by Hugh Cook
In the freshness of their first creation, these tiles must have been glorious with color, but now they were suncracked and weatherstained, and some had fallen away altogether to reveal the stolid gray stone which lay beneath the decorations.
"I'm tired and cold," said Thodric Jarl, who by this time was in a very bad temper. "Let's get inside."
Jarl's temper was bad because to move – or even just to breathe – was to be stabbed by knives.
"You look," said Guest, "very much as if you were in pain."
"I am," said Jarl, who saw no point in denying it. "I've broken a couple of ribs."
Jarl's speech was curt, as usual, his accents hard – but in truth he felt as tender as a ripe tomato enduring a sledgehammer's playful tap. He felt as if he might burst into tears at any moment.
Chronic pain will tax the courage of the bravest. To resolve on one's death – ah, this is easy, at least when one is sufficiently enraged. Anger solves the problem. One decides for death, one charges one's enemies – and all decision is gone, for there is no way out. Jarl had done as much in the past, surviving more through luck than anything else.
But to make a mountainscape trek with a set of broken ribs puts far greater demands upon character. When one's ribs are broken, every step demands a new decision. The rigors of this choice, with its constant demands on his courage, had brought Jarl to the very edge of emotional collapse.
"Are you ribs badly broken?" said Rolf.
A useless question, for how could Jarl know the answer?
Perhaps his bones were merely cracked, in which case pain would be the worst of the consequences. Or perhaps the bones had splintered in places to sharpened knives, in which case Jarl might abruptly get spiked through the lung, and die of internal bleeding.
"They hurt like hell," said Jarl shortly, and stumped toward the single centrally placed gateway which pierced the building's tiled facade.
"We'll know the truth of his breakages soon enough," said Guest. "If he starts coughing blood we can count one lung as good as gone for certain."
Then Guest Gulkan and Rolf Thelemite fell in behind Thodric Jarl, watching him intently to see if he would start coughing up his heart's blood, which gave a certain interest to the proceedings which would otherwise have been lacking.
"Boys," said the witch Zelafona, with a click of her tongue which summarized volumes of disapproval.
Then she handed Sken-Pitilkin his country crook, which he received gratefully, for he had never before had more need of its support.
Inside the pierced gateway, a set of windchimes hung from the roof. Though there was no wind, these chimes tinkled regardless, and this tinkling was the loudest exterior sound which the airadventurers had heard since first air-crashing in this upland valley. Led by Jarl, the exhausted air adventurers passed through the gateway into a broad courtyard. A woman was making her way across this yard with a bucket of water.
"Ho there, fench oddock!" said Guest.
Challenged thus, the old woman turned to stare, then dropped her bucket of water. As it crashed and spilt, she fled.
"Very bright," said Sken-Pitilkin, observing the old woman's skirt-clutching retreat. "Suppose you follow her and see where she goes."
"No need," said Guest, "for I think the master of the place is upon us."
Indeed, venturing toward the air adventurers from a small side door was an elderly and decidedly shaggy-haired gentleman who appeared to be of Yarglat race. Accordingly, Guest Gulkan hailed the ancient in Eparget, and was pleased to receive an answer in his native tongue.
"Greetings," said the ancient, with the greatest of all imaginable courtesy, politely overlooking the dusty and disheveled appearance of his uninvited guests, and overlooking as well the fact that all were splattered with the vomit which had come cartwheeling from Guest Gulkan's mouth during the airship's maiden voyage.
Then the Yarglat-born ruler of the valley's dominant building said to Sken-Pitilkin: "And to you, greetings. It has been a long time, Torsen."
"Torsen?" said Sken-Pitilkin in astonishment. "You call me Torsen?"
"That is your name, is it not?" said the ancient.
"Why," said Hostaja Torsen Sken-Pitilkin, "it is one of them.
But – why, if you know that – "
Then Sken-Pitilkin lapsed into the High Speech of wizards, and the ancient replied in turn. The elf-armored Pelagius Zozimus soon joined the conversation, adding to Sken-Pitilkin's tale of aeronautical adventuring, and the three would have been in discourse all night had not Jarl demanded that they stop talking in gibberish.
"Who and what is this?" said Jarl, gesturing at their shaggyhaired Yarglat host.
Jarl gestured in a hand which was perilously close to being a fist.
"This dignitary," said Sken-Pitilkin, indicating the old man,
"is the abbot of Qonsajara, Qonsajara being the monastery in which we now stand."
"A priest, is he?" said Jarl.
"In a manner of speaking," said Sken-Pitilkin. "His name is Ontario Nol. He is a wizard of the order of Itch – a wizard of the winds."
"A wizard!" said Jarl. "And what thinks he of the Rovac?"
"He thinks them dangerous," said Sken-Pitilkin, "therefore demands that you do him the courtesy of surrendering your sword while you enjoy his hospitality."
"That I will do, then," said Jarl.
With that, Jarl drew his sword. An odd gesture, this. For a blade is not surrendered naked – rather, it is more properly yielded by unbuckling the swordbelt which sustains its scabbard.
Ontario Nol's eyes widened marginally, for he knew the murderous appetites of the Rovac.
With his sword drawn to the full length of its murder, Jarl hacked at the head of Ontario Nol. But the wizard had been given an eyeblink or more to prepare himself for attack, and an eyeblink was sufficient.
"Ja-bree!" screamed Nol, flinging wide his hands as Jarl struck down.
A wizard-wind whirlwind caught Jarl in a wind-slam funnel- spout. Trapped in a wind-whipping whirlspill, Jarl was spun first deasil then widdershins.
"Cha!" shouted Nol.
And Jarl was released from the grip of the wizard-win.
Pirouette by pirouette, the warrior spun to the nearest wall, which slammed him in the face, rebuffing his ballet with puritanical retort.
"Bravo!" said Guest, applauding vigorously as Thodric Jarl slid down that wall, staining its stones with a snail-track of blood from his vigorously bleeding nose.
"Blood!" said Rolf Thelemite excitedly. "See! Blood, blood!
The ribs have pierced his lungs! He's done for, now!"
But that was not the case.
On close examination, it appeared that Thodric Jarl had suffered no more than a chipped tooth and a bloody nose. He had not even been knocked out. Nevertheless, it must be admitted that this was most definitely not the most auspicious of introductions.
Chapter Eleven
Ul-donlok: valley in the Ibsen-Iktus mountains and site of the ancient monastery of Qonsajara, which is home to a wizard of Yarglat breeding named Ontario Nol. The valley of Ul-donlok, which is high and narrow at its western end, slopes downward to the east, opening out as it nears the Swelaway Sea.
Hostaja Torsen Sken-Pitilkin did his best to make Thodric Jarl apologize for his foolish attack on Ontario Nol. Jarl refused.
"Dogs will hatch from eggs and pigs be born of pigeons before I say sorry to a wizard," said Jarl, intransigent as any monster of the nursery.
Jarl was sure Nol would kill him in any case, and no Rovac warrior wishes to die with an apology to a wizard on his lips.
"What are we to do with this rune-warrior?" said Sken-Pitilkin, shaking his head in disgust.
"Let's not worry about it," said Nol, shrugging off Jarl's insolent unrepentance. "After all, what matters a trifle like attempted murder when dinner is waiting? Come, friends. Let's seat ourselves and sup. For dinner cools monstrous fast in weather like this."
"Dinner?" said Pelagius Zozim
us, who had a chef's highlydeveloped consciousness of the passage of time. "Dinner? My dear sir, dinner can hardly cool before it's cooked, and we've only just arrived! How can you possibly have dinner ready already?"
"I saw you from afar," said Ontario Nol gravely, "even if my servant did not."
"So!" said Sken-Pitilkin, taking this to be a confession of the possession of Powers. "The wizards of Itch have powers of sight, do they?"
"They do indeed," said Ontario Nol. "Such powers are consequent upon the possession of those ocular organs known as eyes, of which I have two. With my own two eyes I have long had you under observation from the heights of Qonsajara, in consequence of which I have been able to have a dinner prepared for you."
Upon which both Zozimus and Sken-Pitilkin felt foolish, and made no further comment as the hospitable wizard of Itch led the party of air adventurers into his dining room. It was a small room dominated by a large stone table, and though Nol had threatened them with a chilled dinner the room was in fact kept comfortably warm by a small but efficient fire.
"May we not wash, first?" said Sken-Pitilkin, conscious of the fact that all of them smelt somewhat of vomit, and that the half-digested eyes of two or three of the dogs of Ema-Urk still clung to Guest Gulkan's outer clothing.
"Wash?" said Nol, in patent surprise. "But why?"
"To please me," said Zelafona, coming to Sken-Pitilkin's rescue. "As a woman, I am particular of the company I keep, therefore would have these men washed if bowl, sponge and water to spare."
"I have no objection to a sponging of my face and my jacket," said Thodric Jarl, who was perfectly ready to make concessions to the witch Zelafona, though he was ever reluctant to give aid to a wizard. "Rolf will help me with the sponging."
So spoke Jarl, and spoke bravely. But his speech was badly slurred, for pain, altitude, fatigue, fear and a wizard's whirlwind battery had told heavily on his resources.
"If Jarl's so sick he needs a nursemaid," said Rolf Thelemite, his own fatigue displaying itself in his singularly ungracious manner, "then I suppose I can sponge him down."
"And Guest will wash himself," said Sken-Pitilkin in tones of warning, as the Weaponmaster advanced upon Ontario Nol's big stone table.
"Will I?" said Guest, rebelliously. "I don't think I will, you know. I'm not due for a bath for two or three years at least, and I'm not going to delay dinner for any such eccentricity." Sken-Pitilkin did not see how Guest could possibly be ready to eat again after having been so prodigiously sick earlier in the day. But the boy was as good as his word. He sat himself down at the dinner table – half-digested eyes and all – and was two-thirds of the way through a second helping of everything by the time his companions returned from their washing.
For dinner they had lentil soup, boiled potatoes and the eggs of several chickens, with a serving of roast soy beans on the side. Ontario Nol apologized for the sparceness of his table.
"Unfortunately," said Nol, "we have only the eggs of a chicken, and not the meat. I would have killed you a chicken, only I have none at Qonsajara. The eggs are paid to me in way of tribute by one of the villages further down the valley."
"You are a ruler, then," said Guest Gulkan.
"The absolute monarch of all I survey," acknowledged Ontario Nol. "I estimate the population of my kingdom as some three thousand people in all. It is sufficient."
"Your kingdom," said Guest, chewing against the resistance of some soy beans as he spoke. "How do you name your kingdom?"
"It is named Qonsajara," said Ontario Nol, "taking its name from this monastery, which once was consecrated to the rites of Zozo Darjidan, the tantric strain of Qa Marika. Do you know what is meant by tantrism?"
"Dorking," said Guest, remembering certain lessons in ethnology. "That's what it means. The tantric arts are the arts of dorking. Lotham and yargam, sagit and mok. That's what the pictures are all about."
"True," said Ontario Nol with a thin smile. "But there was more to it than that. The tantric rites have catharsis as their goal. One frees the spirit of the flesh by purging the flesh through excess. There is more to it, then, than… how did you put it?"
"Dorking," said Guest again, unabashed and unashamed.
"One hopes," said the witch Zelafona, "that the boy has not offended your religion. If he has, then my dwarf will be happy to beat him for you."
At that, Glambrax jumped onto the table and struck a beating pose. Guest Gulkan's hand went to his sword.
"Peace," said Ontario Nol, as Sken-Pitilkin swept Glambrax from the table with his country crook. "I own to no religion.
Though I name myself as abbot of this monastery, that is just for form's sake. In truth, this temple's rites are a thousand years dead, and the worshippers died with the rites."
By now, Ontario Nol had the full attention of all his auditors, and they listened in after-dinner leisure as he told what he knew of Zozo Darjidan and the religion of Qa Marika. He lacked the full story, but still knew the most amazing fragments of the much-dislocated history of times long past. He mentioned the Technic Renaissance and the Genetic Mutiny, and told strange stories of a planet named Olo Malan, which – depending on which tradition one adhered to – either was or was not the very ball of dirt on which they were presently standing.
Then Sken-Pitilkin had stories of his own to tell, and
Pelagius Zozimus followed him, after which the dralkosh Zelafona was persuaded to speak.
Never before had Guest heard Zelafona tell of the past. The boy listened, fascinated, as the old woman's shriveled voice spun tales of full-fleshed maidens and desiring heroes, of creatures which lived in mountains and fed themselves on time, of cities of singing glass and streets of liquid fire, of incubus and succubus knotted together in shadows of turbulent desire, of vampires in their cavern-realms, and of ghostly dragons hunting ghosts through realms of living men.
That night, when Guest Gulkan finally got to sleep, he dreamt dreams of hallucinatory vividness. He dreamt of spheres of light which sang and spoke; of armies collapsing in maggot-plague and blood-drench deliquescence; of snoring mountains and sneezing skeletons; of kings dressed in the dazzle of hammered rainbow; of the Dawn Songs of Kalatanastral and the battlements of Stronghold Handfast; of books which conjured cities, and cities which conjured gods. Guest woke in the night with a pounding headache. Such was his pain that he woke Sken-Pitilkin, fearing himself on the verge of death. Sken-Pitilkin told him to go back to sleep, but by then Ontario Nol had already been disturbed.
"It is the height," said Nol. "It is the suddenness of the height which causes the headache. Men can damage themselves to the point of death simply by walking to the heights too quickly, and you – you've flown! I should have thought of that. We should check your companions."
Then, on Ontario Nol's instructions, all the air adventurers were roused from sleep, saving Rolf Thelemite alone, who proved quite impossible to wake.
"He's sleeping solidly," said Guest.
"There's more to it than that," said Ontario Nol. "He's unconscious. His brain has swollen in the high thin air."
"His brain!" said Guest.
"It is true," said Nol. Guest Gulkan took some persuading, claiming indeed that he doubted his comrade Rolf to be in possession of any organ so delicate as a brain. But Nol disputed Guest's pretensions to anatomical wisdom, insisting that even warriors of Rovac had brains, although admittedly it was hard to find one who could demonstrate the proper use of such an asset. Then the wizard of Itch detailed the ways in which height itself could kill, concluding by saying:
"So. To safeguard your friend's health, we must take him lower down the valley."
"Well," said Guest, "doubtless when dawn comes – "
"No," said Nol. "Not at dawn. Now. We must take him lower, and now, otherwise he dies."
"Can't we wait until morning?" said Guest.
"By morning," said Nol, "one of the minor demons of the Lesser Pit of Idleness will be using your friend's head as a footstool. I counsel
you not to delay – not unless you have mastered the fine art of the resurrection of the dead."
Urged thus by Ontario Nol, the air adventurers dressed themselves in coats provided by their host, heavy coats of wool, coats thick with the smell of generations of woodsmoke. Then they ventured into the night, the cold of which had sharpened to a razor.
There was no moon, but there were stars, clipped chips of needle-prick brightness. Under those stars they began their descent, rock and stone scraping and sliding underfoot as they ventured through the brittleness of the frozen night.
Soon, they were sweating in their heavy coats, sweating despite the cold, for they were carrying the unconscious Rolf Thelemite on a litter, and Rolf proved a brutal burden – even though Nol had roused out a couple of servants to help with the labor, and even though he added his own muscle to the carrying.
To Guest, the stumblestone nightpath through unfamiliar territory seemed an ideal place for an ambush. If Nol planned murder, then maybe ambushers were waiting to take them on a ravinous section of the path, waiting to smash them with landsliding stones or snatch them from the night with garrotes.
For once, Guest Gulkan wanted the counsel of Thodric Jarl, so when the group was resting he shared his thoughts with the Rovac warrior, and found Jarl had similar suspicions. The two of them then returned to the circle of lamplight where Ontario Nol sat cleaning his fingernails, and they challenged that wizard of Itch, who heard out their fears.
"Well, my man," said Ontario Nol, addressing himself to Thodric Jarl in the Eparget tongue. "You have a headache, do you not?"
"As if kicked by a horse," said Jarl, speaking the Eparget with the idiomatic fluency of a very Yarglat barbarian.
"Next question," said Ontario Nol. "Can you walk like this?"
With that, the wizard of Itch got to his feet and demonstrated. He demonstrated with great deliberation, like a dancing master showing off a difficult step. He walked heel to toe, first forwards then backwards.
"Such games are meant for childhoods first and second," said Jarl. "You in your second childhood can indulge yourself with such, but I am a man, and grown beyond such folly."