Stonecutter's Story

by Fred Saberhagen

  THE

  THIRD BOOK

  OF LOST SWORDS

  STONECUTTER’S STORY

  By

  Fred Saberhagen

  Copyright Page

  The Third Book of Lost Swords : Stonecutter’s Story Copyright (c) 1988 by Fred Saberhagen

  Cover Art : Harry O. Morris

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  Please purchase only authorized electronic editions.

  Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Tor paper edition: ISBN: 0-812-55288-1

  Electronic edition

  JSS Literary Productions

  ISBN: 978-1-937422-00-4

  The Ardneh Sequence

  Empire of the East series

  The Broken Lands

  The Black Mountains

  Changeling Earth /Ardneh's World

  ( three titles also published in a heavily-revised omnibus form as Empire of the East)

  The Book of Swords

  The First Book of Swords

  The Second Book of Swords

  The Third Book of Swords

  The Book of Lost Swords

  The First Book of Lost Swords: Woundhealer's Story

  The Second Book of Lost Swords: Sightblinder's Story

  The Third Book of Lost Swords: Stonecutter's Story

  The Fourth Book of Lost Swords: Farslayer's Story

  The Fifth Book of Lost Swords: Coinspinner's Story

  The Sixth Book of Lost Swords: Mindsword's Story

  The Seventh Book of Lost Swords: Wayfinder's Story

  The Last Book of Lost Swords: Shieldbreaker's Story

  Ardneh's Sword

  Swords Anthology

  (original invitational anthology edited by Fred Saberhagen)

  An Armory of Swords

  Blind Man's Blade . . . . . Fred Saberhagen

  Woundhealer. . . . . Walter Jon Williams

  Fealty. . . . . Gene Bostwick

  Dragon Debt. . . . . Robert E. Vardeman

  The Sword of Aren-Nath. . . . . Thomas Saberhagen

  Glad Yule. . . . . Pati Nagle

  Luck of the Draw. . . . .Michael A. Stackpole

  Stealth and the Lady. . . . . Sage Walker

  Sample

  A faint sound from a dark side passage made Kasimir turn his head. The warning had come just in time; he found himself confronted by a wild-faced man, who struck at Kasimir with a desperate blow. Turning with a simultaneous thrusting motion of his torch, Kasimir did his desperate best to parry. The assailant flinched away from the torch at the last moment.

  Kasimir swirled his cloak and continued with thrusts and feints of the torch. The man, who had a long knife in his hand, fell back. The two men stalked each other.

  As soon as Kasimir called out for help, the other man lunged at him again. Kasimir parried with the torch as best he could, stood his ground and swung his club, hitting his assailant on the shoulder. The long knife went clattering to the floor.

  A moment later, two Firozpur troopers had materialized in response to the physician’s yell, destroying the local darkness with their torches and taking charge of the howling prisoner.

  Chapter One

  Two hours before dawn the dreams of Kasimir were disturbed by a soft noise at the tent wall no more than a sword’s length from his head. The noise was the distinctive purring, gently snarling sound made by a sharp blade slitting the tough fabric.

  Once this sound had been identified somewhere inside the unsleeping portion of Kasimir’s brain, the remnants of his dream—a strange adventure involving the gods of the desert, and enormous distances of space and time—went flying off in tatters. Still, complete wakefulness did not come at once. With his eyes open to the partial darkness inside the tent, he saw by the filtering moonlight a figure moving silently. This figure had come in through the tent wall and gone out again by the same route before he who observed it was fully awake. But Kasimir had no doubt that he had seen it, a man’s form, looking as slender and dangerous as a scorpion, clad in dark, tight-fitting clothes, face wrapped for concealment. Nor had he any doubt, when this apparition went gliding smoothly out through the wall of the tent again, that it was carrying a long bundle wrapped in rough cloth, held tightly under its right arm.

  Kasimir sat up straight. He was alone in the tent now. No one else was sleeping in it tonight. Though it was quite large, much of the space inside was taken up by the more valuable portions of the caravan’s cargo.

  The intruder certainly hadn’t been Prince al-Farabi, leader of the caravan. Nor was Kasimir able to identify that mysterious form as any of the Prince’s followers who had been traveling with him across the desert. Then who—?

  Almost fully awake at last, Kasimir leaped to his feet. Just at that moment an outcry of alarm was sounded at no great distance outside the tent. He dashed for the door but it was tied loosely shut, as was usual at night, and undoing the knots delayed him briefly.

  Hardly had he got out into the open air before he collided with a figure running toward the tent.

  “Thieves!” the other man shouted, right in Kasimir’s face. “Robbers! Awake! Arouse and arm yourselves!”

  Judging by the growing uproar, the other thirty or forty occupants of the camp were already doing just that. Other voices were shouting alarm from the perimeter. Men poured out of the half-dozen sleeping tents, and weapons flashed in the light of rising flames. Smoldering cook fires and watch fires were being quickly rekindled. Lieutenant Komi, second-in-command to the Prince during this journey, trotted past Kasimir, barking orders to his men. And now, in the middle of all this half-controlled turmoil, strode the Prince himself with his robes flying behind him. Al-Farabi was tall and dark and at the moment a menacing figure with scimitar in hand. He was demanding to know where the alarm had started.

  Kasimir confronted him. “Prince, an intruder was in the cargo tent, where I was sleeping! He came through the wall. I—I wasn’t in time to stop him—”

  “What?” In a moment Prince al-Farabi had sprung to the side of the tent where the cloth had been slit. This was on the side opposite from the normal entrance, whose flap was now hanging open after Kasimir’s exit. In the fabric of the tent’s rear wall, Kasimir saw now, were two vertical slits, one right beside the other, only a couple of hand spans apart. Of course, it must have been their cutting that had awakened him.

  The Prince stepped into the tent through the largest of these rents, which was a full meter long.

  Peering in through the same aperture, Kasimir saw, by the torchlight that glowed in through the walls, the tall man bending over the heap of baggage that occupied the center of the tent’s interior. For a few moments the Prince tossed things about, obviously in search of something. Then al-Farabi straightened up to his full height, giving a great wordless cry as of bereavement.

  Kasimir followed the Prince into the tent through its new entrance. “Sir, what’s wrong?”

  “It is gone.” The face al-Farabi turned to the younger man was ghastly in the muted glow of firelight entering the tent from outside. The Prince appeared to be swaying on his feet. Almost shouting, he repeated: “It is gone!”

  “I saw a man inside the tent with me when I woke up,” Kasimir stammered, repeating the little information he could give. “He went out carrying a long bundle under one arm. I started to give the alarm but by then he was already gone.”

  Groaning unintelligibly, the Prince stumbled past Kasimir and out of the tent through its normal doorway. Again Kasimir
followed.

  Shouts coming from guards at the perimeter of the camp now reassured everyone that the animals were well and none of them had been stolen. But a moment later a new alarm was sounded. One of the guards, who had been posted nearest to the tent where Kasimir slept, had just been discovered lying motionless in the sand.

  “Bring him here beside the fire!” Kasimir ordered sharply. “And one of you fetch my kit from the tent.” It was the automatic reaction of a trained physician to a medical emergency. In a moment three men came carrying the fallen one, and laid him down on clean sand in the firelight.

  The physician went to work. He found that the victim was certainly alive, and a preliminary examination disclosed no sign of serious injury. Kasimir hardly had a chance to begin a more detailed investigation when the man began to stir and grimace, moaning and rubbing the back of his head.

  “Someone must have struck me down from behind,” the young tribesman murmured weakly, trying to sit up.

  “Sit still.” Kasimir’s exploring fingers found no blood, or even any noticeable lump. “All right, I suppose you’ll live. Doubtless the hood of your robe saved you from worse damage.”

  Aware that the Prince had approached again and was standing beside him, Kasimir turned to repeat this favorable report. But then the young physician let the words die on his lips. The tall figure of al-Farabi, wild-eyed, stood gesturing with both arms in the burgeoning firelight. “The Sword is gone!” the Prince shouted in a despairing voice. It was as if the full enormity of his loss was still growing on him. “The treasure has disappeared!”

  While others gathered around, Kasimir stood up from beside the fallen guard and moved still closer to the desert chieftain. In a voice that tried to be soothing he asked: “You mentioned a sword, sir. But how valuable was it? I had no idea that we were carrying any—”

  “Of course you had no idea! Of course!” The tall man cast back his hood and pulled his hair. “The presence of Stonecutter was intended to be a secret.”

  “The presence of—”

  “Of a Sword, the Sword of Siege itself! A priceless weapon! It was loaned to me by my trusting friend Prince Mark. And now it is gone. Argh! May all the gods and demons of the desert descend upon me and snuff out my worthless life!”

  “The Sword of Siege,” breathed Kasimir. “It is one of the Twelve, then.” And suddenly the extreme dismay of the Prince was understandable.

  Practically everyone in the world knew of the Twelve Swords, though comparatively few people had ever seen one of them. They were legendary weapons, for all that they were very real. They had been forged by the god Vulcan himself more than thirty years ago, in the days before the gods—or most of them at least—had disappeared.

  Kasimir wanted to ask how the Sword of Siege had come to be traveling with them, in this rather ordinary little caravan—but that was not properly any of his business. Instead he asked: “Is it possible to overtake the thief?”

  “Already I have sent some of my swiftest riders in pursuit,” said al-Farabi, who was now standing with his face buried in his hands, while his own people gathered round him in dumb awe. “But to find and follow a trail at night … we will of course do all that we can, but I fear that the Sword is gone. Oh, woe is me!”

  While Kasimir and others watched him helplessly, the desolation of the Prince became more intense and at the same time more theatrical. He tore at his hair and his garments, saying: “How will I ever be able to face Prince Mark again? What can I tell him? Even the worth of all my flocks and all my lands would scarcely afford him adequate compensation.”

  “Prince Mark?” Kasimir could think of nothing more intelligent to say at the moment; still, he felt that it was up to him to reply. All of the Prince’s own people who were watching looked slightly embarrassed, and he had the impression that al-Farabi’s outburst of grief was increasingly directed toward him.

  The Prince had paused and was regaining a minimum of composure. In a milder voice he said: “Know then, my young friend, that my great friend Prince Mark of Tasavalta, despite many misgivings on his part, was generous enough to loan me secretly the Sword called Stonecutter. Why, you ask? 1 will tell you. In one far corner of my domain, hundreds of kilometers from here, there is a nest of robbers that has proven all but impossible to eradicate, because of the nature of the rocky fastness in which they hide. With the Sword of Siege in hand, to undermine a crag or two would be no great problem—but now the Sword is gone from out of my hands, and I am the most miserable of men!”

  Kasimir felt moved to compassion. Ever since they had first encountered each other, a month ago, al-Farabi had been a most kindly and generous host, willing to provide an insignificant stranger with free passage across the desert.

  “Is there anything that I can do to help you, Prince?” the physician asked. Though he had never visited Tasavalta, he knew it was a land far to the northeast, bordering on the Eastern Sea, and he had heard that its rulers were respected everywhere.

  “I fear that there is nothing anyone can do to help me now. I fear that I will never see the Sword again.” Al-Farabi turned away, seemingly inconsolable.

  Gradually the excitement in the camp quieted. With a double guard now posted, the fires were allowed to die down once more. An hour before dawn the riders who had been sent in pursuit of the thieves came back, reporting in Kasimir’s hearing that they had had no success. When daylight came they would of course try again.

  Kasimir, lying awake in his blankets in the cargo tent, hearing the extra guards—now that it was too late—milling around outside, thought that few members of the caravan were likely to get any more sleep during the last hour of the night. But at last, after vexing his drowsy mind with the apparently minor, pointless, and insoluble problem of why the tent wall had been slit twice—one gash was only a minor one, not really big enough for anyone to crawl through—he dozed off himself.

  * * *

  His renewed sleep was naturally of short duration, for at first light the camp began to stir around him once again. As soon as full dawn came, al-Farabi sent out a different pair of trackers. Then he ordered camp broken, and, with the remainder of his men, his passenger Kasimir, and the laden baggage animals, pushed on along the caravan’s intended route toward the Abohar Oasis and, a day or two beyond that, the city of Eylau.

  Choosing to ride side by side with the young physician, the Prince explained that his men as well as their animals needed to rest and replenish their supply of water at the oasis before undertaking what promised to be a lengthy pursuit into the wilderness. And al-Farabi himself appeared even more fatalistically certain than before that the Sword was permanently gone.

  The conversation between the two men faded, and most of the day was spent in grim and silent journeying. The pace was steady and there were few pauses. In late afternoon tall palms came into view ahead, surrounded by a sprawling burst of lesser greenery. They had arrived at Abohar Oasis.

  Several other groups of travelers, Kasimir observed, were here ahead of them; indeed he thought that there would probably be someone resting here almost continuously. He had already learned it was an unwritten rule that peace obtained in the oases, and that the rule was usually observed even when bitter enemies encountered one another. Water was shared, fighting rescheduled for some other time and place.

  On this occasion, there was certainly shade and water in plenty for all, and no question of fighting. The Prince gave no sign that he observed any enemies of his Firozpur tribe among the people who were already resting at the oasis—and as for Kasimir, he was not aware of having an enemy anywhere in the world.

  As soon as the caravan had halted the Prince directed his people, working for once in shade, as they busied themselves seeing to the animals, and laying out their campsite for tonight. Meanwhile Kasimir, wanting to enjoy a walk in the grateful shade himself, left them temporarily and went exploring.

  He moved along cool, well-worn footpaths bordered by grass and shrubs, between inviting pool
s. Eventually, having chosen the largest and deepest pool of the oasis to quench his thirst, he noticed as he approached it that on the far side of the pool, upon a little knoll of grass, there stood a richly furnished tent. Though it was no bigger than a small room, such a pavilion obviously belonged to someone of considerable social stature if not of great wealth.

  Kasimir threw himself down upon a little ledge of rock at the near edge of the pool to drink. As he finished and arose, wiping his lips, there arrived near him at poolside a woman from some tribe whose dress Kasimir was unable to identify. As she was filling her water jar, he questioned her as to whether any single traveler, or pair of them perhaps, had arrived at the oasis since last night.

  She answered in a melodious voice. “No, I am sure, sir, that your party is the first to arrive today.”

  “How do you know?”

  “My family has been keeping watch on every side, for some kinfolk who are to meet us here.”

  “I see. By the way, whose tent is that across the pond? Have you any idea?”

  “Certainly.” The woman seemed surprised at Kasimir’s ignorance. “That is the tent of the Magistrate Wen Chang. He has been here for several days.”

  Kasimir blinked at her. “The Wen Chang?”

  The young woman laughed again. “There is only one Wen Chang that I know of. Only one that anyone knows of. From what remote land have you come that you do not know him?”