“What I don’t understand,” Stulwig replied helplessly, “is why would such a being kill my father?”
“Perhaps—” a shrug—”they were rivals for the affection of the same woman.” He went on, “It is well known that the gods frequently assume human form in order to have concourse with human females.” The beautiful male face twisted. The bright eyes gazed into Stulwig’s. “I have heard stories,” Cappen said, “that you, as your father before you, often accept a woman’s favours in exchange for your services as a healer; the woman having nothing else to give pays the price in the time-honoured way of male-female. As a consequence you actually have many half-brothers out there in the streets, and you yourself—so it has been said have sired a dozen sons and daughters, unacknowledged because of course no one can ever be sure who is the father of these numerous waifs, unless there is unmistakable facial resemblance.”
Another shrug. “I’m not blaming you. These are the truths of our world. But—”
He stopped. His hand extended gingerly, and touched Stulwig’s stave. “It’s tough wood.”
Stulwig was uneasy. “Awkward to handle in close quarters, and scarcely a weapon to ward off the god of lightning.”
“Nevertheless,” said Cappen, “it’s your best defence. Use it firmly. Keep it between you and any attacker. Yield ground and flee only when there’s a good moment.”
“But,” protested Stulwig, “suppose Vashanka seeks me out? Shall I pit my staff against the Rankan god of war?” When Cappen merely stood there, looking indifferent now, the healer continued in a desperate tone, “There are stories of how Ils helped individuals in battle in the old days. But I grew up after the Rankan conquest and—” he was gloomy—” somehow the powers of the defeated god of old Ilsig didn’t seem worth inquiring about. So I’m ignorant of what he did, or how.”
Abruptly, Cappen Varra was impatient. “You asked for my advice,” he said curtly. “I have given it to you. Goodbye.”
He walked off into the crowd.
They brought Stulwig before the prince, who recognized him. “Why, it’s the healer,” he said. Whereupon, he glanced questioningly at Molin Torchbearer.
The hall of justice was all too brightly lit by the mid-afternoon sunlight. The sun was at that location in the sky whereby its rays shone directly through the slanting vents that were designed to catch, and siphon off, rain water … as the high priest said accusingly, “Your most gracious excellency, we found this follower of Ils in the temple of Vashanka.”
With the brilliant light pouring down upon him, Stulwig started towards the dais—and the two Hell Hounds, who had been holding him, let him go.
He stopped only when he came to the long wooden barrier that separated the accused criminals from the high seat, where the prince sat in judgement. From that fence, Stulwig spoke his protest. “I did no harm, your highness. And I meant no harm. Tell his excellency—” he addressed Torchbearer—”that your assistants found me on my knees before the—” he hesitated; he had been about to say “the idol”. Uneasily, his mind moved over to the word, “statue”. But he rejected that also, shuddering. After a long moment he finished lamely—”before Vashanka himself, praying for his assistance.”
“Yes, but a follower of Ils praying to a son of Savankala—” Torchbearer was grim—”absolutely forbidden by the doctrines of our religion.”
There seemed to be no answer that he could make. Feeling helpless, Stulwig waited. It was a year since he had last seen the youthful governor, who would now decide his fate. Standing there, Stulwig couldn’t help but notice that there were changes in the young ruler’s appearance—for the better, it seemed to him.
The prince, as all knew, was at this time twenty years old. He had been representative in Sanctuary for his older half-brother, the emperor, for only one of those years, but that year had brought a certain maturity where once there had been softness. It was still a boyish face, but a year of power had marked it with an appearance of confidence.
The young governor seemed undecided, as he said, “Well—it does not look like a serious crime. I should think we would encourage converts rather than punishing them.” He hesitated, then followed the amenities. “What penalty do you recommend?” He addressed the high priest of Rankan deities courteously.
There was a surprisingly long pause. Almost, it was as if the older man was having second thoughts. Torchbearer said finally, “Perhaps, we should inquire what he was praying for. And then decide.”
“An excellent idea,” the prince agreed heartily.
Once more, then, Stulwig told his story, ending in a humble tone, “Therefore, sir, as soon as I discovered that, apparently, the great gods themselves were involved in some disagreement, I decided to pray to Vashanka to ask what he wanted me to do; asked him what amends I could make for whatever my sin might be.”
He was surprised as he completed his account to see that the prince was frowning. And, in fact, moments later, the young governor bent down towards one of the men at a table below him to one side, and said something in a low voice. The aide’s reply was equally inaudible.
The youngest ruler Sanctuary had ever had thereupon faced forwards. His gaze fixed on Stulwig’s face. “There are several people in these parts,” he said in an alarmingly severe voice, “of whose whereabouts we maintain a continuing awareness. Cappen Varra, for several reasons, is one of these. And so, Mr Healer, I have to inform you that Cappen left Sanctuary half a moon ago, and is not expected back for at least two more moons.”
“B-b-bu-ut—” Stulwig began. And stopped. Then in a high-pitched voice: “That man in the seeress’s dream!” he stuttered. “Long black hair to the shoulders. Ils in human form!”
There was silence after he had spoken there in that great hall of justice, where a youthful Rankan prince sat in judgement, looking down from his high bench. Other offenders were waiting in the back of the room. They were guarded by slaves, with the two Hell Hounds that had brought Stulwig acting as overseers.
So there would be witnesses to this judgement. The wisdom of it, whatever course it might take, would be debated when the news of it got out.
Standing there, Stulwig suppressed an impulse to remind his highness of a certain night thirteen moons ago. In the wee hours he had been called out of his bed, and escorted to the palace.
On that occasion he had been taken directly into the prince’s bedroom. There he found a frightened young man, who had awakened in the darkness with an extremely fast heartbeat—more than double normal, Stulwig discovered when he counted the pulse. The attending court healer had not been able, by his arts, to slow the madly beating organ. Stulwig had braced himself, and had taken the time to ask the usual questions, which produced the information that his highness had imbibed excessively all evening.
A minor heart condition was thus revealed. The cure: primarily time for the body to dispose of the alcohol through normal channels. But Stulwig asked, and was given, permission to return to his greenhouse. He raced there accompanied by a Hell Hound. Arrived at his quarters, he procured the mixture of roots, nettles, and a large red flower which, when steeped in boiling water, and swallowed in mouthfuls every few minutes, within an hour had the heartbeat down, not to normal, but sufficiently to be reassuring.
He thereupon informed the young man that according to his father persons that he had attended when they were young, who had the same reaction, were still alive two decades later. The prince was greatly relieved, and promised to limit himself to no more than one drink of an evening.
Remained, then, the task of saving face for the court healer. Which Stulwig did by thanking that disgraced individual for calling him for consultation; and, within the hearing of the prince, adding that it took many individuals to accumulate experience of all the ills that men were heir to. “And one of these days I shall be asking your help.”
Would the youthful governor remember that night, and decide—hopeful thought that Alten Stulwig was too valuable to penalize?
&
nbsp; What the prince did, first, was ask one more question. He said, “During the time you were with the person who seemed to be Cappen Varra, did he break into song, or recite a verse?”
The significance of the question was instantly apparent. The minstrel was known for his gaiety, and his free and easy renditions under all circumstances. Stulwig made haste to say, “No, highness, not a sound, or a poetic phrase. Contrariwise, he seemed very serious.”
A few moments later, the prince rendered his judgement. He said, “Since mighty Vashanka himself seems to be acting directly in this matter, it would be presumptuous of us to interfere.”
The lean-faced young man glanced at Molin. The high priest hesitated, then nodded. Whereupon the prince turned once more to Stulwig.
“Most worthy healer,” he said, “you are released to whatever the future holds for you. May the gods dispense justice upon you, balancing your virtues against your sins.”
“—So he does remember!” thought Stulwig, gratefully.
Surprisingly, after he had been escorted outside, Stulwig knew at once which was the proper place for him to go. Many times he had been confronted by grief or guilt, or the hopelessness of a slighted lover, or a betrayed wife. For none of these had his herbs ever accomplished more than a passing moment of sleep or unconsciousness.
So now, as he entered the Vulgar Unicorn, he muttered under his breath the bitter advice he had given on those special occasions for what his father had called ailments of the spirit. The words, heard only by himself, were: “What you need, Alten, is a good stiff drink.” It was the ancient prescription for calming the overwrought or the overemotional. In its fashion, however, liquor in fact was a concoction of brewed herbs, and so within his purview.
The smell of the inn was already in his nostrils. The dimly lit interior blanked his vision. But Stulwig could see sufficiently well so that he was aware of vague figures sitting at tables, and of the gleam of polished wood. He sniffed the mingling odours of hot food cooking. And already felt better.
And he knew this interior sufficiently well. So he strode forwards confidently towards the dividing barrier where the brew was normally dispensed. And he had his lips parted to give his order when his eyes, more accustomed to the light, saw who it was that was taking the orders.
“One-Thumb!” The name was almost torn out of his lips; so great was his surprise and delight.
Eagerly, he reached forwards and grasped the other’s thick hand. “My friend, you had us all worried. You have been absent—” He stopped, confused. Because the time involved even for a long journey was long. Much more than a year. He finished his greeting with a gulp, “You are right welcome, sir.”
The owner of the Vulgar Unicorn had become more visible with each passing moment. So that when he gestured with one of his big hands at a helper, Stulwig perceived the entire action; even saw the youth turn and come over.
The roly-poly but rugged One-Thumb indicated a table in one corner. “Bring two cups of brew thither for my friend and myself,” he said. To Alten he added, “I would have words with you, sir.”
So there they sat presently. And, after several sips, One-Thumb said, “I shall say quickly what need be said. Alten, I must confess that I am not the real One Thumb. I came because, with my sorcerer’s seeing, when this past noon hour my body took on the form at which you are gazing, I had a visitor who informed me that the transformation to a known person related to you.”
It was a long explanation. Long enough for Stulwig to have a variety of reactions. First, amazement. Then, progressively, various puzzlements. And, finally, tentative comprehension, and acceptance.
And since he held a drink in his hand, he raised it, and said, “To the real One Thumb, wherever he may be.”
With that, still thinking hard as to what he could gain from this meeting, he sipped from his cup; took a goodly quaff from it, and set it down. All the while noticing that the other did not drink to the toast.
The false One-Thumb said unhappily, “My seeing tells me that the real One-Thumb is in some strange location. It is not quite clear that he is still dead; but he was killed.”
Up came Stulwig’s glass. “Very well, then, to Enas Yorl, the sorcerer, who in whatever shape seems to be willing to be my friend.”
This time the other man’s cup came up slowly. He sipped. “I suppose,” he said, “no one can refuse to drink to himself; since my motives are worthy I shall do so.”
Stulwig’s mind was nickering again with the meanings of what had been said in that long explanation. So, now, he asked the basic question: “Enas,” he mumbled, “in what way does your being in One-Thumb’s body shape relate to me?”
The fleshy head nodded. “Pay careful heed,” said the voice of One-Thumb. “The goddess Azyuna appeared to me as I was experiencing the anguish of changing form, and asked me to give you this message. You must go home before dark. But do not this night admit to your quarters any person who has the outward appearance of a man. Do this no matter how pitifully he begs for a healer’s assistance, or how many pieces of gold he is prepared to pay. Tonight, direct all male visitors to other healers.”
It took a while to drink to that, and to wonder about it aloud. And, of course, as Sanctuarites, they discussed once more the story of Azyuna. How Vashanka had discovered that she (his sister) and his ten brothers had plotted to murder the father-god of Ranke, Savankala. Whereupon, Vashanka in his rage slew all ten of the brothers; but his sister he reserved for a worse fate. She became his unwilling mistress. And at times when the winds moaned and sobbed, it was said that Azyuna was again being forced to pay the price of her intended betrayal of her parents.
And now she had come down from heaven to warn a mere human being against the brother who exacted that shame from her.
“How,” asked Stulwig, after he had quaffed most of a second cup and had accordingly reached a philosophical state of mind, “would you, old wise Enas Yorl, explain why a goddess would take the trouble to warn a human being against some scheme of her god-brother-lover?”
“Because,” was the reply, “she may be a goddess but she is also a woman. And as all men know, women get even in strange ways.”
At that, Stulwig, remembering certain experiences of his own, shuddered a little, nodded agreement, and said, “I estimate that we have been imbibing for a goodly time, and so perhaps I had better take heed of your warning, and depart. Perhaps, there is something I can do for you. A fee, perhaps.”
“Make it one free visit when one of my changing shapes becometh ill.”
“But not this night.” Stulwig stood up, somewhat lightheaded, and was even able to smile at his small jest.
“No, not this night,” agreed One-Thumb, also standing up. The big man added quickly, “I shall appear to accompany you to the door as if to bid you goodbye. But in fact I shall go out with you.
And so One-Thumb will vanish once more, perhaps this time forever.”
“He has done nobly this day,” said Stulwig. Whereupon he raised the almost empty third cup, and said, “To the spirit of One-Thumb, wherever it may be, my good wishes.”
As it developed, Enas Yorl’s plan of escape was made easy. Because as they emerged from the inn there, coming up, was a small company of Rankan military led by a Hell Hound. The latter, a man named Quag, middle-aged, but with a prideful bearing, said to Stulwig, “Word came to his highness that you were imbibing heavily; and so he has sent me and this company to escort you to your residence.”
Stulwig turned to bid farewell to the false One-Thumb. And at once observed that no such person was in sight. Quag seemed to feel that he was surprised. “He went around that corner.” He indicated with his thumb. “Shall we pursue him?”
“No, no.”
It was no problem at all for a man with three cups of brew in him to step forwards, and walk beside a Hell Hound like an equal.
And to say, “I’m somewhat surprised at his highness taking all this trouble for a person not of Ranke birth, or—”
daringly—”religion.”
Quag was calm, seemingly unoffended. “These are not matters about which I am qualified to have an opinion.”
“Of course,” Stulwig continued with a frown, “getting me back to my quarters could place me in a location where the mighty Vashanka could most easily find me.”
They were walking along a side street in the Maze. But a goodly crowd pressed by at that moment. So if Quag were contemplating a reply it was interrupted by the passing of so great a number of individuals.
When they had wended through the mob, Stulwig continued, “After all, we have to remember that it is Ils that is the god of a thousand eyes. Which, presumably, means that he can see simultaneously where everybody in the world of Ilsig is at any one moment. No such claim—of many eyes—is made for either Savankala or his son, Vashanka. And so we may guess that Vashanka does not know that—”
He stopped, appalled. He had almost let slip that the goddess Azyuna had come to Enas Yorl with a warning. And, of course, her brother-lover, with his limited vision, would not know that she had done so.
“These are all fine points,” Stulwig finished lamely, “and of concern only to an individual like myself who seems to have earned the displeasure of one of these mighty beings.”
Quag was calm. “Having lived many years,” he said, “it could be that I have some clarifying information for you, whereby you may judge the seriousness of your situation.” He continued, after a moment of silence,” In Sanctuary, the reason for the gods interfering in human affairs can have only one underlying motive. Someone has got above himself. What would be above a healer? A woman of noble family taken advantage of. An insult to a priest or god. Was your father guilty of either sin?”
“Hmmm!” Stulwig did not resist the analysis. He nodded thoughtfully in the Sanctuary way of agreement, shaking his head from side to side. “No question,” he said, “it was not a chance killing. The assassin by some means penetrated a barricaded residence, committed the murder, and departed without stealing any valuables. In a city where people are daily killed most casually for their possessions, when—as in this instance of my father’s assassination—the possessions are untouched, we are entitled to guess a more personal motive.”
Tales From The Vulgar Unicorn Page 14
