On the table next to the slab was a pile of perfectly cut slates, each two feet by one and no more than a quarter inch in thickness. Each weighed five pounds. He laid the first slate on the old crone's chest and began to chant the curious rhyme that governed this spell.
As he chanted he felt colors swirling in his mind. First green, a stain that covered everything. Across the pure green grew a lacy network, a riverine system of dark threads. The threads connected, then grew together into knots and masses and finally clustered into blobs, growing darker and bluer and finally purple before they suddenly flushed red. With the color of blood flowing through his eyes, he turned, took up a second slate, and laid it carefully on top of the first on the old woman's chest.
She looked at him wonderingly. He continued to chant, the singsong syllables swinging back and forth while the red conglomeration glowed like heated wires.
After he placed the third slate, the wonder in her eyes turned to fear. She could move her head easily enough and had seen the pile of slates placed nearby. The stack was three feet high.
In Pulbeka's hands, the slates were not much more than large playing cards. The Old One snapped them down, one every ten seconds, singing all the while. The old woman began to scream, understanding her doom. She strained at her bonds, seeking to move her chest, but the ropes were iron tight.
The eighth slate brought a different timbre to her screams. She was finding it harder to hold up the weight. The fifteenth virtually silenced her. Little more than gasps and croaks came up after that, until with the thirtieth there began the gurgles.
The Old One kept singing while he held her eyes and absorbed her terror. The slates piled higher. She could not move. She could not breathe. She struggled to hold up the weight. He stared into her eyes, sucking out her life energy.
The gurgles gradually faded, the skin dulled, the eyes lost their shine. He took in the whole of her death with a tight smile on his great face.
His heart soared with the perfection he had achieved. His eyes closed while his mind exploded from the confines of his skull and flew outward, taking flight like an eagle of the dark.
Below him he could see the city of Shasht spread out around the temple pyramid. The harbor and the river snaking inland were etched darkly beneath the moon. Lights in thousands of windows picked out the outline of the great boulevards.
The world curved away to the horizon and the distant mountains of the south. To the north the oceans beckoned. He flew on, arms outswept as if they were wings.
Above the world glittered the stars, hard and sharp in this view, unobscured by the atmosphere. This world would belong solely to Man once more. The evil begun by the academy would be expunged.
Like some giant dragonfly of pure energy, he arrowed northward and into the east, hurrying over great cloud masses lit by moonlight. Far below, the ocean sparkled darkly in its immensity. On these gossamer wings of magic he passed faster than a sound, faster than anything but the gleam of the sun, and soon far ahead he perceived the dark mass of the northern continent.
The eastern edges were tinged by the first touch of dawn.
Down now, swinging over the mountains into the sweet green interior. Then, in a high valley, he spotted an encampment of pyluk. A dozen green-skinned fighting machines, lying by their simple wooden spears.
He felt laughter soar in his throat. He hadn't seen pyluk in a long, long time. Pyluk, his creatures, his playthings, his weapons.
But, it was not time for that. He had other work in mind.
The pyluk were soon far behind. Now the mountains rose up from the wrinkled hills. And there was Highnoth.
The ruins of the ancient city, the last city, the last place in the world that men lived as of old.
The place where he had been held captive for so long.
And there he found them, the creatures of the Leadership. His enemies in all things.
They felt him!
There was sudden panic among the ancient gnomes.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The smelters weren't fired that day, so the blue sky over Dronned was clear for once. Folk from all across the kingdom were drawn to each month's biggest market day, visiting vegetable stalls and art galleries and everything in between. Drummers and tumblers from as far away as Reif were playing for the crowd in the southeast corner of the Dronned market. From the far corner came the shrill pipe music of sheepherders from Blurri.
The midday bell rang from the tower of the Guild Hall. The cook shops along Pike Street were firing up their grills. At the Laughing Fish tavern the barmots were breaking open a fresh barrel of beer.
From the lookout tower, built on the harbor mole, came a cry. With so much commotion in the old town, no one took that much notice.
A youngster in the blue shirt of the messenger corps soon came running up the mole. "A ship!" he cried as he went past.
"A ship with two masts."
That news caused an immediate stir. Two masts meant a ship of men, not a stout cog of the Land. Ships full of men had always signaled a raid. Hundreds of mots ran down to the harbor to see for themselves. In many homes there began an immediate surge of panicky packing. Donkeys, carts, chests, and boxes were all in motion.
A bugle began to sound in the courtyard of the palace. The town criers took up their places on street corners to bellow a message. The royal civil service was suddenly boiling over with activity as messengers by the score exited the palace.
A pair of messengers were already haring up the north road to find the Commander of the Third Regiment, currently in Dronned Camp for training. "Seven hundred mots and brilbies will be ready within ten minutes, sir!" roared the sergeant at arms, though he was barely to be heard over the sound of the camp springing to life.
Nuza heard the message while working in the royal library, editing the transcripts of her memoir of Shasht. Also in the library were the two Assenzi that had been visiting with her for the past week, digging out everything she recalled about Shasht and her time there.
Nuza had never been exposed to Assenzi like this before. In person, they were unnerving. They seemed to know or sense everything. Most of the time they exhibited a slowness of movement that was almost unlifelike. But they also possessed perfect memory.
The messenger was a boy with a piping high voice, and she caught the words "a ship, two masts" very clearly.
The Assenzi, Utnapishtim and Acmonides, both down from Highnoth, certainly came to life. They got up from their own projects with alacrity. Their gnomish faces with the huge eyes were a study in alarm. They reassured each other in gentle voices.
"We need not be overly alarmed," said Utnapishtim.
"Indeed, there is a full regiment here. And many veterans in the town population at large."
"But there should be no more raiding."
"Could is the word, dear Utnapishtim, not should. They still could raid."
"The Emperor promised an end."
"But Aeswiren did not gain control of every element among the men."
"It is quite bothersome to have to pack up all these papers," muttered Utnapishtim as he stuffed scrolls and parchment into a satchel.
"Surely, ancient Masters, there must be another reason for a ship of men to come here. Perhaps they bring a message from Aeswiren?"
"Yes, Nuza, you are probably correct," Acmonides replied.
Aeswiren had taken control of the Shasht fleet and army. Only three ships had broken away, carrying his son, Nebbeggebben. The fighting was over. The men had evacuated Sulmo entirely. They were still occupying Mauste and would do so for the next year while they cultivated supplies to keep them going on the long trip back to Shasht, but they were wielding shovels and hammers, not swords and spears.
Another messenger came running through the palace. "There are mots and men on the ship. Mots and men, they can be seen together."
This provoked another wave of curious folk to hurry down to the harbor, mors among the mots now. They formed a crowd along Dock Stre
et and around the inner harbor.
The city waited breathlessly. Small boats had already put out and circled around the strange ship as it came in, sailing on a scrap of sail on the foremast. From the lookouts on the headland north of the city came word that no other sails were visible. The small ship was alone.
The two-master came on, slowly but directly into the harbor. A space was kept clear on the inner side of the mole. Cogs with heavy cargo could unload there before moving off to their own berths farther down. The ship was clearly heading for that spot. This implied that the ship expected to be welcomed peaceably.
As yet there was no sign of warlike intent, but the watching crowd remained uneasy despite their curiosity.
The little ship had slowed considerably now, her last sail taken down. The rudder pulled hard to starboard, swinging her right in to nestle against the side of the dock.
Several figures onboard were waving madly. Others were up in the rigging.
Stepping forward onto the dock came the harbormaster, a brilby in traditional costume of gray, fuscous fustian. "What ship?" he called in the tongue of the Land.
"The Sea Wasp, of Gzia Gi," came back the reply from a mot high up in the crosstrees of the foremast.
The crowd gasped. There really were mots aboard the ship!
Other figures onboard were moving forward with oars and poles in hand as the boat sidled slowly up toward the dock. A brilby ran up to the forepeak and threw a heavy line ashore. It was caught by the harbormaster, who turned it quickly around the big bollard. The ship came up against the line with a hard tug, then stilled and backed up against the dock.
Another line was thrown ashore astern, by a tall grey-haired man. The sight of a man caused the crowd to recoil a step or two, but a boatmot took the line anyway and made it fast. Here and there in the crowd behind him, mots and brilbies instinctively checked their belts for knife and shortsword.
"Mots and men on the same ship?" said many voices in the widespread confusion.
The Sea Wasp was hove tight against the dock, her gunwales four feet above the stone jetty.
A figure jumped up onto the gunwale. They clearly saw him, a mot with a scarred face, wearing the scraps of what had once been an officer's coat. Beside him was a brilby with an even more battered face. Then a third joined them, a mot whose face looked as if it had been beaten in with a club, which it had.
This trio of the battle-scarred made folk uneasy, too.
"Who are these scarred strangers?"
"Be they mots of the Land? They have the look of demons."
Then Thru Gillo jumped down from the ship and knelt and kissed the stone of the jetty.
At that very moment, Nuza came running up from Dock Street to join the crowd. She heard nothing but muttering around her. On the stern of the vessel she could see a tall figure.
The ship was decidedly not of the Land. And the figure at the stern was a man. More than that, the man had an incredible resemblance to the Emperor, Aeswiren the Third.
Nuza felt her heart thudding in her chest. A tremor went right through her body. Why was the Emperor here, and in such a ragged state?
She was still staring at Mentupah Vust, brother of Ge who had mounted to the purple many years before and become Aeswiren the Third, when the crowd thinned in front of her and another figure came stumbling forward. His eyebrows had jumped almost over the tip of his head.
It was Thru.
Nuza locked eyes with him for a long, astonished second, while her mind circled helplessly around and around like a whirligig. Then everything blanked out as she slid to the ground.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Thru Gillo's reappearance in Dronned sparked a huge celebration. Bonfires burned on the dunes while mots and mors, drunk on early summer brew, whirled and twirled. Ostensibly this outpouring of joy was to celebrate Thru's return, for he was still recalled as the hero Seventy-seven-Run Gillo, of the bat-and-ball game. But, in reality, the folk of Dronned were celebrating the certain end of the war.
If a ship crewed by men mixed with mots had sailed all the way from Shasht, then anything was possible. The Emperor had withdrawn his forces. The raids had ceased, though the army of the Land still watched the coasts. Now it seemed they really could trust the reports. The war was over.
The mots from the Sea Wasp were treated as heroes, and the men, after a cautious period of examination by the throng, were welcomed in the manner of the Land, which meant with food, ale, and song. The party went on all night, sputtering out only with the dawn.
Thru awoke with the first light. Nuza was sleeping beside him on the narrow bed in her room at the palace. They had had a great deal of catching up to do. They had had no time to spare for anyone but each other as they renewed their love. Sometimes they just lay there and laughed in each other's arms.
"Fate has played a strange game with us," said Nuza at one point.
"I suppose we should regard it as an honor."
They laughed again, giddy with joy.
"Nuza and Thru," said Thru. "We'll end up as a saga sung at winter festival."
The memory of winter stopped the laughter in Nuza's throat. She squeezed his hand between hers, and tears flowed down her cheeks while he kissed them away.
Thru told her what he had seen in Shasht, the sheer desolation of their land. "They use the world, plundering, never giving anything back. Their land is bare. There is no game in their forests."
When Nuza told him of her own strange adventures, Thru fell silent for many minutes. Nuza had become a favorite of the Emperor and been kept hidden in his palace. Thru did not know how to respond at first, and he was troubled by a strange sense of jealousy. Nuza had performed to entertain the Emperor. The Emperor had told Nuza he loved her.
The twinges of jealousy left Thru shaking his head. Nuza had told him everything. He understood that she had not reciprocated the love of the Emperor. Nuza was a mor, Aeswiren was a man, and in Nuza's words they "were not meant to be lovers in this world." And yet Thru was still jealous. He disliked this smallness in himself, and when he thought of what he and Simona had shared, he felt a pang of guilt such as he had never suffered before. It confirmed the wisdom of his decision not to tell Nuza the complete truth about what had taken place between Simona and himself.
When she kissed him and asked him why he was so quiet, he shrugged and dissembled, and in this he hated himself, too. "I can only give thanks that we survived. The Spirit must have been watching over the two of us. The Spirit must have a purpose in mind. No, it must be true. Consider this: You met the Emperor, and I met the Emperor's brother and became his friend."
Nuza gaped at him. "Brother?"
"Mentupah, the younger brother of Ge who is now called Aeswiren."
"I am amazed."
"You came back here on the Emperor's ship. I could not have made it back without the navigation skills of Mentu."
Nuza gasped and clapped her hands together. "You must be right about the Spirit. But the Emperor never mentioned his brother to me."
"Perhaps he was too ashamed. Because he imprisoned him for twenty years."
Nuza blinked, brought up short. Was Aeswiren capable of that?
"Why?"
"To prevent someone using him as a pawn or an impostor to replace the Emperor."
Nuza nodded, understanding the kind of intrigue that could flourish in Shasht politics. "Yes, that I can see. It is the way of their world."
Later, by great good fortune, Nuza was facing away from Thru when he told her that Simona had been aboard the Sea Wasp. When she looked back to him, she was able to hide the things she'd guessed at just from the way he spoke.
"She came back to the Land?"
"She wants to live here among us."
"I see." Nuza deliberately kept her voice neutral. Simona was a friend of Thru's, and so he must never know the truth. Nuza realized at once what her friend had done for her. If Simona had told Thru about Nuza being in the custody of the Emperor, he would have gone back t
o the city and been murdered on the altar of the dire God of Shasht. Simona had saved Thru's life, and Nuza knew she must protect that secret.
"And the others?" she asked.
"Janbur will probably go and live among the Emperor's men. Mentu has a more difficult road ahead. He does not trust his brother all that much."
While Nuza slept, Thru arose and scouted through the palace for the kitchens. He secured a tray of hot buttered scones, two tubs of chowder, and a pot of tea, which he took back to Nuza's room.
"This is the first breakfast we've had together since that morning in my house in Sulmo," she said with a smile.
"On Whiteflower Lane, I remember it well."
Nuza looked down, struck by sadness once more. The house and everything around it had been burned when the outer ward of Sulmo was captured by the Shasht army.
After breakfast, a message came for Thru. He was requested to attend a meeting with the Assenzi. They had many urgent questions for him. Thru had expected the call. He knew it would be the first of many. Others would want to talk to him, Toshak among them.
He kissed Nuza farewell. She had her own tasks to attend to, and they would meet again at the end of the day. He navigated the mazelike corridors of the palace and found a long, narrow room on an upper floor of the east wing.
Three of the ancient little beings were waiting to see him: Melidofulo, Acmonides, and Utnapishtim. Of this trio, Thru knew Utnapishtim best. At Highnoth he had taken Utnapishtim's classes and then accompanied him on a perilous trip into the Farblow Hills.
Utnapishtim was overcome with emotion at meeting Thru once again. He embraced his former pupil while his eyes glistened with tears of happiness. "It is a miracle, and I thank the Spirit."
Thru laughed. "A miracle indeed, in fact several of them. The Spirit intended all along for me to survive long enough to come back."
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