The Seascape Tattoo (2 page)

Then, cursing fluidly, he departed.

*   *   *

The old man, having spent the last hour nursing a drink and watching the barbarian in the clouded mirror behind the bar, had indeed just scuttled from the Happy Mermaid so that Aros would not pass him on the way out. And his old adversary's damnably keen senses might have upset the game.

He hurried down the street, careful not to slip in the muck, to the alleyway where three hired brigands crouched waiting in the shadows.

“Well?” the largest of them breathed. He was the size of a redwood, with a rubbery, ruddy face, as if he was frostbit or sunburned.

“It was him,” the old man said. “He'll be leaving soon, I think.”

The smallest of them was so broad as to be almost round. “Payment,” he said, extending his hand.

The old man emptied a small purse into the waiting paw and waited as they counted the pile of gold and silver coins. Not one had even pretended to trust. What was the world coming to?

The skinniest of the three looked like a skeleton wrapped in patchy, hairy skin. “It's good. His skull's as good as cracked, C'Vall.” And the three oddly matched rogues set off down the street.

Neoloth-Pteor leaned back against the wall, shedding his cloak, then peeling away the false beard. Just a little gum, some llama hair, and a cloak … and his identity was safe. Not that any of the thugs he had just hired were likely to survive the evening, but if they did, they still couldn't describe him properly.

But if one lived long enough to pass on a name, that would be even better.

It had been a long game, with several distinct phases over the years. In the most recent, he was certain that Aros had thought him dead, entombed with a colony of giant spiders on an island on the far side of the world. “What is it?” he whispered. Neoloth closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall. “What is it that draws us together, my old enemy?”

For a decade, he and the appalling Aros had crossed paths and often attempted to cause each other's destruction. He had been shocked when here, in Quillia, the name had arisen on the foul breath of C'Vall, tax collector and blackmailer. C'Vall knew certain of Neoloth's secrets and had incriminating documents, even though Neoloth's sins had been committed far afield. He also knew where witnesses could be recruited. It would be inconvenient for them to come to light just now, when everything was going so well.

He had tried paying the man off, but the blackmail had grown onerous, and when Neoloth attempted to employ an agent of his own to acquire the documents, the nimble-fingered little elf had ended up floating in the river, his rear end pointing true north, as elf bottoms tended to do.

Well … C'Vall had named the stakes. Far be it from Neoloth-Pteor to deny him. C'Vall would expect a magical attack, of course, and there was no way to kill C'Vall with magic without leaving clues that another magician might use to impeach and supplant him at court.

He would try something so mundane that it would catch C'Vall by surprise. The fact that his old enemy Aros would be the instrument of his deliverance was a happy accident.

A carriage arrived, its wheels throwing off specks of mud from the recent rains. Neoloth flinched: in days not too long past, mud flecks used to veer past him. The cadaverous coachman stopped the vehicle, and Neoloth mounted the steps and swung in.

A belt-high, rounded elf crouched on the seat opposite. Fandy was a loyal follower, and, more important, he and the deceased elf had been more than friends.

“Was he there?” Fandy squeaked.

“He was,” Neoloth said. “He conducted his business and then left.”

They jounced down the streets a bit, wheels thumping in muddy potholes. From time to time, through gaps between houses, shops, and taverns, they could glimpse the castle, perched high on a hill. Symbol of power … and, in an unexpected and unaccustomed fashion, hope.

“And you did what you had to do?”

“Yes,” Neoloth said. “And my hired swords will do what they have to do. And Aros will do what
he
has to do. And, one way or the other, at least one old problem will be gone by morning.”

And if all went well, both might be gone. But all things going well was rare in this world, or any world he knew.

*   *   *

Barbarian's instinct.

Aros knew he was being followed. The back of his neck had itched since shortly after he left the tavern. Had known something was wrong, something was … off. He had drained that last flagon of mead largely to make himself a more tempting target. If someone was going to try to kill or rob him, Aros would prefer to meet him while he had sense enough to act clearly, rather than in his sleep or encumbered by a frisky companion.

The streets were narrow here, and dark, but the ground was sturdier underfoot. Drier. And that would work very well for a man with confidence in his footwork.

Like Aros.

Who had that old man in the tavern been? The Aztec still couldn't place him, and in fact the struggle to place the man might well get him killed. Your mind couldn't be in the past and the future at the same time.

The sword that kills you isn't yesterday's, or tomorrow's. It is the weapon at your throat right now.
Now
. Now was all that mattered, and his mind, while not as foggy as his lurching gait implied, was not focused on Now. He was starting to think of bed, and that could get him killed.

Well, one principle he'd learned long ago: when you are less than your best, it is even more critical that your opponents underestimate you. Blurry vision? Trick your opponents into thinking you are blind. Weakened? Make them think you are unconscious, or already dead.

What did they want? The tax money? He had to admit that there was a part of him that gave not a damn. He tried to be civilized, to constrain his savage heart. But even before Flaygod, his trusty
Macuahuitl,
left its sheath, he felt the battle madness stir within him. The
Macuahuitl
balanced in his hand sweetly, a hybrid based on his people's ancient bat-shaped, glass-toothed battle-ax, rendered not in hardwood but in lethal, razor-edged steel.

As he wound through the streets, the way narrowed, and that was for the good. While it was annoying to lose side-to-side motion, he moved backward better than most and attacked on a straight line before him with devastating speed and power.

Someone emptied the fetid contents of a chamber pot out of a window overhead, almost hitting him. He cursed up at the window, receiving a similar obscenity in reply. Then perhaps seeing the size of the man who was walking beneath his window, or the flat, ugly demi-sword in his hand, the thrower mumbled what might have been a half-hearted apology and retreated.

There.
The full moon above them shone its light into an alley just to his right, but the back of the alley was still deep shadow. He liked that.

Glancing back over his shoulder to be certain that his stalkers were still close enough to see him slip into the side street, Aros slid into the shadows and waited, Flaygod hungry in his hand.

He waited. For a time he began to wonder if he was wrong, if the men behind him had merely been out for a stroll. Along dark streets. With drawn swords.

Lovely evening for a stroll, he thought.

And then they were in the alleyway. Three of them, bulky but not clumsy, each with a fistful of sharp steel. One was cloaked, one wore partial armor of some kind, and one was one-handed, with a cleaver-like blade welded to the stump.

For a time they just looked at him, their outlines reduced to darkness, eyes burning in their faces. No one spoke.

“How did you lose your hand?” Aros asked. He was genuinely interested in such things, and, after all, in a few seconds either he'd be unable to ask the question, or Stumpy would be incapable of answering.

But that really didn't matter, because Stumpy didn't answer. Instead, two of the three split off, walking down the alley side by side. The one with the armor cocked his head a little to the side, as if trying to determine where Aros was.

The shadows were doing their job. Which was nice, because his enemies also didn't notice when his left hand slipped the throwing knife from his belt, and the shadows were apparently too dark to see him hurl it underhand, such that none of the three had any idea what was happening until the knife sprouted from the armored man's throat like a rose crafted entirely of thorns. Armored Man gave a wet groan and collapsed onto his side.

Stumpy turned to look at his friend and turned back just in time to avoid being beheaded by a lightning-fast swing, catching it on the cleaver welded to the stump of his left hand.

That was fine, because Aros was taking a step, setting his weight. He swung his left foot up in a short arc, planting it directly in Stumpy's groin.

To his credit, the brigand made hardly any sound as he slid against the wall. Aros would have loved to gut him, but the third man was moving in, and this one was no slouch.

He was slightly shorter than Aros, but stocky, one of those rare, dangerous men who seemed constructed of bouncy muscle and lightning nerves. Fast! If they hadn't stepped into the light, the blade would have disappeared entirely. As it was, dim moonlight still required careful attention to the swordsman's shoulders and instinctive reaction to the sound of his footwork, music on the slimy tiles.

Fierce, rat-like eyes locked with his, and he knew his opponent had survived a dozen back-alley skirmishes. Dangerous.

But that was all right. Aros had survived a hundred. He backed up until even with Stumpy, and took a moment for Flaygod to hack down into the man's right leg. Stumpy groaned and crumbled to the ground.

The tallest swordsman was, predictably, leaping forward. Aros slid back, found what he was looking for and then retreated again.

The swordsman came forward, into shadow …

And tripped over the armored guy, lying there in the shadows bleeding. To his credit, the swordsman recovered quickly, or would have, if Aros had not struck hard in his moment of unbalance.

The head tumbled one way, the body another.

Stumpy had lost his sword, but the cleaver on his left was still a threat. Aros looked into the man's small, pig-like eyes. “I can cut off your right hand, and then see how your pet blacksmith will correct it. Would you like to see how that goes?”

Stumpy shook his head.

“Who hired you?” he asked.

To his credit, the man seemed to possess a smidgeon of loyalty. Aros swept his leg out from under him and planted his own foot on the cleaver. For some reason he didn't want to kill the man. Perhaps he admired Stumpy's fortitude in continuing to work after a debilitating injury, not resorting to begging or simple theft. Certainly there was something admirable to be found in that.

Stumpy tried to move, but when he did Aros did a little hop and planted his left foot on the wounded leg. Stumpy squealed, which was no surprise. That had to hurt.

“Tell me who hired you,” Aros said.

“C'Vall!” Stumpy hissed.

He should have known. “All right,” he said. “Don't ever let me see you again.” Stumpy nodded emphatically, and Aros turned and walked away.

He heard the slither of steel against cobblestone, and turned just in time to deflect Stumpy's blade and riposte, his sawtooth
Macuahuitl
cleaving Stumpy to the spine. The workman-like part of his mind appreciated the precision and economy of the motion. The animal part, the part he ordinarily sheathed when among city dwellers, bared its teeth. Blood had been spilled, awakening the barbarian's ancient and feral hunger. There would be more.

 

TWO

The Talisman

Like light reflected from a silver shield, the moon's rippling twin shimmered on breaking waves.

Neoloth-Pteor had walked out onto the beach, leaving his elfish assistant Fandy and the coachman on the road behind, around a curve. Down the beach a mile or two south nestled a small fishing village, and north an hour's ride was a commercial fishery. But here, and now, there was privacy.

The wizard spread his arms and began his incantation, his voice drifting out along the waves as they rolled inward toward him and then out again. They were words of power, but he remembered when they had been more powerful still. In boyhood, ages before, magic had been magic, and magicians were able to work their will without endless manipulations and machinations to separate a single miserable swordsman from his life.

But even if the days had changed, Neoloth was still the greatest wizard the Strellines had ever produced, and he would be damned if memories of glories past would deny him the workings of magic present.

The surface of the ocean roiled, as if plucked by a wind he could not feel. The image of the moon dimpled, shimmered, and then was still.

He stood on the beach feeling something of a fool, wondering if he had misjudged his spell, or the time, or place. A seagull “skawed” above him, wheeling in the night sky. Neoloth perched on the rock, and felt his foot slip a bit to one side. Righted himself, and waited.

And then … there they were. Five silvered wakes against the blackness of the waves, snaking toward the shore. Three bearded faces, two smooth. A family pod of Merfolk, males and females. He caught his breath: never so many at a single time, in all his long experience. Instinct told him it was important, somehow, spoke of a changing world even if he did not fully comprehend all the changes.

The males approached the rock, the two females a little farther back. He saw gray in the largest female's flowing locks, and reckoned that she was a grandmere, that perhaps the younger was a daughter, with other children and grandchildren hidden beneath the waves.

“Come,” the largest of the mermen said. His voice was very clear, even with that slight gargling quality common to his people. They were coiled in the shallows, the waves washing over their scaled torsos. Neoloth clambered over a boulder and slid down to stand just above a tide pool where they could reach each other, human and Mer, each without leaving the comfort of his native environment.