The Hammer and the Blade

CHAPTER SIX

Nix came to moments or hours later, his head covered in a sack of burlap. He was dizzy from the beating he'd taken, and the sack cocooned him with the sour, fetid stink of his own breath. He feared he might puke and make things worse.

Two men held him by his biceps, wrenching his shoulders as they dragged him. His hands were bound behind his back, going numb from blood deprivation. He was also bound at the ankles and his feet slid limply along the paving stones. The men bearing him grunted with the exertion.

He presumed he had been disarmed, though he could not verify it.

Was he still in the Tunnel? Maybe on the street outside?

"Quickly now," one of the men bearing him said, and Nix recognized the voice of Beard. "Get them in and get them gone."

It occurred to him that he might still be shrunken. If so, when the magic of the wand wore off, he'd return to normal size and the bindings on his wrists and ankles would cut into him. He'd be maimed or worse.

The thought of losing his hands quickened his heart. Nix the Cripple didn't sound half as appealing as Nix the Quick. He was about to confess that he was awake when the other man spoke and did him a favor.

"Whoreson couldn't do us the courtesy of staying shrunk, eh?"

Nix exhaled a stinking, relieved breath and offered a silent thanks to Aster, who watched over scoundrels.

"Just get them out of here," Beard said. "They're asking a lot of questions inside the tavern."

Inside the tavern. Then he was just outside the Tunnel. He considered raising a ruckus, but didn't see the point. It would only earn him another blow to the head. And no one in the Tunnel could help him. He and Egil had been arrested under the authority of the Lord Mayor, at least ostensibly. Whores, madams, and a barely literate tapkeep wouldn't know it was a sham, and even if they did, they wouldn't risk trouble with the city authorities. Nix couldn't blame them.

Not an hour ago, Nix had entertained thoughts of crawling into bed with Kiir, of sleeping with his arms around Tesha.

So much for either of those.

He really didn't understand why everyone thought him lucky.

"One, two, three," one of the men said, and his captors tossed him face first into the back of straw-lined wagon. His jaw hit the boards and the impact caused him to bite his tongue. He gritted his teeth against the flash of pain, swallowed the blood, and held his silence.

The straw smelled of goat and dung. His tongue throbbed, and his shoulders, head, and jaw all ached, but he feigned unconsciousness until the men moved off. He heard them talking some distance away from the cart, but the sack and the beat of his heart in his head allowed him to make out only useless bits of the conversation.

Tentatively, he tried the knots on his wrist — tight, skillfully tied. He could work himself free given enough time, even with his hands mostly numb, but he had no idea how much time he had or whether anyone was watching him.

"Is that you?" said Egil in a low tone.

"Aye," Nix answered softly.

"You and your damned gewgaws," Egil grumbled.

"Even bound you can't resist a jab."

"Apologies," Egil whispered. "We're not shrunk anymore."

"I know. You all right?"

"Not especially," Egil said, and shifted his weight. "I'm bloodied, hooded, and trussed like a roasting pig."

"Me, too," Nix said.

"We're outside the Tunnel still," Egil said. "I heard them talking."

The voices of the men grew louder, so Egil and he lapsed into silence. Nix heard a few farewells, and the wagon dipped as two or three men climbed aboard the driver's bench.

A moment later and the wagon started to move, the wheels slicing quietly through the mud of the road, the men in the front cursing at the horses and each other. Nix thought he made Beard's voice among them, and maybe the pockmarked hiresword.

Nix still couldn't understand how the hiresword fit in with the four watchmen. They must have been in it together from the outset, the events of the night one big setup.

But why?

"What's going on?" Egil whispered.

"Dunno, and don't care to find out," Nix answered. "Back to back. I undo."

"Right."

Making as though the rough ride were causing him to slide toward Egil, Nix rolled onto his side and scooted back until he could reach Egil's bonds. His blood-deprived hands, the bumpy ride, and his own bonds made things difficult, but he got his fingers on Egil's bindings and checked the knot by feel — a foursquare — and started to undo it.

"Quickly," Egil hissed.

"You sure?" Nix said over his shoulder. "Because I thought I'd go slow."

"Just do it."

Nix got half the knot undone and Egil tried to pull it loose the rest of the way, fouling Nix's progress.

"Stop!" Nix hissed. "Your movement'll retighten them."

"Hey!" shouted a voice from the front of the wagon — the hiresword for certain. "They're trying to slip the ropes!"

Reins jangled, horses neighed, and the wagon stopped abruptly.

"Stop!" said Beard, and the wagon bobbed as men debarked.

"Come on!" Egil said. "Move!"

"Not helping."

Another of the knot's squares loosened.

"Stop!" Beard again.

"You… already… said… that," Nix said.

A thump against the side of the wagon, a curse as someone tried to climb the side and slipped off into the road. Hurried boot steps on the cobbles, coming around the back of the wagon.

"That's it!" Nix said, feeling the last of Egil's knot give way. "Go!"

Frantic motion beside him, Egil lurching up. The priest shouted a challenge and Nix imagined Egil pulling off his hood, lashing out with his fists.

"Four of them, Nix," Egil shouted, then grunted as a punch or truncheon struck him. "Whoreson!"

Another blow landed, the dull thud of wood on flesh. Another grunt of pain from Egil. Nix worried at his own knots, but was making too little progress. He cursed as more blows slammed into Egil. More grunts from the priest, a few more curses, and then it was over. Egil fell heavily back, groaning.

"Fakking bungholes!" Nix said. "My blade's soon to make a home between your ribs!"

"Can I shut him up?" the hiresword said.

"Aye," said Beard. "Knock him out and be sure of it this time."

"Right," said the hiresword.

There was a dull thunk, another groan, and Egil went still beside him.

"Shit," Nix cursed.

"Didn't have to go this way," Beard said. "All you had to do was sit still."

"Fak you," Nix said, and braced himself.

The blow to his head still summoned a grunt of pain. He saw sparks, lovely fireworks like those the cults fired from the Archbridge. They lasted only a moment, then he saw nothing at all.

Nix came to with a groan, someone shaking him hard by the shoulders. His head was still covered in the damned sack, but he wasn't in the cart anymore. Instead he sat on cold earth, the damp seeping through his trousers. He caught a whiff of fish and sewage.

That put them near the Meander, probably in the Docks.

How long had he been out this time?

"Up!" said Beard, still shaking him. "Up, man!"

The shaking made Nix's head pound. He nearly blacked out again.

"Wake up, Nix Fall," Beard said again, shaking even harder. "You're soon to be in the presence of your betters."

"That ain't saying much," Nix managed. His mouth sounded like it was filled with cloth.

"Still with the smart mouth," Beard said. He shook him again, but a bit more gently.

"Enough, man! I'm awake." Nix tried to push him away but his hands were still bound. His head started to clear a bit. "Where's Egil? Egil!"

"Here," Egil answered, from Nix's left.

Nix did not bother a go at the bonds. He'd never slip them quickly enough, and he had no desire to take another blow to the head. He resigned himself to the mercy of his captors, taking solace in the fact that if they'd wanted him dead, he'd already be dead.

Unless, of course, he'd done something to earn himself a slow, painful death.

Had he?

He didn't remember anything, but he'd had a fair number of nights recently with which his memory had only distant relations.

"Egil, we should drink less," he said.

"Bah. We should fight better. Or use fewer damned gewgaws."

"Fair point," Nix said. He turned his bagged head in the direction he'd last heard Beard speak. "So, listen, if this is about that job you mentioned back in the Tunnel, we've had some time to reconsider…"

Dark chuckles from before him and behind, at least four men, all of them within a few paces. No doubt several more were within earshot, as they had been back at the tavern.

"Gods, man," Beard said. "Do you ever stop blathering?"

"He fancies himself a wit," said the hiresword. "Never knowing his mouth is full of shite."

"I thought you said I was in the presence of my betters?" Nix said, blinking at a particularly painful ache behind his eye. "That hiresword with the eyeshine is two steps below the hindquarters of a horse. Hey, tell 'em how you got that eyeshine, Hindquarters."

"You shut your hole," said the hiresword, and Nix heard him take a step toward him.

"That's enough," said Beard, though Nix wasn't sure if he was talking to him or the hiresword.

"Is that the Hindquarters I backhanded at the Tunnel?" Egil said, joining in. "I didn't recall his voice being so girlish."

Nix chuckled, though it made his head ache worse.

"Fak you both," the hiresword said sharply.

"It is girlish," said Nix. "I hadn't noticed before. I suspect he was stabbed in the genitals at some point. Or perhaps was born without balls. Which is it, Hindquarters? We're all aflutter with curiosity."

A sudden cuff to the side of the head caused Nix to see sparks. He fell to his side and balled up on the floor, expecting another beat down. Hands seized him by the shirt and jerked him off the ground.

"I said that's enough," Beard said. "Enough, Jyme. And you, Nix Fall, you shut your godsdamned mouth. It runs like it has the fakkin' trots."

Jyme ignored Beard and pulled Nix close. "Let me tell you something, Nix the Lucky. I knew these mates here from way back, when I was still watch. I saw them coming into the tavern while your big friend was showing me out."

"Tossing you out, you mean," Nix said. "And I'm surprised you could see anything through that eyeshine."

Egil chuckled. "Went down as easy as a child."

"Fak you, priest!" Jyme said. Then, to Nix, "I waited outside to get at you two, see? But then these mates came out and Baras told me they was looking to nab you two. Well, I signed up then and there for that."

Now Nix had a name for Beard — Baras.

Jyme gave Nix a rough shake. "And it was just happenstance, see? Just the gods smiling on yours truly." He cast Nix back to the ground. "So who's got the luck now, Nix? Who's got it?"

Nix sat up and his mouth kept going, as if of its own accord. "I didn't hear a word you said, distracted as I was by your breath, which, even through this sack, has stink enough to rouse the dead. You mind starting over back at the beginning?"

Jyme growled and Nix steeled himself for another blow.

"Jyme!" said Baras. "That's it. It's done. You're here on my word. You needed a job and now you have one. But you act professional, just as you did when you was watch. That, or you're out."

"If you're watch," Egil said, "then you're also liars. You denied as much back at the Tunnel."

"You mind your tongue, priest," Baras snapped. "Call me a liar again and I may let Jyme have his way."

"What's he going to do, kiss me?" Egil said. "You want to kiss me, Hindquarters?"

"Fak you," Jyme said.

"Your mouth keeps tolling the same time, Jyme. Fak you. Fak you. That's all it says. Are you mentally deficient?"

"Fak you! Er… Fak! Damn you!"

Nix chuckled.

"We're not watch," said Baras.

"Then what in the Eleven Pits is this about?" Egil said.

"Soon enough and you'll know," answered Baras.

"Not even a hint?" Nix prodded. "Come on. A small one? Let's make a game of it. Maybe sing a song, too."

"Shut up!" said Baras, flustered.

Moments later, Nix heard murmured voices, as if from outside a building. A bolt slid through its housing and a door creaked open. A gust of wind hit him, ripe with the odor of the river. He heard a nightgull call and thought instantly of the Heap and Mamabird. He decided that it wouldn't do for him to die with a bag over his head.

"My lord," Baras said, and Nix heard smart motion from the other men in the room, as if they were saluting.

"Baras," said a resonant male voice. Nix did not recognize it. "Who is this?"

"I'm Nix-" Nix said.

"Not you, fool," said the man.

"His name is Jyme, my lord," Baras said. "He served with me once, long ago. He was useful to us in our mission tonight. He needs employ."

"Useful how?"

"In capturing these two, my lord. He has no love for them and he's a good man."

"Agree with the former but disagree with that last," Nix said, but no one acknowledged him.

"And these are Egil of Ebenor and Nix Fall?" the man asked.

"They are, my lord," Baras answered.

"Nix is the mouthy one?"

"Aye. Mouthy like few others I've ever heard."

Nix heard the approaching tread of soft shoes. They stopped before him.

"I didn't want things to go this way," the man said. "But you left me with little choice."

Nix knew lies when he heard them. Whoever he was, the man had very much wanted things to go exactly as they had.

"What is it you want?" Nix said. He felt ridiculous speaking through a bag, looking up from the ground.

The man paced before him. "Right now, I just want you to listen. Will you do that?"

"I've been known to listen from time to time. Egil?"

"Speak, man," said the priest. "I can barely feel my hands. And this bag smells like shite."

The man affected a heavy sigh that sounded as false to Nix as a wizard's promises.

"Hear, then. I have two sisters, both young, lovely girls. They're all that's left of my family. And both of them are very sick. I need your help to heal them."

"Lovely, you say?" Nix said.

"Dog," spat Baras.

"We're not healers," Egil said. "Talk to the priestesses of Orella."

"Or maybe we can offer healing," Nix said slyly. "But only if you take off-"

"Spare me such nonsense," the voice said, taking on a sharp edge before going dull once more on false sincerity. "I know quite well what you are. You're mere thieves and robbers."

Nix tried not to feel offended by the "mere."

"My sisters' sickness isn't of this world. They're cursed and it's the curse that caused me to seek you out."

"We're not wizards, either," Egil said.

"No doubt," the man said. "Further, the curse makes them… dangerous, to themselves and others."

Mention of a curse and danger piqued Nix's natural curiosity about things magical. "How'd they come to be cursed?"

Once more the sharp edge to the voice, and louder this time. Nix imagined the man standing directly over him, staring down daggers.

" How, you ask? You? Here is how: the actions of ignorant miscreants caused it. Their mess is now mine to clean."

"I have a fondness for miscreants generally," Nix said with a shrug. "Not so much for messes."

"Nix…" Egil cautioned.

"I told you, my lord," Baras said. "He never stops."

The man continued: "You may find that your fondness for low things one day puts you on the wrong end of blade or spell."

"Aye, that," Nix conceded with a tilt of his head. "Happens oft enough already. This very moment, for example."

"That's truth," Egil said.

The man inhaled deeply, as if calming himself. "The curse must be lifted before Minnear is full."

"That's not long," Nix said. "Or?"

"Or… my sisters will die."

"A sad, sad tale," Nix said. "Well, a sincere wish of good luck to you and them. There's nothing we can-"

A cuff to Nix's head from one of the guards quieted him. Probably came from Baras. Not hard enough to have been Jyme's hand.

"Even when your life hangs by a hair you jest and make light?" the man said.

"Habit," Nix explained. "One bad one of many, I admit."

"Your purpose remains unclean," Egil said. "What help can we be to your sisters? And why would we offer any, given the lumps on my skull and the bag over my head?"

"I can only lift the curse if I possess a certain item, a magical horn."

"A gewgaw," Egil sniffed.

"What horn?" Nix asked. "How can a horn lift a curse?"

The man ignored Nix's question. "My research reveals that the horn can be found in the tomb of Abn Thuset."

"Research?" Egil asked. "What are you? A sage?"

"Oh, I see now," Nix said. "You need tomb robbers to procure this horn for you." Nix shifted on his backside, feeling more in control of matters. "Abn Thuset was, of course, one of the greatest wizard-kings of ancient Afirion. But his tomb is lost to history and sand. Many have sought it, but no one knows where it is. Unless…"

"I know where it is," the man said.

"Unless that," Nix said, though he was still skeptical. "How do you know you've found it?"

"And if you have, then go get this horn for yourself," Egil said. "As I said to your man back at the Tunnel, we're not hirelings."

"I'm not offering you employment," the man said, his tone cool. "I could, however, order you to do it."

"Order us?" Egil said with a chuckle. "And just who in the Pits are you to order us?"

A long pause, then a hand seized the burlap sack around Nix's head and tore it off, taking a few hairs with it. Nix blinked in the lantern light. Jyme held the bag and leered at him, all pockmarks, bad breath, and poorly groomed facial hair.

"Bottom rung on top now, eh?" Jyme said.

"Maybe for now," Nix answered.

They were in a dirt-floored warehouse filled with barrels, amphorae, sacks, and crates. A block and tackle, and a net for loading transport carts hung from the ceiling. Nix looked for any trading coster marks, but saw none. It was probably a rented warehouse used to move illicit goods.

Egil was on the ground near Nix, and Baras pulled the bag from his head. Like Nix, the priest blinked in the lantern light. Nix eyed the man who'd been speaking, the man who purported to have authority to issue them orders.

He wore a tailored shirt of silk and trousers of velvet, with a high-collared fur-ruffed wool cape thrown over the whole. A thin sword — a nobleman's blade, not a warrior's — hung from a wide belt with a silver buckle. His narrow face, combined with his sharp nose and the widely spaced, deep-set eyes, gave him a reptilian cast. His short brown hair had a part in it as sharp and straight as a plumb line. Dark circles stained the skin under his bloodshot eyes. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.

"You're the Lord Mayor's sorcerer," Nix said, recognizing the man's face. He searched his mind for a name, couldn't quite find it.

"I'm the Lord Mayor's Adjunct," the man corrected, and then Nix had the name.

"Rakon Norristru."

Rakon held the ivory and pearl wand Nix had taken from the tomb of Abn Thahl, the wand with which he'd accidentally shrunk himself and Egil.

Seeing it, Nix winced with embarrassment. Rakon pointed the wand at Nix.

"My men say you know a bit about sorcery. History, too, I gather, from your knowledge of Abn Thuset."

"I had a year at the Conclave."

Rakon's thin eyebrows went up. "Really? And how might you have afforded such an education?"

Nix did not bother with the sordid story that ended with him stealing an education from a dead man. "Well, that's a tale long in telling. I managed, let's say."

"Hmm. And you dropped out after a year?"

"No!" Nix said, trying to stand and nearly toppling himself sidewise in his irritation. "Dammit! Why does everyone assume I dropped out? I was expelled after a year. Expelled."

Rakon nodded, not really listening. He tapped the wand on his palm. His hands were small, the fingers long.

"Well, in that year you seem to have learned only enough to endanger yourself. I looked through your satchel. It's filled with magical trinkets you're probably too stupid or undereducated to use properly."

"Listen, if you're trying to charm me with kind words…" Nix said.

"A bag of gewgaws," Egil breathed contemptuously.

"Unhelpful," Nix snapped at him.

"Perhaps you should stick to plying the many blades my men removed from your person?" Rakon said.

"Perhaps," Nix grumbled. "I'd give much to have one in hand right now."

"I'd wager you would," Rakon said. He bent down and held the wand before Nix's eyes. He tapped the pearl tip on the end of Nix's nose. "You see that?"

Nix went cross-eyed. "Well, no, not really."

"That's an inversion notation, written in the Mages' Tongue. You missed it, I assume, unless you intended to shrink and weaken yourself and the priest?"

The guards chuckled.

"Probably you thought it would make you stronger, larger?"

Nix felt himself color. Egil had the good grace not to mock him.

"Leave off, Adjunct," Egil said.

" Lord Adjunct," Baras corrected.

"Adjunct is what he gets from me," Egil said again, and stuck out his jaw.

Rakon did not look at Egil. He stood up straight, looming over Nix. A dark look came into his reptilian eyes.

"The wand is Afirion, is it not? How did you come to possess it?"

"As you'd expect," Nix said.

"You stole it?"

"'Stole' is a strong word. We took it, and other things, from a tomb in Afirion."

"The tomb of Abn Thahl," Rakon said softly. His knuckles were white around the wand.

"Aye. How would you know that? Abn Thahl is an obscure, minor wizard-king of the nineteenth dynasty who ruled only three years."

"There are many things I know," Rakon said, his jaw clenching, as if he were biting down on more words he'd like to say. "Were there… guardians in the tomb?"

Nix had no idea where the questioning was going. He looked to Egil but the priest shrugged, his expression puzzled.

"Were there?" Rakon pressed.

"Answer him," Baras said.

"Of course there were. There always are with Afirion tombs. There were walking dead, deadfalls, an acid trap, a devil."

Some of the guards smirked with disbelief, others went wide-eyed.

Rakon kneeled, jabbed at Nix's cheek with the wand as if he would stab him through the eye with it. "Killed devils, have you? Have you?"

Nix leaned back, bewildered. Anger brewed behind Rakon's eyes, and Nix had no idea what had put it there. Whatever control he thought he'd had over the discussion had just been lost. At the moment Rakon looked capable of anything.

"I… don't know what to say."

He could not bring himself to call Rakon "my lord."

Rakon inhaled and stood. Staring down at Nix, he snapped the wand between his fingers. It died in a puff of smoke and green sparks.

"Say nothing, Nix Fall. I've heard all I need to hear. You two are the men I want for this task. So you're the men I'll have."

"Is that so?" Egil said, his tone threatening. "I guess we'll see about that."

"Egil…" Nix began.

"Oh, I know threats would be idle," Rakon said.

"Depends on the threat, I suppose," Nix said thoughtfully. "Egil is terrified of-"

"So I'll make none. But you'll do what I wish nevertheless. You know I'm the Lord Mayor's personal sorcerer, yes?"

Nix nodded.

Rakon smiled at him, took a step back, and looked to Baras. "The priest first. Then the talker."

"My lord," Baras said, and he, Jyme, and a third guard took station around Egil.

A vein rose in Egil's brow, thick and pulsing, but he did not gratify them with fear or a pointless struggle. Instead, he stared straight at Rakon, his eyes holding a promise of eventual violence, as he awaited whatever was coming.

"None of this is necessary," Nix said. "Whatever this is. You want our help. We'll give it. Egil, tell him you're reasonable."

Egil spit a glob of phlegm at Rakon's shoes.

"Among the hill people that's a sign of friendship," Nix tried.

"Shut up," Jyme said.

"This will be uncomfortable," Rakon said to Egil, and began a recitation in the Mages' Tongue, the language sharp-edged, ragged.

"Shite," Nix muttered, squirming against his bonds to no avail.

The magical words seemed to have a physical existence as they exited Rakon's mouth, the syllables pelting Nix like hail. He could not follow the incantation, could only blink against the growing magical energy. Even Rakon's guards — even Jyme — looked uneasy in the presence of the sorcery.

The energy in the room gradually intensified, manifesting as a distortion in the air that snaked behind the sorcerer's gesturing hands. When Nix finally recognized the nature of the spell, the hairs on his neck rose.

"There's no need for this," Nix said, struggling with his bonds to no avail. "Shite, shite."

"Nix?" Egil asked, looking at him sidelong.

"A compulsion," Nix said. "A spellworm."

Egil cursed, kicked at the guards around him with his bound legs. The men, cursing, pushed him flat onto his back.

Jyme secured his legs, Baras held him down at the shoulders, and the third guard lay across his chest. Rakon stepped over to Egil, still incanting, the energy trailing his gestures in a finger-thick rope of reified magic.

Nix shouted to Egil in Urgan, Egil's native tongue, the language of the hill folk of the north. He hoped no one else in the room understood him.

"Focus on Ebenor, Egil! Look to your faith! You have to preserve a piece of your will. Your life depends on it! Focus on Ebenor!"

The energy in Rakon's hands solidified into a wriggling worm of power. Still chanting, he took the worm in his hands and crouched over the prone priest.

Baras drew a dagger and stuck its tip into Egil's mouth, scraping teeth, forcing the priest's jaws apart. The moment it was open, Rakon loosed the spellworm headfirst into Egil's mouth.

The priest gagged as the worm wriggled down his throat. Egil thrashed his head from side to side, nicking his cheek on Baras's dagger, a froth of spit and blood foaming his mouth. The spellworm squirmed in further, finally disappeared down his throat.

Egil went still, his eyes wide. The men holding him looked at one another, nodded, and released him. Egil only lay flat on the ground, chest heaving, staring up at the rafters.

"Whoresons!" Nix said, straining against his bonds. "Fakking whoresons!"

Rakon turned to Nix, his expression fixed and hard.

"Get him ready," the lord Adjunct said, and began to incant anew.

Nix's mouth went dry; sweat poured down his back. The three guards left off Egil and seized Nix by the arms and around the legs. He could barely move. He might as well have been in a vise. Baras brought his dagger toward Nix's cheek.

"Not necessary," Nix said. "But I meant it sincerely when I called you whoresons."

"Let me," said Jyme, brandishing a dagger of his own.

"Shut up, Jyme," said Baras, then to Nix, "Sorry it went this way."

Rakon moved toward Nix, incanting, a second spellworm forming in the air between his gesturing hands.

Nix took a deep breath and ignored the chant and focused his mind inward. He had to preserve a mental refuge within himself, isolate a bit of him from the magic of the compulsion.

I am Nix Fall of Dur Follin, he told himself, attempting to counter Rakon's chant with a chant of his own. He pictured the Heap, the cawing gulls, the layer of shite. I am Nix Fall of Dur Follin. Nix Fall of Dur Follin.

The spellworm solidified in Rakon's hands.

Baras tapped Nix's cheek with his blade. "Make it easy, eh?"

Nix closed his eyes and opened his mouth.

The spellworm slipped into his mouth, as slick as a string of mucus. It slithered down his throat and wriggled into his guts. He gagged, spat, and heaved, but the worm went deeper, sinking into his guts and diffusing through his body, sorcerous tendrils wrapping themselves around his will, rooting in his mind. He resisted, teeth gritted, but still it expanded in him, trying to fill him up, conquer his mind.

I am Nix Fall of Dur Follin.

He thought of Mamabird, the smell of her onion stew. He thought of the mask he wore to cover the frightened boy at his core, the pith of him a secret even from Egil.

I'm Nix Fall of Dur Follin. Of Dur Follin.

The muscles in his body, head to toe, seized all at once. He bit his tongue again and blood filled his mouth. The men lowered him to the ground while spit and blood ran down his cheeks. He lay there, staring up at the ceiling, breathing, breathing, as sorcery stole his will.

Nix Fall of…

"Sit them up," Rakon said after a time, and rough hands sat Nix up. His head lolled on his neck, a marionette without strings. His eyes wouldn't focus. Rakon was a blur before him.

Nix Fall. Nix Fall.

It seemed insufficient. Rakon's spell bent him, twisted his will, made it the sorcerer's own, and when Rakon spoke, his voice, redolent with power, echoed in Nix's braincase like the words of a god.

"Nix Fall and Egil of Ebenor, you will travel with me and my men to the tomb of Abn Thuset, enter it when I say, take the Horn of Alyyk from within, return, and give it to me. Do you understand?"

The words pulled a response from Nix the way a fisherman pulled a hooked fish from the Meander. Egil echoed him.

"I understand."

Rakon crossed his arms over his chest, satisfied. "Bring them, Baras. We leave with the dawn."

"Yes, my lord," Baras said. "But…"

"But?"

"I think they may have helped without use of a spell. Is this the best way to secure their aid? I wonder if this was necessary."

Rakon stared at him. "You wonder, do you?"

Baras lowered his head. "I'm sorry, my lord."

"Do you think they wouldn't have run the moment opportunity presented itself?"

Baras looked from Nix to Egil, back to Rakon. "I… don't know. Probably."

"Almost certainly. Now that's no longer a risk. I can't take a chance with my sisters' lives, Baras. The compulsion is a distasteful necessity."

That convinced Baras. "Yes, my lord."

Jyme pulled Nix to his feet. Nix wobbled. Jyme's breath was hot against Nix's ear.

"Say again who's got the luck, now?"

Jyme's tone sounded far less prickish than his words. The sorcery had unnerved him, too.

Nix shook off Jyme's grip, stood on shaky legs, and adjusted his shirt. He licked his lips and said, "The spellworm in my gut doesn't stop me from sticking a blade in your belly, Jyme. You remember that when smart words knock against your crooked teeth, wanting out."

The words came out partly slurred, but he'd made his point.

Jyme frowned, swallowed, and backed off.

"Jyme, you will accompany us, of course," Rakon said. "To Afirion."

"What? Afirion? No, my lord. I just wanted to see these two get what they had coming. And even then I didn't know they'd get this or…"

He caught himself and stopped talking.

"Jyme, you will accompany us," Rakon said. "That's an order."

"My lord?"

"Whatever business you may have, it'll keep," Baras said.

"This wasn't the deal," Jyme said to Baras. "You didn't say anything about this."

"You didn't ask," Baras said with a shrug. "You wanted in. Now you're in."

"Or if that's not enough to convince you," Rakon said, "perhaps another compulsion is in order?"

Jyme held up his hands. "Not necessary, my lord. I'm happy to come to… Afirion. But I have no kit. I'd need-"

"We have everything you'll need. The supply wagon and carriage are already loaded. You're not to leave Baras's sight. If you attempt to, my men are authorized to use force. I am understood, I trust?"

Jyme swallowed his anger. He looked at Nix, back at Baras, to Rakon. "You are, my lord."

Rakon pointed at Egil and Nix. "The compulsion is a blade at your throat. Do other than I've instructed and it will kill you." He sneered at Nix. "But maybe you already knew that from your year at the Conclave?"

Egil swayed on his thick legs, his clenched fists held clumsily before his face. Even the eye of Ebenor on his head looked disconcerted. He spoke in a voice more slurred than Nix's.

"I'm going to kill you, all of you. I'm looking at dead men."

No sooner had he uttered the words than he puked all over the ground.

"Bring their weapons," Rakon said, eyeing the vomit with a pinched expression. "And the small one's bag of tricks. They'll need them when we reach the Wastes."

"The Wastes?" Nix said. "What?"

He must have misheard.

"Yes, my lord," Baras answered. "Awake or not?"

Rakon eyed Nix and Egil. "I don't care. Just don't kill them."

"Understood, my lord."

"Shite," Nix said, a moment before the painful blow of a sword pommel sent him once more into oblivion.