The Swordbearer

by Glen Cook

  And he was well aware that Daubendiek had done no slaying. He and the Great Sword were tools of Suchara. They knew one another well.

  West of Torun, Bilgoraj consisted of populous farm country inhabited by curious, reticent peasants. They had scores of questions for travelers, but few answers.

  The farms eventually gave way to timber land. The Blackstun River, which had meandered north from the capital, now swung back to parallel the high road. It joined the Ondr where Bilgoraj butted against tiny Fiefenbruch. "This country is smaller than Gudermuth," Gathrid observed. "West of it lies the March of Armoneit, the easternmost of the principalities still liege to Anderle."

  The dwarf grunted noncommittally. He was more interested in changes time had wrought since last he had passed this way.

  It was in the March, in the hills overlooking the ferry town of Avenevoli, that Yedon Hildreth had won his celebrated victory. The enemies of then were allies now. The father of the King of Fiefenbruch and Kimach Faulstich's elder brother both had fallen on the Avenevoli slopes.

  The Ondr, swollen by a hundred tributaries, eventually debouched in the long reach of the Secrease Sound. Sartain stood on a vast island, causeway-connected with the mainland, that countless generations had expanded into a canal-riddled, almost self-supporting city-state. The island nearly blocked the wide, shallow Sound, and stretched dozens of miles toward the sea. The original dromedary-backed island had become lost in the expansion. One of its two humps boasted the Raftery, the other the Imperial Palace.

  "It's doubled in size," Rogala said. They were studying the sprawl from a promontory where once a mansion had stood. The dwarf had chased some memory to the scene and found it one with all his recollections of the former age. "Chrismer lived on Galen. That's the eastern peak. Karkainen lived on Faron, where the Imperium now crouches like a whipped cur. The harbor isn't what it used to be. Hundreds of ships came up from the sea every day, bearing treasures and emissaries from the world's ends. Those proud hulls seem to have been replaced by drab fishing trawlers."

  Gathrid glanced at Rogala, puzzled. Once again his companion had revealed an unexpected facet. He had never seemed the nostalgic sort.

  "Let's go see what the barbarians have done with the Queen of the World. Raped her, belike."

  Not so, they discovered. Not only Elgar, but the long parade of his predecessors, had been obsessed with preserving the shadow of the glory that had been. The carefully nurtured wealth of the diminuated Imperium had for centuries maintained and improved the Queen City.

  It began on the mainland shore. There, sturdy, intimidating fortilices, brooding amidst grain fields, shielded the approaches to the Causeway. There were a score of them all told. Each was manned by Guards Oldani, veteran soldiers proud in their service. They were not the pampered, King-making, fight-avoiding praetorians one might expect squirming like maggots in the corpse of a decadent Empire. For them Anderle remained real.

  The roads were paved, and scrupulously clean, as were the people upon them. But ghosts of worry occasionally slid across their scrubbed native faces. The grain fields flanking the roads were garden-perfect. The peasants working them were cheerful and friendly. The highborn did not scorn to answer their greetings, nor to pause to chat amiably.

  "Pride," said Rogala. "That's what you see. Pride not only in what Anderle was, but in what she is and might be again. Every man has his contribution to make."

  And a little later, Rogala observed, "The germ is here. If fate stays its hand. If a genius appears among the merely competent Emperors who keep the dream alive, they might achieve their goal. They might see their new Imperium, their new Golden Age." He sounded wistful.

  Gathrid was impressed by the obvious health of the people. In Torun, and even more so in Senturia, ill-health had been common.

  He was more impressed when they passed through the wide, tunnel-like portal of the Maurath. The Maurath was the last and greatest of the outer fortresses. It bestrode the head of the Causeway like a squatting colossus. It was not just a fortification. It contained all the Imperium's war offices, and the headquarters of Yedon Hildreth and his Guards Oldani, who formed the backbone of the Imperial army.

  That one structure was half the size of the city of Katich. Twenty thousand men could quarter there comfortably in time of siege. The passage to the Causeway was a quarter-mile long.

  The Causeway itself was fifty yards wide and two miles long, stone, and divided into directional lanes which separated the various classes of traffic for flow efficiency. As Gathrid and Rogala were obviously foreigners, a polite soldier cut them out of traffic and explained a few of Sartain's ordinances. For example, they would be responsible for cleaning up after their animals. He pointed out orange containers, with tools racked beside them, which, he said, could be found everywhere.

  A wagon piled with containers, empty, passed inbound. Then another appeared, bound outward, presumably to the farms.

  "The cleaning crews are paid from fines levied on people who don't clean up after themselves," the soldier said. "Most of our block magistrates enjoy fining foreigners."

  Rogala grumbled something uncomplimentary. After he and Gathrid asked a few questions, they moved on.

  "There've been a lot of changes," the dwarf observed. "None of those fortresses were there before. Guess they built them because the Hattori and Oldani managed to force the Causeway back when. In the high days Sartain didn't need defenses. All the fighting took place so far away it took half a year to reach it. The Causeway wasn't half this wide, either."

  "Looks like they're building another one." Several miles to their west a fleet of boats were busy around what looked like cofferdams. Huge dumps of stone and timber lay on either shore. On the mainland side workmen were laying the foundations of a second Maurath.

  "They need it." The Causeway was crowded. Moreover, Sartain's expansion seemed to have been in the direction of the new construction. Reaching the mainland from those extremities would require a long journey through crowded streets. The straits were dotted with ferries providing shortcuts, especially for produce and goods.

  Gathrid wished he could have come to Sartain as a tourist, not as Swordbearer. Already he had questions and curiosities enough to busy him for weeks, even without the worries and obligations of politics and war.

  "Even the Immortal Twins would be impressed," Tureck Aarant observed. It was the first he had come forward since Gathrid and Theis had crossed the Ondr at Avenevoli. He had been locked away with his memories and his guilt.

  "Blame Grellner, not yourself," Gathrid told him now.

  Rogala looked at him queerly. "What did you say?"

  "Uh? Oh. I was thinking about something." He had to be more careful. He had not told Theis about Aarant, and did not intend to. Aarant might provide a valuable edge later. "Doesn't seem to be much excitement about us," he said.

  "I noticed. I guess we're early, what with us leaving Torun in such a rush. It isn't politeness that's kept us from being trampled by people from the Hills. And for sure Hildreth wouldn't let us wander around without keepers."

  "Might be useful to stay anonymous while we can," Gathrid suggested.

  "Absolutely. We both need a rest. But we tend to stand out."

  They stood out not only because Rogala was a shaggy dwarf who carried a talking head, and because Gathrid wore bits of foreign armor and had two huge black swords Xed across his back, but because they were going armed in a city where the only weapons to be seen were those carried by soldiers. Unlike the Alliance peoples of ruder kingdoms farther east, among whom even peasants felt naked without their dirks, the citizens of Sartain shunned personal arms. It was a matter of civic pride. More than one pair of eyes turned away as if embarrassed for them. Rogala suggested the attitude reflected Sartain's historical invincibility.

  "A city this old, that's only ever been invaded once, gets a little smug. It stops really believing in the possibility of violence."

  Gathrid frowned. "There's always pers
onal violence."

  "There is. I suppose they handle that sort of informally. With butcher knives. Or, in an old, almost decadent society like this, poison. They probably figure it's gauche to actually go stab somebody."

  They found themselves a room in a quiet quarter where outlanders seemed to congregate and mellow one another's strangeness by their numbers. Rogala said, "Somebody's bound to realize who we are. Maybe we ought to change our appearance a little. Any suggestions?"

  "I'll settle for changing mine with a good hot bath."

  "A complete toilet will be a good start. Go see if the landlord has a pair of scissors."

  An hour later Rogala had trimmed his vast black beard to a ghost of its former glory. Gathrid grinned, said, "Your tenants are going to have to find new quarters."

  "Eh?"

  "Old fairy tale. King Thrushbeard. He had a beard so gross birds nested in it."

  "Oh. I know the motif." The dwarf grinned back. "I didn't realize you had a sense of humor, son."

  "Haven't had much chance to exercise it, have I?"

  "Yeah, well. For a while now. We'll just take it easy till they find us. You want the bath first? I warn you, when I get done with that water you'll be able to walk on it."

  After their baths they exchanged haircuts and donned new clothing purchased for them by the landlord's son. They sized one another up. Gathrid said, "Whatever became of Theis Rogala? They might never find us."

  "What happened to that skinny kid who woke me up? You've turned into a man, son. They won't recognize either one of us."

  Their newfound anonymity lasted the day. During it Gathrid enjoyed a triumph over Daubendiek and Suchara. He managed to leave their room without arms.

  "I think you're tempting fate too much," Rogala growled. They were loafing at a sidewalk cafe, watching traffic pass, occasionally exchanging a few words with citizens and other outlanders. Many of the latter were more bizarre than they.

  Aarant had offered an argument similar to Rogala's when Gathrid had asked his help overcoming the Sword's control.

  "If Mulenex's bullies stumble across us now, we're deader than a wedge, and not a damn thing we can do to stop it."

  "You don't look all that terrified."

  "Oh, I am. Petrified. I'm just a good actor." He signaled for a waiter.

  "From what I've seen, I think I could be comfortable here," Gathrid observed. Dusk was closing in. A quaintly attired lamplighter was at work across the street. The afternoon had stolen away on them. "Just lying around like this. It's been a hundred years since I've relaxed this way."

  "Uhm. Or a few thousand." Something wistful touched the dwarf's voice.

  Aarant claimed that Rogala was more open and emotional than he had been during the Brothers' War. Even so, Gathrid knew next to nothing about the man's true age, his origins or his background. Or what had damned him to serve Suchara.

  "It would never last, would it? Got to be rich to loaf here. We don't have the pocket money. Nor the temperament. Even Heaven would get dull for such as us."

  "That might be true," Gathrid replied sourly. Much as he despised his fate, it was becoming part of him. He was becoming one with it. Being Swordbearer seemed less and less a cosmic imposition.

  News from the east had not yet reached Sartain in reliable form. That there had been a big battle between Nieroda and the Mindak was common knowledge, but no two accounts agreed as to site, outcome, or the part the Great Sword had played. The battle at the Karato and that at Kacalief had become confused. And as to the disappearance of Kimach Faulstich, they had outdistanced that news entirely.

  Sartain was little concerned with happenings in faraway places. It had excitement enough at home. The contest for the Fray Magistery had the whole city on tenterhooks.

  Balloting had begun. Each tally shifted more and more in favor of Gerdes Mulenex. Bookmakers were giving odds that he would receive the requisite majority in the next poll.

  The citizenry were not pleased, but neither were they afraid. While occupied by Klutho Misplaer the Raftery had impinged on their lives not at all. They could foresee no potential danger from any successor. Elgar had far more effect on everyday life.

  His were the laws that ruled their days. His were the dreams that shaped the Queen City. His was the voice to which people listened.

  "Much as I hate the idea," Rogala said, "we'd better announce ourselves tomorrow. We can't let Mulenex's play for the Raftery go unchallenged."

  "Uhm." Gathrid felt he had enough evidence to abort Mulenex's election. He need but present the details he had learned from the sorcerer in Torun.

  "One more cup of wine, then a last sleep in freedom."

  "One more," Gathrid agreed. When the wine arrived, he touched cups with his esquire.

  Tomorrow he would become Chosen of Suchara once more. He did not look forward to resuming the role.

  Hildreth's messengers located them while they tarried over breakfast, loathe to plunge into the cesspool of Brotherhood politics. The chief messenger was a man Gathrid remembered as having been among the Count's escort during their tête-à-tête in the Alliance camp. He delivered a terse letter. It asked them to accompany the officer to the Raftery, where Count Cuneo would meet them. It was signed with a squiggle Gathrid assumed to be Hildreth's personal chop.

  "Give us a minute to collect our gear," Rogala said, after struggling through Old Petralian much changed since last he had had to read the language. "We don't own much more than what we're wearing, so what little we do have we like to keep with us." He hurried off.

  The dwarf was gone five minutes. During four of those minutes the messenger looked like a man trying to make up his mind. Finally, he asked, "How can you be poor?"

  The question so surprised Gathrid that he laughed. Then he became serious. It was a valid query. Why were he and Theis habitually short of funds? They could take whatever they wanted. How many men had he slain? He had not plundered a one but Alfeld, and his swag bag he had left at Suftko's. Seldom had he seen Rogala loot, and then only for small amounts. Just enough to get by. Curious.

  "Lieutenant, I can't answer you. I never thought about it before. Theis," he said as the dwarf returned, "how come we're not rich?"

  "Our employer doesn't pay very well. Let's get rolling."

  Count Cuneo met them at the base of the Hundred Steps, among the Winged Victories of Chrismer, in the shadows of the pitted and tottering Pillars of Empire that at one time had honored Chrismer's share of the tributary principalities. It was there that Tureck Aarant had at last overcome Chrismer, after battling his way through an island-rocking storm of wizardry.

  Daubendiek remembered the day. Aarant did too. The Sword hummed. Aarant radiated a diffuse unhappiness. Gathrid wondered if Hildreth had chosen the meeting place because he suspected what even Rogala did not, that Tureck Aarant had returned.

  The Count had aged, but was as hard-willed as ever. "I'm afraid we're too late," he said, ignoring the amenities. "He must have heard you were here. He got the balloting moved up today. I'd really hoped you could do something to stop him."

  "I could stop him cold," Gathrid replied. "I know things he doesn't believe anyone else alive knows. But I'm surprised either of you cares."

  Hildreth shrugged. "I don't like what you are, and I don't like what you've done. But that business in the east did give us a respite. The pity is, we've wasted it. We've turned on one another. The Alliance is dead."

  "Deader than you realize. Why don't we see what we can do? Maybe a few care who they elect." Gathrid began the climb to the Raftery. He was mildly surprised to discover that Count Cuneo no longer awed him.

  "You've grown," Hildreth said. "Come of age, perhaps." The Count's years showed in his heavy breathing.

  "Been tempered in the fires of Hell, I think, would be an appropriate observation." A few steps onward, Gathrid added, "You should meet the Mindak, Count. You'd make good friends if you weren't in one another's way."

  "Could be. He looks more honorab
le than most of my so-called allies."

  "But a bit mad. A bit mad."

  "But you all are," Gacioch said.

  "What the hell is that?" Hildreth demanded.

  Gathrid had become so accustomed to the demon's irreverence that he habitually ignored it. He had forgotten the creature completely this morning.

  Gacioch continued, "If you weren't all insane, you'd be off somewhere with fishing poles, a jug of wine, or a woman. You know damned well the world can go to hell without you. It's good at that."

  "What is it?" Hildreth asked again.

  "A demon's head. I captured it in Ventimiglia. Theis took a shine to it." He winced. Loida had been fond of the head, too. They had spent many an hour fencing with insults.

  "Is it wise to have him around? He served your enemies."