The Summer Palace

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  And both Azir and Boss had been slain on the orders of Artil im Salthir, the Wizard Lord of Winterhome.

  The Wizard Lords had prevented rogue wizards from running roughshod over the ordinary people of Barokan for seven hundred years, but even so, magic had still been abused. Wizards had been restrained, but the priests, the Wizard Lords, the Chosen, had all, at one time or another, done shameful, disgraceful things with their magic-derived power.

  The Uplanders used no magic, and they seemed to do well enough without it. They kept slaves sometimes, but surely, there was nothing in all the Uplands to compare to what had happened in Bone Garden or Doublefall or Winterhome.

  Artil said that magic was weakening throughout Barokan; the Upland ler had implied that this was because so many ara feathers and things made of ara bones and hide had been brought down by the Uplanders and traded to the Barokanese. The magic-dampening effects of ara were spreading throughout Barokan, little by little, and accumulating over time. Artil wanted to speed up the process, and eliminate magic from Barokan, and the more Sword thought about it, the more he thought that would be a good thing—but the way the Wizard Lord was going about it was anything but good.

  The memory of Babble and Azir lying dead in the street came to him again.

  An end to magic would be a good thing—but that end did not justify the means Artil was using. Artil had to die for his crimes. Sword would see to it that he did.

  And after that, there would be no more Wizard Lords. The Council of Immortals was broken, the handful of survivors scattered. The Chosen, too, were scattered, some of them dead. The old system was destroying itself.

  And when it was gone, what then?

  The various towns would presumably govern themselves, as they always had. Who would maintain the roads, though? Who would tend the canals and the other structures Artil’s men had built? What would become of his hundreds of soldiers?

  What would become of the surviving Chosen?

  What would become of Sword?

  He didn’t know—and right now, he didn’t care. He just wanted Artil dead.

  He lay on the sand, waiting for dark.

  [ 20 ]

  His second trip inbound through the tunnel in utter darkness was even easier than the first; his body remembered the twists and turns surprisingly well. He had once again carefully removed his feather-laden coat, and checked every other garment he wore for any obvious traces of ara, and this time he remembered to pull the ara-feather rosettes from his boots. He stashed the coat with his pack and spear at the tunnel entrance. He made sure that from the skin out, he was dressed entirely in the ara-free clothing he had worn during the winter, when he had been in communion with the Uplander ler. Whether the ler were guiding him, or whether it was simply experience, he didn’t know; he knew only that he was able to slip through the narrow passage even more quickly than before.

  He had brought his sword, even though it was sometimes awkward to maneuver it through the tunnel.

  As he neared the end he could hear voices and footsteps.

  He paused, still in total darkness, and listened.

  This time there was no single conversation that told him what he needed to know, but snatches of several exchanges—shouted orders, shouted responses, the clatter of doors, the thump of boots.

  The Wizard Lord’s soldiers were searching the palace.

  He could not judge whether they actually expected to find him still hiding somewhere, or whether they were just seeing whether he had left any traps, or interesting evidence of what he might have planned for their master. The commands, questions, and answers were not detailed enough to be certain.

  Two soldiers were searching the cellar storeroom where his tunnel emerged. He held his breath, hoping they would not be thorough enough to find the loose stones that closed off his access.

  “Does that wall look right to you?” one of them asked.

  Carefully, Sword reached out his hands and pressed on the stones, holding them in place. Faint candlelight flickered through one of the cracks, blindingly bright after the utter blackness that filled the tunnel.

  “One of the masons was a little sloppy, perhaps,” his companion said.

  Then Sword felt a tug on one of the stones, and he pressed down hard to keep it from moving.

  “I suppose,” the first agreed.

  “Can you influence them?” Sword whispered silently. “Please, O ler? Make them not find the tunnel.”

  We cannot ensure that, but we can make it less likely. The words were surprisingly strong and clear, much stronger than those he had sensed on the canyon rim—but then, he was no longer wearing feathers, or carrying an ara-bone spear.

  “Anything. Please.”

  Done.

  “Someone should touch up the mortar there,” one of the voices said.

  “It’s the back of a larder,” the other retorted. “Who cares if it’s a bit crooked? If we weren’t poking around here with lanterns, we’d never have noticed a thing!”

  The light retreated; Sword blinked. The glow faded, then cut off entirely as the storeroom door closed.

  “Are they gone?” he whispered.

  There was no answer.

  “Are they still in the . . . the larder?”

  No.

  “Are they still in the kitchens beyond?”

  Yes.

  That was not what Sword had wanted to hear. “Are they leaving? Heading for the stairs?”

  No.

  “It’s just the two men, though?”

  No. Men are everywhere in the palace, many men.

  “Oh.” He smothered a sigh. “And they’re all looking for me?”

  Yes. Most to destroy you. One to aid you.

  Sword started. “What?”

  There is one who seeks to aid you. An ally.

  That was a pleasant surprise; Sword lay on the stone of the tunnel floor and thought.

  It had to be Snatcher, the Thief. Nothing else made sense. . . .

  No, Sword corrected himself. It might be the ninth Chosen, whoever and whatever that was.

  But the ninth Chosen had not revealed himself—or herself—before, had not come to the aid of the others; why would he be here now, seeking to help the Swordsman? No, Sword told himself, it must be Snatcher. “Where is he?” he asked.

  He is walking with Artil im Salthir dor Valok seth Talidir through a corridor just above you.

  With the Wizard Lord? He must be disguised as one of the guards, then—or perhaps he was one of the guards; perhaps he had enlisted and worked his way into the Wizard Lord’s personal escort.

  Another possibility occurred to him.

  “Is Artil still riding in that chair thing?”

  No.

  Then Snatcher wasn’t one of the bearers—and thinking about it, Sword realized he hadn’t needed to ask. The Thief wasn’t big enough for that role, and no matter how good he might be at disguise, he couldn’t add fifty pounds of muscle at whim.

  One of the guards, then. That was good to know.

  But why, then, hadn’t he already killed the Wizard Lord? Slit his throat while he slept, perhaps?

  And how had he managed to infiltrate the guards? Surely, anyone trusted so close to the Wizard Lord would have been questioned and tested somehow. When Sword had been granted an audience, he had had to strip naked to prove he had no weapons before he was allowed into Artil’s presence. Wouldn’t the Wizard Lord have used his magic to make sure that none of his guards were that mysterious ninth Chosen he was so worried about?

  Perhaps Snatcher wasn’t a guard after all, but some other official—he might be anything from a palace architect to an errand boy.

  He is hoping to find you and aid you. He seeks to get away from Artil im Salthir so that he might look for you.

  “Can you talk to him? Give him a message?” Sword knew it was unlikely—but on the other hand, the guards’ uniforms didn’t include any ara feathers.

  Perhaps. He is . . . receptive.

&n
bsp; That was encouraging. Did the Thief’s own long experience with magic make him more accessible, even up here where his magic didn’t work? “Tell him where I am. Tell him I can’t get into the palace while the kitchens are full of soldiers. If there’s anything he can do to make them withdraw, ask him to do it.”

  For a long moment there was no response, and Sword began to think about what he could do if Snatcher couldn’t help him. He could go back through the tunnel and try to find another way in, perhaps one where he could smash through a window and take the Wizard Lord by surprise; how well guarded were the palace grounds?

  Given how many men the Wizard Lord had brought, probably very well guarded indeed. That plan didn’t look promising.

  The expedition he had watched come up the canyon had not seemed heavy-laden; presumably they had not brought supplies for a long stay. This was not Artil’s annual return to the Summer Palace, after all, but only an inspection trip. Could Sword ambush him on his way back down, perhaps?

  That idea seemed promising. . . .

  He will do what he can, the ler informed him.

  “Hm,” Sword said. Now he had to decide whether to stay where he was and hope Snatcher, or whoever his ally was, could do something useful, or whether to head out to the canyon to arrange an ambush.

  He would give his friend a few minutes, anyway.

  “All right, all of you,” someone bellowed, loud enough to be heard through the storeroom door and the stone wall. “Upstairs, now. He’s not down here, and Old Boss wants us all ready in case the Swordsman has recruited an Uplander army to attack us.”

  Old Boss? Sword blinked. Farash inith Kerra was giving the orders, rather than Artil himself?

  It probably didn’t mean anything. The order to withdraw, though, was just the break Sword had hoped for. Once he was out of the tunnel and loose in the palace he could use the servants’ corridors to get anywhere in the place. There might be guards in some of them, even with much of their attention turned outward against an assault that wasn’t coming, but he surely knew his way around better than the soldiers did.

  Your way has been cleared.

  Then this was his ally’s doing. He didn’t know whether Snatcher had impersonated Farash, or whether the Thief had Farash’s ear, and he didn’t much care—however he had done it, his hidden compatriot had given him the chance he needed. He slid forward quickly, and began pushing and lifting out the stone blocks that obstructed the entrance.

  A moment later he got carefully to his feet, sword drawn and ready, his other hand brushing dirt and dust from his clothing. He listened at the storeroom door, but heard nothing, and no light leaked around the edges.

  He took a moment to push the stones back in place; he might need the tunnel again. Then he once more approached the door, and carefully lifted the latch.

  The door swung in easily, revealing the short staircase that led up to the main kitchens; a faint glow from somewhere above illuminated the steps well enough for him to ascend, bent in a wary crouch.

  The kitchens were deserted, but someone had lit four of the candle stubs on the central chandelier and left them to burn, so that the great room was not entirely dark. Sword looked around.

  His bedding still lay more or less where he had left it, but had been torn to pieces; the mattress had been slashed, its woolen stuffing strewn in all directions. His little store of candles was gone. The various pots and pans he had kept close at hand all winter were scattered and spilled.

  It was evident that no one was planning to do any cooking in these kitchens tonight, despite what he had overheard earlier. Sword supposed that everyone would make do with a cold supper brought up from Winterhome.

  “The Wizard Lord is upstairs?”

  Yes.

  “What’s he doing?”

  Preparing to depart. He has seen what he came to see.

  That wasn’t good. “Where is he?”

  The answer came not in words, but in an odd awareness of direction, not unlike the guidance Sword had received from the earth-ler while digging his tunnel. The Wizard Lord was upstairs, to the north—in the main dining hall, Sword judged.

  This was probably the best chance he was going to get. Artil thought the palace had been searched, and that Sword was nowhere in it; he was apparently expecting an attack, but an attack from outside. If Sword came bursting into the room from one of the servants’ entrances, he might well be able to get to the Wizard Lord and kill him before anyone could react.

  And once the Wizard Lord was dead, surely the soldiers would see their cause was lost, and would drop their weapons—and if they did not, well, he would have fulfilled his duties as the Chosen Swordsman, and he would have avenged his fallen comrades. If he died in carrying out his assigned role, that was simply his fate. He did not want to die, but he was ready to risk it, so long as he could take Artil im Salthir with him.

  He started up the steps, moving as stealthily as he could, listening for any sound from ahead.

  The candlelight was behind him here, which was unfortunate; his own shadow hid much of the stairway before him. The corridor above was completely unlit—but then he saw faint gray daylight ahead. Someone had left a door open.

  He had never done that when he lived here; he had done everything he could to keep out the cold. The soldiers were obviously not so careful. And why should they be? The cold was gone, the snow melted, winter’s hold broken and lost. He crept toward the door.

  It was indeed a door to the large dining hall on the north side of the palace, a room designed to shelter its inhabitants from the hot sun of summer while allowing cooling breezes to enter; several tall casement windows looked out northward, on the cliffs and the high plains. The center of the room was taken up by a long, broad trestle table, surrounded by a dozen finely carved chairs; a few sideboards lined the walls to east and west, with several gaps where smaller serving tables had once been, while the southern wall held no fewer than three doors that led to the passage down to the kitchen.

  Sword had never used the table for firewood, because it was too large and heavy to fit down the stairs, and too strong to be worth breaking up where it stood when there were still lighter, more fragile pieces to be had. He had smashed and burned one of the chairs, but the thick varnish had flared up dangerously and stank horribly, so he had left the others. The sideboards had been finished with what appeared to be the same varnish, and thus they, too, had survived. The missing serving tables, on the other hand, had burned very nicely.

  Sword found himself peering cautiously around the jamb of the most westerly of the three servants’ doors.

  The room was full of soldiers, dozens of them, all looking northward. And there, standing before the windows, looking out at the plateau, was Artil im Salthir, the Lord of Winterhome, Wizard Lord of Barokan.

  He looked much as Sword remembered him. His ankle-length red robe was embroidered in green and gold, and his straight black hair reached halfway down his back; gold rings gleamed from his fingers and his ears. Sword could not see his face, as he was turned away.

  Farash inith Kerra was standing beside him, also looking out the window, but Sword paid no attention to him. He needed to kill the Wizard Lord; any other revenge could wait.

  If Sword could get to him, this was a perfect opportunity to strike him down. The only problem was that the Wizard Lord was on the far side of a large room, and the huge table, several chairs, and several guards stood between the two men.

  Sword hesitated, but then told himself this was probably the best chance he was ever going to get. The Dark Lord of Winterhome was smarter than the Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills had been, and would never be caught so completely defenseless as Galbek Hills had been. Sword could see that no one was looking at him, there in the kitchen door; no one was ready for an attack from behind.

  The biggest obstacle was that table, but Sword thought he could handle that.

  He braced himself, naked sword in his right hand, and then, with his left hand, he flun
g the door wide. He started across the room at a run.

  He did not bother to yell, or call threats; he already had the element of surprise, and he doubted anything he could say would be enough of a distraction to be worth his breath.

  Soldiers turned at the sound of the door hitting the wall, and Sword’s boots hitting the floor; jaws dropped, hands reached for weapons. A dozen voices all started to shout at once.

  Sword leapt for the tabletop—and realized in midair that he had made a mistake. He had no magical assistance, no strength or dexterity beyond the ordinary. He was tired and stiff from his passages through the tunnel and his running back and forth to the canyon, and he had not yet fully recovered from the long winter’s semi-starvation. He was, he thought, only just barely going to clear the table’s edge, and he would not be surprised if he landed so off-center that the whole table might tip under him. He tried to tuck his feet up, so that at worst he might land on his knees—just as an amazingly alert guardsman reached up to block him.

  The move was too little, too late, to stop him entirely, but a hand brushed against one leg, and instead of landing smoothly atop the heavy table, Sword’s left toe caught on the edge and he stumbled, sprawling across the wood. His left hand went down to catch him; his right hand, holding the sword, flew upward, struggling for balance, as he landed awkwardly on one knee.

  The Wizard Lord had heard the commotion, and was whirling to face his attacker. Sword’s gaze locked on to Artil’s face.

  The man had aged badly in less than a year, and he looked terrified. Defeating and scattering the Chosen and murdering most of the Council of Immortals had apparently not made his life easier. Sword doubted anyone so obviously frightened could think clearly. If he could just reach him, Sword was sure he could kill this Wizard Lord. He was obviously in no condition to defend himself.

  But he had others to defend him. The guards in the room were reacting as well, moving to block his path, weapons raised. A dozen voices were shouting contradictory orders or simple exclamations—“Stop him!” “Look out!” “It’s the Swordsman!”