The Ninth Talisman

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “What happened between you and Old Boss, Sword?” Lore asked, interrupting. “I don’t remember anything you said about it, and we both know what that means.”

  “It means I didn’t tell you the truth,” Sword said. “I didn’t tell you much of anything, really. I didn’t directly lie to you, that I recall.”

  “Lying by omission is still lying, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe,” Sword said. “I’m really not sure of that.”

  “Whether it is or not, I’d like to know what happened.”

  “Ask him, then; he might even admit it.”

  “That’s hardly a satisfying response.”

  “Well, it’s what you’re getting, for the moment; I’m just not ready to tell you more yet. Maybe soon.”

  “It wasn’t just that he was careless and overconfident, was it?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think you’ll ever be ready to tell me?”

  “Oh, probably. Just not yet.”

  “I answered your question.”

  “Confirming what our friend Artil had already told me, yes. Thank you. And I do have another question.”

  “Oh?”

  “The Wizard Lord asked me to talk to the Beauty about his plans.”

  “Ah. And he told you I’d refused.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you want to know why.”

  “Yes.”

  Lore contemplated Sword for a long moment, then said, “I’ll trade.”

  Sword sighed. “I thought you might say that.”

  “And?”

  “And I’ll do it. Why did you refuse?”

  “Have you forgotten the effect the Beauty has on men?”

  “No, but . . .” Sword paused.

  To some extent, he had forgotten the effect she had on men who were not somehow protected from her magic. While she was the most beautiful woman in the world to anyone, himself included, she was even more than that to ordinary men. She was irresistible, a creature whose appearance could cause a man to forget everything else, whose merest whims were commands as long as she remained in sight. Even men who would not otherwise take an interest in women were drawn to her. Women tended to be overcome with envy at the sight of her.

  The Chosen and to some extent the Wizard Lord were immune to her magic, though her natural charms were enough that Sword, Lore, Bow, and even Old Boss had found themselves maneuvering to get close to her, listening to the sound of her voice as if it were music, and staring at her without meaning to. Other people could fend off her powers by wearing or carrying ara feathers, which blocked or weakened most forms of magic, but most men would be overwhelmed by her presence. That was why she lived alone in Winterhome, where the customary garb for women effectively concealed her charms.

  “She couldn’t come to this palace,” Sword said.

  “No. The guards and staff would fall to pieces at the sound of her voice, or if she took the scarf from her face. And before he would permit her into his presence, the Wizard Lord would insist on having her searched, just as you were, to make sure she wasn’t planning to stab him with a hidden knife—after all, that was how the Dark Lord of Kamith t’Daru died, with a Beauty’s blade in his chest. But who could do that? Who could search her safely and effectively? So she can’t come here, and can’t speak directly to the Wizard Lord; her refusal to see him was just common sense.”

  “He could talk to her through an animal.”

  “I think he may have tried that. If so, it didn’t work. I suppose she refused to talk to him.”

  “But why won’t you see her?”

  “What good would it do? She won’t come out of hiding, and she isn’t going to kill him without the cooperation of the rest of the Chosen.”

  “But what harm would it do?”

  Lore took a moment before replying. “I don’t think you see, Sword, just how precarious my relationship with the Wizard Lord is. Helpful and enthusiastic as I may be—and I am not always all that enthusiastic—I am still one of the Chosen, the group charged with the right and the responsibility to kill him if he exceeds his bounds. I don’t want to bring him bad news. I don’t want to argue with him. I don’t want to do anything to remind him of what the Chosen are chosen to do. If Beauty were to sway me and convince me that the Wizard Lord is doing something wrong, what would my choices be? I could tell him that he must abandon his cherished plans, and he would attribute it not to my own good sense, but to the Beauty having seduced me into a conspiracy against him. Or I could refuse to return here, and he would see that as a sign, once again, that the Chosen are coming to remove him. Neither of those is an attractive option.”

  “Is he that worried about the Chosen?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why would she sway you? You know far more about his plans than she does!”

  “It might be that I am too close to them to see flaws that she will notice. Remember also that my perceptions are skewed by my magic—I remember everything I am told that is true, but I can forget lies. That means that sometimes, I remember the good and true parts of someone’s plans and forget the errors and deceptions. Oh, it’s not common, and I try to guard against it, but it can happen, and it can give me an unjustly favorable impression of a situation.”

  Sword stared at him for a moment. “I never thought of that,” he said at last.

  “There’s no reason you should, but I live with it every day. All of us among the Chosen have our difficulties, some more subtle than others—poor Babble lives with a constant flood of voices she can’t shut out, Beauty must shut herself away from other people, those are obvious, but I live with the knowledge that I may be misjudging people because I remember them as more truthful than they really are. The Leader can’t trust anyone else’s assessment of his decisions—or rather, her decisions, now—because her magical persuasiveness makes them much too prone to agree with even the stupidest blunder. And I sometimes think Bow sees everything as a target. I suppose you must have your own problems, though I confess I don’t know what they are.”

  “I’m not sure I do, either,” Sword replied. “But still, suppose the Wizard Lord’s plans do not have any flaws that Beauty has noticed. What then?”

  “Subtle again. Why, then the Wizard Lord would expect her to help him, to serve him in convincing others to cooperate with him. And I think it’s very obvious how she could do that, if she wanted to.”

  “Simply by asking them and smiling, in most cases,” Sword said.

  “And what would happen if she refused to do this?”

  “The Wizard Lord would assume she actually opposed him and was preparing to remove him.”

  Lore nodded and held up a finger. “Exactly. You have come to understand the man’s mind, as I have. And would she agree to help him by seducing his opponents?”

  “No. Never.” Sword knew Beauty better than to think she would ever do such a thing; she would never use her magic for anything but its intended purpose of aiding in the removal of a Dark Lord.

  “Very good. You understand her mind, as well.” Lore lowered the admonitory finger. “And besides, Sword, I don’t want to see her. It would be an exercise in frustration. I like her, and I’d like to know her better, but that isn’t going to happen.”

  “Oh.” Sword felt like an idiot for not having considered that, but then another thought struck him. “But why isn’t it going to happen? I’m too young for her, but you’re not. You’re a little older than she is. And you’re one of the Chosen, so her magic isn’t an insurmountable issue.”

  “Sword, we traveled together for months, remember?”

  “Yes, and Bow demonstrated that he was a boor she wanted nothing to do with, and she and Old Boss didn’t get along very well, but I didn’t notice you having any great problems.”

  “You didn’t notice any great successes, either. You were the only man among the Chosen she found attractive, your youth notwithstanding. And yes, I know that part of that attraction may have been your youth, and the reputati
on that goes with your role, and that the attraction wasn’t enough to overcome the difference in your ages, but really, Sword, don’t you think I’d have seized on even the slightest hint that I might have a chance with her, once you were gone?” He shook his head. “She isn’t interested in me, and to go to her as the Wizard Lord’s messenger and errand boy would not help, and I would prefer not to put myself through that particular form of humiliation.”

  Sword was not absolutely convinced that Lore’s assessment of the situation was correct, but he had no coherent evidence or argument to the contrary to present. He had not seen any sign that the Beauty had any interest in the Scholar, and he had to admit it was a rational enough reason, when combined with the rest of it, to refuse to talk to her.

  And the rest of it, the whole discussion of what might come of such a conversation, suddenly struck home.

  He had said he would talk to the Beauty, and almost everything Lore had said about the possible outcomes applied to him, just as it did to Lore.

  But no, he corrected himself; he had not said he would talk to her. He had said he would need to think about it.

  But if he went back to the Wizard Lord and said he would not talk to her, the Wizard Lord would want an explanation. Lore had refused, and had apparently not explained why . . .

  “What did you tell Artil?” Sword asked. “When he asked you to talk to her, I mean.”

  “I said it wasn’t my place.”

  “He accepted that?”

  “What could he say?”

  Sword considered that. He suspected that if he tried the same thing, and said that after thinking about it he felt it wasn’t his place, the Wizard Lord would not appreciate it—especially since he might well know that Sword had spoken with Lore; he hadn’t made any attempt to keep this conversation a secret.

  He would suspect conspiracy. That would not be good.

  And furthermore, Sword realized, he wanted to speak to the Beauty—not as the Wizard Lord’s advocate, but just for himself. He wanted to see her again, and hear her voice, even if they could never be more than friends and compatriots.

  “That’s my side of the bargain,” Lore said, interrupting Sword’s thoughts. “Now for yours.”

  “Oh,” Sword said. He paused and looked around.

  They were alone at the door of the throne room; the passage was empty, the throne room deserted.

  “Come in here,” he said, “where we won’t be heard.” He took Lore by the sleeve and pulled him into the throne room.

  “The Wizard Lord could be listening anywhere, you know, through a spider or a mouse,” Lore pointed out. “We don’t have the Seer to warn us here.”

  “Yes, well, I already told him,” Sword said. “But I don’t want rumors running rampant.”

  “Ah.” Lore glanced around as the two of them took up a position in the center of the great empty room, well away from all walls, doors, and windows, as well as the dais and throne.

  Sword leaned close and whispered, “I should have noticed something much sooner, but do you remember when we reached the Dark Lord’s tower, and Babble was wounded, so you and Seer and Beauty took her to the wagon to be tended?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And Bow, Boss, and I went on into the tower, and Boss said the Wizard Lord must be in the dungeons and cellars?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, Bow and I went down the stairs, and got separated, and there were traps set down there. The Dark Lord had built corridors with hidden doorways and had his maids waiting, ready to slam the doors and entrap us. It worked on Bow, and he was sealed in down there in the dark, but I heard them in time, and caught my sword between the doors before they could close, and forced my way out. If Galbek Hills had used big strong guards like the ones around here I might not have been able to do it, but he only used girls because he was worried about the Beauty turning his servants against him. I was able to overpower the two maids and lock them away.”

  “Bow had told us part of that,” Lore acknowledged.

  “Yes, well, when I realized it had been a trap I went back upstairs, looking for Boss, and I realized he had never tried to follow us down at all. He had gone up, up the stairs to the top of the tower. And I followed him up there and overheard him talking to the Wizard Lord about how they had fooled us all, and how Bow and I were safely locked away in the dungeon and it was time to call in the others and trap the rest of you as well. He had been conspiring with the Dark Lord all along, plotting to lock us away. They didn’t want to kill us, since that would destroy part of the Wizard Lord’s own magic, but holding us prisoner would leave the two of them in a position to do anything they pleased, and to enslave all of Barokan, just as Farash had already enslaved Doublefall with his own magic.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, yes. Old Boss had a palace and a harem back in Doublefall, and the entire town waited on him hand and foot. And he had deliberately talked the Thief out of accompanying us, because he knew she could probably avoid their traps and escape from any prison, but he did it so subtly we didn’t even realize he had.”

  “That’s . . . that’s . . .”

  “So I burst in, took them by surprise, killed the Wizard Lord—and that was enough of death for me. I let Farash inith Kerra live, on the one condition he swore to give up his role as the Leader of the Chosen. Which he did, but now I come here and find him advising the new Wizard Lord, and he tells me that before passing on his role as Leader he ensured that the people of Doublefall would forget any harm he had done them and remember only the good.” Sword’s voice rose from a whisper to a growl on this final sentence. “He swears he has reformed and will never again harm an innocent, but you will forgive me if I am not entirely convinced.”

  “Does Artil know this?”

  “He does now. And so do you, and I trust the two of you will keep watch over him.”

  Lore nodded, straightening up from the crouch he had assumed while listening. “I will endeavor to do so,” he said.

  “Good.” Sword clapped him on the shoulder. “And I intend to go speak to the Beauty, before I lose my nerve.”

  [ 8 ]

  The Beauty’s home, a quarter-mile north of the plaza, was much as Sword remembered it—a cozy stone-and-wood house with small, tightly shuttered windows and a blackened oak door. He stepped up and knocked.

  The last time he had come here uninvited he had been accompanied by Old Boss and the old Seer, and the Seer had been able to tell them where Beauty was in the house, whether she was coming to answer the door or not. This time Sword had no such magical information, but could only wait impatiently, wondering whether his knock had been heard, whether the Beauty was even there.

  He knocked again.

  A moment later the door opened a crack, and a scarf-wrapped face peered out. Two beautiful green eyes blinked at him, and then the door was flung wide. “Sword!” she said. “How good to see you! Come in, come in!”

  Somewhat startled by this enthusiasm, Sword obeyed. He had expected to be allowed in, but he had not anticipated this positive a reception. “Hello, Beauty,” he said.

  The familiar hearth was cold and dark; no one needed a fire on so warm a day as this. The two rocking chairs still stood to either side, though, and the Beauty gestured for him to take one while she settled in the other. The table was bare save for a wedge of cheese and a paring knife on a cutting board, and there was no sign of the old ginger tomcat.

  The vase on the shelf by the mantel was jammed full of ara feathers, many more than Sword remembered being there.

  “It’s good to see you again,” Sword said, quite sincerely.

  “Then see me properly,” Beauty said, pulling the scarf from her face and throwing back her hood, letting waves of dark hair spill free around her face and throat. “It’s a pleasure to have someone here who can look at my face and not be overwhelmed by it.” She shook her head to clear her hair away.

  Sword smiled with astonished delight; he had not expected he
r to show her face so readily. He tried not to stare too openly. “Oh, even without any magic, it can be overwhelming,” he said. “You’re still a very beautiful woman.” That was no polite exaggeration; even in her forties, the Beauty was incredibly attractive, her skin smooth and flawless, the curve of her cheekbones clean and perfect.

  “The most beautiful in the world. I know. But just a woman.” She smiled wryly, and Sword felt his heartbeat quicken.

  He was flattered that she had uncovered her face; when they had traveled together six years earlier, from Winterhome to the Galbek Hills, she had kept her face hidden as much as possible, even when only the other Chosen were around. He had not seen her as exposed as she was now until the Dark Lord lay dead in his tower. He knew this intimacy meant that she trusted him, and he knew that she would not have done this with most of the others. He was flattered, and felt more honored than he ever had by any other compliment.

  He wished there were some way he could reciprocate, but he had no hidden beauties to reveal. He felt awkward as he groped for words.

  “How have you been?” he asked at last. “Well, I hope.”

  “Oh, well enough.” She gestured at their surroundings. “I’m still here, just as you see me. And you? You went home to Mad Oak? You’ve been there all these years?”

  “I did,” Sword said. “I have.”

  “How was it?”

  He hesitated. “Different,” he said at last. “My father had died, and everything was . . . different. They wanted me to be a hero returned from his adventures, not just another barley farmer. You’ve been shut away so long, hiding yourself, I don’t know whether you’d understand . . .”

  “I remember,” she said quietly. “It wasn’t the same for me, because I was always a beauty, people had always stared at me and talked about me as if I wasn’t a person who could hear them but some sort of gorgeous animal, and boys had lusted openly after me ever since my breasts grew, but when I became the Beauty it all became a thousand times worse. I could no longer hold a conversation with anyone. Men would not hear my words as anything but a veiled invitation, women would twist them into insults, even children just stared at me with their mouths agape. Until I came to Winterhome and donned the hood and scarf, I never had a moment’s peace unless I locked myself away.”