A Handful of Men: The Complete Series

by Dave Duncan

  Woom was about Thaïle’s age, and nasty. He picked his nose and ate with his mouth open, and she knew he was deliberately being annoying because she could Feel his emotions. He seemed to have chosen her as a special victim. He became very excited and pleased with himself when he managed to provoke her to any show of anger. She had concluded that Woom’s talent was to make people dislike him, and he was so good at it that his Faculty must be very strong.

  Doob was much younger, a short, skinny child. Thaïle had rarely heard him speak, and he emitted black terror most of the time. She was sorry for Doob, who should be sent home to grow up for a couple of years. If he had a talent for something, it had so far escaped her notice.

  She ought to feel sorry for Maig, too, but he wore the vacant smirk of the half-witted, and his surging, confused emotions made her queasy. His talent was juggling, and juggling seemed to be his only interest. He could beep eight plates in the air, or five knives. At the Commons that morning he had been trying for six knives, until a sorcerer had ordered him to go outside before he maimed someone.

  And there was Thaïle herself, who had tried to run away from the recorders, Thaïle who had fallen in love when she was not supposed to. Who was Leéb? Where was Leéb? Was he tall and heavy-shouldered like Mist? Somehow she did not think Leéb could resemble Mist in any way. If she had fallen in love with another Mist, she ought to be ashamed of herself.

  Last there was Mist, oldest and largest of the novices, leaning back with his legs stretched out in tight-fitting scarlet pants and royal blue boots. In spite of the chill weather, his ruffled lemon shirt was wide open, hanging loose. He, at least, gave Mistress Mearn a winning smile. He put an arm around Thaïle and looked pleased with himself.

  “Is there a war on?” the mistress of novices inquired snidely, looking to and fro. “As it happens, I can see out of the back of my head. However, I think the atmosphere would be improved if you all sat together.”

  The obnoxious Woom lurched to his feet at once, and shambled over to Thaïle. He spared Mist a triumphant sneer in passing. He seated himself on her other side, moving in close and whistling happily, staring at the roof. Doob and Maig joined him, neither comprehending the foolery.

  Mearn had noticed, though. “One of the first things you will learn at the College,” she proclaimed sharply, “is how to behave in a civilized manner. Close up your shirt. Novice. You are no longer a peasant, wandering around in seminudity.”

  Mist colored. He straightened up and began buttoning. Woom sighed, shaking his head sadly.

  Mistress Mearn seeded primly on a bench facing them. “Later I shall outline the standards of behavior expected of you. Promiscuity is strongly discouraged.” She glanced at Thaïle with undisguised contempt.

  The mealymouthed sorceress was about as likeable as a squashed toad. The Keeper herself had said that there was no harm in a girl romping with a boy if she wanted to… but of course the cryptic specter Thaïle had met might not have been the Keeper. It could have bees a wraith of Evil sent to tempt her. She had not discussed that encounter with anyone.

  “You all have a great deal to learn,” the mistress continued, “— the ways of power itself, the history and purpose of the College, its workings and organization, the whole edifice of law and duty that the blessed Keef decreed for us a thousand years ago. You must start by learning to read and write.

  “Today we begin your education. Normally we prefer to wait until we have six or eight in a class, but for reasons that I may not disclose, we have decided to proceed immediately, with just the five of you.” Her muddy dark eyes flickered momentarily to Thaïle, without expression.

  “You were selected because you all come from Gifted families —”

  Doob spoke for the first time, in his boyish treble. “My uncle Kulth’s a sorcerer! He’s an analyst.”

  “But you are only a novice!” Mearn snapped. “In class you speak only when spoken to!”

  Doob turned white, and Thaïle winced at the intensity of his fright.

  “If you have a question, raise your hand,” Mearn said, and then continued, paying him no more attention. “All of you have learned one word of power, and all of you have displayed Faculty. In case any of you still do not understand the distinction, I shall explain. Listen carefully, because I do not intend to tell you anything more than once. Everyone has some sort of native ability. A good ear for music, for example. When a person learns a word of power, that ability is increased, sometimes very greatly. How much it increases depends on two things. One is Faculty. Faculty is a talent for magic itself, and it tends to run in families. We know of many such Gifted families, like yours. Any questions so far?”

  Five heads shook in denial.

  Woom added, “I knew all that.”

  Mistress Mearn eyed him coldly, but made no comment. Thaïle decided that she disliked the sorceress almost as much as she disliked Woom. The timorous little Doob might be the best of the entire odious company. At least she could feel sorry for a frightened kid.

  “The other factor,” Mearn continued, “is the strength of the word itself. The words you learned are all known very widely. Each one is shared by scores of people. We call those ‘Background Words.’ Do you understand so far?”

  The four youths nodded. Thaïle did not. She disliked being treated as a halfwit.

  Mearn shot her a calculating glance and went on with her lecture. “When several people know a word, its power is not divided equally between them. People who have Faculty get more of the power than others. Or else they manage to use their share more effectively. Most people show no results at all when they learn one of the background words, or very little. You all showed an increase in talent, and so we know that you all have Faculty.”

  Jain had told Thaïle all this a year ago.

  Woom raised a hand as high as he could, as if reaching for the rafters.

  “Yes, Novice?”

  “Which is it?”

  “Which is what?”

  “Do they get more of the power, or do they just use it better?”

  The sorceress pursed her lips, making her little month even tinier. Then she said, “No one knows. Even the Keeper does not know. It doesn’t matter.”

  “Thought it didn’t,” Woom said with satisfaction.

  Thaïle decided he might have some good points she had previously overlooked — he was obviously annoying the mistress of novices. She sighed. She was not usually so crabby about people.

  “Here in the College,” Mearn continued grimly, “we keep careful track of the Gifted Families, and which persons know which words. That is the task of the recorders, and also the archivists. I will explain the rankings to you another day. We also know many other words of power, much stronger words. We keep track of those words also, of course. Normally each is known by only two people — no more, and no less. Can any of you explain why we take that precaution?”

  Thaïle sighed again and looked out at the streaming rain. Even on a day like this, there must be better ways of passing the time.

  “Well? Why two? Why not one, or three?” Mearn pouted at the lack of response, then picked on the dim-witted Maig, who of course could not answer the question. She ought to let him go off and practice juggling sharp axes, Thaïle thought — he might put himself out of his own misery. Even after the obvious reasons had been explained for him several times and he was nodding and mumbling that he understood, she could Feel his incomprehension. A sorceress must be able to Feel it, also, but eventually Mearn pretended to be satisfied.

  “Very shortly, all of you will be told another word of power!” she announced, and peered around for reaction. “Yes, Woom?”

  “Does that mean I have to watch some other old bag die?”

  The sorceress’s guard slipped for a moment, and Thaïle Felt her irritation, like lightning on a dark night. “Not usually. If not, at least one of the two people who know that word will be elderly. Under those circumstances, of course, there will be three people who know
that word.” Her ugly brown eyes narrowed dangerously. “Go ahead and ask it!”

  For once the brash Woom seemed taken aback. In an unusually meek tone he said, “Do you kill them off, then?”

  “Of course not! If you prove to have real Faculty, you will probably be promoted to sorcerer one day, but not for many years. By that time, the third person will have died naturally.”

  “And if I don’t have real Faculty?”

  “You remain an adept. Two words make an adept. Now, who can tell me the powers of an adept?”

  The rain roared on the roof and the grass. Mearn pouted her little mouth again.

  “Novice Mist?”

  “A superman?” Mist said hopefully. “An adept can do anything?”

  “More or less,” she agreed reluctantly. “Anything mundane. Sometimes, if an adept had very strong Faculty, he may also display some occult power. A second word allows us to confirm the strength of your Faculty. It also lets you become useful.” Her manner implied that she had rarely seen a less useful collection of candidates. “Reading and writing, for example. Teaching those skills to you now would be a long, painful business. As adepts, you will learn very easily — most of you.”

  Thaïle did not want to know bow to read and write. She did not want to be a sorcerer, or even an adept. She wanted Leéb, and the life that had been stolen from her.

  Mearn studied her disagreeably with her ugly, mud-brown eyes. “You are all wondering why these things are expected of you. I assure you that life in the College is very pleasant, once you become used to it. You will never wish to return to the lowly peasant existence of your upbringing. However, you are not required to take my word for this. Tomorrow is the full moon.”

  She paused, while five young novices puzzled over her last remark.

  “At this time of year, of course, the moon is not always visible. Fortunately, the exact full moon is not necessary. Tonight will do, or tomorrow, or the night after. You will meet me here tonight at sundown. If the weather is fair, we shall proceed to a place called the Defile.”

  A knot of fear tightened around Thaïle’s heart. Mearn frowned, as if she had Felt it.

  “If you’re a sorceress,” Woom demanded without bothering to raise his hand, “howcum you can’t just make the weather good?”

  “I could.” Mearn’s expression suggested that she could do much worse than that, if provoked far enough. “But we do not use power of that magnitude without the Keeper’s permission. In time you will understand why we have that restriction. Your education will begin at the Defile, as I said. Once you have walked through there by moonlight, you will understand why you have been brought to the College. You will understand why the College exists, and why what we do here is necessary.”

  “Is this some sort of ordeal?” Suddenly Woom sounded much less brash.

  The sorceress nodded smugly. “Yes, it is. But all of us here at the College have undergone this ordeal. It is not pleasant, I admit. It is not without risk, but I do not think any of you will be in much danger.” Again her eyes flickered briefly over Thaïle, who began to feel a rising trickle of anger.

  “Once you have passed through the Defile, therefore,” Mearn said, “you will understand much better. Until then, there is no use trying to teach you anything practical. However, I shall now outline some of the behavior expected of you. Then I shall dismiss you, and you may continue to enjoy our facilities insofar as the weather permits —” Another glance at Thaïle. “Within certain moral limits, of course.”

  The trickle of anger was building to a torrent of fury.

  “Now,” said the mistress of novices, “are there any questions?”

  “What about girls?” the insolent Woom asked. “Only one girl between four men?”

  Thaïle clenched her fists. One woman and four boys! She Felt Mist’s temper flare beside her.

  Mearn took offense, also, and glared. “In time you may find a suitable partner. Novice, if you are worthy. We of the College pair off in the same way all respectable men and women do in Thume. We bear children, and of course many of them are Gifted. We expect monogamy and fidelity. Promiscuity is strongly discouraged. I trust you will all remember that in future.”

  And again her ugly brown eyes rested on Thaïle.

  “There is one law that you must never break, however,” Mearn continued. “Sorcerers do not marry other sorcerers. You will find partners among the mundane population outside of the College. There is an excellent reason for that, which I shall not explain at this time. At the moment you are unable to leave the grounds, so you are expected to remain celibate. You are required to remain celibate, and if you break the rules you will be punished severely. Are there any further questions?”

  “Yes,” Thaïle said, her heart pounding.

  “Novice Thaïle?”

  “Where is Leéb?”

  Mearn’s puny mouth shrank to invisibility. “Who?”

  “I think you know who.”

  “Indeed I do not.”

  “Well, I do!” Thaïle shouted, jumping to her feet. “I want Leéb!”

  “Sit down!”

  “No! I want Leéb, and I want back the years of my life you stole from me, and I am hot going to do anything you say until I get them!”

  “Novice!”

  Thaïle was too furious and too uncertain and too frightened to stay and argue. She could stand no more. She knew that the only alternative to anger was to burst into tears, and that would be disaster. “I want Leéb!” she screamed. “And I will never go near that awful Defile place!” She turned on her heel and ran out of the School, into the downpour.

  She floundered across the flooded, slippery meadow, and in seconds she was soaked in icy water. She reached the Way and ran headlong, as fast as she could.

  Two or three bends brought her to her cottage. She stumbled up the steps, burst through the door and slammed it. She leaned back against it to keep the rest of the world out.

  Then, and only then, she let the tears flow, weeping for a lover she could not remember.

  3

  In her youth, Queen Inosolan of Krasnegar had made many strange journeys. She had crossed the continent of Zark on a camel. She had traveled from Hub to Kinvale in a single morning in an ensorceled carriage. She had ridden a mule over the Progiste Mountains into Thume, the Accursed Land, and miraculously survived to depart on a magic carpet. But nothing in her experience compared with her pursuit of the goblin king.

  Although she had not visited the countryside around Kinvale in twenty years, she would have expected it to remain unchanged. For centuries, northwest Julgistro had been one of the Impire’s most prosperous provinces. It was famous for hillside orchards and vineyards, for picturesque little towns dozing under coverlets of elms in the valleys, for rich farmland and quaint old temples. Now it was a wasteland, a damned land, smoking and dead. Even color had fled, leaving ashes and stones, gray branches against a blank white sky, black fields with white snow in the furrows. The only people to be seen were small patrols of goblins, and even those were rare.

  Inos had read of war and the horrors of war. She had never visualized such devastation as this, and she thought the people who wrote the books never had, either. Buildings and haystacks and orchards had been torched, livestock slaughtered. Surely not everyone had perished? Surely there must be thousands of survivors hiding somewhere? Not for long, though — this was midwinter, they would be freezing to death. Moreover, fast as the goblins had come, the God of Famine would be treading on their heels.

  The Imperial High Command had learned from bitter experience that it must hold Pondague Pass at all costs. Whenever raiding parties of goblins broke through, it was the Evil’s own job to corner them. Goblins traveled light, they traveled on foot, and they could outrun even light cavalry. Now the entire horde was moving over the landscape like a winter storm.

  Fortunately, they appreciated that their captives could not run like that. Horses were provided, and for six days Inos hardly set f
oot to the ground between dawn and dusk. Only once in her life had she ever experienced such a mad whirlwind ride, when she and Azak had raced from Ilrane to Hub to outrun a war. This time she was trying to join a war. She had been a lot younger in those days, too, and green men were worse than red. At least djinns treated horses with some respect. Goblins had no such scruples. They insisted that she and her children ride until their steeds fell beneath them. Then replacements would be produced and the awful chase would continue. Fortunately Kadie was a superb horsewoman. Gath preferred boats, but he managed.

  Thus Inos viewed the ruins of Julgistro from within a troop of a dozen murderous savages, sweeping across the new desert like leaves in the wind. Hill followed valley followed hill. Life became a continuum of blowing snow, the thunder of hooves on the iron-hard ground; straining, foaming, dying horses, and acrid, ever-present smoke streaming eastward alongside.

  The leader was a nightmarish chief named Eye Eater, whose mission was to return Death Bird’s son safely to his father’s loving arms. The three Krasnegarians were an insignificant addition. For them Blood Beak’s presence at Kinvale had been great good fortune, and Inos preferred not to speculate on what might have happened had circumstances been different.

  The goblin horde had rolled over the landscape like a rock slide. Behind, it nothing stood, almost nothing moved. Obviously it was meeting no resistance now. It had been only a few hours ahead when she set out with Eye Eater’s troop, and yet after six days she had not caught up with it. No army should ever be able to travel at such a speed! Eye Eater had wasted no time, except on three occasions when small bands of survivors were sighted. In each case, the imps were run down and overcome without the loss of one goblin. The fighting was over in minutes; it was the ensuing barbarities that caused delay.

  She had known that goblins were as savage as any race in Pandemia, but she had not understood the joy they found in wanton cruelty. Burned and mutilated corpses lined the road. Men and boys had been rounded up and tortured at leisure, even the wounded, even the youngest. Soon picket fences seemed incomplete if they were not decorated with impaled babies.