Misplaced Legion (Videssos Cycle) (17 page)

Marcus recalled the doom-filled cry on the Khamorth’s lips when he saw the ruin of the weapon he had carried, recalled how he had crumpled in on himself. “Can you trust the knowledge you get from a dying man who was your foe’s tool?” he asked Nepos.

“A good question,” the priest nodded. Little by little, as he sat, his voice and manner were losing their haggard edge. “The chains the Yezda put on him were strong—I would curse him, but he has cursed himself beyond my power to damn. Nonetheless, Phos has granted those who follow him a means of cutting through such chains—”

“A decoction of henbane is what we used,” Gorgidas put in, impatient at Nepos’ elliptical phrasing. “I’ve used it before, Phos notwithstanding. It dulls pain and frees the guard on a man’s tongue. You have to be careful, though—too high a dose, and you’ve put your patient out of pain forever.”

The priest plainly did not care for Gorgidas’ casual revelation of a secret of his magical craft. But, impelled by larger concerns, he kept his temper, saying, “It is enough that we know two things: Avshar loosed this treacherous assault on you; and he is a sorcerer more powerful in his wickedness than any we have met for years uncounted. Yet by the first action I named, he forfeited the protections all envoys, no matter how evil, enjoy.”

A smile of anticipation flitted across Nepos’ face as he went on, “So, my outland friends, the fiend has delivered himself into our hands!
Now
we send for Nephon Khoumnos!”

T
HE THOUGHT OF
A
VSHAR’S HEAD GOING UP ON THE
M
ILESTONE
had so ferocious an appeal to Marcus that he charged away from the barracks hall before he realized he was not sure where to find Khoumnos. Neither was Nepos, who puffed along gamely beside him. “I know of the man, you understand,” he said to the Roman, “but I do not know him personally.”

Scaurus was not overly worried at his ignorance. He felt sure any soldier in Videssos for longer than a week could give him the directions he needed. The first group he saw was a squad of Namdaleni returning from the practice field. At their head was Hemond of Metepont, his conical helm tucked under his arm. He had seen the tribune, too—he waved his men to a halt and sauntered over to Scaurus.

“For a newly come mercenary, you make the oddest set of acquaintances,” he observed with a smile. “It’s a long road to travel from the wizard-envoy of Yezd to a priest of the Academy.”

Nepos’ robes were no different from those of any other priest of similar rank; Hemond, Marcus thought, was uncommonly well informed.

The Namdalener acknowledged his introduction of Nepos with a friendly nod. “Actually,” Scaurus continued, “you can do us a favor, if you will.”

“Name it,” Hemond said expansively.

“We need to see Nephon Khoumnos as quickly as we can, and neither of us is sure where he might be.”

“Ho-ho!” Hemond laid a finger alongside his nose and winked. “Going to twist his beard some more over his sleepy sentries, are you?”

Uncommonly well informed indeed, Marcus thought, but this time not quite well enough. He considered for a moment. Remembering that Hemond and Helvis had backed him against Avshar, he decided he could tell the Namdalener his story. “It’s not that—” he began.

When he was done, Hemond rubbed the shaven back of his head and swore in the broad dialect of his homeland. “The snake has really overreached himself this time,” he said, more to himself than to Marcus or Nepos. His face suddenly was that of a hunter about to bag his prey. “Bors! Fayard!” he snapped, and two of his men stiffened to attention. “Get back to quarters and let the men know the rest of us will be delayed.” As the soldiers hurried away, their captain turned back to the Roman. “I’d have given a year’s pay to drag that losel down, and here you offer me a free chance!”

He grabbed Scaurus’ hand in his double clasp, barked to his troopers, “First for Khoumnos and some help, then we peg out Avshar the wizard over a slow fire!” Their full-throated shout of approval made Marcus see again how widely the Yezda was detested.

Hemond may have preferred to fight on horseback, but there was nothing wrong with his legs. He set a pace Marcus was hard pressed to match, one that had Nepos in an awkward half-trot to keep up.

Ten minutes and three expostulating sentries later, they were in Khoumnos’ office, a well-lit room attached to the Grand Courtroom of the palace complex. The Videssian looked up from the paperwork he had been fighting. His heavy brows lowered to see Scaurus and Nepos with Hemond and his squad. “You keep odd company,” he said to the tribune, unconsciously paraphrasing the easterner he mistrusted.

“That’s as may be,” the Roman shrugged. “They helped me find you, though, when I needed to.” And he told Khoumnos the same tale he had spun out to Hemond shortly before.

Long before he was through, the same predatory eagerness that gripped him and Hemond had communicated itself to the Videssian. A triumphant grin spread over his face; he
slammed his fist down onto his desk. Ink slopped out of its pot to mar the sheets over which he had been working. He did not care.

“Zigabenos!” he shouted, and his aide appeared from another room. “If there’s not a squad here double-quick, you’ll find out if you remember which end of a plow you stand behind.”

Zigabenos blinked, saluted, and vanished.

“My men and I want a piece of the wizard,” Hemond warned.

“You’ll have it,” the Videssian officer agreed. Marcus had expected Khoumnos to argue, but if the Videssian was unsure of the Namdaleni’s loyalty to the Empire, he had no doubt they hated Avshar more.

Khoumnos was still buckling on his swordbelt when a sweating Zigabenos led a squad of
akritai
into his superior’s office. Their arrival filled it almost to overflowing. The native Videssian troops sent suspicious looks at Hemond’s mercenaries.

But Khoumnos was master of the situation. He knew he had a cause bigger than any rivalry within the imperial army. A single sentence was enough to electrify his men: “What we and the islanders are going to do, boys, is march over to the Hall of the Ambassadors, winkle our
dear
friend Avshar the Yezda out of his hole, and clap him in irons.”

After a second’s disbelieving silence, the Videssians burst into cheers. Hemond and his Namdaleni, although they had already cheered once, were more than willing to do so again. In the confined space, the noise was deafening. All dissension forgotten, the double squad—and Nepos and Marcus with it—rushed for the Hall of the Ambassadors like hounds upon a leopard’s den.

The Hall, as was only natural, lay close by the Grand Courtroom, so foreign envoys could attend the Emperor at their mutual convenience. Above it flapped, fluttered, or simply hung the emblems of twoscore nations, tribes, factions, and other political entities less easily defined; among them was the leaping panther of Yezd.

The diplomatic calm ambassadors cultivate was not altogether proof against two dozen armed men swarming toward Avshar’s dwelling-place. Taso Vones of Khatrish was on the
Hall’s steps discussing trade in spices and furs with a nomad from the far western plains of Shaumkhiil when he heard the troopers clattering toward him. He looked up, saw the source of the pother, murmured to the Arshaum, “You will excuse me, I hope,” and ran for his life.

The nomad ran, too—for the bow he kept in his chamber, to sell himself as dearly as he could.

But the warriors ignored him, just as they ignored the shouts of alarm that rang out in the Hall’s lobby as they rushed through it behind Nephon Khoumnos. The Videssian led them up the wide stairway of polished marble at the lobby’s back. As they climbed, he panted, “The whoreson’s suite is on the second story. More than once I’ve been here to ransom prisoners—this is a job I’d rather do!” The men with him yelled their agreement.

Gawtruz of Thatagush was carrying a silver tray loaded with fried meats and candied fruits back to his own suite of rooms when the stairs erupted soldiers behind him. Though fat and past fifty, he still had a warrior’s reflexes. He hurled his tray, food and all, at what he thought were his attackers.

Hemond knocked the spinning tray aside with his shield. A man or two cried out as they were hit by hot meat. Another tripped over the trail of grease a skidding fowl had left behind and went sprawling.

“Phos!” Khoumnos muttered. He cried to Gawtruz, “Mercy, valiant lord! We have no quarrel with you—it’s Avshar we seek.”

At his words, Gawtruz lowered the knife he had drawn from his belt. His eyes widened. “The man of Yezd? He and you are enemies, yes, but he is an embassy and cannot be assailed.” Marcus noted Taso Vones had been correct at the ill-fated banquet a few days before—at need, Gawtruz’ Videssian was perfect, polished, and unaccented.

“Ambassadors who live within the law of nations enjoy its protections,” Khoumnos returned. “Sorcerers who hire knives in the night do not.” His men and Hemond’s were already gathered before a stout door on which stood Yezd’s panther. Khoumnos ordered, “Rap gently once. I would not have it said we invaded the suite without giving warning.”

The warning rap was scarcely gentle; a dozen heavy fists slammed into the door. There was no response. “Break it
down!” Khoumnos snapped. But the portal so staunchly resisted shoulders and booted feet that Scaurus wondered whether it was merely a strong bar or magic which held it closed.

“Enough of this foolery! Out of my way!” One of the Namdaleni, a dark-haired giant with tremendous forearms, preferred the axe of his Haloga cousins. Men scurried back to give him room to swing. Chips flew and boards split as his axe buried itself helve-deep.

Within a dozen strokes, the door sagged back in defeat. The troopers stepped into their enemy’s chambers, weapons at the ready. Khoumnos stood outside the door, repeatedly explaining to the startled, frightened, or angry diplomats who threw questions at him why the Videssians had come.

Marcus’ first thought was that, while Avshar’s lusts for power and destruction were boundless, he had no corresponding desire for personal luxury. Except for a Videssian desk, the embassy of Yezd was furnished nomad-style. Pillows took the place of chairs, and tables were low enough for men sitting on the ground to use. Cushions and tables alike were black, the walls of the room a smoky gray.

The door between Yezd’s public offices and Avshar’s private quarters was locked, but a few strokes of the axe dealt with that. But Avshar was no more to be found in his chambers than in the embassy portion of Yezd’s suite. Marcus was not surprised; the rooms had a dead feel, a feel of something discarded and forgotten. The Videssians had come too late.

The Yezda’s room was as sparely equipped as the office: more black-lacquered low tables, pillows, and a sleeping mat of felt stuffed with horsehair. Above the mat hung the image of a fierce-faced warrior dressed all in black and hurling a livid blue thunderbolt. He strode against the fleeing sun over a pile of naked, bloody victims. “Skotos!” the Videssian soldiers murmured to themselves; their fingers moved in signs against evil.

On one of the tables stood a small brazier and another icon of the dark god Yezd followed. Beside the icon lay the pitiful figure of a white dove with its neck wrung. The brazier was full of ashes; Avshar had left not intending to return and burned those papers he did not wish his foes to see.

Neither Videssians nor Namdaleni would go near that table, but when Marcus walked around it he saw on the floor a scrap of parchment scorched at one edge; it must have fallen from the brazier before the fire could sieze it. He bent to pick it up and shouted in sudden excitement: it was a sketch-map of the city and its walls, with a spidery red line leading from the Hall of the Ambassadors to a tower by the sea.

His companions crowded round him at his yell, peering over his shoulder and asking what he’d found. Their letdown at not trapping Avshar in his lair disappeared when they understood what the Roman was holding. They shook his hand and slapped his back in congratulations. “A second chance!” Hemond whooped. “Phos is truly with us today!”

“There’s still no time to lose,” Nepos said. “We should celebrate after we catch the Yezda, not before.”

“Well said, priest,” Hemond agreed. Leaving a couple of his men and a like number of Videssians to search the embassy quarters further, he led the rest out past Nephon Khoumnos, who was still justifying the soldiers’ presence to the diplomats crowding around him.

Marcus stuck the fragment of parchment under his nose. Khoumnos’ eyes crossed as he snatched it from the Roman’s hands and tried to focus on it. “The game is still in play, then!” he exclaimed. He bowed to the envoys and their aides, saying, “Gentles, further explanations must wait on events.” He pushed his way through the crowd, shouting to his men, “Wait, fools, I have the map!”

The tower Avshar’s sketch had shown was at Videssos’ northwest corner, where the city jutted furthest into the strait called the Cattle-Crossing. It was about half a mile north and slightly west of the Hall of the Ambassadors, through the palace complex and the streets of the town, and it seemed mostly uphill.

The tribune felt his heart race and the sweat spring from his brow as he trotted through the city. The troopers with him suffered far more than he, for he was in mantle and sandals while they loped along fully armored. One Namdalener could not stand the pace and fell back, his face flushed lobster-red.

As he ran, Scaurus was spurred on by the knowledge that so cold-blooded a calculator as Avshar could blunder—and blunder badly. Not only had his attempt at assassination gone
for nought, but when he set about destroying his papers the most crucial one of all, the route of his escape, failed to bum and gave his pursuers another chance at him. If only he knew, Marcus thought—he’d gnash his teeth behind those veils of his.

The path turned down, bringing the sea wall of Videssos into sight. “That one!” Khoumnos panted, pointed at the square tower straight ahead. But when he sucked in wind, the middle-aged officer had enough breath to shout, “Ho the tower guards! Any sign of Avshar the Yezda?”