by Allan Cole
You already are, Luka thought, wishing not for the first time that it was he who wore the crown.
But all he said was, "I'll fetch some more prisoners, Majesty. Perhaps we'll have better luck with the next batch!"
Iraj slammed his fist on his throne arm! "Nonsense!" he roared. "All of it, nonsense! You've turned my tent into a charnel house for nothing!"
He leaned forward in his throne. "Let me make myself completely clear, brothers mine," he said. "We must have this man, Safar Timura, and his ridiculous child. And we must have them immediately. I will brook no more excuses, do you hear me?"
"We hear, Majesty," both demons muttered, bowing their heads and hating him and each other.
Just then there was the sound of bootsteps, sentries snapped to attention and Kalasariz was ushered into the big tent that was Iraj's traveling palace. The spy master was leading an old woman by a long chain that was locked about her waist.
"I've brought you a little present, Majesty," Kalasariz said, yanking the chain hard so the old woman stumbled. "For your afternoon pleasure, if you will."
Iraj was so surprised that his lower face erupted into a wolf's snout. "What kind of present is this?" he growled. "A skinny old woman with bones so brittle I'd choke on them."
"I'm not for eatin'!" the old woman exclaimed. "And if yer thinks yer gonner get any fun from tormentin' a poor old soul like me, yer gots 'nother think comin', Majesty! I'm so frail that if yer touched a hair on my head I'd up and die on yers."
"How amazing," Luka murmured. "The gift talks. Not very well, but it's amazing just the same."
"And now that's she's seen us," Fari said, "we'll have to kill her. How tiresome. Like she said, she's so elderly she'll be no sport at all."
Kalasariz ignored his enemies, addressing his rebuttal directly to Protarus. "She isn't for sport, Majesty,"
he said, "but for gain. And as for seeing us, it surprises me that ones so perceptive as Prince Luka and so intuitive as Lord Fari haven't noted the woman is blind. Ergo, she isn't here for killing, but for your Majesty's possible edification."
Kalasariz shot quick gloats of victory at Luka and Fari, thinking, There you go, you sons of pig lizards.
Root around in that trash and see if I've left anything tasty behind!
Iraj peered at the woman, noting for the first time her disfigured eyes, which were entirely white as if they had been permanently rolled up into her head. The king's wolfish features dissolved into something quite human, featuring the same bright and handsome smile that had once won him so many ardent friends and supporters.
"She really is blind," he said, smile growing broader. "I like this. Now the question is entirely open on whether we kill her or not. It's been a long time since precedent was challenged."
Iraj leaned an arm on his throne, cupping his chin in his palm. He studied the old woman for a moment, noting that although her dress was stained with dirt, the material was quite expensive. "Tell me, Granny,"
he said, "What do you have to say about all this?"
"Same as I said 'afore, Majesty," she replied. "Old Sheesan ain't for killin'. And never mind I'm blind.
Don't take eyes to know yers're shape changers. Old Sheesan can smell the wolf in yer!"
"Let me kill the old bitch, then," Prince Luka said. "Since there's no longer a question of her lack of sight saving her."
The old woman snorted and turned her blind face toward Luka. "Beggin' yer pardon, Lord," she said,
"but that'd be about the stupidest thing yers could do. Yer should count yer blessin's that I'm even here
'afore yers."
Kalasariz laughed. "It's true," he said. "We didn't capture her, you know. She turned herself in and demanded to see someone in charge." He tapped his breast. "Which is when I stepped in."
He turned to Iraj. "In case you haven't noticed, Majesty," he said, "the woman is a witch. She claims she can use her witchery to help us track down Safar Timura."
Luka and Fari made derisive noises, displaying rare agreement. Iraj made no comment, but he stared at the old woman in disbelief.
Finally, he said, "Are you saying that this hag can do what all of us combined haven't been able to accomplish?"
Kalasariz started to speak but the old woman beat him to it with a prolonged bout of cackling and coughing.
"Hag, you say?" she chortled. "Just an old bag of bones with a hank of hair on top. That's what'cher thinks of me, does yer?"
Then she composed herself, crossing her arms over wizened breasts. "All's it'll cost yers is a purse of gold, Majesty," she said. "A nice fat one, if yer please. And I'll deliver Safar Timura to yers soon enough."
"I can't believe I'm listening to this," Luka said. "An old woman dares to ask a price for what she should give us freely. What is Esmir coming to? Is there no dignity left in this court?"
"If it's dignity yer wantin', Me Lord," the old woman said, "it'll cost yers two purses, not one. Dignity spells don't come cheap, 'specially when I gots some fiend like yerself fer a client. No insult intended, I'm sure. I'm only speakin' the facts, here." She sniffed at the air and wrinkled her nose. "Shape changers make such a stink," she went on. "Can't do nothin' 'bout that. Even if yer was to give me three purses of gold."
While Luka was choking on this insult-to the vast enjoyment of the others-the witch turned her blind face to Iraj.
"Purse a gold's me price, Majesty," she said. "But most of it won't be fer the likes of me, if it gives yer comfort. Be lucky if I can keep a coin fer meself, as matter of fact. The rest'll go to me dear sisters of the crucible."
Iraj gawked at her, then he looked at Kalasariz. "What in the blazes is she talking about?" he asked.
"Purses of gold and sisters of cups, or whatever. Is this a jest, my lord? If it is, it's in damned poor taste."
The old woman started to speak again, but Kalasariz yanked viciously on the chain, silencing her.
"It's quite simple, Majesty," the spy master said. "This remarkable woman is not a thing of beauty, I admit; or at least not in any conventional sense. She's beautiful enough, however, when judged by her position and talents.
"It seems that this … this … creature … is quite an influential person in her own sphere. It so happens that Old Sheesan is an elder in the Witches' Guild, which has members in every city and hamlet in Esmir.
"What she proposes to do is to contact every member of her Guild, promising fat rewards for any and all sightings of Safar Timura. The earlier we get notice, the richer the reward. Finally, if a witch should trap Lord Timura, or one of his key people, there will be a special bounty above and beyond all other rewards."
Old Sheesan raised a finger. "And I'll be wantin' commissions on all's a them," she said. "Includin' the bounty."
"What a greedy thing she is," Lord Fari said admiringly. "But she makes such good sense I'm inclined to recommend it." He bowed to Kalasariz. "A remarkable find, my good fellow. My congratulations."
"Well, I don't like it at all," Luka grumbled.
The old woman sniffed. "What's not to like? A bit a gold gets the whole sisterhood in yer camp. Witches all over Esmir'll be on the lookout for this Safar Timura feller. And they'll be at it day and night, I tells yer.
Day and night. Sniffin' ever stranger comes to their village, tossin' bones or lookin' into their crystals for some sign of him.
"Time's are hard for witches just now. What with droughts and plagues makin' money so scarce. Use to get a bit of silver for yer spell makin'. Curin' boils, or castin' the evil eye and such. Now, yer lucky if yer can get a skinny chicken for yer pot. Which is why yer gettin' us so cheap, Me Lords. A whole army of witches for a single purse of gold."
At first Iraj had been merely amused by Old Sheesan, but the more she talked the more amusement dissolved into intense interest. As he stared at her, Iraj suddenly caught a flash of someone quite different than the toothless hag standing before him. It was as if curtains were momentarily parted to reveal a shimmering creature of in
credible beauty. Then the curtains closed and the image was gone.
The old woman cackled knowingly-as if she had just shared a great secret with the king.
Iraj gripped the throne arms, so overcome by emotion that his wolf snout erupted through his face.
"Woman," he said, "if you bring me Safar Timura's head I will make you richer than any queen."
The old woman giggled, sounding remarkably girlish. "Imagine that," she said, primping her greasy hair.
"Old Sheesan a queen!"
And Iraj thought, yes, yes I can imagine.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MISSION TO NAADAN
The demon glared down at Safar, fangs bared, yellow eyes narrow with suspicion. "State your business, human!"
Safar staved off nausea as the soldier's foul breath washed over him and forced his most jovial smile.
"Profit and entertainment, sergeant," Safar said. "If not the first, why we'll settle for the second. Especially if it comes with ale."
Beside him, Leiria smacked her lips. "I hear Nadaan makes the best ale in all Esmir," she said.
The demon soldier peered at her, noting her dirty mail and even dirtier sword. His eyes swept on, taking in the ox-drawn wagon and the three heavily-laden camels. Besides Safar and Leiria, who were both leading horses, there were four other humans-a driver for the wagon and three men to tend the camels.
There was something decidedly shabby about the group. Their clothes were unkempt, the animals' fur was clotted-even the canvas covering of the wagon was filthy.
The demon snorted in disgust. "You call this a caravan?"
Safar sighed, leaning against the portable barricade blocking the road. Five soldiers-three of them human and all wearing the uniforms of Protarus' troops-guarded the barricade. About a mile beyond were the Naadan city walls.
"It's a long story sergeant," he said. "And not a very pleasant one, either. A year ago I was sitting pretty.
A dozen wagons, a score of camels plus horses and men and…" he glanced at Leiria, lowering his voice,
"…And I had a proper guard, if you know what I mean. Six outriders and a retired captain of the king's own to lead them."
He let his voice rise again. "But you don't want to hear my tale of woe, sergeant. Times being what they are, there's hundreds of poor merchants just like me all over Esmir. So broke we clatter like a glazier's cart on a badly cobbled street. All we ask is a chance to get back on top again. Hell's, I'd settle for just staying even!"
The demon shrugged, massive shoulders rising like mailed mountains. "What do I care, human? You and your entire shabby lot can turn into dust and blow across the desert, for all it means to me."
He jabbed a taloned-thumb at the gates of Nadaan. From beyond came the caterwaul of bad music and the babble of a great crowd. "Besides, rules'r rules. If you wanna to sell your trash at the Naadan Fair you gotta have a permit. No riffraff allowed. And that's my job-to keep out the riffraff."
Once again his eyes swept Safar's ragged outfit, but this time his look was more meaningful. "Smells like riffraff to me," he said.
Safar slipped a fat purse from his sleeve. He gave it a good shake so the silver rattled.
The demon's long, scaly ears perked up at the sound.
"Are you sure we can't come to some sort of arrangement, sergeant?" he asked. "Hmm?"
As they came to the city gates Leiria cantered closer to Safar. "You're getting to be such a good liar," she teased. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself?"
Actually, he was. As far as Leiria and the others knew they were in Naadan on a routine raiding mission.
Which was far from the truth.
"I'm not ashamed one bit," Safar laughed. "But I am damned thirsty. In fact, before we get down to the business of robbery why don't we try some of that famous Naadan ale?"
Leiria wrinkled her hose. "I was just looking for something nice to say," she laughed. "Actually, I hear their ale tastes like mare's piss," she said. "But he looked like the sort of creature who liked mare's piss, if you know what I mean."
She made a rueful face. "Guess I'm getting pretty good at lying myself."
Safar flinched and looked away so she didn't see the guilt in his eyes.
Inside the gates all was madness. It was the last day of the fair and the streets were packed with revelers.
Traffic was a great drunken weave with no apparent purpose or goal. There were tribes and villagers from all over the vast high desert region. There were painted faces, scarred faces, veiled faces, faces with filed teeth, faces pierced with jewelry, and, yes, even a few faces that would have been ordinary except they stood out among so many exotics.
Until recent years the Naadan Harvest Festival-which the fair celebrated-had been a minor event that drew only nearby farmers and herdsmen. It certainly hadn't been large enough to entice Methydia to stop with her circus when she and Safar had passed this way. The circus had instead gone to Silver Rivers, a much larger and richer town and many miles distant. But a series of disasters had reduced Silver Rivers to a ghost city, where the only inhabitants were bandits. Silver Rivers' misfortune, however, had been Naadan's good luck. Five years of rich harvests-so rare in recent times that it seemed a miracle-had turned the city into a thriving center of life and commerce.
The once sleepy water hole in the middle of the Northern Plains now enticed people from hundreds of miles around-including Safar Timura and his band, who quickly unburdened themselves of their paltry caravan by simply walking away from it. Sharp-eyed thieves led the wagon and animals off before Safar and the others had melted into the crowd. Just as the shrewd demon sergeant had noted the caravan was worthless. The goods were trash. The animals spavined. They were all surplus booty from an encounter that had gone badly for a group of seedy bandits.
"So much for my debut as a merchant prince," Safar joked, after they'd all found a grog shop and had ordered up mugs of cold wine. "Shed my whole caravan and didn't earn a clipped copper for my troubles."
Renor, who had been driving the wagon, snorted. "Oh, I don't know about that, sir. We couldn't throw the stuff away or bury it because it'd give us away. And the animals were not only useless, but eating us out of hearth and home. Hells, we made a profit just by getting rid of them."
He took a long happy drink from his mug. "Least, that's how I see it, Lord Tim-" and one of his companions elbowed him before he could get the whole name out.
Realizing he was in the middle of a packed bar, and someone might overhear him, Renor blushed and ducked his head. "Sorry," he said. "I'm not used to so many people about."
A man staggered into their table, sloshing his drink all over them. "That's what I tole him," the man roared into Safar's face. "An' if he dares say the same thin' to me again, while I'll spit in his face! The dirty son of a…" and then the man realized Safar was a stranger and his voice trailed off. He burped and pulled back.
"You're not my friend," he said, surprised. Then he shrugged. "Just don't tell nobody, right?"
"Right!" Safar said and the man staggered away. He turned back to Renor. "No need for sorries," he said. "In this place we're as safe as in the middle of a forest."
Unnoticed by them, across the room the drunk suddenly straightened. He looked back at Safar's table, measuring with sober eyes. Then he smiled and exited the tavern whistling a merry tune.
Back at the table, Safar refilled everyone's mugs, saying, "You're in charge of this little expedition, Leiria.
Why don't you give us our orders now so we can drink up and be on our way?"
Leiria nodded. "This should be fairly simple," she said. "Easier than most, as a matter of fact, because we have a good map of Naadan, thanks to that little trove of maps we got from Coralean.
"You've all got your copies, right?" The men all nodded, but just the same they patted their pockets to make sure. "And you all know which area you're to do your snooping in, right?" More nods.
"Fine. Now, here's what to look for. If you have barracks in your sec
tor, check to see how many beds they have. That'll tell us the exact number of soldiers on hand during normal times. My guess is that most of the soldiers we're seeing are here temporarily for fair duty and will be gone within a day or two.
"Also, if there are any storehouses in your area of search, see what kinds of grains, food, clothing, etcetera are inside. The more portable the better. Pay close attention to this, because we want to have a good shopping list drawn up when we show up here with our army to talk things over with the king.
Quintal, I think his name is.
"We also need first hand knowledge of all the ways in and out of the city. Maps are good, but they aren't always up to date, or even accurate when they are. We don't want to have to beat a hasty retreat, then find that the gate we're heading for-a gate clearly indicated on our map-has long since been covered up. Or was just a royal architect's dream that never got funding."
She looked at each man. "Is that all clear? You understand what you're supposed to do and how to do it? I know we've gone over it all before, but I want to make sure. We can't afford any mistakes. Protarus'
soldiers are none too bright, but they can be as error-prone as they like. For us one mistake might be a death sentence."
Everyone said they understood. Then, to avoid suspicion by getting up and leaving en-masse, they drifted away one-by-one, until only Leiria remained. She stared at him, eyes narrowed with sudden suspicion.
"What's going on, Safar?" she asked
"Going on?" Safar said, all innocence. "Why, what ever do you mean?"
She kept staring, eyes ferreting for some sign beneath Safar's bland features. Finally she sighed. "Never mind," she said. "I'm sorry I asked."
And then she was gone. Safar caught a serving wench by the elbow and ordered up another jug of wine.
His assignment was to investigate the city's central arena where the sporting matches were going on-and to get a close look at the Naadanian king. At least that's what Leiria thought. Actually, Safar's mission was much more difficult.