by Glen Cook
The unanimity of their nods bought her silence. Shocked, she listened as Luxos, who often defended her, said, “If it’s the only way, I’ll take you Downdeep myself.”
“And throw away the key,” Valther added, the only brother to whom she felt really close.
She was overwhelmed. Turran’s madness had infected them all. And she knew they made no idle threats. She shut her mouth and kept it that way.
“Valther, what’s happened here?” Turran asked. Intelligence was Valther’s responsibility.
“We hold the Tower, the symbol of power. For the time being the people are satisfied. The shadow of Ilkazar doesn’t disturb them as much as it did a few generations back.”
Turran grew thoughtful. Finally, he asked, “Nepanthe, can we trust you if we leave you here alone?”
Not risking anything, she merely nodded. Anyway. Valther’s men would be watching every minute. What could she do to ruin their game?
“Good. I want to go home, work with the troops. We’ll leave in the morning, come back in time for a spring campaign. You take care. If you get an urge to sabotage things, remember the Deep Dungeons. Think about living there till this’s over. My patience will be short for a while.”
Nepanthe shuddered. The Deep Dungeons were places of slime and stench and horror far beneath Ravenkrak, supposedly haunted, so long abandoned that no one living knew them in their entirety.
“Valther?”
“Yes?”
“Will you get the sending gear ready? I stopped by Dvar’s embassy on the way. I don’t like their attitude. They won’t recognize our sovereignty. We’d better make an example of them. Show our power early.”
An eager blush colored Nepanthe’s cheeks. At last something interesting was going to happen. She enjoyed manipulating the Werewind.
(Aerial elementals haunted the high range, powers that ran with and sometimes controlled the Kratchnodian storms. Lowlanders, who thought in terms of ghosts and demons, called these the Wild Hunt, believing them to be malevolent spirits in search of souls to drag into their own special Hell. The Storm Kings knew better. During the generations following their flight after the Fall of the Empire, the family had learned to control the elementals, and thus the weather that followed them-especially raging wind. The Werewind.)
That evening, while people enjoyed a pleasant winter’s evening in cities like Itaskia, Dunno Scuttari, and Hellin Daimiel, Iwa Skolovda’s tributary Dvar groaned under the attentions of an unnatural storm. All night it raged and, when it passed on, Dvar lay under fifteen feet of snow. As her savaged people dug out, the Storm Kings rode north toward Ravenkrak.
THREE: Out of the Mouth of a Fool
A man called Saltimbanco, better known as Mocker elsewhere, sat by Prost Kamenets’s Dragon Gate, his plot of muddy earth besieged by unwashed, half-clad children. They all giggled at him, or demanded a trick. The obese pseudo-philosopher, pretend-wizard, despairing of driving them away, tried to shout over their clamor while mopping floods of sweat from his dark face.
“Hai, Great Lord,” he called to a passing traveler, “have your future told! Fare not forth from glorious Prost Kamenets without hearing what Fates hold in store. This unworthy obesity is known as great necromancer, your future to foretell. But a single korona only, Lord, and potent cantrips enfold your person. A single korona and your worthy self is made proof against every evil spell.”
The traveler spat in the general direction of the fat man and passed on, out the Dragon Gate. His gaudy chariot rolled beneath smoking, putrid braziers of incense, past statues of winged lions and ugly gargoyles, between the two titanic green stone dragons, Fire-Eyes and Flame-Tongue.
Saltimbanco, casting his voice, cursed the traveler through the teeth of one of his collection of skulls. Ignoring his language, the children squealed with delight. They called their friends. The fat man continued, directing invective at himself for having attracted more of the rowdy brats. His large brown eyes, squinting angrily, were as baleful as those of Fire-Eyes at the gate.
He began a lengthy black invocation calling for thunder, lightning, fire from the sky to fall on the precocious urchins. Nothing happened. His magic was false, though impressive-and the children knew him a fraud.
“Pshaw!” Saltimbanco snorted, fat lips tight in a brown face as round as a melon, “pshaw!” Speaking to himself, he muttered, “Mighty, generous, wealthy Prost Kamenets, my mother’s prize carbuncle! Three cold, miserable, rainy days sitting by famous Dragon Gate, and no shekels. Not even one little, very corroded copper cast this humble, helpful soul. What kind of strange city this? No profit here, unless spittle and dung be measured in shekels and talents. Saltimbanco, O closest and flabby, friendliest friend of my heart, time comes to travel on, to seek great greener pasture on other side horizon. Maybe more superstitious realm where people believe in gods and ghosts and powers of mighty necromancer. Self, would travel to fabled kingdom of Iwa Skolovda.
“Woe!” cried the fraudulent wizard, his belly shaking as he answered himself. “So far! This corpulence is in no wise able to walk so far! Large, well-fed student philosophic should perish of over-exertion before marching of twentieth weary mile!”
Seeing his lazy nature would want convincing, his adventurous half marshalled its most potent-and least truthful-argument. “And, obese one, what dread future transpires should harridan wife of self discover recalcitrant husband returned to ungrateful Prost Kamenets? Reddest murder right in heart of filthy streets!” He paused for a moment of contemplation. Beneath his brows, he examined the watching children. They had fallen silent, hung on his words. They were ready.
“Moreover,” said he to himself, “man of tender feet, it is not meant that self should walk many miles on long path to Iwa Skolovda. Cannot we, being of many talents and supported by this loyal band of younglings, perchance purloin some worthy transport?”
His face brightened at the suggestion of theft. He answered himself, “Hai! When stared in face by fangy-toothed necessity, this obesity is capable of all things. Wife? Hai! What a horrible thought!” He was silent for a long moment, then looked up, selected a half-dozen youngsters, motioned them closer.
Loungers by the Dragon Gate, of which there were ever hosts ready to fleece unwary travelers, were treated to an unusual spectacle the following morning. A fat brown man in an ornate racing chariot, emblazoned with the arms of a powerful noble family, hastily fled the city. Behind the chariot ran a pack of laughing, ragged children. Behind these, hotly pursuing the vehicle but hampered by the youngsters, were a dozen pikemen of the city watch. Then came a band of professional thief-takers, anticipating a considerable reward from the chariot’s owner. Lastly, too late to have hopes of being in at the kill, came an aging beauty wailing like a Harpy deprived of prey (Mocker, too, had wailed at her price for playing his mythical wife).
The cavalcade thundered through the gate and north, the fat man laughing madly.
Presently, having lost the thief, the disgruntled pursuers returned. Out in the countryside, a laughing fat scoundrel trotted his new chariot up the road to Iwa Skolovda.
As soon as safety was apparent, Saltimbanco began vacillating. Each wayside spring was an excuse for loitering. The first inn he encountered had the pleasure of his windy custom for much of a week-till the landlord suspected deviltry and threw him out. He didn’t really want to go to Iwa Skolovda, though he wasn’t consciously aware of it.
Later, Saltimbanco stopped in for a talk with the owner of a prosperous farm. The farmer thought him feeble-minded, but considered that an advantage in the business of horse-trading. He got Saltimbanco’s chariot and horses for three pieces of silver and a bony, pathetically comic little donkey. This beast appeared ridiculous beneath Saltimbanco’s hugeness, but seemed not to notice the load. He plodded stolidly northward, unconcerned with his new master’s foibles.
The farmer left the trade laughing behind his hand, but so did Saltimbanco. He had back the money spent in Prost Kamenets, and a donkey bes
ides. And the donkey would be half what he needed to make his Iwa Skolovdan entrance both noteworthy and innocent. Looking the part, he began building a reputation as a mad, windy, harmless fool.
He started by giving scores of moronic answers to questions asked him in the villages he passed, then demanded payment for his advice. He became righteously indignant if that payment were not forthcoming. The common people of the valley of the Silverbind loved him. They paid just for the entertainment. He laughed often, to himself, as Iwa Skolovda drew nearer and nearer.
His movement north was so slow that his fame advanced before him-which was what he had in mind. Soon each village prepared improbable questions against his coming. (Usually dealing with cosmogony and cosmology: the Prime Cause, shape of the earth, nature of the sun, moon, and planets. Sometimes, though, serious requests for advice came, and those he answered more than usually madly.) When, almost two months after leaving Prost Kamenets, he at last passed Iwa Skolovda’s South Gate, his reputation was made. Few thought him anything but the lunatic he pretended-and this was the foundation of his plan. Without it he couldn’t succeed, would never see the pay for the job he had been hired to do.
A week after his auspicious and feted arrival, after he had taken suitably odd lodgings in a poor quarter of the town and had converted them into a weird temple, the fat man said to himself, “Self, should begin work.” On a cold, blustery morning he entered Market Square on his donkey, searched the stalls till he found one belonging to a farmer met in the country. “Self,” he said to the peasant, “would borrow empty box.”
“Box?” the mystified farmer asked.
“Box, yes, for pulpit.” He said it deadpan, but with enough intensity to convince the peasant some high madness was involved. The farmer grinned. Saltimbanco smiled back-secretly congratulating himself.
“Will this do?”
Saltimbanco accepted and examined an empty field lug. “Is good, but short. One more?”
“If you’ll return them.”
“Self, offer most sacred promise.”
A low mound of rubble, remains of a fallen building, rose at one end of the square. There, precariously, Saltimbanco set up his boxes, mounted them, bellowed, “Repent! Sinners, end of world, mighty doom, is upon you! Repent! Hear, accept truth that leads to forgiveness, eternal life!” Nearby heads turned. Suddenly terrified, heart hammering, he forced himself to continue. “Doom comes. World nears time of killing fire! O sinners, yield to love offered by Holy Virgin Gudrun, Earth Mother, Immaculate, that would save you for love! ‘Give me love!’ she says, ‘And life forever I return.’” He continued with a great deal of nonsense delineating the path of righteousness Gudrun demanded of her lovers if they were to achieve her grace and dwell with her in her place called Foreverness. He followed up with a little hellfire and brimstone, listing the fearsome tortures awaiting those who didn’t enter Gudrun’s love. A good deal of his adopted father’s love-me-or-else, why-do-you-hurt-me-so, you-cruel-little-child went into his interpretation.
At one time this mythology had been widespread in the Lesser Kingdoms, especially Kavelin, but was centuries dead. Neither Saltimbanco, nor any who heard him, had the slightest notion of what it was really all about. Yet success attended him. His fiery oratory and threats of present doom attracted attention. Then a bit more. Soon a full-blown crowd had gathered. He grew increasingly cheerful and confident as, more and more, the curious came to see what was happening. Half an hour after beginning, he had three hundred enthralled listeners and had forgotten his fears completely. Once he hit his second wind, he played the mob’s emotions with considerable skill.
The final result of the speech was what he desired. He saw it in their faces, in smiles hidden behind hands, in cautious, agreeing nods by those closest, people who didn’t want to hurt his feelings by disagreeing with self-evident insanity. His own smile of joyous success he kept carefully internalized. They had decided him a harmless and lovable screwball, the sort who wanted watching lest he catch his death of forgetting to get in out of the rain.
He also achieved success by bringing himself to the attention of Authority. In the crowd there were men of a sort he had seen in other kingdoms, too average, too disinterested, too carefully attentive beneath that disinterest, to be anything but spies. Storm King spies, who would be very much interested in any large gathering. Nepanthe, their Princess, had proven cunning politically. She had made certain her followers, proven traitors once, couldn’t escape suffering if she fell. Their names and deeds would be made painfully available to any successor government-and they would die. They had to support her, take deep interest in anything which might foreshadow a movement to bring their Princess to ruin.
They were the shadow men who backboned the government Valther had built for his sister. Attracting their attention lay at the root of Saltimbanco’s plan. Everyone, especially they and their mistress, had to think him a harmless clown.
“What do you think?” one shadow man asked the other.
“A clown with a new act. I imagine he’ll end up asking for money.”
And at just that moment, Saltimbanco did so, proving himself less than wholly concerned with his listeners’ souls. He smiled to himself on seeing the spies’ knowing nods. He was safe for a while.
Day after day, week after week, he continued his idiot’s speeches, moving about the city so the greatest numbers might hear him. He spoke on a different subject each day, parlaying the philosophical nonsense of centuries into a mad but innocent reputation. In time he gathered a following of young enthusiasts who appeared at all his harangues. Those he feared. Would they taint his political neutrality? The young being the political idiots they were, and denied any other place of meeting, might be using his speeches as cover for some clandestine activity. But time showed his fears groundless. These were no activists, just bored youngsters enjoying themselves.
Because he was enjoying himself hugely, and making a fortune from donations, the weeks slipped away rapidly. Spring was but a month distant when he decided the city was ready for his magnus opus, a long-winded and, to the people in the street, laughable oration praising the Princess Nepanthe-for the political weather was growing more treacherous daily, and the woman faced increasing popular opposition. Daringly, the speech was to be presented on the steps of the Tower of the Moon.
Because most Iwa Skolovdans thought the speech a new high in his career of idiocy, Saltimbanco felt certain they would place him where he wanted. Indeed, they turned out in record numbers. When he reached the Tower, astride his patient donkey, he found a vast crowd waiting. They cheered. A nervous, redoubled Tower guard eyed them uncertainly.
The soldiers relaxed when they spied him. They now assumed nothing but storms of laughter would be raised. Saltimbanco prayed he would incite no insurrection.
Ponderously he mounted the steps leading to the Tower entrance, lifting the skirts of his monkish robe like an old woman about to go wading. His ears told him his audience would be warm before he spoke a word.
He stopped five steps below the soldiers, turned, launched upon flowery rivers of praise dedicated to Nepanthe. Soon the crowd were roaring delightedly.
Nepanthe sat in the shadows of her lonely chamber, mind in a stupor. A dark mood was on her. She cared not at all for the world, had but one foot in the realm of consciousness. The dreadful demons of her dreams now pursued her even by day. She could sleep only when she fell from exhaustion. This coming out of Ravenkrak had worsened things, not, as she had hoped, made them better.
Dimly, as through a sound-baffling curtain, the roaring reached her. The Werewind’?, was her first startled thought. Then: Those’re human voices!
She went to a window overlooking the street, walking stiffly, not unlike a woman twice her age. From a shadow she looked down on the crowd, awed. She had never seen so many people in one place. A thrill of fear brought her fully awake. She backed from the window, hands at her throat, then turned, ran. She seized a bell-cord and rang for her g
uard captain.
He was awaiting her summons, knocked before she finished ringing.
“Enter!” she commanded, trying to mask her panic.
“Milady?”
She ignored the amenities. “Rolf, what’re those people doing?” She waved an unsteady hand at the window.
“A fool’s making a speech. Milady.”
“Who?” she demanded. She was certain she sounded terrified. But, if she did, he gave no sign of having noticed. He waited with the merest hint of a curious expression. “Let’s listen,” she decided.
They went to the window and stood, but could hear little over the laughter of the crowd-though Nepanthe thought she heard her name spoken several times. Timidly, little-girlish, she asked, “Why do they laugh so?”
“Oh, they think him a great clown and fool, Milady.” Rolf chuckled as he leaned on the windowsill.
“And you too, eh?”
He smiled. “Indeed. Iwa Skolovda’s needed him for a long time. Too staid.”
“Who is he? Where’s he from?”
“There you’ve got me. Ladyship. Because he has the ear of the people, we’ve tried to find out. All we know is that he rode in some time ago, after preaching in the villages to the south. There’s some evidence he was in Prost Kamenets before that.
“After arriving, he spent several days alone, then started the speeches. He’s a folk-hero now. I’m sure he’s harmless. Milady. The people just gather to laugh at him. He doesn’t seem to mind. He makes a good deal off them.”
So. He did see my fear, she thought. And now he’s trying to reassure me. Aloud, “What’s he talking about? Why such a huge crowd?”
The soldier suddenly seemed distressed. He tried to hedge.
“Come, come, Rolf. I heard him use my name. What’s he saying about me?”
“As your Ladyship commands,” he muttered. Plainly he feared losing his position as her captain. “His speech is in praise of yourself, Milady.”