A sudden thought widened his sleep-heavy eyes: when Varent had materialized on his balcony the ambassador 'had explained that such magic enabled him to transport himself only to a known location. Therefore Azumandias must be familiar with the caravanserai.
He frowned, the thought denying him the sleep his body craved. To do that, Azumandias must have visited the place ... might therefore have visited every potential stop along the way ... might be able to produce demons anywhere. For a moment he felt the chilly grip of dread. Then he smiled, remembering that Varent had foreseen that possibility and announced his intention of altering their route. He turned his face from the moonlight, drawing the comforting sheet up to his chin, alarm fading as welcome sleep crept over him. Until a further doubt crept in: how coula Azumandias have known he would be in the bam?
And why send demons against him?
Why not attack Varent?
Without the ambassador, the whole quest must surely falter. He and Bracht were merely agents, Varent the mastermind, so why direct the attack against the lesser players?
The thoughts disturbed him, rendering sleep, for all he craved its peace, elusive, the lack of answers setting him to turning restlessly, his mind refusing to let go the problem. Varent's magic protected him, he decided at last: that must explain it. Or part of it: he was still wondering how the wizard could have known where he would be as exhaustion overcame him and at last he drifted into welcome slumber.
Sunlight had replaced the moonglow when he woke, a little after dawn to judge by the noise that rose from the courtyard and the height of the sun in the cloud-flecked blue sky. He thrust back the sheets and climbed from the bed, washing and dressing swiftly. The map lay where he had left it in the wardrobe. He stared at it for a moment, then settled it against his skin, beneath his shirt: It seemed the safest hiding place for now. Satisfied, he hurried to the common room with the questions that had plagued him rising afresh in his mind.
The spacious room was mostly empty, Varent beaming a welcome from a table set against one wall where he sat alone, beckoning. Calandryll was pleased Bracht was not there, or any of the ambassador's men: he felt a need to discuss his doubts in some measure of privacy.
"Your ordeal seems to have left no lasting marks," Varent greeted him. "Break your fast with me—this fruit is truly delicious."
He pushed a bowl of apples across the table and called for the landlord to bring another mug. Calandryll helped himself to the fruit, and the fresh-baked bread, as Varent filled the mug with steaming tea.
"Where's Bracht?" he asked.
"Tending his horse," said Varent cheerily, "what they say about Kems is true, you know—they place the comfort of their animals above their own."
He sliced an apple with a slender dagger; added a sliver of yellow cheese. He appeared completely at ease, as if he had forgotten the events of the previous night. Calandryll said, "I was thinking about the demons."
"I'm not surprised," Varent murmured smoothly, "but as I told you, I believe we may safely dismiss such threat for a while." . , .
"No." Calandryll shook his head. "I was thinking about how they came to be there."
"Indeed?" Varent raised a napkin to his lips. "By courtesy of Azumandias, I assume."
Calandryll frowned. Varent was the picture of relaxed urbanity, his manner suggesting that he found the subject more than a little tedious.
"How could he know where I was?" he insisted.
"He is a powerful wizard," Varent said, helping himself to bread.
Calandryll refused to let it go: "You suggested he had guessed our whereabouts."
"You've an inquiring mind, Calandryll; I like that!
Varent nodded, smiling. "You are wondering how he could have known we should halt here? Apply that scholarly logic—this is the first way station on the route from Secca to Aldarin; Azumandias has traveled extensively in his search for Orwen's charts; no doubt he anticipated I should make this my first halt."
"How could he know when you would arrive?" Calandryll demanded.
"A spy." Varent shrugged casually. "He might well employ some human agent in Secca who released a pigeon to alert him,- or, perhaps, an occult agent. Either way, he needed only use logic to deduce that my party would halt here."
Calandryll's frown deepened; Varent's smile grew broader.
"You wonder why he did not attack me? How he knew of your presence? Again, the answers lie within the realm of logic—the creatures you described are unpredictable and might have destroyed the chart and me together. Azumandias would assume I hold it, which is why it is best you keep it; also, he cannot be certain how strong my own powers have become. As for your presence, he would have learned of that from his spy."
"Then he might alert my father to your part in my escape."
Calandryll paled at the notion of Bylath sending a squadron of legion cavalry to bring him back: the prospect was somehow worse than the thought of facing monsters. Varent's laughter reassured him.
"No," said the ambassador, "had he chosen that ploy, we should have been halted before leaving Secca. I'd wager that Azumandias suspects I have the chart and wanted me to bring it out of Secca. But he acted hastily! He's shown his hand now and I can guard against further assaults."
Calandryll nodded: the explanation seemed rational enough; he wanted to believe Varent, but one doubt lingered still.
"When you came to me in my chambers," he said carefully, "you told me it was necessary to know the place."
"Indeed," Varent responded equably, "Blind transportation is horribly dangerous. One might materialize immured in a wall; or fused with a chair, say. Even magic is governed by certain physical laws, one of which is that two objects may not occupy the same space without disastrous results."
"Then Azumandias must have familiarized himself with the barn."
Varent nodded.
"How could he know I would be there?"
For an instant the dark man's equanimity faltered. His eyes hooded and he raised his napkin again, hiding his mouth.
"You do have an inquiring mind," he said at last. "How did Azumandias know you would be in the barn? Well, perhaps it was a lucky guess; or perhaps he left some occult spy here. Dera, Calandryll! Your logic outpaces me! I had not thought of that! Thank the Goddess that you did."
Abruptly he was on his feet, his handsome features troubled. Calandryll pushed his unfinished breakfast away, following him as he strode toward the door. Coins were flung carelessly to the landlord, his thanks dismissed with a hurried wave as Varent surged into the courtyard.
The wagon was already loaded, the ambassador s men saddling their mounts. Bracht stood by his stallion, his blue eyes curious as Varent, with Calandryll close on his heels, hurried to the cart and clambered beneath the gaudy canopy. Calandryll took the opportunity to toss the practice jerkin on board as Varent opened a small, ornately carved box and rummaged among the contents.
"Whelms amiss?"
Calandryll turned as Bracht led the black horse over.
"Lord Varent believes Azumandias may have some magical spy watching us."
The Kern glanced round, hand dropping to the falchion. Varent emerged from the wagon and brought his left hand to his mouth, murmuring softly. He blew and a cloud of pinkish dust rose from his spread palm, surrounding him in a roseate aura. He lifted his right hand, setting a disk of thick glass held in a silver frame to his eye. Slowly, still murmuring, he turned in a circle, surveying the courtyard.
"He's a mage?" Bracht demanded.
Calandryll nodded. "He has magical powers."
The Kern grunted sourly: it appeared such talent reduced Varent further in his estimation.
"There was something," Varent declared, "but it has gone. Dera! I should have thought of this last night."
"It would," said Bracht quietly, "have saved us some trouble."
Varent seemed not to hear him; he returned the glass to the wagon and beamed at- Calandryll.
"All is well, thank the Godd
ess. No doubt Azuman- dia? placed a spy here, but your defeat of his emissaries banished it." His smile shifted to encompass Bracht. "You both served me well—my thanks."
Calandryll returned his smile, grateful for the praise, his doubts resolved. Bracht merely nodded, his face expressionless.
"So, let us leave," Varent suggested. "Calandryll, take Darth's horse again. Bracht—you'll stay close?" '
"I'm paid to stay close," said the mercenary, reaching to his saddle. "Here, Calandryll, take this."
He tossed a sheathed sword to the younger man. Calandryll caught it and fixed the belt about his waist. He drew the sword, hefting the weight. It was a lesser weapon than either Bracht's falchion or Varent's saber, but it sat comfortably enough in his hand. The blade was straight, the steel gleaming dully with the milky look of good Eylian craftsmanship, the quillons slightly curved and rounded at the ends, the hilt wrapped in worn leather, the pommel a small globe of dull steel. He swung it a time or two, experimentally, then sheathed it.
"You owe me five varre," Bracht said.
"Dera, man!" Varent looked down from his horse. "Do you think of nothing but money?"
"I'm a freesword," the Kem answered coolly.
"I've no coin," Calandryll apologized.
Varent snorted, fumbling in his sabretache. Irritably, he flung coins in Bracht's direction. The mercenary caught them deftly, grinning as he slipped them into a pocket. "My thanks," he murmured, and swung astride is stallion.
Calandryll mounted and heeled Darth's horse into line as the cavalcade trotted out through the gates.
Varent headed the column, leading them out onto the broad highway linking Secca and Aldarin. The farms that fed the city lay behind them now, the land ahead open territory, and soon they passed the great stone piles marking the boundary of Secca's influence. Despite Varent's assurances, Calandryll breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the indicators of his father's domain go by. He felt safer now: past those markers Bylath's legionaries had no power; they could not demand his return. He began to grin, his mood lifting. The sky above was blue, strea- mered with high cirrus, wheeling birds black specks against the azure, their song a chorus of liberation. Before him spread a vista of undulating grassland, sprinkled with woods, a broad river winding, no less blue than the sky, in leisurely curves, the paved road ending on its bank, becoming a wagon trail of hard-packed black earth on the farther side.
They forded the waterway and Varent indicated that they should swing south, across open meadowland.
"If Azumandias has planned any further surprises," he explained, "they'll be on the road. We'll take the lesser trails and be in Aldarin before he knows it."
"What of his mystic spies?" asked Bracht.
"What of them?" returned Varent cheerfully. "Not even Azumandias can guess our path. We're safe for the moment: trust me."
Bracht grunted what might have been an affirmative and allowed his horse to fall back, putting a little distance between them. He seemed dissatisfied and Calandryll eased his own mount alongside.
"Why do you dislike him so?" he queried.
The Kem shrugged and shook his head, not speaking.
"I trust him," Calandryll insisted, "and he's offered only friendship."
"That serves his own purpose," Bracht murmured. "He needs you because you speak the Old Tongue and now, it seems to me, you're in his power."
"How so?" Calandryll stared at the mercenary. "He brought me out of Secca—saved me from the priesthood; risked my father's anger. Was that not the act of a friend?"
"And should you refuse his quest? What then?"
"The spaewife foretold the quest," Calandryll argued. "Varent must be one of the comrades she said I should meet; you must be the other."
"Perhaps, but that does not answer me," Bracht insisted, "You're in his power."
Calandryll frowned his incomprehension.
"You've fled from your father," Bracht explained, "and cannot return to Secca. You're without money—by Ahrd! Varent had to buy that sword for you! The horse you ride, he provided; the food you eat, he buys. Did you not agree to Varent's quest, you'd be a wanderer, a footloose vagabond. You've nowhere to go but Aldarin; and only Varent to rely on when you arrive. Without him, you'd likely starve. Do you say you're not in his power?"
"What if I am?" Calandryll grew defensive. "Aren't you?"
"He pays me," Bracht said bluntly.
Did the quest mean no more to him than that?
"I trust him. I have faith in him." Calandryll's voice was cold.
Bracht shrugged again, doubt written clear on his swarthy features.
"It is said in Cuan na'For," he remarked, "that a wizard has many faces, and keeps his true face hidden."
Calandryll found his skepticism irritating. Curtly he demanded. "And what does it mean?"
"That I do not trust him," Bracht answered evenly.
"Then why do you agree to accompany me?"
Bracht smiled, ignoring the vexed tone.
"Because he pays me," he repeated.
6
At first the journey, for all its promise of adventure, was a nightmare that not even its high purpose could assuage. Calandryll had seldom spent more than a few hours on horseback, riding to the hunt or in ceremonial parades, and now found himself rising beneath a sky still grey to saddle his borrowed mount and ride out at dawn, halting briefly at noon to eat and rest before pressing on until dusk. It seemed that every muscle in his body protested the hardship, and that compounded by the nights spent in the open, a blanket his only covering, the ground his bed. He had never passed a night in the open before; indeed, had never spent a night outside the city, and the discomfort weighed heavy, rendered the . worse by Bracht's silently critical appraisal of his awkwardness. Pride forbade that he complain, however, and so he suffered in miserable silence.
The circuitous route Varent chose meant that the way stations of the marked road were denied them, and the wagon was barely large enough to accommodate one person, reserved for Varent's use, so Calandryll, like the rest of the party, slept rough on a saddle blanket. The nights were not unduly chill, for the early promise of the spring had fulfilled itself, and the woodlands they traversed provided ample timber for fires, but still the hard ground was a far cry from the comfort of his bed and before long he found the excitement of such an adventure outweighed by the sundry lumps that dug into his ribs and the dew that each morning soaked his hair and face, and sometimes, when he had kicked off his blanket, his clothes. He wished that he could settle with Bracht's stoic indifference: the Kem simply rolled his blanket around himself each night and, his sword cradled like a lover in his arms, went soundly to sleep. So far as Calandryll could tell, ne was not troubled by disturbing dreams.
His own lingered as he rose, rubbing moisture from his face, groaning as his muscles protested, his back aching as he straightened, the thought of another day in the saddle looming like the threat of punishment. Some were vague, so nebulous that they left behind only a feeling of apprehension, an inarticulate wariness, but others remained vivid.
Initially they were of the wolf-headed monstrosities, nightmare images of fanged mouths and hate-filled red eyes, of fire and battle, but these he could understand, and after the first shock of waking, he was able to dismiss them. Others troubled him far more.
Chief among them was the image of Varent's handsome face smiling as the ambassador described the quest, then turning as the man prepared to leave, revealing a hidden face that snarled, laughing, becoming the visage of the lupine demons, his black cloak swirling, becoming a pair of vast, nigrescent wings that raised a great wind as the figure flew upward, a bat with a wolf's head, spiraling into the sky, its mocking laughter echoing behind it. Sometimes he would hear Bracht's voice then, saying, "A wizard has many faces"; and sometimes he would dream of the freesword, falchion in hand, the other scooping coins, his blue eyes filled with contempt and accusation. Sometimes he dreamed of Reba, the spaewife's musical voice repeating the word
s of the augury, and then he would see both Varent and Bracht emerge from the shadows behind the blind seeress, both beckoning him, requiring him to choose between them. He would turn to Reba then, seeking her guidance, and she would shake her head, dissolving into the candle's flame, leaving him, alone, to choose between the waiting figures.
Less often, the infrequency surprising him, he dreamed of Nadama. He would see her somewhere in the palace, in a garden or an empty hall, and she would raise her arms, smiling, and he would move toward her only to find his limbs leaden, dragging slowly as he sought to run. Tobias striding past him to sweep the girl up in his embrace, their kiss a lingering insult, their close-pressed bodies abruptly hidden behind the bulk of his father, Bylath lifting a condemning hand to point at him, his leonine features set in lines of outrage.
On all of these occasions Calandryll would wake sweating, the blanket crumpled about his feet or tossed aside, and lie staring at the night sky, listening to the snoring of Varent's men and the soft shuffling of the tethered horses, simultaneously longing for the sleep his body craved and dreading that descent into confusion. He wished that he might consult a dream-speaker, but knew that such interpretation would not be available until he arrived in Aldarin, composing himself once more to sleep only to find the camp waking when it seemed he had just shut his eyes.
He would rise then, reluctant to discuss the troublesome nocturnal visions, and dully eat his breakfast as he struggled to respond in kind to Varent's diplomatic apologies that no greater comfort was available, aware of Bracht's critical gaze as he wearily readied his borrowed horse and climbed without enthusiasm into the saddle. The two men had little to say to one another, Varent mostly remaining with the column while Bracht was constantly at Calandryll's side. The mercenary was polite enougn, and Varent appeared satisfied with him, but when they halted the Kem's silence, for all that the ambassador ignored it, seemed pointed. Calandryll felt that he studied Varent, awaiting some justification of his distrust.
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