The Warrior Returns - Anteros 04

by Allan Cole

  Garla shrugged eloquently. "So I found my proper place in life fairly quickly." He raised his crystal cup. "And prospered."

  "That explains much," I said.

  "If you mean my attitude toward the nobility, whom I despise," he said, "then you are right on the mark. And I see no hypocrisy in it. I don't want what they have. I only want what they refuse others. Which is the respect every common man and woman deserves."

  "How high-minded of you," I murmured. Using exactly the same tone and smile Garla'd used when he'd said something similar to me.

  Garla laughed. "Now, that was a wounding blow, dear Captain," he said. "And a well-deserved one at that."

  "Shall we call it equal, then?" I laughed.

  Garla winced. "I'm twice wounded now, Captain," he said. "And I resign from the field."

  We finished our drinks in good cheer and then Garla took me into a small room with a large wardrobe filling most of it. A mirrored dressing table took what was left. It was covered with as many strange pots and vials and jars as a wizard's bench.

  Garla studied me critically. "What sort of beggar shall we make you, dear Captain?" he mused. "There's a beggar in all of us, you know.

  "Some beg charity, some patience, some beg the gods, some the devils, and some beg your pardon when they cut your throat."

  "There's mercy," I said. "You left that off your begging list."

  "Oh no, dear Captain," he replied. "If you think there's mercy in this world, you are sadly misinformed."

  While I enjoyed that remark he continued studying me. "What we have to discover," he said, "is exactly what kind of beggar's heart beats in the breast of Rali Antero."

  I tried to think of different things but came up blank.

  Then Garla suddenly snapped his fingers. "I've got it!" he said.

  He hunched over, lifting a shoulder so it covered part of his face. His other hand snaked out, fingers crooked like claws. And he said in a high, quavering crone's voice, 'Tell yer fortune, Cap'n? Copper fer yer dreams."

  "A market witch?" I said, aghast.

  Garla dropped the role and straightened up. "What better disguise could there be?" he said. "You can travel where you like. From market to market. Begging coin to tell lies people want to hear. It also seems fitting. An Evocator disguised as a market witch."

  "Your attitude is bleeding through again, my friend," I warned.

  Garla snickered. "I have to admit the very idea gives me much pleasure," he said. "But tmthfully, what better disguise?"

  "Fine," I said. "A witch it is, then."

  Garla nodded and started digging through the wardrobe, looking for proper witchy rags.

  "At least you're not a beggar with a monkey," he said. "You can take comfort in that."

  "Actually," I said, "I was thinking of asking you for one."

  "A monkey?" he said. "Whatever for? They're dirty little beasts always getting into mischief."

  "Then you won't mind very much," I said, "if the monkey you give me comes to some harm."

  Garla barked laughter. "Mind?" he said. "I worked with a monkey when I was boy. I hated the thing. Whenever it did something wrong, instead of punishing the animal, my master whipped me."

  He shuddered at the memory. "I'll give you a monkey," he said. "And good riddance to it. You can send it into the hells for all I care."

  "I'm afraid that's where the poor thing is bound," I said. "Or something quite close to it."

  Garla didn't answer. He was unstoppering a wide-mouthed jar. He spilled what looked like little black dots on the table. He picked one up on the end of a finger and turned to me, saying: "Now, hold still. I want to show you how to apply a wart."

  THE NIGHT BEFORE I left for Galana, I retired to a dark little room. I'd sent for my horse and the rest of my supplies, some of which I'd used to prepare the spell. There was a pentagram inscribed on the floor with red chalk. In the center was a square chalked in green.

  I placed a rickety cage on the square. In it was a small, frightened monkey with large sorrowful eyes and sharp teeth. It chittered hysterically and gnashed at my fingers as I set the cage down.

  "I'm sorry, little brother," I said. "I'll do my best to see you come to no harm."

  My promise produced an even more hysterical burst of cluttering and gnashing. It leaped about the cage like a mad little thing.

  I knew how he felt. I'd had similar promises from an all-powerful creature, and look what it had gotten me.

  I fed him some orange slices, which seemed to calm him. But the whole time he ate he stared at me with those huge eyes.

  I tried to ignore them as I sprinkled the cage with oils and incense.

  The monkey stared at me as I chanted:

  "Clever little beast With clever little teeth And clever little hands. No knot can defy you, No sorcery can tie you.

  Unbind! That is your command!"

  Cold flames bloomed up around the cage and the monkey shrieked in fear. I hardened my heart and thrust out my ether-hand, stabbing a golden finger at the cage.

  "Unbind!" I shouted.

  There was a final squeak and the cage jumped as if struck by wind. The monkey was gone.

  I used my ethereye to spy him out in the realm I'd sent him to. I peeped this way and that and then saw his small figure scampering across roiling black clouds. He disappeared into a boiling cloud bank. By the squeal of pure pleasure I heard, I knew he'd found what I'd sent him for: Novari's many-layered spell of confusion.

  I heard him chittering as he found the first knot that held the first sorcerous alarm. The chittering became more excited as he dug at it. Clever little teeth helping clever little hands untie first one, then another.

  The task would take him many days, perhaps many weeks. In theory the protective spell I'd cloaked him in would keep Novari numbed to what was happening.

  And when next I returned to this place, I prayed I'd find the monkey well and the way clear.

  PIP AND I left the next morning, mingling with the crowd coming into the city. As they poured in, we inched our way against the flow. No one seemed to notice that we were gradually going in the opposite direction.

  I'd hitched a little dray to the old mare to carry our belongings, and I'd piled limp old vegetables on top of our baggage to add to our look of innocent poverty.

  Pip and I walked at the horse's head, whispering encouragement and apologizing for the indignity of the dray. She was a riding horse, a war-horse, and didn't like dragging anything behind her, except, perhaps, an enemy's body caught in her harness.

  Pip wore raggedy breeches and a canvas shirt with a wide belt. I wore a dirty black-hooded cloak that covered me from head to toe. Long gray strands of hair escaped the hood, and my nose poked out, made into a crooked beak by artfully placed clay. On its tip was a big wart with a few hairs glued onto it for effect. I gripped a sturdy walking stick in my ether-hand, which was painted corpse-gray, with overly long fingernails glued in place.

  When we reached the gate where the crowd was thickest and the guards the most overworked, we reversed our course and acted like we were entering rather than leaving.

  A big guard loomed up. Suspicious eyes bored into both of us.

  I cackled at him and snatched at his hand. 'Tell yer fortune, dearie?" I quavered at him. "Give a poor granny a copper to glim yer palm?"

  The guard snatched his hand back. "Keep yer hands off n me," he growled. "Dirty old witch."

  "Here, now," Pip said. "Tha's no way to talk to me poor muwer."

  "I'll talk anyways I likes t' anyones I likes," the guard snarled. "Especially to rubbish like yer two."

  I snatched at his hand again. "Half a copper, then, dearie," I quavered. 'Tell yer if yer sweetheart's pissin' in strange pots fer half a copper."

  This was too much for the guard's brutish feelings. He shouted for us to begone and barred us from the city.

  "And don't ever try and come this way again," he shouted as we hurried off, me hobbling as fast as I could. "I'll break y
er heads if you do!"

  I looked back and saw him shaking his fist at us, framed in the arch of the big main gate. Behind him was the Palace of the Evocators, windows glowing in the new light.

  I saw a rich carriage roll up to the gate, footmen clubbing the crowd back to make a path. The guards all bowed and scraped as the carriage swept through without delay.

  "It's always been like that, hasn't it, Pip?" I said. "Even in the old days. Before Novari and Kato."

  "That it has, Cap'n," Pip said. "Rich man prizes his special treatment maybe even more'n his gold. Likes t' see the poor man at his feet. Likes t' see the poor woman on her back. Makes him feel bigger, somehow. Maybe even bigger'n death."

  "Garla's right," I said. "Things need to change. But first we have to set this current lot straight."

  And off we went to Galana, heroes bold. A crooked old market witch and her doltish son.

  I was a fortune-teller who couldn't read her own palm and see the future. I didn't know if I'd win or fail—or if I won, what was in store for Orissa. The rich do not easily share their wealth. The powerful, their power.

  I had one consolation, though.

  Before I left the city, I went on an orgy of spell-casting. For two days I churned out magical weapons and spells and potions and amulets of every variety a thief could dream of.

  I made enough for them to continue the fight after I left. And I made more after that, just in case, filling several large chambers.

  And it sits there still. Enough to last for many years of knavery.

  It was my way of making things just a little bit more ... equal.

  WE STRUCK EAST for several leagues, then north on the Great Harvest Road that meanders through the belly of Orissa's finest farmlands and vineyards. It was the longest route to Galana, but for most of the distance it would keep us away from the river, where the heaviest patrols would be. The Harvest Road was also one of several key routes Pip's smugglers used to get crucial supplies to the defenders of Galana. There were rebel supporters spread out along it, although thinly, who could help us along the way.

  We spent our first night with one such family. They were servants at a crossroads inn that catered to rich landowners traveling from their Orissan mansions to inspect their farms. We slept in one of the inn's stables on fresh fragrant hay meant for their high-bred horses. We supped on delicacies— scraps from their table. And we shared a fine wine that'd been stolen from the room of a lord who'd been on a drunk for days and would never miss it.

  We were disturbed once during the night when the ample-waisted barwoman crept up to our loft to warn us that some men were coming.

  "They're friends," she whispered, "so's ya needn't fear. They'll be in 'n' outta here quick. 'N' ya'U soon be puffin' at the rafters ag'in."

  We watched from our loft as men in dark cloaks and dimmed lanterns entered the stable. Horses were moved, hay pushed aside, and floorboards lifted. Hidden below were spears and swords and boxes of arrowheads. They quickly gathered the booty up and hauled it away, returning everything to normal when they were done.

  One of the men raised a fist to us in a silent salute, then they were gone.

  Pip said the weapons would be divided up and taken to local farms where they'd await transport to Galana. "Come outter an armory in Orissa on'y yestiddy," he told me. "Seems on'y fittin' ter use this place fer our first hidey-hole. Kato's darlin's are sleepin' upstairs, whilst we scheme on 'em down in the stables."

  We didn't always have such commodious accommodations on our journey. Most of the time we slept rough in a field or wood. Once, we were quartered over a sty. The com-husk mattresses were comfortable enough, but the smells and sounds of the pigs did not make for pleasant dreams. And when I awoke, the smell was so awful that for a moment I thought I was in long-ago Pisidia, when the flies and fumes from the great tanneries still poisoned the air.

  We plodded along the road for many a day. At first there was much traffic—wagons and herdsmen and barefooted lads and maids driving flocks of geese or milk cows to market. They tied their footwear with string and carried it draped about their necks so it wouldn't be ruined by the rough dusty road. And if there was a fair in progress at one of the large villages, the young people would all stop outside to put on their shoes and their best go-to-market clothing.

  I got a lot of unintended practice being a market witch with those young people.

  "Will he be true, Granny?" a blushing maid might ask, pressing a copper into my hand.

  "Does she love me?" a shambling farm lad would plead, shuffling from foot to foot or digging his toes into the dust.

  I'd mutter and spit and scratch around the false wart on my nose as I considered, studying their palm and weighing the answer with much cronish concern. The palm studying was only for effect, for with my ethereye I could see such things quite clear in the aura that hovers about us all.

  In my answers, however, I was mindful of Garla's instructions.

  "No one wants the truth if the news is bad, Captain Antero," he'd said. "Please them with a lying present and let the future work itself out the best it can."

  Pip had similar advice. 'Talk sweet," he said," 'n' no one'U note we passed. Talk hard 'n' ever' one'll mark us. Tell all a their friends and family 'bout the witch tha' glimmed dark days ahead. 'Sides, whatsomever you say, bein' young, they'll ignore yer advice 'n' jump whichever way their private parts lead 'em."

  Wizards don't mind lies, but they do have pride in their reputations, even if that reputation is going about in disguise. So although I took their advice, I couldn't help but hedge my responses.

  If the answer to both of those all-too-typical questions about true love, faithfully kept, was yes, I'd make a big show in my delivery.

  "Aye, yer a lucky one, dearie," I'd say, sniffling and blubbering as if my old crone's heart had been touched from being in the presence of so much youthful romance. "Yer'11 have nothin' but love from that one. An' yer can mark this granny's word on that. 'N' if yer keep yer bed willin' an' never let a harsh word rest between yer ov'rnight, that love'11 be true fer the rest of yer life."

  I'd had similar advice from grannies in my wild youth, and it still seemed sound enough. If not, it was harmless.

  If the answer was no, I'd make less of a fuss. And I'd hedge. "Oh, I see love there, dearie, I do. 'N' it's faithful enough, I reckon. Only mind tha' it's yer heart I'm seein'. Not yer intended's. Yer'd have to bring 'em by fer me to be certain."

  This satisfied most. And for those it didn't, Pip and I would be long gone before they brought their false lover around for a second casting.

  But the questions weren't always so easy to skirt, and sometimes the necessary lies were too bitter for my tongue.

  One day about halfway through our journey we tarried at a fair. We were waiting to meet a supporter whom Pip said would know what difficulties we'd face along the road just ahead.

  The man never turned up, and along about dusk Pip was packing our things in the dray to leave when a stocky farm woman of some forty summers approached. She had a tall skinny lad gripped tightly by the hand and was dragging him along like a stubborn yearling horse.

  She shoved him in front of me, saying, "I want'cher to put my young Natt straight, Granny." And she slapped two silver pieces onto the dray's gate with such force that it startled the horse.

  I twisted my face and scratched my nose and hawked and spit in the dust. I'd slipped thoroughly into my role as a market witch by then—and was even beginning to enjoy it.

  "Put him straight abou' what, dearie?" I cackled.

  The woman gave me a look like I was the most ignorant mortal the world has known. "About soldierin', is what!" she snapped. "War and soldierin' and gettin' tucked inta his grave afore his time. Me and me dear husban'—may he be restin' easy with the gods, bless his soul—fed him 'n' clothed him 'n' raised him to be a good boy 'n' mind his manners."

  She pointed at the silver coins.

  "I wants a special casting, Granny," she
said. "And I know such a thing is dear. Can't get it fer a copper, yer can't. But I'm willin' to pay whatever it takes to keep this lad home."

  "Muwer, please!" young Natt protested. "I'm growed now. A man. You gotta let me be."

  She swatted his arm and he yelped "Sure, I'll let ya be! Soon's ya come to yas senses, I will." She swatted him again, producing another howl. "Ya may be the death of yas old muvver first. But I'd rather be dead 'n' cold than see a son of mine throw his life away!"

  And then she burst into tears, shaking and bawling like an old cow past bearing age who's just lost her last calf to the wolves.

  Young Natt squirmed in embarrassment. He tried putting a hand on his mother's shoulder, but she shook it off, crying all the harder.

  Pip strolled over, quite casual like. "What's up, lad?" he asked. "What'cha do to make yer muvver cry so?"

  "Nothin' but what's natural," young Natt said, stubborn jaw thrust forward. "Director Kato and the Goddess Novari are askin' the help of all a lads of Orissa."

  He pointed north. "They needs more soldiers to fight the rebels at Galana," he said. "Offerin' a good bonus, too. One gold piece fer ever' volunteer."

  Young Natt turned to his mother. "A gold piece, muvver!" he exclaimed. "Think a all yas can do wi' so much money!"

  But she only wailed more.

  The lad sighed and addressed Pip and me. 'Time's been hard since me favver died," he said. "Hearth's so old it's all choked up. Smoke's somethin' fierce. Hadda sell off too much land. Now we can't grow 'nough to feed ourselfs. Much less buy seed fer next year. But that gold piece they're offerin' will set things right. I'm young. Can't farm. But I can soldier. And that's what they wants."

  "Yer must admire Kato 'n' Novari somethin' fierce," Pip said, "to break yer muvver's heart like this."

  Young Natt shrugged. "Don't know much about 'em," he said. "What's the difference?"

  "There's people dyin' at Galana on the other side," Pip said, "tha' must think there's a difference. A mos' remarkable difference, from what Pip hears."