A Handful of Men: The Complete Series

by Dave Duncan

  * * *

  The djinn army marched along the coast under the beetling crags of the Progistes Mountains.

  * * *

  In far-off Krasnegar the harbor had been free of ice for a month. Herds and workers swarmed over the hills in their customary summer business, but this year the merchants waited by the docks in vain. The world seemed to have forgotten Krasnegar. No ships came from the sea, nor traders from the woods.

  SEVEN

  Hope never comes

  1

  The lowermost dungeon at Quern lay far underground, an odious cavern carved out centuries ago from the living rock. The darkness was absolute, the air unbreathable, and water dripped constantly. Sanitation was left to natural seepage. Once a day a squad of soldiers delivered food under the direction of the chief jailer. It was the most unwelcome assignment in the fortress.

  Torches sputtered, emitting foul fumes and casting evil shadows on the rough walls. The chief jailer peered cautiously through the iron bars of the gate, making sure the corridor beyond was unoccupied. Then he jangled keys and set to work on the rusty locks — five of them. At his back, soldiers were gagging already in the stench.

  The gate creaked open unwillingly. With swords drawn, the squad advanced through it and then halted while it was locked behind them. And then they advanced again, down the slanted passage, until they reached the dungeon itself.

  The chief jailer peered around appraisingly in the flickering light — two djinns, three dwarves, two of those green monsters, one imp, one female jotunn. All correct and accounted for. All lying on their backs, their legs held upright by fetters in the walls, all unspeakably fouled. They all had their eyes closed against the unaccustomed light.

  “Move if you can!” he growled.

  Hands moved. They were all still alive.

  He cautiously around the cell with his basket, precarious on the slimy footing, staying as far as possible from the cesspool in the center. Every day he came to distribute stale loaves and scraps of vegetables to the inmates. For water they could sit up and lick the rock. It was something to occupy their time.

  A few groaned. Nobody spoke. But all still living! They were a tough bunch, this. Three days was standard life expectancy in the lowermost dungeon.

  The squad moved out again and he followed. Locks and bars clanged. Darkness returned. Silence returned.

  “It’s a dull job but somebody has to do it,” Raspnex remarked.

  A cool breeze brought scents of pinewoods and fresh grass. Sunlight or something like it shone bright on leather chairs and lavish carpeting, potted flowers, a sparkling fountain in a marble pond. Paintings and stags’ heads ornamented the timbered walls; the wide windows looked out on meadows and snowy peaks, or seemed to. The dungeon was not merely much larger than it had been a few moments ago, it was now transformed into a comfy saloon, combining varied hints of ship’s cabin, men’s clubroom, village meetinghouse, and officers’ mess hall.

  Moon Baiter and Frazkr resumed their game of thali on a table of ebony inlaid with ivory. Shandie picked up his book. Raspnex poured himself a tankard of ale at the bar.

  The two djinns set to work sharpening their scimitars again. The sorcerers had promised them the chief jailer.

  Shandie tossed his book aside and heaved himself out of his armchair. “Did you learn anything new?”

  The dwarf paused in his departure, tankard in hand. “Not much. Those nonentities won’t be told anything significant. The army has left and not returned. The town’s a graveyard.”

  “Arrgh! How much longer must we endure this?”

  Raspnex frowned ominously. “Until Longday. You know.” The little man was better dressed than Shandie had ever seen him, in a dark suit with colored piping on the lapels and trousers, silver-buckled shoes. By dwarf standards, he was an astonishing dandy. Even his iron-gray beard looked neat and trim. “Anything more you need, your Majesty?” he inquired sarcastically.

  Shandie gritted his teeth. “I have a horrible suspicion that I am imagining all of this! I am convinced I am actually chained to a wall by my ankles.”

  The goblins were leering at him. Even the dwarves seemed amused. The two djinns were listening intently, though. Like him, they were mundane.

  “Well, you’re not!” the warlock said with all his old grumpiness. “What you see may not be all real, but it’s a lot closer to reality than what the jailer sees. If you want anything, just ask — wine? Roast pheasant? A woman, maybe?”

  Before the imperor could answer, the taller of the two djinns roared, “Is that possible?” His red eyes shone like hot coals.

  Raspnex turned a sour gaze on him, having to look up although he was standing and the djinn was sitting on a soft divan. “Strictly speaking, no. But we can arrange it so you won’t know the difference.”

  Both djinns leaped to their feet.

  The dwarf sighed and waved a shovel hand at the door that led to their quarters. “Go ahead, then.”

  The djinns vanished at a run and the door slammed.

  “Last we’ll see of them for a while!” Moon Baiter remarked with a leer of fangs.

  “You organize it, then,” Raspnex growled. “Give you a chance to be inventive! You, too?” he demanded of Shandie.

  For a moment the imperor thought of Eshiala, but his heart screamed at the thought of associating her with this vile dungeon, even an illusionary Eshiala.

  “No. But I do want to know what’s happening to Inos!”

  Raspnex scowled and looked away. “She’ll be all right! Azak knows her of old and she’s Rap’s wife. Even the caliph won’t dare hurt Inos! Expect she’s living in real luxury, not just this occult artifice.”

  “You don’t know that!”

  “No. But I know that anything we do about it is more likely to make things worse than better for her. Don’t accuse me of cowardice, imp!”

  Shandie clenched his fists. “I still don’t see why we can’t risk sending out a scout! I can walk through the shielding. If you made me some tools I could pick the locks —”

  “You’d be the only imp at large in the city and the Covin may still be watching. I’ve told you — we stay here until Longday. Then we’ll break out in force and join in whatever’s happening. Until then, read your damnable poetry.”

  Raspnex turned on his heel and stamped off into the quarters he shared with Jarga. The door clicked shut.

  Shandie sat down angrily, avoiding the amused looks on the others’ faces.

  Come to think of it, what was the old warlock up to with the jotunn? Shandie hadn’t seen her in days.

  2

  Bluerock had been a major city until the hurricane of 2953 caused the Pearlpool River to change its course and find a new mouth several leagues to the south. The harbor silted rapidly. Sailors departed first; merchants soon followed. Finding themselves without clientele, the artists and artisans went, also, and so did the harlots and the clergy. Teachers failed to find scholars, doctors ran out of patients. Within a generation, Bluerock shriveled from a great trading port to a shabby fishing town. Within another it was almost deserted.

  Many of its buildings stood empty, inhabited only by bats and vermin, until the great hurricane of 2999 flattened them, and thereby completed the work the earlier storm had begun.

  On the morning after the hurricane. Sister Chastity was out gathering windfalls — bananas, oranges, breadfruit, and many others.

  The grounds of the convent were a shambles of branches and toppled trees, steaming in the hot sun and reeking of mulch. One chicken coop had disappeared and the dairy had lost half its roof, but the main building had survived unscathed. It had seen many hurricanes, for the Refuge of Constant Service had originally been built as a fortress. Its walls were cubits thick and its roof lead-coated. The Sisterhood had taken it over when shifting tides of politics had made a fortress at Bluerock unnecessary, some centuries ago. Since then the Refuge had served as a home for the religious and a hospice to the needy.

  Chasti
ty straightened and rubbed her aching back. To clear up this mess and restore the grounds to tidiness was going to take months. It was a task for an army of able-bodied gardeners, not eight aging women. She stooped with a grunt to lift her laden basket. There must be some good in hurricanes, for Holy Writ insisted that there was good in everything. There must be some good in all this waste and destruction, if she could only see it. Perhaps the exercise would be beneficial. The ways of the Gods were inscrutable. That was what faith was for.

  Picking her way through the debris, she headed for the root cellar. The basket seemed to grow steadily heavier with every step. At the gate of the herb garden she paused to catch her breath, resting her burden on the wall.

  She was disconcerted to discover that she could see the river from there, as the floral hedge had totally vanished. Oh, dear! The estuary was a swamp of floating wreckage. Beyond it stood the remains of the city. It was too far off to make out much detail, but many temple spires had disappeared. Tragedy!

  “It’s a mess, isn’t it?” boomed a hearty voice.

  Chastity turned, carefully not loosing her grip on the basket. Sister Docility was approaching, a rake slung over her shoulder. Docility was a large and energetic woman, with an infectious cheerfulness. She was just a teeny bit wearing at times, but no one could dislike Sister Docility.

  “It is a disaster!” Chastity said. “I keep feeling that we should be over there, ministering to the injured.”

  Sister Docility guffawed. “And just how do you propose to get there?”

  “You don’t mean the bridge is down?”

  “So Sister Humility says.”

  Oh, dear! Sister Humility was a mere forty-five, the youngest of the eight remaining Sisters. She had the best eyesight of any of them, and reminded the others of it at every opportunity.

  “But… Then we are cut off from the city?”

  “What city?” Docility demanded, standing her rake upright and leaning on it. “Bluerock hasn’t been a real city since I was a girl, and even then it was failing. There’s precious little left of it now.”

  “But if the bridge is down, then there will be no travelers coming by!”

  The big woman shrugged. “We had two visitors last year and none the year before. I doubt the difference will be noticeable.”

  Chastity sighed. What use was a Refuge without refugees, or oaths of service when there was nobody to serve? What good did eight elderly women do when they sang praise to the Gods and nobody heard? The Gods Themselves surely did not need to be reminded of Their goodness. When the sick were out of reach there could be no healing. When no new initiates came there could be no teaching — and there had been no initiates at the Refuge for many, many years. Chastity felt guilt at thinking such negative thoughts, but Constant Service seemed to be serving no useful purpose at all now. If the bridge was down, it was virtually cut off from the entire world on its little headland.

  “Why,” Docility demanded in a stem voice, “are you out here anyway?”

  “Why are you?” Chastity inquired with mild reproof.

  The big woman pulled a face. Then her eyes twinkled. “To build up an appetite, I suppose.”

  Chastity suppressed an unseemly snigger. Docility was not merely tall, she was buxom, also, and she enjoyed her food. Today was Sister Virtue’s turn to be Mother Superior. Virtue enjoyed cooking, so she almost always assigned herself kitchen duties, usually with disastrous results. Chastity was the most skilled cook among the eight of them — that was not vanity, it was acknowledged fact. She enjoyed cooking, which possibly was vanity. But the Acting Mother Superior had told Sister Chastity to gather up the deadfall fruit before it rotted, so that was what she must do, bound by her vows of obedience.

  She must not complain at that, because yesterday she herself had been Mother and had sternly kept everyone at work when they had all been tempted to stand and stare out the windows at the hurricane.

  It was seven years since old Verity had died. The sisters had written to the Matriarch of their order, asking her to name a replacement Mother Superior. The letter had perhaps gone astray, but at any rate no answer had ever come, so the sisters had continued to rotate the office among themselves ever since. Seven years ago, each sister had been Mother every fifteenth day. Now it was every eighth. One day there would be only one of them left and she could be Mother all the time.

  The arrangement worked quite well and no one ever suggested changing it. If the sisters ever did decide to choose a permanent leader, it would certainly be Docility. She was the only one of them with any real knack for leadership. She always took charge when there was a crisis. Like coping with yesterday’s hurricane, for instance — Docility had done all the thinking and planning and then dropped hints to Chastity so she could give the actual orders.

  “I was instructed to tidy the grounds!” Docility remarked manfully. She flexed an ample arm. “Stand aside, lest I rake you up by mistake.”

  “I shall be very careful!” Chastity promised, smiling. “But perhaps you could begin by clearing a path to the quinces? There must be a million quinces on the ground, and I can’t get to them. I can make marmalade with them tomorrow.”

  “Excellent thinking!” Docility boomed. “Want me to take that load in for you?”

  Chastity would love to have her burden taken from her, for her back was already promising to keep her awake all night, but she said, “Oh, I can manage, thank you.” She was just about to resume her journey when —

  “Sisters! Daughters, I mean!” Acting Mother Superior Virtue came hurrying along the path. Virtue was elderly and petite. Her hair now was as white as her skin, although of course she kept it hidden under her headcloth. She must have been a beauty in her youth, and her face was still striking. At sixty-seven, she was the oldest of the eight, but spry enough that she seemed likely to outlast most of them. During her days as leader, she tolerated no backtalk.

  “Mother?” Docility and Chastity spoke in perfect unison.

  Virtue was perturbed. There were pink splotches on her cheekbones. Curiously, she was clutching a coil of rope.

  “A boat is approaching the headland!”

  Docility propped her rake against the wall and rubbed her hands. Her eyes gleamed. “Mariners in need of succor, Mother?”

  “That would seem to be a logical presumption!” Virtue barely came up to the large woman’s shoulder, but her manner left no doubt that today she was in charge. She had known whose help to enlist when there was trouble, though. Chastity was involved only because she happened to be in Docility’s vicinity.

  “It has been many years!” Chastity said. No ships called at Bluerock now.

  “That is no reason to delay,” the Mother of the day said. “You may come, also, in case we need to summon more help.” She swept off in a swirl of black cotton robe. Docility followed with long strides.

  “But?” Chastity said to the empty air. Rope, yes, but should they not also take blankets and medicines and water bottles? Apparently not, because she was already alone. She would be sent back to fetch them, most likely. She lowered her basket painfully to the ground and hobbled off after the other two.

  The cliff path was a morass of treacherous mud. Holding skirts up, the three ladies picked their way down it circumspectly, despite the urgency of their mission.

  Chastity could just barely remember the last ship to be wrecked below the Refuge, although such disasters had been common when Bluerock was a busy port. Virtue must have assisted at several rescue efforts in her youth. The danger was Scalpel Rocks. If a vessel struck those, then the crew had little chance of survival. If it cleared them safely, it would be swept into the bay and run aground on the sand. The odds were better there, especially when the tide was out, as now.

  Puffing, the three reached the flat grassy lookout at the point of the headland and stopped to take stock. The wind had dropped, but the sea was still troubled. Dangerous green swells marched shoreward, bursting in white breakers below the lookout, hur
ling spray skyward. Masses of floating brown kelp testified to the violence of the storm; the air smelled clean and salty.

  The boat was a tiny dinghy, half awash. It had already cleared Scalpel Rocks and was being swept around the headland, almost directly under the watchers. It contained a single mariner, sitting on a thwart, clutching the bare mast with both arms and leaning against it. From the look of him, he was alive, but in a weakened condition, barely conscious, perhaps unaware that he was about to be shipwrecked.

  Chastity held her breath until she almost choked. Then she glanced sideways at the other two. They did not seem to have noticed what she had noticed.

  “Excellent!” Virtue said, as if she had arranged matters herself. She raised a hand to her eyes and stuck her neck out, peering. “Er — isn’t he wearing black? You don’t suppose he could be a priest, do you?”

  Neither of the others spoke. A strange flush showed now on Docility’s pale cheeks. So she had noticed!

  “We must head for the beach, Daughters.”

  “But —” Chastity said. Her heart was pounding unbearably.

  “I do hope he doesn’t require medical help,” Virtue continued. “Or one of us is going to have a long walk. Come.”

  “Just a moment!” Docility barked. “We had best decide what we are going to do while we can still think clearly.”

  Chastity did not think she was thinking very clearly at all. Her head was spinning, her knees trembled. If a mere glimpse at this distance could upset her like this, then what would happen at close quarters?

  “What?” Virtue turned to peer in surprise at the big woman.

  “He is a mainlander!”

  Mother Superior said, “Oh, damn!”

  The three stared at one another in appalled silence. The boat had passed the headland and was into the bay.