More importantly, he had sworn an oath. For two and a half years, the knowledge that he had made a false vow had eaten away at him, and that pain had finally been alleviated slightly when he undertook this journey. He did not care to let it return. He had regained some trace of honor, tarnished though it might be, and preferred to keep it for as long as he could.
“No,” he said. “I am sorry.” He rose, before any protest could be made. “I came to this chamber hoping that you might aid me in my search for the Book of Silence, perhaps tell me more of its nature. You have told me much, but it was not what I wished to hear. This conversation has been most enlightening, and I thank you for it, but still, I must pursue my original intention. I do promise you that I do not want to see the Age of Death begin and that I do not intend to aid in bringing it about, if I can avoid it and still meet my sworn obligations. It is plain that none of you would willingly help me in my search for the Book of Silence, and I will not compel you to do so; you act as you see best, as do I. For that reason, I believe there is no point in continuing this discussion.” He nodded politely to each, then turned and marched out through the door they had entered by.
The paneled corridor was almost empty, but, half-hidden in a neighboring doorway, Garth saw a red-clad figure. “Ho, there,” he called. “Can you show me the way out?”
In the Rose Chamber, the wizards watched him go and then turned to each other.
“We have to stop him, Shandi,” Chalkara said.
“I know that, but what method would you suggest? I have no magic left that can kill from afar, and I see no other way of stopping him. And even if I had some, it might not work; true, he no longer carries the sword, but he is still the chosen of Bheleu.”
“Is he really?” Silda asked. “You two and the overman seem to know a great deal more than I do about all this.”
“Yes, he is. Everything we have said here is true.”
Silda glanced at the door Garth had closed behind himself. “We should tell the overlord,” she said.
Chalkara agreed. “She’s right, Shandi. Garth hasn’t got the Sword of Bheleu; ordinary soldiers should be able to kill him if necessary. At the very least, the overlord might insist that he leave the city; that would make it harder for him to find the Book of Silence, if it really is here.”
Shandiph nodded. “I think you’re right. If we act quickly, we might be in time to prevent the return of his weapons; even an overman would not be likely to put up too much of an argument at sword point when he’s armed with nothing but a dagger.”
Chalkara asked, “Who will speak to the overlord?”
“Speed is important, and we must impress upon him how urgent this is. We must all go, at once.”
He rose, and Chalkara did the same. Silda got to her feet more hesitantly, then followed the wizards out of the room.
In the corridor they caught a glimpse of the overman vanishing into a side passage. Chalkara hesitated. “Should we pursue him? One of us, perhaps?”
“No,” Shandiph said. “I’m sure that the overlord will have him followed as a precaution, and by someone less recognizable than we are. Let him go for now.”
“He’ll get his sword and axe back,” Silda pointed out.
“He may be delayed, if he chooses to take advantage of the overlord’s hospitality by accepting a meal or a drink, and we have no authority to prevent the return of his weapons without the overlord’s word. You know that we are all three distrusted here, as wizards always are.”
“I’m no wizard,” Silda protested.
“You’re a scholar, which is close enough for most people. You know things they don’t. If we try to interfere without the prince’s support, we’ll be accused of conspiracy and treason, most likely. Better to risk Garth’s arming himself while we talk to the overlord.”
“We have no choice now,” Chalkara said. “While we’ve been standing here debating, he’s undoubtedly gotten that much farther away.”
“True enough,” Shandiph replied. “Let us waste no more time, then.” He turned and led the way down the corridor toward the audience chamber.
Chapter Eleven
The overlord did not pay much attention when the archivist and the two wizards re-entered the hall; he assumed that they had finished their discussion with the overman and had come back to the audience chamber in case their prince might require their services. He was rather startled, therefore, when, instead of resuming their accustomed places, they stood before him and made the accepted ritual obeisance.
He had been chatting with his treasurer while the doorkeepers selected the next petitioner to be granted a hearing; during the time that the overman had been talking in the Rose Chamber he had settled a property dispute and refused to hear the appeal of a convicted thief, turning the man back over to the jailer for flogging. The day had been going well, and except for the arrival of the overman from Skelleth and his unorthodox requests, it had been routine.
There was nothing routine, however, in having three of the prince’s advisers appear before him, uninvited, while he was holding court. They knew better, he told himself. If they had public business, it could go through the regular channels—though, of course, they would have fewer delays than outsiders would face—and if it was private, it could be handled informally after the day’s work was finished.
He paused for a few seconds, letting the trio perceive his annoyance and grow a bit more nervous, then demanded, “Why have you come here? Speak, if you have any excuse for your action!”
With his head politely bowed, as protocol required in a petitioner, the male wizard said, “O Prince, we beg your forgiveness, but we have urgent business, very urgent indeed, and must speak with you immediately.”
The overlord considered for a moment. The formalities and rituals of his life served a definite purpose, in that they made it easier for him to deal with the unending demands made upon him. Each piece of business, whatever its nature, was categorized and run through the appropriate ceremonies, delays, and sortings, so that only a tiny fraction of the whole ever needed to reach him at all; when it did, it was stripped down to the essentials, his choices laid out for him and awaiting a quick decision. Cutting through the rituals was a dangerous precedent; if he permitted the formal structure to weaken, he might be deluged in trivia. Only foreigners, who must be assumed to be ignorant of the usual procedures, were ever allowed to deviate from the pattern, and then only if it seemed a diplomatic necessity—as it had appeared with the overman.
On the other hand, he faced here not a single unknown individual, but three of his most learned counselors. He had not yet had time to become truly familiar with either of the wizards in the months since their arrival, but Chalkara had been the chosen magician of the High King at Kholis, despite her youth—if she was as young as she appeared, which was not something one could be sure of with wizards. She, in turn, deferred to Shandiph, so that he, too, must be considered worthy of respect—unless it was his age that engendered her deference. The vanished Deriam, the overlord’s previous wizardly adviser, had spoken well of Shandiph; these two said that Deriam was dead, and the possibility of a magical feud had occurred to the overlord, but that did not detract from the pair’s apparent worth. The archivist Silda had lived all her life as a member of the court, under first his father and then himself, but the prince knew less about her than he knew about the wizards; she seemed to care little for his company, or for that of any of his friends or informers. She was given to long historical discussions full of obscure references whenever he consulted her professionally; he suspected that she hoped to impress him with her erudition. He was not easily impressed, but he had to admit that she knew her job well.
These three, he thought, must honestly believe that their need was urgent, or they would not have interrupted the day’s routine. Despite the unfortunate precedent it set, he decided to hear them out.
He w
ould not do so publicly, however, whatever the matter might be. That would be too damaging to his aura of imperviousness.
In fact, as he prepared to speak, a way of settling the affair to his benefit occurred to him, a scheme that would make plain to all present that the overlord was not to be disturbed without good reason.
He waved an arm, finger pointing. “Guards! Take these three to the Black Hall, and summon the executioner! I will hear their plea, as I must in fairness do, but the penalty for usurping my attention thus and delaying the work of governance must be no less than death, if the cause is not sufficient!”
That, he thought, should impress any over-eager father wanting reimbursement for his daughter’s lost maidenhood, or a householder demanding that his neighbor’s hounds be silenced, enough to keep them out of his hair. He rose, watching as six guardsmen snatched the advisers up off the floor, a soldier at each arm. An officer had gone for the headsman; that was good. The prince led the way to the black and gold door, moving in his stately, slow walk, aware that the soldiers were bringing the three advisers along a few paces behind him.
A footman opened the door into the back corridor, then ran ahead to the black iron door of the execution chamber. The overlord entered the room, waited as the wizards and the archivist were brought in, then waved imperiously at the guards and servant. “Begone,” he said.
The seven vanished, and he looked about for somewhere to sit. The room was empty save for the black stone platform in the center and the great block of ebony that stood upon it. The walls and floor were rough black stone; the ceiling was black-veined red marble, arched and vaulted. It was a thoroughly uncomfortable place, he decided as he settled on the edge of the platform.
The three counselors stood awkwardly, facing him, unsure whether to prostrate themselves, to bow, or just to stand there.
“Now,” the overlord said, “what is it that’s so urgent?”
“O Prince,” Shandiph replied, “you must prevent Garth from. taking the Book of Silence!”
“Garth? The overman?” The overlord was puzzled. “Why?”
“O Prince,” Chalkara said, “the Book of Silence is perhaps the most deadly object ever to exist. It is linked with the higher gods, the gods of life and death and even Dagha himself, it seems. Its arcane power is so great that ordinary wizards cannot use it, for to speak a single word from its pages would be instantly fatal.” She paused to catch her breath.
The overlord remarked, “That would seem to make it one of the most useless of objects.”
Shandiph demurred. “I fear not, my lord. As Chalkara has said, no ordinary wizard can use it, but Garth of Ordunin serves one who is not an ordinary wizard. The book was created to be used by a single individual, the immortal high priest of The God Whose Name Is Not Spoken. That is whom Garth intends to deliver it to.”
“How do you know this?”
Shandiph asked, “Which part, O Prince?”
“How do you know whom the overman plans to give the book to? He mentioned a wizard, not a priest.”
“We know him, Chalkara and I, from a previous encounter. We know that he is associated with the King in Yellow, as the high priest of Death was known of old, and with no other wizards. He admitted as much to us when we spoke with him just now.”
“The King in Yellow?” The overlord looked at Silda. “I believe you’ve mentioned an ancient legend about someone with that description.”
“Yes, my prince.”
The overlord saw that the archivist had no intention of elaborating, and did not pursue the matter.
“Well, then, what if the overman does take this book to this priest? How will that harm us here in Ur-Dormulk?”
Shandiph answered, “We believe it will bring about the start of the Fifteenth Age, the Age of Death.”
“You fear that? Are not the ages preordained and unchangeable?”
Shandiph hesitated, and Chalkara answered for him. “We do not know, O Prince. It may be that they are not.”
“We are only in the third year of the Fourteenth Age; it seems to me that any worry, about the next age is premature.”
“We do not know how long the Fourteenth Age is to be,” Chalkara said.
The overlord nodded; he had heard the court astrologer bewailing that uncertainty. “Still,” he said, “I cannot believe it will be so brief as that.”
“We think that it may be,” Chalkara insisted.
The overlord leaned back on his hands and looked at the three scholars. “I think,” he said, “that you have all managed to frighten one another with old myths and vague suppositions until you have convinced yourselves that we are all in mortal peril, when in truth we are in no more danger from this mad overman than from the Emperor of Yesh.” He held up a hand to forestall any protest. “Furthermore, I think you’re missing a few essential facts in your worrying.”
He shifted, leaned forward again, and held up a finger. “First, the danger you envision may not exist at all. Second, if it does, this overman may have nothing to do with it. Third, whatever else he may be, the overman is a representative of the Baron of Skelleth. You may not realize just how dependent we are upon Skelleth in these unsettled times. You may take seriously my magnificent titles and the splendor of this palace, but I know better; I may call myself a prince and be known throughout Eramma by the title of overlord, but the hard truth is that I’m nothing more than an Eramman baron. Those lesser lords in my court who give me the claim to be an overlord have no power at all; they are worth no more to me than the officers of my guard—probably less, actually.
“Maybe in ancient times Ur-Dormulk was a real nation unto itself and a power to be reckoned with; maybe Alar and Hastur and those other lands I claim really existed; I don’t know and I don’t care. All I rule is a walled city, a few miles of lakes and mountains, and a good-sized piece of plain that’s totally impossible to defend, should one of my neighbors decide to invade. One of those neighbors is the Baron of Skelleth, and right now he’s the only one who isn’t at war somewhere and the only one conducting any trade at all. We haven’t had a caravan in from Therin or Kholis in eighteen months; have you noticed what fresh fruit costs in the markets and shops these days? And what there is, is all our own, at that; I haven’t seen a date or an orange in over a year, and if any were available in the city, I’d know it, I promise you.
“That may not mean much to you, but if we lost the trade with Skelleth, you’d know it and you’d feel it. I don’t know where the goods are coming from, but we’ve been getting better furs and wool than we had in times of peace, pickled fish at half what we used to pay, and ivory and gold and a dozen other things—more than a dozen—scores, or hundreds! From Skelleth, which used to sell nothing but ice and hay! It was a gift from the gods that the new Baron began selling to us just about the time the other routes started to be cut, and I don’t dare jeopardize that. The Barony of Skelleth covers half our borders, to the north and northeast, and if this Saram can bring us caravans out of nowhere, he might be able to bring armies with equal ease. Now he’s sent us a representative, and an overman at that—where in all the world did he find an overman? I thought they were extinct, despite the stories we heard from the traders out of Skelleth. I was wrong. What’s more, the gatekeeper tells me that the overman arrived riding a monster twenty feet long with fangs the size of a man’s fingers.
“And now you ask me to throw away the goodwill of this overman, and with it the goodwill of the Baron of Skelleth, because of a vague legend. You ask me to risk losing our only remaining trade route, the richest I’ve ever seen. You ask me to risk an invasion, perhaps led by overmen on monsterback, like those in the tales of the Racial Wars. Why? Because you don’t want a magical book no one can read to be taken to a mysterious wizard.
“And that brings me to my fourth, and most important, point. What makes you think that this overman will find this Book of Death, o
r whatever it is? He says that it’s in the royal chapel of some palace. What palace? The only palace in Ur-Dormulk is this one, and I promise you all, on my soul and the shades of my ancestors, that there is no royal chapel here containing a mystical book no one can read! If this book exists at all, it must be in the crypts somewhere. Have you ever been in the crypts, any of you?”
The three advisers nodded in unison, like chastised children.
“All of you. Then you should know that you can’t find anything in the crypts unless you know exactly where it is! They go on forever, in a maze, like a mass of worms tied in knots.
“So do you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to let this overman wander about the city all he likes, and if he wants to get himself lost in the crypts, I’ll allow that, too. I’ll even give him a guide, if he asks, one who will lead him in nice, large circles through the more familiar corridors. If he persists I’ll let him wander all he wants. He can go explore the ruins between the lakes. He can kill a few Aghadite priests, if he does it quietly, and I won’t do a thing about it. If he does find the book, or anything else of real value, I’ll know it, I promise you. If that happens—if it happens—then I’ll talk to you again, and maybe have it taken away from him if you can convince me it’s really that important. That’s what I’m going to do about this overman, and I hope it satisfies you, because I am not going to offend the Baron of Skelleth unless I really have to, for my own safety and for the safety of Ur-Dormulk. Is that clear?”
The three, overwhelmed by this lengthy speech, nodded again.
“Good. So if you want to make yourselves useful, you might apply your magic, you two, to help keep an eye on the overman. All three of you might want to see if you can get some idea where this book is, if it exists, so that we can get to it before he does—if we have to.” The overlord waved a hand in dismissal. “So much for that. Now, about the matter of your barging into the audience chamber. As you may have guessed, I am not going to have you executed.”
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