The Amber Enchantress Read online

  "Your daughter is Tithian's prisoner now," the templar said, pushing his partizan toward Faenaeyon. "If you try to harm her, I'll kill-"

  In a blinding fast kick, Huyar planted the sole of his foot square in the fellow's chest. As the templar stumbled back, Faenaeyon's bone sword flashed past his son's ear, striking the Tyrian's neck with a sharp crack.

  Huyar wasted no time pondering how close the chief had come to killing him instead of the templar. He dove at the half-elf guarding Rhayn. The Tyrian started to bring his weapon around to defend himself, then saw Rhayn still clutching the disputed dagger and hesitated. In that moment, he was lost. Huyar struck simultaneously with three fingers to the larynx and a kick to the knees. The half-elf dropped his partizan and fell to the floor, grasping at his throat.

  As the second templar fell, the wine vendor turned to flee. Rhayn leaped after him, burying the dagger's blade deep into his back. The fat man dropped, his death scream upon his lips.

  Shrieks of tenor and shock rose from the crowd outside. Men and women began to run, fearing the mad elves would come after them next. Cries of "Murder!" and "Call the King's Guard!" rang down the street.

  Rhayn slammed the door to the shop, and Huyar used a stolen partizan to knock out the poles supporting the counter awning. The wooden shutters slammed into place with a loud bang, closing out the confusion in the streets.

  Rhayn looked to her father and found him standing in the center of the room, clenching his sword and staring at her with narrowed eyes.

  "Tada, were you really going to kill me?" she asked.

  Faenaeyon scowled and held out his free hand. "Give me that dagger."

  THREE

  Caravan Dancers

  Over the melody of the ryl pipes came a strange trill, a feral call almost indistinguishable from the song. The sound was hauntingly familiar, enough so that it weakened the music's spell and released the sorceress from the ecstasy that had seized her. As Sadira's pivoting hips slowed and her rocking shoulders wavered to a stop, she focused her drink-blurred eyes on the face of a nearby musician.

  "D'you hear that?" she asked, her slurred words barely audible over the bracing cadence of his finger drums.

  "Dance," he said.

  "No," Sadira replied, struggling to fight back the compelling waves of music that filled her head. "Something's out there. We could be in danger."

  The man, a nikaal with dust-covered scales and a black mop of hair, cocked his reptilian head about at odd angles, turning his recessed earslits in all directions. When he heard nothing unusual, he repeated his command. "Dance."

  Sadira stepped away from the dancing ring, where women of many races—nikaal, human, tarek, even dwarves—were leaping about a sour-smelling fire of dried mix dung. The men stood gathered around the circle, either playing instruments or simply watching the dancing women with eager eyes. They were all dressed in Nibenese fashion, with a colorful length of cloth wrapped around the waist, then passed diagonally over the upper body. To Sadira, it looked as though the saramis might come unwound at any moment, but so far the robes had stayed in place even through the wildest gyrations of the dancers.

  Once she escaped the dancing ring, Sadira turned to examine the rest of the campsite, searching for the haunting sound that had interrupted her trance. The caravan had stopped in the ruins of a toppled tower, a circular basin half-filled with sand and lit by the flaxen light of the two Athasian moons. The small compound was surrounded on all sides by what had once been the tower's foundation, a jagged wall that still rose anywhere from a few feet to a few yards above the ground. Atop the ancient wall stood a half-dozen sentries, their eyes fixed on the dark sands outside camp. The sentries showed no sign of alarm, or even of curiosity. Sadira began to wonder if she had imagined the sound.

  Hoping she would hear the trill again if she moved away from the music, the sorceress retrieved her cane and walked over to a large cask a few yards away. Next to the keg stood Captain Milo, an attractive, dark-skinned man with a well-kept beard and a rakish smile. With Milo was his drive master, Osa, a female mul as hairless and as powerfully built as Rikus. She had a square face, with thin lips, enigmatic gray eyes, and a scar-laced scalp that suggested she had spent more than a few years in the gladiatorial ring. On the sides of her head were small holes, surrounded by lumps of fire-branded flesh that had once been ears.

  The captain filled a mug and handed it to the sorceress. "You dance well, Lorelei," he said, using the name Sadira had given when she joined the caravan.

  "It's hard not to, once you're out there," the half-elf answered, noticing that the mul woman was watching her lips. "They're playing more than music on those instruments."

  "The music is enchanting," the captain agreed, giving her a noncommittal smile. "And I am happy that you partook of it. Most passengers do not understand. They think the women dance for the men's pleasure, not their own."

  "I dance for both," Sadira replied, giving him a crooked smile. "What's the harm if I dance and a man watches? There are more dangerous things to do with an evening, and whose business is it, anyway?"

  "Perhaps the business of one of the gentlemen who was with you when we met," Milo suggested. "I was under the impression that one of them was your..." he hesitated, looking for the right word, then said, "your special companion."

  "Both of them were," Sadira said, enjoying the astonishment her answer brought to the faces of the captain and his assistant. Smiling to herself, she took a long drink from her mug. The broy was warm and spiced with a pungent herb that disguised its underlying sourness, as well as enhanced its enrapturing powers. "They're both my lovers, but no man is master to me," she said.

  "Nibenay is a long distance to travel just to escape men who have no claim on you," observed Osa, speaking with the thick tongue of one who could not hear her own words.

  "I travel not to escape someone, but on an errand," Sadira said, realizing that her hosts' questions were more than casual inquiries. "Why are you so interested in my reason for traveling to Nibenay?"

  "We must know the cargo we carry—"

  "Lorelei is not cargo," Milo said reproachfully. He gave Sadira a friendly smile. "What Osa means is that we're concerned for your welfare. Nibenay is not like Tyr. Lone women are always in great danger there. Perhaps you should stay with us in the compound of House Beshap."

  From the way Osa frowned, Sadira guessed that there was more to this invitation than simple kindness—and more to their relationship than that of captain and drive master.

  "Thanks, but no," Sadira said. "I'll be safe enough."

  The captain did not look discouraged. "Then you know someone in Nibenay?"

  "I can take care of myself," Sadira answered. She lifted her mug to her lips and looked away, hoping to forestall any more questions.

  Milo waited for her to empty the vessel, then said, "You really must allow me to be your guide." He took Sadira's mug, drawing a frown from Osa, and started to refill it. "It would be my pleasure."

  'Thanks, but no," Sadira said, holding out a restraining hand.

  To which, my guide services or my broy?"

  'To both," Sadira answered. "I've had enough to drink. Besides, that's not why I came over. I heard something earlier—a trill, somewhere out in the sands."

  "Hungry lirr," Osa said. "I see pack at dusk."

  "All the same, have a look," Milo ordered.

  "Guards have ears, not me—"

  "Do it" the captain insisted.

  "Yes, Captain!" Osa snapped, reaching beneath her sarami and withdrawing a curved blade of bone. She set her square jaw and glowered at Sadira briefly, then looked back to Milo. "Three wives enough," she growled, glaring at him fiercely. With that, she stalked over to the wall.

  "Three wives?" Sadira asked, watching the mul woman climb out of the campsite.

  Milo's swarthy skin deepened to a darker shade. "Two of them stay in Nibenay."

  "And the third?" Sadira asked, looking toward Osa.

  "
What a man won't do to keep a good drive master," the captain said wistfully.

  After Osa had disappeared into the darkness, Sadira said, "I was serious about that whistle, you know. I couldn't quite place the sound, but I know I've heard it before—and it was no lirr."

  "Perhaps it's raiders," said Milo. "If so, they'll be sorry they picked this caravan. Osa may not be my most beautiful wife, but she's by far the best fighter employed by House Beshap."

  Sadira gripped the pommel of her cane more tightly. "Do you think we're likely to be attacked?" she asked apprehensively.

  "It has happened many times before. The desert is full of elves and other thieves," the captain said, shrugging nonchalantly.

  When he made no move to silence the camp, Sadira asked, "Aren't you going to prepare for battle?"

  "No. The drivers need their music," Milo said. "Besides, if we had to stop dancing every time someone heard a strange sound in the desert, we would be a sad caravan indeed." He returned his gaze to the whirling figures, letting his head bob to the beat of the finger drums. "About your visit to Nibenay," he said, still watching the dancers. "I wish you'd reconsider and stay at House Beshap. If one of the sorcerer-king's agents should happen to see you dance, you would never be allowed to leave the city."

  Sadira was tempted to accept the offer, for few places in any city were as secure as a merchant house's compound. Nevertheless, she wanted no watchful eyes, friendly or otherwise, tracking her movements while she was in Nibenay. "I won't be staying long," she replied firmly, "and my acquaintances will look after me while I'm there."

  "You mean those who wear the veil?" the captain asked.

  Under her breath, Sadira cursed. Although she had not given him much of a hint, the captain had guessed her plan accurately. Upon entering Nibenay, she intended to contact the Veiled Alliance, hoping that the secret league of sorcerers would provision her and help find a reliable elf—if such a thing existed—to guide her to the Pristine Tower.

  Sadira forced a laugh from her throat, trying to sound both amused and surprised. "What makes you say a thing like that?"

  Milo studied her for a moment, then motioned at the sorceress's cane. "That does," he said. "You carry a fine steel dagger on your hip, yet hardly seem aware of it, while you treat your cane as a warrior would a fine sword. If you walked with a limp, such a thing might be understandable, but one who dances as you do needs no crutch. Therefore, your cane must be a magical weapon, and you must be a sorceress."

  "Very observant, but you're wrong," she said, wishing her mind were not so clouded by broy. "The cane's value is sentimental. It belonged to my mother."

  Milo smiled politely. "Was she a sorceress, too?

  Sadira scowled, wondering if Milo intended to abandon her here. Like most common people, caravan drivers seldom tolerated the presence of a sorcerer, blaming all spellcasters for the magical abuses that had reduced Athas to a wasteland. "If you're so sure I'm a sorceress, why have you brought me so far?" Sadira asked.

  "Because you've paid for your passage, and I am an honest man," Milo answered. "Besides, I know the difference between defilers and honest sorcerers. If you were the type who ruined the land to cast a spell, you would not be going to visit the Veiled Alliance."

  The captain's reasoning was logical. Although Sadira had never contacted any Veiled Alliance outside of Tyr, she had heard enough about the different societies to know none of them tolerated defilers. In spite of Milo's reassurances, though, Sadira still thought it wiser not to admit her identity.

  "Perhaps you are the sorcerer," she said. "You certainly seem to know more about the Veiled Alliance than I do."

  "Not because I am a sorcerer, but because one of my wives dabbles in the art," Milo said. He leaned closer to Sadira and, in a hushed voice, added, "She has been trying to contact those who wear the veil for many months. I was hoping you might assist her."

  "I'm sorry, I really wouldn't know—"

  Sadira stopped in midsentence, for again she heard the strange trill ringing above the ryl pipes. This time, being farther away from the music, she recognized the sound as the dulcet chirping of a singing spider. The half-elf had heard the sound only once before: on the other side of the Ringing Mountains, in the halfling forest.

  Milo frowned at the sorceress. "What's wrong?"

  "Didn't you hear that chirping?"

  The captain nodded. "A bird of some sort. I don't recognize what kind, but—"

  "It wasn't a bird," Sadira interrupted. "It was a spider."

  "A spider that chirps—and that loud?" the captain replied, disbelievingly. "You were right—you have had too much broy."

  "No," Sadira insisted, laying her cane in the crook of her arm. "These spiders are huge. The halflings of the Ringing Mountains hunt them for food—"

  "We're a long way from the mountains," said Milo.

  Sadira had to agree. The spiders were gentle creatures that made their homes in trees and fed themselves on puffy fungus that covered the forest floor. It did not seem likely that they could survive a trip into the desert, where there were neither many trees nor any fungus. Yet the sorceress felt certain the chirping was very close to the sound the beasts made when they rubbed their spine-covered legs together.

  "If it isn't the spiders, it's someone imitating them— and doing very well at it," Sadira said.

  "Like who?"

  "It can only be halflings," the sorceress said. "Their normal language is half bird-squeaks and squawks. What I heard is probably a dialect they use to hunt the spiders."

  "Halflings don't come into the desert."

  "These have," Sadira said. "You'd better prepare for battle."

  The captain rolled his eyes. "Please. The sentries have seen nothing—"

  "And they won't until it's too late," Sadira countered. When Milo still made no move to stop the dancing, the sorceress said, "Come with me. I'll show you."

  With that, Sadira walked over to the wall. Milo followed a step behind, reaching beneath his wrap to draw an obsidian sword with a thick, curved blade. The pair climbed out of the campsite, then dropped into the dark sands outside the ancient foundation. The two moons lit the crests of the surrounding dunes in a shimmering yellow glow, leaving the troughs bathed in impenetrable purple shadows. Like a range of snorting hillocks, the silhouettes of the inixes loomed a short distance to the west, A gentle breeze blew from their direction, carrying on its breath the mordant smell of their reptilian bodies.

  Sadira's kank was staked a few yards apart from the rest of the caravan mounts, isolated from the larger beasts to keep it from being inadvertently trampled. Like the inixes, her mount still carried its cargo—her personal belongings and a waterskin which was strapped to its harness—in case the caravan had to leave in a hurry. A dozen spear-carrying sentries prowled among the animals, watching for elves or predators that had snuck into the area hoping to find an easy meal.

  Milo started toward the animals, but Sadira caught his arm and led him in the opposite direction. "Halflings are hunters," she explained. "They'll approach from downwind, where the inixes can't smell them."

  "Lead the way. They're your halflings."

  Sadira took him around the north side of the foundation, to a short stretch of moonlit cobblestones—all that remained of the ancient road the tower had once guarded. The lane ran a dozen yards north before being swallowed by the endless sands of the desert. The half-elf paused here, listening for signs of the halflings, then dashed into the sands across the road. Milo followed a few steps behind, easily keeping up with her in spite of his awkward robe.

  Sadira guided them into a dark trough and waited. Soon, her elven vision began to function, lighting the night up in a vivid array of colorful shapes. The special eyesight was one of the few inheritances she valued from her father. When no other light source was present, it allowed her to see in the dark by perceiving the ambient heat that all things emitted.

  Sadira instructed Milo to grip the tip of her cane, then set off
through the pink-glowing sands. She had to stay in the dark troughs and not look at the glittering crests of the dunes. Even the weak light of the moons would wash out her elven vision, rendering her as sightless as a man staring into the crimson sun. Still, by staying in the shadows, she would have the advantage over any halflings they happened upon. The little men did not share the gift of elven vision and were as unseeing in the dark as humans.

  Despite his own blindness, Milo easily kept pace with Sadira. Within a few minutes, they had snuck a hundred yards into the sands, and the half-elf stopped at the base of a large dune. To their right was a small expanse of rocky, moonlit scrubland, with even higher dunes on the far side. In order to proceed any farther, they would have to cross the open area or climb over the mound ahead. Sadira elected to wait here, for any halflings approaching camp from this general area would face the same obstacles.

  "Do you see something?" whispered Milo.

  Sadira shook her head, then remembered he could not see the gesture in the dark. "No," she said. "It's better to hide. If the halflings hear us moving about, we'll never find them."

  They waited several minutes, the music of the ryl pipes drifting to them on the wind. Sadira's body responded to the melody of its own accord, and she could only keep from swaying to its rhythm through a conscious act of will. Milo did not show as much restraint as she did, letting his head bob in time to the insistent beat.

  At last, a short trill sounded from the other side of the moonlit expanse. It was answered immediately by another, and then a third.

  "Do you hear that?"

  "Yes," Milo replied.

  "Come with me," Sadira said, concluding that her quarry was approaching camp somewhere beyond the open expanse.

  The sorceress stepped onto the edge of the scrubland, then waited while the moonlight washed out her elven vision. The sweet smell of newly cropped tinchweed was mixed with the sour odor of fresh inix dung, and the sorceress guessed that this was where the drivers had grazed their mounts at dusk. The halflings had probably been here even then, watching in silence—no doubt looking for her and the cane that she had neglected to return to Nok. It was an unfortunate time for the halfling chieftain to decide that he wanted his weapon back, for she had no intention of giving it to him.