Part 9 (1/2)

'Maybe your present palate is at fault, sir,' Cappen suggested. He did not add that the tongue definitely had a bad case of logorrhea. It was an almost physical torture to sit stalled, but he had better humour the mage.

'Yes, quite probably. Nothing has tasted good since - Well. To business. On hearing that One-Thumb was inquiring about last night's incident, I sent forth certain investigators of my own. You will understand that I've been trying to find out as much as I can.' Enas Yorl drew a sign in the air. 'Purely precautionary. I have no desire whatsoever to cross the Powers concerned in this.'

A wintry tingle went through Cappen. 'You know who they are, what it's about?'

His tone wavered.

Enas Yorl wagged a finger. 'Not so hasty, boy, not so hasty. My latest information was of a seemingly unsuccessful interview you had with Illyra the seeress. I also learned you were now in this hostel and close to its landlord.

Obviously you are involved. I must know why, how, how much - everything.'

'Then you'll help - sir?'

A headshake made chin and jowls wobble. 'Absolutely not. I told you I want no part of this. But in exchange for whatever data you possess, I am willing to explicate as far as I am able, and to advise you. Be warned: my advice will doubtless be that you drop the matter and perhaps leave town.'

And doubtless he would be right, Cappen thought. It simply happened to be counsel that was impossible for a lover to follow ... unless - 0 kindly G.o.ds of Caronne, no, no! - unless Danlis was dead.

The whole story spilled out of him, quickened and deepened by keen questions. At the end, he sat breathless while Enas Yorl nodded.

'Yes, that appears to confirm what I suspected,' the mage said most softly. He stared past the minstrel, into shadows that loomed and flickered. Buzz of talk, clink of drinking ware, occasional gust of laughter among customers seemed remoter than the moon.

'What was it?' broke from Cappen.

'A sikkintair, a Flying Knife. It can have been nothing else.'

'A-what?' - Enas focused on his companion. 'The monster that took the women,' he explained.

'Sikkintairs are an attribute of Ils. A pair of sculptures on the grand stairway of his temple represent them.'

'Oh, yes, I've seen those, but never thought -'

'No, you're not a votary of any G.o.ds they have here. Myself, when I got word of the abduction, I sent my familiars scuttling about and cast spells of inquiry. I received indications ... I can't describe them to you, who lack arcane lore. I established that the very fabric of s.p.a.ce had been troubled. Vibrations had not quite damped out as yet, and were centred on the temple of Ils. You may, if you wish a crude a.n.a.logy, visualize a water surface and the waves, fading to ripples and finally to naught, when a diver has pa.s.sed through.'

Enas Yorl drank more in a gulp than was his wont. 'Civilization was old in Ilsig when Ranke was still a barbarian village,' he said, as though to himself; his gaze had drifted away again, towards darkness. 'Its myths depicted the home of the G.o.ds as being outside the world - not above, not below, but outside.

Philosophers of a later, more rationalistic era elaborated this into a theory of parallel universes. My own researches - you will understand that my condition has made me especially interested in the theory of dimensions, the subtler aspects of geometry - my own researches have demonstrated the .possibility of transference between these different s.p.a.ces.

'As another a.n.a.logy, consider a pack of cards. One is inhabited by a king, one by a knight, one by a deuce, et cetera. Ordinarily none of the figures can leave the plane on which it exists. If, however, a very thin piece of absorbent material soaked in a unique kind of solvent were laid between two cards, the dyes that form them could pa.s.s through: retaining their configuration, I trust.

Actually, of course, this is a less than ideal comparison, for the transference is accomplished through a particular contortion of the continuum -'

Cappen could endure no more pedantry. He crashed his tankard down on the table and shouted, 'By all the h.e.l.ls of all the cults, will you get to the point?'

Men stared from adjacent seats, decided no fight was about to erupt, and went back to their interests. These included negotiations with street-walkers who, lanterns in hand, had come in looking for trade.

Enas Yorl smiled. 'I forgive your outburst, under the circ.u.mstances,' he said.

'I too am occasionally young.

'Very well. Given the foregoing data, including yours, the infrastructure of events seems reasonably evident. You are aware of the conflict over a proposed new temple, which is to outdo that of Ils and s.h.i.+pri. I do not maintain that the G.o.d has taken a direct hand. I certainly hope he feels that would be beneath his dignity; a theomachy would not be good for us, to understate the case a trifle. But he may have inspired a few of his more fanatical priests to action. He may have revealed to them, in dreams or vision, the means whereby they could cross to the next world and there make the sikkintairs do their bidding. I hypothesize that the Lady Rosanda - and, to be sure, her coadjutrix, your inamorata - are incarcerated in that world. The temple is too full of priests, deacons, acolytes, and lay people for hiding the wife of a magnate. However, the gate need not be recognizable as such.'

Cappen controlled himself with an inward shudder and made his trained voice casual: 'What might it look like, sir?'

'Oh, probably a scroll, taken from a coffer where it had long lain forgotten, and now unrolled - yes, I should think in the sanctum, to draw power from the sacred objects and to be seen by as few persons as possible who are not in the conspiracy -' Enas Yorl came out of his abstraction. 'Beware! I deduce your thought. Choke it before it kills you.'

Cappen ran sandy tongue over leathery lips. 'What ... should we ... expect to happen, sir?'

'That is an interesting question,' Enas Yorl said. 'I can but conjecture. Yet I am well acquainted with the temple hierarchy and - I don't think the Archpriest is privy to the matter. He's too aged and weak. On the other hand, this is quite in the style of Hazroah, the High Flamen. Moreover, of late he has in effect taken over the governance of the temple from his nominal superior. He's bold, ruthless - should have been a soldier - Well, putting myself in his skin, I'll predict that he'll let Molin stew a while, then cautiously open negotiations - a hint at first, and always a claim that this is the will of Ils.

'None but the Emperor can cancel an undertaking for the Imperial deities.

Persuading him will take much time and pressure. Molin is a Rankan aristocrat of the old school; he will be torn between his duty to his G.o.ds, his state, and his wife. But I suspect that eventually he can be worn down to the point where he agrees that it is, in truth, bad policy to exalt Savankala and Sabellia in a city whose tutelaries they have never been. He in his turn can influence the Emperor as desired.'

'How long would this take, do you think?' Cappen whispered. 'Till the women are released?'

Enas Yorl shrugged. 'Years, possibly. Hazroah may try to hasten the process by demonstrating that the Lady Rosanda is subject to punishment. Yes, I should imagine that the remains of an ancilla who had been tortured to death, delivered on Molin's doorstep, would be a rather strong argument.'

His look grew intense on the appalled countenance across from him. 'I know,' he said. 'You're breeding fever-dreams of a heroic rescue. It cannot be done. Even supposing that somehow you won through the gate and brought her back, the gate would remain. I doubt Ils would personally seek revenge; besides being petty, that could provoke open strife with Savankala and his retinue, who're formidable characters themselves. But Ils would not stay the hand of the Flamen Hazroah, who is a most vengeful sort. If you escaped his a.s.sa.s.sins, a sikkintair would come after you, and nowhere in the world could you and she hide. Your talisman would be of no avail. The sikkintair is not supernatural, unless you give that designation to the force which enables so huge a ma.s.s to fly; and it is from no magician, but from the G.o.d.

'So forget the girl. The town is full of them.' He fished in his purse and spilled a handful of coins on the table. 'Go to a good wh.o.r.ehouse, enjoy yourself, and raise one for poor old Enas Yorl.'

He got up and waddled off, Cappen sat staring at the coins. They made a generous sum, he realized vaguely: silver lunars, to the number of thirty.

One-Thumb came over. 'What'd he say?' the taverner asked.

'I should abandon hope,' Cappen muttered. His eyes stung; his vision blurred.

Angrily, he wiped them.

'I've a notion I might not be smart to hear more.' One-Thumb laid his mutilated hand on Cappen's shoulder. 'Care to get drunk? On the house. I'll have to take your money or the rest will want free booze too, but I'll return it tomorrow.'

'No, I - I thank you, but - but you're busy, and I need someone I can talk to.

Just lend me a lantern, if you will.'

'That might attract a robber, fellow, what with those fine clothes of yours.'

Cappen gripped swordhilt. 'He'd be very welcome, the short while he lasted,' he said in bitterness.

He climbed to his feet. His fingers remembered to gather the coins.

Jamie let him in. The Northerner had hastily thrown a robe over his ma.s.sive frame; he carried the stone lamp that was a night light. 'Sh,' he said. 'The la.s.sies are asleep.' He nodded towards a closed door at the far end of this main room. Bringing the lamp higher, he got a clear view of Cappen's face. His own registered shock. 'Hey-o, lad, what ails you? I've seen men pole-axed who looked happier.'

Cappen stumbled across the threshold and collapsed in an armchair. Jamie barred the outer door, touched a stick of punk to the lamp flame and lit candles, filled wine goblets. Drawing a seat opposite, he sat down, laid red-furred right shank across left knee, and said gently, 'Tell me.'

When it had spilled from Cappen, he was a long span quiet. On the walls s.h.i.+mmered his weapons, among pretty pictures that his housemates had selected.

At last he asked low, 'Have you quit?'

'I don't know, I don't know,' Cappen groaned.