The Hunter's Haunt

by Dave Duncan

  Then he shut himself in his study and touched his forehead to the floor. "Most Holy Father, is he really the son of Vandok and White-thorn?"

  No reply.

  "Am I expected to turn that dockside lout into a revolutionary?"

  Silence. Gods did not explain.

  "Holy Father, the people will never trust him! He does not look like one of us! He can barely speak the language intelligibly. He is uneducated, ignorant, probably simple!"

  More silence. Tigers were stubborn.

  Desperate now, Memo said, "I grant you, Father, that he is a fighter. I can teach him to use a sword, but whatever brains he had to start with have all been knocked out of him already!"

  At that Bargar growled, a blood-chilling sound Memo had heard only once before in his life. He apologized abjectly and hurried off to bed.

  He left his guests to their own devices for three days.

  The doctors had prescribed rest and a light diet for the invalid. On the first day, Mustair reported that the two brothers were consuming more food than the entire staff of the mansion. Memo told him not to skimp, and include lots of red meat.

  On the second day, Mustair passed word that the older brother was fretting about his sweetheart.

  "Tell him to write a note and we shall see it is delivered,'' Memo said, being fairly sure that neither brother could write. "Meanwhile, can you lay a little temptation in his path? Nothing blatant, of course … A couple of youngish … Pretty … I mean, if they understand that they will be rewarded …?"

  Being a perfect majordomo, Mustair frequently knew his employer's mind before he did. With no change of expression at all, he said, "As the Pasha has commanded, so it is."

  Being a perfect majordomo, Mustair also knew the difference between gossip and relevant information. On the third day, he reported that the bait had been taken and the other girl sent back to her normal duties. With the merest hint of a smile, he added that the man had almost certainly been a virgin.

  The note never appeared.

  In retrospect, the fighter's injuries were a blessing. He was incapable of working, which meant that Memo's miraculous intervention had saved him from starvation. The brothers might realize that they were effectively in jail, but the alternative was far worse. They would not have been human had they been able to resist the sudden luxury, food in an abundance they had never known, respite from labor and worry.

  Three days would give Juss time to break the news to his brother that his father had been the monstrous Vandok.

  They gave Memo time to plan a war.

  To mount an invasion he would need money, weapons, fighters, and ships. An uprising of the population would need money, weapons, and leadership. Both would need superb intelligence and perfect timing, and those in turn required an organized underground in the Land itself. Both! That was where the endless dinner table chatter had gone astray. The would-be plotters had never stood back far enough from the problem to appreciate the sheer size of it, the scale, the time it would take.

  Memo had the ear of the Emir, friends in the palace and the army, relatives in the Algazanian mercantile community. If it could be done at all, then he was the one to do it. Most important, he now had the grandsons of Morning-star as figureheads to rally the people.

  After three days' hard thought, he decided that it looked possible, from a purely secular point of view. It would take at least five years. Vandok himself was aging and he allowed no obvious successor to thrive, so someday there might be a chance to profit from a disorderly succession. Memo could raise and train an army in exile and a resistance movement in place. He could strike in winter when the passes were closed: Morning-star's primary error had been to underestimate the speed of the Horsefolk's response.

  But that was the secular view. Memo could do nothing about Hool, the god of Vandok. History proved that the little gods of the people could not withstand Hool.

  Realistically, therefore, the whole thing was impossible.

  Memo did not think he could explain that to a tiger.

  On the morning of the fourth day, he summoned the sons of White-thorn to a meeting in his garden, which was private and informal. He ordered that they be clad in the garb of their ancestors, so that he could see how they would look to the people if he did decide to proceed. Knowing that they would feel awkward in it, he dressed the same way himself, although he had not donned motley more than five or six times since he came to Algazan. He discovered that he had either lost the knack or lost a third hand, which seemed to be essential. He had to call on his body servant for assistance. Even then, he had an uneasy feeling that it would all fall off him if he made one rash move.

  He had arranged three chairs in a secluded arbor, with refreshments laid out on a table between them and a smaller table placed at the side. He brought Bargar out to lie on that, so the god could listen to the discussion.

  Memo rose to his feet as the brothers approached along the path. The boy's sharp eyes noticed the god; he bowed to him first, then to his host. The man copied him, a fraction of a second later each time.

  Memo was astonished by the improvement in the boy. Juss had already lost some of his skeletal thinness, and in the clear light of day his quick intelligence was obvious. With the slight frame and dark coloring of his race, Sure-justice was a believable grandson of Morning-star. He was grinning nervously, but he clutched a small bundle that must certainly contain Kraw, his dragon god, so he had foreseen the possibility of being thrown out on his ear at the end of the interview. A realist!

  Ven's battered face was halfway back to being human. His hands and right foot were bandaged and more bandages showed through the low neckline of his motley. He was undoubtedly built on a heroic scale, slabbed with muscle, and the stolidity that had seemed like dull wits before now hinted more at steady nerve and courage. In the proper setting he might impress, but he was quite obviously of Horsefolk descent. Why should the people ever trust him?

  Memo offered his guests chairs. They sat down diffidently, glancing around with wonder at the flowers and shrubbery. His home must be more luxurious than anything they could ever have imagined, although it was very modest by the standards of the Algazanian nobility.

  He bowed to them before taking his own seat. "I honor the grandsons of Morning-star and the sons of White-thorn, his heroic daughter."

  The boy grinned. The man said nothing, watching his host with bleary, puffed gray eyes and an air of wary distrust.

  Memo poured wine, watering the boy's. "Is there anything you lack? My house is yours." That was a formula that he hoped they would not interpret too literally. "My servants will gladly provide anything you ask."

  Juss glanced sideways at his brother and smothered a grin.

  "You are most generous, Pasha," the man said.

  Small talk was going to be difficult, obviously. Pasha Memo had absolutely nothing in common with these two, nothing to discuss except business.

  "I assume that Kraw is in there?" He pointed to the package.

  Juss nodded, suddenly worried. He glanced uneasily at the tiger figurine on the side table.

  "You are not familiar with these odd costumes? This is what people wear in our homeland, the Land Between the Seas. They use the upper part to carry things, especially their family gods, when they need be transported. That way they are next their hearts, you see."

  The boy grinned. He snatched up his bundle and tucked it into his motley. It gave him a notable bosom on one side.

  Memo turned to the elder. "I trust you are feeling better, Cold-vengeance?"

  "I am very grateful for what you have done, Pasha." The big man spoke in a guttural parody of his forefathers' tongue.

  "I am honored to aid the sons of White-thorn."

  Juss shot his brother a worried glance.

  Something about Ven's face suggested that it might have flushed had there been any of it not covered with beard or bruises. "Even the son that Vandok bred on her by public rape?"

  "The guilt i
s not yours. Tell me how you feel about Vandok."

  "I am inclined to kill myself for being his spawn," the big man growled. "He is a monster."

  "Given the chance, would you make war on him?"

  The big man twisted his swollen lips. "Gladly!"

  "Can we?" the boy demanded eagerly.

  Memo sighed. "I have thought about nothing else for three days. To be honest, I don't think we can. The barbarians are strong. To raise the people again and fail again would be a terrible crime. To finance and organize a war, if it can be done at all, would take years. I admit, though, that the sons of White-thorn would rally more support than any other leader."

  "The son of Vandok?" Ven said contemptuously.

  Either the dockside lout was not as stupid as he looked, or his quick-witted brother had coached him. He had certainly gone to the heart of the problem.

  Memo sipped his wine. No, the older brother was impossible. Shave off his beard and dye his hair black and he would still look like a Horseman.

  What of the younger, then? He was bright and young enough to learn, although the list of things a successful revolutionary must know was mind-boggling: strategy, tactics, ordnance, finance, economics, rhetoric, politics, leadership … At the moment the lad would not know what the words meant. He did not even speak the language well.

  How long? Juss was barely fourteen. Ten years might do it–but Memo was fifty. He might not have ten years, not ten good years, not in Algazan.

  "I asked my god what I could do," he said sadly. "Bargar told me to listen to Juss and believe him. I did believe you, lad! I still do, and I honor my god. But his interest is not the welfare of our people. He is the god of my own family, not anyone else's. He may just be trying to ease my unhappiness by giving me a cause to believe in, and I find that I cannot believe in it. It will fail.

  "Much as I would love to throw out the barbarians and restore freedom and democracy, my answer is no."

  Two young faces stared at him in horror and disappointment.

  "You two are welcome to remain here, in my service. I promise your lives will be much more pleasant than they have been to date."

  "But Kraw told Juss …"

  "With all respect to Holy Kraw, Cold-vengeance, and to my beloved Bargar, also, they are little gods. All the gods of the Land of Many Gods, as it once was, cannot stand against Hool."

  Seeming puzzled, the man looked to his brother.

  The boy was grinning triumphantly. "You have forgotten the oracle, Pasha?"

  Memo's heart skipped a beat. "What oracle?"

  "Hool himself!" Juss shouted. "When he ordered Hannail to invade the Land, he promised that his seed would rule it forever, didn't he? Well, then! Why do you think our mother got Vandok to rape her?"

  For a long moment, that outrageous question left Memo speechless. Then he said, "Did Kraw tell you this?"

  "No," Juss admitted. "I worked it out. It's obvious, isn't it?"

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  12: Interlude

  Another tree cracked open in the forest. The fire still roared, but frost glimmered on the hinges of the shutters and I could feel a steady chill on my back. Had I been in a superstitious mood, I might have taken that for an omen.

  "The rest is history," the soldier said. "It took him six years, of course. But the results are well known."

  The merchant had fallen asleep with his head on the back of his chair. His snores gurgled disgustingly. The actress was feeling more confident, eyeing me with an intense dislike I had done nothing to earn.

  I glanced uneasily around the group. Was the contest still continuing? Could even I top that tale? "Not known to all of us, I'm sure, Captain. The authenticity of your narration is inspiring. Pray tell us of those six years."

  "They were missing. The pages may have been lost, or they may have been somewhere else in the box, out of sequence. I did not find them."

  "That is indeed a pity."

  The old soldier had made his ancestor come to life for me. He had made Great-memory of Bargar seem very much like Captain Tiger. I suspected that Captain Tiger also had found a cause to promote in his declining years. I even thought I knew what it was, but we were not quite ready for that story.

  Fritz stretched, smiling sleepily, somewhat like a lion waking to go in search of supper.

  The dowager smothered a yawn and replaced her hand in her muff. "I suppose Master Omar should be given a chance to respond. Can you make it brief, storyteller?"

  I could try to make it last until springtime. "Of course, ma'am. Gentle lords, fair ladies, this one is called the Tale of the Homing Pigeon."

  | Go to Table of Contents |

  13: Omar's Response to the Soldier's Tale

  Thirty years after Morning-star's failed revolution, forest had swallowed the ruins of Kylam.

  After sacking all seven of the cities of the Land Between the Seas, Vandok returned to the site of his father's murder. He rounded up the surviving natives and set them to collecting fuel—trees, furniture, boats, books, fences, fishing nets, anything that had not already been burned. With all this, he built a pyre on the spot where his father had died and where he had first abused White-thorn. He did not order a halt until the great hall was packed to the roof and not a twig remained within a day's ride.

  Then he set fire to it, and it burned for days. The roof collapsed, of course. Much to the king's disappointment, not all the walls did. When the embers were cool enough to approach, he discovered that the stone had fused into a hard green glass that defied all efforts at further destruction. He rode away in disgust, and there is no record that he ever returned to the site.

  A small fishing village eventually grew up a few miles farther south, but Kylam itself was abandoned. Trees seeded where it had stood. The ashes within the old hall had made fertile soil, but either it was not deep enough for tree roots, or perhaps the drainage was poor. For whatever reason, the forest shunned the interior of the basilica, leaving it open to the sky, but carpeted with grass and flowers, mostly a form of pale wild rose. This natural garden was walled by grotesque shapes like a frozen dance of giants—ropy, shiny pillars of bizarre form, spikes and fists, on which not even creepers could find purchase. It was a strange, unworldly monument to sad events.

  One summer afternoon, two men converged upon this site from opposite directions. Neither knew the forest well, but each knew of the glass garden and contrived to find his way there. They had never met, they had never corresponded, and yet they came somehow to the right place at the right time.

  They moved with caution, because the Land Between the Seas was perilous country. When Horsefolk warriors came of age on the grasslands, they were sent south in bands to ravage for a year. They were expected to return with a collection of gruesome relics to show their prowess as killers, plus a gang of youths and maidens to sacrifice to Hool. Then they would settle down to breed more warriors. Every few years, the king himself would lead a larger expedition around to demonstrate what real brutality was.

  The native inhabitants were hardly less dangerous, a bitter people. Who could blame them? Anything they created in their lives became automatic hostage to the Horsefolk's spite. Their crops and hovels might be burned without reason, their children carried off. They dwelt in secret places among the hills, cultivating hidden patches within the forests. Many had abandoned civilized life altogether, living like beasts and preying upon anyone weaker than themselves. The travelers' caution was merely prudence.

  The first to arrive at the garden was a youngster of around twenty. Specifically, his age was twenty years and one month, give or take a day or two. He was of middle height, slim, sinewy. His hair and close-trimmed beard were black, his eyes dark but bright, and although he had a ready smile, he could be dangerous. He wore the standard motley of the country, but in somber and inconspicuous hues, mainly brown. At this season of high summer, he had left his arms and legs bare. A sword dangled at his side and he could use it.

  Having loc
ated the ruins, he leaned against the trunk of a beech to study them. He heard birds chirping, insects buzzing. Only when he was completely satisfied that there was nothing more did he approach the walls, moving cautiously to the lowest point he could find. Even that was higher than his head. He clambered some way up an ash tree nearby, being careful not to make it sway. From there he could see the interior. It was deserted. He waited.

  The other man, meanwhile, had reached the far side. He took fewer precautions, although he was wary. The two men were of similar type, with much the same trim build and, to casual observation, of much the same age. This one was brown-haired, gray-eyed … clean-shaven, as I recall. He, too, wore motley of inconspicuous shades, but in his case mostly greens, and he carried a package or two tucked in the front of it, making the cloth bulge oddly. He was unarmed except for a long staff over his shoulder, from which dangled a wayfarer's bundle.

  Green-motley was either more fortunate or better counseled in his choice of approach than Brown-motley, for there was an easy entry on that side. Whether it had originally been a door or a window was impossible to determine. Now it was a blob-shaped hole at waist height on the outside, but slightly higher inside. Having inspected the interior for ambush, the newcomer clambered through and dropped to the ground.

  He then advanced cautiously through the flowered shrubs, parting them with the edge of his staff and moving carefully. To the watcher in the ash tree, he seemed to be looking for something. Soon, though, having reached a glassy boulder, he sat down with his back to the entrance. Reaching inside the folds of his motley, he brought out a crusty roll, a hunk of cheese, and two peaches. These he proceeded to eat, while the sun dipped toward the treetops.

  Brown-motley climbed down from his perch and set off around the outside of the ruin to take Green from the rear. When he reached the porthole, a quick glance established that his quarry was still sitting on the boulder, apparently lost in thought and unaware of the challenger creeping up behind him. Brown drew his sword and jumped into the aperture. Then things went slightly wrong.