The Cursed

by Dave Duncan

  It was Ching Chilith, of course. He had shed all his finery in favor a very simple smock and breeches, which made him look even younger than usual. Sixteen? He must be older than that! He was clutching a book in both hands. His manner was both timorous and furtive. He stopped, and then retreated a step from her, as if he dared not come too close.

  "Are you really?" he whispered.

  Instinctively Gwin lowered her voice also. "Really what?"

  "A Poulscath?"

  "I think so. Why?"

  He glanced around. The Tharns were openly staring. So were the guards. "Labranza will kill me!"

  "Not if I have anything to do with it!" Gwin said, madly portraying confidence. "You're feeling better, I take it?"

  He colored. "Oh yes, Saj! I am so grateful! That is why I came." He peered around again fearfully, as if on the verge of flight.

  "What's the book?"

  "This? Oh!" He laid it reverently on a table. "This is a miracle, Saj! I did not know this even existed. Labranza asked me to confirm the hand, and it is genuine! I don't know where she got it."

  "But what is it?"

  The boy's eyes widened. "It is the original charter of the Academy! Written by the Founder himself!" He opened it carefully. "And see here, Gwin Saj! Where she had a marker in?"

  Starting to feel excited at this manifestation of destiny, or whatever it was, Gwin squinted at the faint and crabby scrawl. She would need a week to make that out. It must be six hundred years old! Her mind boggled. "The light's not good enough. Tell me."

  "The authentic Rules of Procedure for the council!" Ching whispered, sounding completely awed.

  "It is not Death who sits in the seventh chair, is it?"

  "No, Saj! It is you! I mean it is the Poulscath! See, the book says... I don't suppose they realized, back then. They did not know how rare Poulscaths would be. The Founder wrote that all seven groups will elect a representative, and the Poulscath councillor is their natural lord. That's what it says—natural lord!"

  Gwin's heart was beating much faster than usual. Her ploy to pervert the president's secretary seemed to have succeeded beyond her wildest dreams. She could certainly discard the notion that Labranza might be his mother. "I can be a lord if I have to! Can you get me there?"

  Ching hesitated, fumbling in pocket. "I have a warrant... I forged her signature, Saj!"

  "Oh." That could be sticky!

  He stared plaintively at her, his boyish eyes very wide and innocent and worried. They were a strange color, like birch wood. "Will you protect me? Otherwise, she'll kill me, I know she will!"

  Screaming demons of conscience assaulted Gwin from all sides. This seemed like the solution she needed, but by taking it she might condemn her helper to ruin, if not actual death. She would leave Raragash, he would remain. "Voice? Is this my destiny? Do I go with him?"

  Of course, the Voice said. It sounded confident, but then it always did.

  "Do I return safely?"

  Of course.

  How infallible was this fatalist guidance? A destiny must be a very impersonal entity. It might not realize how easily it could be frustrated, or how vulnerable she was to foul play. Would it even care about that?

  "If I am president, then Labranza cannot be! So she won't be able to harm you. And I shall compel her not to, as I compelled her to convene the council."

  Ching gasped. "That was your doing?"

  "It was. Last night, just before the roof fell in and the walls fell down. She didn't exactly like it, you see."

  "I wondered why she had changed her mind."

  "Well, that's why! Now..." Gwin glanced over at the suspicious glares of the Tharns. They would not willingly let her go, and of course this might be a trap. Labranza could well have a hired knife waiting for her as soon as she was removed from her protectors. That would not be out of character.

  On the other hand...

  The other hand was empty. It was this or leave her bones in Raragash. Or both.

  "I swear I'll protect you, Ching Saj. I look after my friends. But let's get out of here quick, before my companions realize what we're doing."

  "Yes, Saj!" Ching said eagerly. He pulled out a paper. "This will get you to the council meeting. Please don't let Labranza get hold of it! I must put the book back before she realizes I have taken it."

  55

  Having peered suspiciously at Gwin's warrant for several minutes, the ostiary apparently decided it must be genuine and consented to heave on one of the great double doors. It creaked open just enough for her to step through, into the innermost sanctum. It boomed shut again, plunging her into near-darkness. For a moment she thought she had walked into a trap, a dungeon, or that there had been some mistake. The air was stale and sour, reeking of lamp oil. Details swam into focus. Lanterns hanging on golden chains from an invisible ceiling cast a vague light on the six faces that had turned to see who dared interrupt the council's deliberations.

  She knew this was the oldest part of the Hall, predating all the grandeur and imported marble; even so the chamber was surprisingly unimpressive, like a cellar, with dark basalt walls and floor. It was barely large enough for its single table and seven chairs. The table was triangular—unoccupied base toward her, three councilors along each side, an empty throne at the apex. No, not triangular, heart-shaped. The chamber itself was heart-shaped also, and the furniture as black as the stone. The Black Heart of Raragash... what perverted mind had conceived that grim humor?

  Seeing Labranza on her left, Gwin moved to the right. She strode swiftly around, passing between the chair backs and the inky blocks of the wall, heading toward that one vacant seat at the point of the heart. Throne or not, it was by far the largest of the chairs, and that alone was confirmation of what Ching had said. She was barely conscious of Tibal, sprawling back like a collection of tent poles, next to Labranza, big mouth twisted in a wry grin... of little Par a'Ciur looking so tiny beside him, but beaming as broadly.

  "Intruder!" Labranza barked. "How did you... Ostiary!"

  Gwin tried to push the big chair back from the table and discovered she had to use all her weight to budge it. Its feet scraped painfully on the stone. "I am here by right!" Her voice did not sound righteous. She forced it to a lower tone. "As the only Poulscath in the crater, I appoint myself to this seat on council."

  "Rubbish! Prove it!" Labranza opened her mouth again to yell for the ostiary.

  "The fact that this meeting is in session at all should be proof enough for you."

  The big woman scowled at the jab. "Irrelevant!"

  "Then let the council itself pronounce on accreditation matters." Gwin was projecting all the false confidence she could muster. Standing in front of the throne, she leaned both fists on smooth black wood of the table. She wished she had an outfit more suitable for the occasion than a threadbare smock and riding breeches. The best that could be said for them was that they were clean, whereas Labranza glittered with jewels and silver satin.

  A flash of triumph had come and gone on the president's face. "We have already voted on the matter, but I suppose we can give you a lesson in manners by voting again in front of you." Her mannish jaw tightened threateningly. "How did you get here, though?"

  "That will be the first item of business when all the representatives are seated. Tibal, do you vote for me?"

  "I'll handle the voting!" Labranza barked. "Councillor Tibal Frainith?"

  Beside her, Tibal winked at Gwin. "I vote, 'Aye' for Poulscath Tharn."

  "Councillor Par a'Ciur?"

  "Aye."

  "Councillor Ordur?"

  "Aye." Slouched at Gwin's immediate left, Ordur looked worried and also haggard from lack of sleep.

  Baslin predictably snapped, "Nay!"

  "Aye," said the next, before she was asked.

  This must be Ziberor, the Jaulscath, sitting directly across from the president. Gwin took a proper look at her for the first time. She was a tall woman, scrawny and ill-shaped, sitting stiffly erect. Her c
lose-cropped hair was dark, her robe undistinguished, her face saggy, lined, and blotchy. It was also strangely mobile, continuously twitching as if maggots moved under the skin. It flickered from one expression to another without pause or meaning. Jaulscaths reputedly went mad...

  The lanterns were swinging slowly on their chains. There was no draft to explain that.

  Into the silence, Labranza barked, "What?"

  Ziberor continued to study Gwin, leering, winking, pouting. "I took an oath not to act on anything I learned from our Shoolscath, Labby. But that does not stop me prying into your mind. I vote Aye, and you know I should."

  Gwin had forgotten that her thoughts were being read. A brief image of Bulion as he had appeared in bed that morning... then she put it from her mind. She had no guilty secrets and no time to worry about them if she did.

  Councillor Ziberor smirked and scowled at the same time.

  Baslin straightened in his chair and cleared his throat pompously. "I fear that your remark might itself be construed as a breach of confidentiality, Councillor, but under the circumstances, I believe I shall reverse my earlier—"

  "Shut up!" Labranza muttered. "Unnecessary. You are accepted, Tharn."

  Gwin sat down. Her knees were shaking. She did not try to pull her chair up to the table. The seventh seat... where Death sat.

  "Thank you, all of you. Now, under the Founder's rules, I understand that the Poulscath representative automatically presides over this council."

  Baslin said, "I do not recall reading that in the charter."

  "Confirm my interpretation, please, Ogoalscath," Gwin said.

  Had a skilled sculptor battered a granite boulder into a representation of Muol as Bringer of Hatred, it might have worn an expression much like Labranza did now. She closed her eyes a moment and grimaced, as if in pain. Then she glared again, and mumbled, "That is correct."

  Ordur said, "Fates!"

  Par a'Ciur clapped her little hands gleefully.

  Realization of what she had just achieved struck Gwin like a bucket of ice water. This was magic! This was the fatalist power of a Cursed! For the first time, she truly believed. With no weapon more potent than a steely stare, she had overthrown a tyrant and taken possession of Raragash. How long could she hold it?

  She rallied her wits to meet the massed stares. Only Tibal and the Muolscath were not showing surprise.

  "Thank you. Does anyone wish to raise objections? If not, then I assume the chairmanship of this meeting."

  Silence. Labranza's hands lay in full view on the table, clenching and unclenching as if of their own volition. Gwin longed for Bulion's stolid common sense and support beside her, but she would have to carry this off alone.

  "As to how I got here, Councillor Labranza Lamith—that is my business. I require your solemn undertaking that you will not seek reprisals against anyone who may have aided me."

  It was a fair bet that Labranza knew exactly who had aided her.

  "Traitors? You protect traitors?"

  "One man's traitor is another man's enlightened reformer. Your word on this?"

  "He who has betrayed one may betray another!"

  "My problem. Swear!"

  Labranza shuddered, but this time she did not struggle so hard against the compulsion. "I so swear."

  The tension seemed to fall away. Ordur yawned. Others settled back in their chairs. The preliminaries were over, so now they could get down to business. It might be a long session.

  And what did Gwin do now? Demand horses and passports through the opposing armies, back to the valley? Impossible! All the power of Raragash could not guarantee the Tharns safe journey home. Home itself might be a deathtrap if the Karpana came south.

  Ask for a situation report, said the Voice.

  "I think I knew that. Councillor Lamith, what news of the Karpana?"

  The big woman did not soften her stare of hatred, but she spoke readily. "They have devastated Nimbudia. They met the Rurkian army at Wirnimin and routed it. Then they turned back. As of my latest information, which is about two weeks old, they were moving southeast, apparently heading for Mokth."

  She was efficient. She was still dangerous.

  "We don't have a map here?" Gwin said. "Never mind. Assume for the moment that Raragash itself is their objective, how long until they arrive?"

  One or two of the others muttered unhappily, but Labranza had the answer ready. "Six or seven weeks. They are encumbered by their baggage train. They detach fighting bands to sack towns within a day's ride, but the main body moves slowly."

  "I see," Gwin muttered. Seven weeks at best, to raise an army that could defeat a greater foe than the Zarda who had felled the empire itself? A few months' experience running the Phoenix Street Hostel was not adequate training for this. "Can we hope to fortify Raragash?"

  Labranza snorted incredulously.

  "North Gate collapsed centuries ago," Baslin said. "Even if you rebuilt it, the gates were meant to keep people in, not out. This is a very large valley, not a fortress. There are many—"

  Labranza cut off his tuneless drone."The answer is, No!"

  That's settled! prompted the Voice. Now ask about potential allies.

  "What are the kings doing?"

  Labranza shrugged her heavy shoulder. "Squabbling, of course. They have mustered their troops, but that is all. Every one of them has written to all the others, demanding their support and fealty. Every one of them wants to be supreme war lord. None is willing to be subordinate."

  "We must find a leader they can all accept."

  "Your husband, I suppose?"

  Gwin laughed. "Fates, no!" She noted the surprised reaction on the six faces—four faces, for Ziberor's restless features conveyed nothing meaningful and Tibal was never surprised. "Bulion is a farmer, not a soldier. Well, let's leave the leader for now and identify the force he will lead. Review the possibilities, please, Councillor Lamith."

  Labranza paused a moment, either gathering or thoughts or appraising Gwin. "There are only three—Nurz, Mokth, and Wesnar."

  "Nonsense!" Baslin objected, scratching at his stubble.

  "Fact. Nimbudia no longer exists. Whether or not Rurk can field another army to replace the one it lost, it is out of reach, on the wrong side of the enemy. Esran and Da Lam are of no consequence. Pagaid and Pirain are too far away to get to us in time, and so are all the western kingdoms. Hamdish has a tradition of garrisoning its walled cities and has always refused to send troops beyond its own borders." The big woman faced down Baslin and then stared arrogantly at Gwin again.

  Gwin was impressed. If Labranza had refused to consider letting Raragash be involved in the war, it had not been for lack of information and thought. Perhaps she had reached the correct conclusion. "That all seems logical enough. What of the three?"

  "The kings or their armies?"

  "Both."

  "Quilm Urnith is a peaceable man. He has ruled Mokth for eighteen years, avoiding warfare whenever possible. Wesnar cut off his sea link by destroying Tolamin, so he has reluctantly raised an army. He must be very worried now, with Wesnar on one side of him and the Karpana on the other."

  "He may be amenable to reason?"

  "More amenable than the others, at least. The Mokthians retain many of the Qolian ways. They might even support an effort to restore the empire—assuming they can lead it, of course."

  "Of course," Gwin agreed. Had that remark been a sly dig, or was it a sign that Labranza was trying to cooperate? "How many men do they have?"

  "Ten or twelve thousand."

  "And Wesnar?"

  "About the same, but the Wesnarians are Zarda, and more warlike. The Faceless alone would be a match for any of the other kingdoms."

  "And their king is Hexzion Garab."

  "The notorious Hexzion Garab," said Par a'Ciur.

  "A human slug, a leech," Labranza agreed. "Hexzion is a stumbling block. No one will trust him or cooperate with him."

  From the stories she had heard, Gwin wo
uld not argue with that. "And Nurz?"

  Labranza considered for a moment, drumming fingers on the black tabletop. "The Nurzians were never Qolian. They were reluctant participants in the empire. Since the fall, they have restored their distinctive culture to a surprising degree. Their army is larger—fifteen or even twenty thousand men—and Nurzian archers were always feared. The problem is the king, Wung Tan. He's dying. Our healers can do nothing except ease his pain. His son is still a child, his daughters' husbands are ambitious. Nurz is ready to erupt in civil war whether the Karpana stand on the doorstep or not."

  Gwin waited for the Voice to comment. When it did not, she said, "So we might hope to field forty or fifty thousand men at best. How many are the Karpana?"

  "About a million."

  "No!"

  Labranza sneered at her shocked reaction. "Close. That includes women and children. Perhaps a fifth would be fighting men."

  Even at best, then, the odds would be about five to one.

  "Who is their leader?"

  "A council of chiefs."

  "Then we have something they don't!"

  Baslin scratched his stubbly chin. "What's that?"

  "A Poulscath!" Gwin said, wondering if anyone had less confidence in her than she did. "Labranza, Saj, I congratulate you on your grasp of the situation."

  "Do you find it complex? It's really quite simple."

  Bitch! "Then let's go on to the complex part. None of the kings is a suitable generalissimo. If we must choose a soldier of lesser rank, whom do we pick?"

  Baslin and Ordur spoke the name together as Gwin's Voice told her: Frenzkion Zorg.

  "What! Why?" She recalled that grim apparition with a shudder. She had thought of him as a brute killer, not a strategist.

  "He is Dreadlord of the Faceless," Labranza said.

  "I know that. I've met him. Why choose him, though?"

  "He is Dreadlord of the Faceless," Labranza repeated. "That is enough. If anyone could make a fight of it, it would be Zorg."