Silk Dreams - Songs of the North 3 (33 page)

“Strength and honor,” Erik offered in return as Hauk stalked away. The words seemed so small a thing for their parting. He and Hauk had saved each other in battle, starved together hunting in the frostlands, and undertaken the greatest journey of their lives when Erik was banished and they ventured down the wild rivers to the Black Sea.

He would miss his friend, but now Erik was beginning a new journey with Valdis. Above him, the crowd roared again.

It was high time he wrested the love of his life from her master.

Damian tried not to let panic force him into an undignified trot. He'd expected to have more time, to be able to make his preparations and join Mahomet and Valdis at his leisure, but the latest scrap of intelligence to reach his keen ear sent him striding out of Leo Porphryogenito's elite box with scant apologies for his untimely departure. He climbed to the farthest reaches of the Hippodrome and made his way along the outer corridor, far from the press of humanity jammed into the rows of seating.

Tigers from beyond the Indus were in the arena, stalking helpless antelope once again. The act was a popular one, and Damian didn't meet a single soul on his circuit of the vast oval. Then he heard the sound of footsteps behind him, a heavy, hobnailed tread moving at a fast pace.

Best to find out if he was being followed, he reasoned. Damian ducked into one of the many alcoves along the curving way, wedging himself between the wall and a statue of the inebriated Dionysus on a waist-high pedestal.

Damian could make out a man advancing steadily down the corridor, the figure appearing and disappearing in the recurring patches of sunshine and shadow peculiar to this hall, half open as it was to the outside. Chain-mail glinted in the light and the man's ice-grey eyes shone in the dark.

The Varangian.
Damian almost swore aloud. He would only be in the way. Damian had half a heartbeat to decide what to do about him. As soon as Erik Heimdalsson strode past his place of concealment, Damian pushed the statue and brought it tumbling down on the back of the Northman's neck with all the force he could muster.

The Northman crumpled to the marble floor with the remains of the sculpture in scattered shards around him. Damian stepped over his inert body to resume his journey to Mahomet's box. He was mildly surprised that Erik had been so easy to subdue. Perhaps the injury he sustained in the fire was even worse than it looked.

Then a grip strong as a crocodile's bite grabbed Damian's ankle and he fell headlong. Before he could collect his wits, the Northman had dragged his body back and plopped astraddle the small of Damian's back. Then the man grasped a handful of Damian's dark curly hair and pulled his head back to bare his throat. Damian felt the sharp kiss of the Varangian's horn-handled blade nick his flesh.

“Let me go,” Damian demanded.

“You've used Valdis in your schemes for the last time, eunuch.”

“Wait!”

“Give me one reason why you should draw another breath,” Erik said.

“Because if you kill me, you kill Valdis,” he spit between clenched teeth. “She's about to give Mahomet a poisoned drink.”

“Good,” Erik said. “It'll save me the trouble of gutting him.”

“You don't understand,” Damian said. “I know how he thinks. He has a taster for everything. He won't drink anything unless she drinks first. If she refuses, he'll know something is wrong.”

Erik eased the tension of the blade at his throat. “You're certain of this?”

“You should know by now there's very little of import in this city that I am not privy to. If I'm lying, you can kill me at your leisure,” Damian suggested. “But if you want Valdis to live another day, release me at once.”

Erik clearly didn't believe him, as he still didn't move.

Damian tried another tack. “I know what you did to the Blues and I approve. Your plan showed more subtlety than I gave you credit for, but the herbs you used were too strong. The horses are already incapacitated, and it's not yet time for the race,” Damian said. “A spy came tattling to Leo Porphyrogenito and the purple-born’s plans have changed. He won't wait for the results of the race to signal his attack. His men will strike as the chariot teams are making their entrance, when all eyes are focused on the long dark tunnel where they'll appear. The emperor is vulnerable.”

“That no longer concerns me,” Erik said, tightening his grip on Damian's hair with a twist of his wrist. “I'm only here for Valdis. She's all I care about.”"

“I thought you Varangians held your oaths sacred.”

“So we do, but the dead are no longer bound by an oath. I died for the Empire with my pledge-men in the harbor. I suspect you had a hand in the lion's attack that day as well. You've woven your last web, you Byzantine spider.”

Damian felt the bite of the blade again.

“And what of your friend, Hauk Gottricksson? He's in the Emperor's detail. Would you wave away his life in your hurry to end mine?”

The knife at his throat again eased a bit.

“You can still aid your friend if you use the back entrance to the emperor's box. Warn them of the attack while there's time, and I swear on the soul of my only son, I will see Valdis comes to no harm.”

“Why aren't you warning the emperor yourself?”

“Because saving Valdis from her own trap is something only I can do.” The strange Norse woman with mismatched eyes had ceased being a tool to be used for him some time ago. “I know you love her, Northman, but Mahomet is surrounded by his bodyguards. You might kill them all, but can you do it in such close quarters without endangering Valdis? I'm the only one who can save her life. I will send her to you. Trust me.”

“It seems I must.” The big Varangian helped him to his feet. “But if you've lied to me and she comes to harm, I will kill you. And I'll take my time.”

“Fair enough.” Damian gave Erik a fisted salute.

The Northman smiled grimly at him, his pale brows raised. “You salute a
barbaroi?”

“A moment of weakness,” Damian said, surprised at the respect he'd come to feel for the Varangian.
“
Save the Bulgar-Slayer for the Empire. She is not ready for him to die.”

“Save Valdis for me or nothing else matters.”

“God speed you, Varangian.”

“Luck in battle.” Erik grasped Damian's forearm for a moment, then turned and set off at a dog-trot back down the corridor.

“Perhaps he deserves her, after all,” Damian murmured. Then he hurried down the corridor in the opposite direction. There was one more thing he must do before he joined Mahomet and Valdis. He only wondered if it could be done in time.

And if it would work.

Valdis squirmed in her seat. Loki must have sensed her agitation, for the little dog leaped from her lap to sniff around the corners of Mahomet's private portico. Her master had instructed her to open the hamper of food Agrippina had prepared and ordered Valdis to peel grapes for him as he watched the mock battle being enacted on the oval below. When one of the soldiers was spitted on a pike, he smiled in morbid enjoyment of another man's dying screams, chuckling low in the back of his throat.

Valdis despised him with terrifying thoroughness. If ill-wishes could kill, Mahomet should already be dead. However, he made no move to uncork the amphora of juice, and Valdis didn't trust her voice to suggest it. Even though she could think of a hundred reasons why her master must die, the actual doing of the deed was much harder than she expected.

“Are you not enjoying the spectacle?” he asked.

“I find no joy in the misery of others,” she answered truthfully.

“That is because you are attuned to the spirits. No doubt it is disruptive for so many new souls to cross over to their punishment or reward all at once. For me, the scene holds a particular charm. Watching the deaths of others while I am surrounded by luxury and comfort helps me deny the truth that I am myself mortal,” he said with surprising insight as four men with a stretcher ran out onto the blood-soaked sand to gather up the fallen combatant's body. “The illusion of immortality is a vapor, but a pleasant one. Pour us a drink, my oracle.”

Valdis's heart lurched against her ribs. Finally, the moment was upon her. She murmured her obedience and stood to do his bidding, praying furiously that her hands would not shake.

Agrippina had packed two delicate Frankish glasses in the food hamper. Valdis unstoppered the amphora and poured the golden liquid into a pale green goblet. The tang of citrus tickled her nostrils. Sunlight sparkled on the cup of death, lending it a glow of false vitality. With utmost care, Valdis knelt to place it in her master's hand.

“Cook tells me you made this drink for me yourself,” he said, his dark eyes boring into her. Valdis was sure he must see her soul quaking. She forced herself to smile at him. “I'll not imbibe alone. Pour a glass for yourself as well and let us drink to the time when I no longer require your services as a seeress and can sample you as a woman. I will see you enjoy that time as well. Never let it be said I am not a generous lord.”

“None would deny that.” Her false smile went even more brittle. She had a distinct sense of unreality, as if she were watching herself from outside her body as she poured the last of the poison into an amber goblet.

So this is the God of this city's sense of justice,
she thought as she held death before her.
I
am allowed to kill him but it will cost me all.

She could not bear to think of Erik. Instead, Landina's face rose before her. And Fatima, whose teeth had been yanked out to suit her master's comfort. And all the women of the
zenana
who endured this man's use and abuse. A few professed to love him, but even they feared him. If she could rid the Middle Realm of Habib Ibn Mahomet only by her own death, so mote it be. She decided it was a fair exchange. Valdis lifted the goblet toward Mahomet in silent pledge, then brought the rim to her lips.

But before she could drink, Damian Aristarchus bullied his way past Mahomet's guard and strode into the private box.

“Thank you, Valdis. I'm absolutely parched,” Damian said as he swiped the cup from her hand and knocked back the contents in a long swallow that would have done an ale-house patron proud. He belched loudly, the time-honored compliment of pleasing fare, when he finished. “Pure nectar,” he declared. “Is there any more?”

“No,” Valdis mouthed, shocked to have her poison go so badly astray. Even though she suspected Damian of conspiring with the very men he'd professed to oppose, she never intended to catch him with her toxin. Shock rooted her to the spot.

“Pity,” he said with a shrug, and turned back to Mahomet. “Drink up, my friend. I bring word that all our plans are proceeding nicely.”

“That indeed is cause for celebration.” Mahomet brought the green goblet to his lips and drained the bowl.

Valdis expected to feel jubilation at the sight, but instead her stomach heaved. She'd killed her friend along with her nemesis. How long before they showed signs? Would it be painful? These were questions she hadn't thought to ask the apothecary.

Damian swiped sweat from his forehead. “Hotter today than expected. I don't suppose you thought to ask Agrippina to pack any of that Macedonian wine?”

Mahomet shook his head and leaned forward to get a better view of the carnage on the oval. “Leave the fermented grape alone, my friend, or it will be the death of you.”

“Under the circumstances, I'm inclined to risk it,” Damian said cheerfully. He tossed a leather pouch to Valdis. “Take this, my dear, and see the vintner by the camel gate. He's hawking a passable Etruscan, and you look like you could do with a glass yourself.”

“Valdis cannot wander the Hippodrome alone,” Mahomet protested.

“No, of course not,” Damian agreed. “My man Lentulus is waiting in the corridor. He'll watch over her for us and see her safely where she's bound.” He turned to Valdis and startled her by switching to Norse. “Go quickly and do not return. Everything has happened as it should. Trust me.”

“What was that?” Mahomet asked.

Damian laughed. “I just told Valdis that she wasn't the only one who could learn a new tongue. I've been working on a few Norse phrases. Look at the surprise on her face. Hurry and fetch that wineskin for me; there's a good girl.” He waved her away and turned back to his host. “You might find this amusing. I was reading a new scientific treatise the other day that proves women don't get as thirsty as men. Just like camels, they store water in ...” Damian made a breast-shaped gesture on his own chest.

Valdis heard Mahomet's salacious laugh as she walked unhindered out of the sunlight into the dim corridor with Loki at her heels. Lentulus was nowhere to be seen. Valdis picked up the little dog and ran, putting half the distance around the Hippodrome's oval behind her before she stopped.

Everything has happened as it should.

What did he mean? Did Damian know he drank death when he snatched that goblet from her hand?

She looked in the leather pouch and found enough coin to buy an entire shipload of Etruscan wine as well as a document. She unrolled the scroll and ran her gaze over the parchment.

It was a certificate of manumission, signed and witnessed, complete with Mahomet's own seal. It was surely a forgery, but such an artful one, Valdis didn't doubt it would prevail in any court. She'd never seen Mahomet without his signet ring. How Damian managed such a thing, she couldn't begin to guess.

Valdis's knees buckled and she collapsed to the smooth marble with a sob. Damian Aristarchus had kept his word. He'd set her free.

And she'd killed him.

A guttural roar erupted from the Hippodrome, a wall of sound that roused Valdis from her tears and raised her to her feet. She wobbled to an opening to the arena and looked down at the oval track. The chariot teams burst from the dark tunnel and thundered across the sand, the Blues conspicuously missing from the lineup. Erik had been successful in undoing Mahomet and Leo's trickery.