The Wanderers

by Paula Brandon

  “Pastry. Haven’t had anything like that in years.” He ate with his eyes. “Well, I guess no harm.” Chesubbo took one of the honey-ginger knots from the basket, bit into it, and swallowed. An almost grudging smile lighted his face.

  Something good, something delicious, especially for you. Jianna’s mind flew back in time to an austere patch of garden in the Alzira Hills. A guardian boarhound, the unfortunate Grumper, and a bundle of cheese balls laced with soporific kalkriole. Now, as then, the tempting tidbits were doctored. Now, as then, the watchdog had to be disabled, or at least dulled.

  “Not bad,” opined Chesubbo.

  “Have another, then. Go ahead, there’s plenty.”

  “I believe I will. Thanks.” He chose one and wolfed it down in two bites.

  Exactly like Grumper.

  “Right, then. I’ll be here. When you want out, give a yell, or a thump.” Chesubbo drew the bolt, cracked the door, and called out, “Visitors, Doc.” Evidently deeming this sufficient notification, he pulled the door open. “In you go.”

  Jianna paused to cast a final wistful glance up at him, and to press another pastry into his hand, before leading the way into Falaste Rione’s cell.

  SEVEN

  The natural impulse was to search the immediate area, to scour the woods, while calling out Zovaccio’s name. For a few minutes, his erstwhile companions did exactly that, until intellect regained sway and drew them back to the campsite, where Innesq Belandor sat waiting beside the ashes of the fire. The four remaining arcanists possessed keener weapons.

  Accordingly, they withdrew a few paces and gathered themselves into a tight cluster, leaving the less gifted members of the group to watch and wonder as they launched an arcane investigation. The collective sending would, Pridisso informed the uninitiated, make contact with the living mind of Littri Zovaccio, if such yet existed; otherwise, reveal the location of the discarded physical shell.

  Aureste watched with a curiosity that he knew from experience would go unrewarded. There was little to see. Just a quiet quartet under the trees, its members motionless save for the small movements of their lips; their pronounced personal and physical differences lost in a sameness of aspect that melded them into a cohesive whole. Very little there was of visual interest, yet he could not tear his eyes away. He could barely catch the rhythm of their synchronized vocalization, and faint though the sound was, it raised the gooseflesh along his arms.

  It did not last long. The quartet broke and its members separated, each taking a moment to reclaim individual identity. Their various dissimilarities reappeared in force, but all displayed identically grim expressions.

  “Gone,” Ojem Pridisso informed the world at large. “Zovaccio is gone.”

  “You’ve located his corpse?” Aureste demanded, hoping that the body might lie far distant, lest certain sentimentalists within the party insist upon taking time to perform a burial.

  “No corpse.” Pridisso favored Aureste with a hard stare. “No sign of life, either. No results.”

  “You told us you’d catch the echo of his mind, if he lives. If not, you’d locate his corpse,” Yvenza reminded him. “One or the other. Which is it?”

  “Neither,” Pridisso returned. “We’d have caught Zovaccio’s mind if there were still a mind to catch. We didn’t; there isn’t. No corpse, so he’s still walking around out there somewhere, but the mind’s gone, or changed beyond recognition. I think we all know what that means.”

  Those who did not know could hazard a guess. The Overmind had taken Littri Zovaccio unto Itself.

  “The poor gentleman must have left a trail,” Sonnetia suggested. “If we can find him, surely you talented people can restore him?”

  “Not too likely, widowlady,” Pridisso replied, with respect. “A human intellect is a tricky thing to tamper with. Once it’s been damaged, it can’t always be set to rights. If Littri’s so far gone that we can’t even catch a whiff of his being, well then—there’s just nothing left of him, and there’s the end of it. He may still be walking around on his own two legs, but depend on it, he’s gone. There’s still the question, though, of what really happened.” His gaze pinned Aureste. “Maybe our friend Belandor here can answer that one. He seems to know more than anyone.”

  The boor’s tone was accusing. Suppressing his own spontaneous hostility, Aureste replied simply, “It happened that I was first to wake. I saw that Zovaccio was gone, and woke the rest of you. That’s all.”

  “Is it, now? You didn’t find yourself obliged to chase him off into the arms of those plague-wraiths, by any chance?”

  “What reason could I have to do so?” Aureste inquired with chill courtesy.

  “Oh, I don’t know, Belandor. Maybe you were attacked again, forced to defend yourself again. It seems to happen.”

  Aureste let the contempt show on his face.

  “Come, Master Pridisso, there are no grounds here for accusation,” Innesq observed mildly. “There is no reason in the world to suspect that the Magnifico Belandor—or anyone present, for that matter—was in any way responsible for Littri Zovaccio’s misfortune.”

  “Maybe so. But disaster strikes, and this Faerlonnishman is somehow always in the thick of it.”

  “It is a singular coincidence,” Yvenza interjected pensively.

  “There was never any sound reason for him to be here among us at all. It’s almost as if he’d come along intending to subvert our mission.”

  “No sane member of the human race would choose to do so.” Innesq’s gesture brushed the suggestion aside.

  “Oh, for a sufficient reward, some scoundrel might. Collect a bundle, then leave the Isles to their fate, and make a new home overseas.”

  “It is not certain that the world beyond the Veiled Isles will remain hospitable to humankind for very much longer, should we fail in our purpose,” Innesq pointed out. “That possibility has not been voiced, but there can be nobody here unaware of it. Beyond that, the Overmind is not wont to engage in commerce with individuals. It occupies and absorbs all.”

  “Who knows for certain what It might not do?”

  “Master Pridisso, this is fruitless speculation. We should do better to focus our attention upon the immediate future, and settle upon a course of action.”

  “Well, at this point, our course of action’s pretty clear, isn’t it? We turn around and go home. What other choice exists? With Zovaccio gone, there’s only four of us arcanists left, two of us untried youngsters. That isn’t enough to do the job. You know it—we all know it.”

  Aureste was taken aback. He had not paused to consider the implications of Zovaccio’s loss. Judging by what he had just heard, there was little to be gained in expanding the search for the missing arcanist. Innesq’s warnings, however, combined with the evidence of his own senses, had long since convinced him of the need to forestall reversal. Thus, if four arcanists remained to perform the task, then four would have to suffice. His brother and the others had been content to proceed with five; well then, they would work harder and manage to make do with one less. There was simply no choice.

  The phrases of ordinary common sense nearly found exit, but he swallowed them down again. He was no arcanist. It was up to Innesq to instruct his flighty colleagues.

  Innesq obliged, but his counsel came as a surprise.

  “It is a sad truth that the loss of Master Zovaccio has incapacitated us. The four of us remaining possess considerable arcane power. Our two youngest members may be inexperienced, but each is prodigiously gifted. Nevertheless, it is not enough. Our task, divided among five, is difficult; among four, impossible. We need at least one more arcanist, and we have been told where to look.”

  His listeners’ faces reflected incomprehension. Aureste alone understood.

  “Some days ago,” Innesq continued, “when I parleyed with the Sishmindris at the Quivers, their captain bade me seek ‘ground of virtue,’ as he put it, in the northern Wraithlands. This, he informed me, was the advice he had given th
e man called Grix Orlazzu, presumably in the recent past. Perhaps some of you recall the name Grix Orlazzu.”

  Aureste recalled it vaguely, from times long gone. He glanced at the others. The older faces reflected recognition. Young Vinzille was frowning, as if trying to remember something he had once read or heard. And little Nissi? Who could tell what went on in that head of hers?

  “Some twenty-five years ago, at the conclusion of the wars, Grix Orlazzu was acknowledged premier arcanist of his House,” Innesq explained. “Some saw him as premier arcanist of all Vitrisi. Perhaps he was, but neither talent nor status were enough to shield him from the law. In the aftermath of the invasion, the Taerleezi victors enacted new ordinances barring Faerlonnish nationals from the practice or study of the arcane arts. As we all know, this regulation was loosely enforced and often disregarded. Orlazzu, however—an individual of proud and rebellious temperament—disdained subterfuge, and would not stoop to conceal his activities. He received several warnings, which he ignored, and at last he was arrested. He languished for some months in the bowels of the Witch before the affair was resolved. His family paid a substantial fine—contrary to his wishes—and he was released upon the understanding that a repetition of his offense would incur far heavier punishment. Grix Orlazzu was not a man to submit readily, and so he withdrew from Vitrisi, never to be seen from that day on. It was commonly assumed that he had departed the Veiled Isles. But those who knew him best suggested that he had sought solitude in the wilderness, and the words of the Sishmindri support this view. It is my belief that the arcanist Grix Orlazzu has passed this way, and not long ago. He is perhaps somewhere to our north, traveling the Wraithlands in search of the strength of the Source. I propose that we attempt contact by way of a collective sending.”

  “You and the two Corvestris brought us all together by way of a collective sending.” Ojem Pridisso frowned. “Your summons flew all the way to Taerleez, and maybe farther. If this Grix Orlazzu is still rattling around out here, why didn’t it reach him?”

  “Perhaps it did, and he ignored it,” Innesq mused. “There is reason to suspect that a measure of bitterness informs his character. We must do all within our power to communicate the extreme gravity of the situation.”

  “You think he’ll believe that—if he’s out there at all?”

  “We must make him believe it. To that end, a liberal infusion of powerful emotion may prove effective, and our two younger members possess that commodity in abundance. Nissi and Vinzille, you must put your hearts into it. Are we agreed?”

  They were. A second sending ensued, this one at least as prolonged as the first. At its conclusion, all four participants appeared drained to the point of exhaustion, and all required a period of rest. Some time elapsed before Aureste ventured to question his brother.

  “Results?”

  “He is out there,” Innesq murmured.

  “Did he hear you? Will he cooperate?”

  “Uncertain.”

  To the north, in a solidly constructed, stone-walled burrow hidden well below the surface of ground all but reeking of virtue, Grix Orlazzu felt the pressure upon his mind. Initially he perceived it as another of Its assaults, but soon recognized his error. This particular contact was human in origin.

  Several senders, he perceived at once; the quality and arcane texture of at least two of them not unfamiliar. This was not their first wheedling invasion of his privacy. They had attempted communication not long ago, and he had ignored them. Now they were trying again. They seemed slow to learn.

  Nevertheless, he found himself intrigued. The sending conveyed a sense of extreme urgency difficult to ignore. The general effect was something between an intense plea and a demand. For a moment, curiosity threatened to get the better of him, and he came close to allowing entry.

  Orlazzu mastered the impulse. He had made the choice long ago to distance himself from men and their doings. Their struggles, crimes, and disasters would not touch him again. He was not disposed to alter his decision now. As for the matter at hand, whose nature he could well imagine, those arcanists out there doubtless possessed ability to resolve the difficulty without benefit of his assistance.

  Thus, he excluded the arcane sending with the same skill and power with which he was wont to bar the attempted incursions of the Overmind. Only for a moment did he hesitate. Then he shrugged, thrust temptation aside, and returned to his interrupted labors.

  They lost some travel time that day, for the arcanists required rest. Innesq and Pridisso dropped off to sleep. Vinzille appeared subdued, and Nissi sat motionless, staring at the ground.

  As far as Aureste was concerned, they were welcome to tarry as long as they wished. In the absence of any specific destination, in the absence even of a coherent plan, what need of haste? Oh, perhaps they had a vague course of action sketched out. They would continue searching for some mythic patch of territory deemed suitably potent. And they would continue searching for some mythic arcanist named Grix Orlazzu, likewise deemed suitably potent. Should they fail to attract or otherwise locate said Orlazzu, then the four of them would attempt a cleansing of the Source, but without high hope of success.

  They were moonchildren overlooking the obvious. Reason dictated an immediate reversal of course, and a swift return to the Quivers. There, the special abilities of the arcanists would easily serve to crush the Sishmindri defenders. The humans would assume possession of the valuable summit, and matters would proceed.

  Alas, the decision did not rest in the hands of the Magnifico Aureste. He did not command the expedition. Indeed, following the desertion of the servants, guards, and retainers that had made up the bulk of the Belandor party, his own status had muddied. He was no longer a leader of anything or anyone. He was not an arcanist; he was not essential, or even wanted. He had insisted upon joining the party, in the face of Innesq’s obvious reluctance, and now he had become as superfluous a hanger-on as Yvenza or Sonnetia. He was in no position to issue orders. He might express a polite opinion, scarcely more. In this case, his brother would instantly veto his suggestion, for Innesq had always harbored an incomprehensibly tender regard for the Sishmindris. Whatever Innesq wanted would be supported by that white little acolyte of his, Nissi. Pridisso and the obnoxious brat Vinzille would oppose any proposal of Aureste Belandor’s out of sheer spite. There was really no way of imposing reason upon these people. For now, at least.

  A frustrating, galling thing it was to find himself bereft of all genuine authority. It felt unnatural.

  And so the Magnifico Aureste waited. At length the depleted arcanists bestirred themselves, and progress—if the term still applied—resumed. He walked beside Sonnetia throughout the day, and there was little conversation between the two of them, but their eyes met often. He found that he could fill long, empty reaches of time with the study of her changing expressions. And his interest was by no means inappropriate, he assured himself. It was, after all, entirely for her own good.

  In the afternoon they came to a dim patch of swampland where the troupes of little black lizards failed to flee at their approach, but sat watching with a curious, dull-eyed fixity. Likewise, the glimmer-winged, needle-bodied tubeflies of the region hovered about them in heavy, strangely persistent clouds, while the brown and seemingly withered vines looping the bare branches of dead trees stirred and undulated with disquieting animation. Here, the press of the Overmind was intense and immediate. All other considerations gave way before the need to resist It.

  For a while, Aureste forgot everything else. He knew how to counter the attack of a strong and unified force; there, he possessed considerable experience. But the assault of the tiny and the numerous—the power of the diffuse—the infinite mindless might and patience of vegetation—these things surpassed his knowledge. The sum of his strength and determination turned itself inward, and the silent battle raged unseen.

  As always, he had little idea how long it lasted. The Other launched Its assault and he resisted. For an indeterminate
span, his mind was filled with humming tubeflies, and riddled with creeping tendrils, all a part and parcel of something far greater. He cast about, found the right mental mechanism with which to exclude them, and used it to good effect. He was alone with himself again.

  He glanced about, expecting to encounter no awareness. His companions were not likely to note his silent internal struggles. In all probability, they were preoccupied with struggles of their own. One of them, however, was quite aware. Sonnetia Corvestri was looking straight at him, her comprehension and concern manifest. The sight revived him, and he produced a barely visible smile.

  Sonnetia’s lips curved in response. Unconsciously she extended one hand toward him, and then, growing aware, withdrew it.

  The retreat did not trouble Aureste. For a moment he was filled with an elation unsuited to the locale and circumstances. That happiness remained undampened when instinct drew his gaze briefly from Sonnetia’s face, and he caught sight of her son Vinzille glowering blackly at him.

  At the end of the day, they happened upon a tolerably dry patch of ground. There they set up camp and built the fire. After the evening meal had been prepared and consumed, Vinzille drew his mother aside for a private conversation.

  “I’m worried,” the boy announced without preamble. “I don’t think you’re safe.”

  “Nobody is, these days.” Sonnetia examined her son. He stood straight and tall. His height seemed to increase almost by the hour. His serious expression and precocious self-possession lent him an air of maturity, yet to her, he still looked achingly young.

  “That Belandor cur is always hanging around you. He’s a villain, not to mention a murderer, and he can mean you no good. Why don’t you just freeze him off? You’re good at that.”

  “I suppose that’s meant as a compliment.” Sonnetia smiled. “I appreciate your concern, son. It does you credit. In this case, however, there’s no need. I can assure you, the Magnifico Belandor means me no harm.”