“Go on . . .” said Nadir. “But hurry, for I am so tired that I will fall asleep before you are done.”
“Tomorrow, at the height of noon, for that is the time that Tazzia is at the height of his powers, when the heat is greatest over the sands, and the air swims thickly—tomorrow, you will manage to get near Lord Urar-Tuan’s tray of midday food. I want you to take a tiny snippet of powder from this bag, as little as would fit on the tip of your nail, and drop it in his drink.”
Nadir began to frown, but Zuaren put his hand up, saying, “No, it is not what you think, it is not a poison, boy. I would never ask you to kill anyone on my behalf. Rather, it is simply a substance that will relax his muscles and pattern of thought, so that I can break his Bond to Tazzia.”
“Why can’t you do it yourself? Why must I do it?”
“Ah, it’s a complicated thing, little man,” said Zuaren. “I cannot do it myself because Lord Urar-Tuan is so powerful in sorcery that he could possibly learn my plan for Tazzia when he sensed my touch upon his drink, and I cannot risk that. But if you do it, he would sense only you, and it would throw him off sufficiently, for in his pride he does not think much of you, much less think you capable of deceit.”
“It’s true,” Nadir said. “I don’t like deceit, and I don’t want to do this dishonorable thing.”
Zuaren smiled. “I thought you disliked Egiras even more than deceit. What will it be?”
The boy frowned but said nothing.
“Now then,” continued Zuaren. “Once that infernal sorcery is broken, Tazzia will be free to go, and no ropes will be able to hold him at that point. You, in turn, can simply take your cup from the little bitch’s quarters—since after all that drudgery you owe her father nothing—and the two of us can travel through the desert far away from here.”
“Sounds much too easy,” muttered Nadir. “How will you break the Bond?”
“Ah, you must leave that to me.”
And with that, Zuaren slipped away into the night.
Nadir woke just after dawn, trembling. He forced himself to rise, quickly ate in the servants’
tent, and then presented himself before Egiras, who was awake already and looking bright and animated as always. His first task of the day was to collect cactus flowers for her, since it was time for many varieties to bloom, and this would occupy him well until noon. As the sun scaled the dome of heaven and positioned itself straight overhead, Nadir found some pretense to end up in the kitchen tent near the tray that was being sent up to Lord UrarTuan. Since he had had the chance to observe this for a number of days now, Nadir knew exactly how the food tray was assembled.
When the goblet was placed and filled with cool drink, Nadir asked the servant some question to distract him, and then edged so that he could stand just in the right place. His fingers had been holding a pinch of the powder for so long that they had grown stiff with tension, and when he finally let go of it he was more than relieved to notice a nearly translucent substance immediately sink and dissolve into the dark liquid.
And then his luck doubled.
“Since you’re here, boy,” said the servant, “take this tray up to Lord Urar-Tuan, before it gets cold.”
“Yes . . .” whispered Nadir, and had to lower his gaze to hide his eagerness. Clutching the tray with more care than he had ever given anything, Nadir walked slowly into the great tent, and then placed the tray on the small table near Lord Urar-Tuan’s private quarters. He lingered just long enough to see the Lord come out and sit before the midday meal tray, and take the goblet in his hands, then raise it to his lips for a long draft. And then Nadir slipped out of the tent and walked by the place where Tazzia stood in expectant silence. Tazzia’s eyes were violet and intense.
It was as though Tazzia knew their plans.
As he walked past Zuaren, Nadir made eye contact and nodded briefly. Zuaren understood only too well.
“Wait a little, then go get it . . .” he whispered. “Then return here.”
And Nadir was on his way.
He sat in the back of the tent, his heart racing so loudly, internal waters running so swiftly in his temples, that he could not hear the wind nor feel the heat of the sun for the cold inside of him. He sat and counted his fingers, over and over. And then he arose and slipped into the Lord’s tent, and made his way into the little quarters of Egiras.
He knew exactly where she kept the cup. It was inside the small wooden chest where she put all her trinket toys, and which he’d had to clean and organize on a regular basis. Why had he not tried to take it before? It was an odd stubborn sense of honor inside him that had made him leave it be, as though a debt on his part had not been paid—more than just a debt of a single gold coin.
But now, things were different somehow. Urgency was in his mind—and yet he was cold, oh so cold—and nothing mattered any longer.
Luck was still with him, because Egiras was not in the room. Nadir took the cup—dry and brittle indeed—with his trembling fingers, and he hid it in the folds of his poor clothing, near his heart.
And then, at the same instant that he felt its soothing familiar touch upon his skin, there came a horrible human scream from the inside of the tent, from somewhere else. It was the voice of Egiras. He could never mistake it, the hateful screech, for he knew it like his own breathing now, knew and hated it. . . .
And yet, this time there was something different.
For Egiras was crying not like a mindless beast, but with true intense anguish, with a piercing agony that tore through Nadir and reached all the way to his soul. Without a moment of doubt, Nadir raced. He tore around the corner, went past the many room partitions as other servants came running from all directions, and was soon in the main area of the tent, in the Lord’s quarters.
In the corner near the food table, Egiras kneeled before the upturned form of Lord UrarTuan, her father. Her face was inhuman, a roil of tears, and she was keening in a voice of madness.
And as Nadir drew closer he saw a pool of blood had gathered around the motionless body of the Lord, and was seeping from a small but deep and masterfully precise gash directly in the left side of his chest, in his heart.
Lord Urar-Tuan was dead.
And at the same time from the outside of the tent came a great neighing sound, a divine voice screaming in exultation.
Nadir’s mind spun in a horrible cold void, and he walked quickly outside, past the running horrified servants, and paused before the sight of Zuaren cutting Tazzia’s last rope. There was a feral, different look in the man’s pale eyes, and a few steps away Nadir saw the slumped dead form of Grego, also stained with blood, and stabbed in the chest with equal precision.
“Murderer!” cried Nadir. “What have you done!”
Zuaren threw him a sideways glance, saying, “Are you daft, boy? What did you think I’d do? How else to break a Bond that can only be broken by death? I killed the monster Urar-Tuan, as he deserved. And now you have your precious cup of Ris. So you can either come with me as we had planned, or you can scram to hell for all I care!”
“You murdering liar!” said Nadir. “I will not let you go!”
“What will you do, little fool?”
“I will stop you!”
In reply, Zuaren laughed. He took hold of Tazzia’s shining mane, and cut the last of the harness, and the equine form was now free.
“No one can stop me now,” he hissed, patting its lovely neck. “Forgive me, Lord Tazzia, for hurting you even under a pretense.”
I forgive you and thank you, mortal! replied a sudden deep voice of scalding wind, and Tazzia spoke in their minds, as all gods do.
“Do you know who I am?” said Zuaren to Nadir.
And as the boy watched in terror, he demonstrated. Three of Lord Urar-Tuan’s men came running from the tent, armed with swords. But before any of them could strike a blow, Zuaren moved like lighnting, and then two swords sprang forth from his hands also. He cut and pierced with both hands simultaneously, and retr
acted his blades within an instant—so quickly that one man was down immediately, bleeding profusely as he fell. The other two men attacked from both sides, but were repelled immediately, and, one after the other, followed the first one’s fate. All were stabbed in the same methodical way.
“Assassin!” whispered Nadir. “I have seen such moves only from the best, back in the great city! What are you doing here? Why pretend to be a guard?”
“I was sent here to destroy Urar-Tuan, and I have succeeded,” replied Zuaren. “Now you know me, boy. Do you still want to stop me? Do you think you can?”
“Yes!” cried Nadir. “I can and I will!”
And Zuaren laughed again. “Maybe,” he said. “You are brave, little man, and you have a bright heart. Maybe you will, someday.”
And then, surprisingly, Zuaren leaped and pulled himself over the iridescent horse’s back. Tazzia did not protest, and instead immediately accommodated his rider. I will remain in this shape long enough to take you to the City, mortal, said Tazzia. And then he turned his horse’s head to look intensely at Nadir.
And you, my child, I thank you also. But you I cannot take. You must stay behind and fulfill your fate.
And with that the horse the color of mother-of-pearl bounded forward and was suddenly ten feet above the ground, and then above the trees, rising like a burst of hot air. On his back sat the pale-eyed assassin with the grin of ivory teeth.
Like a burst of living flame, a moving illusion, they receded. . . . Nadir did not linger to look back at the dissolved mirage. Instead, he turned and stepped over the fresh bodies to enter the dead Lord’s tent.
Inside, there was panic and mayhem. Egiras was surrounded by a dozen servants, and a physician had been brought in, but obviously nothing could be done for the murdered Lord.
“It is her fault . . .” came some low whisperings. “She killed her own father! We know her kind, the little witch!”
“Leave her alone,” spoke others. “She is but a poor child, orphaned now. . . .”
“No, she must be guilty!” others retorted. “Did you know that Lord Urar-Tuan was nearly invincible? No assassin could have taken him this easily. Obviously he must have been drugged to dull his sorcerous reflexes. For the Lord could fight like a demon. And who else but the little witch could have drugged him?”
“Nonsense,” said the old physician. “The Lord is dead, and it is too late to speculate what killed him. Leave the poor child in peace, for look how she grieves.”
But suddenly among the tumult—before there could be any more suspicions or accusations of anyone—Egiras raised her contorted little face and cried out one word, “Tazzia!” And she pointed with her hand outside. And soon enough, others came into the tent to report multiple murders outside and the missing magical horse creature.
And in the ensuing greater panic, Nadir stood like an island. The guilt of silent responsibility weighed heavily on his shoulders, for he had been the one who had drugged Lord Urar-Tuan, and thus precipitated this whole tragic end.
And yet, was it tragic? Certainly not for Tazzia.
Or was it fate? Certainly it was, for Nadir.
And Nadir came forward then, humbled and cold and dead on the inside. Egiras had been once again forgotten as everyone was now outside, looking for the assassin among the many caravans of the oasis.
Egiras sat crouching in the corner, with the vacant eyes of a wild animal. When Nadir came down on his knees and leaned forward to touch her on the shoulder, she started, then glared at him with eyes of evil.
Nadir sensed that she knew.
He reached out and took the wooden dry cup full of nothing but air. And with a load of unrelieved guilt, he surrendered it back to Egiras, placing the empty wooden object in her cold palms.
Egiras stared at the heartless thing in her hands, then took a good aim and threw it hard against the wall of the tent.
The cup struck something hard, maybe a ground pole of the tent. And yet it did not shatter, being simple wood. It lay there, rolling about, then went still and silent, and Nadir did not look at it, putting it out of his mind, for it was no longer his to have or to give or to regret.
“I will help you . . .” he whispered to Egiras. “I promise, before all the gods, before Ris. . . . While you need someone, while you are alone, I will never leave your side. I know you do not understand my language yet, do not know what I say, and thus I can say this. Forgive me. I will serve you now, in truth, and honor.”
“Idiot . . .” said Egiras, like a cold serpent, never blinking, looking into the boy’s ebony eyes. It was one of the few words she knew, but Nadir was not sure what else she understood. And really, it did not matter.
He had Bound himself, as surely as anyone, without any magic or power, and merely by the promise of an honest word.
His only witness was the fiery wind blowing from the East of the Compass Rose. DREAM SIX
SHIMMERING SCYTHE
It is rumored in the lands of the Compass Rose that death is a chameleon. But in truth that is not so. For death is, has been, and always will be forthright.
It is only death’s scythe that shimmers. . . .
* * *
The man ran.
I saw a glimpse of him as I rang the midnight copper bowl while walking slowly along the curving street of my route.
He, the man, was cloaked in deep indigo, his outlines blurred into an illusion of metal created by the moon and motion. And he was moving as infernally fast as the shadow form directly following him. They ran, always equidistant, neither one human in my reckoning. First they moved along the cobblestones of the street just ahead of me, then, like sudden upswept gusts, they were up on the rooftops, barely skimming the shingles, jumping from one housetop to another, lighter than cats.
Another heartbeat and they were gone.
And that was that.
No, I never drink on my route. I promise you I did see them both, and they were none other than death and the thief who stole its scythe.
And damn you if you don’t believe me. Ask any other night guard in this great city, for these two are a rather common sight.
In a nameless tavern belonging to Belta Digh, the roof of which was inlaid in fine glazed cedar wood, and the sign of which was but two unknown glyphs, people gathered to drink and tell stupid tales. At least, Belta felt they were rather idiotic after cups of her usual brew had made the evening rounds.
Belta Digh was a giant middle-aged woman, once a stranger to this city but now quite a landmark herself. What would these fools do every night without Belta’s tavern and potent drink? And what other tavernkeeper would have the heart, not to mention the muscle clout, to personally drag one home after a long night?
“I saw death last night, chasing the thief,” said a solid woman guard, dropping in after sundown.
“What else is new?” Belta lifted one dark eloquent brow as she arranged rows of newly washed mugs behind the counter.
“What I don’t get is, why would any man want to tangle with death itself?” said someone.
“Possibly because he is a half-wit?” put in Belta.
“But even more curiously, why doesn’t death catch up with him once and for all?”
“Aha!” spoke up Belta again. “But the thief has the scythe. It gives him a measure of death’s own powers, and allows him to keep just enough ahead to remain out of reach. Or so I’ve heard.”
“You’ve heard? Who told you, Mistress Digh?” they all clamored.
“Why, death itself, of course. Believe it or not, upon occasion it also visits this tavern.”
Seert ran. The darkness of the night flew by, stars spinning out of their celestial sockets, edges of clouds torn asunder by the accompanying winds that arose on both sides of him. Always, that hiss of air, all around, and the universe spinning.
And always, that relentless shadow only fifty feet behind him.
Death.
He had learned its smell, could recognize it now, like a hound. And yet S
eert continued running, clutching in his hands a fine slim crescent of silver metal—unknown metal, to tell the truth. He had never had time to slow down, to look closely at the impossible perfect thing in his hands, at its razor edges, fine like rice paper, and its surface, like rose petals. . . . Deceptive. He had not slowed down for one moment, ever since that day—or was it night?—that moment when crouching by her deathbed he had waited for the soft breath of the shadow, waited until death grew prominent. And then, as it leaned over her pale sweet dying brow, then he pounced forward with a cry of madness and took hold of the crescent blade that had drawn just near her soft slender throat. . . .
He tore the scythe blade off its handle, and in that moment his fingers bled, for he had cut himself.
Why did he not die then? Maybe because he fathomed the mystery, the truth of it. This scythe had not been meant for him. Thus, it would not harm him. But yes, like all sharp things cutting skin, it made him bleed, and what came softly from his vein was pale and colorless, and unlike what he’d expected—for by touching the scythe he had been changed. Thus for an instant he looked down upon his barely stained fingers, and wondered madly if indeed vapor had always run in him, not blood. . . .
But no, he remembered. It was merely apathy, death trying to paralyze him in that moment of insolence. And the thought of blood made him remember her name, the name of the woman who had lain dying, and now would not.
The ancient meaning of the woman’s name was “blood,” Ahiroon.
And he was on the run now, and always would be, because of her.
“One cool evening,” Belta Digh said, “a tall stranger came into my tavern.”
“Who was he?”
“Not he. A woman. She was as tall as me but thin. And I never got a chance to see her eyes, only the silver sheen of her skin. Well, death has no eyes, they say. But death does appear to drink a mug or two.”
The listeners made avid noises of appreciation, and Belta continued with her tale. The strange woman, it appeared, had come in for but a moment, planning to drink her mug and leave. But something cozy about Belta’s establishment, not to mention the pungency of her brew and the lateness of the hour, made the stranger linger, and finally spill her own unbelievable confession.