He heard something off in the shadows. The scrape of sandal leather against stone. He searched the darkness.
A man came out from behind a column. Dressed in a tattered cloth cap and threadbare caftan, he also wore a crooked smile. His teeth were black and broken.
“Greetings, Honorable.”
Incarnadine heard more footsteps behind him. He turned his head far enough to see two more men emerge from the shadows. They approached, daggers in hand.
“Are you Basrim’s buddies?” he asked.
The man held out his hand. “It would be easier for us all if you handed over your gold right away. If we have to kill you, here in the temple we must do it in the ancient way. Very slowly, bleeding you like a butchered animal. You would not like it, and it would be work for us.”
Incarnadine was motioning up a spell but the nearest man lunged, and he had to make do with natural defenses; he kicked the dagger away, then spun and landed a high kick alongside his assailant’s head. The man went sprawling on the flagstone.
“Ah, you chose the hard way,” the first thug said, drawing a curved short sword.
“Your heart,” Incarnadine said, extending a hand and making a clawing motion.
“Eh?” The speaker was nonplussed. The third thug had edged closer but now stopped, dagger low and poised for an upward slash.
“I think your heart has stopped beating.”
The snaggle-toothed one guffawed. Suddenly his smile faded.
“Yes, you’re feeling strange. It’s your heart.”
The man put a finger on his pulse. A look of dismay sprang to his face.
“My heart!”
“I told you. Your blood has stopped flowing. You feel faint. The darkness gathers, and soon the long night will come.”
“No, I …”
The man collapsed, sword clattering on the stone.
The third man looked at his fallen accomplice, then at the stranger.
“A sorcerer!”
“Yes. And a pretty nasty one at that. Have you ever heard of the creeping phlox?”
“The what?”
“The creeping phlox. It starts on the toes — little red boils that turn to pustules. Then it works its way up the body. The pustules turn to oozing sores, the sores to masses of corruption. Every extremity of the body falls off, starting with the soft kind that hangs. Then the rot really sets in.… Well, not to put too fine a point on it, you got it, babe.”
Terror-stricken, the man fled out the back of the temple.
Incarnadine went behind a column and waited.
Presently Basrim came creeping into the shadows. He knelt over the one who had spoken first, then looked around fearfully.
Incarnadine stepped out from behind the pillar.
“Honorable One! You are safe. Thank the heavens, I thought you had met your end at the hands of these —”
“Your friends, Basrim?”
“My fr —? Oh, never, Honorable One! I have never laid eyes on them!”
“Now, why do I think you’re lying, just like you lied about this temple?”
“But … Honorable One, please! Let me explain!”
“Be quiet. Do the local legends say that this is the Temple of the Universes?”
“Yes, they do.
“Basrim, I’m warning you.…”
“No! I made it up! Forgive me, Honorable One! An eternity of pardon!”
“Get up, get up. God, I hate it when they grovel.”
“An eternity of pardon, Honorable One! Forgive your humble servant and I will do anything, I will serve you always, faithfully, I will clean any part of your body with my tongue —!”
“Get your lips off the floor. Now, look. All I want from you is the truth. Do you know where that temple is or don’t you? If you don’t, do you know anyone who does know? Answer me!”
Desolated, Basrim slowly shook his head.
“I thought so. Tourists really get taken to the cleaners around here, don’t they? Well, I should have known better. Okay, Basrim. That’s all.”
Basrim got up slowly. “I … I may go?”
“Yes.”
Basrim began to slink away.
“Oh, by the way, your first wife, the one with the lip sore?”
Basrim stopped dead. “My first … you mean Altma?”
“Yes, Altma, the one with the chancre and the hairy mole on the left breast. She’ll be paying you a visit soon, with her solicitor and the vizier’s deputy. They’ll be taking all your goats and most of the grain. How in the world you’ll get through the winter is beyond me.”
“No!”
“Yes! She bribed the magistrate. Actually, if I were you I wouldn’t go back to town at all.”
The miserable Basrim departed.
He toured the temple, puzzling over the glyphs and the stylized art: the king crushing enemies beneath his heel, the king propitiating the gods, the king presiding over the bountiful harvest, the king … and so forth.
He left the temple and went back to his mount. Now he had the choice of hiring another probably unreliable and potentially treacherous guide, or going it alone. He thought the latter would be the better course. He might stumble around and get lost, but at least he wouldn’t have to worry about wasting time on wild-goose chases and deliberate deceptions, to say nothing of being waylaid by enterprising locals. Alone, he probably wouldn’t be spotted. He would keep low and to himself. The superstitious natives rarely mucked about in the ruins. They had reason to be superstitious, because the indigenous magic was both real and dangerous.
Having retied his bundle, he turned around. A gray-bearded old man was standing by the fallen obelisk, watching. He wore a white cap, and his blue-striped caftan was clean. Carrying a cane, he stood slightly stooped.
“Yes?”
“An eternity of pardon, Honorable. I did not mean to spy.”
“Anything you want?”
“Nothing, Honorable. But perhaps you want something of me.”
“What have you got, old man?” He strapped on his sword, then his dagger. “Excuse me, I’m not myself. Just had a spot of trouble with some of your compatriots.”
The old man nodded. “I heard them conspiring in the village. If I had warned you, they would have cut off an ear, perhaps more.”
“I understand. You said you had something I might want.”
“My knowledge,” the man said.
“Of?”
“Of places, of things, of gods and their abodes.”
“Indeed. I have a feeling you know what I’m looking for.”
“I do.”
“Can you help me?”
“I can,” the man said.
“Will you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. What payment do you require?”
“None, if you mean gold.”
“What do you want, then?”
“Only to see the face of Mordek again.”
“Mordek?”
“The god of a thousand universes. I am his humble servant.”
“I thought no one was left who worshipped the old gods.”
“There are some,” the old man said.
“What’s your name, by the way?”
“Jonath.”
“You say you want to see the face of your god. Why do you need me to do it?”
“You are a magician, and a great warrior.”
“Nice of you to say. I won’t ask you how you know this, but what can a great mage and warrior do for you?”
“You can get past the trip spells and mantraps that guard the temple.”
“Why are these things in place?”
“Because Mordek is angry. No one comes to worship, so he shuts himself in and broods.”
“But you are left, and you implied there were others.”
“The few are not enough. In the great days, multitudes would come to Mordek’s temple to seek favor. Those days are dust, and Mordek sits in his abode, a moody, frustrated god.”
“Doesn’t sound inviting, this place of yours. Was it known as the Temple of the Universes?”