Dragon Mage

  She hiked her robe up and sat on the bank, pulling the sopping tennis shoes from her pockets. Her feet felt like pins had been stuck in the bottoms, and she gingerly touched them, brushing off bits of rock and mouthing "Owh, owh, owh."

  Nidintulugal looked concerned, but he made no move to help. And when she put her shoes on, which he stared at with wide-eyed curiosity, she loosely tied them and thrust out a hand, expecting him to help her up. He didn't. He turned and faced the river, put his hands on his hips, and shook his head. His face had clouded over.

  Shilo sucked in her lower lip and pushed herself to her feet. In helping her, he'd likely exiled himself from Babylon. A priest, he was recognizable, and if he returned to the city, the guards would no doubt take him.

  There was no turning back.

  His kindness had cost him dearly.

  They were worse than lost, the both of them, Shilo thought . . . she impossibly far from Slade's Corners, and he denied his home and temple.

  Perhaps he could return later?

  Maybe explain to someone that he'd only been trying to help a stranger?

  But could she ever return homer

  He looked north and started in that direction, walking slowly and careful not to step on twigs that would snap and make noise. Glancing over his shoulder, he gestured with his head that she should follow.

  After a moment, she did. Being lost, and having company, was better than being lost alone. Besides, she couldn't stay here . . . she worried that the guards might come back.

  Shilo hadn't taken more than a dozen steps when she heard: "Sigurd Clawhand, heed my call."

  9 Nebuchadnezzar s Hand

  ARSHAKA PACED IN THE COURTYARD, THE CITIZENS GIVING HIM space and nodding and bowing respectfully, sometimes bumping into each other as they tried to get a closer look at him. He slammed his right fist against his left palm, repeating the gesture until it hurt. He paused in his route only when one of the guards hurried from the fortress, through the Ishtar Gate, and toward him.

  "She runs," the guard told Arshaka in the native tongue. "With a priest of the sun god, she runs to the north. We will catch her, Hand of Nebuchadnezzar, alive as you ordered."

  "Then catch her quickly," Arshaka returned in the same language. "My patience is short and my anger is terrible. Bring her to my quarters, the faster the greater the reward."

  He strode from the courtyard, along the Processional Street, two of his attendants walking shoulder-to-shoulder several yards behind. People on the street parted for him, each of them bowing, the children, too. Arshaka didn't return a single gesture, looking through them and seeing something far beyond this street and Babylon. His course took him by the Hanging Gardens, which centuries from now would be called one of the wonders of the ancient world.

  His mind was seething.

  He didn't register its beauty or the fragrances, or hear the water splashing down the terraces. He didn't see the people enjoying its splendor, nor any of the citizens stopping to pay their respects to him. In his mind, he saw only the girl.

  News of her had reached him accidentally yesterday after the evening meal. He'd heard some of the servants talking about a scantily clad girl in the courtyard. The prattle was beneath him until one of the servants said she seemed to appear out of the air, that she talked in a strange tongue, and that with her fiery hair, she could have been a demon.

  When they described her pale skin, dotted with freckles on her cheeks, he lost all interest in the city improvements he'd been planning. He became fixated—hopefully so—on her, and he dispatched several of the guards to search. He'd said nothing of this to Nebuchadnezzar, who was making his own plans for a trip to a southern palace for a holiday with his wife. The king should not be bothered about a foreign girl, Arshaka decided, intending to keep the news and the girl all to himself.

  Nebuchadnezzar did not know that Arshaka was also a distant foreigner. The king realized that his Hand, or chief counsel, was not originally from Babylon proper. But Nebuchadnezzar believed that Arshaka hailed from these lands.

  Arshaka had kept his birthplace to himself; it was safer that way.

  He climbed the stairs to his quarters at the eastern edge of the palace. The stairs usually winded him, but he was so angry that the guards had let the girl slip out of the city that his ire gave him energy. His rooms were simple, yet elegant, perfectly comfortable, he considered them. Nebuchadnezzar had tried to get him to move into more stately chambers in the palace itself. That way Arshaka could more readily call for servants . . . and could be more readily called by Nebuchadnezzar.

  But Arshaka preferred the solitude and quiet of his apartments. There were fewer eyes on him here, so he could work on his plans. He dropped into a massive chair that could have passed for a throne, the deep cushion easily accepting his bulk. Putting his feet up on an ornate hassock, he closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  "Leave me," he told the attendants in their tongue. "Remain outside at the bottom of the stairs. And when the guards come with the girl, bring her up here immediately."

  "Yes, Hand of Nebuchadnezzar," they said nearly in unison. "As you will it, so shall we oblige."

  He continued rubbing at his nose until his skin felt raw and he heard the door close behind the attendants and their footsteps fade down the stairs. Arshaka guessed that they would think the girl a pleasant diversion. Arshaka was too busy to often bother with such frivolities.

  Good that they think the girl a mere dalliance, he mused. That sort of gossip, he welcomed, as it would keep their tongues away from the truth—that she was valuable only for the information she could provide. Arshaka needed to know precisely where she was from, and how she got here. Georgia maybe. Probably. But when? What year had she come from? Had others come with her? If so, how many and where were they? Did she have a way to return to America? To slip between the "worlds"?

  After the servants' gossip of the night before, he'd sent three of his most trusted guards roaming through the city in search of the girl. He knew it would be an exhausting search because of the city's size.

  His three guards were not wearing their uniforms. He'd instructed them to dress as commoners and to divide the great city into sections, then to walk routes and listen for news of unusual foreigners. Arshaka mentioned her pale skin, and that she was said to speak a curious language they would be able to make nothing of. He ordered that if any such fair-skinned people were spotted, to detain them, with violence if necessary, but not to kill a single one.

  "They are not spies, these strangers. And they are not a threat," he'd emphasized. "They are, perhaps, simply lost. We will help them find their way." He'd paid the three guards bonuses of ivory buttons, gold links, and bottles of scented ink—things that they could use to barter for something they truly wanted. "There will be more when you bring the girl, and any of her countrymen, to me. The more such strangers you find, the more you will gain."

  He'd waited in his quarters through the night in this chair, fingers alternately drumming against the armrests and pulling at threads in the fabric. He expected to hear something before midnight—despite the size of the city and the few guards searching. Any strangers would stick out, unless they could barter or buy common clothes to blend in. Still, she would be noticeable by her skin and eyes.

  Two hundred square miles, a most difficult search he'd presented these three men. But he knew they would rely on people they knew, asking discreet questions, and setting up a network of information-gatherers. Babylon's citizens loved gossip, Arshaka had learned in his years here. If someone had seen the girl and any friends who'd come with her, they would be more than happy to pass along the news to his guards.

  "Two hundred square miles," he'd hissed after sending off the three men. Perhaps he should have sent more . . . but some of the others shared loyalties to Nebuchadnezzar. "People in the future will diminish this place, some will make it grander. They'll claim Babylon smaller, richer, poorer, the walls shorter, taller, thicker, easily
broken ..."

  Arshaka knew they were all wrong—the anthropologists and archaeologists who'd studied the ruins. "Two hundred square miles ... at ... this . . . moment." He knew that the city would be growing soon. He'd been mulling over plans for improvements, which would include breaking the eastern wall and expanding the city in that direction, taking over a dozen farms and one village. The young men there would be accepted into Nebuchadnezzar's army. And wrhen the army was large enough, Arshaka would advise the king to march on neighbors to the south.

  Three hundred square miles would mark the first expansion.

  Notes for those plans were neatly stacked on a low table within reach. There were refinements Arshaka needed to make, while the ideas were still reasonably fresh in his mind. But he couldn't get the girl out of his thoughts, and so he couldn't return to the papers.

  He saw her just a short while ago in the courtyard, pale skin and red hair. Touched her and confirmed she existed. It was mere coincidence that he'd been in the courtyard at that time . . . fate that he'd taken a stroll and found what his guards had searched through the night for.

  He saw her, and touched her, and he heard her gentle Southern accent and English words. From that moment of contact, he knew she could pave his way to glory.

  Would she cooperate?

  Willingly?

  He knew he could be persuasive.

  Arshaka planned.

  He would have a lavish meal prepared for her tomorrow . . . she would be caught and brought to him after Nebuchadnezzar left with his wife for the southern palace. The most delicious foods Babylon had to offer would be served, and he would ply her with jewelry. She would find the place attractive and his plans interesting, and they would converse for long hours in the refined English language. She would help him, he told himself. Willingly.

  But if by some chance she would have none of it ... He started rubbing the bridge of his nose again.

  Well, he would not give her an option.

  The heat of the day and the comfort of the chair lulled Arshaka to sleep. He dreamed of an ever-expanding Babylon, with building projects to rival the greatest temples, the Esag-ila, and the fabled Hanging Gardens. He was mentally overseeing construction of a third wall when a knock sounded firmly on his door.

  He woke, cursing himself for momentarily drifting off, then realizing he'd done more than that.

  Sunlight no longer streamed through his windows, and his quarters were heavy with the shadows of early evening.

  Arshaka pushed himself out of the chair and lit a large lantern on a low table. Then he trundled to the door and opened it, expecting to see his guards escorting the red-haired girl.

  Instead, there was only one guard, haggard-looking and hesitant.

  "Speak, Ekurzakir." Arshaka tapped his foot impatiently, but his face was a stoic mask.

  The guard bowed, took Arshaka's hand, and kissed the largest ring.

  "I have no good word for the Hand of Nebuchadnezzar," Ekurzakir said. His eyes danced nervously, trying to read Arshaka's expression. "Guards still search for the girl on your orders. Citizens search hoping for a reward."

  Arshaka's eyes narrowed to the point he could scarcely see out of them.

  "They chased her north along the Processional Way, and twice those on the wall nearly netted her. But she is fast, like the wind, Hand of Nebuchadnezzar. Like lightning. Ipqu-Aya found her trail." The guard referred to the best tracker in Babylon. "Her feet were bleeding. He followed her course into a farm field, and there he lost it."

  "So many men, and they could not catch one girl." Arshaka's tone was even and silky, and it was the lack of anger in it that caused Ekurzakir to quake.

  "Hand of Nebuchadnezzar, there was a priest with her, identified from his temple as Nidintulugal. He helped her escape, and . . ."

  "Go to his family, Ekurzakir."

  "He has none, Hand of Nebuchadnezzar. He was raised in the Temple of Shamash."

  "And I cannot threaten any of the priests there," Arshaka said in English, smugly noting the puzzled look on Ekurzakir's face. "Keep a guard posted in the temple in the event this Nidintulugal returns. And make sure the priest is brought here."

  "Yes, Hand." Ekurzakir bowed deeply and again kissed Ar-shaka's ring. "Guards continue to search for the girl, though the darkness makes it difficult. Ipqu-Aya thinks she and the priest escaped in the river and . . ."

  "Set a guard, a very trusted one, at the bridge, and another near the fishing docks. They might return. Double the force searching outside the city."

  "Yes, Hand."

  "I will have that girl, Ekurzakir. Do you understand?"

  'Yes, Hand. The foreign girl will be captured." Curiosity flickered in Ekurzakir's eyes.

  "She is from a far land." Arshaka felt some explanation was in order to quell gossip that might come from Ekurzakir and the other guards. "She might hold secrets to her native land that could be useful to Babylon." After a moment, he added, "And she is beautiful. Young and beautiful."

  Let the guards think Arshaka was only interested in her for pleasure.

  "It would be a sad thing, Ekurzakir, if the greatest guards in Mesopotamia could not regain one barefooted girl and a boy priest."

  Another bow. "Yes, Hand. I will notify you myself when we have her." Ekurzakir squared his shoulders and pivoted, walking down the stairs in rigid military posture.

  10 The Talon of Marduk

  NIDINTULUGAL TOOK SHILO NORTH, KEEPING THE RIVER IN sight on the left and walking through gaps in the tall crops. She'd not heard the call for Sigurd Clawhand for some time, and while it was a relief, it also made her angry.

  "Speak to me!" Shilo finally demanded after the quiet had gotten to her. "Tease me some more, whoever you are!"

  Apparently Nidintulugal had not heard the voice, though he cocked his head and listened to make sure nothing was following them.

  "You think I'm nuts, don't you, Nidin?" Shilo ran her hand through her hair, knocking back her hood.

  He stared at her short red hair.

  "Maybe I am," she continued. "Maybe the magic puzzle melted my neurons." She poked out her bottom lip and exhaled, her breath fluttering her bangs. "I'm sorry. I'll be quiet. And I'll keep the voices in my head to myself."

  The pace he set was exhausting, and more than once Shilo tugged on his arm and pantomimed that they should rest. He shook his head and spoke softly and rapidly in argument. He didn't stop until hours later when the sun started to set. Leaning against a lone tree in a field of grain, he closed his eyes. The gnats were thick here, and they stuck to his sweaty skin. Shilo was too tired to be bothered by them. She collapsed in a patch of tall grass near him, and despite the pain in her side and the terrible ache in her feet, she immediately fell asleep.

  They awoke when it was dark.

  Shilo stood and brushed at her robe, and cringed when she put weight on her feet again. If she was home, she'd go to a doctor, get Meemaw to take her to an all-night clinic in Milwaukee. But if she was home, she'd be sleeping in that antique four-poster bed and wouldn't have injured her feet in the first place.

  Nidintulugal quietly regarded her. He tipped his face at an odd angle, and it took Shilo a moment to realize he was listening. He drew his finger to his lips ... a gesture she could understand, and so she didn't say anything. After a while, he motioned to the river, and she followed him to the bank.

  There was no moon, but the sky was filled with thousands of stars that reflected off the water.

  Shilo stared at the field of light, not seeing for a moment where the sky ended and the river began. It was as beautiful a scene as the Ishtar Gate and the Hanging Gardens. She momentarily forgot her pain and drank it all in.

  Nidintulugal scratched in the mud at the water's edge, completing his drawing before Shilo was aware of it. She strained to see it, difficult in the mud despite the brightness of the stars. He stabbed a finger at the river, then at the tree they'd slept near, then pointed to the drawing. He'd drawn hills, and there was
something near the hills that Shilo couldn't make out. She shrugged when he indicated that again.

  He let out an exasperated breath and cupped his hands, facing each other, fingers touching. He repeated it, then waggled his fingers and pointed at her and himself. "Here is the church, and here is the steeple," she whispered. "Open the doors and see all the people."

  He tried the gesture once more.

  "A village," she said. "Has to be a village you're trying to get across." She smiled and nodded to let him know she was pretty sure what he meant.

  He brushed his hands on his skirt, bent and drank a few handfuls of water, then rubbed out his drawing and turned away from the river, setting a northeast course. Shilo groaned and quickly drank her fill, spitting to try to get the rest of the gnats out of her mouth. All the pain intensified in her feet in the moment she realized he intended to go to that village now. She thought about staying here at the river and dangling her feet in to let the cool water mend them. The insects weren't quite so thick here.

  She didn't have to go with the priest—his plan might be no safer than something she could devise. And the village might not be safe. Besides, the guards in Babylon might have given up, and the wealthy man who'd sent them after her might have lost interest. "But somehow I doubt that," she said. Shilo lifted up the hem of her robe and followed Nidintulugal, her battered feet protesting with each step. She did not have to go with him, she told herself again, but he presented the best chance of keeping her from the guards and the rich man—and getting her to something that resembled civilization.

  Shilo had trouble matching Nidintulugal's speed. She wondered if his pace helped keep the gnats from swarming ... or if it was to keep her so out of breath that she couldn't complain. It was impossible for her to tell how late it was, or how many miles they'd covered. She couldn't see any trace of Babylon behind them. There wasn't even a hint of a glow from the lanterns that must be burning.