Unclean

She sipped brandy and gazed out at the tempest. "You have to give Szass Tam credit," she said after a time. "First he incites what could have been the worst riot in the history of Eltabbar. He even tricks the mob into believing Nevron and the conjurors sent demons to kill them. Then he ends the crisis in the gentlest way possible, making himself a hero to every person who feared for his life and chattels, every rioter who escaped punishment, and any legio

Malark smiled. "While simultaneously demonstrating just how powerful he is. I assume it's difficult to spark a storm in a clear sky."

"Yes, though we Thayans have been the masters of our weather for a long while. I'm actually more impressed by the way he appeared in dozens of places around the city all at the same moment. Obviously, people were actually seeing projected images, yet by all accounts, the phantasms didn't behave identically. They oriented on the folk they were addressing, and if anyone dared to speak to them in turn, they deviated from the standard declaration to answer back. I'm a Red Wizard of Illusion, and I have no idea how one would go about managing that." She laughed. "And this is the creature I opted to betray."

"But with considerable circumspection, so instead of fretting over what can't be undone, perhaps it would be more productive to contemplate what's just occurred. What game is Szass Tam playing now?"

"I don't know, but you're right, he is still playing. Otherwise, what's the point of the riot?"

"He must realize now that the other zulkirs will never proclaim him regent no matter how much he makes lesser folk adore him."

A gust of wind rattled the casement in its frame.

"I wonder," Dmitra said. "Suppose he murders another zulkir or two. Suppose he tempts one or more of those who remain with the office of vice-regent, subordinate to himself but superior to all others. Sounds better than death, doesn't it?"

It didn't to Malark, but he didn't bother saying so. "Now that I think about it, the various orders must be full of Red Wizards who'd love to move up to be zulkir, even if the rank was no longer a position of ultimate authority. It's easy to imagine one or more of them collaborating with Szass Tam. They work together to assassinate Nevron, Samas Kul, or whomever, get the traitor elected to replace him, and afterward the fellow acts as the lich's dutiful supporter."

Dmitra nodded. "It could happen just that way, but not easily, not when Szass Tam needs a majority on the council, and not with all the other zulkirs now striving assiduously to keep themselves safe. I actually think the game has entered a new phase."

"Which is?"

"I wish I knew." She laughed. "I must seem like a pathetic coward. It's one zulkir against six, who now enjoy my support, yet I'm frightened of the outcome. I have an ugly feeling none of us has ever truly taken Szass Tam's measure, whereas he knows our every strength and weakness. I can likewise imagine our very abundance of archmages proving a hindrance. The lich is a single genius with a coherent strategy maneuvering against a band of keen but lesser minds bickering and working at cross purposes."

"Then you'll have to make sure that, no matter what the zulkirs imagine, it's actually you calling the tune."

"A good trick if I can manage it, whereas your task is to figure out what Szass Tam means to do next."

Malark gri

chapter thirteen

13-14 Kythorn, the Year of Risen Elfkin

Borrowing Brightwing's eyes to combat the darkness, Aoth rode the griffon above the mountainsides on the northern edge of the valley. It was a necessary chore. As far as the Thayans could tell, after they'd chased the undead up the pass, the creatures had retreated into the Keep of Thazar, but it was possible they hadn't all done so. Even if they had, with flying wraiths and ghouls possessing a preternatural ability to dig tu

"It didn't have to be you," Brightwing said, catching the tenor of his thoughts. "You're an officer now, remember? You could have sent a common soldier and stayed in camp to guzzle beer and rut with your female."

"I know." Maybe he hadn't been a captain long enough to delegate such tasks as he ought. He'd so often served as a scout, advance guard, or outrider that he still felt a need to observe things for himself whenever possible. "But you're getting fat. We need to work some of the lard off your furry arse."

Brightwing clashed her beak shut in feigned irritation at the jibe then exclaimed, "Look there!"

Two beings were descending a slope. One was a living man-a Mulan, to judge from his lanky physique, though his head and chin weren't properly shaved-wearing a sword. Evidently he was a refugee who'd somehow avoided death at the hands of the undead infesting the valley. Gliding along behind him, perceptible primarily as a mote of cold, aching wrongness, was some sort of ghost. No doubt it was stalking him and would attack when ready, though Aoth couldn't imagine what it was waiting on.

Lady Luck must love you, the war mage silently told the refugee, to keep you alive until Brightwing and I arrived. With a thought, he sent the griffon swooping lower then flourished his spear and rattled off an incantation.

Darts of blue light hurtled from the head of the lance to pierce the phantom through. The punishment made it more visible, though it was just a pale shadow with a hint of armor in its shape and the suggestion of a blade extending from its hand. It rose into the air as Aoth had hoped it would. He wanted to draw it away from the man on the ground.

"Run!" Aoth shouted.

Instead, the stranger called, "Don't attack him! He's my guide! Mirror, don't fight! Come back to me!"

Aoth hesitated. Was the man a necromancer and "Mirror" his familiar?

Maybe not, because the ghost kept on flying at Aoth and his mount, and after his recent experiences with the undead, he had no intention of giving it the benefit of the doubt. He wheeled Brightwing in an attempt of keep away from the spirit and chanted words of power. For a moment, Mirror wavered into a short, broad, better-defined figure not unlike himself, then melted into blur once more.

"Stop!" the refugee roared, and his voice echoed from the mountainsides like thunder.

A palpable jolt made Brightwing screech and spoiled the mystic gesture necessary for the completion of Aoth's spell. Mirror's misty substance rippled like water, and then it-or he-floated back down toward the stranger like a hound called to heel.

With their psyches linked, Aoth could taste Brightwing's anger almost as if it were his own. She believed the man they'd been seeking to rescue had treacherously attacked them, but striving for clarity of thought despite the flare of emotion, Aoth discerned that the magical cry hadn't actually injured her, and the stranger had targeted both her and Mirror. Maybe he'd just been trying to halt the confrontation without harm to any of the parties involved.

"Calm yourself," he told the griffon. "Let's land and talk to him."

"I'd rather land and tear him apart," Brightwing snarled, but once she'd furled her wings and glided to the ground, she held her position several paces away from Mirror and the stranger.

Not so sure of the peculiar duo's benign intentions that he cared to dismount, Aoth remained in the saddle. "I'm Aoth Fezim, captain and battle wizard in the Griffon Legion of Pyarados. Who are you, and what are you doing wandering in this region?"