by Dave Duncan
Merriment flashed in Ordur's blue eyes. "Ah, well! We Awailscaths learn to take life as it comes. No use having a body like this one and not having some fun with it."
Everyone laughed, even Bulion, who disapproved of promiscuity. Only Baslin retained his normal fishy stare. Humor was not his forte.
"Tibal?"
Tibal groaned and said, "I come," without looking up.
The listeners twitched nervously.
Without thinking, Gwin said, "What's wrong?"
Tibal shot her a frightened look. "Gwin!"
"Sorry! Cancel the question! If that's what you foresee, then that's what you foresee. Don't worry about it."
She was going to worry about it, though. So were the others. The last time she had seen Tibal so morose had been the night Polion was abducted.
"I am sure you will be safe enough," Ching Chilith said. "You will have an armed escort from Nurz and a safe conduct from Wesnar."
Bulion said, "Humph! How can we trust anything that Hexzion man says?"
Ordur frowned. "Good question! Let me see this passport."
Ching shuffled papers and frowned in annoyance. "I don't seem to have brought it, councillor. It states quite clearly his border guards will let you pass. Where Wesnar patrols, no brigand preys, I assure you."
Gwin glanced at Bulion, at Ordur, and finally at Tibal's studied despondency. These three were the smartest men in the room. None of them seemed cheery at the prospect.
"Yes, but Hexzion himself is worse than any brigand." She ought not to trust the Wesnarian king at any time, and she had sent assassins to murder him—if they were caught and identified as her agents, then it would not need a Hexzion Garab to rip up the safe conduct. "Perhaps we ought to take the time to go north of Big Mud."
"That would require weeks, Saj!" Ching smiled smoothly. "I took the liberty of including a bribe in my request."
Gwin knew that Ching interpreted his responsibilities very widely. "What sort of bribe?"
"I said that the Academy would provide the services of a Muolscath as he has been requesting, and would waive all fee for the next five years. I realize that I exceeded my authority, Madam President, but it seems a small price to pay for the king's friendship at such a time."
"You're right, I suppose, but I prefer to have such decisions made by the council or by myself." Gwin turned to Bulion. "What do you think?"
He shrugged. "Sounds better. But no charge at all seems absurdly generous."
"I am sure it will be all right," Ching insisted. "As long as you display the blue flags, so his guards will know you."
"Voice?" Gwin thought. "What do you think?"
Go ahead, the Voice said. Everything will work out fine.
62
As the sun slid behind the silhouetted Giants, the warrior took up his shield and spear and rose effortlessly to his feet. It was time to go.
Hitham Kinith looked up at him with despair. "You're crazy!"
"I'll take that as a compliment," Vaslar said, "and let you live." He was not entirely joking. He was sick of his Ogoalscath companion, a civilian—what warriors referred to among themselves as a part-man. A week of his company was enough to inspire a real man to murder.
"One more day! Let's try one more day!"
"We've wasted too much time already. I advise you to head out now and keep going till you drop."
For four days they had bivouacked in this mangy patch of scrub, as near as they dared... as near as was wise... to the Wesnar army. By night they had crept closer to the camp. Every waking hour, Hitham had exerted his Ogoalscath influence to bring them good fortune. His efforts had produced no results whatsoever. By rights, Hexzion Garab should have ridden by in his chariot, giving Vaslar an easy spear shot, but that had not happened. Nothing at all had happened, not even a duck stopping off to lay an egg for them. As a molder of unlikely events, Hitham Kinith was a complete washout.
"You'll never get into the camp," he protested. "They'll kill you!"
Vaslar stretched out his spear at arm's length so the point was just before his companion's eyes. Despite the weight of the shaft, he held it steady as a bough on an oak. He liked that. "That does not matter! Don't you understand yet?"
Hitham leaned away cautiously. "Yes, I understand. You're not you, you're a warrior."
"And compared to me, you are nothing! Correct?"
"If you say so... Yes, that's correct."
To be honest, Hitham had the makings of a man. On the journey, he had kept up with Vaslar stride for stride until he dropped from exhaustion. He had not complained at the heat by day or the cold by night. By ordinary standards, he was remarkable. He was just not a warrior, so he didn't count.
Vaslar shouldered his spear and walked off into the twilight without another word. As soon as he was clear of the brush, he began to lope.
#
Ten minutes brought him within sight of the Wesnar camp. There were more lights than he had expected, more activity. It looked as if the army might be preparing to move out at first light.
A gibbous moon hung low over the ghostly peaks of the Giants and stars shone in a sky of absolute blackness, absolute transparency. The icy wind bit at his bare skin, threatening to freeze his ears and toes. He reveled in the discomfort. He was no longer Vaslar Nomith, he was Fearmaster Zilion. His body was incredibly tough and powerful. As a sergeant in the Dalingian guard, he had prided himself on his fitness, but he had been a sponge compared to this fighting machine he inhabited now. There was nothing it could not do. He could not tire it. He kept wondering how it would perform with a woman.
Dry summer grass crunched beneath his bare feet. The wood-and-leather shield dragged on his left arm, the pole of his spear was heavy in his hand, his sword thumped against his thigh. As a last resort, in case he was disarmed before being allowed close to the king, he had concealed a small knife and a sinew strangling cord under his deerskin kilt, but they would be very unsatisfactory means of accomplishing his mission. The blade of the spear was a steel leaf as large as a man's hand and sharp as a razor. He longed to slide it into Hexzion Garab's belly. Then twist it a few times.
The warrior mind was even more splendid than the body. The nip of rocks against the horny soles of his feet, the pain of the cold in his ears and fingers—he welcomed them as proof of his endurance. He wanted to kill Hexzion tonight and then go down fighting. He had never known true blood lust before. He found it intoxicating.
Was he doing this to avenge his brothers, or because Gwin Tharn had asked him to? Neither. He was doing it because he wanted to. Kings were the finest game of all.
The sentries on the gate were in sight now. They would be the first test. After them, there would be guards around the king's compound and perhaps even more inside it. He would bluff his way in or fight his way in. Getting out again afterward was another problem altogether, probably an impossible one.
He had Zilion's mind but not his knowledge and memories. He would have to rely on his appearance and a few scraps of information he had gained while guarding a couple of prisoners taken at Tolamin. He had heard them talking in their cell. He had also assisted at their subsequent interrogation, a long, gruesome, and ultimately fruitless exercise. He could recall some of their talk—"part-man," for example. "Big Fish" had been their name for Hexzion Garab, and all Faceless had been "brothers" or "real-men".
The guards were ordinary soldiers, part-men. They would not question a brother. The worst thing that might go wrong on the way into the camp would be running into the real Fearmaster Zilion. He would not likely recognize himself from the outside, but if he had brothers with him they might wonder at seeing two of him. Zilion's superiors were another danger, especially if the genuine version was supposed to be off burning and looting somewhere. No use worrying about it. Telling one Faceless from another was hard enough in daylight.
The guards at the gate were watching his approach, but making no move. He waited for a challenge. None came. Spears thumped against shield
s in salute. Vaslar-Zilion marched through the gate unquestioned. It was inconceivable, of course, that any part-man would mutilate himself to impersonate one of the Faceless.
The intruder continued along a dusty, uneven track, flanked by tents on either side. Yes, too much noise, too much bustle. The army was about to move, so he had been right to wait no longer. He turned at the first corner he came to, and began a reconnaissance of the camp.
Soon he saw a group of Faceless approaching, the standard squad of six killers and a monster. The leader jerked his spear upward in salute and Vaslar returned the same gesture. Apparently that was satisfactory, because they continued on their way. He wondered what he should do if he met a superior officer—a deathleader, or even the dreadlord himself. A few minutes later, two part-men gave him the spear-jerk salute and he decided that full shield-banging must be reserved for formal occasions.
In the event, he did not have to find out. He circled right around the camp without meeting any Faceless senior to himself. Apart from confirming his belief that the army was about to strike camp, he had achieved nothing. He headed for the center, the royal pavilion. Warriors stood along the perimeter of the compound like posts, one every three or four paces, but they were only for show. They paid him no head as he marched along before them, looking for the entrance.
There were lights burning in the royal tents. At this time of night, he had expected everyone to be asleep, including the king. If there was a conference of some sort going on, then his chances of success shrank from slim to hopeless. He should have brought the Ogoalscath with him.
The gate was not hard to find. A thicket of tall torches blazed there to shed light on visitors. The guards were Faceless, half a dozen of them. Happily savoring the thump of his heart and the thrill of death, Vaslar marched up to them. A warrior stepped forward to challenge. He had no spear, but the three-skull emblem on his shield proclaiming that he, too, was a fearmaster.
"Password?"
"Fearmaster Zilion, just come in off patrol. I have urgent news for Big Fish."
The skull face could not change expression, but the voice hardened. "The password!"
"I don't know it, I told you."
"Report to your deathleader."
"I can't find him and this is urgent!"
The genuine fearmaster studied him for a moment. "See Deathleader Guzion, then."
"I can't find him either!"
Surprisingly, the warrior chuckled. "Brother, you know what box I'm for if I slide you without the cry?"
Vaslar was fairly certain he was a dead man now, but he was enjoying the contest. "I can't imagine what they'll do to you if you stop me telling my news to Big Fish right away."
"Mm." The man tapped a foot on the grass. "You shade me, brother, say my sixers will shuck you."
Fates! What was the apt response to that gibberish?
"Goes for me too, brother."
"Cook yours. Deathly, then, drop your irons and I'll take you in."
Vaslar laid down his spear and shield, unbuckled his sword, added it to the collection. He could feel the knife at his crotch. He could feel the power in his arms. If he came within reach of Hexzion Garab, he would complete his mission even yet.
He strode at the warrior's side across the grass toward the pavilion. Neither spoke. The lights indicated that the king must be still awake, and probably Vaslar would not have been allowed this far had it been otherwise.
The entrance was shadowed, and a voice spoke from it. "State your name and business."
Vaslar's companion stopped. "Fearmaster Ambozion bringing in a spy."
"Wait there."
Vaslar unclenched his fists and forced himself to breath slowly. "What sort of a game is this? You know me, Ambozion."
The resulting chuckle sounded almost friendly. "I know Zilion. Zilion's not the smartest around, but he usually recognizes his own deathleader's name. He would die before he laid his spear on the ground. You want all the rest?"
Vaslar did not answer. From where he stood he could see half a hundred bare backs, half a hundred spears. The ornamental warriors surrounding the compound seemed a much more impressive barrier now than they had from the outside. There was no escape. Ambozion had not even bothered to draw his sword.
Failure! Death was nothing much—even cowards died—but failure was a taste of ashes in this mouth.
"Bring in the spy," said another voice from the shadows.
The room was square, lit by lanterns hanging from the roof poles. The evenly flattened grass of the floor showed that rugs had lain there and been recently taken up. The only furniture was a table and chair. There was a map on the table.
The man in the chair wore a kilt of leopard skin. His face was a skull. He stared hard at the newcomers. Then he flowed to his feet and crossed to them in two easy strides. He reached up and tilted a lamp so that more light fell on Vaslar's face.
Vaslar endured the inspection. Hexzion must be in one of the inner rooms. The problem now was not the fearmaster with the sword. The problem was to get past Dreadlord Zorg. Vaslar knew how fast he was.
"Amazing!" Zorg said. He released the lamp. He was slightly taller than Zilion. He had a weeping infection in his right eye.
"He marched right up to the gate and demanded to see King Hexzion Garab, Saj," Ambozion said. "An assassin, likely."
"Very likely. Well done, fearmaster. Dismissed."
Ambozion slapped his hand on his chest and departed.
Zorg went back to his chair. "You planned to kill King Hexzion?"
"Not at all. I have an urgent message for him, dreadlord."
"How do you know me?"
"I... You were pointed out to me at Tolamin."
"And you recognize me after seeing me once, at a distance, almost a year ago? Me? I have twenty-four hundred identical brothers. How did you manage the disguise? Your face is not tattooed, just bleached somehow. You are an Awailscath, I presume?"
Vaslar thought for a while. Then he said, "Yes."
"Were you in the Tharn party? Of course, that's how you know me. The woman who threw a tantrum, maybe? And you saw Zilion. That's how you duplicated him? I didn't know Awailscaths could do that."
If he could be kept talking, then he might let his guard down for a moment. He looked quite relaxed at the moment, but Vaslar knew he could move faster than that leopard whose hide he wore.
"Not normally, Saj, we can't. It just happened. I had lost two brothers at Tolamin..." Wrong thing to say.
Zorg nodded. "So you did plan to kill the king. How did you hope to escape afterward?"
Vaslar shrugged. "I thought I'd worry about it when the time came."
"You don't just look like a warrior—you think like one, too?"
"Yes, dreadlord."
Zorg rubbed his inflamed eye. "How does it feel for a part-man suddenly to become one of the Faceless?"
"Marvelous."
"I expect it does. Have you any idea of the death that awaits you now?"
"I'll meet it like a warrior."
"Suppose we keep you chained up until you change back?"
"Please don't. Let me die now, while I can die well. I might even turn into a woman again!"
"An even more gruesome possibility!" Zorg studied him for a while, and something about his posture suggested that he was amused. Planning the execution, probably.
"Is it Hexzion personally you want to kill, or the king of Wesnar?"
Vaslar puzzled over the question. It seemed to imply something significant. "Just Hexzion Garab. He's a monster!"
"I normally regard that word as a compliment," Zorg said drily, "and I'm sure he did. Regrettably, he fell out of his chariot yesterday and broke his neck. I am the new king of Wesnar."
So the Ogoalscath had succeeded! Hitham had done even better than he had hoped for. The fat turd was dead! Vaslar found that news both gratifying and immensely funny. He roared with laughter.
The dreadlord waited in silence until he had done. "I take it that
I am in no danger from you?"
"No, Saj! President Gwin wants you to lead the armies against the Karpana."
Zorg sighed. "I know—I have spies, too. My messengers are on their way to her already. But what am I going to do with you? I don't know what the penalty for impersonating a Faceless is, but it ought to be lingering and fatal. The same goes for spies and assassins."
"I killed men at Tolamin," Vaslar said hopefully. "Does that win me an honorable death?"
"Not under the circumstances. But I can't fault your motives and I admire courage." Zorg stood up and looked at his prisoner. His skull face was infinitely menacing. "Guard!"
Remembering the Faceless he had helped torture at Tolamin, Vaslar vowed to die as they had. He could do no better.
A warrior appeared at Vaslar's side and saluted the dreadlord. "Saj?"
"Take this dolt to the gate of the camp. Strip off that skin he is not entitled to wear. Point him west. Then kick him in the butt as hard as you can and let him go."
63
The stables at the Om Balk barracks were very much as other stables—wooden doors in stone walls, hay and straw, water-troughs and wheelbarrows, men standing around talking, boys leading animals fifteen times their size, horseshoes clattering on cobbles.
Fragrant. Do not forget fragrant.
Dispiriting in the clammy pre-dawn light.
In an obscurely shadowed corner, Tibal Frainith leaned against a rain barrel with his arms folded and one ankle crossed over the other. He was watching the proceedings with evident misery. Gwin shivered to look at him. He had no trace of fat on his bones; how could he be warm enough at this hour in just smock and breeches?
Cornet Seep Nung was enthusing to Bulion. The yard was filling up with horses. Jukion swore luridly at one that would not lift its feet for him. Ordur was not in sight yet, but Jasbur was there, flirting with a couple of stable hands.
Perhaps it was Tibal's expression, perhaps it was Cornet Seep's high-pitched warbling, perhaps it was the strongly equine-tinted air, but Gwin felt gravely out of sorts. Premonition? Could Tibal's dejection be infectious?