A Handful of Men: The Complete Series

by Dave Duncan

  * * *

  He brooded as he wandered, not noticing where he was headed. Some considerable time later, he realized that his feet ached and he had arrived at Emine’s Rotunda, its great dome gleaming in the moonlight. He had never quenched that thirst, which now thrust itself back into his attention. His throat was a fiery desert.

  He glanced around dubiously. There were few buildings close to the Rotunda, and most of those were unfamiliar to him. They were all dark, too. But the door of the Rotunda itself was open, and a faint glow showed through it. Most probably there were workmen toiling there, installing the new seating for the coronation, or something. He knew the building well, including its many cloakrooms and antechambers.

  He plodded up the steps and went in. The light came from a discarded lantern just inside the door, standing on a stack of timber beside some sacks of what seemed to be plaster. He could hear no sawing or hammering anywhere. The workmen had most likely slipped away to steal a look at the imperor’s garden party. Taking the lantern, Umpily went in search of water. He found some in the first room he tried and enjoyed a long, refreshing drink.

  Then, moved by a vague curiosity to see how the alterations were progressing, he wandered farther into the great warren. Craftsmen’s supplies were piled everywhere: stone slabs, rolls of fabric, lumber, ladders, mysterious barrels. When he reached an entrance to the main auditorium, the Rotunda itself, he was much annoyed to discover it locked against him. He back-tracked, detoured along more cluttered corridors until he had reached the next quadrant, and there he tried again. This time the great door swung open at his touch. His lamp flickered twice and died.

  He cursed under his breath. Finding his way out again in the dark would be hazardous. The Rotunda itself was bright enough, with moonlight pouring down through the panes of the great dome, and since he was here he might as well look — he advanced along the canyon between the banks of seats. He squinted uncertainly. He seemed to be seeing the Opal Throne on its dais in the center, straight ahead. He should not be able to. The four warden thrones that had once stood at the end of the entrance passages had all been destroyed the night the usurper came, but the Covin had replaced them, hadn’t it? Yes, of course it had! He had seen the replacements at the fake Shandie’s spurious enthronement ceremony, for there had been thrones for the imposter wardens to occupy. They had been there when he watched the imposter address the Senate, too. Or at least Umpily could not recall them being absent, nor anyone commenting that they had been missing. They must have been there! They might have been taken away to make more space for the coronation.

  He emerged from the canyon where the seating reached floor level. The great amphitheater was awash with silver light and quiet as a tomb, banked seating soaring up from the arena’s perimeter to the base of the dome. The Opal Throne smoldered in uncertain greens and blues in the exact center. From its dais, the four points of the mosaic star ran out to the lower platforms where the thrones of Four had stood for three thousand years: red, white, gold, blue.

  They were there now, and they weren’t there.

  Ah! It was that Evilish enchantment of Olybino’s again. The replacement thrones were sorcerous, apparently, and Umpily could simultaneously see them and not see them. That was all! He felt oddly relieved to have solved the mystery. Mysteries upset him. He poked a finger gingerly at East’s throne. He felt the clammy touch of gold. He stroked it. Yes, only his eyes could detect the illusion; his other senses were deceived. That was why he had not been able to hear Ashia’s hysterics.

  The new seating for the spectators was coming along very well. Both eastern quadrants were complete, resplendent in the new green. Northwest was still in its shabby old purple plumage, while southwest was a confused mess, halfway between caterpillar and butterfly perhaps.

  He stared thoughtfully across at the Opal Throne. It was facing east now — someone gave it a quarter turn each day, but he had no idea who. Probably there was some hereditary office involved. Just for a moment he was tempted to go and sit on it. Just for a moment. See what it felt like to be imperor.

  He didn’t. It would seem like sacrilege.

  A year ago he had been granted a vision of Zinixo sitting there, in the center of the world, but that prophecy had never been fulfilled. It had been a warning only, not intended to be taken literally.

  Oh, how he wished he had taken it a great deal more seriously at the time! They had all been at fault there. Acopulo had been advised to seek out Doctor Sagorn and had done nothing much about it. Of course Ylo had claimed to have found the woman he had been shown — lusty young Ylo was not the sort of lad to ignore a hint like that, and ten to one he had bedded her on his first attempt — but had Shandie ever located the boy of his vision? Umpily had no idea, and would likely go to his grave without ever knowing the answer. He wondered sadly how his former friends were doing now, and where they all were.

  His occult view of the Opal Throne had not been from this level. Around to the right a little, and six or seven rows up… Moved by sheer whimsy, Umpily turned to the nearest stairs and climbed. Yes, about this height — along about here, maybe?

  He sat down and studied the angle. Close enough. He yawned. One empty throne, no dwarf. And that was just as well! Zinixo was occupied elsewhere, playing puppeteer at the garden party, so here was as safe as anywhere, for the moment. These new seats were a big improvement. Gods, he was tired! His eyelids drooped.

  5

  Shivering and covered with goosebumps, Gath strode over the coarse grass of Nintor, all alone. Behind him trailed his shadow, stretched and gaunt, as if reluctant to follow him into danger. He was barefoot, clad only in leather breeches too large for him, bunched at his waist by a thong. The cold wind ruffled his hair. If Mom saw that hair now she would tell him to get it cut — it was a terrible bush, and yet it was short compared to any other man’s on the island. Real jotunn hair didn’t stand on end like his. She would scold him for his dirty feet, too, and for not dressing more warmly. He decided he wouldn’t mind a bit of mothering at the moment. That was a very unmanly thought, but his was the only chin on Nintor without whiskers and Nintor was a long, long way from home.

  The sky was a sickly blue, and cloudless. Straight ahead stood the peaks of Hvark, with Frayealk the most conspicuous. Frayealk lay due north of Nintor, Twist had told him, and the sun cleared the summit one day in the year. It was very close now, moving eastward of course. When it stood directly over the mountain, that would mark midnight and the start of Longday.

  The jotnar were already gathered at the Moot Stow — thanes down on the floor of the hollow, their followers assembled on the slopes, all unarmed. They had been singing ancient hymns, waiting on the sun. One by one the sorcerers had slunk away unnoticed. Gath could see a few of them ahead of him still, pale figures moving north over the tundra. Thewsome had told him to follow when the sun was one handsbreadth from the peak.

  He had an astonishing faith in Gath’s courage.

  Those last few sorcerers were still in sight ahead, all walking alone, heading for the Commonplace, whatever that was. They all seemed to be able-bodied young men, just a random selection from the thousands of jotunn raiders now infesting the island. Doubtless many were not what they seemed. Some would be women, Twist had said.

  Which were the wolves and which the sheep?

  The sun was almost over Frayealk.

  The effort of not using prescience was starting to give Gath a headache.

  The standing stones of the Place of Ravens were just off to his right. If somehow the Gods ever did take him back to Krasnegar, then he would be able to brag to his jotunn friends about seeing the holy of holies. They would want all the details, though. How could he ever admit that he had been so close and not seen it properly? It would not take him far off his path. He risked a peek at the next few minutes and knew that there was nobody up there. The sorcerer stragglers were still in plain view. He changed direction slightly.

  A few minutes later he stepped b
etween two of the towering monoliths. There was nothing to see, only a circle of weathered boulders, larger than he had expected, maybe. And grass. Any cemetery was as exciting. There were no ravens in sight, just a few seagulls sitting on the stones at the far side, preening themselves. Was the grass a little greener within the circle, perhaps — fertilized by the blood of thanes? No, that was just the long shadows of the rocks.

  He shrugged, shivering in the wind. Midnight sun. Should he cut across the edge of the circle? Peek…

  No!

  He would cut his feet if he tried that. The long grass was full of bones, old and brittle, weathered white. He saw a skull and then two more. There was a hazard he had never thought of! The combatants fought naked, or almost naked, and certainly barefoot. How many fatal duels had been decided by a careless misstep — tripping over a pelvis or planting a foot on a sharp vertebra? The skalds’ sagas would never stoop to mentioning that hero so-and-so had lost his head because he had stubbed a toe.

  Cutting across the Place of Ravens would be unwise, perhaps even sacrilege. Gath went back out the way he had come in, and hurried around the outside.

  Frayealk came in sight again. The sun was over the mountain. It was almost past the mountain. Longday had begun.

  The wind faltered for a moment and he thought he heard a distant roar. Then it had gone. Had that been the sound of surf, or was the moot in open bedlam already? The vote for war would take no time at all, Thewsome had predicted. Choosing a leader would be another matter.

  In sudden alarm, Gath quickened his pace, eyes scanning the green slopes ahead, squinting against the low sun. Where were his guides? He had no idea what the Commonplace looked like — Thewsome had just said he couldn’t miss it. If he did miss it, he was going to seem like a complete idiot. Worse! He would look like a coward! There was nobody else in sight. He was completely alone.

  He began to run.

  Then he forced himself to drop back to a fast walk again. Panic would not help, and he certainly did not want to arrive panting and sweating. Peek again — Yes! He was going to find it!

  And there it was. Couldn’t have missed it, even without prescience. He’d mistaken it for a hillock, but it was too regular to be natural, a flattish dome with grass growing over it. In a few minutes he was going to notice that the turf had been trampled by many feet, converging into a path. Recently, too. The entrance was a low cave mouth in the south side. The Commonplace looked very much like some ancient, forgotten tomb.

  The future inside it was a blank, meaning it was shielded, so there was no mistake, this must be the Commonplace. The first danger, Twist-Thewsome had said, was that he might not be allowed in, for he was not a sorcerer.

  Horribly conscious of his pounding heart, Gath raised his chin and strode toward the doorway. Dad would approve, wouldn’t he? He could hear nothing except the wind in the grass. He could see nothing within except darkness.

  He stumbled down a gritty slope and stopped when the passage widened into a chamber. Not even a sound of breathing broke the age-old silence. A quick peek of prescience told him there were people there, though. They were probably all looking at him. He was against the light of the door, and sorcerers could see in the dark anyway. He could see nothing of them. He waited. The air was icy cold and earthy-smelling, the ceiling oppressively low.

  Dazzled from staring into the sun, his eyes took a moment to adapt. Then he began to make out a spectral shape glimmering before him, a glowing outline of a head… Argh!

  Sorcery? No, trickery! It was only a man, lit from behind by a single beam of sunlight. His hair and beard and bare shoulders burned with golden fire and the rest was darkness. He must be even bigger than Thewsome.

  “Who comes?” he demanded.

  Gath jumped and clenched his fists. There was no echo. Why not even the sound of breathing from the onlookers?

  “Who comes?” demanded that voice again, louder, more threatening. It was a deep, very male voice.

  Never in his life, Gath thought, had he ever been really scared before. Not like this.

  “Gath.” Twist must have told them he was coming.

  “Who?”

  God of Courage! Why had Twist not given him more instructions? Gath took a deep breath. Might as well be hung for a horse as a pony, Dad always said.

  “I am Atheling Gathmor of Krasnegar, son of Thane… son of Rap Thaneslayer.” Was that stupid or smart? He swallowed with difficulty and added, “I come in peace.”

  “You’d surely scare the piss out of me if you didn’t!”

  Sniggers ran off into the darkness.

  That had been another voice, a youth’s voice, or a woman’s. Gath’s eyes were adjusting to the gloom. The circular chamber was about ten paces across. He could see the shapes of people — vaguely, just indications of pale jotunn chests, silver hair. They were sitting all around the walls, on a bench, perhaps, tightly packed together. Some were smaller and darker than others, more covered — women?

  “Gods’ bullocks!” roared the very large man — a very angry one, too — standing in the center. “Stripling, you blunder in where you are not invited. State your business or pay the penalty!”

  Where in the Name of the Good was Twist? He had not warned Gath of any of this. Perhaps he had not known what to expect, because of the shielding. He had certainly not suggested having a speech ready.

  Wiser not to. Would have scared him away completely.

  The sheep and the wolves. The herd and the pack. The pack was united, loyal to Zinixo and the Covin. The free sorcerers had no leader, Twist had said. Being jotnar, they would take hours to choose one, if they could ever agree, and by then it might be too late.

  That was why Gath was here. He was to be a rallying point, a symbol. Bait.

  Faces were becoming visible — unfriendly faces. Yes, some women. Some very old men. One or two hale warriors. Several cripples, but still Gath’s frantic searching had not located Twist. Not a smile in the place.

  “Come here!” demanded the man in the middle of the chamber. He was standing on a low slab, of course. Even without that, he was big, his flaxen head almost touching the stones of the ceiling. His glare was visible now. Gath had often seen its like in Krasnegar, and blood had always flowed right after.

  A few firm strides put him directly in front of the speaker, and his eyes were lower than the giant’s furry chest. The sunlight was shining in through a shaft in the roof, and now it stabbed over the man’s shoulders into Gath’s eyes.

  “Say what you expect of me, son of Rap Thaneslayer!”

  Gath breathed a silent prayer. This was going to be suicide! He looked up defiantly. “I want you to do homage.”

  “To you?” roared the jotunn.

  “To my da — I will accept your homage to, er, for my father, who is leader of the battle against the Aim… the dwarf…” Gath swallowed again and wiped sweat out of his eyes. Why was he so wet outside and dry inside? He desperately wanted to peek at the future, but his prescience would be detected and might seem like cowardice.

  The jotunn raised a fist the size of a small anvil, right in front of Gath’s nose. “Tell me why I should kneel to you, boy!”

  Speech!

  Gath put his hands on his hips and shouted up at him. “Would you sooner kneel to a dwarf? You know the war that hangs over us! Some of you here are votaries of the usurper and are planning to enslave all the rest of you. Your only hope of remaining free people is to join the army my dad leads. Him and the imperor and the wardens against the dwarf.” Gods, this was coming out all muddled! He should never have mentioned the imperor! “The Protocol doesn’t protect the jotn… us… anymore. If the thanes go to war this time, they’ll be fighting against sorcery. My dad has promised a new protocol, which will stop votarism. You can trust him. I want you to help. He’s fighting for freedom. Your freedom, too.”

  Gods, that had sounded really awful! He’d fouled it all up! Why hadn’t Twist warned him he would have to make a speech?

/>   “That’s it?” the big man snarled, his breath reeking of fish and sour beer.

  “That’s it!” Gath said, and braced himself to be knocked senseless.

  “Sounds like a smart move.” The big man stepped back, off the plinth. “Get up there.”

  Bewildered, fighting not to use his prescience, Gath stepped up on the flat rock. The sunbeam dazzled him. He felt shamefully shaky and his eyes were still not level with the sorcerer’s, but then the big man dropped to his knees and raised his great hands, palms together as if in prayer.

  “I am Drugfarg son of Karjiarg and I am your father’s man,” he said loudly.

  For a heart-stopping moment Gath stared down at those huge hands, while his mind whirled in search of the correct response. He found it in a faint memory of one of the fairy-tale plays that Kadie wrote and made all her friends perform at Winterfest. The words he would have to invent, but he recalled the gesture. Kadie knew all that sort of stuff.

  He clasped Drugfarg’s hands between his own. His were colder.

  “In the name of my father, Rap Thaneslayer, I accept your homage, Drugfarg son of Karjiarg.”

  The giant waited.

  There was more? Oh, yes. Gath bent to grip the sorcerer’s meaty elbow and raise him. Of course he could no more have truly lifted Drugfarg than he could have drunk the Winter Ocean, but that was the correct gesture. Drugfarg rose smoothly to his feet and stepped back without a smile or a word. He turned his back and walked away. Another man rose and came forward to take his place. Older and smaller, he also knelt before Gath and raised his hands.

  “I am Gustiag son of Prakran and I am your father’s man.”

  Gath bent to clasp the hands. His mind turned cartwheels. He was accepting the homage of sorcerers! There must be sixty or seventy of them in this chamber.

  “In the name of my father…”

  Sixty or seventy sorcerers! Not all of them would be willing to do homage to him, of course. Members of the Covin would not They could not, for they were already bound to Zinixo — and they could not just pretend. Twist said, because in something like that they could not deceive the others. So when the sheep had all lined up behind Rap’s deputy, leaving the wolves…