Mordant's Need

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Then he didn’t want to look at Eremis anymore. The tall Master’s smile had become abruptly intolerable: it was too bemused, too secretly triumphant. Instead, he did his best to concentrate on what Havelock and Quillon were doing.

  At first glance, the Adept seemed to be in a state of unnatural self-possession, even though the obscenities he muttered as he worked were so extravagant that they would have earned him a round of applause from any squad of the Castellan’s guard. Lebbick wasn’t used to seeing him do what was asked of him. The mad walleyed old goat who capered and jeered in the hall of audiences – or who incinerated important prisoners before they could be questioned – was the Havelock Lebbick knew: the man working with Master Quillon was a relative stranger. A throwback to the potent and cunning Imager who had helped King Joyse found and secure Mordant. Only the Adept’s appearance seemed unchanged. He wore nothing but an ancient, unclean surcoat; what was left of his hair stuck out from his skull in wild tufts. Between the craziness of his imperfectly focused eyes and the trembling, sybaritic flesh of his lips, his nose jutted fiercely.

  But a closer look showed the cost of Adept Havelock’s self-possession.

  He was sweating, despite the chill of the breeze. His whole body shook as if he were in the grip of a fever – as if he stood where he was and worked his Imagery by an act of will so harsh that his entire frame rebelled against it. With an unexpected pang, Lebbick noticed that there was blood running down Havelock’s chin. The Adept had chewed on his lower lip until he had torn it to shreds.

  For all practical purposes, he was Orison’s only defense against catapults. Master Quillon had made it clear that the Congery possessed no other mirrors which could meet this particular need. Everything the Castellan had ever served or cared about depended on Havelock – and Havelock obviously wasn’t going to last much longer.

  ‘Dogswater!’ Roughly, Castellan Lebbick took hold of Quillon’s arm, demanded the Master’s attention. ‘How much longer can he keep going?’

  Before Quillon could answer, the Adept swung away from his glass, cackling like a demented crone.

  ‘Long enough! Hee-hee! Long enough! ’ Havelock brandished a mouth full of bloody teeth toward Lebbick, but neither of his eyes succeeded at aiming itself at the Castellan. His voice scaled higher, tittering on the verge of hysteria. ‘They’re throwing rocks at him, rocks rocks rocks rocks rocks! And we’re the only friends he has left! We’re the only friends he has left! ’

  Moving too quickly to be stopped, he wiped blood from his chin onto his hands and slapped them across Lebbick’s cheeks, smearing red into the grizzled stubble of the Castellan’s whiskers. ‘And you’ve lost your mind!’

  Suddenly wild, Castellan Lebbick knocked Havelock’s arms away. He snatched at his sword, barely stopped himself from sweeping it out and gutting the Adept where he stood. Trembling as badly as Havelock, he jammed his blade back into its scabbard, then clamped his arms across his chest. ‘Whelp of a slut,’ he muttered through his teeth. ‘You should have been locked up years ago.’

  For a moment, Adept Havelock grinned blood at the Castellan. Then he turned to Master Quillon. Jerking a thumb at Lebbick, he whispered as if no one but Quillon could hear him, ‘Did you ever know his wife?’ Havelock stressed the word know suggestively. ‘I did.’ Without warning, he started to cackle again. ‘She was a better man than he’ll ever be.’

  Still laughing, he returned to his mirror.

  Master Eremis also was laughing; his eyes sparkled with mirth. ‘Master Quillon,’ he chuckled to the pained consternation in Quillon’s face, ‘we are well and truly fortunate that only one of the King’s last friends has lost his mind.’

  The Alend forces wheeled a third catapult into position. Adept Havelock, the King’s Dastard, caused it to be destroyed also. After that, no more catapults were advanced against the castle for a while. Prince Kragen had apparently decided to reconsider his options.

  But Castellan Lebbick didn’t stay to watch. The mention of his wife made him so angry that he could barely endure it – and in any case his guards were perfectly capable of reporting whatever happened to him. While the blood dried on his cheeks, he stormed back into Orison and headed toward the dungeon, taking Master Eremis with him.

  After a moment, of course, he realized that the last thing he wanted was to have the leering Imager with him when he confronted that woman again. Luckily, he was able to deflect his course before Eremis could guess where he was going. Instead of exposing his obsession, he led Eremis toward the Masters’ quarters to check on Nyle.

  ‘A good thought,’ Master Eremis commented when it became clear where Lebbick was headed. ‘I wish for news of Nyle’s condition myself.’

  ‘Sure you do,’ rasped the Castellan. ‘He’s the one who was going to prove your innocence. He was going to prove his own brother is the real traitor. Isn’t that what you said?’

  ‘Indeed.’ Obviously, Eremis wasn’t afraid of Lebbick at all. ‘You find it impossible to believe that I am concerned about him for his own sake. I understand perfectly. Considering your attitude toward me, I am gratified that you believe I wish him well for my own reasons.’ The Master’s sarcasm seemed to contain an undercurrent of hilarity; he sounded like he was trying to conceal his enjoyment of a good joke. ‘As I said, he is my proof that I am innocent of Geraden’s accusations.’

  Lebbick kept on walking. When he replied, he hardly cared whether Eremis heard him or not. Primarily for his own benefit, he muttered under his breath, ‘Laugh now, you goat-rutting bastard. Someday I’m going to learn the truth about you. When I do, I’ll have an excuse to feed you your balls.’

  He was so clenched inside himself, so obsessed with his own thoughts, that he didn’t expect a retort. After Master Eremis spoke, the Castellan wasn’t sure that he had heard his companion correctly.

  ‘Try it.’

  Behind his bland smile, Eremis looked as eager as an axe.

  Grinding his teeth, Castellan Lebbick strode down the corridor toward the Imager’s quarters.

  They were reached by a short hall like a cul-de-sac, with servants’ doors on either side and the main entrance at the end. Master Eremis’ ostentatious rosewood door made Lebbick sneer: it was carved in a bas-relief of the Imager himself, representing clearly his sense of his own superiority. But the door itself wasn’t important; it changed nothing. No, what mattered – Castellan Lebbick clung to what mattered with both fists – was that the door was properly closed, and that two reliable guards were on duty in the hall, controlling access to Master Eremis’ chambers.

  The guards saluted, and Lebbick demanded a report.

  ‘Underwell and two of our men have been in there all night, Castellan,’ the senior guard said. ‘Nyle must still be alive, or Underwell would have come out. But we haven’t heard anything.’

  Master Eremis said, ‘Good,’ but the Castellan ignored him. Brushing past the guards, Lebbick jerked the door open.

  Then for a long moment he just stood there and stared dumbly into the room, trying as if all his common sense and reason had evaporated to figure out why the guards hadn’t heard anything. That much carnage should have made some noise.

  Behind him, his men stifled curses. Master Eremis murmured, ‘Excrement of a pig!’ and began whistling thinly between his teeth.

  There were three men in Eremis’ sitting room, the two guards and Nyle. All three of them had been slaughtered.

  Well, not slaughtered, exactly. Lebbick’s brain struggled to function. The dead men hadn’t actually been cut to pieces. The damage didn’t look like it had been done with any kind of blade. No, instead of being victims of slaughter, human butchery, the men resembled carcases on which predators had gorged. Huge predators, with jaws that took hunks the size of helmets out of the chest and guts and limbs of his guards, his guards. The bodies lay in a slop of blood and entrails and splintered bones.

  As for Nyle—

  In some ways, he was in better condition; in some ways, worse.
He hadn’t been as thoroughly chewed on as the guards. But both his arms were gone, one at the elbow, the other at the shoulder. And his head had been bitten open to the brain: his whole face was gone. He was recognizable only by his general size and shape, and by his position on Eremis’ sumptuous divan.

  The Castellan started grinning. He wanted to laugh. He couldn’t help himself: despair was the only joke he understood. Almost cheerfully, he said, ‘You aren’t going to be seducing any women here for a while, Imager. You won’t be able to get all this blood out. You’ll have to replace everything.’

  Eremis didn’t seem to hear. He was asking softly, ‘Underwell? Underwell?’

  Of course, there should have been four men here: Lebbick knew that. His two guards. Nyle. And Underwell. With a feral smile, he sent a guard to search the other rooms. He still had that much self-possession. But he was sure the physician was gone. Why would Underwell want to stay and get caught after committing treachery like this?

  For some reason, the fact that what had happened should have been impossible didn’t bother Lebbick.

  ‘Castellan,’ the senior guard said in a constricted voice, as if the air were being squeezed from his chest, ‘nobody went in or out. I swear it.’

  ‘Imagery.’ Castellan Lebbick relished the word: it hurt so much that he seemed to enjoy it. ‘They must have been hit too hard, too fast. Maybe it was that firecat. Or those round things with teeth the Perdon talked about.’ The desire to at least chuckle was almost unsupportable. ‘They didn’t even have a chance to shout. Imagery.’

  ‘I fear so.’ Master Eremis’ manner was unusually subdued, but his eyes shone like bits of glass. ‘Our enemies have been able to do such things ever since the lady Terisa of Morgan was brought here.’

  ‘And in your quarters, Imager.’ Lebbick kept on grinning. ‘In your care. Protected by arrangements you made.’

  At that, Eremis’ eyes widened; he blinked at the Castellan. ‘Are you serious? Do you blame me for this?’

  ‘It was done by Imagery. You’re an Imager. They’re your rooms.’

  ‘He was alive when I left him,’ Master Eremis protested. ‘Ask your guards.’ For the first time, Lebbick saw him look worried. ‘And I have spent all the rest of my time with you.’

  The Master’s point was reasonable, but Castellan Lebbick ignored it. ‘You’re an Imager,’ he repeated. As he spoke, his voice took on a slight singsong tone, as if deep inside himself he were trying to rock his hurt like a sick child. ‘You think you’re a good one. Do you expect me to believe “our enemies” have a flat glass that shows your rooms and you don’t know about it? They made it and then never used it, never gave you any kind of hint, never did anything that might possibly have made a good Imager like you aware of what they had? Are you serious?’

  To his astonishment, Lebbick discovered that he was almost in tears. His men had never had a chance to defend themselves, and there was nothing he could do to help them now, no way he could ever bring them back. Grinning as hard as he could, he twisted his voice down into a snarl. ‘I don’t like it when my men are slaughtered.’

  ‘An admirable sentiment.’ Master Eremis’ face was tight; the concern in his eyes had become anger. ‘It does you credit. But it has no relevance. Our enemies appear to have flat glass which admits them everywhere. If I knew how that trick is done, I would do it myself. But that also has no relevance. Nyle was alive when I left him. A blind man could see that I was with you when he was killed. I am not to blame for this.’

  ‘Prove it,’ retorted the Castellan as if he were recovering his good humor. ‘I know you didn’t do this yourself. The traitors you’re in league with did it. But you set it up. All you did’ – with difficulty, he resisted a tremendous impulse to hit Eremis a few times – ‘all you did was bring Nyle here so that Gart and Gilbur and the rest of your friends could get at him.’

  He wanted to roar, All you did was have my men slaughtered! But the words caught in his throat, choking him.

  ‘Castellan Lebbick, listen to me. Listen to me.’ Master Eremis spoke as if he had been trying to get Lebbick’s attention for some time – as if Lebbick were in the grip of delirium. ‘That makes no sense.

  ‘If you believe I am responsible for Nyle’s death, then you must believe he would not have defended me from Geraden’s accusations. Therefore you must believe I had no reason to take him to the meeting of the Congery. What, so that he could speak against me? I say that makes no sense.

  ‘And if you believe I am responsible for his death, you must also believe I have the means to leave Orison whenever I wish – by the same glass which enabled Gilbur to escape. Then why do I remain? Why did I go to face Geraden before the Congery, when I could have fled his charges so easily? Why have I submitted myself to this siege? Castellan, that makes no sense.

  ‘I am not a traitor. I serve Mordant and Orison. I am not to blame for Nyle’s death.’

  Unable to think coherently, Lebbick rasped again, ‘Prove it.’ He wanted to howl. Eremis’ argument was too persuasive: he didn’t know what was wrong with it. ‘Talk doesn’t mean anything. You can say whatever you want.’ And yet there had to be something wrong with it. There had to be, because he needed that so badly. He needed to do something with his despair. ‘Just prove it.’

  Unfortunately, Master Eremis had recovered his confidence. The Imager’s expression was again full of secrets – hidden facts or intentions which made Eremis want to laugh, restored his look of untarnished superiority.

  Smiling amiably, hatefully, he remarked, ‘You said that once before. Out on the battlements. Do you remember?’

  The gentle suggestion that Lebbick might not remember – that he might not have that much grasp on what he was doing – infuriated him enough to restore some of his self-command. ‘I remember,’ he shot back, relieved to hear himself sound trenchant and familiar. ‘You didn’t do anything about it then, either.’

  ‘No,’ the Master agreed. ‘But a possibility occurred to me. I was about to discuss it when the Adept treated us to another of his fits. That distracted me, and I forgot my thought until now.

  ‘You mentioned water.’

  Involuntarily, Castellan Lebbick froze. Water! Complex pressures seized his heart: he could hardly breathe.

  ‘I can provide it.’

  Orison was desperate for water. The lack of water hurt a lot of people. And it was Lebbick’s job to supervise that hurt. Because of his duties, he was responsible, culpable, as if he caused the hurt himself.

  But he would have preferred to be gutted by whores than to accept any vital help from Master Eremis.

  ‘I have a glass,’ Eremis explained, ‘which shows a scene in which the rain is incessant. The Image is always in a state of torrential downpour. I can take that mirror to the reservoir and translate rain to replenish our supply of water.’ He shrugged slightly. ‘The process may take some time. The volume of rain that I can bring out at any given instant will be limited. But surely I can ease the need for rationing. Perhaps in a few days I can refill the reservoir.’

  Deliberately, he smiled as if he knew precisely how much distress he was causing Lebbick. ‘Will that prove my loyalty, good Castellan? Will that demonstrate the sincerity of my desire to serve Orison and Mordant?’

  Castellan Lebbick made a rattling noise far back in his throat. Eremis’ offer was so bitter to him that he was in danger of strangling on it. He couldn’t refuse it, he knew that. It was just what King Joyse had always wanted from the Congery, from Imagery: the ability to heal wounds, solve problems, rectify losses without doing any injustice – real or theoretical – to the Images themselves. And it was just what Orison needed.

  With enough water to keep them going, the castle’s defenders might prove strong enough to repulse Alend, even if that bastard Kragen’s catapults succeeded at tearing down the curtain-wall.

  The offer had to be accepted. There was no way around it. The Castellan had to swallow it somehow, had to sacrifice that much more of
himself for the sake of his duty. But he could not, could not choke down such a mortification directly. Instead of replying to Master Eremis, he turned on the senior guard so savagely that the veteran flinched.

  ‘Pay attention,’ he snapped unnecessarily. ‘You were supposed to protect these people, and you did a great job of it. This is your chance to redeem yourself.

  ‘Take this Imager to the King. Make him tell the King what happened here. Make sure he tells the King everything he just told me. Beat it out of him if you have to. Then take him to get that mirror of his. Take him up to the reservoir. Make him do what he promised.

  ‘Use as many men as you need. He’s your problem until that reservoir is full.

  ‘Do it now.’

  ‘Yes, Castellan.’ Shock, fear, and anger made the guard zealous. Glad for something specific and physical to do, he clamped a fist around Master Eremis’ arm. ‘Are you coming, or do I have to drag you?’

  In response, the expression on Master Eremis’ face became positively blissful.

  He had more strength than Lebbick suspected – and better leverage. A twist freed his arm: a nudge knocked the guard off balance: a strategically placed knee doubled the man over. With sarcastic elegance, Eremis adjusted his jet cloak, straightened his chasuble. Then, in an excessively polite tone, he commented, ‘Good Castellan, I fear that your men are not trained well enough for this siege.’

  Before Lebbick could find words for his fury, the Master turned to the guard. ‘Shall we go? I believe the Castellan wishes me to speak to King Joyse.’

  Flourishing his arms, he left the hallway.

  Paralyzed by pain and consternation, the guard stayed where he was. After a moment, however, the murder in Castellan Lebbick’s glare sent him hobbling after Master Eremis with his comrade.

  Lebbick remained alone. He didn’t look at Nyle’s mutilated corpse again, or at the bodies of his men. Slowly and steadily, unconscious of what he was doing, he beat his forehead against the wall until he had regained enough self-possession to call for more guards without howling. Then he had the dead carried out and gave orders for the sealing of the rooms, in case Geraden or his allies wanted to use this way into Orison again.