by Dave Duncan
"Near side leader was a civilian, Saj. I mean, he didn't have a bow. I was told—"
Fates! "You override my orders?" He'd been a good recruit so far.
"No, Saj!"
"That horse blood on your sword?"
The boy looked at his sword. "No, Saj. One of the troopers. Two of them Saj, but one I just wounded, I think."
"You got objections to killing civilians, killer?"
He shook his head quickly. "No, Saj. But these ones... They were... No, Saj."
Well, it had been a good little killing apart from that. Pity to waste good material. Maybe Ozion was getting soft in his old age. He would let the kid live. He wouldn't let him forget, though. "Report for punishment when we get back!"
"Saj!"
Ozion reached for his whistle to signal withdrawal.
68
When the fog began to lift from Gwin's mind, she was almost under the gates of Om Balk. Morningstar paced steadily beneath her; she had been riding in a daze, until now she was had reached the bustle of market stalls and booths outside the city walls. Townsfolk peered and bargained at displays of pots and baskets and garments. Farmers were selling produce, haggling over livestock. Bulion would have enjoyed this...
She reined in and turned to wait for the others. Jasbur and Orth, the two lightest, were doubled up on the roan. Pang and Ordur flanked Tibal—the last time she looked, they had been supporting him between them, but now he was sitting up, not holding the reins yet, but clutching the pommel of his saddle with both hands and staring around, still confused. As she watched, he pointed shakily at the riderless horse Baslin was leading and asked a question. Ordur replied.
Tibal was recovering; he had not changed the future.
It had been close, so very close. Had Baslin's horse not gone lame or Ordur's been a little faster, then the warning would have arrived in time. Ordur had seen the assassins trotting away, too far off to be certainly identified.
Or so he said, but he had specified trotting. He had described a squad, not a rabble, and a shockingly effective ambush, with every man dropped in his tracks. All that sounded much more like the Faceless than some anonymous band of vagrants. They had not looted the bodies, Ordur said, and again that ruled out random brigands. Had their intent been to murder Gwin Tharn? She could imagine Bulion's snort of disbelief. The Faceless did not make mistakes, he would have said; they knew a woman when they saw one. Massacring Nurzian troops on Nurzian territory was a virtual declaration of war, making future ambushes far more difficult.
The slaughter must have had some other purpose—retaliation for King Hexzion's death, perhaps, if the Wesnarians had some reason to think Nurz had been involved. If so, then Gwin's efforts to weld together a coalition of the three kingdoms might have brought two of them to open hostilities. Or had Wesnar believed the predictions of Bulion being the Renewer and taken steps to see that did not happen?
She hardly cared. Nothing mattered now. Bulion was gone. Murdered. Wosion and Jukion had stayed at the scene to keep the ravens away until help could arrive. The Cursed had refused to let her go back and see the bodies, and she had lacked the spirit to overrule them.
Reaching her, they reined in. She scowled at Tibal, not bothering to hide her contempt. He stared back with a bewildered expression and eyes that seemed to wobble independently.
"How are you?" she asked.
He wiped slobber from his mouth with a bony wrist. "We're looking for Prince Quoso Urnith aren't you?"
Damnable, despicable Shoolscath! Why couldn't he have found his courage five minutes sooner?
"He seems to be recovering, Saj," Pang said, "but he's still confused. I expect events haven't caught up with him yet."
"Silk traders?" Tibal muttered. "The silk traders bring terrible news. She doesn't know yet." He frowned and rubbed his forehead.
Ordur rolled his eyes. "We must report to the garrison, Gwin. Have them send out... bring back..."
"You do that, please."
He nodded, glanced at Tibal to make sure he was steady in his saddle, and then eased his horse away.
Bulion was gone. If she had only talked harder, persuaded him to come back with her for a few more days... No. There was no appeal from the fates' decrees. There was vengeance, though. There could always be vengeance. Her Jaulscaths would sniff out the guilty for her.
"Who did it, Tibal?" she demanded. "Hexzion? Zorg?"
"No man who dies as Quoso does should look that haughty."
"Labranza?"
The thin man brightened. "Forges her writing!"
"Ching? Ching Chilith?"
"Chilith!" said young Orth, the Ogoalscath. "Yes, Saj, yes! He's infatuated with Labranza and you deposed her! He's a slimy dog."
"Did anyone see that safe conduct?" Jasbur asked. "Anyone at all?"
"He promised Hexzion a Muolscath," Baslin growled.
And Ching was a Blessed, immune to Gwin's Poulscath authority.
Ching!
"I will roast him over a slow fire!" she snarled. "I will feed him alive to pigs. Tibal! Do I get revenge for what happened to Bulion?"
He gazed out over the sunlit plains. "Wait for silk traders?"
No help there, obviously. Gwin should go and help Ordur deal with the Nurzian garrison, which would be exploding already at the news. Then she must arrange for burials before she could return to Chan San and settle with Ching Chilith. There would be no one to speak for the Tharns except her, and no family to listen...
Just as she was about to nudge Morningstar into motion, Tibal suddenly answered her question:
"Revenge? No, Saj. You only get justice."
Justice brought no rain to deserts.
69
"Twenty-two thousand and not a man more!" Prince Quoso Urnith roared. "There are not thirty thousand able-bodied men in my father's kingdom!"
They had been at this for hours. Gwin felt sick and battered and exhausted, although she had barely spoken a word. The hall was spacious; it was airy and bright, yet it felt stuffy to her. It oppressed.
The tables formed a hollow square. At the head, if there was a head, sat Wung Tan and a dozen of his Nurzians, with brown faces and robes of peacock splendor. The white-haired king was the smallest man in the room. For that reason, or because he was host, he had given himself the largest chair. He looked weary, drained. He left the negotiating to his ministers.
On his left sat the delegation from Mokth, led by the prince. Their garb was simpler, but closer to imperial tunics than smocks. Quoso had done most of the talking. He had been aloof, condescending, arrogant, tolerant, agreeable, angry, reasonable, blustering, outraged, and gracious by turns. He had achieved absolutely nothing.
Opposite him, on Wung's right, were three men from Wesnar, just three. Two of them were elderly—a soldier in uniform and a civilian in simple Zarda garb that would not have offended Bulion. They did not matter, and so far neither had said a word. The third was their new king, Frenzkion Zorg. He had left his shield and spear behind, but he still wore only the strip of leopard skin in which Gwin had seen him before. He rarely sat down. He just stood there with his arms crossed. His mutilated face revealed nothing. He never raised his voice, but he dominated the hall. He was savagery personified, symbol of the barbarity that once again shadowed the sunlit lands of Kuolia.
"Thirty," he said. "Fully armed. You can strip the cities of their garrisons, for garrisons are useless."
Quoso glowered. "Twenty-five, then. My last word."
"And mine." Zorg gestured to his two companions and turned away. They rose to follow him.
"Your Majesty!" Wung Tan cried. "Surely we can resolve these differences?"
Zorg stopped and looked around. "I have stated my terms. If you do not like them, I have a better option. The Karpana will ravage through Mokth and Nurz and head west over Hamdish. When they have gone, I will pick up the pieces."
"You do not know they will not attack you too!" Quoso bellowed.
"I will take that chan
ce. I know they will attack you. Good day to you all."
Now! said the Voice.
Gwin jumped. Now what? She had demanded that the Raragashians be admitted to the conference. To her astonishment, they had not only been admitted, they had been granted equal status with the three participating delegations, the fourth side of the square. It was an astonishing honor, but what was she to do with it? She reeled to her feet and leaned fists on the table. "King Frenzkion!"
Zorg was almost at the door. He turned again, a skull staring at her across the room. She thought of death, blood on the ground, hacked bodies in the grass... Bulion two days dead. She rallied her wits.
"Your Majesty, would you read out your proposal once more?"
The barbarian shrugged and said something to the elderly civilian. The old man hurried back to the table alone, unrolling a scroll. In a weedy voice he proclaimed the hateful Wesnarian terms—ominously specific details of the armies to be raised and placed under Zorg's personal command, the monstrous contributions of gold and supplies, the recognition of Zorg as supreme warlord until the Karpana agreed to withdraw, or for three years, whichever came first, the very vague guarantees that Zorg would give... It was subjugation. It was surrender. It was unthinkable.
When he had done, the hall was silent.
Gwin nudged Baslin's ankle with her foot. "Your Majesty, Your Royal Highness—the prospect is harsh, but better than destruction at the hands of the Karpana horde! Will you not consider this proposal again?"
For a moment she felt nothing. Why was the Muolscath not doing something?
But the Zorg terms were certainly better than the alternative. And a war leader must be able to count on the full support of his allies. Zorg was a proven warrior, the acknowledged champion. Without him they all faced disaster.
"I suppose beggars can't be choosers," Wung Tan said with a royal chuckle.
"If my father skins me, he will at least use a sharper knife than the Karpana would," Quoso agreed.
Gwin sank back into her chair with a sigh of relief. Zorg stalked back to his place. He shot Gwin an unreadable glance before addressing the others. "I do not wish to offend valued allies. If there are details that particularly disturb you, gentlemen, I could consider amendments—minor amendments."
Oops! Too much! Even warriors were not immune to reason when a Muolscath provided it. She kicked Baslin again.
He misconstrued the signal. She felt a surge of wrath.
Quoso slammed a fist on the table. "No! Let us reserve our energies for fighting the enemy! We must wipe out these barbarian scum to the last man and drive them back into their wilderness!"
"I agree!" Wung Tan bleated over the rising tumult. "Give us the draft treaty, Brother Frenzkion, that we may seal it now and send our young men out together, fighting shoulder to shoulder against the common foe, and raising new milestones of courage and civilization here in our beloved..."
His flood of clichés was mercifully drowned out in a roar of excitement as Prince Quoso scrambled up on the table and jumped down inside the square. Before his feet hit the floor, Zorg vaulted cleanly over his side, and the two men came together in an embrace in the center. The audience rose to its feet and cheered. Some began a chant of, "Death to the barbarians!"
And Gwin herself must rally the Cursed of Kuolia to help crush the subhuman vermin...
"You all right, Gwin Saj?" Ordur whispered.
"I need some air. You're doing fine," she whispered to Baslin. "Just work on them till they sign." She rose and smiled at her supporters—Par a'Ciur, Orth, Ziberor, others. She left them to cope as best they might. Unnoticed in the patriotic ruckus, she slipped away, leaning on Ordur's arm.
He led her outside, to a grassy nook where she could flop down on a bench stood under an apple tree, screened by flowering hedges. The air was clean and scented. The clamor of the city and palace was muted quieter than the chattering birds in the bushes.
"This is idyllic!" she said, and realized that she was alone. Now where had he gone? But she was happy to be by herself. Again she wore the white of mourning—two husbands in less than a year.
Oh, Bulion! She had asked him for three days. She had needed only two. Why could he not have waited?
Your work is not done. It has barely started.
"Would I really have run away now, back to the farm?"
The Voice did not reply. The question was hypothetical. Bulion was dead. Zanion, Ulpion... all of them. So was Ching Chilith, but that did not bring the others back. Wosion and Jukion were already on their way home with the news, escorted by another contingent of Nurzian troopers, bearing another safe conduct — a genuine one this time.
Bulion had deserved better, much better. "He brought me to Raragash and he wouldn't play emperor, so you just threw him away like a broken pot?"
You gave him an extra month of life and much happiness.
"But he was only the coachman after all?"
He was much more than that. He was essential.
A bony hand reached over her shoulder, offering a beaker of orange juice. "Cold citrus fluids, Gwin Saj?"
"Wonderful! Just what I—"
She knew that hand, that voice. She was too thirsty to refuse the beverage, though. As she drank, their owner came around to face her and folded down on the grass.
"I know how much you will enjoy it." He crossed his long legs and contemplated her wistfully, as a collector might view a precious, fragile antique too pricey for his purse.
To think that she had once thought she liked the man!
"I told you distinctly that I never wanted to set eyes on you again, Frainith Saj."
Tibal swallowed painfully. "Fortunately, you did not make it an outright order. This is business. I have a prophecy for you."
"You can't prophesy!" Not soon enough to do any good.
He pulled a wry, lop-sided smile. "I can if I foresee myself prophesying! In this case I do, and it's important. Don't ask me why this time is different. I don't know."
"Zorg gets the treaty he wants?"
"Completely."
"He's a hard trader."
"He has to be! He knows he certainly can't kill off the Karpana, and probably can't drive them back on their own leavings. So he'll have to be content to turn them, if he can even do that—but which way does he turn them? Who gets trampled? He must gain a completely free hand, or the coalition will fly apart in a week. He does and it doesn't."
This was a new side of Tibal Frainith—the freely prophesying seer. Such behavior was so unconscionable for Shoolscaths that she decided he must be lying. On the other hand, she could not imagine any reason why a Shoolscath ever should.
"Can I ask you questions?"
He cocked an eyebrow. "Ask."
"Who wins the war?"
"You do. Eventually. It's an up and down road to get there. What I came to tell you is that the first big battle is at Gehmain, Muolday 35." He grinned briefly. "Frenzkion Zorg would give his right arm to know that date, you know? Now you can tell him."
"I think you have better stop," she said uneasily. "I really don't think I want to know the future."
"Have to tell you some of it!" Tibal jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. "Zorg's on his way here to ask you. He's worried about the Big Mud—which side does he put his army? Where will the Karpana go when they come around Lake Osmir?"
"Well?"
"West! They burn Rashtri and head west. They've slowed down. He can divide his forces and go up both sides of the Mud. Lot easier on supply lines."
"Aren't you taking a risk, prophesying like this?"
"Not that. That's like telling you that Poul will rise tomorrow. It'll happen and nothing will stop it. I know the future, Gwin! All the future."
He stared at her and she felt her face color. "I know what you think is the future, Frainith Saj, and you are seriously mistaken! If that's the end of the business agenda, go away!"
He sighed, then he rose to his feet and departed.
A moment lat
er, Frenzkion Zorg strode in through the blossoms.
Gwin could invite the warrior to share her bench, or she could sit and address his leopard-furred loins. She stood up instead. Even then, she felt overpowered by his arrogance. He was raw male meat, close to naked and too close to her. She tried not to stare at the unsightly hole in his face.
He folded his arms and spoke in the harsh, unpleasant voice she remembered. "I came to offer my condolences, Widow Tharn."
"It was your men who did it!"
The skull twisted its mouth. "Your husband did not die by my will. I was deceived, as was your agent. If you turn the culprit over to me, you can be confident that he will suffer as much as possible."
She shivered at the look in those eyes. Oh to have Bulion at her side again! "I would let you have him if I could. He died very suddenly as I entered the palace last night."
Not much would startle the dreadlord, but he flinched at that. "How?"
She shrugged. "I had come within range. It is apparently unwise to cross me. Ching was the second man to discover that."
Zorg appraised her for a moment. Then he laughed, showing big teeth and unexpected pink gums. "I shall remember! Do you bear me a grudge?"
For a moment she considered the aching gap in her life. "No. You're a detestable killer, but we need men like you now. I accept that you were misled by the traitor, so I shall not hold Bulion's death against you."
"So I shall not hold Hexzion's against you."
Her turn to flinch. Had Hitham Kinith really killed King Hexzion Garab? She did not know and never would, but she had sent the Ogoalscath to try. That was guilt enough. "Quits, then."
"I have rarely met women killers. You intrigue me."
"You do not interest me."
"Pity. It would be a novel way to seal our alliance. If you are ever inclined to experiment, just ask. Now, Poulscath Saj, what powers do you bring to the cause? You were granted royal honors at the conference. How many legions do you deliver?"
"I delivered your treaty."
"So I have got that. What else will you give me, Witch?"