The Dead of Winter- - Thieves World 07 (15 page)

"I am troubled, 0 Stormbringer. I seek guidance to restore Vashanka's power to its proper place."

"VASHANKA WAS, IS, AND WILL BE NO MORE. HE DOES NOT TROUBLE YOU. YOUR TROUBLES

ARE BOTH GREATER AND LESSER."

"I have but one need, 0 Stormbringer: to serve Vashanka's avatars."

"USE STEALTH, PRIEST, TO SERVE YOUR AVATARS. THAT IS YOUR LESSER TROUBLE. I WILL

NOT HELP YOU WITH THE GREATER." The seething cloud that called itself Stormbringer, the ultimate Storm God, inhaled itself. "THAT THORN AND ITS BALM

LIE WITHIN YOUR PAST," it whispered as it blended into the first red streamers of dawn light.

Molin remained on his knees thinking he was surely doomed. He had not begun to recover from Ischade's suggestions and insinuations, and now the gods were speaking in riddles: Use stealth; lesser troubles and greater troubles; thorns and balms. He was still on his knees when Walegrin clapped him on the shoulder.

"I had not thought to find you praying here." The soldier flinched when Molin turned. "Have I changed so much in one night?" the priest asked.

"Have you been here all night? The sea air is dangerous for those not born to it."

"And lying is dangerous for those not born to it." He took Walegrin's arm and rose to his feet. "No, I went first to the house of Ischade, by the White Foal. She told me that our wayward mage, Randal, has been caught in the Nisi witch bitch's web to serve, our necromancer says, as bait for Roxane's lover." He looked at the swords Wale-grin carried. "I think we will only talk this morning and walk a little-until I can feel my feet. Hoxa will blame himself if I return limping. It was not a good night-"

Walegrin held up his hand for silence. "To walk away from her is cause for prayer."

Molin shrugged the sympathy aside. The need to confess and confide had become all-consuming and Walegrin, however inappropriate, had become its object. "I came here because I did not know what to do next and my thoughts, not prayers, summoned something-a god called Stormbringer. I don't know-maybe it was only a dream. It said I must use stealth to serve Gyskouras and Arton-but that's the lesser of my problems, it says. The greater one is inside me. God or dream, I make no sense from it."

Walegrin stopped as if struck. "Stealth? Randal is bait for Roxane's lover-eh?"

"According to Ischade."

"It fits. It fits, Molin," the blond soldier exalted, using his superior's given name for the first time in their acquaintance. "Niko's been seen at the Mere's Guild."

"Niko-Nikodemos the Stepson? I met him once-with Tempus. Has Tempus returned, then?" Molin brightened.

"Not that anyone's seen. But Niko-he'd be the lover, if rumor's true. More important: He's Stealth."

Torchholder leaned against the gelding. The habit of taking war names was not limited to the Stepsons. He'd become Torchholder one night on the ramparts at Val-tostin, though unlike most, he'd made his war name a part of his known name.

"Find him. Arrange a meeting. Offer him whatever he wants, if necessary." He swung into the saddle, shedding his aches and tiredness.

"Whoa." Walegrin caught the gelding's reins and looked Molin square in the eye.

"It said that was your lesser problem. Hoxa says you don't eat enough to feed one of your damn ravens and you sleep on the dirt under your table. You're the only one in the Palace my men respect-the only one / respect-and it's not right for you to be off with 'greater problems.'"

Molin sighed and accepted the conspiracy between the officer and his scrivener.

"My greater problems, I was told, lie within my past. You'll have to let me struggle with them on my own."

They rode away from the temple in silence, Walegrin keeping his mare a good distance behind the gelding. He bit his lip, scratched himself and gave every indication of reaching an unpleasant decision before trotting the mare to Molin's side.

"You should go to Illyra," he stated sullenly. "Heaven's forfend-why?"

"She's good at finding things."

"Even if she were, and I admit she is, I've taken her son from her. She's got no cause to do me a favor. I'd sooner ask Arton directly," Molin said, thinking it might not be a bad idea.

"Illyra'd be better. And she'd do it-because you have Arton."

"That smith-husband of hers would use me for kindling. Even if she's forgiven me, he hasn't."

"I'll crush a few wheels and send Thrush with a message that he's needed at the barracks to mend some iron. You'll have the time." The priest had no desire to talk to the seeress. He had no desire to go rooting around his own best-forgotten memories. Since his estrangement from Rosanda thoughts about his origins, never before a subject of consideration, haunted him. He hoped they'd vanish now that he had a fertile connection between Nikodemos, Randal, Roxane, and the avatars to pursue. "We'll see," he temporized, not wanting to offend his only efficient lieutenant. "Maybe after Mid-Winter. Right now, look for Niko. And strengthen the barricades around the Beysib cantonment. Ischade was honest and playing games of her own at the same time."

Walegrin grunted.

Two days, and the miserable nightmare-filled night between them, were sufficient to make Molin reconsider a visit to the seeress. He watched Walegrin mangle some stable implements, then headed for the Bazaar along a route which would not likely bring him into contact with Illyra's husband, Dubro. He was recognized by the smith's apprentice and admitted into Illyra's scrying room.

"What brings you to my home?" she asked, shuffling her cards and, unbeknown to the priest, loosening the catch on the dagger fastened beneath her table. "Arton is well, isn't he?"

"Yes, very well-growing fast. Has your husband forgiven you?"

"Yes-he blames it all on you. You were wise to see that he was not here. You will be wiser to be gone when he gets back."

"Walegrin said you could help me."

"I should have guessed when that soldier came to fetch Dubro. I have had no visions of gyskourem since Arton went to the Palace. I won't look into your future, Priest."

"There is work for him to do at the Palace and a fair price for his labor. Your brother says you can find that which has been lost." She set the cards aside and brought the candlestick to the center of the table.

"If you can describe what it was that you lost. Sit down."

"It's not a 'something,'" Molin explained as he sat on a stool opposite her.

"I've had ... visions ... myself: warnings that there is something within my past which is-or could cause-great trouble. Illyra, you said once that the S'danzo saw the past as well as the future. Can you find my-" He hesitated at the ridiculousness of the request. "Can you show me my mother?"

"She is dead, then?"

"In my birth."

"Children bring about such longings," she said sympathetically, then stared into the void, waiting for inspiration. "Give me your hand." Illyra sprinkled powders and oils of various colors on his palm, tracing simple symbols through each layer. His palms began to sweat; she had to hold his fingers tightly to stop him from pulling his hand back in embarrassment.

"This will not hurt," she assured him as, with a movement so unexpected he could not resist it, she twisted his wrist and held his palm in the candle flame. It didn't. The powders released a narcotic incense that not only prevented injury but banished all worry from the priest's mind. When she released his hand and extinguished the candle, most of the morning had passed. Illyra's expression was unreadable.

"Did you see anything?"

"I do not understand what I saw. What we do not understand we do not reveal, but I have revealed so many things to you. Still, I do not think I want to understand this, so I will answer no other questions about it.

"Your mother was a slave of your temple. I did not 'see' her before she had been enslaved. I could see her only because she was kept drugged and they had cut out her tongue; your hierarchy feared her. She was raped by your father and did not bear you with joy. She willed her own death."

Torchholder ran his fingers through his beard. The S'danzo was disturbed by what she had seen: slavery, mutilation, rape and birth-death. He was concerned by what it had to mean.

"Did you see her? See her as mortal eyes would have seen her?" he asked, holding his breath.

Illyra let hers out slowly. "She was not like other women, Lord Hierarch. She had no hair-but a crown of black feathers covering her head and arms, like wings, instead."

The vision came clear to him: a Nisi witch. His elders had dared much more than he had imagined possible; Stormbringer's warning and Ischade's whispers made chilling sense to him now. Vashanka's priests had dared to bring witch-blood to the god. His mouth hung open.

"I will hear no other questions, priest," Illyra warned. He fished out a fresh-minted gold coin from his purse and laid it on her table.

"I do not want any more answers, My Lady," he told her as he entered the sunlight again.

The difference between priests and practitioners of all other forms of magecraft was more than philosophical. Yet both sides agreed the mortal shell of mankind could not safely contain an aptitude for communicative-that is, priestly-power, along with an aptitude for more traditional, manipulative magic. If the combination did not, of itself, destroy the unfortunate's soul, then mage-kind and priest-kind would unite until that destruction was accomplished. Yet Molin knew that Illyra had seen the truth. Pieces of memory fell into place: childhood-times when he had been subtly set apart from his peers; youth-times when he had relied on his own instincts and not Vashanka's guidance to complete his audacious strategies; adult-times when his superiors had conspired to send him to this truly godforsaken place; and now-times when he consorted with mages and gods and felt the fate of Sanctuary on his shoulders. No amount of retrospective relief, however, could compensate for the anxiety Illyra had planted within him. He had relied on his intuition, had come to trust it completely, but what he called his intuition was his mother's witch-blood legacy. He did not merely sense the distinctions between probable and improbable-he shaped them. Worse, now that he was conscious of his heritage, it could erupt, destroying him and everything that depended on him, at any moment. He walked through the cold sunlight looking for salvation-knowing that his impulsive searches were an exercise of the power he feared. Still, his mind did not betray him; his priest-self could accept the path intuition revealed: Randal, the Hazard-mage become Stepson. The magician's freedom would be the byproduct of Molin's other strategies, and for that freedom a priest might reasonably expect the instructions a disowned mage could provide. It took Walegrin less than three days to corner Niko-demos. Regular sources denied the Stepson was in town. An alert ear in the proper taverns and alleys always heard rumors: Niko had exchanged his soul for Randal's-the mage did not reappear; he had joined Ischade's decaying household-but Strat denied this with a vigor that had the ring of honesty; he was drinking himself to oblivion at the Alekeep-and this proved true.

"He's shaking drunk. He looks like a man who's dealing with witches," Walegrin informed Molin when they met to plot their strategies. The priest wondered what he, himself, must look like; the knowledge that witch blood dwelt in his heart had done nothing for his peace of mind. "Perhaps we can offer him service for service. When can you bring him to me?"

"Niko's strange-even for a Whoreson. I don't think he'd agree to a meeting and he's Bandaran-trained. Dead drunk he could lay a hand on you and you'd be in your grave two nights later."

"Then we'll have to surprise him. I'll prepare a carriage with the children in it. We'll bring it outside the Alekeep. I trust Stormbringer. Once Stealth sees those children he'll solve that problem for us." Walegrin shook his head. "You and the children, perhaps. Bribes aside, the Alekeep is not a place for my regulars. You'd best go with your priests."

"My priests?" Molin erupted into laughter. "My priests, Walegrin? I have the service of a handful of acolytes and ancients-the only ones who didn't go out to Land's End with Rashan. I have greater standing with the Beysib Empire than with my own."

"Then take Beysib soldiers-it's time they started earning their keep in this town. We sweat bricks to protect them."

"I'll arrange something. You let me know when he's there." So Molin moved among the men of Clan Burek, selecting six whose taste for adventure was, perhaps, greater than their sense. He was still outlining his plans when Hoxa announced that the borrowed carriage was ready. They roused both children, and the dancer, Seylalha, from their beds. The Beysib bravos had not exchanged their gaudy silks for the austere robes of Vashanka's priests before it was time to leave the Palace.

As predicted, Niko was drunk. Too drunk, Molin feared, to be of any use to anyone, much less Gyskouras and Arton. The priest tested him with the sort of pious cant guaranteed to get a rise out of any conscious Stepson. Wine had thickened Niko's tongue; he babbled about magic and death in a language far less intelligible than Arton's. There were rumors that Roxane had stolen Niko's manhood and bound the Stepson to her with webs of morbid sensuality. Molin, watching and listening, knew the Nisi witch had stolen something far more vital: maturity. With a nod of his head the Beysibs dragged the unprotesting Nikodemos to the carriage.

He left them alone, trusting Stormbringer's riddles and turning his attention to the frightened little man the Beysibs were interrogating with a shade too much vigor.

"What has he done?" the priest interceded.

"He's painted a picture."

"It's not a crime, Jennek, even if it doesn't reach your aesthetic standards." He took a step closer and recognized the painter who had unmasked an assassination conspiracy a few years back. "You're Lalo, aren't you?"