Riddle of the Seven Realms

by Lyndon Hardy

  “If this is the lair of alchemists, then what formulas do they work?” Astron asked. “The chance for success must be quite high, judging from the number who are congregated all in one place.”

  “Vacuums,” Kestrel said. “By melting metals, the alchemists of Menthos can produce the hardest vacuums on the great sea. They are in demand by magicians and thaumaturges for their own rituals and simulations.”

  “But a vacuum is the total absence of matter. How can that have any value at all?”

  “I do not understand the details,” Kestrel said, “but by connecting one of the bottles produced here to another vessel, the air can be removed far better than by any pump. Lids can be sealed with greater force than that provided by the finest waxes. Huge pistons can be made to move along long cylinders, raising bridges over navigable rivers.”

  “The absence of matter,” Astron mumbled, “and in the realm of men great effort is put into its creation.” He wrinkled his nose. “Another fascination. If only there were more time.”

  Kestrel started to say more, but he suddenly spotted what he was looking for on the crowded street. Half a block down from where they had stopped, three brown-robed young men were performing their services for a queue of men-at-arms standing on the sidewalk, waiting their turn. Kestrel pointed out his destination and started the mare slowly forward.

  “Thaumaturges,” he said, “a journeyman and two apprentices. See, one wears but a single wavy line on his sleeve; the other two are unadorned. But no matter that a master is not present. They will know what is happening by the nature of their trade better than most.”

  Astron leaned forward to watch the activity as the wagon approached. One of the apprentices deftly clicked short shears through the long hair of a sergeant who sat in a portable chair set up on the sidewalk in front of the line. The second scooted about on his knees sweeping up the locks as they fell and passing them on to the journeyman seated at a table a little distance away.

  The last of the three carefully extracted a single strand of hair from the rest of each tress and dipped it into a pot of glue at his side. With a smooth motion, he aligned the sticky hair along the length of a piece of twine directly in front of where he sat. The men-at-arms chatted among themselves and the apprentice who wielded the shears, apparently totally oblivious of the other activities about them.

  “I recognize the craft,” Astron said as they approached. “The one with the doubled blades is called a barber. In exchange for a coin he removes hair from the head and face.”

  “In the Southern Kingdoms, there is no fee.” Kestrel pulled the wagon to a halt directly in front of the line of waiting men. “The hair itself is payment enough.”

  “Something new for sale?” one of the men-at-arms called out, jingling the purse at his waist as Kestrel vaulted to the ground. “It has been a fortnight of staring at the fires across the marsh. This is our first day of leave.”

  “How much for an evening with the wench?” A second poked his head into the interior of the wagon and spied Phoebe’s reclining form.

  “Although she is mine to command, such base use is not—” Astron began before Kestrel reached up and laid a hand of warning on his arm.

  “A fortnight without rotation.” Kestrel smiled. “A long time without distraction. Tell me, how have things fared on the border for those who might wish to pass?”

  The two men-at-arms turned suddenly silent and resumed their place in line. Kestrel noticed the glower of the sergeant who sat in the apprentice’s chair. “My business is with the journeyman,” he said. “What he has learned from all who have sat here certainly is not the fault of your own fine squad of men.”

  Kestrel watched the sergeant relax back into the chair as he walked down to where the journeyman worked his craft. As he approached, he noticed the hatchet-sharp nose that split the thaumaturge’s elongated and melancholy face and how, with eyes furrowed with concentration, he arranged more than two dozen pieces of twine in front of him, each with a hair glued down its length from the head of a different man. The journeyman mumbled something that Kestrel could not quite catch and then began deftly to weave the strings into a stout rope the thickness of a man’s thumb.

  Simultaneously a second hair from each of the clippings before him disentangled from the rest. Like worms on a hot griddle, they danced toward one another and then began to intertwine. In a perfect mimicry of the weaving of the journeyman, the hairs wove into a tiny replica of the rope but with a diameter smaller than the shaft of a pin.

  “What is your greatest length?” Kestrel asked as he approached.

  “Over ten times the height of a man but with a carrying strength for its size greater than anything but the strands of a spider’s web. You have no need for bulky ropes of hemp or cotton when you can possess such compact beauties as these braids.”

  “Only ten times? Oh, then it is a pity.” Kestrel backed away. “I was hoping for something more the distance from here to the quay.”

  The journeyman looked up from his work. His eyes ran over Kestrel’s rumpled tunic and he frowned. “Even with the aid of thaumaturgy which weaves the tiny strands as quickly as if they were readily handled twines,” he said, “what you request would take much effort to produce. Each short length must be knotted together. You speak of something measured in golden brandels rather than the mere coppers of Ethidor. Are you sure you do not waste my time?”

  Kestrel paused a moment before answering. Then he shrugged and smiled. “Perhaps you are right. There are probably others who have what I want directly on hand.” He turned to go and, with what looked like an afterthought, tossed a brandel onto the table amid the braids of hair. “For your trouble,” he said.

  The journeyman eyed the coin as it spun to rest on the rough surface. He looked at Kestrel a second time and then apparently made up his mind. “Luthor, to the master’s den,” he commanded. “Fetch the other braidings with length of ten. I will knot them all together for a price that would be most fair.”

  As the apprentice scampered off, the journeyman called out to Kestrel, who was halfway back to the wagon. “Here, I will show you how it is done while we wait,” he said. “Watch as I join together the short length I have just made with another of similar size.”

  Kestrel hesitated a moment but then continued toward the wagon.

  “You ask of the border,” the journeyman continued. “Perhaps there is something of interest I can tell you to pass the time.” He waved his arm at the remaining apprentice, now working on the next who stood in line. “There is much that we learn from those with whom we trade.”

  Kestrel turned slowly and shrugged. “I have heard that many are the numbers who mill about in the bogs.”

  “And for no real purpose,” the journeyman answered quickly. “Our own Prince Rupert’s troops are there merely because his alchemists could not abide by each other’s agreements with the miners of Procolon—ambushing and waylaying each other’s shipments of galena and other lead ores as they came south to the foundries. When Celibor rips his mind from lusting after some wench, he is the worst, and his rivals little better. It is no wonder old Queen Vendora dispatched a garrison to guard the way.

  “Then Rupert’s pride could not stand the presence of Procolon’s banners on his soil. So his own legions were dispatched to ensure that none remained on this side of the border. And now they sit staring at each other, with no traffic at all going either way.”

  “None at all?” Kestrel asked.

  “A month ago, a small wagon about the size of yours attempted to run past Procolon’s lines, after bribing some squad on this side of the marsh.” The thaumaturge shrugged. “Their archers gave him no chance to speak before everything was consumed in flame.”

  “And writs of safe passage?”

  “A profitable business.” The journeyman laughed. “I can point you to a dozen scribes who would gladly write the most impressive documents for a suitable fee. The trouble is that the men who walk the Procolon line are
as testy as ours. They swing their swords first and then ask their sergeants if it was the proper thing to do.

  “But never mind all of that. Let me show you how I will make the length of braid that you request.” The journeyman positioned two lengths of woven rope in front of him, the strands in each one cemented to individual hairs. He grasped a single twine from the end of each and with nimble fingers knotted them together. Then he selected a second pair, interwove them with the first and joined them together as well. Proceeding methodically, a pair at a time, he spliced the ends in a strong bond.

  Kestrel did not follow the motions of the two corresponding braids of hair but he knew what was happening. They too were becoming knotted and bound in exactly the same way as the easier to manipulate ropes in the hands of the thaumaturge. The laws of “like produces like” and “once together, always together” were being used to perform a perfect simulation.

  Instead, Kestrel was looking in the direction in which the apprentice had sped away. When he saw a blur in the distance that indicated the young man’s return, he suddenly reached out and tapped the journeyman on the shoulder.

  “The sergeant seemed a little perturbed that his men might talk of the border,” he said quickly. “What do you suppose he thinks when he hears the same words come from you?”

  “What I have said will cause no harm,” the journeyman answered. “He is concerned only about the regulations laid down by his captain.”

  “Still.” Kestrel pointed at the brandel lying where it had fallen. “How would you explain that a stranger was willing to pay gold for what he has heard?”

  “But you said that is for—”

  “I see his frown deepen.” Kestrel smiled back to the sergeant waiting for his men. “Perhaps the two of us should go over together and explain.”

  “No, the braided—”

  Kestrel reached down and deftly scooped up the coin. “On the other hand, perhaps it is best for everybody if this transaction never took place.”

  Before the thaumaturge could say more, Kestrel glided back to the wagon and climbed aboard. Just as the apprentice came panting up with coils of the tiny rope about both his arms, Kestrel motioned the mare to start away. The only problem was merely getting across the border, he remembered thinking. It looked as if it was not going to be quite so easy.

  The afternoon faded into darkness while Kestrel pondered how to proceed. He had slowly navigated the wagon up and down the streets of Menthos a dozen times, looking at all the shops and factories, but no inspiration had come. With a growing fatigue, he studied in the encroaching dimness the last of the foundry fires as they winked out for the night. Somehow, the solution to getting past two lines of armed men and into Procolon had to involve the large works of alchemists, but he could not quite put all the elements of a solution together.

  Kestrel glanced at Astron, sitting patiently at his side. The demon had halted all his questions when he had been told that interruptions would not be appreciated for a while. Kestrel glanced back into the interior of the wagon at Phoebe’s still slumbering form. He sighed. He was bothered about that little detail as well.

  What good had it done to rescue her from the other wizards, if she remained in a semianimate state under the control of a demon? Sooner or later, someone would get suspicious about a woman in a trance, wearing the robe and logo of a wizard. Word would surely get back to her peers. Crossing the border would be difficult at best, and Phoebe in her condition was an added complication.

  On the other hand, if Astron were to release Phoebe from his domination, Kestrel was not sure what would happen. She might immediately try to contact her council and aid in Kestrel’s apprehension as well. How easy would it be to convince her to keep quiet about her travelling companions?

  “What about the wizard?” Kestrel asked out loud after a moment’s more thought. “Is it harmful to keep her in such an unnatural state?”

  “Eventually, yes,” Astron said. “The muscles atrophy and the thoughts turn sluggish, even after one is released. In time, she would become no more than a vacant doll with drool on her chin.”

  Kestrel jerked the horse to a sudden halt. “I still do not know quite why I brought her along,” he said, “but certainly not for a fate such as that.” He wavered for a moment in uncertainty and then thought of the warmth of her smile. “Perhaps it is better to release her now.”

  “By eventually, I meant a long passage of time,” Astron said. “As for the present moment, do you really think it wise? I have held her to avoid more struggle of the wills, but if I were to set her free, she might not be similarly inclined. Most likely she would try to dominate me instead. The first contest was hard enough. I do not wish to undergo it again.”

  “No, somehow, I will take care of that,” Kestrel said. His thoughts raced as he spoke. Now that he had decided, it was important that the deed be done. “She is the key element of the exchange. A countess is what we need. Yes, a countess to impress one of the alchemists with the possibility of a very large reward.”

  “A reward? In exchange for what?” Astron asked.

  “Transport across the border in exchange for—for a mine,” Kestrel said. As he spoke everything fell into place. Phoebe was the missing element that he had been searching for! By posing as a countess, she would give them the credibility that was lacking in his half-formed plans. Never mind about the risk of letting her decide for herself. He would work out something when everything could be explained. Kestrel turned the wagon into an alleyway and halted.

  “Quickly,” he said. “Release her now so that we can purchase some clothing appropriate for her station. At dawn tomorrow, we must be ready to start.”

  “Your motives regarding the female I still do not understand,” Astron said. He wrinkled his nose and for a long moment nothing happened. Then abruptly his face cleared and he turned his attention to studying the tackle of Kestrel’s mare.

  “Awake,” he said simply. “I release you, wizard, to command your own will.”

  Kestrel watched Phoebe’s eyes flutter and then spring open. She looked up at the wagon’s canopy in the darkness and then at the two figures hovering over her. Her eyes widened further and she clutched her fist to her mouth, preparing to scream.

  Kestrel reached down and stroked her arm. Gently he placed an extended finger on her cheek.

  Phoebe’s eyes flashed in the gathering darkness. She drew a deep breath and slowly returned her hand to her side.

  “Where am I?” she asked in a controlled tone after a moment. “What is it that you want?”

  “Remember the anvilwood?” Kestrel tried to make his voice soothing. “I am the woodcutter who brought it to your cabin. You summoned a demon more powerful than you could control.”

  Phoebe’s eyes shifted from Kestrel to Astron. “Yes,” she said in sudden recognition. “The demon. His will was too strong. I could not resist. I am his to do with what he will.” She shuddered and snapped shut her eyes. “The council was right after all. Their barbs and jeers are true.” She tugged at the folds of the robe about her hips. “I wear the logo of a master only because of my father’s wealth, not because of skill. Go ahead, devil, do with me what you will.”

  “No, you do not understand,” Kestrel continued. “Test your thoughts. They are free. The contest is finished and you are dominated no more.”

  Phoebe cowered in silence for a long moment but then Kestrel saw the tension gradually fade away. The wrinkles vanished from her brow. Tentatively she sat up and shook her head, as if trying to toss away thoughts that did not belong.

  “Free-willed I am, woodsman,” she said cautiously. “Thank you for your aid.” She reached down in confusion to her waist and patted a purse that was not there. “Your product is as good as you bragged it to be. You need not show me the contents of each leather sack as I originally intended. Let us go back into the cabin and I will pay you your price, though I must say that I am getting the better part of the bargain.”

  “Ah, things
are not quite that simple,” Kestrel said. “You see, we are not outside your cabin, but in Menthos, near the border to Procolon.”

  The tension in Phoebe’s face returned. “Menthos! I do not understand.”

  “Your council of wizards has become enraged,” Astron said. “As we speak, they no doubt have many imps scouring the countryside looking for—”

  “You,” Kestrel cut in. “Yes, you are the one they seek, a wizard in flight from what they construe as the justice that is your due.”

  “Yes, the council and their hidebound ways,” Phoebe said. “But Menthos? I still do not understand.”

  “Well, this is the way of it,” Kestrel said. He looked into Phoebe’s questioning eyes. He should have thought things through a little more thoroughly before having Astron release her from his control.

  “Yes,” Phoebe said. “What indeed is the way of it?”

  “The council of wizards think that—” Kestrel began but this time Astron interrupted.

  “We need your help,” the demon said, “to cross the border and see the archimage. Kestrel sees you as the key element of the plan. Despite what he has done to your reputation back in Brythia, we need your help here and now.”

  Kestrel grimaced, expecting Phoebe’s face to knot into one of displeasure. Next time, he just had to get the demon to understand and follow his lead, rather than cut in on his own. Not that there would be a next time, if Phoebe decided to rectify what had happened to her good name. He shook his head, awaiting the outburst. Why had freeing the wizard been such a good idea?

  But the hard words did not come. “You need my help,” Phoebe repeated, “the service of a wizard, and you have come to me.”

  Kestrel blinked at the unexpected tone. “Wizardry, why no,” he rushed to say. “It was something rather different from that.” He looked into Phoebe’s eyes and found the words of deception harder and harder to get out of his throat. “We must get to the archimage,” he said at last, “and for that we must first cross the border. I think that I have a means of accomplishing it. We need an impersonation of a countess, one who is the seeker of thrills, one who can convince an alchemist to grant favors in exchange for profit to be received later.” He hesitated and then added in a mumble, “The archimage will be able to set things straight between you and your council as well.”