'What was it?' broke from Cappen.
'A sikkintair, a Flying Knife. It can have been nothing else.'
'A-what?' -
Enas focused on his companion. 'The monster that took the women,' he explained. 'Sikkintairs are an attribute of Ils. A pair of sculptures on the grand stairway of his temple represent them.'
'Oh, yes, I've seen those, but never thought -'
'No, you're not a votary of any gods they have here. Myself, when I got word of the abduction, I sent my familiars scuttling about and cast spells of inquiry. I received indications ... I can't describe them to you, who lack arcane lore. I established that the very fabric of space had been troubled. Vibrations had not quite damped out as yet, and were centred on the temple of Ils. You may, if you wish a crude analogy, visualize a water surface and the waves, fading to ripples and finally to naught, when a diver has passed through.'
Enas Yorl drank more in a gulp than was his wont. 'Civilization was old in Ilsig when Ranke was still a barbarian village,' he said, as though to himself; his gaze had drifted away again, towards darkness. 'Its myths depicted the home of the gods as being outside the world - not above, not below, but outside. Philosophers of a later, more rationalistic era elaborated this into a theory of parallel universes. My own researches - you will understand that my condition has made me especially interested in the theory of dimensions, the subtler aspects of geometry - my own researches have demonstrated the .possibility of transference between these different spaces.
'As another analogy, consider a pack of cards. One is inhabited by a king, one by a knight, one by a deuce, et cetera. Ordinarily none of the figures can leave the plane on which it exists. If, however, a very thin piece of absorbent material soaked in a unique kind of solvent were laid between two cards, the dyes that form them could pass through: retaining their configuration, I trust. Actually, of course, this is a less than ideal comparison, for the transference is accomplished through a particular contortion of the continuum -'
Cappen could endure no more pedantry. He crashed his tankard down on the table and shouted, 'By all the hells of all the cults, will you get to the point?'
Men stared from adjacent seats, decided no fight was about to erupt, and went back to their interests. These included negotiations with street-walkers who, lanterns in hand, had come in looking for trade.
Enas Yorl smiled. 'I forgive your outburst, under the circumstances,' he said. 'I too am occasionally young.
'Very well. Given the foregoing data, including yours, the infrastructure of events seems reasonably evident. You are aware of the conflict over a proposed new temple, which is to outdo that of Ils and Shipri. I do not maintain that the god has taken a direct hand. I certainly hope he feels that would be beneath his dignity; a theomachy would not be good for us, to understate the case a trifle. But he may have inspired a few of his more fanatical priests to action. He may have revealed to them, in dreams or vision, the means whereby they could cross to the next world and there make the sikkintairs do their bidding. I hypothesize that the Lady Rosanda - and, to be sure, her coadjutrix, your inamorata - are incarcerated in that world. The temple is too full of priests, deacons, acolytes, and lay people for hiding the wife of a magnate. However, the gate need not be recognizable as such.'
Cappen controlled himself with an inward shudder and made his trained voice casuaclass="underline" 'What might it look like, sir?'
'Oh, probably a scroll, taken from a coffer where it had long lain forgotten, and now unrolled - yes, I should think in the sanctum, to draw power from the sacred objects and to be seen by as few persons as possible who are not in the conspiracy -' Enas Yorl came out of his abstraction. 'Beware! I deduce your thought. Choke it before it kills you.'
Cappen ran sandy tongue over leathery lips. 'What ... should we ... expect to happen, sir?'
'That is an interesting question,' Enas Yorl said. 'I can but conjecture. Yet I am well acquainted with the temple hierarchy and - I don't think the Archpriest is privy to the matter. He's too aged and weak. On the other hand, this is quite in the style of Hazroah, the High Flamen. Moreover, of late he has in effect taken over the governance of the temple from his nominal superior. He's bold, ruthless - should have been a soldier - Well, putting myself in his skin, I'll predict that he'll let Molin stew a while, then cautiously open negotiations - a hint at first, and always a claim that this is the will of Ils.
'None but the Emperor can cancel an undertaking for the Imperial deities. Persuading him will take much time and pressure. Molin is a Rankan aristocrat of the old school; he will be torn between his duty to his gods, his state, and his wife. But I suspect that eventually he can be worn down to the point where he agrees that it is, in truth, bad policy to exalt Savankala and Sabellia in a city whose tutelaries they have never been. He in his turn can influence the Emperor as desired.'
'How long would this take, do you think?' Cappen whispered. 'Till the women are released?'
Enas Yorl shrugged. 'Years, possibly. Hazroah may try to hasten the process by demonstrating that the Lady Rosanda is subject to punishment. Yes, I should imagine that the remains of an ancilla who had been tortured to death, delivered on Molin's doorstep, would be a rather strong argument.'
His look grew intense on the appalled countenance across from him. 'I know,' he said. 'You're breeding fever-dreams of a heroic rescue. It cannot be done. Even supposing that somehow you won through the gate and brought her back, the gate would remain. I doubt Ils would personally seek revenge; besides being petty, that could provoke open strife with Savankala and his retinue, who're formidable characters themselves. But Ils would not stay the hand of the Flamen Hazroah, who is a most vengeful sort. If you escaped his assassins, a sikkintair would come after you, and nowhere in the world could you and she hide. Your talisman would be of no avail. The sikkintair is not supernatural, unless you give that designation to the force which enables so huge a mass to fly; and it is from no magician, but from the god.
'So forget the girl. The town is full of them.' He fished in his purse and spilled a handful of coins on the table. 'Go to a good whorehouse, enjoy yourself, and raise one for poor old Enas Yorl.'
He got up and waddled off, Cappen sat staring at the coins. They made a generous sum, he realized vaguely: silver lunars, to the number of thirty.
One-Thumb came over. 'What'd he say?' the taverner asked.
'I should abandon hope,' Cappen muttered. His eyes stung; his vision blurred. Angrily, he wiped them.
'I've a notion I might not be smart to hear more.' One-Thumb laid his mutilated hand on Cappen's shoulder. 'Care to get drunk? On the house. I'll have to take your money or the rest will want free booze too, but I'll return it tomorrow.'
'No, I - I thank you, but - but you're busy, and I need someone I can talk to. Just lend me a lantern, if you will.'
'That might attract a robber, fellow, what with those fine clothes of yours.'
Cappen gripped swordhilt. 'He'd be very welcome, the short while he lasted,' he said in bitterness.
He climbed to his feet. His fingers remembered to gather the coins.
Jamie let him in. The Northerner had hastily thrown a robe over his massive frame; he carried the stone lamp that was a night light. 'Sh,' he said. 'The lassies are asleep.' He nodded towards a closed door at the far end of this main room. Bringing the lamp higher, he got a clear view of Cappen's face. His own registered shock. 'Hey-o, lad, what ails you? I've seen men pole-axed who looked happier.'