The Cursed

by Dave Duncan

  She flopped down on a marble bench. No one was hiding under the tables. It was not ventriloquism. Tibal Frainith was long gone. She clasped her hands to stop them shaking. She was imagining things, going insane. Except that Jukion Tharn had reacted last night as if he had heard the voice too. She ought to ask him.

  She could imagine how the question would sound. Forget that!

  The voice itself—male or female? City or country? She could not tell. Just a voice. All in all, it had made good sense: "It has begun—Throw him out and good riddance—You have been imprisoned here too long—Go out into the world and achieve something..."

  If the voice would deign to be interrogated, she might argue that Tibal's arrival had not been a great turning point. That had come when Liam turned up with his ultimatum a few hours later. But throwing Kolo out had been the smartest thing she had ever done in her life, and now the voice was telling her what she was trying to tell herself—the hostel was a lost cause.

  Well, there was still one way out. She could not own the land, but the legal experts she had consulted had all agreed that she did own the building and its contents. She could sell those and leave the resulting confusion as a headache for the new owner. The art work alone was worth a fortune.

  She hurried over to her counting room.

  18

  Bulion Tharn stalked back through the streets of Daling in a very black mood indeed. Now he had no armored escort, but he was accompanied by the governor's emissary, Wraxal Raddaith. He was young, lanky, and apparently completely indifferent to his companion. He was dressed as a civilian in smock and breeches—well-cut garments, dyed a dark green that had not known many washings. They were probably brand new. His boots and sword resembled the guards', though. His arms and shins were paler than most men's, so he was probably a soldier, accustomed to wearing mail. In normal Dalingian style his dark hair covered his ears and he was clean-shaven. He bore a small packsack.

  So Wraxal strode at Bulion's side in silence, and that left Bulion time to consider his own troubles. They were not inconsiderable.

  He hated problems he could not understand. The governor had treated him like a long-lost brother—why? He had known about the illegal Ivielscath, or had at least suspected, but he did not seem to care. He had offered men and gold to fortify Tharn Valley, but not argued when they were refused. In fact he had almost groveled to Bulion. It made no sense.

  He had asked about the Labranza woman as if she and Bulion were in some sort of plot. The riot had been political in-fighting and the Tharns were not being blamed for it, which was good. But the governor had dropped hints of reprisals and warnings to leave town. The road home provided a million good sites for an ambush. Was Wraxal Raddaith part of such a plot, or was he being sent along as security, a human safe-conduct?

  Those were worries enough. The Gwin Solith problem was more immediate, and much worse. She had not revealed the full extent of her troubles with the hostel. That was understandable. It was her business, not Bulion's. Or was it? Had her interest in marriage been prompted by the knowledge that she was about to be dispossessed?

  He knew he was being illogical. A young widow needing protection for herself and perhaps small children—that was the sort of bride he had been contemplating. At his age he could not offer romance, only security and tenderness; some passion, but never as much as a young man would provide. Someone very much like Gwin Solith, in fact. They had both joked about being marriageable real estate, and in his case that was much closer to truth than it was in hers... than it had been in hers.

  Worse yet, the fates had saddled him with the cruel task of breaking the news to her. He was going to have to tell her that she had no claim on the hostel at all. She was a pauper.

  So marry me, you have no other choice.

  There was his illogicality—he did not want Gwin Solith on those terms. Romantic old fool, he wanted her to want him for himself. He wanted to believe what she had said in the night.

  How much did she realize? How much had she lied to him?

  What did it matter? His logical mind told him to take her and be grateful, not to worry whether she was marrying the man or the valley. She was more than he could have ever hoped for and now he could almost certainly have her. But he had to break the bad news to her, and how could she ever forgive him for it? Or perhaps she knew the truth and had been waiting for the blow to fall. She had accepted Kolo Gurshith, and then an alternative had appeared. Was Bulion Tharn unrealistic in ranking himself as better than Kolo Gurshith?

  He had found no answers when he turned into Phoenix Street with Wraxal at his side. The bell on the door jangled as they entered the hostel.

  The family flocked to him like hens rallying around a rooster, even the women running. He looked for another face, and registered that there seemed to be no servants around. Then he saw her in the shadows under a balcony, watching. She seemed to be displaying just as much relief and pleasure as the others.

  "We're leaving!" he told them, and noted the approval. "Wosion, see to the horses? Double-check everything—tight girths, stirrups short. We may have trouble on the way. This is Wraxal Raddaith. He will be accompanying us. Be polite to him. If he asks a lot of nosy questions, answer them."

  No one argued. Everyone scattered to collect the packs. Full of apprehension, he walked over to his hostess. She was smiling happily, ignorant of the thunderbolt he was about to hurl.

  "Gwin Saj, may I have a word with you?"

  "Of course. Who is that man? He looks familiar."

  "Wraxal Raddaith."

  She shook her head at the name. She led the way into a small, rather shabby room. Bulion closed the door behind them with more force than was necessary. Dust swirled, papers rustled on the desk and table.

  She turned to face him. "Please excuse the mess! No one is allowed to clean in here but me, so you know who's at fault."

  She was still smiling. She was not a great beauty to raise legends, but she was lovely enough—a fairer woman than either Nadim or Ordim had been. He wanted her—oh, yes, he wanted her! She was totally at his mercy. She had no property, no husband, no prospects. All she had was enemies. Now he could explain that she was a pauper and the governor had uttered grave warnings for her to get out of town. She had no choices but to accept whatever Bulion offered.

  But she did not look like a woman backed into a corner. She looked like a woman who had just received some very good news. Where did he start? What did he say first?

  "Did you notice the door?" she asked with a grin.

  "No."

  "We took down the wheat sheaf! The Phoenix Street Hostel is now closed!"

  She did know! Then why the glee?

  "Very soon the crier should be coming around with the news," she said. "I didn't just get marriage proposals, you see. I got several offers to buy the place, too. So this morning I decided to sell. Offers to be submitted to my agent! Let them fight over it! Liam can have it if he wants it—at a fair market price! Isn't it wonderful?"

  Bulion stammered. She had nothing to sell. "The hostel is your life!"

  "No. It was Carp's life. When he died, I swore to continue it for him and for the children. When they died, I didn't see that the game was ended. I don't want it, Bulion, honestly. There is more to life than this." She turned and snatched up a pile of papers. "Look at them! Tradesmen's bills. Taxes. Factional politics. Servant problems. Memories, yes. But I can take the memories with me, the good ones, and leave the rest." She hurled the papers in the air and let them fly. "Let them all fight over it. Better still—why don't you just burn it down when we leave, like good Zarda should?" She laughed.

  Then she looked at Bulion, cheeks flushed, eyes bright and expectant.

  He twisted the hat he was clutching, struggling for words. "The governor said that you might be wise to leave town, Gwin."

  The smile faded. "Yes?" she whispered.

  He shook his head in disbelief. "You are more than welcome to accompany us. In the valley you—"r />
  "Sanctuary? Last night you offered more than sanctuary."

  They stared at each other.

  His heart thumped in a frenzy. She could not possibly be faking this! She truly believed that she was a rich woman. He could feel his face turning red. "There will be lots of time to think about that. You don't have to decide now."

  "I don't want to come as a fugitive, Bulion! I want you to finish what I started last night."

  But why had she so improbably flung herself into his bed? He turned away to hide his doubts. "Don't be so hasty. I'm a fat old man. I'm a great-grandfather. Last night was a wonderful dream. Today is reality."

  "I don't want reality. I want the dream."

  "There are lots of younger men who would—"

  "I don't want lots of younger men!" she shouted. "I don't want any younger men."

  He looked around at the shock and hurt on her face. "Woman, you are crazy!"

  "You said you wanted me!"

  "Wanted you? Of course I want you, but—"

  "One thing I must warn you, though. I'm not one of your submissive Tharn women who does exactly as she's told! In Daling women expect their husbands to listen and—"

  "Submissive?" Bulion roared. "You don't know what you're talking about! A Zarda woman does not argue with her husband in public, no. Men don't contradict their wives in public, either—that's just good manners. But believe me, in private they go at each fang and tooth! If you think my wives obeyed my every whim without opening their mouths, then you are out of your head."

  "I'm sorry! She smiled appealingly. "Forgive me—I'm a little on edge. Kiss me?"

  How could he kiss her before he had broken the news?

  How could he bear that look of hurt and bewilderment—how could he make it so much worse? Fates! What did it matter what she knew? She had withheld information, so why shouldn't he?

  "Will you marry me, Nien?" he muttered thickly.

  She flew into his arms.

  BOOK THREE,

  the book of

  MUOL,

  who is Passion,

  the Red One,

  bringer of love and hatred,

  maker and destroyer

  19

  "Oughta go!" Ordur grumbled, scratching fingernails aimlessly on the stone tabletop.

  "Go where, Stupid?"

  "Dunno. When's she comin' back?"

  "Told you and told you and told you," Jasbur snarled, "I dunno! I don't care. You got'ny coin?"

  "No."

  "Then we can't eat, Dummy. There's food here to last for weeks."

  They had been sitting in the hostel courtyard for hours. There was no one else in the building. Now the sun had come around a tree and was baking them. If they had any sense, Jasbur knew, they would move to a shady spot. But that would require energy. Energy was something he did not have. All he did have was a throbbin' awful pain in his back, just where the hump was. He might have damaged it without knowing, or he might be starting another change already. Changes usually came at the time of the new moon, but they could happen any time. His skin itched. It sure felt like a change coming on.

  It might be all Labranza's fault. She'd been throwing so much Ogoal influence around on the barge that she might've destabilized him. Here at least he had somewhere to sit and plenty to eat and he didn't have to do anything. Things could be worse.

  A bell jingled, a door slammed.

  Things were worse. Labranza had returned. She came striding across the court toward the two men, and the little flames of anger around her were visible even in sunlight. Well, almost.

  "You're back, Saj," Ordur said, one of his brightest remarks of the day.

  She ignored it. "Where is everyone?"

  "Gone," Jasbur said. "All gone."

  This time he was certain that Labranza's eyes flashed.

  "Bulion Tharn?"

  "The old man? He went. Gwin Saj, too. Gave us the keys and told us to help ourselves."

  Labranza muttered something unladylike under her breath. She was clearly furious about something, which cheered Jasbur up a little.

  "How was the governor?"

  "Decayed, decadent, devious, degenerate, and excessively long-winded. He had some very strange ideas about Raragash."

  "Told you," Ordur whined. "Not one of the Cursed was told—"

  "I remember." She looked around in baffled fury. "You're certain the old man left town?"

  "Yup," Jasbur said. "What's so special about him?" He jumped, and for a moment forgot even the throb in his belly. "You don't mean he's the—"

  "I don't know!" she snapped. For Labranza to admit ignorance was epochal. "But His Eloquence admitted that they'd had some Shoolscaths among their Cursed. He knows something, or thinks he does, and he's very interested in Bulion Tharn. That ties in with Tibal Frainith—he got here just before Tharn did."

  "Bulion Tharn the Renewer? But he's old! It'll take years and years to rebuild the empire. And he's just a farmer! Maybe one of his sons or..."

  Jasbur tailed off into silence under her glare.

  "I did learn one thing," Labranza said. "The governor says some of the Cursed took refuge at a little fishing village called Bad Cove, east of here. You two will go and investigate."

  Jasbur groaned. "Not on a horse!" Even walking would hurt in his present condition. Just sitting here, he had prickly heat. He slid a hand inside his smock and scratched his chest.

  "Could I trust you with horses?" she demanded. "When you set out, I gave you enough money to raise an army, and where is it now?"

  "Well, we both had a bad spell at the same time. You know it can happen."

  Labranza rolled her eyes. "It would be nice if at least one of you had a good spell once in a while."

  "Yes it would."

  She sat down heavily and stared at nothing for a moment, drumming fingers on the table. "I'm going back north. I'll try and catch up with Tibal Frainith on the way, but he did say we'd meet at Raragash, so I suppose Raragash it will have to be. I need to keep an eye on what the Karpana are doing, too."

  Jasbur scratched his chin. "Rape, murder, pillage—"

  "Of course. The question is where. And which way are they moving? As soon as you have located the Cursed in Bad Cove, if any are still alive, send them on to Raragash, and you two go to Tharn Valley."

  "Where's that?"

  "Fates know! Find out. Investigate Bulion Tharn. Everything seems to point to him."

  Ordur had not even been trying to follow the conversation. Suddenly he said, "Huh?" and reached across the table. He dragged his nails across Jasbur's cheek and then peered closely at them.

  Then he grinned.

  Jasbur realized that his overall itch was especially bad on his face. He scratched it, and stubble came away on his fingertips.

  So that was what was happening—their luck had changed at last. He smiled apprehensively at Ordur's predatory leer.

  20

  Eastward from Daling, the old imperial highway was still passable for horses, although it was in sorry disrepair, rutted and potholed. At first it ran through prosperous farmland, but soon crops began to give way to pasture. Eventually feral woods crept down from the hills to invade the valleys; crumbling ruins became more and more common. The city had escaped destruction when the empire fell, but the surrounding countryside had been depopulated and would need a few more centuries yet to recover.

  Gwin had not ventured out of sight of the walls for years, but more than the newness of the landscape excited her. She was still bobbing like a cork, buoyed by an inexplicable sense of deliverance, a feeling of a great adventure beginning. She wished she could attribute it all to love, but she knew that her feelings toward Bulion had not reached quite that cloud-top level yet. Perhaps they would soon, but at the moment she knew she was moved more by freedom than romance.

  She wanted to ride beside him so that the two of them could talk privately—compare likes and dislikes, explore each other's sense of humor, generally get to know each other. It wo
uld be a very backward procedure for two mature people who had agreed to wed of their own free will, a sort of mutual discovery more appropriate for adolescents whose marriage had been arranged by their parents.

  On the highway, she was frustrated by the precautions he insisted on. Suspecting a possible ambush, Bulion had put men in the van and the rear, with the women grouped in the center. He led the way, of course, and he set a fast pace.

  Gwin found herself paired with Aneim, the wife of Wosion's eldest son, Kilbion, and thus a Tharn by marriage. Aneim was something of a minx, but her mischief and high spirits were underlain by a very shrewd judgement of people. She was naturally very curious about this city lady so unexpectedly betrothed to the patriarch. Curiosity worked both ways, though, and she revealed as much as she learned. It was Bulion, she said, who had raised the Tharns to be the premier family of the district. Other families lost sons or daughters when they married, but the Tharns almost never did. Husbands and wives of Tharns would rather live in the valley than anywhere else. Its remarkable fertility was a factor, but Bulion's leadership deserved most of the credit.

  "And now, Gwin Saj," she said with a speculative twinkle in her eye, "you too have fallen under his spell? You have thrown up your entire life in Daling out of love for our Old Man? Is this a sudden blessing from Muol?"

  "Yes and no," Gwin admitted with a chuckle. "I think that to call our feelings for each other 'love' is a little premature. I admire him greatly, and like him, and have done for a long time. I believe he feels the same about me. I find a woman alone cannot defend her own interests and therefore I need a husband. He wants a wife, so our aims coincide exactly. We both know what we are doing—we are not exactly lust-filled adolescents! But we want each other, and that is more than half the battle. I fully expect to love him and be loved by him. Falling in love is exciting. I am looking forward to the experience! Does that answer your question?"

  To her surprise, Aneim sighed. "I wish that love were always so logical and biddable."