Gor seemed to sense Valder's changed attitude; his own became less certain, less belligerent, and he glanced at Wirikidor. "You won't speak of this conversation with anyone, I hope," he said. "I would not appreciate that. Unpleasant things might happen. I can allow you to go in peace, Valder of the Magic Sword, but I cannot allow you to work against me. I know the sword guards you against death, but there are other unpleasant things that can happen. Remember that and say nothing."
"I'll remember."
"Good." Gor turned to open the door. "That's all, then."
"Not quite, my lord.". Valder stayed where he was and allowed his hand to drop nearer Wirikidor's hilt. In this room he had the upper hand; if he drew Wirikidor there could be no doubt that Gor would die. Of course, there would also be no doubt about who killed him, but Valder could claim it was an accident; given Wirikidor's untrustworthy nature, he might be believed.
He had no intention of drawing the sword, but it made a very effective threat indeed.
"Oh?" Gor was wary and, Valder sensed, very dangerous. He might hope to wound Valder and delay him long enough to slip out and allow the sword a choice of victims.
"I realize it's an imposition, but if you could send a message to the paymaster to release the money owed me, I would like to be discharged and go about my business. You don't need me around here anymore, talking to people."
"Oh, is that all?" Gor relaxed visibly. He turned and opened the door, then leaned through and called to the people waiting in the main office. "Bragen! Inform the paymaster that Valder of Kardoret has been discharged without prejudice and is to be paid the full amount due him upon request!"
"Yes, my lord," replied the secretary who had told Valder the appropriate form of address.
"Thank you," Valder said as he made his way past Gor and out of the little room.
Gor did not answer; he was already bellowing for some other officer to pay attention.
Valder and Bragen marched side by side down the corridor, not speaking. Valder was thinking and planning intently, as he had not really done for months.
Gor was not a man prone to making empty threats; he undoubtedly really did have wizards working for him who would not balk at an assassination or two. He might well decide that Valder was simply too dangerous to have running around loose, particularly in his own home. That was why Valder had insisted on his immediate discharge and full pay; he did not care to stay in the Fortress where Gor might stumble across him and be reminded that Wirikidor was a real threat and where Valder could easily be found, if the overlord decided to do something about him. It was time to go—and quickly—as he had no desire to be blinded or hamstrung or imprisoned.
In his first rush of worry, he was not even certain he should take the time to collect his few personal belongings and make his farewells to Tandellin and other friends, but he decided, while the paymaster was counting out his coins, that Gor would be too busy to worry about him for at least a few hours yet. He would have time, once his pay was all securely in hand, to gather his things .and stop by the barracks briefly.
That settled, the next question was where to go. Since the ocean lay to the west and an almost-empty wilderness to the north, his choices were limited. To the east was the former Central Command, under Anaran of the Sands; beyond that, he was not sure, since the demonic attack had wiped out the old Eastern Command. Somewhere to the southeast was Azrad's Coastal Command, which had always been concerned with supply and communication rather than combat, and beyond that, across the Gulf, lay the small kingdoms that had once been the Ethsharitic homeland.
He had no interest in wandering about in the wilds, nor in being alone. If he were to hide from Gor, as it seemed he might need to, it would be easier to lose himself in a crowd than somewhere in the wilderness. Any decent wizard could locate the general area an individual was in with a few simple spells, and if he were living by himself somewhere he would be easily found by such methods— but the spells could not pick one man out of a camp.
The Fortress and the surrounding area were certainly crowded enough, but he did not care to stay so close. What of the other two headquarters, then?
Anaran was based on the south coast, well on the other side of the major western peninsula, and Azrad's home port, reputed to be an actual city rather than a camp, was far beyond, on the northeastern corner of the eastern peninsula, not far from the mouth of the Great River and almost at the borders of the small kingdoms—after all, Azrad had been in charge of ports and coasts throughout the World, and his command had been the link between the other three and the old homeland.
Azrad's base sounded promising; it was on the far side of Anaran's, making it that much less accessible to Gor; and furthermore, Valder judged that there would be far more business opportunities there, where trade was already established. He might not wind up a wine merchant, but, by all the gods, he would find something and not wind up a fanner!
When he stopped in and told Tandellin he was leaving, Tandellin naturally asked where he would go.
"Oh, I don't know," he muttered.
"Yes, you do, Valder; you wouldn't just leave this suddenly if you hadn't picked a destination."
Sheepishly, Valder admitted, "Well, I was thinking of Azrad's home port—should be plenty of work there."
"So there should. Good luck, then, in finding it!" With that, Tandellin embraced him and then turned away.
Valder was slightly startled; he had expected Tandellin to try and extend the conversation, not cut it short. Unsure whether to be relieved or hurt, he headed for the gate. Just an hour after the end of his interview with the overlord, he was marching down the hillside with a full purse on his belt, bound for Azrad's headquarters.
Chapter 19
Valder was no sailor, nor was he particularly fond of the sea, though he did think its scent freshened the air nicely. Still, he decided after due consideration to travel by ship, rather than overland. He estimated the distance to Azrad's home base at more than a hundred leagues, a long and weary walk under the best of circumstances. Nor did such circumstances exist, as the roads, he knew, were not good. Much of the route had been disputed territory at one time or another in the past few decades, and although roads had been built to accommodate troop movements, they had been intended as temporary and had not been maintained. A few had been torn up by actual battles.
And a walk it would have had to be, as no horses or other beasts of burden were available. The hundreds of people who had left the Fortress before him had bought or stolen every one to be found in a two-league radius.
Once this became clear, Valder took the first shipboard vacancy he could find. Fortunately, ships were coming in steadily, so that this caused no delay.
He was surprised to learn that these ships were bringing people in from further south and east, people who hoped to find greater opportunities in this most northerly of the three new capitals. Less startling was the observation that dozens of others were following his own course, leaving the Fortress for places closer to the old homeland.
He wondered how things stood elsewhere. Was all the Hegemony as unsettled as this? The sudden end of the war had apparently left hundreds or thousands of people unsure where they might fit in.
As he stood at the ship's rail and watched Gor's demesne fade in the distance, he assured himself that he had done the right thing. True, all his living friends were still in or near the Fortress, but his departure meant a clean break with his past as an assassin and with all the rest of his former life. Nobody would know him in Azrad's city; nobody would know that Wirikidor was anything more than an ordinary sword such as any veteran might carry. He would make new friends in time, friends who would not care what he had done during the war, and he would live peacefully as long as he kept Wirikidor sheathed.
If he kept it sheathed long enough, he could just outlive everyone who knew of its existence.
He wondered if that was really a good thing. He enjoyed life, or at least he usually had enjoyed it, b
ut might it get wearing eventually? Living on indefinitely while everyone around him grew old and died might be depressing. Of course, he would presumably be growing older, too.
That thought brought him up with a start. Just how would that work? Would the sword keep him young, or merely alive? It would not protect him from injury—his left arm still ached sometimes where that sorcerer had wounded him—so why should it protect him from aging?
In that case, would it really prevent him from dying of old age? Darrend had said the only way he could die without breaking the spell was on Wirikidor's blade, so presumably it would keep him alive somehow.
Living for several centuries and aging normally all the time might be worse than death—if anything could be. He had seen men who were worn out at sixty, others who still enjoyed life at eighty; but after a century or two, surely no life would still be worth living.
Well, maybe the sword would keep him young. He had plenty of time left before he had to worry about it, and there was always a way out of anything—though not always an easy or pleasant one. He turned away from the rail and went below. His stomach was uneasy.
The ship stopped briefly at a town called Shan on the Sea at the tip of the southwestern peninsula, but Valder paid little attention. He was too seasick just then to rise from his hammock.
The second stop was at Anaran's vast walled camp, now called Ethshar of the Sands; by then Valder was well enough to stagger up on deck and lean heavily against the rail. He debated with himself as to whether he should /disembark and put an end to the internal discomfort he felt by returning to dry land, but finally decided to continue. He was recovering and knew that he would be safer in Azrad's city.
In any case, the maze of tents and temporary buildings that covered the flat, sandy ground was not particularly encouraging. A large building of polished stone was under construction in the center, its immense unfinished dome half-hidden by scaffolding. An extensive system of lighthouses, port facilities, and coastal defenses lined the waterfront. In the distance he could see an impressive city wall. Everywhere else, however, Ethshar of the Sands was a tangle of narrow unpaved streets, lined with mismatched tents and crude houses, apparently thrown together from driftwood and wreckage. People were jammed into these structures in incredible numbers, even more than in Gor's Ethshar of the Rocks.
All this was plainly visible as the ship inched in toward the docks, and, seasick or not, Valder thought it best to stay on board and sail for Azrad's port—Azrad's Ethshar, the crew called it.
Within a day or two of leaving Ethshar of the Sands, that decision seemed wise indeed, as his stomach had finally adapted to the ship's motions, and he was able to stroll the deck casually, watching the progressively greener and lusher coastline slip by. When they had rounded the headlands at the tip of the peninsula that separated the Great Ocean from the Gulf of the East the countryside seemed even more beautiful, the loveliest Valder had ever seen.
Finally, two sixnights after leaving the Fortress, Valder caught sight of Azrad's Ethshar.
At first it was nothing but a gray line on the horizon, a gray line amid the green that grew and grew until it covered the entire shoreline. By the time the ship crept up one of the canals to its own dock, Valder had had a chance to readjust his thinking.
This was no camp, in any sense of the word; even calling it a city seemed an understatement, as it was far larger than any he had ever seen, larger than he had imagined any city could be. The waterfront extended for miles, every inch of it lined with docks and warehouses, piers and tenements. Two large canals cut their way inland and were likewise lined with docks and warehouses. No mere tents or shacks were anywhere to be seen; these buildings were mostly stone or brick, and not particularly new.
That was reasonable, of course, since this had been the headquarters for the navy, not the army, and for the extensive supply system that had kept both branches of the military fed and equipped. Although technically outside the borders of Old Ethshar, the enemy had never claimed the area, never approached it or threatened it in any way, so there had been no reason not to build it up, and the navy had not had much else to do in the war against a landlocked enemy.
Valder's consideration of the subject was rudely interrupted by a gang of blue-kilted sailors, marching arm in arm along the deck bellowing, "All ashore! All ashore!"
He managed to get back to his tiny shared cabin long enough to snatch up his bundled belongings and then found himself, with the rest of the passengers, herded down the gangplank onto the dock, where they were left to their own devices.
Almost immediately, some of the new arrivals turned around and clamored for passage elsewhere—Ethshar of the Rocks, Ethshar of the Sands, Shan on the Sea, anywhere but this strange, forbidding place of stone and brick. None of them had ever seen a real city before; after all, this was the only one in the Hegemony at present, though two more were building, and travel to the Small Kingdoms had been carefully restricted for a century or so.
Valder was an exception. He had visited three different northern cities in the course of his assassinations, so the endless rows of buildings, the stark bare walls and streets, did not seem completely alien and unfamiliar. The northern cities had been smaller and half-empty, almost abandoned, and Azrad's Ethshar teemed with life, which seemed a good sign. Such a place was surely far more promising than the other two Ethshars; he marched down the dock to where it met the waterfront and turned left, inland, onto the street there.
This street paralleled the canal; as might be expected so near, the docks, it was lined with buildings that had shops on the ground floor and brothels or warehouse space upstairs. He saw no inns, which seemed a bit odd, but the shops did include shipfitters, ropemakers, coopers, carpenters, sailmakers, chandlers—and a distressing number of wineshops. The market here, Valder realized, was already full. If he were going to go into the wine business, he would need to go elsewhere; if he were going to stay here, he would need to choose another occupation.
He noticed all this while fighting his way through crowds. The streets were jammed with people, going in both directions at varying speeds, clad in a fantastic variety of dress. The tangle at one intersection was such that he had to fight his way into the thick of the crowd simply to avoid being forced over the ankle-high parapet and into the canal. He was grateful that all the traffic was on foot, as horses or oxen would have made the tangle impassable.
A few hundred feet from the dock where he had disembarked, the canalside street was joined diagonally by another, and where they met was a good-sized triangular marketplace, where farmers and fishermen were hawking their wares. At the near end three men stood on a raised platform, one of them shouting numbers to a small crowd, another wearing chains. Valder realized with a start that this was a slave auction in progress.
He had known that such things existed; the few northern prisoners who survived had presumably wound up as slaves somewhere, and certain crimes were punishable by enslavement, but this was the first time he personally had come into direct contact with the institution of slavery.
He wondered where the man being auctioned off had come from and how he had arrived in his present state— and just what a healthy slave was worth. He had no intention of buying one—he had no use for a slave and did not want the added responsibility—but he was intensely curious all the same to learn what a man's life was worth in silver. He pressed forward to listen.
He was too late; the auctioneer called out, "Sold!" just as Valder came close enough to make out what was said. He waited for a moment to see if any more slaves were to be sold, but this one had apparently been the last in the lot. The auctioneer stepped down from the platform, and the other free man led the slave away.
Mildly disappointed, but also thrilled with the exoticism of this strange city, Valder shrugged and turned away—and nearly stepped on the tail of a tiny golden dragon, scarcely three feet long, that was being led past him on a chain held by a plump woman in red velvet. Valder stared after
it; he had not realized that even newborn dragons could be so small.
When the little monster had vanished in the throng, Valder resumed his former route, pushing his way southward through the crowd toward the inland end of the market. He had reached the midpoint of the plaza when he suddenly realized that he had no idea where he was going. He was in Azrad's Ethshar, and that was as far as he had planned. His hope of setting himself up as a wine merchant was best abandoned, as the competition was too fierce and too well established. He was alone in a strange city, with a few clothes and personal items, a full money-pouch, a magic sword, and nothing else.
Obviously, the first order of business was to find food and shelter. A city would have inns, certainly; he need only find them. Once he had a room and a meal he could take his time in deciding what to do. He had his whole life before him—and a very long life it might be, at that— to do with as he would and as he could. He was free, unfettered, and uncertain, with no obligations and no plans.
He had rather expected to find inns near the docks, but none were evident. The next logical place would be near the city gates. That left the question of where the nearest gate might be.
He reached the narrow end of the market and found himself with a choice of two streets, one heading east across the head of the canal and the other angling off to the southwest. He chose southwest and struggled onward. The crowds were somewhat thinner here, but seemed to move faster, though still exclusively pedestrians.
Roughly five hundred feet from the intersection, the street he had chosen ended in a T, offering him northwest or southeast. He stood for a moment at the corner, puzzled, then stopped a passerby in a pale yellow tunic and asked, "Which way to the city gate?"
The man glanced at him. "Westgate?"
"If that's nearest."
The man pointed southeast and said, "You follow this to Bridge Street, turn right, follow that until it merges into West Street, follow that to Shipwright Street, and that goes to Westgate Market." Before Valder could thank him or ask for more detail, the man had pulled away and vanished in the crowd, leaving Valder wondering if he might have asked the wrong question. There might well be inns closer at hand.
The Misenchanted Sword Page 16
