The Cursed

by Dave Duncan

  "All done, Gwin Saj!" Niad had just cured the last wrenched knee.

  "We thank you, Niad Saj!" Bulion growled. "We are even more in your debt than before."

  Niad was not accustomed to such respect. She blushed in delight.

  "She's wonderful!" Polion said assertively.

  "Polion!"

  The boy tore his eyes away from Niad. "Grandfather?"

  "Whoever these characters are, they've left five behind. One broken leg, one fractured skull, and a belly wound. Two are dead. As far as I can work it out, you cracked the skull when you rescued Aneim."

  "Um, yes, Grandfather."

  "Then you broke another man's neck with a kick. I saw that myself. And you brought down the one carrying off Gwin Saj. He must have banged his head on the flagstones. You disabled one man severely and killed two others!"

  The boy flinched. "I did? Me?"

  "Yes, you did. You out-fought the whole lot of us! You're a one-man army! You're a true Zardon! You are a hero!"

  Polion grinned and everyone else roared with laughter. He disappeared inside a mob of relatives, thumping him on the back and bellowing congratulations.

  Niad sighed and looked at Gwin. "He's wonderful, isn't he?" she said wistfully.

  Gwin drew a deep breath and looked around the smirking Tharns and servants. Then she located Niad's dreamy smile again. "Ready to start on the enemy wounded? We can tie them up first."

  "Of course, Gwin Saj!"

  "Start with that one, then." Gwin pointed at the man with the broken leg. He was sitting up, in obvious pain, and guarded by a glowering, sword-bearing Wosion.

  "That would not be a good idea!" boomed a resonant voice from the shadows. A large figure clad in silver loomed forward.

  Gwin jumped. "Who are you?" And where had she come from?

  How much had she seen?

  "Labranza Lamith." She was imposing and oddly masculine, well-dressed, with hair carefully coiled on top of her head. Her age was somewhere between thirty and twice that. She did not use the old imperial tradition of giving three names, and she did not sound like a Dalingian.

  Gwin rose shakily. "Oh? I am Gwin Nien Solith."

  Labranza shrugged as if that did not matter. "Obviously you are not familiar with fatalist powers."

  "No. Are you?"

  "Very. This Ivielscath has received no formal training?"

  "Of course not! Who could provide—"

  "Then I suggest she not attempt to heal an enemy. That requires considerable control." The woman's tone was abrasive, but her manner carried authority.

  "She might injure the man?"

  "She would almost certainly kill him."

  "Without meaning to, you mean?"

  "That is what I implied."

  The surrounding Tharns muttered. Niad moved closer to Polion, and he put an arm around her again.

  Labranza? Why was the name familiar? Ah! "You are from Raragash, Labranza Saj?"

  The big woman frowned. Her dark eyebrows were as bushy as a man's. She nodded.

  "I have a message for you. Tibal Frainith said he will see you back there."

  Labranza displayed the small white teeth in her lower jaw. "When did he leave?"

  "I can't say exactly. Before this riot started. Is he a Shoolscath?"

  "Of course."

  So Tibal had lied. Gwin felt an odd twinge of regret. "Then he foresaw this and left before—"

  "No he didn't. Don't you understand Shoolscaths? He isn't here, so he couldn't have foreseen what happened. He may have foreseen learning of it." The big women smiled unpleasantly. "Don't believe anything a Shoolscath tells you, Gwin Saj. Seers always lie. They have to. He did not say when he would meet me, I suppose?"

  "No. Would it matter, if he lies all the time?"

  "Probably not. It is almost dawn. My companions and I require accommodation."

  There were two men behind her—a tall, fair-haired man, and a short, dark, ugly one with a hump. Where had these three come from at this time of night?

  Gwin tried to pull her wits together, but they remained stubbornly disorganized. The night watch must come along soon on patrol and would certainly investigate the open door. Then she could turn the problem over to the authorities and perhaps discover who had tried to abduct her. She could not see what the Gurshiths could have hoped to gain.

  "We have one room left. It contains two large beds."

  "I shall take the room. You will not object if Jasbur and Ordur stretch out on benches? It is not far off dawn."

  The men exchanged glances but did not argue.

  Gwin pointed. "That's the room, there, with the unicorn on the door. But I do not want your friends lying around. When the night watch arrive, they would be questioned, and we have enough complications without adding any more. Either you all disappear from view, or you leave."

  Labranza stiffened and glared.

  "Decide!" Gwin snapped.

  "Well, we shall share the room. Don't forget what I told you about the healer."

  Labranza wheeled around and headed off to her room, the men following without a word. From their names, they must be Tringians. So many strangers! The Ivielscath secret was bound to leak out now. Gwin might as well have hired the crier to announce it around the city.

  Why was there no mark on the second corpse? A sudden heart attack caused by over-exertion would be a very convenient explanation, too convenient. Polion was not refusing the credit but he had done nothing except grab hold of Gwin herself. Perhaps he did not remember the details very clearly.

  A moment later the night watch discovered the open door and came in to investigate.

  #

  Rightly concluding that it was out of its depth, the night watch sent for the city guard. Then the court filled up with men in shiny helmets and chain mail tunics, men with swords, men unshaven and angry at being routed out of bed. The questions began, millions of questions: who were the assailants, who were the Tharns, why had attackers been injured and the defenders not, what had been the purpose of the attack, who exactly had killed the three dead ones—and how had the unmarked one died?

  Fortunately the troop leader was Oriol Oginith, who had been a friend of Carp's. He was a crusty, middle-aged man. Little of his face was visible inside his helmet, other than a worried frown and a thick brown mustache. He was sympathetic, but he had a duty to do, and Gwin was very grateful for Bulion Tharn's support. The old man stayed at her side and fielded as many of the queries for her as he could.

  The real problems were the unmarked corpse and the Tharns' curious lack of injuries. If Oriol guessed that there had been an Ivielscath at work, he did not say so. Niad had been extricated from Polion's attentions and dispatched to bed with the rest of the staff. In Daling there would have to be very clear evidence that a citizen had committed a major crime before the guard would stoop to questioning mere servants.

  "I shall leave guards on the doors," Oriol said at last. "No one may leave. There will be more questions in the morning, obviously."

  "I'm sure we all just want to go to bed," Gwin retorted wearily. The night seemed to have lasted for months.

  "Do so. No one will get in, either," he added grimly.

  She rose to see him out, and grab a private word. "Do you know who those men were?"

  "Hired thugs. Their employer?" The troop leader paused on the threshold. "I can guess, I think. I can't tell you that, of course." He waited expectantly.

  "I understand. Liam Gurshith?"

  Oriol shook his head.

  "Ran Gosilbaith?"

  Another shake.

  "Vinal Esoterith?"

  Nod. "I do not deny it. You have deep trouble, Gwin Saj. May the fates soon smile on you." He marched out to give orders to his men.

  She closed the door behind him and wandered back to the courtyard. So the raid had not been revenge by Kolo Gurshith. Ran and Vinal were two of Liam's rivals, leaders of opposing factions. The intention had been to abduct her, but why? Despite young Polion
's brave efforts, the attempt would have succeeded had the man carrying her not dropped dead in his tracks. The Esoteriths had shown no interest in her or the hostel before now; their aim had been to strike a blow at Liam. She had become a pawn in the fetid turmoil of Dalingian politics.

  The court was deserted. Torches guttered and smoked. The Tharns had all gone off to bed. Faint glimmers of candles showed through some of the windows, going out one by one as the occupants settled down to salvage some rest from the wreck of the night. The eastern sky was tinged with blue already, Iviel shining brightly, heralding dawn, bright enough to dim the stars.

  Gwin could feel every bone aching, yet she did not think she would sleep. Daylight was going to bring more problems, many more.

  She sat on a bench and stared around the familiar scene with bitter anger. It was a beautiful building, perhaps the best preserved example of imperial domestic architecture left anywhere in Kuolia. It was her home, and yet now it did not feel like home at all. It had been violated by armed brutes. She felt raped. She could not feel safe here now, nor ever again. Even that was being taken from her.

  She leaned back against the table, listening to the silence, looking at the starlit statuary. Such thoughts seemed unworthy of Carp's memory. But Carp had gone and could never return. Her babes had gone. She had no one she could call on—hotel keepers had little time for socializing, so she and Carp had possessed few close friends. The war and the star sickness had taken a heavy toll of those few; the Gurshith connection would frighten away more and word of a feud with Vinal Esoterith would finish the matter.

  Lonely! she thought. I am all alone.

  A fragment of poetry... something Carp had quoted from time to time: One is all we are given, And one alone is useless. Quirmoith on Life, probably, as that had been one of Carp's favorites. Now it made more sense to her than it ever had before: A life should have more purpose than just its own existence. What was she struggling here for? Just to possess a building? A business? Neither of them would thank her for her efforts.

  She thumped a fist on the cold marble surface. Purpose! she thought. I need a purpose!

  No relatives and almost no friends...

  Something moved and she made out a shape standing in the shadows, watching her. It was Bulion—big, bald, aging, and white-bearded, but rain in a desert. Perhaps she had a friend after all. He had been her ally tonight, staunch at her side during the questioning. He must care.

  He had cared enough to wait and make sure she was all right. He would not mind if she imposed on him a little more on this awful night.

  She rose and walked over to him. He did not speak. She stepped close and rested her head on his shoulder. He put his arms around her in silence. His beard tickled her cheek.

  "You must try to get some sleep, Gwin Saj," he rumbled. "Tomorrow will be another hard day."

  He reminded her of her father, long ago. But Bulion Tharn had offered himself earlier in another role. She needed his strength and the price would not be unwelcome.

  "You did some bragging tonight, old man."

  For a long moment he said nothing. Probably she had shocked his rustic soul to the core and he would despise her for evermore as a loose woman, a city trollop.

  "No."

  "Will you prove it? There need be no commitment. Just tonight."

  "Tonight or forever, Gwin Solith, as you please."

  With his strong farmer's arm around her, he guided her over to the Peacock Room. There was no candle, but Iviel glittered on the gold leaf in the frescoes and cast enough light to show the great bed in the center of the room. He closed the door softly behind them.

  She unbuttoned her gown and let it fall. "Are you right-handed or left-handed?"

  He chuckled, sounding embarrassed. "In a good cause—both."

  She slid naked under the cover and moved over to make room for him. They sank together into the down-filled mattress. He was large, solid, hairy. He was warm, man-scented. The arms that closed around her were heavy and powerful. He pulled her close.

  He held her tight, very tight, not speaking, doing nothing more. She yielded to the seductive comfort of body contact, feeling herself gradually relax in the bonds of his strength. A lover's embrace was more security than any building, she decided. She had been alone long enough. Too long. Carp would not have grudged her this. Eventually she muttered, "If you don't start soon, I shall go to sleep."

  "Go to sleep. I'm old enough to wait."

  She moved a thigh inquiringly. "You weren't bragging."

  "No, but it will keep. This is all you need."

  "That's not fair to you," she muttered.

  "I am more than content. Sleep, Nien, sleep."

  Oh, he knew that, did he? "What did your wives call you?" she murmured sleepily.

  "Bull."

  "Prove it."

  "Another time."

  She went to sleep in his arms.

  16

  Morning. Gritty-eyed from lack of sleep, surrounded by an escort of swordsmen in clinking chain mail, Bulion Tharn plodded up a staircase wide enough to take a loaded hay wain. The governor's palace had been built to impress the citizens of a great empire with the glory of long-dead emperors. It must certainly impress one aged, fat farmer, mustn't it?

  Not much. The present inhabitants were unworthy of their forebears. He could see grime in the crevices of the carved marble balustrade. The faded tapestries on the high walls had been nibbled by moths. Ropes holding up the great chandeliers were cross-braced to their cleats by cobwebs. My ancestors sacked better buildings than this.

  But he was no barbarian terror. He was just an old farmer. Sixteen members of his family were confined in the Phoenix Street Hostel, and were thus potential hostages. So was Gwin Nien Solith. She was an unexpected innovation in his life, possibly an important factor. He had not yet had time to come to terms with all the implications. Now he had been summoned by the governor. Why him and not Gwin? Why so urgent? What could be so important about one old farmer that the chief magistrate of Daling wanted to meet him soon after dawn?

  The stairs went on and on. The youngsters around him were burdened with masses of steel, but they showed no signs of flagging. Bulion Tharn, alas, outweighed any of them; he was running sweat. The worst part of growing old was the injustice. He did not feel old. No matter what a mirror told him—he tended to avoid mirrors—he felt he was the same man inside that he had always been. Only on very rare occasions, like now, was he forced to acknowledge the tally of years on his slate. He could hear his breath rasping, and undoubtedly his escort could too. He would be Cursed by all the fates before he would ask them to slow down.

  He lived to reach the top. The squad continued along a wide corridor to a hall glittering with gilt and crystal. At first glance it seemed almost empty, a vast, echoing plain, but he soon realized that it contained enough furniture to fill his own house a dozen times over. The floor was bright with mosaic patterns and pictures. The walls and ceiling had probably been even brighter once, but now were faded and dusty. One man sat at a desk at the far end, writing. The troop advanced toward him.

  All this just to impress a farmer?

  He missed the halt signal, and almost collided with the leader. Then they stood in silence, still a dozen paces from the desk. Sweat trickled down his ribs. Now he would be made to wait, as another lesson in humility.

  The wall he faced was a playground of giants, men and boys tesselated in complex dance. The design made no sense until he remembered that the Qolians had regarded the fates as male. Then he confirmed that there were fourteen main figures, set against a background of tiny mortal victims and beneficiaries.

  Predictably, the composition was dominated by Poul, blazing on his throne as young lord of day, skulking in the night as dark old king of death. That was reasonable. Ogoal, the giver of fortune, was a boy showering gold and a man smiting with lightning. They could be accepted, too, but the rest of the artist's conceits seemed far-fetched. He had strained mightily t
o represent the bringer of change as male—man with globe, boy with crescent—but a mother and child would be more appropriate allegories for Awail. Muol displayed passion as enraged warrior and priapic lover, which Bulion considered obscene. A venerable sage writing in a book served well for Jaul as dispenser of law and truth but the obnoxious child shattering a city was ridiculous, verging on blasphemous. Iviel as giver of health was ludicrously over-muscled and in his somber aspect was clearly his own worst victim. The baby with the hourglass would be Shool and probably he was also the very old man with the crutch, although that corner had suffered from damp and much of the plaster had fallen off.

  Bulion was not impressed. He would not want such a display in his home. His ancestors would have reached for their tinderboxes. Not only were the sexes wrong, but the Zarda's contempt for art had applied especially to any depictions of the seven. Life, change, chance, health, passion, reason, and time ruled the world—what more was needed than that stark and simple creed? Any attempt to illustrate it merely cheapened it.

  The ceiling depicted myths of the Twin God, but Bulion was not going to gawk at the roof just to view that nonsense. Much good their god had done the Qolians when the Zarda came. This tiny enclave of Daling was probably the last place in the world where that ambivalent deity was still worshipped.

  The governor replaced his quill in the inkwell and looked up inquiringly. The troop leader saluted.

  "The man Bulion Tharn, Excellency." He stepped aside to reveal the prisoner, if that was what Bulion was.

  "Ah." Imquin Strevith rose. The governor of Daling was a tall man, only slightly stooped. Although his sparse hair was silver and his face had the texture of crumbled chalk, his eyes were dark and penetrating, even at that distance. His antique-style tunic was white, elaborately embroidered and bedecked with honors and orders of a bygone age. Outside Daling, the world had forgotten such frippery long ago. He stepped around the corner of his desk and waited expectantly.