by Gary Gygax
"The protections?"
"Each still in place, all castings laid active, nothing else disturbed," the Behon replied. "If that could occur under the very roof of the ruler of the nation, and to the most powerful spellbinder in the country, what hope did Rogven have if the so-called Master of Jackals decided to slay him? The answer being plain, the king paid over the demanded things."
"A year past, you say?" Setne murmured. "There has been no rumor of the occurrence . . . not even a whisper in the Greater Nexus."
"Rogven has done his best to see to that, but it is certainly worth pondering. Something far greater than the King of Svergie, powerful as he may be, has worked to suppress the information."
"A year . . . Of course, I have been otherwise occupied," the wizard-priest mused, "but still . . . This is most disquieting. Is there more?"
Tallesian nodded. "Much more. You have heard only the beginning." He glanced at the mage, who nodded his assent. "The Grand Duke of Livestonia, himself something of a demonurgist, was evidently threatened a short time after
that. He ignored the Master of Jackals and paid the price. There is a new grand duke in Riga. That was announced ten months ago. Next came threats to the Northerners—Talmark, Russ, Ka-levala, Finmark in succession—dreadful old Louhi of Pohjola raved about threats from someone. Only rumors exist, but it seems they paid whatever blackmail or tribute or ransom was demanded. The League of Hansa was not so wise. Their three chief leaders were murdered in succession, which proves the stubbornness of the Teutons and the deadlines of the Master of Jackals. It seems nothing can stop him."
"Come now, druid!" Inhetep interjected. "Isn't that a trifle overstated on the face of the evidence?"
"You haven't heard the whole yet," Aldriss » the bard supplied. "Last month, the most powerful sorcerer in Brettony, perhaps in Francia as well, proved unable to protect himself against this assassin—his agent, that is. And now—"
"And now I shall resume the tale," the Behon said firmly, cutting off his associate. "The time has come to do something about this matter. The person or organization masquerading as the Master of Jackals must be discovered and brought to justice."
Rachelle couldn't resist crying out, "You three have come all the way from Lyonnesse to ask aid of us—I mean, Magister Inhetep? His fame has spread to the very fringes of Yarth?"
The Behon looked nonplussed, and it was Setne himself who came to the rescue of the sagacious mage. "We who bend dweomers and magickal powers to our will have a means of knowing about one another, so to speak. I doubt, dear girl, that the average citizen of Camelough, for instance, has ever heard of me. On the other hand, we also have means of knowing just who isn't around any longer. That is what intrigues me. I should have known about the deaths of such magi—"
"So should I have known—at least by means other than courier reports. There is nothing, a blank," the Behon finished with a shrug.
Tallesian was hopeful as he spoke next. "There is no denying that you are most difficult to locate, Magister. It took much mundane searching and questioning to discover your whereabouts."
"That's the power of the Egyptian thauma-turgists for you!" Aldriss asserted. "No offense, learned Magister."
"No. Of course not. I have a question: Were all those murdered of the Black Arts?"
The Behon shook his head. "We thought of that. There is no telling about the Northerners, but the grand duke was at best a dabbler in the energies of evil, and the masters of the Hansa were most certainly not inclined toward anything but profit and gain from trading—"
"And then there's the most recent threat," Tallesian inserted.
Setne noticed the frown the ovate bestowed upon Tallesian and directed his question to the Behon rather than the druid. "So this Master of Jackals has sent further demands?"
"To Lyonnesse."
"I thought as much," Inhetep said with a tinge of self-satisfaction. "I am puzzled. You surely, Behon, have sufficient heka to discover something about this whole matter, do you not?"
"I am unable to," the gray man said, looking old and tired as he admitted it. "No casting will discover who is behind this thing. Magick of all sorts brought to bear on the scene of the murder, the corpse, the witnesses reveals absolutely nothing. It is as if it was all done by some strange power, some science, unknown to this world."
"I need to know everything possible about the affair in Ys where Haut Omniurge Bertrand Frontonac was done in," Setne snapped. If any of his visitors noted his recall of the demonurge's full title and name, they passed it off as excellent memory. The Behon narrated the full story as it had come from Camelough's spy within the Academie Sorcerie. Because the bard had been trained for recounting from memory, Aldriss supplied many details the magus overlooked, and even Tallesian had a few bits to add. "What's this business about black jackals?" Inhetep finally asked when the whole tale seemed to have been related.
"A pair of watchmen admitted seeing a pack of them—wild dogs, they claimed at first, but admitted later that they were strange-looking. Their descriptions fit only jackals—bigger than normal, though. Anyway," Aldriss went on, "these two guards saw the creatures first, just before midnight on the eleventh of the month, outside the gate to the college. There were a number of others who saw them too, and several boatmen and fishers swear that they saw and heard things like seawolves, only they were sea-jackals, swimming in the waters of the academy's shore."
"Who is now under threat of death?"
"That," the Behon said firmly, "must wait until you agree to come with us to Lyonnesse."
Setne glanced at Rachelle. Her expression showed eagerness. "No, thank you noble sirs, but I must say no. You see I am on holiday—a holiday promised for a long time and finally delivered. I cannot break my word on this matter. . . ."
"Holiday? Ridiculous!" said the bard. "How much longer is your blasted vacation to last?"
"Oh, at least two weeks, I am sure. Isn't that correct, Rachelle?"
"Well . . . Perhaps you might consider a hiatus. . . . she replied, without looking at the wizard-priest.
"That is a possibility to keep in mind, but there is another matter I am curious about. You three have certainly noted your opinion of my ability to solve problems such as this one, yet I am far from being either the greatest dweomer-craefter or the most able criminologist. Tell me what caused you to come seeking me all the way from your own island?"
"You are far too modest, Magister Setne Inhetep," the Behon chided. "If you aren't one of the most able practitioners alive, you are no Egyptian." At that he paused. Inhetep might have flushed a little, but his own natural coloration would have hidden it.
"I am most surely a man of Egypt," Setne admitted.
"You folk have thousands of gods," Tallesian chimed in, "but despite that confusion, your priests are remarkable in their potency! Why, if what Myf—the Behon has said about your magicians is half true, it's a wonder Egypt doesn't rule the world!"
"We started once but found it rather a larger calling than we were able to answer for a protracted period." Only Rachelle laughed.
"The point is, Magister, that you are a wizard-priest who stands above a nation filled with great ones wielding heka, as you say, magickal power. That I know for myself," Tallesian blurted. "The community of dweomercraefters places your art in an esteemed position as well. Not even the murdered sorcerer, Frontonac, for instance, would have challenged you to open contest from what I hear."
"There is more, Magister Inhetep," the ovate firmly said. "Not only are you a priest and wizard of exceptional sort, but you are knowledgeable in matters pertaining to crime. Perhaps there are more influential and potent priests and wizards. There might be investigators and detectives more learned in the field of criminology. Neither the one lot nor the other combines what you possess. Does that explain why we have come so many leagues, spent so long, hunting you down?"
The hawk face turned towards the bard, Al-driss. "Not quite, for I sense that your comrade here has something
he wishes to add."
"That's so," the man said. "There is certainly an evil force cloaking these hideous murders. It is all but impenetrable, but we have clues."
"Clues which brought you three in search of Setne Inhetep."
"Just so," Aldriss agreed. "The jackal is one. Black jackals, too, of monstrous size. The others are of such a nature that I am not at liberty to detail them. That will come if you agree to undertake the case and protect—never mind. What matters is that the Master of Jackals is certainly linked to your native land, Magister!"
'Egypt?"
"None other. All of the evidence points squarely to your own country and one of its most powerful deities. . . ."
"You can refer only to Lord Anubis, I presume."
"That assumption is correct," the Behon affirmed. He looked squarely into Inhetep's green eyes. "And we know that Anubis is the son of Set!"
Rachelle gasped at the near sacrilege. "You are full—" she began. Setne lifted a hand, moved a finger, and the girl subsided.
"Let that pass for now, Rachelle. Suffice to say, I accept your request. We will accompany you on your return journey to Lyonnesse."
DEATH AND EVIL
"The overland route is shorter, so why do we take a ship?" Rachelle was annoyed at the prospect, for she was not a good sailor.
Aldriss stood at her elbow at the rail of the little sloop, hanging on every word the beautiful Levantine girl uttered. Before Inhetep could respond to her question, the bard took Rachelle's arm and explained as he steered her towards the prow, "First, the constant progress of a ship exceeds the rate of overland travel. Then again, the roads in Iberia are poor. There are bandits and all manner of feral things in the hinterlands, too. Near the Pyrannes, the mountains which divide this kingdom from Francia, it gets even worse, and then beyond things become worse still. There is comfort and safety only near the cities or great strongholds."
Setne listened and watched surreptitiously but didn't interfere. The Kellt was busily pointing out landmarks along the coast as the ship weighed anchor and began its voyage westward.
First, of course, they had to head south, then west beyond the Pillars of Herakles, then northward to the Isles of Avillon. This was a bad time of year for sailing, but there was no help for that. It was safer and faster than trying to ride through the various kingdoms of Iberia and through Francia and then cross the Channel of Avillon, or the Albish Channel as some called it, to reach Lyonnesse's southern shores. He turned to the Behon and Tallesian, who were conversing in low tones a few paces distant. "The winds will be foul, most likely. Can we freely employ countering forces?"
"Odd that you should mention that, Magis-ter." The elderly magus smiled. "Tallesian and I were just considering the question."
"We think it a poor idea," the druid told Setne. "If we wish to keep our whereabouts, and yours, secret, then we mustn't disturb things too much. The castings we might employ would certainly lessen our chances of going unnoticed."
"I concur," the ^Egyptian said. "Yet I assumed that we have stringent time constraints. How will we avoid endless delays in the Lantlan Ocean—especially near the great bay?"
The Behon nodded. "The Bay of Aquitania can be very dangerous in this time approaching the Winter Solstice. Fortunately, we have our bard, and his particular power is usable, for it is not connected to arts such as ours—not directly, anyway. Although each bard, skald, or troubadour has his or her own signature, and their manipulation of heka traceable and identifiable, it is unlikely to occur."
"You mean it won't be noticed?" Inhetep inquired.
"It isn't because it won't be noticed," the druid replied, "but because it will seem minor and different to any other sort of practitioner seeking information from the heka currents, directions, and flows."
Inhetep seemed uncertain. "We have no great spellsingers in Egypt, albeit many castings are employed with the aid of chants and the like. What little I know comes from the Grecians and Latins. They contradict what you have just told me, Tallesian."
"That isn't surprising. With all due respect to all older cultures, the Kellts are the commensurate bardic folk. Even though the Skandian, Teutonic, and Frankish peoples work their best to rival us, their skalds and troubadours are still unable to rival the bards of Avillonia. We slip magical energy away so softly and quietly that only one who intimately knows the bardic art can have any inkling of just what power is being drawn and directed. Isn't that right, Behon?"
"Quite so," the ovate agreed. "Only the rhyme-singers of the furthest north, the folk of Kalevala and Pohjola, might know when a Kelltic bard is at work and what is being done by whom."
"How so?" the wizard-priest queried.
"The great ones in Kalevala, for instance, are what one might call wizard-skalds. If any heka-craefter is able to meet the Egyptians on their own terms in the art of magick, it is those great practitioners of Soumi—Kalevalan, Finn, Lapp or otherwise. It is similarly true, despite what Aldriss will ever admit, and Tallesian too for that matter, that those weavers of dweomers are certainly more than on a par with the greatest of our bards."
The druid harrumphed. "Perhaps, perhaps . . . But in days of yore, it was a different story. The young ones today are not what bards once were!"
"True," the Behon said. "Perhaps Cairbre, Finn, and Ossian were greater than the Waino . . ."
Inhetep had been keeping an eye on the two who were still chatting together near the bow. "Well, my fine Kelltic philosophers, then I think you had better round up your able bard and set him to work. Otherwise, he might dawdle the whole of the journey away," Setne added with a little testiness. Tallesian and the Behon still remained gaunt and pale-looking—magickally assumed guises, of course. Aldriss, on the other hand, had allowed himself to return to his natural appearance—young, muscular, with fair skin, flashing white teeth, and bright blue eyes. Too handsome, too foppish in his ways, the shaven-headed Egyptian thought sourly. No. He had to be honest with himself. It was that the bard was too forward, self-assured, and altogether too flirtatious with Rachelle!
The Behon smiled upon seeing the black look Setne shot toward Aldriss, and Tallesian murmured something apologetic under his breath as he went forward to fetch the bard. Fortunately, the girl remained near the front of the sloop when the two Lyonnessians came back to join their leader and Inhetep. "You need my services, then?" Aldriss asked brightly.
"It's you and yours who need mine," the Egyptian reminded him in reply. "I believe your liege, the Behon, has some instructions."
"That is correct, Aldriss. We must have a very fast passage. That can be assured only through your vigilance and harping."
The bard stood straighter and squared his shoulders. "It is an honor, and one I will truly fulfill in keeping the charge, Behon." Then Aldriss grinned to each of the three in turn, saying, "But, of course, in such a calm sea as the Mare Librum, there'll be no need for my skill, will there? Three days to the Pillars of Herakles in all likelihood. If you will excuse me then, I think I should return to where Lady Rachelle is waiting, for I have been recounting the history and wonders of this land, and of Lyonnesse Isle."
Without another word, Aldriss turned and rejoined Rachelle at the bow rail.
Without seeming to notice Aldriss' departure, Setne eyed the waves, looked up at the sky with its scattering of puffy little clouds, then fixed his falcon-like gaze upon the Kelltic mage. "Pray tell me, Behon—you too, wise druid—all about these famed bards of Avillon's Isles. I am sorely lacking in this field of knowledge. To liken the elder ones to the great Vainomoinen is ample demonstration of their powers. Can you enlighten my ignorance?"
The two needed no further encouragement. Inhetep was an excellent listener and had near perfect recall. When it was evident to the Kellts that he was truly interested in hearing about their special form of spell-weaving, that singing of the bard, there was no silencing them. The weather was fair enough, the winds right, and the ship plowed along on her circuit of Iberia's southeastern coast.
It was three days to reach the place where the sea met the mightier waters of the Lantlan Ocean. During that whole time the Egyptian learned of bards while the bard, Aldriss, spent his time amusing Rachelle.
Three days later, they finally passed the Pillars of Herakles and came out upon the long swells of the gray-hued Lantlan Ocean. Rachelle still spent a good deal of the time near the foremast where Aldriss now played and sang to aid their passage. One afternoon the tall Egyptian wrapped himself in a cloak borrowed from the sloop's captain and joined them.
"Are you thinking of taking up the harp, Ma-gister?" the bard asked when Setne began setting down notes on a papyrus roll. "If so, you must learn to play notes, not take them," the fellow jested.
Inhetep smiled thinly. "No, no," he disclaimed. "I have never before seen a master spell-singer such as yourself in action. Perhaps I'll gain enough information this way to present a paper on the subject to the University of Innu—my own alma mater, as they say in Grecia—sometime in the future. Am I likely to meet others such as yourself in Camelough?"
"There's precious little chance of that," Al-driss said, grinning.
"I had thought as much," the wizard-priest said. "Well, never mind me. Do continue with your tune, and don't forget to keep the dweomers you spin thus on the unexceptional side."
"Now that'll be the truly hard part," Aldriss responded, "for one such as myself usually leaves a mark of virtuosity even in so simple a business as calling fair winds and keeping storms at bay."
"I can appreciate just how much wind a chap such as yourself can generate," Setne said as he casually peered up at the taut sails. "Why, the canvas overhead is fairly stretched to bursting!"