by Dave Duncan
Prime Candidate Bullwhip conducted the real hero around the hall, introducing him to everyone, even the servants, even the Brat. His Blade followed two steps behind. When Sir Durendal went to the privy, Sir Wolfbiter was immediately overcome with the same need.
Dawn found the two of them miles away, riding into the rising sun. Of course Wolfbiter was as impressive with a horse as he was with a rapier—if he had any failings at all, they would have been mentioned. Even his manner was appropriate; he knew he was good, but he would let the world find that out for itself. Everyone wanted to compare him to Durendal. Had he been like this: bright, sharp, untested, dangerous? He suspected he had been a lot more cocky. He had been younger, of course.
“Ready to hear the story?”
“Yes, sir.” Not a smile, though, only that intense dark stare. Why had he not died of curiosity before now?
“First, though…I couldn’t tell you this earlier, but Grand Master submits detailed reports on all the seniors. The reason you stayed Prime all those long months is that you are so fiery good! The King has been saving you for something special.”
Wolfbiter nodded as if he worked that out, but he did not comment.
“This is the special something. Remember Everman, just behind me?”
That won a faint frown. “Yes, sir.”
“Did you give him his sword, too?”
“No, sir.”
“He and his ward were sent on a dangerous mission to a mythical city halfway around the world, in Altain. They never returned and were assumed dead, but word arrived a few months ago that Everman at least is still alive, probably enslaved. Two days ago, the King ordered me to go and get him back. He gave me a Blade because I’m going to need one. We sail with tomorrow’s tide.”
The hooves drummed on the dewy trail. The riders squinted into the rising sun. Wolfbiter seemed to be thinking. He certainly did not volunteer any remarks.
“The journey there will take us at least two years, by ship, by horse, and eventually by camel. We shall cross seas and deserts and mountains. We must evade brigands and wild beasts, storms and disease, pirates and hostile tribesmen.”
Still no reply.
“Well?” Durendal said, exasperated. The hawk was loosed from the hand at last; he had been assigned to aid the hero of his dreams on a fairy-tale mission to the ends of the earth. Was he pleased or scared? Couldn’t he say anything at all?
His Blade’s swift glance seemed to appraise him: What does he want of me? What am I doing wrong? “Sir?”
“Sonny, not one Blade in ten ever draws his sword in anger from the night he is bound till the day he is knighted and released—his whole career is one big sham. He struts and postures and does nothing of any interest except prod girls. You are going to be fighting for my life and yours about once a week for the next five years. Your chances of ever coming back alive are worse than slim. How does that future look to you?”
“Oh.” Wolfbiter did not exactly smile then, but he came close. “Very satisfactory indeed, sir.”
WOLFBITER
IV
1
Eight hundred days later, they rode into Samarinda, mounted on the shaggy, tough ponies of Altain, which had no great speed or beauty but could amble on forever. The Blades were posing successfully as free swords, two of the dozen nondescript guards hired to guard Sheik Akrazzanka’s caravan of linen, ivory, and dyestuffs. Ironically, despite all Kromman’s skilled efforts at masquerading as an itinerant scholar, the wily traders were quite convinced he was a spy, just on principle. They did not care, since most of them were spying for someone or other.
The sheer size of Altain made men feel like fleas. Ice-clad peaks lined the horizon—clear at dawn, fading under the sun, and yet revealed the next morning unchanged, as if a whole day’s ride had achieved nothing. Compared to those giants, the nearby gray-brown hills seemed insignificant, but hours of riding were needed just to descend a slope or climb out of a valley. Water holes were scattered and precious, trees nonexistent, villages even rarer. From time to time Durendal would catch a glimpse of watchers in the distance but never of tents; rare tracks and droppings were the only sign of herds. In this parched emptiness, life was a constant struggle against wind and dust, the gentle, misty landscape of Chivial an incredible dream. A man might vie all day with a sadistic sun searing his eyes and flesh, and at night be fending off bitter frost under crystal stars.
A line of laden camels wound up the long hillside ahead, but one lone rider came cantering back, shouting to every trader, driver, and guard he passed, “Samarinda in sight!” Most laughed or cheered. When he reached the end of the column, he wheeled around to retrace his path; he drew alongside Durendal. He smiled, teeth very white against his deep-tanned face—Sir Wolfbiter, of course.
What would the court of Chivial think of the two of them now? Under conical, comical felt hats, their faces were as brown as dried dates. They wore the baggy trousers and shapeless smocks of the country, colored a muddy shade, and they reeked of man and horse and camel. Hair and beards blew wild in the ceaseless wind. Only the cat’s-eye swords at their sides marked them for what they were—or what they had once been and might hope to be again.
“We’ll make it before sundown?”
Wolfbiter nodded firmly. “Journey’s end! Praise to the spirits!”
Amused by this rare display of enthusiasm, Durendal said, “It has been an interesting trip, has it not?”
His Blade glanced appraisingly at him. “Moderately, sir. You promised me seas and deserts and mountains—no complaints there. Brigands, yes. Wild beasts, I think you mentioned. Not too many of those. Or pirates. But hostile tribesmen…yes, you delivered those.” He did not mention the snakes, scorpions, fevers, shipwreck, avalanche, forest fire, and dysentery.
“You delivered me. I’d be rotting in an unmarked grave in Thyrdonia if you had not been with me. Or feeding fish.”
The Blade’s faint smile indicated satisfaction. At least twice he had saved the life of his friend and ward with a flashing thrust—and that put him one ahead of Durendal. “But the same goes for me, too. And we still have to find our way home again.”
“Enjoy it. The rest of our lives will seem dull after this.”
“I am enjoying it, every minute.” He stared at the skyline, where the horses showed as dark dots. “I’m considering killing Kromman.”
“You don’t say? Why?”
“He makes my binding itch.”
He was probably joking—it was never easy to tell. Wolfbiter was a peerless companion, as tough and reliable as a cat’s-eye sword, uncomplaining, resourceful, and usually a voice of prudence to restrain Durendal’s wilder impulses. Though he was four years younger, his blood was colder. He would kill the inquisitor without a scruple if he thought he had reason to.
“We’d never have made it here without him,” Durendal said hopefully. “He will probably be as useful on our way home. Murder needs evidence, Wolf.” Not necessarily, because some Blades could detect danger to their wards by pure instinct.
“He told me that they did a reading on you once, and it foretold that you were a danger to the King.”
Durendal laughed with a confidence he did not quite feel. “I know that, and the King knows it. It doesn’t worry him, so why should it worry you? Readings are about as reliable as old wives’ weather lore.”
“And I know that. What matters is whether Kromman believes it. If he does, then he’s a danger to you, out here in nowhere. He may not want you ever to get home.”
“I honestly think he’s more of an asset than a threat, Wolf.”
The Blade glanced thoughtfully at his ward. “But how much of an asset? One reason I don’t trust him is because he doesn’t trust us. He has brought along conjurements he hasn’t told us about. I’d like to know why Inquisitor Kromman’s blanket looks like mine and feels like mine and yet weighs three times as much.”
Durendal had not known that, and Wolfbiter’s satisfaction was irritating.
“I suppose he’s just naturally secretive.”
“Then why did he tell me about the reading? Why is he so unfriendly all the time?”
“Because he was taught sneering at inquisitors’ school. I think he’s never forgiven me for escaping his clutches once, that’s all. I know he’s a human slug, but sarcasm isn’t a capital offense. He does have many good qualities.”
“Name one.”
“Resourcefulness. And he’s loyal to the King—you just admitted that yourself. Come on, friend, you can’t kill a man just because you don’t like him!”
After a moment Wolfbiter said, “You are an old sourpuss!”
When they crested the rise and looked down the long slope to Samarinda in the distance, it seemed disappointingly similar to other places they had visited in this last stage of their trek. Like Alzan or Koburtin, the city itself was only a slightly rougher patch of the same drab brown as the overwhelming landscape, with a striking lack of shining towers or domes of jade, but the flat valley bottom beyond it displayed the lush green of cultivation. Water made crops, crops made food, food must be stored, stores required defenses. In another hour or so, Durendal discerned walls and a central building higher than anything else: palace, castle, or monastery?
Somewhere between Altain and the court in Chivial, the legend had become distorted. The military order that Grand Inquisitor had described was known here as the Brethren of the Gold Sword. She had spoken of knights in a castle, which in the local tongue became monks in a monastery. Durendal had concluded that the distinction was of little significance; the building would be fortified and the men would rule by force or reputation, as required. Otherwise, the tale seemed to be standing up. He had expected it to retreat as he approached, like a rainbow, but it had grown stronger all along the Jade Road. Yes, agreed the traders, there was much gold in Samarinda. They had chuckled at his questions. A swordsman asking about Samarinda could have only one thing in mind, wealth. What he would find would be death.
“You are a fool to dream so,” old Akrazzanka wheezed in the talks around the campfires. “Many strong young men have I guided to Samarinda on that quest. Only two have I brought out again, either to east or to west.”
“But some win?” Durendal had asked. “Some succeed?”
“A few. Not that they manage to keep their gold for long, you understand—any man foolish enough to enter that contest will succumb to the first woman or rogue he meets—but yes, a few live and depart with much fine gold. I have touched it.”
All the rest of the legend might be faked, but real gold leaving the city was inexplicable. No one knew of mines or miners in the district, and everyone agreed that Samarinda gold was the purest gold in all the world, yellow butter-metal so soft you could score it with your fingernails, let alone your teeth. Taking gold to Samarinda was a byword for futility. If the answer was not the philosophers’ stone, what was it?
Journey’s end. The two guards would leave the caravan here, as would the spy who pretended to be a scholar. At Kromman’s insistence, they had concealed their relationship. If they did not die in Samarinda, they could catch an eastbound caravan in a few days or a month or two, or when the spirits willed.
Not an end, then, a halfway point. Say a week in Samarinda to solve the Everman mystery, or a month for a return caravan, and then two more years home. Two more years until he saw Kate again.
Or the King.
Kate and the King, the King and Kate. He was still bound—many nights he woke up sweating, wondering if his ward was safe.
The true defense of Samarinda must be the monks’ skills in conjuration, for the city walls stood only three spans high, which was modest for a place with a reputation for wealth. Few rooftops within the walls overtopped them except the castle, or monastery, itself, which brooded above everything like a hen within her chicks; yet Durendal had seen many fortresses in Chivial more impressive. Four stubby towers rose at the corners of the main keep, each built of the same brown stone and capped with a low-pitched roof of green copper. No faces peered from the tiny windows, no pennants flew—no, nor even birds. It was strange not to see at least crows or pigeons around an inhabited castle.
When the sun turned pink in the dust of the horizon, he slid with relief from his pony’s back outside the city gate, amid an untidy clutter of shanties and paddocks—businesses not worth the high rents within the walls, constructions that could be sacrificed if enemies attacked. He handed the reins to one of the Sheik’s drivers and bade him farewell; then he hefted his bundle on his shoulder and headed for Wolfbiter, who was doing much the same.
He made a conscious effort to speak in his mother tongue. “Now we can be about the King’s business!”
“After we have collected our pay, you mean.” Wolfbiter’s eyes glinted as they did when he was playing nursemaid. “Sir!”
“You’re right, I suppose. Where is the old scoundrel?”
They still carried great wealth strapped around their waists and had no need of money, but it would be imprudent to begin their activities in Samarinda by showing that they were not what they said they were. Wolfbiter was probably anxious not to give Kromman a chance to criticize—the inquisitor insisted that a careful agent never broke out of his role.
Finding the Sheik and extracting their due was a slow process. Akrazzanka was busy making arrangements for his livestock, workers, and trade goods. When he had a moment to spare for two wandering swordsmen, his memory of their agreement naturally did not coincide with theirs, so everything had to be haggled out all over again.
Thirsty, hungry, and almost weary enough to think of himself as tired, Durendal strode at last toward the gate with his bundle on his shoulder and Wolfbiter at his heels. He need never fear a knife in the back while he had his Blade with him. As soon as they left the anonymity of the caravan, they were identified as visiting swordsmen and surrounded by a yabbering mob of men, children, and even a few women.
“The finest house in all Samarinda…”
“My wife’s cooking…”
“My beautiful sister…”
The voices were hoarse and harsh, for every city in Altain had its own dialect; but by tomorrow they would seem as intelligible as the Chivians at court. He pushed on through the jabber, the waving hands. In a few minutes he spotted Kromman and headed toward him. Kromman turned to go into the city, following a bent old man; and the Blades in turn trailed after him at a distance. Eventually the pimps and hawkers gave up and scuttled off to find more willing prey.
Poky alleys wound between walls still giving off the day’s breathless heat, although dusk was almost over. In Altain night fell faster than a headsman’s ax. The overpowering smells of cooking, animals, people, and ordure seemed very close to visible. Strains of music drifted from barred windows, children wailed, mules and cattle bellowed in the distance. Old, old, old! Stairs and doorsteps were hollowed by generations of feet, cobbles were rutted, even the corners of the houses seemed rounded off; mortar had crumbled and fallen out. Alzan was old and Koburtin even older, but Samarinda was more ancient than anywhere. Along the Jade Road it was a truth ordained that when the gods built the world they began at Samarinda and worked out from there. If each of the eight elements must have a source, then Samarinda was the fount of time.
The people were olive skinned and broad faced, hiding their eyelids when they were not in use. Some of the women went veiled, not all. Most men had mustaches but either shaved their cheeks and chins or else grew very little hair on them. Yet here and there were other types, a blond man and one with near-black skin…. They bore swords. They must be visitors come to seek their fortunes.
Feeling a thrill of excitement, Durendal caught up with Kromman and fell into step. They had hardly spoken since leaving Koburtin. Wolfbiter remained at his post, one pace behind his ward.
The inquisitor wore the same filthy, shapeless clothes as the Blades, and even his fish-belly face had turned brown on the trek. His beard was straggly and alrea
dy streaked with gray. “Congratulations!” he said in supercilious Chivian. “You made it all the way to Samarinda.”
“I should not have done so without your help, of course. Do you think I am unaware of that?”
“Even you could not be so obtuse.”
“Who is your friend? What is he peddling—his daughters or worse?”
“His name is Cabuk. He offers accommodation for visiting swordsmen, just like them all, but when he said his place was the best, he was lying less than any of the others were.” Inquisitors were undeniably useful companions. It was a shame they could not be more pleasant people.
Murder would be going a little far, though.
The ragged old man had reached their destination, a set of staggered stone slabs protruding from a wall to form a narrow and precarious stair, well worn by use. He scampered nimbly up to a massive iron-studded door set about head height above the street; he unlocked it and disappeared inside. Wolfbiter went first—it would have taken an army to stop him. Durendal and the inquisitor followed.
The single room was furnished with a few dubious rolls of bedding, a handful of stone crocks in one corner, and a knee-high, rickety table. It was loud with flies and hot as a sweat house, although the two grilled windows were unglazed and there was an open trap-door in the awkwardly low ceiling. Immeasurable time had stripped all but a few traces of the original plaster from the walls and reduced the floorboards to a creaking mesh of gaps and splinters. Twilight showed through the roof in places, giving just enough light to see little Cabuk standing in the middle of this ruin, beaming at his visitors as if he expected them to go into raptures over such luxury.
It was much better than most of the places in which Durendal had lived during the past two years. The long journey had been less arduous than the months spent waiting for ships or caravans.
“Noble lords!” Cabuk declared. “Behold the finest lodging in all Samarinda! No one disputes that it is the most fortunate for all swordsmen; for many, many who slept here have won vast wealth in the arena.” This was clearly a well-rehearsed speech. “I have it most expertly enchanted every month without fail for that purpose. Here, while you wait your turns, you have privacy and security. Here you will not be molested by rats and other vermin, as you will be in all other establishments without exception. Here is cool by day and warm at night, see? My wives are the most excellent cooks in the city and my daughters will attend most expertly to the personal needs that strong young men like yourselves must have. Their beauty is famed throughout Altain and they are absolutely free of lice or disease or defects—practically virgins and yet very skilled. I also have two charming young sons, if you seek variety, no more than this high, see? Anything whatsoever that we can do to make your stay in Samarinda more pleasurable, you have only to ask. And for this, a mere two dizorks a night, although my wives rail shrilly at me for my insane generosity.”
