Trembling, Prince Bifalt strove for calm. He had to remember his purpose. Belleger’s desperation. His father’s pain. His realm’s peril was not diminished by the message Klamath carried. It was only suspended. Everything still hinged on the Prince’s actions here.
Shouldering his rifle roughly so that Amandis and the Magisters would not see his hands shake, he nodded his consent. “Go, then,” he rasped. “Risk nothing. We will speak of this later.”
The corners of Amandis’ mouth tightened, restraining a smile. Still without acknowledging the sorcerers, she turned away. Gliding or floating, she went back the way she had come.
Elgart met the Prince’s glower. Grimacing, he confessed, “Curiosity. What use can anyone here have for me?” Then he followed the devotee of Spirit.
Cursing to himself, Prince Bifalt joined his hosts again. With Magister Avail’s smile and Magister Rummage’s scowl fixed in his mind, he accompanied them toward the far end of the hall. Whatever happened, he meant to show the fat one’s complacence and the hunchback’s bitterness that he was more than they had expected when they chose him. But his own “demonstration”—if he could manage it—would have to wait. The assassin’s secret intentions did not alter his quest. His mission demanded more from him than determination and anger. It also required him to emulate King Abbator’s patience.
Emulate or feign.
From the head of the broad stair, the theurgists led the Prince through a bewildering series of corridors and doorways, down a second stair, up a third that was longer and narrower. Along the way, they passed a few servants—none of whom acknowledged the Magisters or their guest—but encountered no other people. His hosts, Prince Bifalt assumed, were taking him into an isolated region of their domain. They intended to sequester him. They did not want him to find his own way, or to speak with anyone, or to rely on someone else for guidance.
When they reached the quarters they had prepared for him, however, several monks awaited him, three women and two men. One opened the door. The others preceded him into a spacious chamber comfortably furnished, with rugs to soften the floor and a cheery fire in the hearth to warm the chill of the Last Repository’s thick stone. Heads bowed, eyes lowered, the monks showed him the bed with its elaborately woven coverlet, the desk with a supply of paper and pens, the shelves laden with books in strange languages, the bathing room and privy, the tub filled with steaming water. A low table near the desk held a flagon of wine as well as a ready repast covered by a dome of silver. This deep in the castle, there were no windows. Instead, the walls displayed a variety of tapestries, all depicting scenes or images that meant nothing to the Prince.
The sorcerers did not enter. Magister Rummage left at once. Magister Avail stood in the doorway until the serving monks were gone. Then he said, “Be at ease, Prince. Here your needs will be met while you regain your strength. There will be servants outside your door, but they will not intrude. Ask for whatever you require. Give them your soiled garments. They will be cleaned. Others in the same style will be made for you. More wine, food, firewood, hot water, all will be brought to you. Your only task is recovery.
“When your vigor has returned, and your thoughts are clear, inform the servants. At that time, we will begin to unravel your confusion.”
Prince Bifalt did not waste himself on a reply Magister Avail would not hear. He stood scowling until the sorcerer left, and the door was closed. Then he went to the door and discovered to his relief that it could be bolted. No one would take him by surprise while he was here.
When he had sealed the door, he surrendered to his hunger and thirst.
For the remainder of that day, and all the next, Prince Bifalt rested. His fatigue was more profound than he had allowed himself to recognize. It had the effect of patience. And the comforts of his quarters soothed him. His bed made sleep welcome. The discreet attendance of the library’s servants pleased him. He expected to fret incessantly, but he found that he could not. Through Klamath, the sorcerers had promised to protect Belleger. While their promise held, he could afford to lose a little time. He could afford to enjoy the utter silence of his surroundings and regain his strength.
He ate and drank often, bathed often, slept long. He welcomed the feel of clean clothes on his clean skin. When he was not sleeping, he tended his weapons. And he did not entirely neglect his quest. Twice he opened his door and told a servant he wanted to speak with Elgart. If the guardsman could not come to him, he wished to be taken to his comrade.
The servant—a woman on one occasion, a man on another—bowed without speaking, and left at once, presumably to convey Prince Bifalt’s desires. But he received no reply. The guardsman did not come. And the monk he had sent with his message did not return. A different servant took the woman’s place at his door, or the man’s.
This lack of response—clearly a refusal—vexed him, but the effect was brief. Irritated, he ate again, drank more wine, and surprised himself by tumbling into bed and sleep.
Toward the end of the second day, however, he grew restless. At intervals, he caught himself wishing for a mirror. He wanted to study his face; wanted to see if he shared the lines that loss and hopelessness had cut into his father’s flesh. He imagined that he had earned them. But there was no glass—or any other reflective surface—in his chambers.
Then he started to pace, remembering in every detail his last moments with King Abbator. He remembered every word as if he and his father were saying their final farewells.
Your quest is surely implausible. Nevertheless, I entrust it to you. What else can we do?
For you, Father, I will do what I can. For Belleger, I will do all I can.
Perhaps it will be enough. It is our only chance.
Prince Bifalt considered it intolerable that he might fail such a man: his father, his king—and so deeply wounded.
During the evening, he reached a decision. When he felt his bed whispering his name, he went instead to the door, unbolted it, and addressed the monk outside.
“Tell Magister Avail,” he said, speaking with less authority than he intended, “I will be ready in the morning.”
To the servant’s bow, he replied by closing the door, bolting it, and composing himself for sleep.
Again, he slept easily. For the first time in this chamber, however, he was aware of dreaming. In his dream, he rode with the former Magister Slack, who had lost the use of his gift, and had betrayed Belleger. He asked questions which Slack answered. With a precision, a specificity—or perhaps a threat—found only in dreams, the man pronounced, A man is not a man at all if he cannot enter and enjoy every chamber of himself.
Dreaming, Prince Bifalt judged the sentiment dishonest. It was contradictory. Every chamber? Did none of those chambers contain devotion to Belleger, or loyalty to King Abbator? Was Slack incapable of valuing the lives of the men with whom he traveled, or those of the starving children he used to bait his trap? He had confessed that his teacher was Amikan. He must have been Amikan himself, a lifelong spy. But if so, as a pretended Bellegerin, he had lost his gift—which he professed to treasure—through Amika’s use of the seventh Decimate. Did no chamber in him hold resentment for what his homeland had done?
When the Prince awoke, he felt as clear as flame. He had strength again, and determination, and a readiness to take risks.
Washed and dressed, he opened his door to accept his breakfast from one of the servants. But the woman waiting there did not hold a tray. To his stare, she bowed, showing him the shaved crown of her head. In a low voice, she said, “If it pleases you, Prince, I will guide you to the refectory. There you may break your fast among the other guests. When you have eaten, Magister Avail will come to you.”
Prince Bifalt swallowed a sudden lump of surprise, eagerness, alarm. Other guests would include Amandis. They would include Elgart. And they might include people at least somewhat familiar from Set Ungabwey’s caravan; people less daunting
to approach than Amandis herself. Perhaps Flamora, the most holy devotee of Flesh? Or if not them, then some talkative scholar?
Without hesitation, he collected his weapons and told the woman to lead him. Other inducements aside, the prospect of a chance to speak with Elgart drew him. He wanted to feel less alone with his burdens. Elgart’s curiosity and quick thinking would steady him.
The scarred veteran had vowed to stand with him.
He did not try to learn the route his guide took. He was confident that the sorcerers would not permit him to wander the keep’s passages alone. He would be attended wherever he went. Otherwise, he might stumble on one of the Last Repository’s secrets.
For that reason, his thoughts were elsewhere as the serving-monk led him along unfamiliar corridors, up and down several short and one long stairway, through chambers furnished like council chambers, and—abruptly—into a hall full of noise: boots and sandals on stone, plates and utensils clattering on trays, voices murmuring in quiet conversation or raised in vigorous discussion.
By the measure of the Repository’s cavernous mouth, the space was small—but only by that measure. Under a ceiling high enough to accommodate men on horseback with other men on their shoulders, trestle tables stretched in long ranks from wall to wall, each lined on both sides with an abundance of chairs, each lit by shaded lamps. High cressets illuminated the hall itself; and from a wide opening in the far wall came a blaze of light and the incessant clamor of a busy kitchen.
His guide gestured Prince Bifalt toward a table laden with plates, utensils, mugs, and trays. Clearly, he was supposed to ready a tray and carry it into the kitchen to get food, then return to the hall, take a chair, and eat. But he ignored her instructions. Standing silent in the din of eating and voices, he studied the people.
The hall was not full: it could have held twice as many guests without crowding. Still, he guessed he was looking at close to a hundred men and women. And virtually all of them were as unprecedented in his experience as Suti al-Suri had been, or Set Ungabwey, or the folk of Alleman Dancer’s Wide World Carnival. Some were wrapped in elegant cloaks and had their hair styled in spikes. Others huddled in barbarous furs like people for whom the refectory was unpleasantly cold. A few clanked in heavy armor. Fewer still were naked, apart from the loincloths around their hips and the twigs and beads knotted into their hair. Some carried longswords on their backs: others were festooned with short spears. Black, brown, and yellow skins mingled with white; but some were so white that they looked albino, and others—primarily women—were either born or painted entirely blue. Several groups had tattoos or scarifications in unlikely places.
At a distant table, Magister Rummage sat alone, gulping his food like a beast. Prince Bifalt grimaced at the sight, then ignored the hunchback.
During his first survey, he did not see Elgart anywhere. Or Amandis. He recognized only the row of monks seated at a nearby table. In attire, tonsure, and posture, they were indistinguishable from the library’s servants. But their faces were familiar from his short time with the caravan. And one was unmistakably the monk of the Cult of the Many who had been among Set Ungabwey’s counselors.
As he scanned the hall a second time, his eyes moved more slowly, searching out individual faces among the crowd. He still hoped to locate Elgart. If Amandis was present, he hoped to keep his distance. After a few moments, however, his attention was riveted by a man sitting alone four tables away near the far wall.
In an instant, Prince Bifalt’s anger became a bonfire.
The man had the sallow skin of his people, the sharp features. His face wore the waxed goatee and moustache favored by soldiers of his kind. Around his brow was knotted a bright orange headband, the chosen color of his monarch, useful for recognizing comrades in the confusion and bloodshed of battle. And from his belt hung a leather scabbard dyed the same orange hue. It contained a long blade slightly curved, almost a scimitar.
He was Amikan.
A red haze bloodied the Prince’s vision. Through it, he saw Slack fleeing amid the shots and arrows of combat. He saw Vinsid blown apart, Camwish killed by an arrow in his throat, Captain Swalish pierced to the heart, Bartin shredded by his own gun. He saw Hught’s throat gaping. So enraged that he could not breathe and did not need to, he saw the bloom and smoke of grenades—
The man was not a Magister. He had not singled out Prince Bifalt to commit treason. But he was Amikan. His people had used the seventh Decimate against Belleger. And the Prince needed some outlet for his thwarted yearning, his interminable frustration and outrage, his promise to his father; for his dread of what the Repository’s sorcerers might do to him and his people. He needed—
Then he was running, his saber in his hand. As fast as he could, he rounded the end of the fourth line of tables, raced between the rows of chairs. He wanted and did not want his enemy to see him coming. He would not strike a seated foe from behind, but he blazed to take the Amikan by surprise.
His natural enemy. Not a sorcerer who could dispatch him with a word: a soldier like himself. A man he could kill.
Ten paces from his target, he found an empty chair. Without breaking stride, he sprang from the chair to the tabletop. Swift among the scattered plates and lamps, the startled guests, he gripped his saber with both hands and raised it. In every straining muscle, he felt primed with strength and justice; with outrage earned by generations of blood and pain—
—and with doubt. Any Amikan death could be justified. Anywhere but here. Here there were Magisters who wanted to use Prince Bifalt against Belleger. Here there were degrees of power and levels of treachery he could not measure. He had not even begun to measure them. Amikan blood spilled here might end his quest before he learned to understand it. Before he knew what the real stakes were.
The pound of moccasins on the table caused the Amikan to jerk up his head. Prince Bifalt wanted that to be the last movement of the man’s life. As soon as the Amikan drew his sword, every doubt would become meaningless.
Ready for killing, the Prince stamped to a halt in front of his foe.
The Amikan flinched back in his chair. Lamps and cressets caught fear and fury in his eyes. The muscles at the corners of his jaw bunched like fists. But he did not reach for his blade. Deliberately, he crossed his arms on his chest.
Defying death.
Prince Bifalt remembered Camwish and Nowel, Captain Swalish and Bartin. Oh, yes, he remembered them. But more than those lost comrades, he remembered Slack. He remembered starving children.
And he remembered his father. How often had King Abbator instructed him, Think before you speak? How often had his king said, Speak before you act? How often had he been called, with love and pain, My son?
The Amikan refused to defend himself.
King Abbator would be ashamed of his son now.
Knowing that he could not cut down a foe who refused to defend himself made Prince Bifalt wild. “Draw your sword!” he roared: a yell that tore his throat. “Fight and die!”
The man’s chin jutted. Malice shone in his eyes. “Kill me,” he snarled, baring his teeth. “Show these people the truth. Bellegerins are butchers. Only butchers would devise a weapon as cruel as that”—for an instant, he was too angry to find words—“that gun.”
“We are butchers?” howled the Prince. “You kill your own wounded!”
“Only,” retorted the Amikan, “so Belleger will not take and torture them.”
It was too much. If Prince Bifalt struck now, he would fail his quest, his king, his people. But he could not swallow lies from his enemy. He could not. He was who he was.
Belleger did not torture wounded Amikans. None were ever captured.
Deliberately, he feigned a cut at the Amikan’s neck. The man was a soldier, a fighter. If he could be provoked or startled into pulling his sword, the Prince would be able to vindicate himself to himself. Perhaps even to his father.
But his foe did not react. His eyes flicked away—
—and before Prince Bifalt could check his swing, his hands and his blade stopped as if he had slammed them against a wall. The wrenching impact flung him away from his target: it seemed to break his wrists. He lost his saber as he landed on his back against the far edge of the table.
He should have tumbled off the table onto the laps of other guests, knocked them backward. But his wrists were caught in a grip of stone. Another wrench prevented him from plunging farther.
The force of his fall stunned his chest. He did not feel pain yet. The shock left him numb, breathless. Dizzy with rage and lack of air, he could not see the figure standing over him, except as a vague blur.
Then he drew a whooping breath and recognized Magister Rummage.
The hunchback stood on the table, still holding the Prince’s wrists in one heavy hand. He must have snagged them from behind. The sorcerer’s grip was too strong to be broken. The malevolence of his glower resembled hatred. It resembled madness.
Dimly through the confusion and indignation around him, Prince Bifalt noticed Magister Avail’s approach.
Now the pain in his wrists reached him. And in his back. His landing on the table-edge must have damaged his ribs or spine.
The Amikan stood across the table from him. He expected to see his foe’s sword flashing. But the man’s hands were empty. He gave the Prince one infuriated glance. Then he turned to the sorcerers with a look of betrayal on his face.
Trying to shout, Prince Bifalt gasped, “He is Amikan!”
The Amikan’s yell filled the air. “And he is Bellegerin! I did not threaten him!” Grinding the words between his teeth, he added, “I saw him enter, but I did not touch my sword! Even when he challenged me, I did not.”
Magister Rummage nodded, perhaps to the Amikan, perhaps to the Prince.
In an apparent flurry, Magister Avail arrived. “Oh, my,” he panted, gazing down at Prince Bifalt. His hair was a storm on his head, and his smile was gone. “Did I fail to explain that we will not tolerate violence among our guests?” Amandis had said, It is forbidden here. “The fault is mine. We are all friends in the Repository, whatever our inclinations may be.
Seventh Decimate Page 18
