The Return of Kavin

by David Mason

  “During my short stay in this city beforetime, I happened to learn one or two interesting bits of history,” Hugon was saying, as he walked on the other side of the canal with the others. They stayed well within the shadows of the moldering warehouses, and watched for possible guards. There were none about; every man who carried arms was busy at one part of the walls or another.

  But there were still guards at the prison, plainly; several men moved behind the barred gates. A few minutes before, the four had seen lancers ride up, a dozen or more of them, and their mounts were still tethered at the gates. But there was no way of knowing how many still lived there, within those blackened walls. Many had been dragged out already, to executions that were still going on.

  “A sewer,” Hugon said, thoughtfully. “It opens there, on the canal bank. It’s barred, of course, but I have these tools.” He patted the leather pouch. “Now, once inside, there’s a courtyard, large and fairly dark, because of a roof over it. The prisoners would be there, since the place hasn’t room in cells for so many. Besides, I made inquiries. The guards are few…”

  “What about the lancers, a while ago?” Zamor asked.

  “That puzzles me,” Hugon admitted. “It may be that they came to fetch some especially important prisoners… thought they’ve been the damndest long time about it. Perhaps they can’t find whoever it is in the crowd.” He stared across at the stone pile with a frown. “Yes… that’s a question. Those lancers… I understood that there were few guards, old men mostly, who seldom looked down into the prison proper, except to fling down a little food and water. They can spare no able men, now especially. And most of those in there are women, children, or old men, as I’ve heard.”

  “Listen!” Zamor said, suddenly.

  There was a sound of horses on the stone street. Hugon listened, and grinned.

  “Those lancers, leaving,” he said. “Well, then.” He walked toward the canal’s edge. Over his shoulder, he said, “Zamor. That beast, Fraak… I had an hour’s work to persuade him to remain in the cart, so much did he wish to come with me. If I should not succeed, take care of the creature. He has a foolishly tender heart, and needs a friend.”

  Zamor grunted. “You? You will live, no fear. Only the good meet early death, brother. In you go.”

  Hugon slid into the fetid water, and swam toward the distant sewer opening, a faint streak on the oily surface.

  Thuramon looked after him with a strange expression; and Kavin too. Zamor turned away from the water’s edge and joined them.

  After a long while, Thuramon glanced at the advancing shadow of the building; it lay over the canal, now. He pulled at his white beard.

  “We must reach the gate of the inner city before dark,” Thuramon said.

  “He intends to find those two and show them the sewer’s entrance,” Zamor said. “A woman and a child. They would be fearful, and slow.”

  “Not that slow,” Thuramon said.

  “He may have decided to bring some others out, as well,” Zamor said. “It’s not been long, yet.”

  Thuramon glanced at the big man.

  “It’s been too long,” Kavin said.

  “Then I’ll follow him in,” Zamor said. He unbuckled his cloak, and dropped it. “If he’s dead, I’ll slay a few.”

  “No!” Thuramon said sharply. “Remember our agreement.”

  “Damn our agreement, warlock,” Zamor said, and took a step toward the canal.

  “Hugon took your oath,” Kavin said, in a hard voice. “He swore you not to follow him, remember that? And you gave it, in the name of friendship.”

  Zamor stared at him, his eyes gleaming oddly.

  “I swore, too,” Kavin said. He stared at the black water with eyes that were dark with pain.

  “I break the oath, then,” Zamor said.

  “You need not,” Thuramon said, in a relieved voice. “Look, he comes.”

  Hugon, dripping, climbed wearily up the bank. He was masked in filth and mud, and shook as he stood; his eyes looked out of the gray-black mask, wide and blank, the eyes of a man in a state of shock.

  “You’re alone,” Zamor said, staring at him. “Here, you’ll freeze, you fool.” He flung the cloak around Hugon, who continued to stand and shiver.

  “Come, then, let’s get away from here,” Kavin said, and Zamor, glancing oddly at Hugon, nodded. They moved off, Hugon walking like a machine, stiffly.

  “There were…” Hugon started to say, and stopped. He turned and leaned against a wall, head down, and vomited.

  After a while, he straightened.

  “I need to wash, quickly,” he said, in a curiously calm voice. “There’s a fountain in the next street.”

  He walked ahead of the others, and found the water; kneeling, he sponged the filth away, and rose again, to wrap the cloak around himself.

  “Let’s get to business,” Hugon said. “We’re late, I think.”

  He would say no more, until much later; then, as they rode toward the gates of the area of palaces called the inner city, he broke his silence.

  “Fazakk must be told, if possible,” Hugon said, as if to himself. “The woman is dead, of course. And the child.” He stared at Kavin and Zamor with a slightly mad look. “All of them were dead. It was the lancers, those we saw; but many had been dead already, for a long time. The lancers were merciful. They finished the work.”

  “All dead?” Kavin asked, with a look of horror.

  “Starved, I think.” Hugon shook his head. “Gods. I don’t wish to remember what I saw there. This is no longer a city of men. Demons!” He spat.

  Behind them, a thundering crash echoed, and a column of dust rose.

  “It will not be a city long,” Kavin said, glancing back.

  At the end of the street, the white gates of the inner city loomed; guards in jeweled armor barred their way.

  “We are sent for, by the lady Gwynna,” Thuramon said from the seat of the cart.

  The guards waved them on, and the cart rolled into the parks among the white palaces. Beyond, the lake glimmered through the trees, and ahead the white towers of Gwynna’s palace shone.

  As the night fell, campfires bloomed on the hills around the city, lines of bright points like stars. Within the city, there was a thick odor of smoke and death; here and there, fires burned in slow orange flares. In the Street of Coppersmiths, there were dead men and women piled against the walls, while living wounded moaned in the gutters. Here, troopers had battled with city folk over an empty warehouse. In another quarter, a street riot raged.

  A door, low in one of the wall towers, opened and closed, very quietly; in the darkness, a man ran swiftly toward the rebel camps, his feet padding silently and his breath rasping. He carried a message from the commander of seven towers on the southeast side, who had finally made up his mind.

  On the lake, the torchlit barges drifted, in procession, to the sound of music. On the great portico of the King’s house, the Thrice Glorious Emperor Sharamash sat on a throne that flashed and glittered in the lamplight, a large winecup in his hand. He giggled incessantly, and sometimes he choked with laughter.

  The courtiers who stood about him joined his laughter from time to time; but they glanced uneasily at one another, where he could not see them. The sky, in two quarters of the city, was lit by a red glow, and there were more distant thuds than earlier.

  Zamor had been on show a little earlier; he had thrown three wrestlers sent against him at once, lifted great weights, bent bars, and the like; all to the Emperor’s open delight. Sharamash looked now to his left, and saw Gwynna; he beckoned, chuckling.

  “Ah, my dear, you’re a wise girl,” he said, pinching her arm. “You knew I have a taste for low, common, things, didn’t you?” He burst into a mad guffaw, spilling half his wine. “I do, you know,” he said, drawing her closer with a grip on her forearm. “That young oaf who sang the naughty ballads was delightful, too, and the old man with the beard, who made such delightful tricks… but I can do real
magic, Gwynna, do you know that?”

  “If you tell me so, I believe it, Majesty,” Gwynna said.

  “Of course you don’t, my dear,” Sharamash said, and snickered. “You’d be a fool to believe it. I’ve never shown any learning in the magical arts before, have I? So, how could I learn so quickly?” He beamed at her. “I have, though. He showed me, the Dark One. In a vision, I was taught… because of those filthy rebels, you see. I was afraid they might come and prevent me from finishing the god’s work, so I asked him what to do, and he told me. It’s all arranged. They’ll know, soon.” He giggled wildly.

  “The rebels cannot come here, Majesty,” Gwynna said.

  “Oh, yes they can,” Sharamash said. “I’ve no loyal men, none; I know, believe me.” He cackled and drained his cup, which was swiftly refilled.

  Among the trees, in the park that lay between the King’s House and the huge temple, shadowy figures moved. The blank wall of the Treasure House rose above them, like a smooth cliff; swiftly, a thin rope rose into the air, and clung. A figure rose along the rope, like a spider, to a distant narrow window.

  It took Hugon several minutes to actually reach the guarded inner chambers; and he climbed in, at last, thoroughly winded. He paused in the darkness, catching his breath; the round package he carried strapped to his back seemed to weigh as much as a calf.

  Here, where he stood, there were no guards; all of them were outside those heavy doors on which the Emperors of Mazain had always relied, to guard their jewels. Swiftly, Hugon padded forward, toward that inner room where the greatest jewels of all would be.

  At the door, an open arch seen dimly in the starlight from overhead, he paused. It seemed too easy, he thought. There was no door in that arch, only blackness; he waited, and stared at it.

  After a moment, he decided. He slipped off one soft leather boot, and gently, carefully, tossed it at the door.

  As it passed the arch, there was a sudden flash; the boot, sliced nearly in two halves, fell to the floor.

  A blade, suspended. Hugon moved carefully, searching the sides of the door; there was a curiously shaped projection. He touched it, and moved it; studied the arch again. A second boot sailed through; this time, no blade sliced through.

  Clever, clever, Hugon thought, and stepped inside. His hands moved quietly along the walls, finding boxes and caskets, touching each and passing on. Then he touched a shape under a heavy cloth; the right shape, a huge ovoid. He unslung the package from his shoulder, and placed it on the shelf; removed the cloth, and made the exchange.

  In the darkness, as the cloth was moved away, the Egg of Fire glowed with a cold green radiance, and vanished again into the sack.

  The new Egg glowed as brilliantly, until the cloth was over it again. It was made of glass, by a craftsman of the city, who had been mightily puzzled… but well paid. The glow within, Thuramon had induced in some way; Hugon had not asked his method.

  But for a while, till that glow died, as it would, the new Egg was as close a counterfeit as would be necessary. Hugon turned back and headed for the narrow window once again. He stopped there, and flattened himself against the wall, staring down into the dark trees below.

  Beyond the trees, the lake glittered with torches; the feast was continuing. And farther away, the sky grew redder, with fires that spread in the city. Hugon waited a moment longer, then slid through the window, and out.

  At the bottom, he unhooked the rope with a deft flip, and curled it again into the kit. A shadowy shape came up in the dark, and he heard Zamor’s whisper.

  “Done?”

  “Yes,” he answered softly. “Now, where’s my winged friend?”

  An orange glow appeared in the dark, as Fraak let a small puff of flame emerge; Hugon heard his wings flap excitedly.

  Hugon knelt down beside the dragonet, and put the huge egg on the ground.

  “See if you can lift it, Fraak,” he said. “Try… but remember, if you fly with it, it’s a long way.”

  Fraak uttered a soft note, and Hugon heard his wings beat, with a rapid rattle. Then he rose, up, and up higher, circling. He was holding the sack firmly in his claws as he flew, and now, circling back to the ground, he made a triumphant horn note.

  “I can do it, Hugon!” Fraak said, and chuckled. “I can lift it and fly!”

  “Good!” Hugon said, and found the scaly head, to scratch it. “Now remember, hide the jewel well when you reach the village. You remember the way, don’t you?”

  “Dragons have good memories,” Fraak said firmly. “It smelled of fish, anyway.”

  “Watch for that little ship we came on,” Hugon said. “If it returns, speak to Yorgan, and say we will come soon, but remember, say nothing about this jewel. Humans have strange habits about such things as this. Hide it till we come, and remain out of sight yourself. I wouldn’t want to find you caught and put into a cage, or worse.”

  “I’ll do exactly as you say,” Fraak said, and clutched the sack. “Hurry, master,” he said, and then his wings beat hard, and he lifted into the blackness.

  “Trusting the Egg of Fire to that talking lizard,” Zamor grunted. “I don’t know if that was wise.”

  “It was the only way,” Thuramon said, invisible in the shadows. “We will almost certainly have to flee, and we may be searched at any moment. The madman Sharamash plans to go to his temple at any moment; we were barely in time as it was. Now, soon enough, he will find that the gem is counterfeit.”

  “And from the looks of that man,” Kavin said, grimly, “he’ll be monstrously unpleased about it. Thuramon, hadn’t we best consider a way out of here?”

  “I think so too,” a woman’s voice came, whispering.

  “Gwynna?” Hugon said, seeing a cloaked shadow.

  “Yes, of course,” she said, tensely. “Master Thuramon, it’s high time to go. Listen… the gongs of the temple.”

  A deep, thrumming clang echoed in the trees, again and again. Distantly, a sound of chanting came.

  “The Emperor is waiting at the water gate of the King’s house until all the nobility is assembled with him,” Gwynna said, hastily. “He plans something, I know not what… something devilish. He spoke of magic, something he has learned from his demon god. After he’s done it, whatever it is, he wishes to lead his nobles and the court to the temple, to open the gate.”

  “He will take the false jewel, then,” Thuramon muttered. “He will know it’s false, too, as soon as he attempts to place it on his damned altar. But this magic he spoke of… I wonder about that.” He moved away. “Come, all of you. We may be able to cross the lake, if there are no torches to show us. As for getting away through the city… well, we’ll attempt that when the time comes.”

  They went quickly through the parkland, toward the island’s shore; reaching it, Hugon glanced toward the lighted front of the King’s house, and the mass of people gathering there. Boat after boat came to the steps, and nobles emerged, with their servants and guards, their women, and bearers who carried some of their possessions. They were fleeing from the great houses around the lake; word must have come of rebel advances in the fighting beyond.

  The feast seemed a feast no longer, but a fevered flight, though musicians still played on the balconies, and the Emperor still sat among his folk, regarding the growing crowd with a strange smile.

  “I’ve found a boat,” Kavin called, from the darkness.

  The others came closer, and saw a boat drawn up on the gravel bank; but the mass of torches at the King’s house landing sent a broad glare across the water. If they moved out into that light, they would be seen at once.

  From their hidden vantage among the trees, the group could see the distant figures, brightly lit as though upon a stage; the looming mass of the structure behind them, black against the reddened sky, where flashes of light came now and again as a distant cannon boomed. The water, magnifying sound, carried the babble of voices, and, farther away, the deep boom of the temple gongs in the place of the Lord of Night. The E
mperor rose, standing like a tiny glittering toy figure at this distance; the black-robed servitors of the temple were gathering around him, and the crowd of panicky nobles was moving back, to clear a wide space.

  Thuramon muttered something in a strange language; to Hugon’s ear, it sounded like a prayer.

  Then, he spoke, as if to himself.

  “I must,” Thuramon said, and his voice sounded as though he were in pain. After a moment, he said, “I must. Though I never return again… Mistress of Men, why must I take this burden, too? Have I not borne enough?”

  “Thuramon?” Hugon moved closer. He saw the old man’s shoulders, bent as if in pain. Kavin stood on his other side, and his eyes glittered at Hugon’s.

  “Say nothing,” Kavin said, in a commanding voice.

  Far away, Hugon saw the Emperor stretch out his hands, and there was suddenly a great silence. The music ceased; the babble of terrified voices stopped. Black-robed figures moved in a wide circle at the Emperor’s feet, moving in a silent, hieratic pattern; and in their center, something that seemed to be a pale vapor began to eddy upward.

  The Emperor’s arms were still outstretched. Now they heard his voice, tiny but clear, crying out a word in an unknown tongue.

  Overhead, it seemed to Hugon that there was distant lightning, a blue flash; yet the sky had been clear, he remembered.

  “What I must do, I shall do,” Thuramon said, in a deep voice, and straightened. Hugon could see his face, profiled against the light, as he stared toward the distant scene. His eyes seemed to glow with an inner light.

  “All of you,” Thuramon said. “Go back, away from me. What I must do… is most perilous. Go there, to the boat, and wait.”

  Reluctantly, the other three moved to the shore where the boat lay; in the darkness, they could not see Thuramon, though there were odd sounds, as he seemed to be busy at some work.

  But the Emperor was clearly doing something as well. The strange words he cried out came again, and then a third time; and each time it seemed to Hugon that a strange flicker of light passed by, sourceless, but immensely brilliant. The moving black-robed shapes had begun to move more quickly, and the smoke that rose in the center of their circling was thicker, almost solid.