by Larry Niven
Neoloth flinched. “And that … is not much better.”
Aros’s smile was just a little crooked, like the Aztec blade at his side. “Well, I tell you what. Why don’t you use your magic and turn yourself into this lost waif of yours. I’m tired of your nonsense.”
Neoloth shook his head. “That wouldn’t work. I need you for a distraction while I do the searching.”
Aros tried again, a bit of frustration creeping into his voice. “Then use it to make me sound like this Elio.”
Neoloth laughed, and his elf laughed. And possibly Agathodaemon, the constrictor nestled in the wicker basket on the third packhorse, laughed as well. But Neoloth wondered how convincing the mirth was. He didn’t want to make another admission that he couldn’t do things like that. Not anymore.
“We’ll try it the other way,” Neoloth said. “We’ll say that you lost your memory.”
Aros pulled to the left, moving his mount away from the edge of a ravine. Despite the fact that the afternoon air was dry and hot enough to turn grapes into raisins, it was clear that at times water still flowed across the surface. “My memory? That seems too convenient. How would that work?”
“I’m not sure.” And he wasn’t. But the more he considered the idea, born of necessity, the more he liked it. “We won’t convince them you’re General Silith’s son. We’ll do the opposite—make them convince us.”
He watched his captive colleague carefully. Aros chewed it over and then chuckled. The barbarian was grudgingly intrigued. “I’d like to see that,” he admitted.
Neoloth allowed himself a smile. Calculated, of course, to help Aros forget that they weren’t really an “us.” “So would I,” he said.
* * *
The sun was a hand closer to the western horizon by now, and the tension in their little group had progressed steadily. “You believe you can speak with this Chief Sky Mountain?”
“I hope so,” Aros said. “I learned enough of their talk. I think.”
The wizard kicked his mount’s flanks, increasing speed slightly to even his stride with the barbarian’s. “You’re not sure. Let’s hope we avoid them altogether or find them soon. The suspense is growing monotonous.”
“Your monotony is just about over,” Aros said, and flicked his head up and to the left. And then the right. “There they are.”
Neoloth looked south and then north, across cactus and dry gulch to the ridges of mountains. If he squinted, he could make out a line of horsemen upon each ridge, pacing them.
Neoloth cursed quietly. “I … didn’t see them.”
Aros chuckled. “They saw us, and that’s all that matters,” he said. “They’ve been following us for the last hour.”
Neoloth felt the anger boiling up inside him. “Why the hell didn’t you say something?”
Aros’s smile widened. What the hell did this bastard find amusing?
Fandy’s nervous giggle floated up from behind them, and Neoloth realized that he had given Aros an unanticipated advantage in their little war of words and wills.
They continued riding east. Over the next two hours, the lines of native riders descended from the ridges and converged upon them, first flanking and then pulling ahead and around, finally facing them.
Aros raised his right hand, palm forward. The universal gesture of I hold no weapon. “I send greetings to Chief Sky Mountain,” he said in their language.
“Tell him you bring greetings from our queen,” Neoloth said, and Aros repeated the words in the tongue of the desert people.
“I am Great Elk.” The bare-chested warrior did not change his expression. Their brown faces were streaked with paint; their hair, dressed with feathers. Their naked torsos looked hard and strong. Neoloth noted that the dust devils at their horse’s sides swirled more slowly as they spoke but never seemed to dissipate. The horses themselves were a bit odd, watching with a greater level of attention than he was used to in ordinary mares and stallions. And, further, the heat shimmered around their flanks as if they were horse-shaped statues filled with molten metal. “Our treaties forbid your entry into our lands without parlay,” he said.
Aros translated his words.
“We are here to parlay,” Neoloth replied. “We did not hide ourselves and do not conceal our intentions now.”
“What,” the second warrior asked, “do you want of us?” His spear was tipped with blue and white feathers of some bird Neoloth didn’t recognize. They rustled in the wind, which was strange, because he felt no wind.
“We seek the grave of one of our children,” Neoloth said. “Slain by robbers,” he added hastily. “Not at the hands of your people.”
Great Elk’s eyes narrowed as Aros translated the words. “When did this happen?”
“Almost twenty years ago,” Neoloth said.
Great Elk nodded. “Evil men who hid in our lands. They were our enemies as well.”
“What happened to them?” Aros asked on his own.
“We turned them into toads.”
“Nice,” Aros said. He turned to Neoloth. “You’d look good in green,” he said, but declined to explain his comment.
“His convoy was hijacked,” the wizard said. “For years we have not known if he lived or died. At last our seers found his burial place. Now we know he perished and wish to pay honor.”
He paused as Aros translated. There was still no wind. The feathers twitched in still air.
“You seek only his bones?” Great Elk asked.
“Only his bones.”
“Wait,” he said. Great Elk pulled his people back. Their spears leaned against each other, and Neoloth thought he saw the tiny carved heads atop them moving slightly. Joining in the discussion, perhaps.
The warriors argued among themselves. Then Great Elk shook his head and returned to the wizard and the warrior. “You may pass. We give you three days. Honor your dead,” he said. “And then … leave our lands.”
“Thank you,” Neoloth and Aros said.
For the first time, Great Elk smiled. The smile was cold. Then he spoke in Lemurian, the root language of Quillian, and a language Neoloth understood. “We are not fools. We know that you may be lying.”
“Then why are you letting us through?” Aros asked, without bothering to translate.
Great Elk’s smile deepened. “Because in these lands, lying brings its own pain.”
The riders wheeled their horses about and left them.
“They spoke our language,” Neoloth said.
Aros smiled. “Of course.”
“And you knew that?” Behind him, Fandy was snickering again. Damn.
“I suspected.”
Neoloth pondered Great Elk’s last statement. “‘Its own pain.’ What did they mean by that?”
“Nice to know you don’t know everything,” the barbarian said.
“I’ve always known that. I’ve spent my life as a student.” Neoloth frowned, watching the desert men as their horses trotted away. The little dust devils followed obediently.
“Then it’s nice to know you know you don’t know.”
Neoloth opened and closed his mouth. “I’m not sure how to answer that…”
Neoloth was fairly certain the barbarian was smirking, damn it. In the old days, Neoloth would have rained lightning down on his head for such impudence. Perhaps before this was all over, an opportunity … and the means … would present themselves.
* * *
As night fell, Aros chose a campsite tucked comfortably into the lee of a ridge, reasonably clear of tumbleweed and scorpions.
“Fandy!” Neoloth called.
The little one hopped down off his mule at once. “Yes, sir?”
“Tie up our horses and gather firewood.”
Aros called out. “Wizard? I’m not certain it’s a good idea for Fandy to continue doing the work. Shouldn’t you have some practice? As a servant, I mean.”
Neoloth thought it over, and to his displeasure realized there was good sense in that idea. “Yes,
damn you, I should. Fandy, I’ll deal with the horses and gather what we can find to burn. Instruct me at need.”
The little elf bowed elaborately. “As you wish.”
Neoloth knew horses, and fire was easy. Presently Neoloth had a pot of pemmican and corn simmering over coals. Then he opened the basket on the second horse, extracting seven feet of sleepy serpent.
“Hungrrrry,” Agathodaemon whispered.
“Food soon.” Neoloth stroked its head. Aros eyed him suspiciously. The barbarian didn’t like snakes, especially talking ones. Neoloth enjoyed that.
“Not a bad spot,” Neoloth said. “A bit of shelter from the wind.”
“City dwellers,” Aros sneered.
Neoloth draped his snake around his neck. “I’ve traveled hard before.”
Aros leaned back against a rock, smiling. “I saw to that, at least twice.”
Neoloth glared at him. Memories raced, and a sudden suspicion flared. “Did you poison my eagle?”
“Poison?” Aros stretched, yawning, and assumed an injured air. “Not poison. Never. Drugged, perhaps. I mean, the lockweed was right there. You may have this sense of the Great Gold Ones as mighty hunters of the sky, but they’re really just vultures with pretty wings.” He chuckled, as if with a pleasant memory. “Let’s just say the sheep was right there, and an opportunity like that was too tempting to resist.”
“As the shepherd said to the magistrate,” Fandy chimed in.
Neoloth and Aros stared at him. Neoloth tried to repress his mirth but couldn’t help it, roaring with laughter. Aros joined in, and their echoes rang across the darkened plain.
“So…,” Neoloth said. “You killed a ram and stuffed its belly with lockweed. Then, while I was in the tomb…”
“I offered your Gold One a snack,” Aros said. “Which didn’t take effect until you were cloudbound again. I had merely to follow you. Flying things tend to travel in a straight line. So do falling things, in fact. It wasn’t difficult.”
Neoloth pondered that for a time. “Well, yes. You almost killed me. I managed to guide his fall into a snowbank. Broke Sky King’s neck, but I survived.”
“You survived the yetis, too,” Aros said.
Neoloth chuckled. “Barely.”
Aros felt something at his feet and jumped up, waving his sword. “That damned snake climbed into my bedroll!”
“That’s odd,” Neoloth said, his tone measured. “Usually Agathodaemon’s a much better judge of character. Even the simplest creatures can sense antipathy.”
“I don’t hate snakes.” Aros glared. “Their meat is stringy but excellent.”
“Warrrm…,” Agathodaemon said.
Neoloth chuckled and raised his arms. “Come to me, my sweet.” The snake slithered to him, coiled in his lap, and became still.
They lay quiet for a time. Neoloth seemed restless. Finally, he spoke. “I set the land-kraken on you.”
Aros sat bolt upright. “What?”
“The matter of the liquid diamonds. Not something I’d think you’d forget.”
Aros’s mind raced. “The … land…” Then he sat up. “You bastard!” he said. “I still carry the scars. It’s why I avoid cold weather.” He rubbed his left elbow in memory.
Neoloth smiled. “That was me,” he said. “You should be grateful.”
“Grateful?” Aros roared. “Why in the hell?”
Neoloth shrugged. “I needed those diamonds. I had a fireworm in my gut, and the only remedy was to bribe her out of my body. I just couldn’t let you get them. I was at my height of power then and could have just fried you with lightning.”
Aros narrowed his eyes. “So why didn’t you?”
Neoloth considered. Then he decided to tell the truth. “I … respected you. As an honorable adversary. Wanted to give you a fighting chance.”
Aros stewed over this for a while and then grudgingly nodded. “Well, thank you. I look forward to returning the favor. As soon as possible.” Then he lay back and pulled his blanket over his face.
* * *
The travelers were up, breakfasted, and traveling before morning sunlight crept across the desert.
Following an invisible map in Neoloth’s head, they passed a cluster of boulders that seemed somehow out of place, as if they had been tumbled like a child’s blocks. In addition, the stubbly trees were atilt, as if they had been torn up by the roots and jammed carelessly back into the earth.
“What is this?” Aros asked, uneasy now. His hands hovered around the hilt of his Macuahuitl.
“I’m not sure.”
Aros hopped down off his horse and poked around. “The ground is hard here … but not too hard for footprints. What do you make of this?” He traced Flaygod’s flat tip around an impression the size of a child’s body. At first Neoloth thought it a sinkhole or a place where an oblong boulder had been rolled away. Then he spotted four smaller indentions above it.
Toes. A footprint.
“A mountain troll,” Neoloth said.
“We’re a long way from the mountains,” Aros growled.
Fandy’s large, soft eyes protruded. “Oh my. Oh my. We should be going.”
TEN
The Grave
Two hours before the sun buried itself in the western horizon, Aros asked, “Do you ever intend to tell me where we’re going?”
“Almost there,” Neoloth said. Draped around the wizard’s neck, Agathodaemon flickered his tongue and hissed. The snake was content. Judging by the swelling in its belly, Neoloth had fed it, although Aros had not seen the moment of truth. Neoloth stroked his pet, perhaps as much to annoy Aros as anything else. “What, dearest? Where do we go?”
“This is ridiculous,” Aros snarled.
“Shhh.”
They traveled a bit farther and then Agathodaemon pulled back. “Here,” Neoloth said. The serpent slithered down from the horse’s flank, curled around its leg, and then crawled across the ground to a heap of rocks Aros had missed on first glance. A cairn. Agathodaemon crawled all the way around the heap. And then coiled, forked tongue flicking. “Heeeere.”
Aros frowned. “This is it? It’s not even marked.”
Neoloth had grown thoughtful. “No, it isn’t.” His face seemed longer, his mood heavy. “When I first considered this journey, I merely wished something I knew I’d find on the bones. But now…”
“How old are you?” Aros asked, looking down at Neoloth’s slithering pet.
Neoloth’s mouth creased in annoyance. “What difference does that make?”
“You still look the same as when I first saw you, ten years ago.” He paused, shifting in the saddle. “Do I?”
“No,” Neoloth said, still not grasping the issue. “You’re thicker through the body. It’s muscle, but probably better marbled than once it was.”
Aros snorted and made an obscene suggestion. “Whatever. You’ve not changed. You are … living on a different scale. I don’t think you understand. For you, a little more magic, a little more power, and you can stay young. The best that men like me can hope for is to stay alive. You don’t understand. I doubt you ever will. But some part of you remembers, and the grave of a child moved you. Death such as this moves you. You are still human. Who knew?”
To that, Neoloth had no response. They unhorsed and removed rocks one by one and then dug with shovels from the packhorse. A few minutes of careful work uncovered a pitiful little bundle of oilskins.
Without a word, their motions had become less gross and eager and more delicate, as they might have if swaddling an infant. The wind whistled around them and then died down, as if even nature hushed her roar in the presence of tragedy.
Dark withered skin, and bird-like bones. For a moment, all sound was suspended, and they were alone with the pitifully small corpse of Elio Silith. A child who had been sent across the world as a bargaining chip, a tool to knit kingdoms together. The body was curled on its side, amid a scattering of toys: a top, a woven horse, and a ship carved in whale bone. And o
ne item of value: a broad golden Aztec coin bearing the image of a handsome, hawk-nosed woman. A small hole had been drilled or punched at the top, and a rotted leather thong had passed through the hole. A necklace, perhaps.
“Strange,” Aros said.
“What?”
“I wonder. It almost seems that the bandits loved him more than his own parents did. They left a gold coin with him.”
“Perhaps to purchase his way into paradise,” Neoloth said. “Jade is Azteca royalty. This image might be her mother.”
The mood had changed suddenly, from a sense of celebration and discovery to something somber. The sun cast long, bleak shadows.
Neoloth examined the contents of the oilskin more carefully. “Look at this,” the wizard said. “Could be natural causes. No obvious damage. Buried with his toys.”
“Respect?”
“Possibly.” He pointed to a bracelet. “That’s a health talisman, made of herbs and such. They tried to heal him. Look at this.”
He pulled out the horse, knotted patiently from twine. Aros pointed at the form of the neck. “Look at this knot around the neck,” he said, holding it close. “A bowline. That’s a sailor’s knot.”
“What does that mean?”
“That someone who had been to sea traveled with the boy,” Aros said.
“Perhaps his guardians?”
“More likely the raiders themselves,” Aros said. “They made him a toy.”
Neoloth nodded, surprised at the sadness he felt. “Could be. I think they intended to ransom Elio. Then he sickened…”
“And they tried to make him well. They couldn’t. He died. They buried him with respect.”
The two of them were silent. Aros was the first to speak. “For most of us, this is all that remains. You wizards seek a way to cheat death His due.” The wind gathered up his mane of black hair and then settled it again. “There is no way. I’ve lost track of the number of ‘immortal’ sorcerers Flaygod has sent to hell. ‘I’ll live forever!’ they say. Right up until they squeal with their guts on the tip of my sword. They always look so surprised. Do you really think yourselves so superior to the rest of us?”
“Yes.”
