by Larry Niven
Sparthera clapped her hands over her ears and yelled. “That’s no wild ass! What on earth is it? Some sort of magic beast?”
Bruk was busily fitting his halter on their uncooperative captive. “I don’t know,” he panted. “I think it’s half ass and half nightmare. If a sorcerer dreamed it up, he must have been drunk.”
He stood back and let it scramble to its feet. It lowered its head, pawed the ground savagely, lifted its tail, and jumped with all four feet. The maneuver carried it forward perhaps two paces, its little wings flapping frantically.
Sparthera burst out laughing, doubled over with mirth. When she recovered enough, she stared at their captive and shook her head. “Do you think it can be broken to carry a pack?”
“Let’s get it down to the barn and we’ll try it with a packsaddle.”
Getting the wingbeast down the hill was a production in its own right. It bolted, tried to roll, then dug its feet in like the most obstinate of jackasses. Finally, tired, irritated, and covered with grime, the three of them made it to the barnyard.
They managed to get the saddle on its back—after Sparthera had been butted and trampled and her brother had been dumped in the watering trough—and stood back to watch.
The small animal bucked. It turned, twisted, flapped its foolish little wings, and rolled in the dust. It tried to bite the saddle girth and scrape the saddle off against the fence. It kicked its heels and brayed. Just when they thought it would never quit, it stopped, sides heaving, and glared at them.
The next day it accepted a ripe apple from Sparthera, bit Bruk in the buttocks, and managed to bolt into the house, where Sparthera’s mother hit it on the nose with a crock of pickled cabbage.
Sparthera was losing patience. It was all taking too long. Had Sung Ko Ja discovered her trick? Was he searching Tarseny’s Rest for the woman who had stolen his pointer? She had told Bayram Ali that she was visiting her parents. Someone would come to warn her, surely.
But nobody came, that day or the next, and a horrid thought came to her. Sung Ko Ja must have followed the pointer far indeed. Even without the pointer, he must have a good idea where the treasure lay. He might have continued on. At that moment he could be unearthing Sparthera’s treasure!
It was three days before the winged beast gave up the fight, trotted docilely at the end of a rope, and accepted the weight of a loaded packsaddle. It even gave up trying to bite, as long as they kept out of its reach. Sparthera named it Eagle.
“It would be better called Vulture!” Bruk said, rubbing at a healing wound. “It’s smart, though, I’ll grant you that. Only took the beast three days to realize it couldn’t get rid of that saddle.”
“Three days,” Sparthera said wearily. “Bruk, for once you were right. I should have stolen a horse.”
She rode back to town, leading the wingbeast along behind. It took her half a day to buy provisions and pack her clothing. In late afternoon she set out on the King’s Road, holding the bronze pointer like the relic of some ancient and holy demigod.
She was expecting to ride into the wilderness—into some wild, unpopulated area where a treasure could lie hidden for eighty years. But the pointer was tugging her along the King’s Way, straight toward Rynildissen, the ruling city of the biggest state around. That didn’t bother her at first. Rynildissen was four days’ hard riding for a King’s messenger, a week for a traveler on horseback, two for a caravan. And Gar’s band had done their raiding around Rynildissen.
The King’s Way was a military road. It ran as wide as a siege engine and as straight as an arrow’s flight. It made for easy traveling, but Sparthera worried about sharing her quest with too much traffic. She found extensive litter beside the road: burnt-out campfires, horse droppings, garbage that attracted lynxes. It grew ever fresher. On her third afternoon she was not surprised to spy an extensive dust plume ahead of her. By noon of the next day she had caught up with a large merchant caravan.
She was about to ride up alongside the trailing wagon when she caught a glimpse of an odd shaggy horse with a tail like an ass. There was a figure in bulky eastern robes on its back. Sung!
Sparthera pulled her horse hard to the side and rode far out over the rolling hill and away from the road. She had no desire to trade words with the smooth-faced magician. But what was he doing there? The caravan was protection from beasts and minor thieves, but the caravan was slow. He could have been well ahead of Sparthera by now.
He didn’t know the pointers had been switched! That must be it. The seeking-spell had been nearly dead already. Sung had followed it from far to the East; now he was following his memory, with no idea that anyone was behind him.
Then the important thing was to delay him. She must find the treasure, take it, and be miles away before Sung Ko Ja reached the site.
All day she paced the caravan. At dusk they camped round a spring. Leaving her horse, Sparthera moved down among the wagons, tents, oxen, and camels. She avoided the campfires. Sung Ko Ja had pitched a small red-and-white-striped tent. His unicorn was feeding placidly out of a nosebag.
Stealing a roll of rich brocade was easy. The merchant should have kept a dog. It was heavy stuff, and she might well be spotted moving it out of camp, but she didn’t have to do that. After studying Sung’s tent for some time, watching how soundly Sung slept, she crept around to the back of the tent and rolled the brocade under the edge. Then away, hugging the shadows, and into the hills before the moon rose. Dawn found her back on the highway, well ahead of the caravan, chuckling as she wondered how Sung would explain his acquisition.
When she dug the pointer out of her sleeve, her sense of humor quite vanished. The pointer was tugging her back. She must have ridden too far.
After a hasty breakfast of dried figs and jerked meat, Sparthera started to retrace her path, paralleling the King’s Way. Days of following the pointer had left painful cramping in both hands, but she dared not set it down now. At any moment she expected the bronze teardrop to pull her aside.
She was paying virtually no attention to her path. At the crest of a smooth hill, she looked up to see another horse coming toward her. Its rider was a smooth-faced man with skin the color of old ivory, and his almond eyes were amused. It was too late even to think of hiding.
“Oh-ho! My sweet little friend from two nights ago. What brings you onto the King’s Way?”
“My hair,” Sparthera improvised. “Cosmetics. There’s a witch-woman who lives that way”—she gestured vaguely south and gave him her best effort at a flirtatious smile—“and I find I can afford her fees, thanks to the generosity of a slant-eyed magician.”
“Oh, dear, and I had hoped your lips were aching for another kiss.” He looked at her critically. “You don’t need to visit any witch. Even shorn, you are quite enchanting. You must share my midday meal. I insist. Come, we can rest in the shade of those trees yonder.”
Sparthera was afraid to spur her horse and flee. He might suspect nothing at all, else why had he joined the caravan? She turned her horse obediently and rode to the shade of the small grove with him, trailing the wingbeast behind at the end of its halter.
Sung slid easily from his unicorn. He still didn’t seem dangerous. She could insist on preparing the food. Wine she could spill while pretending to drink. She swung down from her horse—
Her head hurt. Her eyes wouldn’t focus. She tried to roll over and her head pulsed in red pain. Her arms and legs seemed caught in something. Rope? She waited until her head stopped throbbing before she tried to learn more.
Then it was obvious. Her hands were tied behind her; a leather strap secured her ankles to one of the shade trees. Sung Ko Ja was sitting cross-legged on a rug in front of her, flipping a bronze teardrop in the air.
Bastard. He must have hit her on the head while she was dismounting.
“Two nights ago I noticed that someone had cut the paper out of my bedroom window,” he said. “I woke yesterday morning with a foul taste in my mouth, but that could have been c
heap wine or too much wine. Last night some rogue put a roll of stolen dry goods in my baggage, which caused me no end of embarrassment. I would not ordinarily have thought of you in connection with this. I confess that my memories of our time together are most pleasant. However”—he paused to sip at a bowl of tea, “however, my unicorn, who can whisper strange things when I want him to, and sometimes when I don’t—”
“He speaks?”
The unicorn was glaring at her. Sparthera glared back. Magician or no, she felt that this was cheating, somehow.
“Such a disappointment,” said Sung Ko Ja. “If only you had come to my arms last night, all of this might be different. You sadden me. Here you are, and here is this.” He held up the pointer. “Why?”
She looked at the ground, biting her lip.
“Why?”
“Money, of course!” she blurted out. “You said that thing was the key to a treasure! Wouldn’t you have taken it, too, in my place?”
Sung laughed and rubbed his fingers over his chin. “No, I don’t think so. But I am not you. It may be this was my fault. I tempted you.”
He got to his feet. He tilted her head back with one hand so he could look into her eyes. “Now, what’s to be done? Swear to be my slave and I’ll take you along to look for Gar’s treasure.”
“A slave? Never! My people have always been free. I’d rather die than be a slave!”
Sung looked distressed. “Let’s not call it slavery, then, if you dislike it so much. Bondage? Binding? Let’s say you will bind yourself to me. For seven years and a day, or until we find treasure to equal your weight in gold.”
“And if we find the treasure, what then?”
“Then you’re free.”
“That’s not good enough. I want part of the treasure.”
Sung laughed again, this time in pure amusement. “You bargain hard for one who has been pinioned and tied to a tree. All right. Part of the treasure, then.”
“How much of it?” she asked warily.
“Hmmm. I take the first and second most valuable items. We split the rest equally.”
“Who decides—”
Sung was growing irritated. “I’ll split the remaining treasure into two heaps. You choose which heap you want.”
That actually sounded fair. “Agreed.”
“Ah, but now it is my turn. What are you going to swear by, my little sweetheart? I want your oath that you’ll offer me no harm, that you’ll stay by my side and obey my commands until the terms of the agreement are met.”
Sparthera hesitated. It didn’t take a magician to know how to make an oath binding. Even nations kept their oaths…to the letter, and that could make diplomacy interesting…
She could be making herself rich. Or she could be throwing away seven years of her life. Would Sung hold still for a better bargain?
Not a chance. “All right. I’ll swear by Khulm, the thieves’ god who stands in the shrine at Rynildissen. May he break my fingers if I fail.”
“You swear, then?”
“I swear.”
Sung bent down and kissed her heartily on the lips. Then he set about freeing her. He set out tea while she was rubbing her wrists. There was a lump on her head. The tea seemed to help.
She said, “We must be very near the treasure. The pointer led me back the way we came…straight into your arms, in fact.”
Sung chuckled. He fished the silver box out of his saddlebag. He opened it, took out Sparthera’s counterfeit bronze teardrop, hesitated, then dropped it on the rug. He stood up with the genuine object in his hand.
Sparthera cried, “Stop! That’s—” Too late. Sung had flung the genuine pointer into a grove of low trees.
“I’ll keep yours,” he said. “It’s only for the benefit of people who think a box has to contain something. Now watch.”
He pressed down on the silver box in two places and twisted four of the small stone ornaments. The box folded out flat into a cross shape with one long arm.
“You see? There never was a spell on the bronze lump. You took it to a spell-caster, didn’t you?” Sparthera nodded. “And he put some kind of contagion spell on it, didn’t he?” She nodded again. “So the bronze lump sought what it had been a part of: the box. It’s been in there too long.”
Sung pulled the faded red lining off of the surface. Underneath, the metal was engraved with patterns and lettering. Sung stroked a finger over the odd markings. “It looks like a valuable trinket on the outside. No casual thief would just throw it away. I might have a chance to get it back. But a magician turned robber would take the pointer, just as you did.”
She’d had it in her hands! Too late, too late. “When can we start looking for Gar’s treasure?”
“Tomorrow morning, if you’re so eager. Meanwhile, the afternoon is growing cold. Come here and warm my heart.”
“Sung, dear, just how cl…” Sparthera’s words trailed off in surprise. She had walked straight into Sung’s arms. She had behaved like this with no man, not since that damned tinker. Her voice quavered as she said, “I don’t act like this. Sung, what magic is on me now?”
He pulled back a little. “Why, it’s your own oath!”
“I feel like that puppet you showed me! This isn’t what I meant!”
Sung sighed. “Too bad. Well—”
“I don’t mean I won’t share your bed.” Her voice was shrill with near-hysteria. “I just—I want power over my own limbs, damn you. Sung!”
“Yes. I tell you now that binding yourself to me does not involve becoming my concubine.”
She pulled away, and turned her back, and found it was possible. “Good. Good. Sung, thank you.” Her brow furrowed suddenly and she turned back to face him. “What if you tell me different later?”
She might have guessed that Sung’s answer would be a shrug. “All right. What was I trying to say earlier? Oh, I remember. Just how close is the King’s Way? We don’t want that caravan camping next to us. Somebody might get nosy.”
Sung agreed. They moved a good distance down the King’s Way before they camped for the night.
In the morning Sparthera saddled Twilight and loaded Eagle, while Sung packed his gear on the unicorn. The wingbeast caught his attention.
“Where did you get that creature?”
“Near my father’s farm. It was running wild. I think it’s some sort of magic beast.”
Sung shook his head sadly. “No, quite the opposite. In my grandfather’s day there were flocks of beautiful horses that sailed across the sky on wings as wide as the King’s Way. He rode one when he was a little boy. It couldn’t lift him when he grew too big. As time went on, the colts were born with shorter, weaker wings, until all that was left were little beasts like this one. I used to catch them when I was a boy, but never to fly. Enchantment is going out of the world, Sparthera. Soon there will be nothing left.”
It was a mystery to Sparthera how her companion read the talisman. It looked the same to her, no matter which way he said it pointed. Sung tried to show her when they set off that morning. He set the flattened-out box on the palm of her hand and said, “Keep reading it as you turn it. The runes don’t actually change, but when the long end points right, the message becomes ‘Ta netyillo iliq pratht’ instead of ‘tanetyi lo—’”
“Skip it. Just skip it.”
In any case, the pointer continued to lead them straight down the King’s Way.
They reached an inn about dusk, and Sung paid for their lodging. Sparthera watched him setting the spells against thieves. Sung was not secretive. Quite the contrary: He drilled her in the spells, so that she would be able to set them for him.
Though he had freed her from the obligation, the magician seemed to consider lovemaking as part of their agreement. Sparthera had no complaints. The magician was adept at more than spells. When she told him this, she expected him to preen himself; but Sung merely nodded.
“Keeping the women happy is very necessary in Sung House. How much did I tell you ab
out us, that first night?”
“You were the immortal Sung. You abdicated in favor of your son.”
“I was bragging.”
“What were you? Not the stable hand, I think.”
“Oh, I was the immortal Sung, true enough. We rule a fair-sized farming region, a valley blocked off by mountains and the Yellow River. We know a little magic—we keep a herd of unicorns and sell the horn, or use it ourselves—but that’s not what keeps the farmers docile. They think they’re being ruled by a sorcerer seven hundred years old.”
“The immortal Sung.”
“Yes. I became the immortal Sung when I was twenty. My mother set a spell of glamour on me, to make me look exactly like my father. Then I was married to Ma Tay, my cousin, and set on the throne.”
“That’s…I never heard of glamour being used to make anyone look older.”
“That’s a nice trick, isn’t it? The spell wears off over twenty years, but of course you’re getting older, too, looking more and more like your father, magic aside. When I reached forty my wife put the glamour on my eldest son. And here I am, under oath to travel until nobody has ever heard of Sung House. Well, I’ve done that. Someday maybe I’ll meet my father.”
“What happens to your wife?”
“She took my mother’s place as head of the House. It’s actually the women who rule in Sung House. The immortal Sung is just a figurehead.”
Sparthera shook her head, smiling. “It still sounds like a nice job…and they didn’t throw you out naked.”
“No. We know all our lives what’s going to happen. We think on how we’ll leave, what we’ll take, where we’ll go. We collect tales of other lands, and artifacts that could help us. There’s a little treasure room of things a departing Sung may take with him.”
He leaned back on the bed and stretched. “When I left, I took the pointer. It always fascinated me, even as a boy. I collected rumors about Gar’s treasure. It wasn’t just the gold and the jewels that stuck in my mind. There is supposed to be a major magical tool too.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a levitation device. Haven’t you ever wanted to fly?”
