Beyond the Veil Read online

  BEYOND THE VEIL

  JANET MORRIS

  Contents

  Book One : Death in Tyse

  Book Two: Masters Of Mystery

  Book Three: Witch's Work

  Book Four: In the Shadow of the Wall

  Book Five: Beyond Wizardwall

  Book One:

  DEATH IN TYSE

  Two Rankan couriers rode into Tyse three hours apart on the last day of summer. Neither was aware of the other; both carried the same information. The parties in the Imperial Rankan court who had dispatched them to seek out a man known as the Riddler needed to be sure' their message would be delivered.

  The sun was setting when the first courier, who went by the name of Belize, urged his exhausted horse the last few miles up Broadway and into the souk, Tyse's open-air bazaar. Where the horse traders had their stalls he was supposed to meet the Rankan agent who would lead him to the Riddler.

  But no one had warned Belize of the curfew. They had warned him not to go to Embassy Row and check in with his countrymen. They had warned him not to trust the Rankan intelligence chief, Grillo, and thus effectively barred him from making use of his upcountry peers and doing things the easy way. They had warned him not to depend on the mageguild network or on anything but the evidence of his senses. Imperial Ranke was beleaguered and embattled from within and without; every diplomat and cabinet functionary who favored peace over this protracted and expensive war with the Mygdonian Alliance was well aware that summary execution awaited anyone caught conspiring against the Empire—even to bring peace to it.

  In the souk's maze, he dismounted and led his blowing, sweat-drenched mount through a stinking, narrow-eyed throng hurrying home with the days' profits, bargains, or spoils. Everywhere, stalls were being shut and locked. Pickpockets lurched and fumbled their way through the thinning crowds.

  Belize looked up: an early-rising moon, full and pale, smiled down on him. An armored cavalryman wearing the yellow-lined mantle of the "special" occupation forces didn't: "You don't have one of these, traveler." The soldier, frowning down on him from his saddle, tapped an embroidered armband. "You'd better find a guest house. Curfew's in effect." This last was spoken around a chunk of lamb pulled from its wooden skewer and into the soldier's mouth by teeth bright in the light of torches being lit along the rows of wooden stalls, goat's-hair tents, and brightly colored yurts of the souk.

  As the "special" kneed his horse on by, Belize took a chance and asked for the stalls of Palapot the trader—a chance because the special forces in Tyse were Grillo's men. A chance because the armband he'd seen had on it the unit device of the Stepsons—bulls and lightning bolts—which marked the wearer as one of the Riddler's own elite squad of Sacred Band pairs and seasoned mercenaries (just the men whose attention he did not want to attract). A chance because the rider's fine-featured face was Syrese, not local, and the sharp eyes in it had sized him up with cold and minute precision.

  Belize knew his own kind when he saw one; the mounted officer was no less observant.

  The rider turned in his saddle, his helmet swinging by his knee, his bare head, in profile, somehow vaguely familiar. "Sure you don't want the mercenaries' hostel? Or the east barracks?"

  Belize had to fill the pause the soldier left empty. "Palapot the horse trader. I'll swap this horse and then find a bed."

  "Swap it? You ought to put it out of its misery. The only place you'll get anything for that poor beast is in the free zone. And," the soldier looked up at the sky, "you don't have any time to speak of—curfew's upon us." He cast the half-eaten skewer of lamb into the dust, then with his free hand motioned to the rapidly clearing street. "Palapot will still be there tomorrow. As for that horse, you owe it at least one good night's rest. It'll end up in somebody's stew pot if you trade it looking like that. Come on, citizen, I'll ride with you as far as the first guest house."

  Belize had to agree, had to show his papers when he got there—which was, he thought, what the special was waiting for, since the tall officer in cavalry-issue leather and mail had insisted on escorting him inside and stayed on, chatting with the innkeeper, after he'd been given a room key and a chit to stable his horse around the back. He looked back once at the short-haired Syrese leaning on the counter and caught the Stepson unabashedly staring after him. "Life to you, Belize," said the other, a professional's farewell.

  He didn't answer with a mercenary's response— Belize wished no man life, or glory. The Stepson had guessed wrong, after all. Belize wasn't a member of the mercenaries' guild, nor a professional soldier. He was an assassin.

  The guest house the Stepson had escorted him to was at the Tysian city limit, where Commerce Avenue and Peace Falls, the adjoining township which observed no curfew, cut into Tysian discipline and Tysian jurisdiction. He had only to stable his horse, secret his effects in his room, cross a street no wider than an alley, and he would be within a stone's throw of Commerce. The Stepson had done him a favor, showing him to the merchants' quarter which abutted the souk and spilled over into Peace Falls' anarchic bustle.

  The inn was called the Dark Horse; he memorized its salient features—back doors, overhanging roofs, rear balconies, and adjoining buildings. As he bargained with the head groom for liniment, sweet feed, and a better stall for his mount, Belize kept an eye on the intersection of Commerce and Souk avenues visible from the stable yard, hoping to see the Stepson on the big bay horse ride away. He didn't. So he went inside the stable to examine its box stalls while the head groom, biting the Tysian half-crown between his teeth, began trying to make good his promise to "have him road-worthy in the morning, generous sir. Just pick any stall you like and I'll move out the other nag."

  Belize had everything he needed: local currency, genuine travel papers issued by the Rankan chancellor's office that afforded him safe conduct empire-wide, a free hand in accomplishing his mission.

  But his gut was telling him he'd missed something, some detail more troublesome than being a day late to meet a man who didn't know he was coming. Damn the mages, every necromancing, oversold soul among them. If the mageguild network had been trustworthy, things would be much easier. In fact, if the mages weren't suspect, Belize wouldn't be here at all. He was a little bit more than your average courier. But then, some messages require specialized delivery. Whether the Riddler agreed with the proposition he carried or not, the parties Belize served wanted their dictates expedited.

  He put the third horse he'd run into the ground to get here into the stall he'd chosen for it when the groom had cleared and cleaned it, then headed for the rear stairs to the inn.

  He heard no sound out of the ordinary in the summer night: laughter wafting on a southwest breeze from Peace Falls; horses behind in the stables and before on the street; the snap and hiss of oil-soaked torches. He took the back stairs two at a time despite the deep and dancing shadows: a few minutes in his room and he'd be ready to see what Commerce Avenue had to offer. Just a quick prayer to his god, some security precautions… it wouldn't take long.

  Halfway up the creaking staircase, he thought he heard a sliding foot, leather scraping on wood. He stopped. He turned full around. He saw the stables, the head groom, horseboys. Nothing more. He wiped his hands on his thighs. Why was he so nervous?

  Turning back to vault the last few steps and begin his quest, Belize felt a sharp sting at his throat. He slapped the spot. There was a marsh nearby, but mosquitoes didn't usually… His palm felt the little dart even as he slapped it more deeply into his throat so that its point pierced a nerve. He halted as he pulled the barb loose, thinking about the scuffling footstep he had heard. Then his eyes began to tear and a burning sensation spread out from his throat to reach up into his brain and down toward his heart. As he grabbed onto the
railing for support, sensation left his extremities and his tongue felt as if it had swollen to thrice normal size and was suffocating him.

  He didn't feel the impact as he fell to his knees on the board stairs. He was a western-trained fighter; the mind-over-body discipline he'd relied upon for years to prevail against his enemies and endure rigors most men could not survive allowed him what he craved most then: a look at his assassin.

  What he saw, as his body fell forward like a sack of stones, was an urchin's face, grubby and beardless, with hair like straw and huge eyes that seemed colorless in the torch light. He felt himself being turned, soon enough, but by then the fire in his blood was consuming him entirely and there was a light far up in the night sky which he must follow. He felt the young mugger's fingers searching out his purse and his wallet, and even the belt at his waist in which was secreted… something… something he'd been at pains to protect. Anger pushed back death's croon for a moment. Then it could not.

  * * *

  The body still lay as it had been found, askew on the Dark Horse's back steps, when Randal the Hazard-class mage arrived on the scene, the iron grip of the Stepson, Straton—who'd come banging on the mageguild gates, disturbing half-cast spells with this unwelcome summons—clamped numbingly upon his arm.

  Around the corpse was an efficient cordon of uniformed specials, keeping back the idly curious stablehands and a few patrons. On the staircase itself, crouched over the body in a pool of torch light, were two of the most shadowy—and deadly— personages in Tyse: the specials' commander, Grillo, chief of operations in Rankan-occupied Tyse and the entire northern theatre, a black marketeer of renown; and Critias, the Stepsons' task force leader and second in command of that private army of Sacred Band pairs and mercenaries which the Riddler, called Tempus, had brought north from Sanctuary to the front a few months back in search of "honor and glory," as well as riches and territory, in the ongoing war with the Mygdonian Alliance.

  They'd gained some of each. Randal ought to know. Randal had fought in the war to drive the rival Nisibisi mages off Wizardwall and make all Nisibisis free. Thus he'd come to know these men, whom no safety-conscious, self-respecting mage of the Tysian guild should be seen consorting with, and become embroiled in their affairs of war and death. It hadn't been Randal's idea: it had been fate; the intervention of Aškelon, the lord of dreams; and the urging of his own venerable First Hazard, which had made Randal the favorite sorcerer of the armies. The Tysian First Hazard had jumped at the opportunity to make a pact with the Stepsons' commander, the virtually immortal and redundantly bloody Riddler, Tempus, who had been an enemy of the black artists for better than three centuries—ever since an archmage had laid upon him a far-reaching and horrendous curse. Randal's mentor, First Hazard of the Tysian mageguild and nameless, as were all top-echelon wizards, had "offered" Randal the "honor" in a way Randal couldn't refuse: Randal had been a junior Hazard for two years longer than was appropriate for further advancement; it had been his last chance to revitalize his ascent through the ranks of magic. Perhaps, the ancient archmage had prognosticated with glittering eyes, Randal would acquire attributes sufficient to outweigh the debit of his allergies —Randal was allergic to furry animals, especially when he became one. And the First Hazard had been proved right; Randal gained sorcerous spoils in the razing of the Nisibisi wizards' high keeps. He'd acquired a globe of power. He was now a fledgling adept, a Hazard of the seventh level, a person of power.

  But Randal now had a curse of his own to contend with: the murderous crew of fighters called Stepsons considered him one of their number; the scrofulous Sacred Band pairs counted him as a brother. Whenever their superstitious fear of wizardry was overcome by the reality of need, it was Randal they called upon to banish impotence or make a lame horse sound or grant them luck in gaming. And this was happening more and more frequently, as it became clear to the followers of the Rankan war god that their deity was not answering their prayers. It was said that Vashanka, one of the primary gods of the armies, was plane-locked, bound away from his followers by magic—or dead. It was also said that this disappearance or neutralization of the Rankan state-cult's Storm God portended the fall of the Rankan Empire.

  As the unyielding hand on his arm steered him through the nearly silent crowd of well-disciplined specials and nervous horseboys toward Critias and Grillo and some poor dead fool who was as likely a victim of mundane greed as of anything more interesting, Critias sighted them, touched Grille's arm, and left the corpse, heading their way. Grillo's handsome Rankan head came up and, as his gaze fixed on Randal and his escort, Randal tried to shake his arm free. "Enough, Strat! Unless you want to lose every hair on your head, let me go."

  "Can't have you disappearing, can we?" Straton's grip didn't ease. Strat was Critias's partner, bound to the task force leader in some infernal degree of relationship the intimacy of which varied. Sacred Band pairs swore to fight together, shoulder to shoulder, to die together (if need be) while defending some elusive overdevelopment of honor only they understood. From a core of ten Sacred Band pairs, Tempus had created the shock troop squadron called Stepsons, augmenting the pairs with distinguished single mercenaries from a score of nations. Within the elite unit, differences existed— one could be a Stepson without being a paired Sacred Bander—but all Stepsons were committed to carrying on the nearly mythical tradition of peerless ferocity begun by the original Sacred Band under the leadership of Abarsis, the Slaughter Priest, of which many of the pairs had been members.

  And of which, due to circumstances and politics, Randal was now considered a member, though he was celibate by choice and nonviolent by nature, though his "partner," one Nikodemos, had withdrawn from Tyse and the Outbridge barracks/estate and the much-vaunted camaraderie of the Sacred Band to a western sanctuary far, far away. Broken pairs, however, were common. Once a Sacred Bander, always one, went the saying.

  "Listen here, Straton. For appearances' sake, let me go!" Randal wished he could do half the magic that the superstitious Stepson thought he could— disappear out of the iron grip which held him without taking Straton with him; make Straton's hand go numb… something, anything short of turning himself into an animal form. But since it was that or nothing, he forbore a shape change, wishing, not for the first time, that the globe of power he'd earned on Wizardwall was small enough to carry around with him or simple enough to employ that by now he'd have mastered its use. But it wasn't either, so his threats were empty. And if they hadn't been, Critias's taciturn right-side partner was no man to curse unless one was cursing to kill.

  "Life to you, Randal," Critias said formally as he joined them. "How are you faring?"

  "My arm hurts." Randal stared steadily into the eyes of Tempus's task force leader and saw them crinkle with amusement.

  Critias had a very cynical smile. "Strat, I think our friend can stand on his own two feet."

  Randal knew that Critias didn't like him or approve of his induction into the Stepsons. Suddenly, his resentment faded and he realized that Critias must have had a very good reason to send for him. But Straton was already detailing Randal's reluctance, his voice very low and very angry. "… had to wait in that godless hellhole and 'state my business; to one mincing mageling after another. Half of 'em need training bras. And when this… Stepson finally deigned to give me a humping audience, he's asking me why and what for, with the gods know how many witchy ears as big as his pressed to the damn walls. By the gods, Crit, he'd not have his pink-and-lacy suite in the left wing of that Fun House if not for us, and he's giving me an argument—or the balls to tell me he's too busy, there's spells need casting, and—"

  "All right, Strat. All right."

  "Not all right. What do we need him for, Crit? What do we put up with him for?"

  Randal didn't like the way the conversation was going, or being spoken of as if he weren't present. And nobody argued with Critias. Even Tempus was very careful to explain matters to the task force leader… He thought he'd better try it:
"Critias, I'm sorry. You caught me at a bad time."

  Straton snorted.

  Critias said, "Strat, take a look at this. It's the murder weapon." He held out a little dart in the palm of his hand.

  Randal, shorter than the other two, craned his neck to get a better look.

  Straton took it, held it up to the light, squinting, then put it to the tip of his tongue.

  "Straton!" Randal objected. "It's obviously poisoned."

  "Not as dumb as he looks," Strat marveled. "I'll take it around to some of the snake milkers. It's not arsenic or cyanide—tastes too sweet. Want me to go now?"

  "If you would. I'll be here until high moon, anyway. Then I'm going over to the farm. If the Riddler's not at Brother Bomba's, he'll be there. I sent somebody over to see if he was with Madame Bomba, but maybe you'll drop by to double check." Though Critias answered Strat quietly, his gaze never left Randal's face.

  "Pleasure. Just answer me: What do we need him for?"

  Randal felt his neck grow hot, the flush crawl up his cheeks.

  "Read the dead. You can do that, can't you, Randal? Tell us what his thoughts were? Maybe what he saw, who put him down?"

  Strat grunted. Randal temporized; the big officer, about to leave, clapped a bearlike hand on his shoulder. "Do a good job, mageling. Prove you're worth the trouble I went through to get you here." And then Strat was gone, more quietly and quickly than Randal would have thought he could move.

  "He's not at ease with this," Critias said softly. "Neither am I. But I didn't have to go into the mageguild, so I'm not angry. Don't pull this sort of thing again, Randal. You're a Stepson; you come when you're called. You don't ask questions unless they're strategic, and then not until you're given leave. Come on."

  Randal found himself trotting along beside Critias. "That's what I want to talk to you about. I'm not at all happy with this arrangement—"