The Dark Lord

the lake.

'There!' The little Egyptian woman in the prow of the boat pointed with a thin, bird-like hand. A blunt-nosed boat edged out from behind the crumbling wall. Patik tensed, one hand sliding along the haft of his oar. The curator turned, grinning brightly at him. Her glossy, water-charged hair was plastered to a narrow skull. As far as the Persian could tell, the woman hadn't even noticed the torrential downpour. 'Do you see her?'

Patik nodded, eyes narrowing. One of the figures poling the heavy barge was a woman, bright hair bound up behind her head. She and a huge African were pushing the boat away from the shore. Six or seven Egyptians in straw hats and dun-colored robes helped with paddles. A pair of camels stood uneasily in the center of the barge, hemmed in by piled supplies. 'I see her. She's a Roman agent?'

Eyes glinting mischievously, Sheshet nodded. 'They know where the tomb is. Follow them and you'll have your prize. Now—give me the rest of my money.'

The corner of the big Persian's left eye gained a slight tic at the avaricious expression in the little Egyptian's face, but he drew a purse from his belt and scrupulously counted out five heavy silver coins. The curator examined each one, turning the disks over in her hands, holding them up to the light—fading now as the clouds rolled on, obscuring the sun. Artabanus' fingers moved to a knife at his side, but Patik shook his head slightly and the mage subsided. 'Satisfied?'

Sheshet nodded, looking up at the Persian with a queer, knowing expression. 'You're an honorable man, aren't you?' Her voice was very soft, almost drowned by the renewed patter of rain on the water and the sides of the boat. Patik did not respond, though the line of his mouth tightened a fraction. 'You are. A hard-won lesson, I think.'

Shaking her head in compassion, she caught his hand, squeezed it gently, then scrambled the length of the boat, hopping over Asha and Mihr, and then to shore. Both of the soldiers lifted the brims of their hats, peering curiously at Patik.

'Let's go,' he said, ignoring the questioning expression on Artabanus' face.

All four bent to their oars and the long skiff slipped out from the reeds, surging across the open water. Ahead, nearly obscured by mists rising from the blood-warm water of the lake, the Roman barge plowed steadily west. A moment later, a second boat, this one holding Tishtrya, Amur and their own supplies, followed, gliding out from the reed forest like a ghost.

—|—

A door panel shuddered under a powerful blow. Hinges creaked and a stout wooden bar twisted in its braces. Outside, a harsh voice spoke sharply. The door slammed open, bar shattered, hinges torn from the mud- brick wall. With a loud bang, the panel flew across the room and crashed into a wicker screen. A tall, powerfully built figure ducked under the lintel. Features obscured by a deep hood, the intruder strode noiselessly through the house. The room darkened as it passed. A long cavalry blade, etched with spidery runes, gleamed in one hand. A second figure, much like the first, followed. Neither spoke as they quartered the dwelling, finding the remains of a hasty meal and evidence of a recent departure.

A rear door, standing open, led them out onto a grassy sward leading down to the lakeshore. The taller of the two bent beside the muddy verge, examining trampled turf and boot prints. An aura of anger radiated from the creature as it stood, face still in shadow. The rain had tapered off, though the dark woolen cloaks of the two figures were glossy with lanolin, easily shedding what moisture dripped from the leaden sky.

'They go upon the waters,' the taller figure said in a hollow, cold voice.

The other nodded, turning to reenter the house. 'We shall go around,' it said. 'But swiftly.'

'As the spirits quarter the land,' answered the first, anger curdling in its terrible voice. 'Beyond the light of the sun.'

CHAPTER THIRTY

The Summer House, At Cumae

Galen, Emperor of the West, stood beneath an arbor trellis, the light from hanging lanterns glinting in his hair. Not far away, the rippling shake of tambourines and lilting flutes lent a merry sound to the night air. People were dancing on a lawn of fresh-cut turf, under barren, ghostly trees. Beyond them, the roofs of the villa rose above a bleak landscape. Drifts of ash and pumice covered the hills. A forest of pine and cedar surrounding the house had been stripped down to bare trunks, the skin of the trees burned white or dark by fiery circumstance.

The sea below the cliffs was dark, waves silent on a windless night, and the sound of the musicians carried a great distance, echoing in the desolation beneath Vesuvius. The arbor vaulting above the Emperor's head, the green lawn, and the fragrant rosebushes were all newly planted—only days ago—for the prince's celebration. Luckily, a low ridge rose between the scattered buildings and the crumpled cone of Vesuvius. The lee of the ridge had protected the villa from the explosion's initial shockwave, but did nothing to prevent a cloud of fire from consuming the house, blackening the plaster and setting the roof timbers alight.

Like the other revelers, the Emperor was dressed in his finest tunic, toga, boots, and a length of Tyrian purple cloth plunging almost to his feet. Nervously, he measured the length of the cloth with his fingers, over and over. He was nervous, being even three days' swift ride from Rome. Yet, he could not gainsay his brother the Emperor's presence and blessing.

'Gales?' Maxian's voice carried easily from the edge of the lawn. There were no leaves, no brush, no foliage to absorb the sound.

'Here,' Galen said. His brother approached, silhouetted against the bright windows of the villa, which blazed with crystalline lamps. The radiance of the thaumaturgic devices was like the sun, though without King Sol's beneficent heat. 'How do you feel? Nervous?'

Maxian laughed and Galen could hear bone-deep weariness in his brother's voice.

'I'm too tired to feel nervous. I'm glad you let us use this place—a ceremony in Rome would be overwhelming. There are more guests here than I know!'

Galen nodded, avoiding his brother's eyes, and sat down on the marble bench under the arbor. The stone felt odd under his hands; freshly cut, still grainy from the carving saw. Brand new, Galen thought, distracted. Like everything else here. How strange... the villa seems so hollow without the patina of ages on the stone and wood.

'Is something wrong?' Maxian sat as well, peering curiously at the Emperor. 'Do... do you approve of this match?'

Suppressing a wry grimace, Galen looked at his brother. 'There are difficulties associated,' he said, trying to keep his own weariness from showing. 'Tell me the truth, piglet, are you sure of this course?' Before Maxian could answer, the Emperor raised a hand. 'Wait a moment. Let me say on.'

The prince nodded dubiously, a hint of anger gleaming in his eyes.

'Two men sit before you; your brother and your Emperor. Each is troubled tonight, yet each holds a different council. Your brother wishes you only happiness, for you to follow your heart, to find peace, to live a long, untroubled life. Your brother looks upon the lady Martina and sees a quiet soul, used to books, to pursuits of the mind. Your brother thinks she is a likely match! Her family is beyond rebuke, her lineage old and honorable. Your brother sees her look upon you and sees love.' Galen smiled, forcing his hands to lie still on his knees. His palms were sweating.

'Your Emperor... well, he is a cranky fellow, filled with suspicions and fears. He worries, this Emperor, and he frets about the state and the people.' Galen laughed hollowly at himself. The prince's eyes narrowed, thinking his brother was laughing at him. 'There is some humor here, piglet. The Emperor is not worried about you, he is worried about Martina.'

Maxian sat up straighter, surprised. Galen smiled mischievously at him, then brushed back the fall of thin hair from his forehead. 'What a look you give me! Listen, men and women in Rome are minded to treat marriage lightly—they may join and un-join by common consent, without permission, without trial. For anyone else, if this match should fail—then set it aside! If you cannot live with her, or she with you, then you may amicably part, each retaining the properties and wealth of your personal estate. In Rome, the patricians and nobles swirl in a constant dance of alliance and arrangement.' The Emperor paused, looking out over the lawn, keen eyes searching among the dancers and revelers drinking and feasting at long tables.