Death (40)

[Zadown]

"Two weeks he said, two weeks."

 

"We've heard you say that quite enough times by now, Marc. So he is late."

 

"Late by an order of magnitude!"

 

Marchello threw his hands up, his voice rising almost to a shout.

 

"What if he does not return? And don't tell me again that I just have to study these books on planar travel faster then - the set is incomplete, the required leaps of intuition and skill inhumane!"

 

"You are starting to sound like Mandra. If he does not return and if you fail to grasp the concepts of planar magic we stay here for the rest of our lives. It was a clear risk from the moment we accepted his offer, a risk no worse a thousand of my ancestors have taken, our fates far more mild should this gamble not pay. If he offered us this job again, would you turn aside, my husband?"

 

There was something hard in both Fionella's voice and her eyes, brittle steel that showed him answering the wrong way to this question would have worse results than merely having to sleep on the sofa for a night or three.

 

"No ... no, of course not. I am ... just used to promises being kept. Almost done reading all the grimoires on planar theories, too."

 

She smiled suddenly, walked past him to the window of their large room. They had been given the visitor's quarters, given visits to the dwelling of the infamous Witch of Jalar were rare and short, matters of trade with the man of the house that could not wait. There were books everywhere, but other than that the fact they were living in somebody else's tower had made the couple a bit more tidy. Two of their heavy travelling trunks were under their wide bed beside the window, one next to the bed it with its lid open. One more chest opposite of that one served as a storage for the things they taught Mandra with: wooden blocks with different runes burned on all six sides, a small chalkboard, some thin books filled with cantrips and basic magic theory, candles and other occult regalia. All the light in the room came from sturdy lanterns, both Marchello and Fionella nervous about open flames near the books, their own or loaned.

 

Outside it was already dark, weak stars and a gibbous moon not illuminating much. The garden was below them, a mass of green very close to black with the exception of one early blooming bush filled with white flowers, a constellation of stars on their own backyard. Fionella looked down at them, her slender fingers pushing the curtains aside for a better view. Beyond the garden were the other merchant houses, the night so young still almost all of them were well lit, spilling colorful light into the spring night. She could see one group of people returning from a trip to theater, women in bright colors making the core of the party, a few men carrying lanterns and sturdy staves around them. Differences to her homeland in every detail, but the overall effect not so alien. She let the curtain close and turned around to look at Marchello.

 

"Would it be so bad to be stranded on this plane, love? It's not a world bereft of magic, and while we would have to disguise ourselves after we have done our work here at Jalar, we would have an advantage over the locals, the sharp edge of our Art."

 

He nodded, but without enthusiasm.

 

"I have thought about that, of course. And if it comes to that, then at least I am thankful I am not alone here. But magic is not easy to use in secret. I'd hate to walk in a double-disguise for the rest of my life, a mask over my purple skin, another over my profession."

 

Fionella smiled again, but Marchello could not gauge if she meant it or if the smile was forced.

 

"All this is academic squabbling in the end. Two weeks, two months, two years - they cannot hold much difference to an immortal like the Dreamer. If he has lived for thousands of years, he will not die now and leave us here. Jankiize said he does visit every now and then, as his higher duties allow."

 

Marchello sighed in acceptance of defeat and made a visible effort to rally his spirits.

 

"The logic of an occultist, my dear. Who am I to gainsay your superior wisdom, then? I will quit my fretting as well as I am able, and read books about the travels of traders of Jugatt to have a break from the endless glyphs of planar spells beyond my skill."

 

Her uncertain smile turned into a grin as he spoke, her changing mood like a sun appearing from behind a dark cloud.

 

"Remember what Gardian used to say about margins of error and progeny? You've read plenty enough for this one night, right love?"

 

Marchello coughed, embarassed for a moment even after several years of marriage when he recalled Gardian's frank words. Fionella's alluring silhoutte against the window was not easy to resist however, on her normally rather ordinary face kindling a sort of inner glow that rarely illuminated it. He closed the heavy tome he had been about to re-open and walked to his wife's embrace.

[Zadown]

The kitchen table still looked slightly out of place after all these years, at least to her. They could have repaired the old one, but she had said she wanted a new one and he had obliged, as he so often did. A little shake of his head, a frown when he thought over how much whatever she asked would cost, in money, time or his ever-dwindling reputation, and then more often than not he acquiesced. Melenar Jalar sat at other end of the table, spreading liver sausage on fresh, warm breadroll, leaning back a bit on his old worn chair so only two of its legs touched the floor. It was so early the children were not eating breakfast with them, and the Opulantis rarely woke up at this hour either. It was only him and her, the lord and lady of the household eating an informal meal: just-baked bread, butter, liver sausage, cheese and dry cake with strong tea and warm milk.

 

Neither of them really craved the elaborate rituals some of the upper caste of traders went through on every meal, every day, both of them already hopelessly unorthodox for other reasons. It had always been one of the connecting threads keeping them together, their flagrant unconventionality, refusal to bow their head to the common wisdom. A dangerous quality in a trader, but for every rigid and disapproving old noble that refused to have anything to do with the House Jalar there were three traders who ignored such trivialities and concentrated on the essential: Melenar's credit rating and profit margin. Some called him a crazy genius, crazy to have married such a wife but genius with his trading. He wasn't a genius, not quite, but he had trading in his blood, and it made a good story.

 

Melenar let the chair fall, the sound of two of its legs banging against the kitchen floor as familiar to Jankiize as what would follow next. Melenar leaned back when he thought deeply about something or other, and landed only when he either had to or he was about to proclaim the results of his pondering.

 

"Those purple-faced friends of yours ... what sort of tricks they have up to their sleeves?"

 

"The Opulantis? Why, you know what they teach."

 

She sounded surprised. Melenar usually did his best to not even acknowledge the fact the Chamanians existed, much less start a conversation about them if possible. Melenar waved about with his piece of dry cake.

 

"Magic! Yes, of course. But you have to admit that is not very precise, dear."

 

"No, you are right."

 

It was her turn to look thoughtful. Most of their talk about the Art dwelled on abstractions, on Marchello's futile attempts to master planar travel or obscure points of meta-magic. She knew up to a point what were the areas of expertise for both Marchello and Fionella, but she had been brought up to learn all the schools of magic at once, only the Dreamer's absolute mastery of all things magical as her example, and consequently she had never really thought to ask implicitly what the two teachers had mastered. She drank deeply from her large clay cup before she answered, staring into its depths like her next words were inscribed inside it.

 

"They both can summon ... entities that are not quite native to this world. She's talented with illusions and real transmutations of matter, while he has studied under Uncle Dreamer to be ... ah, an archer of sorts, I suppose."

 

Jankiize gave Melenar a sharp look.

 

"Why are you curious now?"

 

He made a helpless gesture, mouth full. After being able to speak again, he shrugged.

 

"Might be nothing, perhaps they do not want to leave their snug room to travel with me, but if this Marchello guy can really do something more than a candleflame with his mutterings ... there's a rather risky trade route we are trying out, next. Could use one more blade ... or a wand, or whatever he waves, if you can spare him."

 

"Just how risky, Melenar?"

 

She felt colder than the room was, knowing how much Melenar disliked the Art and everything that had anything to do with it, remembering the huge fight they had had after the Opulantis had arrived. He noticed her alarm.

 

"Not that risky, dear. I'll wear my chain shirt if it makes you feel better. Haven't really talked to that guy, Marc, and well ... I just thought we lads could go on our adventure, and you women could do whatever you do when we men are out there on the cold, rainy trails. Perhaps we'll find things in common, out there."

 

"Oh. Well. If you wouldn't rather take me ... ?"

 

"No no no, I'd be sick with worry if I did not know you had this end of our household in perfect control when I'm out there. I'll ask him once he gets up. It's not like I am going to drag him anywhere against his will if he'd rather stay home reading books."

 

She felt a bit more reassured then, but a little butterfly of doubt had born and now fluttered around her mind, casting flickering shadows over future.

[Zadown]

Fionella fingered the masking charm in her sleeve nervously, a habit she disliked but had not been able to shake off. It was a crude piece of magic bound to a ceremonial leather mask the size of her palm, making her skin look as pale as the locals - the structure of her face was already close enough, closer than Jankiize's, and did not need disguising. In theory she could have walked around without the charm, especially during the day, but she had picked up the precarious situation the reputation of House Jalar already was. She would not have liked any extra attention, even if this had not been about their host. They still got plenty of it, her and Jankiize and Rakmont, most locals at least glancing at the Witch of Jalar to see if she'd do anything odd.

 

They had been given a lesson or two about populations not exposed to magic routinely and how volatile they could be in the face of blatant shows of magic, but she had not been very interested in the subject back then and had difficulty in remembering the leathery, dry, old words of the professor. As anxious as she felt, nobody seemed openly hostile. Jankiize had spoke about it earlier, how the town had half-adopted her as 'their oddity', a village fool on a larger scale. She had also outlined most of her history with short, concentrated sentences, revealed her role in the preservation of the town earlier and how the locals did not know the real reason why Thakelmian forces had never reached the town. Speculation and tales were common, of course, and the tales from the survivors had eventually circulated here, horribly transformed away from truth ... or so everybody thought. Fionella wondered if everybody underestimated Jankiize, or if some of the townpeople had more accurate picture of her prowess. Sometimes it paid to act harmless. Nevertheless, Jankiize carried her sword with her - an unique adornment among the ladies of the city.

 

Still, it felt good to be outside in the invigorating spring air, trees and bushes waking up, grass appearing everywhere it was not instantly trampled into mud. They walked through the mercantile district where the streets were relatively wide and safe as long as the sun stayed on the sky, various flags and metal signs advertising the products sold inside the large, sturdy buildings. Carts were banned in this part of the town during full daylight and horses were rare, giving the traffic a relaxed, slow pace. Fionella still felt nervous. Chaman had practically no crime, a controlled weather, cities so spread out and rich they were half garden, half paradise ... if you did not mind the distinct possibility of disasters of magical nature. On the other hand, the pursuit of power and knowledge had always thrown her people into places far less hospitable than this mild world.

 

The mercantile district ended and they reached the main marketplace of Jugatt. Jankiize usually left routine matters here to her servants, but the lady of the house coming to the market occassionally was actually one of the local habits she had picked up after moving here. In a town of this size the market was open every day except major festival days, of course, but this day of the week was the market day, day when it was possible to find rare and exotic things here in addition to all the usual trade goods. Here the fact Jugatt was a trader town showed: fabrics, jewelry, art from several directions, glass and even crystal goblets, various spices from the south and furs from the north. All the amenities of civilization around them, Jankiize surveying the goods with critical eye, pausing to ask a question or two at some stalls, sometimes exchanging few words with her. An intelligent woman and almost a friend already despite their different backgrounds, a sure ally here amidst all the mundane people bereft of any skill in the Art. Fionella watched her haggle over the price of a handmirror, gestures minimal but language quick and witty. A friend, yes.

 

No, it would not be too bad to be stranded in here with Marc ... as long as we have her as our ally.

 

*

 

Later, when they had returned to their friendly, round tower and had their midday meal with the girls, Fionella went through their collection of books. Most of them were from the Dreamer, impossible to understand without their enchantment, very hard even with them. References to magical theories by name that were only familiar on the plane the books were written, overlapping theories about same things and downright contradictory claims (and she had heard from their employer these books had been hand-picked for their clarity and quality), glyphs and runes not quite following the two-dimensional constraints of the medium.

 

Most of the heavy tomes were about planar magic or metamagic, but she had managed to request books about her specialities to the mix. The most massive of the lot, "Comprehensive Arcanum Transmutationica", had become one of her all time favourites even though she was not quite sure how much of it she would dare to try to use. They read a lot but did not actually cast many spells, given the lack of a proper warded room to experiment in. She lifted it, then thought about it a bit and put it aside, sighing in relief when the strain of the massive tome left her arms. Digging through the rest of the book pile, she found one she had not even opened yet: "The Art of Light and Sound". It seemed thin enough to serve as after-lunch reading, though she knew thinness was no guarantee of ease of reading. When she opened the book, a frown appeared on her face - there was a bookmark left inside, and the treatise swung open at the marked page, revealing a double page diagram of various runes usable for permanent illusions. They would tell her nothing until she would have had gone through the easier parts of the book and she placed the book away to study the curious bookmark.

 

It was a large card, its back so black it seemed like a hole in the air, a pair of vivid silver scales floating in that darkness of indeterminate depth. She turned it around and could not help but gasp. The card was numbered XIII and it showed a skeletal figure in blinding white robes in the middle, puppeteer's strings reaching down from its bony hands to the two men lying at its feet, in a spreading pool of blood. The first one of the two was clad in chain and leather, a broken sword in right, a money pouch with coins falling out of it in his left hand. The other was clad in the red robes of a Chaman demonologist, every little detail so exact and lifelike she felt like falling down through the card into the picture and a wave of vertigo washed through her. A cold, dread-filled wave, as she recognized the robes to be a perfect copy of Marchello's official wear. The card fell from her limp hands as she staggered away to find a wash basin to be sick in, the battle raging in the background escaping her notice. Swords rose and fell, horses neighed and reared and a lone demon capered around spreading havoc as the card slowly descended, finally ending on the floor with its face down.

[Zadown]

Birds were singing all around them, and even though their songs were all alien, the overall effect felt familiar, comforting. The road they were on was a narrow cart-track, trees crowding so close that during the summer, when the branches would have full-sized leaves, the road would be mostly in the shade. It was their third day of travel, and while it had come as no surprise to either Marchello or Melenar he was uncomfortable with the rough outdoor life, he still felt elated, somehow. It felt good to be travelling.

 

There were four loaded wagons in their caravan and three armed men on horses. Marchello was no expert on the local trade but even he knew that was a lot more protection than usual. They had not seen other travellers in the last day, either.

 

"Quiet road, eh? Except for the birds, of course."

 

Melenar, who was sitting next to him on the driver's bench of the leading wagon, glanced at him with a preoccupied look. He was wearing an assortment of chainmail and leather armor, armor well suited for prolonged wearing without chafing its user too badly, or crushing him under its weight. On his head he wore a ridiculous leather cap with corroded coins sewn on it for added protection, its looks going perfectly with the paranoia on his face.

 

"As long as the birds are singing, yes, quiet enough road for us. If they stop ..."

 

Melenar shrugged, his armor and sword jingling as a sort of continuation of that sentence.

 

"What sort of trouble are you expecting? Do the bandits really attack protected caravans here?"

 

"Bandits? No, no, they don't."

 

The trader scratched the side of his head, thinking about how much to say.

 

"It's Thakelmians, actually, traders from the nearest bigger city state. They would like to have a monopoly for this liqueur, aqmaranth, these monks up there in Stepl Hills make. It's an old recipe, made only in a few places belonging to the Brotherhood of Autumn ... they had a monastery here since my grandfather's days, but it isn't until recently they started brewing and distilling here too. Before this, all the distilleries were in places fully under Thakelmian control. This, now ... this is borderland, something we can dispute. But dangerous, maybe."

 

Melenar did not look at Marchello when he told the story, watching the forest and the road instead. He had been far more relaxed back when they had been on bigger roads, but he was visibly uneasy now.

 

"Is it worth this all then?"

 

"Oh, sure! We can't give way to them on issues like this. It's not just about profit, although that'll be hefty too, but about areas of influence, where we can trade and where we dare trade. You can't just beg for mercy if a bully pushes you - you'll have to push back, or they'll push and push until you are in a tiny corner with no way out."

 

Marchello nodded, feeling at the same time slowly infected by the same unease that was shaking Melenar.

 

"So, Marc - what can you do if something does happen? My wife said something about you being a sort of archer?"

 

"Heh, um. I guess that'd be one way of putting it. Let's see ... see that small tree, over there ahead of us?"

 

"Sure."

 

Marchello stood up, swayed once to keep upright as the cart stumbled forward on the uneven track. A part of him knew open flaunting of his powers might be foolish, but the part of him that craved to do magic instead of just reading about it endlessly overrode that small voice of caution with ease. He muttered words that seemed to be nonsense, hissing and growling sounds that sent a shiver through Melenar's spine, an odd squint of concentration on his plain face. Then a tiny gesture that might have seemed silly if the tree had not split asunder with a booming crack, spewing splinters to every direction. The horses did not like the sudden sound, one or two of them neighing and rearing, but as there was no new scary noises or any scent of a predator they quieted down quickly. Melenar calmed the horses down with distracted air while looking at Marchello with a mix of respect and alarm.

 

"Whoa, whoa. Can you ... um, can you do that to something living?"

 

Marchello sat down carefully, trying to ignore the looks the hired swords gave him.

 

"Trees are alive. But yes, if necessary I can do that to a man. Other things, too, but that was the easiest one to demonstrate."

 

"Guess you are not just along for the sightseeing then. Hey guys, stop gawking, let's get this caravan moving again!"

 

The caravan lurched into motion with a few more hard to read looks from the mercenaries. None of them had said anything, however. Marchello wiped his hands on his robes, realizing that his heart was beating too quickly.

 

"You people are unusually placid about these things, you know. I'm not sure what I would think if somebody demonstrated powers I wouldn't be able to understand."

 

Melenar shrugged, looking around again instead of looking at Marchello.

 

"It's a trader thing, partly. When you do long journeys you see weird things and if you can't cope, can't just smile and nod and get back to business, you won't do trade. Sure, some old houses don't like my wife, or would not like you two if they knew better what you can do, but ... 'In a house, do as your host', the saying goes. We have adopted customs and clothes and armor from others. There's no strict Jugatt way, in the end."

 

He paused there and they both listened to the birds, the squeak of the wheels and the muttering of the other men for a short while.

 

"Some say that puts us at risk, gives us an empty banner to gather around. Thakelmians have their ways, and they almost crushed us because they should've been able to. ... and some say we won because we embrace differences, because we had the Witch of Jalar and did not scorn her. Not sure what to think of it, as her husband. I only hear this talk in a roundabout way, of course."

 

"Of course."

 

"It's all ... it's all rather academic to me. From my point it is all rather simple."

 

Melenar waved as if to wave away mosquitoes, kept his eyes on the road and in the shadows under the trees.

 

"I just know I love her."

 

The birds had gone utterly silent.

[Zadown]

No training ever prepared you.

 

Melenar fell down, wounded most likely. It was hard to see who were on their side and who were enemy, both side wore the same sort of mishmash of leather and chain. His hands were wet again, mouth dry. Birds silent.

 

One was running at him, sword glinting in the sun. Something almost relaxed in the enemy's pose, enough to make him angry. Where he came from people in robes were scary, first targets, not something to mop up as afterthought ... and for a reason. Few words of the true language, abstract constructions whirling in his brain, a ritual gesture, and the mercenary was knocked back. Disappeared behind an expanding cloud of blood, far flashier than what the crossbow bolts and swords of the ordinary people had done so far.

 

This time he did listen to his own voice of caution. It told him offense would get him only so far, and he scurried into the cart. A bolt flew through the canvas walls, perhaps aimed at him, perhaps missing somebody else. Think think think!

 

He could use a friend.

 

Almost a bad idea, sending a wild, unmodulated call into whatever abyss was nearest, only the abstract bracket of power specified. A brief stutter there when the cart shook and he could see the feral triumph in the manifesting demon's fiery eyes. It did not feel its leash, flexed, luxuriating the potential freedom right when the chains he conjured grappled its true name with steely claws. Anger, then, so much the chains almost broke. Almost doesn't count, of course.

 

One of the enemy mercenaries (he was unsure how many there were ... 5? 10? 20?) leaped in and helped him by giving a legitimate target for the conjured warrior's wrath. His body stayed inside but his head flew back, a surprised look smeared with blood etched on it. At least Marchello hoped it had been an enemy, quit feeling sorry for others when another bolt punched through the cart walls with terrifying, lethal power.

 

He steeled his will, poured all the excess mana he had into the bindings, had no idea what sort of being he had called. A short glimpse of it gave him the impression of a red humanoid fox with a lizard's head, but he ducked when the demon spat a roaring cone of red fire. Two screams, right afterwards, tearing sounds as his new guardian made a new doorway, cart shuddering when it leaped outside with claws extended and savage hunger.

 

Many, many screams then.

 

*

 

Jugatt quieted down as they passed through it, a sombre procession of wounded men and torn carts. Those two mercenaries and two drivers who had survived the attack refused to meet his gaze and he knew the story would spread like a wildfire through the city very soon. That trouble could wait. Right now Marchello was just happy he was alive, ashamed to feel so with the bodies they were bringing back weighting the carts down. Despite the time that had passed, his every sense was still heightened, or perhaps he just had been shocked out of the mist he used to perceive the world outside his precious books through. It had been a near thing, even with his "friend" - the Thakelmians had been out there in overwhelming force, and if their morale had not broken so swiftly, they might have won. One of the two mercenaries had taken a bolt through his left arm, the other wounded several times by swords.

 

And Melenar was dead, of course.

 

Marchello felt anxiety constrict his chest, was not sure what to say, how to act, when Jankiize would come out of her tower to meet them. Despite there having been nothing he could have done, not with those schools of magic at his disposal, he felt he had betrayed both of their hosts. At the same time a fierce joy was kindling in his mind, a fire akin to the joy he felt from being alive. He could see his wife, he was returning to her now. No stranger with serious, awkward expression on their face to bring a message of grief to Fionella.

 

The caravan spiralled upwards, towards the merchant houses. Nobody stood up to bar the way, even though carts were banned on those well-maintained roads without a special permit. They could see what message they bore. Those who were more religious than their brethen muttered small prayers, hardened men narrowed their eyes, thoughts of steel and fire striding through their heads. Loud children were hushed into restless silence. Many had not liked the House Jalar, but none had disputed the fact they were of Jugatt, same blood. Everybody knew already the overall story even if details would not be revealed until after the mercenaries would leave the caravan and wander off to the taverns, their every drink paid tonight, their every word heard and weighted. It would be an uneasy evening, down where the mercenaries drank to forget the blood, uneasy evening with a crowd of cloaked trade nobility walking the streets incognito.

 

Marchello could not see that far into the future. He just felt the heavy mood, saw the people gathered to watch them pass, more obvious here than in the crowded lower city. The middle and lower classes did not care as much, down there. Here the rich traders watched, some struck by grief, others gnawed by worry, some wondering if they should invest in weapons and armor. Their faces all almost the same, of course.

 

Ahead, the tower of House Jalar.

[Zadown]

Melenar looked like he was asleep. The crossbow bolt had not done much damage, merely enough to kill. Just business, nothing personal. Around him was four colored lanterns, their hues corresponding with some local religious thing. She had never really looked into it, not with Melenar disliking the Order, not with what the Dreamer had thought of gods and stupid mortal beliefs. Some servant had set them there, muttering something about "the proper way of doing things" with an apologetic tone, as if he had been setting on her toes but could not help himself doing it. Jankiize could not remember who it had been. Perhaps even one of the side-branch Jalars - there seemed to be far too many people in her tower, mouthing hollow ritual words of condolence, of shared grief, asking how she was.

 

How in the name of the Abyss did they THINK she was!?

 

She trembled from the force of her angry sorrow but stayed silent, composed. It was in the middle of the night, that much she was aware of. Mustn't let the children wake up. And to be fair, not all of the visitors were malicious. Jankiize did not think there was any fairness left in her or in her world right now, though.

 

Somebody coughed and she turned her head, aware that time had passed since she last had had a coherent thought within the dark she was travelling through. With tired slowness she turned around, reeled most of her spirit back to the real world. Fionella stood at the doorway, watching the room with a stance that told her she had been there a while, looking at her dead husband, at the ritual lanterns, at the flowers and at the blue curtains of sorrow. At her pure white dress reflecting all the various colors of the room, so clean and perfect in its absence of color it was almost blinding. Fionella wore her dark robes, impressive and familiar at the same time. Different than all the visitors wearing their dark blue funeral clothes, some staring at her own white dress with sour disapproval. Jankiize blinked, was not sure if she had let her thoughts drift into the colors of mourning for a second or a minute, or longer.

 

When Fionella spoke her voice was soft, careful.

 

"I thought I should come and see how you are coping."

 

"Not very well."

 

She nodded and was silent again, sat down on a chair. Her expression was far more honest than any she remembered seening on the face of any member of the House Jalar. Jankiize felt a stab of intense companionship with the younger woman through the all-pervading grief. The tears she had not even realized she had been holding back started flowing freely, like the sadness and loss had been an immense iceberg, a tiny part of it thawing and turning into tears. An uncertain look flickered on Fionella's face and she moved as if to stand up and comofort her, but that sort of closeness did not come easily to either of them. They were close in the silence however, sharing the moment without words.

 

"You know ..."

 

"Yes?"

 

Jankiize dried her eyes, feeling even more tired but slightly relieved of her immense burden. That uncertain look was on Fionella's face again but this time she did not lapse back into silence but pushed through her hesistation.

 

"Would the Dreamer ... be able to help, still? He has almost godly powers ..."

 

Fionella's voice petered out when she saw an angry frown appear on Jankiize's face.

 

"Yes, he might bring him back. Have you ever discussed resurrection with him? It is something he loathes to do, and for a reason. Not because of some arbitrary distinction between mortal and immortal, not because how straining and difficult the ritual is to him, but because how it always ends up being a mistake. Nobody wants to return, not unless they have been cast into some abyss to be a plaything for the demons."

 

"But ... even if not for you or for him, would you not consider it for your girls? Their father ..."

 

She sounded bewildered at Jankiize's angry reaction, obviously not seeing any way her suggestion would be bad.

 

"Never. I love them too much to subject them to the same I had to go through."

 

Jankiize had turned rigid, a complete change from her previous sleepy grieving.

 

"You do not have any idea what you are talking about so I will forgive you this once, but if you ever even hint to anybody I could have returned Melenar from the dead and chose not to, I will never forgive you. The Dreamer has unthinkable powers, yes, but the price of asking his help always ends up being far more than you'd expect. Even if he himself asks for nothing."

 

She inhaled and lowered her voice slightly, turned her gaze somewhere past Melenar's inert body.

 

"He is one of the saddest creatures I've ever met, for all his strength ... and his prediction that I will never join the ranks of immortals one of the most relieving things I've ever heard."

 

"But I thought you were happy with Melenar ... ah!"

 

Fionella cried out in surprise when Jankiize leaped up and dragged her upright with one hand, the older woman's face a twisted mask of fury.

 

"Silence!"

 

The word tugged at her spirit like the heavy speech she had heard the planewalker use but she wasn't sure if it was merely her imagination, some sympathy to the raw emotion the shout was laced with. Jankiize paused there, one hand raised as if to land an open-handed blow on Fionella's face, the other still crushing the front of her dark robes. Fionella could only stare at the hand and at the black scabbard of Jankiize's sword sheathed on her side, striking against the white background, and wait for the blow. When it did not land, she realized anger had released its grip as abruptly as it had taken control of Jankiize. Tears were welling again in her eyes.

 

"... please, just go away. Go. Leave us be."

[Zadown]

"Lady Jankiize."

 

She returned to consciousness slowly. It took some time for her to realize she had actually fallen asleep in her chair out of sheer exhaustion during the hour of the wolf, before dawn, and that it was almost noon now. The cold contempt in the voice that woke her up helped to tear the curtains of sleep from her eyes. Before she stood up, she looked at Melenar and only then turned her attention to the person who had woken her up.

 

"Galle Jalar."

 

He was a young man with blonde hair longer than the custom was wearing neat, well-cared clothes of black and scarlet, the colors of House Jalar. Galle had a grim expression and he stood his ground with the air of somebody who owns the place, both signaling Jankiize this was not going to be a pleasant talk. She stood up, not wanting Galle to completely tower over her, and resisted the urge to go through any nervous motions striving for an illusion of calm superiority.

 

"I came as quickly as I could, and now that I'm here, I will salvage as much as can be salvaged. Please hand me the signet of House Jalar and then go pack whatever you and your daughters will require. We'll have to keep this ... tower as our headquarters here in Jugatt for a while before we can tear the disgrace down and start thinking of building a real house."

 

"What!?"

 

"Still not properly awake? Usually it is the habit for the widow to spend the night in quiet contemplation and mourning instead of sleeping, but given how you delight in acting against our customs I'm not surprised we found you soundly asleep. I've been told the grand signet was in your care - now, where is it?"

 

"You are gravely mistaken if you think you can just stride in here and take it! Or evict us from our home."

 

Galle sighed and it was only then she noticed the two burly mercenary guards behind him, their manner alert, both with swords hanging from their belt and clad in chainmail and cuir boulli.

 

"If you will not listen to reason, I will have to throw you out of here with force, as much as I hate scandals. Algar, secure lady Jankiize. Khemil, go find the grand signet of House Jalar."

 

Jankiize's lips curled up, showing her teeth, and she growled sibilant words of nonsense from between them. Without pausing to think she pointed at the guard walking towards her with two fingers of his left hand while drawing her blade with his right. Algar's eyes unfocused, he took one faltering step and then just stood there, face vacant. Khemil first turned to look at his companion in alarm, then towards Jankiize, but she was already muttering another incantation. This spell sounded harsh and heavy, words of stone and earth, and when she pointed at the second guard the conjured power flung him back with brutal force. Khemil hit the doorframe with a loud crack, his momentum carrying him out of sight after the collision.

 

"Well, well. I did not believe the stories of witchcraft, but looks like I should have paid them more attention. If you try any more tricks like that I will have to cut you, lady, and there will be nobody who would blame me from doing so."

 

Galle's longsword was pointing at her, but Jankiize had her own blade out as well. Somewhere far away in the background they could hear sounds of alarm and chaos. Neither of them paid any attention to the rising commotion.

 

"And what about the stories of how exquisite a swordswoman I am? Despite what you all may think, I've never carried this blade as an ornament or a keepsake. It's as sharp as my mind, m'lord, and I'm ready to use it."

 

He attacked, having no more to say. She moved aside and parried his heavier weapon further away, the impact sending a shower of snowflakes and icy mist to every direction. Galle would have most likely dropped his sword right then had he not been wearing gloves, so cold it was after just one short embrace with the Winter's Kiss. Cursing softly he made a clumsy attempt to attack again, but she moved closer and aimed a blow at his longsword which promptly shattered. He dropped the broken hilt that was trailing frigid mist, its icy surface burning his fingers with cold even through his leather gloves. For a moment it looked like he would draw his knife, but he was nothing if not rational, a trader and a trader's son, and in the end he knew he had been bested. Galle spread his arms wide, showing he was now unarmed.

 

"You've won, then, woman, and you can keep both the grand sigil and this house .. for now. But think about it, if your mind indeed is as sharp as your uncanny blade - who will trade with the Witch of Jalar? How will you make a living? With your sword, lady?"

 

He bowed and left, his stunned mercenaries struggling upright and then staggering after him.

 

*

 

"... and then he left. As much as it pains me to say so aloud, he was actually correct. There is no way I can hold on to the net of contacts Melenar made - even those traders who do not abhor my foreign ways would be careful to not catch the taint by proximity. With Melenar they were once removed to begin with, and had no trouble trading with a son of the city. But I am a woman, and a foreigner with dubious rumours circling above me like hungry vultures."

 

Fionella and Marchello were both listening, their teacups and small plates forgotten. The girls had been sent to their room to be out of the way and servants were busy downstairs getting ready for the funeral. By a silent agreement the women had chosen to forget what had happened during the night, and when Fionella spoke the only note discernable in her voice was that of genuine concern.

 

"How long until you start running out of money? You have been in charge of the house and its expenses, right?"

 

"Oh, we still have quite a while if we tone down our spending slightly. That does not change the fact the situation will be untenable. I can't just throw money away every day and wait for some salvation, or to beg the Dreamer for icy gold. I'll have to come up with something ..."

 

"We have to, you mean."

 

Marchello nodded emphatically to agree with Fionella's words, an uncharateristic look of determination on his face.

[Zadown]

Epilogue

 

"I feel ridiculous in this armor."

 

Jankiize tried first to tug her adamantium scalemail to a better position, but it was too smooth for her gloved fingers to find purchase and so she shook herself instead like a wet dog, making the scales chime against each other with harmonious jingling. The gloves were of black dragonhide, as were her boots. She was not sure what material her scabbard was but it was black as well, ornamented with blue engravings of oriental dragons, bringers of luck and prosperity. Jankiize wore no helmet, the additional runes of protection engraved on the thin gorget enceasing her head within a sphere of defensive magic.

 

"You do not look ridiculous, m'lady. And to the second sight you are like a fortress of one - we did not have any suits of armor that well enchanted even in Chaman. About the only thing even I could harm you with right now are words, if those."

 

Marchello grinned, pleased like a little boy at the sight of the impressive armor.

 

"I just wish I had even a fraction of that protection over my fragile flesh, really."

 

"You'll have your 'friend' soon enough."

 

"Haven't found one that is good at catching crossbow bolts yet ... but yes, I suppose my best defense will be overwhelming offense."

 

He looked anxious despite his cheerful words, blinked a few times staring at nothing as he banished whatever visions the conversation had brought to the surface of his mind.

 

"I'm sorry I have to ask you with me, but I do need at least one guard I can absolutely trust to watch over my sleep. My enchanted armor won't do me any good if I'm caught out of it, or if ..."

 

"Yes, we talked about it. I'm not going to sit in the tower forever just because what happened last time, Jankiize. Let's go out before they think we have cold feet about this deal."

 

"Yes, let's."