by Byron Preiss
Instead, they had taken him to the cell.
He was hungry, cold, tired, and angry beyond words. He had a message of urgent importance to deliver, and instead, he was standing in a cold damp room with a wooden stool and a heap of straw for a bed. Then he had seen the shadows beneath the crack in the door. Amsel watched anxiously as he heard the clicking of the lock. With a rush of cool air the door burst open. A streak of yellow light illuminated the chamber, and a frenzy of dust and soil clouded the air. Amsel saw four shadows enter. He heard a woman’s voice. “I present to you a Fandoran spy,” she said. For a moment Amsel expected to see a Fandoran spy. Then he realized that the woman was referring to him.
She was a tall woman whose huge conelike structure of hair, dusted with precious stones, forced her to stoop beneath the tangled roots in the ceiling. She was very beautiful—the torch she held seemed not as bright as her red hair. She was smiling, but somehow the expression did not reassure Amsel. He looked at her hands. She wore no rings, but the fingers were tipped with wickedly long nails painted various colors and filed lovingly to points.
The others also wore clothes of highborn finery—the silver-inlaid pouch at the portly man’s waist would be worth three years’ food and lodging in Fandora. He had a huge white beard. The stout woman next to him was obviously his wife. Amsel felt that, under other circumstances, he might like these people. At the moment, however, they did not look as if they had come in search of friendship.
The last member of the party he distrusted on sight: he was a foppish young man with a smug, self-satisfied air. A climber, he would be called in Fandora. Amsel reminded himself that his instinctive feelings about other people were suspect. He had been a hermit and he had not taken enough time to know the people of his own town. I’d best not judge these Simbalese too quickly, he cautioned himself.
This insecurity aside, Amsel was still angry. “I am not a spy!” he protested. “I am an emissary from Fandora!”
The tall woman glowered at him. “You will speak when you are spoken to, and not before, Fandoran!”
“My name is Amsel,” he replied. At least, he thought, I am in the presence of a woman with authority.
“Your name does not matter,” said Evirae. “You are a spy—and perhaps you are a murderer!”
This last comment, voiced with added drama, startled Amsel, who for a moment thought Jondalrun had arrived in Simbala to spread rumors against him. Suddenly dizzy with fatigue and emotion, Amsel sat down on the wooden stool.
“What is the meaning of these charges, Evirae?”
The man in the white beard was deeply agitated. His wife stood away from the others, by the door, watching Evirae. The portly man continued, “This man’s accent is as barbarous as his clothes! He cannot possibly be a Fandoran soldier! If he has anything to do with the Northwealdsman’s story, I suggest—”
“I am here on a mission of peace!” cried Amsel to the man.
Evirae turned toward him quickly and thrust a sharp fingernail at his throat. “There is rumor among my people,” she said, “that the tips of my nails are painted with poison. Unless you wish to find out the truth, I suggest you remain quiet unless spoken to.”
Amsel nodded and gulped. The woman removed her fingernail from his neck. “Very good,” she said. “Now, tell me, Fandoran, is it not true that you were found off northern shores?”
“Yes” said Amsel. “I have been traveling from—”
“The ‘yes’ will suffice, Fandoran.”
“But wait,” Amsel said. “I—”
Evirae raised her finger meaningfully.
Amsel waited, angry and frightened at the same time. The woman’s threat was less important to him than the fact that she seemed to enjoy it. If she was indeed a figure of authority in Simbala, then he was in for trouble.
Mesor watched Evirae’s performance uneasily. If the Princess is not careful, he thought, Alora’s suspicions will be aroused. Evirae must make it clear that she has only the interests of Simbala at heart. In her quest for the Ruby, he knew how close Evirae had already come to outright treason.
Evirae continued. “You say you have invaded our shores to ask for peace, Fandoran. Why? What reason would you have to believe that there is a threat of war?”
The man in the white beard asked, “Have you come here out of fear of a trade war?”
“No,” said Amsel. “I came because Fandora has declared war on Simbala.” The moment the words came out, Amsel regretted his candor.
“No!” said Tolchin.
Amsel noticed a flash of excitement between the woman called Evirae and the man at her side. He did not understand it, but it troubled him more deeply than the feeling that things had just gotten out of hand.
“There is time to avert the war!” he cried in an effort to make amends. “You need only understand the reason for my people’s actions! A child has been killed, and Fandora thinks that one of your windship riders is responsible.”
“Absurd!” answered Alora from her position by the door.
“Lies!” said Tolchin.
“You may be put to death for such charges!” Evirae threatened. “Now, tell us the truth! You are a Fandoran spy and you have come to our shores on a mission! If you value your life, you will tell us what it is! Take heed, Fandoran! You address the Princess of Simbala!”
The Princess of Simbala! Amsel rose from the stool. He barely came up to Evirae’s waist, but his voice, boosted by the urgency of his mission, filled the room. “Princess, my people are a good and simple people. They are not warriors. They are peaceful farmers. Some are jealous of Simbala. Most are just frightened of you. I do not belive Simbala is responsible for the death of the child. Ignorance has caused Fandora to declare this war! There are those who oppose it already! You must do something to prevent it! You must send an emissary to tell them you did not murder the child! You must send a windship to Fandora!”
“A trap!” shouted Evirae, overwhelming Amsel’s words. “Fandora only wishes to capture a windship and turn it against us! We have heard about the death of the child—but it was a Simbalese child, not a Fandoran!”
“No!” cried Amsel. “That is not true!”
Alora reddened. “Do not tell us what is true or untrue, Fandoran! Yours is a land of simpletons! We know a child has been murdered!”
“Please!” cried Amsel. “Listen to me! Fandoran boats may already be assembled for the invasion. My people are no threat to you! I have seen your windships, your soldiers! Look at me! I am barely half your height! My people cannot possibly pose a threat to you. Please help me avoid bloodshed!”
“Kiorte lost a windship in a storm only weeks ago,” said Evirae to Tolchin. “Now I think I know where it has gone.”
Amsel overheard her words. The windship in Gordain Town! “You don’t understand,” he said. “That windship came over during a storm!”
“Then you admit it is in Fandora!” said Evirae with a mixture of venom and glee. “We have ignored the Fandorans for too long! We must take action!”
The white-bearded man stepped forward. “A moment, Princess. I have a question for the spy.”
Mesor nodded. She is getting to Tolchin, he thought.
Amsel looked nervously at the older man. He hoped his anxiety would not be misconstrued as guilt.
“Amsel,” said Tolchin softly, “if what you tell us is true, then Fandorans may soon be coming toward our shores. Is that correct?
Amsel nodded. “Yes, but—”
“I’m sorry.” Tolchin turned to Alora and said, “There is a clear and present danger of war. The Family must be notified immediately.” Then he turned to the younger woman. “Evirae, you must speak to Hawkwind at once!”
Amsel said urgently, “The invasion can still be prevented! A windship can reach them! Just send an emissary to Fandora!”
“There is a pattern to his words,” observed Mesor. “No doubt his mission is to confuse and delay us while they attack.”
“Silence!” sai
d Tolchin. “We know what must be done.” Then to Alora he added, “I suggest we return to the Overwood at once.”
The Baroness nodded grimly and faced Evirae. “For once, Princess, I think you may have done the proper thing.”
Evirae replied sweetly, “There must be some leadership in the Family. From now on, I hope you’ll always think of me in those terms.”
Time to leave, thought Mesor. Evirae is starting to show her colors. “Milady,” he said tactfully, “I suggest we depart.”
“Wait!” cried Amsel desperately, but Baron Tolchin had already summoned the aide at the door.
“See to it that the spy gets some food,” he said. Then Tolchin turned to Amsel. “I am sorry for you, young man,” he said. “For you and Fandora.”
The door shut, and Amsel’s cell was dark again.
“Young man indeed!” groaned the inventor. “A young man would not have said the foolish things that I have said! A young man would not be responsible for a war! Oh, what have I done? What have I done?”
* * *
Deep in the merchants’ quarter, far from the tree castles in the center of Overwood where the members of the Royal Family made their homes, was the domicile of Baron Tolchin and Baroness Alora. The nature of their role in Simbalese commerce dictated this location, but it was not a situation they regretted. It provided them with a unique view of the Royal Family’s affairs. They were part of them, yet they were apart from them. The day-to-day business of the Family left them unaffected, and the couple’s frequent tours of the Southland kept them both in blissful ignorance of the petty politics of the palace.
They had supported the appointment of Hawkwind because it had been the wish of Ephrion, and they had tolerated the outsider’s intrusions on their authority because he showed more potential for the throne than any of the candidates from the Royal Family. Still, they did not really trust Hawkwind.
This morning’s incident had further strained his position with Alora and Tolchin by virtue of the fact that both now held Evirae in higher regard. They had been impressed by Evirae’s revelation that Prince Kiorte had entrusted her with the interrogation of the Fandoran spy, and they had been surprised by the speed with which she had learned of the invasion plans. Upon their departure from the tunnels, when Evirae had petitioned them for another meeting before telling Hawkwind of what they had learned, Tolchin and Alora had consented. Had they known of Evirae’s duplicity with the Northwealdsman, had they known that Kiorte was not on a mission to the west—as Evirae had told them—but was actually missing, they would have informed Hawkwind immediately. Alora and Tolchin knew none of these things, however; and so, with the aroma of Bunduran tea filling the sitting chamber, they greeted Evirae with unprecedented warmth.
“I am glad you left your shadow at home,” said the Baron.
Evirae looked behind herself with concern, then realized that Tolchin was making a joke. “Yes,” she said with a belated smile, “I did not wish Mesor to be present for our discussion.”
“Come along, then,” said Alora with less charm than her husband. “Although you have assured us that there has been no sighting of an invasion, I do not like the idea of keeping the news from the palace. I presume you have your reasons, Evirae, and I wish to hear them as soon as possible.”
As an aide poured tea, Tolchin and Alora seated themselves on the featherleaf couch in the center of the floor. Evirae remained standing, her hair denting the folds of a silken canopy. She spoke with caution. “This is a difficult meeting for me. As you both know, I have been less than diplomatic in my opposition to Monarch Hawkwind in the past. In all honesty, I did not and do not feel he is qualified to be Monarch. I have come to say now that he may not even be qualified to live in Simbala.”
Alora, accustomed to the circumlocutions of the Bursars, nevertheless frowned. “If you have information, make it brief and clear, Evirae! We are discussing the safety of Simbala.”
It was an effort for Evirae to keep her composure. She had a feeling of being in the center of a vast, revolving pattern, such as the game of dochin, in which bets were placed on the length of time it took for a wheel made of hinged carved segments to spin and fall into place as a beautifully ordered design. She was watching that spinning now, in her mind—the pieces were coming together for her. Again she thought: It is meant that I be ruler of Simbala. The fates conspire for me.
Aloud she said softly, “Does it not seem odd to you that the news of the Fandoran invasion comes at a time when Monarch Hawkwind has halved the size of the Simbalese army?”
Alora frowned again. “Yes, it does, but there is good reason for that action—very good reason, as you may know.”
Tolchin nodded. “I requested the use of our troops to escort a trade expedition to the Southland.”
Evirae tapped her long nails on the perfumed wood of the wall. “Yes, yes, I know that; but Monarch Hawkwind has never agreed to any such escort mission in the past.”
Tolchin sat up in his chair. “How did you know that, Evirae?”
The Princess smiled. “Somebody must keep an eye on the palace.”
Alora put down her cup of tea. “Young lady! Monarch Ephrion is fully capable of guarding the interests of Simbala. He has done so for over forty years.”
“We all grow old and tired,” said Evirae. “My father had the grace to resign from the army when he no longer felt capable of supervising its affairs. Monarch Ephrion could learn from his example.”
Tolchin replied, “Unthinkable, unthinkable! Ephrion is not a general, my dear; he is a Monarch.”
“Hawkwind is Monarch now,” said Evirae, “and that is my objection. With Hawkwind and his Rayan woman, the Royal Family has lost its grip on the palace.”
“Please, Evirae,” said the Baroness. “We have heard the argument many times already! If you have no further news, get yourself to the palace and inform Hawkwind of the news.”
“The Family,” said Evirae patiently, “must be considered. If the Fandorans do indeed attack, it will be a grave time for Simbala. Can you tell me that you actually trust the future of our country, of our Family, to the son of a miner?”
To this question, Alora and Tolchin did not reply. There had been incidents, there were rumors, but the new Monarch had done nothing to betray Simbala. Still, if there was war—was he fit to govern? They had not asked themselves the question. Even Ephrion had no reason to consider the possibility. When Tolchin had protested the embargoes on trade imposed by Hawkwind, the old Monarch had told him, “Hawkwind needs some time to grow.”
“Hawkwind listens more to the Rayan woman than he does to us,” the Princess said cautiously. “We do not even know where her loyalties lie. It truly bothers me, Alora, to think that in time of battle the Overwood will be subject to the plans of a thief’s daughter. Surely we should take precautions.”
The Baroness poured herself another cup of tea. Tolchin rose from his seat and began to pace the floor of the chamber.
Evirae played on their patriotism. “For the safety of Simbala,” she said, “could a small act of precaution hurt?”
Baron Tolchin tapped his foot on the thick rug. “Dear girl,” he asked warily, “what do you have in mind?”
“A small test,” answered Evirae.
“Monarch Hawkwind is not a child!” said the Baroness. “He will not stand for any tests.”
“If he does not know about the test, he cannot object.” Evirae seated herself.
“Simbala is in danger,” said Alora. “There is no time to waste on foolish games.”
“This will not take much time,” Evirae answered.
Tolchin strode across the room and unwound a thin brown cord from its stay. A yellow sash curtain floated forward, covering the room’s only window. “Tell us, said Tolchin suspiciously, “what you have in mind.”
* * *
Lathan had always thought of himself as a civilized man, a reasonable and unexcitable man, and above all not the sort of man who would harbor grievances ag
ainst his Monarch. Still, a strenuous day-and-night ride through the forest and then an evening spent crouching, damp and hungry, watching the Northwealdsmen dine on wild turkey and yams had certainly been enough to make a man think sour thoughts.
He had no intention of abandoning his duty, however, especially now, when it appeared that his long riding and waiting were about to reach fruition.
It was nighttime on the border of the Northweald. The air was crisp, smelling of the pines that flourished in this northern forest, and with just enough of a breeze to add to Lathan’s discomfort. A scratchy-skinned lizard crawled into his boot, seeking warmth, and he had to grit his teeth to keep from crying out as the sharp scales rasped his leg. He pulled the boot off and flicked the lizard away petulantly. He deserved a medal for this, he told himself.
Lathan concentrated on the conversation that drifted through the camouflage of bushes and branches.
“What she had was more to say than good morning, I tell you!” The Northwealdsman, to Lathan’s disbelief, was recounting a meeting with the Princess of Simbala herself. He and his companion had camped by an ale cache, a cold stream wherein a waterproof leather bag of wineskins had been stored. This they had consumed along with the turkey, without too much turkey. The wine had loosened Willen’s tongue. He told of an encounter in the woods, of a conspiracy by Fandora against Simbala, and the Princess’ accusations against Hawkwind. This was treason for sure, thought Lathan, and he was ready to return to the palace when he heard a strange rustling sound overhead.
Suddenly the dim moonlight was blotted out by a huge shadow that flowed across the ground. The two Wealdsmen looked up, as did Lathan. Overhead, the stars were blocked by the silhouette of a windship—a one-man ship, smaller than most of the fleet, but still huge and impressive. It settled slowly toward the campfire like a vast dark ghost, noiseless save for the creaking of its ropes and the subdued rustling and flapping of its sails. Willen and Tweel watched in fascination. It was too dark to identify the single figure who worked the ropes. His back was to the ruddy glow cast by the brazier beneath the sail, and the boat shielded him from the campfire.