kill my greatest accomplice?”
Macadra laughed aloud. “You have not changed either, Arunis Wytterscorm. Still working with puppets, are you? Painting in their faces, tying your invisible strings.”
“Shall I tell you something, madam?” said Orfuin suddenly, looking up from his tea. “Life is finite. That is to say, it ends. Why not spend it pleasantly? There’s gingerbread fresh from the oven. Leave off this scheming and be my guests. Hear the music. Warm your feet.”
His gaze was mild and friendly. The newcomers stared at him as if unsure what sort of creature he was. Then Arunis went on, as if Orfuin had never spoken:
“I have been splendid, Macadra—that you cannot deny. I took a harmless madman and built him into the Shaggat Ness, a slaughtering messiah, a knife upon which both Arqual and the Mzithrin are preparing to throw themselves. And I managed to let the Arqualis believe the entire affair was in their interests—indeed, that they had devised the plot, alone. What general with legions at his fingertips ever accomplished so much? Either Northern power could mount a fight to try the strength of Bali Adro—together, they might even have bested you. Instead they think only of killing one another, and will soon begin to do so with more determination than you have ever seen.”
“Your Shaggat is dead!” screamed the woman with the daggers. “A peasant boy turned him into a lump of stone!”
“The Pathkendle boy may have started life as a peasant,” said Arunis, “but he is now a Smythídor , magic-altered, blood and bone. The great Ramachni entrusted him with Master-Words, and one of these he used against the Shaggat. But Ramachni’s gamble was a losing one, for in so arming Pathkendle he exhausted himself, and had to abandon his friends. And for what? They wish to kill me; they cannot. They seek a new and safer resting place for the Nilstone; they will not find one. And the Shaggat—he is not dead, merely enchanted. He will breathe again, mark my words.”
“Suppose he does,” said Macadra. “Suppose you complete this journey, hand him back to his faithful on Gurishal. Suppose we help you to that end.”
Arunis bowed his head, as though to say he would not spurn such aid.
“What will we gain for our efforts? All I see ahead is the self-destruction of the Mzithrin in a civil war. And afterward, the total victory of the Arqualis. You will leave us with one giant foe in the North, rather than the smaller pair we face today.”
“Not if you do as I suggest,” said Arunis.
Macadra smiled. “I saw that coming ere our feet touched the ground. Show it to me, wizard. I have waited long enough.”
When Arunis said nothing, Macadra swept toward the doorway of the club, never glancing once at the proprietor. She gazed into the warm firelight. A hush fell over the patrons; the musicians ceased to play.
“Where is it?” she demanded. “Is someone holding it for you at one of the tables?” She turned him a searching look. “Is it on your person?”
“My dear lady,” said Arunis, “we must have words about the Nilstone.”
“Are you saying that you have come here without it?”
“How could I do otherwise? You offer me no assurance that you speak for the Ravens. I do not even have proof that yours is the same Order that dispatched me to the North so long ago.”
“But how dare you leave it unguarded! What possible excuse—”
She broke off, a new thought writing itself in a frown upon her colorless face. With a sharp sound of rage she drove both hands, nails first, into Arunis’ chest. Her fingers sank to the first digits; then she ripped her hands apart. The mage’s flesh vanished briefly, obscured by a sudden haze. Arunis stepped back, and the woman’s fingers emerged unbloodied.
“I told you!” said the woman with the daggers. “We make the dark journey in person; he sends a dream-shell, a mirage! He’ll never give up the Nilstone! He means to use it, Macadra, to use it
Macadra laughed aloud. “You have not changed either, Arunis Wytterscorm. Still working with puppets, are you? Painting in their faces, tying your invisible strings.”
“Shall I tell you something, madam?” said Orfuin suddenly, looking up from his tea. “Life is finite. That is to say, it ends. Why not spend it pleasantly? There’s gingerbread fresh from the oven. Leave off this scheming and be my guests. Hear the music. Warm your feet.”
His gaze was mild and friendly. The newcomers stared at him as if unsure what sort of creature he was. Then Arunis went on, as if Orfuin had never spoken:
“I have been splendid, Macadra—that you cannot deny. I took a harmless madman and built him into the Shaggat Ness, a slaughtering messiah, a knife upon which both Arqual and the Mzithrin are preparing to throw themselves. And I managed to let the Arqualis believe the entire affair was in their interests—indeed, that they had devised the plot, alone. What general with legions at his fingertips ever accomplished so much? Either Northern power could mount a fight to try the strength of Bali Adro—together, they might even have bested you. Instead they think only of killing one another, and will soon begin to do so with more determination than you have ever seen.”
“Your Shaggat is dead!” screamed the woman with the daggers. “A peasant boy turned him into a lump of stone!”
“The Pathkendle boy may have started life as a peasant,” said Arunis, “but he is now a Smythídor , magic-altered, blood and bone. The great Ramachni entrusted him with Master-Words, and one of these he used against the Shaggat. But Ramachni’s gamble was a losing one, for in so arming Pathkendle he exhausted himself, and had to abandon his friends. And for what? They wish to kill me; they cannot. They seek a new and safer resting place for the Nilstone; they will not find one. And the Shaggat—he is not dead, merely enchanted. He will breathe again, mark my words.”
“Suppose he does,” said Macadra. “Suppose you complete this journey, hand him back to his faithful on Gurishal. Suppose we help you to that end.”
Arunis bowed his head, as though to say he would not spurn such aid.
“What will we gain for our efforts? All I see ahead is the self-destruction of the Mzithrin in a civil war. And afterward, the total victory of the Arqualis. You will leave us with one giant foe in the North, rather than the smaller pair we face today.”
“Not if you do as I suggest,” said Arunis.
Macadra smiled. “I saw that coming ere our feet touched the ground. Show it to me, wizard. I have waited long enough.”
When Arunis said nothing, Macadra swept toward the doorway of the club, never glancing once at the proprietor. She gazed into the warm firelight. A hush fell over the patrons; the musicians ceased to play.
“Where is it?” she demanded. “Is someone holding it for you at one of the tables?” She turned him a searching look. “Is it on your person?”
“My dear lady,” said Arunis, “we must have words about the Nilstone.”
“Are you saying that you have come here without it?”
“How could I do otherwise? You offer me no assurance that you speak for the Ravens. I do not even have proof that yours is the same Order that dispatched me to the North so long ago.”
“But how dare you leave it unguarded! What possible excuse—”
She broke off, a new thought writing itself in a frown upon her colorless face. With a sharp sound of rage she drove both hands, nails first, into Arunis’ chest. Her fingers sank to the first digits; then she ripped her hands apart. The mage’s flesh vanished briefly, obscured by a sudden haze. Arunis stepped back, and the woman’s fingers emerged unbloodied.
“I told you!” said the woman with the daggers. “We make the dark journey in person; he sends a dream-shell, a mirage! He’ll never give up the Nilstone! He means to use it, Macadra, to use it