Werenight

by Turtledove, Harry

  Valdabrun the Stout lived almost in the shadow of the Palace Imperial. Despite his closeness to the Empire’s heart, the grounds of his home were less imposing than those of many nobles in less prestigious areas. No carefully trimmed topiaries adorned his lawns, no statuary group stood frozen in mid-cavort. Nor did the drive from the road wind and twist its way to his house under sweetly scented trees. It ran directly to his front door, straight as the Elabon Way. The dominant impression his grounds gave was one of discipline and strength.

  The baron hitched the horses. Van gave both beasts feedbags, eluding a snap from the Shanda pony. He cuffed it, grumbling, “Poxy animal would sooner have my hand than its oats.”

  Valdanbrun’s door-knocker was a snarling bronze longtooth’s head. Gerin grasped a fang, swung it up, then down. He had expected the knock to set off sorcerous chimes. Many southern nobles liked such conceits. But there was only the honest clang of metal on metal. After a stir inside, a retainer swung open the door. “Sirs, lady, how may I help you?” he asked crisply.

  The man’s speech and bearing impressed Gerin: he seemed more soldier than servitor. “Is your master in?” the Fox asked.

  “Lord Valdabrun? No, but I expect him back shortly. Would you care to wait?”

  “If you would be so kind.”

  “This way, then.” Executing a smart about-turn, the steward led them to a rather bare antechamber. He briefly saw to their comfort, then said, “If you will excuse me, I have other duties to perform.” He left through another door; Gerin heard him bar it after himself.

  A woman’s voice, low and throaty, came from behind the door. Gerin could not make out her words, but heard the steward reply, “I know not, lady Namarra. They did not state their business, nor did I inquire deeply.”

  “I will see them,” the woman said.

  The bar was lifted. Valdabrun’s man announced, “Sirs, lady, my lord Valdabrun’s, ah, companion, the lady Namarra,” and went off.

  As Namarra entered, Van sprang to his feet. Gerin was only a blink behind. No matter what he felt toward Elise, Valdabrun’s companion was, quite simply, the most spectacular woman he had every seen: tiny, catlike, and exquisite. The clinging silk she wore accented her figure’s lushness.

  Her hair, worn short and straight, was the color of flame. Like a fire, it seemed to give out more light than fell on it. Yet for all that incandescent hair, she was no Trokmê woman; her face was soft, rounded, and small-featured, her skin golden brown. Her eyes, a slightly darker shade of gold, were subtly slanted but rounded as if in perpetual surprise; the strange combination, more than anything save perhaps her purring name, made Gerin think her feline. She wore no jewelry—she herself was ornament enough, and more.

  She studied the Fox with some interest, Van with a good deal more, and Elise with the wary concern one gave any dangerous beast suddenly found in the parlor. Out of the corner of his eye, Gerin saw Elise returning that look. He felt a twinge of alarm.

  Namarra swept out a lithe arm to point at the baron. “You are—?”

  He introduced himself and Van, and was on the point of naming Elise when he was interrupted: “And your charming, ah, companion?” Namarra used the same deliberately ambiguous intonation the steward had applied to her.

  Voice dangerously calm, Elise replied, “I am Elise, Ricolf’s daughter.” The Fox noticed she made no claim of relationship to Valdabrun.

  The name of Elise’s father meant nothing to Namarra. She turned back to Gerin. “May I ask your business with my lord?”

  The baron was not sure how to reply. He had no idea how much of the noble’s confidence and trust his woman enjoyed. He was framing an equivocal answer when a door slammed at the back of the house. Seconds later, the steward reappeared, to announce his master’s presence.

  “Enough of this foolishness. Let me by,” Valdabrun the Stout said as he surged into the antechamber.

  Gerin hastily revised his notion of what the noble’s sobriquet implied. Valdabrun was edging toward fifty, balding, and did in fact carry a considerable paunch, but the Fox was sure he would break fingers if he rammed a fist into it. Shaven face or no, here was a soldier, and no mistake. Hard eyes, firm mouth, the set of his chin all bespoke a man long used to command. Nor was he slow to see he faced two of his own breed.

  The air in the room crackled as the three strong men took one another’s measure. Each in his own way was a warrior to reckon with: Gerin supple, clever, always waiting for a foe to expose a flaw; Van, who fought with a berserker’s delight and a drillmaster’s elegance; and their host, who reminded the Fox of one of Carlun’s or Ros’ great captains: a man with scant polish or flair, but possessed of an almost brutal indomitability, the very concept of retreat alien to him.

  The tableau held for long seconds. Elise shattered it, exclaiming “Uncle!” and throwing herself into Valdabrun’s startled arms. The stern expression dropped from his face, to be replaced by one of utter bafflement.

  Namarra’s face changed, too. Her eyes narrowed; her lips drew back, exposing white, pointed teeth. A cat she was, and feral. She laid a hand on Valdarun’s arm. “My lord—” she began.

  “Be still, my dear,” he said, and she was still, though restive. Gerin’s respect for him grew. He untangled himself from Elise. “Young lady, you will explain yourself,” he told her, still in that tone of command.

  She was as matter-of-fact as he. “Of course. As I told your leman”—Namarra bristled, but held her tongue—“I’m Elise, daughter of Ricolf the Red—and your sister Yrse. My mother always said you would know this locket.” She drew it up from between her breasts, freed it of its chain, and handed it to Valdabrun.

  He examined it at arm’s length; his sight had begun to lengthen, as it often does in the middle years. His face softened, as much as that craggy countenance could. “Yrse’s child!” he said softly. This time, he folded her into a bearlike embrace.

  Behind his back, Namarra’s expression was frightening.

  Elise introduced Gerin and Van to Valdabrun. “I’ve heard of you, sirrah,” he told the Fox: “One of those who never pay their taxes, aye?”

  “I pay them in blood,” Gerin answered soberly.

  Valdabrun surprised him by nodding. “So you do, youngling, so you do.” He exchanged a bone-wrenching handclasp with Van that left both big men wincing, then announced, “Now I will have the tale of your coming here.” He visibly composed himself to listen.

  As they had the night before to Turgis, the three of them told their story. “I never thought that harebrained scheme would work,” Valdabrun observed when Elise spoke of her father’s plan to find her a husband.

  The noble proved a far more skeptical audience than Turgis had, firing probing questions at Gerin on Balamung’s wizardry, politics in the northlands, Mavrix’s cultists, and whatever else caught his interest.

  “Well, well,” he said at last. “The whole thing is so unlikely I suppose it must be true. Child, you are welcome to stay with me as long as you like.” He told his steward to take her gear from the wagon, then turned to Namarra, who appeared less than delighted at his niece’s arrival. “Kitten, show Elise around while I talk with these rogues.”

  “Of course. We can talk as we go. Come, child.” In Namarra’s red-lipped mouth, the word was poisonously sweet.

  “That would be wonderful,” Elise answered. “I’ve always wanted to talk to a woman of your, ah, experience.” A tiny smile on her face, she kissed Van and Gerin, fiercely hugged the Fox, and whispered, “This will be hard. Hurry back, please!” She followed Namarra out. When the door closed behind her, Gerin felt the sunshine had left the day.

  Valdabrun seemed oblivious to the byplay between the two women. That proved again to the baron that he was more used to the field than to the imperial court’s intrigues. After his niece and mistress were gone, he said bluntly, “Fox, if half what you’ve said is true, your arse is in a sling.”

  “I’d be lying if I said I liked the odds,” Gerin agree
d.

  “Advice from me would be nothing but damned impertinence right now, so I’ll give you none. But I will say this: if any man is slippery enough to slide through this net, you may be that man. Yet you seem to have kept your honor too. I’m glad of it, for my niece’s—how strange that seems!—sake.” He shifted his attention to Van. “Could I by any chance persuade you to join the Imperial Guard?” His smile showed he knew the question foolish before he asked it.

  Van shook his head; the plume of his helm swayed gently. “You’re not like most of the popinjays here, Valdabrun. You seem a fighting man. So you tell me: where will I find better fighting than with the Fox?”

  “There you have me,” Valdabrun said. “Gentlemen, I would like nothing more than talking the day away over a few stoups of wine, but I must get back to the palace. The Eshref clan out of Shanda have forced a pass in the Skleros Mountains, and their brigands are plundering northern Sithonia. His imperial majesty thinks paying tribute will get them to leave. I have to persuade him otherwise.”

  “The Eshref?” Van said. “Is Gaykhatu still their chief?”

  “I believe that was the name, yes. Why?”

  “Send troops,” the outlander said decisively. “He’ll run. I knew him out on the plains, and he always did.”

  “You knew him on the plains …” Valdabrun shook his head. “I won’t ask how or when, but I do give thanks for the rede—and when I talk with his imperial majesty, I’ll term it ‘expert testimony’ or some such tripe. Dyaus, what drivel I’ve had to learn in the past year or so!”

  As Van and Gerin drove away from Valdabrun’s home, the baron was heavy-hearted over parting from Elise, necessary though he knew it was. Van, on the other hand, was full of lickerish praise for Namarra and lewd speculation on the means Valdabrun, who was certainly no beauty, used to keep her at his side. His sallies grew so unlikely and so comical that Gerin finally had to laugh with him.

  “Where now?” Van asked as the Alley’s turmoil surrounded them once more.

  “The Sorcerers’ Collegium. It’s in the southwestern part of the city, near the apothecaries’ district. I should know when to turn.”

  But he did not. He never learned whether the building he sought as a marker was torn down or if he had simply forgotten its looks in the eight years since he’d seen it last. Whichever, before long he knew he had gone too far west along the Alley. He turned to passersby for directions.

  At first he got no responses save shrugs and a few vaguely pointing fingers. Realizing his mistake, he tossed a copper to the first halfway intelligent-looking fellow he spied. The man’s instructions were so artfully phrased, accompanied by such eloquent gestures, that Gerin listened as if spellbound. He had all he could do to keep from applauding. Instead, he gave his benefactor another coin.

  The man’s thanks would have drawn an aurochs into a temple.

  Unfortunately, the Sorcerers’ Collegium was nowhere near where he claimed. Gerin expended more coppers and most of his patience before he finally found it.

  There was nothing outwardly marvelous about the building that housed it, a gray brick “island” not much different from scores of others in the capital. But it was discreetly segregated from its neighbors by a broad smooth expanse of lawn. None of the nearby buildings had a window that faced the Collegium. They only gave it blank walls of stucco, timber, or brick, perhaps fearing the sorceries emanating from it.

  Though the Collegium accepted students only from within the Empire, folk of various races called on it for services. Many odd vehicles and beasts were tied in front of it; to his horses’ alarm, Gerin hitched the wagon next to a camel some Urfa had ridden up from the desert.

  No sooner had he done so than three muscular individuals appeared and asked if the gentlemen in the wagon would pay them to watch it. “I’ll see you in the hottest firepit in the five hells first,” Gerin said genially. “You know as well as I, the Collegium has spells to keep thieves away from its clients.”

  The largest of the bravos, a fellow who would have been a giant beside anyone but Van, shrugged and grinned. “Sorry, boss,” he said, “but the two of you looked such rubes, it was worth the chance.”

  “Now you know better, so be off with you.” After exchanging a final good-natured insult with the baron, the ruffians ambled away, looking for less worldly folk to bilk. Gerin shook his head. “When I was a student the same sort of rascals were about, preying on strangers.”

  Inside the Collegium the ground floor was lit, mundanely enough, by torches. Some of them flared crimson, green, or blue, but that was the simplest of tricks, scarcely sorcery at all, merely involving the use of certain powdered earths. A greater magic kept the chamber free of smoke but let the nose detect the pinches of delicate incense burning in tiny braziers set along the walls and mounted on the sturdy granite columns that supported the Collegium’s upper stories.

  The procedures on the ground floor of the Collegium reminded Gerin of nothing so much as those of the Imperial Bank. Orderly lines of clients snaked their way toward young mages seated at tables along the north wall. Once there, they explained their problems in low voices. Most were helped on the spot, but from time to time a wizard would send one elsewhere, presumably to deal with someone more experienced.

  Van bore queueing up with poor grace: “I don’t fancy all this standing about.”

  “Patience,” Van said. “It’s a trick to overawe people. The longer you have to wait, the more important you think whoever you’re waiting for is.”

  “Bah.” Van made as if to spit on the floor, but changed his mind. It was too beautiful to soil: an abstract mosaic of tiny glass tesserae of silver, lilac, and sea-green, glittering in the torchlight.

  The man in front of them finally reached a wizard and poured out his tale of woe like a spilled jug of wine, glug, glug, glug. At last the wizard exclaimed, “Enough! Enough! Follow this”—a blob of pink foxfire appeared in front of the startled fellow’s nose—“and it will lead you to someone who can help you.” He turned to Gerin and Van, said courteously, “And what my I do for you gentlemen? You may call me Avelmir; my true name, of course, is hidden.”

  Avelmir was younger than Gerin, his round, smoothly shaved face smiling and open. His familiar, a fat gray lizard about a foot long, rested on the table in front of him. Its yellow eyes gave back Gerin’s stare unwinkingly. When Avelmir stroked its scaly skin, it arched its back in pleasure.

  Gerin told his story. When he was done, Avelmir’s smile had quite gone. “You pose a difficult problem, sir baron, and one in which I am not sure we can render timely assistance. Let me consult here …” He glanced down at a scrap of parchment. “We are badly understaffed, as you must be aware, and I fear we shall be unable to send anyone truly competent north of the Kirs before, hmm, seventy-five to eighty days.”

  “What!” Gerin’s bellow of outrage whipped heads around. “In that time I’ll be dead, with my keep and most of the northland aflame for my pyre!”

  Avelmir’s manner grew chillier yet. “We find ourselves under heavy obligations in the near future, the nature of which I do not propose to discuss with you. If you do not care to wait for our services against your barbarous warlock, hire some northern bungler, and may you have joy of him. Good day, sir.”

  “You—” Outrage choked the Fox.

  The battle-gleam kindled in Van’s eyes. “Shall I break the place apart a bit, captain?”

  “I would not try that,” Avelmir said quietly.

  “And why not?” Van tugged at his sword. It came halfway free, then struck. He roared a curse. Avelmir’s hands writhed through passes. When Gerin tried to stop him, the reptilian familiar puffed itself up to twice its size and jumped at him. He drew back, not sure if it was venomous.

  Sweat started forth on Van’s forehead, and an instant later on Avelmir’s. The outlander gained an inch, lost it again. Then more and more blade began to show. At last it jerked clear. With a howl of triumph, Van raised his sword arm.


  Gerin grabbed it with both hands. For a moment, he thought he would be lifted off the floor and swung with the blade. But reason returned to Van’s face. The outlander relaxed.

  Avelmir had the look of a man who’d fished for minnows and caught a shark. Into the dead silence of the great chamber, he said, “We must see if a way can be found. Follow this.”

  A blue foxfire globe popped into being an inch in front of Gerin’s nose. Startled, he took a step backwards. The foxfire hurried away, like a man on an important errand. Gerin and Van followed.

  The ball of light led them down a steep spiral stairway into the bowels of the Collegium. Gerin’s excitement grew; here, he knew, the potent sorceries were undertaken. When he was a student, he had been restricted to the upper floors. As the eerie guide led him down echoing corridors, he realized for the first time how much of the Collegium was underground—and how little he had understood its true extent.

  He and Van passed doors without number. Most were shut; more than one bore runes of power to ensure it stayed so. Many of the open ones were innocuous: a smithy, a chamber in which glassblowers created vessels of curious shapes and sizes, a crowded library. But a winged, tailed demon thrashed within a pentacle in one room. It glared at the Fox with fiery eyes; its stench followed him down the hall.

  “What do you suppose would happen if we didn’t choose to follow our magical guide?” Van said.

  “Nothing good, I’m sure.”

  The foxfire winked out in front of a closed door. Gerin knocked; there was no reply. He lifted the latch. The door silently swung open.

  The chamber was far underground and held no lamps, but it was not dark. A soft silvery gleam which had no apparent source suffused it. Behind a curiously carven ebony table sat an old wizard who looked up from some arcane computation when the privacy of his cubicle was breached. His amber silk robes rustled as he moved.

  He nodded to Gerin and Van. “If you need a name for me, call me Sosper.” That was clearly a pseudonym, for he was no Sithonian. Though his phrases were polished, he spoke with a western accent; he must have been born somewhere on the long peninsula that jutted into the Orynian Ocean.