by Ian Irvine
The teamster wailed and slashed the whip uselessly in the air. “My wife will kill me,” he wept.
Karan tried to calm the frightened animal, but with the driver screaming and lashing at it the mare was beyond help. It reared up like an angry stallion, pawing the air with its front feet. Karan, who had been stroking its neck, almost went over the side.
Hanging on with one hand, she wrenched the sideboard open and let the contents spill out: wooden crates containing wine in flasks, jugs of honey and jars of preserves.
The driver lashed at Karan, catching her painfully on the shoulder. “You’re ruining me!” he screamed.
Karan ran around the back, leaping across the planks. “Help, Tallia!” she shouted.
Tallia released the tailgate, the driver belaboring her with the whip all the while. The mare reared again, skidded and fell down between the middle and side planks. The wagon tipped up on its front end, and the contents rained down through the gaps. The horse hung from the harness, kicking and screaming, then the straps broke and it plummeted head first into the river.
Karan looked stricken, but the mare reappeared a long way downstream, struggled up onto the bank and limped off to the south. The wagon crashed back down again, tearing the plank out, nails and all, and fell into the scaffolding. It hung there as the last crates slid out, smashed open on the timbers and plopped into the water.
All was silent but for the wailing of the wagon driver. “You’ve ruined me. My wife will repudiate me.” He looked up at Karan and Tallia. “I’ll sue you for every grint you’ve got!”
Karan looked disgusted. “Sue and be damned!” she snapped, and crossed over by the further plank. The man lay down with the whip wrapped around his fist, and banged his head on the timbers over and again.
Karan had no pass. She had thrown it away long ago. That delayed them at the gate, and she was hard put to restrain herself from abusing the guards, but Tallia’s face was enough to get them through. Karan was issued with temporary papers and they were waved on into the city.
They proceeded up the road to Yggur’s headquarters, an old fortress high on the hill above the citadel. There they learned that Yggur had disappeared that day, without word to anyone. Shand was gone as well. “Is Llian here?” she screamed at the guard. Mud-spattered from head to foot, she looked like a refugee from the wars.
The fellow drew himself up, directing his answer to Tallia. “I believe he was held at the citadel,” he said coolly.
“Was held?” Karan cried, and set off at a run.
“Karan, wait,” yelled Tallia. “You just can’t…” but Karan wasn’t listening. Tallia limped after her.
It was not far to the citadel, and all downhill. Tallia had no hope of catching Karan. By the time she hobbled round the corner, with the massive walls towering above, the towers looking more watchful than usual, Karan was already racing up to the gates.
The iron gates stood open, a signal to Thurkad that the Magister was in control of his city. A pair of splendid guards lounged on either side in their peacock uniforms and brilliantly polished boots, though one had a yellow egg stain down the front of his coat. Karan darted in, skidded toward the guard on the right; as he raised his pike she abruptly changed direction, shot between them and hurtled across the yard for the front door.
The guard at the rear swore, “He’ll have our heads for this!” and raised his spear.
Tallia shouted, “Hold it!” with all the authority she could muster. The guard turned at the familiar voice but, thinking that Tallia was also after Karan, hurled the spear.
It struck the door by Karan’s shoulder. She looked back and the swinging door knocked her off her feet. She lay on the mossy flagstones, winded, watching the second guard hoist his spear. There was nothing she could do about it. As the guard’s arm flashed forward Tallia swung her fist and knocked him unconscious.
Karan darted down the side of the citadel and in through a rear door. She slipped past a dozing guard, down a cross-passage, twisted the other way at the next junction and again at the one after. A stair appeared before her, leading both up and down.
She took the downward passage, trying to walk calmly down the stairs as if nothing had happened. It would not have fooled the most casual observer, for she was dripping with sweat, her face almost as red as her wild hair. Karan knew the way to the lower dungeons, having visited Llian there at the beginning of winter. She prayed that he had not been put in that desperate hole again. Further down it was darker and her appearance would have excited less attention, had there been anyone to see it. There were quite a few prisoners in the cells but she did not come to a guard until the lower level.
The fellow warned her off, though not before Karan had determined that Llian was not here. She ran up to the next level, scanned it, and the one after. Not there either. She was back on the ground floor, the one below the main entrance. Here were the offices of the citadel—bursar, bailiffs, clerks by the score. Nothing! Down the other way were kitchens and storerooms. He wouldn’t be there. Karan couldn’t think of anywhere else to look. She felt sure that Llian had been tried, convicted and executed.
She wandered slowly along, feeling utterly miserable. “Hoy, you!” a huge guard shouted at her from the other end of the corridor. The sound of great flat feet echoed in the hall.
Karan darted around a corner and found another hall lined with offices. Passing one whose door was open, she leapt through, slammed it behind, ran backward without looking and crashed into someone. Someone tall and incredibly strong, with cold fingers and rubbery skin that made her flesh crawl. Twisting round, she looked up at the face of Vartila the Whelm and almost passed out. Vartila looked almost as shocked. Another Whelm stood just beyond the door.
Then, astonishingly, before she had time to wonder what Whelm guards were doing in the citadel, Vartila released her. No wonder—there was nowhere to go. The shouting grew louder; she heard great bangings all the way up the corridor.
Karan pushed into the other room, needing to sit down. Her knees were weak. She looked around, and there, across the other side of the room, appearing utterly bemused as the door burst open and guards stormed in waving weapons, was Llian. He was sitting at a table with books and papers spread out in front of him. Her heart skipped a beat. Mustering all the dignity she could manage she walked quickly across and sat down beside him on the bench.
“Don’t say anything,” she said. Their hands clasped under the table. They both stared imperiously at the guards.
“Not a word,” he replied, squeezing her hand. The two Whelm folded their arms and stood directly in the doorway, preventing access. Mendark scowled, and his scowl became deeper when he saw who it was, but the Whelm would not even allow the Magister to pass. They had their orders.
“Only this,” Llian continued amiably. “And you dared call my rescue clumsy!”
Karan threw her arms around him and kissed him on the mouth, smearing his face with mud. Then, long before he was ready for the dream to stop, she stood up and led him across the room. As they passed by she glanced up at Vartila and raised an eyebrow. Vartila nodded. Karan continued on. She stood before Mendark. Llian’s hand jerked in hers. Her green eyes met Mendark’s. The whole room went still. Even Tallia, who had followed him in and was standing at the back, gave a shiver.
There would be no confrontation this time. Mendark gave an ironic little twitch of the lips. Even Vartila was smiling, a sight no one had ever seen.
“There will be no trial,” Karan said. “Llian has done nothing wrong and you cannot hold him any longer.”
“No trial for Llian!” said Mendark. “Tallia has cleared him. But you are a different matter. Don’t leave Thurkad, Karan.”
He stepped aside and Karan went by. Llian followed, recently off his crutches and limping badly. Vartila came after with her fellow Whelm, carrying Llian’s books and papers in their arms.
Tallia strode up from behind. “You can take care of yourselves now? You don’t need me?�
�� She sounded anxious.
“Thank you, Tallia,” said Llian. “I wish you well with your lover.”
She went red, then rushed off.
“Where are we going?” Karan asked.
“To the master’s fortress,” rasped Vartila. “My orders are to guard Llian with my life.”
“What about me?” Karan’s voice trembled.
“I have no instructions concerning you. Nonetheless, I can anticipate my master to a certain extent.” She gave a mirthless chuckle, a sound like the ratcheting of rusty gears. “Protection is extended to you as well, until Yggur returns.”
Karan said nothing more, just held Llian’s hand tightly as they followed Vartila to the grim stronghold up the hill. She had always known that there must be a reckoning for her work in Carcharon, but nonetheless Mendark’s words had frozen her marrow. And she was dismayed by the painful hobble that was the best Llian could do. She wanted to pick him up and cradle him in her arms. She almost could have, he was so thin.
They went in through the front door. There were no lounging peacock sentries here—the guards were dressed in military drab, but they were hard-eyed and alert. Vartila led them down a broad corridor. The dark stone was undecorated and dimly lit, like a prison.
“Do you have anywhere… nice?” Karan asked in a barely audible voice. Her desire to be alone with Llian was like a living flame, but she did not want to hold their reunion in a cell. Vartila made a sound in her throat that might have been a chuckle or a sneer.
They went up several flights of stairs and along another gloomy corridor. Unlocking a creaking door, Vartila gestured them in. It was a good-sized room, though as somber as the rest of the stronghold. It could have been worse, Karan thought, tugging Llian’s hand.
Vartila scissored her way across the room and drew back the curtains. Flooded with light, the room was not drab at all. The walls were half-paneled in myrtle-beech that had a peacock luster in the afternoon sunshine, and above the paneling were painted in honeyed cream. The curtains were burgundy brocade, the floor covered in a plain carpet of the same color. Through the doorway of the sitting room she saw an immense bed with six posts and a canopy, beyond which was a bathroom clad in travertine.
The bathroom had a large square tub in the middle, and next to it a five-legged stove with a cast-iron tank on top, as big as a water barrel. Vartila filled the tank, which was full of round stones, and lit the stove.
“When the water is hot,” she said, “turn this tap. Be sure to keep the tank topped up or it will boil dry. I will send up your dinner.” She went out.
Karan and Llian stared at one another. She felt anxious.
Llian opened his arms. “Oh, Karan,” he said. “I can’t believe you’re here at last.”
Karan leapt into his arms with such force that she knocked him over. Wrapping her arms around him, she smothered his smudged face with kisses, and they rolled across the pink travertine tiles until they fetched up against the side of the bath.
“What’s that funny noise?” Llian asked a long time later.
Karan opened her eyes. The room was full of fog. “The tank is boiling!” She turned the tap and scalding water spurted into the bath, accompanied by clouds of steam. “Put the plug in. Quick! Before it all runs away.”
Llian took a long time to get to his feet, she noted with dismay. By then she had done the job and the cold water was running. Soon the bath was brimming with suds. Karan sighed. “A hot bath! I can’t even remember the last. Turn your back while I undress, please.”
“I’ve never known you to be modest before,” he said, wondering if her feelings had changed toward him.
“I am extremely modest, save with my chosen lover,” she said archly. Llian looked crestfallen. Then she laughed and kissed him on the nose. “Llian, I haven’t bathed in weeks. I’m disgustingly filthy and I don’t want you to see me like that. When I am clean you can stare at my nakedness until your ears smoke. Turn your back please.”
Llian grinned and went into the other room, where he found a dinner tray already waiting on the table. He locked the outside door, ate a piece of bread, arranged his papers on a desk and turned down the bed. Then Karan called, “You can come in now.”
The steam was so thick that he could hardly see the bath. Karan’s red hair hung down in dripping ringlets. Her face was flushed.
“Turn your head away while I undress,” he said teasingly.
“Nonsense,” she replied. “I intend to inspect every bit of you.”
Llian took off his shirt. “Look how thin you are,” she fretted. “I could rattle a stick down your ribs.” He took off his trousers. “Oh!” said Karan, sitting up in the bath. Above each ankle was a broad red band where the ice-crusted manacles had rasped away skin and flesh. She stood up in a cascade of water, touching the sunken and scarred flesh. “Does it hurt?”
Llian did not answer. Her wet skin was the color of oiled pearls. He gazed in paralyzed distraction. “It hurts somewhat,” he said after a momentous silence.
Taking his hand, she tugged him forward. “Remember the game we played at the top of the Great Tower of Katazza?”
Llian gave a crooked grin. “Which game?”
“The competition to see who had the most scars, and the best. I thrashed you soundly!”
“I remember you sneering at my injuries,” said Llian, “while boasting overmuch about your own.”
“You were proud and needed to be brought low. And the game—”
“Yes? Get to the point. It’s cold out here.”
She touched his ruined shins. “The game is over. You win!”
His smile broadened. “Since then I’ve been brought very low. You need to raise me up again.”
She scanned him, up, down, middle. “I don’t think so, mister chronicler!” She tugged at his hand. “Get in!”
Llian slid over the side of the tub, slipped on the wet enamel and fell into her arms.
Llian lay sleeping in an untidy sprawl across the sheets, one hand still curled about her waist. Karan could not sleep. She slid closer so that their bodies touched from shoulder to hip to ankle. He did not even twitch. This was her chosen man. She wanted no other. But their union was destined to be unfulfilled, for triunes were sterile. The line would end here. There would be no heir for beloved Gothryme, no child to pass her family Histories to, or his. What would Llian do when she told him? She had no idea. That was a future they had never discussed.
They had so much to say to each other that it could not all be said in a month. The first day they hardly talked at all, just rejoiced in being together at last, communicating by touching. For the whole day they did nothing but walk together, or just lay face to face, whispering quietly.
But after that, how much was there to tell each other! How eagerly did he listen to Karan’s tale, and though she stumbled and rambled and sometimes contradicted herself, and failed to remember quite what had happened here and there, none of that mattered. All he cared was to hear the tale in whatever manner she chose to tell it.
That took at least a day, what with late starts and occasional excursions to the roof of the fortress to look down on the citadel and the city (their Whelm guard never far away), and breaks for meals and snacks, four or five times a day, and a delicious warm clinging siesta together in the mid-afternoon, with the fire crackling on the other side of the room and the snow falling gently out the window. Discovering one another, renewing one another.
“How did you ever find the courage to do what you did in Carcharon?” asked Llian.
“I thought of you, and the courage you showed when you were battered and ill from the torments of Mendark and Rulke, when you knew that the whole world was against you, even your lover! Llian, I’m so sorry! But you never gave in and you never thought of yourself. You challenged Rulke to a telling to save me. I remembered how afraid you were when we parted that day, how you trembled when I embraced you. And then you just went out and did what was needed, and you did it so well.
“So how could I be less steadfast? I had to do what Rulke wanted. Anything less would have left you as you were before. I’ve hardly slept since, for worrying what you would think of me.”
“You’re the best friend any man ever had—that’s what I think of you.”
“But Rulke failed and so I failed too. I’m afraid, Llian. One day he’ll come for me. He told me so. As soon as he’s ready it will all begin, and what will the consequences be? I feel so guilty. Everything I do sets off a train of disaster.”
“I have those problems too,” he said.
“And what do you do about them?”
“The best I can do, and worry afterwards.”
“I’ve learned a lot about myself over the past few months,” he said some time later. “I brought all my troubles upon myself.”
“What nonsense!” said Karan.
“I did! I was so set on knowing the tale that I didn’t care what I did. But instead of just following the story I kept interfering to see what would happen next. I pursued the Histories recklessly, regardless of any other loyalties. I was as greedy as Mendark; as Tensor; as anyone!”
“Well—” she said. “What else have you been doing over the past few weeks, Llian? How did you fill your days, apart from pining for me?”
“That didn’t leave much time.” He laughed, at himself. “The same as before, Karan. Working on my tale. Or Mendark’s, as he now likes to call it.”
“What?” Karan spat her drink into the fire. “After what he did to you?”
“I owe him for my schooling and he requires the debt repaid. The obligation is real; I can’t get out of it.”
Karan did her best to be interested. “And how goes the tale?”
“Miserably!” he said. “It’s not right. I feel that I’m demeaning my profession. Not even a great teller such as I,” he gave his wonderful smile then, that lit up his whole face and warmed her too, “can make it into a tale without truth becoming the casualty.”
He did not tell her his true plan. There were spies everywhere, and Mendark might even have listening devices here, like the ear Nadiril had used a few months ago.