Get an early start on weekend fun, with this excerpt from "A Man and His God," which is part of the first Sacred Band of Stepsons anthology, "Tempus," copyright (c) by Janet Morris, 1987; 2011: Watching Stepson’s six formidable companions, waiting like purebred hunting dogs curried for show, he spied a certain litheness about them, an uncanny cleanliness of limb and nearness of girded hips. Close friends, these. Very close. Abarsis’s sonorous voice had ceased, waiting for Hanse’s response. The disconcertingly pale eyes followed Hanse’s stare, frank now, to his companions. “Will you say yea, then, friend of the Riddler? And become my friend, also? These other friends of mine await only your willingness to embrace you as a brother.” “I own,” Hanse muttered. Abarsis raised one winged brow. “So? They are members of a Sacred Band, my old one; most prized officers; heroes, every pair.” He judged Hanse’s face. “Can it be you do not have the custom, in the south? From your mien I must believe you don’t.” His voice was liquid, like deep running water. “These men, to me and to their chosen partners, have sworn to forsake life before honor, to stand and never retreat, to fall where they fight if need be, shoulder to shoulder. There is no more hallowed tryst than theirs. Had I a thousand such, I would rule the earth.” “Which one is yours?” Hanse tried not to sneer, to be conversational, unshaken, but his eyes could find no comfortable place to rest, so that at last he took up the gift-sword and examined the hieratic writing on its blade. “None. I left them, long ago, when my partner went up to heaven. Now I have hired them back, to serve a need. It is strictly a love of spirit, Hanse, that is required. And only in Sacred Bands is a mercenary asked so much.” “Still, it’s not my style.” “You sound disappointed.” “I am. In your offer. Pay me twice that, and I will get the items you desire. As for your friends, I don’t care if you bugger them each thrice daily. Just as long as it’s not part of my job and no one thinks I am joining any organizations.” A swift, appreciative smile touched Abarsis. “Twice the price, then. I am at your mercy.” “I stole those diamond rods once before, for Tem–, for the Riddler. He’ll just give them back to her, after she does whatever it is she does for him. I had her once, and she did nothing for me that any other whore would not do.” “You what? Ah, you do not know about them, then? Their legend, their curse?” “Legend? Curse? I knew she was a sorceress. Tell me about it. Am I in any danger? You can forget the whole idea, about the rods. I keep shut of sorcery.” “Hardly sorcery, no need to worry. They cannot transmit any of it. When he was young and she was a virgin, he was a prince and a fool of ideals. I heard it that the god is his true father, and thus she is not his sibling, but you know how legends are. Since she was a princess, her sire looked for an advantageous marriage. An archmage of a power not seen anymore made an offer, at about the time the Riddler renounced his claim to the throne and retired to a philosopher’s cave. She went to him begging aid, some way out of an unacceptable situation, and convinced him that should she be deflowered, the mage would not want her, and of all men the Riddler was the only one she trusted with the task; anyone else would despoil her. She seduced him easily, for he had loved her all his young life and that unacceptable attraction to flesh of his flesh was part of what drove him from his primogeniture. She loved nothing but herself; some things never change. He was wise enough to know he brought destruction upon himself, but men are prone to ruin for women. In passion, he could not think clearly; when it left him he went to Vashanka’s altar and threw himself upon it, consigning his fate to the god. The god took him up, and when the archmage appeared with four eyes spitting fire and four mouths breathing fearful curses, the god’s aegis partly shielded him. Yet, the curse holds. He wanders eternally bringing death to whomever loves him and being spurned by whomsoever he shall love. She must offer herself for pay to any comer, take no gift of kindness on pain of showing all her awful years, incapable of giving love as she has always been. So thus, the gods, too, are barred to her, and she is truly damned.” Hanse just stared at Stepson, whose voice had grown husky in the telling, when the mercenary left off. “Now, will you help me? Please. He would want it to be you.” Hanse made a sign. “Would want it to be me?" the thief frowned. “He does not know about this?” There came the sound of Shadowspawn’s bench scraping back. Abarsis reached out to touch the thief’s shoulder, a move quick as lightning and soft as a butterfly’s landing. “One must do for a friend what the friend cannot do for himself. With such a man, opportunities of this sort come seldom. If not for him, or for your price, or for whatever you hold sacred, do this thing for me, and I will be eternally in your debt.” A sibilant sound, part impatience, part exasperation, came sliding down Shadowspawn’s hawkish nose. “Hanse?” “You are going to surprise him with this deed, done? What if he has no taste for surprises? What if you are wrong, and he refrains from aiding her because he prefers her right where she is? And besides, I am staying away from him and his affairs.” “No surprise: I will tell him once I have arranged it. I will make you one more offer: Half again the doubled fee you suggested, to ease your doubts. But that is my final bid.” Shadowspawn squinted at the heart-shaped face of Stepson. Then, without a word, he scooped up the short stabbing sword in its silver sheath and found it a home in his belt. “Done,” said Hanse. “Good. Then, will you meet my companions?” The long-fingered, graceful hand of Stepson, called Abarsis, made a gesture that brought them, all smiles and manly welcomes, from their exile by the bar.
Posted on: Thu, 20 Jun 2013 17:01:00 +0000
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