by Brian Daley
“I’m going too,” Gil told her. He didn’t have to worry about joining combat; numbers would be on the side of the Sisters of the Line. Worrying about what to do if Bey were there, he looked expectantly at Andre.
“I shall accompany you, of course,” the wizard said.
“Good enough. Uh, what about Woodsinger and the kid?”
“I shall stay with her for now,” Angorman volunteered. “Then I will come along with the Trustee.”
Swan set out a subaltern to gather the Sisters she wanted. A horse was found for Andre. Ferrian appeared, having gotten his mount back, to see how they’d fared. The Horseblooded was taciturn, avoiding their eyes; Andre explained what they’d discovered, finishing, “We leave for Ladentree now. Would you come?” Ferrian frowned in thought.
“C’mon, man,” the American shouted. “There’s nothing you can do here. Let it go.”
“Your aid would be appreciated,” Swan said. Gil looked at her in some surprise.
“Then you shall have it,” Ferrian replied.
The High Constable had chosen fifty of her personal guardswomen, an elite. They found, as expected, that the entertainers had decamped as soon as battle had begun and left behind tents, baggage and the trained bear. Gil stopped long enough to pick up Dirge.
It was just over seven miles to Ladentree. The southern army must have been maneuvering to get as close to the library as it could. Had the Glyffans waited much longer before engaging them, the Southwastelanders might well have taken it.
The countryside was quiet and empty, with everyone either recruited or in hiding. Gil began to hope that they could trap Bey or even get Dunstan back alive. In any case, the book mustn’t fall into enemy hands.
He was pleased in a tiredly dispassionate way that Cynosure and Blazetongue were safe, but glad to be free of them. As with Dunstan, the lethargy that had replaced Berserkergang passed away, leaving reflective calm.
They sighted Ladentree silhouetted against the setting sun, a rambling, airy place on a hill above a diminutive lake. It sprawled grandly in galleries, courtyards, repositories, study chambers, vaults, shelf rooms, auditoriums and copy studios. Its walls were blue-black stone, its roofs of thick orange tile.
They came to the front of the place, a tall arch of amandola marble. There were fresh hoofprints, deep and wide-spaced from speed, leading into the building itself. They left their own horses outside and Swan posted ten cavalrywomen to hold the gate. Gil left Dirge and Dunstan’s sword behind, not to be slowed up.
The main corridor was broad as a city street, roofed in elaborate groining and fan-tracery, lit by wide windows.
There were fresh marks on the time-worn floors, pale dints of iron horseshoes on the darker surface. A word from Swan, and her Sisters of the Line drew swords. They raced along the corridors past paneled doors, their boot scuffs barely disturbing the vast quiet. They came on a body curled on the floor, a man with a broken length of wood beside him. He was dying, a deep wound in his side. Swan cried out, recognizing her brother Jade.
Some of the glaze left his eyes when he saw his sister. “Swan, you are needed; you are here.” He strayed into unconsciousness for a second, but forced himself back out of it. “They came hours ago, riding their horses through our halls. We couldn’t stop them. But we would not help them look for what they wanted, and they could not find it. At last they became angry, beyond temper. Silverquill—” He paused for a fit of coughing on his own blood. “The Senior Sage tried to run. They chased him.”
Gil wanted to tell him to save his strength but there was no point; the wound had as good as killed him already. “Oh Swan, I broke the Mandate. I fought them with that length of wood to make them stop. The temperance of years ruined in a moment of—” He was racked with coughs again. The blood ran freely from his mouth now.
She hugged his head to her. “You did what you must,” she said softly. “Warrior-spirit, you did what you could, no sin.” He looked up in hope, his last exertion. He slumped, breathing leaving him. She looked up at the sound of boot heels.
It was Gil MacDonald, pistol in his fist. She thought at first that the Berserkergang was on him, but he was composed. Voices had attracted his attention, drifting from an inner courtyard. Ferrian, Andre and the guardswomen went after the American. Swan remained at her brother’s side. Stern war captain, shrewd administrator, she was lenient with herself for once, taking a moment out for mourning.
Gil came to a pair of beautiful doors of reticulated carving. Through them he could see Sages of Ladentree, cowering from three members of the troupe. One of the intruders, the bear trainer, stood aside, holding some tiny white thing in his hand. Gil saw it was some minuscule songbird.
The Occhlon dropped the bird and clapped his hands together loudly. There was an exaltation of white wings up from the trees. Some birds flew to safety but many, close to the man, dropped with helpless paroxysms of wings to lie on the turf. Apparently they were so fragile that loud noises would stop their hearts. The Occhlon found that entertaining. He unslung a horn, to see how many he could frighten in adjoining courts and rafters.
The doors were latched from the outside. Gil took a step back and kicked. The painful rebound of his foot felt good, making him assert control; he intended never to capitulate to the Berserkergang again. There was a splintering of old wood. The doors slammed open.
The bear handler saw him, dropped the horn and put hand to hilt. The Mauser’s muzzle came up.
“Give it up,” Gil offered, “or I’ll kill you. It wouldn’t bother me. Decide!”
The Southwastelander’s blade came free. Before Gil could get a shot off, Ferrian dodged around him, scimitar in his left hand, for a revenge of his own. Gil lowered the pistol.
The two fought up and back, hard boots scoring soft turf meant for bare feet or slippers. The other Southwastelanders, juggler and clown, waited, outnumbered. Ferrian was plainly the better fencer, with a flexible wrist and inspired sense of timing. The other, with a husky build much like the Horseblooded’s, using his accustomed hand, found himself losing. Their blades wound, rang and rang again, investigating the scenarios of death. Ferrian’s scimitar was first to execute one. The curved blade leapt at the Southwastelander’s heart. The man died in cruel surprise.
The surviving members of the troupe drew together; cavalrywomen moved to disarm them. Then one of the Glyffans dropped, a long war arrow’s fletch at her back, a pale-head sticking out of her mailed breast. Gil searched upward, saw an archer on a rooftop and cursed himself—Screw-up!—for not being more cautious. He brought the Mauser up, fired, missed. A second arrow found Ferrian’s thigh; Gil squeezed off three more shots. The bowman’s body hurled from its perch.
The American demanded of the quailed Sages where the other Southwastelanders were. “Abroad in the library,” one answered. “There were many of them.”
Swan arrived to investigate the shots. She split her troops into search teams. Gil went with seven Glyffans, to help. He never knew how many rooms he ran through, doors he yanked open, praying Bey’s inhumanly calm, one-eyed stare would meet him on the other side. There were racks of clay tablets whose age he couldn’t even guess, ages-old works of art. There were enormous books bound in gold, set with precious gems to show their rarity and worth. There were piles of scrolls and illuminated folios, maps and charts. He saw plant specimens and items of natural history, but ignored them all. He went on, dreamlike, ripping aside endless curtains, turning countless door handles, running, ever running through the maze of corridors.
Twilight turned as they searched. They had divided the offshoots among them. Gil fell behind, making his inspections thoroughly. The Sisters had outdistanced him and gone to the next stretch of corridors when he heard a whisper.
Pistol ready, he traced it back to an unlighted alcove. Then he recognized a skinny frame and lean, melancholy face.
“Dunstan!” He lowered the handgun and would’ve let out a yell, but the Horseblooded, at the far end of a hidden ha
llway, hushed him with a finger sign. He was armed with a short stabbing sword, and wanted quiet. “Is Bey here?” Gil mouthed silently. With a nod and a signal to follow, Dunstan slipped down a flight of stairs. Gil complied.
Trailing the Horseblooded’s fleet figure, he was only a few yards behind when Dunstan slipped through a door. Gil came more slowly, then jumped into the doorway. His glance skimmed past shelf on shelf of giant books, an ancient suit of armor on a display pedestal in a corner, an iron lance in its gauntlet, and a hearth. Then he saw Dunstan.
His friend stood, sword at the breast of Yardiff Bey. With the sorcerer at gunpoint, Gil knew fear and elation; the Hand of Salamá had forced his hatred far beyond what Gil had thought were its extreme limits. Here was his brilliant, elusive nemesis, everything that made him awaken in sweat and clouded his thought.
“Move away, Dunstan.” He lifted his pistols, both muzzles leveled at Bey. His friend didn’t move from his line of fire.
“Stay your hand a moment,” said the Horseblooded.
“I said stand clear.” His thumbs were moving the hammers back to half-cock. Whatever reasons Dunstan had, he didn’t want to hear them.
“Nay, I will say my piece,” the other insisted.
“No!” The muzzles shook now. Yardiff Bey glared at the American, unmoved. Gil took another step, meaning to angle around for an unobstructed line of fire. “Look out; I’m gonna—”
A terrific weight hit his shoulders, driving him to the floor. Something crashed off his steel cap; star clusters went off in his eyes. His arms were wrenched back, the pistols torn from his hands. By the time he could focus there were sharp points at each side of his neck, just behind the jaw. He croaked his friend’s name.
The Horseblooded stepped away from the sorcerer. Yardiff Bey blithely waved a hand. Dunstan shimmered and became a stranger, a dark-skinned Occhlon. Gil hung his head abjectly. “Oh no; oh no, no.” There were more Southwastelanders, who began to laugh.
“You would not have been deceived by so hasty a glamour,” Bey told him, “had you not wanted to see Dunstan so very much. I did but work with what was already in your mind.”
They shoved him against the hearth and held blades at his waist and throat. In this moment of complete disaster, he accepted it listlessly. There was a large worktable in the room, cluttered with books, low-burned candles and a long parchment list. Gil stared without seeing it, while Bey gathered implements, preparing for hasty departure. On the table was a huge leather binder, another intact jacket of Arrivals Macabre. It was empty, though its raised seal was undisturbed, and its stacked pages, bundled securely, lay near it.
“Be intelligent for once, insect,” the sorcerer was saying. “You were observed, led astray and captured; it is accomplished fact. If needs be, you are our safe passage past the Glyffans. You may yet see Dunstan in the flesh. Simply obey.”
Gil’s scalp burned. Insect? He fought vertigo, a little less punchy. “You blew it when you came to Ladentree. They’ll never let you walk.”
The Hand of Salamá permitted himself an indulgent smile, the least retaliation. More than that would have been undue credit to the outlander, whose deception by carrier pigeon had caused the sorcerer to cancel standby plans to take Cynosure and Blazetongue. Bey had, at last, the prize secreted by Rydolomo. “Take the pages and put them in my pouch,” he ordered, “and leave the sealed cover. It is of no use to me. We depart through the rear gates.”
Gil shuddered. He would have opened himself to the Berserkergang in that moment, but it wasn’t in him and he didn’t know how to exert it. He made an effort to push the fuzz back in his brain, staring down at the empty covers of Rydolomo’s book, his fright making every detail of binder and seal leap up at him with abnormal clarity. Then it struck him exactly what he was seeing. He pressed slightly against the weapons pricking him. He would need room, a piddling bit of leeway.
“You’ll never make it,” he told the sorcerer, “Andre deCourteney’s here.”
Yardiff Bey looked at him as if he were crazy. “What care I for an imbecile like deCourteney?”
“He and the Glyffans will stop you, but it’s not too late to make a deal. Otherwise they’ll bring you down before you can get out of Glyffa.” He was making it up as he went, playing to his guards. If they were distracted, he had one chance. “Maybe Andre can’t stop you,” he leaned forward at the waist and dagger points backed off fractions of an inch, “but the Trustee can, can’t she?”
The Southwastelanders looked to their leader. Gil’s heart flip-flopped. They didn’t have to buy it; they just had to see he was in a dialogue with the Hand of Salamá.
“She is not nigh,” Bey replied, “or I should know it. I will be long away long before she is.”
“Oh yeah? There’s something you should know.” Locking in on the sorcerer’s ocular and the dark, liquid eye beside it, he leaned forward even more. The blades retreated one more degree. It was high-voltage triumph when his hand touched the table’s edge. “The Trustee knows you’re Gabrielle’s father. She’ll have your ass.” His other hand got to the table. “You and these poor slobs are through.” He eased down, forearms resting on the table, torso over it. “And Salamá’s going down for good.” The two points pressing his ribs didn’t matter; he’d gone as far as he needed to. The sorcerer, bored with him, turned to fasten his bags, gathering thaumaturgical tools.
“So save yourself, Bey.” Gil pushed himself backward, bringing his hands back toward himself, brushing the cover of Arrivals Macabre with his wrist. “And tell these scumbags to let loose.”
He dared not look at the table now, and could only hope he’d gauged it right, and that Bey wouldn’t see. He perspired, waiting, lost control of his impulse, and his eyes strayed to the empty binder. He’d moved it just enough to bring Rydolomo’s seal up to a candle stub’s flame. The men holding him hadn’t noticed. He held his breath.
That alerted Yardiff Bey. He turned, wondering what had made the American go silent. He followed Gil’s eyes, saw it all. His voice was a whiplash. “The seal, fools!” A thread of melted wax ran from it, even as he lunged at the binder. The Occhlon stirred, mystified, indecisive.
There was an explosion over the table. The Occhlons flinched back. Gil, braced for it, threw them off, spun, and dodged around the corner of the hearth, crouching in its momentary protection.
The guardian entity confined by the seal of Rydolomo hovered in the air. Its tendrils flailed at one astounded Southwastelander, then another. They bounced through the air like tennis balls, one crunching up against the mantelpiece, the other dumping the table over, landing five feet beyond. The two handguns jumped from his clutch. Yardiff Bey ducked in to scoop up the bundled pages of Arrivals Macabre.
Another Occhlon, the acrobat in red who’d perched over the lintel and taken Gil, sprang in and hewed at the guardian with his yataghan. A pulse of light crackled down the blade. The Southwastelander dropped, arm charred, and there was the smell of smoking flesh.
Gil, peeking around the corner of the hearth, saw Yardiff Bey slide himself across the polished floor. The window at the opposite end of the shelf room was too far away. The sorcerer’s hand was near the latch of his ocular, as if he debated unleashing whatever was contained there. Then he turned and swung the door open.
The entity whirled angrily, tracking the movement. It went drifting after him. Yardiff Bey tumbled through the door and hauled it shut behind him; without time to ready a spell, he chose to escape with his treasure. Perhaps the guardian would finish the American, perhaps not; the overriding priority was to bear away the secret he’d won.
One of his men tried to do the same, but collided with the closing door. The entity flowed over and around him. He shrilled in agony and collapsed backward, blackened. The door’s wood burned where the thing had touched it.
The guardian throbbed darkly for a moment, then flared brighter. The last Southwastelander flattened against the wall, whites showing all around his eyes. The sunball drift
ed nearer. He sidled along the shelf, slowly. It played with him for a moment, then rushed to block his way. He reversed field, and it circled to stop him again. The Occhlon’s mind snapped; he ran at it with his blade high, screaming, “Bey-yyy!” This time the guardian flashed, blindingly. The desert man became a human firebrand, dropping to the floor, his sword twisted and molten.
Gil knelt, quivering with the need to fight or run. The guardian rotated slowly, waiting. He saw a straight run for the door would be suicide, but he’d noticed that the being recovered for a second or two after each discharge. It wafted toward him gently. He rose to his feet.
He scrambled around the pedestal on which the armor suit stood. The guardian detected him, came at him. He tugged hard, and hopped to the side as the armor tottered forward. The entity stopped short, but the iron lance clamped in the suit’s gauntlet plunged into it. Streamers of energy spun out, dancing down the lance and armor, which began to soften and run, glowing, in abrupt thermoplasticity. Waves of heat filled the room and globs of scoria, blasted free, started more fires. For a heartbeat, the thing was dimmer.
He charged past the guardian, doubled over. An instant later its effulgence returned. The guardian circled and dove at him from behind just as he leapt one Southwastelander’s charred corpse and threw the burning door open. Realizing he couldn’t get through in time, he pushed himself to one side. The sunball boiled past, into the corridor, searing him.
It raged against the stone opposite the door. He slammed the door shut and, absurdly, shot the bolt. Backing away, watching the portal, he paid no attention to the fires and stench of burned flesh. As he’d feared, the door began to crackle more earnestly; smoke and flame seeped in around it, indicating the guardian’s effort to re-enter and continue its vigilance. He scooped up his pistols and headed for the window.
There was a drop into darkness; he had no idea how far up he was. But the decision was easy; the cuckolded guardian was nearly through the door. He hung by his fingers from the sill and let go. He fell less than ten feet.