Liavek 1

by Will Shetterly

  "You did not invest your birth magic. You—No!"

  'The potatoes—"

  "No! How dare you!"

  Reykja's strong hands curled into fists. The old woman glanced around the room, a horrible glance of desperation and fear. She found Ondur's face, white above the blanket.

  "A wizard, yes, I am...tell her, child, you can see. You are—"

  Ondur dropped the blanket to grip Reykja's arm. She felt only hardness, hot to the touch and already beginning to smoke. But the old woman seemed not to see it; she gazed instead at Ondur—at her whiteness in the twilight, at her face and body—and the old jowls drooped even more.

  "Aaaahh," she said softly, a dry desolate sound like the fumblings of stiff leaves.

  Ondur said, "Reykja..."

  "How dare you!" Reykja shouted. She shook off Ondur's arm and lunged toward the old woman. "You—with invested magic! And this is what I've stolen from, this is what Kalum...Potatoes! You!"

  The old woman shrank back against the doorjamb. 'They won't grow. A unity whole—"

  "Curse your potatoes! For this Kalum...this—"

  "Don't hurt me, for earth's sake, don't—"

  Reykja raised both fists and advanced on the old woman. Her breast heaved, and fury twisted her face. Beneath the fury Ondur saw the panic, roiling and heaving against the hard glassy hatred—this, the enmity that should have given dignity to KaIurn's death, this—and she cried out, "No, Reykja. No!" Reykja did not hear her. The panic beat against the smoking glass, and the hard glass would shatter and explode, Ondur could see how it would explode, hurtling shards outward to impale them all.

  "Reykja...no..."

  "Don't hurt me, I'll go away, don't—"

  "Investiture-magic! This!"

  "Not entirely," said another voice.

  He stood in the garden doorway. Tall, angular as crystal, with crystal's cold clarity, he looked down at them from an unsmiling height. His loose clothing was of dull gold silk, his loose long hair white, his eyes the purple of the deepening sky behind him. At his waist coiled a whip with a handle of gold and a thong of such light, unbraided fiber that it could only be there as a boast of how little he would ever need it. Rings gleamed on every finger; rings of opal and bloodstone and sardonyx. Beside his still figure the kitchen looked even meaner, shabbier, and dirtier, and even the white of Ondur's hair was greyed by the shadow where he blocked the light.

  Ondur put her hands over her face. The old woman, face knotted in terror, sank to her knees.

  But Reykja whirled to face the wizard like a drowning man seizing land. Gazing at the arrogance of that whip—soft, gossamer, by all the gods useless!—her fists unclenched, flexed, clenched again, not in panic but in a fierce and unholy joy. Her dark eyes blazed. Color rushed back into her face, deep rich blood color; here the enmity, gorgeous enough, strong enough, here—

  The wizard did not even glance at her. "Breliniparr," he said.

  Ondur, hands before her face, shuddered.

  "It's destroyed!" Reykja cried fiercely. "The wooden cat is destroyed, gone forever. Your magic has been freed, you won't have it until it returns to you at your next birthday! It's gone, and I am the one who destroyed it!" Her eyes blazed in triumph.

  The wizard ignored her. He said again to Ondur, "Breliniparr. Come."

  "Don't you hear me?" Reykja shouted. "I destroyed it, your vessel of luck. I! And your magic is gone!"

  The wizard walked toward Ondur, who did not move. In the dusky air the light fibers of the whip rippled gently.

  "Not her!" Reykja screamed. "I! I did it! I did it for Kalum!"

  The wizard stopped within three paces of Ondur. He glanced down once, a quick cold glance, as if to be sure of the pacing. He did not touch Ondur. But the brilliant clarity of his face sharpened, and almost he smiled.

  "Did you think, Breliniparr, that I could not find you? You?" Then, finally, Reykja understood.

  "Ondur, Ondur..."

  Ondur said from behind her hands, "I am sorry, Reykja, I couldn't tell you, I couldn't tell Kalum, oh by all gods, Jalampar, let me go."

  Reykja said slowly, "You are a vessel of birth luck. You. His magic is invested in you."

  At last Ondur pulled her hands from her face. "Not by my choice!" she cried desperately, but the desperation did no good, did not even dent the glassy smoking shield around Reykja. The dark girl's face twisted in fury, in hatred, in an agony of betrayal. It seemed to Ondur that the glass glowed red, then yellow, then a bright blinding white like a burst of light. At that blinding, Ondur threw up one hand. Reykja launched herself, fingers curled into claws, through the hand and at Ondur's face.

  She caught a fistful of white hair. Ondur had dodged sideways, but the force of Reykja's attack knocked her down and they both fell heavily to the stone floor. Reykja pulled back her fist and struck Ondur in the mouth, wildly but with deadly accuracy.

  "A vessel of luck, you, a unity whole."

  Ondur cried out, dodged a second blow, somehow rolled free. Blood welled from the corner of her mouth. A fistful of the white hair lay scattered on the stone. She scrambled to her feet and backed away from Reykja, crying words Reykja didn't hear. Ondur backed to the garden door, but then abruptly turned, eyes huge, and sprang forward again. But the wizard had already stepped between the two girls. With one hand he seized Ondur and held her, the source of his power, in a fierce grip. With the other he had pulled the gossamer whip from his sash. Uncoiled, the silky fibers floated free; they were strands of Ondur's white hair.

  Almost casually, unsmiling still, he flicked the end toward Reykja on the floor below him.

  In the long, long moment while the magic thong floated toward her, while she scuttled uselessly on the floor to escape it, Reykja's eyes met Ondur's. Against the doorjamb the old woman yowled in fear, and Reykja saw again the attic room with Kalum in his chalked circle, heard again the orange cat yowl beyond the window, felt the sandglass heavy in her hand. The whip was ritual magic: It would kill her, as Kalum had been killed. The sandglass ran out, the circle smoked on the floor, the room reeked with the acrid smell of sweat gone wrong. In the wizard's grasp Ondur squeezed shut her eyes, and her eyelids were shadowed moonlight. Reykja felt the magic all around her. pressing in and piercing her. sharp as Ondur's pain. In the second before the whip struck her, she heard again the sound of shattering glass—she must have finally thrown a bell—piercingly sweet.

  Ondur's eyes flew open. She seemed to see, as Reykja could not, the bright hard glass shield shatter and the grieving girl crouch, freed, the moment before the gossamer thong struck her face.

  The thing struck.

  Reykja screamed, but only in surprise. She did not smoke or shrivel, she did not collapse in a vicious burst of light. The bright glassy light had shattered, and she crouched in ordinary twilight in a mean kitchen, and the thong caressed her cheek light as air.

  The wizard stared at his whip. He jerked his glance to Ondur, who looked as dazed as he. Again he flicked the whip at Reykja; it slid over her upturned face without effect: like moonlight, like a blown lock of Ondur's hair. Reykja's mouth gaped; Ondur stood as if she had been struck; the wizard glared without comprehension. None of them spoke.

  It was the old woman who said finally, in her quavering voice, "She is not a unity anymore. A vessel must be unchanged to hold magic, a unity whole, or the magic is freed. But now, see, there are two. She and the child. Two."

  The others stared at her.

  "A unity whole," the old woman repeated, and now the quaver was gone from her voice.

  Reykja groped her way off the floor, toward Ondur. "You didn't know...

  Ondur whispered, "Not that it would free the birth luck...birth luck..."

  Suddenly Reykja giggled, a high nervous giggle, shocking the room. Ondur gasped. The giggle became a whimper and then a yowl. Then Reykja was crying, tears for Kalum coursing down her face, and Ondur sat with her arms fiercely around her and cried as well. The wizard, looking suddenly less tall,
less gold, scowled and strode away; there was nothing here for him now. But the ancient countrywoman crept closer and sat near them, a gnarled dim shape, no longer afraid.

  "I bore six children," she said pensively, to no one. "And all six died."

  But the two girls did not hear her. They went on holding each other in the blue dusk, clinging tightly between life and death, and there was nothing bright, nothing glassy, in Reykja's messy tears, and nothing of unity at all.

  "An Act of Contrition" by Steven Brust

  STANDING IN THE Tiger's Eye was, among other things, a relief from the heat. How its proprietor kept it cool was a small mystery, but one to be appreciated rather than solved. Dashif certainly made no effort to solve it. He kept his eyes on the owner's back as she dealt with a customer, showing him a decanter of cut glass imported from Ka Zhir, then a goblet made in Tichen with a glaze found only in the Great Wastes. Dashif was patient. For the past two weeks he had felt as if he were walking about naked, and this would end soon; he could afford a little patience.

  Eventually the customer left, promising to return when he had thought things over. He's lying, of course, Dashif decided. Poor bastard couldn't afford anything.

  The owner stood behind the counter and looked at Dashif. They were the same height—nearly six feet—and so stared straight across at each other, an effect neither was used to. "Good afternoon, Count Dashif," she said. ''They're ready."

  "That's well, Snake."

  Snake pulled a heavy box from under the counter, set it next to her, and rested her hand lightly on it. Dashif found a five-levar coin and flipped it onto the counter. Snake, without touching the coin, pushed the box across to him. He removed the wooden top, set aside the oiled cloth within, and picked up one of the two weapons.

  "He added about a quarter of an inch to the flint-cock, to allow your thumb a purchase," said Snake.

  Dashif nodded. "And the mechanism?"

  "Loosened a bit. Not too much, or it would start misfiring." The flint had been carefully replaced, he saw. He picked up the other pistol with his left hand, his fingers caressing the gold inlay work on the ivory butt.

  "Try it," said Snake, who had still made no move to pick up the coin.

  Dashif nodded almost imperceptibly and swung the pistols until they pointed at Snake. Ca-click, click, click, and all four mechanisms were cocked.

  "Fine," said Dashif, still pointing them at her stomach.

  She did not seem to be impressed. "They aren't loaded," she said.

  "I would hope not."

  He set one down and used both hands to release the double mechanism of the one pistol, then repeated the process with the other. He opened the pair of pouches at his right side and went through the ritual of loading the guns. He had bought the pistols through this very shop a few years before. The mechanisms were made by Tichen locksmith Erigo Niola, the barrels by metalsmith Fereth Loyale, and the stocks and grips, at Snake's recommendation, by master jeweler Kentanno Reffina of Trader's Town. They were far more reliable than the more common wheellock or matchlock; he could expect at least three of his charges to go off when firing all four. The only drawback had been, up until now, the need to use both hands to cock one. Now this was solved.

  After loading both pistols, he stuck them into the wide black leather belt that supported his rapier and knife. "They'll do," he said, adjusting the red cloak over his white blouse.

  Snake took the coin. "Thank you, Count Dashif."

  He nodded and walked back into the heat. As he stepped through the door, four others entered. They were young, raffish, and looked as if they couldn't afford even to look at most of what the Tiger's Eye carried. Troublemakers, of course. It occurred to him that quite a bit of Snake's merchandise was breakable, which must make her susceptible to such as these. He wondered how she'd deal with it. He could offer his help, of course. He shrugged. Either she could handle it or she couldn't. None of his concern. He resumed walking. Behind him, from inside the shop, he heard the crack of a whip, followed by a scream, and the sound of several persons making a hasty retreat to the street. He smiled to himself.

  •

  The walk back to the Levar's palace took him through the Merchant's Quarter near the canals. He passed a fruit stand and took an apple, paying for it with a half-copper. A beggar-child, recognizing his red cloak, low black boots, and long dark hair, hastened out of the way. A trader's camel, not recognizing him, spat on his cloak. The trader tried vainly to suppress his mirth, but didn't quite succeed.

  Dashif pulled one of his pistols from his belt and cocked it. The trader's laughter died at once. Dashif caught the trader with his eyes and raised the pistol. The trader licked his lips, but the pistol didn't come to rest aimed at him. Still looking at the trader, Dashif held it against the head of the camel. The camel started to swing its head to bite. Dashif fired the ftrst barrel, then the second. The animal fell at their feet and began jerking spasmodically. The trader's expression turned from fear to anger. Dashif allowed his left hand to rest on the butt of the second pistol. The trader turned away.

  Dashif resumed his walk to the Levar's palace. Behind him, he heard faint mutterings, but ignored them.

  He knew several of the names he was called when he wasn't around, but they didn't bother him. Hate was preferable to contempt, and contempt preferable to pity. The only name he dreaded hearing was "Dashif the Luckless," but few knew enough to call him that. Of the people who could have done so, one was his wife, who had long ago left him and was now, probably, in Tichen, living with his children—he hoped. Probably as someone's pet. That would suit her.

  Dashif's master, His Scarlet Eminence, knew enough to add "the Luckless" to his name, but wouldn't. It was in His Eminence's interest to keep that story hidden—at least for now. Later would take care of itself.

  Only one other could ever have told the story. Erina. His slim, tall, lovely Erina of the smooth, dark skin, and the long, dark hair, and the sad, dark destiny. His witch from Minnow Island. She could have told the story; she had been the cause, she had done it—stealing his magic forever. From before the time his ancestor became the Count of Dashforth, the family had been wizards. Now, thanks to Erina, he was wizard no more. Erina the enchantress, Erina the thief. She could have told the story of how he had left her to marry the bejeweled bitch. She could have told how she, Erina, had robbed him of magic in revenge. She could have told it all, if she were alive, but four lead balls in the back of her head had guaranteed her silence. Foolish, sentimental Erina; she shouldn't have taken his magic and then left him alive. Or maybe she had done the smart thing after all; perhaps hers was the best revenge.

  Count Dashif, who would never be called Dashif the Luckless, entered the palace of the Levar, to wait once more upon his master. The Regent, Dashif hoped, had luck enough for them both.

  If not, the gods help Liavek.

  •

  One carefully measured powder charge, a bit of wadding, and a lead ball, rammed in tightly enough but not too tightly. Repeat for the second barrel. A little powder in the touchhole, and the spark from the flint would ignite the charge. He admired the beauty of the weapons once more.

  Dashif was a fair swordsman, but sorcerers fought from a distance, and one must respond from a distance to match them. He took out a polishing cloth, and—

  "Good afternoon, Count Dashif." He looked up, saw the lanky figure of Pitullio in front of him, and nodded. Pitullio continued, "His Scarlet Eminence would like me to fill you in on the background, then he'll see you himself."

  Dashif nodded once more and put the pistol back into his belt. From His Eminence's waiting area, Dashif followed Pitullio into the latter's small, comfortable office. Pitullio flopped himself into a chair and heaved a sigh. "He's in one of those moods today, Count Dashif. Better tread lightly."

  "I always do, Pitullio. What have you to tell me?"

  "I have to give you a history lesson," he said, "though Rikiki alone knows why."

  "Let's have it,
then."

  Pitullio stretched out and locked his hands behind his head. "You two are just the same. Always in such a bloody hurry." He sighed. "All right. What do you know of the Gold Priesthood, the Seekers of the Light?"

  "They were destroyed about seventeen or eighteen years ago, just after the destruction of the Blue Priesthood."

  "Do you know who destroyed them, or how?"

  "No," lied Dashif.

  "We did." Pitullio waited before continuing, but if he had expected some reaction he was disappointed. "They had gained a great deal of influence by then, and Those In Power decided they had to go."

  "How?"

  Pitullio chuckled. "The Gold high priests all had overlapping Times of Power each year. Do you know what that means?"

  "Go on."

  "Having one's Time of Power at the appropriate time of year was a requirement for the high priesthood. That way, the high priests could unite to bind their magic into their altar. I take it you are familiar with the binding of magic, as distinct from investiture?"

  "Theoretically," said Dashif, carefully keeping his voice neutral.

  "Whereas, in a normal binding, anyone may use a bound object, but only for a particular task, the Gold priests wanted to bind their altar with the power of their entire high priesthood, so that one particular person, the high priest, could use it for any task."

  "How?"

  "It took the Gold priests a long time to build up a sufficient number of high priests. This gave us time to plant an agent among them. At the moment of binding, our agent twisted the spell in such a way that no one would be able to use the bound power. It's still there, locked up in the altar, but they can't touch it."

  "I see. And the priests?"

  "A few of them survived. But, of course, they will not be able to use their magic unless the spell in the altar is unbound, which is ever so slightly impossible. Nothing has been heard from them since then. I expect they've died out."

  "Of course," said Dashif. To himself, he added, Once again. Pitullio. you act the fool. If they'd died out, and the altar cannot be unbound. it wouldn't be necessary for you to give me this history, would it? "Did the agent survive?"