The Bronze of Eddarta Page 13

  His body bucked and heaved. His left hand beat against my arms, clawed out at my face. I leaned on neck and arm. The blows became so weak that I barely felt them.

  I was delighted when his right hand opened to release the hilt of the sword.

  I laughed out loud when I felt bones break under my knee.

  I shook the throat I held, and the head wobbled back and forth.

  Keeshah left me, and I was empty. I pulled my hands away from the dead neck. My fingers left blackening indentations in the man’s flesh. The sight of them appalled me, but reminded me of the reason this man was dead.

  I half-walked, half-crawled back to Tarani and put a shaking hand against the fair, unmarked throat. When I felt her pulse, mine started to move again.

  I stood up and turned toward the big double entry doors. Gharlas was still there. His smile had become a grimace, and there was no mistaking the message of hatred that flowed from his glowing eyes.

  “She’s alive, Gharlas,” I said, picking up the sword Tarani’s would-be killer had used. “Your power won’t work on me, and all your hired muscle is dead. In Dyskornis you said we would settle things ‘another time’—now, Gharlas. Just you and I. We’ll settle it now. I will leave this room with the Ra’ira.”

  I started down the middle of the long room, kicking aside the debris of broken furniture. Miraculously, the two tables which held the lamps were still intact.

  Gharlas waited for me, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. When I was a third of the way across the room, he cried: “Stop!”

  There was a ring of confidence in his voice. Suspicion made me pause.

  “You say ‘you and I’,” he sneered, “as if we were equals.” He took a step closer, and the lamplight from the table nearest him sent wavering shadows from his supraorbital ridges leaping up across his brow. “But you’re forgetting who I will be.”

  “ ‘King of Gandalara?” I mocked him. “You’re a fool, Gharlas. You can’t even hope to rule Eddarta, much less all the cities and towns scattered around the Walls. What are you planning to do, mind-control all the Lords?”

  “Such crudeness is unnecessary,” he answered. “Pylomel’s influence rests with his fortune—when the Lords discover it is worthless, that I have the wealth he pretended to have, and that I have the loyalty of the Harthim guards, I will be acclaimed High Lord.”

  He might he right, at that, I thought. Political rules in this city, though they make a show of being traditional, seem to be largely a matter of convenience.

  “What about Indomel? He won’t let you take over without a struggle.”

  “I see you have learned a lot about Eddarta since you arrived,” Gharlas said. “Until my plans are ready, I will allow Indomel to act as High Lord—under my control.”

  “All day, every day? Even with the Ra’ira, do you really believe you can do that?”

  “All I need, at first, is subtle control at key moments, and the ability to know what the boy is thinking—those things the Ra’ira can give me easily. But if brute, total control is necessary? That, too, is within my power. For example …”

  The door beside Gharlas opened, and Thymas walked in.

  “You remember this young man, don’t you?” Gharlas said. “Without Tarani to help him, he is completely mine. How delightfully ironic that you gave him Serkajon’s sword for ‘safekeeping.’ I look forward to having that sword—after he kills you with it.”

  Thymas came toward me, the steel sword held lightly in front of him. I shifted my weight to face him. I didn’t back away.

  “When we decided to follow you, Gharlas,” I said, keeping my eye on the slim, muscular boy approaching me slowly, “we all knew the odds, and agreed that the stakes were worth any risk. Thymas knows that I won’t hesitate to kill him to get to you.”

  Thymas stopped, about ten feet away from me. His body reflected the struggle inside his mind. Muscles stood out on the sides of his neck, throwing into bright relief the ugly scar left by the vineh. A vein at his temple pulsed in a slow, heavy rhythm that seemed to symbolize the boy’s determined resistance to Gharlas’s power. His arms and hands trembled with the effort to break free of that terrible compulsion.

  “He wants it that way, Gharlas,” I said, still watching Thymas and feeling a fierce pride in the boy. He was fighting with everything he had, fighting so hard that I could feel the strain. “If the only way he can help me get to you is by dying, then Thymas will make it easy for me to kill him. He’ll slow down at a crucial moment, leave openings in his defense.”

  I glanced at Gharlas, and was jolted by what I saw. His eyes widened, his breath started coming faster, and the smooth line of his jaw bunched out as he clenched his teeth. Thymas took another step forward—stiffly.

  Come on, Thymas! I thought, excitement growing in me. If there’s one thing you are, it’s stubborn. Don’t let go! Don’t give in!

  “You see?” I gloated. “All you’ve done is bought a little time, Gharlas. You picked on the wrong man. You can’t use Thymas as a weapon again: he won’t let you.

  “You want ironic? You sent assassins to kill Dharak, and they attacked me by mistake—and both of us were the wrong targets. For you, Thymas is the most dangerous man of the Sharith.”

  I heard two sounds simultaneously, then. One was a moan from Gharlas, the other was a word whispered by Thymas: “Sharith.”

  “He’s weakening, Thymas,” I encouraged the boy. “You can break him! Keep trying!”

  Thymas and I were together now. I fought Gharlas with words of encouragement, and the boy’s entire body was quivering with the intense strain of what he was trying to do. We both knew that if he couldn’t break free of Gharlas’s control, one of us would have to kill the other.

  “Sharith …” Thymas gasped, more loudly this time.

  “Sharith … kill their enemies!” He jerked forward, as though he had been pressing against a physical barrier that had just given way.

  Thymas gave a yell of triumph, and we whirled toward Gharlas. He had turned his back to us, and seemed to be dancing, stepping quickly from one tile to another in a rhythmic pattern.

  Has he flipped out for good? I wondered. Then it dawned on me.

  “The secret passageway!” I shouted, and stated running. Thymas was right beside me, but we were already too late. Gharlas pressed on a section of the wall; it moved back to reveal the top steps of a narrow stairway leading downward to our right. One of the lamps stood on the table right beside him. He caught up the light and vanished down the stairway, leaving us in near-darkness. The wall section started moving back into place, unnervingly silently.

  We reached the door an instant before it came flush with the rest of the wall. It pushed back on its bronze tracks easily enough, though it was heavy.

  “Hold it while I get a lamp,” I told Thymas. “If it closes, it’ll lock, and we’ll never figure out the sequence of tiles to push to open it again.”

  He leaned against the tall slab of wall, but demanded: “Is Tarani all right? Where is she?”

  “There were five guards waiting for us,” I said, as I got back with a lamp and an extra sword. “Tarani got knocked out in the fight, but I’m pretty sure she’s all right. We’ll brace this door open, so she’ll know where we went.”

  We squeezed together on the few inches of landing inside the wall, and let the door begin to slide past us. I held the spare sword at waist level until the hilt was firmly caught. Then we started down the stairs, single file.

  Like everything in Gandalara, Troman’s Way was well constructed. Long, narrow slabs of marble lined the walls and supported similar ceiling slabs. The floor of the passageway looked like cobblestone, set directly into the earth to allow for both a dry walking surface and a means of draining off the moisture that seeped through the marble joinings.

  The place stank abominably; the walls and rocks were covered with a growth like mildew that seemed to shrink away from our lamp as we passed by.

  We tried to hurr
y, but we couldn’t run across those slick rocks. The direction seemed right to take us under Lord Hall, but it was hopeless to try to estimate the distance we were covering. It seemed like hours before the passage ended in a narrow stairway, much like the first one, leading upward.

  The door at the top was closed, but there wasn’t any sort of lock that we could see. Cautiously, our swords ready, Thymas and I pressed our shoulders against it; it gave way easily.

  We stepped sideways from behind the door, pushing aside a heavy tapestry. We were in the High Lord’s treasure vault, which seemed to be L-shaped. We were facing straight down the long leg of the L, with the shorter branch leading off to our right.

  Marble shelves stair-stepped up both long walls of the long wing, leaving a narrow walkway toward the end of the room, which was invisible past our circle of lamplight. A richly textured fabric was draped across the shelves, and against its dark background shone a dizzying array of gems, jewelry, and coins.

  I glanced at the floor and noticed that it had tiles similar to that in Gharlas’s house—just as I heard the soft whisper of the door as it moved back into place.

  I whirled around and snatched at the tapestry, and discovered that we had come out through a section of a massive, wall-long woven scene. I fumbled around the shape of the receding door, but by the time I found the edge of the section, the door had closed and relocked.

  “You can’t get it open.” It was Gharlas’s voice, coming from the end of the shorter wing of the room. Our lamp cast enough light for us to see all the way to the far wall. Gharlas wasn’t visible. I felt my skin begin to get restless.

  “Throw down your swords, and I may let you live,” the disembodied voice said.

  Where the hell did he get all that confidence again? I wondered. He was running scared when Thymas broke through; what could he have found here? …

  “Pretty clever, Gharlas,” I said. “What better place to hide the Ra’ira than in Pylomel’s own vault.”

  “You’re remarkably quick, Rikardon, I must grant you that. Yes, I chose to face you without the Ra’ira for two reasons. First, it was an excellent test of how close one must be to the gem to utilize its special powers—closer, obviously, than from here to the pitiful quarters Pylomel assigned to me. Second, I was slightly concerned that the girl’s mind-gift might also be able to work through the Ra’ira. Now that she is no longer involved, I have no further hesitation. Do as I say: put down your swords!”

  “Show yourself, you cowardly bastard!” Thymas shouted. “Come out and face—acchh …”

  His voice choked off, and he clutched at his throat with his free hand. I knew what he was feeling; my windpipe was closing more slowly, with a pressure that made me feel some pity for the big man Keeshah and I had strangled.

  This was a stronger force than I had felt before. I could resist it more effectively than Thymas, but I wasn’t immune to it. I would die of asphyxiation more slowly; that was all.

  I never really believed we could lose, I realized, as I gasped for breath. I felt so strong, with Thymas and Tarani on my side. I figured I might get killed, but not all three of us. But—damn it!—Gharlas is winning! There must be something more we can do, SOMETHING!

  With the onset of the attack, a light had appeared near the end of the short passage. Now Gharlas stepped out from around a hidden corner, carrying his freshly lit lamp in one hand. The Ra’ira rested on the palm of his other hand.

  18

  The lamplight penetrated the smooth surface of the gem, sparkled along the faint lines that marked its strange internal structure, then jumped out at us again. Gharlas’s hand was bathed in blue light, his face lit from below with the pale edges of that reflecting glow. He walked toward us, insane, insufferable satisfaction on his face.

  *Keeshah!* I called. *Can you help me again?*

  *I will try,* he promised. I could sense that he had been running, and that he had reached the outskirts of the city. He was tired, fatigued by the frustration of not being with me, and on the brink of desperation because he could sense my doubt. We had broken Gharlas’s power once this way, and I had yet to see Gharlas make the same mistake twice.

  *Not yet* I told Keeshah, and I deliberately slowed my breathing. Panic was the last thing I needed. *He needs to be closer. I’ll tell you when.*

  But Gharlas stopped when he was only halfway down the room. Stopped, smiled, and pushed harder with his mind. Thymas dropped Rika and fell to his knees; I knew he had only seconds more to live.

  The door behind the tapestry pushed open with a slight, but audible sound. Gharlas’s attention wavered for an instant.

  *NOW, KEESHAH!* I signaled, and the sha’um’s consciousness surged into my mind like a muscle flexing against a binding. Gharlas reeled backward, and Thymas started taking deep breaths.

  The man with the Ra’ira stared at us in astonishment. It didn’t take telepathy to guess that he was suffering through the same revelation I had faced moments before. He knew he’d lost.

  He threw his lamp to the floor; the glass chimney shattered, and the candle nearly went out.

  Keeshah started to withdraw from me, but I held on for an instant. There were no words to the message we shared—only gratitude and joy. The exhilaration that comes only after a close brush with death, or after nearly losing a loved one. And I realized, belatedly, that in merging with me, Keeshah had endangered his own life. He would not have withdrawn until it was over, win or lose. It was conceivable that, so closely linked with me, the great cat would have died with me.

  *Together soon?* Keeshah asked, when the link had faded.

  *Just as soon as possible,* I promised, then returned my attention to Gharlas.

  I was too slow. Thymas had been a single breath away from passing out, but he had reacted immediately when Gharlas let go. Gharlas, sprawled at Thymas’s feet, was absolutely still. When I reached them, Thymas was using Gharlas’s sleeve to clean the blood from Rika’s blade. He was still gasping, trying to catch his breath.

  Thymas bent over, then straightened and held the Ra’ira and the lamp base. He turned the gem over, examining it near the candle flame. Then he pushed it toward me. “Here, take it,” he said gruffly. I hung the lamp I carried on a bronze hook, and held out my hand. Thymas let the blue stone drop into my palm, just as we heard Tarani’s voice.

  “Thymas?” it said, sounding muffled. “Is that you? Where are you?”

  We looked back to see the tapestry bulging around the door. The far edge of it flapped, and Tarani appeared at its edge. She looked around cautiously, and her face lit up when she saw us. She put her lamp down and came running the length of the room.

  “Thymas,” she cried, and threw her arms around him. “I’m so glad to see you!”

  He hugged her joyfully, lifting her off her feet to whirl her around. There wasn’t much space, so I moved out of the way. A cold, dead weight was hanging in my chest. To take my mind off of it, I busied myself trying to identify a familiar, whispering sound.

  “The door!” I shouted. “Don’t let it lock again!” I dashed to the tapestry and for the second, frustrating time, failed to block the door.

  “What’s the matter?” Tarani asked.

  “What’s the matter?” I raged, whirling on her. “We can’t get out of this fleabitten place, that’s what’s the matter!”

  “Rikardon,” she said, coming down the room toward me. The light behind her showed the lines of her body through the loose-fitting desert tunic and trousers. “Are you all right?”

  “You’re the one we need to worry about,” I said, grabbing her arm to turn her around so that her disturbing outline didn’t show. I held her chin up and examined the bruise on the left side of her face. She flinched away from my probing fingers, and seemed about to say something.

  “There’s another door here,” Thymas called. “Gharlas was trying to get out.” He dragged the long body back around the corner where Gharlas had first appeared, then came back. Tarani and I met him at the
doorway. ‘There’s another treasure room over there, just like the one we were in, and just as full.”

  “Zefra said this door will open into the Council Chamber,” I said, running my hand along the surface of the door. It was wooden, and not quite smooth. “Unfortunately, I forgot to ask her for a floorplan of Lord Hall. We might come out smack in the middle of the Celebration Dance.

  “Tarani,” I said, without looking at her, “do you think you could manage a three-way illusion to cover us, until we get out of the Hall?”

  “I will do what I have to do,” she answered.

  “Maybe this will help,” I said, and put the Ra’ira in her hand. For a moment, she looked as though she wanted to drop it, but then she closed her fingers around the blue gem.

  “Ready?” I asked. They nodded.

  We leaned on the door.

  It didn’t budge.

  We tried again, pushing harder, and this time it moved a fraction of an inch. Sideways.

  Suddenly the small depressions in the surface of the door made sense. We each gripped and pulled to the right. It moved—slowly at first, then so quickly that it slid to the end of its bronze runners with a determined clang that sounded as loud as a gunshot.

  We moved through the large opening, tensed for another fight, but all we found was the empty Council Chamber. We were on a raised area at one end of a room which seemed to be about as long as the treasure rooms, but more than twice as wide. The one chair on the dais faced a rectangular table that did a fair job of filling up the room.

  There were seven other chairs. Six were identical to the one near us—carved from wood, their backs and armrests adorned with etched metal plates—but they rested on the floor, a level below what could only be the High Lord’s chair. There were three of these on each side of the table. The seventh chair was little more than a stool at the far end of the room.