by Dave Duncan
Magnificently fed and dry for the first time in days, three grateful travelers settled down in the library with their host. A couple of their bags had been brought in and set down in a corner to reek of horse. The Baron swore the oath of secrecy without demur, knowing that he would learn nothing at all if he didn’t.
“Distlain,” he said, “managed to keep the discovery quiet for a few years, long enough for its men to establish that there were scores of islands involved, some of them very large. Finding that the people there were defenseless against properly armed and trained soldiers, the Distliards claimed the territory for their king. Other nations learned what was happening and failed to see why King Diego should own all that territory. Distlain established bases in the area and tried to keep the rest of Eurania away by force. Times got exciting. They still are, from what I hear.”
Obviously he was enjoying a ray of excitement in the drab boredom of winter. “Once or twice, I even found myself fighting my King’s friends in the company of his foes. Baels, no less! Father never knew that, fortunately.”
He stopped to smile inquiringly at Hogwood. Men always smiled at her, but in this case she had indicated by a minute readjustment of an eyebrow that she wanted to ask a question.
“I’ve often wondered, my lord,” she said, “why Baels didn’t discover the Hence Lands first.”
“I’m sure they did. Many of the spices and dyestuffs they traded that were supposed to be from the distant east had really come from the west, but they kept the secret. The Hence Lands offer little for Baelish tastes, though. Most of the islands are small and have little or no water. When there are naturales on those, they’re starving primitives, living on fish and roots and any visitors they can get their hands on.” He chuckled heavily. “When they say you will stay for dinner, they really mean it. The Distliards take them for slaves, but the Baels never bothered. Slaves don’t travel well and Baelmark could always pick up better slaves closer to market.
“Then there’s the big islands, and some of them are enormous, bigger than Chivial. They’re jungly and mostly mountainous: Fradieno, Mazal, Condridad, and others. Their culture is primitive, better than the small islands had, but producing nothing worth stealing from a Baelish or Distlish point of view. The Distliards have colonized them, setting up plantations for cotton and spices and so on, none of which would have any appeal to a Bael. Baels don’t farm. The naturales still hold out in the interiors in many places, raiding the Distlish towns.
“Finally there’s the mainland. We had several names for it in my day, but now it seems to be one big continent. Leastways, no one’s found a way around it yet. It has huge mountains near the coast in places. And it has real cities. The greatest of those is Tlixilia.”
Roland paused, studying the wine in his glass. “That’s properly the name of the imperial city, but it got applied to its empire, which includes many lesser cities, and sometimes people extend the name for the whole mainland. Now the Distliards have taken to calling the city itself El Dorado, the place of gold. It is reputedly bursting with gold and art and precious things, magnificent buildings. Those who have seen it rave about it, but they’re all naturales of one tribe or another. I don’t think any Euranian has seen Tlixilia City itself and returned to tell of it. The Distliards claimed sovereignty over El Dorado, too, and sent armed expeditions inland to explain to the Emperor that he was now King Diego’s vassal. The Tlixilians disagreed then and haven’t been convinced yet.”
“Good fighters?” Lynx asked, picking his teeth with a fingernail.
“Yes and no. I’ve never met them. From what I heard, they have no iron, no bronze, just gold, silver, and a little copper, so their weapons are edged with stone. They make armor from cotton padding, and it’s more effective in that climate than steel plate, but most of them scorn to wear it. They fight for odd reasons, in odd ways. They try not to kill their opponents. They prefer to take prisoners—for slaves, and also for food, because they have no cattle or other large livestock, and a man tires of beans. That hampers them, because it’s harder to overpower a man than it is to kill him. One-on-one in an equal contest, they’re fighters as fierce as any in the world, but put fifty Euranians against fifty Tlixilians with their own styles of fighting and the Euranians will win every time. Luckily the odds weren’t even. The naturales outnumbered the Distliards by a thousand to one, and blotted them. The Distliards regrouped and began organizing the Tlixilians’ local foes against them. Things started to get bloody.
“But the Tlixilians are still independent and the Distliards daren’t set foot on that part of the mainland. They maintain a few trading posts on offshore islands, notably Sigisa. That’s where I picked up the cat. It had come from the mainland, but I don’t know how—looting being more likely than honest trade. Battle honors, perhaps. I got a gold lip stud the same way. Did Father mention that?”
“I saw it at Ironhall,” Wolf said. “A serpent.”
Roland nodded. “Mother had been a White Sister and detested that thing. She couldn’t say why, just that it was evil.”
“You haven’t mentioned Tlixilian conjury, my lord,” Hogwood said.
“Sir Wolf hasn’t asked me to.” He tempered the remark with another not-fatherly smile at her before looking to Wolf. “Relevant?”
“Very.”
“I’m no expert.” He pulled a face. “I do know it’s different from ours. It’s reputed to be extremely powerful, but that may be just the Distlish excuse for their battlefield disasters. Tlixilian conjuration is largely or entirely devoted to warfare, and it involves human sacrifice. All their conjurers belong to one or other of two great military orders. You ever heard of the jaguara?”
Hogwood frowned; the Blades shook their heads.
“It’s a pard, a huge spotted cat, very deadly. That carving represents a jaguara cub. The Tlixilians are reputed to name their conjurer-knights after the jaguara and the eagle, the night hunter and the day hunter. There are wild stories about feats of conjury in battle. If you believe them, their spiritual power comes from ripping the beating hearts out of sacrificial victims.”
Hogwood and Wolf exchanged glances.
Lynx snorted. “Pig wallow! What sort of conjury would that be?”
“Very potent!” Hogwood said. “But limited in scope. I can’t see doing a healing that way, because you would be invoking death, not revoking it, but you could summon some of the elementals in immense strength. The heart itself combines five of the eight: earth because it is a solid, water and fire from the blood it pumps, plus time and love. Add deliberate death and you have gathered power to fashion massive conjurations. And chance!” she added quickly. “You said they used captives taken in battle? That supplies the element of chance. Seven out of the eight! Only air is missing.”
The Baron chuckled. “They commit their atrocities on top of towers. That would bring in air elementals, wouldn’t it?”
“Of course!” Dolores looked pleased.
Wolf shuddered. “But what do they do with this foul ritual?”
“Well,” said the Baron, “for example, I’ve heard tell of an enchantment called ‘the Serpent’s Eye’ that turns whole companies of troops into slobbering idiots—conscious, but unable to use their arms even to defend themselves. There’s tales of sentries found impaled with their own pikes and tents full of sleeping men where every second man had his throat cut without the others hearing a sound. And ambushes galore—armies rising out of the dust. I’m just repeating hearsay, you understand. Distlish propaganda.”
“Believe it.”
Roland raised eyebrows expectantly. It was time to pay the piper.
“Ten days ago,” Wolf said, “several hundred Tlixilians came ashore at Quondam Castle. They probably arrived by conjuration, but we can’t prove that. They stormed the fortress, carried off the castellan’s wife, and then disappeared. We lost thirty dead and about half that wounded; their death toll was over fifty. It took less than an hour. They departed by conjuration, ritual
ly slaying two young men in the process.”
Roland’s face had gone slack with shock. “Here? In Chivial?”
“Not far from Ironhall.”
“That is incredible. What for?”
“We don’t know. A warning? A threat? Retaliation? Is it possible that Tlixilians don’t know the difference between Distlain and Chivial?”
“Very possible. The distance is enormous. It takes months to…They came in Secondmoon?”
“In bare feet in Secondmoon, some of them. We collected feather cloaks, labrets, gold, jade. Lynx, here, was almost massacred by one of your jaguar knights. We have his corpse—half man, half jaguar. Probably some of the eagle knights you mentioned were present also.”
The Baron shook his head in amazement. “The Council must be seriously concerned.”
“The Council is going out of its mind,” Wolf said with relish. “Fortunately your father was available to take over. He did a wonderful job. It was he who identified the unknowns’ gear as having come from the same place as your cat and the serpent head. Inquisitor, if you would be so kind as to open the bags? I want to show you some artifacts, my lord, and ask you to confirm his opinion. I am sure His Majesty will reward you well.” That was a lie. “Lynx, show his lordship your pendant.”
The doublet provided for Lynx was strained across his chest, so the neck laces were already loose. He reached into his shirt and brought out the mosaic plaque of the jaguar. He pulled it up for the Baron to see. The Baron held out a hand for it. Reluctantly Lynx took it off and passed it over.
Roland examined it with interest. “I’ve seen some of this mosaic work before. Definitely Tlixilian style. I won’t swear it’s from El Dorado itself, but somewhere very close by. Horrible thing, isn’t it?”
Eventually he returned the image to Lynx, who put it on quickly, without looking at it. Hogwood was still working on the bags, so she hadn’t seen it either, and apparently Wolf managed to control his face enough that the other men failed to notice his shock. The jaguar’s eyes were now open.
3
Later they sang songs while Lady Maud played on the virginals; they drank a nightcap with a toast to His Majesty, and they trooped upstairs to bed. Ivywalls was old, built to the antique plan of rooms laid out in sequence. Thus Hogwood’s clothes, cleaned and dry, were tidily set on the dresser in the first, Wolf’s in the second, Lynx’s in the third, and the host and hostess continued on beyond that, since they would naturally use the most private chamber at the end. The others must just remember to draw their bed curtains.
There were no fires in the fireplaces, but in Wolf’s room a pretty chambermaid was running a long-handled pan of hot coals back and forth under the covers. He gave her a farthing, thanked her, and bade her good night. She curtseyed as best she could without dropping the pan or meeting his eye.
She caught Lynx’s though. “Could touch up your sheets again, sir? Was just about to.”
He beamed. “Please do. I like my bed snug.”
She hurried into his room. He followed. Wolf waited for her to leave.
She didn’t.
The door closed. Evidently she had agreed to warm the bed personally—either on the promise of a larger tip, or just because Blades were so cuddly.
Wolf marched in before things went too far. There was no sign of the girl, but the bed curtains were closed and the warming pan had been safely placed on the hearth. Lynx had his shirt off and was just about to blow out the candles. The thong was still around his neck, which must mean he wore the plaque both day and night.
He turned to scowl. Wolf scowled back, but less at him than at that hateful thing snarling amid his brown chest fuzz. His scars were as gruesome as ever.
“I want that pendant now, please.”
“Tonight? Why tonight?” His refusal was worrisome but not surprising.
“I don’t need it but you certainly don’t. Have you noticed how it’s changed?”
“What of it?”
Aware that the girl would be listening, Wolf said, “Lynx, that’s a potent conjuration, the symbol of a jaguar knight. It’s active. It’s alive. Remember the thing that wore it? You want to change into one of those? Take it off now!” Wolf reached for it.
Lynx slapped his hand away. “No.”
“Lynx! I’m your brother. And if you won’t trust your brother, then I order you in the King’s name.”
“Right of conquest, remember?” He folded his arms. Ratter still hung on his belt and the move put his hand closer to her hilt.
“No. He conquered you. Please give it to me.”
“No.” Lynx grinned, little-boyish. “I’m a bound Blade, Wolfie, which means I’m as proof against conjuration as any man can be. Can’t a lynx carry Mommy’s picture next his heart?”
“It belongs to the King. Hand it over!”
“No! I have taken a fancy to my pussycat. I won’t go to jail for it, but it means more to me than it does to Athelgar. So no. I will not hand it over. Want to fight me for it?”
“You are crazy!” Wolf left before they terrified the girl out of her wits. Back in the good old days, Lynx had done anything he said without a blink.
More trouble—the door to Hogwood’s room stood open. She heard Wolf return and appeared in the opening, still in the jade silk dress.
She said quickly, “Don’t panic. I didn’t come to—What’s wrong?”
Wolf removed his cloak and hurled it at a chair. It slid to the floor. “That plaque Lynx’s wearing. Its eyes are open.”
“No!”
“Yes. Set with amber and obsidian, I’d guess. But it’s an active conjurement and he won’t give it up.”
She smiled sadly. “Poor Wolf! I do think Lynx’s old enough to look after himself. Have the King take it off him tomorrow.” She took a deep breath and went back to the prepared speech: “Don’t panic. I didn’t come to steal your virginity, just to deliver my report. Here.” She held out some sheets of paper. They quivered slightly.
He stayed where he was. “What’s it about—the raid or me?”
“Both.” She spoke in a rush. “I said you carried out your mission flawlessly and I totally failed in mine. I agree with everything you’ve been saying about the raid. I gave you all the credit. They were from Tlixilia, they may have thought they were attacking Distlain, they may return, and Lady Celeste was taken as spoils of war, not for any personal reason. Baron Roland’s talk of eagle and jaguar knights is ample confirmation of your theories. You want to hear what I wrote about you?”
“No.”
“May I sit down?”
“No.”
She stuck her tongue out at him. “I forgot to mention that your manners are terrible. I did say that you are a reluctant killer, that you would never kill for money, or even to win release from the Guard, no matter how much you despise the King. Grand Inquisitor will have to find another assassin. Read it!”
“I don’t want to read it.” He threw his sword on the bed, scabbard and all. “You couldn’t make the King release me.” He began unlacing his jerkin to see what Hogwood’s reaction would be.
“Yes, we could.”
“How?”
She smiled. “Suppose the King must choose between you and Sir Vicious? Which one would he keep?”
“Vicious. But how…?”
“There is no rule that a Blade cannot marry. He does not need permission.”
Wolf caught his breath. “That wouldn’t…” Yes, it would. Of course it would! Vicious detested inquisitors with a passion. Rather than have one skulking around Blade married quarters, he would throw Wolf out of the Guard. In a flash. Release! His heart raced. “That raises prostitution to new heights. Or do I mean depths?” He flung his jerkin after the cloak. It slid off the chair, too. “You would sell your body just to please your superiors in the Dark Chamber?”
She had expected him to say something like that. “I told you the Chamber is the only family I have ever known. How many girls accept a husband their parents have
chosen because the match is good for the family? I admit the thought frightened me when they told me you were a multiple killer and the ugliest man in the Guard, but they were just warning me. The choice was mine, they said, and now I know you, I like the idea. Truly I do.”
He was tempted to tell her to prove that by undressing and getting into his bed. He didn’t because he was certain she would do exactly that. This was her last chance to earn her promotion. Fortunately she had taught him how vulnerable he was. He knew that he would crumble like a puff ball at one touch of tenderness. He removed his doublet and this time scored a bull’s-eye on the chair.
“You can’t keep your eyes shut for the rest of your life.”
“Wolf!” She straightened up and stamped her foot. “Forget your face! It’s a fighter’s face and it was probably a very handsome face once. Scars don’t worry me. You’re not a slobbering lopsided village idiot who will breed deformed children. You’ve got a strong, attractive body and you’re a strong, kind man. Women don’t care what men look like on the outside, just what’s inside.”
He began unlacing his shirt, and there was nothing inside that but him. “Just how often will I be expected to kill?”
For a moment she thought he was serious and beamed. “Probably never. I don’t know. You’d have to negotiate that with Grand Inquisitor. The Chamber doesn’t slaughter men out of hand, Wolf, only for reasons of state. Just like the Blades.”
About to deny the similarity, he saw that the argument would be fruitless and he might even lose it to her slippery inquisitor-talk. However tempting her offer, he kept remembering Inquisitor Schlutter. If the Dark Chamber wanted revenge, this would be a good way to trap him.
“I am not interested and you should not want to be friends with me. That would be much too dangerous! Keep your report and get some sleep. We’ve a hard day ahead tomorrow.”