stone. "He's taken phoenix. He won't be able to concentrate to work magic until—"
"Do you have him?"
The obsidian statue bowed her head. "Yes, my lord. I can hold him until we return to the Mirador."
"Then, by the powers and saints, let us ride."
I could feel their revulsion, Stephen's and Vida's and Luke's and Esmond's and everyone's, and I swallowed hard against the lump in my throat. I did not want Stephen's excoriating mockery, and that was all he would have for my tears. Hate splashed around the horse's hooves in oily pools. I shut my eyes and wished I knew how to pray.
They ride all day. They stop sometimes to let the horses drink, but never for long. No one looks at me. I
try to pretend I am not here.
I can tell that time is passing because the city gets louder in my head. I can hear it screaming. And I can see it, getting bigger and bigger, like a tower of thunderclouds.
They stop at sunset. I am glad. I don't want to ride into the screaming city in the dark. They drag me off the horse. They are all monsters, with the heads of owls and cats. They are all drenched in blood; they leave trails of it behind them when they move. I wonder what they have killed.
They speak to each other; their voices are like breaking glass. Then they are around me again, their hands on my arms. The bear-headed monster is not with them. I can't see him, or the woman made of obsidian. I try to cry out, but I have no voice. They are pushing me and dragging me, and I don't know where we are going, or why. All I can see is blood and broken glass.
Then the ground is gone, and the air. It is all water. Water and hands. Hands gripping my shoulders, my arms, hands knotted in my hair. The hands hold me under the water, until my lungs are burning and blackness is swallowing the world. Then they pull me up. Mud under my hands. I am gasping for air; I can't see anything.
I hear a voice, as cruel as glass, "Can he swim?"
"Nah."
"Then throw him in."
Hands haul me upright. There are too many of them. The ground is gone; everything is gone. The water is cold, black, like hatred. I fight it desperately, screaming, and I know the monsters are laughing at me. Then there are hands again, holding me under, dragging me down. I am screaming and screaming. And then the ground is under me again, and the hands are pushing me down, like Malkar, and I fight them, clawing and biting. They hit me until I can't breathe and can't scream and can't fight, and they hit me and hit me.
And then the hands are gone, and a monster is roaring. Different hands come and drag me upright. For a moment I hear Stephen's voice, "… think I want to try any of you idiots for his murder?" And then we are going in a direction I know is away from the river, and I am shaking and can't stop.
Then the bear tells me to sit down, and they tie my hands and feet and drop a blanket over me.
The obsidian woman gives me one flat, indifferent glance and looks away.
After a time, I sleep.
My dreams are all of broken glass and deathly water.
Mildmay
Min-Terris's courtyard was packed when I got there, even more so than normal, which was saying something. People were talking about the Mirador and the Virtu and the hocus along with all the usual talk about getting laid and calling people out and where to score good spiderweb. I said " 'Scuse me" a lot, working through the crowd, looking for Miss Thomson. It was half an hour after we'd agreed to meet that I finally spotted her. She was still in her shop dress, like she'd been the day before.
I got over to her. She said, "Oh thank goodness! I was beginning to think I'd have to go all by myself."
"Let's get out of the crowd," I said. "C'mon."
We started back toward Rue St. Bonamy. About halfway there, between a little gang of hookers in black velvet and a couple of muscle-men who were probably there with a pusher, Miss Thomson caught at my arm. "Sorry," she said, "but I'm afraid if I lose track of you now, I really
Dean Wesley Smith, Kristine Kathryn Rusch
Martin A. Lee, Bruce Shlain