The Summer Palace

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “They don’t allow Barokanese up here. If they find you, and you can’t account for yourself, they’ll either kill you or enslave you. I talked my way out of it, but that was because they respected me as the Chosen Swordsman.”

  “Oh,” Farash said. He glanced after the retreating soldiery. “Perhaps I—”

  “You might be able to convince them to let you live among them, as I did,” Sword said, again cutting him off. “Find the Clan of the Golden Spear, and tell them that I sent you to them. Demand to talk to the Patriarch. Tell him you slew the Wizard Lord, that I sent you to him and that you want sanctuary for what you’ve done.”

  “Will that work?”

  “It might. I can’t promise. But he let me live because I intended to kill the Wizard Lord.”

  “Oh.”

  “Can you use a spear?”

  “Uh . . . not really.”

  “You’ll want to have one anyway; you aren’t considered a man without one. Can you use a rope? Because the only way to live as a free man up here is to hunt ara, and the Uplanders hunt with ropes and spears.”

  “I’ll learn,” Farash said.

  “I hope so.” Sword hesitated, then said, “If you do spend the winter up here, you’ll need to provision yourself well—I almost starved. You need more food because of the cold. It’s far colder up here in winter than down in Barokan. You’ll need to find or build a shelter.”

  “You stayed in the Summer Palace.”

  “In the cellars, yes.” Again, Sword paused, then continued, “About the ler—they avoid the ara, and sleep when the ara are active. In the winter the ara migrate far to the south, and the ler awaken. They won’t talk to you if you have any feathers or bones or ara hide anywhere near you, but if you don’t, you may be able to bargain with them.” He grimaced. “Maybe you can be the first Uplander wizard, if you survive.”

  “Thank you,” Farash said. “Thank you.”

  “I need to fetch my pack,” Sword said. “I left it by the palace wall.” A thought struck him. “You can have my spear; I won’t need it anymore.”

  “Thank you,” Farash said again.

  The two men walked up the canyon side by side, and then turned north, toward the palace. They spoke little.

  They reached the outer end of the tunnel without incident, where Sword presented Farash with his bone-handled spear.

  Farash accepted it solemnly, and watched as Sword fished his pack out of the tunnel entrance. “So that’s how you got into the palace,” he said.

  “Yes,” Sword said. “Digging it kept me warm and busy. I think I might have gone mad without something like that to do.” He grimaced. “Perhaps I did go mad, a little.”

  By this time the sun was below the cliffs; Sword looked around at the fading light.

  “I think I’ll stay the night here, in the Summer Palace,” he said.

  Farash looked at the wall, and at the gold-streaked sky. “I prefer not to,” he said. “I spent too many nights here.”

  “As you please, then.” Sword debated whether to offer the other man his little tent, or any other supplies, but something in the Traitor’s manner deterred him. “As you please.”

  Farash nodded. “I wish you well, Swordsman,” he said. Then he turned and began marching out onto the plain, following the distant smoke of an Uplander campfire.

  Sword stood where he was for a moment, and watched the other man trudging eastward.

  He was, in truth, unsure whether he wanted Farash to survive or not. The man had been his ally, and had slain his enemy, but he had done much harm, as well. Twice a traitor, Farash could not be trusted, and the idea that he might be marching off to slavery or death did not trouble Sword’s conscience—but Farash seemed to have a knack for survival. He really might become the first wizard of the Uplands.

  And if he did, it was none of Sword’s concern. Sword hoisted his pack onto his shoulder and turned toward the gate; there was no need to squirm through the tunnel again.

  That night he made a point of sleeping naked in the kitchen, well away from his feathered clothing and other ara-fraught possessions, but when he woke he remembered no dreams.

  He sat up in his bedding, still naked, and said, “I thought you might want to say goodbye.”

  There was no reply.

  “I’m returning to Barokan,” he said. “I won’t be back.”

  Still, no response.

  “The man who had this palace built is dead,” he continued. “I don’t know whether anyone will be using it again.”

  They will not.

  He blinked. “Why . . . how can you be so certain?”

  We will ensure it. You have inspired us. This intrusion is ended.

  “I don’t . . . how?”

  Go. Now.

  Sword did not like that message at all, but he didn’t try to argue; he quickly gathered his belongings and headed for the trail.

  He found the Wizard Lord’s corpse still lying by the road in the canyon, beside the abandoned sedan chair; flies and other insects had discovered the remains. He debated whether he should provide some sort of burial, or try to cremate it, but decided against it. Really, he was surprised the soldiers had left the body lying there; it seemed disrespectful of the man they had served. Perhaps they would come back later to retrieve it.

  And if they did, he realized, they might try to retrieve the Great Talismans, and Sword did not want that to happen. He paused long enough to search the body and systematically remove every amulet and talisman—not just the nine that had made Artil the Wizard Lord, but the dozens of lesser trinkets he still wore around his neck and wrists.

  He knew he could not carry those safely into Barokan, where their magic would return; instead he gathered them up and placed them on a flat stone.

  Then he picked up another fallen rock and began smashing the talismans, shattering them, flattening them, grinding them. For a quarter of an hour he slammed the rock down on them, reducing them to harmless powder.

  Then at last he straightened up, tossed the rock aside, gave the corpse a final glance, and continued down the defile.

  The path through the canyon beyond the corpse, once straight and easy, was now rough and winding, but at last he emerged from the crumbled stone, and had gone only a single step farther when he reached the border of Barokan.

  The magic hit him with the force of a great wave, and he fell to his knees. As before, he had forgotten how intense the experience was. Sensation swept over and through him, and for an instant he felt as if all of Barokan’s life were flowing into him.

  Then he thought that the feeling had passed, and he started to get to his feet, but he paused. The world around him was not yet steady; the earth was shaking, and a low rumble surrounded him.

  For a moment he thought this was still some effect of his restored magic, but then the shaking grew worse, and a sharp crack sounded off to his right. He staggered, then fell back to his knees as the entire canyon seemed to writhe and twist.

  Another earthquake. The ler of the Uplands were causing another quake.

  The entire world seemed to jerk and shift, and then the movement stopped—but not the sound. Again, he heard a great cracking sound, somewhere to his right, to the north. He got unsteadily to his feet and stepped forward, to the mouth of the canyon. He braced himself against the north wall and peered cautiously out.

  Barokan lay spread out before him, green and shining in the morning sun. The trail down the cliffs turned sharply; that was still in deep shadow, so that it almost seemed to vanish, but it was obviously still passable, since the soldiers had made their way down the day before.

  But that had been before this new tremor; had the ler destroyed the trail, and trapped the Uplanders on the plateau?

  The trail was in Barokan, where their power did not extend. Sword crept forward another few feet and looked down.

  The trail was still there, zigzagging down the cliffs. Winterhome was visible far below, still deep in shadow, and the path down to
it was unbroken.

  He glimpsed movement somewhere to his right, and turned.

  The cliff was splitting open, a mile or more away; a fissure had appeared, and was widening as he watched. That was where the deafening noise came from.

  A great chunk of cliff broke free as he watched, and with a tremendous roar it tumbled, breaking apart as it fell, scattering earth and stone—and wood and cloth and glass. The entire piece of land on which the Summer Palace stood was falling down the cliff, shattering as it went, and the palace was being demolished in the process.

  The ler had ended the intrusion of Barokan’s people into Uplander territory.

  Sword watched in awe as a thousand tons of stone crumbled. This was magic, Uplander magic! Surely, it was just as well that no man had ever learned to control Uplander ler.

  When at last the rubble had come to rest, far, far below the top of the cliff, when the last stone had rattled to a stop, Sword let out his breath, picked up his pack, and started down the trail toward Winterhome.

  [ 25 ]

  Sword stepped cautiously through the gate into the plaza and looked around.

  The gates were unguarded, which surprised him; he had expected the captain to post a few of his men there to ensure that Farash remained in exile. No soldiers stood within twenty feet of the arch, though.

  The plaza beyond, however, was crowded with merchants, soldiers, and townspeople.

  As he had half-expected, even now, hours after the quake, while most of the people in the plaza were going about their business, several Host People were simply standing in the square, talking and looking up at the break in the cliff where the Summer Palace had once stood. The palace itself had never been visible from Winter-home, but the gap where it had been was a bite from the familiar curve of the cliff-edge.

  A pile of debris—mostly chunks of rock, but also a broken beam, shards of glass, and half an armchair—had been gathered in the center of the plaza, presumably cleaned from the streets. The main mass of stone and wreckage had come down well to the north of town, but outlying fragments had scattered on the way down and bounced into Winterhome.

  “Sword,” someone said.

  He turned, unsure who was speaking, what sort of reception to expect, and found Boss, Lore, and Snatcher standing there, smiling at him. Boss and Lore looked thin and tired, but happy; Snatcher was wearing the black-and-red livery of the Wizard Lord’s servants and had a bandage on his left forearm.

  Sword felt himself break into a smile, as well; tired and confused as he was, his delight at seeing the three of them alive and free was still undeniable.

  “I want to hear your version,” Boss said, her smile vanishing.

  “Of course,” Sword told her. His own grin widened. Months of imprisonment had not softened her. “Right here and now, or is there someplace private we can talk?”

  “I have a place,” Snatcher said.

  Ten minutes later the four of them were in the attic of a cabinet-maker’s shop a few blocks west of the plaza—this, it seemed, was where the Thief had been living for some time. The furnishings were mostly rudimentary: a straw mattress, a chest of drawers, a single cushion, a pitcher and bowl. A lush carpet, thick and glossy, seemed out of place; Sword supposed it had been stolen somewhere, and was there as much to muffle sound as anything else. After all, it would not do to have the landlord downstairs getting curious about odd noises produced by his tenant’s activities.

  Sword was fascinated by Snatcher’s wardrobe, hung from hooks set in the sloping ceiling, or stacked in neatly folded piles on the floor. There were the black garb of Host People of both sexes, the red-and-black of a soldier, the elaborate embroidered coat of a trader from the southern coast, the simple white cloak and hood of a Winterhome priest, and a dozen other garments from various regions of Barokan, including the appropriate hats, shoes, scarves, and jewelry for each role.

  There was also a box of interesting tools just inside the door—knives, pry-bars, corkscrews, pliers, and several devices Sword did not recognize. Snatcher pushed it aside as they entered.

  Lore settled on the mattress; Boss sat cross-legged on that surprisingly luxurious rug, and gestured for Sword to take the rather worn cushion. He obeyed.

  “I’ll fetch something to eat, shall I?” Snatcher said.

  “Yes, please,” Sword said. “And something to drink.”

  The Thief looked at Boss, who nodded and waved a dismissal.

  When the door had closed behind their host, Boss demanded, “So Farash inith Kerra was the ninth of the Chosen?”

  “Yes. The Chosen Traitor.”

  “He killed the Wizard Lord?”

  “Yes.”

  “You did not?”

  “I did not.”

  “And the captain of the Wizard Lord’s guard released you, but sent the Traitor into exile in the Uplands?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened to the Summer Palace?”

  “Ler of the Uplands destroyed it. They were tired of Barokanese intrusion into their land.”

  “Tell me everything, then—everything that you’ve done since Lore and I were first imprisoned.”

  Sword blinked, took a deep breath, and began.

  He had scarcely finished describing his visit to Morning Calm when Snatcher returned with a platter of bread and cheese and a large jug of ale; Boss allowed Sword to take a few bites and one long swig before demanding he continue his tale.

  This was the first beer he had tasted in at least half a year; Sword savored every drop.

  The light outside the attic’s two small windows had faded, and four of Snatcher’s candles had burned down to little more than stubs, by the time Sword finally finished his narrative. Every crumb of bread and cheese was gone, and the third pitcher of beer was empty. Lore was yawning visibly, and Snatcher had curled up on the mattress; Sword was unsure whether he was awake or asleep.

  “. . . and I heard someone say my name, and there you were,” he concluded.

  Boss nodded.

  “Now I have questions for you,” Sword said.

  “Then ask them,” Boss said.

  “Where’s Beauty? Is she still alive?”

  “We don’t know,” Boss said. “She fled Winterhome after the battle, and we haven’t heard from her since.”

  “Bow is really dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you get free? Does the captain of the guard know you’re out of the dungeon?”

  “Snatcher set us free while the Wizard Lord was on his way up the cliff, but yes, we spoke with Captain Azal when he returned with word of the Wizard Lord’s death. He had no interest in imprisoning us; in fact, he suggested that once more immediate matters have been dealt with, he and I might do well to confer on how best to replace the Wizard Lord.”

  “Will you?”

  “Oh, yes. I think the captain and I may work well together.” She smiled, her expression almost smug.

  Sword nodded. He knew how persuasive the Leader could be; whatever she wanted from the captain, she could probably get it.

  He was too tired right now, though, to wonder what she might want. “Is it true that Farash conspired with Snatcher during your captivity?” he asked.

  Boss turned to the Thief. “Snatcher?”

  The Thief raised his head; apparently he had not been asleep. “It’s true,” he said. “Though I never entirely trusted him, and I never really believed his story of being the ninth of the Chosen. Remember, the magic of the Chosen does not work on the other Chosen.”

  Sword turned back to Boss. “Has there been any word from the surviving wizards?”

  “No, but I expect they’ll turn up once they learn the Wizard Lord is dead. You left his body in the Uplands? With the nine Great Talismans?”

  “I left his body,” Sword said. He did not mention smashing the talismans.

  “Something will have to be done about that, or someone may try to create a new Wizard Lord.”

  Sword met her gaze, but st
ill did not admit what he had done. Instead he asked, “You agree, then, that we are to have no more Wizard Lords?”

  “Oh, absolutely! Even if the remaining wizards are capable of creating one, think about who the candidates are—a handful of wizards who fled and hid, some of the same wizards who chose Artil im Salthir, and chose Laquar kellin Hario before him. We’ve had two bad Wizard Lords in a row; we don’t need a third to know the system has failed.”

  Sword nodded. “Those were also the wizards who thought creating a Chosen Traitor, and not only not telling anyone, but making it impossible to tell anyone, was a good, smart idea,” he said.

  “Well, it worked, didn’t it?” Boss said. “The Traitor did his job, and the Dark Lord is dead.”

  “Only after the secret got most of them killed,” Sword pointed out. “None of the survivors are fit for the job. Artil was right about that much.”

  “Artil was right about a great many things. If he hadn’t been such a ruthless, murderous bastard, he might have been the best thing Barokan ever saw.” She shrugged. “I’m still glad he’s dead.” She glanced at the window. “You must be exhausted, after climbing down here and then talking for hours.”

  “I am,” Sword admitted.

  “Well, we can all sleep here tonight, and go our various ways in the morning. Those two have the bed, which leaves the rug for us.” She slid to one side, unfolded her legs, and lay down, leaving room for Sword to lie beside her. “Good night.”

  “Good night,” Sword echoed.

  He thought, as he lay down, that he would have trouble getting to sleep. There was so much to absorb, so much to think about, so much to plan.

  He was wrong; weariness outweighed thought, and he was sound asleep seconds after his head hit the rug.

  He was the last of the four to wake in the morning. When he finally opened his eyes he found himself looking at a plate of freshly cooked sausages, their delightful odor filling his nostrils. He sat up quickly, and looked around.

  Snatcher was gone. Lore was struggling to brush his hair, which had grown long and tangled during his captivity. Boss was sitting on the cushion, eating sausages.