The Leopard (Marakand) (36 page)

But the devils deceived the wizards, and betrayed them. The devils took the souls of the wizards into their own, and become one with them, and devoured them. They walked as wizards among the wizards, and destroyed those who would not obey, or who counselled against their counsel. They desired the homage of kings and the enslavement of the folk, and they were never sated, as the desert is never sated with rain. They would have ruled the earth and the folk of the earth and its gods and its goddesses; they would have devoured the spirit of the living earth and turned the strength of the earth against the Great Gods in their heaven.

So the kings of the north and the tribes of the grass and those wizards whom the devils had not yet slain pretended submission, and plotted in secret, and they rose up against the tyranny of the devils and overthrew them. But the devils were devils, even in human bodies, and not easily slain. Only with the help of the Old Great Gods were they bound, one by one, and imprisoned—Honeytongued Ogada in stone, Vartu Kingsbane in earth, Jasberek Fireborn in water, Twice-Betrayed Ghatai in the breath of a burning mountain, Dotemon Dreamshaper in the oldest of trees, Tu’usha the Restless in the heart of a flame, Jochiz Stonebreaker in the youngest of rivers. And they were guarded by demons, and goddesses, and gods. And the Old Great Gods withdrew from the world, and await the souls of human folk in the heavens beyond the stars, which men call the Land of the Old Great Gods.

It is said that the seven devils did not sleep but lay ever-waking within their bonds, and they worked against their bonds and weakened them, and they worked against their captors and their gaolers slept or they died, as even gods and goddesses can die, when the fates allow it.

And a devil came to Ulvsness of the Hravningas in the north, when Ragnvor was queen, and a devil came to Lissavakail in the Pillars of the Sky when the last human incarnation of the goddess was a child, and there was fire, and battle, and death. The skalds of the north have long sung it; now the bards of the Western Grass begin to shape the tales; the soothsayers see shadows of what yet may come when they cast their stones. The waking devils walk the world again.

Catairlau dreamed. He thought he had been dreaming forever, but Hyllau knew that was not true. There was a girl in his arms, slim and sweet, her head snugged against his shoulder. The girl had been there forever where no one should ever be, wrapped in the same dream, the two of them, lying in deep water, and the girl’s hands on his body, which was
hers
, were an abomination. The girl’s hand over his, fingers laced into his own, pushing it down the curve of her breast, across her belly, through the curling hair and between—
no
.

She found a memory. He clutched a corpse. Miara, that square, plain, middle-aged wizard who had dared try to claim him. Thought of Miara stirred something in him, the wrongness of it. Too light a weight, too perfumed, too clinging, her fingers pushing his, caressing . . . Not a corpse; hot and alive, burning against his skin. He moved to hurl himself away and was still dreaming, still drowning, unable to move, and the water was so heavy, holding her down as well. She should have slept longer. She was meant to sleep; her mother had meant her to sleep, to drift in soft dreams of gentle water while her Catairlau carried her safe through the years, till the time should come when she would find her rightful place in the world again.

This wasn’t the gentle water of her dreams; this was dark, deep, and cold, and her dreams were soft but tormenting. She never slept quiet. The terror of the great empty void, the maw of nothingness that waited to claim her halfling soul never allowed her the dreams her mother would have sent. Always there was the burning, the hungry fire that woke her, the knowing that she was fading into the void as the stuff of her soul fed Catairlau’s unnatural life. Her mother had unwittingly cursed her when shaping this refuge, had made her his prey, and as a sleeping man’s body, with the assassin’s cord around its neck, wakes to defend itself before he is even aware that he fights for life, she, too, would wake, and fight as she must for the breath of her life, the fire of the soul’s breaking with its body, as it tore itself away to the long road.

This was a different threat, nightmare, but she stirred and could not wake, as he could not. She was dreaming of herself, of her Catairlau, of the girl who was fire and water and hungry eyes rolling astride him, with thoughts of a child, a king, an emperor Over-Malagru in her mind.

Mine!
she hissed, and woke herself with her own fury to take him. She flung the girl aside with Catairlau’s strength and followed, seizing her to snap the neck, and drink the fire of her souls, but the girl twisted free of him and struck him down, with a sword in her hand. Hyllau had not seen her draw it. It burned in the air; it was of the air, iron and fire, and the girl smiled seeing her behind Catairlau’s eyes and said,
Little death that sleeps in him, I said I would feed you. Shall I feed you on him, and watch you both die beyond any hope of the Old Great Gods?
And she pushed Catairlau down to lie where he had fallen, so that he looked dead, dead and empty, an abandoned corpse, not even breathing, but his eyes were open.

The girl breathed, rapid and shallow, and her eyes went wide and dark in the light of the gilded lamp that burned in a niche by the door. Shocked. Her hand stole down to cover herself, and the sword was gone; Hyllau had not seen it dropped. The girl snatched a blanket from the bed and wrapped herself, wiping her mouth on her arm.

Silly virgin fool. Hyllau could show her . . .

But as she gathered nerve and sinew again the girl crossed the floor in three brisk strides and knelt, a hand spread over Catairlau’s chest. She sang, foreign words, high and wavering. Power flowed through them.

The waters of Hyllau’s dreaming wrapped about her again.

The Lady would send the commander of the Red Masks, her champion, to aid Ketsim against Durandau the high king. She had said it; it would be so. She had not meant it to be so soon, when she said it, but—it was better so. Yes. Deal with Praitan and have it done. Then she would ride east herself and crown her captain king, and she would—yes.

In the pale twilight before dawn, they assembled to march away. The priests, those who had woken at the stir through the sacred precinct and naturally Rahel and Ashir, whom she had woken with her own early rising, were with her to witness their marching. Zora had ordered Rahel to dress her hair with white flowers, scented jessamine and lacy mist-on-the-river, some twisted into a braid about her head, some loose, coiling down her back. She enjoyed the tight-lipped obedience of the Beholder, reduced to lady’s maidservant. She called a little of the haze of the morning to trail about her hems, the white goddess with the breath of the well clinging to her.

Thirty Red Masks. Perhaps she should not send so many away, but she wanted the Duina Catairna settled, not breaking out in new pockets of rebellion every time her back was turned. Finish it, leave them broken, too terrified of Marakand’s Lady to dare further resistance, leave the six other kingdoms kingless if possible, if their rulers had joined the high king as they should. Weakened by her divine terror embodied in the Red Masks, the Praitannec warriors would be easy prey for the militias of Marakand, to teach them their business, build their nerve, before she turned her gaze to the Five Cities and the fleets of the coast.

Thirty Red Masks, ten patrols of temple guard—fifty men—under the new lieutenant of the first company, and a young priest greatly in love with his Lady, Revered Arhu, named the Lady’s Voice in Praitan, with an appropriate handful of attendants. Not enough, counted as bodies, to make much difference in Praitan and a lot of bother and clutter for her Red Masks to have trailing after them. The Red Masks were all she really need send, but for the look of the thing, for her captain’s honour, she wanted a larger escort. She had ordered the commander of the guard to choose men who could ride, and Arhu came of a caravaning family; he knew, she hoped and had made clear she expected of him, how to travel swift and light. Her captain of Red Masks, she told him, had orders to leave behind any who could not keep up, living or dead, as seemed right to him. She should have left some of the Red Masks their voices, to obviate the need for Arhu, but though she meant to discard Ketsim, grown irritatingly ambitious, the men and women who had followed him were still of use. Someone had to speak to them for her, and her own lack of foresight had ensured the Red Masks couldn’t do so.

The horse of her champion sweated and stamped, jerking its head against the servants who held its bridle. Her own horse was brought up as well. She would ride with them as far as the gate, to see them on their way and send them east with her blessing, as the Lady of Marakand ought.

They looked a small company, three abreast, silent. Ominously silent. Did not the priests wonder why the Red Masks never made use of the dining hall and the bath-house, why no servants attended them in their barracks, not even to sweep the floors, why nothing was ever drawn from the treasury for their provision, except the entries in the account-books for their armouring and the red cloth of their uniforms? Zora had wondered it. Even if they, humble ascetics that they were, did their own mending and cleaning, ate frugally, and did their own cooking, there should have been some accounting, some trail to follow, of bread and vegetables at the very least, some smoke rising from a kitchen in the forbidden barracks. Zora had spent a furtive festival day, ostensibly ill with a flux, going through account-rolls in the empty office of the temple bursar. Not a sack of meal or an onion had gone to the Red Masks’ use since the order was founded.

Zora had had no one to tell. If she had been wise, and not a child confused, loyal to her unfortunate father’s diseased fears, Hadidu and Nour could have used that information, used a spy within the temple—

No.

The soldiers and priests behind tried to be silent, gratifyingly sensitive to her mood. She smiled at them, remote and austere. Now it was time to ride. She took four Red Masks as her own escort, to see her back through the city, and a double patrol of temple guard as well, for the look of the thing. The priests who had turned out to see them off she dismissed. They would only slow her down, puffing along at the Red Masks’ heels.

The city was not yet stirring and the streets were clear. Even the professions permitted to keep the second curfew, two hours after sunset, had no licence to be abroad before dawn. Only a patrol of street guard near the gateway between Templefoot and Fleshmarket Wards disturbed the echoing silence, falling to their knees in adoration as she passed. She smiled at them, looked back to see them rising, whispering, eyes wide. They had seen their Lady. For a moment she thought she saw something moving, away down the street near the mouth of a dark lane, but while she blinked and frowned she realized it was only a dog, scrawny and pale, standing ghostlike in the shadows, staring after them. Her champion turned to look back, too.

She regretted—she did not. She put the night from her mind. There was time enough. Later. Better to send him away now, to deal with Ketsim. One thing at a time. But her champion worried her. The mad and hungry soul bound wormlike within him, echo of herself, no, not that, she was never that, she was different, and she no longer hid within the goddess of the well . . . But he was warm. She held him, she had killed him, and he had not died. Useful. Dangerous. It made no difference. Made him different, valuable, made him the father of kings, yes, of emperors, and she was not some foolish virgin girl to shriek and mew and shrink from doing what was so eminently right and meant.
But I am, we are. Silly child
. She smiled to herself.
And we are not his. We will never be his again. When he comes again, the Malagru will rise in a wall of fire against him, and he shall never pass beyond.

East Ward was the easternmost corner of the city, but it ended at sheer cliff. Fleshmarket was protected mostly by cliff, but at the southernmost side dropped down and Drovers’ Gate let out onto a road that wandered away southerly into the foothills. There was no road that turned north and east to join the caravan road; the ravine lay between, and before it a steep fall of bare, stony hillside, but there was a track, and her captain could get a horse down it and over the ravine, she was certain. Arhu and the living men would have to do as well, or be disgraced before they ever started. They would cross the ravine and take mounts at the fortress of the Eastern Wall. She had sent her orders in the night, several hours ago. The street guard commander of the Eastern Wall would have had plenty of time. Dawn, was the message she had sent. They must be ready saddled by dawn. If the wall-captain had not obeyed, if he had delayed or protested, or if he attempted argument, if he had not been firm with the horse-dealers of the suburb, roused from their sleep to face the appropriation of their best, her captain would deal with him, and she would appoint a faithful temple guard officer in his place.