Cenotaph Road Omnibus : Books 1-3, page 47
“I saw howlers battling in the air outside Dicca. I talked a little to a downed pilot. Somewhere armed opposition to the greys continues. Is the Lord aiding the soldiers openly?”
“Yes.”
Lan sighed. The answer had come too quickly for him to believe it. Jonrod agreed simply to win over Lan. He had dealt with illusion so long, he no longer separated it from reality.
“Why do they call you the Flash?” Lan asked, shifting directions in the conversation.
“My illusions. I am a master at flame and brilliant bursts. I’m saving that for election day. The sky will light with my face. It will be the masterstroke that wins me the election.”
“What exactly do you win? Lord of the Twistings indicates something called the Twistings to be Lord over.”
The man scowled, then said, “You are truly from far off. The Twistings is the current Lord’s most potent weapon.”
Lan waited for Jonrod to explain further. When nothing more was forthcoming, he asked, “Where are the city’s sorcerers?”
“Where? Gone. All gone,” said Jonrod. “And glad I am of that, too! They were competition. They refused to join in the elections; they actually insisted on selling their illusions.”
“They only did illusions?”
“More. They created slimy, slithery things. Real things.” For Jonrod, reality was anathema. “Screeching things that burned in the air and whistling tornados that sucked the air from a man’s lungs. Watery beasts and horrid little things that dug around in the earth. They were odious people. Never very friendly or outgoing. Glad to see them leave Dicca.”
“They left about the time the soldiers came?”
“Yes, I suppose they did. At any rate, that’s when the Lord began cozying up to them. They obey him, though.”
“As if he has something they want?” Lan began putting the pieces together. Claybore came to this world for a reason. With the Kinetic Sphere able to shift his skull and torso to any world he chose, something here had to draw him. If the Lord of the Twistings held some part of the sorcerer’s body, that would be impetus enough to forge a military presence on this planet.
“Perhaps,” answered Jonrod, obviously not willing to commit himself.
“We’ll do what we can to get you elected. Are there others opposing the Lord?”
“‘We’?” demanded Jonrod. “You said ‘we.’ There are others?”
“The pair of us is more than ample for most emergencies,” stated Krek.
“Your illusion sounds good, too,” complimented Jonrod. “You have excellent control. No wonder you think in terms of ‘we.’ You must live night and day with this image to have it so much under control. It is most remarkable.”
“It escapes my control at times,” admitted Lan, a smile darting across his lips. He motioned for Krek to remain silent. The arachnid hadn’t liked being referred to as “it.”
“Oh, the time!” Jonrod exclaimed. “I am late for an appointment with a very important and beautiful lady. She offers money for the campaign. Do you… two… wish to remain here while I solicit? It won’t take me long.”
“I could use the rest,” said Lan. “Go on. We’ll wait for you.”
“Be back soon,” promised Jonrod the Flash as he left.
“What a duplicitous little node of a human,” observed Krek without rancor.
“Allying ourselves with him — for a while — gives us a base,” explained Lan. “And I need some time to read through Abasi-Abi’s grimoire. There are some items in it I intend studying that seem appropriate for this city.”
He began reading in the book of magical spells, silently chanting, trying to get a feel for what they did and how they operated. He had been lucky to shift the death beam away back in the forest. One small slip and he’d have ended up smoky ruin. There had to be better spells to forestall that particular weapon.
Less than a half-hour after Jonrod left on his money-gathering mission, Krek interrupted the studies. The spider nudged Lan’s shoulder with a curved talon.
“What is it?” he asked, annoyed at being disturbed. But he heard the scraping sounds. He jumped to his feet, instinctively whipping out his sword.
The door burst open. The captain of the grey-clad soldiers he’d seen earlier stood in the doorway, a death tube in her hand. The set of her body, the expression on her face, told Lan she’d kill him in a flash of fiery death if he moved a muscle. He dropped his useless sword.
“Good,” she said. To a man behind her, she called, “Pay off Jonrod. We have them.”
Lan felt rage mounting inside. He hoped that the coin they paid Jonrod the Flash was as illusory as that man’s integrity.
Chapter Eight
Inyx become increasingly haggard and gaunt. Reinhardt — Luister len-Larrotti — tried to make her eat, but she refused. She felt like an addict clinging to the image of her dead husband. She needed it for life, yet letting that image into her life destroyed her. Inyx tried to muster enough strength to again attempt escape from Luister len-Larrotti’s Fine Rooms. To no avail. His magics were too strong. Whatever the physical price he paid for such potent magic, he had every opportunity to recoup his strength.
He ate ponderous amounts of food. His sexual appetites, not to mention those of the patrons, kept her exhausted. She got little thrill from making love to her dead husband a dozen times a day, yet Reinhardt’s image still held her in thrall. Inyx knew this was the product of magics; len-Larrotti turned real love into equally real bonds on her.
She’d die soon. But not until the man had made a handsome profit off her.
Inyx had given up crying and merely sat listlessly staring out into Lossal Boulevard at the anxious, lustful faces peering in at her. The man kept up a constant flood of illusion to entice prospective customers. Inyx no longer cared. Her spirit had been beaten down too many times — and over all loomed the illusion of Reinhardt.
She heard voices arguing outside her door. She didn’t care. Odissan had returned, expecting to be denied his money. Luister len-Larrotti had paid. She had earned her captor much. But with Odissan came a new voice, one equally as commanding as the loan arranger’s. That air of haughtiness rang out and brought Inyx from her stupor.
“I want her, Luister. Now.”
‘‘Odissan told you about her. He wants my Fine Rooms for himself. I paid that spittin’ bastard. You two are in this together.”
A thud told Inyx that the visitor had struck len-Larrotti. She doubted the fat man could easily regain his feet. The door to her room opened and, looking past, the scene confirmed her guess. Luister len-Larrotti lay asprawl, his head cocked to one side. Blood trickled from the comer of his mouth while red bubbles welled up along his split lip. With one punch her saviour had removed len-Larrotti.
Her eyes left the supine form of her captor and worked upward. The grey cuffs told her what she feared most. By the time she came to the gold stars and red crosses on the man’s sleeves, she knew.
Claybore’s commandant had found her.
‘‘I am Alberto Silvain,” he introduced himself. He bowed gracefully from the waist, his dark eyes never leaving her. ‘‘It is my privilege to be commander of the guard for this world.”
‘‘You’re one of Claybore’s flunkies.”
‘‘You might say that. I would say that my position is somewhat elevated from mere flunky, however. I control this world for Claybore. He gives me free rein.”
‘‘The Lord of the Twistings rules in Dicca.”
‘‘The Lord rules much of this world. It is to him, in fact, that I am taking you. He tires of the long hours spent in campaigning. He desires some little diversion. Word had reached him of Luister len-Larrotti’s Fine Rooms.
What a nice idea this is, creating an entire ambience for sexual congress. It had never been tried on this scale before, for whatever reason.”
“The locals aren’t too inventive.”
“Yes, there is that,” he said, nodding in agreement. Inyx took in a deep breath, then released it slowly. Alberto Silvain had just admitted he was not from this world. Like so many of Claybore’s commanders, he had been trained elsewhere, then offered a world. He had walked the Cenotaph Road, also.
“They live in illusion,” the dark-haired woman went on. “It blurs their minds and keeps them slaves to the Lord.”
Silvain laughed harshly. “That is only part of it.” “You’re taking me to Claybore?”
“Claybore is… elsewhere. I am in complete charge. I feel your presence in the Lord’s court might cement the already great friendship between two great rulers.”
“Claybore and the Lord of the Twistings,” Inyx said bitterly.
Silvain smiled urbanely and only nodded. He indicated that Inyx was to precede him from the room. She watched carefully for an opening, but Silvain was not only sophisticated in manner and attitude, he was a cautious soldier. He gave her no chance to escape.
Inyx kicked Luister len-Larrotti as hard as she could when she came to his fallen, bloated form. The man grunted, then rolled to protect himself. She jumped when an electric crackling sounded and a beam of. lambent radiance touched len-Larrotti. He shrieked, then died, a hole burned completely through his torso. Alberto Silvain snapped the cylinder he held back onto a ring in his belt.
“The Lord awaits you” was all he said.
Inyx lifted her chin and stalked out. Silvain had robbed her of her revenge against Luister len-Larrotti. For that, if nothing else, he would die. She vowed it.
“There aren’t any walls around the palace,” she said in wonder. “Doesn’t the Lord of the Twistings fear for his life?”
“Walls are needed only by despots. They can keep you in as much as they keep something else out,” observed Silvain. “The Lord has much more powerful allies to guard his palace.”
She saw immediately what Silvain meant. While the man’s outward facade never changed, she felt him stiffen slightly as the slavering beasts attacked. Fully twenty feet tall, the creatures waved small, ineffectual hands in front of them. The real horror came in their powerfully muscled jaws. Clacking shut with fearful determination, those knife-edged teeth threatened to rend and rip and dismember.
And the hunger in those beasts’ eyes was more than she could take. She involuntarily cringed and stepped back. Silvain moved so that he interposed his body between her and the creatures.
The man laughed, but it wasn’t an easy laugh.
“Those are only illusion.”
“I was almost killed by a tiger image in the park. Illusion can kill.”
“On this world, you are correct,” he said. “Do not forget it. The Lord controls these images. If he had not desired your presence, they would have tom you apart.”
“Would they have eaten, also?”
“They’re only illusions,” he said, shrugging. “If it pleased the Lord to have them dine, they would. Otherwise, he’d tire of their antics and go play elsewhere.”
They entered the front doors of the palace. Inyx had seen more opulence and bad taste in designing a ruler’s residence, but never had she seen that opulence shift and change even as she watched. She had the passing sensation that all this was unreal, that if she reached out and grabbed, the jewels would turn to mist and the gold would melt like butter in the noonday sun.
She tried not to be too obvious about watching Alberto Silvain, but every time she glanced in the commandant’s direction, she found him staring back. His bold hazel eyes locked with hers, mocking, teasing, tormenting. If he hadn’t been one of Claybore’s henchmen, Inyx knew she would have found him attractive. As it was, she didn’t even try to estimate the murder and rapine and misery he must have caused to rise to such exalted rank.
A man like Alberto Silvain had killed her Reinhardt.
Inyx turned her attention away and tried to lose her thoughts in studying the palace. While it gave her a moment or two of interest, she found her mind wandering. Mechanical servants, all similar to the park manager Knokno she had found on her first day in Dicca, scurried about, clanking and rattling on their rounds. A few humans loitered, but she saw very few that didn’t have a military bearing. While they did not wear the grey she’d come to associate with Claybore, she guessed these palace hangers-on were more devoted to Alberto Silvain than to the Lord of the Twistings.
“Yes,” Silvain said softly. “The Lord has few loyal to him anymore.”
“What if I tell him?”
“Go on.” Silvain laughed harshly. She wondered what sort of man this Lord of the Twistings might be. Silvain had obvious disdain for him, yet a tiny comer of his courage crumbled when the Lord was mentioned. A contradiction. With luck, she might turn this into a wedge between grey and Lord.
“Commandant Silvain, you are expected,” said a mechanical ludicrously dressed only in a wine-red crushed velvet jacket and a perfectly knotted black silk neck scarf. He bowed slightly as Silvain ushered Inyx into the audience room.
At first she thought she’d entered the palac£ nursery. Toys littered the floor, tiny windup mechanical devices that scurried like metallic rats when set in motion, blocks of all kinds, even stuffed toy animals. Inyx blinked and raised her sight to room-sized transparent cubes. Five of them contained particularly devious mazes through which animals ran. She swallowed hard. The nearest one contained a creature disturbingly human in shape, although the size belied anything more than a distant cousin. Its gaunt face pressed against the inner surface begged her for release. She stepped forward and touched the barrier; it didn’t yield. Inyx rapped it sharply with her knuckles. Only dull echoes sounded.
“It’s unbreakable. Watch.’’ Silvain took out his death tube and pointed it directly at the creature. A lance of fire gushed forth and slithered along the flat surface. “Examine the maze wall,’’ the man ordered.
Inyx touched the spot where the heat had been most intense. Not even a blister marred the surface. Inside, the homunculus shook with silent tears.
“The Lord enjoys constructing these mazes,’’ said Silvain. “He is most adept at it. The laws of the outer world are suspended inside. That was once…”
“The former Lord of the Twistings,’’ came a high-pitched, almost feminine voice. The giggles that followed turned into a twittering that made Inyx very uneasy.
She faced the newcomer. The voice sounded twelve, the body looked four times that. Dressed in a jester’s outfit, the Lord pranced about, posturing and doing small tumbling routines for her amusement. She wasn’t amused. Inyx thought this was some trick that Silvain played on her. This fool couldn’t be the ruler of most of this planet. She started to speak when she saw the expression on Alberto Silvain’s face.
That tiny comer he reserved for fear unravelled into a large spot. He feared the Lord of the Twistings. Mixed in with it came a large portion of disgust, also. That emotion Inyx shared with Claybore’s commandant. To lock up any creature in the glass maze seemed unnecessarily cruel.
“You like my tiny mazes? You should see my big one.”
“The Twistings?” she guessed.
“Oh,’’ cried the Lord, clapping his hands, “I was so right in having Alberto bring you here. You are bright. Most of the people I see are stupid.”
“Why don’t you let out the…” Inyx turned and indicated the homunculus in the maze. It had already moved on, feeling its way around unseen walls, seeking an exit.
“Let out my predecessor? Oh, no, good lady, that would be silly. It took a great deal of magic to reduce him to that size. Once he was released, I couldn’t watch him blunder around in my maze. Besides, he treated me shabbily when I first arrived in Dicca.”
She stared at the man. He had a small spot going bald on the top of his head. The light brown hair had been frosted through with grey and lay back straight from his high domed forehead. Chocolate-colored eyes darted and danced with mischief, the eyes of a small child. In stature, the Lord of the Twistings proved average in every way: height, weight, strength. There seemed little extraordinary about him. Except for one thing.
Alberto Silvain feared him.
That puzzled Inyx more and more. Silvain did not frighten easily. She’d seen his type on any number of worlds. They followed their beliefs to the death, never compromising. In a way, their deaths provided more cenotaphs than any other. They died nobly and usually in some fashion where their handsome bodies weren’t recovered.
And Silvain feared the Lord of the Twistings. Why?
“I have many, many more intricate mazes about. Come and look at them.”
“That’s not a suggestion, is it?” she asked. Silvain shook his head. She felt his strong hand in the small of her back, urging her forward. This brief pressure gave her the opening she’d sought since being rescued from Luister len-Larrotti’s Fine Rooms. Inyx moved, turned, caught Silvain’s wrist, and jerked hard. The man cartwheeled in midair, to smash hard into the marble floor. A whooshing noise told her the wind had been knocked from his lungs by the sudden fall. Inyx scooped up the death tube from his belt and stepped back. She pointed it directly at the Lord of the Twistings.
“Oh, what is this?” he asked in a small voice. “She threatens me. Oh, this is rich. It is, it is!”
“No threats. I wanted to warn you about Silvain — and Claybore.”
“I know all about them,” he said, his eyes sparkling.
“Then you know they’re out to depose you.”
“No, no,” he said, laughing so hard he had to hold his sides. Bells rattled and the metallic stars on the sleeves of his yellow and red outfit reflected back all the colors of the rainbow as he shook. “You have it all wrong. I use them. They do my every bidding. Without me — and what I possess — they are nothing. Nothing!” He started laughing again.
Inyx frowned. This dolt thought he manipulated Claybore. From what she’d seen of the sorcerer, that wasn’t very likely. Still, Silvain hadn’t shown only contempt for this odd ruler of Dicca.
“Do put away that silly toy. I have ever so many more interesting ones.”
