The Starfollowers of Coramonde by Brian Daley Page A

say something to her.”
    “Goo,”
offered the American solemnly. “Why’s she here?”
    “Reacher
brought her from Freegate. I believe she’s tied in with all this, the endeavors
of Bey and the Masters. I wanted her here while I go through Yardiff Bey’s
things, to see if there are correlations.” He put her in a makeshift bassinet,
a dry-sink. “But now, what brings you up here?”
    Gil jabbed a
thumb at Blazetongue. It was a long, imperial-looking weapon, its blade chased
with inscriptions and enchantment. “I’ve been elected. I’m going to Death’s
Hold, but first I’m going with you to Veganá.”
    “Your company
will be welcome; we share common goals beside Veganá. As to Blazetongue, there
are some things I could tell, and one thing for certain I cannot. I do not have
the spell that makes the blade burn, as Bey and Strongblade did.”
    “Well,
Springbuck told me the rest. Too bad; that would be a handy trick to have.” His
eye fell on Arrivals Macabre.
    “Delivering
Blazetongue is a job that has wanted doing for a long time,” the wizard assured
him. He went back to playing with the child, chuckling at her giggles.
    “Your sister
and I both think Bey is in Death’s Hold. Are you interested in seeing?”
    “After
delivering Blazetongue? Hmm, yes, if evidence points to it. First, I must think
it through. Speaking of the Hand of Salamá, Bey’s sword Dirge is there on the
chest.”
    Gil spied it,
a shorter sword than Blazetongue, with a vicious, runcinate blade. The sorcerer
had dropped it in his fight with Dunstan. Terrible properties were attributed
to it. It occurred to Gil that it might be linked to Bey’s magic; weapons and
owners had strange affinities here.
    Andre was
still fussing over the baby. Gil picked up the binder of Arrivals Macabre, feeling its ancient weight.
    “Andre, do
you think we’ll find Bey?”
    The wizard
didn’t turn. He bounced the child, answering, “You will have your moment with
Bey. The hatred is mutual, and in both your destinies.”
    Hearing it
cut Gil to the bone. His hand closed angrily on the binder. The rough edges of
the seal rested under his fingertips.
    “What kind of
crack’s that, Andre?” His nails had detected a slight give in the seal’s edge.
Unthinkingly, framing his next words, he dug at it. The outermost corner gave
way with a minute pop, but Andre somehow heard.
    The wizard
spun, consternation on his face, shouting “No!”
    Gil was blown
back off the bench with enormous force by something that had suddenly come into
the room. He twisted to avoid landing on his injured side, but was still jarred
by shooting pain. He sat up awkwardly to a hair-raising scene, with those feelings
so characteristic of his Coramonde experience, utter astonishment mixed with
stark terror.
    Between Andre
and Gil a ball of swirling transplendence hung, a miniature sun. Andre had
taken in the situation—which Gil hadn’t sorted out yet—and acted. Putting the
baby back in the dry-sink he began mystic passes, uttering words from a dead
language. As he did, he backed away, deliberately shoving the dry-sink toward
the door with his legs and plump buttocks, wishing he hadn’t left the occult
jewel Calundronius with his sister.
    Gil found
time to think, He’s such a homey little guy, balding and fat. You forget
he’s the man of action.
    Andre’s spell
had been hasty or incomplete. The entity sizzled, and lashed out at him,
knocking him sideways. The baby began wailing, attracting the thing’s
attention. It floated in that direction.
    Gil grabbed
for his pistol, then stopped. It wasn’t likely to do much good. Andre was still
groggy. As a tendril of energy edged into the dry-sink, the child’s complaint
shifted register from dismay to rage
    Blazetongue,
still lying against the bench, flared incandescent. Flame licked up and down
its glowing blade.
    The being
instantly pulled back, compressing into an alarmed ball. Gil snatched up
Blazetongue, leaping sparks