Descent into the Depths of the Earth (12 page)

With a flurry of servants and a flutter of gorgeous wings,
Cavalier Tarquil stood at the entrance of Escalla’s apartment and sank into a
rather oily bow.

“Brightflower Maid! How much more refreshing than the dawn is
your brilliant smile.”

Escalla rose, flipped out her wings, and made a curtsy
carefully measured to keep the suitor at bay. Even so, she felt his eyes travel
down her cleavage as she bowed. Escalla hissed, caught herself, and pulled part
of her face into a smile.

Her mother had spies all around. A scrying spell would be on
her, and there would be an invisible creature lurking in every room. In a
society of shapeshifters, any object of the right size and mass was instantly
suspect. Escalla had already kicked most of the furniture and felt tremors of
pain in reply.

They were watching her for spells, for any attempt to escape.
They would be reporting Escalla’s right behavior to a mother who was as deadly
as a dracolich. Escalla kept her face stiff and her thoughts to herself as she
turned to invite the cavalier onto her balcony.

“Cavalier.”

The man had a bodyguard, a scarred duelist from his own clan
that clandestinely cast a detection spell. Leading the way to the balcony,
Escalla caught the motion from the corner of her eye.

“Oh, I can assure you we are being watched. There’s no point
in wasting a spell.”

“Ah, dear maid. It is not whether there is a spell, but
who
has thrown the spell.” Tarquil’s voice was polished and as silky as his
silver sword. “Sad to say, a man can sometimes acquire enemies.”

Cavalier Tarquil wore twelve kill ribbons on his
sleeves—mementos of duels gone by. Escalla gave a sarcastic lift of her eye and
said, “I can’t imagine why.”

“You disapprove of dueling, dear?” Tarquil snapped his
fingers. A servant ran forward to supply him with wine. “It is a righteous
sport.”

“Sport?”

“Of course.” The cavalier gave a mocking smile to Escalla.
“Shall the pot call the kettle black, my dear? You have an impressive kill
record of your own—monsters, creatures, brigands. It sounds like quite the
little crusade.”

Escalla bit back a savage reply, half turned away, then flew
over the balcony railing to land in the garden. Today, her father’s gardens were
a fantasy of roses. Even the grass seemed to be fashioned out of tiny little
flowers, all illusory, all slightly false to an eye that loved the glorious
imperfections of the real world. Escalla walked onward for a way then stood
still as she felt eyes running over her from behind.

She turned and glared at the cavalier.

“Quit looking at my butt!”

“Your pardon, maid, but it is a most noteworthy rear.” The
cavalier toyed with his sword. “When my father informed me of this match, I
never once thought that it might prove to be so…
beneficial.”

Escalla flicked her shirts out to hide the benefits in
question.

“The benefits aren’t yours yet, bub!”

“No? A shame.” The cavalier took a swift, searching look
across the open garden. “Shall we move into the shade?”

“You mean into cover.” Escalla looked a the man in sudden
intuition. “Who’s trying to bump you off?”

“Perish the thought. A mere habitual precaution, nothing
more.”

She took him into a rose bower—a bower carefully searched by
Tarquil’s bodyguard before he entered. Standing in privacy with Escalla, the man
visibly relaxed. He leaned against a towering rose trunk and looked Escalla
appreciatively up and down.

“A flower in the wilderness.”

“Yeah, that’s me. Bloom bloom bloom.” Escalla lifted up the
slowglass necklace that hung about her throat. “This is yours?”

“Of course. Slowglass is rare. Slowglass is beautiful—almost
as rare and beautiful as you.”

“Oh, your clan must want me somethin’ awful. Where the hell
did you find the slowglass? This stuff is rarer than hen’s teeth.”

Tarquil twittered his fingers and replied, “Your sister found
it for me. Your family was keen to help me pursue my suit.”

“I’ll
bet.”

Escalla sniffed and turned away. A moment later, she felt a
very unwelcome presence behind her. Tarquil set his hands upon Escalla’s bare
shoulders and leaned his face into the curtain of her hair.

“I am in your own old rooms. The mirror, the bed… places
where you must have dreamed so many restless adolescent dreams.” The man nuzzled
at Escalla’s ear. “Dreams can be so much tastier when we snatch them secretly.
Perhaps you want to sample a little piece of the cake before eating it becomes
simply a duty to be done… ?” Tarquil leaned much, much closer. “Your old
mirror might show you something you might like.”

He slid his hand onto her breast. In one blindingly fast
movement, Escalla whirled, balled her fist, and struck him in the face—the
force enough to send him staggering.

“Touch me again, and I’ll kill you!”

With a look of private amusement on his face, Tarquil touched
at his cheek. “You had best get used to it, my dear.” The faerie hissed as he
probed the bruise on his cheek “Yes, you are exactly as we thought. How
gratifying.”

In a whirl of his blue cloak, Tarquil turned and left the
bower. Escalla watched him go, flexing her hands and trying to hide the fury in
her eyes.

“No one
touches the faerie.”

A slither in the shadows behind Escalla told her that
mother’s invisible spy was still at hand. Without looking at it, Escalla angrily
picked up her skirts and passed it by.

“Go tell Mother: no free samples until the deal is signed and
sealed!”

Beneath a flame tree in the gardens, Lord Faen quietly
approached Lord Ushan. Ushan of Clan Sable stood stroking his chin, his eye on
the distant rose bower that held his nephew and the bride to be. As Tarquil
walked silkily forth, dusting at his clothes with a smile on his face, Lord Faen
came to stand at Ushan’s side.

“You seem agitated, colleague.”

“New alliances always bring birthing pains.” Ushan’s flame
robes made colors dance within his quiet eyes. “Still… romance makes
interesting viewing.”

“Quite so.” Faen smoothed his goatee, his eyes on Escalla as
the girl walked disdainfully through an illusory bridge and stream. “An
interesting creature.”

“She’s a savage.” Ushan glared at Escalla as though she were
an unwanted scientific specimen. “She wallows in the real like a beast in mud.”

Faen made an exasperated sound. He turned on Ushan with his
antennae held low and said, “Ushan, the drow are moving. There is a dark Seelie,
my friend, a reflection of all that we are. The old court of the Queen of Wind
and Woe has been approached by the dark elves, and with the dark elves comes the
demon Lolth, the Spider Queen!” Faen’s voice hissed low in Ushan’s ear. “We have
enemies gathering, Ushan. We need allies on the material plane if we are to
protect our flanks.”

Lord Ushan clicked his fingers. Two of his serving girls
brought a sedan chair to his side.

“The Queen of Wind and Woe was once Lolth’s mistress. If we
handled the dark queen, then we can handle her pet spider well enough.”

“We
did not handle the dark queen! It was Nightshade.
Only
they
have the secret!”

“Then if we give Nightshade what they want, we can trade. You
have made your point, Faen.” The sedan chair turned away. “The wedding will
proceed. Prepare your list of which court positions you want Clan Sable to
abandon to the barbarians and present it to me tonight.”

Ushan’s servants bore him off, leaving Faen standing upon the
flowery grass. With an irritated sweep, Faen banished the illusion. He now stood
upon honest moss, pacing up and down as he furrowed his brows.

Two days until the wedding. Faen walked and watched the
Nightshade palace, his brows permanently creased into a scowl.

In the abandoned village amidst the giants’ bones, the
morning seemed miserably quiet. Outside in the frost, the Justicar practiced
with his sword. The huge black blade made fast slices, thrusts, and parries.
Stripped to the waist, Jus rehearsed his savage combat style, matching blade
work with kicks, punches, head butts, and elbow strikes. His breath steamed as
he worked, coming in harsh puffs as he repeated his movements for the eleventh
time. Sitting on a pile of stones beside him, Cinders hung limp and desolate,
sniffing softly at a tiny little faerie vial.

Inside the tavern stables, Polk and Enid leaned on a
windowsill, the human dwarfed by the freckled sphinx. Both looked equally
miserable. Both sighed listlessly and stared blankly into the morning air.

Polk sighed yet again. His usual bluster was faded and gone.
“I left my bacon to cool this morning. No one stole the crunchy end bits while I
was gone.”

Enid’s tufted tail hung limp as an old wet rope. “There was a
dirty ditty folded up in one of these old books, but there’s no one to explain
it to me.”

Both companions sighed unhappily, feeling as though a vast
weight were crushing their souls. They could hardly bear to look as the Justicar
fought shadows in the tavern yard.

His hard work seemed sad and futile. He was using action as a
substitute for grief. Enid and Polk both nodded wisely, then turned away from
the window with a sigh.

On the tavern table lay a little bundle of goods—a tiny
leather dress, gloves and leggings, plus a bundle of papers. Rather than magic
scrolls, Escalla’s gift to Jus had simply been her own spell-books, and wrapped
within them had been her battle wand.

Polk reached for Enid’s currycomb to brush her pelt, but
instead fell into apathy as he saw the sad pile of papers on the table.

“I guess she’s really gone for good.”

Out in the courtyard, Jus could be heard sluicing himself
down with water. He stomped into the tavern dripping wet, breathless, dark and
brooding. He dropped his sword on the table and proceeded to dry himself
vigorously with a villainous piece of old sacking. The Justicar’s heavy body
showed a pale network of scars. Magic healing left few traces, although
reknitted wounds looked less weatherbeaten than the rest of Jus’ skin.

He took the small silver mirror that always hung about his
neck and propped it on a windowsill. Taking a razor from his pouch, Jus warmed
it briskly in the tea kettle, then squatted down to peer into the mirror as he
shaved his head.

The harsh
scrape-scrape-scrape
of the razor set Enid’s
nerves on edge. The big sphinx arose and began pacing back and forth, swishing
with her tail. She sighed in agitation. Jus shot the sphinx a look, turned back
to his shaving, and finally knocked his razor clean against the windowsill.

Perfectly calm, Jus drew in his breath, looked out the
window, and then drew his brows into a frown.

Smoke smudged the skyline.

Jus shrugged on his tunic, keeping his eyes on the skyline.
He found his armor and tugged the black dragon scale cuirass into place. He tied
his sword belt with one hand and swept Cinders about his back with the other.

The distant smoke had a broad base, deep black and unmoving.
It was a village burning, not a forest fire. Jus had seen enough towns destroyed
in his time to know the signs. The big man checked the edge of his sword and
then flung open the door.

“I have to look at something. Stay here and get ready to
move. I’ll be back by midday.”

The Justicar slammed the door behind him as he left. He took
a deep breath of forest air and looked about the abandoned village. Only the
birds and squirrels were stirring.

This was how it used to be—alone except for Cinders, alone in
the silence. Jus closed his eyes for a moment and tried to savor it. The cool,
the quiet, the isolation… He held it in his mind, but the old perfection of
it had gone.

The ranger turned and strode down the trail toward Sour
Patch, moving at a grim and silent speed. Still a ways from the village, he sank
into the woods, feeling the breath and movement of every tree.

Autumn had left the trees stark. Leaves lay in deep drifts,
wet and heavy, muffling every footfall in the gloom. Jus moved fast. In the
damp, sound carried badly, and few ears were sharp enough to hear him coming. He
crossed three miles in brisk time, keeping his eyes on glimpses of the smoke
cloud that smudged the sky.

A scent struck him, and he dropped. The wind had changed, and
with it came a foul bestial reek. The stink of it hit like a hammer, and Jus lay
instantly invisible among the leaves.

Nothing moved in the forest. There were no footfalls, no
bending twigs. Even so, the stink seemed to come from an animal—or a vast swarm
of animals. It smelled like a thousand putrid menageries, like rotting flesh and
rotten fish and unwashed bodies festering with slime.

“Cinders?”

No moves.
The dog winced.
Smells bad!