“Because I am prepared for them, my dear vixen. Just be alert, that’s all I ask.”
They passed a clump of shaven-headed men who were passing the other way. They wore fibrous green armour and carried their wooden spears casually over their shoulders. They were laughing and jostling each other, and one brute knocked into Bevn. Bevn was thrown aside into a fruit-sellers stall, where most of the stock was rotten. The armoured men didn’t even seem to notice. Bevn bit back his curses. He had learnt to listen to what Saladon said. Sometimes.
“Those men!” said Bevn to Saladon when he’d caught up again. “They are—aren’t they—”
“Lûk, yes!” said Saladon, and Bevn jumped. That had been loud enough for them to hear.
The muscled fighter turned to scowl back at them. One of his companions slowed with him.
Bevn tried to sink into his boots.
“Good evening, shiyaman!” Saladon greeted. “Strength to your spear arm.”
The Lûk raised a reluctant fist in the manner of their greeting then turned to join the others who had already turned away.
“But that was a Hunter guard at the gates, wasn’t it?” protested Bevn. “I thought this was a Hunter town.”
“Then you should be careful of what you think,” said Saladon.
He soon noticed that there were other kinds of people there too. They passed a group of small men who occupied a doorway, chattering away to each other in a strange guttural tongue. They wore a lot of metal.
“They’re not Hunters either, are they?” he said aloud to Saladon.
The small figures fell silent. They jutted their bearded chins toward the newcomers, their eyes like chips of stone. Someone had understood him.
“Achna grakena!” Saladon said, raising his hands in an apology. “Kchek tizkekkn bigar, yo kelikille ght.”
“What did you just tell them?” Bevn asked.
“That you are a fool boy and wet your bed more often than a rock-rabbit.”
Bevn reddened. “But I’m not—” he began.
“Silence! They would have cut your legs off at the knees, had I not insulted you. Don’t underestimate them. You develop quite a strong axe swing when you’re picking at the rock for most of your life.”
“They’re miners?”
“Clan Lees, I believe. There are many people here. Miners, Lûk and Hunters, and the Lakeland Drells and the desert Armads. All may fight each other, but their hatred for the Sorcerer is greater. They gather in Slipper to answer that hatred.”
“But how can you fight against someone else when you fight against yourselves too?”
Saladon waited until they were out of earshot of the miners before answering. “Do you begin to understand the power of the Sorcerer? The essence of Chaos is everywhere. The differences between these people are caused by Chaos, yet they do not recognise it. They are all silverspawn, yet they believe themselves pure. That is the most ironic fact of all. They are allied against the enemy in the lowlands, and yet the enemy is within them already.”
Bevn thought about that as Saladon led the way farther into the town of Slipper. At the end of the canted street, they turned left along the first of the town’s fortified inner walls. They climbed a ladder, passed through an archway and emerged on the north side of the wall. There a raised street clung to the outside of the buildings. The boarding shifted with every step. In places, great cloths covered the walkway, flapping against their tethers. Odd pennants, suspended on rope, hung out over the street, old battle standards and faded imagery and plainer fabric with unfamiliar inked words. A cool wind pulled over the tiled roofs, dragging the smoke from spired chimneys.
“Come,” said Saladon. “The best food to be had in Slipper is in this district.” He crossed a narrow bridge to another boardwalk. It became more difficult to pick a way through the crowds as they progressed, as more and more people milled about, talking, smoking from pipes. The pipe-smoke was strange-smelling and made him giddy, but it was the scent of cooking that really made Bevn’s knees weak. They rounded a corner, where there were the vendors, their cooked fare laid out for all to sample.
Bevn approached the first stall, where something like noodles was frying in a dished pan. It smelled deliciously spicy. Saladon dragged him away. “You don’t want to eat that. Come, I know where to arrange a good meal.”
“Why? What was that?” Bevn asked.
“The brain of a dog. As I said, there are many types of people here, and many kinds of tastes. It’s what will keep you protected; no one will recognise you as a foreigner, unless you open your stupid mouth at the wrong moment. Now be silent.”
A crush of men occupied a wide door: big, brutish men, some with scarred faces. Lively clapping and boisterous singing came from within, and not a few screams and laughter.
“You would earn a handsome fee there,” Saladon said over his shoulder to Gabrielle. “It is what they call a hurry-hurry.”
Gabrielle didn’t answer at once. “They have some unlikely customers,” she said.
“They have even more worrying girls inside,” Saladon replied.
Bevn craned his head as they passed the door.
“Nasty girls, bad girls, cheap girls all.”
Bevn pretended to be disgusted. He marked the location in his mind.
Saladon took them down a narrow staircase to a crowded hall on the ground level. He muscled his way through the people toward a counter where a blunt-faced innkeeper stood. The wizard fished in his pocket and produced a sapphire-encrusted ring which he laid on the counter. “I’m looking for two rooms, and three portions of your breadmeal.”
The innkeeper didn’t touch the ring, but his eyes didn’t leave it.
“Unruhmer,” said the vendor, holding up a finger. “Wido areeng?” He shrugged.
“It’s a Moral kingdom treasure. You would impress any woman with it. One room and a round of ales, as well as the meal.”
The vendor looked up. He smiled and extended a beefy hand. The ring disappeared into his pocket. “Ruhmark,” he said, giving a dirty red feather to Saladon. He pointed to a door at the back of the hall. “Nosh kibbit.”
He busied himself throwing things together in the secrecy of his worktable then ducked into the cookhouse.
“What did he just say?” asked Gabrielle. “I couldn’t understand a word of it.”
“Neither did I,” replied the wizard. “But I think he’s given me a pass to one of his ‘daughter’s’ rooms and not a room for the night. No matter, we’ll throw the hussy out. Here in Slipper you often have to improvise and respond to what you think the other person is saying. Very few people actually understand each other. The languages in Slipper are the worst in all of the heartlands, for they bear the brunt of the Sorcerer’s influence. The people lose more of the memory of their culture every year. When you speak you might as well say anything at all. It’s what you mean that matters most.”
“But that’s—madness!” Bevn exclaimed.
“No. It’s Chaos.” Saladon shook his head. “And they believe they are resisting it,” he said to himself.
Bevn wondered what would have happened if Saladon hadn’t been able to produce from his pocket just the kind of ring that the innkeeper had wanted. It seemed a stupid way to trade. “Why doesn’t anyone use gold?”
“They’ve lost the system of accounting for values. It was one of the first Ordered systems to decay. Every exchange here is based on a swap, a need for a need, a cow for three sheep, a barrel of wine for a slab of cheese, that sort of thing. More often than not, there is a discrepancy in the values being traded. That’s why there is so much fighting. But still, it’s nothing like the raging anarchy of the lowlands.”
Chaos was like a disease, Bevn realised. It ate away at civilisations, causing one system after another to fail. What was the point of ruling a kingdom where everything was dying? He wanted power, he wanted magic, but he wasn’t so certain he wanted everything to go to ruin. For the first time, he wondered if he was doing
the right thing, taking the crown to the Sorcerer.
But what were his alternatives?
“Threption, hot as!” the innkeeper called out, having returned with top-heavy cylinders of bread stuffed with spicy fruit. At least a part of Saladon’s demands had been understood.
A chewy meaty delicacy was hidden in the meal. Bevn didn’t ask what it was.
_____
Twardy Zarost watched the Prince of Eyri. The youth was tired, and he hadn’t washed for days. Not that Twardy could smell him, for in Slipper one couldn’t discern the scent of one unwashed body from another and that stench was always covered by someone smoking Bane, but Bevn Mellar had a telling crust of dirt on his arms, and sweat-stains around the neckline of his tunic. His lip was split. The way he sat, hunched over, suggested other injuries. The Warlock had been pushing him hard. No surprise, considering what balanced upon the young thief’s head.
The Kingsrim glinted, projecting Ordered spheres of protection. The spell was anchored upon a callow king. Bevn Mellar was way out of his depth. He was caught in a treacherous plot. He had surely been misled, lied to, manipulated and had no idea of how deadly Chaos was and what he would be used for, in the end. Zarost almost felt sorry for him.
The Warlock could have healed the youth with a simple spell, so Zarost guessed that the prince had angered the Warlock and he had not been forgiven. Zarost picked at a speck on the rim of his tankard. The truths one could unriddle from the little things. Like the way the Shadowcaster Gabrielle had thrown her hair over her left shoulder, to divide the Warlock’s attention from the prince and keep it focused rather on her. As it was.
The Warlock leant closer to her as she spoke then he threw back his head and laughed. Gabrielle smiled secretively. She cast a glance his way and Zarost stiffened. Her eyes were upon him; her dark attention lingered for a sultry moment. She was working him over, just as she worked upon everyone in the room, teasing him with her wicked allure.
She wouldn’t recognise him. None of them should.
Gabrielle gave him a twisted smile and her gaze slid by.
Zarost lifted his tankard to celebrate the success of his disguise and knocked his long chin against the rim, spilling foaming green kanush into his lap. That was the problem with being a Lûk; nose like a dagger, chin like a boat. He had to pour his drinks down his throat rather than sip from the vessel. He tried again in the proper Lûk manner, and managed to swallow most of what he tipped back.
He was disguised as a Lûk marauder, complete with a time-worn coppery headscarf, facial tattoos, badly healed battle scars and an indigo eye patch over his right eye. He had cast the spells hours ago, and the alteration had had time to settle. He had even shed his aura of essence, which left him vulnerable, but made him indistinguishable from a commoner. The Warlock wouldn’t have expected that. He probably couldn’t conceive of being so vulnerable. The Warlock wouldn’t know him if he stood beside him. Twardy Zarost could watch him in secret from his seat, but as soon as he drew on essence to cast a spell, the Warlock would know there was another wizard nearby.
The Gyre had infiltrated Slipper because they had calculated that the Warlock would pass through the fortress town to reach the lowlands. The Mentalist, in the form of a Hunter soldier, had first spied the trio as they passed his post at the west-bridge. Now that the Warlock had arrived, they had to wait, for there were too many people close by, too many innocents whom the Warlock could use to tip the scales in his favour.
The Gyre had expected it to be that way. They had established a perimeter, and they planned to draw the net slowly inward, filtering out the commoners and discouraging any new patrons from entering the area, until the pressing crowds had cleared. Then they would strike. Twardy Zarost was to keep the trio in sight, and if they moved before the Gyre was ready, he was to create a disturbance that prevented them from leaving. It shouldn’t be too difficult, considering how crowded the ale-hall was and how boisterous everyone in Slipper was. Already most of the men were shouting to be heard. A fight would knot up the crowd quicker than a dog in a blanket.
Zarost looked at the Warlock again. He was amazed at how brazen the wizard was. The rogue had made no attempt to hide himself or his companions other than to use the protection of the Kingsrim. He had travelled fast to reach Slipper so quickly, but now he had placed himself in the open, and he was languishing in a public place. It was almost as if he wanted to be found. It was an unexpected move, and it gave Zarost cause for concern.
Did he want the confrontation? Did the Warlock believe he would have the upper hand when he met the seven of them? Seven against one were bad odds to gamble on from the minor side, especially when the players were all equally powerful. The Warlock must have a hidden advantage, some weapon of Chaos. Or he was bluffing that he had one?
The woman? She was a Dark mage, an ordinary Shadowcaster, she wouldn’t get anything out beyond the first axis, and she would probably draw down wildfire as well. She would easily detract from the Warlock’s strength. And the youth? He had no magical ability whatsoever. He was a pawn, placed in harm’s way.
Then again, Zarost knew that a pawn in the right place could topple an army.
The Warlock was planning something, but Zarost could not pass up the opportunity. The Kingsrim was within reach. Zarost looked to the hag at the door. The Mystery had taken the form of a hatchet-faced half-Lûk wrapped in dirty shawls, the kind of beauty who would give children nightmares. Zarost made a dividing gesture. The Mystery would understand that he meant to split up the trio, to separate the Warlock from the other two. He tapped his head and nodded her way. She would be responsible for lifting the Kingsrim in the moment of division and bearing it away. They could not afford to have the crown disrupting their main spell.
The Mystery gave him a gummy grin. She knew she had the easier task. He would have to face the Warlock, who might have anticipated that Zarost would make the first approach, because as the Riddler he was usually the risk-taker. The Warlock might be prepared for him. Whereas Twardy Zarost wanted to keep the Warlock alive, the Warlock would have no such restraint. If he truly adopted Chaos as his guiding principle, he would have no restraint at all.
Clear essence swirled around the Warlock in restless coils. His battleaxe was near at hand, angled against the wall. Zarost would have to be quick. The challenge was to separate them without the Warlock realising it was a wizard who was doing the separating.
The other Gyre wizards were stationed outside the ale-hall at the five points of a pentagon, hidden in their disguises, deep in meditation. To be quick enough to catch the Warlock they had to be focused on the pattern of their spell alone, so that the essence would collect immediately when they needed it. They had prepared a fifth-level clustered containment that would hold the Warlock in place, but it would only succeed if he didn’t cast his own Transference first.
Just then Bevn rose, and said something to the Warlock. The Warlock gestured to Gabrielle at once, and she rose as well. The prince objected, but the Warlock raised a finger in warning, and the prince dropped his head. Zarost strained to hear what the Warlock was saying to them.
“You’ll only find bog-rocks on the eastern edge of town. Follow your nose. And Gabrielle, that time we talked about, it has come. Watch your back. You know what to do.”
The prince and the Shadowcaster departed. As they left the room, the ugly half-Lûk slipped surreptitiously from the crowd. She would follow them, but she probably wouldn’t act until she sensed the Gyre’s spell engaging behind her. She would give Zarost time to act.
Zarost couldn’t believe his luck. The Warlock was alone. He only had to clear the area of bystanders, and the Warlock would be isolated. The Kingsrim was gone from the room, so he could use his own magic without the risk of interference.
It was too easy. What was he missing? He scanned the hall for signs of trouble: Hunters, Lûk, soldiers, tough-looking men, all drinking, all shouting to be heard, and in the centre of the commotion, the Warlock, sitting
calmly in his chair, rolling a small stoppered brown bottle in his right hand. And in his left…
The beginnings of a Transference spell.
Zarost shot to his feet. They were going to lose their opportunity if he didn’t act.
He entered the Warlock’s blind spot, gathered the essence, stepped forward, gripped the Warlock’s plaited tail and said one word.
“ .”
The word that was no word—the silent syllable. It had taken him so many years to master the powerful spell known as The Space; now it seemed as simple as taking a sudden breath. It was an almost pure Order manipulation. The gaps between the particles of air surrounding him expanded a thousand-fold. The people nearby would feel nothing, but in an instant they stood twenty paces from Zarost and the Warlock, and there was a great empty space between them.
Zarost dropped with the Warlock and landed on the frozen earth of the shallow crater in the bedrock—the alehouse had been shifted outward from the centre, the floor and foundations had been pushed aside. The roof was open to the night sky—exposed beams and broken tiles faced each other around a ragged circle. Dust and grit rained down past the stunned crowd, into the fighters’ pit.
It was bitterly cold in the centre of the circle. Zarost kept his grip on the Warlock’s plait. If he could anchor him with his touch, just for a few moments, he could prevent his Transference from engaging. The Warlock spun and lashed out fiercely with his left foot, sweeping Zarost’s legs out from under him. Zarost swung himself up on the Warlock’s plait and sprang onto his shoulders, where he clutched the Warlock’s head between his knees. The Warlock roared and fell backward. Twardy Zarost dropped clear and allowed the Warlock to fall then he jumped upon his chest and pinned him down, using the long plait to hold him across his throat. The Warlock writhed on the floor but didn’t break free. Twardy wondered why the Warlock wasn’t attacking him with his magic. In his right hand the Warlock still held the brown bottle, in his left the unfinished pattern of a Transference spell.
Tight cords of gold-tinged essence whipped down toward them; the Gyre had arrived. The essence converged on the Warlock from five sources. Pressure cracks formed in the air as the spell struggled against the limits of the Warlock’s aura. Heat burst against Zarost’s face, and Zarost leapt back to protect himself. A boiling surface of flame shed a shower of sparks as the first heat-skin formed around the Warlock then the second and the third. The clustered containment spell tightened like a shimmering net of golden wire.
Second Sight: Second Tale of the Lifesong Page 56
