"What was it he went back for, do you suppose?" asked Chance, as though it didn't matter at all.
"Who knows, who knows," murmured the second oldster, who was growing very tipsy with the unaccustomed quantities of free beer.
"His contrack," the loquacious oldster said. "That's what I heard. Was his contrack from the long ago time of Barish. That's what they kept at Dindindaroo. Charts and books and contracks to keep 'em safe until Barish comes back for 'em. That's what." And he hiccuped softly into his glass before looking hopefully to Chance once more who bought another round and changed the subject. They got into an argument then as to whether Salamanders are really fireproof. After that was a good deal of calling on the seven hells and the hundred devils, after which we went to bed to lie there in the swimming darkness talking.
"So he died there in the ruins, Chance. I have no bad feeling about calling him up. I didn't know him, and he's dead this eighty years, but Dorn himself couldn't call anyone up with all those Immutables about. All of them would have to leave."
"As they may do," suggested Chance, "if they heard that the thing they're looking for had come to light elsewhere."
"Elsewhere?"
"Somewhere far off. Leave it to me, Peter. We'll spend one more night here."
The which we did. And there was more buying of beer and more talk, and this time Chance made the circle of acquaintances larger so that there were more listeners to what was said. Middle of the evening came, together with jollity and general good feeling, and into a pause in the noise, Chance dropped his spear.
"You know, it was odd your mentioning Dindindaroo last night," he said to the oldster at his side.
"Odd? Was it? Did I? Oh, yes. So I did. What was odd?"
"Oh, only that I met a man in Morninghill, not a season gone, and he told me he'd dug up treasures around Dindindaroo."
At this there was general exclamation and interest. Chance turned to me for verification, and I said, "Oh, he said so, Father, yes. Dug up treasures, he said, and was selling them moreover."
Chance nodded, said nothing more, waited. The questions came. What had the man found? The Smitheries, father or son, did not know. Something small and valuable, they thought. Something wonderful and rare, for the man was a famous dealer in such. Old things, certainly. Then, when interest was at its height, Chance led the conversation away from the subject onto something else. I saw two dark-cloaked men leave the place immediately thereafter, and when I went to the window for a bit of air I could hear the pound of hooves going away south.
We slept there that night, and on the morning went out of the Land of the Immutables, riding publicly east toward the Great North Road. Once out of sight, we turned into the forests and began the circle which would bring us into the cover of the trees nearest the ruins of Dindindaroo.
We spied upon the place, I with my Shifter's eyes, keen as any flitchhawk's, and Chance with a seaman's glass he carried with him. Sure enough, there were two dark-cloaked men talking with Riddle, the three of them standing upon a mound of crumbled stone and soil, Riddle gesturing as though he were in a considerable turmoil. Troubled he was. His face was white with frustration. After a time they settled down, and by noon they had reached some decision, for many of them went away north into their own land while others, Riddle among them, rode south. So. He was going to look around in Morninghill, and a long weary journey that would be.
We waited until early evening, until the westering sun threw long golden spears across the tumbled stone, and then we came to the ruins and walked about on them. The industrious diggers had changed them about somewhat. Still, the crumbling walls were there where Dazzle and Borold had sheltered to watch the fire dance, and so was the high slit window where I had hung my shirt to counterfeit a ghost. I stood, looking at it, feeling that deep brown emotion made of dusk and smoke and sorrow which is so piercing as to be sweet beyond enduring. Then I shook myself and took Dorn into my hand.
"Well, Peter," he said to me in my mind. "Here lie many dead. Would you have us raise them all?" He knew what I had thought of, but he was ever courteous, treating himself as a guest. Besides, in clarifying for him, I made clear to myself as well. "A name," he said. "Did you neglect to learn the man's name?"
I uttered an oath, disgusted with myself. If we were to draw out one from among so many, a name would be needed for we did not know precisely where he lay. "What was his name?" I growled to Chance. And he answered me, soft as pudding, well Riddle of course, same as his grandson. So we went with that.
I began to sense the dead about us, the feeling of them, the luxuriant quiet of them. They were at peace in the long slow heat of summer and the long slow cold of winter, the ageless waft of the wind and the high cry of the hawk upon the air. In them the leaves moved and the wavelets of the river danced. In them sorrow had no place; time for sorrow had gone with the turn of the seasons and the fall of the leaves. "Pity," said Dorn, "to disturb this peace."
Still, he called the name of Riddle into the quiet of the place, drawing out and up, and at last we saw a little whirlwind of dust turning itself slowly upon the tumulus before us, spinning and humming a quiet sound into the twilight. Through this whirling dust the sun fell, turning it golden, so that we confronted a shining pillar and spoke as with a Phoenix, for so those Gamesmen whirl into flame and are consumed before rising once again.
We asked, and asked again. This revenant was not so old as those we had raised in the caves beneath Bannerwell, so we had created no monster of dust which hungered for life. Neither was it so short a time after death as the raising of Mandor, so there should have been no remembered agonies. Despite this, it seemed disinclined to speak with us, resisted being raised. I was about to give up when I heard Didir within, unsummoned, feeling-was it excited? Surely not. Impetuous. "Let me." She reached into that whirling cloud and seemed to fumble there as though Reading it, making some tenuous connections of sparkling dust.
Then the humming cloud took the shape of a man, a wavery shape, still resistant, not unlike Riddle in appearance, looking at something I could not see.
"I see Dorn," the phantom said. "Barish promised us immunity, Gamesman. He promised, but I am raised from the dead by Dorn. Ah, but then, I broke my pledge, my oath to Barish. All unwitting, all unwise. Forgive and let go…"
Chance and I looked at one another, a hasty, confused glance. This was not what we had expected. I stuttered, reaching for a question to clarify. "Riddle, tell me of your pledge to Barish."
"Barish… Barish. He gave us immunity from your power, Gamesman, for us and our children forever, immutable throughout time, so he said. And in return we must keep his body safe, keep the bodies of his Gamesmen safe where they lie, north, north in the wastes, north in the highlands where the krylobos watch. We must keep the Wizard safe, and the Wizard's eleven. But he went away and did not return. I brought the Gamesmen here, Barish's book here, thinking to find him somewhere, find him and return them, but the waters came, the waters came and I died…" The figure writhed, became the humming cloud once more. From it the voice came in prayer and supplication, "The contract broken, all unwitting… and Barish's promise broken as well for I am raised by Dorn to suffer my guilt. Ah. Forgive. Let me lie in peace…"
It was not my voice that said it, and not Dorn's. I thought it was Didir, though I could not be sure. "You are forgiven, Riddle, faithful one. Go to your rest."
The cloud collapsed all at once and was gone. The sun lowered itself below the undulant line of hills. Dark came upon the tumulus and in the forest a fustigar howled, to be joined by another across the river. A star winked at me, and I realized that I saw it through brimming tears. Something had happened. I was not sure what it was, or why, and the Gamesmen in my pocket did not know either. It was as though they and I had listened in upon some conversation from another time, a thing familiar and strange at once-familiar because inevitable and strange because I could not connect it to anything I knew. Chance was watching me with a good deal of con
cern, and I shook my head at him, unable to speak.
"Well," he said when I could hear him. "What went on there?"
I tried to tell him. All I could get out was that the answers to all our puzzles seemed to lie in the Wastes of Bleer.
"Riddle's grandfather brought some things here from the Wastes of Bleer," I said.
"I think it would help us if we stopped talking around and around," he said thoughtfully. "Let's not say `things.' What was brought here was those little Gamesmenyou found and the little book you gave Windlow."
"I have it with me," I said. "There may have been other things as well."
"No matter. What was lost was the Gamesmen and the book. Now did this Riddle fellow steal them?"
"No!" I was shocked. "No. He was supposed to have them. Supposed to keep them safe-them and the… bodies."
The light that engulfed me then seemed to be around me in the world, but it was only inside my head. The bodies. Didir's body. Lying in the northlands, waiting for her. Her. Her I had in my pocket, not merely a blue, not merely a Gamespiece, but a person awaiting… what? Resurrection? Awakening? Tamor, there in the northlands, Tamor who had saved my life more than once. And tragic Dealpas. And Trandilar. Oh, Gamelords, Trandilar! Voluptuous as boiling cloud and as full of pent energies, erotic, beguiling Trandilar. And Dorn. Dorn who was almost my elder brother in my head, lying there in the northlands, awaiting his renewal.
And all the while that part of me thought yes, oh, yes they must be found and raised up, awakened, another part of my mind said-no. No. They are mine, mine. My power comes from them. My Talents. I will not give them up. And the first part of me recoiled as though a serpent had struck at me inside myself so that I gasped, and gagged on the bile that rose in my throat. I struggled while Chance shook me and demanded to know what was wrong, what was wrong. Oh, Gamelords, what was wrong was me!
And then, somehow, I managed to thrust the conflict 'away, to stop thinking of it. I knew, knew it was there, but I would not think of it. Not then.
"Riddle's grandfather had a covenant with Barish," I choked. "But Barish disappeared, didn't come back. So Riddle's grandfather brought some things here-maybe hoping to find Barish. Maybe for safekeeping. Only wreck and ruin came on Dindindaroo."
Chance objected. "The covenant couldn't have been with Riddle's grandpa only." I shook my head. Obviously not. The contract must have been with the Immutables, father and son and grandson, generation after generation. Chance went on, "Those bodies have been there how long?"
I was careful not to think when I answered. "A thousand years. More or less. And do not ask me how Barish survived or came and went during that time for I don't know, Chance. It does not bear thinking of."
"So now what's our Riddle searching for? What's he up to?"
"Duty," I replied. "The covenant. The contract. The pledge his forefathers made to Barish. Oh, Chance, I don't know. I can't think of Riddle as anything but honorable. It's too confusing."
"Well, lad, don't get into an uproar over it," he said, giving me a long measuring look. "Whatever we don't know, we do know more than we did."
"Not enough more," I mourned, thinking of the hundred questions I should have asked the ghost. I could not call him up again. Would not. He had been given absolution by someone, and I would not undo it. I felt tears slide down my face.
"Maybe not enough more," Chance agreed, "but some more." He built a fire then and gave us hot soup, then some wine, and then an interminable story about hunting some sea monster during which I fell asleep. When I woke in the morning, I was able not to think about the disturbing thing, and the day was sharp-edged enough to live in.
4
The Great North Road
I TOLD CHANCE ABOUT THE SINGER in Xammer who had sung about wind to me and Silkhands. A mere song seemed a foolish reason to go exploring the northlands, and I hoped Chance, who was never loath to declaim upon foolishness in general, would say so. This would give me reason not to go, but I did not ask myself, then, why I wanted such a reason. Instead I made excuses. Himaggery and Mavin would need me, I said to myself, waiting for Chance to say something to give substance to my rationalization.
But he said, "What was it made you think the singer sang to you?"
"Only that he sang of the far north," I said without thinking, "and in the Bright Desmesne a Seer told me my future lay there… with Silkhands." I did not say the Seer was Windlow.
"Well then, that's twice," said Chance. "And Riddle's grandpa is three times. Remember what I always said about that. Once is the thing itself, twice is a curiosity, but three times is Game."
I did remember. It had always been one of Chance's favorite sayings, particularly when I had committed some childish prank more than twice. "Whose Game? Who would be pulling me north?"
"Well, lad, there's pulling and there's pushing. The ghost was lamenting the loss of those things you carry. And maybe those things you carry are lamenting the loss of their bodies. I would if it was me. Maybe it's them want to get back where they came from."
So Chance was no help, no help at all. The knife of conscience twisted, and the serpent of guilt writhed under the knife. Was it possible? Could they be pushing me without my knowing? I tried to say no. "They have to use my brain to think with, Chance. They are only-what did old Manacle call it-patterns of personality. They are whatever they were when they were made. Didir comes into my head always the same Didir. She uses my mind, my memories to think with, but she does not carry those memories back into the blue. They stay in my mind, not hers. What I forget, she cannot remember. They couldn't pull or push without my knowing!" I said this very confidently, but I was not sure. "And I'm not sure that Silkhands and I ought to go north for such a reason. It's probably very dangerous."
He looked at me in astonishment. "And what do I hear? Peter talking about dangerous? Well, and the daylight may turn pale purple and all the lakes be full of fish stew. I thought never to hear such stuff after Bannerwell. If we are not here to seek out mysteries and answer deep questions, why are we?"
"Why, Chance." I laughed uncomfortably. "You're a philosopher."
"No." He rubbed his nose and looked embarrassed. "Actually I was quoting Mertyn."
I might have known. Oh, Gamelords, I could not turn my back on this thing without feeling cut in half. I could at least pretend to go wholeheartedly, even if I were torn. Why not follow the scent laid down for me as a fustigar follows a bunwit, "Head high and howling," as Gamesmaster Gervaise was wont to say. These agonized thoughts were interrupted.
"Where did you and Silkhands arrange to meet?"
"She will be leaving Xammer soon, tomorrow or the next day. I thought it better not to travel together so close to the Bright Demesne. If someone is watching and plotting, let them work at it a little. I told her we would meet her below the Devil's Fork of the River Reave, at the town there. Here, let us see."
I burrowed out the chart we had been at such pains to buy, spreading it upon the ground with stones at the corner to keep it flat. It was well made, on fine leather, the lettering as tiny and distinct as care and skill could make it. I found where we were, between the ruins and the Great North Road, then traced that road north with my finger to the place it split below the fork in River Reave. The town was there. Reavebridge.
"Well," I said, "we can go in disguise, on the road or off it; or in our own guise, on the road or off it. You are the wary one. I leave it to you."
"Then let us continue as Smitheries, father and son," he said. I agreed to that, and we packed up our things to ride away northeast where stretched the Great North Road.
The river which the Immutables call the Boundary came out of the northeast, and we followed it through the pleasant forests and farmlands north of Xammer. Ahead of us we could see the frowning brows of Two Headed Mountain, two days' ride away, which cupped the Phoenix Demesne at its foot. Farther north were the bald stone tops of Three Knob, hazed with smoke from the foundries there. These were both landmarks I re
membered from my years at Schooltown, though I had never yet seen either of them much closer than we saw them on our way. Behind Three Knob, between it and the rising range of eastern mountains, was said to be what Himaggery called a Thandbarian Demesne made up of Empaths, Mirrormen, Revenants… I couldn't remember the other four Thandbarian Talents by Himaggery's scheme of Indexing. His scheme depended upon listing all the Talents which shared porting as a Talent, first, then all those left which shared Moving, then Reading, and so on. I wasn't sure it was any easier to remember than the old Indexes which listed each Talent as a separate thing, unique of its kind. One didn't seem to make any more sense than the other. There were still thousands of different Gamesmen. If the Talents were evenly distributed, said Himaggery, then half of all Gamesmen would have any one of the Talents. Still, Himaggery was attached to his scheme, and according to him there were seven Thandbarian Talents and over a thousand Elatorian ones. And no Necromantic ones at all except for Necromancers themselves. Which was idiotic, because there were Necromantic ones, Ghouls and Bonedancers and even Rancelmen.
Oh well, and foof. Still, since I'd been thinking about them, I asked Chance if he'd ever seen a Mirrorman (I never had), and he gave me a look as though he'd bitten into something rotten. "Yes, lad, but don't ask about it. I was a time being able to sleep at night again, after, and I don't relish the memory." Well. That was interesting.
It was less than a day's ride to the Great North Road where it crossed the Boundary River over a long sturdy bridge which had a look of Xammer about it, the railings being turned and knobbed like the balcony railings I had seen in the town. Its building had undoubtedly been commissioned by the town leaders in order to make travel-and trade-easier. Past the bridge was a campground, a place with a well and toilets and a place providing food and drink and firewood. The night was warm, so we bought food ready cooked and sat in a quiet corner of the place to eat it. Since we had chosen to sit fireless, our eyes were not flame dazzled and we could see who came in. Who came in was a Bonedancer, black and white, helmed with the skull of some ancient animal long extinct. He had either left his train of skeletons outside the place or currently had none, for which I was grateful. Bonedancers have enough Talents, including Necromancy, to raise dry bones and make them dance-or to do other things if moved to malice. Mostly they prey upon pawns in remote villages, telling fortunes and threatening horrors. I wondered how they could do it, wondered if they were ever reluctant to do it, wondered if perhaps there were many Bonedancers who simply did not exercise their Talents at all just as some Ghouls refused. Still, having the Bonedancer there did not upset me much. At first.
The True Game Page 43
