The Master

by Louise Cooper

  She had to find Tarod - but she’d heard no word of him, and still had no idea where in all the world he might be.

  Last night, warmed by her fire but unable to sleep through fear of being caught unawares by brigands or even a local farmer, she’d tried to use her own simple form of geomancy to make contact with Tarod. But without her precious bag of stones the attempt was a failure, and even with the pebbles Cyllan doubted if she would have fared any better. She didn’t have the skill for such a task, and now even her hope that Tarod would use his own powers to find her was waning. If he had tried - if he was capable of trying - then she hadn’t the psychic wit to hear him.

  At last she had taken the Chaos stone from its hiding place and looked at in the flickering glow, turning it over and over in her hands and feeling it pulse as though it had a life of its own. Gazing into its multifaceted depths, she’d imagined that it became an eye staring back at her, and that beyond the eye she could glimpse an echo of Yandros’s smile … or Tarod’s. But the illusion lasted only a moment, and after that the stone was dull again.

  Later, as dawn broke, she had roused from an uneasy doze thinking she heard a faraway high, elemental scream that heralded the coming of a Warp - but that, too, was an illusion. Yet, she told herself, if Yandros was trying to aid her in her search, he would surely -

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the potboy’s return.

  He placed two plates and a brimming mug on the table before her, then hovered, shifting from one foot to the other and clearly hoping to strike up a conversation.

  Well, she could lose nothing by talking, Cyllan thought; taverns like this were the source of a good deal of well-informed gossip, and potboys renowned for their willingness to repeat what they’d heard to anyone prepared to listen. But before she could speak an encouraging word, the sound of feet tramping down the alley outside drew their attention. There was a rumble of rough voices, a pony - probably one of her own - squealed, then the door burst open and a dozen or so men came in, with a few women following behind.

  The man who headed the group - short but brawny, and sweating despite the East wind - stopped and glowered at the potboy.

  There’s two ponies tethered outside. What did I tell you about letting any dirty rag-tag use my hitching ring without so much as a by-your-leave?’

  The potboy flushed scarlet and jerked a thumb at Cyllan, though he was too mortified to speak. The innkeeper stared at the girl, whom he hadn’t noticed before, then grunted. ‘Yours, are they?’

  ‘Mine.’ Cyllan had met too many belligerent tavern-owners in her time to be cowed by the man’s manner.

  She smiled without humour. ‘And I’ve paid for my food.’

  The innkeeper grunted again, a tacit acceptance and as near to an apology as she’d get from him. The potboy said, ‘Shall I draw you some beer, master?’

  ‘No.’ The innkeeper glowered at him. ‘You’re to get along to the justice house. They want every able-bodied man or lad who wasn’t at the meeting, and they want ‘em now. I’d say you count as able-bodied, even if you’re not able-brained.’

  One of the women - around Cyllan’s age but black-haired, her mouth painted crimson and her arms festooned with cheap bracelets - laughed shrilly, and the potboy flushed again. ‘At - at the justice house? Now?’

  ‘Now! You’re not deaf as well as stupid, are you? Go on; move those spindle shanks!’

  The lad bolted, and the moment he was out of the door one of the men slammed and bolted it behind him, then, to Cyllan’s surprise, quickly made a sign against evil. The innkeeper’s wife, meanwhile, had hastened behind the counter, but instead of drawing ale for the company she was rummaging in a store-cupboard.

  ‘Here,’ she said, emerging at last with something in her hands. ‘Hang this at the door, Cappik.’

  Her husband stared at her. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, woman!’

  ‘No, no; let her be, Cappik, Can’t do any harm, after all, can it?’ another of the men argued.

  With a shrug the innkeeper gave way, and the woman hung what she carried on the bar of the door. Cyllan recognised it as a charm-necklace - a crudely fashioned string of small beads, with tiny scrolls of paper tied at intervals into the string. Her grandmother in the Eastern Flatlands had had one, though they were rare now; each scroll had written on it a prayer to Aeoris, and the necklace was intended as a powerful amulet against demonic forces.

  As the woman looped the necklace over the door-bar, the atmosphere in the tavern-room underwent a change, as though her small gesture had brought into focus something which no one had previously been willing to admit or face. Tension flowered from nowhere and became palpable; the men stared silently at the slowly swinging necklace, and Cyllan’s psychic senses instantly picked up the cold taint of fear. She said nothing, merely continued eating, while the landlord’s wife poured ale for the men with a good deal of unnecessary noise and bustle. The sounds were intrusive against the quiet backdrop; even the brash girl had fallen silent. Finally mugs were passed around, and the beer seemed to revive flagging spirits, for talk broke out again though it was low-pitched and desultory. Cyllan tried to concentrate on what was being said, but could only catch the occasional word - until a footfall by her table made her look up, and she saw the innkeeper standing over her.

  He grunted by way of preamble, then said, ‘Just came in today, did you?’

  Cyllan nodded. ‘No more than an hour ago.’ Her pulse quickened, but she gave no outward sign of her unease.

  ‘It’ll be dark in a couple of hours. Where do you mean to go tonight?’

  She couldn’t fathom the reason for such searching questions, and his manner was making her nervous. She shrugged. ‘I was planning to ask if you had a room unoccupied.’

  To her surprise, a look of relief spread across the landlord’s face, and he hitched his stomach up over his stressed breeches. ‘We have, and if you can pay you’re welcome.’ Without waiting for an invitation, he sat down opposite her. ‘I wouldn’t advise anyone to take to the roads after dark, not now.’ He paused, his shrewd grey eyes assessing her. ‘You’re a drover?’

  Cyllan had carefully prepared her story before she rode into the town, and she nodded again. ‘I’m heading to Southern Chaun to meet up with my cousin’s band.’

  ‘Easterner, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. From the Flatlands.’ There could be no harm in admitting the truth; half the drovers in the world came from that province or its northern neighbour.

  ‘Thought so. Knew the accent; we get a lot of ‘em through here. Where’ve you been trading?’

  ‘Wishet,’ Cyllan lied. ‘I had a dozen good blood mares to deliver in Port Summer.’ She grinned. ‘I could have done with one of them left over to take me westward, instead of those two spavined nags outside.’

  The innkeeper guffawed, and she knew that that small embellishment had allayed any lingering suspicions he might have had. It was disconcerting to realise how easily she could slip back into the mannerisms of her old way of life, and she reflected wryly that, despite Tarod’s influence, she was still a peasant-drover at heart; the role fitted her like a well-worn glove.

  The innkeeper’s laughter faded abruptly and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Wherever you’re bound, you’ll be travelling by day and keeping to the main drove roads if you’ve got a half-gravine of sense.’

  Cyllan was suddenly alert. ‘Will I? Why?’

  ‘You haven’t heard what’s afoot?’

  She shook her head, and the man grunted, beginning to sweat again. He was clearly embarrassed at admitting to caring a whit for a stranger’s welfare, but the fear that lurked poorly hidden behind his eyes drove him to be more forthcoming than his nature dictated.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘Maybe if you’ve ridden from Wishet the story hasn’t reached there yet … ‘He leaned forward across the table, pitching his voice low, and abruptly the fear in his look blossomed into a real and immediate emotion. ‘Word’s come from the far North - from the High I
nitiate of the Circle himself.’ He made the Sign of Aeoris over his heart, and Cyllan had the wit to do the same. ‘Two people - if you can call ‘em human - have escaped from the Circle’s justice, and the whole land’s going to be in a ferment till they’re found.’

  ‘Why?’ Cyllan asked. ‘What have they done?’

  The landlord licked his lips uneasily. ‘Murder, sorcery, demonology - but that’s only the beginning. It isn’t so much what they’ve done as what they are.’ He glanced towards the door with the charm-necklace hanging bizarrely on it, then added, making the Sign of Aeoris again, Servants of Chaos.’

  The words were spoken from the corner of his mouth, as though he were terrified of being overheard by some supernatural agency. Cyllan opened her eyes wide and hoped that her expression of shock was convincing.

  ‘Chaos?’ she repeated in a whisper. ‘But surely it doesn’t exist any more?’

  ‘So we all thought. But the word comes from the High Initiate himself. And while these evildoers are at large, we’re all in danger.’ He shuddered, leaning back and giving her a stern, appraising look. ‘I wouldn’t be a drover travelling the roads with those fiends loose in the land. Not for all the wine in Southern Chaun!’

  ‘Hey, Cappik! What’re you doing, keeping your guest to yourself and away from decent company?’ A tall, swarthy man loomed at the table and shouldered the landlord aside to sit down, giving Cyllan a gap-toothed grin as he did so. He raised his mug to gesture at her. ‘I reckon that’s what we all need tonight. Decent company.’

  One by one the others were gathering round, gravitating towards the fire. The landlord’s wife added new logs; they arranged themselves at near-by tables, the women rinding room where they could, and Cyllan was soon the centre of a good deal of attention. There was no danger in their interest; it was merely the natural, idle curiosity felt towards any stranger and a chance to divert their minds from less pleasant thoughts. Tongues loosened as darkness fell and more beer was drunk, and the men began to speculate on the news from the North and what it might mean. Cyllan listened whilst saying little, and although the talk became wilder and more exaggerated as the ale took effect, she knew that much of her companions’ carelessly professed courage was pure bravado; the fear engendered in them, and in the whole town, by the news from the North was real and deep-rooted.

  - It was late when she finally climbed the rickety ladder of steps that led to the inn’s upper floor. Downstairs, a few of the bolder drinkers had defied their terrors to stumble home through the dark, but most had made themselves as comfortable as they could around the fire, and the Two Panniers was bolted and barred for the night.

  Her bed was narrow, hard and not particularly clean; but after two nights in the open she was thankful for it.

  Blowing out the candle and pulling the thin blanket up around herself, she thought over what she had heard tonight.

  Tarod was alive. The message from the Star Peninsula had banished her doubts, and she held the knowledge to her like a precious secret. While he lived and was free, she had hope … but the High Initiate’s decree left her in no doubt that the entire land would be in a furore searching for him and for her. And the word that the two fugitives were servants of Chaos added a deadly element. Fear had been a tangible companion in the tavern-room tonight; once word spread, that fear would grow like a brush-fire in high Summer.

  But, for a short while at least, she was safe from discovery. Tomorrow she would move on southward, and with luck and the gods - she refused to consider which gods - on her side, she might learn more on her journey that would help her to find Tarod.

  Cyllan settled herself more comfortably in the narrow bed. The soulstone lay hard but warm against her skin; she slipped one hand into her shirt and let her fingers close round the stone’s hard contours as she fell asleep.

  Chapter 4

  Tarod’s horse pranced restlessly beside the last of the five timber wagons that rolled slowly along the main drove road from Han towards Wishet Province. At his side the unfamiliar weight of a heavy sword slapped irritatingly against his leg, and he wished he could be rid of the thing, and rid of the toiling caravan which for two days now had kept him to a snail’s pace. Alone, he could travel light and fast - but he had given his word to the elders of Hannik town, and to break it now would attract suspicion that he could well do without.

  Two nights ago he had slept in Hannik at an inn almost in the shadow of the Province Margrave’s residence, drawn there by a drover’s story that the ‘Chaos-Lord’s accomplice’ had been apprehended in the town. Arriving, he had found Hannik in an uproar that centred around a fair-haired girl caught trying to ply her meagre talents as a fortune-teller, and the small tricks Tarod had used to disguise himself had unwittingly led him into the furore. The gold Initiate’s badge - taken from the body of a man he had killed in the Castle - and an ability to shift, subtly, the image he presented, gave him the perfect identity at a time when no one would think twice about encountering a Circle Adept on an urgent journey. The town elders had seen the arrival of an Initiate in their midst as a gift from the gods, and had asked Tarod to preside over the girl’s trial.

  The bitter disappointment he had felt when he finally set eyes on the terrified horse-breeder’s daughter from Empty Province was still like a knife driving between his ribs when he recalled it. Her cell - a room in the justice house - was hung about with charms and amulets and hex-symbols, while the girl crouched sobbing and protesting her innocence in a corner. The appearance of an Adept of the Circle had sent her into a paroxysm of terror, and she flung herself at Tarod’s feet, begging for salvation and absolution. Savagely, Tarod turned on the elders and berated them for fools in thinking that such a near-simpleton could possibly be the Circle’s fugitive.

  They apologised profusely whilst at the same time trying to justify their caution, and at last, remembering his assumed role, Tarod acknowledged that they had been right to follow the High Initiate’s exhortation and take no chances. The girl was released, and the elders begged Tarod to accompany the five wagons that were due to set out in the morning, insisting that an Initiate’s presence in their midst would be a guarantee of safety as well as boosting the morale of the hastily assembled militiamen who were to guard the train on its journey.

  ‘After all, sir,’ the senior elder, an unctuous man to whom Tarod had taken an immediate dislike, said, ‘No minion of evil’ (he carefully avoided using the word Chaos) ‘would dare to make any move against a caravan in which an Adept rode.’

  Tarod smiled thinly. ‘What makes you think these fugitives would think of such an act? Their purpose is to avoid capture, not court it.’

  The elder bristled. ‘Even demon-worshippers must eat, sir! Wealthy men travel with this convoy; merchants, ship-owners - with such an evil loose in the land, we can take no risks, as I’m sure your High Initiate would agree.’

  Keridil doubtless would … Aware that he’d only arouse the old man’s suspicions by arguing further, Tarod made a careless gesture. ‘Very well. I’ll ride with the caravan until our paths diverge.’

  And so for two days he had accompanied the lumbering wagons and their escort, struggling to check both his mount’s impatience and his own. They had encountered few other people save for a group of militiamen from another town, but tension among the travellers was rife, and increasing with every mile they covered. By now the messenger-birds from the Castle had completed their work, and there wasn’t a settlement of any size in the remotest province which hadn’t heard the news of the fugitives’ escape. In Hannik, Tarod had seen a copy of Keridil’s proclamation, and its content had surprised and disturbed him. The High Initiate warned that the minions of Chaos were abroad and must be apprehended at all costs, before they could achieve their evil and deadly aim - to unleash the forces of pandemonium throughout the land.

  He hadn’t believed Keridil could be so implacable in his hatred, or so blind. The High Initiate knew - indeed, had known even before his first betrayal of their old f
riendship - that Tarod owed no fealty to Chaos; yet he was prepared to twist the truth in any way that suited the purpose of recapturing his enemy. And already Tarod was seeing for himself the results of Keridil’s action. His warning had struck home to the countryfolk, stirring every deep-rooted superstition, every ancestral memory, every formless fear in their minds; and, like dry tinder, that fear was catching fire so fast that Tarod doubted the ability of any power in the world to stem it.

  Hannik had been just a beginning - how many more innocents like the horse-breeder’s daughter would fall victim to the terror-inspired persecution of their own kind?

  A sharp, atavistic shiver ran along his spine at that thought, as, involuntarily, his mind dredged up an old memory. That particular wound had healed during his years at the Star Peninsula, but now he could recall the macabre event as clearly as if it were happening all over again. Himself as a 12-year-old child, standing bewildered and horrified in the midst of a screaming mob, while the shattered body of his cousin lay at his feet, killed by a monstrous power which he hadn’t dreamed any human being could possess.

  It was only a game … He could almost hear his own childish voice protesting in terror as the mob closed in.

  Council elders, sober merchants and tradesmen, other boys’ mothers, all wielding stones and baying for his death … yes; he knew how the horse-breeder’s daughter must have felt. Keridil, wittingly or not, had opened the floodgates to a deadly tide.

  A commotion near the head of the caravan drew him suddenly back to the real world. The second timber wagon was stopping, forcing those behind it to a grinding, protesting halt, and over the creak and squeal of the carts and the neighing of horses he could hear men shouting. A young and inexperienced militia guard cast Tarod a look of helpless appeal whilst struggling to control his own unreliable mount, and Tarod sighed. In every matter, from the largest to the smallest, the caravan’s escort turned to him for authority and guidance, and their ineptitude was beginning to wear on his patience. He signalled to the young guard to fall in behind him, and spurred his horse towards the head of the convoy.