The Ninth Talisman

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “May I ask, Lord, how many wizards, and in what way they were rogues?”

  The Wizard Lord stared at her for a moment, and then said, “Shall we come back to that? I’d like to know what your third complaint is.”

  “It’s related. The matter of the ninth talisman. You sent your men to interrogate wizards about a ninth talisman; I can only assume that you mean there’s a ninth member of the Chosen. We aren’t aware of any ninth. If you are, we’d very much appreciate knowing the details.”

  “You claim you don’t know?”

  “I don’t know. If any of the others do, they’ve lied to me about it. Why do you think there’s a ninth?”

  “Because of this, of course,” the Wizard Lord said, thrusting a hand into the collar of his robe and pulling out something small and shiny.

  Boss took a step forward. “A coin?”

  “Yes, a coin. A coin that one of my fellow wizards, a man called the Cormorant, handed me a few months after I became the Wizard Lord, a coin that I must now carry with me at all times, or else I become ill. Seriously ill. Deathly ill.

  “Unless, of course, I’m not in Barokan. Then I can leave this coin aside—but I can’t return to Barokan without it, any more than I could abandon it here in Winterhome.” He tucked the coin back in his robe. “The Cormorant called it the Talisman of Trust, but would not explain why. I know it has powerful magic, that it commands strong ler, but even after these six or seven years I’m only able to use a tiny portion of that power, because I don’t understand it—and because it’s linked to another talisman, and that link is blocking me! How is that possible, Leader of the Chosen?”

  “I have no idea, Lord. I’m no wizard.” Sword thought he saw Boss glance at Farash, who now looked very seriously uncomfortable. The Wizard Lord did not seem to notice.

  “I am a wizard, and I can’t understand it,” Artil told her. “This is like no talisman I have ever encountered before. The Great Talismans, the talismans given to the Wizard Lords, are supposed to provide power, the power to rule Barokan, to find and kill outlaws, to guide the weather and ensure peace and plenty, but this talisman does little but thwart me. The Council of Immortals created it, and by doing that they betrayed me—that’s why I have treated them as rogues, and had them killed for refusing to explain it to me. They broke faith with me by giving me this so-called Talisman of Trust, and I have repaid them accordingly.”

  “It would seem they broke faith with the Chosen, as well, by not informing us that we have a ninth member,” Boss said. She was definitely looking at Farash, rather than at Artil, but the Wizard Lord still took no notice.

  “If I am to believe you, then I suppose they have. Perhaps in that case you will pardon me for having disposed of them.”

  “The four wizards you killed were the ones who made this Talisman of Trust, and its unknown companion?”

  “Four?” The Wizard Lord looked startled; his face, which had been set and grim, suddenly broke into a smile. “Four? You only knew of four?”

  “Four—the Cormorant, the Blue Lady, Brownleg, and Kazram of the Bog. Yes. Were there more?”

  “Leader, in these decadent times a new Great Talisman can only be created by all the Council. Four wizards escaped my men, two are unaccounted for, and eleven are dead.”

  Sword’s eyes widened, and the blood seemed to chill in his veins at those words.

  “That’s—drastic,” Boss said, her voice somewhat strangled; Sword could barely make out her words. Her gaze was once again fixed on the Wizard Lord, his treacherous advisor forgotten.

  “I have never believed in half-measures, Zrisha oro Sal thir Karalba,” the Wizard Lord said, straightening on his throne. “Rather, I believe in being prepared. I have been thinking this over carefully for years, Zrisha oro Sal.”

  “Stop calling me that!” Boss snapped.

  “It’s your true name, isn’t it?”

  “You know it is! Stop it!”

  The Wizard Lord was grinning now. “Ever since I first became the Wizard Lord,” he said, “I have feared—no, I have expected—that the day would eventually come when the Chosen would decide, in your arbitrary fashion, that my plans violated some rule or other. I had allowed myself to hope you would be sensible, but I never really believed it. When you made no objection to the new roads, I was guardedly optimistic. When you allowed me to build the Summer Palace, I hoped. But when you demanded this audience, I knew I couldn’t take any chances—and sooner or later you would need to go, in any case. Barokan is done with all this complicated system of wizards and magic and Chosen. The time has come to wean the people of Barokan from their dependence on the whims of wizards and ler, and to run this land with common sense and proper organization.”

  “You mean you want to eliminate the Chosen, because you want to eliminate magic?”

  “Exactly.” He stood.

  That was obviously a signal; the guards behind him, in fact every guard Sword could see, suddenly straightened up and raised his weapon. Some lowered spears into position, some drew swords.

  Farash had gone pale. He was retreating, off the dais, and Sword lost sight of him.

  “Does this window open, or do I need to smash it?” Sword whispered.

  “You’ll probably have to smash it,” Snatcher replied. “But that’s a long drop; don’t be hasty. She may yet talk her way out of this.”

  “Artil, you are the Wizard Lord,” Boss said, and Sword was amazed that her tone remained calm, with no trace of wheedling, whining, or desperation. “Magic is the very essence of your role and your power; you can’t change that.”

  “I believe I can, though. I believe that humanity can rise above the need to coax and cajole the favor of nature’s petty little tyrants. I believe cooperation, organization, and plain common sense can serve us all better than magic ever did. Magic is the power of the past, and we must escape it and make our way into a better future. No more wizards, no more Chosen, and in time, perhaps, no more priests.”

  “Lord, I. . .”

  “I’m not finished!” the Wizard Lord screamed. Sword started.

  “Something’s happening in the plaza,” Snatcher whispered. Sword glanced up, but quickly turned his attention back to the confrontation below.

  The Wizard Lord continued, “The Chosen are magical, and while I had hoped to avoid it, that means that you, too, must be consigned to the past, and removed from my path like every other obstacle. I had entertained some thought that perhaps you might give up your roles willingly, but I suppose that was too much to ask. And once you’re gone I can dispose of those pitiful last few wizards, the ones who escaped my earlier attempts, and I won’t need to worry about hunting them openly. Those fools called themselves by the grandiose title of ‘Council of Immortals,’ but they die easily enough.”

  “Are you going to kill us?” Boss asked.

  “I am taking you prisoner,” the Wizard Lord replied. “You and Lore. The two of you are harmless and potentially useful, so you may live. I regret to say that the other six must die—or seven, if I can ever find that new one. I don’t need their magic, and each of them has the potential to be a threat, however minor.”

  There were a few seconds of silence as Boss and Lore absorbed this. Sword, alarmed, tried to simultaneously follow what was going on in the audience chamber, and what was happening in the plaza that had so attracted Snatcher’s attention. He could hear shouting and rattling and stamping feet out there.

  The scene below was more important, though. He started planning his entrance.

  It was a long drop to the floor of the audience chamber, and he didn’t know how many guards there were in the parts of the room he couldn’t see, but he was the world’s greatest swordsman, and that woman down there was his Leader. He would have to rescue her before she was locked away in a dungeon where his blade would do no good. He started to shift position, to find the best place to strike the glass to shatter it. He hoped he would be able to fit through without cutting himself; the win
dow was not very large.

  The stamping feet in the plaza were moving away, he realized. Good; that meant he no longer needed to worry about them.

  “You’ve blocked their ears, haven’t you?” Lore asked. Sword saw a hand gesture toward the spearmen beside the dais.

  “Solid plugs of wax,” the Wizard Lord agreed. “They can’t hear a thing, but they have their orders, and they know the signals I’ve taught them. When I stood up just now, that was the point of no return.”

  “And I suppose you’ll use blind men to take the Beauty?” Boss said.

  “No. If she escapes my initial attack she’ll be killed by specially trained women. Archers will dispose of the Swordsman, swordsmen will slay the Archer, and I need no tricks to handle the Seer or the Speaker or the Thief.”

  “Are you planning to lure them into this palace, somehow? Use us as bait, perhaps?”

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary. I know the house you’ve all been living in, and my soldiers are on their way even now. As I said, when I stood up, that was the signal—not just to get ready to capture you, but to exterminate the other six.” He raised an arm, and a dozen men surged forward, pinioning Boss and Lore.

  “What?” Sword had not intended to speak aloud, but the word escaped before he could stop himself.

  “Shhh!” Snatcher hissed from a nearby roof peak. “There’s something happening, a group of soldiers marching northward.” He gestured toward the plaza.

  “Have you been listening to this?” Sword whispered harshly. “They’re going to kill the others! Azir and Babble and the others!”

  “Are they? What about Boss and Lore?”

  “Prisoners. They’ve been taken prisoner.”

  “Then I’d say a rescue is in order, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes, but…” Sword glanced at the window, then turned his attention northward. He could hear those marching feet, marching up the street. Those men were on their way to kill the Seer and the Speaker, and the other Chosen were scattered around the palace and plaza; there was no one to defend the two women, no one to warn them.

  Below him the Leader and the Scholar were being bound, about to be dragged away.

  He had no time to think this through carefully, no time to save them all. “No one’s trying to kill those two,” he said. “I have to save Azir.” He tried to get his feet under him on the sloping tiles.

  “You might want…” Snatcher began, but Sword was not listening.

  As he stood and began to run, back toward the succession of walls and roofs that had provided the way up to this point, he heard one final exchange from the familiar voices below.

  “They’re immune to your magic!” Boss warned.

  “And that,” the Wizard Lord said, “is why, just as with the wizards, I won’t use any.”

  [ 24 ]

  By the time Sword dropped into the alley beside the Winter Palace some of the soldiers were a hundred yards up the street, marching briskly.

  The Wizard Lord’s minions all wore the familiar red-and-black uniforms, but they were divided into several groups—archers in one, spearmen in another, swordsmen in a third, while one company of a dozen or so had an assortment of armament, but were all apparently women. After the fashion of Winterhome they had scarves and hoods hiding their faces, and wore clothes so loose that the shapes of their bodies were at best vague, and it was entirely possible men were mixed into the group, but they wore women’s clothing, and averaged significantly shorter than the other groups.

  That was obviously the party intended to kill the Beauty, and the Wizard Lord had said the archers were after Sword himself, while the swordsmen would kill the Archer. That left the spearmen to deal with the Seer, the Thief, and the Speaker.

  The question that filled Sword’s mind, though, was how they expected to find the rest of the Chosen; to the best of Sword’s knowledge, all eight were wearing enough ara feathers to block the Wizard Lord’s innate knowledge of their whereabouts. Boss and Lore were captured, but did Artil simply assume all six of the others would be in the house?

  He might well have other methods, though. After all, he was the Wizard Lord, holder of the eight—or nine—Great Talismans, and he had possessed a good bit of magic of his own back when he was just the Red Wizard. Sword hurried along the side of the street, trying to stay in shadows.

  Then he noticed a final party of soldiers, at the head of the little army advancing northward—a small enough group that he had not spotted them at first. He counted four of them, and these four were carrying lit torches, with bundles of what looked like straw on their backs.

  Sword did not like the look of that.

  The torchbearers were in the lead, followed by the women and the spearmen. The archers and swordsmen, dozens, perhaps hundreds of them, were still back in the plaza, gathered in rows and columns.

  Sword had not realized the Wizard Lord had so many soldiers, and even as he ran he cursed himself for that. He should have known, he told himself. The group that had killed the Blue Lady had been a party of twenty or more, and had only killed one wizard; probably the Wizard Lord had sent a separate company after each of the seventeen wizards, which would mean three hundred and forty men, without counting the ones who had stayed behind guarding both the Summer Palace and the Winter Palace. Almost everywhere Sword had looked for the past month, he had seen soldiers—and not the same faces each time, either.

  How could the Wizard Lord have assembled so many?

  That company in the plaza was huge. Those were the soldiers who were to kill him and Bow, Sword knew, and he was suddenly certain why they were waiting there. He remembered the man who had followed Lore and Boss halfway to Beauty’s house; obviously, the Wizard Lord had spies. Some of those spies had undoubtedly been watching the house, and now these soldiers were waiting for the spies to tell them where he and Bow were hiding.

  That stranger Boss had spoken to on the way to the palace—was that one of Artil’s spies, or did Boss have her own agents?

  The torchbearers, the spearmen, and the women were going to Beauty’s house, but what was the plan for once they got there?

  A rat suddenly scampered up to him; remembering Snatcher’s messenger he had left behind on the palace roof, Sword did not kick it away, but instead bent down to listen.

  “We’re being taken to the dungeons,” the rat squeaked. “I didn’t know there were dungeons, but there are. Snatcher knows what to do about that. The rest of you, if you get this message—stay alive, stay free. We’re safe—prisoners, but safe.”

  Sword wondered whether that was Boss or Lore—the rat’s voice was not distinctive, and the words were not unquestionably one or the other.

  “Sword, Bow, anyone—if you get a chance, kill him,” the rat added, and Sword knew that was Boss.

  “Sword, Bow, if you can hear me,” the rat continued, “I wanted to let you know—there was a spy watching our house who was supposed to follow you, whichever of you left the house first, and report your whereabouts to his superiors. I persuaded him not to do it, but the persuasion may not last, once he talks to other people. The guards here have their ears plugged, and think I’m talking to Lore. I’m not sure whether I’ll be able to keep this up, though, so don’t count on any further advice. There may be guards who can hear . . . ”

  The rat stopped, and fled. Presumably that was all the message Boss had been able to send.

  Sword frowned, and began hurrying north, trying not to draw the attention of the archers. He kept expecting a shout, or even the twang of a bowstring and the blow of an arrow between his shoulder blades, but nothing of the sort came; apparently that sword on his back was concealed better than he had feared.

  He passed several Host People who were standing here and there on the street, looking puzzled and frightened. Ahead he could see the spearmen and women and torchbearers, marching up the street; as he watched they broke formation and began rearranging themselves.

  As he had feared, they were taking up positions arou
nd Beauty’s house. At least most of the Chosen were not inside—but two were. Lore and Boss were in the palace dungeons, Bow and Beauty and Sword himself were scattered, Snatcher was still back on the palace roof for all he knew, but Azir shi Azir and Babble were still in there.

  Behind him men were shouting orders; Sword could not make out the words, and ignored them for the moment. His attention was focused entirely on the soldiers moving against Beauty’s house.

  Sword felt the weight of the blade strapped to his back, and thought he could hear the ler of steel and edge whispering wordlessly to him. He was the world’s greatest swordsman, and those people over there were trying to kill his friends—he should be doing something about it. There were four torchbearers, a dozen women, at least thirty spearmen; could he win against so many?

  Yes, he thought he could. He wasn’t certain; it depended how well organized they were, and how well they were trained in the use of their various weapons. He was faster than any of them, he knew, but if they managed to close around him, restrict his movements, and set up a solid line of spears . . .

  Well, it would be an interesting match-up, certainly. And if it came to that he would not be able to avoid seriously injuring people, perhaps killing some of them.

  He loosened his tunic and reached up over his shoulder, feeling for the hilt.

  Then he stopped, as a new sound penetrated his consciousness—a steady beat, a tramping, overlaid with renewed shouting—not orders, but argument. He turned.

  About twenty of the archers in front of the Winter Palace had regrouped into a line, and were marching up the street, forming a solid barrier from one side to the other, herding the Host People ahead of them, out of the plaza and away from the palace.

  For a moment Sword thought he must have been seen and recognized, that the archers were pursuing him—after all, the Wizard Lord had said his archers would kill the Swordsman. Then he realized that this was not all the archers who had formed up in the square; it was, he estimated, no more than a fifth of them.