by Byron Preiss
“There isn’t time for that! There’s a war starting!”
“Then hunt rabbits and squirrels,” Vila suggested. “Dig for roots . . . forage for berries. But do not take our food, for it is all we will have until our men return.”
“I do not believe this!” Tenniel shouted. “This is a prosperous town, and you refuse to feed troops that are going to war to protect you!” It was the first test of his authority, and he was acutely aware of what a ridiculous figure he cut. His voice was becoming shrill. He was being ordered about by a woman. This was not the way to gain the respect of his men.
“We are sorry to deny you,” Vila said, “but we must think of ourselves and our children first.”
“I say they owe us food,” Grend shouted, “and I mean to have my share!” The others of his band shouted agreement, and with Grend leading them, broke away from the troops and ran down the streets, pushing the inhabitants aside roughly.
“Wait!” Tenniel shouted, but to no avail.
The raid took only a few moments. The raiders hurried back up the main street, carrying armloads of foodstuffs. But before they could escape, they were suddenly met by a hail of bricks and rocks from the rooftops. Shielding their heads with their arms and stolen goods, they took shelter in the recessed doorways, under wagons and the like. They tried to enter buildings, but all were locked.
“Keep throwing things!” Vila, the Elder’s wife, shouted. She stood on a roof, throwing tiles. “If we let them get away with this, we’ll not have a moment’s peace until the war is over!”
“They can’t do this!” Grend shouted. He picked up a stone and hurled it at Vila. She ducked, but it caught her on the shoulder, causing her to fall. She slid halfway down the roof before she caught the chimney, and only this saved her from falling to the ground. There was a moment of silence from both sides. Even the scurrilous lot that had robbed the town found it hard to believe that one of them had attacked the Chief Elder’s wife. Grend glared at his fellows. “She asked for it! They all did! We’re just taking what we should have! Come on!” and he charged out into the street, hunched beneath his sack of food. The others followed, but Tenniel and the rest of the Borgen Town contingent blocked the street. The raiders turned to run back in the other direction, but Tenniel had ordered men to go down a side street and trap them.
Grend was brought to face Tenniel. “I can see now that I should have listened to Talend,” Tenniel said. “I should not have tried to fill the quota with the likes of you! You are no longer in the army, Grend. We will escort you and your men away from this town and release you. Thereafter, you are on your own.” He raised his voice to address the others. “You will return the food immediately! Those of you who pledge never to do such a thing again may stay with the troops; the rest must go with Grend! If we continue such practices as this, we will not need the Sim to destroy our villages. If we run short of food again, we will search honestly for it ourselves!”
As the men were returning the food, Tenniel apologized profusely to Vila, and the woman offered both sympathy and provisions in return. “It is possible that we could spare enough meat and vegetables for a large kettle of stew,” she said. “It would not be much per man, but it would let you all travel with full bellies this day.”
Tenniel thanked her, and announced the offer to the men, who sent up a rousing cheer. Tenniel, however, remained worried. Were there other, similar incidents taking place in other towns?
XIII
Tamberly Town seemed much smaller to Dayon. A fog had blown in from the sea, shrouding the streets and houses in mist. The village had not changed very much, except for the crowds. Dayon watched the frenzy of people around him. What had happened to his old friends? He knew the answer. They had grown up, grown surly and set in their ways, and now they were the people who chased the children from the shops and scolded them for stealing berries from the marketplace. Dayon had seen one or two of his old cronies, but had not said anything to them. Not yet. It was his father, Jondalrun, that he wanted first to see. He had been told that he would find him at the Graywood Tavern, in the back room with Pennel the Elder, making plans for the war.
He hurried across the square and entered the tavern, his boots crunching the sawdust on the floor. He did not relish a confrontation with his father, but he was driven to see him by the death of Johan.
At least, Dayon told himself, he would see his mother soon. He had missed her terribly these past two years.
He knocked on the door. Jondalrun opened it with a jerk, glared at Dayon, and said loudly, “Have you come to enlist? Can you write your name?”
“I can,” Dayon said quietly, realizing Jondalrun, in his haste, had not recognized him through his beard. “My name is Dayon. Son of Jondalrun.”
The old man sagged back against the door, and Dayon was afraid for a moment that his attempt at the dramatic had been too much for his father. Jondalrun recovered quickly, however, and he turned to Agron and Pennel, who sat at the oaken table in the room’s center. “Leave us!” he growled. “My son and I have much to discuss!” Dayon stifled a smile. His father had not changed a bit, ordering two men out of a public tavern without a thought about it. Agron was apparently moved to comment on the same thing, but Pennel laid a hand on his arm and they both left quietly. Pennel locked eyes with Dayon for a moment, and much was conveyed in that glance—welcome, sympathy, and above all, a wish of good fortune.
The door closed. The two men looked at each other for an instant of silence, neither knowing what to say. It must start somewhere, Dayon thought, and so he spoke first. “Father, I have heard about Johan. I—”
“You left your home!” Jondalrun shouted. “Now you come back seeking my forgiveness?”
“Yes,” Dayon said simply. “I suppose I do. I left because I had to leave. There were things I wanted to do.”
“Now you have done them,” Jondalrun said, looking at Dayon closely, “and now you are no longer my son. By the looks of you, you are a fisherman of Cape Bage. I put you aside long ago. Do not ask me to take you back now.”
A familiar feeling of outrage filled Dayon. “I am your . . . ” he started to protest, but then he reflected on the scenes they had shared two years ago. What was the use? His father would never change. Dayon could only offer his sympathies and condolences, and then stay away.
“How is Mother?” he asked.
Jondalrun’s face dropped, as if another son had just been felled by the sorcerers. “You do not know?” he asked. “No—of course not. You could not.”
Dayon felt coldness creep over him. “What do you mean?”
“She died soon after you left,” Jondalrun said gruffly.
Dayon stared out of the window. The fog had been clearing, but for a moment he thought that it had grown thicker, for the trees and houses were misting in a peculiar way. Then he admitted to himself that he was weeping.
“Are you saying that her death is my fault?” he asked harshly.
Jondalrun was silent for a moment, and then Dayon felt his father’s hand upon his shoulder. “No,” the old man said in a low voice. “She died of the fever—there was nothing that could be done. I . . . did not mean to imply that.” He hesitated, then said, “I am an old man—I raise my voice too much.”
Dayon turned and looked at him—he had never heard his father’s voice that soft before. The old man was not weeping, but his eyes were suspiciously bright. I would like to embrace him, Dayon thought, but his arms were leaden at his side.
The father and his son stood there silently once more, and it was as if the years had suddenly turned to dust at their feet.
* * *
In the hills above Tamberly Town, an army was gathering—an army of tired, cold, and hungry men. Twenty towns had sent a hundred men each. These were the first arrivals, from Borgen Town and Jelrich Town. They had marched long, determined to spend the night in soft warm beds, their bellies full of good meals. Over two hundred strong, carrying torches and shouting with excitement
, they rushed down toward Tamberly.
The townspeople saw them coming, a great raggedy wave that poured past the fields and cattle pens and into the streets. Some women shrieked in fright and hastily barred windows and doors. Others watched with interest. Shopkeepers and merchants in the marketplace sold their fresh produce enthusiastically at first, but then they too began to panic as the supply ran low and the hungry crowd began to shout for food and lodging. There were not nearly enough beds in all of Tamberly to accommodate the new arrivals.
“Quick!” a shopkeeper told his daughter. “Tell the Elders! There’ll be trouble before this night is out.”
In the back room of Graywood Tavern, neither Jondalrun nor Dayon noticed the rising noise outside. They were preoccupied with each other.
“Father! You ask the impossible! I am a navigator and a fisherman, not a fighter!”
“You just asked to be called my son!” said Jondalrun. “If you are my son, you will fight at my side!”
The old argument had returned. Once again the father could see the son only in terms of himself. Once again the son could see his future only in terms of his life at sea. “How could I possibly be your second-in-arms, Father? I know nothing about war!”
My father is as stubborn as always, thought Dayon, but this time I will not walk away. “Father,” he cried, “you will not even reach the Simbalese coast! It is a rare day that the strait can be crossed! The currents are wild and the ships will simply capsize in the strait! I know! I have been there!”
“Then go there again for Fandora! If you do not wish to fight, then use your skills as a navigator to help us reach Simbala!”
Dayon did not answer. A compromise from his father was as rare as a smile. Part of him felt as if he could not deny his father anything after all he had been through. Yet, at the same time, Dayon could not bring himself to agree to the plan. He had barely escaped the maelstrom on his last trip out to sea. How could he take farmers and blacksmiths into those same waters? He could not guarantee safe passage. How could he take responsibility for their lives?
Dayon thought about the Simbalese. They were sorcerers, of course. He had heard that the Monarch of Simbala could change himself into a hawk. To challenge them was madness.
Yet, if the Simbalese had killed Johan, was there any reason to think they would not kill another Fandoran?
“Elder Jondalrun!” came a cry at the window. It was a girl’s voice. “We have trouble in town!”
Jondalrun turned angrily from his son, who had still given him no response. Dayon followed him. They rushed through the tavern, which was now filled with travel-dusty men demanding drinks. “Good!” Jondalrun said. “The troops from the other towns are arriving!”
Then they both stepped outside, and were shocked by what they saw.
Tamberly Town was overrun with the incoming troops. Down the main street from the hills they poured in a ragged wave, crowding into the narrow streets. Hungry and thirsty, they disregarded the orders shouted by the Elders of their villages and rushed about madly, some chasing poultry or stealing produce from farm wagons with the intent of making a meal, others taking the last few bits of food in the markets and raiding butteries for dusty jugs.
Shouts and scoldings filled the main streets, along with the sounds of distressed livestock.
Dayon and Jondalrun crossed the street from Graywood Tavern to the old stable. Dayon watched his father closely. To his surprise, he saw uncertainty in Jondalrun’s face—uncertainty, and a growing fear that did not set well on the stern old features. Jondalrun looked about—at every turn there were more men.
“These are only the first arrivals!” Dayon heard him say. “There will be hundreds more!”
Dayon watched, not sure what to do. How would they feed and shelter them all?
Jondalrun sat down on a barrel. “You see how we need help!” he said to his son, his hands suddenly shaking.
Dayon nodded. For the first time, the fears behind Jondalrun’s words were evident in his voice. The young man put his hand on Jondalrun’s shoulder. “We will do the best we can,” he said. “Come, Father, I will help you.”
XIV
Beneath Overwood, the roots of the giant trees had tunneled the ground, crossing and crisscrossing, forming a gargantuan maze. Although the trees of Overwood were ancient, by Simbalese standards, eventually they did die and decay, and their roots were gnawed away by small animals and insects that populated the unbroken darkness, leaving huge tunnels.
In one of these tunnels, quiet save for the occasional dripping of water from the roots, a yellow light glimmered. It bobbed in a regular fashion, growing steadily stronger. It was a torch, a long stick made of compressed firemoss, which burned cleanly with a steady flame.
Four people moved uneasily down the tunnel, their nostrils filled with the smell of mold and their nerves frayed by the sound of a thousand rodents and nighttails, which could be heard but not seen clearly in the dark. Such were the consequences of intrigue at this untimely hour.
The torch was grasped firmly by Princess Evirae, ludicrously out of place in her long gown, ducking low at times to avoid the entanglement of her huge coiffure in the mudcaked roots overhead. Behind her walked Mesor, tight, self-contained, permitting himself a private note of amusement every now and then as the Princess caught her gown or hair.
Watching the Princess with equal parts of suspicion and anger were Baron Tolchin and Baroness Alora. By virtue of their intellect and lineage, they were among the most respected couples in the Royal Family. Their silken robes and finery would have dazzled the eyes of the richest Simbalese, yet they wore the only clothes considered suitable by Alora and Tolchin for an undertaking as filthy as that for which Evirae had summoned them.
“My dear Princess,” said Baron Tolchin in an uncommonly formal tone he adopted to reflect discomfort, “with all due respect, my wife and I demand to know the reason for this escapade! To say that it is an urgent matter of state is not enough!”
“Are you questioning the wisdom of the Princess?” Mesor inquired silkily.
“Only insofar as her retaining your services,” snapped Alora. “The statement by my husband was not directed at you. Do you presume to answer for the Princess?”
Mesor subsided with a slight smile. It masked the churning in his stomach. Alora’s rebuke reminded him that, even with Hawkwind in the palace, there was still a large difference between the Royal Circle and the Royal Family. As an appointed adviser to Evirae, he was a member of the former, but this had neither the security nor the respectability of royal lineage. He had risen from the ranks of Alora’s own Bursars, picked by the Princess herself—but one word from Tolchin or Alora, and he could be back in the Bursars again.
Princess Evirae did not reply to Baron Tolchin’s query. She was trying to remember the correct turn they should take in the tunnels. Evirae was familiar with the caverns. Over the years she had used them many times: for clandestine rendezvous as a young woman, and later as a place for conspiratorial meetings with trusted members of the Circle. Still, the labyrinthine twistings confused her.
“We shall be there soon,” she said, at last spying a familiar configuration of roots by the torchlight. The group came to a widening of the tunnel, and in the distance they saw a wooden door set in a curving wall. Outside, sitting on a stool, was a large man fearlessly keeping watch in the darkness. As Evirae’s torch came into view, he lumbered to his feet.
Evirae motioned for the door to be opened. “Now, Tolchin, you will see the reason for my summons.”
The guard took a ring of keys from his belt, and as the sound of rattling echoed through the tunnels, he opened the door.
“I think,” said Evirae with confidence, “that this is far more important than a good night’s sleep.”
* * *
Amsel turned suddenly at the sound of the key in the lock. He had been pacing back and forth in his small underground cell, feeling extremely tired but incapable of sleep. I’ve been in Simbala
for close to a day, he thought, and I’m no closer to fulfilling my mission than when I arrived.
Amsel had been brought unconscious to the headquarters of the men who flew the windships. As a result, he had seen little of Simbala. The canopied carriage that had ferried him from the windship headquarters had provided little in the way of scenery. It had been covered in silk as dark as the cell to which he had eventually been taken.
The driver of the carriage had treated Amsel like a small boy. Perhaps this was due to the difference in their sizes, thought Amsel. Or perhaps it was due to the childlike expression of wonder on his face when he first glimpsed the gigantic trees of Simbala.
The transfer from the canopied carriage to the tunnels below these trees had afforded Amsel his only chance to observe the fabled forest. It was evening when he saw them, and the dreamy, dark verdancy, combined with the arborescent beauty of the streets, had caused Amsel to gasp in delight. It was like a paradise, alive with the fragrance of a hundred different flowers. Amsel had looked up in amazement. Within the trunks of the larger trees, the Simbalese had built places to live! High above these trees floated the windships, moving gently through the clouds.
Amsel had rubbed his eyes to make sure that he had not been dreaming. There were trees so large that entire Fandoran houses could fit within them. Through the stained-glass windows of one of these trees Amsel had seen light and color so abundant that it seemed as if all the activity of a Fandoran street brimmed inside it. Blues, primrose, yellow. How he wished to see it!
The driver of the carriage had taken his hand then, and led him quickly, far too quickly for Amsel, toward a darkened back path. In the distance, Amsel saw wide polished steps of marble next to a garden of small trees and flowers.
At the end of the patch were the roots of another large tree, and set into those roots a small round door. To one side of the door stood a torch, which the driver had lifted carefully from its cresset. He opened the door and they descended narrow steps down to a series of tunnels that twisted and turned beneath hanging roots. Not a word had been said to Amsel by his captors, and despite his repeated pleas, he had not seen anybody in Simbala of more than moderate authority.
