The Sorcery Within

by Dave Smeds

  “Yetem is good company,” Lonal interjected suddenly.

  “You have been spending a great deal of time with him,” Toltac noted. “In fact, there—"

  “There is talk about it, I know. Be comforted—it has no basis in fact. Still, I enjoy the time I spend with him. It never fails to be ... educational. I think this would be true in spite of his usefulness to me."

  “Be careful of the urges of youth,” Toltac said.

  “I am not a boy. I can feel what I want."

  Toltac pursed his lips. “Perhaps it is time you took another wife. A distraction would do you good."

  “I don't need another wife."

  Toltac frowned. “I wonder if you know yourself as well as you think,” he said.

  “What do you mean?"

  “Suppose the plan against Xurosh fails. Suppose that, in order to continue to pursue your ambition, you need a scapegoat, and Yetem is the only one available. Would you still want his company?"

  “Are you saying I would betray him?"

  Toltac shrugged. “You tell me."

  “I would prefer to consider it when and if the situation arises,” Lonal said sharply.

  “That may be a luxury. God may test you. He chooses His own time."

  Lonal stared at the oasis.

  Toltac tried to sound sympathetic. He was not Ah-no-ken, who swallowed the word of God whole and regurgitated it, believing it inviolate; his sect of the ken knew that God's work took place through the hands and tongues of men and they believed it their task to shape that creation. He could note and accept that Lonal lusted for the westerner. It would be heresy to consummate it, and if Lonal were caught, Toltac would not hesitate to pass judgment upon him, but the opsib was not shocked. It was merely new evidence of the inscrutability of God.

  “The Lonal that I have known would have only one choice,” the opsib finished.

  * * *

  XXX

  “STEADY NOW,” GAST WARNED.

  Alemar held the head of the viper still, the upper fangs draped over the rim of the urn, while Gast delicately milked the venom out. The snake slapped its tail angrily against the sand. Alemar never loosened his grip.

  “How poisonous did you say these were?” Alemar asked.

  “Compared to what?” the healer responded, calmly stroking the snake's gums with his wooden implement.

  “The moonsnake."

  “Oh, not nearly so potent as those,” Gast assured him. “The bites of these, even from a big individual, would take hours to kill you."

  “Wonderful."

  “The problem with manhunters is that they are not so retiring as the iltrekal-hasha-sor. They bite many people every year. If they'd behave themselves, we wouldn't have so much work."

  Gast and Alemar had spent the previous week boiling and distilling mixtures of various herbs and minerals. The apprentice had not precisely been pleased to learn that they had to acquire some of the poison in order to finish making the antivenin.

  “There, that one's done,” Gast announced, sitting back.

  Alemar held the head of the manhunter so tightly the snake probably couldn't breathe, and walked several dozen yards from their work area to the cleft in the rocks where they had captured it and its companions. He let it go with a firm toss. The snake wriggled instantly into the hole. Alemar returned, gingerly avoiding any shady spots that might hide more of its kind.

  Gast cautiously opened the netting where they kept the other manhunters, taken earlier in the day. He inserted the capture stick, with its tiny lasso at the end, and looped the cord around the neck of one of the occupants. He withdrew it, closed and reweighted the netting, and held out his prize so that Alemar could grab it just behind the head.

  “Such a fine, fat one.” The healer smiled.

  Alemar could feel the snake's firm, defiant muscles struggle against his palm and fingers. “How many of these do we have to do?” Alemar asked.

  “Why, all of them,” Gast said, pointing at the dozen remaining in the netting.

  * * * *

  “Good morning,” Gast told the plant as he gently dug away the soil at its base, exposing a tuber of imposing size. Alemar watched in disbelief as the healer continued to murmur to it, an endless monologue of encouraging remarks, compliments, and good wishes, such as one might babble to an infant. Gast didn't stop until he had completely removed it from the earth and held it up proudly for Alemar to examine.

  The tuber was gnarled and ugly, but the healer had assured his apprentice that, when dried and pulverized, it would form the most important ingredient of several medicines.

  “Fine baby, healthy baby,” Gast told it, and gestured at the upper plant, which was still attached. “We will let it dry on its own. The tuber will absorb the juices of the stalk and leaves and become more potent. It will be ready to use next month."

  The Hab-no-ken kept his prize cradled carefully in his hands as they walked back to their camp. Ahead of them lizards scurried in fright from one long patch of shade to another. The day promised to be hot. “Always reassure the whakeesh when you harvest it,” Gast cautioned. “The feelings it absorbs as it dies are those that will be stored in its flesh. If you insult it, or treat it with indifference, the healing effects will be lessened. And always take it on a summer morning, when it is both refreshed from the cool of the night and ready for the challenge of the new day. By sunset it is tired."

  * * * *

  They were in a bunker in the earth, a few minutes’ walk from the oasis of Nher, in the northern regions of the territory of the Alyr, the only spot that Gast might be able to call home. Down in the cool underground air, Alemar and his teacher worked by the light of oil lamps. The shelves around them were filled with Gast's pharmacopoeia, both the drugs themselves and the scrolls that outlined their preparation. Alemar's head buzzed with information about the potions, powders, and ointments that he had helped prepare. Gast required that he memorize the major ingredients and their applications, although, thankfully, he was permitted to consult the scrolls for the exact procedures and proportions.

  The Hab-no-ken held up a vial. It contained a thick, viscous oil, taken from the frogs who lived in and near the oasis. “A sip of this once a day for a few weeks, and a child with bent limbs will grow firm and straight.” Gast shook his head in amazement. “People think we are magicians, but most of our art is recognizing the sorcery within these bits of nature. For every person I heal with my powers, there are thirty I cure with little more than a bit of knowledge.” He waved at his library. “Most of the men who discovered these medicines had no trace of the power."

  Alemar nodded patiently.

  Gast looked at him understandingly. “I know you've been waiting a long time. But these are the real tools,” he said, waving his hands around the room. “They are the basics. You have to know them first. Sooner or later, you'll be grateful.” He tapped his chest seriously. “In the times when the feeling in here fails to stir, you will always have your lore."

  * * * *

  The healer and his apprentice were leaving the oasis, on foot, leading pack animals. They had stayed seven weeks. Alemar was reciting formulas, oblivious to the moment. As they were crossing a sand dune, Gast stopped short. He seemed to be listening. Alemar heard nothing out of the ordinary—only the wind, the cry of a distant bird of prey, the scurrying of lizards in the brush. Eventually the healer said, “Sit here. There is something you must do."

  Alemar shrugged and sat cross-legged on the top of the dune. Gast said, “When I reach the outcropping ahead, put yourself into the Trance of the Listener, and wait for my instructions."

  Gast trotted off quickly, taking the animals with him. Alemar watched him descend the slope, cross another dune, and finally settle on top of the jumble of rocks. Then the apprentice did as he was bid. Eyes closed, breathing deeply, he easily slipped into the first-level trance.

  "Good," Gast bespoke. The healer had entered the Trance of the Speaker. "Now—listen. Seek no farther than
the mound upon which you sit. A voice is crying out to you."

  Gast withdrew. Alemar could sense him observing, but nothing more. What could he mean? Alemar began to listen, this time not just with his ears.

  He heard grains of sand tumbling endlessly down the lee side of the dune, propelled by the breeze. He heard a lizard sigh. There were roots deep under the dune—he could smell the water they brought up from below, feel the surge of the sap.

  And he heard pain.

  There was no cry or moan, not even strained breathing. But it was pain nonetheless. Someone was hurt. No, some thing. There was no human intellect involved. Alemar concentrated, but he could not recognize the pattern of the creature's thoughts. Its agony drowned out any other impressions.

  Location, then. Alemar sent his awareness in widening arcs. He made contact again. The thing was behind him, to the right, about twenty paces distant.

  "Good," Gast said. "Awaken. Tend the injured."

  Alemar opened his eyes. He walked slowly in the direction he had sensed. Only when he was quite near did he see it.

  It was a tortoise.

  He knelt down beside it. He had seldom seen the tortoises of the desert. They hibernated ten months out of the year, buried deep in the sand. Even during the few weeks when they were active, they were hard to find, for they likewise burrowed in order to escape the heat of the day. This specimen, a mottled grey individual only as long as Alemar's outstretched hand, was out much later than he should have been.

  The reason was apparent. A small, thorny twig was caught in its collar. It could not dislodge the item, nor even withdraw its head into its shell. The barbs had dug into its flesh, and movement only caused it to be skewered more deeply. Drops of ichor had stained the sand beneath its neck.

  The tortoise was aware of Alemar. It tried to retreat into its shell. The thorn prevented it. It glared at the man defiantly, opening its formidable beak. Small as it was, Alemar took no chances. He walked over to the nearest stand of brush, broke off a piece, and when he had returned to the tortoise, inserted the stick between its jaws.

  It clamped down and wouldn't let go. Alemar tugged and, while the creature's neck was stretched, pulled out the thorn. The wound was superficial and would heal unattended. He left his patient to its own resources, its mouth still full of wood.

  He was halfway over to Gast before he realized that this had been the first healing of his apprenticeship.

  “Don't belittle it,” Gast warned. “You have to start small and work up. To stop pain, you must be able to find it."

  “I hope my next patient is more cooperative."

  “Possibly. Now that you've healed a tortoise, you can move on to vipers.”

  * * *

  XXXI

  “TWELVE SILVER CROWNS,” the caravan master insisted.

  “Very well,” Shigmur grumbled. It was, in fact, the current market value, but bargaining etiquette required Shigmur to act as if he had been cheated. He reached for his purse and grudgingly counted out the coins.

  “A wise investment,” assured the master, watching the money drop into his palm. “A man isn't safe out in that desert, travelling with just a wife and slave girl. The barbarians might've had you for lunch."

  Shigmur nodded. “I heard they burned a whole caravan not six months ago."

  “Nearly. But don't worry. They won't bother us. We're too large, and we pay their tithe, anyway.” The man tucked away the payment. “Be ready at dawn. We don't tarry for stragglers."

  Shigmur assured him they would be prompt, and the man reentered his gate, disappearing behind the whitewashed adobe walls of his estate. The master of the caravan was also the mayor of Thiebef, the last village on the road out of the city-state of Surudain. This was the departure point for caravans heading to the Sea of Azu region—chiefly to Azurajen, but also to Shol, Palura, and the minor communities adjacent to the inland sea. East of the village lay the beginnings of Zyraii land.

  He began walking back to one of the village's many inns. He was nervous, but none would have guessed it. His walk seemed smooth and unconcerned. Passersby would see him as a moderately well-to-do Shol leather-maker, identifiable by the style, workmanship, and predominant material of his clothing. The only weapon visible was a scimitar, a common article for any head of household in these lands.

  He resisted the impulse to draw up his nonexistent veil each time a stranger passed.

  He entered the inn and knocked at a door on the second floor. “Who is it?” demanded a female voice in badly fractured Azuraji, the trade language.

  He answered, then heard the bar lifted inside. “You'll have to learn to speak it better than that,” he chided as he stepped in.

  And then he burst into laughter.

  Yetem controlled her grin by the barest margin and quickly shut the door.

  “It isn't funny,” Lonal said.

  The war-leader stood at the far side of the room, adorned in the traditional garb of a pregnant Shol wife: floor-length skirts, loose blouse, full sleeves, shawl draped over the shoulders, complete with an extremely prominent abdomen. Shigmur couldn't help but think of his wife when she had been eight months along. He examined the effect from several angles.

  “The shoulders are still a bit wide for a woman,” he decided. “But we can't do much about that. The padding looks good."

  Yetem stroked Lonal's bare chin. “He looks young, no?"

  Lonal slapped her hand away. His face was pale where the beard had been. He did indeed look years younger.

  “I've heard all grown men shave in Ijitia,” Shigmur said diplomatically.

  “I should move there,” Lonal said flatly.

  “Here,” Shigmur said, picking up the final portion of the disguise. “No woman of Shol would be without her veils—some stranger might see her shame.” He draped the multiple layers of gauze over Lonal's head and secured them with a braid around the temples.

  Lonal now was utterly covered, save the hands, which he had shaved as well. Yetem had painted his nails. Few would guess that the person in the gown were anything other than a rather large, expectant Shol mother. One had to be very close to make out the outline of the face at all. This, of course, did little for Lonal's vision.

  “How I wish I could bring myself to ask another man to do this,” the war-leader said passionately.

  “It will only be for a few weeks,” Yetem said cheerfully.

  “I know,” Lonal said.

  Yetem's disguise was much simpler—nothing more than a calf-length skirt split up the sides all the way to the belt. She was naked above the waist. Although an upright woman of Shol was expected to sequester herself from the eyes of unknown men, it would be presumptuous for a slave girl to think of doing the same.

  “I'm ready,” she told Shigmur.

  The war-second glanced inquisitively at Lonal. “Go,” the latter urged. “I will stay here like a good wife."

  They filed out the door and didn't speak until they were well out of Lonal's hearing.

  “He'll go crazy, having to just sit and do nothing until we get to Xurosh,” Yetem said.

  “His hate for the traders will sustain him. Lonal always chooses the hardest roles ... though this time I think you may have him beaten."

  “It won't be any worse than others I've had to play,” she replied.

  * * * *

  The wineshop brimmed with activity. Merchants and travellers had been gathering for days; this was the last night before the caravan left, and they meant to make the most of it. Shigmur and Yetem took a table near the front, near the circular platform where entertainers tried to entice tips from the clientele. At the moment, a musician was plucking at a stringed instrument unlike any Yetem had ever seen before.

  They had not been there long when a lanky man-at-arms from Ireon joined them at the table.

  “The name's Jiustog,” the soldier said. “You're journeying with the caravan?"

  Shigmur gave him a name and replied affirmatively.

 
The man smiled beguilingly. “My uncle was in the leather trade. Tried to bring me into it when my sire died. Is it your only source of income?” he asked, staring fixedly at Yetem's breasts.

  “I supplement it,” Shigmur answered. “One silver crown,” he added, saving Jiustog the effort of asking.

  The man nodded, eyes still on Yetem. “A mite high, but worth it.” He laid the coin on the table. Shigmur covered it with his palm.

  Yetem stood. Jiustog took her arm. “I have a room right upstairs,” he said.

  Shigmur observed them as long as he could. The soldier had his arm about Yetem's shoulders as they climbed the steps. She was laughing at his comments and caressing his side.

  “What will God have me do next?” Shigmur muttered under his breath.

  The musician finished his song and a pair of companions carried tip boxes through the crowd. One of them paused in front of Shigmur.

  “Sholi?” the man asked, using the language common to Shol and Zyraii.

  Shigmur hesitated. “Yes."

  “What part?"

  Shigmur quickly put money in the tip box. “Nijara.” This was the capital, the only large population center.

  “That was my birthplace,” the man said cordially. He seemed to want to talk more, but a pair of jugglers from Tunaets had taken the stage. The man hurried to finish collecting.

  Shigmur sighed. The last thing he needed was to run into a man from Shol. It would have taken only a little more conversation for the man to have realized that Shigmur's accent was Zyraii, not Sholi. It was for just that reason that he had selected a caravan that had few travellers from Shol. He relaxed only when he saw the musician and his troupe leaving the wineshop in search of another establishment in which to perform.

  He settled back to watch the jugglers, and suddenly realized that Yetem was beside him.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked.

  “Of course.” She poured herself more wine.

  “You're back very soon."

  She shrugged. “Some men are faster than others."

  “Even so."