Missing Piece

by Robert Priest

  Montither was unwavering. He let the old librarians with their kindling-stick legs and their ugly wrinkles beg him for their lives as he had heaped up their precious texts in a great pile around the stake.

  They would, of course, have to die. The Pathan law was clear. But he had his own sense of symmetry, and a quick merciful slash of the throat could not fulfill it. Hanging them would be simply crude. Beheading wasn’t for such kindling as these. Before the flame was lit, he had them tied to the stake in the middle of the heap. The energy of their screams was a magnificent testament to the hidden depths of strength that can linger to the end, even in the very old. None of the librarians could stop, no matter how much they had vowed silence. He watched them as the great heat rendered them down and down and down until they and their texts became one mutual heap of ashes.

  Montither did not then hurry off like the rest of his thugs, who had been amusing themselves with this conflagration. He took the time to kneel and again pledge himself to the great multiplicity of facets, to the infinite points, angles, and symmetry of the Magman.

  23

  An Ultimatum

  Tharfen wasn’t used to waiting. She’d expected to be ushered into the Panthemium, listened to, and then be finished with it. But she hadn’t reckoned on the ceremoniousness of the Phaer people. After much milling about, the huge motley crowd came together in the singing of the Phaer anthem. The members of the Phaer Academy who had been in Ulde for the past five years were distinguishable by their red uniforms and sang confidently in harmony. Many others there were so newly arrived or had spent lives of such deprivation that they clearly had never heard the great song before, but they were soon caught up in it anyway and doing their best to sing the words, some of which they knew not the meaning of.

  Tharfen, resplendent in her best uniform, stood at proper attention and sang enthusiastically. She rubbed her jaw at the end though. It was feeling a little stiff and tender. She was also experiencing some nausea, but, accustomed to dealing with seasickness, she succeeded in quashing it.

  Now began the introductory oration: a speech delivered by the portly Mr. Stilpkin who took care to gesture frequently with the green hand that attested to his innate abilities as an herbalist. His voice was scratchy and people had to strain to hear. The sun was still shining, but there were occasional gusts of wind that had everyone with headwear slightly prepared for quick rescue should a hat be swept off a head. Tharfen sniffed the air and wondered for the first time if a storm might be coming. She thought of her ship, the Dawnrider.

  After a ceremonial drum tattoo and a brief official prayer from a contingent of Loceklians, Lirodello gave a stern talk, recounting the attempted mass spell of the previous evening and its dire aftermath. He warned of instant consequences for anyone caught attempting any kind of spellcraft. Somewhere in the middle of this, as Tharfen’s mind drifted and she recalled again that brief sight of Xemion the night before, she had a sudden fear that the piece had returned. She leaned forward and pressed where it used to be and was relieved to find that, although the heel itself was quite tender, the piece continued to be absent. It occurred to her for the first time that she might have caught an infection from the leech’s cup she had used last night and she resolved to consult Mr. Stilpkin about it when the speeches were over.

  By now Lirodello’s speech was drawing to a close. “I ask you, before I introduce Captain Tharfen, to welcome our inaugural poet laureate, who has a brand-new sonnet written especially for our distinguished visitor.” After thunderous applause, the poet stood up. With a slightly desperate look at Tharfen, he held open in one hand a sheet of reed paper and began to recite.

  The Sunset stands no chance against her hair.

  Red cherries go unnoticed when she’s close.

  The carrot envies underground the flare

  of orange kissed with fire full of rose.

  Tharfen didn’t like his rhymes but she was impressed despite herself at his sheer vocal power. A transformation came over him when he spoke publicly and his voice became clear, emotional and musical.

  The very air is moved in every wind

  to be the rippling force on hidden strands,

  the see-through army liberating them

  to rush in gold at the unnumbered sands.

  A site is treasure; a vision is pure loot,

  and yet to touch it — run one’s fingers through it,

  though it might leave me powerless and mute,

  I’d line up with the rest of you to do it.

  Here some who were apparently impressed with his rhyming of loot and mute, emitted whoops of approval. There were now two lines left and he allowed a suitable period of silence to hang over the Panthemium. Finally he spoke the second last line.

  There is no red or gold to me but that …

  He landed with emphasis on the word that. Now he lifted his head and dared to let his eyes skim past Tharfen’s as in a voice that was close to trembling he spoke the last line.

  … which she has buried in her pirate hat.

  The crowd, many of whom had never heard a poem before, immediately burst into shouts and cheers and whistles of approval and all eyes turned to Tharfen. She had been doing her best not to show her displeasure at the unwelcome attention paid to her hair, but at the last line she grimaced so hard it caused a sharp pang and a little spasm in her throat. She swallowed hard and reminded herself that it was her duty to be forthright; in fact, to set a good example of forthrightness.

  She stood up, doffed her tri-cornered hat, and in the precise, penetrating voice long practised in addressing her assembled crew, she began. “First of all, Mister Lirodello has asked me to come and speak to a specific issue, but I would be remiss if I did not remark first on the poem which was just recited. My hat is that of a senior captain of the Altarian fleet. I am not a pirate, nor would I ever be a pirate, because I despise pirates. Pirates murder and steal and rape. They are a plague upon our oceans and they have laid waste to every city along the western coast. And that, Phaer people, brings me to my point. Do you leave your doors open at night when there are thieves and murderers in your neighbourhood? Well, that is what you’re doing every day and every night that you are in the city of Ulde with that giant gap in your seawall. Some of your counsellors have argued, I am told,” and here she turned around and looked scornfully upon the long row of forty-nine counsellors seated behind her, “that attack from the sea is unlikely because the Pathans are exhausted from their civil war, or that even if a pirate crew disembarked at low tide they would not have the capacity to get up the cliffs. But they are wrong! I’ve sailed all around the world. I have fought in three brutal campaigns, and I can tell you with modern siege machines you might as well have no seawall at all as have one with a great gap like that in it — visible, I should add, from about two miles out to sea.”

  Tharfen could feel her throat constricting. The pause she took to swallow seemed to lend an extra sense of emotion and drama when she began again.

  “I was born on this island and I can’t help but have a care for this city, and when I see such an invitation as that out there, I cannot hold my tongue. It is foolish to waste your resources on a small defensive measure like rigging the ceiling of the cavern to fall on invaders — whether it is Ettinender’s legacy or not, I’m sorry to say. You should be doing nothing else until you gather rocks and bricks and stones and close that gap.”

  The crowd cheered loudly, though there were some who did not join in. “Don’t let them hold you back. Don’t let them confuse you with arguments.” She turned once again to indicate the counsellors, and the crowd roared. Tharfen was pleased, but turning her head pulled painfully at a muscle all down one side of her throat. “And remember, you too are part of that wall. If the bricks should ever fall, there will still be you standing shoulder to shoulder to get through. But you will have to be brave. Not just brave in the sense of conquering
your fear.” The pain in her throat was now turning into a knot. But she hadn’t finished yet. “Brave as in—”

  Just as Tharfen struggled to end authoritatively on her last important word — fearless — something happened that any of the Loceklians there who survived the next few weeks would remember all their lives. Loceklians find coincidences — or crisscrosses as they call them — extremely alarming, and just as Tharfen said the word fearless the entire arena was shaken by a distant, almost supernatural-sounding scream. With that, Tharfen’s jaw locked tight — so tight she could hardly breathe — and she clutched at her throat and began to sway.

  Not everyone saw this. Most eyes had turned to the sky over the walls of the Panthemium to see, above the eastern sea, something huge sailing toward them. The wing span was far too wide to be any known kind of bird, even a condor, and as it drew quickly closer it became clear that it wasn’t a bird at all. Its screams were being emitted from a child’s face, but the body was broad, grey-lavender in colour, and the reek that preceded it was like that of a battlefield ten days old.

  Just before the creature reached the Panthemium, Tharfen became aware of the presence of the piece. It was as though it stepped out from behind a hiding place in her, much larger and heavier than it had been before. A wave of nausea reached up from her belly, pulling the piece down from above. It plummeted through her like a dead weight. Like a comet through the floors of a seven-storey building.

  Then to the immediate dread of the Loceklians, Tharfen fell. First to her knees, and then, if the poet and Mr. Stilpkin had not caught her, she would have fallen flat on her face. She didn’t learn till much later what happened next.

  The winged creature swooped down low over the Panthemium, its wingspan wide enough to cast a shadow over half the crowd. It settled down on top of a column, breaking the flagstaff atop it and knocking over a gorehorse pennant as it did so. The terrible stench intensified. Clutching both sides of the column and tucking its wings in, the creature tilted its child’s head upward and released its most hideous and loudest scream yet. This also served the purpose of stretching out and displaying the rust red wattle, like that of a rooster, which hung down from the chin, gelatinous and glistening. Several of the academy members now had their bows out and were notching arrows in preparation, but Lirodello shouted out an order for them to hold. The creature spoke in the penetrating child voice of Noli, the blood mage’s assistant.

  “In the name of Ponerix, absolute potentate of Cyclopes, emperor of the single-eyed sun, lord of the one moon, sovereign of the Lone Isle, lord of the singled seas, ruler of the Phaer Isle, I bring you news from your sovereign. Four days hence, your high prince, Icrix, will be arriving on these shores with one hundred ships. A great debt of blood is owed the House of Ponerix, and it is the prince’s intention to collect it. In four days the city of Ulde and all its male citizens and their possessions will be surrendered to its rightful lord, Ponerix, emperor of the sun, in payment for the loss of the king’s five sons. The king’s mercy shall rest upon the women and children of the city of Ulde upon one condition. We are aware the murderer known as Tharfen of Ilde is among you. It is the emperor’s decree that she be detained and incarcerated until the prince’s arrival, at which time she shall be flayed, drawn, and quartered. If these actions are taken, all women and children shall know the emperor’s mercy.”

  There followed silence throughout the stadium.

  “How say you?” the creature asked.

  Again, no one spoke, though many, who had not seen her fall, turned in search of Tharfen. The wind gusted and the head lifted and this time a thick red drop formed on the lowest of the wattles at the creature’s neck, spattering into the horrified face of a Thrall almost immediately below. When at last Lirodello spoke up, his voice and manner had grown unusually imperial and commanding. “Tell your king we are masters of our own isle and we do not trade one of us off against another. But we would be happy to re-establish diplomatic relations.”

  “Where are you, stone thrower?” the creature asked, ignoring him. “Your underlings will not surrender you, but perhaps you’ll have the courage to proclaim yourself?” Another thick drop and then another ran down from the wattles. The creature crowed like a rooster. “Come, coward, be a great hero again — but this time not from a distance. Not by throwing a stone. Come up close and save these many souls with your sacrifice.”

  As the warm wind continued to bluster in, the red wattles were melting away like wax in heat. The drops became a trickle that was caught up in the wind and scattered over the horrified crowd. A little rivulet formed and opened a small V-shaped channel in the creature’s chest as the smell of decaying meat thickened. And still the force and humidity of the wind increased. A dark cloud sped across the sky and the messenger bird began to ripple and stretch and melt.

  Lirodello opened his mouth to respond, but he was cut off by a thunderclap as the storm that had been brewing all day finally broke. The creature screamed in the voice of the blood mage’s boy, as its body rippled and turned until it was caught by the wind and driven out of sight.

  With that a hot, driving rain began to thump down in full force and the hideous red that had stained so many in the crowd was washed out of their clothes and hair and swept underfoot in ever-growing rivulets through the streets, where it eventually reached the ordure that Tharfen had seen only yesterday, sweeping it down through the drains and the pipes to the surging sea below.

  24

  Torgee’s Torture

  Two days later, not far beneath the earth in a secret temple sacred to the Pathan god Magman, Montither, lying on his back with his eyes closed, was preparing for the final stages of his initiation into the cult. This required him to flatten himself to his particular facet of the magma god’s crystal mind. All the planes of the Magman were in constant balance and each needed the other. That was the teaching. But Montither knew his mind was still too thick. So he prayed himself down thinner and thinner. And when he felt a kind of sheen about his essence he said to the Pathan priest. “Ready.”

  The candle flickered in the temple’s crystal core and the priest in his glassy voice said “Are you?”

  Montither almost felt himself thicken. But he stayed thin a moment longer. “I am. I know I am. I am steeped in my facet. I am bounded by my facet.”

  “But a question has just arrived in the crystal will as manifested in the mouth of a traveller who recently came through here.”

  “Question?” Montither’s tone verged on anger.

  “A question about you and your previous vows.”

  “My previous vows are all done. They are sealed and avowed. They are part of the sheen of the Magman these five years.”

  “Tell me again about your vow in the city of Ulde.”

  Montither was losing his flatness. He did not like being questioned.

  “A sorcerer used spellcraft to defeat me in a tourney and I swore to him in return I would kill the sylph who empowered him. And I kept that solemn vow. When I came upon her in the Second Battle of Phaer Bay, I slew her as I vowed I would.”

  “What was the name of this maid?”

  “In the games she was known as Zero.”

  The scratched-glass tone of the Pathan’s voice rose slightly with the next question. “And you are sure she was dead?”

  “If she had a heart in her chest, she is dead.”

  “Was this maid known by any other name?”

  “I’m sure she was known by many. When I first saw her, she had the name—”

  “Was it Saheli?”

  “Yes! That was one of her many names.”

  “What if I told you she is not dead?”

  “I would say you are wrong.” Montither had by now lost all thought of maintaining thinness. He was thick with emotion. He was angry.

  “No one doubts that you did indeed give her mortal wounds as you have said, but what if, even
after you had slain her, she was brought back from the brink through spellcraft?”

  “No. That’s not possible.”

  “Yesterday a Pathan trader named Vihata brought us a man they caught near the place they call Mordabog near Ulde. Since he was one of the guards, they brought him to us after they’d finished with him. We have been debriefing him.”

  “He lies if he says she is not dead.”

  “Oh, but they had him beyond lying. Vihata made liberal use of some tungbane. He was a very good and honest fellow with them then.”

  “He is a liar if he said the maid is not dead.”

  “He said the maid was frozen in a spell. He said she lies somewhere in a tower neither dead nor alive.”

  “No.”

  “I have not known an honest man who can lie under the tungbane.”

  “No!”

  “We have to do our utmost to make sure your vow is complete.”

  “My vow is complete. My vow is dug deep, deep, double cut through and through, twice through the heart.” Montither was so upset he opened his eyes and caught for a second a small red glint from one of the facets of the Pathan priest’s face from within the sacramental head covering.

  “But doesn’t it make sense,” the priest continued, “that a mage skilled enough to make a sword sufficiently powerful to defeat you by spellcraft alone could also have done another powerful spell over the maid? Should we just toss aside our reasonable need for factual assurance on this and say nothing?”

  “Bring the fellow to me,” Montither roared, sitting up. “If he is truly in the guard, then I should know him. Bring him to me so I can have him lie to my face.”