“One moment!” he called out.
Naturally, it required several moments. A few to tumble out of his night robe. And even more to slip into the tunic, healer’s gown, and slippers. Then he was hurrying through the bright sunlight of the greenhouse. And on into the dimness of the hallway beyond, with its solid door. Solid, that was, except for the vent at mouth level. Stulwig placed his lips at his end of the slanted vent, and asked,
“Who is it?”
The answering voice was that of a woman. “It’s me. Illyra. Alone.”
The seeress! Stulwig’s heart quickened. His instant hope: another chance for her favours. And alone—that was a strange admission this early in the morning.
Hastily, he unblocked the door. Swung it open, past his own gaunt form. And there she stood in the dimness, at the top of his stairway. She was arrayed as he remembered her, in her numerous skirts and S’danzo scarfs. But the beautiful face above all those cloth frills was already shaded with creams and powders.
She said, “Alten, I dreamed of you.” There was something in her tone: an implication of darkness. Stulwig felt an instant chill. She was giving him a sorceress’s signal.
Her presence, alone, began to make sense. What she had to offer him transcended a man’s itching for a woman. And she expected him to realize it.
Standing there, just inside his door, Stulwig grew aware that he was trembling. A dream. The dream of a sorceress.
He swallowed. And found his voice. It was located deep in his throat, for when he spoke it was a husky sound: “What do you want?”
“I need three of your herbs.” She named them: stypia, gernay, dalin.
This was the bargaining moment. And in the world of Sanctuary there were few victims at such a time. From his already long experience, Stulwig made his offer: “The stypia and the gernay for the dream. For the dalin one hour in my bed tonight for an assignation.”
Silence. The bright eyes seemed to shrink.
“What’s this?” asked Stulwig. “Is it possible that with your seeress’s sight you believe that this time there will be no evasion?”
Twice before, she had made reluctant assignation agreements. On each occasion, a series of happenings brought about a circumstance whereby he needed her assistance. And for that, release from the assignation was her price.
Stulwig’s voice softened to a gentler tone: “Surely, it’s time, my beautiful, that you discover how much greater pleasure it is for a woman to have lying on her the weight of a normal man rather than that monstrous mass of blacksmith’s muscles, the possessor of which by some mysterious power captured you when you were still too young to know any better. Is it a bargain?”
She hesitated a moment longer. And then, as he had expected after hearing the name of the third drug, she nodded.
A business transaction. And that required the goods to be on hand. Stulwig didn’t argue. “Wait!” he admonished.
Himself, he did not wait. Instead, he backed quickly out of the hallway and into the greenhouse. He presumed that, with her seeress’s sight, she knew that he knew about the very special person who wanted the dalin. He felt tolerant. That prince—he thought. In spite of all the advice the women receive as to when they are, and are not, capable of accepting the male seed, the youthful governor evidently possesses his concubines so often that they are unable to divert his favours away from the one who—by sorceress’s wisdom—is most likely in the time of pregnancy capability.
And so—a miscarriage was needed. A herb to bring it on.
Suppressing excitement, the dream almost forgotten in his state of overstimulation, the healer located all three herbs, in turn. The stypia came from a flowering plant that spread itself over one entire end of his big, bright room. Someone would be using it soon for a persistent headache. The gernay was a mixture of two roots, a flower, and a leaf, all ground together, to be made into a tea with boiling water, steeped, and drunk throughout the day. It was for constipation.
While he worked swiftly, deftly, putting each separately into a small pouch, Stulwig pictured Illyra leaving her little stall. At the opportune moment she had pushed aside the black curtains that blocked her away from the sight of curious passersby. His mental image was of a one-room dwelling place in a dreary part of the Maze. Coming out of that flimsy shelter at this hour of the morning was not the wisest act even for a seeress. But, of course, she would have some knowing to guide her. So that she could dart from one concealment to another at exactly the right moments, avoiding danger. And then, naturally, once she got to the narrow stairway leading up to his roof abode, there would be only the need to verify that no one was lurking on the staircase itself.
He brought the three bags back to the hallway, and placed two of them into her slender hands. And with that, there it was again, the reason for her visit. The special dream. For him.
He waited, not daring to say anything for, suddenly, there was that tenseness again.
She seemed not to need prompting. She said simply, “In my dream. Ils came to me in the form of an angry young man and spoke to me about you. His manner was ferocious throughout; and my impression is that he is displeased with you.” She finished, “In his human form he had jet black hair that came down to his shoulders.”
There was silence. Inside Stulwig, a blankness spread from some inner centre of fear. A numbness seemed to be in all locations.
Finally: “Ils!” he croaked.
The impossible!
There were tales that reported the chief god of old Ilsig occasionally interfering directly in human affairs. But that he had done so in connection with Alten Stulwig brought a sense of imminent disaster.
Illyra seemed to know what he was feeling. “Something about your father,” she said, softly, “is the problem.”
Her hand and arm reached out. Gently, she took hold of the third pouch; tugged at it. Stulwig let go. He watched numbly as she turned and went rapidly down the stairway. Moments later there was a flare of light as the bottom door opened and shut. Just before it closed he had a glimpse of the alley that was there, and of her turning to go left.
Ils!
All that morning, after the sick people started to arrive, Stulwig tried to put the thought of the god out of his mind. There were several persons who talked excessively about their ailments; and for a change he let them ramble on. The sound of each person’s voice, in turn, distracted him for a precious time from his inner feeling of imminent disaster. He was accustomed to pay attention, to compare, and decide. And, somehow, through all the numbness he managed to hold onto that ability.
A persistent stomach ache—”What have you been eating?” The flower of the agris plant was exchanged for a silver coin.
A pain in the chest. “How long? Where, exactly?” The root of the dark melles was eaten and swallowed while he watched, in exchange for one small Rankan gold piece.
Persistently bleeding gums. The flower and seeds of a rose, and the light brown grindings from the husk of grain were handed over, with the instruction: “Take a spoonful each morning and night.”
There were a dozen like that. All were anxious and disturbed. And they took up his time until the morning was almost over. Suddenly, the visitors ceased to come. At once, there was the awful thought of Ils the Mighty, angry with him.
“What could he want of me?”
That was the persistent question. Not, what purpose could Alten Stulwig have in this awful predicament? But what intention did the super-being have in relation to him? Or what did he require of him?
It was almost the noon hour before the second possibility finally penetrated the madness of merely waiting for further signals. And the more personal thought took form.
“It’s up to me. I should ask certain people for advice, or even—” sudden hope “information.”
Just like that he had something he could do.
At that moment there was one more patient. And then, as the rather stocky woman departed with her little leather bag clutched in one g
reasy hand, Stulwig hastily put on his street boots. Grabbed his stave. And, moments later, was heading down the stairs two at a time.
Arrived at the bottom; naturally, he paused. And peered forth cautiously. The narrow street, as he now saw it, pointed both left and right. The nearest crossing was an alleyway to the left. And Stulwig presumed, as his gaze flicked back and forth, Illyra, on her leave-taking that morning, had turned up that alley.
—Though it was still not clear why she had gone left when her stall was to the right. Going by the alley was, for her, a long, devious route home…
His own destination, already decided, required Stulwig to pass her stall. And so, his stave at the ready, he walked rightwards. A few dozen steps brought him to a crowded thoroughfare. Again, a pause. And, once more, his gaze flicking back and forth. Not that he felt in danger here, at this hour. What he saw was a typical throng. There were the short people who wore the sheeny satinish cloth of west Caronne. They mingled casually with the taller folk in dark tunics from the far south of the Empire. Equally at ease were red-garbed sailors on shore leave from a Cleean vessel. Here and there a S’danzo woman in her rich attire reminded him of Illyra. There were other races, and other dress, of course. But these were more of a kind. The shabby poor. The thieves. The beggars. All too similar, one to the other, to be readily identified.
For a few moments, as he stood there, Stulwig’s own problem faded from the forefront of his mind. In its place came a feeling he had had before: a sense of wonder.
Me! Here in this fantastic world.
All these people. This street, with its ancient buildings, its towers, and its minarets. And the meaning of it all going back and back into the dim reaches of a fabulous history.
Almost—standing there—Stulwig forgot where he was heading. And when the memory came again it seemed to have a different form.
A more practical form. As if what he had in mind was a first step of several that would presently lead him to—what? Mental pause…
It was, he realized, the first dim notion of having a goal beyond mere information. First, of course, the facts; those he had to have.
Somehow, everything was suddenly clearer. As he started forwards it was almost as if he had a purpose with a solution implicit in it.
Illyra’s stall he passed a short time later. Vague disappointment, then, as he saw that the black curtains were drawn.
Stulwig stalked on, heading west out of town across the bridge which spanned the White Foal River. He ignored the hollow-eyed stares of the Downwinders as he passed their hovels, and only slowed his pace when he reached his destination, a large estate lorded over by a walled mansion. A sell-sword stood guard just inside the large, spreading yard. Theirs was a language Stulwig understood. He took out two coppers and held them forth.—
“Tell Jubal that Alten Stulwig wishes to see him.”
The coppers were skilfully palmed, and transferred to a slitted pocket in the tight-fitting toga. In a baritone voice the sell-sword called out the message—
Stulwig entered the throne room, and saw that gleaming-skinned black man sitting on the throne chair. He bowed courteously—towards the throne. Whereupon Jubal waved one large arm, beckoning his visitor. And then he sat scowling as Stulwig told his story.
Despite the scowl, there was no resistance, or antagonism, in the bright, wicked eyes; only interest. Finally, as Stulwig fell silent, the merchant said, “You believe, as I understand you, that one or another of my numerous paid informants may have heard something at the time of your father’s death that would provide a clue: information, in short, that is not even available from a sorceress.”
“I so believe,” acknowledged Stulwig.
“And how much will you pay if I can correctly recall something that was said to me in passing more than three long years ago?”
Stulwig hesitated; and hoped that his desperation did not show on that sunburned face of his; it was the one thing the chapped skin was good for: sometimes it enabled him to conceal his feelings. What he sensed now was a high cost; and the best outward show for that was to act as if this was a matter about which he was merely curious. “Perhaps,” he said, in his best practical tone, “your next two visits for healing free—”
“For what I remember,” said the big black, “the price is the medium Rankan gold piece and the two visits.”
Long, unhappy pause. All this trouble and cost for an innocent man who, himself, had done nothing. It seemed unfair. “Perhaps,” ventured Stulwig, “if you were to give me the information I could decide if the price is merited.”
He was slightly surprised when Jubal nodded. “That seems reasonable. We’re both men of our word.” The big man twisted his lips, as if he were considering. Then: “The morning after your father died, a night prowler who watches the dark hours for me saw Vashanka come through your door—not out of it, through it. He was briefly a figure of dazzling light as he moved down the street. Then he vanished in a blinding puff of brightness akin to lightning. The flareup, since it lit up the entire street, was seen by several other persons, who did not know its origin.”
Jubal continued, “I should tell you that there is an old story that a god can go through a wall or a door only if a second god is nearby on the other side. So we may reason that for Vashanka to be able to emerge in the fashion described there was another god outside. However, my informants did not see this second mighty being.”
“Bu-u-t-t!” Stulwig heard a stuttering voice. And only when the mad sound collapsed into silence did he realize that it was his own mouth that had tried to speak.
What he wanted to say, what was trying to form in his mind” and in his tongue was that, for Vashanka to have penetrated into the barricaded greenhouse in the first place, then there must already have been a god inside; who had somehow inveigled his way past his father’s cautious resistance to night-time visitors.
The words, the meaning, wouldn’t come. The logic of it was too improbable for Stulwig to pursue the matter.
Gulping, he fumbled in his pocket. Identified the desired coin with his fingers. Brought it out. And laid it into the outstretched palm. The price was cheap—it was as if a voice inside him spoke his acceptance of that truth.
For a while after Stulwig left Jubal’s grounds, his feeling was that he had now done what there was to do. He had the information he had craved. So what else was there? Go home and—and—Back to normalcy.
It was an unfortunate way of describing the reality to himself. It brought a mental picture of a return to his daily routine as if no warning had been given. His deep, awful feeling was that something more was expected of him. What could it be?
It was noon. The glowing orb in the sky burned down upon Stulwig. His already miserably sunburned face itched abominably, and he kept scratching at the scabs; and hating himself because his sun-sensitive skin was his one disaster that no herb or ointment seemed to help. And here he was stumbling in the direct rays, making it worse.
He was walking unsteadily, half-blinded by his own inner turmoil and physical discomfort, essentially not heeding the crowds around him when … the part of him that was guiding him, holding him away from collisions, helping him find a pathway through an everchanging river of people—that part, still somehow observant, saw a familiar man’s face.
Stulwig stopped short. But already the man was gone by; his feet scraping at the same dusty street as were the feet of a dozen other passers of the moment; scraping dust and breathing it in.
Normally, Stulwig would have let him go. But this was not a normal time. He spun around. He jammed his stave against the ground as a brace. And took four, long, swift steps. He reached.
Almost gently, then, his fingers touched the sleeve and, through it, the arm of the man. “Cappen Varra,” Stulwig said.
The young man with the long black hair that rested on his shoulders turned his head. The tone of Stulwig’s voice was evidently not threatening; for Cappen merely paused without tensing. Nor did he make a quick r
each of the hand towards the blade at his side.
But it took several moments before he seemed to realize who his interceptor was. Then: “Oh! the healer?” He spoke questioningly.
Stulwig was apologetic. “I would like to speak to you, sir. Though, as I recall it you only sought my services on one occasion. And I think somebody told me that you had recently departed from Sanctuary for a visit to your distant home.”
The minstrel did not reply immediately. He was backing off, away from the main stream of that endlessly moving crowd; backing towards a small space between a fruit stand and a table on which stood a dozen small crates, each containing a half-dozen or so small, live, edible, noisy birds.
Since Stulwig had shuffled after him, Cappen was able to say in a low voice, “It was a very decisive time for me. The herbs you gave me produced a series of regurgitations which probably saved my life. I still believe I was served poisoned food.”
“I need advice,” said Alten Stulwig.
“We can talk here,” said Cappen.
It was not an easy story to tell. There was a rise and fall of street sounds. Several times he coughed from an intake of dust thrown at him by the heel of a passerby. But in the end he had completed his account. And it was then, suddenly, that the other man’s eyes widened, as if a startling thought had come to him.
“Are you telling me that you are seriously pursuing the murderer of your father, despite that you have now discovered that the killer may well be the second most powerful Rankan god?”
It was the first time that meaning had been spoken so exactly. Stulwig found himself suddenly as startled as his questioner. Before he could say anything, the lean-faced, good-looking wandering singer spoke again: “What—what happens if he ever lets you catch up with him?”
The way the question was worded somehow steadied the healer. He said, “As we know, Vashanka can come to me any time he wishes. My problem is that I do not know why he came to my father, nor why he would come to me? If I could find that out, then perhaps I could go to the temple of Ils and ask the priests for help.”
Cappen frowned, and said, “Since you seem to have these powerful purposes, perhaps I should remind you of the myth.” He went on: “You know the story. Vashanka is the god of warriors and weapons, the wielder of lightning, and other powerful forces. You know of this?”
Tales From The Vulgar Unicorn Page 13
