Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [100]
The terrace fronted a lounge filled with comfortable chairs. A table was strewn with papers, a bottle of wine, and a single empty glass.
The room appeared empty. She watched, crouched low, silent.
The question came unbidden: Why am I all by myself getting ready to storm the citadel of the enemy? She’d run Kalkan to ground. The smart thing to do would be to leave immediately, and collect Demascus, Chant, and Carmenere …
Well, probably not Carmenere. As far as the silverstar was concerned, Riltana’s business with Kalkan had nothing to do with the welfare of the city. The earthsoul had made it crystal clear that she cared more for the concerns of others than she ever had for Riltana.
The thief ground her teeth. Screw going for help; she could handle this on her own.
She slunk into the lounge.
The papers covering the table were letters. All of them were apparently from dealers quoting prices for particularly expensive sculptures, paintings, or old tomes. All were addressed to Kalkan. Kalkan apparently had an eye for expensive art. How wonderful. And unhelpful.
She sidled to the door and peered into the hallway beyond.
Several more doors, and a stairway at one end.
And … voices! Or one voice anyhow.
A gruff cadence echoed from one of the doors at the end of the hallway. She strained to catch individual words, but the sounds were too muffled.
Riltana tiptoed down the hallway, prepared to dash at the first sign anyone suspected her presence.
She slipped up to an open door and peeked in.
The room was set up for heavy-duty ritual magic. The large arcane circle permanently inscribed across the floor was the first tip-off. Gold had been poured into the inscribed circle, making its permanency all the more flamboyant. Small piles of incense sent up trails of smoke at four points along the larger circle.
Kalkan stood at the center of it, chanting, gazing into a second circle, similar to the first—except it was smaller and inscribed on the wall. He held a smoking thurible in one clawed, oddly jointed hand.
This is my chance, she thought. I should jump him while he’s distracted.
A slaughterhouse stench made her hesitate.
Kalkan removed his hood. The beast that had worn Jett merely as a facade was revealed once more. It was hard to believe it had been a masquerade all along.
But the creature had Jett’s voice, which was Kalkan’s voice. And a gravelly, smirking way of speaking that was both infuriating and frightening in equal measure.
The chant finished with a rising, snarl-like shout. Riltana shrank back from the doorway, afraid he’d heard or seen her.
She drew her blade an inch from its scabbard, ready to fight or run …
Kalkan said, “The way is open, Great One. Can you hear me?”
He wasn’t talking to her!
A whisper came back, a sibilant sort of hiss. Riltana couldn’t quite make it out. She crept to her former position to see what awful thing had been summoned.
Kalkan still faced the circle on the wall, which had become an abyss of darkness. He said, facing it, “Demascus remains a loose end.”
Leech piss! she thought. Kalkan was reporting in to some kind of superior.
The whisper returned, issuing from the void, just loud enough for Riltana to make out, “You must prepare for the end game, my disciple. Soon enough, he will discover or remember where his sword is, and try to recover it.”
“It is destined,” Kalkan said.
“Then go to the deva’s tomb. Await him there. He will come to you.”
Kalkan replied, “I remember, Great One. It is I who told you.”
What was that supposed to mean? she thought. Kalkan is some kind of diviner?
Kalkan set the thurible on the floor,