Slipping into the town had been surprisingly easy.
It shouldn’t have been.
After all, Artil im Salthir, Lord of Winterhome, surely knew that Sword intended to kill him. He had ordered the deaths of six of the eight Chosen, and he had taken the other two prisoner. It would be plain to anyone that Sword and any of the others who were still alive and free would now want to kill the Wizard Lord.
There had been half a dozen of the Wizard Lord’s guards posted on each of the two roads into town that Sword investigated, and presumably on the other three entry roads as well, but there had been no visible attempt to guard the long border with the wilderness, even though the Wizard Lord knew that the Chosen could travel safely outside the towns, without need of roads. Sword guessed there were two factors at work in leaving the boundaries unmanned—that the Wizard Lord did not think any of the Chosen would be fool enough, having once escaped, to try to reenter Winterhome; and that he simply didn’t have enough men to patrol every part of the border.
Whatever the reason, Sword had found it easy to slip across the boundary well away from any guards, and to creep along behind the guesthouses, into the heart of the town, where he made his way up an alley onto the streets.
From there, he had worked slowly and carefully toward the central plaza.
He was not there yet; he had paused here because ahead the crowds were too thick. He could not hope to cross the plaza by daylight without being spotted. He still wore the concealing black garb of the Host People, and could blend in fairly well if he avoided passing too close to anyone else, but even with the hood up and his sword strapped to his back, hidden under the loose black tunic, there was a chance someone might recognize him.
And if anyone spoke to him—well, he had never learned to speak with the lilt of the Winterhome dialect.
He would have to wait until dark.
He wished he could stop in somewhere for something to eat, but the risk of being recognized was too great.
For that matter, standing here staring at the cliff might well draw attention; he lowered his gaze and ambled away, trying to look unconcerned.
The crowds were starting to thin as people headed home for supper, so he risked continuing on to the north, toward the plaza. He made his way safely almost to the edge and looked out at the crowd, and at the front of the Winter Palace.
There in the palace wall was the archway that led to the foot of the trail up the cliffs, and there, also, was a more serious obstacle than the mere possibility of being recognized. Four spearmen stood at the opening, guarding it.
Sword knew he could easily defeat four spearmen. However, he wanted not merely to get to the Uplands, but to do so undetected.
If the Wizard Lord knew where he had gone, it would defeat the whole purpose of going there.
He turned his attention to a merchant’s wagon a few steps into the plaza, and began poking through the collection of cutlery and weapons displayed thereon; the proprietor was busy with another customer and merely threw him a quick nod, acknowledging his presence and his right to look through the merchandise.
Studying the blades, holding them up to catch the sinking sun, allowed him plenty of time to think, and an opportunity to get a good look at the guarded gate.
There was no obvious way past the spearmen, who were clustered directly before the arch. He wondered, though, why it was guarded at all. The Uplanders would not be descending for at least another two months, and in any case, to the best of Sword’s knowledge they were no threat to anyone or anything the Wizard Lord cared about.
It seemed more likely, given that the guards were facing out into the plaza, that the Wizard Lord did not want any of the people of Barokan slipping through that gate. Had he somehow guessed what Sword intended?
Sword did not see how Artil could have guessed.
He looked at the gate, and then up at the cliffs, the upper reaches still brightly lit by the setting sun, and a possibility came to him.
He had noticed when he climbed up once before that from the first diagonal stretch of the trail it would be fairly easy to drop large heavy objects, such as rocks, onto the roof of the Winter Palace. It might be possible to clamber down and lower oneself onto the roof, as well—and just a few days ago Bow, the Chosen Archer, had demonstrated how effective rooftop archery could be.
That was probably what concerned the Wizard Lord, and prompted him to post guards.
It also suggested another possibility to Sword, though. If he could get on the palace roof by some other route, he could slip down onto the loose stone on the other side of the gate, and then go up to the path.
Sword immediately knew what that other route would be; Snatcher, the Chosen Thief, had shown him a way to get onto the palace roof by climbing up a low wall to the north of the palace, jumping across to the roof of a shed, and working upward from there. Sword and Snatcher had used that method to get to the high windows overlooking the Wizard Lord’s throne room, and had watched from that unsuspected vantage point as Boss and Lore confronted the Wizard Lord and brought on the open conflict that had ended with the two of them in the dungeons, Azir and Babble dead in the street, and the four remaining Chosen scattered.
Sword had not seen a route across to the back of the palace and down to the stony slope beyond, but surely one could be found, once the roof was gained. He dropped the knife he had been pretending to study, and wandered off, back out of the plaza.
He took his time circling around, through the back streets and alleys; after all, he was not going anywhere until after nightfall. He and Snatcher had climbed the palace roof in broad daylight once without being seen, but Sword saw no reason to assume he would be so fortunate again, and in any case he certainly couldn’t climb that exposed trail up the cliffs until darkness had fallen.
That climb had had its frightening moments even in daylight; the prospect of making his way up the narrow path in the dark, without so much as a candle, working largely by touch, was not an attractive one.
But what choice did he have?
By the time the sun’s light finally climbed up the cliffs and vanished, and the western sky faded from blue to red to indigo, he had rounded the plaza at a safe distance and then slipped back in toward the north end. There he turned east into a familiar alley.
An ordinary man might have had some difficulty going any farther than that, but Sword was not an ordinary man. He was the world’s greatest swordsman, and that meant he was stronger, faster, and more agile than an ordinary man. He was able to vault up the stone barrier, then turn and fling himself up to the top of the palace wall.
When he had come this way before, the Thief had provided a grapple and rope, but Sword managed without them, catching the edge and pulling himself up.
From there he clambered up a window frame, launched himself upward to grab the eaves, and swung himself up onto the edge of the roof; it was more difficult alone and without tools than it had been with Snatcher and his ropes and his enchanted rat, but it was certainly possible.
Once on the roof he crouched down to reduce his visibility, and ran across the tiles, keeping his knees bent and his feet low to minimize the sound of his passage. He made his way from roof to roof and wall to wall until he came to the eastern edge, where the windowless back wall of the palace dropped twenty feet down to the crumbled, mossy gray stone.
But he did not immediately drop down onto the rocks in the shadows side of the palace. There was no hurry. He knew that anyone on the zigzag path up the cliff would be plainly visible to hundreds of people below, especially as the last rays of the setting sun still lit the cliffs while the town below sank into shadow.
He had to wait until dark. He settled carefully to the tile behind a chimney and sat with his back against the masonry, waiting as the light faded from the sky and night fell.
As he waited he listened to the sounds from below, the voices of the people in the plaza, and the sounds from inside the palace itself. He could not make out words, but
he caught faint snatches of shouting voices, doors slamming, and other noises loud enough to echo up the chimneys or percolate through the tiles.
As night deepened, though, these sounds faded away, and at last he heard nothing but the wind. That was when he crossed the final few yards of tile and dropped down into the blackness east of the palace.
His landing on the loose stone made more noise than he liked; he froze and waited to see whether any guards would come to investigate the sound.
None did.
After several minutes of silence he felt safe enough to move again; he rose from his crouch and oriented himself.
For the most part, the cliffs were invisible in the blackness, but faint light spilled through the gate from the plaza, enough to make sure he was pointed in the right direction. He aimed himself toward the bit of trail he could see, and began walking—or climbing, as the slope he was on was steep right from the start.
He stumbled almost immediately, but caught himself before falling flat on his face, righted himself and continued, almost creeping. The steep slope and near-total darkness made the climb difficult, but he did not dare wait for daylight—he did not want to be seen. He hoped to reach the canyon at the top of the cliffs before daylight, so that no one in Winterhome would spot him.
He was not worried that he would be recognized at such a distance, but at this time of year, with the Wizard Lord and his retinue settled back into the Winter Palace and the Uplanders still on the plateau, nobody would have legitimate business ascending this route. If he was spotted, someone might well be sent to investigate.
With that in mind he moved as swiftly as he dared, feeling his way where necessary, and at last found the packed dirt and smoothed stone of the path. He breathed a sigh of relief as he stood on the trail, looking back down at the arch that led to the plaza, and the backs of the spearmen who still guarded it.
He had reached the path, and from here on, once he was around the first bend and out of sight of the guards, he did not expect to see another human being until he was out on the high plateau.
Of course, he would have to make the long climb in the dark, but he was comforted by the knowledge that so many people had walked this path so often that there were unlikely to be any loose stones to send clattering, or spots where the ground beneath his feet could not be trusted.
In fact, the trail was so well-worn that even in the dark he could follow it without any great difficulty, especially once it curved around to parallel the cliffs and zigzag its way up; at that point it was simply a matter of not falling off the edge and tumbling back down into Winterhome. The town’s lights made it easy to see the western edge of the path.
It was still a long and wearisome climb, though, and by the time he finally turned eastward into the triangular canyon, the sky above and ahead was starting to lighten.
And at that point it was as if he had walked smack into a wall. He staggered and fell, catching himself before he could tumble back over the edge.
His hands were twitching, his knees buckling, and he could feel the talisman in his pocket, the talisman that bound him to the ler of muscle and steel and gave him the magic of the Chosen Swordsman, as if it were burning hot. He had forgotten, once again, how strong that magic was that tied him to his homeland, and how great the difference was between Barokan and the rest of the world.
“O ler,” he whispered, “I must do this. I am going to slay a Dark Lord by approaching him where his magic cannot help him. I know I must yield you up to do this, but I see no other way.”
You will have no magic past this point, something chided him.
“I know,” he murmured. “I know. But am I not the world’s greatest swordsman? Have I not been practicing every day for years so that I can fight on my own, without magical aid?”
We cannot guide you.
“I understand that. I ask no guidance, no assistance. I must face the Wizard Lord without magic. He is too well guarded in Barokan, but in his Summer Palace he will think himself safe from me.”
We cannot protect you.
“I know.” Sword swallowed. “His guards will probably kill me—but I hope I can kill him before they do, to free Barokan and avenge my companions. I’ll use whatever stealth I can, and try to surprise them.”
Go.
And the ler were gone. Strength returned to his legs, his hands were steady once again—but he could feel a yawning, terrible emptiness in his heart and soul as he staggered past the boundary marker. The land around him felt dead and somehow less real than it had just a moment before.
He could also feel a horrible weariness; he no longer had any magical reserves of endurance or strength, and he had had a very long day indeed. He had awakened in Morning Calm, decoyed several of the Wizard Lord’s men into the clutches of the ler of Morning Calm’s earth, then marched swiftly cross-country back to Winter-home; he had spent an hour or two prowling the streets without rest, then had climbed the wall, crossed the roof, and climbed the cliffs. His magic had given him the strength to do all this without pain, without succumbing to exhaustion, but now his magic was gone.
A cold wind blew down from the east, from the plateau, and he shivered. He stumbled on, up the triangular canyon, toward the light of dawn, then paused and looked back. He could see nothing of Winterhome now; all he saw was the star-spattered western sky over Barokan.
And that meant, he thought, that no one in Barokan could see him.
There was no need to go farther tonight. He could rest here. He curled up at the side of the canyon, against the rocky wall, and fell instantly asleep.
[ 2 ]
A few hours later Sword awoke, stiff from sleeping on the stony ground as he had, and immediately cursed himself for a fool. He should never have yielded to exhaustion as he had. The sun was more than halfway up the eastern sky, filling the canyon with daylight; he had been sleeping here in the open for hours. What if someone had passed by and found him here? Yes, it had been several days since the Wizard Lord left the Summer Palace, but there had presumably been servants left behind to finish closing it up, and he was unsure whether all of them had yet descended to Winterhome.
For that matter, despite what he had told himself the day before, Sword was not really sure what schedule the Uplanders followed. They might already be on their way to Winterhome, as well, though he did not really think it likely. The stories said that they came down the cliffs only at the first snowfall, which was surely at least a month or two away.
He shuddered, stretched, and then got slowly to his feet.
He had gotten this far on half-formed ideas and desperation, but he knew he should formulate some real plans before going farther. He had decided that the Uplands were the only place he could go where the Wizard Lord would not find him, and he still believed that, but he had not really worked out any details beyond getting himself atop the cliffs. At the boundary he had told the ler that he intended to ambush the Wizard Lord when he came back up to the Summer Palace, but first he would have to survive until spring.
He would need food and water and shelter. He knew that the Summer Palace could provide shelter, if he could get inside, but there was no reason to think any food or water had been left there.
The Uplanders made their own shelter, and reportedly got most of their food from the ara, and obviously had some water source, but he had no idea what it was. He had not thought to ask anyone during his previous brief stay at the Summer Palace. He hadn’t even noticed where the palace itself got its water.
Really, he had accomplished very little as the Wizard Lord’s guest, and in retrospect he thought he knew part of the reason for that. He felt empty, listless, almost hopeless with his link to the ler broken. He had not been fully aware of just how debilitating it was during his previous visit, but now he knew. He had simply drifted through those few days before, unable to summon the will to do more.
He felt the same listlessness now, but if he allowed himself to drift, he knew he would die. This time there wa
s no palace staff to provide him with food and wine hauled laboriously up from Barokan, and he had brought no supplies but his sword and the contents of his pockets. He could already feel the strange thin air weakening him. His throat and eyes felt unnaturally dry, and he had not a drop to drink.
He knew he could not survive for very long up here alone; he didn’t know enough about the terrain. He would have to find an Uplander tribe and throw himself on their mercy. He would need to find some way to convince them not merely to feed him, or at least teach him how to feed himself, but also to refrain from telling the Wizard Lord where he was.
And when they went down to Winterhome, he would either have to find some way to survive the infamous Upland winter alone, or convince an Uplander tribe to shelter him in their guesthouse, hidden from the Host People. He had no idea at all how he might manage any of these feats.
But that was getting ahead of himself. Before he could survive the winter he had to survive the autumn.
He stretched, got to his feet, stretched again, then began plodding eastward, up the defile and out onto the plateau.
When he emerged from the canyon, the vast flat land stretched out before him, apparently infinite, and he peered off into the distance, looking for some sign of human life on that immense expanse of grass. A few squarish structures were visible, several miles away, each standing completely isolated on empty prairie; he had seen those on his previous visit, and had no idea what they were. Whatever their purpose, there was no sign of life around them, and he doubted they were worth investigating. He looked on.
It took only a moment more before he spotted a thin trail of smoke winding its way up into the blue, far to the southeast.
That was the most he could hope for, really; he turned his steps toward it and began walking.
The ground beneath his boots was flat and even and hard, with little to distinguish one place from another; tufts of grass were spaced widely enough that he had no trouble walking between them, and one patch of plain looked very much like another. His major sign of progress was the lengthening of the Upland terrain visible behind him as he moved steadily away from the cliffs, and the gradual disappearance of the green hills of Barokan.
The Summer Palace Page 2
