by Dave Duncan
Gath stole a peek at the future and saw —
He was about to die!
The world exploded, in pain and fire and thunder.
6
It was laughter that wakened Lord Umpily. For a moment he was bewildered, not understanding where he was or what he was doing — low moonlight shining straight in his eyes, coldness, cramp from sleeping in a chair, and what chair anyway? Rows of seating? He must have dozed off in the middle of some theatrical…
Reality struck him like a brick. He flashed straight from confusion to gibbering paralysis.
The Rotunda was filling up. People were climbing the aisles, filing along the rows, taking seats. In the ghostly blue light he could make out imps, dwarves, fauns, elves, trolls… Even as he was drawing breath to scream, more arrivals flowed in along the entrance canyons. Others flickered into existence on the floor below him and then headed for the stairs. He did not need occult vision to know that these were sorcerers, and in fact none of them was wearing any sort of glamour. They needed no disguise at a gathering of the Covin itself.
God of Terror!
He choked back the scream and looked wildly around for some means of escape. To his left, the way he had come in was already blocked by a trio of female dwarves settling into position, elderly, squat, and ugly. Fortunately they were all deep in conversation, mumbling in guttural whispers. He turned to look the other way just as a youngish faun entered the far end of the row and headed toward him. Two imps and an elf followed.
Blocked!
The intruder cowered down in his seat. The Covin was assembling. There must be several hundreds present already, and more arriving all the time. Pouring in now. He heard the hum of innumerable conversations, heard undertones of excitement, as if something major was about to happen.
What about an execution to start the proceedings? How could he possibly hope to remain undetected amid so many sorcerers? Any second now someone would notice the solitary mundane spy and raise the alarm.
Raise the alarm? No, they would just swat him where he sat.
The juvenile faun sat down a couple of places away. From the smell of him, he had just come from the stables. Ignoring the fat old imp, the boy turned at once to study the crowd.
So did Umpily. Everyone else was, so he would. Trolls? One or two of the giants seemed to be completely unclothed. The dark savages must be anthropophagi. Innumerable imps. Could those two pale ones be mermen? Not a jotunn in sight, though. Odd. Nor a gnome, either, although gnomes were never conspicuous. Mostly imps.
Wiping his streaming forehead with a very shaky hand, Umpily tried to estimate numbers and got nowhere. Certainly many hundreds. He could not remember the capacity of the Rotunda, and most of one quadrant was out of commission, still in the process of renovation. He had never guessed there could be so many sorcerers in the world.
Then he saw a woman he recognized, an enormous, silver-haired troll. She marched in from the south corridor with two or three other trolls at her back, beef on the hoof. He had seen her once before, at the real Shandie’s enthronement — Witch Grunth! She had not been a Zinixo supporter then, but she must be one now. Hastily his eyes raked the hall, searching for signs of Raspnex or Lith’rian.
The assembly was apparently complete. A few latecomers came running in and teleported themselves up to seats to avoid the lines on the stairs. But the stairs cleared quickly. Movement along the rows died away as the last arrivals found places. The entire company was seated then, falling silent in a hush of eager expectation. Waiting for…
Oh, Gods!
The throne! Umpily’s terror-filled gaze turned to the center and the glowing, somber mass of the Opal Throne. The prophecy! The true horror of his situation dawned. The preflecting pool had warned him of his greatest danger, that which he must most seek to avoid. The forgotten scream bubbled up again and was suppressed again. He had walked right into that very peril!
Even as he watched, the prophecy was fulfilled. A dwarf materialized on the Opal Throne.
Cheers! The congregation leaped to its feet with a roar to acclaim its leader. Applause thundered. Six or seven rows back from the front. Lord Umpily rose to clap and cheer with the best of them. To do anything else was unthinkable and would give him away instantly. Harder! More enthusiasm!
The tiny figure of the Almighty sat motionless on the great throne of Pandemia, a nondescript dwarf whose boots dangled above the floor. Louder! No expression showed through the metal-gray beard as he accepted this standing ovation from his massed followers. The Covin cheered and clapped, clapped and cheered. Jubilation! And so did Lord Umpily. Waves of adulation echoed through the vast Rotunda. Zinixo just sat, stony gaze sliding suspiciously over the multitude.
Soon Umpily’s hands were raw, his arms aching, his throat sore. Still he clapped, still he cheered. More! More! Still the ovation continued. Who would dare be the first to stop? And who, in this congregation of devoted vassals, would want to?
7
“You’re all right, Atheling! You’re all right!”
There were many faces looking down, but that had been Twist’s familiar voice. Gath lay on me cold dirt, surrounded by people kneeling and more standing behind them. The chamber was still dark and cold. He felt very peculiar.
“What happened?” he mumbled. Something important…
“There was being a bit of a fight, but we won. You died.”
“I what?”
“Here — up with you.”
Many hands lifted Gath to his feet, and the other people all stood up around him. Smiling? Why smiling? There was a strange smell of burned meat in the air.
“I killed you,” said a new voice. “I am truly sorry.”
Gath spun around, staggered, and was steadied.
The speaker was a young jotunn little older or taller than himself. He had a scant reddish beard and a fuzz of red hair in the middle of his chest. From the look of his shoulders, he did not row longships for a living, and he bore no tattoos. The most notable thing about him, though, was that his eyes were closed, as if he were blind. Yet his mouth smiled right at Gath.
“I am Jaurg. I killed you. Will you accept my apology?” People laughed. Jaurg thrust out a hand.
Gath took it. “I don’t feel dead.”
Jaurg’s palm was horny, but not as horny as a sailor’s. He played fair, too, not trying to crush.
“You are all right now,” Jaurg said. “I am glad.”
“Don’t do it again, though!” Gath said, and was rewarded with chuckles. He glanced around and recognized misshapen little Twist leaning on a crutch at his side and the enormous Drugfarg beyond. The other faces were unfamiliar. Most of them seemed to be smiling.
What was going on here? He ran fingers through his hair, and it had a curious sticky feeling. Burned hair? What was that smell? Everyone in the chamber was gathered around him, and he found the attention unpleasant.
“Your plan worked, Atheling,” Twist said. “The traitors — I mean votaries — saw the trap and were reacting with violence. Luckily there were few casualties.” He grinned his distorted teeth.
My plan? Gath thought. Your plan, you mean! “Except me?”
“You were being one of them, yes.”
“I didn’t know sorcerers could bring the dead back to life.”
“Normally we cannot, but your heart stopped for only a few seconds. There was much power available. You are a fortunate person, I am thinking.”
“It’s my friends!” Gath muttered, but his head had stopped spinning now, and he could work out the details — Twist’s strategy succeeding, the Covin spies seeing how they were going to be isolated, attempting a preemptive attack, being overpowered and released from their votary spells. All good guys now.
“I was a votary of the Covin’s,” the blind Jaurg said. “Now I am not. I will gladly do homage to you, Atheling Gathmor, if you will accept me as your man.”
“That isn’t necessary now, is it?” Gath was seized by a frantic desire to l
eave this underground pit of horrors, this close press of sorcerers around him. He wanted sunshine and fresh air, not dark mystery and a stink of overdone steak.
“I think it is! And if I may, I will do it to you, not to your father. I owe you this.”
“It doesn’t matter —”
“Up on the Speaker Stone, Atheling!” Twist said brusquely.
Apparently it did matter, then. The crowd parted. Gath stepped forward to mount the center slab again and the blind Jaurg knelt before him to do homage. The others backed away and resumed their places on the bench around the walls.
Of course it mattered — there might still be Covin votaries present who had not revealed themselves. Every man must prove his innocence by paying homage to King Rap’s deputy, and every woman, also.
“I am Jaurg the bastard and I am your man.”
Two cindery heaps lay by the doorway. That was where the smell was coming from.
“In the name of my father. Rap Thanesl —”
“Your man, I said, Atheling Gath!”
It couldn’t matter, but it felt good, a sort of Kadie make-believe. “Then I accept your homage, Jaurg the bastard.”
I died today! Gath thought, as he raised his new vassal, the man who had confessed to killing him. His heart had stopped. Had he also been charred to a crisp like those two at the door? Was that why his hair felt funny? His breeches seemed like a better fit than before, so perhaps they were not the same breeches. Roast Gath — his gut turned a somersault.
One by one, the sorcerers were coming forward to kneel to him. Most took their cue from Jaurg and did homage to Gath himself. They didn’t mean that, surely — it was all just a formality anyway, wasn’t it, just make-believe? He accepted in his own name or Dad’s, as they wanted.
Eventually the procession ended. He stood alone on the slab in the center and everyone else was sitting on the shelf around the walls. They had all passed the test. Now what? He could guess now what, but again it was something from one of Kadie’s stories that told him what to say. He glanced around. Which?
“I yield to Drugfarg son of Karjiarg,” he said. Since Drugfarg had held the floor when he intruded, that was fair.
He quit the Speaker Stone and the audience broke into applause, some even cheering. Unable to believe this was all happening, Gath hurried over to Twist, who grinned triumphantly at him and made a space on the shelf. Gath squeezed in between him and Jaurg. The huge Drugfarg rose and came forward to resume his place in the center.
“In respect to our liege lord,” Drugfarg boomed, “I move that this debate shall continue in words.”
A chorus of groans returned from the outskirts, but no one argued.
“Brothers and sisters,” Drugfarg proclaimed, “we have now all established our loyalty…”
He was winding up for a speech. Gath glanced at Twist and whispered, “How many were there?”
“At least a dozen.”
“There were fifteen of us,” Jaurg said softly, not looking around. “You have made thirteen lifelong friends today, Atheling.”
Gath stole a squeamish glance at the two odious corpses.
“They took their own lives,” Jaurg murmured.
Twist said, “Sh!”
The jotnar Gath knew preferred actions to words, but Drugfarg evidently fancied himself as an orator. He was in full torrent already, denouncing the Almighty and demanding that the sorcerers of Nordland, here assembled, now prove their valor, be true to their pledges of allegiance, and rally to the banner of Rap Thaneslayer.
Fine! Gath thought. Where to find that banner, though?
It would be a historical battle, the sorcerer proclaimed. Skalds would sing of it for centuries.
Not if Zinixo wins, they won’t.
The audience sat in stony silence around the cold, dim crypt.
Easy for them! They can magic themselves warm.
Et cetera, et cetera… At long last the big man reached his inspiring peroration. “I have spoken!” he concluded unnecessarily, and stepped down from the Speaker Stone. A few of the listeners clapped politely. Half a dozen of them rose to their feet.
Drugfarg looked them over and pointed. “I yield to Osgain, daughter of Gwartusk.” One of the women hobbled to the center to take the podium. She was very old and bent.
She was also very long-winded. Certainly the jotnar must support Thane Rap, she agreed, for he was of jotunn blood himself and his cause was the more just of the two. Nevertheless, as she understood the issues, the revolutionaries were not proposing to restore the Protocol of Emine, which had for three thousand years protected Nordland from the abuses of sorcery…
A protection that the thanes had shamefully abused, in Gath’s opinion, although he could not imagine himself saying so in this company. The stone bench was cold and most horribly uncomfortable. This moot was going to go on all day, and the Gods alone knew what might be happening outside.
How long? He opened the spigot on his prescience. Ten minutes, twenty…
Twist rammed an elbow in his ribs. Oops! To use foresight when people were making speeches would be bad manners, like glancing at a clock.
At long last Osgain announced that she had spoken. The next speaker observed briefly that the Covin was certainly waiting for the company to emerge from the Commonplace, and the danger was extreme. They were trapped! Should not the meeting be considering means rather than ends?
That seemed like good sense to Gath.
But the speaker after that went back to discussing principles. He started to hint that a scout should be dispatched to open negotiations with the Covin. A few angry murmurs broke the silence. Suddenly men began jumping to their feet. They said nothing, but apparently the move implied dissent. When about a dozen had risen, the speaker took the hint and yielded the floor to another.
And he, in turn, to another.
An hour or more crept by like a dying snail.
Perhaps, suggested one oldster, the jotnar should offer to remain neutral. More angry growls…
This was becoming ridiculous! They had all sworn allegiance to Dad or to Gath himself, and now they were threatening to renege. What sort of jotnar were they?
Sensible, probably. They seemed to have very little grasp of correct debating procedure, for they wandered from topic to topic, but perhaps as sorcerers they knew a hopeless cause when they saw one. How were they going to escape from this cellar under the eyes of the Almighty?
How would they ever find Dad, who might be anywhere at all? What was happening outside, in the real world? What was going on at the Moot Stow?
8
Rap gazed up drowsily at the rafters, working out what had wakened him. Shafts of moonlight angled down from window to bed, reflecting enough light to show the ceiling. It was around midnight, the start of Longday.
Nothing stirred in the mundane world. In the other room, Kadie fretted through a nightmare on her cot. Inos slept deeply at his side, one arm across his chest. He summoned memories of their lovemaking and cherished them — first outdoors, then again in bed. Not since the first nights of their marriage had they so utterly abandoned themselves to raw passion, like wild, crazy youngsters. A sense of impending doom had contributed to that, but of course a little sorcery did help compensate for advancing years…
He had been summoned.
Keeping Inos asleep, he slid magically from her embrace and from the bed. When he released the spell, she stirred and rolled over on her back. The moon cast silver light over her face, her breasts, the tracery of her hair on the pillow. He stared in rapture for a moment. Then with a sigh he turned to his duty.
He clad himself, making the sort of sensible artisan work clothes he wore at home in Krasnegar. He could change them for cooler pixie garb when the day grew hot. He added a cowled cloak of dark flimsy cotton, archon uniform. He said, “Ready!” and was snatched away.
The Chapel was huge and dark, but not silent, susurrous with the beat of rain on the jungle outside. The archons were assembled
, kneeling around Keef’s grave. He saw them by farsight — three women, four men. In the ambience they reacted with consternation; obviously they had not been informed that Thaïle had chosen a demon as her replacement.
To hurry in such sanctity was unthinkable. He walked forward slowly, boots tapping on the ancient stone. He was disinclined to kneel to Keef, but even less inclined to antagonize his new associates. He knelt, completing the circle.
Young Raim shot him a smile of welcome in the ambience. Several of the others radiated strong disapproval.
The Keeper materialized outside the group and the archons bowed their heads. Rap joined them willingly in that token of respect, paying homage to her pain, the agony he so well remembered.
She was garbed as she had been when she came to the Rap Place the previous evening, in a white robe, cowled like her predecessor’s. It was impervious to farsight and he could detect no hint of her feelings or expression. She was a glimmering wraith in the darkness, barely visible.
Her voice was flat. “The djinn army is preparing to strike camp. I seek your counsel. Should I trigger the trap or let them advance into our land?”
More shock from the archons told Rap that the previous Keeper had not asked for advice like this. But then she had managed to avoid making this decision and had surely never been required to make a worse one.
“Archon Raim?”
The youngster’s distress showed as a writhing glow in the ambience. After a moment he spoke aloud. “I think not, Holiness,” he said hesitantly. “That would be a crime beyond remorse. We have already offended the Gods enough. To slaughter sixty thousand…” His voice faded off into the sound of the storm.
“Archon Quaith?” The Keeper was taking them in order of age.
Quaith wrung her hands and then whispered, “No.”
“Reason?”