by James Enge
They ascended several flights of stairs, passing several groups of servants who greeted Charis with every appearance of cheerful respect. Finally they reached a tower room ringed with windows, with a fireplace in its center and two liveried pages in attendance. Charis seated Morlock in a comfortable chair and planted himself in its twin on the other side of the fireplace. He gestured negligently and the pages stood forward.
“May I offer you something?” Charis asked. “A glass of wine? The local grapes are particularly nasty, as you must know, but there's a vineyard in northern Kaen I've come to favor lately. I'd like your opinion on their work.”
“I'm not a vintner. Some water for me, thanks.”
This remark set Charis's eyebrows dancing again. “But surely…” he said, as the demure dark-eyed servant at his side handed him a glass-lined drinking cup.
“I don't drink when I'm working, and I gather you want me to do a job. What is it?”
Charis leaned back in his chair. “Let me begin to answer by asking a question: What do you think is the most remarkable thing about this remarkable house of mine?”
Morlock accepted a cup of water from a bold-eyed blond-haired page. He drank deeply as he mulled the question over, then replied, “I suppose the fact that all the servants are golems.”
The comment caught his host in midswallow. Morlock watched with real interest as Charis choked down his wine, his astonishment, and an obvious burst of irritation more or less simultaneously.
“May I ask how you knew that?” Charis said carefully, when he was free for speech.
“From the fact that all the servants we've met, including your guards, have been golems, I deduced that your entire staff consisted of golems.”
“Yes, but surely, sir, you understand the intent of my question: How did you know they were golems? For I think, sir, as a master in the arts of Making, you will admit they are excellent work—extremely lifelike.” Charis's frank and inquisitive look had something of a glare in it. Clearly he had made the golems himself and was vexed because they had not deceived Morlock.
“Mostly the eyes,” Morlock said. “The golems are well made, I grant you, and the life-scrolls must be remarkably complicated and various. But you can't quite get a natural effect with clay eyes.”
Charis turned his gaze from Morlock to the dark-haired modest page at his left hand. Morlock watched the struggle in his host's face as he realized the truth of the observation.
“What would you use?” Charis asked finally. “If I may be so bold.”
“Molten glass for the eyes proper—the eyeball and the cornea. I'd slice up some gems and use a fan-ring assembly for the irises. You're using black mirror-tube for the visual canals? I think that would work very well.”
“You can't use glass,” Charis said sharply, sitting on the edge of his chair. “I've tried it. The vivifying spell induces some flexibility in the material, but it's not sufficient.”
“It would be necessary to keep it molten until the vivifying spell is activated,” Morlock replied.
“It seems to me, frankly, that the problems are completely insuperable.”
“I can show you,” Morlock said indifferently.
“Frankly, you'll have to. That will have to be part of the deal. Frankly.”
“What deal are you offering?”
Charis leapt to his feet, walked impatiently all around the room, and threw himself back down in his chair. “You have me at a disadvantage,” he remarked. “As you no doubt intended.”
“We both have something the other needs.”
“Thank God! I thought for a moment—no matter what I thought. As you guessed: except for myself, all my household are golems. I do business every day in the city—a very large business in very small spells—and, frankly, when I come home I detest the human race. But I have the normal human desire for a sociable life.”
Morlock, who had none of these problems, inclined his head to acknowledge them. “And the golems are your solution.”
“A most effective one, by and large. Except that I will never be able to look one of the damned things in the eyes again!”
“That can be fixed,” Morlock pointed out. “Also, there must have been something else, or you wouldn't have been looking for me.”
“Yes. Yes. As you noticed, I've been at some pains to give each of my golems a distinctive character, physically and otherwise. A desert of a thousand identical faces and minds would hardly satisfy my social instincts.”
“No golem has a mind,” Morlock observed. “A limited set of responses can be incorporated into any life-scroll.”
“A difference that is no difference, sir. What does it matter to me whether they really have minds or not? If they seem to have minds, my social instincts will be satisfied.”
Morlock thought this unlikely, but did not say so. “Then?”
“The trouble is that, since I inscribed their life-scrolls, nothing they say or do can ever surprise me. You see? The illusion that they have identities collapses. My social instincts are not satisfied. Frankly, it's dull.”
“Then. You would have me make a new set of lifelike golems, at least some of whose responses you will not expect.”
“In an unthreatening and even charming way. Play fair, now.”
“I can't undertake to provide charm,” Morlock said. “We can rule out danger, insubordination, and incivility.”
“Very well. I'm sure I can trust your esthetic instincts. Also, you must show me your method of constructing their eyes.”
Morlock nodded.
“The question arises, ‘What can I do for you?’ I take it that mere gold will not…? No.”
Morlock shook his head. “I understand the Sarkunden garrison still runs scouting missions into the Kirach Kund,” he said, naming the mountain pass to the north of Sarkunden.
“Ye-e-es,” Charis said slowly.
“I can't remain in the empire, as you know. I can't go west—”
“No one goes into the Wardlands.”
“In any case, I can't. I dislike Anhi and Tychar, and therefore would not go east.”
“You intend to cross the Kirach Kund!”
“Yes. It is done from time to time, I believe.”
“By armed companies. Nor do they always survive.”
Morlock lifted his wry shoulders in a shrug. “I have done it. But I was once taken prisoner by the Khroi and am reluctant to risk it again.”
“The Khroi take only prey, never prisoners. You will excuse my being so downright, but we live in the Khroi's shadow, here, and we know something about them.”
“They made an exception for me, once. They may not make the same mistake again. It would be better for me if I knew what the imperial scouts know—what hordes are allied to each other, which are at war, where the latest fighting is, where dragon-cavalry has been seen.”
“I see.” Charis's face twisted. “I have never meddled with strictly military matters before. It will strain my relationship with the garrison commander.”
Morlock lifted his crooked shoulders in a shrug. “You could hire a number of human servants. If—”
“No!” Charis shouted. “No people! I won't have it!” His nostrils flared with hatred; he neglected to move his eyebrows expressively.
“Very well,” he said at last. “I'll get you your news. You make me my golems.” And they settled down to haggle over details.
On the appointed day, Charis strode into Morlock's workroom, unable to disguise his feelings of triumph. “Oh, Morlock, you must come and see this. Say, you've been cleaning up in here!”
A shrug from the crooked shoulders. “My work's done. I hope you like your golems.”
“They're marvellous. I'm so grateful. One of them speaks nothing but Kaenish! And I don't know a word!”
A smile was a rare crooked thing on Morlock's dark face. “You'll have to learn, I guess.”
“Wonderful. But come along to my workshop. The guardsman will be along presently, and I badly
want to show you this before you depart. Oh, do leave that,” he said, as the other began to reach for the sword belt hanging on the wall. “You won't want it, and there's no place for it in my room.”
They went together to Charis's workshop. Body parts fashioned in clay of various shades lay scattered all over the room. There was a positive clutter of arms on the worktable—Charis had mentioned to Morlock at supper last night that he was “on an arm jag,” and now it could be seen what he meant.
Charis worked by inspiration, crafting dozens of arms or legs, for instance, as the mood took him, getting a feel for the body part and creating subtle differences between the members in the series. In the end he would construct golems like jigsaw puzzles out of pieces he had already made, and improvise a life-scroll that suited the body. His other skills as a sorcerer were quite minor, as he freely admitted, but his pride as a golem maker was fully justified.
So far, though, irises had defeated him. In everything else he had proved a ready pupil to Morlock, even in the manipulation of globes of molten glass, a difficult magic. But creating the fan-ring assemblies of paper-thin sheets of gem had proved the most challenging task of Making he had ever undertaken.
His latest efforts lay on the worktable, two small rings of purple amethyst flakes, glittering among the chaos of clay arms. He watched anxiously as the other bent down to examine them.
“Hm.” A hand reached out. “An aculeus, please.” Charis quickly handed over the needlelike probe. The skilled hands made the artificial irises expand, contract, expand again. Finally the maker's form straightened (insofar as it ever could, Charis thought, glancing scornfully at the crooked shoulders), saying, “Excellent. You should have no trouble now making lifelike eyes for your golems.”
Charis sighed in relief. “I'm so glad to hear you say so. Really, I'm deeply in your debt.”
A shrug. “You can pay me easily, with news from the pass.”
“I'm afraid that would hardly cover it,” Charis said regretfully, and pushed him over, onto the table. The clay arms instantly seized him and held him, a long one wrapping itself like a snake across his mouth, effectively gagging him.
Charis carefully swept the artificial irises off the table into his left hand and, moving back, commanded, “Table: stand.”
The table-shaped golem tipped itself vertically and, unfolding two stumpy human legs from under one of its edges, stood. Its dozens of mismatched arms still firmly held Morlock's struggling form.
“I'm sorry about this—I really am,” Charis said hastily, in genuine embarrassment. “When push came to shove, though, it occurred to me that my relationship with the garrison commander simply couldn't take the strain of fishing for secret military information. You've no idea how stuffy he is. Also, I'm not convinced the news would be as useful to you as you think, and you might hold a grudge against me. You've given me so much, and I'm afraid—that is, I don't like to think about you holding a grudge, that's all. So this is better—not for you, I quite see that. But for me. Guardsmen!”
From a side door three imperial guardsmen entered, the fist insignia of Keepers of the Peace inscribed on their breastplates. They eyed the inhuman golem and its struggling victim with distaste and fear.
“Have it let him go,” the senior guard directed. “We'll take him in.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Charis exploded. “This man is the most powerful maker in the worlds, and a dangerous swordsman besides. If you think that he is going to quietly walk between you to his place of execution, you—Look here: let's not quarrel. You'll get your reward whether you bring him in dead or alive. I simply can't risk his surviving to take revenge on me, don't you see? Cut his head off here. That's what we agreed. Don't worry about the golem; it was made for this purpose.”
“They say Ambrosius's blood is poison,” one of the other guardsmen offered quaveringly. “They say—”
“Gentlemen, it is your own blood you ought to be concerned about,” Charis remarked. “This man is lethal. He has been condemned to death by the Emperor himself. You have him helpless. I've paid you well to come here, and you'll be paid even better when you bring his head to your captain. What more needs to be said?”
The senior guard nodded briskly and said, “Tervin: your sword.”
“Hey!” shouted the junior addressed. “I'm not going to—”
“No. I am. But I'm not going to use my own sword. I paid a hundred eagles for that thing, and I don't want it wrecked if his blood eats metal, like they say. Your weapon's standard issue. Give it to me.”
Tervin silently surrendered his sword; the senior guard stepped forward and remarking, in a conversational tone, “In the name of the Emperor,” lopped off the head of the struggling victim. The sword bit deeply into the table-golem; several of the arms fell with the severed head to the floor.
The senior guard leapt back immediately to avoid the gush of poisonous Ambrosial blood, then took another step back when he saw that there was no gush of blood. The headless form in the table-golem's arms continued its useless struggle.
“No,” croaked Charis, his throat dry. “This can't be happening.”
He stepped forward, as if against his own will, and touched the gleaming edge of the severed neck. It was clay. He reached down into the open throat and drew out a life-scroll inscribed in Morlock Ambrosius's peculiar hooked style. The body ceased to move.
“They told me you were cheap,” Morlock's voice sounded behind and below him.
He turned and, looking down, met the calm gray gaze of the severed head that looked like Morlock's.
“They told me you were cheap,” the severed head remarked again, “so I expected this. I am somewhere you can't reach me. Have the information ready when I send for it and I'll hold no grudges. But do not betray me again.”
“I won't,” whispered Charis, knowing he would have nightmares about this moment as long as he lived. “I promise. I promise I won't.” Then he turned away from the suddenly lifeless head to soothe the frightened guards with gold.
That night the unbeheaded and authentic Morlock lay dreaming in the high cold hills north of Sarkunden, but he wasn't aware of it. To him it seemed he was lying, wrapped in his sleeping cloak, watching the embers of his fire, wondering why he was still awake.
An old woman walked into the cool red circle of light around Morlock's dying campfire. He could not see her face. She bent down and took the book of palindromes from Morlock's backpack and flipped through it until she reached the page for that day. She carried it over and showed it to him. Her index finger pointed to a palindrome: Molh lomolov alinio cret. Terco inila vo lom olhlom.
Which might be rendered: Blood red as sunset marks the road north. Son walks east into the eastering sun.
He looked up from the book to her face. He still could not see it. He wasn't able to see it, he realized suddenly, because he never had seen it. Then he awoke.
He opened his eyes to find the book of palindromes open in his hand. It was his index finger resting on the palindrome he had read in his dream.
Morlock got up and restowed the book in his pack. Then he settled down and built up the fire to make tea: he doubted he would sleep any more that night.
He was caught up in some conflict he didn't understand with a seer whose skill surpassed his own. Any omen or vision he received was doubly important because of this, but it was doubly suspect as well.
He much preferred Making to Seeing: the subtleties of vision were often lost on him. In a way, he had made the book of palindromes so that he would have some of the advantages of Seeing through an instrument of Making. He thought the omen pointing him northward was a real omen, and it was possible that this one was, too. But it was possible that one or both had been sent by his enemy to mislead him.
Morlock drank his tea and thought the matter over all night. By sunrise he had struck camp and was walking along the crooked margin of the mountains eastward, keeping his eyes open for he knew not what.
O ne mornin
g, after many days of travel eastward, Morlock awoke to find his pack had been slit and the book of palindromes stolen. He spent some time thinking about why the thief had stolen that one thing, and what the theft might mean. In the end, he shouldered his violated pack, belted on his sword, and took after the thief.
Morlock was a master of makers, not trackers, but the ground was soft in early spring and the track fairly easy to follow, perhaps too easy. The trail led north and east, toward a place Morlock had particularly wanted to avoid.
When the thief's trail took him as far as the winterwood, as he had known it must, Morlock Ambrosius sat down to think. To enter there was to gamble with his life, and Morlock hated gambling: it was wasteful and he was thrifty—some said cheap. Still, there was the book…. And the note. It had been staked to the ground, just next to his slit pack…staked with a glass thorn from the same pack. (The chamber of the thorn was broken and the face inside was dark and lifeless. Another score to settle!) The message was simply a stylized figure of a hand with the fingers pointing northward…toward the forest of Tychar, the winterwood. The meaning was as clear as the slap in the face the symbol represented: Forget your book. It's gone where you can't follow. The note was addressed “Ambrosius.”
So it was someone who knew him, someone bold enough to rob him, someone who had preferred, when he was vulnerable, to insult him rather than kill him. He had a desire to meet this person.
As he sat, pondering the dark blue trunks of the winterwood, he found the desire had not faded.
He kindled a fire with the Pursuer instrumentality. As he was waiting for it to grow to optimal strength, he took off his pack and set about repairing the slit. There was a patch of gripgrass not far away; he spotted it by the long deerlike bones of an animal it had killed. He drew a few plants from the ground, taking care not to break the stems or tear the central roots. He sewed up the slit in his pack, carefully weaving the gripgrass plants into the seam.
