He paused again, then continued, "Many of you may also have heard rumors about divine intervention, and I am pleased to say that these stories, too, are true! The gods themselves, in all their glory, intervened on behalf of their chosen people! The theurgists tell me that an ancient compact prevented both gods and demons from interfering directly in human affairs and that, once that compact was broken by the northerners and their demonic mentors, the gods were free to unleash divine retribution for centuries of injustice and evil. We have established this divine intervention by every means at our disposal: divination, clairvoyance, oneiromancy, and every variety of verification we-could devise. There can be no doubt at all of the effects, but we will probably never know the details—only the inhabitants of the Northern Empire were witnesses to the final conflagration, and in the past day the Northern Empire has ceased to exist!"
He paused there for the inevitable renewed cheering. When the crowd had calmed down sufficiently to allow him to continue, Gor said, "The gods have achieved in a single day what we could not in all these centuries of war! The Black City, capital of the Empire, has been blotted from the face of the World as if it had never been, and the other northern cities lie in ruins or worse. The Imperial Army is broken and scattered. The demons have been forced back into the Netherworld—and, that being done, the gods in turn have retreated into Heaven, swearing never again to interfere so directly in human affairs. The openings from the World into both Heaven and Hell have been permanently sealed; there can be no more prophets, no more shatra, no more night-roving demons, no divine messengers, no unsought miracles. Let us all offer a prayer of gratitude to the beings that forsook their nonviolent principles to defend us against evil!"
That roused a cheer, followed by a moment of confused muttering. When Gor judged that the faces turned expectantly toward him made up most of the crowd, he spoke again.
"Now, I fear I have some unpleasant news."
The crowd sobered; an uneasy hush fell.
"Oh, it's not all bad. The war is over, and with the help of the gods we won. A few northern stragglers remain to be mopped up but nothing significant. However, the World may not be quite as you have imagined it to be at the war's end—those of you who have thought about it at all.
"Firstly, due to the withdrawal of the gods, some of the laws of magic may have changed. I'm no magician, I can't say anything very definite about it, but my advisors tell me that magic we have taken for granted may no longer work. What this means remains to be seen.
"For most of you, that's a minor detail, though. Far more important for all of you is that, whatever you may have expected, the end of the war does not mean that you will all be going home to our motherland of Old Ethshar. You can't."
Gor apparently had not intended to stop there, but the hubbub was such that he had no choice. He held out his arms and waited for the crowd to quiet somewhat before continuing.
"There are two reasons that Azrad, Anaran, and myself will not be leading you home. Firstly, there is simply no room for the three million men and women who now occupy the camps and battlefields. The eastern half of Ethshar—yes, fully half—was destroyed by the demonic invasion and is now uninhabitable. In the remainder—well, you all know that this war has dragged on for generation after generation and that our defenses were sound. Despite the ravages of war, the population of our old homeland has increased steadily, and there is simply no room for more."
He paused; the crowd waited expectantly.
"That's the first reason. The second has been carefully kept secret for years, lest it damage morale and aid the enemy. Now that that enemy is destroyed, the time has come to reveal the truth. Ethshar is no more."
Gor paused again, as if expecting a loud response, but received only a puzzled silence.
He said, "Or rather, I should say, Old Ethshar is no more. The government collapsed almost a hundred years ago, and where the Holy Kingdom of Ancient Ethshar once was—or at least the western half of it—there are now dozens of squabbling little fiefdoms, each claiming to be the rightful government of the country, and therefore our superiors. We in the military have refused to acknowledge any of these factions and, instead, have been operating independently—Azrad, Anaran, myself, and, until his death, Terrek have answered to no one but ourselves. We four were chosen, not by the civilian government as we led you to believe, but by the commanders who came before us. We have traded with the small kingdoms that were once Old Ethshar for the supplies we need and have defended them against the northerners, but have never heeded their authority. We are the government of Ethshar—not of the Old Ethshar that was once our people's homeland, but of the new Ethshar, the Hegemony of Ethshar, all the lands that have been taken and held by our victorious armies. All the lands that lie outside the old borders—all the lands outside the borders now that the Empire is destroyed—are ours. Are yours! Captured with your strength and your blood and your courage, they belong to you, not to the cowards who stayed behind and couldn't even hold their own nation together!"
This was apparently intended to evoke a cheer, but the response was feeble and quick to die, as each individual in the crowd tried to absorb what had been said, evaluate it, and guess what it meant for him or her, what place he or she might hold in the new order.
Valder wondered if it actually was a new order, when in fact the generals had been running everything for centuries anyway.
"There is much to be done," Gor went on, hiding any disconcertment he might feel at the lukewarm response. "This stronghold is to become our new northwestern capital, one of three, to be called Ethshar of the Rocks. I fully expect that in our lifetimes, now that the demands of the war are gone, it will grow into a great and beautiful city."
An uneasy murmur seemed to be bubbling up here and there in the crowd.
"Of course, the army will be disbanded as quickly as possible, save for a small contingent to keep the peace and defend against any marauding northern survivors. My staff will remain in authority temporarily, but will be converted from a military establishment to a civilian government. The rest of you will be discharged as fast as you can be—with full pay, of course! After that, you will be free to do as you please, to stay here and help build our new city or to go where you like and do what you will. For those who wish to take up farming or other settled tasks, all the lands in the Hegemony not already privately owned, all the plains that reach from this ocean to the Great River, will be free to any family that wants them. You need merely find your new home, claim it, and use it—only claims by those who actually work the land will be recognized, as we need no landlords or other parasites."
Valder tried to digest this. How did one go about becoming a wine merchant? Would he need to claim a vineyard somewhere? He was not interested in growing the grapes and making the wine, merely in selling it. Would he be free to do that under the revamped regime?
And what would he do with Wirikidor? A merchant did not need a sword.
That was nothing to worry about, he told himself. He could just put Wirikidor away somewhere and forget about it, live a normal life—a normal life that would go on indefinitely. He would never be called upon to kill twenty more men, not in peacetime.
He was so involved with consideration of his own future that he paid no attention to the crowd around him, which was restive and uneasy.
"That's all," Gor announced. "I've said what I came to say. If you have any questions, ask your superiors. We aren't keeping any more secrets. And as quickly as the change can be made, we will no longer be the Western Command of the Holy Kingdom of Ethshar, but an integral part of the new Hegemony of Ethshar, and I will no longer be a general, but rather overlord of the city of Ethshar of the Rocks. After centuries, peace has come! The war is over, and victory is ours!"
Even Valder, lost as he was in his own musings, noticed that the crowd was still so unsettled and confused by the news that this surefire applause line received only a brief, half-hearted cheer.
Chapter 18
For three days after the self-proclaimed overlord's speech, the busiest man in the Fortress was the paymaster. Hundreds of soldiers took Gor at his word and mustered out as fast as they could get through the red tape, each one collecting his back pay—less a fee for early discharge, of course, a fee carefully calculated to keep the treasury solvent without letting anyone feel seriously cheated. It came to a single silver piece, which Valder had to admit was reasonable enough, and the cash settlements were reportedly being made promptly and honestly.
When Valder attempted to collect his pay and go, however, he was refused. Enlisted men were free to go, but as yet officers and special services people were being asked to wait.
Valder thought about just packing up and leaving anyway. He doubted that anyone, in this chaotic new peace, would care about a deserter. However, he had a goodly sum owed to him; whatever its other drawbacks, assassination paid well. He knew he would need money to set himself up in the wine business, and so he waited.
In doing so he was operating on the assumption that he actually intended to become a wine merchant, but now that the prospect was an immediate reality, rather than a vague plan for the distant future, he was having second thoughts. What did he know about being a merchant?
Whatever he might do, however, he would almost certainly want money and he saw no harm in waiting a few more days to collect it. Tandellin, too, was staying, for the moment; he had not yet decided what to do with himself; as he explained it, "Why give up free room and board?" Sarai, too, was staying, and somehow, with the arrival of peace, it became implicitly accepted that Tandellin and Sarai would be married when they got around to it.
Valder remained uneasy about staying in the Fortress, however. He tried to reassure himself as he watched the men and women trickling away down the hillside, leaving the inner corridors ever less crowded. He caught glimpses of their faces—some as they turned back for a last look at the Fortress, others as they turned to face new directions. Some were smiling, full of life and hope, ready to conquer a piece of the World for themselves. Others seemed worried and uncertain as they left behind the only life they had ever known.
For three days, new-made civilians walked away down the hillside, and for three days, at irregular intervals, soldiers would march up into the Fortress, alone or in patrols or squads or entire regiments, to be made into civilians and join the outward stream. A few were determined to remain soldiers, of course, and the barracks population fluctuated, rather than decreasing steadily.
As yet Gor had done nothing about his announced intention of building a city around the Fortress and its adjoining shipyards, but a ramshackle city was growing up anyway, a city of tents and crude huts. People were arriving faster than they could be dealt with and sent away, and no one wanted to bother finding places inside the walls for all the newcomers. Furthermore, many of the new civilians who descended the hill went no further than the impromptu camps.
Valder had not ventured outside the Fortress for fear he would have difficulty getting back in; his tall, narrow room with its inaccessible window was not much, but he had become accustomed to it and greatly preferred stone floors to dirt. He suspected that, when someone found the time to update accommodations, it would be given to someone more useful in peacetime than himself, but he intended to use it while he still could.
He did find himself spending hours on end standing on the ramparts above the largest landward gate, watching the departing figures and trying to decide whether he actually envied them or not. He made no secret of his time at this post, so he was not surprised when, on the third day after the overlord's speech, someone called his name.
He turned to see a messenger boy, perhaps twelve or thirteen, standing at the top of the nearest ladder. "Are you Valder of Kardoret, sir?" he called.
Valder nodded.
"I've been looking all over for you! The general—I mean, the overlord—wants to see you immediately!"
"General Gor, you mean?" Valder was puzzled. He could think of no reason that Gor would want to see him, now that the war was really over. There were no more enemy officials to assassinate.
Or were there? Perhaps he was to be sent against the stragglers. Stories had come in of encounters with northern forces who were still fighting.
Of course, those who didn't fight were often butchered by overenthusiastic Ethsharites, even after they surrendered, so Valder hardly blamed those who resisted. Still, he had not thought that Wirikidor's special talents were called for. Wizards and ordinary soldiers were more practical for such work than assassins.
Perhaps he was to take care of a lingering shatra the wizards could not handle.
"Yes, General Gor," the boy was saying. "Except he's an overlord now. Didn't you hear the speech?"
"Yes, I heard the speech," Valder admitted as he crossed to the ladder. He wondered what the correct form of address might be for speaking to an overlord.
He followed the boy down the ladder and into the Fortress, through the maze of rooms and passageways, until he found himself in Gor's office, unchanged by the switch from military to civilian authority.
A secretary leaned over and whispered through his beard, "Address him as 'my lord,'" answering Valder's unasked question. Apparently the point had come up before.
Gor looked up and said, "Ah, Valder. I would like to speak to you in private." He rose, crossed the room, and opened a small door in the rear wall, a door Valder had never really noticed before. He gestured, and Valder reluctantly came and stepped through the door into the tiny room beyond. A glance behind him showed him that some of the half-dozen secretaries and aides in the office were at least as surprised as he was at this unexpected secrecy.
Once inside the bare stone chamber, Gor carefully closed and locked the door. The room was small, perhaps eight feet wide and ten feet long, with two simple wooden chairs the only furnishings; Gor seated himself on one and indicated that Valder was to take the other.
Wary, Valder obeyed.
Once both men were seated, Gor wasted no time on preliminaries. "Valder, I don't know what you had planned to do now that peace has come, but I'd like you to stay on here."
Confused, Valder stammered in asking, "As a soldier, you mean?"
"As a member of my staff—soldier or civilian, it doesn't matter. Take your choice."
"Why? What would I do?"
"Why? Because I think I might find an assassin very useful."
"An assassin? In peacetime?" Valder was shocked and made no attempt to hide that fact.
"Yes, in peacetime—perhaps more than ever. When somebody gives me trouble now, I can't just order him hanged, you know; not anymore. I know that there are people who aren't happy with this triumvirate that Azrad and Anaran and I have set up; by the gods, there are times when we aren't very happy with it ourselves! Still, it's better than chaos, and that's what there would be if we stepped down. That's what happened in Old Ethshar when it wasn't clear who was in charge, and it's not pretty at all—all the small kingdoms fighting over the bones of the old one. I don't want to see that happen out here in the Hegemony. I'll use whatever methods I need, whatever methods I can find, to prevent it, and that includes assassination. Wizards can handle some of it, but magic leaves traces, and most magic can be guarded against—just as the northerners tried to guard against it. That sword of yours seems to be an exception, though—you got through in the north where wizards couldn't, and it would be no different here. Besides, I may need to eliminate a wizard or two, and they have a guild—they're more loyal to their guild than to anything else, including me or any other mortal, so I can't often get them to attack each other. I think Wikridor, or whatever its name is, could be just what I need to keep the Wizards' Guild in line."
"Wirikidor," Valder corrected absently.
"Wirikidor, then."
"Urn."
"Well, man, what do you say? The job will pay well, I can promise you that."
"Sir—ah, I mean, my lord—I don't think I can do it. T
he day you told us the war was over I had been planning to come to you and resign and ask for different duties. I don't like being an assassin. I can't take any more of it. It isn't in me to do this sort of killing. If I hadn't stumbled into owning this sword, I wouldn't... well, I wouldn't have been assassin, certainly."
"Why not?"
"I don't like killing! I don't like danger, or sneaking about, and I don't like killing. I don't like blood. When the war was going on, it wasn't too bad—everybody was doing it, after all, killing or being killed, and there was a reason for it. We were defending ourselves. Now, though, I wouldn't be killing the enemy, but our own people, just to protect you. I..." Valder suddenly realized that not only was he expressing himself badly, but he was on the verge of saying something irretrievably tactless. He changed direction abruptly. "And besides, the sword is cursed, you know, and is due to turn on me soon if I keep using it. I couldn't serve you for very long in any case All I want to do, sir—my lord—is to collect my pay and retire quietly, perhaps set myself up in business somewhere. I'm not interested in fighting or killing or government or politics. I never was. Please, my lord, don't misunderstand me, but do just let me go."
He stared hopefully at Gor. The overlord, obviously irritated, had gone from leaning back in his chair to leaning forward, elbows on knees. Now he rose, his hand falling naturally to the hilt of his sword. "You're sure of your decision?"
Valder rose, but pointedly kept his own hand well away from Wirikidor. "I'm quite sure, my lord. I will not be your assassin." An odd feeling of confidence seeped into him as he stood facing Gor. Here he was, defying one of the three most powerful men in the world—and he had nothing to fear! Gor could not kill him; Wirikidor would make sure of that. Nor could Valder be demoted or court-martialed, now that the war was over; he was sure that an attempt at military justice against a man who had tried to leave the army peacefully would result in a public outcry Gor could ill afford, and what would demotion matter any more?
The Misenchanted Sword Page 15
