by Bob Shaw
As the last dire vision faded, and the wall of the tent became nothing more than a slow-billowing square of cloth, Dardash looked at Urtarra with new respect. “You are a seer,” he said. “You have a gift which even I can only envy.”
“Gift? Curse is a better word for it.” For an instant Urtarra’s smooth face looked haunted. “I could well do without such visions and the burden of responsibility they bring.”
“What burden? Now that you know what is preordained for Koldana and its people, all you have to do is journey to some safe country and live out your life in peace. That’s what I’m going to do.”
“But I am not you,” Urtarra said. “And the events we saw are not preordained. Time is like a river, and the course of a river can be altered—that’s why you must kill the king before it is too late.”
Dardash settled back on the litter. “I have no intention of involving myself in anything so troublesome and dangerous. Why should I?”
“But you have just seen the miseries that are held in store for multitudes—the wars and plagues and famines.”
“What’s that to me?” Dardash said casually. “I have my own problems to contend with, and very little time in which to do it. I’ll make you an offer—you release me now and I will promise to go my separate way without harming you or any of your company.”
“I was told you thought only of yourself,” Urtarra said, his eyes mirroring a cynical amusement, “but it was hard to believe a man could be so lacking in compassion.”
“Believe it.” Dardash proffered his bound wrists. “Let’s get this over with no more waste of time.”
“There is one thing you have not considered,” Urtarra said, his voice oddly enigmatic as he rose to his feet and walked to a richly ornamented chest which sat in one corner of the tent. “I am willing to repay you for your services.”
Dardash gave a humourless laugh. “With what? Gold or precious stones? I can conjure them out of dung! The favours of that whore who lingers outside? I can recruit a hundred like her in any city. You have nothing which could possibly interest me, soothsayer.”
“That is most regrettable,” Urtarra said mildly as he stooped and took something from the chest. “I hoped you might find something worthy of your attention in this.”
He turned and Dardash saw that he was holding a piece of parchment, roughly two handsbreadths in length, which had obviously been cut from a scroll. Dardash gave the parchment a bored glance and was turning his head away again when there came a thrill of recognition—it bore lines of writing in the Old Language, the same enigmatic and impenetrable script of his own twelve scrolls. Apart from the compilations of spells which had defeated his understanding for decades, no other matter written in the Old Language had come his way. Dardash tilted his head for a better view, trying to decide what kind of text the fragment represented, and suddenly—as though he had been stricken by a superior magic—he was unable to speak or breathe. His heartbeat became a tumult of thunder within his chest and bright-haloed specks danced across his vision as he absorbed the realisation that the parchment in Urtarra’s hands was written in two languages.
Under each line of the Old Language was a corresponding line, a mixture of ideograms and phonetic symbols, which Dardash identified as late period Accosian—one of the near-defunct languages he had mastered many years earlier.
“This is only a fragment, of course,” Urtarra said. “I have the remainder of the scroll hidden in a secure place, but if it’s of no interest to you…”
“Don’t toy with me—I don’t like it.” Dardash briefly considered the fact that the key which would unlock the secrets of his twelve scrolls would make him virtually immortal, with all the incredible powers of the ancient warlocks, and decided he should modify his attitude towards Urtarra. “I admit to having a certain scholarly interest in old writings, and am prepared to offer a fair price for good examples. The assassination of a king is out of the question, of course, but there are many other…”
“And don’t you toy with me,” Urtarra cut in. “Marcurades has to die—otherwise the entire scroll will be consigned to the fire.”
The threat cast a chill shadow in Dardash’s mind.
“On the other hand, the world has seen an abundance of kings,” he said slowly. “Is it a matter of any real consequence whether we have one more—or one less?”
It was close to noon by the time Dardash had selected the magical equipment he thought he would need and had brought it ashore by raft. He supervised the loading of the material and some personal effects on to two mules, then turned to Urtarra with a slight frown.
“Just to satisfy my curiosity,” he said, “how were you able to find my unobtrusive little island? I believed I had it quite well concealed.”
“It was very well concealed—from the eyes of men,” Urtarra replied, allowing himself to look satisfied. “But birds can see it from on high, and you have many of them nesting there.”
“What difference does that make?”
“To me—none; to the hawks I have been releasing—a great deal.”
“I see,” Dardash said thoughtfully, suddenly aware that Urtarra, for all his eunuchoid softness, would make a highly dangerous adversary. “Have you ever thought of becoming a sorcerer?”
“Never! I’m troubled enough by visions as it is. Were I to introduce new elements I might forfeit sleep altogether.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” Dardash swung himself up into the saddle of the horse that had been provided for him. “Tell me, do you ever foresee your own death?”
“No seer can do that—not until he is ready.” Urtarra gave him an odd smile and made a signal to his four guards and the young woman, all of whom were already on horseback and waiting some distance away. They moved off immediately, taking a south-easterly course for Bhitsala, the capital city of Koldana. The plain was shimmering with heat and at the horizon there was no clear distinction between land and sky.
Dardash, who much preferred the comparative coolness of the coast, had no relish for the four days’ ride that lay ahead. Urging his horse forward alongside Urtarra, he consoled himself with the thought that this journey was probably the last he would have to undertake in such a commonplace and uncomfortable manner. When the knowledge reposing in the twelve scrolls was available to him he would waft himself effortlessly to his destinations by other means, perhaps sailing on clouds, perhaps by methods as yet undreamed of. Until then he would have to make the best of things as they were.
“The woman,” he said pensively, “has she any knowledge of what we’re about?”
“None! Nobody else must learn what has passed between us—otherwise your power and mine increased a hundredfold couldn’t preserve our lives.”
“Don’t your men regard this expedition as being a little…unusual?”
“They are trained never to ask nor to answer questions. However, I have told them what I will tell Marcurades—that you are a superb mathematician, and that I need your help in calculating horoscopes. I have spread word that the stars are hinting at some major event, but are doing it in such an obscure way that even I am baffled. It all helps to prepare the ground.”
Dardash’s thoughts returned to the female figure ahead. “And where did you obtain the woman?”
“Nirrineen is the daughter of one of my cousins.” Urtarra gave a satisfied chuckle. “It was fortunate that she was so well qualified for the task I assigned her. Shall I send her to you tonight?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Dardash said, concealing his annoyance at what he regarded as an insult. “She will come to me of her own accord.”
The group trekked across the acrid plain—seemingly at the centre of a hazy hemisphere of blinding radiance—until, with the lowering of the sun, the horizons became sharp again, and the world was created anew all around them. In the period of tranquillity that preceded nightfall they set up camp—the stately square tent for Urtarra’s sole usage, humbler conical structures for the others—and fi
res were lit. Nirrineen began to prepare a meal for Urtarra and Dardash, leaving the four guards to cater for their own needs. Dardash chose to stand close to the young woman while she worked, placing her within the orbit of a personal power which was slow-acting but sure.
“You were excellent when we met this morning,” he said. “I quite believed you were a princess.”
“And I quite believe you are a flatterer.” Nirrineen did not raise her eyes from the dishes she was preparing.
“I never employ flattery.”
“It exists most in its denial.”
“Very good,” Dardash said, chuckling, his desire quickening as he realised that the woman kneeling before him was a complete person and not merely a shell of flesh. “Yesterday, when I watched you bathe, I knew…”
“Yesterday?” Her eyes glimmered briefly in the dusk, like twin moons.
“Yes. Don’t forget that I’m as much magician as mathematician. Yesterday—by proxy—I stood very close to you for a long time, and knew then that you and I had been fashioned for each other. Like sword and sheath.”
“Sword! Can it be that you now flatter yourself?”
“There’s but one way for you to find out,” Dardash replied easily. Much later as they lay together in the darkness, with Nirrineen contentedly asleep in his arms, he exulted in the discovery that his mind had regained all of its former clarity.
He began to consider ways of killing the king.
The city of Bhitsala was clustered around a semi-circular bay which provided good anchorage for trading ships. It was protected by a range of low hills which merged with the shoreline at the bay’s southern edge, creating a cliff-edge prominence upon which sat the palace of the Koldanian kings. It was a sprawling, multi-centred building, the colonnades of which had been sheathed with beaten gold until Marcurades’ accession to the throne. One of the young king’s first actions after assuming power had been to strip the columns and distribute the gold among his people. The under-lying cores of white marble shone almost as brightly, however, and at the end of the day when they reflected the aureate light of sunset the dwellers in the city below told their children that the gods had gilded the palace anew to repay Marcurades for his generosity.
Dardash imagined he could sense the universal adoration of the king as he rode into the city, and for him it was an atmosphere of danger. The task he had undertaken would have to be planned and carried out with the utmost care. He had already decided that it must not appear to be a murder at all, but even a naturally occurring illness could lead to suspicions of poisoning—and a magician, a reputed brewer of strange potions and philtres, was one of the most likely to be accused. It was essential, Dardash told himself, that Marcurades’ death should occur in public, before as many witnesses as possible, and that it should appear as either a pure accident or, even better, a malign stroke of fate. The trouble was that divine acts were difficult to simulate.
“I have prepared a room for you in my own quarters at the palace,” Urtarra said as they passed through the city’s afternoon heat and began the gradual climb to the royal residence. “You will be able to rest there and have a meal.”
“That’s good,” Dardash replied, “but first I’m going to bathe and have Nirrineen massage me with scented oils—I’ve begun to smell worse than this accursed horse.”
“My intention was to send Nirrineen straight back to her father.”
“No! I want her to stay with me.”
“But many women are available at the palace.” Urtarra brought his horse closer and lowered his voice. “It wouldn’t be wise at this time to share your bed with one who has a special interest in you.”
Dardash realised at once that Urtarra’s counsel was good, but the thought of parting with Nirrineen—the she-creature who worked her own kind of voluptuous magic on him through the sweet hours of night—was oddly painful. “Don’t alarm yourself—she will know nothing,” he said. “Do you take me for a fool?”
“I was thinking only of your own safety.”
“There is only one whose safety is at risk,” Dardash said, fixing his gaze on the complex architecture of the palace which had begun to dominate the skyline ahead.
When they reached the palace gates a short time later, Urtarra conferred briefly with his men and sent them on their way to nearby lodgings. Dardash, Urtarra and Nirrineen were able to ride through the gates after only a perfunctory examination by the captain of the palace guard—yet another indication of the unusual bond that existed between the king and his subjects. Servants summoned by Urtarra led away their horses and mules. Others came forward to carry Dardash’s belongings into the astrologer’s suite, which was part of a high wing facing the sea, but he dismissed them and moved the well-trussed bundles in person.
While thus engaged he noticed, in one corner of a small courtyard, a strange vehicle which consisted principally of a large wooden barrel mounted on four wheels. At the base of the barrel was an arrangement of cylinders and copper pipes from which projected a long T-shaped handle, and near the top—coiled like a snake—was a flexible leather tube, the seams of which were sealed with bitumen.
“What is that device?” Dardash said, pointing the object out to Urtarra. “I’ve never seen its like before.”
Urtarra looked amused. “You’ll see many of Marcurades’ inventions before you are here very long. He calls that particular one a fire engine.”
“A fire engine? Is it a siege weapon?”
“Quite the opposite,” Urtarra said, his amusement turning to outright laughter. “It’s for projecting water on to burning buildings.”
“Oh? An unusual sport for a king.”
“It’s more than a sport, my friend. Marcurades gets so obsessed with his various inventions that he spends half his time in the palace workshops. Sometimes, in his impatience to see the latest one completed, he throws off his robes and labours on it like a common artisan. I’ve seen him emerge from the smithy so covered with soot and sweat as to be almost unrecognisable.”
“Doesn’t he know that such activities can be dangerous?”
“Marcurades doesn’t care about…” Urtarra paused and scanned Dardash’s face. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m not sure yet.” Dardash almost smiled as his mind came to grips with the information he had just received. “Now, where can I bathe?”
“Watch this,” Dardash said to Nirrineen as they stood together in the elaborate garden which formed a wide margin between the royal palace and the edge of the cliffs. It was a fresh morning and the livening breeze coming in from the sea was ideally suited to Dardash’s purpose. In his right hand he had a cross made from two flat strips of hardwood, smoothly jointed at the centre. He raised his hand and made to throw the cross off the edge of the cliff.
“Don’t throw it away,” Nirrineen pleaded. She had no idea why Dardash had constructed the cross in the first place, but she had seen him spend the best part of a day carefully shaping the object, smoothly rounding some edges and sharpening others, and obviously she disliked the idea of his labour going to waste.
“But I’ve grown weary of the thing,” Dardash said, laughing. He brought his hand down sharply, in an action like that of a man cracking a whip, and released the cross. It flew from his fingers at great speed, its arms flailing in the vertical plane, gradually curving downwards towards the blue waters of the bay. Nirrineen began to protest, but her voice was stilled as the cross, tilting to one side, defied gravity by sailing upwards again until it was higher than the point from which it had been launched. It appeared to come to rest in mid-air, hovering like a hawk, twinkling brightly in the sky. Nirrineen gave a small scream of mingled wonder and terror as she realised the cross was actually returning. She threw herself into Dardash’s arms as the strange artifact fluttered back across the edge of the cliff and fell to earth a few paces away.
“You didn’t tell me it was bewitched,” she accused, clinging to Dardash and staring down at the cross as though it were a liv
e thing which might suddenly attack her.
“There is no magic here,” he said, disengaging himself and picking up the cross, “even though I learned the secret from a very old book. Look at how I have shaped each piece of wood to resemble a gull’s wing. I’ve made you a little wooden bird, Nirrineen—a homing pigeon.”
“It still seems like magic to me,” she said doubtfully. “I don’t think I like it.”
“You soon shall. See how reluctant it is to leave you.” Dardash threw the cross out to sea again in the same manner and it repeated its astonishing circular flight, this time coming to rest even closer to its starting point. Nirrineen leaped out of its path, but now there was more excitement than apprehension in her eyes, and after a third throw she was able to bring herself to pick the cross up and hand it to Dardash.
He went on throwing it, varying the speed and direction of its flight and making a game for both of them out of avoiding its whirring returns. In a short time a group of palace servants and minor officials, initially attracted by Nirrineen’s laughter, had gathered to watch the spectacle. Dardash continued tirelessly, apparently oblivious to the onlookers, but in fact paying careful attention to every detail of his surroundings, and he knew—simply by detecting a change in the general noise level—the exact moment at which his plan had succeeded. He turned and saw the knot of spectators part to make way for the approach of a handsome, slightly-built young man, whose bearing somehow managed to be both relaxed and imperious.
This is a new kind of arrogance, Dardash thought. Here is a man who feels that he doesn’t even have to try to impress…
The remainder of the thought was lost as he got his first direct look at the young King Marcurades and felt the ruler’s sheer psychic power wash over him. Dardash, as a dedicated magician, understood very well that there was more to his calling than the willingness and ability to memorise spells. On a number of occasions he had encountered men—often in ordinary walks of life—who had a strong potential for magic, but never before had he been confronted by a human being whose charisma was so overwhelming. Dardash suddenly found himself taken aback, humbled and confused, by the realisation that he was in the company of a man who, had he been so inclined, could have effortlessly eclipsed him in his chosen profession.
