The Witches of Ne'arth (The Star Wizards Trilogy Book 2) (23 page)

The room led to a descending stairway.  An arrow materialized and the demon said, “Go here.  You will need his keys.” Another arrow pointed to the man's belt, and Lachela took the ring.

The basement was unlit but somehow Lachela's eyes adjusted perfectly to the darkness.  She saw a narrow passage with padlocked doors.  She followed the magic arrow to a door midway down the row.  There was a tiny barred window inset into the door.  She peered through, into a tiny, bare cell.

An old man was sitting on the floor.  His hair was long and white, his beard reached to his chest.  His clothing was dirty, tattered, and stained.  He did not react to Lachela's presence.  Instead, he stared straight ahead.  After a few seconds, he blinked.  He continued staring as if staring were all there was to do in the world.   

“Demon, why are we here?”

“Please unlock the door.  If you will then touch the back of his neck– “

Realization exploded.  The demon had tricked her – and almost gotten away with it! 

“
Demon!
  That is an 'if' that will not happen!”

“Matt will be able to help you escape.”

“Matt be damned!” Lachela said, aware of the irony of her curse.  “We have no time!  Now get me out of here or we will both be prisoners!”

The demon paused for an uncharacteristically long moment. 

“I have no ideas for escape, but I will assist you.”

Lachela padded up the stairs.  She hesitated at the threshold  The demon took the cue and informed, “There is no one on the other side.” 

She stepped outside and stole down the path.  The sun had set and dusk was gathering, but even those with unassisted vision could still see details in the gloom.  She encountered a workman, who glanced over her fine clothing, and she realized that she would have to change first thing if she wished to avoid detection and capture.  But how and where to change?  The orphanage would be watched, so she could not return for her work dress.

She turned and looked at the receding workman.  He was heading for the Abbey's main gate, doubtless with intent to leave for the day.  Could there be a better disguise?  She caught up, scouted for witnesses, and touched his neck. 

“
Come with me
,” she whispered. 

He shuffled after her into the stable. 

“Take off your clothes.” 

Horses watched as she dressed in his, rolling the cuffs so that the shirt and trousers fit.  She shook a feed bag empty and delicately folded her fine dress and shoes within.  She slung the bag over her shoulder. 

She piled her hair and stuffed it under his cap, practiced walking in his oversized shoes.  Then a bizarre thought occurred to her and she almost dismissed it but then also thought, why not? 

“Demon, can you make me look like a man?”

She felt her upper lip tingle and tried not to think about it. 

Emerging from the stable, she headed toward the gate.  One last commuter wagon was waiting and she climbed on and jostled for a place on the bench among the workers.  She had often recoiled at the smell of the girls after a day in the orchards, but that was nothing compared to what was assaulting her nose as the wagon trundled to the gate.

Sentries held a lantern to each worker's face, spending no more time on hers than any other's.  And then the wagon was motioned onto the main road.

Lachela marveled, for she had never been outside Abbey grounds since she had first arrived years ago.  Evergreens loomed along the roadside, spanning over endless hills.  The road itself was unnaturally smooth, as flat as the lake in calm. 

Lumen trees were planted at intervals of every five meters on each side of the road.  As darkness fell, their clusters of globular fruit glowed an ethereal blue.  Parallel dotted lines of lights ranged over the hills ahead.  The stars were the same, but somehow it seemed possible to touch them. 

As the wagon drove on, the Abbey was hidden by trees, leaving only the pinnacle of the Cathedral in view.  The men started to converse and even joke.  Fearing ignorance in conversation would give her away, Lachela curled and pretended to sleep.  At the top of her ruminations were (a) what she had seen in the cell, and (b) certain rumors that had been at the Abbey far longer than she. 

She subvocaled:  “Demon, was that person . . . was he truly the Wizard?”

“He is Matt Four, my primary host.  If I understand cultural references correctly, then yes, he is the one known as the Wizard.”

“He seems to be in a trance.”

“He is in a self-induced coma.”

“How did that happen?”

“I do not know for certain, as I was not with him at the time.  However, prior to his capture, he and I made arrangements for him to place himself in a state of hypnotic torpor in order to avoid interrogation and torture.”

“Can he be awakened?”

“I can revive him, and also it is possible for the neutral implant matrix of his template to revive him.”

“Who is 'his template?'”

“If I understand cultural references correctly, he is the one known as the Star Child.”

She buried her face in her hands. 
Lachela, what have you done?
 

It wasn't hard to figure out:  she'd gotten herself involved in the middle of the War between the Wizards and the Witches.  The Church in practice had defiled everything the Wizards had preached, but its teachings were nonetheless true.  Surely, it was the Time of the Final Conflict.  The gigantic airship that had come for the demon was proof of that. 

Demon
, she thought.  Or was he an angel?  Or was he the Holy . . .
no, he couldn't be That!
     

“Lachela,” the demon said.  “I request that we return to the Abbey and rescue Matt.”

“That isn't possible,” she subvocaled with sincerity.  “The soldiers are there now and will watch too closely.”  She recalled the robust 'Matt' in the demon's vision, and compared it to the weathered visage she'd seen in the cell.  She found herself haunted by the eyes staring at nothing.  Pricked by conscience, she added  “I promise you, when there is opportunity to rescue him, we will.”

The mustache itched and she scratched absent-mindedly. 

Over a hill came the linear constellations of rectangular stars that hugged the land rather than the sky – the illuminated windows of the city.  The town of Blinti was not unfamiliar to Lachela, for the demon had shared visions of the times he had been there when the Archbishop had been his host.  However, Kantel's travels through the city had been entirely by coach from Abbey to wherever he was going, and he had never actually ventured through the city on foot.  That experience would be entirely new for the demon and hence Lachela.     

The commuter wagon stopped and several workers jumped out.  Lachela followed, diverted to an alley and changed into her dress.  It was a wrinkled and soiled disaster from being inside the feed bag, but the demon was a master of 'laundry magic,' and a simple hand-brisking made the garment fresh and clean once more.  In the night air, Lachela's upper lip felt unnaturally cool with the shedding of the mustache, but other than that she was glad to look like a girl again. 

Her remaining apprehension dissipated as she explored.  For her the streets were a wonderland.  Strolling men, women, and children, dressed in nice clothing and smiling.  Stores that sold articles that were as beautiful as they were inexplicable.  No scowling priests, no scolding matrons, no walls to confine, no curfew to heed.  It was as if life were a mystery to be enjoyed, rather than a burden to be borne. 

While a church bell rang several blocks distant, the people ignored it.  Apparently even daily services were not mandatory.  Life felt delicious and scandalous.      

A man was playing a violin on the sidewalk and people were tossing coins into his hat as they walked by.  Compared to the droning hymns of the choir, Lachela had never heard music so energetic and joyous.  She saw a passerby toss paper money into the hat and she did likewise with one of Sir Kenwol's kilo notes.  The musician glanced and started and the violin screeched to silence.  Worried by his confused stare, Lachela hurried on.     

A few streets later, she smelled food and her stomach growled.  A man in an apron hunched over a cart, whose top was a smoking grill.  He poked a spatula at slices of fish that were fresher than any Lachela had ever seen.  Her mouth watered embarrassingly.  She remembered she hadn't eaten supper before leaving for the Residence, and the experience of hypermode seemed to have rendered her even more famished. 

“I would like to eat that,” she said to the man.   

He looked her over and said, “Ten grams for a piece, miss.”

Lachela presented her remaining kilo note.  “Is this enough?”

He frowned.  “Assuming that is real, I can't break it.”

He was too tall for his neck to be reached, and besides there were people watching.  Lachela retreated ruefully.  She crumpled the note and cursed. 
Worthless scrap!
  She almost threw it away but then thought that Sir Kenwol wouldn't have kept it on his person unless it was worth
something
.  Just not enough for a scant morsel of fish . . . .  

She wandered aimlessly, mulling over her moneyless and foodless fate, recalling that even pre-demon, most nights at the orphanage she'd gone to bed with a full stomach. 

Unthinkingly she turned at a narrow side street, not noticing how empty and dimly-lit it was.  She was ready to ask the demon to artificially quell her hunger pangs when a man jumped from the shadows and grabbed her tightly. 

“Hello dearie!” he snarled.  “Let's see what you've got under that – “ 

He closed his eyes and snored while remaining standing.

Lachela removed her hand from his neck and pawed through his pockets.  She grinned at the feel of coins and counted her booty beneath a lumen tree.  Three pennies, two five-gram pieces and even a
dime!
  That, as the Captain himself had said, was real money! 

She headed again for the fish stand, head high.  Perhaps this would not be such a rough life after all.  Not if around every street corner, opportunity was waiting to lunge.     

10.

That morning, Valarion sat on the same bench in the Senate chamber where he had once sat as a mere general.  More than usual, he was conscious of the eyes of the senators.  Reading their faces yielded no information, for they were all masters of pretending neutrality. 

He recalled an ancient story that, as his tutor, Archimedes had assigned him to read from the Annals of Aereoth.  It was about a man who had lived in Aereoth's Rome, who had claimed to be neither king nor emperor but obviously had made himself such in all but name, who had entered one day into the senate chamber and was surrounded and stabbed to death by his fellow senators.  It was said that man had received omens, that his wife had a dream and a seer had accosted him in the street.  Even with such warnings, Valarion asked himself, what could one do?  You had to show up for work, or you were out of a job. 

Valarion had no way to tell how many of his rivals had daggers under their robes that morning.  He suspected the dagger-less were in the minority.  He sorely missed Inoldia's presence, but senate rules forbade bodyguards, and of all days this day he had to play by the rules.

Pressed against the speaker's podium in the center of the chamber's stage was Senator Godant, his bushy eyebrows, prominent nose, and quivering belly causing Valarion to envision a fat eagle.  Over  years of senatorial sessions, whenever Godant trained his eyes upon Valarion, Valarion often felt like a fish would, if fish could sense the imminency of an eagle's swoop.

During this speech, however, Godant studiously glared everywhere except at the object of his attack, who only half-listened to the booming oratory: 

“. . . Never has Rome been governed so incompetently . . . half the imperial fleet lost . . . our beloved city's infrastructure fallen to ruins . . . the reputation of Rome sullied by his association with the treacherous and sinister Sisters of Wisdom . . . disastrous campaign in Britan . . . bizarre and embarrassing spectacle in the Coliseum . . . our constitutional duty . . . demand a vote of removal from office!”

Applause from Godant's closest allies had punctuated his speech, and with the wind-up they stood and cheered.  A few others politely clapped, but most remained still.  What disturbed Valarion was that no one booed.  Lack of booing meant he had no strong support at all.  Meanwhile, for every senator who was brave enough to openly oppose a sitting emperor, there had to be at least two who did so quietly.  And that meant numbers in a secret ballot would not be good.

Godant left the podium and returned to his bench.  Despite his portliness, or because of it, he had a way of imputing dignity to his movement.  Even Valarion, who was taller and stronger, was impressed by the sense of massiveness that the Senator emanated.  No wonder Godant had accumulated allies in his bid to dismiss an emperor. 

Well, Valarion mused, his being the richest man in Rome probably had something to do with it too.  It was often said, not without pride, that Roman democracy was the best that money could buy.  

An elderly senator toddled to the podium and nervously addressed the chamber:  “We have heard both sides, and we have a quorum.  Now let us vote.”

In accord with tradition going back to the days of the Republic, the page boys distributed bits of charcoal and hand-sized slates.  The senators draped their robes over their laps, concealing their marks on the slates.  When the sand-glass on the podium ran out, the page boys walked the aisles with urns, into which the senators deposited their slates with concealing hands. 

On the table by the podium, the clerks emptied the urns and counted yeas and nays for the Act of Removal.  Never was Valarion behind, never was he far ahead. 

When the last slate was stacked and his narrow victory was announced, no one applauded.  

Maldus was pacing on the portico of the Senate Building, and veered straight when Valarion emerged last from the chamber.

“You're not dead or under arrest.  Are you still Emperor?”

Valarion pretended not to notice the patricians within earshot.  He smiled as he said lowly, “Only by two votes.”

“The Session of Examination is an archaic procedure that went out with the Republic.  No Emperor has bothered with having one.  I don't see why you take the risk.”

“See that man with the eye patch?  He's why.”

Maldus followed the nod.  At the west end of the portico, Senator Godant spoke to a man in a full-dress legion uniform that was draped with a purple-fringed robe.  The man was lean, his features rough, his shaven head offset by a ridiculously bushy mustache.

“General Irkut of the Fourth Legion,” Maldus said.  “I thought he was posted to Frans.  What of him?”

“Look to the bay.  What do you see?” 

Framed by the buildings of Victory Square, the view of the Bay of Rome was packed with triremes whose masts fluttered long red banners. 

“Troop transports of the Fourth,” Maldus said.  “About a cohort's worth, I'd say.”

“Even if the Imperial Guard were at strength, a cohort would be challenging.  Given the hollow shell it is now, the Guard would easily be overwhelmed.”

“Soldiers are not allowed to enter Rome under legion standards.  Even Emperors must obey that law.”

“Unfortunately, I had the law waived in the state of emergency that was declared when I became Emperor.  One of those things that seemed a good idea at the time, but now it means there is precedence to use a waiver against us.” 
Us,
Valarion stressed to himself.
  Remember to say 'us,' never 'me.'
  “Godant is looking for a pretext to vote another waiver.  If he gets it, he'll send Irkut into the city after us.  And that is why I must play by the rules – so that he won't find that pretext.”

Maldus swallowed.  “The ships appear to be riding high.  Perhaps Irkut brought no soldiers with him.”

“Oh, they came.  They must have disembarked elsewhere on Italia, waiting to march on the city at Godant's signal.”

Valarion studied the other man's face.  Was Maldus weighing the odds for a battle in which his men would be outnumbered ten to one?  Or was he contemplating whether he had chosen the wrong side, and  if there were time to switch?

The two men boarded Valarion's litter and departed Victory Square with a retinue of fifty Imperial Guard.  It was a large detail for a trip across town, but Valarion hoped the sight lead his enemies to believe he had men to spare.  In reality, it was most of the manpower he currently had at his call.

During the silence of the ride, Valarion surveyed the state of the city.  Much appeared normal.  The bay coursed with merchant ships no longer menaced by piracy even when at anchor.  The major streets thronged with citizens unafraid of daylight thievery.  The aqueducts shimmered with fresh flowing water and public buildings gleamed with recent washing. 

Unfortunately, credit for the restoration was going to Godant – and deservedly so, for with Valarion barricaded in the palace, Godant had won popular acclaim by supplementing the city's public works and constabulary out of his own wealth. 

Pedestrians recognized the livery of the imperial coach, and Valarion felt the city's balance of power shifting with every sullen aversion of gaze. 

When they arrived at the palace, Inoldia was waiting.  She sat at a table on the veranda, methodically chewing meat.  The several plates of bare bones could only mean she was regaining weight from a recent flight. 

“You went to Palras?” Valarion asked.

“See for yourself.”  She indicated a pair of satchels at her feet. 

The smaller bag bulged with silver dust.  Valarion made a show of grunting as he swung it toward Maldus.  “Payroll for the Guard.” 

“We'll need more than she can carry in flight,” Maldus replied, “if we are to restore the Guard to a level that can fight a cohort.”

“See this for that.”  Suppressing a grin, Valarion lightly handed the other satchel to Maldus. 

Maldus opened the satchel and frowned.  “What is this?”

“The head of the Governor of Palras.”

“I'm fairly certain it is not.”  Maldus pulled out a melon.

Prompted by the Emperor's glance, Inoldia replied, “Your orders were to bring the head of the Governor if we failed to come to terms.  We came to terms.”

“Which are?” Valarion asked.

“He agrees to maximize production.  The Commodore of the Palras Squadron will deliver a shipment daily to our designated agent.”

“And the melon?”

“The Governor and I had tea in his garden, and I mentioned that we were short of fresh fruit here in the palace due to the interruption in irrigation, and so he offered me that as a gift.”

Valarion pictured Inoldia in her form as a winged monster, having dropped from the sky into the Governor's courtyard unannounced, daintily cradling a tea cup in her claws, managing not to dribble despite the fangs, her bat-like wings oily in the sunlight as she chatted in a gravelly lisp about gardening techniques.  Facing that furry nightmare, the Governor of Palras might have agreed to any terms.  

Valarion tossed the melon to Maldus.  “Enough silver to rebuild the Guard, and fresh fruit too!  It has been a productive morning.”

Inoldia politely coughed.  “My Lord.  Would it be possible to speak briefly in private?”

Sensing the hint, Maldus bowed and withdrew with fruit and metal. 

Inoldia primly wiped her mouth with the napkin.  “The Mother wishes to speak to you again.”

“Well, of course I'm always at her service, but I really don't have time or opportunity at the moment to get away to the island.”

“She is not on the island.  She is here in Rome.” 

“She . . .  is?”  A mobile Mother was not something Valarion had taken into account. 

Inoldia arose and gestured.  “Please follow.”

“What, now?”

“It is a matter of urgency.” 

Valarion summoned Maldus, who assembled another contingent of fifty, and they set on foot after Inoldia, who assured them it was a very short trip.  As they turned off Golden Street, the spacing between buildings narrowed, and Valarion became anxious as Maldus and his men scanned the windows and rooftops.

“My enemies miss an opportunity,” Valarion muttered.  “A single assassin's crossbow would buy Full Purple.”

“You forget,” Inoldia said.  “I can catch arrows.”

“Can you catch ten at once?” Maldus asked.   

Inoldia pointed.  “Through here.”

They turned into a windowless alley, short and with no exit.  Inoldia halted above a pavement grating, lifted it aside with one hand.  A ladder rose through the hole.  Inoldia motioned to Valarion to descend.  Maldus tried to take the lead.  Inoldia shook her head emphatically. 

“Only he and I.” 

Maldus gave a questioning glance.  Valarion shrugged.

Valarion descended to the floor of the sewer tunnel, his sandals splashing a veneer of water, his nose pinched from the stench.  Temple guards with torches were waiting, and led through the tunnels.  Valarion heard the scurry of tiny paws, then silence.  Apparently, this was a place shunned even by rats.

“You know,” Valarion said, “if we were to be in the sewers, we could have taken the secret passage in the palace.  It would have been safer than being exposed on the streets.”

“Yet not as scenic on such a lovely day.”

Ahead loomed a hooded figure.  As flickering torchlight played, Valarion recognized the aged features and semi-permanent half-scowl of the High Priestess.   

“So you're here too,” he said. 

“I go where the Mother goes,” came the sepulchral reply. 

They entered what had once been some sort of utility-storage area.  Upon its empty floor, resting upon wooden crates, was the Box.  The lights blinked colorful, enigmatic patterns as Valarion bowed as deeply as he'd once done for former emperors. 

Don't do that, you are the true ruler,
he waited for her to say.  

“It is good to see you again, Emperor Valarion,” the Box said in her perpetually cheerful voice.  “I am so glad you were able to come.”

“Delightful as always to see you, Mother.”

“Please direct your attention to the wall on your left.  Torch-bearers, withdraw for the presentation.”

Presentation?
Valarion thought. 

A slot opened on top of the Box.  A gray appendage unfurled like an elephant's trunk, its tip glowing brightly and casting an intense beam of light upon the wall.  Temple guards hung a white sheet upon the sewer bricks, and upon the sheet was cast a glowing, ethereal image of multicolored blotches.

“I'm sorry.  What am I seeing?”

“This is false-color imagery from satellite telemetry of a location in the southwestern region of Britan.”

Valarion had no idea what 'false-color imagery' was, let alone 'satellite telemetry.'  However, the spy reports from Londa had informed him of what was located in West Britan.

“Would this have to do with the stolen airship?”

“I have monitored its movements for some time,” the Box replied.  “Several hours ago, it departed its hangar with a slow rate of ascent to a low altitude, which indicates a heavy loading, potentially of bombs.  Since that time the ship has been adrift, blown eastward with the winds.  It is possible the ship is embarked on a mission to strike the Island of the Sisters, which is most vulnerable to aerial attack from altitudes above even that to which our Sisters can fly.”