The Tritonian Ring and Other Pasudian Tales

by L. Sprague De Camp

  And Vakar, not waiting to see how Fual took this unusual command, curled up in his cloak and dropped off to sleep.

  -

  "As I see it," said Vakar as he shared Tiraafa's meager breakfast next morning, "we must all head north to Gadaira, where I can put Tiraafa on a ship for her native land while we proceed up the Baitis to Torrutseish. How far to Gadaira, Tiraafa?"

  As satyrs seemed to have no notion of measurement she was unable to answer his query. By questioning her closely about her erratic course from Gadaira to Sendeu, however, Vakar got the impression that the distance was somewhere between one and three hundred miles.

  "Too far to walk," he said, "especially in a country where the peasantry sacrifice strangers to their gods. Whose horses are those I saw in the paddock last night?"

  Tiraafa replied: "They belong to the village, which really means Egon as he and his relatives control the village.

  They rear these creatures not to use themselves but to sell in Gadaira."

  "Do they not plow with them?"

  "What is plowing?"

  It transpired that neither Tiraafa nor the Sendevians had ever seen a plow. Vakar said:

  "If we could steal these horses we should both provide ourselves with transportation and express our love for Headman Egon. They could not follow us, and we could sell those we did not need in Gadaira."

  "Why are you going to Torrutseish?" asked Tiraafa.

  "To seek the advice of the world's greatest magicians. Do you know which of them is the best?"

  "Not much, but when I was captive in Gadaira I heard the name of Kurtevan. All of us satyrs are magicians of a sort, and such news gets around among the brotherhood."

  -

  Prince Vakar peered out of his hiding-place. The twelve horses were pegged out in the meadow, and the youth who guarded them sat with his back to a tree, wrapped in his black Euskerian mantle, with his long copper-headed spear across his legs. With this (probably the only metal weapon in the village) the horse-herd could stand off a prowling Hon long enough for his yells to fetch help. Vakar looked at the young man coldly, with neither hatred nor sympathy. He knew that many self-sufficient peasant communities looked upon city-folk as legitimate prey, for their only contact with cities was when the latter sent tax-gathering parties among them, and from the point of view of the villages these were mere plundering expeditions for which they got nothing in return. But while he realized that the Sendevians' attack on him was not due to sheer malevolence, he would not on that account spare them if they got in his way.

  Tiraafa peered around her tree and called softly: "Olik!"

  The young man sprang up, gripping his spear, then laughed. "Tiraafa! According to my orders I ought to slay you."

  "You would not do that! I loved you the best of all."

  "Did you really?"

  "Try me and see."

  "By the gods, I will!"

  Olik leaned his spear against his tree and started for Tiraafa with the lust-light in his eyes. His expression changed to amazement as Vakar leaped out of the bushes and ran full-tilt at him. Vakar saw his victim begin to turn and fill his lungs to shout just as Vakar's sword slid between his ribs up to the hilt.

  Vakar, sheathing his blade, said: "Can either of you ride?"

  Tiraafa and Fual, looking apprehensive, shook their heads.

  "Well then, as it looks as though these beasts have never been ridden either, you both start from the same point."

  Vakar walked out into the field, where the horses had laid back their ears and were tugging on their tethering-ropes and rolling their eyes at the sight of strangers and the smell of blood. He selected the one who seemed the least disturbed, gentled it down, and began twisting its tethering-rope into a bridle.

  -

  Several days later, riding bareback, they halted in sight of Gadaira. Vakar, looking toward the forest of masts and yards that could be seen over the low roofs, said:

  "Fual, before we take our little sweetheart into the city, one of us must go ahead and buy her clothes, or the first slaver who sees her will seize her. And as you're a better bargainer than I, you are elected."

  "Please, sir, then may I walk? I'm so stiff and sore from falling off this accursed animal that the thought of solid ground under my feet seems like a dream of heaven."

  "Suit yourself. And while you're about it, inquire for a reliable sea-captain sailing northward."

  An hour later Fual was back with a gray woolen dress and a black Euskerian cloak with a hood. The dress concealed Tiraafa's tail and the hood her ears. Fual said:

  "I learned that Captain Therlas sails for Kerys in three or four days with a cargo of cork and copper, and that he is said to be a man of his word." The little Aremorian hesitated, then burst out: "My lord, why don't you set me free? I'm as anxious to see my home again as she is, and I could keep an eye upon her until Therlas dropped her off on her wild islands."

  "I didn't know you so wished to leave me," said Vakar. "Have I treated you badly?"

  "No—at least not so badly as most masters—but there is nothing like freedom and one's home."

  Vakar pondered. The appeal did touch him, as he was not unsympathetic for an aristocrat and the ex-thief was at best an indifferent servant. On the other hand Vakar was appalled by the prospect of finding a reliable new slave in this strange city, even though he did need someone with more thews and- guts than his sensitive valet.

  "I'll tell you," he said at last. "I won't free you now, because I badly need your help and I think Tiraafa can take care of herself. But when we win back to Lorsk with our mission accomplished I'll not only free you but also provide you with the means of getting home."

  Fual muttered a downcast "Thank you, sir," and turned his attention to other matters.

  They found lodgings and sold eight of the twelve horses, keeping the four strongest for their own use. Vakar took a variety of trade-goods in exchange for the animals: little ingots of silver stamped with the cartouche of King Asizhen of Tartessia; packets of rare spices from beyond Kheru and Thamuzeira in the Far East; and for small change the ordinary celt-shaped slugs and neck-rings of copper. Fual, looking with undisguised hostility at the horses, suggested:

  "At least, sir, you might buy a chariot so we could continue our journey in comfort ..."

  "No. Chariots are all right for cities, but we may be going where there are only foot-tracks for roads."

  When the time came they escorted Tiraafa to the docks and saw her aboard ship with provisions for the journey. She kissed them fiercely, saying:

  "I shall always remember you, for as human beings go you are quite fair lovers. I hope Captain Therlas will equal you in this regard."

  On an impulse Vakar pressed a fistful of trade-copper into Tiraafa's hands and helped her aboard. Fual wept and Vakar waved as the ship cast off, and then they turned away to the four horses hitched to one of the waterfront posts. Vakar vaulted on to his new saddle-pad and clamped his knees on the barrel of the beast, which under his expert training had become quite manageable. Fual tried to imitate his master, but leaped too hard and fell off his mount into the mud on the other side, whereat Vakar roared. He was still laughing when he glanced out to sea, and the laugh died as if cut off by an ax.

  "Fual," he said, "mount at once. Qasigan's galley is coming into the harbor."

  A few seconds later the four horses were headed away from the waterfront through the streets of Gadaira at a reckless gallop.

  -

  VIII. – THE TOWERS OF TORRUTSEISH

  A hundred and sixty miles up the Baitis lay mighty Torrutseish, the capital of the Tartessian Empire and the world's largest city, known by many names in different places and ages. In Vakar's time it was so old that its origin was lost in the mists of myth.

  In the days of Vakar Lorska, the king of Tartessia had extended his sway over most of the Euskerian nations: the Turdetanians, the Turdulians, and even the Phaiaxians who were not Euskerians at all. The city of Torrutseish, preem
inent among all the cities of the world for its magic, stood on an island where the Baitis forked and rejoined itself again. Prince Vakar approached it up the river road, leading his two spare horses and followed by Fual (who kept his seat by gripping a fistful of his mount's mane.) To their left the broad Baitis bore swarms of dugouts, rafts of inflated skins, and other fresh-water craft.

  Vakar sighted the walls and towers of the metropolis as he came around a bend. The outer wall was circular like that of Amferé but on a vaster scale. Like the lofty towers that rose behind it, it was built of red, white, and black stones arranged in bands and patterns to give a dazzling mosaic effect. The bright blue Euskerian sun flashed on the gilding of dome and spire and tourelle, and flags bearing the owl of Tartessia flapped lazily in the faint breeze.

  Vakar thrilled at the sight of buildings of three or even four stories, though he would have enjoyed it more if he had not felt obliged to look back down the river every few minutes to see if the sinister black galley were rowing up behind him. For the Baitis was fully navigable thus far, and Vakar was sure that with his supernatural methods of tracking, his enemy would soon be breasting the current in pursuit.

  When he had passed the inspection of the guards at the city gate and had found quarters, Vakar asked where the house of Kurtevan the magician was to be found.

  "You wish to see Kurtevan? In person?" said the innkeeper, his jaw sagging so that Vakar could see the fragments of the leek that he had been chewing.

  "Why, yes. What is so peculiar about that?"

  "Nothing, nothing, save that Kurtevan does not cultivate the custom of common men like us. He is the principal thaumaturge to King Asizhen."

  Vakar raised his bushy eyebrows. "That is interesting, but I too am not without some small importance in my own land. Where can I find his house?"

  The innkeeper told him, and as soon as he had washed and rested Vakar set out with Fual in the direction indicated. They got lost amid the crooked streets of one of the older sections of the city, and asked a potter, who sat in his stall slowly revolving his tournette:

  "Could you tell us where to find the house of Kurtevan the magician?"

  The man gave them an alarmed glance and began turning the tournette rapidly, so that the piece grew under his fingers like magic. Thinking that perhaps the fellow had not understood his broken Euskerian, Vakar laid a hand on his arm, saying:

  "I asked you where to find the house of Kurtevan, friend. Do you not know, or did you not understand me?"

  The man muttered: "I understood you, but not wishing you ill I forebore to answer, for prudent men do not disturb the great archimage without good cause."

  "My cause is my own affair," said Vakar in some irritation. "Now will you answer a civil question or not?"

  The Tartessian sighed and gave directions.

  "Anyone would think," said Vakar as he set out in the direction indicated, "we were asking the way to the seven hells."

  "Perhaps we are, sir," said Fual.

  The house of Kurtevan turned out to be a tall tower of red stone in the midst of a courtyard surrounded by a wall. With the handle of his dagger Vakar struck the copper gong that hung beside the gate. As the sound of the gong died away the gate opened with a loud creak.

  Vakar stepped in, took one look at the gate-keeper— and involuntarily stepped back, treading on Fual's toe.

  "Oi!" said Fual. "What—"

  Then he too caught sight of the gatekeeper, gasped, and turned to flee, but Vakar caught his clothing and dragged him inside. The gatekeeper pushed the gate shut and stood silently facing them. He was silent for the good reason that he had no head.

  The gatekeeper was the headless body of a tall swarthy man, dressed in a breech-clout only, whose neck stopped halfway up. Skin and a sparse growth of dark curly hair grew over the stump, except for a couple of obscene-looking irregular openings that presumably represented the thing's windpipe and gullet. A single eye stared out of its chest at the base of its neck. Its broad bare chest rose and fell slowly. A large curved bronze sword was thrust through its girdle.

  Vakar looked blankly at this unusual ostiary, wondering how to communicate with one who lacked ears. Still, the thing must have heard the gong. Vakar cleared his throat uncertainly and spoke:

  "My name is Vakar, and I should like to see Kurtevan."

  The acephalus beckoned and led the way to the base of the tower. Here it unlocked the door with a large bronze key and opened it, motioning Vakar to enter.

  Fual muttered: "Perhaps I should stay outside, sir. They seem all too willing to admit us to this suburb of hell ..."

  "Come along," snapped Vakar, nervously cracking his knuckle-joints.

  He stepped inside. The setting sun shot a golden shaft through the wall-slit on the west side of the tower, almost horizontally across the room in which Vakar found himself. As his eyes adapted to the gloom he made out a lot of furniture gleaming with gold and precious stones, but the gleam was muted by quantities of dust and cobwebs.

  Evidently, Vakar thought, headless servants did not make neat housekeepers.

  He stood in a great circular room that took in the whole of the first floor of the tower, except for a spiral stone staircase that wound up to the floor above and down to some subterranean compartment below. There was nobody in the room; no sound save the frantic buzzing of a fly caught in one of the many spiderwebs. Overhead a grid of heavy wooden beams crossed the stonework from one side to the other, supporting a floor of planks. Vakar tried in vain to see through the cracks in the planks.

  "Let's try the next floor," he whispered.

  Holding his scabbard, Vakar tiptoed over to the stair, followed by Fual wearing a stricken look. Up he went, though a stair to him was still a somewhat mysterious newfangled contrivance. Nothing barred his way as he came up the curving stair to the second floor. Here, however, he halted as his swift-darting glance caught the outlines of a man.

  The man was sitting cross-legged on a low taboret with his eyes closed. He was a spare individual with the face of an aged hawk, and wrapped from head to foot in the typical black Euskerian mantle. The cloak was however made of some shiny fabric that Vakar had never seen. The man's hands lay limply in his lap. Before him stood a small tripod supporting a copper dish, in which burned a little heap of something. A thin blue column of smoke arose steadily from the smolder. Vakar caught a whiff of a strange smell as he stalked towards the still figure.

  Vakar froze as the man moved, though the movement was the slightest: a minute raising of his head and the opening of his eyes to slits. Vakar had an uncomfortable feeling that if the eyes opened all the way the results might be unfortunate.

  The man spoke in perfect Hesperian: "Hail, Prince Vakar Zhu of Lorsk; Vakar the son of Zhabutir."

  "Greetings," said Vakar without wasting breath asking Kurtevan how he knew his name.

  "You have come to me to seek that which the gods most fear."

  "True."

  "You are also fleeing from one Qasigan, a Gorgonian priest of Entigta—"

  "A Gorgon?" said Vakar sharply.

  "Yes; did you not know?"

  "I guessed but was not sure."

  "Very well, there shall be no charge for that bit of information. However, for the other matter, what are you prepared to pay for this powerful agency?"

  Vakar, who had expected this question, named a figure in ounces of gold that amounted to about half the total value of his trade-goods.

  The old man's hooded eyes opened a tiny crack further. "That is ridiculous. Am I a village witch peddling spurious love-philtres?"

  Vakar raised his bid; and again, until he was offering all his wealth except barely enough to get him back to Lorsk.

  Kurtevan smiled thinly. "I am merely playing with you, Vakar Zhu. I know the contents of that scrip down to the last packet of spice, and had you thrice that amount it would not suffice me. I am chief thaumaturge by appointment to King Asizhen, and have no need to cultivate common magical practice." />
  Vakar stood silently, frowning and pulling his mustache. After a few seconds the wizard spoke again:

  "Howsomever, if you cannot pay my price in gold and silver and spice, it is possible that you could recompense me in services. For I am in need of that which trade-goods cannot buy."

  "Yes?" said Vakar.

  "As all men know, I am the leading wonder-worker of Torrutseish and receive the king's exclusive custom in the field of thaumaturgy. That, however, is but half the practice of magic, the other half comprising the divinatory arts. Now the leading seer of the city, one Nichok, receives the king's patronage for oracles and prophecies and visions. I would add that art to my own practice."