by Larry Niven
The night had turned cold, fire or no. They wore the cloaks Whitey had insisted they carry. Morth donned an impressive robe.
Whitecap Mountain broke the silence. "I know why the town of Fair Chance came to be deserted."
"That's a good story, but a partial truth," Morth said. "I sense a tribal secret at its heart. You won't tell that. As for me, my tale hasn't happened yet. My tale is that I must destroy the water sprite that wants my life. Living here is driving me mad."
"Go inland," Whitey said as if he was tired of repeating it.
"When I came here I was running from a wave. I climbed, thinking that water could not flow up so steep a slope. Water doesn't have to! A wave isn't a moving block of water, it's a pattern moving through water. The sprite can flow like a wave. It came to me through the ground water. It lives below me. When I go down to the spring, I go fast. I'll show you tomorrow, if you like."
Green Stone asked, "Is that safe?"
"Oh, you can watch from above. Get a view of the immediate danger. Whandall, what I want from you and your caravan is transport. Take me inland, out of its reach. Take me to the Hemp Road."
"You'd settle there?" Willow would love that!
"Oh, no," Morth said. "I'm going to finish this. I'm going to kill the water sprite. I think I have to return to the Burning City to do that."
Whandall said, "You're been trapped on a mountain for twenty years. This thing has hunted you for more than forty, and now you've decided to kill it. Is that about the size of it?"
Morth grinned in the yellow light of burning gold. "I can't tell you all of it."
"Morth, you can't even tell me part of it. You can't even get off this mountain!"
"That I might manage. I'd have to outrun the elemental. Water's natural path is downhill. I might run myself to death. But with transport to carry me farther, I might make it."
"And then you might just think you'd done all a man could do!"
"Once upon a time I thought I could rob Yangin-Atep's life. Steal the fire god's manna."
Nobody but Whandall laughed. The others had barely heard of Yangin-Atep; they couldn't know his power. Whandall asked, "What stopped you?"
"I saw less evidence of the god every decade. Yangin-Atep must be almost mythical by now, and I could never find where his life is centered. But the hope kept me there much longer than I should have stayed."
Whandall knew he was staring. "Why didn't you ask? Yangin-Atep lives in the cook fires!"
Anil he knew Carver's look: appalled and amused. Whandall had never
learned to hoard information.
Morth paled. "In the fires. I'm a fool. I never asked the thieves!"
They were still arguing when it became impossible not to sleep. Whandall didn't remember whether he saw flowing rock, but the stone chairs were all stone couches in the morning.
Chapter 55
Morth stopped at a shallow rain-etched dip in the rock, damp at the bottom, to pick up a bucket. Then he led them to the edge of an abrupt drop. He pointed down along a bare rock face.
"See the streak where the rock changes color? That's overflow from the spring."
Whitey said, "Right."
Morth dropped over the edge.
Whandall could have caught his robe-would have, were he a child or a friend. But Morth wasn't falling. He was running down the mountain's side, weaving through the rubble. Once Whandall would not have believed what he saw. Morth dropped as fast as a falling man, zigzagging toward the gleam of water that marked the spring. He ran past it, dragging the bucket, and was already moving uphill, laughing like a maniac.
Water splashed up after him. Morth led it, still faster than a man, but he had been moving faster yesterday.
The men threw themselves backward as the wave came over the crest. Morth ran across the dip, emptying his bucket halfway, then turned and gestured. The wave crashed into the dip.
Morth was panting hard as they came up, but he was laughing too. Water half filled the dip. It lay almost still, rippling as if in a strong wind.
Whitey asked, "Wouldn't you love to be watching, first time he tried that?"
"I take it you can't trap it?" Whandall asked Morth.
"No, and enchanting the spring doesn't trap it either. A water elemental is a fundamental thing, and exceedingly slippery."
"All right. If this works, you'll owe Puma Tribe and my family too. Puma you can pay in refined gold," Whandall said. "Right, Whitey?"
Whitey nodded. "But ask Lilac. We change any oaths by mutual agreement only."
"My family might ask other things," Whandall said. "Tattoos, for instance. If we can get you as far as Road's End, the New Castle will ask three boons."
"I don't believe I can duplicate that tattoo."
Green Stone's disappointment didn't show at all. The boy was a natural trader. Whandall said. "We'll think of something. You pay in magic. Three tasks."
"I offered one."
"Did I accept? It got pretty sleepy last night."
Morth looked into Whandall's grin and decided not to make that claim. He said, "One when I'm free of the mountain. One at Road's End. One when the sprite is myth."
"Morth, you have no reason to think you can myth out a water elemental!"
Morth said nothing.
It's two wishes, then. "Done. It's... midmorning? And the sprite wouldn't stop us from going down? Whitey?"
"It stops Morth. Only trouble I ever had," the Puma said, "I tried to stop at the spring for a drink. Wagonmaster, I still think you should have taken gold. Wizard, we'll be down before nightfall. The wagon will move at first light, north to the trail and then east. We don't stop."
"If I don't get down alive, the talisman box is yours, and the provisions in it. I renewed the spell. I'll enchant this one too before I go down."
Whandall said, "That's settled. Now tell the bird. Seshmarls?"
"Help me, Whandall Seshmarl-"
"Good bird. Morth, you tell the wagons-"
"Whandall let me teach you how to make the bird carry your messages."
Whandall listened. He mimicked the bird's secret name, then spoke a few words. The bird looked at him in disgust.
Whandall grumbled, "My children learned all by themselves. Why don't I?"
"You have less magical talent than anyone I ever met," Morth said. "Interesting that your children don't share that disability."
"Disability."
Morth grinned. "You're an emptiness any god can fill. You just can't keep them out. Feathersnake Inn! And you'll never be a wizard, of course, but this you can learn."
Whandall practiced the bird's secret name, blowing the syllables out
with pulled checks, then curling his tongue for the shrill whistle that ended it. He spoke his messages. "Tell the Puma wagons to return at their own pace. Whitecap Mountain has gold to pay them for their trouble. Rordray will get his boxes late. Late and loaded with red meat-mammoth if we can get it, elk or antelope or bison otherwise-and spices. Maybe we can find spices in the Stone Needles-"
"Keep messages simple," Morth, said.
"Was that-"
"It's getting too long. Say, 'Message ends. Seshmarls, go.' "
"Message ends. Seshmarls, go."
"My hope lies in your shadow," the bird said, and took flight.
Whandall and the others began their descent. The sooner they were down, the better.
Lilac drove. Brush grew everywhere and the land was uneven. She had to be exceedingly careful until they reached flat ground, and wary after that. They wouldn't reach the trade road until after noon. A man on foot could run circles around them, Whandall figured, let alone a wizard.
They saw a column of mist drifting down the mountain and guessed at the waterfall within it.
Near the foot of the mountain Lilac made out a dot moving just enough to catch her attention. Whandall said, "Whitey? He might need help."
"Shall I hold his hand while he drowns?"
Whandall swung down from the wag
on.
"I'll go. Tend your wagon." Whitecap Mountain dropped beside him and jogged away. Whandall lost track of him in some brush, and after that he was harder to see and moving faster.
There was something about weres, Whandall speculated. Did their magic-did all magic-work better when nobody watched? There must be things, processes, that an observer could not watch without altering them... .
Morth would know. Whandall jogged back to the wagon.
Sometime later Whitey strolled up carrying Morth's pack. Whitey stowed it and loped off to rejoin Morth.
Whandall wasn't sure they'd reached the trade road until late afternoon. Several times he was minded to ask Lilac to stop. The closer Morth got, the more those dots moved like a pair of cripples.
No danger showed. But Whandall could picture water flowing out of the ground into a mountainous bubble, over the wagon, bison drowning, Lilac and Green Stone drowning... . They should have brought a mer. A mer underwater could still act.
They came closer. Morth leaned heavily on Whitecap Mountain.
Whitey wasn't enjoying this at all. Morth looked like an old man dying of exertion. Dirty gray hair and beard, skin like cured leather, eyes too weary to look up. He was still moving taster than the wagon, but enough was enough. Whandall told Lilac to stop and let the bison graze.
They laid Morth in the wagon bed.
The sun was setting, but a full moon had crested the horizon. Whandall remembered a stream within their reach if they could keep going by night.
They were trying to reach water while they fled a water elemental. The irony did not escape Whandall's attention. Men could carry water, but bison must have a pool or stream. The path to Great Hawk Bay followed the water sources.
Ask Morth.... Morth was looking better already, but best to let him sleep.
Chapter 56
Rordray's massive dinner fed them all during the next day. Morth didn't eat much. His strength was slow returning even though he had packed something in the second cold iron box. Talisman, he said. Don't look. He reached in from time to time.
That night he slept like a dead man.
The next day he was fizzing with energy. Lilac taught him something of how to guide a bison team, just to keep him occupied. Later he went off with Whitey to hunt. They came back with half a dozen rabbits.
They camped and set the rabbits broiling while there was still light. Morth lifted a clay-capped vessel of wine, the last of what Rordray had packed, and offered it.
Whandall said, "Not for me. Morth, we should know more about what's chasing us. Who hates you that much? Where did they get something that powerful?"
"Oh, that was easy. They just diverted the nearest water sprite and sent it to kill me. It was moving an iceberg-" Morth laughed at their bewilderment. "The wells in Atlantis ran dry a thousand years ago. We used to send elementals south to break off mountains of ice and bring them to Atlantis for fresh water. The southland is all ice and untouched manna, because wizards can't survive there. Elementals gain immense power.
"But that's the real question, isn't it? Why? They were in a rage. They'd been in a rage for nearly a year. We all were."
"Why?"
"The Gift of the King." Morth carefully cracked the clay stopper and drank before he went on.
"We were the lords of magic. Our wealth made us targets for every barbarian who might hear tales of us, and the very land beneath us was trying to return to the sea. Every twenty, thirty years we'd lose a day walk of beachfront. If Atlantis lost the skills of magic, it was all over.
"King Tranimel came to decide that the power of magic has no limit. It's as crazy as thinking a tribe of bandits can steal from each other forever-no offense, Whandall."
Whandall said, "After all, we don't see wealth being made. It just appears, always in somebody else's hands. We only need to gather it."
"You still say we?"
"We Lordkin. It's been a long time. So the King decided... ?"
"If wizards had held Atlantis above the waves for all these years, it must be that we can do anything. The King decided to make everything perfect."
Whandall could hear him grinding his teeth. Then, "Nothing is ever perfect, but Atlantis came closer than any nation on Earth. One day a King of Atlantis would achieve perfection. Tranimel would be that King.
"We wizards learn to use spells that do their work without showy side effects. Spells fail as time passes," Morth said. "A palace doesn't need to rise from the earth in a blaze of light. Better plows and crop rotation make fertility ceremonies more effective. You see? Less gets you more, if you do it right. But magic always looks too easy!
"The King, though willing to admit that water must run downhill, never seemed to understand that it must someday reach the sea. He passed laws that left us no clear avenue to refuse any act of magic that would improve the general well-being.
"Our first act was to give homes to the homeless folk of Atlantis. Thousands of architects, wizards, supervisors from the court, created housing across one whole mountain range: the Gift of the King. They needed everyone. For the first time in my life, I had enough money to live, money even for a few luxuries. I began seeing a girl. Ah."
"Ah?"
"I just realized. It's been thirty years and I just..." Morth blinked, sipped wine, started over.
"Whandall, what the King intended would use the same manna that was keeping us above the waves. To use too much was the doom of Atlantis. It's so simple. How could the best wizards in the land be unable to explain what was wrong with the Gift of the King? I only just realized that we weren't trying very hard. The Gift of the King was employment for everyone. Wizards would get rich, architects would get rich, every court-appointed supervisor had a nephew who needed work."
"You weren't actually one of the best wizards, were you, Morth?"
"What? No. I served the southeast coast fishing industry. The mers catch all the fish; they herd them into nets to be pulled aboard boats. The men bring the fish in and store them; other men distribute them. We're needed to make weather magic and command the elementals, and the spell that floats a ship above the water sometimes needs reworking. It's all spelled out in books a thousand years old. Doesn't pay much. The Kings-men didn't offer a choice, mind, but they offered twice what I was getting.
"Where was I? We built the Gift of the King. Along the north Atlantis loop a few farms drowned, some docks and warehouses slid beneath the water. But the homeless now had homes, more than they could ever use, we thought. And when a homeless person got in some citizen's way, or a thief, he or she was conveyed to the Estates.
"In the Estates a criminal class evolved within, it seemed, hours. Rape, armed theft, extortion, casual murder, all flourished in the shadows and corners. Bad enough, but the people of the Estates didn't stay there! Their hunting grounds expanded to all who lived nearby.
"The King couldn't have that! He ordained that there be light. Whandall, I would have lost my home without these magical projects. Glinda would have left me. I kept my mouth shut. I participated in the spell that caused every outside wall in the Estates to glow."
"Sometimes I have trouble thinking like a kinless," Whandall confessed. "Why did the King think that light would stop a gatherer?"
"Thieves, rapists, killers-Lordkin," said Morth, "don't commit their crimes in daylight if they think they'll be seen and punished. But the King stopped the punishments. He would cause no pain to his subjects. It was part of the Gift of the King.
"The Estates taught them that they did not need darkness to do whatever they wanted. This lesson they practiced the length and breadth of Atlantis, retreating to the Estates before anyone could hamper them.
"The King couldn't have that!"
"Calmly, Morth."
"Sometimes I miss my home." Morth fished the wine flask out of Whitey's hand and drank.
"It's under water, I take it."
"Taken for taxes. The King paid slowly. He couldn't collect taxes fast enough, and of course if w
e did get paid, some of it went for taxes; we never touched it. The mers used to pay in fish, but at least I got to eat the fish! The King's men who paid us also wanted to tell us how to do our
jobs! And write down everything we'd done in crazy detail! And wait for payment until each and all were satisfied!
"1 was ashamed to see Glinda. With all my heart I wished I'd never taken money from the King! It was too late. We were in thrall. And now the King had another idea.
"We were summoned for one massive, magnificent spell: a compulsion of novice's simplicity, but of huge effect.
"Every violent criminal-not every thief. One courageous wizard rightly pointed out to the King's advisor that no spell can make the subtle, vague distinction between a thief and a tax collector. On a good day, I honor him. On a bad day, I wish that the thieves and tax collectors had all been ensorcelled together."
"You're rambling."
"But that would have been fun." Morth handed the wine flask to Green Stone and drank from the water bucket. "We cast the spell, Whandall. On a morning nine days before the Lifting of Stone, every violent lawbreaker went to the City Guard to make his confession. And on that morning it was as if all Hell had let out for a holiday.
"Every guard station was surrounded. The criminals of the Estates outnumbered the guards forty to one. No natural inclination could have brought them together in any such cooperative venture, but they were here, and there was nothing to drink or eat or steal, but none who would dare interfere with them. The screaming of confessions alone drowned any cry for help. When they had satisfied their compulsion, they did what they felt like ... and their will was to tear down the doors and murder the guards.
"At dawn any pair of guards found themselves surrounded by a score of... of Lordkin who first shouted their crimes in gory, hideous detail, more bragging than confessing. A guard told me that. He escaped by being a better climber than any burglar. By afternoon there was not a living City Guardsman outside the Guard stations themselves.
"The King was very angry with the wizards." Morth picked up the flask of wine with exaggerated care and drank.