The Gods Return Page 7

  “Yes,” Sharina said. She nodded to Colemno and the guards, saying, “We’ll be with you shortly,” before following Tenoctris into her room.

  Sharina shut the door out of courtesy rather than because she was concerned about what the men might see. Wizardry made most people uncomfortable, even men as brave as those in the corridor. It was easier for them to ignore what was going on if a door panel stood between them and the incantations.

  A slab of rock leaned against the room’s back wall. Until Tenoctris stepped to it, Sharina had assumed it was the back wall. She looked carefully, shifting to the side to see the edge, and found that it was patterned chalcedony. The individual layers were hair-fine, and the whole assemblage was no more than an inch thick.

  It’d make a very delicate cameo, Sharina thought, though what it’s doing here—

  “Torial boichua knophi!” Tenoctris said, and snapped the fingers of her left hand. Her now-youthful face wore a broad smile. Greater power hadn’t made Tenoctris boastful or a show-off, but she took obvious delight in now being able to do things which most wizards could not.

  Given that greater power hadn’t cost Tenoctris the understanding and subtlety of touch that had set her above other wizards in the past, Sharina was delighted as well. The forces of good needed the most powerful allies they could get.

  At the pop of the wizard’s fingers, the brown outer layer of chalcedony eroded as though it were being carved by demons. What had been undifferentiated rock was suddenly a relief map on which threads of rivers twisted in all directions toward the surrounding sea.

  Before Sharina could take it in, Tenoctris called “Zonchar!” with another snap of her fingers; the map of a continent became the chart of a city’s streets. The city shown was huge, but its ragged edges seemed to be dissolving in the mass of encroaching vegetation.

  “Ouk merioth!” Tenoctris said. Blue wizardlight, as brilliant as lightning in the darkened room, sizzled across the cameo like a stage curtain. When it passed, Sharina was looking down at a city from the angle of the sun an hour before setting. Crystal towers, halls, and bridges leaping from structure to structure gleamed in orange light.

  Sharina’s breath caught. It was splendid, but it was a splendid ruin. Jagged streaks traced their way to the ground from lightning-shattered pinnacles, roofs and walls were reduced to a carpet of jeweled dust where wind had toppled a tree toward the buildings, and saplings sprouted from cracks in the crystal streets.

  “Is this Palomir?” Sharina asked.

  “It’s Palomir as it was three months ago,” Tenoctris said. Her tone was distracted and she didn’t take her eyes from the cameo for several silent moments.

  She turned. “Sharina?” she said. “I, well, I want to try some other techniques to get a better grasp of the situation. This—”

  Tenoctris gestured toward the cameo and its scene of ruin.

  “—should be sufficient. I’ve prepared the sheet of quartz to create a very powerful tool, but it appears—”

  She smiled with humor of a sort.

  “—that it isn’t a powerful enough tool. I have others, but they’ll take a little time to bring to bear. If you wouldn’t mind making my excuses to your brother, I’d like to remain here until I have something useful to offer to the council.”

  “Of course,” Sharina said. “You’ve saved the kingdom repeatedly by demonstrating good judgment. It’s still your judgment that we depend on, even if you’re able to—”

  She grinned to make it a joke, though it wasn’t.

  “—turn demons inside out with a snap of your fingers. I’ll tell Garric that you’re doing the things you ought to be doing, as you always have.”

  Moved by sudden impulse, Sharina hugged the other woman before throwing open the door. Tenoctris was small, but her youthful body was a solid surprise to someone who’d known her in the past. As a woman in her seventies, she’d been as delicate as a sparrow in the palm of your hand.

  “Ascor, leave two men to accompany Lady Tenoctris when she’s ready to come,” Sharina said to the waiting eyes of the soldiers on guard. “I’ll leave for the palace now.”

  As the Blood Eagles fell in ahead and behind her, Sharina reached through a slit in the side of her outer tunic and touched the horn hilt of the knife she wore out of sight between the layers of her costume. Generally the Pewle knife was just a good-luck charm, a reminder of the hermit who’d protected Sharina as long as he lived—and protected her now, she was convinced.

  “Lady, aid us in carrying out Your will,” she prayed under her breath.

  Sometimes even a princess and a worshipper of the Lady of Peace could use a sharp blade. If that were the case again—

  Well, then the Pewle knife was more than a charm.

  LORD ZETTIN WAS an extremely neat man, so it surprised Ilna that the premises of Halgran Mercantile on the northern edge of the expanding city were a jumble of tents and tarpaulins within a fence of palings. Of course it was wrong to assume that Zettin’s in-laws had the same priorities as he did.

  “I apologize for this disorder,” Zettin said with a look of disgust. “We just moved to Pandah, as I said, and proper quarters weren’t to be had. We decided it was best to build a compound of sufficient size rather than buy a structure in the Old City that can’t be expanded without knocking down walls like a siege.”

  “I’d forgotten that you’d—the company had—moved,” Ilna said, an apology at least in her mind. “Regardless, I’m not concerned with the spice trade.”

  A group of Coerli were weaving withies into mats of wattle between heavy posts, the start of more permanent structures. She nodded approvingly. The cat men worked quickly, and they did a better job than most humans would have.

  Ilna’s lip quirked: the cat men did a better job that she would have, at least until her fingers adapted to the stiff material. Mistress Zussa was clever to have thought of going outside her own species to find workmen. Very likely the cat men were cheaper as well, especially in Pandah where so many buildings were being constructed at the same time. Human workmen, even bad workmen as most of them were, commanded high wages.

  “No, of course not,” Zettin said, but his lips were grimly tight as he stepped between piles of spice boxes. The heavy crates were probably weatherproof, but each stack was also covered with canvas pegged on the sides.

  Laborers and clerks, two of them women, looked at Zettin and Ilna but lowered their eyes quickly when she glanced in their direction. The watchman had passed them through the gate with no more comment than a low bow. Whether or not Lord Zettin had a formal part in the business, the staff certainly treated him with deference.

  “You there!” he said, gesturing to a clerk taking inventory of a stack of boxes. “Gradus, isn’t it? Where’s Ingens?”

  The clerk turned, lowering the brush with which he’d been writing figures on the pale inner surface of an earthenware potsherd. “He’s quartered in Tent Five, milord,” he said, lowering his eyes in a show of humility. “He’s been living in the compound since he returned from Blaise, I believe.”

  Zettin nodded curt acknowledgment and strode toward the rank of tents across the back of the deep property. His high-laced boots splashed; human traffic had turned a boggy plain into a sea of mud, as was true everywhere beyond the original shore of the Island of Pandah. Ilna had known what to expect, so she’d slung her wood-soled clogs over her arm as soon as they left the cobblestone street. She was barefoot, just as she’d have been at home in Barca’s Hamlet.

  “We’re cutting a canal to the North River,” Zettin said, again suggesting that he was more than just an observer of Halgran Mercantile’s activities. “Zussa looked at a waterfront tract, but I don’t trust the river to keep its banks when the fall storms come. The canal’s a moderate expense compared to having the river swallow the whole compound when it changes its course.”

  They’d reached the line of tents. There were more than Ilna could count on both hands. Some of them were being used as o
ffices; the sides were rolled up and clerks glanced briefly toward Zettin. Ilna doubted any of them noticed her, nor was there any reason they should have.

  “Master Ingens!” said Zettin, who apparently didn’t have any better idea which tent was number five than Ilna did. “Show yourself!”

  The flap of a tent to the right flew open. The man holding it back was stocky and fit-looking, though Ilna noticed immediately that his hands weren’t callused like those of a peasant or soldier.

  “Milord?” he said. He wasn’t many years older than Ilna’s twenty, but the frown that seemed to be his normal expression made him look older. “I’ve made all the arrangements and expect to leave tomorrow morning. That is, if you were concerned that I might dawdle in returning to search for Master Hervir.”

  “Not at all, Ingens,” said Zettin, who seemed to have been taken aback by the secretary’s defensiveness. “Indeed, I hadn’t expected you’d be ready to leave for several days.”

  He cleared his throat. “I’m glad I caught you, then,” he said. “This is Mistress Ilna os-Kenset, the wizard who’ll be accompanying you.”

  “What?” said Ingens, throwing his arms up as though Zettin had suddenly drawn his sword. “That’s unnecessary, milord, quite unnecessary! I assure you, having a wizard along will just complicate matters. No, no. I’ll take care of the business myself.”

  “Master Ingens,” said Zettin, his face hardening into coldly aristocratic lines, “you appear to think that I asked your opinion. I am not interested in the opinion of such folk as yourself. Do you understand me?”

  Instead of backing away as he started to, Ingens knelt in the muck; the tent flap fell closed behind him. “Milord, your will shall be done, of course, of course,” he said with his eyes downcast. “I only meant that because there’s no wizardry involved in Master Hervir’s disappearance, a wizard’s presence will only make the ordinary folk I’ll be questioning nervous. As well as the difficulties caused by a woman on a riverboat crewed by the rougher sort of men.”

  Ilna stepped over to him. Ingens made a quick decision and rose to his feet, watching her warily.

  She took a handful of his tunic front, rubbing her fingers into the wool. Ingens yelped, but Ilna was barely conscious of the present world.

  The fabric filled her mind with a welter of images. They settled suddenly on a tall man in his thirties, standing beside gong of jade or verdigrised bronze. His tunics were plain but of very good workmanship.

  “Does Master Hervir have black hair that’s very thin on top?” Ilna asked.

  Ingens twitched but didn’t make a real effort to break her grip. Zettin said, “Why, yes he does.”

  He chuckled; there wasn’t much love lost between brothers-in-law, Ilna could see. “Though he wouldn’t thank you for that description, mistress.”

  Ilna took her hand away from the tunic. “And who is the woman, the girl with him, Master Ingens?” she said.

  “How—” said Ingens, and stopped.

  “What?” said Zettin. He probably didn’t mean to raise his voice, but he was speaking louder than he had when he shouted to bring the secretary out of his tent. “Did you lie to us, you dog? You didn’t say anything about a woman!”

  “Milord, I didn’t—” Ingens said. He gave Ilna a furious glare, but it melted to despair in the brief instant of safety he had before she reacted. “Milord, I wanted to avoid embarrassing Master Hervir. He met a young woman, Princess Perrine she called herself, when we were on Blaise. It seemed likely he’d gone off with her. With the money.”

  The secretary paused, breathing hard. He risked a sidelong look at Ilna.

  “Mistress?” said Lord Zettin. His face was as hard as Ilna had ever seen it; his right hand was on the hilt of his sword. Like most Ornifal nobles, Zettin carried a long horseman’s blade rather than the shorter weapon of an infantryman.

  “He isn’t responsible for whatever happened to your brother-in-law,” Ilna said. She shrugged. “If you want to punish him for not being completely forthcoming, that’s your business, of course. But it seems to me that it’ll leave you with an awful lot of people to punish.”

  Zettin relaxed slightly. The activities of the compound, construction and ordinary business alike, had stilled in a widening arc around him and Ingens. The staff of Halgran Mercantile was taking a break from work to be entertained by what might turn into a blood sport.

  “Go on, Ingens,” Zettin said. “But this time tell me everything that happened.”

  “Yes,” Ingens said and swallowed. “Yes, milord.”

  He closed his eyes, then opened them and resumed, “We reached the village of Caraman, which was supposed to be the source of the saffron. It turned out it was brought to Caraman from farther away.”

  “Farther how?” said Zettin, frowning. “From across the Outer Sea, you mean?”

  “Milord, I truly don’t know where they came from,” Ingens said. “I didn’t see a ship. The local people said to ring the gong in the grove on the east road out of Caraman. That’s away from the sea and up on a hill besides. So we rang it, and a woman came out of the trees. That was Princess Perrine.”

  “And she had the spice with her?” Zettin said. He took his right hand away from the sword hilt, instead hooking the thumb under his belt.

  “Just a sample, milord,” the secretary said. “She talked with Hervir privately. He directed me and the guards to stay where we were while he walked with the young lady in the grove. She was quite attractive and richly dressed.”

  “How long had the gong been there?” Ilna said.

  The men had forgotten her; their heads turned with expressions of surprise. “Mistress,” said Ingens, “the villagers said it was just since the Change. A prince came from the grove with six apes who wore clothing and carried saffron in stoneware jars. He sold it and said there was more for anyone who called him with the gong.”

  “Sold for how much?” Ilna said. “In Barca’s Hamlet the only people who had any amount of silver were merchants who came during the Sheep Fair. But this spice of yours sells for gold, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, mistress,” Ingens said with a look of respect. He’d shown fear when Ilna read his history in the cloth of his tunic, but this was something else again. “The prince took copper and silver, the villagers swore. If that’s true, then he can’t have gotten but a tenth of the saffron’s real value. That’s why Hervir was so excited at the prospect.”

  “Did Hervir make a deal with this princess?” Zettin asked. “You know, I can’t understand why you concealed all this previously, Ingens. You needn’t think that your behavior is going to be ignored, you know.”

  “Milord, you’ll do what you do,” Ingens muttered toward the ground. “I’ve been a loyal servant of Halgran Mercantile for seven years. I was simply trying to save . . . awkwardness for Master Hervir and for your noble sister.”

  “Well, I see your point, my man,” Zettin said with a touch of embarrassment. “You should certainly have come to me privately, but I don’t suppose anything would be gained by rubbing my sister’s nose in a business that would be distasteful to her.”

  He cleared his throat. “Go on, then,” he said. “Did Hervir continue to see this so-called princess?”

  “I don’t know that for certain, milord,” Ingens said, “but that’s what I believe, yes. Hervir had rented the chief’s house for a few bronze pieces. He and I slept there, while the guards—we had six of them—slept in a drying shed for fish. There was little enough to choose between the lodgings, I must say.”

  Ingens licked his lips; fear dries them worse than a desert wind, and he’d had good reason to be afraid. Ilna was impressed by the way Ingens had deflected Lord Zettin’s anger; but though she was sure that he hadn’t made away with Hervir, she was also sure that he wasn’t telling the whole truth. She decided not to pursue the matter, at least now. Zettin’s temper was still balanced on a knife edge.

  Ilna’s lips quirked in a humorless smile. She’d once woven a patt
ern which caused everyone who saw it to tell the truth. She’d done it as punishment for the house it hung in, and even she had been shocked by how effective it had been.

  “I woke up in the night,” the secretary said. “I thought I’d heard the gong again. I looked in Master Hervir’s room and found him gone with the money. I went to the grove but he wasn’t there, either. Then I roused the guards and we made a full search, but we still didn’t find anything.”

  “Did you ring the gong?” Ilna said. “That would seem to be the obvious next step.”

  “Ah . . . ,” said Ingens, turning his face sideways and looking at the ground again. “I did, yes, mistress, for several days. It didn’t seem to me . . . That is, it seemed to me that my first duty was to bring word back to Lady Zussa and Mistress Raciana as soon as possible. But of course I intend to pursue all avenues to a solution when I’m back in Caraman.”

  Ilna’s face remained blank while her mind tried to unknot the truth of the secretary’s tale. It’d be simple enough to assume that Ingens was a coward who’d run rather than endanger himself, but that wouldn’t explain why he was going back to find his master of his own will.

  “What do you expect to accomplish that you couldn’t have done when you were in Caraman the first time?” Zettin said, putting his finger on the same point. His eyes were narrowed, but his hand hadn’t returned to his sword.

  “I’ll hire a full troop of Blaise armsmen when I get to Piscine, twenty at least,” Ingens said promptly. “I have a draft on our agent there for the money. The guards we had with us were fine as a normal escort, but I’ll want real soldiers to back me if I expect trouble. The whole village may be in league with Princess Perrine, you know.”

  The explanation was perfectly reasonable. Another person might’ve proceeded in a different fashion, but Ilna couldn’t fault the fellow’s logic.

  He was lying, though. She was as sure of that as she was of sunset.