Spell of Apocalypse By Mayer Alan Brenner

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Spell of Apocalypse

Mayer Alan Brenner

Published: 1994

Categorie(s): Fiction, Fantasy

Source: http://www.mayerbrenner.com/ Also available on Feedbooks Brenner:

- Spell of Catastrophe (1989)

- Spell of Intrigue (1990)

- Spell of Fate (1992)

Copyright: Please read the legal notice included in this e-book and/or check the copyright status in your country.

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Electronic License

© 1993-2007 by Mayer Alan Brenner. First published by DAW Books, New York, NY, May, 1994. Some rights reserved. This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-No Derivs 3.0 License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0 or write to Creative Commons, 171 Second Street, Suite 300, San Francisco, California, 94105, U.S.A.

Chapter 1

FROM THE GROUND, the bird was an infinitesimal white speck lost against the isoluminescent glare of the midday sky. From the perspective of the seagull, however, the ground and its features were clearly apparent in all their multiplicity and confusion. Below it now as it circled in its leisurely bank was the sparkling band of the Tongue Water, to its right the smoky bulk of the manufacturing district and beyond that the widening mainland, to its left the great city of Peridol.

There was more than just scenery transpiring down there under the bird’s dangling feet, though. The seagull’s unhurried path was carrying it around a wide coil of dark smoke that mounted even higher, curling and roiling, until an onshore breeze took it and shredded it into streamers and ragged sheets. Following the pillar of smoke downward took the eye into the midsection of a tall bridge. The bridge currently spanned the water less effectively than it likely had even a short time before. The center reach of the roadbed was obscured by steam clouds that were replacing the dark smoke with a puffier white. Here and there, where the steam parted, a few dying flames could be noted, and in more numerous other locations the surface of the water itself was visible through the bridge floor, rimmed by jagged holes and the raw edges of ruptured steel.

Wedged up against and partially underneath the bridge on its upstream surface, glinting and glittering, was a prodigious cliff of ice. Even to the seagull’s inexpert eye, it was clear that the steam clouds had resulted from the contact, in the not-too-distant past, of the shorn-off crown of the iceberg with the incendiary fires. Since the center section of the bridge was exhibiting - in addition to the roadbed damage - a prominent sag and list, of dire structural import, it was also apparent that the supporting influence of the iceberg’s bulk was keeping the larger part of the bridge from collapsing full-on into the water. A slender crag of ice that had not been clipped on contact with the bridge still towered over the upstream mass of the iceberg and loomed at a perilous angle over the bridge itself. Curiously, the uppermost section of this ice needle seemed to bear within it the crushed remains of what might have been a modest fishing boat.

Spectacular though these sights were, the seagull’s interest was not primarily architectural. Crowds of people were apparent on every side; on the bridge itself, on the river-bank grandstands, even a few remaining bobbers in the water or on small boats being ferried to the shore. Flocks of other birds wheeled about as well, those of sea and land keeping largely separate but all diving periodically to snare some useful morsel from the water or the crush on land. With a glance back over its shoulder the seagull verified it was being trailed at a respectful distance by a congregation of other gulls, panting and bedraggled from some recent exertion though they appeared.

A few large sea-creatures were still visible too, as looming shadows beneath the surface or as splashing wakes of foam. Confused by the abrupt end to the Running of the Squids but still attracted by the lures, a school of leaping marlin were trying to thread the tight gauntlet beneath the bridge and break through to the open ocean downstream. A lingering leviathan, wisely deciding against pitting itself against the bridge, was beating its way back upstream against the current.

The gull stood on a wingtip and spiraled down toward the bridge and the Peridol shore. From the swirls of soldiers, rescuers, gawkers, and hangers-on an occasional character stood out. Heading off the bridge into the city was a man who stood a full head taller than even the heftiest of the crowd around him. The man stood out even further by virtue of the breadth given him by the people in his immediate vicinity, even at the expense of hurling themselves bodily away to either side or of flinging themselves to the ground. The bird had descended low enough to catch the dull glint from the man’s nicked battle sword, but the glower on his face would clearly have been sufficient by itself to open the path in front of him. The man also had a bundle slung lightly over one shoulder, something that was either a six-foot length of crisped meat fresh from the spit of a street rotisserie, or, improbable though it might have been, an actual still-or-barely living person.

The gull cawed twice and then flapped vigorously, gaining altitude again as it launched itself over the city. Beyond the fashionable estates mounting the slopes of the Crust, on its way toward the palace complex, the bird spied a churning mob surging along a boulevard, howling and hurling offal and the traditional rotten produce at something up ahead. As the vantage point changed, this something resolved itself first into a sizable contingent of soldiers, and then in their midst a stout ox-cart. Lashed down to the bed of the cart and apparently encased in partial stonework to boot was another man. He shared with the berserker the same expression of grim determination. It was more difficult to read his face, however, since his head was all but obscured behind its bindings and a mask-like cage. As had happened with the hulking berserker, several gulls detached themselves from the trailing flock and began to loop deliberately above the cart as the lead bird swooped away.

The great city held far too many urgent sights for the bird to give even fleeting attention to each one. Accordingly, it passed over without a second glance another human figure sprawled prostrate in the refuse-heaped mud of a narrow back alley, its eyes fixed on yet another fire off across the city up ahead. In truth, a second glance would scarcely have revealed more information concerning this particular human. The trash covered the body so thoroughly that even its sex could not so easily be determined, and as for its status among the living or otherwise, well, certainly no sign of breath or movement disturbed the stillness of its repose. But then if the seagull had chosen to be comprehensive about it, it would have most likely had no trouble finding another dozen or two people in similar circumstances at that very moment somewhere in the city. Was the city not, after all, Peridol, foremost in the known world in every leading category, urban violence not least of all?

Whether the gull indulged in this particular depth of reflection was obscure. Its purpose, on the other hand, could scarcely be doubted. As it gained altitude, the second black cloud-pillar ahead revealed more of its base behind the intervening structures and low hills. Where the fire on the bridge had been dying under the melting ice, this new one was clearly in the prime of its life. Such were the volume of the leaping flames and rolling fireballs and shooting pyrotechnic flares that its source was wholly shrouded. Anything from a single building to a full block or more might be in the midst of being consumed.

Beneath the seagull now, reeling down the center of a street, was another ragged and disheveled man. He was both singed and dripping sea water, and like the others the bird had singled out for closer inspection his face was set in a grim expression of bleak determination. As the bird watched, the man staggered and almost fell on his face, obviously pushing across the limit of his endurance. He managed not to go down, though, and instead continued the last vestiges of his dead run.

Short of exhortation, there was no purpose to be served by lurking overhead; either the man would collapse or he wouldn’t. If he remained on his feet, it seemed likely to the gull that the man would ultimately arrive at the same destination as its own. Although if he didn’t show up - for whatever reason - the bird was going to be more than a little put out. It flapped vigorously again and headed for the fire.

Owing to the precaution of approaching from upwind, it took several minutes to reach the scene. Braving the unstable updrafts, the seagull side-slipped its way toward the column of smoke and executed a careful dive. One street-facing building was the centerpiece, although at least some of the adjoining structures were a clear loss as well. Whoosh! - another fireball rolled out of the smoke and ascended toward the bird. The gull slid out of the way, feeling its tail feathers crisp, and glided toward more stable air. Had it heard any cries from the fully engulfed facility below? - detected any signs of life? No, it decided, it had not. As the bird dropped to a perch on a gable across the street, the remainder of the roof fell in, sending forth a fresh shower of embers and flaming sparks. The front wall leaned over toward the fire and then blew into vapor, floor by floor, from the uppermost peak straight down to the foundation.

A civic firefighting team had their gear spread out on the street in front of the building. Their sorcerer was making futile passes in the air, watching rain clouds begin to condense and then get immediately shredded to bits by the churning hot vapors. His associates were wielding a hose leading back to their water wagon. The declining trickle from the nozzle, though, spoke to the imminent depletion of their supply.

The gull fluffed its feathers and settled down to wait. There was undoubtedly more to come.

The Great Karlini lurched through the streets, hoping it had been just a delusion, just a fever of his overwrought brain, just a sign his mental house of cards had taken an inconvenient moment to spring into ruin. But if there was a sign, it was clearly not found merely inside his own head. The evidence was apparent off ahead, in the column of coiling black smoke winding and twisting its way above the rooftops.

And he’d thought he had left pandemonium behind him at the Tongue Water. Or no, he had scarcely thought that at all. At the instant that horrible, despairing cry had split his head he had known that no matter the level of discord at the Running of the Squids, the true affliction - or at least the affliction closest to his own interests - would be found far across town.

The cry still hung in his ears. Levitation, Karlini thought, why didn’t anyone ever come up with workable levitation? But he was putting all his remaining energy into running. Even if there was levitation he’d have no reserve to spare to invoke it, or any other spell-work for that matter - not that he could think of any spell activity that would be particularly helpful just at the moment. Resurrection was another concept endlessly discussed, endlessly debated upon, that regardless still eluded even the gods, as far as anyone knew. Whether it existed or not, though, it was what he’d need.

Bad planning, bad planning and irresponsibility, and he had no one but himself to blame. He’d have no one else to blame for the rest of his life. If he hadn’t been so drained and exhausted from that out-of-control effort against the ice sorcerer - what was his name, Dortonn - and then his unexpected bath in the Tongue Water, perhaps he’d have still been able to think of something, to be there when Roni had needed him –

That shriek, that dying shriek -

Or was it the sign of death? Might there be hope? Things even less probable had somehow managed to squeak themselves to an acceptable resolution, before. But this time? This time?

Then somehow he had arrived. The whole block seemed to be on fire. His arms reaching forward, feeling the air, Karlini plunged toward the flames; then, as his waterlogged clothes began to steam and his face began to sear he came limply to a halt. Maybe she hadn’t been there. Maybe it was just Dortonn’s final diversion.

In his reverie, he had actually begun to consider hurling himself to immolation in the flames when he suddenly felt himself beaten roughly about the head, and then seized with a sharp pinch on the shoulder.

“Oh, it’s you again, is it,” said Karlini, not even bothering to glance around at the seagull; he knew the bird far too well by this time, having been haunted by it since this whole thing had started, somewhere off in some desert. “Thanks for saving my life, I suppose, not that I’ve done anything with it but screw up when people needed me.”

People? Karlini thought. Well, yes, but not just people. They might have been estranged (another matter that had clearly been his fault) but she was still his wife, and the person he’d intended to spend the rest of his life with. Was his wife? Had been his wife.

Had been his life.

So Karlini continued to stare, sweat and other fluids running down his face, his skin blistering from the heat, his breath coming harsh and twisted, trying still to get his mind back in gear, as flaming timbers crashed and smoke billowed and prospects turned to ash; he failed to notice when the seagull screeched and flapped off to another part of the crowd, or when it returned, bringing others with it.

What does a guy have to do? Jurtan Mont had been wondering as he and Tildy watched the fire brigade try to contain the disaster and keep the entire block from going up, and hope to stop the flaming embers from jumping streets and buildings and leapfrogging across the district. He had been through quite a lot in the last day himself, culminating with his last-possible-moment nick-of-time arrival to pull his sister out of the building to safety on the street. But did his sister bother to thank him? Did she bother to notice him? No, all she’d done was keep edging away from him and staring at the fire. Of course, he was still covered with filth and reeked from his lengthy encounter with a hill of night soil, but he had unmistakably saved her life. What did she want from him?

She wouldn’t answer his questions, either. Answer? Jurtan doubted she was even listening to him. Her information might be important, too. Take the guy she’d been with. Who was he, anyway? Why did Jurtan’s music sense keep hitting him with warning slidehorn wails whenever the man was around? And then what had happened to the fellow in the Karlini lab? Had he set the fire? Was he dead, or if not where was he now?

How could Jurtan protect his sister if she didn’t even have the good sense to realize she needed it?

Then all of a sudden she had opened up. But had it been to tell him what he needed to know? Hah! “So what happened to you since yesterday?” she’d said.

“I was chased. I escaped. I got lost. I don’t want to talk about it,” he’d concluded.

Okay, so it hadn’t been the smartest thing to say, even if she did have him miffed already. He should have taken the opening to start engaging her in conversation, and then steered things to the topics in which he was interested. Instead, she’d immediately tuned him out again. And then, while he’d been trying to think of a new wedge to crack open her shell, they’d been dived on by this crazy seagull; dived on and virtually shoved down the street back toward the raging fire.

Ahead of Jurtan, his sister faltered. “It’s Karlini,” she said uncertainly.

Who do you think it would be, with that seagull involved? Jurtan thought, but he was proud of himself that he hadn’t actually said it out loud. “Well, maybe he knows what’s going on.”

“He wasn’t here,” said Tildy.

Before Jurtan could say anything else, the seagull slammed into him again with its webbed feet extended, knocking him forward and into his sister. The music in his head, which had been playing a pretty demoralizing dirge, broke ranks with a mocking accordion wheeze. Jurtan seized Tildy around the wrist and yanked her forward. “Come on,” he said, “before that bird decides to do us in.” She dragged along behind him in a dazed shamble.

A moment later, Jurtan saw that the one in the real daze was the Great Karlini. He looked as though he’d just lost his last friend. His last - so that was it! His sister had neglected to mention anything about Ronibet Karlini in her recent experiences.

Becoming aware of their presence with him now, Karlini took in the Monts’ own charred and ash-covered appearances. Tildamire’s arms and face were fried a bright shiny red and her sleeves were barely more than clinging soot. “You were here?” Karlini stated. “What about Roni?”

“Inside,” said Tildy, “I think.”

“What happened?”

With her eyes too wide and her voice too shrill, and her words, when they came at all, trickling out in short meandering bursts, it was plain that Tildamire was barely still in this world herself. “He was different. It was almost like he wasn’t the same person at all. But he threw a fireball at Roni, and it - she -”

“Who?” said Karlini. “Who threw a fireball?”

“The guy with no name. The Creeping Sword.”

The air went out of Karlini and he slumped even further. “Him? Are you sure? What do you mean he wasn’t like the same person?”

“There was - I mean, it looked like light was coming out of his eyes. He looked crazy, out of his mind, he was tearing up everything, and then he threw this fireball and everything went white, I couldn’t see, and -”

“Excuse me,” said a loud voice. Karlini swung around and saw a hefty man in heavy padded oilskins and a stout hard cap with a wide bill brim; an axe swung at his side in a belt sheath. The man had sweat running off his burly mustache. “Fire Chief Cinder. Are you connected with this building?”

“Damn it, yes,” Karlini said.

“Then what’s inside? Why is it burning so hot? You been storing anything toxic we need to worry about?”

Toxic? Oh, crap. Karlini gazed down the block, where the roof of another structure was beginning to show flames. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid there is.”

“Figured as much,” Fire Chief Cinder said with resignation. “That’s Wraith District for you. Something took out our magic user soon as he set up.” Cinder gestured with a gloved hand. Across the street next to the water wagon was another man in a firefighter outfit, lying on his back on the ground staring sightlessly at the sky, his lips moving feebly.

Karlini sighed. “I’d better see what I can do,” he said. Did anyone listen when I tried to tell them this was a bad idea? Of course not. He closed his eyes, raised an exhausted hand, and forced his fingers into the release template for a preliminary probe. Better key it to the containment field on the vats, Karlini thought, start off by making sure those magical organisms of Roni’s are still in their cages. The containment spells should have been good against more than a little fire… but where were they? What had that crazy Creeping Sword guy been doing here, anyway? What -

Karlini’s hand jerked. His personal protection field clicked on, sucked at his energy reserve as he tried to cast loose the probe-tether before this pumped feedback loop got out of control -

- but he’d already depleted his reserve dealing with Dortonn, and he’d been drained even more than that getting in and out of the Tongue Water and then launching on his desperate run across the city, and on top of that there was the added adrenal draw-down from the emotional shock –

Karlini knew when he began to keel over but had no idea if he hit the ground.

Chapter 2

WHEN KARLINI FOUND OUT WHAT HAD HAPPENED he was going to want my head. Of course, that would be his first reaction; after he’d had a chance to think about it he’d come up with something really nasty. At the moment, my take on the subject was that if he wanted my head he was welcome to it. It sure hadn’t done me or anyone around me much but lasting harm.

Well, like the saying goes, I hadn’t been careful what I’d wished for, so sure enough that’s what I’d gotten. Now I might have known who I was, but I hadn’t really solved anything. As it had turned out there probably hadn’t been anything I could have done about it either. At least I hoped that was the case. It was one thing if I’d just been trapped in my body, being dragged along for the ride.

But if there had really been something I could have done to prevent it…

“So,” said Gashanatantra.

I opened my eyes and glared at him across from me in the closed carriage. “‘So’? That’s all you can say, ‘so’? ‘So,’ what?”

“Getting testy, are you?”

“Oh, testy, is it? You don’t like testy? You think I should just accept it all and move along, none the worse for wear? You find out your true identity is a homicidal maniac and then tell me about testy.”

“So,” Gash repeated, “now that you have exposed your spleen, what do you propose to do about this situation - Iskendarian?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Isn’t it your name?”

“Damned if I know,” I told him. Damned if I know. We’d obviously been occupying the same body, and the same brain too, him and me, but that was just the trouble. Him and me. I might have been able to dip into the underlying goo beneath both of us and return with some learned skill or the occasional odd fact - and indeed I had - but that was as close I’d come to feeling like he was anything more than the guy in the other room down the hall. I’d naively figured that when I finally broke through to reveal my hidden identity, wiped from sight by the Spell of Namelessness, it would seem familiar. Sure, I thought maybe major areas would still turn out to be gone forever, not merely hidden from sight but scraped clean. What I hadn’t anticipated was that “I” still wouldn’t recall the slightest scrap of memory that would make me remember being whoever-I’d-been. “We” were still utter strangers.

Not strangers like long-lost brothers, either. We didn’t seem anything alike, which was fine with me, but didn’t go any distance toward resolving the question of whether I was responsible for his actions.

On the other hand, another thing that I’d feared hadn’t happened either. I hadn’t been merged into him. I hadn’t ceased to exist as an autonomous being; my personality hadn’t seemed to change, my sense of self was intact - and neither seemed anything at all like his.

A lot of this could be explained if he’d told the truth when he’d said he’d created me. That didn’t make me feel any better, especially considering the fact that as soon as he’d finished saying that he’d done his best to toss me back into whatever primordial soup he claimed to have ladled me out of.

Still, it all just didn’t make sense, not that I was about to tell that to Gash, of all people. I mean, sneaky plots and long-range plans may be a way of life, but what I’d heard from Iskendarian didn’t add up. Even if my worser half had decided to conceal himself from his enemies by going underground behind a false front, or he’d hatched some plot whose resolution had been a century out but for whose resolution he still intended to be on hand, there had to be better ways of running it than this harebrained contrivance.

Of course, given the facts as I knew them, that same harebrain was also me.

Gash was regarding me thoughtfully. He was still covered with filth and soot from what he’d referred to in passing as “that mess at the bridge,” but then I hadn’t exactly cleaned up either. Actually, I was in lousier shape than he was, not only in appearance but in damage, of which I’d suffered quite a bit while he showed no evidence of any problem deeper than approximately the level of his skin. Other than the problem of the habitual paths of his mind, which goes without saying. He’d had his strange little assistant in the flying brass ball flag down this carriage for us where we’d staggered the few blocks away the burning Karlini place, but then the assistant had swooped off himself, leaving the two of us here together this short while later and none the better for the experience.

“I seem to recall you were trying to uncover your identity,” Gash said finally. “Are you happy now?”

“Not particularly, no, thank you.”

“Not even when the identity you revealed is a name out of legend, a major player on the world stage?”

“Especially not.”

“I see,” he said. “But you must have realized from the outset that innocent bystanders are rarely subjected to the Spell of Namelessness. Did you think you were some purged paladin, some force for good cast down for your threat to the powers that be?”

“I don’t know. I’m new around here. You tell me.”

“Certainly, the number who might be described by such a noble definition is vanishingly few,” he said with an air of contemplation, “whether among the ranks of the mighty or those insignificant others you appear to prefer to seek yourself among.”

I slumped down further in the seat. “Good guys or not, I didn’t expect I’d be a major scourge on the world.”

“Yes. We should clearly discuss that aspect of the situation. What do you think he might be doing at the moment?”

“He’s suppressed, asleep, under control.”

“Are you certain? The jolt administered by Monoch was scarcely enough to banish him, I’m sure you must know.”

I thought about it. Would I know if he was awake and listening in? At this point I figured I would. The relationship between him and me - leaving aside for the moment the metaphysics behind those two referents when both of us were occupying the same body and the same brain - was not totally symmetrical. In the most recent stage I’d been able to watch him when he’d been active without causing him to black out or to know I was there; he’d thought I’d been eradicated. But could he be doing the same thing now to me? “Yeah, I’m pretty sure,” I lied. Only even if he was merely suppressed, what did I do now? What if he woke up again and tried to come back?

When he woke up again.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Why are you asking about him? Do you want to know from a concern from public safety or because you want to recruit him for some scheme of yours? How much did you have to do with bringing him out of hiding in the first place?”

He regarded me, and either I knew him well enough by now, or my insight was being supplemented from the time we’d shared the metabolic link that had let me pass myself off in his identity, or I’d played enough bid-and-bluff card games over the years, but I could virtually see the intricate orreries of his mind whirling in their epicycles, and then finally align themselves in decision. “l had my suspicions,” Gash said, “when we met, in Roosing Oolvaya, that there was more to you than was apparent on the surface. As far as l was concerned at the time, our initial meeting was happenstance. Subsequently one must question, as one must always question these things, but if a plan existed to bring us together its subtlety lies beneath the level of indifferentiable noise.

“As you know,” he went on, “there are always people who go about in disguise. Most often the masquerade is deliberate, occasionally not. In either case, being aware that some subterfuge is in progress is a very clear survival skill.” Gash leaned back and re-crossed his legs. “I fear that much you have attributed to paranoia or omnipotent machination is in reality the merely comprehensive application of principles of prudence. Omnipotence is all a matter of mirrors and smoke anyway, laid atop a mortar of superstition. Are we not men?”

“I assume you’re speaking rhetorically.”

Gash favored me with an occupationally inscrutable glance. “Don’t become caught up with labels. What is the practical definition of godhood if not one of power and demonstrable capability?”

“Well, you already did away with omnipotence, I guess, and I suppose by extension omniscience too, but what about creating and ruling the world, supernatural and eternal attributes, establishing ethical codes and -”

“There you’re mythologizing again. Your associate Maximillian would never speak that way, I assure you. If you examine your abilities as Iskendarian, or the history of your activities, you would find very little to differentiate yourself from a god, I can assure you of that as well.”

I pointed a finger at him. “You’re trying to appeal to my reasonability,” I said. “You’re trying to humanize yourself - to demythologize yourself - so that I’ll agree to do whatever it is you’re leading up to. You want me to think I’m not being intimidated into it. You want me to feel comfortable I’m making a decision as one peer to another instead of being stampeded into something I’ve got no choice about anyway. Why? Why are you bothering? Because of Iskendarian’s power?”

“Would you believe me if I said I wanted to be your friend?” Gash asked. “Of course not. Power obviously has a major role in everything that is happening, but raw power is scarcely the whole story. Fortunately it rarely is. At the -”

“Then why be a god if not for the power?”

“There’s power and there’s power. At the moment, as I was saying, the issue is the power of persuasiveness; in a word, politics. With the matter of Abdication versus Conservation looking to come to a resolution once and for all, things are very tentatively balanced. It may not be a great exaggeration to say the world of affairs is poised on the edge of chaos. Slightly different perturbations may send matters off on wildly different trajectories. “

“Wait a minute. Weren’t you the one who just masterminded that little eradication of Soaf Pasook down in Oolsmouth? And what about trapping what’s-his-name in the ring? Pod Dall? Wasn’t he supposedly the moderating influence in god-to-god affairs? If you’re worried about chaos, well, weren’t you responsible for setting up the situation in the first place? And don’t tell me there’s chaos and there’s chaos.”

Gash closed his mouth and fixed me with an exasperated glare, implying that he might have been preparing to issue just such a pronouncement. “The situation is much different now than it was a few weeks ago in Roosing Oolvaya, or even in Oolsmouth. Who knew that so many gods would fly at each other’s throats? Who would have expected that so many independent plots would reach their inflection points at so close to the same time? And your friends, Karlini and Maximillian - what were they working on in that laboratory we just left?”

“I’m not exactly sure,” I said. “The second quantum level, I think, and something having to do with microscopic animalcules.”

He gestured with a waving hand. “You see? If they had been successful, Maximillian would have either used this to jack up his own power and challenge us directly, or would have set it loose into the public domain, which would have been worse. With generalized second quantum level direct access anyone could have wielded the power of gods. It’s possible civilization or even life on the planet might not have survived that exercise.”

Why did I even feel like I might know what he was talking about? “But you think things are still that unstable even though the Karlini lab burned itself to ash?”

“Yes and no,” Gash said. “The building didn’t burn itself to ash, now did it?”

I didn’t like where this was leading. My alter ego was the one who’d destroyed the lab, and I was sure he hadn’t done it with an eye toward helping the world. Whatever they’d been working on in that laboratory was not unfamiliar to Iskendarian; the Karlini gang even had his notes on hand with them. Iskendarian had wanted his papers back and at least he hadn’t gotten them - as far as I knew they’d gone to embers along with everything else in the place. But how much could he do on his unaugmented own?

The cautionary comment Gash had applied to Max could stick to Iskendarian as well.

“You never got around to telling me what you want Iskendarian for,” I said, “and what you had to do with waking him up.”

He launched himself promptly into it, apparently happy with the direction I wanted to go. “As I said, I had my suspicions that there was more to you than merely the detective. After our earliest encounters, I began to think. Who could you be, I wondered. I examined the list of likely candidates. I established the metabolic link between us, quite gingerly, you may be sure, and even so you managed to get past the cutouts and deliver me some nasty jolts. But the data that came back up the link were not consistent with a straightforward god-profile. So I passed along Monoch. Monoch is a very old construct, you know. In addition to being a soul-eater, he has experience in handling -”

“Monoch eats souls?”

“Of course. I thought you knew. Can’t you sense it?”

“Monoch hasn’t been out of the cane too much lately. Did you tell him to eat my soul?”

Gash gave me a thin but wary smile. “Shall we say you would clearly be resistant to even a nip, much less a bite? Monoch did, however, finally decide you were someone he had once met. How much do you really know about Iskendarian?”

“Why don’t you tell me what you think I ought to know.”

“Very well. Iskendarian was never a god. He could have been, he just thought it was a waste of his time. He was contemptuous of everyone and everything. He was extremely clever, though. He was so blatant about his ingenuity that it seemed his prime motivation was to show just how indispensable he was, and how menial everyone else looked by comparison.

“Iskendarian did do work with the gods, however. You know about the Spell of Namelessness, for example, and since back then things were somewhat less structured than at present - less ossified, some might say - there was more give-and-take in general. When he dropped from sight it was fully in keeping with the way he’d conducted himself all along - high-handed and unexpected.

“It was thought something had finally blown apart in his face and taken him to pieces with it. Iskendarian was given to riding the edge, after all, and even with all prudent precautions luck eventually runs out. Iskendarian was given more to luck than prudence as a matter of philosophy, too. Still, since he was who he was, he’s been considered missing rather than gone. Now that so many years had passed, though, he had moved out of consideration as a player likely to be ever seen again.

“And then there you were.”

“You mean it suddenly dawned on you that Iskendarian had returned?”

“No… ” Gash said slowly. “What I was trying to indicate here is that even after it was apparent that you were someone, it was still a significant surprise to learn that the someone was Iskendarian. Especially when Iskendarian began asserting himself. It was unclear what you… he… were up to.”

“‘Was’ unclear?”

He snorted. “Very well, is unclear. The clear thing, however, as I said before, is the highly destabilizing effect of his reappearance just at this moment.”

“Now come on. Certainly one de-iced guy can’t be worth all this attention.”

Gash was watching me warily. “You really don’t know?”

“What? Has he pulled this trick before?”

“Not this one, no, but others, yes. Iskendarian was known for wanton exercise of power. Indiscriminate experimentation. In the course of refining the Spell of Namelessness he once left all the inhabitants of a small city with no memory and the collective mind of a gopher. The ends of at least a dozen gods were linked to him. Towns were known to vanish from the earth when he was in the vicinity.”

Great, so this was my life. “Is this what you meant when you said he might as well have been a god?”

“The gods have restraint. We know it’s bad policy to foul your own nest.”

“Are you saying Iskendarian was known for being out of his mind? Even by comparison with you nutty gods?”

“That is probably not too strong a statement.”

I kneaded my temples with my hand. How much of this could I believe? After all, Gash was known as the master plotter of the gods. Could he be making all this up? From his reputation, absolutely. But why would he bother? How dangerous was Iskendarian? How dangerous did that make me?

Dangerous enough that I shouldn’t want to be alone with myself in a dark alley, it sounded like. Hell, dangerous enough not to be alone with myself, period. “Sounded like” didn’t even figure into it. I’d seen the evidence with my own eyes.

Except Gash wasn’t telling the truth; not the whole truth at any rate. He never did. So which part was he fudging on? Maybe I could ask Monoch. I’d better wait until I had him alone, though, and could feel him out a bit more. He might lie too, but perhaps I could triangulate on whatever it was they were trying to keep from me by coming at from another direction.

It made sense that Gash might be pulling his punches when illuminating Iskendarian and his activities. If Iskendarian was listening in - and was as touchy as Gash described - maybe Gash didn’t want to rub him the wrong way.

On the other hand, maybe that’s just what he did want to do -

“Are you trying to decide if it’s me listening to you here,” I shot at him, “or if it’s really Iskendarian? You think he might be awake after all and be using his puppet as a mask to hide behind?”

“The thought had crossed my mind,” Gash said. “Even though Monoch doubts it. Yet Monoch, of course, could have been co-opted.”

I glanced at Monoch, an innocuous walking stick still resting between my knees. Right. I had to keep remembering he was really a spy, and not one working for me, either. “And what have you decided?”

“It appears that you and Iskendarian are now, for certain practical purposes, different entities. Yet I am not convinced he is under your firm control, nor that you will be able to accomplish this.”

“There’s one basic answer to the problem. I could get killed,” I suggested.

“Can you think of anything more likely to wake Iskendarian up again than attempting to die? He may well be several hundred years old already - you think he doesn’t have safeguards? And do you think if Iskendarian could be safely wiped from the scene we gods would not have already brought this to pass? In a notorious manifesto, Iskendarian once declared that the world as we know it would not survive him.”

“Another reason folks were nervous when he dropped from the scene?”

“Just so.”

“But you say they won’t be any happier knowing he’s still around. No, I guess not. Doesn’t sound like a good situation, does it?”

“You begin to perceive the problem.”

“Yeah, right. Wait - how about this? If I can’t get killed, maybe I could kill myself.”

“An interesting twist,” Gash said. “But if you and Iskendarian are indeed separate intelligences, as you claim, don’t you think he would have precautions against you as well?”

“Huh. What about an exorcism? Maybe he could be driven out of me, so to speak.”

“This doesn’t appear to be a case of possession, per se. Of course, it is not a straightforward matter of multiple personalities, either. Some sort of exorcism might be something to try. On the other hand, this is Iskendarian. He could have contingency planning to deal with being driven from his body. Would you like to be responsible for delivering a free-floating autonomous Iskendarian spectre to the world? You may recall the activities of Pod Dall as he attempted to recorporate in Roosing Oolvaya.”

“For someone who may be out of his mind you sure think he’s figured all the angles.”

“Not necessarily all,” said Gash. “Even if he intended to insinuate himself into the company of gods, I don’t believe he would have planned for this level of close scrutiny. Also, judging by his rampage while he was in control earlier, subterfuge may no longer have been his goal. Of course, his actions do not quite make sense, either, which either means we have not yet seen enough to understand his plan, or,…”

“Or he’s out of his mind.” Our mind.

“Just so. So I have a proposal. I think perhaps you’d better stay with me.”

“You mean you actually stay somewhere? You don’t just zip off into thin air between one appearance and the next?”

Gash sighed and looked at me with exasperation. “I mean, more broadly, that you should remain in my company. Moves by Iskendarian that you could not counter on your own should evolve differently when you and I and Monoch are present.”

“You and I and Monoch?”

“And possibly others. To put it bluntly, which should not even be necessary, you are a walking time bomb. Since I’m aware of the danger, by rights I should be fleeing to the other side of the world.”

“Then why aren’t you?”

He fixed me with another stare. “If you detonate and the situation gets out of hand, the other side of the world may be far too close. Would you hibernate for fifty years and then reemerge for anything less than your major move?”

“Obviously not.” He was right. I was a public menace, a walking time bomb, whatever exactly that was.

Only could I trust him? Of course not, but that judgment was largely mitigated by the fact that I clearly couldn’t trust myself either. “So,” I said, “where are we going?”

Gash scowled, an expression I don’t think I’d ever seen on him before. “There is someone I believe it is time to see.”

“An ally? I thought you didn’t need allies, only tools, and ones to stab in the back as soon as you were through with them.” Come to think of it, since I’d known Gash, every associate of his I’d been aware of had met a nasty end.

“Misdirection is often the strongest ally there is. And I didn’t say this person was an ally, either, except potentially of convenience.”

But what choice did I have? At the moment, none were apparent. If I’d said no to his proposal would he have let me leave the coach, whatever his warnings about Iskendarian and his potential defenses against harm? Somehow I didn’t think so. And could I approach any of the Karlini gang at this point, after exterminating a key member they were all fond of? No, at the moment it was time to ride and think, and hope some additional options would present themselves somewhere down the line.

Rather than just cruising the streets, it seemed that the coach had already been following particular instructions from Gash. We had reached a reasonably high-class section of Peridol, actually one of the streets of the gods judging by the constant parade of temples marching past at either hand. If Gash wanted allies, it seemed like a reasonable place to look. Instead of pulling up in the front somewhere, though, the coach stopped midway between two medium-sized worship houses just long enough for Gash to hustle me out of the vehicle and down the narrow alley that separated the buildings. I didn’t know if he intended to insure that I couldn’t make out the sigils of the owning gods above the grand entranceways, but the result was the same; I had a quick glimpse of a basilica front to the right and the minarets of a mosque on the left, and then we were scurrying down the walk-space brushing the walls with our shoulders on either side. Truth to tell, I was feeling less like scurrying than like falling into a bed and not emerging for a week. In my recent history with Iskendarian I’d taken more damage than I was eager to itemize. Momentum was probably the thing; all I needed to do was just keep myself moving, was the thought on my mind, when Gash abruptly stopped ahead of me and I had to pull up sharply to keep from bowling him over. “Here, I believe,” he murmured, passing his hand lightly over the stones of the basilica wall, then moving slowly away from me down the alley. For a moment I thought he was working some magic, as his hand seemed to sink into a stone, but then I saw that the stone itself was sinking into the wall under the pressure of his touch. He manipulated several other adjoining stones similarly. Not surprisingly, this was followed by a narrow section of wall swinging silently away from us. We squeezed into the passage and the secret door closed behind our backs.

The passage was narrow and twisty and apparently built within the internal walls of the building. It was also apparent that Gash knew where he was going, but that neither he nor anyone else had taken this route recently, judging from the dust and the evidence of heavy infestation by rodents and spiders and the other usual tenants of such places. Several times Gash paused in consideration at branch points, selecting one path over another in what I assumed was not a succession of random hunches. He took none of the exit doors and utilized none of the covered peepholes, however, until finally he held up a hand. The green wizard-glow ball that drifted ahead of him shrunk to a pinpoint and went out. I could see Gash pulling aside a wall-hanging curtain, however, in the glow that came through the silvery window it revealed in the wall. I had already begun to think we might not be expected. “After you,” whispered Gash, fingering the window and transforming it into a waving sheet of gossamer eddies. I stretched out my own hand. Since I felt only a cool whisper as of the memory of an oil bath, I stepped through the mirror. Beyond the mirror was a person, her hands raised in a complex ward but her mouth open in surprise. “You! -” she said. “What have you -”

But her surprise was not yet over; in fact, knowing her as I did, it was clear the surprises had just begun. I had to admire him, even if he had tried hard to get me killed and hadn’t necessarily given up yet on that goal. She was looking over my shoulder now, at the figure emerging behind me, and her eyes were wide now and her face white, too. “You! - you? - but I -

you -”

“Hello, Jill-tang,” said Gash, her husband.

Chapter 3

“THIS IS NOT WHAT I EXPECTED,” said a voice some distance away in the darkness; that of the Imperial Archivist.

“That’s rather a characteristic of my family, I’m afraid,” Zalzyn Shaa called back. As long as any guards weren’t interfering, why not converse? And if they did interfere, that could provide its own entertainment anyway. “What did you expect?”

“… I’m not sure, really. Torture, I suppose, possibly rape, more grandstanding certainly. I didn’t expect to be just parked in a dungeon while your brother left to attend to other business.”

“Well, I’m sure he intends to get to all of that in good time. He’s bound to be rather stretched thin at the moment, though, wouldn’t you think? Seeing as he’s just promoted himself to god, and all.”

“Right,” said Leen, “so he’s a god now. When you’ve just become a god what do you do next?”

“Aside from anything you want? When you’re Arznaak, probably the greatest amount of harm to the greatest number of people.”

Leen said nothing back to that. It was the sort of thought to inspire contemplation, not that they had any shortage of those. Shaa, in the momentary reverie that had sustained him as they were being dragged down to the subbasement to be dumped in the dungeon, had amused himself with the metaphorical image of the lot of them being swept inexorably into the maw of a huge maelstrom, the current at the funnel’s rim being initially so gentle as to be unrecognized, then the insistence of the moving water and its motive force becoming notable and inescapable at virtually the same moment. Now an aerial observer would find them spread out along the funnel’s sloping wall, each individually thrashing to keep head above water but simultaneously subsiding toward the common drain, when they would presumably all meet again in a common crashing fate. At the moment, his fate and that of the Archivist were the most tightly intertwined, of course, but Shaa preferred to think globally wherever possible. It was a certainty that, although presently out of sight, Max, the Karlinis, the Monts, the Creeping Sword, his brother Arznaak, his sister Eden, and who knew how many others were bound together in a common skein.

“You don’t think he’d just let us starve,” Leen called out suddenly. “Do you?”

“What fun is there in that? There’s no entertainment value in starving someone completely, at any rate.”

“Talking to you doesn’t necessarily make me feel any better.”

To advise a different choice of partners next time would be churlish. “This is quite a dungeon my brother’s built for himself, don’t you think?” Shaa said instead. “From the look of the floor-plan on the way down here he’s obviously expecting quite a few more tenants. You’d scarcely expect it, looking at this place from the street.”

“Looking at this place from the street I’d have expected almost anything.”

“Yes, I can see your point of view.” Shaa rattled a chain. “I might have thought he’d just hurl us out on the street too, under the assumption that we couldn’t do anything more to stop him, but apparently not. Perhaps he just wants to keep us around so he can periodically enjoy a convenient gloat.” That was not, of course, the only possibility. But suppose, god or no, there was something that could be done to stop him. The first step was traditional but clear. They had to get out of the dungeon.

As always, there were many conceivable ways to accomplish this. Given the dampness in the cell from Peridol’s high water table, the manacles would eventually rust, which would be a start. The time span, however, might be inconvenient. Anyway, another potential alternative could be much more productive, and in more ways than merely getting loose from the chains. Shaa began to focus on quieting his breathing.

“What do you think’s happened to Max?” Leen said.

Shaa drew a deep, regular breath. “By now, whatever Max’s situation happens to be, it will keep.” He was most likely firmly embedded in some impregnable dungeon, and if not that, he’d be out again roaming the streets. If the case was that of the dungeon, getting him extracted might take some doing but was probably not a matter of extreme urgency. In the other case, well, if Max wanted more help he could damn well come and beg for it.

Actually, that could apply to the case of the dungeon as well. Shaa was half-inclined to let him well and fully rot for a change. Might do Max a world of good. Of course, all this talk was somewhat specious considering his own present situation. But wasn’t that same situation at least partly Max’s fault? It was Max’s high-handed plot to rid Shaa of his brother’s curse that had led to their current low state, as well as to Arznaak’s elevated one. Yes, after the success he’d had with his machinations the world might be better off with Max on ice.

“I realize you have certain feelings for Maximillian,” Shaa told Leen. “So do I. In many ways he is like a brother to me.”

“Not at all like your actual brother, then.”

“Actually, my feelings toward both of them are often very much the same. They both inspire a mood of serious aggravation more often than is healthy for the digestion.” But then Leen might, against all good sense, really be in love with Max. Shaa spoke softly. “Don’t worry about Max. This place isn’t shielded that well; if he were dead I would know. Even if he were being badly tortured, I would know.” It was probably even the truth.

Leen again fell silent. Just as well; he needed his concentration. Locks were a basic exercise, but then Shaa had been at enforced idleness for far too long now.

Passive first. Just sit back and let the situation flow to you. Easiest thing in the world… and, so. The lock on the manacles was nicely shielded, and at Arznaak’s own hand, but Shaa had not only learned his earliest lessons from the same source as his brother, Shaa had much more often been forced to consider and react to a situation of his brother’s creation. There was likely to be a scrap of something lying about the cell… ah, a rat femur, just the thing. Now coerce the piece of bone to consider itself a key. With some prestidigitational manipulation -

The click from the lock sounded loud in the subterranean stillness of the cell, but another expected sound was absent. Shaa shook the manacle from his right wrist with a low clatter. In spite of himself, he felt himself grinning.

The pound of blood in his ears was soft.

His shortness of breath was no more than could be accounted for by the tension of the situation.

The habitual wheeze had deserted him.

Neither ankle was a soggy morass.

And the expected pain in his chest? What pain in his chest?

In short, the crushing rejoinder that had afflicted his every attempt to employ magic since Arznaak’s original launching of his curse had not arrived. True, this had been the most modest sort of magic. But still Shaa was a physician, and the patient whose condition was most familiar happened to be himself. If there had been a backlash, however slight, he would have detected it.

Arznaak had attempted to decoy him through misdirection. Nevertheless, the possibility had been obvious. Max had swapped the ring containing Pod Dall to Jardin, the former Curse Administrator, in exchange for Jardin’s lifting of the curse on Shaa. Although Arznaak, now having overthrown Jardin and installed himself as Curse Administrator in his stead, had gone through a ritual that he claimed would reestablish the curse, it had been a sham. Arznaak must have thought his brother would be too skittish to even test the curse again after the unpleasantness he’d suffered before. In every case of god-usurpation Shaa had heard of, though, it had taken the newly divine one some time to fully assume the mantle of office and become fully functional with the subtleties of their new powers.

Of course, the damage Shaa had already suffered through past injudicious use of conjuration was probably permanent; nevertheless, one must look forward, not behind, unless one wants to do nothing but fall over one’s feet. And it was a near-certainty that Arznaak would reinstate the curse eventually. However, he might also - most probably did also - have other plans that needed prosecution first. So by the time Arznaak got around to the curse again many things could be different.

So. Shaa could use magic again without fearing the backlash. This meant he could most likely escape, and without excessive histrionics. Would it be best to leave in a subtle and mysterious manner that might only be discovered after some extended period of time, or through the satisfaction of pyrotechnics? The decision was not trivial. He considered the options.

Beyond the skittering of the rats in the hall and the drip of water, there was heard unexpectedly a soft click of metal. From, perhaps, the next cell? The click was followed by a creak, as of a reluctant door carefully eased, and then a shadow that moved across the grill in Shaa’s own cell. Subtlety had it, then, although perhaps the opportunity for pyrotechnics would still present itself. Shaa finished divesting himself of the remaining chains and slid to the door. “May I help you?” he inquired.

“I think I’ve almost got it,” hissed Leen from the other side.

Skill in the magical was, of course, part of her job. Shaa held his hand above the lock to feel her work. “Very adroit,” Shaa murmured. “Quite deft.”

“Thank you,” said Leen, as this door made its own click. With a louder clack, she swung back the bolt.

Shaa joined her in the hall. She was looking down the corridor away from the door through which they had been brought. “You don’t think there’s some secret exit from this place, do you?”

“A dungeon is typically constructed with as few outlets as possible,” Shaa reminded her.

“I suppose you’re right. What do we do, then?”

The first thing ahead was obvious. That is, the first thing after escaping the dungeon and reaching the street. But perhaps he was getting a bit ahead of himself. “I don’t particularly feel like overpowering guards and engaging in armed combat right at the moment. What about you?”

“Well, I’d rather not, but what else can we do? We’ve got to get out of here! Don’t we?”

“Oh, certainly we do. Have you done any cloaking work? Misdirection spells?”

“In school, but that was a long time ago. Now I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Hold still, then,” Shaa instructed. “You are about to become a housecat.” Leen grasped his arm. “Wait - doesn’t your curse keep you from doing spell-work? What if you die - I don’t want -”

“Things,” said Shaa, “appear to have changed. I wouldn’t mind your keeping that to yourself, though, if you wouldn’t mind?”

“Changed? Oh! Yes, right, of course.”

“Just so. Let’s return to the holding still, then, shall we?” His control over the side-lobe emissions from the energies involved would be somewhat tricky, since Arznaak did have magic-release detectors out among his other alarms, and since Shaa’s practical skills were sure to be reasonably rusty after the years of occupying the sidelines. Shaa had always been the family’s real sorcery whiz, though, he didn’t mind acknowledging, and this wasn’t the first time he’d had to deal with this style of work from his brother, either. And the work involved was thoroughly trivial to boot…

“There we are,” Shaa announced.

“Already?” said Leen. “I didn’t even think you’d started.”

“Transforming us into cats would have taken time.” Actually, even doing this to a first-caliber level would have taken time. His quick probe of the building above having revealed a low count of guards and retainers hanging about, though, a full-scale job shouldn’t be necessary. Accordingly, he’d been more concerned about someone popping around a corner unexpectedly and looking right at them. “Just think of yourself as wearing a cat-shaped throw rug, and remember that to anyone more than a foot away you look to be no more than about six inches high off the ground. Now, since there’s no one just beyond the door at the end of this hall, perhaps you’d be good enough to open it and we’ll be on our way.”

It all proved far too easy, but sometimes that’s just the way things go. In the event they met no one at all on the way through the building. Of course, legions of retainers were immaterial to a god, especially one as sneaky as his brother doubtless intended to be. They did have to wait in an alcove for a trio of guards possibly on the way to lunch to pass through the garden before making their final sprint for the door in the back wall; that passage too, however, was accomplished with further incident. They were down the alley and around the corner and another block away before Shaa called Leen to a halt. “I’m not used to this,” was the first thing she said, “so I’m not going to argue with whatever you say. Just tell me what to do now.”

“I will welcome your input wherever you wish to make it available,” Shaa said judiciously. His heart had developed a pound from the sprinting and dashing, but no more than the level to which he had become accustomed. Still, physical exertion would need to be planned judiciously.

Which was not the same as avoiding exertion altogether. “Let’s take a quick stroll around the neighborhood,” suggested Shaa. “Shall we?”

“I, ah, stroll?”

“The most important thing to do right at the moment is to try to find Jardin, wouldn’t you say? The former Curse Administrator? Presumably, he’s been dumped somewhere in an alley, and from the look of that fellow my brother sent off to do the job I’d suspect he didn’t take him far.”

Actually, Shaa reflected, he was not being entirely straightforward with the Archivist. Short of combing the gutters how would they accomplish this search? Even within a four-block range there could easily be enough alleys and hiding places to keep them busy the rest of the afternoon. Jardin’s god-signature was probably gone at the moment, too, which would leave them nothing useful to home in on either. In any case, running up and down blocks clawing through garbage promised to benefit no one but Shaa’s washerwoman.

There was, of course, a more attractive alternative to the wielding of their own fine-tooth comb. It did present its own hazards, which were of a different caliber than those posed by a quest through rubbish. The perils of rubbish were those of an esthetic and public health nature, rather than immediately those of life, limb, and sanity. Shaa would choose the risk to sanity any day. With some judicious footwork it should even be possible to keep secret Max’s involvement, whatever it had been.

But that could wait a few moments. There were a few things that needed to be aired with the Archivist while he had her preoccupied, hence this entire exercise.

“What do you think your brother’s likely to do next?” Leen asked, following him.

“The fact that I’m still alive - that we’re still alive, pardon me - implies any number of things, all of them nasty and any of them probably quite big. As you heard him say, he does like an audience.”

“Aren’t you worried that he’ll…”

“What, reach out and smite us? That remains a distinct, if somewhat remote, possibility. Resting in one position paralyzed with fear, however, seems like more a strategy to assure that outcome than one calculated to fend it off. If he wanted to kill us straight out, well, he’s already had years. He’s trying to be more diabolical than that, clearly.”

“But you’re his brother. Don’t you have any more insight than that?”

“If I were him,” Shaa said, “I’d either be consolidating my position or using the element of surprise to propel my next stage of attacks. He’s more rash than I am, so he may very likely have overrun a few more gods since he left us. Perhaps the Emperor too, for that matter.”

“You think Arznaak’s going after the Emperor?”

Shaa raised an eyebrow as they turned another corner into another major street. No bodies were obvious in the ruts, although what about that sizable mound of dirt? He led them ambling toward it. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised. I’m rather inclined to let him.”

“Surely you’d at least warn the Emperor. Wouldn’t you?”

“He’s a big boy, or at least he’s supposed to be. In any case, he’s no particular friend of mine.”

“But if Arznaak, I don’t know, overthrows him too, won’t that give him so much power that -”

“What it would give Arznaak is no shortage of new trouble.” No, the heap was merely dirt and mud and dung. The only living things it contained were small and invertebrate. “The power of the Emperor is overrated, anyway.”

“Trouble? What trouble? Managing all the new troops and resources he’d have at his disposal? Deciding who to launch Peridol into war against?”

“Not at all. By trampling the compact, he’d bring down on his head the obligated wrath of the other gods. Whoever he might be allied with, they couldn’t overlook a blatantly prohibited power grab like that.”

“What if he isn’t allied with anyone? What if it’s just him?”

“Hmm,” said Shaa. His brother clearly had enough gall. Of his nerve there was no doubt. Could this be his plan? To run full-tilt through gods and humans, bowling them over through a mixture of bravado and accumulated momentum?

But what other choice did he have? Being Arznaak, he wouldn’t just stop now. And if he moved rapidly enough, even the gods might not realize what was happening until it was too late. On the other hand…

If Arznaak was on a course of wiping out the gods, how was that different from what Max kept saying he wanted to do? The difference, of course, was Arznaak himself. Arznaak would want one god left, certainly, and possibly others to serve him. Yes, that was a significant difference. At least when there were a bunch of gods, they had to operate within strictures, under a balance of power. If there was only one there would be nothing to stop him from whatever he wanted. “Very well,” Shaa declared. “Luck is where luck usually is, somewhere else, making the enterprise of this search futile. Before we proceed to the next step, I must ask you - are you with me? Do you have any thought of siding with my brother in the hope you will avert his wrath?”

“After he kidnapped me off the street and threw me in his dungeon?”

“With no lasting harm that can be seen,” observed Shaa. “You will have noticed that my brother is a master of second-order plots.”

“Are you implying I’m the same?”

“I don’t know. We haven’t been acquainted long. Are you?”

“There’s nothing I could say that would convince you one way or the other,” said Leen. “Is there? But right now you don’t have much to lose and we both have a lot to gain. What do you propose to do? Do you intend to stop your brother and rescue Max?”

Shaa eyed the Archivist. His question had been more misdirection; Arznaak wasn’t that charming, especially after you’d seen his other side, as she had quite recently. No, the problem would be her feelings for Max. Well, perhaps she could resolve them before the question became too important, although if she could successfully resolve her relationship with Max in a mutually acceptable manner that would stand the test of time she’d be the first one. Damn that Maximillian, anyway.

“Both of these are my eventual hope,” Shaa told her. Along with whatever else might need doing as a result.

“What is your plan, then?”

“I am making this up,” Shaa said, also with less than total candor, “as I go.”

“I don’t believe you,” Leen said immediately. “But if that’s the line you want to take I’m willing to play along with you for the time being. What are you making up for the next move, then?”

Why were people never willing to just play their assigned role? “You and I must part. There is more that needs doing than a single person can oversee without destroying its time value. I would ask you to recruit your brother.”

“To find Jardin?”

“Unless the Crawfish already has him in claw, don’t bother. I will handle that. You find out what’s become of Max - but please, if he is in no immediate danger, don’t run after him to pull him out. Okay? Thank you. Also, perhaps your brother, who is, after all, my sister Eden’s principal agent in town, would be good enough to relay the news to her in Yenemsvelt.”

“If the curse is lifted from her too, do you want her to join you in the city?”

“What I want is likely immaterial. If the subject comes up, though, I’d recommend she drop from sight. This also would be good advice for you.”

“I’ll have Lemon to watch my back. He knows his way around these things, but if we just try to hide, sooner or later Arznaak will be back.”

“This has not escaped my contemplation. Especially since whatever my brother wants from your Archives he has yet to obtain. You might also consider what that might be. Ah - you know what it is? You are looking at me in a more than casually speculative manner.”

“You made me think of something else. At least I think it’s something else. How well do you know those ancient languages Max seemed so adept with?”

“I can get by. There are others who are better than me, a particular cult here in the city; the worshipers of what they choose to think of as the One true God. Why?”

“Ah, I think it had better wait until later.”

“With the way events have been evolving,” Shaa pointed out, “there may not be a ‘later,’ at least for some of us.”

“Don’t you think you’re being a little histrionic?”

“Do you?”

“I - well, maybe not,” Leen allowed. “Very well. I uncovered an ancient device, Pre-Dislocation, hidden in the depths of the Archives. It is still active, although its activity is cryptic. I showed it to Max - don’t ask me for the full story now, okay? - and it responded when he spoke to it in one of the old languages. Then it seemed to ask for something Max couldn’t give

it - a password of some sort, I expect - and closed itself down.”

This is not the first ancient association recently to arise, Shaa noted. Perhaps the Iskendarian papers recovered by Max from their hiding place and now in the capable hands of Ronibet Karlini could be brought to bear on this topic as well. The One God cultists had already been consulted on the Iskendarian material, or to be more precise, Jurtan Mont had been dispatched on this errand yesterday morning and had not yet to Shaa’s knowledge reported back. It would be nice to get Max’s assessment of the thing, but in the phrase of the ancients, that was clearly easier said than done. “Did Max say what he thought this instrument was? What about you - what do you think it is?”

Leen’s mouth twisted. “Max was being mysterious, and at the same moment he discovered he had to run out the door to attend to something else, which I now suspect was related to his scheme with Jardin.”

“Yes, that’s Max, all right,” Shaa murmured. “And your opinion?”

“I think it’s a computer,” she said. “From the fragmentary sources I’ve read, I’ve never been entirely sure what a computer was or what they were used for. I’ve always thought these computers end up sounding too omnipresent and all-encompassing to be more than myth, or metaphor perhaps; something like djinni trapped incarnate in mechanical shells. But the thing in the basement does seem to fit many of the physical descriptions: flat glowing lights in regular patterns, an oracular voice speaking a lost tongue, more high-grade metal than I’ve ever seen in one place -”

“And buried in the Archives,” added Shaa. “A place of prodigious and seamless memory.”

“Scarcely seamless, but yes. I’ve read about these computer things being repositories of ancient wisdom too. What do you think? Have you ever seen one of them?”

“A computer?” Shaa said. “No. Something matching the description you specify? No. However, in the course of my experiences with Maximillian, and my own escapades over the years, I know better than to assume that anything described in association with the ancients is merely myth. Their tricksterism was legion. So beware of this thing you’ve unearthed. Its lethality most likely goes in direct proportion to its significance. Contact the One God people.” He gave her instructions. “Also - this may ultimately be a better reason to extract Max than anything else. But please don’t be precipitate. Please? Wait for me.”

“I said I would.”

“Very well. Let us be off, then.”

The closest thing to a coach in the vicinity just then was a garish rickshaw. Shaa instructed the driver, gave a last wave of acknowledgement to Leen, and let the vehicle clop away.

Shaa had taken the opportunity to reconnoiter his destination several days earlier. The location was not exactly obscure, and his goal at the moment was not what you would call clandestine, but it never hurt to know the lay of the land. It would be important to bring the Karlinis up to date - and perhaps the Creeping Sword would have something of value to add too, you never knew - but the Jardin situation seemed more urgent. Although did he remember how to work remote communications? What was Karlini’s recipient address key? Shaa sank back and closed his eyes…

Either he wasn’t doing it right or Karlini was for some reason off the line. What about -

The rickshaw lurched forward. “We here,” the driver announced.

So they were. Shaa paid off and crossed the gleaming sidewalk. The grand entry ahead above a flight of wide stairs would lead through a collonaded aisle to the temple proper, a rectangular building with a broad nave ending in an apse. He had, after all, reconnoitered. He would not be going as far as the apse, though, and even the nave was in question. Instead, he glanced around the lobby, reorienting himself, and then approached the woman who was obviously, from the number of jewels on her breastplate, the senior priest on duty. She sat on a well-cushioned chair with a high, fluted back behind a desk laden with forms for the requesting of indulgences, casting an eagle glare around the sparse traffic trickling in and out. “By the look of you you’re here for something major,” the august one addressed Shaa.

Yes, Shaa thought, but it’s hardly what you think. “I need to see Her Godship,” he declared, “and don’t tell me she’s not in town because I know she is.”

The priest’s gaze hardened. “My Lord does not treat with buffoons. You must perform your supplication in the traditional manner, and as ardently as possible. I advise you to go clean yourself up before presenting yourself here again. Only the holiest of human -”

“If Her Godship finds out you kept me waiting she’ll break you back to a newt.”

She raised her nose and eyed him superciliously along it. “Thoroughly out of the question. The supplication line begins down there, in the nave. Either join it or leave. Or do you have the resource for an indulgence?” She had been joined at either side by a guard bearing an anything-but-ceremonial pike.

Shaa realized he was rather looking forward to something like this. Now we’ll see about that heart, he thought. But responsibility still came before pleasure. “I have tidings that won’t wait, concerning Jardin, Master of Curses.”

That did slow her down, at least until the old girl decided again Shaa was merely a mad person of the streets. “Then tell me your words. I will convey them.”

Shaa released one of his more sardonic grins. “Up to you. The news is he’s been pulverized.”

The priest went white. “He’s been - how would you -” She released a most unpriestly imprecation and rose to her feet. “Follow me – no, wait. You! Acolyte!”

A pair of matching pimply kids in low-order robes stood at attention on either side of the door to the cathedral proper. They were both looking at Shaa’s priest. The nearer one pointed uncertainly at his own chest. The priest glared at him and made a violent gesture with her arm. The kid scrambled over. “Guide this man downstairs as fast as you can.”

The pikemen joined Shaa in a trot as behind them, the priest he had confronted gathered up the indulgences, thrust them into a lower drawer, and took off without another look round in the other direction, out the exit door and onto the street. Perhaps, Shaa thought, as the lobby disappeared out of sight around the corner of the staircase they were now descending toward the innards of the temple, she is unwilling to be associated in even a circumstantial way with the delivery of bad news. Of course, if that was the source of prudence - as there was no doubt it was - then just what did he think he was doing?

Unfortunately, what came naturally. Debarking from the staircase and wandering a short maze of passages, Shaa and his escorts came upon a tall chamber with a polished obsidian floor and twinkly wall hangings. Shaa averted his eyes as much as possible from the garish furnishings and fixed his gaze on the armed priest contingent at the far end. Then they had crossed the room and the acolyte was confronting his betters, trying to explain the errand that had brought him here.

Shaa considered using another misdirection spell. Deploying magic in a god’s own sanctum was considered one of the riskier maneuvers, all things considered, by those who had studied the issue from afar; the maneuver had been studied from afar since those who had attempted it were not generally available for feedback. But there was misdirection, and misdirection.

Shaa waited until the assembled ecclesiastics had glanced at him again and then retreated back into their huddle; then he took a half-step back and edged to the side. One of his guard-escorts turned to follow him. Shaa rested a gentle hand on the guard’s pike shaft, but then somehow the butt of the pike ended up between the fellow’s legs with its business end tangling with the tunic of the other escort, and then both escorts were hanging onto each other to keep from falling to the floor, their feet slipping and skidding on the slick obsidian surface, and then they were falling to the floor anyway in a mess of flailing arms and waving staffs. All eyes turned to the cascading guards; all eyes, that is, except for Shaa’s, which were fixed securely on the door he was approaching on a rapid lope from a oblique angle. Then the shouting was suddenly and obviously directed at him, but by then he was through the door and shutting it securely again behind himself.

The room Shaa found himself occupying had the look of a law library. Bookcases filled with matched leather-bound tomes crept up the walls, punctuated by banks of filing cabinets and several large desks. Even apart from the furniture, however, Shaa was not occupying the room alone. Three people were facing each other in front of a tall wall-mirror, their expressions indicating mutual astonishment.

“We meet again,” Shaa said to the first personage, the woman he’d met on the dock on his arrival in Peridol, whom he had subsequently researched, and whom he had come to her temple expecting to see. “As do we,” he added to the Creeping Sword as well, although he had surely not expected him. And then, to be comprehensive and to fully observe the social niceties, he addressed with a courteous bow the third member of the group, only now fully emerging from the mirror. “The pleasure is mine,” proclaimed Shaa. “The true Gashanatantra, I presume.”

Chapter 4

SO IT HAD COME TO THIS. But what was ‘this,’ really? Other than a serious overstatement of his reputation?

His body was strapped rigidly to a sledge. Pillory blocks had been locked across his ankles, his legs at mid-calf and mid-thigh, his lower and upper body, and the upper arm. Each hand had been forced into a steely glove, and then cords had been passed through the tie-down rings at the end of each finger and lashed firmly to a spread-eagle frame. The sledge in its turn had been chained down to the walls of the dungeon cell with enough footage of hawser to have moored a good-sized schooner.

As if that wasn’t enough, a grilled mask like an animal muzzle covered his face from the nose on down, and a carved mouthpiece kept his lips parted and his tongue mashed uncomfortably against his lower gums. Did they think he was going to bite someone’s nose off unless forcibly restrained? He was scarcely a homicidal maniac, Max reflected; if nothing else he was far too cultured for that, yet here he was in -

CLASH! CLANG!

Ow! Mounted somewhere out of sight just behind his head was some additional diabolic mechanism whose only purpose seemed to be the making of random out-of-tune and extremely loud noises aimed at driving him out of his mind. Or if not out of his mind, then preventing him from putting two thoughts together endwise. If he had retained any hope of launching a conjuration under these circumstances, suppressor radiators aimed at him from the corners of the cell projected a seamless anti-magic field across the entire space.

Well, he was in the soup now, there was no denying that. The noisemaker let loose with another cacophonous caterwauling as a different part of the mechanism whomped enthusiastically on what sounded to be a large cookpot. I wonder if they plan to feed me, Max wondered to himself. If they did how would they accomplish it? The dripping of gruel paste over the mask so it could dribble down into his mouth? Spray him with water from the door?

If you were going to succumb to a trap, though, it might as well be a good one. The one that had landed him here had certainly been a champion.

Although the architect of the plot had not formally unveiled him- or herself, Shaa’s brother Arznaak would appear as a leading suspect to be involved somewhere, at least. The plot-master had a detailed knowledge of the way Max’s mind worked; had in fact used Max’s own methods of plotting to have Max, himself, help deliver himself into his hands. Outmaneuvered he clearly had been. And outsmarted; he didn’t mind giving appropriate credit when he was forced to. And taken unawares. For all of his paranoia, he had never seen this coming.

He had seen something coming, yes. All of those attacks by old adversaries had to have been coordinated for some purpose. The involvement of the Hand in lowering the final boom demonstrated that much. And Max had been looking over his shoulder more than was even his usual hyper-sensitive habit.

Arznaak was also ruthless enough to blow up the Emperor’s own reviewing stand and a major bridge to boot just to implicate Max in terrorism of the most heinous nature. Just? Well, probably not ‘just’; there had likely been another goal served simultaneously, but damned if he could think through what it might have been with that thing next to him pounding away like a mechanical banshee.

… But even so, there still had to be more to it than he’d seen himself. Jardin had the ring containing Pod Dall. Would he realize Max had booby-trapped it, anyway, regardless of their mutual assurances, or would he just go on to use it? If Jardin was part of the plot, as seemed more than likely, then was he in league with Arznaak? Arznaak knew Max’s habits; he’d realize the ring had to be trapped, so he’d warn Jardin… unless he didn’t.

Arznaak couldn’t have been after that - could he?

Of course he could.

Arznaak as a god. That’s all they needed.

Maybe it was just as well for Max to stay wrapped up here in the dungeon, spending his time twiddling his thumbs. Although that was only a metaphorical option. Max couldn’t even move a thumb, much less twiddle it.

But he still had responsibilities that wouldn’t go away. Who had Shaa? And Leen? Max didn’t know how long it had been, a few hours at most, but that was surely long enough for any number of distressing possibilities to have come into effect.

Actually, though, the thought that Arznaak was involved was somewhat reassuring, in a bizarre sort of backhanded way. Arznaak’s modus operandi was to let his victims dangle in contemplation of their possible fates, rather than proceed to their immediate dismemberment or outright eradication. After toying with Shaa all these years why would he put an abrupt end to his fun? Even he, Max, could clearly have been slaughtered by the Hand on the bridge rather than being trundled back to the palace complex. And where there was life, there was… the promise of further aggravation.

Anyway, whatever had been in progress had most likely already played itself out, at least for the present act. A single act wasn’t an entire play, though… even if the cast of characters sometimes had a distressing habit of changing during the interval. Well, at least there was still Karlini. And Roni; especially Roni. The work she had been doing had been on the verge of fruition. Perhaps the best thing would be to sit tight and wait for one of them to come and get him out.

Maybe he’d even make bail.

Well, if nothing else perhaps he’d be able to catch up on his sleep. He could just let the clamor from the noisemaker wash over him, slide past him, as he subsided into a meditative state…

Wait a minute. That clang was different. It had come from the other side of the cell, where the door was. Max opened his eyes. Standing over him was a familiar face. “About time somebody showed up,” Max mumbled around the mouthpiece.

Max had not been badly injured by the events on the bridge. He was showing no lasting danger signs from being hit in the head by flying chunks of pavement, or almost no danger signs; the ringing in his ears and the occasional double vision could be explained by the auditory torture device alone. The Hand hadn’t roughed him up to any great extent, either. Even his appearance was probably better than most, due to his momentary bath in the Tongue Water. Of course, a dip in the Tongue was likely to leave you with its own aftereffects, but at least it had taken off the surface layer of grime and soot.

He had been lucky. Most everyone present on the scene must have been worked over to one degree or another. Even, apparently, the dignitaries attending to take part in the ceremony. But there were dignitaries and dignitaries. Max didn’t know if he’d ever seen a god looking quite so ill-used. Especially one venturing out in public with his head swathed in an oozing linen bandage that drooped low to cover his left eye, the remaining strands of mustache that had not been crisped off shooting away in every direction like the whiskers of a cat. Especially one favoring a leg with a locked knee and leaning on a cane, of all things.

“So,” said Phlinn Arol finally, “just what do you thing you’re doing?”

“What does it look like?” Max said, less distinctly than he liked. Damn that thing in his mouth. “Waiting for someone to rescue me. Is that why you’re here?”

Phlinn Arol gave Max a severe look. “The very thought of you waiting passively is preposterous.” Then he widened his glance to include the rest of the cell, and pursed his lips in assessment. “Still, preposterous or no,” he said grudgingly, “this does look to be an effective pen of confinement.”

“Right, yeah. If anybody around here remembered how to do suspended animation I’m sure I’d be in it, but this place is a close second. So are you here to get me out, or what?”

“Unfortunately it’s not nearly that simple. You don’t have any place to sit down in here, do you?”

“It hasn’t exactly been me hiding the furniture.”

“Urr,” grumbled Phlinn Arol. He settled for leaning back against one of the sledge-restraint chains to take some of weight off his bad leg. Max had to crane his eye around to the side to keep him in view.

“What have you been doing?” the Adventurers’ God asked Max again.

“The last few hours? Engaging in thought.”

“Pure thought?”

“When’s the last time you saw purity in this world?”

“A point well, if sadly, taken. But that’s still not the answer I had in mind. Typically, you’re spinning the question the wrong way.”

“So twirl it back at me again. What are you getting at?”

“What did you say? Oh, yes, I see. Have -”

“If you want to understand me better just take off this mask thing.”

Phlinn Arol looked away. “Even that would scarcely be so simple.”

“What’s not simple?” Max garbled. “I can feel it latches in the back.”

“You tried to assassinate the Emperor-designate, and me too as well.”

“You don’t actually believe that, do you? What do I have against the Emperor? What do I have against you? Somebody wants me on ice, that’s all, and maybe frozen so solid I’ll never thaw out. I’ve got a pretty good guess who, too.”

“And who would that be?”

“Arznaak, who else?”

“Are you certain you’re not letting longstanding personal animosity get between you and a reasonable presentation of the truth?”

“What better reason to pull something like this against me than longstanding personal animosity? If it makes you feel better, I am certain there’s more to what’s going on than just landing me on the shelf.”

Phlinn Arol scowled. He was looking less and less happy all the time. “As it develops, you happen to be correct. Yet let us stay with you for the moment. You are the most radical of radical Abdicationists. You wish to make the gods abandon humanity to its own independent fate, and have been willing to pursue any means to that end.”

“I’ve never assassinated anybody.”

“Tell me of your recent dealings with Jardin, Administrator of Curses.”

“He was after the Pod Dall ring. I traded it to him in exchange for lifting the curse on the Shaas.”

“So you did have the ring,” said Phlinn darkly. “I thought as much. And when Jardin received the ring from your hand, it was fully operational? No booby traps?”

“Well, sure.”

“‘Well, sure,’ which?”

Max snorted as well as he could manage under the circumstances. How much did Phlinn Arol know? What had been happening out there? Phlinn might be the key to springing him from this joint - it would be prudent to be straight with him. Unless through being straight he made himself out to be so dangerous he needed to remain cooped up. “Of course it was trapped. You don’t think I’d pass something like that ring off without some kind of safeguard, do you? I wanted to have the Shaa problem off my back, finally, but I didn’t intend to create a bigger mess while I was doing it. I figured Jardin’d detect the trap and have to spend time disarming it, and that would give me enough time to catch up with him and get the thing back.”

“I see. And then once you’d retrieved the ring Jardin would continue to honor your agreement? The Shaas would remain curse-free? Max, I know you too well. The only outcome you’d have been happy with was an incapacitated or inept Curse Administrator, one unable to reinstitute this curse.”

“I thought it was supposed to be a heroic thing to try to help your friends against overwhelming odds. I thought that kind of thing was what you were there to support.”

“Touché, Maximillian. But I should not have to remind you that timing is also crucial, and in this case you were badly off the mark. Even if you were merely duped, as seems perfectly plausible to me, what you may have helped to set loose is of significant concern.”

“Anything I may have helped to set loose I can also help to contain, but I can’t very well do it pegged down like a -”

“There are… complications,” Phlinn Arol said reluctantly, yet again. “As you know, I dislike taking an explicit hand in these things. There are also already enough destabilizing influences in circulation without reinserting you once again, too. You may yet have a further role to play, but there is chaos enough at the moment without making the situation yet more complicated.”

What was he really saying? “Does this mean you’ve teamed up with the Hand now?”

“I am open to all those who seek me. That is part of the job.”

“You’re giving chapter and verse to me? Who the hell you think you’re kidding? I’ve never met a god who didn’t play favorites and neither have you. If you want to simplify things you should just drag the Hand in here for a change and ask them what’s going on. They didn’t just happen to wander in from stage right, they were part of whatever plan was really happening there. Or if not then at least tell the Emperor to watch out for them.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

It was obvious. Phlinn had to know it was obvious. So why would he ask, unless - unless – “Why don’t you just tell whoever it is lurking out there in the hall to come on in,” Max called in a voice he hoped would reach the hall itself.

Phlinn Arol gazed impassively at Max. After a moment, a shadow darkened the doorway, hesitated, and then drifted into the cell. The cell, which was not large, had suddenly become crowded. A voice spoke from beneath the cloak. “So, this is your Maximillian, up close.”

“That’s him,” said Phlinn Arol.

“So. Maximillian,” said the hooded man. “You claim it was not your plot to kill the Emperor-designate? Shall I put you to the question to know for certain?”

Why do they always think they can pull this off? Max thought. These people should read more. “There’s no point in torturing somebody who’s telling the truth. If they break down all you get on top of the truth is fabrication. And I don’t break down.”

“You are quite the notorious fellow. Your sobriquet scarcely does you justice.”

“It wasn’t my idea.”

“What?” said the robed figure. “Deliberately garbling your speech again? No, I see, the mouth-manacle remains. The Emperor-designate was asking certain… pointed questions about you, you know, after your disruptive performance with the Scapula at the Initiation Ball.”

“Did the Emperor-designate like the answers?”

Phlinn Arol cleared his throat. “Max understands who you are,” he stated mildly.

“Yes, I suppose he does,” said the Emperor-designate. He swept back the hood of his cloak. “You wish me to believe that you are innocent of the popular sentiment associating you with the terrorist assassins, and propose instead that you are the dupe of a widespread plot. Because this enemy of yours, this mercenary Hand troop, is engaged by my guard for additional support during the Knitting period, you claim they belong to this plot, and by extension are traitorously part of the assassination attempt?”

“That’s right as far as it goes,” Max said, “Your Highness. If I were you I’d make inquiries.”

“Oh, I am. I am here, for one.”

“Have you inquired in Arznaak’s direction?”

The eyes in the golden face were still hooded. “The Scapula has been unreachable today.”

“Then you’ve got to figure he’s certainly up to something.”

“I have made my own inquiries,” said Phlinn Arol. “Jardin, Master of Curses, has dropped from the Net of Gods, yet the carrier sigil of his office remains alive. I have traced him last to the headquarters of the Scapula. One hypothesis is that the Master of Curses has been usurped.”

“Is this common knowledge?” said the Emperor.

“No,” Phlinn Arol told him. “My resources are not typical.”

“I’ve faced Arznaak before,” said Max. “You’ve got to move fast; you can’t let him get out in front of you.”

The Emperor-designate favored him with a small smile. “If the Scapula has Transcended, he’ll have much larger matters to concern himself with than me. Isn’t that so, Phlinn?”

“That may be the case.”