Shadow of Ararat

NEARBY THE HOUSE OF THE BYGAR DRACUL, CONSTANTINOPLE

Smoke still curled up from fires hidden deep in the rubble. A wasteland had been cleared around the ruined building, the fire-damaged insulae torn down and the entrances to adjoining buildings bricked up. Gray clouds hung low over the city, sending down a fine mist of rain. The wind from the north was chill and blew the trails of smoke away. Three hooded figures in long dark woolen cloaks climbed over the rubble, careful to test their weight on any new footing. Behind them a few civil guardsmen looked on momentarily but soon lost interest and passed away into the narrow alleys of the city. The lead figure, shorter than the others, halted and stared down into a stairway choked with fallen beams and ash.

“Here! I feel something below, some pattern out of joint.”

The other two scrambled across the cracked brick and tortured stone. A great heat had crushed the concrete pillars that had supported the house to grainy white ash. The footing was treacherous, but they reached the side of the first figure without incident. The second figure knelt by the side of the pit and ground the gravel of the flooring between gloved fingers. The edge of a blue and green mosaic peeked out at him, but when he touched one of the tiles, it disintegrated into powder. Another edge of the floor was warped and translucent, almost like glass.

“Find workers who will not tell any stories,” the kneeling man said to the third figure. “Excavate this stairway. There are tunnels and rooms underneath that may have escaped the destruction. I trust you will be as discreet as you can.“

The third figure nodded and turned away. The two at the stairhead watched hirrugo. When he was out of earshot, the second man turned back the cowl of his robe and looked up into the gray, troubled sky. Rain spattered on his face and he welcomed it. The cool rain was a blessing. Water trickled through his short beard, newly grown in. He wiped it from his eyes.

“You have done well,” he said to the first figure, which bowed deeply. “My servants tell me that you and your people can be discreet. I have great need of discreet men to help me. Also, they have explained your precarious situation to me. If you are loyal, this too can be alleviated.”

The first figure bowed, folding his gloved hands before him. “These are fine words, Prince. If they are true, we will be greatly in your debt. Forgive my bluntness, but our history is filled with betrayal and treachery. We do not trust easily.”

The Prince nodded; he had expected no less. He reached into the pouch at his belt and drew out a gold coin pierced by a chain. He held it out in his open palm. “Trust must be earned by both sides. Give me an opportunity to earn it of your people and I will not disappoint you. Tell this to your elders.”

The first figure nodded again. Its gloved hand passed over the Prince’s palm and the coin and the brass chain were gone.

“If they wish it, I shall come to your lodgings and bring you news. If they do not, you will not see me again.”

The Prince made a half bow and the hooded figure climbed off over the ruins, its step light on the tumbled piles of rubble. After the figure was gone, Maxian drew his hood back over his head. He was tired and the rain was beginning to chill. He sat down on a nearby block of scarred marble. In the air around him he could feel the incredible rage and the staggering efflorescence of fire that had destroyed the house. Something mighty had walked here, albeit momentarily, and wreaked great destruction. His fingers twitched at the thought of that kind of power. Then he sighed. A vaster power was arrayed against him; the thing that had transpired here had been the conflict of men, not the doings of something so enormous it might as well be a god. He buried his head in his hands. He was so weary.

Krista crushed a handful of shiny leaves, green on the top and gray on the bottom, in the bowl of a mortar. A sharp aromatic odor rose from the bowl. Satisfied that they were well bruised, she spilled them into a pot of hot water that was hissing at the edge of the fire. The smell bloomed in the boiling water and filled the little kitchen. She smiled at it; it reminded her of Thira on a cold morning. She assembled a platter of fresh heavy bread and soft cheese while the leaves steeped in the bubbling water. Outside, a cold r’ain continued to fall, filling the central garden of the house with pools of water.

Maxian was in the back room, christened the “study,” for it was filled with spoils from the ruined house across the street. Renting the whole building had been easy, since the disastrous fire and the strange doings that had preceded it, the entire neighborhood had fallen under a pall. Many of the local people had moved on, leaving an unanticipated windfall of cheap housing for the secretive band of Westerners who had moved in.

Of all the things that Maxian had commanded of the little Persian, the excavations of the smashed house of the Valach merchant pleased Abdmachus the most. Once given a free hand, he had fallen to it with a will, showing off skills learned as a boy in the ghoul-haunted canyons of Petra. Even now, in the rain, he was down in the tunnels under the ruin, driving his men onward. A steady stream of messengers trickled back across the street at odd hours, bringing blackened crates, boxes, and unidentifiable scraps to be piled in the ground-floor rooms. Tiny old women-Krista knew not where Abdmachus had found them-picked through the detritus, gently prizing apart melted glass and burned paper.

At the sight of the Persian’s energy, Gaius Julius had laughed. “Once a grave robber, always a grave robber!”

Maxian barely looked up from the pages of the ancient scroll he was poring over when she came in. His face was paler, as he spent nearly all of his time inside or in the black pits across the street. His features were more sharply defined, his bones rubbing against the skin. She placed a cup of the infusion next to him but away from his elbows, for he had developed a tendency to bump into things without looking. She settled into the couch by the window and peered out into the gray day. The other buildings, even the great bulk of the palace to the southeast, could barely be made out. The city was wrapped in fog nearly all of the time. The fires of the Avars besieging it did not better the air; even on a clear day there was a haze cutting the sun.

“Lord Prince, you should drink something hot. There is a chill in the air.”

Maxian blinked and looked up. It took a moment to focus on her, but when he did, he smiled and leaned back in the high-backed chair. “Oh! Thank you. Is there any… oh, and cheese!”

Now that he had realized that he was hungry, he fell to with a will, eating all of the bread, cheese, and olives in oil. When he was done, he looked around again and sighed. He sipped at the infusion. It was tart to the tongue and stringent to the nose. He felt his head clear and only then realized that he had been working in a muddled daze.

Krista had come to stand by him and was turning the pages of the scroll. “Is this important?” Her voice was dubious.

Maxian looked over and laughed. “No, most likely not. It is an account of a Chaldean architect named Varus Tris-gesene. He was fond of mechanisms and clocks. These di agrams are those projects he hoped to build when he had j the time, no more than notes, really.“

Krista turned one of the pages upside down, then right- j side up again. “He wanted to build a bat?”

Maxian peered at the page; parts of it were smeared [where water had spoiled it.

“I think,” the Prince said, turning the page sideways, ‘ “that he was dissecting bats to see what they looked like inside.”

Krista scowled at that and returned to the couch. “Have you found what you were looking for?” Her voice was even, but Maxian knew that this life of hiding was wearing on her. There was little for her to do. He paused, thinking. She is a spy, he thought, but who do I have to spy on? He suddenly felt as if he were on the verge of making a dreadful mistake.

“Ah,” he said, putting the thought aside, “no. We came here to seek passage into the East; to try to find the hiding place of the Conqueror’s bones. I had hoped to find some clue to the workings of this Sarcophagus before we departed. This Dracul, who owned the ruined house, was an avid collector of old books and artifacts. Abdmachus hoped that he would be able to help us discover if the workmen who built the casket left any record.”

“Was this Trisgesene one of the workmen?” Maxian flushed. “No. I just came across his Meditations while looking through all of these books and began reading it. A waste of time…”

Krista frowned and stood up. The whole side of the study was lined with boxes filled with books, scrolls, and parchments recovered from the tunnels. Fire or water damaged many; others were in languages that no one recognized anymore. She put her hands on her hips and turned to look at him. “You’ll have to read through all of these books before we leave?”

Maxian nodded, his mouth turned up at one end in a wry grin. “At least enough to see if they are pertinent to our search.”

“Are they in Greek or Latin?”

Maxian was nonplussed. “Why?” he asked.

Krista pulled a box off of the top of the center stack and carried it to the couch. She took the first book out of it.

“ ‘Seven against Thebes,’ ” she read out loud, “by a Greek, Euripedes.” She glanced up at the Prince, who was staring at her in amazement. “Get that silly look off your face. Of course I can read-both Greek and Latin. I’d be no good to my mistress if I could not read and write.”

She tossed the play on the floor and took the next book out of the box. Maxian slowly folded up the Meditations and put it back in its scroll case. He didn’t need a spy; he needed to think clearly again.

“ ‘The Second Book of Atlantis’,” she continued, “ ‘or A Cautionary Tale for the Credulous, by Plato. Not, I believe, a goldsmith, carpenter, or embalmer.”

Krista sighed and tossed another scroll into a big wicker basket that she had purchased in the market of the Bull. She dragged a heavy copper tube out of the next crate, wiping a thick slurry of ashy mud off the mottled green surface. The scroll was heavy and she shuddered when the weight sloshed from one end to the other as she hefted it. Rain had fallen heavily in the days since the fire, and many of the pits and cavities under the ruined house were deep with black water. She deposited the tube into the basket with a sickly look on her face. When she turned back to the window couch, she paused.

Abdmachus and eight of his workers were hurrying across the street with a large wooden crate on their shoulders. She could hear his voice echoing up from the street below. The workers passed out of her sight.

“Lord Prince,” she said, turning to Maxian, who was in his accustomed seat, laboring to translate a long text inscribed in blocks of tiny hash marks. “The Persian has found something. They are bringing it into the house.“

Maxian paused and rubbed his eyes. He focused enough to reach out and touch the Persian through the mark he had placed upon the Easterner. The little man was afire with excitement, even giddy. Maxian stood up and broke the linkage. It was disconcerting to feel the emotions of another flooding into his own thought.

The downstairs kitchen had a stout oaken table with massive legs. The workmen, grimy with the black ashy soot of the tunnels and pits of the ruined house, groaned with effort as they hoisted the heavy crate up onto the table and let it fall with a massive thump.

“Master! I think we’ve found something very interesting!”

Abdmachus was almost fawning, pulling at Maxian’s sleeve to hurry him to the side of the table. The Prince frowned down at the little Easterner. Since he had put the mark on him, the personality of the Persian had begun to subtly shift. His aloof manner had completely disappeared, to be replaced with an almost unctuous servitude. He worked endlessly to execute the wishes of his “master,” but Maxian found that he now spent more time guiding the little man than he had before. He wondered if he could revoke the mark, but found to his distress that he did not know how.

The crate was almost seven feet long, made of clapboard and pegs. Maxian recognized it as the detritus of some deliveries that had been made the week before. A lid had been tied to it with hemp ropes.

Abdmachus pulled a chair over and stood on it to begin untying them. “Master, if I am not mistaken, our efforts have borne glorious fruit! The man who owned the ruined house, the Bygar Dracul, was a man of many secrets-not least of which is friendship for Persia!-but among the treasures that he was said to have gathered to him is a most amazing construction.” Abdmachus grunted with effort, but pushed the top off the crate. Looking inside, under the light of the lanterns hung from the heavy wooden beams of the ceiling, he hissed with delight.

“Oh, yes! Look, master, upon a masterpiece of the art!”

Maxian leaned over the table and peered into the crate. Within, still half encased in a matrix of sand, ash, and charcoaled wood, was the body of a man, or something that looked like a man. The Prince touched the side of the corpse’s neck and was surprised to find the skin still flexible and even soft. Then his fingers touched a ridged line along the thing’s neck and he whistled in surprise himself.

“Oh, yes, master-a work of marvels!” Abdmachus rubbed his hands together.

“What is it?” Krista stood on the other side of the table, with Gaius Julius. She looked upon the body in the crate with ill-disguised revulsion. It was not pretty. The skin had become a sallow yellow-green with dark patches and bruised traceries in the translucent skin. The hair on the head was matted and plastered to the skull. The remains of a dark-colored cloak and tunic clung to the limbs and torso, or such that was visible within the crumbling mud that still cradled it.

“Lady, it is a homunculus!” Abdmachus’ voice was breathy with delight. “The most useful of conjurations! A man made of the limbs and organs of the dead, but given new life by sorcery. See, his skin…”

“Stitched together,” said Maxian, who had broken the right arm free from the earth and extended it. His face was close to the mottled skin, so that he could make out the fine lines of skin that had been sewn together to hold the organs of the creature. “It must have taken months to construct such a thing.” He laid the arm down, and it hung limply over the edge of the table, the fingers still clutched into an agonized claw.

“Gaius, Abdmachus, help me remove it from this clay and ash. Krista, bring warm water from the fire, and cloths.” Maxian began to break the clods away from the body.

An hour later the body of the homunculus lay naked on the table. The charred tunic and tattered boots had been cut off it, and Maxian and Gaius Julius had washed the remainder of the dirt away. The body was of a man with craggy features and a high forehead. His arms were long, and his legs a little short for his torso. The trunk of the body showed the signs of ancient wounds, long ago scarred over. Its hair was lank and dark, not quite coming to the shoulder.

“It must have been on one of the upper floors of the house when the explosion came.” Abdmachus was sweeping the dirt up and piling it back into the crate, which had been pushed to one side of the kitchen. Outside, night had fallen fully on the city.

“We found it when we broke into the bottom of a chimney. It was there, packed into the bottom of the shaft, with rubble above it and deep in mud. I could feel it, though, even through the brickwork, like a dying flame. It might have been able to crawl out, if its master had not died in the fire.”

“And,” Gaius Julius said, “why do we care that the household was frequented by a walking pincushion?”

Abdmachus glared at the Roman. “Such a creature is well made for discreet errands, friend. It would be privy to many of the secrets of the house. If it could speak again, it could tell us much of its master’s business-perhaps even what we want to know. It may be centuries old. Ah, the things it has seen…”

Maxian leaned over it, his hands gently exploring the face, the throat, the rib cage. Gaius Julius sat down on the steps leading up to the rear kitchen. Krista was sitting there as well, her face pale. She moved away to the other end of the step. The dead man affected not to notice. The Prince began to hum a little tune, and in a moment there was a basso response from the stones of the floor. Then it stopped. Maxian looked up, his eyes unfocused. When they cleared, he cocked his head at Gaius Julius.

“I can restore this thing to life. Bring me blood, fresh blood. At least a gallon.”

The dead man’s eyes widened. The look on the Prince’s face was inscrutable, a mask.

“Ah… blood? What kind of blood?”

Maxian smiled at the fear in the eyes of the dead man. “Pig’s blood will do, Gaius Julius. But be quick, there is much work to be done.”

The dead man left, taking a copper bucket from the little kitchen. Krista disappeared upstairs. Maxian sat down on the step and wrapped his cloak around him. It was cold in the ground-floor room. Abdmachus sat on the chair, staring at the homunculus, muttering to himself.

A fat blue spark jumped from Maxian’s fingertips to sizzle on the cranium of the homunculus before it seeped into the flesh of the dead thing. The air wavered in a heat haze around the Prince as he bent over the body on the table, his hands held a knucklebone’s distance away from the head. He chanted under his breath, an ancient invocation to steady the mind and guide the thoughts. Abdmachus was his anchor, kneeling at the base of the table within the circle that they had hastily drawn in chalk and silver dust. Blue-white lightning rippled in the air between the two sorcerers, wrapping the body of the thing in a corona of light. Its limbs twitched and spasmed. Maxian’s voice rose into a shout as he funneled the power inherent in the air and bricks around him into the trembling form that he was drawing forth in the body of the dead man.

Suddenly, as that immaterial form coalesced into a shining perfect geometric shape, the body convulsed and the eyes, a bright yellow with red pupils, fluttered open.

“Aaaahhh!” The throat of the creature was dry and clogged with soot. It hacked and gasped for air.-Maxian’s gaze darted to Gaius Julius for a second, and the old Roman, his face a mask of disgust, leapt to the side of the table and turned the body over. Soot and water dribbled out of the thing’s throat. Lightning crawled across the tabletop and burrowed into the body. With each burning entry, the thing howled and twitched. It began to breathe, its airway clear at last.

“The blood,” Maxian snarled to Krista as Gaius Julius turned the body back over and held it down. It had begun to thrash and its strength, even weak from near dissolution, was immense. The old Roman’s veins stood out in his forehead as he struggled with his full weight and strength to hold it down. Krista hesitated but then stepped to the edge of the table. She held a heavy bladder in one hand, bulging with liquid, and a hose made of pig intestine in the other. Her hand darted out and speared the tip of the hose into the thing’s mouth. The head whipped from side to side as it screamed in agony.

Maxian’s hands seized the sides of the head, holding it still, though the neck muscles bunched and he was nearly thrown aside. Krista, her face an impassive mask, shoved the hose deeper into the thing’s throat. It bit at her, and Maxian’s fingers dug into the corners of its eyes. It shook again, its feet frantically beating a tattoo on the tabletop. Krista squeezed the bladder under her right arm and the hose filled with a thick red fluid. The blood surged into the mouth of the homunculus and filled its throat. Its screams were cut off by a horrible gargling noise, and blood spattered out of the mouth. Krista lunged in, her face twisted in disgust, and snapped the jaw up with one hand, while the other kept the hose from flying out of the mouth. Gaius Julius cursed; pig’s blood had sprayed across his face and chest.

The Prince’s fingers danced in the air above the corpse, and the flesh around the mouth suddenly crawled together around the hose, fixing it tight. Krista put her hand over her mouth and staggered back, overcome at the sight. Gaius Julius, lying fully athwart the corpse, gagged and turned his head away. Satisfied that the hose would not come loose, Maxian’s fingers sank into the bone and sinew around the skull, and the thing, with one last convulsion, lay still. A white-hot glow spilled from the thing’s eyes for a moment, and then the Prince withdrew his fingers, the bone melting back into place where there had been gaping holes a moment before.

Gaius Julius rolled off the bloody body and fell heavily onto the stone floor. He began retching in great heaving motions. Against the wall, Krista was huddled, her face in her hands. Only the Prince and Abdmachus still stood. Maxian laid a hand, gently, on the side of the homunculus’s throat. The flesh peeled back away from the hose and it slid out onto the tabletop, dribbling a last bit of blood. The creature breathed then, in a great shudder, and its eyes flickered open. Red pupils stared up, meeting Maxian’s calm brown eyes.

“Greetings,” the Prince said, the ghost of a smile on his face. “I am your new master.”

The thing threw its head back against the tabletop, but this time no sound issued from its mouth, only a long dry hiss of despair.

A light tapping came at the door of the kitchen that led out into the garden at the center of the house. Gaius Julius looked up from where he was tiredly mopping up the pools of coagulated blood and offal that covered the stone floor. The tapping came again. He could barely make outs through the mottled glass pane that was inset in the door panel, a white hand. He looked around. Everyone else was asleep upstairs, save the Prince and the Persian, who were questioning the homunculus in the study.

The dead man loosened his dagger in its sheath and walked to the door. He reached for the latch, but stopped.

There’s no gate in the back wall, he thought. How did they get into the garden? Then he shook his head and laughed softly to himself. I’m already dead, what do I have to fear? He lifted the latch and swung the door open.

Three figures stood in the doorway on the pale-blue hex agonal tiles that covered the arcade around the garden. Their faces were shrouded in deep hoods of dark-green wool. A second cloak lay over their shoulders and dropped to their feet. The one in the middle leaned on a staff of pale-white ivory as tall as a man. A delicate white hand circled by thin bracelets of dark metal held the staff. Gaius Julius licked his lips in sudden unease. The fingernails of the hand were long and tapered to sharp points. The nails were a deep blue-black, like the carapace of an Egyptian scarab beetle.

“What… what do you want?” His voice was faint and he rallied suddenly. Who was he to fear phantoms in the night? He, who had destroyed the power of the Druids? He, who had built an Empire?

“We wish,” the central figure whispered in a low, husky voice, “to have words, friendly words with the lord of the house. He has spoken to one of our friends. He gave a token.”

The hand vanished into the deep folds of the robes and when it reappeared, it held a gold coin wrapped in the links of a brass chain of fine links. Gaius Julius nodded, his eyes narrowing. He took the coin and turned it over. The front was stamped with the image of the Augustus Galen, the obverse with a crude depiction of Maxian himself. A commemorative, the dead man thought.

“I’ll take your message. Wait here.”

The old man climbed the flights of stairs up to the third floor. Butter-yellow light spilled out of the study onto the landing. Gaius Julius stepped into the doorway. Within, the homunculus was seated on a stool at the center of the room, clad now in a simple tunic of muddy brown wool. Its shoulders were shrunken and its body seemed compressed in on itself. Maxian sat on the edge of the table he used as a desk, and the Persian was prowling around behind the creature. Krista was bundled up in a quilt and blankets on the window couch. Her eyes were closed and she seemed asleep, though Gaius Julius did not credit it for a moment.

“Lord Prince, there are…”

“We are here,” came the husky voice from behind him, “as the Prince requested.”

Maxian looked up in surprise, hearing the strange voice. Gaius Julius had jumped away from the door and spun, the dagger in his hand. A woman stood in the doorway, and the old Roman backed up as she entered. Two other women followed her. Maxian stood up, stepping away from the table.

The woman was tall, almost as tall as Maxian, with pale-ivory skin and deep-red hair, almost black, that fell behind her to her waist. A delicate net of silver held back the hair from her high forehead, and shining drops of ruby glittered at her ears. Her cloak and hood fell back from smooth white shoulders and revealed a black silk gown with buttons of white bone. She was as thin as a reed. Her lips were pale rose, and the beauty of her face was the more striking for the strength of her features. The Prince met her gaze and saw that her tilted eyes were so pale a blue that the iris was almost invisible in the white.

“You gave a token and a promise, O Prince,” said the woman, gliding into the room. Under the hem of her gown, her feet were bare. “We have come to speak of it.”

Maxian stood, his hands clasped lightly behind his back. The other two women still stood in the doorway, each possessed of a lush distracting beauty. One had hair like flax, golden and long, the other like a raven’s tail, glossy and black. Their robes were slightly parted, and the Prince glimpsed the edge of white thighs and the curve of full breasts under tightly fitting silk. Beside their mistress, they seemed faint, reflections of her full radiance. Pale stars to a moon bright in a night sky.

“So I did. Did the one carrying the token speak of my proposal?”

“That one did.” The woman drifted to the table, her long fingers languid as they touched the scroll that was open.

“You seek assistance in a mighty endeavor. We can give it, if I ken your purpose.”

She turned back to face Maxian, her face lit from within by a slow smile. The Prince nearly shuddered at the promise radiating from those eyes. His breathing slowed and he flexed the power that was coming more easily to him with each day. In the unseen world, barriers rose around him, Krista, and Gaius Julius. A whirling sphere of unseen fire already surrounded Abdmachus, who had backed up to the wall next to the window couch.

The woman laughed, a sound of delicate crystal tinkling in a breeze. “O Prince, you seek alliance, or mastery. We will not”fight you. You are too strong. If we cannot be friends then we will disappear, water before a blade. If we wish it, none can find us. That one who spoke before mentioned trust to you and you to that one. Do you wish to gain our trust? Our friendship?“ She stood close to the Prince now, who had turned to keep her in full view.

“Can you earn my trust?” Maxian’s voice was clear and steady, though the room had grown steadily darker. The two women at the door had entered now and stood on either side of it. The fire in the braziers had died to coals. Behind him, the Prince heard Krista move slightly in her blankets. “Can you earn my friendship?”

The woman bowed, her hands spreading in obeisance. Curls of her burgundy hair spilled over the white of her neck. “What is the price of a Prince’s friendship? What would please you, O Prince? Gold? Jewels? Murder? Me?”

Maxian laughed softly, just enough to cover the sound of Krista hissing in anger behind him.

“I am not Antony,” he said in an amused voice. “Trust and friendship are a long road, O Queen. A first step must be taken to reach the end. I will give you a gift, and you shall reciprocate. If each finds the gift appropriate and worthy, we will take a second step.”

“Well said.” The Queen’s voice was mellow and filled with honey. “What will you gift us?”

“Respite from pain, O Queen.”

The woman stepped back, her eyes flashing. Her lips curled in anger, revealing perfect white teeth. “What do you mean, man? What do you know of pain?”

Maxian stepped to the table and picked up a small black box that had been sitting next to the candles. He snapped it open, the only sound in the deathly quiet room, and drew out a small glass vial. In the light of the candles, the contents of the vial gleamed a murky red.

“I am a healer, O Queen, and know many arts. I felt the sickness in the one who spoke with me. I feel the pain that seeps along your bones like acid. This, if taken in moderation, can ease your pain for a full moon. In time, if we come to trust one another, I will provide you with the method of its manufacture.”

The Queen stared at the vial with a cold expression, then turned away and paced to the door. “Friendship cannot come of slavery, O Prince. We will not walk that path with you.”

There was a flutter of dark robes in the doorway, and Maxian caught a glimpse of the face of the blond one as they departed, looking back in sorrow.

The room was quiet, and Maxian felt the three women depart through the garden door. When they were gone, he breathed a long shuddering breath and leaned back heavily on the table.

“They have departed,” he said to the room. “Gaius, go and close the garden door.”

Abdmachus sat down on the floor and curled his arms around his knees. “Lord Prince, that was… that was a very close thing.”

Maxian looked over at the Persian and one side of his mouth twitched up in a tiny smile.

“We are strong enough,” he said. “We could have held them off for a little while. Gaius and Krista would not have been affected by their power.”

There was a clicking sound behind him. As Maxian turned, he saw Krista sliding the spring gun back under the coverlet. She met his gaze with a solemn look, and then suddenly a smile lit her face.

“If you fancied her, Lord Prince,” she said, “I would have killed you.”

Maxian nodded and turned back to the homunculus, which had sat immobile in the middle of the room through- out the entire affair.

“So,” he said to its impassive face, “you are the creature called Khiron…”

Slowly the head of the thing turned up and its yellow eyes met Maxian’s.

“I am Khiron,” it said in a rusty, dry voice.

“Who is your master, Khiron?” Maxian’s voice was patient, as if he were speaking to a small child.

“My master is the Bygar Dracul,” it said, though its features seemed puzzled.

Maxian leaned closer, staring into the flat reptilian eyes.

“The Bygar is dead,” he said. “I am your master now. I am Maxian Atreus. I have given you life; I can withhold it as well. You serve me.”

“I serve Maxian Atreus,” it repeated back to him. Suddenly it twitched and stood up. Maxian backed away, folding his arms over his chest. He seemed pleased. The corpse man looked around, apparently aware for the first time. It surveyed the room slowly, pausing when it saw Abdmachus and Krista. Its gaze returned to Maxian. “You are my master.”

“What do you remember, Khiron? What was the last thing that you saw?”

The homunculus paused, the muscles under the translucent skin bunching around its jaw. The sight of them sliding under the gelid skin filled Krista with a particular revulsion. This thing was like a skinless snake, abominable to look upon. She stole a glance at the Prince, but he seemed filled with a great good humor to see his power at work, reviving this corpse from the dead. Under the coverlet, her index finger curled around the trigger of the spring gun. She knew that she could put the six-inch-long steel bolt through the side of his head, perhaps even straight through his ear. He would be dead in an instant. She knew that Gaius would die, a puppet with cut strings, and this Khiron creature as well. Only Abdmachus would be left to deal with. Her eyes slid to the Persian, but the sight of the dead thing walking and talking held him enraptured.

We have left the Western Empire, she thought. Perhaps we are far enough away to escape the curse of the city. No, I must be sure that I will live.

“I remember fire.” The dead thing’s voice was hollow and echoed with pain. “My master was speaking in the garden room with important visitors. I brought a boy for them to see; a precious little boy with hair of red gold. The dark one, he found the boy pleasing, he wished to purchase him… Then there were lights in the sky, and then fire, like the sun rising. Everything was aflame; I leapt into the dumbwaiter to escape. It was cold and dark there. Then the house shook and I was buried. Things fell and I could not move. I could not breathe. Water filled the shaft. It filled my mouth. It was dark.”

The head of the creature slumped ontp its chest. Its hands twitched with palsy. Maxian tipped its head back that he might see its eyes. They were half closed.

“Khiron, you have life again. You live. You walk, you talk, and you see and hear. I am your master, I command you to live again.” A dark-blue gleam shimmered on Maxian’s hand and faded into the side of the homunculus’s face. The eyes opened, aware.

“Your old master knew many secrets, Khiron. You must have learned many things in his employ. Tell me these secrets and you will live. Tell me these things and you shall have blood to drink, fresh blood.”

The head of the thing rose up, a hungry look upon its face. The yellow eyes were filled with fire at last, no longer dead and pale. “Blood?” it whispered. A hand clutched feebly at Maxian’s sleeve. “Blood for me?”

“Yes,” Maxian said, his voice soothing, “blood. Hot and still pulsing with the fever of life.”

Khiron collapsed to the floor, bowing his head before the prince. “O master, please, give me blood and I will serve you always! Ask of me, and I will tell!”

Maxian looked down, his face lit by a kind smile. He caressed the knobby skull of the thing. “Did you ever hear your master mention something called the Sarcophagus of the Conqueror? An old thing, long thought lost.”

Khiron twisted his head around and smiled up at the Prince, his teeth sharp and black. “Yes, master, many times. My old master desired it greatly-it was this thing, this coffin of gold and lead, that brought the dark one to my master’s house.”

Krista felt Abdmachus tense and looked over at the little man. The Persian was staring at the homunculus with a dreadful look on his face.

“Say on, good servant,” Maxian said.

“O master, the Dracul knew many things-he was a strong wizard-but he yearned for great power like a Roman for gold. He collected secrets and sold them for things that would make him stronger. The dark one came desiring a boon, and the master, O he would give it. The dark one had the secret the master wanted. The dark one had seen the coffin of gold and lead. They had come to arrange the exchange when the fire came.”

Maxian held the homunculus’s head between his hands. His voice was soft. “Where is the Sarcophagus, Khiron? What did your master learn?”

“O master, they sent me from the room! I only heard a snatch, only the tiniest bit of the speaking! Please, may I have the blood?” The voice of the creature was abject, begging. Maxian shook his head slowly.

“You must tell me,” the Prince said, “then you may have blood, if I will it.”

Khiron laid his head low and wept in anguish, tears of dust trickling down his cheeks. “Please, master, only a tiny sip, only a finger’s worth!”

“What did you hear as you were leaving the room, Khiron?” Maxian’s voice was harder now.

“I heard them only mention a place, master, some terrible place where no one could go and live. A city in the uttermost East. The dark one spoke of it, he named it Dasta-gird.”

Abdmachus hissed in quiet surprise. To Krista’s eye he seemed more fearful than ever.

“Good, good, Khiron,” the Prince said. He drew the homunculus upright. “You shall have blood. Abdmachus, fetch more of the pig’s blood from the kitchen.”

Abdmachus did not move, staring instead at the corpse man with a dreadful expression on his face.

“Abdmachus?” Maxian stepped toward the Persian, concerned.

“What…” Abdmachus’ voice quavered, “what name did this ‘dark one’ bear?”

Khiron turned, slightly crouched behind the Prince. He smiled to see the fear in the living man. “My old master named him, fellow servant. He named him Dahak.”

Abdmachus turned utterly white and his legs quavered and gave way. Maxian was at his side in an instant, holding him up. The Persian clutched at his arm with clawlike fingers.

“What is it?” Maxian was anxious, for the old Easterner was in poor color. “What is this Dahak? Krista, is there any infusion left?”

Maxian lay the old man back gently on the floor and put a pillow of rolled cloth under his head. Krista brought the last of the hot infusion over from the table and knelt, brushing her gown behind her, to pour a cup. The Prince tipped the thin porcelain cup to Abdmachus’ lips. The old man drank gratefully. His veins stood out on his forehead and his skin was chalky.

“O master,” he whispered, “that is a terrible name. The name of an old demon, steeped in centuries of evil. In the books of the dead, he stands high in the councils of the lord of all darkness, Ahriman. A man who would take such a name for his own must be a powerful sorcerer. I had begun to fear that something very strong had been in the house across the street. Echoes of it are in the broken tile and bricks of the center of the house, like a foulness had taken root there.”

Maxian looked down on the little sorcerer, his face tender. His fingers pressed the side of the Persian’s neck, feeling his pulse race intermittently. ‘“Fear not, my friend, you will not die. You need rest, though, and sleep. You have been working far too hard. I will complete what you have begun. Tell me this-where is this Dastagird? Is it far away? How long would it take to reach this place?”

Abdmachus sighed, his voice faint with pain and exhaustion. “Dastagird is the stronghold of the magi. It lies along the banks of the great river Tigris, barely twenty miles north of the Persian capital of Ctesiphon. It is a closed city, entered only by the mobehedan and their servants. Once, when I was very young, I was taken there to be, initiated into the order, but all I remember are towering buildings of black basalt and green soapstone.”

“Ctesiphon…” Maxian stood up and motioned for Ga-ius Julius and Krista to bring blankets and quilts for the old man. “Still very far away. We must make haste.” He scowled. “Curse this war of my brothers! If there were peace upon the land, we could travel swiftly.” He began muttering to himself.