The Glass of Dyskornis (23 page)

I made it through the door with only seconds to spare. And there, across the street, stood the little man who had taken my pouch. He was counting.

The two bouncers had followed me out. I should have run for it, but my temper got the better of me, and I launched myself at the thief. He looked up at a call from one of the uglies, dropped the coins back in the pouch, and whipped out a thin-bladed dagger. I swerved my charge far enough to get room to draw my sword.

“You drop that pouch, and you can keep your life,” I said. He looked at the sword, then my face. He dropped the pouch and ran off down the street.

I whirled to face the two bouncers. By this time, one had his sword out, and the other was holding a big, sharp knife. Behind them, the gaming room was emptying into the street. I heard bets being made. The odds weren’t in my favor.

*
Coming,
* Keeshah told me.

*
Not down the main street,
* I ordered, as I blocked the sword and dodged the knife. *
Don’t let them see you. But make some noise.
*

Noise, I had asked for? Keeshah started with a roar of anger, and ended with a climbing wail of frustration. He must have been just outside the light at the end of the street where I was standing, because that hair-lifting sound bounced between the buildings, froze every person in place, turned every head toward its invisible source. By the time they shook off the eeriness of it and turned back to me, I had snatched up my pouch and was long gone.

I slipped through the darker streets toward the edge of town. Keeshah met me, and we wasted no time in putting distance between us and Dyskornis.

*
The next time you give me advice, Keeshah, I promise I’ll take it.
*

Thymas stepped out of the shadows as I was getting down from Keeshah’s back. He was holding a drawn sword. The trees couldn’t have blocked off Keeshah’s cry.

“What happened?” he asked.

“I found Dyskornis,” I answered shortly. “How is Tarani?”

“She’s asleep. She’s very worried about her uncle.”

“So am I. People who help Gharlas don’t live very long. The two men who helped him steal the Ra’ira are both dead.”

“Two men?” Thymas said. “Who beside Hural?”

Wups. Thymas doesn’t know that Markasset got himself beaned out in the desert by the other henchie, who was then killed by Keeshah. The end result of all that was my arrival—something else Thymas doesn’t know about.

This is beginning to be a hassle, trying to remember what I’ve told to whom.

“Thanasset said there were two men,” I said. “I suppose the other was killed in the caravan raid—which was what Gharlas planned for Hural, too.”

I thought that sounded pretty glib, but I had hesitated a heartbeat too long.

“You’re lying about something,” Thymas accused. “Just the way you lied to my father, the first time you came to Thagorn. How did you force Dharak to name you Captain?”

“It was Dharak’s idea in the first place, if you want to know,” I said. “Just like it was his idea to send you moping along with me. You and Ronar have been more trouble than help.”

“I have kept my promise. Except for Molik. A Sharith—”

“Kills his enemies, I know,” I finished for him. “You broke your promise before we left Thagorn. Why didn’t you tell me you had given Tarani a sword, that very afternoon?”

“You asked Bareff about weapons,” he said. “If you had asked me, I would have told you.”

This was getting us nowhere.

“After we find Volitar …” I didn’t have to finish.

“I look forward to it,” Thymas said, keeping his tense voice low, out of consideration of Tarani’s sleep.

“Right now, we need some rest, too.”

He nodded, and we found ourselves grassy spots to sleep.

We were all awake again by dawn, and we ate a light breakfast. We hurried into Dyskornis, leaving the sha’um to prowl restlessly through the forest, and Lonna to fend for herself.

We had to walk right down the street I had visited the night before in order to get to the main gate of the city. Tarani and Thymas wore their headscarves tied desert fashion, but I wrapped my scarf around my face like a Chizan native. Tarani was in the lead, walking at a brisk pace, her head thrust forward.

We moved through the main area of the city fairly fast, crossing one of the many bridges across the Nisa River. Then we turned toward a series of small hills with odd-looking buildings, set well apart from one another. The road climbed steadily up the steep slopes. Its surface was imbedded with stones, and the grassy areas on either side were crisscrossed with wheel ruts.

Tarani was nearly running up one of the ramps which connected the level sections of the road. I caught up with her and held her back. I could almost smell her fear.

“Which place is Volitar’s?” I asked.

“That one,” she said, pointing to our left. “The second in the next row of workshops.”

“All right, now, hang on to your good sense,” I said. “Where are the doors?”

The building was only half workshop, Tarani explained. An open porch ran around five sides of the hexagonal building, and on that porch were bins which held raw materials. Each side of the workshop had a door onto that porch, because the shops were designed to allow five glassmakers to share the furnace in each one.

The house was a two-story structure. Its upper floor had an outside entrance from the hillside, as well as a door which connected to the workshop through its sixth side. The lower floor was built against the mortared stone which surrounded the fire-bowl corridor and served as foundation for the hexagonal workshop and porch. A door led into the house from the lower slope of the hillside.

“Kardin had the workshop all to himself, so he lived in the house year-round, instead of only when the furnace was burning,” Tarani said. “We lived with him until he died, then Volitar took it over.”

“I’ll go in the top floor of the house. Thymas, try the lower level. Tarani, you get into the workshop. Be careful.”

We went uphill to the crossroad and followed the stone-paved road that ran in front of all the workshops on that level. We ran as quickly as we could, keeping to the shelter of the nearer workshop for as long as possible. In a few minutes, we were all in position.

My door was locked from the inside. It had a lattice-glass window; I broke one of the panes, reached through to move the bar, and went into the house with my sword ready.

I was in a big room that seemed to serve as bedroom, parlor, and office. Except for the sparse furniture, it was empty. A noise made me turn toward the corner on my right, and Thymas jumped out of the stairwell. We headed for the door on my left, which had to open into the workshop.

I opened it a crack, first, and looked in. The door straight across the room opened on a porch rail and a view of the workshop we had passed. Tarani was on her knees near the furnace, frantically removing a gag from the mouth of an old man.

I’ll be damned. He’s alive! Wonder how long he’s been tied up like that….

“Tarani!” the man gasped in a cracking voice, the instant his mouth was free. “Get out of here! Leave Dyskornis. Gharlas must not find you here!”

I stepped through the door. “Gharlas is still in Dyskornis?”

Volitar twisted around at the sound of my voice. He looked like the image Tarani had cast of him, except that he was even thinner, and his intelligent, thoughtful face had changed shape. There wasn’t a square inch of it that wasn’t bruised and swollen. It looked as though his nose might be broken.

“You,” the sick old man gasped, squirming so that Tarani couldn’t get hold of the ropes which tied him. “Leave me, and take Tarani out of here. I beg it of you. If you have any spark of kindness …”

“We’ll go, Uncle,” Tarani said. “But not without you. Now hold still.” She drew her sword, and sliced through the rope that bound his wrists behind his back. Volitar’s arms flopped apart, uncontrolled. His hands were bloated and bluish. Tarani made a whining sound, and put the sword through the bonds around her uncle’s ankles.

Volitar was still looking at me and Thymas, who had followed me into the room. “I can’t travel,” he said. “Please, I ask it for her sake—take her out of here. Force her to go, if you must, but do it, I beg you. Gharlas may return any minute!”

Tarani had Volitar’s legs free, but it was evident that they were no more useful than his arms. “Help me,” she said, trying to lift him by herself. I hesitated.

“He said Gharlas might be here soon—” I began.

Thymas dashed past me, and he and Tarani got a still-protesting Volitar on his feet, slung between them. “You’re so worried about promises!” Thymas snarled. “You gave your word to see Volitar safe.”

“I only meant—”

A tall, thin shape filled the open doorway behind Tarani, Thymas and Volitar.

“—that we ought to watch for him,” I finished, reaching for Rika. Thymas released Volitar and drew his sword, spinning around into a fighting crouch. Volitar’s dead weight crashed to the floor, pulling Tarani with it.

Thymas crowed with triumph, and aimed a deadly thrust at Gharlas, who was still a mere silhouette against the outdoor brightness.

Gharlas didn’t move.

After one forward step, neither did Thymas.

He stood frozen in position, except for the bewildered widening of his eyes. I tried to charge across the room, but I couldn’t even take a step. I was saying “go” to my muscles, but someone else, more imperatively, was saying “stop.”

Is this compulsion?
I wondered.
What happened to my theory about Gharlas’s power not working on me? Wait a minute—I can still think; I’m not the zombie Tarani described. There must be some way …

While I was working to break the compulsion—and to stay calm—I watched Gharlas.

He walked into the room. He was very tall; he topped me by a good six or seven inches. Markasset remembered him wearing a desert headscarf, but his head was bare now, showing the dark head fur. It was longer than usual, and it lay back smoothly, making a thick, dark frame for his narrow face.

The intensity of his close-set gaze hadn’t changed, except for one thing. The gleam of fanaticism was no longer hidden. It shone out of his eyes, his face, his bearing, that this man was not quite sane.

He stood over Volitar and Tarani, looking down at them.

“You must be the niece Volitar has been hiding all these years,” he said in a soft, silky-smooth voice. Tarani was picking herself up from the floor. The old man had been knocked out in the fall; he made a moaning sound, and Tarani turned to him, still on her knees.

“How do you do, my dear?” Gharlas continued. “Your name, please?”

She didn’t answer him, and his lips twitched into a smile.

“At a later time, you will speak when I ask you a question, my dear. Indeed, you will. For now, however, do tend to your uncle. I need him alive for a while yet. As for your friends,” he said, strolling over to the statue that was Thymas, “I can’t say much for your taste. This one is opinionated and tactless. The other one—ah, the other one …”

He walked over to stand in front of me, and stared down into my face. My eyes could turn to watch him, but my voice was mute. Inside, I was screaming and straining against the holding spell:

“You,” he said softly, almost affectionately, “have been an endless trouble to me. If you hadn’t first lied to me about your name, then come snooping after me when I left the caravan, Yolim would have lived a little longer. Not much, to be sure, but long enough to do another service I had planned for him.

“If you hadn’t found Hural in Thagorn, Zaddorn would still be circling around Thanasset instead of looking for me. I don’t know how you found your way here, my double-minded friend, but killing you
permanently
will be a high pleasure.”

Double-minded? That’s the key! Think about Ricardo. Remember things that have no connection to Gandalara. The Marines. Oceans. Sailing, swimming, diving off a board into cold, clear water …

I moved my hand! Did Gharlas notice? No, he’s turning back to Tarani and Volitar. All right, now, keep it up. Playing tennis, riding horses, snow skiing. Driving a car. Electricity …

“I see Volitar is awake,” Gharlas said. “Now, my dear, you will answer a question for me.”

Volitar said: “Don’t tell him—aachkk-k-k.” His eyes went wide, and his hand came up to his throat in a wide, floppy arc.

“We don’t want to be interrupted, do we?” purred Gharlas. “I can keep him from talking. I can keep him from breathing. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Tarani said, and I thought of Molik. “What do you want?”

“A simple thing. Such a simple thing, to cause so much pain,” he said, spreading his hands. “Somewhere in this house and workshop, your uncle has a special hiding place. He has been …
insufferably
stubborn about telling me where it is.” Gharlas’s voice wavered a little with frustration.

He wouldn’t even let you draw it from his mind!
I translated gleefully.
Good for you, Volitar. Good for you!

I had been straining against the paralysis, wearing at it the way I’d work against a physical bond. Tense and release. Tense and release. Knowing that Volitar had resisted Gharlas’s power for two weeks or more was such encouragement that my entire right arm moved, lowering the sword about four inches.

Gharlas still had his back to me, but Tarani had seen the jerky movement.

“I think that is a poor show of gratitude to the man who rescued him from two very unpleasant men. He has also refused to tell me why they were holding him prisoner, though that is unimportant. I was merely curious. But I am most serious about finding your uncle’s hiding place. Where is it?”

“I will tell you,” Tarani answered. She made no attempt to hide the contempt in her voice. “If you will first tell me what this is all about. What have you forced Volitar to do?”

While she was talking, I felt … something.

It’s Tarani!
I realized.
She’s stalling Gharlas, and trying to help me break free.

Now I was applying constant pressure against the constraint. I worked alone as Ricardo, and when I tired, Markasset and Tarani took over. It was weakening, we were gaining. It was slow work, but that was an advantage in itself. Gharlas didn’t seem to take any notice of the step-by-step erosion of his control.