by Larry Niven
It was not until Dardash felt pebbles beneath his hands and stood up, his nearly naked body only knee-deep in water, that she became aware of his presence. She froze in the act of unbuttoning her chiton, breasts partly exposed, and gave him a level stare that signaled surprise and anger but, he was thrilled to note, no hint of fear.
“I had presumed myself alone,” she said coldly, her beautiful face queenly in displeasure. “Suddenly the very sea is crowded.”
“There is no crowd,” Dardash replied, courting her with his smile. “Only the two of us.”
“Soon there will only be you.” The woman turned, picked up the net pouch that contained her toiletries, and strode away from him toward the narrow entrance to the cove. Sunlight piercing the fine material of her clothing outlined her body and limbs, striking fire behind Dardash’s eyes.
“Wait,” he said, deciding that a challenge could be the most effective way of capturing her interest. “Surely you are not afraid?”
The woman gave a barely perceptible toss of her head and continued walking, beginning to move out of sight between outcroppings of rock. Impelled by a growing sense of urgency, Dardash went after her with long strides, convinced that were he to fail this time he would never again have a night’s peace. He had almost reached the woman, was breathing the scent of her waist-length black hair, when an inner voice warned him that he was behaving foolishly. He halted, turned to check a deep cleft in the rocks to his left, and groaned as he realized he was much too late.
The braided leather whip whistled like a war arrow as it flailed through the air, catching him just above the elbow, instantaneously binding his arms to his sides.
Dardash reacted by continuing his turn, intending to coil the whip farther around his body and thus snatch it from its user’s grasp, but there was a flurry of footsteps and a glint of sunlight on armor, and the weight of a man hit him behind the knees, bringing him down. Other armed men, moving with practiced speed, dropped on top of him, and he felt thongs tighten around his wrists and ankles. Within the space of three heartbeats he was immobile and helpless and sick with anger at having allowed himself to be trapped so easily.
Narrowing his eyes against the glare from the sky, he looked up at his captors. There were four men wearing conical helmets and studded leather cuirasses. They did not look like soldiers, but the similarity of their equipment suggested they were in the employ of a person of wealth. A fifth figure, that of the woman, joined them, causing Dardash to turn his gaze away. He had no wish to see a look of triumph or contempt on her face, and in any case his mind was busy with the question of who had instigated the attack against him. In his earlier years he had made many enemies, but most of them had long since died, and latterly he had devoted so much time to his scrolls that there had scarcely been the chance to incur the wrath of anybody who mattered.
“Tell me the name of your master,” he said, making himself sound patient and only mildly interested. He wanted to give the impression that he was unconcerned about his safety, that he was holding tremendous magical powers in reserve, although he was actually quite helpless. Most magic required protracted and painstaking preparation, and the ruffians standing over him could easily end his life at any moment if they so desired.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” the tallest man said. He had a reddish stubble of a beard, and one of his nostrils had been excised by an old wound that had left a diagonal scar on his face.
“You owe him no loyalty,” Dardash said, experimenting with the possibilities of his situation. “By sending you against me he has placed you in terrible danger.”
Red-beard laughed comfortably. “I must be a braver man than I thought—I feel absolutely no fear.”
You will, Dardash vowed inwardly, if I get out of this alive. The sobering realization that this could be the last day of his life caused him to lapse into a brooding silence while the four men brought a wooden litter from its place of concealment behind nearby rocks. They rolled him onto it, none too gently, and carried him up the steep slope to the higher ground of the plain that spanned most of Koldana. The woman, now more normally clad in an all-enveloping burnoose, led the way. Dardash, still trying to guess why he had been taken, derived little comfort from the fact that his captors had not run a sword through him as soon as they had the chance. Their master, if he was an enemy worth considering, would want to dispose of him in person—and quite possibly by some means that would give all concerned plenty of time to appreciate what was happening.
When the party reached level ground, Dardash craned his neck, expecting to see some kind of conveyance that would be used to transport him inland, but instead there was a square tent only a few hundred paces away, positioned just far enough from the shore to be invisible from his islet home. The tent had an awning supported on gilded poles, and near it perhaps a dozen horses and pack animals cropped the sparse vegetation. It was obviously a temporary camp set up by a personage of some importance, one who was not prepared to travel far without the trappings of luxury, and it came to Dardash that he would not be kept in ignorance of his fate much longer. He lay back on the litter and feigned indifference.
The woman ran on ahead of the others, presumably to announce their arrival, and when the group of men reached the tent she was holding the entrance flaps aside for them. They carried Dardash into the lemon-colored shade within, set the litter down, and left without speaking, closing the entrance behind them. Dardash, his eyes rapidly adjusting to the change of lighting, saw that he was alone with a plump, heavily mustached man whose skin was as smooth and well oiled as that of a young concubine. He was dressed in costly silks, and Dardash noted with a quickening of interest—and hope—that astrological symbols were woven into the dark blue of his robe. In Dardash’s experience, astrologers were rarely men of violence—except of course toward those who made their predictions go wrong, and he was quite certain he had not done anything along those lines.
“I am Urtarra, astrologer at the court of King Marcurades,” the man said. “I am sorry at having brought you here by such devious means, but—”
“Devious!” Dardash snorted his contempt. “It was the simplest and most childish trick ever devised.”
“Nevertheless, it worked.” Urtarra paused to let the implication of his words sink in. “I do hope that doesn’t mean that you are simple and childish, because if you are, you will be unequal to the task I have in mind for you.”
“You’ll learn how childish I am,” Dardash promised, his anger growing apace with his new certainty that he was not about to be slain. “You’ll learn a great deal about me as soon as I am free of these bonds.”
Urtarra shook his head. “I have already learned all I need to know about you, and I am not stupid enough to release you until you have heard my proposal and agreed to work for me.” He eyed Dardash’s robust frame. “You look as though you could wreak considerable damage, even without magical aids.”
Dardash almost gasped aloud at the extent of the other man’s presumption. “I don’t know what miserable little desires you harbor, but I can tell you one thing: I will never serve you in any way.”
“Ah, but you will!” Urtarra looked amused as he rearranged the cushions on which he was seated. “The fact of the matter is that I have certain unusual talents, powers which are related to your own in a way. I am a seer. I have the gift of being able to part the veils of time and divine something of what the future holds in store—and I have seen the two of us making a journey together.”
“A seer?” Dardash glanced at the planetary symbols on Urtarra’s robes. “I don’t regard fiddling with abacus and astrolabe as—”
“Nor do I, but young King Marcurades does not believe in any form of magic, not even my modest variety. He is a philosopher, you must understand—one of that breed of men who put their faith in irrigation schemes rather than weather spells, armor rather than amulets. It would be impossible for me to remain at his court were I to use my powers openly. Instead, I must pre
tend that my predictions spring from the science of astrology. I have nothing against astrology, of course, except that it lacks…um…precision.”
“Your own visions are similarly lacking,” Dardash said with emphasis. “I have no intention of making any journey with you, nor will I serve you in any…What sort of chore did you have in mind, anyway? The usual unimaginative trivia? Preparing a love potion? Turning useful lead into useless gold?”
“No, no, no, something much more appropriate to a magician of your standing.” Urtarra paused to stare into Dardash’s face, and when he spoke again his voice was low and earnest. “I want you to kill King Marcurades.”
Dardash’s immediate and instinctive response was to begin a new struggle to break free of his bonds. He writhed and quivered on the litter, straining to loosen or snap his restraints, but the thongs were stout and had been expertly tied, and even his unusual strength was of no avail. Finally he lapsed into immobility, sweating, his gaze fixed on the roof of the tent.
“Why exhaust yourself?” Urtarra said reasonably. “Does the life of the king mean so much to you?”
“My concern is for my own life,” Dardash replied. He had scant regard for rank—a prince had no more standing in his scheme of things than a pot-mender—but the young King Marcurades was a rare phenomenon in that he was a ruler who was universally admired by his subjects. In the five years since he had ascended to the throne of Koldana, Marcurades had secured the country’s boundaries, expanded its trade, abolished taxes, and devoted himself to farsighted schemes for the improvement of agriculture and industry. Under his aegis the populace were experiencing stability and prosperity to an unprecedented degree, and in return they were fiercely loyal, from the most illustrious general right down to the humblest farm worker. Dardash found it difficult to conceive of a project more foolhardy than the proposed assassination of such a king.
“Admittedly, no ordinary man could undertake the task and hope to live,” Urtarra said, accurately divining Dardash’s thoughts, “but you are no ordinary man.”
“Nor do I take heed of flattery. Why do you wish the king dead? Are you in league with his heirs?”
“I am acting only for myself—and the people of Koldana. Let me show you something.” Urtarra raised one hand and pointed at a wall of the tent. The material rippled in a way that had nothing to do with the breeze from the sea, then seemed to dissolve into mist. Through swirls of opalescent vapor, Dardash saw the erect and handsome figure of a young king standing in a chariot that was being drawn through the streets of a city. Cheering crowds pressed in on each side, with mothers holding their infants aloft to give them a better view, and maidens coming forward to strew the chariot’s path with flowers.
“That is Marcurades now,” Urtarra murmured, “but let us look forward and see the course which is to be followed by the river of time.”
Conjured images began to appear and fade in rapid succession, compressing time, and by means of them Dardash saw the king grow older, and with the passage of the years changes occurred in his mien. He became tight-lipped and bleak-eyed, and gradually the aspect of the royal processions altered. Great numbers of soldiers marched before and behind the king, and engines of war were in evidence. The crowds who lined the routes still cheered, but few infants or maidens were to be seen, and the onlookers were noticeably shabbier of dress and thinner of face.
The prescience that Dardash was experiencing was more than simply a progression of images. Knowledge, foreknowledge, was being vouchsafed to him in wordless whispers, and he knew that the king was to be corrupted by power and ambition, to become increasingly cruel and insane. He was to raise armies and conquer neighboring countries, thus augmenting his military might. Marcurades was to turn his back on all his enlightened reforms and civil engineering projects. Finally he was to attempt to increase his domain a thousandfold, plunging the entire region into a series of terrible wars and catastrophes resulting in the total annihilation of his people.
As the last dire vision faded, and the wall of the tent became nothing more than a slow-billowing square of cloth, Dardash looked at Urtarra with new respect. “You are a seer,” he said. “You have a gift which even I can only envy.”
“Gift? Curse is a better word for it.” For an instant Urtarra’s smooth face looked haunted. “I could well do without such visions and the burden or responsibility they bring.”
“What burden? Now that you know what is preordained for Koldana and its people, all you have to do is journey to some safe country and live out your life in peace. That’s what I’m going to do.”
“But I am not you,” Urtarra said. “And the events we saw are not preordained. Time is like a river, and the course of a river can be altered; that’s why you must kill the king before it is too late.”
Dardash settled back on the litter. “I have no intention of involving myself in anything so troublesome and dangerous. Why should I?”
“But you have just seen the miseries that are held in store for multitudes—the wars and plagues and famines.”
“What’s that to me?” Dardash said casually. “I have my own problems to contend with, and very little time in which to do it. I’ll make you an offer: You release me now and I will promise to go my separate way without harming you or any of your company.”
“I was told you thought only of yourself,” Urtarra said, his eyes mirroring a cynical amusement, “but it was hard to believe a man could be so lacking in compassion.”
“Believe it.” Dardash proffered his bound wrists. “Let’s get this over with no more waste of time.”
“There is one thing you have not considered,” Urtarra said, his voice oddly enigmatic as he rose to his feet and walked to a richly ornamented chest that sat in one corner of the tent. “I am willing to repay you for your services.”
Dardash gave a humorless laugh. “With what? Gold or precious stones? I can conjure them out of dung! The favors of that whore who lingers outside? I can recruit a hundred like her in any city. You have nothing which could possibly interest me. Soothsayer.”
“That is most regrettable,” Urtarra said mildly as he stooped and took something from the chest. “I hoped you might find something worthy of your attention in this.”
He turned and Dardash saw that he was holding a piece of parchment, roughly two handsbreadths in length, which had obviously been cut from a scroll. Dardash gave the parchment a bored glance and was turning his head away again when there came a thrill of recognition: It bore lines of writing in the Old Language, the same enigmatic and impenetrable script of his own twelve scrolls. Apart from the compilations of spells that had defeated his understanding for decades, no other matter written in the Old Language had come his way. Dardash tilted his head for a better view, trying to decide what kind of text the fragment represented, and suddenly—as though he had been stricken by a superior magic—he was unable to speak or breathe. His heartbeat became a tumult of thunder within his chest, and bright-haloed specks danced across his vision as he absorbed the realization that the parchment in Urtarra’s hands was written in two languages.
Under each line of the Old Language was a corresponding line, a mixture of ideograms and phonetic symbols, which Dardash identified as late-period Accosian, one of the near-defunct languages he had mastered many years earlier.
“This is only a fragment, of course,” Urtarra said. “I have the remainder of the scroll hidden in a secure place, but if it’s of no interest to you…”
“Don’t toy with me—I don’t like it.” Dardash briefly considered the fact that the key that would unlock the secrets of his twelve scrolls would make him virtually immortal, with all the incredible powers of the ancient warlocks, and decided he should modify his attitude toward Urtarra. “I admit to having a certain scholarly interest in old writings, and am prepared to offer a fair price for good examples. The assassination of a king is out of the question, of course, but there are many other—”
“And don’t you toy with me,” U
rtarra cut in. “Marcurades has to die; otherwise the entire scroll will be consigned to the fire.”
The threat cast a chill shadow in Dardash’s mind.
“On the other hand, the world has seen an abundance of kings,” he said slowly. “Is it a matter of any real consequence whether we have one more—or one less?”
It was close to noon by the time Dardash had selected the magical equipment he thought he would need and had brought it ashore by raft. He supervised the loading of the material and some personal effects onto two mules, then turned to Urtarra with a slight frown.
“Just to satisfy my curiosity,” he said, “how were you able to find my unobtrusive little island? I believed I had it quite well concealed.”
“It was very well concealed—from the eyes of men,” Urtarra replied, allowing himself to look satisfied. “But birds can see it from on high, and you have many of them nesting there.”
“What difference does that make?”
“To me, none; to the hawks I have been releasing, a great deal.”
“I see,” Dardash said thoughtfully, suddenly aware that Urtarra, for all his eunuchoid softness, would make a highly dangerous adversary. “Have you ever thought of becoming a sorcerer?”
“Never! I’m troubled enough by visions as it is. Were I to introduce new elements, I might forfeit sleep altogether.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” Dardash swung himself up into the saddle of the horse that had been provided for him. “Tell me, do you ever foresee your own death?”
“No seer can do that—not until he is ready.” Urtarra gave him an odd smile and made a signal to his four guards and the young woman, all of whom were already on horseback and waiting some distance away. They moved off immediately, taking a southeasterly course for Bhitsala, the capital city of Koldana. The plain was shimmering with heat, and at the horizon there was no clear distinction between land and sky.