If I Pay Thee Not in Gold

by Piers Anthony

  The Queen conjured a spiked metal ball that she hurled at Xylina. Xylina, wary of what else might be coming, stepped aside while conjuring her own matching spiked ball. Sure enough, the Queen’s second ball came at her, and she was unable to dodge it. So she conjured her own second ball in the path of the Queen’s. The two collided in air and dropped to the ground as Xylina threw hers at the Queen. The Queen stepped behind a post, and the ball missed. But Adria looked wary; she saw how readily Xylina was matching her, and she didn’t want to try something that would hurt her when the response came. Xylina was, in effect, teaching her manners.

  This was proceeding into early stalemate. Xylina didn’t trust that. She knew she could not afford to stand around while the Queen figured out something more deadly. But she wanted to force the Queen to use up her power of conjuration. The very best thing that she could do would be to make Adria so angry that she would stop thinking and merely react.

  And the way to do that would be to attack Adria with a weapon that Adria was not expecting, and by her very nature, would not ever expect.

  She must make Adria look ridiculous. While the Queen was still trying to change her plans to include Xylina’s use of the domes as a shield, Xylina concentrated and conjured something of her own above the Queen’s head. Directly above, and so near that Adria would not react by creating anything to shield herself from what was about to drop over her. For the Queen had left Xylina an opening, inadvertently, by remaining under the propped-up block of stone.

  And since this was one of the simpler things Xylina could have conjured, it appeared instantly. On top of the block. Then Xylina dissolved the block, for it was hers. Before Adria even knew that Xylina was launching an attack, she had been buried waist deep in a very large, and very fragrant, pile of manure that lost its support just above her head and fell on her.

  And to add insult to injury, Xylina topped it off with a brief rain of overripe vegetables.

  Of course the Queen reflexively conjured a small shielding tower, so that the material did not land on her head. Such fighting reflexes made it difficult to score directly with barbs or acid, which was why Xylina hadn’t tried them. But the stuff did pile up around her, and enough of it slopped in around her body to achieve good effect.

  There was shocked and startled silence. And then, from the sidelines where the slaves of the army watched-and smelled-came the unmistakable sound of laughter. No one had expected such a joke in such a serious contest, which made it twice as funny.

  Just one man laughed, and slightly hysterical at first- but that one was joined by another, and another, until the whole army was laughing, and the voices of the Mazonite officers trying to restore order were drowned in the sound.

  Adria’s face turned red, then white, then red again; this time an apoplectic-looking purple-red that betokened exactly what Xylina had hoped for. Complete loss of self-control and concentration. Xylina had gambled that the Queen was fatigued by her conjurations and the tension of the occasion, and prone to overreaction, especially to the ridiculous and insulting. Stressed-out, she felt the laughter of her own troops like a physical attack.

  Adria’s next attack showed just how far she had fallen from that self-control; she began manifesting and throwing metal lances, one after the other. If the domes had not been in the way these could have been deadly, but now mostly clattered harmlessly off the adamant. This was basic, unsophisticated conjuration, worthy of a girl’s first arena demonstration-as had been the case with Xylina. It was almost beneath the notice of an experienced Mazonite.

  Xylina’s reply was a deluge of water that washed away the manure, and left Adria’s legs dripping wet. She looked almost as ridiculous as before. The men roared again with helpless laughter, which was redoubled when Xylina dropped an enormous sponge and recognizable bar of soap in front of her. Mazonia had never seen combat like this!

  But Xylina’s purpose was not humorous at all. Her life was on the line, and she knew how dangerous the Queen remained. Adria had attacked once from above and once directly; she would probably come up next from below. Xylina could use that if she did.

  Xylina was prepared when lances of rock thrust up from the sand; she had already created a table-like shield just beneath her feet, and the thrust of the rock spires carried her up into the air so that she could jump from the table to the top of the domes. Before Adria had a chance to react to so obvious a target, Xylina turned the water about her to ice, making the Queen slip and fall when she flinched back, then sent shards of ice lancing upwards in mimicry of Adria’s rock-spires. Now Ware’s insistence that she practice with temperature conjuration was paying off; the Queen had not been prepared for this. Indeed, Adria probably didn’t yet realize exactly what was happening.

  Adria dodged out of the way, slipping ridiculously and causing the men to laugh until tears ran down their faces. She was really losing it-if this weren’t a ruse. Then when Xylina continued to create the razor-sharp ice-spires, the Queen angrily countered with a great pile of cotton batting to protect her from them. This would both shield her from their points and soak up the water as they melted. She was evidently nonplused, realizing that Xylina’s power was greater than anticipated; she had not expected to be forced into a defensive mode.

  “Spin it!” someone called, laughing.

  “No,” Faro called. “Burnit!”

  His voice was like a light illuminating the arena. Yes- she could make it burn.

  This was just what Xylina had been waiting for. Adria had made a critical error. She had surrounded herself with flammable material. She didn’t know what Xylina could do with it. And of course Xylina would not have been able to conjure flammable material around the Queen and ignite it; it had been all she could do to keep Adria at bay. She had to work on one thing at a time. But now that she had her opening, it was time to pounce.

  Xylina got to work. She lay down on the dome, getting as close to the shard as possible, and felt its power radiating out to her. She concentrated as hard as she could, heating the Queen’s cotton. It was hard at this distance, but her recent practice had made it possible. She drew from the shard and conjured a tiny spot of heat.

  “Giving up, child?” Adria called mockingly. She thought Xylina was lying on the dome from exhaustion. She had no inkling what was in the offing.

  It better light soon, though, because the Queen was getting ready to return to the attack. An ominous fog was forming over Xylina. She focused with all her might-and saw a tiny wisp of smoke just behind Adria.

  Then there was a puff of flame. She had done it! The batting was burning!

  The Queen turned, smelling the smoke. “What-?”

  Xylina wasted no time. She knew that the Queen would banish her cotton in a moment, leaving nothing to bum. She had to pounce while she had the flame. So she conjured more fluid.

  This time, what Xylina doused the Queen with was not water. It was naptha. And she followed it with oil.

  The Queen, and everything around her, exploded into flames. They leaped up throughout the area as the oil flowed. It was impossible for Adria to run out of the fire fast enough-not with her oil-soaked legs already burning. There was so much oil that it fueled a fire that reached far into the sky, an inferno. Much more than the Queen must have thought Xylina was capable of conjuring at this stage. So she had been caught by surprise, thinking her opponent no stronger than herself.

  Xylina slid down off the domes to cower behind the adamant as the fireball blasted everything in the vicinity. The Queen’s scream of agony echoed in her ears, and went on for a long and terrible time; she covered both her ears with her hands, and still it echoed in her very soul, until she feared that the echo of it would never leave her, and she would hear it in her dreams for the rest of her life.

  Finally she could not bear it any longer. She conjured one last time; another block of stone identical to Adria’s first attack, a stone which she dropped on the burning Queen, extinguishing blaze, scream, and the last pitiful remnants
of Adria’s life.

  Complete silence descended upon the field of combat, and in that silence, Xylina dissolved the sole remaining dome of adamant and claimed the shard. Then there came a low exclamation of amazement, as the watchers realized that Xylina had actually conjured almostthree times as much mass as the Queen had. Xylina herself hadn’t realized how much, until she paused to ponder. Maybe the mere nearness of the shard had enhanced her power in that respect too. What awful power lay in that little bit of glass! Yet she could not fear it; she loved it, despite her knowledge that it was really doing its will, not hers. It would inevitably corrupt her, and she would be an absolute fool to believe she could resist it indefinitely. But she had to-for as long as she could.

  She looked out over the armies-which now technically belonged to her. She could become Queen of the Mazonites by right of battle. While her association with the demon made her technically ineligible, she could now change that law by fiat. The victor made the law, ultimately. But of course she wouldn’t. That would be early corruption. She could return to her own land,and she could keep the shard. There was nothing that she could not do, but this was all she would do.

  Though she was far from those assembled armies, there was one emotion she read clearly in every pair of eyes, slave or Mazonite.

  Fear.

  The new Queen of the Mazonites tasted her power, and found it a bitter drink. She looked out over her troops, and she said only three sentences into the waiting and frightened silence.

  “I will not be Queen. Go home. All of you, go home.”

  Then she turned and walked wearily back to the comfort of the three who loved her.

  The little rock-walled room was very crowded with five people in it. “My Queen-” Xantippe said, awkwardly. Xylina interrupted her with a shake of her head. She was bone-weary, and wearing the plainest tunic and trousers she owned, simply to try to show Xantippe by her very clothing that she had no intention of taking power.

  “I told you, I amnot your Queen. I am not anybody’s Queen. Do I have to go all over this again?” She sipped cold water to ease a throat raw from weeping. And she was not certain for whom she had wept more-the Queen, the hundreds of slaves slaughtered in this stupid battle, or herself. “Or do you finally understand?”

  “I do not understand, but I know what you want,” Xantippe replied, dubiously. “You want someone else to be Queen; you do not care whom, so long as the new Queen leaves you in peace. You even suggested me! You do not want power. You will sign a treaty with the new Queen that pledges you will remain in Pacha lands and attempt to keep this stone you wear from dragging you off to the main crystal-and in return, you wish some trade with the demons, all of Ware’s property and gold to be accessible to him so that he may build you and Thesius an estate here, and sanctuary for any slaves that escape and make it this far. I do not understand this, but I think that we can pledge it.”

  “Good.” Xylina sighed, and leaned back in her seat, which was now of fine leather and strong velvet. The only spoils of war she had accepted were the Queen’s traveling properties-a luxurious tent and all appointments-and those slaves who wished to remain in Pacha lands and join one of the tribes. She could not grant that wish of her ten dead men-but she could grant it to others. “Xantippe, I wish only to preserve my land and its way of life for as long as I am able. The shard is dangerous. I will not be able to do this forever. Ware tells me that eventually this shard will cause me to turn against you, and on that day, when I cross the border of Mazonia, you must consider me an enemy. But that will be long after you are dead, and probably long after every other Mazonite in this army is dead. For now- just leave us in peace. We will not trouble you, and we will not permit the freed slaves to trouble you.”

  Her eyes flashed for a moment, and Xantippe stepped back a pace. “And remember always, that if you will not grant this as a wish-it will come as a demand that I can enforce. The shard gives me enormous power. Do not force me to use it.”

  “Yes my Qu-yes, Xylina.” Xantippe could not bow, but she did salute smartly, before turning and leaving. Xylina turned to Ware and Thesius.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “If you are asking me whether you made the right decision, I cannot tell you,” Ware replied, truthfully. “If you are asking me if you made an honorable decision-I would say yes.”

  “I would agree,” Thesius seconded, dropping a fraternal kiss on her forehead. “Now-I must see to all those slaves who have been newly emancipated. It is not easy learning to be a free man. Faro would be the first to tell you that, and he is the farthest along of any of them.”

  The handsome blond clapped Ware on the shoulders, and took himself out, leaving Xylina and the demon alone.

  “Was it worth it, beloved?” the incubus asked, his face mirroring a concern he had not shown the two men. “I know how everything since the challenge has troubled your soul. It was I who urged you to all of this in the first place. If I had not done this, entrapped you, gotten you involved-”

  “I would have ended my life a bitter and hateful woman, just like Adria,” Xylina interrupted, taking his hand and kissing it. “If not long since ignominiously dead. And with your help-we have given my people some warning, and perhaps some time to adjust to what will inevitably come. Perhaps this time when the change comes, it may come without terrible cost, death and chaos. And no matter what happens-”

  She took his hand in hers, and looked deeply into his eyes, smiling for the first time in many days. “We will meet it together.”

  AUTHORS’ NOTES

  Mercedes Lackey

  For biographers, I was born in Chicago, June 24,1950. My father was the Chief Computer Programmer, Systems’ Design and Systems’ Analyst for first Sinclair Oil then Arco, nearly from the moment there was such a thing as a commercial computer. I have a Bachelor of Science in Biology with a specialization in ethology from Purdue University; I was for many years a computer programmer on the cutting edge of airline reservations programming, and I am firmly a technophile.

  My husband Larry Dixon and I live in a lovely, heavily wooded area in Northeast Oklahoma, with rising hills and wonderful views. We keep our home acres and two ponds as wild as possible. We are wildlife rehabilitators specializing in raptors and the corvidae, and apprentice falconers. Larry is my “first editor” on everything I do. We feel privileged to have a “partnership,” not only with each other, but with our editors. We believe that the editor and the writer work most successfully when they work together, and we enjoy our editors not only as wise counselors and advisors, but as friends.

  Other than that, we are very private people, and while we don’t feel we are creating High Art, we hope we are creating enjoyable writing, and we prefer to let our work speak for itself.

  Piers Anthony

  I too live in the forest; in fact I live on a tree farm whose pine trees I hope will not be harvested in my lifetime, and whose natural trees will never be cut at all. I am an ardent environmentalist, and in this way I am protecting my bit of the wilderness. We have deer, gopher tortoises, piliated woodpeckers, armadillos, and many other wild creatures, some of whom are becoming unconscionably rare elsewhere. And yes, we have raptors too; large owls and hawks nest near our house and forage in our yard, not seeming too shy; the young will snooze on branches outside our windows. We love it. The outside of our house gets messy with spider webs and wasp nests, because we leave everything alone that leaves us alone. Perhaps my favorites are the dragonflies, green, blue, brown, red, yellow, and two-tone, who will on occasion perch on an upraised hand. They hover marvelously, always wanting to know what I’m doing outside.

  But this is about collaboration. Collaborations come in many varieties, and I’ve done twenty. There is no standard way; each is its own type. Overall, I believe this is my 99th book, so collaborations represent about one fifth my total, and I’m still learning from them.

  This particular one was like an arranged marriage. Collaboration, it has been said, has the pr
oblems of wedlock, without the benefits. That’s why most writers avoid it. But sometimes the vagaries of situation can force such a merger. In effect I went to Jim Baen of Baen Books and said, “Here’s my notion, but I don’t have time to do it myself; can you find me someone to write it?” He checked his prospects and found Mercedes (Misty) Lackey. “But I’m too busy too!” she surely protested. But he had an answer: “You’re the best possible writer for a notion such as this. I wouldn’t give it to just anyone.” So she reconsidered, and

  concluded that she would have to make time. Thus it came to be. No, I never met Misty; remember what I said above about no benefits? My daughter Penny did, however, at a convention, so there was a tenuous connection. Daughters are marvelous creatures. I can’t think why anyone would want to have sons. So Misty wrote it, and then I went over her text. This was no rubber stamp effort; anything with my name on it must meet my standards. I did a complete job of copy-editing and spot revisions and additions, exactly as I do for my own drafts, polishing the novel to my satisfaction and expanding it by ten thousand words. Those who are conversant with Misty’s writing and mine will see aspects of both here, just as both of our ideas are represented. Thus I did the top and bottom of it, the summary and the revision. Picture a sandwich: I’m the two slices of bread. Most of the nourishment is in the center, but without the bread it wouldn’t exist.

  This particular notion had a considerable history. It started in 1979, as an offshoot of my earlier research in the Arabian Nights Tales for another novel. I’m a Nights fan; I have several multi-volume editions. In one of those tales a highborn woman incurred a debt, and the man to whom she owed it suggested that there were ways other than monetary to expiate it. She caught his meaning perfectly, and declared-ah, yes, I see you understand. Thus the title and heroine of this novel. The project had a thirteen-year history as I considered doing it for another publisher. But by the time I had figured out how to organize it, my relations with that publisher had soured, and I had gotten caught up in so many projects that I was writing and selling more than half a million words of fiction a year and still barely keeping up. Thus the compromise, and this is the result.