PRINCE OF CHAOS (19 page)

“Feelings are hard enough to keep secret, even around non-sorcerers,” I said.
 
“She could be used as a hostage against my behavior.”

“Oh.
 
I hate to say this pleases me.
 
What I mean is ...
 
I’m pleased you care about someone else.”

I lowered my head.
 
I wanted to reach out and touch him, but I didn’t.

Jurt made a little humming noise, as he sometimes had when pondering things as a kid.
 
Then, “We’ve got to get her before they do, and move her to someplace safe,” he said.
 
“Or take her away from them if they’ve already got her.”

“ ‘We’?”

He smiled, a rare event.

“You know what I’ve become.
 
I’m tough.”

“I hope so,” I said.
 
“But you know what’ll happen.; if there are any witnesses to say it was a couple of the Sawall brothers behind this? Most likely a vendetta with Hendrake.”

“Even if Dara talked them into it?”

“It’ll look like she set them up.”

“Okay,” he said.
 
“No witnesses.”

I could have said that averting vendetta would save a lot of other lives, but that would have sounded hypocritical even if I didn’t mean it that way.
 
Instead, “That power you gained in the Fountain,” I said, “gives you something I’ve heard referred to as a ‘living Trump’ effect.
 
Seems to me you were able to transport Julia as well as yourself with it.”

He nodded.

“Can it get us from here to Kashfa in a hurry?” The distant sound of an enormous gong filled the air.
 
“I can do anything the cards can do,” he said, “and I can take someone along with me.
 
The only problem is that the Trumps themselves don’t have that range.
 
I’d have to take us there in a series of jumps.”

The gong sounded again.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“The noise?” he said.
 
“That’s notice that the funeral is about to begin.
 
It can be heard throughout the Courts.”

“Bad timing.”

“Maybe, maybe not.
 
It’s giving me an idea.”

“Tell me about it.”

“It’s our alibi if we have to take out some Hendrakes.”

“How so?”

“The time differential.
 
We go to the funeral and get seen.
 
We slip out, run our errand, come back, and attend the rest of the service.”

“You think the flow will allow that?”

“I think there’s a good chance, yes.
 
I’ve done a lot of jumping around.
 
I’m starting to get a real feel for flows.”

“Then we’ll give it a try.
 
The more confusion the better.”

Again, the gong.

Red, the color of the fire of life that fills us, is the color of mourning garments in the Courts.
 
I used the spikard rather than the Sign of the Logrus to summon suitable clothing for myself.
 
I’d a desire to avoid any commerce, even the most mundane, with that Power, for now.

Jurt then trumped us to his quarters, where he had suitable garments of his own from the last funeral he’d attended.
 
I’d a small desire to see my old room, too.
 
Sometime, perhaps, when I wasn’t rushed...

We washed up, combed, trimmed, dressed quickly.
 
I took on a changed form then, as did Jurt, and we went through the ritual again at this level, before garbing ourselves for the occasion.
 
Shirt, breeches, jacket, cloak, anklets, bracelets, scarf, and bandanna-we looked incendiary.
 
Weapons had to be left behind.
 
We planned to return for them on the way out.

“Ready?” Jurt asked me.

“Yes.”

He caught hold of my arm and we were transported, arriving at the inward edge of the Plaza at the End of the World, where a blue sky darkened above a conflagration of mourners milling along the route the procession would take.
 
We passed among them, in hope of being seen by as many as possible.
 
I was greeted by a few old acquaintances.
 
Unfortunately, most wanted to stop and talk, not having seen me for some time.
 
Jurt had similar problems.
 
Most also wondered why we were here, rather than back at the Thelbane, the massive, glassy needle of Chaos far to our rear.
 
Periodically, the air would vibrate as the gong continued its slow sounding.
 
I felt it in the ground, also, as we were very near to its home.
 
We made our way slowly across the Plaza, toward the massive pile of black stone at the very edge of the Pit, its gate an archway of frozen flame, as was its downward stair, each tread and riser time-barred fire, each railing the same.
 
The rough amphitheater below us was also fire-furnished, self-illumed, facing the black block at the end of everything, no wall behind it, but the open emptiness of the Pit and its singularity whence all things came.

No one was entering it yet, and we stood near the gates of fire and looked back along the route the procession would follow.
 
We nodded to friendly demonic faces, quivered to the note of the gong, watched the sky darken a little further.
 
Suddenly, my head was filled with a powerful presence.

“Merlin!”

I immediately had an image of Mandor in a changed form, looking down his red-clothed arm, hand invisible, presumably regarding me through my Trump, wearing the closest thing I’d seen in a long while to an irritated expression.

“Yes?” I said.

His gaze moved past me.
 
His expression suddenly changed, eyebrows rising, lips parting.

“That’s Jurt you’re with?” he asked.

“That’s right.”

“I’d thought you not on the best of terms,” he said slowly, “as of our last conversation.”

“We agreed to put aside our differences for the funeral.”

“While it seems very civilized, I’m not certain how wise it is,” he said.

I smiled.

“I know what I’m doing,” I told him.

“Really?” he said.
 
“Then why are you at the cathedral rather than here at Thelbane?”

“Nobody told me I was supposed to be at Thelbane.”

“Odd,” he responded.
 
“Your mother was supposed to have informed both you and Jurt that you were to be part of the procession.”

I shook my head and turned away.

“Jurt, did you know we were to be in the procession?” I asked.

“No,” he said.
 
“On the one hand, it makes sense.
 
On the other, there’s the black watch, which might recommend we maintain a low profile.
 
Who’s telling you this?”

“Mandor.
 
He says Dara was supposed to let us know.”

“She didn’t tell me.”

“You catch that?” I said to Mandor.

“Yes.
 
It doesn’t matter now.
 
Come on through, both of you.”

He extended his other hand.

“He wants us now,” I said to Jurt.
 
“Damn!” Jurt mouthed, and came forward.

I reached out and clasped Mandor’s hand just as Jurt came up and caught hold of my shoulder.
 
We both moved forward then into the slick and gleaming interior of Thelbane’s main hall at ground level, a study in black, gray, mossy green, deep red, chandeliers like stalactites, fire sculptures about the walls, scaly hides hung behind them, drifting globes of water in the middle air, creatures swimming within them.
 
The place was filled with no-tiles, relatives, courtiers, stirring like a field of flame about the catafalque at the hall’s center.
 
The gong sounded again just as Mandor said something to us.

He waited till the vibrations subsided, then spoke again: “I said Dara hasn’t arrived yet.
 
Go pay your respects, and let Bances assign you places in the procession.”

Glancing toward the catafalque, I caught sight of both Tmer and Tubble in the vicinity.
 
Tmer was talking to Bances, Tubble to someone who had his back turned this way.
 
A horrible thought suddenly struck me.

“What,” I asked, “is the security situation for the procession?”

Mandor smiled.

“There are quite a few guardsmen mixed in with the group here,” he said, “and more spotted along the way.
 
Someone will be watching you every second.”

I glanced at Jurt to see whether he’d heard, that.
 
He nodded.

“Thanks.”

Keeping my litany of obscenities subvocal, I moved toward the casket, Jurt at my back.
 
The only way I could think to produce a double would be to talk the Pattern into sending in a ghost of myself to take my place.
 
But the Logrus would detect the ringer’s projected energies in no time.
 
And if I just left, not only would my absence be noticed, but I’d probably be tracked-possibly by the Logrus itself once Dara called a conference.
 
Then it would be learned that I’d gone off to thwart the Logrus’s attempt to rebalance order, and the headwaters of Shit Creek are a cruel and treacherous expanse.
 
I would not make the mistake of fancying myself indispensable.

“How are we going to do this, Merlin?” Jurt said softly as we found our way to the end of the slow-moving line.

The gong sounded again, causing the chandeliers to vibrate.

“I don’t see how we can,” I answered.
 
“I think the best I can hope for is to try getting a message through as I walk along.”

“It can’t be done by Trump from here,” he answered.
 
“Well, maybe under perfect conditions,” he amended, “but not with all these distractions.”

I tried to think of some spell, some sending, some agent to serve me in this.
 
Ghost would have been ideal.
 
Of course; he’d drifted off to explore the spatial asymmetries of the Sculpture Hall.
 
That could keep him occupied for a long while.

“I could get there pretty quickly,” Jurt volunteered, “and with the time differential I might make it back before anyone noticed.”

“And you know exactly two people in Kashfa you might tell,” I said.
 
“Luke and Coral.
 
They both met you in church, when we were trying to kill each other-and you stole Luke’s father’s sword.
 
Offhand, I’d say he’d try to kill you on sight and she’d scream for help.”

The line advanced somewhat.

“So I don’t ask for help,” he said.

“Un-uh,” I told him.
 
“I know you’re tough, but Hendrakes are pros.
 
Also, you’d be faced with a very uncooperative rescuee in Coral.”

“You’re a sorcerer,” Jurt said.
 
“If we find out who the guards are, couldn’t you lay a spell on them so that they think they see us for this whole affair? Then we disappear and no one’s the wiser.”

“I’ve a hunch either Mom or our big brother has laid protective spells on the guards.
 
At such an ideal time for an assassination, I would.
 
I wouldn’t want anyone able to mess with my people’s heads if I were running security here.”

We shuffled a little farther along.
 
By leaning to one side and stretching my neck I was able to get a few glimpses of the wasted demonic form of old Swayvill, resplendently garbed, serpent of red-gold laid upon his breast, there in the flame-formed coffin, Oberon’s ancient nemesis, going to join him at last.

As I moved nearer, it occurred to me that there was more than one a roach to the problem.
 
Perhaps I’d dwelled too long among the magically naive.
 
I’d gotten out of the habit of thinking of magic against magic, of multiple mixed spells.
 
So what if the guards were protected from any fiddling with their perceptions? Let it be.
 
Find a way to work around it.

The gong sounded again.
 
When the echoes died, Jurt leaned near.

“There’s more to it than everything I said,” he whispered.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Another reason I came to you back at Sawall was because I was scared,” he replied.

“Of what?”

“At least one of them-Mandor or Dara-wants more than a balance, wants a total victory for the Logrus, for Chaos.
 
I really believe that.
 
It’s not just that I don’t want to be patty to it.
 
I don’t want it to happen.
 
Now that I can visit Shadow I don’t want to see it destroyed.
 
I don’t want a victory for either side.
 
Total control by the Pattern would probably be just as bad.”