The Wizard's Fate

Chapter 2

Tol struggled with the buttons on the high collar of his tunic, his face reddening.

“I say it’s a trap,” Miya repeated. “I say go,” countered Kiya, normally the more cautious of the sisters. She helped Tol fit the broad belt around his waist, adding, “She’s rich, beautiful, and a woman of influence in this city. She probably wants to discuss business.”

Miya snorted, and the two sisters were off again. While they argued, they helped him struggle into less martial finery. Since he’d returned to the tent and told them about the invitation from Hanira, Kiya and Miya had disputed nonstop about whether he should go. Miya feared an assassination plot. To put a stop to her relentless urging, Tol had donned a light mail shirt under his tunic. It wouldn’t stop an arrow or sword, but it would turn aside a dagger thrust from close range.

Kiya dismissed her sister’s fears. Trained forest fighter that she was, she had a low opinion of city-bred women. They had nothing more in their heads than thoughts of clothes and pretty baubles. It was nothing but a flirtation.

Still, when Miya departed to call for Tol’s horse, Kiya said quickly, “You wear the amulet?”

Tol assured her he did. The Irda nullstone was sewn into the waistband of his smallclothes, so it would always be close.

As a youth, he’d come across an ancient, forgotten ruin at the headwaters of the Caer River. There he had found a small artifact. Strands of copper, silver and gold had been braided together to form a circlet, the free ends joined by a bead of copper. On the bead was etched a complex pattern of angular lines and curving whorls. A piece of dull black glass filled the center of the circlet. It was a pretty find and fit easily in the palm of Tol’s hand, so he’d kept it.

Later, he learned from the wizards of Daltigoth that his simple souvenir was in fact a millstone, an exceedingly rare relic of the lost Irda race. It had one unique ability: it absorbed all magical power it came in contact with.

Yoralyn, the elderly leader of the White Robes in Daltigoth, warned him there were people who would slaughter entire cities to possess such a powerful artifact, so he should destroy it. Unwilling to give it up, Tol did not heed her words. He did, however, keep the amulet a secret. Only Kiya knew he possessed it.

In spite of his dismissive attitude toward Miya’s worries, Tol recognized that he was indeed taking a chance. No Ergothian troops would enter Tarsis until tomorrow, when a small group would escort Lord Regobart to the City Assembly for the formal ceremony ending hostilities. Tol was placing himself alone in the midst of his former foes, but Hanira’s invitation was too intriguing to decline.

He declined the sisters’ offer to escort him. To those unfamiliar with his strapping hostage-wives, the notion of them acting as his personal escort while he visited the home of a beautiful woman would have seemed shocking.

“If Lady Hanira harms me, it would be a disaster for Tarsis,” Tol pointed out reasonably. “What she wants to see me for I don’t know, but I can’t believe this is merely a crude plot against my life.”

Brown eyes serious, Miya folded her arms and loosed a last volley of objections, including, “She’s too old for you.”

Tol ignored her as he buckled a sash to his belt and slipped his jeweled dagger, presented to him by Prince Amaltar years ago, into the silken sling. Miya seized him by the shoulders and spun him around to face her.

“If you get killed, what would happen to Sister and me?”

“When I die, you’re both free to return to the Great Green.”

Kiya broke her sister’s grip and stepped between her and Tol. Holding out Tol’s dress sword to him, she said over her shoulder, “You see, Sister, there’s still a chance to be free of this brute!” Tol laughed and buckled on the sword.

Glowering, Miya muttered, “We put out the lamps when we go to sleep. It’ll be dark when you return. I hope you trip and fall.”

Kiya cuffed her, none too gently, and Tol made his escape.

The fiery disk of the sun was just touching the Bay of Tarsis. Wind swirled, frosting the distant water with whitecaps. Although the fighting had ceased, the Ergothian priests maintained their wind spell to keep the Tarsan fleet at sea.

On the wind-tossed ships, sailors were hoisting lanterns to the top of each ship’s mast to mark the vessel’s position in the coming darkness. One by one, all the galleys acquired a single yellow star. These rose and fell with each roll of the waves.

Two soldiers arrived and saluted. These were the men Tol had asked Frez to pick to accompany him.

The soldier on his right identified himself as Sarkar, corporal of the Long Knife Horde; he named his comrade as Belath. The second fellow dipped his head.

“I see you brought your cloaks as I requested,” Tol said. Both soldiers carried long, dark blue wraps over their arms. “Put them on. We’re not declaring ourselves tonight.”

As the two men obeyed, Sarkar said, “Begging your pardon, my lord, but is this really wise? Entering the enemy’s stronghold with just two men-”

“I’m expected and welcome,” Tol said. “Besides, aren’t three warriors of Ergoth more than a match for any number of Tarsan merchants?”

Buoyed by his words, the soldiers took two horses from the picket line for themselves as Tol mounted his own animal, Shadow.

The sun was half-buried in the sea now, and the cloudless sky was a palette of colors, from darkest red in the west to pale rose directly overhead and sapphire eastward. Tol put the sinking sun on his left and rode to Tradewind Gate.

The massive portal stood open, as had been agreed under the terms of the truce. However, the lack of Tarsan guards was somewhat surprising.

An amber glimmer appeared in the shadowed depths beyond the gate. Nervous, Sarkar and Belath reined up.

“What ails you men?” Tol asked, pulling up as well.

“I don’t know,” said Corporal Sarkar. “Just an odd feeling.”

“I expect we’re being met, since I don’t know the way,” Tol replied. “Is that so strange?”

The men could hardly disagree with their leader. The three of them moved on.

Lofty white walls towered over them, cutting off the last of the sunlight. Although the battlements looked empty, Tol saw glints of metal in the arrow slits of a watchtower by the gate. Their progress was noted.

The sound of their mounts’ iron-shod hooves echoed off the masonry, and the glimmer of light ahead grew brighter. Slowly, the shadows resolved into a figure: a slender rider on horseback, holding a lantern. At first, Tol thought it a beardless boy, but drawing nearer, he realized the light-bearer was a young girl.

She appeared no more than fifteen or sixteen. Mounted on a fine bay horse, she wore striking livery comprising a cloth-of-gold tabard over black tights. Her yellow hair was drawn back in a short, thick braid.

Tol identified himself and asked, “Are you my guide?”

“I am, my lord,” she replied, her voice high and clear. Glancing at the two soldiers, she added, “My orders are that you must proceed alone, my lord.”

Both Sarkar and the taciturn Belath began to protest, but Tol held up a hand for silence. “I must have my retainers,” he said.

“I was bidden to bring only you.”

“Then return to your mistress with my regrets,” Tol said coldly. “A warlord of Ergoth does not scurry about unaccompanied, like a common lackey.”

The girl clenched her mount’s reins in small white fists, biting her lip in indecision. “My lord, you are awaited,” she said, as if that made the difference.

Tol tugged on the reins, as Shadow whirled in a tight circle. “If the syndic wants to see me so badly, then she can come to our camp. Let’s go, men.”

They hadn’t ridden ten paces before the guide cantered up behind them. “My lord, please! The lady I serve will be sorely disappointed if I return without you!”

“Then let my men come with me.”

She gave in. As they turned about once more, Tol asked her name.

“Valderra, my lord. Most call me Val.”

The name scored a sharp wound on his heart, but Tol let nothing show on his face.

“Lead on, Valderra.”

Inside the city wall, the houses were high and handsome, faced with buff-colored stone and with steeply pitched roofs covered in green tiles. Through narrow gaps in the closed shutters Tol could see dim lights flickering. The streets, although wide, paved, and clean, were eerily empty and unlit. An Ergothian city of similar size, like Caergoth or Daltigoth, would have street lamps burning at every corner and torches in sconces by the door of every shop and tavern.

Tol remarked on this. Valderra explained that because of the prolonged war, supplies of tallow and lamp oil, which had to be imported into Tarsis, were almost exhausted.

“Why are there no folk about?” Sarkar wanted to know.

Valderra’s lips set in a firm line. “We have a severe curfew. There has been trouble at night.” She kept her eyes fixed ahead. “Malcontents. Criminals.”

Twilight had arrived when they reached Emerald Square in the very heart of Tarsis. A vast columned building, gabled and turreted, squatted on a hill overlooking the square. Valderra identified it as the City Assembly, with adjacent palaces for the city’s rulers. Tol took the opportunity to ask her the difference between a syndic and a prince.

“Princes are hereditary proprietors of the city’s affairs,” the girl said, eyes rising to the marble complex above them. “They’re descendants of the founders of Tarsis. Syndics are the chosen heads of city guilds.”

So princes were born, syndics made. That fit Tol’s impression of Hanira.

“It’s not correct then to call your mistress ‘Lady’?” he asked.

Valderra shook her head. She wore several tiny gold rings in each earlobe and these tinkled musically with the gesture.

“Syndic Hanira is not a Lady,” she said quite seriously.

Tol smiled. Miya would agree with that statement, no doubt.

Emerald Square was actually two intersecting squares, creating a cross-shaped plaza at the foot of Palace Hill. For the first time since entering Tarsis, the small party encountered other traffic. Virtually all of it was on foot, including several luxurious palanquins carried on the shoulders of bearers. Although cloaked in relative anonymity, the four riders drew stares.

“Horses must be in short supply,” Tol reasoned.

Valderra nodded. “Most were taken for the army.”

Golden House stood at the end of one of the arms of the plaza. Six stories tall and filling the width of the plaza, it was beautiful, but built like a miniature fortress. An outer wall surrounded it, and the house itself showed massive contours. Every corner, every window inlet and doorway was rounded and radiused, giving the impression the whole building had been cast in a single piece instead of constructed. Each window facing the square had its shutters open and a rack of candles burning on its sill.

The gate was closed. Flames leaped in brass braziers-or were they gold? Flanking the gate were guards in livery like Valderra’s, standing with spears ported.

Valderra announced their party. The guards exchanged disapproving glances at learning Tol had brought retainers. They began to protest, but Tol soon put a stop to that.

“Stand aside, you louts!” he bellowed in his fiercest battle — field voice. Both guards flinched. “I have business with your mistress, and these men are with me! Now admit us!”

Immediately, the near guard produced an iron key as long as his arm. It had been dangling from his belt, and Tol had mistaken it for a scabbard. The guard inserted the huge key into a slot in the gate and, with the other sentry’s help, twisted it until a loud clank announced the lock had disengaged.

Once Tol’s party was inside, the gilded gate swung shut and the lock clanged as it was secured. Belath muttered unhappily about being trapped inside.

Uniformed servants appeared out of the dancing torchlight and held Shadow while Tol dismounted. No one came forward to assist Sarkar or Belath.

“Will you see to my men?” Tol asked, and Valderra nodded.

Gesturing at the two warriors, she rode away toward a garden nestled between the wall and the house proper. The garden contained fruit trees, and lush green shrubs trimmed and shaped to resemble all manner of whimsical items-a bell, a leaping dolphin, a flock of birds rising into the air.

When she realized the two Ergothians hadn’t moved to follow her, Valderra halted between a leafy statue of a minotaur and a rearing unicorn.

“My lord,” Sarkar said to Tol. “Our place is by your side!”

“All will be well. Go with the girl. Be pleasant but vigilant. I will send for you if I need you.”

Unhappy but obedient, the two men followed their young guide into the topiary.

Tol was met at the door by an older woman in a high-necked, golden gown. Plump and gray-haired, she radiated competence and serenity.

“My lord,” she said, clasping her hands at her waist and bowing. “I am Zae, Keeper of the Golden House.”

“You are the syndic’s chamberlain?”

“Just so, my lord. Will you come this way?”

The entrance hall was staggering. Tol had never seen anything to equal it, not even in the imperial capital. The view overhead went straight to the roof, six floors above. At each level, on three sides, balconies faced the atrium. Underfoot, a carpet woven of golden thread covered a floor of polished black granite. Gilded statues, half again life size, lined both sides of the hall. Extremely lifelike, some statues were portly, some wizened and stooped, a few youthful and strong. Zae explained they represented former syndics of the Guild of Goldsmiths and Jewelers.

Between each statue was a bright globe, perched atop a slender marble column. Each globe emitted a soft, warm light. The air was sweet with the unobtrusive hint of floral incense.

The richness of his surroundings-the heavy tapestries, thick carpets, and ornate furniture-amazed Tol. Even the knobs and hinges of the doors they passed were covered with gold.

Zae told him the Golden House comprised two hundred rooms. Begun in the sixty-sixth year of the city by Syndic Morolin, the house had taken eleven years to build. Hanira had lived here since Year 221 of the city.

Realizing the figure meant nothing to Tol, Zae added, “She has been in residence for fifteen years, my lord.”

At the end of the monumental hall, a corridor crossed at right angles. Zae turned right, leading Tol to what she called the Minor Hall.

She stopped before a pair of tall double doors. They parted for her, swinging in silently. Each was quite thick and probably weighed several hundredweight, but no motive force was visible, here or in the room beyond. The great doors opened seemingly of their own volition.

A wave of noise hit Tol. The Minor Hall was revealed to be as large as the Feasting Hall of the Riders of the Horde in Daltigoth. Instead of an intimate dinner, Tol found himself facing a room occupied by at least fifty guests, all of whom seemed to be talking at once.

Zae paused and spoke to a man who wore golden livery and an open-faced helmet of shining gold. In response, he struck the stone floor with his staff, commanding attention.

“Guildmasters, syndics, and princes!” the fellow boomed. “His Excellency, Lord Tolandruth of Juramona!”

The chatter and clatter ceased instantly. All eyes turned to Tol. Striving to appear casual and calm in the face of so many judgmental stares, Tol unhooked the pewter frog at his throat and handed his cloak to Zae. He thanked her for her help.

“I am here to serve, my lord,” she said, and withdrew. The doors closed behind her.

The continued silence was deafening. Tol walked to the table. An enormous feast was laid out, but no one had partaken yet. All stood or sat around the long, heavy table, drinking from delicately shaped golden goblets. Most of the Tarsans were men, well fed and with red faces. Apparently they’d been drinking a while.

Hanira rose from her place at the head of the table. The only other face Tol recognized was that of young Prince Helx, seated at Hanira’s right hand. The blond prince did not rise but glowered at Tol, pale blue eyes tracing his every move.

“My lord,” said Hanira. “Welcome to Golden House.”

Tol executed a slight bow. “Thank you. I hope I have not inconvenienced you by arriving late.”

“Not at all.” She extended a smooth arm to indicate an empty chair. The single ring on her hand held the largest diamond Tol had ever seen. It flashed like a beacon in the glow of massed candles.

“Won’t you be seated?”

Those were the last words he would hear from her for several hours. She had placed him at the foot of the table, directly opposite herself. Although it was obviously a place of honor, Tol was vaguely annoyed to find himself so far from his hostess.

Spurs and sword jingling accompanied his every footfall. A servant stood at his chair, a gesture Tol at first did not understand, but as he approached, the servant pulled the chair out for him. When a second lackey offered to take his sword, he frowned the fellow into retreat. Unhooking the scabbard from his belt, Tol sat down and laid the weapon across his lap.

Tol had been a long time away from the grand dinners of the Ergothian capital. The life of a soldier on the frontier had roughened the edges Valaran had worked to smooth during his time in Daltigoth. Still, he found himself surprised by the affected manners of the Tarsans seated nearest him. In wary silence, they eyed him throughout dinner as if he was a beast they might provoke with the slightest word. He didn’t try to initiate conversation.

Considering the sumptuousness of the surroundings, the food was rather plain. Tol supposed even the wealthy Hanira had to deal with the shortages caused by war.

Wine there was in plenty, both native red and Silvanesti white, the nectar of the elves. As the evening wore on, Tol drank more and more, mostly out of boredom. Isolated at the end of the table, he amused himself by studying the Tarsans.

Hanira was at least ten years older than him. In her early forties, she had reached the age when a woman’s face either fines down or plumps up. The former was the case with Hanira. Her cheekbones were high, her chin a trifle sharp, but her most arresting feature was her eyes. Large, they were the warm color of honey or polished wood. Even at this distance, Tol was very much aware of her gaze when it fell upon him.

In a room full of curled hair, silk and brocade finery, and powdered faces, Hanira seemed elegantly natural. She wore her raven-black hair simply, parted in the center and drawn forward over her right shoulder into a single heavy braid. Her gown was of ruby silk, with a high collar in back and a low neckline in front. At her throat, between the wings of her collar, a dark jewel-onyx or jet-glinted.

The sullen Prince Helx, seated on her right, kept trying to capture her attention, reaching for her hand. She evaded him time and again. The prince obviously was attempting to woo his hostess, but she brushed him off with smiling, casual replies and chatted gaily with the elderly man on her left.

The party grew loud, as parties do when wine is consumed in quantity, then began to falter as the effects took hold. As the hour grew late, guests rose from the table, bowed to their hostess, and tottered out. Some required the support of a servant or two to make their way from the room. Tol kept his head and his seat. He was the only Ergothian in attendance; he must have been invited for some reason. He wouldn’t hasten to leave until he learned what that reason was.

A regiment of boys appeared to ferry the dishes away. As they staggered out under the weight of dozens of golden plates, other servers gathered goblets on trays. Through the swirl of activity Tol saw Helx speaking in low tones to Hanira, with an intent expression in his light blue eyes. She was leaning back in her great chair, seeming to distance herself from his entreaties.

Tol stood and clipped the scabbard to his belt again. Walking around the end of the wide table, he approached his hostess at a deliberate pace. The sight of the fearsome enemy warlord on his feet froze the bevy of servants in various poses. The clatter and the tinkle of cutlery ceased abruptly.

Helx and Hanira watched him draw near, but only Hanira smiled.

“My lord,” she said warmly. “Was the dinner to your liking?”

Her voice was like a fresh draft of wine. Slightly more befuddled by the wine and the room’s heat than he’d thought, Tol answered rather bluntly: “Your palace is magnificent, but the repast was a bit plain.”

“Food is in short supply,” Helx snapped.

“Is that why you surrendered?” Tol responded, again too bluntly, keeping his eyes on Hanira. He dragged the chair on her left out with his foot, unbuckled his sword, and sat down. “Not enough food to withstand a siege?”

Helx leaped to his feet. “Insolent savage! Remember where you are!”

Tol grinned disarmingly, his attention still on the woman before him. “Begging your pardon, lady. I mean no disrespect-to you.”

Helx’s hand flashed to the dagger under his draped blue robe. Tol leaned back, both hands on his scabbard. “Your Highness, be calm.”

The prince’s hand tightened on his dagger. Hanira lost her bland, pleasant manner and said sharply, “Helx, don’t be a fool! Sit down!”

“I won’t be insulted by this-this barbarian!”

Hanira leaned toward Tol, saying sweetly, “Pay him no mind, Lord Tolandruth. You have my leave to bloody him if he acts up.”

Tol threw back his head laughing. White-faced with fury, Helx demanded, “Hanira, give me your answer! I have a right to know!”

She picked up her goblet. Just before the golden rim touched her lips she murmured, “Go home, Helx. It’s late, and you are no longer amusing.”

“I demand an answer!”

“Sounds to me like you got an answer, boy.”

Tol’s chuckling comment goaded the prince into drawing his slim silver blade, eight inches long. Fast as he did this, however, he found the tip of Tol’s dress sword pressed into his throat.

The prince froze, seething with fury, and looked at Hanira. She calmly sipped her wine.

Helx lowered his dagger. Tol took his sword from the fiery young man’s neck. Pale eyes riveted on Hanira’s unconcerned face, Helx drove his blade into the tabletop, burying a quarter of its length in the richly polished wood, then turned on his heel and stalked out. On the way he shoved aside any hapless servant who came within reach.

“Poor fool,” Hanira murmured when he was gone. “He imagined I’d swoon at the chance to marry him.”

Tol’s brows rose in surprise. The prince seemed the merest puppy compared to the mature, sophisticated Hanira.

“He’s an ardent and usually agreeable boy,” she added, “but the time is long past for me to consider marriage again.” A smile touched the corners of her mouth. “Besides, I couldn’t bear the loss of status.”

Hanira rose, and immediately Zae was at her side, poised to assist her.

“I will retire now, Zae,” Hanira said. “You have the key?”

The older woman bowed. “Yes, mistress.”

Tol stood, but before he could speak, Hanira swept out a side door. Like the door through which Tol had entered, this one opened without her touching it.

Zae bade Tol sit and indulge in a strengthening draught. He wanted no more drink, but she gently insisted. The liquid a lackey poured from a slender amphora was not wine. It was thick, with a pearlescent blue sheen. Zae said only that it was a “decoction of many ingredients,” and very healthful.

Tol eyed the goblet uncertainly. The liquid had a mild aroma, not unpleasant, but more animal than vegetable. Milk of some kind, he reckoned.

“Juramona!” he whispered, raising the cup high, then draining it in one gulp.

The liquid was cold. When it hit his stomach, Tol felt his head abruptly clear of the wine-induced fog. His fingers and toes knotted involuntarily then relaxed. A smile spread over his face.

Zae nodded sagely. “An ancient family recipe,” she said. Dipping a hand into her sleeve, she brought out a small object and pressed it into his hand. “Your key, my lord.” She pointed toward the side door where Hanira had exited.

The so-called key was a small figure, no larger than his thumb, made of silver. It depicted a crouching man, clutching a bar or rod.

Zae said, “That is Shinare, patron deity of the Golden House. There is much treasure here, many precious things. Every door in the Golden House is secured by an ancient spell. Only the key of Shinare unlocks them.”

Without further explanation, she said, “Good night, my lord,” and swiftly withdrew.

From chatter and gaiety, the Minor Hall now resounded only with silence. No outside sounds penetrated its walls. The heat generated by the crowd of diners was dissipating, the room cooling rapidly.

Tol had two choices: follow Zae and return to camp, or follow Hanira and stay the night. The potion he’d drunk had left him feeling alert and utterly clear-headed. Staring at the tiny silver image of Shinare in his hand, he made his decision.

The key opened the side door. When his hand touched the cool metal doorknob, a slight prickling sensation passed through his fingers, telling him magic was present. The knob turned easily enough..

A candle flickered on a table in the dim corridor beyond. Just a few steps away was a set of steps, leading up. A faint trace of perfume lingered in the air. Hanira had passed this way.

Tol picked up the candle and ascended the stairs. At the top, the way left was dark. To the right a second candle glowed in a wall niche. He went that way.

A trail of lighted candles led him to an ornate door, perfectly round and as wide across as he could stretch his arms. The portal was decorated in high relief and looked exactly like a giant gold coin, complete with a stylized rendering of the walls of Tarsis. Again, the key fit.

Tol put a hand to the door and pushed, but it didn’t immediately budge. A much harder shove finally caused the massive door to swing slowly inward. From its ponderous weight, he realized the door was made of solid gold.

The room beyond was capacious, and illuminated with racks of candles. The chamber was divided into more intimate spaces by wooden screens, carved and painted. The scent of Hanira’s perfume was stronger here, and a melodious tinkling sound wafted to Tol, borne on the warm air like the music of wind chimes.

He wended his way through the maze of screens, his footfalls muffled by thick carpets. He passed through sitting rooms, a study, and a private dining spot, all equipped with light, elegant furniture draped in rich brocades. On the small dining table was a golden bowl brimming with fruit. Tol plucked a fine ripe pear.

A curtain of gold and black silk closed off the passage out of the dining nook. Tol bit into the pear and parted the curtain with a sweep of his hand.

“Welcome,” said Hanira.

The candles had gone out hours ago, leaving as the only light the glow from a blue glass globe by Hanira’s bed. About the size of a man’s head, the globe perched on a polished marble column and emitted a soft, silent illumination.

Tol turned over, seeking Hanira, but the bed was empty.

Getting out of bed, he winced as his bare feet touched the cold marble floor. His clothes had been left in the sitting room below, where he’d found Hanira.

Strange evening, he mused. He’d come to Golden House a victorious general with seduction in mind, but in the end, he was left feeling like the conquered one. Years of service to the empire, a score of battles, large and small, had not prepared him for this night.

He wrapped a thin blanket around his waist and went down the stairs to the sitting room.

His clothes and Hanira’s were strewn about the floor and furniture. Donning his linen breeches, he checked his waist-pocket for the nullstone. It was still there.

Feeling more secure now that he was at least partly dressed, Tol went looking for his hostess.

Great beams crisscrossed the high, vaulted ceiling like the strands of an enormous web. He easily made out the sheen caused by the blue glimmer of the globe by the bed. There was only one other light source in the entire, vast chamber, a mild amber glow off to his left. Hanira must be there. One of the many things he’d learned about her in their brief time together was she never slept in the dark.

The story of her life, as she’d related it to him, had been both horrifying and fascinating. Of common birth, she had gained all she possessed by sagacity and ambition. When her third husband, Morgax, syndic of the guild of goldsmiths, had died, she had assumed control of the guild. It hadn’t been easy. Many in the guild opposed her, as she was not an artisan herself, but she outlasted some of her enemies and actively ruined others. Her arsenal of weapons included bribery, extortion, persuasion, and not a few dagger thrusts in the night.

Once her rule of the goldsmiths’ guild was established, Hanira set out to take control of the jewelers’ guild as well. In a struggle that cost several fortunes and a number of lives, she merged the two separate guilds into one powerful, wealthy organization under her absolute control. All of this she had accomplished by age forty.

“Not bad for a poor girl and former courtesan,” she’d explained. “We’re much alike, Tolandruth of Juramona. From the time you defeated Tylocost in Hylo, I’ve followed your doings with great interest. I knew we’d cross paths again, sooner or later. We’re conquerors, you and I. We should be allies.” Trailing a rose-painted fingernail down his chest, she added, “We should be friends.”

He was flattered and wary at the same time. Hanira was entirely captivating, yet he knew he could never turn his back on her. He put off answering her proposal, using revived passion to evade the issue of an alliance. Later, he feigned sleep, which became real enough when Zae’s invigorating tonic wore off.

Now he found the source of the amber glow and there found his lover as well. She slept in an alcove, screened from the rest of the room. He gaped, astonished.

Hanira was completely enclosed in a rectangular shell of flawless, clear crystal, like a coffin made of glass. Lamps burned at each end of the box. The panel over her face was not fogged with breath, but he could see her ribs expand with every breath.

After his initial surprise, he quickly grasped the reason behind the weird arrangement. This was the price Hanira paid for her success-reposing each night in a beautiful crystal cage to foil assassination.

Just then he heard a metallic scrape in the darkened chamber behind him. His senses, honed by war, immediately recognized the sound of a blade being drawn somewhere nearby. He rushed out of Hanira’s chamber to the sitting room, hunting through his discarded clothing for his sword and dagger. This particular sword was largely ceremonial-its straight blade thin, damascened and pretty, but hardly a warrior’s weapon, yet it would serve, and he also had his dagger.

Something bumped into one of the many wooden partitions somewhere in the vast room. Tol climbed a tall chair and peered around. Back in the direction of the door he’d entered by, he spied the slight movement of one of the screens.

Though underdressed and barefoot, he prepared to fight. He decided not to rouse Hanira. If this was an assassination attempt, she would be safer within her crystal enclosure. If he called for Hanira’s guards, he would betray his position to whomever was out there.

Now he heard sounds from a second direction-perhaps a second attacker. Off to his right, there was another sword-scrape. Three assassins?

He waited, heartbeat accelerating, as the muffled footfalls came nearer. He timed his first move with care. Two intruders were approaching straight at him, and one flanked him on the right. The two were nearer, and when he judged them close enough, he ran forward and planted a foot squarely on the tall wooden screen in front of him. It flew back, crashing into something that prevented it from falling. Tol heard a raspy snarl as the panel shattered to kindling.

Facing him were two hulking figures, thick-necked and bald or perhaps wearing smooth helmets. In the dim light it was impossible to tell. Tol presented his sword in his right hand, dagger in his left. The pair lumbered forward.

As they drew closer, he realized with a start that the two were not human, but he wasn’t sure exactly what they were. Man-shaped, half a head taller than himself, the two creatures wore neither clothes nor armor. Their bodies were made of some translucent substance, tinged blue. Their faces were vague, frightening representations of normal features, with bumps for eyes, thin noses, and simple slits for mouths. Wielding swords, they rushed at him.

He met the near one’s overhand chop with his thin dress sword. The blow made his hand sting. Tol slashed at its neck. He felt the dagger tip rake over rubbery flesh, but the creature gave no sign it felt any pain, and no blood flowed from the cut. Tol leaped back to avoid the second monster’s blade.

Tol scrambled around Hanira’s furniture, thinking frantically. He’d never heard of a race of beings like these. They were sent to kill-who? Hanira or him? Both Syndic Hanira and Lord Tolandruth had many enemies.

The third intruder was crashing through screens off to Tol’s right. Hanira slumbered on in her glass box, and Tol led the monsters away from her. If they did not follow, if they went for the syndic, he would know their true target.

They followed him. They seemed brutes, strong but dull-witted. One of the monster’s legs became tangled in one of Hanira’s low couches. Tol let out a yell and jumped over a chair, lunging at the creature’s chest. It parried, but too slowly. Tol’s narrow sword blade hit and penetrated. He leaned into the thrust, knotting the considerable muscles in his shoulder. The monster’s flesh was denser than a man’s, but he pierced it with a full span of metal before his blade stopped. His strange foe seemed unaffected, no blood, no evidence of pain. Had it no organs to pierce, no arteries to slash?

Fending off counterblows with his dagger, Tol tried to work his sword free. The other creature aimed a cut at his neck, swinging its weapon in a wide arc. Tol ducked and iron cleaved the air over his head. He still could not free his sword. Cursing, he endured a rain of blows from the attacker he’d impaled. In between parries, Tol hit the impaled creature with the jeweled pommel of Prince Amaltar’s dagger. It was like punching a bale of leather, causing no real harm.

The sword-swinging monster landed a hit, the tip of its sword piercing the rim of Tol’s right ear. In a fury, he let go his sword and grappled with the creature who’d wounded him. The faceless beast was effortlessly powerful, but Tol gradually forced it back. Without a sound of protest or alarm, it fell on its back, smashing one of Hanira’s delicate side tables and losing its grip on its sword.

Tol snatched up the weapon. With a snarl, he brought the heavy blade down on the prostrate monster’s head, cleaving it in two. The creature quivered like jelly, arms flailing, slit mouth open. Tol leaned back to avoid a slash from the other monster, still carrying his sword in its chest, then planted a foot on the fallen one’s chest and struck again. The good iron blade severed the creature’s right arm at the shoulder.

Tol yelled in triumph and stood back, expecting the wounded monster to succumb. Instead, it rose to its feet, and the severed limb leaped about like a spawning salmon, fingers opening and clenching as though searching for its foe or owner.

Such enemies could not be slain by ordinary means. That being clear, Tol was not ashamed to flee. He ran through a gap in the screens. Clumsily, but with mindless persistence, the two monsters followed him, leaving the syndic behind.

Sweating, panting, and with blood running down his jaw from his injured ear, Tol paused in a corridor made of tall wooden panels to collect his racing thoughts. He’d never fought magical beings before. Too bad he didn’t have a spell-caster with him.

A revelation struck him like a clothyard shaft. Why did he need magic against magical foes? Did he not have the Irda millstone?

Wood splintered around him. The monsters were near.

How could he use the millstone against them? Should he strike them with it somehow?

A loud crash, nearer yet, sounded. Then another, behind Tol. They were encircling him.

Tol slit the stitching around the pocket holding the nullstone. In trying to move quickly, he fumbled it, dropping the artifact. It bounced beneath a table. He cursed under his breath and went to his knees, groping in the shadows.

Suddenly, his right wrist was seized in a painful, bone-crushing grip. Fantastic though it seemed, the monster’s severed limb had him! It must have crawled after him on its own, outdistancing its owner’s ponderous body.

Tol’s hand went numb, and the sword fell from his nerveless fingers. He jabbed at the disembodied arm with his dagger, but it merely tightened its numbing grip. Bone grated on bone in his wrist, and he gasped with pain.

He heaved the severed arm onto a nearby cushioned settee and frantically sawed at its narrowest point, the wrist, with the edge of his knife. The arm fought him back, flailing and twisting like a vengeful snake.

Now the other attackers appeared-two at one end of the corridor and the third, the one that was missing its arm, at the other end. Tol swiftly dropped to his belly, and crawled along the rug, dragging the severed arm awkwardly along. The three monsters advanced with heavy tread, but Tol’s groping hand finally came down on something hard and metallic. The millstone!

He rolled over and slammed the Irda artifact against the severed arm. Instantly, the powerful limb went stiff. Its fingers were still locked savagely around his wrist, but when he struck it with the butt of his dagger, the arm cracked. Elated, he hammered the limb until it was reduced to lifeless pieces.

Jumping to his feet, Tol yanked the lacing from the calf of his smallclothes. He swiftly used the linen strip to lash the millstone to the hilt of his dagger.

A sword streaked at his head, his own ceremonial weapon, now wielded by the one-armed thing. He ducked, and it shattered the oiled wood paneling behind him.

Whirling, Tol smashed the blade of his dagger against the dense blue flesh. The magical creature gave a start and then solidified into immobility, immediately turning to ashy white stone. Tol kicked hard at its leg, knocking out a sizable chunk. The suddenly inert monster toppled, shattering when it hit the floor.

The other two creatures were soon overcome in similar fashion. Parrying their attacks, choosing his openings with care, Tol struck each of the monsters with his millstone — enhanced dagger, and soon enough the fight was over.

Tol slumped in a chair, limp, gasping. His pulse throbbed in his battered ear, and wide bruises were darkening on his right wrist. He cradled his injured limb to his chest, muttering dire curses against whomever had sent the murderous beings.

A pale glow of light appeared around him. Hanira had arrived, bearing a candelabrum. She wore a robe of golden silk and a dazed, confused expression. Her black hair was loose around her shoulders.

Regarding the devastation in her private chambers with admirable aplomb, she asked, “What’s this?”

“Assassins. Magical creatures, sent here to kill.”

Her brow furrowed. “How did they get in? No one has ever penetrated the wards of Shinare which shield Golden House!” She nudged the debris of one shattered monster with the toe of her golden slipper. Shaking her head, she said, “Golems! I’ve not seen the like since I was married to my first husband.”

“Golems?”

“Beings of clay or stone, animated by magic and set to a specific task. They’re mindless and will persist in their duty until destroyed.”

She set the candelabrum on a table and planted her hands on her hips. The gesture parted her loosely tied robe and revealed she wore nothing underneath but a slender golden band encircling her waist. Tucked into the band was a stiletto.

“This is my fault,” she said. “My enemies must have learned of our meeting and fear I will make an alliance with you.” Her honey-colored eyes narrowed. “This isn’t the first attempt on my life. I shall make inquiries, and those responsible will be found.”

Hanira asked how he had bested the powerful golems.

“My dagger is enchanted,” he lied, placing a hand on the hilt. “I tried to fight the things with my court sword. It was no better than a feather duster.”

She put her arm around him soothingly, steering him back toward her bed chamber. At first Tol resisted, thinking he should return to camp, report what had happened here tonight. If truth be told, he was sore and injured, and Hanira was a beautiful woman; the danger seemed over. He let himself be led.

“I suppose Helx may be behind this,” Hanira mused, as they walked together slowly. “I rejected him tonight, and he has the money to hire any mage he wants.”

Hanira doctored his injuries, soaking a cloth in spirits and dabbing away the blood from his ear. From a small aromatic cedar box, she took balm, which she applied to his bruises. Finally, she tore a silk sheet into strips and made a tight bandage for his arm.

When she was done, he held up his wrapped arm, admiring her work.

“As a girl I was apprenticed to a healer,” she explained, “but circumstances led me elsewhere.” She’d become a courtesan at seventeen and had remained one until she married her first husband at twenty-two.

Tol had been nearly lulled into sleep again, when a tumult arose at the chamber door-a mob of servants led by Zae. Armed with kitchen knives and makeshift clubs, they’d rallied to defend Hanira.

“Mistress! Are you well? All the wards are down!” Zae cried, her eyes taking in the wreckage. She was still in her dressing gown, gray hair askew.

Hanira assured her people she was uninjured. A male servant behind Zae relayed terrible news. Six men lay dead in the courtyard. Four of Hanira’s household guards and Tol’s own escort had perished trying to stop mysterious intruders.

Tol was furious with himself. Sarkar and Belath had paid a high price for his dalliance.

Four marks past midnight, Zae reported, the main gate had been battered down by three powerful attackers. Hanira’s guard had tried to stop them but were slain. Sarkar and Belath, sleeping in the guards’ house, heard the noise of battle and rallied to action. The rest of the household, unarmed servants and lackeys, had cowered in their rooms until Zae finally managed to muster them in the entry hall.

Hanira thanked them all profusely, promising rewards to all for their bravery. The servants departed, leaving the syndic and the general alone once more.

“Zae is quite a woman. You’re lucky to have her,” Tol said.

Hanira closed the medicine chest. “I don’t have her. She had me. Zae is my mother.”

A strange and fateful night, and by dawn Tol still was not sure what to make of the peculiar events. He saw to the burial of brave Sarkar and Belath, and he was expected at Lord Regobart’s morning council to plan the armistice terms between Ergoth and Tarsis. Hanira saw him off, but since the attack, she’d shed her seductive air and behaved in a more preoccupied, businesslike fashion.

Even as he was about to leave her mansion, a quartet of riders skidded to a stop in the courtyard. They were men of Tol’s Army of the North, led by Frez. The steadfast warrior sprang from the saddle, calling for his commander.

“I’m here,” Tol answered, stepping outside. Briefly he filled Frez in on what had happened last night, about the golems, and the fate of Sarkar and Belath. Frez had important news of his own to impart.

“Couriers arrived this morning, my lord! Couriers from Daltigoth!” Frez replied. “The emperor is dead!”

Pakin III, emperor of Ergoth, had been in poor health for the last dozen years. His eldest son, Amaltar, had ruled as regent for the past decade.

“Has Prince Amaltar ascended to the throne?” Hanira, standing at Tol’s shoulder, asked.

“The warlords have pledged their loyalty to him,” said Frez, “and my lord, we are recalled!”

Tol stiffened as if struck. “Recalled?”

All the highest imperial warlords had been summoned to attend the coronation. Only Lord Regobart was excused, as he must conclude the negotiations with Tarsis.

“We’ll leave at once!” Tol declared. He strode forward a few steps, then halted abruptly. He looked back at Hanira. “I won’t forget you.”

She laughed lightly, and the old, knowing look came back to her face. “No, you won’t.”

They rode hard back to camp.