The Dead of Winter Part 22

Every tree burst into white blossom; the dank riverside air grew warm and sweet as if spring and summer had rooted in that garden together. The black birds in the trees looked down, and one opened its beak and, in a voice deep and bittersweet as night and love, began to sing. The barren rosebush shook itself and came out in leaves, then in a splendor of roses of every color imaginable burning white, red like evening love, and the incomparable blue; silver and pink and green and violet and even black.

"This is," Mriga said, insisting, as Ischade paused by the gate and looked through it in cool astonishment. "The waking world doesn't need to be the way it is ... not for always. Neither do you. You could be more. You could be what you are now, and more yet...."

Ischade looked down silently at what the light, the silver morning, the irresistible joy beating in the air, had made of her. Long she looked down, and lifting her hands, gazed into them as if into a mirror. Finally she lowered them and said, calm as ever, "I prefer my way."

Mriga looked a long moment at her. "Yes. Anyway, thank you," she said.

"Believe me, you'll pay well enough for what I've done for Harran."

Mriga shook her head. "Down there-you knew everything that was going to happen, didn't you? But you were trying to spare us a disaster, trying to spare Sanctuary one. Without looking like it, of course, and spoiling your reputation."

"I should have hated to lose a G.o.ddess who will be creating such wonderful disturbances hereabouts in the near future," Ischade said, her voice soft and dangerous.

Mriga smiled at her. "You're not quite as you paint yourself, Lady Ischade. But your reputation is safe with me."

The necromant looked at her and smiled a slow, scornful smile. "The day it matters to me what anyone thinks of me, or doesn't think ... even the G.o.ds ...

!" she said.

"Yes," said Mriga. "And whoever raises the dead but G.o.ds? Let's go in."

Ischade nodded, holding the gate. Mriga went in, and with true sunrise, the influences of the underworld died away and let day rea.s.sert itself: grimy, pallid dawn over Sanctuary, reeking with smoke and the faint taint of blood ghost-haunted, dismal, and bitter cold as befitted the first day of winter. At Ischade's back, the White Foal flowed and stank, filmed here and there with ice.

But the joy hanging in the air still refused to go entirely away. She shut the gate behind her and looked up at the stairs to the house. Haught stood there, and Stilcho, swords drawn in their hands. Ischade waved them inside, a.s.suming their obedience, and turned to regard the rosebush.

Stilcho went inside, unnerved. Haught lingered just past the doorsill. Ischade paid him no mind, if she knew he was there. Eventually she moved, and reached out to the hedge. And if Haught saw Ischade cast a long, thoughtful gaze at the whitest of the roses before reaching out to pluck the black one, he never mentioned it to her, then or ever.

WHEN THE SPIRIT MOVES YOU.

Robert Lynn Asprin

"Is he asleep?"

"Asleep! Hah! He's pa.s.sed out again."

Zalbar heard the wh.o.r.es' voices as if from a distance and wanted very badly to take exception to what they were saying. He wasn't asleep or pa.s.sed out. He could understand every word that was being said. His eyes were just closed, that's all ... and d.a.m.ned hard to open too. Hardly worth the effort.

"I don't know why the Madame puts up with him. He's not that good-looking, or rich."

"Maybe she has a weak spot for lost puppies and losers."

"If she does, it's the first sign of it she's shown since I've been here."

A loser? Him? How could they say that? Wasn't he a h.e.l.l-Hound? One of the most feared swordsmen in Sanctuary?

Struggling to focus his mind, Zalbar became aware that he was sitting in a chair. Well, sitting slumped over, the side of his head resting on something hard ... presumably a table. There was a puddle of something cold and sticky under his ear. He fervently hoped it was spilled wine and not vomit.

"Well, I guess we'll just have to carry him up to his room again. Come on. Give me a hand."

This would never do. A h.e.l.l-Hound? Being carried through a wh.o.r.ehouse like a common drunk?

Zalbar gathered himself to surge to his feet and voice his protests ...

He sat up in bed with a start, experiencing that crystal clarity of awareness and thought that sometimes occurs when one wakes between a heavy drunk and the inevitable hangover.

Sleeping! He had been asleep! After three days of forcing himself to stay awake he had been stupid enough to start drinking!

Every muscle tense, he hurriedly scanned the room, dreading what he knew he would find.

Nothing. He was alone in the room ... his room ... what had become his room at the Aphrodisia House through Myrtis's tolerance and generosity. It wasn't here!

Forcing himself to relax, he let memories wash over him like a polluted wave.

He hadn't just been drinking. He was drunk! Not for the first time, either, he realized as his mind brought up numerous repet.i.tions of this scene for his review. The countless excuses he had hidden behind in the past were swept aside by the merciless hand of self-contempt. This was becoming a habit ... much more the reality of his existence than the golden self-image he tried to cling to.

Hugging himself in his misery, Zalbar tried to use this temporary clarity of thought to examine his position.

What had he become?

When he first arrived in Sanctuary as one of Prince Kadakithis's elite bodyguard, he and his comrades had been a.s.signed by that royal personage to clean up the crime and corruption that abounded in the town. It had been hard work and dangerous, but it was honest work a soldier could take pride in. The townspeople had taken to calling them h.e.l.l-Hounds, a t.i.tle they had smugly accepted and redoubled their efforts in an attempt to live up to.

Then the Stepsons had come, an arrogant mercenary company which one of the h.e.l.l Hounds, Tempus Thales, had abandoned his mess-mates to lead. That had really been the start of the h.e.l.l-Hounds' downfall. Their duties were reduced to those of token bodyguards, while the actual job of policing the town fell to the Stepsons. Then the Beysib had arrived from a distant land, and the Prince's infatuation with their Empress led him to replace his h.e.l.l-Hounds with fish-eyed foreign guards of the Beysa's choosing.

Denied even the simplest of palace duties, the h.e.l.l-Hounds had been rea.s.signed under loose orders to "keep an eye on the brothels and casinos north of town."

Any effort on their part to intercede or affect the chaos in the town proper was met with reprimands, fines, and accusations of "meddling in things outside their authority or jurisdiction."

At first, the h.e.l.l-Hounds had hung together, practicing with their weapons and hatching dark plots over wine as to what they would do when the Stepsons and Beysib guards fell from favor and they were recalled to active duty. Exclusion from the war at Wizardwall, and finally the a.s.sa.s.sination of the Emperor, had been the final straws to' break the h.e.l.l-Hounds' spirit. The chance for rea.s.signment was now gone. The power structure in the capital was in a turmoil, and the very existence of a few veterans posted to duty in Sanctuary was doubtlessly forgotten. They were stranded under the command of the Prince, who had no use for them at all.

Both practices and meetings had become more and more infrequent as individual h.e.l.l-Hounds found themselves drawn into the ready maw of Sanctuary's flesh-dens and gaming bars. There were always free drinks and women to be had for a h.e.l.l Hound, even when it became apparent to everyone in the town that they were no longer a force to be reckoned with. Just having one of the h.e.l.l-Hounds on the premises was a deterrent to cheats and petty criminals, so the bartenders and madames bore the expense of their indulgences willingly.

The downhill slide had been slow but certain. The wh.o.r.es' conversation he had overheard served to confirm what he had suspected for some time ... that the h.e.l.l-Hounds had not only fallen from favor, they were actually held in contempt by the same low-life townspeople they had once sneered at. Once-proud soldiers were now a pack of pitiful barflies ... and this town had done it to them.

Zalbar shook his head.

No. That wasn't right. His own personal downfall had been started by a specific action. It had started when he agreed to team up with Jubal in an effort to deal with Tempus. It had started with the death of ...

"Help me, Zalbar."

For once, Zalbar's nerves were under control. He didn't even look around.

"You're late," he said in a flat voice.

"Please! Help me!"

At this, Zalbar turned slowly to face his tormenter.

It was Razkuli. He was his best friend in the h.e.l.l-Hounds, or had been until Tempus killed him in revenge for Zalbar's part in the Jubal-Kurd nonsense.

Actually, what confronted him was an apparition, a ghost if you will. After numerous encounters, Zalbar knew without looking that the figure before him didn't quite touch the floor as it walked or stood.

"Why do you keep doing this to me?" he demanded. "I thought you were my friend!"

"You are my friend," the form replied in a distant voice. "I have no one else to turn to. That's why you must help me!"

"Now look. We've been over this a hundred times," Zalbar said, trying to hold his temper. "I need my sleep. I can't have you popping up with your groanings every time I close my eyes. It was bad enough when you only showed up occasionally, but you're starting to drop in every night. Now either tell me how I can help you, something you've so far kept to yourself, or go away and leave me alone."

"It's cold where I am, Zalbar. I don't like it here. You know how I always hated the cold."

"Well it's no lark here either," Zalbar snapped, surprised at his own boldness.

"And as for the cold ... it's winter. That means it's cold all over."

"I need your help. I can't cross over to the other side without your help! Help me and I'll trouble you no more."

Zalbar suddenly grew more attentive. That was more information than his friend's ghost had ever given him in the past ... or perhaps he had been too drunk to register what was being said.

"Cross over to where? How can I help you?"

"I can't tell you that ..."

"Oh, Vashanka!" Zalbar exclaimed, throwing up his hands. "Here we go again. I can't help you if you won't tell me what ..."

"Talk to Ischade," the spirit interrupted. "She can tell you what I cannot."

"Who?" Zalbar blinked. "Ischade? You mean the weird woman living in Downwind?

That Ischade?"

"Ischade ..." the ghost repeated, fading from sight.

"But ... Oh, Vashanka! Wouldn't you know it. The one time I want to talk to him and now he's gone."

Seized by a sudden inspiration, Zalbar sank back onto the pillows and closed his eyes. Maybe sleeping again would bring the irritating apparition back long enough for a few clarifying questions.

As might be expected, he slept the rest of the night undisturbed.

Zalbar awoke near midday with a fresh sense of resolve. Razkuli's ghost had finally given him some information he could act on, and he was determined to rid himself of his otherworldly nag before he slept again.

The beginning of his quest, however, was delayed until nearly nightfall. The hangover he had eluded for his late-night conference with the spirit descended on him with a vengeance now that its ally, the sun, was s.h.i.+ning bright. As a result, he spent most of the day abed, weak-limbed and fuzzy-headed, waiting until the traditional penance for overindulgence had pa.s.sed before sallying forth. He might have convinced himself to wait until the next day, but all through his recovery he had clung to one thought like a buoy on a stormy sea.

It's almost over. Talk to Ischade. Talk to Ischade and I can sleep again.

Thus it was that a wobbly Zalbar donned his uniform and ventured out into the last rays of the setting sun, determined to rid himself of his nighttime tormenter or die in the attempt ... which, at the moment, seemed a reasonably attractive option.

It was his intention to follow the North Road, which skirted the city's walls, to the bridge over the White Foal River, thereby avoiding the streets of the city proper. It was well known that, following the h.e.l.l-Hounds' removal, the chaos in town had evolved into vicious street fighting between rival factions, and he had no desire to be delayed by a brawl. Once he had walked unafraid even in the Maze, the heart of Sanctuary's underground. Now, that was someone else's concern and there was no need to take unnecessary risks.

The further he went, the more he realized that he had underestimated the extent of the urban warfare. Even here, outside the city, his trained eye could detect signs of preparations for violence. There were boxes and barrels stacked in formations clearly designed for cover and defense rather than for storage, and there were any number of armed men lounging in corners with no apparent purpose other than to serve as lookouts. Despite his weakened condition, Zalbar grew more tense as he walked, feeling scores of concealed eyes watching him ...

appraising his strength. Perhaps he should have taken the longer route, skirting the town to the east, then pa.s.sing south along the wharfs where violence was least likely. Too late to turn back now. He'd just have to brazen it through and hope enough respect lingered for the h.e.l.l-Hounds' uniform to give him safe pa.s.sage.

Dropping a hand to his sword hilt, he slipped into the jaunty, swaggering gait of old, all the while trying desperately to remember the latest wh.o.r.ehouse rumors of which factions controlled which portions of the town. His walk went unchallenged, and he was just beginning to congratulate himself on the endurance of the h.e.l.l-Hound reputation he had fought so hard to build when a stray gust of wind carried the sound of derisive laughter to him from one of the watch-posts.

With that, an alternate explanation for his uncontested progress came to him with a rush that made his cheeks burn in spite of the cold. Maybe the h.e.l.l Hounds' reputation had simply fallen so low that they were considered beneath notice ... not a sufficient threat to bother springing a trap on.

It was a humbled and subdued Zalbar that finally arrived at Ischade's residence.

He paused on her doorstep, momentarily lost in thought. Soldiers were never popular, and he had suffered his share of abuse for wearing a uniform. This was the first time, though, that he had been a subject of other arms-bearers'

ridicule. Sometime, after he had rehoned his sword and his skills, he would have to see what could be done about reestablis.h.i.+ng the respect a h.e.l.l-Hound uniform was due. Maybe he could interest Armen and Quag as well. It was about time they all started giving a bit of thought to their collective future.

First, however, there was the business at hand to see to ... and in his current state his mind could handle only one plan at a time. Raising a fist, he knocked on Ischade's door, wondering at the strange foliage in her garden.

The silence surrounding the house was unsettling, and he was about to knock again if just for the noise when the door opened a crack and a man's eye regarded him with a glare.

"Who is it and what do you want so early in the morning?"

"I am Zalbar of the Prince Kadakithis's personal bodyguard," he barked, falling into old habits, "and I have come ..." Zalbar stopped suddenly and stole a glance at the now dark sky. "Early in the morning? Excuse me, but it's just past sundown."

"We're sleeping late in this house. It's been very busy lately," was the growled response. "What is it you want?"

"I wish to speak with the person known as Ischade."

"Is this official business, or a personal matter?"

Zalbar considered trying to bluff, but could think of no way to phrase his inquiries to make them sound official.

"Personal," he admitted finally.

"Then come back at a decent hour. She's got better things to do than ..."

"Oh let him in, Haught," came a commanding female voice from somewhere out of sight. "I'm awake now anyway."

The guardian of the door favored Zalbar with one last dark glare, then stepped back to allow him entrance.

The h.e.l.l-Hound's first impression of Ischade's sitting room was that he had seen neater battlefields. Then his eye registered the strewn items, and he revised his opinion. Once he had led an a.s.sault against a band of mountaineers busily looting a rich caravan. The aftermath had been very similar to what he was seeing here: expensive goods tossed randomly with no regard to their value. A prince's ransom had been ruined with careless handling ...

He decided that he wouldn't like Ischade. His time in palaces and brothels taught him to appreciate objects that he could never afford and to be offended at their neglect. At least royalty knew how to take care of their toys ... or had servants who did.

"What can I do for you, Officer?"

He turned to find a raven-haired woman entering the room, belting a black robe about herself as she walked.