by Dave Duncan
“Why’d he do a thing like that?” The sun was warm already. “I don’t think he means to, but every time he loses control of the pain he sets off the livestock. You see?”
Gathmor felt a stab of horror. “What pain?”
Andor didn’t answer for a moment, avoiding the sailor’s eye. The boat rocked on a slow swell, gradually drifting away from the shore as the fisherman’s wind awakened. The harbor was stirring. All over the great bay, sails were rising.
“He’s in a Zarkian jail,” he said at last. “Just leave it at that, mm?”
“No. Tell me.”
“The wheel.”
“What in Evil is the wheel?”
“Well, I gather they didn’t use a real wheel, just the floor. They staked him out with chains. Then they smashed his bones with an ax handle.”
The boat rocked in silence. Gathmor stared idiotically at his companion, unable to believe what he had heard.
“I even talked with one of the guards who’d helped,” Andor said softly. “Then I handed the conversation over to Darad. That’s one less, if it makes you feel any better.”
The sailor’s hands were sweaty, and there was a pain in his throat. He was surprised to realize that he hadn’t even been swearing. How could men treat a man like that? Chained down? Unbelievable! Filthy djinns!
“I don’t understand,” he muttered. “He’s an adept. He should have been able to talk them out of it. Gods! Talk them into letting him go, even.”
“He can’t talk. He’ll never talk again.”
“How?”
“Red-hot iron.”
For a moment Gathmor seriously believed he was going to lose his breakfast. Then the fit passed. He wiped his forehead. “What do we do now?” His mouth was dry and cloacal.
“There isn’t one thing we can do!” Andor shrugged sadly. “Not a thing. He’ll certainly be dead in a couple of days. He was given to the guards he’d shamed, see. And he’d killed some of their . . . I can’t believe even an adept can heal that kind of damage, and I expect they’ll be watching for healing and work him over again if it starts.”
He paused, as if inviting Gathmor to argue. Gathmor didn’t. “We go home, sailor. We provision the boat and head for the Impire. I’ve got gold . . . you can keep those baubles I gave you. I’d prefer we head north, to Ollion, but Qoble will do me if you want to go back west. Let me off somewhere civilized, you keep the boat. I’m sure Jalon will give you a lesson on the pipes if you ask him, and you’ll be a rich sailor in no time, if the magic lasts.” He sighed. ”Ah, civilization! Fine wine in crystal, tasty food on gold plates, smooth women on silk sheets.”
Gathmor felt a drowning sensation and tried to struggle. “Never! Leave a shipmate? There must be something we can do!”
Andor smiled sadly, holding the sailor’s eye. “ ‘Fraid not. I’ve got powers beyond most men’s, and I’ve never met a man Id rather have at my side in a tight spot more’n you, Skipper. But we’re still just a couple of vagabonds really.”
Gathmor shook his head fiercely. “Desert a shipmate? You think you can talk me into that? After what he risked for me in Noom? Think your damnable charm will convince me of that?”
“I wouldn’t use charm on you, Gath,” Andor said crossly. ”Pretty girls, yes. All the time! But never my friends. And my eyelashes won’t work on the palace guard. They’re a tough bunch—I’d never try more than two at a time. I’m sure I couldn’t bedazzle three. You think I can just walk into the jail and carry Rap out with me? Two of us couldn’t carry him anyway, the state he must be in. Two of us can’t fight a sultan and his army and his people. There’s a war coming, so I hear . . . No shame in giving up when a job’s impossible, Cap’n. That’s just plain sanity.”
Gathmor groaned.
“A sailor knows that,” Andor said. “You furl your sails in a storm, right? And no one calls you a coward. This is the same thing. It’s hopeless.”
Trouble was, he was right.
“I like it no more than you do, Cap’n. Even Rap can’t expect a witch to fly in the window every time he wants one—and you and I shan’t be needed if one does. Even if we could get him out of the dungeon, he’d just die on us anyway. The wheel’s not torture, it’s a slow execution. He’s as good as dead now. Two more deaths won’t solve anything.”
Very convincing, was Andor. Logical and clear thinking. A sound, honest man for an imp, and no shirker—he’d been around the palace in the night, and that had not been a mission for a coward.
“I suppose this was what Lith’rian foresaw when he said it was too close to call?”
“It isn’t too close now,” Andor insisted. “The girl’s married and bedded, and in Zark she’ll stay that way. Her kingdom’s been divided between her enemies. The wardens have lost interest. The sorceress is dead and the faun as good as—the sooner the better for his sake. He tried and he failed! It’s as simple as that.”
“I guess so.” Gathmor sighed. He glanced around and checked the wind. All the way around to Qoble was a fair voyage, but of course they could make landfalls on the way this time. They needn’t take on stores for the whole trip. “I suppose so,” he repeated.
“Ever been to a theater, sailor? Tragedy in Three Acts? That’s it! The curtain falls and the play’s over. The audience dries its eyes and goes home and gets on with real life.”
“I suppose.” Gathmor smiled to show his acceptance. “And I suppose I’m lucky to have you here to stop me doing something crazy. Just feels like there ought to be more, somehow.”
Tumult, and shouting:
The tumult and the shouting dies;
The captains and the kings depart.
— Kipling, Recessional
About the Author:
Dave Duncan: (From his web site)
I was born in Scotland in 1933, which must have been a vintage year because there are few of us around. I studied geology at the University of St. Andrews (playing not one hole of golf all the time I was there) and came to Canada in 1955. I lived in Calgary for the next thirty years as a respectable and reasonably successful scientist and businessman. I took up the secret vice of writing in my fifties, and made my first sale two weeks after a cyclical slump in the oil business put me out of work for the first time in my life. I changed horses and never looked back.
I enjoy writing, but it IS hard work, and can be very lonely. Even after thirty or so books, it gets no easier. I try never to repeat myself and yet not wander too far from the sort of entertainment my fans have enjoyed in the past and expect in the future.
My wife and I have been married (to each other) since 1959. We have one son, two daughters, and four grandchildren. She is my in-house editor and critic. Without her input, I would still be moldering in slush piles, and she really ought to be listed as co-author. Although she is an omnivorous reader, she doesn't much care for Fantasy or Science Fiction, which may be why she does such a good job of identifying my mistakes.
