The Hand of Chaos

27

Stunned by the comment, Hugh stared at Ciang in wordless amazement. His look was so wild and dark that it was now Ciang’s turn to regard him with astonishment.

“Why, what is the matter, Hugh? One would think I spoke the truth. But I am not talking to a ghost, am I? You are flesh and blood.” She reached out her hand, closed it over his.

Hugh released his breath, realized the woman had made the remark in jest, referring to his long absence from Skurvash. He held his hand steady beneath her touch, managed a laugh, and made some muttered explanation that his last job had taken him too close to death to make it a laughing matter.

“Yes, that is what I heard,” said Ciang, studying him intently, new thoughts awakened.

Hugh saw, from the expression on her face, that he’d given himself away. The woman was too shrewd, too sensitive to have missed his unusual reaction. He waited nervously for the question, was relieved, yet somewhat disappointed, when it did not come.

“That is what comes of traveling to the High Realm,” said Ciang. “Of dealing with mysteriarchs... and other powerful people.” She rose to her feet. “I will pour the wine. And then we will talk.”

And other powerful people. What did she mean? Hugh wondered, watching her move slowly toward the sideboard on which stood a lovely crystal bottle and two goblets. Could she know about the Sartan? Or the man with the blue, tattooed skin? And if she did know about them, what was it she knew?

Probably more than I do, Hugh thought.

Ciang walked slowly, a concession to her age, but her dignity and carriage made it appear that it was she who chose to walk with measured tread, the years had not chosen for her. Hugh knew better than to assist her. She would have taken his offer for an insult. Ciang always served her guests with her own hands, a custom that dated back to early elven nobility when kings had served wine to their nobles. It was a custom long since abandoned by modern elven royalty, yet said to have been revived in this age by the rebel, Prince Rees’ahn.

Ciang poured the wine into the goblets, placed them upon a silver salver, and carried it across the room to Hugh.

Not a drop spilled.

She lowered the tray to Hugh, who took a goblet, thanked her, and held it until the woman had returned to her chair. When she had lifted the goblet in her hand, Hugh rose to his feet, pledged Ciang’s health, and drank deeply. Ciang bowed graciously, pledged his health, and brought the cup to her lips. When me ceremony was complete, both resumed their seats. Hugh would now be free to pour himself more wine, or to assist her, if she required.

“You were grievously wounded,” said Ciang.

“Yes,” Hugh replied, not meeting her eyes, staring into the wine that was the same color as the blood of young Darby, drying on the table.

“You did not come here.” Ciang set her cup down. “It was your right.”

“I know. I couldn’t face anyone.” He lifted his gaze, dark and grim. “I failed. I hadn’t carried out the contract.”

“We might have understood. It has happened to others before—”

“Not to me!” said Hugh with a sudden, fierce gesture that almost knocked over the wine goblet. He steadied it, glanced at Ciang, muttered an apology. The woman gazed at him intently. “And now,” she said, after a moment’s pause, “you have been called to account.”

“I’ve been called on to fulfill the contract.”

“And this conflicts with your desire. The woman you brought with you, the mysteriarch.”

Hugh flushed, took another drink of wine, not because he wanted it, but because it gave him an excuse to avoid Ciang’s eyes. He heard—or thought he did—a note of rebuke.

“I never sought to hide her identity from you, Ciang,” Hugh responded. “Just those fools in town. I didn’t want trouble. The woman is my employer.” He heard the rustle of fine silk, guessed that Ciang was smiling, lifting her shoulders in a shrug. He could hear her unspoken words. Lie to yourself, if you must. You do not lie to me.

“Quite wise,” was all she said aloud. “What is the difficulty?”

“The former contract conflicts with another job.”

“And what will you do to reconcile the situation, Hugh the Hand?”

“I don’t know,” said Hugh, rotating the empty goblet by the stem, watching the light reflect off the jewels at its base.

Ciang sighed softly, her fingernail tapped lightly on the table. “Since you do not ask for advice, I offer none. I remind you, however, to think over the words you heard that young man speak. A contract is sacred. If you break it, we will have no choice but to consider that you have broken faith with us, as well. The penalty will be exacted,[60] even upon you, Hugh the Hand.”

“I know,” he said, and now he could look at her.

“Very well.” She was brisk, clasped her hands, unpleasantness out of the way.

“You have come here on business. What may we do to assist you?” Hugh stood up, walked over to the sideboard, poured another glass of wine, tossed it down in a gulp that took no notice of the fine flavor. If he failed to kill Bane, not only his honor was forfeit, but his life as well. Yet to kill the child was to kill the mother, at least as far as Hugh was concerned. He thought back to those moments Iridal had slept in his arms, confiding, trusting. She had accompanied him here, to this terrible place, believing in him, believing in something within him. Believing in his honor, in his love for her. He had given both to her, as his gift, when he’d given up his life. And, in death, he’d found both returned to him a hundred times over. And then, he’d been snatched back, and honor and love had died, though he lived. A strange and terrible paradox. In death, perhaps he could find them again, but not if he did this terrible deed. And he knew that if he didn’t, if he broke his oath to the Brotherhood, they would come after him and he would fight them instinctively. And he would never find what he’d lost. He’d commit one foul crime after another, until darkness overwhelmed him, utterly, eternally.

It would be better for us all if I told Ciang to take that dagger from its box and stab me to the heart.

“I need passage,” he said abruptly, turning to face her. “Passage to the elven lands. And information, whatever you can tell me.”

“The passage is not a problem, as you well know,” answered Ciang. If she had been disturbed by his long silence, she did not show it. “What about disguise? You have your own means of concealment in enemy lands, for you have traveled Aristagon before and never been found out. But will the same disguise work for your companion?”

“Yes,” Hugh replied briefly.

Ciang asked no questions. A brother’s methods were a brother’s business. Most likely she knew anyway.

“Where is it you need to go?” Ciang lifted a quill pen, drew forth a sheet of paper.

“Paxaria.”

Ciang dipped the pen in ink, waited for Hugh to be more specific.

“The Imperanon,” Hugh said.

Ciang pursed her lips, replaced the pen in the inkwell. She gazed at him steadily.

“Your business takes you there? Into the castle of the emperor?”

“It does, Ciang.” Hugh drew out his pipe, thrust it in his mouth, sucked on it moodily.

“You may smoke,” said Ciang, with a gracious nod at the fire. “If you open the window.”

Hugh lifted the small, lead-paned window a crack. He filled the pipe with stregno, lit it from a glowing coal at the fire, drew the biting smoke gratefully into his lungs.

“That will not be easy,” Ciang continued. “I can provide you with a detailed map of the palace and its environs. And we have someone within who will help you for a price. But to get inside the elven stronghold...” Ciang shrugged, shook her head.

“I can get in,” Hugh said grimly. “It’s getting out again... alive.” He turned, strode back to seat himself at the chair by her desk. Now that they were discussing business, now that the pipe was in his hands, the stregno mixing pleasantly with the wine in his blood, he could for a time banish the horrors that hounded him.

“You have a plan, of course,” Ciang said. “Else you would not have come this far.”

“Only a partial one,” he told her. “That’s why I need information. Anything at all, no matter how small or seemingly irrelevant might help. What is the emperor’s political situation?”

“Desperate,” said Ciang, leaning back in her chair. “Oh, life is not changed within the Imperanon itself. Parties, gaiety, merriment every night. But they laugh from wine, not from the heart, as the saying goes. Agah’ran dares not let this alliance between Rees’ahn and Stephen come about. If it does, the Tribus empire is finished, and Agah’ran knows it.”

Hugh grunted, puffed on his pipe.

Ciang regarded him through languid eyes, lids half closed. “This has to do with Stephen’s son, who is not, they say, Stephen’s son. Yes, I heard the boy was in the emperor’s clutches. Be easy, my friend. I ask nothing. I begin to see the tangle you are in all too clearly.”

“Whose side is the Brotherhood on in this?”

“Our own, of course.” Ciang shrugged. “War has been profitable for us, for Skurvash. Peace would mean an end to smuggling. But I’ve no doubt new business opportunities would arise. Yes, so long as greed, hatred, lust, ambition remain in this world—in other words, so long as mankind remains in this world—we will thrive.”

“I’m surprised no one’s hired us to murder Rees’ahn.”

“Ah, but they have. He’s remarkable, that one.” Ciang sighed, gazed far away.

“I don’t mind admitting to you, Hugh the Hand, that the prince is one man I would have liked to have known when I was young and attractive. Even now... But that is not to be.”

The elven woman sighed again, came back to business, to the present. “We lost two good men and my best woman on that one job. Reports say he was warned by the magus who is always with him, the human female known as Ravenslark. You wouldn’t be interested in taking on this assignment yourself, my friend? His head would fetch a fine price.”

“Ancestors forbid,” Hugh said shortly. “There isn’t enough money in the world could pay me for that.”

“Yes, you are wise. We would have said, when we were younger, that Krenka-Anris guards him.”

Ciang sat silent, her eyes again half closed, one finger making an absentminded circle in the blood on the polished wood. Hugh, thinking she was tired, was ready to take his leave when she opened her eyes, stared full at him.

“There is one piece of information I have that may help you. It is strange, only rumor. But if so, it has great portent.”

“And that is?”

“The Kenkari, they say, have stopped accepting souls.” Hugh took the pipe from his mouth, his own eyes narrowed. “Why?” Ciang smiled, made a slight gesture. “They discovered that the souls being brought to the Temple of the Albedo were not yet ready to come. Sent there by royal decree.”

It took Hugh a moment to assimilate her meaning. “Murder?” He stared at her, shaking his head. “Is Agah’ran insane?”

“Not insane. Desperate. And, if this is true, he is also a fool. Murdered souls will not aid his cause. All their energy is expended, crying out for justice. The magic of the Albedo is withering. Another reason Rees’ahn’s power grows.”

“But the Kenkari are on the emperor’s side.”

“For now. They have been known to switch allegiances before this, however. They could do it again.”

Hugh sat silent, thoughtful.

Ciang said nothing further, left Hugh to his thoughts. She took up the pen again, wrote several lines upon the paper in a firm, bold hand that looked more human than elven. She waited for the ink to dry, then rolled the paper up in a complex twist that was as much her signature as that writing upon it.

“Is this information helpful to you?” she asked.

“Maybe,” Hugh muttered, not being evasive, just attempting to see his way. “At least it gives me the beginnings of an idea. Whether or not it comes to anything ...”

He rose to his feet, preparatory to taking his leave. Ciang stood to escort him out. Courteously, he offered her his arm. Gravely, she accepted it, but took care not to lean on him. He matched his pace to her slow one. At the door, she handed him the twist of paper.

“Go to the main docks. Give this to the captain of a ship called the Seven-eyed Dragon. You and your passenger will be admitted on board without question.”

“Elven?”

“Yes.” Ciang smiled. “The captain won’t like it, but he’ll do what I ask. He owes us. But it would be politic to wear your disguise.”

“What’s his destination?”

“Paxaua. I trust that will suit?”

Hugh nodded. “The central city. Ideal.”

They reached the door. The Ancient had returned from his previous task and now waited patiently for Hugh.

“I thank you, Ciang,” said Hugh, taking the woman’s hand and lifting it to his lips. “Your help has been inestimable.”

“As is your danger, Hugh the Hand,” said Ciang, looking up at him, eyes dark and cold. “Remember the policy. The Brotherhood can help you get into the Imperanon.... perhaps. We cannot help you get out. No matter what.”

“I know.” He smiled, then looked at her quizzically. “Tell me, Ciang. Did you ever have a weesham, waiting around to catch your soul in one of those Kenkari boxes?”

The woman was startled. “Yes, I had one, once. As do all of royal birth. Why do you ask?”

“What happened, if the question’s not too personal?”

“It is personal, but I don’t mind answering. One day I decided that my soul was my own. As I have never been a slave in life, so I would not be one in death.”

“And the weesham? What happened to her?”

“She would not leave, when I told her to. I had no choice.” Ciang shrugged. “I killed her. A very gentle poison, swift acting. She had been at my side since birth and was fond of me. For that crime alone my life is forfeit in elven lands.”

Hugh stood silent, withdrawn into himself, perhaps not even listening to the answer, though he was the one who had asked the question.

Ciang, who was usually able to read men’s faces as easily as she read the scars upon their palms, could make nothing of Hugh. She could almost have believed, at that moment, that the absurd tales she had heard about him were true.

Or that he has lost his nerve, she said to herself, eyeing him. Ciang withdrew her hand from his arm, a subtle indication that it was time he left. Hugh stirred, came back to himself and to business.

“You said there was someone in the Imperanon who might aid me?”

“A captain in the elven army. I know nothing of him, except by report. That very man who was previously here—Twist—recommended him. The captain’s name is Sang-drax.”

“Sang-drax,” repeated Hugh, committing it to memory. He raised his right hand, palm outward. “Farewell, Ciang. Thank you for the wine... and the help.” Ciang bowed her head slightly, lowered her eyelids. “Farewell, Hugh the Hand. You may go on ahead alone. I have need to speak with the Ancient. You know the way. The Ancient will meet you in the central hall.”

Hugh nodded, turned, and walked off.

Ciang watched him through narrowed eyes until he was out of hearing. Even then, she kept her voice low.

“If he comes here again, he is to be killed.”

The Ancient looked stricken, but gave silent agreement. He, too, had seen the signs.

“Do I send round the knife?”[61] he asked unhappily.

“No,” answered Ciang. “That will not be necessary. He carries his own doom within him.”