Mordant's Need

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  ‘If he hits you, give a croak, and I’ll carry you back to your rooms.’

  Artagel faked a bow with one arm. ‘Thanks ever so much. It always feels good to have a man like you behind me.’

  ‘I know,’ the guard replied. ‘As far behind you as possible.’

  Chuckling, he opened the door.

  Convinced that he really wasn’t going to be able to stay on his feet much longer, Artagel entered the Castellan’s quarters.

  The front room was ill-lit, unswept, and undecorated – which hadn’t been the case when Artagel was last here, some time before Lebbick’s wife died. Although he wasn’t given to luxury, the Castellan had claimed an extensive suite for himself and his wife; he had insisted for decades that they meant to have children, regardless of the damage she had suffered as an Alend prisoner. And she had humored him by keeping up their quarters like a home where children would be welcome. But since her death he had stripped the walls and floor to the bare stone; he had moved a hard cot into the front room and sealed the rest of the doors – even in Orison’s overcrowded state, those rooms stood empty. And since Terisa’s disappearance he had obviously given up all pretense of housekeeping. The one lamp on the table beside his cot gave just enough light to show that the room was filthy.

  So was he: he hadn’t shaved, or washed, or changed his clothes for days. His eyes were red with exhaustion and malice – or grief – and his hands curled in front of him as if he badly needed a sword.

  Facing Artagel from the edge of his cot, he rasped distinctly, ‘I’m going to disembowel the man who let you in here.’

  The air was foul with dirt, rancid sweat, food gone to maggots. Artagel stifled an impulse to gag. Pretending that his nauseated expression was a smile, he replied, ‘No, you won’t.’ Deliberately, he found a chair and sat down. ‘If you want to get him, you’ll have to get me first. And you won’t do that. You won’t dare. I’m the most popular man in Orison.’

  ‘Hog-puke.’ The Castellan blinked malevolently. ‘Eremis is the most popular man in Orison.’ In spite of his tone, however, he didn’t leave the bed. ‘You’re just an invalid who’s still alive because he got lucky the last time he met Gart.

  ‘That’s probably why they sent you. They think I won’t hurt a man who’s so weak a woman could knock him over.’

  Feigning nonchalance, Artagel inquired, ‘“They”?’

  ‘They. The Tor. King Joyse. Half the rutting dogs in this stink-hole. The bastard who let you in. The ones who think Eremis is the best thing since King Joyse invented sunshine. The ones who think I ought to be castrated because I slapped that rank whore a couple of times. They.

  ‘They want me to come out so they can jump me. They want you to make me come out.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Artagel loathed dealing with Lebbick like this; he would have preferred to meet the High King’s Monomach without a sword. As a result, he sounded incongruously happy, as if he were having a wonderful time. ‘I hate to contradict you when you’re in such a good mood. But the truth is, I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. I just came to tell you Geraden didn’t kill Nyle.’

  ‘I know that,’ snapped Lebbick. ‘Don’t tell me. Tell them.’

  ‘Wait a minute.’ Artagel would have been less startled if the Castellan had started foaming at the mouth. ‘Wait. What do you mean, you know that? How do you know?’

  ‘I know’ – Castellan Lebbick glared at his visitor as if Artagel were hideous – ‘because that piss-drinking slut was in my bed. In my bed.’

  Now it was Artagel’s turn to blink. ‘Wait a minute,’ he repeated. ‘Wait.’ Lebbick didn’t wait. ‘I came right through that door’ – he pointed fiercely at the door – ‘and she was in my bed.’ He pounded the cot. ‘Naked as shit. Smiling at me. Wagging her tits. Of course Geraden didn’t kill Nyle.’

  Then his ferocity dimmed. ‘I would have believed anybody except that woman.’

  Artagel held his breath and said nothing.

  ‘She made me think about it over and over again. She kept making me go back to the beginning. But when she was wrong about that secret passage – I was sure. And I saw her escaping, I saw her. With Quillon. King Joyse’s friend. Then I found his body. I caught up with her. She was with Gilbur. I was sure. Gilbur told me they were allies. Of course I was sure. Of course Geraden killed Nyle. She must have escaped with Gilbur, not Quillon. She was a traitor, a murderer. That proved Geraden was guilty.

  ‘Isn’t that what they told you?’

  ‘No,’ Artagel murmured. ‘They haven’t told me a thing.’

  ‘Well, they will,’ Lebbick snarled. ‘Give them a chance. They’re all talking about me. They whisper behind my back.’ A wild grin stretched his mouth. ‘Eremis is a hero. Everything that woman said about him is a lie. Geraden killed Nyle. She put him up to it. She helped him escape. Then Gilbur helped her escape. They killed Quillon. I’m a monster. Nobody understands why King Joyse hasn’t had me gutted.

  ‘Eremis is a hero.’

  Groping for some measure of sanity in the conversation, Artagel drawled, ‘I doubt it. Terisa must have told you Nyle is still alive. She certainly tried to tell me.

  ‘I didn’t believe her,’ he admitted, ‘but I’ve been kicking myself for that ever since.’ Generally, he wasn’t much inclined to regret; nevertheless he regretted intensely the things he had said to Terisa. He should have looked at that body more closely. ‘I finally figured out what must have happened.’ Geraden is your brother. You’ve known him all his life. ‘They must have switched the bodies. Underwell and Nyle. That’s why they used Imagery – why they let creatures feed on the bodies. To disfigure them. So we would think Underwell was Nyle.

  ‘Geraden wouldn’t do a thing like that. It’s impossible. I know him better than that.’

  As if he were discussing the weather, Artagel added, ‘If he didn’t do it, that just leaves Eremis. We don’t have anybody else to blame it on.’

  ‘I know that.’ Grief twisted Castellan Lebbick’s features. Softly, he repeated, ‘I know that. Why do you think I hit her so hard? Why do you think I kept hitting her? I was trying to get her to tell me the truth.

  ‘It was Quillon who helped that woman escape. That’s the truth. He did it because King Joyse told him to. To get her away from me. He ordered me to do my job, and then he tried to sneak her away from me. That’s why he leaves me alone now. He hasn’t sent for me in days. He knows I was just following orders.

  ‘He wants to break me. He wants me to hide down here until I rot. Because he doesn’t trust me.’

  Artagel felt frantically that he was getting nowhere. He was tempted to back out of the room, put some distance between himself and the Castellan’s lunacy. But his regret was stronger than his alarm. He had already let both Terisa and Geraden down.

  Instead of retreating, he tried a different approach.

  ‘Well, he must trust you some.’ Artagel made an effort to sound hearty, without much success. ‘You’re still in command, aren’t you? You’re still the Castellan.’

  Lebbick nodded as if he hadn’t heard the question.

  ‘Speaking of things you’re in command of, how’s the defense going?’ continued Artagel. ‘I heard a rumor that Kragen hasn’t so much as thrown a rock at us since the first day. Is that true?’

  The Castellan nodded again. ‘Margonal’s whoreson,’ he growled, ‘is just sitting out there staring at us.’

  ‘Why? What makes him think he can get away with that? Isn’t he afraid of Cadwal?’

  ‘I can only think of two explanations.’ As if by accident, some of the tension in Lebbick’s face loosened. On some level, Artagel had distracted him. ‘He knows Festten isn’t coming – for some reason – and we don’t because he doesn’t let the news get to us. Or Alend and Cadwal have made an alliance.’

  There: that was an improvement. Castellan Lebbick still had some lucidity left in him. Carefully, Artagel said, ‘Then I guess Cadwal isn’t coming. If Festten and Margonal had an
alliance, Kragen wouldn’t have tried to attack us alone.’

  ‘That’s probably true,’ agreed the Castellan morosely. ‘Festten wouldn’t have made an alliance unless he could be sure Margonal wouldn’t get to the Congery ahead of him.’

  Artagel nodded. After a moment, he went on, ‘Speaking of the Congery—’

  Lebbick interrupted him balefully. ‘Were we?’

  Artagel frowned. ‘Were we what?’

  ‘Speaking of the Congery. Or were you just prying?’

  ‘I was prying.’ Artagel grinned. ‘And I’m going to keep prying until you say three sentences in a row that make sense. If you don’t pull yourself together, you will rot.

  ‘Speaking of the Congery, what’re they doing about poor Master Quillon?’

  Castellan Lebbick studied his visitor as if at last he had begun to wonder why Artagel was here. ‘Nothing,’ he articulated. ‘As far as I can tell, the only thing they do all day is sit around wiping each other’s bums. By which I mean to say, of course’ – he began to sound like he was quoting scornfully – ‘that they are dedicating all their efforts night and day toward discovering how Gilbur and Geraden and that woman are able to use flat glass without going mad.

  ‘That blind lump Barsonage has suddenly’ – Lebbick’s tone was savage – ‘figured out King Joyse is right. He’s gone all virtuous and noble about it. Mirrors don’t create their own Images. The places they show are real. So we don’t have the right to take anything that can tell the difference out of them. Which is a dogshit way of saying they aren’t going to help defend us. They refuse to touch the only things that might do us some good.’

  The Castellan barked humorlessly. ‘It’s actually funny. They discovered purity just when King Joyse gave it up. The only real reason we haven’t been overrun already is, Kragen can’t use his catapults. Whenever he tries, Havelock destroys them with some kind of smoke-bird from one of his mirrors.’

  Artagel began to hope that he was on the right track. Castellan Lebbick seemed to be recovering his self-command. Maybe it was time to risk—

  Because he was the sort of man who took chances, Artagel said conversationally, ‘That’s better. You’re doing much better. Any minute now, you’re going to be your old self again. There’s just one thing I still want to know.

  ‘Castellan’ – he took a deep breath – ‘what in the name of sanity is the connection between Saddith and Nyle? Why does the fact that she showed up in your bed prove Geraden didn’t kill him?’

  For a long moment, the Castellan glowered as if he meant to explode. A muscle in his cheek twitched. His gaze burned red, drawing the darkness of the room around him; his expression was full of doom.

  Like a man chewing iron pellets, he said, ‘Not Saddith and Nyle. Saddith and Eremis. She’s his whore.’

  Artagel waited.

  ‘He sent her. That’s what I was trying to get her to admit. That’s why I kept hitting her. Why I didn’t stop.’

  Still Artagel waited.

  ‘He did that to me.’ Without warning, Lebbick’s eyes began to spill tears. They ran down into his dirty beard, leaving streaks through the grime on his cheeks. ‘I was already so close to the edge. That woman was trying to tell me the truth, and I didn’t know how to believe her. And he did that to me. He sent his whore to give me the last push. Because I’m the only one King Joyse has left. Even though he doesn’t trust me.

  ‘Master fornicating Eremis,’ the Castellan said through his loss, ‘wouldn’t have sent his whore to my bed if everything that woman said about him wasn’t true. He was trying to distract me.’

  With difficulty, Artagel resisted the temptation to whistle through his teeth. This time, he found the Castellan’s reasoning comprehensible. He had always appreciated Saddith’s frank lust; but at the moment he wasn’t thinking about her. He was thinking that her appearance in Lebbick’s bed was the worst thing Eremis could have done to the Castellan.

  It was almost as if Eremis and King Joyse were conspiring together to destroy him.

  Gruffly, Artagel said, ‘That makes sense.’ Words seemed to stick in his throat; he had to force them out. ‘What did Terisa actually tell you about our hero, Eremis?’

  The Castellan scrubbed his face with his hands, grinding his tears into the dirt. ‘The same thing you did.’ On the cot beside him, he found a rank piece of rag and used it to blow his nose. ‘They must have switched the bodies. If Underwell really wanted Nyle dead, he could have made it happen without the stupid risk of all that bloodshed. But if Geraden was innocent, Underwell must have discovered right away that Nyle wasn’t hurt. So Underwell had to be killed. To protect Eremis.

  ‘Nyle is probably still alive. Unless Eremis doesn’t need him anymore.

  ‘Eremis is busy acting like the hero of Orison because his plans aren’t ready. Cadwal isn’t ready to attack. That’s obvious – Cadwal isn’t even here. Or he’s waiting for something else to happen. He doesn’t want Kragen to get the Congery.’

  Artagel was right on the edge of asking, So why don’t you stop him? Go cut his heart out. Instead of holing up here like a beaten dog? Fortunately, he stopped himself in time. As soon as the question occurred to him, he caught a glimpse of how Castellan Lebbick would react to it. They want me to come out so they can jump me. He wants to break me. He doesn’t trust me.

  Artagel liked to live dangerously, but he wasn’t willing to risk pushing Lebbick back into turmoil.

  He couldn’t grasp what King Joyse was doing. But that wasn’t his problem: someone else would have to figure it out. Eremis was another matter, however. Artagel was very sure that he wanted to oppose or hinder the Master in any way possible.

  Gazing around the room in search of inspiration, he grabbed the first idea that came to him.

  ‘You know, Castellan, if your wife saw this pigsty she’d spit granite.’

  Artagel was probably the only man in Orison who would have dared mention Lebbick’s wife to his face.

  By luck or intuition, however, Artagel had found the right approach. Instead of erupting, the Castellan looked chagrined. ‘I know,’ he muttered. ‘I’m going to clean it up. I’ll get around to it soon.’

  The sorrow in his face wrung Artagel’s heart. Without premeditation or forethought, he said quietly, ‘Don’t bother. Leave it. I’ve got an extra room. I’ve even got an extra bed. Come stay with me.’

  Castellan Lebbick stared dumbly. His mouth worked as if Artagel had asked him to give up his link to the only thing that held him in one piece.

  ‘She’s dead,’ Artagel said as gently as he could. ‘It can’t be helped. She doesn’t need you anymore.

  ‘We’re the ones who need you.’

  Roughly, fighting collapse, the Castellan rasped, ‘“We”? Who is “we”?’

  ‘Me.’ Artagel didn’t hesitate. ‘Geraden. Terisa. Anybody who thinks King Joyse is still worth trying to save, even though he does act like he’s got his head stuck up his ass.’

  Lebbick thought for a long time, gazing away into the gloom around him. He looked like a man lost in memories – lost in love, in old instances of violence; a man who might never find his way back. But then his shoulders sagged, and he sighed.

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Good.’ Artagel sighed as well, let the suspense exhale from him so hard that the release made him shudder. ‘It’s time.’

  Without suspense and sorrow to keep him tight, however, his muscles went slack, and his limbs turned to rubber. Ruefully, he added, ‘You can start by helping me get back there. I’m afraid I overdid it coming here.’

  ‘Idiot,’ Lebbick growled. Slowly, he got to his feet. ‘You’re supposed to be resting. I’ve seen shrubbery with better sense than you’ve got.’

  ‘That’s easy.’ Artagel made a determined effort not to fall out of his chair. ‘I’ve seen shrubbery with better sense than any of us.

  ‘Just tell me one more thing.’ He paused to collect his fraying thoughts. ‘Why Ribuld? I didn’t know you had s
uch a good opinion of him.’

  Almost gently, Castellan Lebbick helped Artagel to his feet. Supporting Artagel with his shoulder, he started toward the door.

  ‘I need somebody I can trust. He likes Geraden. That’s all I’ve got to work with.’

  Artagel couldn’t help himself: he had to ask, ‘Are you really in that much trouble? Just because of Eremis and Saddith?’

  The muscles along Lebbick’s jaw knotted. His eyes were full of gloom. ‘Wait and see.’

  On the way back to his rooms, Artagel found himself positively aching with the intensity of his desire to see Geraden again. He wanted somebody to tell him what was going on.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  AN OLD ALLY OF THE KING

  That same day, Terisa and Geraden rode out of the southwestern hills of the Care of Termigan and began to approach Sternwall, the Termigan’s seat and his Care’s principal city.

  The relatively direct road from Houseldon – and the lack of rain, atypical at this time of year – had made the journey an easy one, at least for Geraden. He was accustomed to horses, acquainted with roadside comfort, experienced at camping. And he seemed to have become sure of himself. For the first time in his life, he knew exactly what he was doing. The only thing that reduced his eagerness to get where he was going was the pleasure he had with Terisa along the way.

  Terisa’s eagerness to reach Sternwall was completely different. In a visceral sense, she had lost interest in Orison – in Master Eremis and King Joyse. Her concerns were more immediate. She was aching in every joint, bone-weary, sick of horses. She wanted a hot bath and clean sheets. Thanks to the otherwise-much-desired way Geraden used his weight at night, the hard ground had given her bruises from her shoulder blades to her tailbone. At times, she felt she would have killed for a pillow under her hips. After a day or two in the saddle, every jolt of the bay’s gait seemed to grind her bones together. After another day or two, she could hardly keep from groaning whenever Geraden embraced her.