I do not reach him.
Once more the filament circles me, and something – I cannot say what – stirs in that void where I once had a heart. It is nothing I have ever felt before: a fluttering, a feeling as gentle and lonely as a mourning dove's lament; it is like a lover's hand: warm, comforting, and somehow familiar, so very inviting and so very dangerous.
Daedalus himself, most cunning of men, spun that golden fiber. It is sturdier than any chain Hephaestus ever forged. To pull against that filament is to make it stronger; to cut it is to braid it double, to untwine it is to spread it in an inescapable mesh. The Thrasson has cast Poseidon's net, if a single strand can a net make, and I dare not give it the touch.
I close my eyes, and when the thread circles the third time, no fiber drags across my skin, no filament tightens around my throat, no string binds my wrists. The Lady has gone from that dim alley.
The Thrasson stands unrepentant, the tiefling unpunished beside him. A key has turned, a lock has clicked; a door hangs unlatched and the treasure sits unguarded. I could go into the mazes after them, but there are dark things in the labyrinth, and corridors innumerable, branching and twisting and feeding into themselves in an irreducible tangle. In those passages all wanderers perish, by bloody claw or upon tottering legs, but always with the certain knowledge that the exit lay just beyond the next corner. Perhaps that is punishment enough.
And, in truth, I dare not allow the Thrasson to open the amphora and cast at me more strands from Poseidon's net. Already, the first has found me again. I feel a growing surge in that void where I once had a heart, a rhythmic roar that builds and fades, then rises again more powerful than before. The smell of brine and the salt sea pervades the air, and a stiff breeze whispers across the water. Hard as I try, I cannot shut off the sounds or ignore the scents; they are inside, like nightmares gushing from that dark well in my chest.
Standing above white-crested waves I see the Lady of Pain, gowned in white cloud and belted in golden light, her lips the same turquoise as the Arborean Sea. A string of pearls, black and lustrous like succubi tears, hangs around her neck. About her head flashes a diadem of blue lightning, while in place of her red-stained blade halo waves a flyaway mane of yellow hair: The strands vanish into the air and have no ends; they are a hundred thousand golden threads that lead to a hundred thousand of the multiverse's infinite planes.
In the air beside her – me? – hangs a ghostly visage made of the wind itself and as huge as the sun: the Elemental Queen of Air. Though her features are as translucent and shifting as a breeze, I see something in the shape of her face, in the angle of her oval eyes, and in the set of her high cheeks: a certain motherly semblance to the Lady of Pain.
On my other side stands a trident-wielding giant, waist-deep in waves, reeking of kelp and salt air, sea-foam for hair, sparkling skin like moonlight on water. Upon his lips, a father's miserly smile. He is stretching an upturned palm toward me and looking out to sea.
This cannot be! If I had parents, I would remember. This memory – this illusion-is some trick of Poseidon's, a ruse to win my trust and nothing more.
A black-sailed dhow approaches, steered by a single black-hooded helmsman. On the deck rest four black coffers, the bride price mighty Poseidon demands for the heart of his golden-haired daughter. The boxes hold agony, anguish, misery, and despair-the four Pains that rule the multiverse – but how I know, I do not know; that is as dark to me as the face beneath the hood.
And now the tide turns; the surf roars more softly each time it rises, the smell of brine grows sour and distant, the face of the Elemental Queen vanishes in a shimmer of still, hot air. Poseidon sinks beneath the waves; the whitecaps subside, the sea calms to a turquoise mirror and the air spills from the dhow's black sail. The helmsman turns his hooded face toward me, and a whirlpool opens beneath his vessel; down he is drawn, down into that void in my chest he whirls, this night-cloaked stranger who paid the bride's price for my heart. City Of Iron
The Amnesian Hero stood in the charcoal dimness, cautiously awaiting the pleasure of the Lady of Pain. Although she had disappeared a moment earlier, a certain disturbing stillness continued to hang in the air. The alley had suddenly grown hot and muggy, and the musty smell of clay seemed stronger, perhaps because Sigil's other fetid odors had vanished. Even the murky light looked somehow deeper – not darker, but heavier and more enduring. From the wall behind him came a frightened gasp and the rasp of boot heels kicking for purchase in the dirt. Thinking the Lady of Pain had finally shown herself, the Thrasson raised his sword and spun.
He found Jayk stooped over Tessali, trying to dodge past the elf's kicking legs and catch hold of a flailing arm. The Thrasson stepped over, grabbing the tiefling's collar and throwing her against a hut wall. Her pupils were diamonds and her fangs were folded completely down.
"Have I not warned you about this, Jayk?"
Before Jayk could answer, Tessali was on his feet and climbing the wall. "Over here! Helpl"
One-handed, the Amnesian Hero jerked the elf down and pushed him to the ground. "You, be silent!"
Tessali's eyes darted to the crest of the wall, then half closed in disappointment. "What's taking so long?" he yelled. "I'm all alone with these bar-arrrgh!"
The complaint came to an abmpt end as the Amnesian Hero placed his foot across Tessali's throat. The Thrasson glanced toward the wall, but saw no sign of anyone coming to aid the elf.
Jayk gathered herself up, still staring at Tessali through her diamond-shaped pupils. "I make kiss with him, yes? When he reaches the next stage, he is not so much trouble."
"No," the Amnesian Hero said. "We need him alive, to trade for my wine woman."
"Wine woman?" Tessali asked.
"The one in white." The Amnesian Hero did not explain that he called her wine woman because she only appeared when he drank wine. "She approached you in Rivergate."
Tessali knitted his brows. "You were there!"
"She will be your ransom." The Thrasson did not bother to confirm the elf's deduction.
"But Zoombee! Did you not hear me? I told you he was looking for this'wine woman'!"
Tessali nodded. "That's right. We lost her."
"Lost her? How?" The Thrasson put a little more weight on the elf's throat. "If something happened to her…"
"I can't say what became of her," gasped Tessali. "We were barely a dozen paces out the door when she escape- er, when she disappeared."
The Amnesian Hero had no need to ask for details. The same thing had happened to him a dozen times; he would be crossing a room toward the woman, or perhaps pursuing her down a crowded lane, when his view was blocked by a pillar or a comer. In that instant, she always vanished.
"I'm sorry," Tessali said, seeming to sense the Thrasson's disappointment. "But if she's important to you, come back to the Gatehouse. Sooner or later, we will-"
"You will not catch her," said the Amnesian Hero. "No matter how hard you search, you will not even see her."
"Then the elf, he is worthless." Jayk started toward Tessali, the tips of her needlelike fangs showing beneath her cupid's bow lip. "I make kiss with him, yes?"
"No." The Amnesian Hero started to rebuke the tiefling, then thought better of it and glared down at Tessali. He removed his foot from the prisoner's throat, then said, "Your life rests in your own hands. If you make any more trouble, I'll let her do as she pleases."
Tessali paled, then glanced in the tiefling's direction. She gave him a coy smile, but the Amnesian Hero resisted the urge to warn her against being too hasty in judgment. For now at least, the more frightened the elf was, the less likely he would be to cause trouble.
The Amnesian Hero stepped away from Tessali and positioned himself near the middle of the newly erected wall. He could not see into the murky comers where it connected to the huts, but there was enough light to spy anyone clambering over the top. No one came. The street on the other side had fallen ominously silent, and the ground had ceased to reverberate beneath the endless file of feet. The Thrasson sheathed his sword.