Something moved there with, but not of, the clouds- shapes that were subtly wrong, spirits that took a malicious pleasure in manipulating the elements. Oblivious to his presence, they played-it would have taken a more compelling personality than Lalo's to disturb them. But were they demonic? Lalo had never seen storm elementals before. He knew only that he did not like these.
With a wrench, Lalo pulled back into his normal perceptions-Randal's training had done this much for him-and looked quickly at the mage. Randal's eyes were still closed, his face set in a snarl; his hands moved, but it was clear that whatever he was doing was not enough. After a few moments he, also, shuddered and sagged back.
He opened his eyes. "Sorcery ..." he muttered, "black sorcery, and I think I know whose! There's a Nisi stink about those demons. That bitch is working her spells, and she has reset her wards. I doubt even Ischade could get to her now!"
Lalo swallowed. If Roxane's house were impregnable, then Gilla was lost. His gaze moved numbly across slick rooftops, alternately revealed and hidden by tattered gray curtains of rain, to the muddy ribbon of the river. Mist blurred his view of the far bank below the bridge where Roxane's house lay, the house where Gilla was now....
"What will you do?" he asked the mage.
"I have a Power Globe of my own," Randal said thoughtfully. "Perhaps I can use it to counter Roxane's magics. I can try." He looked over at Lalo.
"There's no way I can help you here." Lalo answered the question in the mage's eyes. "But if my hands are no use for magic, at least they can build a dyke as well as another man's. I will be down there." He gestured toward the river. If he could do nothing to save Gilla, at least he could be near her when the river swept everything away.
From the floods, at least, Gilla was not in danger. The bubble of magic with which Roxane had surrounded her house repelled the waters as it repelled all other sorceries. The personnel inside the house were another matter. So far, Snapper Jo had warned off the green house snakes- six feet long with blank ophidian stares more disturbing than the beynit's vicious gleam; undeads with empty eyes and the rotting stink of unburied flesh; and assorted thralls whose bodies yet breathed but whose souls had fled or, worse yet, were locked in some tormented reality from which an occasional gleam of awareness appealed to Gilla for a release from pain.
Even keeping a houseful of children indoors through a solid month of rain-which had been Gilla's previous definition of purgatory-paled by comparison. And of course, even when she had lived in the depths of poverty at the edge of the Maze, Gilla had never allowed her house to reach such a state of squalor.
Despite herself, she was doing the sorceress good service. For two days she had been cleaning- straightening, scrubbing, sweeping away the thick layer of dust. Already several baskets full of offal stood waiting for disposal beside Roxane's kitchen door.
But that was all that Gilla had accomplished. She had thought as furiously as she had worked, but still she had no plan. She stood, leaning on her broom and breathing heavily, gazing out through the dirty window and the oily shimmer of the warding shield at the incessant rain.
"Rain fall up and down the town ..." Snapper Jo said cheerfully. "Wash everything away-shacks. Palace, all. All that fresh meat floating by ..." he added with a sigh.
"Don't you smile about flooding-my children are in that town!" snarled Gilla. She swallowed her instinctive appeal to the fiend's nonexistent sympathy. His only response to her pleas to help her escape had been a reiteration of Roxane's command to guard.
"Fat lady is a Mama? Snapper Jo never had Mama- poor Snapper Jo...." He gazed at her with dim calculation in his mismatched eyes. "Fat lady be Snapper Jo's Mama!" he proclaimed triumphantly.
Gilla looked at that inane grin and shuddered. She thought of her children. Wedemir had somehow turned into a warrior, and Vanda was growing into a beauty that she herself had never had-those two, at least, could take care of themselves now. Her next boy, Ganner, was still apprenticed to Herewick the Jeweler, and with the streets so dangerous, she hardly ever saw him. She could hope that he was safe, but he, too, was started on his own road now. It was the two little ones who still needed her. How could Lalo manage them alone? Gilla straightened with a motion as inevitable as a tidal wave rising to strike the shore. She had to get home!
One of the undeads stumped up the stairs from the basement, wiping moist earth on the remains of its tunic. Gilla wondered if Roxane's wards extended underground, but even to escape she could not bring herself to go down there.
The thing bumped into Snapper Jo, who snarled and shoved it away.
"Dead thing go back to earth!" The fiend pointed to the stairs.
"It is wet in the earth," the corpse said dully. "Let this one go outside."
"No, not outside-" Snapper Jo shook his head. "She says nothing must pass the house shield now. Dead thing try, she finds worse place for it than there.!"
The tattered head turned, and Gilla could almost imagine she saw some emotion in those blank eyes. Then it sagged a little and very slowly thumped back down the creaking stairs.
Gilla sighed gustily to clear the stench from her nostrils when it was gone. She had almost forgotten that this house held worse company than Snapper Jo.
"So you want me to be your Mama?" she asked grimly.
"Mama give boy fresh meat!" The fiend simpered, and Gilla swallowed sickly. She had seen Snapper Jo's table habits. They were not aesthetic. Once blood flowed he became a mindless eating machine.
Mindless.... Somewhere in the depths of her own mind Gilla felt something stir. She looked at Snapper Jo speculatively, and slowly began to sweep once more.
The White Foal River stirred like an awakening animal, expanding through the trees on either side of the upper ford until its shining tendrils crept across the General's Road toward the Street of Red Lanterns. The alleys Downwind were already underwater, and the Swamp of Night Secrets had become a pond.
Water gurgled over the marshy ground above Fisherman's Row and tugged like some marine thief at the small boats tied up on shore. Waterfront merchants labored mightily to protect their wares or fought over the carts that could take them to higher ground. In Caravan Square water stood in muddy pools. But the river roared its frustration where the high banks narrowed it, and nibbled angrily at the supports of the bridge.
Things were not much better elsewhere in the town. Water pounded on tiles and shingles, and roofs which had been at best inadequate turned into sieves. It seeped downward and mud walls began to sag. It pooled in streets and overflowed gutters, floating away the accumulated filth of years. Block after block, the water scoured, hurrying its captured debris toward the gaping mouths of the sewers, whose hollow roar soon became a constant undertone to the drumming of the rain.
Drowned rats and bigger things were swept onward- bodies thought long buried, pieces of rotting wood, wagon wheels, cracked dishes, a mercenary's scabbard, a beggar's precious heap of rags, all became part of the stream. And presently, where pallid waterweed had rooted in the underground channels or where bricks of ancient facings had fallen in, things stuck, each piece catching and trapping more until even the force of the water could not move it forward and it recoiled back into Sanctuary.