“I’ll try not to fail you, Holiness,” Saryon murmured confusedly. “I only wish I had known, that I were better suited …”
Reaching out, Vanya placed his hand upon Saryon’s shoulder, his expression one of earnest caring. “I know you will not fail, Deacon Saryon. I have every confidence in you. I am only sorry you misunderstood the nature of your mission. I did not dare explain it more fully. The Font has ears, you know.” He raised his hand in the ritual blessing. “The elements of earth and air, fire and water, grant you Life. The Almin be with you.”
Stepping into the Corridor, the Bishop disappeared.
When he was gone, Saryon’s strength gave out and he sank to his knees, overwhelmed by what he had heard. The thought of his own death had been terrifying. How much more frightening was it now to know that the fate of two kingdoms, perhaps, rested on his shoulders?
His mind in turmoil, he laid his head on the back of his clenched hands and tried to understand what was happening. But it was beyond him. How clear and simple and pure were the equations of his art. How neatly and logically the world of mathematics fell into place. How dreadful it was, to step into the world of chaos!
Yet, he had no choice. And he would be serving his country, his Emperor, his Church. How much better than believing himself a criminal! The thought gave him courage, and he was able to stand.
“I need something to do,” he muttered to himself. “Something to keep my mind off this or I’ll think myself into a panic again.” In an effort to compose himself, Saryon began to perform the small household tasks around his dwelling that he had, in his despair, carelessly put off.
Taking the teapot from where it stood upon the table, he washed and dried it and put it upon the shelf. He swept the floor and even had the heart, finally, to begin packing a few possessions in preparation for the journey. When he realized he was tired enough that sleep would overtake him, he lay down upon the hard cot. Closing his eyes, he was just slipping into darkness when a thought suddenly occurred to him.
He didn’t own a teapot.
2
Simkin
Blachloch sat at a desk within his brick dwelling, the best and biggest in the camp, deeply absorbed in his work. Through an open window the morning sun shone bright upon a ledger spread open beneath the warlock’s hand. Soft air, sweet with the smell of late summer, accompanied the sunshine, bringing with it sounds of rustling trees, the murmur of voices, the occasional shout of children at play or the harsh, deep laughter of his henchmen, who lounged about outside his cabin. And always, above and below the sounds of life and the seasons, rang the sounds of the forge, clanging rhythmically like the tolling of a bell.
Blachloch noticed all of this and none of it. The least change in one of any of those sounds, the switching of the wind’s direction, a fight among the children, the lowering of a man’s voice, and Blachloch’s ears would have pricked like a cat’s. A cessation of sound from the forge would have caused him to raise his head and, with a soft-spoken word of command, send one of his men to find out the reason why. This is what the Duuk-tsarith are trained for—to be aware of everything going on around them, to be in control of everything, yet manage to keep themselves above and apart from it. Thus Blachloch was aware of everything that occurred in the coven, thus he controlled it, though he seldom left his dwelling place, and then only to lead his men upon their silent deadly raids or, as had happened recently, on a trip to the northern lands.
Blachloch had just returned from Sharakan, and it was because of his successful negotiations there that he was penning figures in the ledger. He worked swiftly and accurately, rarely making a mistake, writing the numbers in neat, orderly fashion. Everything around him was arranged in neat, orderly fashion, from his furniture to his blond hair, from his thoughts to his clipped, blond mustache. All was neat, ordered, cold, calculated, precise.
A knock on the door did not interrupt Blachloch. Having been aware of his man’s approach for some time, the former Enforcer did not stop his work. Nor did he speak. The Duuk-tsarith rarely speak, knowing well the intimidating value of silence.
“Simkin is back,” came the report through the door.
This was unexpected, apparently, for the slender, white hand writing the figures paused an instant, hanging suspended above the page as the brain that guided it dealt swiftly with this matter.
“Bring him.”
Whether these words were spoken or simply flashed into the guard’s head was a question no one bothered to consider when addressed by one of the Duuk-tsarith, who were trained in mind reading and mind control, among other arts suitable to those who enforced the law in Thimhallan. Or, as in Blachloch’s case, used the skills they had been taught to break it.
The warlock did not stop in his figuring, but continued to add up the long columns of numbers. By the time he had reached the end of a column, the knock sounded again. He did not answer immediately, but coolly and unhurriedly finished his work. Then, wiping the tip of his quill pen with a clean, white cloth, he laid it down next to the ledger, turning it so that the feather faced outward to his right. Then he made a motion with his hand and the door swung silently open.
“I’ve brought him. He’s with me—” The henchman stepped inside, saw Blachloch’s eyebrows raise slightly and whipped around. No one was with him.
“Damn!” the guard muttered. “He was right behind—”
Darting out the door in search of his charge, the guard almost collided with a young man stepping inside, whose entry into Blachloch’s cold and colorless dwelling might be likened to an explosion of flowers.
“Egad, you lout,” cried the young man, stepping hastily out of the henchman’s way and wrapping his cape around him protectively, “are you going in or out? Hah! A rhyme. I’ll make another. Lout, out! There, charming, isn’t it? Go bathe or butcher small children or whatever you do best. Come to think of it, bathing isn’t in that category. You offend the snout, lout.”
Drawing a bit of orange silk from the air, the young man held it to his nose, glancing about the room with the air of one who has just arrived at a dull party and can’t decide whether to stay or leave. The henchman made it clear, however, that he was staying by laying a hand on the young man’s purple sleeve and starting to shove him inside. Almost instantly, however, the guard snatched his hand back, yelping in pain.
“Ah, how sad. My fault entirely,” said the young man, peering at the henchman’s hand in mock dismay. “I do apologize. I call this color Grape Rose. I only thought it up this morning and I haven’t had time to work on it. I fancy I’ve left a bit too much Rose in the Grape.” Reaching out, he plucked something from the man’s hand. “I thought so. A thorn. Suck on it, there’s a good fellow. I don’t believe it’s poisonous.”
Wafting past the angry henchman, a heady smell of exotic perfumes clinging to him like his own, personal suffocating cloud, the young man came to stand in front of the expressionless Blachloch.
“Do you like this ensemble?” the young man asked, turning this way and that, perfectly undaunted by the silent black-robed figure who sat unmoving, absorbing all around him into his dark void. “It’s all the rage at court. ‘Breeches’ these are called. Damned uncomfortable. Chafe my legs. But everyone’s wearing them, even the women. Why, the Empress said to me—What was that? Did you mutter, O Mute Master? Thank you for the invitation, though it could have been phrased a bit more eloquently. I think I will be seated.”
Dropping gracefully into a chair opposite Blachloch’s desk, the young man lounged back in it comfortably, arranging himself to show off his outfit to the best advantage. It was hard to guess the young man’s age, it might have been anything from eighteen to twenty-five. He was tall and well-formed. His hair fell in long chestnut curls upon slender shoulders. A soft, short beard the same chestnut color hid the weak lines of his chin. A soft mustache adorned his upper lip, apparently for the sole purpose of giving him something to play with when bored, which was generally, and he was dressed in
an absolute bouquet of riotous color. His silken stockings were green, his breeches yellow, his waistcoat purple, his lacy blouse was green—to match the stockings—and a mauve cape hung from his shoulders to the floor, trailing behind him majestically.
As the young man sat there, twisting the ends of his mustache, the henchman moved over to stand behind the chair, but, at his approach, the young man promptly put the orange silk to his nose and gagged.
“Oh, I say, I can’t stand this. I’m feeling nauseous …”
With a look, Blachloch told his man to back off. Grumbling, the guard obeyed, taking his place at the far end of the neat, orderly room. The young man, lowering the silk, smiled.
“Change your clothes,” said Blachloch.
“Don’t be such a boor …” the young man started to protest in aggrieved tones.
Blachloch neither moved nor spoke.
“You find my outfit highly ridiculous. You find me highly ridiculous,” said the young man cheerfully, “but you use me anyway, don’t you, my Lord of Benevolence?” Slowly, the colors of the young man’s clothes deepened and darkened, their very shape and nature changing until he was dressed from head to toe in black robes that were an exact copy of Blachloch’s, with only small exceptions. The sleeves were too long and the hood too big, the one completely engulfing his hands, the other drooping down over his eyes to touch his nose. Tilting his head back in order to see, the young man smiled.
“I say, ‘Halt, miscreant!’” He waved his silk in the air. “Isn’t that what you Enforcer chaps say all the time? I rather like this—”
“Where have you been, Simkin?” asked Blachloch.
“Oh, out and about, hither and yon, here and there,” replied the young man in bored tones. Reaching over, dragging the long black sleeve across the desk, Simkin picked up the quill pen from beside Blachloch’s ledger. Leaning back, he tickled himself on the nose with the feather, sniffed, snorted, and finally sneezed prodigiously with the result that the hood flew down, completely covering his head.
Blachloch’s man in the back of the room made a kind of grunting sound, his hands clenching as though they had the young man in their grasp and were enjoying their work. Blachloch still neither moved nor spoke aloud, but Simkin, pushing back the hood, suddenly shifted uncomfortably and very carefully laid the quill back down on the desk.
“I went to the village,” he said in a subdued voice.
“You should have told me you were going.”
“I didn’t think of it.” Simkin shrugged. His nose twitched. “Ahch—” Starting to sneeze again, he caught Blachloch’s eye, and hastily pinched his nostrils together with a delicate hand.
The warlock waited a moment before speaking.
Smiling in relief, Simkin removed his fingers from his nose.
“Someday you will go too far—” Blachloch began.
“Choo!” Simkin’s sneeze descended like rain on the warlock’s ledger.
Without a word, Blachloch reached out his white hand, shut the ledger, and stared coldly at the young man across from him.
“Frightfully sorry,” Simkin apologized meekly. Taking the bit of orange silk, he began dabbing at the desktop. “Here, let me mop this up.”
“Dra-ach,” spoke the warlock, freezing Simkin in place with a motion of his hand. “Continue.”
Unable to move, Simkin made a most pathetic sound with his frozen mouth.
“You can talk,” Blachloch said. “Do so.”
Simkin did as he was told, his lips alone moving in his stiff face. His words coming slowly as he worked to form them, he looked very much like a man having a fit. “Where … was … I? The … village. It … is … true. Catalyst … there.” Halting, he cast Blachloch a pleading glance.
The warlock relented. “Ach-dra,” he said, removing the spell. Sinking back in his chair, Simkin massaged his jaw and felt his face with his hands as though reassuring himself it was still there. Glancing at Blachloch out of the corner of his eyes like a punished child, he continued sullenly, “And he isn’t going to be there long, from what I’ve heard.”
Blachloch’s face remained expressionless, giving the impression that it was only the sunlight glinting in his cold eyes that made them gleam. “He is a renegade, as we were informed?”
“Well, as to that”—Simkin, feeling the atmosphere thaw slightly, dared to lift the bit of silk and dab at his nose—“I don’t think renegade quite describes the catalyst. Pitiful is much nearer the mark. But it is true that he intends to journey into the Outland. Bishop Vanya ordered him to go. Which leads me to believe”—Simkin leaned over the desk, lowering his voice conspiratorially—“that he is doing so under duress, if you take my meaning.”
“Bishop Vanya.” Blachloch sent a swift glance to his henchman, who grinned, nodded, and began to walk forward.
“Yes, he was there,” Simkin returned, smiling charmingly and leaning back in his chair, perfectly at ease once more, “along with the Emperor and the Empress. It was quite a merry party, I assure you.” He twirled one end of his mustache between his fingers. “At last, I felt I was truly in the company of my peers. ‘Simkin’ said the Empress, ‘I adore the color of hose you are wearing. Please tell me the name of the shade, so that I may copy it…’ ‘Majesty,’ I replied, ‘I call it Night of the Peacock.’ And she said—”
“Simkin, you are a liar,” said Blachloch in an expressionless voice as the grinning henchman advanced.
“No, really, ’pon my honor,” Simkin protested, hurt, “I truly do call it Night of the Peacock. But I assure you, I wouldn’t dream of telling her how to copy it …”
Blachloch picked up his pen and returned to his work as his man drew nearer.
In a flash of color, Simkin changed back to his exotic clothes. Rising to his feet gracefully, he glanced around. “Don’t touch me, lout,” he said, sniffing and wiping his nose. Then, placing the silk in the sleeve of his coat, he looked down at the warlock. “By the way, Cruel and Pitiless One, would you like me to offer my services to this catalyst as guide through the wilderness? Something incredibly nasty’s liable to snatch him otherwise. Waste of a good catalyst, wouldn’t you say?”
Apparently absorbed in his work, Blachloch said without looking up, “So there really is a catalyst.”
“In a few weeks, he’ll be standing before you.”
“Weeks?” The henchman snorted. “A catalyst? Let me and the boys go after him. We’ll have him back here in minutes. He’ll open the Corridors to us and—”
“And the Thon-Li the Corridor Masters, will slam shut the gate.” Simkin sneered. “Neatly trapped you’d be then. I can’t think why you keep these imbeciles around, Blachloch, unless, like rats, they’re cheap to feed. Personally, I prefer vermin ….”
The henchman made a lunge at Simkin, whose coat suddenly bristled with thorns.
Blachloch moved his hand; both men froze in place. The warlock had not even looked up but continued to write in the ledger.
“A catalyst,” Simkin murmured through stiff lips. “What … power … give us! Combine … iron and magic ….”
Raising his head, ceasing to write, though he kept his pen poised, the warlock looked at Simkin. With a word, he removed the spell.
“How did you discover this? You weren’t seen?”
“Of course not!” Lifting his pointed chin, Simkin stared down at Blachloch in injured dignity. “Am I not a master of disguise, as you well know? I sat in his very hovel, upon his very table—a very teapot! Not only did he not suspect me. he even washed and dried me and set me on his shelf quite nicely. I—”
Blachloch silenced Simkin with a glance. “Meet him in the wilderness. Use whatever tomfoolery you need to get him here.” The cold blue eyes froze the young man as effectively as the magical spell. “But get him here. Alive. I want this catalyst more than I’ve wanted anything in my entire life. Bring him and there will be rich reward. Return without him and I will drown you in the river. Do you understand me, Simkin?”
The warlock’s eyes did not waver.
Simkin smiled. “I understand you, Blachloch,” he said softly. “Don’t I always?”
With a sweeping bow, he started to take his leave, his mauve cape trailing the floor behind.
“Oh, and Simkin,” Blachloch said, returning to his work.
Simkin turned. “My liege?” he asked.
Blachloch ignored the sarcasm. “Have something unpleasant happen to the catalyst. Nothing serious, mind you. Just convince him that it would be unwise for him to ever think of leaving us ….”
“Ah …” remarked Simkin reflectively. “Now this will be a pleasure. Farewell, lout,” he said, patting the guard on the cheek with his hand. “Igh …” Making a face, he wiped his hand on the orange cloth and swept majestically out the door.
“Say the word …” muttered the guard, glaring through the doorway after the young man, who was sauntering through camp like a walking rainbow.
Blachloch did not even deign to reply. He was, once more, working in the ledger.
“Why do you put up with that fool?” snarled the guard.
“The same might be asked of you,” Blachloch answered in his expressionless voice. “And I might make the same reply. Because he is a useful fool and because someday I will drown him.”
3
Lost
“What was that?” Jacobias, roused from a deep sleep, sat up in bed and looked around the dark hut, searching for the noise that had awakened him.
There it came again, a timid tapping sound.
“It’s someone at the door,” his wife whispered, sitting up beside him. Her hand clutched his arm. “Maybe it’s Mosiah!”
“Humpf,” the Field Magus grunted as he tossed aside the covers and drifted effortlessly across the floor on wings of magic. A soft word of command broke the seal on the door, and the magus peered out cautiously.
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