Then the second story melted away, and she saw that it was worse than that. She’d have to make her way to the end of this wall, go down a set of stairs, and then get back through half a dozen rooms to get to the door into the courtyard.
Then across the courtyard and out through the passage into the desert. And the passage almost certainly was protected by gates at both ends.
The sand mounded up again, rearranged itself for a bit, and sluggishly settled into the form of the enormous Horned Viper again. But something about the way it moved suggested to Sira that it was . . . tired?
“Are you all right?” she asked, with real concern. After all, this afrinn had apparently just spent the last several turns of the glass crawling all over this benighted place, just so that it could show her a map of the thing. She hadn’t even asked it to!
The thing lifted its head from its coils, slowly, and just as slowly shook it, back and forth, twice.
“Are you tired?” A sudden thought struck her. “Do you need magical energy?”
It raised its head a little higher, nodded, then sank back into a heap. That’s when she saw that even the ever-moving sand particles were flowing much more slowly than before.
Well . . . the other Mages had taught her how she could share her own energies with them when a task needed more than they could summon on their own. That should work with the afrinn. She should at least try.
There was just one slight problem.
“I’ll try to help,” she told it. “But you need to stop moving the sand around. You’ll take my skin off, otherwise.”
She hadn’t realized how ubiquitous the sound of the hissing sands had become until they suddenly stopped, and the afrinn turned literally into a statue made of sandstone in front of her.
She placed one hand on either side of the blind-eyed head, gazed fixedly at the nostrils, and concentrated. She gathered her power from deep inside herself, and moved it up and out into her hands, projecting it with all her strength into the statue. Except, of course, it wasn’t a statue, it was a living thing, and the moment her power touched its power, she sensed and saw the dim “light” of it take on strength. She fed that “light” as long as she possibly could, until sheer exhaustion made her break the connection, and her leaden arms dropped away.
She staggered back a couple of paces and dropped to her sleeping pallet. It even took her a while to get back the energy to wipe her eyes.
But as soon as she had broken the bond, the afrinn came back to life, its sands virtually dancing with renewed power. It shifted its coils and slithered over to the window, examining it speculatively.
“Do you think you can eat through the bars or the stone holding them?” she asked, hope renewing her strength.
A horned viper didn’t have shoulders to shrug, but as it pivoted its head to look at her, she got the impression of one, as if it had said, “I don’t know.”
“Will you try?” she begged.
For answer, it thinned down, and wrapped its sinuous body in and around all of the bars, several times. Then the sands themselves sped up, moving so fast they were a blur.
The Viper held that position for what felt like half a turn of the glass, before unwinding itself and returning to the center of the room.
But . . . alas. All it had been able to accomplish was to polish the bars to a soft matte shine and the stone in which they were set to gloss.
The afrinn looked at her, then hung its head.
“Please do not feel bad. It’s not your fault they built so well,” she said, soothingly. “You have done far more for me than I could ever have imagined by showing me how this place is built.” She smiled at it. “Though I wish I could have seen them run from you like mice in a tunnel.”
The afrinn raised its head again, and flicked her check with its tongue. This time she didn’t flinch.
“If you are inclined to stay for a while, I can grant you more power once my own reserves recover,” she suggested. “You can leave whenever you feel ready to go.”
It nodded and settled into its resting, coiled position, spreading out to block the entrance to the cell.
She ate, and drank, and settled herself for another good, solid night of sleep, because surely nothing and no one was going to dare coming up here with that waiting for them.
The sound of the hissing sands was curiously relaxing, now that she was used to it. But she found herself wishing, as the light faded from her cell, that she was able to communicate better with the creature. There were so many questions she had—why were the afrinns bound to the Talismans in the first place? What had that long-ago Mage—or Mages—expected to accomplish? Why had they stopped doing such bindings? Was it because they had learned to make the sort of Talisman she was used to? Why was this afrinn so exhausted, when the other two had not been?
So many questions. They rushed around in her head like the circling sand that made up the earth afrinn, until she chased answers that eluded her even in her dreams.
12
Ahkhan had swarmed up the rock formation like a lizard, with Tory and Kee right behind him. Tory had left his cloak and long robe behind—though Ahkhan had not—because he was not used to climbing in them, and this was definitely not the time or place to learn. Especially not since this was a very new sort of stone for Tory—and Kee—and this would be a bad place to make a stupid mistake.
The worst part about the formation was its fragility; the surface tended to crumble, like aged brick, when you pressed on it. He didn’t have any slips on the way up, but there were a couple of uneasy moments. Once they were up there, Ahkhan took up a position like a formal lookout on a watchtower—highly visible from any direction except directly behind them—and braced himself in place, clearly prepared to spend candlemarks waiting if he had to. Tory got himself a more comfortable spot he could more-or-less sit down in, just below him. Kee had the best luck; he had a spot just as comfortable as a chair, positioned well below Tory.
And so they waited, each of them alone with his thoughts. Tory’s were pretty tranquil; he wasn’t going to buy trouble by worrying about what was going to happen when they crossed into Karse because he had absolutely no control over that. So he admired the very strange view and tried to identify the few moving specks he saw in the distance. Kee’s clearly were not tranquil; Tory could see his face from here, and he had that eaten-up-with-worry look. And I bet it’s about the girl. Kee had clearly fallen, and fallen hard, which was strange, since he’d never actually met her, but not completely unheard of, especially in a romantic like Kee. Not that Kee would ever admit to being a romantic, but Tory knew that compared to Mags’ offspring, he’d had a very, very sheltered life, and one exposed to a lot of romantic stories, especially in his own family. He wondered what it was that had been the trigger. Was it that she was in danger? Was it that she herself was probably more than his match? Was it that she was exotic? Tory hoped it wasn’t the last. She might take that as an insult. And I’m getting way ahead of myself again.
Then he spotted something against the hard, bright, blue sky. A bit of rising cloud that wasn’t actually a cloud.
It turned out, the keepers of the waters were right. There was a caravan on the way. From their high perch, they could see it leagues away.
At first it was just a tiny puff of dust in the distance, a bit of thin yellow against the hard blue sky, but even at that, Tory could tell it was far more dust than would have been kicked up by two or three riders. But despite having brought his waterskin, he was hot and thirsty long before the caravan was even visible under that plume of dust, and by the time they got close enough that the leaders would be able to see them, he was more than ready to come down.
Meanwhile, Ahkhan was up there, posing like a statue and just about as impassive, looking as if the sun and heat had absolutely no effect on him. It was a little irritating, to tell the truth, but Tory told himself that this
was just what the Sleepgiver did; when he wasn’t actively involved in something, he turned into this passionless rock. And the discipline is probably what keeps him from a lot of boredom.
Finally the caravan got within shouting distance, though the fact that the leader really wanted to address them had been apparent long before that. He kept shading his eyes with his hands, and gazing up at them, but in an eager, rather than apprehensive, way.
Now, Tory didn’t know anything about caravans in practice, but he had a good idea in theory, and it looked to him as if this lot was seriously undermanned so far as their protection went. There should have been a half-dozen more guards than there were, if he was any judge. So if he was right, it was no wonder the leader was looking up at them as if he couldn’t wait to recruit them.
“Hail!” the leader shouted, as soon as it was even remotely possible for them to have heard him. “Looking for work?”
“Aye!” Tory called, before Ahkhan could clear his throat and answer.
“Meet at the entrance to Willow Vale!” the leader shouted back. “I need to try your paces, but I’d rather not break water-peace doing it!”
“Coming down!” Ahkhan replied, and gave Tory a look that said what do you think you’re doing?
“I know what I’m doing,” Tory replied to the look, and grinned. “I’ve been a merc before. Let me handle this one.”
“Oh. Well, you are full of surprises,” was all Ahkhan could manage, as Tory stretched out his leg and nudged Kee with a toe to get him moving.
The caravan was waiting at the entrance to the valley—Tory had taken the time to splash some water from the pond over his head and get enough of a drink that he wasn’t dying of thirst anymore. Kee and Ahkhan followed his example before they all walked out to meet the caravan.
The leader sported a mighty black mustache and bristling eyebrows, and he was dressed as they were; the sole difference in his garb was that instead of fabric forming the crown of his headwrap, the wrap had been formed around a conical helmet. Tory immediately wanted one of those; it was a brilliant idea, a cut at the head would slide off the helmet and the sword would get fouled in the fabric long enough you could gut your man while he struggled with it. I hope they have spares.
The leader, who looked as if he could have been a fighting man himself, brown skin showing signs of decades out in the weather, eyed them all appraisingly and evidently liked what he saw. “Experience?” he asked, all business. Perfect. Just the way Tory wanted things.
“More than it looks like. Worked at our fathers’ sides since we were old enough to use a knife and a sling,” said Tory confidently. “The old men told us to go see the world while we still could; been working our way down from Northern Rethwellan. Banked most of our pay at Bourde the Goldsmith up North at Harvest Moon and came down here to get winter work.”
As he had expected, the mention of Bourde, who did a brisk business in managing the finances of really successful mercs, made the leader’s eyes light up. Bourde and his fourteen sons from three wives had a web of goldsmiths from southern Valdemar to the Dhorisha Plains to south of Rethwellan. There were even Valdemaran Guards, former mercs, who banked their fortunes with Bourde. Having an account with the family gave you a lot of instant reputation—it meant that you were honest, and it meant that you were prosperous (and smart enough) to have enough money put by that the goldsmiths were willing to hold it for you. “Good, good,” the leader said. “Are you mounted?”
“Two Erdars and a Kalitt,” said Ahkhan.
“You know your horseflesh. How d’ye want to be tested?”
“One at a time,” Tory told him. “Practice sticks; I don’t want anyone worse than bruised, least of all us. All of your men against each of one of us, we fight in the middle of them, until we defeat all of them or they defeat us.” He grinned. “Don’t worry, they won’t be working long enough to get tired. Then we’ll talk pay.”
One bushy black eyebrow went up, but the leader simply told one of his guards, “Bring all the practice sticks, you and the lads stay here while we try these fellows. Ismal, take the caravan in and set up camp according to the laws.”
The guard he had addressed tapped one of his fellows on the shoulder, and the two of them went to the rearmost wagon and came back with armloads of practice sticks, each the length of a sword or a dagger. The caravan continued on into the valley under the eye of a younger man whose face boasted a slightly smaller version of the leader’s formidable moustache. Tory dropped his belt with its weapons on the ground and accepted a short and a long stick from one of the two guards carrying them. “I’ll go first,” he said, glad he was wearing his boots and not the sandals. He wasn’t at all sure about his footing in those yet.
“Are you the best of the three of you?” the leader asked, still with that eyebrow raised.
Tory laughed. “If I say ‘yes,’ you’ll think I’m boasting, and if I say ‘no,’ you’ll think I’m trying to pull something over on you. The truth is that we’re all good in different ways. Though Ahkhan is a better marksman than Kee and I are.”
He figured that was probably the truth, since Sleepgivers preferred to do their killing at a distance if they could.
“This is true,” Ahkhan said, modestly, looking utterly unruffled. Tory hoped he was unruffled, although he was pretty certain, given how he and Kee had trained, that they could, indeed, each best all five of the mercs without too much trouble.
Meanwhile, Tory had checked the weight and balance of his two practice sticks, and he stepped into the middle of the informal ring the caravan guards had made. The mercs were all in good shape and handled their sticks with confidence, but not overconfidence. Seemed fair to Tory.
“Remember,” he cautioned them. “No point in any of us getting hurt. If you take what would have been a mortal cut, you drop out. I’ll try to hit you just hard enough to let you know you’ve been hit.”
The oldest of the guards smirked at that. “Worry about yourself, boy,” he said.
“Go!” ordered the caravan leader.
* * *
• • •
The five guards lay on the ground around Tory, in various states of chagrin, though Tory was dead certain none of them were worse than bruised, except in spirit. Tory had taken three of them out in the first rush, and the other two shortly thereafter. He went to the oldest guard and offered a hand up. The guard stared at the outstretched hand for a moment then shrugged, and took it.
“I guess you really didn’t need to worry,” he said with chagrin. “I’m Kerk.”
“Tory. You’ll get another chance in a moment,” Tory told him, helping him to his feet. “Kee’s next.”
Kee bounced on the balls of his feet, eager to get started, as the five guards once again arranged themselves around a rough circle. Kee took a bit longer than Tory had to take them out, partly because now they were warier and didn’t just rush him as they had rushed Tory, but partly because Kee wanted to take each of them individually and maneuvered them so he could.
Then it was Ahkhan’s turn; he took about as long as Tory had, although he hardly seemed to move at all, just slid out of the way of attacks and returned each with a devastating response.
The poor guards got to their feet for the third time, looking as if they felt utterly humiliated—but the caravan leader clearly knew fighting men, because he called out in a booming voice, “That’s the finest work I’ve ever seen in my life . . . and no shame in being defeated by it. Tell Ismal to break out the wine, you’ve earned it.”
That cheered them up considerably, and they collected their practice sticks and trotted into the valley, as Tory, Ahkhan, and Kee gathered around the caravan leader before following them in.
“I’m Hakshen Tiron, and I’m taking this caravan into Karse to trade spices,” he said. “I trust you have no problem with my destination?”
Tory shrugged. “As lo
ng as the Karse priests have no problem with us.”
“Well . . .” Tiron smiled grimly. “That’s where I’m pleased to have you. The Border patrols are little more than bandits. With five guards, they were sure to shake me down for goods or gold. With eight—they probably won’t.”
“What happens if they try anyway?” Tory wanted to know. “Are we supposed to fight them off?” He paused. “I’ll be disappointed if you say no.”
“You won’t be disappointed,” Tiron replied, the smile turning feral. “The desert can hide a lot of bodies. Patrols vanish all the time. I’ll explain more later.”
Tory clapped the man on the back. “A man after my own heart,” he declared. “Let’s talk pay.”
By now Tory could read Ahkhan’s expressions reasonably well, and as he haggled with Tiron, he watched the Sleepgiver go from skeptical, to surprised, to admiring. But Tory really had played the part of a mercenary, and more than once, even as young as he was. While Valdemar didn’t employ any mercenary companies to fight for them, there were plenty of jobs for single sell-swords, as anything from guard work on the stock at a jeweler or goldsmith to the personal retinue and guard troops of the wealthy or highborn that were not unlike small personal armies. Mags had first had Tory observe agents of his who were mercs, then later required Tory to act exactly as a real merc would when working as an agent within a noble household or at the establishment of a rich merchant. He had managed everything from negotiating his own pay to tending his own arms and armor. Mags had required the same of Perry; he’d offered the training to Abi, who’d refused on the grounds she was unlikely to need it. And even though those had been trials and not actual jobs, the brothers had both worked as mercs, for at least a couple of moons. Kee hadn’t had the benefit of any of that because it was likely his father the King would have had quite a few objections—but Kee had the good sense to keep his mouth shut and follow Tory’s lead.
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