If I Pay Thee Not in Gold

by Piers Anthony

  Ware looked at her as if he doubted her sanity, but obligingly translated. She, in turn, dispelled her conjured barriers at just that point, and the Pacha ponies picked their way across, with dainty steps. As soon as all the ponies had crossed, she re-created those barriers. If the Pacha felt unease at suddenly being imprisoned behind her defenses, they gave no sign of it.

  She left Ware in charge of seeing the ponies picketed and the warriors settled, left Faro in charge of setting up the camp for a celebration, and went to the slave who served them as cook. “I need the tubs we bathe and do the wash in,” she told him, as he stared past her shoulder at the wild Pacha perching themselves cross-legged around the fire of conjured wood. “I will conjure meat for these barbarians; it will do them no harm to eat a single conjured meal, and it will save our provisions. And, frankly, it will taste better than anything we have with us. I will also conjure you sweet stuff and flour for cakes; if I guess rightly, they will be very fond of desserts and the like. Barbarians often have little access to sweets. You must make as much sweet cake or cookies as you can while they are eating the meat. And I will conjure wine as well-only see to it that none of our men drink anything but water.”

  “You intend to poison the wine, mistress?” the cook asked, his eyes round with alarm. “You mean to slay them while they are our guests?”

  She shook her head. “No, not at all. Two dozen bodies would be very hard to explain to the other barbarians. No, I am simply going to see that they get very, very drunk, and I want our men to stay very, very sober. I want the Pacha to sleep so deeply that when we leave in the morning, they will not even stir.”

  The cook smiled tentatively at that, and sent one of the men off for the washtubs. While he fetched the two tubs, she set about conjuring great slabs of meat-like stuff, only a thumbs-breadth thick, as wide as a palm, and as long as her arm-food that could cook quickly over a spit. She did not think that the barbarians would be very likely to care how well-done it was, but she concentrated as hard as she could to make certain it was savory. At the longing looks of the men, who were loathe to subsist on dried-beef stew when this tasty stuff was sizzling over the flames, she gave permission for them to eat of it as well, provided they ate first of the real food. They understood why; it was folly to depend on conjured food for sustenance.

  When the tubs arrived, she conjured them full to the brim, creating a sweet red wine, full of sugars and stronger than the strongest brandy she had ever drunk herself. These she had carried to the warriors at the fireside, along with whatever was at hand to use as flasks and cups.

  By now, the torches and lamps were all lit, and Ware had settled in the midst of the Pacha, making some long speech. Faro joined her as the first of the tubs was carried to the waiting barbarians.

  “He’s prating about brotherhood and the sacred earth,” Faro said, as she shifted her concentration to create the ingredients required for sweet sugar-cookies. “He’s been using the biggest words he knows, and describing you as a Valiant hawk of the wild Mazonites,’ and ‘a wily she-cat, who wins as much by guile as by strength,’ but ‘one who values honor and oaths more than meat and drink.’ It’s one of those long-winded speeches the politicians make. They just might appoint him chieftain when he’s done, if he’s not careful.”

  She chuckled, as the Pacha lost their interest in Ware’s speech when the tubs of wine appeared. The sweet aroma told them this was something special, and they had no patience for speeches when fabulous drink like this awaited them. They snatched cups and bowls, and gathered around the tub with exclamations of delight and wonder, dipping out containers full.

  But they waited until Ware had dipped one as well, and had drunk it to the dregs, before the chieftain took his first sip. Xylina wasn’t certain whether this was protocol or caution. Perhaps both.

  The Pacha warrior exclaimed something that set the others to laughing-and all the rest drank their first cups off as quickly as Ware had downed his. Xylina had to give them credit for strong constitutions;she would not have been able to drink the “wine” so quickly.

  “What did he say?” Xylina demanded.

  Faro grinned. “Waugh! That is no wine! It is honey-fire! It kicks like an unbroken stallion!”

  She sighed with relief. “Good. I hoped they’d like over-sweet wine. Although at the rate that they are drinking, I may test my abilities to the limit to conjure up enough to keep up with them!”

  “Your abilities are quite impressive already,” he murmured. “And getting stronger, I think. The Queen’s warriors are taking note, as is Ware.”

  She realized that between the defenses and the food, she had done more than ever before. Shewas getting better with the constant practice of each night’s camping. She might do well to try to mask the extent of her conjurations, so that no one would know what her limits were. It could make a difference, if an enemy should try to wait for her magic exhaustion before striking.

  The first of the slabs of meat arrived then, and the Pacha set to, eating only with their fingers and their knives, wiping their greasy hands on their chests and hair with every evidence of approval. Evidently Xylina’s efforts met with their approval, for they stuffed the boneless “meat” into their mouths as fast as they could chew. They reminded her of hawks eating-happy hawks, for the air filled with their easy laughter. Ware looked relaxed, and even Faro seemed pleased with the way things were going. The empty tub came back to her and she filled it again, then left the camp-kitchen to the cook and joined the others at the fireside.

  The Pacha were definitely happy, now, each taking his turn to stop eating and drinking long enough to sing a song. Like their language, their music was surprisingly melodious; they sang without accompaniment other than the drumming of hands on thighs. The firelight shone on their glistening faces and chests, their bright black eyes snapping with pleasure as they ate and drank, dipping their bowls and cups into the tubs of wine. This time, when the tubs emptied, Xylina stood up and conjured them full again before their very eyes, making them exclaim with wonder as the wisps of crimson fog solidified between her hands and turned into a stream of crimson wine that filled the metal tubs. Evidently they saw little of magic, less of conjuration. That comforted her; at least she would not be confronted with alien magic quite yet.

  Faro translated as much of their singing as he understood; mostly it seemed to be songs of each warriors personal prowess, or that of his or her ancestor’s. There was no differentiation between the male and female warriors; they ate and drank and slapped one another on the back in rough camaraderie, but made no kind of sexual advances toward one another. Xylina had already warned her men that they must treat these barbarians as one would a momentarily quiescent wild beast: with care, and with respect. Even if they had been thinking that a drunken Pacha maiden might welcome one of them, they should dismiss that thought completely. And since the Pacha kept all their weapons well to their hands, her men were only too happy to obey her.

  When the sweet cakes and cookies came out, the Pacha were overjoyed. As she had expected, they did not see sweet things very often, and the cakes were a high delicacy for them. Of course, in the afternoon, when they woke up, they would do so with empty bellies-but one night of conjured debauchery would do them no harm, and she doubted that they would know that the food had vanished from their stomachs in a way they were not used to. It would have been a cruel way to treat men and women who were starving-but the Pacha were clearly in excellent shape, and one conjured meal would make no difference to them.

  By now, they were very, very drunk; one or two were unable to hold up their cups, and sat staring stupidly at the fire, blinking owl-eyes at the flames, with their cups dangling dripping from limp fingers. The rest had gotten to the stage of happy carousal, where everything was funny, and there was nothing wrong with the world. She conjured more wine, then thick, blanket-like swaths of fabric for each of them, which she had Faro put unobtrusively near to their hands. As she had thought, they mistook the blan
kets for their own, which were probably still with the ponies, and gathered the fabric about their shoulders against the growing chill of the desert night.

  One by one, they drank their last cups, clutched their blankets a little closer, and dropped off into drunken slumber. At last, the entire circle of barbarians lay snoring, cups and bowls dropped from uncaring hands, spilling conjured wine into the sand.

  She directed two of the defter men to pick up the cups and move the tubs, spilling out what was left of the wine onto the ground. She conjured water to wash the last of it away. She was weary, and she did not want to dispel the wine left in the tubs only to make the mistake of dispelling all of it and leaving her “guests” sober. She had done a hard job of conjuring, and did not trust her control at this point.

  Finally the last of their property was picked up, leaving the Pacha, the ponies picketed nearby, the sole occupants of the fire-circle. And the fire itself was dying down; she did not want to risk an ember popping out and waking anyone, so she did not conjure any more fuel to feed it. Instead, she signaled Ware and Faro to leave their “guests” and follow her to their tent, where bowls of real stew awaited them.

  Faro let out his breath as they fastened the flap behind them. “Were you doing what I think you were doing?” he asked. “Getting them drunk enough that they’ll still be sleeping like the dead when we leave in the morning? That was better than any notion I had.”

  She nodded, and reached for her stew. She was absolutely exhausted, and the stew had never tasted so good before. “I have no idea what their capacity for strong drink is, but as the leader said, that was no wine I gave them. It was at least as strong as the best Mazonite brandy, possibly stronger. I wanted to be certain that they slept through our departure.”

  Ware took his own bowl and smiled ironically. “I nearly gagged on the first swallow,” he said. “It is well that my self-control is as good as it is. And it is good that you thought to make that potion as strong as you did; the Pacha drink a strange concoction of fermented cactus that can easily double as varnish-remover. I have only drunk it once, and I can testify that it is a terrible and powerful drink. I do not think that mere wine would have sufficed for your plan.”

  “I have one guard just on the barbarians all night,” she told them both, blinking sore and weary eyes. “The rest will be watching to make certain that their brothers and sisters do not move upon us in the night.” She yawned hugely. “That is all that I could think to do. Oh, and I have done my best to make those conjurations as strong as I can. I do not know how long they will last, beyond tomorrow night. If luck is with us, our friends may not awaken until two mornings from now!”

  Ware chuckled, and Faro beamed at her with brotherly approval. “Very well, little mistress,” the slave said, warmly. “Let us then take care of the rest of the night, while you take your well-earned slumber.”

  “Thank you,” she told them both, with a weary smile for each. “I hoped I could count on you.”

  And with that, she swallowed the last of her meal, and retired to her pallet just beyond the billowing curtain that separated the dome into front and rear halves. And she was so very tired that she did not even remember lying down upon it-nor did she even think to regret she had left herself too tired to conjure a hot bath.

  The Pacha were still snoring in the morning, and not even the braying of the mules was enough to awaken them. Xylina worried about them, after a moment; if they did, indeed, sleep away the whole day and night, they would be lying unprotected out in the desert heat and sun, and it was possible that they could come to harm.

  Finally she made up her mind. Her conjurations lasted at least one full day and night; by tomorrow morning, they would surely be awake. She conjured water and fodder for their ponies, then surrounded warriors and ponies with a stockade of conjured thorny branches. Last of all, she conjured the materials to erect one of the dome tents over the warriors. If their own people came looking for them, they would see that the Pacha were protected within shelter and a stockade. If anything else was attracted, the stockade should protect them long enough for the noise to wake them. She was sorry to have left the ponies with only conjured food and drink, but she did not see that she could leave them any of her own.

  The tent she made the same red-orange of the earth, so that it did not stand out so much from its surroundings. And when she looked back at it, she saw with gratification that the only thing she truly noticed was the pony herd.

  “Those are nasty beasts the Pacha ride,” Faro commented, as she turned to face the road ahead. “They bit any of our men who came too close. I’d say those barbarians are as safe in that stockade as they would be in their own camp.”

  “I hope so,” she replied. “Because I have the feeling that we would be in as much trouble fromallowing them to come to harm as from harming them ourselves.”

  “True,” Ware agreed. “When they wake they will appreciate the fact that we stole none of their equipment and raped none of their women. We have given them an excellent carousal without harming them, though it will be obvious that we could have killed them had we chosen to. They will realize that we made fools of them, but in a benign manner. That makes a difference.”

  She sent two of the men out to hunt parallel to the road, hoping to stretch their supplies a bit. She cautioned them about trophy-hunting, and after their close view of the Pacha last night, it seemed to her that they took her warning to heart.

  They camped that night with no incident, and without sighting more than a few birds in the air and the occasional jackalope. Those loping, long-eared beasts were about the size of their dogs, and were good eating; both hunters managed to bag a pair apiece to add to the stew. Fresh meat made it far more flavorful and nutritious. Xylina was fairly certain that even this desert country had plants that were edible-after all, hadn’t Ware told her of the Pacha’s cactus-drink?-but without knowing what they were, she was loathe to experiment.

  That night passed without incident, and with no sign of anything but the howling of wild dogs off in the distance. When Xylina made her last circuit of the camp, she saw only the posted guards and one of the female servants going into the soldier’s quarters. Those women tended to sleep by day, evidently being kept busy at night. Once she had awakened from sleep, hearing something by her tent entrance, only to realize that Pattée was quietly visiting Faro. Xylina was almost envious. It was a signal of her gradual accommodation to the realities of this type of mission.

  In the morning, they packed up quickly; the air had gotten progressively hotter as they had traveled the prior day. They wanted to get out of this area as quickly as they could, traveling as much in the cooler hours of the morning as possible. She had already told the men she planned to stop at midday for a prolonged rest, and since the moon was full, she planned to travel past sunset.

  But as they halted for their midday rest and meal, a line of dust heading in their direction signaled that they would not be alone for long.

  By the time she had conjured shelters from the sun, it was possible to make out a troop of riders under that dust. It did not take a great deal of imagination to deduce who and what the riders were.

  This time the Pacha wore red and yellow breechcloths, their ponies sported red and yellow blankets, and the painted markings were crude bear-tracks, parallel lines, and a glyph that looked like a child’s depiction of a flying bird.

  The warriors rode up casually, with huge grins upon their faces, and with none of the wariness that had marked the first group. Their number was almost double that of the first warrior-band. The leader hailed the camp immediately, and Faro translated, grinning more and more widely with each word.

  “These are the Bear Tribe of the Pacha,” he said. “Their cousins, the Thunder Tribe, are the ones we left sleeping. Evidently word of our hospitality has traveled faster than we did-these warriors are here to ‘celebrate our brotherhood, just as you feasted our kin.’ And from what he says, the rest of the tribes all along the
track are expecting the same.”

  “No-” she said, trying not to moan. “Oh, no-”

  “I am afraid so, Xylina,” Ware replied, with a hint of mockery. “You are going to be exercising your conjuration powers to the fullest, I fear. These tribes take hospitality very seriously.”

  “He also says that in gratitude for the feasting, all the ‘civilized tribes’-whatever that means-will make certain that we are not molested by anything other than thunderstorms.” Faro cocked his head to one side. “All things considered, it sounds like a bargain to me. You simply conjure enough meat to stuff these barbarians full, enough wine to drown them, and we pass through their land with no enemies but sun and rain.”

  “You aren’t the one doing the conjuration,” she replied, but secretly she was pleased. Faro was right; it was a bargain. Tribute was better than combat.

  Now she needed only to worry about what lay beyond the next border-and whether she could continue to conjure sufficient wine for an ever-increasing number of thirsty Pacha. If practice really could expand her magic ability, she would soon be formidable indeed.

  Chapter 11

  The numbers of Pacha never increased to the point beyond Xylina’s ability to conjure, but she often went to her rest feeling strained to her limits. She had little time to get to know the men she commanded, and less time to learn anything about Ware. The strategy of feasting and entertaining the barbarian horse-folk never failed to work, however; not once during their crossing of the Pacha lands did the nomads ever seem the least unfriendly. Rather, each new tribe greeted them with the same enthusiasm as the last. It occurred to her that waking up alone and without hangovers after a night of feasting was as convenient for them as it was for the Mazonite party, because they did not have to make any exchange gifts.