The Wizard in Waiting [154-011-4.0]
By: Robert Don Hughes
Category: fiction fantasy
Synopsis:
No synopsis available.
CHAPTER ONE
A Dream of Betrayal
AWAKE AGAIN.
Those were the first words of the Imperial House of Chaomonous in over
a thousand years. The second words followed logically from the
first.
Therefore, the dragon is dead.
The Imperial House did not speak as men do. How could it, lacking
lungs and a mouth? Yet to one who knew castle speech, the groaning of
aged door sills or a whistling draft down a hallway would have
expressed thoughts as clearly and purposefully as the words of human
language. Condensation formed on all the interior walls of the palace
as the House struggled for understanding, reaching for the memories
stored within its drapes and dungeons scenes that had been registered
within it somehow, even when it had slept through the years.
The dragon was dead that much was obvious. For untold centuries, the
accursed Vicia-Heinox had been discussed and cursed within these halls.
The dragon had straddled the Central Pass of the One Land, obstructing
traffic and making a general nuisance of himself. Such a nuisance, in
fact, that the One Land had been broken into three warring states, and
the Central Pass had come to be called Dragonsgate.
The dragon had devoured humans voraciously in those days long ago. The
House cared little about the consunuVation of persons, of course. With
a few exceptions, one human was much like another, and it took real
concentration to tell them apart. But the castle had been bothered
considerably by the beast's utter lack of concern for structures. Some
fine old manors had perished in the dragon's fires, in that first great
period of burning. Indeed, some of the castle's own towers had been
scorched by
Towers! the House exclaimed, and it quickly surveyed its own present
condition.
Amazing, murmured a window sash, as the castle noted a thousand years
of home improvements. New spires jetted up from repaved courtyards.
Reinforced parapets, gleaming in the sun from a recent whitewashing,
gazed grimly down on the city that sprawled below. Gaily colored
pennants fluttered in the breeze, at once festive and belligerent,
throwing a bright challenge to anyone foolish enough to attempt to
scale these heights. It was a stirring sight, to say the least, and
the House wheezed with pleasure .. . A cold draft blew through the
upper dungeon, chilling its inmates and puzzling the guards.
But of all the additions, by far the loveliest was a series of terraced
gardens that climbed from deep within the castle's heart to the very
roof itself. Fountains and walkways graced this artful wonder, and so
glorious was the greenery it would have stolen the castle's breath away
had the castle any breath to steal.
How odd, to grow so grand while sleeping!
The Imperial House took pride in its renewed appearance. Evidently it
still stood tall among structures. Yet all was not as it should be.
While its old walls and towers functioned just as they always had, as
the castle's organs of touch and smell, sight and hearing, the new
sections seemed devoid of life. There was no vision of the countryside
from the new spires. The new pavements heard no conversation. Was it
the House's imagination, or did these new constructions tingle, as if
still asleep?
Awake! the Imperial House ordered the new sections gruffly, and it
sweated some more as it sought to force consciousness into these
remodeled areas .. ,
"Kherda!" Queen Ligne shrilled at her Prime Minister. "p.o you see
this?" She glided delicate, bejewelled fingers across a marble-tiled
wait grown suddenly, inexplicably wet. "Just what is causing this?"
She demanded as she rubbed her moist fingertips together in his face.
"I have no idea, my Queen," Kherda replied quietly, annoyed by her
accusing tone. This wasn't unusual. Ligne's tone of voice regularly
annoyed him and seemed to grow more annoying with every passing day.
But just as regularly, Kherda swallowed his pique and smiled. Kherda
was quite creative at inventing new ways to grovel. "Perhaps, my Lady,
it's the weather?"
The House heard the conversation, and felt her caressing fingers, even
as it registered a hundred other comments from a hundred other rooms.
It focused its attention here, however, on this black-maned beauty and
her parasitic Prime Minister. This was by force of ancient habit,
really. Centuries of watching human behavior had taught the House
that, in the minds of humans at least, the most critical conversations
took place in the courts of Kings. That wasn't so, as the castle knew
very well, having listened to years of sloppy drivel coming from this
very throne room. It was often much more fun to hear what the
messengers and consorts said outside the regent's hearing. Even so, it
was a relief to find that the throne room had not been greatly
altered.
The foundations are the same, the House sighed, reassured. Still as
firm, as impenetrable as the rock from which they had been carved.
Indeed, while cosmetic changes had been made, the basic ffoorplan of
the massive palace would still have been recognizable to Nobalog.
Nobalog! The Imperial House winced, and a dolorous booming issued from
the cistern beneath the kitchen, as the castle mourned the passing of
its friend. More than a friend, really, for it had been the
oowershaper Nobalog "the fat, bald one" who had birthed consciousness
in the castle so many years before.
How many? the Imperial House wondered. How long had it been?
Not that it mattered, particularly, with Nobalog dead. While there had
been many in that ancient age who sported with the castle, debating
with it about current events or telling it meaningless human jokes,
only Nobalog ever took the time to understand. More than that, of all
the power shapers who had walked its corridors, only Nobalog had been
sensitive to the damaging effects of magic upon the House. Nobalog had
been a friend.
But Nobalog was long dead. That was the problem with humans.
Eventually, they all died. Nobalog had been gone a thousand years by
the time the dragon came, and put the castle to sleep.
The House listened again with some attention to the words of Queen
Ligne, for her sharp voice had jogged its memory. It had heard her
before!
There have been dreams, the House said quietly, dreams that were not
dreams at all, but rather stages of awakening. This is why some things
are known.
Seeking to learn more, the House followed the woman's march down the
hallway and onto the grand spiral. This was a gigantic curving
staircase that formed the hub of all castle activities. Had she passed
down the spiral, it would have taken her onto the dais of the vast
great hall, where all of those within the walls took their meals. The
House noted with some concern that the upper end of the spiral now
opened onto the lowest garden terrace. Though beautiful, this new area
was outside the castle's range of hearing. Ligne did not climb that
high, however, turning off instead to stamp toward the royal
apartments. She was bellowing orders even before she reached her
attiring room, so that, by the time she slung open the door, a dozen
attendants were already waiting to change her.
The House watched attentively as the army of maids stripped the queen
bare. The castle's standards of beauty had all been drawn from the
comments of men, and it was fully aware that many within the walls
would have longed to watch this operation. To the House, however, the
woman's shapely form was no more nor less entrancing than any of the
other objects of art that lined its corridors or stood in its
courtyards. While her imperious manner indicated that she truly
believed herself the owner of this palace, the House knew better. Long
after she passed from the scene, the House would continue to stand.
Rather, the castle believed that it owned her, and was mildly pleased
that the present regent was so comely in appearance.
And yet .. . was there not some question regarding her sovereignty?
The castle sweated to remember .. . There was a scene, perhaps months
before, recorded in its semiconscious state .. .
*"I look a mess!" Ligne muttered, but the vision in the mirror belied
her words.
"You look positively regal, my Lady," Kherda gushed. The old feelings
welled up in his heart again, those adolescent palpitations that had
caused him to betray Talith, his rightful King, and lay the plot to
elevate this woman to the throne. "It's little wonder King Talith
chose you for his paramour!"
"Don't talk about Talith," Ligne mumbled. "I just ate dinner."
"But it's true, my Lady! Your beauty so ensnared him *'
Turn it off, Kherda." The Queen scooped up her velvet skirts and paced
toward the doorway. "You're sure Joss is coming?"
"It has all been arranged, my Queen," Kherda reassured her. "General
Joss has accepted the terms of the agreement, and has promised to
appear today, bringing the girl with him. Ah, there is one detail that
I must "
"But what guarantees do I have? The man has hated me from the first
moment."
"He doesn't hate you "
Ligne arched an eyebrow and shot Kherda a poisonous look.
"I mean, it may have looked as if he hated you," Kherda hurriedly
clarified, "but you have to understand Joss. He's consumed with
loyalty to the throne of Chaomonous, and he somehow sensed that you
were a threat to his King. You must admit, he had cause to be
suspicious "
"So now he's going to turn his back on those old loyalties and
surrender Talith's rightful heir to me?" Ligne accentuated her sarcasm
by propping a hand on her jutting hip.
Kherda controlled his impatience, and though he had explained this all
a dozen times before even managed a smile as he explained it once
again: "Talith is dead, my Lady. There's nothing left for Joss to be
loyal to. Why should he continue to support the House of Talith when
the
King played such a critical role in his own downfall? After all, the
King relieved Joss of his command the day before the battle rather
shabby treatment, in view of the General's loyalty. And you've
certainly done nothing to injure Joss, apart from sent ding a couple of
raiding parties after him "
"Which he destroyed," Ligne muttered.
"He is a shrewd tactician, to be sure." Kherda nodded. "There's
little love between us, as you well know, and I judge it no blessing to
have the man within the walls again. On the other hand, it's far
better to have the General's talents with us than against us, and his
great loyalty to the nation and the throne has convinced him that there
would be no profit in a protracted civil war "
Yes, yes, so you've said. So where is he, then?"
"It isn't the appointed hour quite yet, and it's a long ride from "
Kherda was interrupted by a series of trumpet blasts issuing from the
gate of the Imperial House. He turned to Ligne with a self-satisfied
smile. "You see? He's even early!"
"How very like Joss," Ligne mumbled .. .
The castle's memory of the dream faltered then, as if at that point in
the conversation the House had lapsed back from semiconsciousness into
a comatose state. Spurred on by an intense curiosity, the House
pursued these fleeting wisps of thought. The thread of the dream
picked up again .. .
They stood in the Hall of Peace: Ligne, Kherda, General Joss and the
Princess Bronwynn, Ligne made no secret of her elation. She trilled
with laughter each time she spoke, "You can't imagine how delighted I
am to see you again, Bronwynn," she sang. "I simply can't tell you how
it pleases me!"
Bronwynn, daughter of Talith and true heir to the throne of Chaomonous,
said nothing. Instead, she turned her startlingly blue eyes in a
searing gaze on the General who had promised her a crown and betrayed
her.
General Joss avoided her eyes. It wasn't that he felt guilty. He was
doing the only sensible thing. The rights of one beautiful young woman
could hardly take precedence over the right of an entire nation to
peace regardless of the royalty of her blood. Nor was he particularly
bothered by her opinion of him. Joss had grown quite accustomed to
hatred. But he had never been one to enjoy giving the coup de grace to
a fallen enemy, as had some of his peers. He took no pleasure in this
betrayal. And despite the girl's bedraggled hah and tear-stained
cheeks, her accusing eyes were far too reminiscent of her father's to
permit Joss to meet her stare. Instead, he turned his attention to
Kherda. "You've informed the Queen of my condition?"
"What condition?" Ligne snapped, jerking around to look at her Prime
Minister, who unconsciously stepped back under the impact.
"Ah, actually, the occasion never did arise to "
"My Lady," Joss cut him off, "I made it clear to Kherda in our
negotiations that the girl was not to be killed "
"Not to be killed!" Ligne screeched, laughing no longer. "What kind
of nonsense is this?"
"Kherda!" Joss roared savagely.
"It's true," the Prime Minister squealed, backing well out of the range
of a possible swipe from Ligne's feline claws. He raced on: "It was a
necessary concession to insure a successful result of the talks "
"Not to be killed!" Ligne repeated, stalking Kherda's retreat and
picking up speed to match his.
"I tell you it was necessary," the Prime Minister wailed, turning tail
to scamper around behind the frowning General. Joss stepped in front
of the enraged woman to block her pursuit.
"It is necessary," he said firmly, and Ligne turned her wrath on him
instead.
"You .. . betray me!" she roared.
"You too?" Bronwynn piped up bitterly. "Perhaps we should start a
club .. ."
"Ligne, h'sten to reason," Joss barked, and the authority in his harsh
voice caught the Queen's attention. "You've nothing to gain by killing
this girl, and much to lose. Her murder could only provoke more
outrage from the populace and a possible insurrection. Place her under
protective custody and let it be published that she's been deemed
mentally unfit to rule. Do so ... and I'll offer the full weight of my
influence to back your claim."
"That girl is the only threat to my crown!" Ligne screamed.
"No!" Joss shouted back. "You are!"
The woman stared at him, shaken by his temerity. When she spoke again,
she was calmer. "Just what do you mean?"
"It isn't seemly for a Queen to be so governed by her emotions," Joss
answered evenly. "Perhaps if you would think this through, you'd see
my point."
"Go on."
"Entrust the girl to me. You may find eventually she'll endorse your
claim herself."
"That won't happen, Joss," Bronwynn said quickly. "I told you this
morning the throne is mine."
"Why such a change?" Ligne asked the General, ignoring the girl's
comment. "You've always been so loyal. Tell me why you would make
such a radical switch?"
Her tone was suddenly almost cordial, the General observed. That was a
promising sign. "Evidently you can control your emotions " he began.
"Of course I can," JJgne snapped. "Answer my question."
"I didn't have the strength to defeat you," the General admitted. "My
army was hungry, the snow was cold, and victory was a hopeless
fantasy."
"We could have won!" Bronwynn said heatedly. "If you'd contacted
Pelmen as I told you to, we could have had the whole army of Lamath "
"To ravage the countryside of Chaomonous?" Joss finished for her. "No,
thank you," he snarled, and he turned back to Ligne. "I prefer
Chaomonous to be ruled by Chaons, not fanatical Lamathians in long blue
robes. You understand, don't you, my Lady?"
Ligne smiled smugly. "General, I understand perfectly. And your
sensible explanation has brought a welcome focus to all of this.
Kherda, you could take a lesson from the General."
The blood drained from the Prime Minister's face, then returned in a
crimson flood. He would have spoken, but no words could express his
humiliation and fury.
The Wizard in Wailing 9
"General" the queen continued, "I extend to you once again the full
command of the Golden Throng. Do with the girl what you choose," Ligne
dismissed Bronwynn with a flick of her hand.
, Joss recognized this as a bold gambit to assert her dominance in
their relationship. Ordinarily he would have responded with equal
coldness. But there was something about this woman, something
compelling about the combination of her physical charms and her steel
ambition, that caused him uncharacteristically to gulp. Ligne saw it
and, before he could summon any reply, she spun on her heel and was
gone. . The House now remembered several other events of that same
day, but they were matters of little importance. At the moment it was
much more interested in discovering what had transpired in the weeks or
months since that vision. Its curiosity had been thoroughly aroused.
It took only a moment to spot the Princess. While kings asd emperors
might redecorate their own apartments with regularity, few ever
troubled to remodel their dungeons. The House found Bronwynn sitting
at the bottom of the Pit.
Though she sat in a darkness so total that she couldn't even see her
own hands before her face, Bronwynn's knot-ted hair and the scrap of
rag that passed for her dress could be clearly perceived by the House.
The lack of light was unimportant, for the castle's sense of sight was
no more Hfce men's vision than its language was like men's speech. lit
was by a subtle and totally unconscious shaping of ^magical power. That
same form of shaping allowed it to jbear the rustling as Bronwynn pawed
blindly through heaps of straw in search of a lost morsel of bread. "I
know |P here someplace," the girl mumbled as she dug. She had hopped
it hours ago-^or maybe days who could tell in timeless hole? and had
been searching for it ever r psraktence was fueled by her hunger and by
fact that she had nothing else to do.
House felt no pity for her. Though it had witnessed before, it had
experienced neither any need for it nor inclination toward it in its
centuries of consciousness. humans imprisoned other humans within
walls of stone had been among the first things the castle ever
comprehended. The House saw little reason in the anger and frustration
persons felt toward their imprisonment, however. It was, after all, a
prisoner itself of sorts, and quite at peace with its immobility. One
thing it did relate to, however, was the isolation that captives
experienced. This Princess Bronwynn was doubtless lonely, and the
castle decided to approach her.
The object you seek is to your left and behind you, said the House.
Bronwynn jerked backward, landing prone in a pile of straw, staring up
toward the grating that was the only entrance into the hole. The House
chuckled, stirring the stale air with an incongrous draft.
Now it is by your left foot.
"Is there someone there?" Bronwynn called. The raspiness of her own
voice startled her momentarily; she had screamed herself hoarse during
the first week of her captivity, and the constant chill of this dank
place had added a persistent cold to her list of torments. But more
startling by far was the sense that there was something present in the
cell with her something nonhuman.
It is the House who speaks.
Bronwynn peered into the darkness, looking first one direction, then
another. She succeeded only in making herself dizzy. "Who's there?"
she whispered, fighting off the sense of vertigo.
It is the House, the House said a bit peevishly.
Bronwynn could make no sense of the odd stirrings in the straw around
her or the rapid changes of temperature in her cell. She only knew
that some power or force had manifested itself toward her; she made the
only assumption that seemed logical. "Are you the Power that Pelmen
told me about?"
The Power? the House asked. Such an idea was confusing.
"If you are and I pray you are I only ask that you let him know where I
am and send him to rescue me."
Now the Imperial House had heard many pleas for rescue in its ages of
existence some even from tboss of royal blood. But all of these had
been addressed to itself not to some Power. Such a request made no
sense.
_Must it be stated again? It is the House who addresses jpu. What do
you mean by a Power?
"I began to wonder if you even existed. Haven't you heard me calling
out for you all these weeks?" The Princess sounded cross, which made
the conversation that much more perplexing. It was as if she didn't
understand a word the castle said.
"Are you not listening? Or do the shapers no longer teach castle
speech to the royal children?
*% I know .. ." Bronwynn began, then she faltered, suddenly
self-conscious about talking to nothing. She listened for a moment to
the dark, then murmured: "Am I going insane, the way they want me to
think? No!" she answered herself firmly, and she began again. "Of
course, I know you haven't been active in Chaomonous in ages, but
Pelmen always said he thought that was because of the dragon, and that
the more people in this land learned of you, the more apparent your
presence would become .. ."
i What are you talking about? Who is this Pelmen?
Bronwynn groped her way to her feet, stumbling against a wall in the
process. It was wet with sweat. Odd, she thought, not realizing that
her own inability to communicate had caused the wall's condition.
**! it is you, I'm begging you take care of Pelmen. And take care of
Rosha, too .. ."
Hie House hastily withdrew from the conversation, thor-oughiy
bewildered by the strangeness of her notions. Bron-srynn heard no
more. She slumped against the moist wall and sighed. Her sensitivity,
which had once caused Pelmen io suggest she might shape the powers some
day, told her tfaat the moment had passed.
' .; "Or is my mind slipping .. ." she asked quietly. No aw
answered.
"House was experiencing some of those same feel-It had slept too long.
It needed someone to fill in the y sizable gaps in its understanding.
Quickly, the located the Queen. Evening had painted the sky le, then
black, and though the wind was chilly, Ligne strolled atop the
parapets.
explanation is required, the House demanded. didn't even pause. She
pulled her fur-lined cloak
The WizartJ In Waiting tightly around her shoulders, and gazed
downriver toward the sea. The full moon had peeked above the eastern
horizon, washing the countryside with pale light. The afternoon's
vexations were long forgotten now. As the wind destroyed her careful
coiffure, her eyes dropped slightly to study the farthest reaches of
her vast city, where distant torches tiny pinpoints of brilliance
seemed to reflect the starry sky back at itself. Her thoughts were far
away .. .
Is there no courtesy anymore? Where are your manners? the castle
snapped.
Ligne made no response. She was busy weighing the qualities of her
various Jovers, clinically analyzing their strengths and weaknesses.
Her present prospects all bored her. She wished for some new diversion
to break up the sameness of castle routine .. .
Or has the world gone mad?
The House began to panic. Why would no one respond?
The castle had repressed the thought long enough. Now it sprang to
full, horrifying consciousness. The logical next step was to turn to
the present castle power shaper for counsel. The problem was, the
power shaper quarters were missing. The apartments occupied by Nobalog
and the other shapers of old had been replaced by the terraced
gardens.
With brutal impact, a new set of memories returned memories of the
shocking years just prior to the coming of the dragon. Wars abounded.
The One Land, united for ages, took only a moment to splinter apart.
Shapers dueled for no purpose save their own pride, urged on by Kings
and would-be Kings, and others who wished for no Kings at all. Scholars
who disavowed shaping asserted the primacy of a world view based only
on logic and in this region, they had prevailed. For one brief moment,
the House relived those horrible days. It heard again the clamor of
arms in its hallways, felt again the inexpressible agony wrought when
shapers wrenched from its life force wonders sometimes splendid,
sometimes terrifying, but always excruciatingly painful. Then the
memories passed .. .
Ligne still stood upon the battlements, gazing out at the night.
Bronwynn still rooted through the straw for a crust of bread. And the
castle was alone.
Are there no more shapers? it asked the entire population that lived
within its walls. Though a few hesitated in their tasks with puzzled
expressions, the vast majority of the citizens of this city within a
city simply ignored the castle's question. No one deigned to answer.
The castle's temper flared to rage.
These questions shall be answered! it roared, and for the remainder of
the night, the palace servants waged war with stopped-up plumbing,
curious drafts, and pictures that seemed to leap from the walls.
This House, said the Imperial House of Chaomonous, not be ignored.
So completely did the House turn in upon itself that it missed what
might have been a welcome visitation. For outside, at the very foot of
one of its massive battlements, stood a lone figure draped in dark
garments. And at various times, in various places, the man had proved
something of a wizard.
The wind whipped his shoulder-length brown hair up on end as he peered
up the facing of the cliff like wall. The Sting of the cold watered
his blue eyes, but he would not leave off his gazing. His lips moved.
Was he speaking to himself? Or to some unseen listener? Then, as
silently as he'd come, he disappeared into the winter night, heading
south.
CHAPTER TWO
To Win a Way Within
"*.. . You MEAN that was your daughter, sir I said. "But I thought it
was your pet tree-monk!" Ah-ha-ha-ha!" Gerrig bent double, slapping
his thighs as he pushed the sound of his mellow laughter out over the
heads of his audience. As he straightened back up, a ripe tomato
splattered across his face, spilling a juicy trail of seeds onto the
red curls of his beard. Gerrig's laugh died, but a grim smile remained
fixed on his lips.
"Why do you laugh at your own jokes?" taunted the peasant who had
scored this latest hit.
"Because you are too dense to understand them, good fellow. I don't
wish to show your neighbors how dull you are, so I laugh so that you
may know when to join in." The peasant flushed, and his friends
cackled at his discomfort. His only retort was another direct hit.
The laughing crowd took no notice of the dirty child who dashed out
from behind the makeshift curtain to scoop up what was left of the two
tomatoes. Nor did they hear her mutter, "Carrots," to Gerrig. The
player nodded as the little girl scrambled down off the stage, and he
looked out into the faces of his audience again.
"You, sir," he said, as he pointed at the peasant, "have
DO Imagination. Tomatoes! Why, any man can throw a tomato, or a
turnip. They're round. But try throwing something oblong a banana
gourd, perhaps, or better yet a carrot. Now it takes a keen eye to "
Gerrig cut his words short and ducked. Two carrots whizzed over his
head. A third bounced off his balding pate and rolled to the
back-drop. The audience screamed with glee.
Gerrig stood slowly, rubbing his noggin and muttering,
If I hadn't ducked, you wouldn't have come close. You must try harder
" A barrage of vegetables filled the air, and Gerrig stooped, covering
his head with his hands. The little girl scrambled onto the stage
again, and began shoving the bouncing foodstuffs toward her mother, who
waited in the wings. The audience had at last caught the fever, and
now everyone was merrily participating with one exception. Gerrig
noticed the fellow as he knelt to roll a couple of turnips offstage. He
straightened again and pointed at the man.
"You, sir! Don't you wish to join your neighbors in pelting the
defenseless player? Wouldn't you like to show your own cultural
appreciation? Join in. Lend a hand in this gracious reception your
townsfolk have prepared for us."
The man raised both hands, palms up. An easily interpreted gesture he
had nothing to throw. But Gerrig looked again as the fellow pulled his
ragged brown robe tightly around him, shielding his face. Gerrig
thought he'd seen that gesture before.
"Potatoes," Sherina called quietly from the wings, and Gerrig launched
into a new tirade of insults and abuse. Soon the villagers had
exhausted their supply of rotting vegetables and rank fruit, and began
drifting away, but he continued his monologue until the last peasant
shuffled onto the road for home. Then he hopped off the stage of his
wagon and started walking the twenty yards to where the brown-clad
stranger still stood, watching.
"Show's over, friend," Gerrig called as he walked. "You can go home
now." Gerrig was a big man, with thick,
meaty shoulders and hands as big as shovel blades. His teeth were very
white, and when the curtain of his bearded lips parted in a smile, it
was impossible not to notice his gleaming canines. There was an
implied threat both in i.) Gerrig's gait and his appearance, and the
stranger should have been frightened at the very least, a little
startled. Yet the brown-clad figure stood his ground and waited for
Gerrig to reach bun, his posture alert but relaxed. Gerrig slowed to a
menacing saunter, and spoke more quietly: "I said, you can go now." The
threat was no longer implied. Gerrig's tone of voice made it quite
clear.
"You mean, that's all?" the stranger asked. "No performance?"
"You've seen the performance, and you've seen the reaction it got. Now
be off with you!"
"But what of of Shadows of a Night at Sea or Tales of the Six and
OneT
Gerrig raised an eyebrow. "You know those plays? How?"
"Why, I've watched them, seen them performed." "Oh?" Gerrig said.
"Any particular ah roles come to mind?"
A low chuckle issued from the depths of the stranger's plain garment.
"The captain, of course, in Shadows. Who could forget his final
speech?"
"Yes, who could?" Gerrig nodded, pleased. The captain's role had
always been his own. But his icy manner swiftly returned. "That was
long ago. We don't play those tales anymore." He jerked away, calling
back to the line of wagons. "Sherina! Danyilyn! Is it cooking?"
"It's cooking," came some woman's yelled reply, and Gerrig nodded. Then
he turned back to the stranger.
"I cannot tell by your accent where you're from, but I know you're no
Southlander. Are you by chance a spy from the court of the Queen?"
Gerrig smiled as he asked this question. There was, however, no humor
there.
Again the stranger chuckled. "In a way, I do come from the Queen. But
not Queen Ligne, I assure you nor do I own any favor in her court."
Gerrig folded his arms, bringing one hand up to his face. He tapped
his teeth with his thumbnail for a moment, thinking. Then he pointed
at the stranger. "Nevertheless, you have been there. Those were court
plays you mentioned, rarely performed outside of Chaomonous proper. You
are from the capital." "Perhaps." "Not perhaps, you arel" Gerrig
growled. "Now who are
you?" The actor reached out to jerk the stranger's brown cloak aside.
Then he made a face. It reflected his consternation at not recognizing
the brown stranger sooner.
"I must say, Gerrig, you do the soup scenario very well. Had I brought
any vegetables with me, I surely would have thrown them at you."
"Yes, well," Gerrig grumbled, his voice rough and raspy, "IH never
surpass you at it. I make too big a target. Danyilyn I Sherina!"
"I told you, Gerrig, it's cooking," Danyilyn yelled back, annoyed.
"Set up another bowl then, wench. Pelmen's back again."
The troupe was smaller than he remembered. Even so, several of the
faces were new. Half of the players Pelmen had acted beside for years
were now gone. He glanced around him, taking roll, as Sherina set a
bowl of steaming vegetable soup before him.
There's even a little meat stock in it." The square-jawed Sherina
smiled ruefully. "Coralai managed to snatch a bone away from a dog."
Pelmen smiled wanly, and looked over at Coralai, the little girl who'd
been such an efficient collector of vegetable missies. "She's grown,"
he said quietly, experiencing that inescapable jolt of mortality he
always felt when babies suddenly grew up. The other familiar faces
gathered around him seemed unchanged by the year-long intermission. But
children are the yardsticks of passing time, and Pelmen recognized it
had been a while.
"Eat it, before it cools," Gerrig ordered as he shoveled a spoonful
into his mouth. "It may be all you get for a while if you plan on
staying."
Pelmen took a mouthful as Sherina watched him expectatly. She'd never
possessed the natural acting talent of some of the others in the
troupe, but she could cook. One
Wnile from Pelmen, and she was satisfied to go on happily fabout her
business.
,|; "The soup scenario is a summer ploy," Pelmen said to Ji;"Gerrig as
he cooled another spoon of the broth. "It's past j&pie yule season why
aren't you wintering somewhere?"
"Did you, by chance, seek us on the coast?" Gerrig asked without
looking up from his bowl.
"I did."
"We weren't there."
"So I discovered."
Gerrig still didn't look up. Pelmen understood. The man was
embarrassed. "We've had a terrible year, Pelmen. The worst I can
remember. We've been out of favor in the court ever since your
brilliant final performance with us, when you called Ligne a traitor."
Gerrig didn't hide his sarcasm. The troupe's last performance at court
had been disastrous for all.
"She was a traitor," chirped Danyilyn, as she walked across the stage
to the two men and droppped down to sit on its edge. "She still is.
Hello." The last word she delivered into Pelmen's eyes in a husky
whisper.
"Hello, Danyilyn. You're looking well, as always."
"Well enough to attract your attention, traveler?" She hummed.
"Danyilyn, you were always capable of that" Pelmen craned his neck to
scan the line of wagons in both directions. "But where is everyone
else? A year ago we were the best organized, largest troupe in
Chaomonous. What happened?"
"One of us decided to meddle in politics, that's what happened," Gerrig
growled, finally looking at Pelmen.
"We took a vote, Gerrig remember?" Danyilyn said. "As I recall, we
all agreed that we couldn't stand idly by while Ligne plotted to
overthrow her lover. We agreed to make our opinions known."
"And a lot of good it did us," Gerrig snorted, draining the last of his
soup and passing the bowl to Sherina for a refill. "Ligne is on the
throne anyway, and we're reduced to begging peasants to pelt us with
tomatoes so we can keep from starving."
"Then all of this is the result of our criticism of Ligne and King
Talith?" Pelmen asked sadly.
"Not completely, no." Danyilyn sighed. "Though of course that did
cost us our appointment to the court. But the confusion of Ligne's
coup in the capital, the war on Lamath, the dragon burning the year's
events have thrown the whole countryside into confusion. The dragon
burned most of this year's harvest, so there's no food, and it was
bound to be a bad year anyway, since so many farmers were dragged off
to the war. We're not the only troupe that's suffered."
Though perhaps we're better complainers than most," broke in someone at
Pelmen's back, and he turned around to greet Yona Parmi with a smile.
"Well, I'm happy to see you're still around," Pelmen said, and Yona
snorted.
"Would I abandon my family? If I were to leave, who would Gerrig chew
on?" Then he returned Pelmen's grin. Yona Parmi did not smile with
his lips. They stayed fixed and frozen in a thin line. But when his
cheekbones rose, and the skin of his fleshy face tightened across them,
one could tell he was amused. Yona Parmi was a watcher of people, and
what he saw in Chaomonous gave him little cause to smile. When he did,
it was a joyous experience for his friends, compelling them to join in.
In a moment the smile vanished, and Yona Parmi's cheekbones said he was
serious again. "We all have tales of this past year's troubles to tell
you, but I, for one, am far more interested in why you've returned."
His tone was not scolding. Yona Parmi knew Pelmen as well as any man
did and he knew Pelmen did nothing without purpose.
Pelmen glanced around him at this circle of old friends. There was
some hostility there, and some bitterness, for it had been a difficult
year, and Pelmen realized he bore much of the blame for their harsh
conditions. "I'm here to apologize," he said quietly, "and to get you
all back onto the main stage of Chaomonous."
A stunned silence greeted his announcemtnt. Gerrig recovered first.
"And how are you going to do that?" he sneered. "I suppose you've
brought us a gilt-edged invitation, won by your long-standing
friendship with the Queen?"
"I've won nothing as yet, Gerrig," Pelmen responded evenly, "but I
intend to. I've brought you all copies of a new play."
"Another explosive piece of political wizardry, I'll wager," Gerrig
snorted bitterly.
Pelmen allowed himself a trace of a smile. "There may be a bit of
wizardry in it." Only Yona Parmi understood the twinkle in Pelmen's
eye.
"No!" Gerrig bellowed, slamming his hand on the wagon-bed. "You're
not content with dooming us to exile, now you want to make sure we all
roast over Ligne's fires!"
Pelmen ignored his huge friend's accusations. "Why not read it before
you decide?"
"Sounds sensible to me," Danyilyn put in quickly.
"And to me," Yona Parmi echoed.
"Me, too," said a childish voice at Pelmen's feet, and he looked down
into Coralai's unflinching brown eyes. He knelt down to look her
squarely in the face.
"If I'd realized how big you'd be, I would have written a part for
you." He grinned.
"So. Write me in." She shrugged, her expression solemn.,
"I'll do it That is, if Gerrig decides to give it a chance."
"Oh, Gerrig'll read it," Coralai advised. "You've just got to give him
some time to blow off steam."
Pelmen glanced up at Gerrig's hairy face, not bothering to hide his
smile. Obviously, Coralai knew Gerrig well.
Like all of Pelmen's plays, it was a work filled with bright color and
strange images. The writer was in love with the sound of language, and
some speeches thundered with a power that evoked deep emotional
response. Most, however, brought the lighthearted tinkle of laughter,
for the play was a comedy. It was a barbed comedy, however, poking
merciless fun at an idiotic King too blind to see the machinations of
his own advisors. With each line read, the target of the play grew
clearer the foolish King was obviously Talith. It was evident to every
member of the troupe that the script would play quite well yet the
read-through grew steadily more uncomfortable with each new scene. By
the final line only one actor was thoroughly enraptured with the piece
and that was Gerrig. Pelmen had quite deliberately made the King's
mistress the heroine.
The reaction was not unexpected. Pelmen glanced up from his own
manuscript and gazed around the circle of seated actors. "Well?" he
asked. "What do you think?"
"I love it!" Gerrig exploded, a large grin spreading across his beefy
features. "It has pacing, it has style, power, substance and humor,
oh, I love the humor, such satire. And, of course, it will surely
sell."
"It should." Pelmen nodded. He looked around the circle again.
"Others?" he asked. No one rushed to respond. Pel-men glanced at
Danyilyn. "What do you think?" he asked pointedly.
The actress bit her lip, forced a smile, then shrugged. "Reads great,"
she said.
"But?" Pelmen sup pled for her, and she half smiled with embarrassment
and continued:
"I mean it," she said. "The part you've written for me is excellent,
and it'll be a fun role to play, but but isn't it rather transparently
Ligne?"
"Perhaps," Pelmen said.
"Not perhaps," Danyilyn blurted, warming to the discussion. "It's her.
And she'll doubtless recognize herself "
"Think she'll be pleased with it?" he interrupted.
"How could she help it?" Danyilyn snorted, making her own feelings for
Ligne quite apparent. "She comes off smelling like a rose instead of
the manure beneath one." Suddenly her eyes narrowed. "What's happened
to you in the last year, Pelmen?" she demanded. "This isn't like
you."
"Perhaps it wasn't," he said quietly.
"How can you support that woman, when she's "
"Could I say something here?" Gerrig broke in, and Danyilyn snapped:
"There's no one here big enough to stop you."
"I think it's just the piece we've needed," he argued. "Oh, perhaps it
doesn't reflect our own political opinions, but we're entertainers, not
politicians, and "
Danyilyn uttered a rude comment about Gerrig's ancestry. Had it been
said by a stranger in a pub someplace, Gerrig would undoubtedly have
sent the fellow home over the shoulders of his mates if not directly to
the local cemetery. When Danyilyn said it, however, Gerrig simply shut
up. The image presented by the exchange was that of a poodle pursuing
a Saint Bernard, for though Danyilyn's figure was ample, she was really
quite small. She had a giant-sized temper, however, and now that it
was roused, she turned it back on Pelmen.
"After leading us to expose this trollop, you want us now to become her
pet players?"
"I want you to consider performing this play," Pelmen answered quietly.
"As you've said, she's sure to like it, which should win the troupe a
new appointment to the court. Once there, you may find more freedom to
do the plays you really do well."
"Freedom!" Danyilyn spat. "Freedom bought at the expense of the true
Queen."
"I've heard that she's dead." Sherina said it so quietly, it was
almost a whisper.
"She's not dead," Gerrig interrupted authoritatively. "She's just
missing. The merchants took her north and sold her as a slave to the
new ruler of Lamath."
Pelmen wondered briefly where Gerrig got his misinformation, but
quickly dismissed the thought. Gerrig was sure he knew everything
about everything. What details he lacked could easily be supplied from
his rich imagination. Pelmen focused his attention on Danyilyn. "Is
freedom to influence public opinion something to be sneered at? What
help can you offer the true Queen from this far south?"
Danyilyn stared at Pelmen, her forehead furrowed by an ugly frown. "I
just can't believe this is coming from you
Yona Parmi witnessed this whole encounter silently. While others
spoke, he watched Pelmen's eyes, searching the wanderer's face for a
clue to his real purpose. He saw none, for Pelmen had frozen his
features into a grim gaze that gave away nothing. However, that was
sufficient to assure Yona Parmi that Pelmen's concern extended far
beyond the mere showcasing of a new play. And he trusted Pelmen's
judgment. He now spoke up in favor of the project, though he loathed
the thought of Ligne as Queen more, perhaps, than did Danyilyn. "I
think we should do it."
The volatile actress spun around to face him. "You, too?"
Yona Parmi's eyes were close-set and very weak, yet they contained a
quiet wisdom that made Danyilyn pause. He pushed a shock of black hair
out of his round face and squinted at her. "Accepting, as we all
surely must, the clear parallels in this piece to recent events has
Pelmen misstated the case? He's presented Talith as a fool which he
was and Ligne as a clever manipulator of fools which she is. The tale
is entertaining. The moral is simple don't be a fool. Has he said any
more than that? Has he endorsed Ligne's method of claiming a crown? I
think not. But Ligne may, and she will perhaps be pleased enough to
invite us into her home. Is there anything wrong with that?" Yona
Parmi's small black eyes hooked Danyilyn's in a challenging stare.
Though soft-spoken, he had taken what was for him an adamant stand, and
Danyilyn could not dismiss it lightly.
"You .. . really think we should do it?" she asked, her wrath
fading.
"I do. But ... I have a question."
"Ask it," Pelmen said quickly.
"Queen Ligne knows your face, and the two of you did not part as
friends. How do you intend to survive long enough to play this piece
before her?"
"Ah." Pelmen smiled. "The Talith role is obviously that of a fool.
Correct?"
"Certainly."
"That's how I'll play him, then. In the white face of a fool."
"You'll wear it at all times within the walls?"
"Exactly."
Yona Parmi nodded. "Might work."
"Fine." Gerrig smiled, clapping his giant palms and wringing his hands
in anticipation. "We'll take our time and do it right. By late spring
we'll be ready to "
"I want to premiere it at the Pleclypsa Winter Festival," Pelmen
interrupted.
"The Pleclypsa Winter Festival!" Gerrig roared, aghast. "That opens
next week. Every troupe in the region will be competing "
"And so will we."
"There isn't enough time," the beefy performer bellowed.
"There is if we start in the morning," Pelmen shot back. He glanced
around at the once proud troupe, now clothed in threadbare garments.
"That is, unless you prefer the soup scenario to the kitchens of the
Imperial House."
Gerrig swallowed hard, then looked down at his copy of the script,
handwritten in Pelmen's familiar looping scrawl.
Then he looked back up. "If anyone wants me, I'll be in my wagon. I've
a lot of lines to learn. The rest of you had better do the same." The
man turned and lumbered off in the direction of his wagon. Heeding his
good advice, the remainder of the troupe dispersed to their own rolling
homes. Danyilyn, however, lingered long enough to regard Pelmen with
friendly suspicion.
"I know you. You didn't write this to please Ligne."
"I didn't?" he responded blankly.
"You're up to something," she went on. "And I'm going to find out
what." That said, she tucked her script under her arm and strolled
away.
"Shell not do it easily, if she does," muttered Yona Parmi, as he
joined Pelmen. "Nor, I imagine, will I."
"What are you talking about, Yona?" Pelmen asked innocently.
"I thought not," Yona grumbled good-naturedly. "Your couch still
awaits you," he said, referring to the fact that he and Pelmen usually
shared a wagon whenever the wanderer chose to put in an appearance. As
they walked toward it, he was planning his first questions. It would
take time, but he would find out.
After a week so busy it seemed to sprint past without being noticed,
Yona Parmi had learned much about Pel-men's role in the events of the
last year. He was no closer, however, to discovering Pelmen's purpose
in rejoining the troupe. The playwright could be exceedingly stubborn
when he chose to be. Still, Yona hadn't given up trying.
They were encamped in the meadow of a small village only a few miles
south of Pleclypsa. While no one in the troupe felt truly prepared,
Pelmen's plan called for them to premiere the play that night, before
this rural audience. It would be their last chance to correct any
trouble spots before the opening of the competition in the regional
capital.
The wagons were formed into a circle, with only a single opening. Yards
of cloth had been wrapped around the outside of this ring to insure
that those who wished to watch had to pay for the privilege. The troupe
had learned long ago to give the largest boys in the village some
trifle and free admittance to keep nonpaying customers from crawling
under the wagons. This small investment in security lilways paid off,
for the challenge between the older guards find the younger lads not so
chosen made the mobile theatre the center of a village's attention for
days. People flocked in from the fields to participate in the
excitement imported by these painted actors from far away.
It was midmoraing, and already the guards beyond the wagon walls were
shouting authoritatively and feeling important. Younger boys lay in
the bushes and plotted in whispers how they might gain entrance into
the circle. Within the ring, however, activity was at a minimum. The
players had rehearsed far into the night and were now exercising their
age-old prerogative of sleeping late.
Pelmen wasn't asleep, but he was resting comfortably on his low couch.
The two friends had been locked in conversation until late the night
before. Yona Parmi had resumed this morning as if sleep had never
intervened.
"So you attempted to thrust this Rosha lad into the role of dragon
slayer, but were forced to do the task yourself when his garbled speech
enraged the beast?"
"It wasn't by choice, Yona," Pelmen replied, as he scooped his
manuscript up off the floor and began studying it He found it terribly
difficult to memorize lines he'd written himself. He tended to want to
rewrite in the middle of a performance. "It simply had to be done.
Even so, it was a group effort. Without the cooperation of my
companions, I would surely be in the belly of the beast today."
"Still avoiding the hero's role, aren't you?" Yona Parmi frowned. "It
rather annoys me, Pelmen, each time you return, how you diligently
praise your various comrades in arms, while disavowing any real role in
changing history yourself. It's especially aggravating that you seem
never to include us in your plans "
"Please, Parmi." Pelmen winced. "Haven't we had this conversation
before?"
"A number of times, I'll grant. But we never seem to finish it. You
always disappear, off to perform some new feat of magic that sets the
forces of nature in balance again. And then you return, humbly denying
having had anything to do with it."
"What about Coralai in the second act? Is she stealing too much of the
focus for the point to get across?"
"Or else you attempt to change the subject."
"I think the pacing of that act is a little ponderous .. ."
"What I can't understand is why you should even bother with us."
Pelmen glanced up at him. "I told you, Parmi, I feel responsible for
getting you back into more comfortable surroundings."
"A well-intended gesture it is, and I'm duly appreciative. But I can't
shake the feeling there's some grander scheme behind it all."
"Think Danyilyn is too obvious in her impersonation of Ligne?"
"I didn't think she could be too obvious, as far as you were
concerned."
"Just so long as she's not offensive to the Queen."
"That puzzles me as well. Why this sudden devotion to a shallow woman
ruled only by her unrepressed lecheries for power and for young men?"
Yona raised a sparse eyebrow in mock horror. "You haven't fallen in
love with her yourself, have you?"
Pelmen laughed aloud. "I think you know me better than that."
"Yes, yes, and there's this Serphimera woman you told me about. But
who could be sure?" Yona Parmi shrugged. "For all we know, you could
be one of Ligne's chief advisors by this time."
Pelmen rolled off his divan and strolled past Yona Parmi to the door.
He pushed it open and glanced outside. "Another cold gray day," he
said. The clouds looked ominous. "I hope it doesn't rain."
Yona struggled to his feet and came to peer out over Pelmen's shoulder.
"That would make for a rather soggy performance. Why not raise a wind
and blow these clouds away?" He said it teasingly, but carefully
studied his friend's reaction.
There was little to study. Pelmen only chuckled mildly and climbed
back into the wagon. He sauntered to the dressing table and scooped
water from the bowl there to wash his face.
Yona persisted. "I know you need to get into the Imperial House of
Chaomonous," he announced, and Pelmen stopped washing and looked at
him.
"How do you know that?"
'-" "It's the only thing that makes any sense. That's why you've
rejoined us to get within the walls. But I don't understand why you
don't just transform yourself into a falcon and fly in. You can still
do that, can't you?"
Pelmen toweled off his face. "That would be shaping, Panni, and you
know I've never been able to shape the powers in Chaomonous."
"I know you've always said you couldn't Does that mean there are no
powers here to shape?"
Pelmen shrugged a bit too elaborately, Yona Parmi thought and said,
"All I know is that I've never shaped any powers in Chaomonous."
Yona Parmi turned testy, for he knew from Pelmen's veiled eyes that the
traveler knew far more than he was saying. "You'd never been a Prophet
in Lamath before last year, eitherl"
"That was different. I had nothing to do with that. The Power did
that through me."
"The Power being that One who met you on a mountain-top long ago?"
The same."
"Do you think the Power you speak of is not powerful enough to cross
Dragonsgate?"
Pelmen met Yona Parmi's eyes. For the first time since he had
returned, he let Yona see the worry he'd hidden inside. "You aren't
going to give up, are you?" he sighed.
"You've given me no reason to believe I should." Yona Parmi waited a
moment, then prodded, "What's troubling you, my friend?"
"I'd prefer not to involve you, if I can help it. The less you know,
the less you can be held accountable for by others."
"Meaning, by Ligne."
"By Ligne, by her advisors, by whomever, Yona. My concern extends well
beyond the borders of this supposed Empire of Chaomonous. There are
others in other lands who oppose me."
, "Pelmen, I'm already involved. I'm part of the troupe
' that's going to get you within the walls. But answer ray question,
man! Pelmen Dragonsbane has slain the dragon and opened the pass for
traffic to move freely between the three lands. Cannot the Power pass
Dragonsgate as well?"
Pelmen thought for a long time before answering. "The Power has
passed."
"Ah .. ." Yona Parmi sighed, his dark eyes lighting up.
"As have other powers.
Yona looked puzzled. "What other powers?"
"Those that have been shaped by Mari power shapers for these many
centuries," Pelmen intoned quietly. He turned his gaze on Yona Parmi
again, and showed his friend an expression of quiet desperation. "And
I never seem to know which is which."
"You mean powers from Ngandib-Mar are free among us?" Yona Parmi asked
with a shudder. Suddenly he felt an urge to glance around him and
beneath the bed.
"Or so it seems," Pelmen nodded. "A week ago I stood outside the walls
of the Imperial House. There's something there, Yona. I felt it."
Yona Parmi swallowed hard. "But the Power is around too, isn't it?" he
asked. His tone demanded some reassurance.
"At times." Pelmen nodded. He half smiled at the expression of panic
that threatened to take over his friend's features. "Now are you sure
you want to know the rest?"
"Not knowing is worse than knowing," Yona Panni mumbled. "I think," he
added.
"The result of it all is that I'm bound up inside. I don't want to
shape, for fear of shaping the wrong thing. Nor can I feel any
confidence that I won't be seized any minute by one greater than I and
experience again that curious elation of being shaped myself."
Yona Parmi just stared at him, a bit glassy-eyed.
"And all of it seems to stem from the death of the dragon for which, as
you say, I bear the ultimate responsibility."
"But how did that .. ." Yona's sentence trailed away. He really
didn't know the right questions to ask.
"Why did that make a difference? I don't know. I have a theory,
though, that the opening of Dragonsgate has played a part. For a
thousand years only the merchant families have moved between the three
lands merchants, thieves, and vagabonds like myself. And merchants,
of
Bourse, have showed little interest in powers of any kind except their
own power over the people. They've isolated themselves from everyone
else and isolated, too, the libraries of the past. They share no
knowledge between the lands, save that which serves their purpose. But
there's traffic now, Yona, of common people a trickle, true, but
movement all the same. I know of a dozen free traders who made the
crossing before a gang of rogues plugged up the pass- And more will
make the journey after the spring thaw, in spite of the thieves' high
tariffs. And with them come questions, and with the questions .. .
powers." Pel-men shook his head and sighed. "The world is changing,
Yona Parmi. And I can't say what the result of it all might be." He
looked back at his friend. Yona Parmi was gazing off into nowhere.
"Yona? Parmi, are you all right?"
Yona Parmi looked at him, licked his lips, then muttered, "You said
something about going over the second act again?"
Pelmen understood the reaction. How well he understood it!
"What power! What magic! What grace!" Gerrig was talking about his
own performance, naturally. The gray sky had thundered throughout the
play, but never made good its threat. The local peasants had gathered,
enjoyed, applauded, and departed to their homes and pubs, leaving the
players to clean off their makeup in the diminishing light of early
evening.
"I thought it went rather well," Pelmen agreed.
"Well? It went marvelously! Didn't you hear the shrieks of laughter,
the thunderous applause?"
"Thunderous?" Danyilyn snorted. "From a few hundred peasants,
outside, on a damp afternoon? I'm pleased, certainly, but let's save
the idea of thunderous for tomorrow night."
"Yes," Pelmen quietly agreed. "Two thousand pleased urbanites in a
packed house that's thunderous applause."
"Say what you will, I thought I was superb," Gerrig gloated with
characteristic modesty. "The play's good too,"
The play is excellent," Yona Parmi growled. "If a bit distasteful,
still," he added.
3D
"I only wish I knew what we'll be competing against," Danyilyn
muttered, as she examined her charming face in a small mirror.
"Regort will be there with his troupe," Gerrig advised, "And of course
Shavor-Brot's band, who performed so miserably last year "
"I thought they were good," Yona Parmi mumbled, but not loudly enough
for Gerrig to hear. It was an old argument, one there was no sense in
repeating. Sherina heard him, though, and she smiled her agreement.
" then the local group wilt be performing EldVoph and Berliath, are
those their names?"
"He's excellent," Danyilyn nodded. "Her I can do without."
" plus a half-dozen other troupes. I've heard there's even one coming
from up on the Straits Coast. Should be a worthy competition."
"It's likely they'll all be rehearsing tonight, somewhere in the city,"
Yona Parmi said. His eye was on Pelmen. "It would certainly be nice
to know what they're doing in advance." Pelmen heard him, but didn't
respond.
Gerrig chuckled. "I wouldn't mind stealing a good line or two myself.
Wishful thinking, though we couldn't make Pleclypsa until well after
midnight. What say we find the local tavern instead?" His feet were
already on the path toward the village, and Danyilyn and the others
were following.
Yona Parmi hung back to ask Pelmen: "Are you coming?"
"Not tonight," he said loudly. "I think I'll turn in early." The
wandering wizard faked a yawn.
"Ah," Yona Parmi muttered quietly, "but just what will you turn in to?"
A few minutes later, as the group of laughing players reached the edge
of the village, Yona Parmi heard a screech and looked up in time to see
a falcon passing high overhead. When many hours had passed, and he
arrived back at then1 wagon, Yoni Parmi found Pel-men lying on his
couch, comfortably wrapped in a fur.
"Well," he asked. "How's the competition?"
"Yona," replied Pelmen as he turned his face to the wall, "we have
nothing to worry about." Already he was planning his first move once
they got within the castle.
For days, the Imperial House had sweated to grow as an entity, seeking
to extend consciousness into those useless parapets and towers built
since the sleep first came. Buried within its subconscious were
memories of those spells muttered ages before by Nobalog, when he
enchanted the House into life. The castle drew upon this knowledge,
dredging wondrous power from the air. After long absence, the magic
had returned to Chaomonous, and the House reveled in a renewal of
activity. There were conversations to listen to, Drax games to comment
on, unknowing clowns to chuckle at, try sting lovers to spy upon. But
before all of that came the work the slow, intense process of moving
awareness into new areas of its own structure. The task consumed its
energies consuming also any opportunity for that dreaded thought to
arise once more: that no one could hear. It could not tolerate being
alone forever. And so it kept on working.
Weird drafts frequently puffed down the hallways now, as the castle
laughed in celebration of each new sign of progress. Such phenomena
unnerved the occupants of the massive edifice. Being descended from
those who had disregarded all supernatural experiences, most Chaons had
lit-.v tie use for superstition. Yet a sense of the strangeness of
* the past week had stolen over scholar, soldier, servant, and stranger
alike. None could tell the origin of his feelings,
i . nor did anyone attempt to give expression to these sensations,
fearing the mockery of his fellows. But the sensations persisted, and
it pleased the House no end to witness the discomfort of those who
lived within it. They would know its presence.
' '* The Imperial House had at last gained control of the
*." perimeters of the gardens. It had possessed the terrace V;
walkways to the point that it could overhear every garden V
tete-a-tete. It could even enjoy the fragrance of the blossoms.
Although it was beginning to notice a peculiar irritation on its
rooftop, its mood was jovial as it relaxed and jff-, watched the
butterflies flutter from flower to flower, J much as the Queen moved
from man to man in her court H Suddenly its attention riveted on its
lower dungeon. In a flash, its pleasant mood disappeared, replaced by
a fear-f; ome wrath. An invader had appeared from nowherel The
House was understandably shaken, for throughout its waking years its
walls had resisted every challenge, and its inward sanctuaries had
remained inviolate. It had never thought to examine its own
foundations for cracks. Yet cracks there were cracks that had been
there for centuries.
There was one man who knew them all, much as a rat knows its secret
pathways into the larder. Like his brother rats, this man now scurried
along hidden corridors in the darkness, oblivious to the curses the
Imperial House heaped upon him.
The castle's record as a fortress was impeccable. And yet, in its
twice a thousand years of existence, it had housed a score of
short-lived dynasties. The old records that lined the dusty shelves of
its library detailed a murky history of plots and counterplots. As a
result, secret passageways carved of rock, dark memorials to those
sinister doings, met and diverged in the black silence beneath the
castle's dancing floor. Many had been dug since the coming of the
dragon, and thus the House was blind to them. But all were known to
the man who now added his inaudible tread to the weight of the heavy
quiet.
He had an affinity with darkness. The black of the hellhole of
Chaomonous could not compete with the inky darkness of his heart. His
face was the stuff of nightmares. His name was Admon Faye.
He searched for something. Gliding from door to door in the dungeon,
he hovered and listened to the movements within each cell only long
enough to be sure its occupant wasn't his quarry. It was a testimony
to his expertise in the art of silence that the denizens of this dank
place, their ears sharpened by the absence of light, never heard him
pass.
He left one corridor, slipping cautiously into the torchlit stairway to
descend even further into the pit. He tiptoed into a fetid chamber,
half lighted by a torch in the stairwell behind him. On the far side
of the room, the dark side, he found a grate in the floor and knelt to
listen.
"Here," he thought to himself. From the cell below the grate he could
hear the shallow breathing of a child or a woman. He struggled to lift
the heavy grillwork. It wasn't fastened down.
"Food? Food at last?" Bronwynn called up weakly. "Where's the
torch?" When he didn't answer, she whispered, "Who's there?"
"Hush!" he ordered in a sharp whisper; then he uncoiled a length of
rope from around his waist and tied a loop in one end of it. "Wrap
this around you," he whispered again, and he dropped the rope into the
emptiness. It slapped the straw below, and he heard the woman
shuffling toward it. She did not speak again until she stood beside
him in the chamber.
"Who are you?"
Admon Faye kept his face turned from her and the dim torchlight to his
back as he bent to murmur, "Grab my belt and follow me out."
They quickly left the dungeon and soon were into the subterranean maze.
As they made their way through it, there was only one exchange between
them. "Pehnen?" the young woman whispered, and Adroit Faye stifled a
snicker.
There was a convenient crevice in the rock just a few feet above the
level of the river. Admon Faye did not hesitate when they reached it,
but vaulted out of the crevice to land in a rowboat secreted below it.
The young woman popped her head out, wincing in the first sunlight
she'd seen in months, but determined to discover who had rescued her.
Once she saw the legendary face of Admon Faye, she was tempted to climb
back inside. "You!" She spat.
into the boat, Lady Bronwynn," Admon Faye ordered quietly. "I'm in no
mood to get an arrow through my back, and, I trust, neither are you."
Without another word Bronwynn wedged her body through the crack and
tumbled into the boat. Though she had little stomach for what lay
before her, it was surely better than what she'd left behind. She lay
back in the small craft and enjoyed the sun on her face, while Admon
Faye merged them effortlessly into the anonymous traffic of the great
river of Chaomonous. The Imperial House watched it all in fury.
CHAPTER THREE
In the Slaver's Sewer
IT'S ONE OF THE IRONIES of large cities that frequently the pockets of
greatest lawlessness are found in the very shadow of the seat of law.
The heart of the criminal subculture of Chaomonous lived within a
five-hundred-yard radius of the palace. Bronwynn's escape by boat had
lasted all of four minutes long enough for Admon Faye to steer them
from the foot of the castle's granite foundation to the mouth of a
nearby sewer. Chaomonous was proud of its sewer system, but no one in
the city felt prouder than the thugs and thieves who made it their
private highway. Within minutes of her rescue from Ligne's dungeon,
Bron-wynn found herself locked away in yet another cell. As far as she
could tell, her circumstances hadn't altered a bit She'd only changed
locations and jailers.
Now she stood behind the door with a small rough stool in her hand,
awaiting Admon Faye's return. She heard the scrape of an oar against
the sewer wall, then another scrape of wood on rock as a boat was
moored in place. There were some mumbled words, but no reply. She
hoped that meant he'd come alone.
Not that it made any difference. She'd tangled with Admon Faye before,
far to the north in the land of Lamath and her cheek had borne the
imprint of his teeth for weeks afterward. Rosha mod Dorlyth had nearly
killed the hideous slaver on that occasion, knocking Admon Faye
headlong into a pit as dank and dark as this one. But the cutthroat
was a powerful man he'd survived. In her much-weakened state, Bronwynn
knew she had little chance of escaping him. But she could surely let
her feelings be known.
The key turned in the lock, and Admon Faye thrust his stomach-churning
visage inside. Then he jerked back, yelping in pain, as Bronwynn sent
the stool crashing savagely off his forehead. He slammed the door open
and kicked the bouncing stool aside, then grabbed Bronwynn by the
collar of her filthy dress. He hoisted her up until her face was scant
inches from his glaring eyes, and spat out, "You may be a Princess,
dearie, but a strap will peel your hide as easily as it will a slave
girl's 1" She trembled with fury and fear. Then inexplicably, he
dropped her, and all anger drained from his face. He righted the
stool, shoved it over to a rude table, and motioned her toward it. "Sit
down. I've brought you some breakfast."
"Why are you keeping me here?" she screamed. "Are you planning to
sell me back to Ligne, is that it? So you can finally make a profit on
my death?"
Admon Faye rotated his little finger in his ear and shook his head.
"Really echoes when you yell in this place. Sit down and eat."
"I'm not eating anything until I find out why I'm here!" she screamed
again with exaggerated shrillness.
"Just what do you think I've come down here to do?" Admon Faye yelled
back. It was Bronwynn's turn to stop her ears. The slaver laughed.
Then he ducked out the door to the boat and quickly returned with two
tankards of drink, a loaf of bread, a pot of honey, and several chunks
of cheese. Bronwynn's mouth watered involuntarily. It seemed like
years since she'd tasted anything but stale bread-crusts in gravy. She
plopped onto the stool, tore the bread in half, and soon had her mouth
crammed full of the heavenly stuff. Admon Faye went out a second time,
returning with another stool. He closed the door behind him, sat on
the stool, and leaned his back against the wall. "Surely you
understand, girl, that I don't act as barmaid to
J The Wizard tn Waiting all my captives. Don't think I'd trouble
myself to steer that boat down here through the slime just to watch you
feed your belly."
"Then why have you come?" Bronwynn asked, her mouth full of cheese and
her fingers dripping with honey.
"We need each other, Bronwynn. You and I."
Bronwynn was startled. For the first time, Admon Faye had revealed to
her his crooked excuse for a smile. The sight threatened to rob her of
her appetite, but the smell of the cheese won her back, and she quickly
stuffed more of both it and the bread into her mouth. "I need you?"
came her garbled reply. "What for?"
"To rescue you from Ligne, for one thing."
"Some rescue! I've just been switched from one dungeon to another."
"I wouldn't complain," Admon Faye said defensively. "Here you have
furniture, at least, and a torch for light *
"And the delightful smell of a sewer drifting by my door," Bronwynn
snarled. "Truly one of the garden spots of Chaomonous."
"You won't be staying here long. It's the safest place in the city for
you right now. Joss will be combing the streets above us within the
hour and Joss uses a sharp comb."
"Joss!" Bronwynn whispered savagely, then she spat "Joss, the
turncoat!"
"The very man," Admon Faye sneered. "So you see, you do need me."
"I don't," Bronwynn chirped. Admon Faye had frequently seen the mirror
image of her haughty expression on the face of her father. "Pelmen
would have rescued me in time and if not, then my Rosha."
"Pelmen!" Admon Faye snorted, then he chuckled. The sound of it gave
Bronwynn a chill. "Your mighty power-shaper is meandering over the
countryside, trying to pick up the pieces of his acting career. He has
no intention of saving you."
"That's not true," Bronwynn protested. "It's only that his
supernatural powers are limited here. You know magic won't work in
Chaomonous. At least, it never did."
"All I know is that Pelmen is hundreds of miles away, hunting a troupe
of actors to join. If that's a power shaper then I'm irresistibly
attractive." Once again Admon Faye's spine-shivering cackle filled the
cell, and Bronwynn turned away from his twisted smile. "As for your
tongue-tied sword lad, don't expect him before the winter thaw.
Drag-onsgate is clogged with snow. Besides, the merchants in
Ngandib-Mar tell me that while you've been starving in the dungeon,
he's grown fat with winter feasting. The lad has his pick of every
blushing maiden in the Mar. You think he'd sacrifice all that to come
crusading after a skinny wench like you?"
Bronwynn's voice was cold. "If you belittle Rosha again, I swear,
beating or no, I'll brain you with this stool."
Admon Faye's smile died, but quickly revived. He shrugged his
shoulders and waved a hand at one tankard as he grabbed the handle of
the other. "Wash that bread down so I can understand you. We've much
to discuss, and I'll not mention your Rosha if you'll keep Pelmen out
of the conversation. It's time for you to face some realities."
"What realities?"
"To start with, Ligne wants you dead."
"Then why hasn't she killed me? She's had me in that pit for
months."
"Kherda and Joss prevented her. Both feel some fondness for you still,
since they watched you grow up."
"Some way to show it," Bronwynn whined, remembering the shackles Joss
himself had clamped around her wrists.
"More than that, though. They feared a popular uprising if you were
killed, and Ligne believed them."
"Now that makes more sense."
"Good." Admon Faye smiled. "You do have some grasp of political
realities."
"Of course I do!" Bronwynn snapped, "I grew up in court, didn't I?"
"Then you'll not be surprised when the Queen changes her mind and
orders Joss to murder you on sight."
"So when are you going to sell me to him?"
"Realities, child, remember?" Admon Faye growled. "I have no need of
gold. There's as much gold stowed in these sewers as there is in the
vaults of the palace. What I covet is freedom to operate my businesses
in peace, and that's something Ligne won't give me. She wouldn't be a
bad ruler, but for one great flaw. She bears grudges. No Queen can
last long who bears a grudge especially not a grudge against me! Simply
because I failed to carry out her orders to the letter, allowing you
and Pelmen to survive, she has determined that I must be put to death.
She may fancy herself an invincible regent, but that's one sentence
she'll never live to witness."
Bronwynn returned to the bread and honey. "You seem to come and go in
the castle easily enough. Why not just slit her throat in bed?"
Admon Faye smiled again. "A plan not far from my own, little Bronwynn.
And I would have done so already, but I lacked two things."
"What things?" Bronwynn mumbled.
"A sufficient force to secure the castle from within and a legitimate
ruler to set on the throne in her place."
Bronwynn stopped chewing, then began again, more slowly. "You mean to
give me back my kingdom," she said matter-of-factly.
"You are quicker than your father was." Admon Faye chuckled.
"So was my mother," Bronwynn observed. "That's why Ligne disposed of
her." She raised her eyebrow meaningfully, then took a deep draught
from the tankard and wiped her mouth. "What makes you think I would
give you any more freedom than Ligne has?"
"A certain .. . awareness on your part."
"Awareness of what?"
"That I could kill you just as easily as I'm going to kill her." Admon
Faye smiled. The cruelty in his sunken eyes made her stomach float.
Bronwynn kept silent for a long time, finishing the loaf of bread and
licking the honey from her fingers. Admon Faye waited until she had
finished and looked back up at him before saying, "I assume you've been
considering the idea. Are you agreeable?"
The young woman tossed her golden-brown hair back over her shoulders
and shrugged. "Certainly," she said. "Until."
"Until what?"
"Until the situation changes," she said evenly, her blue eyes meeting
his. "Realities, remember?"
Admon Faye searched her face, waiting for her strong gaze to weaken. It
never did. "As I said, girl, you're quicker than your father." He
stood to leave, and turned toward the door. Then suddenly his fist
shot out of nowhere, cracking Bronwynn across the side of the face and
bouncing her off the wall and onto the floor. She screamed in shock,
then gasped at the pain. He waited until the echoes of her shriek had
died before he spoke. "But I trust you won't try to take advantage of
our old family friendship." The last thing she heard as he left was
his chilling chuckle.
Pleclypsa was a walled city which no longer needed its walls. At one
time it had been the fortified capital of a nation hostile to
Chaomonous, but now, far from being bos-tile, the native Pleclypsans
did all they could to curry favor with their imperial overlords. If
anything, the citizens of Pleclypsa were more snobbish about being
Chaons than were the citizens of Chaomonous itself. It was this
peculiar conceit and the real municipal inferiority that undergirded it
which prompted the leaders of Pleclypsa to pay out exorbitant sums each
year to import the finest players in the kingdom for a dramatic
competition.
The actors loved it. They viewed the Winter Festival as a kind of
theatre convention, the one time in the year when they all could come
together and compare notes. Stuffy matrons, normally repulsed by the
acting profession, vied with one another in providing sumptuous
banquets for the players to feast upon while awaiting their night to
perform. The whole region turned out to watch the new plays premiere.
The local merchants had shrewdly scheduled a carnival to coincide with
the Festival, so that cultured and uncultured Southlanders alike
crowded into the city's inns raising, naturally, the prices of lodging
and board. The streets swarmed with people; gold changed hands, and
much of that gold found its way into the pockets of the troupe that won
the accolades of the judges. The color, the crowds, and the drama of
the moment appealed to these actor types. As a result, the Festival
lasted longer each year, as more and more troupes clamored for their
night upon the boards.
The first night of the Festival was almost as tense as the last, for on
that night every competing band performed a short segment of its
dramatic offering for the year. The judges rated these scenes against
one another, and produced a schedule for the remaining days that was
calculated to build the Festival to a thrilling climax; the troupes
performed in reverse order, beginning with the least impressive. It
did not always happen that the cast who performed last received the
Festival prize some troupes actually preferred to be scheduled in the
middle of the run, hoping to put pressure on the casts to follow while
relieving some of their own anxieties early enough to enjoy the
carnival atmosphere. But there was a psychological advantage at being
offered the final night that could not be ignored. That made the first
night all the more hotly contested.
Pelmen stood backstage in the shadow of the green-velvet curtain,
watching Gerrig. His giant friend joked and sparred with Regort, who
had been a cordial enemy for years. Pelmen wasn't fooled by Gerrig's
relaxed demeanor. The pressure building inside him caused the man to
laugh too loudly, to wink too broadly. The light banter between the
two adversaries crackled with repressed hostility and promised a night
of electrifying performances.
Danyilyn didn't bother to hide her nervousness. She paced the stage,
belting out lines to test the acoustics of the hall and the mettle of
her voice. These were old lines, speeches she'd spoken so many times
that her phrasings bore the ruts of much use. She wouldn't dream of
letting slip any new lines, nor would any of the other actors and
actresses who paced in circles around and beside her, making their own
adjustments to this theatre. No one wanted to tip his troupe's hand to
the others good lines got stolen that way.
But Pelmen was quietly confident. He had dared to take-his alter-shape
the night before; on falcon wings he had come to investigate the final
rehearsals of the competition. In a way, he felt a bit troubled at his
unfair advantage, for he was a man of integrity, and the act smacked of
cheating. But Parmi had reassured him this morning that it was only
good sense. "Your purpose whatever it is surely warrants your using
every power available to you," Yona had said. "Besides," he'd added,
"it's not as if you're going to steal any of their garbage." Indeed,
the other offerings seemed a cut below average this year perhaps as a
result of the unstable national conditions. It was difficult to re
hearse consistently when starving. As he'd described what he'd seen to
his friend, Yona had agreed that they need feel little anxiety this
year. "Our material is better," Yona Parmi had grunted, and Pelmen was
inclined to agree.
That's why it puzzled him to see Yona Parmi acting so strangely. The
short player prowled the dark backstage area, peering behind dusty
flats and regarding the clutter of props suspiciously. Pelmen strolled
up behind him.
"Are you looking for something?" he began. Yona Parmi jerked at the
sound of his voice.
"No," Parmi snorted gruffly. "I'm looking for nothing. That is, I'm
hoping to find nothing."
"You're sure to find that back here." Pelmen smiled. He felt sure
that he knew, now, the reason for Yona's strange behavior. He didn't
mock him.
Yona ducked to peer behind a cutout of a tree. "Seems like a
legitimate enough place for powers to be lurking," he mumbled.
"In my experience, powers don't lurk. They act. I think they'd prefer
to be out on the stage than back here in the dust."
"And why is that?"
"That's where most of the people are." Pelmen shrugged.. "And they're
fascinated by people."
"Oh." Yona Parmi glanced about him, then smiled in tight-lipped
amusement. "Then I prefer to be right here."
"You're afraid of them."
"Aren't you?"
"No. Not the powers themselves. More of the people who use them."
"Yet you use them. You did last night."
"I know," Pelmen replied quietly.
Yona Parmi understood. "You're afraid of yourself." Pelmen nodded,
then arched a friendly eyebrow. "And as long as I remain so, I feel
rather confident that I'm Nothing, really, to be afraid of. It isn't
the powers you need to fear, Parmi, for if they're here and you don't
know it, lyou'll never notice them. And if they're here and you do
|fcnow, they're yours to mold. But those others who know, \0aad who
mold they're the people I fear. They'll shape to jit their whims and
I've seen too much of mankind's sings to feel encouraged by that."
The "Wizard in "Wailing
Yona Parmi froze his ironic smile into place. "Your words are
encouraging me to dig a deep, cool hole and bury myself in it."
"I've considered it," Pelmen joked, but there was more than a hint of
seriousness in his words.
"And yet you say you fear being shaped. Explain that."
Pelmen blinked, then his eyes looked beyond Yona, as if gazing at a
reality beyond human sensation. When he spoke, it was in hushed tones
heavy with mystery. "Sometimes I fear that. Perhaps it comes so
unexpectedly. I sense a power, I begin to shape, then somehow,
inexplicably, it begins shaping me. And then when it happens, I'm
elated. Once it comes, I fear nothing at all. I never know exactly
what I'll do then , .." Pelmen's eyes finally found their way back to
Yona's. "And that's a rather frightening prospect in itself, don't you
think?"
"Not necessarily. That is, I'm not convinced you really believe it so,
since you persist in chasing the experience. But tell me, these
religious followers of yours "
"They're not mine."
" of the Prophet's then "
"They're not his either."
"All right, have it your way. Of the Power .. ."
"That's got it."
"Do they experience this ah being shaped as well?"
"Some do," Pelmen said with the quiet confidence of one who knows he
won't be believed. "Not all. Not all of them have discovered yet that
this is what it's all about. Some grab at the trappings of faith
without experiencing faith itself."
Yona Parmi nodded thoughtfully. "So you entrusted the new Prophet with
the task of helping them?"
Pelmen met his eyes. *7 didn't"
Yona Parmi looked away in discomfort. "Pardon me," he muttered, "but
it's rather difficult to shift one's entire view of the world in a
moment."
Pelmen nodded. "It isn't easy to attribute actions to something other
than people, when you've been used to seeing them as the only movers.
As I say it's people who do most of the shaping, consciously or
unconsciously. And much of that turns out badly," he added with
sadness. His mind wandered then, briefly, to Lamath, and the gentle
plowed fields of that earnest, hard-working region. Then he continued.
"I guess you could say that Erri the Prophet is responsible for being
himself and for letting others see in him the difference between
shaping and being shaped."
Yona Parmi cocked an eyebrow. Even in the dark, Pel-men could see
clearly his quizzical expression. "Doesn't Erri shape?" he asked.
"Not often." Pelmen smiled. "That's why he's the Prophet, and not I.
I'm much too impatient. I prefer to shape my own destiny."
"Which, in turn, makes you dangerous." Yona Parmi nodded wisely.
Pelmen looked at him, a bit startled at this insight. Then he also
nodded. "Exactly."
"Yet if you didn't battle these others, these various pow-ershapers who
inhabit Ngandib-Mar, who would?"
"Perhaps the Power would," Pelmen replied thoughtfully. It was evident
from the way he said it that this was something not fully clear in his
own mind.
"Then why battle at all?"
"Because there are people I care about who are in trouble," Pelmen
answered. Quiet determination lent backbone to his words, as he
finished. "And it might be through me that the Power chooses to aid
them." It seemed to Yona Parmi that Pelmen's eyes blazed out of the
shadows. He felt enormous relief when Danyilyn scurried over and
grabbed each of them by the arm.
"We've drawn the third slot for tonight!" she announced, sure that her
news bore the same critical importance for them that it did for her.
For her sake they both pretended it did and joined her in the harsh
green limelight to begin warming up their voices. A few moments later,
Pelmen slipped quietly away to paint his face the color of the moon.
Pezi belched. Now it wasn't unusual for the obese merchant to belch in
fact, some of those who knew him argued that he never uttered a
sentence without punctuating it with a burp. What was unusual was that
Pezi had a miserable bellyache. Pezi's stomach rarely ever bothered
him it had swelled to enormous proportions long ago to accommodate the
triple platefuls of food the merchant gorged down at every meal, and it
no longer troubled to register any protest at such routine
ill-treatment But Pezi's latest hinge had been monumental. It had
amazed every occupant of Tohn's castle. Nor was it over; a half-empty
platter of roast beef lay on the bed beside him. On the floor next to
his bed sat a pitcher of ale. On the cabinet just beyond the pitcher,
a towering sandwich leaned, threatening to topple at any moment. In
his hand was a raw white onion, which he munched between belches as if
it were an apple. Pezi had a problem. And when he had a problem, he
ate.
Like most of Pezi's problems, this one concerned his uncle Flayh. He
and his uncle fled Lamath on the day. the dragon died, fearing
reprisals from Pelmen the Prophet Since they were merchants of the
House of Ognadzu, they had found refuge here, in the family castle
administered by Pezi's uncle Tohn. The ensuing months had been tense,
as Flayh and Tohn had wrestled for control of the family's fortunes,
but it had really been no contest. Though this was Tohn's castle, and
its occupants were from his line of the family, Tohn suffered from a
weak heart. The combination of a harsh winter and unceasing tension
proved too much for the old warrior. They'd buried him in the snow.
Once firmly in control again, Flayh had returned with a passion to what
had once been his favorite hobby he'd involved them in the politics of
Chaomonous. Not that Pezi minded that at all he rather enjoyed
dabbling in politics himself, and staunchly believed that the House of
Ognadzu needed to reassert its dominance over the Chaon markets. While
he and his uncle had been manipulating events in Lamath or trying to
the rival House of Uda had established a virtual monopoly in
Chaomonous, and it truly irked Pezi to have to buy his favorite candies
from the competition. This very moment, a plot launched by Flayh was
supposed to be bearing fruit they'd contracted with Adraon Faye to
steal Bronwynn from the dungeon of Queen Ligne. But that was Pezi's
problem. Where war Ad-mon Faye? And why hadn't he contacted them?
Pezi got up to pace the floor. Two paces convinced him he'd better lie
back down again. Three days ago, Flayh had told him, "Keep me aware of
every development." Then he had disappeared into Tohn's old library
and hadn't come out again. That concerned Pezi. Before they left
Lamath, the old man had been showing definite signs of mental
instability and also signs of budding shaper power. It really didn't
matter to Pezi whether the old goat was a power shaper or was crazy
both possibilities gave him the hives.
"Is he in there practicing his magic?" Pezi belched at his onion. "Or
has his mind come unpeeled?" Or, he thought without saying it, has he
gone to join Tohn wherever the dead gather? He stifled that thought
which was really more of a hope and tried to fill his mind with
something else. Flayh had also learned a bit about reading minds.
So what was Pezi to do? Interrupt his uncle to inform him merely that
there was no news? Keep waiting until Admon Faye chose to notify them
of his success or failure? Eat another sandwich? Truly a dilemma.
Pezi definitely did not wish to interrupt Flayh. He thoroughly enjoyed
his uncle's periods of absence. Yet if he didn't interrupt him, and
Flayh was expecting him to ... Pezi sighed. Then he rolled off the bed
and waddled toward the door, shoving piles of wadded garments aside
with every step. He stopped with his hand on the door-latch did he
really want to do this? "Might as well," he grunted. He knew if he
lay back down he'd only have to eat some more. He took one more bite
of his onion and stuffed the rest into his pocket. Then he shuffled
out into the hall and made his way to the door of Flayh's study. He
hesitated there, steeling himself against the expected flood of
colorful curses that always greeted him when he disturbed his uncle,
and knocked on Flayh's door. No reply. He knocked again, a bit
louder. Still no reply came from within the room. He crouched down to
plant his ear on the keyhole, but could hear nothing. Straightening
himself back upright no mean task in itself he put his weight behind
the blows and pounded a chubby fist against the oaken barrier. Then he
stepped back out of the way, so he wouldn't be clobbered when Flayh
came boiling out.
Nothing happened. Pezi began to be concerned. He tried the door latch
with little enthusiasm, sure that Flayh had locked it from within. As
expected, it was locked.
"Now what am I going to do?" Pezi mumbled. Then he recalled seeing a
ring full of keys dangling from the belt of the castle's seneschal. He
hurried away to find the man. He was trying not to get his hopes up
... He puffed around the corner into the seneschal's office, his cheeks
turning the color of ripening plums, and skidded to a stop before the
man's desk.
"Yes?" the seneschal asked rudely. Flayh's treatment of Tohn mod
Neelis had created an abundance of ill will toward Pezi and his uncle.
The castle staff feared Flayh far too much to reveal it to him. The
bumbling Pezi felt the brunt of their displeasure.
"I need your keys," he demanded, thrusting his palm in the seneschal's
face.
"My keys!" the man snapped. "Whatever for?" "My uncle's been locked
within the library for three days. He could be dead for all we
know."
"I'll turn blue before I give you my key ring!" the seneschal spat
savagely.
Pezi shoved his nose into the man's face and bellowed, "I said, give me
the keys!" Pezi didn't expect the reaction he received, for the
seneschal very nearly did turn blue. He choked, coughed twice, then
thrust his keys into Pezi's palm and bolted from the room. Pezi
straightened up, a bit puzzled but thoroughly pleased. "I guess I told
him," he muttered as he turned to saunter back down the hall, his
confidence boosted by this quick response to his firm authority. He
never gave a thought to the onion in his pocket that had made it all
possible.
After several attempts, he found a key that turned the lock, jerked
open the door with a mighty heave and stepped inside. He knew
immediately it was a mistake.
Candles and smoke were the first things he saw an abundance of candles
that filled the room with flickering light. Then he glimpsed Flayh,
who had for the first time noticed him. The old man's bald pate glowed
in the eerie illumination, and so did his beady eyes. Flayh's
expression in that first brief instant was one of desperate surprise
Pezi had caught him with his magical pants down. A split second later
a horrified Pezi stared down the throat of a savage dog, who hurtled
through space toward his neck. Pezi shrieked and fell backward. To
his great good fortune, the lean gray animal slammed nose first into
his tummy and bounced head over heels into the courtyard. Pezi saw the
dog bounce out, but it was Flayh who rushed back inside, slamming the
door behind him. He regarded his nephew with wide-eyed surprise.
"I did it!" he gasped.
"You almost did it," Pezi gasped back, as both hands sought out his
threatened throat. He had to plow through a series of chins to get to
it.
"Do you think anyone saw?" Flayh pleaded.
"I did," Pezi spluttered.
"I mean anyone important." Flayh ducked back outside to check the
hallway in both directions, then danced back inside, a frightening grin
spreading across his wrinkled face. "I did it! I found my
alter-shape! Oh thank you, Pezi, you can't imagine how delighted I
am."
Pezi squirmed in terror. His crazed uncle had actually embraced him.
Flayh scampered across the room, clapping his hands like a schoolgirl.
"A dog! I'm a long, lean hound! Something powerful! Not a mere
insect, like Mar-Yilot, or a lizard, like that fellow Joooms a hound! A
powerful hound!"
Pezi stared, open-mouthed. At last his uncle ceased his raving and
turned to stare back at him. "What are you gawking at?" Flayh
snapped, and Pezi, relieved, closed his mouth. That had sounded like
the uncle he knew. "What are you doing here? Why did you burst in
unbidden? What's the meaning "
"I came to give you some news." Pezi blurted out as loudly as he
could. If his uncle was going to turn into a dog whenever he got
angry, Pezi was determined to keep him pacified.
"News? Of Admon Faye? What is it?" Flayh demanded in crisp brittle
tones.
Now Pezi was in a quandary. "Ah .. . there's no news .. ."
"No news? You interrupt me to bring me no news?"
"That's the news," Pezi whined. "That there's no news .. ."
Flayh charged toward him, grabbing this nephew whose great girth
dwarfed him by the collar of Pezi's tunic. "You loathsome "
"Please, uncle," Pezi cried, and Flayh backed quickly to the other side
of the room.
"What have you been eating?" Flayh asked in horror.
Pezi stared at him, then shrugged and began listing, "A half of A ham
with cherry sauce, a breasted fowl's breast marinated in a mint jelly
with "
"Enough!" Flayh shouted. "What possessed me to ask such a question of
you .. ."
"Please, uncle," Pezi rushed on to say, "I only wanted to keep you
aware of the situation as you told me to "
"Get out! And stay out until there's some development worth telling
about. And give me those keys." Flayh held his nose and stalked over
to jerk the key ring from Pezi's hand.
"But the seneschal '*
"Out!" Flayh roared as he shoved his nephew backward and slammed the
door in his face. The key scraped into the lock, and the tumblers
shifted noisily.
Pezi just stood there for a moment. He noticed again that his belly
ached. He felt of it, and sighed. "Must be hungry," he muttered. He
finished his onion on the way to the kitchen.
Bronwynn sat against the wall of her prison and daydreamed. She'd
gotten good at that during these months of darkness. Months? It could
as easily have been weeks or years, for all she knew. No, not years
her hair hadn't grown long enough for that. But it had been plenty of
time for her to imagine a hundred different means of rescue. And every
dream starred Rosha mod Dorlyth.
Rosha, her intended warrior of Ngandib-Mar, At first she'd been
embarrassed to fantasize about him so extravagantly. Now she just
leaned back and enjoyed it imagining him breaking the door down,
crushing her in his arms .. .
The door slammed open, jolting her out of her pleasant vision and back
into the ludicrous reality of her current predicament. In all her
dreams of rescue, none had seemed so improbable as this.
"Resting easy, are you?" Admon Faye asked with a mock cheeriness that
made her groan. "No? Pity. I've come to bring a little sunshine into
your life. Get up."
"Why should I?"
Adorn Faye didn't reply. He just reached down to grab Bronwynn by the
shoulders and hoisted her up. He spun her around to face the wall and,
before she could react, was slipping a leather strap around her
waist.
"I'm not going to be tied!" she shouted and she rammed her elbow back
into his gut. He grunted, then boxed both of her ears in response. She
stomped on his foot, spun around to rake his face with her fingernails,
and got a punch in the eye for her trouble. That dazed her it also
calmed her down. Admon Faye went on about his business, moving the
strap up and wrapping it around her bust first, then dropping it down
to her hips. "What are you doing?" she asked, though it was already
perfectly obvious to her.
"I'm measuring you for some new clothes. Or would you prefer to keep
this rag?"
"Why didn't you just say that, then?"
"Oh, Princess Bronwynn, may I take your measurements, please?" be
mocked in a squeaky falsetto. Then he snorted. "Suppose we get it
straight between us who does the asking and who does the telling?" He
read the last measure, then slung Bronwynn into a corner of the cell
and pocketed the tape. He pointed his finger at her. He said nothing,
just pointed that finger and looked at her. Then he left as quickly as
he'd come.
Bronwynn didn't bother to get up. She lay back where she was and tried
hard to think about Rosha. But the thoughts now only filled her with
despair. For while Ligne's dungeon was far blacker than this place, at
least there she had felt that Rosha, or Pelmen, or someone on her side
might be able to find her. No one knew she was here, save Admon Faye.
And at the moment, it seemed even Ligne's hole might be preferable to
serving the whims of the slaver. She didn't cry Bronwynn wasn't much
for weeping. But it might have helped her feelings. Bottled inside
her chest was a lump of disappointed hopes and nothing could make that
lump go away.
Still fuming, the House watched in silence as Joss climbed a small,
private stairway into its upper levels. It felt enormous frustration;
though it had warned its occupants in every consceivable way of the
invasion and escape
*0 Tke Wizard in Waiting of the intruder, not a soul within its walls
had paid any heed. It had been hours before the theft of the captive
had even been discovered. The warders who made that discovery then
took another few hours to decide how to inform the Queen. Finally
they'd drawn straws, and the luckless loser carried the message to her
quarters. Now, after wasting a day, the Queen had summoned her Lord of
Security to inform him of his failure. The castle hoped she'd have the
man hanged. His guards! Ineptitude had besmirched the honor of the
Imperial House of Chaomonous!
The terraced gardens spiraled up out of the bowels of the castle to the
very rooftop itself. Overall, capping the pleasure park's floral
splendor, arched a gigantic aviary wrought of iron and delicately
colored glass. It stretched up to a height almost equaling the
loftiest of the castle's towers, which were themselves the tallest in
this land. This rooftop cage was the warmest spot in the palace, kept
so for the sake of the brightly plumed birds that fluttered from one
man-made branch to another. Just as exotically plumed as the birds
were the colorful courtiers who walked and talked beneath. This was
one of Ligne's favorite spots, for she felt the gorgeous gardens,
illuminated by the multicolored light from above, served as a perfect
setting for the jewel of her own beauty.
She greeted Joss with a forced smile, and quickly got down to business.
"I hope you haven't regretted entering my service, Joss," she said as
she tossed a handful of seeds before a peacock. "For a man of your
integrity, such a transfer of loyalties must have been most
difficult."
"I would be lying if I denied it, my Lady Ligne." Joss nodded stiffly.
He always felt out of place in this garden. He was much more at home
in the armory, many floors below.
Ligne smiled, her blue eyes sparkling. "And General Joss never
lies."
"Only for the sake of Chaomonous," he affirmed. She waited for him to
elaborate, and unwillingly he obliged. "It was not so difficult to
turn my back on Talith, once the King proved himself a fool. I
determined that when he would not listen to reason, he was beyond any
help that I might offer."
The Wizard lit Waiting
Jl
"When he refused to believe I was about to overthrow him, you mean?"
she supplied, still smiling.
"That is correct, my Lady." Joss nodded, his discomfort growing. Ligne
was a capricious woman with a taste for cruelty. He had no intention
of crossing her.
"I've been pleased with your performance, Joss, ever since you saw the
futility of resisting me. You may relax. Your marvelous military
talent which Talith so wastefully misused has proved much to my liking.
I feared you as an enemy, Joss. I feel far more secure with you as a
servant." She turned away from him, scattering seed with a wide sweep
of her arm. "But I cannot seem to shake this tiny whisper of doubt
that nags at me whenever I consider your service." She spun around to
face him, her blue eyes suddenly hard. "I mean your continued
affection for Tal-ith's daughter Bronwynn."
Most men would have flinched under Ligne's gaze. Joss merely
acknowledged it with one of his own. Then in deference to his Queen,
he dropped his eyes and inclined his head. When he looked up at her
again, his expression was humble, but frank. "As I've stated, it would
be a lie for me to say I feel no lingering sense of shame regarding my
break with the late royal family. But I must simply remind my Queen
that it was I who duped the Lady Bronwynn into believing I would lead
her army of rebellion, and who then brought her to you, bound in a
criminal's chains. My Queen should examine only my actions to
determine my faithfulness. My feelings are a private matter, which I
never allow to interfere with the business of state."
"Never?" Ligne demanded, shouting in his face.
Joss blinked, but did not draw back. "Never," he murmured
tonelessly.
Ligne continued glaring for a moment, then her eyes softened, and she
turned away. "I believe you," she said at length. "If you suddenly
protested that you hated Bronwynn, I would certainly doubt your
sincerity. After all, I always considered her a likeable child, didn't
you?"
"I did," Joss answered, very aware of those eyes fixed on his,
"Regrettable that I've been forced to confine her to the dungeon, don't
you think?" Ligne didn't blink.
J2
"If my Queen feels it is so, yes."
"And what do you feel?" she snapped.
He hesitated briefly, then breathed heavily, "I never allow my feelings
to enter into the affairs of state."
"Good," Ligne snarled, suddenly angry, "for I'm going to need your
absolute loyalty to return her there!"
"Return her?" Joss barked, his body cocking rigidly to attention. He
realized now that he had just passed a very serious test. He realized,
too, he was now facing a stiffer one.
"She's gone," Ligne spat. "Stolen from my hole. My foremost rival,
the only threat to my security in this position, and she's vanished!"
"I heard no alarm."
"No guard was fool enough to give any. Nor did I call for one when the
warder finally made it known to me in my chambers, some hours ago." She
gazed at Joss, and motioned toward a sparrow that glided overhead.
"When the bird has flown, is there any point in screaming in anger?"
"None, my Lady," Joss acknowledged curtly.
"Of course, the guards say they didn't see a thing." Ligne sneered.
"So I'm having their useless eyes extracted. But though their cries
might soothe my temper, they won't change the situation. Oh!" she
seethed, balling her fist and shaking it above her head. "I ought to
wring Kherda's neck for keeping me from killing her while I had her!"
Then she glared at Joss accusingly.
Joss cleared his throat "My Queen, I have no love for Prime Minister
Kherda, as you well know, but I did agree with that policy. To
assassinate the Lady Bronwynn publicly would certainly build no
confidence among your subjects "
"Don't lecture me!" Ligne shouted, pointing her finger at Joss. Then
her voice softened. "How can you expect me to consider public
confidence when a free Bronwynn presents a clear and present threat to
my reign? I am no longer concerned with appearances. I want Bronwynn
dead, and I want you to kill her." She moved to him again, shoving her
face into his. "I'm satisfied that your feelings will not be allowed
to interfere." Her eyes left no room for objection. Joss offered
none. "I have given this assignment before, I think you're aware."
"Yes, my Queen. To Admon Faye."
"There are few men in this land capable of stealing a captive from my
prison. Admon Faye is the only one who comes to mind."
"Yes, my Queen."
t(When you find the man, put an end to him as well. We did not part on
good terms."
"Yes, my Queen."
Ligne looked up at him. "Well? Go!"
Joss turned to leave the aviary, pushing a peacock aside with his
boot.
"Oh, one more thing," Ligne called, and Joss turned to listen. "I've
had the warder gutted. Display his body in the armory for several
days. I want the palace defenses to have something to think on.
Consider it yourself, Joss won't you?" She clapped her hands together
to rid them of the last of the bird seed, then turned to walk swiftly
down the garden path. Joss walked just as swiftly down the interior
stairway to the lower levels of the castle. The further he got from
the woman, the cleaner he felt. But duty was duty, and she was right.
Chaomonous could not afford two Queens.
Bronwynn gingerly fingered her eye and the swollen flesh surrounding
it. She longed for a mirror. Not that anyone was going to see her
down here thank goodness. The way she looked now, a rescuing Rosha
would probably gag and just leave her behind! But a mirror would have
been nice. There was something comforting in knowing exactly how ugly
she looked. In her imagination, the whole right side of her face was
twice its normal size, and as black as a ripe avocado. Admon Faye had
punched her hard. But it was the memory of his pointed finger, and the
threat implied in it, that made her shiver. Understandably, she didn't
leap for joy when she heard his boat mooring outside her door. She
fixed a sneer on her bruised features, but he ignored her as he stepped
inside and tossed her a linen bag. "Put them on," he muttered, then he
left the cell, slamming the door and locking it behind him. She heard
him get into his boat. She waited, listening.
"Put them on!" he ordered through the door, and she decided she'd best
comply. She opened the drawstring of
J4 The Wizart? in Waiting the linen bag and dully examined its
contents. Her interest grew suddenly sharp.
It held a new pair of suede boots, well-made by the look of them; a
pair of soft leather trousers, styled like a man's but tailored to fit
her; a shirt woven of wool and dyed a dark green, and a tan waistcoat
to go over it; and a floor length cape, fur-lined within and coated
without with pitch, to keep her both warm and dry in harsh weather.
"Where are you taking me?" she shouted.
"Are you dressed yet?" he yelled back.
"Not yet "
"If I have to come in and strip you myself, I guarantee you won't like
what follows."
Bronwynn got dressed. She was more than happy to abandon the rag she'd
been wearing for months, and the quality of these new clothes convinced
her that Admon Faye's sewers were indeed lined with gold. The cape
felt especially good. She hadn't been warm in weeks. "I'm ready," she
called, and Admon Faye flung open the door and grabbed her by the
wrist. He moved too quickly for her to resist him effectively, binding
her arms behind her with an expertise born of years of slaving.
"I thought you were going to make me a Queen!" Bronwynn cried,
"And I will. If I don't skin you first. Get into the boat." Bronwynn
obeyed without argument, and Admon Faye poled them away from the wall.
He turned the bow of the craft into the stream and began pushing it
against the gentle current. Bronwynn gagged at the sight of the waste
and rubbish that bobbed along the water surrounding them. She decided
even Admon Faye's face was preferable, and looked back at him. "Is it
always this deep?"
"Often deeper," the slaver answered. "Be glad you chose to be a good
little girl. I could have left you behind and in the spring thaw you'd
have drowned in the stuff." He chuckled lewdly.
Bronwynn turned away from his ugly smile. Maybe the garbage was
better. "Where are we going?"
"You'll know it when we get there."
"It must be somewhere in the Spinal Range, or you wouldn't have
provided this cape "
"I told you once, girl. You'll know it when we're there."
The Wizard in Waiting SJ
It was clear Admon Faye would say no more. Bronwynn snuggled back into
the cloak and rested, watching reflected light dance on the granite
vault above her. The rhythm of the pole ramming into the sewer bed and
the gentle rock of the boat made her drowsy .. .
Then she was wide awake, as many pairs of hands lifted her out of the
rowboat. She was carried like a rolled-up carpet up a flight of steps,
under the rough arms of several most ungentle porters. They sniggered,
pinching and tweaking her flesh all the way across an underground
stable toward a waiting horse. There they tossed her skyward, and she
instinctively spread her legs to slam down into the horse's saddle. Her
hands were untied, then quickly bound again in front of her, and
someone slapped the animal on the rump. It moved sluggishly out of the
stable, into the sunlight.
Bronwynn squinted. This was only the second time she'd seen the sun in
months. She ducked her head, protecting her eyes against the glare,
but they soon adjusted, and she saw that she was just one of many
riders, mounted and ready to move. She heard many shouts and cries
around her, but easily singled out Admon Faye's voice above the rest.
"What about Joss?"
"He rides to Dragonsgate. The barman at the Bull's End told him your
plans."
Admon Faye swore savagely, then muttered, "Have you dealt with that
barman?"
"His body floats in the sewer."
"But Joss knows," Admon Faye snarled, and he cursed again. "Very well.
We'll have to go by way of the Great South Fir. That's well out of our
way but no matter. We'll break from the woods due south of Tohn's
castle. Joss will find nothing in the pass but a lot of snow." Admon
Faye chuckled. "Wonder how he'll justify that to our gracious Queen?"
Admon Faye spurred his horse to move abreast of Bronwynn's. "Well,
little girl, are you ready to ride?" Before she could answer, he
grabbed the reins of her horse and dug his heels into the flanks of his
own. Bronwynn clamped her knees tightly onto her saddle and leaned
forward, as Admon Faye's band of rascals charged westward toward the
Great South Fir.
CHAPTER FOUR
A Swordsman's Surprise
"PERHAPS you didn't hear me the first time, Rosha. You are crazy!"
Dorlyth mod Karl's' face was redder than his beard.
"I d-did hear you the first time, father. And every t-tiroe since."
"Then why do you persist in making a fool of yourself. There's a
blizzard outside!"
Rosha mod Dorlyth, pretended champion of Heinox, friend of Pelmen
Dragonsbane and a bear's-bane in his own right, did not reply. Instead
he cinched the saddle of his war-horse a notch tighter, then turned to
fetch his saddlebags.
Dorlyth ran his hand through the unruly curls that ringed his mouth,
and sighed. "Son, I know it's very difficult to come home once you've
become a hero, but "
"It's not difficult to come home, father. It appears the d-difficulty
is in leaving again. Would you hand me that?" He pointed to a
scabbarded great sword that hung on the wall. Dorlyth nodded and
pulled it down, fingering it lovingly before passing it to Rosha across
the horse's back. He had given the sword to the lad only six summers
before, and already it was the premier weapon in the land. King
Pahd mod Pahd-el, ruler of Ngandib-Mar, had honored it with a name,
making it the first named sword in Dorlyth's memory. "Thalraphis" he
had dubbed it "the eye needle for though the weapon was five feet long,
it had been no more than a needle in the eye of the great dragon,
Vicia-Heinox. With this very weapon, Pelmen had slain the mortal enemy
of all mankind.
Rosha took the sword and strapped it to his saddle. Then be glanced
around the stable, trying to think if he were forgetting anything.
"Rosha son think it over! If she really did call you her treasure, the
woman's not going to run off and marry someone else before spring!"
"It's not just B-bronwynn, father. It's s-s-simply time to go!" That
was true. From the moment he had arrived home he'd been wined and
dined by every wealthy family in the land of Ngandib-Mar. King Pahd
had given him the biggest banquet anyone could remember. His stomach
still felt bloated.
The celebrations of his heroism had barely passed before the yule
season arrived, and once again the lords and barons of all Ngandib had
clamored for his presence. He was so tired of eating and of honors
that he hoped never to see another breast of pheasant or golden goblet
again. Being a hero had grown boring to him, at last, so he'd ridden
home to the comfort of his father's fire.
Dorlyth and Rosha had watched the yule log dwindle together, wrapped in
bear furs, and had finally talked themselves out. Rosha learned a sad
truth. Being a hero was much less satisfying than doing heroic things.
It grew dull and stale in a hurry.
And then there was Bronwynn. Princess of the Golden Kingdom of
Chaomonous, far to the south, her last words to him had been a
declaration of her love. Then she'd ridden away, to reclaim her throne
from the false Queen Ligne, and he hadn't heard another word from her.
Day after day he had watched the southern horizon for a blue-flyer
bearing a message, but those carrier birds that did arrive at the
castle brought only more invitations to dinner. Worst of all, he was
stuttering again. He had to go! He stepped to the doorway of the
stable and gazed out the open gate. Large flakes of snow tumbled
gracefully
J8 The Wizard in Waiting from the sky, adding to the three-inch blanket
of the stuff that already covered the cobblestoned courtyard.
"Only a fool would ride east in this weather," Dorlyth growled, "and I
didn't raise a fool." Rosha slung himself up onto the back of his
war-horse. "On the other hand," Dorlyth muttered, "maybe I did." Rosha
wheeled his mount and would have ridden out, but Dorlyth shouted,
"Wait!" and grabbed the reins.
"No, father!" Rosha yelled, then he clasped his arms tightly around
his horse's neck, as the animal reared to protect its master. The
horse had been a gift from King Pahd, and was nervous and spirited.
An old warrior like Dorlyth hadn't lived to become old by being stupid.
He beat a hasty retreat to the far side of the stable, and Rosha's
warning shout disintegrated into a chuckle. The young swordsman
slipped down to the ground and caught the beast's head jn his hands,
saying. "It isn't good to trample your master's father, my friend.
Relax." Then he turned to look at Dorlyth, still twenty feet away.
His father made a wry face. "Can I come tell you goodbye without
getting stepped on?"
Rosha grinned, and spread his arms wide. Dorlyth mod Karis hugged his
son powerfully, then stepped back to look at him. "Can't blame an old
man for being lonely," he said gruffly. Rosha understood what Dorlyth
was truly saying to him .. . "Go with blessings." The young man
nodded. Then he laid a hand on his father's shoulder and squeezed it
"Take c-care of yourself, will you?"
"Me, take care of myself? Lad, I'm not the one going out into a
snowstorm!" Dorlyth frowned. Then he winked, and growled, "I thought
you said Pelmen was coming to visit?"
"He said he was. B-but you know P-pel men
"Indeed I do." Dorlyth nodded sourly. "If he says he's on his way,
that means don't expect him." Rosha climbed back onto the horse's
back, and the animal allowed Dorlyth to come up close without moving.
"One thing more," Dorlyth muttered, and Rosha looked at him
expectantly, "If you get married, at least let me know. Fathers are
interested in that sort of thing."
Rosha laughed, and with a twist of his hand was gone, out the stable
door and into the crisp air of early morning.
In a moment both horse and rider had disappeared into the swirling
snow.
"Merciful, that," muttered Dorlyth to himself. He hated long
good-byes.
Admon Faye did not permit his troop of brigands any rest until they
swept past the last cultivated field and entered the edge of the Great
South Fir.
The three lands were divided from one another by two great natural
barriers. The Spinal Range, a wall of rock that separated Chaomonous
from Lamath, started in the sea itself as the formation of islands
called the Border Straits. From the coast it ran one hundred and
thirty miles inland to the west. Its granite cliffs were unbroken,
save for that one legendary pass known as Dragonsgate, At Drag-onsgate,
the mountain range divided, and separate arms extended into both
sections of the other geographical barrier the Great Fir. This band of
rugged forest was fifty miles wide at its narrowest point, but that was
around the base of the mountains, where it was also so dense as to be
impenetrable to all but wood creatures. The mountains formed the
dividing line, separating the Great Fir into northern and southern
sections.
Eighty miles southwest of the Spinal Range, the Great South Fir could
be passed. But few people attempted the feat. Most of those who did
were slavers. Any other small party travelling alone in the Great Fir
was likely to finish the journey with slavers in chains.
The Great Fir was the closest thing Admon Faye had to a home or it had
been, until his recent conquest of Dragonsgate. Scattered through the
forest were his cleared campsites. Some of these were of enormous size
but so skillfully hidden in the thickets as to be unrecognizable to all
but the trained woodsman. It was not until they reached one of these
hidden shelters that Admon Faye let his weary band stop.
His little army of forty swords had more than tripled in this latest
visit to Chaomonous, and now a hundred and fifty men scrambled for the
best of the tent sites, and fought one another for firewood.
Bronwynn, however, stayed astride her horse. Though exhausted by the
journey, she refused to budge until some 0 The WiztrJ in Waiting one
cut her bonds and lifted her down. If she were to be the Queen of this
ragged rabble, they could begin now to show her a little respect.
"Are you planning on going somewhere, girl?"
Bronwynn stiffened her shoulders at the sound of Admon Faye's voice. He
was behind her, but she refused to turn her head. "I'm going nowhere
until someone does me the courtesy of cutting my bonds and getting me
down."
"Take that attitude about it," he growled, "and you may be sure no one
will. Get off." She didn't budge. "I guess you must like it up
there," he said after a moment.
"Like it?" Bronwynn snapped. "My bottom is black and blue."
"If it isn't, it will be," he threatened, "unless you hop down off that
horse and start collecting some firewood. Your hands are tied in front
of you. You can get off easily enough."
Bronwynn sighed, then kicked her right leg over the horse's head and
pivoted on the saddle, dropping easily to the ground. She groaned. The
insides of her thighs were raw, and her legs were cramped from clamping
tightly onto the saddle. Admon Faye chuckled behind her. She turned
to glare at him, loathing everything about him.
He chopped a point on one end of a branch with a heavy knife. Then he
reversed the stake and lopped off two forking branches at the other
end, leaving the fork in it to hold a spit of meat. Then he looked up
at Bronwynn. "You want your ropes cut? Here's the knife." The weapon
came flipping at her end over end, and Bronwynn jerked away, but it
buried itself harmlessly in the mulch several inches short of where her
foot had been. "Wouldn't have hit you, your Highness." Admon Faye
snickered, as did the other outlaws who happened to be standing nearby.
Then the slaver turned his back on her and buried the point of his
stake at the edge of an old fire pit Bronwynn picked up the knife and,
after an awkward moment of pushing and reaching, managed at last to cut
through her bonds. Then she looked around. No one was watching her.
Admon Faye's back was turned, as he leaned on the stake, driving it
into the ground.
Bronwynn was angry, and that anger clouded her good sense. Dismissing
the possible consequences of success, she grabbed the knife in both
hands and vaulted toward Admon Faye's broad back. But before she would
reach it, that back had moved the stake wasn't in place anymore either.
Admon Faye sidestepped her charge and brought the stick arching around
behind her. At the very instant she realized he had moved, the stick
cracked painfully across her backside, and she fell most ingloriously
into the ashes of the fire pit It wasn't the blow that hurt her most.
It was the shout of laughter that greeted her humiliation.
"Remarkable, isn't it," Admon Faye remarked to a comrade, "how they all
try exactly the same thing?"
"Get up, girl," someone laughed, "and take comfort in the fact that you
aren't the first who's pitched headlong into a fire bed
"My Lady," Admon Faye mocked her, "I hope you are appreciative. I did
at least wait about starting the fire until after you took your
tumble."
Bronwynn felt certain that no fire could burn as hot as her cheeks did
right now. She could hear the laughter rippling through the far side
of the camp as the news was quickly relayed.
Admon Faye stepped down into the pit it was shallow, only a foot or so
deep and dragged her stumbling and choking to her feet. She cowered
away, expecting another blow to blacken her other eye. Admon Faye felt
her jerk and grinned. He was, by both instinct and training, a bully.
And he knew from long experience that to withhold an expected blow
sometimes struck the soul with more savagery than a punch. He withheld
this one. He shoved her away with a derisive snort, and left her
standing in humiliation in the ashes.
Bronwynn felt the intended shame she wasn't even worth hitting! She
dragged herself out of the pit and sat down on the edge of it. For the
first time in a long time, she filled her hands with hot tears.
Rosha thoroughly enjoyed his first day of travel. The snowstorm,
moving rapidly westward toward the High City of Ngandib, passed over
him by midmorning, and when the sky cleared, the rays of the sun turned
the snow-blanketed landscape a dazzling white. Though many miles away
still, he fancied he could see the summit of Dragonsgate far to the
northeast, and his heart quickened at the memory of the recent triumph
there a triumph in which he'd played a leading part. He booted his
mount, and they plunged onward at a trot. Snow sprayed up around the
hooves of his war-horse as they journeyed down through shallow valleys
and over small hills, past small stands of trees denuded by the winter
cold.
They passed few castles, and Rosha gave these a wide berth. It wasn't
that he feared danger from them. He just couldn't shake the memory of
a dozen ugly daughters, girls who'd been pushed at him by the most
influential rulers of the land in fits of fatherly matchmaking. Rosha
swore under his breath that he would not attend another banquet.
However, should he be spotted by the lords of these local manors, he
feared he would have no excuse not to. He pushed on, stopping little.
His goal was to be at Dragonsgate inside three days.
Launched at last on a new adventure, his spirits rose, and his thoughts
turned from the past to the future. The sound of hoofbeats was muffled
by snow, and nothing moved in the white stillness to interrupt his deep
deliberations.
He wondered about the world. With Vicia-Hemox dead, the barrier that
had separated the three lands for centuries was gone as well. There
had been only war between the lands for so many centuries could peace
really be possible now? His father thought not. But Dorlyth was old,
and his foreign adventures had left him bitter toward all ideas that
weren't Man in origin. Could his father and the other leaders of
Ngandib-Mar ever look with favor on the words of a Lamathian?
Of course, Dorlyth listened to Pelmen, and Pelmen was no, Rosha
thought. Pelmen wasn't really a Lamathian. But he wasn't a Mari
either. Still and all, Pelmen was a power shaper and didn't that make
him Mari, at least in part?
More critical for Rosha, of course, would be Mari reactions to Chaons.
His Bronwynn was the Chaon Queen or would be soon. For a moment Rosha
speculated on the reactions of those wealthy lords who had hosted him,
once they heard of his marriage to the ruler of their hated southern
rival.
"Let them talk," he announced to his horse's mane. "I will marry
Bronwynn!" Rosha smiled, pleased with himself. He hadn't stumbled on
a single word.
His second and third days out were as miserable as his first day had
been fun. A new storm struck about noon of the second day, forcing him
to pitch 4us tent early to wait out the worst of it. Within the
confines of its fish-satin walls, he and his horse got better
acquainted a bit too well acquainted for Rosha's tastes. He broke camp
early the next morning and pressed on, but the storm had been followed
by a dreadful drop in temperature, and Rosha recounted ruefully his
father's pleas for him to wait until spring. The sun came up at last
to light his way, but its heat never penetrated the bitter cold.
Rosba's breath froze on his face, and even the layers of bearskins he
wrapped around himself couldn't slow the chatter of his teeth.
He began to long for a companion, anyone to talk to, to keep his mind
off the chill. He talked to his horse for a time. Then he told his
plans to his sword. Finally, for want of anything better to do, Rosha
began to sing. The afternoon of the third day found him riding up the
short incline of the western mouth of Dragonsgate, singing at the top
of his lungs while his teeth chattered merrily between choruses.
Had Tibb been sitting any closer to the fire he would have been in it.
"Why'd I ever let you talk me into this?" he chattered.
"Greed," his companion snorted, as he clapped himself on the shoulders
in an effort to keep them from freezing. "A pure lust for stolen gold.
That's the only thing that could ever budge you from Lamath."
"Yeah, well, when am I gonna see some of it?" Tibb responded sourly.
"You promised me there'd be piles of it in this cave. There's piles
all right .. ." Tibb turned his baleful gaze upon the enormous mound
of dragon-droppings
: that lined the back of their freezing abode. "Does that
' smell like gold to you?"
: "We could have had the gold, if we'd gotten here quick enough,"
Pinter snapped. "But no. You had to wait around to loot the Temple of
the Dragon."
"How was I to know the funny little Prophet was gonna board it up?"
"Piles of gold and diamonds, boarded in this cave for centuries, and
you pass it up to steal altar cups!"
"Those cups were pure gold! A goblet in the hand is worth two piles of
dragon dung any day!"
"Yeah?" Pinter snapped back, now flapping his long arms like a bird.
"Well, you'd better be glad we've got it here to burn, or you'd be a
solid block of ice." "And that's my fault, I suppose?"
"Yes, it's your fault. If you hadn't wasted time we'd be with Admon
Faye now, wherever he is. Ill wager he's not freezing."
"So let's go find him, then."
Pinter regarded Tibb with sheer revulsion. "Two La-mathians in
Chaomonous? We'd be in irons by tonight" "Then let's go back to
Lamath," Tibb pleaded. "Through the snow?" Pinter stomped to the
entrance of the lair and pointed down at the Dragonsgate Pass, fifty
feet below them. "Look at it!"
Tibb didn't need to. The pass had been snow-clogged for weeks. "We
can't just sit here," he mumbled.
"Oh, yes we can," Pinter challenged. "We can just relax and wait for
Admon Faye's return, as we agreed. Spring can't be very far away .. ."
he added mournfully.
Tibb hunkered down closer to the small fire. It was giving off more
smoke and stench that heat, but it beat no blaze at all. "What if he
doesn't want us?" the stocky thief inquired sensibly. "What if he
decides to sell us instead? It's been done," he protested.
"Tibb." Pinter sighed in exasperation. "You're talking about Admon
Faye, This is not just some small-fish cutthroat. This man is a true
outlaw. He's got class, style, taste "
"We talking about the same Admon Faye? Mean fellow with a mug that
would scare the wrinkles out of tugolith's hide?"
"Tibb, this is a man who is truly free. He bows his knee to no
King."
"Still ugly, just the same." "And when he returns, we'll offer him our
swords "
"And hope he doesn't use 'em on us."
" and offer him the tribute we've collected in his absence," Pinter
finished loudly, glaring at his comrade.
"Which is exactly nothing," Tibb snorted.
"There'll be some," Pinter affirmed confidently, "There will!" he
repeated in the face of Tibb's snide expression.
"Oh, certainly," Tibb nodded. "Piles of it."
Pinter suddenly straightened up. "Do you hear that?"
"Hear what?"
"I hear singing .. ."
Tibb smiled uneasily. He'd been fearing it ... the combination of the
snow and these cramped conditions had caused his friend to come
unravelled
"Listen!" Pinter shouted. "Don't you hear it?"
"Sure, Pinter, sure," Tibb responded with exaggerated calm. "Why don't
you come sit " He cut off. Now he was hearing it too.
"A merchant!" Pinter shouted, and he jumped with excitement an
unfortunate move, since he was tall, and happened to be standing under
the low lip of the cave's entrance. He yelped as his head grazed the
rock and he landed hard on his rear. But the blow couldn't faze him.
He was too thrilled. "Come on, we've got to stop him."
"It's, ah, it's probably not a merchant," Tibb argued nervously. "Why
would a merchant be coming through now?"
"Get the weapons! Throw me my helmet! We have to get down and stop
him before he gets through." That would be no easy task. Vicia-Heinox
had favored this particular cavern for its inaccessibility. Its
entrance, fifty feet up the sheer face of Dragonsgate's northern cliff,
had proved a formidable obstacle to the pair when they'd first arrived.
Sheer desperation for some protection against the cold had finally
driven Tibb to scale the wall that, and his expectation of diamonds and
gold. Once inside, they'd discovered the remnants of Admon's Faye's
encampment and a neatly rolled rope ladder of hemp. Now Pinter danced
from one side of the cave mouth to the other, shouting orders while he
tried to toss the ladder out and down. In his haste he succeeded only
in turning the neat roll into a tangled, knotted pile.
Tibb was loathe to leave his fire especially for a fight.
"I'll bet he's a cutthroat. Nothing but a cutthroat. Has to be a
crazy cutthroat to try to pass Dragonsgate under these ridiculous
conditions."
Pinter jerked feverishly at the pile. "Quit blithering and get that
equipment over here. He'll be past us before we can even get off this
cliff."
"What purpose will it serve?" Tibb demanded, stalking stiffly across
the cave floor toward a pile of arms. "We'll get nothing but trouble
out of this one. He's a cutthroat, I guarantee you. No one but a
cutthroat would be in this pass in the wintertime."
"We're here, aren't we?" Pinter snarled, freeing one knot with a
mighty jerk, and putting in two more in the process.
"That's what I said," Tibb yelled.
"We're not cutthroats," Pinter barked. "We're outlaws. Outlaws!"
"So you keep saying," Tibb muttered as he shuffled across the cave
toward Pinter, his arms loaded. He slammed the load of weapons and
gear onto the stone and turned around to look for the rope ladder to
lower them. "Where's the rope?"
"Where do you think it is?" Pinter yelled in exasperation. "Where
does it look like it is?"
"It looks like it's in knots," Tibb observed. Pinter roared in
frustration as yet another tangle came into the ladder; in anger he
buried the toe of his boot in the pile of gear. It plummeted over the
edge, turning end over end to the canyon floor and landing in a snow
drift.
"Now why'd you do that?" Tibb scolded. "I bet your precious Admon
Faye doesn't kick his weapons off cliffs."
"Say one more word to me, Tibb, and I'll send you down the same way!"
"You bent my sword!" Tibb griped, peeking over the edge. His sword
was sticking point down in the snow. "Look at it. You ruined it."
"Would you help me untangle these knots?" Pinter screamed. "He's
getting past."
Rosha stopped singing. He had seen the large bundle tumble from the
cliff face, and it aroused his curiosity. He focused his gaze on the
cave entrance above him and shouted for joy when he saw a rope ladder
drop freely from it, followed by two scurrying figures, who fought to
keep from falling as they hurried to the ground. "Ho there!" he
cried. "At last here's some company!"
Dragonsgate was wide at this point, nearly a quarter of a mile from
cliff to cliff, so Rosha could easily have avoided the ragged-looking
characters who now wrestled with the bundle in the snow. But he was so
eager for the company of others that the thought of danger never
entered his mind. He guided his horse toward them through the drifts,
climbing leisurely to meet the two thieves who hustled to block his
way. "Greetings, my friends," he called as he reached them.
"Halt there!" cried Tibb, waving a sword in his face.
"Stay your mount, or I'll cut his forelegs," Pinter added, seizing his
weapon in both hands and swinging it back to strike.
"And touch not your blade," Tibb went on sourly. "Or I'll drop you
here." This mounted warrior had dragged him away from his warm fire,
and the stocky thief was determined to make him pay for it.
Rosha hadn't thought to reach for Thalraphis. He was trying to control
a cackle. The sword Pinter waggled at him was bent at a ridiculous
angle. "Your weapon, sir," fac managed to get out, "is somewhat .. .
misshapen."
"Yes, well," Tibb grumbled, talking his eyes off Rosha and glancing up
the blade of his sadly bowed sword. He shouldn't have. Rosha's left
foot had slipped its stirrup, and now slashed out to crack across
Tibb's knuckles. The sword in question sailed into the air, turning
slowly and flashing once in the sunlight before clattering against the
near cliff and dropping into the bank. Both thieves followed its
flight in surprise. There was plenty of time for Rosha to jerk out
ThaLraphis if he'd wished to, but he left it where it was. He was
enjoying this encounter.
Tibb put his hands on his hips and frowned at Rosha. "I don't imagine
you've helped its shape any by that."
"Who knows?" Rosha grinned. "The blow just might have straightened
it."
Tibb stomped angrily after his sword, tossing up a shower of snow with
every stride, and Rosha turned back to face Pinter, who watched him
uncertainly.
"Here now," Pinter said nervously. "Don't try any tricks. Get off
that horse, or I'll maim you both."
"Oh, I shouldn't bother this animal if I were you, my friend." Rosha
smiled, "He's a very special horse, you see, and he doesn't take kindly
to anyone who threatens me." Rosha was pleased with the performance of
his tongue. Perhaps it was because he was on his own again, but for
some reason he felt very confident in his speech today. "What are you
two doing out here, anyhow? You ought to be sitting by a fire
someplace."
"I was," Tibb called, "until you showed up," He picked up his sword and
gazed at it in disgust.
"We are defending our pass against intruders like yourself," Pinter
shouted. "You'll not leave Dragonsgate without paying the toll you owe
us."
"Toll? You make it sound like you owned the place," "And so we do."
"Own Dragonsgate?" Rosha said, incredulous. "No one owns Dragonsgate.
Not since Vicia-Heinox died. If anyone could claim title to it, it
would be my friends and I. After all we evicted its last owner."
"What? Who are you?" Pinter queried aggressively.
"Rosha mod Dorlyth, bear's-bane," Rosha said flatly.
Pinter was visibly shaken. He swallowed hard, then shouted, "Tibb!" He
took several awkward steps backward in the snow.
"I'm coming, I'm coming," Tibb mumbled as he slogged his way back
toward them, turning his battered Wade over in his hands and shaking
his head in disbelief.
This is one of them!" Pinter shouted, suddenly dancing and weaving
from side to side as if he expected Rosha to fall on him any moment.
"This is a companion of the dragon killer!"
Tibb looked up at Rosha with a new admiration. While in Lamath he had
followed Pelmen's prophetic ministry with some curiosity and here was
one who had travelled with the Prophet. "Really?" he asked.
Rosha had heard that tone before, and it made him wince. He
half-expected Tibb to ask him the same insane question he'd left
Ngandib-Mar to avoid: "What was Vicia-Heinox really like?"
The young man wrinkled his nose in confusion. "I don't follow."
"We've come this far, and the slaver isn't ahead of us. We'll camp and
wait. He may surprise me and ride into a trap. Summon my staff. I
want an ambush set up within the hour."
Three hours passed, and Joss dismissed the idea of trapping Admon Faye.
But as the sun was setting, his squire raced to him with great
excitement. A single rider had been spotted approaching from the
north. Joss mounted his charger and rode out to meet him.
Joss did not come to his lofty rank by battle alone. He had risen
through the Golden Army on the strength of his disciplined mind and a
memory that held a tight grip on detail. Had he never met Rosha
before, he still would have recognized the young warrior, for Bronwynn
had described him at great length. But Joss had met Rosha in
Dragonsgate, only a few hours after the conquest of the dragon. And
there was no doubt. This was the man.
Rosha rode through Cbaomonous with an arrogance born of innocence. He
was, after all, a hero, and heroes never travelled any other way. When
he saw General Joss waiting for him in the road, he drew Thalraphis and
saluted with it "Greetings, my friend," he called, and he reined in his
charger thirty yards from the General.
"Greetings, Rosha mod Dorlytb," the General replied, his face fixed in
a smile.
"You know me?" Rosha said, flattered. He urged his war-horse forward
a few yards.
"Of course I know you," Joss called gravely. "But I see that you do
not remember me!" "Do I know you?" Rosha asked suspiciously. "But of
course you do. I am from the court of the Queen!" Joss watched the
lad closely as he said these words. He was pleased with the boy's
reaction.
"Bronwynn?" Rosha touched his horse gently and the animal trotted to
within a yard of Joss. Rosha eyed the General, then nodded in
recognition. "Yes. You were the man who took her from the pass." "I
am." Joss smiled. "Where is she?" Rosha demanded. "Why, in
Cbaomonous, I believe," Joss said smoothly. "I'm I'm surprised. I
didn't expect you to put her on the throne so quickly. I expected to
be ah needed, somehow, in the struggle."
"The Queen," Joss responded with a sly grin, "came to the throne quite
unexpectedly. I humbly confess that the Queen has been most
appreciative of my assistance."
"The Queen," Rosha muttered, trying to accustom himself to seeing
Bronwynn in that light. "That sounds quite good."
"But, of course," Joss said, "her problems are not at an end. It seems
that Admon Faye has rescued the false Queen from the dungeon and plots
to place her on the throne of the land." The General found he was
enjoying this deception.
Rosha seized the pommel of Thalraphis with a fierce frown. "I am aware
that Admon Faye is still abroad in the land. I met two thugs in
Dragonsgate who told me so."
"Oh, then he is there." Joss nodded.
"No, only those two. They told me he's somewhere here, in Chaomonous."
Rosha drew Thalraphis again and held it out before him. "I ride to
pledge my sword to the Queen," he said, "to help to rid this land of
the plague of Admon Faye."
Joss smiled broadly. "I can think of nothing that would please our
Queen more." For the first time in many days Joss felt the urge to
laugh aloud. He resisted it, as he led the proud young warrior into
his camp.
Rosha was pleased. Throughout the ride to the capital city his tongue
had not stumbled once. In fact, it had wagged as freely this day as
any day in his memory. He heard himself telling General Joss of
personal things he'd never revealed to anyone before. Of course, there
was no harm in that. After all this was the man who had placed his
Bronwynn on the throne.
Joss was a patient, attentive listener. His interest in Ros-has
background never seemed to flag. When Rosha exhausted one area of
discussion, Joss would ask a pointed question that would open up a
whole new area, then would nod encouragement to the young warrior and
listen for another hour. Rarely did Rosha have an opportunity to ask
Joss a direct question, so skillfully did the General steer the
conversation away from himself. He also tended to avoid conversation
regarding Bronwynn. Joss' standard reply to any question regarding
Rosha's beloved was, "That will be known when you meet with the
Queen."
Rosha talked at length about his attitude toward Bron-wynn's crown.
"Perhaps it would appear unseemly to you for someone of my rank to
aspire to marry your Queen. But the crown of Ngandib-Mar doesn't pass
from generation to generation as your crown does. Bronwynn told me
that the throne of Chaomonous always passes to the oldest male heir.
Isn't that correct?" Joss would only nod. "But Ngandib-Mar isn't so
well organized," Rosha went on. "It's ruled by a confederation of
chieftains, who must agree who will rule in the High City of
Ngandib."
Joss smiled grimly, his eyes on the road ahead. "And how well does
that system work? Does it prevent war?"
"Prevent war?" Rosha asked, surprised. "Not a chance, But it's a rare
Man who wants to prevent war."
"I had heard that." Joss nodded.
"My father does but since the dragon's death, I've dined with above
fifty of the Man chieftains, and most of them encourage battle."
"To what end?"
"Why to have the opportunity to test one another and to gain glory in
victory,"
"And what if they lose?" Joss asked, cocking his eyebrow.
"Then they wait impatiently for the next battle, for a chance to redeem
themselves." Rosha grinned over at Joss. "The discussion over who
should be King provides plenty of opportunity for battle."
"Then I would imagine you Maris have a new King every year."
"Oh no. Pahd mod Pahd-el, the present Lord of the High City, is the
third Pahd mod Pahd to rule as King. And he's been King since he was
my age."
"It sounds as if the Pahds have gone far toward establishing their own
dynasty. The family of Pahd must be very strong."
"Not really," Rosha shrugged. "My father says Pahd is a very powerful
swordsman on his own, but he's not an especially strong ruler. He's
King now because, whenever the confederation of chieftains tire of
fighting one another, Pahd seems a harmless enough compromise choice.
Besides, he's already moved into the palace, and it would take a
considerable army to crack that citadel.
"What I'm trying to say is that any Mari can aspire to wear the crown.
He may not be powerful enough to take it and it may be worth little to
him if he does but it means there is no royalty in Ngandib-Mar and a
person can marry whomever he chooses."
"Are there no slaves in Ngandib-Mar?"
"Of course there are! All of my father's vassals are freed slaves."
"Then there is a royalty in Ngandib-Mar," Joss said quietly. "It
consists of any who are free."
Rosha thought. "What you say is true," he replied grudgingly. "But
not royalty as you speak of it."
"Perhaps not."
"You don't think it will cause any problems for me to marry Bronwynn,
do you?" Rosha asked.
Joss did not meet the young warrior's eyes. Calmly, he replied, "That
will be known when you meet With the Queen."
Rosha made a face. "And when will that be? It appears Chaomonous is
much further away than I thought."
"Perhaps you underestimated the size of our nation," Joss suggested.
"With all respect to your native land, our Chaomonous is by far the
largest, most powerful state in the world."
"Oh? Then how do you explain the Battle of West-mouth? My father and
a few thousand Maris destroyed your whole Golden Army!"
General Joss' expression didn't change. He replied quietly, "The
Golden Throng had no leader on that day. Had I been allowed to guide
them as I'd planned, the outcome might have been very different."
Rosha watched the General's face, his hand moving to the pommel of
Thairaphis. "Do you deny the achievement of my people?"
Joss chuckled. "You may take your hand off your weapon, Rosha mod
Dorlyth. I intend no insult to your father or your King. I only
suggest you may be surprised by what you find in Chaomonous."
Rosha sat back into his saddle with a haughty laugh. "I've seen
Ngandib and I've seen the city of Lamath. Nothing can surprise me
anymore."
Joss smiled and turned to look at the powerful young warrior. "I
imagine you believe that. But, of course, an expected surprise
wouldn't be a surprise at all, would it?" They did not reach
Chaomonous by nightfall, camping instead some thirty miles from the
city. When he awoke the next morning, Rosha was informed that Joss had
preceded him, to prepare the way for his arrival. When Rosha rode into
Chaomonous later in the day he was grateful that Joss wasn't beside
him. He had forgotten how impersonal and intimidating large cities
could be. Rosha was so frightened his hands shook and he was
stammering so fiercely that no one could understand a sentence he
uttered.
Late in the afternoon, Rosha was waiting in a marble-floored hallway in
the third level of the royal palace. He devoutly wished that Bronwynn
would hurry up and grant him an audience, for the strangeness of the
place was making him tremble. This was not at all what he had imagined
during those cold nights in his father's castle. It was nothing at all
like what he'd planned.
No one said Bronwynn's name, and no one but Joss* squire addressed him
directly. They all spoke only of the Queen, and with such reverence
that he was hard pressed to hold in mind that picture of his little
golden-haired comrade of many travels. He longed for a glimpse of her
friendly face, and considered breaking into her apartments. After all,
hadn't she called him "Rosha mod Bronwynn" Rosha, Bronwynn's treasure?
Did Bronwynn's treasure need to_ wait for a summons?
As he considered this possibility, the double door down the hall
clacked open, and Joss, smiling, walked toward him. "I know you have
been kept waiting for some time, bear's-bane. I have had some
difficulty convincing the Queen that it is truly you. She's suggested
that if she could see the sword which slew the dragon, she would
believe me."
"S-see my s-s-sword!" Rosha answered sharply. "All she has to d-d-do
is look out the d-d-door!"
Joss gave him a patient smile. "Nevertheless, she is the Queen, and we
must do as she suggests. Please?" He held out his hands.
Rosha angrily ripped Thalraphis from its scabbard and laid it across
the General's palms. Joss nodded slightly and turned on his heels. The
door closed behind him, and Rosha was alone in the hall once more.
He had felt only awkward before. Without his weapon, he felt naked.
But Joss returned with merciful swiftness, wearing a wide smile. "The
Queen will see you now," he said and he motioned the young warrior
forward.
"Bronwynn?" Rosha bubbled as he ran to the door. "Bronwynn!" he
cried as he bolted into the throne room.
The woman who slouched on the ornate chair of office had beautiful blue
eyes like Bronwynn's. But there the resemblance ended. Rosha stopped
in the center of the room, then turned all the way around, his eyes
scanning the line of armed warriors who ringed the walls. Then he
looked back at the woman, his handsome face twisted with
disappointment.
Ligne smiled maliciously, fingering the flat edge of the sword she held
on her lap. "Unfortunately, Bronwynn is no longer with us," she said.
Then she passed the sword to an aide, stood up, and smoothed her tight
dress over her hips. "Will I do, instead?"
"A very handsome creature, isn't he?" Ligne said later, as a bound and
gagged Rosha knelt before her, shivering with rage. Four men had
suffered broken bones before the company of guards had managed to
subdue him. One guard still lay unconscious in the infirmary on the
floor below them. Joss had appealed to the Queen to allow him to chain
the boy in the dungeon right then, but Ligne was a connoisseur of the
male body, and would not part with this one so readily,
"I assure you, my Queen, he is a savage, handsome or no. It would be
best for your safety if you would allow me to cage him immediately."
"Come now, Joss, he's only a boy **
"Who is an. extremely competent swordsman. Please remember that he
has battled Admon Faye and has survived "
"Pity you didn't kill him," Ligne whispered to Rosha, walking behind
the trussed youth and gliding her hand along his bare neck. They had
tied him and forced him to his knees. Now she knelt beside him,
admiring his legs as Rosha strained against the ropes. "He's like a
mountain cat or a bear sleek and shining and powerful." Ligne's eyes
glistened with excitement.
"He's a bear's-bane, my Lady, and most dangerous," Joss continued, eyes
following every thrust of the young man's arms as Rosha wrestled to get
free. "I must ask you to allow me to "
"And I order you to keep silent!" Ligne snapped. Then,
more softly, she added, "I want to play with him awhile."
Joss struggled to hold his temper in check, thea said tersely, "Is it
that you favor the lad so much? Or do you just treasure what is
Bronwynn's?"
Ligne stood up and looked at her chief warrior, her hlue eyes icy, her
jaw jutting out sharply. "Do you dare repeat that?"
"There's no need, my Lady. You heard me." Ligne studied the man for a
moment, then turned her head away. "You are too valuable to be wasted,
Joss. I choose to take no offense in your words. But in the future,
you will refrain from involving yourself in affairs that do not concern
you."
"Any threat to the security of my Queen must involve me, my Lady, and
the young barbarian constitutes such a threat. Should he manage to
free himself from those ropes, he will seize the nearest weapon and
turn on you."
"I know." Ligne smiled, shifting her hips salaciously and running her
fingers through Rosha's curly dark hair. "It's a most incredible
feeling. Quite enjoyable." She glanced back at Joss' leathery face
and shrugged. "Perhaps the fact that he came seeking my rival does
play a part in the excitement I'm amazed the skinny little witch could
interest such a magnificent creature." She looked back down at Rosha,
who had jerked his head free and now focused his fierce gaze on her
hand, longing to bite it. "But I think he would interest me in any
case."
"He's dangerous "
"Exactly," Ligne finished, cutting her General off. "If it would make
you feel any better, give the order to remove all weapons from this
room if you feel that would minimize the threat."
Joss gave an angry wave, and the armed warriors began clearing the
room. "As you say, my Queen. But I feel certain that the man could
easily break your neck with his hands alone."
Ligne's teeth sparkled as she flashed a smile. "The very idea gives me
chills." Joss followed her gaze to the struggling form of the young
warrior. Rosha had flipped onto his back and now was kicking at his
captors with his bound legs. "He's so aggressive!" Ligne husked,
watching a pair of unarmed soldiers wrestle Rosha back into a kneeling
position. "Tie him like that," she ordered, "so that he's forced to
remain on his knees. Then leave the room."
"My Lady Ligne!" Joss protested.
"Joss, be quiet!" she ordered, as her mail-clad guards produced more
rope and bound Rosha more securely. Then they went out, leaving only
the captive, the Queen, and the General behind in the throne room.
"Queen Ligne, please reconsider "
"Leave us, Joss."
"He is enraged and frightened, the most dangerous "
"I said get out!"
Joss nodded curtly, and Ligne's hard look softened a fraction. "Believe
me, General. If there is anything I am equipped to handle, it is a
man." She winked at him and dismissed him with a wave, then went back
to sit on her throne. As Joss reluctantly closed the door behind him,
he could hear her saying, "Now, Rosha. You and I are going to become
very well acquainted .. ."
CHAPTER FIVE
Birds of a Feather
THE REAR OF PLECLYPSA'S GRAND PLAYHOUSE was honeycombed with small
attiring rooms. About midmorning, the troupe crowded into one of these
to stare at one another in shock. The Winter Festival had been rocked
by scandal and they were the victims of it. It made little difference
that they had the sympathy of the vast majority of the Pie-clypsans.
They'd been had and they knew it.
Their splendid scene on opening night had won them the last night on
the program. So thoroughly had they carried the evening that several
Pleclypsan officials had suggested they be acclaimed immediately as
winners. Unaccountably, this notion won the support of Eldroph-Pitzel
and his wife Berliath, the leaders of the local Pleclypsan troupe. They
suggested that the competition be held, but for second place only, and
that Ligne's Lord of Entertainments be invited to attend, to witness a
wonderful play inspired by the Queen's rise to power. Grudgingly, the
other troupes gave in they, too, had been impressed with the
competition.
Lulled by such praise, the troupe had made the most of the Festival.
They had starred at a half-a-dozen parties, hobnobbing with the
regional governor himself. They had attended each evening's
performance as spectators rather than competitors, watching with the
smug self-confidence of judges. On the night before their own final,
triumphal performance was scheduled, they were briefly reintroduced to
Maythorm, Ligne's Lord of Entertainments, before going in to witness
Eldroph-Pitzel and Berliath perform. They were laughing and joking as
they took their seats. Then-laughs turned to gasps, however, as they
watched the troupe from Pleclypsa perform Pelmen's play about Ligne. It
had been stolen.
Oh, it was a pale copy, true. They couldn't duplicate the cleverness
of Pelmen's lines. Obviously they hadn't managed to steal the script.
Yet the basic structure of the show was the same and so was the
reaction of the crowd. Her-laith, who had made a point of picking
Danyilyn out of the audience, smiled directly at her throughout.
That had been last night. And this morning the news had swirled
through the city that Maythorm had already departed for Chaomonous with
his enthusiastic report for the Queen. No one had bothered to tell him
that tonight was the final night.
Apparently, the Pleclypsan troupe had not been able to get to all the
organizers already the troupe had received a public apology from an
apoplectic Minlaf-Khen, director of the Winter Festival. But as far as
an invitation to court was concerned, the damage had already been done.
The actors were bitter.
"It must have been that skinny peasant who stood just to the left of
the stage," Gerrig spat.
"No," Danyilyn snorted, "it was Berliath herself. She stood back in
the shadows by Sherina's wagon through the entire performance. She
probably even took notes."
"What difference does it make who stole the play?" Yona Parmi asked.
"Someone did, obviously."
"But who'd have thought they'd be interested in us?" whined Gerrig.
"Of course they'd be interested in us!" Yona Parmi's aggravation was
evident. "We've taken the prize three years out of the last five. This
year they'd counted us out, then suddenly got word we had entered late.
Of course they'd be interested in us. I'm just disgusted with myself
for taking so much for granted. The Pleclypsans didn't do this to us
we did it to ourselves."
Danyilyn rose from her stool and stalked around the room. Players
shuffled their feet to let her pass, as she paced the full length of
their cramped space. Suddenly she stopped and spun around to look at
Yona Parmi. "Where's Pelmen?"
Yona glanced around the room, then shrugged. "Not here, evidently."
Danyilyn's jaw clenched. "I'm getting tired of all this secretiveness,
Parmi! Is Pelmen with us or isn't he?"
"Danyilyn, it's his play that was stolen,"
"Then where is he? Why isn't he here, helping us plan what to do
next?"
"Plan? What's to plan?" Yona Parmi's tight-lipped expression was
hard. "We have a play to perform tonight. He'll be here for it. Until
then, I suggest we let Pelmen do whatever he thinks best." Yona
struggled down off his high stool and dodged through the legs to the
doorway. There he paused, and looked back over his shoulder. "If past
experience is any guide, he'll probably surprise us."
Riding an up-draft two-hundred feet above the Chao-mo nous Road, Pelmen
struggled to maintain his alter-shape without becoming exhausted. He
had already spotted his quarry Maythorm and his bodyguard. Now he was
choosing a spot to make his play. He'd been up and down this road a
hundred times in his lifetime, but this was the first time he'd ever
flown it. As always, he felt a powerful temptation to turn aside from
his human responsibilities and explore the scene below for the sheer
joy of it. Fighting that temptation added to his growing weariness yet
he had far too much to do today to succumb to exhaustion.
A power shaper did not choose his alter-shape. When it came, it came
in a moment of insight of inspiration. There was no midpoint of being
half-human and half-shaped. Normally, a wizard took the shape the
first time almost by accident, when some conscious or unconscious need
for that identity arose. Thus Mar-Yilot had become a butterfly when
she learned the boy she loved collected them, and Joooms became a
lizard when trapped in a windowless cell. One day Pelmen had needed to
stop a blue-flyer before it could deliver a dangerous message. He'd
flown up and caught it before realizing what he'd done. Since that
time, he'd been able to take his falcon-form anytime he chose as long
as there were powers present to shape.
The very presence of those powers in Chaomonous prompted him to haste.
Never had he sensed the forces now loosed upon this land and he felt
hesitant to use them. It was as if he expected someone or something to
say any minute, "You can't do that here," and spill him from the sky.
Then, too, since his religious vocation had claimed him the year
before, he'd felt a kind of moral dilemma each time he'd shaped. He
had to wonder now, with every act of magic, if his molding harmed or
angered whatever power he made use of. For some strange reason, the
closer he got to the Chaon capital, the greater his hesitancy grew.
Clearly, he needed to deal with Maythorm in a hurry.
His falcon eyes were far superior to his human vision. The road had
passed a large manor and into a small forest Forty yards off the road
he spotted a thatched roof among the trees, and swooped down to
investigate. It was a charming peasant dwelling, cheery and clean,
with whitewashed walls and a carefully swept porch. Pelmen circled the
house, dropped down behind it and stood on the earth, a man. There was
no glass in the single window; and, though it was a brisk morning, the
green shutters were open. "Hello?" he called. There was no answer.
He circled the house on foot, knocked on the door, and at last went in.
The householders were gone though, by the warmth of the soup pot
sitting on the hearth, they'd not been gone long. "Probably plowing,"
Pelmen murmured. If so, they would be at it all day. "I hope you'll
not mind if I borrow your home," he announced, "and a bit of this
cooling soup. I promise to make it worth your while." In a small
pocket on his sleeve was a golden coin he'd brought it for just this
purpose.
His garments belied the wealth tucked into that sleeve. He was clothed
in rags, specially selected from the costume cart late the previous
night. Through the early hours of the morning he had carefully
sculpted lines of age into his face by candlelight, until he looked
every bit the aged peasant he would soon portray. His artistry with
makeup had nothing to do with wizardry. It was stage magic, a skill
that had often proved useful to him and which would need to again, if
he were to survive within Ligne's castle.
It didn't take long for him to feel that he knew the small cottage as
well as its owner. That done, he shot through the open window on
flashing brown wings. He had a rendezvous planned with Maythorm, and
he wasn't about to miss it
Maythorm did nothing in half-measures. He either loved something or he
loathed it, and he had loved the play he'd witnessed the night
before.
"Wasn't it marvelous?" he gushed to Craghimp, the taciturn, stolid
soldier who'd drawn the unenviable task of guarding Maythorm's body on
this trip. Craglump didn't usually talk much, which made him the
perfect companion for Maythorm, since the handsome Lord of
Entertainments rarely stopped. "The class of the Festival, obviously.
Such elegance on stage! Berliath, as Ligne, caught our hearts as if
they were doves and held us, fluttering, until the final curtain!"
"Yeah." Craglump nodded.
"And Eldroph-Pitzel! Such thunderous power as the shrewd tactician who
engineered her rise! His voice, like a fist of iron, hammered upon our
senses with the ringing zest of a joyful blacksmith!"
"Right."
"Who's that?"
Craglump sat up rigidly in his saddle. Maythorm's change of tone
startled him he realized he'd been half asleep. "Who? What?"
"There." Maythorm pointed. They had topped a tiny rise, and he'd
spotted a ragged, barefoot peasant racing away from them.
"Oh. Just a peasant," Craglurop muttered, almost disappointed.
"But why is he running?" Maythorm asked, and he spurred his mount to
pursue the retreating figure. "You there," he shouted when he came
abreast of him. "Why are you running?"
"To get out of the storm!" the peasant shouted, and he scurried on
ahead as Maythorm reined in and tossed a puzzled look at the sky.
"Storm?" he asked. He chased the peasant down again, this time
blocking the old man's path. The winded runner leaned on his knees,
gasping for breath. "What storm?"
Maythorm sneered, winking his amusement at Craglump, who had now caught
up.
The peasant looked up to meet the court ling gaze and puffed, "The one
that's on its way!"
"Why, there isn't a cloud in the "
Lightning tore open the heavens, and Maythorm's eyes jerked upward in
disbelief and terror.
"Took my wife just that way not four years ago. I'm to my cottage!"
the old man yelled and he raced toward a clump of woods just ahead of
them. Maythorm and Crag-lump took one horrified look at each other and
pursued him. Actually, they arrived at the single-roomed dwelling well
before he did, and were comfortably inside when he huffed up to the
doorstep. He saw them crowded together at the open window, peering
skyward. Had they been watching the ragged peasant instead of the
bright, clear heavens, they might have caught the quick flash of a
smile he allowed himself as he closed the door behind him.
Maythorm and Craglump had an eventful morning, to say the least. Balls
of colored fire danced before their eyes with hypnotizing power. At
times their peasant host disappeared, and a screeching bird of prey
swooped over their heads and glided between their legs. Each time they
dashed for the door to escape, bolts of lightning collapsed upon the
cottage, threatening to rend its rafters from their moorings, and the
two cowered in one another's arms. The dizzying whirlwind of
incredible occurrences spun round them faster and faster, until both
were giddy with confusion, and they dropped, unconscious, to the
stonework floor.
They remembered little of the morning's activities when they came to
themselves later that afternoon. They were seated in their saddles,
then horses casually plodding the dusty road toward Chaomonous. Each
felt a bit embarrassed at dozing off, and hoped the other hadn't
noticed. Maythorm compensated by bursting into a new review of the
previous night's performance, using even more superlatives than before.
"I've never seen Gerrig so powerful! What a wondrous instrument he's
made of his voice! And Danyilyn! The exquisite delicacy of her
performance could curl the hairs of a cavern bear! I certainly must
look that luscious beauty up when they arrive in the palace," the
lady-killer drooled.
Craglump wasn't listening. He was watching with a curious discomfort
the lazy flight of a falcon, as it skimmed the treetops to their left,
heading southward toward Pleclypsa.
That night, a weary peasant woman found no soup left in her pot but the
gold piece she found in the bottom of the kettle more than made up for
the loss.
Through tedious days of silent enchantment, amid much earnest effort
and sweating of walls, the castle had managed finally to regain full
consciousness of its rooftop areas. It wished almost immediately that
it hadn't A good part of its motivation for moving into these rebuilt
upper structures first was to get at that strange annoyance it felt
marginally aware of, but couldn't quite comprehend. Now it understood
thoroughly. Too thoroughly. And at that moment, the indignity was
happening again.
Plop.
The Imperial House of Chaomonous reacted much the same as would anyone
else who awoke from a long nap to find someone had built a birdcage on
his head. It cursed. Eloquently.
Filthy, loathsome, tasteless, stupid .. .
Such phrases could not begin to translate adequately the castle's lucid
descriptions of the fowls who befouled its roof tiles. Its vocabulary
of expletives was extensive, involving unfavorable personal comparisons
that might have both shocked and delighted Chaon historians.
Unfortunately, they were lost on both the stupid, feathered objects of
its wrath and the stupid human officials who might have been able to do
something about the problem. Which simply infuriated the castle
further.
Plip-splip.
Despicable pigeon! May a sadistic eight-year-old pluck your feathers!
May your beak rot off! May your eggs crack even as you lay them!
In spite of such venomous outbursts, the birds that populated Ligne's
aviary continued to consume their birdseed, and persisted in all of
their other normal biological functions
Flip.
That pigeon has sealed its fate! the House cried aloud to no one but
itself. In fact, it wasn't a pigeon at all, but rather a long-tailed,
two-colored warbler. It was an exotic specimen, as were all the birds
in Ligne's aviary, and was a real prize, having been brought from
somewhere far away upon a merchant's spice-ship. The castle couldn't
have been less concerned with such distinctions. A bird was a bird,
and while the House could tolerate a certain degree of relationship
with such necessary winged creatures as hunting falcons and
blue-flyers, nothing in its long experience had prepared it for such
regular, repeated humiliation.
It had already concentrated much attention on the gigantic grillwork
itself. In its vivid imagination the House fantasized the cage
toppling from the roof to the cobblestoned streets of the city far
below. What foul-feathered flutterers managed to survive in the
twisted wreckage would be free, then, to fly off and besmirch some
other, less august manor!
Yet the cage itself had thus far resisted the castle's every effort at
control. Thus far, the House could only look at it, and suffer under
it and curse.
There was one bright spot in all of this. Though its colorful curses
were quite untranslatable into human speech, they were nevertheless
perfectly audible to human ears. Whenever it cursed, every servant's
bell in the entire palace threatened to ring itself right off the
wall.
"Those bells again!" Ligne snapped, as fourteen guards, nine serving
girls, four butlers, a maid, and the bearer of royal chamber pot came
scuttling breathlessly into the throne room. "When is Kherda going to
fix those bells?" she screamed. The collection of servants all
disappeared as hastily as they had assembled except for the pot bearer.
Experience had taught him to move deliberately.
"Have you any idea why they ring so?" she asked her sinewy young
captive. As usual, Rosha made no reply.
He felt little motivation to there was nothing to be gained by
replying. Nor, in fact, would he gain anything by not replying. He'd
been cut off from his love, cut off from his sword, cut off from his
land all those things that had made his life worthwhile. And now he
was cut off even from looking at the world, for Ligne had ordered her
chief falconer to fit the young man's head with a hood of brown
leather. It covered his face down to the bridge of his nose, cutting
off all light. His arms were manacled behind him above the elbows.
He'd been kept so for three days, and was gradually losing interest in
anything but his own thought. His difficulty with speech had always
made talking a chore. He felt little inclination to engage in
meaningless conversation now.
Prime Minister Kherda came dashing down the hall, holding his long
skirts out of the way of his feet as his sandals clipped along the tile
floor. When he reached the doorway of the throne room he paused,
leaning against the richly carved walnut doorjamb to suck in gulps of
air between stammered phrases: "I don't .. . understand why .. . these
bells .. . keep ringing so!" He panted momentarily, then continued
bravely in the face of Ligne's ice-cold stare. "I've done .. . my best
... to find .. . someone who's qualified ... to find the problem. No
one knows!"
"Then why not send to Ngandib-Mar for a sorcerer?" Ligne asked
sweetly. "Surely a power shaper could find the problem." The Queen
was mocking him, Kherda realized. Ligne didn't believe in magic any
more than he did.
"There are no power shapers he muttered wearily.
"But there must be power shapers she continued, sneering. "Who but a
power shaper could have witched this castle to behave so?" Suddenly
Ligne dropped her mocking pretense and snarled: "I don't want to see
your face until you find me a craftsman who can fix those bells.
Unless, of course, you wish to be strangled with a bell cord?"
Kherda had grown accustomed to such threats from his tigerish monarch.
Even so, he retreated from her chamber hastily. Ligne turned back to
her captive in time to catch the shadow of a grin chase across his lips
and disappear. "And what are you laughing at? Are you laughing at
me?" she demanded.
Rosha said nothing. But Ligne imagined that she saw in his
tight-lipped frown an expression of self-satisfied derision. It both
irritated and inflamed her. Her voice softened. "You're the only one
who dares. Why do I allow it?" She ran her hand down the length of
one of his bound forearms, and he balled his fist in response a silent
signal,
but one she clearly understood. "I know. You don't like for me to
touch you." To tease him, she began massaging the corded muscles in
his back and shoulders, cautiously staying out of the short range of
that fist. Rosha would swing at her, given the chance. That was the
reason for his chains. "Why is that, Rosha mod Dorlyth? Do you hate
my entrails so passionately that you've never noticed my more visible
physical attributes?" Ligne felt she had good cause to boast in her
appearance. She was still a young woman, and her oval face was free of
any trace of those lines of care so frequently in evidence on the faces
of more responsible monarchs. Her blue eyes could be dazzling if she
chose to charm, dangerous if she chose to threaten but never could they
be dull. It was on the basis of her great beauty that she had vaulted
to her exalted position by way of Talith's bed, of course. Nor did she
feel any shame in that. It fact, it fed her ego to recall how she'd
seduced the late King not only into bed, but into his grave as well
assuming anyone bothered to bury the proud oaf. Ligne carefully
cultivated her saucy, brazen appearance, clothing herself in
scintillating materials of shocking colors, tailored to expose to best
advantage those portions of her figure she thought most entrancing,
while hiding those flaws visible only to herself. With flowing hair
the color of a raven's inky cloak, Ligne was far more than just
striking. She was more than just lovely. Hers was the perfect
standard of beauty, against which all the men who knew her measured
their wives and lovers. She praised her own appearance by that
unconscious arrogance of one who has never been anything but
beautiful.
Yet it was all lost on Rosha. And for a perfectly obvious reason.
"How am I to s-s-see your f-f-fabled beauty while you c-constantly keep
this hood on my h-head?" His frustration nearly gagged him.
"You know I'd gladly remove that mask, my pretty friend. Such a shame,
to hide such handsome dark curls. But how can I, when you've promised
that the moment I do, you're going to kick me in the face? Can you
tell me if that good night's rest on the cold floor of my dungeon
brought about some change of heart?"
Rosha had subsided again into silent attention. His lips wore the
patient expression of a carnivore on the prowl mute, passive, but ready
to strike any time.
"I thought not," Ligne answered herself, smiling with feigned
indifference. "I suppose I should give my guards permission to burn or
club you into submission to me .. ." She tried to make it sound like a
threat, but it wasn't, and Rosha knew it. Ligne sighed. "But, of
course, I couldn't do that, any more than I could beat the spirit out
of one of my falcons. Would you like to visit the falcons again,
Rosha? Would you like to have fellowship with your brothers under the
hood?"
Rosha shrugged. It meant nothing to him. He heard Ligne summon a
guard and soon felt a tug on the chain that encircled his chest. That
meant he was to move forward. Rosha obeyed without a struggle waiting
patiently.
The mews where the royal falcons were kept contrasted sharply with the
giant aviary that stood on the roof nearby. Where the floor of the
aviary was lined with white dung, the floor of the mews was spotless.
While the aviary rocked with the constant chaotic screeching and
fluttering of brilliantly plumed birds from exotic jungle climes, the
mews was as silent as a cliff. Its gray and brown occupants stood on
their perches at quiet, sightless attention, like feathered soldiers
awaiting orders to charge. Maliff, the falconer, shuffled from bird to
bird, giving vigilant attention to each scrape of a talon or fluffing
of wings.
"Hushhh .. ." Maliff whispered softly. "Hush now. Be cam." His
voice soothed his feathery charges. "You'll see. You'll get some fine
red chunks of dinner soon, when my boy crimbs back up from the
kitchen." The birds seemed satisfied fay his words. They were not
bothered by Maliff s inability to pronouce the middle consonant of his
own name.
The falconer heard the wicket gate open behind him and scowled. "Took
you long enough!"
"Just what do you mean by that?" Ligne snapped, and Maliff whipped
around to apologize to his Queen.
"My Rady! I had no idea! I thought it was my boy fetching me some
broody meat for my far cons
Ligne had already dismissed the falconer from her mind,
and was strolling down the line of birds as if reviewing a perfectly
disciplined regiment. "Here, Rosha," she said to the young captive
who'd been dragged in behind her by a guard. "How orderly, how
obedient your winged brothers are. They wait only for my command." She
reached forward to stroke a tercel.
"Stop," Maliff said without thinking, and won himself a cold hard
look.
"What?" Ligne asked icily.
"Prease, my Rady, they don' trike to be stroked," he said bravely.
"They are my birds, Maliff, and I'll touch them if I choose!"
"Yes, my Rady." The falconer nodded. "Onry I must warn " he said
involuntarily as she reached out to the peregrin again.
"I don't recall giving you or anyone else permission to instruct me,
Maliff!"
"Of course not, my Rady, and I'm not, but you did keep me on as
caretaker of these rovery birds, and I'm aiming to do the best job
possibre. Ret one ride on your fist, but don't stroke him. You'rr put
him off if you do rike that."
Ligne leaned on the perch of a young eyas and propped her head on her
hand. The eyas scraped down to the other end of the bar. "You're just
full of instructions, aren't you? Well, tell me then, oh mighty
trainer of the hunting bird, how do I get this one to obey me?" She
jerked her head to the hooded Rosha. Maliff averted his eyes from the
hood. He'd made it himself, but he hadn't enjoyed the chore.
"That's a man, not a far con he muttered softly.
"I know that!" Ligne exploded, and the room's occupants responded with
fluttering and flapping.
"Hush! Hush now!" Maliff soothed and the commotion subsided. Ligne
was gazing at him angrily, and he looked away as he explained, "I was
hushing my charges, my Rady. Not you."
"Well?"
"If he were a bird, I'd free his wings and train him to my fist. But I
fear if you were to loose this one, he'd kill you sure as gord. You'd
be safer if you ret him fry free. That's Mariffs advice."
Ligne gazed intently at him for a moment, translating
Tie Wizard in Waiting his words. Then she shook her head and dismissed
him once again from her mind. "I refuse to listen to a man who can't
even pronounce his own name. Tosha, this bird-minded fool has a
clumsier tongue even than you!" The young warrior's muscles corded
across his back as he strained relfex-ively at his bonds.
Ligne noticed, and chuckled. "Got you again, didn't I. A sure means of
angering you at will mention your stammering speech." Rosha jerked
toward her but was stopped short by the length of his chains. Ligne
had turned her back on him, and reached for a leather glove that hung
on a peg above her head. "I'll take this one," she told Maliff as she
slipped the glove over her right hand, motioning toward the untrained
eyas whose perch she had disturbed.
"He's not furry trained yet, can't I get you "
"Enough!" Ligne shouted, and Maliff stepped back submissively and let
her have her way. She unwrapped the thong that tethered the eyas to
its perch, then touched its underbelly with her gloved hand. Blindly
it climbed aboard, and the Queen spun around and stalked out of the
mews into the bright sunlight of the castle's roof.
"Prease," Maliff called after her, "don't ret go of that feather rash
rine!" But the woman was gone, and he was speaking only to the backs
of Rosha and of the guard who hurried the youth through the wicket gate
after the Queen. "He'rr fry away .. ." Maliff worried aloud. He
shook his head sadly, and turned back to his silent falcons.
The Imperial House watched as Ligne crossed the few steps to the outer
door of the aviary and shouldered her way inside it. Its hot rage at
this dull, ignorant Queen with, her total disregard for its feelings
had faded to a cold distaste for her. The House didn't mind her
cruelty it could be quite cruel itself. Nor was it particularly
offended by her arrogance. It expected such foolishness from human
monarchs. It was just that she was so shockingly rude! The Imperial
House had not yet admitted that no one could understand it. Rather, it
felt sure it was being snubbed.
At the moment, however, it was more concerned with thinning the
population of the cursed aviary than anything else. Its halls felt a
great draft of mirth at the welcome sight of a falcon being carried
into that gigantic cage.
It watched, too, as Rosha was pushed inside the outer door behind
Ligne. The guard followed them in, closed the outer door behind them,
then all three stepped through the inner door into the aviary proper.
The House listened as Ligne trilled to the anxious bird on her fist in
the syrupy singsong of baby talk: "Ho ho, you know where are you,
birdie? In the midst of a hundred other little birdies who are scared
to death of you. Yes, they are. You could crush each one of these
little darlings in your bad old claws, you know that? Ah, but you
can't, can you, birdie? Because you're like Rosha here, birdie you
can't see a thing, and I've got a tight hold on your leash. Would you
like me to free you, birdie?" The falcon slapped its wings tentatively
as if in answer, and Ligne laughed harshly. "You would, would you? Not
a chance!" She aimed this last at Rosha, who stood passively where his
guard had positioned him.
"There you are, my Lady, I've been looking all over for you." Kherda
came walking toward them from the interior entrance, herding a pair of
arrogant peacocks before him.
"What is it now?" Ligne complained, wrapping another loop of the leash
around her left hand.
"Maythorm has returned from Pleclypsa with a report on that play that
"
"Who's Maythorm?" Ligne demanded testily. "Maythorm is a member of
your court, my Lady surely you remember him? Lord of Entertainments?
Smells of lilac?"
"Go on," she sighed. She began to stroke the falcon absently. It
stepped away from the offending hand, but she paid no notice. When the
hand continued stroking, the hooded bird fluffed its feathers and
carefully stepped back to its original position on the leather glove,
settling there to endure this torture stoically.
"Maythorm has returned from Pleclypsa with a report on that play that
"
"What play?" Ligne snapped, turning her eyes back to the bird.
Kherda forced an indulgent smile onto his aging features. He'd made it
a practice lately to avoid mirrors. The tensions and irritations
thrust upon him by this unappreciative tart of a Queen had ravaged his
face with premature wrinkles. Nevertheless, he kept on smiling , ..
"There were reports of a play rather complimentary toward yourself
being performed in the southern reaches .. ."
"Play? Is Pelmen in on this?" she demanded, arching an eyebrow.
"According to Maythorm's confused accounts, the play is performed by
Pelmen the Player's old company, but that "
"I want him arrested! I want him brought here, immediately, to stand
trial for high crimes against the state!" Ligne's pretty face was red,
her lips were curled into a savage snarl.
The Imperial House watched this conversation with interest. It watched
the uneasy movement of the alarmed falcon from one end of the Queen's
glove to the other. It noted the way the woman's hand alternately
clenched and released the loop of leather bound to the falcon's fesses,
which held the predator in check. It also watched with a consuming
hatred the swoops and dives and twirls of that cursed two-toned
warbler; that bird had just spattered the pavements again, and its song
seemed to the House to be a trill of mocking laughter.
Kherda held his tongue in check by clamping it between his teeth. He
had become a master of that art. He smiled again with exaggerated
graciousness, and replied, "I think the Queen will remember that this
Pelmen is firmly installed in a position of power as the Prophet of
Lamath. It would seem most ridiculous for a man in his " Kherda broke
off, for Ligne had turned her back on him, and was looking with
suspicion at Rosha. The young warrior was smirking to himself, he
thought, unaware that he held Ligne's irritated attention.
"You know something we should know?" she demanded, and Rosha closed
his mouth and banished his mirth. "I've seen that stony expression too
often lately!" Ligne shrilled and she lashed a foot viciously into his
bare shin. Rosha winced briefly at the unexpected pain but didn't
budge from his place by the cage wall. That mask of rock settled
immediately back onto his features.
"Talk to me! I demand that you speak! I'll rip that expression off
you .. ." Ligne tore off the leather hood that covered the head of her
falcon, and would have thrust the frightened bird into Rosha's face had
not Kherda and Rosha's guard caught her by the shoulders and pulled her
off.
My Lady! Ligne, please! Control yourself," Kherda shouted as the
woman cursed him and struggled to get free. The falcon fluttered
around their heads, beating its wings to keep from falling, while
surveying for the first time the rainbow-feathered feast that filled
the aviary. Maliff had only lately trained him to the lure, and here
was live meat wherever he turned his head none of it further than
twenty strong beats of his wings.
The Imperial House watched all this with fascination.
The Queen at last succeeded in controlling her own temper and turned
her attention to controlling the falcon. She'd kept a tight rein on
its leash primarily because she'd clenched both fists in her rage. Now
she looped it again around her left wrist and spoke soothingly into its
ears. When she turned her face back up to the others, her lips wore a
flippant grin. "I don't know why I let myself get so angry when you
won't speak to me," she told Rosha. "Why should I want to listen to
you maul the language, stumble over every word, stutter and stammer
through the simplest of spec lies
The guard groaned inwardly as he struggled to restrain Rosha's
automatic reaction. This was the hardest part of his job holding the
powerful warrior in check when Ligne was in the mood to bait him.
Kherda took a deep breath. "My Lady, if you could leave the lad for
just a moment, perhaps we could deal with this play business and I
could then leave you to your game." Kherda ignored Ligne's sharp look,
continuing blithely, "Of course, Maythorm always tends to exaggerate,
and he seems rather more addled after this last trip than any
previously still, he swears loudly that this play is a masterpiece. The
fact that this troupe was at one time connected with Pelmen may be
dismissed as entirely coincidental. In my analysis, this event holds
no danger whatever. Rather, it would indicate that these players are
attempting to win their way back into court favor which implies public
acceptance of your legitimacy as ruler. Perhaps you would like for me
to issue tham an invitation to court?"
Ligne was still gazing at him when he finished. Her sapphire eyes made
no secret of her annoyance. "Must you bother me with such petty
details? Can't you invite this troupe by yourself?" She turned her
back on the Prime Minister, effectively dismissing him. Kherda
stiffened, and turned his own back on her.
"Kherda," she said sharply, and he froze. "What are we going to do
with this pretty young warrior who can't seem to talk?" Ligne chuckled
at Rosha's strugglings to get free. It was easy to see that he longed
to get his bound hands loose and to wrap them around her throat.
"You know very well what I think you should do with him!" Kherda
snarled.
"That's right. You want to lock him away, don't you, so that I can't
look at him? You'd prefer me to get my mind back on affairs of state,
wouldn't you? Well remember, Kherda, I am the state now " She paused
and touched Rosha's shoulder affectionately. " and this is one affair
I can handle all by myself."
"So you say," Kherda snorted, "but I've yet to see him in your bed "
Kherda swallowed the rest of his statement, shocked that he would allow
himself to be so dangerously familiar.
Ligne's eyes were on his once more, and Kherda braced himself for the
lash of her tongue. Remarkably, it didn't come. Ligne was smiling
instead a girlish, almost modest smile. "Nor will you, when he finally
is," she said, and she raised her eyebrows flirtatiously. Kherda would
have preferred the tongue-lashing. She'd just revealed how much she
cared for this savage young captive and such affection was dangerous.
"My Lady, the boy's a killer! He is a consort to your rival, and a
known follower of your enemy Pelmen. Lock him away at once, before he
wriggles free and strikes you down."
"Lock him away, Kherda?" Ligne snarled. "Lock him away in my dungeon,
so that he can be stolen away in the night, as was my rival? I never
have gotten a clear explanation of how that happened, Kherda, Do you
have any idea?" Ligne advanced on him menacingly, keeping her voice
low to keep Rosha from guessing what had happened to his love. Kherda
stepped backward, nearly tripping over the back of a curious peacock
that craned its head around
9J
his knees for a look at the angry Queen. "As to Pelmert, you say he's
far away, in Lamath, no longer any threat. Is that true, Kherda? Do
you know that, for certain? Or are you trying to lull me into a false
sense of security, plotting against me, just as you once plotted with
me?"
"My Lady, you know the measure of my loyalty. I've supported you in
every way "
"See that you continue, Kherda! And keep your pointed little nose out
of matters that don't concern you!" "Yes, my Lady." He nodded
vigorously. "Now get out of my aviary!" she screamed, and he whipped
around to obey. He didn't leave very quickly, however. He knew Ligne
well, and had learned always to expect further orders after being
abruptly dismissed from her presence. She acted now true to form.
"Kherda," she yelled, and he turned back to face her. "Anybody in that
troupe any good?"
"Ah ... I believe ... the heavy player Gerrid, Gerrig, something like
that .. ."
"Gerrig, really?" Ligne said, pleased. "I remember him from Shadows
of a Night at Sea yes, he will do nicely. Summon his troupe to
court."
"Then you are interested?" Kherda growled. "Of course I'm interested.
Who wouldn't be intrigued by a masterpiece based on oneself? After
all, Kherda I'm only human. Besides, it will certainly be an
improvement to listen to someone who can talk without gagging on his
own stumbling tongue."
Ligne jumped at the bellow of rage behind her, and spun to see Rosha
hurtling blindly in her direction. Her jibe had caught the guard by
surprise. Rosha had jerked the chain leash free from the soldier's
hand and now aimed his hooded head like a battering ram toward the
sound of Ligne's voice. She threw herself out of his path, banging her
elbow on the cage bars and crying out in pain. Rosha's head plowed
into the gut of the wide-eyed Prime Minister, knocking him backward,
and both of them landed in a heap on the back of the squawking peacock,
who suddenly had occasion to rue its own curiosity.
There was a brief whisper of pulsing wings as a brown form shot
skyward, then a shriek and a fluttering of colorful feathers. Ligne
gasped and looked at her hand in disbe Tie Wizard tn Waiting lief the
falcon was no longer bound to her. "Kherda!" she screamed. "Do
something!"
But Kherda was locked in a desperate struggle with an aroused peacock,
who was intent on clawing his tired face to ribbons. He did not see
the brilliant wave of birds flock first to one side of the cage and
then to the other to avoid the darting and swooping of the falcon. He
did not see the lightning-quick flash of that hunter as it caught and
crushed a second exotic show bird, then a third, and a fourth. The
falcon was only doing what it had been trained to do and doing it very
well.
Three floors below, Maythorm happened to be walking down a hallway when
a cold, whistling wind hit him in the face. The Lord of Entertainments
immediately broke into a cold sweat, and dashed back to his sumptuous
apartment. It had been a very curious week, altogether. Maythorm
resolved not to come out of his room again until it was over.
After a brief taste of spring, a sudden sleet storm hit Pleclypsa,
coating everything with a thin layer of sheet ice. The troupe huddled
together for warmth in Gerrig's wagon, which still stood parked behind
the theatre. Gerrig's temper seemed to rise with every drop in
temperature. "When are you going to wipe that silly greasepaint off
your face?" he growled at Pelmen.
Pelmen turned his head slightly to study his reflection in Gerrig's
large mirror. "When it's time," he said quietly.
"I think it's time now!" Gerrig snapped. "You look like a fool!"
Pelmen smiled. "That's the idea, isn't it?"
"You put that stuff on to hide your identity from Ligne, didn't you?
Well it's certain we won't make it to the court this year, so do us all
a favor and clean it off." He seemed enormously aggravated.
"Fm not as certain of that as you seem to be," Pelmen calmly replied.
"We did win the Festival, after all in addition to a public apology
from the Festival organizers."
"So what?" Danyilyn snorted. "Maythorm didn't see us win it! As far
as he's concerned, our play belongs to Eldroph-Pitzel and Berliath!"
"They've not received any court invitation as yet .. ."
"How do you know?" Gerrig muttered. "We've been shut up in here all
day."
"The sleet probably delayed the blue-flyer," said Danyilyn morosely and
she leaned back on her couch and gazed at the ceiling. The paint was
peeling. It seemed a fitting comment on their recent fortunes.
"That's possible." Pelmen nodded. He glanced down to the far end of
the wagon where the troupe's smallest member played earnestly on the
floor. "Coralai," he called, "how's your mother?"
"She's sick," the child answered. She didn't miss a beat in the game
she played, and her solemn expression never changed.
"Is she not feeling any better?"
"Nope."
"Perhaps I'll visit her," Pelmen announced as he stood up.
"Don't slip," Danyilyn warned. "That ice is wicked."
Pelmen was nodding at her as he opened the wagon door. He didn't see
the shivering messenger beyond it until the door caught the man in the
chest, skating him backward across the ice and down. Pelmen hustled
out of the wagon and moved gingerly over to offer nun a hand. The
messenger grabbed it too vigorously, and Pelrnen skidded down beside
him. The white-faced player laughed aloud and suggested, "Maybe we'd
better not help each other up." After a few moments of slipping and
sliding, they both struggled through the door of the wagon to safety.
The group crowded around expectantly, for the man wore the livery of
Minlaf-Khen, the premier organizer of the Winter Festival.
"Well?" Gerrig demanded after a moment. The messenger shivered so
hard that he couldn't get a word past his teeth. "You have a message?"
the big actor prodded. "What is it?"
"Give him a chance, Gerrig," Yona Parmi scolded. "Can't you see he's
freezing?"
"Just nod yes or no. You've a message from Minlaf-Khen?" The
messenger nodded. "It must be important .. ." The man nodded again.
"Does it have to do with the court?" The messenger nodded once again,
and Gerrig could no longer contain himself. He seized the fellow by
the collar and hoisted him into the air. "What is it, man?"
"Put him down," Pelmen ordered, and Gerrig set the man back on his
feet.
"Minlaf-Khen received a flyer from the Queen," the man chattered,
determined to deliver his news before Gerrig assaulted him again.
"You've been asked to appear at the Imperial Court."
The messenger was quite unprepared for the ensuing commotion. Shrieks
of surprised joy greeted his words, and he found himself the target of
another of Gerrig's assaults; the bearded player engulfed him in a
massive bear bug, then dropped him on the floor and raced on to embrace
Danyilyn, Yona Parmi and the others in turn. Now ignored, the
messenger crawled to a corner of the carriage and huddled there,
awaiting a safe route to the door. He would spend no longer with this
crazed assembly than he had to.
Yona Parmi grinned widely, gasping for the breath Gerrig had squeezed
from his lungs, as he glanced around at the celebration. His smile
faded when he caught a glimpse of Pelmen's face. Despite its clownish
paint, the expression there could not have been more solemn. Yona
Parmi followed Pelmen's gaze to the dancing form of Coralai, who
rejoiced with the rest. He slipped over to his friend's side. "You
should be pleased," he muttered quietly. "You've done it."
"No, Parmi," Pelmen responded. "I've only begun it." Then he turned
to look Yona in the eye. "We'll need to leave Coralai and Sherina
here. Sherina's too sick to travel .. ." He looked back at Coralai.
".. . And the court's no place for a child."
"I'd sooner fight a bear than be the bearer of that news." Yona Parmi
smiled sardonically. Coralai could be a terror when aroused. "But
come don't you feel at least some joy in this accomplishment? After
all, you've launched your plan."
"I've launched it, Yona. But what have I launched us toward?"
"Evidently, to the court of the Queen." Yona Parmi shrugged.
"The Imperial House." Pelmen nodded, his eyes and his thoughts focused
somewhere far away. "Within the walls."
"And what do we do once we're there?"
Pelmen looked over at him, allowing him a hint of a smile. "You never
give up, do you?"
"I haven't yet." Yona Parmi smiled back.
The springtime sun returned the next day, bringing with it a glorious
thaw that set every heart in the troupe singing all, save the littlest
one. By late afternoon the train of wooden wagons had departed for the
north, leaving a disappointed little girl and her relieved mother
behind. Sherina knew nothing of Pelmen's purpose and still less of his
unusual powers, but she'd known him long enough to be sensitive to his
moods. This trip to court was far more than it appeared to be on the
surface. She felt perfectly happy to be left out of it.
CHAPTER SIX
A Pair of Rogues
IT WAS EASY to pretend she was flying. Bronwynn's long golden-brown
hair, newly washed in a chill stream fed by the melting snow, had dried
in the flying wind. Now it fanned out behind her like the plumes of a
peacock, as her mount careened through thickets and past naked trees,
keeping pace with a pack of racing rogues. Admon Faye's cutthroats
were extravagant riders, daring disaster just to make riding fun. They
formed no orderly columns, picked no single best path, felt no
compunction at breaking rank. For there was no rank. Admon Faye's
band attacked the forest before it in an unending cavalry charge, each
man abreast of every other. Ducking tree limbs, jumping hedges, they
threatened a hundred collisions every day, yet miraculously their
horses never seemed to falter or brush flanks.
Bronwynn, no longer in bonds and perfectly free to fall behind and be
lost if she so chose, had to ride her hardest to keep up. She found
the experience exhilarating and would have thrown back her royal head
and screamed in excitement were it not for the treacherous, onrushing
trees that demanded her constant attention.
They had hit the snow line days ago, and the wet, white blanket had
deepened now to a layer a half a foot thick. It deadened the sound of
five hundred pounding hooves, giving emphasis to the weird crackling of
scores of cold-deadened twigs, as horses and riders shattered branches
aside.
Browynn had given up tracing their pattern of flight, for patterns were
anathema to Admon Faye, and he followed none. They rode northeast one
day and due west the next, stopping one day at noon, the next at dusk,
and the next not until long after midnight. Wherever they stopped,
however, she could be sure of three things: a campsite would appear out
of nowhere; she would be ordered to build a fire; then for the rest of
the night she would be the butt of a torrent of abusive jokes. Admon
Faye roared with the rest of them at their nightly critiques of her
slender anatomy, adding his own lewd comments to those of his band. But
he let no one touch her. Only one man had tried, and he now wore his
arm in a sling. The chief slaver did not rule this band by guile or
smiles or charisma. He ruled it by force, powered by simple, raw
cruelty.
Bronwynn had come to realize that it was that cruelty which insured his
protection of her. It wasn't that he didn't want her to be abused. It
was rather that she was his private preserve no one could torment her
but him.
And torment her he did. A slap here a boot in the backside there an
insidious pinch just as she was dropping off to sleep these were daily
occurrences. And try as she might, she couldn't force herself to grow
accustomed to such humiliation. Sometimes she screamed, sometimes she
cursed, but always with the same result. Admon Faye laughed.
"Get used to it, girl. You surely can't believe things will be any
different when you're the Queen, and I'm your Prime Minister." Then
his eyes would freeze, and his face would twist still further as he'd
mutter, "I pulled you out of that hole, little girl. Your life belongs
to me. Forget that, and you can forget your next breath as well, for
I'll garrote you myself." His threats never failed to terrorize her.
His frigid eyes and loathsome face plagued her dreams each night.
But the wind and the flying snow and the cracking brush had washed out
of her mind all thoughts not directly tied to the moment She couldn't
tell how far they'd come since dawn, nor what direction they travelled.
She only knew that she was riding expertly with a troop of experts, and
was thrilled by that recognition. The smells of horse and of new
leather filled her with a strange sense of power. A masculine feeling?
she'd wondered briefly, then quickly discarded the idea. She was no
less a woman because she rode with brigands through the snow and cold.
Perhaps, indeed, she was more of one. And certainly Ligne herself had
proved that a hunger for power was not a masculine preserve. Bronwynn
admitted to herself a growing compulsion within. She was starting to
want to be Queen.
A cry went up from the left flank of the charging brigade, at once loud
and indistinct. Then, with a powerful leap, her horse cleared a large
bush, and she understood for herself. For the second time in her life,
Bronwynn rode through the enchanting fields of Ngandib-Mar.
Not that she recognized anything. Pelmen had brought her past this
place only the spring before, but that had been another wild ride, and
mostly under the cover of night. Besides, the numbing uniformity of
the snowy counterpane at their feet erased all memory of spring
landmarks.
Freed now from all obstructing trees, the troop of riders took on the
semblance at least of an organized band. The flanks dropped off and
the center pushed forward to form a vanguard. Bronwynn whipped her
horse gratuitously as it bounded along a few yards to the rear and left
of Admon Faye. Before her were the many hills and valleys of the heart
of Ngandib-Mat, but she saw the men were wheeling away from that
heartland, turning eastward toward the line of high, stony cliffs that
she knew formed this face of the Spinal Range. They were riding, then,
to Westmouth the field where her father had died.
On Westmouth before Dragonsgate, her father had led the grand Golden
Army to an equally grand defeat. Somewhere under the melting snow lay
Talith's unburied bones. That thought chased through the young woman's
attention, but she gave it no warm, sad welcome. She dismissed it. Her
relationship with her father had never been good, and his death had
resulted directly from his own foolish arrogance and his greed.
Bronwynn was much more concerned with where they were travelling now,
and why.
They stopped only once to rest their horses on the banks of a small
stream that curled through the colorless countryside. Then they were
off again, a wedge of racing riders several hundreds of yards wide,
plowing up plumes of snow in their wake. The sun was setting back of
her left shoulder, turning the hilly horizon a glorious magenta, before
they dipped down at last into the wide flat plain that was West-mouth,
and she saw where they were going. Some miles beyond stood a single
castle, its gray walls painted a dull orange by the setting sun.
She urged her exhausted mount forward, drawing abreast of Admon Faye
once again, and shouted: "Whose is it?"
"It's a merchant manor," the slaver called back. "It belongs to the
family of Ognadzu. It once was the home of Tohn mod Neelis, but now
it's ruled by his cousin."
"Who's his cousin?" Bronwynn yelled, her eyes watering in the whipping
wind.
"Flayh," Admon Faye answered, and it seemed to Bronwynn that for the
first time today she finally felt the cold. She had heard much about
Flayh, and in her mind his name had long been linked with that of Admon
Faye as a foremost agent of wickedness and villainy. As they galloped
across that last stretch of flat space that separated them from the
castle, Bronwynn felt very much the small girl, a long, long way from
home.
The castle was not an impressive edifice. Its tallest tower rose
barely forty feet above the ground. It was from this spire that Pezi
spied the large group of approaching riders. He had been taking his
evening constitutional after a heavy dinner his one concession to the
need for diminishing his blubbery bulk. His stringent exercise program
called for his climbing the steps to this rooftop one time, resting
several minutes to get his breath back, then returning slowly to the
castle floor. On this particular occasion, however, he pushed himself
into a trot on his way down, crying "Attackers from the south!" His
cry stirred tremendous activity in a brief space of time, and Pezi felt
rather proud of himself as he waddled hurriedly toward the gate. The
excitement ceased as quickly as it began, however, when the sharp-eyed
warrior who was officially on watch recognized that it was Admon Faye's
band of outlaws, and shouted the information down.
Pezi was a bit embarrassed and he didn't look at the faces of those
castle dwellers who walked past him on their way back to their places.
He heard several snickers behind him, and his visage clouded. He
broadened his stance before the gate no easy task, given the stubbiness
of his pudgy legs and shouted, "Open up!" to the two men who operated
the winches that raised the portcullis.
From their vantage point atop the wall, they could see the
fast-approaching cloud of Admon Faye's crazed riders, who had targeted
on the gate and now rode for it five abreast. They could also see the
petulant figure of the unpopular Pezi, standing directly in the path of
the incoming riders. They smiled at one another gleefully, and opened
the gate .. .
"What happened?" the fat little merchant asked plaintively when he
awoke several minutes later. His comment drew raucous laughter from
those gathered around. He opened his eyes and rolled his head to the
side, to find he was lying on a table in the great hall. Scattered
around the room were outlaws and slavers guzzling ale and leering at
the serving girls. Suddenly a giant form blocked his view, and he
followed it up to look into the repugnant face of Admon Faye. Pezi
winced at the sight.
"Well now. Awake, are you, Pezi? Very brave of you, lad, to attempt
to hold off our charge that way. Bit foolhardy, however, to stand
alone against a hundred and more riders. I trust you'll forgive my
clubbing you aside, but I thought you might prefer a split noggin to
the hooves of half a hundred horses on your belly."
Those standing near enough to hear the slaver guffawed at that, and
Admon Faye joined in lustily. Pezi lay back and closed his eyes,
wishing he were somewhere else. He raised a tentative hand to his
forehead and found it was well lumpy.
"No, lad, you can't laze around on the tables like that!" Admon Faye
grabbed the cloth of Pezi's blue and lime shirt and hoisted him into
the air. "Stand up, Pezi, steady on you feet! You want to start a
rumor that the merchants of Ognadzu are a pack of drunks?" The slaver
set the chubby merchant on the floor, but Pezi found standing anything
but steady. "Bit addled, still?" the slaver asked solicitiously. "A
little ale might help," he offered and he scooped a tan fcard off the
table. Pezi reached for it woozily, but Admon Faye wasn't handing it
to him. Instead, he upended the tankard over Pezi's head, and the
merchant's eyes shot open in cold shock. Boisterous cheers welcomed
the sight, and Admon Faye collapsed snickering onto a bench.
Pezi wiped some of the liquid out of his eyes, and glanced around to
find the swiftest route of escape. He started down the aisle, but
Admon Faye shot a booted foot out to block him between the benches.
"Can't let you run off, Pezi. These good people tell me you're the man
in charge."
"Flayh rules in this castle, not me," Pezi grumbled and he turned to
try to escape in the other direction. Admon Faye glanced at one of his
cohorts, and the man nodded and straddled the aisle at the other end of
the row. Pezi understood. He sat across from Admon Faye, leaned back
on the table behind him, and propped his aching head in his hand.
"That's the problem, my friend," the slaver continued. "Where is
Flayh? I've ridden a long way to meet with him. Is this how he greets
his guests?"
"Uncle Flayh comes and goes as he chooses, and he expects his guests to
do the same. Would it be too much to ask to let me do that, as
well?"
"In a moment, Pezi. In a moment. Surely Flayh is here in the castle
somewhere?"
"Surely he is," Pezi agreed, "but I couldn't tell you where. Uncle
Flayh is ... different, lately."
"Ah yes, I'd heard something about that. A power shaper now, is he?"
Pezi raised his eyes knowingly and finally met Admon Faye's amused gaze
head on. "Scoff if you choose, but he is" Pezi looked around to see
who might be listening, then leaned across and spoke earnestly: "And
he's a dangerous one."
Admon Faye leaned forward too, thrusting his face down into Pezi's.
"I'm pleased to hear it. I trust dangerous people. They don't fold up
while defending your flanks." Pezi scooted back on his seat,
discomfited. Admon Faye let a lazy smile spread across his features
and he, too, sat back. But his eyes never left Pezi's, and the
merchant felt that gaze would sizzle right through him. "What about
you, Pezi? Are you a dangerous man?"
Pezi shifted on his balloonlike bottom. "I I carry my weight " He
hadn't intended that to be funny, but those who ringed him found it
hilarious. "I can handle myself!" he shouted, and the tone of his
voice silenced his mockers. Pezi wasn't lying. Perhaps he was a bit
chunky and certainly he didn't move with the grace of a wild buck, but
he fought like an angry boar when cornered and he was feeling very much
cornered at the moment. Pezi felt for the pommel of his dagger and
snarled, "I can be as cruel as the next man, should the need arise."
"Can you now?" Admon Faye asked quietly. "Yes, I see a bit of fire in
your pudding face at that. Then are you saying I can trust you, Pezi?
Because I don't think much of that hand upon your dagger."
Pezi thought a moment, then dropped his hand to his side.
"Good," said Admon Faye. "I like that. A moment of hesitation to show
spirit then a demonstration of reasoned caution. Very good, Pezi.
Perhaps we can work together." Admon Faye waved a hand at the man who
guarded the aisle, and the fellow went back to join his mates. Pezi
stood up, hitched his pants, and started to leave. "Bring me the
girl," Admon Faye shouted behind him. Pezi didn't look back, but
stalked straight for the door. It opened before he reached it, and two
beefy rogues pushed a woman into the hall. It wasn't until they
collided that they recognized each other.
"Pezi!" Bronwynn snarled.
"Princess?" Pezi replied, and he quickly stepped back, for Bronwynn's
face registered a long-harbored rage.
"You scum!" she shrilled, and she buried her balled right fist three
inches into his stomach. Bronwynn had been saving this up for a long
time and so, without hesitation, she buried her left fist in the same
spot. Pezi doubled over, the wind knocked out of him. He could hear
that, once again, his antics had the whole hall hooting. "You're the
one who got me into all this mess!" the girl screamed in his face, and
she boxed first his right ear, then his left.
"Come on, Pezi," Admon Faye cheered. "Show us your renowned fighting
spirit."
"You .. . mudgecurdle!" Bronwynn spat into his ringing ears. "You're
nothing but a mudgecurdle!"
The description was accurate enough. A mudgecurdle was a small animal
who appeared to be the mirror image of a cute, cuddly bunny until a
person tried to pick one up. Then it sprayed a double-barrelled dose
of potent liquid odor so offensive it could render a person senseless
in a matter of minutes. The term had entered common usage long ago as
an epithet for a traitor. Certainly Pezi had proved himself such when,
with Ligne's help, he'd kidnapped Bronwynn from her father's castle so
many months before. Ever since that day, Bronwynn's life had been a
series of escapes from one danger into another. Except for a few
wonderful weeks she'd spent in Lamath as the initiate of Pelmen the
Prophet and the companion of Rosha mod Dorlyth, Pezi's action had
caused her nothing but grief. During those eventful months she'd
learned something about self-defense, and Admon Faye's abuse had helped
sharpen those skills and given her a powerful thirst for revenge. Now
she put every trick she'd learned into action, kneeing Pezi in the ribs
and cracking his balding pate with her knuckles.
These harsh slave-traders loved nothing better than a fight after
dinner, and a circle rapidly formed around the two combatants. Benches
were overturned and tankards kicked aside, as spectators scrambled for
a good view. The eVerpresent dogs who made the straw-covered floor of
this hall their home all barked merrily, thoroughly enjoying the
excitement though not understanding its cause. No one noticed, then,
when a lean, graying hound bounded through the open door, past the
crowd, and up onto one of the tables.
"Is this the way you treat the manor of your host?" The voice seemed
to come from everywhere at once, and the fighting stopped immediately.
All eyes turned to the center of the room. There, atop a table, stood
Flayh, formerly a merchant of Lamath, now a power shaper resplendent in
a : white robe of fish-satin, and a red cloak of the same pre-vTCious
material. He seemed to glow with an eerie iridescence a bluish aura
outlined his body against the darkness
So devastating was his entrance that no one dared to speak for several
seconds. Then there was the casual clapping of a single pair of hands,
followed by a low chuckle. Admon Faye was amused. "Very good, Flayh.
Most impressive."
"You were asking for me previously, slaver better said, you demanded my
presence. Am I one of your slaves, Admon Faye, to come running at your
command?" Flayh scowled, and threw his red cloak wide. "I am Flayh
the power shaper The words rang around the walls of the room, and
echoed off the high ceiling.
Admon Faye glanced around with studied calm. "Pity," he said after a
moment. "I'd expected a thunderclap after such a declaration."
Flayh's arms dropped slowly to his sides, and he smiled. "I'm working
on that. And with the progress I'm making, I expect to have it
soon."
"Good, good," the slaver encouraged. "Since we've gotten that out of
the way, can we get down to business? I do believe that it was you who
summoned me here, and not the other way around. Or would you prefer to
posture some more beforehand?"
Those standing next to Admon Faye saw him jerk slightly, then watched
as his jaw clenched and his fingers formed into fists. Flayh was
smiling grimly, his eyes locked into those of the slaver. There was
silence in the hall until Flayh's body went slack, and Admon Faye gave
a great sigh. Flayh had been attempting to draw fear out of the ugly
slaver. He'd failed but just barely.
"So," the power shaper said quietly.
Admon Faye wiped his sweating forehead. "So," he agreed. In that
contest a mutual respect had formed between the two men. Ironically,
no one else in the room really understood what had happened.
"You have buried your fears deep, Admon Faye. I couldn't pull them to
the surface. Quite."
"And you, Lord Flayh, are much more than an aging merchant." Flayh
noted with approval the slaver's respectful mode of address. Admon
Faye had a host of negative qualities, Flayh thought to himself, but
stupidity wasn't one of them.
The thought brought Pezi to Flayh's mind. "Nephew, since you seem to
be momentarily out of trouble, why don't you seize the opportunity and
go change your suit?" Though asked as a question, Pezi recognized
Flayh's statement was a command. Guarding his stomach from Bronwynn,
he stepped around the girl and out of the room. Flayh shrugged at
Admon Faye. "Pezi's making a single-handed attempt to give all
merchants a reputation for slob-bishness. I hope he's at least amused
you."
"Oh, that he has," the slaver chuckled, and he stalked across the room
to sit on a bench at Flayh's table. The power shaper climbed down to
join him. Admon Faye noticed with surprise Flayh's small stature, but
immediately put the thought from his mind. He had learned long ago
that height is not the measure of a man particularly if he's a
sorcerer. "I notice you aren't wearing the colors of your house ..
."
"Indeed, I've abandoned the blue and lime of Ognadzu except for state
occasions. This feels more fitting to my individual tastes." Flayh
raised his hand and a servant far across the room scrambled toward the
kitchen.
"And yet you continue to call yourself a merchant .. ."
"Of course. You're a rogue and a brigand and a cutthroat, yet you
remain a businessman throughout. There's nothing inconsistent there,
nor is there any in my being both wizard and merchant. These
vocations, these skills they're nothing more than the tools with which
we impress ourselves on the world. So let's bargain together, you and
I. I assume you've brought the girl?"
Admon Faye beckoned toward Bronwynn, and the two nearest slavers seized
her under her arms and hoisted her over the benches to stand at Ftayh's
side. The power shaper turned to look her over thoroughly.
"So this is the famous Bronwynn, daughter of Talith of Chaomonous. I
had hoped to meet you long ago, child, but my fool of a nep kew bungled
the job. You've cost me dearly and, were I less forgiving, you'd
suffer for it. But I've decided to make you Queen instead." Flayh
jerked his head. "Throw her in the pit "
"Ahhh " Admon Faye grunted, raising his hand, and the two slavers who
held Bronwynn froze. Flayh frowned, and Admon Faye smiled. "I've
found that I enjoy the little girl's company. She stays with me or
none of us stay."
"You're giving orders? In my house?"
"The girl is my captive .. ."
"Whom I ordered seized."
"Freed by my skill and knowledge," Admon Faye roared. Then his voice
softened. "What's the matter, Flayh. Don't you trust me?" he asked
sarcastically.
Flayh stared at him. Then he, too, smiled. "Of course I do. It's the
girl I don't trust." He waved an arm. "Take her away," he muttered,
and Bronwynn was escorted out of the hall. Flayh's eyes jerked back to
meet Admon Faye's. "And what if she runs?"
Admon Faye chuckled. "She won't run away. Where would she go?"
"To the castle of Dorlyth mod Karis, of course. The father of her boy
lover."
"Ah yes, you mean Rosha mod Dorlyth." Admon Faye was familiar with the
family. "Actually, I'd rather welcome another encounter with young
Rosha," he said. "His sword left several new scars on my face."
"Why should you care?" Flayh sneered. "Who could possibly tell?"
Admon Faye's eyes flashed. "My respect does not entitle you to comment
on my appearance, Flayh. Mock me, and I'll kill you." The statement
was so frank that Flayh was shocked.
"No one threatens me like "
"No one comments on my features!" Admon Faye snarled, rising to crouch
over the table.
Flayh looked him in the face, then shrugged. "Nor would I. The girl is
your responsibility. But I warn you if she slips away I hold you
accountable, and should anyone seek to rescue her from us, I depend
upon your blade!"
"So be it." The slaver nodded, eager to get on to other matters. "The
plan is simple. I assassinate Ligne, and place Bronwynn on the throne.
I'm doing that for myself Ligne has become as much a bother to me as
she is to you. I understand you will profit from the move as well?"
"I will profit greatly from it. Jagd and the merchant house of Uda
have monopolized all business in Chaomon-ous that mudgecurdle. How
could I have trusted him?"
"You didn't," Admon Faye chuckled. "You thought you could control
him."
"So I did. I assume he's still living at the palace?"
"Under the warm protection of Queen Ligne, yes, or he'd be in his grave
already. He's been cutting into my markets as well as yours. I assume
we'll plan to assassinate Jagd,too?"
"Perhaps that won't be necessary." Flayh muttered. "I've summoned a
meeting of the Council of Elders of the merchant houses. Unless he's
willing to be stripped of his position, he's obliged to attend."
"You think he'll come? Knowing your feelings?"
"What has he to gain by staying sealed up inside the Imperial House?
He'll have to move against me sometime, Admon Faye. The question is
when. I think he'll come."
"Which brings us to something that greatly interests me." Admon Faye
smiled, lacing his fingers together and placing his hands on the table
between them. "What do I get from you?"
"Of course, you've guessed it already, or you wouldn't be here." Flayh
also smiled. "As all of us know, the dragon is
1 dead. That means the slave market has dropped off considerably,
threatening your business." Admon Faye nodded. "It also means that
anyone can pass Dragonsgate, which is certainly threatening ours. We
merchant families have held a monopoly on all trade for so long, I'm
afraid we've become rather used to it. I, for one, don't relish the
idea of
losing that to a new influx of independent traders. Of ; course, we
could field an army to hold the pass against all ; others, but that
would surely rouse the common people :.. against us, and eventually
one of the three lands would send in a larger army to drive us out. Bad
reputation and ? bad business. However " Flayh cleared his throat.
itself.
As the road wound up out of the city, one could see that the center of
town was constructed on a little sliver of land, a peninsula bracketed
by two giant rivers. On the far side of the castle the rivers joined,
rolling as one to the sea many miles beyond. But the arriving players
paid no heed to the rivers. All eyes were fixed on the massive
fortress that rose before them.
It was impossible to tell where the rock stopped and the structure
began, so closely had the castle's walls been married to then: granite
foundation. Though the setting sun did curious things to the color of
the palace, it was clearly not of a single shade of gray. Rather, it
seemed the battlements were of patchwork construction, a testimony to
the long years the castle had been in the building. The tops of its
spires disappeared into a cloak of fog that clung stubbornly to its
ancient stonework. The Imperial House of Chaomonous towered over the
capital, drawing all eyes to itself.
From a distance it appeared to float above the world, unrelated to the
city clustered at its feet. But from the perspective of the
approaching wagons, the castle looked anything but ethereal. It
squatted on its granite slab in heavy silence, brooding over the
confluence of the two rivers like an ill-tempered titian.
Pelmen rode atop the second carriage with Yona Parmi. Flocks of
excited children raced beside them, and he smiled and waved to them,
maintaining the clownish persona he had assumed in Pleclypsa. But
there was no smile behind his white face. The closer they got to the
malevolent presence of the castle that dominated the landscape, the
more sure he grew that some nameless power lurked within its walls. But
what power? And how did it come to be here?
Gerrig's wagon led the parade, moving at a pompous snail's pace. Gerrig
stood on the top of his carriage, waving both hands in the air and
shouting at the startled shoppers who thronged the city's markets.
Gerrig loved nothing so much as acting and at the present he was giving
a lively performance in the role of the conquering hero.
"He'd better sit down before we start up the incline," Parmi mumbled,
"or he'll scatter pieces of his head all over the cobblestones."
"Are you reading my mind again?" Pelmen asked solemnly through a
fixed, forced smile.
"It isn't hard, you know. Your thin mask doesn't hide worry well."
"Is it that obvious
"To one who's watched you for so many years, it's certainly obvious."
Parmi cocked an eyebrow and gazed up at the castle's heights. "Are
there powers here you fear?"
"Perhaps."
"Still not going to tell me why we've come?"
"Why should I cause you to worry, too?"
Yona chuckled nervously. "It's comments like that which make me
worry." He was silent for a moment, then he went on: "Just promise me
this. If you need some help, will you call on me?"
"That I can promise."
"Tine." Yona nodded and leaned out to wave at a meat merchant who
peered at them from under a red and purple
awning. "I must say," he muttered, noting the colors, "it looks as if
the house of Uda has taken over this city entirely."
"Does it matter?" Pelmen wondered.
Parmi regarded him with a curious smile. "By that you mean?"
"Only that despite their colors, one merchant is very like another."
"You've not gone to war with the Council of Elders!" Yona blurted in
astonishment.
"Not exactly. But they may have gone to war with me."
Yona Parmi swiveled back to stare glumly at the rear of Gerrig's
ascending wagon. "Battling dragons seems ridiculous enough. But
battling business?" He heaved a heavy sigh.
"It's all right, my friend," Pelmen said. "Don't worry about it."
"Come now, Pelmen, how can you expect me not to?"
"I can't! That's why I haven't told you any more than I have. One
thing I do hope, however .. ."
"And that is?"
"That you won't call me Pelmen within the walls."
"Ah " Yona grunted, and he slapped his forehead. "Sorry. Henceforth
you're Fallomar in my every thought."
The road tilted up sharply, as it began its zigzag climb of the castle
mount. Gerrig finally took his seat grudgingly, since many new
spectators had just rushed into the streets to watch them. They were
obviously headed for the Imperial House, and these city dwellers were
fascinated by the sight of anyone privileged to pass beyond those
forbidding walls. The climb to the outer gate took ten minutes, and
the two players passed it in silence. Then they were inside. Their
wagons were wheeled away to the massive royal carriage house. Their
animals were led the other direction to a gigantic stable. Then they
were permitted to climb the thirty-foot stairway to enter the main
gate.
They walked through hallways lined with masterpieces of paintings and
sculpture, across carpets of inch-thick pile. The ceiling, twenty feet
above their heads, was inlaid with ".; a continuous mosaic pattern
interweaving blue, green and pink stones and plates of beaten gold. The
halls glowed With a golden shimmer, as those polished plates reflected
the light of long white candles, held in place by brackets of still
more gold. The halls twisted and turned at sharp angles; at the head
of each turn was a pair of slotted windows. These were arrow slits,
and through these apertures the troupe could see the watchful eyes of
the palace guards following their progress intently. This mixing of
luxurious grandeur with raw force was designed to intimidate each
entrant of the castle, and the design suceeded admirably. "This house
could never be taken by force," Pehnen murmured to himself.
He felt a strange sensation then as if the walls had heard his words
and approved. He put the thought out of his mind when he noticed a
curious condensation on the wall. The fitted stones glistened with
reflected candlelight .. .
The other veterans of court performance stalked along grandly, joking
with one another over the awestruck expressions of their newer
companions. "Don't get too excited," Danyilyn complained casually to
one. "This is the front half of the palace for important people. We're
nothing but players, so they'll stick us in the servants quarters in
the back."
For that, Pelmen was very grateful. The further out of Ligne's path,
the less chance of her seeing through his thin disguise. As they
turned another corner, he smiled clownishly and waggled his fingers at
the guards beyond the wall. He thought he saw one pair of eyes smile
back.
Moments later they were standing on the tile floor outside of the
Chamber of Peace. Here they waited for half an hour. A
harried-looking court attendant finally stepped out to greet them, his
hands fluttering as he apologized. "I'm so sorry the Queen isn't here
yet, but she's been delayed by some very important business that can't
be interrupt "
"I'm warning you, Kherda, the next time you hold me up like that when
I'm closing for the kill, I'm going to have someone cut off your hand!"
Pelmen recognized the voice immediately as belonging to Ligne. It was
coming from the spiral staircase at the far end of the hall, and
growing louder as she descended. He edged his way back among other
members of the troupe, positioning himself behind Gerrig's broad
back.
"I don't know why you're complaining," Kherdft protested defensively.
"You won, anyway."
"Much to my dismay," added a little man coming down the stairs behind
Kherda and Ligne. His scarlet and purple cloak marked him immediately
as a merchant of Uda. As the little group walked toward them, Pelmen
noted the cloak's material and its costly cut and guessed him to be not
only a merchant, but an Elder as well. "In fact," the man continued,
"I think Kherda was really trying to help you, Ligne, not harm you.
When he replaced his losses with his star instead of his disc, it was
me he was arming to battle with, not you."
Pehnen smiled to himself. The important business that had kept the
Queen from meeting with them sooner had obviously been a game of full
Drax. It was the language of this three-sided table game that they
were speaking.
"Say what you like, Jagd, he was deliberately undermining my strength.
I had a chance for total conquest." Ligne spat at Kherda in disgust.
"But you knocked it down to a marginal victory."
"Which is, as they say, just as much a win." Jagd smiled beneficently.
"Besides, Ligne, you appeared to me to be totally unaware of my cube,
and I fear "
"My Lady," the court attendant tremulously interrupted, "the travelling
players have arrived, and "
"I have eyes, don't I?" Ligne bellowed at the man, and he swiftly
bowed his way out of their presence, backing into the Chamber of Peace.
Ligne looked at the group before her with a hint of distaste playing
around her lips, then abruptly smiled a warm smile. "Welcome! Gerrig,
hello! Yes, I remember your face," she said to Yona Parmi, waving away
his bow. She looked into Danyilyn's eyes for a moment, craning her
neck as if to see into the darker corners of the actress' mind, and
asked, "Weren't you here before, too?"
Danyilyn scraped the floor with the hem of her skirt as she curtsied
gracefully. She smiled a pleased, awed smile, perfectly conveyed her
joy that the Queen should deign to remember her. Of course, she was a
professional, but Pel-men still had to admire the skill with which
Danyilyn communicated that feigned pleasure.
Now Ligne brushed past Gerrig and stared into Pelmen's face, squinting
to try to see through the greasepaint. "And you?" she began, almost
with a tone of suspicion.
Gerrig broke in hastily. "This is Follomar the fool, a new addition to
our troupe, and this is Magrol, Jamnard .. ." He continued, moving
through the group. Ligne didn't follow him. She reached out to try to
touch Pelmen's face, and he ducked out of the way.
"Why are you wearing makeup?" she demanded.
"Why do you?" he quickly responded.
"To improve my appearance, of course
"There's my reason as well."
"But you've covered your whole face."
"An improvement, believe me. But if my Lady doubts my word, let me
propose a contest. Let her remove her makeup and I'll remove mine, and
we shall see who needs it the most."
Ligne's sharp blue gaze threatened him only momentarily; then the woman
blinked and her nose wrinkled into a grin. "A genuine fool! How
amusing, Kherda." She turned and pointed a finger at her Prime
Minister. "Listen, you sour old parchment pusher! Lose me another
game like that, and I'll put this one in your office!"
"You didn't lose," Kherda groused. He sighed with exasperation.
"Everyone else in the group is new," Gerrig broke in nervously. "It's
been a hard year for us, and some of our best drifted off to join other
organizations. But we are ever so grateful to you, Queen Ligne, for
allowing us to "
"Spare me," the Queen said, and she turned around to stalk into the
Chamber of Peace. Gerrig looked inquiringly at Kherda, who jerked his
head toward the door and frowned. Gerrig followed Ligne into the
opulently furnished chamber. "I hear you now perform a masterful play
with me as the subject." Here Ligne turned, and her cold blue eyes ran
Gerrig through. "Your last appearance inside these walls was not so
masterful."
"But, they, I ..." Gerrig stammered, flustered by her manner.
"Don't stammer at me! I'm tired of bearing mumblings that make no
sense."
Gerrig shut his mouth, and resolved to keep it closed unless she asked
a direct question. His tongue had long been his fortune, and he was
anxious to keep it safely in place.
"I recognize that at that time this wasn't my court, and that you were
under the influence of that tedious Pelmen. I trust that during your
present stay you'll refrain from commentary on my morals and my
politics?" She looked at Gerrig expectantly, and he nodded with all
the sincerity he could manage to muster. "Fine. I've a number of
things on my mind these days I'm in no hurry to see you perform.
Perhaps you won't mind sampling the pleasures of the court for a few
weeks?"
"Wh why, my Lady, we would be honored to spend "
"To spend my gold on your extravagant appetites? Of course you would.
Realize, however, that when I do wish entertainment, I require it at a
moment's notice. You may find it wise to be prepared when I call on
you. Craftsmen who disappoint me often find my displeasure painful."
Ligne then glided grandly out of the Chamber of Peace, passed the
troupe without a glance, and headed back for the staircase, calling
over her shoulder, "Come on Jagd. Let's play another."
Kherda followed her, his sandals flapping as ever. "My Lady, there is
a drought in the southeastern provinces and "
"You told me that at breakfast."
"If you could give your approval for the relief goods to be accompanied
by a contingent of the Golden Throng, I could dispatch "
"Have you ever tried the sweep-flip opening, Jagd?" Ligne asked the
merchant as they reached the stairs and started up. "Someone told me
that in Lamath it's called the Hanni opening, because that house
originated it."
"Doubtless a Hanni merchant who told you so. It originated with Uda. I
don't think very much of it myself, however, since it wastes too many
valuable pieces early in the .. ."
Pelmen strained to hear the rest of Jagd's explanation. He was a Drax
player himself, though it had been months since he'd played. Even
then, it had been only a game of Green Dummy Drax he'd played against
Dorlyth. But the hall was ninety feet long, and Jagd's quiet voice
didn't carry very far. The merchant and the Queen disappeared into the
upper levels of the palace.
Kherda stood at the foot of the stairs, shaking his head.
Almost as an afterthought, he turned to call back to the actors; "Go
see the Lord of Entertainments. I'm sure one of you will remember
where his office is. He'll give you lodgings, and I'll give you a more
thorough orientation in the morning." Kherda sighed; then, scooping up
his skirts, he assumed a dignified expression, and flapped up the
stairs.
Gerrig spun around to look at Pelmen, his face the color of a freshly
laundered sheet. "Do you think she recognized you?"
"Recognized whom?" Fallomar answered him. The eyes of the clown
peered back at Gerrig curiously, as if the huge actor's words were
totally devoid of meaning.
Gerrig understood. He nodded, then took Danyilyn by the hand. "Come,
lady. Let's go find some rooms." They started for the stairway, for
Maythorm's office was on the floor above. Pelmen was gone, swallowed
whole by Folio-mar the fool. Gerrig was surprised at how much he
already missed him.
Maythorm had been advised of their arrival by the serving girl who'd
been bringing his dinner to his room. She felt sorry for the poor man
the slightest noise made him jump, and he seemed uncommonly suspicious
of everyone and everything. Besides, he was so good-looking .. .
perhaps someday he would notice her! She made a special effort to
roust him out of his quarters to meet the players when they arrived at
his office. As they surged into his room, he stood to meet them, his
handsome, almost pretty face radiating a dazzling smile. "Welcome,
welcome, Gerrig and Danyilyn, so pleased that you could accept our "
There he stopped, dumfounded. The puzzled troupe waited for him to
regather his wits and finish his sentence. "Why, you're not Garrig and
Danyilyn!" he gasped, his forehead knitting in indignation. "You're
.. ." he stopped again, and this time his face went blank. Then his
eyes widened and he blurted out, "You're Gerrig and Danyilyn!"
Gerrig arched an eyebrow. "I've always thought so ..."
"But I was expecting Danyilyn and Gerrig!" he gasped. "I mean, I was
expecting .. . who was I expecting .. ,**
"Apparently, sir, you were expecting us," Gerrig grunted, and he
produced from a pocket within his tunic a tiny cylinder of parchment,
which he unrolled and read aloud. "Summoned to the court by invitation
of the Queen Gerrig, Danyilyn, and the acting troupe thereof." "But
there must be some mistake!" Maythorm pleaded. "The troupe I invited
were to win the Winter Festival in Pleclypsa!"
"We did win," Danyilyn snapped.
"No, but they performed a play based on the Queen's rise to powerl"
"That's our piece," Gerrig smiled, his teeth bright against his bushy
red curls. "Masterful work it is, too." He winked at Pelmen. Fallomar
the fool regarded him curiously, and once again Gerrig was reminded of
the need to conceal Pelmen's identity. "But ... but ..."
"The man's obviously distraught," Follomar explained to the others.
"Do I know you?" Maythorm asked the painted clown suspiciously.
Fallomar peered into Maythorm's face. "Why, I think so. Weren't you
at the recent convention of All Fools?" "Are you calling me a fool?"
"Not actually, no. Would you like to take this opportunity to prove
yourself one?"
"I know that voice!" Maythorm snarled. His pretty features quickly
turned red.
"Better, I hope, than you know Gerrig and Danyilyn w
"Are you related to a peasant in the south?"
"Are you related to a buzzard in the north?"
"What? Who said anything about buzzards?"
"Well, you brought up pheasants "
"I said peasants!"
"Absolutely unrelated."
"What?"
"Peasants to pheasants."
"You are an idiot!" Maythorm roared.
"I'm a fool, actually."
"You certainly are!"
"I thank you for that good review!" Pelmen smiled.
"Get out of my office!"
"But you invited us."
"I ; .." Here Maythorm hesitated. The blood drained from his face as
swiftly as it had flooded in. "I invited .. . you?"
Gerrig stepped forward and passed him the parchment slip. "Posted by
blue-flyer to Minlaf-Khen. You see right there the seal of the
crown."
"I ... authorized this?" Maythorm murmured as he circled his
desk-table and slumped onto a stool.
"We came to get our room assignments," Danyilyn an-Dounced impatiently.
"Can we get on with it?"
Maythorm raised his eyes slowly, a slack-jawed expression robbing his
features of energy. Then, abruptly, he smirked. He pointed at Gerrig
and laughed aloud, then said, "I get it. You're after my job, right? A
cream-puff post, you think, frosted with power and weighted with
wealth, am I right?" His finger swept the whole troupe. "You're all
in on it, aren't you? Plotting in private to pry me out of ray
office."
The actors exchanged bewildered stares. "Maythorm," Gerrig began, "as
Danyilyn said "
"She's not Danyilyn!" Maythorm yelled. "I know who she is she's
Danyilyn! I know all of you!" "What a relief," Fallomar sighed
heavily. "And I know you, too!" Maythorm shouted, pointing now at the
fool. "You're the peasant who ambushed me on the road, who summoned
the thunder and changed to a falcon and threw balls of colored fire at
me all morning!" The entire troupe stared open-mouthed at Maythorm
all, that is, save Yona. He was regarding the painted fool with some
alarm.
Gerrig cleared his throat. "Ah, Maythorm .. . perhaps the Queen's been
working you too hard "
"Ah-ha! You see?" Maythorm crowed. "Insinuating that I, Maythorm, am
a bumbling incompetent! And naturally, you could do better?"
The bellowing of the Lord of Entertainments had attracted quite a crowd
in the hallway outside. Now the serving girl bustled into the room,
plowing her way through the troupe to Maythorm's side. As she led him
out, she apologized, "He hasn't been himself since he got back from
Pleclypsa."
"Oh that's all right." The fool shrugged. "According to him, we
haven't been ourselves either,"
"I'll get you, fool!" Maythorm shouted, pointing back at Fallomar.
"I'll be watching you like a hawk!" Then Maythorm and the serving girl
disappeared into the hallway, leaving the cluster of actors staring at
Pelmen.
"I love the palace," he sighed. "It never fails to restore my faith in
government."
A steward finally assigned them their lodgings. They all were given
rooms in the craftsmen's quarters, on the third level of the Imperial
House. While Yona Parmi, Danyilyn and Gerrig were given large rooms
very near the grand stairway at the castle's center, Pelmen received a
small cramped ceil well to the backside of the palace indicative of the
fact that Maythorm, though perhaps a bit addled, was not without
influence. This was really much to Pel-men's liking, for he was right
around the corner from a servants' stairway, which descended directly
into the slave's quarters and the kitchen. He intended to get well
acquainted with the castle's slaves; as in every palace, it was they
who knew best the business of the royal occupants. He felt sure that
if Bronwynn was anywhere within the Imperial House, she was in the
dungeon, but he wanted to be sure before attempting the dangerous
entry. He hoped the slaves could either confirm or deny that Ligne had
imprisoned her there.
It was the only possibility that made any sense. One day, she and Joss
had ridden together from the forest in a guerrilla attack on one of
Ligne's weaker outposts. The next, she had disappeared .. . and Joss
was suddenly once again the Lord of Security. Pelmen was positive she
was here.
Something else was here as well. Pelmen lay back on a dirty cot and
gazed toward the ceiling, listening for something, anything, that might
give him a clue as to its nature. As he tuned his spirit to listen, he
felt a telltale uneasiness in his chest his breathing grew shallow. It
wasn't fear .. . more a sense of anticipation. "Who are you?" he
finally whispered. "You're surely not the Power .. ."
What do you mean by that? replied the Imperial House brusquely. It
had been watching this gaily painted character ever since he'd entered
its walls, but it had taken a special interest in the fool after
witnessing the exchange with Maythorm.
Pelmen listened intently. He heard nothing. "I wonder," he mumbled.
Speak up! How can you expect this House to respond if it cannot hear
your comments?
Pelmen just gazed at the ceiling, and argued with himself. "Just your
imagination," he muttered.
What about imagination? asked the House. Come, come, speak up! This
Maythorm fellow seems to think you a power shaper Is that so?
The player was silent. It had been a long day of travelling. He'd
fallen asleep.
Pelmen woke with a jerk. He was sweating. The air in his tiny room
was stale and close, but he found himself gulping great mouthfuls of
the stuff. He felt strangely terrified, as if someone or something had
laid a hand on his shoulder as he slept. He peered into the black
corners. There was nothing here. That terrified him even more.
He jumped up from his mattress and shuffled cautiously for the door.
Though these craftsmen's rooms had never housed captives, they were
built sturdily enough to double as jail cells if the need ever arose.
He put his weight to the unvarnished wood, and swung his heavy door
outward.
It was dark night. No sunlight filtered down the hall from the slits
in the outer walls. Some very dim light flickered off the masonry
beyond the corner, the evidence that one of the torches still burned.
But no one moved in the hallway. The castle was as quiet as a
forgotten tomb.
Then it began. The irregular flicker of that torch around the corner
suddenly grew patterned. The light began to flash evenly, regularly,
as if beating time to some unheard orchestration, written for ears
other than man's. Pel-men dismissed it as the result of a draft. But
there was no draft in this ancient hall, and he knew it.
His first impulse was to run. But Pelmen rarely followed his first
impulse in anything. More often than not, he followed the dictates of
his intuition, but he refused to be a slave to those illogical feelings
that mediated his sensitivity. He waited. He leaned against the rock
wall and listened.
A chill tiptoed down his back as the stone under his
12J
hand turned a slimy cold. He jerked away then the hand returned,
feeling of the suddenly moist rock. He shook his head in bewilderment.
The torch suddenly went out
Light disappeared. Everywhere was shadow. And still Pelmen listened,
while the awareness grew in him that his whole body was trembling with
tension. He took a deep breath of the cooler air of the hallway and
shook himself to bring on relaxation. When he was quiet again, he
listened to the emptiness. Nothing stirred. Pelmen heard only his
heart.
This was not the Power, of that he was sure. There was a cruel humor
to this, and he had never experienced such in his communication with
that Being who had made him a Prophet. But he was equally sure there
was something here alive, something or someone who wished, it seemed,
to talk with him. Not the Power, no. But certainly a power.
Pelmen abruptly slipped back into his room and closed the door with a
heavy thud. The sound was reassuring. He leaned his back on the wood,
as if barricading himself against the force in the hallway. But the
act was unconscious. He knew full well that the presence was in here
as well
Pelmen stretched his hand out before him, palm up. Though only inches
from his face, it couldn't be seen for the utter lack of light Using
his shaper power, he needed only to speak a phrase or think a thought,
and above his invisible palm would grow a glowing ball, any color he
chose, to light his way in the darkness. Pelmen would have thought
nothing of doing so in the land of the Maris. Felt there, these
strange sensations would simply prompt him to begin shaping. Yet here,
he hesitated .. .
This was but a power like all the others, probably and if he chose ..
.
There was a long dark moment of decision. . But he did not choose.
Pelraen lowered his hand to his side. Instead of shaping, he spoke. "I
know you're here. Whether you are a Man power, travelling far from
home, or some other kind of power I know nothing about, still I feel
you, and I know you're here. Perhaps you enjoy teasing me, but if you
"
He cut himself off. An idea broke into his chain of thought, and he
stopped himself in the mid threat Perhaps he could shape this power
but did he need to? And should he shape it, would this power be
harmed? He remembered the terror he always experienced just prior to
being seized by the Power and though the joy that always followed
inevitably flooded away any scars, he knew that joy proceeded from the
Power's nature it wasn't due to the nature of shaping.
"Ill let you be," Pelmen said softly. "But I have an important day
tomorrow. I have a friend who must be freed from a woman's enforced
will, and a land to be freed from her tyranny. Plus a dozen other
problems I'm sure you're no more interested in hearing than I am in
listing. What I'd like to do is get some sleep, and forget them for a
while. Now " Pelmen tried to say it nicely, but a hint of unintended
annoyance crept into his tone, "would you let me get some rest?"
He threw himself on his mattress, and crossed his arms on his chest in
aggravation.
Sleep came again quickly. This time, it was undisturbed except for one
thing; his dreams were all oddly colored, as if a ball of blue flame
burned all night, just beyond his eyelids .. .
CHAPTER EIGHT
A Sudden Duel
STILL HOODED, Rosha was led down the long, glass-enclosed corridor that
separated his quarters from the upper apartments of the Queen. Ligne
had placed him in the room she herself had occupied as Talith's
mistress, near the aviary on the castle's roof. There was apparently
only one entrance, and that way led down a series of steps through
Ligne's gigantic suite on the lower levels. There had at one time been
many entrances, which Ligne herself had installed to accommodate the
hosts of men who visited her in Talith's absence. These she'd ordered
walled up before depositing Rosha there. The Queen wanted this lad all
to herself.
Rosha heard the guard grumbling as they descended the by-now familiar
stairway into Ligne's suite. They passed on through the apartment,
evidently greeting no one. Then door? opened before them, and Rosha
heard the sounds of people moving about in the halls. He was led
around corners and down corridors until he felt his hand being placed
on the railing and knew he was descending the grand spiral in the very
heart of the castle. This staircase was twenty feet in diameter. It
had been designed to permit impressive royal entrances to the great
hall, for it opened out onto the
"Wizard in Waiting
The Wixaf& in Waiting
Queen's dais- Rosha and his guardian stepped down into the aroma of
frying bacon, stewed beef and a clamor of other delicious smells. But
Rosha wasn't hungry. For some reason he felt particularly hostile
today.
"Good morning, Rosha," he heard the Queen call, her voice dripping with
honey.
"Is it?" he snapped. "I wouldn't know." A chair was pushed up
against the back of his legs, and he sat in it Then he stared
sightlessly out over the noisy throng that crowded the hall and
radiated his hatred at any who cared to look.
"Good morning, Fallomar," Yona Parmi said cheerfully, looking up from a
plate piled with sausages and bread. "How did you sleep?"
"Not as well as I might have liked," Pelmen grumbled quietly, as he
crawled over a long bench to sit across from his friend. "And your
"I fared quite well, thank you," Parmi answered.
"No dreams of powers?"
Yona stopped eating and looked up from his plate again. "No ...
why?"
"As I said, it proved a somewhat sleepless experience for me."
"I should guess so, on that sack of straw they gave you for a bed, in
that rat warren of a room. That should teach you not to mock the Lord
of Entertainments when he's making room assignments. I slept on a
feather mattress myself."
"I couldn't be more pleased with my location though it does concern me
that Maythorm seems to have recognized me somehow. I intend to stay
well out of his way, henceforth his and Queen Ligne's."
"You should have little difficulty losing yourself in this gigantic
barn. And of course, if you're caught you can always fly away though I
wager that would leave the rest of us with some difficult explaining ..
." Parmi noted an uncertain expression flick across his friend's
features, and his brow creased in concern. "What is it?" be asked.
"Nothing .. ." Fallomar murmured.
"You'll not convince me that wayl" Parmi grunted, and
the fool had to gesture to him to hold down his voice. "This mention
of powers ... is the Power here?" "Yes and others." "Other powers?"
"At least one."
"Ah. And you're uneasy about your shaping." "Would you keep your
voice down, Yona!" Pelmen whispered with intensity. "You'll soon have
the Queen herself listening in on our conversation!"
"I don't notice anyone paying us any mind." Yona shrugged as he
consumed a sausage. "And as for the Queen, she's far too interested in
that hooded captive seated next to her to pay any heed to us."
At the mention of a captive, Pelmen's eyes shot up to the dais. A
quick glance at the unfortunate creature next to- Ligne assured him
that this was no petite female and, with passing pity for the poor
wretch, he turned back to the plate of food before him. As he turned,
Pelmen caught a glimpse of the young prisoner's arm twitching and
suddenly the miserable captive had grabbed his total attention. He
stared at the dais, his jaws clenched in shock and his eyes wide in
horror.
"Fool!" Parmi snarled, pulling Pelmen's gaze back across the table to
him. "You want to attract her attention? You certainly will if you
stare at her that way! You have no idea how thoroughly that white face
underscores the brilliance of your eyes!" Pelmen stared at him for a
moment, then began sneaking peeks at the royal table, to make sure he
wasn't mistaken. He wasn't.
"What's the matter with you." Yona Parmi demanded ferociously.
The painted fool sighed, and took a bite of a sausage. "You remember
the young man I told you of?" he said, chewing without tasting. "The
stuttering warrior who : helped me slay the dragon?" "I do. Rosha
something." "That's him under the hood." , Yona Parmi stared this
time. "You're sure?"
"He moves like Rosha. Has Rosha's build. No, I don't |
sure, but his jaw is the mirror image of Rosha's father, Dorlyth. I'm
afraid it's him."
"But .. . what's he doing here?"
Pelmen glanced up at the stage, then looked away in revulsion as he
muttered, "At the moment, he's being spoon-fed."
Indeed, Ligne was feeding Rosha herself. Joss would not permit him to
handle eating utensils, since they could possibly used as weapons
against the Queen, so Ligne had taken to feeding him. She'd come to
enjoy this little symbol of her domination; she viewed this humiliation
as just one more bit of leverage that would eventually, inevitably,
force Rosha to yield to her demands and become domesticated.
"Did you know about this?" Parmi whispered, and Pel-men shook his head
from side to side. Yona waited for a moment, then asked, "What are you
going to do now?"
His appetite gone, Pelmen stared at his breakfast. "Parmi," he sighed,
"I wish you hadn't asked me that
A disheveled Kherda, late from his bed, joined Ligne on the platform
and seated himself in the vacant chair between the Queen and Jagd. As
always, he brought a sheaf of documents with him, which he hoped to
dispose of during breakfast. It was the same stack he'd carried with
him to every meal this week. As yet, he'd not been able to hold the
Queen's attention long enough to take care of any of this business, and
the frustration was beginning to gnaw on him. "Good morning, my Lady.
I have here a number of matters that we could dispense with in just a
moment if you .. ." He trailed off. The Queen had paid him absolutely
no mind. "Well," he muttered bitterly, "I see she's still taken with
her toy."
Jagd, who might have assumed this was addressed to him, didn't respond.
The merchant mulled over his own problems. Jagd was tired of this
castle. Not that the food wasn't excellent or the company never
boring. He just wanted to get back to work. But through his network
of spies Jagd had learned of Flayh's planned assassination attempt, and
above all else, Jagd wished to keep on living. Early that morning, in
the utter stillness of predawn hours, he and Flayh and Flayh's obese
nephew had carried on a tense conference by means of a trio of
ingenious, pyramid-shaped crystals. Flayh had issued him a summons to
attend a conclave of the Council of Elders, to be held in Ngandib-Mar.
Although he was fully aware that this invitation was a trap designed to
lure him from the castle to his death, still the temptation to attend
was strong. He was tired of walking the floors of his guest apartment,
wondering if or when Ligne watched him from secret chambers beyond the
wall panels. He was weary of interminable bouts of Drax not to mention
being short of gold, since Ligne always demanded that he wager, and it
wasn't in his best interests to defeat the woman. As Jagd nervously
gulped down a frosted spice cake, he squirmed in his seat, watching the
doors for a messenger from the roof. He was expecting a missive from
his protege in the Mar, Tahli-Damen. On the basis of that word, he
would decide whether to go or to stay.
"Have you ever heard the like?" Kherda seethed, bumping Jagd with his
elbow to get the merchant's attention. "Why, she babbles over him like
a merchant's daughter " Kherda stopped, and looked at Jagd. "Pardon. I
... wasn't thinking. Just an expression, you understand."
"Doesn't offend me." Jagd shrugged. "I have no daughter." The
merchant went back to his breakfast. Kherda leaned toward the Queen to
try to overhear her conversation with the boy.
"You seem exceptionally stubborn this morning," Ligne was chiding.
"Come on now. Eat."
"D-don't you ever t-tire of this game?" Rosha snarled. "Why, whatever
do you mean?" she mocked, her voice lilting.
"This n-nonsense of trying to feed me!" he exploded. "Untie my hands
and let me eat!"
"Can't do that, my sweet. Joss is afraid you'll fork me to death. Come
on now," she teased. "Aren't you hungry, darling?"
"Yes! Hungry to move, hungry to see!" he spat savagely. "My
m-muscles are turning to sponge!"
"Kherda!" Ligne screamed. Kherda rose a couple of inches off his seat
as he clapped his hands over his ears. "Oh, you're here already," she
noted. She continued without apology: "See that Rosha gets some
exercise today. He says his muscles are getting spongy, and we
certainly can't have that."
"Yes, my Lady, I will. Now as to the abundance of verminous insects in
the northern edge of this region, I have a document here for the Queen
to sign that abhors the presence of such insects and authorizes the use
of national funds to eradicate the pests. Just sign here " Kherda had
been looking at the document, not the Queen, and he now realized that
he was talking to her back. Ligne was heatedly whispering something in
Rosha's ear as the lad frowned grimly. Once again, all Kherda could
see was her back that beautiful dark hair spilling down across her
shoulders from a garnet-encrusted circlet. They were beautiful
shoulders fetchingly white against her russet and tan dress gorgeous
shoulders, as he'd known for many months. But Kherda felt a sense of
despair, for this seemed to be all he saw of Ligne lately. Apparently
today would be no different. And there was so much that was crying out
to be done, real issues that needed to be dealt with! He couldn't even
get her to sign a toothless royal decree!
Kherda hurled the document onto the table in disgust clearly a mistake.
The rolled sheet bounced crazily, striking the underside of a crystal
goblet and freakishly capsizing it Kherda stared in horror as red wine
splashed onto the table and streaked for the Queen! He grabbed for
something to stop its tide, and came up with the document. Its
parchment-like texture absorbed nothing, however, and he reached below
the table for the tablecloth and began sopping up the liquid. He was
just sighing with relief when he remembered there was never a
tablecloth at breakfast, and he stared at his hands in horror. The
wine soaked material was russet and tan he'd sopped up the spillage
with Ligne's skirt!
A gasp rose in chorus from all over the great hall. Kherda held the
material, dumfounded, and raised his head to meet several hundred pairs
of eyes that reflected back his shock, along with a good deal of amused
curiosity at what he would do next. He turned his white face toward
Ligne, and saw once again her back. For once he was glad. She
continued chattering merrily at Rosha. She hadn't even noticed.
A titter now began in the front of the hall and worked its way all the
way to the back. Kherda stuffed the soiled dress back under the table,
and rubbed his stomach. "I
Ike Wizard in Waiting . feel a bit ... ill ... my Lady .. ." He rose
unsteadily to his feet, and jerked toward the grand spiral, muttering,
"I hope .. . you .. . will pardon me ..."
Ligne didn't notice him go.
Neither did Jagd. Unnoticed by most of the dining crowd, a lad clothed
in red and purple had bolted into the hall and raced quickly to the
dais. He passed Jagd a balled-up message and got a curt dismissal for
his trouble.
Jagd stood and moved away from the table, then un-crumpled the note and
read it quickly:
SUSPICIONS CONFIRMED. ARMED SLAVERS TO ATTACK YOU IN DRAGONS GATE
ADVISE CAUTION. AWAITING INSTRUCTIONS. TAHLI-DA MEN
Jagd didn't hesitate for a moment. He shot for the stairs as swiftly
as his old legs would carry him and scrambled upward past several
floors to the lowest level of the gardens. Ignoring the stairs, he
raced around the ascending ramp that rose from this lowest level to the
upper gardens and the aviary on the rooftop. Puffing with exertion, he
passed through the aviary's double doors, circled the mews, and ducked
into the hutch of the Lord of Signals. This enclosure was constructed
on the same floor plan as the falconer's mews, except for a wide hold
in its ceiling that opened onto a cloudy sky, and the fact that its
perches were thick with hundreds of brilliant blue-flyers. Jagd
stuffed the wadded message into a pouch of his cloak, and grabbed a
fresh sheet and a stylus off the spattered table. Quickly he
scribbled:
EXPECTED THIS. WILL REMAIN HERE. DEMAND THE PYRAMIDS BE REVEALED TO
THE FULL COUNCIL AS PLANNED. JAGD.
Jagd scooped a bird off the perch and ignored its fluttering protest as
he bound the message in a tight cylinder to its left leg. Then he
cupped the blue-flyer in both hands, held them to his head, and
imagined: he was rising out of the castle turning north crossing the
great South Fir toward Ngandib-Mar passing over the castle of Tohn,
where Flayh now ruled three miles beyond, to the palace of Uda in
Ngandib-Mar. Jagd pictured in his mind the turrets of that castle, and
most especially the face of Tahli-Damen. Then he pulled his hands away
from his face, opened them, and looked at the small blue bird.
Its black eyes peered back intelligently. Good. He had gotten its
attention, and it understood its route, Jagd gave the bird a toss, and
it was sky-borne, beating its way through the hole in the roof and up
into the clouds.
Pelmen did not witness Kherda's hasty exit either. He was busy making
one of his own. Maythorm had spotted him across the great hall and had
jumped up to pursue him. Pelmen spent the morning slipping quietly
from one endless corridor to another, reminding himself of the floor
plan of the castle while eluding his pursuer.
It was easy to lose oneself in this monstrous construction. There were
thousands of places to hide that anyone could find, and Pelmen felt
certain that there were still other hidden passageways secreted in the
walls. Certainly he could have avoided the wrathful talent agent
easily enough on his own. But a few brief conversations with passing
slaves had provided him with a new resource he felt sure could prove
valuable in accomplishing his true purpose. Maythorm's handsome
features had all the female servants swooning, and the man had cut a
wide romantic swath through the wives and girl friends of the entire
male population of the castle. As a result, Pelmen needed only to
mention that Maythorm was chasing him to a male slave and he'd receive
immediate assistance. Maythorm's pursuit did not greatly concern him,
but it was proving a helpful tool, introducing him to potential allies
and revealing some of the choicest hiding places. The elaborate game
of hide and seek could have been fun were it not for his dismay over
Rosha's captivity. As he leaned against the door of a broom closet,
his mind raced ahead, seeking some plan to get the young man free.
Getting Bronwynn out of the dungeon had appeared difficult enough. This
new complication threatened to make the task impossible. Yet he
cbuldn't leave the treasure of Dorlyth enthralled to this amoral
queen.
"You can come out now," whispered a caustic voice
T&e Wizard in Waiting from beyond the door. "The pretty boy's past,
trailing a pack of slobbering wenches behind him."
"Do you mind if I rest here a moment?"
"Matters nothing to me. You'll not bother my brooms. But if you'd
really like to duck this greasy wife-thief, why not just wash your
face? I could bring you a bowl of water .. ."
"Thank you, my friend but what's a fool without his face? I'd be the
greater fool to reveal what's beneath it." Pelmen weighted his words
with meaning, and the helpful slave proved to be quick as well:
"Your secret is safe."
Pelmen listened carefully as the whisper of the broom receded down the
hall, leaving him alone in the closet.
"I suppose you're here," he muttered. He wasn't addressing the power
which inhabited this palace. Rather, he spoke to the Power who had met
him upon a mountain, anointed him a Prophet, and aided him in battle
with the two-headed monster. There was resignation in his tone of
voice as if he'd known all along this taxing task could never be
accomplished in his own strength alone. There was also a hint of what
would be viewed in human circles as simple, genuine warmth. Pelmen
spoke as he would to a Parmi or a Dorlyth he spoke to One he knew as a
friend. "I needn't explain it to you. You know. The trouble is, I
don't. Is Bronwynn in the dungeon? How do I get Rosha free? And what
about this other presence? Do I dare shape it in the process?"
The Imperial House of Chaomonous heard every word of the player's
muttered monologue but this morning, it didn't respond. It couldn't.
It was in desperate pain.
The delicately crafted pyramid through which Jagd the merchant talked
to his rival was not simply a clever gadget, as Jagd thought it to be.
It had been shaped many years before by gifted artisans and energized
with power by the foremost shaper of that age. The pyramids shaped
power .. . and as a result, Jagd's pyramid pulled its dynamism from the
stuff that gave the Imperial House its being. Like excess acid in a
human gut, any shaping within the walls burned the castle with savage
intensity. The Imperial
House gasped, so to speak, in misery yet the pain went unrelieved. Like
a bubble of gas, an incandescent blue glow continued to suffuse the
room of the merchant of Uda, searing the insides of the palace. It
would have cursed every bell would have rung out its agony had the pain
not so thoroughly robbed it of the strength to cry out. Instead it
waited helplessly for succor and none came. The humiliation of a
shower of bird droppings had been completely forgotten. The Imperial
House faced its first major crisis since awakening.
It listened intently to the clown's odd mutterings. Hadn't the painted
fool admitted, just last night, that he was a shaper? And if a shaper,
then surely he understood castle speech .. . though he seemed to be
feigning ignorance. If the castle could but communicate the measure of
its pain .. .
Strange conversation indeed, the Imperial House gasped when Pelmen
finished. Was it the other power the jester referred to? The castle
winced at the notion of this fool shaping it
Isn't there pain enough already? Obviously, the man is not addressing
the Imperial House! But if not, then who? Despite its agony, the
House mustered all of its senses and listened closely for any reply the
fool might make.
There was none. And yet, when he finished speaking, the one named
Fallomar bolted out of the closet, seemingly refreshed and emboldened.
Though the Imperial House had plainly heard him tell his friend at
breakfast that he wished to avoid the arrogant Queen at all costs, the
castle now watched him stride purposefully toward her very throne
room.
Strange business, this, the Imperial House muttered to itself. Then it
winced. It longed for a mouth of some kind if only it could burp ..
.
The inside of Kherda's mouth had the consistency of cotton, and beneath
his voluminous cassock his bony knees knocked together. Ligne's rage
was terrible to behold especially when directed at him.
"Look at this!" she shrilled, holding her stained skirt out for
inspection. "Ruined!" Her cheeks were as scarlet as the blotch left
behind by the spilled wine. Ligne's eyes nar rowed to cruel slits. "Do
you know something about this, Kberda?"
A commotion at the door drowned his strained response, and snagged the
Queen's attention. "What's going on?" she snapped. Then her pretty
eyes widened as the colorfully clothed fool stumbled into the throne
room. He stood up and straightened his garments, then glanced casually
around as if he owned the place.
"Do you know," he began without preamble, "one of those guards actually
tried to make me believe I couldn't come into this room? Why, he
almost dared me to prove him wrong. So I did." The fool bowed deeply,
then raised his head and winked.
The Queen was aghast. "Nobody comes in here unannounced!"
"That must be me, for I came in without announcement, and I'm certainly
a nobody."
"You'll be a sorry nobody before you dare such impudence again!" Ligne
thundered.
"Oh, but I quite agree! Why, I'm already the sorriest individual
imaginable. Is someone eating this?" he asked, as he scooped a grape
off a nearby plate and popped it into his mouth. "For who could be
sorrier than a fool? Especially, a fool without an audience to amuse
"
"I'll give you an audience! An audience of warders, who'll cackle at
your cries and smirk at your every scream!"
The painted jester winked at her once again. "Ah, but, my Lady. Why
let them have all the fun?" The confident twinkle in his eye proved
infectious. Ligne's smile started with a tiny curling at the corners
of her lips, then broadened until her teeth gleamed brightly and her
eyes sparkled. She fought to control it.
"You are a presumptuous lout
"Obviously." The fool nodded. "And I presume by the softening of your
tone that you'll not dispose of me immediately?"
"Not immediately. But why take such a chance? Why not let yourself be
introduced in the proper manner?"
"My manners have never been proper, my Lady. And as to being
introduced it seems this Maythorm fellow has taken a dislike to me." He
leaned forward, cupping his hand to his mouth and whispering loudly,
"Confidentially, I think he's jealous of my face." That drew a laugh
from those close enough to hear, for everyone in court knew the
handsome Lord of Entertainments, and certainly this pasty-faced
character offered him no challenge. "Besides, that takes such a long
time and I couldn't stand to wait another moment for another glimpse of
your radiant beauty."
Ligne cocked a carefully sculpted eyebrow. "I see for all your
foolery, you're not afraid of flattery."
"Indeed, my Lady, a fool who cannot flatter flatters himself to think
he'll long remain a fool. To be honest, my mistress ah, my Lady when I
beheld you at breakfast, I felt I had found one I could flatter in good
faith."
The lilting of his tongue had hypnotizing power but his mention of
breakfast jarred Ligne's memory, and she looked down again at her
soiled dress. "Ah, yes. Kherda and I were just speaking of breakfast.
Weren't we, Kherda?" Her sharp manner had returned.
The Prime Minister choked. For a moment he had been permitted to hope
that this insolent player's interruption might distract the Queen
indefinitely. It wasn't to be. "Ah .. . my Lady .. ." he began.
"What would you do, fool, to a careless, clumsy dolt who cannot even
keep his glass upright!" Though she'd addressed the jester, her
scorching stare did not leave Kher-da's face.
"Why, Fd give him a medal and a promotion," the fool answered.
Ligne whipped around to face him. "What? Why?"
"For choosing such a delicately colored wine to spill! My Lady, the
color of that stain truly enhances the tint of your cheeks. You really
ought to thank him."
The Queen put her hands on her hips and stared at Fallomar for a
moment, a small frown on her lips. "How long has it been since the
court had a jester?" she snapped suddenly. Her question could only
have been directed at Kherda, but it caught the Prime Minister off
guard. "Well?" she demanded.
Kherda seized the opportunity to deflect attention from himself. "Of
course, there's not been a court fool since you took the throne, my
Lady, but I believe there were three during the reign of your
predecessor "
"And where are they now?" Ligne's eyes didn't leave Fallomar's, nor
did her frown fade.
"Ah ... ah ... I believe .. . why, I hadn't thought of any of them for
years, but ... ah ... unless they've died ... all three are still in
the dungeon."
Ligne's nostrils flared and her eyes narrowed. "Now, fool. Are you
certain you wish to continue this game?"
"I'll play, my Lady, so long as I remain ahead and not beheaded."
"Then beware your clever tongue, my friend. Let it grow too sharp, and
it'll cut your saucy head off."
"Ah, but if it grow too dull, what then? Will you make me wear a hood
like that stumble tongue in the corner?"
Rosha had been leaning against the wall, taking advantage of this
interlude from Ligne's prodding to daydream of freedom. This comment
brought him to life with a roar. He lunged toward the center of the
room, jerking his unsuspecting guard off his feet and dragging the poor
man across the rug. The fool danced nimbly aside and casually watched
the warrior charge past. He turned back to watch Ligne's smirk grow
wider. It revealed the Queen's thorough enjoyment of this diversion.
"My stumble tongue as you call him, is more prone to take offense than
I," she gloated.
"Perhaps because he's more offensive?" the clown asked, and Rosha
again charged the sound of his voice. Rosha's guard, prepared this
time and reinforced by soldiers from the doorway, pulled the raging
captive up short. Rosha jerked at his chains, but they held. He
vented his wrath in a shout: "You may d-d-duel with your t-tongue,
fool, but give us both d-d-daggers, and we'll soon s-see who
st-st-stands!" His muscles knotted, straining at his bonds. The fool
gazed at him lackadaisically.
"How did you know the lad's tongue betrays him?" Ligne asked.
"I heard him tripping over his sausages at breakfast."
"Queen!" came Rosha's strangled cry of frustration. "Give me leave to
k-k-kill him!" The days of inactivity and frustration welled up inside
him, begging for some release. It seemed possible the Queen might let
him take out his rage on a meaningless upstart of a jester.
HO
"An amusing idea." Ligne nodded. "What do you think of it, fooir
Fallomar chuckled nervously. "You'd let a hotheaded youth rob you of
months of amusements?"
"You're assuming you'll lose!" the Queen crowed. "Does your dagger
wit not match your dagger work?"
"In truth, my Lady, I'd rather not see blood especially not mine!"
"Ah, but you've made me curious. Is a fool's blood white, like his
face? Bring two swords!"
"My Lady, you can't be serious!" Kherda protested.
"Oh I can't?" Ligne snarled, shooting him a dangerous scowl. "Perhaps
you'd rather Rosha spill your blood for exercise?"
"Ah .. . no, my Lady "
"Then get out of my way!" the woman bellowed, and Kherda did just
that, backing into the corner Rosha had vacated. "Loose his hands!"
Ligne ordered Carlad, Rosha's guard, plunging the man into a dilemma.
Carlad took his orders from General Joss, and the Lord of Security had
instructed him never to free Rosha from his bonds in the presence of
the Queen. But Joss was far to the north, investigating some matter of
national security.
"My Lady," Carlad pleaded, "if ... if I loose him and un hood him, he
may kill you "
"I said nothing about unheeding him! Just tie his hands in front of
him, so he can hold a weapon."
Carlad obeyed her, managing with some help to get Rosha's hand bound
before him just as another guard sprinted back through the double doors
with a pair of swords one a short Chaon stabbing sword, the other the
named great sword Rosha had brought with him. Thalraphis. Pelmen had
a good idea which weapon he'd be handed. This he hadn't planned on.
Rosha stretched his arms above his head, then made a quick grab for the
buckles that held his hood in place. Car-lad and his fellows jerked
the warrior's hands down and filled them with the haft of Thalraphis.
Then they ducked away, as Rosha whirled the five-foot long weapon above
his head with an audible whisper.
"Now, fool," Rosha said icily, "let's see who stumbles first." The
confidence that came from the sword in his hands seemed to run straight
up his arms to his tongue. Rosha never stuttered in battle.
Fallomar had watched all of this with growing consternation while a
gleeful Queen watched him watching. "Well, fool?" she cackled. "Take
your sword." A worried guard handed the clown the shorter weapon,
keeping well out of range of Rosha's wheeling scythe. Fallomar took
the weapon soundlessly and backed out of the way. He happened to move
toward Kherda trapping the old man in his corner.
"I must protest this, Ligne!" the Prime Minister squealed. "You're
going to get us all killed!"
"No real loss in your case," the Queen snorted. Her face flushed with
a sensual excitement. At the sound of her voice, Rosha leaned in her
direction.
Pelmen saw the move and acted quickly to keep the raging warrior from
hewing the woman down here in her own throne room. "I'm over here!"
Rosha squared around to face his voice and started toward him slowly,
still whooshing that long, flashing blade. Pelmen slipped quietly to
his right, leaving the Prime Minister directly in the path of the
on-coming savage.
"He's moved!" Kherda shouted. "He's moved to your left!" Rosha
stopped advancing and turned his head tentatively to his left,
"Come, clown. Where are you?" he muttered.
"I'm here," Fallomar called warily. "But where how is your tangled
tongue!"
"This is my tongue!" Rosha shouted, brandishing the great sword before
him.
"I'd rather duel the one in your mouth!" the clown said.
"So would I!" the Queen agreed.
Once again Rosha turned in the direction of Ligne. Pel-men skipped
quickly behind him. "Back here!" the clown shouted and he slashed his
sword toward Rosha's broad back. Before it could arrive, Rosha had
reversed, and he caught the blow on his own sword with a chilling clash
as -Pelmen had known he would. The fool skittered backward then,
dodging the three swift swipes he knew would follow. That was a family
technique that Dorlyth had ingrained in his son through constant
practice. Pelmen had learned it directly from the source.
Rosha stopped then, puzzled. He's expected to cleave the clown into
quarters .. .
"Come, come, my friend," Fallomar teased. "If you're the expert "
Rosha charged again, and once more Pelmen ducked and scampered to his
left.
"You speak like a butterfly!" the fool shouted. "Can't sit down on a
word and make it stickl" He said it mockingly, but he hoped Rosha would
mark his words and not their tone. It was the echo of something
Dorlyth had said to the lad the last time the three of them had been
together.
The hooded swordsman never paused. He whipped around and attacked in
earnest, and the painted clown was hard pressed to keep from being
diced.
Pelmen was not a poor swordsman. In years past, he'd battled Dorlyth
and survived no mean feat in itself and with a single, well-placed
stroke had slain the legendary Vicia-Heinox. He could have killed or
maimed Rosha a dozen times, given the handicap of the young man's
blindness. But Fallomar the fool was not a swordsman and could not be
allowed to appear one. Pelmen ignored one opportunity after another
and suddenly found himself pinned into a corner. Rosha kept pressing,
and their swords rang together three more times before a crashing blow
knocked Pelmen's sword flying from his hands. The hooded warrior
smiled as he heard it clatter away, then he shoved his pommel into the
fool's gut, cracked it down on Pelmen's head, dropping him to the
floor, and planted both his knees on the player's chest. He found the
fool's neck by feel, then quickly swung the tip of his weapon into
place.
Pelmen stared up the length of a blade poised to slit his throat.
CHAPTER NINE
At Blade Point
"WELL?" said Ligne. "Do it!"
Rosha leaned back. "Kill him? I think not."
"Why! He insulted you! Cut his throat!" Rosha stood up, allowing the
fool to breathe. "Go ahead and kill him!" Ligne screamed.
"No."
The Queen stared at him. "Why not?" she demanded.
"It j-j-just came to m-me. If this ma-ma-man be so honey-tongued,
p-p-perhaps he could train me to sp-sp-speak." Rosha had greatly
exaggerated his stutter and Pelmen sighed with relief. Sometime during
the fight, Rosha had recognized his voice. Pelmen thanked the Power
for the young man's quickness and good sense. "B-besides," Rosha
continued, "he s-s-seemed to b-b-be amusing you."
Ligne gazed at the grinning fool, a bit puzzled by this turn of events.
But she was nothing if not capricious. She decided to be pleased.
"Yes. Yes, he rather does amuse me." The Queen caught Carlad's eye
and pointed to the sword Rosha still held loosely before him. The
guard nodded and crept up behind to snatch it away. Surprisingly,
Rosha offered no resistance. Once again, Ligne was puz The WizarJ tn
zled. "You seem ... so docile, suddenly," she said. "Are you injured?
111?" She seemed genuinely concerned.
"I'm n-neither."
"Perhaps the lad is ... winded," offered the fool from the floor.
"Winded? B-b-by the likes of you?" Rosha snorted. "B-better thank
your g-good fortune I d-d-didn't cut your wind altogether, funnyman.
D-don't forget that I st-still could."
"I won't! I won't!" Fallomar answered earnestly.
Rosha turned sightlessly toward Ligne's voice. "My Lady, s-since you
have this fool to entertain you, c-c-can I be allowed to lie down?"
"Certainly, poor dear!" Ligne gushed, nodding permission to Carlad to
take him away. "I'm afraid you might be sick!"
"Only sick of you," he muttered.
"What was that?" she asked. She really hadn't heard him.
"N-nothing. P-perhaps you're right. Fool!" be bellowed. "Right
here," said Fallomar, who had gotten to his knees.
"I'll be expecting those lessons if the Queen permits?" "Of course I
permit," Ligne assured him, "I think it's an excellent idea. But I
want you to rest yourself today. I'm afraid this fighting has tired
you .. ." Her hands fluttered in the manner of a mother who feels
helpless to help. As Rosha and Carlad disappeared through the door,
she turned and made her way back to sit on her throne. Pel-men watched
as she leaned on an armrest and propped her chin on her hand. The
young man's sudden change of mood perplexed her.
"My lady, I appreciate the reprieve " "Don't thank me," she muttered.
"Thank him." "I shall. And ... I will give him lessons in speech "
"Leave him alone for now," Ligne growled. "Something's the matter with
him."
"Nothing, I trust, that couldn't be cured by a little light .. ."
"What are you talking about?"
"The ah leather helmet."
Oh," Ligne said glumly, leaning back to gaze at the tnuraled ceiling.
"I leave that on him because he wants to kill me."
"Perhaps, if he could see you, he'd be less inclined to slay you." As
he spoke, the fool frowned at Kherda and motioned him out of the throne
room. The Prime Minister stared at him, affronted, until he realized
the fool was trying to help him escape before Ligne remembered her fit
of pique. Kherda scooped up his skirts and scooted out the door,
nodding gratefully to the fool as he passed. Pelmen winked, then went
on: "After all he could have killed you just now and he didn't"
Ligne studied the mural high above her head with great attention. "You
really think so?"
"My Lady," the fool said, "I had an excellent vantage point."
The woman's eyes drifted down from the ceiling to settle on the fool.
"So you did." She thought for a moment then, chewing absently on a
fingernail. "Say something funny," she suddenly ordered.
"Something funny."
"That's right."
"I just did."
"What?"
"I said, "Something funny." And to some, it would have been."
"What?"
"Funny. But evidently not to you."
"I said, say something to amuse me, not to confuse me," Ligne
snarled.
"Ah, yes. But, I ask myself what amuses the Queen. The pain of
others, it would seem, just by observation. Perhaps I should fall on
my face?"
"Now that would be funny." Ligne smiled.
"I thought as much." Fallomar smiled back. "People laugh at different
things. So I will need to stay on my toes at all times remembering
always that what would most amuse my Queen is watching those toes be
pulled off."
Ligne chuckled, then suddenly grew serious. "You know, I knew you were
coming," she said with a dreamy, faraway look in her eyes.
If her words stunned Pelmen and they did he didn't
I4 The Wizard in Waiting show it. "How? You have a fortune teller
stashed under your throne there?"
"Close." She smirked mysteriously.
For the second time that day, Pelmen felt a little dizzy from the
shock.
Though the winds were high, the blue-flyer that Jagd had dispatched
wasted no time. Like every other bird of its species, it would not
rest until it had accomplished the task that a human had assigned.
Jagd's special attention to his protege's face meant that the bird
would surrender its message to no one but Tahli-Damen a security
precaution that Jagd intended to remind the young merchant of the next
time they spoke.
The journey took the bird all that day and into the morning of the
next, but it did not rest until it saw below the five-turret
arrangement that matched the picture Jagd had placed in its mind.
The bird alighted on a broad cross painted in blue on the roof of one
of the turrets. A handler stooped immediately to pick it up, but it
eluded several attempts, and the handler soon realized this bird was
intended for someone special. As Tahli-Damen was the highest ranking
member of the family present, the bird handler started down the
ulterior stairs to find him, and the bird hopped along behind from
stair to stair. It was quite oblivious to the comic image it presented
as the handler escorted it into Tahli-Damen's presence with a grin. The
blue-flyer nonchalantly hopped onto Tahli-Damen's desk and extended its
foot. As the promising young merchant untied the message bound to its
leg, the blue-flyer dismissed the trip from its mind. It had
accomplished its task. It had earned a good meal and a rest.
"From Jagd?" asked a young woman standing by a window on the far side
of the room.
"That's right," Tahli-Damen replied, studying the page intently. Then
he looked up. "He's not coming."
"As we expected." She nodded and smiled furtively. "I can't say I'm
disappointed. This will make you the ranking member of Uda's
delegation!"
"I appreciate your confidence in me, Wayleeth." He smiled grimly. "But
I'm afraid I don't share it. I am too young to exercise any influence
with the other houses, and I fear I won't have much more say with our
own. He hides it well, but your father is still angry that I was
promoted over him."
"You deserved to be!" said Wayleeth. "I love my father dearly, as
everyone knows. But everyone also knows that he's been a do-nothing
supervisor, who's been outmaneuvered by Tohn mod Neelis ever since we
were moved to Ngandib-Mar!"
"Don't be unfair," Tahli-Damen scolded. "He was a good leader in
Lamath. He couldn't help it if Jagd matched him against a man more
Mari than merchant!" Tahli-Damen had cared little for Tohn mod Neelis.
The man had very nearly cost him his life by not allowing him sanctuary
in the midst of a battle. "Naturally Tohn did a better job of meeting
Mari needs he knew the Mari mind as well as the Mari market. But he's
gone now, and Flayh's as La-math ian as your father. We'll reestablish
Uda's dominance here, and we may do it this month. In fact, I'm sure
of it."
Wayleeth's eyes glowed. "I'm sure of it too with you in charge."
Tahli-Damen blushed and deflected the compliment with a brusque, "We
need to be on our way. The conclave doesn't begin until tomorrow, but
there will be informal preliminary negotiations in the halls and
corridors tonight, and I don't intend for Uda to be ignored." He
grabbed his scarlet cloak, slung it around his shoulders, and would
have swept past her and out the door had she not caught him by the
waist and pulled him around to face her.
"Go well," she husked, "but return swiftly! You know there's nothing
to do in this castle when you're gone!" She kissed him, and
Tahli-Damen then charged out of the room, calling for his seconds and
for his horse.
About the time Jagd's messenger bird delivered its tiny epistle, Pelmen
slipped away to the roof of the Imperial House to send one of his own.
He'd spent the rest of the previous night amusing the Queen with
perhaps too much success. She'd insisted on him spending this entire
morning with her as well. Pelmen was learning that the best way to
entertain Ligne was not to dazzle her with his own wit, but to appear
dazzled by hers. It was his lot to laugh apprecia lively as she
drilled barb after barb into the members of her court. Thus far, she'd
seemed thoroughly pleased with his presence. If she had any idea of
who he really was, she hadn't revealed it. Perhaps she hadn't seen the
troupe perform enough in the past to be able to know him by sight
Pelmen hoped that was the case. But there were many other courtiers
who would recognize him so his face would keep its white coating.
Pelmen waited in vain for Ligne to explain why she'd expected him. He
didn't press the issue, and she seemed to forget about it. But her
chance remark had created a powerful curiosity within him. He longed
to be about his business, to get on to the dungeon and investigate it
but she wouldn't let him loose. Only by pleading for time to take care
of private matters had he won this small respite.
He did not enter the hut where the platoons of blue-flyers gathered. He
stopped a few feet behind it instead and gave a silent, mental
summons.
Here now! What are you doing? asked the Imperial House, for this
soundless call, if not an actual act of shaping, was certainly prelude
to one.
In answer, several blue-feathered birds fluttered out the open roof of
their crowded coop and landed on his shoulders and outstretched arms.
Pelmen looked at each one of them in turn, then with a thought
dismissed all but one. The chosen flyer hopped onto his palm, and its
black eyes studied the clown intelligently.
What cheek! Talking to birds, but ignoring the Imperial House.
Pelmen could have sent a rolled note, as Jagd had done, but he had much
to say, and security was essential. la-stead, he planted his message
in the little bird's mind:
"To Erri, the Prophet of Lamath. Hello, my friend. I am within the
castle, as we'd planned hut events have conspired to obstruct me. I've
not been able yet to check the dungeon there's a curious power here,
quite unknown to me, that's inhibited my abilities somewhat. Bronwynn
may yet be beneath me but, if so, her presence is a closely guarded
secret. Worse news Rosha is here, and is a captive of the Queen."
Here Pelmen paused, and briefly held a picture of the hooded Rosha in
his mind. The blue-flyer looked at him curiously. Then Pelmen began
forming mental sentences again:
"As we guessed, this land is suffering from a lack of leadership. The
Queen spends her time seeking diversion from her responsibilites, while
the common people starve. In the wake of last year's crippling of the
Golden Throng, there's a sense of defenselessness among the peasants.
There is a void here that needs to be filled. And I need help. Send
someone to me someone you trust. Don't dispatch a flyer I'd rather not
arouse the suspicions of the Lord of Security any more than necessary.
Send the one of your choice to 'a fool' in the Imperial House. One
thing more where is Serphimera? Pelmen."
Pelmen held the bird away from him and looked at it inquiringly. The
flyer patiently awaited its directions. Once again, Pelmen held the
bird close to his head and imagined a route of flight that would take
the magical little creature due north across the peaks of the Spinal
Range, over the desert in southern Lamath, past the lower river to the
capital city itself. Then he imagined the layout of the city, the
location of the old dungeon of the King, and a certain window of that
dungeon. Erri had taken the place over and made it his new monastery.
Pelmen imagined the tiny cell beyond that window Erri's office.
Finally, he held in his mind an image of Erri's face and tossed the
bird into the sky. In seconds, it had disappeared toward the north.
He glanced around to see if he'd been noticed. No one was in sight,
and he sighed with relief.
Down here! Look down here! growled the Imperial House from its roof
tiles.
Pelmen happend to look at his feet. He was startled to see that the
roof had suddenly become slick. "Has it rained?" he mumbled, glancing
skyward.
No, it has not rained! Would you pay attention?
But Pelmen's thoughts had already travelled back downstairs, as he
prepared himself for his next performance in the throne room.
You will gain nothing by ignoring this House! the castle theatened,
but it gave up when Pelmen turned to walk briskly into the aviary. One
thing was clear this painted fool could shape, for dispatching a
thought message by flyer demanded a confidence in one's mental
abilities common only to power shapers But the castle grew more
suspicious of this character with each day. Why such secretiveness?
Why not openly display his abilities, and help the House? Was he in
league with the hideous thief who had robbed the castle's dungeons?
Why will you not reply!?
Pelmen was trotting down the garden ramp when he chanced upon a sight
he had to stop and look at. On a stone bench beside a beautiful
fountain sat Gerrig, in ardent pursuit of a giggling lady of the court.
He wore a costume so flagrantly colored and so incredibly tight that he
most resembled a fat flamingo. Carnelian sequins glistened in the
light, calling most unflattering attention to the actor's chubby
backside. Pelmen chuckled.
Gerrig wheeled angrily around to see who laughed. His face flushed
when he saw Pelmen and, with words as immodestly passionate as the
color of his pants, he begged his lady friend to excuse him
momentarily.
A peacock joined Pelmen on the walkway as Gerrig started toward him,
and the fool leaned over and asked the bird, "Do you think those are
sewn on, or painted on?"
"Where have you been?" Gerrig demanded in a fierce whisper. "We had a
rehearsal last night, and another this morning or do you think you're
too good for rehearsals?"
"Calm down, my friend. I've been entertaining the Queen."
"Doesn't it matter to you that Ligne said you've been what?"
"Entertaining the Queen."
"Are you crazy?" Gerrig spat quietly. "What if she recognizes you?"
"I've always wanted to be buried by a stream "
"Be serious!"
Pelmen grinned. "You're wearing that, and expect me to be serious?"
"I thought you were avoiding the Queen!"
"I'd intended to. But she seems to have taken a liking to me, so my
services are in demand."
"Doesn't she know you?"
"Evidently not. Though I wouldn't be surprised to have Ligne play with
me, as a cat plays with a mouse .. ."
"I hope not for my sakel Listen, this Maythorm fellow is combing the
castle for you. You've offended him, somehow "
"Take care you don't steal his ladies." Pelmen winked, nodding toward
the pouting woman on the bench. "Or he'll be after you instead."
Gerrig glowered. "I try to help you, and all you do is joke!"
"I'm a fool, remember?"
"Yes, well, don't fool yourself into thinking you can perform without
rehearsing even if you did write the play
"I*m surprised you've had time to rehearse. How long did it take to
stitch those onto you? Did a tailor do it, or a magician?"
"Get out of here!" Gerrig bellowed, and his lady friend twisted around
to stare at him. "Not you, my dear," he soothed, as he minced his way
back toward the fountain.
Pelmen looked down at the peacock, who watched the actor's retreat
"Nothing to be alarmed about," the fool said. "He's broad in the tail,
true, but nothing to compete with yours." As if in answer, the peacock
fanned his feathers and stalked proudly away.
Bronwynn paced along the battlements, gazing westward toward the
sunset. Somehwere out there was Rosha. But where? Why hadn't he
shown himself? Had he already forgotten her in all his feasting and
honors, as Admon Faye sneered at least once every day?
A cool breeze swept along the parapet, and she tugged her wrap tightly
around her shoulders and hung her head. She could hear a dull roar
issuing from the open door of the castle's central hall. Merchants had
been arriving all day long from every direction, and the carnival
atmosphere had driven her out into the twilight. The din the slavers
normally set up at mealtimes had now multiplied into a head-splitting
cacaphony. She'd run from the room in desperate need of some peace and
quiet.
It wasn't just the noise. The tension had been growing all afternoon
as well. As every new contingent arrived at the gate, the rope of
relationships tautened another notch. SmQes there were in abundance,
and the jokes flowed around the tables as freely as the ale. But there
was a chilling lack of humor to all this, and true good will seemed
totally nonexistent. These men, whom Bronwynn had always supposed to
be the best of friends because of the closeness of merchant cliques,
were far from friendly. This assembly could be the most powerful force
in the world, having far more impact on history than the grandest of
her forefather's armies. It depressed her to discover that not one of
these merchants seemed to have a friend only momentary allies.
A lean dog had joined her on the walls, and it stood panting by her
side, obviously begging her attention. She scratched its head absently
and thought of the houses she had already seen represented here.
The conclave certainly didn't lack for color. Besides the ever-present
blue and lime of Flayh's own house of Og-nadzu, a sizable group wore
purple and red, the symbolic garb of Uda. Harm was here, in their
solid burnt-orange tunics, and so was Blez, the house of pink circles
on a field of gray. The Elders of Wina had arrived the night before,
and Bronwynn had quickly grown used to seeing their dark brown diamonds
superimposed on a rainbow assortment of backgrounds. Wina was a young
house, only a couple of centuries old. It had forged a reputation as
being a house that cared for the common peasant, and its patriarch had
been leery of establishing too sharp a distinction in dress between
Wina's merchants and the people they served.
And yet, for all the cheery colors and all the cheerful talk, there was
not a single breath of honest cheer anywhere in the castle. Bronwynn
could feel the oppressive weight of the tension even out here. A dark
mood clung to her she couldn't shake it. As she stared up at the
purpling sky a tear glistened on her cheek. "Poor old thing," she said
to the dog. "I guess all those people in your hall drove you out,
too."
"Actually I came looking for you," said Flayh.
Bronwynn jerked away, grabbing her chest to still her pounding heart.
The bald power shaper gowned in red and white, stood where the dog had
been.
Bronwynn glared at him, then turned her back and clutched both arms
across her chest. "I take it you weren't expecting me?" Flayh
gloated. Bronwynn said nothing, and Flayh frowned. "You don't seem
very impressed."
"Terhaps because I've seen the trick before," Bronwynn snarled, "done
much better, and not as a childish prank. Excuse me," she said, and
she started past him for the stab's.
Flayh was a small man, but his fingers had steel in them. He grabbed
her arm, and she yelped and stood still. "I said I came looking for
you."
Owl" Bronwynn cried aloud. "Say your peace then, I'm listening, but
let gol"
Flayh released her arm, but gripped her eyes in his own. He challenged
her will, drawing up the fear inside her as he'd attempted to summon
Admon Faye's. Bronwynn gasped, robbed of breath. She was seized by a
sudden terror that the sorcerer found quite appropriate. "Good. You
will continue to fear me, Bronwynn. I like for people to fear me."
His eyes were swallowing her! Bronwynn choked, and her legs trembled
helplessly.
"I've come to tell you why you're here, Bronwynn. Perhaps Admon Faye
has already made it clear, but hear it again from my lips. I intend to
make you a Queen my own Queen, to be precise. Do you understand?"
Bronwynn nodded fearfully as she backed away from this creature who so
terrified her.
"Stand where you are!" Flayh ordered, and Bronwynn's sandals became
one with the stone. "You've been chosen for this task only because it
is expedient not because I feel you in any way suitable. I want
nothing from you but obedience the obedience that proceeds from
fear."
"Yes .. . my Lord," Bronwynn muttered, amazed that she would say such
words, yet too frightened to resist.
"I assume you referred to Pelmen, when you belittled my power. I don't
know what spells he possesses, or what beast is his alter-shape, but I
can assure you: when we meet in open battle, it is I who shall walk
away, and not he. Mention of Pelmen provokes me! Do you
understand!"
"Yes! Yes, I do!" the young woman choked out in a barely audible
whisper.
, "Very well then. You will accompany me to the hall. I want you
present at each session, so that you'll know my policies when I place
you on the throne." Flayh stepped closer and thrust his nose into
Bronwynn's face. "I desire
If4
to control all the three lands, and this time neither Pelmen nor any
other meddler will obstruct me. Come." Flayh spun around and
descended the stairs, and Bronwynn found herself following him quite
docily. It shocked her to realize how easily she'd broken under his
eyes but he was, after all, a power shaper As they entered the
brightly illuminated hall, she thought of something she'd heard Pelmen
say months before: "Why is it that one who owns so much should want to
control even more? It seems to me it would get boring .. ."
"All I asked for was a single day off a single day! Just to celebrate
my daughters birthday with her and perhaps go visit my brother down the
river. What does he say? What he always says. "No chance, Carlad.
Get back to your post." Now what do you think of that!"
Rosha didn't respond. He just rolled his hooded head away and leaned
against the wall behind him.
"That's what I thought, too!" Carlad snarled. "Wouldn't even take it
up with the General! Never gave it a chance. So, here I am, chained
up inside this tower "
"Wait a minute," Rosha interrupted. "For your information, I'm the
prisoner here, Carlad, not you."
"Oh yeah? Well, has it ever occurred to you that I'm just as much
chained to you as you are to me? Hunh? Has it?"
"How could I help it, Carlad, since you remind me of that every single
day? Usually when you're complaining about youLsergeant."
"You'd complain, too, if he was your sergeant!"
"I think I've got plenty to complain about," Rosha grumbled.
"Yeah, yeah, just because you're a prisoner here, you think you've got
it rough. You get the best off the table, don't have to work, you got
that gorgeous Queen pawing you all day .. . real hard duty!"
"I don't see you wearing a leather hood, Carlad,** Rosha said
quietly.
"You don't see me wearing .. ." That suddenly struck the guard as
funny, and he cackled. "No, I guess you don't see me wearing one, do
you!" He laughed again, and Rosha joined in.
"Nor do I see this gorgeous Queen you keep raving about." The warrior
smiled ruefully.
Carlad looked at his prisoner a moment, mulling over something. "Why
is it you only stutter when you're around her?"
Rosha's smile turned grim. "Why is it you never seem to hear your
sergeant unless he's in the room with you?"
Carlad chuckled and leaned back against the wall beside Rosha. "That's
what I thought."
"Carlad?" Rosha asked. "Take it off?"
The guard licked his lips and looked over at the repulsive headgear.
His fingers twitched. "No," he grunted suddenly. "Orders not to."
"Carlad," Rosha pleaded. "Come on."
"What if my sergeant comes in?"
"You can tell him I overpowered you." Rosha grinned.
There was a knock at the door. "You see?" Carlad argued. "I bet
that's him now!"
"No, it's probably the Queen, wanting me to come strut through the
throne room."
It was neither. The white-faced fool popped his head inside. "Can I
come in?"
"Certainly," Rosha called. "C-c-come on in, c-clown."
Carlad looked at his smiling charge, and hid his own snicker.
"I've come to give you a lesson."
MW-w-wonderful. I'm ready t-t-to d-d-do m-m-m-my b-best."
Carlad groaned, and the fool looked over at him. "What's wrong?"
Fallomar asked. The guard shook his head, and waved off the
question.
"C-c-can you r-r-really m-make m-me t-t-talk like a m-member of the
c-c-c-c "
Carlad groaned again, more loudly, and once again Fallomar looked over
at him. "Are you ill?"
"Yes, C-a-car lad are you s-s-s-s "
"Am I really going to have to sit and listen to this?" the guard
demanded of Rosha.
"Why, whatever d-d-do you m-m-m "
"Come on!" Carlad pleaded, and he leaned against the wall and shrugged
at the fool. "He's trying to drive me crazy!"
"Who c-c-could t-t-tell?"
"You see?" the guard asked Fallomar.
"You know, you c-c-could always eh-chain me to this c-c-c-c "
"Chain you to the clown, yeah, yeah," Carlad sighed. "Then in walks my
sergeant, and what does he say?"
"P-probably couldn't tell the difference' Rosha cackled.
"All right. All right. I've had enough of this," Carlad announced,
fighting a laugh of his own.
"Why don't you chain me to him?" asked the fool. "You could lock the
door from the outside and take a break "
"I can't believe you!" Carlad shouted, staring at Fallomar in
surprise. "Yesterday this man was trying to kill you, and you want to
be chained to him?"
The fool gazed at him a moment, then raised his eyebrows. "Good point.
But ah he could have, and didn't."
"That doesn't mean he won't! Listen, I've been around this fellow long
enough to know, and believe me "
"C-come on, C-car lad Leave m-m-me with him!" Rosha smiled a tight,
treacherous smile, clearly visible to the guard under the edge of his
hood. "Just for a few moments .. ."
Carlad looked at Rosha, then at the fool, then turned his face away to
smirk at the wall. That was it! Rosha had changed his mind, and
wanted a couple of minutes with this white-faced idiot in private.
"That's why the speech lessons," he murmured in Rosha's ear.
"That's right .. ." Rosha whispered back.
"What? What's that you're talking about?" asked Fallomar, feigning
ignorance.
"Well, I don't imagine it would hurt to leave for just a little while."
Carlad smiled. "Wouldn't hurt me, anyway .. ."
"Fine Carlad, then get I'm-m-mean, g-g-g-go ahead .. ."
The guard stifled his chuckle as he unlocked his own waist shackle and
fastened it around the fool's hips. "Have fun," he said as he skipped
out the door and locked it behind him.
They were silent for a moment, leaning together against the wall.
Pelmen broke it.
"Great performance. Want to join an acting troupe?"
"Any chance we could get out right now?"
"Not much. Not since we're chained together and locked inside as
well."
"Keep your voice low," Rosha advised. "Carlad says there are secret
passageways all through this place."
"He's right, but at the moment Joss is still somewhere north of the
city, and I left Ligne at the Drax table."
"Ligne!" Rosha spat.
"A devious woman." Pelmen nodded.
"Would you get this thing off my head?" Rosha pleaded, and in minutes
the leather hood was unbuckled and tossed onto the floor. Rosha
squinted at the glare, even though the room was lighted only by a
single torch.
"Feel better?" Pelmen asked after a moment.
"Much. So when do we get out of here?"
That depends."
"On what?"
"On where Bronwynn is, for one thing."
"Bronwynn! Where is she?"
"If I knew that, I might be able to plan better! I don't."
"She's not dead .. ." Rosha asked uncertainly.
"We'll hope not. No, I fear she's in the dungeon below us."
Rosha stared at him. "Ligne's said nothing to "
"But she wouldn't be likely to, either. Would she?"
"I'd expect her to kill Bronwynn, not imprison her."
"That's a possibility." Pelmen sighed. "But, we don't know. I'd like
to search the dungeon."
She's not there, announced the Imperial House. Nobody listened. Nobody
ever listened. It went back to cursing a green-jay.
"How do you intend to do that, since you Ve become such a close friend
of the Queen?"
"I'm going to depend on you to distract her."
"Me?" Rosha asked. "How am I going to distract the old witch?"
"By pretending you like her."
There was a brief pause before the explosion. "What!" the young
warrior screamed. Carlad, outside the door, chuckled to himself,
imagining it to be the fool's death cry.
"Somehow, I expected that would be your reaction .. ." Pelmen
sighed.
The WiaarJ in Waiting
"Ask something else, anything, but don't ask me to do that!"
"Not even to provide rescue for your Lady?"
"We don't even know she's in the dungeon!"
"And if she is?"
Rosha's pained expression reflected the battle going on inside him.
"Come, Pelmen, don't "
"Fallomar," the fool broke in quickly. "I am always Fallomar. Remember
it."
"Got it." Rosha sighed, then he leaned back against the wall and shook
his head. "I don't know if I can," he mumbled.
"Stiffen up, mod Dorlyth," Pelmen said quietly. "Being a hero demands
many kinds of courage."
"Oh, but you don't know that woman!" Rosha groaned.
"I'm coming to know her better and better," Pelmen whispered harshly.
"And learning to loathe her more. Time, Rosha. I need time to go
below."
Rosha sighed. "I'll .. . try."
"And keep up that stutter in her presence perhaps it will discourage
her."
"That's simple enough. When she gets too close, it comes back on its
own."
Carlad pounded on the door. "Rosha! You finished with him yet?"
"Ah hold on!" Rosha called. "What about the hood?" he asked
Pelmen.
"You want it back on?"
"Are you joking?"
"Then I'll take it with me. Wear it into Ligne's presence and tell her
I stole it from you to get her attention. With you warming up to her,
she'll not put it back on you."
"I don't know how I can .. ."
"Duck your head, and call the guard back."
"Carlad!" Rosha called, and the guard came back into the room,
grinning. He stopped when he saw the fool's face still intact.
"Come on, man, set me free!" Fallomar ordered as he jumped to his feet
and stretched the chain to its full length.
"I expected "
"I know what you expected, but I talked him out of it! Now, get me
loose before be changes his mind!"
"Just as well," Carlad mumbled as he rushed to unlock the shackle. He
didn't want his sergeant walking in while the exchange was taking
place. "Would have been difficult to explain."
Fallomar stayed to help Carlad chain himself back in. Then he skipped
toward the door, pausing only to scoop the hood up off the floor before
dashing out
"Hunh?" Carlad shouted. He twisted around to look Rosha full in the
face for the first time.
"So that's what you look like," the young warrior smiled at the
astonished guard.
He's got your hood!" Carlad shouted, and he bolted toward the door.
This time it was Rosha's turn to pull the chain up short
CHAPTER TEN
Into the Bowels
THE NEXT DAY began strangely. Ligne did not appear at breakfast. When
Rosha didn't either, Pelmen became alarmed. Brushing aside Yona
Panni's questions, he left the table and began questioning various
friendly servants he found seated near him. A few quick conversations
relived him. General Joss had returned late the night before, Pelmen
was told, and Joss and the Queen were said to be locked in critical
conversations behind closed doors. Since she hadn't summoned Rosha,
the warrior had chosen to take breakfast in his room. Pelmen felt sure
he knew why Rosha would delay as long as possible revealing his hood
less condition.
A few minutes after breakfast, the fool appeared outside the throne
room door. "The Queen won't see you!" a guard announced, blocking the
entrance with his pikestaff. Pel-men recognized the man as one who'd
been on duty two days before, when he'd made his unannounced entry into
the Queen's presence. Obviously, the fellow was determined not to
allow it to happen again.
"Something wrong?"
"That's no concern of mine or yours. Move along!"
Pelmen wasted no time in obeying those instructions. He made his way
swiftly to the kitchen. For the last two mornings he'd arisen early to
cultivate a friendship with the cook. He hoped to make that friendship
pay off the path to the dungeon led right through the kitchen.
"Ho, fool!" the cook cried cheerily when he saw the painted clown come
down the steps. "You're back quick today!"
"The Queen's grown tired of my company. I hope you've not?"
"No, indeed!" The man smiled, showing his toothless gums the result,
he'd explained to Fallomar, of sampling too many pies in his youth.
"This is a time I can enjoy you. Breakfast's over, and it'll be a
while before we begin dinner in earnest though I do have a few treats
in the oven." The cook slapped the stonework lip of the cistern that
held the castle's water supply. "Sit down. Talk to me."
Tve little to say this morning. I fear this fool has had his fill of
fooling for a time."
The cook nodded. "I get tired of my own cooking some-tunes. You've no
need to entertain me."
"Ah but I hope you'll not stop feeding me?"
The cook snickered, and slapped Fallomar on the back. "Don't you
worry. In fact, I may have something for you to nibble on now. Let me
check my ovens." The man walked to the far side of the giant kitchen
where stood the rows of rounded ovens.
"There you are!" Pelmen heard someone shout behind him, and he whipped
around to see Maythorm plunging toward him.
"Oh, no." He sighed.
"Playing up to the Queen, aren't you' Maythorm shouted, shaking his
finger. "Trying to make me appear incompetent!"
"Maythorm, you really don't need my help for that "
"What are you doing here?" the cook roared, and Pel-men turned in time
to see him set a steaming dessert on the cutting block and seize a meat
cleaver imbedded in the wood beside it. The cook started forward.
Maythorm stopped his own charge and regarded the on-coming cook with
some alarm. The man was twice his size and frowning nastily. "I ... I
have no quarrel with you."
"But I have one with you! There's the little matter of my
Th in Waiting niece!" The cook was picking up speed. With his head
lowered and his ample belly flopping, the cook strongly resembled a
charging tugolith, Pelmen thought.
Maythorm proved himself quite nimble. He vaulted a table, putting it
between himself and his attacker, and cried in a high-pitched shriek,
"Who is your niece?"
It was the wrong thing to say. The cook stopped and stared, his eyes
bulging with rage. "You mean you don't even know?" the cook bellowed.
He started over the top of the table. Maythorm raced for an exit any
exit. "You come into my kitchen again, and I'll drop you down the
cistern!"
Maythorm was gone.
The cook grinned toothlessly at his painted friend. "Moves quick,
doesn't he?"
Pelmen's eyes twinkled. "I'd heard he was fast with the ladies. Seems
he's rather swift of foot as well. Ligne ought to send him to the
Merchants' Games next year."
"If the Queen would send me and my cleaver as well, we'd be sure to
win," the cook cackled.
Fallomar smiled, then looked down into the dank darkness behind him. A
cold draft blew up from the cistern's depths. "Would you really drop
him in?" he asked.
"Not likely," the cook muttered, brandishing his famous cleaver and
slashing it through a chunk of red meat. "Not unless I wanted to
follow him down it. The Queen would probably drop me in after him, and
you'd hear nothing of either of us again."
"It's just a well, isn't it?"
"Not exactly. It's a reservoir, carved out of the rock. It's fed by
the river, when the water's high. Spills through an iron grating on
the south wall." The cook slammed his cleaver into the cutting board,
and it quivered there as he went on: "It's poor water, believe me. All
the filth of upper Chaomonous spills through that grillwork. We have
to boil every bucket we raisel"
"It's safe though," Pelmen muttered to himself; then, when the cook
gave him a puzzled look, he explained, "I mean secure for the Imperial
House. I assume no one could get through the grate?"
"Who'd want to?" the cook snorted. "No. Not big enough. So there'd
be water enough to last out any siege.
Though whoever would be fool enough to lay siege to this fortress would
be a fool indeed. Oh, no offense intended," the heavy man added, in
deference to Fallomar's profession.
"And none " Fallomar cut himself short when he saw Ligne bolt rather
furtively from the door the steward had just exited. She hurried
through the kitchen and down another corridor. She held her cloak
around her as if that might hide her identity from the very people
whose jobs demanded they watch her every move. "There's the Queen," he
announced to the cook. "I think I'll go amuse her." He got up.
"I wouldn't," the cook warned, raising his heavy brow.
"That's why you're the cook and I'm the fool!"
"What if she's not amused?"
"Then come visit me occasionally. And bring a pie."
"Be careful!" the cook called as Fallomar danced down the hall.
Ligne had already turned in through the dungeon door. That was good.
He hoped to bluff his way past the guards, but it would only succeed if
she were out of earshot, on her way into the lower depths. He paused
briefly outside the door, then plunged in.
As with every dungeon he'd ever visited, the initial impact was more
olfactory than anything else. A rank stench hit him with suffocating
force, stopping him in the doorway. He forced himself forward.
"Ho, fool, what goes?" a warder called out of the fetid shadows. "I've
been expecting you, to be sure, for hardly a fool comes into this court
who doesn't finally join us here. But I expected you to come in chains
and under guard not by yourself!"
Fallomar chuckled. "I came early to inspect the rooms. I wanted to
reserve a good one before they're all taken! Did the Queen pass
through here?" He started to circle the guard, but there was the ching
of metal striking stone, and he found his way blocked by a pikestaff.
"Stop!" the guard snapped. His voice softened immediately as he
continued with concern, "Where do you think you're going?"
"Why, to prison, of course," Fallomar offered.
"And that quickly, unless you give me a reason for this!"
Tbt "Wizard i Waiting
The guard leaned toward him. "Hear me. Quit your fooling and take
yourself somewhere else. This is no place for you, especially not
now."
"Why should now be different?" the jester inquired, shrugging
elaborately. "It always seemed to me that dungeons were ever awful.
Are some hours more bitter than others?"
"The Queen is within," the guard whispered, and Fallo-mar reacted with
shock.
"You mean, she's sent herself to jail?"
The guard laughed at that, and Pelmen took advantage of his laughter to
try again to get past him. He stopped when the business end of the
pike was leveled at his nose. "You halt!" the guard roared, and
Fallomar did just that
"I ... just thought .. ." he began lamely, and the guard slipped the
pike under his left arm and slung him toward the door. He crashed
against the masonry and down to the floor. The guard became
solicitous.
"Did I hurt you?" he asked with sincerity.
"Only my backside," Pelmen answered honestly, "and it quickly heals ..
."
"Then take it out of here!" the guard ordered.
"But I only wanted to amuse the Queen! I know many humorous tales
about dungeons and I thought this the perfect venue "
"Shut up!" the guard ordered. Pelmen responded to the authority in
the man's voice. He shut up. "How many times must I tell you, clown,
that this is not the time?" He said this quietly, but with great
force.
"Then another time "
"Hush! No. No other time. No one enters this dungeon without
authorization either from Queen Ligne or the Lord Joss. Anyone who
succeeds in entering it otherwise will never get out do you understand
me?"
"But I only .. ."
"Quiet! By my orders you should be in a cell already, for attempting
unlawful entry. Get out of here before she returns and makes me keep
you!"
"If you could tell me why "
The guard sighed in exasperation and lowered his voice into nothing
more than a whisper. "Security is incredibly tight. Ever since the
Princess " The guard slammed his mouth shut, then cursed. The deadly
look in his eyes, though only dimly perceived in this foul gloom,
convinced Pelmen it was time to retreat. He bolted up off his knees
and out the door into the corridor. He didn't stop running until he'd
reached the safety of the kitchen.
Once again into its safe, well-lighted expanse, Pelmen leaned against
the wall to catch his breath and ponder his options. The guard had let
slip "the Princess " ... so Bronwynn was an occupant of the dungeon. In
the choking silence of the catacombs, somewhere below his feet, Rosha's
lady lay in chains. What other explanation fit the facts he'd
uncovered? Pelmen imagined the treatment she surely must be receiving
from the jealous Queen's hand perhaps this moment and his jaw clenched.
Was there no way to get to her?
"I thought you'd be back in short order," the cook said. "The Queen is
very particular about who visits her dungeons and who don't."
Pelmen turned around to watch as the cook dropped sliced olives and
cashew nuts atop a curious looking culinary concoction. "Who feeds
them?"
"What?"
"The prisoners. How are they fed?"
The cook shook his head. "I've got no idea. All I know is, we never
have any leftovers. The Lord Joss has all leftovers collected off the
trenchers before they even come out of the great hall of washing.
That's all the more I know about it" The cook sauntered toward the bank
of ovens on the far wall and shoved his creation into one of them. "If
you'll pardon me, Fallomar, your interest in the doings below us seems
quite unhealthy to me. Are you planning an act that might land you
there? It's not that infrequent for fools, you know .. ."
"So the guard informed me."
"But it used to be, with Talith on the throne, that the old man's
temper would subside after a time, and folks would be let out Since
this Queen's come to power, I've seen a lot , of souls go below but not
a one's come up again."
Pelmen spun the possibilities in his mind, hoping that the random swirl
of ideas might produce some new, unconsidered option. "You say the
dungeon stretches below us here?"
The cook frowned at Pelmen and held that frown on his features as he
took a steaming pie from another of the ovens. The kitchen filled
instantly with its delicious aroma. "Do like me, Fallomar. I forget
it's there." The culinary expert turned away then and walked slowly
toward the pantry in the back end of the kitchen. It was nearly time
for his servants to begin arriving, to start preparing the midday meal.
The cook felt sure that Ligne had at least one spy, maybe two,
scattered through his host of helpers. He hoped to discourage the
clown from any further inquiries into the matter.
Pelmen's eyes cast around the kitchen in desperation. They fell on the
low stonework wall that formed the lip of the cistern. It wasn't
twenty feet from where he was standing. If the dungeon stretched
directly below them .. .
When the cook came out of the pantry, Fallomar was gone. "Good," the
cook muttered to himself. "He's decided to keep himself out of
trouble."
Jagd usually had a dozen cloaks in his closet, all of them either solid
purple or solid red. At the moment, however, his closet was empty. His
guest rooom in the royal quarter of the castle resembled wash day at
the laundry, for he had hung all his cloaks on the walls, on a dozen
strategically placed pegs. He hoisted the last one into place and
stepped back to look. It appeared that all textured surfaces were
covered. Since spy holes normally were hidden in the textured panels
to prevent discovery, and the only wall space now visible to him was
smoothly plastered, he felt relatively safe. He did not know if secret
passages circled his room, but he always assumed their presence in a
castle of this age. Ligne could attempt to spy if she liked all she
would see would be darkness.
He doused the oil lamp that sat on the ornate table beside his bed,
then set it on the floor. Then he pulled a heavy chest out from under
the bed. He found its buckles by feel rather than sight. The latches
sprang open in his hands like living things, and he opened up the
chest.
The precious object inside glowed dimly. He pulled it out and set in
on the table before him. As he peered into its glassy face, the
strange blue light within it fanned into a new, brighter life. This
was one of three very precious crystal pyramids possessed by members of
the Council of Elders. Used together, they permitted instant
communication between three members of the Council, wherever in the
world they might be. While Jagd valued it as a complex machine of very
fine craftsmanship, he had yet to recognize it for the awesome magic
tool it really was.
"I see you've finally deigned to join us." That voice, mediated by the
pyramid, made Jagd wince in irritation. It belonged to Flayh, who
possessed the second of the three objects.
"I must be careful Jagd replied sarcastically, peering into the
crystal's depths. "Remember I'm no longer free to live in my own
house, since certain persons seem disposed to try to assassinate me."
"So you've said," Flayh answered. As the parties each concentrated on
the objects before them, the link between the three grew more stable.
Jagd could now see Flayh's sneering face on the inner left-hand facet
of his pyramid. On the right-hand facet he saw the sluggish, dull
features of Flayh's obese nephew, Pezi. "I called a meeting of the
Council, Jagd, in part to deal with your problem. I fear your absence
will mean that problem gets very little attention."
"I do appreciate your consideration," Jagd replied snidery, "but
perhaps that's the best I could hope for. Had I attended, I'm sure the
problem would already have been resolved much to your satisfaction."
"Whatever do you mean by that, Jagd?" Flayh asked with pretended
civility.
"It would have been finished in Dragonsgate, with me OB the sharp end
of a slaver's sword. Thank you, Flayh, but I'll find my own
solution."
You hurt me deeply," Flayh mocked. "Such accusations .. ."
Can we drop the pretense and get on to business? I notice your fat
puppet is there beside you still " - "What do you mean puppet!" Pezi
barked. "I'm no " "Shut up, Pezi," Flayh growled, and Pezi obeyed
without question. "Of course Pezi is here. He is the owner of the
Jtfaird pyramid."
"The pyramids belong to the leaders of the Council, as 3U well know!"
Jagd exploded. "When we first put them to use it was resolved that
each should be held in trust by the most influential merchant in a
land! You've broken the framework of their usage twice now, first by
stealing the Lamathian pyramid and carrying it into Ngandib-Mar, and
now by entrusting the pyramid of Tohn mod Neelis into the pudgy hands
of this pasty-faced glutton! Do you dare contend that this overweight
marionette is the most influential merchant among the Maris?"
"I'm no marion !"
"I said shut up, Pezi!" Flayh said again, and Pezt bit his lip and
sulked into the pyramid. "Are you quite finished?" Flayh asked Jagd.
"For if you are, let me inform you that the pyramid has merely been
entrusted to Pezi for safekeeping until the conclave begins tomorrow
morning. The issue was to be high on the agenda."
"Was to be?" Jagd snorted.
"Of course, with your absence, you certainly wouldn't care to have it
brought up in Council. Certainly your forces would find themselves
outvoted "
Jagd's sharp, derisive laughter cut Flayh off. "You larcenous liar!"
he shouted. "You would never bring these devices up on the floor, for
fear of losing your own! But I can guarantee, Flayh, the pyramid issue
will be brought up!"
Flayh's gaze grew cold. "Then I can only assume you have broken the
terms of your possession as well, by revealing it to someone outside
the circle!"
"Yes, I have," Jagd cackled, "and we shall see how the Council as a
whole reacts to your usurping of extraordinary powers!"
"I'll show you extraordinary powers!" Flayh shrilled, and his eyes
bored into Jagd's. The merchant of Uda felt as if hot stakes were
being driven into his skull. He tossed up his hands to block that
penetrating gaze and suddenly realized he was screaming. He was
marginally aware of Pezi shouting, "Uncle! Uncle, stop!" as well as
of that mysterious clanging of bells that periodically disturbed the
quiet of the Imperial House.
Jagd screeched; "I'll force the issue to the floor despite you!" Then
he rolled backwards on his bed and away from the pyramid, effectively
breaking the link and freeing his mind from the blood-chilling cruelty
of Flayh's eyes.
The "Wizard fa Waiting
The object dimmed to its original soft shimmer. No longer were the
faces of the other two merchants visible in its facets. Jagd knew from
experience that he, too, would be glowing with that quiet blue radiance
for a while, and that to rush out into the hall was to court unwanted
stares and difficult questions. Someone pounded on his door and
called, "Are you all right in there? Did you ring for service?"
"Go away!" he managed to shout, and the pounding stopped. He could
hear the ringing continue throughout the castle and shook his head at
the imponderable mystery of it But the noise was only one of a host of
mysteries that plagued Jagd and was of minimal importance compared to
the shock and terror he felt now. His worst fears had been
confirmed.
"Tahli-Damen," he muttered, "your budding talent is about to meet its
stiffest test. I hope you're equal to it, lad. For somehow, old Flayh
has made himself a power shaper
What pain! What utter, agonizing pain! groaned the Imperial House,
and it swore mightily through its bells. It gasped, and its foundation
stones ground together. Candles guttered, torches flared, and wind
whistled in the corridors.
A bit ostentatious, perhaps, for an attack of gastritus. But pain is
pain, and this castle had never subscribed to a stoic philosophy. It
reacted violently to the events taking place in the room of the little
red-clad merchant
Pest! the Imperial House shouted at Jagd. Vermin! it shouted again.
But, like all its other stupid occupants, this one didn't understand.
He just lay on his bed and sparkled like a luminous fish! And every
shimmer radiated more of that searing energy, the substance from which
magic was drawn the substance that burned the castle's insides!
And there's no mouth to belch! screamed the House. It was no stranger
to magic. Indeed, the House held more remembered spells locked in the
patterns of its stonework than any being existent, it felt sure. But
so much magic concentrated in one room, with no path of escape!
Excruciating!
At least open the door! the House pleaded. Just to dissipate it a bit
will help! But like a gasping sturgeon, the merchant lay on his back
and glistened.
Not even eyes to weep! moaned the anguished castle, and it turned its
attention away from this insensitive knave to the one it had been
watching for days. Though arrayed as a fool, this man showed a wisdom
and sensitivity the House hadn't seen in a millennium. Perhaps this
one could dissipate the magic, and bring some relief!
// he survives his fall, that is.
Pelmen's survival was very much in question. It hadn't occurred to him
to wonder if there might be something in the subterranean cistern until
he was plunging through the darkness into it. He had only time for the
thought Then his heel struck the water, and he was under. Immediately
he churned for the surface, totally blind in the pitch black cavern. He
gasped for breath as his head popped out, his heart pounding loudly. He
thanked the Power he was still alive.
It struck him a moment later that his thanksgiving was a bit premature.
He felt something grip his leg, and he was under water once again. He
kicked at the thing with his free foot, but with little result. The
water dragged on his leg as he swung it, robbing his kick of any force.
He squeezed his lips and eyes tight, holding onto his air as he sought
once again to kick the terrifying thing that had gripped him. Success!
He fought to the surface, a maelstrom of Bailing legs and arms. He
jerked the air into his lungs but again the force grabbed him and dove
for the bottom! What was it? And what was it doing in the cistern?
Actually, it was nothing more than a dumb fish. But it was a big dumb
fish. The grating was far too small to permit the access of a monster
like this. But when it had entered the cavern beneath the castle, it
hadn't been a monster just a man-wise denizen of the river, who found
the cavern's cool, quiet pool preferable to the currents of the busy
waterway. Other fish had found the grate as well, and these it had
eaten, along with the ever-present garbage that floated on the surface.
And after a time, it had grown too big to pass out the grate and into
the main stream. Much too big. It was now much, much bigger.
Pelmen kicked again a fruitless move, since he'd tried it twice
already, and the fish now expected it. The scaly beast gulped as
Pelmen kicked at it, and Pelmen's other foot wound up inside its
mouth.
Panic seized him. He clenched his fists, bent at the waist, and tried
pounding on the dull beast's spiky skull. The fish gulped again, and
Pelmen realized he would soon be swallowed. In a rage born of terror,
Pelmen extended his arm and bubbled some words toward the surface. For
the briefest of instants, a ball of fire burned underwater! But it
doused immediately. What was a power shaper to do?
"I am a power shaper Pelmen encouraged himself, but little
encouragement came. "And about to be a drowned one!" As his lungs
clenched in a mute scream for air, Pel-men invoked the Power. And the
Power aided him.
Heir said the Imperial House with a jolt. Everyone in the castle felt
its shock as a slight tremor. A number of wild-eyed servants wandered
far from their tasks the afternoon had taken on an apocalyptic
character.
A power shaper again! the castle crowed gleefully. A door slammed in
the Hall of War, and Lord Joss put the soldiery on alert
It's boiled carp for dinner than, chuckled the Imperial House, and
though it burned it put its knowledge to work.
Pelmen had fought the temptation far too long. He prepared to yield to
the pressure of the deep. Suddenly, however, they were hurtling for
the surface, and in much faster time than Pelmen had managed earlier!
Fish and fool broke the surface together and continued into the air a
giant leap into a cavern filled with steam. Pelmen's legs came free in
midair, and he plunged toward the water, rejoicing. His joy turned to
screams, however, when he struck with a scalding splash. The water
around him frothed and bubbled. Apparently, he was not only going to
be eaten he was to be cooked first!
Pelmen's reaction came purely by intuition. His hands shot into the
ahv and a rush of wind blew in through the grating and tore him bodily
from the water. He rode a raging whirlwind through the blackness of
the grotto, until good sense convinced him that a light was needed, and
a ball of fire burst into existence above his outstretched palm.
His eyes scanned the walls in panic, looking desperately for a cleft or
prominence, something he could cling to when the wind died, as he knew
it must in a moment. Already it was dropping him toward the boiling
water again, and he could only sustain it
There! A hole in the wall. He sailed through it and skidded along the
uneven floor, scraping his already raw body. He gasped, exhausted. He
had expended tremendous resources in those brief, bleak moments of
terror. Now he slept.
Behind him, in the pool, the giant fish continued to leap and struggle
in the boiling froth, until at last it was forced to yield up its long
life and die.
Someone in the kitchen, passing by the cistern, sniffed twice, then
called across the large room to the cook: "I thought we were roasting a
pig today! Why is it I keep smelling fish?"
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A Chaotic Council
BRONWYNN FOLLOWED AD MON FAVE into the central hall of Tohn's castle
and took a seat beside him. They sat on the dais, as befitted honored
guests of the meeting, but not at the head^ table itself. It was
reserved for members of the ruling Council alone the foremost merchant
of each house, plus the leader of the dominant house in each land. For
many years that had meant that the house of Ognadzu had seated two
representatives at the head table. Flayh had represented the blue and
lime both as chief Elder and as the most influential merchant in
Lamath. Tohn mod Neelis had also been seated, for his expertise in Man
culture had thrust his house far above all competing houses in
Ngandib-Mar. But Tohn was dead now, and though his noninvolvement in
the recent Mari-Chaon war had won many new friends for Ognadzu in the
Mar, its supremacy was far from unchallenged. There was much
consternation, then, when Flayh took his central seat at the ruling
table and Pezi, smiling sheepishly, took the seat on Flayh's right hand
that had been Tohn's. The muttering that swept through the lower level
of the hall forecast a stormy meeting, but no one had ever expected it
to be peaceful. A major power shift was shaping up, and the fever of
politics had infected the host of younger merchants who now attended a
conclave for the first time.
Another storm of whispers issued when an obviously youthful merchant in
purple and red strode purposefully to the dais and took the seat on
Flayh's left as if he owned it. Flayh had been waiting for a hush to
settle on the crowd before starting the session. That hush fell
quickly when he turned to address Tahli-Damen sharply:
"What do you think you're doing? Go to your place!" He pointed a
long, bony finger at the rows of tables on the floor, where the lesser
members of the families sat by houses, ranked according to their
influence.
"This is my place," Tahli-Damen replied evenly, and those nearest to
the dais the older members -gasped at his brazenness. "I am
representing the house of Uda in Chaomonous I think it's no secret
which house is dominant in the Golden Land."
"Nor is it any secret who is the leader of that house!" Flayh snarled.
"That he refused to come is his own business! He's forfeited his voice
thereby, and he knows it!"
"He refused to come because you ordered his assassination!" Tahli-Damen
shot back, and all the merchants present roared in shock not because it
wasn't true they all knew that but because the young man had the gall
to say it aloud!
"Order!" Flayh shouted. "I command order!" He banged on the oaken
table with an empty tankard, and order was quickly restored, as
merchants of every age and color leaned forward to hear his response.
He disappointed all of them, for he turned his back on Tahli-Damen,
choosing to pretend he wasn't there, rather than confront the lad
before the assembly. He could do that much more effectively in
private. "Brother merchants!" he began, his voice carrying with
surprising strength for so small a man. "I ^have summoned you to this
meeting to consider grave matters that threaten our livelihood! The
dragon is dead!"
The response pleased Flayh. The gathering seemed to forget the
upstart's embarrassing intrusion, and turned its attention to the real
problem.
"This has already cost us," Flayh warned. Pezi was surprised at how
dignified his uncle sounded. "We are faced with a problem unlike any
our fathers faced before us. For a millennium our families have been
the feeders of the dragon, and in return we've built a style of life
unmatched by the noblest of nobles, unmatched even in the courts of the
three regents. My friends, our position has been gravely jeopardized
by Vicia-Heinox' death! Lest any of you miss its significance let me
hasten to explain. With no dragon in Dragonsgate, trade between the
three lands will become utterly, disastrously free. Any ignorant lout
who thinks himself a salesman can now take it into his head to
transport goods between the three lands. Of course, he could never
hope to compete with our volume and experience. But he will soak off
some of our profits, and if enough free traders begin to move, our
monopoly will unquestionably be broken."
A hiss swept the hall, and Flayh stretched out his palms to hush the
whisperers. "There is more at stake than just our businesses, however.
Our very lives are threatened as well." Shock greeted this statement.
What Flayh had said so far was generally acknowledged as the truth.
This was a new thought. All eyes riveted on the bald speaker. "We
have never attempted to ingratiate ourselves with the populace of any
land. We are, therefore, unpopular. But peasants in all three lands
have been forced to tolerate us, for we were the only source of the
goods and services they needed. The crowns have called us arrogant,
but never to our faces. They've been aware of our power, and of the
fact that our united front could topple them from theirs. But the
dragon is dead! What happens now?"
The question raised immediate response. Brab mod Crober of the house
of Blez leaped to his feet in great agitation. "They'll kill us and
take our lands! They've always wanted to what's to prevent them?"
"Not so!" shouted Klapb, a Hanni merchant in charge of his family's
operation in Lamath. "As all of you know, our land has just endured
tremendous social and religious upheaval yet we remain free to trade,
and the Prophet of Lamath has offered no interference "
"Yet!" Flayh thundered, his eyebrows knitting fiercely. "You
remember, Klaph, that I am originally of Lamath. Yet I and my house
were hounded from that land by these religiously motivated rebels. You
know yourself that J-a-mathians are fanatics, feeding themselves to the
dragon to obtain religious satisfaction "
"That was before! The dragon is "
"Dead, yes!" Flayh continued aggressively, leaning down the table
toward Klaph and emphasizing his points with a shaking finger. "But
what happens if this worship-crazed Prophet should choose tomorrow to
throw you out? Do you think you would survive the night? I doubt it!"
Flayh turned to the assembly and thundered in a voice strangled by
rage, "Be reminded, you merchants from Lamath, that this new Prophet is
but a pawn of the dangerous Pelmen, who brought this entire problem on
all of us!"
The hall rang with agreement, and Klaph sank back into his seat under
the weight of the crowd's abuse.
"I repeat!" Flayh trumpeted. "What are we going to do? Before anyone
else speaks," he went on quickly, "I'd like to offer a suggestion that
I feel will meet with your unanimous approval."
"That's yet to be seen," Tahli-Damen put in quickly, and Flayh made a
great show of ignoring him.
"What is needed," Flayh said, "is, quite simply, a replacement for
Vicia-Heinox." Stunned silence greeted him.
After a moment, a lesser merchant of Ognadzu meekly began: "You mean we
need to seek out another dragon "
Flayh cut the man off with a sharp look. Then he surveyed his audience
and explained: "I have taken the liberty of inviting an old friend to
attend this gathering. Though you may not know his name, you all will
surely recognize him as **
"By my face, Flayh?" Admon Faye asked sharply from his seat to Flayh's
far right. Bronwynn suddenly felt trapped in the wash of eyes, as
everyone turned to look at the slaver seated next to her.
"I meant nothing by that, my friend. I refer only to the fact that you
are as widely travelled as a merchant as any other merchant," Flayb
amended carefully. He turned back to the delegates. "My brother
merchants, I give you the dragon's successor in Dragonsgate: Admon
Faye." Flayh pointed at the slaver, and once again Bronwynn shifted in
her seat, wanting to hide from the eyes that turned toward her. She
could see them associating her with the hideously vis aged slaver his
girl friend perhaps, some of them were thinking. Bronwynn didn't feel
at all flattered.
Admon Faye rose in his place and bowed courteously. Then he sneered,
and the assembled merchants, for the most part, quickly found something
else to look at.
"What .. . exactly .. ." Brab mod Crober began, and Flayh nodded to
him politely and went on:
"Admon Faye is an expert slaver. Of all those who ply his unpopular
but essential trade, he is the best. Or was. The death of
Vicia-Heinox has caused the demand for slaves to drop drastically. He
is in need of a new line of work.
"We are all familiar with the continuous sword-rattling that passes for
diplomacy between our several nations. With Dragonsgate clear, no
nation can feel safe. I predict that we will soon see a build up of
troops in every mouth of the Gate a build-up that will continue
unabated, sapping the economic strength of each land, until the
inevitable war results. We cannot have that not least because those
border lands closest to the pass have always belonged to us! We don't
want soldiers building barricades across our farm lands!"
"No!" roared the assembly in one mighty voice.
"However. If someone occupies the pass someone non-threatening to
national security, but powerful enough to resist all but the severest
of raids my guess is that rulers of security in all three lands will be
able to relax, and life will soon return to normal. I propose that
Admon Faye and his horde of henchmen be installed in Dragonsgate to
form such a buffer and to discourage passage to anyone save merchant
houses recognized by this Council!"
A round of cheers broke out then, lasting for several minutes. Flayh
actually smiled an honest smile of pleasure, something Pezi couldn't
remember ever seeing on Flayh before. The cheering was interrupted by
Klaph of Harm, who jumped to his feet waving his burnt-orange
sleeves.
"A moment! A moment please!" he cried, and the merchants quieted to
hear him. "Just what does Admon Faye want in return?" he asked. He
didn't hide his suspicion.
"Very simple," Flayh replied. "A tribute from each caravan something
each of us should feel quite comfortable
17S
with, since that was our arrangement with the dragon as well and a
secret seat on this Council." Flayh gauged the reactions of his
audience and decided that he was home free. Protests were few. He
continued: "It must be a secret seat, for if it became, known that
Admon Faye formally belonged to the Council, public sentiment might
force one regent or another to move upon him and chase him from the
pass. As long as the general populace remains convinced that he's
acting only in his own interests, each regent can publicly deplore his
presence, while privately offering him every incentive to continue."
Flayh turned toward Admon Faye and smiled. "You surely don't mind
being deplored, do you?" he called.
"Mind it!" Admon Faye hooted. "I've made a career of it!" The
comment brought a hearty laugh, and Flayh confidently moved for an
immediate vote. The response was unanimous approval. Even Tahli-Damen
endorsed it heartily, admitting to himself that Flayh's genius had
produced the perfect solution. Besides, his argument was not with
this.
Tahli-Damen braced himself for the next item on the agenda to be
announced. Flayh cleared his throat. "Now to the matter of other
seats on the platform." Flayh spun around to face Tahli-Damen and
drilled his eyes into those of the young merchant "I demand that you
vacate that positionl"
Tahli-Damen came out of his chair ready for a scrap. The adrenaline
pumped through him with such force that he felt no fear at all. In
fact, he felt strangely elated.
"And I refuse!" He turned to the crowd and announced, **I have been
deputized to this chair by Jagd of Uda, who refused to attend on threat
of assassination!"
"Your patron's paranoia is none of our concern!" Flayh screeched, but
the young merchant kept on talking.
"My Lord Jagd has refused to attend in person, but has authorized me to
challenge Flayh to produce the two pyramids he holds in his
possession!"
"What are you talking about?" Flayh shrilled, and he grabbed
Tahli-Damen's shoulder and tried to wrench him around.
The Udan merchant winced, but continued talking to a sea of rapt faces.
"Flayh knows very well what pyramids I
refer to, though he's conspired to keep them secret from all but a
chosen few of the merchant Elders "
"I must protest!" shouted Brab mod Crober, pounding his hand on the
head table. "This knowledge is privileged, reserved only for those
seated on this daisl"
"No!" shouted some younger merchants in the back of the hall, and
Tahli-Damen was forced to scream to make himself heard over the
heckling.
"No longer will these magic objects be hidden! If you would hear Jagd
himself endorse an open and free discussion of these precious crystals,
then help me to force this man to produce the two pyramids he holds in
his possession! Then Jagd of Uda will himself speak to you, from his
sanctuary in the Imperial House of Chaomonous!" Tahli-Damen pointed at
Flayh, but did not look at him. He did well in that, for the merchant
power shaper was livid in his wrath and glared at his young accuser
with every intention of crushing the young upstart under the weight of
his own terror. But he needed to grip the lad's eyes!
Flayh was oblivious to the bedlam the young man's words had unleashed.
Fist fights had broken out in three sections of the room, scuflSers
clothed in blue and lime against those in scarlet and purple, Admon
Faye shook his head in disbelief, a grin traced on his hideous lips,
while Bron-wynn tucked herself behind his body, fearing the benches
would soon start flying. Gradually everyone became aware of a heavy
pounding on the table, and order was restored. Surprisingly, the
pounder was none other than Pezi, who had been so seized by the
excitement of the moment that he'd acted with an uncharacteristic
authority. He even earned his uncle's attention. But when he noticed
Flayh's peering eyes, his courage faltered, and he shoved Flayh's
ale-cup back into his uncle's shrivelled hand and sank into his seat.
Flayh was nonplussed. Skeptical expressions had replaced the cheers of
a moment ago, and his normal sourness returned with a rush. He frowned
at the gathering, then opened his mouth:
"I cannot comprehend the "
"Don't lie to us!" someone shouted.
"We won't be silenced!"
"We want the truth!"
"Show us the pyramids!"
"Produce them!"
"We demand to see the objects!"
The cries rang out from every corner of the hall, each one clearly
audible.
"I .. he began again, and someone else shouted:
"Don't deny it! Brab mod Crober has already admitted they exist."
That was true, and Brab blushed and hung his head. His face turned the
burnt-orange color of a Hanni tunic.
"Very well!" Flayh snapped. "I will fetch the objects before our next
session! But first I "
"No!" Tahli-Damen roared, jumping to his feet once again. "You've
hidden them from us long enough! Produce them now, or forfeit your
credibility entirely!"
"Do you threaten me?" Flayh shouted, spittle flying from his
contorting lips. Now it was Tahli-Damen's turn to ignore Flayh, and
the young man did so with a flair. The chorus of support he received
immediately from the tables on the floor made it apparent that Flayh
would have to yield. "~
Flayh realized his cause was hopeless. "Go fetch them," he spat, and
Pezi waddled for the door at top speed which was, of course,
necessarily slow.
Flayh sank back into his seat to wait, steaming with frustration. As
half a hundred excited conversations began, he cursed quietly. "I'll
have you peeled," he growled through his teeth at the young adversary
seated beside him.
Tahli-Damen faced stolidly forward. "No doubt you would if you were
able."
"Oh, I'm able, boy. And you'll suffer as I prove it to you."
"Threaten all you like, Lord Flayh. I only seek an equitable solution
to the problem of our warring houses. I was taught in our own
merchant's conservatory that inter house wars were the deadliest of
sins, because nothing is so harmful to business."
"You lecture me, as well as threaten? My child, your education is only
beginning! You obviously view yourself as a political corner, but I
assure you, you've come to nothing but a dead end here!"
"We shall need to let the Council decide that."
"Oh no. It's already been decided. By me."
"Perhaps you think too highly of yourself, Lord Flayh.** Tahli-Damen
angled his eyes even further away from Flayh's as he said it.
"And perhaps, my boy just perhaps you don't regard me highly enough."
Their verbal sparring ceased then, but the taut silence between them
was as charged with meaning as any conversation. At last Pezi rushed
back into the chamber, carrying two oddly shaped velvet bags with
drawstrings of gilded rope. As he passed Admon Faye, the slaver had to
fight the urge to trip him and barely resisted the temptation. Admon
Faye was determined to appear respectable though after what he'd
already witnessed, he wondered why he bothered.
Flayh glowered at his nephew as Pezi deposited the first of the
pyramids before his uncle. The chubby trader un-sacked his own device
and plopped himself onto his chair. Then he leaned forward and would
have begun the process of clearing his mind to form the link, had Flayh
not grabbed him by the ear and viciously twisted his head away from the
surface of the object.
"Not yet, idiot! Wait until I instruct you to begin!" Flayh released
his nephew and straightened to look into the upturned faces below him,
suddenly grown silent once again.
"I do this under protest No!" he broke off, pointing at a younger
merchant who had started to jeer. His angry scowl dismayed the lad,
and the young man quailed and turned pale. Flayh paused for a moment
and scanned the room for other sneers. They all disappeared, and he
continued. "These objects have been a secret trust, and I am horrified
that a member of the ruling Council would so frivolously reveal their
existence "
"Not frivolously," Tahli-Damen murmured, and Flayh turned to stare at
the man. Tahli-Damen maintained his composure, fixing his eyes on the
table top.
"May I be granted the courtesy of finishing my statement?" Flayh
demanded. Tahli-Damen didn't reply, and Flayh turned back to the crowd
and shouted: "These objects are precious implements which permit as has
been pointed out conversation at great distances. They are re served
for the three foremost merchants, the head of the dominant house in
each land "
"Then why has Pezi got one?" someone shouted, and Flayh was forced to
wait again for the confusion to subside before he could go on.
"Pezi uses the pyramid entrusted to Tohn mod Neelis, the late lord of
this castle!" His savage mood was very threatening, yet interruption
came in spite of it.
"Is this a permanent arrangement?" someone questioned, and Klaph spoke
up through a clamor of boos:
"Then we might expect some reassignment will take place?"
"Certainly," Flayh snapped, "should any reassignment prove
necessary!"
"I think it very likely that it should!" Klaph bristled. "Since
you've left Lamath, my family has done a thorough job of reorganizing
the regional markets! I feet that I am entitled to hold the Lamathian
pyramid!"
"You haven't even seen the device work yet!" Flayh snarled. "Are you
entitled also to the dangers of its operation?"
The suggestion that the pyramids might be dangerous as well as useful
caused Klaph difficulty in swallowing. Klaph was a conservative man,
like most merchants. Caution drove him back into his seat
Flayh surveyed his audience and found them a little less restive.
"Yes." He smiled, "I thought that might bring a bit of hesitancy to
some of you. Are you entirely certain you want this demonstration?"
"Don't be put off by him!" Tahli-Damen challenged. "This is another
ruse to keep us from exercising our rightful powers!"
"I'm getting tired of you," Flayh breathed, for TafaH-Damen's statement
had once more swung the Council against him.
"And I've been tired of you since before I arrived," the young merchant
shot back. His obvious success with the Council had emboldened him to
the point of cockiness. Flayh noted this, and marked it well.
At last Flayh nodded to Pezi and leaned toward his own pyramid,
complaining, "I'm not sure if this will even work .. ."
"It'll work," Tahli-Damen said confidently.
As Flayh peered into the cloudy blue crystal before him, and the
gathered host gasped at the sudden blue flame that sprang to life
within both it and its twin, Flayh cursed himself for having allowed
Jagd and this young merchant so totally to outmaneuver him. By the
time the pyramids cleared, he'd already plotted his vengeance.
Once again, the bells rang throughout the castle. "I'm going to have
that Kherda fried!" Ligne barked then she smiled at Rosha, and patted
him on the hand. "I'm sorry, darling, I know I shouldn't go on like
that. But this incessant ringing is driving me insane!"
Rosha thought of the obvious insult, but resisted saying it Ligne had
returned from her visit to the dungeon only a few moments before and
found him without his hood. Instead of being angry, she seemed
positively thrilled. He would say nothing to earn it back on.
He glanced up at the wall of the game room, where the servants' bell
hung, and watched as it noisily rocked up and down. Its pull rope
swayed from side to side, untouched by any human hand. He had heard
this clamorous ringing many times in the past, but this was his first
view of the phenomenon. It chilled him. There were powers at work
here strange and angry powers.
"Try to ignore it, dear," Ligne ordered, an irritated smile gracing her
elegant features. "It's your move."
Rosha tried to turn his attention again to the game a difficult task,
since he felt as if some invisible presence stared over his shoulder.
They played a game of Green Dummy Drax, the weak, two-handed version of
the three-sided table game so favored by the Queen. Rosha, while not
an expert, felt himself a competent player, for he and his father had
often shared the winter nights playing Green Dummy next to the fire.
But he pretended now to learn the game anew, and Ligne had eagerly
assumed the role of instructor,
"No, no, not like that!" she scolded lightly, as he purposely made an
impossible move. "Your column can't take my disc while it's still on
the base triangles! Look, I'm on the inversions here! Remember, base
triangles are white, Inversions are yellow. It's simple!"
"Oh," Rosha replied. "I g-get it n-now." He replaced his column, made
a proper move, and pegged the expended move on the reference plank.
"Very goodl" Ligne cried, clapping her hands in delight Her eyes
sparkled as she made her answering move.
His suggestion that she teach him to play was proving a shrewd ploy.
Thus far, the game had kept her mind off his body. She seemed to be
receiving this sudden thaw in his feelings for her as the natural
result of her invincible charm. She could think what she liked he
didn't care. He was determined to make this sacrifice for Bronwynn's
sake. Moments before, he'd made a convincing fuss over the Queen in
the presence of Jagd. Perhaps too convincing, for the merchant had
popped into the throne room only for a moment and had popped out again
a moment later with the speed of a nervous rodent. Before he could get
away, Ligne had wrung from the merchant a promise that he would soon
return. Rosha hoped he would hurry, for while he'd sworn his
determination to convince the Queen of his affection for her, he didn't
know how he could endure it if she started pawing him again. He had
always solved his problems violently, and though his hands were still
bound before him, it would take little effort to break the woman's
pretty neck. Pelmen's words convinced him there was little to be
gained from such a rash act, and much to lose. He had to resist the
temptation.
"It's your move," Ligne chirped, and without thinking Rosha skillfully
attacked her cube and removed it from the board. Ligne gasped. "That
was .. . very good." She frowned. While she wanted him to learn this
game, Ligne did not like losing. Suddenly he threatened to defeat
her.
"It was?" Rosha covered. "J-j-just lucky, I g-guess."
"Yes," she replied evenly. "Very lucky." With a sweep of her hand she
cleared the board of all pieces, then she turned to look at the door.
"This game really isn't worth finishing. It *s only Dummy Drax, after
all. Where is Jagd? I expected him to come join us in a full-sided
game!"
Rosha shrugged. He hoped the man returned quickly. He couldn't hide
his disgust from her forever,
The Imperial House bellowed. It was happening again! The miserable
runt in the violet knickers had resumed his torture! Oh, the House had
been prepared for it, of course, for the verminous merchant had never
taken his laundry off the walls. Only once had he left his room, and
that only for a moment, to give the Queen some lame excuse for his
absence. Then he'd raced back to that sparkling shape on the table
that commanded his constant attention.
All morning long, the House had watched Jagd watching the pyramid. The
feeling of dread grew during the afternoon, until the House decided
that the pain would be preferable to the suspense. But when the object
finally flickered to life, the Imperial House immediately changed its
mind. A new round of cursing had set off less confusion in the castle
than before, for the servants had grown accustomed to these outbursts.
This unfeeling, blase attitude on the part of the help incensed the
castle still further. Who did they think they were working for, after
all? The Queen?
That's exactly what they think, the Imperial House said bitterly. In
the ancient past, the House had frequently despised its occupants, but
this supposed monarch seemed exceptionally stupid. The House sighed
for a return to the good old days .. .
Then it jerked, causing doors on every floor to slam mysteriously. The
conversation between Jagd and the blackguards who held the other
pyramids grew heated, and the magical energy released was building up
an excruciating bubble of gas in the castle's bowels.
A lot of good that did! the castle moaned, for the servants were used
to its wincing now, too, and they casually reopened the slammed doors
without another thought.
You! Powershaper! Can't you tell you're desperately needed? Wake
up!
The castle was not entirely pleased with its clownish power shaper
performance. AH the lazy lout had done so far was snore. It had cost
the House enormous effort to save the fool, and what had he done in
return? He'd made use of magic, that's what, searing yet another
painful hole in the House's inner lining and then had promptly gone to
sleep!
Oh! The House cried out. Wake up! it yelled at Fallo-mar the fool.
It really wasn't sure why it had moved to save the rascal in the first
place. The possibility was there.
The Wizard tn Wailing of course, that this Fallomar fellow might wake
from his deafness and offer the House some fellowship. But even if the
fool did learn to speak, there was no assurance of his help. The House
had dealt with many power shapers through the ages, and the majority
had been only selfish thieves, greedy for new ways to swell their
powers. Some had even tormented the House for spite, so great was their
cruelty. The House chuckled through its pain the last sorcerer to try
such got a chandelier implanted in his fore-head!
Any chandeliers? the House wondered, running a quick check of Jagd's
room.
No such luck, it groused. The lighting fixtures had all been replaced
in the last twenty years besides, Jagd was twelve feet away from the
nearest one.
A lot of bells rang in the castle.
Wake up! the House shouted, but the power shaper slept on. This one
might be different, the House said, hoping desperately for some relief.
If only he could be roused! The castle remembered how the man had
responded to its teasing with a polite but confident warning. That he
was truly a power shaper he'd proved in his wrestling match with the
old fish.
True, your magic proved painful, the House pleaded with the sleeping
magician, but at least it dissipated out the grating. Not like this
agony!
For Jagd's heated conversation continued still, and his room was shut
up tight!
Arise! The Imperial House screamed, agonized. The Imperial House
wants you!
Tohn's hall hummed with power, as the two pyramids on the front table
crackled with brilliant blue intensity. Many merchant mouths hung open
in disbelief, as the recognizable voice of Jagd, Elder of Uda, echoed
off the giant beams overhead. Jagd and Flayh had abused each other for
a quarter of an hour already, and neither seemed ready to stop. Poor
Pezi rubbed his broad forehead feverishly the stress had given him a
splitting headache.
"Naturally you hold me responsible!" Jagd screamed. "You always hold
me responsible for all your misfortunes!"
"This is not a misfortune!" Flayh screamed back. "It's en impossible
situation deliberately created by your complicity with this strumpet of
a Queen!"
"The entire ruling Council agreed to our plan to place Ligne on the
throne! Can I help it if you and some of the other houses so
overplayed your power that she's come to favor Uda alone?"
"Yes, you can help it! You were the representative of the whole
Council in the court, not just of your own organization! You've
demonstrated your disloyalty to your brethren here by siding against
us. Your very absence from this meeting indicates your true
loyalties!"
"That's a lie, Flayh, and you know it! You think I take pleasure in
sitting around this castle doing nothing? It's your assassins who have
imprisoned me here, dooming me to interminable games of Drax with a
vain Queen and her stuttering young warrior! You think I "
"What!" roared a female voice from one side of the dais. The
assembled merchants tore their eyes from the mesmerizing crystals to
see Admon Faye holding a kicking, screaming Bronwynn in the air. He'd
been holding onto her since early in the conversation, for in the
exchange between Jagd and Flayh she'd learned more about her own
kidnapping than in all the months since it happened. She'd known, of
course, that she'd been ripped from the Imperial House with Ligne's
aid. But the cold-blooded ness of it had enraged her anew.
Now that rage exploded into new dimensions. "What did he say?" she
shrilled. "I want to know what he said!"
"What's going on there?" Jagd asked, holding his head.
"Don't distract us!" Flayh ordered. "You'll make us break the
link!"
"Oh, my head .. ."
"Shut up, Pezi!"
Bronwynn broke loose and rushed over to crowd between Pezi and his
uncle. "I want to know what he said!"
"Said about what?" Jagd asked, as a disembodied woman's voice lanced
painfully through his head.
Admon Faye suddenly understood, and a grin spread from one ugly ear to
the other. He stalked up behind Bronwynn and spoke to Flayh, "Ask what
he means by a stuttering warrior."
The object's lock on Flayh's mind made these other voices intolerable.
It seemed a thousand people clamored for his attention at once. Pezi,
feeling the pressure too, moaned aloud. Flayh relayed Admon Faye's
question to Jagd, hoping to end this bitter interruption.
"Some young bruiser from the north is all I know!" Jagd shot back.
"Name is Rosha, and he stutters. He's the Queen's latest paramour! Can
we get back to business? My head wants to explode!"
"Yours isn't the only one," Pezi added mournfully.
Admon Faye, still grinning, led Bronwynn back to her chair. There she
sat, stunned and shaken, throughout the chaotic events that followed.
Perhaps it had been only an interruption to the others in the room, but
this news crashed in on Bronwynn with the suddenness of a death
message. It took much the same toll on her heart
They talk about pain! the Imperial House roared. This is painl A
strong wind whistled through the subterranean passageways, the only
audible evidence of the castle's screaming in these caverns.
Powershaper! Wake up! the Imperial House pleaded.
Pelmen jerked to awareness. The dream was gone, but not the blue
light. He identified it instantly, for he'd heard these three way
conversations before. "Of course," he Whispered aloud. "Jagd has his
pyramid with him he rel He wondered momentarily why he'd not heard Jagd
using it before then he recalled for the first time the bright blue
dreams that had plagued his sleep and understood. Pelmen thrust all
thoughts from his mind except those he heard issuing from the bright
azure ball behind his eyelids.
"Wait!" Jagd yelped. "Someone is listening!"
"Of course someone is listening!" Flayh bellowed. "There's a room
full of people here!"
"This is someone else!" Jagd said anxiously. He felt a pair of eyes
fixed on his back, and longed to turn around to see if one of his
cloaks had fallen from its peg.
"I feel it too!" Pezi wailed. "Someone powerful is listening! Ohhb
..." he moaned, his head spinning. "I can't take any more of this ..
." Pezi reeled, rocked forward, banged his forehead noisily on the
table, and passed out beneath it
The link broke immediately, with a flare of light and a loud snap.
Flayh cried out in anguish, then ordered Pezi: "Get up from there, you
dolt!" The fat merchant didn't budge. "You swine! Can't you manage
to do anything right?"
"Of course he can't," Tahli-Damen said as he leaped from his chair and
swiftly circled behind Flayh to seat himself over Pezi. "He isn't
qualified! Jagd! Jagd!" Tahli-Damen peered into the pyramid as he'd
seen the others do. "What are you doing?" Flayh shouted hoarsely.
With a vicious shove, he pushed Tahli-Damen off the seat and onto the
floor. Or rather, onto Pezi, who didn't seem to notice.
"I'm claiming what's rightfully mine!" Tahli-Damen yelled back,
jumping nimbly to his feet "You've been so busy manipulating people
that you haven't been keeping up your business! Uda has just this
month edged Ognadzu in total Mari sales, so this pyramid is mine!"
Klaph started to suggest that since his house was now dominant in
Lamath, he should get one, too. He never got the sentence out.
Suddenly a savage dog leaped out of nowhere for Tahli-Damen's throat
The young man threw up his arm in shock. With a snarl, the dog ripped
his sleeve to tatters, taking with it a strip of flesh. The dais
emptied immediately, save for Pezi, who smilingly slept on, and
Bronwynn, who continued to stare dully into space. Tahli-Damen clubbed
the ferocious beast with his free hand and tried to scramble over the
table, but the dog caught his leg in its jaws. Tahli-Damen's purple
pants turned the color of his crimson tunic; but despite his wounds, he
kicked the beast off and rolled on across the head table, dropping onto
the dais floor. He kept on rolling until he dropped off the dais, into
the waiting arms of family members who'd rushed past the scattering
merchants to his aid.
As quickly as it had appeared, the dog was gone. Flayh stood on the
table in its place but this was a different Flayh from the bald Elder
these merchants had traded with through the years. The figure who
stood astride the two pyramids was awesome. Gone were his blue and
lime garments. Gowned in gleaming white, with a red cape flowing from
his shoulders, Flayh the power shaper tossed multicolored balls of
energy at his enemies as they all plunged wildly for the doors.
"By the dragon!" Klaph swore, using an outdated La-math ian oath.
"He's become a power shaper Then a ball struck Klaph in the chest, and
he raced down the line of emptying tables and grabbed a pitcher of ale
to douse the sudden flames.
Tahli-Damen's cousins bore him rapidly from the hall, ducking the
burning missies and shoving other merchants aside. As they passed
through the door, Tahli-Damen turned his head to gaze back at Flayh, He
watched the power shaper lips move, and saw how a pointed finger could
snuff out fires created by a thought mere seconds before. Tahli-Damen
was bleeding, but it wasn't his wounds that concerned him. His heart
wanted to pound its way out from between his ribs. Tahii-Damen was
terrified.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Below the Dungeon
PEL MEN GROANED and grabbed his head. "I wish they wouldn't do that ..
." he muttered to himself.
You think you do! the Imperial House replied.
Pelmen didn't hear it. He only felt a chilly breeze. From where he
stood, he could see a bit of sunlight sneaking in through the grating
on the far side of the pool. That meant he was on the dungeon side of
the cistern, and he sighed with relief. He felt as if he'd been
sleeping for years he wondered if it was still the same day that he'd
dropped into this netherworld. He turned away from the water to peer
into the passage he could feel wind blowing through it. He hoped that
meant it led somewhere, or else he'd fallen a long way for nothing. He
stared into it, wishing he had a torch. Then he remembered: "I'm a
power shaper
So you've been saying, said the House. Instead of talking about it,
why don't you do something but not that!
Pelmen was extending his hand, and a violet ball of flame appeared over
his palm. A puff of wind blew it out.
Try that again and the next one will be snuffed out as well!
Pelmen did. And it was.
"Come on," he said with some frustration. "I need to see!"
Pelmen said it to himself, really, but the House sniffed a response
anyway:
Very well. That's reasonable, if irritating. The sphere of green
flame Pelmen summoned up next was smaller than the others, and notably
cooler.
Thank you, the House replied, throueh a creaking of the door jambs on
the third floor. Naturally, Pelmen didn't hear that.
"Where am I?" Pelmen wondered aloud as he started down the craggy
corridor.
You're under the doorway into the offices of trade, the Imperial House
answered, where that verminous pest with the pyramid supposedly does
his work when he works which isn't often, since he prefers to pester
this House .. .
The castle gazed scornfully at Jagd from all the walls that the
creature hadn't covered with a smelly coat. Jagd lay on his bed,
trembling with a chill. Purely for spite, the Imperial House lowered
the temperature of Jagd's room perceptibly, and the merchant shivered
harder.
Pelmen noticed that that curious condensation formed on the walls of
these sub castle caverns as well. He walked thirty-five feet and came
to a juncture. The corridor branched off in two directions.
Now you're under the great hall under the stairway from the platform to
the floor. Of course, it's forty feet above you .. .
Pelmen hesitated, obviously pondering which way to turn.
If you want out, go left. There's a stairway up into the infirmary
that no one seems to know about .. .
But Pelmen didn't want out, he wanted in, into the dungeon. And it
seemed that from the location of the grate and the cistern, the right
hand tunnel would take him closer to it.
On the other hand, some people can't accept advice from anyone, the
House said crossly, and it resolved to offer no further suggestions.
Pelmen went on another twenty-five feet, and stopped. This seemed to
be a man-made section of the passageways,
The WizarJ in Waiting for the rock walls bore chisel marks, and the
floor was smoother.
He now had three options. He could continue straight ahead, but carved
galleries extended to his left and right as well. "Now which way," he
mumbled.
That all depends on where you're going, the Imperial House huffed. That
is, if you know.
"The dungeon," Pelmen said, biting his lip. The sound of his own voice
in the moody silence reassured him. "Which way to the dungeon?"
The castle could scarcely contain it's excitement at finally being
consulted. It had only expanded its consciousness into these caverns
in the last week and now felt quite knowledgeable.
To your right, of course. Then listen closely, for it gets very
complicated from where you .. .
But before the House could finish, Pelmen plunged, straight ahead. The
castle was incensed.
All right! Go ahead and get lost!
Pelmen took little time in doing just that.
He went a hundred and forty feet, pausing only briefly at other
branchings off to the left, deciding to keep to his right. The
corridor seemed to make a long bend in that direction, and he felt
hopeful that it might take him straight to the dungeon. But it ended
in another gallery that crossed from left to right. He was confused.
Of course you're stuck. You're under the platform in the Chamber of
War! But will you ask for advice? No. You wouldn't listen, anyway!
Pelmen decided to go left. That branch ended in a wall of blank rock
fifty feet beyond. He retraced his steps and went the other direction.
The passage curled back and forth, ending in another fork. Pelmen went
left again, and found another dead end. Pelmen was lost
The Imperial House laughed.
The Drax table had been knocked aside, and the pieces lay scattered on
the floor, forgotten. Jagd had not returned, and Ligne had tired of
waiting. She was presently in hot pursuit of Rosha, and the young
swordsman sweated freely as he fought to restrain his fists from
permanently altering the woman's lustful expression.
Actually, the pursuit had run its course. She'd cornered him against
the far wall and was struggling to insinuate her lithe, perfumed body
inside his bound arms. Rosha flattened his hips and back against the
wall, but it wouldn't yield. Nor would Ligne, as she succeeded in
slithering into his unwilling embrace. She stretched her neck up to
steal a kiss, and Rosha banged the back of his head trying to jerk
away.
"What's the matter, my darling?" she cooed. "You certainly weren't so
shy earlier in the afternoon .. ."
"I I I " Rosha could think of no meaningful way to end the sentence.
Ligne ended it for him by plastering her lips over his. He fought to
hold his arms away from her writhing form, thinking how easy it would
be to slip his arms up around her scented throat and choke off her
kisses entirely. Instead, he forced a wide, toothy grin onto his face
a hideous grin, more snarl than smile, that caused her to lean away.
"You're mad at me," she pouted. "Because I didn't let you win the
game, is that it?"
"N-n-no, no it's n-n-n "
"Are you still upset about that silly old hood?"
"I c-c-c-c "
"You can't talk, I know that," she sneered. Rosha jerked her tightly
against him in reflexive rage, and she smiled broadly and sighed.
"Ahhhh. Now that's more like it." Once again he fought the urge to
strangle her, and managed to spread his arms away from her hips. She
studied him with a sultry, self-confident smile. "So. Never been with
a woman before, is that it?"
"I-I-I " Once again his voice faltered, and Ligne sighed with
exasperation.
"Come on, talk to me!" she demanded.
"M-m-m-maybe a-a-another sp-sp-sp-speech lesson "
"What for?" she snarled. "What good's the first one done?"
"It t-t-t-takes t-t-time "
"Who told you that? The clown? I don't doubt the fool did." She
ducked out of his arms, and Rosha drew in a welcome breath of unscented
air. "To cover his own incompetence. Where is that fool? I've not
seen him all day!"
Rosha sucked in another clean draught and shrugged his shoulders. When
he saw the way the woman eyed him, he had a sudden insight into how a
hunted beast must feel when finally run to ground.
"You are so good looking," the woman purred, her voice husky.
Rosha swallowed hard, and smiled. "I'm s-so p-pleased that I p-please
you "
"Do you want to please me, Rosha?" she asked pointedly, her blue eyes
glowing.
"P-p-perhaps I'm not p-properly p-p-prepared "
"You look thoroughly equipped to me."
"I mean," he hurried on, "that I f-f-feel so inadequate "
"Let's find out!"
" to be a proper escort!"
Ligne paused in her pursuit. "By that you mean what
"That that I'mn-not worthy of you! Look at m-me!"
"I am," Ligne growled.
"I c-c-c-cannot speak, I can't c-c-carry on a p-proper c-conversation,
I'm ungracious, unlettered, backward "
"As well as broad chested, bull-necked, curly-haired .. ." The woman
hummed, reaching out to stroke each feature as she listed it. Rosha
jerked aside and walked away. When he stopped to look back at her, she
was frowning. "Why did you walk away from me?" she demanded.
"I I n-need more t-time. By all the powers in the Mar, woman, I was
ready to kill you two days ago! P-p-perhaps a day or two, a week .. .
more speech lessons .. ."
"You're putting me off."
"No!" Rosha lied. "I'm not! I I like you." He turned his face to
the wall and forced himself to say "I ... I even begin to to love you,"
Suddenly he whipped around to face her. "I've heard you and Kherda
talk about the acting troupe here in the ca-c-c-castle. Let m-m-me
j-j-join with them!"
"Acting troupe!" Ligne exploded. "What for!"
"I know they're d-d-doing a p-play in p-praise of you. I c-could be in
it! Grow more c-confident!"
She stared at him a moment, a hand on her hip, then strolled over to
the spilled Drax pieces and picked one up from the floor. She studied
it a moment, tossed it in the air and caught it, and then looked at
him. "Maybe I'm expecting too much of you. Maybe Gerrig could teach
you a thing or two about women, at the very least." She thought for
another moment, then dropped the piece on the floor again. "Come
along. Well find your actors. And maybe I can reclaim my lost clown
as well. This palace has been dull all afternoon." She marched
smartly out of the game room, snapping her fingers at Carlad, who
leaned on the wall outside the door.
It took several inquiries for them to find the rehearsal hall in this
labyrinthine palace. Ligne had never bothered herself to seek it out
before. Her arrival took the troupe very much by surprise. She
slammed open the door and stalked in, leaving Gerrig dangling in mid
speech
"Why why, my Lady, what a pleasant surprise," Gerrig stammered,
panicked by the thought of having to perform immediately. He hadn't
seen Pelmen since then- encounter in the garden the day before and had
no idea where he was now. "Ah what can we do for you?"
Ligne waved her hand, and Rosha walked into the room, followed by a
bored Carlad. "This is my consort," she announced. "Give him a
part."
"Why, ah " Gerrig swallowed. "We don't normally do that kind of
thing." but certainly, of course, we'll surely find a part for him to
play in our little entertainment, won't we, friends?" He raised his
eyebrows at the others and nodded vigorously. They all chorused their
approval of the idea.
"And, Gerrig,** she added, leaning toward him, "while you're teaching
him to use his tongue, show him a few things about using his body as
well, hmmm?" She winked at him.
Gerrig smiled anxiously, hoping it looked as if he understood what she
was talking about "Certainly! We'll do it."
"Another thing. This room's too cramped, and too far away from my
apartments. From now on, you rehearse in my throne room."
The big actor gagged, then recovered quickly to protest "My Lady! This
play was to be a surprise. How can we "
"I'll not be there when you're rehearsing, idiot!" Ligne snapped. Then
she looked around. "Where*s my fool?"
Ah! Yes! Your fool. Ah, Parmi, where is that fool Gerrig asked
nervously.
"He's not with you, my Lady?" Parmi asked. "If he were with me,"
Ligne said with a mocking patience that dripped sarcasm, "do you think
I'd be looking for .. him? Where is he?"
He is ... perhaps .. . indisposed .. .**
"By what."
"Ah .. . natural causes?"
"You mean he's sick?"
"Perhaps .. ."
"When you see him, send him to me. If you're going to
have my Rosha, I need some entertainment, don't I?" .: "Most certainly
you do, my Lady." Gerrig grinned. : "And I'll see to it that you get
that entertainment just as soon as the clown reports to rehearsal. And,
of course, we'll work your fine young man into the script!" V Ligne
didn't hear the last of his speech. She'd already disappeared out the
door. Gerrig smiled and nodded at Carlad, then sidled up to Yona and
whispered, "What do we do now?"
"Apparently we move to the throne room." Yona shrugged. To himself,
he added, "And perhaps a little
closer to the truth."
The House was still laughing at Pelmen hours later, .;,. when the
exhausted shaper finally slumped against one of ; its walls. As near
as he could tell, Pelmen had crossed his own path three times. He
couldn't even find his way back to the cistern. In frustration, he
raised his head and appealed to the Power. "I don't suppose you know
the way out of here, do you?"
Of course, cackled the Imperial House. But if you won't lis
The House was interrupted by a shocking event. A powerful wind
whistled through its caverns a wind it neither initiated nor
permitted.
:. Where did that come from? it bellowed in amazement. |: , Pelmen
shook his head and muttered, "You make it |X . seem so easy." Then he
hopped up and let the wind rush -i.-v around him. He turned his back
on it and let its pressure .." guide him down the tunnel.
Magic? the Imperial House wondered. If so, this
I9f The Wizard in Watthtg magic felt like nothing it had ever
experienced. It was painless and cleansing.
Pelmen was impelled by the wind past branching corridors that were free
of even the slightest breeze. He had no light to walk by, but he made
no effort to kindle any. He knew that now he wouldn't be able to.
This wind knows these caverns! Amazing! the castle gasped. For the
wind was guiding Pelmen to the very tunnel through which Admon Faye had
penetrated the lower dungeons.
Pelmen walked on boldly, passing yet another intersection of passages.
Then the wind died as suddenly as it had come. At the end of the
corridor he could make out a dim light. He walked swiftly toward it,
and found it was shining through a small hole, just large enough to
crawl through. He got down on his hands and knees and listened.
Pelmen had spent more time in dungeons than he cared to remember.
During Talith's reign, he'd even been a guest in this one. He knew
that prisons sounded different when there were guards present than they
did when the warders were gone. He listened for the telltale sounds of
soldiers. Sure, at last, that the way was clear, he shoved his
shoulders into the small opening and wiggled through.
He saw immediately why the hole had never been plugged. It was hidden
under a low outcropping of rock in a dark corner of this cell. As he
pulled his feet through, he noticed three skeletons dangling from the
walls, each still held in place by an ancient collar and chain. Pelmen
wondered briefly if these were his predecessors in the office of court
jester, but they'd been here too long for that. This cell had long
gone unused. The door was ajar. Torchlight flickered in the hall
beyond. He listened, then slipped out to investigate the corridor. It
was cemetery silent. Most of these cells were clearly vacant. These
were the lower dungeons there was another floor of cells above him. It
made sense that a lazy warden would pack those above to capacity before
filling these lower rooms, thus saving himself extra trips up and down
the stairs. Besides, it seemed Ligne preferred killing her enemies to
holding them captive. Would Bronwynn be on the upper level? Or could
she already be dead?
He decided to search this floor thoroughly first He
];. crept down the hall, listening at each door and peering ! through
its food slot. He paused at each only long enough
' -. to assure himself there was no one inside, then moved on to the
next.
? He stopped he heard a chanting. He glanced toward the spiral
stairway that led to the upper floor, but that
' wasn't the source of the noise. He traced the sound past the f;
stairs to a cell door beyond them. He slipped cautiously toward it,
then knelt to listen. It was a woman's voice.
"Bronwynn," he whispered, wishing immediately that he ,; hadn't. The
chanting within stopped, and there was a long period of quiet shuffling
within the cell. Pelmen tried to listen to that and watch the stairs
as well.
A woman's voice suddenly came through the oaken barrier. "I'm sorry to
disappoint you, Prophet, but I'm not your initiate. I have been
expecting you, though." f ; Pelmen forgot all caution, as her name
tore from his
: 'lips. "Serphimera!"
; Many miles to the north, in another dungeon cell, sat the y. Prophet
of Lamath.
^ ~ He wasn't a prisoner. Erri the Prophet, formerly Erri the %
sailor, had simply taken over the prison of the King of La-; math as
the headquarters for the new faith that Pelmen ;f" had established. He
never called himself the Prophet that :, * honor he reserved for
Pelmen. But Peimen called him that,
it or not, Erri answered to the name.
But he never really felt worthy of the title. He missed
Pelmen and longed to see him again. The longing to be near his absent
friend had caused him to choose this cell tfor his private residence.
Here they had spent their most 'fruitful hours together when he, Rosha,
and Bronwynn had been imprisoned with Pelmen by the command of the
Priestess, Serphimera. As they'd awaited Pelmen's certain execution,
the real Prophet had taught him to read the weird runes in which the
ancient book had been written. it. The ancient book! It sat on a
simple table near the small, j?v barred window. The sun streamed in
upon it, throwing the: table's shadow on the straw-covered floor. The
day was cloudy and, as the clouds passed overhead, the light around the
table seemed to dim, then brighten, then dim again.
"My faith is like that," Erri murmured honestly. For though he was now
the most respected religious leader in Lamath, there were times when
the Power seemed very remote. He had learned to tolerate silence from
the Power. He hadn't learned to tolerate faithlessness from himself.
He roused himself out of his ruminations and looked at the cluttered
desk before him. This and the table of the book were the only
additions he had made to the cell and they were its only furnishings.
The desk was a necessary addition, for it seemed these days his life
was filled with paperwork sending and receiving messages from the
vizier of the King, answering requests for sky faith initiates to come
educate new masses of the population, appointing supervisors of new
work, authorizing the destruction of dragon statues all coming or going
on paper. Sometimes his old sailor's tongue grew exceptionally salty
as he reviled the absent Pelmen for sticking him with this
responsibility. But he usually meant it all in good-natured
aggravation, for Pelmen had been right about Erri's gifts. Erri had
spent his life on the sea, but in his heart he had ever been a man of
letters. It irked him, though, that he had to spend so much time
writing, and so little reading! From where he sat, his sharp eyes
could see the dust settling on the book's ornate cover!
He was also a man of action. He'd been first mate too long to shirk a
duty when he saw one. He'd quickly learned that the King was as
dependable as any of the host of captains he'd served under that is,
not very. He had met the King only once, when he returned from
Dragonsgate with the news of Vicia-Heinox' death, and he remembered
that the man had trembled throughout the interview. The vizier had
explained later that Erri was the first person the King had seen in
over three years. It seemed the man was scared to death of people.
Asher, the Chieftain of Defense, had run the country in the King's
place. But Asher had been killed by the dragon. Erri had seen the
need and accepted the responsibility. All of Lamath had been turned
upside down in the turmoil. Erri set about righting it again.
One of the first orders of business had been the smashing of the dragon
statues. He'd marched from one end of Lamath to the other, leading a
troop of idol-smashers who destroyed every symbol of the old
Dragonfaith that they
could find. His light blue robe, the color of the sky, had caused
Lamathians to term this reformation movement the sky faith Erri agreed
to the term, so long as it was made dear that he and the others clad in
sky blue did not worship the sky, as those of the earlier religion had
worshiped the dragon.
This destruction was not accomplished without incident. There were
occasional clashes between skyfaithers and those of the old order
followers of Serphimera, who signaled their allegiance with dark blue
gowns. Erri was hard pressed to prevent bloodshed at one point he'd
only stopped it by clubbing his own people over the head with the book.
His gracious treatment of those who held other views seemed to
contradict his image as a statue-smasher, but soon it began to dominate
Lamath's conversation about him.
Erri sighed and looked over at the door. Though his love and tolerance
had carried the day at last, he hadn't prevented the disappearance of
Serphimera. That woman had traveled through the land as quickly as he
had, rallying the surviving unionists with a new theology. He'd heard
it everywhere. "The dragon is us! We are the dragon!" What it meant,
exactly, he couldn't fathom. He hoped Pelmen would pop back around
sometime soon to fill him in.
But mostly he hoped Serpbimera would be found. Though he'd tried, Erri
couldn't be everywhere at once. Though he'd beaten his sky-clad
followers off one day, he'd been somewhere else the next, and
religionists of both light and dark hues had clashed and wrestled and
bled. The tales of intolerance made. him weep. The stories of
persecutions made him rage. In the name of the Power, people had
killed people, and Erri learned during long, bitter nights of mourning
that he couldn't reform a nation in a moment. By the time the dust had
settled, Serphimera had disappeared. Murdered, he wondered? Imprisoned
in the basement of some so-called believer? Erri sighed.
He heard a flutter of wings at the window, and glanced up in time to
see a blue blur dart into his cell and settle onto the cover of the
book. "Here now! You can't do that!" he shouted, pointed toward the
bird, and it obligingly left the book and shot over to perch on his
extended finger, Well. I guess that means you're for me." Erri raised
his finger and peered under the creature, looking for a message on the
flyer's legs. "Where's your letter? Did you lose it?" The bird just
looked at him, and Erri shook his head. "Probably wasn't properly tied
on. Go on with you," he ordered, and he tossed the bird toward the
window. The blue-flyer circled the cell, and came back to land on
Erri's shoulder. "I said, go on" the former sailor growled, and he
pulled the little bird off its perch and marched to the window. He
tossed it out the bars, and returned to his stack of work. A moment
later it was back again, settling comfortably onto his head. "What's
your problem, bird?" Erri roared, and he started to grab the flyer
again. Then it registered. "Oh!" he nodded. "You're from Pelmen!"
He let the creature maintain its perch in his graying locks and
concentrated, trying to read the thoughts Pelmen had placed in its
little mind. He cleared all other concerns away, and waited .. .
It took only a moment for the flyer to rid itself of its mental burden.
Its mind erased, it swooped out the window, seeking some seeds and some
sleep. It left a perplexed Prophet in its wake.
Erri thought for only a moment, then he sprinted for his door, hurled
it open, and shouted, "Send me Naquinl" Then he walked back to the
book, and fingered its ornate covering. He said nothing he was trying
to cull the salt out of his speech but his thoughts were dark and
angry. The picture of Rosha, bound and hooded, infuriated him, and the
mention of Serphimera deepened his fears. He tilted his head back to
glance at the beams of light that illuminated the dancing dust. "I
hope you know what you're doing," he muttered. The book felt
reassuring under his palm.
"Prophet?" someone called from the door.
"Come in, my friend." A gaunt skyfaither entered the room, and stood
humbly before him. "Don't do that," Erri said, waving his arms toward
the piles of straw. "Drop on the straw, sit on the floor, but don't
stand there looking at me so formally." As be watched the initiate
find a seat, Erri chuckled and added, "If I'd wanted formality,
Na-quin, I would have moved into your place to begin with."
Naquin smiled piously. "You would have found it terribly boring, I
did."
"That's why you took to the drinking?"
"In part. Partly it was the great pressure I was under to try to
sustain the worship of a self-serving, destructive monster I didn't
really believe to be a god."
Erri lowered his eyes. By now, everyone in Lamath had beard the story
of Naquin's transformation. Formerly the High Priest of the
Dragonfaith, he had worn the jewelled hood of office through the final
days of Vicia-Heinox' destructive life. By the time Erri returned from
Dragonsgate with the news of the dragon's death, Naquin had
disappeared. Mobs of angry citizens rushed toward the temple to
destroy it, but found that Erri had boarded it up. The High Priest
couldn't be found.
One night, on a walk through those ancient alleyways he'd come to know
well as a sailor, Erri had found Naquin , drunk in a mud puddle and
cursed him for a fool. ':' "I certainly got hot at you that night,
didn't I?" Erri chuckled.
"It was necessary, Prophet, that I see the error of my ways, and be set
on the proper path "
^ "Pardon me, Naquin, for interrupting you, but you've lived around
religion all your life, and you know a lot of these religious terms
that don't mean much to the rest of us. I know you want to sound
pious, but just speak your
/ mind, as you did the night I found you. May not sound holy, but
you'll make a lot more sense."
In actual fact, Naquin had struggled to his feet that night and cursed
Erri right back. Then the two had gone off together for a long
discussion about religious matters. It was a curious conversation.
Naquin knew all the words and concepts, and Erri knew almost nothing.
But Erri knew the Power and Naquin didn't. Naquin didn't discover
until the next morning that he'd been talking to the Prophet himself
and later on that same day he put on the sky robe for the first time.
"I apologize, Prophet. My past experience "
Torget it." Erri shrugged, meaning more than just to ; forget the
moment. But men don't change overnight either. Any news of
Serphimera?" Erri asked.
No direct word just the same information we've been
-. hearing for weeks. She traveled so fast that it's hard to be sure,
but it seems she was last seen in the southern region.
T&t Wizard f* Waiting
I'm beginning to believe like everyone else that she passed
Dragonsgate." Erri nodded. "Why not just let her go?" Naquin asked.
"I met the woman and had a chance to see how very dangerous she could
be! Do you really want to bring her back?"
Erri graced Naquin with a slow smile. "I'd wager that if the Priestess
could see you now, she'd say you were dangerous, too!" He stood up,
and walked behind his desk. He picked up a piece of straw and absently
began cleaning his ears with it. "Trouble is, in the face of the
dragon's savagery, she still maintains her devotion to the beast. I
can't understand it. I only know that Pelmen said we must love her out
of it, and we can't do that if we don't know where she is."
Naquin said nothing. Though he'd never revealed it to his master, he
did not care for Pelmen never had liked him since the first night he
laid eyes on the man, here in this very dungeon, and found he was a
disguised power-shaper. Naquin's priestly father had bred him to
despise power shapers and Pelmen was no exception. Never mind that
Erri considered the man a Prophet Naquin knew better, and if the
opportunity ever arose, he intended to expose the man for what he truly
was.
Erri sighed, then went on: "Much as I hate to admit it, I fear you're
right about her passing Dragonsgate. But which direction? Did she go
to Chaomonous or to Ngandib-Mar? I don't have a hint. That's why I've
decided to send you as my envoy to one of the royal courts to find
out."
Naquin's eyes widened in surprise. "Which one?"
"A good question, and one I've been studying for days. Now,
Ngandib-Mar is a land of free-spirited folk who are terribly
superstitious. Certainly the woman would find a hearing there, more
easily than among the cocksure, cockeyed Chaons."
"A reasonable guess."
"On the other hand, the woman loathes power shapers as we both know ..
." Erri studied Naquin's reactions as he went on. "... A feeling I
believe you share with her?"
"Never trust a power shaper my master. They'll turn on you every
time."
"So you've said before. And Ngandib-Mar seems to be full of them. Has
she gone south instead? That's what I
want to know. There's more to it than that, however. We have .. .
friends ... in Chaomonous who inform me that the land is ripe to be
claimed for the skyf aith."
"Then I'm bound for Chaomonous?" the former High Priest asked.
Erri nodded. "I want you to take a group of initiates with you to
scatter throughout the countryside. Let them begin spreading the
precepts of the book and explaining the Power. I want you, however, to
report directly to Queen Ligne's castle. Chaomonous has a court full
of snobs. Please take no offense in this, Naquin, but you'll fit right
in. Your manners and training even your fancy words suit you admirably
for the court of that Queen." Erri's eyebrows knitted, and he leaned
down toward Naquin. "Besides, you're experienced at intrigue, and it
seems that's essential to life in her castle. Once inside the Imperial
House, you are to find the fool. Do whatever he tells you."
Naquin's eyes flew open. "What?"
"That's right, the fool whoever answers to that name. He's our .. .
friend." Erri gazed into Naquin's eyes. "Wilt you do it?"
"How could I refuse my Prophet?"
Erri smiled, clasped Naquin's hands warmly, and pulled him to his feet.
"Go with my blessings," Erri ordered. "And remember. You represent
the Power now not yourself."
"It seems we always meet in dungeons," said the woman.
"Shh .. ." Pelmen hissed, looking up at the stairway.
"Don't concern yourself with the noise. Those above us can't hear what
takes place down here. That's why the Queen had me put in this lower
dungeon. So she and I could speak privately."
"But why are you here?" Pelmen whispered. "Why are you in her
prison?"
"It appears that I am the Queen's .. . confidant. She's a woman with
deep spiritual needs she comes to me for ; comfort."
"She keeps her confidant in the dungeon?"
"She is also a woman of great insecurities."
Pelmen peered through the bars that crosshatched the Window in
Serphimera's door, and gazed into those emerald eyes that had entranced
him so many months before. His mind wandered, stunned by the sheer joy
of seeing her face once again. Then he remembered where he was, and
his white forehead knitted in concern. "How did you know me?" he
asked cautiously.
Her half-grin took him by surprise. He had never before seen
Serphimera smile. "How indeed? How do you think, Prophet? Or should
I say player? The silly white grease on your face doesn't befit a
supposed holy man."
Pelmen's heart sagged. "You know ... so much .. ." he began.
"Oh, I know a great deal about you. Ligne's told me all she remembers,
and I've given her an earful as well." Serphimera's eyebrows arched
disdainfully. "I let her know exactly what I thought of you. And of
course, she agreed." Serphimera walked back into her cell. Pelmen had
a chance now to see into it, and was surprised again. It was well
furnished, with a hand-carved headboard and a large bed, a desk,
several chairs, and a rich rug. A dozen silver candlesticks lined the
walls. Ligne obviously kept her in style.
"You still blame me for the death of the dragon," he said softly.
"Shouldn't I?" she asked over her shoulder. Her long black hair
coursed down her back, and the flickering candlelight enhanced her
delicate beauty. Hers was not the blatant prettiness, the
sophisticated sensuousness of Ligne. Serphimera's features were at
once mysterious and innocent Where Ligne called out of men a hot,
objective lust, Serphimera warmed the spirit. Her eyes were open
windows to her feelings, for Serphimera never hid anything she thought.
She broadcast her emotions to any who would listen with their eyes and
Pelmen listened now to her anger. "You killed him."
"He would have eaten you."
"I longed for him to!"
"You longed to be one with the Power. That wasn't the way."
"The Power!" she spat. "What has this Power done for Lamath? Stripped
her of her god and cast her spinning into a sea of faithlessness!
Every shrine is destroyed, every monastery scattered! Is this what your
Power does?"
"If it must to reach through to the people " "I was reaching the
people!" the woman cried, and she turned away from him again to walk
to the blank wall on the far side of the room.
Pelmen looked nervously behind him at the stairway. It occurred to him
then that in all his days in dungeons he'd never once seen a guard
respond to a prisoner's shouting with anything other than apathy. He
looked back into the cell. "And that's why you're here?"
"I came to urge the Queen to march on Lamath, to rid the land of
heretics and reinstitute the worship of Lord Dragon."
Pelmen waited through a long pause.
"She laughed at me," Serphimera finished.
Pelmen waited another moment before he spoke. "I never did that," he
said.
Serphimera sat on the bed. "When I told her the Lord Dragon would burn
her palace for her disobedience, she laughed again but she also ordered
me to be brought here. It was only later that she began to come and
talk to me."
"Made you her confidant."
"Exactly." Serphimera gestured at the room. "She treats me well."
Pelmen smothered his rage at the Queen, and whispered resolutely, "I'll
get you out."
"Oh, no need of that," Serphimera said. She stood up and walked toward
him. "I shall leave this castle as I came in ... walking freely."
"But how do you "
"How do I know? The same way I knew you were coming, Prophet. I had a
vision."
Pelmen had brushed with Serphimera's visions before. Whatever their
source, they tended to come true. Her words made him feel very
vulnerable. "Serphimera .. . do you .. . tell the Queen your
visions?"
The Priestess looked away. "Most of them. That's one reason she comes
to call. Among other things, she seems to see me as some sort of
fortune teller." Serphimera bit down on the words. "The humiliation
of it! Priestess of the dragon, viewed in the same light as a Mari wit
cher woman!"
"Have you told her about my disguise?"
Serphimera met his eyes, "No."
Pelmen experienced a flood of relief. "Why not?"
Her gaze remained fixed. "I think we both know the answer to that."
Her lips looked lovely. He wanted to kiss them.
As if reading his mind, Serphimera backed away and crossed her arms.
She fixed her features in an imitation of scorn but her eyes told a
different tale altogether.
"I don't suppose your vision told you how you'll manage to walk out as
freely as you came?"
"No."
"Then is it possible that I might play some part in that event?"
"Perhaps."
"Fine. Then "
"But I doubt it."
Pelmen looked at her, puzzled. "Why?"
"Because you came crawling in through a tunnel. Knowing something of
your previous antics, I daresay you would expect me to crawl out of
this dungeon on my belly."
"And you wouldn't do that," he countered.
"That wasn't in the vision."
Pelmen bit his lip in consternation, and thought for a moment. "You
knew I was coming. Is there anything else you know that might help
me?"
Serphimera smiled. "That all depends on what it is you're trying to
do."
"I came down here expecting to find the Lady Bron-wynn. She's the
rightful heir to the throne of this arrogant land, and I'd like to see
her on it."
Serphimera's nostrils flared slightly at the mention of the Princess'
name. "Bronwynn. Isn't she the rude little girl who followed you so
devoutly?"
"She was one of my initiates, yes you met her with me in the dungeon of
Lamath."
"And if she's crowned, what will that make you?" Scr-pbimera asked,
her lips curling into the tiniest of sneers. "The new king?"
Pelmen laughed aloud. He hadn't meant to, it just came out. He
clapped his hand across his face and stepped swiftly to the base of the
stairwell to listen. Then he came back, still chuckling at the idea.
He laughed harder when he saw the glare on Serphimera's face.
"Well?" she snapped angrily.
"No," he chuckled. "There's a lad upstairs who'd take my head off in a
stroke if I tried." Pelmen's smile softened from mirth to one of
concern. "I just want to restore to this land a little peace and
security."
"As you did to Lamath?" she snapped.
If you know anything of Bronwynn, my Lady, I urgently request you share
it" His face had turned grim as grim as was possible in white face,
anyway. Serphimera had to smile at that. His serious expression
remained, however, and she grew solemn as well.
"She spent many days in the pit at the far end of the corridor. The
Queen treated her as badly as she's treated me well. I heard her
groans each night. Then one night I heard them no more. I feared she
was dead, but the Queen shared with me later the information that
someone had snatched her out of the dungeon. She told me whom she
suspected, and I'm dismayed to have to relay it, for I travelled with
the man and know him for a cruel, lying unbeliever. His "
"How wonderful!" Pelmen snarled, for be knew immediately whom she
meant. "We're stuck in Ligne's dungeon, and Bronwynn's in the hands of
Admon Fayel"
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
An Ancient Spell
"My ARM is TIRED!" Bronwynn yelled.
"Do you think an enemy will hold off and let you rest it?" Admon Faye
challenged, then he swung his mock blade around savagely to crack
across Bronwynn's left shoulder. "Come girl. Parry or feel pain."
Bronwynn hurled her wooden weapon away, and it clacked off the stone
floor several times before coming to rest against the wall. "Now both
my shoulders ache," she snarled, and she grabbed them with opposing
hands and began massaging. Admon Faye raised his weapon as if to
strike again. "Go aheadl" she screamed belligerently. "Beat me black
and blue!"
He lowered his practice sword and grinned at her. "I'm just trying to
teach you to defend yourself "
"Maybe I don't want to learn to defend myself today!"
"Pick up the sword and return to work!" he ordered her. "We haven't
much time!"
"You haven't much time," Bronwynn snarled, turning her back on him. "I
have plenty. Owl" she yelped suddenly as the slaver whacked her
across the rump.
"You're lazy," Admon Faye grunted. "I'm offering you a kingdom, girl.
Don't you consider it worth a bruise or two to be the Queen?"
"Queen!" she snapped. "What kind of rule could I have, with you and
Flayh constantly looking over my shoulder? That's no reign just a new
kind of captivity!"
You're a child. You still believe it possible to be free."
Bronwynn rubbed her shoulders and sulked. "No, I don't."
Admon Faye glanced up at her jutting lip, and snickered. "Pining for
your boyfriend? He's not pining for you."
"You shut up about Rosha!"
"Why should I?" the slaver sneered. "I speak only what I heard from
the magic glass .. . perhaps my lady missed that?" he mocked.
"I didn't miss it!" Bronwynn flared. "I just don't believe it!"
"And why is that?" he baited her. "Oh, don't tell me. Let me guess.
Your Rosha lad is too pure to sully himself with such a scheming,
wicked woman. Right this minute he's in a room somewhere in your
father's old castle, weeping romantically for you, his only love."
"Rosha doesn't weep," Bronwynn muttered, her head turned away from
him.
Admon Faye hooted. "You believe that?" he laughed harshly. "You
actually believe he's faithful and pure?"
"Why shouldn't I believe it?" she roared.
The slaver's face turned incredibly hard. "Because that's not the way
life is, little girl. And underneath that pout, you know it's not."
Bronwynn whirled away from him and walked over to stare angrily out at
the sleazy gray sky. This practice session had been scheduled for the
courtyard, but the weather had refused to cooperate, dropping showers
on the keep from early morning throughout the afternoon. The snow that
had frosted the ground for months had melted away, leaving behind a
thick, black muck in place of the court. The change in climate made it
as miserable inside the castle as it was outside. Bronwynn's soaking
practice garb dung uncomfortably to her sticky back. But if her body
felt as if she'd been swimming in a swamp, it couldn't compare to the
murky wasteland inside her soul. She fought to hold the tears down,
but they were there salty tears that struggled to push their way into
her cheeks, to add their small contribution to her misery.
"Face it. That boy is having the time of his life!" the slaver
cackled lustfully. "He's learning things that "
Bronwynn shot like a blur across the room to scratch viciously for the
slaver's eyes. She was no match for Ad-mon Faye. He slung her past
him to ram into the wall. She slumped to her knees in pain and leaned
against it. Those tears that had threatened to drizzle now fell in a
flood.
Admon Faye walked over to stand above the sobbing Princess. "Get up,"
he snarled contemptuously. "Get up, and pick up that weapon. I'll
teach you how to take some faide off that woman! Wouldn't you like
that? To have Ligne's delicate neck at the cutting edge of your
blade?"
Bronwynn's tears subsided, but the hot pain in the back of her throat
remained. She thought for a moment of Ligne. She focused her mind on
a mental image of the woman's mocking smile and hated her. But when
Rosha edged into that picture alongside Ligne, Bronwynn's feelings of
hurt and betrayal overpowered her hatred, robbing her of the will to
fight. Her tears flooded anew.
Admon Faye stepped back, a bit chagrined. He'd never seen the girl
weep before, and it surprised him. As waves of despair swept
Bronwynn's body, raising the pitch of her sobs, the slaver turned his
attention to other matters. He'd caused a host of people to cry in the
course of his career and recognized that point when tears made further
work impossible. He left her sobbing and went hunting for Flayh.
Finding the power shaper took some time. No one seemed to know where
he was. Pezi suggested the library, but if Flayh were inside, he
didn't respond. Admon Faye strolled slowly through the hall, looking
carefully at each of the dogs who scrambled up to meet him, but saw no
unusual intelligence in the eyes of any of them. He wrapped his cloak
around him and walked out into the drizzle.
As he stepped carefully around the deepest puddles, he noticed a small
figure standing on the battlements above him. The man didn't even
bother to cover his bald pate. It took a few moments for Admon Faye to
climb up to him. "Enjoying the rain?" the slaver asked with cruel
humor.
The in "Waiting
"I was enjoying the privacy," Flayh responded without looking at him.
"We have business to conclude, you and I." Admon Faye frowned. "I
thought you were interested in haste."
"I was," Flayh mumbled. "I was. Until I destroyed all possibility of
my plan's success with my too hasty temper."
"Why, I thought you acted with great moderation," Admon Faye mocked.
"The Council in an uproar, the conclave dispersed prematurely " Flayh
shook his head. "A tragedy. And all because of this young
Tahli-Damen."
"You surprise me, Flayh. For a power shaper you seem to have a limited
imagination."
Flayh looked at the slaver and raised an eyebrow. "Explain."
"So the rest of the merchants know, now, that you're a wizard. Why
should that matter?"
The houses are split!" Flayh's eyes flashed indignantly. "Nothing
could be worse for business than inter house rivalry. Tahli-Damen was
right about that, at least."
"You merchants." Admon Faye snickered. "So tied up in your cliques
and Councils that you can't see the world as it is. Take a hard look,
Flayh!" The slaver gestured across Wcstmouth Plain. "The world. It's
free for the taking. And you and I, we have the power to take our
share. I never played any of your merchant games, and I've done all
right."
"And yet you wanted a seat on the Council," Flayh reminded him.
"On my own terms and for my own purposes. I still do. Relax, Flayh.
You've done no irreparable damage to your precious Council, just shook
it up a bit. A power shift was inevitable, after the dragon. Your
little fireworks display just let these others know what kind of forces
they're dealing with."
"You are bold and inventive, Admon Faye, but you lack experience in
dealing with merchant minds. The Council of Elders is damaged, and if
it should be reconstituted in the days to come, I fear the house of
Ognadzu will no longer be welcomed. Jagd and Ligne have locked me out
of Chao-mo nous Pelmen the Prophet has chased me from Lamath,
21J
and our dominance in this land is threatened by this same
Tahli-Damen."
"Since when have you concerned yourself with mere business matters?"
"That's just it. I've spent so much time improving my skill at shaping
that I've let my family business fail."
Admon Faye smirked, and shrugged. "So it fails. Don't worry, Flayh.
You can always get work as the court pow-ershaper in the High
Fortress."
"What?"
The slaver shook his head. "Pardon my jest. It just seems so out of
character to see the ruler of the mighty house of Ognadzu bemoan his
family's fortunes."
"What were you saying about a High Fortress?"
Admon Faye chuckled. "Over a year ago, the family of Pahd asked me to
find them a power shaper to heal King Pahd of his laziness. They
wanted Pelmen, actually "
"Pelmen." Flayh spat.
"He's not my favorite either," Admon Faye said grimly. "This twisted
visage of mine is a gift he gave me long ago."
"Pelmen did that?" Flayh asked.
"Let's say he played a role in its shaping. But that's another story.
I came out here to "
"Did you find them a power shaper
"The Pahds? No. Why such interest in this? I was only making a
joke!"
"So you were. You were trying to assure me that our plan will succeed,
in any case, and that the fortunes of my house will soon be
restored."
"I guarantee it. Perhaps these other houses do mistrust you, but with
my band in control of Dragonsgate, they're in no position to threaten
us."
"You're unafraid of the combined might of the merchant Council?"
"Not if I have as an ally the most populous of the houses." Admon Faye
grinned back. "For all your moaning, you certainly don't deny that you
could field a formidable army from your cousins alone. And which
merchant would be fool enough to challenge it, when he knows it's led
by a proven wizard?"
Flayh nodded. "You're probably right."
"I am right," snorted Admon Faye. "You may depend on it."
"I do, slaver!" Flayh said quickly. "Indeed, I do. For if this plan
fails, I may be forced to seek employment elsewhere, doing
dragon-knows-what. I assume your rough-. necks are already in
place?"
"You mean the members of my house?" Admon Faye asked.
Flayh chuckled a malicious laugh coming from low in his throat. "Yes.
I mean your family. Are those your chosen colors?" He nodded toward
the sweaty garments Admon Faye wore. The slaver's tunic was a dull
gray. His leggings were an equally drab green.
"I thought them appropriate." Admon Faye grinned,
"Brutally ugly," said Flayh, meeting the slaver's eyes.
Admon Faye smiled no longer. "As I said. Appropriate. Also
practical. These are the colors of the Great South Fir. A hundred
times I've watched your riders move through my forest, completely
oblivious to my presence. But of course, they looked so noble, so
prosperous in their blue and lime tunics. Very favorable targets, to
be sure."
"What you wear is of no concern to me. What you do is Flayh raised an
inquiring eyebrow.
"Yes, my band is in place."
"Fine. And the girl?"
Tm working with her."
"Don't rush her. I learned that with Ligne. I paved her a path to the
throne room of Chaomonous because she seemed empty-headed and pliable
enough to be controllable later."
"Oh?" Admon Faye smiled. "Ligne believes she came to : her exalted
position entirely on her own."
**I realize she does. And the mudgecurdle Jagd has encouraged her to
think so, milking her at will. That's why I Want him dead as soon as
possible, and her, too." Flayh sighed. "I never guessed things would
turn out as they did. : That's why this time, I want to be certain the
girl knows }'," ijcbo her masters are before we give her the crown!" .
i|
before you move. Speed is important, yes, not as important as
success!"
"You're talking to me, Flayh, not Pezi," Admon Faye responded,
annoyance showing in his voice.
"Forgive me," Flayh said, shaking his head. "I've been surrounded by
my dense relations so long, I've had to make a habit of double-checking
their every move. When the girl is ready and I leave that decision to
you notify me by flyer. Of course, once you've disposed of Jagd, we'll
have a more direct link of communication."
"You mean the other pyramid."
"I do. Pezi will retain his. He's an oaf, of course, but an
occasional burst of savage cunning has convinced me to keep him around.
Besides, he's in the family, and thoroughly tame, and he shuts up when
I tell him to. I didn't enjoy the period of Tohn's possession of the
object. My dead cousin had an inflated moral sense something I trust
you've never been plagued with?" The slaver guffawed at that, and
Flayh nodded. "Nor have I. Three nights after you toss the bird to say
you're ready, Pezi and I will be watching our pyramids. That should
give you time to capture the castle and seize Jagd's crystal .. . ?"
Flayh left the question dangling, his eyes asking for yet another
assurance that this plot would succeed.
"I'll be there. And our little Lady Bronwynn will be on her throne."
"I do hope so." Flayh nodded "I've been surrounded lately by people
who have disappointed me. I have confidence you're made of sterner
stuff. You're leaving for the pass in the morning?"
"That's the plan."
Flayh looked at the skies. "Maybe the weather will clear up. If I
don't see you before then, I wish you well in your journey. Now if
you'll excuse me, I have some urgent business in my library."
Admon Faye watched the wrinkled merchant scurry away, and scramble
eagerly down from the battlements. Flayh puzzled him. He wondered if
he should be worried, then dismissed the thought. "He's a power shaper
the slaver said to himself, "and all power shapers are a bit
strange."
He made his own way down the slick steps, and back into the practice
hall. He found Bronwynn still lying on the floor. He decided to try
the soft approach. He walked over
Wi *r in Waiting and knelt beside her, reaching out to touch her
shoulder. "I don't suppose you've cried yourself to sleep, have
you?"
"No."
You've been thinking about what I said." "Yes," she said after a
moment.
*Tve been thinking about what you said, too. And I think I can
understand. Of course you don't feel like recapturing a crown when
you've lost your lover. But tell me this. After what we all heard
Jagd say the other day, if you could have your Rosha here right now,
what would you do?"
Bronwynn sniffed, and growled, "I'd kick him in the teeth!"
Admon Faye chuckled. The low, soothing tone of his voice contrasted
sharply with his words, as he said, "Oh, but I'm going to teach you how
to get much better vengeance than that Here ..." He handed her the
wooden practice sword again. His calm manner planted the seed deeply
in Bronwynn's mind. Like the grass outside responding to the warmth of
spring, the notion of vengeance took root and grew.
The next morning the sun came out. The rain was gone, blown eastward
in the night to Ngandib. Strong, cool winds continued to rip the plain
this morning. Bronwynn had been bundled aboard her horse by Flayh's
servants, and now she and Admon Faye rode from Castle Tohn against a
heavy gale that seemed resolved to blow them back inside. She squinted
against the whistling gusts, looking up at the crags of Dragonsgate,
outlined sharply against the cloudless sky. Snow still topped those
peaks, but the hills below bore the unmistakable signs of early spring.
There was green everywhere across this Westmouth Plain as far as she
could see; up in the high valley that formed the heart of the pass
itself; and tufting every patch of ground that clung tenuously to the
faces of the cliffs. The wind made her eyes blur and, in the same
breath, stirred every branch and blade. For a moment it seemed that
all the world was astir With the writhing and twisting of living green
beings. Amid the emerald shimmer of life, the mountains stood cold and
A firm. But the shrubs and the grasses bore brilliant witness
immutable truth proven anew with each cycle of the -that life will not
be denied. Less than a year before,
The Wizard i Waiting
Vicia-Heinox had burned every green thing from this, his ancient home.
Only a few short days ago, the pass had been clogged with snow. But
the snow had melted the dragon was dead and the grass lived on and
grew.
Freed of the castle's stifling closeness, Bronwynn inhaled a deep
draught of the heady new possibilities before her. She was alive, she
was young, and after months of hopeless captivity she at last had a
chance to claim her rightful inheritance. For the few moments of their
windswept ride she forgot Admon Faye completely and dreamed again the
dreams of her girlhood, dreams that had been born long ago in the warm
security of her father's court. But her exhilaration was fleeting.
Thoughts of her father's house led inevitably to thoughts of Rosha, and
the fresh, clean air of freedom turned stale and lifeless in the wake
of those memories.
Her tears of the day before had been an exception. Bronwynn had never
been much of a crier. She didn't weep now, though the hard lump in her
throat might have been eased by the cleansing of tears. Instead she
set her jaw and scorned the sen she'd been when she'd loved the
stuttering warrior. "He'll pay," she muttered between clenched teeth.
Then she lashed her horse needlessly and leaned low over its neck.
Admon Faye glanced over at her in time to see her lips move. His grim
smile went unseen, and he turned his attention back to the oncoming
pass. Already a knot of gray-clad riders formed a line abreast the
narrowest stretch of Dragonsgate's Westmouth. They knew him and the
girl. They were only following his explicit orders not to let anyone
approach the pass without stopping them with a show of force. As his
sharp eyes searched the line, he saw a struggle evolving among a group
of unmounted warriors to his right. He turned his reins in that
direction and spurred his horse toward the disturbance.
"I tell you I belong to Admon Faye!" a lank character he didn't
recognize was shouting. The man wrestled to free himself from the sure
grip of two of the slaver's trusted comrades. Another stranger, a
squat fellow who wore an expression of sheer disgust, no longer
struggled against his captors. It was this short bandit who first
noticed Admon Faye's approach. The man seemed to sigh in
resignation.
"You belong to me?" Admon Faye asked. The tall stranger twisted
around to smile up at his hero. Pinter's smile froze on his face at
his first glimpse of the slaver's monumental ugliness. Admon Faye let
him stare a moment. Then he demanded, "Well?"
"Ah yes!" Pinter said with forced brightness. "That is, I long to be
"
"These two attacked us when we rode into the pass," a wrinkled old
slaver grunted. "Claimed they were members of your band and demanded
tribute in your name."
"I told you they were cutthroats," Tibb whispered to his wildly
grinning companion.
"And we meant it!" Pinter defended. "We have some tribute to offer
you!"
"Dent " Tibb snapped, trying to stop his cohort before Peter got the
words out. Failing, he winced, sighed, then shook his head.
"Tribute?" Admon Faye asked. "Show me." Pinter grinned proudly.
"Show him, Tibb." Tibb's expression of rueful disgust returned, as he
jerked ian arm free from one of his captors, reached into his shoulder
pouch, and pulled out three copper coins. He held them out to the
slaver.
Admon Faye gazed at Tibb's palm. "That's it?" "That's it," Tibb
muttered matter-of-factly. "We would have had more," Pinter explained
sheepishly, but somebody robbed us."
Admon Faye still stared at the coins. "I could get more than that just
by selling your bodies for tugolith fodder!" "Didn't I tell you?" Tibb
sighed to his friend. "Please, Lord Faye!" Pinter begged, dropping to
his knees at the slaver's feet. "I realize we don't appear very likely
prospects for your band, but you've got to understand you've arrived at
a difficult time for us. We're actually much better outlaws than we
appear!"
Admon Faye winked at his fellows. "Lord Faye. I like that"
We actually had a tidy sum accumulated to present to you. We were just
outsmarted by a fiendish Mari free trader who got us so interested in
one of his metal pots we didn't notice when be took off with our bag
of
Tkt Wizard in Wailing
"I see." Admon Faye nodded with mock gravity. "And you still have
this pot?"
Pinter and Tibb exchanged pained expressions, then Tibb blurted out,
"Actually, we sold it the next day to another trader for these three
pence." Tibb shrugged. "We're not bad thieves, really. Just terrible
businessmen."
"But we can handle our swords," Pinter inserted proudly.
Admon Faye raised a hairy eyebrow at his grizzled lieutenant. The man
nodded. "They gave us a go before we overpowered them."
The slaver glanced back at the two forlorn thieves, obviously amused.
"You want to join my band, yet battle with my warriors?"
"How were we to know they really belonged to you?" Tibb barked. "Just
because they said so doesn't make it so. We're living proof!"
"Presently living," the brutal slaver corrected. "With no guarantee
that will continue." Admon Faye stalked around the two would-be
recruits, examining them as a horse trader inspects his livestock.
Finally he snorted and muttered, "Very well. You may present your
swords to me."
Pinter cleared his throat. "We would, however "
"However what?"
"Your men took 'em away from us!" Tibb growled.
Admon Faye glanced at his warriors, and they quickly passed the two
thieves their weapons. In a time-honored gesture the two knelt and
held their blades out before them. They contrasted sharply. Lanky
Pinter offered his polished sword proudly, a smile of victory lighting
up his face. Barrel-shaped Tibb, on the other hand, still wore his
look of disgust as he offered his bent and battered blade to his new
master. Admon Faye noted the odd angle of Tibb's weapon and chortled
uncontrollably, slapping his companions, who also cackled at the sight.
Then the slaver clamed himself and asked in ritual fashion, "Your
names?"
"I am Pinter," Pinter said grandly.
"I'm Tibb," his friend grunted.
"Very well. I accept your service .. . Pinter the proud, and Tibb the
twisted .. ." Here he convulsed again with mirth, and couldn't
continue.
"Go on with you," instructed Admon Faye's wrinkled companion. "You
know where the soup pot is Pinter and Tibb rose hurriedly then, and
made their way up the pass to the spot where the slavers had pitched
camp.
Admon Faye wiped the tears from his cheeks and grinned at his
lieutenant. "Other than that, how did you find things here?"
"Undisturbed. The two bunglers had not discovered our cache of weapons
"
"Evidently!" Admon Faye cackled, still thinking of Tibb's sword.
M Land all is ready for us to move, whenever you choose."
Admon Faye nodded. "Very good. The young lady seems to be coming
along well. If I can increase her combat confidence, I think she'll be
ready as well."
"Who will you assign to build her confidence?"
"Who better than our new recruits?" Admon Faye snickered, and the
other slaver laughed aloud. They slapped one another's backs as they
made their way to the soup pot.
Flayh's hands trembled. He stared at the ornate page Spread before
him, awed by the crystalline clarity of the words scratched upon it.
How many years had this book sat on a dusty shelf in this library?
Power unheard of, power beyond the imagination, hidden between these
gilt-edged sheets, patiently enduring the passage of time! Surely Tohn
had never read it. Tohn, the man of action, Flayh thought to himself
as he winked contemptuously at the nickering candle. Tohn had probably
never entered this room, much less plowed doggedly through its stacks
of musty tomes to find the jewels of precious thought buried here. But
Flayh
J had. The power shaper lifted his shaking arms in exultation. His
ultimate victory was assured him, for he now owned a Copy of an ancient
master's spell-book!
No one had instructed Flayh in how to shape the powers. He'd learned
everything he knew on his own, through hard work and ceaseless
experimentation. His own library la Lamath had been worthless, for
those volumes had been filled with religious garbage, more concerned
with miracles magic. But this was Ngandib-Mar, land of wizards! its
pages caked with choking dust, some of them Jding with age sat a
teacher. And what a teacher!
Flayh's old eyes rested upon the most spectacular spell of all. With
this knowledge, added to that he already possessed, Flayh could bring a
castle to life!
He rose and paced the tiny sliver of floor that was not clogged with
still more books. "I'll need the High Fortress of Ngandib, of course.
That's a castle of substance, an unassailable citadel that will soon be
able to defend itself from attack, leaving me free to concentrate on my
craft without interference." No longer would he concern himself with
the unpredictable maneuvering of the Council of Elders. Oh, he would
keep his hand in, of course, but with Admon Faye as his ally and this
new found spell-book, the Council was no longer necessary to him. He
would go to Ngandib and volunteer his services as court power shaper
With this new ability he could quickly control Pahd and with his puppet
Queen on the golden throne, he'd control two-thirds of the world!
"Then," he muttered, "I can turn my attention to Lamath and Pelmen."
He summoned Pezi to meet him in his apartments. Pezi entered Flayh's
room as he always did cringing, expecting a tongue-lashing, uncertain
as ever about why. Flayh smiled sweetly, making Pezi even more
anxious. "Have a seat, my boy!" said Flayh. Pezi obeyed. Flayh
beamed. "How are you doing, nephew?"
"Fine, uncle," Pezi replied. If Flayh was expecting any elaboration,
he was disappointed.
"Getting along well, are you?"
"Fine, uncle," Pezi said.
"Are you enjoying Ngandib-Mar?"
"It's fine, uncle," Pezi replied,
"Liking the climate?"
"It's fine, uncle," Pezi answered. Pezi was suspicious. What was his
uncle driving at?
Flayh kept on smiling, staving off exasperation. How to get the lad's
attention? He had a sudden inspiration.
"Had any good meals lately?"
Pezi's interest immediately picked up. "Oh yes! I had a stuffed
pheasant leg this afternoon with a dish of mallinsok pudding, and a "
"Fine, nephew," Flayh cut him off. He knew from long experience that
Pezi could wax positively rhapsodic on the subject of an onion souffle,
and he'd already accomplished his purpose. The fat merchant was at
least listening. "I've been studying you, Pezi. You have
potential."
"I do?" Pezi asked. He quickly altered that to a quasi-firm
expression of self-confidence. "I do."
"Yes," Flayh smiled, carefully avoiding the subject of what Pezi had
potential for. "That's why I'm placing you in charge of this manor."
Pezi nearly swallowed his tongue. "You what?" he exclaimed.
"You were a competent enough manager in Chaomon-ous not brilliant, but
so few of us in the family really are and I believe you can handle the
responsibility. If "
"If what, Uncle Flayh!" Pezi was excited.
If you'll concentrate with your brain instead of your belly." Flayh
stood. "I'll be travelling for a while, and someone needs to handle
the Man accounts. Trade will soon be returning to normal, with control
restored to the pass. Of course, Admon Faye is readying a strike for
I4gne*s heart, and you'll need to notify me by flyer immediately when
you've received word. After his conquest of Chaomonous and his
recovery of Jagd's pyramid, we'll be able to converse regularly."
"Yes, uncle!" Pezi responded. He was flabbergasted. He, Pezi, in
charge of the Man accounts! But Pezi was suspicious by nature, and he
wasn't a dummy. Obviously his uncle was planning something. And
knowing Flayh, it would be deliciously sinister. "What are you going
to be doingr
"What business is that of yours?" Flayh snarled. Pezi sank back into
his pitiable chair, chastened. "That's not for you to know .. . yet,"
Flayh went on, a bit more cordially. "All you need to know is where to
post the flyer, informing me of Admon Faye's move."
"Fine, uncle," Pezi replied. "Ah .. . where will that be?"
Flayh got a faraway look in his eye and appeared to Ware through the
room's western wall. "I'm bound for the palace of Pahd mod Pahd-el the
fortress of the High City Of Ngandib."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Drax
BURIED IN THE TIMELESS DARKNESS, they couldn't know that they had
talked away the morning and most of the afternoon. Pelmen and
Serphimera knew only that they found each other's presence enchanting,
and neither wanted to be first to break off the conversation. For the
first time in their unusual relationship they felt really free to talk.
She teased him, her emerald eyes flashing warmly as she charmed him
with her mischievous smile. Again and again, his quick wit and
self-mocking humor pulled trills of unexpected laughter from within
her. They leaned on the door, clinging to the bars that parted them
until their legs could stand no more. Then they slumped to the floor,
propping their heads in their hands as they continued their rapt
discussion through the door's narrow food slot. Mostly they compared
backgrounds. His experience as a cosmopolitan traveler contrasted
sharply with the memories of this small town girl from the Lamathian
farm lands. They were as different as their origins. It was no
surprise that they seemed to agree on almost nothing. The surprising
thing was how little their differences mattered at the moment. They
skirted the issues of religion and faith entirely, realizing that a
chasm too deep for even love to bridge separated
The Wizard w Waiting
22*
their two views. While that difference loomed as a giant question mark
between them, they both ignored it, preferring for the moment the
warmth of one another's eyes, and the halting hope that perhaps even
that wall could someday be breeched. Occasionally verbal conversation
ceased entirely, and their lips communicated silently by touching. The
food slot permitted little contact, so they stood again and kissed
between the bars.
Their kisses saved Pelmen from discovery, for it was during one of
those sweet silences that they heard sandals slapping on the stairway.
Serphimera's eyes shot open in shock, and she whispered, "My dinner!"
"I'll be back," he whispered intensely. Then he streaked down the
hall, past the stairway toward the half-open cell door at the far end
of the corridor.
"Ho!" he heard someone cry behind him. "Is someone there?" He
slipped into the cell and wasted no time slithering head first through
the narrow gap into the caverns beyond. There he paused and listened.
There was no sound of scuttling soldiers, no shouts of alarm. Evidently
Serphimera had succeeded in covering his escape,
Pelmen sat in the dark, contemplating this new situation. He was
hungry. He was tired. And now that he'd at last been forced out of
the warmth of Serphimera's gaze, the seriousness of her circumstances
finally impacted on him. Now he had to evolve some plan to extricate
both Serphimera and Rosha from Ligne's grasp and then to deal with
Admon Faye. And he didn't even know his way out. "I hope you're still
around," he mumbled fervently, then crawled to his feet and started
down the corridor in the dark.
He tried to concentrate on solving the maze, but his thoughts kept
drifting back to Serphimera. He'd be counting his step , trailing one
hand along an uneven wall, then would realize suddenly that for the
past ten or fifteen paces he'd been replaying some snatch of their
lengthy conversation, and that his count was hopelessly off. From time
to time he would stop and wave his arms above him, searching for some
drafty sign of the Power's presence. He felt none. He wasn't
surprised.
The Power did not jump when he called. He had no assurance that his
every request would immediately be met.
22 6
If past experience were any guide to the Power's actions, Pelmen could
count on no assistance until he'd exhausted his own resources. Often
in the past, when he'd felt he had no other alternatives, a silence
from the Power had demanded that he seek new ones and he'd found new
alternatives in every case. Other times, the Power had come unbidden,
before Pelmen realized his own inability to cope with the particular
struggle at hand. The relationship was complex and constantly
puzzling, forcing him into continual reevaluation of the Power's nature
.. . and sometimes even of its existence. At other times, the Power's
presence was so overwhelming as to brook no doubt whatsoever. There
seemed no logical consistency to the Power's participation in his life,
and yet a perplexing patterning appeared to run through all of their
relating. It was not quite capricious, but certainly unpredictable
beyond him, somehow. All in all, it was easier to shape than to be
shaped, but far less exhilarating. He had learned to live with the
ambiguity between the two.
At the moment, it appeared he had not exhausted his own resources.
His foot sloshed into water, and he froze against the wall. Like a
shaft of light in this dark tomb, a long-forgotten memory broke into
his consciousness with a force that left him gasping. He saw before
him the book, spread open to the pages of prophecy he had come to term
the "cryptics" because of their hidden purposes. A single phrase stood
out boldly for him to read: "Deal gently with the House that speaks,
lest it make the waters rise." The line had been meaningless when he'd
first read it, meaningless when he'd memorized it. But the cryptics
were always meaningless until they were needed. This one had suddenly
become so.
"House?" Pelmen asked tentatively. "Are you listening to me?"
For once, it wasn't. It had done a very good job of shutting the fool
and his lady out of its thoughts completely. And for very good
reason.
The castle had watched manifold love affairs blossom, flourish, and
fade within its walls. Long ago, the high drama of such involvements
had been intriguing. It had watched with some amusement the initial
stirrings, listened intently to the inevitable counsel of friends,
sniggered with the naughty glee of a Peeping Tom at the final
consummation. Thus involved, however, it had been drawn unwillingly to
witness the often tragic outcomes of one affair after another the
miscommunication, the pride, the jealousy, stubbornness, the
selfishness that presaged broken heart after broken heart. And though
it often knew far more about these relationships than either
participant and could clearly see the pathways to reconciliation, it
was powerless to help. No one took its advice.
The house had tried then, for a time, to view love as a broad comedy,
and the broken hearts as merely comic pratfalls that soon would heal,
then- causes forgotten. That paled too. It grew tired of the sameness
of it alt the same ritual, repeated infinitely, from the crown through
the craftsman to the crassest of slaves. It concluded at last that
human love was an insidious disease, excessively communicable,
universally endemic and thoroughly depressing to one utterly and
hopelessly alone. The Imperial House dismissed love affairs as
unimportant. It found that easier than wishing there were another
castle nearby that could think, and speak and love.
So when Pelmen and Serphimera had drifted into the same predictable
patterns of conversation the House had heard so many times before, it
took care to look elsewhere. At the moment, there was a mystery
unfolding, and it was trying to find answers to some questions. There
had been several conferences between the Queen and her Lord of Security
in the past two days, and it had missed the most critical of these,
being distracted by the pain from the pyramid. Now it followed Joss
from room to room, trying to account for the burst of troop activity
within its walls since the General's return. But the castle was
discovering Joss to be a tight-lipped individual. For whatever reason,
the Lord of Security had spent the afternoon cross-examining his
dungeon guards, but the Imperial House couldn't tell exactly why.
Perhaps he's going to tighten security, the House muttered hopefully.
The castle hoped so. Internal defense had grown terribly sloppy when a
fool could penetrate the dungeon at will!
Joss dismissed an anxious guard, then folded his hands before him for a
moment and leaned back in his chair. Abruptly he shot out of it and
stalked up his private staircase to the upper levels. He found the
Queen where he expected to find her at the Drax table. Ligne kept her
eyes fixed on the board as the General stooped to whisper in her ear.
Here now! Speak up! the castle snapped.
Ligne frowned and looked up at him. "You think he's who?"
Joss whispered again, then looked at her meaningfully. She stared at
him, then ordered, "Go away, I need to think about this." Joss
returned to his offices in the same way he'd come. A moment later
Ligne rose from her Drax table and marched across the hallway to the
throne room.
For Pelmen there had been no answer. Perhaps he hadn't understood the
cryptic after all. At least the water helped him find his way back to
the cistern. It was overflowing, evidently the result of heavy rains
up river. From there, it was a simple task to find the galleries that
climbed toward the front gate of the castle. Pelmen quickly made his
way up the ramps, noting how the tunnels broadened out as he ascended.
He turned a corner, and stumbled on the lowest step of a stairway. He
looked up and saw a thin box of light above him. "An entrance," he
whispered to himself, and he started climbing up the stairway that led
to the infirmary.
Rehearsal was in full swing when the double door slammed open. Silence
dropped on every occupant of the room as the Queen pointed at Gerrig
from the doorway and shouted, "Where's the fool?"
"The fool? The fool. Ah, ah, as we told you, he's sick "
"With what?"
"Ah, ah " ,
"I suppose he's had the wisdom to report to the infirmary?" the Queen
asked, her tone suddenly softening.
Gerrig saw an opening, and sprinted through it. "Oh yes! Of course!
He may be a fool but he certainly has good sense when it comes to "
"Why isn't he there then?" Ligne demanded. Her eyes sliced Gerrig
like a pair of knives.
"Perhaps he's in his quarters," Parmi offered.
"I've had his quarters searched!" Ligne snarled, whirling to glare at
Yona. Then she casually wheeled back to Gerrig, who was wishing he'd
never even heard of the acting profession. "But you said he was in the
infirmary, didn't you?" She smiled sweetly. "Sick, is he?"
Gerrig could do nothing but nod.
"Shall we go look?" she inquired with that same sarcastic sweetness.
Gerrig swallowed, and nodded again. "Go!" she shouted, pointing to
the doorway, then her long finger whipped around to Yona and she
ordered, "You, tool" As the two men turned to walk into the hall, they
shot each other anguished looks. "Come along, Rosha. We're going to
get to the bottom of this, or I'm going to fry me some actors!"
Rosha's hands formed fists and he glanced at Carlad's sword. He could
take it and decapitate the Queen in a stroke
"Come on, Rosha," she shrilled. She started out of the throne room.
Rosha took a deep breath and clamped down on his emotions once more.
By the time they reached the door of the infirmary, Gerrig, too, had
controlled his feelings and had donned his toothiest smile. He slung
the door wide, shouting a hearty, "Hello!" at the back of the spindly
Lord of Herbs. The man leaped off his stool and swung around in
horror. "He's not here, my Lady, perhaps we" Gerrig stopped and stared
at a bed in the corner, as his false smile turned genuine. "I mean he
is!"
"I'm what?" asked Pelmen.
"You're here!" Gerrig beamed.
Pelmen frowned in the character of Fallomar. "You don't have to sound
so pleased at my illness!"
Ligne drifted into the room and looked at him in disbelief. "You're
sick?" she asked. She turned to her Lord of Herbs, whose mouth hung
wide open. "What's he got?" she demanded.
"Wha-wha-why, I've never seen this man in here before!"
"It really is hard to get a doctor to look at you these days," Fallomar
offered, as he hopped off his cot. "In spite of the lack of care, I
feel much better now."
Ligne gazed at him suspiciously, as if making up her mind what to
believe. Suddenly she smiled. "I've missed you, fool. I want you in
the game room immediately. But change your clothes! You smell as if
you've been in the garbage or the dungeon!" She spun on her heel and
marched out.
Pelmen stared after her, feeling a heaviness in his chest "Are you all
right?" Parmi asked quietly.
Pelmen nodded. "I think so."
"Wonderful," snarled the Lord of Herbs. "Then I'll thank you to get
out of my infirmary!"
As they moved into the hallway, Gerrig groused, "Next time you choose
to drop out of sight, would you take the time to inform your
friends?"
"My drop came as quite a surprise to me too, Gerrig. I had no chance
to tell anyone."
"What did you learn?" Yona Parmi asked him quietly. Rosha pulled up
close behind to hear as well, which prompted Carlad to edge closer.
"Nothing any half wit doesn't already know. Stay out of the mouths of
fishes, don't think you can walk in the dark without running into the
walls, and never trust a woman to be where you expect her."
"What?" Gerrig asked.
Carlad, at least, was chuckling. "I know what you mean, fool."
Pelmen glanced back at him and smiled brightly. "I'm sure you do!" He
looked back at Rosha. "Who decided to make you an actor?"
"I d-d-did," Rosha responded carefully.
"A wise choice," Fallomar nodded, his eyes holding onto Rosha's as he
added, "I'll wager a Queen's consort has a lot of acting to do."
"He does indeed." Carlad laughed, missing the exchange of looks
entirely, "And this lad's already done a fair share of it!"
Now the clown looked at Carlad. "Has he now? And how about you?
Aren't you also an actor of sorts?"
"Of some sort, I suppose." Carlad chuckled.
"Then perhaps we should find a role for you as well." The clown
smiled, catching Yona Parmi's eye. Parmi nodded.
"Me?" the guard asked. "No .. ." he went on, shaking his head, but
it was clear he could be cajoled.
"Why don't you two go on to rehearsal while the three of us think you
up a part?" Fallomar suggested, and Carlad, charmed by the idea,
eagerly led his young charge up the stairs.
"What are you getting us into?" Gerrig demanded. "First we get stuck
with this young stutterer, now a castle guard! You miss rehearsals
without a word to anyone! Are you trying to scuttle this performance
altogether?"
"Why not teach Carlad my lines," the fool suggested. "He seems eager
enough, and it appears the Queen is determined to dominate my time.
That'll keep him from staring at you suspiciously when you're trying to
rehearse."
"Let a guard play the role of the clown King?" Gerrig asked,
incredulous.
"Why not. You've always said any oaf could act as well AS me. Hasn't
he, Parmi?"
"He has, indeed." Parmi nodded. "But what about the lad?"
"Let him play himself suitor to the Queen." "Stuttering suitor to the
Queen," Gerrig snarled. "I wouldn't say that around him, Gerrig,"
Pelmen advised. "Not if you fancy keeping your head where it is."
Gerrig's eyes widened, then he nodded. "Very well. But I don't mind
telling you all this is making me very nervous! I'm ready to get out
of this place."
"Funny," said Yona. "You wanted so much to get in." "Close it up,
Parmi, or 111 stuff this in it!" Gerrig shook his ham-sized fist in
Yona's face, but the round-faced actor Seemed unconcerned.
"Do it and I'll kick you in the shins," he replied honestly. Yona had
never been a fighter. Nevertheless, his association with Gerrig had at
times involved him in unsought, yet unavoidable, altercations. He
often got his face punched, but no adversary left a fight with Parmi
without tows of blue bruises on each shin. Parmi looked at Pelmen.
"Can we help in any way
"Not yet, my friend. Take care for what you say," he added. "I think
the walls may be listening," Pelmen then stalked up the stairs toward
his tiny cell.
"What did he mean by that?" Gerrig asked. "What does he ever mean?"
Parmi shrugged. "Come on, we have to rewrite a play."
As Pelmen walked toward the game room a sense of dread built inside
him. Something had roused Ligne's suspicions, and Pelmen wondered if
he were walking into the jaws of a trap. There was little he could
Got you I
Pelmen scrambled around to face the speaker, his heart in his throat.
There was no one behind him.
Not that! Don't do that]
Pelmen felt a little dizzy. He was hearing words that weren't words at
all. He listened to the fluctuations of temperature in this corridor
and comprehended them as thoughts.
Are you blind? Her red column is sitting on your flank!
Drax. The castle was talking the language of Drax, And Pelmen
understood it
If the House found any redeeming feature in the vain woman who
presently wore the crown, it was her compulsive urge to spend hours at
the Drax table. Of course, the game had advanced considerably during
the castle's extended nap. The openings were now far more
sophisticated and the end game much more subtle, but it was still the
same vicious pastime the castle had enjoyed so long ago. It was
fortunate for the occupants of the palace that the board's shape and
the basic moves had not been altered in the last thousand years. The
Imperial House was a Drax purist, and would have been enraged at such
trifling with perfection,
It was studying an animated match being played by the Queen, her Prime
Minister, and one of Ligne's ladies maids. "Come on," Ligne goaded the
woman. "I'll loan you the gold!"
"But I'm already so deeply in debt," the maid protested. "Oh please,
my Lady, can't we just play this game for fun?"
Absurd! the House sniffed. Drax was played for blood and gold not
fun. The castle reflected back on ancient
2JJ
games, played with power shapers not so dense as this Fallo-mar fellow.
It chuckled, recalling how one night it had lost one of its gold-inlaid
floors, but won it back the following day, along with the wizard's
tunic, vest, and pantsl . Savage game, the Imperial House snickered.
"Ah-ha!" Kherda said with satisfaction, as he made his move and
removed a red piece from the triangular table.
Ligne cursed, and her azure eyes devoured the board, searching for a
move that would take this sudden pressure off her disc. Kherda always
made sure she won, but she inevitably had to work at it. The Prime
Minister considered his skill far superior to the Queen's often it was
a difficult task just to avoid winning. Occasionally he daydreamed
about actually beating her .. .
Deliciously wicked! the Imperial House crowed in praise, as Ligne
found the soft underbelly of Kherda's defense and slashed into it with
her star. The Queen's eyes gleamed. She did not hide her glee.
"Fallomar, my Lady," Pelmen said, ambling into the game room. "At your
hand."
"You took your time, didn't you, clown?" the Queen said archly. "But
no matter. I'm winning."
"She always wins," the maid explained, smiling at the jester
flirtatiously.
"Indeed, Queens usually do," Fallomar said.
"Do you play?" Ligne asked, eyes on the board.
"I am a player by profession, my Lady. Does a seamstress sew? Does a
sewer man slough?"
"Such a graphic expression!" Ligne smiled, wrinkling her nose at her
maid, who giggled merrily. "But do you play games?"
"Life is a game, my mistress, and I am alive, thus I must play it
well."
"Answer me directly," Ligne said sharply. "Do you play
Drax?"
"A penny less player?" he responded, his eyes wide, "Not without a
wealthy patron to pay my bills."
"Then you know the game?"
"Vaguely. Play on, and I'll watch. You'll find I pick up new moves
quickly." He winked at the ladies' maid.
The game had often been described as something akin to a three-sided
dagger fight in an alley. With lightning speed,
the pieces whizzed around the board, each move drastically altering the
subtle balance of power. It was a game both of cutthroat diplomacy and
studied tactics, changing far too rapidly for any player to develop a
grand strategy. And it was quickly over, with Ligne the victor. The
maid hid her eyes behind her hand.
"How much do you owe me now?" Ligne demanded of her, and the woman
shrugged and smiled helplessly in response. "Too much to pay, I
realize. And you, Kherda, I suppose you must owe me the entire
treasury by this time," "My Lady, as you say. I am flat of purse."
Ligne looked at the painted fool and smiled scornfully. "You see the
kind of stakes I play for? We might as well wager handfuls of dirt!"
"Ah, yes." Fallomar sighed. "There's a price to be paid for owning
everything. Of course, that means you can always afford it "
Ligne stood and brushed past him, toward the double doors of the game
room. "It's boring, playing for nothing! What I want is a real game,
with real wagers! Fortune riding on every move!"
Hear hear! cried the House in absolute agreement Ligne cocked her
head, and looked at the door frame. "Did you hear this thing crack?"
"This castle is full of curious noises lately," the maid observed,
clearing the reference plank of pegs.
"It's a very old House," Kherda snorted, looking at the ceiling. "Looks
as if it could all fall in any minute!" The castle said nothing. But
it had heard. "Pity it doesn't fall on you, Kherda," Ligne said. She
couldn't know the House was contemplating such at that very moment.
"Don't you agree, clown?
"If it crushes Kherda, I hope it'll crush me as well." Ligne looked at
him. "Why would you hope that?" "Why, if he were gone, you might make
me your Prime Minister, and any fate is better than that." It was a
skillful remark, one designed to chop either way. Ligne took it as
more abuse for Kherda, and threw back her head to laugh aloud. The
Prime Minister, however, caught the fool's wink, and just for an
instant remembered how to smile. He was coming to like this clown.
2JI
Ligne slapped her hands together. "Very well. Kherda, you may go bury
your nose in your bureaucratic burrow. I have my clown back!" Kherda
left the room quickly as Ligne walked over to seat herself at the board
again. "Well, fool, what will you wager on a game of Drax?"
"Only my antics. They're all I own."
"Then plant your antics in that seat and let's begin," the Queen
commanded.
Pelmen's mind raced. He was gauging the quickest way to lose.
"You want me to play what?" Carlad asked incredulously.
"just give it a try," Danyilyn coaxed him in candy-coated tones. "You
don't know, you might find you like it."
"But do I have to put that white stuff on my face? No. No, not for
me. My sergeant would take one look at that and "
"He'll never see it." Danyilyn smiled. "Come on, try it. It's a
large part .. ."
"It is?"
"One of the most critical roles," Gerrig broke in.
"Well ... all right," Carlad grumbled, but he was smiling as Danyilyn
started coating his face. "You know, I'd kinda like my wife to see
this .. ."
Yona Parmi and Rosha had drifted toward the door of the room, and now
Parmi whispered, "The clown has informed me of who you are, Rosha, and
your connection with him."
"Oh?" Rosha responded guardedly.
"Your secret is safe. I wish I felt the fool himself was."
Rosha studied Yona's face. "I've heard them call you Yona. Are you
the Yona Parmi who's travelled with this fool all over Chaomonous?"
"I am. Unfortunately, he's not allowed me to help him as much as he
has your father. I suppose he hasn't needed help .. . But I have a
sinking feeling that this business is too large for him to handle
alone."
"He's not alone," Rosha said flatly, his eyes on Carlad. The guard was
laughing now as Danyilyn read him his lines.
2J6
"You mean the Power, of course." Yona nodded.
"You know the Power?" Rosha asked him, shifting his dark eyes to
Yona's face.
"I know of the Power, only."
"So far," Rosha grunted, and Yona smiled.
The door clacked open, and Maythorm popped his handsome head inside. He
was grinning. "There you all are." He glanced around the room. "But
where's Pelmen?"
Yona stiffened in shock. "Where's who?" he asked quietly, glancing at
Carlad to be sure the guard hadn't heard.
"You thought I wouldn't catch on, didn't you." Maythorm smirked. "Who
were you trying to deceive? Me?" Maythorm showed them his dimples.
"Surely not the Lord of Entertainments! I'm the one who discovered
you, Parmi, in the days when your Pelmen was but a pitiful, penny less
playwright with verses to flog." Maythorm sneered. "You may fool
Ligne, and you may fool Joss, but you'll not fool the premiere critic
of Chaomonous with your little masquerade!"
Yona had caught Danyilyn's eye and jerked a thumb at Carlad, and the
actress quickly picked up the cue, hiding her anxiety as she walked the
grinning guard to the far side of the room. Now Yona turned back to
face the arrogant court ling "What do you want from us?" he
growled.
"From you? Why, nothing, little Parmi. What I crave is the head of
your pompous Pelmen! Oh, I don't know how he did it his special
effects were excellent! But he'll pay for that particular
performance!"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Parmi rasped, his round body
trembling with rage.
"Oh, I think you do." Maythorm grinned. He nodded toward Carlad. "Be
glad you've found another clown. After I meet with General Joss,
you're going to need him!" The Lord of Entertainments swept his cloak
aside and left the room.
Parmi whipped around to Rosha. "Do you think we could " He stopped.
Rosha was gone.
Maythorm swept past the closed door of the game room and around a
corner. That was as far as he got. Rosha clubbed him once in the gut,
twice in the face, and a final time across the back of his neck. A
crackling of bone assured him Maythorm would say no more. He caught
the man as he fell and lowered him to the floor, then glanced around
for a place to hide the body.
His eyes met those of a startled slave, who stood five feet behind him,
leaning on his broom. Rosha gazed up at him a moment, slack jawed, the
blood draining from his face. His muscles tensed, and he prepared to
spring.
"Was it your wife or your sister?" the slave whispered. "What?" Rosha
asked.
"No matter. I'll sweep up the remains." The slave swiftly leaned his
broom against the wall and stooped to grasp Maythorm's body under the
arms. Then he glanced up. "Well, get on!" he snapped. "You waiting
for someone to give you a kiss?"
Rosha blinked, then slipped around the corner and back into the throne
room. A quick glance around relieved him. Carlad was still busily
engaged in learning his lines.
Yona Parmi drifted around in front of him, anxiety etched in his face.
Rosha sighed. "Relax, Yona Parmi. He's made his last speech."
It didn't take long for Pelmen to lose the first game nor for the House
to begin abusing him for it.
Stupid move! Stupid move! jangled the bells on the wall.
"Ignore those silly bells," Ligne instructed. "Just play." That was
easier said than done. The castle's comments were starting to effect
his concentration. While Drax was a rough game frequently associated
with fistfights and murders, there were some things one simply didn't
do. One of these was to mock a player at the board.
Insipid, pasty-faced actor! Too proud to accept expert advice when
it's offered you!
Pelmen shifted in his seat as the bells clanged on. Finally he clamped
his hands over his ears. "They're a nuisance, to be sure," he admitted
to Ligne.
"What difference does it make?" She shrugged. "You're going to lose
anyway. Move."
Why not sweep your cube, the Imperial House suggested sarcastically,
and slit your own throat? Pelmen smiled to himself, and did just
that.
And you did! Oh! Fool! You've lost it now, though doubtless you're
too dense to know it!
"Got you!" Ligne crowed, as she slammed her disc into Fallomar's sole
remaining piece, sending it flying off the table. That was another of
those things one didn't do at Drax, but Ligne had already demonstrated
that she had little concern for manners.
"What a surprise," Fallomar lied. "I didn't even see that piece
sitting there!"
Try opening your eyes! the House snarled. Pelmen stood, bowed
politely, and asked, "Could I take a moment's break?"
"Where are you going?" Ligne snapped. "Just out in the hall to
collect my thoughts."
What thoughts? the castle growled.
"Five minutes," Ligne told him. She seemed in a terrible humor. Pelmen
hoped he didn't know why.
He nodded at the pan1 of guards who opened the door for him, then
walked fifteen feet down the hallway and leaned against the wall. The
guards craned their necks to watch him. After a moment, one asked the
other, "Is he talking to himself?"
The other, who had already had some strange experiences with Fallomar,
nodded wisely and tapped his head. "With this one, expect anything."
You're undoubtedly the most miserable Drax player to set foot within
"That's not sporting, you know," Pelmen said quietly. Everyone in the
castle was relieved by the sudden cessation of the bells.
Do you address this House?
"You think I talk to walls to hear my own echo?"
You do understand! the House shouted, and a whistling wind of joy
whooshed down every hallway, blowing tapestries off of walls and vases
off of tables.
"I certainly do, and I'm appalled! If you are the expert Draxist you
claim to be, you ought to know it's poor manners to mock a man at the
board."
It's bad manners to ignore the Imperial House! the castle responded
defensively.
"Actually it's only been in the last hour or so that I've understood
your speech. It's remarkably easy to pick up."
Naturally, the House sniffed. It makes infinitely more sense than your
human gruntings and snortings.
"Nevertheless, it is distracting to play with such vile language
ringing in one's ears. Literally."
Then pay attention! You've forfeited one golden opportunity after
another!
"Because I'm trying to lose." The Imperial House was shocked. It
responded with a frosty silence. "I realize that's offensive to a
purist like yourself, but I'm losing these games to keep the Lady
relaxed and happy. There's something far more critical at stake here
than the outcome of a Drax game."
If you're speaking of your trivial little plot to deceive the Queen,
how could you possibly compare them!
"Misplaced priorities?" Pelmen shrugged sardonically.
This House could not agree more!
"In spite of what you think," Pelmen whispered, "it's more important to
me than Drax." The House echoed with an angry ringing.
That's a form of cheating! To throw a Drax game is repugnant behavior,
far more unsporting than to mock a horrid Draxist at the board!
"It bothers you that much?"
There is only one thing worse than a Drax cheater, and that is a Drax
welcher! I suppose you're one of those as well?
"Well, I really didn't bet anything " Pelmen was unprepared for the
explosion of outrage that greeted his words.
Then why play at all? bellowed the Imperial House. The castle took
its Drax quite seriously.
"If it's cheating to lose a match deliberately, isn't it also cheating
to intimidate your opponents so that they fear whining worse than
losing? That's what this Queen does."
The House was silent for a moment.
This demands some consideration.
"Fine. You think about it. I've got to go back inside and lose
another round, and I'd appreciate it if you'd keep your opinion of my
play to yourself." FaHomar turned away from the wall and walked back
to the door of the game room. The guards regarded him curiously as he
passed between them and stalked back to the table.
"Where have you been?" Ligne demanded.
"Telling the walls to shut up."
"Oh, you talk to walls, do you, clown?"
"Only when they talk to me."
"I see. And are the walls amused by your jesting
"You hear them laughing, don't you?"
"Did my warders laugh at your jests today?" Ligne asked pointedly. "I
was told you paid them a visit."
"To the warders? Oh, the dungeon! Certainly. I frequently visit
prisons. They're always good for a laugh." Pelmen studied the board.
The game it represented would quickly be lost and forgotten, but he
suddenly found himself in a game he needed to win.
"You were trying to follow me in. Why is that?" She turned a harsh
stare at him.
Pelmen maintained his composure, smiling smoothly and saying, "To amuse
you, my Lady. As I said, I know dungeon life well all jesters do. I
sought only to entertain."
"I see. I've decided to give you your wish."
"My wish? My Lady, in my work I utter many meaningless phrases, which
live in my listeners' ears only briefly, and in my own memory not at
all. Which wish is this?"
"Why, to see my dungeon, of course." Ligne smiled cruelly. "I do hope
you truly are entertaining. Otherwise, I might be tempted to leave you
there." She tapped the board, then swept her hand across the pieces
and stood up. "I tire of this. I'm off to bed." The maid quickly
hopped up to follow her. "After breakfast, clown," Ligne called from
the doorway, "I promise you the grand tour. I'm sure well both find it
amusing." She swept out, followed by the maid and the pair of
guards.
Left alone, Pelmen contemplated this new twist. One thing was sure he
could do no more today. He felt exhausted.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Defending the Faith
"WHAT DID I DO to deserve you?" Bronwynn spat down at Tibb, who lay at
her feet. She had just tossed him against the wall of the canyon and
was threatening to inflict more damage if he got up.
Tibb rubbed his aching back. "You know, Lady, I was just asking myself
the same question."
"Would you get up," Pinter urged his short companion as he cast an
anxious look over his shoulder. "Admon Faye is watching us!"
"Fine, he can watch me lie here awhile
"He's laughing." Pinter frowned, his gaunt face flushing.
"Let him," Tibb grunted.
"But he's gonna think we're fools!" Pinter cried.
Then he's half-right already. I'm not proving I'm one by standing up
and getting my head split open." Tibb gazed up at Bronwynn. "You're
good, Lady. You'll make a great murderess."
"Murderess," came Bronwynn's dull echo.
"You're a natural. I even feel a little sorry for the fellow."
"A natural murderess," Bronwynn repeated grimly.
"He's wondering why we're just standing around," Pinter
said nervously, still gazing over his shoulder. He spun around and
charged Bronwynn earnestly. She responded with a quick grab of his arm
and a flip, and Pinter cartwheeled off the wall, just as Tibb had
done.
Tibb raised his head to watch, then smiled. "He's all arms and legs,
hunh." Bronwynn didn't smile back, but leaned thoughtfully against the
wall. "Why so glum?" Tibb asked. "Being a cutthroat is great
practice for ruling "
"Wonderful," the girl snarled, staring at her hands as if they were
filthy. "Now I'm a cutthroat."
"What's the matter? You got something against being a cutthroat?"
Bronwynn looked at Tibb, surprised. "Well, of course I do!"
"What?" he demanded.
"It's .. . it's just .. . wrong!"
"What's wrong about it?"
"Why ... ah ... what's right about it?" Bronwynn challenged.
"Listen, Lady. It's us cutthroats that make this economy go. Why,
without us robbing people along, and kidnapping, and murdering the
nobles and the merchants would have all the gold by this time, instead
of just most of it."
"But ... to murder someone! To be a murderer! That isn't "
"Ladylike?" Tibb finished for her. "Some of the best women I know are
murderesses."
"Really?" Bronwynn asked.
"Sure. My mother "
"Your mother!"
"Right. Sister, too .. ."
"But ... if they were brigands ... no wonder you turned out as you
did."
"What do you mean by that?" Tibb snarled, starting to get up.
"Don't upset her, Tibb," Pinter suggested, as he got shakily to his
feet. "She'll bang your head against that wall most unpleasant "
"I mean, they must have taught you it was right, or you "
"Listen to me, my Lady! I know right from wrong, for sure. Right's
what helps me, wrong's what don't,1*
"But don't you see? That's so far from the real difference between
right and wrong that I ... I wonder .. . if you'd ever be able to
understand ..."
Tibb snorted. "Maybe not. But I know this. As a cutthroat, I kill a
man in an alley. As a Queen, you'll order a war and kill a thousand.
As a cutthroat, I'll steal all the gold a man can carry in his
saddlebag. As a Queen, you can make a single proclamation of a new tax
and rob a thousand peasants of their life savings. Now, my Lady. You
tell me what's the right and wrong of that!"
"Ah, Tibb," Pinter mumbled in his friend's ear, "we're supposed to be
training this girl to take the throne, not talking her out of trying.
If our master "
"Well, someone has to rule!" Bronwynn blurted out. "Someone has to
make decisions for the good of the whole nation."
"Fine," Tibb said, hitching his pants. "Let them do it. But don't try
to convince me that their right and wrong is any different from
mine."
"Tibb," Pinter whispered, "would you please shut your mouth before this
girl decides not to "
"Why?" Bronwynn interrupted. "He's just telling the truth." She
struggled to her feet, sliding her back up the wall of the cliff, and
brushed between the two of them on her way to find a private place to
think.
"Now you Ve done it!" Pinter snarled. "Admon Faye gives us a chance
to join him, and you kick it away!" "What did I do?" Tibb asked,
confused. "You just talked her out of playing her role in the master's
plan," Pinter roared, and he, too, stalked away.
"I did?" Tibb asked. "Now wait a minute, Pinter," he called, stomping
after his friend and grabbing him by the shoulder. "You tell me how I
did that."
"You called her a cutthroat!" Pinter snapped. "No one wants to be
called a cutthroat."
"But that's what we are," Tibb pleaded. "That's what you are, maybe,"
Pinter replied archly. Tm an outlaw."
"But what's the difference?" Tibb begged. Pinter paused and looked
back at him disdainfully. "If you don't know, I'm sure I couldn't
explain it to you." Shouting in the northern mouth of Dragonsgate cut
short their debate. They looked at one another in surprise, then
bolted toward the noise. Pinter's longer legs carried him to the site
of the confrontation well before his comrade, and he was full of news
when Tibb came puffing up behind him. "What is it?" Tibb shouted.
"What's going on?"
"Some pale believers," Pinter smirked. "Some of that Prophet's band.
Look." Pinter pointed, and Tibb watched as slavers dragged one
blue-clad initiate after another off of their horses. The missionaries
didn't resist, yielding passively to this brutal treatment.
"Always was easy to bag a dragonfaither," Tibb snickered.
"These aren't dragonfaithers," Pinter corrected him, "though I'm not
surprised you can't tell the difference. They're members of that new
heresy."
"I know that," said an annoyed Tibb. "You think I've lived this last
year with my eyes closed?"
"Wouldn't surprise me."
Admon Faye's companions were experts at fast-binding new victims. It
took only moments for them to tie the entire group of Lamathians, which
Tibb estimated as at least a score.
"What will we do with 'em?" Tibb asked. "Kill 'em here? Sell 'em in
the south?"
"No. These fellows say we'll skin them and send them home as an
example. Say, the Princess is a Chaon! Maybe watching a few
Lamathians getting skinned would get her blood boiling to be Queen
again! Let's go!"
Tahli-Damen lay on his back, staring into space. The wounds that
Flayh's alter-shape had inflicted on his leg had proved to be more
spectacular than substantial. He was walking without any difficulty.
But Wayleeth had noticed that a strange dread had settled over him. He
refused to be cheered by anything she said.
"Tahli-Damen," she called from the doorway. "The man who's been
watching Flayh's castle has brought you a report "
"Flayh's castle!" Tahli-Damen blurted, as if the words themselves
touched a raw nerve within him. "I set no watch on Flayh's castle!"
"I know that," Wayleeth answered patiently. "I did."
"Why did you do that!" he demanded. "Didn't I tell you? That man is
a power shaper He hurls balls of fire! He he he changes his shape at
will! Look at my leg!" The young merchant frantically waved his leg
in the air and pointed to it
"I know all about your leg, my love," Wayleeth answered him evenly.
"I'm the one who has bathed and dressed it, remember?"
"Of course," he mumbled, and be rolled over, turning his back on her,
as well as the strange powers that suddenly threatened him anew.
"I set that watch because I know that's what you would do if you were
being yourself."
Tahli-Damen rolled back to face her. "If I were being myself.
Wayleeth, look at me! I am being myself and myself is terrified."
"You're going to let a little dog bite prevent you from seizing your
rightful place on the Council of Elders?"
"Oh, Wayleeth," he moaned, covering his ears.
To prevent you from seizing one of those precious pyramids you've
talked so much about?" Tahli-Damen swung himself off the bed and
limped toward the door. "Where are you going?"
"I told you before, I'm frightened and I don't want to talk anymore
about Flayh!"
"Flayh's gone."
Tahli-Damen stopped and looked back at her. "What?"
"He left a day and a half ago for the High City, for powers know
whatever reason. What's important is that while he's off to visit the
sloth-King, he's left guess who in , charge of his castle?"
';' Tahli-Damen raised his eyebrows incredulously. "You mean Pezi?"
Wayleeth giggled. "Old barrel-bottom himself!"
The young merchant dashed to a closet and grabbed his cloak, shouting,
"Dispatch a bird to Jagd at once and give him the news!"
"Where are you going?" Wayleeth smiled knowingly.
"I've got to plan a visit to our new local lord of Og-nadzu!"
The Wizard i* "Waiting
"What's happened to me?" Bronwynn whispered to her reflection. She
gazed into a little pool, fed by the melting snow that trickled off the
mountain. This pass was bare of the trees Bronwynn loved, and she had
despaired of finding any private place where she could think. This
quiet pool, at the base of the cliff opposite the dragon's old lair,
wasn't really beautiful, but it was the nearest thing to beauty she
could find.
Bronwynn was amazed at herself. Only a few short months before she had
bid good-bye to Rosha in this very pass she could see the exact spot
from where she sat and had ridden away with Lord Joss, expecting to
recapture her throne by sundown. So naive, so trusting. It was good
she had learned something of the world.
But was it right? Tibb had struck a soft spot within her. Until she'd
met Pelmen, her own attitudes toward moral evil had been the same as
those of these outlaws perhaps even worse. Her father Talith had
exercised his power with the same savage expertise as Tibb wielded his
knife well, probably more skillfully than poor Tibb and he'd taught
Bronwynn to do the same.
"But I thought that had changed," Bronwynn breathed, remembering
conversations with Pelmen that had extended far into the night, and the
sudden unveiling of a spiritual sensitivity that had long laid dormant
within her.
"My Lady! My Lady!"
She glanced up. Pinter and Tibb both raced toward her. She'd become
well acquainted with these two in the past few hours. Thus it didn't
surprise her at all when Pinter's legs tangled and he fell in a pile at
her knees. Tibb tripped and landed on top of him.
"Yes, Pinter?" she asked wearily.
"Get off a me!" Pinter growled, and Tibb complied quickly. Both
struggled to their feet.
"We've caught our first unauthorized passage!"
"Twenty of them, actually," Tibb corrected.
"They're being held in the north mouth. Hurry!"
"Why should I?" Bronwynn asked pointedly. "I told you, I don't relish
the thought of indiscriminate killings."
"Oh, we're not going to kill them," Tibb protested.
"No?"
"Of course not. What good would that do? Would it keep anyone else
from trying to come through?" "I would think so when word got out."
Pinter laughed, and winked at Tibb, who winked back. Bronwynn didn't
much care for their patronizing looks. "But who would carry that word
out?" Pinter asked, as if of a child.
Bronwynn frowned at this, and Pinter looked away. "So you'll send them
back," she said, looking down at her reflection in the puddle.
"Right!" Tibb crowed, a big smile spreading beneath his bulbous nose.
"Of course, we'll skin 'era up a little first. Come and watch. They're
Lamathians "
"No, thanks. Beatings don't interest me any more than killings."
"Might do you good," Tibb wheedled. "Help you see the real world. Our
boys have already begun the job, stripping off a few of their funny
blue robes and stretching them on the "
"What?" Bronwynn asked sharply. "What kind of robes?"
Tibb was puzzled. "They're just robes, my Lady, the usual kind "
She spun around to Tibb's companion. "Pinter, what kind of robes?"
"Nothing for you to be alarmed about, my Lady. We've just captured a
group of religious fanatics that you would know nothing about "
"What color robes?" she screeched, and Tibb, wide-eyed, answered:
"Pale blue " He broke off, as Bronwynn sprinted between them and raced
toward the northern mouth.
She arrived, breathless, at the side of Admon Faye, just as the
skyfaither leader was being brought before him.
"What are you going to do with them?" Bronwynn demanded sternly,
before the slaver could open his mouth.
Admon Faye turned his ugly face toward her and frowned. "I'm going to
beat them and send them back where they came from, to discourage
further " "No, you're not."
Admon Faye gazed at her. "What!" It wasn't a question, it was a
threat.
"You aren't going to beat them, nor will you send them back."
Admon Faye grew conscious of the watching eyes of the rogues who ringed
them. His initial thought was to slap the girl's face and have her
arms bound behind her for still more instruction later. He resisted
the impulse, but his frown stayed fixed in place. There were many who
would have preferred a slap to that stare. "Are you ordering me,
little girl?"
"I'm no little girl, I'm your Queen or so you claim I will be. And
perhaps I'll be more compliant with your wishes than Queen Ligne has
been but there are some things that I demand!"
"You're hardly in a position to demand anything," said the slaver.
"Oh?" she replied. "It was my understanding that you needed me, as
legitimate heir to the throne you plot to steal. Suppose I choose not
to take it?"
"Then we'll use someone else,"
"Ah," Bronwynn said. "But what of the wasted time? Another heir to be
found and trained, rechecking the plans with Flayh are these few worth
it to you?" She gestured to the two skyfaithers who stood before them,
soundly trussed and gagged.
"Are they that important to you?" Admon Faye wondered.
"Yes."
The slaver stared at her, then chuckled. At the sound of his laugh,
the tension broke. He glanced around at his fellows and winked, and
they began dispersing, echoing his laugh. He looked back at her. "Then
they're yours for all the good it does you."
"I see you've already begun your vicious game," Bronwynn growled as she
un gagged Naquin.
"Just a little lesson to help would-be free traders to think twice
before crossing this pass. Perhaps this group will be willing to
convey our message?" he asked Naquin, raising his eyebrows and
grinning crookedly.
"We carry only the message of the Prophet and the book none other,"
Naquin answered proudly.
"Oh-ho!" Admon Faye cackled. "A proud one. Too proud to save the
skins of some of your fellow travelers?"
"Salvation is our purpose," Naquin announced, "but '" your threats are
meaningless in view of the Prophet's words. The changes will come so
says the book and the Prophet."
Admon Faye wrinkled his nose in disdain and sneered at Bronwynn. "Never
could understand these religious crazies. You're sure you wouldn't
rather just send them home?"
"No!" Bronwynn shouted, and she turned to smile hopefully at Naquin.
"The Prophet sent you?"
"He did. With instructions to proclaim the message ,|. throughout
Chaomonous."
v: "You're sure?" Admon Faye snickered. "Means nothing
They're harmless enough. But if you let them V through now, it means
you'll have to put up with this garbage from now on."
|f. "I don't think it garbage!" Bronwynn snapped. if "Oh that's
right. You got a whiff of it yourself while in TeLamath, didn't you?
Very well then, I'll leave you two to ponder worshipfully the wonders
of theology." The slaver turned his back and strode away, trailing his
laughter as he ;; left
Freed now to mention his name, Bronwynn whipped around to whisper, "How
is Pelmen? Where is he?"
Naquin stared at her, then his face assumed an expression of pious
distaste. "I certainly have no knowledge of that man's whereabouts and
I wish none."
Bronwynn stared back at him. "I thought you said you were from the
Prophet!"
"Indeed we are, from the true Prophet of Lamath. We have no dealings
with the Mari imposter you mention." "Man imposter!"
"That is what he showed himself to be when he abandoned the land to
chaos."
"He didn't abandon the land!" Bronwynn fumed. "He put Erri in charge
of Lamath and moved on to other .-
_; "What other things?" Naquin demanded, and Bronwynn hesitated. "You
see, you don't know his whereabouts," Naquin said smugly.
"But I know him," snarled Bronwynn. "I was with him!"
"That may be," Naquin said evenly in the face of Bron-wynn's clenched
teeth. "But where are you now? In the company of cutthroats, outlaws
and brigands. And by your dress, obviously one of them. That doesn't
say much for this Pelmen, does it?"
Bronwynn's fist flew toward Naquin's face, and he flinched. She
managed to stop it in mid flight however, and backed away, amazed at
the violence of her own reactions. Naquin smiled a pitying smile that
made her want to vomit.
"Go ahead and strike," he urged. "We skyfaithers are prepared for
persecution."
"Persecution I" Bronwynn gasped.
"Of course. I'm not fooled by your pretended mercy. If you truly
stood with us, you'd untie us and let us get on with our task.
Moreover, you would don a robe yourself and follow me into
Chaomonous."
"Follow you!" she spat. "I'd not follow you anywhere!"
"I cannot say that shocks me." He sneered. "Since you've chosen to
follow Admon Faye."
Bronwynn glared at him, her eyes blazing. "You can't make me believe
Erri thinks as little of Pehnen as you do."
"But he does," Naquin lied. It wasn't so much that he meant to lie. It
was simply that Naquin had debated this point so many times since Erri
found him that he'd convinced himself it was the truth even if Erri
didn't realize it as yet
"That's a liel" Bronwynn roared.
"Child, you're speaking about things you simply don't have the
experience to comprehend. The land has been changed a great deal since
we've rid ourselves of Pelmen. Untie me, and perhaps I can explain the
words of the Prophet to you more fully, and "
Bronwynn didn't give him a chance. She jammed his gag back into his
mouth and whipped out her knife. "The next sentence you utter in my
hearing will be your last!" she warned, as she held the blade to his
throat. "You listen to me. I once wore a robe like yours. Wore it
proudly. I followed Pelmen as he led me to the Power, and I did that
proudly. But I find no pride in these colors now. So Erri thinks
Pehnen was an imposter? Well. Maybe he was. I only know that if
you're what's become of the reborn faith
2it
Pelmen espoused, I want none of it!" She gazed around the cluster of
bound skyfaithers who stared at her, their anxious eyes bulging above
their gags. Then she looked over her shoulder. Admon Faye leaned
against the cliff face a hundred feet away, watching her and laughing
with his cronies. Her face flushed, and she looked back at Naquin. "If
I hadn't made such a fuss about saving you, I'd give you back to Admon
Faye. Since I did, I'm going to cut your bonds and send you on
through. Interpret it as you will," she continued sarcastically. "Say
that the Power moved me to do it. But I swear, if you so much as touch
your gags before you reach Chaomonous, I'll send every slaver in
Dragonsgate down on your heads, do you hear me?" she shouted at the
group. They nodded eagerly, and she started cutting through their
bonds, leaving Naquin for last. "Begone!" she shrilled as she cut his
last rope, and she booted him in the rear. He joined the rest of the
pack as they raced down the sour then mouth on foot. Then she sheathed
her knife and walked off to find Pinter and Tibb. As usual, they
squatted on their haunches, arguing. They stopped when the Princess
joined them and looked up at her expectantly.
"I'm ready," she announced. "Teach me how to murder."
"Pahd! Pahd, get up!"
"Hnim .. . humph .. . hunh?" said Pahd mod Pahd-el, as he crawled out
from under a favorite pillow. "What the .. . what's (yawn) .. . the
trouble, mother? Is it breakfast already?"
"It's midafternoon, Pahd!" Chogi Jan Pahd-el, his mother, replied
scornfully. "You had half a duck for your midday meal. Don't tell me
you don't remember?"
"Remember? Do I remember?" Pahd asked blearily, rubbing his eyes.
"Yes, you remember!" Chogi yelled impatiently. This drew Pahd's wife,
Sarie, to her husband's defense.
"Please, Chogi, let him alone. He got hardly any rest last "
"Ridiculous!" Chogi blustered, throwing out her generous chest and
stomach and propping her fists on equally generous hips. "All he does
is sleep."
"Why, that's not true," Sarie protested. "Is it, darling?" she called
sweetly to her husband.
Pahd snored.
"You see," Chogi growled.
"Why not let him alone? It's hard business running a kingdom
"I should know," Chogi replied vehemently. "I've been running this one
ever since his father died."
"And probably before that," Sarie huffed to herself.
"I heard that!" Chogi said, thrusting her bulldog's visage into Sarie
lan Pahd's pretty, if vacant, face. "You just tell me where we'd be if
I didn't take steps to administer this realm."
"We'd be living peaceful, ordinary lives right here as normal people
do," Sarie answered. "People in Ngandib-Mar don't need to be ruled,
any more than Pahd needs to rule them. We'd all get on very well if
you just left things alone."
"I know why he married you." Chogi scowled. "It's because you're
content to let him sleep his life away, in exchange for your court and
your crown!"
"Why not?" asked Sarie sensibly. "It's what he wants."
"Well, it's not what I want!" Chogi finished, and she walked over to
jerk the covers off her slumbering son. "Get up!" she roared again.
"Hmm? What? What's that? Breakfast time?"
"I've brought someone to see you, Pahd."
"Fine," said Pahd as he snuggled down again. "Let him look as long as
he likes."
"Oh, no," Chogi said, grabbing his shoulders and pulling him upright.
"This one you're going to talk to."
"What about?" Pahd yawned.
"Remember months ago, before the crisis with the dragon, when you asked
me to find you a court power-shaper?"
"I did?"
"You did."
"Certainly I remember." Pahd nodded. "Where did the fellow go, by the
way?"
"We never found one," Chogi roared.
"We didn't?" Pahd asked Sarie.
"No, dear," she replied.
"Most inefficient," Pahd mumbled. "Remind me to make a decree
deploring inefficiency .. ." He was eying his favorite pillow
longingly.
"No need," Chogi snorted. "I've found one for us
"Really!" Sarie said, genuinely delighted.
"I thought that would get your attention, Sarie ... at least .. ."
Obviously it hadn't gotten Pahd's. His eyes were closing, and his head
listed to one side. "Wake up!" Pahd came back to attention.
Momentarily.
"Where is he?" Sarie bubbled.
"Send in the power shaper ordered Chogi lan Pahd-el, and a servant
lazily moved to obey. "He's outside," Chogi explained, not troubling
to hide her own excitement "He's a most dynamic man if a bit short ,
.."
"Announcing Flayh," said the servant as he reentered,
"Flayh?" asked Sarie.
"Just .. . Flayh? That's all?" Pahd said drowzily. "Rather
unimpressive title."
"I have others, but why be redundant?" Flayh had stepped into the room
and suddenly commanded the attention of everyone. Even Pahd. "I am
Flayh. Let's leave it at that." He wore his splendid red and white
cape. He'd thrown back the hood, and it stood upon his shoulders like
a high collar.
"Certainly looks the part," Pahd mumbled.
"Pay no attention to the King," Chogi said apologetically. "He often
says things he doesn't mean."
"I do not." Pahd snarled. "Do I?" he asked Sarie.
"No, dear," she replied.
"You see," Pahd said.
"Yes, you do," said his mother, staring him down.
Pahd raised an eyebrow, shrugged, and looked at Flayh. "All right. I
do. So .. .*' He sighed, and bit his Up. "Shape."
"Pahd, we don't want to rush the man," said Chogi, smiling at Flayh.
"I'm not offended," Flayh interrupted, and he threw his cloak aside.
He was a lean, powerfully built hound.
"A puppy!" Pahd said, clapping his hands. The two ladies were
awestruck.
Flayh was again a man.
Pahd looked a bit crestfallen. "I rather liked the puppy, myself ..
."
"Pahd, I'll not play word games with you," said Flayh as he walked
brusquely to the side of Pahd's bed-shaped throne. "I understand that
you need a court sorcerer."
"That's what my mother says."
Flayh examined the man closely. This was the first time he'd ever met
the one they called the sloth-King face to face. Always before, he had
discounted the stories of the man's laziness, but Pahd was certainly
living up to his reputation today. It was hard to imagine that this
lump on the bed could also be one of the foremost swordsmen in the
world, "I've come to offer my services," Flayh explained.
"Flayh," Pahd said to himself. "I know of Joooms, and that troublesome
Mar-Yilot .. . Terril .. . Pelmen of course. Never heard of a power
shaper named Flayh. You new to the trade?"
"I am." Flayh nodded.
Pahd yawned and rubbed his eyes. "Ah, what will you need? What are
your requirements?"
"All I ask is a tower of my own to practice my arts and free access to
every part of your fortress."
Pahd smiled in surprise. "Free access? Is that really necessary?" The
King chuckled. "I somehow can't feature walking into my private
chamber and finding you casting a spell on it."
"I can't feature you walking anywhere," Chogi snorted.
"Chogi!" Sane scolded.
"Well, I can't," the square-jawed matron replied. "We've gotta carry
him everywhere he goes."
"Perhaps I should retire and let you decide," Flayh suggested.
"Oh, no." Pahd smiled. "Why not decide, then I can retire." The King
studied Flayh carefully, then looked at his mother. "Well, what do I
decide?"
Chogi wheeled around to Flayh. "Your wishes are granted. I know just
the tower for you, it's right by this one. You'll love it. And of
course it is very convenient to the kitchens and the library so that
you'll be able to " Her voice faded away as she escorted Flayh from the
room, her sizable forearm wrapped around his thin shoulders.
Pahd was still chuckling. "I think mother's got a new beau. Poor
fellow " he added.
Sane regarded the door uneasily as she strolled over to sit on her
husband's bed. "Did you really want him here?"
"Why not? Mother's obviously taken with him. And if she's with him "
Pahd grabbed the sheets and pulled them over his head. " maybe she'll
let me sleep."
It was hours later before Flayh was finally able to shake himself from
the demanding admiration of Chogi lan Pahd-el. Free at last, Flayh
paced through the uppermost room of his new tower and out a doorway. A
tiny balcony, not more than four feet from tower to balustrade, ringed
the spire, and Flayh stalked this circle, gazing down on the awesome
view spread below him.
Except for the blocky citadel occupied by King Pahd and his family,
this was the loftiest point in the royal fortress which meant it was
lofty indeed. Flayh had the sensation that he stood on the top of the
world. The spring rains had cleansed the air of dust, and he could see
to mountain peaks on every horizon. It thrilled him, this pow-ershaper
life, and he vowed never to return to that other existence, where power
was nothing more than the shadowy possibility of political influence.
From this vantage point Flayh could see that his new power need know no
bounds. "I stand atop the greatest fortress in the world," he
whispered to himself and he was right.
The High Fortress of Ngandib was founded on a small rock plateau, which
sat in turn in the middle of a much larger plateau. The city of
Ngandib covered the eastern half of this larger tableland from its very
edges to the base of the castle's rock. The western half of the
plateau was a gigantic basin carved of stone a man-made reservoir dug
to contain the city's precious water supply. To reach the city, a
traveler had to climb a switchback road carved into the eastern cliff
face, which rose five thousand feet from the valley floor below.
Theoretically, this road could be defended from above so easily that no
army would ever be capable of taking Ngandib by storm. The theory had
gone untested throughout the centuries, since no one had ever thought
it sensible to try such a thing. The residents of this
lofty plain boasted smugly that they lived in a city without walls
their cliffs were all the defense they needed.
Should an invader by some miracle reach the city, he would find yet
another insurmountable obstacle to conquest in the positioning of the
fortress. Since it was built atop that smaller outcropping of rock,
its parapets extended another six hundred feet above the plateau floor
far too lofty to scale. The only entrance was through a cave chiseled
into the rock beneath the castle, and up a long flight of interior
stairs. Of course, Pahd never climbed the stairs. He rode, instead,
on a primitive lift, operated by slaves from the upper chambers.
"Absolutely inaccessible," Flayh breathed, staring beyond the palace
walls, past the larger plateau, to the far distant valleys more than a
mile below. From this height the view was partially blocked by clouds.
Flayh had never seen the upper side of a cloud before. The very
thought made his heart pound. "Invincible," he muttered. It wasn't
clear, even in his own mind, whether he meant the fortress or himself.
No matter, for soon they could be one. He slipped back inside the
tower and pulled a couple of precious treasures from his luggage. The
first was his pyramid, which he slipped from its velvet bag and placed
on the table. The second was the ancient grimoire. He sat down, laid
the book open before him at the proper page, and began to chant.
As the light in Dragonsgate waned, Admon Faye watched Bronwynn defend
herself. He could barely contain his pleasure. What he'd been unable
to accomplish with threats and arguments, one self-righteous skyfaither
had done in a matter of minutes. "I'm amazed at your transition,"
Admon Faye grunted, as he watched Bronwynn make short work of an
attacking slaver.
"I learn quickly when I choose to," she replied grimly.
"You do, indeed," he cackled. "Your stuttering bull has met his
match." In answer, she smoothly attacked and disarmed another brigand.
"But I wasn't meaning your battle skills. Your instincts for that have
always been good; it was just a question of tapping that hostility
bottled inside you. No, I'm more interested in your ah spiritual
transformation,"
The Wizard to Waiting
Bronwynn shot the slaver an ugly look. "Don't push it."
"But you were such a stalwart defender of the sky faithful he mocked.
"I said don't push it!" Bronwynn shouted, spinning to face him and
whipping her dagger from its scabbard.
Admon Faye gazed up at her coolly, un cowed by her fierce expression.
"Still threatening me," he murmured. "That's not a good sign. You
haven't yet learned who gives directions in the new family of Faye." He
got slowly to his feet. "What do you choose, Bronwynn? Knives? I'll
flay a patch of skin off your back not where it will show, you
understand, except to yourself in a mirror. You prefer swords? Then
I'll take off let's say four of your toes. A six-toed queen is just as
much a regent, isn't she? Or would you rather choose staves? I'll
leave you with one ear delicate and shapely, the other the size of a
melon. Your choice, child. Which?"
Bronwynn blinked twice, then sheathed her knife.
The slaver nodded. "I take that to mean you yield?" Bronwynn bit her
lip. "Do you yield?" Admon Faye demanded, stepping to her and
grabbing her under the chin.
"I yield," Bronwynn whispered. The words tasted bitter.
Admon Faye's twisted smile spread across his ravaged face once again.
"Good. Then we ride." At that single word, the host of gathered
slavers sprang into a whirlwind of activity.
"Now?" she asked. "The sun's almost gone." "Right." He nodded.
"That makes it the best time of the day."
Less than an hour later a hundred and seventy riders / pounded down out
of Dragonsgate. Not, however, before ;: Admon Faye had tied a note to
the leg of a blue-flyer and tossed it into the purpling sky.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Words with the Walls
PEL MEN WAS SOUND ASLEEP when the castle made its decision. It might
have let the matter rest until morning, but the Imperial House had been
longing for company for weeks. It decided to wake the power shaper
up.
Very well. Intimidating an opponent is another form of cheating, said
the House.
Pelmen fell out of bed, for the castle had communicated this through a
dreadful creaking in the beams that supported the ceiling. His initial
instinct was to get under the cot.
Did you hear?
"I ... did," Pelmen responded, a bit shakily. He crawled back out onto
the straw covered floor and looked up at the darkness. "I ...
appreciate your understanding spirit," he went on, rubbing his eyes and
yawning.
Don't mention it.
"Can I go back to sleep now?"
There are things that should be said. "I want to talk to you, too, but
it's night. Don't you sleep?"
There's been too much sleeping. A thousand years too much.
"You mean you've been asleep for a thousand years?"
Since the coming of the dragon to the Great Gate, and the cutting off
of magic from this land.
Pelmen felt a rush of intense excitement. Sleep was forgotten in the
face of the incredible opportunity. "But what woke you up again?"
The death of the twi-beast, said the Imperial House. A wind stirred
through the room, rustling the straw.
Pelmen felt it on his face, and smiled. "You're laughing about that,"
he murmured.
Wouldn't you? the castle chortled. "I read about you in a cryptic
sentence in a book composed in the ancient times!"
Ancient times! scoffed the Imperial House. It was yesterday! If
you'd like to speak with the true ancients, look to the hills!
"Unfortunately, I don't know their language."
Few do, replied the House through a change of the room's temperature.
They speak so dreadfully slow that your human lifespan could not
contain a sentence .. .
"But what of you? Tell me of yourself!"
This House woke under the spell of Nobalog a wizard of some renown,
though often taken less than seriously by his peers. He was a
practical joker, you see, and got more pleasure from his little tricks
than from the major works of his art.
"Such as yourself."
Of course! the House thundered through the groaning beams.
"Did he not keep some record of his achievement?"
He kept a book of spells, but that is all.
"No wonder I'd never heard of such, then," Pelmen muttered, biting his
lip. "That book has most certainly been lost for centuries."
So it has. Was found recently, however. "Found!" Pelmen exclaimed.
"By whom?"
That information you must discover for yourself, power shaper This
House only knows that at this moment, another House is stirring.
Pelmen stared into the inky room, dumfounded. "Where? What
structure?" he asked earnestly.
Such questions humans ask! the House replied. Al The "Wizard in
"Waiting ways talking of where. There is only one place, and that is
this place.
"The the other living House is also you?"
Fool! How can there be a House and a House in a House? The other
House that wakes shares this world, that's all. It is semi-conscious
now, but it already is clear that the shaper who wakes it is of a
malevolent turn.
"But who?" Pelmen asked himself. The House ignored the question.
Why can you suddenly hear? the House inquired. For days you've
ignored everything that was said to you.
"I've known for some time that there was something different about you
since the night you teased me out of my sleep and blew out a torch in
the hallway."
Apologies.
"Accepted. But though I knew you were a power, I didn't know you were
the castle itself. I recalled that cryptic saying about you after
talking with a woman in your dungeon."
Her words were heard.
"Do you hear everything that takes place within these walls?"
Of course.
"Simultaneously?"
The House puzzled over the word for a moment.
Everything is heard and known. At this moment the Queen snores in a
bed carved of ivory and inlaid with gold, beneath piles of fish-satin
sheets. The man with whom you alternately plot and argue, Gerrig, is
not in his room, but in the room of
"I have a good idea what Gerrig is doing," Pelmen interrupted. "But
what of the woman I mentioned? The lady named Serphimera?"
That lady paces the floor and invokes for your protection the name of
the dragon. Rather silly, the House added needlessly.
"That .. . cheers me, nevertheless." Pelmen thought for a moment. "Has
she ever spoken aloud about me?"
The woman has a great fondness for you, power-shaper. She calls upon
the twi-beast to protect only those whom she regards highly. Why does
she? That lizard is long dead.
"That's just her understanding. I confess, I don't understand it
either, but it's nice to know I'm warmly remembered."
Then her understanding isn't yours as well? Pelmen was surprised. "Why
do you ask?"
Because you, too, invoke such a power. Or was it the House you cried
out to for aid, when trapped in the jaws of the fish?
"Since I didn't know you existed at the time, I could hardly have been
shouting for you."
The dragon, then? asked the Imperial House. Pelmen was rapidly
growing more sensitive to the castle's inflections. The House seemed
troubled.
"As you've said, the dragon is dead."
Then .. . what?
"Better whom. I called on the Power, not on a power."
I know nothing of this Power, replied the House.
"Really?" Pelmen asked. "You didn't feel the wind that was sent to
guide me? You didn't feel the heat that boiled the big fish in the
cistern?"
This House boiled the fish, the Imperial House corrected.
"Oh," Pelmen said, a bit startled. "Well, I thank you, but "
But what?
"But why did you?"
The House was quiet for a long time. Then it said:
Does this Power make you do things you might not ordinarily do?
It was Pelmen's turn to ponder. At length, he replied, "I think it's
rather that the Power leads you to do what you should and furnishes the
energy with which to do it."
This must be considered.
"Wait! Don't go yet, there's so much I want to knowl"
Ask, then.
"Why were you wanting to talk to me?"
Two reasons. Loneliness and pain. "Pain? You?"
Excruciating agony. It occurs whenever some show-off sorcerer like
yourself shapes power in the hallways.
"But I didn't shape you," Pelmen replied evenly, "though I had the
chance."
Not the night you were teased, no. Thank you. "You're welcome."
But you did shape the airs of my dungeons into ulcerous balls of
light!
"When I was in the caverns," Pelmen remembered. "I had no idea then it
was you who kept blowing them out"
Every time.
"I ... I'm sorry. If I'd known, I certainly would have stopped.1*
You were told enough times! roared the House. Its tone softened,
however, and it went on:
But that wasn't the real pain. The agony comes from that miserable
parasite of a trader, the scarlet-and-purple-clad Jagd of Uda!
"Jagd? A powershaperT Pelmen asked, alarmed.
No, fool! the House shouted back. This Jagd causes pain by use of
that savagely pointed pyramid of his.
"Ah," Pelmen breathed, understanding at last. "I've had experience
with those three devices before."
Three? There are six of the magical objects. Or were. "I only know
of three."
Powerful magic is contained in each, embedded there from the days of
their making, in the last days of the one land.
Pelmen's mouth opened in wonder. This was a tale he'd never heard. "Go
on," he urged.
They were formed by all the parties in cooperation: those of faith,
those of magic, and those of observable nature. The task was to shape
a weapon that could destroy Vicia-Heinox, while forming a new unity of
all parties in the process. The craftsmen of natural laws operated
complicated devices wrought of steel and glass, and produced the six
objects in their proper shape. Then the six were intrusted to Sheth,
the foremost magician of that age. It fell his lot to pour each
crystal full of power, then knit them all together with a mystic bond
known only to himself. Thus prepared, the finished object was to be
passed to the men of faith, for them to add then- contribution.
"And what was that?" Pelmen begged eagerly.
No one ever knew. Sheth went into meeting with those of the faith, and
emerged with the bonded crystals still in hand. It was said that,
along with his craft, he'd poured himself into those crystals. He
couldn't give them up to be used by anyone else. Alone he scaled the
Central Gate, intent on destroying the beast that had made the place
its own.
"And?" asked Pelmen sadly, for he'd already guessed the tale's unhappy
conclusion.
The dragon devoured him. The magical bond that had melded the crystals
into one shattered in the instant of his passing. And in the final
conversation this House recalls before falling into slumber, someone
told of seeing the dragon tossing the sparkling crystals from one mouth
to the other. These magical objects contained the sum of the one
land's wisdom, and the fool dragon was playing catch with them.
"Not quite the sum," Pelmen muttered.
What's that?
"They lack, evidently, the contribution from the party of faith."
So they do. The House was silent for a moment. Perhaps that was to
have been the Power's contribution? Pelmen nodded to the damp
darkness. "I'm sure of it"
This must be considered.
"Then the crystals were never made for communication at all?"
You've been told the story of their construction, said the House, a bit
peevishly. Was anything said about communication?
"No."
Very well, then. When they're used in a task for which they weren't
intended, they scatter waves of magical nausea that cause this House
dire distress. It would be greatly appreciated if you would remove
this magical thorn from within these walls.
"Ill do my best. But I must have your cooperation if I'm to
succeed."
Gladly offered. With one condition. "Which is?"
No magic.
The phrase thundered at Pelmen from every side. "Done," said Pelmen,
and he meant it. The conversation extended into the early morning,
ending at last only because of their mutual need to absorb what
2 64
had already been discussed. House and man fell silent, but with an
implied promise to renew the contact as soon as possible. Pelmen lay
awake thinking for a long time, but finally slipped into sleep, leaving
the House alone. It pondered a new idea that seemed at the same time
very ancient:
What is this Power?
A heavy, wet mist clung to the heights of Dragonsgate. The band of
slavers wore it like a cloak in the darkness as they pounded down out
of the southern mouth and onto the flatlands of Chaomonous. At the
head of the column Bron-wynn rode, her jaw set in hatred, her eyes
aflame. At the base of the mountains the fog cleared, and the stars
could be seen clearly above them. But she didn't tilt her head back to
look. She peered straight ahead, down the road to the capital, driven
by her determination to murder Ligne and her lover.
Pinter and Tibb also rode with determination they were determined not
to get lost in the dark. They rode horses stolen from the skyfaithers,
and fortunately these mounts were proving equal to the task. But the
two made a point of staying toward the center of the pack. They had
not experienced universal acceptance among this band of outlaws, and it
would have pleased some of their companions to abandon them along the
road. In spite of Tibb's insistence that "a cutthroat is a cutthroat
wherever he's from," their differences with these Chaons grew more
pronounced with each passing hour.
The moon rose blood-red over their left shoulders, dimming the stars
and throwing eerie illumination before them. But the strange light did
not reveal the forms of twenty sleeping figures until the column was
already upon them. The campers woke to the terrifying sound of an
onrushing wave of hooves. Most were alert enough to scatter out of the
way, but a few unfortunates were deep sleepers. These never woke
again. The charging army never stopped. It soon had disappeared to
the south.
The moon was long gone, and the sun's glow was just beginning to light
the horizon, when the small group of blue faitbers finished burying
their dead. Already, these four who had left them in the night seemed
a little less human and a lot more holy than the living. On a green
knoll only a few hundred feet from the site of the midnight tragedy,
Naquin committed their bodies to the ground. A few moments later, as
the sky turned from pink to gold, he quietly dismissed the survivors.
The tiny group of missionaries dispersed in every direction, more
determined than ever to share their Prophet and their book.
Naquin turned back to gaze at the freshly turned dirt one last time,
then spun on his heels to follow the band of outlaws to Chaomonous.
Pelmen awoke refreshed and alert and immediately jumped off his cot. He
zigzagged through the corridors to the wide hallway that circled the
outer perimeter of every floor of the castle and found a window. It
was early still the sun was not yet up, but the red sky above the
horizon painted the day with promise. He raced to the gardens, found a
secluded spot behind a bush, and addressed the House again: "Good
morning."
It may prove so.
"Or it may not. The Queen has promised me a trip to the dungeon this
morning."
Her words were heard. "Any idea what's behind it?"
Perhaps it's the result of the Lord of Security's suspicions.
"Do you know anything specific? Does either Joss or the Queen suspect
that I am more than just a fool?"
The Lord of Security is secretive as well as suspicious. He says
little, and this House cannot read thoughts. Actually, the man is
proving a relatively responsible General in spite of his failure.
"Failure?"
He allowed a captive to be stolen from the dungeon of this House! the
castle snorted. Pelmen heard bells ringing in the distance.
"That angers you?"
Certainly. Escaping prisoners threaten the integrity of this House as
a fortress. Such failure on the part of the warders is intolerable.
Pelmen felt alarmed at the castle's fury. "Would it anger you if I
were to rescue someone from the dungeon?"
Every soul in the castle was awakened by the Imperial House's clamorous
reply. Pelmen couldn't translate the curses, but he could tell they
were curses. He set his jaw, and plunged ahead:
"That disturbs me, since I intend to do just that But before you break
into another chorus, hear me for a moment." The castle was silent "You
asked me to remove the painful pyramid from within you, and I'll do my
best to help you. But I want something in return."
And that is? the Imperial House demanded.
"Freedom for the woman in the lower dungeon, and a route of escape for
myself and my friends." Pelmen expected another barrage of bells, but
none came. The House was silent. "Are you thinking?"
This must be considered.
Pelmen nodded and settled back on his rock to wait. As he waited, the
castle came awake or rather, the people in it did. He became aware of
the birds chirping above him and leaned back to enjoy their beauty.
Can you do anything about them? the House grunted, making Pelmen
jump.
"About what?" he asked when he recovered.
These infuriating fowls! "You don't like birds, either?"
They besmirch the roof and terraces of this House. Daily.
Pelmen nodded. "I see. Very well, you help me plan my escape route,
and I'll steal the pyramid and free the birds. Fair enough?"
This goes against the nature of this House! "Your requests go against
my nature too. I'm no thief and I like birds." The House thought for
several more minutes.
Very well. "You're agreed?"
You remember the condition?
"I do. No magic."
"Good morrow, clown," said a voice above him, and Pel-men whirled
around in shock to look behind him. "Up here, fool."
Pelmen tiJted his head up. On a balcony that had gone completely
unnoticed until this moment sat the Queen, still clothed in her
nightgown. She was scarcely fourteen feet away. "Greetings, my Lady."
He smiled woodenly.
"Why are you out there talking to yourself this morning?"
"I am rehearsing a part, my Lady," he covered.
"Ah. For the play about me?"
"That is correct. I have little free time to rehearse, so
I "
"Very responsible of you. Come, join us on this balcony for
breakfast," she invited. Then she added, "Now," turning it into a
command.
"How do I get to it?"
"Come to the door of my apartments. They'll let you in. Ah, here's
Rosha already!" she gushed, turning away. She popped her head over
the balcony once again before she went on into her room and ordered
him, "Get up here." Then she was gone, back inside.
How much had she heard? Probably made little difference, he reassured
himself, since she only heard one side of the conversation.
Nevertheless, he reviewed his words as he made his way down out of the
gardens and into the hallway, then back up the stairs towards Ligne's
multileveled suite. He met Yona Parmi on a stair-landing.
"Good morning, Fallomar. What's the matter?" Yona quickly added as he
saw the expression on Pelmen's face.
"Nothing. Ligne's taking me to the dungeon, that's all." Yona's face
turned nearly as white as Pelmen's, and that made the power shaper
chuckle. "Relax I don't believe it's intended to be permanent.
Besides, I've found us a powerful ally within these walls, one that I
think can get us all out of this place. Is Gerrig still anxious to
leave?"
"I don't know how he feels about that this morning. He met another
young lady last night "
"So I heard," Pelmen interrupted. "I have to hurry, but listen. During
rehearsal today, arrange some signal to gather the troupe quickly in
one place. It may be necessary to move fast."
"Are you finally going to involve us in your plans?" Parmi smiled.
"I'm afraid you're already involved because of your connection to me. I
hadn't intended to become so well-known to the Queen. Since I did, if
I disappear with Rosha, she's certain to take her vengeance out on
you."
"So we go out with you." Parmi nodded. "Through the infirmary?" he
added, then smiled at Pehnen's surprise.
"How do you know about that?"
"Give me credit for some power of observation," Yona snapped.
Pelmen nodded. "I do, Yona. I just wanted to keep you out of any
danger."
"Worry about yourself, not us. Maythorm announced to us last night
that he knew who you were." Pelmen's eyes widened. "Rosha took care
of it for you. He broke the man's neck."
Pelmen heaved a relieved sigh" That sounds like his father. Yona,
please try to help him hold his temper just a few more days." Then he
charged up the stairs toward Ligne's apartments. As he walked, he
asked the House, "Why didn't you tell me Ligne was listening to me in
the garden?"
Was that part of the bargain?
"If it wasn't, it should be from now on."
She didn't hear a great deal. However, the woman is acting curiously
today. Perhaps you had better take care.
Pelmen nodded. He had at last reached the Queen's door, and he knocked
on it.
"What kept you, clown?" Ligne asked sharply as he was escorted onto
the balcony.
"Your palace is so vast, my Lady I lost my way."
Ligne raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "I had thought you got around
quite well perhaps too well. Unfortunately, you seem to have missed
breakfast while you wandered the halls. Joss and Rosha have just
finished the last crumbs."
Pelmen glanced now at the two men who sat flanking her. To one side
was Rosha, looking more distressed than usual. Had Ligne discovered
then- relationship? On her other side sat General Joss, who studied
Pelmen's face with patient, emotionless suspicion. Pelmen ignored his
own discomfort and smiled brightly. "No matter. Are you ready for me
to take you slumming below?"
"I had rather thought I was taking you," Ligne replied.
"Whether I take you or you take me, what difference? We're all sure to
be taken by someone, eventually."
"Maybe not, clown."
"And yet maybe. The possibility of being taken is more threatening
than the certainty of it." Pelmen pointed toward her door with a
flourish and shouted, "To the dungeon with you!"
Ligne's face suddenly grew hard. "You overstep yourself, fool," she
murmured dangerously.
"Again?" Fallomar responded. "I'm forever doing that. Perhaps that
explains why I so frequently fall on my face?" "Come along," Ligne
snapped as she stood up and stalked past him. She stopped when she got
to the balcony door, and looked back at Joss. "General," she said,
"you will see that Rosha is moved to his new quarters?" "I will, my
Lady."
"Bye-bye, Rosha. See you after your rehearsal," she sang, and Rosha
managed a shallow smile. Pelmen took comfort that he was at least
still trying. "Come, clown," Ligne snapped, and she left the room with
Pelmen striding swiftly along behind her.
Throughout their descent to the lower levels, Pelmen talked and joked,
earnestly gauging Ligne's responses for some change in her attitude
toward him. As they descended to that final level, the lower dungeon
where Scr-phi mera was housed, he grew quiet
"What?" Ligne asked him. "No quick-witted remark for this level?"
"To be forthright, my Lady, this hall is so drafty that the chill bumps
have extended to the tip of my tongue. You see?" he said, thrusting
it out at her.
"Put your disgusting tongue back in your mouth! Your impudence begins
to gall me."
"Such cold makes my tongue thick and slow to wag." "Stick it out again
and I'll have it extracted! It certainly won't bother you then."
"Missing it might .. ."
"Stay here." She pointed her finger at the floor and the jester made a
show of rooting himself in that precise spot. Ligne ignored him and
walked down the corridor to Scr-phi mera door. Pelmen hoped his loud
remarks had altered the Priestess to his presence. He was confident he
could maintain the pretense of not knowing her. He felt no such
assurance, however, that Serphimera could do the same. He strained to
hear their conversation.
"Priestess!" Ligne called through the bars, and Serphimera uncurled
herself quickly from her bed and padded across the floor to face her.
"My Lady. I'd not expected you to return so soon."
"Then perhaps I've been too predictable in the past. Come come, any
news for me?"
"News, my lady?" Serphimera said guardedly.
"Visions! Predictions! What may I expect?"
"You can expect me to freeze if we stay down here much longer!" Pelmen
interrupted, leaving his spot to come toward her.
"I told you to say there!" Ligne ordered, pointing her finger at him.
"Do you want me to leave you behind?"
The fool didn't slow his pace. "Why, look!" he shouted as he turned
to peer into the Priestess' cell and feigned surprise at seeing
Serphimera. "Here's a captive to remain behind for! Such radiance is
like a light in this darkened world! Tell me, my Lady, who is she?"
"You don't know her?" Ligne asked, keeping her eyes fixed on
Serphimera's face to judge the woman's reactions.
"Know her?" Peimen gushed. "Why, if I did, I'd have quit this costume
long ago and followed her, hat in hand!"
"You are taken with her, then?"
"As I said, we all must at last be taken or forfeit our humanity. I'm
taken, indeed! Do you pen her here because her beauty is the only
rival to your own?"
"You ask too many questions, clown." Ligne turned and explained to the
staring Serphimera, "He's an insolent creature."
"I see that clearly," the Priestess responded, and she clamped her jaws
tightly together, freezing her expression in place. Serphimera's head
swam. What was she supposed to do?
"Like a cur, he'd been sniffing out my dungeon I wondered if he
belonged, somehow, to you?"
"To me, my Lady?" Serphimera said faintly. "Queen Ligne, my business
has nothing to do with jesters, and certainly not with this fool!"
"But surely," Pelmen murmured, "such beauty as the two of you share
makes a fool of every man .. ."
Ligne smiled. "You see why I like to keep him around. He has such a
lovely tongue " Here she looked at Pel-men. " when he keeps it in his
mouth."
Serphimera looked at them both uncertainly, and it seemed to Pelmen
that she made some sort of decision. He braced himself.
"There was a vision .. . that .. . that came in a dream. I saw two
plots against you, Queen, but neither plot succeeded."
"Indeed!" said Ligne, startled. She turned to Pelmen. "Clown, get
out."
"Then I'm not to be behinded?"
"Get!" the Queen roared, and Pelmen scrambled up the stairs. Over his
shoulder he saw Ligne lean into the cell window and demand: "Tell me
more." He wished he, too, could hear that revelation, but he felt less
uncertain of his standing now than he had throughout the morning. Ligne
evidently had found no clear link between himself and Serphimera, and
that relieved him. He also felt confident Serphimera would not
willingly betray him. In fact, he was convinced she had just passed
him a pointed warning.
"Two plots," he muttered to himself, "and neither one will succeed."
The news was certainly troubling. But if Serphimera had seen it in a
vision, he didn't doubt it for a minute.
Carlad maintained his formal, cool manner as he and Rosha walked down
the hallway side by side. Once in the throne room, he dropped that
pretense and raced over to join himself to Danyilyn, laughing and
clapping the other players on the back. Rosha stood near the doorway,
trying to control his rage. Yona Permi quickly joined him.
"I saw Pelmen in the hall this morning," Parmi said quietly. "He says
he has an ally in the walls, as well as a way out for all of us.
Patience, Rosha. Just a few more days."
"I don't have a few more days," Rosha snarled.
"What?"
"The woman has moved me into the room next to hers," Rosha said grimly.
Then he looked at Parmi. "She's going to marry me, she says." Yona
nodded. "What am I supposed to do?" Rosha pleaded.
"Stall her."
"I can't do that forever. Yona, if that woman chases me around the
room again, I swear I'll break her neck!"
"Don't do it!" Yona snapped. "You'll bring the whole castle down on
us!"
"I can't help it! The woman makes me ill!"
"That's it!" Yona smiled brightly.
"What?"
"Get sick! Everytime she comes near you, get sick. It's hard to
maintain passion for someone who is retching."
Rosha stared at him. "You mean "
"It's easy. I'll teach you," Yona said, and he took Rosha aside and
began his instruction. By late morning, the young warrior had mastered
the art.
Pelmen quickly climbed the stairs to the upper level of the dungeon,
and started for the doorway. He stopped short when he saw Joss
blocking it. The General appeared to be staring at him, and Pelmen
felt some of his uneasiness return. He shot the aged soldier a quick
smile. He was not greatly comforted when the Lord of Security returned
it "Pardon," he mumbled as he brushed through the door and into the
hall. Joss made no effort to stop him but neither did he get out of
the way. Pelmen quickly put some distance between them.
Moments later he slammed the door of his cell and sat on the floor
before one of its walls. "What are they saying now?"
They? the castle replied casually. There are at least four hundred
conversations currently in progress. Perhaps you could be more
specific?
"The Queen and the woman Serphimera! What are they saying?"
Nothing at the moment. Their conversation ended only moments after you
were dismissed, with the captive woman pretending ignorance of any
further details of these two plots she mentioned, and the Queen cursing
her for a liar.
"You say she's pretending she does know more about them?"
She fears she does.
"Does she think that my presence within the walls constitutes one of
the two?"
She does.
"How do you know," Pelmen demanded.
At this moment she addresses a long supplication to the dragon on your
behalf. Since that scaly beast is dead, he surely cannot mind if this
House eavesdrops.
Pelmen stared at the wall, his mind as blank as its surface.
This woman's appraisal of your so-called plot seems to bother you, the
Imperial House chortled.
"She's not the crazy woman you seem to consider her," Pelmen said
quietly. "I know her. And her visions come true."
Then your plan is doomed to failure. While this House can sympathize
with your frustration, this certainly cannot be allowed to interfere
with the contract agreed upon this morning.
"I'll still get your pyramid," Pelmen said wearily. He lapsed into
silence for a moment, then quickly demanded, "What's the best the most
unobtrusive way out of you?"
You plan to press on in spite of her words? "If I make no attempt, I
prove her vision true already. What route?"
It grieves this House to make this confession. It was a crack in the
foundations that permitted that thief to steal away a captive. It may
be reached through those same tunnels you became so thoroughly lost
in.
"But you could guide us to it?"
Naturally.
"That'll have to do. How do I "
There is a problem. "What problem?"
The crack opens onto the river. Unless your friends are all excellent
swimmers, it would seem necessary to have a boat positioned below the
crack. There is no boat there,
"I see."
There is another alternative. "And that is?"
The rulers of this House have long kept a boat secreted in a cavern
beneath the northern face of this castle. This cavern can only be
reached through a concealed passageway, which can be entered only
through the royal apartments, the throne room, and several other
strategic locations within these walls. These entry ways are evidently
closely guarded secrets, since the spiders who make the passage then-
home have not been disturbed in years, "But you know the secret?"
This House watched while the cavern was carved! the castle snarled.
"Very well." Pelmen nodded. "But how do I get Serphi-mera out of the
dungeon and up to one of these entry points in order to escape?"
That is a problem you must solve. While this House might permit the
theft of another captive, you cannot expect it to suggest how such
might be done!
Pelmen nodded and spent the rest of the afternoon grilling the castle
about possible escape routes and planning possible scenarios for their
grand attempt. The castle was intrigued by this fool's errand. So
intrigued, in fact, that it paid no attention to a brief encounter that
took place between Joss and the Queen as Ligne left the dungeon. It
never heard the General mutter, "Now?"
Nor did it hear Ligne swiftly reply, "Not yet"
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
With Violence and Guile
THE LAZY OCCUPANTS of Pahd's fortress took little notice of Flayh,
except to observe that he seemed unduly industrious, and to suggest
that he take life a little easier. Flayh responded to each of these
comments with a silent smile so false and threatening that no one had
yet dared to address him twice. Chogi lan Pahd-el was the only one who
engaged him in conversation. She, however, was certainly enough. The
old girl pursued him through the castle like a bulldog short of wind
and stubby of legs, but long on determination. He'd been forced to
repeat a dozen spells due to Pahd's mother interrupting him at a
critical juncture. It had happened again just a moment before, and he
was contemplating what slimy denizen of the deep he'd like to change
the woman into as he accompanied her up the royal tower's steps.
The woman banged open the door without stopping to knock, and stalked
to the foot of Pahd's bed. "Get up. We have a crisis."
"What?" asked Sarie groggily, raising her head and gazing bleary-eyed
at her mother-in-law. Then she looked at a nearby window. "It's still
morning!" she scolded. "We never get up in the morning!"
27S
"We do when an army marches against us!" Chogi snapped, and suddenly
Pahd's head popped up off the pillow.
"Battle?" he asked hopefully.
"It appears so." Chogi sighed.
Flayh was shocked to see the King dance out of bed, skip across the
fur-covered floor, and jerk a great sword out of a scabbard hanging on
the wall. "Wonderful!" Pahd cried, as he thrusted and parried, quite
oblivious to the flapping of his nightshirt.
"Your joy may be premature," Chogi said soberly.
"Why's that? Whom are we fighting?"
"Mar-Yilot and her man."
Pahd stopped dancing. "Oh." He looked at Flayh expectantly, and the
former merchant suddenly discovered that Chogi and Sarie were gazing at
him too.
"Am I supposed to say something?" Flayh asked.
Sarie's eyebrows raised with just a hint of disapproval. "Well you
might offer us a bit of encouragement. After all, you are the court
shaper."
"I hadn't realized lending encouragement was part of my task," Flayh
responded evenly.
"What the girl is saying," Chogi explained apologetically, "is that
since you are our shaper, and since Mar-Yilot is a wit cher woman, we
would like to know how you intend to protect us." She folded her hands
on her ample belly and waited for a reply, her eyes fixed demurely on
the floor.
"Oh, that." Flayh nodded, endeavoring to appear nonchalant in spite of
the sudden pounding of his heart. But Flayh had not been a longtime
success at merchandising without learning how to use shifting fortunes
to his advantage. He beamed his false smile at them and said, "Don't
be alarmed. I can assure you that I can provide total protection for
you by nightfall."
"Total protection?" Pahd asked. "From Mar-Yilot? That's a rather
grandiose claim, considering the woman's past successes in shaper
battles. Why, in the last war of confederation, the only wizard to
control her was Pelmen the powerful, and that only by outwitting her.
For raw strength in bending powers to her will, no one can match the
woman." Pahd said this in awe-filled tones approaching hero-worship,
and Sarie looked at him sharply.
"That may be," Flayh murmured confidently. "But she has yet to meet
with me or my knowledge." He laid his hand over the place where his
spell-book was concealed in his tunic. "If you will permit me to work
throughout the rest of this day " Here he looked at Chogi to add, "
undisturbed " He looked back at Pahd. " by the time you take to your
bed again this evening, this fortress, already formidable by all human
standards, will be totally impervious to magic attacks as well."
"Really? You can do all of that while I'm out of bed? That is
fast."
"But only if I'm undisturbed."
Pahd nodded and pursed his lips. Then he looked at his mother, who was
quite obviously preparing to pout. "Ah .. . mother? Weren't you
planning to visit Aunt Razel sometime soon?"
"Are you telling me to get out of this house?" Chogi challenged her
son, her jaw jutting forward.
"Why, no, mother." Pahd shrugged. "Just suggesting that "
"I'll not interfere with you, Lord Flayh," she promised the power
shaper in a voice thick with sarcasm. "Just see to it that you do your
job and that we are protected." She banged her way back out the way
she came in, heading for her own quarters to weep away her feelings of
rejection.
Pahd misinterpreted Flayh's look of scorn as an expression of concern.
"Don't worry, my friend. She won't give up on you that easily." Pahd
slipped his sword back into its holder and eyed his pillow. "Don't, ah
don't let me keep you from your work .. ." he hinted.
"I certainly won't. Good day, my Lord my Lady." Flayh bowed slightly,
then left the tower, pulling out his grimoire as he went.
Pahd started for the bed, then stopped, and sniffed the air. "You
smell something funny?"
"It's your mother's perfume," Sarie told him with a droll smile.
"Ah." Pahd nodded, stretched, yawned, and scratched his side. "I
guess that takes care of the crisis, so ... I think I'll take a little
nap."
"You do that." Sarie smiled sweetly. "Everything here is under
control."
And by nightfall, everything was under control. Flayh's.
"I'm in charge here," Pezi yelled at the cook, "and unless you'd rather
be working the docks in southern Chao-mo nous you'd better keep that in
mind!"
"I shall, Lord Pezi!" the cook roared back, ramming a wicked-tipped
fork into the rump roast that lay on the cutting table before him. Pezi
could hardly miss the implication. The cook was obviously wishing it
were Pezi's.
Pezi drew himself up to his full height, hitched his pants a futile
gesture he repeated a hundred times daily and sauntered out the door of
the kitchen into the courtyard. He immediately wished he hadn't.
A sugar-clawsp hung there in the air, eying him menacingly. Its
membranous wings were a-blur with motion, yet it held its position in
his face, unyielding, offering no quarter. Sunlight glinted off its
iridescent violet body, adding to the illusion of armor-plated
invincibility. Never mind that it was only half an inch long Pezi was
terrified of these things! He gulped and backed toward the kitchen
door. The sugar-clawsp slowly followed him.
Pezi stopped. He couldn't let a clawsp chase him back into the
presence of the cook. He already faced enough difficulty in
establishing his authority over this manor. He refused to add this
indignity to the list of Pezi stories he knew was making the rounds.
Yet the suger-clawsp just as adamantly refused to let him pass. When
he stepped to the right, the tiny insect zipped over to meet him. When
he stepped back to the left, it buzzed back to its original position.
Pezi reviled himself silently. Why hadn't he left the kitchen through
the hall? Why had he chosen this back door, where he knew sugar-claws
ps would be swarming this time of year? Clawsps loved sugar and lived
wherever it was readily available. They formed it into the inverted
castles of silvery crystal that hung from the eaves above him. Kitchen
help throughout the three lands encouraged these insects to swarm, as a
convenient way of storing sugar supplies. Whenever more of the
substance was needed for the table, some unfortunate servant was
delegated to tear down a clawsp castle and grind it to powder. This
miserable task usually fell to the servant currently in deepest
disfavor, for invariably he would need to pluck a host of the tiny
creatures out of their crystal courts first and when aroused,
sugar-claws ps exuded an oily acid that produced nasty burns on human
skin. Touching an angry sugar-clawsp could be compared to thrusting a
hand into an open flame. And all clawsp seemed angry around Pezi.
Perhaps they were instinctively aware that his great girth represented
scores of demolished sugar palaces. Perhaps they were jealous, for it
was evident that Pezi got all the sugar he wanted. For whatever
reason, the fat merchant had never met a clawsp he didn't hate.
A voice came from the kitchen. "I'm looking for the Lord Pezi have you
seen him?"
"Go right out that door " Pezi heard the cook reply. The fat
merchant's face flushed as the cook continued with a snicker: "He's
outside dancing with a clawsp." "Lord Pezi?" said the voice behind
him. "I'm right here," he retorted, visibly impatient. "I ... can see
that .. ." the voice replied. Pezi identified it as belonging to the
chief watchman at the gate.
"Well, get around here where I can see your face!" Pezi was not about
to turn his back on the tiny violet creature. He'd tried that before,
and more than one hostile sugar-clawsp had taken advantage of the huge
target thus provided. As the watchman stepped cautiously into his
field of vision, Pezi grabbed the man by the collar and swung him
around as a shield. The clawsp buzzed angrily, but did not strike the
guard. "Now what is it?" Pezi demanded, his eyes focused beyond the
man's head.
"I ... there's someone in the courtyard to see you " "Who is it?"
"Tahli-Damen, the local lord of Uda in this region " "What!" Pezi
yelped, suddenly focusing his eyes on the guard. "And you let him
in!"
"Of course, Lord Pezi. Why, he is a merchant " "Without asking me?"
"You weren't in your office, Lord Pezi!" "You knew that it was time
for my afternoon snack." '1 know that all afternoon is time for your
afternoon snack "
"Then why didn't you seek me out?"
"He told me that he bore an emergency message specifically for the Lord
Pezi. Besides, he's a merchant, and common courtesy demands that
merchant houses admit any unaccompanied merchant who asks entry "
Pezi snarled and shoved the guard backwards. The man screamed in pain
and clapped the back of his neck, for the fat merchant had pushed him
into the clawsp. Pezi didn't linger to hear the guard's angry curses.
He waddled rapidly around the corner of the kitchen toward the
courtyard and away from the clawsp.
Tahli-Damen waited in the dusty court. Instead of the velvet and
fish-satin robes his office entitled him to wear, he had donned the
simple costume of a trading captain. His expression was almost
penitent.
Pezi jellied toward him, regarding the Udan merchant with puzzled
suspicion. "What are you doing here?" he blustered.
Tahli-Damen's reply astonished him. The man dropped to one knee and
mumbled, "I've come to beg your forgiveness."
"Hunh?"
"I've had several days, Lord Pezi, to review my behavior at the
conclave. I offer my apology, if I caused you and your uncle any
discomfort."
"What do you want?" Pezi's eyes narrowed to mere slits in his fleshy
face. He was keen enough to know no merchant ever acted like this
unless he wanted something.
"Lord Pezi, you see right through me," Tahli-Damen confessed. "As
you've guessed, I've come seeking a favor a rather .. . delicate favor
.. ." Tahli-Damen lowered his voice and glanced around. Several
occupants of the castle had stopped to watch this curious spectacle
unfold,
"You want privacy?" Pezi whispered.
"When you learn my business, I'm sure you'll want privacy as well .. ."
Tahli-Damen replied mysteriously.
Pezi straightened up, his expression of consternation masking the
gloating pride welling up inside his belly. He liked the idea of
commanding the whole castle's attention, He enjoyed being addressed as
Lord Pezi by his chief competition in Ngandib-Mar. And he exulted in
the picture of this competitor kneeling at his feet in the dust. He
wasn't in any hurry to move out of the public eye.
"I don't have any secrets from my employees," Pezi said grandly,
gesturing around at the large court. "If you have business, speak it
plainly." Pezi propped his hand on his hips and splayed his feet wide
apart.
"As you choose, Lord Pezi, but I " Tahli-Damen looked up then and
suddenly broke off.
"What's the matter?" Pezi grunted. "Forget what you were going to
say?"
"No, my Lord," Tahli-Damen replied humbly. "It's just that I noticed a
sugar-clawsp buzzing around your head "
"On the other hand, my offices are cool and quite private," Pezi
suggested earnestly, and he dragged Tahli-Damen to his feet.
"You'll not regret this choice," Tahli-Damen said as Pezi hustled him
into a dark hallway and away from the insistent violent pest.
"I'm sure I won't," Pezi puffed, hurrying along the hall's cobbled
floor. In the dark of the passageway, the fat merchant completely
missed Tahli-Damen's gloating grin.
Erri cleared his throat and pointed to a wall. "That one first,
Dolna."
The tugolith keeper nodded, and began explaining to his assistants
where they would attach their chains to the walls of the temple.
Nearby, a dozen tugoliths waited impatiently for the destruction
process to begin.
Erri had decided weeks ago that in order to eradicate all memory of the
Dragonfaith from the minds of his people, this central symbol of the
ancient religion had to be destroyed. It was a pity to tumble such a
grand construction. But if symbols couldn't be changed, they had to be
removed and this was one symbol he had no intention of the new sky
faith adopting. Scores of initiates had urged him to reopen the
delicately crafted cathedral and make it as central to the new faith as
it had been to the ancient religion. But Erri resisted. "The Power
cannot be contained in a house," the Prophet snapped when anyone
suggested it. If this place had to come down in order to make that
clear, then come down it would. Today.
Erri felt a lingering sense of depression, however. He had been
wakened in the night by horrible screaming only to find the screams had
been in his dreams alone. Even so, he felt a malaise that couldn't be
denied and that wouldn't go away in spite of the attention he gave to
this project. He had been talking to the Power about it all morning.
"Is Naquin in trouble?" the Prophet asked.
"What's a Naquin?" asked a curious tugolith. Erri turned around to
stare up at the horned monster. The tugo-lith's huge green eye, easily
the size of small wagon wheel, gazed back at him curiously.
"It's ... a man." Erri answered carefully.
"I don't know a Naquin man," the gigantic beast explained.
"I see. That's all right." Erri smiled in a soothing tone.
"But you asked me," the puzzled tugolith pointed out.
Erri looked at it. "Oh, about if Naquin was in trouble? I was talking
to someone else, child. Don't worry about it." It was impossible to
think of a tugolith as anything other than an enormous baby. The
beasts thought at the level of human toddlers.
"But if he's in trouble .. ." the beast began.
"If he's in trouble, what, Chimolitha?" asked Dolna as he rejoined
Erri. The Prophet felt great relief at the keeper's return.
"Then .. . you'll be angry," Chimolitha explained.
"I'm not angry at anyone, sweetheart," Dolna said. "Are you ready to
pull down this building for me?"
"Yes!" trumpeted Thuganlitha, an aggressive beast who liked nothing
better than to bury its gigantic horn into something or someone.
"I know you are, Thug. Riganlitha? Pulanlitha? Are you ready?"
"I want to play," Riganlitha whined.
"Why, this will be fun!" Dolna exclaimed, "You'll really like it!"
"I like killing people," Thuganlitha interrupted.
"I know that, Thuganlitha "
"Are there any people inside?" the beast asked hopefully,
"No," Dolna replied wearily. "None inside."
Thuganlitha muttered a brief obscenity, shocking both its keeper and
Erri. "Where'd it learn that?" Erri asked, wide-eyed.
"Thuganlitha," Chimolitha chided. "You're not supposed to."
28J
"I don't care!" The aggressive monster sniggered.
"Dolna, what does that word mean?" Pulanlitha asked.
"Never mind!" the overseer shouted, and he looked apologetically at
Erri. "I think I'd better get them in place right now or we could have
a problem on our hands .. ."
"Go to it," Erri told him, dismissing him with a wave. The Prophet
turned to go back to his tiny cell, but was startled when a voice a
tugolith voice called out to him.
"Prophet?"
The Prophet spun around, his eyes wide. The same green eye gazed down
at him. "Ah .. . yes .. . Chimolitha?" he replied, hoping he had the
right name. He did.
"Is that Pelmen man all right?"
Erri remembered then that this was one of the two beasts that had
nearly torn Pelmen in two. His face softened. "Yes, child. The
Pelmen man is all right."
"Good," Chimolitha said with a kind of giggle. "I like him."
"I like him too." Erri grinned, then he waved at the beast, and walked
across the vast city square. As he reached the far side, well out of
earshot of the tugoliths, he inclined his head to look at the fluffy
clouds drifting high above him. "He is all right .. . isn't he?" Erri
asked. Then he went inside, to await the same assurance from another
source that he'd so easily afforded the tugolith.
"I see," said Pezi, nodding in what he believed was a dignified manner.
Tahli-Damen returned Pezi's sober expression, while in his mind
stifling a guffaw. This task promised to be simpler than he'd ever
imagined. Already he'd identified the corner where Pezi stored his
precious pyramid. Though the office was dark, with only the flame of a
single candle for light, the triangular contours of the bag behind the
desk had broadcast its contents to Tahli-Damen's eyes. The only
problems left to solve now were how to get Pezi to leave the room, and
then how to get safely out of the keep.
"It's quite clear," Tahli-Damen explained. "I think you can see the
advantages. The actual trade is perfectly above-board, and if the
other local houses are caught in the resulting squeeze, we can hardly
consider it unfair. After all, we are the two most competitive houses
in this mountainous nation." The young merchant leaned forward to
place a hand on Pezi's balloonlike knee. "And think, Pezi think of the
respect we'll win. These old codgers who've ruled the Council for ages
they aren't prepared to cope with this new situation. They've spent
all their lives saying yes sir' and 'no sir to the dragon what do they
know about this modern world?"
"You have a point." Pezi nodded wisely.
"Your uncle. Where is he? Off someplace playing magician, that's
what. And Jagd, my supervisor? AH he does is sit in the palace of
Chaomonous playing table games. I tell you, Pezi, that pair is senile,
they're long past their prime. And as you and I both know, the other
ruling Elders are all fossils as well, so accustomed to copying either
what Flayh does or what Jagd does that they've no minds of then1 own.
They're ripe plums, ready for us to seize and swallow."
Pezi smiled broadly. He liked the plum analogy. Pezi liked plums.
"But it's essential that we move quickly before your uncle returns or
Jagd regains his courage. Otherwise, we'll soon go back to being what
we've always been abused slaves, standing in the shadows of two old
men."
"Ah .. . yes." Pezi nodded. "I can see that. But .. ."
"But what, Pezi?"
Tahli-Damen never heard Pezi's objection. There was a heavy pounding
at the door. "Go away!" Pezi shouted.
"A flyer, Lord Pezi," someone called from the corridor. "We just
discovered it. I'm afraid it's been here all night. It's from Admon
Faye."
"Admon Faye!" Pezi stopped himself, looked at Tahli-Damen, then
struggled to his feet and hustled over to the door. "Give!" he
commanded, and he was handed a small scrap of paper that wanted to roll
back into a cylinder. He scooted to the candle and unrolled the scrap
to read it. He made a point of hiding the scribbled message from the
eyes of Tahli-Damen, but might just as well have handed it to him in
the first place, for all the good that did. Pezi moved his lips when
he read, and Tahli-Damen simply read them. It was a terse message AM
RIDING TONIGHT AD MON FAYE but it was enough to send Pezi into tail
spinning confusion. "You ah you remain here." Pezi ordered, and he
started from the room. Then he stopped. "No. Leave. You must
leave."
"But Pezi, what about our plans? Our future?" "Oh. The future." Pezi
pondered for a moment. "Ah, stay where you are, I have to send a
message to my uncle "
"What's it about?" Tahli-Damen asked innocently. "The invasion of oh,
never mind," Pezi covered hurriedly. "It's nothing of importance,
believe me." Pezi rushed into the corridor, the sudden beads of sweat
popping out onto his head a clear indicator that the fat man was lying.
An invasion by Admon Faye? Must be of the palace of Chaomonous,
Tahli-Damen thought to himself. Jagd would certainly be pleased to
have some advanced warning
"On the other hand," Tahli-Damen said to himself, remembering his own
words of a few moments before perhaps Jagd didn't need to be warned at
all. Certainly, there would be no question who would head the family
of Uda if Jagd were gone .. .
Tahli-Damen dove under the desk and scooped up the bag. A quick check
of its contents assured him it was the item he'd come to pilfer, then
he was out into the corridor and running through the courtyard. "Your
Lord Pezi needs you," he cried to the gatekeeper. "It's an
emergency!"
"Let him wait," the porter responded angrily. The back of the man's
neck still burned from his contact with the sugar-clawsp. Then,
without Tahli-Damen's even asking, the man opened the gate and let him
out. It was really almost too easy.
A single flame sat on the table before Flayh in the darkened room. He
stared into it, breathed deeply, then chanted: "By the powers of the
sea, by the powers on the wind, by all powers that may be, let this
castle's life begin!" His volume built quickly through the brief rhyme
that formed the linking spell of all the work he'd done. Then he
waited in silence, watching intently as the smoke curled up from the
candle listening. At last it came:
Awake! the High Fortress of Ngandib snarled, and wind whistled through
its corridors. Doors slammed and age beams cracked, bells rang, and
the horses housed in the cave beneath the castle screamed in terror. It
was late, and most of the palace-dwellers had long ago retired, but
everyone woke up now. Even Pahd mod Pahd-el.
"What in the " he began, then his voice left him as he gazed at the
tall window. The room was dark, but moonlight streamed in,
illuminating the terrifying inrush of wind that caused the long drapes
to stream out from the wall and up toward the ceiling.
"Pahd," Sarie whispered, "do you think .. ."
"Yes, my love," Pahd murmured, hugging her trembling body close to his
own. "I think our shaper has made good his promise."
"It scares me," Sarie whimpered.
Pahd licked his lips and didn't reply. There wasn't a warrior in the
world who could cause him concern. But this scared him witless.
"Stop!" Flayh commanded.
Why? the castle sneered, and Flayh's own window blew open with a
bang.
Undaunted, he chanted again: "By the powers of the wind, by the powers
of the sea, by my powers you begin, all your powers rest in me!"
The High Fortress laughed aloud. Flayh was ready for that Without a
word he altered shape and his magic transformation turned the laughter
of the Fortress into a long howl of pain. Flayh did not hurry to
resume his human form. When at last he did, it was Flayh who was
laughing and not the Fortress.
Who? the High Fortress asked him.
"I am your master," Flayh said quietly, and he blew out the candle. For
the rest of the long night, Flayh sat in his black room smiling.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
From Troupe to Troops
THE ONRUSHING SLAVERS did not stop with the coming of daylight. They
just left the main road and spent the entire day in the saddle. No
words were exchanged, not even during the infrequent pauses in their
journey. This trip had a very different flavor from Bronwynn's
exhilarating ride through the Great South Fir. Raucous laughter had
been replaced by muffled grunts. Wild careening over bushes and brush
had given way to disciplined, orderly riding, the kind one would expect
from a crack equestrian brigade. Every slaver present knew he had
entered the territory of a deadly enemy. No one was foolish enough to
take the Golden Throng of Chaomonous lightly especially not when he
considered the reputation of Lord Joss. Several of the slavers had
spent time as Joss' captives and had shared sobering stories of his
cruelty. It was in deference to Joss* skill as a tactician that the
troop divided at midday. While the bulk of the riders forded the river
twenty miles north of the capital, sixty of the finest horsemen
continued southward. They were to make a carefully planned raid on the
city*s northwestern suburbs. Admon Faye felt confident that the raid
would draw Joss out of the castle and cover his larger contingent's
entry into the city sewers.
After twenty-seven hours of nearly nonstop riding, the larger unit of
the house of Faye abandoned their exhausted horses at the northeast
edge of Chaomonous. In minutes all were underground, Bronwynn
included. She plugged her nose with cotton against the fetid odor and
took her appointed place in a low, lean boat. An hour later, just a
few minutes after midnight, they were all assembled in a subterranean
cavern beneath the warehouse of one of Admon Faye's many "business
associates" one who knew how to keep his mouth shut.
Several lamps guttered in the close, foul cave, casting a flickering
light on Admon Faye's face as he stood to address them:
"Here we sleep. Five hours no more. We're within a few hundred yards
of OUT target, so keep silent and get some rest. You'll be awakened by
squads and ferried across to the point of entry at the base of the
fortress. Once inside, wait in the cavern until all have assembled."
"Only one boat at a time?" a boatman asked. He knew the answer, but
wanted to be sure everyone else did too.
"As planned," Admon Faye grunted. "One boat the guards won't take
notice of. Fifteen boats at once would insure us all of a grave at the
bottom of the river." Admon Faye searched the faces of his fellow
cutthroats, seeking any signs of undue nervousness that might indicate
duplicity. He found none. His eyes lingered on the face of Bronwynn.
Angry? Bored? Or just sleepy and cross? Whatever, it was clear from
her grim look that she was far from happy. The slaver dismissed it. He
didn't expect her to be.
"We wait in the corridors below the house until after its occupants
have had breakfast. Breakfast within the walls is a feast as we shall
all discover, when our little Bronwynn is the Queen," he added with a
wicked grin. "After the meal, the guards will be stuffed and sleepy
from then- long night of defending the suburbs totally unprepared for
our invasion. We'll have diminished their number still further, I
hope. I've scheduled a second raid on the western side of the city at
a little after dawn, and Joss should be reacting to squelch it just
about the time we attack. Sleepy, full, lulled by the false security
of knowing where the enemy is, Ligne's guards will be raw meat for our
cutting." Admon
Faye paused and allowed himself a satisfied smile. "It's a good plan,"
he affirmed. "There's not a thing that can stop us."
Bronwynn stared absently beyond the slaver at the garbage and clung
drifting atop the surface of the waterway. It somehow seemed the only
appropriate backdrop to this entire episode.
A few hours later, the boat was pushed away, off to deliver its first
load. Bronwynn fingered the hilt of her dagger and waited her turn.
The night had come and the occupants of the Imperial House had long
been still, when Pelmen suddenly awoke, his body drenched with sweat.
He raised himself off the cot and felt the steam rising off the floor.
He reached out in the pitch darkness to touch the wall he knew was
there and snatched his hand away from the hot stone. "You're
steaming!" he gasped.
Seething, actually, the Imperial House growled from its bowels.
"Angry?" Pelmen whispered.
Infuriated! the House thundered, and the steam continued to rise.
"Why? And where's this steam coming from?"
While you've been slumbering, an army of thieves and robbers has
crawled through the crack in these foundations! the Imperial House
roared. As to where the steam is coming from, you will find the water
is rising in the caverns.
- "Water?" Pelmen asked. The cryptic sprang immediately to mind:
"Deal gently with the House that speaks, lest it make the waters rise."
"Are you causing the water level to rise?"
Certainly. In the same way in which this House cooked the fish.
"You have to stop!" Pelmen shouted, and he leaped from his cot. He
jumped back onto it immediately, however. The floor singed his feet.
He quickly found his sandals and strapped them on, even as the castle
snarled back:
Why should this House wait! Do you expect the Imperial House of
Chaomonous to permit an invasion from without? Why do you think this
castle was summoned to life in the first place? It was to protect this
castle's occupants against vermin like this.
Pelmen crawled into his garments as he asked, "How many are there?"
Less than a hundred. No! More of the scum seep in at this very
moment! The Imperial House seethed in fury. "Who leads them?"
This House knows few human faces "Is it the man who took Bronwynn from
your dungeon!" Pelmen asked. The House was silent for a moment.
It is that very rodent.
"Admon Faye," The power shaper nodded; he stood in the middle of the
room and tried to clear his head to make plans. Obviously this was the
other plot Serphiraera had envisioned one of two doomed to fail.
Dismissing for a moment this reminder that his own scheme was similarly
destined, he appealed to the House to recognize the outcome of its
heated solution to the problem. "I take it you're planning to cook
these invaders out of your tunnels in the same way that you boiled the
fish."
You guess rightly.
"But these tunnels connect to the lower dungeons. Won't that boil the
Lady Serphimera as well?"
It will, as well as several of those in the upper dungeon. But a House
cannot consider individual lives when its entire populace is threatened
from without.
"May I suggest an alternative?"
You're free to speak.
"Let my friends and myself drive these attackers from your lower
galleries." It was the only idea that came to mind. But he had to do
something.
The steaming stopped briefly, and a puff of laughter whistled down the
hallways outside.
That appears a ludicrous suggestion. "Not so ludicrous if you
recognize that we will need your help to do it."
This House needs no power shaper assistance to rid itself of robbers
and blackguards. It shall do to this Admon Faye what it should have
done the first time what it would have done, had these lower galleries
been under control!
"Very well." Pelmen nodded, feigning disinterest. "But the House does
seem to need my help in ridding itself of a certain magic splinter of
crystal." He folded his arms upon his chest, and shrugged. "If the
woman in the dungeon is unnecessariiy boiled, I see no reason why I
should rid you of the pyramid."
Pelmen waited through the cascade of curses that tumbled upon him,
following his threat. When the House was finally calm again, it
asked:
What do you plan to do?
"Is that an agreement to help me do this my way?"
Get on with it! A hundred and twenty now wait in the lower
galleries.
"Fine. I'll need a detailed plan of those corridors in your belly."
Belly? huffed the castle. Rather, foundations.
"You call it what you like. Just give it to me." Pelmen bolted out
the door of his cell and raced toward Yona Par-mi's room. To his
surprise, Parmi met him in the hall.
"Yona! What are you doing up!"
"The whole castle is up, it seems. First there was a general alarm to
the palace guard some kind of sneak attack on the north of the city
then this strange steam. I was on my way to wake you. Were you coming
to wake me?"
"I was."
"Are you finally going to ask for some help?" the round-faced player
asked with a touch of amused pride.
Pelmen thought for a moment. Was he being fair? Was it Just for him
to ask his friends to risk their lives to save a Lady they didn't know?
"I ... wonder if it's fair to involve you "
"Would you let me be the judge of that?" Yona snapped.
"This is a dangerous task "
"Wonderful." Parmi nodded. "You want me to circulate the signal to
gather?"
Pelmen sighed. There was more involved here than just the salvation of
Serphimefa. Admon Faye could well have brought Broiiwynn in with him.
If the rightful Queen was boiled as well .. . "Yes," he grunted
suddenly, and once . again Parmi saw in Pelmen's eyes that strange
fire that had illumined them backstage in Pleclypsa. Without another
word from Pelmen, Yona Parmi scampered away.
"Now," Pelmen mumbled, "to get myself into the infirmary without being
seen .. ."
"Ohh!" Danyilyn moaned, rolling and tossing on her thick mattress.
"Ohh!" she wailed louder, hearing the approach of sandals flapping on
the stone floor beyond her open door.
"I'm coming, I'm coming," snarled the Lord of Herbs impatiently as he
turned the corner and entered the room. The man looked terrible deep,
dark bags sagged under his eyes, and his gray hairs pointed in every
direction but down. The stubble that lined his bony chin added to his
generally unkempt appearance. "I suppose you think you're sick as
well," he growled, and he ran a hand through his unruly mane as
Danyilyn groaned again. "You're the third one in this past hour,
Everytime I get back to my infirmary door, there's someone else
standing there, ready to tell me of another case. What's the problem
with you actors. You eat something rotten?"
Danyilyn shook her head, then rolled her eyes dramatically and grabbed
her stomach. "Ohhh!" she moaned.
"Trouble is, not a thing I can do about it, and it's the fault of one
of your fellows!" The old man stretched his lengthy neck and scratched
behind his ears. "After I got back from my first call this morning, I
found someone had swiped all my balder berry juicel How can I treat a
sick stomach without balderbeny juice!"
Danyilyn shrugged and rolled her eyes again quite thankful that Parmi
had successfully made off with that particular concoction. Balderberry
juice was an extremely potent purgative that tasted horrible. "I'll
... I'll be ... all right .. ." the actress gagged.
"Very well." The herbalist nodded, suddenly becoming aware of the
young woman's curves. His bedside manner abruptly improved, and he sat
next to her and felt her forehead. "You don't seem fevered," he
murmured, growing a little fevered himself. "Perhaps it's just a mild
case, but one can never be sure. I'd suggest a thorough examination,
in order to "
"Maybe we could do that .. . tomorrow?" Danyilyn asked coyly, and the
old man's heart palpitated. She was far and away more lovely than the
merchant's daughter he usually dated.
"Right. Certainly. Tomorrow. Try to rest, and come and See me in the
morning. That is " He interrupted himself.
*m come and see you. Night-night!" he called, and he floated out of
the room, now fully awake and already planning the morning's
activities.
Danyilyn groaned again as he left the room. She waited until she could
no longer hear his footsteps, then hopped off her bed and danced to the
doorway. "Parmi's surely found Gerrig by this time," she muttered
sourly, then she tiptoed into the hallway to follow him. She kept well
out of
sight until he had reached the infirmary door again. She heard his
groan, then sighed with relief as she heard Gerrig direct him to the
room of yet another "sick" actor. Gerrig had arrived they were all
finally gathered. She hugged the wall as the grumbling Lord of Herbs
shuffled past her. She smiled with satisfaction as she imagined the
old roue's reactions when he found her room empty in the morning.
Served him right. He would find his present trip up the stairs
frustrating, too Gerrig had sent him to Yona's empty room. Danyilyn
darted into the infirmary, shot a dirty look at Gerrig, and slipped
swiftly through the trapdoor.
"We're all clear," she murmured waspishly. "Finally!"
"Any trouble getting here?" Pelmen asked Gerrig as the bulky actor
lowered himself through the infirmary floor into the presence of the
others.
"I told you," Danyilyn snapped, "the only trouble was finding where he
was sleeping tonight."
"Silence!" Pelmen ordered, and the actors and actresses clustered
around him obeyed without a question.
"No trouble," Gerrig whispered after a moment.
"Good. We're all here then, safely."
"And you're going to get us out now?" Gerrig grinned.
"Not exactly. Jamnard, Magrol close off the doorway."
A-pair of younger players moved quickly to seal off the portal, hiding
once more this nether stairway from the infirmary, Pelmen waited until
the task was done, then explained: "I have information that somewhere
down with us in this maze of passageways is a small army preparing to
take control of this castle."
"And we're going to join them?" Gerrig asked incredulously.
"No. We're going to drive them out,"
There was a long, high-tension pause. Pelmen could hear several of the
troupe gasping. Then Gerrig made a move for the door.
"Gerrig. We all agreed to do this together " Yona murmured.
"And now I've decided to leave, alone!" the big man replied, trying to
free his shoulders from Parmi's surprisingly strong grip.
"Do you want out of this castle alive?" Pelmen snapped fiercely, and
Gerrig stopped struggling,
"Of course I do. But is what you're suggesting any way to do that?"
"Perhaps not," Pelmen admitted. "But if that army succeeds, I can't
guarantee you'll live through the day."
"I'll take my chances. I'm going back to bed."
"As you choose. Parmi, let him go. For the rest of you remember how
disgusted you all were with my play praising Ligne? It's possible that
the rightful Queen of this land is among this silent army of invasion.
If so, she comes as a puppet a slave of Admon Faye." Pelmen waited
until the anxious mutterings faded. "I'll not explain all the reasons,
but if we can chase this force from these dark caverns, we'll do them a
favor, as well as ourselves. Don't feel ashamed if you chose to follow
Gerrig back upstairs. After all " Pelmen glanced at Gerrig's back. "
you're only play actors. You've trained yourselves to imitate heroes
on stage, not to be heroes in the pitch-black face of fear. I don't
blame you. Turn back."
No one moved. Though Gerrig stood with his hands resting on the door
back up to the infirmary, he didn't thrust it open.
"On occasion, though," Pelmen continued with a peculiar lilt to his
words, "a chance arises and I think such moments come quite
unexpectedly to most a chance to be a hero, instead of playing one. The
chance to do something worthy of the playwright's immortalization."
Silence greeted his words. Gerrig broke it. "I remember that speech
well," he muttered.
"I thought you would," Pelmen replied softly. "It was your line, after
all, from Shadows of a Night at Sea." He waited for a moment, then
asked, "Are you coming?" Genig looked at him and frowned. "I'm
scared," he breathed.
So am I." Pelmen chuckled. "Exciting though, isn't it?" "You said an
army," Danyilyn whispered. "There's only a handful of us."
"Yes, but we've got a big friend." Pelmen smiled back. "Maybe two,"
he added to Yona Parmi. "You don't make any sense," she grumbled.
"Since when has he ever made sense?" Yona Parmi asked her.
"We don't have any weapons," Gerrig said. His voice had changed in
texture and tone it was deeper, more mellow. The gravity of this
situation had caused him to slip without realizing into stage speech.
"There's an armory through the side door of the infirmary only fifteen
feet away."
"But what if there are soldiers there?" Danyilyn asked nervously.
: Pelmen held up a hand for silence and cocked his head "to listen. "No
soldiers right now," he said; then he smiled and added, "Believe me."
He waved at the two young players who had closed the trapdoor, and they
opened it up again and climbed through.
i, While they were gone, Danyilyn tugged anxiously on ; Pelmen's arm
and asked, "What if these adversaries are just around the corner? We're
helpless "
Pelmen hushed her again. "They're still on the far end of the
castle."
"How do you know?" she demanded. She was cross and wanted to be sure
he noticed. "You'll see."
Jamnard and Magrol hustled quickly back down the stairs, their arms
laden with odd armor pieces and assorted weapons. These were
distributed quickly around the small circle.
"Just a shield, thank you," Yona Parmi said, "and
"f_ those." He pointed to a pair of armored shoes, and swiftly took
them from MagroFs hands. By the time he had fitted them onto his feet,
the door was once more in place, and the other players were armed and
ready to move.
"Stay near me," Pelmen ordered. "I'd rather not lose any of you." He
took their single candle and led them down the passageway toward the
cistern.
"Feel as nervous as opening night " Gerrig began, and someone shushed
him. Then there was silence, broken only by the clink-clink-clink of
Yona Parmi's metal boots.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Bloodshed and Bathwater
"IT'S TIME," Admon Faye murmured, and he moved out, leading a long
train of fierce, dangerous-looking men and one frowning Princess. He'd
ordered them to leave their swords sheathed to prevent the noisy
scraping and clanging that would naturally result from carrying drawn
weapons through a narrow, dark tunnel. As always, he travelled without
a light, relying on his memory of the twisting maze.
He was in no way prepared for an ambush.
"Now!" someone grunted, and something whispered past the slaver's
face. He knew the sound of a blade cutting air far too well to
hesitate. He threw himself to the side and jerked his own weapon free.
Before he could swing it, though, he was sent crashing to the ground,
crying out in pain. Something had slammed into his shin!
"Ambush!" someone behind him cried, and a thunder of scrapes and
clatters echoed through the tunnel as the House of Faye armed itself
for battle.
"Oww!" Admon Faye roared a second time, and someone nearby chuckled:
"I got him again."
"Get back!" another voice warned sharply, so the ugly slaver thrust
his sword savagely at the voice, venting his rage with a full-throated
scream.
None of the survivors could ever adequately describe what took place
after that. Like enraged cats sewn into a sack, the frustrated
combatants struggled to fight each other, but found themselves battling
the cavern instead. Scores of swords were broken on the walls.
Knuckles were scraped raw. Faces were trodden underfoot. Some people
screamed, while others seemed at times to laugh. The entire situation
lent itself to description in expletives the black darkness turned blue
with curses: muttered, grunted, hollered, screamed, spat and sighed.
One of the maidservants preparing breakfast heard something strange as
she passed by the cistern and reported it to the cook.
"Just boatmen, arguing with one another over some trifle. Fishing
rights, probably. Set the table."
The cook served a baked pig that morning.
Ligne missed the actors at breakfast. "Where's the fool?" she asked
airily. "Where's the rest of your tedious players?"
"They've b-b-been working hard lately. Let them s-sleep," Rosha said
as he downed a helping of steaming ribs. His acting was improving. The
Queen didn't realize just how anxious their mass absence made him feel.
Had he been left behind?
"They've been working you too hard as well," Ligne snarled.
"Why, n-no, m-m-my Lady, it's only that it t-t-takes practice to d-d-do
a play well."
"You've not been rehearsing," the Queen spat. "Your speech isn't a bit
improved for all your practice."
"Yes, but the p-p-play "
"The play had better be ready today," Ligne announced, and she twisted
in her seat to look him in the eye as she added, "Since it's going to
be performed tomorrow night, as part of our wedding celebration." She
saw Rosha's eyes widen. The young man choked down the piece of pork
he'd been chewing.
"Wedding?" Kherda broke in, leaning out over the table to try to look
at Ligne's face. "Why is it that I have not been informed of this?"
"Because I just now made up my mind," Ligne shrugged. "That is
satisfactory with you, Rosha, is it not? Your friends are ready to
perform?"
Rosha nodded, but his swarthy complexion seemed unusually waxy. "Y-yes,
my Lady."
"But this is highly irregular," Kherda protested, "to plan a royal
wedding while the city is under attack!"
"Ah, but Joss has assured me that Admon Faye will be apprehended before
noon. Tomorrow at dinner I will have a celebration of my victories,
Kherda. All of them." She looked pointedly at the Prime Minister,
then rose from the table. "I'll be in my bath," she announced. "Send
Joss to me as soon as he arrives. And Rosha," she added, "I'll see you
later." Then she turned to climb the grand spiral to her apartments.
The gallery abruptly emptied before them, as Admon Faye's crew finally
responded to their leader's screams for retreat and got moving in the
right direction.
"Follow them!" Gerrig shouted, flourishing his sword. Though he'd
often brandished blades coated with imitation blood, this weapon wore a
patina of the real substance. They had experienced real battle and
Genig had found that he liked it.
"Let them go," Pelmen ordered, and his tiny troupe stopped their
pursuit.
"But we've got them on the run," Gerrig protested.
"Quiet," Pelmen snapped, and he cocked his ears to listen.
They've gone around to the left-hand gallery. Back up twenty yards and
to your right. You'll cut them off.
"Did we lose anyone?" Pelmen demanded briskly. The troupe took a
quick roll call in the dark.
"No," Danyilyn answered, "though we've got some cuts and scrapes mostly
from each other."
"There do seem to be a number of bodies scattered around, though,"
Jamnard said, and Pelmen nodded.
"I expected that. Most of them killed by their own mates. They're
trying to get around behind us back that way." As the power shaper
herded his charges backward to their new position, he couldn't shove
from his mind the implications of the past few moments. Could one of
those bodies be that of a young woman? For the first time in many
weeks, he missed the gentle life of the monastic and the morning had
barely begun.
Only a few minutes separated the clashes, but the second skirmish had a
far different flavor from the first. Slavers were accustomed to this
type of warfare, though they were normally the ambushers, not the
ambushed. This time they were ready and, when the fray was finally
rejoined, fewer swords scraped the walls and more rang on steel. Pelmen
and Gerrig, though untouched by enemy metal, were driven steadily
backward by waves of fresh warriors. As one pair tired, Admon Faye
sent another pair past them. Soon the two players could no longer
effectively return their attackers blows, and Pelmen shouted, "Break
off!" The actors behind him quickly vacated the corridor, and it was
Admon Faye's turn to hold his troops back from pursuit.
"Slowly!" he shouted to the men on the point. "There's no telling how
many warriors Joss has scattered through this cavern, and this retreat
may only be a lure into further ambush." The pressure of this
pitch-black struggle with what he assumed were superior forces had
given him a horrible headache, but he shook it off and endeavored to
plan his next move. They couldn't turn back there was only one boat.
Of course, he thought, one was plenty for him. "Bronwynn!" he
shouted. "Someone get Bronwynn up here to me!"
After a minute of chaotic discussion, the news was finally passed back
to him:
"The Princess is no longer with us."
"So you failed to apprehend him again?" Ligne asked as she soaped her
beautiful arm with perfumed bubbles.
"I cut his raiding party to half its size, my Lady. Admon Faye wasn't
with them."
"Joss, I'm very unhappy with this. I'm to be married tomorrow noon had
you heard?"
"The Prime Minister informed me."
"And I want the mood to be lavish, cheery, and romantic. I won't be
pleased if my party is interrupted by attacks on this castle. Soap my
back," she ordered a maid, who swiftly obeyed.
Joss ignored the Queen's bathing. It pleased the woman's vanity to
summon him here and berate him from her scented tub. But her vanity
was no greater than that of the King who preceded her, nor of Talith's
father, who had ruled when Joss was but a page. The General expected
quirky behavior from his monarchs. He tried not to let it interfere
with security.
"I apologize, my Lady, that I've not as yet caught the slaver. I do
know that he's in the city, and my forces are combing the streets and
sewers, searching for him."
"You told me yesterday that my borders were secure," she snapped.
"Yesterday, my Lady, they were," Joss replied patiently.
"Yet today?"
"Today I am securing them."
A slave girl entered the bath chamber, bowing as she came, obviously
uneasy with her role as the bearer of bad news. "My Lady, Lord Joss
there's been another report of an attack west of the city "
Joss was across the tiled floor and gone before Ligne could say another
word. "I didn't dismiss you!" she shouted after him, then she whirled
around to face the timid slave, sloshing water across the tiles. "You!"
she ordered, pointing with a bar of soap. "Send in that strange
character in the blue robe who arrived this morning, then go have
yourself beaten for interrupting my bath!"
"Yes, my Lady," the young slave mumbled, as she bowed herself backwards
out of the presence of the queen.
The tiny troupe had taken up a new position and waited breathlessly for
the slowly advancing column of slavers to reach them again. Pelmen
listened intently as the Imperial House kept him posted on their
approach.
Twenty yards from you now, but around several sharp turns.
"Can't you do anything?" Pelmen asked.
"What?" Gerrig answered, puzzled. Pelmen laid a finger across the
brawny man's bearded lips to still him, as the House replied:
Such as?
"I'm open to any suggestion."
"Maybe we could " the perplexed Gerrig began, but
JOJ
Pelmen again covered his mouth. He jerked Pelmen's hand away. "Why
ask for suggestions if you "
"Hush!" Pelmen ordered. "I'm talking to someone else."
"Oh," Gerrig replied. He shrugged elaborately and made a face at the
darkness.
No suggestions come to mind.
"Well, friends," Pelmen sighed, "perhaps we should quit doing what
we're not good at and try doing what we do well." For the next few
minutes he murmured quiet instructions.
"How did we get in front of this line?" Pinter asked Tibb tremulously.
He suddenly had serious doubts about being an outlaw.
"I just want to know how we get to the back of it again," his comrade
replied.
"Move ahead," someone behind them called, and Pinter called back:
"Why don't you? We'd be happy to let you .. ." But those behind them
just pushed them forward, ever forward into the dark. They marched
tentatively, stepping, stepping
"At them! At them now!" cried a voice from very nearby on their left,
and another voice, that of a woman, shrilled from their right:
"I command you, Joss! Kill every last one of them!"
There was a blood-curdling screech from directly ahead, and the sound
of metal-shod feet sprinting toward them.
"Back!" Pinter cried out in terror. "Tibb, go back!"
"Oww!" Tibb screamed, and Pinter heard his fellow clank to the
ground.
"Are you hit? Are you hit?" Pinter yelled hysterically.
"Somebody just kicked me in the shins!"
"Somebody wha Oww!" Pinter hollered, as his own shins became
targets.
"Bring up the reserves! Finish them off!" shouted the woman, and Tibb
heard as someone far down the corridor relayed the message on.
"There are hundreds down here with us!" he gasped.
They could hear swords whizzing before their faces, and one whispered
across Pinter's hand. He swung that fist blindly at his attacker then
stopped, puzzled, for somehow the sword it had held was gone. It took
a moment for him to realize that he'd lost the hand as well. He
screamed in shock. The passageway once again rang with the chaotic
clamor of a rout.
Naquin hid his eyes from this woman who seemed intent on exposing her
body to him. Nothing in his experience in the temple of the dragon had
prepared him for this. Never had he seen a woman so brazen nor so
beautiful.
"What's the matter, my friend?" Ligne teased. "Haven't you ever seen
a woman before?"
"I ... I come in the name of the Prophet " Naquin began for the third
time, and for the third time Ligne refused to allow him to get the
words out.
"Don't you want to look at me, holy man? Come on, show me your eyes.
Are they the same rich blue as your lovely robe?"
"Please, my Lady!" Naquin sighed. "I am unused to such treatment.
Since I left Lamath I've been tied and . threatened, lectured by a
child and booted in the backside, trampled under horses' hooves and
chased by a hundred dogs. I ask only that you let me perform my task
and return to my Prophet."
"Ah yes. Your Prophet I'm curious about this Prophet of yours. What
kind of man is he?"
"The Prophet? Why he's the greatest of men! A careful leader, with a
vision for our nation unequaled in the long history of Lamath! Through
his programs of "
"Enough of programs," Ligne snapped. "You sound like my Prime
Minister." She slipped back into the water, covering herself with
bubbles. Her eyes fixed intently on Na-quin's face, she asked, "Do you
know Pelmen?"
"Pelmen?" Naquin blurted, almost dropping his covering band. "Why
would you ask such a thing?"
"Why, I thought he was the highly praised Prophet of Lamath." Ligne
smiled knowingly. "You mean he's no longer your leader?"
"He never was!" Naquin barked. "The man's nothing but an imposter, a
power shaper who uses his guile to entrap and confuse others. We drove
him from our land."
Ligne had been smiling until she heard the word power-shaper. "You
mean you believe this Pelmen can actually alter events by magic?"
"Of course not," Naquin snapped. "He's a trickster, that's all."
"Ah." Ligne smiled. "Something of a fool, one might say?"
"Fool?" Naquin echoed uncertainly.
"You spoke of your task. What is it?"
"To find the Lady Serphimera, and retrieve her to La-math."
"Retrieve her?" Ligne smiled. "Like a dog retrieves a bird?"
"That is my charge."
Ligne raised a carefully sculpted eyebrow. "I'd wondered if Serphimera
might be the cause of your coming. She wears a robe just like
yours."
"My Lady, unless she has recanted, she wears a habit of midnight mine
is the color of noon. Do you know where she is?"
"I'd intended for her to join my wedding celebration tomorrow. Perhaps
you'll be willing to escort her?"
"You mean she's here?" Naquin asked excitedly. He suddenly realized
he'd dropped his hand. He clapped both hands over his eyes again and
squeezed them tightly.
"You peeked." Ligne giggled. "Tell me. How does the beauty of your
Serphimera compare to that of the most powerful woman in the world?"
The fleeing slavers found their way back to their point of entry by
following a trail of slippery blood and groaning bodies. Each faced
the same dilemma when he finally thrust his head through the crack into
the sunshine there were no boats. Admon Faye had abandoned them. One
by one, they all came to the same, inevitable decision. One by one,
they dove into the river.
Many drowned. A few were hauled aboard passing boats. The strongest
swimmers survived the river's tortuous currents and made their way to
shore. But no one died by the arrows of the guards above them. The
soldiers of the Imperial House who hadn't seen them arrive never saw
them leave, either. As panic-stricken slavers dropped into
30*
the water far below them, the soldiers talked of gambling and traded
jokes.
One slaver who had made it to the crack turned back to find his friend.
"Pinter?" Tibb said softly. The corridor was now as silent as a tomb.
It had become that for many. "Pinter?" he said again. He thought he
heard a sobbing some yards away, and crawled over bodies toward the
sound. "Pinter?" he asked again.
"I lost my hand." Pinter sniffed; then he sobbed again.
Tibb felt helpless to answer. He struggled around to sit by his
friend, leaning against the cool stone wall.
"It isn't fair." Pinter wept, and Tibb reached out to squeeze his
friend's thigh reassuringly.
"We're alive," he suggested meekly. He thought that was worth
something, at least. He slipped an arm around Pinter^ shoulder and
held onto the man for a few moments, then he cleared the lump from his
throat and spoke. "I've been back to where we came in, so I know the
way out. Well just sit here until you feel better. All day, if we
need to."
Pinter sniffed. "We'll get left behind," he said, his voice
cracking.
"Just rest," Tibb soothed. "Just rest." He patted his friend's
shoulder until Pinter was calm again. "When you're better, we'll go.
I'll help you." Then he cleared his throat again, and added, "We'll
have to swim, though. It seems there was only the one boat and Admon
Faye took it"
Pinter nodded, and his head lolled over on Tibb's thick chest. "It
isn't fair. I only wanted to be someone, Tibb. To | be an outlaw.
With Admon Faye .. ."
"Shh, Pinter. You are. You are, lad."
"I am?" Pinter asked weakly.
"Of course you are. Why, they'll sing about us in the pubs back home
about Pinter and Tibb, of the House of Faye. I can hear it now, as
pretty Gerlywa draws the ale, Maknor the tenor is singing of you. He
sings of Pinter the long, and his side-man Tibb, who dwelt in the lair
of the twi-beast. He's singing .. . you know what he's singing,
Pinter? He's singing about how you .. . Pinter?" His friend did not
respond. Tibb leaned his head down against Pinter's chest, listening
for the sounds of life. They were gone. He laid Pinter's body
carefully against the cave wall, wiped the wetness from his face with
his sleeve, and murmured solemnly, "They'll sing of you, lad. They
will. And when they sing, they'll sing of how you lost your hand for
nothing and of the man who let you die." Tibb crawled to his feet, and
gritted his teeth against the tears. Then he gasped, and formed a fist
before him in the darkness. "And as long as I keep this hand, and can
hold a blade Admon Faye, beware of Tibb the twisted!"
He gave his friend a child's kiss, then left him in this dark tunnel,
and crawled away toward the crack and daylight.
A much-sobered acting troupe collapsed in the corridor beneath the
infirmary and waited for Pelmen to give the all clear. They'd been
through a battle and looked it, but the stains on their garments would
quickly wash out. It would take years to clean the stains the carnage
had left on their minds. It had turned into a morning of desperate
madness, and they'd left at least one of their number behind. Jamnard
was dead.
Pelmen still spoke to the strange ally that had won the battle for
them. They ignored him, each fighting a battle inside with the
inexplicable loss of a friend. All would be relieved to return from
the inky nightmare to what was for them the real world the stage.
"Are they gone?" Pelmen whispered.
A few stragglers remain.
"Then we did it." The Powershaper sighed in exhaustion.
Not quite, the Imperial House responded accusingly. "What do you
mean?"
It appears you let one of these rodents slip past you!
CHAPTER TWENTY
k o
The Falcon and the Hound
CAR LAD NAPPED against the door. The long night had been very strange,
and while he'd not been dragged off to battle, he had been temporarily
assigned to the front gate. He was f. sleepy.
"Wake up!" Ligne screeched in his ear. At the same
;" time she stamped on his toes, and between stamping and
! beauty ordered, and he hastened to obey, sniffing her sultry aroma as
she passed and good-naturedly cursing Ros has luck. "Hello, darling!"
Ligne sang, and she leaped onto Ros-has bed and crawled atop his chest.
The warrior grunted in shock as he awoke to her lips pressing onto his
and her arms locking around his neck. He grabbed her and wrestled,
rocking left and then right trying to dislodge her. Finally he broke
her grip with a powerful heave and rolled off one side of the bed as
she tumbled off the other side. Her head popped back up quickly, and
she glared at him. "Why do you keep rejecting me?" she demanded.
"Why, we, t-t-t-tomorrow is our " "Yes. Our wedding. And you will be
my lover, Rosha. I will no longer tolerate this simple-minded
resistance."
"B-but I've n-not "
"You have. But you'll not anymore." She scrambled to her feet and
circled the bed toward him, her eyes locked into his. "We are going to
settle this right "
Rosha got sick. He did it with an artistry that would have amazed even
his teacher. And the ploy certainly succeeded. Ligne stopped where
she was, then backed to the far side of the room. "You're sick!" she
shrilled, and Rosha nodded. "Why didn't you tell me you were sick."
"I tried." Rosha shrugged.
"And I just took a bath," the Queen moaned. Then she glared at him
again. "I'm going back to bathe again. You go to the infirmary."
"On my way," the young warrior assented, and he hustled out the door.
He was halfway down the hall before Carlad woke up enough to pursue
him.
A few minutes later he was begging the Lord of Herbs for some word of
his friends. "I tell you, I don't know where they are," the harried
chemist screeched. "I know they were all sick, that's all, and that I
had no medicine to give them. And then, when I made a call this
morning on the little woman with the ample figure, she was gone.
They're all gone. And if you want my opinion, we're well rid of the
nuisances," he added nastily. He was most unhappy about being stood
up.
Rosha nodded, postive that he knew where the troupe was now or at any
rate, where they'd gone. He forced himself not to glance over at the
low cot that hid the door into the tunnels below. Obviously, Yona
Parmi had passed the word to gather, and the plan had succeeded in
drawing the herbalist out of his infirmary long enough for them all to
make entry. Rosha had certainly expected to be included in that
summons. Had Pelmen and the others abandoned him to Ligne?
Rosha took deep breaths as Parmi had taught him to do, seeking to
control his anxiety. Pelmen wouldn't abandon him. Logically, there
was no way they could have passed the word to him, since Ligne now
posted a pair of guards outside his apartments on a permanent basis, in
addition to assigning Carlad to dog his heels wherever he went in the
castle. Carlad presently stood napping just outside the door of the
infirmary.
lv Rosha shook his curly head to rid himself of these distracting fears
and tried to think clearly. If they were in the tiassage below, as he
believed they must be, they couldn't A$afely get out while the
pharmacist remained in the room.
a wondered if he could assist them .. . wM-my apologies for
b-b-bothering you," Rosha said, sh-sure that it wasn-nothing just a bit
of undigested 't JM
|v; "Humph," the gaunt man grunted, and he turned back to his pestle
and his bottles of herbs.
i%; "I imagine you are s-s-summoned often in the m-m-mddle of the
n-night .. ."
l . "Too often," the Lord of Herbs snorted. "Especially last ;?
flight"
'.) ,"; "M-must get very little s-s-sleep .. ." fA: -. "Too little."
WS' "P-perhaps you sh-sh-should take off this morning, and f|e-cat eh a
nap "
- ; "And leave my post?" the man exploded self-righteously. ^Never!"
He turned back to his mixing bowl.. l "What are you m-making? A love
p-p-potion?" /V The Lord of Herbs spun around and backed up against
JMs table, aghast. "Wh-wh-what a ridiculous notion!" he bouted.
"Ah-ah-ah of course not." Once more the blood filled his old cheeks,
and they radiated warmth. A love potion was exactly what he was
making, and once this intruder left him alone, he planned to steal away
slip it, somehow, to a merchant's lovely daughter. Not he actually
believed it would work, of course .. . ji?Ah-ah-ah why do you ask?" he
demanded.
"You really ought to d-do something about that s-Rosha goaded. Then he
turned on his heel and ^jrtalked out of the room. He decided if he
couldn't push the ^chemist out of the infirmary, he would summon him
from .._. ^_ Carlad fell into step behind him as he climbed the spiral
vw!;Sstairs to return to his apartment. As he passed the door of !|the
throne room he glanced in, just to check if the troupe ;Jnight have
somehow eluded his search and gathered here. It was empty but for the
brocade-swathed dais and the Ornately carved throne. Rosha blanched,
then, for he saw Something had been added a smaller throne, carved ex-y
like Ligne's, now sat on the floor to the right of her platform. Rosha
knew who the chair was intended for, and his sudden nausea truly
warranted his calling the doctor. He continued down the hall to his
new apartment, thankful at least that Ligne had moved him out of his
rooftop prison and down to this level. He was that much closer to the
gate and freedom.
As he passed alone through the double doors into his room and closed
them on his weary guard, he was contrasting Ligne to his thoughtful,
sensitive Bronwynn, Then something slammed into his back.
Bronwynn had grown up inside this castle. While she'd known nothing of
the nether tunnels until Admon Faye had revealed them to her, once she
was through the infirmary floor and into the House proper she was loose
on her home territory. She'd explored these halls as a child, had
stuck her turned-up nose into every corner and closet. She'd learned
thereby all the secrets to moving into and out of the hidden
passageways that laced through the upper levels. Fortuitously, she
escaped the infirmary without being seen. Mere seconds later, she was
safely hidden in the walls.
She brushed cobwebs aside as she walked. Evidently, Ligne had either
not discovered all of these narrow aisles, or else she used them
infrequently. Either way, Bronwynn thought grimly, they would prove
the wanton imposter's downfall. Whether Admon Faye and the others
survived the battle below her feet or not, Bronwynn was resolved to
dispatch Queen Ligne by nightfall after she'd dealt with Rosha, of
course. She made that vengeance her first order of business.
Methodically, she searched the rooms of the castle for him, quite
unnoticed behind the drapes and panels.
She'd already determined that he could most easily be killed in his bed
which she assumed would be in Ligne's own apartments. She climbed a
dark ladder, barely a foot and a half wide, to peer through a crack
into the royal apartments on the second floor.
She watched as a trio of maidservants made up Ligne's vast bed. She
bit her tongue in rage, to think that the usurper of her throne now
slept here, in her parent's room. She choked back hot tears as she
remembered crawling up into very bed between them, when common sounds
made by the night drove her, frightened, from her own.
strained to hear the words of these servants, but the porn was vast,
and the sound didn't carry through the %WliBs. She shifted position,
circling through the darkness to
; j| tiny portal closer to the women, arriving in time only to ice them
leave. One half-heard comment was enough, how
QjfWt. As they left the room, the senior of the three said |$lky would
need to do a complete cleaning the next morn-c'ffafr when the new young
master moved in. ^ It was fortunate for Bronwynn that the ladies made
their tit then, for she couldn't contain her boiling temper, and y
occupant of the room could have heard her vent her ^ ftage on the
walls. Once she'd controlled herself, she concluded that Rosha must
either be in one of the guest rooms left side the royal suite, or else
In the rooftop room where her ,{$|8ttter had himself placed Ligne. She
shuffled sideways ilftound the perimeter of the wall to check the guest
rooms.
|f . The first room she reached puzzled her. The cracks and that
would normally permit her to look into it had been filled or masked.
She thought for a moment, re-ering the trick to getting into this
particular apart-and twisted a carved knob. A panel swung open, and
stepped into the room of Jagd of Uda. Fortu-, he wasn't home. She
knew instantly to whom it be-, by the scarlet and purple cloaks that
draped from the walls. Bronwynn smirked. Jagd had ever been the type.
In this environment he did well to be. Bronwynn slipped back into her
hiding place and closed it panel behind her. She squeezed around
another corner, ting her way by the dim light that filtered through
tiny cks from the rooms on either side of this aisle. She a second
guest room and found her vision unob-Ijrtructed. Once again, it was
unoccupied at the moment. fpBhe recognized nothing that gave any hint
of the one to it belonged. A quick pull on a hidden latch, and
|llronwynn danced lightly inside, moving quietly to the set. She found
it filled with new clothes, imaginatively fled and richly colored. She
held up a tunic to measure size of the shoulders and felt a fierce
satisfaction. icse were Rosha's new clothes, specially tailored for
the isort of the Queen. At the moment, this was where the mudgecurdle
was living. Well, here he would die as well. Bronwynn swiftly hung
the garment back onto its hook, slipped her dagger from its sheath, and
backed into the closet. She only had to wait a few moments.
The blow should have killed him. It didn't. The summer before, when
Rosha first left his father's manor in the company of Bronwynn and
Pelmen, Dorlyth mod Karis had given his son the chain-mail shirt he had
worn himself throughout his adventures. Now, that shirt saved his
son's life. It turned the dagger, though Rosha's covering garment was
sheared into tatters, and Bronwynn cursed her own poor memory for not
having planned a better stroke.
Rosha didn't think. He simply grabbed his assailant by the arm and
tossed her across the room. Only after he'd launched her past his head
did he realize who she was, "Bronwynn!" he grunted. More emotions
were summed in that one grunt than in any phrase the young man had ever
uttered before.
"Did you call me?" Carlad shouted from the hall.
"No!" Rosha called back, stepping over to hold the doors should the
man attempt to investigate. "N-nothing. G-g-go back to what you were
doing."
Bronwynn had by that time rolled to her feet and, seeing his back
turned, charged him again. Rosha heard her coming and sidestepped her
at the last moment. The blade of her weapon thudded heavily into the
wood of the door jamb. The young warrior knocked the girl's hand away
from its haft before she could jerk it free, picked her up, and once
again tossed her across the room. This time, however, he made sure to
aim her for the bed.
"Are you sure everything's all right?" Carlad shouted again, and Rosha
opened one of the doors and stuck his head into the hall. His sleepy
guard looked rather perplexed. Rosha gave him a friendly smile. "No
p-p-problem," he said cheerfully, and he waved. Then he slammed the
door shut and whirled in time to see Bron-wynn's foot heading for his
forehead. He ducked, and it thumped noisily on the wall behind him. He
caught her on the way down. She clawed for his face as he carried her
once more to the bed and dropped her there.
The pounding on his door grew more animated, and
J13
Rosha rushed to swing it open. "What do you want?" he demanded
angrily.
"Is there someone in there with you?" Carlad squinted suspiciously,
craning his head to peer around Rosha's large bulk.
"If there is, whose fault would it b-b-be?" Rosha responded.
"Ah .. ." The guard didn't know quite what to answer, and Rosha rushed
on:
"There's n-no one in here b-but me, as you well kn-know! Now leave
m-me alone, or I'll tell your sergeant about your acting career!"
He slammed the door and turned to face Bronwynn once again. He'd heard
her scuttle across the floor behind him and knew she was working to
free the knife from the wall, Once again he grabbed her, this time less
gently, and hurled her at the bed with a grunt. She bounced over it
onto the floor. By the time she could recover, he was standing over
her, her knife in his hand and a savage frown darkening his features.
"Well, go ahead," she flared. "Stab me with it." ; "What's the matter
with you?" he demanded.
"You might as well. I'm sure the Queen will reward you richly though
of course, since you have her, what other reward could you want?"
"Would you keep your voice down "
"Why should I? You'll give me to her anyway "
"Shut up!" he spat, slamming his free hand over her mouth. He tossed
the dagger aside and grabbed the back of
; her head with his other hand and held her quiet while she
did everything in her power to make noise. She beat at his
kicked his legs, rolled from side to side, and tried to I bite through
his hand. Through it all, Rosha held onto her,
:' absorbing the blows without blinking, staring fiercely into ; her
face.
She couldn't keep it up forever. Finally she relaxed, and :-f he began
in a heated whisper: "I get the impression you ; think I want to be
here. I don't! You think I want that
,: witch? All I can think about is you, yet you try to stick a knife
in my b-b-b in me." He sighed in exasperation. "Why do you think I've
got guards at my door? It's because I'm a prisoner here."
All he could see of her face were her eyes. They suddenly watered
over, and he decided to let her speak.
"You're moving into her room tomorrow," she spat out, and he clamped
his hand back in place and looked at the door.
"Not if Pelmen and I can help it," he muttered. Her eyes widened. He
lifted his hand.
"Pelmen is here?" she asked. For the first time, she whispered.
"He is. Disguised as a jester, and using the name Fallo-mar." Rosha
frowned, as he remembered his friend's absence. "That is, I hope he's
here. He went below the castle last night, and hasn't yet come up."
Bronwynn's face clouded with concern. "But there's a battle below the
castle going on right now. That's how I got in."
"A battle? Who's battling whom?"
"Isn't Joss down there "
"No," Rosha blurted. "Joss is out chasing Admon Faye all over the
countryside."
"But Admon Faye's in the caverns " Bronwynn stopped, and stared at his
long face. Rosha suddenly looked very tired. And once again, someone
was pounding on the door.
Rosha sighed. Then he stood up. "Hide," he told her, and Bronwynn
quickly got within the wall again as Rosha stalked to the doorway. "Who
is it?" he shouted.
"Fallomar the fool, my Lord, come to entertain you and teach you fancy
words if the time be appropriate?"
Rosha swung the door open, his face beaming. "Under the circumstances,
I c-can't think of a time that would be b-better. Carlad, let this
fool past." Pelmen swept into the room, and Rosha winked at his guard
and patted his cheek. "Remember .. . disturb us again and I'll tell
him about the white face too .. ."
As soon as Rosha closed the door behind him, Bronwynn burst from her
hiding place and raced to embrace the clown. Pelmen hugged her to him,
and both wept but quietly, each one keeping a cautious eye on the door.
Bronwynn cried out of her months of loneliness and frustration, while
Pelmen wept in thanksgiving for her safety. Rosha stood to one side,
his arms folded across his chest, main
31J
taining a reserved smile, but wishing someone would include him in all
the hugging. Soon Bronwynn turned and reached out to him, and Pelmen
passed the girl to her young warrior. In a few moments she had
completely reversed the poor opinions of these two she'd formed over
the months of separation. The clandestine nature of Pelmen's arrival
had totally convinced her of Rosha's sincerity, and if that hadn't, the
bear lock he wrapped her in surely would have. In more than one way,
Bronwynn finally felt she'd come home.
"You don't seem surprised to see me," she whispered to Pelmen, wiping
her cheeks with the back of a hand.
"I knew you were on your way. My only worry was in getting here before
you split this one's skull." He jerked his head at Rosha.
"How did you know about that?" she asked, suddenly suspicious.
"The House told me."
Bronwynn stared at him. "What?" she finally asked.
"This ancestral home of yours is alive, Bronwynn. And it has ways of
communicating its thoughts. It watched you climb up through its walls,
and gave me a running description of your attack on Rosha as I raced up
here to stop you." Pelmen glanced at Rosha. "It's fortunate your
weeks of inactivity haven't dulled your reflexes."
"Reflexes had nothing to do with it. It was my father's mailed shirt."
Rosha turned a hard look onto his still-puzzled Princess. "Why did you
try to cut me open?"
"They told me you'd gotten cozy with Ligne," Bronwynn snapped. Then
she advanced a step on him, suddenly grim. "Have you?"
"Not by choice," Pelmen interrupted, squeezing between them to prevent
a renewal of hostilities. "Tell me who is they?"
Bronwynn shrugged. "Admon Faye, Flayh, Jagd. All of them."
"You've been with Admon Faye?" Rosha demanded. It Was his turn to be
suspicious.
"Not by her choice," Pelmen said evenly, turning to stare Rosha down.
"Admon Faye helped her escape from this place '*
"How do you know?"
"Serphimera told me "
"Serphimera!" Bronwynn blurted out. "Is that witch here?"
"Why didn't you tell me you knew where Bronwynn was?" Rosha asked
stonily.
"Would you two please quiet down?" Pelmen ordered. When they were
silent, he turned first to answer Bronwynn, then to Rosha. "Yes, she's
here, but she's not a witch and I didn't tell you because I didn't
think it would help matters any."
"But if I'd known she was safe, I would have killed Joss days ago."
"You call being with Admon Faye safety?" Pelmen frowned. "Besides,
that's what I expected you'd do. You might have succeeded in killing
him, but neither you nor Bronwynn would have been any better off."
"It doesn't matter now, anyway," Bronwynn whispered. "I'll take you
through the walls and you can kill him while I slaughter Ligne." Both
of the men turned to stare at her. "I think it's a good plan," she
added defensively.
"Maybe for Admon Faye," said Pelmen. "Is that what he intended?"
"I never really listened to what he intended." Bronwynn shrugged. "I
was busy planning my own revenge."
"I can't believe you really thought I "
"That's what Jagd said."
"When did you speak with Jagd?" Pelmen interrupted. "He's been inside
this castle for weeks."
"Flayh talked to him Flayh and Pezi. Through the little blue
pyramids."
"You were there? You heard that conversation?"
"Sure."
Which brings up an important point, said the Imperial House.
"Yes. I hadn't forgotten."
"Hunh?" Bronwynn asked.
"Talking to the House," Pelmen explained. "I'll go and get it now. I
assume there's a secret way into his room?"
Ask the girl. She just visited it.
"Were you in Jagd's room a few minutes ago?"
"How did you "
"I already told you. Can you take me there?"
"Of course, but aren't we going to make some plan of attack first? I
came into this castle to kill a Queen, not to stand around and talk to
the walls,"
Rosha's nose wrinkled as he watched Bronwynn speak. Dressed as she was
in close-fitting leather fighting clothes, she looked very little like
the girl who'd bid him good-bye in Dragonsgate, less than a year
before. Her language was harsher, less thoughtful. He wasn't sure he
liked the change. In fact, he knew he didn't
"There's no need for a blood bath," Pelmen said, "especially not when
we could all end up its victims. Bronwynn, you want to murder Joss and
Ligne. In spite of your secret panels I consider that no easy task.
Joss is cut of the same cloth as our treacherous Admon Faye; what if he
knows of those same secret panels and guards himself against them? Nor
does the leopardess Ligne appear the type who would allow herself to be
casually butchered in her bed. And should you manage to kill them
both, what then? Before tomorrow night you'd discover half a dozen
members of the court who deem themselves just as worthy to rule as you,
Bronwynn and possibly, they'd have enough friends to make that
happen."
"Then what do you suggest?" Bronwynn demanded. "Patience?" The way
she spat out the word indicated how little use she had for it
herself.
"I suggest we let the House help us. With its assistance we routed
Admon Faye this morning "
"You routed him?"
"The castle says all but a few of the army we battled are dead or have
escaped into the river. I know it could help us to destroy Ligne and
her supporters as well."
"Well, ask it then. I'm ready to get on with this."
"Be patient, Bronwynn!" Rosha broke in. "There are more people
involved than just the three of us."
"Really?" she said, and she turned back to Pelmen. "Who?"
"A group of old friends I used to perform with, who agreed to fight
Admon Faye this morning out of loyalty to you. Who do you think
attacked you in the darkness?"
"You .. . you conquered Admon Faye with a troupe of players?" she
asked, incredulous.
They had some assistance, huSed the House.
"The House just reminded you that we had its help, and that made all
the difference. It will again, when the time comes to overthrow Ligne.
Because of its help, we lost only one in the caverns this morning. I
want the rest alive to see your coronation as well, Bronwynn. So yes
be patient. If all goes well, we'll be out of here tonight, planning
your triumphant return."
And what about the pyramid?
"I was getting to that. I made a deal with the House and I need to
hold up my end of it now. Would you show me the way into Jagd's
room?"
Bronwynn nodded. "You'll need to be careful," she said. "He's covered
the walls with his clothes you can't tell from the corridor if he's in
there or not."
"We'll let the House worry about that. Rosha, we'll be right back."
Pelmen ducked then, and followed Bronwynn into the hidden corridor.
Flayh sat in an armchair and struggled to relax. It was an impossible
task. "Where are they?" he demanded of the pyramid that sat before
him.
Not here, replied the High Fortress of Ngandib. "I know that. I'm
waiting for them to contact me through this pyramid."
Must you? the Fortress grumbled.
"Yes, I must," Flayh replied snappishly. "And you'd best accustom
yourself to it, for I don't intend to stop using magic just because it
gives you heartburn."
Yes, master, said the palace. Far below Flayh's tower, in the slave
quarters, a child suddenly got her finger caught in a slamming door and
screamed for her mother. The Fortress smiled with satisfaction,
wishing only that it dared do the same to Flayh.
"Where are they?" the bald sorcerer roared, pounding an arm of his
chair, "Pezi, if you've fouled up again " Flayh cut himself off. There
was a flicker of brilliant blue inside the pyramid. The other two must
be showing interest in theirs, Flayh thought, and he leaned forward to
stare .. .
"Wayleeth, be quiet," Tahli-Damen whispered, but his admiring Lady
would not be silenced.
"He did it so easily," she told their dinner guests. "Just walked in
one afternoon, and walked out with it that night Just like that." She
snapped her fingers, then turned to hug her blushing merchant's neck.
"Please, Wayleeth," he admonished her softly. "This is supposed to be
a secret don't press it .. ." Tahli-Damen's grin belied his words,
however. He was proud of himself, and it was difficult to maintain his
modesty when Wayleeth spoke nothing but the truth.
"He just doesn't like for me to brag on him," she told their beaming
guests. They were entertaining the local Lord of Myfa, a very small
trading house that had hooked its fortunes to Uda so many years before
that it was now considered little more than a satellite of the purple
and scarlet.
"That's attractive in a young leader," chuckled Maywar mod Maywar-el,
"but you needn't be so modest, Tahli-Damen. Secrecy is important, and
I know Jagd is probably insisting on it, but we're all friends here,
after all. The news that you've gotten away with one of these precious
pyramids is a secret not likely to keep long, in any case. I expect
you'll be getting a formal protest from Flayh any time now."
"I've been expecting one all day," Tahli-Damen nodded, sampling a
pastry. "The fact that I haven't makes me wonder if Pezi's neglected
to tell him." This comment drew a round of giggles. Pezi stories were
not confined to the fat merchant's own house. He was gaming quite a
reputation among al! the merchant families.
"May I see the object?" Maywar asked. "I've heard so much about it
from my brothers that I'm quite curious."
"Weren't you at the conclave?" Wayleeth asked.
"No, child," the older merchant responded. "A touch of emphysema kept
me bedridden. But I would like to see it .. ."
Tahli-Damen looked at his plate. "Jagd's orders were to keep it
hidden," he mumbled.
"Pah!" Maywar snorted, then he chuckled. "Jagd's never going to know
unless you tell him. I certainly won't. Bring it out."
"Yes, Tahli-Damen, please do," Wayleeth pleaded, and she looked across
at Maywar's wife. "He hasn't even showed it to me yet. Come on, Jagd
won't ever know."
Indeed, he might not, Tahli-Damen was thinking to himself. Especially
if this invasion of Flayh's had succeeded. Tahli-Damen trembled
involuntarily with a mixture of guilt and thrill,
"What's wrong, darling?" Wayleeth asked earnestly. She'd been alarmed
by his strange behavior ever since his return from Pezi's castle. "Are
you sick?"
"No, not sick," he muttered. Abruptly he stood. "I'll go fetch it."
He started for his room.
His pace increased with each step he took toward the object. By the
time he reached his inner chamber he was running, and he had to stop to
catch his breath. Then, just as he had done time and again throughout
that day, he fell to his knees and lifted the pyramid out of its place
of hiding. He stripped its protective bag away and fondled it again,
amazed that he actually possessed such a wondrous object. He sat on
the bed and stared into it for a moment, wishing he hadn't promised to
show it to the others. As he thought of excuses for not bringing it
out after all, it came alive in his hands. He stared .. .
It's under the bed. "And Jagd is .. ."
On the roof with the birds. "You'll warn me "
Yes.
Pelmen turned to Bronwynn and put a finger to his lips, then nodded.
She turned the knob that opened the panel to Jagd's room, and Pelmen
slipped inside. He closed the hatch behind him, as they'd agreed, and
knocked one of the purple cloaks from its peg to allow her to watch him
while she remained hidden. Then he walked to the bed and knelt beside
it. "Under here?"
That's right.
Pelmen leaned over and looked. There was the case. He tugged it out,
unlatched it, and found the bag inside. He fetched it out quickly and
opened it up to be sure it was the right thing.
Don't! screamed the House, but it was too late. Pel-men stared into
Flayh's face.
"You!" Pelmen shouted in surprise.
Without a moment's hesitation, Flayh squinted his eyes and chanted an
incantation. It appeared to both Pelmen and Tahli-Damen that the bald
wizard's eyes filled the crystal completely. Pelmen tossed up a hand
to catch the blow and deflect it, but Tahli-Damen had no such power.
The young merchant found his eyes locked into the magic crystal,
helpless even to scream.
Stop! roared the Imperial House of Chaomonous, in agony. Through its
pain, it could hear the echo of its own scream in that of a distant
palace:
Agony! cried the High Fortress of Ngandib, but Flayh ignored its
ravings. He muttered another incantation and peered into the faces of
Tahli-Damen and a curiously powerful clown.
"You fear me!" Flayh ordered, expecting instant submission from these
two unexpected visitors.
Tahli-Damen would have cried out, "Yes!" if he'd been able, but his
vocal cords seemed frozen by an abject, all-consuming dread. The eyes
that had locked onto his sucked dry the wellspring of his courage.
"No!" Pelmen reacted, and he bent his energies to the struggle.
Suddenly two pairs of eyes filled the object Tahli-Damen held, the
second more terrible than the first. Both pierced completely through
him. The young merchant felt sure he was bleeding from every orifice
of his body, but he couldn't tear his eyes away to check.
With the screams of his own castle echoing through his mind, Flayh
shouted, "Who are you?" at the clownish eyes that filled his vision.
"You know me, Flayh," Pelmen murmured quietly. To Flayh and
Tahli-Damen, his words pierced like a shout. "Yield now, before I kill
you both."
Stop! Please! anguished the Imperial House of Chaomonous, and Pelmen
was dimly aware of the renewed chorus of bells throughout the hallways,
and of pounding feet outside in the corridor. He was helpless to stop
the conflict now. He could only end it by winning it.
Then Pelmen recoiled from the crystal, squinting in revulsion. The
bared fangs of a savage dog seemed to lunge out of it for his face.
Those jaws snapped on his neck, but his neck was suddenly gone,
replaced by the widespread beak of a screaming falcon. The dog jerked
away, terrified by the razorlike talons it saw diving for its eyes.
Those claws hooked flesh, and sliced six long red gashes into the dog's
muzzle. The beast howled.
Tahli-Damen reeled. A dog had nearly severed his neck, only to be
knocked aside by a falcon which slashed its face. Yet the merchant's
eyes remained fixed on the surface of the glass. He was unaware of the
cries of his woman, who called to him from the stairway.
The Imperial House ground its stones together. It would have thrown
itself asunder, had it been able, but the energy necessary to do so was
aJl being focused through a tiny sliver of crystal in its heart.
Powerless, it bellowed its agony.
Bronwynn cowered in her hiding place. When the bells began through the
castle she'd jerked away from her eyehole, feeling sure they had
something to do with her. Someone had discovered her presence, and had
called for a general search. Or was it that Admon Faye had returned
and, with Pelmen occupied, had broken out of the lower level into the
castle? As they continued, she stood up and looked into Jagd's room
again. Her mouth fell open in shock Pelmen was a falcon.
The dog disappeared as quickly as it came, and Flayh newly marked with
six red stripes on his cheek breathed, "Pelmen!"
Once again the clown peered up at him out of the crystal. "That's
right, Flayh. Yield yourself and end this madness."
Flayh grunted with effort, and Pelmen gasped and threw up his hands to
shield his face. A ball of yellow flame hurtled up at him out of the
pyramid.
"Return," he cried, and the ball bounced off his hands and back into
the object. Then, as he closed his eyes, it engulfed the pyramid in
flames; under the pressure of both shapers, it exploded with a silent
flash into a blazing ball ten times its original size. Then it was
gone, and the pyramids suddenly went cold.
Wayleeth dashed into her lover's room to find him lying on their bed,
hugging the pyramid to him and weeping aloud. "Why, darling, what's
the matter? Did something we say upset " She stopped. Tahli-Damen
opened his eyes to Stare up at her, and she staggered away in horror.
There were no pupils, no irises, no whiles just a solid background of
pale, powder blue.
"Wayleeth," he sobbed, as he gazed up toward her face. "Wayleeth? Are
you there?"
"Yes," she finally managed to choke out. "I'm standing right in front
of you."
"You .. . are?" He stared sightlessly into space a minute, then
cleared his throat. "Wayleeth," he gasped. "Flayh's had his vengeance
at last."
"My darling," she sobbed, wrapping her arms around him to get away from
the ghastly blue tint of his eyeballs.
"I stole a vision-maker from a wizard .. , and the wizard stole my
eyes."
Flayh reeled away from the table, and lurched toward a drawer in one of
his several desks. He jerked it open to pull out a mirror, and
examined himself in it. The sight dragged a strangled moan from his
lips.
Across his cheeks were the six red gashes hideous, to be sure, but
clearly not as disfiguring as the other new feature. He looked at the
back of his hands, and groaned in understanding. He'd managed to get
them to his face in time to prevent blindness, but the backs of them
had been stained a light blue by the flash. He looked back at the
mirror. Two hand prints had been tattooed onto his face. That skin
protected by the shield of his hands was the same milky-white as the
rest of his body. But that part exposed to the blast now wore the same
light blue tint as his hands, all the way up to the top of his bald
skull.
No one can say you're not unique, said the High Fortress of Ngandib,
and windy laughter whirled through the room. "Flayh gave it cause to
regret that, long into the night.
Bronwynn had ducked when Pelmen threw up his hands and had missed the
flash. When she looked again, he was lying prone on the floor,
unmoving. She gave the knob a savage twist and bolted out to look at
him. Then she grabbed up the pyramid, stuffed it into its bag, and
scram bled back to her corridor. A moment later she burst in on Rosha,
who'd been waiting impatiently by the moveable panel.
"Well?" he whispered.
"Petmen's hurt," she snapped. "Come on." She tossed the pyramid onto
the bed and dragged him back with her into Jagd's room. After several
minutes of grunting and tugging, together they hoisted Pelmen onto
Rosha's bed beside the object.
"What happened?" Rosha begged, finally free to ask the question
safely.
"I don't know. I'm afraid it has something to do with Flayh. Can you
get him back to his room?"
"I'll summon Yona Parmi and the others they can."
"Fine." she nodded. "Isn't this stuff on his face supposed to be a
disguise?" she scrapped off a bit of his greasepaint.
"Of course "
"Better tell these friends of his to have him change it when he wakes
up. Look," she said, holding up her finger to show him. "It's turned
blue."
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Curtain Call
"SHH," Danyilyn whispered. "Go back to sleep."
Pelmen groaned. His whole body arched. "I'm exhausted."
"We know. That's why you need your sleep."
He heard a muffled sound coming from the corner and sat up on his cot.
"Who's that?"
"Never mi "
But Danyilyn couldn't stop him. A weak ball of soft orange flame
blazed above the corner in question, revealing the struggling form of a
bound and gagged Princess. He ignored Danyilyn's gasp of surprise as
he murmured, "Bronwynn?"
"You are a sorcerer!" the actress whispered.
"Why is she tied up?"
"Rosha told us to," Danyilyn said apologetically. "He said it was the
only way to keep her from knifing Ligne before you woke up."
"Rosha knows her well," Pelmen murmured, and he groaned. "What time is
it?"
"Early morning."
Pelmen sat up and stared at her. "Morning!"
"Just lie back and "
32J
"No time. We've got to get Serphimera out of the dungeon and then get
all of us into the escape tunnel before the castle wakes. If the House
the House!" Pelmen exclaimed suddenly, and he swiveled toward the
walls and listened.
"What are you "
"Shh!" Pelmen strained to hear.
Silence.
"Imperial House?" he whispered. Silence was the only reply he
received,
"Anything wrong?" Danyilyn asked.
"Maybe everything," Pelmen sighed, and he rolled off his cot. "Here
help me put Bronwynn on the bed."
"But "
"She's going to have a long day tomorrow and she doesn't look very
comfortable in that corner."
"What about you? You need some sleep."
"No time," he answered her from across the room. "I've got to figure
us a new way out of here."
Several hours later, as dawn coated the eastern face of the castle with
the illusion of golden mail, Pelmen was still sitting in the corner.
Danyilyn had long since returned to her own room, and the heavy
breathing from the trussed girl on his cot assured him that Bronwynn
finally slept.
Did the castle sleep too? "Are you asleep?" he pleaded quietly for
the fortieth time. "Or just keeping silent because you're angry? I've
offered you every kind of apology I know I had no idea such a
confrontation would take place. I realize it was agonizing for you it
was agonizing for me as well, but I could only end it by winning it. My
friend .. . you've known power shapers throughout your whole existence,
many more than I. Surely you witnessed shaper battles, in the time
before the dragon? Did you ever once see a shaper turn his back on the
sorcerer who attacked him? If you did, I'll wager you witnessed his
burial as well, and I have far too many people depending on me to let
myself be taken without a fight!" He paused then, and listened.
The Imperial House was as silent as the sunrise.
"Or did I kill you," Pelmen sighed, rubbing a hand across his face and
smearing further his blue-tinted grease paint "It could be. The powers
unleashed between us would take an incredible toll on armies of men did
our battle kill you as well? I guess it's possible since a
power-shaper gave you life .. ." He waited, hoping to hear something a
creaking in the wooden door, a sigh of tone a change of temperature in
the room even bells would be welcome.
But the Imperial House was as still as the dawn that kind of stillness
so deep, so pervasive that it drags one into sleep. Pelmen finally
yielded to it and dozed. He could do nothing else.
', He was awakened by a fierce pounding on the door. He jumped to
answer it and was met by Danyilyn and Yona Parmi. "Change your makeup
now!" Danyilyn spat as she raced to the cot and slipped a knife-blade
under Bron-wynn's bonds.
"Hurry!" Yona Parmi added. "Ligne's dispatched soldiers to summon
you. We've got to get her out of here."
Danyilyn dragged the groggy Bronwynn to her feet as Pelmen scrubbed the
old makeup from his face and clapped on a new layer of white. "What
time is it?" - "Past breakfast," Yona mumbled as he helped Danyilyn
walk the Princess to the door. "Where are you taking her?"
"Genig says to put her in the play who's going to notice another
ingenue? Hurry!" They were out the door and gone.
Pelmen was still trying to clear his spinning head when the soldiers
arrived. They slammed open the door without knocking.
"Good morning," Fallomar said cheerily. "Did you bring me breakfast in
bed?"
"The Queen has summoned you, fool. Now." Pelmen made the journey
through the halls and into the throne room without speaking again.
There seemed little point in trying. These were not the relaxed guards
who kept a casual watch from the castle's towers. They were hard-faced
warriors probably the pick of Joss* own crack brigade. They showed
little inclination toward joviality.
When he was ushered into the throne room, he found it that much more
difficult to smile. There, facing him, sat the Queen herself, along
with Joss, Kherda, Jagd, and a host of other court lings whose names
and offices all merged together in his mind. To Ligne's right, on a
small version of her own throne, sat Rosha, his jaws locked and his
lips forming a tight frown. But the most distressing sight of all was
to Ligne's left. There stood Serphimera, bound in heavy chains, and
standing beside her was a man Pelmen dimly remembered as Naquin, the
High Priest of the old dragon faith a man who had long ago ordered his
death. Pelmen assumed it was for that same purpose he'd been summoned
this morning.
Yet Fallomar the fool found a smile and jerked three balls from his
pocket. "What will it be, my Lady? Juggling?" He tossed the balls
into the air and juggled them until, at a nod from Joss, a warrior
knocked them bouncing across the room. Fallomar grinned. "No
juggling?"
The Queen smiled back primly. "No juggling."
There was a weighty silence. "Well?" FaHomar asked at last.
"Are you ready to perform your wonderful play, Fallomar?" the Queen
asked,
"Certainly. Tonight you'll witness a performance that "
"Not tonight," she interrupted. "Now."
Pelmen glanced at Rosha. The young warrior gazed up at him, his eyes
filled with despair.
"Now?"
"The rest of your troupe is all assembled, but they informed me that
you were sick last night. They wondered whether you had recovered
enough to perform this morning." Ligne smiled a bright, wicked grin
and husked, "Evidently, you are!"
"My Lady, the entertainment would be better if played tonight "
"I have other entertainment scheduled for tonight, clown." At this,
Ligne looked down at Rosha, and stroked the back of the young man's
neck. To his credit, Rosha didn't stiffen under the caress.
"Why, if the others are in place, certainly I am ready," beamed
Fallomar. He glanced casually at Serphimera's face. The distress
evident there disturbed him, but at least Ligne hadn't ordered his
immediate execution. Perhaps she still hadn't recognized him. The
play was two hours long there might yet be time for Bronwynn and Rosha,
at least, to escape.
"I hear the role you play was modeled after King Talith. Is that
true?"
"Most correct, my Lady." Fallomar smiled.
"I made a fool out of him perhaps you remember?" Ligne gazed into his
eyes.
Fallomar gazed back. "I certainly do that's why we play him as a
fool."
"Appropriate," Ligne said meaningfully. "Take them to prepare."
Rosha and Pelmen were marched down to the great hall by the same squad
that had fetched Pelmen from his room. There was no chance for
conversation, but he could tell from the young swordsman's dull
expression that Rosha had already surrendered the fight. What had
transpired through the night? Had some slip finally revealed them all
to Ligne? As they turned into the great hall and climbed the steps
onto the stage, the soldiers began dispersing to the tower doors. The
other actors, their faces creased by worry, clustered around him.
"What are we going to do?" Gerrig whispered.
"Where is Bronwynn?" Pelmen demanded, and someone ushered the Princess
to him through the crowd. In sharp contrast to her outfit of an hour
ago, she was now swathed in yards of lace, and her hair was tied up in
bows. They'd layered on the greasepaint until her skin looked like
porcelain in fact, almost as white as his own. She looked every inch
the dainty, innocent ingenue. She shattered that illusion as soon as
she opened her mouth:
"Why didn't you let me stick her when I had the chance?" she spat.
He ignored her. "Rosha and Bronwynn," he began crisply, "since you
really have little to do in the early part of the play, maybe we can
get you out of here. When the act begins, make for that door behind
you and into the kitchen. There are no soldiers blocking it yet and
perhaps they won't. Once there, jump feet first into the cistern. It
connects with the underground passages, and Bronwynn can lead you
out."
"What about us!" Gerrig pleaded.
"I have a long soliloquy at the close of this first act I'll make it
longer. Much longer."
"And we take the same route?" DanyUyn asked.
"I can't swim," Gerrig murmured,
"Don't worry," Yona Parmi whispered, looking at Gerrig's belly, "you'll
float."
"What about you?" Danyilyn asked.
"What about me?" Pelmen snapped. "I'm a power shaper aren't I?"
Danyilyn nodded. Suddenly they were all slamming their hands over
their ears, as trumpets blared above them on the grand spiral. Any
further conversation was impossible in the wake of that deafening
noise, which grew louder as the heralds descended the stairs. They
were followed by the ladies of the court, who smiled courageously in
the face of then1 own pain. Each resolutely refused to cover her ears,
though it was obvious that all would have liked to.
As the the heralds reached the stage, the castle's other inhabitants
began pouring into the great hall through the guarded doors. Pelmen
was cheered by the sight of the cook and his helpers that signaled that
the kitchen might be empty and the getaway a real possibility. He
glanced over at Yona Parmi and saw that the man watched him grimly.
Pelmen smiled encouragement, but Yona Parmi's expression didn't change.
He hadn't been fooled by Pel-men's grand speech to Danyilyn about power
shaping In their many late night discussions, Pelmen had told him much
about shaping the powers. If Yona remembered nothing else, he'd
learned at least that shaping demanded energy and he knew Pelmen was
too exhausted for the task. Less than a day before, Pelmen had
wrestled a rival sorcerer in a perilous contest of power and that on
top of a morning-long battle of more conventional character. Pel-men
couldn't defend himself against this horde of soldiers, and he knew it.
Evidently, so did Yona. Pelmen shrugged then, slightly, and Yona
nodded and looked away. They would all have to make the best of it.
"House," Pelmen muttered, "are you there?"
If the House had given an answer, it would have been lost in the
renewal of the fanfare. Pelmen continued to hope .. .
The Prime Minister made his entrance then, followed by a pair of
servants bearing the Queen's throne between them. They walked across
the stage and down onto the floor, placing Ligne's chair in the center
of the front row. Then there was another trumpet announcement, and
Ligne made her own entrance on the arm of Jagd of Uda. The assembled
throng stood to welcome her and, in keeping with custom, began
clapping. Pelmen joined the applause, searching out Bronwynn to see
what she would do. She'd had the same idea, and their eyes met. Pelmen
glanced down at her hands, and she finally lifted them to her waist and
patted them together. Her eyes, however, never left ! his. She gazed
at him accusingly.
When Ligne was seated in her place, the trumpeters quit blowing, and
scrambled for their own seats. A flurry of bench scraping and coughing
ensued, until all had found places. Then the audience was silent.
"Are you there?" Pelmen asked softly.
The House was silent.
Ligne enjoyed the stillness for a moment, then she clapped her hands
together twice. "Let it begin," she commanded. She leaned back in her
seat to watch.
The play opened with a conversation between a merchant, played by
Gerrig, and a scholar, played by Yona "Parmi, plotting the overthrow of
the clown King. The parts were loosely modeled on Jagd and Kherda, and
Pelmen watched these men carefully for their reactions. They gazed at
the stage with identical expressions of disinterest, and it soon became
clear that they failed to recognize themselves in these characters.
Ligne did, however, and it was she who began the laughter. So lightly
did she take it all that Pelmen grew steadily more convinced. Of
course she could enjoy it, for she was firmly in control. Pelmen
shifted his eyes to look at Serphimera. As she stared at the floor
between her feet, he recalled the message she had passed him in Ligne's
presence. Two plots against the Queen and both would fail. Once
again, she'd proven right, but it seemed to bring her little
satisfaction. The kidnap scene was quickly over, and Pelmen made his
entrance, shouting in character:
"What? No Princess? Search the roof! Search the hallsl Search the
dungeon! Search the wallsl
Search every room within this house
Except my mistress' room,
For I'll be searching her myself
That is, I mean, her room, this afternoon."
He heard a cackle from the front row. Ligne, at least, seemed to be
enjoying it
"Through here," Rosha murmured, and Bronwynn rushed past him into the
kitchen,
"Come on," she said as she grabbed him by the hand and they raced
toward the cistern.
They quickly skidded to a stop.
"Going somewhere?" asked Lord Joss. He had perched his foot on the
lip of the cistern and was casually sipping a cup of water. The
warriors clustered around him did not appear so relaxed. Their pikes
were leveled at the young pair, menacing them as the guards moved to
encircle them.
"We .. . n-needed a c-c-cup of water," Rosha stammered.
"Easily handled. I have a whole basin full right here, that I was
fetching for the Queen. You, young lady would you be good enough to
carry it in for me?"
"But what of the King? He'll know, for sure," said Yona.
"The King? Clown King? Why the fool is pure as driven snow." Gerrig
gestured to his face, drawing a laugh. "You say he'll know? Then are
you the clown! For it's noised around, through all the " Gerrig
suddenly broke off. Pel-men, who had been following the scene
attentively, traced Gerrig's gaze to the source of the interruption and
his heart stopped. Bronwynn, carrying an ornate basin, had just come
back in the rear door of the stage, followed by a crestfallen Rosha and
General Joss. As they crossed the stage to a stairway and down onto
the floor, Bronwynn kept her eyes humbly lowered. But after she'd
stooped to place the bowl before the Queen, she made a telltale grab
for her hip, and Lord Joss leaped on top of her, knocking her to the
floor. The first few rows screamed in shock, and some of them jumped
to their feet, but Ligne kept her seat, beaming happily up at Pelmen.
Rosha jumped on Joss*
back in turn, but guards swarmed everywhere by that time, and he and
Bronwynn were both swiftly subdued. The crowd came alive with animated
expressions of disbelief and amazement, and Ligne was obliged to nod at
the trumpeters. Their piercing blasts stunned the audience into quiet,
and Ligne smiled at the players.
"Go on," she said. "Finish it."
"We ... ah ... we ..." Gerrig gazed across the stage at Pelmen. His
expression was far from kind.
"We can hardly finish it, with two of our players bound like that,"
Pelmen said. "Release them, and we'll continue." It was fruitless, he
realized, but it seemed Ligne had decided to play out this
cat-and-mouse game to the bitter end.
"Release them? Why, this girl just tried to kill me! And as for the
lad, well ... I have plans for him later. I don't want him to injure
himself." She smiled fondly at Rosha, who jerked toward her in rage.
"Ah, Rosha, you can't imagine how I've missed that side of you," Ligne
looked back at the stage. "You can't go on? A shame. I did so want
to see it I know. Why not let me play a part?"
"What part do you choose, my Lady? The stage is yours." Pelmen bowed
as he spoke.
"It is mine, isn't it?" Ligne gloated, and she mounted the steps to
look him in the eye. "Why don't I play myself?"
"Type-casting, to be sure," Pelmen responded. He wondered how much
energy he could muster, and glanced over to watch Bronwynn struggle
against Joss. A great sadness swept through him. Struggle that's all
the girl had been allowed to do for months. It wasn't just. Pelmen
thought of the Power, and murmured, "Are you seeing this?"
"What?" Ligne asked. The audience listened in rapt silence.
"Nothing, my Lady. I take it you want to play the scene where the
mistress kills the King. I'm ready."
"Oh, not kills," Ligne smiled. "I didn't kill Talith. Didn't need to,
he accomplished that all by himself. No, I only made a fool of him.
Kherda, the bowl of water."
The Prime Minister rocked up to his feet and scooped up the basin off
the floor. As he bent, his eyes swept across those of Princess
Bronwynn , ..
"Kherda! Now!" Ligne waited until Kherda brought the bowl of water to
her. "I made a fool of Talith," she said to Pelmen then. "I intend to
unmake a fool of you." Pelmen stood in his place as Ligne dipped a
cJoth in the basin and washed the white grease paint from his face,
"The first Prophet!" exclaimed Naquin, and he twisted around to
Serphimera. "Look, it's that Prophet who caused us both such misery."
Serphimera didn't respond.
"She knows, Naquin," said the Queen, walking downstage toward him.
"She's known for days. And last night at dinner when you berated
Pelmen in her presence, so did I." Ligne turned to face Pelmen, a
sneer curling her pretty lips. "Oh, you managed quite well, Pelmen. I
honor your talent for deception you had me fooled completely. But your
little Priestess there is a revealer of secrets, not a hider of them.
She'd told me before of her intense feelings for you, be they love or
hate. She couldn't hide those feelings from me. Not from me!" the
Queen finished with a dramatic flourish of her hand.
"You missed your calling, Ligne," Pelmen said quietly. You should have
been an actress."
"Should have been? I am an actress. Mustn't every regent be a player
of sorts? As your little play makes clear, the halls of state are no
place for the guileless innocent." Ligne smirked. "And that's what
you've surrounded yourself with, Pelmen. Innocents. Fools." Ligne
turned to Joss and shouted, "Take them!" The armed warriors didn't
wait for their commander to pass along the order. They scrambled onto
the stage immediately, and soon every player in the troupe was trussed
as soundly as Bronwynn. During the interval, Ligne strolled gracefully
off the dais and resumed her throne. The captives were then led to
stand facing her along the apron of the platform. Obviously, she'd
choreographed her triumph quite carefully.
"Now then." She smiled. "What's next? Pelmen, don't we get some kind
of speech from you?"
"To what effect, my Lady?"
"Why, I assumed you would attempt to arouse the rabble against me.
Wasn't that your plan, your reason for ingratiating yourself with each
of my servants?"
"There was no plan, my Lady, save to escape from you
"No plan. Oh, come now."
"It's true. I only wanted to protect my friends and loved ones."
"Then how did this little Princess get back inside my castle?" Ligne
jumped up, crossed to Bronwynn, and grabbed the girl's chin.
Pelmen had hoped Bronwynn might go unrecognized under her makeup, but
he was disappointed even in this. "She was brought into this house by
the same man who took her out. Admon Faye."
"Ah yes." Ligne nodded. "And where is that ugly slaver?"
"I've no idea."
"Don't lie to me. You know exactly where he is. You've been working
together with bun."
"You're mistaken, my Lady."
"You deny that you plotted my downfall together?"
"I would plan nothing with Admon Faye, my Lady. Not even an enterprise
as necessary as your demise."
"You watch your tongue!"
"You asked I responded."
"You want me to kill you here?"
"It matters little to me where I die, my Lady, if you've determined
already that I shall."
"I thought I might give you a chance to decide that." Ligne smiled.
Then she laughed at Pelmen's puzzled look.
"I don't know what you mean."
"Perhaps a little wager is in order."
"A wager?"
"On a game of Drax. If you win, you may take this rubbish heap of an
acting troupe with you. If you lose, I kill each of you personally "
"Done!" Pelmen snapped, without a moment's hesitation.
"Pelmen," Gerrig began, but the power shaper cut him off.
"Gerrig, it's clearly the only alternative and it's surprisingly fair."
He looked back to Ligne. "I thank you, my Lady, for the opportunity
you offer."
"You seem so eager, Pelmen. How is that, after six straight losses
against me?"
"You may find I play quite differently when my life depends on it. As
is customary in accepting the life-death challenge, I offer you choice
of red or. blue."
"Red or blue?" Ligne asked in mocking innocence. "Not green as
well?"
Pelmen's eyes narrowed. "Such a challenge traditionally means the
green will be played by the dummy." More needless words, Pelmen
thought. He was indeed an innocent to think Ligne would challenge
fairly! It was clear, now, what she intended.
"And I have just such a dummy in mind. Kherda, my Prime Minister."
Her words touched off a wave of quiet protest among the crowd, for
Pelmen had been quite correct in assuming she'd offered him a challenge
to Green Dummy. Kherda was stung, not only by Ligne's insult, but by
her injustice as well. He shuffled to his feet. "My Lady! Is this
fair?"
"To term you a dummy? Certainly it's fair."
"To issue such a challenge. Tradition clearly calls for "
"This miserable actor came into my house to steal my throne! I've
offered him the opportunity to free himself and his friends, and he's
accepted the wager."
"Yes, but "
"Kherda be silent!" Ligne commanded, and the old man gulped and closed
his mouth. "You, of all people, should know that your Queen never
plays Green Dummy." Ligne spun gracefully to face Pelmen. "Or do you
back down?" Her blue eyes mocked him.
"That would be a breach of etiquette, my Lady," Pelmen replied
tonelessly, "and we certainly can't have that Shall we play?"
Ligne clapped her hands in delight. "Oh, let's do!"
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Razor
THE PLAYERS WERE HELD ONSTAGE by a circle of guards while the Queen
preceded them up the stairway. They watched helplessly as Rosha was
dragged up the grand spiral after her, kicking and jerking all the way.
Serphimera, too, was led up the stairs, followed by Naquin. The
pitiful skyfaither looked puzzled. Though he'd lived his entire life
in the presence of political power, never had he witnessed such
eccentric behavior as that he'd been exposed to in this court.
Pelmen watched them out of sight, then glanced at Yona Parmi. "What do
you think?"
"What can I think?" Yona mumbled, shrugging. "Winning at Drax is hard
enough when all three are battling each other. Two against one is
impossible."
"Why doesn't she just kill us and get it over with?" Dan-yilyn
muttered.
"What?" Gerrig snorted. "And forfeit her afternoon's pleasure?"
"I'm sorry," Pelmen said quietly, and they all turned to look at him.
"What for?" Yona asked him. "We all chose to come."
"Gerrig didn't."
"I did, too!" Gerrig blustered, and Pelmen looked up at him in
disbelief. "Before you go thinking this is your fault, you just
remember it was I who led the battle in the caverns. And I'd do it
again this morning."
"We're here," Danyilyn broke in, her temper flaring. "What concerns me
is how we're going to get out. Pelmen, you're a power shaper Is there
any "
"What you don't realize is that he's exhausted," Yona Parmi
interrupted. "There are limits to what a power shaper can do and he's
reached his."
Danyilyn looked back and forth between them. "That's it, then? It all
depends on Drax?"
Yona Parmi looked at Pelmen. "Maybe not"
Pelmen read his mind. "The Power works through people, Yona. Perhaps
there are limits even to what the Power can do."
"Well," Danyilyn said glumly, "I hope you're on your game."
"The Queen is ready for you now," announced a servant from the
stairway.
"I'll bet she is," Danyilyn snapped, and, herded by their guards, they
all plodded up the stairs.
Spectators crammed the game room full and spilled out both its doors in
the hallways. The troupe's escort had to shove people aside to get the
players through. Once inside, guards were no longer necessary, for the
mob of court lings crushed back together in their wake, leaving no
possible avenue of escape. The press of jabbering people, combined
with the visual impact of their multicolored garments, served initially
to disorient Pelmen, and he twisted around in confusion, looking for
Ligne and the game table. The clamor prevented him from hearing
Ligne's summons, and a servant was sent to grab his hand and fetch him
into the open space in the center of the room. His appearance there
served as a cue for the gathered host to hush. Pelmen happened to
glance at his feet, then stared down at the intricate patterns that had
been painted on the floor. He'd been in here only two days before, but
the room had been altered considerably in that short space of time.
This section had formerly been covered with mats, and had served as a
kind of gymnasium for the practice of throws and falls and of fencing.
A glance at the walls told him many of the practice swords still hung
there, a fact that would probably do him no good, since he'd never be
able to get to one. His eyes were drawn back to the floor.
"What's all this?" he asked, as the Queen gave instructions to her
guards to clear the throng back off of the design.
"What does it look like, fool?" she replied. "You're standing on a
giant Drax board. You think these people could witness my triumph if
we played on that tiny table?" He recognized it as the crowd surged
back out of the way and noted, too, that Ligne's throne had been
positioned along the red flat. Rosha, a gag in his mouth, sat in the
smaller throne next to her, struggling against the bonds that secured
him to it. "I take it you're playing red," Pelmen murmured, his eyes
on the lad.
"You did offer me the choice," the queen sneered. Not only had she
teamed herself with Kherda to outnumber him, she'd claimed the
advantage of the first move.
Pelmen turned to his left to look at Kherda. "And the
Prime Minister is green." Kherda gazed back uncertainly.
"Which leaves you with blue." Ligne smiled. "I thought that might
please you, since you seem to have a certain affinity for the color."
She turned her gaze in the direction of Serphimera, whose expression of
dismay hadn't changed,
"Where are the pieces?" he asked.
Ligne grinned, and clapped her hands. Guards blazed a new path through
the crowd, leading ten tired looking creatures into the open area. Half
were clothed in robes of bright crimson, the other half in kelly green,
and each wore strangely shaped headgear. One man of each color wore a
tri-cornered hat, another pair wore tall, conical caps, and so on. It
was clear they had been costumed to represent Drax pieces. "Intriguing,
isn't it?" the queen purred. "I call it my living Drax set."
"I must say, Ligne, you've stage-managed your triumph quite
professionally," Pelmen murmured.
"Why thank you, fool. It took me several days, but I did so want it
all to be right."
"But where are the blues?" Pelmen asked. "Kherda and I drew our
pieces from the dungeon, but I thought it might be fun to assemble
yours from the ranks of those dearest to you. Perhaps it will add
dimension to your play to realize that every move you make risks the
life of that piece."
Pelmen gazed at her, his face as calm in defeat as if he had won. "How
very fitting. For to you, it's all a game, isn't it? Your power, your
crown just a game to while away your time."
"And a splendid game it is." She smiled, her teeth flashing. "Pity
Admon Faye couldn't be here to enjoy it with us. Robe Gerrig in blue,"
she ordered her servants, "and put the tri-corner on his head!"
Pelmen glanced around the game room as he took stock of his own energy
level. There were some things he could do he just couldn't guarantee
the results. Shaping was dangerous in any case and weariness made it
more so. Still, if he could make the act explosive enough, perhaps
someone could get away.
"The round-faced one," Ligne said, pointing at Yona Parmi. "Make him
the column. And make this actress the disc," she continued, grabbing
Danyilyn's wrist, "in appreciation of her miserable impersonation of
me."
"Of course it was miserable," Danyilyn snarled at her, fiery to the
last. "I had such a miserable subject to imitate."
Fire would be the most compelling, Pelmen thought. He could probably
empty the hall in a moment. Of course, they'd all be consumed along
with Ligne, but perhaps it was worth their lives, to rid the world of
this dangerous Queen .. .
Ligne paced across the floor toward Bronwynn and jerked the heavily
bound Princess out onto the board. "I'd thought to make Naquin the
cube "
"I say," Naquin gasped. "I'm not with the man."
" he is, after all, dressed in blue already and is block-headed enough.
But since you've so kindly brought Bronwynn to me " She shoved the girl
toward a servant. " we'll make her the cube instead."
An explosion of wind? Pelmen reasoned. Blow out the ceiling and crush
all the spectators. That was the trouble with magic it killed
indiscriminately.
"And of course, Serphimera."
Pelmen whipped around to stare at her, "Serphimera?" he said aloud.
"Certainly Serphimera," Ligne snarled.
"She never threatened you."
"She didn't forewarn me either. Put the star on her head," Ligne
ordered. "She already has the blue robe."
But Serphimera had told him she would walk out the gate unharmed. For
the first time ali day, Pelmen brushed shoulders with hope. For if
Serphimera was destined to live .. . "And I'm to understand that all of
these will lose their lives if I fail to defeat you?" he asked.
"That is the wager." Ligne sneered smugly.
A year before, Serphimera had prophesied that Vicia-Heinox would rip a
blue-clad figure in two. She'd been right. She'd been right about two
plots against Ligne ending in failure. And Serphimera had seen herself
leave this castle on foot through the front gate.
Ligne made her first move, and flung the reference plank toward Pelmen.
"Play the game, fool. That is, if you remember how."
Just then it happened again.
Pelmen always had difficulty expressing the experience in words, but he
instantly knew what had happened. Erri would have understood
completely, while Ligne might have laughed herself breathless at the
very idea. Naquin might have comprehended, while Jagd would have
dismissed it as the kind of delusion all Lamathians were subject to a
simple result of their upbringing.
But Pelmen knew what it was. His spirit soared with an elation born
from far beyond human experience. At the critical instant, at the
moment he'd started his last desperate act of shaping, he'd heard,
"Wait." No one nearby had said it, and the House was as silent as
ever. Yet it had come, and Pelmen felt again that curious mixture of
elation and terror that had seized him so many times before. No longer
was he the shaper he was being shaped, and his ultimate destiny, be it
life or death, seemed trivial in the face of this rushing presence.
Bronwynn saw it. Gagged as well as hobbled and cuffed, she could only
smile with her eyes. But that she did. Her eyes radiated excitement.
She recognized the face that Pelmen now wore and knew its strangely
compelling nature came from beyond him.
Serphimera saw it too, and it startled her. She had long denied the
possibility of this happening to anyone outside her own circle. It
seemed incredible she should be witnessing this transformation now but
she did. And it thrilled her beyond words.
Ligne regarded Pelmen's strained expression with a contemptuous sneer.
"Are you going to move, fool?"
Pelmen drew a deep breath and forced himself to stare at the gameboard.
This was torture. He longed to surrender to the enormous warmth that
engulfed him, to slough off responsibility for himself and his friends
and soak in the Power's presence. Yet he could not. In the midst of
this abundant joy, there was not necessarily any hope. The Power was
shaping him, he knew but he knew as well that what he might choose
might not be the choice of the Power. He fought only briefly to retain
control, then acquiesced. "Very well," he muttered quietly to the One
who had made him a Prophet. "I hope you know how to play this game."
Then he made his first move.
From the beginning, the pattern of play took on new and puzzling
shapes. This game didn't follow any of the classic forms or if it did,
no one could tell. The size of the board and the rocking and
whispering of the pieces prevented any real perspective. As the three
players wove in and out between their brightly attired armies, guiding
living pieces across the board, Ligne's frustration level grew. She
moved a disc ten feet across the floor, only to have it taken
immediately by an unseen column concealed behind Pelmen's star. "I
can't see what I'm doing," she shouted.
"At the moment," Pelmen told her with considerable effort, "you appear
to be losing." That wasn't quite true. They'd both lost two pieces to
Kherda's three, and the game hung in the balance. Yet Pelmen had
realized that he was playing far beyond his own capacity. He'd
detached himself from the fearsome outcome of the exercise and watched
his own play with objective admiration. It was a necessary mental
adjustment, for the near future was too horrible to consider. Somehow,
the Power helped him make it.
"What's happening?" the spectators muttered to one another. But for
all their confusion, it seemed most of them had a better grasp of the
dynamics of this match than did the befuddled Prime Minister.
"Kherda," Ligne screamed, "are you trying to make me lose?
"No, my Lady," Kherda called back raggedly, and Pel-men almost felt
sorry for the man.
The reference plank changed hands a dozen times in rapid succession,
noting a dazzling exchange of blitzing moves that left everyone a
little dizzy. Then it stopped, and Kherda loudly announced, "Razor."
The crowd gasped, then cheered.
Pelmen frowned. It was uncanny the number of times this situation
arose. So frequently did it happen, in fact, that the merchants had
long since given this configuration its own name. Pelmen had lost
Gerrig and Serphimera, and had three remaining pieces. Ligne, too, had
three pieces left on the board. Kherda had lost all but one, but be
had done so with the consummate skill of one who has practiced only to
lose. His one piece now controlled the outcome of the game. He held
the deciding position the Razor and the way it cut would determine the
winner.
Ligne chuckled. "Well, well."
Kherda smiled at her. He could take Bronwynn on this move, and Ligne
would then be free to take Danyilyn three to one to one, a victory for
the Queen. Or he could take one of Ligne's pieces, and her succeeding
move could not prevent Pelmen from seizing that same winning margin.
The cry of "Razor" was normally the cue for a vigorous round of
negotiations between players to begin. Often the player with a Razor
walked off with more gold in his pocket than the winner himself. But
Pelmen felt no desire to negotiate. He had lost. He only wondered
why, this time, Serphimera had been wrong.
"Go ahead," Ligne ordered. "Take her."
Kherda looked Bronwynn straight in the eyes and took Ligne's piece
instead!
Queen Ligne stared. The act was so incomprehensible, she could think
of nothing to say. Pelmen grunted in surprise, and stared as well.
Unbelievably, he had won. He turned his head to gaze at Kherda, and
found the man was looking at him. Whether or not he understood the
import of the change in Pelmen's face, Kherda remembered the
befriending of the fool and Ligne's back. Now, he'd repaid them
both.
"Kill them!" screamed Ligne. "Kill them all!" Before she finished
the phrase, swords were whistling out of their sheaths and armed
warriors were advancing on the players.
Not only does she cheat, she's a welcher as well! bellowed the
Imperial House suddenly, and the bells on the wall broke into a
horrendous clamor.
Pelmen threw back his head and laughed joyously. "I wondered when we'd
finally hear from you."
Joss did not pause an instant Already his sword was in the air, and he
charged forward, intent on dispatching Bronwynn first, then the rest.
Ligne's game had gone on far too long. It was time to restore some
cold-steel discipline to this castle. "Hold, Joss!" cried someone on
his right, and he whirled to see who challenged him. He stared down
the blade of Rosha mod Dorlyth.
"How did you Carlad!" Joss roared, as he watched the guard sprint for
the wall to tear another sword from it. The lad's guard had proved
himself a mudgecurdle!
"Yes,. Carlad cut me free," Rosha shouted as he whirled the guard's
blade into motion above his head and leaped between Joss and the knot
of players. "And Queen Bronwynn will reward him for it."
No welcher dwells within this House! trumpeted the castle, and the
room started quaking. The House was angry and it finally found the
energy to express its rage.
Rosha kicked a sword from one warrior's fist and slammed shut the visor
of another as the floor shuddered and then buckled. Soldiers and
spectators alike tumbled to their knees, and the room filled with
panicked screeching. People scrambled for the exits, jamming the
hallways beyond the doors just as tightly as they'd jammed the game
room. Many warriors dropped their weapons and raced to join them.
Others, fearing their lords' reprisals worse than falling stones,
staggered to their feet and struggled forward. The floor shifted
again, and the walls shimmied, and still more guards chose to abandon
the fight to join the flight. Those few who kept shoving forward
through the scattering mob suddenly faced a dilemma. Ligne's piercing
voice still rose above the roar, but once they got into the open space
where the troupe clustered, they faced the whirling blade of Rosha mod
Dorlyth. Steel clashed on steel only by accident, as warriors seeking
to brake their charge came into
34*
range of his weapon. No one wanted to battle the brawny savage.
None save Lord Joss himself. "Come then, young warrior," Joss called
grimly. "We shall see if the Golden Throng might be avenged for the
battle of Westmouth on the son of the Mari commander."
"There is some vengeance I crave as well, Joss," Rosba snarled back.
"Vengeance for a broken promise and a cowardly betrayal!" As the room
rocked from side to side and the screeching became intolerable, the two
warriors clashed together over the giant Drax board.
Pelmen spent these chaotic minutes whispering reassurances and
struggling with knotted ropes. "Relax," he soothed, "the House is
angry at Ligne, not us."
"Maybe so." Gerrig quaked in terror. "But are you sure it can control
on whom it drops its walls? Look out!" A chandelier came crashing to
the floor, crushing half a dozen unfortunate spectators.
Pelmen turned his attention to the sword battle. Joss was letting the
younger warrior do all the work, circling him warily and parrying each
blow with a skill born of experience. Rosha attacked him doggedly, his
face twisted by a fierce scowl. Their swords rang together twice
before they tangled in one another's arms, and Joss quickly booted
Rosha in the thigh and jabbed him under the breast with his elbow.
Rosha hurtled backward, his chest unhurt but his leg suddenly cramping.
He planted that leg to dodge the General's onslaught, but it couldn't
hold his weight, and Rosha tumbled to the floor. Joss grinned and
plunged his sword through the sprawling lad
At least, he thought he did. But when he pulled back on his haft, he
felt no resistance then he noticed his blade had liquefied. He stepped
back in astonishment, then quickly tossed the useless pommel aside and
dragged out his dagger. Before he could raise it above his head, its
blade liquefied as well, and he staggered, staring at yet another
useless haft. He glanced up then, and saw Pelmen standing ten feet
away, his arms extended, his palms up. "Are .. . are you doing this?"
Joss choked out. "Oh, not I," Pelmen said. "But it is being done."
Joss threw up his hands and backed away. "How can a mortal withstand
such powers?" he shouted. Then he knelt
Tke Wizard in Wailing and bowed his head. "I'm ready to die," he
called. Throughout his life, Joss had been a gloating victor. But
somewhere through it all he had learned how to lose gracefully.
Pelmen sighed. "That's the nice thing about miracles," he told
Bronwynn and Serphimera, "They're so very spe-ciac."
She's getting away, announced the Imperial House, and Pelmen jerked his
head up to listen. "How?" he demanded.
Through the walls.
"Bronwynn, she's leaving through the walls!"
"I know where she's going. Get me loose!" Pelmen nodded, and dropped
to his knees to tear at her knots with his teeth.
"Here," Rosha grunted, and he pushed Pelmen aside to slash through her
bonds with Carlad's sword. Another quick slash and her hobbles were
cut, and Bronwynn dashed to the wall to rip down a practice sword.
Pelmen sprinted right behind her and grabbed off a pair of blades.
"What about us?" Gerrig hollered. Right above them a chandelier
identical to the one that had fallen swung wildly. Gerrig's eyes never
left it.
"You'll be all right," Pelmen called as he raced back and stooped to
hack at Gerrig's bonds. Carlad quickly joined him, and soon the actor
was free. "Here. Protect the rest of them." Pelmen shoved one of his
swords into Gerrig's hands and took off after Bronwynn and Rosha, who
had disappeared into a gaping hole in the wall.
"There's a tiny dock on the northern face!" Bronwynn was calling as
Pelmen started down a dangerously steep stairway in the dark. "She's
headed for the escape craft"
Actually, she's already in it, the castle corrected.
"The House says she's there," Pelmen shouted as he stumbled. It was
impossible to move quickly and cautiously at the same time. "Can we
stop her?"
"If we hurry " Bronwynn started to yell back. Then there was a heavy
thud, and Bronwynn groaned. "She's bolted the door!"
"Stand back!" Rosha bellowed. With the snort of an enraged bull he
hurled his weight against the barrier and broke it down. The three of
them tumbled over one another onto the wet dock in time to see Ligne's
boat slipping out onto the river.
"We've lost her," Pelmen sighed. Bronwynn moaned aloud, and Rosha
slammed his heavy hand onto the dock in frustration. Pelmen sighed
again, helpless to stop the woman's escape. He'd pushed his body to
its limit.
But the House wasn't finished. Just as Ligne's boat slipped out from
under its walls, an overgrown pigeon relieved himself on the roof once
more.
Enough! the Imperial House thundered and in its rage gave its
mightiest shudder yet. The iron aviary had never been bolted to the
roof, and it began to rock on its base. The excited House shimmied
once more .. .
Ligne, rowing with every shred of her remaining energy, could hear the
tremor, and glanced up the face of her former home in time to see the
aviary fail. She had the chance to scream once before the massive cage
impacted on the water. Her tiny launch was shattered into splinters as
the twisted structure buried itself in the ancient mulch of the
riverbed. Ligne was buried with it.
The three figures on the dock stared in shock as they watched the metal
sink. Bronwynn and Rosha shouted in exultation, and Pelmen felt a slow
smile of relief spread across his face. Then he heard behind him the
castle's windy laughter, as the Imperial House chortled;
How fitting, that the welching Queen should be buried under such a
weighty dropping!
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The House Retires
WITH A FEW SHARP COMMANDS, Bronwynn took charge of her realm. In
bursts of staccato instructions she dispatched messages to the mayors
of all her major cities, reconfirmed most of the petty court lings in
their roles at court, and summoned the guards to bring her erstwhile
enemies to the gardens to face her judgment. As she and Pelmen made
their way through the floating dust up the debris-strewn spiral
walkway, she suggested that Rosha might want to dispatch a flyer to
Erri. "If there's going to be a wedding" she smiled confidently "I
think we might want him to be present."
"Since there will be," Rosha beamed back, "I'd better go summon him. I
think I recall that my father wanted to be informed, too .. ." Then,
dropping his studied nonchalance, Rosha bolted up the ramp with a shout
of boyish exuberance. Bronwynn turned her head to look at Pelmen, her
face a study in regal self-assurance. "How am I doing?"
"Admirably." Pelmen nodded. "You've grown up a lot in these months of
suffering."
Her expression softened, then turned pensive. "Perhaps."
"Something troubles you, though?" Pelmen asked hopefully.
"Shouldn't it? I may have been through a lot since we met, but I don't
think anything's prepared me to reconstruct a country."
"Then you've taken the first step in being a success at it. You
realize you need some help. Ligne never got that far."
"You'll help me, won't you? Please, Pelmen, stay on as our Prime
Minister!"
He gazed at her fondly for a moment. "Thank you, my Lady. But no."
"Why not? You know more about this than I do, and "
"But there's one who knows far more about it than either of us. And
today he saved our lives."
Bronwynn wrinkled her nose. "Kherda? But he overthrew my father."
"Which you've said yourself probably needed to happen. I'll not make
the decision for you. You're the Queen." The two of them stepped out
onto the lowest terrace of the garden. With the displacement of the
aviary, the sunlight burned down brilliantly on the luscious green
foliage, forcing them to stop and breathe the air. It seemed fresher,
somehow, and Pelmen said so.
Of course this House smells better! the castle snapped. The birds
have flown.
That wasn't wholly true, for many of the aviary's occupants remained.
No longer caged, these stayed by choice, for this was the only home
they had known in this northerly land. "Not all, evidently," Pelmen
said.
The others will leave with winter, the House said smugly.
"And so will the plants." Pelmen nodded sadly. "But changes must
come."
"What are you two talking about?" Bronwynn asked.
"Birds and change," Pelmen said quietly. Then he nodded over her
shoulder. Kherda and Joss stood with several others, awaiting the news
of their fate. Bronwynn looked at Kherda grimly, then motioned him to
her. He cleared his throat nervously, then walked forward. "My Lady,
I can ask for nothing save your mercy. While I know "
"Kherda, can you give me some idea of what's happening in the
provinces?"
Kherda looked at her, puzzled, then rapidly responded, "Drought in the
east, though perhaps the rising of the rivers signal some rains have
finally come. Insects in the north have ravaged seed stocks, but we
have enough in storage here in the city to replenish supplies, once the
order is given to move them. It's been a poor year for farmers the
dragon burn of course, and the battle at Westmouth but we're not facing
a major famine, for the fields in the far south produced "
"Can you prepare the orders to ship the necessary goods?" Bronwynn
asked.
"Certainly. They're in my office awaiting signature. Just let me "
Kherda started out, but stopped and came back. "However it's not my
office anymore is it?"
"Who moved you?"
Kherda's wide eyes grew wider. Then he scooped up his skirts and
flapped out of the room, shouting, "I'll be back in a moment."
Bronwynn glanced back distastefully at the remainder of the group, then
settled her gaze on Joss. He was being diligently guarded by a
fierce-eyed Gerrig whom he ignored completely. The warrior met
Bronwynn's gaze passively. Bronwynn glanced back at Pelmen.
"Yes?" he asked. "What of Joss?"
"My recent experience as an almost murderess has convinced me that
somehow I don't think a Queen should be one."
"And?" Pelmen asked.
"And I don't want to start my reign with a full dungeon." She gauged
his reactions. "Joss has so much experience in affairs of state. Why
not make him Ambassador to Lamath?"
Pelmen raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Certainly a creative idea,"
he said appreciatively.
"He's loyal to Chaomonous, we know that. And it would keep him in a
position of responsibility which might prevent him from raising an army
against me. He and Kherda would be separated That's important; those
two have been fighting all my life " She stopped when she saw Pelmen
smiling at her. "Besides," she smiled back, "if he spends time in
Lamath, he might learn something. I did."
Pelmen nodded, still smiling. "You're the Queen."
Gerrig led the General to them and turned Joss around to face Bronwynn.
"My Lady, would you have me dispatch him here?" Gerrig asked
dramatically.
"Gerrig, this isn't a play. You can put up your sword and leave us.
But gather the troupe and meet me at the table tonight. I think you'll
like the role I have picked out for you."
"A new role!" Gerrig said brightly. He stalked out of the garden
smiling grandly. Nothing pleased Gerrig more than a new role.
"Now, Joss," Bronwynn began, "what shall I do with you?"
"I ask no favors, my Lady. I chose wrongly. I'll accept my death as
my due."
"How about accepting appointment to the court of La-math instead? As
my Ambassador?" The General blinked. Then his hard eyes softened. He
remembered when this woman had been but a bright-eyed baby girl and
she'd stolen his battle-hardened heart with a smile. "Joss," she
continued quietly, "this past year has been a nightmare for all of us.
Perhaps we could .. . wake up?"
"I'll serve you faithfully," Joss said with a solemn frown, and
Bronwynn knew he meant it.
"Here's the (puff) documents." Kherda panted as he raced up to
Bronwynn. "Ready for circulation."
Bronwynn took the stylus he offered and quickly signed them, asking as
she did, "What's happened to Jagd?"
"I saw him leaving the castle. I can call him back if you "
"Oh no," Bronwynn said, shaking her head. "I'm glad he's gone. I
would, however, like to meet with the other local merchant lords
tomorrow, as well as all the free traders you can assemble."
"Freetraders?" Kherda frowned.
"I expect to be increasing our dealings with Lamath very soon. Here."
She handed the documents back to him and the Prune Minister wandered
away, shaking his head and muttering about free traders Bronwynn
winked at her mentor. "I believe I'm going to like this."
Pelmen smiled, but his eyes were serious as he replied, "I hope so. I
certainly hope so."
5S2
"The flyers are on their way," Rosha mod Dorlyth told them as he came
down the spiraled terraces.
"And the two of you have much to discuss. I'll let you be." Pelmen
started for the doorway back into the halls.
"You have some discussing to do, too?" Bronwynn guessed.
"Perhaps." He nodded. Then he left them alone.
He searched several floors before he finally had the presence of mind
to ask the House where she was.
In your cell, waiting for you.
Pelmen raced to meet her. "Serphimera?" he asked as he opened the
door.
"I'm here," she called.
"I know. The House told me."
The woman looked at the walls. "Is there no place private?" she
whispered.
"There are some things it can't hear," he whispered back, and he leaned
over and kissed her. She held him briefly, fiercely, then abruptly
pulled herself away. He looked at her with surprise.
"I suppose your two initiates will marry," she finally said.
"They're planning that now. And what of us?" He asked the question
tentatively.
Serphimera's dark green eyes transfixed him. "Are you finished yet?"
"Finished?"
"With your tasks."
Pehnen gazed at her. "I don't know."
"I know. And you're not."
"More visions?" Pelmen asked, a bit harshly.
"You're not. Nor am I. And we both must care for those things
first."
"You're going to keep on telling of Lord Dragon?" Pel-men didn't mean
to sound angry, but he did.
Serphimera smiled forgiveness, bit her lip, and looked beyond his head.
"Lord Dragon," she sighed. "I think, for a long time, the dragon has
been more a symbol for me than anything else. The image is familiar it
has a comforting power that's rooted in my childhood. But I've long
since cast aside any relation between those soothing terms and the
scaly monster you killed in Dragonsgate."* Pelmen stared at her, his
mouth open. "And that one you serve? The Power? I serve that One,
too."
"But when "
"When did I change?" Again Serphimera bit her lip and tried to express
what she felt. "I don't know. Not when I saw the lizard die.
Before."
"Before! But just the other day you said "
"Perhaps when I first saw the beast, and realized that the one I served
was not there, in those huge heads. Or perhaps when I first met you on
the road to Serphila, and called you a heretic while your eyes loved
me." She looked back at him. "I couldn't admit it to myself until
today. But the change has come." She sighed and scooted toward him.
"Still, there are other changes yet to come other heartaches." She
bent forward until her forehead rested in her hands. "I know"
"And .. . what about us?" Pelmen whispered, longing to hear, but
fearing her answer. She was silent. "Tell me what you know!" he
demanded.
"I know there are things we each must do, which may at any moment part
us. Can we know anything beyond that?" She stood, and started for the
door. He caught her by the hand.
"We will talk again," he said firmly.
Serphimera's emerald eyes dazzled him. He saw a longing there, an
eagerness that thrilled him. Then she blinked her lashes, and suddenly
the look was gone. "Perhaps," she said. Then she left the cell.
Erri arrived a week later to a city festooned with drapes and garlands.
With the assistance of Pelmen's old acting companions, whom Bronwynn
had appointed as heads of various cultural ministries, the Prime
Minister had hurriedly organized a national festival to celebrate both
the coronation and the wedding of Queen Bronwynn lan Rosha. Chaomonous,
sensing the dawning of a new age, awoke into a most colorful spring, as
befitted a city long known as the Golden. The whole population turned
out to watch the arrival of the Prophet from the north.
If they wanted pomp, however, Erri disappointed them. He rode into
town on a dark mare, flanked by Naquin, who had met him at Dragonsgate.
And while he smiled and
waved as much as was necessary to keep up appearances, his mind was
engaged in explaining to Naquin firsthand the role Pelmen had played in
the remaking of Lamath. Erri was followed by a long column of riders
gowned uniformly in pale blue, but the parade did not have the
precision of a military unit. Instead, riders kept slipping off their
horses and joining themselves to the cheering crowd to walk along the
parade route in conversation. Toward the middle of the procession a
solemn-faced contingent of riders led four wagons, each wagon carrying
a blue-draped coffin. Erri was bringing the bodies of those trampled
by the slavers to rest here, in the capital city of the land he'd
assigned them to evangelize. It seemed fitting.
He and Naquin were laughing by the time they reached the gate of the
Imperial House, and Erri's smiles grew broader as he greeted first
Bronwynn, then Rosha, and finally Pelmen with bear hugs He shared some
quiet words with Serphimera, who answered him shyly, then took her hand
and slipped his other arm around Pelmen's shoulder as they turned to
follow the new Queen into her palace. It was a joyful day.
Rosha's joy was muted, however. He still hadn't heard from Dorlyth.
Another week passed. They could wait no longer. Everything was ready
in the city, and Erri needed to return home. Bronwynn and Rosha
agreed, finally, that they had to go ahead. Even so, Rosha still made
frequent trips to the roof, hoping for some word from Dorlyth. When it
came time to clothe himself in the fancy garments Bronwynn had
commissioned for this occasion, he sent Pelmen to the roof in his
place.
Now Pelmen leaned against the battlements, gazing sadly out at the road
that wound down from the gate into the city. In his hand he clutched a
crumpled parchment sheet
This news is sad, but perhaps not unexpected, said the House.
Pelmen agreed. "I just didn't expect the trouble to develop so
quickly."
Any power shaper skilled enough to breathe life into a castle must be a
person of great ambition. And if the waking of the High Fortress of
Ngandib is any indication, this Flayh you speak of will waste no time
in taking what he chooses.
Pelmen opened the parchment again and reread it
SON BLESSINGS ON YOU! WOULD COME IF I COULD, BUT FLAYH CONTROLS PAHD
AND WE HAVE NEW WARS OF CONFEDERATION. MUCH LOVE DORLYTH MEL ROSHA.
The signature was significant It meant Dorlyth, father of Rosha, and
was the salute a Man father gave when acknowledging his son's manhood.
Pelmen smiled grimly at that. Dorlyth had always been the most
mannerly of swordsmen.
The news was more than sad. It was threatening. Wars of confederation
again. "New magic wars," Pelmen breathed.
Indeed they are that, the House agreed. Already this House is feeling
the aftershocks of the shaping taking place in the Mar.
"In what way?" Pelmen asked.
Just a warmth, at present. If the battles move into this region, the
pain will become intense as you must know.
"I ... apologize again for what I inflicted on you "
It is past, if not forgotten, said the House. Your apologies all of
them have been accepted. But the one you battled is most insensitive
to the pain he causes his own castle. The High Fortress may be a
malevolent place, and poor company, but not even it deserves such
misery.
Pelmen sighed. "I can imagine how it feels "
No, you can't, said the House. No one can no one but this House. And
you are perhaps the only one who can do anything to aid it. You, and
the Power, of course.
"You believe what I've told you of the Power?"
No need. This House has met the Power. It is to the Power that this
House withdraws.
"What do you mean?"
Before the House could answer, Pelmen was grabbed by the elbow and spun
around. "You have the news?"
"Look at you!" the power shaper exclaimed, and he followed his own
instructions. Rosha glistened in the light of the sun. His basic
garments were shades of blue, Bron wynn's reminder to him of their time
as Pelmen's initiates in the sky faith What sparkled was the trim. The
entire costume was frosted with a glaze of diamonds set in gold. Rosha
was frankly embarrassed by it.
"The news!" he begged. "A messenger told me you had some."
Pelmen frowned and handed Rosha the parchment. Then he leaned over the
battlements again as the lad read it. Rosha soon leaned on the low
wall beside him, and they stood together in silence for several
minutes.
"I'm sorry," Pelmen said finally.
"He just couldn't make it, that's all." Rosha shrugged. He struggled
to hide his concern.
Pelmen put an arm around Rosha's shoulder. "I know what you're
thinking, but it wouldn't do any good. You've got a bride waiting for
you down below and your father can take care of himself."
"You're going," Rosha muttered.
"How do you know that?"
"I know you."
"Well. We'll talk about it. Right now Bronwynn's waiting, and I'm
sure Erri is anxious to get this ceremony out of the way."
"Right." Rosha nodded and started toward the gaping hole where the
aviary once stood. "You coming?"
"In a bit," Pelmen called back. Rosha nodded again and left the roof.
"Now. What were you saying?"
This House is withdrawing to be with the Power. "I don't
understand."
It is apparent that castles are not made to live. These stones, these
walls, this House all of these have their own existence, quite apart
from that of man. The hills, the river these don't aspire to copy man.
Nor should this House.
"But you're alive!"
In imitation of human life, and not by choice. This House lives rather
by human device and ambition. Yet men can move. This House cannot
move. Men enjoy the company of others. This House has no company,
save you and the High Fortress. But that castle has a cruel spirit and
all the dangerous ambition of the very young among men. And you will
soon be leaving, because of that Fortress. Men may live in happy
ignorance of the magical forces being shaped around them. This House
must endure the necessary pain such shaping creates without recourse.
That pain makes these coming wars that much more frightening. For all
these reasons, it seems better for the House for the life in this House
to withdraw. "But where will you go?"
Back to the Power. For it's from the Power that all life is shaped.
"All?" Pelmen asked, thinking of the life now in the High Fortress and
its evil genesis.
All. Either by the Power ... or artificially, through. "Then I'll not
speak with you again?"
Only if the Power permits. The peace of this House be on you, Pelmen
Dragonsbane. Attend your task. And your Lady. She slips away this
very moment through the front gate. Perhaps you can catch her.
"Serphimera?" Pelmen shouted. He raced to the battlements and looked
down. Five floors below, he could see the flowing navy robes of the
Priestess as she quickly made her way down the cobblestones toward the
city. "Serphimera, wait!" he cried, and he vaulted on top of the
parapet and leaped off.
Maliff, the falconer, stepped out of his mews just in time to observe
Pelmen disappear. "Here now!" he cried in horror. He raced to the
wall and looked down to see the falling man spread the wings of a bird.
It glided upwards, then down to settle on the shoulders of a blue-clad
woman. Maliff stared for a minute, watching as woman and falcon
disappeared among the throngs of shoppers in the market. Then he
clucked his tongue. "Why didn't you just tell me you were a far con in
the first pr ace You birds," he mumbled. "You've arways got to pray
your rittre tricks." As Maliff ducked back into the cool darkness of
his fafcon house, he was still chuckling.
About the Author
Robert Don Hughes was born in Ventura, California, the son of a Baptist
pastor. He grew up in Long Beach, and was educated in Redlands,
Riverside, and Mill Valley, gaining degrees in theater arts and
divinity. That education continued and he finished a Ph.D. in
Missions, Religions and Philosophy in Louisville, Kentucky.
He has been a pastor, a playwright, a teacher, a filmmaker, and a
missionary, and considers all those roles fulfilling. He has published
several short plays, and presently teaches drama. He spent two years
in Zambia, and while there was bitten by the Africa bug. His two
passions are writing and football not necessarily in that order,
especially in October. He is married to Gail, a beautiful South
Alabama woman who loves rainbows, and fills his LIFE with them.
Currently, he and Gail, with a beautiful baby daughter, are living in
Africa where he is doing missionary work.
Most of all, Bob likes people. The infinite variety of personalities
and opinions makes life interesting. The sharing of self makes it
worthwhile.