Angus Wells - The God Wars 03 (60 page)

           
Zedu paused a heartbeat before
replying. Then: "Even so ... to travel thus on another's memory
alone."

           
Calandryll said, fierce now, "A
boon was promised."

           
"Aye." Zedu looked a moment
shamefaced. "It was, and it shall be granted. Be it in our power."

           
Calandryll had sooner the sorcerer
not added that last, but he ignored it, taking Cennaire's hand again.

           
Ochen said, "Cennaire must be
our guide. I go . . . Who else?"

           
"I," said Calandryll,
echoed by Bracht, by Katya.

           
"Seven there must be to hold
this cantrip firm," said Ochen. "You've power sufficient, my friend.
But, Bracht, Katya ... I fear your presence should only endanger this
undertaking."

           
"I go," said Zedu, and
then three more. Cennaire said, "Do we go swift, then? Please?"

           
Ochen nodded and beckoned, and the
seven moved a little way apart from the rest, forming a circle, shoulder to
shoulder. Calandryll put an arm around Cennaire, pressing her close as the
wizards began to chant, their arcane words setting the chamber to flickering
like a candle seen through rain-washed glass. The scent of almonds waxed strong
. . .

           
. . . and they stood within another
chamber, this bright-lit by autumnal sunshine, opulent despite the dust that
greyed the floor, the furniture, a hearth standing empty, the scent of
desertion clear as magic's perfume faded.

           
"Anomius's quarters,"
Cennaire said, excitement and tension mingling in her voice. She clutched at
Calandryll's arm. "He brought me here."

           
"And the pyxis must be
here," said Ochen. Then, softer, "I hope."

           
"And soon those who'll wonder
at our presence," said Zedu. "I doubt Anomius hid the box in any
obvious place, but rather employed some gramarye of concealment. Do we bend our
will to its finding before we're interrupted?"

           
Like questing hounds testing the air
for sign of prey the wazir-narimasu began to examine the rooms. Calandryll
stood helpless with Cennaire, one arm about her shoulders, a hand fingering the
hilt of the straightsword, ready to draw should any oppose them. Such magic as
was needed for the finding of the pyxis was not his to command, and he felt
himself supernumerary, useless save that his presence was a support to
Cennaire. She stayed by his side as the Jessertyes went about their search,
coming with him to the door, where he set an ear to the paneled wood, listening
for approaching footsteps, voices. Recognizing what he did, she drew him back,
smiling nervously, and said, "Leave this to me. My ears are yet superior."

           
"Aye." He acknowledged the
logic of it, even as he cursed his inaction: it allowed too much time, space,
to fill up with fear. What if the wazir- narimasu failed to find the box? What
if the surrounding gramaryes proved too strong? What if the Tyrant's sorcerers
had already removed it? He looked from Cennaire to the busy thaumaturgists,
willing the pyxis to appear, willing some bright- robed man to proclaim
discovery.

           
Cennaire said, "Someone
approaches."

           
Calandryll snatched the
straightsword half its length from the scabbard before reason prevailed: better
to plead, better to rely on the power of the wazir-narimasu. The sword slid
back and he called a soft warning that was answered with a curse from Ochen.

           
"Can you not employ
magic?" he asked. "Hide us? Seal the door?"

           
"I'd not contest with fellow
mages," Ochen replied.

           
"And do they look to prevent
our search? Shall you not oppose them then?"

           
"As best we may," the mage
returned.

           
"This should be
sufficient." Calandryll felt comforted. "I've seen your magicks at
work."

           
Ochen snorted, not turning from his
task. Over his ,shoulder he said, "I was a wazir then. I am wazir-narimasu
now, and sworn to use no belligerent magic/'

           
Now Calandryll cursed. Cennaire
said, "They're at the door. They speak."

           
The wood was too thick he might hear
what was said, but the' sudden wafting of the familiar almond scent told him a
cantrip was voiced. More mundane was the click of tumblers in the lock as a key
was turned. Calandryll motioned Cennaire back, settling a hand firm on swordhilt.

           
The door opened, revealing a group
of seven men, their robes black and silver, decorated with cabbalistic designs.
Behind them, filling the corridor, clustered soldiers, too many leveling
crossbows. Calandryll prepared to sell himself dear.

           
An old man, his features patrician,
raised a hand, part warning to the intruders, part an order that those with him
hold their fire. He said, "I am Rassuman, sorcerer to the Tyrant of
Kandahar. What do you here?" His tone was commanding, but also curious.

           
It was a moment before Calandryll,
his ears grown accustomed to the Jesseryte tongue, recognized the language. He
ducked his head, briefly formal, diplomatic, not taking his eyes from the
sorcerer's face, and answered, "We seek a box. A pyxis ..."

           
"Anomius's creature!"
Behind Rassuman a grossly fat man pointed an accusing finger. "Slay
her!"

           
"No!" The straightsword
was in Calandryll's hand, defensive. He shouted, "Ochen! Ward us, for
Dera's sake!"

           
"Hold, hold," urged
Rassuman. "And you, Lykander, do you still your tongue a moment? We've a
marvel here, and I'd know the making of it. They cannot elude us, and as yet
offer us no harm."

           
He spoke with serene confidence and
the obese sorcerer grunted, scratching irritably at a wine- stained beard.

           
Rassuman looked again at Calandryll,
at Cennaire, and said, "The woman I recognize; and as Lykander remarks,
she is, indeed, the revenant Anomius made. But you, my bellicose young friend,
who are you?"

           
"Calandryll den Karynth.
Anomius is dead."

           
Rassuman said, "Ah, I see it
now. You've something of Lysse about you."

           
Lykander said, "The domm's
brother! Therefore our enemy. Slay him! And the exotics, too."

           
"Given his name the
relationship is unarguable." Rassuman's voice was mild. Calandryll thought
perhaps his eyes twinkled, that he enjoyed baiting the fat man with the soiled
beard. "But our enemy? That I doubt, as his brother proclaims him outlaw,
and poor Menelian named him friend. And these others? I suspect it should be a
harder task than most to slay them, for I perceive great magic in their
presence. So, shall we talk awhile, ere we fling gramaryes at one
another?" He smiled calmly, gesturing that Calandryll should continue.
"You say Anomius is dead?"

           
"Aye." Calandryll nodded,
relaxing a fraction. "He was slain by Rhythamun as they contested for the
Arcanum."

           
To Rassuman's right a younger mage
smiled, stroking a hand as if in satisfaction. On his left a man murmured,
"This is one of whom Menelian spoke."

           
Rassuman grunted, ducked his head,
and asked more urgently, "And that fell book? Where is it now?"

           
"In Anwar-teng, on the Jesseryn
Plain." Calandryll lowered the straightsword as he outlined the tale of
Rhythamun's defeat, Anomius's demise, all that had gone before.

           
When he was done Rassuman nodded
thoughtfully and said, "So you'd remove the pyxis and restore the revenant
her heart. Be all you said the truth, then she deserves as much."

           
"You forget Menelian!"
Lykander protested.

           
"I also choose to forget that
you favored Anomius," said Rassuman, such steel in his tone that the fat
man paled, falling silent. Then: "We sought that box without success. Our
aim"—he glanced apologetically at Cennaire—"was to destroy this lady.
When Anomius slipped his bonds and fled, we set these chambers round with
gramaryes, lest he return. That you entered is a wondrous thing. These . . .
wazir-narimasu, you name them? . . . must be sorcerers of great power to defeat
our cantrips. Should we engage in battle, I suspect none should gain much and
many suffer."

           
Calandryll saw no reason to explain
the peaceful nature of the Jessertyes' magic. Instead he ducked his head,
smiling, and said, "I see no need for battle. Do you leave us to our
search, we'll be gone once the pyxis is found." , ,,

           
"We might do more," said
Rassuman. "We might join you in the hunt. Perhaps, does
Kandahar
join with Jesseryn Plain, we might
succeed."

           
The wazir-narimasu had left off
their searching as the conversation went on, awaiting its outcome with
defensive magic readied. Now Calandryll turned to them, explaining Rassuman's
offer. Ochen it was who answered: "Such aid is welcome. Likely, do we join
our magicks, we may find the box. But do we first gift ourselves with tongues,
and thus save yours the task of translation/'

           
A little more was needed as Calandryll
explained the suggestion, and then the Tyrant's sorcerers dismissed the guards
and came into the chambers. For a while the air crackled, rich with the almond
scent as the wazir-narimasu enspelled the Kands.

           
"Burash!" Rassuman
declared when it was done. "Such a cantrip's a mightily useful thing. Now,
do you tell me how you managed to enter here?"

           
Calandryll waxed impatient as occult
lore was exchanged. Cennaire clung to his arm, still nervous in the presence of
men she had for so long believed must seek her destruction. Indeed, Calandryll
thought, watching their faces, there were some would still. Lykander and the
one named Lemomal yet wore hostile expressions: there was one, Caranthus, who
seemed indecisive,* but the rest were wholehearted in their offer and their
efforts, and they held sway, carrying the others with them.

           
Impatient he was, but even so
intrigued to learn of events in the wider world. Order was restored to
Kandahar
, Fayne Keep reduced to rubble and Sathoman
ek'FIennem's head even now rotting on the battlements of Nhur-jabal. His
brother's dream of conquest was ended with a storm—of Burash's making? he
wondered—that left the great invasion fleet sunk at anchor, Tobias gone back in
high dudgeon to Lysse, where Nadama had borne him a son already named heir to
the High Throne. The great affairs of the world were settled. Save for that one
that now was paramount in his mind. He began to fret as the westering sun shone
fainter through the windows.

           
At last, however, the assembled
wizards were done with talking and turned to the task in hand. The chambers
grew heady with magic's perfume, droning with the chant of cantrips. And then
Zedu, working in harmony with Rassuman, shouted triumphantly from the sleeping
quarters.

           
Calandryll and Cennaire forwent
etiquette as they thrust magicians aside, bursting into the room to see the
Jesseryte, an expression of distaste on his swarthy features, holding the
pyxis.

           
It was a very simple thing, of
plain, black wood, undecorated. Zedu set it down as if it were poisonous, and
all there gathered, staring.

           
"The gramaryes of binding are
much weakened by Anomius's death," Rassuman murmured, "but even so,
not easy of undoing. Do we attempt it, all of us? It should be safer thus, I
think."

           
They looked one to the other, then
to where Cennaire stood. A sorcerer Calandryll remembered was named Cenobar
said gently, "The undoing shall be dangerous, Lady. And that but the first
step."

           
"The second," she returned
softly. "The first was the finding of it, and that's a step taken now. I'd
complete this journey back."

           
"As you will," said
Rassuman.

           
Calandryll felt Cennaire's fingers
dig hard into his flesh as the sorcerers ringed the pyxis, their backs, black
Kand robes alternating with brilliant Jesseryte, blocking view. His nostrils
clogged with the almond scent, intoxicating; the air shivered, shimmering,
sparking blue and silver. Outside, the sky crimsoned with the sun's descent
beyond the Kharm-rhanna, shadow denied within the chamber by the coruscation of
occult light. Then silence and a slumping of shoulders, the light dying, the
almond scent fading. Someone said, hoarse-voiced, "By all the gods,
Anomius owned power."