The old man twined his fingers in his gray beard. "I don't know; it could work either way." He closed his eyes. "Which . . . depends on the complexity of the spell he used. And that depends on how magic works there." He opened his eyes and shrugged. "Which is something I can only guess at. Let me see the letter." He held out a hand. "I—"
"No." It was bad enough that he'd been robbed of his literacy, at least for all practical purposes. But Jason didn't want to become some sort of second-class citizen. "No, you read it. Out loud. Give all of us a chance to understand it at the same time."
Ahira nodded. "Go ahead."
She began, reading in Erendra, pausing only occasionally for breath.
Dear Friends,
Please accept my sincere apologies for not warning you about what was to happen. I am sorry for any distress you suffered, but I really had no choice: Had I warned you, you never would have believed me.
As I am sure you have gathered by now, you are in the world on which I modeled the little games we played together. Except they weren't just games.
I am not going to bore you with a long rendition of the difficulties this caused me as a child, but I have always had an ability to see into another world—this world that you are now in, since you are reading this. Quite clearly, I am not the only one who has ever had these visions, although I flatter myself by feeling that no one has ever had them so clearly. Not that it is ever terribly clear; the different time rates of our two worlds have always made events on the other side—your side—seem to happen so quickly that they are difficult to follow, even when my fleeting visions are so powerful that they overwhelm my senses.
My friends, I hunger for this world; given the chance, here, I know that I would be the most powerful wizard that this world has ever known. Were I able to transfer myself, as I did you, I would have.
But I can't. Magic works differently in the two worlds; in ours, it is an erratic force. As I write this, I have been trying to transfer material objects for twenty years, succeeding only slightly better than one percent of the time. And always, the objects change; only recently have I been able to control that change.
People, or any sentient creatures, are a different matter. There is a force in our world, called the collective unconscious, which inhibits the transfer of such. To put it simply, all of you belonged in our world, and there was nothing that I could do to transfer you as long as that obtained.
But there is ample evidence of individuals who have been liberated from the collective unconscious, and, given the proper set of conditions, have popped from one world to the other. Benjamin Bathurst and Ambrose Bierce are the two best known examples; no doubt there have been others.
As I write this, I don't know if I will be able to duplicate those conditions with any success; I do know that I can't do it for myself. A corollary of self-referential theory may, indeed, make that an impossibility for one confined to our world.
But, as you read this, you know that I have been able to duplicate those conditions for you, with the aid of much preparation and your participation in our game. I don't know who you are—as I write this, I have been trying different combinations of enchantments and individuals for a number of years, setting up caches of supplies at many different sites. The sites have been, as I'm sure you have gathered by now, always the places where our campaigns have started.
I would be very surprised if you all are not angry with me right now. But please try to understand: With what I know from my sight, I could be the greatest wizard, the most powerful user of magic that this world has ever known; instead, I find myself in the grips of academia, this world hovering in front of me like a ripe fruit.
But there is a way across. In this universe, there is a device called a Gate, a Gate Between Worlds, that can open up a pathway between our universes. I ask that you go to the Gate, and bring me through.
And in return, I promise to gratify your every wish.
To make this possible, along with the various supplies you will find in the other boxes, there is one box which I am certain you will regard as a treasure chest. Its contents are the result of years and years of research and experimentation. You will find a Horn, a lengthy book of spells, ten Cloaks of Transposition—but I don't need to go on; the contents are self-explanatory. Use and enjoy them.
These devices, together with the map of this world, will enable you to get from where you are to where the Gate is, and help you subdue the Gate's guardian so that you can bring me through with ease.
As for the rest of the supplies, they should prevent your having to buy anything locally. Please distribute the brandy among yourselves as a treat from me, and in partial apology for the discomfort I have caused you.
When you bring me through, you will receive the rest of my apology. Those among you foolish enough to wish to return to our dull, drab world will be given a ton of gold. And for those of you who wish to remain with me, I promise to gratify your every wish. And I mean that literally.
Andrea lifted her head, and looked directly at Barak. "And it ends, 'with most sincere best wishes.' "
Barak rose to his full height, slipping his scabbard from his sword, and dropped the scabbard to the grass. "Can you hear me, you bastard? This is what you get, when I get my hands on you." He spun on Aristobulus. "Get a sword."
"What?" The old man cowered.
"Get a sword, so I can kill you fairly. That box!" He waved his sword at the shards littering the hillside. "The one with the treasures. You broke it, you—"
"Enough, Barak." Ahira moved in front of him, his battleaxe held easily in his massive hands. "We're in enough trouble as it is. I'm not going to have you—or anyone else—killed. Is that understood?"
Barak snickered. The dwarf was threatening him? Ahira might be a lot stronger, but his sword had the reach. "Me killed? Don't be more stupid than—"
"Karl!" Andy-Andy moved between the two. "Stop it."
Karl? Who is—"Oh." He took a deep breath. He was Karl Cullinane, and Karl Cullinane did not carve up a helpless old man like a side of beef.
He stooped slowly and picked up his discarded scabbard, slipping the sword easily home.
Aristobulus got to his feet. "I understand your anger. I was most . . . disoriented upon awakening." He turned to the others. "And I do apologize, to the entire company." He sucked in air through his teeth. "But it is worst for Andrea and myself. The box I inadvertently destroyed contained the spell books. Unless we can find duplicates, I am limited to the spells in my head. Just those, and when they are gone, no more." The wizard took a step back and raised his hands. "It would be a shame to waste one—Fire, say—in defending myself."
Barak smiled and took a step forward. "Try it. I bet I get my hands around your throat bef—" The prick of a knifeblade at the back of his neck stopped him.
"Easy, Karl." Walter was calm as always. "No fights. You heard Ahira."
If he moved forward quickly enough, while kicking back hard enough, he could—no, Barak thought, not a good risk. "Then how about—"
Ahira held up a palm. "I'll deal with Aristobulus." He turned to the wizard. "Put your arms down."
"I—"
"Put them down!" The dwarf planted himself in front of the old man, dropped his axe to the ground, and folded his arms over his massive chest. "We had better settle this now. Are you willing to take orders like everyone else, or do you want to strike out on your own?"
Aristobulus sneered. "That's an empty threat. You don't dare abandon me." He waved a hand at Andy-Andy. "And leave her as your only wizard?"
Ahira turned his back on him. "Then get going. Hakim, put the knife away. Barak, you agree that I'm in charge?"
He rubbed at the spot where the knifepoint had been, surprised to find no blood on his finger. "For now." Was the dwarf really going to get rid of Aristobulus? With the loss of the treasure box, that would make things more than difficult. But he was right. They were in enough trouble; there just wasn't room for internal dissension. "As long a
s you think you can get us home, Ahira."
The dwarf nodded. "I don't just think it; I swear it." He turned back to the wizard and did a double take, as though he were surprised to see Aristobulus still there. "I thought I told you to get going."
"Now wait a minute. You—"
"No. You're either one of us, or you're not. You decided not. So leave."
"But . . . how can I—how do you expect me to—"
"Frankly, I expect you to die. A wizard, without spell books, alone? You don't have a chance. You needed us more than we needed you." Ahira planted a hand against Aristobulus' chest and pushed him sprawling. He turned to Karl. "If he's not gone in two minutes, you get a chance to see whether you can work that sword faster than he can work his mouth." The dwarf closed one eye in a broad wink.
Good for you. I just hope that this works. "Understood." He took a step toward the fallen wizard.
"Wait!" The fear in Aristobulus' voice matched the ashen pallor of his face. "I agree. You're in charge."
Karl didn't look at Ahira as he advanced on the wizard. "You want to give him another chance?"
"Yes." The dwarf walked away. "Help him up."
Karl smiled at Ahira's back. I'm not sure I like you. But I'm sure as hell not going to cross you. He looked from Doria to Lightfingers to Walter, then let his eyes rest on Andy-Andy's. They had all gotten the point, too.
But you'd better make it work. You'd damn well better.
* * *
Ahira had been off by himself for a while, sitting on a fallen tree and staring at an anthill, when Doria walked over.
"James? Mind if I join you?"
"Sit." He kicked a heel against the rough bark, feeling it crunch satisfactorily. He quelled a muted resentment at her presence; it had been good to be by himself, not have to juggle six, twelve personalities. No, fourteen—including both of his own.
She smoothed her robes around her legs and seated herself gracefully on the grass in front of him, peering at him out of unblinking, yellow-irised eyes.
He looked away. A strange reversal this was. Usually, she was the one who avoided his eyes. "What is it?"
"We have a problem."
"Really?" He arched a brow. "Just one? That would be nice. Very nice. Which one are you referring to? Right now, I'm busy chewing my nails over Hakim and Lightfingers. I can think of half a score of things that could go wrong down there, and not much we could do about any of them. How long have they been gone, anyway?"
"A couple of hours. But I meant that we have a new problem." She rubbed at her eyes. "I can't get my spell back."
"What?" A cleric wasn't like a wizard, dependent on rememorizing spells from books. For a cleric, getting a used spell back was just a matter of praying for it. At least, it was supposed to be.
"I tried. Honest, I tried. But it just didn't work."
He didn't bother to keep the anger, the frustration out of his voice. "You tried what?"
"Praying. To the Healing Hand. But nothing happened." She scratched at the back of her hand, leaving long red weals. "I can feel the other spells in my head. All of them—but I can't get the one I used back." A stray blond strand came to rest over one eye; she pushed it away. "Maybe . . ."
"Maybe what?" This was frightening; the one thing he had been able to count on was their magic working.
"Maybe if I believed . . ."
He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. "You mean to tell me that with all that's happened to us, you don't believe in magic?"
"Stop it. Stop it." He let her shrug his hands away. "It's not that. It's just that the notion of a god of the Healing Hand, a . . ."
"Benign deity?"
" . . . doing good, healing people—it just seems so absurd." She fastened slim fingers in her hair. "After all that's happened to us—after all that's happened to me—I just can't accept that. Not really."
"You're not just talking about here." This was a side of Doria he had never really seen. But beyond the friendly facade, the polished nails and slightly awkward manner, he had, sometimes, sensed a deep sadness.
"No, not just here." She worked her mouth, but no words came. Doria buried her face in her hands.
"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," he said, then cursed himself for putting it that way. Confession was a powerful cleanser of the psyche; he should have asked her to talk about it, made her talk about it. "But tell me, anyway." That sounded lame. Damn.
"I can't."
He reached out, gently pulling her hands from her face. "Don't worry about it." Ahira forced a smile. "I'm sure that everything will work out. And if you want to talk about it later, I'll be here. Wherever here is." He stood and helped her to her feet. "I saw some cans in one of the boxes. How about you read them for me? If one of them's salmon, we'll split it."
Her smile was almost natural. "But did you see a can opener?"
He hefted his axe. "Yup."
Chapter Five
Lundeyll
The day is for honest men, the night for thieves.
—Euripides
Lightfingers sidestepped a rut on the dusty road. "How do you want to play it?"
Hakim smiled. "The first thing we do," he said, "is find ourselves a tavern, and get ourselves a drink." He cocked his head to one side. "Unless, of course, we can find ourselves a willing tavern girl."
They were half a mile from the city, the walls looming dark and massive ahead of them. Lightfingers found it strange, actually, that there was still spring in Hakim's walk; the hike down the hill and along the road hadn't made an impact on the younger man.
Lightfingers raised his hand. "Hold it a moment; got to catch my breath." He forced a chuckle. "Besides, since when have you been willing to share? 'We'?" Not that anything interested him after that walk, except a place to sit down, and something to drink. Preferably something cool.
Hakim clapped him on the back. "That's the spirit. Jason, m'friend, we may be down here on business, but I didn't hear the dwarf say we couldn't have fun, too. How much do you have on you?"
He shrugged. "I don't know exactly. One platinum piece, five gold, eight silver, six copper—something like that."
"Pretty good for not knowing exactly, Jason."
"Call me Lightfingers." He rubbed at his stump. Jason Parker was a young man with a full complement of limbs. Was . . .
"Lightfingers, then. Look, Doc apparently went to one hell of a lot of trouble to get us here and get us supplied. I doubt that he would've outfitted us with money that wasn't good—at least at bullion rates."
"Whatever they are."
"Right."
A creaking from ahead sped them around the bend. A stocky peasant, dragging a creaking handcart, smiled a greeting through gapped teeth. He stopped to run the blunt fingers of one hand through his greasy blond hair while he balanced the cart with his other.
"Greetings, friends," he said in Erendra, his vowels overlong to Lightfingers' ears. "Bound for Lundeyll?"
Lightfingers walked over and brushed an imaginary speck of dirt from the peasant's shoulder. His jerkin was similar to Lightfingers', but cut more broadly. "Yes, we are. There. That looks better, friend. And how is the trading today?"
The peasant patted his pouch, then waved a hand at the muslin sacks on his cart. "Good." He lowered the cart, letting it balance on the two struts that depended from the handles. "In fact"—he rummaged around in the cart, producing a bulging winesack— "good enough that Wen'l of Lundescarne would share a drink with two strangers. For luck." He uncorked the bag and drank deeply, two trickles of purple running from the comers of his mouth and into his beard. "If you would honor me?"
"Delighted." Hakim elbowed Lightfingers aside, accepted the winesack, and tilted it back. "Good. Very good." He wiped his mouth on the back of an arm, handing the sack to Lightfingers.
Lightfingers drank. Hakim was right; the wine was good. The dark, lukewarm liquid washed the dust from his mouth, replacing it with a tingling, a rippling effervescence that b
urbled down his throat, setting up warm vibrations in his middle. Lightfingers propped the bottom of the winesack on his stump and considered taking another swallow. No, it wouldn't do to seem too greedy. Better to be greedy.
He handed the wine back to Wen'l. "I thank you."
The peasant frowned; an unsummoned memory welled up: A drink for luck was a ritual that had to be accompanied by an introduction.
"Einar . . . One-handed thanks you."
Wen'l smiled, his forehead wrinkling as he turned to Hakim.
"And Hakim Singh thanks you, as well."
Wen'l's puzzled smile didn't change. "I can see that friend Einar is of Osgrad, but you are from . . . ?"
"Secaucus."
Wen'l nodded knowledgeably. "Ahh. And that land is to the . . ." He snapped his fingers, as though the direction were on the tip of his tongue.
"West," Hakim supplied. "Far to the west."
The peasant's eyes widened. "Beyond the Bitter Sea?"
"Far beyond."
"Beyond fabled D'tareth, even?"
Hakim shot Lightfingers a quick glance. D'tareth had been the jumping-off point of the last game. The last one before this one—no, this wasn't a game. "Yes, beyond even D'tareth."
Wen'l nodded wisely. "Oh, yes, I have heard of Seecacuse—it just escaped me for a moment." He shrugged, dismissing the subject. "Do you need a place to stay in Lundeyll?" At Lightfingers' nod, the peasant brightened. "Good. If I may, let me suggest the tavern of Frann of Pandathaway, on the Street of Two Dogs. It is just beyond the public well. Tell Frann that you are friends of Wen'l, and I am sure he will give you a special rate, a good one." Wen'l turned to put the winesack back in his cart.
"Permit me." Lightfingers stepped up and stumbled slightly to distract the peasant while he opened and emptied Wen'l's pouch, then flicked his haul into his sleeve before taking the sack. He tucked the winesack under a blanket in the cart. "To keep it out of the sun, and cool." Lightfingers raised his good hand to his forehead. "And a good day to you, friend Wen'l."
The peasant nodded, picked up the handles of his cart, and started down the road. "And a good evening to you, friends—you should hurry, if you wish to reach Lundeyll before sundown."
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