One clear, bright autumn day Ilyire did not move quite fast enough. Glasken had been slipping away from the palace in the late afternoon, all spruced up for a night of reveling in the market quarter of the city. He almost walked straight into Ilyire in the deserted garden maze, appearing like a phantom amid the tall topiaded hedges. Ilyire had been dozing on a small rectangle of lawn, but he jackknifed to his feet at once.
"Glasken!" he exclaimed, incredulous.
Glasken began to ease back, holding his swagger stick before him in both hands. Ilyire had a swagger stick too.
"So, first time I glad to see you," Ilyire added, stepping slowly but confidently toward the bigger man.
Glasken eased back another step, glancing around.
"Can't say I share the feeling," he replied in an oddly casual tone. Ilyire advanced on Glasken with confident contempt, yet he was unsure of what he actually intended to do. Theresla wanted Glasken recaptured, but Ilyire was no longer in her service. Zarvora had a big reward posted for Glasken, yet Ilyire held money in contempt. Ilyire basically resented the fact that Glasken existed at all and wanted to do no more than humiliate him. Glasken did not share his indecision.
Ilyire reached out with a feint, at which Glasken twisted and took the first step of a headlong flight--except that his back leg swung up and around in an arc as his arms counter rotated His foot caught Ilyire squarely in the face, sending him sprawling, stunned, and with a cheekbone cracked. The Ghan hit the path in a shower of polished quartz stones. Glasken swung a blow at his knuckles to make him drop the swagger stick, but missed as he slid in the pebbles himself. Seizing the advantage, Ilyire rolled a blow at Glasken's face, but his old enemy rotated, easily deflecting the blow upward with his forearm. Ilyire spun with his own momentum. Glasken's knee slammed into his ribs, but Ilyire snatched at Glasken's arm. Glasken let himself be caught, then twisted. Ilyire's arm was wrenched around, levering him into another fall. The impact winded him and his arm was twisted behind his back as scarlet waves of pain washed past his eyes. Presently Glasken released his very precise grip on a nerve in Ilyire's neck, yet he kept him pinned to the path.
"You dirty, filthy wretch," Glasken said smoothly. Ilyire tried to struggle, glaring at Glasken out of the corner of one eye. "You wanting to ravish my sister!" Ilyire panted. "I kill you."
Again Glasken jabbed at the nerve, and again Ilyire was racked by such pain that he could barely draw breath. "I've visited your treasure cave at the edge of the world," said Glasken as he released the nerve again. "The one with ERVELLE carved at the rim."
"Swine--" Ilyire began, then caught himself. Horror chilled him. He stared at the terra cotta gutter beside the path, suddenly desperate to turn into water and flow away to hide.
"Swine? Me?" Glasken was saying. "I discovered a fair princess in your foul clutches. You slept with her bones."
"Liar, I kill you," whined Ilyire, trying to fan anger through the cold shroud of shame. "I sleep with the Mayor's sister, and that gives me access to all sorts of interesting documents. I read Overliber Darien's transcription of your boasts. On your first journey to the Edge you discovered the bones of a girl named EVA NELL. I suppose that the Frelle Overliber could be forgiven for a few mistakes in recalling such a long and rambling tale, but I saw the original cave."
"I kill you, I kill you," squealed Ilyire, despair in his voice. "But Ilyire, surely it's obvious that I'm a vastly better fighter than you now. I could kill you, just by pressing your neck, here, for a minute. Nobody would ever suspect me."
Ilyire's breath came now in short, wheezing gasps. "As I live, I live to kill you."
"But only to keep the word from finding out about Ervelle. That's not the vendetta of honor, that's the sting of a guilty conscience."
"Not true!" "You slept with the bones of Ervelle herself, the most revered legend of the Alspring cities. Poor girl. You despise me for the rogering of such maids as would have me, yet you did that to a helpless shade who could not even scream for help?"
"No!" "No woman has ever screamed for help while in my arms, Fras Ilyire. They've screamed for a few other reasons, though. I am a good lover. You are a pervert." "No, no."
"You're desperate to kill me," Glasken said as he slowly released Ilyire and stood clear, "but have you heard of lawyers?"
Ilyire looked up at Glasken, his expression a study in hopelessness. "So, you have. I've had to engage a few in my time, so I know what they can do. They can hold sealed letters in trust, to be sent to such people as the town crier, your sister, or the Alspring trade envoy at Maralinga in the event of my death. Kill me, Fras Ilyire, and your private perversions will become exceedingly public. Remember what you used to call me? Camel turd, penis pustule? Imagine what you will be called: bone buggerer--and with the very bones of Ervelle herself."
"No! No, never, I lay dose to her bones to guard her, I only wanted to give her the protection that she never had in life. Please, please, believe me, Fras Glasken, Fras John Glasken. I couldn't live if, if..."
Ilyire was on his knees with his hands clasped in supplication, tears streaming down his face. Suddenly he bent down and began to strike his forehead against the pebbles. Glasken unfolded his arms, surprised at the abrupt completeness of Ilyire's collapse. It was not often that he found himself in a morally superior position, and he could not carry it off very well. He reached down and seized the devastated man by the arm.
"Stop that, your forehead's bleeding," he said as he hauled Ilyire up. "Get up and piss off."
"Deserve to die. Here, take knife. Kill me."
"Put it away and--"
Ilyire twisted out of his grip. "Then I kill myself!" The toe of Glasken's boot flickered out delicately to send the knife spinning high into the air, across the garden and out of sight. It stuck in the buttocks of a wooden cherub in the cloisters' gargoyleresque, where it remained undiscovered for several months. Glasken stood with his hands on his hips looking down at Ilyire, who was curled up on the path with his hands over his head, weeping hysterically.
"Come along, I can't leave you like this."
After some persuasion Ilyire stood up and wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. "What--where we going?"
"Off to a medic ian shop."
Ilyire threw up his hands, tearing at his hair. "No philtre, no medic ian could help."
"This shop is where souls are healed, Fras Ilyire. It's called the Green Dragon's Tankard." The retreating Glenellen army was within a day of the city and riding as fast as their horses and camels could manage when the Neverlanders made their challenge. The ground was largely open, but bounded by wide gullies.
"This terrain is optimal for a battle calculor," suggested the Boardmaster as Overhand Baragania stood in the stirrups of his camel's saddle frame, studying the Neverland freebooter movements ahead of them.
"There will be no use of the battle calculor," replied the Overhand firmly. "Now then, over there: the heavy brigades will chase the Neverlanders along those gullies and tear their rear guard to shreds, while our mounted archers come across to outflank them."
"The men are not trained for such fighting, Commander," pleaded the Boardmaster. "They would be out of sight, having to make decisions themselves without the benefit of the battle calculor."
"Precisely. The enemy is not expecting it." They watched the heavy brigades stream into the wave gullies in a wide, leisurely pincer movement. Presently the distant thunder of hooves gave way to battle cries, whistles and the clash of weapons, interspersed with occasional gun shots. The Overhand sent out scouts with heliostats, only to have them run down by small, fast squads of freebooter lancers.
"Again, they hack at our communications," said the Overhand. "They try to keep us blind and deaf."
"Commander, the advantage is still ours, we outnumber them and we're on open ground," Major-Director Mundaer insisted. "I hope you are right. See there, our archers riding across on their correct vector. Come now, let us move toward the wave gullies ourselves. Keep my pennon hi
gh. The helioscouts need a focus for their signals."
As they began to move at a leisurely canter a lancer suddenly appeared over the edge of the wave gullies and rode furiously for the center of the plain.
"One of the heavies, a deserter, by Dalahrus!" the Boardmaster exclaimed. "Neverlander squads are after him," said Baragania.
"He's trying to use a hand heliostat," Mundaer observed through his tele scope. "It's impossible on a galloping horse." As they watched, the lancer glanced again at his pursuers, then reined his horse in. As they closed the gap he began to signal in the direction of the Over hand's pennon. Moments later he was obliterated in a swirl of dust and flashing weapons.
"Brave man, he gave his life for that message," said Mundaer. He hawked and spat into the red sand. "Well, did you get any of it?"
"It was the codes for 'archers' and 'trap," " said the Boardmaster.
"Ah, he was calling for our archers to be sent in to trap them quickly," said Mundaer, turning to the Overhand.
"Not 'archers-trap," " said the Boardmaster. "That's a separate code, it can not be confused with the others."
"A man with death at his back has a right to confusion."
The Alspring archers had reached the wave gully now, and were vanishing over the edge.
"Three Neverlander squads, behind us!" cried the captain of the Overhand's escort. "See there! Cutting us off from the square."
"Make for where the heavies are!" ordered Baragania.
"We outnumber them, Commander, we could turn back and charge," suggested Mundaer.
"That may be what they want, they could be trying to distract us. Forward, ignore them unless they attack." They changed to horses in anticipation of the fighting ahead. As they rode, the squads of freebooter lancers gradually closed in. When the Overhand finally realized that he had to fight and closed with the nearest and weakest group, a reserve squad of lancers came out of the wave gully. The final conflict was drawn out and savage, and lasted for more than twenty minutes. The Overhand and Boardmaster were taken prisoner, but Major-Director Mundaer died in the fighting Most of the battle calculor components had been sent on ahead, however, and reached Glenellen safely.
The Neverland freebooters dressed very much alike, but as soon as their leader spoke Baragania knew it had to be the she-demon herself, the one known as Lemorel. She treated him with courtesy.
"I know about your battle calculor," she said as they rode toward the nearest wave gully. Baragania looked over the edge, and was speechless with shock.
The gully was a scene of carnage. The heavy brigade had been set upon by Nevedander archers disguised as lancers: exactly the tactic Baragania had used to try to ensnare the Neverlanders in the previous battle. The archers had shot down the horses of the Glenellen vanguard, plugging the gully so that those behind floundered under a rain of arrows. By the time the Alspring archers arrived, the Nevedanders were ready for them.
"Never let your enemy choose the battlefield," said Lemorel to Baragania from the shadows beneath her heavy veil and hood.
"I tried not to," replied Baragania with undisguised exasperation. "That was why I retreated from those hills in the north."
"A good move, a brilliant move. I thought I had you, but you slipped away in good order. Was that your battle calculor's advice?" "Calculor? Pah!" He spat, with a dismissive cut of his hand. "My horse could have advised me better." He patted the horse's neck, then spread his hands and shrugged hopelessly. "No, that was experience guiding me. The battle calculor brought us disaster."
"Calculors can do that when used incorrectly, Overhand. You must not stop thinking when you use them, or you will surely be lost. Behold," she said with a gesture to the gully. "All lost."
Baragania was silent at the sight of the gully filled with dead and dying. After a moment he hung his head and closed his eyes.
"And yet the machine worked before," he said slowly, unsure of what fundamental point he was missing. "Ah yes, but through luck and good leadership as much as itself. The Highliber of Libris designed the original machine as a strategic weapon, not a tactical aid. It brought the entire resources of the may orate behind the action over scenarios spanning hundreds of miles. Oh it can be used tactically too, if the enemy has never fought one before. When set against a force commanded by i someone who knows its limitations, well, nobody knows the consequences better: than you."
"You annihilated us," he breathed. "Not intentionally. My Neverlanders fight only as much as they have to. Life in the desert is short enough without throwing warriors away in futile combat. I stopped the fighting as soon as your force was broken, and not a minute later. Had your Major-Director not been hell-bent on fighting to the death, you would not have lost a single one of your personal staff. I am recruiting, Overhand Baragania. Consider it."
"You want me to join you?" asked Baragania, looking up at once. A subtle twist in the skin about her eyes betrayed a smile beneath the veil. "An uncommon offer from a truly exceptional enemy," he concluded. "You have a choice. Become a prisoner, and perhaps your family will ransom you. You can also become one of my probationary over hands but if you do that there is no going back. One desertion, one betrayal, and the consequences will be unimaginable. I need clever people like you. I shall have captured all the Alspring cities very soon. After that, there is a world beyond to take. My spy merchants are out and at work there already. You could grow with me, Overhand Baragania, think upon it."
"I shall treat your offer very seriously, My Lady Commander," he said in a level voice.
She put her whip gently but firmly across his chest. "Just Commander, when speaking to me." As the Glenellen overhand was being led away to join the other captives, one of Lemorel's own Neverlander over hands moved in closer at her gesture.
"Glenellen lies before you," he said with flamboyant enthusiasm. "Take it and there will be rich pickings."
Her riding whip thudded against his chest. It was not a heavy blow, just a caution.
"We are not petty thieves, Genkeric. If you want to scavenge, I can arrange for you to tend a rag and bone cart."
"Commander, I meant only for the men." "No! You're still thinking like a raggy nomad, a petty thief. Glenellen is a symbol of strength. I want it to be mine and I don't want its power weakened by looting and pillage. With Glenellen fallen, Ringwood will join with me against Alspring itself. I'll no longer be just another freebooter warlord. Go after that Glenellen overhand there, give him a tour of our forces. Be polite, be friendly: he may be fighting beside us in the next battle."
Some days later Overhand Genkeric died in a confused, minor skirmish not far from Glenellen's walls. He was quickly replaced by a senior officer from the ranks of the Glenellen prisoners: Baragania.
Dawn was in the sky but the lamps at the street corners were still alight as Glasken and Ilyire returned to the mayoral palace. Mirrorsun was just above the western horizon, spilling its light in between the spires and towers bordering the square, and the nightly shape-changing glow was that of a six-rayed star. Glasken pushed the brake chocks on the stolen costermonger's cart down onto the wheels as they emerged into the square before the palace gates. Ilyire was lying on the tray, singing incoherently with his legs hanging over the front board Glasken had some quiet words to the three girls who had been helping with the cart, and they departed into the predawn shadows, each leaving a kiss on his cheek. Two of them also kissed Ilyire.
"Frash Glashken, you good man," Ilyire bawled emotionally as Glasken helped him out of the cart and onto the cobblestones. "Help man into gutter, who is." "That's out of the gutter, Fras Drinking Apprentice." "Everyone dis-pishes, er... Ilyire." "Shame on them." "Sister shot me." "Lucky she missed." "She didn't."
"Lucky you're tough. Look, we're home."
Ilyire began to sing in ancient Anglaic: "I belong te Glascow, Dear old Glascow town."
"Shush! The guards'll think we're drunk."
"Where' sGlascow?"
"Long way away. I think it's a Northmoo
r city."
Ilyire lurched free of Glasken's supporting arm and stood with his hands on his new friend's shoulders.
"Did you robert my sister?"
"Roger your sister."
"So you did! Filthy swine," Ilyire paused to emit something between a belch and a sob.
"I never did it," said Glasken, fanning the air between them. "You didn't? Why not?" "She wouldn't let me."
"You lucky, she's weird. Eats mice, poisons suitors, shot me." "Ilyire, it's nearly dawn, we're at the palace, and you're going to bed. I'm going to clean myself up and visit the lovely Varsellia." "Fine, fine girl. What's she like?" "Stop that!"
"Like ride on hay cart with broken axle, yes?"
They meandered toward the main gates and the six increasingly uneasy guards. Ilyire suddenly lurched to a stop.
"Frash, friend," he said, confronting Glasken again. "You I give treasure cave. Jus' one promise."
"What sort of promise? If it involves your sister--" "No! Never. Poor, shamed myself, never return there. Friend, take all treao sure, but gather bones of Ervelle. Bury at Maralinga. Graveyard there for Ghans. Ghans who die in desert, following Call. Do it, Frash. Please."
"A noble gesture," said Glasken, taking off his cap to Ilyire with a wobbly flourish.
"Not gesture! Her soul you put to rest. Hero needed for that. You hero. Me? Just worm."
"I... dunno, worms have all the fun," said Glasken, elbowing him in the ribs. Ilyire collapsed with a cry of pain. Glasken helped him up. "Sorry Ilyire, what did I hit? LovebiteT" "Fras Glasken, Johnny... big jokings."
"Do you have a map of how to reach the cave?"
Souls in the Great Machine Page 38