by Ian Irvine
“Why?” screamed Llian.
Turlew flung Llian on his back and banged his head on the ground. “I hate you, treacherous Zain that you are,” he spat, so vehemently that flecks of spit showered Llian’s face. “Always showing off your lovely voice and boasting of your honors. I’ve worked for years to bring you down. Ha, that surprises you!”
Llian twitched but the knife was directly over his heart. “I thought it was Wistan!” he said in dazed tones.
“That old fool! I thought I’d convinced him, then he gives you a bag of gold and sends you off to Mendark! Mendark! Any chronicler in Chanthed would give his hand for a post with the Magister.”
“But—I’ve never done anything to you. I hardly know you.”
“No? I well remember when you first came to Chanthed, a sniveling, snot-crusted brat. That was my class, and I was the best, until you came. Pushed out by a filthy Zain.”
“I don’t remember you at all,” Llian dissembled, knowing that would hurt him the more, though he recalled the obsequious little worm well enough. The child had truly fathered the man. “The best? You are a clerk, not a chronicler.”
“You made me fail. You destroyed my career. And now I do for you.”
“With a voice like that you would never have made a teller anyway.”
Turlew struck him in the face. Then he laughed, a chilling sound. “Here’s a fine idea, much better than killing you,” he said with venom enough to choke a horse. “Let’s see how pretty you are with your nose gone, how well you tell with your tongue off, how much a man when your manhood sizzles in the fire.”
He put the knife to Llian’s mouth and tried to prise his teeth apart. “Open up,” he said coaxingly.
12
* * *
THE INN
AT TULLIN
Llian had never felt so terrified. His fingers, scrabbling on the ground, came upon the neck of his waterskin. He swung it hard, Turlew turned at the movement and it struck him full on the nose and burst, drenching them both. Turlew was momentarily blinded. Llian smacked the knife out of Turlew’s hand, knocked him down and heaved a great log across his chest, pinning him to the ground. Turlew sucked asthmatically at the air, straining to fill his lungs against the weight, while Llian bound his hands with the cord from the waterskin.
Suddenly Turlew began to scream and kick his legs. “Get it off me!”
Llian put one foot on the log to keep it in place, then threw wood onto the fire so that it blazed up. “What is it?” he enquired, inspecting his enemy with all the interest of a teller in search of new material.
The flickering light revealed a huge and fuzzy-looking black spider that had emerged from the log and was now crawling up Turlew’s throat toward his chin.
“Don’t panic, it’s just an enormous spider,” said Llian, as the creature hesitated next to Turlew’s plump wet lips.
“Kill it,” Turlew screamed, flinging his head from side to side.
“A few minutes ago you were going to kill me,” said Llian, taking a malicious pleasure in the reversal. “I’d stay still if I were you. One bite from a black huntsman…”
Turlew went utterly still. Llian fetched a brand from the fire. Holding it close he saw that the fuzziness was due to hundreds of baby spiders clinging to every part of the mother. The spider darted across Turlew’s cheek, sat up on its back legs just below his eye, waving its forelegs in the air, then darted again and straddled his glossy eyeball. Llian shuddered; he didn’t like spiders much either. Turlew shrank visibly.
He convulsed, then as the spider ran across Turlew’s forehead Llian killed it with a blow from his burst waterskin. Baby spiders fled in all directions across Turlew’s face, taking refuge in his hair, his ear, up his nose. He screamed and screamed and did not stop even after Llian poured the remaining water over his head, washing off the splattered remains.
Llian was not cruel by nature, but he could bear it no longer. He dragged Turlew across to his horse, heaved him head down over the saddle and tied him on. Despite the bonds, Turlew thrashed and tried to claw at his ear, tickled agonizingly by the little spiders hiding inside. Llian smacked the horse hard on the flank. It kicked backwards, almost braining him, and cantered off down the track, the screams taking a long time to die away.
Llian watched it out of sight in the moonlight and turned back to his fire. His knees would barely support him. He was astonished at his victory though already the events seemed unreal, impossible. His only fights had been in the schoolyard, and he had seldom won.
He moved his camp across two hills, well away from the road and the fire, went to make a brew of tea, recalled that his water bottle was burst and turned to his sleeping pouch in disgust. More than once that night, as he tossed on the rocky ground, he thought of his warm bed in Chanthed. And for the whole night his skin crawled at the memory of the spider on Turlew’s eyeball.
Eventually he slept and dreamed, and his dreams were a curious blending of the fight, fragments of the Histories and his own romantic fancy. He was a hero, a protector, brave, cunning, always doing the unexpected, daring impossible dangers. And when he finally got to Thurkad they shouted his name in the streets.
Llian had been so occupied with his troubles that it was not until he woke at dawn, remembering with amusement and yet with a tinge of yearning his dream, that he gave any real consideration to his own task. He went to the creek with his cooking pot, then sat with his journal and his tea, as was his daily habit. Only now, as the previous day’s events were recorded, did he give serious thought to what Wistan had said.
Llian hardly knew whether to take the quest seriously or not. Why had he been chosen? Llian was not blind to his failings; he knew that outside his world of learning and telling he was awkward and ignorant. No, whatever the mission really was, he was here because of the malice of Wistan. Maybe there was no thief, no Mirror. Certainly he had never read of such a thing in the Histories.
Seized by a sudden fear he pulled out the purse and spilled the contents on the ground. It was real enough: good gold and silver, a small fortune. And Wistan’s references, he found, described his qualities and accomplishments fairly, though without warmth. The master’s faults were legion, but evidently meanness was not one of them.
So the quest was real; though why did someone clever enough to bring the Mirror all this way need him for an escort? It didn’t make sense. It did not occur to Llian that Karan had stolen the Mirror for someone other than Mendark.
Still, any young chronicler needed a rich and powerful patron, lest he end up that despised thing, a wandering teller: a mere jongleur, or jangler as he had often joked. Mendark was very old, very rich, very powerful. Who better to help him with his search? And Mendark must have interesting work for a chronicler. For a Zain such as he, cast out into the uncertain world, the chance of such employment was worth any sacrifice.
The only thing that interested him in the whole affair was this Mirror. An ancient relic that had inspired such larcenous feats was interesting enough, but one that was not even mentioned in the Histories, that was intriguing. To learn its history, to write its tale, he would tramp from one end of Santhenar to the other.
Llian suddenly realized that the sun was well up, and he had been writing his daydream for an hour. If Turlew had freed himself and ridden all night he could be back in Chanthed collecting a gang of ruffians right now. And, importantly for Llian’s own future, what if he got to Tullin and Karan was already gone? He hurried on up the mountain and did not stop, save for a breather or two, until it was truly dark.
The two Whelm that had gone to Chanthed to look for Karan were worn out, iron-hard though they were. They had ridden long days, asking everyone they encountered about her, but there had been no sign. More days they spent in Chanthed, asking their monotonous questions to no avail.
“She never came this way,” said the woman. She was almost pretty for a Whelm, in a dark gaunt way, all black hair and black eyes, though her lips were meager, fleshless
.
“No,” the man agreed. “That guard lied for her. He will suffer, if I go back that direction.”
“On to Tullin then. Perhaps Jark-un has had better luck.”
They sold their horses that afternoon, since the upper part of the road to Tullin was presently passable only on foot. The next morning they came upon a curious sight: a man with arms and legs bound, lying in the mud of the track. The woman turned him over with her boot. Turlew was battered and bruised from his fall, but when she gave him water he gasped and was able to sit up.
“Do you know of Karan of Bannador?” she asked, as she had dozens of times.
“I know of her,” groaned Turlew, scratching furiously at his ear. “What will you pay?”
“A gold tell,” said the man, hiding his eagerness. “If your news is any help. Where is she?”
“Give me meat and drink first.”
The woman hauled him upright. “First the news, then the payment.”
Turlew croaked out the story of the message from Mendark.
“Mendark!” said the woman.
The man took her arm, the way a lover might, and drew her out of hearing. “Mendark is our master’s enemy,” he whispered. “This is bad news.”
“Indeed! If he gets the Mirror our master’s business will be exposed. The Magister is a fierce enemy.”
“All the more urgent to get it back then.”
They went back to Turlew. “What other news do you have about this matter?”
He told how Llian came to be sent after Karan.
“Who is he?” asked the man, touching her arm tenderly. “We heard this name in Chanthed, did we not, Yetchah?”
She frowned. “A chronicler who had gone missing.”
“A Zain, a fool and a scoundrel,” said Turlew bitterly.
“It was he who left you this way,” guessed Yetchah. “Not quite the fool you make out.” She gave him another drink from her bottle, wiping it fastidiously afterward.
The man cut off a greeny-black lump of some unidentifiable substance and put it in Turlew’s hand, then counted out the worth of a tell in silver tars, twenty of them. The two Whelm turned together and loped off up the road.
“Hey, what about my bonds,” cried Turlew, holding up his hands.
“That was not part of the bargain,” she said over her shoulder, then they disappeared around the bend.
“This is a strange thing,” said the male Whelm.
“Scarcely credible,” she replied, “but I believe him. I say we shadow this Llian until he finds her. Let him lead us to her. I sense that he will.”
“Good. We will go secretly.”
“Even from Jark-un and Idlis?”
He spat in the road. “They’ve had enough chances. Time to think of our own favor.”
In the afternoon of the third day Llian passed the ruins of Benbow. Even the scars of the dreadful fire had faded into the grass, and the scorched and blackened beams of the hall were hung with pale-gray lichen. The ruined walls might have been that way for a thousand years, the way the vines crept around and over them. Llian had told the Tale of Benbow, a minor tragedy, only months before, and he was disinclined to linger there; so evident was the truth of it that he could yet hear the screams, see the flames leap up. But no aid had ever come.
It was late on the fourth day that, squelching around a high shoulder of rock, he came in sight of the old village of Tullin. From where he stood the main road from Hetchet to Bannador could be seen winding its way up the steep mountainside. There had been snow the previous night and it still crusted the ground in shady places, but as he looked down to the west he saw that the snow lay thickly on the steep slopes, and dark clouds threatening more were already sweeping in.
He found the village in a dimple near the top of a long steep hill. It comprised a straggle of small stone houses, some ruined, on the downhill side of the inn. The inn was a massive structure of gray stone, with a slate roof and small windows fitted with shutters of weathered timber. The front door was painted dark-blue and reinforced with iron bolts. A pole above the door protruded across the street but it was bare of any pennant. Smoke came from several cottages and the chimneys of the inn but there was no one to be seen.
He pushed open the front door. Before him was a long hall with doors opening off to right and left. The left door was open, and through it was a large, high-ceilinged room with an open fireplace occupying half of the far wall. A few embers smoldered there. The room was chilly and empty. He turned down the hall, passing a narrow stair that ran steeply up to his left. It seemed too small and mean for such a large building. The far end of the hall opened onto the kitchen, where a vast stove glowed. The back door was open and from outside came the sound of wood being chopped.
“Hello, is anyone about?” Llian called from the door.
The chopping stopped. A gray head emerged from behind a woodheap. “Come and give me a hand,” sang out an old man. The head disappeared and the chopping resumed.
Llian sat down on a stump beside the pile and ostentatiously took off a boot. “Be glad to help you,” he murmured, rubbing his blisters, “just as soon as I get this bound up.”
“Get off, Llian,” said the axeman, turning toward him with a smile. “You tried that one on me the last time you were here. I’ll not fall for it twice.” Dark-green eyes were twinkling in a face deeply tanned, a mountain dweller’s tan. He rubbed square hands through iron-gray hair that was sparse at the front though falling to his shoulders at the back. The woodchopper was shorter than Llian but well built, despite his age, and must have been a handsome man when young.
“Shand!” Llian grinned. “I’m surprised you’re still alive, old man. It’s five years since I was last in Tullin.” He leaned back on his seat, looking around cheerfully, making himself comfortable.
“I’m alive,” grunted Shand. “I can’t afford to die with all this wood to carry by myself.”
“Where is everybody?”
“Tullin dwindles. Those that remain are down the Hetchet road a way, looking for a lost traveler. They’ll be back soon, wanting a fire and a hot dinner.” Shand looked west, at the road winding its way down the mountain.
Llian, bowing to the pressure, squatted down and loaded his right arm. “A traveler?”
“Stupid thing to be doing, this time of year, traveling alone across the mountains. Hurt too—broken arm or something. You going to squat there all evening?”
Llian trudged inside and dumped the wood in a recess next to the stove. When he came back out again, the first flakes of snow were falling.
“How did you hear of her?” he asked, picking up another piece.
“That’s what’s so odd,” old Shand replied, laying down the axe and hefting a log rather bigger than Llian would have attempted. “Some other travelers came searching for her; three foreigners from over Orist way, on their way east. Or so they say. And in a right hurry too. Funny thing was, they weren’t in a hurry at all this morning. Went out searching for her, down the mountain.” He settled the log on his shoulder and disappeared up the path.
Llian sat down on the woodheap with half an armload. A chill went through him. Wistan had said that Karan was being hunted…
Shand was back, staring down at him with a half-amused, half-irritated expression. “It’s snowing, Llian,” was all he said, and Llian leapt up and hurried inside with his small load of wood.
“Did they happen to say what her name was?” asked Llian, as he passed Shand on the path again.
“Karan, of Bannador,” said Shand thoughtfully.
By the time they had carried all the wood in and set the fires blazing, it was dark. Llian sat at a table near the fire with a mug of hot wine while Shand passed back and forth, lighting lamps and bearing mugs, plates and cutlery from the kitchen.
The searchers arrived back noisily just after dark, brushing powdery snow from their cloaks in front of the fire and calling loudly to Shand for food and drink. Llian hung back, content to observe
for the moment. The landlord, a big bony man with sandy hair and a flat nose, saw the stranger sitting quietly there and came across to him.
“I’m Torgen—your landlord. My wife, Maya.”
She was little and plump, a remarkably attractive woman of middle age with black eyes, round rosy cheeks and a sparkling smile. Her tiny wrists were layered with silver bands that rang together as she moved.
Torgen went the rounds of the little group: an old man wearing a soldier’s cap, returning to the west from Thurkad; two messengers, traveling east; a couple recently wed, or so their total self-absorption proclaimed, but they were so alike they might have been brother and sister. They were on their way from Bannador to Hetchet. Last of the travelers was a priest with watery eyes. There were five or six villagers too, though they quickly went to their accustomed table and became immersed in a game of dice.
“Rather a lot for this time of year. I see you’ve met Shand already. We have three more, from Orist.” Torgen paused. “They keep to themselves. Haven’t come in yet. If you’ll excuse us, dinner’s already late. It’s been a long day.”
He continued over his shoulder, in answer to Shand’s question: “No, we didn’t find her. I expect she’s in a drift somewhere—there’s a lot of snow on the road.”
The soldier, Jared, and the priest joined Llian at his table. Llian and the priest shared a jar of hot spiced wine, while Jared called for tea. “What’s this about a lost traveler?” Llian wondered.
The priest and Jared looked at each other. Jared had the sad, droopy face of a bloodhound. He stroked his jowl with broad, flat fingers, took off his cap to reveal a blotched dome, slowly rubbed his scalp, the skin mounding under his fingers, put his hat back on again and mutely sipped his tea. There was a long pause, then the priest began, “Well, so they say. But it seems mighty queer to me.” He stopped.
“What do you mean?”
The priest squinted at him across the table. “Why is the miserable girl traveling alone at this time of year? And what do those scrawny wretches from Orist want her for? Making us risk our lives at a time like this.” His tone was peevish. He took more wine from the jar greedily, slopping it on the table, and drank the whole bowl down with a gulp and a gasped breath. He reached for the jar again, then pushed it away, heaved his chair back as if to go but just slumped there, wet lips gleaming, and stared morosely at the fire. Maya tinkled across with a cloth to mop the table.
