Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [33]
“Oh, right.”
Demascus remembered. They’d decided to get some rest, then rise a few hours before dawn, when fire wizards were least likely to be stirring around their towers. It had seemed like a good plan a few hours ago. Now, with the lantern shinning into his squinting eyes, it struck him as the height of idiocy.
“Time’s wasting,” said Chant. The human set the lantern down on a side table next to the cot. Chant had procured the frame bed from a storeroom heaped with curiosities. He’d set it up in the rear of the store, next to a display that included a stuffed moose head.
Demascus sat up and pulled on his boots. A small platter of olives and bread, and a mug of tea lay on the table next to the lantern. On the floor next to the cot was the sword he’d taken from the shrine. A long leather jacket dyed black with scarlet stitching was draped over the end of the counter.
“I found you a new coat. A merchant pawned it a few tendays ago. He needed the coin to pay off a hefty festhall debt.”
“Thanks.” Demascus helped himself to the food and drink. He rose and belted on the sword, then turned to examine the jacket. It was of a finer cut than the red coat he’d returned to the Cabal, but the red pattern along the hem was especially vivid. Six silver buttons ran down the front, and dramatic epaulets erupted from each shoulder. He said, “It’s quite … attention-grabbing.”
“Nice, huh?” Chant grinned.
“Yeah.” He wasn’t sure what to think of it. “How much do I owe you for something like this?”
“We’ll work it out after we see if Chevesh is harboring demons.”
Demascus nodded. He rubbed the last of the sleep from his eyes and noticed the dark circles beneath Chant’s. He said, “Did you get any rest?”
“Hardly. Too much to think about. I’ve got a few pokers in the fire besides this business with you and Chevesh. A business like mine has difficulties all its own.”
“Oh.” Demascus couldn’t tell if the pawnbroker wanted to talk about it or not. He decided to let the topic go. When the man didn’t volunteer anything further, Demascus figured he’d made the right call.
He pulled on his leather armor, then the coat over it. While he dressed, Chant prepared another meal for the cat. From the smell, it seemed Fable enjoyed a meal of dried fish. “This ought to hold you a while,” Chant told the animal.
They left the shop. The streets of Airspur finally seemed empty. Their route took them down along the bay.
Chant muttered, as if to himself, “If only people were like the sea …”
Demascus replied without thinking, “People are like the sea. You can only tell what’s on the surface, and anything could be hiding underneath.”
Chant grinned. “You’re pretty clever for someone who’s lost half his mind.”
Demascus was surprised at the pawnbroker’s praise. He wasn’t trying to be clever; he was frustrated. With so many of his associations wiped away, reading people and their motivations was proving difficult for him.
Finally they came to a neighborhood of wide streets and empty windows. Nestled among the dark buildings was a single tower built of wide marble blocks. Orange light fingered the closed shutter slats of the top floor.
Chant said, “Not only is Chevesh mad, he’s also centuries old, if you can believe the stories. Despite his obsession with fire, he’s human. A human who thinks the gods somehow cheated him by not making him a firesoul.”
“You’ve met him?”
“I’ve heard things. He’s even crazier than rumors paint him. Which is why we must get in and out without Chevesh being any the wiser. If we’re discovered, he’ll flash fry us quicker than you can say ‘Master of Melee-Magthere.’ Think you can be sneaky?”
“Sneaky? I …”
Out of nowhere, a memory came to Demascus. He was hunched before a sealed iron gate with the likeness of a man’s screaming face. His sword was a comforting weight on his back, and his scarf was wrapped tightly around his left sleeve. He pushed his hair back, from which several charms dangled. A bundle of dark cloth lay before him.
He unrolled