Rider went to the window, glared at the tower in the Plaza. Though festivities were not to start for hours, spectators had begun to assemble. "They came from the diving platform. You went to find Su-Cha. How long were you gone?"
"Two minutes."
"Then there was no time for an intruder to destroy any message my father left."
"Message? We would've found one if ... "
Rider raised a hand. He cocked his head. "You hear anything?" he asked Su-Cha, indicating the door.
The imp shook his head but glided that way. He was accustomed to Rider's finely tuned senses.
The dead wizard had raised his son to stretch every human capacity. At the door the imp vaporized.
He reassumed corporeality moments later. "Nobody. But there may have been someone. The sand you scattered was disturbed." Among other attributes Su-Cha had a perfect memory for the most minuscule details.
Rider merely nodded. He assembled various items from the laboratory, performed a slight magic.
Then he dusted a handful of orange powder upon a blank piece of wall.
Chaz gasped. "Parts of words."
"My father's final message. I've long suspected it was there, awaiting his death to activate it." He stepped up to the wall, passed a palm over the message. The powder fluoresced.
Son. Your hour is come. I have prepared you as well as I could. Protect Shasesserre from the wolves without and worms within. Always there will be enemies of tranqulity and prosperity. You will be occupied continuously. Their wickedness knows no proportion. In the bathhouse on the Saverne side, in the place I once showed you, yon will find the names of those who must be watched.
"He updated that list frequently," Rider said. "I didn't know he kept it there, though."
Do not waste time mourning me. Shasesserre's enemies will not. They will be moving before you read this.
Your father The elder Jehrke had had difficulty expressing affection even in writing.
"There it is." Rider brushed a palm over the wall again. The message vanished. He went to the window. "Chaz. You said there was a howl outside?" "Yes."
Rider stared at the Plaza. "How long will his name remain, now? He was not the sort to eradicate his enemies. There must be a dozen cabals awaiting this chance. One is moving already.
We'll have to act fast if we're to grab the reins before word gets out."
Some of his companions nodded. Chaz grunted. It was something they had discussed often. Though no traditional dictator, Jehrke had maintained himself as Protector by the terror he instilled in those who would plunder Shasesserre. With the Protector gone, any number of strongmen would attempt to prevent his ideals being perpetuated. Among them could be counted nobles, high officials, churchmen, rich men of trade, even gangsters. Not to mention the Queen City's foreign enemies.
"Chaos," Rider said. "We look that dragon right in the mouth."
"Surely there will be popular support for the son to continue the work of the father."
"There will be. But ordinary people do not wield the power. The men who would see my father's ideals put aside care not about the popular voice. The voices they hear are power and greed."
The imp, Su-Cha, murmured, "Then there are those who hearken overmuch to the siren call of revenge."
Rider acted as though he had not heard. He said, "We'd better examine that tower. The assassin might have left a clue."
The group piled out of the room. None of the others noticed that Rider delayed a few seconds before joining them.
III
Preacher and Soup were headed for the Rock. "Somebody found him by now," Soup said.
"Verily." Preacher was so called because of his dress, manner of speech, and his incessant efforts to convert his comrades to a baffling dogma endemic to his native Frista. It was doubted even he took himself seriously. He yielded to temptation too easily.
The two rounded a corner and found themselves face to face with a short, gnarly man who looked remarkably like a bull gorilla. The gnarly man's eyes bugged. He gaped. He whirled and ran.
"The evil flee where no man pursueth," Preacher intoned.
"You said a mouthful, brother. Want to bet that geek had something to do with croaking Rider's old man?"
"Gambling is a snare of the devil," Preacher replied. "No bet. Let's get him."
"I got a better idea. Let's see where he goes. He's heading up Floral. Looked like a foreigner. Maybe he don't know you can cut through Bleek Alley."
"I'll take the alley. You run him."
"Lazy." Preacher had that reputation.
"He's gaining."
That gnarly man could move for having such short legs.
"The wings of fear carrieth the wicked."
"Stuff it, Preach. Cut out and head him off."
Preacher ducked into Bleek Alley, black clothing flying around him. It was a dark, twisting way little more than the span of his arms wide, filled with trash and shadows.
One clot of shadow coughed up a swarm of gnarly men. "Ambush!" Preacher gasped. Footsteps hammered behind him. There was no exit.
Preacher never backed down from a fight. And he was five times tougher than he talked, ten times tougher than he looked. He let rip one great bloody shriek and hurled himself forward.
His attack astonished them. Long thin arms tipped by fists as hard as rocks hammered them. The gnarly men grunted as the blows fell, got tangled as they tried to reorganize. Preacher produced a sand-filled leather sap and started thumping heads. Two gnarly men went to sleep.
Then the tribe behind arrived. A wave of stubby limbs rolled over Preacher. Someone snatched his sap away and used it. His aim was erratic. Gnarly men suffered more often than Preacher.
Then darkness enveloped Preacher.
Four gnarly men stood over him, panting and rubbing bruises. Their leader snarled, "Get the wagon. Get him out of here before the other one comes." He spoke a language of the far east, little-known in Shasesserre.
Another man, kneeling over the fallen, said, "Broken neck here, Emerald."
The leader, Emerald, indistinguishable from the others, cursed the dead man for complicating his life. "Throw him in the wagon too." He kicked Preacher.
Soup—so called since childhood, for reasons he no longer recalled—became suspicious. His quarry was not trying hard enough to escape. When there was no Preacher waiting, and the gnarly man turned into Bleek Alley, he knew.
Soup trotted back the way he had come.
Soup carried no weapon but the knife he used when eating. He did not approve of bloody-minded violence—not to mention that Shasesserre had laws banning civilians carrying blades—though he was not shy about mixing it up when the occasion arose. None of Rider's gang were.
He stopped at a smithy, bought a pick, left its head with the baffled toolmaker.
He repaired to the mouth of Bleek Alley, listened, heard the distant creak of wagon wheels. Of Preacher there was no sign. "Trouble for sure," he muttered, and stalked into the shadows.
Trouble did not disappoint him. There was a sudden rush of feet. He hoisted his pick handle and used it like a two-handed sword.
Its heavy end tapped skulls. Gnarly men shrieked. Heads cracked like eggshells. Bones broke.
Soup let out a wild howl. "Who ambushed who?" he laughed, and laid on again.
Emerald saw the way of things early. He fell back, scrambled up onto a rusted metal balcony dangling precariously eight feet above, yelled at his men to flee. As Soup passed below, shouting,