The Cursed

by Dave Duncan

  "So do I! You must have some idea?"

  Ordur looked appealingly to Tibal and found no support there. "I think there's some sort of control involved, power over other Cursed. I know I feel bloody if I try to evade your questions, Gwin—like someone kicked me in the belly. Don't even look at me like that! I'm trying my best!"

  "What sort of power? Just power to squeeze answers out of you?"

  "More, much more. Remember how you flogged Mandasil? By rights you should have collapsed with a splitting headache at that point, if not worse. You forced him to cure a rash he'd created himself, and there's no one in Raragash who could do that except perhaps the Muolscaths. You kept us all healthy when Niad was screaming sick at losing her husband. An untrained Ivielscath in that sort of mood should have blighted the lot of us. I'm sure it was your doing that she didn't."

  Bulion listened with rising dismay. He was inclined to think the blond man was telling the truth—except that he himself refused to believe any of this. "Moonshine!" If Gwin were Cursed, the consequences would not bear thinking about.

  "I told Ordur I'd heard a Voice," Gwin said grimly. "He wasn't surprised."

  "I haven't managed to find out any more about that." Ordur cringed. "Stop it, Gwin! I'm trying!"

  If he was acting, he was doing a fabulous job. There was no slithery banter to him any more. "I'll keep hunting for the books!" He turned to Bulion with sick appeal on his face. "I warned you that you might be in danger, Saj, but I think your wife may be in much worse. Whatever we do, we must not let Labranza get wind of this!"

  Gwin looked far more furious than fearful. "She may know already?"

  Ordur shrugged. "A sneeze lasts longer than secrets in Raragash. If the Jaulscath on South Gate caught wind of any of us thinking about Poulscaths, then Labranza certainly knows by now. That was why I didn't want to talk about it sooner!"

  "Control over Cursed doesn't sound bad. What's the catch?"

  "I don't know! I don't know if anyone knows. There's never been enough Poulscaths for the Academy to learn much about them. We have no manual of training for them. If you are a Poulscath, then you'll have to master your powers by yourself."

  Bulion put an arm around her. "You can do that back in the valley as well as you can here!"

  She cuddled into his embrace, but she kept her attention on the Awailscath. "Poul is giver of life. The man who died in the hostel... was that me?"

  Ordur hesitated, then twisted his face in a wince. "Could be! It's very unusual for an Ivielscath to be so deadly, and Poul brings death also."

  "I suggest you don't experiment with that part of it, love," Bulion suggested, trying to hide his uneasiness. Her knack with the Cursed did seem like more than just coincidence, even the Ogoalscaths. "Let's keep it to ourselves. I think he's telling the truth." Wosion had noted the whispered conversation and was limping over to investigate, with Zanion at his heels.

  Gwin smiled thinly at Ordur. She was worried too, and trying not to show it. "He'd better be! But I think I agree with you. I'll stop kicking his breeches for now."

  Tibal had been keeping very quiet. He brightened. "What did you find out about the war?"

  The Awailscath pouted at him. "Why do you bother asking?"

  "Tell me, then," Gwin said.

  "Not much! Labranza gets reports all the time, but she keeps them locked up. The rumors are that the Karpana have made a new desert in Nimbudia. Wesnar and Mokth have called off their own squabble until they see what's going to happen—but all of it's only gossip."

  Tibal nodded, satisfied. "And tell them about the council."

  Ordur clenched a fist, but he answered. "Par a'Ciur has been demanding a meeting. Labranza's refused so far. She says the wars have nothing to do with Raragash."

  Tibal raised his eyebrows expectantly. Ordur just pouted at him. Long Pause... There seemed to be a cue missing.

  "Well?" Gwin said, glancing from one to the other.

  Then Tibal smiled and looked to Bulion.

  "Say it, dear," said Gwin.

  "Say what?"

  "Whatever you were thinking of saying."

  Annoyed, Bulion shrugged. Cursed bunch of Jaulscaths, picking a man's brains! "Oh, I was just wondering... If Labranza is going to be difficult... I was wondering who her opposition might be, thinking we might ought to get together with them."

  "I'm so glad somebody suggested that," Tibal murmured.

  Ordur rubbed his eyes. "I should have. I'm half out on my feet! Good idea! Why don't we all go and see the others tomorrow?" He studied Tibal's angular and unusually inscrutable features for a moment. "Tonight?"

  "Better."

  "More? You expect more? If you force me to use my brain, you'll be changing the future and the present... Ah! Quorum?"

  Tibal grinned. The two men were not especially friendly, but they seemed to be allies in whatever was happening, and they also seemed to be on the Tharns' side, whatever that was.

  "How many do you need?" Bulion asked.

  "Four. There's six on the council and Labranza can vote again to break ties."

  "I'd rather you left Ziberor out of it," Tibal said. "She's a lost cause, anyway."

  Ordur nodded and covered a yawn with his hand. "If I go to sleep, you can cast my vote. 'Sides, I'm not sure I can legally vote, anyway. Midnight? Where?"

  "In the East Wing," said Tibal. "Get Baslin there if you have to tie him on his horse."

  "His horse would talk more sense." Ordur nodded respectfully to Gwin and stalked away. He seemed eager to go.

  Bulion noticed his wife gazing hard at him.

  "I want to go home," she whispered. "I do!"

  "Makes two of us."

  "Someone's coming," Wosion muttered.

  About time! The newcomer was short and pudgy, with the dark complexion of a Nurzian. He was bedecked in an elaborate daffodil-and-cobalt livery that must date back to the empire, for the only time Bulion had ever seen anything like it was in Governor Imquin's palace. From his stockinged calves to his ruffled color, he was a vision of absurdity. Whether he was naturally haughty or merely embarrassed at being seen in such an abundance of lace and ribbons, he wore a terribly disdainful expression.

  "This is private property!" he proclaimed. "Do you have business here?"

  Tharns glowered down at him menacingly.

  Tibal snorted. "Pay no attention to this popinjay! I'll show you to the usual guest quarters. And you, fellow—see to their horses. You needn't tell Ching that the people he has been waiting for have arrived. He already knows, of course. Come along, everyone."

  The flunky's brown cheeks turned faintly purple. "You can't do that!"

  "I can and do. I am Councilor Tibal Frainith, in case you aren't aware. Run along! Wonder Boy is waiting for you."

  Tibal strode off, leaving him standing. The Tharns followed the Shoolscath.

  48

  He marched swiftly across the vast hall to one of the high arches and trotted down a few steps to an arcade of marble pillars, flanked on one side by a wall of bas-reliefs and on the other by a courtyard garden. Engrossed in his problems, Bulion registered only vaguely that many of the sculptured panels were cracked, the grass plots scabby, the flower beds unkempt.

  Tibal chuckled, abruptly slackening his pace to a stroll. "No need to waste energy! We have to come back this way again."

  "I don't think I understand," Wosion said, catching up. "Why are we so worried about Labranza Saj, Father?"

  Bulion sighed. "It's perfectly simple. For the last hundred years, dozens of men have tried to persuade people that they are the next emperor, the Renewer."

  "So?"

  "So I'm the first who has to try and persuade anyone that I'm not."

  The pastor laughed harshly. "Well, I believe you!"

  "So do I," Zanion agreed. "Absolutely!"

  "Your faith is very touching, boys."

  "We're all behind you, Grandfather," Thiswion agreed. "Pulling, not pushing, that is."

  Gwin joine
d in, eyes twinkling. "Will you men stop that? I can just see myself as empress in a long gown of purple silk, absolutely smothered in jewels, and unbelievably decadent."

  Then everyone:

  "Me too!"

  "And we'd all have to be royal dukes!"

  "At least!"

  "How about Brankion as Heir Apparent?"

  It was nice to be able to count on one's family's support.

  Still strolling along in the lead, Tibal Frainith made a strangled noise and stumbled. Zanion caught him by one arm, and then Bulion by the other. His knees buckled. His head went back, his eyes rolled.

  "He's fainted!" Wosion shouted. "Lay him down—"

  "No!" Gwin shouted. "Keep him moving! Pick him up and run!"

  Her tone of authority cracked like a whip, permitting no questions. Spurred to action, the two men began to haul the dazed Shoolscath along the cloister as fast as they could. The others followed, with Wosion limping frantically in the rear. When they flagged, Gwin shouted, "Faster!" Bulion stumbled; Thiswion edged him aside and took his place.

  "That's far enough!" Gwin said from the rear.

  Sure enough, Tibal's eyes had begun to focus. His supporters continued to prop him up, but his legs moved. He was unsteady, confused.

  "What the fates is the matter?" Bulion barked.

  Tibal mumbled, drooling and twitching.

  Bulion turned to Gwin and was shocked to see her pallor. "Love? What's happening?"

  She shook her head and moved close, putting an arm around him. She was trembling. "I think we must keep walking."

  "Well, you seem to know." Bulion saw his own puzzled worry reflected in the others' faces. "Tibal? You all right?"

  "Mm? What happ... happened?"

  "We don't know. You just dropped. Gwin?"

  "I don't know either."

  "Then how did... Never mind." Bulion sensed another of the Cursed mysteries. If he could ever get his wife back safely to the valley, he was going to keep every Cursed in Kuolia a week's journey away from her in future.

  "Sorry," Tibal mumbled. He tried to wipe his chin on his shoulder, then pulled his arm free from Thiswion and removed the spittle with the back of his hand. "Own stupid fault. Keep walking." He was still unsteady, but recovering quickly.

  "I know!" Gwin said. "You changed the future!"

  He nodded, not looking around. "Be all right in a moment."

  Wosion had caught up with them and heard some of that. "He said we needn't hurry!"

  "That's right!" Tibal detached himself from Zanion's grip. "Ought'o know better by now. We come along here and then have to go back." He looked sheepishly around at all the worried faces. "I tried to save a little effort, but I should know better. You put things back to rights. I'm on course again. Thanks."

  Back in the valley, he had said that small changes could snowball into great ones. But how could merely walking along a corridor and back again alter one's whole life?

  "It was Gwin!" Wosion said. "Wasn't it?"

  No one answered.

  Bulion certainly thought it had been his wife's voice barking those orders, but he looked down at her horrified face and decided not to ask questions. "Of course it was," he said. "Well done, love."

  She clung to him, saying nothing.

  They were almost at the end of the courtyard. Another corridor led off to the side, out of sight.

  "Just about here," Tibal said, sounding more his normal self.

  A shout came from the end they had left. "Frainith!"

  "There he is."

  They turned. A man was standing at the bottom of the steps from the entrance hall, staring after them.

  Tibal said, "Don't answer. Make him come to us."

  They stood.

  "Frainith! Bring them back here!" The voice was high-pitched, echoing spookily along the colonnade.

  "They want to clean up!" Tibal yelled back.

  "You're taking them the wrong way!"

  Tibal smirked for his companions' benefit. "No," he shouted. "I know the way."

  With a faint snarling sound, the newcomer began to walk. He came slowly. Taking their cue from the Shoolscath, the others stood their ground and waited for him.

  As he approached, Bulion was surprised to see that he was only a boy. His face was deeply tanned, unless that was its normal color, and his hair was the same light brown shade. They were set off by the bright green-blue of his crafted tunic. He was even more grandly dressed than the flunky they had met in the hall, a princeling left over from the great days of the empire. His slitted sleeves trailed almost to the paving and the hem flared out high on his thighs, but the cloth fitted snugly over his chest and a youth's hollow belly. From the buckles of his soft boots to his glittering collar, he wore a fortune in gold and jewels.

  He had an odd stoop. He seemed to be limping on both feet.

  Tibal watched his slow approach with a sneer. The others exchanged puzzled glances.

  The juvenile grandee stopped when he was just close enough for normal speech. "You are taking them the wrong way!"

  "I know that," Tibal said amiably. "But it fetched you out of the cesspool, you nasty little turd."

  The boy glared. "Mind your manners!"

  "Mind yours. Kneel before your betters! Bulion Saj, I haven't shown you our famous boiling mud pits yet. They are very famous and utterly disgusting. They stink and belch and fart foul gases all the time, like bowls of hot shit. They are much nicer than what you see before you now."

  The Tharns all jerked in astonishment.

  The boy colored, but Tibal had barely started.

  "This is Ching Chilith! Ching Chilith is the sort of muck you scrape off your boot with a shudder. Ching Chilith is the Voice of God in Raragash. Ching Chilith is officially Labranza Lamith's secretary, but in fact her Doer of Dirty Work, her Issuer of Orders, her Stabber in Backs. Ching Chilith is also her lap dog, her gigolo. He humps her to order and no decent woman would go near him. Did you notice the way Ching Chilith was walking, friends? Anyone else with his delicate injury would hurry down to the hospital and ask an Ivielscath to cure him. But Ching Chilith knows that no Ivielscath in Raragash would want to touch him, let alone try to ease his discomfort. And he doesn't want anyone to know what ails him. Ching Chilith is suffering from—"

  "Be quiet!" the boy screamed.

  "I don't want to be quiet," Tibal insisted, in the same acid tones. "I want to throw up because I have to look at you."

  "You will regret this, Frainith!"

  "Oh, you prophesy to a Shoolscath, do you? Well, I know that I have nothing to fear from you, you immature parasitic worm. You will observe, friends, that above all Ching Chilith is an abject coward!" Tibal lunged forward with his hand raised.

  The boy leaped backward and doubled over with a whimper of pain.

  "Fates, I feel ill," Tibal said, turning away. "I am ashamed to reveal that this human pus exists in Raragash. It—"

  "I think we understand your point of view," Bulion said harshly. He had never seen this side of the Shoolscath before. Gwin looked both shocked and bewildered. Such a diatribe would not normally carry conviction, but the victim's lack of reaction gave it weight. Anyone who tried to abuse a Tharn like that would have trouble beginning his second sentence.

  "Fortunately I don't have to stay near this stench of corruption," Tibal continued. "I am going to visit dear Labranza. I find her quite wholesome by comparison." He stalked off with his long strides.

  Ching bleated in alarm. "The president is not to be disturbed!"

  "Yes she is!" Tibal called over his shoulder, and kept going.

  The boy wiped his forehead, then made a belated effort to assert himself. "I am President Labranza Lamith's personal secretary, and she has asked me to make you welcome to the Hall."

  Bulion introduced himself, watching closely to see if his name provoked any reaction. It did not, so either Ching had not been informed of the spurious prophecies or he was well prepared. Then Gwin and the others...
r />   Ching nodded haughtily to each of them. His confidence was returning. "If you will follow me, I shall find someone to guide you to your quarters in the East Wing. The president regrets that pressure of business will not permit her to receive you today, but she hopes to make time for you tomorrow."

  "I can hardly wait," Bulion growled. Gwin frowned at him. Contempt for Ching Chilith was infectious.

  49

  Gwin was not surprised when East Wing proved to be reminiscent of the Phoenix Street Hostel. Standard imperial design had always included a central courtyard. The scale was much greater, three stories instead of two, and grander, with balconies and stairways of marble, not wood. There were pillars everywhere. The visitors were led to rooms on the top floor—cool, high-ceilinged, and spacious. It was accommodation fit for royalty.

  But...

  But her spine tingled. She did not need fatalist powers to feel uneasy in this place, only eyesight and the brains she had been born with.

  Bulion threw his hat on the great bed and then sat on the edge, puffing from the climb. He looked at her thoughtfully, scratching his beard. "I have a question."

  Of course he had, but there were two problems and one of them was a matter of life and death.

  "Yes, dear. And I want to talk it over—but not just yet."

  Far too taut to sit down, she crossed to the exterior windows and found only a spectacular view of the crater. She glanced briefly at the cracked frescos on the wall. She ran a finger along one of the four huge carved wood chests that were presumably intended to hold the guests' clothing—two saddlebags' worth. Then she paced back to the door, studying the slope of the finely polished oak floor. Out on the balcony again, she leaned gingerly on the balustrade and gazed down at the courtyard. It was large enough to serve as market square in a moderate town, mostly filled with a jungle riot of trees and tangled shrubbery. Here and there, forlorn statues protruded from it at odd angles, like bathers in high green surf. She noted a large fountain in the center, quite dry.

  A rock pile at the far side had once been a staircase and two balconies. No weeds grew on it yet, so it had fallen within the last few years. Some of the pillars were missing and many others had shifted on their bases. Sagging roofs and slanted walls were obvious. The place was a deathtrap!