“But can anyone stand up to your brother indefinitely? Wouldn’t your brother think of a way to outsmart them and double-cross them eventually? Wouldn’t that be his priority?”
Shaa faced her with an expression of pensive intensity. “When we find this confederate,” he said, “we will have to convince them of just these facts. If we want to stop my brother, he may already be so powerful as to make this our last remaining chance.”
CHAPTER 18
A walking corpse and an inhuman fighting machine, and him, the kid, Jurtan Mont thought; a scenario drawn straight from the flimsy pages of one of those pulpish romances his father had kept throwing at him in the hope he’d absorb their spark and amount to something. Something violent, the wilder and more bloodthirsty the better. Except now that he had, more or less, Dad still hated him. And his sister wasn’t too happy with him either.
Well, who needed a father like that anyway? He would just have to do what he had to do and let the family members fall where they may. After all, he was surrounded by the object lessons of families gone bad; all you had to do was look at the Shaas and the discussion was over right there. If you needed an encore there were the Karlinis, and even -
“Are you paying attention?”
That was Svin. Now that Jurtan thought about it, that was probably not the first time he had asked the question, either. “Of course I am,” said Jurtan. “He’s up there. No question about it.”
“I already told you that,” croaked Dortonn.
Why don’t you just go ahead and die, already? Jurtan thought, but he knew better than to say something like that out loud. Although with the biting glare Dortonn shot him, perhaps even thinking it had been too loud; Dortonn was a master sorcerer, after all, and one not nearly so benign as the Great Karlini, even if it was difficult to figure out how he could possibly still be alive given the damage he was displaying across his body. Even the outline of Dortonn’s shape beneath the black cloak he had wrapped loosely around himself appeared lumpish and gnarled, with protrusions where none were typically found, and similarly unexpected concavities. But not only was Dortonn alive, but he seemed to have gotten his second wind, of all things, scuttling with them step-for-step through the lamp-lit evening streets toward the Boulevard of the Gods; scuttling, true, except for the stretch where Svin had hoisted him across his shoulder like a dressed carcass.
They had arrived, now, however, at the spot along the Boulevard to which their various instincts and senses had led them. This location had turned out to be the edge of a moat, or more of a small lake, really. Rising straight from the water in the midst of the lake, without even the benefit of a modest island for footing, was a tall spindly tower with a bulbous seedpod-like apartment swelling from the top. How tall? Ten stories, at least, had been Svin’s estimate, and the professional gaze he had allotted it before rendering his assessment had made it clear he had significant experience with this type of architecture; from scaling and entering during his more barbaric days, no doubt. “This god’s not exactly welcoming worshipers, is he?” said Jurtan.
“The Lord of Storms draws his potency in other ways,” Dortonn rasped.
“This is your idea,” Svin reminded him. “Do you have a plan or should I look for a boat? I am not prepared to swim,” he added. In examining the water they had seen fins.
“Hang on a minute,” said Jurtan. The situation was strikingly reminiscent of the one with which Jurtan had begun his career of adventuring, such as it was, when he had stood with Zalzyn Shaa gazing across another body of water at an island stronghold into which they had intended to penetrate. The situation was similar, but then many significant elements were different, too. Shaa was somewhere else, for one, and more importantly he, Jurtan, had been given trust as a potentially helpful member of the company. His promise, though, had still to be redeemed, so he was trying his best to get to work.
The trick, Jurtan thought, was making himself receptive in the same manner as when he’d followed the Intuition Track with Max, trying to listen for anything that might be out of place or didn’t fit the context. There was the feel of the breeze from the west, the lapping sounds of the lake water against the bank and the splash of leaping fish, the cold presence of the tower... and there had to be a business entrance somewhere. They had spotted no boat dock, and the barred door set in the tower wall a person-height above the waterline had the braying clarity of the lure to an obvious trap. This hypothetical entrance would have to be concealed well enough so that the average watcher would not be able to descry traffickers going in or out, while being comfortable enough not to inconvenience the fragile manners of a visiting god by making them slink through a mud-bank, for example. In fact, short of the use of concealing illusion, which of course could scarcely be ruled out, there was no place along the bank that seemed to allow for both the opportunities of access and concealment. Perhaps they should look for a camouflaged person-carrying ballista?
But no, wait. Jurtan slowly turned his head. That sloshing of water, that crack and slap of waves off to their left along the bank of the moat - there was something wrong about it. It was out of proportion, that was it; there was more sound than the mild motion of the water there could account for.
Jurtan unhooded his lantern enough for a thin beam to escape and led them toward the spot. As they approached, they were forced to edge away from the moat due to the thickening bulrushes and the swampy condition of the ground, but then the swish of the marsh grass started growing in his consciousness too, growing and then abruptly falling off. Did that signal a path? - yes, there it was, a trail of firm ground that twisted behind a shrub and subsided quickly off a low hill down toward the lake. Then, not far from the water’s formal edge, his internal orchestra made a suddenly hollow echo. Jurtan raised his hand to hold back the others and knelt carefully down.
His music was shifting keys and rhythms in a disconcerting manner; there was something here now it didn’t like. The disguised entrance to a tunnel under the moat was around here, you didn’t have to have any special abilities to recognize that, but it was only logical to presume that along with the tunnel came some trap. That was what the music was trying to tell him... wasn’t it? Maybe he should consult with the others. After all, this wasn’t explicitly a test, was it? - although it might as well be. Part of the test, though, could be of his good judgment, to see whether he knew when to ask for help and could sublimate his ego enough to actually do it. Jurtan cast a quick glance over his shoulder, just checking his alternatives, really. There was Svin doing his big-cat imitation, poised on the balls of his feet with his eyes scanning and nose sniffing and sword ready to hit dervish-overdrive at the slightest provocation. But where was - “Dortonn?” Jurtan mouthed.
“He is resting back on solid ground,” hissed Svin. “He is drinking Shaa’s restorative concoction. Do you have a problem?”
“Just checking for traps,” Jurtan told him. How could Svin quarrel with that? If it was Max, now, there would be no question; lack of justification hadn’t stopped Max from his sharp critique as long as Jurtan had known him, which felt far too long even if Max was now being tortured in a dungeon. If there was anything to this karma stuff he had clearly brought it on himself. So -
So why was he procrastinating? It had become apparent to Jurtan that the small hillock in front of him could be moved, swirls of marsh grass and all; that it was, in fact, an entrance to the tunnel. The obvious thing to do was find the trigger for the door and then enter through it. Except... he was hanging back because something didn’t fit. Was it too obvious? Jurtan supposed it was possible that the true entrance was really found a block away, in the basement of some apparently unrelated building entirely. His internal accompaniment didn’t think much of that idea, though, and try as he might he could detect no querulous scent or drifting specter to draw his attention back across the moor to the more typical structures that ringed it.