For the first time since the hunt began, Lord Fari didn't care. It didn't matter to him if they won or lost the race. He had different goals now. Goals which only coincidentally involved Safar Timura. In short, Lord Fari had a new view on things, a new way of thinking. Shorter still, he was thinking only of himself.
The game resumed with a blood-curdling scream as a rock struck the male captive. Fari glanced up, red demon's tongue flicking out at the prospect of renewed amusement. This time, however, he found himself bored. The man and the woman were barely conscious, so there was little sport. Fari snorted. The youth of today, he thought, have even less patience than they have imagination. Some other torments should have been used well before now. The trick was to keep the game alive and interested as long as you could.
Fari hoisted himself up on his cane. It was something he no longer needed-the transformation to shape- changer had rid him of all the ailments old demons suffer. But he used the cane anyway, out of habit, and as a badge of authority. He strode away, his slaves scrambling to keep up. The one who served as his stool ran the hardest. When Lord Fari decided to sit, he would sit. The slave's most constant nightmare was that he wouldn't be there, hunched on all fours and steady as a rock, when Lord Fari took it into his mind to rest.
Fari climbed a short hill, stopping at the crest and leaning on his cane to take in the view. His slaves scrabbled around him, the stool ready to leap into any position, the shade unfurling the wide umbrella over Fari's horned head, the fan swishing the air with her feathery plumes, the maid at the ready with cup and jug. Spread out behind him were guards and runners and bearers carrying small comforts he might desire while taking the air.
Fari glanced back, taking rare notice of his entourage. The king had more, he thought, much more. So many to tend his whims it beggared the imagination. Fari shrugged. What did it matter? It was better to be Grand Wazier than king. He gazed out at the Black Lands, where tornadoes rutted a ghastly terrain and volcanoes spat their fire, poisoning the air with their stench. To Fari it was a place of beauty and promise that soothed his old demon's soul.
When Lord Fari first saw the Black Lands he felt as if a veil had been lifted from his eyes. For too long he had been held in the grip of the wild emotions and sensations of a shape changer. It was difficult to think clearly, to plan beyond the immediate goals and challenges. A demon of more two hundred feastings, he had seen many kings come and go. He'd survived them all by always being attentive to their moods, guessing which way they would leap next and racing ahead to that point so he could be there when they lighted. Not unlike the living stool Fari now sat upon. Court intrigue was second nature to the old demon. Many a knife had been aimed at his back by his rivals. Many a deadly plot hatched with Fari's removal at their core.
He was not a fiend normally driven by emotions of any kind-other than fear, that is. Fear alone was to be trusted. Fear kept a fiend wary. Fear could see into shadows. Fear could creep around corners unnoticed. Fear could read the lips of whispering conspirators. Fear could divine the deepest thoughts of a king. Fear had been with him as long as he could remember. It was his father, his mother, his brother and sister and most loyal friend. Fear was his lover whom he ardently embraced every hour of every day.
When he looked out over the Black Lands and felt the constant pounding of magic gone wild, Fari realized he had been without fear for much too long. He'd allowed himself to be overcome by his shape changer's heart where only bloodmust raged. Fari felt a little ashamed of himself when he realized that.
The old Fari, the Fari who had kept his head while thousands of others were losing theirs, would have made better use of the new powers he'd gained when he became a shape changer.
It was Fari who was the architect of the Spell of Four, after all. It was Fari who'd drawn Prince Luka and Kalasariz into the conspiracy to seduce the king into the shape changer's bond that had saved them all from Safar Timura's great spell of revenge, which had turned Zanzair into a molten ruin, killing all but the new brotherhood Fari had formed. The trouble was, he had forgotten his original intent. At the time it had seemed as if he were losing control. Safar Timura was the Grand Wazier, not Lord Fari. What's worse, Timura was such a powerful wizard Fari had no hope of competing against him. It was no secret.
Everyone knew it. And in the game of Grand Waziers, second best is a shadow away from an assassin's blade.
The old demon sighed and lumbered about, his entourage shifting with him, those who might impede his view falling to the ground to let him see what he wanted to see. The king's banner-silver comet collapsing onto the red demon moon-hung limp over the huge pavilion that housed his court and quarters. From the hilltop Fari could see the three smaller pavilions that made a half moon frame for the king's traveling palace. One was his. The others belonged to Prince Luka and Lord Kalasariz.
Each had his own fear, his own driving ambition. Each sought not just to find favor with the king, but to control him. To master him. To Lord Fari it only seemed right and just that it should be him. But how to go about it? How to slip past the canny Kalasariz? And Luka. What about him? His hate for Fari was long and deep. His ambition also burned brighter, because Prince Luka wanted nothing less than to be king himself. Something Fari could never allow him to achieve. It suddenly occurred to the old demon that Luka and Kalasariz might naturally seek an alliance. He wondered if they'd realized it yet. He wondered if their minds had become clear before his own.
He snorted. Not likely. He was not only wiser and cannier, but he possessed more magic than any of them. But then he thought, Just in case, my dear Fari, just in case … you'd better plan for the worst.
Then he straightened as he thought of a course of action. He'd begin with the king. All else should follow after that. First he had to shake the king from his melancholy. He needed to put the hunger back into Iraj Protarus. To rouse the hunter from his sleep.
A final, piercing shriek caught his attention and Fari looked over at the field, a smile curling up from his fangs. The soldiers had finished off the victims and were gleefully ripping them to pieces so the next game could begin. Actually, he thought, they'd done quite well. Considering their two captives were so young-barely in their teens-it was really quite a feat to keep them alive so long.
Then he saw a tall demon holding up the heads, the greatest prize of all. Many cheers greeted this gory sight.
Lord Fari grinned as the idea dawned. He rapped his cane for one his aides.
He tossed him a purse of gold, saying, 'Buy me those heads.'
Renor and Sinch sat easily in their saddles, nibbling on dried fruit while keeping a casual watch on the entrance to the pass. They'd neither heard nor seen anything amiss since Leiria and Dario had set out to investigate the Caluzian Pass.
Renor chuckled. 'Old Dario had me about ready to wet my breeches with all that ambush talk,' he said.
'But I guess that's all it was-talk.' He stretched, yawning. 'At least he's not wastin' our time for a change. We get to rest up while he and Cap'n Leiria scout the trail for us.'
'I don't know if it was such a big waste of time,' Sinch said. He waved at the dark entrance of the pass.
'Sure looks like ambush pie to me. And the only way to find out is to dig into it.' Despite his comments, Sinch felt a sense of great ease and cheer.
'The sergeant's a good sort, don't get me wrong,' Renor replied. 'He just goes on and on, is all. You've got to listen to the whole history of the Tarnasian Wars, or some such, before you come to his point.'
Again he stretched and yawned, really enjoying it. For the first time since they'd entered the Black Lands Renor felt safe and quite comfortable sitting here talking his friend about nothing in particular.
'Oh, I don't know,' Sinch laughed. Actually, it was more like a giggle. 'Depends on what sort of story he's telling. Like the kind you wouldn't want your little sister to overhear. The other night he told me one about an old lamplighter in Walaria. Did you hear it?'
Renor laughed in anticipation. 'No, I haven't,' he said. He nodded at the pass. 'Nothing happening there.
So go ahead.'
Sinch chortled, remembering the jest. 'Anyway,' he said, 'there was this old lamplighter in Walaria named Zenzi. And old Zenzi had been lighting lamps faithfully in one neighborhood for nearly thirty years.
And now it was time for him to retire and collect his pension from the king.
'Comes his last night and when he gets to the first house the family comes out with food and drink and a few silvers to thank him for all his years of service. Same thing at the next house and the next. Everybody liked Zenzi, so they were piling on the gifts and making his last night something really special.
'Then he comes to the last house on the street and a slave comes to fetch him, saying her mistress wanted to speak to him. The slave takes Zenzi by the hand and leads him into the house and up the stairs, where he is pushed into a bedroom, the door closing behind him.
