Touched by the Gods

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

The shouts were growing louder, and there were definitely many voices now, not just a handful. Darsmit, who had been sitting cross-legged on the floor sharpening a blade, had gotten to his feet and stood beside Malledd, staring at the window.

  “Come on,” Malledd said, putting down his hammer. He headed for the steps that led up to the street door. Darsmit followed without a word.

  A moment later the two of them emerged from the alleyway that ran along one side of the Imperial Armory, stepping out onto Wall Street.

  Ever since Malledd had arrived in the city, any time the weather was tolerable Wall Street had been perpetually mobbed from dawn to dusk, and often long after darkness fell, as well. Cold and snow had driven the crowds indoors for much of the winter, but now that spring had brought back the sun the throngs were thicker than ever.

  Today was no exception. This time, however, the crowd was different in that everyone seemed to be running in one of two directions – no one was walking, or standing, or moving in or out of any of the side-streets.

  The current in one direction seemed to be made up of frightened people, while the current flowing the other way carried a more varied atmosphere – determination, concern, curiosity.

  Malledd frowned. He reached out and grabbed the first passing runner he could – one of the frightened ones.

  The man started to protest the grip on his arm; then he turned and looked up and saw Malledd's face, and the words died on his lips.

  “What's happening?” Malledd demanded.

  “The Imperial Palace is on fire!” the man shouted. “Let me go! I have to get out, before the whole city burns down!”

  Malledd let him go, then glanced at Darsmit.

  “I think he's right,” Darsmit said. “Look!” He pointed.

  A column of smoke was visible above the roofs to the northwest – Malledd hadn't noticed it before because after all, Seidabar was full of smoking chimneys, its sky perpetually streaked with grey.

  This smoke, though, now that it had been pointed out, was clearly not coming from any mere chimney; it was a thick, towering pillar of white against the blue of the sky, one side of it twining around the golden spire of the palace tower.

  “Come on,” Malledd said again, pushing forward into the street.

  Darsmit hesitated for perhaps half a second before following.

  As they pushed their way toward the palace he did call, “Malledd, what are we doing?”

  Malledd glanced back at him.

  “We came to Seidabar to defend the Empire, didn't we?” he asked. He gestured at the smoke. “Well, anything that threatens the Empress or her palace threatens the Empire, and it's our duty to stop it!”

  Darsmit did not seem entirely convinced, but he followed Malledd anyway; by this time it was easier to trot along in the big man's wake than to go anywhere else in the surging mob on the street.

  A few minutes later Malledd pushed his way into the plaza before the palace steps, but here even he could not press on farther; the way was blocked by a tightly-packed crowd of people standing and staring at the flames that billowed from several of the palace windows. Sparks were showering upward around the towering central spire; the air rippled with heat.

  The crowd was jammed back against the walls and streets opposite the palace; the steps and the inner pavement were empty. No one was moving any closer than the plaza's midpoint; in fact, the front lines of the crowd were pressing backward, trying to escape the heat and smoke, but were unable to move because of the pressure of newly-arrived curiosity-seekers.

  “Why isn't anyone doing anything?” Malledd demanded. “That's the Imperial Palace burning! The Empress might be in there. And if that tower falls, it could smash a dozen buildings!”

  Darsmit looked around at the crowd, though he couldn't see much; he wasn't anywhere near as tall as Malledd, and mostly found himself looking at the backs of heads and, above them, the rising sparks and smoke.

  “Who should be doing something?” Darsmit asked. “Are there guards?”

  “No,” Malledd said. He frowned. Surely, he thought, there ought to be guards; where were they? Part of the army was off to the east fighting the rebels, and a much larger part was training new recruits in the camps just outside Agabdal, but surely they hadn't left the palace completely undefended? And guards or no, why were these people just standing here? Someone had to do something.

  “Let me through!” he bellowed.

  “Stop shoving!” a man in front of him said.

  Malledd reached forward with both hands and grabbed the complainer by the back of his shirt. He twisted the fabric to tighten it, then lifted, hauling the man up out of the crowd as if he were pulling out a rotted fencepost.

  The man made a strangled squawk of protest, but was too surprised to do any more than that before he found himself held over Malledd's head. He curled up instinctively.

  Malledd twisted halfway around and tossed the man out of the plaza as if he were a ball. He landed atop an approaching woman, and both of them tumbled back onto the hard-packed dirt, bruised but not seriously hurt.

  “Let me through!” Malledd repeated.

  The man immediately in front of him had seen what just happened; he pushed aside, even though he would have sworn, a few seconds earlier, that he couldn't move an inch.

  Malled shoved past, bellowing, towing Darsmit in his wake. A moment later he burst through the front line of the crowd, into the open.

  The heat washed over him in waves – but he was a blacksmith; the heat of his forge when he was working steel was worse. He ran forward, across the inner plaza, up the dozen broad stone steps to the main entrance, right at the base of the central tower.

  The visible sources of smoke and flame were all to his right, in the east wing, Malledd saw. Perhaps the fire, despite its ferocity, hadn't yet spread too far.

  Behind him the crowd, which had been muttering and shouting, hushed for a moment; then people began to shout, “What's he doing? Where's he going?”

  The palace doors were standing open, and beyond them Malledd could see a great marble hall, divided by broad pillars and full of smoke – but no flames were visible, nor any bodies. That was good. The fact that the doors were open meant no one was trapped inside – unless they were in some part of the palace that had been cut off by the flames, and of course, people might have been overcome by smoke.

  But the open doors also meant the fire was getting plenty of air. Malledd hesitated, unsure whether it was more important to let air in for anyone who might still be in there, or to shut it out to weaken the flames.

  He decided that the doors didn't really matter; there were plenty of windows.

  There should have been guards at the doors; where had they gone?

  That didn't really matter, either. He turned to face the crowd.

  “Water!” he shouted. “Where's a water source? A well, or a spring?” Seidabar's Inner City was generously endowed with water sources, generally attributed to divine beneficence; certainly, they made life within the walls much easier. Villagers in Grozerodz often spent a large part of their time hauling water up from the streams on either side of the village; the people of Seidabar had no need to do the same.

  But where was the nearest water source? He needed one now.

  Malledd spotted Darsmit, who had followed him as far as the front line of the crowd and then stopped. “You, Darsmit,” he called, “do you know where there's water?”

  Darsmit looked blank, but a woman next to him stopped shoving against the people behind her long enough to call back, “There's a pump right here!” She pointed back into the crowd.

  From his position atop the steps, Malledd could now distinguish a small discontinuity in the crowd, a row of raised heads in a relatively uncrowded area. He had only visited the plaza a very few times, just walking through, and he had mostly been paying attention to the Imperial Palace, but he remembered now that yes, there was a pump right there, and a horse trough, for the use of visiting nobles. Those rai
sed heads were because those people were standing in the trough.

  “Buckets!” he bellowed. “Boots, hats, anything that will hold water!” He marched down the steps, directly toward the pump, and dragged aside anyone in his way, yanking half a dozen people out into the hot, smoky open space before the others managed to clear a path.

  When he reached the trough the people standing it were unable to climb out in time; Malledd snatched them up, one by one, and heaved them out, tossing them aside.

  A woman was leaning against the pump-handle; she straightened up as best she could as Malledd glared at her.

  “You,” he said, “start pumping.” He pointed at a man just the other side. “You help. Take turns. Keep that trough full.”

  The two obeyed as best they could, despite the protests from neighbors who suddenly found elbows or the pump- handle poking them. Water spurted, gurgled, then began flowing steadily into the trough.

  “Now, buckets!” Malledd bellowed. He looked around.

  The crowd looked back blankly – but then someone yelled, a hundred feet away in one of the streets adjoining the plaza.

  “Over here!” he called, holding up a bucket. “From the cooper up the street!”

  “Good! Get more! Everything the cooper's got!” Malledd shouted back. “Pass that one here! Then find a tinker, or a smith, for more!”

  The bucket was passed hand-to-hand over the heads of the crowd until it reached Malled, who snatched it full from the slowly-filling trough. Then he handed it to a man.

  “You're first in the chain,” he said. Then he grabbed another man and shoved him into position. “You're second.”

  The first man handed the bucket to the second; a third took his position without being told, and a fourth. By the time Malledd pushed his way back to the front of the crowd the bucket, and the line of volunteers, had reached halfway up the steps – though the last few in line seemed to regret their enthusiasm as they cowered from the heat and smoke.

  Malledd turned and looked back at the front of the crowd, then pulled out half a dozen of the biggest, strongest-looking men – and Darsmit. “You come with me,” he said. Then he raised his voice again.

  “Extend that chain! That bucket's not doing any good on the steps!”

  He could see people hesitating, glancing about uncertainly. No one else wanted to walk out across the open to the steps to join the line. He already had the boldest people.

  Well, that was no problem.

  “Come on,” he said, and he led his band of men to the steps.

  There he paused to address the last few members of the bucket brigade.

  “Good for you, coming this far! But the fire's in there.” He pointed. “Take a cloth and soak it, and hold that over your face to cool it and keep out the smoke.” He pulled a polishing rag from his belt and demonstrated, dipping it in the bucket and then slapping it over his nose and mouth; it wasn't the best cloth for the purpose, but it served. Then he lowered the cloth. “Better you use up half the water protecting yourself and get the rest on the fire than none of it get to where it'll do some good! If you can't keep a line in there, just run in when you can, then run back out – anything to slow the flames! Now, those cowards out there...” He gestured at the crowd. “...They aren't going to come up here; they aren't brave enough. You'll have to show them what courage is. But if you go in, and the whole line moves along – well, some of them will find the nerve to join at the back of the line and keep the water coming. So let's get in there and do what we can! For the Empire!” He raised a fist in salute, then turned back to his chosen party of big men.

  “You come with me. Wet yourselves down, grab a wet cloth, and come on.” He splashed himself with water from the bucket – a second bucket was now being passed up the line, he saw; the cooper had presumably cooperated. “We'll see what we can do to keep the fire from spreading!”

  “But the fire...” someone protested.

  “We'll move fast, we'll watch each other's backs – come on! I'm a smith, I know heat and smoke, and I'll keep us safe.”

  Malledd clapped his soaked polishing cloth over his mouth and marched into the palace, not looking back to see whether the others were following him. If they didn't, bullying them further wouldn't be worth the trouble.

  The fire was mostly in the upper stories and off to the right, easily heard and felt, but not seen; Malledd ventured several yards down a smoke-filled grand hallway before he glimpsed the yellow glow of flames spilling down a staircase not far ahead. The air was thick with smoke; the smell almost choked him.

  He turned, and found that Darsmit and the others were right there behind him – and even a few of the bucket brigade.

  “All right,” he said, bellowing to be heard over the roar of the flames, “there's the fire – if you can get that water up there without scorching, go to it. If you can't, don't worry – we'll find a way. Just soak anything that looks as if it might burn. Darsmit, you watch anyone who goes past this point; if anyone collapses, you drag him out, fast! The rest of you, we need a firebreak – grab anything flammable and get it out of here!” He pointed to the ancient tapestries on the walls, which were already beginning to darken from the heat.

  That done, he looked around, squinting through the smoke, trying to judge what should be done next.

  The wall behind the tapestries was plaster, and he had no way of telling what supported the plaster. The exterior walls were cut stone, but the interior frame, except for the pillars supporting the tower, might well be entirely wood – very old, very dry wood. Something was certainly burning enthusiastically up there. The floor beneath his feet was stone, which was good, but the coffered ceiling above was painted wood. The entrance to the stairway was a stone arch – if that wasn't merely ornamentation, then the interior structure was a mix of materials, which would make it hard to know what would burn and what would not.

  He wanted to know what was inside those walls. He hadn't brought any of his tools, though – even the polishing cloth that now protected his face had been a lucky accident.

  “I can't do it,” someone said.

  Malledd looked for the speaker, and saw a young man, scarcely more than a boy, crouching at the foot of the stairs, bucket in hand.

  “Then don't,” Malledd called. He strode over and snatched the bucket away. “Go back for more – we don't need any dead heroes, we need live workers.” He looked up. Flames were licking across the upstairs ceiling; the stairway railings were burning. He flung the water at the bannister.

  “Just stop the spreading,” he shouted. “Don't try to put out the whole thing – just keep it from spreading, and it'll burn itself out!” He remembered when his great-uncle's forge in Duvrenarodz had caught fire; the villagers had stood around, outside the firebreak, and simply watched as the little shed burned down. The stone of the hearth and the metal tools had all survived, somewhat the worse for wear, and no one had been hurt; that was what mattered.

  If they didn't save the east wing it didn't really matter, but Malledd didn't want to let the fire spread and maybe bring down the tower; that would be a disaster, especially if anyone was still in it.

  The tapestries were gone, carried out and dumped on the plaza; more water was arriving, to be flung on the stone steps and smoldering railings. Malledd snatched a bucket and splashed its contents on the wall plaster to soften it; then he kicked hard.

  Plaster cracked and crumbled, revealing rough stone.

  Malledd smiled, and turned to the other side of the corridor; there his boot broke through, revealing oaken timbers.

  That was bad; it meant that some walls were safe and others weren't.

  His big men were back from removing the tapestries; Malledd pointed to the wood-frame wall and said, “Smash that down! Make a gap the fire can't jump. Someone get some tools!”

  The men hastened to obey, pounding on the wall with feet, shoulders, and improvised clubs. Malledd didn't stay to help; instead he moved on to another corridor, then to one room
after another, marking which walls were wood and which were stone, drawing a line the fire could not be allowed to cross.

  He worked on tirelessly through the rest of the day and into the night. He had been at it for about an hour when the first New Magicians from the nearby Imperial College arrived and began clearing away wreckage and cutting a firebreak far more effectively than Malledd and his recruits could. He had been there almost two hours when the first guards and soldiers finally showed up, closely followed by government officials who took charge. Malledd didn't let any of that stop him. He had a job to do, and he intended to carry on until it was done.

  The sky was brightening in the east, and a large percentage of the eastern wing of the Imperial Palace was a blackened ruin, when Malledd finally looked around and nodded with satisfaction. Most of the firefighting had actually been accomplished by the New Magic, but Malledd was still pleased with what he and his volunteers had done.

  The northern and western wings of the Imperial Palace, and the central section with its soaring spire, were all intact. The guards were back in place; the crowd had long since dissipated. The New Magicians had exhausted their magic not long after nightfall, and had walked back to their college. Darsmit had collapsed from exhaustion and been carried out hours ago, back to the apprentices' hall at the Imperial Armory. Reports had come in from various places, assuring the safety of the imperial family, the Imperial Council, and the other usual occupants of the palace. The Empress herself had been in the tower the whole time, too ill to move, but had not been harmed.

  And the fire was out.

  Malledd didn't know how it could have started in the first place, or why the guards hadn't been present, or where all the officials who should have taken charge had been, but none of that was any of his business; he had wanted to save as much of the palace and the surrounding city as he could, and he had done that. Now he could go home and get some sleep.

  Not that he was really tired; as everyone around him had noticed ever since his childhood, Malledd didn't get tired. Still, he thought sleep would be pleasant. He brushed off what he could of the ashes and smoke stains, then ambled back out through the main hall, down the steps to the plaza, and back toward the Imperial Armory.