“Drunks,” Maksirn growled, “filthy beasts.” He watched her struggles and her fear and her fury with an uncomfortable mix of satisfaction, compassion and shame. “You’re getting what you asked for, little ferret, you should have stayed where you belong.” By forgetting who and what she was, by working against him who had done so much for the people of Cheonea and meant to do so much more, she’d brought her shaming on herself. He had not the slightest doubt it was she who’d sent for the Drinker of Souls, the boy who carried the message came from Owlyn, what was his name? Toma something or other, dead now, it didn’t matter, though how she’d known of the Drinker and what she’d used to lever Brann into moving… well, he’d find out before too long. “I’ll have you, Owlet, you face the Lot tomorrow, yes, I’ll have you…” He scowled at the mirror, moved his hands uneasily, twisted his mouth into a grimace of distaste. A child. A clever devious spirited child. Her strength was nothing against those men, her arms were like twigs. He could save her as easily as he took his next breath, snatch those beasts off her, send earth elementals to crush them. He watched and did nothing. You have to learn, little ferret, he told himself, learn your limitations so I don’t have to punish you myself. He watched and shifted uneasily in his chair, his stomach churning. He rubbed at his chest under BinYAHtii as his heart thudded painfully.
The odd man from the waterfront came suddenly from the fog. He seemed to hesitate, then with a slap and two kicks disposed of the attackers. The girl put her hand on his arm, said something. “She knows him. Bloody Hells. He thumbed the mirror. “Sound you.”
For several minutes the only sounds were the slap of their feet, the diminishing yells from the squat man who was quickly lost in the fog, the drip of that fog from the eaves. Then the man slowed and spoke to the girl. Maksim clicked his tongue with deep annoyance; like his form the man’s words were blurred beyond deciphering.
“… “
“I have to meet someone.” The child tilted her head and smiled up at the man. Flirting with him, Maksim grumbled to himself, hot with jealousy, little whore. “Not you, Daniel. Someone else.” Daniel, Daniel, she does know him, Forty Mortal Hells, who is he?
“… “
“Halt! No such thing. When the day comes I’ll marry someone in Owlyn. This is something else. I don’t want to talk about it here. “
“… “
“Come with me. *** says you’re mixed up in this some way, that you’re here because of it. You might as well know what’s happening and why. “
“… “
“I can’t.”
“… “
Maksim watched them hurry through the fog until they reached the Blue Seamaid. He nodded to himself. I’m going to have to do something about you. Who are you? Owlyn Valer, yes. What’s your name, child? I’ll know it come the morrow. Scoundrel time old Maksi, you out-rascaled the Parastes, now a child is completing your corruption, I’ve never interferred with the Lot before this, but I can’t leave her running around loose. You’re going into the Yron training, my angry young rebel, you’re going to get that hot blood cooled. He listened to one side of the argument outside the tavern, guessed most of the man’s objections, saw his final shrug. The child’s got ten times your backbone, you fool. Why don’t you pick her up and get her back where she belongs? He considered doing that himself, it’d be easy enough; he put off deciding (though such dithering was foreign to him) and followed them inside. ‘‘
“… “
“Probably asleep. *** says she’s here.” Why can’t I hear that name? That’s the second time it’s blurred out on me. Someone is interfering, someone is working against me. He slapped his hand on the table, calmed abruptly as his heart started bumping irregularly. He closed his fingers about the talisman and squeezed until his body calmed and he could listen again. “… room was. Maybe you better do the talking. Ask about a white-haired woman with two children.’
“… “
“Yes, but I don’t know if she’s using it.-
“… “
“No, don’t talk about it, not now.”
Maksim stopped listening. He stroked the talisman, closed his eyes and reached for her intending to flip her back to the Hostel garden.
He couldn’t get a grip on her. What should have been simple was somehow impossible. He could feel her, he could smell her, he could almost taste the salt sweat on her skin but he couldn’t move her a hair one way or another. His eyes snapped open. “That man. That stinking scurvy scrannel scouring of a leprous dam. That canker, that viper, that concupiscent incontinent defiler of innocence, that eyesore, that offence to heaven and earth…” He blasted out a long sigh that fogged the mirror for an instant until he glared it clear again. Rubbing at his chest, he went back to listening since he couldn’t do anything else.
“.… come from, Daniel, are there girls like that?”
“… “
“What do you do to the ones you catch.”
“… “
She closed her mouth tight and flounced away, heading for the stairs, irritated by whatever it was he said. Maksim gave her a thin angry smile. That’s right, get away from him, girl. He’s not for you. When she’d put some distance between her and the man (he was getting up to go after her), Maksim tried once more to catch hold of her, but he couldn’t get a grip, she slid away as if she were greased. He, sat fuming, breathing hard; he couldn’t remember being so helpless since he was a boy in the pleasurehouse he’d stomped into the ground when he took Silagamatys and Cheonea from crazy old Noshios, His head ached and acid burned in his throat as he watched the girl and the man pass through Ahzurdan’s wards and vanish into that blank he couldn’t penetrate. He spent a few minutes probing at it again, if the man really was an energy sink, he ought to affect Ahzurdan’s work too. Nothing. Not a waver in Baby Dan’s weaving.
Maksim left the image tuned to the tavern and paced about the workroom muttering to himself, glancing occasionally at the mirror where nothing much was happening. He thought about sending his watchers to that room and taking them all, he thought about turning out the barracks, sending every man he had against them until they were drowned in dead men, unable to twitch a finger. N0000, Forty Bloody Mortal Hells, Danny Blue, had found some nerve, the woman of course, and Danny with nerve and resolution was by himself more than an army could handle. Amortis? He fingered BinYAHtii and was tempted but shook his head. Not here. Not in MY city. If he brought Amortis down, Tungjii and the Godalau were likely to join the battle and that would level half of Silagamatys. They’re in the plot on the Drinker’s side, AND WARNING ME, otherwise why show themselves to that man, that MAAAANN. Who was he? What was he? Filthy whiskery caitiff wretch, looked like any drifting layabout, he’d seen a thousand of them rotting slowly into the soil they sprang from. Soil he sprang from? What soil was that? Pulled here from a different reality? Why? What reality?
He stopped pacing and stared at nothing for several minutes, then tapped the mirror off, he didn’t need to see any more and he wanted his strength and total concentration for the next few hours’ work. He swung round to Todichi. Yahzi. “Todich, old friend, you’d best get back to your overseeing. Mmm. Report to me tomorrow after the Lot on the activities of the Council, I’d like your opinion on how well they’re doing and what the weaknesses of the form are, your suggestions on how I can improve it. Don’t let up on them, these next weeks are crucial, Todich. If I can get that council working, if I can craft something that will stand, no matter what the Parastes try…” He sucked in a huge breath, exploded it out. “Ready, Todich? Now!”
After alerting the guardians of that sealed cube of a room (sealed against magic, not air; like everyone else, sorcerors had to breathe), Maksim toed up the brake levers on the wheels of his tiltchair and rolled it to the center of his largest pentacle. When he had it oriented the way he wanted, he heeled the levers down again, stood rubbing thoughtfully at his chest and stared at nothing for a moment. With a grunt and a grimace he crossed to a wallchest, filled a cordial glass with a thick bitter syrup and choked it down, washed the taste away with a gulp of brandy. For several breaths he stood with his head against the door of the cabinet, his hands grasping the edge of the shelf below it, his powerful massive arms stiff, supporting most of the weight of his upper body, trembling now and then. Finally, he sighed and pushed away from the wall. There was no time. No time. He brushed his hand across his face, felt the end of his plait tickle his fingers. He pulled the skewers out, shook his head, looked down at himself and smiled. Not the way to confront the visitor he expected to have.