by David Mason
Much later he emerged, rolling slightly as he walked; and now there were gold pieces among the silver ones in his pouch, and a good many more of the silver ones. He was not entirely sober, but not drunk either, not by his own standards in such matters.
Also, he had still been unable to make up his mind about the matter of the Lady Gwynna. If he returned to the house of Thuramon, he realized, he would have to make some sort of decision; else, that infuriating nagging conscience would begin its smug discourse again. Hugon grunted, and turned toward streets that seemed more promisingly vulgar.
Still later, long after sundown, Hugon sprawled on a wide bed that was well rumpled, playing idly with a long black braid that belonged to his companion in the bed. She giggled sleepily; he yawned, and reached for a wine jar beside the bed. He was now somewhat drunker than he had been, he noticed, but not nearly drunk enough; he chuckled, and lifted the jar to his lips.
At that moment, a thunderous knock shook the door; the girl beside him shrieked and sat up, and Hugon dropped the wine jar, swinging his legs nimbly to the floor and reaching for his garments and his sword.
“Your husband, of course,” Hugon said, backing toward a window. The girl screamed again, and the door shook a second time as he found the window’s catch and opened it.
“Somehow, I find this too familiar,” Hugon grunted, glancing down into the street. The door gave way, and a large and angry man charged in, barely missing Hugon with a wild swing; but Hugon was already half over the window ledge by then.
Hugon passed a squatting ape-servant at the entrance to the guest rooms, who grinned cheerfully at him as he went by. The dwarfish creature was obviously there to prevent Gwynna’s exit, as Thuramon had promised.
Beyond, curiously shaped lamps burned with a yellow light, but the archways of the rooms were darkened. Hugon swayed a little as he studied the various doorways, trying to remember which was the one assigned to him. He scratched his head, selected one at random, and moved into the shadowed room, blundering into a low table with a grunt of pain.
There was a flare of light, and a lamp came into full flowering; Gwynna sat up in bed, glaring at him.
“It’s not enough, is it?” she asked, icily. “You must add rape to your other foul impositions upon me? You fatherless sewer worm, I’d submit to one of those dwarf apes before I’d let you lay your scabby hand on me…” At which point she threw some object, whose nature Hugon could not make out; whatever it was, it shattered, with a loud noise, on his forehead.
Gwynna seemed to find the effect pleasing; through a haze, Hugon saw her searching for another missile. He backed out, in some haste, and collided with Zamor, who laughed.
“You’ve been about the town, haven’t you?” Zamor grunted, sniffing.
“I have,” Hugon said, with owlish solemnity. “Been seeking truth. Considering things, that I have.” He rubbed his forehead. “Mother of All, that’s a woman, there!”
Gwynna, holding a robe about her, came to the room door; she stood glaring, and there was the glitter of a pair of scissors in her hand.
“Try it again, peasant,” she invited him. “A little closer, and I’ll geld you with these.”
“Don’t doubt you would…” Hugon said, and laughed. “But take my word… was a mistake. No such intentions. Can’t tell one room from another.”
“You’re drunk, too,” she said, more calmly.
“Not too… drunk,” Hugon said. “Or just drunk enough. I… find it necessary to… change m’plans. With my brother Zamor’s consent… seeing that we’re, ah, partners in the matter so to speak… I hereby give you leave to go. No ransom, no rewards.”
Zamor, beside him, grinned. “I’d prefer it, brother,” he said. “The enterprise sounded like much work and little reward, in the end. By all means, let the lady go her way.”
Gwynna stared at both of them, eyes wide and puzzled; for a long time she was silent.
Then, “You’re speaking truth?”
“As I always do,” Hugon said grandly. “With a few necessary exceptions.”
“You’re free to go anywhere you like,” Zamor explained, with a broader grin. “Back to your home in Mazain, if you choose.”
Gwynna’s expression was oddly panic-stricken; her hand went to her mouth.
“Why?” she said, in a low voice. “Why are you doing this?”
“I’ve had trouble with what, for lack of a better word, I’ll call my conscience,” Hugon explained, and hiccuped. “I beg you, lady, don’t trouble me for long explanations just now.”
“An attack of what’s called honor,” Zamor told her. “I’ve noticed that it doesn’t last too long in white men. You’d best take your luck and be off to Mazain, girl, before either of us regrets this.”
“Mazain?” she said, low voiced. “I… hate the place. And I cannot go back to Armadoc… never again.”
She stood for another moment, staring at the two of them; then turned and vanished into her own room.
Fraak put his head around the door of another room, and peered at the two men in the hall; he uttered a sleepy sound, questioningly.
Hugon hiccuped again, and turned toward his room. Zamor watched him go, and chuckled once more as Hugon disappeared within.
“You were serious, then,” Gwynna said.
The three sat at a great table in the high-ceilinged dining hall of Thuramon’s house; a late morning sun slanted through narrow windows overhead, and the ape servants moved in and out, bearing breakfast.
“Yes, I was,” Hugon told her. He rubbed his forehead, where a blue bruise showed. “I’ll forgive you this, too,” he said. “I must have seemed a trifle ominous last night.”
She gave an unexpectedly open laugh. “I did suspect you’d grown impatient,” she said. “And I’ve an odd distaste for being raped.”
“So,” Hugon said, and thrust a bit of meat about his plate, staring down at it abstractedly. “Then, if you’ve a mind to, you’ll find a merchant ship in harbor… a sound-looking craft, if smelly. Called the Waterbird or something equally unfitting, if I remember it rightly. Her master told me she would sail for the imperial city within another day or two; you may be back upon your own lands in hardly any time at all.”
She stared at him for a long time; then her lips curved in a strained smile, and she shook her head slowly.
“How little you know of my… friends!” she said quietly. “Hugon, you weren’t long in the city of Mazain, were you? No, not long enough to know those folk, I think.” Gwynna was silent for a moment, then she shrugged. “I… ask your pardon, for many things I’ve said to you.”
The two men looked at her, amazed; Zamor grunted, and Hugon slapped his own head, hard.
“I’m in a warlock’s house, and illusions are as thick as fleas would be in a common man’s hall,” Hugon said, faintly. “I wouldn’t dare repeat what I thought I heard just now.”
She shook her head. “I asked your pardon,” she said again. “I called you false, among other things. I’m the false one, sir Hugon. If you had continued with your notions of ransom, you’d have discovered that, soon enough.” She picked up a glass, and sipped slowly; set it down. “I knew, when you first spoke of ransom back aboard the galley, that you would see to my safety until you gained that ransom. Otherwise… I’d be skewered and slain, as the other women aboard were slain. Then, later, I spoke to you as I did… because… oh, for several reasons. But I never admitted the largest matter.” She paused, and then, “There will be no ransom, I think. Not from Mazain, at least.”
Hugon looked at her in silence. Finally, “Stab me! I do think you’re speaking truth!”
“I am,” she said. “If you were not such an honest man… no, I mean the word… you could know nothing of the black webs of intrigue in the court of the Emperor and among the lords and great ones of Mazain. Like… like nothing else on earth.”
“I may not be quite so ignorant of those things as you think, lady,” Hugon told her, “Then, your wealth, an
d your husband’s estates…”
“By now, a hundred kinsmen are tearing those estates to fragments,” she said. “Each with a train of lawspeakers, and a retinue of forgers creating false documents daily. Not one of Barazan’s kinsmen would aid my return, believe me. Ransom? Why, there are some of my cousins-by-marriage who’d gladly pay you for evidence of my death.”
“So,” Hugon said, and stared down at his plate. “And so much for my attack of… honorable feelings. Why, by the Great Mother, I’m not even given the choice of doing rightly, damn it.”
“Now, friend,” Zamor said, and grinned. “Can we not make the other arrangement and hand the lady over to your own king?”
Hugon looked up. “Well… no. No, I think not.”
“Sometimes…” Gwynna said, in a low voice, “sometimes I think I would accept the axe for a day in Armadoc again.” She sighed.
Zamor looked at her gravely. “As I would see Numori land again,” he said in a low voice.
Hugon looked from one to the other. “Well, I don’t pine for the windy glens of home, myself,” he said, but then, “not… too often at any rate. And I need only remember my oath, taken loudly in my clan’s hall the day I left… that I’d return only when I’d made both fame and fortune.” He grinned. “Wherefore, my clansmen bade me goodbye forever, having no confidence at all in me.
“But you could return, if you chose,” Gwynna said. “Or Zamor could.”
“I shall,” Zamor said. “One day… though it’ll be a long journey. You know where Numori lies?”
“North of the Empire of Mazain,” Hugon said. “But that’s like saying nothing at all; there’s much land north, and no maps worth having of it all.”
“That’s the worm in the winecup,” Zamor said. “The Empire lies sprawled across any path I might take to my own land. And I’ve no ambition to find myself back in the Empire’s grip, or pulling another oar in one of their galleys.” He leaned back and sighed. “It may be a long road home. Around the edges of the world, so to speak. For instance, I might find a ship from here to northern lands, even as far as Thulan. Thence, cross the northern end of the Middle Sea at the narrowest part, and go into the hot lands there, where there are jungles and naked savages…” His eyes became intense. “And then southward again, till I come to the Numori kingdoms… it is possible.”
Hugon nodded. “It could be done, though a long journey, as you say. But I wonder…” He frowned thoughtfully. “I’ve heard tales of an ancient land, like a great island, east of here…”
“East, from Koremon?” Zamor shook his head. “No. This is the most easterly of all the kingdoms of men. There’s nothing south but the sea of ice, nothing east but the world’s edge. And anyway, brother, it’s north and west I’d want; there’s Numori. What’s east to do with it?”
Hugon stared at the big black man. “Why, if one sailed east, in time you’d come upon the western shores of the Empire, of course. Or the deserts, north of the Empire. Unless there’s another land, in the east, between… as I said, there are tales.”
“East, to end in the west?” Zamor looked at Hugon, puzzled.
“But the world’s round, man,” Hugon told him. “Round, like an apple, d’you see?”
“Oh, come,” Zamor said, and laughed. “More of your joking?”
“No, I swear it,” Hugon said. “Many wise men, nowadays, know of this. Some seamen, too. In the Imperial Schools, for example, there is a map, made in the form of a globe… and I’ve seen another such in the schools in Grotha…”
“Round, you say?” Zamor said again. “Well. Round, then, though only the Snake knows how that can be… but round, or shaped like a dish, or whatever, I’ve no taste for sailing any more than I have to, and certainly not into a sea I don’t know. Man, I know my way home, as it is.” He chuckled. “And I’m in no great hurry, anyway. Numori will remain where it has always been till I get there. Eh, now, you could come with me, brother. I’ll find you a pair of fine plump girls for wives, and there’s all else you could ask for in life there. Why not?”
Hugon grinned. “Why not, indeed? Who knows, I may do that!”
Gwynna looked from one to the other and laughed, sharply.
“Gods, I’d give anything to be a man, and free to choose any road I wanted,” she said in a bitter voice. “The two of you, with nothing to hold you anywhere…”
“And not much to pay our way with, either,” Hugon pointed out.
She put her chin in her hands, looking down at the table. “While I… I dare not go back to Armadoc, and I am a stranger in this land. And who knows what’s left for me in Mazain…” Her eyes were shadowed. “Except what I’ve already had of it, and that’s more than I wanted.”
Both men were silent, looking at the girl. Hugon shrugged, “I’ve no advice, lady. Though… well, if the warlock can ever be brought away from his treasure of books, Thuramon might…”
“Thuramon might do what?”
The warlock stood in the door of the room, looking at the three. Hugon pushed back his chair and stood up.
“Why, give the lady the benefit of your wisdom, sir,” Hugon said. “A wizard as learned as you are might aid her to decide her fate.”
Thuramon’s eyes turned on Gwynna. “Decide? She chose her own fate long ago, as we all do. But, if she likes, I’ll give her this much.” He came toward the table, and Gwynna turned to look up at him. Hugon saw her eyes as she stared up at Thuramon; and for the first time since he had known her, there was fear in those green eyes.
“I do not need to read the lines of a hand, nor the stars of your birthdate,” Thuramon said, quietly. “By my Art, I will tell you this much. You have caused the death of men, which is no very important matter in the eyes of the gods; you have betrayed your sworn word, but so do most people, sooner or later. You are neither better nor worse than any other. I say this to you so that you may remember it while you live, woman.”
She continued to stare at him, her face growing paler; her tongue suddenly darted out, moistening her red lips, but she said nothing.
“Now,” Thuramon continued, “I shall give you this. You will find that which you have never possessed before, and you will wish for no other possession. You will be fortunate, more than most people are.” He chuckled grimly. “Such is the justice of the gods that you will never pay any price for the sorrows you have already caused… except if you freely choose to pay.”
Gwynna shuddered, her green eyes wide.
“I… don’t understand,” she said, in a low voice.
“Neither do I,” Thuramon told her. He seemed to forget her at that, and turned toward Hugon. “But you…” The old man pulled his beard, scowling at Hugon. “I’ve no claim on you now, young man. I will compel nothing.”
“I’m glad of that,” Hugon said. “Since I’ve no doubt you could set me dancing jigs or crowing like a rooster if you wanted to. You’ve the air of someone who wants a service done, I think.” Hugon spread his hands wide apart. “Good warlock, I’m entirely at your service. I’ve all the time in the world; no work would be too hard, for your magnificent hospitality… and for such a breakfast as I’ve just had.”
“You’d best be careful with such offers,” Thuramon said sourly. “You might be taken seriously. In fact… I do intend to ask a service. But more of that later. Now… I would bring you to meet a kinsman. He waits in my study.”
“By all means,” Hugon said. “Your kinsman…”
“No,” Thuramon said. “Yours.”
Hugon looked mildly surprised. Thuramon turned to the door. “Come,” he said shortly, and went out; Hugon followed.
The warlock led him along a wide stair, up to a heavy door, which opened at Thuramon’s lifted hand. Within, a huge room lay before Hugon’s eyes. There were odd devices ranged on the walls and on tables; towering shelves of books and rolls, and narrow windows closed with iron shutters. The room was lighted by lamps, though it was day.
But the man who stood at the other side of th
e room, his back to the door, was the central item in that room, to Hugon. As the door closed behind Thuramon and himself, he stared at the man’s back with a queer chilled feeling of… familiarity. He felt that he knew that man… but not merely knew him; that he was in some way, unbelievably, a part of him.
Then the man turned and put down the roll of parchment he had been reading; he stared at Hugon, silently.
To Hugon, it was as if he were looking into a mirror; it was his own face, and more. Not merely likeness, but something more subtle; an inwardness that was his own self, duplicated. And yet, the other was not like him, not in everything. He was older, by a few years, Hugon thought, though no more than that. Yet his hair was gray, silver-gray.
Thuramon looked from one to the other, and nodded, slowly, as if satisfied of something.
“Hugon of Kerrin,” Thuramon said, slowly, “here is your kinsman, Kavin of Hostan, now called Orm.”
“Kavin… of Hostan,” Hugon repeated. The other regarded him, gravely silent.
“I… have heard such a name,” Hugon said with effort. “That prince Kavin who… no, of course not.” He looked at Thuramon, and back to the other. “Kavin, who returned here to be Koremon’s first king, long years ago. Who died and was most properly buried… or, according to you, Thuramon, did not die, but slept until this generation.” Hugon stopped, and shook his head. “No, really, I can’t believe that tale you told me, warlock. Who’s this, who looks so much like myself? Come now, let’s cease playing these games.”
The man called Kavin smiled, and spoke. “It is the truth, Hugon of Kerrin. If you’ve trouble believing such things… well, so do I.”
Thuramon grunted, sourly. “And while you both stand and gawk, I must wait. Listen, now. This is indeed the same Kavin who came back to this land only a short time ago; took the name of Orm, and became master to one of his own descendants, it seems.” Thuramon glowered at both of them. “And took a wife, too. Not any ordinary woman, but a lady who…” The warlock stopped, coughed nervously, and glanced around the room. “A lady of great intelligence and charm.” he said. “In case she happens to be listening.”