by Allan Cole
"You are looking at the sole proprietor of the Foolsmire, he said. And the sole owner of you, as well."
"What do you want with me? Nerisa snarled. You know I'll run the first chance I get. Either that, or kill you in your sleep."
"Oh, I don't intend to own you very long, Zeman replied. I've already approached a buyer who's willing to take you off my hands. I'm making a handsome profit, if you must know. Although not as much as your buyer is going to make. Apparently there are certain menrich men, I'm toldwho have an appetite for little whores like yourself."
Zeman pasted on another of his ugly smiles. And after you've grown breasts and are no longer any good to your new owner, I'm sure he'll make other arrangements for your future."
Zeman snickered. He gave me his word on that."
Nerisa screamed in fury and launched herself at Zemannails coming out like a cat's to rake his eyes from his head.
The warder stepped in and clubbed her down. She fell to the floor, unconscious.
The warder raised his heavy stick to strike again.
Zeman stopped him, saying, Let's not damage the merchandise."
****
Safar huddled in the slender shade of a desert succulent. His robe was hitched up over his head to protect himself from the merciless sun. A hot wind blew over the desolate landscape, intent on wringing every drop of moisture from his body. His tongue was a thick raw muscle, his lips cracked and drawn back over his teeth. He scraped at the hard ground with a jagged piece of rock, trying to dig a deep enough hole to expose the moisture held by the succulent's roots. He'd been working at it for hours but was so weak he'd barely managed a slight depression.
The sun had only just reached its zenith. The hottest and longest hours were still ahead. It was unlikely that he'd last until nightfall. But he kept at it, knowing neither hope or despair. He was like an animal with no thought in its head except survival.
A few days before he'd had life enough left to know joy when he saw his pursuers turn back. The hunters from Walaria had tracked him doggedly for a week, forcing him to flee deeper into the desert. With Gundara's help he'd cast spells of confusion to shake them off. Although he'd managed to elude them several times, the hunters kept reappearing on his trail. Gundara said it could only mean they had magic of their own to assist them.
The hunters gave up when they ran out of water. Safar, who didn't have that luxury, had run out long before. Divining spells proved to be uselesshe never had a chance to stop and resupply himself. Finally he was even denied Gundara's company and help, the intense desert causing the little Favorite to grow weak and retreat into the stone idol. After that, Safar had paused when he could to kill a lizard or snake and suck out its moisture. It was a losing battle, with the sun and wind draining his life as quickly as he'd drained those poor creatures.
Safar made one more swipe at the dry depression. Then all his strength fled and the rock fell from his grasp. He sagged back on the ground, gasping for breath.
Then even breathing seemed to require too much effort and he thought, Well, I'll just stop. But to his disgust his chest insisted on heaving in and out, drawing in air filled with sharp bits of grit. Then he thought, it has to end sooner or later. I'll lie here until it does. He sighed and shut his eyes.
Then Safar heard musicdistant pipes and bells. He thought, this must be what it's like to die.
The sound grew louder and he was overcome with a vague curiosity to look this strange, music-playing Death in the face.
He opened his eyes and wasn't disappointed. A huge low-flying creature swept across the desert towards him. It looked like an immense head, swirling with all sorts of marvelous colors. There were no wings or body attached to the head, but in Safar's daze this seemed quite natural. The creature flew closer and now he could make out its face.
He had strength enough to feel surprise. He thought, I didn't know Death was a woman. And such a beautiful womana giantess with sensuous features painted in glorious colors like a savage tattooed queen.
The music seemed to be coming from her lush mouth as if she had a voice composed of wondrous pipes and bells and harp strings.
The woman's head was hovering over him now. Safar smiled, thinking Death was finally going to take him. He closed his eyes and waited.
Then the music stopped and he heard someone speak. It was a woman's voice, but smaller than he thought a giantess would possess.
"Merciful Felakia, the woman said, spare me this sight. He's only a lad. And a handsome lad at that."
"Handsome or plain, makes no difference to the buzzards, came another voicea deep baritone"He's dead, Methydia. Come on! The Deming fair's only two weeks off and we gots a long ways to go."
Safar was disappointed. This wasn't how Death was supposed to behave. Was she going to leave his body here? Abandon his ghost to this wasteland?
He stretched his lips and tried to speak, but only managed a croak.
"Wait! said the woman. Sweet, merciful Felakiahe's alive."
No I'm not, Safar tried to say. I'm dead, dammit! Don't leave me here!
Then from above he heard a loud whoosh of escaping air and he felt a huge presence drifting down to him.
Safar smiled. Death was on her way. He ached for her embrace.
Part Three
Wizard of the Winds
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE DEMON KING
Do you see anything, Luka?"
"No, Majesty. I see nothing."
King Manacia frowned, his royal brow a deeply plowed field of displeasure.
"Are you certain, Luka? he asked his oldest son and heir. He jabbed a long talon at a point on the horizon. Isn't that something, or someone, moving over there?"
Prince Luka shielded his yellow eyes with a clawpeering out over the Forbidden Desert. Manacia and his court were camped on the edge of the blackened wasteland. The King sat on his traveling throne, placed on thick carpets and shaded by a white canopy, billowing in the desert wind. Behind him was the main campa city of gaudy tents that housed his court.
After looking long and hard the prince sighed and shook his bony heada dozen heavy golden chains of office rattling against his armor.
"I don't believe so, Majesty, he said. Then, soothing, But it's early, yet. Perhaps Your Highness is hungry, or thirsty. Why don't you retire to your tent and I'll send for the stewards. Possibly you'd enjoy a little nap. You look so weary, Sire, that it nearly breaks my heart.
"I'll alert Your Majesty the instant Lord Fari returns."
Manacia exposed his fangsa wide, multi-rowed smile of fatherly pride. You're a good and loyal son, Luka, he said. No king could ask for a better prince. But it wouldn't be seemly. A king must not fear to suffer the same trials and tribulations as his subjects."
Prince Luka laid a claw of sincerity across his mailed heart. You are an inspiration to us all, Majesty, he said. I worship and study at your feet, praying I will have half Your Highness courage and wisdom on that most regretful day when the gods decree that I must succeed you to the throne."
The whole time the Crown Prince spoke he was thinking, I hope you choke on a bone, you horrid old fiend. I hope the sun fries your brains and the hyenas feast on your liver.
Manacia chuckled fondly. To think I nearly wrung your neck at birth, he said. I thought you'd grow to be a conspiring little savage like your mother. Instead, you've matured into the most civilized and considerate subject in my kingdom. It's a pity I couldn't let your mother live to see what a fine son you've turned out to be."
Prince Luka bowed low, humbly thanking his father for his kind words. But he thought, You old fool. You wouldn't look so smug if you knew Mother made me swear on her death bed that I'd avenge her.
Manacia gestured and a slave crawled over on his belly with a cup of cold wine. The king sipped, reminiscing.
"Looking at you, my son, he said, no one would ever guess your mother was a barbarian. You are my strong and serene right claw. And to think when I bedded her the fir
st time she tried to stab me with a knife she'd hidden in her girdle."
He smiled at the memory. Your mother was understandably overwrought, he said, because I'd just killed her father and brothers. I had to have her tied to the bed before I could mount her."
"Your Majesty has regaled me many times with the tale of that illustrious moment, Prince Luka said. I never tire of hearing it."
The king laughed and slapped his knee. Did I ever tell you what your mother said after I'd had my pleasures?"
"Yes, Majesty, the prince said. But it was such a delicious incident I'd be pleased if you told me again."
"She said I'd raped her! the king chortled. Can you imagine that? Me, rape her?"
"She should have thanked you for honoring her with your royal seed, Majesty, the prince said. But she was young and of a savage tribe. Mother didn't know what she was saying."
The king was impatient to complete his story. Yes, yes, he said. But that's not the point. We already know she was a savage. I said so, didn't I?
"The point is she accused me of raping her. And do you know what I replied?"
"No, Majesty. What did you say?"
"I replied'that wasn't rape. That was'now get this'assault with a friendly weapon.
Manacia howled with laughter at his joke. The prince forced sounds of immense amusement.
Then the prince said, One thing you've never told me, Sire… what was Mother's answer?"
The king's laughter cut off in mid-snort. What was that? he growled, green skin mottling with building anger.
"I said, what did Mother reply after you made that marvelous jest about rape being nothing but assault with a friendly weapon?"
"It doesn't matter what she replied, the king snapped. That wasn't the joke. The joke was the friendly weapon part. Not what she said after. Who cares what that fiendbitch thought? It's what the king has to say that's important. Whole histories are devoted solely to the remarks of kings. In my case, I'm also noted for my sense of humor. The anecdote concerning your mother is only one especially revealing example."
"Absolutely, Sire, the prince said. How foolish of me not to see it right off."
The king's mood turned from fair to foul. Muttering oaths, he resumed his watchsearching the bleak horizon for some sign of his Grand Wazier.
In the king's opinionwhich, as he often said, was the only one that matteredfew truly appreciated how hard he'd labored these past few years. Nothing had come easily and every platter of victory he'd been served up always seemed to hide a nasty little insect under the tastiest morsels.
All of the demon lands had been brought completely under his control. His kingdom now bore the name Ghazban, after the ancient emperor who'd first welded all the demon lands together. Zanzair was now the seat of the mightiest kingdom since the time of Alisarrian, the human conqueror who had cut short Ghazban's long and honorable dynasty.
No sooner had the naming festival ended when trouble began to gnaw at Manacia's accomplishments. First there was the drought, which still held the kingdom in its gripturning the harvests to ashen husks. Then there were the locust swarmsgreat clouds that first blackened the sky and then the earth as the insects descended to devour whatever had managed to defy the drought.
Plagues mysteriously erupted across the land, ravaging the populaceturning cities to towns and towns to desolate villages. There were reports of ghastly phantoms rising from graveyards, giants suddenly appearing to threaten distant crossroads, Jinns crouching in ambush to devour unsuspecting travelers.
Manacia and his wizards had worked at a dervish's pace to halt these outbreaks. Huge spell machines were constructed and hauled out to the troubled regions. Whole forests of cinnamon trees had been felled to make the incense that was burned in those machines. Day and night the furnaces churned out immense clouds of fragrant healing smoke. The expense sometimes made the king nostalgic for simpler times when his realm was smaller and less expensive to maintain.
Despite Manacia's efforts, trouble continued to dog Ghazban. His subjects were becoming increasing restless and unruly. It was whispered that the gods were punishing all demonkind for allowing such a greedy pontiff to rule them. Word leaked out about his experiments with the curse of the Forbidden Desert, fueling further religious fears and discontent.
In the past Manacia had dealt with such things by immediately invading a neighboring kingdom. It not only released domestic pressure but gave him a brother monarch to blame and then bring to task for his sins. This was no longer possible in the brave new world that was Ghazban, where the subjects had only Manacia as a target for their suspicions.
In the beginning Manacia's dream of ruling all Esmir as King of Kings was only thata private dream. Now it had become a necessity. He needed to challenge his subjects, to fix their minds on a great peril; an historic enemygodless humansto bear the blame for their ills.
To achieve this he had to solve the riddle of the curse that kept demonkind and humankind apart. Once he thought he had the answer and sent the bandit chieftain, Sarn, across the Forbidden Desert to spy out an invasion route. But Sarn had never returned. The king falsely blamed the curse and spent every free moment searching for the solution to its riddle. He had ripped apart his original spell and then reformed it many times.
None of his efforts worked. It was as if he had gone back to the original days of failure when hundreds of slaves and felons were forced out into the Forbidden Desert to die horribly before the eyes of the soldiers who had prodded them there. Distracted as he was by domestic toil, it took Manacia a long time to return to the spell he'd used to shield Sarn and his outlaws. He added a few improvements and tried again.
The very first effort met with success. The villain used for the experiment not only survived, but was able to walk to the most distant hill, the soldiers playing out rope and tying on additional lines until he was nearly out of sight and had to be dragged back so he wouldn't escape.
After his experience with Sarn, Manacia was wary of this success. He called for his Grand Wazier, Lord Fari, and asked his advice.
"We require a volunteer, Majesty, Fari said. Someone loyal, above reproach."
"Exactly my thinking, Manacia said.
The old demon built on this success. Perhaps Prince Luka, he said. It would be a mighty accomplishment he could add to his deeds, thus assuring the admiration of your subjects when he assumes the throne some day."
The Grand Wazier hated the Crown Prince and this seemed an excellent time to be rid of himif the king's spell failed, that is.
Menacia, who kept a firm talon on the pulse of his court, knew what Fari was up to.
"What an excellent thought, he said brightly. Then he frowned, Unfortunately, that can't be. At this particular time I need him by my side."
He clicked his claws against the arm of his throne, pretending to ponder further. Then he smiled. I've got it! he said. And I have you to thank for the idea, Fari. For it made me focus on who my most loyal subjects were. And the answer was there in an instant. For other than my own son, who could be more loyal than you, my dear fiend?"
The Grand Wazier was aghast. Me, Your Highness? You want me to cross Forbidden Desert? His voice quavered. As much as I'd love to have the honor to serve in you this, I fear I am too old, Majesty."
"In this case, Menacia said, advanced age makes you even an even better choice. To begin with you have many years of wizardly experience to draw upon. And if by some distant chance the experiment meets with failure, why you can't be that far away from your natural death.
"It would be tragic, of course. But not as tragic as if a younger wizard were cheated out of a long life."
Fari realized it was hopeless to argue with the king. It was obvious the choice had been made before Menacia summoned him. The advice seeking had only been for appearance's sake.
The Grand Wazier acceded to the king's command with as much grace as he could muster. Preparations were made, detailed instructions were given, and in less than a month Fari and a s
mall expedition set out across the Forbidden Desert. Their orders were much simpler than Sarn's. Once they reached the humanlands they were to turn back immediately and report their success to the king.
Demon scholars estimated the crossing and return journey should take no more than eight weeks. When the time drew near for Fari's return King Manacia became so anxious he ordered his whole court transported from Zanzair to the edge of the Forbidden Desert.
There he sat, day after talon-biting day, waiting for his Grand Wazier. Eight weeks became nine. Nine became ten. The king was so restive he rose before dawn and paced before his traveling throne until late at night.
He'd all but given up hope when Lord Fari finally appeared.
It was at dusk and the sun was just disappearing beneath the horizon. The western-most rim of the desert was a thick red smear that drew the king's eyes like an insect drawn to flame.
His whole being flew out to the rim. He whispered prayers and curses to gods and devils alike. Then his heart bumped hard against his chest. Shadowy figures formed at the horizon. They seemed to be moving, growing larger as they approached. Fearing to spoil his luck the king said nothing, waiting for his lookouts to shout the news.
The cry came and still the king said nothing. He remained motionless, giving no sign of the chaos raging inside.
Then night fell and far out in the desert a score of torches flared into life, bobbing in the darkness like fireflies.
There was no doubt now that it was Fari.
The riddle of the curse of the Forbidden Desert had been solved.
Prince Luka shouted his congratulations, pounding his father on the backwishing his hand held a knife. Officers and courtiers crowded around the king to praise his wisdom and perseverance.
Manacia was not moved. His excitement had died quicklyhe'd waited too long for joy to find a resting place.
When the weary, bedraggled expedition bearing Lord Fari arrived the king was already huddled with his generals in the command tent.