Zaul shuffled closer on his branch then reached for the lump of salt with his beak. He snatched it away, and took to the air. “We na trust menner who are na frommin Azique!” he cried.
“Water upon you, heat taken from you,” whispered Zarost, twisting his fingers in the air to create a blend of two small second-axis spells in the clear essence. The second pattern would release the energy needed to form the matter of the first. Zaul disappeared in his own little cloud then plummeted to the ground.
He landed with his beak in the mud, but he kept a firm grip on the salt nugget.
“Bloody feathers be now so soaked!” he croaked, speaking around the obstruction in his beak. “Wraak! Colder than a corpse. Becussedy, cussedy, stranger. Ye be wizardly, ye be trouble,” he scolded, hopping in a circle. “Stirring the silverness, bringin a’ruin. Cussedy, cussedy, cuss.”
Zarost quickly scanned the sky, just to be sure, but his limited activity hadn’t registered upon the wildfire web. He squatted beside the bitterparrot. “Consider this, little friend. I found you first, so I can find you again. If you take the payment, you take the job.”
“Noo! Firs’ salt is a’for coming t’ find ye. What iffa noo want to spy for ye? Puckpraak! Wizzard!”
“Have you ever considered how stupid you’d look without your feathers?”
Zaul dropped the salt nugget upon the ground. His sad eyes were wide, the small feathers on his head raised in panicked tufts. “Wloo! Kibbit! I dinna want a’nothing to do wither ye!” But his left foot betrayed him, for it reached for the discarded nugget and drew it under his chest.
“I thought as much,” said Twardy Zarost.
“Nine fistblocks?” asked Zaul.
“Eight,” Zarost corrected. “And one a day, until you’re done.”
Zaul rolled his head to the side, to better take in Zarost’s face.
“Whatter ye want me be do?”
_____
Bevn must have been knocked unconscious for a long time, because when he came to, it was dark. His mouth tasted like glue. His head pounded, his jaw ached; his whole body ached, especially when he breathed in. His lips were thick and split from where Gabrielle had hit him. He was instantly embittered, but he remembered enough of what had happened to know it would be wise to keep his complaints to himself. He lay still and listened instead.
They were arguing nearby, their voices low. Something was roasting—he could smell cooked meat.
He slowly rolled his head to one side. Gabrielle and Black Saladon sat beside a fire. Gabrielle had tied her hair into a braid again. Saladon stirred the coals with a finger.
“They will investigate the strike-point, it’s a beacon for wizards,” Black Saladon said. “We must move on! We must pass through Slipper before the Gyre discovers what we are doing. If we are too slow, we will have to fight all of them.”
“No!” Gabrielle exclaimed. “I understand that you need to move, but I don’t. The agreement is off! You asked me to be an escort, but I cannot travel with that brat any farther. He is not worthy of any respect, yet that crown of his erodes my resistance, and it gets worse every day. Why do you think I always stay away from him? I find myself wanting to lower myself before him, damn it, to obey him! And he’s just a stripling! I couldn’t stop myself from turning on you when he ran for the ironpigs. I was compelled to fight on his side by his command. That crown affects something in my blood. It rules me when he’s near. I have spent years living with a Domination spell, I know how it works, but I have some influence over the Dark. I have no command over the ruling force that reaches out from that golden coil. It is subtle and strong, so strong. Hitting him at the end was hard to do, even though I wanted to so much. No, you will be better off without me, Saladon. You can resist that spell. If I stay in his company any longer, I shall kill that boy, before it is too late for me.”
Bevn was delighted. She was being affected.
“You will just have to deal with the effect of the Kingsrim until we reach Turmodin,” Saladon said. “You cannot break your word now. If I must leave him at any time, he will be alone and defenceless.”
“He can die, for all I care.”
“I cannot afford that,” Saladon answered. “He is too valuable to me.”
“I will not be forced to become servile,” Gabrielle said. “Either you give me some defence against the Kingsrim, or you lose me.”
“There is no defence I can provide against it, it is a seventh-level Order spell. It would take nearly all the members of the Gyre working in unison to alter the pattern.”
“Then you shall have to chain me and drag me beside you if you want my company. I’ll not willingly allow myself to be influenced by that back-stabbing little prat.”
“You expected honour from a thief?” he asked. “Thieves have no honour.”
She stared at the fire and did not answer him.
“You will come, because I need you, Gabrielle.”
“Then I want more from you in return,” she answered hotly. “Healing my wounds was not enough.”
“What do you want?”
She looked him over. She seemed about to say something, then hesitated.
“A position of power in the Sorcerer’s court.”
Saladon roared with laughter. “You should have asked what first crossed your mind. The Sorcerer has no court. There is no organisation in Turmodin—he despises structure and governance. No, Gabrielle, you cannot bargain for a position. The Sorcerer rules because no one can challenge him, not because he is supported by the people of Turmodin. You can only gain his favour by being useful to him in the present. Your usefulness might be forgotten by tomorrow.”
“But you must have some alliance with him! You must have a position of power yourself.”
“Only because I bring something useful to him—the Kingsrim, with the true-blooded royal to enliven it.”
“Then I am useful to him as well, so long as I accompany you toward Turmodin?”
“Yes!” Saladon agreed. “That’s exactly how it works. When you assist Chaos, you gain the most for yourself. If you break away now, you will gain nothing, and if you work against Chaos, you will lose everything.”
Bevn was stiff. He straightened his legs carefully, but discovered that he was hobbled and tied onto something. He rolled awkwardly onto his side to see what had been done to him. His broken ribs gritted in his chest. He moaned.
“Ahh, the golden calf awakes,” said Black Saladon, turning.
Bevn struggled upright. At least his hands were free, but his feet were tied together with a length of cord and secured to a gnarled root. The cord was slippery and tough and seemed to have no knots in it at all. Bevn couldn’t see how to free himself.
“My body hurts,” he complained.
“It’ll hurt even more if you even think of repeating a stunt like that.” Gabrielle’s quiet voice ran up his spine like a chilled blade. “I’ll make sure you feel everything before I slit your throat.”
Saladon came over. He squatted at eye level, blocking the firelight with his body. He looked at Bevn intently. “You’re lucky to be alive. Don’t try my temper again. I shall have to kill you.”
But Bevn had heard what he’d said about taking him to Turmodin alive, so he knew the big wizard was lying.
“Mm,” he said, pretending to agree. He glanced around, but they were not where he’d expected them to be. There was no sign of the ashen destruction of the wildfire strike. Instead, the trees loomed tall and straight around them, their distant tops indistinct against the dark night and tiny stars.
“Where are we?” His swollen lips made his words come out sounding thick and stupid.
“Far enough away from prying eyes.”
“How did I get here?” His jaw hurt savagely.
“On my shoulder, you lump of lard.” Saladon rose and pointed to a stain on his bronze shirt. “Your blood.” He brushed at the stain with a finger. With a puff of smoke it burnt off the fabric. “I’ll carry you to Turmodin, if
you give me reason to believe you will run off again and put us all in danger, and believe me, I’ll make it as uncomfortable as all hell. You’ll ride like a sack of oranges, not as a king.”
Bevn checked himself over. The back of his right leg was a huge, purpling bruise. He supposed it wasn’t actually broken, because it felt straight when he probed it with his fingers. His ribs, however, hurt like hell. The bones gritted with every breath.
He balanced and stood, moaning, to show them how very sore he was, but they didn’t seem to take any notice.
“Is there anything left to eat?” he demanded.
Saladon pointed to the fire, at a great carcass hung skewered over the coals. Ample pickings remained, more than they could possibly eat. Strips of meat had been cut to hang over the far side of the fire, where the logs still flamed and smoked.
“What is it?”
“One of the piglets.”
He hobbled over. His tether was barely long enough for him to reach the meat. He was tethered! Like a slave! Like a prisoner! Like a dog. It wasn’t fair. He tore a long rib from the carcass. His jaw ached terribly when he tried to bite the meat off the bone. His split lip stung. He sniffed loudly and hid his tears by scratching at his nose.
“Did you kill it?” he asked Saladon.
“No, no, it was Gabrielle. I just mentioned to her where she could strike. It’s a soft place every man should protect; especially from one as talented with a knife as Gabrielle.”
She was pretending not to listen. He shifted uncomfortably on his feet. Gabrielle had retrieved the blade he’d stolen—two hilts protruded from her belt-sheaths. He was about to take another painful bite of supper when he heard wing-beats in the air above, coming down upon him. He ducked, instinctively, but then there was sudden added weight upon his crown. He twisted his head. There was a flurry of wing-beats and a scratchy-voiced curse.
“Idjit! Skraak! Keep yer pip still, or I’ll beshitten yer ear.”
There was something on top of his head! Something that spoke like a Hunter. Had it just threatened what he thought it had threatened?
“Saladon?” he said, cowering under the uncertain threat. “Saladon?”
“Don’t move,” answered the wizard. “What do you want, sha-lin? We have no drinks among this party.”
“We’re na all drinkers!” the whatever-it-was screeched. Bevn reached up tentatively to remove the crown and its load. He yelped as something bit his finger, hard. The creature gripped his hair fiercely.
“What is it? What’s on my head?”
“I be deadly, tattinhat, my beak be sharp. Ikkin pecker eyes out.”
“Just stand still! It’s called a bitterparrot,” Saladon explained. “It can be a right nuisance if it wants to be.”
From the weight of it, Bevn knew it wasn’t that big, but he knew it wasn’t lying about its sharp beak. His finger had been savaged, it was bleeding. The threat of having his eyes pecked out was too vivid. He stood dead still.
“What do you want?” repeated Saladon, facing Bevn but looking over his head.
“Izzard! Gizzard! Rukatukatoo!”
“If you want some meat, go ahead. We have eaten our fill.”
“Wizzzard.”
Saladon grew suddenly alert. “What gives you that idea?”
“Hoh he! Wizzzard, an tattinhat boy, an ladyhunter, travelling north from a’Bradach. I see! I see! Na better tracking-eye than Zaul.”
Saladon moved fast, with that disconcerting speed Bevn had witnessed before. One moment he was close to the fire and Gabrielle, in the next his chest was in Bevn’s face. The creature squawked as it was lifted away. Something warm and runny trickled through Bevn’s hair.
“Na shoot a’messenger!” the bitterparrot cried, struggling helplessly in Saladon’s fist.
The bird was the oddest thing Bevn had ever seen. It had gaudy feathers and a hooked beak, but wide, wet human eyes. It tried to bite Saladon’s hand, but the wizard squeezed, and it threw its head back, squawking. It had a naked, fleshy neck.
“Oohk! Messages, I have a’messages for ye!”
“From who?” Black Saladon asked. “Who is sending me messages?”
“The Riddler!” the bitterparrot shrieked. “The Riddler! Elp! Ye be a’breaking my neck!”
“So they know,” said Saladon quietly, looking off into the distance. The bitterparrot issued a gobbling croak.
“All right,” Saladon said at last, opening his palm. The bird fell to the ground, where it hunkered with its brightly coloured wings splayed wide. It coughed and coughed.
“Talk fast, little spy.”
“Sed nothing ’bout danger,” the bird muttered between coughs, its gaze downcast.
Saladon lowered his battleaxe until the long blade was almost touching the back of the newcomer’s head. The bitterparrot flipped onto his back in surprise. His eyes were transfixed by the deadly edge.
“Talk,” said Saladon.
“It a…he a… All right! I talk! I was set to talk anyway! Yihdy wizzards be nothing but troublers. He say ye be welcomerman. Bloody hell! Na so, na so. Skrooskra! Riddler spoke in manner strange, an’ he want me be repeating with na mistook. He telltold that ye be found, for he holds the far end of the essence thread attached to me, and he can read the length an direction of it. If I be harmed, the thread willer snap back to him, and he will ken where ye are. So ye can na hurt me. If ye wish to remain hidden, ye must a’parley wither me, an’ truthbetold. The Riddler laid these terms. Bury the Kingsrim here, show me the place, then run free, all three. Ye will na be followed. Keep the crown, and ye be soon found, and captured by the Gyre, and the boy be killed.”
Saladon looked down at the messenger for a long time. “Very clever, Riddler,” he said at last. “Very clever, but you have forgotten, I walk toward Chaos. I will not do what you expect me to, or even what would seem sensible to you. Sha-lin, you can tell your director that he should not trade lives for a hopeless cause. Order has been surpassed. Those who continue to support it only make themselves clearer targets.”
“What ye meaning?” croaked the bitterparrot. “Cannint make beak nar feathers of yeba oddly words.”
Saladon lifted his battleaxe away from the bitterparrot, and leant it against his chest. “It means just this.” He gestured with splayed fingers toward the fire. Ten flames spurted out from the coals, ragged-edged and hot. Saladon lifted his fingers, and the flames rose, diverging, searching.
Saladon glanced down at the bitterparrot.
The messenger looked back, and his eyes went wide. In that brief moment, Bevn understood what was about to happen. The ten loose flames converged upon the little figure, enveloping him with a sudden searing roar. There was no time for a leap, or a curse, or even a final cry. The strange gaudy-feathered wet-eyed visitor vanished in a blast of fire.
Bevn moved back, away from the sudden heat. The fireball compressed upon itself then ran away in a single smokeless jet that moved as if tracing a thread, running like a fuse, Bevn supposed, back along the route the bird had approached upon. Bevn looked down at the charred remains, just a few bones in an ashen heap. A smoking feather, its filaments glowing, rode upward on an air current.
Someone had badly underestimated Black Saladon.
“That trace-line will arc as soon as it crosses under a wildfire node,” said the wizard, more to himself than anyone else. “Damn, I should have thought of that. Blast you, Riddler, you are too tricky!”
“What does that mean?” Bevn asked.
“It means the race is on. They have our position, or near enough to be dangerous. Now we must move, and faster than anyone expects us to. The wizards of the Gyre are coming for us.”
Saladon looked down at Bevn’s tethered feet and frowned. Then he hefted the battleaxe, balanced it, and swung it hard, straight down for Bevn’s head.
Bevn fell back with a cry of surprise. The blade whooshed toward him.
It missed his head, only because he’d fallen, and severed the fibres of the
cord binding his ankles together. Rocks cracked beneath where the battleaxe had struck. A plume of dust sucked up past his feet. Bevn sat in mute shock. He thought Saladon had decided to kill him as well. The wizard glared down at him.
“Now if you so much as think of disobeying my orders, I will cut your head from your shoulders. Get up, and stay close to me.”
Bevn obeyed, despite the pain in his body.
Gabrielle gathered their bedrolls and stuffed them into the pack. She shouldered the load as she came up to Saladon.
“Who is the Riddler?” she asked.
“He’s a wizard, one of the eight Gyre members,” Saladon answered, while leading them away from the temporary camp. “You should try to stay away from the wizards of the Gyre. They are more dangerous to you than the Sorcerer himself.”
“Why?”
“The Sorcerer just kills his enemies. The wizards of the Gyre prefer to keep their enemies alive, and turn them to their own ends.”
Bevn had heard of a Riddler before. There had been a Riddler in the Darkmaster’s service, in Ravenscroft, an advisor of sorts, a wily man. Bevn had met him, but he had never seen his face. Saladon couldn’t be talking about the same man. That was impossible.
“This Riddler,” Gabrielle asked, “Was he ever in Eyri?”
“Oh yes,” Black Saladon replied. “He’s been in Eyri since the beginning. He has the most to lose if the crown reaches the Sorcerer, because it will destroy everything he has worked for. She is their last hope, and she will belong to Chaos, no matter how they try to prepare her, she will belong to the Sorcerer, in the end, because his new wizard is an Eyrian, and so the Kingsrim commands her.”
He turned to Bevn and held him with that gaze that made all things seem possible.
“You will command her,” he said to Bevn.
30. THE SCALES OF HONESTY
“Lying for a living gives a man
a great hunger for the truth.”—Zarost
In darkness he composed his litany of lies. It was freezing—the cold of ice, the cold of altitude, the cold of midwinter night. The cavern was a temple that arched over Ashley’s thoughts as he considered his survival.
Second Sight: Second Tale of the Lifesong Page 51