Glen Cook - Sung In Blood

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SUNG IN BLOOD
Glen Cook
[23 feb 2002—scanned for #bookz]
I
Death stalked the night. It haunted the shadowed alleys of Shasesserre.
Those it passed near hurried away, driven by the knives of fear.
Death wore the guise of a squat, gnarly man in a vile yellow mask, the mask of a shantor, a
carrier of the weeping sickness.
Death was a liar, a wearer of false faces.
The gnarly man zigzagged the darkest ways, hurrying toward the city's heart—the Plaza of
Jehrke Victorious. Across his back he carried a rag-wrapped bundle. He reached the edge of the
great square. Beyond, the Rock and its crown, Citadel Nibroc, reared their humped and spikey
silhouettes against the stars.
It was a rare and cloud-clear night there at the crossroads 'twixt land and sea.
Between plaza's edge and Citadel stood a five-hundred-foot temporary needle of timbers, kept
upright by scores of guylines. The masked man paused to see if he was observed, then ran to its
foot. He swarmed upward with the tireless energy of a machine. When he reached the crowning
platform, from which rope divers would plunge during tomorrow's celebrations, be was barely
panting.
The gnarly man shed his burden. For a moment he stared at the nearest spire of the Citadel,
then began ripping rags off his bundle. Starlight glinted off steel and polished wood. He began
assembling some mysterious engine.
A moist breeze off the Golden Crescent lifted his yellow mask. It betrayed an evil, gap-
toothed murderer's grin.
Jehrke entered his laboratory almost furtively. His lamp illuminated a face gaunt with worry,
with fear.
The Protector afraid? Impossible. For three centuries his wizardry had nurtured and shielded
Shasesserre in a world that hungered to rape its wealth and plunder its power. He had brushed
aside a thousand perils. He had survived a thousand threats. His might and skill were legend.
"It's him! But how does he come, that I do not smell him in every shadow?" His web of sorcery
lay everywhere upon the city. No magician great or feeble, white or dark, could evade his notice.
"The breath of him stinks. And what better time to strike?"
Jehrke moved about, lighting lamps. They revealed a laboratory that would have amazed his most
advanced colleagues. "Through what dark crack does he design to thrust his wickedness?"
Shasesserre remained Queen of the Orient, Crossroad of the World, because for three centuries
no shadow had leaked past Jehrke's vigilance. There was a saying: "Good or bad, Kings and Queens
come and go. Jehrke is forever."
It was a time of a good King, and the Protector, and all at the heart of the world prospered.
But wolves howled beyond the border, dark and jealous. Their master kept them whipped to a
frenzy.
Jehrke looked out the window on the night, on the constellation that was the city that never
sleeps. The hairs on his neck bristled. A chill made him shudder.
He turned gaunt face and hollow eyes toward a map of Shasesserre's domains. "Can there be a
rent in the fabric of the web? Has he found some way to steal close unremarked?" He scowled at the
chart. It told him nothing he had not known for centuries.
Suddenly, he whirled to face the window. He knew he felt death's cold breath and clammy touch.
Cursing, the gnarly man hammered a wooden frame member with his fist. It snapped into place.
He glanced at the newly lighted window. The man passed the light.
The gnarly fellow cursed again and furiously pumped a crank on the side of his engine. Wood
creaked. Steel scraped, a large coil spring wound tighter and tighter.
"He must die. The Master has condemned him. He must die tonight."
Finished cranking, he gazed through a metal tube attached to his device. He adjusted its
position. Satisfied, he tripped a wooden lever. The engine creaked as the coil spring drove gears
and pulleys and hauled back the string of the massive crossbow that was the machine's heartpiece.
A short arrow, or long quarrel, dropped from a hopper into the channel of the crossbow.
Three hundred yards away the doomed man faced a map, back to the window, centered within its
rectangle. The gnarly man tripped another lever and dove for the ladder down. Behind him the death
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engine thunked and began to rewind.
A terrible cry ripped the fabric of the night. It shook the foundations of the Rock. A bleak
and horrible wind bowled through the Plaza of Jehrke Victorious. The gnarly assassin clung to the
ladder four hundred eighty feet above cobblestones and shrieked entreaties to heathen gods.
The wind departed as suddenly as it came. The killer resumed his scramble toward the ground.
Above, the death machine creaked and thunked methodically.
The first bolt shattered the window and hit Jehrke an inch above the heart. It flung him back
against the map. Nine of its eighteen inches buried themselves in the wall.
Direct physical assault! Never had he considered the chance of an attack so unsubtle.
Agony tore his flesh. Almost, his control slipped as he screamed a death-curse that sent his
web into insane paroxysms. He gestured with his left hand. Pale fire crawled about the laboratory.
He gestured with his right. Shadows flew out into the storm, toward the diving tower, only
possible point for launching the attack.
The next bolt arrived. The Protector jerked, then sagged. Soon another missile thumped home.
Then another; and another, in regular, deadly rhythm.
II
There were five people in the room with the pincushioned Protector. None were ordinary, but
the eye tended to a grim-faced fellow in imperial Ride-Master of Cavalry uniform. He was tall,
well-muscled, with arcticly cold blue eyes. He paced like a captive panther, restless grace in a
cage. He was the last to arrive.
"We tried to find you as soon as Chaz told us, Rider," said a moonfaced imp of a fellow. He
was an imp. He tried hard to look human, but yellow fangs lapped his fat lower lips and his eyes
were all oily ruby pupil. Puffs of sulphurous smoke occasionally escaped his wide nostrils. "But
you was on patrol, Captain."
The imp's name was Su-Cha. He was the Ride-Master's familiar, kept in this world as one of his
several associates.
The other three present were human men, but odd in their ways.
Chaz was a giant barbarian from the far north. In most ways he was faithful to stereotype. He
enjoyed busting things up. Near Chaz stood a nut-brown, rail-thin, beetle-faced easterner whose
hobby was Grafting odd machines. His name was Omar and a lot more, but his friends called him
Spud. The third man looked like a derelict, with wild white hair and beard, and clothing little
better than rags. He had to be reminded to change. He used the name Greystone. He spent his
attention on studying and thinking, not his appearance.
"Where's Preacher? Where's Soup?" the man with the frosty eyes asked, about members of the
group not present.
"Looking for you," said Su-Cha. "Unless they got distracted by some floozy."
Rider—for so he was called by his friends—faced the corpse of the man who had been his father,
for the first time squarely. "He knew it would come. But he didn't expect it this soon, nor this
way."
"Three hundred years," Chaz intoned. "Hard to believe, Rider. Even that way he looks too
young."
The younger Jehrke's eyes grew colder. "The torch has been passed, ready or not."
"We're ready, Rider," Su-Cha said. "Let's get at it."
Rider ignored the imp. "Chaz. You're sure nobody has gotten in here? That only we and the
assassins know?"
"I was with him. He just wanted to check something, he said. I waited outside. I started to
wonder how come he was taking so long. Then he yelled. When I broke in he was like that."
Rider went to the window, glared at the tower in the Plaza. Though festivities were not to
start for hours, spectators had begun to assemble. "They came from the diving platform. You went
to find Su-Cha. How long were you gone?"
"Two minutes."
"Then there was no time for an intruder to destroy any message my father left."
"Message? We would've found one if ... "
Rider raised a hand. He cocked his head. "You hear anything?" he asked Su-Cha, indicating the
door.
The imp shook his head but glided that way. He was accustomed to Rider's finely tuned senses.
The dead wizard had raised his son to stretch every human capacity. At the door the imp vaporized.
He reassumed corporeality moments later. "Nobody. But there may have been someone. The sand you
scattered was disturbed." Among other attributes Su-Cha had a perfect memory for the most
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minuscule details.
Rider merely nodded. He assembled various items from the laboratory, performed a slight magic.
Then he dusted a handful of orange powder upon a blank piece of wall.
Chaz gasped. "Parts of words."
"My father's final message. I've long suspected it was there, awaiting his death to activate
it." He stepped up to the wall, passed a palm over the message. The powder fluoresced.
Son. Your hour is come. I have prepared you as well as I could. Protect Shasesserre from the
wolves without and worms within. Always there will be enemies of tranqulity and prosperity. You
will be occupied continuously. Their wickedness knows no proportion. In the bathhouse on the
Saverne side, in the place I once showed you, yon will find the names of those who must be
watched.
"He updated that list frequently," Rider said. "I didn't know he kept it there, though."
Do not waste time mourning me. Shasesserre's enemies will not. They will be moving before you
read this.
Your father
The elder Jehrke had had difficulty expressing affection even in writing.
"There it is." Rider brushed a palm over the wall again. The message vanished. He went to the
window. "Chaz. You said there was a howl outside?" "Yes."
Rider stared at the Plaza. "How long will his name remain, now? He was not the sort to
eradicate his enemies. There must be a dozen cabals awaiting this chance. One is moving already.
We'll have to act fast if we're to grab the reins before word gets out."
Some of his companions nodded. Chaz grunted. It was something they had discussed often. Though
no traditional dictator, Jehrke had maintained himself as Protector by the terror he instilled in
those who would plunder Shasesserre. With the Protector gone, any number of strongmen would
attempt to prevent his ideals being perpetuated. Among them could be counted nobles, high
officials, churchmen, rich men of trade, even gangsters. Not to mention the Queen City's foreign
enemies.
"Chaos," Rider said. "We look that dragon right in the mouth."
"Surely there will be popular support for the son to continue the work of the father."
"There will be. But ordinary people do not wield the power. The men who would see my father's
ideals put aside care not about the popular voice. The voices they hear are power and greed."
The imp, Su-Cha, murmured, "Then there are those who hearken overmuch to the siren call of
revenge."
Rider acted as though he had not heard. He said, "We'd better examine that tower. The assassin
might have left a clue."
The group piled out of the room. None of the others noticed that Rider delayed a few seconds
before joining them.
III
Preacher and Soup were headed for the Rock. "Somebody found him by now," Soup said.
"Verily." Preacher was so called because of his dress, manner of speech, and his incessant
efforts to convert his comrades to a baffling dogma endemic to his native Frista. It was doubted
even he took himself seriously. He yielded to temptation too easily.
The two rounded a corner and found themselves face to face with a short, gnarly man who looked
remarkably like a bull gorilla. The gnarly man's eyes bugged. He gaped. He whirled and ran.
"The evil flee where no man pursueth," Preacher intoned.
"You said a mouthful, brother. Want to bet that geek had something to do with croaking Rider's
old man?"
"Gambling is a snare of the devil," Preacher replied. "No bet. Let's get him."
"I got a better idea. Let's see where he goes. He's heading up Floral. Looked like a
foreigner. Maybe he don't know you can cut through Bleek Alley."
"I'll take the alley. You run him."
"Lazy." Preacher had that reputation.
"He's gaining."
That gnarly man could move for having such short legs.
"The wings of fear carrieth the wicked."
"Stuff it, Preach. Cut out and head him off."
Preacher ducked into Bleek Alley, black clothing flying around him. It was a dark, twisting
way little more than the span of his arms wide, filled with trash and shadows.
One clot of shadow coughed up a swarm of gnarly men. "Ambush!" Preacher gasped. Footsteps
hammered behind him. There was no exit.
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Preacher never backed down from a fight. And he was five times tougher than he talked, ten
times tougher than he looked. He let rip one great bloody shriek and hurled himself forward.
His attack astonished them. Long thin arms tipped by fists as hard as rocks hammered them. The
gnarly men grunted as the blows fell, got tangled as they tried to reorganize. Preacher produced a
sand-filled leather sap and started thumping heads. Two gnarly men went to sleep.
Then the tribe behind arrived. A wave of stubby limbs rolled over Preacher. Someone snatched
his sap away and used it. His aim was erratic. Gnarly men suffered more often than Preacher.
Then darkness enveloped Preacher.
Four gnarly men stood over him, panting and rubbing bruises. Their leader snarled, "Get the
wagon. Get him out of here before the other one comes." He spoke a language of the far east,
little-known in Shasesserre.
Another man, kneeling over the fallen, said, "Broken neck here, Emerald."
The leader, Emerald, indistinguishable from the others, cursed the dead man for complicating
his life. "Throw him in the wagon too." He kicked Preacher.
Soup—so called since childhood, for reasons he no longer recalled—became suspicious. His
quarry was not trying hard enough to escape. When there was no Preacher waiting, and the gnarly
man turned into Bleek Alley, he knew.
Soup trotted back the way he had come.
Soup carried no weapon but the knife he used when eating. He did not approve of bloody-minded
violence—not to mention that Shasesserre had laws banning civilians carrying blades—though he was
not shy about mixing it up when the occasion arose. None of Rider's gang were.
He stopped at a smithy, bought a pick, left its head with the baffled toolmaker.
He repaired to the mouth of Bleek Alley, listened, heard the distant creak of wagon wheels. Of
Preacher there was no sign. "Trouble for sure," he muttered, and stalked into the shadows.
Trouble did not disappoint him. There was a sudden rush of feet. He hoisted his pick handle
and used it like a two-handed sword.
Its heavy end tapped skulls. Gnarly men shrieked. Heads cracked like eggshells. Bones broke.
Soup let out a wild howl. "Who ambushed who?" he laughed, and laid on again.
Emerald saw the way of things early. He fell back, scrambled up onto a rusted metal balcony
dangling precariously eight feet above, yelled at his men to flee. As Soup passed below, shouting,
"Stand and take it, you cowards!" Emerald reached down and whacked the back of his head. Soup's
lights went out. Moments later he was bound and in the wagon with Preacher and several dead gnarly
men.
IV
Rider went up the tower with a tireless ease matched only by Su-Cha, who levitated from stage
to stage. The imp grinned down at Chaz, Spud, and Greystone, offering endless unsolicited advice.
Chaz threatened, "Any more mouth and we'll see how you rope dive without a rope." It was an
empty threat. Su-Cha would fall only if he wanted.
Rider reached the high platform well ahead of his men. Below, people pointed and asked what
the Protector's son was doing. He was well-known, which he did not like. It would interfere with
his new work.
The side of the platform facing the Golden Crescent boasted a pair of lithe, springy fifty-
foot poles of newly trimmed green wood brought up just that morning. Workmen were attaching long,
tough, elastic ropes. Similar poles and ropes were installed at stages all up the tower. Later,
Shasesserre's young men would place their ankles in harnesses attached to those ropes and dive
into space. The springy poles would absorb their momentum and halt them just short of death. They
would dive from ever higher stations, their numbers dwindling as altitude betrayed courage's
limit. It would be dark before they reached the top. The remaining divers would jump carrying
torches.
Rider had won the competition during his sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth years.
He glanced at the workmen, then paid them no mind. They showed more interest in him. He was a
remarkable physical specimen, and a reputed genius.
The death engine stood at the side of the platform facing the Citadel. Rider asked, "Anyone
touched this?"
Heads shook. One man offered, "We didn't know what it was for. What is it?"
Rider ignored the question. "Ingenious." He moved around the engine cautiously, never touching
it.
"Geep!" a workman said.
"Hello to you too," Su-Cha sing-songed.
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Rider faced his associates. "Look this thing over when you catch your breath, Spud. See if
it's booby-trapped."
"Never again," Spud gasped. "Never again." He began studying the machine.
"You still got to get down," Chaz reminded.
"Let him jump," Su-Cha said. "Maybe he can knit wings before he hits."
"Your sense of humor is juvenile," Chaz observed.
"I'm just a young thing. Barely two thousand."
"No booby traps," Spud announced.
"Do you recognize the workmanship?"
"No." Spud looked over the edge. He swayed. Rider grabbed his arm.
"Dang!" Su-Cha said. "Thought he'd try it."
Chaz kicked toward the imp's behind. Su-Cha was absent when his foot arrived. He cackled from
a far corner of the platform, perched atop a workman's tool chest.
Mumbling, the workmen started leaving.
"Let's see if my father marked his killer. Su-Cha, do you smell anything?"
The imp sniffed around the killing machine. His face puckered into one huge frown. "It's
there. But weak. Be hard to isolate." He got down on all fours, snuffled like a hound. He went
right to the top of the ladder and over the side, head down.
"Don't take no demon to figure that," Chaz said. "No murderer was going to fly out of here."
Greystone suggested, "We could offer a reward for witnesses." The scholar seldom spoke. When
he did, even Rider listened. "Even at midnight someone might have seen him."
"Hmm. No," Rider said. "Not yet. Likely to raise questions. Maybe if the news gets out. You
and Spud might visit neighborhood watering holes. If anybody did see a climber he'll talk about
it."
Spud complained, "Come on, Rider. Why can't we go with you? How come Chaz and Su-Cha get in on
all the excitement?"
"Chaz will miss out too. He'll be looking for Soup and Preacher. We should have heard from
them." Rider slowly turned as he spoke, flicked a glance toward the Citadel. "Ah. I thought so."
"What?" Chaz demanded.
"Someone is in the lab. Thought I saw movement a while ago."
"Let's go!" Chaz whooped, and went over the side. Spud and Greystone followed. Rider examined
the death machine again, then seized one of the diving ropes.
He jumped.
Workmen yelled. Rider plunged toward the Plaza. The spring in rope and pole absorbed his
momentum. He came to a halt six feet from the surface, let go, landed running. His associates were
not yet thirty feet down from the tower platform.
He whipped into the Citadel, climbed stairs at a pace punishing even for his iron muscles,
slammed into his father's laboratory.
The place was a shambles.
He placed one finger on the wall. It was warm. He nodded, made supple-fingered passes over the
floor. Glimmering footprints appeared. Two men. One larger than the other. The larger tracks ran
to the window and back. A lookout. The smaller feet went straight to the door, spacing indicating
haste. The lookout had witnessed Rider's jump.
Rider was rereading his father's message when Chaz, Omar, Greystone, and Su-Cha arrived.
"Catch them, Rider?" the imp piped.
"No. They were looking for a last message. And found one."
"Darn. That means trouble."
"For them." Rider indicated the wall.
Su-Cha chortled. "You changed it. Are they going to be mad."
"More than you know. I'll be there to greet them."
Chaz rubbed his hands together eagerly, drew the huge and entirely illegal sword he carried.
He examined its edge.
"No," Rider said. "I'm going alone. You have your assignments."
"Rider!"
Rider ignored their protests, leaned out the window.
"What is it?" The whole laboratory shivered. Glass rattled. Dust danced.
"Military airship. I should have sensed it sooner. The web is more damaged than I thought.
We'll have to wrap this up fast and get to repairing it."
Noise rose from the Plaza as the airship passed over. It settled toward the military moorings
on the Martial Fields.
It was a gaudy bombard from the eastern fleet. The side effects of the sorcery that propelled
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it faded.
"Off on your errands now," Rider said.
"Suppose we catch the killer?" Su-Cha asked.
"Bring him here." Rider's voice was cold grey iron. "There are questions I want to ask."
"Right."
Chaz was out the door already, humming. He'd thought of an amusing trick to play on Soup and
Preacher.
Su-Cha, Spud, and Greystone followed.
Rider busied himself in the laboratory, collecting items he concealed about himself. Then he
set out on the trail of glowing footprints. He believed he knew where they were headed, but wanted
to see what stops they made.
The footprints materialized a dozen steps ahead of him, faded that far behind. Before long the
men making them separated. He elected to follow the smaller prints.
V
Chance led Su-Cha, Spud, and Greystone across Chaz's path. The northerner was holding up a
wall with one shoulder while talking to an attractive young woman. His mind was not on business.
Su-Cha said, "Feast your glims on this, guys," and he scrunched his eyes tight shut.
His body changed. Not much, but enough to provide the appearance of a child about four. Then
he charged Chaz, wrapped his arms around the barbarian's legs. "Daddy. Daddy. Mommy says you have
to come right home."
Chaz's jaw dropped. The woman's brow wrinkled. The barbarian saw Spud and Greystone grinning.
He roared, "Su-Cha! I'll flay you and use your damned spook hide ... "
"Daddy? Are you mad?"
Chaz kicked the imp into traffic, where he narrowly missed being trampled.
The young woman gave him bloody hell. He tried to explain. She did not believe a word he said.
Imps!
Chaz was angry. He did not observe his surroundings in the alert way survival in the north
demanded. He overlooked the gnarly men entirely, though they stood out even among the ten thousand
outrageous foreigners haunting that Shasesserren street.
He worked his way from place to place, asking after Soup and Preacher. None of their
acquaintances had seen them. He grew concerned. They should not have been so hard to find.
He made the acquaintance of the gnarly men as he cut through a delivery way between major
streets. Those men seemed to prefer alleyways.
A rush of feet from behind.
Chaz's reactions were not impaired. Out came the illegal but seldom challenged sword. A gnarly
man howled out his life as a cross stroke opened his belly. Another shrieked and clutched a
savaged bicep. The mob halted, danced back out of reach.
Emerald cursed his men for idiots, cursed himself for being saddled with them, cursed the
orders that brought him to Shasesserre. He redeployed. Two men with gladiatorial-style nets moved
to the fore.
Chaz was not given to suicidal heroics. He retreated.
The net men knew their stuff. They feinted, pressed, feinted, tried to tangle Chaz's legs and
blade. Their comrades threw brickbats. One especially savage throw glanced off Chaz's shin and
succeeded in distracting him.
Net in high, brushed aside. But the net low tangled his right ankle. Down he went. The pack
leaped forward. Chaz bellowed and roared, punched, kicked, and bit. He littered that alley with
howling villains. But all the while Emerald danced in and out, whapping his hard northern head
with the captured sap.
Chaz gave up to the darkness.
Soup wakened to a world throbbing and fogged. At one moment it seemed he was in a darkened
coliseum, its walls so distant they were invisible, the lamps starry pinpricks miles away. The
next moment it all rushed in. He was near crushed by gaudy eastern furnishings impossible to
enumerate. His limited attention focused on a single detail, a slim, golden-skinned woman of
incredible beauty, who paced before a wallhanging embroidered with eastern fantasies.
She was a little thing, and young, but no child. She moved with an animal litheness that set
Soup's brain more aspin.
She said something softly.
A muffled male voice replied. Soup could not distinguish individual words. But it seemed a
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voice he should know.
The woman glanced at the prisoners. She had the most remarkable eyes Soup had ever seen. Big,
green, they were eyes to swallow a man's soul. She was a trap to break a heart of stone!
She faced left. "There is no point complaining. Emerald is not here. And no change in plan can
be made before the Master arrives."
The male voice became more strident but no more clear. Soup wished for a glimpse of the
speaker.
The woman replied, "Your desires are of consequence only insofar as they complement those of
the Master."
More male talk, angry. Threatening.
The woman smiled. She pointed. "Do you wish to join them? Or to do the Master's bidding?"
The complaints subsided.
All this while Soup's world shrank and swelled and rolled on its belly and back. Now darkness
returned.
Later the veil parted again. A large, fluffy cat was nosing around his face. It would not go
away.
A different male voice grumbled something in an eastern tongue. Many feet tramped. Men
grunted. A body flopped down nearby. A gnarly man bent over it, forced something small and brown
between slack lips.
Chaz!
Another of the group taken. What was going on?
The woman said, "Emerald, our friend doesn't like the way we're doing this. We're not moving
fast enough to suit him."
The gnarly man spat. "I came here with twelve men, as you asked, friend. I have five dead and
two with broken bones already. You were not honest with us. I think, when the Master arrives, you
will answer for that."
The unknown man responded with fear in his muffled voice.
The woman said, "Your plan is sound. It will be pursued. We will isolate the Protector's son
from his friends, then handle him. Then we will eliminate others who would resist us. That will
not be difficult once the Master arrives."
The Master. The Master, Soup thought. Who is that?
Emerald said, "I suggest you obtain local helpers. I cannot keep losing men."
There was a stir. Someone came to where Soup, Preacher, and Chaz lay. He wore a heavy paper-
mache mask pierced by two narrow eyeslits. The man in the mask laughed. "For this I will hire an
army. I must have them all."
Soup again thought he sensed something familiar.
"Go recruit, then," Emerald said.
The man in the mask went away.
Emerald and the golden-skinned woman murmured to one another. Soup's universe remained
unstable. And now his head hurt terribly. Preacher, he noted, showed signs of recovering too.
Chaz, though, was out for the count.
Then he went down into the darkness again.
He wakened to: "The Master comes!" The golden-skinned woman's breath caught in her throat. A
fetching effect, he thought ... The dizzies caught and spun him around.
He was not sure what he saw next was not part of a drug dream. A hideous little man no bigger
than Su-Cha, with a large normal head, stood peering down at him. His coloring and dress were
oriental. His hands were folded before him. His fingers were encased in golden shields meant to
protect nails grown many inches long.
The dwarf radiated malevolence.
The Master.
The golden-skinned woman lay face down behind him, abasing herself. Of Emerald there was no
sign.
Emerald was stalking the remainder of Rider's men.
His manpower depleted, he had opted for cunning. He posted his men, then sought out Spud,
Greystone, and Su-Cha. Speaking Shasesserren brokenly, bowing, he blocked their path. "Is told you
fella seek holy joe fella Pleacher, so? Is bounty find same?"
"Maybe," Spud said. "Depends."
"You come see belong you fella friend Preacher, longside double." Emerald hurried away.
The three followed. "A remarkable physical specimen," Greystone said, scholarly curiosity
piqued.
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Spud grumbled, "There's an accent behind that pidgin that 1 know from somewhere. Can't get my
hooks on it."
Grinning, prancing ahead, back to the gnarly man, Su-Cha said, "We've found our man. This is
the guy Rider's old man marked."
Spud and Greystone halted. "You mean? ... "
"Yes indeed." Su-Cha's little round face went hard.
"You fella come?"
"By all means," Greystone replied. "By all means."
"Ambush of some kind," Spud decided.
"Somebody's going to ambush somebody," Su-Cha chirped.
But they were not prepared when it happened, as, passing a tavern, they were set upon by five
gnarly men with nets and ropes. It was no fight at all. Greystone and Spud were netted, tied, and
dragged into an alley almost before bystanders were aware something was happening.
Su-Cha was another matter. The gnarly men could not keep a net on a creature able to
discorporate and reintegrate elsewhere. But they produced fetishes of holly and garlic and a rope
of silver. They surrounded him with the rope. He could not escape their closing circle. The holly
and garlic prevented him getting close enough to strike back.
Grinning, Emerald tossed a net into which silver thread had been plaited.
The last of Rider's associates was caught.
"Better this time," Emerald said. "Let's deliver them. Then we try the tough one."
"These guys were tough enough," one man protested.
"We'll have help after this. Shut up and come on. People are getting nosey."
VI
Rider followed the glowing footprints to a grand mansion on the Balajka Hill, Shasesserre's
wealthiest section. He faced a decision. The tracks went in, but then came out again. Continue
following them? Or investigate the house?
That was supposed to be empty.
Jehrke had known all Shasesserre's leading men, so his son knew them too. This mansion
belonged to one Vlazos, currently posted to the western army for his year in five of public
service.
Someone had usurped the place in his absence.
Rider decided he would come back later. He continued tracking the man who had had his father
murdered.
He was two hundred yards away when a rushing coach nearly overran him. He rose angrily. Such
drivers had no place in Shasesserre of the overcrowded streets. The coach turned in through the
gate to the Vlazos mansion.
Rider intuited the arrival of an important conspirator. Perhaps one more important than the
man he tracked. He turned back.
The Vlazos grounds were surrounded by a fifteen-foot wall. Rider made sure no one was in
sight, swarmed up using cracks between stones for foot and hand holds. He peeped over the top, saw
nothing remarkable, hoisted himself, dropped lightly to the manicured turf inside. He reached the
side of the house only moments after the front door closed behind the newcomer.
The carriage stood untended. Rider sent his wizard-trained senses to explore. He could find no
guard behind the door. The newcomer and his driver were moving deeper into the house, one toward
the kitchens, the other toward where several lifesparks glimmered.
He recognized the sparks of Preacher, Cliaz, Soup. The conclusion was unavoidable. His
father's enemies had made them prisoners.
Rider went through the door as silently as death. He followed the man who had come in the
coach. Already his driver was in the kitchens, drinking. Soon Rider heard a piping voice say
something unintelligible.
A dozen steps more, along a shadowed hallway. He noted that oriental furnishings had replaced
those Vlazos preferred. Ahead, a strong smell of rare eastern incense. A tapestry hung across a
large doorway. He heard movement beyond it.
Rider peeped through the narrowest of gaps on one side. He saw his three men immediately,
bound and unconscious. Nearer him, an attractive oriental woman abased herself upon the floor. She
chattered in a melodic tongue.
Rider spoke half a hundred languages, but this one evaded him.
The newcomer spoke one curt syllable. Rider nearly jumped. The man was right in front of him.
Was he invisible? His gaze dropped. A dwarf!
He hearkened back to tales his father had told, in his uncertain, fragmentary fashion. There
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were many old enemies. One was an especially nasty dwarf. What was that name? Yes. Kralj Odehnal.
Kralj Odehnal, renowned sorcerer and dreaded torturer. One of the villains long stifled by the
Protector. But Odehnal was a loner.
The dwarf and young woman chattered at one another. The fate of Rider's men was being
determined. He prepared to surprise their captors.
But, it seemed, they were to be spared a while. He supposed as potential leverage. He decided
to await developments. There was more afoot than a murder plot.
Time passed. Then men trooped in through another entrance. They carried Spud, Greystone, and
Su-Cha.
Su-Cha! liven the imp.
His father's enemies were wasting no time bringing the shadow to Shasesserre.
It was time to move. To break the conspiracy's back before it became aware it had been found
out.
Rider took an ebony figurine from a hidden pocket, held it against his forehead, over the
point called the third eye. After a moment of concentration, he spat on it.
Beyond the tapestry the dwarf and gnarly men gabbled at one another in the unfamiliar
language. Rider ripped the hanging aside, tossed the figurine, shouted, "Pyznar, you live!"
A shadow exploded into a dark, tusked demon. Its fangy mouth opened in a silent roar. Men
squealed and shrieked. The sudden monster jumped on one of Emerald's gang. The dwarf cursed. The
woman fled instantly, without thought or hesitation.
The shadow turned on a second victim as Rider stepped past the tapestry, his hands afire with
fresh sorcery. Odehnal looked at him, snarled, "You!"
"Me. And the end of your game, Kralj." The shadow turned to a third gnarly man. Rider slapped
his hands together, thrust them toward the dwarf. The combined fires flared violently, blindingly.
Odehnal shrieked, terrified, knowing he could muster no spell in time to save himself.
A gnarly man staggered into the space between Rider and Odehnal, shoved there by Emerald. The
chief of the gnarly men snagged the dwarf and ran.
Rider's spell hit Emerald's sacrifice. Golden fires gnawed the man. He screamed. Then went
silent when the shadow turned upon him.
Finished there, and with all Emerald's crew, the shadow faced Rider's men. It took Rider a
full minute to restore the demon to miniature form. By then he had abandoned hope of catching
Odehnal. His task, now, was to get his men out before the dwarf struck back.
"Good show," Su-Cha congratulated, as Rider freed him first. The imp was the only one
conscious.
"Help get these guys untied. We have to get them out. This place will be under attack in a few
minutes."
Su-Cha moved. He knew Rider wasted no threats. "Who were those guys?"
"The dwarf is Kralj Odehnal. A sorcerer. An old enemy of my father. It can't be coincidence
that he turned up as soon as the web began to fray."
Soup proved to be conscious. When Rider removed his gag, he croaked, "The runt's the
mastermind, Rider. But there's somebody from the Citadel involved. He came up with the original
plan. He got the runt in. Then he took over. They were going to wipe out a lot of people besides
us."
"Uhm," Rider responded. "If you can walk, get out. Help Preacher." Rider hoisted Spud and
Greystone effortlessly, ran to the nearest exit, out onto the lawn, dumped the two men, was back
for Chaz in seconds.
The house had begun to glow when he charged out with the barbarian. The glow grew into a
blinding brilliance. The roar of collapsing masonry rose inside the brightness.
Rider never looked. He dropped Chaz by Su-Cha. "When they recover, go to the laboratory. Wait
for me there." Before Su-Cha could protest he spun and ran to the gate.
The street showed no sign of Odehnal or his coach.
Rider shrugged, took up the trail of glowing footprints once more. Now he ran, a long,
distance-devouring lope. Twice the trail led to and from the homes of men high in imperial
councils. Rider did not pause. He would get back to those men later.
Then the trail turned the direction he expected.
Rider's teeth showed in a grim smile.
VII
Emerald did his bandy-legged best to keep pace with Rider while remaining unnoticed. He
failed. He was built for endurance. Of speed he was capable only of short bursts. He turned back,
watched the crowd gathering to stare at the wreckage of the Vlazos mansion. In time Rider's gang
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came out the gate, supporting one another. He trailed them. His heart thumped wildly whenever he
reflected on the fact that thirteen men had come to Shasesserre. He was the last one left, and
only the Protector himself had been dispatched.
The Master might be in for as much trouble with the son as he had had with the father. Maybe
more. They said the Protector trained his child from birth to assume the role he now faced.
He had to seize it first, though!
Right to the Citadel. Just as expected. Emerald blended into the holiday crowd in the Plaza.
The initial festivities had begun. He pretended interest till he was sure he saw movement behind
the window of the Protector's laboratory. Then he went to report to the Master.
Rider's men picked up and cleaned up. "Looks like a whole tribe of northmen camped here a
week," Preacher grumbled, adding some scriptural quote about the savages bringing the earth low.
"Why do you always accuse us?"
"Because civilized people ... "
Su-Cha, observing from the window, cackled.
Chaz glowered his way. "I haven't forgotten you, devil. Your time is coming. Stewed imp with a
garlic garnish. Think about it. Wonder when you're going into the pot."
Spud said, "If you ask me it would be revenge enough just getting him to help here. He
wouldn't do his share if ... "
"Hold it," Su-Cha said, in a tone suddenly serious. "Take a look at this." He dropped off the
sill, stood looking over with his chin resting on his forearms, childlike.
Chaz and Preacher joined him. Cautiously.
"It's that villain, Emerald," Preacher said.
The festivities were gathering momentum. The Plaza was crowded. Nevertheless, Emerald stood
out. He was on the fringe of the mob, watching the Citadel gate.
The entire band crowded the window now. "Let's get him," Spud said.
"Rider said stay here," Greystone countered. "The web needs mending. He'll want our help."
"But he'd want us to do something if we saw that guy."
"We should stay put," Chaz said, surprising everyone. Usually Chaz was the first to yield to
impulse, the most eager to jump into trouble.
"This mess is big," he said defensively. "We need to get organized to handle it."
Su-Cha declared, "I don't need to be organized to dance on that thug's head. And this time he
isn't going to slick me." The imp headed for the door. Everyone but Chaz and Greystone followed.
Chaz went to the window to watch the gnarly man. Greystone continued picking up. He said,
"Precipitous action often leads to its own reward. The sensible course is to restore the web
before undertaking any action. We need its support."
"You figure the news is out yet?" Chaz glanced at the grisly ornament still pinned to the
wall.
"This cabal would have an interest in maintaining secrecy till they placed themselves in the
most favorable position."
"What happens tonight?"
"What do you mean?"
"Jehrke always hands out the prizes to the rope divers."
"Ah. Yes. So. These enemies of ours must have been confident they could achieve their ends
before then."
"Rider will take his father's place, I guess. Oh-oh. There they go."
Greystone joined Chaz. They watched their comrades race toward the gnarly man, who spotted
them, took off, stubby bow legs pumping furiously. "That fellow can surely run."
"For a ways," Chaz said."Bet he ain't much over a quarter mile." Below, Soup suddenly slowed
to a trot, though he did not give up pursuit. "What's Soup up to?"
Soup had been smitten by a suspicion that Emerald had been too easily spotted. Maybe he was
leading them into another ambush. If so, he would get a surprise of his own. Soup would
materialize after the trap was sprung.
Emerald began to slow and his pursuers to gain. The looks he cast back seemed genuinely
desperate. He whirled around a corner, knobby limbs flailing.
Rider's men rounded the corner and drifted to a halt. "Where'd he go?" Spud demanded. "He
couldn't disappear into thin air."
"Look around," Preacher said.
"I know. 'Seek and ye shall find.' Su-Cha, do your stuff."
There was no place for the gnarly man to have gone. The street was just a wide alleyway
between two doorless walls. It dead-ended in another brick wall.
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