Turning Points (13 page)

Glad they’re not the real thing
, Lone mused, staring in curiosity at the third object on the divination table: a large, two-handled flagon of an unrecognizable greenish metal that appeared to be of little value. He moved silently round one end of the table so that he faced the door. It was time to open the small vial that Strick had given him.

The youthful man called Catwalker opened his pouch, removed the vial of medium green glass, and uncorked it. According to in-structions, he slung its contents into the air above the table and backed away, holding his breath. The dark powder proved very nearly lighter than air. A few grains floated down onto the flagon, and onto each of the gargoyle lamps. Almost in a moment Lone was gazing at what looked like an ancient sandal of rust-hued leather— and two gargoyles were looking at Lone from eyes large as those of calves. Every hair on his scalp and nape tingled as it rose. As if they had practiced, the twin horrors snarled in unison.

The intruder into the domain that they had been set to guard had his long Ilbarsi knife out in less than two seconds. At the same time, he backed another couple of steps from the table. It occurred to him to draw the medallion out of his tunic and let it lie on his chest. Maybe sight of it would affright these trapped demons back into being lamps again? He’d be happy to light them…

No, and furthermore with a slight rustling as in unison they scuttled to the edge of the table, they launched themselves at him. Simultaneously, one from his left and the other from the opposite direction, and all he saw was huge inimical eyes, and fangs—lots and lots of sharp teeth. For wingless monstrosities, they certainly flew well enough! Lone squatted low, did some crablike scuttling of his own to the side, and was on his feet again quick as breath. Already he was swinging the long almost-sword at the pair of brainless monsters that hurtled past his former location and crashed into the wall.

Speed and skill abetted by plain good luck enabled him to cut one of the hell-sent things completely in two—bloodlessly. That was when he heard the door open behind him. He did not turn to greet the new menace for the simple reason that the intact demon was hurtling up at him from the floor. Lone moved so fast that the ward-medallion swung—and a claw tore through its thong as the demon hurtled past. Disgruntled was a mild term for what the apprentice cat burglar felt when he heard the ceramic medallion shatter on the floor.

Instantly and simultaneously someone behind Lone snapped out a “Shit,” and the two halves of the slain gargoyle fused. So. Strick’s medallion had been more effective than its wearer had anticipated, and now he was totally unprotected, with
three
foes intent that he never leave this place on his feet!

“Off me, beast!” the voice behind the intruder said, seemingly as fearfully as in anger, and those words were followed by other ones in a language older than Sanctuary.

So
the one that missed me attacked whoever came in
—
or at least struck him in its flight
! Lone thought, desperately kicking at the reincarnated gargoyle number one again,
and now he is putting a curse on me, or worse’
. And then he spun and his right arm snapped forward to send a flat leaf-shaped blade in the direction of the voice. When it swerved away from the homely, very young man in the icky green robe, Lone shuddered at knowledge that he was in the presence of a sorcerous enemy with a better protective spell than his. Kusharlonikas’s apprentice, surely. And his fellow apprentice hardly appeared incompetent, up close!

Kusharlonikas’s apprentice slung gargoyle number two at Sha-dowspawn’s apprentice and began gesturing and muttering. This time Lone successfully skewered the thing—which slid right along his blade and clawed his hand.

He made a sound of pain just as Komodoflorensal finished casting his spell and added his personal word of power: “Iffets!”

Immediately the tan sandal became a green flagon and the monsters from hell became handsomely wrought but hideous oil lamps, and Komodoflorensal was staring across the divining table at a thoroughly angry young man all in black.

One of the apprentices present said, “Shit!” and the other said, “You’d better start running, Komo-duh-whatever!”

The high priest of the pitifully diminished temple of Ils Father of All was unsparing in heaping praise and blessings on the two who surreptitiously brought him the long-missing Sacred Left Sandal of the Father. And yes, he acceded to the wish of the master and his apprentice that he tell no one whence came the great gift.

The two well-dressed men were on their way to meet Strick when somewhere a savagely punished young man in a green robe said, “Iffets!”

The shattered shards of ceramic on the floor of the Chamber of Reflection and Divination of Kusharlonikas the mage did not reassemble into a circle, but a shadow passed between Sanctuary and the sun.

“Shit,” Komodoflorensal muttered.

“Damn,” Lone muttered. “How convenient! Darkness at noon!” And he abandoned his mentor to head for the alley beside the nearest well-to-do apartment building…

Here, there is no time.

She turns, meeting herself in a hundred refractions, always shifting, but never changing, for there is no time here.

She turns and sees herself, always and only herself. It is this, she thinks, that will drive her mad. Perhaps it has done so already.

Once she walked beneath the sun, clad in silk and jewels. Now she is the bright spark in the heart of a jewel. When Time had a meaning, a mage imprisoned her here. She fought, but now she would welcome even that rape of the psyche. Only those who are alive can feel pain.

Light and Dark succeed one another, so she knows that in the world outside, night still follows day.

But here, there is no time.

The board above the door to the inn turned in the wind that blew in from the sea. As it swung back, it caught the thin sunlight, and the golden eye of the phoenix that gave the inn its name appeared to blink. Latilla paused for a moment, squinting, to see if it would happen again, then shook her head and sloshed the bucket of water across the worn stone steps. Her husband would have seen that momentary flicker as an omen. Her father could have made the bird come alive and fly away. But to Latilla it meant it was going to be another damp day in late winter. And every morning when she rolled out of the bed in which she slept (alone) she prayed that nothing would happen to change this from one more ordinary day.

When she was a little girl, magic had been a wonder. Later, it had become a horror. Both she and Sanctuary, she thought sourly, were far better off without magic, magi, or gods.

Phoenix Lane was waking around her. Far down the road she could see a horseman ambling slowly along. Water gurgled and added itself to the remains of Latilla’s pail as the fuller down the road poured out the stinking contents of a bleaching vat. For a moment the acrid reek of aged urine filled the air. Long ago, when her father had built Phoenix House from stone left over from the new City wall, the street had been clean and inviting.

But concepts like safety and respectability seemed to be alien to her hometown. Wealth and corruption, yes—those might survive— but there was something in the air of Sanctuary that corroded peace as the stink of the fuller’s vat was fouling the air. Her father was gone, and the pleasant home he had built now supported what remained of his family as an inn.

Still, whether the smell was dissipating or she was simply becoming used to it, with each moment Latilla’s awareness of it grew less.

Sanctuary never really changes
, she thought with a sigh,
but even here, life goes on
.

What ought to be going on, or at least getting up, was her brother Alfi, whose job it was to feed the animals stabled in the shed at the rear of the inn. She could hear the trader’s donkey braying impa-tiently. The empty bucket banged against her calf as she strode around the building to see.

By the time she had gotten Alfi going, the rider she had seen earlier was coming up the lane, peering about him as if not quite sure of his road. He was either a very tall man, she thought, watching, or he was riding a small horse. It was early in the day for an incoming traveler to have reached Sanctuary. She wondered what he was looking for.

It was not only the beasts who protested when breakfast was not forthcoming, Latilla thought as she pushed open the door of the cook shed they had added onto the back when they turned the house into an inn. Her daughter Sula was bending over the hearth, stirring a pot. That was a relief—her twin brother Taran had never come in last night at all.

Then she caught sight of the breakfast tray still waiting patiently, and emptily, on the table.

“Sula! You’ve not taken that tray up to your grandmother yet? What were you thinking of?”

Boys, most likely, Latilla realized as Sula turned, coloring up to the roots of her fair hair. She was a good girl, or had been until adolescence had turned her brains to mush.

“The porridge is done, so get that bowl filled and upstairs! The other guests will be coming down to breakfast any moment now.”

“Oh Mother, Gram always complains so! She’ll ask me who I’ve been seeing, and come out with some dire warning because his grandfather, or his father, or his uncle, came to some ghastly end. Doesn’t she know anything good about anyone?”

Latilla snorted. “In this town? Get up there, child—You won’t sweeten her temper by starving it.”

“I’m not your servant, or hers, either…” Sula muttered as she took the bowl from the tray and ladled a dollop of porridge into it.

“No—a servant would be grateful!” Latilla replied tartly. “Now go—disaster is only deepened by delay!”

“Oh mother, does everything you say have to have a proverb?” Sula complained, pouring tea into the cup.

Whatever Latilla was going to say was interrupted by a clangor at the front door. As Latilla started forward, Sula made her escape up the stairs, laden tray in hand.

The horseman stood on the step, still holding the rein of his mount. She looked up at him, in one swift glance noting the lines graven by patience and perhaps suppressed passion as well. His life had not been easy, but she thought he was younger than he at first appeared.

“They say you have rooms. Clean, and not too expensive.”

His voice was very deep. A swiftly suppressed spurt of awareness identified it as the kind of voice she liked in a man. Her husband, Darios, had spoken thus, although the two men were unlike in all other ways. The stranger sounded as if he had come from Ranke, though the accent had been worn smooth by years of exile.

“And stabling for my horse.”

“I’ve a room on the second floor,” she said slowly, “though I don’t know where I’ll find a bed to fit you. The horse will be easier.”

She let her awareness extend towards him in the way Darios had taught her. The ability to “read” her guests had proved useful before now. This time, however, her probe met a blank wall. No one expected a widow who kept an inn to know any magecraft. Latilla had worked hard to keep it that way—it was not worth jeopardizing that concealment by probing further.

“Give me a few padpols off the price and I’ll sleep on a pallet on the floor…” he was saying, as if he had not noticed. Perhaps the shields were natural, then, and the man was no more than he seemed.

Questions might be unwise, but speculation was another matter. The stranger’s clothing was worn, but he wore it with an elegance that suggested there might have been a time when he slept in a bed built to match his inches. She would have to decide on the basis of that air of faded nobility, and the pain she had seen in his eyes.

“Two shaboozh the week, with board for you and the mare.” She spat in her palm and held it out to him. “My name is Latilla. Welcome to the Phoenix Inn.”

He looked a little taken aback, but he clasped her hand. She could feel the warmth within him, like a hidden fire. “You may call me Shamesh.”

Well, that was one way to let her know it was not really his name. But that was no concern of hers, Latilla told herself firmly, so long as he paid his rent on time. Now if Taran would only get home, the whole family would be accounted for, and as safe as anyone could be, in these times.

Taran was, at that point, only a few backstreets away, reflecting on how much he hated mornings. He hated them even more when he saw them from the other side, with no sleep to soften the breaking day. A bleached, thinned quality always seemed to weaken the blue of the sky, as if some forgetful god had left a translucent veil to obscure the night. Taran tried not to dwell on such thoughts. They wakened childhood nightmares best left alone.

On this particular morning his apprehensions were particularly acute.

Mama’s going to kill me if she finds out
! he thought miserably,

Latilla disapproved of the company Taran chose to keep, a mixed gang of youths who haunted the marketplace led by Griff, a boy two years Taran’s senior. Griff had grown up in the Maze, and had a scar for every lesson he’d learned there. But Griff had humor in him too, which gave him a certain charm that drew Taran and others to him. It was that charisma that inspired them to go looking for trouble. Where many in Sanctuary simply sought to survive, Griff and his boys wanted to thrive.

Damn you, Griff
! thought Taran.
What the hell were you thinking
?

A sharp yelp stopped him. Up ahead, a half-dozen boys had tied a mongrel dog to a stake they’d hammered into the ground. They were throwing rocks at it, and from the look of it they’d been at it for awhile. The soft scent of blood mixed with the city smells of urine and dirt.

The dog was too tired even to defend itself, and staggered back and forth behind the inadequate cover of the stake. Occasionally a particularly sharp rock would gouge it and the dog would muster enough strength for another whimper. All this did was to make the ragged boys cheer whoever had made the shot and inspire the others to imitate him.