The Glass of Dyskornis (11 page)

Four tables stood parallel to one another along each short wall of the room, their ends toward the platform. Between the last pair, and directly in front of the platform, was another table. The best seats in the house.

Dharak and I were the last men to arrive, and everyone stood up as we entered, waited until we sat down, then resumed their noisy conversations. There were four chairs at that head table. Thymas was occupying the one at the end nearer the door.

He had stood up, too, but it was clear to everyone that the honor was meant for his father, only. I touched Dharak’s arm, hoping he wouldn’t make a scene. He didn’t speak a word, but walked right by his son. I took the chair at the other end of the table, and Dharak sat next to me.

I guess Thymas means to make sure Tarani is well-chaperoned
, I laughed to myself.
Well, he needn’t worry. She’s beautiful, but … there’s something really disturbing about her. And I’m leaving tomorrow. I don’t need any one-night stands that might generate a murder.

But I will enjoy having that drink with her. She’s a fascinating woman. Strange, but intriguing.

In a few minutes, the women arrived. They had finished preparing the food, and had taken some time to prepare themselves. Shola came to our table, dressed in a full-skirted gown of pale orange, wearing a necklace and headband of copper. She made a gracious comment about my new gift—still on my wrist—being finer than her own jewelry, then seated herself silently, tactfully, between her husband and her son.

The older girls served the meal, and it was a proper feast. Roast glith, hundreds of small birds served whole, large bowls brimming with fruit, fresh-baked bread, and plenty of faen.

When the dishes had been cleared away, the lamps which had lit the tables were all moved to line the edges of the platform in a regular pattern. Three edges, that is. The fourth edge, farthest from the head table, was left open for the entrance of the players. The rearrangement left the stage brightly lit, and the rest of the room in shadow. The room grew quiet.

The dancers came first, creating complex patterns with the location and positions of their bodies, moving with stylized grace to the music of the harps and flute. The jugglers appeared next, with a really remarkable display of skill and timing. Some of the stunts were done with swords and knives, and I applauded wildly with the rest of the crowd.

It was a great show—well paced, with excitement balanced against beauty. I began to admire Tarani for her showmanship. She had assembled a talented group of people.

The illusionist herself appeared once, early on in the show, still wearing her black robe. It was instantly clear that this was not her spot, but the bird’s. She asked it questions, which it answered in “yes” or “no” fashion, either spreading its wings or remaining still. There were math problems on the order of “Two plus two are five, right?” which the bird always answered correctly, catching every apparent trick. By the time that segment of the show was over, I was willing to grant that Lonna was a pretty smart bird, and I joined in the polite applause.

That must be the hit of the show in other towns
, I thought.
But when you’ve lived with a sha’um inside your head, a clever bird isn’t much of a novelty.

After a long time of sitting in those un-padded, armless, wood-and-tile chairs, the troupe gave us a break, and we stretched and laughed and discussed the show.

After about ten minutes, I caught sight of Tarani, climbing the rear steps of the stage. There was a peculiar darkness hovering over center stage, and she walked into it without anyone taking notice of her.

It’s one of her illusions. She’s diverting everyone’s attention until she gets into place.

This confirms what I’ve been thinking, ever since this afternoon
, I thought, touching the gold bracelet with the fingers of my right hand.
I’m not susceptible to her power.

I leaned forward eagerly, making the table creak. She looked, for a brief instant, in my direction.

I’m going to enjoy this show.

Tarani threw her arms out wide. A yellowish powder fell from her hands, and the lamps flared up with a hissing noise. At that exact instant, the shroud of darkness vanished, and the crowd gasped, then applauded madly. I joined in, but I wasn’t applauding the trick so much as the lady herself.

The long, shapeless black robe was gone. Tarani was wearing a shimmering blue gown she must have designed for herself. Certainly no other women I had ever seen could have worn it. Where most women’s garments draped and flowed, clinging only incidentally, this was tailored to cling to her upper body and display curves which were more impressive for having been hidden away in the black robe.

A glittering band of blue circled her neck, supporting a tight bodice which left her arms bare. From her small waist, a full skirt flowed over her hips and nearly to the floor. The fabric was so soft that her legs were outlined at every step. A semi-circular white cape, fastened to her arms with jewelled bands at shoulders, elbows, and wrists, set off the blue of the gown. The cape also had a tall, stiff collar which stood up behind her head, creating a dramatic background for her black head fur.

I blinked twice.

None of that is illusion. That’s all Tarani. No wonder Thymas is crazy for her.

Tarani stood perfectly still for a long moment. I became aware of a barely audible sound. It was her voice, humming a soft, deep-toned melody. The sound gave me the same thrill along my spine as I had felt when she first had spoken to us that afternoon.

She began to sway to her own music. Soon she was moving around the stage in an irregular pattern, approaching each lighted edge, then veering back. Her arms were held out from her sides a little way to silhouette her gown against the white of the cape. She seemed to glide without moving her feet. Only by blinking frequently could I detect the quick, tiny steps with which she moved.

That humming is hypnotic
, I realized.
Is that all her power is, a talent for hypnosis? Or is this a bonus that makes her real talent more effective?

She glided to the front of the stage, opposite our table, and she broke from her rigid posture to kneel before us. The music of her voice rose in pitch and increased its pace. She lifted her right arm above her head. In her left hand, she held a thin strip of wood; she extended it toward a lamp. The end of the wood caught, and she carried the tiny fire upward …

pressed it into her palm. Her right hand burst into flame. She clapped her hands together, and the left caught fire. She brought her hands down behind her head, and she wore a brilliant crown of flame.

She began to dance. Beautifully, rhythmically, moving always in time with the eerie melody …

… leaving streams of sparkling fire, lingering in the air behind her.

It was fascinating. I could shift my perception from the gorgeous illusion to the reality beneath it, where she carried three long strips of burning wood, one in each hand, and one mounted in the stiff collar of her cape. They burned so slowly that they must have been specially treated and prepared for her act.

And what an act. In either version, the dance was wonderful to watch. Tarani’s tall body, its outlines plain against the cape’s light background, moved continuously and with a grace that seemed effortless. When the illusion was in effect, she drew intricate and ever-changing patterns in the air with the trailing flames.

If Gandalarans could perspire, she’d be all over sweat by now
, I thought.
Such energy! She doesn’t even need the illusion to make this a great show. But look at her face—eyes nearly closed, expression rapt. She loves it. The dance transports her. She’ll never give this up to stay in Thagorn. Poor Thymas.

I did feel a real twinge of sympathy for the boy. And a surge of affection for Illia, who wanted a normal life and seemed to want me to be part of it. She might not be as glamorous, or as challenging a personality, as Tarani, but at that moment, I felt a warm appreciation for Illia’s more simple charms.

It might have been because I was thinking of Illia—and, by association, Raithskar and Worfit—right then. Whatever the reason, when I heard the soft creak of leather behind me, I reacted instantly. If I had been as entranced by Tarani’s performance as the rest of the audience, I would have missed hearing it.

And I would have died.

It was a near thing, anyway. As I toppled my chair into the open space between tables on my right, I saw the faint glint of lamplight on a dagger blade that plunged through the air, just where my heart would have been. I could barely see the man who held the dagger—he was bending over in reaction to his unresisted downward swing—and another man behind him. The huge bulk of the other man told me that I had seen him before. The vlek handler, in Tarani’s caravan.

At the sound of the chair falling, the humming had stopped. Just as I rolled back on my shoulders and aimed a double-leg kick at the nearer, smaller man, the lights went out.

My feet connected with the side of the man’s head, and I heard him fall. I rolled to the right, trying to put the table between myself and the big guy, but he was too fast. A huge hand grabbed my foot. I felt myself dragged across the floor like a rag doll, then another huge hand touched my face.

“Dharak! Assassins!” I yelled. I brought my arms up to deflect an expected blow. I kicked out with my feet, with little effect. Instead of hitting me, that hand closed on my throat, and the big man leaned on my neck.

A different darkness, full of spinning lights, began to close in on me. With an odd detachment, I wondered whether my larynx would collapse, or my neck crack, before I passed out from lack of air.

*
Not close enough to help!
* Keeshah’s wail of frustration reached me, steadied the wheeling blackness. *
Don’t die,
* he pleaded.

The pressure on my neck vanished suddenly, and I gulped in a painful, delicious draft of air. I opened my eyes to faint light. Some of the lamps had guttered back to life, not quite extinguished by whatever Tarani must have thrown at them….

*
Keeshah, I’m all right. Find Tarant.
*

In the flickering light, Dharak had seen me struggling, and had thrown himself at the man-mountain. They had rolled together, and now it was Dharak who was pinned, his arms entangled with his attacker’s. Over the milling confusion around us, I heard the sound of bone snapping, and a yell of pain. From outside, a scream of rage sounded from a sha’um—Doran.

“Father!” Thymas was yelling, as he ran around the far end of the table.

“There’s another man, Thymas!” I croaked, my throat still aching. “He had a dagger. Get it!”

Thymas checked his forward rush, grabbed up one of the lamps, and dashed back around the table. I staggered up and got the big man around the neck, then lifted with all my strength. The man grunted and released Dharak, only to reach backward and grab my right leg. He pulled me off balance and we fell, the big man knocking my breath away as he landed on top of me.

Thymas ran up with the dagger. He glanced at his father, lying still on the floor, then turned toward us with the most savage expression I have ever seen on the face of a Gandalaran.

The knife blade sank into the man’s side. Once. Twice. Three times. Blood ran out of the wounds, soaking my clothes as the man quit struggling.

I pushed myself out from under the corpse, fighting back a wave of nausea. “You didn’t have to kill him!” I panted, then stopped short. Thymas still held the dagger, and he was ready to use it again … on me.

“He’s a piece of filth!” the boy shouted in a strained voice. “And so are you. My father may be dead because he was trying to save your fleabitten life. And if he is,” Thymas threatened, waving the dagger, “if Dharak is dead …” His voice choked off.

“I’m far from dead,” said a weak voice. Behind Thymas, Dharak straightened out a leg. The boy whirled, and dropped to his knees beside his father. Blood still dripped from the dagger.

My knees went weak with relief, and I moved to lean on the table.
Thank God!
I prayed, sincerely.
Thank God Dharak didn’t die for my sake. How did Worfit know where I would be? How could he arrange for this so quickly?

In Thagorn, surrounded by sha’um and soldiers … I quit looking over my shoulder. Mistake. Worfit must have more connections than Zaddorn does. I’ll have to settle with him, one way or another, when I get back to Raithskar.

But first, I want to be sure that nobody—but nobody—tries this and gets away with it.

“Bareff,” I called, coming to my feet.

The banquet hall had been full of confusion for a while, with the sudden darkness and the sounds of a nearly invisible fight. It hadn’t helped anything that Doran had squeezed through the human-sized door, and trampled a few people in the darkness, trying to get to Dharak. But now Dharak was calming the sha’um, stroking the cat’s jaw with his right hand, while he talked to Thymas to allay his son’s concern.

Old Snaggletooth had taken things in hand, and was creating some order out of the mess. He was beginning to get the dead lamps relighted when he heard my call. He came running.

“I heard you yelling,” Bareff said, “but with the darkness …” In one quick glance, he took in the huge corpse, my bloody tunic, Dharak lying prone, Thymas and Doran beside him. “Great Zanek!” was all he said.

“The Lieutenant is alive,” I assured him. “There’s a man on the other side of the table. If he’s alive, have him guarded. Round up the troupe and find out what they know about all this … and where Tarani is.”

He opened his mouth, closed it again, nodded, and moved around the table. I went over to Dharak, but before I could speak to him, I heard the thud of a falling body, and Bareff yelled.

The man I had kicked was leaping over the table, which had miraculously remained upright through all the scuffling. I whirled to face the assassin, but he went past me to the edge of the stage, and caught up one of the lamps. He brought the faceted glass chimney down on the edge of the stage, knocking out the thick candle and breaking the glass down to a jagged shard.