A Cruel Wind

by Glen Cook

  “But…”

  “You said he was harmless.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “I shall scream most loudly if I need your help. Begone!” He went.

  Nepanthe faced her visitor, said, “Well?” When he didn’t respond, she said it again, louder.

  Saltimbanco hauled himself out of the wonder the woman had loosed upon him. She was beautiful, with raven hair and ebony eyes, a fine oval face—did he detect a hint of loneliness and fear behind the frown-lines he had more or less expected? He was amazed. The woman wasn’t the aging Harpy he had anticipated. Getting on thirtyish, maybe, but not old. His innocent eyes insolently examined her body. He suspected this might be an assignment less unpleasant than expected.

  At that point her voice drew him back.

  “Yes, woman?” Playing his role to the hilt, he bowed to no nobility, accorded no superiority.

  “Teacher, who are you?” she asked, granting him the title of learned honor. “What are you?”

  An unexpected sort of question, but practice on the street enabled him to provide an answer that said nothing at all while sounding expansive.

  “Self, am Saltimbanco. Am humblest, poverty-stricken disciple of One Great Truth. Am wandering mendicant preaching Holy Word. Am One True Prophet. Also Savior of World. Am weary Purveyor of Cosmic Wisdom. Am Son of King of Occult Knowledge…”

  “And the Prince of Liars!” Nepanthe laughed.

  “Is one face of thousand-faceted jewel of Great Truth.”

  “And what’s this great truth?”

  “Great Truth! Hai! Is wonder of all ages unfolding before sparkle in great and beautiful lady’s eyes…”

  “Briefly, without the sales chatter.”

  “So. Great Truth is this: all is lies! All men are liars, all things of matter are lies. Universe, Time, Life, all are great cosmic jokes from which little everyday falsehoods are woven. Even Great Truth is untrustworthy.”

  Nepanthe hid her amusement behind a hand. “Not original—Ethrian of Ilkazar, five centuries ago—but interesting nevertheless. Do you always follow your creed, tell nothing but lies?”

  “Assuredly!” He reacted as though his honor was in question.

  “And there’s one of them.” She laughed again, realized she was laughing. It stopped, was replaced by wonder. How long since she had laughed for no better reason than because she was amused? Could this fat man, who was hardly as foolish as he pretended, also make her cry?

  “Why do you preach such strange things?”

  Saltimbanco, thoroughly frightened behind his mask of unconcern, thought carefully before replying. A little half-truthful misdirection would be appropriate now. “Numerous be numbers of men who think me no more than big-mouthed nonsense pedlar. Hai! The bigger fools they. They come, enjoy show, eh? Also, after show, many come to poor fat idiot, give him monies to help protect self from self. Great Lady, think! Many people in throng before Tower this day, eh? Maybe three, four, five thousand. Maybe one thousand take pity on moron. Each drops one groschen—one puny groschen, though some give more—into basket watched over by very sad and hungry-looking donkey belonging to cretinic purveyor of preachments. Self counts up swag. Have now ten kronen and more, one month’s wages. Goes on thus, every day of year. Self, being frugal, suddenly am as wealthy as wealthiest laugher at imbecilic preacher. Hai! Then self is laugher! But silent, very silent. Men are easily angered to kill.”

  Saltimbanco chuckled at his fooling those who thought him a fool, then realized he was growing too relaxed. He was revealing his penchant for the accumulation of money. Fear-wolves howled in the back of his mind. He was a professional, yes, but never had learned to banish emotion in tight situations. He did hide it well, though.

  “Do you like having people mock you?”

  “Hai! Self, am performer, no? Multitudes laugh at fat one, true. No joy. But this one is known to enjoy gold thuswise wrested from unwrestable purses. Crowd and Saltimbanco are even, for fools we have made of one another.”

  Nepanthe turned back to the north window, studied the storm brewing over the Kratchnodians. Then she whirled back, startling Saltimbanco from a moment of drowsiness.

  “Will you take supper with me this evening?” she asked. Then she gasped at the temerity of her action, unsure of what she had done, or why. She only knew she enjoyed the company of this honestly roguish, outwardly jolly, inwardly frightened man. Perhaps there was a feeling of kinship.

  While they stood staring at one another, the first snowy tendrils of the storm began whipping around the Tower. She ran to close her windows.

  Saltimbanco did dine with the woman that evening, and accepted a further invitation to escape the storm by staying the night. He and she spoke at great length the following day, which eventually led to another dinner invitation, and that to another request that he stay the night. The day following that Nepanthe offered herself as his patron. Apparently prideless, Saltimbanco accepted instantly and quickly moved in—donkey and all. The chambers assigned him were next to Nepanthe’s, which caused talk among her servants. Try as they might, however, even the most prying could discover nothing improper resulting from the arrangement.

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  Loves torn from him, Varth grew bitter. He decided to pursue a course that had long been in his mind. Once the harvest was in, he visited his priestly teacher, engaged the man as agent in the sale of the farm. The money, with that left him by Royal, he buried near the river. Then, carrying a few belongings in an old leather bag, he moved into Ilkazar.

  Soon there was another beggar among the city’s many, this one brighter, studying, studying—yet unseen, for no one spared an urchin more than a glance. He grew lean and ragged with time, and wiser.

  Still he remained silent: and strange. Older persons grew uneasy in his presence—though they never knew why. Perhaps it was his cold stare, perhaps the way the corners of his mouth turned upward in a ghost-grin, revealing his canines, when the future was mentioned. There was something in his gaze which made adults look away. He seemed a hungry thing thinking of devouring them.

  However, his strangeness attracted waifs like himself. They treated him with respect and awe their elders reserved for the Master Wizards and King—and a king he soon became, of a shadow empire of beggars and thieves who found his mastery profitable. Looking like a small, skinny idol, he held court in a corner of Farmer’s Market, by his directions gifted his followers with unprecedented wealth.

  But those followers, no matter their admiration for his leadership, found Varth’s nighttime undertakings disquieting. He often wandered the Palace district, studying the castle of the King, or the homes of certain powerful wizards. And he never missed a witch-burning, though his attentions were seldom for the condemned. His eyes were always on the black-hoods, and the wizards who came to see “justice” done.

  What justice this? In a city made great by magic, ruled by magic—no matter the King’s disclaimers, his policies, and those of the Empire were determined by manipulating sorcerers—why should there be witch-burnings? What power had the witch that so terrified the warlock?

  There was an ancient divination—Ilkazar, from King to lowliest beggar, had rock-hard faith in necromancy—which promised city and Empire would fall because of a witch. The Master Wizards reasoned that a dead sorceress could do little to fulfill the prophecy. Therefore, summary execution was ordered for any woman even mildly suspect (or with some bit of property a wizard wanted—for all a witch’s property went to her finder).

  Varth, with earnings from his beggar empire, went to certain wizards and bought knowledge. In the guise of an eager, voiceless child, he wrested many secrets from many sorcerers. They found him an amusing anomaly among the young
, having fallen, like men less wise, into the habit of classing children with other small pets, as sometimes amusing, sometimes bothersome, but never, never interested in matters of weight. They were old men, those wizards, and had forgotten what it was like to be young. Most men did. And so, during his visits, Varth became privy to secrets that would have been kept carefully hidden from older men.

  From wizards, and from priests whose interest had been stimulated by the reports of his old tutor, Varth received an unusual education. He nearly laughed the day he learned of the divination that had caused his mother’s death. He later learned that she had died to provide a covetous sorcerer with a ready-decorated home, and King Vilis with escape from problems personal, political, and financial.

  Someone discovered him weeping one night. Thenceforth he wore a new name: Varth Lokkur, the Silent One Who Walks With Grief. He became an actor, this Varthlokkur. Using pity for his dumbness, he bent strong men to his will. Wizards taught him. Priests took him to their hearts. He made his followers want to aid his secret purpose. They were certain he had one. He became one of Ilkazar’s best-known children, and one of its most intriguing mysteries.

  One day some priests got together and, hating to see the boy’s mind wasted, decided to sponsor his education. But when they went to tell him, he was gone. He had chosen twelve companions and departed the city. Where had he gone? Why? The priests were disturbed for a while, but soon forgot. There had been something unsettling about him, something they preferred not to remember.

  Lao-Pa Sing Pass lay two thousand miles east of Ilkazar, the only means of crossing a huge double range of mountains, the Pillars of Ivory and the Pillars of Heaven. To the west lay city-states, small kingdoms, and the sprawling Empire of Ilkazar. To the east was Shinsan, a dread Empire feared for its sorcery and devotion to evil. Butting against the western slopes of those mountains lay the fertile plains of the Forcene Steppe, ideal for grazing. But the nomads shunned it. Too near Shinsan…

  From Lao-Pa Sing, on a spring day many months after Varthlokkur had abandoned Ilkazar, a child of twelve came riding. He was no native of Shinsan. His skin was western white sun-browned, not the natural amber of the east. On his face expressions fought: horror of the past and hope for the future. Free of the pass, the boy halted to make certain he still bore his passport to freedom. He drew a scroll from his saddlebag and opened it, stared at words he couldn’t read:

  To King and Wizards of Ilkazar:

  My wrath will burn, and I will kill you with the sword, and your wives shall become widows and your children fatherless.

  It was signed with a featureless oval sigil.

  The message stirred little interest in Ilkazar. There was some grumbling about the audacity of the sender, but no fear. The messenger didn’t name the country whence he came.

  A year later, another youth, eyes haunted and riding as if fleeing a devil, bore:

  The King and Wizards of Ilkazar, who falsely judged the woman Smyrena:

  They have sown the wind and shall reap the whirlwind.

  This was signed with both the null and a stylized mask of death. It caused more thought than had its predecessor, for the messenger admitted he came from Shinsan. The records were examined, the story of Smyrena exhumed. Her son hadn’t shared her fate! There was apprehension, and talk about the old prophecy.

  But nothing happened and all was soon forgotten—till the year ended and a third messenger came. Then others, year after year, until King and wizards believed. They bought assassins (even the power of the wizards of Ilkazar could not breach the necromantic shield about Shinsan), but the blades went astray. No man was fool enough to enter Shinsan.

  Riches do not profit in the day of wrath.

  There were twelve signs beneath the twelfth message, each a promise. King and wizards tried to convince one another that their powers were sufficient to the threat.

  In the thirteenth year a young man departed Shinsan, eyes almost as haunted as those of his predecessors. He crossed the Forcene Steppe, paused at Necremnos on the River Roë. He found Ilkazar’s legions in the city and on the Steppe to the east. The Empire had grown during his absence. Necremnos was a “protectorate,” the protection accepted as an alternative to bloody, futile war. Ilkazar, with its combination of magic and military excellence, was irresistible.

  Pthothor the Bald, King of Necremnos, was wiser than his subjects suspected. He knew of the weird of Ilkazar, and had divined that the Fates would strike during his reign.

  Varthlokkur spoke with that King concerning the death of empires.

  At Shemerkhan he found a ruined city, strongly occupied, starving as its people turned all their effort toward meeting the demands of Ilkazar. Varthlokkur spoke with the King, then rode to Gog-Ahlan.

  He found another conquered city, worse than the last. For resisting too long, all honor had been raped away. Her once proud men were permitted no income save what their women could earn serving the lusts of occupying soldiers. Again Varthlokkur spoke with a fallen King, then rode on.

  He crossed the passes west of Gog-Ahlan and turned south into Jebal al Alf Dhulquarneni, a black region, subject to no King. Eventually he reached the valley Sebil el Selib, Path of the Cross, where the first King-Emperor of Ilkazar had trapped and crucified a thousand rebellious nobles. There he made camp and his preparations.

  A few days later, he entered the city that had given him life, and so much pain. At the gate he was met by wizards awaiting the annual message, which he refused to hand over to anyone but the King. It demanded the death by burning of Vilis and seven times seven of Ilkazar’s wizards as atonement for the crime against Smyrena. The demand was refused, as expected. The message ended with promises of famine and pestilence, earthquakes and signs in the sky, the appearance of enemies countless as the stars, and was sealed

  13.

  The seal remained cryptic for a time. Once the mystic number was noted, however, the wizards concluded that their enemy had been among them. They searched the city, but he was gone. They searched the Empire and still found nothing. Fear haunted their councils. Yet nothing happened. Or so it seemed for a time.

  The fall of Ilkazar, as recorded in

  The Wizards of Ilkazar,

  a dubious and doubtless exaggerated epic of King Vilis’s end, which opens:

  How lonely sits the city

  that was full of people!

  How like a widow she has become

  that was great among the nations!

  Barbarians harried the borders of the Empire. Unrest grumbled through the tributary states. The armies were decimated and demoralized by a strange plague. A star exploded and died. From Ilkazar itself a dragon was seen crossing the full moon. An unseasonable storm wrecked shipping in the Sea of Kotsüm. Trolledyngjan pirates raided the western coasts.

  And the song says:

  She weeps bitterly in the night,

  tears on her cheeks;

  among all her lovers

  she has none to comfort her;

  they have become her enemies.

  Tributary states rebelled. Entire armies were surprised and overwhelmed. Ilkazar’s moneylenders grumbled because loans to the Empire were not being repaid. Those who dealt in booty murmured because there were no new conquests. The people muttered as supplies grew short.

  The King, in the traditional manner of politicians, tried to stem gloom’s tide with speeches. He promised impossible things that he apparently believed himself…

  But he couldn’t put the rebels down. They were too numerous, in too many places, and their numbers daily grew—and ill fortune invariably dogged armies sent against them: floods, spoiled rations, disease. And with each rebel victory, more conquered peoples rose.

  A whisper, dark, disturbing, ran through Ilkazar. The city would be spared no agony when the foreign soldiers came. The people fled—until the King declared emigration a capital offense. Fool. He should have rid himself of their hunger.

  There was no native crop that year. Rus
t, worms, weevils, and locusts destroyed everything. The only food available was that in storage and a dwindling trickle of tribute.

  Though in dread of the wizards of Ilkazar, the rebel Kings, and barbarians after spoil, gathered and united against the Empire.

  Says the poet:

  Happier were the victims of the sword

  than the victims of hunger,

  who pined away, stricken

  by the want of the fruits of the field.

  The hands of compassionate women

  have boiled their own children;

  they became their food

  in the destruction of her people.

  There were armies before Ilkazar, well-fed armies high with the destruction of Imperial legions. They flaunted their fat herds before the watchers on the walls. Within the city, rats found dead sold for a silver shekel each, rats taken alive brought two. People feared the dead ones. They presaged plague.

  The dogs and cats were gone, as were the horses of the King’s cavalry and the animals of the Royal Zoo. Rumors fogged the air. Children had disappeared. Men in good health were fearful they would be accused of cannibalism. Sometimes those who had fallen to disease were found with flesh torn away, perhaps by rats, perhaps not.