One headed north, and Sword found himself walking almost side by side with this man, close enough that he wondered whether he ought to make some casual remark. But then the other man seemed to notice him, and veered away, crossing the street; he paused at a shopwindow.
Sword shrugged and continued on.
A few minutes later the Chosen were gathered in the front room of Beauty’s home once again, eager to hear what Boss and Lore had to report.
“He’ll talk to us in three days,” she said. “He wants time to settle back in down here, and catch up on more urgent business.”
“You agreed to that?” Bow asked.
“I would like to end this peacefully,” Boss said. “The more reasonable we are, the less likely we’ll have to kill anyone.”
Bow snorted. “I’d rather get it over with,” he said.
“Noted,” Boss replied dryly.
Sword hesitated, then said, “I’m not sure I trust him.”
“Of course we can’t trust him,” Boss said. “He’s the Wizard Lord, we’re the Chosen—it’s our job not to trust him!”
“Someone followed you at least part of the way here,” Sword said. “Stocky fellow in Host People clothing. He came out of the Winter Palace just after you did.”
Boss turned to look Sword in the eye. “You’re sure he was following us?”
“No,” Sword answered. “But I think so. And he may have recognized me, as well.”
“Did he see us enter this house?”
“I don’t think so; he turned aside a hundred yards back, when he noticed me.”
“The fellow looking in the shopwindow?” Bow asked. “I saw him.”
“Did he see you?” Boss asked.
“Of course not!” Bow exclaimed angrily.
“He saw me,” Sword said. “That might be enough, if he was following you.”
“I suppose so. Interesting.”
“What does it matter?” the Seer asked. “After all, the Wizard Lord always knows where we are, just as I do. Even if we were all covered in ara feathers, when we’re all together like this, he knows where we are. One or two of us could be concealed by the feathers, but not all of us.”
“Another interesting point,” Boss replied. “Perhaps he was trying to learn something other than our location, then.” She pointed at the vase on the shelf by the mantel. “I think we might want to start carrying those at all times, not just when we’re outside Winterhome. Beauty, could you divide them evenly, please? And Babble, there are a few matters I’d like to discuss.”
Sword turned to see Beauty already pulling the ara feathers from the vase, and hurried to help.
He spent much of the next two days sewing ara feathers into the linings of his clothes; he and Beauty also ventured to the shops and markets to acquire more.
The feathers were, Sword discovered, far less expensive than they had been a few years earlier; after an initial surge, the new roads had reduced the demand, as the ler of the roads settled down and travelers realized they didn’t need feathers. Furthermore, the increased traffic between Barokan and the Uplands that the Summer Palace had created had enlarged the supply. Beauty and Sword were able to provide each of the eight Chosen with forty or so of the big white plumes, and one merchant threw in a box of pinfeathers, down, and fragments.
“Do those block ler as well as the plumes?” Sword asked, as he twirled a pink crest feather in his fingers.
The merchant shrugged. “Who knows?” he said. “I know they don’t look as good on a woman’s hat, but what would I know about magic?”
“Come on,” Beauty said, pulling Sword away, the box in his hand.
On the third day Boss explained a part of her plans to the group.
“I don’t know what the Wizard Lord has planned,” she said, “so we need to be ready for almost anything. He’s had time to prepare, he refused to talk to us immediately upon his return, and while that might be entirely innocent and I hope it isn’t significant, it might mean he’s arranged a trap of some sort. Lore and I will go to the audience, as arranged. The rest of you will be somewhat scattered, so that you can’t all be captured at once if this Wizard Lord has come up with the same notion as the Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills and decided to take us all prisoner.”
“What worries me,” Lore said, “is that this Wizard Lord claims to be willing to relinquish all his magic—and he even did so, temporarily, by relocating to the Summer Palace. That means he might be willing to not just imprison us, but kill us.”
“That’s true,” Boss said. “Though remember, he can’t kill us directly with magic—we don’t need to worry about being struck down by lightning. He can’t make ler harm us. He can, however, make physical creatures—dogs, birds, rats, deer, anything—attack us. If things go badly, you’ll want to be aware of that. Babble has been working hard for the past three days, arguing with certain ler, and she thinks she’s arranged for various small animals to carry messages for us. I’ll go over that with some of you. If something does go wrong, the rats and birds and the like will bring you news quickly, you’ll all know what’s happened, and you can take whatever action you think appropriate.”
Sword looked at Babble, impressed. Her ability to hear and talk to any ler had been useful on occasion in the campaign against the Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills, but only in a limited way. He had had no idea she was capable of anything of this sort.
Of course, that assumed she actually was, which remained to be seen.
It occurred to him that no one had discussed any of these messenger animals with him. “Now, I’d like to have a few words in private with some of you. Snatcher, would you accompany me?” She beckoned, and the Thief—who Sword had almost forgotten was there; his ability to go unnoticed was remarkable—followed her up the stairs.
A few minutes later Boss called Sword up.
“You,” she said, “are our second line of defense. You’ll stay near the palace and listen; Snatcher is going to try to arrange for you to be somewhere you can hear our audience with the Wizard Lord, and if that isn’t possible then you’re to stay close by and listen to whatever word the guards pass. Use your own judgment as to when and whether to intervene. If this goes badly, you have two choices—fight or flee—and I’m trusting you to decide which it will be. If you choose to fight, then do it; don’t hesitate. If it comes to that, your goal is to kill the Wizard Lord, not to rescue me or Lore or any of the others, not to protect innocent bystanders—kill him and we win, no matter who else dies in the process. If you don’t see any chance of killing him, then flee, and I really mean flee; don’t stay nearby, don’t come back to this house, don’t try to regroup with the others. Get away, and wait your chance. If any regrouping is to be done, we’ll reach you somehow—Babble’s animals, maybe. We aren’t providing you with your own animal because you don’t need the distraction, and you’re the one word will go to if we need action to be taken, not who the word will come from, but if you find a rat or a squirrel or a bird talking to you, listen, and hope the Wizard Lord hasn’t been clever enough to imitate one of us. You’ve got your ara feathers, so the Wizard Lord won’t be able to find you, but of course that probably means Azir can’t find you, either, and Babble may or may not be able to. If we had more time I’d work out a system to deal with that; I should have done it sooner, but I didn’t, and now it’s too late, so don’t worry about it. If it looks like you need to run, then you get clear, get away, and we’ll find you somehow.”
“I understand.”
“You and the Archer are our offense, our killers,” she said. “You’re going to be the ones he’s most likely to kill outright, if he can. He’ll try to take me alive because I’m linked to the Talisman of Command, and that’s the part of his magic he’s relied on the most in setting up all these new systems of his. You, though, you’re linked to the Talisman of Strength, and with all his soldiers he doesn’t need that. You’re expendable, as far as he’s concerned, but for us, you’re the most valuable part of th
e team. We need you to survive.”
“You’re talking as though today’s audience must be a trap,” Sword protested. “He might be sincere.”
“It may be a trap,” Boss replied. “We don’t know. We know he can be treacherous by what he did to those wizards, though, and because he lied to you about abdicating. He may be reasonable, but we need to be prepared if he isn’t, and either way, we need you and Bow alive and still a threat. So don’t die.”
“I wasn’t planning to,” Sword said.
“Good. Then follow Snatcher’s advice on where to listen, stay nearby, be ready to help if I need it and you can, and be ready to flee if that’s what’s necessary.”
“I understand.”
“Good. Then go back downstairs and send Bow up here.”
Sword obeyed.
An hour later Boss finally felt ready for her audience, and the scheduled time was drawing near. She pulled up her hood, tugged her scarf up to cover her face, and led Lore out the door.
A moment later Sword, Beauty, Bow, and Snatcher followed, though they scattered immediately.
Sword saw that Boss had not headed directly to the Winter Palace; instead she was talking to someone, a stranger in Host People attire, while Lore stood uncomfortably by. Then she broke off her conversation and headed south, with Lore at her side, leaving the stranger in the street.
Sword followed at a discreet distance. Bow headed up a side street, and Beauty hurried on past the Leader and Scholar.
Snatcher slipped away so quietly that Sword did not even realize he was gone until he was at the edge of the plaza. He paused there and looked around for the Thief, who was supposed to find a way for him to eavesdrop.
There was no sign of him.
[ 23 ]
When the two spokesmen were admitted into the palace, Sword took up a position in a corner of the palace facade, leaning against the red-painted wood of a shutter with a casual air, as if he were waiting for someone. His sword was strapped to his back, under the loose black tunic of a Hostman, but he reached back as if scratching an itch and loosened the bindings; he could have the blade out in seconds, should it become necessary.
But he couldn’t believe it would be necessary. Artil was a sensible person, albeit an ambitious and idealistic one; he surely didn’t want to tangle with the Chosen, or to hurt anyone needlessly. He would agree to stay in Barokan, and all would be well. He would swear to harm no more wizards. He would have some reasonable explanation of his interest in the ninth talisman, and for killing those wizards.
He wouldn’t do anything to the Chosen—he knew better. In seven hundred years, no Wizard Lord had ever bested the Chosen.
Sword glanced around at the guards; none of them seemed especially alert or disturbed. They were standing at their posts, two at each door, watching the people of Winterhome going about their business.
Then he felt a tickle at his ankle; he glanced down to see a fair-sized rat standing there, looking up at him. The rat had climbed up on Sword’s left boot, and his whiskers had been responsible for the tickle.
Sword blinked. He suppressed his first instinctive reaction, and did not kick the rodent away.
This was obviously magic; rats did not naturally behave this way. Whose magic, though? Was this one of Babble’s messengers, or was the Wizard Lord up to something? Might some other wizard be trying to contact him, or one of the Host People priests?
The rat, certain that it had been seen and recognized, scampered up Sword’s leg. Even knowing it was there and enchanted, it took a strong effort on Sword’s part not to shout and fling it off. He forced himself to remain still while the rodent climbed up his flank, from trousers to tunic, until it reached his shoulder. It thrust its snout to his ear, and said, “Around back. There’s a way up to the roof, and to the windows in the audience chamber. I’ll guide you.”
It spoke in a squeaking, high-pitched, inhuman voice, but nonetheless it was recognizably imitating the Thief.
This, then, was Babble’s magic—and quite an impressive feat, really. Sword wondered whether all the Chosen not in the palace were listening to similar vermin; somehow he doubted that Azir or Beauty would be pleased by such a method of communication.
Sword smiled at the rat. “Lead the way,” he murmured.
The rat pointed with its nose, and Sword went where he was directed.
A few minutes later he found himself clambering along a sloping ledge to where Snatcher crouched on the tiles, peering in at a narrow window. Sword hurried up beside him, and peered over the smaller man’s shoulder.
This was one end of one of the two rows of clerestory windows that let daylight into the Wizard Lord’s audience chamber. The two Chosen were able to look down directly at the dais where Artil sat, with Farash at his right shoulder.
Farash seemed to be smirking at someone.
“Keep low,” Snatcher whispered, gesturing. “Don’t let your shadow be obvious.”
Sword nodded, and knelt at the second window in the row. The rat leapt from his shoulder and scurried up a sloping roof, then turned to watch and await further instructions.
“Thank you, Wizard Lord, for agreeing to speak with us.”
Sword could hear the muffled words well enough to understand, but it took an effort; he crouched nearer to the glass, putting his head to one side and peering down at an angle until he could see the Leader, standing before the throne. The pair of feet he could just barely make out behind her presumably belonged to Lore.
Boss was clearly the target of that smirk on Farash’s face.
“Refusing to meet the Leader of the Chosen would hardly increase my odds of a long reign, now, would it?” the Wizard Lord replied sardonically.
“We are not going to turn on you out of mere pique,” Boss said, in that surprisingly deep, strong voice. “We take our duty very seriously, and you have obviously done a great deal to benefit Barokan. However, there are matters of some concern to us.”
There was a commotion of some sort in the plaza just then; Sword tried to shut out the raised voices and banging noises that echoed over the rooftops to keep his attention focused on what was happening in the audience chamber.
The Wizard Lord had said something Sword did not catch, and was waiting for a response.
“We are here,” Boss continued, “to discuss three issues. First and least, we are concerned about your lengthy absences from Barokan during the summers. You are sworn to defend Barokan against outlaws of all kinds, natural or otherwise, and the oath says that you are given the magic of the Wizard Lord to aid you in this defense. To leave behind Barokan and your magic would seem to violate your oath—you were abandoning your sworn duties as Wizard Lord.”
“No,” the Wizard Lord said, as Sword shifted his gaze, trying to get an idea of how many guards were in the room below. He could see perhaps half a dozen, but from his current post most of the room was not visible. There could be an army in there.
He was vaguely aware that the Thief had moved away, up the slope of the roof. Well, he didn’t suppose they both needed to hear every word.
“I was kept well-apprised of everything that happened in my realm,” Artil continued. “If the need were there I could have had my full range of magic back in a matter of hours. My stay at the Summer Palace wasn’t a violation of any oath.”
“The Scholar and I have some doubts on this,” Boss replied. “You say yourself it would be a matter of hours before you could recover the use of your magic; a great deal can happen in a few hours. The weather in your absence was . . . unpleasant. There were frequent daylight rainstorms, and many days were swelteringly hot. Talltrees reportedly suffered an actual thunderstorm. You gave the ler of wind and sky instructions before you left, but clearly, they did not feel constrained to follow those instructions in your absence. If you spend every summer in the Uplands, I foresee a time when we will have not merely unregulated heat and rain, but lightning storms killing innocents, hailstorms destroying crops . . . ”
; “Hailstorms?” the Wizard Lord interrupted. “What are hailstorms?” He was clearly interested—apparently he had never heard the word before.
Lore’s voice spoke, though Sword could still only see the Scholar’s boots. “Storms in which balls of solid ice fall from the sky,” he said. “We only know of them from stories centuries old, from before the Wizard Lords took on the task of controlling the weather, but until seven years ago that was all we knew of lightning. The fact that I remember the descriptions of hailstorms in detail would seem to indicate their accuracy.”
“Solid ice? Really?” the Wizard Lord said, and Sword saw Artil lean forward eagerly. “I hadn’t known anything like that was possible; I’ll have to have a few words with those ler.”
“Lord, we want to prevent hailstorms from ever happening,” Lore protested. “The stories say they can wreak terrible destruction if they come at the wrong time.”
Boss said, “Wizard Lord, as Leader of the Chosen, I ask you to stay in Barokan from now on. Do not go back to your clifftop palace.”
“Is this a demand, then?” Artil straightened up again, and stared at Boss. “Will you depose or kill me if I refuse?”
Something looked odd, Sword thought. At first he was unsure what was bothering him, but then he realized. The guards behind the Wizard Lord should have tensed at that exchange, and they had not.
Farash had; the smirk had vanished. He looked worried.
“No, Lord,” Boss said. “It is a request, nothing more.”
“Ah. I will take it under consideration. Now, I believe you said you had other concerns, as well?”
“Yes, Lord.”
“Call me Artil.”
“Yes, Artil. I thought it best to start with the least important. Our next concern is that we have heard it reliably reported that your men have killed several wizards.”
“Rogue wizards, yes. Was I required to inform you of such executions? If so, then very well, I hereby inform you—I have indeed sent soldiers to attend to the disposition of several rogue wizards.”
The Ninth Talisman Page 27
