“I would count it a courtesy if you would tell me what happened,” said Miranda.
“We received a report of a rift sighted by a needra herder a half-day’s journey to the northeast of the city of Jamar, in the center of the great grasslands of Hokani Province. We arrived and found a rift no larger than two handspans floating perhaps half a handspan above the ground. A small creature stood motionless in front of it. I advised caution but Macalathana was impatient to examine it; I suppose he judged it posed little threat because of its size.
“As he reached a point before the creature, it erupted in a powerful blast of light and flames, incinerating a fair amount of grass around him. The rift was gone. I returned at once to the Assembly with the grave news and others returned to collect Macalathana’s body.”
Miranda asked, “Did you get any opportunity to study the creature?”
“No, I’m sorry to say. I saw it only for a few moments, just enough to see that it was tiny, stood on two legs, and did not wear garments or carry artifacts. It could perhaps have been some sort of wild creature that blundered through the rift from the other side.”
“That is our current thinking,” said Alenca. “Unless these Dasati beings tend to explore in the nude,” he added with a chuckle.
“We have very little information about them,” Miranda said, ignoring the old magician’s chuckle. “But I think that’s highly unlikely.” To Wyntakata, she said, “Alenca and I were just discussing the possibility of removing the Talnoy back to Sorcerer’s Island.”
“Oh, that is premature,” said Wyntakata.
“Really?” asked Miranda.
“We’ve had some reports of rifts, true, but I have personally undertaken to investigate as many of the reported sightings as anyone here…”
“That is true,” Alenca interjected.
“…and I can say with some certainty that most reports have been inaccurate—sightings of things no more magic than weather disturbances or a child’s kite! The one additional rift I did manage to find was only the size of my fist, and it endured only for a few minutes once I arrived.
“I am convinced these small rifts are natural by-products of the Talnoy being here and that there is neither intelligence behind them nor that they are being utilized by any agency seeking the way to Kelewan. I think we may soon be able to tell you a great deal more about this Talnoy, and to curtail our investigation now would be a great waste of the time already invested.”
“I’ll relay that to my husband,” said Miranda. Smiling at Wyntakata, she said, “I must bid you good day, and return to my home.” To Alenca she said, “Would you mind escorting me to the rift?”
The old man inclined his head, and Wyntakata hesitated a moment before bowing slightly and departing in another direction. As they left the garden, Miranda asked, “Wyntakata has, to my ear at least, a somewhat strange accent.”
“His childhood was spent in Dustari Province, across the Sea of Blood. They tend to crush certain vowels when they talk, don’t they?”
Miranda smiled. “I have another question.”
“What, my dear?”
“Have you come across any rumors of anyone practicing necromancy in any part of the Empire?”
The old magician’s step faltered. “Why, that’s forbidden! It’s the one practice that even in the old times, when our word was as law, could bring a Great One down. Any hint of it meant a death sentence.” He turned to look at Miranda as they walked. “Why?”
“Pug has reason to suspect that you may have one come recently to the Empire from our world, a necromancer of vast power. He’s a grave threat, and he may be hiding anywhere. But his nature is such that he cannot overlong avoid the practice.”
“I’ll ask around.”
“I would prefer it if you didn’t,” said Miranda. “Pug is concerned for many reasons, which I will leave for him to recount another time. But he trusts you, and you alone. And the one thing you need to know is that this person—Leso Varen—has the power to occupy the body of anyone. We do not understand the mechanism by which he does this, save it involves necromancy and requires a great many deaths, the more hideous the better for his dark arts to work. We think he may be trapped here. If so, we must hunt him down and finally put an end to him.”
“You think he might be here?” Alenca looked around, as if fearing that someone might be watching them.
Suddenly Mirada realized she had made an error. “Perhaps not. His choice of people to possess appears to be haphazard, but he last masqueraded as a man of great power. I only ask that you keep this concern quiet until Pug returns to speak with you at length. Will you?”
“Of course,” he answered as they entered the massive main building of the Academy. “We shall continue our work on the Talnoy—and please tell Nakor when you see him next that I’m still waiting for that idea of his about how to control this thing without the madness-inducing ring.” He patted her arm and whispered theatrically, “I’ll let you know if I hear any rumors…about the other thing.”
Miranda allowed the familiarity. She wasn’t overly fond of Tsurani Great Ones, but she made an exception for Alenca.
They entered the room set aside for the rift to Midkemia—Pug had adjusted the Tsurani rift machine so that it could now pick any of half a dozen Midkemian destinations, not just Stardock anymore. She chose Sorcerer’s Island and the two magicians who were detailed to operate the device quickly made the incantation.
Miranda sighed. Just a few short years ago, as she counted such things, rift magic had been largely unknown. The study her husband had conducted for the four years he lived in this very Assembly, as well as work he’d done in the decades since, had reduced her astonishment to that of hailing a public carriage in Roldem for a ride from the docks to the River House.
As she stepped into the rift, she thought it really wasn’t surprising: she had rather more sense of wonder left to her in contemplating an invading horde of warriors from the second circle of hell.
Pug walked along the upper gallery of Honest John’s, seeking out the merchant whose name he had been given. John had confessed he had no idea who might be able to breach an entrance into the second realm, as Pug had come to think of that circle of reality, but he suggested there might be someone who might know someone who in turn might know someone and so forth…
The merchant was named Vordam of the Ipiliac, a Delecordian, the trader mentioned by Tosan Beada. Pug knew Delecordia solely by reputation. The only remarkable thing about that world was its location. It was as far from Honest John’s as any civilized world, and as such had contact with even more remote worlds and races that had as yet not become commonplace in the Hall.
Pug found Vordam’s place of business, and as soon as he stepped across the threshold into the modest shop he knew something was amiss.
Pug had visited two places in the universe that were in it, but not a part of it. The first was the City Forever, a legendary place built by no one knew who, which was vast to the point of seeming limitlessness; and the Garden, which was linked to the City without being part of it. The other was the Hall, and by extension, Honest John’s.
This shop was another, for while it was located within Honest John’s, it also was somewhere else. No sooner had Pug assimilated these impressions than a being came into the shop from a curtained door at the rear. He seemed to speak, but Pug realized this also was something illusory, for there were no words, merely the impression of words.
Magic was a rare thing in Honest John’s: there was too much potential for mischief if magic was left unchecked. There were wards throughout every part of the establishment to prevent the casual use of magic. This kept the games of chance honest, the negotiations among merchants aboveboard, and bloodshed to a minimum. The exceptions were spells contrived by John, or others on his behalf: one to let all denizens of the establishment understand one another (although there were always a few of the more alien guests whose frames of reference were so different from the mainstream
of sentient beings that only fundamental or rudimentary comprehension was possible). Another spell provided a hospitable environment for everyone, despite a diversity of races that counted a wide range of conditions desirable. The last was a defensive spell that would, Pug imagined, unleash breathtaking damage on anyone attempting to harm John or any of his staff. An occasional brawl might erupt, but no serious conflict had occurred in the Hall in the memory of the oldest living customer.
But there was something magical about this shop, something beyond Pug’s experience, and his experience was far from limited. The creature repeated his interrogative, and Pug nodded. “A moment, please,” he said. The being was human in general appearance. It was taller than most and more slender, with arms and legs that were a bit longer than one would expect on a human. The face comprised a single mouth, a nose above, and two eyes; but the cheekbones were exaggerated compared to any human Pug had encountered; and the creature had excessively long fingers. There was a faint greyish-purple hue to its skin and its hair was a luxurious black with a violet sheen.
Pug sent his senses quickly outward, extending them like a mystic vine that touched the vibration of the room, sensing the difference between it and the rest of Honest John’s. For a moment it was oddly familiar. Pug struggled to recognize it, then suddenly he remembered: it echoed the traps set for Tomas and him, decades ago, as they searched for Macros the Black.
Pug stared at the merchant. “I seek Vordam of the Ipiliac.”
The creature, dressed in a plain grey robe with a single white cord around its waist, pressed its hand to its chest, bowed slightly, and said, “I am he.”
Pug was silent for a moment as he drank in the harmonics of the vibrations he felt running through every inch of this shop. At last he understood. He fixed Vordam in his gaze and said, “You are Dasati!”
SEVEN
DEATHNIGHT
The sword slashed downward.
Fifty armored Riders of the Sadharin shouted and beat steel gauntlets on their breast plates. The roar echoed off the vaulted ceiling of the ancient stone Hall of Testing, and the wooden seats surrounding the sandy floor shook from the demonstration.
Lord Aruke’s only surviving son looked down at the man he had just killed, and for an instant was visited by an alien thought, What a waste. He closed his eyes for a moment to clear his thoughts, then turned slowly to acknowledge the cheers.
Valko of the Camareen, nursing three serious cuts and an uncountable number of bruises and minor scrapes, nodded four times, once to each group of the gathered riders seated above him along each of the four walls. Then he looked down at the fighter he had killed and nodded again; a ritual recognition of a fierce struggle. It had been a close thing.
Valko spared a quick glance at the father of the slain warrior, and saw that he was cheering, but without conviction. Lord Kesko’s second son lay at Valko’s feet: had the boy prevailed, two living sons would have earned Kesko great honor and a higher place in the Langradin. Kesko’s only acknowledged son stood next to his father, and his celebration was sincere; Valko had eradicated a possible claimant to his father’s favor. Then Valko turned to see two lackeys putting down his varnin, a neutered male he had named Kodesko, after the great crashing surf at the Point of Sandos in the westernmost holdings of his father, where Sandos jutted into the Heplan Sea. His opponent’s varnin had died during the fight, when Valko had cut deep and severed its neck artery. That blow had given Valko the match, for the faltering varnin had distracted the rider’s attention for the brief moment it had taken for Valko to inflict the wound that had finally proved the difference.
A healer from the Hall of Attenders—a First Rank Master—hurried over with his assistants, and began to treat Valko’s wounds. Valko knew he’d lose consciousness soon from blood loss if they didn’t stanch the flow, but rather than show weakness before his father and the assembled Riders of the Sadharin, he pushed aside the Attender, and turned to his father. Removing the massive black steel helm, he took a deep breath and shouted, “I am Valko, son of Aruke of the House of Camareen!” It took all his strength to raise his sword above his head with his right arm, cut as it was below the shoulder, but he managed to produce an acceptable salute before he let the blade fall to his side.
His father, Lord of the Camareen, stood and pointed at his son, then slammed his gloved fist against his own armored chest. “This is my son!” he cried loud enough for the assembly to hear it.
Again the Riders shouted their approval, a short, deep “ha!” and then as one they turned and bowed to their host. Valko knew that a few of the most trusted among them would stay to dine with Aruke and his household, but the others would be on their way back to their own strongholds, rather than risk being caught on the road by rivals or outlaws.
As his mind began to wander, Valko focused long enough to shout, “Lord Kesko. This thing could be no son of yours!”
Lord Kesko bowed to the compliment paid him by the victor. He would be the first to leave Castle Camareen, for while there was no shame in having a would-be son killed in combat, it was also nothing to cause rejoicing.
The Master Attender whispered, “Bravely done, young lord, but should we not strip away your armor, you’ll soon lie next to the one you killed on the rendering table.” Without waiting for permission, he instructed his assistants and the leather straps and buckles were quickly unfastened and the armor removed.
It didn’t escape Valko’s notice that while doing so, the Attenders were providing him subtle support, so that he could remain on his feet as his father slowly made his way through the riders who lingered to offer further congratulations. The young warrior was tall by the measure of his race—a full half-head taller than his father, who stood a full four inches taller than six feet. His young body was powerfully muscled and his arms were long, providing him with a deadly reach with a sword, one he had put to good use against the smaller opponent. He was by the standard of his race a fair-looking man, for his long nose was straight and not too wide, and his lips were full without looking feminine.
Aruke stopped before him and said, “Sixteen times before you claimants to my house’s name have come. You are only the third to survive the blade challenge. The first was Jastmon, who died at the battle of Trikamaga; the second was Dusta, who died defending this very keep eleven years ago. I am pleased to name you their brother.”
Valko looked directly into the eyes of his father, a man he had never laid eyes on until one week ago this day. “I honor their memory,” said Valko.
Aruke said, “We will have quarters prepared for you, near my own. As from tomorrow you will begin your training as my heir. Until then rest…my son.”
“Thank you, Father.” Valko studied the man’s face and could see nothing in it that reminded him of his own. While Valko’s face was long and unlined, noble by the standards of his people, his father’s face was round and creased with age lines and a strange mottling of spots on the left of his brow. Could his mother have lied to him?
As if reading his thoughts, Aruke said, “What was your mother’s name?”
“Narueen, a Cisteen Effector assigned to Lord Bekar’s demesne.”
Aruke was silent for a moment, then he nodded. “I remember her. I took her for a week while guesting at Bekar’s keep.” He glanced down at Valko, who was clothed only in a loincloth while the Attenders cleaned and dressed his wounds. “She had a thin, but pleasing body. Your height must have come from her family. Does she still live?”
“No, she died in a purging four years ago.”
Aruke nodded once. Both men knew that anyone who was foolish enough to be outdoors at the first hint of a purging was weak and foolish, and no loss. Yet Aruke said, “Unfortunate. She was not unpleasing, and this house could use a female’s touch. Still, now that you’re acknowledged, some ambitious father will seek to throw his daughters at you soon enough. We shall see what fortune provides.” Turning away, he added, “Go and rest now. I will have you at my table tonight.”<
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Valko managed a slight bow as his father departed. To the Master Attender, he said, “Quickly, now. Get me to my room. I’ll not faint before the servants.”
“Yes, young lord,” answered the Master Attender, and he signaled for his helpers to assist the new young lord of the Camareen to his quarters.
Valko awoke when a servant gently shook his bedcover, not daring to actually touch the young scion of Camareen. “What?”
The servant bowed. “Master, your father requests you join him at once.” He motioned to a chair upon which clothing had been draped. “He bids you wear these garments, fitting of your new rank.”
Valko got out of bed, barely hiding a wince. He glanced to see if the servant had noticed his hint of weakness, and saw a blank expression. The man was young, perhaps a little older than Valko’s seventeen years, but clearly he was very practiced in his role as servant in a great house. “What is your name?”
“Nolun, master.”
“I will need a body servant. You will do.”
Nolun almost groveled when he bowed. “I thank the young master for the honor, but the Reeve will assign a body servant to you soon, master.”
“He already has,” said Valko. “You will do.”
Again Nolun bowed. “Honor you do me, master.”
“Lead me to my father’s hall.”
The servant bowed, opened the door, let Valko move through it, then hurried ahead to guide him to the central hall of his father’s keep. As a claimant to paternity, Valko had been taken straight to the “poors,” the quarters reserved for the powerless and those of low enough rank that offending them was unimportant: useful merchants, Attenders, entertainers, and very minor relatives. Those rooms were little more than cold cells containing mattresses stuffed with straw and a single lantern.