The Gate of Fire (54 page)

The mysteries of women and their ceremonies were one of them. His father had said that. Nikos put great store by his father's wisdom and daily vowed to follow it as soon as he had time.

The sound of low voices came from the door and Nikos rose, walking to his place by the head of the table. The Duchess entered, her hair bound up in a short waterfall of ringlets. Her arm was entwined with that of the Khazar Prince, Jusuf. Nikos suppressed a grimace at that, for the content expression on his friend's face was hard to dismiss. Anastasia laughed, a low throaty sound, at something the tall, rawboned man was saying.

With a flourish of her dark blue skirts and the gold-colored gauze drape laid around her smooth white shoulders, the Duchess sat in a wide-armed round-backed chair the girl Betia had pulled out for her. Nikos blinked in surprise as he seated himself and had to bite his tongue to keep from speaking. He had not even noticed the girl, though she must have come into the room in the company of the Duchess.

Nikos glared at Betia, his brow furrowed. She gazed back, meeting his eyes for the first time.

They were a liquid blue like the light on northern sea under a cold summer sky. For a moment, he was transfixed, seeing unguessable depths reflecting there. Then she smiled and the corners of her eyes crinkled up as she winked at him. Nikos banged his knee on the table, then winced.

"Come, my friends," the Duchess said, ignoring the look of pain on Nikos' face. "We have much to discuss." The Khazars got up from the floor, gathering their coins and scooping the bones up into a bag of soft velvet. The mute, Anagathios, joined them, sitting cross-legged at the end of the table, where he could see the lips and faces of his companions. Nikos caught the eye of the Syrian-born actor and smiled. The mute bowed back to him, making a courtly flourish, even when seated.

"Do not take this amiss, but I fear that we face quite a difficult situation." The tension in the Duchess' voice focused all of Nikos' attention. Even in this muted light he could see that she was drawn and tired. Her gorgeous violet eyes, usually lighted by the fire of her personality, were hooded and distant. The Illyrian sat up straighter in his chair. Anastasia looked around the table, meeting the eyes of her men, nodding to some, smiling at others. "A problem has arisen that involves the Imperial family."

Anastasia stopped and seemed lost in thought. None of the men spoke. Any matter that involved the Emperor could only be a dangerous and difficult one. After a moment, though, she visibly gathered her strength and resumed. "The youngest Atrean prince, Maxian, has returned from the east. Of itself, this would not be notable, save that he has returned in the company of Persians and others. Some of you know that just over two weeks ago, Jusuf and Nikos led a raid against an abandoned estate in the hills to the east of the city. They were accompanied by almost twenty of the Praetorian Guard."

The Khazars and others around the table perked up at this. There had been some ferocious rumor attendant upon the failed raid. The men who had come with Nikos from Egypt and the east had been disgusted that they had not received the tap to join in. Now, however, they congratulated themselves on avoiding disaster. Nikos knew that the Duchess—not having served with the Khazars and Armenians in the Persian campaign—did not trust these men. Nikos she trusted as she had trusted Thyatis, and Jusuf had found his own favor in her heart, but the others? She was not sure of them.

"I had received word that the Prince was attempting some kind of conjuration in that house. It was said that this effort—this sorcery—was directed against his brother, Emperor Galen. Such things are not to be allowed. The raid, for all the blood spilt in the process, was a failure. The Prince escaped, and with him some unknown number of his servants and allies. The house was destroyed, and the praetorians massacred."

A chuckle ran around the table, though it stilled quickly at the fierce look on the Duchess' face.

"Nikos, relate what transpired there."

The Illyrian stood and bowed and hooked his thumbs into his belt. He turned to the assembled men, his face grim. It was not a pleasant tale.

The
carnica
rattled through the Ostia gate, its high wooden sides swaying as it rolled over the cobblestones of the street. The sun had set, bringing darkness to the city and allowing, at last, the entrance of draymen and wagons into the Imperial capital. Bolts of cloth were carefully piled in the back, bound for a dressmaker's shop on the northern side of the Aventine hill.

Sprawled on the top of a leather sheet spread over the cloth, a straw hat pulled low on her face, snoring, rode a tall woman with tan legs and tangle of red-gold hair. Her travel cloak, once a dark green, was now a muddy gray. She had pulled her travel bag and the worn leather sheath of her sword onto her chest and had wrapped her arms around them.

It had rained much of the afternoon as the wagon had lumbered up the long road from Ostia and the port. Despite the clatter of the big wooden wheels on the stone street, Thyatis slept, exhausted from her journey.

The Duchess coughed, covering her mouth with a fine-boned white hand. Nikos had finished telling what they had seen and fought. The Khazars were openly interested—none of them had ever matched wits or sword with a demon before. Anagathios' striking features were filled with worry. He did not like battles. His particular skills were of little use once things had come to blows.

"My other servants," Anastasia said in an even, controlled voice, "have excavated the house and pulled many bodies from the cellars. The effects of these dead men have been examined. It is all too clear that the Prince—once accounted a friend and welcome guest of this house—has taken to trafficking with the abominable Persian magi and other foul spirits. It is clear he has summoned, or gained control of, an inhuman thing of unsurpassed ferocity and power. Many of the bodies recovered from the house in the hills show signs of torture and necrothia."

The Duchess paused, seeing that those seated at the table did not know the term.

"
Necrothia
, I have recently learned, is the technical term for the markings apparent upon a body that has been revivified from death by the application of certain powers and rituals."

She surveyed the men seated at the table and saw that a chill had fallen over the gathering.

"Yes, the Prince or someone among his party dabbles in the arts of necromancy. He is served by the living dead."

Nikos was hard pressed to suppress a shudder at this. Even among his usually hardheaded and stoic people the corpse-walkers were a night terror.

"We do not know if the Prince himself has the strength to undertake these acts, or if he is accompanied by others who do. We know, from two exceptionally reliable sources, that he has lately been in the plain of the Euphrates valley—even as were you—and that he undertook excavations in one or more of the dead cities there. What he may have recovered is unknown, but it may be that the thing that Jusuf and Nikos crossed swords with in the ruined house was the fruit of his labors. We know, too, that he is possessed of a flying creature out of legend—something that can carry him great distances at great speed—this thing that resolute Nikos terms an
ignis dracorus
or
fire-drake
."

Jusuf turned to the Duchess, making a slight bow with his head. "What then, noble lady, will we do?"

Nikos repressed a bitter laugh. It was clear that the Duchess had scripted parts of the meeting.

"We must undertake," the Duchess said slowly, "to secure the person of the Prince and return him to Imperial custody. We must attempt to destroy this thing that accompanies him and to capture or kill his servants. We must do so quietly, without arousing undue suspicion on any part."

"Including the Emperor's?" Nikos flushed, for he had spoken without thinking.

The Duchess turned, her grave eyes meeting his. She nodded, though she said nothing. Nikos understood all too well. The Emperor would not be told, informed, or involved until all was done. If the wayward Prince could be brought down and returned to his family, the matter would be closed. If the Prince escaped, or was killed, it would be an unfortunate accident. No taint of this cruel business would touch the Emperor's cloak.

"I have been informed," the Duchess said, "that the Prince is in the city, though hidden. He plans, however, to move his entourage to the south, perhaps to the coastal town of Cumae on the Bay of Neapolis. I have considered, and rejected, a plan to apprehend the Prince within the confines of the capital. The powers he has shown are too dangerous to risk within the walls. We will wait until he moves away and goes to ground. Then we will strike."

Nikos raised a hand. His mind was filled with questions of tactics and the matter of execution.

Thyatis bit a hunk off the end of a loaf. She was very tired and coated with dust and grime from the road. The bread was a little stale—no fresh loaves had been available at this late hour. Her boots needed mending, too, and the climb up the street that wound up the side of the Quirinal was hurting her feet. She had two bags slung over her shoulder—one of her personal things and the other of presents she had spent long hours scouring the markets of Athens and Syracuse to find. Shirin's babies would not look kindly upon her if she arrived without the appropriate tribute!

She resumed walking, though the final pitch of the hill seemed much steeper than she remembered. Around her, in the night, the city spread out like a mirror of the sky, filled with sparkling orange and red jewels. The familiar stink of the air was like incense to her. She usually thought of Thira as her home, but tonight, as she climbed the side of the hill, this felt like a homecoming.

"What will we do about the hell-caster?" Kahrmi, the eldest of the two Khazar brothers who had escaped with them out of burning Ctesiphon, leaned on the table. His brown beard, as thick and curly as a bramble thicket, barely disguised the concerned look on his face. At his side, his brother Efraim nodded in agreement. "If this boy-prince can summon the powers of air and darkness, we stand little chance against him. None of us,"—Kahrmi gestured around at the men at the table—"are skilled in those arts. We need assistance; our own witches or warlocks to match power with this boy."

Nikos turned to the Duchess, raising an eyebrow. He had the same questions, though he had not broached them yet.

"I have sought this assistance," the Duchess said in a tired voice. "We cannot use the thaumaturges from the Legion or the Imperial Academy without the permission of the Emperor. This counts them out. I have approached, by messenger, many of the independent wizards who make their home in the city. None have responded. I fear we will have to handle this ourselves."

"What?" Nikos stood, his face the very picture of alarm. "My lady, this is a bootless task! We are strong men, skilled and well versed in the arts of war and murder. But the whole lot of us, even together, even with a plan or a trap, will be very hard pressed to match this thing of theirs, this monster. If we must go up against the lad and his own powers... well, that will be the end of us."

"It will
not
be the end of you." Anger at last sparked in Anastasia's eyes. "You are thinking men. Crafty hunters. You can track down this boy and his creatures and kill or capture them. He is a living man, so he bleeds and he can die. You said that to me once, if I remember aright."

Nikos flinched at the cutting tone in her voice. "That," he said in a hollow voice, "was before we matched blades with this thing. Jusuf—you were there, you saw how it moved! It is
so
fast... more, I do not think that it bleeds, my lady."

Anastasia turned to Jusuf, her kohl-rimmed eyes searching his face.

The Khazar looked back, his long face drawn and grim. "It is true," he said softly. "Petronius speared it through with a clean blow and it laughed. It wanted him to pin it, to show that it could not be killed by our weapons. Then it crushed his skull in its fingers. If you say that the bodies recovered from the villa in the hills show signs of being the risen dead, I wager that the thing is of that same ilk."

Anastasia seemed to shrink in upon herself, her face closing up. Nikos fidgeted, his hands shifting on the tabletop. He could see no way to accomplish what she desired and wondered if she would back away from the task. But that would not be like her.

"My lady," he said when she did not speak. "If we are careful, we may be able to take down the boy if we move while he is still in the city. If there is conscience left in him he may not wield his full powers when there are citizens about. If we let him get away, out into the countryside, then we are at his mercy. By the gods, the
fire-drake
can fly! We have nothing to chase him with if he decides to flee. We are outmatched by this if we cannot bring in help—Imperial help."

"No." The Duchess roused herself at last, sitting up again. Jusuf tried to touch her hand, but she stopped him with a cold glare. She looked around the table, and Nikos felt every man sitting there stiffen. "This is the task that I lay upon you," she said in a brittle voice. "Devise a means to bring down the monster, capture the boy, and return him here, to me. I would advise that you keep him unconscious while he is in our custody. Find a way to win. You are the best that I have to hand, you will
have
to do. All this without drawing the attention of the Emperor or the State. Do you understand me?"

Nikos felt the venom in her voice like a back-handed slap on his face. He nodded jerkily.

"Good." Anastasia relented a little, allowing the ice in her voice to thaw a fraction. "Now, how will you deal with this monster?"

Nervously, Betia bit at her nails. She knew she wasn't supposed to, but she was beside herself in disgust. Distracted, she sneaked a look around the back of the big chair that the Duchess was sitting in. It was hard to make out the muscular, blocky form of the man who had been staring at her, but she could see his hands on the tabletop. They were big and callused and strong. She looked at her own hands, pale and small in the light of the lamps. She had heard that the Illyrian had been a wrestler in his youth. It seemed very possible, particularly since his wrists were like tree roots and almost as big around as her upper arms. His arms, she thought morosely, were worse—ridged with hard muscle and as big as her thighs.