The Summer Palace

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  The soldiers froze, staring at this tableau. No one moved to interfere, but from the corner of his eye Sword could see hands closing on sword hilts or tightening on spearshafts.

  “By whose authority do you order this?” Sword demanded. “We are two of the Chosen, and we have slain a Dark Lord—what right do you have to interfere with us?”

  “You killed the Wizard Lord!” the captain protested.

  “I didn’t kill him,” Sword pointed out. “He did.”

  “But the Wizard Lord had already sentenced you to death for killing those soldiers!”

  “Soldiers who had just slain two of the Chosen. You know the old law, Captain—the Wizard Lord is forbidden to harm the Chosen. And his edict died with him; you have no claim on me.”

  Frustrated, the captain shouted, “Well, then what about him?” and pointed at Farash.

  “Tempting as it might be to let you kill him,” Sword said, “he, too, is one of the Chosen, carrying out his assigned duties. Furthermore, Captain, your power comes to you entirely from the Wizard Lord, and extends only so far as the Wizard Lord’s rule; well, right now there is no Wizard Lord, and even if there were, you aren’t in Barokan. You have no authority here.”

  “Besides,” Farash added mildly, “if you did take us down to Winterhome, who would try us? The priests? The Wizard Lord is dead, and the Council of Immortals destroyed.”

  “Captain,” a soldier called. “Why bother fighting? He’s dead. There’s nothing we can do about it, and I don’t want to fight the Chosen Swordsman.”

  The captain frowned, and looked around at his men.

  Their lack of enthusiasm was obvious. Their lord was dead, their road home was blocked, and the sun was well down the western sky. No one was in the mood for starting further trouble.

  “All right,” the captain said, giving in. “Let them go for now, then.” He turned away from the two Chosen, ignoring the blade that still lingered by his neck. “Let’s just get this rubble cleared away. You three, take that big stone there; Stubtoe, you and Nosebleed work on that pile over there.”

  Sword and Farash exchanged glances, then stepped aside, Sword lowering his blade. There might be peace for the moment, but neither man felt sure enough of his welcome to join in the digging. Instead, they ambled to one side and continued their conversation as the soldiers worked.

  “Will you go back down to Winterhome?” Farash asked.

  “I think so,” Sword said.

  “What will you do there?”

  “Go home to Mad Oak, I suppose,” Sword replied. “Grow barley.”

  “Sounds exciting.”

  Sword did not bother to respond to this bit of sarcasm.

  “I meant,” Farash said, “what are you going to do about the Wizard Lord?”

  Sword threw him a startled glance. “Nothing,” he said. “What is there to do?”

  “Well, traditionally, at this point the Council of Immortals would gather, reclaim the dead man’s talismans, and choose his successor. I wondered whether you intended to be involved in that.”

  “There isn’t any Council of Immortals,” Sword said. “If there were, they wouldn’t even know he’s dead—we’re outside Barokan, beyond the limits of their magic. His talismans are just harmless trinkets.”

  “Here, perhaps. Carry them past that rockpile, though, and everything changes.”

  Sword shrugged. “Then let us not carry them past that rockpile.”

  “He didn’t kill all the wizards, you know,” Farash remarked. “We could find the survivors and make a new Wizard Lord.”

  “No. I’ve had enough of Wizard Lords. Artil was right about them—their time is past. Magic is fading, and good riddance to it. Magic gave us Dark Lords, and Bone Garden, and Redfield, and Drumhead, and your rule in Doublefall, and your role as the Chosen Traitor. Let it fade, and let us be done with it.”

  “You really think it’s fading?”

  “Oh, yes. Definitely.” Sword hesitated, then added, “I even know why it’s fading.”

  Farash cocked his head. “How could you know that?”

  “Ler explained it to me.”

  “Which ler?”

  “The ler of the Summer Palace.”

  “You talked to Upland ler?”

  “Yes.”

  Farash considered that for a long moment, then asked, “That earthquake—you did that?”

  “I asked for it. The ler were kind enough to oblige me.”

  “They do what you ask?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “How did that happen?”

  Sword shrugged. “I don’t really know. Apparently simply staying here through the winter was enough. They don’t . . .” He stopped. Did he really want to tell Farash anything about the Uplands?

  No, he decided, he did not. Instead he asked, “What are you going to do now?”

  “I don’t know,” Farash said. He glanced at the laboring soldiers; they had already cleared a path several yards into the debris. “I don’t think I’d be welcome anywhere in Barokan—I betrayed and killed the Wizard Lord, after all. People loved him.”

  Sword studied Farash’s face for a moment, then asked, “Why did you kill him?”

  Startled, Farash looked Sword in the eye. “What?”

  “Why did you kill him? No one would have known you were the Traitor if you had simply stayed out of it, and let me kill or be killed. Now you’re going to be hated and reviled—and you knew it. I thought at first that you had believed you would be greeted as a hero for killing him, but no, you knew better than that. You could have gone on as his advisor if he defeated me, or if I slew him, you could have had me killed in his name and declared yourself his heir after he and I were both dead. So why did you kill him?”

  “Because it was my duty,” Farash said, meeting Sword’s gaze. “When I was younger and foolish, I betrayed the Chosen and aided a Dark Lord. I did not want to do that again. I did nothing when the Lord of the Galbek Hills slaughtered everyone in Stoneslope, and I enslaved the people of Doublefall, but Sword, while I know it sounds stupid, I never wanted to hurt anyone. I wanted what I wanted, power and women and pleasure, but I took no delight in anyone’s suffering.”

  “Never? I remember hearing you say once that you wanted to gut every priest in Deepwell.”

  Farash blushed. “I didn’t mean it,” he said. “I was just boasting, making empty threats, trying to make myself feel like a man.”

  Sword was not entirely convinced. “Go on,” he said.

  “I didn’t want to hurt anyone,” Farash said. “I didn’t! I wanted to help. When I advised Artil to build roads and kill monsters, I did so because I genuinely wanted to make life better for Barokan—that my role as his advisor gave me power and prestige certainly didn’t hurt me, but I enjoyed helping others. Remember, when I convinced the people of Doublefall to serve me, they enjoyed it—oh, not of their own will, and I’m not defending what I did, but I never saw them suffering, never felt their pain. When I heard about Stoneslope, I told myself it was too late, they were already dead, and there was nothing to be done; unlike you, I didn’t visit there and hear their ghosts in anguish. But when those wizards were murdered, I knew it was wrong. When Babble and the new Seer were cut to pieces in the street, there was no way to lie to myself about it. When I saw Lore and the new Boss languishing in the dungeons, I could see their pain. Artil im Salthir was a Dark Lord, and I had sworn to slay any Dark Lord. I had broken that oath once, yes, but then I knowingly swore it anew, in a new role, and I could not live with myself if I broke it again. When you came here—you, the man who had spared my life once, against all reason—and I saw you were determined to kill the Dark Lord even if you died in the process, I could not refuse to do my job. Either there would be a battle in which some of these soldiers would die, along with you or Artil or both, or Artil alone would die, at the cost of my own place in Winterhome. I could choose which it would be. That wasn’t a hard choice, not really. It might have been once, but not tod
ay.”

  Sword met his gaze for a moment more, then nodded. “I’m very glad now that I didn’t kill you nine years ago,” he said.

  Farash smiled wryly. “I am, too,” he said. “You gave me a chance to redeem myself.”

  “And you took it. Thank you.”

  Farash glanced at the laboring soldiers. “Perhaps we should give these fellows a hand.”

  Sword nodded, and the two men turned to join the soldiers in clearing the road.

  [ 24 ]

  “I think that should do it,” the captain said, looking over the path his men had cut through the rockfall. It wasn’t as wide or as smooth as the original trail, and both sides were lined with piles of rubble, but it was entirely serviceable for a party walking in single file.

  Three dozen soldiers and at least a score of other workers had aided in the task, and were now spread along the length of the newly cleared route; the supplies the servants had carried, and most of the soldiers’ spears, were stacked at the head of the canyon, out of the way. Artil im Salthir’s body lay undisturbed where he had fallen, and his sedan chair had been unceremoniously dumped beside him.

  Sword and Farash had done their share of hauling stone and were as dirty and sweaty as any of the others. They stood by a pile of rocks that had accumulated in a wide part of the trail, and watched as the captain passed a few more orders to his men.

  Then the captain turned and looked at them.

  Sword looked back.

  The captain gave a signal, a gesture, and two dozen soldiers drew swords or raised spears as civilians hurried to get out of their way. Sword frowned, and let his hand fall to the hilt of his own weapon as the captain marched toward the two Chosen.

  A moment later the captain faced the two of them from about six feet away, with his soldiers forming a half-circle behind him, their weapons ready.

  “We need to decide what to do with you,” the captain announced.

  Sword and Farash exchanged glances. “Why?” Sword asked.

  “You’re responsible for the Wizard Lord’s death. I can’t just let you go as if nothing happened.”

  “Why not?” Sword asked.

  Before the captain could reply, Farash asked, “What did you have in mind?”

  “Even with the Wizard Lord dead, I could take you prisoner,” the captain said. “Law and authority or no, my men will obey me.”

  “What would be the point in capturing us?” Sword asked. “What would you do with us?”

  “I’ll hold you until the new Wizard Lord can decide whether you acted properly,” the captain replied. “I know you’re two of the Chosen, and it’s your duty to remove Dark Lords, but the Lord of Winterhome was no Dark Lord! He built roads, he brought trade, he created our army—that’s not evil!”

  “Indeed it was not,” Sword agreed. “But killing my companions, and all those wizards, was.”

  “Captain,” Farash said, “there will be no new Wizard Lord.”

  The captain looked uncertain. “Of course there will,” he said. “There always is.”

  “Not this time,” Sword told him. “Your late master did his best to kill all the candidates. The Council that chose the Wizard Lords is destroyed.”

  “Artil did that deliberately,” Farash added. “He believed the system had outlived its purpose. He intended to be the last Wizard Lord, and he was.”

  “No Wizard Lord?” The captain appeared visibly shaken. “But . . . but the weather . . .”

  “The weather can take care of itself,” Sword said. “It did for centuries before the Wizard Lords took control of it.”

  “And criminals, and rogue wizards—”

  “There are no more rogue wizards,” Farash told him.

  “And if there ever are,” Sword said, “who was it actually killed the Blue Lady, and the Cormorant, and Kazram of the Bog, and the rest? It wasn’t Artil im Salthir, Captain—it was ordinary men, soldiers like yourself. If there are rogue wizards, you could handle it without any magic.”

  “But there must be someone in authority.” The captain sounded less certain now.

  Sword and Farash exchanged glances.

  “The roads and canals will need maintenance,” Farash said.

  “Keeping outlaws in check is useful,” Sword agreed.

  “Deposing the priests in Bone Garden and Drumhead would not upset me.”

  “The one in charge doesn’t need to be a wizard for any of that.”

  “He doesn’t need any magic at all.”

  “Magic might be useful, though. Boss could certainly use hers.”

  “I don’t think anyone would trust the Chosen anymore, after this last year, even if one of us wanted the job. Besides, remember Doublefall? The temptation to do something like that would be great.”

  “You’re probably right. Not Boss, then—at least, not her alone.”

  “Well, I’m sure no one would trust me. Taking the role through assassination would be a very bad precedent, in any case.”

  “Indeed.”

  Sword turned back to the soldier. “Captain,” he said, “you command the army, do you not?”

  “I . . . yes.”

  “Then, Captain, you are the man in charge, the person with authority.”

  “I . . . but that’s not my role!”

  “It is now,” Sword said. “The roles have changed. If you aren’t happy with your new position, you don’t need to keep it, but for now, you are in charge.”

  “You did a fine job clearing this path,” Farash said. “I’m sure you can handle maintaining order, and keeping the roads and canals functioning.”

  The captain looked from the Swordsman to the Traitor, and back.

  “Now, if you want to take us prisoner, it’s your decision,” Sword said. “No one else’s. You no longer serve anyone but your own conscience. You won’t be delivering us to someone; you’ll be taking us for yourself.”

  “But you will need to answer to the people of Barokan,” Farash added. “You can rule harshly, and live in fear of the assassin’s blade as the last Wizard Lord did, or you can rule generously, and be loved—as the last Wizard Lord also did.”

  The captain stared at them for a moment, then stepped nearer and asked quietly, “If I release you, what will you do?”

  “I’ll go home to Mad Oak and plant barley,” Sword replied. “I’ve done what my role required of me, and with no more Wizard Lords, that role is done.”

  “And I don’t know what I’ll do,” Farash said. “I have no place in Barokan, I know that.”

  “You’ll stay in the Uplands, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “And in the winter? Will you come down to Winterhome?” The captain watched Farash’s face intently.

  “Would I be welcome?”

  “I don’t know,” the captain said. “Things can change in so many months. It’s too soon to say.”

  “I will come if I am welcome. I will stay in the Uplands if not.”

  “If you stay in the Uplands through the winter, you’ll die.”

  Farash glanced at Sword, then shrugged. “We’ll see,” he said.

  “You are really one of the Chosen?”

  Farash looked at Sword.

  “He is,” Sword said.

  The captain straightened, and announced, “Then as Captain of Winterhome, I acknowledge that your killing of the Wizard Lord was not murder, but I must nonetheless sentence you to exile from Barokan, effective immediately. You may apply for a pardon in no less than six months’ time.” He turned to Sword. “And I recognize that your actions last year were in self-defense, and I grant you pardon now.”

  The watching soldiers greeted this decision with applause. Sword suspected this was as much at the promise of avoiding a fight as because they thought justice was being done.

  “All right, men,” the captain called. “Fall in, and let’s see if we can get home before dark!”

  A moment later the soldiers had marched down through the narrow gap they had made, and the
civilians were hurrying to gather up the supplies and equipment they had set down.

  No one touched the Wizard Lord’s body; one of the bearers glanced at the abandoned chair, then shrugged and left it where it lay.

  Sword and Farash stood silently amid the bustle, and watched them all go.

  “You know, you don’t need to go back to Mad Oak and be a farmer,” Farash said as the last servant trotted down the path. “You could stay in the Uplands. You can talk to the ler here; you could be the first Uplander wizard. You could be the only Uplander wizard, and make yourself their wizard lord, just as Artil said.”

  “No,” Sword replied immediately. “No more wizards, and no more wizard lords, here or anywhere. The Uplanders have done just fine for centuries without any wizards, and I see no need to change that. If it’s time for Barokan to stop living with wizards, why would I want to see the Uplands start?”

  “Because you can,” Farash said, but then he held up a hand before Sword could reply. “I know, I know—that’s not a good reason. You won’t do it any more than I would let you charge into those spears trying to get at Artil.”

  “And because if I stayed in the Uplands, you wouldn’t be alone?” Sword asked.

  “Perhaps,” Farash admitted.

  Sword considered his reply for a moment before saying, “You know, we may agree on many things, and we were on the same side against the Wizard Lord this time, but I still don’t like you. You did betray us nine years ago. You did enslave Doublefall. I don’t want to like you, and I don’t want to keep you company.”

  “I understand,” Farash said sadly. “Believe me, I understand. I wish I had lived a better life and been a better man, and I am trying to become one, but I know what I was.”

  “I took pity on you once before, and came to regret it,” Sword continued. “But today, you redeemed yourself, so I’m going to take pity on you again, and hope that this time I won’t ever have cause to regret it.”

  “But the captain . . .”

  “I don’t mean that,” Sword interrupted. “I mean you don’t know anything about the Uplanders, do you?”

  “Not very much. I spoke to a few of their clan leaders during the winter, but . . . why?”