Riddle of the Seven Realms m-3

by Lyndon Hardy

  "What common goal?"

  "Why to find the archimage, of course," Astron said. "If he stands to these wizards as a prince does to the djinns of my realm, then only he will be able to turn aside their anger and tell them to desist."

  Astron paused. The hint of a smile crept onto his face. "So you see, what we seek is the same, as well as what we avoid."

  Kestrel felt the dampness of the cloth that Astron had thrown him and dropped it to the ground with the other. He patted his mare and frowned.

  "You can detect the presence of these imps before they can get too close?" he asked.

  "Far before what you might dismiss as a fleeting spark of light or a distant buzz of an insect, I can recognize it for what it truly is."

  "And once detected, you can confine them as well?"

  "They would bite my fingers just as surely as yours," Astron said. "It is the bottles made by your magicians that are best to keep them in."

  "Such jars cost a great deal," Kestrel said. "Far more than a dozen brandels. I have-have dealt with a guild of Procolon to the north and know full well what one might bring."

  "Then too there is the matter of the gold imp and others of its kind. For those I do not know for sure that I can even detect."

  "If you have not heard of such, then they most probably do not exist," Kestrel said.

  "But I heard you speak of them to the wizards."

  "It was a lie." Kestrel shrugged his shoulders, dismissing the thought. He looked into the demon's unblinking eyes. Not being able to snatch even a glimmer of what he really was up to made him very uncomfortable. But what Astron had said made sense. Kestrel had bruised the pride of not a single wizard but almost a dozen. The archimage probably was the only one who could get him out of his fix. Only Alodar would have enough power to turn aside the masters' wrath once he somehow was convinced it was all a simple mistake. And surely Kestrel could come up with a plausible explanation before he got to the capital of Procolon. Crossing the border would be the only problem.

  Kestrel smiled. Now that he thought of it, being in the presence of the archimage might lead to other opportunities as well. The master of five magics was a man just like the rest. What satisfaction there would be in giving him the chance to outsmart a simple woodchopper. The archimage! Yes, it would be the greatest triumph of all!

  "Very well," Kestrel said after a moment's more deliberation. If the demon had any ulterior motives, he would deal with them when they became more apparent. For now he would continue as he had been asked. "Our paths are still joined. I will get us to the archimage-as we, of course, have originally agreed."

  "A lie," Astron said slowly, apparently ignoring what Kestrel said. "You spoke something which was not a reflection of the truth, or at least your interpretation of it."

  "Of course," Kestrel said. "I explained to you already what I am about, what all men are about. Concern yourself about it no longer. The only difference is that some of us are more skilled in seeing through the words to what stands behind."

  "You have this skill of observation?" Astron asked.

  Kestrel sighed. The events of the past hour had already been too draining. He did not want to experience any more intense feelings. He shook his head and turned away.

  Astron waved at the mare and wagon. "I understand," he said, "that you do not have the means of transporting us as swiftly as a mighty djinn. One is bound by his honor for no more than he is capable of giving." He reached out and tugged on Kestrel's sleeve. "There will be time, therefore, that can be most profitably spent with no hint of disgrace-time to tell me how you learned to discern the truth of things that are not."

  Kestrel studied Astron's expression. He saw no trace of mocking judgment. The demon's words of honor and trust unlocked memories that had been suppressed for too many years. Unbidden, they bubbled up to be exam ined again. They would not go away until they had been acknowledged. And if only a being from another realm heard them, who would really care?

  "I did not have such skills at first," Kestrel heard himself say softly. "Not at first, when perhaps they counted the most." He waved his arm up toward the wagon where Phoebe sat entranced. "In many ways the wizard reminds me of her-at least in the way she speaks and smiles."

  Kestrel looked down at the brandels he clutched in his hand and ran his fingers over the bust of the old queen. "Evelyn was a wandering sorcerer, so she said, unaffiliated with those on Morgana across the great sea. The logo of the eye on her robe was plainly stitched and unadorned. A sorcerer of great beauty she was as well, as fair as Vendora, the ruler of Procolon, in her prime.

  "Her love for me knew no bounds, she told me. Anything that I asked that was in her power would be mine. And who was I to believe otherwise, a lad barely out of his teens.

  "The request was simple enough-to go with her among the townspeople I knew, add credence to her tale, and hold the pledges for safekeeping that each of them subscribed. When the total was sufficient she would add a matching amount of her own and then, while I waited outside the gates, negotiate with the Cycloid Guild for the sale of some properties that would aid in the enchantments. With them she would form great illusions of healing and relieve the deep-set pains that even sweet-balm could not touch. Our village would become famous for the soothing comforts the charms provided. Everyone would share in the fees that such wonders would bring. And I would learn the words of the spells and be second only to her in the eyes of the grateful.

  "Three days I paced in front of the forbidding doors of the guild before some of the more suspicious townspeople came and asked to count again the contents of the sacks I so carefully guarded. When they were opened and iron disks instead of soft gold spilled out, I was as much shocked as they. Even when told how the switch must have taken place in a moment of intimacy, I would not believe. At any second, I knew, the gates would open and Evelyn would emerge with a satisfactory explanation.

  "But she did not come; she left by another exit from the guild almost as soon as she had entered. No, she reappeared not then nor during any of the four years I wasted away in a dungeon in punishment for my part in the crime.

  "So when I finally was set free, I started learning to look intently at the faces, to read behind the words and to serve to magicians and other masters some of the same formulas that they would brew for me."

  Kestrel paused and shrugged. "It is not so difficult if you set your mind to it. Every man betrays his innermost thoughts with slight gestures and the tugs of muscles in his face, master as well as slave. You merely have to put yourself in his place and feel as your own what must be his driving desires. Each time you observe, the readings become clearer, the hidden motives behind them easier to read.

  "And with that understanding comes the power to manipulate, to guide and channel according to your own desire. One can twist a master of the arts like a magic ring about his finger and show to the world, like Evelyn, how undeserving he is.

  "So in the end I have become a sorcerer as much as any other. No, I know nothing of the incantations that are so hard to say but if spoken thrice bind the spells. I do not bend others to my will by force of magical art. The illusions that I spin are fabrics of the other's own thoughts, rather than my own. I merely encourage the impulses that are already there and enable them to flower for a brief moment for my own gain before they are subsequently smothered by shame."

  The sadness in Kestrel's face tugged like a great weight. "Now I do have the skill of observation," he said. "I can see through men to their true worth. And unfortunately, I am among the best."

  Kestrel stopped his rambling. He looked at Astron with questioning eyes. "Now do you understand any better?" he asked.

  "No," Astron said. "It is all very interesting, but in fact, I guess I do not. Why would this Evelyn say she would return and then change her mind without letting you know?"

  Kestrel sighed again. At least for the moment, the bitterness was expunged. And it was far better for a demon to hear his confession than for someon
e who could manipulate the information against him. For a long moment there was silence; then Kestrel waved back to the wagon. "Climb inside and let us be going," he said. "I have some clothing that you should don so that you will not attract notice as we travel northward."

  Astron nodded. "But you have not yet told me of the wizard. Why did you return for her at such great risk?"

  "I do not know." Kestrel shrugged. "But it does not matter. Into the wagon, I say. Let us be gone."

  "You had no real need," Astron persisted as he climbed aboard. "As I understand it, it could only be the act of a hero."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Talk of the Thaumaturges

  THE race across the Southern Kingdoms was swift. Kestrel pushed the mare as much as he dared, barely stopping for food and sleep. Astron had no requirement for nourishment and Phoebe in her entranced state needed little. In three days' time they crossed Samirand and Laudia and entered Ethidor, which bordered Procolon on the south. During their trek, Astron saw no sign of the searching imps, but the compelling sense of urgency did not abate. At any moment, the wizards could discover where they were and subject them to their wrath. The tale of what awaited Astron back in his own realm, if he did not succeed in time, Kestrel could scarcely believe, but the demon remained steadfast in urging the wagon onward.

  Toward dusk of the third day, they arrived in the port of Menthos as the onshore breeze blew thick plumes of dark smoke from foundries across the isthmus. Kestrel pulled his horse to a stop at the head of the main street of the town. He glanced back at Phoebe, who appeared to be sleeping on a rough bed under the wagon's canopy. The branches and snags meant to be foisted off as anvilwood had long since been discarded. Astron sat at Kestrel's side, wearing a long cape and hooded like a master, although no logo was displayed. A worn tunic, leggings, boots and gloves covered most of his faintly scaled skin.

  On the left side of the main street, behind a sidewalk of rough planking, stood a long row of apothecaries, wooden-faced structures mainly of one storey. Some were brightly painted and prosperous-looking, others were dull with isinglass windows scratched and hazy. "Galena and cinnabar," some of the placards over doorways proclaimed; "Fresh vacuum of all quantities, created daily," said others.

  On the right, steep stairways led down a short cliff to docks and quays. Riding gently at anchor were broad-beamed galleons, all lying high in the water, though some had their decks filled with closely packed bottles, their sails unfurled, ready to weigh anchor.

  At the other end of the street, behind high fences, large smokestacks towered into the sky, belching dense black clouds. Even from the distance, one could hear the roar of huge bellows feeding air into furnaces and smell the hint of metallic fumes.

  The traffic on the street was the usual mixture of scurrying messengers, maids hawking fruits and material from simple carts, merchants in animated conversation, and an occasional litter bearing someone of importance. Mixed with the rest were men-at-arms in groups of twos and threes, wandering aimlessly, apparently looking for something to spark their jaded interests.

  "An alchemist's town, no doubt about it," Kestrel said as he pointed to the rising smoke. He had decided it best to explain things to Astron as soon as something new was seen by the demon. It would reduce the chance of questions at inappropriate times, like those that had been asked at Phoebe's cabin.

  Kestrel shook his head slightly as he spoke. He had become quite used to the physical presence of the demon. The oddity of his bizarre origin had long since faded away. A wrinkled nose, Kestrel now understood, indicated puzzlement, the flicking of the eye membranes a retreat into the deep logical thought. But beyond these simple signs, he still could not fathom any motives behind those that the devil professed. Hopefully, they would become more apparent as they drew closer to the archimage.

  Despite his statements about experience as a cataloguer of the realm of men, Astron was totally ignorant about some of the simplest things. Abstract concepts beyond what one could see and touch took a good deal of explaining. But the demon was an eager and attentive pupil, asking questions until he was sure that he fully understood.

  "If this is the lair of alchemists, then what formulas do they work?" Astron asked. "The chance for success must be quite high, judging from the number who are congregated all in one place."

  "Vacuums," Kestrel said. "By melting metals, the alchemists of Menthos can produce the hardest vacuums on the great sea. They are in demand by magicians and thaumaturges for their own rituals and simulations."

  "But a vacuum is the total absence of matter. How can that have any value at all?"

  "I do not understand the details," Kestrel said, "but by connecting one of the bottles produced here to another vessel, the air can be removed far better than by any pump. Lids can be sealed with greater force than that provided by the finest waxes. Huge pistons can be made to move along long cylinders, raising bridges over navigable rivers."

  "The absence of matter," Astron mumbled, "and in the realm of men great effort is put into its creation." He wrinkled his nose. "Another fascination. If only there were more time."

  Kestrel started to say more, but he suddenly spotted what he was looking for on the crowded street. Half a block down from where they had stopped, three brown-robed young men were performing their services for a queue of men-at-arms standing on the sidewalk, waiting their turn. Kestrel pointed out his destination and started the mare slowly forward.

  "Thaumaturges," he said, "a journeyman and two apprentices. See, one wears but a single wavy line on his sleeve; the other two are unadorned. But no matter that a master is not present. They will know what is happening by the nature of their trade better than most."

  Astron leaned forward to watch the activity as the wagon approached. One of the apprentices deftly clicked short shears through the long hair of a sergeant who sat in a portable chair set up on the sidewalk in front of the line. The second scooted about on his knees sweeping up the locks as they fell and passing them on to the journeyman seated at a table a little distance away.

  The last of the three carefully extracted a single strand of hair from the rest of each tress and dipped it into a pot of glue at his side. With a smooth motion, he aligned the sticky hair along the length of a piece of twine directly in front of where he sat. The men-at-arms chatted among themselves and the apprentice who wielded the shears, apparently totally oblivious of the other activities about them.

  "I recognize the craft," Astron said as they approached. "The one with the doubled blades is called a barber. In exchange for a coin he removes hair from the head and face."

  "In the Southern Kingdoms, there is no fee." Kestrel pulled the wagon to a halt directly in front of the line of waiting men. "The hair itself is payment enough."

  "Something new for sale?" one of the men-at-arms called out, jingling the purse at his waist as Kestrel vaulted to the ground. "It has been a fortnight of staring at the fires across the marsh. This is our first day of leave."

  "How much for an evening with the wench?" A second poked his head into the interior of the wagon and spied Phoebe's reclining form.

  "Although she is mine to command, such base use is not-" Astron began before Kestrel reached up and laid a hand of warning on his arm.

  "A fortnight without rotation." Kestrel smiled. "A long time without distraction. Tell me, how have things fared on the border for those who might wish to pass?"

  The two men-at-arms turned suddenly silent and resumed their place in line. Kestrel noticed the glower of the sergeant who sat in the apprentice's chair. "My business is with the journeyman," he said. "What he has learned from all who have sat here certainly is not the fault of your own fine squad of men."

  Kestrel watched the sergeant relax back into the chair as he walked down to where the journeyman worked his craft. As he approached, he noticed the hatchet-sharp nose that split the thaumaturge's elongated and melancholy face and how, with eyes furrowed with concentration, he arranged more than two dozen
pieces of twine in front of him, each with a hair glued down its length from the head of a different man. The journeyman mumbled something that Kestrel could not quite catch and then began deftly to weave the strings into a stout rope the thickness of a man's thumb.

  Simultaneously a second hair from each of the clippings before him disentangled from the rest. Like worms on a hot griddle, they danced toward one another and then began to intertwine. In a perfect mimicry of the weaving of the journeyman, the hairs wove into a tiny replica of the rope but with a diameter smaller than the shaft of a pin.

  "What is your greatest length?" Kestrel asked as he approached.

  "Over ten times the height of a man but with a carrying strength for its size greater than anything but the strands of a spider's web. You have no need for bulky ropes of hemp or cotton when you can possess such compact beauties as these braids."

  "Only ten times? Oh, then it is a pity." Kestrel backed away. "I was hoping for something more the distance from here to the quay."

  The journeyman looked up from his work. His eyes ran over Kestrel's rumpled tunic and he frowned. "Even with the aid of thaumaturgy which weaves the tiny strands as quickly as if they were readily handled twines," he said, "what you request would take much effort to produce. Each short length must be knotted together. You speak of something measured in golden brandels rather than the mere coppers of Ethidor. Are you sure you do not waste my time?"

  Kestrel paused a moment before answering. Then he shrugged and smiled. "Perhaps you are right. There are probably others who have what I want directly on hand." He turned to go and, with what looked like an afterthought, tossed a brandel onto the table amid the braids of hair. "For your trouble," he said.