by Dave Duncan
Lord Krandrak, sorcerer of the seventh rank, grand wizard of Kra, watched through the spyhole until the geriatric king had tottered out of the shrine. Only then did he replace the speaking tube on its holder and turn to another spyhole to inspect the public corridor outside. Once he was satisfied that the coast was clear, he slid open the unmarked door of his hidey-hole and emerged into a pantry adjoining a rarely-used banqueting hall. He was happy to escape from the cramped and stuffy little room, one of several secret bolt-holes his craft maintained within the palace. Clad in sandals and plain brown loincloth, carrying his lute, he headed for the queen’s quarters.
The coven of Kra had known since its founding, millennia ago, that it was sited dangerously close to the Goddess’s city of Plo. The stronger and larger Plo grew, the greater became the peril, for it was only in the last couple of generations that the invention of explosives had evened the odds between Her swordsmen and the Fire God’s sorcerers.
Before that deliverance, the God’s Voice trick had been one of Kra’s methods of controlling the kings of Plo, and clearly it still had its uses. The manual warned that it should not be applied on any particular monarch more than twice, lest he begin to suspect the fake. This was the fifth occasion that the Fire God had summoned Arganari XIV, but Krandrak considered the risk worth taking. The old fool was too far gone in his dotage to notice anything amiss.
The seeming minstrel of the Third was barely forty, which was amazingly young for anyone other than a swordsman to reach seventh rank, and at least twenty years younger than anyone had ever held the post of grand wizard of a major coven. Kra-born, he had been orphaned when young, both his parents having vanished on missions to the lands of the Goddess, presumed murdered by swordsmen. The coven took care of its young and had recognized his brilliance early. For years he had railed against the swordsmen’s so-called Tryst—at first alone, and then as leader of a party of rebellious youths. Eventually, and very nearly too late, the antiquities on the council had awakened to their peril and elected him to fill a vacancy. He had refused to accept unless they made him grand wizard, and they had crumbled before his righteous certainty. He had driven the enemy away once, but the second time was going spill a lot more blood; some of it might even have to be sorcerer blood, but the prime strategy must be to make swordsmen kill swordsmen.
Without bothering to knock, he opened an unobtrusive door and walked into the queen’s dressing room. That door was reserved for special friends, and the only person who might be behind it at this early hour was the queen herself. Servants were not admitted until after she had risen, which was rarely much before noon.
This morning, though, Daimea was sitting at the table, brushing her hair and studying her own boredom in the mirror. Seeing Krandrak behind her, she came to life, rising and smiling as if they were equals. They were both sworn to the Fire God, but there the resemblance ended.
Maneuvering kings into suitable marriages was another sorcerous technique for controlling the swordsmen of cities such as Plo. King Arganari’s third wife had always been statuesque and was now close to monumental, although she had not yet turned thirty. Her skin was smooth as cream, her hair a soft honey shade, a paleness very rare among the People. Her lips were alluring, her breasts breathtaking. She had been born of sorcerer parents in Kra, although this was unknown outside the coven itself. Krandrak remembered her as a cherubic First, because he had been one of the Thirds assigned to train her in the so-called arts of love. Ten minutes into the first lesson, she had been teaching him things. Despite the singers’ facemark on her forehead, she was no more a singer than he was a minstrel.
“It went well, my lord?”
“No. The old fool has no fight left in him. You will have to work on him.”
She sighed. “Yes, Grand Wizard.”
“Fire him up. Raise his spirits!”
“I have had no luck at raising anything else for years.”
“We made you, Daimea. We can unmake you. You are very vulnerable to rumors of scandal.”
“Forgive my levity, lord.” Her humility rang as false as a stone bell.
“Pollex will raise an army, but Arganari has to fund it. Keep working on his worries about the succession and the murder of his son. Frighten him, prey on his fears.”
“I’m not certain it is possible to frighten him any more, my lord. He knows he can’t last much longer.”
“Anyone can be frightened. Tell him about the king of Abae, who left his city to his daughter. She ruled for about a week before a troop of free swords came by and decided to take it over. They impaled her husband and raped the queen to death.”
“Yes, my lord.” Daimea looked skeptical, so perhaps she had heard the true story. “And while we are on that subject, my lord, I am not quite certain yet, but I believe I may need help disposing of a slight accident.”
“Fool!”
“It happens,” she said with a shrug.
“Who was it this time?”
“Who knows?”
The queen was a tramp, happy to open for any man she could lay her hands on. The way she looked at Krandrak himself filled him with disgust. He took two quick strides to close with her.
“There is more than one type of accident,” he said.
He had a dozen ways to hurt or even kill her, yet she looked up at him with none of the fear his threat should produce. He knew she was not as stupid as she pretended, but he also doubted she was clever enough, or knew enough, to work out for herself how much he needed her for the next half year or so. Her lover must have coached her, and that narrowed the field to one of his own men in the palace. They must both be tolerated now, but after the Tryst had been repelled, they would be expendable.
See that she was not going to answer, he said, “Who is the father?”
“It certainly isn’t Old Palsy. If he tried that nowadays you’d hear his bones rattling in Kra. He knows it and everyone in the palace can guess it. The evidence has to go before I start showing.”
“I will make arrangements. A woman will ask to show you a topaz brooch, which you will purchase and wear.”
Daimea simpered. “Thanks.” She sauntered over to a closet and began inspecting gowns.
Krandrak took his lute across to the mirror to check his facemarks. He had journeyed from Kra to Plo as a carter and changed to a minstrel before coming to the palace, but that transformation had been rather hurried. He decided one of the lute shapes was smudged, and opened the hidden compartment in the sound box. With the aid of a small vial of Triple Distillate of Rock Oil and a rag, he wiped the lutes off and reinstalled them with fresh transfers. Minstrel was his favorite persona. Minstrels went anywhere they wanted and swordsmen never hassled them. He had a fine singing voice and performed when he had to.
“Report through the usual channel in three days,” he told Daimea. “I want to know your husband’s state of mind, and what orders he has given the reeve.”
“Yes, my lord. Don’t forget what I want, will you?”
“Every man in the city knows what you want.”
With confidence born or years of practice, Grand Wizard Krandrak walked out the outer door as if he had every right to be there in the royal palace, but there was no one in the corridor to see him. His next job was to track down Lord Pollex and warn him of the Tryst’s approach. Pollex was another sorcerer agent, although controlled by blackmail rather than money or oaths, but still the most important of all for the success or failure of Kra’s plans.
Glad to be rid of her obnoxious visitor, Queen Daimea walked through to her bedroom, where Pollex of the Seventh was still stretched out on the bed, stark naked. Just the sight of him made all her internal organs seethe with excitement. He had the sexiest body she knew, and his head on the pillow was framed in a pool of the heavy jet-black hair that fell around her like a tent when he was on top of her. He was also as close to insatiable as any.
“What did he say?” He had a deep, throaty voice.
“He said he would
see to it.”
“Told you he would. Now come here and stiffen me up again.”
Chapter 3
Arganari’s eyes were awash again as he hobbled back along the north gallery. The wind still blew in his face, even now, when he was going the other way. He passed the empty plinth that should have been his son’s, then the one that waited for him. Thirteen ancestors to go. He knew that if he could see them they would be staring far above his head, not deigning to look down at him. He would not be able to meet their eyes if they did. He had failed them, dropped the torch. The dynasty must end with him.
He had tried. His first wife had died of puerperal fever, and the child with her. His second, Sisila, had been a great joy, the love of his life. She had given him a child, but only one, the boy the swordsmen had murdered. After the shock of Argie’s death had killed her, his ministers had begged him to marry a third time, but it been years before he could bring himself to do so. Eventually he had wed Daimea. She had given him a daughter; he would sire no more offspring now. Argair was a sweet child, very quick and intelligent. But what chance did she have in a world of men? Once in a while a king’s daughter would try to rule a city, but it never worked for long. Inevitably some swordsman would force her into marriage at sword point and declared himself king. Even then, her children might not succeed her. Often her husband would promote some other son of his from a previous marriage or a casual affair.
So the house of Arganari was ending. But XIV wasn’t going to abandon his throne and his cities to the Casr barbarians without a fight.
Exhausted by the struggle and the pain in his hips, he reached the end of the gallery to find the three swordsmen oxen waiting just inside the door. He sent them off to bar the chapel door, while he went in search of a bath, a soothing massage, and his breakfast.
When he was ready to eat, he sent word to Daimea to join him in the state banqueting hall. He ate there from habit, but it might as well have been the porters’ mess for all he could see of its opulence. He was informed that her Majesty was sleeping late that morning, and had not yet rung for her tea.
Hating eating alone, he sent for Reeve Pollex to discuss Wizard Krandrak’s warnings. He had almost finished his snack when the page returned to say that the reeve could not be found, but he must be somewhere in the palace because his horse was in its stall; the swordsmen were still looking for him. Arganari could imagine a good place to look and suspected that the page could, too.
At that moment Argair came skipping in, bright and fresh as a spring morning. She kissed her father’s cheek, sat on the closest chair uninvited, and reached for the sweetmeat dish. She was going to be a great beauty, like her mother.
“Daddy, I want a falcon. Can I have a falcon? For my very own?” Her resemblance to Daimea became even more marked when she wanted something.
“This is not the proper time of year to start training a bird, my dear. But you can start taking lessons, if you want.”
She pouted. “Don’t like lessons.”
She would have to learn to like lessons if she expected to be queen, but she was too young to understand that yet. “I shall be going to the temple this morning. Would you like to come down to the city with me?”
“No. I want to go riding.”
“Then have a nice ride. Which pony are you going to take?”
Of course a horse was much more interesting than a father at her age. He was seven times her age and found it almost impossible to hold a conversation with her. After he had refused to give her an all-white pony, a ruby necklace like Mommy’s, and four really cute pages of her own in a special livery, Arganari was quite glad to see a tall adult figure approaching against the light and hear the pad of a swordsman’s boots. He sent Argair off to her nurse, who would be lurking in the mist somewhere.
Pollex whipped out his sword and made the salute to a superior. The king struggled to his feet and gave him the response to an equal, acknowledgment of his rank. He could smell wet hair from the swordsman’s ponytail, which was better than the sort of odor he emitted sometimes. Arganari could imagine the gleam of contempt in the man’s eyes and thanked the Goddess that he did not have to see it. He had long ago recognized what sort of a woman he had married, but she needed a husband of her own age; he blamed himself for being unable to satisfy her. He had no intention of exposing her or sending her away, as long as she didn’t try to slip any strangers into the royal lineage. Daimea was quite smart enough to know that, and smart enough not to stay with any one lover long enough to give him ideas of making the arrangement permanent.
“Sit, reeve. Help yourself to some wine, and food if you’re peckish.” After your exertions. “I had a message from the Fire God this morning.”
“What does the Dread Lord want?” asked Pollex with his mouth full already.
“He is confident that the Tryst will come at us from Soo, over the Mule Hills, and we must expect it by Barbers’ Day. You are to assemble the largest army and posse you can and prepare to fight on the far bank. The god also insists that Grand Wizard Krandrak have overall command.”
“Huh. And what does a sorcerer know about war?”
“I expect his god knows a great deal about it.” And his god provides us with a lot more direct help than the Goddess ever gives us, Goddess forgive me for thinking so. “Do you feel capable of winning this war without Kra’s assistance?”
“Kra didn’t need my assistance to start it. Or yours, your Majesty. Did Krandrak ask your permission before he struck down two dozen honest swordsmen with his thunder weapons?”
“He warned me more than a year ago that the Tryst was coming. I agreed that Plo and Kra must join forces to resist it. I discussed it with you and you agreed also. Is burning down brothels better than using thunder weapons?”
“Yes. Only fools get so drunk that they cannot escape from a burning building. I tried to give the Tryst warnings, so that it might back off and find victims elsewhere without losing too much face. Kra forced the issue with its foul sorcery. That is not an honorable way to fight. What does he want of us?”
Arganari told him.
“As your Majesty commands. The god wants us to fight on the left bank? What happens if he is wrong about the Tryst and Lord Whatever-You-Said—”
“Shonsu.”
“Shonsu. So what happens if this Shonsu comes upriver from Arbo, instead of overland from Soo, and catches me and your swordsmen on the left bank and you and Plo on the other?”
“You think a god can be deceived? He knows exactly what the Tryst is doing. It sailed two weeks ago. If he doesn’t tell us, he will tell his sorcerers. Are you asking to be replaced, Lord Pollex? If you are unwilling to defend me and my cities, as you swore you would when I appointed you, then now is the time to unravel your oath, take up your bedroll, and go.” And no, you can’t take my wife with you.
“Gods’ balls, no! I will stake Lord Shonsu and his Sixths out on the north gallery so you can watch the crows eating them. I am merely pointing out that I am a trained fighter and a showoff trickster of a magician is not. I am minded to saddle up Rapier and ride to Kra to consult with Krandrak face to face. Provided your Majesty permits, of course.”
Nice of him to ask. “Yes, I will gladly give my permission, provided you do not neglect the necessary war preparations.”
“Which will require money, sire, cartloads of gold. A civilian posse must be fed, billeted, paid and trained until the enemy comes. And of course it must be armed, which means buying or making weapons. Other cities will not lend their swordsmen cheaply in such an emergency, nor will sailors hire out their vessels.”
“We must explain to the people that paying taxes for defense is cheaper than losing our freedom and possessions to an avaricious invader. Would they rather see their daughters raped and sons murdered?”
“With respect, sire, preach that to them by all means. The last time you decreed a levy and my men went around with the collectors, they were stoned. This will be the third season in a row you
have taxed the city. Reeve Ozimshello of Fex told me that some assessors there were clubbed to death.”
Arganari sighed, because he knew the truth of what the brute was saying. “How much?”
There was a pause, hopefully while the swordsman considered his tactics and gave the costs due thought. Or he might just be leering and drooling at how much he could rake off for his brothers, sisters, and mistresses. “Three thousand marks.”
“No! So much?”
“Not a jot less, if we are to have a chance of winning.”
Arganari wondered how much of that he might raise himself. He had already stripped the palace of many of its valuables. What use were they when he couldn’t see them?
“Of course it will be easier for me, your Majesty. If the Tryst reaches the city, it will be over my dead body, and I will be safe in the arms of the Goddess. But you will have to witness the rape of your city. They will burn Plo as they burned Zek. Sons will die or be enslaved, daughters will become the playthings of swordsmen.”
Arganari shuddered. “Remind me. How much did we raise with the last levy?”
“Nine hundred marks in Plo, six hundred and change in Fex.”
“And you want me to extract twice that this time? People will be starving!”
“No money, no defense, sire.”
After a sorrowful moment Arganari said, “Very well. If it must be, it must be.”
Deciding that he must go to the temple, the king sent for his carrying chair, which was brought in and set down beside him by four large persons wearing the black loincloths of slaves. He had just completed the painful process of climbing aboard when he heard a swish of satin. Daimea leaned in to peck his cheek and let him catch a whiff of her favorite scent.
She gushed, of course. She always did these days, speaking to him as if he was a child. “Darling, I am so sorry I did not join you for breakfast. I was awake half the night worrying about the war, and then, of course, I slept well past my usual hour for rising. I am told you were summoned by the Fire God. That must have been a frightening experience for you. You are so brave…”
