by Larry Niven
Neoloth scrubbed his teeth with a scented mint stick. Once upon a time he had used spells for such things, but why waste even a smidgeon of power in these milk-and-water days?
He examined himself in the mirror. From elegantly forked beard to the fall of his clothes (and they had made small adjustments, were no longer as tight about the waist, where his recent weight gain was more noticeable than he wished), he looked … perfect.
Excellent. His investment in the cylinder had been a good one.
He opened the door and was privately pleased that the guard’s eyes widened at his transformation. “Please,” Neoloth said. “Take me to the queen.”
THREE
The Princess Tahlia
Neoloth’s private minipalace was connected to the main dwelling by both a public path and a hidden tunnel. They took the tunnel. Whatever purpose Queen Quilla had in mind must be something clandestine.
The air in the tunnel was pleasantly cool and dry, cooler than it would have been in the streets above. Quillia, wealthiest of the Eight Kingdoms, was built on a desert, and the incantations that had once brought water to her streets had been largely replaced with aqueducts and reservoirs.
A series of torches cast overlapping circles of yellow light along the way. Once, magical golden plates had illuminated the walls. Now, such excess was too wasteful by far. The tunnel ended in a set of stairs carved into the rock. Neoloth mounted them, climbing up into the castle. The stairs emptied out into the back of the throne room walled with marble and veined with gold.
Queen Quilla was present, all angularity and calm command. Just to her right was an unexpected surprise and pleasure … Princess Tahlia, her golden hair brighter than the golden throne on which she sat, its seat a hand width lower than the queen’s.
He bowed again, relieved that he had spent a little magic to tidy himself up before making an appearance. The queen was reason enough … but this situation went beyond logic. Neoloth was older than he appeared, a testimony to the herbs and magics that sustained him in his seventh decade of life. There were times when, despite those spells, he felt old, a sensation like frost at the core of his spine.
But that feeling vanished when the princess was near.
Princess Tahlia combined the refined beauty of her queen mother and the strength and intelligence of her deceased father, a warrior and scholar who had inherited much but expanded his holdings with conquest and crafty negotiation. Tahlia moved with such grace she seemed almost to be suspended by strings from above.
He held his breath when he saw her, afraid that her protective mother might know what he was thinking and feeling.
Then again, any woman smart enough to keep a throne could probably guess how he felt, how every man who didn’t favor buggery would feel in her presence. On the other hand, he sincerely hoped she didn’t know what he might have done to gain advantage.
Every wizard knew love spells.
“Good morning, Neoloth,” said the queen.
“Your majesty.” He bowed deeply. “How may I serve you?”
“I am advised to bring you into my confidence,” she said. “The royal daughter will be traveling to her cousin’s wedding, and I wish to know portents for fortune and weather.”
Neoloth’s mind whirled. “Travel … north to Nandia?” The northern kingdom was linked to Quillia by blood and custom, as well as by a shared language. It was a prosperous trading and shipping community clustered around a glittering bay.
“Yes. We’ve tried to keep it secret until now, but she departs day after tomorrow. Please, I ask that you pierce time’s veil.” For all her years and burdens, the queen was still a stunning beauty, still possessing much of the charm and vitality she had held in her youth, now tempered with the strength of judgment and experience that had accompanied her office.
If Neoloth did not have the younger woman to compare with, he might have been entranced. But Tahlia was alive, and present, and it was all he could do not to stare at her.
And she knew it.
Tahlia smiled at him, with the sort of impish confidence only young women of supreme beauty and status ever seemed to know.
“I will need as much information as you feel safe sharing with me,” he asked. “And also … I request a moment alone with the princess herself.”
The queen’s eyebrow raised, and she looked at her daughter, who leaned back in her golden throne, smiling speculatively. Tahlia nodded.
“Good,” the queen said. “Good. It is best that this was in the open.”
“May I ask,” he said. “What the fear might be?”
The queen’s lips curled downward. “Since childhood,” she said, “I have been able to see small signs and portents. I knew the dress I needed to wear when I met Tahlia’s father.” That thought seemed to summon an old and fond memory. “I knew we would be wed. But also that we would not have many years together.” Tahlia’s father had died of a brain fever. Their court magician had not been able to stave it off, and that had been the beginning of Neoloth’s tenure. If only they had called him sooner …
Well, it would have made little difference in an age when a wizard had to depend upon roots and herbs and leeches to effect his healings. And no mere medicines would have sufficed against the king’s ailment.
Needless to say, he hadn’t mentioned that to the grieving widow. On the contrary, he had sworn that he would have saved her beloved, if only he had been called and trusted. The former royal witch had been fortunate to escape with her life. If he was not mistaken, she had sheltered in Shrike, north of Nandia.
The queen exited accompanied by her maids in waiting, leaving the princess and Neoloth alone in the room, save for her guards. When the door closed behind the royal mother, the princess nodded to the guards, and they retreated as well, giving them privacy.
The door clicked. As Neoloth approached the princess, she rose. He dropped to one knee and took her hand.
It was warm and soft, and something inside him cried out for the beauty of it. “My princess,” he said, and touched his forehead to her hand. Odd how her skin was warm against his hand, but cool against his forehead. He knew not what to make of that, but felt just a little as if he were drowning.
“Walk with me,” Tahlia said, and, taking his arm lightly, allowed him to escort her to the parapet.
From there, they could look out over Quillia’s capital city. The morning shadows were long now, as the city shook off the cobwebs of slumber. Thousands of tradesmen, laborers, slaves attending to the business of their masters, young ones off to teachers or mentors to learn a trade.
The scent of fresh bread wafted in the air, mingling with the clean scent of the western ocean. That ocean lay beyond the maze of roofs, just beyond his sight, and its ancient, endless rhythms would soon carry her away.
Neoloth lowered his eyes.
“I look forward to Zatch’s wedding,” she said. “Soon it will be my own time. Already, my suitors will grow more insistent.” The princess scowled. “Since father’s death, Quillia is perceived as weak. My mother is not weak!” Her eyes flashed fire.
“She is the very strength of Quillia,” Neoloth said, attempting to sooth her.
“Mother adored Father,” she said. “Even though their marriage was one of state, there was great love between them. Tell me, wizard. Can your glass tell me if I will find the same?”
Her smile was not cruel. There was, in truth, no spot of cruelty in her, although she had her mother’s strength. Yes, that was one of the paradoxes of power: to be able to do cruel, necessary things without poisoning your own heart.
“I will look deeply, Princess,” he said.
Suddenly she asked, “Can you see your own future?”
“No, Princess. It’s like trying to tickle yourself or see through a mirror.”
She nodded. “They say that.”
He stood by her side, watched the new sun play on the fine, strong cheekbones, the gentle curve of her lips. Her pale, lovely, intelligent eyes.
But then … the princess too was bound, by her obligations of birth. She might be traded to a handsome prince (oh, Nandians were usually blue-eyed and square-jawed, damn it) in exchange for improved trade relations or reciprocal defense treaties.
On the other hand, her mother had been just as bound. And her father had been bound to ride into battle at the head of his army. Even protected by magical armor, in battle he had suffered the head wound that had eventually cost him his life.
And the peasants were bound to each other. Everything bound together, the entire universe, and the wizard who had once thought himself special, unique, apart from the forces he had resolved to control … was just another human cog in the whole clockwork design.
Was anyone, anywhere, really free?
“If I was free,” she said, as if reading his mind (and who was to say she could not?), “there might be different choices.”
“But you are not,” he said. “And we all have our obligations, Princess.”
She gazed out at the kingdom below her, the morning sun playing on her jawline. What was it, when you began to think of someone in terms of separate body parts? The swift intake of breath, the sway of a hip beneath silk …
He shuddered. Neoloth … you’re in trouble.
“If you could make your own choice?” She turned and gazed at him, eyes steady but lashes fluttering.
Yes, she was about to say it, the words trembled at her lips …
Then Drasilljah, her maid in waiting, stepped onto the porch. An older woman of Celtic extraction, her red hair faded with gray. Drasilljah had the mark of a magic user about her, even if she had never displayed such skills in his presence. Retainer? Mentor? Bodyguard was more like it, and her attitude toward Neoloth reeked of suspicion.
“My lady,” Draz said. She was tall and almost elementally thin, as if there was nothing of her but bones and magic. “You must make choices for the presentation gown.”
The princess sighed, as if a spell had broken. She smiled at Neoloth and touched his hand. “We will speak again when I return.”
“Ever at your service, m’lady,” he said, inclining his head as she walked past him and out.
Neoloth stood on the balcony for a time, staring toward the east, across the roofs and gardens. The kingdom. It would belong to whoever married the princess, the sole heir. Why not him?
Magic had kept him looking forty for, oh, almost thirty years. He had served the kingdom well …
But that wasn’t enough, and he knew it. The princess was both amused and impressed by him … and if he wasn’t mistaken, there was attraction there. If he had helped things along a bit …
“Excuse me?” Draz said.
Damn it! He hadn’t realized she was still behind him, and he turned, composing himself.
“It is a wonderful view,” she said. “But it is not yours.”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, of course.” She was smiling at him, as if she had read his thoughts. And, curse it, as had been the case with the princess, once again he wasn’t sure that she couldn’t.
He backed out of the room and returned down the long, dark tunnel to his quarters.
Once there, Neoloth cast off his disappointment and buried himself in the books and spells needed to generate a vision of the future. A great bowl filled with water, and then a handful of eggs from a Vox, a salamander-like creature that lived on the edge between magic and flesh. Vox eggs were thin, transparent, almost fluid, just enough solid matter to feel sticky against his palm.
Once stirred together, the mixture began to spin, as if a plug had been pulled from the bottom of the pan. Good. It was working. A dim light flickered within. He gazed. This was a tricky part: he had to look at it from the right angle, with his eyes partially closed, and in the right trance state. If everything was just right, it was sometimes possible to …
He saw the princess boarding her ship, and the ship taking sail. The weather looked good. The ship dwindled to a dot on the ocean, sailing north. Good … that would take it perhaps three days hence, if they sailed on the morning tide. It would take five days to reach their destination, he reckoned, and …
But then the clouds came. The bowl darkened, the whirlpool diminished. He could see nothing. He had seen, nothing, except a calm voyage, followed by …
A storm? Misfortune, or the simple failure of his spell, perhaps. Something that happened more and more often these days …
He didn’t know. And that was the hardest part of it all. He didn’t know. Once upon a time, such knowledge had come readily. And now …
What was he going to tell the queen?
A headache was brewing. And that, at least, he still possessed the power to heal.
FOUR
Aros on the Docks
Aros crouched behind a tavern, concealed in shadow. He believed he had eluded his pursuers but wasn’t willing to gamble his life on it. The guard would return within the hour, and he had to have an answer.
How had things gone so badly, so quickly? After last night’s attempt to murder him, he had lurched from disaster to disaster. True, he had successfully avenged himself upon C’Vall, killing him in his own bedroom. Unfortunately, he had been discovered even as he fled the chamber where C’Vall’s sword and skill had fallen before the barbarian’s fury. Discovery and alarum led to another fight during which he had broken the heads of a pair of guards … and then fled before he could be overwhelmed.
But Aros had been recognized. His position as taxman was lost, and the only real option was to flee east to the desert or south on the morning tide. If he could get to sea, if he could make the right contacts, he might be able to escape the clutches of the law.
If he couldn’t … his neck itched just where a noose would tighten.
There was a rustle in the alley behind him. He bristled, prepared to die fighting and free. If necessary. But he’d been so close!
Questions circled his mind like a cat chasing its flaming tail. Everything had been right, and now everything was wrong. The beast within him warred with the man. It was caught in a trap, but more important even than fighting its way out was finding the reason why.
The figure approaching him in the dark was more shadow than form, difficult to distinguish. “Who goes there?” Aros snarled.
“It’s me!”
Aros recognized the voice—that was Teesha, the tavern wench from the Broken Skull, one of his favorite haunts. A saucy and well-turned wench, cute rather than beautiful but flexible and warm-hearted.
“What have you heard?” Aros asked.
Teesha had brought a bundle of rolls and a joint of beef. And … a map of the desert, bless her. He thanked her with a kiss and tore meat from the joint with his teeth, surprised to realize just how famished he was.
“There’s talk,” she said in a high, reedy voice, “that someone you cheated got their revenge.”
Well, that was an easy call. “Man or woman?” he muttered. Angry husbands, cheated gamblers, jealous wenches, tax frauds brought to justice, men he had bested in arm wrestling, people he had robbed before taking the queen’s shilling. Oh, the possibilities were endless.
“One of each, perhaps.” She giggled. Her small, plump hand rested on his knee but began to climb higher. “Now, I’ve been a good girl for you, how about you paying me back a little?”
Aros shook his head. Teesha had always been a frisky lass, a quality he’d appreciated fully and frequently during his time in Quillia’s capital. But it seemed unseemly at the moment, and he felt obliged to turn her down.
On the other hand, if he turned her down, wouldn’t it be ungracious of him? And if he ever needed her help again, wouldn’t it be less likely that she would … um … respond?
As her hand reached its target, he suddenly found himself
having difficulty tasting his food. She was snuggling up close, and suddenly her mouth was on his, tongue questing as if she wanted to share his breakfast.
Oh well, what the hell—
There was always time for a knee trembler. Waste not, want not. The way things were going, it might well be his last opportunity for quite some time—
He lurched upright as she locked her legs around his waist, performing a perfectly adequate imitation of an octopus. Aros felt her hands fumbling for his belt, felt it go loose, and finally couldn’t remember any of the carefully devised reasons this was a bad idea, the two of them clutching at each other, him hoisting her skirts up and …
Untied your sword belt—
The senses that were filled with the urgent, pungent awareness of Teesha suddenly watched him from another position, as if outside himself, seeing a pale slip of a girl entwined with a brown-skinned giant, naked from the waist down, his Aztec sword and belt down around his ankles. And the shadows around them were not empty.
His eyes snapped open, and suddenly there were two men in the alley, one with a sword, one with a knife. Her brothers Alf and Negron, co-owners of the Broken Skull, apparently out to earn a little extra collecting bounties.
Teesha buried her teeth in his shoulder. Her legs tightened around his waist, her fingers grasping handfuls of his black, straight hair. Mouth was buried against his neck, but she managed to scream, “Get him!”
Gods! He was dancing about in the alley, her two brothers clearly unimpressed with the sight of their sister half-naked and in flagrante delicto. They did seem unwilling to turn their sister into a pincushion, and he was able to use that to his advantage, using her as a shield as he stumbled back into the crates.
And fell, rolling, the hellcat still biting and scratching him, sharp little teeth worrying at his throat. Damn it, his reluctance to hurt a woman was costing him dearly. If a man had ridden him in such a manner, he might have simply grabbed a leg in each hand and made a wish. But he just couldn’t … and that scrap of scruple would cost him his life if he wasn’t careful.
