Rogues

by George R. R. Martin

  His legs straightened and he found himself stepping outside of the willow. “Wait!” he said. “You’ve already lost one beast of burden to the Vandaayo. If you lose me, do you think you can seize one of the man-eaters to—”

  Fulferin, said the voice, is no beast of burden. He is a devotee, a disciple. He knows the rite that will restore my name.

  “And yet he is on his way to dine with the Vandaayo. Which tells me that at least one of you was in too great a hurry.”

  His legs stopped moving. You have a point, said the voice. Speak on.

  “Is Fulferin necessary?” said the thief. “If it is only transport you require …”

  Fulferin is indispensable. Only he is versed in the ritual.

  “So I must rescue him from the Vandaayo?”

  I have said that it is an imperative.

  “Why? For what do I risk my life?”

  For matters beyond your ken. Issues sublime and surpassing.

  “God business,” Raffalon guessed. “You’re some kind of worn-out deity, probably reduced to a single devotee. And you’re not even able to keep him out of the stewpot.”

  Fulferin must not stew.

  “What can you do to prevent it?”

  Send you.

  “But I am unwilling.”

  A problem I must work around.

  “Which brings us back to the question of terms.”

  Raffalon sensed from the silence in his head that the entity was considering the matter. Then he heard, Speak on, but hurry.

  He said, “You want your devotee rescued. I want to live.”

  Fair enough. I will endeavor to keep you alive.

  The thief’s legs started moving again. “Wait!” he said. “Mere survival is not enough!”

  You do not value your own existence?

  “I already had it before I met you. If I am to risk it on your behalf, that is surely worth some compensation.”

  Again he had the sense that the other was weighing the matter. Then he heard, What had you in mind?

  “Wealth—great wealth—is always welcome.”

  I have no command over gross physicality, said the voice, only over certain attributes of individuals as they relate to the flow of phenomenality.

  “You mean you can’t deliver heaps of precious goods?”

  Not even small quantities.

  The thief thought, then said, “What ‘attributes of individuals’ can you alter? Strength of ten men, ability to fly, impermeability to pointed weapons? All of those would be useful.”

  Alas, none are within my ambit.

  Raffalon realized it might be better to come at the question from the supply side. “What exactly can you offer?”

  My powers, said the deity, are in the realm of probabilities.

  “You mean you make the unlikely likely?”

  Say rather that I can adjust the odds, as they affect a selected person.

  Raffalon brightened. “So you could fix it so that I could win the Zagothian communal lottery?”

  I will be honest, said the voice. In my present condition, I could at best reduce the odds from millions-to-one against to thousands-to-one.

  “But still against?”

  Yes.

  “So, essentially, you’re a god of luck but only in small things?”

  At present, my potency is reduced. Fulferin is going to assist me in restoring my powers.

  “If he survives,” said the thief. Then a thought occurred. “You weren’t very lucky for him.”

  He had not invoked my help. He acted from … I suppose I must call it enthusiasm. Besides, I must conserve my strength. The box assists, by acting as an insulator.

  Raffalon thought briefly, then said, “I will summarize. You wish me to risk my life, in circumstances in which a bad outcome would be particularly grisly and painful. In return, you will make sure that, along the way, I do not stub my toe or lose my comb.”

  In a close-run contest, I can tip the balance in your favor.

  “Me against a half dozen hungry Vandaayo does not meet my definition of close-run.”

  These are, said the deity, the only terms I can offer.

  “You control my body. Can you not at least alter it?” Raffalon touched his prominent nose. “Perhaps make some part smaller?” He clutched another organ. “Or make this more prodigious?”

  I control only certain interstices within your cerebrum. They generate a field that I can enhance.

  “And only,” said the thief, remembering, “when my flesh touches your image.”

  No. Once I alter them they remain altered for all time.

  “I suppose it’s something,” the thief said. “Still, it is not the best bargain I have ever made.”

  It is the best I can offer. On the other hand, I do not need to offer it. I can compel you, as long as your flesh touches my portal.

  “Portal?”

  “The wooden eidolon.”

  “I see.” Raffalon brushed aside the willow withes and stepped into the clearing, crossed to the trail. He saw more spots of blood, presumably Fulferin’s. “If your devotee survives and completes the ritual you spoke of, your powers will increase?”

  Oh, yes. Manyfold.

  “What then of the Zagothian lottery?”

  You would win something.

  “Every time I bought a ticket?”

  Every time.

  The man stepped onto the trail. “And this small luck would apply to my other endeavors?” He could think of past occasions when a slight nod from a god of fortune would have been useful, including one desperate flight that had led only to a lengthy term on the contemplarium’s treadmill.

  You would have to rescue Fulferin so that he can fulfill the requirements of the rite.

  “Then that,” said Raffalon, “must be our bargain.” He pointed his still-prominent nose in the direction of Vandaayoland and followed the trail. After a few steps, he said, “Perhaps you would be more comfortable traveling in your plush-lined box?”

  No. You might then decide not to keep our bargain.

  Their mission having been successful, the Vandaayo did not set themselves a grueling pace. Nor did they watch their back trail, the chances of anyone’s wishing to be on the same path as six of their ilk being far too slim to warrant even a glance over a green-mottled shoulder. So it was that, toward late afternoon, as Raffalon descended a slope into a narrow valley, he saw through the trees a motion in the greenery on the other side of the declivity. The part-men marched steadily up an incline that zigzagged up and out of the valley. At one switchback in the trail, the thief saw the band pause and transfer their pole-slung burden from one pair of bearers to another.

  Raffalon had a rough idea how far it was to Vandaayoland and did not think that the man-snatchers could cross the border before nightfall. He thought it probable that they would stop before dark; this part of the forest had become uninhabited after Olverion’s final misjudgment and the large predatory beasts that now roamed free had no compunctions against dining on wereflesh.

  He closed the distance between them until he could hear their grunts and panting breath ahead of him, a turn or two in the trail. As dusk began to settle, he heard different sounds and crept forward to find that the path crossed another in a clearing. Here the Vandaayo had stopped and were now gathering wood for a fire and bracken for sleeping pads. Fulferin, still wrapped in the net that had captured him and trussed to a pole, lay inert beside the track.

  Raffalon established himself behind a tree and observed as the part-men built themselves a good fire. They settled themselves around it, squatting or sitting cross-legged in a circle. They had been carrying capacious leather pouches from which they now drew gobbets of rank-smelling meat and bottles of fired clay. The sounds of tearing flesh and gurgling liquids were added to the crackle of the flames, followed by grunts and belches and the occasional growl when one Vandaayo paid too much attention to another’s victuals.

  Dusk became darkness. At a sound from the other tra
il, the part-men became alert. They put down their uneaten meals and stood up, watchful. A moment later, they relaxed, though only slightly, as a second party of Vandaayo emerged from the forest, carrying their own pole-slung contribution to the ritual feast.

  Greetings were exchanged—or at least that was what Raffalon thought the spate of grunting signaled. But he noted that the two groups did not mix, and that the party he had been following did not lapse into complete relaxation as the newcomers began gathering fuel for a second fire and leaves for their own beds. Indeed, two of the first arrivals left the communal blaze and went to squat beside poor Fulferin, while the other party put their own captive as far from the new camp as the clearing’s size would allow.

  The last light was now fading from the leafy canopy above the thief’s head. He watched the proceedings as the newcomers made their own rough supper and the two groups settled for the night, each arranging its sleeping positions on the far side of its fire from the others, so that between the two hearths was a wide space of trampled grass that was clearly no-Vandaayo’s-land.

  “Hmm,” the thief said to himself. After watching a little longer, he withdrew deeper into the forest, out of pointy earshot, and spoke softly to the small deity. “I am going to need both hands.”

  He felt the hand that held the deity rise and find its way to the open neck of his tunic. A moment later, the little piece of wood tumbled down to rest against his stomach. The voice in his head said, As long as some part of me touches some part of you, I will remain in control.

  The thief’s curiosity was piqued. “Are you actually within the wood?”

  I am where I am. The eidolon opens a … conduit between there and here. Now, please get on with the rescue.

  Raffalon shrugged and went farther back along the trail until he came to a place where he had crossed a small watercourse. He knelt and put his hand into the water, feeling along the stream bottom, and found what he needed. He rose and looked about. Fifty paces away, a lofty, well-leafed tree arched over the stream. He went to it, fished in his wallet, and drew out a stout knotted cord connected to a grapple. He threw this up into the branches and, luck being with him, it caught securely on the first cast.

  He left the cord hanging and returned to the edge of the clearing, Fulferin’s wallet heavier by the weight of several pebbles, ranging in size from the size of his thumbnail to almost the breadth of his fist.

  Staying within the tree line, he circled stealthily around the clearing until he found a tree that would best suit his purposes. He climbed until he found a comfortable crutch between two branches with a good view of the two camps. Then he composed himself to wait.

  Night eased itself down over the clearing. The Vandaayo fires burned low and were refreshed. Then they burned down again. By now, all of the anthropophagi were curled or sprawled on the grass, save for one from each group. Raffalon noted that these sentries did not face the outer darkness and whatever threats might lurk there. They kept an eye on each other.

  He waited until he saw one rise and go to fetch a new log for its fire. As the hunched figure bent to pick up the length of wood, the thief whispered to the deity, “A little luck would assist us now,” and lobbed a pebble out into the darkness. The missile arced across the dark air and he heard a satisfying snick as it connected with the Vandaayo’s hairless pate.

  “Ow!” said the injured sentry, adding a stream of gobbling gutturals directed at its opposite number. The other group’s sentry peered across the open space and, though it could not ascertain the cause of the other’s pain, it recognized an occasion for mirth.

  The head-struck sentry went back to its position, tossing the new log onto the fire. It squatted, rubbing its injury, and stared through slitted eyes at its counterpart, muttering what Raffalon took to be dire vows of retribution.

  The thief waited until the second sentry saw that it was time for fresh fuel. As it stooped to lift a log from its group’s supply, he tossed another stone. He heard the same noise of impact as with the first, a similar cry of pain that was met with a hoot and jeers from the other side of the clearing.

  The newly injured Vandaayo stalked to the edge of the open ground between the fires and addressed several remarks to the mocker, accompanied by juts of jaw and shakes of fists. The recipient of these attentions replied with words and gestures of its own, including the revelation of naked green buttocks and the sound of their cheeks being slapped by hard hands.

  It was while the thief’s first Vandaayo target was thus bent over with its back turned to the second that Raffalon sped another pebble—this one larger—on its way through the darkness. It landed with a solid crack! on the butt-slapper’s head, bringing a new howl of rage and pain.

  The freshly wounded Vandaayo spun around and charged across the neutral zone, its hand reaching for a cudgel thrust through a strap that circled its waist. Its opposite number drew its own weapon, a club ground from gray stone, and, bellowing its own war cry, rushed to meet the assault. They came together in the middle of the clearing and went at each other with all the fervor and indifferent coordination—compensated for by great strength—for which Vandaayo warriors were renowned.

  The noise and tumult awoke the others, who sat up or got to their feet, blinking and staring about. Raffalon launched several missiles in rapid succession, including his largest. Aided by the luck of the small god, each found a target among one of the two clusters of sleep-fuddled part-men. One rock came down with sufficient force as to lay out the leader of the six that had snatched Fulferin. When his fellows saw their superior stretched out on the ground and their sentry doing battle, they took up their weapons and, ululating, charged the foe. The enemy, smarting from their own hurts, raced to meet them.

  Raffalon descended lightly from the tree and turned to skirt the clearing to where Fulferin lay bound. But his legs disobeyed him and turned in the opposite direction. At the same time, the voice in his head said, We may need something to delay pursuit, while an image appeared of himself and the rescued devotee fleeing along a trail while some hapless and ill-defined person was left behind for the pursuing Vandaayo to squabble over.

  “You are a cruel god,” he whispered as he headed for the other captive.

  I am, by nature, a kindly sort of god, came the answer, dispensing what small blessings are within my power. But now I do as I must.

  Raffalon made no further comment but skulked along the edge of the clearing until he came to the recumbent form wrapped in a stout net that had been snugged tightly with braided leather cords. He found his knife and cut through the restraints, whispering, “Hush! Here is a rescue. Rise and follow me in silence.”

  He could not see the figure clearly, this far from the fire, but he recognized the motion of a nod and heard a grunt. He set off around the clearing toward where Fulferin lay, aware of the released captive slipping through the bushes behind him. He found the god’s man awake and struggling against his bonds, muttering something that sounded like a cantrip.

  “Easy,” he whispered. “I will cut you loose and we will flee while they are busy battering each other.”

  “Hurry!” said the bound man. “I see only six left standing.”

  Raffalon worked with his knife, looking up to see that the fight was indeed reaching its conclusion. Two Vandaayo of Fulferin’s group were standing back-to-back, surrounded by four of the opposition. It was only a matter of time before matters were settled and the victors came to see what prize they had won.

  “This way,” he said, as Fulferin rose to his feet. Though both captives must have been stiff and cramped from their confinement, they came along after him as he skirted the rest of the clearing to find the trail back toward the forest road. As they plunged back into the darkness of the night forest, he could hear grunts and impacts. Moments later, the ugly sound of Vandaayo crowing triumph came to his ears, and he said over his shoulder, “Faster!”

  They reached the little brook where he had chosen the stones and he turned to lead t
hem upstream to the knotted rope..

  “Climb!” he said to Fulferin. The god’s man had recovered his strength because he swarmed up the rope like a well-conditioned acrobat. Raffalon turned to the indistinct figure of the second captive, and said, “Now you.”

  But this one, though smaller, was in poorer condition and struggled to make the climb. Now the thief heard new sounds from the Vandaayo camp, howls of anger and outrage. He reached out in the darkness and seized the other’s torso in both hands, intending to supply extra lift. The effort was successful and the person, now able to apply feet as well as hands to the knotted cord, began to ascend.

  He waited until the feet had passed above his head, then he took hold of the hemp and followed, fretting at the slowness of the climber above as the slap of Vandaayo footsteps came from the direction of the clearing. He came up onto the branch around which the grapple had snagged the rope, and said to the figures beside him, “Higher, quickly but quietly.”

  He heard the rustle of their ascent while he freed the grapple and drew up the rope. Then he turned and silently climbed into the tree’s sheltering canopy, finding two blobs of darkness against the slight shimmer of the foliage, sitting on stout branches, their backs against the trunk.

  “Absolute silence,” he whispered as he found a perch for himself and froze. Through the leaves, he could see the glow of torches. The Vandaayo were coming along the stream, bending over to sniff at either bank. They passed beneath without looking up.

  Time passed, then the searchers came back, shoulders slumped, addressing each other in tones that Raffalon took to be accusatory. One shoved another so that its torch fell into the stream with a hiss. Grumbling, they went downstream to the trail and back to the shambles of their camp.

  “We will wait,” said Raffalon, softly, “until daylight, then find our way back to the road to Port Thayes.”

  “Agreed,” said Fulferin.

  “I, too,” said the second rescued. Raffalon was not surprised to hear the tones of a young woman. His hands, earlier moving over her torso as he helped her up the rope, had encountered two parts of her that, though smaller than he preferred, were inarguably female.