Kelder knew his views, but had still sent him out repeatedly. He decided there was no point in rehashing the matter.
"I was beginning to wonder what had happened to you," he said instead.
"I was away," Kelder replied. "But now I'm back. I have your new orders."
"What new orders?"
"From General Gor. I told him about you, and he thinks you're being wasted here, killing sorcerers and administrators."
Valder was unsure whether that was good or bad. Much as he hated what he had been doing, it was always possible that what General Gor had in mind for him would be even worse.
He suppressed a slight shiver at the thought of General Gor thinking about him at all. Gor commanded the entire land-based Ethsharitic military west of the Great River's basin, after all; he was one of the four or five most powerful men in Ethshar, along with General Anaran and General Terrek and Admiral Azrad, and perhaps whoever was the current civilian head of state.
"What," Valder said at last, "does General Gor have in mind?"
"I wouldn't presume to guess General Gor's thoughts, Valder—and I wouldn't say, even if I did. However, your orders state that you're to be transferred from General Karannin's command to General Gor's personal staff, effective immediately, with the same title and position. It seems to me—though this is strictly a guess, and I'll deny ever saying it—that our illustrious commander has no objection to your current services other than the choice of targets."
"More assassinations, then?"
"I would think so."
"What if I refuse?"
"Don't be silly, Valder. That would be treason; you know that."
"But damn it, Kelder, I don't want to be an assassin! It scares me half to death, and I hate killing people—I get sick to my stomach."
"There are times when I don't like being a spy."
"I wouldn't mind spying as much, I don't think. Couldn't I do that?"
"Oh, maybe you will; I can't say. I'm just here to give you your orders and get you safely to Gor's headquarters on the coast. It's too late tonight; we leave at dawn."
"But..." Valder's objections trailed off.
Kelder smiled ruefully. "I sympathize, Valder, honestly. You have no choice, though. That hermit trapped you for life when he enchanted your sword; we can't possibly allow something like that to remain unexploited."
Valder glared resentfully at Wirikidor where it hung at the foot of his bed.
Kelder stood up and pulled the tent flap open. "We leave at dawn," he said.
Valder watched him go, then lay back, hoping that somehow dawn would not come.
Dawn came on schedule, however, and they departed.
Valder was startled by the transportation provided. They rode no horses, used no levitation spells; instead, Kelder led him to a small lavender tent in the magicians' circle, empty save for a rich tapestry that seemed stupendously out of place in a military camp. It hung from a crossbar nailed to the rear tentpole, its ornately fringed lower edge dragging in the dirt, and depicted a seascape seen from a stone rampart.
Kelder calmly walked directly into the tapestry, pulling Valder in after him.
To his astonishment, he found himself standing on the seaward battlement of General Gor's coastal fortress, Kelder at his side. The salt air washed into his nostrils, and he realized for the first time how accustomed he had become to the stench of General Karannin's camp, compounded largely of sweat, dust, and cattle. The sun was rising behind him and pouring out across the sea, lighting the wave crests with gold.
He turned around, expecting to see an opening back into the little tent, but instead he saw the upper court of the Fortress.
"Now, that tapestry," Kelder remarked. "That's a twelfth-order spell, and it took a very good wizard a year to produce it, but it does come in handy. They carefully avoid changing this section of the ramparts so that it will keep working. It has its drawbacks—you'll notice that it only works one way and that we had to leave the tapestry behind. It will be shipped wherever it's needed next. I wanted to get you here immediately, and there simply isn't anything faster, so I requisitioned the tapestry; nobody else was using it just now, so I was able to get it."
Valder was still staring about in amazement at the solid stone of the Fortress, trying to convince himself it was not a dream or illusion. "Oh," he said. Then a thought struck him. "Why did you wait until dawn, if the tapestry works instantly?"
"Because the tapestry depicts this spot just after dawn, of course. We'd arrive at dawn regardless of when we left, and I prefer a good night's sleep to several hours in some wizardly limbo. We could have entered the tapestry at any hour, true enough, but we would not arrive here until the hour the tapestry showed, regardless of how long a wait that might require. We wouldn't have noticed anything; to us the trip would still be instantaneous, but we would actually have lost those nighttime hours. I did that once; it messed up my sleeping schedule for days. And the weather can affect it, too—in fact, we may have missed a day or two if the weather was bad, but the prognostications were all favorable, so I don't think we have."
"I never heard of anything like that before."
"Of course not; it's a military secret, like almost any useful magic. Only the Wizards' Guild and important officers know anything about most of the more powerful wizardry. You'd be amazed what wizardry can do; there are spells for any number of things you would never have thought possible."
"Could they make more tapestries?"
"There are others, but right now no wizard can be spared for long enough to make more."
Valder was over his shock and beginning to think again. "Couldn't they use them to dump assassins, or whole regiments, behind enemy lines, maybe right in the enemy's capital?"
Kelder sighed. "It's a lovely theory, isn't it? But it won't work. The wizard making the tapestry needs to see the scene he's weaving very, very clearly. If it isn't absolutely perfect, right down to the smallest detail, the tapestry won't work—or at least won't work properly. We don't have any way of seeing clearly enough behind enemy lines; our scrying spells are good enough for most needs, but not for making these tapestries."
After a moment's pause he added, "Yet."
Valder decided against pursuing the matter; instead he looked around the battlements. He had seen this fortress from a distance, assuming that it was indeed General Gor's headquarters, but he had never before been inside its walls. Tandellin was here somewhere, he remembered.
The place was impressive. The stone walls appeared to be several feet thick, and the outer faces were steep enough that he could see nothing of them from where he stood. He did not care to lean very far out over the seaward parapet; the height was dizzying.
From where he stood, he could see nothing beyond the fortress walls but the sea, the sky, a few gulls, and, very far off in the northeastern distance, a line of dark green hills. The citadel was built atop the highest ground in the area, a jagged cliff that towered above broken rocks right at the ocean's edge—Valder remembered that from his previous visit.
The wall he stood upon stretched for almost a hundred yards in either direction; behind it, the courtyard was more than a hundred feet across, but long enough that that seemed disproportionately narrow. Dozens, perhaps hundreds of people were going about their business there. Men were sharpening swords or practicing their use, women were hanging clothes out to dry, and members of both sexes were sitting or standing in pairs or groups, talking. Off at the northern corner, two sentries peered out over the ocean; to the south, a bend in the wall and a small guardhouse hid the next pair from Valder.
"Well," Kelder said, "if you've finished admiring the view, we have an appointment with one of General Gor's staff, a Captain Dumery, who is to get you settled in and tell you your next assignment."
"Oh," Valder said unenthusiastically. He had no interest in any assignments, and the mere mention of one had ruined his enjoyment of his surroundings.
Kelder ignored the soldier's tone
and led the way to one of the staircases down into the court. They descended and, from the foot of the steps, proceeded across the court, through a vestibule into a corridor, down a flight of stairs, back along another corridor, across a large hall, along still another corridor, down another flight, across yet another corridor into a smaller hall, from there into an antechamber, and finally into a small room lined with tightly packed shelves. Valder was startled to see a small window slit with a view of the ocean; he had gotten turned around and would have guessed that they were deep in the interior of the Fortress, facing south toward the shipyards, and nowhere near the seaward side.
The room was inhabited by a small, white-haired man who invited them to sit down. He himself was perched on a stool, so that, when Valder and Kelder took the two low chairs provided, he could, short as he was, still look down on his visitors.
"You're Valder?" he asked. His voice was thin but steady.
Valder nodded.
"That's Wirikidor?"
"Yes," Valder said. . "It works the way Darrend says it does?"
"It seems to."
"Good. Then we want you to kill the Northern Emperor."
Valder stared up at the old man in silent astonishment. Kelder started and said, "You're not serious!'
The white-haired man shrugged. "Oh, well, maybe I'm not. If we can locate him, however, I think this man might be our best shot. After all, that sword is like nothing anyone has ever had before, so far as I know, and they probably have no defense against it. They can defend against just about everything else we throw at them!" He sighed. "Unfortunately, we can't locate him. Never could. So we'll be sending you against anyone important we can locate, Valder. Any problem with that?"
"Ah," Valder said, trying to give himself time to think.
"You know, I assume, that the sword is going to turn on me eventually, after a certain number of drawings."
"Yes, of course—but you have a long way yet to go. Darrend told me that it would take a hundred or so deaths before it could kill you, and you've only used up what, maybe five?"
"Seventeen," Valder corrected him.
"So many? Ah, well, that still leaves us with eighty-three, give or take a couple."
Valder was desperately unhappy at the sound of this, but could not think how to phrase a protest. Before he could work out what to say, the white-haired man raised a hand in dismissal. "I'll call you when we need you," he said. "My secretary will tell you where to go."
Valder started to speak, but Kelder shushed him and hurried him out of the room.
Chapter 16
While Valder remained inside the fortress walls, life as General Gor's assassin was not unpleasant. The food was good and plentiful, where the meals in General Karannin's camp had not been, although a far larger portion of it was seafood than Valder might have liked. The floors were dry stone, rather than dirt or mud, and most of them had some sort of covering, whether carpets, rush matting, or at least strewn straw, so that they were not unpleasantly cold and hard underfoot. He had been assigned his own little room deep in the bowels of the stronghold, with a tiny slit of window letting in air and, for a few hours a day when the sun was in the right part of the sky, light. He could not see out of the opening, which was eight or nine feet from the floor, but he judged it to be facing southwest.
To keep him from being called upon for menial duties, he had been issued new clothing. His worn and weathered old uniform was disposed of, and he was instructed that from now on he was to wear the gray-and-black tunic and black kilt that indicated the wearer to be performing some special service for General Gor. This outfit was more practical for sneaking about at night and had a certain drastic elegance, but Valder thought it uncomfortably reminiscent of northern uniforms; he was reluctant to be seen in it until he had observed other people in the Fortress, including Kelder, similarly attired.
He quickly discovered that the new uniform had one very definite advantage: it attracted women. Valder, unsure just what special services Gor was in the habit of demanding, was not sure why this was so, but it was undeniable that women who had scarcely glanced at him in his old green kilt and battered breastplate now stared at him with hungry eyes and looked for excuses to speak with him. Since he did not know when he might be sent off on a mission that could easily end in capture or mutilation, he refused to make any sort of long-term arrangements, but did spare an hour now and then to accompany a particularly eager or attractive young woman back to her quarters.
He hoped that such women were not disappointed, that the black-and-gray uniform had not led them to expect something more than an ordinary man.
He had been in the Fortress for almost a day before he managed to find Tandellin. The youth's barracks was nowhere near the areas Valder found himself frequenting; but once he had taken care of the minimal necessities of settling in, he took the time to track down his former bunkmate.
Tandellin had been permanently posted to the Fortress as part of the garrison; he stood a watch on the ramparts for six hours a day and was on call as a messenger and errand boy for six more. Calls came frequently. Still, he was able to find time for a quiet drink and conversation with Valder in a seldom-used storeroom on the evening of the day following Valder's arrival.
When they had exchanged a few polite phrases, Valder asked, "How are things going? Still running errands for that wizard?"
"Sharassin? No."
The answer seemed uncharacteristically brief. "What happened?" Valder asked.
Tandellin grinned crookedly. "If you must know, she found out where I had been spending some of my time when I was off duty and she wasn't. She didn't take it well. Just as well; she was transferred out a few days ago, anyway."
Valder grinned back. "So where were you spending that time—or wasn't it always the same place?"
"Oh, it was the same place all right. Her name is Sarai of the Green Eyes."
Valder waited, but Tandellin did not continue. "What's this?" he asked. "No description? No suggestion that I really must meet her? Could there be something special about Sarai of the Green Eyes?"
Tandellin's grin turned sheepish. "Maybe there is."
"Ah, well, congratulations, my boy, if it's true." Valder was genuinely pleased. He was a great believer in love and marriage, or so he had always said—though he had, as yet, no particular inclination in that direction for himself. It delighted him to see Tandellin showing signs of settling down, giving up the wildness of youth. The world needed more quietly settled people, he was convinced, something to provide stability and offset the chaos of the eternal war.
That thought brought to mind his own part in the war, systematically trying to produce chaos among the enemy by killing the men who kept order. He wondered whether any northerners were attempting similar missions in Ethshar. If so, they did not appear to be very successful, since the approximate whereabouts of the commanders, Azrad, Gor, Terrek, and Anaran, were common knowledge, yet no assassins had killed any of them.
Given a choice, Valder decided, he would much have preferred to be maintaining order in Ethshar, rather than creating chaos in the Empire—but since acquiring Wirikidor he had had no choice. Wirikidor was very much an agent of chaos, it seemed, and his superiors would not allow him to keep the blade sheathed and ignore it, as he wanted to. Some time soon, when they had found a target worthy of him, he would once again be sent out to wield Wirikidor. That took a great deal of the pleasure out of life in the Fortress.
It was three days after his arrival that Captain Dumery's secretary found him and led him to his first briefing.
That first mission went well; he was able to kill the enemy general they had chosen quickly and without killing anyone else. That brought his total to eighteen.
The next, three days later, was disastrous; Valder managed his part well enough, but it was a joint mission, involving himself, a wizard who provided magical transportation, and a cocky young thief, and the thief botched his part. Valder and the wizard made it back alive, th
ough the wizard had a long scar to show for it and Wirikidor's total was up to twenty-five, which did not include the intended target.
Twenty-five down, seventy-five to go—or seventy-three or seventy-seven. Valder almost began looking forward to his next task; if he kept on using Wirikidor at that rate, he would be forced to give up assassination in a matter of months. Dumery could not order him to draw the sword once the possibility of it turning on him became imminent. He would still be a soldier, but no longer an assassin; he could leave Wirikidor safely in its scabbard and fight with more ordinary weapons.
He had been resting up from that errand for a day or so when he was summoned, not to Captain Dumery's little office, but to meet General Gor himself. With some trepidation, he went.
Gor of the Rocks was of medium height, but heavy, broad at shoulder and hip, with thick black hair and beard. He stood with his feet planted well apart, as if bracing himself, and wore the standard brown tunic and green kilt of the Ethsharitic army, his badges of rank hung in a bunch on a chain around his neck.
"Valder, is it?" he said.
"Yes, sir," Valder answered.
"From now on you take orders from me and nobody else; not Captain Dumery, not Kelder, not Azrad or Anaran or Terrek. You understand that? If I want you, I'll send for you, but you take your orders for where to go and what to do when you're outside this fortress from me and me alone. I don't want you wasted on any more messes like that last one Dumery thought up. You did well enough—brought back Cardel, and the gods all know we need every wizard we can get at this point—but you shouldn't have been there in the first place. Wasted seven out of a hundred!"
"Yes, sir," Valder said with calm resignation.
"Good. You're getting your food and pay on time?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. This war is finally getting somewhere, Valder, and we need all the help we can get, even swords with curses put on them by deranged hermits we can't find, if they can be useful. You may not like what you're doing, and I wouldn't blame you. It's not exactly glorious, sneaking in and killing people with an unbeatable magic sword— more like butchery than soldering, in a way. Still, remember, it's useful. You're doing something that may turn out to be essential."
The Misenchanted Sword Page 13
