"Assassin, I am here and you are there and there you will stay," croaked Lalo when the dull hammering finally stilled.
"I will give you gold-I have never broken my word . . . You could establish yourself in the capital."
"I don't want your gold." I don't even want to go to Ranke, his thought continued, not anymore.
"I will give you your life..." said Zanderei. "Coricidius won't believe you, you know, and the Hell-Hounds will have your skull for a drinking bowl. At the very least they will strike off your hands ..."
Involuntarily, Lalo's fingers clasped protectively around his wrists, as if a bright blade were already descending. It was true-surely he had lost all he had ever gained. Better to meet Zan-derei's knife than to live without being able to take brush in hand. If I cannot paint I am nothing, he thought. I will surely die.
But he did not move. Shivering with exhaustion and despair, still he would not throw away this victory, even though he hardly understood his reasons anymore.
"Limner, I will give you your soul..."
"You can only give death, foreigner! You cannot trick me!"
"I do not need to-" the voice seemed very tired. "I only need to ask you a question. Have you ever painted your own portrait, Limner with the sorcerer's eye?"
The silence stretched into eternity while Lalo tried to understand. He felt a subtle quiver in the earth that told him the tide was beginning to turn. What did Zanderei mean? Of course he had done self-portraits by the dozen, when he could get no one else to pose for him-
-In the old days, before Enas York had taught him to paint the soul ...
I've been too busy-no... the awareness came reluctantly, I was afraid.
"What will you see on your canvas when you have murdered me?" The voice echoed his fear.
"Stop it! Leave me alone!" Lalo cried aloud. He heard a deep voice shout orders in the street beyond the alley, and saw for a moment the flicker of lanterns bobbing by, pallid in the moonlight.
In a few minutes the poisoned waters would be driven from their bed by the inexorable pressure of the tide, and rush through the sewers of Sanctuary like a host of angry serpents seeking their prey. In a few minutes Zanderei would be dead.
If he disappears, maybe they will blame Zanderei for the Fire. When the stir dies down I'll be free to paint again. His hand twitched as if he held a brush, but the motion triggered Zanderei's words in his memory.
"Have you ever painted your own portrait?"
Lalo shuddered suddenly, violently. Could even Enas Yorl lift the curse this man had laid upon his soul? He heard the irregular tramp of men trying to march in close order over an uneven road. The sound was louder now-in a few moments they would pass his alleyway. In a few moments the waters would be here.
"What will you see when you have murdered me?"
Without conscious decision, Lalo found himself running stiffly towards the Serpentine.
"Ho there! Guards-he is hiding in the sewers-down this alley!" He held his ground while they debated, knowing that they could not recognize him under the sodden clothes and mud, and motioned to them to follow him.
Then he pounded down the alley, bent to wrestle the bar from the shaft-cover and ran on until he found the dark overhang of a staircase to shelter him. Below he felt a trembling and heard the hiss of many waters, and, just as the wooden lid of the shaft was knocked aside, the hollow boom of water forced upward through too narrow a way.
Something dark clung to the rim of the shaft, like a rat flooded from its hole, then clambered the rest of the way out once the fury of the waters had passed. But now the Hell-Hounds surrounded the shaft. There was a flurry of movement and Lalo heard swearing and a cry of pain. Among the voices he distinguished the soft tones of the Emperor's Commissioner.
"Is that who you say you are?" A deep voice, Quag's voice, replied. "Well, if we've lost the dauber, at least we have you. My Lord Prince will be interested to learn what sharp-toothed rats his brother keeps to guard his granaries! Come along, you!"
Lalo sank back against the post of the stair. It was over. The Hell-Hounds were dragging Zanderei away as once they had dragged him into the night.
He would find a way to let Coricidius know what the painting had shown and what Zanderei had confessed to him. Would they call him into court to prove it? Would they dispose of the assassin quietly, or send him back to Ranke to report his failure? With a dim wonder Lalo realized that it did not matter anymore.
Gilla would have harsh words for him when he reached home, but her arms would be soft and comforting ...
But still he did not move, for below the surface questions in his mind pulsed one more perplexing-Why did I let Zanderei go?
Today he had faced death, and fought for his life, and conquered fear. He had realized that the evil of the world was not confined to Sanctuary. But if he could do all this, he was not the person that he had thought he knew.
He held out his magic hands, his painter's hands, so that the moonlight silvered them, staring as if they held his answer. And perhaps that was true, for if he had beaten Zanderei, the other man's final question had also vanquished him. And he could only answer it by facing his mirror with a paintbrush in his hand.
The moon was poised above the tattered rooftops, resting after the labor of drawing in the tide. Like a silver mirror, she blessed the tortured streets of Sanctuary, and the tear-streaked face of the man who gazed at her, with the reflected splendor of the hidden sun.
STEEL by Lynn Abbey
1
Walegrin listened carefully to the small noises carried on the night breeze. His survival depended on his ability to untangle the sounds of the night-and on the steel sword he clutched, unsheathed, at his side. Ambushers crept toward his small camp in the darkness.
Two bright Enlibar wagons sat, unguarded and garish, in the ruddy light of a neglected fire. Their cargo had been scattered in tempting disarray; chunks of aquamarine ore shimmered in the moonlight. Walegrin's cloak lay close by the fire, covering an armload of thorny sticks-a ruse to convince the brigands that he and his men were more weary than careful and valued sleep above their lives.
They'd had little enough rest since leaving the ruined mine with the precious ore; and of the twenty-five men who had left Sanctuary only seven remained. But Walegrin trusted his six stalwarts against four times that many hillmen.
Walegrin's thoughts were stopped by the warning cry of a mountain hawk; Malm, who had a shepherd's eye for ominous movements, had spotted the enemy. Walegrin held his ground until the camp swarmed with dark, scuttling shapes, until someone stabbed a cloak and heard wood splintering, not bone. Then, sword raised, he led his men out of the shadows.
These outlaws were better armed and bolder than any the soldiers had encountered before, but Walegrin had no time to consider this discovery. His men were hard pressed, without their usual advantage over the hill-bred fighters. His sword stole the lifeblood of two men, but then he was cut himself and fought defensively, unaware of the fate of his men or the tide of battle. He was forced to retreat another step; the open back of a wagon pressed against his hips. The one who bore down on him was as yet un-wounded. It was time for a soldier's last prayers.
Snarling, the attacker took his sword in both hands for a decapitating cut. Walegrin braced to take the force of the stroke on his sword which he held in a bent, injured arm. His weapon fell from his suddenly numb hand, but his neck was intact. The brigand was undaunted, his smile never wavered; Walegrin was unarmed now.