Sung in Blood (2 page)

Donot 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 QueenCity'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, "Stand and take it, you cowards!" Emerald reached down and whacked the back of his head. Soup's lights went out. Moments later he was bound and in the wagon with Preacher and several dead gnarly men.

IV

Rider went up the tower with a tireless ease matched only by Su-Cha, who levitated from stage to stage. The imp grinned down at Chaz, Spud, and Greystone, offering endless unsolicited advice.

Chaz threatened, "Any more mouth and we'll see how you rope dive without a rope." It was an empty threat. Su-Cha would fall only if he wanted.

Rider reached the high platform well ahead of his men. Below, people pointed and asked what the Protector's son was doing. He was well-known, which he did not like. It would interfere with his new work.

The side of the platform facing the
Golden Crescent
boasted a pair of lithe, springy fifty-foot poles of newly trimmed green wood brought up just that morning. Workmen were attaching long, tough, elastic ropes. Similar poles and ropes were installed at stages all up the tower. Later, Shasesserre's young men would place their ankles in harnesses attached to those ropes and dive into space. The springy poles would absorb their momentum and halt them just short of death. They would dive from ever higher stations, their numbers dwindling as altitude betrayed courage's limit. It would be dark before they reached the top. The remaining divers would jump carrying torches.

Rider had won the competition during his sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth years.

He glanced at the workmen, then paid them no mind. They showed more interest in him. He was a remarkable physical specimen, and a reputed genius.

The death engine stood at the side of the platform facing the Citadel. Rider asked, "Anyone touched this?"

Heads shook. One man offered, "We didn't know what it was for. What is it?"

Rider ignored the question. "Ingenious." He moved around the engine cautiously, never touching it.

"Geep!" a workman said.

"Hello to you too," Su-Cha sing-songed.

Rider faced his associates. "Look this thing over when you catch your breath, Spud. See if it's booby-trapped."

"Never again," Spud gasped. "Never again." He began studying the machine.

"You still got to get down," Chaz reminded.

"Let him jump," Su-Cha said. "Maybe he can knit wings before he hits."

"Your sense of humor is juvenile," Chaz observed.

"I'm just a young thing. Barely two thousand."

"No booby traps," Spud announced.

"Do you recognize the workmanship?"

"No." Spud looked over the edge. He swayed. Rider grabbed his arm.

"Dang!" Su-Cha said. "Thought he'd try it."

Chaz kicked toward the imp's behind. Su-Cha was absent when his foot arrived. He cackled from a far corner of the platform, perched atop a workman's tool chest.

Mumbling, the workmen started leaving.

"Let's see if my father marked his killer. Su-Cha, do you smell anything?"

The imp sniffed around the killing machine. His face puckered into one huge frown. "It's there. But weak. Be hard to isolate." He got down on all fours, snuffled like a hound. He went right to the top of the ladder and over the side, head down.

"Don't take no demon to figure that," Chaz said. "No murderer was going to fly out of here."

Greystone suggested, "We could offer a reward for witnesses." The scholar seldom spoke. When he did, even Rider listened. "Even at midnight someone might have seen him."

"Hmm. No," Rider said. "Not yet. Likely to raise questions. Maybe if the news gets out. You and Spud might visit neighborhood watering holes. If anybody did see a climber he'll talk about it."

Spud complained, "Come on, Rider. Why can't we go with you? How come Chaz and Su-Cha get in on all the excitement?"

"Chaz will miss out too. He'll be looking for Soup and Preacher. We should have heard from them." Rider slowly turned as he spoke, flicked a glance toward the Citadel. "Ah. I thought so."

"What?" Chaz demanded.

"Someone is in the lab. Thought I saw movement a while ago."

"Let's go!" Chaz whooped, and went over the side. Spud and Greystone followed. Rider examined the death machine again, then seized one of the diving ropes.

He jumped.

Workmen yelled. Rider plunged toward the Plaza. The spring in rope and pole absorbed his momentum. He came to a halt six feet from the surface, let go, landed running. His associates were not yet thirty feet down from the tower platform.

He whipped into the Citadel, climbed stairs at a pace punishing even for his iron muscles, slammed into his father's laboratory.

The place was a shambles.

He placed one finger on the wall. It was warm. He nodded, made supple-fingered passes over the floor. Glimmering footprints appeared. Two men. One larger than the other. The larger tracks ran to the window and back. A lookout. The smaller feet went straight to the door, spacing indicating haste. The lookout had witnessed Rider's jump.

Rider was rereading his father's message when Chaz, Omar, Greystone, and Su-Cha arrived. "Catch them, Rider?" the imp piped.

"No. They were looking for a last message. And found one."

"Darn. That means trouble."

"For them." Rider indicated the wall.

Su-Cha chortled. "You changed it. Are they going to be mad."

"More than you know. I'll be there to greet them."

Chaz rubbed his hands together eagerly, drew the huge and entirely illegal sword he carried. He examined its edge.

"No," Rider said. "I'm going alone. You have your assignments."

"Rider!"

Rider ignored their protests, leaned out the window.

"What is it?" The whole laboratory shivered. Glass rattled. Dust danced.

"Military airship. I should have sensed it sooner. The web is more damaged than I thought. We'll have to wrap this up fast and get to repairing it."

Noise rose from the Plaza as the airship passed over. It settled toward the military moorings on the Martial Fields.

It was a gaudy bombard from the eastern fleet. The side effects of the sorcery that propelled it faded.

"Off on your errands now," Rider said.

"Suppose we catch the killer?" Su-Cha asked.

"Bring him here." Rider's voice was cold grey iron. "There are questions I want to ask."

"Right."

Chaz was out the door already, humming. He'd thought of an amusing trick to play on Soup and Preacher.

Su-Cha, Spud, and Greystone followed.

Rider busied himself in the laboratory, collecting items he concealed about himself. Then he set out on the trail of glowing footprints. He believed he knew where they were headed, but wanted to see what stops they made.

The footprints materialized a dozen steps ahead of him, faded that far behind. Before long the men making them separated. He elected to follow the smaller prints.

V

Chance led Su-Cha, Spud, and Greystone across Chaz's path. The northerner was holding up a wall with one shoulder while talking to an attractive young woman. His mind was not on business.

Su-Cha said, "Feast your glims on this, guys," and he scrunched his eyes tight shut.

His body changed. Not much, but enough to provide the appearance of a child about four. Then he charged Chaz, wrapped his arms around the barbarian's legs. "Daddy. Daddy. Mommy says you have to come right home."

Chaz's jaw dropped. The woman's brow wrinkled. The barbarian saw Spud and Greystone grinning. He roared, "Su-Cha! I'll flay you and use your damned spook hide ... "

"Daddy? Are you mad?"

Chaz kicked the imp into traffic, where he narrowly missed being trampled.

The young woman gave him bloody hell. He tried to explain. She did not believe a word he said. Imps!

Chaz was angry. He did not observe his surroundings in the alert way survival in the north demanded. He overlooked the gnarly men entirely, though they stood out even among the ten thousand outrageous foreigners haunting that Shasesserren street.

He worked his way from place to place, asking after Soup and Preacher. None of their acquaintances had seen them. He grew concerned. They should not have been so hard to find.

He made the acquaintance of the gnarly men as he cut through a delivery way between major streets. Those men seemed to prefer alleyways.