Synalon's lip curled in a snarl. The tang of ozone filled the room.
'But what do the Ethereals have to do with Felarod's Hundred?' asked Ziore, easing some of the mounting tension with her question.
'The quality of education,' Erimenes said, shaking his head sadly, 'must have declined in the years following my death.' He tugged thoughtfully at his chin. 'But then, it's only to be expected. After me, Athalau's intellectual progress could only take a downward turn.'
'It all happened ten thousand years ago, Erimenes,' Fost pointed out. 'It wasn't considered a necessary part of the curriculum where Ziore spent her life. Your teachings never addressed the War of Powers, as I recall.' Erimenes turned his attention back to the skylight. The fact that Ziore had spent her physical life in a convent devoted to the abstemious tenets laid down by Erimenes the Ethical before his own death still produced friction between the genies.
'In answer to your question, Ziore,' continued Fost, 'I assume you do know the broad outlines of the legend, how Felarod needed the help of a hundred specially trained savants to summon the World Spirit and defeat Istu and the Hissers. You've probably also heard that ninety of the Hundred died from contact with such sheer power. And that the ten survivors were so horrified at the cosmic destruction they had helped wreak that they left Athalau, vowing to keep themselves isolated from humankind and magic'
'Yes,' Ziore answered, frowning. 'I heard versions of the story as a child, even in the convent.'
'But did you hear where the survivors of the Hundred went after Felarod's victory?'
'No.'
All eyes were on Fost now.
'They went to the Great Crater Lake,' he said, 'where their descendants now style themselves the Ethereals.'
'Those cattle?' Synalon blurted, evidently remembering more of Rann's report than she'd admitted.
'Yes,' Erimenes said, in leaden tones. 'It's all true.'
'And there's more to the tale,' Fost said, grinning, 'to account for Erimenes's mournful expression. For years of their self-imposed exile, the Ethereals were without any kind of philosophical base. Schools of thought came and went, but each seemed tainted by the magic they had come to fear and despise.
'Then fourteen centuries ago, an itinerant sage of Athalau stumbled across their village. He brought with him tidings of a new philosophy sweeping through Athalau like a rising spring wind. It preached total denial of the physical world. Pleasures of the flesh, monetary concerns - and yes, magic. All these matters were shunned. It was a doctrine tailor-made for the Ethereals.'
He gestured grandly.
'And the tailor who made it was none other than Erimenes, called in those days the Ethical.'
'Hold me up to derision, if you will,' Erimenes said, scowling. 'Have you never made a mistake?'
'But do you think they'll help us, Fost?' asked Moriana.
'We can only ask.'
'I'd best not be among those who negotiate with them,' Rann observed wryly. He had tortured the villagers while seeking information and wouldn't be forgotten soon.
'But they've no concern with what goes on in the world,' persisted Moriana.
'They'll see Istu's release as making it their concern,' said Fost.
'It's been so long since damned Felarod's triumph,' said Synalon. 'What if they've lost what powers they had?'
'Don't damn Felarod too lightly, Highness,' said Rann, 'since we find ourselves on his side now. I see no other course than to try the Ethereals and Athalau.'
Synalon curtly ordered more wine, and the six of them, four mortal, two spectral, began laying plans.
The sun was low and its light the color of wine when the discussion was done. Rann nodded in satisfaction at the campaign they had outlined. Seeing this, the others sat back in their seats and relaxed a trifle. If Rann approved their planning, it meant that it was the best that could be done under the circumstances.
Whether the best was enough remained to be seen.
'Where are you staying, cousin?' Rann spoke, his eyes half-lidded.
'The Twisthorn Inn,' Fost answered for Moriana, seeing her tense. He met her stare with steady eyes. 'We have to trust them. I know the odds are that they'll betray us, but we'll have to chance that.'
'I've had a bellyful of betrayal,' Moriana said tautly.
'Perhaps if they gave their word?' suggested Ziore.
Erimenes emitted a strangled squawk. Ziore was his beloved, but it took all his self-control to swallow the scorn he had for her naivete.
'Would it be believed?' asked Rann.
'The word of the Queen of the City in the Sky is not to be doubted,' said Synalon loftily.
'By what right now do you name yourself queen?' Moriana demanded, half rising and placing her hand on her empty scabbard.
Fost gripped her arm.
'She held the title longer than you did,' he pointed out, 'and you're both fugitives now. When the Vridzish butcher you for their victory banquet, will you squabble over who'll be swallowed first?'
Fost felt the electric tension mounting. These were extraordinarily powerful sorceresses. The alliance, still fragile, threatened to come apart over this. He cleared his throat and raised his voice.
'By the Great Ultimate, I swear to take no action against anyone gathered here, save to defend myself or another of this party against treachery, until this War of Powers shall be settled.' He paused, then, 'For good or ill.'
'Well spoken, if not concisely,' Erimenes said. 'You're sure your father wasn't a lawyer? Or a confidence man?'
'Swear,' Fost said grimly, his eyes moving around the small circle. One by one they took the vow until Fost came to Synalon. Fost refused to break the gaze and, such was the intensity of his feeling, it was Synalon who turned away.
'If you insist,' she said, making an irritable gesture with one hand, 'I'll swear your silly little oath, as well.'
'Then let's drink to it,' Rann proposed. The toast was drunk. And Fost wondered what he was getting into.
In her official capacity before Synalon had driven her into exile, Moriana had dealt with many of the financial matters of the Sky City. Haggling for provisions and material proved second nature. And, after Rann had visited the House of Omsgib-Bir, money began to flow from the official coffers of the City. Fost was never sure what Rann had threatened, but the goatlike banker now fell over himself to supply ample amounts of money, presumably drawn against Sky City accounts. But such was Rann's effect on people that Fost didn't discount the possibility that Omsgib gave them money from his own pocket - out of fear.
While Moriana purchased supplies, Fost and Rann went to the waterfront district to find mercenaries seeking employment. Rann promptly sought out the biggest braggart of the lot, a big red-bearded man who wore his hair plaited into pigtails. Physically he was imposing enough, but it was obvious to Fost that the man knew even less of military arts than of discretion.
'You're the man I'm looking for,' Rann told the giant.
'What's that, little man?' the giant bellowed. He obviously wanted to have some sport with the diminutive Rann. Fost waited to see the color of the fool's blood, but instead of a blade, Rann brought forth a well-filled purse and swung it slowly before the big man's bloodshot eyes.
'I hear you,' the giant said, and followed Rann and a thoroughly bemused Fost to a booth in the shadows at the rear of the inn.
'What I'm about to tell you,' Rann said conspiratorially, 'must be kept in the strictest confidence. I am empowered by certain parties who cannot be named to raise a company of stalwart warriors to march to the relief of the Empire. As a man as well-informed as yourself is doubtless aware, the Empire is beset by inhuman foes camped along the River Marchant. We - those I represent - intend to mount an expedition to take the Hissers in the rear.'
The big man nodded slowly and thoughtfully, though Fost doubted he understood a word in ten.
'And you want me to join this expedition.'
Rann's eyebrows shot up in surprise.
'Why
no, my good man! I want you to lead the expedition! You will, discreetly of course, raise a company and march north. Yours will be one of several secretly travelling to a rendezvous. However,' he said quickly, as the man began to frown, 'I don't doubt that with your obvious talents you'll find yourself in a position of authority. Perhaps even overall command.' And to Fost's further astonishment, Rann simpered in a fashion that went well with the dandefied accent he had adopted.
'How much?' the big man finally said, after his mind had slowly worked over the ramifications.
Rann swept his arm across the table, sowing circles that rang with deep, true tones. Coins of Tolvirot gold, not Imperial clay and tin, sprouted. The giant's eyes grew as big and round as the klenors winking seductively at him from amid the pools of spilled drink.
'Elhard Lanisol's your man,' he said with ponderous sincerity.
The deal was quickly done. Half the princely sum scattered on the table went directly into the big man's pocket. The rest was to be used to begin recruiting. Rann said he would return to meet Lanisol in a few days. Before Lanisol found out the name of his employer, Rann and Fost were pushing through the door and out into the street.
'You look as thick witted as our friend inside,' laughed Rann. Fost set his jaw. He wasn't going to ask for an explanation. Rann smiled and answered, as if he had.
'The Nevrymin and the Dwarves are openly ranked with the
Vridzish,' the prince explained. 'It's safe to assume that other human allies of the Dark exist who keep their sympathies concealed. And I suspect there are such here in Tolviroth Acerte. And it is no assumption at all that they'll have heard about the small, scarred man and the expedition he's mounting to save the Empire.'
'I don't follow you,' Fost said reluctantly.
'The hypothetical minions of the Dark are going to learn that Moriana and Synalon have joined forces, and that they are spreading their coin liberally about Tolviroth Acerte. That much we cannot hide.' He flicked a speck of soot from his shirt collar. 'They'll wonder, of course, where we intend to go - and lo! the worthy Master Lanisol will tell them, as he's no doubt done to all in earshot by now.'
'But you wouldn't tell him who you were. How will the spies know who's recruiting?'
Rann looked at him sidelong. Fost instantly regretted the question.
'How many men have you encountered matching my description, Longstrider? If it got back to someone with wit, this Zak'zar, say, that the renowned Prince Rann was accosting drunks under his own name to raise an army, what would that someone think? He'd feel the trap as sharply as if its jaws were closed about his ankle.'
Fost still looked doubtful.
'Of course,' Rann went on, 'I'll have to hire a few legitimate mercenaries to march north to lend some credence to the tale. But mostly I seek out ones like Lanisol.'
'Likely, he'll keep the money himself,' said Fost, confused by the prince's devious mind.
'What of it? His ego won't let him keep quiet about the important secret mission that brought him such a weight of gold. That the story reaches the proper ears is all that matters.' They rounded a corner and Rann lightly touched him on the sleeve. 'Let's go in here, and see if the Blow On Inn is as ghastly as its name.'
CHAPTER EIGHT
'So, friend Fost,' asked Erimenes, expansive after a night spent cavorting with Ziore, 'what do you think of our travelling companions? They're not such monsters, eh?'
Mostly occupied with trying not to think about the way his piebald riding dog's trot traumatized his kidneys, Fost didn't answer immediately. He let his gaze sweep the horizon, front to rear. The ground sank slowly behind into the green woods and metallic luster of the River Wirix, which could be glimpsed in its windings far away. To the right - north - the land became a sea of grass rippling on the frozen waves of hills. There in this season the grass grew taller than a man on dog-back; from this it had gotten the name Highgrass Broad. In front rose a barrier that had grown day by day, dark when the sun hung in the west, but a dry yellow light when the sun still mounted the cloud-piled eastern sky. It was the rim of the central massif, a great slab of land that tilted upward from the foothills of the Thails to a line meandering south of Mount Omizantrim. Now the cliffs were near, sheer and forbidding, looking as if they'd been scooped out by a great trowel. They were over a thousand feet high, though numerous and perilous trails ascended the many faces. They planned on reaching the foot of one such trail, which Fost and Moriana both knew from their travels, by early afternoon, completing the climb to the top before night made the way too dangerous.
'Did you say something?' Fost asked, belatedly aware that the spirit had.
'That's what I like about you, Fost. Always on the alert.' 'Ziore would never forgive me if I accidentally dropped your satchel halfway up the face of the rim.'
'I've told you before, you have exceedingly dubious tastes in humor.' Erimenes shook his head, tiny trails of vapor drifting from his forehead as he moved. 'As I was saying, I believe you've learned that our new companions aren't the fiends you'd thought. Of course, I realized long ago that Rann and Synalon were not wholly lacking in merit. But then I had more intimate contact with them . . .'
'Collaboration is the word, Erimenes.'
The genie heaved a melodramatic sigh and drew himself up even straighter.
'For all your experience in the wide world, and for all my tutelage over this past year - think of it, Fost. We've spent almost a year in one another's company.' Ignoring Fost's groan, he carried on brightly. 'At any rate, though I've no doubt been a maturing influence on you, I find to my deepest regret that you are still callow, unable to appreciate the subtler motivations of your elders.'
'Your motivations aren't subtle. They come down to only one thing. Hedonism.'
'Fost, you must curb this tendency to stray from the subject.' Erimenes wagged a finger at him. 'Now, about Prince Rann and the exquisite Princess Synalon . . .?'
Fost considered. Again his eyes made a quick circuit of his surroundings. The little party was strung in a winding line picking its way around clumps of scrub and outcroppings of rock. Moriana rode lead on her dog, heavy Highgrass war bow strung across the rounded pommel of her saddle. Next rode Fost, then Synalon and Rann at the rear on a shaggy red animal, his own, smaller Sky City bow likewise resting across his saddlebow. This was caravan season, and bandit country.
'I don't know,' he confessed. 'I think Synalon's insane, but all the same there's something I can't quite name about her. . . something magnificent, I think, though evil. And Rann . . .'He shook his head. 'I've heard enough of his handiwork to keep me well-stocked in nightmares the rest of my life. But it's also said he's a genius. And I believe that, too. I can't forget that day in the City when I rescued Moriana and found myself singlehandedly facing both Istu and the whole damned army. I had no choice in that and ran like hell as soon as Moriana was freed. But down dropped Rann from the safety of his eagle to put himself between the monster and Synalon, though he knew his blade couldn't even scratch the thing. That's the bravest thing I've ever seen.'
'It bothers you to find that your former foes aren't wholly the black villains you'd like to think them?'
Irritation darted through Fost. He smiled unevenly.
'You know, Erimenes, it's when you're at your most perceptive that you tend to be the most annoying.' He let the reins lie across the dog's neck while he raised his broad-brimmed felt hat and smoothed lank black hair from his eyes. 'It does gripe me, though, to concede any goodness in a creature like Rann.'
'And Synalon, ah, but I perceive the lady herself comes to join our small soiree.'
Fost looked around too sharply and almost lost his balance. Synalon had indeed nudged her mount into a gallop and drew up on the courier's left side.
'Greetings, milord Duke,' she called gaily.
Fost felt himself blushing. He tried to stop and only caused a deeper reddening of his features.
'Are you unaccustomed to folk employing your proper title?' she a
sked, her voice as clear and sweet as a mountain spring, and seemingly as guileless.
'I -' The words stuck in his throat. He desperately needed a drink, though he'd last sipped from the canteen bouncing by his knee not ten minutes earlier. He cleared his throat and started over.
'Your Highness, I confess I don't really think of myself as a duke. Nor a knight, if it comes to that.'
'But you had those titles granted you from the hand of the Emperor himself. What more could you want? For one of those tiresome Wise Ones to come down from Agift and personally hand you a ducal coronet?'
'No. In all truth, Highness, I never wished to be a knight, or a duke, either. I wanted only to be a free man, and to lead my life in peace.'
He didn't need her laughter to tell him how silly his words sounded.
'Besides,' he said quickly to cover his embarrassment, 'Imperial titles don't mean much. The Emperor tosses them around the way dancing boys and girls strew sweets at every public function.'
'So the honor was too common for you.' She nodded sagely. 'You are a proud man, Longstrider.'
Damn the woman! She was watching him out of eyes the deep, strange blue of turquoise, laughing and yet not laughing.
'I will make you duke,' she said softly. 'But there is that which you must do.'
He faced ahead in stony silence. Thirty yards in front of him rode Moriana, now looking neither left nor right, and by the set of her shoulders he realized she knew that Synalon spoke with him, and feared both to interfere and not to.
'I will not help you work treachery against Moriana,' he said stiffly.
Her laughter bounced off the rock face and echoed downward.
'Ah, Sir Knight, you see fit to jest with me! But I assure you, sir, the ceremony of investiture would be much less traumatic than those of High Medurim you told us of - and considerably more intimate.' Laughing still, she spurred her mount ahead to go alongside her sister.
Fost felt as if the heat in his ears would make his hat burst into flame. Synalon could fling lightning bolts with words as well as magical gestures.
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