“Oh, nothing really bad,” Sword admitted. “Some queasiness. Bad dreams, specters, soured milk, a few kegs of ruined beer.”
“Is it . . . will it pass? Could your priestesses say?”
“They thought it would,” Sword said. “There was already some improvement when I left.”
“But then that’s nothing, surely, compared with being able to walk to Willowbank in what, a few hours?”
“Half a day,” Sword said.
“Half a day, then. Isn’t that worth some discomfort, then? A little inconvenience? And it will pass, I’m certain. I’m sure the milk and beer and dreams will all be back to normal within a year.”
This conversation was nothing Sword had expected; he had thought that he and the Wizard Lord would sit down in private somewhere and discuss matters gravely and cautiously. Instead he was in this immense room with at least a score of people listening, and the Wizard Lord was bubbling with enthusiasm, not seeming to hold a thing back. Sword glanced around uncertainly.
Everyone was simply standing there, listening, saying nothing. This was apparently all perfectly ordinary for them. Guards were standing ready, clerks were taking notes, but no one seemed at all surprised by any of it.
And those two other men standing silent on the dais, to either side of the throne—what were they doing there? Why were Lore and Farash inith Kerra here, apparently acting as advisors? Lore’s role as one of the Chosen was to keep the Wizard Lord in check, not to aid him in whatever schemes he might pursue, and the former Boss surely ought to be living in quiet disgrace somewhere far away.
But there they were.
Asking them to their faces why they were there, in this crowd, seemed indelicate. Sword resolved to stay on the subject of road-building for the moment. “Why . . .” he began; then he stopped, cleared his throat, and rephrased the question he wanted to ask. “How is it you came to order the construction of these roads?”
“Well, it’s something you said,” the Wizard Lord said, smiling again. “At the council in the Galbek Hills, when I was chosen to be the new Wizard Lord. You asked whether we really needed a Wizard Lord anymore, since there are no more rogue wizards to be controlled. You said we should see what would happen without one.”
“I remember,” Sword said cautiously. “But they chose you as the new Wizard Lord anyway.”
“Indeed they did, and at the time I thought that was wise. But after further consideration I finally decided that you were right—it’s time to change the whole system. It’s outlived its original purpose. I don’t need to spend my time hunting down murderers and guiding the weather. Ordinary men and women can hunt down outlaws, with a little guidance. And for the most part, the weather can take care of itself, though I don’t mean to imply I’m neglecting it. I’m doing my job and guiding the wind and rain, don’t worry.”
“I wasn’t worried,” Sword said.
“But you see, here we have this immense concentration of magical and political power in the person of the Wizard Lord—at the moment, in me—and we aren’t doing anything with it except maintaining an old system that’s long since outlived its purpose. So I decided to see what else we could do with it, to make Barokan a better place for all of us. I talked to my advisors, and we thought of extending a system of roads out from the Midlands—the Midlands are the wealthiest part of Barokan, and the only obvious reason for that is the relative ease of trade and travel, so that seemed the single best thing we could do.”
“Your advisors.” Sword blinked, and looked at the former Boss, on the Wizard Lord’s left.
The Wizard Lord noticed the direction of his gaze.
“Yes, I decided to ask Farash inith Kerra for advice. I know you two had some sort of falling-out during the campaign to remove the Dark Lord, but still, he was the Leader of the Chosen for a dozen years. I thought he might have some useful insights. And he was eager to share his ideas.”
“I’m sure he was,” Sword said dryly.
Farash inith Kerra, when he was known as Boss, had made suggestions to the previous Wizard Lord, as well, and had tried to betray the other Chosen into traps in the Dark Lord’s dungeon. He and the Dark Lord had planned to set themselves up as the absolute rulers of Barokan. Even before that conspiracy began, Boss had used the magical persuasiveness of the Chosen Leader to set himself up as the master of the town of Doublefall, complete with a palace and a harem of slave girls.
But Sword had not bothered to tell anyone that. He had forced Farash to give up his role and magic, and he had thought that would be enough to render him harmless.
But apparently he had been wrong.
Had the new Wizard Lord not heard what Farash had done? Had no one from Doublefall spread the news? Sword had assumed that the story would be all over Barokan in a matter of months.
Now that he thought about it, though, he had heard no hint of it back in Mad Oak. And he hadn’t said anything; he had not wanted to be bothered with memories of his adventures.
Had Farash somehow contrived to keep it all secret, even after he gave up his role among the Chosen? Or did Artil, the Red Wizard, the Wizard Lord, simply not care that one of his advisors had magically enslaved a town?
And Lore—what was the Chosen Scholar doing up there?
As if guessing his thoughts, the Wizard Lord said, “I also found Lore, to tell me what had been attempted before and what had not, and to make sure I did not transgress any of the boundaries set on my authority. I don’t want to be called a Dark Lord, and either killed or forced into retirement. Since it’s up to the Chosen to determine whether I have followed the rules, it seemed like the simplest sort of common sense to ask you whether my ideas were acceptable, rather than try them out and then worry about a sword in the gut or an arrow in the eye. So I consult with Lore on every major decision, and he assured me that building roads and bridges and ferries and canals did not violate any of the established strictures.”
“I’m sure it doesn’t,” Sword agreed. “I just . . . well, I was worried about whether there might be unforeseen effects.”
“Oh, nothing major, I’m sure! The ler are disturbed, of course, which will cause some temporary problems, and I know it can be uncomfortable for the priests who communicate with the ler, but I can’t see how it would do anything dreadful in the long run.”
“And the Summer Palace? Is it—why is it called that?”
“I would think that would be obvious,” the Wizard Lord said. “Especially when you’re standing here in the Winter Palace on a warm day.” He dabbed a finger against his brow, and Sword could see a faint sheen of sweat.
“Then it’s for your use?”
“Yes, of course. I’m tired of sweltering-hot summers, and as for using magic to keep myself cool—well, you’d be amazed how difficult it is, and how much it disrupts the natural patterns, and the fact is, I’m trying to use as little magic as possible. It’s much simpler to just go somewhere that’s cooler to begin with, and the high plateau is definitely cooler. Not to mention the breeze, and the spectacular view. You can see a hundred miles from up there! So I’ve had the Summer Palace built. In fact, we’ll be leaving to go there for the season in a few days; you almost missed me. It’s only been completely finished this year, and this is the first time I’ll be using it properly. Until now I’ve only visited.”
“But it’s in the Uplands,” Sword protested.
“Yes, it is. But the Uplanders agreed to let me build it there.”
That missed the point, and Sword tried again. “But it’s not in Barokan!”
“Yes, I know that,” the Wizard Lord said gently, as if talking to a child.
“But you are the Wizard Lord of Barokan!”
“And I can see more of it from up there than I can down here. I’m hardly going to be abandoning my duties just because I’m on top of the cliff instead of below it. I can ride on the wind, remember, and fly down here if some emergency requires my presence.”
“But . . .” Sword groped for wor
ds. Building a palace atop the cliff did not break any laws, so far as he knew, nor did it harm anyone, but it didn’t seem right. This was all so strange!
He knew there was some simple, basic reason that the Wizard Lord should not leave Barokan for the Uplands, but before he could put his finger on it, the Wizard Lord spoke again.
“If you’d like to see it, I’d be happy if you would accompany us there,” he said.
Again, Sword was caught off-guard; he stared at the Wizard Lord for a moment, then at Farash, and then at Lore, trying to read their expressions.
He saw Farash was nervous, Artil welcoming, and Lore . . . pleading? But why? Farash probably feared having his past revealed, and the Wizard Lord clearly wanted a chance to show off his accomplishments and ensure that the Chosen approved of them, but why were Lore’s eyes so desperate? What did the Scholar want to tell him, or want him to do?
Well, accompanying them up the cliffs would give Sword a chance to talk to them all, to learn more of just what was happening, not to mention that seeing the Uplands was an experience he had never had. And he did wonder what the view would be like from up there. Even the view from an ordinary ridge could be beautiful; what would it be like looking down from thousands of feet above Barokan?
The Wizard Lord was watching him expectantly, waiting for his reply.
“I would be delighted,” Sword said at last.
[ 5 ]
“It’s natural enough for the Wizard Lord and the Chosen to avoid befriending each other,” the Wizard Lord said, as he flung aside a well-gnawed bone. “After all, the Chosen may find themselves called upon to kill the Wizard Lord, and you can’t expect an executioner to seek out the condemned. But if you think about it, natural or not, there’s a great deal to be gained if we work together.”
“Oh?” Sword said, reaching for his mug of beer. He had the impression that wine was more commonly served at meals in Winterhome, and suspected that the beer was in his honor, since he came from a barley-growing community.
They were seated next to one another at a long wooden table, in a grand dining hall hung, for reasons Sword could only guess at, with the banners of various Uplander clans; Sword recognized several he had seen flying over the great guesthouses to the west of Winterhome’s heart. Sword sat on Artil’s left; to the Wizard Lord’s right was Lore, and beyond him sat Farash inith Kerra. Various other courtiers and officials were seated to either side of this central party, as well as along the far side of the table; all in all, Sword estimated there were about thirty diners present, with at least a dozen young women in the Wizard Lord’s red-and-black livery waiting on them, and guards standing at every door.
“Of course!” the Wizard Lord said. “The eight of you have some amazing magical talents that could be put to good use in improving life in Barokan, but because of the traditional separation you don’t use them for anything except removing Dark Lords, on those unfortunate occasions when they arise.” He picked up his own beer and took a sip before continuing, “I mean, think about it. Lore, here, remembers every true thing he has ever been told! He’s better than a thousand-volume library! And the Archer—he can put an arrow in any target he can see, more or less. That could be used to send messages or documents across rivers, or to carry small objects from one place to another faster than a man can run. The Leader is supernaturally persuasive—she could be of great use in questioning outlaws, don’t you think?”
Sword was too distracted by the pronoun “she” to respond coherently, and the Wizard Lord continued, “I haven’t quite arrived at any constructive use for your particular talents, unfortunately—well, not unless you wanted to be captain of my guard, and I suspect that wouldn’t fit well with your ordained duties as one of the Chosen. I admit it would make me nervous!” He laughed.
Sword smiled reflexively, but he did not really think it was funny; in his present mood he did not think he would find anything funny.
It was not that the Wizard Lord was doing anything wrong, exactly; it was just that he was doing everything differently. A person in Barokan had a role to fill, a place in the world, a way to fit into the great intricate pattern of life that the ler created; people knew what to expect from one another. But this Wizard Lord was not doing anything in the way Sword expected a Wizard Lord to act.
He had mentioned several times now, first in the throne room and then again here at the supper table, that he was trying to minimize his use of magic, and that baffled Sword. Why would the man who controlled more than half of all the wizardly magic in Barokan be reluctant to use it? And he was constantly talking about ways to improve Barokan. The Wizard Lord’s role had traditionally been to protect and preserve Barokan, not improve it.
And now he referred to the Leader of the Chosen as “she.” Sword had not known the new Leader, Farash’s replacement, was female; that, too, hardly seemed traditional. The Leader was supposed to lead the Chosen against the Dark Lords, and that was traditionally a man’s role. Half of the Chosen could be either sex—there was no reason to restrict the Scholar, the Seer, the Thief, and the Speaker to either sex. The Beauty had to be female, of course, and the Swordsman and the Archer had to be male to be strong enough for their roles, and Sword had always thought that the Leader, too, should be male.
But he could not say why, really. He had great respect for female leaders—Elder Priestess back in Mad Oak, the high priestess who ruled Greenwater, and others—but he had still assumed that the Leader of the Chosen should be male.
He was not sure whether he was more bothered by the new Leader’s sex, or by his own reaction to learning of it.
And he could not help wondering if this determinedly untraditional Wizard Lord had influenced the choice, for his own reasons.
“I am a little surprised that you keep Lore so close at hand, in that case,” Sword said. “After all, he may not carry a sword, but he is still one of the Chosen.”
“Oh, but I’m not at all worried by the presence of the Chosen as the Chosen! I’ve done nothing wrong, and if you ever did decide I had become a Dark Lord, I would choose abdication over death. But if you, dear Swordsman, were at my side with a sword in your hand, I might worry that perhaps instinct would get the better of you should I do something of which you disapproved, and you might act before giving me a chance to abdicate.”
“It doesn’t work that way,” Sword said.
“Doesn’t it?”
“No.”
The Wizard Lord glanced over at Lore, who confirmed, “It doesn’t. The very essence of the Swordsman’s ability is control, not violence.”
“Indeed? I’m pleased to hear that!” Artil sat back, grinning.
“You would find the sword at your throat, awaiting an explanation or further threat, not in your heart,” Lore continued calmly.
The Wizard Lord’s smile was suddenly less steady.
“That’s assuming I drew it at all, rather than just asking,” Sword said hastily.
“And wouldn’t you?” Artil asked him, turning to look him in the eye.
“That would depend on the circumstances,” Sword said truthfully. “I don’t draw it frivolously.”
“No? The legends about the Chosen would seem to imply otherwise.”
Sword was puzzled. “I earned my living while traveling by doing sword tricks, if that’s what you mean.”
“No, I was thinking about tales of duels and executions and so on.”
Sword blinked. “Are there such tales?”
“Indeed there are.”
“I don’t remember any,” Lore offered.
The Wizard Lord turned to him. “No? You’re saying they’re all lies?”
“All that I have heard.”
“All of them?”
“I can’t be sure I’ve ever heard any,” Lore replied.
“Oh, but you must have! There are dozens. Not just the usual sorts of stories; besides the supposed bits of history, they range from jokes about jealous husbands to stories where our friend the Swordsman
is used as a threat, a monster to terrify children into behaving themselves. I’ve been hearing them all my life, and surely you have, as well! While I knew they were exaggerations, I had always assumed they had some basis in fact. They’re so widespread—you must have heard some!”
“I don’t remember any,” Lore replied.
“Then every tale I’ve heard about the Swordsman or the Archer killing people in duels or contests, or executing people other than Dark Lords, was false?”
“So it would seem,” Lore replied. “I don’t remember a one.”
“Really! That’s astonishing.” The Wizard Lord turned back to Sword. “Tell us, then, honestly—how many men have you killed?”
Sword stared at him, astonished. “One,” he said.
“Just one?”
“Your predecessor.”
“Ah.” The Wizard Lord seemed discomfited. “No one else?”
“No.” Sword found himself too baffled by the Wizard Lord’s surprise to be really offended. He hesitated, testing his own resolve, then asked, “How many people have you killed?”
“Oh, well . . .” The Wizard Lord waved the question away.
“Fewer than your predecessor, I trust.”
“Yes, of course! I haven’t killed anyone.”
Sword nodded a wordless response.
The Wizard Lord gazed at him silently for a moment, then leaned back in his chair and took a swig of beer. “As the Chosen Swordsman, you could probably kill your enemies with impunity,” he said. ”I certainly couldn’t do anything about it, since I am forbidden to harm you. I find it interesting that you don’t seem to have even considered the idea.”
“I have no . . .” Sword began, and then he noticed Farash, seated three places down the table and listening intently. “I have only one living enemy,” he corrected himself, “and I deliberately chose to spare his life.”
“Ah! No rivals in love, no one who teased you as a child, no one who stole from you, or bested you by trickery?”
Sword shook his head. He had always been big and strong for his age, and had had a fairly pleasant childhood; really, the only ones to ever tease him, or play tricks on him, had been his sisters and his friend Joker, and he had never held any grudge for any of that. “None I haven’t long since forgiven and befriended.”
The Ninth Talisman Page 8
