by Wilf Jones
‘Look, Angren, I’m worried, more worried than I’ve ever been. We may be facing something terrible, something incredibly powerful, and I just don’t know if we’ll have the strength to resist. Since Tumboll… well, something’s changed Angren, and I don’t know if I have the power left in me. It makes me nervous.’
‘And bad tempered.’
‘Yes it does.’ Seama sighed and then bowed his head as if ashamed of what he was about to say. ‘I’m going to need help, Angren.’
‘There’s no doubt about that bit, Seama. And you’ll get it, ‘smuch as you like, but not just now.’ He picked up his jar and sank the remaining mouthful. ‘You see, just now, and this is very important, I’m off to get another pint. I’ll bring you one too, if you like: calm you down a bit.’
It was past midnight and the beer was easing Angren into a cosy sleep when he felt Seama’s hand on his shoulder.
‘Wake up! Wake up, Angren!’
Angren rolled over, his body reluctant to comply but he rubbed at his eyes and rolled back again. The look he gave the wizard was grumblesome.
‘So what’s happening now?’
‘I have him! Almost. He’s coming to meet me in the stables. The joke is he thinks I have information for him!’
‘Forgive my asking and all, but who the bloody hell are we talking about? And, more importantly, what do you want me for? I was having a really good kip then, first time in ages. Can’t we go and see this bloke sometime in the morning, or better still mid-afternoon?’
‘Don’t whinge, Angren. If I didn’t need you I wouldn’t wake you. Somehow, I can’t see him turning up without friends, can you?’
‘I wouldn’t know, you haven’t told me anything about him yet.’
‘If you’d stop being so bloody minded and stirred yourself you’d find out, wouldn’t you?’
Disgruntled but by now fully awake Angren threw off the shoddy blankets he had been curled in.
‘Farewell Bed,’ he said as he dragged on the few clothes he had discarded before sleep, ‘I knew it was too good to last, but that’s life. I do hope I meet another like you but it’ll never be the same.’
‘Cut the prattling, you idiot. People are supposed to be asleep but I wouldn’t count on it.’
‘I certainly don’t qualify. Back to your normal self then?’
‘Maybe. Look, if you are very good, I’ll let you come back to your precious bed in an hour or two but for now will you please hurry up.’
Within minutes they were down in the stables but others were there before them. The stable was unlit: a place of sounds and smells. And it was a stable poorly managed where the smells were stronger than they should have been, where the horses were restless and where a clutter of unseen, kneecapping objects were scattered liberally between the stalls. Though they were in hand Seama was reluctant to let Angren light the lanterns they had brought with them. He didn’t want their presence noted too soon.
‘That’s all very well,’ Angren complained as he stumbled around among the pales and horse-dung, ‘problem is they’ll have heard me by now, won’t they. Damn! I hope you’re going to clean my boots for me.’
‘They will hear you if you don’t shut up!’ The predictable buffoonery was rankling. ‘Are you trying to ruin all our good work so far? Just get that head of yours out of sight and quick.’
‘Well that’s nice, I must say. Get me out of bed and then— Ahhh!’ Uttering a yelp, Angren dived away from his intended hiding place, drawing a knife as he came out of a roll.
‘Dear Gods!’ cried Seama, ‘Couldn’t you possibly make a little more noise: the King in Astoril mayn’t have heard you.’
‘There’s someone behind that stall, Seama.’
With a word, rather than a match, Seama lit one of the lanterns and stepped forward to where Angren crouched ready to spring. Seama was unconcerned and unsurprised when Bibron rose, grinning a little sheepishly.
‘I’m sorry Seama. Didn’t see him coming, so’s I couldn’t warn him.’ Looking at Angren he laughed more confidently. ‘I’d be happy if you didn’t sit next to me for a while, Angren. I’m not sure I like what you’re wearing.’
Angren’s clothes had been dirtied from his roll on the floor; he wasn’t pleased. Seama had suffered enough distraction and he spoke up before Angren could make any further comment.
‘We’ll be caught gabbling if this carries on. Both of you get hidden, and quick. Is everybody here now?’
Various positive grunts came from all around them and Seama was satisfied. ‘Good. Now be quiet and wait. It could be sometime before our visitor arrives.’
Seama up-ended a stray bushel box and sat down. He had a lot to think about. The lamp yellowed his face, his features grew waxy. A change occurred. Anyone who knew the wizard, and there were a great many who did, would have had difficulty recognizing him. The overall countenance was there but it was subtly obscured; the nose slightly bent, the eyes oddly askew. His youthful face developed the wrinkles of age. It was an art he had practised so much that he now could change his face without having to concentrate. The irregularities of this new face needed firming up before his ‘guest’ arrived but Seama was more concerned with firming up his ideas on what he needed to know: what were the questions he needed answering? It was normal to begin with questions like ‘Who are you?’ or ‘Who sent you?’ but he was more immediately interested in what the spy wanted to know about Gothery. What was his mission? It would reveal a great deal about them, whoever they were, if he could only find out what they were after. He didn’t really think that weapons were the root of their interest, for surely they already held all the cards worth holding. It would be better and easier for them to win the war first and ask questions after. Maybe they needed to know who to keep alive.
Speculation was getting him nowhere. There was only one way to find out and simple interrogation was not it. A more devious technique was called for. It was possible, in theory, for a skilled wizard to read the minds of all animals including man, but where for most animals there was no opposition to overcome – for a horse thinks of no more than food, safety and allegiance and that is no secret anyway – man is a creature full of privacies, secrets, real or imagined. It was an exhausting job to delve into the minds of men. Seama knew the problems better than most. He knew, from countless repetition, that ‘preparation is everything or action is nothing’ and so he withdrew his mind from the turmoil of speculation to ready himself for the struggle to come. Such was his concentration on inner disciplines that for Seama the passage of time seemed slight; for the others who shared this vigil an hour of silent apprehension stiffened their muscles.
There was a muffled exchange of voices outside the stable door and instantly Seama was alert. He stood up and taking on a nervous attitude began to pace up and down, shoulders stooped, muttering and never straying far from the lantern’s arc of yellow light.
The door swung open but the moon beyond betrayed no silhouette of whoever had moved it.
‘Who’s there, eh?’ Seama whispered, his speech a convincing copy of an uncouth local style. ‘Eh? Issit you, then?’
For a few silent moments there was no reply but suddenly two men burst in. Rushing forward they grabbed at Seama, one thrusting a knife to menace the wizard’s unprotected throat. Seama refrained from struggling: he knew these were just the bully boys sent in first to soften him up and he didn’t want to frighten off the real quarry. Instead of struggling he preferred to whimper and grovel to make the spy feel more secure.
‘Alrigh’, alrigh’ lads. No need t’be hasty, eh. You’ve got me. You don’t need no knife. Whatever you want.’
The men laughed.
‘You’re right, my son,’ said one with a leering grin that made him look demonic in the lantern glare, ‘You’ll do anything we want or I’ll cut-off your balls.’ He was big a
nd fat but obviously strong. ‘You’re all alone then. Mates gone and left you.’
‘He does’n’ have any mates, d..d..do you, rat-face?’ The second man stuttered and drooled, he had a nervous twitch, a spasm that contracted the left side of his face whenever he spoke. Seama thought this man looked more dangerous than the other.
‘I’m talking t..t’you, shit head.’
‘Nah! Nah, don’t have no mates. They don’t like me, no one does. Nah, they don’t.’ Seama was happy to capitulate, his voice cracking with fear.
‘Good job too, o…o…or I’d have to see to you properly. Undersssstand?’ The twitcher hit Seama a backhander.
‘Yes! Yes. My nose. I think you’ve broken it.’ Blood appeared behind his hand.
‘That is enough, for now. Leave him.’
Seama was a little shaken by this new voice. He hadn’t seen anyone else enter the stable and he couldn’t see anyone now: the owner of the voice stayed beyond the lantern’s reach.
‘You, wretch: are you Leire?’
‘Yes, your honour, that’s me.’ Seama contrived a bubbling, nasal admission.
‘You have an unfortunate name, Leire. You will tell me the truth.’ The voice was odd: constricted and flat. ‘What is the information you have for me?’
‘Ah now,’ said Seama in a conniving tone, ‘Ah now, that all depends, don’t it. Firstly, what did you want to know? And second, right, saying I know about something you want, how much will it pay me to tell?’
‘You know what I seek. This powerful man, this wizard. I need to know where he is. As to payment, there will be great reward. I will give you your life.’
‘Leave it. Don’t own me, can’t kill me so long as I got what you want. I’ve news for you that you can’t afford to miss, ‘portant news.’
‘You are a fool. I have no time to waste words with you. Hold him.’
Though Seama struggled the thugs held him steady, twisting his arms behind him. A small figure came into the lantern light. He wore black clothes and displayed an unusual passion for jewellery. On each of his black-gloved hands he had at least five rings, all yellow gold and rubies and jet, and on his arms he wore bracelets. He looked like a Partian mummer dressed for pantomime except that here the jewels were real. To complete this dramatic appearance, covering his entire head he wore a black and silver mask. No flesh at all was visible.
Seama nearly relaxed his disguise in surprise. According to his sources, the spies had been seen only in Gotherian dress. Such conspicuous garb as this was unlikely to win confidences.
‘Now fool,’ came the voice through the slit in the mask, ‘speak! Tell me what you know of this wizard and his interest here. Tell me or I will take what I need by force.’
‘What d’you mean ‘by force’?’ Seama pretended fear but he was only moderately concerned. He hadn’t expected any use of power but he knew what would happen next and was prepared for it. The jewelled hands reached up to grip Seama’s face, the fingers pressing in so hard that the nails inside the gloves cut into his flesh. Seama recoiled in pain but the fingers pressed in even tighter. The thugs laughed as blood trickled down his cheek. The spy, or whatever he was, became still as if readying himself.
For those watching in the shadows this was an incomprehensible scene. More than one of them thought that Seama was in deep trouble and the only reason they didn’t move was that he had given them specific instruction to intervene only when he signalled. For Franner and Creel however this simply seemed more of what they had grown accustomed to. They couldn’t understand what it was Zaras did to his victims but they knew it was terrifying and damaging. They’d seen the looks of sheer terror and pain in their eyes as he began, and witnessed the total lack of any emotion in them after he’d finished. As though his victims’ minds had ceased to function. That he sometimes went on to drain the life blood from them was something like dismemberment after death: gruesome for the onlooker, agonising for the loved one but of no concern at all to the recently departed. The two torturers were used to his habits but Creel still found himself horrified. Any second now, he thought, and winced in anticipation, any second now he’ll do it…
Creel could never have seen the look of terror in Zaras’ face because the muscles in that face did not respond as normal muscles do, because the eyes were slower than the eyes of a dead fish and anyway the mask obscured everything. Creel could not tell that this scene was in any way different from any other interrogation. Any second now, he thought once more, the old man will turn to jelly and Franner’ll have to hold tight. But that second and that chance had gone. The old man had raised a hand as if to defend himself and, as quick as blinking, ‘Berta had dinned both Creel and his partner about the head with her new heavy cosh, and both fell to the floor unconscious.
The stroke of mind against mind had been reversed – Zaras himself was the victim. This giver of pain, this sufferer of a pain constant through many thousands of years, had never been subject to the agony that comes from possession or invasion. This was rape. During his first centuries he had raped others without compunction, had revelled in the powerlessness of his young victims. Now, for the first time in his horribly extended life, there was a chance to understand the impact of his crimes. But Zaras did not have the calm within even to say to himself: ‘So this is how they feel, those I destroy.’ Because fear ruled him.
No will had he. No matter how his mind turned and twisted he was bound, every second tighter, his tongue frozen, his muscles paralysed, killing every attempt to break free. There was no avoiding the needle of his captor’s probing. He had learned to use his own mind as a surgeon’s lancet, but taking what he needed and fatally discarding the rest. Zaras couldn’t know that Seama’s skill was so much greater. Zaras didn’t know that he could survive this.
He would have screamed if he could.
‘Thank you ‘Berta. I have the other. Someone had better restrain those two: I don’t want them running off to tell tales.’
It was hard work holding this strange man to heel. The body was frozen but the captive mind was squirming to be free. The pinching fingers were still tight on his face and the pain threatened to distract him. He asked ‘Berta to hold the spy and she locked him in a grip that could break his neck if required. Garaid, to emphasize the point, pushed a knife up against the throat.
‘Gentlemen and ladies,’ Seama said, ‘I believe we have captured the spymaster. This is better than I could have hoped for. Keep him still now as I release the body: he’ll try to escape.’ Sure enough the spy started to buck and kick. ‘Berta had a hard time holding on but after only a minute or so the man relaxed, his limbs became limp and the hands fell away from Seama’s poor face. Seama didn’t need the contact anymore: the body was now free but the mind was his. The problem would be in exploring what was there. This would not be a normal interrogation: not simply a matter of questions and answers. The brain is a vast library. To get information Seama would have to find his way through a catalogue of events and memories.
It began.
The most vivid, immediate pictures, hovering on the surface of awareness, were to do with the last few hours. A message, met with a sense of satisfaction, eagerness, a feeling that everything would now work as it should, but then in parallel a vision sprang up. It was a parade, a march of people. The colours were all wrong, not triumphant as they should be but then, they were deep in the tunnel. Seama couldn’t help it: the questions sprang up unbidden. Who are they, who are you? but the spymaster’s thoughts went spinning off incomprehensibly. Deprived, denied, bereft, banished; Billi Zarassi, Zarascha, Zaras. Where are they going? Satisfaction again: coming not going, determination. Why are they coming? Return, reclaim, the New Kingdom, the Final Kingdom. Revenge. But who’s Kingdom?
The chain of these thoughts snapped, or slipped, and Seama’s mind was flying back through darkness at sickening speed until
he became a God. Or there was a God. A God whose eye surveyed, the vast plain become small in his mighty sight. And His! His to behold; His to rule; His to destroy if He willed. And what is this place? Home, my home, before I knew this, and my fate. A great desert, Kyzylkum, once, and now, and then, and always and on forever. The Wastes of Time. Seama’s vision swirled making him feel giddy and suddenly they plunged, his captive and he, plunged hurtling down towards the plain, and the City of the Plain.
It was a dreadful place.
Images of buildings and streets flew by so quickly that Seama had no time to think about them. He stored them away for later.
As the vision spiralled down and in, however, the overall vista made an immediate and terrible impression upon him. Decay. It was all decay. Seama remembered the blight in Ayer but that was a matter for a good spring clean compared with this disaster of time piled on time. Dust made soft the streets, made grey the dead gardens, made silent the footfalls, choked all voices. It was a city of dust. What had they from the palsied fields to eat; what had they from the poisoned river to drink? Nothing but dust and ashes. It was a horrible place: a country of the dead.
And the people of the city could not have known love. No honest gaiety marred faces of studied hate; the hate was tempered only by griping melancholy, enflamed only by denied lust.
Seama strove to remind himself that this was a nation and not just some waxwork of horror or an asylum. In it were ranks and tasks, rules and relations, duties and obeisance. There was a king perhaps, or an Emperor, but certainly a God.