dubiously, "Is there any reason why I ought to like you?"

He paid her the courtesy of a thoughtful reply. "I'd prefer you did, of course, but many people don't.” He reflected at length. "I'm not certain what you would consider to be an adequate reason for liking me. I could give you a toy of your own, if that would do it."

He hummed softly and wiggled a finger at a dust ball that was lurking under the desk. It sprouted spikes and flags and colors until it became a sort of flying pinwheel, still dancing as elusively as it had in its original shape. He caught it with more difficulty than had gone into making it, and offered it to her. He almost forgot to lock the illusion into place but remembered in time that he might not long be in any position to sustain an enchantment.

She laughed so hard that the torches flared up to leave black smudges on the ceiling. Then she clutched at the transformed dust ball. Her hands met only empty air, of course, for the silly thing leaped up and away from the breeze created by her movement. After several futile grabbings, she learned cunning and let it subside back into Zhravig's hand. Then she cupped her hands around his. Apparently she had never before experienced skin against skin, for she found that sensation deserving of much attention.

"Are you handsome?” she asked him abruptly.

"Not in the slightest," he admitted.

Her disappointment was clearly enormous. "Aniya used to like to hold hands with handsome men," she announced regretfully. But she did not let go, and Zhravig caught himself reflecting on the vast variety of distractions he might wield against her. Aniya had once had such a pretty face.

"Shall we go?” she whispered, smiling. "I won't hurt you. You gave me a toy.” Her transformed ball of dust drifted to her shoulder, his simple spell of attraction commanding it not to wander far from her. Still stroking Zhravig's hand, she led him away. Behind them, the torches flickered and went out.

****

Dreysa breathed deeply instead of swallowing and choked on the water in her mouth. Then she woke up. For a few groggy minutes she thought she was still in the chamber of healing. Why else should there be water splashing on her face, and darkness all around her? But her sleepiness was rapidly dissipated by the damp, and the chamber of healing had never been so dark as this, not a pitch, blinding blackness so you couldn't even see across the room.

She rolled by instinct away from the wet, past the edge of her bed, and onto the floor with a bump. "Light," she muttered to herself, "I need a light.” She snapped her fingers in the direction of that place where there should have been a torch. The torch was, indeed, there and blazed up obligingly.

Its light revealed Dreysa's bedchamber, unchanged in every aspect, from the clothing flung over the chair to the scrolls piled precariously on the shelf. But from the shaft over the bed, which had never before admitted anything more discomfiting than sunlight and fresh air, there now poured rain. Nor had Dreysa, in all the years she had lived with Zhravig, ever been required to light a torch.

Pulling on the driest available garment, she opened the door and, before she had finished noticing that the torches in the corridor were extinguished also, the bandywight slammed itself against her chest. It clung to her neck, half choking her in the process, with frantic cries and chitterings. Absentmindedly she patted at it, peering into the gloom beyond her lighted little doorway.

She summoned up more power and commanded all the torches to light. She felt the fire flow through her, and flow, and flow. Dreysa found herself wondering how many torches there might be throughout the caverns, and if even one anywhere was lit. But she continued to light them all, deriving from the task a reassuring sense of purposeful action. When she was done, she paused a little helplessly.

It seemed to her that she ought to find Zhravig, but she had no idea where he might be. His bed, of course, would be the best and most logical place at such an hour. But she'd never even seen a bedchamber except her own, and surely he'd be up and about if anything were wrong. He'd not be in the study room—unless, of course, the torches and the rain were all some sort of test she was meant to solve. Perhaps he was in the library.

Armed with a goal, she turned toward the left and glanced ahead to see which torches flared to mark her path. They all burned steadily, just as they had since she'd lit them, and not a one glowed brighter or more dimly to show her the way. "Follow the torches," Zhravig had once told her, and if he had not found her enormously obedient, she had always obeyed that instruction perfectly.

Her studies had never left her much time for exploring. Zhravig had quickly fallen into the habit of setting her another lesson anytime he caught her engaged in any occupation other than work. And it would take several lifetimes to learn all the passages, anyway. She had always just followed the torches.

She stroked the bandywight nervously, more to soothe herself than it, for it had calmed considerably. But with the rough fur tickling her palm, she thought to wonder how the creature had found its way to her door. Perhaps it smelled its way about. "Do you know the way to the library?” she asked of it earnestly. "Could you take me there?"

The revolting animal simply stared at her mindlessly. "Now, don't you go pretending you don't understand what I'm saying," she hissed, cursing that on the day when she finally had the thing entirely at her mercy, she should be too much in need of its services to beat it to death. "You always do whatever he tells you, so you're scarcely as stupid as you look.” It clearly understood the insult well enough because it bared its teeth at her before burying its head under its arm.

She gritted her own teeth and tried a more devious approach. Ruffling the fur at the back of its neck, she purred, "There now, I'm sorry. You mustn't mind my snapping. Even I can't endure me when I'm just out of bed.” Tentatively, the bandywight peeked through its fingers. She managed a very sweet smile. "Wouldn't you like to help me look for Zhravig in the library?"

It let out an anguished howl that to Dreysa's ear had an ominously bereaved note. The first few tendrils of fear began to creep up her spine. "You don't believe we'll find him in the library?” she whispered softly.

Quite suddenly, it ceased its dreadful keening and looked up at her with a gaze as cool and intelligent as its master's. Then it leaped to the floor and trotted down the corridor. She followed without letting herself think, glad to have again a thing to do.

She stopped from sheer surprise when she heard footsteps in a nearby passage. Not even for an instant did she consider that it might be Zhravig, for his step was light to the point of being inaudible. Yet she had never known the passages to contain anyone but him—and herself, of course.

Once she had recovered from the strangeness of the sound, she moved forward again, eager to hail and consult with whomever it was that had appeared so conveniently to assist her. Barely had she lifted her foot when the bandywight was in her arms again, pressing its little hands against her chest as though it hoped somehow to force her back and patting at her mouth to signal silence.

She stared at it in bewilderment, unable to understand its urgency and yet convinced that it had some good reason behind its actions. Gradually she realized that if there were an outsider in the corridors it was because the maze outside the door had failed along with the torches and the spells that held out the weather. And Zhravig had surely not created the maze to keep out friends.

So she stopped again and pressed an ear against the stone wall. The heavy tread beyond it was closer now and clearly the product of numerous feet marching in set time. Such military precision of pace was not a thing seen often in Bar-Jahnek, being the product only of... of... the Assassin's Guild. Merely the thought brought goose bumps to Dreysa's damp skin.

The bandywight appeared to ponder deeply before sliding to the ground and moving onward, using a gait of such exaggerated stealth that Dreysa was nearly tempted to giggle. But she followed its example and soon found the caution not undue. As they progressed, the signs of intrusion grew even more pronounced. The fear began to nibble at her stomach.

Chalk marks on the wall indicated paths already known to the invaders. Limited as the furniture had been, it proved now to have been thoroughly looted. Voices rumbled around them as shouted orders echoed down numerous passages simultaneously. On several occasions Dreysa found it necessary to duck rapidly from view as armed men, uniformed in black and scarlet, swaggered past the arches leading from one hallway to another.

Dreysa hissed at the bandywight that they would surely be better advised to retreat from the occupied areas, but it ignored her, determined to continue whether she followed or not. It led her at last to the library, even as she had originally requested. The chamber appeared to be as yet unmolested, so much so that Dreysa found herself shy of entering without Zhravig's explicit permission.

But the bandywight entered without a qualm, and flew to the desk. Thence it clutched up the basket and, returning to Dreysa's side, presented it to her. She stared briefly before remarking, "Toys? You cretinous monstrosity, there are Assassins crawling under every table, and all you can think of are a lot of vile bits of junk?"

She paused to draw a breath and found that although she had whispered her words in almost soundless intensity, they were nonetheless repeating themselves again and again around her. She froze to listen for some sign that the Assassins had heard. Whether they had or not, the bandywight paid no heed. Seeing that Dreysa did not intend to relieve it of its burden, it set the basket down and plucked lightly at its contents. It drew out a clown doll that had previously been a great favorite and sniffed at the thing suspiciously. Then it tossed it aside with an air of overwhelming distaste.

Beneath the place where the doll had been, a glitter attracted Dreysa's glance. She closed her eyes and told herself she had not seen what she had seen. Zhravig's sword was his instrument of air, the symbol and climax of his powers as a sorcerer, the only possession in the universe that he truly valued. And it never left his side.

She opened her eyes again and looked quickly away when she found the sword still before them. The fear at last began to get a real hold on her, crawling over her body from her temples to her toes and leaving her weak and numb.

The bandywight ran to the desk and pushed quite futilely against it. Seeing that Dreysa did not come to its assistance, it shrieked commandingly. Too dazed to object, she helped the creature push the desk aside. Beneath it was a hole. If Dreysa had been in any doubt what to do about the hole, her perplexity was quickly solved.

Trampling sounds approached the library along with voices that echoed until they were only barely comprehensible. "They got a sorcerer on the way," growled one. "Gonna check out that room full of magic stuff. Anybody found that girl?"

"Ain't no girl here."

"Brass says there is."

"Then maybe she got away with the wizard. She ain't here."

He got away? Zhravig got away? Dreysa nearly shouted the words aloud in her astonishment. Her mind raced, protesting the impossibility. Surely he couldn't go without his sword, without her. It wasn't credible. It wasn't right. Except... given time and tools, Zhravig could make another sword. Dreysa gulped and did not ask herself where Zhravig might get another apprentice.

Oblivious, the voice outside the door continued, "Well, you stand guard here till we get that magic stuff cleared out. If that girl is about, she may try to get at it.” Some parting remark drifted away into meaningless rumbles.

Dreysa stretched out a hand to take Zhravig's sword but could not bring herself to touch it. Instead she picked up the entire basket. The shaft beneath the desk was a short one, and even after Dreysa had dropped down it, she found she could reach back up into the library to scratch at the legs of the desk.

So she spat into her palm and tickled at one of the wooden feet. The desk slid slowly into place above her head. The tunnel before her was so low as to require crawling, but led quickly into a larger one, dimly lit. Dreysa gazed down the long, long ranks of widely spaced torches, grateful that she had troubled to light them all.

The bandywight turned left and trotted along in the easy gait of one that meant to walk a good-sized distance. "Do you know where you're going?” she asked it nervously, wondering just what she might do if it did not. But it nodded emphatically, so she followed.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Vhulf watched the mirror with unease. Contrary to its usual custom, it did not reflect the actions of the girl to whom it had been keyed. Rather, it flickered rapidly through a series of images of empty corridors, each so like the last that the illusion was produced of one corridor formed from breathing, shifting rock. The library reappeared continuously, and when it did its very walls were scoured, from the empty scroll racks to the pit yawning in the floor.

At last the stone walls melted to a shimmer of light on water. Before the image of Asmodé appeared, Vhulf had assumed a casual but courteous pose. Asmodé looked grave and stroked thoughtfully at his ermine collar.

"You have not found what you sought?” inquired Vhulf with sympathetic concern and a touch of malicious pleasure.

"The girl must have taken it with her," remarked the sorcerer distantly. Very faintly he added, "I would not have thought Zhravig such a fool as to explain to her its worth."

It occurred to Vhulf that Asmodé could not be accused of such stupidity. Vhulf had yet to be informed what the sorcerer was so intent on securing. "Could you not simply trace the girl?” he suggested.

"She has evaded the mirror," sighed Asmodé. "It was inevitable that she would, of course, but it means she must be traced in flesh.” A tightness appeared at the corner of his mouth that might have been intended as a smile. "How very fortunate you are not fond of the child. The passageways grow thin beyond the portion that was Zhravig's. The search should not take you long."

Vhulf thought to himself how many men would be needed to search the passageways beyond Zhravig's caves—how many men had been needed already just to search the caves themselves. He thought about a certain dispute between the Council and the Mountain Folk concerning the road through the mountains and how the Council—unlike Asmodé—was willing to pay good gold for troops.

But Vhulf had not forgotten Margrote's sudden, tragic death by fever. "Did you wish her to be taken alive, sir?” It crossed his mind that Dreysa might be a child to Asmodé, but by his own standards she had come to qualify as a certified dangerous witch. He rubbed lightly at his scar and pondered if the chase were worth the trouble now that she had grown so visibly mature.

Asmodé shrugged. "If at all possible. She might prove useful. But I wish primarily to examine her effects.” Vhulf smiled his eager compliance and smiled on until his smile grew very thin. Within his heart he wondered why Asmodé was keeping him dangling so long instead of letting him get about his business.

It caught him a little by surprise when Asmodé decided to continue. "I have not yet grown so old as to forget my friends, Vhulf. My gratitude for your assistance is beyond my powers of expression, but I am hoping you will accept a trifling token."

Vhulf waved a deprecating hand. "Sir, the privilege of relieving you of any burden, however small, delights me. Surely no greater token could be imagined.” He wondered idly what token Asmodé was thinking of and discovered to his own astonishment that he was past caring.

"Dear Vhulf, I must insist.” The magician's voice was sharper than it had ever sounded before. Vhulf blinked.

"Why, if you must insist, then I can only accept with humblest thanks. And now, if you'll permit me, you have set me an impossible task: to earn with my unworthy services that gratitude you so graciously insist on offering.” Vhulf nearly bit the words off in his mouth, but he could not resist the pleasure of discovering how Asmodé took to summary dismissals. Vhulf rose and left the room.

****

Asmodé waved a hand over the mirror in his study so that Vhulf might have seen a glitter of jewels if, of course, he had still been before his mirror to see it. There was a shadow in the wizard's eyes that might have pleased Vhulf mightily. There was also a tightness in his mouth that boded ill. He was in fact quite genuinely grieved. Vhulf's services to him had been enormous, and he appreciated them somewhat more than Vhulf had ever been permitted to suspect. It was with regret he noted signs that his servant was chafing at the leash.

Asmodé rose with a sigh. He considered calling Aniya, but she was asleep. She was surely exhausted, for it was the first rest he had known her to take since he had made her—if indeed she could be said even now to be taking a rest. Rather, she had fallen to the ground as if clubbed, right in the middle of a long, wandering sentence on the subject of clouds and what they did not, after all, resemble.

It had, in fact, taken some while to determine whether or not she was injured. She was having more difficulty than he had expected with the simple processes of her human body—she had yet to successfully eat any food—and he concluded now that he had best let her sleep. She was not really needed for his day-to-day business.

Instead, he exited the North Tower alone. He paused outside his door to admire the rich afternoon light that poured through the great stained windows along the promenade leading toward the White Palace. But he had responsibilities and could not linger long. He strode forward.

The family meeting was held in Jarnag’s office, as always, so that no family member could claim pride of place and everyone could enjoy the refreshments without anxiety concerning their source. Asmodé was generally the last to arrive, and as he entered he surveyed the room, noting the latest pattern of alliances and oppositions, as displayed in the seating positions.

Jarnag had once suggested assigning seats, to speed up the complicated negotiations involved as each royal chose a seat in relation, not to the Danaan—whom all desired to be near and who might not be present anyway—but to each other. He chuckled heartily at Asmodé’s insistence that the informal arrangements were too instructive to be dispensed with. As usual, things were done the way Asmodé wanted them done. It never ceased to startle Asmodé that Jarnag did not resent his privileges. Jarnag desired only that the Danaan’s will remain absolute, and he accepted Asmodé as an instrument of that will.

Most of the wives were present, except a few who had genuinely pressing duties or who carried so little political influence that their opinions were not sought or their treachery feared. The Heirs-in-flesh were also present, those in residence at the palace anyway; or at least they were supposed to be. Asmodé observed immediately that the youngest one was missing. And just last week the Danaan had particularly asked that she be included in future meetings.

Asmodé was not the only one who had noted the girl’s absence. No one said anything, of course, nor could they stare, since the girl had no assigned—and therefore empty—seat to stare at. But there was an unusual tension in the air. As well there might be; the Danaan rarely showed such favor to an Heir-in-flesh, and it was rarer still for anyone to fail to satisfy his requests.

The girl’s absence could only be ignored. The only person who had the right to remark on it was the Danaan, and officially he was not present either. He was present, of course, as Asmode plainly sensed, and disappointed by his daughter’s nonappearance. Other than that, he had little interest in the meeting, and planned to watch it with half an eye only. He had before him a pile of declarations, proclamations and appointments that only he could sign, and would have cheerfully departed were he less conscious of his responsibility to oversee the affairs of the Empire.

Jarnag turned to the eldest of the Heirs-in-flesh and inquired about the state of affairs in the Western Isles. Prince Jern was not a young man—indeed, he had sons of his own, two of whom were old enough to be included in the meeting—but he blushed like a school child and half-stuttered, half whispered his report, with frequent uneasy glances toward the screen wall. Trade had dropped off.

Asmodé propped his elbows on the table, folded his hands and rested his forehead upon them. With closed eyes he watched Prince Jern. Not much was visible through the poor man’s fear. There were many little lies in his account but none of them serious enough to justify interrupting. Mostly he was trying to duck blame for the slackening of business. And in all fairness, he was not at fault there. He had skimmed a few profits, but that was expected. Jern was far too frightened of his father to attempt any real treachery.

The Western Isles had grown prosperous under the Danaan’s dominion, and they no longer needed to import luxuries, nor had they as many staples available to sell. The growing population consumed more and more food stuffs while devoting less and less land to agriculture; the once vast timber forests were diminishing daily. Asmodé sighed. The Empire needed room to grow.

Asmodé glanced over the emotional currents of the meeting. Most of the attendees were half asleep with boredom. A few wasted resentment on Prince Jern, but for no real reason save that he was the obvious candidate to succeed his father. The Danaan had never officially appointed him Heir Apparent, but he was the eldest and would, in fact, make a good Danaan if he lived long enough. He was well trained in the boring business of running the Empire, and too cowed by his father to have developed a taste for any of the most obvious abuses of power.

A hot spot glowed in the corner. Asmodé almost chuckled. Prince Syannil was getting ready to interrupt. Prince Syannil was the third eldest, separated from Jern by a sister who had married the titular king of Farway Province. She had never been disowned from the Heirs-in-flesh, and was still technically a candidate to succeed, but no one took her seriously as such. Farway was distant and enjoyed considerable independence; it offered plenty of scope for a woman who had never been all that ambitious anyway. So Syannil naturally considered himself to be Heir Presumptive, whether Jern had sons or no.

Asmodé timed it very carefully, so that he raised his head and opened his hand exactly as Syannil leapt to his feet with an angry protest. Therefore everyone in the room—except Syannil, who was too self absorbed to look—saw the flash of magical fire in his hand. Syannil’s remarks fell into an unusually profound silence.

The younger prince had nothing really to say. But he went on at some length, accusing Jern of every sort of corruption and mismanagement, and begging the assembled family to punish Jern for his failure to produce trade. Syannil showed only barely enough restraint to refrain from specifying the tortures he had in mind, but Asmodé saw them all, and gave Syannil considerable credit for creativity. Fortunately for the Empire Syannil was unlikely to live long; his temperament and manners had left him with few allies. In fact, it was surprising that he had lived this long.

Very slowly, Syannil grasped that no one was responding to his diatribe and he came to an uneven halt. Very softly, Jarnag commented, “It seems our esteemed sorcerer does not agree with you.” Syannil slowly turned his head toward Asmodé who sat calmly, still with his head raised and his hand open—and blazing.

Syannil stared at the fire in Asmodé’s hand and whispered, “But I’m not lying.”

“No,” replied Asmodé. “Not exactly. But you are a very long way from telling the truth.” Syannil dropped into his seat almost as if someone had struck him from behind the knees. The room remained physically silent. But inaudible voices clamored in Asmodé's ears. Most of the wives hated Syannil (excepting his own mother, of course) and no one was sorry to see him shamed. Several of them, along with a few younger Heirs-in-flesh who still had hopes, were eagerly considering some remark or action that might embarrass him further. Jern was, not truly contemplating perhaps, but certainly daydreaming about a preemptive sword thrust.

Asmodé leaned back in his chair, cheered by the prospect of the most interesting family meeting he had endured in some time. But before the impending drama erupted, the door burst open with a bang. Asmodé observed with amusement that every single Heir-in-flesh dropped to the floor and reached for a weapon, as if expecting arrows. Several wives, including Syannil’s mother, flung themselves before their children as if to protect them. The others just ducked and froze.

There was, of course, no actual attack. The door revealed Ki’iki, the youngest of the princesses, escorted by two embarrassed looking guards. Ki’iki did not look embarrassed. She looked furious. She strode into the chamber and across the room with a fierce determination that looked slightly comical on one so young. She bypassed the table completely, sparing not a glance for any of those around it, and went straight up to the screen wall.

“Father,” she addressed the wall in haughty tones. “You know I have no intention of betraying you, and no interest in acquiring your place.” She cast Asmodé a dismissive glance. “You may check with your monkey if there is any doubt in your mind. And since—” Her voice started to rise, but she mastered it, and continued in a tone that was at least on the borderline of civil. “And since that is the case, I see no reason why I should be forcibly compelled to attend your silly meeting.” Her control escaped her and her voice rose to an angry squeak. “I was dragged from my music lesson!” She turned and stormed back out of the meeting, slamming the door behind her.

The two guards started to follow after her, and then looked uneasily to Jarnag. He sighed and waved a hand. They bowed and exited. Behind the screen, the Danaan very nearly burst out laughing. There was no need for Asmodé to verify that little Ki’iki spoke nothing less than perfect truth. She considered the entire Empire a poor second to her study of the grelnir, a complex stringed instrument from the far north. But she had fire and wit, and her father doted on her. Asmodé piously hoped she would live long enough to play in public. But she would probably have to learn some manners before that happened.

Jarnag coughed. “Perhaps we should move on to discuss preparations for the upcoming visit of the king of Surmontaine.” Panna leaned forward. She was the oldest of the Danaan’s surviving wives, and had once been a great beauty. She served as the primary manager of Palace household affairs and commanded considerable influence. She would have been dangerous indeed, if any of her six children had survived. Asmodé sighed and dropped his head back onto his folded hands, that he might concentrate on sifting through the currents of loyalty and lies. The meeting promised to be long and dull.

Released at last, Asmodé allowed the beauty of the day to tempt him into the gardens before returning to the Old Palace. He stepped out into the cloisters and breathed deeply. The grass within the court was new and smelled correspondingly sweet. Even the Danaan's Heirs-in-flesh knew better than to tread on that perfect lawn wherein each blade was hand clipped to its ideal height, but the Danaan could always get another Heir-in-flesh. Wizards were hard to come by, and Asmodé liked an occasional softness underneath his feet.

Strolling demurely on the tiled walk was Glé, the newest of the Danaan's wives and—according to rumor—still unvisited by her husband. She had not been at the meeting, officially because she was still adjusting to Palace residence. She would naturally be invited at such time as she started to take some active role in Imperial life. It would not have to be much. The Danaan encouraged his family to contribute to the management of the Empire, and rewarded their efforts fairly. Panna had started out reorganizing the laundry.

But Glé had yet to display any interest in useful activity. She liked to arrange flowers and held occasional garden parties. There had been hopes that she would choose to oversee the Palace grounds. She did enjoy chatting with the gardeners, but had emphatically declined to give them any instruction or guidance. Nor had she demonstrated any insight or political acuity that might cause her opinions to be valued.

Asmodé regarded her with interest, an idea forming in his mind. Technically a wife with children, and therefore ambitions would serve his purpose better. But the wives with children and ambitions were generally less than pliant. Glé was so amiably foolish and so inclined to gossip that he might never find a better ear in which to drop a hint. He paused to arrange his features in an expression more visibly distressed than might have ever crossed his face naturally, then strode toward her.

She was fearful of him and courteous, as was his due, and he permitted her to inquire what had disturbed him. "I have heard from Vhulf," he explained in suitably ominous tones. Glé looked politely blank, and he realized with annoyance that she had no idea who Vhulf was. Well, the older wives would be glad enough to inform her. After a concerned silence he continued, "He was asking if the Danaan had decided the succession yet.” It wounded Asmodé deeply to stray so far from subtlety, but he feared the lady's intelligence would appreciate nothing less direct than a blow on a head.

“ 'Tis a question more than one man's asked," ventured Glé, clearly hoping to draw him out until she understood what he was talking about. Asmodé bestowed upon her the look of one who fears he has said too much. The older wives would also be happy to explain why Vhulf should have no interest in the succession. And if Glé remained confused, she would make a great point of asking them. "Perhaps it's nothing," murmured Asmodé, shaking his head anxiously. As Glé appeared sufficiently alarmed, he took his leave.

CHAPTER TWELVE

She and the bandywight, Dreysa was quite sure, had been walking through the caverns for at least half a thousand miles. And the basket in her arms had grown quite heavy, for all there was nothing in it of much weight. But the bandywight, although clearly exhausted, trotted doggedly onwards. Nor was there anything much to stop for—except, perhaps, the pleasure of getting up again, afterward.

They came suddenly on a junction of many tunnels, and while the bandywight had not before even hesitated to consider the various branchings they had passed, it paused now in uncertainty. It sniffed emphatically at each opening, scratched its head, and sniffed them all again. Then it shrugged and chose one at random.

Dreysa halted, half tempted not to follow, before deciding that the bandywight could lead her, even by sheer accident, to few places worse than the one in which she was already standing. As a sort of encouragement she promised herself that whenever it did stop, she would kill it slowly.

She was denied the opportunity, however, for the corridor led quite rapidly to a group of rooms which were lightly furnished and clearly inhabited. Just beyond these, the corridor opened into a large chamber crowded with children. Dreysa stared at these and set her basket down, wondering if her mind were playing tricks on her.

The children were all girls, she noted—although a variety of ages—and wearing Temple sashes. But surely Temple children belonged in the Temple. Was it possible she had come there? She tried to visualize the twisting floor plan but it was hard to think through the noise which combined a singing game from one corner, squeals of laughter from another, a few unabashed sobs provoked by a scraped knee, and a screaming contest disputing the possession of an animal only nominally stuffed.

At last a hush fell slowly