by Glen Cook
Tokar asked, “What’s with you, Bo?”
Bomanz raised one eyebrow, met the man’s gaze, did not answer. “Where’s the driver with the big shoulders?”
“Not with me anymore.” Tokar frowned.
“Thought not. I’ll be upstairs if something critical comes up.” He stamped through the shop, went up, settled in his chair, willed himself to sleep. His dreams were subtle. It seemed he could hear at last, but could not recall what he heard. …
Stancil entered the upstairs room. Bomanz asked, “What are we going to do? That crowd is gumming up the works.”
“How long do you need, Pop?”
“This could go all night every night for weeks if it works out.” He was pleased. Stancil had recovered his courage.
“Can’t hardly run them off.”
“And can’t go anywhere else, either.” The Guards were in a hard, bitter mood.
“How noisy will you be, Pop? Could we do it here, on the quiet?”
“Guess we’ll have to try. Going to be crowded. Get the stuff from the shop. I’ll make room.”
Bomanz’s shoulders slumped when Stancil left. He was getting nervous. Not about the thing he would challenge, but about his own foresight. He kept thinking he had forgotten something. But he had reviewed four decades of notes without detecting a flaw in his chosen approach. Any reasonably educated apprentice should be able to follow his formulation. He spat into a corner. “Antiquarian’s cowardice,” he muttered. “Old-fashioned fear of the unknown.”
Stancil returned. “Mom’s got them into a game of Throws.”
“I wondered what Snoopy was yelling about. Got everything?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Go down and kibbitz. I’ll be there after I set up. We’ll do it after they’re in bed.”
“Okay.”
“Stance? Are you ready?”
“I’m okay, Pop. I just had the jitters last night. It’s not every day I see a man killed by ghosts.”
“Better get a feel for that kind of thing. It happens.”
Stancil looked blank.
“You’re sneaking studies on Black Campus, aren’t you?” Black Campus was that hidden side of the university on which wizards learned their trade. Officially, it did not exist. Legally, it was prohibited. But it was there. Bomanz was a laureate graduate.
Stancil gave one sharp nod and left.
“I thought so,” Bomanz whispered, and wondered: How black are you, son?
He pottered around till he had triple-checked everything, till he realized that caution had become an excuse for not socializing. “You’re something,” he mumbled to himself.
One last look. Chart laid out. Candles. Bowl of quicksilver. Silver dagger. Herbs. Censers. … He still had that feeling. “What the hell could I have missed?”
Throws was essentially four-player checkers. The board was four times the usual size. Players played from each side. An element of chance was added by throwing a die before each move. If a player’s throw came up six, he could move any combination of pieces six moves. Checkers rules generally applied, except that a jump could be declined.
Snoopy appealed to Bomanz the moment he appeared. “They’re ganging up on me!” She was playing opposite Jasmine. Glory and Tokar were on her flanks. Bomanz watched a few moves. Tokar and the older sister were in cahoots. Conventional elimination tactics.
On impulse Bomanz controlled the fall of the die when it came to Snoopy. She threw a six, squealed, sent men charging all over. Bomanz wondered if he had been that rich in adolescent enthusiasm and optimism. He eyed the girl. How old? Fourteen?
He made Tokar throw a one, let Jasmine and Glory have what fate decreed, then gave Snoopy another six and Tokar another one. After a third time around Tokar grumbled, “This is getting ridiculous.” The balance of the game had shifted. Glory was about to abandon him and side with her sister against Jasmine.
Jasmine gave Bomanz the fish-eye when Snoopy threw yet another six. He winked, let Tokar throw free. A two. Tokar grumbled, “I’m on the comeback trail now.”
Bomanz wandered into the kitchen, poured himself a mug of beer. He returned to find Snoopy on the edge of disaster again. Her play was so frenetic she had to throw fours or better to survive.
Tokar, on the other hand, played a tediously conservative game, advancing in echelon, trying to occupy his flankers’ king rows. A man much like himself, Bomanz reflected. First he plays to make sure he doesn’t lose; then he worries about the win.
He watched Tokar roll a six and send a piece on an extravagant tour in which he took three men from his nominal ally, Glory.
Treacherous, too, Bomanz thought. That’s worth keeping in mind. He asked Stancil, “Where’s Clete?”
Tokar said, “He decided to stay with the teamsters. Thought we were crowding you too much.”
“I see.”
Jasmine won that game, and Tokar the next, whereupon the antique merchant said, “That’s all for me. Take my seat, Bo. See you all in the morning.”
Glory said. “I’m done, too. Can we go for a walk, Stance?”
Stancil glanced at his father. Bomanz nodded. “Don’t go far. The Guards are in a bad mood.”
“We won’t,” Stance said. His father smiled at his eager departure. It had been that way for him and Jasmine, long ago.
Jasmine observed, “A lovely girl. Stance is lucky.”
“Thank you,” Tokar said. “We think she’s lucky, too.”
Snoopy made a sour face. Bomanz allowed himself a wry smile. Somebody had a crush on Stancil. “Three-handed game?” he suggested. “Take turns playing the dummy till somebody is out?”
He let chance have its way with the players’ throws but turned five and sixes for the dummy. Snoopy went out and took the dummy. Jasmine seemed amused. Snoopy squealed delightedly when she won. “Glory, I won!” she enthused when her sister and Stancil returned, “I beat them.”
Stancil looked at the board, at his father. “Pop. …”
“I fought all the way. She got the lucky throws.”
Stancil smiled a disbelieving smile.
Glory said, “That’s enough, Snoopy. Bedtime. This isn’t the city. People go to bed early here.”
“Aw. …” The girl complained but went. Bomanz sighed. Being sociable was a strain.
His heartbeat quickened as he anticipated the night’s work.
Stancil completed a third reading of his written instructions. “Got it?” Bomanz asked.
“I guess.”
“Timing isn’t important—as long as you’re late, not early. If we were going to conjure some damnfool demon, you’d study your lines for a week.”
“Lines?” Stancil would do nothing but tend candles and observe. He was there to help if his father got into trouble.
Bomanz had spent the past two hours neutralizing spells along the path he intended to follow. The Moondog name had been a gold strike.
“Is it open?” Stancil asked.
“Wide. It almost pulls you. I’ll let you go yourself later in the week.”
Bomanz took a deep breath, exhaled. He surveyed the room. He still had that nagging feeling of having forgotten something. He hadn’t a hint what it might be. “Okay.”
He settled into the chair, closed his eyes. “Dumni,” he murmured. “Um muji dumni. Haikon. Dumni. Um muji dumni.”
Stancil pinched herbs into a diminutive charcoal brazier. Pungent smoke filled the room, Bomanz relaxed, let the lethargy steal over him. He achieved a quick separation, drifted up, hovered beneath the rafters, watched Stancil. The boy showed promise.
Bo checked his ties with his body. Good. Excellent! He could hear with both his spiritual and physical ears. He tested the duality further as he drifted downstairs. Each sound Stance made came through clearly.
He paused in the shop, stared at Glory and Snoopy. He envied them their youth and innocence.
Outside, the comet’s glow filled the night. Bomanz felt its power showering the earth. How m
uch more spectacular would it become by the time the world entered its mane?
Suddenly, she was there, beckoning urgently. He reexamined his ties to his flesh. Yes. Still in trance. Not dreaming. He felt vaguely ill at ease.
She led him to the Barrowland, following the path he had opened. He reeled under the awesome power buried there, away from the might radiating from the menhirs and fetishes. Seen from his spiritual viewpoint, they took the form of cruel, hideous monsters leashed on short chains.
Ghosts stalked the Barrowland. They howled beside Bomanz, trying to breach his spells. The power of the comet and the might of the warding spells joined in a thunder which permeated Bomanz’s being. How mighty were the ancients, he thought, that all this should remain after so long.
They approached the dead soldiers represented by pawns on Bomanz’s chart. He thought he heard footsteps behind him. … He looked back, saw nothing, realized he was hearing Stancil back at the house.
A knight’s ghost challenged him. Its hatred was as timeless and relentless as the pounding surf along a cold, bleak shore. He sidled around.
Great green eyes stared into his own. Ancient, wise, merciless eyes, arrogant, mocking, and contemptuous. The dragon exposed its teeth in a sneer.
This is it, Bomanz thought. What I overlooked. … But no. The dragon could not touch him. He sensed its irritation, its conviction that he would make a tasty morsel in the flesh. He hurried after the woman.
No doubt about it. She was the Lady. She had been trying to reach him, too. Best be wary. She wanted more than a grateful chela.
They entered the crypt. It was massive, spacious, filled with all the clutter that had been the Dominator’s in life. Clearly, that life had not been spartan.
He pursued the woman around a furniture pile—and found her vanished. “Where …?”
He saw them. Side by side, on separate stone slabs. Shackled. Enveloped by crackling, humming forces. Neither breathed, yet neither betrayed the grey of death. They seemed suspended, marking time.
Legend exaggerated only slightly. The Lady’s impact, even in this state, was immense. “Bo, you have a grown son.” Part of him wanted to stand on its hind legs and howl like an adolescent in rut.
He heard steps again. Damn that Stancil. Couldn’t he stand still? He was making racket enough for three people.
The woman’s eyes opened. Her lips formed a glorious smile. Bomanz forgot Stancil.
Welcome, said a voice within his mind. We have waited a long time, haven’t we?
Dumbstruck, he simply nodded.
I have watched you. Yes, I see everything in this forsaken wilderness. I tried to help. The barriers were too many and too great. That cursed White Rose. She was no fool.
Bomanz glanced at the Dominator. That huge, handsome warrior-emperor slept on. Bomanz envied him his physical perfection.
He sleeps a deeper sleep.
Did he hear mockery? He could not read her face. The glamor was too much for him. He suspected that had been true for many men, and that it was true that she had been the driving force of the Domination.
I was. And next time. …
“Next time?”
Mirth surrounded him like the tinkle of wind chimes in a gentle breeze. You came to learn, O wizard. How will you repay your teacher?
Here was the moment for which he had lived. His triumph lay before him. One part to go. …
You were crafty. You were so careful, took so long, even that Monitor discounted you. I applaud you, wizard.
The hard part. Binding this creature to his will.
Wind-chimes laughter. You don’t plan to bargain? You mean to compel?
“If I have to.”
You won’t give me anything?
“I can’t give you what you want.”
Mirth again. Silver-bells mirth. You can’t compel me.
Bomanz shrugged imaginary shoulders. She was wrong. He had a lever. He had stumbled onto it as a youth, had recognized its significance immediately, and had set his feet on the long path leading to this moment.
He had found a cipher. He had broken it and it had given him the Lady’s patronym, a name common in pre-Domination histories. Circumstances implicated one of that family’s several daughters as the Lady. A little historical detective work had completed the task.
So he had solved a mystery that had baffled thousands for hundreds of years.
Knowing her true name gave him the power to compel the Lady. In wizardry, the true name is identical with the thing. …
I could have shrieked. It seemed my correspondent ended on the brink of the very revelation for which I had been searching these many years. Damn his black heart.
This time there was a postscript, a little something more than story. The letter-writer had added what looked like chicken scratches. That they were meant to communicate I had no doubt. But I could make nothing of them. As always, there was neither signature nor seal.
The Barrow land
The rain never ceased. Mostly it was little more than a drizzle. When the day went especially well, it slackened to a falling mist. But always there was precipitation. Corbie went out anyway, though he complained often about aches in his leg.
“If the weather bothers you so, why stay here?” Case asked. “You said you think your kids live in Opal. Why not go down there and look for them yourself? At least the weather would be decent.”
It was a tough question. Corbie had yet to create a convincing answer. He had not yet found one that would do himself, let alone enemies who might ask.
There was nothing Corbie was afraid to do. In another life, as another man, he had challenged the hellmakers themselves, unafraid. Swords and sorcery and death could not intimidate him. Only people, and love, could terrify him.
“Habit, I guess,” he said. Weakly. “Maybe I could live in Oar. Maybe. I don’t deal well with people, Case. I don’t like them that much. I couldn’t stand the Jewel Cities. Did I tell you I was down there once?”
Case had heard the story several times. He suspected Corbie had been more than down there. He thought one of the Jewel Cities was Corbie’s original home. “Yeah. When the big Rebel push in Forsberg started. You told me about seeing the Tower on the way up.”
“That’s right. I did. Memory’s slipping. Cities. I don’t like them, lad. Don’t like them. Too many people. Sometimes there’s too many of them here. Was when I first came. Nowadays it’s about right. About right. Maybe too much fuss and bother because of the undead over there.” He poked his chin toward the Great Barrow, “But otherwise about right. One or two of you guys I can talk to. Nobody else to get in my way.”
Case nodded. He thought he understood while not understanding. He had known other old veterans. Most had had their peculiarities. “Hey! Corbie. You ever run into the Black Company when you was up here?”
Corbie froze, stared with such intensity the young soldier blushed. “Uh. … What’s the matter, Corbie? I say something wrong?”
Corbie resumed walking, his limp not slowing a furiously increased pace. “It was odd. Like you were reading my mind. Yes. I ran into those guys. Bad people. Very bad people.”
“My dad told us stories about them. He was with them during the long retreat to Charm. Lords, the Windy Country, the Stair of Tear, all those battles. When he got leave time after the battle at Charm, he came home. Told awful stories about those guys.”
“I missed that part. I got left behind at Roses, when Shifter and the Limper lost the battle. Who was your dad with? You’ve never talked about him much,”
“Nightcrawler. I don’t talk about him because we never got along.”
Corbie smiled. “Sons seldom get on with their fathers. And that’s the voice of experience speaking.”
“What did your father do?”
Corbie laughed. “He was a farmer. Of sorts. But I’d rather not talk about him.”
“What are we doing out here, Corbie?”
Double-checking Bomanz’s surveys. But Corbie co
uld not tell the lad that. Nor could he think of an adequate lie. “Walking in the rain.”
“Corbie. …”
“Can we keep it quiet for a while, Case? Please?”
“Sure.”
Corbie limped all the way around the Barrowland, maintaining a respectful distance, never being too obvious. He did not use equipment. That would bring Colonel Sweet on the run. Instead, he consulted the wizard’s chart in his mind. The thing blazed with its own life there, those arcane TelleKurre symbols glowing with a wild and dangerous life. Studying the remains of the Barrowland, he could find but a third of the map’s referents. The rest had been undone by time and weather.
Corbie was no man to have trouble with his nerve. But he was afraid now. Near the end of their stroll he said, “Case, I want a favor. Perhaps a double favor.”
“Sir?”
“Sir? Call me Corbie.”
“You sounded so serious.” It is serious.
“Say on, then.”
“Can you be trusted to keep your mouth shut?”
“If necessary.”
“I want to extract a conditional vow of silence.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Case, I want to tell you something. In case something happens to me.”
“Corbie!”
“I’m not a young man, Case. And I have a lot wrong with me. I’ve been through a lot. I feel it catching up. I don’t expect to go soon. But things happen. If something should, there’s something I don’t want to die with me.”
“Okay, Corbie.”
“If I suggested something, can you keep it to yourself? Even if you think you maybe shouldn’t? Can you do something for me?”
“You’re making it hard, not telling me.”
“I know. It’s not fair. The only other man I trust is Colonel Sweet. And his position wouldn’t let him make such a promise.”
“It’s not illegal?”
“Not strictly speaking.”
“I guess.”
“Don’t guess, Case.”
“All right. You have my word.”
“Good. Thank you. It is appreciated, never doubt that. Two things. First. If something happens to me, go to the room on the second floor of my home. If I have left an oilskin packet on the table there, see that it gets to a blacksmith named Sand, in Oar,”