The Lion Returns
Kurqosz stared down from his seven-foot-eight-inch height. His eyes seemed greener, his bristly hair more red, his skin more ivory than Macurdy remembered. His easy laugh was amiable and chilling.
"What then, you ask? Why, we will conquer, as our distant ancestors did in Hithmearc. And do what we please. First of all it will please us to punish the ylver for escaping us. Then we will domesticate the other peoples who dwell there, culling the intransigent. Cattle are invariably more profitable than their wild progenitors."
Crown Prince Kurqosz in a dream by Curtis Macurdy while at Wolf Springs
8 Good-byes and Farewells
In a black mood, Macurdy sold the house in town to Wiiri, from whom he'd bought it. He was leaving Nehtaka County, he said, leaving at once. Wiiri bought the pickup, too, and the saw. As a small-town entrepreneur, he bought and sold a lot of different things.
Mary's Aunt Hilmi offered to broker the sale of the quarter section and its buildings for him. She had wealthy connections in Portland. He said he didn't want to wait, and didn't want anything further to do with the place. So she bought it herself, for what seemed to him a lot of money. She warned him she expected to make money on it. He told her good enough, and welcome to it.
Having converted almost everything he owned into cash, he deposited it in the Nehtaka Bank, in a savings account. The banker suggested more lucrative investments, but he refused them. He then willed it all to his parents, their heirs and assigns, with Frank as executor.
Wiiri had suggested he keep the pickup for transportation, but Macurdy said the railroads and Greyhound would provide all the transportation he needed. When Wiiri asked where he was going, he said to visit his parents. From there, he added, he expected to leave the States, and go to the country his first wife had come from.
He did not, of course, specify the country.
On the 2,400-mile train ride to Indiana, he had abundant uninterrupted time. To think, if he cared to. Some of it he spent watching the mountains slide by, and the Great Plains. Saw pronghorn and coyotes, cattle gathered around toadstool-shaped haystacks, and great expanses of snow. Some of it was spent brooding on the past, and on what might have been. And much he spent reading-a Max Brand novel and Blue Book -escapist adventures.
But he spent none of it planning his future. He already knew what he'd do for his parents. As for himself, he had only intentions of a general sort. He didn't know what conditions he'd find.
One thing though he'd surely do: learn whether Varia was still married. She probably was, and her ylvin lord was a hell of a good man, any way he looked at it.
He spent several days on the farm with his parents. They lived now in the house where Will had lived, and Varia. Frank Jr., his wife and children, lived in the larger house. Curtis told them of losing his wife and daughter, and that he was going to the country where Varia was. "Who knows?" he said. "Maybe she lost her husband. Maybe we can get back together." It was an explanation, something to ease them, and who could say it wouldn't happen.
Frank Sr. and Edith weren't surprised at his youth. After they'd seen Curtis in '42, Charley had told them the family secret, about its occasional men who didn't age. Now Frank and Edith, in turn, told Frank Jr. and his wife. Curtis transferred his account in the Nehtaka Bank to one in Salem, Indiana. He made Frank Sr. a signator, and told him to manage it however he saw fit, for their parents' benefit. The money spooked Frank-he wanted nothing to do with it. But when Curtis countered that his only alternatives were lawyers and bankers, Frank reluctantly agreed.
He also had a new will drawn up-the old one retailored to Indiana law. He then told Frank he didn't expect ever to be back.
It was easy to leave Indiana again. The only things he took with him were the knife given him by the Ozian shaman, Arbel, along with several silver teklota and a couple of gold imperials. He'd left them in a dresser drawer when he'd gone to Oregon in '33, and it seemed to him he should have them when he returned to Yuulith.
It was a Saturday when Macurdy got off the train in Columbia, Missouri. Charles Hauser was there to meet him. They gripped hands, then to Macurdy's surprise, Hauser threw his arms around him and hugged him.
"God but it's good to see you, Macurdy!" he said. He stood back with his hands on the larger man's arms, grinning at him. "You don't know how good! And you're hard! Hugging you is like hugging an oak!" He stepped back half a step. "And young-looking! It's those ylvin genes, sure as heck. It was never real to me before that you wouldn't age, but you look as if you'd skipped those seventeen years."
Curtis shook his head. "They weren't skipped."
Hauser waited for him to elaborate, and when he didn't, spoke to fill the vacuum. "I didn't realize, till you phoned, how much I needed someone to talk with about the years in Yuulith. It was like an itch with no one to help scratch. An itch I'd gotten used to, but I still feel it from time to time."
Hauser had long since given up on ever hearing from Macurdy. They'd said good-bye on a showery spring day in 1933, at the Greyhound depot in St. Louis. Macurdy had Hauser's family's address, and had promised to write when he got settled, but never had. Then, three days past, Hauser had gotten a phone call. Macurdy had found him through Hauser's brother, on the farm in Adair County.
"Have you eaten lunch?" Hauser asked.
"No, I haven't."
"Good. I know a place." He laughed. "Chinese. The food's not great, but the help doesn't understand much English, so we can talk freely. There are things you need to know before you meet my wife. Our stories need to gibe."
They sat over lunch for an hour and a half, getting refills on the tea. Macurdy said little, mostly monosyllables. It was Hauser who talked, his story beginning with their return from Yuulith. Before he could go back to the university and complete his graduate work, he'd realized, he'd have to account for the years he'd been gone. He and Professor Talbott. And if he'd told the real truth, the university would have dismissed him promptly as insane.
So before returning home to Adair County, he'd lived for several weeks in a flophouse in St. Louis. His days and evenings he'd spent in the downtown library, doing research for a fictional explanation that might be believed. The result was a story almost as bizarre as the truth, but far more acceptable.
The '30s were a period when stories by Melville, Stevenson, London, Conrad, Maugham-and films based on them-had made the little known reaches of Oceania seem both real and romantic to millions. Hauser laughed. "Before the war put it in a different light, and changed all that.
"I had more than ten years to account for, in a way that explained Talbott's absence, and why I hadn't notified anyone. What I came up with explained other disappearances around Injun Knob, as well.
"A number of banks had been robbed in the mid-South, in the years after the First World War. My story was that several bank robbers had holed up on an old farm near Neeley's Corners, and Talbott and I ran into them by accident. They didn't know how much we knew, so they tied us up. What they were doing, actually, was financing a gun-running operation for would-be rebels in Peru, the APRA."
Hauser had shifted into a delivery sounding like personal history instead of fiction. "From there they took us with them as captives and flunkies, on an auxiliary schooner headed for Peru. We went through the Panama Canal bound hand and foot in a storage locker. Once in the Pacific, the schooner's crew murdered the bank robbers and headed west for the Orient. Apparently the captain knew about the money, and decided he had better uses for it than to finance rebellion.
"And they took Talbott and me along, still as flunkies. We knew only that we were headed west. Neither of us spoke Spanish, but both of us heard the name Manila repeatedly. After a few weeks, we ran into a bad storm. The schooner lost her masts, the diesel broke down, and she was half-filled with water. Our captors abandoned her in the lifeboat, leaving us behind.
"That night the storm died down, and we were still afloat. The next day we got lucky-another small sailing ship picked us up. We had no idea what language they spoke to each other. To us they spoke pidgin, but no more than they needed for giving orders. We were still flunkies."
Hauser grunted musingly, as if remembering those times. "Eventually we got to some godforsaken islands, their home. And Talbott's grave. I don't know what he died of. He seemed to just wear out. I was still pretty much a slave, not treated badly, but worked hard.
"Most of the people were fishermen and subsistence farmers, but some of their men were in interisland trade, hauling goods on their homemade sailing ships. And some I suspect were pirates. I still don't know where I was. The Malay Archipelago probably, or the Moluccas. Like the crew, the people spoke pidgin to me. Later I was taken as crew on another sailing vessel, and ended up on still another island, where I was put to work husking coconuts."
He made it sound as if it had really happened. "From there," Hauser continued, "I worked my way on different boats, figuring that sooner or later I'd get somewhere civilized. Eventually I wound up at Batangas, in the Philippines. It felt literally like a dream, seeing stores, carremetos, even motor vehicles-and actually being answered in English! You can't imagine what it was like. Except, of course, you can."
He grinned at Macurdy. "We can account for you as an orphaned kid I took under my wing, on a tramp steamer from Manila. You were eight years old."
Concocting the story had been the easy part, he went on. Learning enough to make it real and convincing had taken most of his time. Finally he'd left St. Louis, and hitchhiked to his family's farm, where he'd spent the summer working for his older brother. In September he went back to the university. After rehabbing and updating his science, he'd been hired as a teaching assistant, and completed his master's studies. Then he'd been hired as an instructor, and later promoted to assistant professor.
"It's been a good life, Macurdy," he finished. Serious now. "The bad times-the years of slavery in Oz-don't seem as bad in retrospect. 'Time heals' can be more than a cliche' He paused, then added: "If you let it."
He looked at his watch. "It's time to take you home with me. Grace will wonder if something's happened to us. Later we'll go somewhere and talk some more. And I'll nag you till you open up to me."
Hauser's home was a pleasant bungalow near the campus. His amiable, middle-aged wife made Macurdy welcome, and did not ask intrusive questions. They sat around and talked idly about current affairs-political, international, the approaching baseball season…
After supper, Hauser excused himself and Macurdy, and they "went for a long walk." The evening was mild for early March, but coats were welcome. Briefly they walked around the campus, talking idly again, Hauser nudging Curtis verbally, trying still unsuccessfully to draw him out. Then they went to Hauser's office in the Physics Building, hung up their coats and sat down.
"So," Hauser said bluntly. "What brought you here? Obviously it wasn't any compulsion to tell me what you've been doing. You haven't said 'peep' about your life."
Curtis sat silently for another long moment. "I'm heading for Injun Knob," he said at last. "I'm going back to Yuulith."
"Huh! What brought that on?"
Speaking slowly at first, and in a monotone, Macurdy gave a synopsis of the past seventeen years. He didn't cover everything-among other things, he left out passing through the Bavarian Gate, and his weeks in Hithmearc. But he provided a basic picture. By the time he'd finished, he seemed to Hauser a little more like the old Macurdy, as if looking back had put things in perspective.
Hauser nodded. "I understand," he said. "C'mon. Let's go home."
On Sunday morning, Macurdy went to church with them, an Episcopal church. The sermon had nothing to do with witchcraft or shunning. After dinner, the two men walked to the campus, sat in Hauser's office again and talked, Macurdy participating somewhat.
Even as a slave, Hauser had pondered on how two parallel worlds, with their differences and their gates, could exist in an orderly cosmos. He was, after all, a professor of physics. But he'd come up with nothing very satisfying.
"Did you ever talk with Arbel about it?" Macurdy asked.
Hauser shook his head. "Arbel never showed a sign of thinking outside the traditional Yuulith cosmogony he'd grown up with. His was a wisdom of doing. He knew a lot of things intuitively, but not beyond those that were useful to what he did as an Ozian shaman.
"I'm sure he never wondered about the gate. To him it just was, a fact of life."
Macurdy nodded. "I guess I'm like Arbel in that. I'm not much for wondering."
Hauser chuckled. "You and most of the world."
"I remember you saying something about parallel universes."
Hauser nodded. "Even then I knew quite a bit of quantum theory. According to one notion, every time a decision is made, the universe splits. So theoretically there's an infinite number of universes. And theoretically, Yuulith could be one of them."
Macurdy frowned. "Sounds like an awful lot of universes. Where would they all fit?"
"They wouldn't have to fit anywhere. They'd be mutually exclusive. In any one universe, the others wouldn't exist."
Macurdy looked at the idea. "But Yuulith exists. You and I know that. And there's a gate between them, so in a way, they exist together."
Hauser shrugged. "Whatever is, is, whether we can explain it or not. And if something is, there's a true explanation for it, whether we've worked it out or not."
He paused. "D'you know what bothers me most? Our guns. They didn't work on the other side."
"Maybe they would have, if our cartridges had still had powder in them."
Hauser ignored the reply. "The rules of chemistry can't be different there. If they were, too many things would be changed: biochemistry, the metabolism of humans, other animals, plants… They'd be different, very different, all across the board." He shook his head. "Presumably our cartridges had powder in them on this side, and it was gone on the other. As if-as if God had emptied them in transit. My problem with that is, if there is a god, I can't believe he'd work that way. He'd set up the basic rules, and things would operate accordingly."
Macurdy shrugged. "It happened. That's enough for me. I pried the slugs out of three cartridges-two. 44s and one. 45-. 70. None of them had any powder at all." He paused, remembering the TNT the Nazi SS had stockpiled for the voitar. Why hadn't the voitar accepted it? Probably because they'd taken some through, or tried to, and it hadn't worked. But it sure as hell did on this side. "Whatever happened," he finished, "it was probably in the gate. It has rules of its own."
Hauser shook his head. "There still has to be some physico-chemical reason," he said, and grinned without humor. "Every now and then I wallow around with that for an hour at a time. Then I pour myself a short glass of scotch, and read a mystery novel. Where everything's explained in the last chapter."
The next day, Hauser took his guest to the railroad depot, where he saw him off on a train to Poplar Bluff. He'd suggested that Macurdy wait till Thursday, a partly open day for him. Then he'd drive him to Injun Knob in his car. Macurdy had declined the offer. "I need to get on with it," he'd said.
On the platform beside the train, Hauser took a gold coin from his watch pocket, and held it out to him. "I still have one of those imperials you gave me-my lucky gold piece. Take it. You might need it."
Macurdy smiled, something he hadn't often done on this visit. "You keep it. I've got a couple of them too, and some silver teklota. And my luck is getting better on its own. I can feel it."
Hauser returned the coin to his pocket, and the two men shook hands. Hauser laughed. "I almost told you to write, and let me know how you're doing."
Macurdy added his own laugh, then the conductor called, "All aboard!" The two men shook hands, and Macurdy swung aboard the train. Hauser waited on the platform till the car began to pull away. They waved good-bye to each other through a window, then Hauser left.
9 Injun Knob
It was a considerable hike from Neeley's Corners to the conjure woman's tiny farmhouse at the foot of Injun Knob. The road was better than it had been in 1933. It was graveled and graded. Macurdy took no luggage, carrying nothing except the coins, and the sheath knife Arbel had given him. He wore jump boots, a set of army surplus fatigues, a surplus field jacket and fatigue cap. He needed none of it to keep him warm-he drew on the Web of the World-but he'd long preferred not to be too apparent about it.
It was twilight when he approached the cabin, the roof and walls of which were built of shakes. The only conspicuous change was a cross in the front yard, taller than Macurdy. He was still a couple hundred feet away when a large farm dog rushed raging and roaring from beneath the stoop, to dance around Macurdy not six feet distant, showing lots of teeth, forcing him to stop and pivot, and keep facing it. He'd about decided to shoot a plasma ball at it when a man stepped onto the stoop, shouting angrily. Reluctantly, the growling dog drew back, then trotted off behind the house.
Macurdy continued to the cabin. The waiting man appeared to be in his thirties, and looked gaunt but strong. "What can I do for yew?" he asked.
"I've walked from Neeley's Corners," Macurdy told him.
It wasn't an answer, but the man stepped back. "Well c'mon in. I expect yer hungry." Macurdy entered. "Flo," the man said, "we got us a visitor. A hungry one. Fry up some eggs and fat back."
Without a word, she put aside her mending and went into the kitchen. "Sit," the man told him, and gestured to a homemade cane chair. "What brings ya into these parts?"
Macurdy sat, realizing he hadn't concocted a covering story. "To see the old woman that used to live here," he said. "I knew her when I was a boy. Wondered if she was still alive."
"She's not," the man replied. Scowling now. "Dead a dozen years. She was a witch, and the Devil finally took her." He got up, turning to the kitchen. "Flo, hold up on those eggs and salt pork." Then he faced Macurdy again. "What sort of truck did yew have with her?"
Macurdy looked coolly up at him. "She introduced me to the mountain. Injun Knob." An impulse struck him. "The holy mountain."
The man flinched as if struck, and his answer was a startling near shout. "It was a cursed mountain, while she was here! The Devil come to it every month! Took living sacrifices, held orgies! When we first come here, we built the cross agin it in the front yard, and prayed morning and night! We still pray daily to God to keep it clean!" His eyes flared. "Holy mountain! If that's what yew think of it…"
Standing, Macurdy cut him off. "Mister," he said calmly, "that old conjure woman was twice the Christian you are." He paused, while the man stared bug-eyed. "I'll tell you why I came here. I'm going up the mountain and open it up again. I've been through it before, and others like it. And I'll tell them on the other side…"
The man roared with anger, then stepped toward the fireplace, reaching for an old shotgun hanging there.
Macurdy gestured, and instantly the shotgun's barrel and metal fittings were searing hot. When the man took it from its pegs, he squealed with unexpected pain and cast it from him. The shell in the chamber went off spontaneously, pellets gouging a wall. Terrified, he fell to his knees, his blistering hands cupped in front of him.
"Bring water!" Macurdy said to the woman who stared in from the kitchen door. Then he turned and walked out. The dog didn't appear. As if it knew better.
Macurdy was in a state of self-disgust as he started up the forested knob. You're lucky that shotgun didn't blow a hole in you, he told himself. Would have served you right, after mocking and insulting that poor ignorant sonofabitch. He only did what he thought was right. If you're not careful, you'll turn into another Margaret.
It occurred to Macurdy then to wonder about the efficacy of prayer. Did it actually work? Sometimes, he decided. When the cause is just. But still-
What would he do if the gate didn't open anymore? He himself had destroyed the Bavarian Gate, though by nothing as mild as prayer. He wondered if Hithmearc, the land it had led to, was in the same universe as Yuulith. There was, he decided, no way to know. Meanwhile, if the man's prayers had shut off the Ozark Gate, maybe he could find the Kentucky Gate.
At the very top of Injun Knob, another cross had been raised. Midnight was hours away. He sat down and leaned against it, feeling somehow soothed and relaxed. There was a promise of hard frost in the air, and he thought the formula that tapped the Web of the World for warmth.
He was, he told himself, wise to go back to Yuulith. He had friends there. And people were used to the idea of some folks not aging, because the ylver and the Sisters didn't age. Not till they'd lived close to a century. Then, of course, they went downhill like a runaway buggy with a stone wall at the bottom.
He closed his eyes, wondering if just possibly he could connect with Vulkan psychically from where he sat. But nothing happened, and his mind wandered. He thought of Omara. What might she think of marrying him? Would the Sisterhood allow it? Would she still feel the way she had about him? But first he'd look up Varia. Maybe Cyncaidh had died. Of course, if he had, Varia might have married someone else. She had no reason to expect him back.
He realized what he was thinking, and it struck him as disloyal to Mary, so recently buried. But the thought lacked teeth. He was on the doorstep to another world, another universe. Continuation of another life.
Then he slipped into sleep, and dreamed good dreams that he wouldn't remember.
10 Wolf Springs
There was a moment of startled nightmare as the gate sucked Macurdy in, then spit him out, to roll across last summer's wet grass and leaves.
The crossing had wakened him like a tomcat dropped into a pit of bulldogs. But the transit was familiar now, and the fear a momentary reaction to being jerked violently and unprepared from sleep. On the Oz side it was drizzling, and daylight, the noon nearest the full moon. (The phases of the moon were in synch with the phases on Injun Knob, but day and night were reversed.)
He got to his feet and looked around. Four Ozian warriors stood a little way off, watching him and speaking quiet Yuultal. They held their spears ready, for clearly this was no ordinary victim, sick in guts and limbs, or likelier comatose.
Macurdy folded thick arms across his chest. "I'm Macurdy, the Lion of Farside," he announced in their own dialect. "I've come back. Take me to the headman."
It was actually Arbel whom Macurdy wanted to see, but it was politic to visit the headman first. His march to the village was unlike that first one. The corporal in charge walked beside him. It was clear from the man's aura that he was awed. The others followed, equally impressed. No one jabbed him from behind with their spear, harassing him, making blood run down the back of his legs. It was obvious his reputation still lived, perhaps exaggerated even more than before.
He'd half expected there'd be no warriors waiting to see what or who came through. If anything did. With the old conjure woman a dozen years gone, there'd be no sacrificial gifts put out, and perhaps no reckless rural adolescents, waiting on a dare for "the spirit to come a-hootin'." As for the Sisterhood-he had no idea whether they still used the gate.
The district headman's residence seemed unchanged, but the old headman had died. His replacement had been a soldier in what was now being called Quaie's War. "I saw you on the march," the man told him, "and at the Battle of Ternass. And when you came back to Wolf Springs afterward. You have the long youth." Then he offered Macurdy the hospitality of his home, and his choice of slave girls.
Macurdy answered that he'd come to Oz for a purpose. He'd soon be leaving for the east, and wanted to consult with Arbel, his old mentor.
The headman was relieved. How do you entertain a legend? It was easier to have them go away, and tell stories about them afterward.
Macurdy had arrived with no actual plan, only a few intentions and hopes. When he'd left seventeen years earlier, he'd intended to return someday-an intention forgotten, once he'd met Mary. Vulkan had said he'd know when Macurdy came back; that they had things to do together. Meanwhile Macurdy felt no urgency. Who knew how far Vulkan would have to come. Or whether, after so long, other things had come up.
Once Macurdy had finished his courtesy call on the headman, he walked to Arbel's house. It looked as he remembered it, except the whitewash was fresher. It was long and linear, its walls a kind of stucco-four large rooms plus storage rooms, with a full-length loft. Moss and grass grew on its steep roof. There were windows in every room, with translucent membrane-the abdominal lining of cattle-stretched across them in lieu of glass, to let in light. In summer, fine-meshed fabric would replace the membranes, admitting breezes but not mosquitoes. When storm threatened, the shutters would be closed. Just now, smoke rose sluggishly from two of the four chimneys, then settled and flowed down the roof.
Macurdy knocked, and a young man opened the door, frowning uncertainly at the formidable figure in peculiar clothes. "Who are you," he asked, "and what do you want?"
"I'm Macurdy. I've come to see my old teacher."
The young man's jaw fell, and for a moment he simply stared. "Macurdy? Just a minute! I'll tell my master!" Then turning, he hurried out of sight, leaving Macurdy smiling on the stoop.
Within a minute, Arbel himself was there. At sight of Macurdy, he grinned broadly, a facial expression he seldom indulged in. "Macurdy!" he said, stepping aside. "Come in! Come in!" Macurdy entered, and Arbel closed the door behind him. "I dreamed of you last night," the old man told him, "but it did not feel prophetic."
He ushered him through one room and into another that served as workshop and storeroom. A young woman was there, pestling dried herbs, and looked up as they entered. "Do you know who this is?" Arbel asked Macurdy.
It took only a moment to recognize her: dark complexion, large dark eyes, thin curved nose and narrow mouth. And poised. At Macurdy's last visit, seventeen years earlier, she'd been Arbel's twelve-year-old apprentice. She was of average height, not tall as she'd promised to be, and wiry now instead of gangly. To a degree, her aura resembled Arbel's. Arbel's marked him as someone whose interest was in learning; healing provided a focus. Her central interest was in healing; earning provided a means. Both were patient and tolerant, she more than Arbel, Macurdy suspected. But her tolerance, like Arbel's, was underlain with firmness.
An interesting pair, he thought. She'd be twenty-nine, and Arbel near seventy. Maybe they knew an herb that kept him frisky.
"You're Kerin," Macurdy said, answering Arbel's question. "His assistant now, I suppose."
"And his wife," she answered. "He insisted you are one of the unaging. Obviously he was right. But you haven't gone untouched by life."
She reads auras too, he decided. "Untouched?" he said. "Beaten up by it, from time to time. No worse than lots of others, though."
No worse than lots of others. Having said it, he realized its truth, and wondered if she'd led him to it.
Macurdy spent several weeks at Wolf Springs. It was Arbel who dealt with the cases brought to his home. Kerin rode the rounds of the district, making house calls. Usually she was home for supper, but sometimes it was later. The cooking was done by the slave who'd met Macurdy at the door.
Arbel chuckled, talking about it. People expected prompt service when they brought the patient in, and expected it from the old master himself. With house calls they were less demanding. "Kerin has great gifts of insight and intuition," he said. "It's rare these days that I can do more for them than she can, and there are cases she handles better than I. But prejudice is hard to argue with."
He was interested in Macurdy's stories of healing in World War II, and invited him to sit in on his sessions. Macurdy accepted gladly. They would add to his own skills.
But his mornings he spent in physical activity. After an early breakfast, he'd saddle a horse to ride the country lanes and forest trails. His old war horse, Hog, was still alive and sound, though twenty-eight years old, and no longer much for running. Hog had belonged to Macurdy all those years, but been Arbel's to use. For some years, Arbel had used the big gelding on his rounds of the district. Then Kerin had taken over that duty, and Hog carried her. Now Arbel traded for him, became Hog's actual owner, in return for a splendid eight-year-old named Warrior.
In a fey mood, Macurdy renamed his new horse Piglet, though it was nearly as large as Hog. It was easy to laugh now, as if passage through the gate had finished healing the trauma of Mary's death, though the scar would remain.
He rode about swordless. Instead, in a saddle sheath, he carried a woodsman's ax, and on his belt, the heavy knife Arbel had given him so long ago. He'd stop awhile in a river woods, and practice throwing both knife and ax at sycamores, silver maples, gums and cottonwoods, renewing skills that had served him well in Yuulith. And in Oregon had led to his marriage.
For more vigorous exercise, he cut and split firewood for Arbel. And practiced with the Wolf Springs militia-two evenings a week with the youth class, and on Six-Day afternoons with the veterans. He would, he supposed, need his old warrior skills, which had rusted considerably. Fortunately they derusted quickly, for every eye was on him, and it seemed important that his reputation continue strong.
Meanwhile the redbud trees bloomed, then the dogwoods and basswoods. The elms and others burst buds, sheening the forest with thin and delicate green.
They were busy days, improving his healing and fighting skills, cutting wood, savoring the progress of spring… but all were secondary to reunion with Vulkan. Vulkan would know where to take him, or send him, and what to do next.
For the feeling had grown in Macurdy that he had a reason to be in Yuulith beyond making a new life for himself, with a woman who did not age.
At the end of the fourth week, he was visited by a strange dream. In it he found himself wearing an SS uniform. But not in Bavaria. This was on a coast, somewhere in Hithmearc, and he was visiting a shipyard with Crown Prince Kurqosz. One minute the ships were square-rigged-barks. A moment later they'd be LCMs-World War II landing craft. Kurqosz told him he was going to take an army across the Ocean Sea in them, to conquer a land called Vismearc. Which worried Macurdy, for it seemed to him that Vismearc was America.
Knowing the Voitusotar, Macurdy wondered how any of them could make it across the ocean alive. Kurqosz answered that he was taking an army of monsters across. "Monsters?" Macurdy asked. Then he remembered his dreams during the war, of huge monsters trampling GIs on the beach, and flailing them with anchor chains.
Now Kurqosz was accompanied by a human woman. Macurdy asked why. The crown prince laughed. "I like their fuller curves," he said, "and their submissiveness. And when they are fertile with us, their boy children are rakutur. Very useful, the rakutur." Then the woman was Varia. She winked at him, and as if it was a signal, Macurdy woke up.
That morning at breakfast, he told Arbel he was leaving before lunch. That he'd dreamt it was time to go. Arbel examined Macurdy's aura. "Yes," he said, "I see it is."
Well before midmorning, Macurdy had his saddlebags and bedroll on Piglet. Along with the war gear he'd left with Arbel seventeen years earlier: helmet, saber, and a light-weight, dwarf-made byrnie, all still shimmering with Kittul Kendersson's protective spells.
Swinging into the saddle, he gave Arbel a good-bye salute, then rode off down the dirt track that in Wolf Springs constituted the main street. Quickly he was out in the countryside, headed for Oztown, the capital.
11 Zassfel
It was early dusk when Macurdy arrived at Oztown. By standards west of the Great Muddy River, Oztown was populous, with three or four thousand people. But it was rural nonetheless, with corn patches, chickens, cows, pigs, horses… Macurdy had a mile to ride down its principal "street" to reach the chief's residence.
Riding past a tavern, Macurdy thought he recognized a large man about to go inside. Though if he was right, the man had changed a lot. Guiding Piglet to the hitching rail, Macurdy dismounted and secured the reins. Then he cast a light concealment spell over the animal-enough to make him easily ignored-and went in.
The place reeked of pine torches. He looked the room over. The man he wanted was bellied up to the bar, and Macurdy walked over to stand beside him. "Hello, Zassfel," he said quietly.
The face that turned to him was fleshy, florid, and considerably scarred. For just a moment the eyes squinted suspiciously at Macurdy, then widened in recognition. "You!"
"Me. What are you drinking?"
It took a moment for Zassfel to answer. "Whiskey. What else?"
At that moment, the barkeeper set a glass of it in front of Zassfel. "Five coppers," he said.
"On me," Macurdy told him, "and I'll have one." He dug into a pocket and came up with a silver teklota. The barkeeper peered at it, then went to his scale and weighed it, returning with a smaller silver coin and several coppers.
Zassfel's look reverted to suspicion, underlain by hostility. "What are you buying me whiskey for?" he growled. "I'm no friend of yours."
"For old times' sake. I'm just back from Farside. Visiting old friends, and maybe curing old grudges."
Zassfel scowled. "This one'll take a lot of curing."
Macurdy deliberately misunderstood. "Not too much," he said. "Sure you had five guys jump me and beat me up. But that was a long time ago, and I evened the score the next day."
The old sergeant's mouth twisted, then he knocked back half his tumbler of whiskey. "You ruined my life," he said. "That damn Esoksson kicked me out of the Heroes, and I had less than a year to serve. One more year and I'd have had a big farm, livestock, and slaves to do most of the work."
"Huh? How did I make that happen? A slave like I was?"
"You took that dog-humping spear maiden with you, and that weasel Jeremid. Then people started saying it was my fault-that I'd 'abused my authority'-and Esoksson kicked me out."
Macurdy had started to react to the slanders against Melody and Jeremid, then let them pass. Zassfel took a smaller swallow and continued. "Then, after you got famous, and everyone was kissing your ass, they started throwing shit at me. 'Zassfel's a stupid horse turd,' they said. I had to start reminding them how I made platoon sergeant. Beat the shit out of three or four," he added with satisfaction. "After that they didn't say it where I could hear them."
"Ah," said Macurdy, nodding sympathetically. "Life can be like that."
Zassfel's scowl returned. "What ever happened to you, that you can say that? Everything fell in your lap."
"Not really. My first wife got stolen by the Sisters and ended up married to an ylf. And Melody drowned; broke through the ice." He didn't mention Mary and the baby. "And after I went back to Farside, there was a big war there. I got scars you wouldn't believe. Damn near bled to death." He laughed. "Not to mention your guys beating the shit out of me, just down the street from here. Didn't have a tooth left, except for my grinders."
Zassfel peered carefully at Macurdy's grin, then finished his whiskey. "I heard about you growing them all back. You're not even human. Part ylf on one side, part Sister on the other." Macurdy didn't trouble to correct him, but let him talk on. "Ylf, Sister, it's all the same thing, though. When I knew you before, we looked about the same age." He gestured. "Now look at me."
Macurdy signaled the barkeeper, then looked Zassfel up and down. "You don't look so bad, for someone that lives hard. I'll bet there's not many guys pick fights with you. What do you do these days?"
"Damn right they don't. One thing I've kept is my strength. I got a wagon and team. I haul stuff. Whatever anyone wants hauled, I load and haul it. And I'm not doing bad. I even got me a slave, a pretty good screw. She's home with the kids."
The two men stayed in the tavern till late, mostly trading off buying. Macurdy used the spell he'd concocted, based on one of Arbel's, to metabolize the alcohol as fast as he absorbed it. A spell he'd used in the army during World War II, to let him drink with his buddies without getting drunk.
Zassfel asked to see Macurdy's scars from the war on Farside, and Macurdy dropped his pants to show him. That got the attention of the tavern's patrons, who gathered around to see. The truth would have been incomprehensible to them, so Macurdy answered creatively. "You've got to watch out for those war dogs," he explained, and patted his scarred buttocks, torn by mortar shell fragments on Sicily. "You get busy with people in front of you, they'll hit you from behind."
It was the long surgical scars on his right leg that impressed the audience most, though. "Bhroig's balls, Macurdy!" Zassfel said. "I never seen scars like those before! What happened?"
Again Macurdy answered creatively. "I got knocked out of my saddle, and trampled by horses. A Farside shaman cut my leg open and put the bones together again."
Zassfel nodded thoughtfully, his eyes on Macurdy's groin. "And that's a real club you've got there. The party girls would have loved it." He paused, thinking, his lips pursed. "But you got the best of it. You got the spear maiden."
Zassfel had a large capacity for booze, but after a time he fell down on his way to the latrine out back. Macurdy helped him up, and Zassfel relieved his bladder in the weeds. He wasn't the first. It smelled of urine and vomit there.
"I'm drunk," he slurred. "Don' usually get this bad. Gotta get up early. Big job t'do, take all day." He laughed. "One thing 'bout me, never hung over." He patted his thick belly. "There's muscle behin' this. Drink all night, an' outwork anyone the nex' day."
Steadying himself, he thrust out a hand. "Shake, ol' buddy," he said. "Le's see how strong you are."
They gripped, Macurdy careful not to squeeze too hard. "That's a hell of a grip you've got, Zassfel," he said. "There's damn few I can't grip down."
Zassfel smirked. "Damn right. Same here." He paused, peering at Macurdy. "You know what?" he said.
"No. What?"
"You're all right, Macurdy. Damn if you aren't! I didn' give you credit before. 'Member that jaguar we treed…?"
After another drink, they left the tavern together, Zassfel weaving along, singing bawdy songs off-key. It wasn't far to his house. When they got there, his wife had put the kids to bed. She'd been pretty once, Macurdy realized, probably one of the party girls brought to the House of Heroes on Six-Day evenings. She'd gotten somewhat hefty over the years, but bore no overt signs of abuse.
"Macurdy," Zassfel said, "this is Kleffi. She's a good woman and a good hump. You wanna try her, iss okay." He paused. "Or not. Thass okay too. I 'member how you never humped the party girls."
"You're right," Macurdy said, "I never did. That's an old custom among some people. They just hump their wives."
Zassfel nodded sagely. "Differn' people got differn' ways. Thass a fack." He paused. "You sure you don' wanna hump her?"
Macurdy nodded soberly. "I know she's good. I can tell those things. But for me, it wouldn't be all right to."
Zassfel peered at him, simultaneously earnest and vague, then reached for Macurdy's hand. This time it didn't turn into a gripdown. Instead the ex-sergeant stood silent, Macurdy's big paw grasped in his own. "You're all right, Macurdy," he repeated after a long moment, the words quiet. "You're all right… You're all right…" He paused, then gave the hand a weak squeeze, a slight shake, as if the evening had suddenly caught up with him. "You're all right," he said.
Then he let go. Macurdy clapped the Ozman's big shoulder and left.
He returned to the tavern for Piglet, then hired a bed in an inn. Afterward he took Piglet to a livery stable across the street, let him drink all he wanted, and saw that he had hay and oats. He brushed and rubbed him down himself. Then, in his room, he wove an insect repellent field about himself, and went to bed.
He did not sleep at once. Instead he reviewed his evening with Zassfel. And realized how good he felt about it. It had been healing for both of them, and it seemed to Macurdy that it marked a turning point in his life.
12 Vulkan
The next morning, Macurdy paid a courtesy call on the Chief of the Oz, and managed to be on his way again before midday. He wouldn't worry about Vulkan finding him. He'd found him before, without even knowing who, exactly, he was looking for. Presumably he'd find him again, if he was still interested. Meanwhile, Macurdy would cross the Great Muddy, ride southeast to the Green River Valley, and thence to the royal palace at Teklapori. Except for Arbel-and Varia, he hoped, and maybe Omara-his best human friends in Yuulith were in Tekalos. Pavo Wollerda was king there, or had been when Macurdy had left, and Jeremid had a farm in the Kullvordi Hills.
The route was familiar, and lovely in advanced spring. On the third day he rode a ferry raft across the Great Muddy into the kingdom of Miskmehr, rich in forested hills and valley farms, though not in money. The Miskmehri had provided two cohorts of tough, self-reliant infantry to fight the ylver in Quaie's War. Earlier, during Quaie's Incursion, only an unprotected border had separated them from the savage fate of Kormehr, and the memory had still been fresh.
Meanwhile, the weather had changed from showery to bright, cool at night, warm by day. Drawing on the Web of the World for nighttime warmth, Macurdy found it simpler and more pleasant to sleep beneath the forest canopy or open sky, than in an inn or some farmer's barn. Metabolic energy in general he could draw from the Web, thus even eating was less urgent than it would otherwise have been. Though his stomach complained when he didn't. For vitamins, minerals, proteins, he stopped at farms along the way, buying cheese, scrawny chickens, overwintered vegetables and wizened apples. And ate the mild forest leeks abundant in that season, until the smell of him could have repelled barn flies at twenty feet.
In time, the winding dirt road he'd been riding reached the wider, straighter dirt road known as the Valley Highway. At the junction, the brush-tangled forest blowdown where he'd earned the friendship of the dwarves, and the enmity of Slaney's brigands, was thick young forest now, fifty feet tall.
It was there he was halted by a voice he knew well, deep and resonating within his skull. ‹Aha! Macurdy! I knew I'd meet you soon.›
It was thought, not words that reached him. About forty yards ahead, a great boar trotted from the forest. In size, it suggested an Angus bull, though the large head and tusks, the high shoulders, the deep narrow body that tapered toward the hindquarters, all were strictly wild hog. Piglet began to prance skittishly, and Macurdy reined him in, while patting the arching neck. "Whoa, boy, easy now, easy…" Then a wordless calm washed over them both, intended for Piglet, who quickly settled down.
"Vulkan!" Macurdy called, "I figured you'd find me! When did you know I was back?"
The boar trotted casually toward them, stopping half a dozen yards away when Piglet shifted restlessly again. There was black muck on the tusked snout, as if it had been rooting up skunk cabbages. And suddenly Macurdy was unsure whom he faced, for this creature had red eyes.
Then the boar answered. ‹I sensed a month ago that you were back. I was visiting the Scrub Coast, the ocean coast, reminding them of our existence. It is one of my duties. In this world, it is intended that humankind know a…› He paused, his mind tinged with amusement. ‹… know a larger reality than on Farside. And of course, I must maintain my myth; that is another duty.
‹And on my way back to meet you, I stopped to visit the King in Silver Mountain.›
"The dwarf king? They let you inside the mountain? I thought everyone was scared of you."
‹The dwarves do not fear us. A great boar befriended them in an earlier age. In the time of the high trolls, an experiment gone awry. You are not the only outsider they call dwarf friend.›
"When I knew you before, your eyes were black. Now…"
‹Now they are red. They make me more impressive, which makes you more impressive.›
"Me?"
‹You.›
Macurdy contemplated that a moment, then set it aside. "How are we going to travel together, with me riding Piglet?"
‹He will be all right now. Though you may want to leave him at Teklapori.›
"Teklapori? How did you know I was going there?"
‹Where else? When we leave there for the north-assuming you choose to-I can carry you. It will be a bigger public sensation if you ride on me.›
Macurdy laughed. "You got that right." He paused. "North together?"
‹If you so choose.›
"Why do you want to create a public sensation?"
‹A maximum of fame-suitable fame-will be useful to your task.›
"My task." Macurdy frowned. "What task?"
‹I do not know yet. But it will be important. Critical. You are already a legend in Yuulith; you've been heard of even on the Scrub Coast. But to many it is a legend of the past. We must renew and enhance it.›
Vulkan's comments had introverted Macurdy. Now he shrugged them off. He'd think about them when he knew more, he told himself.
So I've been heard of even on the Scrub Coast. Huh! And I never heard of the Scrub Coast till just now.
Unlike the winding dirt roads through Miskmehr, the Valley Highway was much used; they met merchants several times a day, typically traveling in small parties, with pack animals. And farmers traveling to some village or market town several times an hour. Seen from a little distance, Macurdy was readily recognizable as a man on horseback. The creature trotting alongside could be a mule, or from closer up, a lean beef, polled and slab-sided. By the time they were close enough to identify it, they were too near to escape, should it be necessary. And after all, it was trotting alongside a man on horseback.
Thus as fearsome and alarming as Vulkan looked, and as his myth described him, almost none of the travelers they met actually fled. They did, however, get well off the road to let him pass. The degree of control exercised by the giant boar's human companion seemed uncertain, and the large curved tusks looked more fearsome than any sword. While the small, indomitable red eyes, fixed coldly on the passersby, showed neither loving kindness nor docility.
Judging by the auras, the shock was greater for the traveler than for his horse or mule, if he had one. Probably, Macurdy thought, their animals didn't associate the smell of swine with danger. And despite Vulkan's size and fearsome appearance, his broadcast calm overrode their alarm.
Humans, on the other hand, had powerful imaginations. And folk tales-a whole gruesome mythology about the great boars. Nor did they fail to be awed by a man who kept company with such a monster.
There were villages along the road, and these were another matter. There, more often than not, people didn't see the great boar till he was close. Then doors were slammed and barred. Women shrieked, men cried out in alarm, children scurried howling out of sight. While dogs, seemingly less subject than horses to Vulkan's calming flow, scuttled off with their tails between their legs. As if they too had imaginations.
Neither Vulkan nor Macurdy qualified as chatty, but for the first few days they talked quite a lot. Macurdy related much of his recent seventeen years' experience on Farside, both civilian and military. Vulkan described Yuulith's geography, people and customs, particularly of regions unfamiliar to Macurdy.
One morning at a distance, Macurdy saw the inn at the crossroad near Gormin Town. He knew both inn and town; it was there he'd begun to seriously broaden his reputation, so many years past.
"You must be overdue for some actual food," he said to Vulkan. Even more than himself, the great boar had been relying on the Web of the World.
‹Mmm, yes. Those cattail patches we've stopped at have been useful, but I could benefit from variety. And protein. Some animal source would be particularly appropriate.›
"Tell you what," Macurdy said, "suppose we stop at the inn. I'll eat there, and afterward they'll tell everyone traveling through about us, travelers on the north-south road as well as the east-west. After that we'll ride into Gormin Town," he gestured toward a palisaded town-its population several thousand-a half mile south of the crossroad. "There's a butchers there, where I got offal for Blue Wing my first time through here. I suppose you eat offal?"
‹Offal will be quite satisfactory, yes. I can, of course, take some farmer's calf or pig, but offal will do nicely.›
As Piglet carried Macurdy into the inn yard, the stableboy hurried out to meet them. At sight of Vulkan, he disappeared back into the stable. Macurdy trotted Piglet over to it, and dismounting, led him inside. "Stableboy!" he bellowed.
"Yessir?" came a voice from the hayloft.
"Feed and water my horse. At once! Then groom him."
A tousled head appeared, of a youth in his early teens. "Your-horse, sir?"
"What else? Come now! Get about it!"
"Sir, I'm afraid, sir. Of-that other."
"He won't hurt you. I've told him not to. I'm Macurdy, back from Farside, and he's my traveling companion. His name is Vulkan."
The lad stood now, staring down. "Would you, sir… General? Marshal Macurdy? Would… would you ask him to stay outside, sir? I'm afraid he might forget what you told him."
Macurdy grinned disarmingly. "As good as done. Now come down and mind your duties."
The youth eased worriedly down the ladder and took Piglet's reins. Then Macurdy left, walking to the inn with Vulkan beside him. They entered the taproom as nearly together as the doorway allowed, Macurdy stepping in first, Vulkan a step behind. There was a scream from a serving girl, a clatter of mugs from a dropped tray, shouts of male alarm, the crash of benches falling over. Men scrambled to get more tables between them and the newcomers.
"Helloo!" Macurdy called. "Who will feed a hungry man?"
A florid beefy face peered from the kitchen door. "Get him to hell out of here!" it shouted, more angry than fearful.
Grinning, Macurdy turned. "Vulkan," he said, loudly enough for everyone to hear, "wait outside for me."
As if obeying, Vulkan turned and went outside, the only sound his hooves on the puncheon floor. But the move had nothing of submissiveness about it. Red eyes fierce, the great tusked face had scanned the room as he'd crossed to the door.
The innkeeper eased in from the kitchen. "Mister," he said, "that was a dumb-ass thing to do, bringing that beast in here."
Macurdy raised his eyebrows. This innkeeper was no ordinary man. "He's not a beast," Macurdy said, "he's a wizard. A giant boar and a wizard. And curious. He'd never been in a taproom before."
The innkeeper frowned. "How did you get him?"
"Get him? I didn't get him. We met in the woods once, in Oz. There I was, and there he was. Next thing we knew, we were friends. That was seventeen years ago, just before I went back to Farside. Then I came back to Yuulith again, and riding southeast out of Miskmehr, there he was, Vulkan himself, waiting by the road. Now we're traveling together."
"Vulkan? Is that his name?"
"Yep."
"How do you know?"
"He told me."
"He talks?"
"Not with his mouth. With his mind. He talks directly into my head. I could be deaf as a stone, it wouldn't make any difference. I'd hear him."
For a moment the innkeeper stood silently, digesting what he'd heard. "You've been to Farside and back," he said. "Then you must be Macurdy, right?"
"Yep."
"An innkeeper hears a lot of stories, and learns not to believe most of them. Tell you the truth, I didn't believe half of what they say about you. Some of it, yes. I know damn well what you did in Gormin Town, and later with Wollerda, but…" He glanced toward the door. "Seeing you with him, a lot else starts looking believable." He paused. "Could he talk to me?"
"If he took a notion to. He doesn't make friends easily."
"Where are you going now?"
"To Teklapori, to see Wollerda. Vulkan sees the future a lot better than I do, though a lot of times it's foggy to him, too. He says it looks bad. Threatening. Wollerda needs to know."
The beefy face frowned with concern. "Huh! Another ylvin invasion?"
From outside the inn, Vulkan's mind spoke to Macurdy's. ‹Not ylvin,› it told him.
"Not ylvin," Macurdy said. "Beyond that we don't know yet. But we will."
"Huh! Well, if it's not ylvin, I'm not going to worry about it."
"Good idea. There are times for worrying, and there are times to eat. Your boiled cabbage smells pretty good. With a couple thick slabs of roast beef, and a mug of beer. And four inches of a loaf soaked with beef drippings. And for my friend, five teklotas worth of raw beef. That way he won't need to-ah, kill anything till we get away from here."
His money was shrinking, and he decided to skip Gormin Town. That way they'd reach Teklapori that evening, and Wollerda would fix him up.
As Macurdy had expected, the innkeeper provided Vulkan with more like ten teklotas worth of beef. Probably "kill anything" had been the key phrase. Macurdy felt quite good about his performance. As they started east again down the Valley Highway, the two companions talked.
"I've got to admit, I enjoyed that little game back there," he said to Vulkan, and paused. "Tell me again why we need to make a big impression-make people think I'm more than I am."
He could sense the giant boar's mental frown. ‹My friend,› Vulkan said, ‹appropriate modesty is honesty about one's abilities and accomplishments, and the absence of swagger. As for 'making people think you're more than you are'…
‹When you first arrived in Yuulith, you were made a slave. Then, by talent and force of character, you were accepted into the Wolf Springs militia, something nearly unheard of for a slave. As a trainee you excelled so remarkably, you were sent to Oztown, and accepted in the Heroes-which was quite unprecedented. There, again by talent and strength of character, you rendered your sergeant so jealous…›
"Wait a minute! I didn't tell you all that. Some of it, but…"
Vulkan cut him short. ‹You are not my only source of information. I overhear thoughts not even spoken. I have even eavesdropped on the Dynast; listened to the ravings of unhappy Keltorus; and conversed openly with a friend of yours named Blue Wing.› He paused, allowing Macurdy time to assimilate. ‹Who was it that freed Tekalos, my friend? Admittedly Wollerda deserves at least as much of the credit as you, but he started with a following. You started with two runaway Ozians, three dwarves, and a great raven.
‹And when you'd freed Tekalos, you and Wollerda, you personally forged a league of allies who previously had seldom agreed on anything. Allies who even included Sarkia! You raised and led an army of contentious, sometimes truculent cohorts from throughout the Rude Lands and beyond. I am not sufficiently informed to evaluate your accomplishments in the great war on Farside, but I suspect they too were exceptional.
‹So do not disparage yourself to me. 'More than you are'? Not at all!›
He paused. ‹Meanwhile I have not responded to your question: 'Why must we make a big impression?' First, over the years since your victories against the ylvin Empire of the West, the bonds among the kingdoms and tribes of the Rude Lands have loosened again, despite increasing commerce and the influence of the Sisterhood. They have loosened because of rivalries old and new, and because they no longer perceive a common threat.›
Macurdy's wide mouth pursed in thought. "Before when we talked about this, you said we needed to beef up my reputation because of my task. But you didn't know what my task was."
‹Only that you must meet a threat. A threat more serious than an ylvin army, even if the elder Quaie were still alive to lead it. I sense the vector, but lack the specifics.›
Macurdy looked at the creature beside him, its pace ill-matched with Piglet's. The big gelding's walk was faster than Vulkan's, who trotted to keep up. But so far Vulkan had seemed tireless. "Is there anything," Macurdy asked, "that you can tell me about this threat? Beyond it being big?"
‹I suspect the cause, but with limited confidence. An infinite number of event vectors exist in the physical realm. Series of events having direction, force and duration. Some are driven by humans, others are influenced by humans, and some are beyond human influence. Some can be extended into the future with significant probabilities, others cannot. And while I have the gift of perceiving and predicting vectors to a degree well beyond the human, it is a gift with definite limitations. I am, after all, incarnate.
‹Thus I cannot define the threat.› With his mind he peered intently at Macurdy. ‹However, I believe it was no accident that I visited the Scrub Lands when I did. For it was there I sensed the problem vector. It is focused on the coast. As if from the Ocean Sea, or across it.›
The statement struck Macurdy like a punch in the gut. Across the Ocean Sea! He remembered the dream he'd had, just before leaving Wolf Springs-a dream of Crown Prince Kurqosz of the Voitusotar, and "his army of monsters."
Vulkan allowed excitement to color his next thought-words. ‹That is it!› he said. ‹It verifies my suspicion. The Voitusotar are the root and energy of the vector!›
"What are you talking about?"
‹The dream you just remembered! It brought the vector into focus for me, and verified the cause, the sorcerers you told me of, who visited Farside. The Voitusotar.› He examined Macurdy thoughtfully. ‹Your warrior muse is an excellent dream maker.›
Warrior muse? Dream maker? Macurdy examined the words warily, then set them aside. "Vulkan," he said, "I've got another question."
‹Ask it.›
"You read my mind. You already know the question."
‹Do I now?›
"Don't you?"
‹Ask.›
Macurdy shrugged. "It seems you know my role in this. If it doesn't turn out to be a false alarm. But what's your role?"
Vulkan answered reflectively. ‹For a long time my broad role has been to observe Yuulith and its sentient beings-dwarves, humans, the great ravens, the tomttu, and the ylver. And to surround myself with a mystique. Eavesdropping while invisible is a specialty of mine. All in preparation for my new role-to support you in your efforts to save Yuulith from the Voitusotar.›
"Why can't we switch roles? You save Yuulith, and I back you up. I could be your spokesman."
‹Ah! But that is not what the Tao intends. Humankind is responsible for humankind, and the ylver for the ylver. And you are of both. It-the Tao, that is-may provide them with such as I, but our powers are limited. It is rare that the Tao intervenes directly, and then only to provide an autonomous agent. Or in this case two: you and me. The Tao does not part the waters of the sea, nor destroy the enemies of some chosen people.›
"Huh!" Macurdy had never been firmly sure there was a God, supposed he never would be. He'd suspected, even hoped there was, had even prayed occasionally, though he wasn't sure to whom. "What's this Tao like?"
‹My comprehension of it is both imperfect and incomplete. It is easier for me to say what it is not.›
Macurdy frowned. "But if he talks to you…"
‹Not he. It. Sex and gender do not apply.› Vulkan paused, his calm mind regarding Macurdy. ‹You misapprehend the Tao. It is not a sentient bull with magical powers, like Bhroig the Fertile, of the western tribes. Or the White Whale of the Ocean coast, who remarkably enough is thought to swim in the sky. Nor Brog'r of the Rude Lands, of whom it is claimed he visits from time to time in the form of a white stallion bringing gifts: corn in the ancient past, and more recently potatoes. Not even the All Soul of the ylver, who lives above the sky, dispassionately noting their acts, creditable and otherwise.› He paused. ‹Nor the concepts you're familiar with on Farside.›
Farside. Macurdy wondered if Vulkan had access to it, or if he knew of it only from him, and perhaps others who'd crossed over. He shook the matter off. "How far can you go in backing me up?" he asked.
‹Your decisions are yours to make. I cannot make them for you. I can inform. I can educate. I can advise, suggest, and nudge. I can physically carry you on my back, but you must decide where to. For the decisions must be truly yours. I will not 'argue' you into something.›
Vulkan said nothing more then. After a minute, Macurdy asked, "That's it?"
‹That's it.›
Macurdy frowned. He'd looked forward to Vulkan's muscular bulk and ugly tusks backing him up. Physically. Martially. "Suppose the Voitusotar use sorcery?"
‹They will. And I will not reply in kind. I am not, in fact, a sorcerer. I was incarnated with certain assets, most conspicuously a formidable body. I can draw on the Web of the World, as you have learned to do. When I wish, I can become unseeable; in fact imperceptible by any human senses. Within limits, I have power over gates. I can read auras in even greater detail than you, and I literally smell emotions. I can see into minds at the level of conscious thought, and below in the margin between the conscious and subconscious. Few sorceries can touch me. And obviously I can communicate with humans when I choose to. Although I have what might be termed emotions, they do not cloud my mind. And because I am immune to fear, I am immune to being mentally overwhelmed.
‹But I do not kill ensouled beings, nor do I coerce, and my magicks are limited to the benign. I can do favors, as you learned at our first meeting, but they do not involve assaulting anyone.› He paused. ‹I believe I have answered your questions.›
After a bit, walking and trotting toward Teklapori, they conversed further. With Vulkan's prompting, Macurdy described more of his observations of the Voitusotar, including his training at Schloss Tannenberg, his experiences in Hithmearc, and his destruction of the Bavarian Gate. And the nightmares he'd had, during the war there, of monsters on the beach.
"But that was there," Macurdy said, "and a different war. I wasn't even sure that Hithmearc is in the same world as Yuulith."
‹It is,› Vulkan said. ‹It is part of ylvin history, and another like myself has known them directly if not extensively. Apparently they have discovered a means of crossing the Ocean Sea.›
By that time they could see the town wall of Teklapori, a near-blackness in the gray of dusk.
‹We shall soon see,› Vulkan said, ‹what the king of Tekalos thinks of this.›
Macurdy nodded grimly. He was not enthused at the prospect of confronting voitik sorceries.
13 Evenings in a Palace
They traveled steadily the rest of the day, skipping Gormin Town. It was twilight when they reached Teklapori, whose gates had been closed at sunset. They bypassed it, too. Macurdy's business was a mile to the south, at the palace.
The last half mile was paved with flagstones, on which Piglet's shod hooves clopped loudly. Vulkan had cloaked himself, and could not be seen, heard, nor smelled. Macurdy, however, needed to be seen and heard to be let in. He recalled the difficulty he'd had the last time he'd arrived unexpected in the night.
Though the guards on the tower must have heard Piglet's shod hooves, no one called a challenge. And now Macurdy discovered something added since his last visit: a bronze bell resembling a large cowbell hung from a bracket beside the spy gate. Leaning in the saddle, he shook the bell noisily, at the same time bellowing: "Halloo! Let me in!"
Someone called back from the forty-foot tower: "Who is it?"
"Macurdy, come to see the king!"
Macurdy had expected disbelief, but after a long moment the voice answered, "Just a minute." It took more like four or five, but finally someone shone a target lantern through the "eye" in the narrow "spy's gate," its yellow beam finding Macurdy's face. In another half minute, the grinding of windlass and chain signaled the raising of the portcullis within the wall. Then the narrow gate opened and a guard stepped out, the lantern in his hand for a closer look. Another guard stood in the opening, crossbow wound and raised.
The guard with the lantern was middle-aged and thick-waisted, but gave an impression of tough competence. "Brog'r love me!" he swore. "It is! It's you! And you've not changed a whit! Not in all them years!" He turned, shouting more loudly than needed. "It's him! The marshal! He's come back!" Then he turned to Macurdy again. "Come in! Come in! I seen you when I was with Wollerda in the revolution. And later, in the Marches, I seen you different times, including at Ternass. So they rousted me out of my bunk, to be sure you weren't no impostor."
Gesticulating as he talked, the man led them through a ten-foot-long, tunnel-like passage through the wall. Vulkan followed closely, still unperceived.
When they'd emerged, the officer of the watch was waiting to check Macurdy personally, though he'd never seen him before. Cautiously semi-satisfied, he sent a mounted courier galloping ahead to announce the visitor, and with four mounted guardsmen, escorted Macurdy personally to the royal residence.
The king's houseguards had been alerted, and half a dozen waited respectfully at the entry. There Macurdy dismounted. Almost at once, Wollerda came out.
It took Macurdy a moment to recognize him-the king had passed his sixtieth birthday and grown somewhat heavier-but Wollerda recognized his visitor instantly. "Macurdy!" he said. They hugged, then Wollerda stepped back to arms' length. "You haven't changed a bit that I can see. God but it's good to have you here!" He hugged him again. "Well! Come in! Come in!"
So far Macurdy had merely grinned broadly. Now he spoke. "Just a minute. I've got a friend to introduce. He's wearing a concealment spell, otherwise folks might have got all upset." Macurdy stepped to one side. "Pavo, meet Vulkan."
With that, Pavo Wollerda, warrior-scholar, ex-revolutionary leader, king of Tekalos, found himself facing something he'd heard of all his life. A bugbear he'd learned to fear as a child, had only half believed in since, and had never thought to see. The small fierce eyes were almost on a level with his own, gleaming red in the torchlight. The heavy yellow tusks were something out of nightmare. Reflexively the king stepped back, while his guardsmen's hands went to their swords.
"Vulkan and I are traveling together," Macurdy went on. "He's my friend and advisor. And smart as the stories say, but not near as ferocious. Not normally. Matter of fact, he's safer to be around than lots of dogs, unless someone gets crosswise of him, I suppose."
Wollerda stared, then thoughts entered his mind in the form of a pseudo voice, deep and resonant. ‹My function is not violence.›
The guards' nerves had eased a bit-their knees and backs had straightened-but their hands remained near their sword hilts. The king turned in awe to his old comrade-in-arms. "Macurdy, I've known for years you were a man of power. But to have a traveling companion like that? No man in Yuulith is your match!"
Grinning, Macurdy shook his head. "I'm not much more of a magician now than when I left. Which isn't all that much. I'm older and more experienced, and smarter I hope. But whether I'm smart enough, time will tell.
"Ask us in and we'll tell you what we know. But I expect we'll learn more from you than you will from us."
Wollerda nodded toward Vulkan. "He goes in with us?"
"Unless you'd rather talk out here. I expect Liiset will want to meet him, too."
They went in then, the king leading, several guardsmen bringing up the rear. Briefly Wollerda wondered if Vulkan was housebroken. But intelligent as the giant boar seemed to be, and a wizard to boot, that seemed unlikely to be a problem.
The royal apartment was on the second floor. When they went in, Queen Liiset met them with no sign of shock, or even surprise, at Vulkan's presence. Macurdy decided she'd been watching out a window.
"Curtis!" she said smiling and took his hand for a moment. She was the first person to call him that since he'd left Farside. "Introduce me to your companion," she added, turning her gaze to Vulkan.
Vulkan introduced himself. ‹I am Vulkan. I have learned much about the Sisterhood in recent centuries, but you are the first of them whom I have addressed personally.›
When Wollerda learned that his visitors hadn't eaten, he ordered a meal sent for Macurdy. Vulkan said he'd wait till later, and that a lamb would be about right.
After eating, Macurdy described briefly his past seventeen years on Farside. He'd intended to mention the voitar in Bavaria, then didn't. He did mention Vulkan's premonition about a threat from across the Ocean Sea, but didn't elaborate. The time for that, it seemed to him, was if and when the threat materialized. Or perhaps if pushed to it by questions.
"What I'd like to hear about," he went on, "is how things are going in Tekalos, and with the Sisterhood."
Wollerda had been everything King Gurtho had not. He'd striven for justice, and taken care not to offend his subjects needlessly. There hadn't been a tax uprising since his coronation, partly because taxes were now set by fixed rates. And partly because, over time, a count, three reeves and five bailiffs had been found guilty of flagrant abuse of office, mostly for tax offenses. After a tour of the kingdom in chains, they'd made the acquaintance of the royal executioner, and the heads had decorated poles outside their official residences. This not only gratified the population at large. It was also an ever-present reminder to those who succeeded them in office, and a warning to officials elsewhere. For their heads were left on the poles till long after they were bleached skulls.
"Those are the only brutalities I've committed in office," Wollerda finished, "but I have no doubt Brog'r forgives me."
Early on he'd established militia training for all youth, somewhat after the Ozian system, and reduced the standing army. County forces too had been reduced, and put on a reserve basis to reduce taxes. Their annual field training now was done on a military reservation, to avoid trampling farmers' fields-a long-standing source of damage and resentment. Aside from the king, only counts retained military forces at all. Reeves and bailiffs replaced theirs with police, which were fewer in number, and regulated by law rather than whim.
Shamans had been legalized. "Most of them," Wollerda added, "aren't very effective. But the poorer of them soon find business sparse, and profit slight from the puny fees they can get. But even the completely bogus sometimes effect cures by belief."
Macurdy turned to Liiset, who looked as young and beautiful as ever. She was a member of Varia's clone, and the resemblance was uncanny, even with their differences in aura. "And what's the state of the Sisterhood?" he asked.
Her eyes met his mildly. "Let me call Omara," she replied. "I get reports by courier, and make occasional trips to the Cloister, but she is Sarkia's executive officer."
"Omara is here?" Even as he spoke, Macurdy realized his response was giving away his feelings for the healer. But his aura would too, and Liiset wouldn't miss it.
"For a week," she answered. "She arrived this Three-Day, to initiate our children in the next stage of magicks and healing. She's considerably more advanced than I. And more fully informed of Sisterhood affairs. She'll be pleased to see you."
In minutes, Omara arrived from her quarters, smelling of fragrant soap. "My apologies," Liiset said, "if we interrupted you in your bath."
"I was done with it," Omara answered, with the calm that Macurdy remembered. "I was preparing to meditate." She turned, her gaze absorbing him. "Hello, Macurdy," she said, "it is very nice to see you again." He wondered how much she read in him. With her powerful talent and broad experience, surely she saw more deeply than Liiset or himself when she looked at an aura.
Only then did she give her attention to Vulkan. As hugely conspicuous and out of place as he was in the royal drawing room, she had not been distracted by him. "I was informed you were here," she continued. "I am Omara, as you have deduced, but I do not know your name."
‹I-am Vulkan.›
Macurdy wondered if the others had caught how impressed the great boar was. "We're traveling together," Macurdy said. "I think of him as my tutor."
Liiset broke in. "Curtis asked how things stood in the Sisterhood. You may have information I lack."
Omara took a chair unbidden, as someone treated by the royal couple as a peer. "Why don't you begin," Omara said. "I can expand on it later, if appropriate."
Liiset nodded. "As I indicated, Sarkia still lives. Once decline sets in, it is rare for death to hold off as long as a dozen years. Nine or ten is typical. With Sarkia it's been eighteen, thanks to Omara's powers and her own strong will. She still has not chosen a successor, though she'd like to, and most of us feel serious concern over what might happen if she dies without naming one.
"In that case Idri would probably be the new dynast. She no longer hides her desire and intention, though she knows she's unpopular with the Sisterhood. She's spent most of her life making enemies. I'm one of the few she likes and treats with respect, and one of still fewer who feel affinity for her. But I recognize her unfitness to rule."
Frowning, Macurdy broke in. "Then who supports her? Even if Sarkia decreed her to be the new dynast…"
"The Tigers. The Tigers support her."
Macurdy frowned. "The Tigers?"
Liiset nodded. "Sarkia gave Idri authority over the breeding and training of Tigers. That was back when you were still here, on campaign in the Marches, actually. Before Sarkia began her decline. Idri had failed at every other command assignment she'd had. I suppose Sarkia hoped this might be one she could manage. At first it was a secondary responsibility, but Idri turned it into her principal one. She quickly began building their numbers as rapidly as she could, while seducing, politicking-conquering so to speak-key Tiger commanders. And saying the right things to make herself popular with the entire corps.
"Their numbers did not-could not-increase rapidly, of course. It takes the better part of twenty years to mature and train a Tiger, and fewer than one in three of us are suitable mother stock for them. Fewer than one in ten are prime mother stock. So from the very start, Idri used her influence to shorten the resting periods between litters by prime mothers. Which increased not only the number of Tiger births, but the number of potential prime mothers born. And of the other suitable mother stock, she convinced Sarkia to increase the number of Tiger breedings. Which wasn't popular with Sisters, of course, but very popular with Tigers.
"Today there are hardly any more fully trained Tigers than when she took command of them. "But there are far more Tiger youth in training. And this year will produce the largest number of completions ever, fully trained and ready. Next year, completions will be higher again. And so on."
Macurdy interrupted. "What does the King in Silver Mountain think of all these Tiger companies within the boundaries of his kingdom?" The king was Sarkia's landlord, the Cloister existing on land he'd leased to the Sisterhood. To Macurdy it had always seemed an odd arrangement, considering the reputation of the dwarves in general, and certainly of the King in Silver Mountain.
"Apparently it's not a problem," Liiset said. "In fact he doubled the lease holding about the time you went back to Farside.
"The increase in Tigers and Tiger young puts stress on the Sisterhood though. Our trade has to support them along with the rest of us. Fortunately Tigers are shorter lived. Which they resent of course. Not one has ever survived to a normal decline. Normally some vital organ, usually the heart, burns out after forty or fifty years, and they die more or less quickly.
"Idri wants us to hire out Tigers as mercenary units. But Sarkia is smart enough to see the temptations and problems that would lead to, so three years ago she drastically reduced the breeding intensity. Meanwhile we have to support the offspring of fifteen years of intensive breeding. And in eight years we'll have double the present number fully trained and ready."
Liiset looked knowingly at Macurdy. "You see what Idri has in mind, of course."
Macurdy nodded. Sarkia could hardly survive much longer. Any day could see her dead, naturally or otherwise. Then Idri would declare herself dynast, and intensify Tiger breeding again. She'd rent out Tiger companies, undertake alliances with ambitious kings, then try to take over the Rude Lands. And if she got away with that…
He looked at Omara. "What do you think of all this? What are her chances?"
As always, Omara replied calmly and concisely. "For becoming dynast? It approaches certainty. Unless Sarkia appoints someone else-someone formidable-to replace her, and then resigns. Overall, the Guards still outnumber the Tigers, and they too are excellent fighting men. Some Guard clones are equal to Tigers in most respects; your own two sons by Varia are examples. But all in all, Guards companies fall short of Tiger companies as fighting units. How short is not clear, but few guardsmen match Tigers in strength, speed, or endurance. The Tiger advantage in tactical and personal skills is less clear, but they do nothing but train. Guard units have numerous other duties."
"And," Liiset broke in, "our Guard units are dispersed. We have a platoon at every embassy in the Rude Lands, the Marches, and the ylvin empires. And a squad or more at each Outland craftworks, where there's not an embassy at hand."
Embassies even in the empires! Macurdy was impressed. Probably, he thought, Cyncaidh had had a hand in that.
"That comes to nearly two cohorts," Liiset went on. "But only three companies are kept at the Cloister, not nearly enough to discourage a takeover by Idri.
"It's doubtful that Idri can go far with her ambitions, which I'm sure include conquests. But what she can do is create a shambles among the kingdoms and destroy the Sisterhood."
Macurdy nodded. Perhaps self-destruction was the destiny of the Sisterhood, but it would be a tragedy to see peace destroyed in the Rude Lands.
The Sisterhood, Liiset continued, had changed in other respects as well. Sarkia had married Sisters to every royal house in the Rude Lands-to the king or crown prince or both-with the single exception of Kormehr. Two had even married into royal families in the Marches. Those Sisters bore their children to foreign kings, children raised and trained at home. Thus the loyalty of the Outland queens to the Sisterhood was diluted.
The Sisters serving in Outland embassies and craftworks also came to look at the world and the Sisterhood with different eyes and minds than those remaining in the Cloister. To reduce this, for years Sarkia had rotated staff members every year or two. Only the ambassadors themselves had longer tenures. But she'd decided the returnees corrupted those who'd never been away, so now she mostly left them in place. She called them home mainly for breeding, and while in the Cloister, they lived apart.
"We've become a Sisterhood divided," Liiset finished. "There is now an Outland Sisterhood, and a larger Cloister Sisterhood. The latter tending to resent the former, but somewhat contaminated by them."
She gestured. "Omara is an exception. That Sarkia trusts her absolutely, I do not doubt. And despite Omara's role in keeping her alive, she sends her out for three or four weeks at a time, to investigate or handle Outland situations. Of the Outland queens, I seem to be the most trusted. Ironically enough, this is probably because Idri and I get along."
Liiset paused thoughtfully. "But of us all, Varia is Sarkia's favorite."
She caught Macurdy's surprise. "Decline has changed Sarkia greatly," she said, "in almost every respect. She has had to make many adjustments, and has made them well. When you knew her, she was strong willed and highly intelligent. But impulsive, sometimes destructively so, and slow to admit mistakes, even to herself. In decline she has grown honest with herself, and added wisdom to her virtues.
"Her great regret is having driven Varia into exile. She admires her above any of us. Varia the runaway, Varia the defiant. She truly grieves losing her. She has told me so, and her aura supports her words.
"As for Idri-" Liiset paused again. "Idri she neither admires nor trusts. She does, however, love her, and feels guilt for Idri's failures.
"Idri, on the other hand, hates Sarkia. Hates her, and in her way loves her, I think. And despairs of ever pleasing her. Emotionally they're thoroughly entangled." Liiset shook her head. "Don't ask me to explain it.
"But there is nothing ambivalent about her hatred of Varia. As girls, Idri and Varia were favorites of Sarkia. They'd vied for an executive apprenticeship in the dynast's office. Varia's virtues were talent, intelligence, and judgement. And good intentions. Idri's were energy and decisiveness. And ambition. Thus Sarkia chose Varia, and Idri never forgave either of them. Then, after a year in the apprenticeship-a successful year by all reports-Varia was sent to Farside to marry your uncle. Why her, I don't know. Bloodline perhaps."
She turned to Omara. "Do you have anything to add? About any of it?"
"Perhaps after further thought," Omara said, "but not now."
Throughout Liiset's exposition, Wollerda had said nothing. Now he spoke. "Then maybe it's time to end this conversation. We can take it up again in the morning. Our guests have had a long day; I suspect they'd like to rest. And Vulkan's supper has been delayed too long."
Vulkan voiced neither agreement nor disagreement, but Macurdy said that he'd already had more than enough to think about.
Earlier, Wollerda had sent a page with a royal order to have a sheep taken to a drill ground for Vulkan. Now Macurdy went with the giant boar, guided by a palace guardsman. They waited while Vulkan ate, not a pretty demolition. Then the boar was shown to a shed newly bedded with fresh clover hay, while a stableboy, looking ill, cleaned up the dinner mess.
Macurdy asked Vulkan if he'd prefer to be let out of the palace for the night. Vulkan said the shed would be fine. ‹I can wander widely enough in the spirit,› he added.
Macurdy wondered what that would be like.
After supper, Macurdy was invited to bathe with Wollerda and Liiset. The drill was a little different than it had been years before. Perhaps, Macurdy thought, because he hadn't bathed for several days, and then only briefly, in a river. Or maybe his bloodstream still held vestiges of the wild leeks of Miskmehr. At any rate, after being shown to his room, and offloading his personal gear there, he was taken to a small room off the royal bath, where there was a wash bench with basins, buckets of hot water, and a bowl of soap. There he and Wollerda soaped up and rinsed off.
Then they went into the bath together. It had the same large round tub he remembered, sunk half into the floor. Liiset already sat up to her shoulders in steaming water. Macurdy pulled his glance away. Not that he could see all that much, and what he saw was distorted by the water. But he knew what she looked like-incredibly lovely-because she was one of Varia's clone-mates. Their auras were different, but physically they were virtually identical. And eternally twenty, as he was eternally twenty-five. Or if not eternally, close enough by human standards.
He wondered what Pastor Koht would say about that, or about this group bath.
After the two men got settled in the tub, Macurdy asked Liiset what she'd heard about Varia lately. It proved to be not very recent, but had probably not changed. Gavriel was emperor, and Cyncaidh his chief counselor. Though Liiset didn't say so, Macurdy suspected that Varia was Cyncaidh's close confidante, sounding board, and unofficial advisor. They lived in the capital most of the year. And they'd had a second son, who Liiset said was a teenager now.
"Do they seem to be getting along?"
She looked knowingly at him. "Presumably. Selira is Sarkia's ambassador there, and sees them from time to time at official occasions. And Selira reads auras very skillfully; all the ambassadors do. She'd be aware if anything was substantially wrong. And being Varia's clone-mate, I've asked to be kept on the information line."
He nodded absently. It was what he'd expected, and it seemed to him he should be glad. For Varia and Cyncaidh. But he'd nurtured a hope, small, perverse, and mostly suppressed, that Cyncaidh had reached decline, and that Varia would soon be unattached.
He wondered, then, about his sons by Varia, sons he'd never seen, who were claimed and held by the Sisterhood. He would, he promised himself, meet them, even if it required visiting the Cloister.
After his bath with the royal couple, Macurdy was given a bathrobe, and went to his room. His grungy fatigues had been taken away for laundering. He was about to go to bed when someone rapped on his door. He knew who it had to be, and put his bathrobe back on. "Come in," he called.
It was Omara who entered, as on his last night at the palace, those long years before. Her gaze was unreadable and steady, as always. Besides a high level of the "ylvin talent," her aura showed intelligence, honesty, calm strength, and light sexuality. And an abundant sense of responsibility.
"Have a seat," he said, gesturing at a chair, then sat down facing her. "You came here to tell me something, or ask me something."
"I have come to ask when you intend to leave. And for where."
"Tomorrow after lunch, or possibly the day after. Depends on what comes up when we talk in the morning. As for plans-Vulkan and I will go north. To see Varia and her ylvin lord."
"Ah." Macurdy knew from the way she said it that she'd half expected that answer. She paused, then went on. "Sarkia tells me things she tells no one else. She trusts me not to repeat them, and I don't. This evening I will make an exception, because if she knew you were here, she would want me to. And it becomes urgent because you plan to visit Varia.
"Sarkia admires you, Macurdy, admires you greatly. Even knowing your dislike of her. And she believed, had faith, that you would someday return to Yuulith. She is very feeble now, weighs no more than a child, and sleeps sixteen hours of the twenty-four. Her only exercise is to shuffle around her room, leaning on a small chair with wheels, a nurse on either side. She receives three oil rubs each day, to stimulate circulation and prevent bed sores.
"She clings to life only because of her concern over who will succeed her as dynast. She has admitted to me that she erred in not deciding years ago. Now Idri is in a position to take the throne by force, once Sarkia dies, which may be next week or next year. Next week is the likelier."
Omara paused, looking long and inscrutably at Macurdy. Even her aura told him little. "The dynast considers you her last real hope," she finished.
"Me?"
"You and Varia. She hopes Varia will come back to succeed her, with you as her consort. Varia to rule, you to support her. Then Sarkia would resign, turning the dynast's throne over to Varia.
"She believes the Guards would support you. And that while she lives, the Tigers will not revolt, even if Varia exiles or imprisons Idri. Which she would, of necessity."
"What do you believe?" Macurdy asked. "About the Tigers. Is Sarkia right?"
"If she were not, Idri would already have deposed her. To the Tigers, Sarkia is their mother. Idri would murder her if she could, and hang someone else for it. And of course, Sarkia knows that very well. She keeps guards around her always, and has her own cooks."
Good lord, Macurdy thought, what a mess. "What about you?" he asked. "She trusts you, and you already run things for her. Wouldn't the Guards back you if she told them to? I'll bet the Sisters would-Cloister Sisters and Outland Sisters."
"Not against the Tigers. Conceivably they might, if I were charismatic, but I am not. Varia, on the other hand, is charismatic, and you are doubly so. You do not realize the respect the older Tigers have for you, from Quaie's War. They are not a breed much given to thought, but they are observant, and in their way, intelligent. And they admire charisma, something largely lacking in themselves."
She paused for a long silent moment. "Will you do it?" she asked.
Is this why I came back? Macurdy wondered. Or part of the reason? He wished Vulkan were there. "Omara," he said, "I can't answer you now. The most I can promise is that I'll tell Varia what Sarkia wants. But Varia loves Cyncaidh, of that I'm sure. She told me herself, and her aura backed her words. And they have children." As we had. Have. Taken from her by Sarkia as nurslings, as property of the Sisterhood. Could she be influenced by them? And what would Cyncaidh say or do if she decided she did want to leave him? From what he knew of the ylf, it was not inconceivable he might accept her decision.
"Tell Sarkia to hang on and hope," Macurdy said. "Maybe serendipity will help."
Omara actually frowned. "Serendipity?"
"It's a Farside word. I learned it from Varia. It means that sometimes something unexpected happens, and bails you out. It's nothing to depend on, but it's saved my ass more than once."
"Ah… Serendipity." She pronounced it carefully, tasting it. "I will remember that word. To my knowledge, we do not have one like it."
She got gracefully to her feet. Sisters, Macurdy told himself, are always graceful. "Now that we have discussed the Sisterhood's business," she said, "shall we discuss yours?"
"Mine?"
"I am a healer, Macurdy. The best. And an important part of my skill is seeing more in an aura than others do. In yours I see buried grief. Grief and loss." She stepped toward him till they were only a foot apart. His breath felt trapped in his chest, and testosterone flowed. "Shall I heal you?" she murmured.
Without waiting for an answer, she slipped her arms round him. He felt her body against his, lowered his face to hers, felt her lips…
Brief minutes later they lay beside one another, bare flanks touching. "I'm sorry," he murmured.
"Sorry? Why?"
"For being so rough. In such a hurry."
"Do not apologize. I remember what you were like before: thoughtful and skilled. But this time I did not intend or expect that. This was catharsis. It was to loosen the grief, put it in perspective." She chuckled. "A treatment I made up on the spur of the moment, and found highly agreeable.
"Now," she added, "tell me about that grief."
Omara already knew of the twofold loss of Varia: her abduction from Farside by Idri and Xader, then her marriage to Cyncaidh. And the loss of Melody, a loss that had driven him back to Farside. Now he told her of Mary. The settings and situations were strange to her, less than real, but her talent perceived both his love and Mary's. When he'd finished, Omara was very sober.
"Macurdy," she said, "you are a highly fortunate man, and your Mary was a highly fortunate woman. You had a love seldom known to either women or men, at least in Yuulith. And while you may not believe me, Mary still lives, in the spirit world, as Melody does. A clean, good, bright place. She is simply absent from your waking life."
Waking life. He remembered Mary visiting him, with their daughter. Remembered her words. Had it been more than a dream? And Melody's visit, that night in the surrey as he'd taken her body to Teklapori. He'd never known whether he'd been awake or sleeping, having a dream, or a visitation. Or maybe both. Either way it had helped.
"Sometimes I believe," he said. "For a little while anyway."
He raised himself on an elbow and looked down at Omara. "It's funny about you. It seems like you don't feel emotions, but at the same time you understand them better than just about anyone."
"Everyone has emotions, Macurdy. In some they are frozen-in some people who are ruled by fear. In others they are like quicksilver, in still others like flame. In some they are like a flood, leaving no footing for reason. Mine are quiet, and modulated by reason, but they are not cold."
Leaning over her, he kissed her lips. "You know what?" he murmured. "If you give me another chance, I'll do a better job as a lover."
14 Electric Luck
The next morning, Macurdy had breakfast with Wollerda and Liiset. His first question was directed to the queen. "Do you happen to know how wide the Ocean Sea is?" he asked.
"Actually I do. Thanks to you and Varia's ylf lord, we've developed substantial trade with the empires. And along with a change of attitude, one of the things we've gotten is books. We have a library at the Cloister now, something unthought of twenty years ago. One book I've read cites an ancient crossing from Hithmearc-which is the name of the other side. It supposedly took fifty-eight days."
Hithmearc! Macurdy thought. That clinches it. The Voitusotar are definitely the threat. And I bet she knows it.
Liiset noticed his reaction. "What is it?" she asked.
He fudged. "It's hard to imagine danger coming so far. But it's hard to imagine Vulkan being wrong, too."
She gazed intently at him for another moment, aware that his answer had been less than candid. "True," she said nodding.
"Closer to home," Wollerda broke in, "how are you fixed for money, Macurdy?"
The question led to Wollerda buying Piglet. Ozian horses were prized throughout the Rude Lands, and Wollerda used this to replenish Macurdy's depleted cash. Meanwhile Liiset arranged for cash from the Sisterhood's embassy. If Macurdy was to take a message to the Western Empire, she said, he must be paid for his expenses, influence, and time.
Meanwhile the royal saddle maker was ordered to create a suitable saddle for Macurdy's new mount: Vulkan. The man was dismayed at the time requirement; he couldn't possibly form a saddle by midday to fit a giant boar. Macurdy assured him he planned no military or hunt riding, in fact little if anything beyond an easy road trot. "I just need something to ease the wear and tear on Vulkan's back and my butt," he said.
He settled for spending that day and night at the palace-or near it. That afternoon he rode tree-lined country lanes with Wollerda. Mostly they talked about the old times, the revolution. The threat from across the Ocean Sea came up only tangentially-Macurdy mentioned that on his way north, he planned to visit Jeremid. "If an army is needed," he said, "I want him as a commander."
That night Liiset invited Omara too to share the royal bath. And afterward the Sister shared Macurdy's bed again.
The saddle was delivered at breakfast. It fitted as far forward as proper movement would allow, to reduce the stress on Vulkan's more lightly constructed hindquarters and spinal column. Macurdy worried about how it would feel to the boar, until Vulkan told him: ‹My friend, it will be quite satisfactory. And should it turn out otherwise, you can buy a horse along the way, or ride bareback.›
An hour after breakfast, the travelers left. The king and queen waved good-bye from the broad, polished granite porch of the palace, then went back inside.
"He was not entirely honest with us," Liiset said.
"Macurdy?"
She nodded. "He knows more than he admitted about the threat Vulkan senses from the Ocean Sea. And I know what that threat is, what it has to be. It's all in a history of the ylver, the same book that told how wide the sea is. How Macurdy learned of it, I do not know, unless from Vulkan. And how would Vulkan know? But they do know, both of them."
Macurdy chose to ride through the town itself, escorted by a mounted squad of Wollerda's palace guard, to reassure the townsfolk and avoid disorders. Meanwhile rumor had circulated, the day before, that Macurdy was at the palace with a great boar. Many townsmen had already heard the story, spreading along the Valley Highway, of a tall, powerful warrior who rode with a great boar beside him. Part of Macurdy's legend had him riding a great boar-a fiction originating outside Tekalos, that had spread there after Quaie's War. It had derived from his riding the big warhorse he'd named Hog.
So the actual sight of him on an 1,100-pound boar was not the shock it might have been.
Still there were folktales of the great boars, their sorceries and savagery. Along with Vulkan's great-shouldered bulk, fierce red eyes, deadly tusks and sheer presence, Macurdy was given nearly the full width of the main street. Horsemen and carters pulled into alleys, or tried to. Bystanders stood with their backs against the flanking buildings.
And they did not applaud. On horseback and without Vulkan, a recognized Macurdy would have engendered enthusiasm. They'd have cheered their heads off for the hero of the revolution. But awe is not loud, and awe is what they felt.
Their ride through town had not been expected, so only a few hundred people actually saw them pass through. Afterward two or three thousand would tell of watching them in person. And Macurdy's longstanding mystique would be similarly multiplied. Imagine saddling and riding a creature who'd been feared for centuries! A monster whose rare tracks, let alone livestock kills, sent far worse chills down farmers' backs than the howls of any wolf pack. Not even trolls engendered greater fear.
When they reached the Valley Highway, the travelers turned west instead of east. From time to time they talked. Among other things, they discussed the situation in the Sisterhood, and Macurdy asked Vulkan what he thought of Sarkia's proposal. Vulkan replied that compared to the voitik threat, the future of the Sisterhood was unimportant. If Macurdy went with Varia to the Cloister, Vulkan said, it would be well to do it with the Voitusotar in mind, and the defense of Yuulith.
The Voitusotar. Macurdy couldn't imagine them actually invading Yuulith. They were too susceptible to seasickness. They died of it. They didn't even ride horses, let alone ships. Someone else might invade across the Ocean Sea, but not the Voitusotar.
And then, having thought it, he remembered his dream.
But whoever invaded Yuulith, if anyone did, it seemed to him the Sisterhood's Tiger and Guards units could be useful in its defense. Vulkan agreed. Especially, he said, since the Sisterhood's predominantly ylvin ancestry should provide meaningful protection against voitik sorceries.
With few exceptions, the travelers they met had heard of the man traveling with a great boar. With, but not on. And they didn't know that the man was Macurdy. Certainly all had heard of Macurdy, but none recognized him. After so long, none had expected him to return to Yuulith.
At first none realized what approached them. A man on a small horse, they thought. When finally they realized, most were within eighty yards, with only time to get off the road. A man passing on a giant boar was even more awesome than someone simply accompanied by one.
Not till late was Macurdy recognized. Someone who'd seen them in the crossroads inn, he supposed, for the man pulled off the road and waved, greeting them by name as they passed.
They stopped again at the inn, for supper and the night. This time the stableboy ran not to the stable but into the inn itself, where he hid. For this time there was no horse, and he was terrified at the prospect of grooming the giant boar. Macurdy ordered supper, then sat outside on the broad low porch, to eat with Vulkan, who was having cabbages and potatoes. Bit by bit, the men inside came quietly out to watch. Before they were done, several had asked respectful questions, first of Macurdy, then of Vulkan. The giant boar answered as appropriate, letting them experience his mental voice within their minds.
At the break of dawn they left, northward on the North Fork Road, instead of continuing west. This was country Macurdy knew well, from the revolution.
By midday, Macurdy and Vulkan were well into the forested Kullvordi Hills, where they turned off on a narrower road, rockier but less rutted. Here Macurdy dismounted, and they continued, now only Macurdy visible. Reports of them might well not have penetrated this country lane, and he didn't want to panic the locals.
He recognized the place when they came to it. As was typical in these hills, the cropland and hayfields were in a valley, and the livestock grazed the adjacent forest and grassy glades. The large house was of pine logs squared and fitted, and there were numerous log outbuildings.
A female servant answered his knock, and when he identified himself, hurried off to "fetch the missus."
The missus. The other time Macurdy had been there, his old friend had had three servant mistresses, instead of a wife. After a minute, Macurdy heard a female voice seemingly giving orders in an undertone. Moments later, a strong handsome woman stepped onto the stoop. A mountain woman, he thought. Her face and aura told him she didn't believe he was who he'd said.
Jeremid wasn't home, she told him. A troll had raided in the neighborhood, and he was off with a party of men, hunting it with hounds. "If they find it by daylight," she said, "they can kill it."
"Is there anyone who can take me to them?"
"To the kill where they started from, I suppose. From there you'd have to track them."
"I'll give it a try."
She called a servant, a youth who arrived with a limp, and gave him instructions. Then she looked at Macurdy. "Where's your horse? You didn't walk here."
He made a quick decision. "It's no horse I ride," he said. "It's a four-legged wizard, a great boar. He's covered himself with a concealment spell. We didn't want to alarm folks up here, where you haven't heard of us."
She frowned. "Concealment spell?"
"Brace yourself and I'll give you a look."
She peered around, not knowing what to make of this.
"Vulkan," Macurdy said, "let her see you."
And there stood the giant boar, the midday sun shining on his back. She'd had no preparation beyond Macurdy's few sentences, which she hadn't believed. Abruptly she stepped backward, the blood leaving her face. But she didn't cry out, didn't faint, didn't turn and dart back through the door. It was the servant who fainted.
After a moment she found her tongue. "Holy Brog'r!" she said, then turned to Macurdy. "And he's got a saddle on him. I owe you an apology. I didn't believe you were the marshal." Stepping back through the doorway, she spoke to someone in the room. "Kurmo, hang up your crossbow. It really is the marshal, and you'd never guess what he rode up on."
She shook Macurdy's hand like a man would have, or Melody. "My name is Corla," she said. "I'll take you myself."
After saddling her mare, she led Macurdy and Vulkan to the next farm, a mile up the road. She had them wait in the woods a short distance from the house, and rode up to it. When she'd prepared the farmwife for what she was about to see, she waved them up. Then she introduced Macurdy and started home again.
A worried-looking hired boy led Macurdy and his mount to the edge of the woods behind the field. There they stopped, the boy pointing toward a spring that flowed into a wooden watering trough. Near it lay the remains of a plow ox. Macurdy rode up to it, and looked it over, impressed. The troll had been enormously strong to dismember it as it had.
The boy had remained at the edge of the woods, either he or his saddle mule unwilling to follow. "Can I go back now, Marshal Macurdy sir?" the boy called. His voice broke, partly from fear, partly from puberty.
"How many men are tracking it?" Macurdy asked.
"Six I think. That's what left the house. Please can I go back sir?"
"Sure, go on," Macurdy answered, and the boy, turning his mule, trotted it briskly homeward.
The ox's left foreleg was missing, with most of the shoulder, as if torn off and carried away. Macurdy wasn't much of a tracker himself, but the trail of five or six mounted men shouldn't be hard to follow. The problem was speed.
It was Vulkan who dealt with that. He started briskly up the ridge, Macurdy on his back. ‹My nose,› Vulkan said, ‹is more sensitive to smells than most dogs' are. The troll smell itself calls me, despite the hours and horses that have passed.›
At times the trail was steep enough that Macurdy, riding without reins, gripped the ridge of coarse hair on Vulkan's shoulders to stay aboard. Then they were over the crest, and started down the other side. Here Macurdy was especially grateful for the stirrups. Few horses would willingly tackle so steep a slope head-on. Probably, he thought, the men had walked, leading their mounts.
"How far do you think it'll be?" he asked.
‹Trolls are more intelligent than given credit for,› Vulkan answered. ‹Some more than others. Normally they avoid the vicinity of farms. Big game is their staple. Those which succumb to the temptation of livestock are usually hunted down and killed, sooner or later. Occasionally one becomes clever at avoiding hunters. This is an exceptionally large male, which suggests age, experience, and intelligence.›
"But they can't tolerate daylight, right?"
‹It varies with brightness. At night their eyesight is excellent. In full sunlight they are blind. Even in shade they see only dimly; otherwise they could not be hunted down and killed. In the forest, by dusk, they see decently, and will travel in the evening. But at the first dawnlight, they know the sun will follow, so they find a place to hide. Under the roots of a wind-tipped tree, or in an old bear den, or under a dense copse. Or in a cane-brake, if nothing better is available.›
Shortly they reached broken ground, with narrow ravines, rock falls, and bluffs. Briefly Vulkan paused for breath. ‹He has forced them to leave his trail,› he thought to Macurdy. ‹TrolIs have long, powerful arms. They can clamber up slopes impossible for horses, grasping trees to help themselves. The men have chosen to go around, some in one direction, some in the other, looking for easier terrain. The hounds will follow the scent. Lay low and hold on. I will try to follow it directly.›
The terrain was difficult even for Vulkan, who repeatedly had to leave the trail. At times the troll followed the contour, more or less. And it did all this last night, Macurdy thought, when no one was tracking it. It must have thought this through in advance, visualizing things that might happen.
Vulkan replied to Macurdy's unspoken thought: ‹They plan to a limited degree, varying with the individual.›
"How can it carry that foreleg here? Seems like it would need both hands to climb."
‹It has carried it in its jaws from the beginning. Trolls walk easily on their two feet, but travel faster on all four.›
After a bit the terrain eased, the trail continuing more directly. "Are the hunters back on the trail?" Macurdy asked.
‹They are following the dogs. Do you hear them?›
"No. Do you?"
‹For the last several minutes I've been guiding on their baying. It is quicker.›
They'd been following the troll for nearly two hours when Macurdy first heard the dogs, the sound growing louder as Vulkan gained on them. Thunder rumbled, and he realized the day had darkened. Shortly, beneath the forest roof, it became dark as dusk, and still. Sporadic rain spattered on treetops.
The dogs ceased their trail call, the sound changing to excited barking that said they'd caught up to their quarry. He heard a roar, the scream of a dog, furious barking and raging, more screams. More roars, in two voices overlapping; it hadn't occurred to Macurdy that trolls might travel in pairs. Men shouted. A horse screamed, then another. Vulkan had increased his speed, and with no free hand to fend off brush, Macurdy lay low on the heavy shoulders. Ahead a man screamed, the sound cutting off sharply.
Macurdy's attention was on the noise of combat. He'd totally missed the wind thrashing the treetops. Now a wall of rain marched across the forest canopy, with a sound he could not ignore-like an oncoming train. The fighting was less than a hundred yards away when the deluge struck-rain, hail, leaves and twigs. Lightning stabbed vividly, thunder crashed, branches and pieces of tree trunk thudded to the ground. A wild-eyed horse dashed past, an empty saddle on its back.
Then, in front of him, Macurdy saw two huge shaggy forms. The lesser, beset by a trio of furious hounds, was flailing at them with the broken remains of a man. The other stalked crouching toward two men a few yards distant, one man with a shortsword, the other with a knife. Three horses were down; the others had fled.
Vulkan stopped so abruptly, his rider almost lost his seat. A single thought slammed Macurdy's mind: ‹OFF!› He dismounted, drawing his sword.
Then Vulkan charged the troll who swung the battered corpse, and struck the creature head-on, driving it backward, his powerful neck and shoulders slamming great tusks deeply into the troll's belly. Squalling, spilling guts, the troll grabbed Vulkan even as it fell, taking him down with it.
Macurdy's attention was on the larger troll. Raising his sword, he shot a ball of plasma from its tip, a ball half as large as his fist. Then turning, he aimed at the troll wrestling with Vulkan, but afraid of hitting the boar, he turned back to the other.
His plasma ball had struck through the larger troll's guts. Yet the creature seemed unaffected, except that it had paused in its attack. Before Macurdy could fire again, lightning flashed, accompanied by a stupendous bang of thunder that drove him to his knees.
A minute or minutes later, his wits somewhat recovered, he lurched to his feet, pelted by cold rain and acorn-sized hail. Vulkan had shaken free of the troll he'd disemboweled. The other troll had disappeared, though examination would disclose scattered fragments. The two other men were on the ground. One was struggling to sit up. Macurdy wobbled over to him.
"Damn it, Jeremid," he said, "don't you know enough to get in out of the rain?"
The man stared up at Macurdy. "You!" he husked. "Bhroig's balls! Where in hell…" Then he looked at Vulkan, who was also coming toward him.
"He's my buddy," Macurdy said, gesturing with his head. "His name is Vulkan. He's bigger than me and he's smarter than me, and I think he calls lightning down from the clouds."
‹Not I, Macurdy.› The "voice" resonated in their minds. ‹I am only a bodhisattva and great boar. You are the Lion of Farside.›
Jeremid had a broken arm. One of the trolls had jerked a spear from a man's hands and slammed Jeremid with its shaft, breaking his humerus. So it was Macurdy who loaded Jeremid's unconscious hunting partner across Vulkan's saddle, and lashed him securely in place with reins from dead horses.
Before they left, Macurdy took time to examine the troll Vulkan had killed. Eight feet from heels to crown, he judged, and five or six hundred pounds, with fangs to match. The hands were bigger than any he could have imagined, and bore claws. It was female, and had been pregnant. The other, the male they'd been following, might have stood ten feet, and weighed eight or ten hundred pounds.
They headed back toward the farm, Vulkan leading the way. Macurdy brought up the rear, whacking off saplings here and there with his sword, and blazing an occasional larger tree, so others could more easily find the bodies and bring them out.
By the time they got to the farm they'd started from, the sun was shining, low in the west. And Arnoth, the man who'd started out tied across the saddle, was sitting on it.
Of the four men who'd died, two were hired men on Jeremid's farm, one was the hired man from the farm the troll had raided, and one was a neighbor from farther down the road. Arnoth was not visibly injured, but was weak and dazed, seemingly from the lightning strike.
Arnoth's hired man had left a widow and orphan. The child-the lad who'd taken Macurdy to the dead ox-was sent to notify the dead neighbor's widow. Jeremid promised to get word to relatives of both women.
By that time the shock had worn off, and Jeremid had more than enough pain in his arm. Macurdy set and splinted it, then began the healing. Unlike Arbel, he used neither flute nor drum. Guided by Jeremid's aura, he simply manipulated the energy field around the break, and over the rest of the body. Finally they started down the road to Jeremid's farm, both men walking.
After supper, they sat on the side porch, in late spring twilight that smelled of moist soil, growing plants, and livestock. Jeremid had a jug beside him for painkilling. Vulkan rested on the ground a few feet away. Sundown had invigorated the mosquitoes, and Macurdy had woven a repellent spell.
He'd already given Jeremid a brief summary of his years back on Farside. Now he described his visit to Wollerda and Liiset, and what Vulkan had said about a threat from across the Ocean Sea. "So we're heading north to see Varia and her ylvin lord. The empires need to know." He didn't mention Sarkia's message.
"Hnh!" Jeremid peered intendy at Macurdy. "And then what?"
Macurdy didn't answer at once. "I'll do whatever comes to mind," he said at last. "Something will. Some folks need a plan. But I seem to do best by doing whatever occurs to me. Sometimes it is a plan, and I follow it as long as it's working. But even then I do whatever seems best. There's no guarantees in life. I've learned that the hard way."
"I don't suppose you've got any attention on your ex-wife?"
"I haven't had much luck with marriages."
He'd answered without thinking, had been looking at his marriages as three tragedies: Varia kidnapped and lost to him, Melody drowned, Mary with her chest crushed. But his weeks with Varia had been remarkably happy, and he'd learned a lot from her. He couldn't imagine what he'd be like without having had those weeks. And Melody? Her open jaunty manner, her reckless fearlessness, her passion for him… And finally Mary; not counting his time away at war, they'd had more than a dozen years together. Sweet years, loving years. Macurdy, he thought, instead of moping, you ought to congratulate yourself on how lucky you've been.
Jeremid's thoughts had turned to what Macurdy had told him about an invasion threat. "Looks like you might end up raising another army," he said. "You're probably the only one who can."
Macurdy nodded. "That's probably what Vulkan had in mind when he took up with me. Lord knows, life was easier for him before we got together."
Jeremid grinned, the same irreverent grin Macurdy remembered, but now it was to Vulkan he spoke. "Is that right? I thought you were the boss now."
‹What Macurdy does is up to Macurdy,› Vulkan answered. ‹He makes his own decisions. My function is to support him. I inform as needed, and advise without insisting. I point things out.›
Jeremid laughed. "And on the side, gut an occasional troll." He cocked an eye. "I notice you left the bigger one for Macurdy though."
‹I attacked the one I felt I could defeat. And Macurdy is the more formidable of us. I trust you noticed.›
Teremid's expression changed. "Huh! I guess he is at that!" He turned to Macurdy. "You even call down lightning."
"Now don't say that! That's something I sure as hell didn't do."
"I leave it to Vulkan," Jeremid said, and looked at the giant boar, hulking in the dusk beside the porch. "Did he or didn't he?"
‹I believe you witnessed his fireball. Had the lightning not struck, he'd have cast another, no doubt striking the troll in the chest or head. In which case it would have gone down. It was already dying, but they die hard. They have great vitality, and fight as long as they have life.›
Jeremid laughed again. "You didn't answer my question."
‹Neither did I lie. Sometimes, however, I do not tell all I know.›
Jeremid grinned at the giant boar. "You sound smarter by the minute. Now I'll tell you two something. As a rule, I don't lie either. But when I tell the story of what happened today, I'm telling it that the Lion of Farside called down lightning from the sky to kill a troll. Obliterate a troll! And that's why I'm alive. Arnoth will back me up. He saw the fireball and experienced the lightning.
"And believe me about this: that story will spread all over Tekalos within ten days. In a month, six weeks, they'll know it in Oz, and in the Silver Mountain, and across the Big River in the Marches. By that time the trolls will be the biggest ever seen, all three of them. When it comes time to raise another army, that should help." He paused. "And if you need an experienced commander…"
Macurdy looked long at him, wondering how he deserved such friends. "Thank you, old pal," he said. "I intend to. I'd be a fool to reject your offer."
After Jeremid went to bed, Macurdy sat on the porch again and talked with Vulkan. "Seems like I don't treat you the way I ought to," he said, "but I don't know how to do any better. You do all the carrying. And when I'm lying on a feather bed, you're lying on the ground, or at best in hay. When I was with Omara, you were alone in a shed. While I eat a nice meal, you wait around to be given a sheep, or grub in the woods or a marsh, rooting up skunk cabbage or cattails. It doesn't seem right."
‹My dear friend. First of all, I am used to being physically alone. It has been my way of life. Having a human companion is a new experience for me in this incarnation. As for the rest of it… I am a bodhisattva, incarnate in the body of a very large-most would say monstrous-wild pig. In fact, in important ways I am a wild pig, and have been one for centuries. Rooting up skunk cabbage, cattail, and various other tasties, or devouring entrails, is natural for me. I enjoy them. And wild swine are well adapted to sleeping on the ground. Sleeping on hay is a luxury, one I can both enjoy and do without. I appreciate your concern, but it is misplaced, I assure you.
‹Now I suggest you go to bed. I am off to the forest. This rain should stimulate the emergence of certain mushrooms I find highly toothsome.›
15 Secrecy and Skullduggery
After three long days in the saddle from Teklapori, Omara had arrived at the Cloister well after dark. She'd slept till midmorning, then gone to her office long enough to check in with her aide. From there she went to Sarkia's apartment, on the same corridor as their offices.
Sarkia was awake, she was told, had been bathed and oiled and was having "breakfast." No doubt the usual beef broth and pureed vegetables or fruit, Omara thought. She chose to wait, rather than interrupt. Shortly the Dynast's attendant came out with a tray, two small cups, and a pair of spoons. Seeing Omara waiting, she stopped.
"There's been no apparent change in the Dynast's condition," she said.
"Good," Omara answered. There was never apparent change, on a day-to-day basis. Death was the only abrupt change that feeble body could accommodate. But looking back two or three months, one could see the deterioration.
She went into the Dynast's bedroom, which for three years had also served as office and audience chamber. "Good morning, Your Grace," Omara said, speaking loudly and clearly.
The bony, nearly bald head turned on the pillow, just enough that Sarkia could see her visitor. "Good morning, Omara." The voice, though weak, was surprisingly clear. "The embassy's courier reached me two days ago. What did Macurdy look like?"
"There can be no question now of the dominance of his ylvin inheritance, Your Grace. He is physically unchanged except for some interesting scars. Some years after you removed our post in Evansville, there was a major war-a worldwide war-on Farside. And he of course was in it, and survived."
"Hmm." The Dynast's eyes no longer saw clearly, but it was her psyche that studied Omara's aura. Her eyes merely helped focus her attention. "Where are the scars?" she asked.
Calm rational Omara blushed, and the old woman laughed softly. "I trust he remains fully functional. It would be a shame to lose him as potential breeding stock. One might hope he'd father as many litters as his uncle. On Varia if possible, or on you if she lacks the good judgement to have him again." Sarkia paused. "Or better yet on both of you."
From Sarkia that was a lot of words at once, Omara thought. "In a sense, that's what I've come to report. Macurdy planned to leave Teklapori a few hours after I did, bound for Duinarog, to see Varia. I took the liberty of telling him what you once said about Varia succeeding as Dynast here, with him beside her as her consort and deputy, and military commander. He promised to tell her."
"But he was not enthused?"
"Not enthused, but not antagonistic. He will tell her, but I doubt he will argue for it."
Then she told Sarkia about the giant boar, and summarized what Vulkan had said about a threat from across the Ocean Sea. While Omara spoke, the old Dynast lay silent, her eyes closed. Her aura, though, told Omara she was fully awake. It was a blessing she heard so well.
Not till Omara had finished did Sarkia speak again, her eyes still closed. She totally ignored what Omara had said about a great boar, and a threat from Hithmearc.
"To meet Varia," she mused. "We must ensure they decide in our favor. Did Liiset mention his sons to Macurdy? Of how, on my orders, she'd cultivated respect in them for Varia and himself?"
"I think not. He and I spent considerable time together, and I believe he would have mentioned it if she had."
The fragile old head turned slightly toward Omara again, and the lipless mouth smiled. "It is well that you have a relationship with him. It should improve us in his eyes. And I see it pleased you. I trust you pleased him as well." Omara colored again, slightly. "I see you did," Sarkia said.
"Well. Now what you must do is send their sons to Duinarog, as fast as they can get there. To meet their mother and father, and urge them to come here. That will make the difference. That will persuade them."
Sarkia no longer looked at Omara; it required too much effort. Her eyes were open, but directed toward the ceiling now, unseeingly. "They must leave early tomorrow," she said, "and travel fast. I want them there when their father arrives. Write them orders of what they're to do, not in detail, but in principle. And no one-especially Idri!-must learn of this. The mission must be concealed. Even the boys must not know, till after they have left."
Again she turned her head to look at Omara. The healer's aura told her nothing of consequence. "I'm tired now," Sarkia muttered, "dry husk that I am. And I must preserve my strength, my life, until they get here. Then I'll be free to die."
Idri's office door opened, and she looked up from her Tiger breeding schedule for the summer. "What is it, Jaloon?"
"Omara arrived last evening from Teklapori. She is with Sarkia."
Idri scowled. Without Omara, the old witch would be dead, and the waiting over. "So?" she said.
"Someone else arrived from Teklapori, early this morning: a courier from the embassy." Jaloon paused. "Macurdy was there, to see the king and queen. And Omara." She paused again. "A spy in the palace reports that Macurdy then left for Duinarog, to see Varia."
Idri's eyebrows raised sharply. She had long known, through an informer, that Sarkia favored Varia as the new dynast, had since early in her decline. To entice Varia, she'd planned to dangle Macurdy in front of her, as her consort and military commander, and probably her deputy. But Macurdy had returned to Farside instead. And when he didn't come back, it had seemed to Idri the danger was past. Now it was not only renewed, it was imminent.
She dismissed Jaloon and left her office. She routinely skipped breakfast, preferring to work for two or three hours, then go early to the executive dining room for brunch. As she reached the central gallery of the administration building, she saw two youths in Guards uniforms crossing it. The sight stopped her. She knew them at once-Varia's twin sons by Macurdy. What were they doing in this building? She watched as they entered the corridor which led to Sarkia's office and apartment, her nurses' quarters, and Omara's executive suite. And nowhere else.
Idri knew then, knew as if she'd been told: they'd be sent to Duinarog, to influence Varia and Macurdy. They'd be rushed there, because Macurdy had a head start.
Idri, being Idri, found power and prestige a massive attraction, and assumed that everyone did. But she also knew that Macurdy had resisted it. And that Varia had prestige, if questionable power, as the wife of the Cyncaidh.
It seemed to Idri that Varia's response was the crux now, and Varia had learned peculiar ways and values on Farside. Would she prefer real power as Dynast, with her Farside husband and their two brats beside her? Or choose her ylvin husband and their children? And there was the matter of the ylf of course. Would he let her go if she wanted to? Offhand it seemed unlikely, but Idri had heard that though he was strong in some ways, in others he was afraid to impose his will.
At any rate, Varia was the problem and the solution. The rest were incidental.
Abruptly Idri turned and strode back to her office. Brunch could wait. She had things to arrange.
Omara's office door opened. "Varia's sons are here," her aide said quietly.
"Send them in, Posi."
Omara was on her feet when they entered. Entered respectfully, for she was the Dynast's deputy, and despite her youthful appearance, probably fifty years old or more. While they were nineteen, second-year ranks in the Guards.
Omara looked them over thoroughly. They were as tall as their father, and athletic looking. Within a few years they might approach him in muscle. Their hair was as red as their mother's, and their skin, from the drill field, the same unlikely tan. Their eyes were hazel green. "Sit," she said, indicating two chairs. They sat.
"You know your lineage," she told them. "Strong lineage, very strong. Able. The Dynast hopes for comparable qualities in you, and has decided you should have Outland experience. You are to leave at dawn tomorrow, and travel to Miskmehr for assignments in the embassy there."
The youths watched, their features controlled but their heart rates speeded. Omara took two sheets of paper from her desk, two lists, and gave them to the youths. "Here is the clothing and gear to take with you. Someday, not too distant, you may be carrying out missions for the Dynast herself. Some will be secret. Some will be urgent. So I am treating this trip as a trial and a drill, to see how you do. Do not disgrace yourselves.
"I want you there as quickly as possible without killing your horses. You will have remounts, and travel with an experienced sergeant who knows the route. He will meet you in the vestibule of your barracks no later than first dawn. First dawn. Be there, ready. Do not keep him waiting.
"On your way to your barracks, you will stop at supply and pick up two bundles containing clothing suitable to Rude Lands travelers.
"Say nothing of this to anyone. Not your platoon leader, not your sergeant, not anyone. I will be checking. If I discover you have broken secrecy, it will earn you a reprimand, and go into your records."
She paused, looking them up and down again. "If you have any questions or uncertainties, say so now… No? Good. You are dismissed."
When they had gone, Omara called in her page. "Lolana," she said, "go to the Guards duty office and tell them- quietly! -that I want to see Sergeant Veskabren Arva in the Rose Garden, at once. At once! But do not run. Do not draw attention to yourself. Do you understand?"
The girl nodded. "Yes ma'am," she said, then saluted and left.
In her office, Idri did not sit down. She paced. She needed to make decisions and necessary arrangements, and that required a plan. Think! she told herself. How will Omara handle her part in this? In the Sisterhood, males were little educated. And the twins would be-how old? Surely less than twenty years, and untraveled. Little traveled at best. Omara wouldn't send them galloping off by themselves. Who would she send with them? A Guardsman, of course, who'd been attached to the embassy in Duinarog, and was familiar with the route.
Her basic plan sprang full grown into her mind. A Guardsman attached to the embassy in Duinarog! I have, Idri told herself, the perfect substitute. It seemed a marvelous omen, and with Rillor she could terminate the risk irrevocably.
Abruptly she stepped to her door. "Jaloon," she said to her aide, "come in here. I want you to arrange something for me. Unobtrusively."
Idri looked over the information Jaloon had gotten for her. Omara had listed the twins in the travel book as going to the embassy in Miskmehr. So. They were indeed scheduled Outland. Miskmehr had to be a false destination, the cover story. A Guards senior sergeant named Veskabren Arva was also listed as going to Miskmehr; hardly a coincidence.
They would probably leave at dawn. That was customary for long trips. Now she had arrangements to make with Rillor and Skalvok.
Idri didn't have Koslovi Rillor come to her office. A Guards officer coming into this corridor might well be noticed. And would look odd, for she rarely had official business with the Guards. Instead she met him at the stable, where she was having her mare saddled. She rode at least twice a week, to stay in shape for travel, and because she liked to ride.
They did not speak, but rode separately out the Cloister's open south gate, about a hundred yards apart. The well-beaten bridle trail skirted the mountain stream above the Cloister. Soon the trail entered the forest. When she reached the junction with a side trail, she stopped her mare, and waited till she saw Rillor again. Then she rode out of sight up the side trail, and stopping, dismounted.
A minute later he stood in front of her. He did not reach, however. They were lovers, but on her terms, not his.
Captain Koslovi Rillor was burly, hard-bodied, and well endowed-the physical type that most stimulated her.
"I have a vitally important mission for you," she said. "If done properly, it will remove my single major rival for the Dynast's throne. Our single major rival." She didn't see auras, but she read faces. It was clear he understood. "Do you know a Guards senior sergeant named Arva?" she asked. "Veskabren Arva?"
"Right. We overlapped at the embassy in Duinarog for a couple years. When he was there; he pulled courier duty a lot."
That explains why Omara chose him, Idri told herself. It also gets rid of any doubt about where Varia's brats are being sent. "Ah!" she said. "Look, sweet pole, this evening I'll leave my garden door unlatched. When it's dark, come and see me. I'll have your mission instructions for you then; you'll be leaving the Cloister at dawn."
Rillor raised his eyebrows. "Mission instructions? Is that all you'll have for me? It's been too long."
Idri chuckled. "It's never too long. The longer the better."
He took a short step toward her, but she pressed him away. "This evening," she repeated. "Right now I need to get back. I have further arrangements to make."
They rode back separately, Rillor fantasizing the evening to come. Idri, however, was thinking about another captain-a Tiger captain. As far as she'd seen, Tigers had no scruples or reluctance about killing. They weren't even interested in the reasons. All they wanted was orders.
What they lacked was finesse, and not only in bed. Rillor was definitely the one for his role in this.
Before first dawn, Sergeant Arva quietly shut the door of his barracks behind him and looked eastward. He had an excellent mental clock, and much preferred being early to being late. There were no street lamps, nor any sign of dawn, only a slender crescent moon, still somewhat short of the meridian. Slinging his bag over a shoulder, he started toward the street.
Arva never heard the man step from behind an ornamental hedge, never heard the blackjack descend. He didn't even bleed, except slightly from ears and nose. His murderer dragged him behind some shrubbery, and quickly but systematically searched Arva's pockets, shirt front, and shoulder bag. Finding a large sealed envelope, he stuck it in his own shirt, then squatted beside his victim to wait.
Moments later a team and coach approached. Shouldering the corpse, the killer strode into the dark street. The coach slowed for him but did not stop. As it rolled by, he pulled its door open, heaved the body inside, then got in himself and pulled the door closed. The coach stopped a couple of hundred yards farther on, where tulip trees darkened the street even more. There the killer transferred the body to the coach's luggage boot, covering it with a tarp. That accomplished, he climbed to the driver's seat and showed him the envelope.
"Take me to Guards Barracks A, and hurry," he said. "I need to be waiting across the street before this Rillor gets there. And give him what I found on the carcass." He thumbed toward the back of the coach.
The driver grunted assent, and turned left at the next corner. Deliver the envelope, he rehearsed mentally, then out the north gate and north a mile, across the line into Asmehr. Deliver the body to the guy waiting with a rubbish wagon. Then back here and return the coach before the stars have faded.
He grinned. Nothing to it. He could develop an appetite for jobs like this. They'd keep life interesting.
16 Skin and Bones
In the design and construction of the Cloister, esthetics had been important but not primary. Cost, defensibility, and the efficient use of limited space set the constraints. Thus there was not much room between buildings-enough for narrow lawns, some flowerbeds and shrubs, and street trees. The residences-dormitories and barracks-mostly resembled each other. And of course, there were no street lights, nor any lights at this hour.
Captain Koslovi Rillor's barracks was adjacent to the Administration Building, at the center of the Cloister. Guards Barracks E, on the other hand, was on the East Wall Road. And like most of the Sisterhood, female or male, Rillor's night vision wasn't a lot better than human normal. But familiarity and the sickle moon told him exactly where he was.
Ahead, he recognized the building, and slowed to a walk, scanning about. The man he was watching for emerged from the shadow of a hedge, and stepped into the street to meet him. Rillor had never seen a Tiger out of uniform before, but he knew what he was by his demeanor-his sense of hardness and arrogance.
"Your name," the Tiger ordered.
"Rillor. Koslovi." He said it resentfully. He was, after all, a captain. The man before him might be, probably was noncommissioned. Arrogant!
The Tiger drew a large envelope from inside his shirt and handed it to the Guards officer, then loped off up the street.
Rillor tucked the envelope in his shoulder bag and angled toward the barracks' main entrance. He needed Omara's instructions to Arva, and the official offer to Varia and the Lion. Now, presumably, he had them. He wished he knew the oral instructions Omara had given Arva, and whether the two youths knew the identity of who was to pick them up. He couldn't pretend he was Arva. They might know the man.
You can't have everything, he told himself, stepping onto the stoop. Until he'd read the enclosures, he'd say no more than he had to.
Picking up the two young Guardsmen presented no problems. They were wide-awake and ready when he got there, and being well-trained, accepted his authority without questions. Together, the three had loped the half mile to the courier stable, where horses had been readied for them-three mounts, three remounts, and two packhorses.
Now they rode northward, the Cloister's defensive walls diminishing behind them in the faintly graying dawn. When it was light enough, Rillor intended to open the envelope and read the contents.
Ahead, a team and coach rolled toward the horsemen, and they guided their horses to one side, giving the rig abundant room to pass. Probably, Rillor thought, it carried some Outland trade representative.
Ordinarily, in the Sisterhood, newborns were named by their mother. That became their calling name. However, for routine records, breeding assignments and performance ratings, the breeding stock or lineage designation was used as a surname, and listed first.
But in conversation, the calling name was used almost exclusively, except as necessary to clarify which Rillor or Liiset or Jaloon was meant. Depending on how common it was, one's calling name might be all one's friends knew. In daily affairs, one's lineage was usually not significant.
Thus Macurdy's twin sons were not known as Macurdy. In the breeding record, their lineage was listed as Jesarion 2x5-Jesarion for short. And because of Varia's disgrace, she hadn't been allowed to provide their calling names. The only contact she'd had with them was during the first weeks of their lives, when she'd nursed them. She'd called them after her two Macurdy husbands: the firstborn Will, the second Curtis.
Sarkia had let Idri provide their official calling names. The names she'd listed for them were obscenities, and their nannies had objected to Sarkia in writing. Sarkia had chastised Idri for it, and renamed them Ohns and Dohns. In Old Ylvin, those meant first and second, but in Yuultal they were meaningless. And in any case unique.
Although Ohns and Dohns totally identified with the Sisterhood and the Guards, they'd grown up feeling different from other children, simply by being a two-member clone. Most clones numbered from four to six.
Given the nature of small boys, they'd early been made self-conscious of their peculiar calling names. Ohns? Dohns? What had they done to deserve names like those? Not surprisingly they were unusually close.
When they were ten years old, their clone aunt, Liiset, had told them about their mother: her strengths, her character, and that she'd gotten into trouble and run away. Liiset had not elaborated on the reasons. No less a tracker than the famed Tomm had failed to bring her back.
She'd also told them what she knew of their father's family history. Most of it was anecdotal-stories of the Macurdys related by Varia during her marriage to Will. During those years, Varia had come through the gate to Ferny Cove every two or three years, to give birth. Back when the Cloister had been located in Kormehr, near the Ferny Cove gate.
More interesting to the boys, and much more exciting, had been Liiset's descriptions of their father's exploits during his three years in Yuulith. From slave, to revolutionary, to warlord, to victor over the ylver in only three years! Even knowing who their father was made them special, though they said nothing about it to others.
Afterward they'd imagined what their father was really like, and shared those imaginings with each other. To them, the Lion of Farside was larger than life, a mighty warrior and hero, admired and obeyed in all the Rude Lands, and feared in both ylvin empires.
The personality they imagined didn't resemble their father at all.
From Liiset's explanations of naming on Farside, they'd gathered that their surname there would be Macurdy, and they began privately to think of themselves as the Macurdy boys, each with a calling name of his own. Ohns, being the "eldest" and dominant of the two, claimed Curtis. After a brief argument and scuffle, he agreed that Dohns could be Curtis on Five-, Six- and Seven-Days. On the other four he'd have to settle for being Will. Dohns accepted the compromise.
All that, of course, had been nine years back. But the feelings remained, albeit not much heeded in young manhood.
As the threesome rode westward through the Asmehri foothills, with the newly risen sun on their backs, Rillor read the instructions Omara had written to Arva. Then he told the young Guardsmen their true destination, and what their mission actually was. The boys rode on in stunned silence. They were to actually meet their parents! And hopefully bring them back to the Cloister, to be welcomed by Sarkia herself, and given important jobs.
Omara, in her instructions, had not included the posts Sarkia had in mind for Varia and Macurdy. That, presumably, was in the similar, enclosed envelope, addressed simply to Varia. It was sealed with wax, and stamped with the Dynast's signet, to be given to Varia when he met her.
To Rillor, the sealed envelope was unimportant. From what Idri had told him, he could guess the contents. But they were irrelevant, as Varia's sons ultimately were irrelevant. It was his job to ensure that, and he had no doubt he'd succeed.
It was on an early afternoon that Rillor and the twins reached the Crossroads Inn outside Gormin Town, and stopped to eat. Rillor arranged a feed of hay and oats for their eight horses.
In the taproom, it was the innkeeper himself who waited on the three travelers. As always he examined his guests without being obvious about it. There didn't seem to be much difference in their ages. A set of twins, and the other a few years older. He addressed the one who was senior. "Have you stopped here before?" he asked. "These lads look familiar."
"I've been here before, but my brothers haven't."
"Ah. I guess they look like someone I've seen," the innkeeper said thoughtfully, and left to fill their orders.
At almost the same time, another man came in. Seeing him enter, a guest called out to him. "Esler! What's the news up north?"
"Macurdy's back!" the man answered. "He arrived riding a great boar, if you can believe it! Just like in the stories."
"Tell us something we don't already know," someone else called. "He's been in here twice. First time he brought the boar right into the taproom. Ordered a beer for himself and a bucket of it for the boar."
"Yeah," another added. "Afterward he stayed at the palace with Wollerda. Rode his boar right down Central Street. Half the town saw them. Shit their pants, some of them."
The newcomer grunted. "That's nothing. He's staying at Jeremid's now, on his way up north. And that ain't but the start of it." He paused, scanning the room to make sure he had their full attention. "The night before he got there, a troll killed a plow ox on the neighboring place, belonged to a fellow named Arnoth. So Jeremid and him, and some others went hunting it. Figured to track it down before dark and kill it. Only it didn't work out that way."
He paused. "You remember that string of thunderstorms that came through, four, five days ago? Big old boomers? Well, when the dogs caught up to the trolls, turned out there were three of them! Trolls, that is. Two males and a female, one of the males a dozen feet tall. Jeremid said any troll that big had to be a sorcerer in troll form, and I expect he's right. Anyway, for there to be three together, there had to be sorcery connected to it. They were in thick woods where the light was weak, and one of them big boomers had just come over. It got almost dark as night, and instead of Jeremid and them jumping the trolls, 'twas the other way around. Right away the trolls killed four men. Which left only Jeremid, with a broken arm and nothing but a skinning knife, and Arnoth with only a shortsword, because a troll snatched his spear away. Might as well have had blades of grass instead of steel. The horses was all killed or run off, and most of the dogs were dead. It looked like Jeremid and Arnoth were goners.
"Then up rides Macurdy on that pig. He jumps off, and the pig goes for one of the trolls. Rip! He guts it with his tusks! While Macurdy…" The man paused, to tighten their attention. "Macurdy raises his sword and points it at the clouds, and shouts something in some Farside tongue-and two bolts of lightning come down and fry the other two trolls.
"The next morning they went back in with packhorses and a litter, and brought out the female troll, the one the pig killed. And those parts of the others the lightning had left. She was eight feet four from heels to crown. Jeremid skinned her. Figured to boil the meat off her bones, hers and what little they brought out of the others.
"When the hide is dry and the bones clean, he'll take them around and show them, at Teklapori and all the county seats. Charge folks to see them-a copper for kids, five for grownups-and give the money to the widows and orphans. Might be he'll show them here at the inn."
Rillor had been listening from halfway across the room, and looked at the twins; they were awed. When Ohns spoke, it was in an undertone, almost a whisper. "He's still there! On that farm! Can we go there?"
Rillor nodded. "Absolutely. Stay here. I'll go ask how to find it."
He got up from the table and started over to the man who'd told the story. Rillor had never imagined such a break. It could simplify his job greatly.
When they'd eaten, they left at once, riding north now, pushing their horses hard. It was night when they reached the side road leading to Jeremid's; Rillor almost missed it in the darkness. Half an hour later they saw the house, lamplight still showing from a window. The farm dogs began to bark.
The three rode in, their horses stamping and sidling, spooked by the circling dogs. The riders waited in the saddle, sabers drawn should the dogs overreach. A man with an arm in a sling came onto the porch, another man following. The first spoke sharply to the dogs, which backed away and sat down watchfully. "Who are you?" the man asked.
"My name's Rillor. Are you Jeremid?"
"That's me. What can I do for you this time of night?"
"These are my brothers." He gestured. "Ohns and Dohns. We've been visiting relatives in Asmehr. Now we're traveling back west to Miskmehr. We heard at the Crossroads Inn that Macurdy's visiting you, so we rode up here. We've been hearing about him all our lives. We hope to shake his hand."
"You're a few days too late. You eat yet?"
"At the Crossroads, and some dried beef in the saddle. We need to be back on our way again. We shouldn't have turned off up here in the first place, I suppose. We'll make up the time by riding at night." He paused. "Maybe we could see the troll skin while we're here."
"You're welcome to," Jeremid told them. "It won't take long. The bones are cleaned, too. Those jaws and teeth are something to see! Your horses can have a feed of hay while they wait. Cost you a teklota each."
"That's way more than we'd heard," Rillor said.
"For lads it's a lot cheaper," Jeremid answered. "Tell you what: two teklota for the three of you. These troll's made two widows and a double handful of orphans. The money goes to them."
"Well, all right. That'd be interesting." Rillor swung down from his saddle, the twins following. Jeremid's servant took the horses' reins, and led them toward a shed.
Jeremid had heard more than enough to arouse suspicions. These people didn't sound like Miskmehri, or Asmehri for that matter. Their speech was refined, and lacked the nasality of Miskmehr, or the slight gutturality of Asmehr. And they'd given in way too soon on the price.
He didn't take his guests into the house proper, but to a built-on workshop in back. There, using splinters from a box, he lit two lamps from the lantern he carried. The troll skin had been removed like a mink skin-worked off the carcass like a glove. Then it had been stretched carefully on a frame made of saplings, to dry properly and minimize distortion. The hair side was in, to help the skin dry, but there was no question of what had worn it in life. And it was big! A large tear, carefully sewn shut, showed where the boar's tusks had ripped open groin and belly.
The bones were the most impressive though. Those of the hands had been reassembled, fastened together with copper wire. Of the rest, most lay on the floor, carefully arranged as in life, waiting. The skull and jawbone, with their large fighting teeth, had also been wired together, and lay on a workbench. Beside them lay an enormous thighbone, much larger than those on the floor. Odds and ends of large vertebrae, ribs and so on lay in a pile.
Jeremid held the lantern. The visitors were clearly impressed. He was as interested in them as they were in the skin and bones. As the three examined the skull, Jeremid groped through his memories. Who did the twins remind him of? And red hair…
The truth struck him all at once, unlikely as it seemed. It explained everything-speech, manners, everything.
"That was interesting," said the one in charge. "It makes the story we heard all the more real."
"Yep," said Jeremid. "A story like that can use a little proof."
"Macurdy went north, they said."
"That's right."
"Too bad. I wish we were." He turned to the twins. "Time to go, boys. Maybe we'll have another chance sometime."
Jeremid watched them ride off into the night. Boys. That clinched it. Not three brothers. A commander and his men-Macurdy's twin sons-sent off by Sarkia to follow Macurdy. He wished he had two good arms, and trained men at hand. He'd have disarmed the trio and questioned them. As it was…
For one of the few times in his life, Jeremid didn't know what to do. Gather some of his century maybe, and follow? North, for that was the way they'd go. But gathering men would take a couple of days. And the three had remounts and packhorses, so they were probably traveling hard, and camping where night found them. By the time his men could catch up, if they could, they'd be at least two days ride into Visdrossa, a dependency of Kormehr. And neither Visdrossans nor Kormehri would appreciate Kullvordi cavalry deep inside their country.
On the other hand, Jeremid told himself, what harm might those three do? Odds are, Sarkia sent them to talk Varia into coming south with Macurdy. And if Sarkia's being straight about this… Hard to tell about her.
And if she's not being straight, Macurdy and Vulkan can handle it. Be a shame, though, if anything happened to those twins. Break Macurdy's heart again.
17 On the Road to Duinarog
Macurdy and Vulkan crossed the border north into Visdrossa, turned east into Indrossa, then north again toward Inderstown and the Big River. The region was more prosperous than Macurdy remembered, and the roads and inns were better, especially as they neared the Big River. There were more travelers, and wagon traffic.
They traveled long days, now much of the time under Vulkan's invisibility spell, to avoid slows and complications. Vulkan drew most of his energy from the Web of the World-that was routine for him-pausing now and then to feed on roots and tubers along the road. Every three or four nights he'd nab a lamb or calf, or young pig.
Macurdy was surprised that Vulkan ate pig. ‹Numer-ous human tribes eat monkeys,› Vulkan replied mildly, ‹and humans are ensouled apes.› Leaving Macurdy to speculate on how he'd learned about monkeys, let alone the tribes that ate them. Vulkan had identified himself as a bodhisattva, but Macurdy had little idea of what a bodhisattva was, and less about the knowledge that might be part of it.
Macurdy too drew on the Web of the World, supplementing it daily with food purchased at some village, or a meal at an inn. His stomach complained when he went too long between meals, but it was adjusting. From time to time he got off and walked a mile or two to rest Vulkan-speed-marched, striding rapidly and trotting by spells to avoid slowing them excessively. Several times Vulkan stopped to swim briefly in a stream, Macurdy joining him, and when they stopped to sleep, Macurdy groomed him, to prevent saddle sores.
When Vulkan did drop his invisibility cloak, the result was much as it had been on their ride through Tekalos. But they outpaced reports of their moving north, and Vulkan avoided showing himself in villages and towns. When Macurdy needed to buy food, he'd slide from Vulkan's back as they approached a village or farm, and walk the last stretch.
Macurdy could afford inns, but he felt a certain urgency, and preferred to ride late. Only once did they encounter an inn when he was ready to stop. Usually they rode till after dark, and the days were long in that season. To Macurdy, Vulkan's endurance seemed magical. Often Macurdy bedded down in a barn or hay shed, for farms were numerous in the northern Rude Lands. Once, when soaked by rain, they'd traveled all night, letting the sun dry them in the morning.
Despite Vulkan's short legs and heavy burden, they made excellent progress.
Rillor and the twins pushed their horses hard. They did not, however, cover the miles they might have. Rillor's weaknesses included impatience and a love of comfort-not always compatible-and here there was no one to discipline him. The night after leaving Jeremid's, they hadn't yet cleared the forested Kullvordi Hills, so they slept in the woods. And as they'd ridden late, he decided not to trouble with setting up and breaking down camp. Instead they slept exposed beneath the trees.
Not long after midnight, a squall line passed through, and soaked them. Cold, bedraggled, disgusted, they rode the rest of the night. And to warm themselves from the Web of the World was beyond their training, and quite possibly their talents.
Camping had other drawbacks than weather. They'd have to hobble their horses instead of picketing them, so they could forage for food. And while foraging, even hobbled horses will scatter and be hard to find and catch. Also there was the matter of taking the tent down, folding it, and repacking the packsaddles.
Guardsmen drilled such things repeatedly in training, but still they took time.
So mostly they stopped at inns overnight, or occasionally a farm, sometimes well before dark. Then they rose at dawn and ate a quick breakfast. They'd be in trouble if they wore their horses out, Rillor said, and he was right, but on the road he pushed them hard.
They made excellent time, by normal standards, but they could have done better.
Macurdy and Vulkan crossed the Big River to Parnston, in the Outer Marches. Macurdy rode a ferry, while Vulkan swam, his body unseeable but his wake quite visible. If one looked. It was the odd sort of sight people tend to suppress, denying their senses.
Vulkan "talked" less than he had early on, but still from time to time he spoke at some length, usually in response to a comment or question by his rider. On the first morning north of Parnston, Macurdy was worrying about the powers they were up against in the Voitusotar.[1] "The voitar I've known were all a lot more talented than me," he said.
‹What of Corporal Trosza, of whom you told me?›
Macurdy frowned. "Trosza wasn't typical."
‹In what respects was he not typical?›
Macurdy regarded the question for a moment. "Actually he probably was fairly typical. What I should have said was, my voitik instructors at Schloss Tannenberg and Voitazosz were a lot more talented than me. But people like them-masters and adepts-are what I'm worried about the most."
‹Concern is appropriate, for they are indeed formidable. But in some respects less than you imagine.›
Macurdy didn't reply. He sensed there was more to come.
‹Their psychic powers are narrow. As straightforward magicians, they are not exceptional. I doubt very much that any approach Sarkia in breadth and flexibility of magical response to situations. I speak, of course, of Sarkia as she was before her decline. And probably none of them approach you in psychic perception. Their great superiority is in major sorceries, sorceries requiring time and favorable circumstances to engineer, so to speak.› He paused. ‹I do not refer to arrangements or alliances with demons or the devil. Neither of which exist in the occult sense, though some voitar-and some humans and ylver-can behave quite satanically. What voitik adepts, and particularly masters have is an ability to manipulate astral matter, and susceptible forces of nature known as elementals. A talent largely absent among human beings and ylver.›
"Wait a minute!" Macurdy said. "How do you know all that?"
‹I have access to areas of general knowledge, with regard to sentient beings in this particular pair of universes. It is attributable in part to my status as a bodhisattva, and to those areas of knowledge I was given access to in preparation for my task. Knowledge now clarifying for me as my task clarifies.
‹Beyond that it derives from my own observations of humans and ylver.› He turned his head, regarding Macurdy with one red eye. ‹But what I know of the Voitusotar is partly from one of my own land. He has paid no attention to them for some time now, and they were never his focus. But at one time he made a minor study of them. Through proxies. Your own observations fit his knowledge nicely.›
"You mean there are giant boars across the Ocean Sea?"
‹Two of them. One in the west-west central, actually-and one in the east. We communicate from time to time, as the notion takes us.›
It was Macurdy's turn to be silent. He had things to ponder, and he wasn't much for pondering.
Several days later, at a village three miles south of Ternass, they encountered a half-starved child, seated on a bench outside a tavern. One leg was crudely splinted, and a crude crutch leaned beside him. He was, Macurdy thought, about ten years old. The boy's aura told him what the problem was-a crush fracture of the lower leg, both tibia and fibula. The pictures embedded in the aura showed Macurdy more than enough, and the event that broke the leg was not the worst.
Clearly the leg would mend crooked and short; the boy would be seriously crippled. Macurdy went over and squatted in front of him. "What happened?" he asked softly.
"I got run over by my dad's cart," the boy answered. His voice was a soft monotone.
"It must be a heavy cart."
The boy pointed at it, a dozen yards away. It held a dozen large burlap sacks of coal. A tall jaded mule stood harnessed to it, hitched to a rail.
"It was piled high with wheat sacks that day," the boy said.
"How did he happen to run over you?"
The answer was little more than whispered. "It was an accident."
"How come you're here, instead of at home?"
The boy said nothing.
"Is it all right if I heal it? I'm a healer."
The boy looked at him, but did not meet his eyes. "You better ask my dad."
"In there?" Macurdy gestured at the tavern.
The boy nodded.
"How will I know him?"
"He's big, and his clothes has got coal dust on them."
"Thank you," Macurdy said, "I'll ask him," and went inside.
The Marches were prosperous enough that glass was commonplace, and the tavern was decently lit, through windows less dirty than they might have been. There were only four customers at that hour. Macurdy spotted the carter and walked over to him. "What are you drinking?" he asked cordially.
Whatever it was, the man had had a few already. He scowled at Macurdy, who as usual had left his sword on a saddle ring. "I never seen you before," the carter said. "You got no business with me."
"I used to be well known around here, when you were young. Really well known at Ternass. You just don't recognize me."
"When I was young, you weren't hardly born."
"I'm a lot older than I look. My name's Macurdy."
The man glowered. The barkeeper and the other patrons had been more or less aware of the conversation; now the name Macurdy locked their attention. One of them in particular stared. His stubbly beard was gray, his hair getting that way. "God love me, it is him!" he murmured. "Or his double!"
Macurdy ignored them. "I saw your boy on the bench out front," he said to the carter. "He's going to be a cripple. Unless I heal him."
"He's none of your business, and neither am I."
Macurdy reached into his belt pouch and took out several silver teklota. "I thought I'd take him to Ternass with me, heal him, and leave him at the fort."
The man's voice raised. "Trying to buy him, are you! Healing's no part of what you got in mind! Get out of here before I call the constable!"
Macurdy grabbed the man's heavy wool shirt front and jerked him close. "Call the constable," he hissed, "and I'll tell him what you accused me of. In front of witnesses."
The carter's defiance took a shriller sound. "They heard nothing! They're friends of mine!"
He looked around. No one said a word. They weren't his friends; they knew him too well. Macurdy let the man go and turned to the tavernkeeper. "Drinks for everyone; whatever they're drinking." He gestured at the carter. "Him too. I'll have ale."
The middle-aged tavernkeeper had never set eyes on the Lion of Farside before, but it seemed to him this was the man. He began to draw drinks.
The carter had turned away from Macurdy, to sip from the mug he already had. Macurdy rested a heavy hand on his shoulder. "I'm a wizard, you know. I can look at the boy and see what's happened to him. All of it."
The man didn't speak, didn't look at him, only took another swallow of ale. His aura had darkened as if with smoke from the coal in his cart.
"You got a wife?"
The head shook no.
"Died, did she?"
The head nodded, the aura darkening further. Macurdy wondered what she'd died of. "Ah," he said. "It's got to be hard, bringing up a boy without a woman in the house. Working all day to buy food. Hardly anything left for a drink after a hard day of loading, unloading, carrying… I bet you had it tough when you were a boy, too, eh?"
A remarkable tear swelled and overflowed, running down a grimy cheek to lose itself in stubble. Lightly, Macurdy clapped the man's shoulder. "Tell you what," he said. "I'll give you this gold imperial to close the deal. In front of these witnesses. I'll take him off your hands-" he paused "-and off your conscience. I'll take him to the fort, to their infirmary, heal him body and soul, and leave him with the commandant. They'll see he's taken care of, and you'll never see him again." Again he paused. "Never trouble him again."
Once more the man faced him, somehow deflated now, defeated. He put out a hand for the coin.
"You've got to say it out loud," Macurdy told him, "so we can all hear it. Say 'The deal is closed. I'll never trouble him again.' "
"The deal is closed." The man paused, then continued. "I'll never trouble him again." Said it just loudly enough to be heard by the patrons and tavernkeeper.
Macurdy shook the hand, then put the gold coin in it. "Good. We've made a deal. Thank God for it. If you break it…"
The man turned away. Macurdy saluted the others and left, his own ale untouched. He knew what the man would do with the imperial: stay drunk till he was broke. A gold imperial would buy gallons of cheap booze. Then, when he'd recovered, he might or might not go to Fort Ternass and look for the boy. But probably he wouldn't. That would take energy and initiative.
Outside, Macurdy stepped in front of the boy and spoke to him again. "What's your name?" he asked.
"Delvi."
"Delvi, I talked to your dad. He's not your dad any longer, unless you want to come back to him. That's up to you. For now you're my boy. I'll take you to Fort Ternass and heal your leg. Then we'll see about a new home for you. One where they'll feed you better, and won't-do what that one did to you. All right?"
"It's up to him," the boy murmured.
"No, no it's not. Not any longer. He sold you to me for a gold imperial."
Despite himself, that widened the child's eyes. "A gold imperial?!"
Macurdy nodded solemnly. "You're worth a lot more than that, but he didn't know it. Someday you'll be a man of pride and reputation." He paused. "That's the truth. I wouldn't lie to you." And to Macurdy it felt like truth.
A well-grown youth had been passing by, and had slowed, then stopped, to listen. Macurdy asked his help, and together they got Delvi onto Macurdy's back, arms around his neck. Then Macurdy hiked out of town with his rider, Vulkan invisible beside them. Delvi smelled bad, of old sweat, pain, and fear. His splints dug Macurdy's ribs, and Macurdy's shoulders got cramped from walking with his arms behind his back, supporting Delvi's small, awkward weight. But it was nothing compared to lugging a machine gun on his shoulder thirty miles through 'dobe clay mud in Algeria.
Ternass was a major town, claiming 4,800 people. Not having a defensive palisade, it was more spread out and cleaner than such towns in the Rude Lands.
The kingdoms of the Marches had their own regular armies now, and the ylvin garrison had long since turned the fort over to two companies of home-grown cavalry. So Macurdy, unsure of his welcome there, hiked to the nearby commons school. Hermiss, Varia's onetime traveling companion, was now the school's administrator, and she recognized Macurdy at once. She'd married, her father had retired, and her husband had replaced him as headmaster.
Privately, Macurdy described the situation to her. She didn't hesitate, but came around the desk. "I'll introduce you at the fort," she said, "and keep track of Delvi when you've left."
To his surprise, the commandant remembered him more for his humanity and generalship than as an invader. Partly because he'd killed Lord Quaie, and partly because, through the treaty he'd negotiated, the March kingdoms had become self-ruling, though owing nominal allegiance and token fees to the emperor.
Macurdy was given a room in the officers' quarters, and stayed there for four days, treating the boy. The leg improved with astonishing speed. Over the years, Macurdy had learned a bit about healing the psyche too, mainly from Arbel. And had had success with it, notably with Mary, and Shorty Lyle. So he exercised that, as well. Meanwhile both the fort's commandant and its surgeon had become interested in the boy, and promised Macurdy the father would not get him back. Beyond that, the mess sergeant had taken an interest in Delvi, and his thin features were already showing some flesh.
Hermiss visited daily-on the second and third days with her husband. It seemed to Macurdy the boy might get foster parents and foster siblings out of this as well.
Meanwhile Vulkan had disappeared. After breakfast of the fourth day, however, he spoke to Macurdy's mind. He'd just arrived outside the fort's defensive wall. Macurdy had him let inside, then packed his saddlebags, saddled the boar, and climbed aboard. On their way to the highway, they passed the great burial mounds of the battlefield, brightly spangled with meadow flowers. Macurdy wondered what Sicily looked like now, where he and so many others had bled. And Belgium, and Bloody Hurtgen, where what was left of the 509th had received its final wounds. He'd been spared that. He wondered if he could confront another war.
On Macurdy's last day at the fort, three other men had arrived at Ternass, well mounted, with remounts and packhorses trailing behind. Two of the saddle horses needed reshoeing, and Rillor had decided he couldn't delay it any longer. They'd lodge the horses at a stable, see to their shoeing, enjoy a bath house and inn, and leave the next day.
For the past several days, no one seemed to have seen a man with a giant boar, but Macurdy was probably still ahead. He was known as a wizard, and according to legend, the great boars were sorcerers. Belonging to the Sisterhood, concealment spells were entirely real to Rillor, even though he lacked the power to cast them.
Meanwhile, three days of steady riding would bring them to Duinarog. There, Rillor told himself, he'd learn how the situation stood, and how best to complete his mission. He felt confident of his ability to carry it out.
18 Supper with the Cyncaidhs
Rillor and the twins learned how near they were to Macurdy from conversations overheard while steaming in the Ternass bathhouse. What they did not learn was when he planned to leave. Rillor thought briefly of riding to the fort and looking him up, but decided not to complicate matters. As it stood, they'd arrive in Duinarog either ahead of him or on the same day.
The twins were confused by what they heard. Their father had carried a crippled boy three miles on his back? To heal his leg? Who'd been in charge of the child? Why hadn't the community corrected the situation? Had they no healers?
They didn't ask Rillor those questions. He was their commanding officer; they were lance corporals.
They left in midmorning, after picking up their horses at the farrier's. Within an hour they came to the Great Marsh. They'd spent their lives closed in by mountains, and most of what they'd seen on this trip had seemed at least somewhat strange. But the great marsh, and the highway that crossed it, were the strangest. The highway was built on a raised bed of rock, packed with dirt, topped with gravel, and flanked by large, water-filled ditches. Straight as a die it ran, through the marsh to the horizon and no doubt beyond, wide enough for wagons to pass on. It seemed to them that only a marvelously rich and able people could build such a road.
The marsh itself stretched out of sight ahead and to both sides, a vast expanse of cattails, and black pools sheened with limonite. Scattered here and there were patches of ten-foot reeds, or brush and scrubby trees. Blackwater creeks passed with imperceptible currents beneath small stone bridges, and along their low shores, muskrat lodges humped like miniature beaver dens. Redwinged blackbirds provided the nearest approximation of birdsong-a monotonic but pleasant trill. To the twins, it was intriguing. Dohns, the more imaginative, wondered what lived in its water, and if it extended all the way to Duinarog. Ohns wondered how one might take an army over it, if the road were defended.
To Rillor it was desolate, and he gave his attention to his mission.
Poison was the logical means of assassinating Varia and Macurdy-and the twins if convenient. Idri had supplied him with an envelope each of two potent poisons. One was to be ingested in drink or food. Very little was required, and supposedly it had almost no taste. (He wondered how anyone alive could know that.) Also, Idri had assured him, it had a delayed action, allowing several people time to take it before the first showed any effects.
The other poison could be sprinkled on the surface of lamp oil. When the lamp was lit, heat caused the tiny crystals to dissolve. The contaminated oil then rose up the wick to the flame, where it produced extremely toxic fumes. By the time the telltale pungency could be detected, it was too late. The victim collapsed and died.
He wondered where Idri had gotten them. Perhaps from Farside, he thought, back when she'd run the outpost there. He didn't have to wonder why she'd gotten them. She'd no doubt wanted the dynast's throne half her life ago, or more.
At any rate, his job was to apply them. In his mind he rehearsed a scenario set in the Cyncaidh's residence, as he imagined it. He'd present Varia and Macurdy with their sons, then with the sealed envelope from the dynast's office. At the same time presenting himself as the dynast's courier. They would, of course, invite him to supper. Almost invariably, ylvin nobility were courteous to embassy personnel.
The food poison would be his primary weapon. It was the most target-specific. If he used the lamp poison at all, it would be before dark. Then he'd make an excuse and leave.
He'd be the prime suspect, of course, so he'd planned his escape carefully. Too bad, he thought, that he didn't have a concealment spell, but wits would serve. During his years at the embassy, he'd become familiar with the city. There'd been several boat rental businesses on the Imperial River, below the Great Rapids. Embassy personnel sometimes rented boats from them to fish for the huge pike there. He'd rent one, ride it downstream to the Imperial Sea, land on its south shore, then make his way back to the Cloister.
It was, he told himself, all quite simple.
On the second night out of Ternass, Macurdy stayed at an inn, while Vulkan prowled the countryside. The inn's standard of cleanliness was quite good, and it had a bathhouse and laundry. The innkeeper's wife even cut hair. In the bathhouse, Macurdy was propositioned by an attractive ylvin "lass," whose aura suggested she might be on the verge of decline. She didn't seem to be a professional. A widow perhaps, burning her candles. He was not tempted.
The next day he came to a crossroad, with a sign that said DUINAROG 15 MILES. Just beyond it was a police post. No one was near, so Macurdy dismounted, and walked out of Vulkan's concealment cloak. Vulkan, still unseen, then followed him to the post, where Macurdy stepped onto the porch and went inside. A constable got to his feet and asked what he wanted.
"My name's Macurdy. I'd like to speak to your commander."
Rumors had reached there of Macurdy's appearance at Ternass, so while the trooper wasn't entirely convinced, he wasn't surprised at the claim. The traveler's clothing and boots were peculiar enough to be from Farside, that was a fact. "The commander?" he said. "Just a minute. I'll tell him you want to see him."
The commander too had heard the rumor and, like the constable, felt dubious. "You're Macurdy?" he said. "What can I do for you?"
"I'm riding to Duinarog to see Lord and Lady Cyncaidh, and I'd like an escort. I have an unusual mount, and without an escort we might cause disturbances in the city."
"Disturbances?"
"Come out on the porch. You'll see what I mean."
Frowning, the commander followed him. Stepping out the door, he looked around, and opened his mouth to speak. Macurdy anticipated him. "Vulkan," he called, "let the commander see you."
And there he stood, more than half a ton of wild boar. Seemingly half of it head and shoulders, ten percent tusks. Gawping, the commander turned to Macurdy. "Good God!" he said. "I never quite believed in them. And saddled! Is he sapient, as the tales claim?"
Macurdy didn't know the word, but guessed its meaning. "He's smarter than me, and a lot better magician."
‹Macurdy, do not undervalue yourself,› the deep voice said, allowing the ylf to perceive it. ‹Accomplishment is incontrovertible evidence of intellect and character, and you have accomplished marvels, both in Yuulith and on Farside.›
Macurdy grinned at the ylf. "On Farside there's a saying: a man's best friend is his dog. I've got a hog. Or he's got me. Actually, it's a free and open friendship; neither of us owns the other one. But I get more good out of it than he does." He laughed. "If he ever finds out how one-sided this is…"
Fifteen minutes later, Vulkan was jogging up the highway with Macurdy on his back and a trooper on each side. A courier had galloped off ahead, to inform Lord Cyncaidh of Macurdy's coming, and his estimated time of arrival.
Chief Counselor Raien Cyncaidh had a splendidly appointed office in the imperial palace. The palace was a complex of buildings, only one of them the imperial residence. The others housed the empire's central administrative and judicial functions, and the assemblies of the three estates. Five or six mornings a week, eight months a year, Lord Cyncaidh arrived there by 8 A.M. But his personal residence was less than a mile away, and more often than not he returned there at midday, for lunch with his wife. Bringing a pile of reports to read and annotate in the afternoon, relatively free of the interruptions that beset him at his office.
Relatively free. The police courier, after going first to Lord Cyncaidh's palace office, arrived at his residence shortly before 1 P.M. The courier was a genuinely young ylf-of mixed blood, actually. Pink-cheeked, brown-eyed, with raven hair and no sign of beard, only his rounded ears showed the extent of his partly human ancestry.
He delivered his message, not omitting Vulkan, then added: "If your lordship approves, he'll be brought here as soon as he arrives at the palace."
"Of course. What time might we expect him?"
"I'd guess sometime about two, your lordship."
"Hmm. I take it the boar is, um, well-behaved?"
"Seems to be, your lordship. If he really is a boar. He might be a wizard wearing a spell; in his way, he speaks as well as anyone. Seems to be physical though, flesh and blood. At any rate he carries Marshal Macurdy easily enough, and the marshal is a large man."
The courier left his lordship with that informational lump, and Cyncaidh called his butler. "Talrie," he said, "we'll have guests for supper, and probably for the night. A man riding on a giant boar. A boar who speaks, I might add." He gave Talrie a moment to grasp and accept the statement. "Prepare a stall for it in the coach house, with clean straw and, um, whatever you think such a creature might like to eat. They may be here as soon as two o'clock."
"Very well, your lordship. Do you anticipate the horses being upset by him?"
"I think not. They're being escorted by mounted police. Apparently the creature is compatible with horses."
Talrie left, to give appropriate orders to the housekeeper, cook, and stableboy. Cyncaidh strode upstairs to inform Varia. Opening her study door, he paused. She sat in her wicker reading chair, facing away from him, no doubt with a book in her hands. What, he wondered to himself, has Macurdy come here for? His business is surely with her, not me.
She'd heard the door, and after marking her place, got to her feet, turning. Graceful, always graceful, he told himself. She was dressed for summer, in sheer green over a gauzy white underdress, setting off her vividly red hair. Her feet were bare-a private quirk of hers. Like her arms and face, they were lightly tanned and perfectly formed. Physically she was more beautiful even than Mariil, he thought. And mentally, spiritually? Equally beautiful, but different. Cyncaidh, he told himself, you've been blessed all your life. And hoped that blessing wasn't in danger.
"Hello, love," she said smiling. "What brings you to my lair?"
It was difficult to hide his feelings from her. She was exceptionally perceptive of auras, when she paid attention. "Guess who's coming to supper," he said.
Her eyebrows rose. "I have no idea." She eyed him quizzically, then grinned despite the discomfort revealed by his aura. "Someone you feel uncomfortable with," she suggested. "Not Quaie the younger. Not that uncomfortable. Someone you-like but feel uncomfortable with." She grinned again. Her fists were on her hips now, challenging. "Who?"
In spite of himself he smiled. "Curtis Macurdy," he answered. "The Lion of Farside, if you'd rather."
Her smile disappeared. She stepped to a chair that faced him, and sat down. "Curtis? Really?"
"And his saddle mount. I'm sure you recall the name of his warhorse."
She frowned, puzzled. "Hog. He named it after a horse of Will's. Why?"
"Now he's riding a different sort of hog."
"Different?"
"He stopped at the police post south of the city. At the Riverton Road crossing." He paused. "Riding a giant boar. An actual giant boar, with a saddle."
She stared, then laughter bubbled out of her. "Curtis? Good God! Whatever became of my quiet, homespun farmboy with literal hayseeds in his hair?" Her husband's solemn, even lugubrious expression stilled her mirth. Getting up, she stepped over to him and took his hands. "Its been nearly twenty years since we saw him last. My decision hasn't changed, and it will not." I wept all that out of my system after he left, she added inwardly, out of my system and out of your sight. I chose you because of the love we had-we have-and for little Ceonigh. And now there's Rorie as well.
There was more to it that she wasn't looking at. With Raien she had security and stability. After her ordeal at the Cloister, security was important. And Curtis had changed, even eighteen years ago. Anyone changed over time, but to become the Lion of Farside…? And perhaps hardest to confront, she could not go back to life on the farm, even if he could. Not farm life as she remembered it.
She would, she knew, love Curtis Macurdy till the day she died. And Cyncaidh for just as long. But Cyncaidh she knew, from nineteen years of familiarity and sharing, from love and admiration. She couldn't imagine leaving him and their sons.
Macurdy and Vulkan arrived shortly after two. Vulkan's bulk and hooves were ill-suited to the carpets and hardwood floors of the Cyncaidh residence. (At the palace at Teklapori, the floors were mainly of granite, with rugs largely restricted to the royal apartment and guest rooms.) So Talrie ensconced him in the carriage house, with a peck of corn and some cabbages. "A fat turkey has been obtained and is being plucked for you," Talrie added. "It will be brought out directly, unless you'd prefer it roasted. That would take quite some time."
Vulkan told him he preferred it raw. And that meanwhile a brief wallow in the fish pool would be welcome. In the residence, Macurdy met with the Cyncaidhs for only a few minutes. The last time he'd met Varia, the circumstances had been utterly different than he'd expected. He'd been thrown completely off-stride, his reaction unsure and tentative. This time he knew her circumstances. What he somehow wasn't prepared for was how beautiful she would seem to him; she took his breath away. Liiset was beautiful, and they were clone sisters, but Varia's loveliness put her somehow in a class of her own.
Varia's greeting, while warm and fond, set enough distance between them to cool whatever hope he'd arrived with. She'd changed, of course. Her speech sounded ylvin now, both in accent and syntax, and her aura reflected a matured serenity that told him her life was happy and complete.
When the Cyncaidhs excused themselves, Talrie took Macurdy to a guest room. Adjacent was a bath with a deep tub, freshly filled with hot water. Macurdy bathed, then lay down in borrowed pajamas for a nap that was slow in coming. He'd been highly skeptical that Varia would accept Sarkia's invitation, but now he realized how much hope it had kindled in his subconscious.
And now having seen her, spoken with her, read her aura, it seemed to him there was no chance at all that she'd agree. Still he'd deliver Sarkia's message. Because he'd said he would, and because he would not waste whatever hope there might be.
Chief Counselor Cyncaidh had not missed Macurdy's reaction to Varia-the Farsider had been shaken by the sight of her-but her reaction had not matched his. She'd spoken graciously and fondly to him, and her aura had matched her words, but she'd shown little male-female response.
Meanwhile, Cyncaidh was a disciplined man, and returned to his reports with full concentration. After a bit someone knocked again. "Your lordship," said Talrie's familiar voice, "a diplomatic courier has arrived from the ylvin embassy, with two guardsmen. And an envelope. They wish to see you personally-yourself and Lady Cyncaidh. He did not divulge his mission." Cyncaidh arose tight-lipped, and followed Talrie downstairs. It seemed to him he wasn't going to like this. Three minutes later he came back upstairs, going first to the guest room where Macurdy was napping. He'd known at a glance who the two youths were, had known before the captain said a word.
He shook Macurdy's shoulder. "Curtis," he said, "wake up. Some men have arrived. They wish to see you."
Macurdy sat up abruptly. "Who are they?"
"I'll let you hear it from them. I have to notify Varia."
Frowning, Macurdy got up and began to dress, while Cyncaidh went to Varia's study. He told her no more than he had Macurdy, and she didn't press him.
Talrie had already conducted Rillor and the two young guardsmen to the first-floor parlor. They wore dress uniforms now. Varia knew at first sight who the red-haired youths were, though they'd been only four months old when she'd seen them last. Sons seldom looked so much like their fathers as these did, though part of it was Curtis's lasting youth. Standing beside her, Cyncaidh put a reassuring hand on her arm. They both knew the one reason Sarkia would have sent them. She wanted Varia back.
Macurdy was the only one who had to be told. Having no need to shave, he'd never looked much in mirrors. Cyncaidh introduced them. "Varia, Curtis, this gentleman is Captain Rillor, a courier from the dynast. And these two young men are your sons, Ohns and Dohns. They've come to meet their parents."
Macurdy was thunderstruck. He knew instantly what this was about. And if Sarkia had asked, he might conceivably have agreed to it. But to have it imposed on Varia like this… Anger surged in him, shocking even himself. If he'd had his saber, he might have cut the courier down. And Rillor felt it. His knees threatened to fold.
Cyncaidh felt it too, and saw it surge through Macurdy's aura. It made his skin crawl. He even sensed the cause. The twins also felt it, and saw it in their father's aura, but lacking the background knowledge, they had no notion what was wrong.
Varia missed all of it, though normally she was more perceptive than any of them. She was dealing with her own emotions. Mariil, in her healing sessions, had greatly unburdened Varia of her griefs and losses. But this confrontation brought down upon her what remained of them.
"Thank you for bringing them, Captain Rillor," she said quietly. Gently. "Ohns, Dohns, I am glad you've been allowed to visit."
Ylvin had become a fossil language, taught to children but not used in day-to-day life. As Lady Cyncaidh, she'd learned a bit of it in connection with ceremony and tradition, and realized the significance of her sons' calling names. "Ohns," she added, "when you were newly born, I named you Will. And Dohns, I named you Curtis. If you will indulge me, I will call you by those names."
As alike as they looked physically, she had no difficulty distinguishing them. Aspects of their auras told her that Ohns was born a warrior, and Dohns a would-be scholar.
"Mother," Ohns said, "you may call me whatever you like. I will be happy to hear it." Dohns nodded firmly. "And I," he said.
Rillor reached inside his dress jacket and drew out the envelope from Sarkia. "My lady," he said, bowing slightly, "I have the honor of giving you this envelope from the Dynast."
She accepted it. "Thank you, Captain," she said, but did not open it. Her glance included all three Guardsmen. "I trust you'll stay for dinner."
Cyncaidh wished she hadn't included Rillor; he'd disliked the man on sight. But it was, he told himself, the proper and necessary thing to do.
They went to the ground-floor parlor together, where Varia put the envelope on the mantle. Then they sat talking of trivialities. Not wishing to draw needless attention, Rillor hardly participated. Some of these people-Varia surely-would see auras in dangerous detail, if she focused on them. He wished she'd open the envelope. It would engage their attentions enough to make his job easier. Meanwhile he cased the room, careful not to be obvious. There were handsome, cut-glass lamps scattered about. One, with a stem for carrying, stood on a lamp table by the door. That one, he thought. It's the one they'll light first.
A servant brought in a tray with glasses and a wine bottle, and placed it on a small buffet not far from the door. Ah, thought Rillor, there's my chance.
And with that realized he'd overlooked a crucial step. He could hardly take an envelope from his jacket, open it, and pour poison into their wine glasses in front of everyone. His failure shook him.
"Thank you, Jahns," Varia said to the servant, and glanced around. "It's a light appetizer wine, dry and semisweet. You may wish to try it."
With the others, Rillor went to the buffet, poured himself a drink, and returned with it to his chair. Soon afterward Talrie came in. Dinner, he said, would be served in fifteen minutes. Cyncaidh suggested that anyone in need use one of the four water closets off the hall.
As shocked as he'd been minutes earlier, Rillor was resilient. He excused himself at once, and locked himself into one of the water closets, where he poured some of the food poison into a palm, then transferred it into his right-hand pants pocket. Next he put some of the other into his left-hand pocket. After that he washed possible traces of the powder from his hands, urinated, and left.
Back in the parlor, he found himself alone. Quickly he took some powder from his right-hand pocket and sprinkled a pinch in the glass where Macurdy had sat, then another in the glass where Varia had sat. He was tight, jumpy, sure that if any of them looked at him now, really looked, they'd know. After brushing off his hands, he took his own glass and started back toward the buffet. Dohns came in but paid no attention. Rillor fished a pinch of powder from his left-hand pocket and paused by the lamp table before going to the tray and topping off his wine glass.
One by one, all the others returned except Varia. When Talrie announced that dinner was served, Macurdy had not sipped his poisoned wine. As they left, Rillor saw Talrie, with the tray in one hand, picking up the glasses.
The dinner was simple, not lavish as Rillor had expected, but he was impressed with the quality. It included a dinner wine, and a brandy custard for dessert. Meanwhile Cyncaidh had favored Rillor with more than one meaningful glance, as if inviting him to leave.
Afterward they returned to the parlor. The previous glasses and wine bottle were gone, replaced on the buffet by an after-dinner wine and clean glasses. Meanwhile the sun was low enough that the room had begun to dim.
It seemed to Rillor he had only one more chance. He got to his feet. "Excuse me, my lord, my lady. But sometimes rich food troubles my stomach. May I try just a swallow of that wine? Then I really must return to the embassy and write my report."
"Of course," Cyncaidh said. "We quite understand. If the message you brought requires a reply, we'll send for you. Meanwhile we'd appreciate your allowing these two young men to spend the night, if they'd care to."
"Thank you, my lord. They're free to if they wish." The twins accepted the invitation, definitely but warily.
Not daring to look back, Rillor walked to the buffet while the others conversed, dipping into his right-hand pocket as he went. He moved casually enough, but anxiety clutched his gut. If Varia, and perhaps Cyncaidh or even Macurdy focused on his aura, surely they'd know something was wrong, and not just with his stomach.
As before, the glasses were on a tray. The same move that picked up the bottle dropped powder into every glass but one. He poured a splash of wine in it, drank, then left quietly. In the hall, his knees nearly buckled with relief.
He fidgeted in the waiting room while a servant got his horse. The stableboy had to saddle it, of course, and Rillor expected at any moment to hear a commotion upstairs. If only one of them died, he hoped it was Macurdy. The man's anger had frozen his blood, and he feared being hunted by him.
It seemed to him his horse would never arrive. Actually he'd waited barely five minutes before Talrie handed him his cap and jacket, and wished him good night.
Once in the saddle, Rillor fought the impulse to gallop away. There were traffic laws in Duinarog, and it could be fatal, on that evening, to be detained by the police.
No one else went to the wine tray. They were all more or less sated from supper, and the twins were ill at ease, not knowing the protocol there. Varia began to question them, first about the Cloister, then about themselves. Their answers were mostly short, and she decided they weren't ready to open up.
"Well," she said, "I should see what Captain Rillor's envelope holds." She took it from the mantle, opened it, and silently scanned the enclosure. The handwriting was clear and firm, definitely not Sarkia's, but she might well have dictated it. When Varia had finished, she looked at the others.
"The dynast," she said, "would like me to return. With Marshal Macurdy. I to serve as dynast, he as my deputy, and commander of the Sisterhood's military forces. This would reunite us with our sons-mine and Curtis's." Varia looked at her small audience. "She totally ignores my present marriage, of course," she added drily, "as she did my first one, years ago."
Her eyes moved to Cyncaidh, then to the twins, finally settling on Macurdy. "I have no doubt Sarkia meant well by this, but she has given me a cruel choice: my sons-or my sons. But I cannot abandon my husband. Or my children by him, whom I nursed and cuddled, cleaned up, fed, taught, scolded, and on occasion disciplined."
Her focus turned to the twins. "Imperial law allows exiles from foreign lands to apply for residence here. If you wish to stay, we welcome you abundantly."
She paused, looking at Cyncaidh. "Raien?" she said.
He nodded and stood, his eyes too on the twins. "If you wish, you can live with us," he said, "as part of our family. Normally, at the beginning of Seven-Month we go to Aaerodh Manor, our home on the Northern Sea. Our… other sons left for there when the spring lectures ended here at the university. At Aaerodh you can begin learning our ways, and a profession. Perhaps train as officers in my own ducal cohort, with the option of transfer to the emperor's army, where there are greater opportunities for advancement. With the training you've already had, it should go quickly and well for you."
He paused. The twins stared soberly, saying nothing. "Or perhaps you'd rather not," he went on. "We may seem too foreign to you. At any rate you will doubtless want to discuss it between yourselves. And perhaps with your parents."
He turned to Macurdy. "Curtis," he said, "I'm afraid we've rather left you out of this. No slight was intended. If you…"
Talrie entered without knocking. "Lord Cyncaidh," he said, "something urgent has come up. Zednis, in the kitchen, has taken severely ill." His eyes turned to Varia. "If your ladyship can come…"
Scowling, Cyncaidh interrupted. "Have you any idea what it might be?"
"My lord, I think she's poisoned. I'm told she'd drunk from one of the untouched wine glasses. They know they're not supposed to, but…"
"Go then!"
Talrie and Varia hurried away. Macurdy and the twins watched Cyncaidh walk to the buffet and look in the glasses there. Raising one, he tipped it. A tiny pinch of powder fell to the polished walnut buffet top. One by one he did the same with the others, with the same result.
"Apparently," he said, "Captain Rillor has tried to poison us. I must ask you to leave this room. I'll send for His Majesty's investigators, to see what manner of powder we have here."
Two investigators arrived within an hour. The first thing one of them did was light the lamp by the door. He then lit a long match from it, and went around the room lighting the others. His partner swept the suspect powder from the buffet, then holding the lamp, was checking the floor when the poison reached the lamp flame.
Apparently he realized instantly what he smelled. Lurching toward the open patio doors, he cast the lamp outside, where it shattered on the flagstones, the oil forming a thin puddle on the ground, flames spreading quickly over it. Then he crumpled on the floor. The other investigator staggered outside. There the fresh evening breeze dissipated the fumes, but even so, he too collapsed.
The Sisterhood's embassy was enclosed by a wall. It was not militarily effectual, of course, but it kept out thieves and vandals. And with occasional attention by the resident magician and her assistant, it discouraged would-be assassins. For if Quaie the Elder was long dead, and his Expansion Party badly shrunken, there were still fanatics dedicated to his memory and his hatreds.
Rillor had paused at the embassy just long enough to change back into the civilian clothes in which he'd traveled, and to get a loaf of bread and block of cheese from the pantry. He departed on horseback, then left the horse at a livery stable on River Street, saying he'd pick it up the next day. When he didn't, they'd wait a few days, then claim it for nonpayment. Next, pack-roll on his back and saddle on his shoulder, he walked a block to a boat rental.
By that time it was not much short of night. Occasional dedicated sport fishermen were still rowing in, returning their boats and picking up their deposits. Using a false name, Rillor rented a trolling rig, a landing net, and a boat with skeg, spar, and sail. He planned, he said, to row downstream, trolling, and spend the rest of the night at his cousin's in Riverton. He'd spend a day sailing on Mirror Lake, then hire a tow back up the river behind a freight barge. It was a common procedure. He left his saddle and a gold imperial for security.
Before he left, he stepped his spar, then rowed out into the river and unfurled the small sail. The current and the northwest breeze would take him to the Imperial Sea by next afternoon. Supper at the latest. He could stop at some riverside inn for a meal. Then he'd cross the so-called sea by skirting the wild marshy west shore, camping in his boat in the mouth of inflowing creeks. If weather developed, he could shelter in one of them. With favorable winds, the crossing wouldn't take more than a day and a half. Two or three if he had to row; five at worst.
With luck, he assured himself, it would be a pleasant excursion, at worst a survivable ordeal.