The funnel hovered at the level of what remained of Setios's roof. A miniature vortex snaked past Star's erect head, so close that it should have touched her hair but didn't. It was no more than the diameter of a wine jar, spinning widdershins though the main cloud rotated with the sun.
Samlor lay on his back, clutching the medallion of Heqt in his left hand as he watched transfixed. The broken door panel exploded into splinters. They cleared themselves up the shaft of the screaming vortex. The demon flashed out in the grip of the wind, upright and battling momentarily while its hinder claws gouged pieces the size of a man's fist from the stone of the doorjambs. Then the creature was gone, falling upward into the sky in a helix so tight that its limbs had been plucked from the body before it disappeared into the tunnel of lightning.
The tornado was lifting and folding in on itself like a purse whose drawstrings were being tightened. Samlor hadn't seen what happened to the four remaining demons, but they had vanished when he knelt to look around.
"If you are not slack," said Tjainufi in a perfectly audible voice, "then your god will be active for you."
Samlor uncurled his fingers from the amulet of Heqt; but it had not been to the toad goddess that he screamed his prayers in the last in- stants ...
"I thought Mommy's box was empty," said Star as her eyes met the caravan master's "But it wasn't "
The tornado funnel flattened into the overcast almost a mile above Sanctuary Only then did the normal wind return, a huge gust of it, and with it the start of a cold downpour It was as dark again as the inside of a tomb.
But the whorl of hair on Star's temple burned for a moment like the heart of the lightning.
A MERCY WORSE THAN NONE by John Brunner
By lamplight, by firelight, on a winter evening, Jarveena of Forgotten Holt sat at dinner with the less-than-man whose foreign agent she had been for these seven years.
In the years since she had served him merely as a scribe-interpreter, Master Melilot had changed but little He was portlier, admittedly-the satin robe he splashed with grease as he gnawed at the carcass of his third wild duck stretched smooth across his ample paunch-but his suety face was equally innocent of wrinkles and would no doubt remain so till his death
Most certainly of all, his inner nature had not altered Though he was a great deal richer than of yore-Jarveena knew that for a fact, having put several immensely profitable deals his way, and having laid the foun- dations of a fortune for herself-the outward signs of his prosperity were few He was still reluctant to part with money save when it was unavoid- able, food still came to his table from the fire shared between the kitchen and the bindery adjacent to the scriptorium on the entrance floor, and those who clambered up and down the ladderlike stairs with wine jars and full and empty dishes were still the same sort of apprentices, not engaged just now in copying or studying A thousand others would have flaunted their wealth by buying slaves, or installed one of the hoists of late so popular in Ranke, which delivered food piping-hot by way of a shaft sunk in the wall Not Melilot He knew that an excessive display of worldly goods was a sure way to attract the interest of thieves, and he had no wish to be at the expense of hiring armed watchmen It was cheaper to rely, by day, on the constant vigilance of his staff, and by night on the geese he had installed on the roof, in what formerly had been the nauseous dwelling of the drunken nobleman whose ancestors had built this once fine mansion. He had gone to his repose; now the geese could be trusted to disturb everybody's at a nocturnal shout or footfall, a com- plaining bolt, or the creaking of a shutter jimmied open.
Besides, here in Sanctuary, what guards were available were as likely as anyone else to rob their employers if they felt they could get away with their loot.
Despite his visibly good appetite, Melilot was uneasy. As well as Jarveena, another guest sat at his table. It was not his custom to admit strangers to his private quarters. Had the fellow not been vouched for by Jarveena personally, he would never have set foot outside the public areas below.
Yet he had been vouched for in a most disturbing fashion. Had he somehow ensnared the girl-woman, Melilot corrected himself, remem- bering how much time had elapsed-perhaps by magic? Was their pres- ence part of some secret plot against him? It was second nature to all in Sanctuary to think in such terms, from lifelong habit.
Keeping up, between mouthfuls, a flow of gossip as entertaining as might be heard anywhere in the city and a sight more trustworthy than most, given that it was based on what he daily gleaned from the docu- ments given him to transcribe or translate, Melilot studied Jarveena from the corner of his eye. She had changed more than he had in the past decade-and small wonder, given the difference in their age and bodily condition-but she still affected mannish garb, boots and breeches and laced jerkin. She was still, moreover, patterned with vicious scars, though they were far less conspicuous than formerly. Therein lay the reason for her annual returns to Sanctuary, and also why she was not already as rich as Melilot. Spells were not cheap, particularly when one must apply to Enas Yorl for them: one of the three greatest wizards in the land.
Under his care, the lash marks on her hands and arms had faded until they were no more than a tracery beneath her tawny skin-and no doubt elsewhere on her body, for her once unequal bosom swelled identically now on left and right, signifying that the old brown keloid had been spirited away and left her form as shapely as that of anyone her age not yet a mother, and more than most thanks to her active way of life. Oddly, though, she had not begun where most young women would have, with her face as being most exposed to public view. Still, when she tossed her head in laughter at some especially extravagant yam recounted by her host, one might glimpse the hideous cicatrix she could reveal by drawing down her eyebrows, that mark which in the days when she resided here she had used to such effect in cowing disobedient junior apprentices ...
Oh, she had always been a strange one, this Jarveena! He had been positively glad when she decided to take ship away from Sanctuary after that unpleasant episode involving an enchanted scroll, treachery on the part of a trusted officer, and an attempt to assassinate the Prince.*
Yes, indeed. Life was a great deal more comfortable knowing that this unpredictable person, half loyal employee and half explosive spitfire, was safe at sea or bargaining on his behalf in distant ports. The times when she came back to claim her pay, and spend the greater part of it again in a single day, were far from the happiest of Melilot's existence ...
And now she had arrived, for the first time ever, with a companion. Male, at that. Discarding the third duck, belching unrestrainedly and calling for more wine, he shifted his attention to this stranger even as he launched into the best and funniest of the rumors he had lately garnered. It concerned the plight of a rascally sea captain, Stong by name, half mariner, half smuggler, who had taken aboard, all unwitting, both a chestful of silver put long ago by Mizraith under a geas that sooner or later would compel its restoration to its rightful owner, and also the victim of a S'danzo curse designed to drive him away from Sanctuary for all time. He decorated the tale with all sorts of risible detail, much of which he invented on the spot, and Jarveena, relaxed by his good wine, enjoyed it to the full. One of the changes she had undergone during her extensive travels was the acquisition of a keen sense of humor. In her teens she had had little to laugh at, or about.
Her companion, however, made no pretense even of smiling. His glum face remained as impassive as a stone idol's except at reference to the S'danzo curse, whereupon he favored Jarveena with a scowl.
What, Melilot asked himself, could have persuaded her to bring this boorish fellow here? So far he knew nothing about him save his name, and that was outlandish and nearly unpronounceable, something like "Klikitak" except that it ended with a rasp: Klikitagh?
Of course, a few hints could be deduced from his appearance. His shoulders were broad, his chest deep, his hands large and sinewy: the figure of a man of action. Moreover he was of a striking color, for be- twee
n his fair beard and bushy fair hair his cheeks and forehead were windburned to a pale clear red after so many days at sea.
But never in all his life, not even when dealing with some nobleman's illiterate wife desperate to know whether letters brought secretly to her husband and intercepted described her infidelities, had Melilot seen such unalloyed misery on a human countenance Why, even Enas Yorl, sport of a thousand mindless spells that changed his shape, his sex, and now and then his species, contrived to extract a certain wry and resigned humor from his predicament . .
He ended his story, and Jarveena, hooting with laughter, clapped her hands. The pretty ten-year-old girl who stood silently m one corner be- side the wine jug mistook her applause for a signal to replenish their mugs, and made haste to obey Melilot did not correct her He had hopes of loosening the stranger's tongue, and in that project liquor was his chiefest ally
"I note, sir," he said with disapproval that was only partly feigned, "you were not amused by the plight of Captain Stong Is one to take it that it was because you are unfamiliar with crucial references therein, as to the S'danzo curse and legendary Mizraith's skill as an enchanter^ You have the air of a far-traveled man, not acquainted with the ways and notables of Sanctuary."
Klikitagh stirred, and for the first time uttered more than a discourte- ous grunt; he had not even expressed thanks for the generous repast that had been set before him
"No, sir," he returned "Is because in part I can not well to understand your saying "
Hmm' That aroused Melilot's professional instincts What could this fellow's native language be7 The accent was none that he recognized, nor was the curious turn of phrasing Mayhap Klikitagh was literate in some language lacking from the list posted at the door of his scriptorium, though that was longer by three, possibly four, than the best his rivals had to oner If only to learn how to recognize a script he hadn't run across before, it would be worth his while to pick the stranger's brains
Before Melilot could formulate any proposal, however, the other had gone on
"And in other bigger part because is not a matter for make jest, a curse Speak as pitiably victim knowing well from agony anti-justice, cruelness, of making curse against mnocency man, me, self"
That emphatic addition occurs in Yemzed, but never at the end of a sentence . . Oh, I'm really on to something here' Excited, Melilot beck- oned the girl back from her corner to pour still more wine
But Klikitagh refused, covering his mug with a broad palm
"Tired I to sleep Must go, we "
As though taking Jarveena's consent for granted, he gathered the sword belt he had hung on the back of his chair and rose, extending his hand to help her up also.
She ignored it
A sudden angry flush deepened the color of Klikitagh's cheeks He said, "You not-"
"I have business to discuss with Melilot," she cut m "One of the kids will show you to the guest apartment I'll join you later "
Hastily, for fear of Klikitagh provoking a quarrel that. as surely with Jarveena as with any haughty bladesman of the city, might become a fight, Melilot forced his immense bulk out of his chair.
"That is so, sir," he confirmed. "But I assure you I shall keep our conversation as brief as may be " He hesitated, trying to gauge the depth and cause of Klikitagh's ill temper "If perchance you fear I may trespass on some right of intimacy the lady has, for the time being, granted to yourself, I pray you consider the-ah-visible signs of my incompetence m that regard "
Klikitagh's face remained blank Melilot realized he was so nervous that out of habit he had used formal, high-flown terms, incomprehensible to this foreigner He made hasty amends
"It is as Jarveena has said My guest apartment is at your disposal During your stay at Sanctuary I look forward to chatting with you about your native country and its script and language, it would be most inter- esting, indeed a positive pleasure, to hear you on the subject Accord- ingly, rather than dismiss you to some flea-ridden tavern like the Vulgar Unicorn, I suggest you make my home your base until you have com- pleted whatever business brings you here Feel free to come and go ..."
His words trailed away Klikitagh was scowling worse than ever His hand would have fallen to his sword hilt-he had refused to be parted from the weapon, bad manners though it was to bring it into his host's dining room-had Jarveena not caught his fingers in her own, slimmer but almost as strong With a sour gnn she said, "You've upset the poor bastard Not surprising I'll take him away and pacify him, and come back "
"Pacifying" Klikitagh took so long that Melilot, growing drowsy from the fumes of wine, was on the point of postponing further conversation with Jarveena to the morrow-the street outside having reached that pitch of quietness after which almost any noise might set his geese to cackling-when, silent as a shadow, she returned wearing nothing but her skin and slumped back into her chair He noticed that his guess about the keloid on her chest had been correct
"Foof" she exclaimed, though she kept her voice low "If I'd known what a handful Klikitagh can be I'd never have agreed to help him Still, you can't help feeling sorry for the poor devil, can you?"
"Personally," Melilot grunted, "I find it the easiest thing in the world to avoid doing so. What spell has he cast on you, who never before to my knowledge felt sorry for anybody save yourself-and maybe Enas Yorl?"
She pantomimed hurling her wine mug at him, but cancelled the move- ment with a wry smile at his reflexive flinch. The mug turned out to be empty. Glancing around, she saw that the little girl in the corner had dozed off. Remembering, perhaps, the days when she, too, had had to wait on Melilot's pleasure after dinner, she went to help herself. Having taken a swig and topped it up a second time, she resumed her place.
"All right." She sighed. "I guess I'd better tell you Klikitagh's story."
"I'd rather hear about the deals with-"
"Tomorrow will do!" she interrupted. "Or more likely the day after."
"I was afraid of that," the master scribe muttered. "On the first full day of each of your visits to Sanctuary, you invariably have urgent busi- ness ... Still, if this time you can afford to have Enas Yorl charm away the scar on your forehead"-brightening-"you'll no longer present such an alarming aspect every time you shake aside your forelock."
"It's true that I intend to wait on Enas Yorl tomorrow, as I always do." Jarveena wasn't looking at him, but at the fading glories of the painted ceiling, on which the lamps and the flames from the dying logs combined to cast curious and intersecting shadows, as though some ma- gician were eavesdropping on them and letting his attention wander now and then from the spell that assured his invisibility. "But this time, not for my own sake."
"For ... his?" Reaching for his own mug, Melilot was so astonished he almost spilled the contents.
"Yes indeed."
After that there was a lengthy silence, broken only by the occasional sputtering of a jet of gas boiled out from the dampest and longest-lasting log across the fire dogs.
Eventually noise drifted from outside: the tramp of booted feet on cobblestones. One of the night patrols was passing, composed of men trained locally to Hell-Hound standards of discipline; yet even they did not dare to venture abroad except in twos, so lawless and unruly was this premier melting pot of cities. The geese were accustomed to the sound of their passage, and the boss gander marked it with no more than an evil- sounding hiss.
Having watched the gleam of the patrol's lantern approach and fade on the curtains that masked his streetward window, Melilot said, "Are you sure he has not cast a spell on you? Last year you said this was to be the time of your final visit to Enas Yorl, at least for personal reasons. You said that after it your face would be restored to the same condition as your"-he coughed behind one plump hand-"the rest of you."
"I'm having second thoughts," Jarveena muttered. "It's sometimes not a bad thing to be able to turn off an unwanted suitor just by doing this." And she drew her eyebrows down, glaring at him from beneath their two graceful arcs.
At once Melilot's gaze, against his will, was drawn away from the rest of her face and horribly concentrated on the livid cicatrix that marred her forehead and instantly made her handsome features more repulsive than the worst invention of Sanctuary's hawkmasks.
"You haven't done it to him." Melilot suggested.
"Yes. At first. It had no effect. That was what got me interested Klik- itagh." She had perfectly mastered the final sound of the name; Melilot, to his shame, knew that he would have to practice it half a dozen times aloud and in private before he dared address the man directly.
"What, then, followed?"
"The discovery that something worse could happen to a person than what I went through as a child."
For an instant her face reflected memories of long ago and far away. Melilot, knowing what was in her mind, shivered. To have been raped repeatedly, then whipped and left for dead among the ruins of her native village Holt-not for nothing now referred to as Forgotten-when she was no more than nine ... Was that not sufficient horror to enter into anybody's life?
Yet she had found someone who, in her view, had suffered even more. What monstrous events, then, lay in the past of Klikitagh?
Huskily he said, "Tell me his tale."
"Let it begin," she said after reflection, "with the reason why he took offense at your offer of free lodging. I know you'd not have made it had you not expected quid pro quo. It's all, of course, beside the point, but what he might be able to teil you of his mother tongue would be quite useless. Whether he can write I've not inquired; the same applies."
"Still, knowledge of any distant language-"
"Even a dead one? Dead for centuries?"
"What?" Melilot jolted forward on his chair, one careless elbow over- setting his mug-but it was empty, and he lacked the energy to rise and fill it for himself.
"Do you not believe there were great magicians in the past?" Jarveena challenged.
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