by Dave Duncan
By morning, the settlement was only a memory.
2
Thume, the Accursed Place . . . The War of the Five Warlocks . . .
History had never been one of Inos's interests. Throughout her childhood she had rejected history with a passion second only to the fanatic fervor with which she had spurned mathematics. Her long-suffering tutor, Master Poraganu, had learned to temper their mutual excursions into history to a tolerable minimum.
But even Inos had heard of the Accursed Place. It had a romantic name.
As Elkarath's caravan had drawn near the foothills of the Progiste Range, she had heard more of it. Azak had spoken of Thume a few times, as they ate their evening meal outside the tent. To him it was a place of annoying mystery, an untidy tangle in the military logic of Pandemia—a hazard when Zark wished to invade the Impire, an unreliable defense when the Impire attacked Zark. The local women in their bathhouses and bazaars had spoken of Thume with hushed voices and stretched eyes, muttering tales of ancestors who had wandered too far into the mountains and been Seen No More. To them it was a place of dread.
Ulien' quith had been warlock of the south, and a sorcerer of renown, cut from the cloth of such legendary masters as Thraine, and Ojilotho. Ulien', it was said, had sought to become supreme, to overthrow the Protocol and dominate the Council of Four. He had been balked, repudiated, and cast out. He had fled to Thume; the other wardens had appointed another South, and had pursued him to wreak vengeance. The resulting War of the Five Warlocks had continued for thirty years.
To be exact, there had then been three warlocks and two witches, and the war should rightwise have been called the War of the Five Wardens—a point Inos had made forcibly to Master Poraganu—but Five Warlocks was how it was known.
Even before that disaster, Thume had always been a cockpit. Trapped between imps and djinns, between the gnomes of Guwash and the merfolk of the Keriths, it had been doomed to eternal struggle. Its two long coasts had doubtless brought double trouble from jotnar raiders also. The native race, the pixies, had been looted, raped, massacred, and enslaved without respite since before the coming of the Gods.
The War of the Five Warlocks had been merely the final catastrophe. Fire and earthquake, storm and monsters, bronze-clad armies and rampaging hordes—all had struck at Thume, or at one another. Death and destruction had swept back and forth with no clear victory for anyone. Not being bound by the Protocol, Ulien' quith and his unknown allies had resisted even the legions, dragons, and jotunn raiders that were normally immune to the ravages of sorcery. He had destroyed them, or turned them on their nominal masters and their allies. For thirty years. At the end of that time, seemingly, everyone just stopped fighting and went home.
Not the least of the irritations of history in Inos's view was that it so often failed to end its stories tidily.
No one ever went back, said the legends. There was nobody there now, nothing left to fight over. Solitary travelers returned reporting an empty land, forest and game in abundance.
Or else they did not return.
Intruding armies either passed through unmolested or mysteriously disappeared. Attempts to colonize the empty land never prospered, the settlers fleeing in inexplicable terror or just vanishing without trace.
No one had seen a pixie in almost a thousand years.
3
Princess Kadolan of Krasnegar was concerned.
With her comfortable girth wrapped in a couple of towels, she sat on a rather lumpy cushion in a very hot and overcrowded bathhouse and listened politely to the troubles of a Bloody Phlegm on one side and a Hardened Liver on the other.
She was not especially worried that this remote mountain hamlet was reputedly the worst nest of cutthroats in all Zark. Whatever evil might be planned, it was not going to occur in the village women's bathhouse, and almost certainly not until after the caravan's departure the next day.
She was not even troubled at the moment over the mysterious Sheik Elkarath, who might or might not be a servant of the sorceress Rasha. Either way, his lifelong immunity to the dangers of the Gauntlet merely confirmed her previous suspicions that he was a sorcerer. The second danger canceled out the first.
No, Kade was apprehensive about Inosolan, who was clearly plotting something. Inos was always more of a leaper than a looker. Kadolan had learned to be prepared for the worst when her niece was in this mood, and the worst in this situation might be very bad. Inos resented restraint of any kind, and she was probably scheming some way to make the first danger cancel out the second.
Every evening, after serving their menfolk's meal, the womenfolk of Zark headed for their local bathhouse. There they shed their all-enveloping robes and veils and lounged around in comfort upon cushions set on ancient floors of tile or clay. They talked of their children, their health, their husbands, and their husbands' problems. Often they played thali. In some places the women's bathhouse was little better than a shack over a mud pit, but the larger, better houses were well equipped for socializing and recreation.
The men, of course, would similarly gather at their own establishment, and talk of serious matters: trade and politics, health and poverty . . . horses, dogs, camels, and women. Visitors were always welcome. In the sparsely settled Interior, the caravans were prized as much for news and gossip as for their trade goods. The drab lives of the inhabitants held few excitements.
The bathhouse at the Oasis of Tall Cranes was as spacious and comfortable as any, but the population was large, and at least a hundred women and girls were crowded around in the dimness. The massive walls had kept out the worst of the day's heat, but they took a long time to cool, and the windows were so heavily shuttered that the room had become headachingly stuffy. Lamps smoked and sputtered, insects buzzed, and voices droned. Babies snuffled and whimpered in a dark corner.
Bloody Phlegm was again explaining the difficulty she had in sleeping at all now, growing hoarse as she tried to drown out details of Hardened Liver's grandmother's guaranteed physic. Kadolan nodded and smiled, or frowned as required, and meanwhile she tried to keep an eye on Inosolan.
Inosolan sat in a group of younger wives in a relatively bright corner, under a patch of lamplight. She was still combing out her hair, a stream of moonlight in the gloom. The upper half of her face had darkened in the desert glare, a trait inherited from her jotunn ancestors; without her veil she looked as if she were wearing a mask.
Of course there had been the usual questions earlier, provoked by her green eyes, Kadolan's blue eyes, and their pale skins. Tonight Inosolan had stayed with the simplest explanation—jotunn blood in the family, too far back for details. The local ladies had sighed understandingly. Some nights Inosolan went into lurid particulars involving longships, or she might invent elvish ancestors instead. After an especially hard day, she was capable of including both elves and rape, in highly unlikely combinations.
The Tall Cranes bathhouse was acceptable. The women, Kade noticed, were better dressed than most. There was no ostentatious flaunting of jewelry, but the negligees and even towels were of fine stuff. Of course the oasis lay only three days or so from a great city, and should not be compared with some hamlet in the middle of the desert. On the other hand, there was no local industry to account for the prosperity, as Azak had wryly pointed out only that evening.
Thoughts of the sultan made Kadolan realize that she had not heard him mentioned in the bathhouse. He was a noticeable man and lionslayers were romantic figures. Almost invariably on other evenings, some of the younger women had directed wistful queries about him to his supposed wife. The women of Tall Cranes had not. That discretion might have pleased Inosolan, but it was an ominous break with routine.
But so far Inosolan herself had done nothing out of the ordinary. There had been no further mention of the mysterious favor she had requested earlier. Bedtime was approaching. The younger women were already dressing, preparing to leave when impatient husbands would arrive and lead them home to perform their final dut
ies of the day.
Hardened Liver was occupied now in supervising a pedicure being administered by one of her granddaughters. Bloody Phlegm had drifted off to sleep in the middle of her complaints about insomnia. Kade struggled to her feet; she donned her sandals and wrapped herself in her chaddar. Then she wandered across to join the younger group.
Inosolan glanced up and smiled rather tightly.
As Kade sat down, she was startled by the first thunderous bang on the door.
Inosolan yawned.
One of the girls went to open the peephole flap, and then turned to call out names. The women indicated either hurried away at once, or jumped up and started pulling on their robes. They were all locals. The visitors began preparing themselves also, for if the village men were coming to take their wives home, then the merchants, camel drivers, and guards would be arriving shortly. Kade herself suppressed an enormous yawn as she saw Inosolan turn to catch the expectant eye of Jarthia, Fourth's young wife. So here it came, whatever it was.
Jarthia emptied a bag of thali tokens onto the floor. "Anyone care for a quick game before bedtime?"
Some of the villagers paused in their dressing, tempted.
"I should love a throw or two," Inosolan trilled. Kade stiffened in astonishment, having warned her niece months ago that Jarthia used marked tiles.
"Me, too," Kade said loyally. "But I forgot to—"
"I can lend you some, dear," Inosolan said, and produced a clinking bag, which for a moment bewildered Kade totally. Then she recalled Inosolan taking Azak aside after the evening meal. What possible reason could Inosolan have given for needing money in a place like this? But Azak likely would not have argued. He was infatuated by Inosolan. Dangerously infatuated. By the sound of it, that bag contained a small fortune.
In moments play had started. The game was childishly easy, the only skill required being a good memory, to recall tokens' values while they were turned facedown. Jarthia's set was very old, scratched and stained by long use, and much craft.
Kade stifled another yawn. The hour was late, and she was very tired. Desert air seemed to have that effect on her. Plus old age, of course.
She yawned again.
At first she managed to hold her own in the game, struggling to note and remember the illicit markings on the tiles. But the light was dim, her eyes were not what they had been, and oh, but she was sleepy! She had never enjoyed gambling, an entirely stupid pastime. Soon she was losing disastrously. Inosolan was doing even worse.
So was Jarthia—and the more she lost, the higher she raised the stakes.
Fuzzily Kade tried to work out the plot, for obviously there must be a plot. Azak's gold was disappearing at a scandalous rate. Of course the village women could not stop the game while they were ahead and doing so well—that was mere good manners. Soon the girl posted by the door was calling more names, and the players were excusing themselves to go and whisper urgently to their husbands outside, and then return to the circle. Kade and Inosolan yawned and fought their weariness, and watched the small fortune grow steadily smaller.
"Mistress Jarthia?"
Jarthia rose and went to the door. Predictably, Fourth would refuse nothing to his delectable, son-bearing young wife. After a brief muttering, Jarthia hurried back to rejoin the play.
Kade yawned again, then snapped awake . . . So that was it!
"Mistress Hathark?"
Inosolan shot a guilty glance at her aunt from under sleep-soaked eyelids, then heaved herself to her feet. She was visibly dragging as she went to the door. But certainly Azak would cooperate also, because he had duties to perform while the encampment bedded down, with no marital joys to look forward to.
In a moment Inosolan came stumbling back, yawning. "He says we may stay while Jarthia does," she told Kade seriously, "and Fourth will escort us."
The game continued; the stakes increased. Kade squirmed as she saw how much this escapade was costing. What on earth was Inosolan hoping to accomplish? As the room emptied it seemed to grow larger, and eerie echoes developed in the shadowed corners. Soon only half a dozen players remained, the three locals all twittering excitedly over their astonishing good fortune. Inosolan passed her aunt more "loans." Kade yawned shamelessly, and struggled to stay awake, and fought against logical inner voices that told her not to be silly, she was too old for this and she certainly ought to insist on going off to bed, and they had a long way to go the next day . . .
But another, very tiny, inner voice was whispering that she surely wasn't as old as that, and the hour was far from late by Kinvale standards, and Inosolan must surely have something serious in mind if she was throwing away money like this.
Somehow Kade battled on, against brain-numbing exhaustion, losing ridiculously and watching Inosolan doing little better. The dim room swayed; her head lolled; her eyes blurred. She did not see a signal pass, but there must have been one, for Jarthia suddenly went on the offensive. The money began to move inexorably in her direction, and the chuckling and joking of the locals became rarer, then stopped altogether, as their gains dwindled.
Soon it would be over, Kade thought with relief. Soon Jarthia would have all the coins in the room, and then the gamblers must call it a night.
And suddenly the pressure eased . . . returned . . . faded altogether. The world came back into terrifying focus.
Kade glanced up in horror and saw triumph blaze up on Inosolan's face.
4
Hospitality was a duty to the God of Travelers. Violence within Tall Cranes itself was extremely unlikely—Azak had said so at supper. He had then ruined the reassurance by pointing out how few men were present in the village. The rest, he had suggested cheerfully, might well be preparing an ambush for the morrow, at some respectable distance.
Nevertheless, Fourth Lionslayer escorted the ladies back to the encampment grounds. It was a distance of a few hundred paces only, and the worst dangers it offered were barking curs, but the way wound along between the tiny settlement's squat stone cottages, and therefore was not a journey women should make without a man to guard them. There was also the matter of passwords when the duty lionslayer challenged—passwords were men's business. This attitude riled Inos to frenzy, but Kade rather enjoyed being treated as a fragile halfwit, having cultivated the role for years at Kinvale.
The air was cool already, because of the altitude; the desert sky was a fiery tessellation of stars so low that they seemed to peer over people's shoulders. A few clouds sailed in dark majesty on that sparkling sea.
Fourth delivered his charges to their tent and went off with his arm tight around his beloved Jarthia, who had already told him about her night's winnings, understating them by four-fifths.
Inos made no move to enter the tent. She leaned back against a palm tree and folded her arms and said, "Ha!" in a gloating manner.
Kade no longer felt sleepy at all. She felt very apprehensive.
And rather foolish.
"Can I have an explanation now, dear?" she asked, annoyed that she could not keep her annoyance out of her voice. There was enough wind to muffle quiet conversation, and the rest of the encampment seemed to be asleep.
"I'll try," Inosolan said grimly. "But it's not easy to talk about—is it?"
No, it wasn't. But Kadolan had thought it often enough. Sheik Elkarath had gained Azak's trust, and Azak normally trusted nobody. Sheik Elkarath had persuaded Inosolan to embark on the mad flight from Arakkaran into the desert—and although she was often impulsive, that had been an absurd venture even for her. And finally, Sheik Elkarath had apparently succeeded in eluding any pursuit by Rasha. Who but a sorcerer could outwit another?
So Elkarath must have occult power. Either he had stolen Inosolan away from the sultana to play the same sort of political game she had been playing, or he was her minion, her votary, and Rasha had used him to hide the merchandise in the desert until her bargaining with the wardens could be completed.
Of course the sheik might be a votary of someone
else—one of the wardens, probably, and most likely Olybino, warlock of the east. But in that case, why had Inosolan been allowed to continue her journey unmolested? If she had political value, it was as queen of Krasnegar, not as a pretend wife to a pretend lionslayer in the middle of a desert. Weeks had gone by while the caravan traversed the desert.
All of which was ominously difficult to put into words.
"I think I know what you mean, dear."
Inos chuckled. "He must have seen where we were, but thali would seem innocent enough, and it's not something you can just walk out on as soon as you start feeling sleepy. Then he dozed off himself—he's had a hard day, and he's old."
"I worked out that much! What I mean is what do you hope to gain?"
"Surely it is obvious? Every night for months you and I have dropped off to sleep like chimney pots falling off a roof."
"Camel riding is very tiring."
"Some days we had not been riding." Inosolan paused, and for a few moments there was only the rustle of the palm fronds in the wind, tents flopping sleepily, and distant dog yowls from the houses. "Remember when Azak burned you?"
"Of course. It still isn't quite healed." Azak's hand had touched Kadolan's in the night and charred her skin, but she had not wakened. She had not known of it until morning. She made sure now that his blanket was never placed so close.
"Well?" Inosolan demanded. "That was not normal sleep!" For a moment she glanced up at the dancing palms, her face a pale blur in the starlight. She drew several deep breaths, as if enjoying an unexpected liberty. Crickets chirped, and camels bellowed in the paddock. Their bells jangled in a sound as familiar to Kadolan now as the boom of surf below the castle windows in Krasnegar.
"Yes, it's getting easier to talk," Inosolan said. "Remember the door at the top of Inisso's tower—how hard it was to approach? Aversion, Doctor Sagorn called it. What are you thinking now?"
Kadolan glanced around at the darkness. "That I should like to sit down in a comfortable armchair." She was evading the question, of course, but certainly not telling a lie. She was too old for camels. She could hardly recall what a not-sore back felt like.