“Want to go flying in the moonlight?” She had that look that made me think she was peeking at the inside of my head. “The moon is almost full. It would be romantic.”
“Don’t. This is tough enough without you taunting me.”
An instant of venomous darkness uglified her. Deep anger followed. Then a forced smile surfaced. “Of course. Of course. Only family and whores.”
That mantra had to be the default response to a question not yet asked. Or to one that I had not recognized as a question if it was asked.
I had stepped into something. Again. But what?
How come getting along with folks has to be so complicated?
Lest I get something thoroughly wrong and sink into my error up to my chin, Mischievous Rain told me, “Contrary to common prejudice it is possible for a woman and man to be friends.”
“Bet you it’s a shitload harder for the man. He’ll always be thinking with his other head.”
She went way out somewhere else but did not lose me entirely. “This quiet time won’t last much longer.”
“No. Probably not.” Spring planting had begun. Admin had developed rotations whereby the men would “volunteer” to help work the Aloen fields. One of the Old Man’s hearts-and-minds exercises.
That worked, some, because imperial taxes are delivered mostly in kind, which fed us and added to the Company herds.
13
Once Upon a Time: Gone Without an Echo
The necromancer surprised himself with his ability to remain calm under pressure. Relatively, considered. Considering that this was the first time he had had to deal with anything like this.
But he had been preparing for it, physically and mentally, from the day he and a wagon loaded with tools had come to this remote hilltop.
The woman who blew into his home was not half as clever as she thought. She was a youngster, hasty, but incredibly strong, able to call down the lightning. From an old and ranking family, certainly. The quality of her clothing gave that away.
She really thought he would believe that lightning would shatter his palisade and destroy his mastiffs just at the moment when a little girl lost in the woods happened to wander by?
He would have placed no faith in her innocence even had she not reeked of Dusk. He did not credit coincidence or random connection where sorcery was concerned. Skepticism was his earliest self-taught lesson.
Blessed was the paranoia that had compelled him to saturate his environment with thousands of gentle, almost undetectable gossamer spells that would cluster anyone who was not himself or Laissa.
He tried to question the invader. She was unresponsive except to indicate that she could not hear. The sorcery used to blast through the stockade had deafened her, possibly only temporarily.
So, naught to be gained from conversation, he put the outsider to sleep. He was troubled by the fact that she was so young. He was missing something, he was sure—though youth could be an illusion meant to disarm. Those who dwelt in Grendirft …
She was from Dusk but there was no cause for anyone from Dusk to be interested in him, outside the usual contrived legal finagles. Unless … Could it be the waste girl? But that made no sense. She had been thrown away.
They were all crazy in Dusk. The full madness of those people could not be encompassed. He knew that he was not quite sane himself but he did believe that he was nearer the norm than any of those people.
Which was more an ideological vision than a clear view of reality.
The two did come close to meshing, though, this once.
The invader was little older than Laissa. But she had called down the lightning. He must remember that, and must forget that she reminded him so much of his daughter. She was not slow. She was not harmless. And she would wake up eventually, probably before he realized it. One incautious moment, then, and …
He did a quick search. “Almost forgot … What’s this? Oh, my!” He took his time thumbing through the fortune-telling deck. “You clever girl. But you were much too sure of yourself, dear. You didn’t lock these so no one but you could use them.”
Further search only turned up a couple of haunted rings that he could not use. Those he just tossed across the room.
So. Neutralized for now. Time to grab a peek into the face of tomorrow.
“Laissa, I have to go see about the animals. I need you to watch this girl while I’m out back. Can you do that?”
He did not expect a verbal response and he did not get one. Laissa spoke seldom, though she was never uncooperative.
The urge to take physical advantage touched him again, for a moment. He shoved it down, angry and disgusted. What kind of man lusts after his own daughter?
* * *
The necromancer had not told his daughter the whole truth, nor even much of the truth. But she really needed only one truth, the truth that he had shown her when he took her and held her during the most awful moments of thunder and storm.
What else did she need to know?
The necromancer considered his girls briefly, then went out into the wet and wind, being careful with the door so the girls would not be at risk for colds.
* * *
Laissa squatted in front of the girl for a while, just watching her breathe. She touched the girl’s cheek. She was so warm. Almost as warm as Papa.
After another minute of vacant wonder Laissa collected the jewelry that Papa had removed from the girl. The two heavy rings were warm, too. And they had a comfortable, relaxing, almost familiar feel. After staring at them for a while she pocketed them and went back to staring at the girl.
* * *
The necromancer shed tears for his mastiffs. They had been with him his whole time here, so long that they were no longer any real threat. But they had remained impressively intimidating right to the end.
The sorcerer resumed walking, passed through the remains of his stockade. He headed for the woods, sure that he would find something interesting there, all the while being hammered by heavy rain. By a vast and furious rain that was not singling him out. Already dry washes were roaring with galloping runoff.
The necromancer had come here, to punish himself, after he lost his Laissa, thirteen years ago. Fourteen? Whichever, they were years of continuously inventive, obsessively precise spell creation. His handiwork now tangled every bush and tree for a quarter mile around. His guilt and his paranoia, and his growing obsessions, had ruled him completely. And he did not sleep much.
Trip lines for his defenses extended well beyond the quarter-mile mark in directions that felt like a likely approach—except that not once had it occurred to him that the invasion might come from above. Those who would come against him—he was certain that someone would—would become entangled and steadily more enmeshed in cobwebs of spells long before they stumbled into his more obvious protections.
He believed that his creation might be subtle enough and in-depth enough to entangle and capture the Dominator himself.
On this one night, in the deluge delivered by what had to be the most ferocious storm in modern history, he received confirmation that his craft was fine enough and clever enough to have captured one of the Ten Who Were Taken.
Following hints and cues passed on by his web, he found the flying carpet under the giant chestnut tree. That tree was a favorite. From descriptions he had heard he recognized the sleeping Taken. So. The invader had been delivered by the Howler. Disturbing.
The necromancer had little intercourse with the world but he had been under the impression that the Taken were all out on the frontiers desperately trying to salvage the Domination. Could it be that the political situation was less dire than rumor suggested?
Domination politics meant nothing to him. He was an empire unto himself, with an isolationist foreign policy. A nation of one … No. No longer. Now he was head of a nation of three.
He rested a palm on the forehead of the Taken. Howler would not awaken for at least a day.
He rested that same hand over t
he cards now securely settled into an interior pocket. A blessed windfall, those. Blessed.
The Howler had become a blob of live flesh of no special value. He carried nothing of any special value, either. Done with a search, the necromancer rolled his victim off of his carpet, dragged him into some brush, tossed on a few sticks and leaves, then forgot him. No need to be troubled by him except that he was what he was and had come here to inject himself where he was not welcome.
The necromancer was not middle-of-the-lane sane. He was off the road most of the time. But he was not suicidal insane. He understood clearly that what had happened here tonight had written the end of the latest cycle of his life. One of the Taken had come after him. That meant that he had come to the attention of the Domination. His sole option now was to get himself and his girls well lost before another wave of snoopers and punishers arrived.
14
Long Ago and Far Away: A Far Piece
Bathdek awakened in blistering sunshine, with a cool, dry wind ripping past her. She was not inclined to wake up, though. She had a savage headache and a stomach a half inch short of another unwanted puke. Confused, she tried to remember what had happened.
A storm. An amazing sorcerer. Her sister.
Those were the ingredients that would not come together and make any sense.
Her cheek rested on something rough. Something that smelled of her uncle Howler. So. He must have rescued her after all.
She did not open her eyes. The sun was in her face. It was too bright to confront.
She had to be aboard the Howler’s carpet, traveling at high speed, somewhere where there was no overcast.
“Oh, my,” she murmured. Something was not right.
Someone moved close by her. The carpet shifted and swayed. A small hand touched her cheek. A voice said, “She’s waking up, Papa.”
Dorotea’s voice. Absolutely. But who was Papa?
Small hands spread a cool wet cloth across Bathdek’s face.
Bathdek opened her eyes. They worked the way they should. She knew already that her hearing had returned. But had her strength returned as well?
No.
Not quite. Only a little, leaving her not much stronger than pudding.
She tried to sit up. The carpet rocked. Hands helped her … Her sister’s hands. Her dead sister’s hands.
“Thank you.” She bit down before she used Dorotea’s name.
Taking care, she removed the cloth protecting her eyes. They soon adjusted to the bright.
Yes, she was aboard the Howler’s carpet, miles above the earth, headed eastward at high speed. She did not recognize the land below but possibly only because she could gain no clear look at it. Clouds mostly obscured the view.
Howler was not flying the carpet. The sorcerer from the woods was. But that was impossible! Not even one of the Ten could take control of another Taken’s carpet. Unless …
Of course. The cards. She had no need to check to know that they were gone. One card would have let her control Howler’s carpet in an emergency. His idea.
The rogue sorcerer must have worked everything out from first principles, in practically no time.
What kind of mad genius was she faced with, here?
She would have to be very, very careful, starting right now, never to underestimate him. He ought to be one of the Taken. Why was he not one of the Taken? How clever he must be, to have avoided being noticed by the Dominator, there just a dozen miles outside Dusk.
Clearly, he did not have the “got to show off” flaw that betrayed most clever sorcerers.
While Bathdek looked round with panicked eye her sister poured her a cup of steaming tea from a flask charmed to keep its contents hot. “Thank you.”
No response. Dorotea sealed the flask and returned it to a wicker hamper. She took out a hard sausage, a block of cheese, and one slightly shriveled apple.
Bathdek continued examining her surroundings.
The Howler’s carpet was six feet by ten, measured generously. It was piled with random miscellany, little of which Bathdek recognized.
The sorcerer said, “Don’t make any sudden moves. We didn’t have time to balance the load. Too big a hurry to get away. We’ll reshuffle it next time we stop for a rest. We’re far enough out that we can afford the time. Laissa, dear, be a treasure and dig me out some rye crackers. Three should be enough.”
The girl opened the wicker hamper, retrieved the requested crackers. Those in hand, she tapped the sorcerer’s shoulder. He took them. “Thank you, dear.” His lower legs were dangling off the front of the carpet. He seemed to be enjoying himself.
Bathdek eyed the girl. “So you’re Laissa? I’m Melondi.”
The girl just looked at her.
The sorcerer said, “Laissa doesn’t talk much. No point trying to force a conversation.”
“But she can talk?”
“As you know from when she told me that you were awake. Melondi? Sounds made-up.” He chuckled. “What’s your family name?”
“Kloester. My father is Brinker Kloester.” A real person, a senior official in imperial finance, but no actual relation.
“Brinker Kloester. A powerful man, I believe. Crooked. And not the sort that I would expect to have a daughter who would roam the night with the Howler, let alone be able to call down the lightning.”
He was teasing. Maybe he knew who she was. Maybe Dorotea told him. Only … Only Dorotea did not know who she was.
Bathdek did not know what to say. She did realize that what she wanted to say would be wasted breath if she said it. She was a captive. Maybe a hostage. She was miles above the ground and an unknown distance east of Dusk. And there was no way anyone could find her, help her, or rescue her.
Dorotea would be no help. She was uninterested in helping herself. She was content. Which was ironic. Dorotea before had been content with nothing. Her whining and complaining had never stopped.
Bathdek resisted an urge to say, “Mother should see you now.” Instead, she asked, “Where are we?”
“East of Dusk. Heading east. We may be over the Great Forest.”
“What I guess I should have asked is, where are we going?”
“Somewhere outside the Domination. Somewhere where I can attend my research safely and you girls can have a hope of a normal life.”
That sounded totally, parentally reasonable, and it highlighted the madness of the man.
He existed in multiple realities. She wondered if she would have to deal with multiple personalities. And, if so, if the ugly personality would dominate, as was the case with Him.
Bathdek wanted to say, “I would rather go back to my life of power and privilege,” but suspected that it would be unwise to challenge his delusions just now. He would be unstable after the recent stress.
Clearly, he did believe that Dorotea was his daughter. So when he was craziest who did he think that she was? Or was he just messing with her on that?
In a tiny voice Dorotea piped, “Papa, I have to pee. I don’t think I can hold it very long.”
The carpet plunged so fast that Bathdek feared she might lose her snack. Near as she could tell the sorcerer was thrilled. He turned to Laissa. “I’ll find you a place as fast as I can, baby.” He was grinning.
He turned to look at Bathdek. “Isn’t that marvelous, Kitten? That’s the most that she’s said at one time since the fever broke.”
Kitten? Name or nickname? Why? She could not imagine what these people were thinking. For certain nothing that could be framed as conventional sanity. And she was at their mercy.
The sorcerer set down in a clearing in a forest that rolled away to every horizon. Bathdek had studied the woods all through the descent. Not once did she glimpse anything suggesting a human presence.
Laissa jumped off the carpet and ran toward the closest trees. She still had some pale sense of modesty. The sorcerer said, “We should all do our business while we have the chance.” Some seconds later, as Bathdek was getting her land legs, he a
dded, “We’re far enough east now that we’re not likely to run into anyone conversant in TelleKurre.” Basically daring her to make a run for it while he had his trousers down.
She did not need the warning. The lack of human sign promised that staying with him was the better survival option. She was a spoiled city girl. How would she manage in the Old Forest, where anyone she met was likely a bitter enemy?
The sorcerer entered the woods twenty yards from where Laissa had. He did not look back.
His arrogant certainty regarding her intelligence irritated Bathdek as much as condescension or disparagement would have.
She stalked into the woods and took care of her own functions. Then she helped redistribute the carpet’s cargo. Once that was all balanced up, Papa could manage the carpet more easily.
Bathdek said, “I hope we can get a bath wherever we’re going. I’m nasty. I wet myself while I was out.”
“We could all use some cleaning up. I’m glad you decided to come with us.” He had his back to her, tying off a length of cord, so he missed her reaction when he said, “Your sister hasn’t had a decent bath since the fever took her.”
Did he know? No. That could not be possible. This was just more of his crazy.
Had to be the crazy.
* * *
Papa did not push as hard after the break. He felt safe, now. His girls were at peace. The passage over the Plain of Fear went without incident. Journey’s end came two unhurried days later. He landed in the rugged wilderness locals called the Ghost Country, in a supposedly haunted quarter that the natives shunned.
15
In Modern Times: Honnoh
Something changed. I sensed it while treating whooping cough, spring colds, and the first rash of agricultural injuries. Last patient bandaged, I headed for the Dark Horse.
Markeg Zhorab was surprised. “Croaker! We don’t see you much these days.”
He was a good man. Whatever he had heard, however absurd, he would not task me with it.
“You may have heard that I’ve stumbled into new personal circumstances. And you won’t starve because I don’t come around as much anymore.”