Mayer Alan Brenner - Spell of Fate

Except the doorway they’d just used to enter was now a solid cauldron of flame, and the ceiling above was coming down on their heads. There were no side exits. The only way out was ahead, straight toward Spilkas. There was nothing to be gained by waiting. Fradi came to a low crouch and flung himself weaving down the hall.

Was he the cavalry? Whatever his secrets were, whatever he’d thought he was really up to, I was happy to see him. Fradjikan had seemed deadly enough in our earlier meetings that he might actually be able to take Iskendarian on -

Except if he triumphed over Iskendarian, where would that leave me?

This was all rather confusing. The only clear part was that Iskendarian had to be stopped, and stopped fast. Iskendarian levered his arm again, shook it, then looked at it with an expression of puzzlement I could feel. “Drained already?” he muttered. He was tired, I could feel that too, but surely he wasn’t down to his last dregs. I threw myself against him again, straining as hard as I could to make him realize he was more than tired, he was exhausted, he needed to take a nap, anything to distract him from -

Another shockwave hit us from behind. Iskendarian glanced over his shoulder and reflexively spat a word-string. The ethereal containment balls swayed and leaned away as though struck by a sudden high wind, tables covered with beakers and trays blew over and slid toward the wall, and then the wall itself and the whole corner of the building leaned away too, the vertical wood planks rippling and snapping, and both corner walls and their structural posts pulled away from the building and fell over.

I didn’t know if I was having as much of an impact as a gnat, but I was still shouting at him and pummeling - or thinking hard about pummeling, anyway. Iskendarian was swinging back, though, and with him I could feel something dangerous approaching rapidly... and there he was, Fradjikan, coming straight toward us out of a crouch into a lunge, his sword in his hand outstretched toward Iskendarian’s chest. Iskendarian started to step away, started to bring Monoch around, the papers under his arm going flying, but Fradjikan was clear on target. He hit Iskendarian off-center on the left between two ribs in perfect position to slice through and into his heart -

- and the impact threw us back as Iskendarian’s protection field went rigid around the sword. I felt ribs crunch up and down his chest as the force of the blow distributed itself, but the triangular point had not gone through, and now the end of the sword was glowing red and drooping and even the hilt was melting around Fradjikan’s hand. The sword dropped to the floor and Fradi sunk to his knees after it, clutching his hand to his chest.

Another explosion blasted behind us. Iskendarian ignored it. He levered himself off his back, gritting his teeth, and climbed to his feet. Then he picked Monoch up off the floor, raised him over Fradjikan’s neck, and spoke the phrase to activate his shift from stick to blade.

Someone was yelling, “Tildy! Tildy!” and crashing around in the flames. Being hit from behind and crushed into the floor might well have saved her life, but the experience had left her so dazed she could barely move. Still, she managed to get one arm into the air and wave it around. An apparition like an ambulatory creature of mud loomed over her and seized it. Even through the smell of the smoke and the dust and the flaming wood, whoever-it-was stank. Reeked!

But it-or-he was trying to drag her, then lift her. “Come on, Tildy,” he was saying, “you’ve got to get out of -”

“Jurtan? Where did you come from?”

“Right where we’re going back to, through the wall.” He shifted his grip to grab her under the arms and staggered toward a splintered shaft of daylight.

Jardin slipped the ring onto his finger. Shaa noted that his brother had taken a step back away from Jardin; he also appeared to be holding his breath. “So, you have not betrayed me after all,” Jardin commented to the Scapula. “Perhaps you are as wise as you would have me think. Now -”

Which was when Jardin stiffened and fell to the floor with the heavy clunk of a sudden stone statue.

“Good old Max,” said Arznaak. “Always so predictable. But a nice job. Simple, direct, to the point. Ah, yes - here comes the other part.”

Indeed, the ring was starting to glow, and the paralyzed form of Jardin seemed to be withering, his skin wrinkling and tightening over shrinking muscles, its color becoming ashen, frigid veins showing prominent blue. “That fellow in the ring is drinking well, isn’t he?” Arznaak added. “Surely Max wasn’t about to leave him a way out, though.” He glanced over at Shaa. “Enjoying the spectacle, dear brother?”

“You obviously have that side of affairs well covered by yourself,” Shaa told him.

Arznaak put on a pout. “Oh, but of course, you’re not in any mood for entertainment. Been feeling rather directionless, have you, overwhelmed with ennui? Life seem not worth the trouble of living?”

Surely he couldn’t mean ... but he obviously did. “I thought the curse restricted who I could fall in love with,” Shaa said slowly. “I never heard about any of this other stuff.”

“Well, you know. Even a god can’t do everything. The mysteries of the human heart...” His brother shrugged an untroubled shrug. “So sue me.” The Scapula raised a finger. “But not right at the moment, if you don’t mind.”

What was Arznaak doing? He was rummaging in a service drawer beneath his sideboard, and then in a cabinet underneath the drawer, withdrawing from the former several silver instruments and from the latter an ice chest. “Hold still,” Arznaak told the paralyzed Jardin, who clearly could do nothing else. Arznaak knelt carefully next to Jardin, gingerly took hold of the end of the finger wearing the ring with an ice tong, avoiding all other contact with his rheumy, aged skin, and brought up his other hand. Shaa had barely enough time to appreciate the honed edge of the knife as Arznaak positioned it over Jardin’s hand and brought it forcefully down. The knife embedded itself in the floor with an unambiguous thunk.

“One must avoid crosstalk contamination,” Arznaak commented, bringing the ice tongs up to eye level so he could inspect the liberated finger, still wearing the ring. “And who knows what other surprises Max might have had hidden?” He flipped open the ice chest, dropped in the finger, and clicked the lid shut.

“But there remains one important step,” said Arznaak. Positioning himself out of the way of the pool of blood spreading across the hardwood floor from Jardin’s spurting hand, he felt inside Jardin’s jacket. “Ah, here we are.” He transferred Jardin’s slate of reference to his own pocket, then rested both palms flat on Jardin’s chest. Jardin shuddered rigidly.

Shaa was unable to tell if Jardin’s eyes were tracking at all, or whether his pupils were widening and retreating. A guttural moan escaped the man’s throat, though, his head jerked back and forth, and his heels drummed once against the floor.

“Well,” Arznaak said, climbing to his feet. ‘‘That should do for that. Clive!”

One of the assistants who had brought Shaa and Leen into the room appeared in the door. “Sir?”

Arznaak indicated the prostrate Jardin with a backward wave of his hand. “Take this out and dump it in an alley somewhere.”

Clive jumped forward to grab Jardin under the shoulders. “No,” Arznaak said, studying the situation. “By the heels, I think.”

“Yes, sir,” said Clive. A moment later he and the thumping Jardin had vanished out into the corridor.

“All quite simple, really,” Arznaak observed, shaking his head, “especially since the Administrator of Curses is not very smart. Or the former Curse Administrator, I should say, and in the past tense as well. Nor was he careful enough with the secrets of his office. But one god’s folly is, shall we say, another god’s opportunity.” He straightened, stretched, cracked his back. “In fact, I can feel the aura settling into place quite nicely.”