Mordant's Need

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Unceremoniously, he thunked the decanter down beside Master Quillon and thrust the goblet into his hands. ‘We have a barbarous history,’ the Adept said, waggling his eyebrows at Terisa, ‘because we drink too much wine. Wine and fornication don’t mix.’

  Returning to his table, he started playing his invisible game again.

  Master Quillon peered morosely into the goblet. Finally, he wiped it out with the sleeve of his robe. Muttering to himself, he poured some of the wine and passed the goblet to Terisa. Then he raised the decanter to his mouth and drank.

  She wanted a drink herself. But the dark smear on Quillon’s sleeve dissuaded her.

  ‘As I say,’ he began again, wiping his lips with the ends of his fingers, ‘King Joyse set himself the job of changing everything.

  ‘I can tell you quite simply what he did. First he conquered all the princedoms of Mordant, some by force, some by persuasion. And when he had made Mordant into a separate, sovereign realm, he began waging an odd war against both Alend and Cadwal. In battle after battle, raid after raid, for the better part of two decades, he took no territory, conscripted no soldiers, slaughtered no peasants. In fact, he did nothing to upset the ordinary structures of power in either country. All he did’ – the Master rubbed his nose vigorously to make it stop twitching – ‘was to take prisoner every Imager he could find and bring his captives here, to Orison. At the same time, he offered universal patronage and safety to every Imager who would surrender voluntarily. In the end, he had collected them all – or we thought he had. From the western mountains of Alend to the eastern deserts of Cadwal, there were no Imagers anywhere but here.

  ‘And when he had them all together, he did not do what Cadwal and Alend desperately feared. He did not try to weld all that talent for Imagery into his personal fighting force. Instead, he created the Congery. And he gave it work to do – peaceful work. Many of his assignments involved the study of specific problems. Could Imagery be used to relieve drought? Could mirrors put out fires? Could Imagers build roads? Quarry granite? Fertilize soil?

  ‘Questions of wealth King Joyse left to Alend and Cadwal.’ Master Quillon was digressing again. ‘Alend had gold. Cadwal had gems. Mordant did not need them. Crops and cattle, food and fabric and wine, these were Mordant’s strength and wealth.

  ‘But overriding such work was another, larger assignment. King Joyse commanded the Congery to define an ethic of Imagery. He commanded the Imagers to answer the great moral question of Imagery: are the beings and forces and things that come out of mirrors created by translation, or do they have a prior existence of their own, from which they are removed by translation?

  ‘All very simple, is it not? Nothing to it.’ Quillon took another swig from the decanter, wiped his lips again. ‘As you might guess, my lady, I am much harder pressed to explain how the King did these things.

  ‘If the reports of him are true, he did it, essentially, by being the kind of man for whom other men – and women as well – were willing to die.

  ‘He was born to the princedom which is now his Demesne, and he became the lord in Orison – though Orison was smaller then – at the age of fifteen, when his father was caught trying to betray the Cadwal tyrant who then held the princedom – was caught and slowly pulled limb from limb by oxen in front of young Joyse and all his family, as if that sort of lesson would teach them loyalty. He was little better than a boy, but already he possessed a quality which made a strong and, um, perhaps wise’ – he glanced at Havelock – ‘Imager become his faithful friend. What the boy did after that, he and his Imager did together.

  ‘What they did first was to sneak away in the middle of the night, leaving his family to bear the brunt of the Cadwal prince’s displeasure.

  ‘Naturally, this did not raise the esteem in which his people held him. So they were rather surprised when he returned at the head of a force from neighboring Tor, threw the Cadwals out, and personally separated the prince from his head.

  ‘Tor had happened to be in a period of independence at the time. And it was somewhat more accustomed to independence than the other princedoms, being situated with the mountains at its back and Perdon, Armigite, Domne, and Termigan around it – therefore difficult to conquer. Young Joyse had insisted to the Tor – who was himself still young enough to be audacious – that the only hope for his people, and for all Mordant, was a union of the Cares against both Alend and Cadwal. And the Tor had liked this idea. He had also liked young Joyse. On the other hand, he had not liked to risk too much of his Care. So he had given Joyse scarcely two hundred men to use against more than two thousand Cadwals.

  ‘Joyse and his Imager and those two hundred men, however, required only three days to free the Demesne. Before sunset of the third day, a new flag flew over Orison – the pennon of Mordant.

  ‘You may wonder how that was done. I can tell you only that King Joyse and his forces made extensive use of the secret passages for which Orison has always been famed. It seems Orison has been a stewpot of plots and counterplots since its first tower was erected,’ Master Quillon commented by the way. ‘Also, their attacks were directed from the beginning at the Cadwal Imagers rather than at the soldiery. In fact, he spared as many of the soldiers as he could. When he was done, he offered them a choice between service with him or freedom. Those who chose his service became the kernel of the guard which eventually unified Mordant, and which has since successfully defied both Alend and Cadwal for decades.

  ‘At this time, his people reversed their earlier ill opinion of him and became correspondingly enthusiastic.

  ‘With considerably more support now from the Tor, young Joyse set about liberating Perdon. Then the three Cares turned their attention to Armigite, and to Termigan. Domne fell to them almost without effort – it has always been the least of the Cares, though the Demesne is smaller. Finally, in the most savage and costly battle he had yet faced, Joyse freed Fayle from Alend and became King.

  ‘I will not protract this tale with details. You can imagine, I am sure, that all the Cares swore allegiance to King Joyse, but did not all keep their oaths, until he taught them to do so. You can imagine that most of his first success grew from the fact that neither Alend nor Cadwal were expecting what he did, and so the truly cruel wars for Mordant’s independence were fought later, when his enemies understood what had happened and rose with all their strength against him. It is enough to say that twenty years passed before our King’s hold on Mordant was secure enough to permit him to begin the work of collecting Imagers.

  ‘That was thirty years ago,’ murmured the Master, peering into the mouth of the decanter to see how much wine was there. ‘For those of us who remember any part of it at all, it was grand. Even young boys, as I was, thought that everything the King touched took on a kind of sanctity, the stature of heroism and mighty deeds.’

  The contemplation of his tale – or the effect of the wine – was making him increasingly morose. His jaws chewed indecisively. Perhaps he didn’t know how much more he should tell Terisa. Or perhaps he was simply debating another swig from the decanter.

  ‘Go on,’ she said quietly. She wanted to learn how the King of Quillon’s tale had become the frail old man she had met – a man so ineffective that even people who had worshiped him when they were boys now disobeyed him almost for no reason. ‘Tell me what happened.’

  Master Quillon made a face. ‘Well, of course, with his friend to advise and guide and assist him, the first thing he did was to start collecting Imagers. And the Imagers were so accustomed to hiding their secrets from each other, to looking at everyone else as an enemy, that most of them were reluctant to be collected. In addition, Cadwal and Alend naturally did everything in their power to preserve their access to the resources of Imagery. All three kingdoms existed in an ongoing state of war – undeclared war, but war nonetheless – and at times King Joyse had to hammer at his enemies until they broke. But he also used every possible kind of cunning and stealth. He broadcast bribes. He sent out sm
all bands on lightning raids. He suborned messengers, counselors, captains, anyone who might know the whereabouts of a man he wanted. He even went so far as to kidnap the families of Imagers and hold them hostage until the Imagers surrendered. It was at once more complex and more difficult than the process of forging Mordant out of its separate Cares. It cost him another twenty years.’

  Again, he stopped. This time, however, he took an abrupt pull from the decanter and resumed his narration.

  ‘But the bulk of the job had been completed five years earlier. Only one obstacle remained. The Alend Monarch and the High King of Cadwal, it will not surprise you to hear, did not trust King Joyse. They feared what he was doing, even though after each of his raids and battles he left their kingdoms essentially as he had found them. In their eyes, that was insane behavior, and insanity does not inspire confidence in the bosoms of mortal enemies. And, of course, if he had Imagers and they did not they would be defenseless against him.

  ‘The High King of Cadwal, however, was both more prompt and less scrupulous than the Alend Monarch in his response to the threat. High King Festten, who still rules Cadwal from the great coastal city of Carmag, where the minarets rise high above the rocks and the sea, and where every exotic vice known to man is nurtured in the soil of riches and power’ – Master Quillon didn’t appear to think well of Carmag – ‘Festten began collecting Imagers of his own. He formed a force of perhaps thirty men, each of them powerful in Imagery, and set over them the arch-Imager Vagel. In addition, he gave his personal champion of battle, the High King’s Monomach, responsibility for the protection of his Imagers. Guarded by the Monomach’s incomparable prowess, this cabal dedicated itself solely to the arts of violence, and to the defense of Cadwal, and to the defiance of King Joyse.’

  Without warning, Adept Havelock raised his head as if he had suddenly decided to listen to what Master Quillon was saying.

  ‘Five years passed before the King found means to break the cabal,’ the Master went on. ‘And then most of its members had to be slain. They had become too acclimatized,’ he muttered sourly, ‘to Cadwal’s arid morals and lush pleasures. They could not accept transplantation. At the time, it was believed that the arch-Imager had perished also. But now he is thought to be alive – alive and in hiding somewhere, plotting malice.

  ‘The High King’s Monomach, of course, was executed for his failure, and another was chosen to take his place.’

  With a wide movement of his arm, Havelock wiped his board as though he were sweeping all his men off onto the floor. Then he rose to his feet. Walking over to Terisa and Quillon, he touched her sleeve, leered, and nodded in the direction of the still-open door which had admitted her to this room. When she stared back at him, he rolled his eyes and beckoned determinedly. ‘Time and tide wait for no man,’ he said as if he were in one of his lucid phases, ‘but everybody waits for women.’

  ‘No, Havelock.’ Quillon spoke with more firmness than Terisa had expected from him. ‘Doubtless you know better than I. But I am going to tell her the rest.’

  For an instant, ferocity came over the Adept’s face. He clenched one eye closed so that he could scowl murderously at Master Quillon with the other. But Quillon didn’t flinch, and Havelock’s mood changed almost immediately. His expression relaxed into a fleshy smile.

  ‘Wait for me, Vagel,’ he said in a high voice, like a child at play. ‘I’m coming. Hee hee. I’m coming.’

  Casting a walleyed wink at Terisa, he turned away and began rummaging through the clutter on one of his desks.

  The Master shrugged. Tilting back his head, he drank what remained of the wine and set the decanter down beside him with a thump. His eyes were starting to look slightly blurred, and two red spots on his cheeks matched the end of his nose.

  ‘That was ten years ago, my lady,’ he said in a glum tone. ‘For five of those years, we were relatively secure. The defenses King Joyse had created kept us relatively safe. Most of Mordant lived in relative peace. The Congery thrashed out the worst of its conflicts, both of personality and of trust, and became relatively unified, especially as the older generation – the men who remembered fondly what life had been like before King Joyse came along – passed away. By creating the Congery, of course, King Joyse could not control or limit the birth of the talent for Imagery anywhere in the world. But he had control of the knowledge of Imagery. Talent could find its outlet only by coming to Orison and accepting the servitude of an Apt.

  ‘Alend and Cadwal were relatively quiet. Most of us’ – his sarcasm returned – ‘were relatively immune to the disorder of the King’s domestic affairs. For five years, we did not notice, because we did not want to notice, that his spark was dying out. Perhaps because he had nothing enormous or heroic left to do, he was ceasing to be the man so many of us had loved.

  ‘But eventually we had to notice. Oh, we had to.’ Master Quillon became more bitter by the moment. ‘We could not ignore that there was something evil running loose in Mordant.

  ‘An Imager had begun to translate horrors and abominations out of his mirrors and unleash them to rampage across the land wherever they could find victims.’

  In the cool of the room, a sensation of tightening scurried from Terisa’s scalp down the length of her spine.

  ‘It is easy to assume that he is Vagel. That is as reasonable a guess as any. He was always expert at finding in his glasses men and monsters and forces of destruction. And he did not trouble his conscience much about the consequences of his translations. But no one knows where he finds the patronage, the resources, to make such mirrors.

  ‘We would also assume that he found them in Alend or Cadwal – but all his Images strike deep into Mordant, and it is inconceivable that such mirrors could be made elsewhere and then brought here across those distances without some word of the matter finally reaching the ears of Orison.

  ‘But if not in Cadwal or Alend, then where? Who in Mordant would level such a threat against the realm? And why does King Joyse do nothing about it?

  ‘Perhaps in the early years of the peril, patience and caution were indicated. After all, the attacks did not come often. Either Cadwal or Alend appeared to be the likely source. It seemed understandable that the King was waiting for his spies or his friends to discover the secret and bring it to him, so that he would know what to do.

  ‘But the attacks grow worse, and no explanation comes. Instead, his spies and friends bring word that Alend and Cadwal have learned what is happening from their spies and friends, and are mustering their forces to take advantage of Mordant’s danger. Armies gather beyond the Vertigon and Pestil rivers. Raids probe the Cares, testing their defenses. Angry because they are compelled to defend their own without assistance from King Joyse, some of the Cares begin to mutter against him. And still the abominations being translated against us worsen, both in magnitude and in frequency. The arch-Imager, if it is he, forms mirrors at an unheard-of rate as well as in perfect secrecy. And still the King does nothing.

  ‘Well, not nothing, exactly,’ the Master muttered as if he had acid in his mouth. ‘He plays more and more hop-board.

  ‘The Congery, of course, has not been blind to the problem. Even if we did not hear the same reports that reach every ear in Orison, we would have our auguries – and we have learned a great deal about auguring since our efforts were united.

  ‘We can see Mordant dying, my lady, slaughtered by forces which we understand, but which our King, in founding the Congery, has forbidden us to act against. He will not allow us to be a weapon. Though he will do nothing to save Mordant, he is quick enough to march into our laborium and shatter any glass that offers a means of defense. He only permitted us to search for a champion because we agreed, after much squabbling debate, that whatever champion we chose would not be translated involuntarily, but would rather be approached with persuasion and given the opportunity to refuse.

  ‘In short, our King has brought us to the verge of ruin. Unless more men become disloyal – and do i
t soon – Mordant will return to the days when it was nothing more than a battleground for Alend and Cadwal. And if Vagel is strong enough by then, he will join with one and devour the other, and so will make himself ruler over all the world.’

  Brusquely, Master Quillon picked up Terisa’s goblet and tossed down the wine she hadn’t tasted. Into the goblet, he muttered hollowly, ‘I, for one, do not relish the prospect.’

  She was listening to him so closely that she didn’t notice Adept Havelock until he touched her sleeve.

  He was grinning like a satyr.

  ‘I remember,’ he whispered. His breath smelled like swamp gas. ‘I remember everything.’

  ‘He remembers everything,’ growled the Master sardonically. ‘Mirrors preserve us.’

  ‘Yes,’ Havelock hissed. ‘I remember.’ His grin was more than lascivious – it was positively bloodthirsty.

  Quillon sighed disconsolately. ‘You remember, Adept Havelock,’ he murmured as though he were playing his part in an especially dull liturgy.

  ‘Everything.’

  Abruptly, the Adept gave a capering jump that made his surcoat flap above his scrawny knees. He followed it with a pirouette, then confronted Terisa again, grinning like murder.

  ‘I remember Vagel.

  ‘He had a glass that poured fire. I had one full of water. He had a glass with a raving beast. But the beast could not breathe water. He had a weapon that fired beams of light which tore down walls and turned flesh to cinders. But the beams only changed water to steam. I remember.

  ‘I remember the chamber where I cornered him. Shall I tell you how many candles were lit upon the table? Shall I count for you all the stones in the walls? Shall I measure the way the shadows fell into the corners? Shall I describe everything that I saw in his last mirror?