Lucian: Dark God's Homecoming (6 page)

When the forces of Baranak--the forces of hidebound reactionary conservatism--finally met the revolutionaries in the square of the City, there on that fateful day so many centuries ago, Malachek was nowhere to be seen. He knew precisely how the conflict would end, and knew that by not acting, he was in fact guaranteeing the outcome.

Later, when they threw me into the dungeons for the first time, I tried desperately not to hate him. He had not fought against me, and had not helped my enemies. I understood this. I should not have hated him then, and I surely could not hate him now.

Nevertheless, old slights, even those merely perceived, die hard.

Before I could utter a word, I heard the humans all gasp in surprise. I turned back to see what had startled them, but I should have known already. Malachek’s ghost-guardians flickered about the room, their ethereal forms solidifying momentarily as they engaged in any number of tasks, from dusting the ancient wooden furniture to sweeping away the muddy tracks we’d left on the floor. One took Malachek’s soaked hat as it passed, while another brought him his pipe.

“Do not be troubled,” he reassured the humans. “Baranak has his Hosts, and I have my Ghosts. Of the two, I assure you these are much better behaved.”

Smiling, he gestured them toward a side room.

“You will be provided with refreshments in there. Please make yourselves at home while I speak with Lucian.”

As the humans cautiously entered the room Malachek had indicated, he gestured me toward the library.

“Come and sit. We will discuss recent events and make such sense of it all as can be made.” As an aside to me, he whispered, “New minions, eh?”

“Burdens, rather,” I replied, “though only until I can find a proper way of disposing of them.”

His face betrayed a measure of alarm.

“Now, Lucian—do be civil. They seem perfectly harmless.”

He surreptitiously looked them over, his gaze pointedly dwelling upon Evelyn.

“And not altogether unattractive.”

Still wary of the flickering specters, Evelyn, Cassidy and Kim made their way into the cozy library, followed by Malachek and myself. The fireplace blazed warm and welcoming, immediately driving the chill from my bones, as did the snifter of brandy he handed over. As the humans warmed themselves and looked over the old god’s collection of books and maps, Malachek directed me to a rich, leather-upholstered chair. Into this I was all too happy to collapse my lank form after a night on the cold, hard floor of the dungeon. My senses, still not fully attuned to the reawakened Power, warned me not to make myself too comfortable—to watch for any signs of betrayal. My aching body argued persuasively otherwise, however, and quickly prevailed. I sank into the cushions.

Conjuring an identical chair opposite me, he filled his delicately carved pipe with tobacco and lit it. Settling back into the cushions, he exchanged pleasantries with me briefly. Then his expression grew more somber, and he came quickly to the point.

“Let us assume,” he began, “that I believe you had nothing to do with the recent deaths.”

I nodded, quite happy for someone to believe this, even if only hypothetically.

“The first I heard of it was when Baranak accused me,” I told him.

“So what do you intend to do?”

I laughed humorlessly.

“I have to admit, the temptation is great to secure a case of good whiskey and vanish into a pocket universe until Baranak or somebody else finds the real killer.”

Malachek smiled.

“But you won’t.”

I inhaled deeply, looked away, exhaled slowly.

“No. I won’t. Because I have very little confidence in Baranak’s ability to find his ass with both hands and a set of directions; even less in his capacity to recognize the truth; and still less of a sense that he even cares to.”

“You are probably right,” he said.

“Think about it,” I said. “Nobody has died recently. He executes me, and everyone is happy, and he remains popular. If the real killer starts up again later, all the better for Baranak—he can launch into action, bringing in another suspect. And those who remain will be cowed into obeying him, following his orders.” I met Malachek’s eyes again, feeling the old resentments building once more. “I do not much care for those who rule through fear and intimidation.”

“Of course not,” he replied. “You prefer the more subtle methods of bending your peers to your will.”

I smiled. “Touché.”

He puffed his pipe and regarded me silently for a time through the blue haze.

“So what can you tell me?” I finally asked.

“Many things.”

“No doubt,” I said. “Any of them pertinent?”

His eyes narrowed briefly, then relaxed into a smile.

“I will let you be the judge of that,” he replied.

Leaning back in his chair, he gestured, conjuring a holographic representation of the central square of the City within the drifting smoke. At the heart of the image, the plume of the Fountain towered in all its glory.

“Very recently, as we judge time” he began, “the Fountain stopped flowing. Almost certainly, the murders—if murders they were—took place during that time. The only alternative would have been for the killer to drag seventy-two gods to the main square of Heaven and throw them into the Fountain, and I seriously doubt that could have been accomplished in so short a time, under Baranak’s watchful eye, and with no one else noticing.”

“Unless Baranak did it himself,” I suggested, sipping my brandy. “Of all the gods, he is the only one who could have overpowered each of the others one-on-one.”

Malachek considered this.

“I have never been particularly fond of Baranak,” he said. “You know this, or you would not have come here. But I cannot imagine him capable of such an act, nor do I see any reason why he might wish to do so. Likewise, while I do not care for his personality, I have never had cause to doubt his sense of honor. If he was prepared to execute you, he was convinced of your guilt.”

Reluctantly, I nodded.

“So he means well,” I said. “Fine. But he is wrong.”

Malachek’s expression was unreadable.

“Of course,” he said.

He gestured sharply, and the floating image vanished.

My mind searched quickly through all I’d seen and heard since returning to the City, and again I pondered our release from the dungeon, and my misgivings there.

“What do you know of Alaria?” I asked him.

“Alaria?” He frowned. “As much and as little as anyone, I suppose.”

I described for him the events of the past few hours.

He steepled his fingers before his lips and considered.

“It could be that she was genuinely concerned for you, or for the truth, or both. But then, how often do any of us have only one single, clear motive behind anything we do?”

He smiled warmly.

“Now, for example. I help you because it serves the interests of finding the truth and of preventing an injustice. But by the same token, it also serves me personally, should you emerge from these circumstances in better position than Baranak and his friends.”

I admitted to myself that I had not considered that part of the equation, and felt a measure of respect and even fondness in my heart for Malachek.

He stroked his chin absently, the way he always did when running up against a problem for which he did not have an immediate answer.

“You say Vorthan was with Baranak?” he asked. “Odd… It was always Rashtenn who stood at Baranak’s side—but I suppose now that would be impossible. No wonder the old warrior’s taking it all so hard.” Malachek shook his head. “Such a waste… Eternity seventy-two times over, gone in such a brief time.”

I bowed my head along with him for a moment, but then pressed on, anxious for more information and nervous about staying in one place for too long.

“So Vorthan working closely with Baranak is a new development?” I asked.

Malachek nodded.

“Oh, yes. Vorthan was never part of the inner circle.”

He puffed on his pipe, a cloud of smoke floating over his head.

“It would make sense, though, at least at this time,” he continued. “If the Fountain had to be repaired in some manner, our god of toil would surely be the one to turn to.”

I nodded and mulled this over. Then another question—one I should have considered much earlier—came to mind.

“Why might the Fountain have stopped flowing at all? I had thought it a possibility when the Power abandoned me in exile, but there was precious little I could do about it then. For all I knew, they had found some way to cut me off, specifically. I did not discover the truth until recently.”

“I’ve assumed it to have been a natural phenomenon,” he said. “Perhaps some sort of outside interference, or something diverting it at its source, about which we know next to nothing, even after all this time.”

I considered this.

“What if someone wanted to block it off intentionally? Would it be possible?”

“Intentionally?” His eyes widened, and he puffed on his pipe again, smoke now wreathing about him like a cocoon. “It would be extremely difficult to hold back the flood,” Malachek said, “but not impossible, I think. But it would require very careful work and very precise engineering knowledge of the Fountain.”

We looked at one another then, the same thought passing through our minds simultaneously. The same face.

“But… why?” Malachek asked, almost incredulous. “Just to allow the murder of the gods? What gain could there possibly be, from such a thing?”

I had a few ideas along those very lines, and started to reply, when all about us the flickering ghost-guardians froze in their tracks and vanished, instantly replaced by frenetically swirling lights. A loud wail echoed from every room in the castle.

I looked up, my first thoughts of the three humans who had accompanied me.

“What have they gotten into?” I asked, rising to my feet.

“No, it is an external alert,” Malachek replied over the blaring noise. “Someone approaches. Someone powerful.”

“That would be our cue, then.”

The humans raced in from the adjoining room, Cassidy still holding a plate of food in one hand and a drink in the other, eating and imbibing as much as he could while the opportunity lasted. I had known a few men and women like him during my exile, and I found I liked him more than I had previously thought.

“What is it?” Evelyn asked.

All three humans wore questioning expressions.

“Time to go,” I told them.

Malachek gestured toward a rear door and I moved to follow him.

“Thank you for sharing your wisdom and your advice,” I said. “It was most welcome.”

“I hope I have been of some small assistance,” he replied, frowning, “though I have taken little comfort from our conversation.”

He led us quickly into a small sitting room.

“Perhaps I can also help you along your way.”

The wall in one area was recessed slightly. At a gesture on his part, the stone seemed to melt, falling away in liquid globs to reveal an opening.