by Dave Duncan
Voices distracted her. Jukion and Ulpion came along the balcony, looking awed by their surroundings.
"There you are!" Zanion emerged from the next door. He smiled cursorily at them, then at Gwin, as if he had something on his mind.
"Come in here a minute, all of you," she said. She led the way back into the room. "Would you mind rising a moment, Your Imperial Majesty?"
"Off with your head!" Bulion rumbled, but he stood up. "What's on your mind?"
"I see no point in marrying into a family with so much muscle if I can't put it to use once in a while. Would you strapping lads mind pulling this bed over here for me? No! Pull, don't push."
The bed screeched and dug its claws into the boards, but it did not have a chance against massed Tharns. It moved.
"There!" Gwin said with satisfaction. "Dust! And footprints? How odd to see those under a bed! What short people they must have here."
Nobody looked in the slightest bit surprised, which was annoying.
"Conclusion?" Zanion asked. "These rooms were empty until—"
"Until this morning, I expect."
Bulion smiled knowingly. He wasn't stupid; he had seen what she had seen and let her do the worrying. "Tibal Frainith said he had something important to tell us."
"He mentioned earthquakes at least three times."
"But if he foresees us dying in an earthquake, he can't warn us away without changing the future."
"No." She had worked this out earlier, and she thought Bulion had, too. "But by seeming to warn us, he shows us he's on our side. I think I'd have come to the same conclusion anyway."
Wosion was standing in the doorway. "I know I did, and I didn't hear what he said."
"Excuse me," Jukion said. "I think I'll take a walk, a long walk."
Bulion sat down on the bed again. "This building has been here for hundreds of years and we shall be gone in a few days."
"I shall be gone in minutes!" Gwin snapped. Her nerves were taut as fiddle strings. "Have you forgotten that Labranza is an Ogoalscath? She doesn't need an earthquake. She can bring this heap down just by pulling faces at it."
She waited anxiously for his decision. He was a proud, stubborn man of the soil, not inclined to run from shadows. He rubbed his beard morosely. "They said there would be food in a minute. I'm hungry."
"Let's take what we want and go down to the courtyard. There's an open space in the middle. I'll feel much safer eating there."
"And sleep there tonight too?"
"Yes!"
Bulion frowned.
"The servants will gossip," Wosion suggested. "Which may or may not upset our hostess, but where fatalist phenomena are concerned, Father, I trust my dear step-mother's judgement."
Gwin smiled gratefully. As Carp had told her long ago, the surly little pastor should not be judged on his appearance. She had come to like him; he seemed to approve of her now.
Bulion shrugged as if admitting he was beaten, although he had not actually argued at all. "Oh, very well! We'll camp out in the courtyard. Don't blame me if it rains. Off with you all." He rose to his feet.
As the men trooped out, he looked inquiringly at Gwin. They stood and faced each other in silence until the room was empty. Now for the other problem. Did she still have a marriage? He was being stern and patriarchal.
"Tibal?" She walked over to the window, unable to keep still for a moment. "You want to talk about Tibal. I don't know much more than you do." Voice! Help me! Advise me! No reply.
"Why did you say to keep him moving? How did you know?"
The moment of truth: "I didn't. That wasn't me speaking. That was the Voice. I didn't say a word."
She turned to see his reaction. Could he believe her? If he did, would he reject her? He would be within his rights, and it would be the wisest course for him by far. No one needed the sort of trouble she represented now. He could and should abandon her here at Raragash, just as Niad and the others were to be abandoned, and he should return to the valley. The crater would have a new colony of Cursed, a colony of one Poulscath with a village all to herself. Oh, Bulion! If Gwin had learned anything in the last year, it was that solitude did not work, at least not for her. Half a couple was much more than one. Bulion!
He was nodding noncommittally. "I suspected that. It sounded like you, yet not quite like you, somehow."
Relief! Hope! At least he did not think she was crazy, although that might be the best way out of this. "Jukion heard it once."
"And we all heard it today." A slow smile twisted its way out of his beard. "So you're Cursed? Doesn't mean you're not loved." He held out his arms for her.
She rushed to him. "You don't mind?"
He squeezed her breathless. "Mind? Of course I mind! How would you feel if the person you loved best in the world discovered she was Cursed? But it could be worse, much worse! Whatever ails you, Nien, it isn't as bad as any of the others, is it? You're not going around making people ill, or knocking down this ruin, or—"
"Or turning into a man." She kissed him before he could laugh. But being a Poulscath might be worse than those things, there was just no way of telling yet.
They paused for breath. She asked the question. "By imperial law, our marriage is now dissolved, so do—"
Bulion made an unusually vulgar suggestion about imperial law.
"And by Zarda law, too, Wosion says."
"Then he's wrong! When one partner was Cursed, the other had the right to terminate the marriage. It didn't happen automatically. It won't happen at all in our case. I won't let you escape, so it doesn't matter."
Rain in the desert! Again Bulion Tharn had passed the test. With him at her side, she could handle anything the fates might send.
"And the Cursed can still bear children." His eyes gleamed with humor, but she knew what Bulion Tharn wanted more than anything else in the world now was to sire another child. If the fates offered him one last wish before he died, that would be it—a son by preference, but any other sex would suffice. Empires he could do without.
She gasped and laughed at the same time. "I'm entitled to at least another eight months! I'm always willing to keep trying—but not in here! You're more likely to bring the building down than Labranza is."
50
Labranza Lamith had never murdered anyone. She had caused people to die, but never deliberately, and the same must be true of anyone who had exercised significant authority for any length of time—kings or officers. Knowing the risks involved, she had sent out emissaries who had failed to return; she had provided fatalist guidance to men like Hexzion Garab, who relied on it to massacre his opponents in vile ways; she had put the healing powers of the Ivielscaths to use in saving the lives of men who had thereafter committed notable atrocities. One could argue that some of the guilt for such deaths should be credited to the account of Labranza Lamith, but that was not the same as deliberate killing. Undoubtedly a few people had perished in unexpected side-effects when she had exercised her own fatalist influence, but that was true of any Ogoalscath. Even the most skillful could never shut off their influence completely. She had not asked to be Cursed. She had never deliberately murdered anyone.
She did not think she was going to start now.
So what was she doing wandering alone in the middle of the night?
Poul had long since set. The thin crescent of Awail and the tiny lamp of Ogoal had followed soon after, slipping behind the dark wall of the crater. Now the stars paid court to Muol and Jaul and Shool, and the world slept. Only the bats piped their eldritch cries.
Tossing and turning, abed alone in her earthquake-proof house, she had found herself quite unable to sleep. That was a problem other people had, not Labranza Lamith. Maybe once a year she would have trouble sleeping. When she did, she usually sent for Ching, but Ching was not fit for that sort of service at the moment. She could almost regret that, although he had needed the lesson.
She had risen and dressed, and come out to pace the starlit grounds of the Acade
my. As long as she stayed out of the trees she could see well enough. Her Ogoalscath influence would keep her out of trouble—probably. It might get her into trouble, too, but she had long ago learned to live with that reality. More than any others of the Cursed, Ogoalscaths learned to be fatalists.
The night was warm and still, but it held no answers.
Too many waves buffeted her. That foolish argument with Tibal Frainith, for example. He had demanded that she call the council into session, but he had refused to say why, except to point out obvious things like the war, which was nothing to do with the Academy. He had very nearly accused her of trying to murder the Tharns by billeting them in the East Wing—without telling her whether anything tragic would happen, of course. Shoolscaths were impossible. You simply could not reach any sane conclusions about their actions. They did not do things for logical reasons. They were quite capable of behaving against their own interests, simply because that was what they had to do, go through the motions. Frainith had lost the argument and been thrown out on his ear, and for all she knew that might have been exactly what he wanted to happen.
Too many waves. The news was bad: The Karpana had turned south. Most likely they had realized that the richest pickings lay in western Kuolia, so that Rurk would be a dead end for them. Their quickest road to fortune was through Mokth and Nurz and Hamdish. They would rumble by like a landslide, as the Zarda had done a century ago, leaving empty lands for later generations to settle. New kingdoms would arise, green shoots after a fire.
She had decided not to worry about the Karpana. If they chose to attack Raragash, then there was absolutely nothing she or anyone else could do about it. If it happened, it happened. She and the Academy would cease to exist. One could not live worrying about death all the time.
Ignoring the Karpana, therefore, she must consider what to do about Bulion Tharn, the Renewer. She had a duty to defend and protect the Academy. A new empire would seriously restrict its independence or even threaten its existence. Bulion Tharn represented a danger. Just because his destiny as the Renewer had been foretold did not mean that it was inevitable. Those who foresaw the future knew it could be changed. The fates had delivered him into her hands, so she would be foolish to ignore the opportunity.
That must be why she had installed him and his followers in the rickety East Wing.
All she was doing was challenging the fates: Here he is—do you want him? Raragash experienced minor tremors every few months. Most lifetimes would witness a major quake or two, and the next big one would convert the East Wing into a gravel pit. Even a bad storm might. If nothing untoward happened, she could always delay his departure for five or ten years, until he was too old to know an empire from an impasse. Farther than that, she did not intend to go.
So why was she so restless tonight?
Temptation?
There could be no harm in just taking a stroll. Her feet had brought her past the East Wing without her conscious bidding, but somehow that was not surprising. Its dark bulk loomed against the sky, a whole sector of stars missing. Between it and her lay a stretch of open grass, but she was not going to go any closer. She did not think she would bring down the roof without deliberate effort, although she had never dared enter the East Wing since the last quake had rendered it unsafe. She did think that she could collapse it if she really tried. She was not going to try.
If she did, she would be found out. Her duties required her to meet with Jaulscaths—not often, but sometimes. When a royal ally wanted a Jaulscath advisor, then someone had to appoint one. Usually she could conduct such business through Ziberor, who was discreet and also a staunch ally, since she knew the purity of Labranza's motives and her dedication to the welfare of the Academy. Of course the president of the council had to make unpleasant decisions at times. Ziberor understood that and kept whatever she might learn of Labranza's secrets to herself, but even Ziberor would not suppress deliberate murder. Inevitably, anyone who knowingly met a Jaulscath began to think of the things she did not want to think about. So Labranza must not commit a deliberate act.
If the fates sent a real earthquake that shook the whole crater, then that would not be her fault. She certainly could not raise that kind of power.
If she had a very good excuse to be close to the wing and then a very good excuse to use influence for some other purpose... No, Ziberor would see through that. If Labranza lost her temper then? Anything might happen if an Ogoalscath lost her temper. But why should she lose her temper so conveniently? No, it just would not work.
Murder was out.
No lights showed in the East Wing. The Tharns would have turned in at sundown like any other bunch of dull farmers. Labranza Lamith ought to go home to bed, although she had never felt less like sleep in her life.
A faint sound disturbed the stillness. At first it was too faint to identify, just a vague familiarity—then a sense of wrongness, and at last the recognizable beat of hooves. Coming this way? Who could have business here at this hour? Urgent news would be signaled by flag in the morning. There were no criminals in Raragash because the Jaulscaths rooted them out. Even if there were, they would shun the Academy itself.
In a few minutes, three riders emerged from the trees at a slow trot, heading for the entrance to the East Wing. Who had come to plot with Bulion Tharn at this time of night? There could be no other reason for anyone to approach the Hall from this side. There could be no one to plot against except the president of the council. How dare they?
Fools! They must think themselves safe enough. There was not a chance in a million that the president of the council herself would be wandering the grounds alone, without a lantern, and would see them arrive. There was not a chance in ten million that the president of the council would be able to follow them in and actually approach, undetected, close enough to hear what was to be said.
When the president of the council was an Ogoalscath, any odds were possible. Labranza Lamith waited until the intruders had dismounted and gone inside, and then she hurried across the grass in pursuit.
51
The courtyard must have been very beautiful in its days of glory. A century of neglect had turned the lawns and flower beds into jungle—a jungle traversed by tunnel-like paved paths and inhabited by carved stone people. The centerpiece had been a circular pool, where water fountained from three bronze dolphins. Now it was dry, a circular pit as wide as a Zarda house, carpeted by mossy humus. The three dolphins had become two dolphins and some spare parts.
Gwin insisted this would be a comfortable enough refuge until the rainy season arrived. The moss would make good bedding.
Bulion inquired about the spiders, scorpions, and centipedes.
Well, apart from those, she said.
And when the earthquake came? asked young Thiswion.
Buildings did not fall over, she explained, they just fell down. The courtyard was large enough that the debris would not reach the center. She told of her grandmother, who had escaped unhurt in the great quake of 62, although she had been standing in the street between two collapsing houses. The worst to expect, here in the center, was a shower of bouncing tile fragments, and the trees would stop most of that. Jukion tried wrestling bronze dolphins. They both seemed quite firm.
After the meal, as the sun drew close to setting, Gwin explained that she had been Cursed, that this must be kept a secret, that she did not yet know what a Poulscath could do, or did do. Jukion, Ulpion, and Thiswion looked for guidance to Zanion who had brains, to their pastor who was supposed to understand such matters, and to the Old Man himself who made decisions. When none of them seemed unduly concerned, the youngsters just shrugged awkwardly and said they were sorry to hear the news. Obviously they thought of her as one of the family now, one of themselves. Families hung together when there was trouble. Gwin almost choked on the lump in her throat.
Bulion warned them that there would be an important meeting around midnight, which they were welcome to attend. Ulpion told Thiswion he could
stay up late like the grown-ups then, provoking a friendly tussle. When darkness fell, Jukion gathered up deadfall and lit a fire in the middle of the pit. However warm a night might be, a fire made it more friendly. By its light, the Tharns talked of the journey now completed and what would be happening back at the valley. Sparks sailed up to join the stars. No one mentioned the long road home. No one mentioned Polion.
One of the liveried servants came and expressed concern that the honored guests were not occupying the rooms assigned to them. Bulion asked if this was where visitors were usually billeted. The flunky became evasive. Bulion dismissed him. It was not his fault.
Tibal Frainith arrived, bending almost double in the tunnels that the undergrowth had made of the paved paths. He seemed glum, which was a very bad sign, and he had no conversation. He looked blank when Gwin asked about his meeting with Labranza—that had been hours ago and he had forgotten it. He could not speak of the past and she dared not ask him about the future. Mostly he just sat and stared wistfully at her, saying nothing.
Eventually he brightened and turned his attention to another of the canopied pathways. A few minutes after that, Ordur's blond hair showed in the flickering firelight as he came stooping along it.
He straightened and looked around angrily. "This is not my idea of hospitality, Bulion Saj!"
"Nor mine. But it seems preferable to what was offered."
Two more people emerged from the undergrowth and were introduced.
Par a'Ciur was a tiny, frail-seeming, silver-haired woman, who bore herself with authority. Her eyes were quick; her manner gracious but determined. She was Ivielscath councillor and also director of the Raragash hospital. She thanked the Tharns for bringing Niad and Mandasil to the sanctuary, reporting that both were settling in well. Gwin took an instant liking to her.
Baslin Diblichith was square and thick, assembled from blocks. He seemed substantial even in the presence of Tharns, more solid than any of them. He moved without grace or spring; his eyes bore the Muolscath emptiness they had seen on Wraxal Raddaith. He looked to be around forty-five, but Gwin suspected that he could be either much older or much younger. Both his face and his scalp were coated with gray-patched stubble, as if he shaved his entire head periodically and did not care what it looked like the rest of the time. He nodded curtly when the visitors were presented, showing faint interest in Gwin and none in any of the others.