Shadowrun - Earthdawn - Prophecy, page 26
“The palace. The terraces of the city were built to match the levels of the palace.” Leandra pointed to the dome. “Marrek was sealed off from the Scourge by some elemental shield. The dome is heavily magicked, but the people left its top outside the shield for the purpose of observation. The matching part of Marrek is called topside.” Her finger moved down. “The griffin is the symbol of the ruling house of Marrek. The largest terrace starts near the top of the griffin, slopes down toward the claws. The terrace is called Beakstreets.” Her finger dropped again. “Courtiers live on the next level. The terrace has the same name. Royalty live in the heart of the palace, hidden in the gardens. That whole area is called the palace level.” Cymric nodded. He remained silent for a while. “Throal is larger, but you cannot see all of it at once. This is—” He shrugged, at a loss for words.
Leandra’s smile was tight. “This is the home of Ristul.” Cymric snorted. “Thanks for spoiling the view.” Another couple turned the corner, two young dwarfs. The girl gasped. The boy grinned, then moved in behind her to hold her as she took in the sight of the city. Cymric looked back at the palace. “Do you know where they are?” “They have a walled enclave in Beakstreets, on the other side of the palace from here. Same one we tried seven years ago.”
“What? The Ristular operate out in the open?”
“They pay their taxes and a little more. They stay clean within the city walls. At least to the extent bribery allows.”
“Marrek is big. Someone would have to notice a Horror within the city limits.”
Leandra’s eyes became flinty. She stared at the palace. A giggle, a slap, a protest and then another giggle sounded from the couple behind them. Leandra walked toward the edge of the platform, to increase distance away from the couple. Cymric followed, felt a brief giddiness as he looked at the long fall. The people below appeared to be half the size of his thumb. Leandra lowered her voice. “Gel and I talked to the guilds. They were concerned, but skeptical. The palace told us to shove off.”
Cymric grunted. The Ristular must have stronger hooks into the local power structure than he would have thought. He still had a hard time believing that a city that had survived the Scourge would now embrace a Horror. Perhaps the Ristular were brilliantly concealing their activities. Still—
“Seen enough?” asked Leandra.
Cymric nodded, and they turned back to the tunnel. The young dwarf woman suddenly acknowledged their presence, self-consciously removing the young man’s hand from her right breast. The suitor’s grin showed not the least trace of embarrassment. Leandra and Cymric clacked through the tunnel and clattered down the stairs, then Leandra stopped suddenly, throwing her arm out and back to halt Cymric.
A t’skrang stood at the entrance of the stairway. He wore a blue velvet waistcoat and silk pantaloons, with purple velvet surrounding the sapphires on his scabbard. His hand poised over his long sword. “Draw steel or I’ll use mine to make you squeal like the sow who bore you.” Anger flared in Cymric. He could feel the tug of magic behind the t’skrang’s insult, which only made him angrier. Leandra stood motionless for a moment, then smiled slowly. “I like a fair fight. I will draw as soon as your sword clears its scabbard.”
“You might find drawing your sword difficult once I’ve cut your scabbard away from you.”
“You might find walking through the streets difficult once I cut those ridiculous pantaloons off of you.”
“I ignore fashion opinions from those who can stand to travel with someone who looks like he changes his robe once a season.”
“I ignore the opinion of anyone stupid enough to pay a gate official more than the one silver piece it really costs.”
The t’skrang hissed loudly. He opened his mouth as if to throw another insult at Leandra. He drew his sword faster than Cymric could follow with his eyes. Leandra didn’t have that problem. From the sound Cymric judged that she’d started her draw after the t’skrang. But she still struck first, provoking a squawk-hiss from the t’skrang. He parried and tried a tail strike, but Leandra skipped over the clumsy tail swing. The swords hit together with a faint clank, as if neither was being swung with full force. Cymric decided this was the way of fights between swordmasters; balance and speed were the key. Putting your strength into a strike risked the swordsman being thrown a fraction off-balance, a huge opportunity for a skilled opponent.
Cymric shook himself from the role of spectator. He flung a mind dagger spell along the path of his outstretched arm. The shard of light flew true in astral space, hitting the t’skrang’s pattern near his forehead. The pattern released a flare of green.
“Ahhh! Your magician hit me! Can’t take me on by yourself?”
Leandra took a step back, keeping her guard up. “Cymric, did you?”
Uh-oh, guess this is just some kind of swordmaster display. I wonder which one gets the honor of carving me up? “Uhhh—yes. I thought that was part of the wizard contract. Squashing the brains of arrogant t’skrang who attack my companion.”
The t’skrang grinned, showing an impressive array of needle-sharp teeth. “A short duel is enough for my purposes. You are Leandra?” Leandra nodded, keeping her guard up. The lizard sheathed his sword and bowed. “Kricklen. I am most pleased to draw against you. You are as fast as I have heard.”
Leandra lowered her sword, but did not sheath it. “Who told you about me?”
Kricklen’s tail lashed back and forth as he held out a small wooden disk with a red-brown stain. “This token from someone who is very good at tracking allows me to track you.”
Leandra’s eyes widened, her mouth opened then quickly closed. Kricklen nodded. “He has asked that you stay at the Hostel of Lochost, Courtier’s East. He made a substantial donation in the name of Lady DeCorvo.”
“Is Brius in Marrek?”
Kricklen’s arms and tail went straight up. “I have no idea. He was secretive. That’s what you get for spending too much time with someone who lives and breathes court intrigue. He was expecting you to show up several days ago. I’ve been in and out of Marrek half a dozen times in the past couple weeks. Nothing from the token until today.”
Leandra nodded. Kricklen bowed again, came up grinning. “If you will excuse me, I have to torment a certain gate official.” He bounded away with a tail slap, then settled into a strut when he landed.
Leandra reached out to squeeze Cymric’s hand, her look saying it all. He was annoyed with himself for being annoyed. But a small part of him whispered, Now the wizard hits the scrap heap. Cymric tried to shake this line of thought. Brius obviously had some brains to go with his brawn, and at least some wealth and influence. Brius could help them get out alive, if not defeat Ristul. Still ... he was very annoyed.
It took more than an hour to make their way down to Courtier’s East. Guards questioned them as they entered the level, but saw no reason to turn them away. Another half hour of asking for and following imprecise directions put them in front of carved teak doors in the side of an alabaster building. Etched into the left-hand door was a jungle scene, illusion magic making the depicted python slither among the leaves. The right door showed a mountain top, where a huge reptilian bird had landed. The illusion magic here had unraveled slightly, for the bird’s motion was jerky. Two orks in leather armor with polished silver studs pulled open the door on silent hinges.
“Welcome to the Hostel of Lochost. Are you questors or visitors?”
“Visitors,” Leandra said.
The door guards looked around before one of them cleared his throat. “You have made a donation?”
“A generous donation. I am Lady DeCorvo.” Leandra smiled and walked past them, leaving Cymric scampering to catch up.
They next came to what Cymric would have called the common room, though he was certain this establishment called it by a different name. Dwarfs sat in overstuffed leather chairs, sipping brandy from what he thought must be ... snifters. Yes, that was the word. Most listened, while a few talked while animatedly pointing to maps on low wooden tables. Some sat on pillows by other low tables, earnestly rattling dice cups and moving colored chips back and forth across the table. The pillars were of pitted green bronze, taken from some other building for this one. The atmosphere felt relaxing, the effect of a finely crafted illusion. Servants wore bright clothing, but no outfit really matched that of any other. They moved quietly from chair to chair, from gaming table to gaming table. When an ork passed carrying something that smelled of tomato and herbs on a silver platter, it brought a rumble from Cymric’s stomach.
To the left of the common room was an uprooted tree lying on its side. Planed into the side was the top of a desk. As they approached, Cymric caught a sharp cedar scent. A dwarf with sleeves rolled up to his shoulders worked diligently on a scroll, quill scratching a careful trail across the parchment. Leandra cleared her throat to attract his attention. He looked confused for a moment before uttering, “May I help you?”
“A donation has been made in the name of Lady DeCorvo,”
“Certainly, Lady DeCorvo. Let me check our questor’s records.” The dwarf opened a small cabinet, extracted a card. He replaced it, found another; satisfied that this was the correct one, he read it, initialed it, and looked up. “The card recommends the spice suite for you. Suitable?” The dwarf returned his attention to the scroll.
Leandra raised an eyebrow. “Spice suite?”
The dwarf blotted his quill, never looking up. “The spice suite is among the better, as you might gather from the legends.” Then his quill stopped dead, and he glanced up with a distant look. “But then you would know that if you were an initiate. From the size of the donation I presumed you were a follower.”
“I certainly believe in Lochost and her passion for freedom,” said Leandra, dodging the issue.
The dwarf smiled and resumed his writing. “Most of our rooms are quite different from one another, as befits Lochost, also the Passion of change. The questor decides who is to stay where, a decision influenced by the size of your donation.” The dwarf switched quills and began to make finer markings in between the spaces of his earlier words. “The rules of our hostel are simple. You are not to interfere with the activities of any guest in their rooms. You may exchange tales, conclude bargains, game, do whatever you wish with others here in the travelers’ room, as long as the others involved wish it also.”
“Understood.”
“We followers know Lochost is also the Passion of rebellion. Some of our guests feel obliged to break the rules. Our questor is supposed to treat all such infractions lightly,” the dwarf said. His grin was broad and slow. “Of course that’s just a rule, and our questor is a rebellious sort.”
Cymric snorted. Leandra smiled and assured the dwarf that Lady DeCorvo was not here to violate the rules. The dwarf withdrew two slender silver keys and gave them to Leandra, who nodded as she listened to the dwarf’s directions. Following those directions she and Cymric came to a polished ebony door emblazoned with an arc of lacquered paintings of herbs and spices. Leandra inserted a key, then the door opened on its own.
The suite had a sitting room with a couch, four chairs, and a table, a private bar stocked with a number of interesting-looking bottles, a private bath with a porcelain tub, a master bedroom and two servant’s bedrooms. The wooden floors were covered with elven rugs. The sitting room and master bedroom each had picture windows showing a rugged seacoast. Cymric examined the window in the living room. The image looked too well-crafted for an illusion, but divination magic with a view of the sea seemed a ludicrous amount of magic for a room decoration. Cymric decided to investigate the window after some rest.
Leandra dropped her pack down in the sitting room. She threw open the double doors to the master bedroom, took five steps, then spun and collapsed onto the four-poster feather bed. Staring at the ceiling, she suddenly smiled. “This room is Brius. This whole place is so Brius.”
Cymric entered the bedroom. He ran his hands experimentally around the dresser, watching drawers open and close automatically. “It’s so Brius that he doesn’t even have to be here.” Cymric felt foolish the moment he said it, but Leandra’s laugh surprised him.
“No. That is Brius too.”
There was sadness in Leandra’s voice. Cymric felt bad for having brought up the subject, and guilty for being a little glad that Leandra felt as she did. Silence claimed the room for a long time as Leandra continued to stare at the ceiling. Cymric experimented with the magical devices in the room, spending a considerable time playing with water flow in the wash basin. He blinked, thinking he saw a flash of red in the mirror over the basin.
Leandra sighed and sat up. “Here’s my plan. Food. Sleep. More food. Hunt a Horror. How does that sound to you?”
Cymric’s answer was cut short as the door into the suite sparked, slamming open with a shriek of tortured metal.
30
A harsh word preceded the sudden darkness, to which Cymric reacted instinctively by throwing one hand out in front of him. Just as instinctively Leandra’s sword snicked from her scabbard. Remembering that the bed was positioned to his right and behind him, Cymric turned and moved in a crouch across the room, keeping his hand in front of him. His shin banged painfully into the bed frame, the noise startling him. He clenched his fist to keep from grunting in pain.
“Leandra,” he whispered, “can you guard the door long enough for me to create some light?”
A terse whisper responded, “Do it. Shut up.”
Cymric nodded even though no one could see him. No, that wasn’t true. Darkness was nethermantic magic to which nethermancers were usually immune. At least one person could see what was going on. That spooked Cymric more than the darkness itself—the thought of someone standing a few feet away calmly watching his frantic efforts. He strained to hear, heard nothing.
Taking as quiet a breath as possible, Cymric decided to place a pattern for light into a matrix, replacing his leaping magic to make room for the new pattern. Triangles of red light burst behind his eyes as he rushed his first attempt. Spots continued to float before his eyes, but he ignored them to concentrate on moving the pattern from his mind into the matrix. The next attempt went smoothly until the pattern was in astral space, following the glowing white thread to its matrix. Then the pattern began to warp and expand. Through concentration Cymric was able to return the pattern to its proper size, but not its proper shape. The spell pattern hung on the thread just outside the matrix. Cymric tried jiggling it with variations in mental pressure, exerting and relaxing his will, but each effort failed.
He hissed and discarded the pattern, had just willed another to form in his mind when a thump from outside the bedroom distracted him. Perhaps it was Leandra. Perhaps it was the spellcaster’s accomplice, one who could not see in the dark. He heard other noises too, the squeak in the floor, a scrape against a rug, the jiggle of glasses as someone nudged the bar. Cymric revised his picture of what was happening.
One assailant had cast the spell, while the others lay in ambush, waiting for him and Leandra to stumble out of the darkness. When he and she didn’t come out, some of the team had come after them. If so, it hadn’t been the best of plans, a thought that heaxtened Cymric.
Two more failures brought sweat to his forehead. Beads ran down his face to catch on his lip, pool near Ms chin, or drip the taste of salt into his mouth. He pulled the collar of his robe over his head, blotting the moisture from Ms face with Ms robe. Then he wriggled his head to drop the robe back into position, forming the spell pattern in Ms mind, trying to make the pattern move in the same manner as his head. He kept bobbing and rotating his head until the pattern moved in synch. He then slid the pattern into astral space, guiding it with head-motions; it slipped easily into the matrix.
Cymric’s hands mimicked the weaving of the thread. The thread wove on the first attempt. The spellcasting would be more difficult; there was magical darkness to resist the light. Infusing the pattern with some of his personal energy, he urged the light to drive out the darkness.
Then light flooded the room to the sound of tearing parchment. Braced in the doorway was a Ristular, her hood thrown back, her hands spread to feel the wall. A jewelled dagger glinted from a cord around her wrist. She was young, her pretty oval face framed by red hair that curled beneath her ears. She squinted against the light, then saw Cymric. When their eyes met, he smiled in spite of himself.
Leandra’s leap was a blur. Her sword struck high, cutting the woman’s throat. Then she kicked the gurgling Ristular out of the way, and charged into the living room with a scream that would have made a hunting cat proud. Several voices cursed in response. Cymric started toward the room, hesitating as he saw the woman flop over to her belly, then rise onto hands and knees. She was staring at Cymric and crawling toward him with a horrible wheezing sound that bubbled blood. It wasn’t until she struggled to grip her dagger that Cymric realized she hoped to kill him before spilling the last of her own life blood. He rolled over the bed, putting the big four-poster between him and her.
“Cymric!” Leandra’s cry was urgent. Cymric swallowed, rooted to the spot in horror at this woman’s determination. He tried to fling a mind dagger, but the spell dissipated listlessly. She had reached the bed, her dying brain addled by the obstacle it presented. With a lurch and a grab she pulled her torso onto the bed whose sheets quickly soaked with blood as she tried to climb over toward him.
“Cymric!” He finally got his feet to move, although wobbly knees nearly sent him crashing to the ground as he rounded the bed. The Ristular tried to grab him, but her trembling body reacted erratically. Cymric bolted, forcing himself not to look back as he left the bedroom. Eight Ristular surrounded Leandra. Individually, their short swords and daggers were no match for her sword and armor, but together they were another story. Leandra fenced them off through timely parries, rapid feints, and by hurling anything not bolted down with her free hand. She gritted her teeth, flinging a chair with a roundhouse toss. Three Ristular ducked.
