The Wanderers

by Paula Brandon

  Such extreme civility—he might even have called it humility—struck the Magnifico Aureste as excessive, but he said nothing. Should his brother’s approach prove effective, he was prepared to withhold criticism. The response, however, confounded his expectations.

  “No. Forbidden.” The speaker’s air sacs swelled impressively, nearly doubling the size of his head. “Ground of virtue. Nothing dirty here. No men. You go.”

  “I understand.” Innesq refused to take offense. “But we ask only a very little time—just so much as needed to perform a task that benefits men and Sishmindris alike. Once we have finished, we shall depart, never to return. I take my oath on it.”

  “No oaths. No men. You go.”

  “I do not believe that you have truly seen what the world will become if the reversal is not prevented. You have caught a glimpse, perhaps, or sensed something of the truth, but you have not seen all. Hear me. It is worse than you know. The transformation of our world will begin slowly—it has begun already—first expressing itself in small, isolated Pockets of wrongness. These first Pockets will fade quickly. As time passes, however, they will start to linger, and presently they will take hold and remain. They will breed apace, spread, meet, and merge to engulf all the land, not excepting this ground of virtue. The Source itself will alter in its nature, and reality as we have always known it will cease to be. Then the intelligence of the Overmind—whom your people call the Invader—will reign. The more fortunate among men and Sishmindris will die. Those few who survive will forget their differences, for there will be no more human thoughts or Sishmindri thoughts. There will be nothing but the Overmind, inhabiting all beings, perhaps forever. All this will come to pass, unless we take action to prevent it. Therefore I entreat you, for the sake of our world and all its living things, allow us to pass.”

  Entreat. Aureste nearly choked on his silent outrage. At the same time, he was conscious of a certain surprised uneasiness. Never before had he heard his brother describe the threatened reversal in terms so graphically ominous. Doubtless Innesq exaggerated for the sake of effect, yet his air of conviction was alarming. It was almost as if he believed that the horrors he described could actually come to pass.

  The Sishmindri listener stood motionless and mute. No telling what thoughts, if any, toiled behind the sloping greenish forehead. The golden eyes expressed nothing recognizable.

  The silent seconds expired, and the Magnifico Aureste began to wonder if the amphibian had drifted off into some sort of trance. His doubts were allayed when the creature finally answered.

  “Your words may be true or false.” The Sishmindri spread the fingers of his left hand wide and rippled the webbing in a gesture of unknown meaning. “Time will answer. For now, we trust in the ground of virtue. We are many, and we guard this place with our lives. We die for it. We kill for it. No men here—not now, not ever. If you want ground of power, you find your own. Go north. There are realms of virtue within the Wraithlands. This is what we say to the man called Grix Orlazzu, and this is what we say to you. Go north. You go.”

  Surely Innesq would now use his power to reduce this entire crew of troublesome puddle-hoppers to dust. Or, if such destruction troubled an excessively sensitive conscience, he might simply plunge them into the deepest of slumbers this side of death.

  Innesq did neither. Inclining his head with that irritating air of inappropriate respect, he remarked simply, “We hear you, and we shall follow your advice. Good fortune to you and your people.”

  He bent a speaking glance upon his brother. Aureste took the cue, and the two men retreated in silence. Behind them, the Sishmindris stood like stones clothed in greenish moss.

  Aureste waited until they were out of amphibian earshot before permitting himself to speak. “I trust you spoke to mollify the creature. We lull their suspicions, deal with them as necessary, and make for the summit.”

  “Impractical, I fear. Do not glare at me, it is useless. And do not recommend the aggressive use of arcane force—in this instance, that too is useless. The Sishmindris defending this place are too numerous and too firmly resolved.”

  “You don’t mean to suggest that a group of five arcanists, whose combined powers are sufficient to cleanse the Source itself, can’t overcome a mob of fractious frogs?”

  “In a pitched battle, we humans would emerge victorious, but at what cost? The use of major power is exhausting. We five should find ourselves unable to function effectively for hours or even days to follow.”

  “What of it? Surely those lost hours or days impose far less delay than the search for an alternative ‘ground of virtue,’ as the creature called it.”

  “At least all five of us would remain to conduct the search. A confrontation with the Sishmindris might easily cost human lives, and we cannot afford it. We cannot lose an arcanist now.”

  Another arcanist, he meant. Innesq did not intend to reproach, but his meaning was unmistakable. Guilt scalded Aureste. He had personally cost the little group one of its precious members. They could afford no further loss, nor the slightest risk, because of him. He took refuge in anger, and his voice sharpened. “They’re animals, below men, and helpless as caged mice in the presence of arcanists. Why fear them?”

  “I respect their determination, and their numbers. Believe me when I tell you that these folk—”

  “Folk!”

  “That these beings are thoroughly dedicated to the protection of ground that they regard as sacred. You heard for yourself: They will kill or die for it. Your own recent experiences should teach you the error of underestimating the Sishmindris.”

  Under certain exceptional circumstances, the amphibians were capable of considerable unpleasantness. Aureste could hardly deny it. He subsided with a dissatisfied frown.

  In silence, the brothers returned to their companions. Innesq related the gist of his exchange with the Sishmindri guards, and submitted his recommendation that the humans retire peaceably, together with his assurance that the neighboring northern Wraithlands did indeed offer numerous sites naturally favoring arcane enterprise—an assertion that young Vinzille Corvestri’s studies supported.

  In the end, the arcanists agreed to withdraw. There was no conversation as they made their way back the way they had come. Nobody complained, reproved, or accused—aloud. Nobody needed to remind the Magnifico Aureste that the present setback could, only a little indirectly, be laid to his charge.

  FOUR

  Grix Orlazzu surveyed his surroundings with greater attention than the indistinct prospect seemed to warrant. He stood among mist-shrouded conifers. It was early afternoon of a gentle spring day, but the shade of the lofty, dark-needled trees created an artificial dusk. The ground underfoot was soft with the accumulated needles of years, and the air was sharp with the scent of sap. The ever-present fog of the Wraithlands blurred all edges and distanced all things. It would have been easy to imagine himself alone in the quiet world, but he knew better.

  Too often within recent days, he had encountered the thralls of the Other. Beasts, humans, even Sishmindris—he had seen them all, their sad bodies deteriorating, their dead eyes relaying information to It. He had learned the futility of attempted communication, and he knew the immense difficulty of laying them to permanent rest. What he did not precisely know was their point of origin.

  There were so many of them. The undead men, women, children, dogs, sheep, goats, and others—there must have been a village nearby, some self-sufficient hamlet, ignored by the world, but not overlooked by the Overmind. The village, if such it had been, had surely succumbed to the plague, but its remnants walked abroad.

  If they ever managed to take him unawares, his arcane power would not save him. Should those undead things come upon him as he stood blind to the world, mind caught up and lost in the vastness of the Source, they would find him easy prey. Thus, he had cultivated the habit of constant vigilance, and today his care was rewarded. He spied a human figure marching toward him.

  Orlazz
u squinted. The distance between himself and the other was not great, but mist and shadow obscured his vision. He descried a masculine figure, sturdy and stocky, clothed in homespun garments not unlike his own. The figure advanced, and he made out blunt features, a wiry beard.

  A too-familiar voice rang through the mists.

  “Leftover! Have I found you at last? Answer, if you please.”

  Incredulity froze Grix Orlazzu. He had traveled so far. He had buried himself in the wilderness. Impossible that an automaton—even of the most advanced and ingenious design—could track him to this place. Surely his imagination played him false.

  But the voice, with its insistent metallic edge, was unmistakable.

  “Leftover, once calling himself Grix Orlazzu. Is it you? I would appreciate the courtesy of a reply.”

  Trapped. Again. Orlazzu shook his head in mute protest.

  The gesture was not lost upon his simulacrum.

  “It is you. I would recognize that peevish demeanor anywhere. Denial is useless.” The automaton quickened its pace. “I do not know how you came to lose yourself so thoroughly, and for so long. I scarcely comprehend such carelessness. No matter. I have not come to reprove your shortcomings. I am willing to set your offenses aside. We are reunited. Come, let us repair to your dwelling, wherever it may be. We have much to discuss.”

  GrixPerfect was drawing near. Orlazzu caught the glint of glassy eyes brightly promising a lifetime of togetherness. His judgment succumbed to emotion, and he found himself fleeing, running at his best speed through the mists, swerving to avoid trees, feet pounding the needle carpet, conscience pricking, obligations dragging, instinct whipping.

  Behind him rose the protesting voice.

  “Come back! Come back at once! You will not abandon me!”

  He quickened his pace. There was no hope of outdistancing his tireless creation on open, level ground, but superior speed and endurance might be countered with superior guile. Accordingly he began to thread a tortuous, crafty path among the trees. The voice behind him diminished, but he could still hear it.

  “Halt, I insist that you halt! We must exchange information. Our relationship must be analyzed and clarified. Our respective duties and responsibilities must be specified. And I am resolved to discuss my feelings with you. Halt!”

  Orlazzu reached the edge of the woods well ahead of his pursuer. Before him stretched an expanse of treeless land clothed in drab ground cover and shrouded in pale mist thick enough to confound eyes of the clearest amber glass. His pace did not slacken. He navigated half-seen hillocks and gullies with ease, for he had come to know this place well.

  Soon he reached a broad, thick, mossy slab of stone that lay half sunk in the ground. The slab was circular in shape, and the regularity of its outline suggested human craftsmanship. Dropping to his knees, he ran his fingers along the edge of the stone until he encountered a quartet of shallow, nearly invisible indentations, which he pressed in the requisite sequence.

  In silence, the great slab swung ninety degrees on a central axis, revealing a roomy, vertical shaft, with iron rungs set in its stone walls.

  The voice of GrixPerfect clanged through the mists.

  “Leftover, show yourself! We must COMMUNICATE!”

  Nimbly, Orlazzu clambered down the shaft into his hidden refuge. Above him, the great slab swung noiselessly back into place. The automaton, for all its persistence, was unlikely to discover the entrance. And if by chance GrixPerfect did find it, the way was blocked, the stone barrier immovable to those ignorant of its secret. This place was impregnable as a fortress.

  Even so, Grix Orlazzu crouched low in his lair, motionless as some hunted animal gone to ground.

  The Sishmindri annexation of the Briar Patch could no longer be ignored by Taerleezi authorities. The disappearance of the tax assessor, his assistant, and a sextet of armed guards was an outrageous affront in and of itself. But the construction of a wall closing the newly established realm of “Roohaathk” off from the rest of Vitrisi—in effect, a silent declaration of independence—was truly intolerable.

  The impertinence of the amphibians demanded a pointed response. To this end, a solid troop of Taerleezi soldiers marched into the New Houses neighborhood at the dawn of a drizzling spring day. Straight along Hay Street they made their purposeful way, never pausing to answer the queries of those few citizens out and about to note their presence at that hour. Soon they reached a segment of the Briar Patch wall, and there they halted.

  The upright wooden planking closed off a narrow street opening between triple-story tenements. The Taerleezis made short work of it. Several of the soldiers carried axes, with which the amateur barricade was swiftly breached. A gap opened, and the invaders pushed through it. They encountered no immediate resistance, and hardly marked the colored rags fluttering on lines overhead. The arrangement of color and pattern was perhaps too symmetrical for accident, but the soldiers took no notice.

  On they marched along a silent and empty dawn avenue, their progress unopposed, until at last resistance materialized in the form of a green-skinned band armed with rocks. They were few in number—perhaps fifteen or so—but their missiles were sharp-edged and well aimed. Flying rocks bounced off helmets and breastplates. Several Taerleezis struck in vulnerable areas yelped and swore. One unfortunate, hit full in the face, fell without a sound. His comrades advanced in perfect order, and the Sishmindris quickly gave way to human discipline. Confused and fearful, they fled. The soldiers followed.

  Deeper into the Briar Patch they pushed, along twisting, constricted passageways, their retreating quarry impossible to overtake, yet never entirely out of sight. At last they came to the stingiest of alleys, allowing no more than three armed soldiers to walk abreast. Here the amphibians turned again to fight, employing very long, stout, sharpened stakes to halt the human advance. The source of these stakes was unclear. Certainly the Sishmindris had not been carrying them as they retreated. The weapons must have been waiting there, lying on the ground or propped against a wall, deliberately placed in advance. But there was no time to consider such matters, as a second Sishmindri band emerged from the shadows behind the Taerleezi guards.

  Like their brethren, the newcomers carried sharpened stakes, and the human soldiers found themselves blocked front and rear. The length of the wooden pikes effectively neutralized the soldiers’ swords and axes. At the same time, Sishmindri reinforcements appeared atop the flat roofs of the tenements bordering the alley. They carried crude bows, javelins, and slings. With these primitive weapons, they visited destruction upon the invaders trapped in the small space below.

  There was no escape and virtually no defense. Arrows and javelins flew, stones whizzed, and Taerleezis fell. Very soon the invaders lay dead. The defending Sishmindris had not suffered a serious wound, much less a casualty.

  The human corpses were thrust back through the breach in the wall girdling the Briar Patch, and the wall was swiftly repaired.

  Before noon, a second and larger party of Taerleezis approached the barricade. This force encountered well-aimed, surprisingly effective volleys of arrows dispatched from the makeshift ramparts and the rooftops.

  Clearly, reconquest of the Briar Patch was to be a more difficult undertaking than its erstwhile masters had anticipated. It would be accomplished in due time, of course; it was inevitable. There was no great need of haste, however; no need to waste human lives. The dim-witted defenders had blocked entrance and exit, thus creating their own prison. The Taerleezi masters need only mount guard, and the inmates would soon begin to starve. A few days hence, when hunger had sapped their strength, it would be a relatively simple matter to break into their stronghold and kill every last one of them.

  Within hours, Taerleezi forces surrounded the Briar Patch, and the siege began.

  Jianna cared nothing about the siege. Indeed, there was room in her mind for little beyond the determination to save Falaste Rione’s life. In recent days, she had heard nothing of him. He might b
e living or dead, behind the walls of the Witch. In the absence of news to the contrary, she chose to regard his situation as unchanged: He was alive, and receiving decent treatment. Had she permitted herself to consider alternative possibilities, she would have given way to misery and terror. As it was, she had become adept at suppressing or evading random doubts. Nevertheless, she could not quite exclude the growing fear that Falaste’s mysterious reprieve must soon end. Surely his time was running short. She could not set that aside.

  But she could and must fix her attention on practical matters. Following the uncanny disruption of the meeting in the Strenvivi Gardens, she had failed to reestablish contact with Songbird or Gyppix. Ignorant of their real names, she had not known where to find them, and her sole avenue of communication, Lousewort, had disappeared for days. She had no idea where he was, and sometimes it dismayed her to consider her dependence upon a single individual whose true identity remained a mystery. Should she lose Lousewort, her connection with the resistance and all of its resources lapsed.

  But she had not lost him yet. Hours earlier she had received his coded request for a meeting. The summons was unusual, and she could only surmise that he meant to offer assistance—the names, places, and passwords that she needed. Still, it was odd. The call represented a deviation from Lousewort’s norm, if such could be said to exist.

  He had asked her to meet him at the Heap, in Crookneck Lane. She did not recognize either name, but made inquiries and soon obtained directions. Crookneck Lane was to be found in a section of the city that she hardly knew, just south of the Briar Patch.

  She had walked at length, scarcely observing her surroundings. But now, as she neared her destination, the novelty of the scene she confronted caught her notice. Before her, the street widened into one of the countless small public squares of Vitrisi. This one, like most, contained a well, a trough, and a few stout benches. The houses edging its perimeter were modest but pleasing, or had once been so. Today, at least half of them displayed boarded windows and doors marked with the red X. At the far end of the square, the way north was blocked by a tall fence of heavy posts and planking. Before the fence lounged a contingent of Taerleezi soldiers.