A Quest-Lover's Treasury of the Fantastic

by Margaret Weis

  “Sorry,” Timon said. “You know I have trouble with some things.”

  Seb nodded. “‘Here’ and ‘now’ being two of them.” Day-to-day practical matters were really Seb's responsibility, but there was comfort in complaining. In his years with Timon, Seb had learned to take comfort where he could.

  Nothing else was said for a time, there being nothing to say. Seb, as usual, was the first to notice the failing light. “It's getting late. We'd better find somewhere dry to camp, if there be such in this wretched place.”

  It was beginning to look like a very wet night until Seb spotted a large overhang on a nearby ridge. It wasn't a true cave, more a remnant of some long-ago earthquake, but it reached more than forty yards into the hillside and had a high ceiling and dry, level floor. It wasn't the worst place they'd ever slept.

  “I'll build a fire,” the dwarf said, “if you will promise me not to look at it.”

  Timon didn't promise, but Seb built the fire anyway after seeing to their mounts and the pack train. He found some almost-dry wood near the entrance and managed to collect enough rainwater for the horses and for a pot of tea. He unpacked the last of their dried beef and biscuit, studied the pitiful leavings, and shook his head in disgust. Gold wasn't a problem, but they hadn't dared stop for supplies till well away from the scene of Timon's last escapade, and now what little food they'd had time to pack was almost gone.

  Seb scrounged another pot and went to catch some more rain. When he had enough, he added the remnants of beef and started the pot simmering on the fire. The mixture might make a passable broth. If not, at least they could use it to soften the biscuit.

  Timon inched closer to the fire, watching Seb out of the corner of his eye. The dwarf pretended not to notice. Timon was soaked, and neither of them had any dry clothing. Timon's catching cold or worse was the last thing Seb needed. As for the risk, well, when the inevitable happened it would happen and that, as it had been many times before, would be that.

  “I never look for trouble, you know that,” Timon said. It sounded like an apology.

  “I know.” Seb handed him a bowl of the broth and a piece of hard biscuit, and that small gesture was as close to an acceptance of the apology as the occasion demanded. They ate in comfortable silence for a while, but as the silence went on and on and the meal didn't, Seb began to feel definitely uncomfortable. He finally surrendered tact and leaned close.

  “Bloody hell!”

  It was the Long Look. Timon's eyes were glazed, almost like a blind man's. They focused at once on the flames and on nothing. Timon was seeing something far beyond the firelight, something hidden as much in time as distance. And there wasn't a damn thing Seb could do about it. He thought of taking his horse and leaving his friend behind, saving himself. He swore silently that one day he would do just that. He had sworn before, and he meant it no less now. But not this time. Always, not this time.

  Seb dozed after a while, walking the edge of a dream of warmth and ease and just about to enter, when the sound of his name brought him back to the cold stone and firelight.

  “Seb?”

  Timon was back, too, from whatever far place he'd gone, and he was shivering again. Seb poured the last of the tea into Timon's mug. “Well?”

  “I've seen something,” Timon said. He found a crust of biscuit in his lap and dipped it in his tea. He chewed thoughtfully.

  “Timon, is it your habit to inform me that the sun has risen? The obvious I can deal with; I need help with the Hidden Things.”

  “So do I,” Timon said. “Or at least telling which is which. What do you think is hidden?”

  “What you saw. What the Long Look has done to us this time.”

  Timon rubbed his eyes like the first hour of morning. “Oh, that …tragedy, Seb. That's what I saw in the fire. I didn't mean to. I tried not to look.”

  Seb threw the dregs of his own cup into the fire, and it hissed in protest. “I rather doubt it matters. If it wasn't the fire, it would be the pattern of sweat on your horse's back, or the shine of a dewdrop—” The dwarf's scowl suddenly cleared away, and he looked like a scholar who'd just solved a particularly vexing sum. “The Long Look is a curse, isn't it? I should have realized that long ago. What did you do? Cut firewood in a sacred grove? Make water on the wrong patch of flowers? What?” Seb waited but Timon didn't answer. He didn't seem to be listening. Seb shook his head sadly. “I'll wager it was a goddess. Those capable of greatest kindness must also have the power for greatest cruelty. That's balance.”

  “That's nonsense,” said Timon, who was listening after all. “And a Hidden Thing, I see. So let me reveal it to you—there is one difference between the workings of a god and a goddess in our affairs. One only.”

  “And that is?”

  “Us. Being men, we take the disfavor of a female deity more personally.” Timon yawned and reached for his saddle and blanket.

  Seb seized the reference. “Disfavor. You admit it.”

  Timon shrugged. “If it gives you pleasure. The Powers know you've had precious little of that lately.” He moved his blanket away from a sharp rise in the stone and repositioned his saddle. “Where are we going?”

  Seb tended the fire, looking sullen. “Morushe.”

  “Good. I'm not known there—by sight, anyway.”

  Seb nodded. “I was counting on that.”

  “It will make things easier…”

  Seb knew that Timon was now speaking to himself, but he refused to be left out. “I know why we were heading toward Morushe—it was far away from Calyt. What business do we have there now?”

  “We're going to murder a prince.”

  Seb closed his eyes. “Pity the fool who asked.”

  “I never look for trouble. You know that.”

  “I won't marry him and that's final!”

  Princess Ashesa of Morushe spurred the big roan viciously, her long red hair streaming behind her like the wake of a Fury. She was dressed for the hunt and carried a short bow slung across her back, but the only notice she took of the forest was mirrored in a glare clearly meant to wither any tree impertinent enough to block her path.

  Lady Margate—less sensibly attired—was having trouble keeping up, though she rode gamely enough. A large buck, frightened by the commotion, broke cover and leaped across their path.

  “A buck!” shouted Margy, hopefully.

  Ashesa didn't even pause. “I won't marry him either,” she snapped, “though I daresay if he ruled a big enough kingdom, Father would consider it.” She grinned. “At least he's a gentler beast.”

  “That's no way to talk about your future husband!” reproved Margy. “Prince Daras is of ancient and noble lineage.”

  “So's my boar-hound,” returned Ashesa sweetly. “We have the documents.”

  There had been almost no warning. Ashesa had barely time to hide her precious—and expressly forbidden—books away before her father had burst in to tell her the good news. The alliance between Morushe and the coastal realm of Borasur was agreed and signed. By breakfast King Macol had the date and was halfway done with the guest list. Ashesa couldn't decide between smashing dishes or going on her morning hunt. In the end she'd done both. But now half the crockery in her father's palace was wrecked, and her horse was not much better. Ashesa finally took pity on the poor beast and reined in at a small clearing. Margy straggled up looking reproachful and nearly as spent as Ashesa's mount.

  “I just wish that someone had asked me. Father could have at least let me know what he was planning, talked to me. Was that asking for such a great deal?”

  Lady Margate sighed deeply. “In Balanar town yesterday I saw a girl about your age. She would be even prettier than you are except she's already missing three teeth and part of an ear. She hawks ale and Heaven knows what else at a tavern near the barracks. If I were to tell her that the Princess Ashesa was going to be married to a prince without her permission, do you think that girl would weep for you?”

  Ashesa looked sull
en. “No need to go 'round the mulberry bush, Margy. I understand you.”

  “Then understand this—Morushe is a rich kingdom but not a strong one. Wylandia, among others, is all too aware of that. Without powerful friends, your people aren't safe. This marriage will help ensure that we have those friends.”

  “For someone who claims statecraft is no field for a woman, you certainly have a firm grasp of it,” Ashesa said dryly.

  “Common sense, Highness. Don't confuse the two.” Margy looked around them. “We should not be this far from the palace. Two high-born ladies, unescorted, in the middle of a wild forest…”

  Ashesa laughed, and felt a little better for it. “Margy, Father's game park is about as ‘wild’ as your sewing room. Even the wolves get their worming dose every spring.”

  Lady Margate drew herself up in matronly dignity. “Never the—” She paused, her round mouth frozen in mid-syllable. She looked puzzled.

  “Yes?” Ashesa encouraged, but Lady Margate just sat there, swaying ever so gently in her saddle. Ashesa slid from her mount and ran over to her nurse. “Margy, what is it?”

  Ashesa saw the feathered dart sticking out of the woman's neck and whirled, drawing her hunting sword.

  Too late.

  Another dart hummed out of a nearby oak and stung her in the shoulder. Ashesa felt a pinprick of pain and then nothing. Her motion continued and she fell, stiff as a toppled statue, into the wild-flowers, her eyes fixed upward at the guilty tree. Two short legs appeared below the leaves of a low branch, then the rest of a man not quite four feet high followed.

  He wore fashionable hunting garb of brown and green immaculately tailored to his small frame, and in his hand was a blowpipe. He carried a small quiver with more darts at his belt.

  Elf-shot …? Ashesa's mind was all fuzzy; it was hard to think.

  The small man reached the ground and nodded pleasantly in her direction, touched his cap, and whistled. Two normal-sized men in concealing robes appeared at the edge of the clearing and went to work with professional detachment. First they removed Lady Margate from her horse and propped her against the dwarf's oak, closing her eyes and tipping her hat forward to keep the sun off her face. Ashesa, half-mad with anger and worry, struggled against the drug until the veins stood out on her neck, but she could not move. The little man knelt beside her, looking strangely concerned.

  “You'll only injure yourself, Highness. Don't worry about your friend—she'll recover, but not till we're well away.” With that he gently plucked the dart from her shoulder and tossed it into the bushes.

  “Who are you? Why are you doing this?”

  The shout echoed in her head but nowhere else; she could not speak. The two silent henchmen brought Ashesa's horse as the dwarf pulled a small vial from his belt, popped the cork, and held it to her nose. An acrid odor stung her nostrils and she closed her eyes with no help at all.

  Kings Macol and Riegar sat in morose silence in Macol's chambers. At first glance they weren't much alike: Macol was stout and ruddy, Riegar tall and gaunt with thinning gray hair. All this was only surface, for what they shared was obvious even without their crowns. Each man wore his responsibilities like a hair shirt.

  Riegar finally spoke. “It was soon after you broke the news to your daughter, I gather?”

  Macol nodded, looking disgusted. “I fooled myself into thinking she knew her duty. Blast, after her outburst this morning I'd almost think she cooked this up herself just to spite me!”

  Riegar dismissed that. “We have the note, and the seal is unmistakable—”

  The clatter on the stairs startled them both, and then they heard the sentry's challenge. They heard the answer even better—it was both colorful and loud.

  “That will be Daras.” Riegar sighed.

  The crown prince of Borasur strode through the door, his handsome face flushed, his blue eyes shining with excitement. “The messenger said there was a note. Where is it?”

  “Damn you, lad, you've barged into a room containing no fewer than two kings, one of whom is your father. Where are your manners?” Riegar asked.

  Daras conceded a curt nod, mumbled an apology, and snatched the parchment from the table. For all his hurry the message didn't register very quickly. Daras read slowly, mouthing each word as if getting the taste of it. When he was done there was a grimness in his eyes that worried them. “Wylandia is behind this, Majesties. I'm certain!”

  Macol and Riegar exchanged glances, then Macol spoke. “Prince, aren't you reading a great deal into a message that says only ‘I have Ashesa—Timon the Black’?”

  Daras looked surprised. “Who else has a reason to kidnap My Beloved Ashesa? The king of Wylandia would do anything to prevent our alliance.” Daras said Ashesa's name with all the passion of a student reciting declensions, but he'd seen his intended only twice in his life and had as little say in the matter as she did.

  Macol shook his head. “I know Aldair—he'll fight you with everything he has at the slightest provocation, but he won't stab you in the back. And Morushe and Borasur have so many trading ties that it amounts to alliance already. Aldair knows this; his negotiating position for Wylandia's use of our mountain passes is quite reasonable. We are close to agreement.”

  “If Aldair is not involved, then the kidnapping is not for reasons of state. And if not, then why was there no ransom demand? Why taunt us this way?”

  Macol looked almost pleased. “A sensible question, Prince. Your father and I wonder about that ourselves. But no doubt this ‘Timon’ will make his demands clear in time, and I'll meet them if I can. In the meantime—”

  “Of course!” Daras fairly glowed. “How long will it take to raise your army? May I lead the assault?”

  “There will be no assault.” Riegar's tone was pure finality.

  “No assault!? Then what are we going to do?”

  Macol sighed. “Prince, what can we do? Our best information—mere rumor—puts Timon in an old watchtower just inside the border of Wylandia. Do you honestly think His Majesty Aldair will negotiate tariffs during an invasion?”

  “Has it ever been tried?” Daras asked mildly.

  Riegar looked to heaven. “Sometimes I pray for a miracle to take a year from your age and add it to Galan's. I might keep what's left of my wits.”

  “My brother is a clark,” snapped Daras, reddening. “Divine Providence gave the inheritance to me, and when I'm king I'll show Wylandia and all else how a king deals with his enemies!” Daras nodded once and stalked out of the room.

  Macol watched him go. “A bit headstrong, if I may say.”

  “You may.” Riegar sighed. “Though it's too kind.” He winced.

  “Are you ill?”

  “It's nothing …indigestion. Comes and goes.” Riegar relaxed a bit as the pain eased, then said, “I've been thinking …Aldair won't tolerate an army on his border, but if the situation was explained to him, he might be willing to send a few men of his own.”

  “I daresay,” Macol considered. “If this magician is operating in Aldair's territory without permission, Aldair's pride might even demand it. Yes, I'll have a delegation out tonight! After that, all a father can do is pray.”

  “As will I. But there is one other thing you can do,” Riegar said “Would you be good enough to post a guard on Prince Daras's quarters tonight?”

  “Certainly. But why?”

  King Riegar of Borasur, remembering the look in his son's eyes, answered. “Oh, just a whim.”

  Prince Galan of Borasur strolled down a corridor in Macol's Castle, a thick volume under one arm. He didn't need much in the way of direction, though this was his first visit to Morushe. The fortress was of a common type for the period it was built; he'd made a study in his father's library before the trip. Finding his brother's quarters was easy enough, too. It was the one with the unhappy-looking soldier standing beside the door.

  “Is Prince Daras allowed visitors?” he asked, smiling. The guard waved him on wearily, and Galan knocked.<
br />
  “Enter if you must!”

  The muffled bellow sounded close enough to an invitation. Galan went inside and found his brother pacing the stone floor. With both in the same room it was hard to imagine two men more different. Daras was the tall one, strong in the shoulders and arms from years on the tourney fields he loved so well. Galan by contrast had accepted the bare minimum of military training necessary for a Gentleman and no more. He was smaller, darker, with green eyes and a sense of calm. When the brothers were together, it was like a cool forest pool having conversation with a forest fire.

  “It's intolerable!” Daras announced.

  Galan didn't have to ask what was intolerable. He knew his brother's mind, even if he didn't really understand it. “Macol and Father don't want a war. Can you really fault them for that?”

  Daras stopped pacing. He looked a little hurt. “You think I want a war?”

  Galan shrugged. “Sometimes.”

  Daras shook his head. “Remember the heroic tales you used to read to me…” He apparently caught the reproach in Galan's eye and so amended, “The ones you still read from time to time? Even among all the nobility and sacrifice, the excitement of combat and rescue, I can see the destruction in my mind's eye. What sane man wants that? No. I blame Father and Macol for nothing except their shortsightedness. By the by, I called you a clark today in front of Father.”

  “It wouldn't be the first time. And not wholly wrong.”

  “Even so—I was angry and I'm sorry. Despite your faults I envy you in a lot of ways; you know so many things, whereas I know only one thing in this world for certain—wanted or no, a war with Wylandia is inevitable. I'd rather it be on our terms than Aldair's.”

  Galan changed the subject. He held up his prize. “Look what I found in Macol's library.”

  “A book. How odd.”

  Galan smiled. Sarcasm was another thing his brother knew for certain. “Not just a book. Borelane's Tales of the Red King. I've been trying to find a copy of this for years.”