Aliphor

CHAPTER FOUR
By Beck McLaughlin

Elfie slipped through the crowded market, licking the last, sweet traces of sugarfruit from her lips. Already, she had divested several of the better-dressed citizenry of their loose coins, now jingling comfortably in her pocket. Tucked into her sash was a serviceable dagger filched from a stupid man wearing the colors of some noble house. With necessities in place, she began to look about for signs of Seroult's Thieves' Guild.

Unlike l'Sanjil, there was unlikely to be a large quarter housing their members. The south had a more relaxed attitude toward her Guild. In l'Sanjil, for instance, Guildsmen were often hired by the nobility to steal compromising love-notes or other items dear to their world of petty intrigue. Not so in the north. Therefore, she must look more closely. Even a disapproving city the size of Seroult would surely have hundreds of her kind!

Taking up a post outside the door of a dry goods shop, she munched another stolen fruit and watched the people come and go. Soon she saw the lanky cutpurse. He was moving along the stalls, pretending an interest in the goods offered. Sunlight flashed on the quick slice of his little knife and a merchant's bulging purse dropped into his voluminous cloak. Elfie was on her feet at once, slipping after him through the crowd as the cry was raised behind them

The cutpurse soon realized she was following and began to duck and dodge. Unfamiliar with the streets, she had to focus on him rather than where she was going. When he suddenly disappeared into a narrow alley, she realized she was far from the sunny, open market streets. Tenements crowded the filthy lane.

"All right, wench! Why are you following me?"

Elfie jumped and spun around, her knife out and ready. The cutpurse, who had come up behind her, took a hasty step backwards. She pulled down the bodice of her dress long enough for him to see the tattoo. He blinked, then grinned.

"I'm new in town," she said. "Where's the guild hall. There *is* a Guild Hall?"

"Well, well, a southern Lady." The cutpurse bowed elaborately. "What brings you here?"

"The Quarter in l'Sanjil is no more," she replied, deciding that shock might get answers from this fool more quickly. "L'Sanjil's Kelblades murdered everyone and burned it. Where is the Guild Hall?"

His mouth dropped. He looked as though he might laugh, but something in her face stilled his disbelief. "Come with me," he said finally, still not convinced. "It's not far."

Elfie nodded, but made no move to go before him. He shrugged and started up the street. She followed him through a labyrinth of alleys and crooked streets. Tenements of gray, rotting wood leaned precariously over the street, casting it in shadow. Ahead was a building of stone, the walls blackened by age and mildew, an island of solidity in this pestilent place. Two rough, unshaven fellows stepped out to block the cutpurse as he mounted the garbage-strewn stoop.

"Hold on there, Morty! Where d'ya think yer goin'?"

"Takin' her to the Master," replied Morty, jerking a thumb toward Elfie. "She's from l'Sanjil."

They scowled at her. She scowled back and used the knife-tip to clean her fingernails. One of them nodded finally. "Wait here."

He was back in short order, worried. "Drammand says to bring her in straight away. C'mon, wench!"

Slipping the knife back into her sash, she followed the guard into a surprisingly well-appointed entrance hall. The chandelier overhead still had some of its original crystals and attempts had been made to keep the floor with its beautiful mosaic clean and polished. Her guide hurried her up a graceful, curving stair with a carved balustrade missing only a few of its spindles.

The Seroult Guildmaster was at his luncheon, seated on a balcony overlooking a small, somewhat tatty, back garden. A high wall topped with broken glass protected the house from its neighbors. Several small apprentices waited upon the Master and his companions, bringing plates of roasted meats and vegetables, refilling large mugs with ale.

"They say you're from l'Sanjil," the large, florid man boomed. "Let's see the mark."

Once again, ignoring a few leers, she pulled the gown off her shoulder to show him the tattoo. He stared at it for several minutes, then nodded and shouted at one of the boys to bring another chair. She sat, shaking her head at an offer of refreshment.

"So. What's this about the l'Sanjil guild?"

She repeated her message. The Master looked at his friends. Half-expecting him to challenge her story, she saw instead that he was more than willing to believe it.

"You're the first with a l'Sanjil mark to come to Seroult in a week. Usually we have half a dozen of you fancy-pants coming and going -- then, suddenly, nobody. If the Quarter was destroyed, how is it you're here?"

"Luck," she said bluntly.

"Aye. Very good luck" The man drained his ale and waved away the boy that sprang to fill it again. "I always said that old Cumbert and his snooty band would come to no good putting on airs and pretending thievery is legal. It ain't. You southerners are damned lucky it ain't happened before this. So -- why are you here, wench?"

"I need a place to sleep and permission to work, sir."

"This ain't l'Sanjil," he growled. "We ain't got no fancy hotel."

"I know."

"And we don't just hand out dispensations like they was pebbles. You got papers?"

She shook her head.

"You'll have to retest then."

"I know, sir."

"And buy a new license. Get that tattoo altered."

"Yes, sir." Her throat tightened. Gods, what a miserable hole.

"Fine. Bucky -- take the Lady to the hostel and find her a room. You be back here, wench, tonight at sundown. We've got a few apprentices testing. You can join them."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

She was dismissed. Swallowing the stubborn lump in her throat, Elfie bowed and followed the boy out.

The Doctor stood quietly in the center of the din, waiting as Kellin shouted his council into silence.

"Your Highness," he said, when he could be heard again, "you sent me to l'Sanjil two weeks ago to learn what I could. Well -- I've done so. I found a city shut up tighter than a drum, mercenaries guarding the palace, severed heads on the front gates of the Kelblade and Mages Guilds. While the l'Sanjil ambassador was busy filling your ears with soothing platitudes, hundreds of people were being slaughtered and atrocities of the worst sort perpetrated deep in the royal catacombs."

"Lies!" On the far end of the table, a man glared contemptuously at the mage. "Ankaran is a strong prince. The thieves and murders that have long ruled l'Sanjil's streets would have us believe all sorts of stories! He isn't loathe to confront corruption in the very guilds that profess to serve him. "

This last was directed at Reven. Under other circumstances, the Kelblade might have leapt to the defense of his brothers, but now he was simply too damned tired. He could only stare back at the man and shake his head.

"My lord Crem." An edge crept into the Doctor's courteous tones, "I can think of no civilized government that considers the slaughter of women and children an acceptable means of social control. As for Ankaran's strength, you're mistaken there, as well. He's a blustering bully, completely and utterly controlled by his wife, the woman you know as Driade. In other places, she has had other names -- none of them good. My own people know her as the Rani"

"Ridiculous! The princess is the soul of piety! Her personal contributions to the l'Sanjilese Temple has earned her great praise." Crem looked to his prince. "Your Highness, this is absurd. The wretch will say anything to get his demonic ship back. He slanders a noble ruler and his faithful wife. We've had regular reports of the state of affairs in l'Sanjil from their ambassador and our own. Surely you will not put this creature's word above theirs?"

"I have read those reports, my lord," agreed Kellin drily. "I have also taken note of the rumors coming up from the south which contradict them, and the failure of our last three agents to return from that city. Doctor, please continue."

"In the city, there were rumors that the Kel Council was under house arrest. I decided to see if that was true, so under the cover of night, I headed for the Kelhall. Perhaps a mile from it, the streets were suddenly flooded with soldiers. As I ducked down an alley, I heard a commotion. Being the sort who can never leave well enough alone, I went to investigate and found Lord Avril surrounded by mercenaries wearing the prince's colors. If there's anything I cannot abide, it's an unfair fight, so I convinced them to leave him alone."

Reven choked on a laugh. The bastards were convinced all right -- by a flash of eye-searing light from the Doctor's outstretched hand that left them cursing and blind.

"Afterwards, Lord Avril told me a story that made my blood run cold -- of a cruelty beyond imagining, of murder and mayhem. All of it true, my lords, and all at the order of the princess."

"Doctor, you continually come back to Princess Driade. Why?" Another lord spoke up, a tall man with close-cropped hair and a skeptical expression. "The gods have blessed her, for she has chosen to acknowledge them as the source of her talents. There can be no evil in those works dedicated to the gods."

"Indeed?" The Doctor pointed to Bloodsinger. "I would appreciate an explanation of what the gods would want with this."

Reaching over, the mage drew the sword.

Bloodsinger's wild, triumphant shriek filled the shocked silence. The room darkened until its only illumination was the sword itself -- a baleful, crimson glare. Veins of crimson writhed up and down its blade, caressed the long, fine hand that held it. Black shadow pooled around the mage's glittering eyes and in the hollows beneath his cheekbones. Locking his free hand around Reven's arm, the Doctor raised the hideous thing aloft.

"Two dozen men," he shouted above the unholy din, "TWO DOZEN, fell to this monstrosity in minutes!"

"No!" Reven tried. "Doctor -- for the love of the gods, don't do this!" But he could not force the words through his constricted throat. Bloodsinger's hunger crawled up and down his nerves. He thought his legs would give out. Pain gripped his joints, the first signs of separation.

The Doctor swung the sword, cutting through the dark. Trails of fire reflected in the wide eyes of the council. It was impossible to hear anything but its howling, gibbering descant. One of the lords tried to stand, to run from the room, lost to panic. The others were frozen in terror, faces stark in the ghastly light.

With a twist and expert flip of his wrist, the Doctor returned the blade to its home. Abruptly, light and sound returned to the room. Someone swore. Reven was acutely aware of the rapid breathing around him, the dance of sunlight on the leaded glass of the windows.

"My lord Crem," the mage said softly. "You underestimate the Rani at your peril. There were three of these swords in the Kel chambers one week ago. Three. Before the night was out the entire council lay dead, along with their Kelblades, their House Guard, servants, priests and mages alike. Seventy-nine men and women died horribly. Which of your gods would approve such thing?"

The silence was profound. Then, weakly, someone cursed and reached for the water glass in front of him. Kellin, visibly shaken, looked from the Doctor to his lords. The emotions in the faces around the table ran from outright hostility to naked fear.

"The record of my mission is written in here, your highness." Leaning forward, the mage pushed his journal across the table toward the prince. "Included are suggestions for confirming my claims."

"Thank you, Doctor." Kellin took the journal, but did not open it. "Do you think Ankaran's life is in danger from this woman?"

The mage shrugged. "Possibly. If he ceases to be useful to her."

"This is absurd," Crem interrupted again. "Even if what you say is true -- and I do not at all believe it - no lord would follow a woman!"

"She doesn't want followers," retorted the Doctor, "at least not in the sense you believe. No, my lords, Driade has something else in mind. The politics of Aliphor are of no interest to her."

"If she doesn't want power, than what does she want?"

"Ahh! Therein lies the important question. I believe, given the opportunity, that the sword young Avril carries can yield valuable clues. Inside my TARDIS, I have the equipment necessary to analyze it ..."

Kellin shook his head. "Doctor, in light of these disturbing revelations, until we have proof that what you say is true, I cannot allow you access to your magic ship."

The mage's face fell. "But I did as you asked. Highness, read the journal! It's all there!"

"I intend to," replied Kellin emphatically. "But it seems to me, Doctor, that you know a great deal more about the princess than anyone else. If you are right, if she is the real danger, I would prefer to keep you close to hand. And then there's the question of what to do about Avril."

"What question?" Crem snapped. "He's admitted to murder of the most heinous nature and basely seeks to implicate the princess of heresy. Arrest him and confiscate that hellish blade he carries!"

"No!" cried the Doctor. "You'll kill him if you do! You consider yourself a pious man, don't you, Lord Crem? What does the Book of Truth say about swordslaves?"

Around the table were mutters and nods. Crem scowled.

"The Doctor is right," said Kellin. "Take the baron to the priests. The seers will look into his heart and tell us where the blame truly lies. In the meantime Doctor, I will read your journal. After that ..." the prince smiled grimly around at his counselors, "we will summon the l'Sanjilese ambassador."