It didn’t take this long with Yoda and Luke Skywalker, he thought. But that was just a movie. And Affron, apparently, wasn’t Yoda. He didn’t have any ancient wisdom to impart; he just had his own experience, which had been long and tortuous. Larry was going to have to do it by himself.
But he couldn’t sit there all day, every day; he’d go mad. Affron had a job, which he explained as best he could: unloading strange-looking pots from an endless series of wagons and storing them in a warehouse, then sometimes taking them from the warehouse and loading them into a different set of wagons. Sometimes statues arrived instead of pots. Were they for sale? Were there shops that sold pots and statues somewhere on Kravok-Li? Affron assumed there were, but he didn’t really care; he simply did what he was told. Larry joined him one day and helped with the unloading and loading. No one questioned why he was there. No one seemed to mind; no one told him to go away. At the end of the day a man clapped him on the back and put a few coins in his hand, and Larry felt absurdly grateful. He had a job, too!
So they worked during the day and went back to the room at night. Sometimes they stayed in the city, ate food at a café, and listened to the incessant music, which Larry somehow grew to like. He began to learn the language, which was far more complicated and alien to him than Latin. Palta would have mastered it in a week, but he did his best.
And when he felt the urge, he sat in the shrine in the middle of the night and moved his hands. He tried to dream a portal, and sometimes he thought he had succeeded. But when he reached out to grasp it, it wasn’t there. He was discouraged; he was frustrated. He began to believe finally that he wasn’t going to succeed. He had wasted a year, two years, more, trying to do something that he could not do. He had some kind of power, but not this power. And why did he want this power anyway? What good would it do him? What good had it done Affron? He had used his portal once, to come to this strange world. For what? So that he could load and unload pots and statues and give Larry useless advice? How had this helped either of them?
He cried one night. It was all so awful. “I hate this,” he said. “I hate all of this.”
“The food’s not bad,” Affron replied.
“Yes, it is.”
“Fair enough. Is this the point where you talk about going home and so on?”
“Yes, it is.”
“So, it’s also the point where I say that we’ll leave tomorrow?”
“Why not right now?”
“Fine.”
They didn’t move.
“Well, then,” Affron said after a while.
“Shut up,” Larry replied.
Affron shut up.
It wasn’t that night, or the next night. But soon enough the dream of a portal became more vivid, the neurons shifted and branched, the movement of his hands became more assured, more purposeful, and finally, effortlessly—as if it had been destined to happen at this moment, in this place, since the beginning of the multiverse—he reached out his hand, and it disappeared into nothingness.
And it was as if everything made sense at last.
Eighteen
Harmalo
Scotia was a vile place.
His carriage rattled over the rough road as they headed to the king’s castle. More than once he’d had to get out as the carriage got stuck in the spring mud, and his soldiers had to lift the thing out of the mud and set it right. The whole voyage had been like that. Bad winds, bad storms, bad food. Harmalo had spent half his days on shipboard leaning over the railing in the wind and rain as he puked up the wretched slop he’d eaten. Then, finally, landfall, only to be confronted by obtuse customs agents and officious diplomats demanding to know his business in their godforsaken land.
Oh, how he’d longed to take out the precious gant and show them that he was a man to be feared and obeyed, not interrogated.
He was a man who carried death in the pocket of his robe.
But he was also a man in control of his passions. The gant stayed in his pocket. It was not needed for underlings.
He folded his arms and gazed out the carriage window. Leaden sky; bare trees, with leaves just starting to bud and rain dripping from their branches. In a month or two he supposed the place would be lovely. He had come from such a place, on the northern border of the empire. Beautiful in late spring, but wretched most of the year. He had not realized it was wretched until he left and learned that the world was a far bigger place than he’d imagined, with different weather, different people. Better weather, smarter people. He’d left because the priests had recognized that he, too, was one of the smart people. They needed people like him in Urbis.
Eventually they changed their minds. Claimed it was a question of temperament. He had beaten up a younger student—a wretched, sniveling creature who had spilled wine on Harmalo’s robe. Did they expect him to do nothing? They claimed there was a history of similar behavior. There was not. He had a temper, but he could control it. Didn’t they see how well he could control it?
The carriage stopped. After a moment one of his soldiers loomed at the window. “Emissaries from the king, my lord,” he said. “They ask to speak with you.”
“How far are we from the castle?”
“Two miles, my lord. Perhaps three. You can see it up ahead.”
Harmalo sighed; couldn’t this wait until they were all sitting in front of a warm fire? But he got out of the carriage. Twenty paces away two burly, bearded men stood next to their horses. In the distance he could make out the castle, a darker gray against the gray sky. It did not look inviting.
The men fell to their knees in the mud as Harmalo approached them. “Get up, get up,” he said impatiently. “What do you want?”
The men arose. The one on the right spoke, in wretched Latin. “Sire, King Glamys sends his greetings and asks the purpose of your visit to Scotia.”
“Tell King Glamys that I will explain my mission to him alone. I believe I have already made that clear.”
The man looked uncomfortable. “As you say, sire. His majesty insists, however, that—”
“You may tell the king that I am an official representative of the Roman empire,” Harmalo interrupted. “Upon my arrival the king’s officials were shown documents attesting to this. All further communication will take place with the king himself. Do not displease a representative of the empire.”
The two men glanced at each other. They were not happy. Harmalo did not care. “Very well, sire,” the man on the right said without enthusiasm. “If you would please follow us, we will lead you to the castle.”
Harmalo turned and went back to his carriage without replying.
It seemed clear what was happening. Like most lands in Barbarica, Scotia had been left alone by the priests, except for occasional demands for tribute. Now the empire had new masters. What did these new masters want? Perhaps King Glamys feared the demand for tribute would increase, or they would offer less money for Scotia’s timber or whatever it was that it sold to the empire. Perhaps the king wanted to display his strength to them. Harmalo was uninterested in such matters. He had only one job to do. And he didn’t like being bullied.
Soon enough the road turned from mud to cobblestones, and the carriage headed uphill. It passed through open gates at which more burly men stood staring at them, and came to a halt in the castle’s inner courtyard. Harmalo got out once again.
A row of soldiers stood at attention. Harmalo waited. After a few moments a large wooden door opened and a wizened man with a long white beard hurried out. He wore brown trousers and a thick green coat. He shot a glance at the two burly men, and then turned to Harmalo and bowed deeply. “Good day, my lord,” he said in a surprisingly strong voice. “My name is Orthan, counselor to King Glamys, and on his behalf I—”
“Where is the king?” Harmalo demanded. “My business is with him, not with you or these men.”
“In due time, in due time,” Orthan replied, apparently unperturbed. “Please, let us show you to your rooms so that you have
a chance to recover from your journey. Tonight we have arranged a feast in your honor.”
His Latin was good, although spoken with a thick accent. Harmalo considered demanding to see the king instantly, then decided not to bother. A rest would be welcome. “Very well,” he said. “But my mission here is urgent. I will not tolerate delay.”
Orthan nodded. “So I am told. But before we go to your rooms, if you would kindly let me peruse those documents I have been told you possess…?”
Harmalo waved to his secretary, who fetched the documents from a case and presented them to Orthan. The king’s counselor glanced at them quickly and then handed them back to the secretary. “We have so few visitors from Urbis,” he said to Harmalo. “You must understand our surprise when we heard of your arrival.”
This man’s surprise did not concern Harmalo, but still he managed to remain polite. “Much has changed in the empire,” he said. “And if the empire changes, so will all of Terra.”
“Yes,” Orthan agreed. “Let us hope the change is for the better.”
Any change in this place would be for the better. Orthan led him into the smoky castle, putting him under the care of an unctuous servant with scarcely any Latin at all, who brought him to a large bedroom heated to excess by a blazing fire. It would do. The servant left finally, and Harmalo lay down on the canopied bed to rest for a couple of hours before the feast.
Everything about Scotia was dreary and pitiful. It occurred to Harmalo that with his gant he could seize power here. But the place wasn’t worth ruling. Better to return to Roma; five thousand denarii could buy a lot of pleasures in Roma.
He took the gant from his pocket and held it, running his fingers over its warm, hard surface. He had used it only once, for practice. It was at night, on the eve of his departure from Roma. He had walked the streets of the city until he found what he was looking for: a sickly black dog, with matted coat and watery eyes. It limped towards him, half afraid, half hoping for a scrap of food. Harmalo took out the gant, aimed it, and destroyed the wretched thing, which disappeared without a sound, leaving behind only a faint, bitter smell in the air.
It was disappointing, actually. He had known the weapon was not like a sword, but he had not expected it to do away entirely with the reality of death—the terror and blood and pain—but that was what it did.
He liked the terror and blood and pain.
Finally he arose and prepared for the feast. Hot water was not to be found, of course. Scotians probably bathed once a year, if that. He put on a new robe and cleaned himself as much as he could, and then waited for Orthan to escort him to the banquet hall.
“Who will be at this feast?” Harmalo asked Orthan when he finally arrived.
“Ah. Many nobles will be in attendance. We are honored by your presence.”
“Do they live in the castle?”
Orthan seemed puzzled by the idea. “No, of course not. They live in their own castles, among their own people. But the king often summons them to hear their counsel on important matters.”
Harmalo understood this kind of kingdom. It was no more than a loose collection of clans, ruled by a king who was the strongest among the clan leaders. Some societies endured such a model endlessly; the strong king died, his weak sons failed to hold onto power, and war started up all over again until someone else emerged. So dreary and predictable.
He followed Orthan down a dark staircase and through a set of large wooden doors to the banquet hall. It was high-ceilinged and drafty. The fire in the huge fireplace was not sufficient to heat the room; the tapestries on the walls were faded and threadbare. In the middle of the hall seven or eight long wooden tables were arranged in a rough rectangle. The benches were half-filled with large, bearded men who stared at him suspiciously—the noblemen, Orthan explained; the king himself had not yet arrived. A couple of large dogs lounged on the stone floor nearby. Orthan introduced Harmalo to the nobles, who seemed to speak no Latin. Harmalo inclined his head to each of them and promptly forgot their names. He had no interest in these men, unless they could lead him to Affron.
Orthan led him to one of the tables, and a server placed a tankard of ale in front of him. He didn’t touch it. The nobles ignored him, babbling away in their own language. It was called Erse, he’d been told. Strange name for a language. People who mattered on Terra spoke Latin. He wondered if the king spoke it.
“These men know what goes on in their domains, yes?” he asked Orthan.
Orthan nodded. “Of course. Our nobles are very close to their people.”
“Good. Are all of them here?”
“No, not at all. If we’d had more warning of your arrival, my lord—”
“No matter,” he muttered.
He waited for King Glamys. Ten minutes or more passed. This was outrageous, he decided. Was the man deliberately insulting the empire?
Finally the wooden doors opened, and the king made his entrance. He was tall and thin, unlike most of the men Harmalo had seen in Scotia. His hair and beard were red; he wore a fur cape over his robe. Orthan and the nobles got to their feet as he approached; Harmalo stayed seated. The king bowed to him; Harmalo nodded back. “My lord Harmalo, you are welcome to Scotia,” the king said in Latin. His voice was deep; his Latin was tolerable.
“I bear greetings from the new rulers of the empire,” Harmalo replied. “And I have a request.”
King Glamys waved away the request. “First we feast, my lord. Then we shall talk.” He sat down opposite Harmalo, next to Orthan.
Harmalo tried not to look annoyed. A servant filled the king’s tankard, and he emptied it with one long swallow. The nobles cheered and did the same. Other servants carried in trays of food—a roast pig, baked apples, and vegetables Harmalo did not recognize. “Let us eat and drink and thank the gods for their blessings,” the king called out in Latin. Then he spoke again in his native tongue, and the nobles cheered again. The dogs thumped their tails on the floor. The servants heaped food on plates and passed them out—first to the king, then to Harmalo, then to the others.
Harmalo tried the food. It was overcooked and tasteless; the Scotians stuffed it into their mouths with delight. They shouted at each other and at the king; the king shouted back at them, laughing. No one paid attention to him until the king noticed that he wasn’t drinking. “Give us a toast, my lord,” the king demanded.
Harmalo sighed and stood up, raising his tankard. “Long life to all in this hall,” he said simply. The king shouted out a translation, and the nobles cheered yet again and drank. Harmalo forced himself to swallow a mouthful of the ale; it was as bad as the food. He sat down and hoped that he was done with drinking. But now the king rose and toasted the empire, and next each of the nobles stood and toasted something or other, and Harmalo had to force himself to take a sip of the ale after each toast.
It occurred to him that the king wanted him drunk. But that would not happen.
The drinking and feasting continued. Harmalo ate little and drank less. He was tired of these boorish people; his patience was running out. Finally the servants cleared the plates and Orthan arose. “Now that we have eaten and drunk together,” the counselor said, “King Glamys will hear the reason for Lord Harmalo’s visit to his kingdom.”
Orthan sat. Was Harmalo supposed to stand? He supposed he was. He got to his feet. “My lord,” he addressed the king, “The empire requests a simple favor of you. Last summer a man sailed from Roma to your kingdom. He was accompanied by a couple of others—a man and a woman. The man we seek is named Affron. Black-haired, in his thirties. He is a former priest accused of serious crimes against the empire. We want information about his whereabouts, and we request the right to seize him when he is found.”
King Glamys scowled. “This is a troubling request,” he said, without standing. “Scotia has a right of sanctuary that all in the land recognize and support.”
Harmalo sat down. “We would not make such a request if it were not important,” he replied.
&
nbsp; The hall had fallen silent. The nobles could evidently sense that something serious was taking place.
“The priests always left us alone,” the king pointed out. “They have let us follow our ways. We allow their merchants to trade here, and we pay a tribute as well. We have caused Urbis no trouble.”
Harmalo shrugged. “The priests are not in charge anymore,” he replied. “The world has changed.”
“The gods have not changed,” the king countered. “The gods will not allow me to do what you are asking.”
Harmalo was becoming angry. “Do you know where this man Affron is?” he demanded.
“I have never heard of him. I have no knowledge of him.”
“Do you?” he asked Orthan.
“No, my lord. Of course not,” Orthan replied.
“Do they?” Harmalo gestured at the silent nobles.
“I will not ask them,” the king said, folding his arms. “If the man has come to us for protection, we will protect him. That is the way our people have always lived.”
“This is very foolish,” Harmalo noted. “Prince Feslund will not be pleased.”
“Nevertheless, we cannot agree to your request. We can discuss many things of interest between us. But not this.”
The king was sweating, Harmalo noticed. From the heat of the fireplace, the ale, the tension? This was absurd. They lived in drunken squalor, but they would not hand over a criminal to their betters. He sighed and felt in the pocket of his robe. “You do not understand the importance of this request to our new rulers,” he said.
“It does not matter,” the king replied. “We must follow our ways.”
Harmalo’s patience was at an end. He took out the gant and held it up in front of him.
The king stared at the weapon. “What is this?” he demanded.
Harmalo didn’t respond. What did words matter? He aimed the gant at one of the dogs, sleeping contentedly on the floor, sated from scraps of meat thrown it during the feast. Then at the last moment he changed his mind and swung the gant up till it was pointed at Orthan. The old man’s mouth opened, and his eyes went wide with fear. Then Harmalo squeezed the gant’s handle, as he had learned to do, and the counselor disappeared in a flash of white light.
HOME (The Portal Series, Book 3) Page 12