Guardians of the Flame - Legacy

by Joel Rosenberg

  "Training?"

  "Training. We hit the road in a couple of tendays."

  When the subject of going back in harm's way came up, Ahira had taken command before realizing it. He decided that he liked the feeling of being back in charge—even though he was only in charge of a party of two, as of now—instead of merely being an adviser, no matter how valued the counsel.

  "Fair enough," Slovotsky said, with his usual Walter Slovotsky smile, the smile that asked, "Wasn't God clever to invent me?"—all the while making it clear that the question was purely and manifestly rhetorical.

  "Always have to get the last word, don't you?"

  "Yup." Slovotsky smiled. Again.

  Only a Little While Before, in a House on

  Faculty Row: Arthur Simpson Deighton

  "I'm worried about that boy," Arthur Simpson Deighton said, puffing on his pipe. "I am Arthur Simpson Deighton," he insisted to himself, "not Arta Myrdhyn. On This Side, I have to be. Please."

  It wasn't just that the web of lies he'd used to sustain his Deighton persona were important to him, but his attachment to his Deighton-self was a too-light anchor in a sea of madness that grew worse slowly, inexorably. Once that madness had raged uncontrollably, a killing tempest. But for a long time the sea had been calm.

  "The calm is deceptive, as it always was."

  No matter how long the calm, it was only the calm at the eye of the storm. He had remained in the eye for ages, but it was only a chimera of tranquillity.

  "Only an illusion."

  There was nobody to hear him in the darkened room in the little house on Faculty Row; Deighton was, as had lately become commonplace for him, speaking to himself. Too much power use.

  "Too much power use."

  It wasn't always crazy for one to speak to oneself, of course, but a wizard had no business doing that, just as a gunpowder maker had no business smoking a cigarette while he ground his saltpeter and sulfur crystals. Words and symbols always had to be chosen carefully, to be impressed judiciously and certainly into the mind, the symbols and their power to be husbanded until the moment that their power was to be used.

  Imagine a wizard moving his lips and muttering a flame spell as he impressed it into his mind: it would happen then and there, directed at nobody-knew-what.

  For a wizard, talking to oneself was dangerous.

  And foolish.

  And, quite literally, insane.

  Arthur Simpson Deighton was aware of the reasons for his talking to himself, but there wasn't anything he could do about it.

  It could get worse.

  It had been worse, away from the eye.

  And it would be worse, if only for a short while. Only a short while, he hoped, fervently.

  "Getting too old, Arta, that we are. 'Boy' indeed—he's almost forty years old, almost forty years he's lived through his own time. Not slow years like here."

  Even so, it was hard to keep covering for the missing, and there were always fragile threads in the web of deception that had to be mended. School records were the easiest: Those could be fixed physically, with only a little power use necessary to rearrange a few molecules of ink or the magnetic alignment on a computer disk; less to gain the cooperation of a secretary who would then forget why, how, and even that she had allowed a philosophy professor access to records that he had no right to.

  Worse were the parents and brothers and lovers and friends, all of whom had to be located and dealt with, before all hell broke loose. A suggestion to be planted here, a lie to be given substance there . . .

  Eventually, the whole skein would unravel. But by then, the affair should be ended.

  Just for a moment, he opened his mind to his gibbering enemy, to the insanity that lay on the Other Side.

  Soon it ends, he thought.

  Soon.

  Please.

  "But I'm still worried about the boy."

  CHAPTER THREE:

  Homecoming

  To me, fair friend, you never can be old,

  For as you were when first your eye I eyed,

  Such seems your beauty still.

  —William Shakespeare

  "Honey, I'm home," Karl Cullinane called out as he bounded up the steps to the second floor—the residence floor—of Biemestren Castle, giving a smile and a nod in passing to the two maids who were sweeping the halls, making a special point to give a broader smile to the uglier of the two. It was a close call.

  Why once he'd had an image of maids as being young and attractive was something he couldn't understand. He had yet to meet one who didn't sport at least a small mustache and a large potbelly, except for those who had a large mustache and at least a small potbelly.

  Unfair, Karl, unfair, he thought. And definitely the sort of thing not to say aloud; Andy would call that a blatant example of male chauvinism.

  Even if it was true.

  He sprinted down the carpeting and turned into the hall that led to the outer room of their suite, stopped to hang his scabbarded sword on a peg by the door, and hopped first on one foot and then the other as he doffed his boots.

  He looked at the sword for a moment, as it hung there in its plain leather and steel scabbard.

  Sword . . .

  For the past couple of years, traders had been carrying rumors that there were people in Pandathaway who thought that Karl was someday going to go after Arta Myrdhyn's sword; that Karl had reconciled with the far-off Arta Myrdhyn, and intended to reclaim the magical artifact, left for centuries, waiting for his hand, his hand alone.

  He smiled.

  Good. For one thing, it wasn't true; the sword was waiting for Jason, not Karl.

  Not my son, Deighton. You leave my son alone.

  Still, the rumors had started. And that opened a world of possibilities.

  Possibly that little bastard Ahrmin could be tricked into lying in wait, somewhere in Melawei, and if he was left to stew long enough, if the matter was handled carefully enough, Karl might be able to locate him, to trap the trapper, and end the threat to bring Jason into something that Arta Myrdhyn planned.

  Perhaps someday he would make his way to Melawei, but not for the sword. Let Ahrmin set a trap there, with the sword as bait, perhaps. Karl would ignore the cheese and break the teeth of that trap.

  Someday . . . but in the meantime, there was work to do.

  He lifted his hands and tugged at the amulet that hung from his neck by a leather thong. There was nothing to worry about. The amulet would have protected him as it signaled him that someone had tried to use magic to read his mind—there were only a few people who knew that Jason was the one who the sword was waiting for, and they would keep their mouths shut.

  Ellegon knew, of course, but the dragon wouldn't tell.

  Not my son, Deighton. You leave my son alone.

  Karl had often thought about sending someone trusted into Pandathaway to snoop. The trouble was, the people he trusted were already too valuable in Holtun-Bieme; a paid agent might well want to collect from both sides, and Karl was absolutely certain that he didn't want Pandathaway to get any confirmation of his interest.

  Possibly it was time to try to develop some less trustworthy, less valuable spies. People he wouldn't mind losing.

  That wasn't acceptable, he decided. Using people as pawns wasn't something Karl Cullinane would choose to do; it was something he'd had to do all too often.

  As far as Pandathaway went, maybe Slovotsky would pick up on Karl's hints and give it a try. Walter could probably spend half a day and a handful of coins and find out what the standing of Ahrmin was, how hot the Slavers' Guild still was to get its hands on Karl—was the present lull a function of a loss of interest, or were there plans brewing?

  But there was no rush in trying to lure Ahrmin from Pandathaway; Karl couldn't leave now to go after him, even if there was an opportunity.

  Best to let matters rest, for now. Let a couple more years pass before Karl went up against Ahrmin. It was important for Jason to get further
along in his education; it was vital to calm down the bitterness between Holtun and Bieme and not let it break into war, or the Nyphs would try to lop off a piece of Bieme.

  Enough worry for now. I deserve a bit of rest, at least for a day.

  There had been a time when he had been able to insist on Karl's Day Off, and get it.

  That was another country, he thought, but at least the wench who insisted on it isn't dead. Pretty damn lively, as a matter of fact.

  Still, I just managed to piss on a spark of rebellion in Arondael and prevent it from turning into a blaze, so I am treating myself to a day off. Period.

  Barefoot, luxuriating in the feel of the thick carpet, he walked into the bedroom that he shared with his wife, much to the disapproval of the house staff, who felt that royalty was supposed to act like royalty.

  There was nobody there.

  "Andy?" There was no sign of her, nothing except for a pile of clothes in the middle of the floor.

  A chill washed across him. He dove across the bed, rolled across the floor to the weapons case, and came up with a flintlock pistol and a short stabbing sword.

  As he checked to be sure the pan was charged—it was—and then cocked the pistol, he heard the hiss of distant water against stone.

  Asshole. He almost laughed at himself, but he was afraid of how it might come out.

  "Andy?" he called out, forcing a calm voice against the backbeat of the audible pounding of his heart. "That you?"

  "No. It's Valerie Bertinelli," came the sarcastic reply. "Quick, come join me before my husband gets home."

  He sighed both in great relief and mild self-disgust as he uncocked the pistol, then put the gun and blade away. He leaned his head against the bathroom door and chuckled under his breath as he shrugged out of the rest of his clothes and tossed them to the floor.

  Not everything has to be a goddam emergency, after all. He took a deep breath and forced his idiot heart to stop pounding. Still, after all these years, he had to force his battle reflexes into the background. He raised his hands above his head and stretched broadly, feeling tense shoulder muscles hesitate, then hesitantly relax.

  This is our home. It is not a battleground, he thought, repeating it to himself, like it was a mantra.

  "Hi there," he said, as he swung the door open.

  She shook her head as she stood in the shower, soap-slick and lovely, outlined against the murky glass window beyond. Even in her late thirties, there was only the slightest sagging of her breasts; her belly, thighs, and bottom were still as firm and supple as an adolescent girl's. Her nose held the slight bend that he had always loved, and the warm brown eyes were full of intelligence and life.

  Then again, I'm prejudiced.

  "Hi yourself," she said. "How's the hero business?"

  "It's dirty work; pass the soap," he said, as he joined her in the shower.

  To the best of his knowledge, their shower was the only such thing in the Middle Lands. Designed by Karl and built by the apprentices of the local master engineer, Ranella, it was one of the luxuries that Karl didn't like to share with others; the shower was his. He didn't feel selfish; apparently, it was an acquired taste. Jason, for example, far preferred the traditional bath.

  The room above had been emptied, a large, sealed iron tank installed, and the appropriate plumbing built and connected. The hot-water tank was supplied by a pipe from the main cistern on the top floor of the castle, the flow controlled by a float-ball valve arrangement like the workings of an Other Side toilet—which was exactly where Karl had lifted the idea, although Ranella had played with it a bit—which kept the tank full. The water was heated by insulated copper coils that ran from the tank into the always-burning Franklin-style stove.

  Mixed with cold water through another valve, the rig provided a controllable, if somewhat primitive and low-pressure, shower. The only trouble with the damn thing was that it tended to run out of hot water all too quickly, and was definitely more suited for a quick individual shower than a leisurely shared one; by the time he'd finished soaping himself thoroughly, the water was already starting to chill, even though it was now all coming from the hot-water tank; the heat output of the woodstove couldn't meet the demand.

  "Hurry up a little, will you?" he said as Andy dawdled at rinsing the soap from her hair.

  She glared at him, and then shrugged as she stepped out of the water and laid her hand on the now barely warm hot-water pipe. "I guess it is a bit tepid. Did you have a tough time in Arondael?"

  "Tough?" He shook his head. "Not particularly. Just a bit nerve-wracking. Par game," he said, knowing that she would understand how he meant it.

  The way Karl figured it, "par" was a reasonable job: the mission accomplished, no innocents seriously injured or killed. That nicely described his attempt at intimidating Arondael: He was certain no innocents had been killed, and he was willing to bet that the baron would stay intimidated.

  "Well, maybe you deserve a treat—I'm going to go towel off, but first . . ." Her voice trailed off as her eyes grew vague; harsh words issued from between her lips, words that could only vanish on the ears and in the mind.

  She held the thumb and forefinger of her right hand a couple of inches apart, the barely warm copper hot-water pipe between them. Sharp tongues of blue-hot fire leaped between her fingertips, instantly heating the copper pipe between her fingers to a dull red which quickly spread up the pipe and into the stone ceiling.

  Her eyes opened as the spell ended, and she grabbed a small washcloth to protect her fingers as she closed the hot-water valve partway, opening the cold-water valve to prevent the now almost boiling water from scorching the two of them.

  "Thanks," he said, pulling her close for a quick kiss.

  She reached her arms around his waist and laid her head against his chest, her long wet hair tickling his belly as it dangled. "Too bad you've so much to do this afternoon, hero, or we could have ourselves a good time. A real good time."

  "I've got a lot to do?" He raised an eyebrow as he cupped her bottom with both hands. "I didn't know that."

  "You seem to, too damn often," she said, pushing him gently away. She padded off barefoot, toweling off her hair, adding perhaps a bit more hipswing than was absolutely necessary.

  Karl watched her leave, enjoying the view, feeling vaguely guilty.

  He quickly rinsed himself off in the hot water, and strained his mind as he thought, Ellegon?

  *What is it?* came from far away; he could barely hear Ellegon's mental voice.

  Then he remembered that the dragon was down at the knacker's, and he shuddered. Even if it was necessary, Karl didn't like the idea of knackers, and the thought of Ellegon dining on the leavings bothered Karl.

  *If you become a vegetarian, I may. Bets?*

  Karl shook his head, dismissing the subject. Anything really pressing this afternoon?

  *Mmm . . . well, there's a trial—that poacher from Arondael. You did want to supervise it, and see how the boy handles it.*

  Does Thomen really need me? Or do you think he can solo on this one?

  *He can handle it—I told you, the poacher is guilty. Makes a nice backboard, eh?*

  Well . . .

  *You will have to show up for sentencing tomorrow. If Thomen doesn't mess up and turn him loose today.*

  Okay; then tune me out for the afternoon.

  *Humph. Oversexed—*

  Enough.

  *Have a nice time.* The dragon was suddenly gone from his mind.

  He grabbed a towel and started to dry himself off as he called out, "Hey, Andy?"

  "Yes?"

  "Are you dressed yet?"

  "No . . ."

  "You in any real hurry to get dressed?"

  "Well . . . no," she answered back, perhaps a bit too coquettishly. "Why?"

  "I'm taking the afternoon off."

  "Afternoon?"

  "You said I deserved a treat, didn't you?"

  "I did at that," she said. "Braggart. Afternoon, indeed
."

  He could hear her grin.

  CHAPTER FOUR:

  Home

  When we are planning for posterity, we ought to remember that virtue is not hereditary.

  —Thomas Paine

  Walter saw the distant flash of a telescope several times that morning, which didn't surprise him: He'd seen an occasional rider paralleling their course for days; the nearer they got to Home, the more intense the scrutiny.

  He nodded in silent approval and rode on, noticing with some pride that none of the others had caught it. The Home watchers were taking some pains to keep their attention inconspicuous.

  Still, by the time Walter, Ahira, and their dwarvish escort reached the top of the ridge overlooking the valley that the elves called Varnath, Walter felt like he'd been thoroughly frisked.

  A simple "Assume the position" would have sufficed, guys.

  Not that Walter Slovotsky had anything against deviousness—in fact, he preferred it, all things being equal—but there was a time for a simple confrontation.

  If it'd been his show . . .

  Then again, it's not my show. Not anymore. Not even to the extent that it was when he was seconding Karl, back in the old days when they were on a raiding team together.

  He didn't yearn for that time, not really. Food was eaten cold, then, for fear that the slavers would see a cooking fire; they had to sleep lightly, remembering the face of a man who hadn't. Those had been days of strain and nights wrenched in fear, all the time hoping, praying, that the next man doomed to fall to the ground, clutching at the crossbow bolt protruding from his mouth, was the next man, not Emma Slovotsky's baby boy.

  No, he didn't miss the fighting.

  But there had been a certain something to those days, something that the last years just hadn't had. Something hard to put a finger on.

  Maybe it was that the heartbeats seemed stronger when you could hear each and every one, Walter decided. That was it.