by David Mason
“I hadn’t any special wish to become rich,” Zamor said, teeth flashing. “Not woman-selling, at any rate.”
“Ah, but I did,” Hugon said. “Never having had more than two or three gold pieces together, I wondered what it might be like to have… oh, a bagful. Possibly to ride home to the glen with a jingling pocket, on a fine horse…”
Thuramon listened, and now he leaned closer, with a thin smile, stroking his beard.
“You’ve done me some small service, you two,” he said, in a low voice, and glanced at the girl’s back. “Also… I’ve another reason for… ah, assisting the gods’ will, as it concerns you, Hugon. Will you accept my assistance?” Hugon felt a warning memory; magicians’ help was often a surprisingly overpriced article, he thought. But still…
“Assistance?”
“A small spell,” Thuramon said. “I must admit, in spite of long years of study, there are still many things I cannot do. To render a woman tame and venomless, permanently… I doubt any warlock can manage so mighty a wonder. But to calm her, and make her silent… or as silent as she can be, without injuring her to any degree… that, I may do.”
“Hm.” Hugon considered the matter.
“Best speak soon, young man,” Thuramon said. “There’s the quayside in sight.”
“It would seem the only way,” Hugon muttered. “Do it, then.”
Thuramon rose, and moved toward the prow. He called out, in a soft voice, “My Lady Gwynna.”
She turned, and looked up toward him. He drew something from his sleeve, a small bright object, that swung from a silver chain, and held it out, swinging it slowly.
“See… see…” Thuramon said, in a low, singing voice. He was staring down at the girl, whose eyes seemed glassy, as she watched. Now, he bent lower, and began to whisper in her ear. She sat, eyes fixed, as he backed slowly away; she seemed not to see anything.
Thuramon continued to move back, till he came to the steering seat, where Hugon waited; he lowered his plump body down, grinning.
“Now, lad, take this,” Thuramon said, holding out the bright object. Hugon took it, and looked at it; it was a small, flat disc of crystal, on which an odd, angular letter had been deeply cut. It was suspended from a thin silver chain; and as it lay in his palm, it seemed almost living, warm.
“The lady will do as you say,” Thuramon told him. “At least, in most things. Only an amateur of the Art would guarantee what a woman will do in all particulars, certainly not I. And the spell will last at least an hour or two, possibly as long as half a day, though no longer. She will awake, then, with no memory of what has happened, but completely herself again.”
“Herself,” Hugon said, flatly. “Oh, well…”
“Wait,” Thuramon told him. “Keep that bauble; whenever it seems necessary, you need only show it to her, and in a moment, she will again be as she is now.”
“Ah,” Hugon said, more cheerfully. He put the jewel away.
“But there’s a slight flaw.”
“I thought as much.”
“Each time ‘tis used, she will resist it more,” Thuramon said. “The duration of her enchantment will grow a little shorter each time, and then, at last, the time will come when the jewel will no longer work at all. I cannot say how often it can be used; a dozen times, possibly more. But not much more, you understand. So, use it sparingly, with care.”
Hugon glanced ahead; the girl still sat, eyes fixed. He called out, “Gwynna, come here.”
The long quays of the city were closer. Hugon watched the girl as she came obediently toward him, and kept an eye on the nearing docks as well. She stood, waiting, and he told her to sit down. She did it, without a word.
“Gods,” Hugon said fervently, and paid attention to his task again. The boat swung and ran in beside a stone wharf; Zamor leaped ashore, and drew a line around a squat pillar, tying it. Then, Thuramon lifted his treasures ashore, handling them as if they were children, delicately.
A man in an embroidered cloak, and a jerkin with a glittering emblem on its front, was descending to the dock, followed by two fat individuals bearing staves. Hugon, looking up, had no doubt that these were Drakosa’s civic guards; in all towns, he thought, such functionaries seem to have the same look.
But they seemed to know Thuramon; the cloaked man bent, in a deep courtesy, to greet him.
“These others are guests of mine,” Thuramon told the man, with an inclusive gesture. “There’s no need to require a port tax.” And the fellow departed, with a few more bows.
Hugon lifted the girl ashore, and followed her himself.
“You seem to be a citizen, here,” he said to Thuramon.
“I have a sentimental feeling for the town,” Thuramon said. “I returned here, a few years ago, and keep a house in the city. Ah, that reminds me. Would you gentlemen care to aid me in carrying these small matters?” He indicated the sack and the other things.
“Why not?” Zamor said, and gathered up a load; Hugon followed suit. Fraak, chuckling, settled on his shoulder, and the girl followed, her eyes still empty. They followed the warlock up the stone stair to the level of the street.
The streets that led into the town were crowded with people, busy with life and noise. As the four moved through the narrow roads, Hugon and Zamor stared about, curious as a pair of country yokels, and Fraak’s head swiveled to and fro as he too drank in the sights.
The houses were tall and ornate, brightly painted in many colors, and the town was cleaner to Hugon’s nose than many such places where he had been before. The people looked to be a handsome, cheerful-looking breed; they were much like the Meryon folk from whom they had come. Hugon noticed that there was another type as well, small, brown-skinned folk who seemed to mix with the others on equal terms.
They passed into a broad square, lined with ancient trees, past a squat round temple that bore the glyph of Orcas, the Sea God; across the rooftops Hugon glimpsed the arches of other temples. A tolerant place, he thought, recalling that these people worshipped the Great Mother in their own tradition; but it seemed evident that they permitted other gods as well.
He saw men of a dozen races passing; once, a couple of kilted Grothans, and then a white-robed, hawk-nosed nomad of the western plain beyond the sea. There were three or four sallow men with slanting eyes, dressed in furs and barbaric jewelry, who passed chattering in a singing tongue that Hugon did not recognize. And there were still others of nations that he did not know; seamen and traders, he guessed, from the general look of them.
Thuramon turned up a street lined with busy shops, where merchants chattered loudly with buyers; past shelves loaded with all sorts of goods.
“Great Snake, what I’d give for such a spell as you’ve laid on that lass,” Zamor observed, grinning. “Look there, Hugon. She’s passed every shop without turning her head. If I could use such sorcery on my own wives…”
Thuramon beckoned them on. They turned into a broader, less noisy street, lined with tall houses, and came at last to a low green door in a white wall. Thuramon knocked.
The door swung open almost at once; a squat, extremely hairy man stood there, so short that he was almost a dwarf. He grinned up at Thuramon, and bounced on his heels, making a curious chittering sound as he swung the door wide, but saying nothing.
“Come, and welcome to my humble home,” Thuramon said, and they followed him within; the hairy one closed the door behind them and bounced ahead, still chittering.
They were in a garden, where oddly shaped trees overhung neat plots of flowers and herbs. Beyond, the white stone front of a great house rose, and a wider door stood open on a broad hall. Two more of the hairy servitors stood waiting, dressed, like the first, in brown leather, and like him uttering pleased and wordless sounds, and bouncing up and down.
“Sir wizard,” Zamor said, staring at those servants, “if I offend, forgive me… but there’s something most familiar about these housemen of yours. Haven’t I seen their like swinging in trees in my own la
nd?”
Thuramon glanced at him and chuckled. “True,” he said. “They are indeed apes. I find them the best of servants, being cleaner and more dexterous than some of human kind… and also, they cannot speak any word of human kind, and therefore do not gossip at all.”
He led them into the great hall and paused, motioning to an ape servant. The servant took their bundles, gathering all together in his long arms, and scuttled away purposefully. Another servant grinned and bounced on his heels, waiting.
“This one will lead you to your rooms,” Thuramon said. “You may remain my guests as long as you wish. I myself am a somewhat solitary sort, and may seem lacking in politeness… forgive me, if you will, if I am not seen often.” He paused, pulling his beard thoughtfully, and stared at the girl. She stood, like a statue, staring at nothing. “There’s another matter, however,” the warlock said, slowly. “Are you still resolved to hold this woman to some ransom?”
Hugon shrugged. “If possible,” he said.
“As you wish,” Thuramon said. “But in this, I will not aid you, beyond that small spell I gave you. Nor hinder you, either. If you can keep the girl, do so. But she is clever, and no law of this land will aid you to hold her.” He sighed. “For a time, until you decide your course, I will instruct my servants not to permit her to leave this house. But I will do no more, and if she insists, I must give way finally.”
Hugon nodded. “Understood,” he said. “I’ll ask no more than that, and thank you for so much.”
In the upper story of the house, there were high-ceilinged, cool rooms, furnished richly; and to Hugon’s vast pleasure, a great pool of warm water steamed in a marble-walled room beyond the others. Glancing into that room, he chuckled with pleasure, and scratched his salt-crusted head, anticipating.
Hugon took the girl’s arm, and led her into one of the rooms; he had her sit down, and left her there. In another room, he found Zamor, already busy with a table full of hot food that a hairy servant had brought. The big black glanced up, grinning, his mouth full.
“Mmpf! he said, gesturing. “You’ll find some fine bits of clothing piled there… ought to tickle your foppish ways, brother. It’s a fine host indeed, our wizard is.”
“A bath’ll be even more to the point,” Hugon said. “I’ve gone unwashed since I was first flung into the galleys, except for rain and the sea. I’m off to drown my fleas. Save some of that wine for me, eh?”
When he returned, Zamor was sprawled on a pile of furs, grunting in satiate comfort; and there was still ample food and wine left, which Hugon assaulted. Zamor, opening one eye, commented on the other’s newly donned finery with a deep laugh.
“I don’t deny it, friend Zamor,” Hugon said, and selected a fat bird from his plate. “I’ve a touch of peacock in my nature, but it does no harm. Alas, it’s a world where a man’s judged too readily by his cloak and not his works.”
“How long, think you, will it be before the girl returns to herself?” Zamor asked, closing his eyes again.
“I’ve no idea,” Hugon said. He drank some wine, and pushed back his chair. “But I’ve regained my strength to deal with her, thanks to Lord Thuramon’s excellent cook… whoever or whatever that one is.”
“I’ve trouble thinking of the matter of his cook,” Zamor said. “In Numori, a monkey makes a fine dinner, too, but not in quite the same way.”
Hugon laughed, and leaned back. He stared around the big room, and suddenly sat up in his chair, with an exclamation.
“Oho, a lute?” He stood up and went to where the instrument leaned against a wall, picked it up and turned it around admiringly. “A fine one, too…” Hugon plucked a string. “Though not in tune. La, la…” He tried the pegs, turning them up.
Under the table, Fraak had been sitting quietly, nibbling on bones that both men had been giving him as they ate. Now he walked out, on his short legs, and lifted his snout at the sound of the lute string.
“Eee!” the dragonet said, and emitted a pipe-note.
“Perfect!” Hugon said, and matched the note with a string. He twanged another, and then a third, tuning them to Fraak’s piping scale.
“You’ve the makings of a duet, there,” Zamor observed. Hugon ran his fingers across the strings, and found a tune, uncertainly at first, and then with masterly skill. Fraak puffed a jet of smoke, and began to emit flute sounds in perfect counterpoint to the strings.
“Fine,” Zamor said, lifting himself on an elbow to listen. “Oh, very fine,” and grinned.
“Of my own composition,” Hugon told him, running a rapid series of notes on the lute as he spoke. He grinned down at Fraak. “But never with such accompaniment before.”
He played again, a rippling tune, and sang in a clear high voice.
“Beware of love, and from her hide,
Make prayer her arrows miss you,
And if a lass should kiss you,
Flee swiftly from her side…
For love but leads to sorrow…
And joy will be but grief,
Yet I shall yet still play love’s fool,
And then be wise, tomorrow…”
He stopped, and Zamor opened his eyes; Gwynna stood in the door, and her green eyes were brilliantly awake again, and angry.
“A musician, as well as a thief and pirate,” she commented acidly. “Gods send me the pleasure of hearing you sing on a rack, some day. Now, will you tell me, where I am, and what filthy trickery’s been played on me?”
Hugon grinned at her. “Why, we are guests of the warlock,” he said mildly. “And trickery… well, you must admit our way was less disturbing to your dignity than if I’d been forced to lug you here, crammed in a sack like a piglet for market day.”
Her glare was withering, but he paid no attention. “There will be fine clothes in that room I left you in,” he went on. “And I recommend the food most highly. Otherwise, lady, you may find things dull for a while, but I’ll make as much haste as I can to finish our dealings.”
She stared at him for a moment. “Then, you’re still about this lunatic scheme to ask for ransom for me?” she said slowly. He nodded, and twanged a string. She spoke, “Well, then, I’d best help you, since you haven’t the wit to set about it properly yourself. Bring me pen and paper, and I’ll write a letter to the stewards of my estates in Mazain, ordering them to send whatever sum your greed requires.”
Hugon chuckled. “But lady, I’d thought that possibly I might offer the High King of Meryon a part in this auction. His wealth is considerable…” Hugon grinned maliciously, “And I’ve heard his feeling concerning you is strong.”
“You would do that?” she said in a low voice. “Let me go back… to be spat on by my kinsmen. Before I lose my head…”
“It seems a dismal notion,” Hugon agreed. “But I’m a loyal vassal of the High King, alas. And a poor man, too. Now, just how much… in gold, to make the reckoning easier… would you say was fair?”
She uttered a remarkably crude word, and whirled out of the room. Hugon put the lute against the wall and stood up.
“Business calls,” he said to Zamor. “I’ll go to the docks again, and see if any ship sails soon for Mazain that can bear the lady’s letter. There will be many ships going north to Meryon, of course, so I’ll write my own letter to the High King’s presence later.”
There were ships lying in the port whose destination would be the Empire and the imperial city itself; Hugon, asking along the quays, found them without difficulty. Also, a round Grothan trader ship was loading cargo for the north, and a message for distant Meryon might be easily sent with that. But Hugon, puzzling at his own dilatory thoughts, did not go back to write those messages, or to take the Lady Gwynna’s letter either. Instead, he walked slowly, along one street and down another, jingling a handful of coins that he had conveniently found in the room in Thuramon’s house.
He took one out and twirled it thoughtfully, looking at it. It bore the head of the current king of Koremon, Garth; Hugon remember
ed that this land had an odd tradition of having two brother kings, one a temporal monarch, and the other some sort of advisor, bearing the title of Dragon’s Friend… whatever that meant. Garth, it appeared, was the temporal lord; a man of middle age, said to be a good king as kings go. The image on the coin flattered him, Hugon did not doubt.
Hugon was conducting a prolonged and fruitless inner debate as he walked. An inner voice kept exhorting him, with a rather nauseatingly proper tone, and constant references to honor. Hugon noticed a sharp resemblance in the voice to that of his late father; the old man had held equally firm views on what was right and what was wrong, and what a Kerrin did or did not do.
A Kerrin, it seemed, did not hold women to ransom. While it might be perfectly correct to ambush a male enemy, and, if he survived one’s first assault, to drop him in a dungeon until such time as his relations delivered him… one didn’t do that with women.
But, Hugon argued with the voice… the lady was a traitoress, and also other things like as not. And properly seized, in fair combat, too. And rich, while Hugon himself had seldom owned much more than the few coins he jingled now. Her ransom would purchase much, Hugon thought. A few good horses, for example, and possibly a fine cloak or two, among other things. And since she now held her late lord’s wealth by right, she would never miss a few bags of gold at all. Didn’t that make a difference, Hugon inquired, silently.
It did not, the other voice answered smugly.
“Aaah,” Hugon said aloud, and paused to watch an interesting sight. Through a wide tavern window he saw a half dozen men, seamen from their looks, crowding about a wooden table where mugs and bottles stood. One of them shook his closed hand above his head, calling upon the gods, and spun a pair of dice on the wood.
Well, now, Hugon thought. If I’m to do without the lady’s ransom, I’d best set about continuing to earn my living in the ways I’m used to. These seamen had the air of men recently paid, and trusting lads, too, he thought; and he turned into the tavern, whistling a tune softly.
