Angus Wells - The God Wars 01 (39 page)

 
          
A
little happier, he waited for his evening meal.

 
          
The
next morning Surinim appeared with a staff. It seemed that Suleimana must have
reassured the man, for he carried no cudgel today and he smiled shyly as he set
the stave beside Calandryll's bed. Calandryll thanked him and, as soon as he
was gone, dressed and clambered awkwardly to his feet. A dull throbbing drummed
in his knee when he stood, but he was able to limp, resting his weight mostly
on the wooden pole, along the corridor to the entrance of the hostelry. Mother
Raimi watched him as he fumbled with the door and he smiled at her, the greeting
sending her scurrying back behind the protection of the bead curtain as he
hobbled into the street.

 
          
The
sun shone bright out of a sky that seemed scoured to a steely blue-silver by
the relentless gaheen. Within his room he had not realized how fierce the wind
was, but now he felt its hot, heavy strength and understood why it was called
the devil wind. It burned in his mouth as he breathed, bombarding his face with
grit so that he blinked and spat, turning his head to avoid its onslaught. He
began to sweat, feeling his lengthening hair slap damp against his neck, the
strap of the satchel an irritation across his chest. The street was empty;
indeed, Mherut'yi seemed empty, a somnolent place where dust skirled along the
narrow thoroughfares and people hid from the oppressive gusting. He wiped his
mouth and set out to explore the town.

 
          
The
investigation did not take long. Even slowed by the frequent need to halt and
rest when his knee threatened to fold under him, he succeeded in patrolling the
environs by nightfall. He found the stable Suleimana had described and
negotiated the purchase of two horses and tack with Dahammen, explaining to the
old man that he would collect them, when the podesta freed Bracht. He ate in a
dusty inn and afterward limped to the waterfront, disappointed to find that the
proximity of the sea offered no respite from the gaheen. The harbor was empty
save for a few fishing boats and he leaned against the wall of a warehouse as
he studied the grey bulk of the fortalice. It was the tallest structure in
Mherut'yi, two stone stories rising above the harbor, the lower level cut with
narrow embrasures and the upper with wider, barred openings. The roof was flat
ana there was a single door granting entry on the landward face. Soldiers lounged
about the door, but paid him no more attention than a glance. He wondered where
Bracht was held, but decided against attempting entry until later, hobbling
back to the hostelry in time for dinner.

 
          
The
following morning he rose early and wandered the town again, familiarizing
himself with its pattern until he was confident he knew the fastest route out.
The townsfolk had the habit of sleeping through the worst of the heat, leaving
the place largely deserted for hours after the noonday meal. Despite
Suleimana's advice he decided that he would not aelay: there was no time to
waste, lest Azumandias or the Chaipaku find him. If he could only effect
Bracht's escape they should be able to ride clear before Philomen even knew
they were gone. The Kern's gear was already transferred to his room: it
remained only to free his comrade.

 
          
On
the appointed day he sought Suleimana again. The healer examined his knee and
pronounced it on the way to mending. The cut on his stomach was almost gone,
only a narrow red line attesting to the wound.

 
          
"Exercise
the knee," she advised, "but not too much. There's no need to return
here—you can apply the unguent yourself. Smear it on the bruise every two days,
and change the bandage, and you'll be fit enough by the time the podesta
releases you."

 
          
He
smiled his thanks, thinking that he would not wait so long, and paid her. Then,
barely able to suppress his mounting excitement, he returned to the hostelry.
It was the hottest time of the day and the folk of Mherut'yi kept themselves
behind closed shutters until the worst of the heat had abated, the streets
deserted until the ferocity of the gaheen eased a little. He ate and announced
his intention of following the local custom by sleeping the afternoon away,
asking that he not be disturbed. Behind his closed door he gathered their gear
in a single bundle and counted out what he owed Mother Raimi. His sword was
belted on his waist and he slung Bracht's falchion over his shoulder. Then he
mouthed the spell Varent had taught him and felt his skin tingle, the scent of
almonds powerful in his nostrils. Still unaccustomed to the use of magic, he
found it hard to believe that he was truly invisible as he started toward the
door, and paused as it dawned on him that he no longer limped. His knee no
longer ached. In fact, it felt sound as ever and he grinned as he threw the
staff to the bed: it seemed the faint fire of the red stone flowed through the
damaged tissue, healing and strengthening. Still smiling, he traversed the
corridor, slipping silently out into the empty street.

 
          
Mherut'yi
slumbered in the noonday sun, even the dogs seeking respite from the savage
heat, and he was thankful for the solitude as he made his way briskly to the
stable. There was no sign of Dahammen as he entered, nor as he saddled both
horses and led them out, breathing prayers to Dera and Burash both as he took
the reins and headed for the harbor. The narrow alley between two warehouses
provided a hiding place for the animals, it's mouth shaded as he studied the fortalice.
A solitary guard stood by the open door, leaning on his pike, the tails of his
scarlet puggaree drawn across his nose and mouth. Calandryll took a deep breath
and set out across the cobbles.

 
          
The
guard rested in the scanty shade of the blockhouse wall. Calandryll drew
steadily closer, afraid the pounding of his heart beat loud enough to alert the
soldier. He halted close enough to touch the man, staring at him. The Kand
stared idly back, seeing nothing. The grin returned to Calandryll's lips as he
tiptoed past into a spacious, shadowy chamber that occupied most of the
stronghold's lower level. It was some kind of guardroom, to judge by the
tables, still littered with food, at the center, and the bunks, each one
holding a sleeping soldier, set along the walls. A narrow flight of stone steps
led up to the second level and he guessed that Bracht was held there: he began
to climb.

 
          
He
paused again at the head, studying this second story. Grey stone surrounded a
bare central area, a further flight of steps leading to the roof, heavy doors
set deep in the walls. One, across the hall, was cut with a small grille and he
guessed that was the cell holding Bracht. He started toward it, then stopped as
a door to one side opened and Philomen emerged.

 
          
The
lictor wore a flowing robe of a scarlet to match his puggaree, but his head was
bare now, oiled black hair loose to his shoulders, his feet bare. He paused at
the door, turning to speak, and Calandryll heard a feminine voice answer, the
indistinct words eliciting a smile from Philomen. He crossed the open space,
still smiling, and Calandryll flattened against the wall, holding his breath,
as the lictor passed directly before him. The man's eyes looked straight at
him—through him—and Calandryll voiced silent thanks to Varent for the spell. He
watched as Philomen entered a room across the hall, reappearing moments later
with a flagon of wine that he carried into the chamber. The woman laughed as
the door closed, and Calandryll let out his breath in a long, slow sigh.

 
          
He
crossed to the grille and peered in. Sunlight shone bright through the bars
covering the outer window, illuminating a spartan chamber containing tiered
bunks. Bracht lay on a bunk to one side of the window, asleep. Calandryll
examined the door. It was held by a sturdy lock: there was no sign of the key.
He called Bracht's name softly, praying no other would hear. Bracht sat up and
said, "Calandryll?"

 
          
He
nodded, raising a finger to his lips before he remembered the Kem could not see
him.

 
          
"Aye,"
he whispered. "Here."

 
          
Bracht
climbed from the bunk, approaching the door. He seemed no worse for his
incarceration, only irritated.

 
          
"You
use Varent's spell?"

 
          
"Aye,"
he repeated.

 
          
Bracht
granted and said, "Then get me out of here."

 
          
"I
need the key."

 
          
"The
lictor has it. He keeps it on his belt."

 
          
"Dera!"
he muttered.

 
          
"You're
invisible," Bracht said.

 
          
"But
Philomen's behind a closed door. With a woman."

 
          
The
Kem glowered at the empty air beyond the grille, his blue eyes angry.

 
          
"Then
he's other things on his mind. And I'd not stay here any longer. Get me
out!"

 
          
Calandryll
nodded, sighing.

 
          
"Wait
here."

 
          
"I
can do little else," said Bracht.

 
          
"I'll
try," Calandryll promised, and crossed to the door he had seen the lictor
use.

 
          
He
pressed his ear to the wood, but could hear nothing through its bulk. He saw a
ring set above a lock like that on Bracht's cell and hoped no key was turned on
the inside. He took the ring in his hand, took a deep breath, and eased the ring
a half circle round. The soft click of falling tumblers seemed to echo off
the stone walls. He held his breath, ready to spring back should the lictor
appear. Then, heart pounding, he gently thrust the door inward. Bars of light
striated a darkened room. He saw the comer of a bed. Two pairs of bare feet,
entwined. Heard the panting of the woman and Philomen's heavier breathing. He
eased the door a fraction wider and slipped inside.

 
          
Instantly,
he was overcome with acute embarrassment. He felt an insane desire to giggle as
he saw hirsute buttocks moving rhythmically above the paler hue of the woman's
thighs. Her arms clutched the lictor to her and her face showed over his
shoulder. Calandryll saw that she was pretty in a nondescript way, her eyes
wide, unfocused in pleasure.

 
          
Philomen's
scarlet robe lay crumpled on the floor, beside it a gown of purple and white.
The lictor's armor hung from a stand by the shuttered window; his sword- belt
on a peg. On the belt was a bunch of keys. Calandryll swallowed and trod
carefully toward them.

 
          
He
heard Philomen's breathing quicken and the woman moan, "Oh, Philomen!
Philomen!"

 
          
He
glanced over his shoulder, cheeks warm, and snatched the keys from the belt. He
froze as they jangled, but the pair on the bed were too entranced to allow
extraneous sound to intrude on their preoccupation and he jammed his prize
beneath his own belt.

 
          
"Philomen!"

 
          
The
woman's voice was louder as he returned to the door.

 
          
"Philomen!”

           
He slipped through as the lictor
groaned, his last sight of the Kand the hairy buttocks.

 
          
Philomen's
heavy breathing became a gasp of pleasure that drowned the sound of the closing
door and Calandryll hurried to Bracht's cell. He tried three keys before he
found the one he needed and sprung the door open. Bracht jumped back as the wood
threatened to smash against his face, eyes narrowing as he tried to define
Cal-
andryll's outline.

 
          
Calandryll
dropped Bracht's sword on the bunk. As he released the falchion it became
visible. The Kern grinned, buckling it on his waist.

 
          
"Ahrd,"
he murmured, "I'd not thought to be so grateful for Varent's magic."

 
          
"We
still have to get out," Calandryll said. "And the lower hall's full
of soldiers."

 
          
"Awake?"
Bracht crossed to the door.