Mickey Zucker Reichert - By Chaos Cursed (27 page)

Finally, pain crushed in on Taziar. His legs ached. His lungs labored for every breath, lancing anguish through his ribs. His hip throbbed worse than any bruise he had gained in the battle. Deep in an alley, he pressed his back to a brick wall and slid slowly to the walkway. His vision returned, revealing darkness to his left and a sea of passing legs on the sidewalk to his right. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he did not bother to wipe them away. Gradually, grief stole all meaning from time, place, and pain, and Taziar surrendered to oblivion.

He that wrestles with us strengthens
our nerves and sharpens our skill.
Our antagonist is our helper.

—Edmund Burke
Reflections on the Revolution in France

The yellow taxi threaded through afternoon traffic on the Major Deegan Expressway. Jouncing with his brother in the back seat, Al Larson studied the patterns of cars, trucks, and buses, cringing each time the cabby whipped into an opening scarcely large enough for a pedestrian. The ceaseless rattle and bump of the cab emphasized its speed until Larson felt like a hillbilly locked in a phantom jet. He wished he had chosen a vehicle with working shocks as his reinitiation to twentieth-century American technology.

“So.” Timmy stared at Larson with a wide-eyed innocence bordering on hero worship. “That lady’s a witch who can read minds and make you think stuff and use magic and junk like that?”

Phrased by a child, the explanation sounded like a rambling rehash of a Disney animated feature. Larson sighed. “Sort of like that.” Defining the present danger seemed enough for now. He had not attempted to explain that he had died, then wound up in a warped, mythological version of ancient Europe in the guise of an elf. So far, Timmy seemed to have accepted his brother’s story with guileless simplicity, and Larson did not want to press the limits of even a child’s credibility.

“Cool.” Timmy bounced against the backrest, twisting to get a better view out the side window.

Still rattled by his run-in with Silme, Larson smiled at his brother’s resilience.
One moment in a panicked frenzy, the next cool as a cucumber and ready to play cowboys and Indians with a Dragonrank mage.
His grin wilted.
Of course, it’s all a game to Timmy. He trusts his big brother to keep him safe. And he has no way of knowing how dangerous Silme really is.

Larson looped his arm protectively about Timmy. No longer directly threatened, he gathered enough composure to realize that the stakes had grown critical.
There’s nothing I can do for Shadow and Astryd. If my bomb and the dragon didn’t kill them, Bolverkr has had more than enough time to finish the deed.
Fighting down a wave of grief and guilt, he forced his thoughts to his present situation.
I love Silme. But I won’t let her torture my family and friends or seven and a half million innocent people.
As readily as his morality rose to the challenge, doubt accompanied it.
I can’t hurt Silme. Can I?
Larson wrestled with the dilemma, wishing he had paid more attention to Silme’s descriptions of magic and Chaos as renegade or bonded to life energy. For now, it all seemed a blur.

Timmy’s questions scarcely penetrated Al Larson’s fog of emotion and speculation. “How’re you gonna get this witch? Does she make things disappear? Can she throw fire and make stuff dance and ride a broom?” Timmy plunked back down onto the seat, studying Larson with sparkling brown eyes. “When are we going home? I wish Dad was here. Dad would know what to do. ...”

The word “home” triggered a new direction of thought. Larson waved his brother silent. “Hush up, Timmy. I’m trying to think.”
I have to keep Timmy and myself from concentrating on home and family. Otherwise, Silme can get that information from his mind.
Realization came with frightening intensity.
Shit. She might get it anyway. She can’t delve too deeply into my thoughts because I know how to tell she’s there and build defenses. But she could search Timmy’s mind to its core.
Larson went rigid. “Turn around!” he instructed the driver.

The cabby glanced at Larson over his shoulder. “You talking to me?”

Larson simulated a U-turn with his hand. “Turn around. Take us to Freedom Land.”

The cabby blinked. “You want to go back to the Bronx?”

Through the windshield, Larson watched the taxi roar dangerously close to a silver sedan. He sucked in a sharp breath, slamming down his foot on an imaginary brake.

Calmly turning his gaze back to the road, the cabby slowed. “Hey, man. I’ll take you wherever you want to go. But you probably ought to know Freedom Land closed down five-six years ago. They’re building these new rent-controlled apartments....”

“... Co-op City,” Larson finished. “Yes, I know. Take us there.”

Timmy stared, silenced by the urgency in Larson’s voice.

The cabby shrugged, tossing his blond head. “You’re the boss. But, you know, you were only a few blocks from there when I picked you up.” He flicked on the blinker, zipping across two lanes of traffic to an exit.

Someone leaned on a car horn.

Larson stiffened, watching the traffic miraculously part before them. “I changed my mind, all right?” he said between gritted teeth.

“Hey, no problem.” The cabby sped down the ramp. “It’s your bread, man.” He met Larson’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. Then his gaze played over the reflection of honey-blond hair just long enough to annoy Larson’s father, the sweat-dampened T-shirt, and patched blue jeans. The cabby’s features squinted suspiciously. “Say, you ain’t one of those hippy types that’s gonna try to pay me with peace, love, and happiness, are ya, pal? ‘Cause I ain’t taking nothing but American dollars and cents.”

“I’ve got money,” Larson said quietly, wishing the driver would keep his attention on the road. Just the normal highway speed made him nervous enough without the added concern about whether the cabby might cause a fifty car pileup. “If you take me to a drugstore on the way, I’ll double your tip.”

“You’re the boss.” The cabby maneuvered back onto the Major Deegan Expressway, now traveling northward.

Taziar Medakan awakened, sprawled alone in a dark alleyway. Afternoon light slanted between impossibly tall buildings, making Taziar realize that he had not slept long. His head pounded, making thought nearly impossible, overshadowing the grinding chorus of cuts, abrasions, and bruises. The gashes in his wrists had settled to a dull throb.

Taziar savored a moment of disorientation before reality intruded. Gradually he remembered deeper, more horrible pains.
Astryd and the baby are dead. Silme’s joined Bolverkr. And I think I’ve found Karana’s hell. What now?
Only one answer came.
I have to find Allerum.
Common sense seeped into thoughts nearly emptied by pain and panic.
Since Silme came here through Allerum’s mind, they must have arrived together. She killed the baby in my presence. She couldn’t have cast a transport spell until then or the baby would already have died. That means she didn’t magically leave Allerum. He can’t be far.
Ignorant of planes, subways, and automobiles, Taziar could not see the flaw in his logic.
If I search the city, I’m certain to find him.

Buoyed by these new thoughts, Taziar tended to his disheveled appearance. First, he removed the cloak that Bol-verkr had thrown over his damaged climbing garb, using brisk strokes and a bandage dampened in a puddle to scrub away the most obvious grass stains and dirt. He combed back sweat-plastered, black hair with his fingers. Spitting on his hands, he washed away dried blood, then drew down his sleeves to cover the gashes from the ropes. Rising, he brushed away dirt and flattened the wrinkles from his dark linen shirt and britches. Then he donned the cloak, arranging it over the fire and road burns and belting it at the waist. The cloak hung to his ankles, the hem tattered into fringe, and he had to roll back the sleeves. But it did hide the worst of his injuries.

The normalcy of the routine soothed Taziar. Usually, panic was a stranger to him. The most dire circumstances only fueled his imagination, sending him into a flurry of thoughtful plotting. But Astryd’s death unhinged him, and his new surroundings gave him nothing understandable or familiar on which to ground his reason. Cued to the reality of onrushing traffic, hordes of people, towering structures, and winking lights, Taziar’s wits settled into a more manageable pattern.

Where do I start my search for Allerum?
Taziar crept toward the mouth of the alleyway, reluctant to plunge back into the clustered human traffic. A wash of voices filled his ears. He had grown accustomed to the bizarre hubbub of English, an incomprehensible jumble of foreign words and accents that fused into a dull roar of background. One voice rose above the others, pitched grandly, apparently to draw attention.
Someone selling wares?
Taziar guessed, though his previous experience on New York City’s sidewalks had revealed no street vendors.

Taziar poked his head around the corner.

An elderly woman shied from Taziar’s sudden, partial emergence from an alleyway. Others glared, giving him a wide berth.

“Sorry,” Taziar mumbled in his own language. Glancing along the sidewalk, he saw a small crowd gathered near the mouth of a parallel alley. At its center, a dynamic black monte shuffled a trio of playing cards folded into tents over a table constructed of cinder blocks and a board. A pimply white teenager stood on the opposite side of the table, garbed in a crisply neat, button-down shirt and dress trousers.

Drawn by the familiarity of a con game in a world that otherwise seemed hostile, Taziar crept closer, studying the scene through gaps in the gathering. The monte revealed the front of the cards with a showman’s flourish: a red female with two heads and torsos, one upside down; and a not quite matched pair of black cards. One held a pattern of clovers in rows of two, the other a similar arrangement with single leaves. The monte flipped each card to its back. The reverse sides looked impossibly alike, a complicated series of blue circles, squares, and loops. Taziar watched as the black youth gathered the cards, two in one hand, one in the other, then tossed them back down in a different arrangement.

Though alert for sleights of hand and substitutions of cards, Taziar saw no trickery. The pock-faced player laid a handful of uniform, green papers on the table before the card Taziar knew was the red one.

The monte flicked the card to its opposite side, revealing the queen.

Applause splattered through the spectators. The winner shouted in excited triumph, drawing even more spectators.

The monte said something loudly that sent twitters of laughter through the crowd and included the words “son of a bitch.” He drew a packet of folded, green papers from his pocket, counted off several bills and handed them to the player with a composure that could only have been rehearsed.

Taziar nodded sagely, guessing the setup. Obviously, the youths on either side of the table were working together. If so, Taziar knew the player’s next move would be to feign difficulty finding enough money for his next attempt. He would talk one of the spectators into covering part or all of a huge bet, one he would promptly lose, along with the other man’s contribution.