by Dave Duncan
A goat bleated derisively. Something that sounded like a sick cat replied. Twisting around in her chair, Labranza observed a hawk perched on a high, dead branch at the edge of the woods. It turned its head as if watching her. It mewed again.
She looked down at the books. Somewhere in there was the answer to something, she was sure of it. The Academy library had been one of the best in the empire, and now its rivals were all long gone up in Zarda smoke. Unfortunately, its custodians had neglected their duties over the years, shoving volumes back higgledy-piggledy, until now it was impossible to find anything. Labranza would send over a demand for a particular book to look up something or other, and usually nothing happened. Sometimes she would go over there herself and find whatever she needed just by chance; sometimes she just did without.
Today some decrepit old librarian had stumbled across a box of books in a cellar and noted that its contents included a dozen or so she had asked for over the years. In most cases she no longer had the slightest idea why she had wanted them, but she could recognize the hand of Ogoal.
She had ordered the entire box brought over. She had spread more than thirty books out on the grass, most of them works she had never heard of and did not want to. So far they had proved perversely unhelpful. Why should she care about a long-dead emperor?
Try again, or wait until Ogoal was visible? Try again.
She discarded the sheaf of reports, keeping only one page, which she crumpled into a ball. Then she closed her eyes and concentrated. She thought of that minute speck of light that would soon show in the twilight, her titular fate. Ogoal might not be showing yet, but she was in the skies already. Labranza knew better than to pray to Ogoal. The fates never listened to mortals. Nonetheless, she could try to open her mind to the power, to the influence. After a few minutes she felt an odd tingling, a rising sense of excitement. That was good! She rarely achieved that. Maybe this time it would work. She let the tingling grow. It spread through her, growing stronger, until all her muscles seemed to twitch with urgency. She had rarely known the sensation so strong. It was localizing, working down into the hand that held the ball of paper. Her fingers trembled.
Then the hawk mewed again, very loud, as if it were sitting on the roof above her. Labranza jumped. Her arm spasmed of its own accord. The wad of paper shot upward. She opened her eyes and watched for it to come down again. Where the fates was it? There! It was already resting on a small and very tattered book at the far edge of the display.
She lunged out of her chair to get it, tripped on the edge of a fat tome, and sprawled heavily to her knees. Angrily she reached for the book she wanted. She did not even glance at the title. Closing her eyes, she let it fall open and stabbed a finger at the page. Then she looked. The writing was ancient and faded, hard to make out.
... but if for any Reason they shall Divide equally, half For and half Against a Matter, then the Lord Presiding shall cast a Second Vote to Thereby Determine the Issue.
xxxiv
And We Further Decree that in the absence of Their Natural Lord, the Six shall elect a Lord from among Themselves to guide their Deliberations and to Oversee the Fulfilling of their Joint Will as They may have Determined it in counciling together, the said Lord to serve that office until Their Natural Lord returneth or until Death or the Six shall by Voting as heretofore laid forth Appoint a Successor.
Incredulously she looked at the cover. It bore no title. She opened it at the first page.
Our Will
Regarding
the Governance
of Our
Academy Newly Enabled
in Rara Gash
In the same writing, it continued: "Done by Our hand in Our City of Qol this thirty-second day of Poulsept, in the Year of the Empire, seven hundred and two score."
Losso Lomith again! This was the charter of the Academy, in a version at least a hundred years older than any she had ever seen. It might very well be the original, perhaps even written by the Founder himself, for his attention to detail had been notorious. She must check it against known samples of his writing. The book was priceless and she had not known it existed. Even from the scrap she had read, it clearly contained discrepancies from the standard version, and who knew when one of those might be turned to advantage in a dispute?
Staggered by this discovery, she heaved herself to her feet and moved back to her chair. She had bruised her right knee and smeared grass on her wrap. She trod carefully between the other books, much more considerate of them now that she knew at least one treasure had been hidden in that forgotten box. There might be others.
As she sat down and marked the place she had found with a letter taken at random from her correspondence, she remembered what had led her to this discovery, what she had been doing. Three times now she had chosen a book at random and a page at random, and three times she had been led to Losso Lomith. First, a romanticized account of how he had first raised the flag of rebellion against the tyrannical Emperor Urhin Sophith, then the story of how he had been exiled to Raragash as child—and now this. She could doubt no longer if she held any faith at all in her Ogoalscath influence—which she would trust with her life. The answer she sought was Losso Lomith.
Why, for fates' sake? He had been dead for six centuries.
Well, what exactly was the question?
The hawk mewed shrilly. She raised her head to shout at it and saw a flag rising on the third pole. The other two already bore flags, barely moving against the reddening western sky.
She forgot Losso Lomith.
Three tall flagpoles surmounted the roof of the Hall, the end of a signal network. Similar sets of poles stood at regular intervals all the way from the Hall to the town and from the town out to both North and South Gates. The system was ancient. Whatever its original purpose, it was of little use now except to warn Labranza of important visitors. It also provided employment for sharp-eyed youngsters who might otherwise have been getting into trouble, and whose parents appreciated the income.
All three poles bore flags, but there was not enough wind to see how many. She drummed angry fingers on the book, then remembered what it was and laid it reverently on the table. The poles were out of range, so she could not raise a... Well, perhaps she already had, for a puff of wind stirred the flags briefly. Four on the first pole, the tallest, two on the middle, one on the last.
Labranza relaxed, and only then realized how tense she had been. She knew the commonly used codes by heart. Four-two-one was, "More than six Cursed have entered South Gate."
Good news! Perhaps these were refugees from Daling starting to trickle in at last. North Gate would have been a much easier route, but war might have forced a detour. Jasbur and Ordur might even be with them. They would certainly bring word of events in the Cockpit.
The flags descended again, pole by pole, and she waited to see if there was anything else to follow. There was no reason why there should be, except that the boys usually left them up for longer than that. The Hall was the destination, of course. The only reason it needed to repeat the signal coming in was as confirmation that it had been received correctly. She might even have missed an earlier signal, although she doubted that.
Yes, here came another. A sizable bundle of bunting on the first pole. And another on the second! And at least two on the third! Well! Whatever the numbers, that was not going to be a code she knew by heart.
Blow, Curse you, blow!
Nothing happened, except that Labranza drummed fingernails on the table and swore under her breath. The flags hung in an unreadable tangle. Fates! She would have to wait until the Hall sent an official report.
Then a shimmer... pause... another... a gust. Got it! Five-four-three. She had not the faintest notion what Five-four-three was. Where by the Curse of Poul had she put the code book? She was on her feet in an instant, pushing through the drape into the strangely dim house... Fates, it was hot in there! She threw open her archive chest and rummaged. Foiled, she knelt and began a methodic
al removal of books and ledgers and scrolls, laying them on the floor, until she found the slim notebook she sought.
It was very old, faint and crackly. She ought to have it recopied before it disintegrated completely. She turned pages. Five-four-three: The council member has returned.
With a snort of disgust and relief, Labranza dropped the book back in the chest and began replacing the other records. Ordur or Tibal Frainith? She had expected to find Frainith in Raragash when she returned two weeks ago. He had prophesied that she would see him here, so it was only a matter of time until he showed up. She had never noticed that there was a code to report a councillor's return. How often had that ever been used?
Then... With a cry of annoyance at her own folly, she jumped up and ran back to the doorway. She was just in time to see the flags being pulled down on the first pole—but the wind was blowing now. Another message. Five, five, and five?
Back to the chest, and this time she rummaged wildly, hurling volumes and documents out in mad haste. It did her little good, for the tiny notebook slipped down in the cracks. Finally she had it again.
The last code in the book. Five-five-five: The emperor has arrived.
Shock!
She took it over to the door and pulled the drape aside for better light. She had not misread. The emperor? What the fates did that mean? It was a mistake. Some stupid boy had mistaken the numbers. A correction would be run up in a few minutes. So why was her heart thundering against her ribs?
Perhaps it meant king. When the system had been drawn up—perhaps even by Losso Lomith himself—there had been an emperor, but no kings. Then she saw Five-five-four on the line above. Originally it had read: The prince has arrived. The word prince had been stroked out and king added in a more modern hand.
Perhaps the copy at South Gate had never been changed?
Clutching at straws, Labranza!
She stepped out into the dazzling light again and squinted at the poles. They were bare. The arrivals had been described: At least six Cursed, Tibal Frainith—or possibly just Ordur—and someone who could best be matched against the code for emperor.
Bulion Tharn! The Renewer! She had mentioned the Daling prophecies to Ordur, so he knew of them. The Jaulscath in the guard had read them in the visitors' thoughts. Ordur had brought Bulion Tharn with him! Or her—one could never tell with Awailscaths. Just because he had been a blundering, witless male lout the last time she had seen him did not mean that Ordur was not average sensible now.
It seemed incredibly unlikely. Or did it? If that old man had a historical destiny to play out, then he would have to get started soon. Why would he begin by coming here? Had someone else brought him, not Ordur? Tibal, perhaps. The Shoolscath might have gone to Da Lam to fetch the Renewer. That would not necessarily be a breach of the future; he might have foreseen himself doing it. Tibal Frainith and Bulion Tharn...
A man came running around the house and slowed to a walk, panting hard—Ching Chilith, of course. Labranza had left strict orders that she was not to be disturbed. She was not properly dressed.
Whereas Ching was robed in glory. The scarlet silk was sticking to him and patched with sweat in places, but his sleeves hung to the ground, he had a gold chain around his neck and osprey plumes in his hat. He glittered with jewels and ribbons. Never before had he dared show himself to her in the absurd attire that he paraded before everyone else. Losso Lomith himself could never have looked grander.
"Saj! There are messages... Cursed at South Gate."
"Good," she said, turning away.
He gasped a few more breaths, coming closer. "With a councillor, Saj... Frainith... or perhaps Ordur..."
Shock! She waited, not looking around lest her face reveal her feelings.
Ching was right behind her now, panting. "The Jaulscath on South Gate is very reliable... must trust what he sends... message says emperor... must mean the Renewer... this Bulion Tharn I warned you of..."
For the first time in her life, Labranza was genuinely speechless. Ching? Her flunky? Her creature!
How dare he!
And then he laid hands on her, took her by the shoulders—touching her without permission...
"It will be all right!" he gasped in her ear. "Will arrive tomorrow... can put them up in the East Wing, Saj! Then... you can deal with them! It will be easy for you, won't it? ...unfortunate accident!"
He had the audacity to intrude on her privacy, to appear before her festooned in all that ludicrous tinsel, to handle her without receiving explicit orders—and then presume to comfort her?
She twisted around, breaking free of his grasp. She struck him across the face as hard as she could. "Cur!"
He did not fall over as she had expected. He leaned away, but hardly moving his feet. She followed, swinging a fist. He caught her wrist and jerked her forward with a strength that astonished her. His other arm locked around her, pulling them together, face to face. His cheek was flaming red already, where she had struck him, but his hazel eyes burned hotter, with completely unexpected fury.
"I did not deserve that, Labranza!"
Temper? The lap dog shows its teeth?
She tried to break loose. He was shorter than she was; she had always assumed that she was the stronger. Now she discovered that he was—and much stronger. She had never dreamed... He held her in his arms and she could not break free. He hardly seemed to exert himself to resist her efforts. She had never realized that he was physically her master, that all previous evidence to the contrary had been willing submission. It was an infuriating and humiliating discovery. She had never seen him angry.
"You are upset!" he said, snarling at her. "Just because I bring you bad news, you must not kill the messenger."
"Take your wretched hands off me!"
"Apologize first!"
Apologize? To Ching Chilith?
Her wrap had fallen open in the tussle. One of the jewelled orders on his tunic was digging painfully into her breast. She was helpless in his grasp; his sweaty flush had become arousal.
She relaxed in his arms, closed her eyes, puckered her lips. At once he eased his grip on her and put his mouth to hers. She slammed her knee into his groin.
That disposed of Ching Chilith, reduced so easily to a writhing and piteously squeaking heap. Most satisfying.
Labranza stalked over to the table and took up the Founder's book of rules. After a moment's thought, she collected her correspondence also. She went into the house and locked them safely away in a clothes chest. She changed into more respectable garments. Then she came out again to inspect her weeping secretary.
He had managed to struggle to his knees, but he was gagging and choking. His finery was streaked with vomit and his face was as green as the grass.
"Gather these books up," she said, "and pack them neatly in that box. Then put it in the house. If you won't be able to carry it loaded, move the box first. I want your copy of my code book before sunset and if I ever as much as wonder whether you made a second copy, I will have you publicly garotted. I don't expect I shall lack for volunteers. Are you listening?"
He retched, but then he nodded, not looking at her—holding his crotch with both hands.
"Did you make keys, or just pick the locks?"
"Keys," he whimpered.
"Bring them. What else did you steal?"
"Nothing, Saj!" His voice was a croak.
"Do I have to kick you now to get your attention?"
He doubled over quickly, face to the ground. "No, no, Saj! Just copied... made a few notes... I'll bring them, all of them. Everything."
"Do so." She turned away, then paused. "When the visitors arrive, I want them put in the East Wing. See to it." Then she headed off to the Hall.
46
Gwin could cheerfully have stayed at the guest house for the rest of her life. The natural hot pools, the soft beds, the delicious meals served by respectful servants—all these had brought home to her the rigors of the journey just past. Ahead lay the omin
ous Labranza Lamith and then the long return to Tharn Valley, neither being an appealing prospect. The house itself was a crude log cabin, rude and primitive, but she could learn to live with that. The original imperial buildings had collapsed in a heap not long after the empire itself had done the same thing, Tibal Frainith had explained. Buildings often did in Raragash.
As the travelers assembled in the yard, it became obvious that the horses had enjoyed the facilities too. They were clean again and must have fed generously on oats, for even Morningstar was frisky. Hooves clattered and men swore, but the tussles were good-humored on both sides.
Gwin was just about to mount when Jasbur grabbed her arm.
"Ordur has gone!"
"Oh? When?"
"In the night! He has taken one of your horses. I will murder that bastard!"
Gwin barely managed to keep a straight face. Jasbur was a strikingly attractive woman, but she did not behave like one. She had the athletic body of a dancer, she had smoldering dark eyes and glossy hair, but she completely lacked the poise that should accompany them. She could not play the part of a beauty—which was understandable, considering that next week she might be a prize-fighter.
"Has he gone to conspire with Labranza?"
Obviously Jasbur had not thought of that possibility. She wrinkled her brow in thought. "I assumed he'd gone in search of another bed."
"I can't imagine why he should want to."
Jasbur brightened. "Thank you!" She preened. "Come to think of it, neither can I, after last night."
"There you are, Gwinim!" said Tibal, leading up his horse. "May I be your guide to Raragash this fine morning?"
"Of course!" She trusted the gangly Shoolscath in a way she could never trust Ordur, no matter who he was at the moment. That was mostly just Tibal himself—carefree and unpretentious—but it was also principle. Since Shoolscaths dared not change the future, they had nothing to gain by intrigue.