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Chapter Twenty-Two

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The Vin Dalu clustered around the Girdle of Life, inspecting it closely in a process that lasted several minutes. Then Munahim stood beneath the machine’s arm and the three necromancers strapped him into the harness. The eldest pulled a lever on the machine and its arm slowly rose until it dragged Munahim off the floor.

He dangled like fruit. As he had dangled when wrapped in Kattak paper.

“You should step out now,” the middle of the Vin Dalu said to Indrajit and the other observers. “Otherwise, you may also feel mild side effects.”

Yammilku needed no urging, and promptly evacuated. The others followed, but Indrajit lingered a moment. Munahim’s facial expression was one of apprehension and anxiety as he hung, slowly spinning. Indrajit crossed the room to clap the Kyone on the arm.

“Good boy,” he said.

Munahim nodded and Indrajit left.

He and Yammilku and Fix and Philastes stood in a smooth-walled hall, lit by a glowing yellow sphere sunk into one wall. As Indrajit rejoined the others, he heard a low, throbbing hum behind him.

“I will light you on fire if I have to,” Yammilku said to Fix.

“If it comes to that,” Fix said, “I’ll help you.”

“What is the evil plan of the wasp-men?” Indrajit asked.

Fix looked down. “I don’t know. But they intend something. If we go to the Conclave tonight, maybe by the time it’s over I’ll remember enough . . . I’ll have learned enough from the larvae inside me . . . whatever . . . to be able to say something specific. And if not, I’ll come back here and just wait.”

“Wait until you remember the plot?” Indrajit asked. “That sounds crazy.”

“I know it does,” Fix said. “But that’s my plan, anyway. Wait until I remember, and then jump right into the Girdle of Life. Maybe I’ll just hang in the device, wearing the Girdle, waiting for the knowledge to hit me, and then immediately undergo the process when I receive the knowledge I’m looking for.”

“Have the spell cast,” Indrajit said.

“You’re imagining very compliant necromancers,” Yammilku said.

Fix shrugged. “So far, of everyone we’ve encountered today, the necromancers have been the friendliest.”

“I’m friendly,” Philastes said.

“What if you never remember the plan?” Indrajit pressed. “What if the clarity of the . . . inherited memories is never that good, or what if you remember the plan exactly at the moment when your belly bursts open and you die?”

“Then I die,” he said. “But Alea lives.”

“You’re going to die to save the city?” Yammilku asked.

“I’m going to try very hard to live and save the city,” Fix said. “There’s a risk I die in the attempt. That’s true every day.”

“You’re not generally stuffed full of maturing wasp eggs,” Indrajit pointed out. “The risk seems a little more colorful today.”

“You’re not from here,” Fix said.

Indrajit was momentarily flummoxed. He didn’t feel insulted, but he felt pushed away. “True.”

“This is my city,” Fix said. “It’s my home. I don’t have another one. It’s a rotten old town, but it’s my town. And it’s Alea’s, too.”

“Okay,” Indrajit agreed. “Let’s save your town.”

“You should each drink this elixir,” the youngest of the Vin Dalu said from the room’s entrance. He held three steel cylinders in his hand. The cylinders were spangled with color and arcane characters, along with painted abstract images. The top of each cylinder was notched open with a triangular slot, and Indrajit detected an odor that was acrid and fruity, as if a bucket of paint were mixed with smashed berries.

“Vin Dalu Rao, right?” Indrajit said.

“Correct.”

“Is this a healing potion?” Indrajit asked.

Fix looked suspicious. “It won’t kill the eggs, will it?”

“It will give strength to your limbs for a time,” the Vin Dalu Rao said. “It will not harm the eggs. Too much of the liquid would eventually harm your heart, but one cylinder will refresh you with no attendant evil.”

They drank. The fluid left a coating on the inside of Indrajit’s mouth, and an aftertaste that made him pucker his lips.

The necromancer took back the drained cylinders.

They returned into the steel-walled room as the other Vin Dalu were unbelting Munahim. The Kyone stood on his feet, an uncertain expression on his face. They slipped his arms from the straps and he wobbled slightly.

“How do you feel?” Fix asked.

Munahim opened his mouth, then shut it. He took a deep breath, then closed his eyes.

Then he lurched into the corner of the room and vomited.

“Grab him,” Indrajit said. “He might have a sudden urge to eat his own vomit off the floor.”

“He’s not actually a dog,” Yammilku said.

“No,” Indrajit said. “But kind of yes.”

Fix shoved his shoulder under Munahim’s arm to support the Kyone, and together they lurched back to the group.

Indrajit did feel a little more alert than he had.

“We will treat Alea next,” the eldest of the Vin Dalu said. “It will take some time. Also, the settings we’ll use on the machine are different, and it’s not wise for you to stand in the room during the process.”

Indrajit nodded. “We have another obligation.”

“How long will it take, Dalu?” Fix asked.

“You brought her to us quickly,” the eldest of the Vin Dalu said. “Her body had not yet begun to be consumed by its worms.”

“I don’t need the details.” Fix’s hands were shaking. “Tell me how long.”

“By dawn, I think we will be able to remove her from the device.”

The second Vin Dalu pressed another opened potion cylinder into Indrajit’s hands. Without explanation, Indrajit poured it into the Kyone. Munahim gagged at first, but then slurped the elixir with enthusiasm.

“And . . . what ill effects will she suffer? Will she be marked by death?” Fix asked.

“She’ll lose her hair,” the Vin Dalu said. “The literature warns of the possibility of madness. The likelihood is greater, the longer the patient has been dead, and Alea has been dead for many hours. There may be loss of strength or other lingering issues. But of course, we’ve never done this before.”

Indrajit rested his hand on Fix’s shoulder. “Fortunately, we don’t believe in literature. We’ll come back in the morning.”

The youngest of the Vin Dalu came forward. “You’ve entered by two different doors,” he said. “How do you wish to exit?”

“We need to get to the Crown for the Conclave,” Yammilku said. “Do you know the False Palace?”

Indrajit chuckled. “All the palaces are false.”

“I thought that was just a rumor,” Fix said.

“It’s real,” the Heru said. “I would think it would be on the map.”

“I don’t know the way to the False Palace,” the Vin Dalu said. “But I can show you a short road to the Crown. Perhaps from there your map will lead you to this palace.”

“Vin Dalu Rao,” Fix said.

He inclined his head. “Yes.”

They followed the Vin Dalu Rao through a maze of bookshelves. Fix walked resolutely, but with a noticeable limp. Indrajit brought up the rear, to make certain that Fix and Munahim both stayed with the group. At the end of the maze, they emerged onto a balcony jutting into dark space, with wind blowing. A white glass sphere sunk into the wall gave dim light. At arm’s length from the balcony, a brass pole descended from darkness above and dropped into darkness below.

Munahim laughed. “This is an exit only.”

“Yes,” the Vin Dalu said.

“How do you keep creatures from climbing up?” Indrajit asked. “Ghouls, thieves, jobbers?”

“The pole is greased,” the Vin Dalu said. “Hold tightly so you don’t fall too fast, but in any case, you will descend.”

“We’ll be back.” Fix leaned out in the void, wrapped two arms around the pole, and then hopped out to grip it with his feet, as well. He slid quickly out of sight.

Indrajit waited until he heard a thud and then called down. “Are you okay?”

“I’m not dead,” Fix called. “But it’s quite dark down here.”

Indrajit went next. The transit down the pole was shockingly fast and he struck rock at the bottom with a force that jarred his knees and ankles. He staggered away, wiping greasy hands on his kilt, and bumped into Fix.

“Light,” Fix said.

Indrajit relit his lamp, noting that it was almost out of oil. “Can you see us?” he called up. The balcony was a brim of shadow beneath a pale white corona of light.

“Sending the Heru down,” Munahim called. “Don’t stand too close to the pole.”

Yammilku and Munahim and Philastes slid down in quick succession.

Munahim paced at the edges of the lamp’s light, sniffing and peering into the shadow as everyone checked weapons and gear.

“Ghouls?” Indrajit asked. “Kattak?”

“There’s a faint scent of Ghouls everywhere beneath the city,” Munahim said. “I don’t smell or hear them close. And I don’t detect the odor of Kattak.”

“Something’s bothering you, though.”

“I can hear something,” Munahim said. “Faint breathing. The padding of careful feet on stone. Sometimes even a dull metallic clink.”

“But you smell nothing?”

“The sounds come from downwind.”

Indrajit considered this. “That could mean that there is someone or something coincidentally downwind of us.”

Munahim nodded slowly. “Or it could mean that something is stalking us, and it knows we have strong powers of smell. Perhaps our stalker is also a creature with a powerful nose.”

“I don’t like that possibility.” Indrajit clapped Munahim on the shoulder. “But I’m glad we have a Kyone in the company. Good boy.”

Munahim growled low. “My instinct is to give a warning bark. That would let our stalkers know they’re detected, and possibly chase them off.”

“But if they’re intelligent,” Indrajit said, “they’ll just change tactic, and next time, we might not smell them coming. Let’s keep quiet. Keep me informed of what you detect, and let’s look for an opportunity to lose our pursuers, or trap them.”

“If we can maneuver so that we’re downwind of them,” Munahim suggested, “then we can be the stalkers.”

Indrajit gave Fix the lamp and the map. The Kishi managed those two things, limping through the darkness. Everyone else drew weapons and made a loose circle around him.

They traversed a grove of white-furred columns and crawled over a pile of sand, ducking low to avoid awakening bats gripping the ceiling. Then they passed under an arch and stepped onto an iron grate. Just beneath the metal, Indrajit could hear water rushing; he felt light spray splashing up through the lattice onto his ankles and toes.

“The wind,” Munahim said. “It blows left to right here. If we hide down the river to the right, the breeze will conceal our scent from our pursuers when they come through. We can get the jump on them, or at least see them.”

“Our road is left,” Fix said. “We don’t want to get trapped in a cul-de-sac.”

“We don’t want to get stabbed in the back by secret assassins,” Indrajit said. “Or shot with a poisoned dart.”

Fix nodded his acquiescence and they turned right. The grid over the river continued on into darkness, the breeze and the water flowing in the same direction, but they only walked thirty paces before they stopped to take up positions. Munahim armed himself with his bow, an arrow on the string. Philastes had a pocketful of stones he’d gathered as they traveled through the darkness, with one in the pouch of his sling. The others held swords. Where they stood, they were downwind of the arch, with the arch in sight. The wind should be sweeping away their scent and the burbling of the river beneath them should be masking any faint sounds they made.

So if the stalkers really had keen senses of smell, they would realize that the Protagonists were not upwind. They would then either cross the river and pass into openings on the far side, or turn toward Indrajit and his friends, in which case the Protagonists could attack with the advantage of surprise.

Fix carefully put away his map and then doused the lamp.

They waited in darkness.

Who could possibly be stalking them? Indrajit feared the man in the false blue toga, but there were other possibilities. Arash Sehama might or might not know that they had stolen his map, and his Sookwalkers might be following the Protagonists to take the map back or exact revenge. Or perhaps the stalkers were Sootfaces, sent by Zac Betel to dispose of his mutinous lieutenant, the same Betel perhaps having decided that Indrajit and Fix were of no use to him, and inconvenient witnesses to be disposed of. Or perhaps the stalkers were the Kattak.

A light emerged from the arch. It was faint and green, and cast so little light around it that it gave no warning of its arrival. It bobbed above the ground, and was shaped in such an unexpected curling manner that it took Indrajit a moment to realize what he was looking at.

It was a glimmersnake. A glowing reptile, alive, in a glass case like a lantern, and slowly coiling around itself.

The man holding the snake’s prison raised it and stared across the river. He turned left and then right slowly, and Indrajit could finally make out his features. He had to bite his tongue to keep from saying anything.

Huachao. The man with the light was one of the cat-men of the Dregs.

Why would the Huachao be tracking the Protagonists? They were a clan, but acted like a jobber company. Who had said that, Fix? So were they following Indrajit and his friends because of the disturbance the Protagonists had caused in the Dregs? Or had someone engaged them to follow the Protagonists? The Silksteppers, maybe? And to what end? Or, if they were jobbers, could they now be in league with any of their enemies?

Was it possible they were in Underkish by unrelated chance?

Indrajit snorted softly.

The lanternholder moved farther onto the grid. Behind him came two more Huachao. They stopped and leaned their heads together, as if in conversation.

Then they turned toward the Protagonists and started walking forward. Were they creeping, or was it their natural catlike posture that made it seem as if they were, hunching over, noses out front?

The Kyone, Indrajit knew, had a head like a dog’s, but possessed other features like any common man, including fingers and toes, and knees that bent like Indrajit’s and Fix’s did. The Huachao were more catlike than the Kyone was doglike; they had dewclaws on their forearms, their fingers were thick and furred so their hands looked like paws, and their knees bent backward, their legs resembling the hind legs of a cat. Munahim wore boots, but the Huachao walked on bare paws. Over the soft chuckle of the river, they made no audible sound at all.

“Get ready,” Indrajit murmured. “Make your first shot a warning shot.”

Then he felt a sharp blade on the back of his neck. He heard sudden intakes of breath from Munahim and Fix at the same moment.

“This is your warning shot,” a throaty voice growled.

“We’ve been outmaneuvered,” Munahim rumbled.

A second light appeared, also a glimmersnake’s glow, this one coming from behind them. Indrajit turned slowly and found five more Huachao, swords in their hands. They also had a sixth man with them, hands tied behind his back, mouth gagged with a thick swatch of cloth under his drooping olive nose. He still wore his sand-colored false toga, but his turban was gone, revealing a bulbous skull pitted with small scars and overgrown with gray stubble.

The forger, Danel Avchat.

“We’ve done you no harm,” Philastes said. “We can be friends.”

The Huachao holding his long, straight sword to Indrajit’s neck was an orange color, with brown stripes showing where his fur wasn’t hidden by undyed linothorax and a skirt of studded leather strips. “No one is going to harm anyone. We’ve come to extend an invitation to you.”

“What are you doing with the scribe?” Indrajit asked.

“We’ve rescued him.” The orange cat-man laughed, a rasping sound. “Bad men tied him up, after making him copy a secret map. Would you credit it? And they didn’t even pay him.”

“And I suppose you discovered he could reproduce the map,” Fix said.

“He has a very good memory,” the Huachao said.

“You’re looking for us,” Indrajit said, “but you didn’t come to kill us. We have things to do, so maybe get to the point.”

“Indrajit,” the orange Huachao said. “Fix is the man who groans in pain with each step. The Heru belongs to Betel. And the other two?”

“Members of our jobber company,” Fix said. “Identified by name on our bond schedule. On contract business. Protected by law.”

“What’s your name?” Indrajit asked.

The Huachao laughed, throwing his head back. “The less truth you tell, the more emphatic you must be. You’re not on contract business. Or did the Auction House sell a contract to send you to the Conclave of the Gray Lords?”

Silence.

“I thought not,” the Huachao said. “My name is Budhrriao. You also have the smell of Gund about you, but I think your Gund is dead.”

“You have enough information,” Indrajit said. “Tell us what you want now.”

“We are on contract business,” Budhrriao said. “As it happens, the contract is not originated by the Auction House. Our employer, who had hired us to keep security in the Armpit, has now hired us to find you and bring you to him.”

“Who’s your employer?” Fix asked.

“We’re all still friends,” Philastes said.

“Depends on who the employer is,” Indrajit muttered.

“He has heard that a Conclave has been called.” Budhrriao purred, a deep, saw-edged, contemplative sound. “He wishes to attend.”

“The Conclave is a gathering of the seven Gray Lords,” Yammilku said. “They bring attendants. No one else is invited.”

“You’ve accurately described the problem,” Budhrriao said. “It would be more helpful if you proposed solutions.”

The Huachao’s sword had gradually moved away from Indrajit’s neck, but everyone still held weapons.

“Who do you serve?” Fix asked. “The Lord Knife? Are you allied with the assassin in the blue toga?”

“The Lord Knife?” Budhrriao yawned contemptuously. “Why would the king of Kish’s assassins ask to join the league of thieves? No, we’ve been hired by a man who is himself a successful crime lord. A man of great reach and enterprise. A man whose empire includes drug peddlers, thieves, fences, blackmailers, forgers, arsonists, throat-slitters, pimps, and whores. A man who rules the Dregs with such ferocity and justice that the Gray Lords themselves have not dared encroach on his realm.”

“I have a terrible feeling I know who this is,” Indrajit muttered.

“We will take you now to see the gang lord Jaxter Boom.”


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