A Murmur Of Trumpets,
A Mutter Of Drums
Looking aft, the old man spoke more to himself than to his grandson. "What the devil is he doing?"
Within his field of vision, more than a score of ships lay to seaward, ships unlike any he'd seen before, tall, with square sails. A light, schooner-rigged vessel had separated from them and was closing astern, bearing down on him. In an effort to get out of the way, he steered too closely into the wind, and his small sail luffed, flapping.
His thirteen-year-old grandson sat numb, hands motionless on the sheet. The schooner veered past, missing them by perhaps two fathoms. At the foredeck rail, a man had a crossbow pointed at them. The boy heard a snap, then a "thuk." His grandfather grunted, pitched forward across a coiled trawl line, and lay unmoving.
The schooner sent a work boat to pick the boy up. Leaning, one of its men took an ax to the fishing boat, and it settled to the gunnels.
The boy was taken to one of the large ships, where he was questioned by the tallest, most frightening man he'd ever seen. The giant's accented Yuultal and his own Scrub Lands dialect were not entirely compatible, but the lad did his best. When his interrogator had the information he wanted, the boy was sent to join his grandfather.
Occurrence off the Scrub Coast
19 Follow-up
The small household staff huddled waiting on the front lawn. The breeze thinned the aroma of rosebushes, replacing it in the esthetics mix with the rustle of leaves. Staff wasn't paying much attention. Their normally stable lives had been severely shaken, first by the convulsions and death of Zednis, the kitchen girl, then by the murder of a policeman, and finally by being ordered from their quarters into the night. They talked quietly, casting occasional glances at the two large young men in foreign uniforms. According to Jahns, these were their lady's sons by Marshal Macurdy, but they'd arrived with the man who was said to be the poisoner.
The twins stood somewhat apart, stoic in the face of the evening's events. They'd concluded on their own that the murderer was Rillor. They'd known him far better than the others had, and had paid more attention to him. He hadn't been himself since they'd arrived at this house.
While they waited, men came with an ambulance, and getting out of it, disappeared through the garden gate. Minutes later, two of them reappeared with a litter. The sheet had been folded back, and a face could be seen. On the second and third trips, the faces were covered. When the last litter had been secured, the driver climbed onto the seat and spoke to the horses. With a clop of hooves on brick pavement, the ambulance left.
Soon afterward, Talrie came out the front entrance and told staff the house was safe again. It had been opened to the breeze-first the doors, and after an interval the windows, downstairs and up. He, with his lordship himself, had emptied all the lamps on the first floor, refilling them with fresh oil. The hall lamps had been relit, and staff should return to their rooms.
They filed along the walk that took them to the rear of the house, to the servants' entrance. Then Talrie walked over to the twins. "If you will follow me," he said, "I'll take you to Lord Cyncaidh. The Chief Inspector of His Majesty's Police is expected momentarily, and he will want to question you and his lordship about Captain Rillor."
They didn't have long to wait, and the inspector's questioning was brief. Then the twins went to their room. They were getting ready for bed when someone knocked at their door.
"Who is it?" asked Ohns.
"It's Macurdy. Your father. Are you still dressed?"
"Partly."
"Get dressed enough to come with me to the garden. Someone else has questions for you."
It was Vulkan who awaited them. ‹So you are Macurdy's sons,› he said. ‹You resemble him. My questions are about Captain Rillor. It is quite apparent that he is responsible for the deaths here tonight. That he intended the deaths of your parents, and everyone else in the room where the lamp was poisoned.› He paused, examining their conscious minds, and the surface zone of the subconscious. ‹Did he say anything, give any clue, as to where he might go?›
When they came up with nothing, Vulkan asked a few more questions, garnering no specific information, nor sign of anything withheld. But he did gain a certain psychic sense of Rillor. He also knew the scent of Rillor's horse, and by eliminating other known scents, that of Rillor himself. That might well suffice.
After thanking the twins, he dismissed them. They went back to their room, and minutes later were in bed.
But not asleep. There was too much to talk about. They agreed their mother was even more beautiful than her clone sisters. And although they did not perceive auras in much detail, it was clear that few Sisters were as talented psychically. They wished she'd return to the Cloister, but there seemed no chance of it.
Their father had awed them. He too was psychically talented, and to have so awesome a companion as Vulkan… Also they'd felt his surge of anger at Rillor, even if they hadn't understood it. Such power! And at the same time control. Ohns said their father should be king somewhere, or even emperor, and Dohns agreed unreservedly.
Cyncaidh too had impressed them. His talent and integrity were obvious, and he'd invited them into his family. Dohns was tempted to accept the offer. Ohns was not, though he wasn't ready to dismiss it. He would, he said, rather follow their father, if he'd have him.
It was not the first time Vulkan had roamed the streets of Duinarog invisibly, but it was the first in many years. He followed the scent of Rillor's horse to the embassy, which he then circled, and picked up the horse's trail again. It led southeastward, ending on the riverfront, at a livery stable.
From there, Vulkan followed Rillor's scent to the dock where the man had set out in a rental boat. His strategy was obvious.
To inform Cyncaidh would probably result in the man's capture, but Vulkan decided not to. At most it would provide revenge. And meanwhile
… Vulkan couldn't complete the thought. The vector spray was too unclear. But he trusted his bodhisattva intuition in all things, even recognizing that the results might not be what he hoped.
20 Old News, Bad News
Cyncaidh had had a long night. He'd ridden with the chief inspector to the Sisterhood's embassy, told the ambassador of the evening's events, and shown her the letter from the dynast. The letter had been the key to her cooperation. She'd recognized the handwriting-that of the dynast's deputy, a Sister named Omara. Whom, she insisted, would never involve herself in assassination.
Though he didn't voice it, Cyncaidh was skeptical. Given what had happened to Varia at the Cloister, it seemed to him that Sarkia would hardly have an ethical deputy. Macurdy, however, would support the ambassador's claim when he heard of it after breakfast.
After seeing the letter, the ambassador had her guardsmen search the embassy for Rillor. When they didn't find him, her master at arms had brought the dress uniform Rillor had worn. The ambassador had given it to the Chief Inspector, who, back in his office, cut the pockets out. In the trouser pockets he found remnants of powder. It would be tested on rodents, but neither he nor Cyncaidh doubted what the result would be.
At breakfast, Cyncaidh summarized for Macurdy and the twins what he'd learned the night before. Rillor's flight, before he could have heard of the poisonings, was damning in itself. They'd finished eating, and were sipping hot sassafras tea with honey, when Talrie entered, to inform his lordship that Cadet Corleigh had arrived. The young man was waiting in the first-floor parlor. Cyncaidh then told the twins the cadet was to give them a tour of the imperial palace. They realized they were being dismissed. Perhaps, they thought, their elders wanted to discuss Sarkia's proposal further. They'd have preferred to stay and listen, but a tour of the palace sounded better than waiting in their room.
Afterward, Cyncaidh and Varia led Macurdy to the garden. Obviously they wanted to talk with him privately, and he wondered if Varia had had second thoughts about Sarkia's proposal. In spite of himself, the thought quickened his pulse.
In the garden, three large wicker chairs had been arranged in a semicircle. They'd hardly seated themselves when Talrie arrived, leading Vulkan, who lay down facing the others. Then Talrie left.
Cyncaidh looked at Macurdy. "Varia and I," he said, "have been wondering why you returned."
What he wanted to know was what brought Macurdy back from Farside, but Macurdy misunderstood. "A dream," he answered.
"A dream?"
"A dream I had in Wolf Springs."
"And where is Wolf Springs?"
"It's the village at the Ozian Gate. What the Ozians call the Wizard Gate."
Cyncaidh frowned. This wasn't what he'd had in mind.
"I'd arrived back through the gate in Three-Month," Macurdy continued, "and spent a while there with Arbel, my old teacher in healing. Ordinarily I don't think about healing. I'll see a need, but it doesn't often occur to me that, hey! I can do something about that. And Arbel'd decided I wasn't intended to be a healer.
"Still, I find myself wanting to improve my healing skills. Ever since a guy stabbed Melody nearly to death on our wedding night, leaving me to do what I could for her. Incidentally, it was Omara who saved her life."
Cyncaidh nodded soberly. Some of the story was part of the Macurdy legend.
"What about the dream?" Varia asked.
"I'd planned to tell you about that, then with all the stuff that happened last night, I didn't get around to it. After I got back from Farside, I spent a few weeks with Arbel at Wolf Springs, getting more lessons and experience in healing, while I waited for Vulkan to show up. Vulkan and I got to know one another before I went back to Farside, all those years ago. He'd said that when I came back, he'd know. Anyway I was getting lessons from Arbel, and then one night I had this dream. And the next morning I knew it was time to head east. The dream had made that clear."
He paused, sorting out how to continue the story, then looked around at the others. "Actually," he said, "the story starts on Farside. In Nine-Month, seven years ago, in a great war that killed more people than you can imagine, soldiers and civilians. And I was in it, along with maybe fifty million other men. I won't even try to describe how it was fought." He looked at Varia. "It was way bigger than the first World War. And had airplanes with a hundred-foot wing span, flying more than a thousand miles on a flight, at two, three hundred miles an hour. Dropping bombs weighing a ton. There were tanks as heavy as locomotives, going twenty, thirty miles an hour…"
He looked at Cyncaidh and shook his head. "I'm going to leave out most of the story. It would take too long, and wouldn't make any sense to you. But anyway, I was a spy, in a country called Germany. At a place where the Germans were trying to have people trained as…" He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "As magicians, I guess you could say. And the people they had teaching us were from a place called…" His eyes locked on Cyncaidh's. "Hithmearc."
Cyncaidh jerked at the name. "Hithmearc!" he echoed. The name had jarred Varia, too.
"I see that means something to you." Macurdy looked at Varia again. "Some voitar had crossed to Farside through a gate in the Bavarian mountains. And I was their most promising student, so they took me through it into Hithmearc. To see if I'd survive the gate, and if I did, to train me there." He didn't elaborate, and didn't give them time to ask.
"The voitu in charge was their crown prince," he went on. "Named Kurqosz. They'd done some sorcery to make the gate open every day. I managed to close it later. Permanently, I think."
A thunderstruck Cyncaidh was staring at Macurdy, who ignored him now, and told about his dream. "It didn't feel like an ordinary dream," he finished. "It seemed to me, when I woke up, that it was a warning. A message that the Voitusotar plan to invade Yuulith. And that people-you people, Wollerda, the dwarves, everyone in Yuulith-needed to be warned.
"After a few hours I didn't feel so sure anymore. It got to feeling pretty unreal, even to me, so I couldn't see myself convincing anyone else. But I left anyway, and headed east. Then Vulkan found me, like he'd said he would, and told me something that made me sure again."
He paused, gesturing toward the boar. "Because he wears a saddle, and doesn't tear people up and eat them like the stories tell, it's easy for people to look at me as if I'd conquered and tamed him. But no one can conquer him, and he never needed taming, or changing, or anything else. He is what he is. And between him and me, he's number one. I make the decisions because he tells me I'm supposed to. And he stays with me because… because we were intended to do this together. He's the one with real power, but he has to operate through a human. And that's me."
He paused, frowning. "Where was I?"
"Vulkan told you something that made you sure again," Varia said.
"Oh yeah." He turned to Vulkan. "Why don't you tell them?"
Vulkan did, his "voice" speaking in their minds, describing what he'd felt while visiting the Scrub Coast. ‹And while I have your attention,› he said, ‹I will add this: Macurdy has more power than he admits, even to himself. I suspect his excessive modesty is not entirely curable. It is partly the result of a Farside culture in which assertiveness and self pride are frowned on, and overcompensation praised.› He turned his massive head, to fix his red eyes on Macurdy. ‹And because his is a family with secrets, and discourages the drawing of attention. And finally because on Farside, powers like Macurdy's are severely disapproved of-as he has learned to his distress.
‹Fortunately his self-deprecation, though sincere, is superficial. He invariably exercises his powers as the need arises. And the need will arise, at levels beyond anything he has faced before.›
Vulkan turned his gaze to Cyncaidh. ‹As yet I perceive the vector only vaguely, but it is heavy with power and danger, both sorcerous and military. And the controlling power is highly mercurial, which makes it unpredictable.›
Their stories had sobered Cyncaidh. Now he nodded. "I have something to add to your accounts," he said. "Something that makes the threat seem more real than it otherwise might.
"As Varia can attest, there are two principal books on ylvin history, copied, recopied, and extended over the centuries. One is on the Western Empire, the other on the Eastern, and they agree on our origins. We once dwelt in Hithmearc, and on Ilroin, a large island some sixty miles off the Hithik Coast. Then the Voitusotar came, and over a period of time conquered Hithmearc. We were their most difficult adversary, because we were not susceptible to their sorceries. In those times we had not interbred as much with humans, and our powers were greater than they are now. Or so say the histories.
"At one point we stalled the voitik conquest for years, and for this they hated us.
"Like ourselves, they are not a prolific species, and though they live long, they were not so numerous as the Hithik humans. They age throughout their lives, much as humans do, but more slowly. And usually they die while still able-bodied, when their heart fails.
"But they made up for their lack of numbers with their talents. And they were much more than sorcerers. They were superb warriors, very tall and fleet of foot. Also, they supposedly share a hive mind, by which they coordinate their actions. And while they could not tolerate riding on horseback…" He paused. "This part is rather difficult to credit, but supposedly their speed and endurance while running is such that their infantry was equivalent to light cavalry."
He looked his audience over. He had their full attention.
"Eventually they destroyed our army on Hithmearc, and many of our people fled across the straits to Ilroin, which was our ancient homeland. Of the rest, the Voitusotar killed brutally almost all the men and boys. The women and girls they kept for themselves, as slaves. Or gave to their human allies, for public brutalization." He grimaced ruefully. "Brutalities as extreme as Quaie's at Ferny Cove, and on a much greater scale."
"We-our ancestors, that is-felt safe on Ilroin, for on the water, the Voitusotar get so seasick, they die. But after one hundred twelve years they sent a human army against us, on human ships. At great cost of lives we fought them off, and destroyed many of their ships. But as soon as they'd withdrawn, we began to plan our exile. Because we knew- knew that the Voitusotar would try again with a larger army.
"A tale had been recorded by the ancients, of seafarers who supposedly had traveled far to the west, and encountered land. A land they named Vismearc. The descriptions were grotesque, extreme enough to seem imaginary, which of course caused doubt that the trip had ever been made.
"But the globe had been measured, so to speak, by our astronomers, so clearly there was a shore out there somewhere. And it seemed we were doomed unless we put much more than sixty miles between us and our enemies. We cut whole forests to build ships. Hemp became a major crop, for sails and cordage, and the tapping of pine for pitch and tar was greatly increased."
He spread his hands, which surprised Varia. Her husband seldom gestured when talking.
"In short," he said, "the whole population of Ilroin left the island, and… here we are."
Cyncaidh sat back, his jaw set. "That, of course, is history. And now we come to the point of this tale. Fifteen or so years ago, a ship of peculiar design took refuge from a storm, in a fishing port on the ylvin Coast. Her crew did not answer hails, as if they didn't understand Yuultal. Their only response was to threaten with crossbows and swords.
"When the storm blew over, she left.
"Afterward, coast guard sloops landed at several harbors along the Scrub Coast, to see if it had landed there-small places, where fishing and smuggling are a way of life. Far to the south, they learned of a vessel which had taken refuge there from a storm. Its crew too had been hostile, firing crossbows at the local men who approached. So the locals assumed they were pirates exploring northward from the Southern Sea. Which they may have been, though they left without attacking the village.
"At any rate, the eastern empire built a flotilla of rams, and added additional sloops and light schooners to the coast guard. In case the strangers had in fact been scouts for some ambitious pirate fleet. But after four or five years without further intrusions, the rams were decommissioned and their crews let go, to save the expense."
Cyncaidh stopped again, examining his strong, long-fingered soldier hands. "In a recent packet of reports from Aaerodh, my ducal manor, there was a letter from my senior healer, A'duaill. He'd dreamt of a voitik invasion, and thought I should know of it.
"I told Gavriel of A'duaill's dream-A'duaill is a splendid healer, but has never claimed to be a seer-and His Majesty's reaction was much like my own: dreams are dreams. Neither of us connected it with the strange ships on the coast."
Cyncaidh's patrician chin jutted forward, lips pressed briefly tight. "And now I have these reports of yours, which I find quite troubling. I'll tell Gavriel of them, but even combined they're a thin basis on which to recommend mobilization or other readiness actions. As the Council will surely tell us, should we propose any. And they hold the purse strings.
"But I'll recommend to the emperor that we pass your story on to Colroi, the capital of the Eastern Empire, and leak your reports here at home. Gavriel will approve, and Duinarog has a considerable pamphlet press which will love it. Then, if there is an invasion, our people will not be caught so unprepared mentally. And if there isn't, the story will blow over in time, and be forgotten."
Macurdy nodded. When you bit down on the evidence, it wasn't very meaty, just suggestive as hell. "Well then," he said, "we'll wait till the invasion fleet arrives. And hope that's not too late."
But thin as the evidence was, after what Cyncaidh had told them, he had no doubt at all there'd be an invasion fleet. The only question was when.
Until then, the kings of the Rude Lands would be even less ready than the ylver to do anything. But he'd visit each of them, he told himself, and describe the threat as he saw it. Call it the possible threat. And tell them if it should happen-if it should-another joint army might be needed. Make it sound theoretical, speculative, and ask no one to do anything. Then, when it happened, they'd be used to the idea, prepared for it, and they'd look to him.
Sound the alarm, he told himself, but softly. Otherwise they'll resist the idea, and resent me for it.
Minutes later, Cyncaidh was on his way to the palace. Varia went inside to look after domestic matters, particularly the morale of staff after the poisoning death of Zednis. And Vulkan-Vulkan disappeared. To snoop, Macurdy supposed, perhaps eavesdrop around. He wondered what some unprepared ylver would think, to suddenly see Vulkan's great formidable bulk listening to their conversation with great bristly ears.
Macurdy went to the room his sons had slept in, and knocked. They were, he discovered, wrapping up a discussion they'd begun the night before, on what to do next. Dohns had decided to return to the Cloister with his brother.
"Maybe we'll see you there, sir," he said. Hope tinged his voice.
"Maybe you will. I expect to be there by Ten-Month at the latest. I'll make a point of looking you up." He paused. "I don't plan to leave till morning. Maybe we can go somewhere today."
Ohns looked at him, surprised. "I-we would like that, sir."
"Good. I'll talk to Varia, and see if she can go with us. The last time I saw her, eighteen years ago, she told me about the animal park here. They have wild animals from all parts of Yuulith, from the Southern Sea to the far north."
Ohns looked pleased, and Dohns enthusiastic.
Macurdy went to find Varia, and an hour later, the Macurdy family rode to the zoo together in an open carriage. And Curtis got to see the 800-pound Panthera atrox, the boreal lion. Varia teased that it was the animal he'd been named for, though on Farside, Panthera atrox had been extinct for millennia. "It was Raien," she said, "who named you 'The Lion of Farside.' "
She wants us to like him, Macurdy thought. He gave the animal a final look. Its summer coat was tan with a tinge of pink, and it had more of a ruff than a mane. But it was a lion for sure. One hell of a lion. It seemed to him twice as big as the African lion he'd seen as a boy, at the Louisville zoo. He'd been nine or ten years old. It had been Varia who'd taken him there, too; Varia and Will.
When they left the zoo, they had lunch at an expensive restaurant, then took a carriage ride along the Imperial River, stopped to admire the surging water of the Great Rapids, then walked through Gorge Park. As they rode home, Macurdy felt both good and bad about their outing. It seemed plain they'd never have another day together as a family. But they'd had this one, and they'd all carry the memory.
Cyncaidh hadn't gotten home till midafternoon, and as usual, busied himself with reports. Varia entered his office, kissed his temple, and told him she had some final things to talk about with Curtis. He smiled up at her. "I'll see you at dinner," he said.
She and Macurdy went into the garden again, and sat on a cushioned marble bench. "You know what?" he said. "There's something you used to do that I miss here: the way you used to wear your hair."
"My hair?"
"Tied in two bunches, with yellow ribbons. Like ponies' tails out to the sides."
She laughed. "At the Cloister we wore them like that a lot. It was simple and quick. So when I went over to Farside…" She looked at Macurdy fondly, and felt the old attraction-sexual and spiritual-tugging at her. "How did Melody wear hers?" she asked, "when she wasn't at war?"
"Bobbed off," he said, "the same as when you met her at Ternass. Only not quite so short."
Then she guided him to the subject of Melody's death, on his estate in Tekalos. He told her how it happened, and how he'd tried to revive her. They'd both been soaked with icy water, and the day had been freezing and windy. "I cried like a baby," he said, and to his dismay, choked up in the telling. After recovering himself, he looked at Varia thoughtfully. "When you were stolen from the farm, I never cried at all. Cursed and swore, but didn't cry, because I was sure I'd get you back. And when I found you married, and you told me you were going to stick with Cyncaidh-well, I cried some that night, but I could see you'd outgrown me." He paused. "You know, I never actually said that to myself, but inside I knew it. You outgrew me. I wasn't in the same class with Cyncaidh. If you'd have come with me, I'd have done it in a minute, even though I was in love with Melody. I hadn't been at first, but she was in love with me from the get-go, and finally I found myself in love with her."
Then he told her about Mary, and how she'd died. "I went crazy after that," he said, "didn't know what I was doing. Some guys came along-loggers I worked with-and they dragged me dripping out of the creek and hauled me to town. But I couldn't stay there any longer. My dreams were dead." He almost added, "for the third time," but stopped himself. "After the funeral," he went on, "I sold everything and went back to Indiana."
Then he told her about Charley and Edna and Frank and Edith… people she'd known as family for twenty years.
"And now I'm here again, and can't imagine going back."
"What will you do next?" Varia asked quietly.
Unexpectedly he grinned at her. It wasn't quite the boyish grin she'd known back in Washington County; it held a touch of ruefulness. But it made him very attractive. "I'm going to sit here," he said, "and listen to you tell me about your life since I saw you eighteen years ago."
She laughed. "It will have to be after dinner. I've a few things to do before then."
As always, Cyncaidh was considerate. After supper he left them to themselves, and they talked in the garden for more than an hour. When they said good night, Macurdy felt a powerful urge to take Varia in his arms. Not to kiss her, he told himself, only to… what? It couldn't work. They'd both regret it, lightly if nothing happened, and heavily if they ended up in bed. In this universe she was Cyncaidh's wife, not his.
When the twins returned to their room after supper, sunlight still angled through the windows. Jahns arrived with mugs of mulled cider, and the two of them sat sipping.
"You know," Ohns said thoughtfully, "I'm not sure I could get used to this Outland system of living with parents. But it might be pleasant to be near them-us in the barracks, Curtis and Varia in the palace."
Dohns looked at his brother. "But apparently the only real options we have are to return to the Cloister, and probably never see Varia again, or else stay here with her and Cyncaidh. It's tempting to stay, to see what it would be like, but I'm not likely to unless you do. It seems to me we're supposed to stick together, you and I."
Ohns nodded. They'd been born to be together. And being in the Guards, there was a good chance they'd continue to be. "What would you say," he asked, "if the Lion let us travel with him? We could ask to, you know. Volunteer."
Dohns frowned. "Do you think we should?"
"I'm… not sure. I'd like to apprentice under him, but… For one thing, there'd be no breeding assignments. Mainly, though, I don't think he'd go for it. And in the Guards, we're the top in our year. Given time, we're almost sure to be ranking officers."
Dohns nodded, though their career prospects meant less to him than to Ohns. Ordinarily he was more interested in new things than his brother was. Actually, the idea of staying with their mother and Cyncaidh on the Northern Sea was more attractive than following the Lion around the Rude Lands. But if they chose that option, then didn't like it, the dynast would never accept them back, except as culls. And Ohns was right: He'd miss the girls.
"Anyway," Ohns said, "by Ten-Month, the Lion will visit us at the Cloister. We'll have time to ask him then, if we decide to."
Before he went to sleep that night, Macurdy examined something he'd said to Varia-that if she'd wanted to come back to him, that evening eighteen years past, he'd have done it in a minute. Would he, really? Just the evening before that, Melody had proposed-not for the first time-and he'd told her yes, sealing it with a kiss. Wondering at the time how he could possibly be saying it.
He looked at that. And it seemed to him now that he must have known, from some deeper wisdom, that he'd never have Varia back. That it wasn't to be. That if it had been, he wouldn't have said yes to Melody.
The next morning after breakfast, Macurdy and Vulkan set off for the Rude Lands again, this time with a small pouch of gold imperials, from the emperor via Cyncaidh. To cover expenses, because they would, after all, be acting in the interests of the empire, preparing the rulers and people of the Rude Lands for a possible voitik invasion. The twins went to the embassy, and a few days later, headed back to the Cloister, as guards for a courier.
Witbin a week, Cyncaidh and Varia were on a packet rowed by a dozen brawny oarsmen, traveling up the Imperial River to the Middle Sea. There they'd embark on the Sea Eagle, a graceful forty-four-foot schooner built for speed. Within three weeks, perhaps less than two, they'd be at Aaerodh Manor, on the Northern Sea. Cyncaidh would stay only briefly-a month-then return to the capital. Varia would stay on till Nine-Month, unless he sent for her. Stay with their sons. She'd look at them from a slightly different perspective since she'd met Ohns and Dohns, but she'd love them as much as ever. They were truly hers, unshared with the Sisterhood.
21 Tussle in the Grass
Macurdy didn't linger in the Marches. He wasn't widely familiar with them, and they lay in Gavriel's and Cyncaidh's realm of influence. His responsibility was the Rude Lands, and he and Vulkan would spend much of the summer traveling them.
There, for the most part, Vulkan didn't use his concealment spell. Though the Rude Lands lacked a formal postal system, word traveled far and reasonably fast, if it was interesting enough. And an accepted legend riding a great boar remained interesting in spades, even after people got used to the idea.
Stories spread, interest heightened, and inevitably, rumors and exaggerations were accepted as reality. Macurdy ate regularly in inns now, and told of speaking with the Imperial Chief Counselor. There was, he said ominously, evidence of a possible invasion from across the Ocean Sea.
And what Macurdy said tended to be credited.
His first royal visit was in Indervars, the throne home of Indrossa. Next he paused to visit Jeremid again, before continuing on to Tekalos to see Wollerda and Liiset. Wollerda was by far his closest royal ally, and he greatly respected the old Kullvordi revolutionary. Who'd had weeks to get used to the idea of a possible voitik invasion.
Macurdy had hopes that Wollerda would have worthwhile thoughts to share. He didn't. But he was impressed by Cyncaid's story of the two strange ships, fifteen years earlier, and the letter the ylf lord had received from his healer and magician.
Then Macurdy and Vulkan turned west for further royal visits. Their most agreeable discovery was Kormehr's new king. The late Keltorus had been a whiskey-sodden lunatic, who for years had abused his power. Finally he'd been deposed and murdered-"executed"-by his own guardsmen. The new king was someone Macurdy knew and respected. He'd promoted the man to captain after the battle of Ternass. Arliss hadn't forgotten, nor had his warriors, and the Kormehri were exceptional fighting men, comparable to the Ozmen.
Macurdy was received courteously everywhere. And by carefully telling no one what they should do, or that they should do anything, he'd left on good terms.
In the Rude Lands, the palaces were more richly furnished than when he'd known them in the past. Sisterhood products were prominent, not only in palaces but in the better inns, and presumably in the homes of the prosperous. Floor and wall tiles, statuary, jewelry, lamps… Especially lamps. The more fragile glass products were almost surely from Outland operations, transported mainly by river barge.
Macurdy realized he'd played an important, if indirect, role in the growth of the Sisterhood's Outland operations. His invasion of the Marches had shown his Rude Lands soldiers wealth, amenities and roads beyond anything they'd known. And the peace terms he'd worked out with Cyncaidh had greatly expanded markets and trade between the Empire and Marches on the one hand, and the Rude Lands and Sisterhood on the other.
But Cyncaidh deserved most of the credit, it seemed to him. The treaty they'd hammered out had provided the foundation. The ylf lord's knowledge, authority, diplomatic skills and commercial connections had built on it. Cyncaidh. He could have hated the ylf. Instead he admired him. Even liked him.
Finally it was time to pay his first visit to the Cloister. En route he stopped again at Teklapori, and shared his further impressions with Wollerda. There was interesting news from the Cloister, too. Omara, Liiset told him, was no longer Sarkia's deputy. Idri had demanded her ouster, probably as much to test her new power as to deprive Omara of the position.
"New power?" Macurdy asked.
Liiset explained. For years, Idri's single most powerful supporter had been the commander of the Tigers. But she'd been unable to seduce his executive officer, the second in command. The XO had had exceptional respect among the Tigers, and in a showdown would have backed the dynast. But the XO had recently died, apparently of natural causes, and Idri had the new XO in her pocket.
Initially she'd demanded that Omara be assigned Outland; she wanted Sarkia deprived of her services as a healer. But Sarkia had refused, and Idri, backing down, had accepted the compromise.
It had to be tough for Idri, Macurdy supposed, after waiting so long, and wanting so badly to be dynast. For clearly she was impatient by nature. But to risk a showdown… According to Liiset, Sarkia might die tomorrow-she'd almost surely die within the year-leaving the Sisterhood in Idri's hands risk-free.
Then Sarkia had filled Omara's administrative position by promoting Omara's assistant, Amnevi, who might well be Omara's equal, or nearly so, in executive skills. Meanwhile Omara continued as Sarkia's healer.
From Teklapori, Macurdy headed for the Cloister. He'd never been there before, had considered it dangerous to him because he distrusted Sarkia. Now, he told himself, the danger lay in Idri's new power, and her hatred of him. She was genuinely crazy, he told himself, a bomb waiting to go off.
But he needed to visit there. The Tigers, and probably the Guards, were significant military forces already well trained. And if what Cyncaidh had said was true, about the ylver not being susceptible to voitik sorceries, then the Tigers and Guards shouldn't be either. Some or most of them, at least.
On the way, he stopped to meet the King of Asrik. All Macurdy had seen of Asrik before was the wilderness of the Granite Range, many miles to the north. Where the Valley Highway passed through Asrik, the landscape was of high rugged hills, rich in rock and heavily forested. A wilder, stonier version of the Kullvordi Hills. The road, however, was as good as any he'd seen in the Rude Lands, including the River Kingdoms. Mud holes had been drained and filled, and streams were crossed on well-made stone bridges. Through gaps ahead he glimpsed much higher crests, the Great Eastern Mountains. This far south, Vulkan told him, they were at their highest.
By reputation, Asrik was a sort of democracy. Its king wasn't even a king; that was simply what the other Rude Landers called him. He was elected every five years by voice votes at local meetings. The Asriki called him wofnemst, which Vulkan said was an ancient word meaning "principal."
Now Macurdy spent an evening with him. The man managed to be affable without being hospitable, and avoided saying anything that might encourage Macurdy's coming back to him for help.
Macurdy had been prepared for that by Jeremid and Wollerda. The Asriki, they'd told him, were an ingrown people, and very resistive to change. Family feuds were a serious part of its culture, and one of the wofnemst's two major roles was to control the excesses by levying reparations-blood money-and decreeing outlawry against the worst offenders. His other major role was to maintain good relations with their powerful neighbors, the dwarves. A wofnemst whose rulings sufficiently offended the local councils, or the population at large, was turned out of office early. Or exiled or hung, if he'd sufficiently insulted Asriki principles.
The road, Macurdy supposed, had been built by the dwarves, to facilitate the commerce with the outside world.
Some thirty minutes after leaving the "royal" residence, Macurdy and Vulkan topped a pass that gave the best view he'd had of the Great Eastern Mountains. They reminded him of the Northern Cascades, in Washington, witih snow fields and jagged peaks. These, Vulkan told him, were the heart, but by no means the extent, of the dwarvish kingdom.
The Cloister was within the Kingdom of the Dwarves in Silver Mountain, and only a mile or so from its border with Asrik. Macurdy reached it the same morning he left the Asriki royal residence.
The name "Cloister" had three applications. It was a sort of synonym for the Sisterhood; it referred to the twelve-square-mile territory housing their nation; and it was what they called their walled town, which covered more than two square miles. It was a sovereignty within a sovereignty, leased to the Sisterhood by the King in Silver Mountain. According to Liiset, the lease was for one hundred years, and renewable, and couldn't be broken except for specific, extreme causes. The King in Silver Mountain, of course, could evict them any time he wanted, agreement or not. He had an army far more powerful than Sarkia's. But breaking his lease would damage his reputation, his and his kingdoms, and the dwarves treasured reputation almost as much as wealth.
Macurdy was stopped at the town's north gate. Mounted on Vulkan as he was, the Guardsmen could hardly fail to recognize him, and according to Liiset, would expect him. Nonetheless, the sergeant in charge required him to identify himself and state his business. Then they assigned a cadet to guide him to the dynast's palace.
Riding through the town, Macurdy was impressed. It was attractive, orderly and clean. Most of the buildings seemed to be dormitories. It was midday, lunch-time, he supposed. There were not a lot of people on the streets. Most were female, all of them attractive and seemingly young. Most wore their hair as Varia had, back in Indiana-twin ponytails, one on each side. They wore a semi-fitted coverall tucked into low-cut boots. As he'd seen in the photos he'd found in Varia's attic, on that weird morning twenty years earlier.
At the palace, it was obvious he was expected. A Guards officer led him to a receptionist, who called Omara, who took him to the dynast with no wait at all. Sarkia would speak in little more than a whisper, Omara warned him. For she had much to tell him, and was very weak.
Even so, he was shocked at her appearance. The woman he'd negotiated with in Tekalos, eighteen years earlier, had been strong, beautiful, radiating unusual energy. Now she was shrunken-tiny and fragile-and nearly bald. She did not sit up to speak, not even propped. Her body aura was alarmingly weak, and her spirit aura showed tenacity more than strength.
She listened to his story, of his dream and A'duaill's, of Vulkan's sense of danger from the Voitusotar, and Cyncaidh's story of the two strange ships. She heard him out, but scarcely reacted. Her focus was totally on the succession, and on surviving till it was worked out. Macurdy understood that. The Sisterhood had been her life and focus for more than two centuries, and now she had no energy for other issues.
She confessed to him a day of discouragement, a sense of defeat, when her ambassador to Duinarog had forwarded Varia's unwillingness to serve. But she'd rallied. "To persist is my only choice," she said.
Macurdy told her that Rillor had destroyed whatever chance there'd been of Varia coming south. She agreed, adding that Rillor had been flogged, demoted, and assigned to the embassy in Miskmehr.
Astonished, Macurdy asked why she'd left him alive.
"You are aware of the infertility problem we've inherited from the ylver," she answered. "Rillor is a proven sire, more fertile than most, and his offspring nave some superior qualities. Mostly physical," she added wryly. "But more to the point, Idri insisted on his being spared." The old dynast chuckled, a sad soft sound. "It is," she said wryly, "the first instance of honest loyalty I've ever seen in her. She is pregnant by him. In her sixty-six years she has had sexual intercourse with innumerable men, but this is her first pregnancy."
The old eyes turned thoughtful, focusing inward, and she rested a minute before continuing. "Given the situation, I have found it necessary to reevaluate the importances of almost everything. Thus I give way on many issues. But from time to time, with Omara's help, I have forced Idri to her knees on some issue or other. To remind her that she is not the dynast." Sarkia paused thoughtfully. "Backing down is far more painful for her than for me. Twenty years ago I could not have said that. I was strong willed to a fault."
She turned her head enough to meet Macurdy's eyes. "Varia knows that as well as anyone. When you see her next, tell her I deeply regret what happened. That I love her and wish her well, as unbelievable as she may find it."
Then her head rolled back and her eyes closed. "I am tired now," she murmured. It was barely audible. "Go. With my good wishes."
Except for her aura, she looked like an embalmed corpse. Macurdy left, far more impressed with her than he'd been when she was strong and beautiful.
Amnevi's office was a door away, and he went to it. To his surprise and momentary shock, she was physically a duplicate of Idri, a clone sister. But her aura reflected a very different personality, and strong talent. He asked for a meeting with Idri, partly to read Amnevi's aura when he asked it.
Idri, she replied, was away from the Cloister. Where, she didn't know. "She comes and goes as she pleases," Amnevi told him, "asking no one. And telling no one, except perhaps the commander of her Tigers."
He thanked her and left the building. When he'd arrived, he'd left Vulkan on the lawn. Now he couldn't see him anywhere. ‹Here, Macurdy,› said the familiar voice. ‹In the shade of the building. Cloaked. I drew undesired attention from a platoon of Tigers marching past.›
Macurdy frowned. "Can they harm you?"
‹They cannot harm me. But in their numbers they could deprive me-and you-of this highly useful body.›
"So you cloaked yourself."
‹Precisely. Cloaked and displaced myself.›
"Displaced? You mean walked?"
‹It is the only means of transportation I have.›
While they talked, three Sisters left the building, looking oddly at Macurdy, who seemed to be carrying on a conversation with himself. So having no confidence in his own cloak, against persons of talent, Macurdy stepped over to Vulkan, disappearing within his. Vulkan's had the further advantage of concealing sound, and Macurdy preferred to voice his words. To simply think them felt unsatisfying and incomplete to him.
"Tell me about that attention they gave you," he said.
‹It was not overt. They simply contemplated action. They regarded me as a challenge.›
"Were they in ranks?"
‹At the time, yes. They did and said nothing, nor was their attention coordinated. But several of them wondered independently how many it would take to make pork of me. There was also the explicit thought of bringing up the matter to others, with the possibility of action. They were not aware of my connection to you.›
"Hmm." Vulkan's addendum relaxed Macurdy somewhat. "How many would it take, do you suppose?"
‹If the situation precluded flight, and I did not cloak myself, half a dozen should suffice. Certainly with spears, but they would be highly dangerous with swords as well. By the standards of your species, Tigers are more than extremely strong and athletic. They are also highly skilled, and do not fear death. Danger is a spur to them. They accept that death is not the end; that they will reincarnate. Where they err is in believing they'll return as Tigers. Given their perspective from the other side, that is extremely unlikely.›
"Other side?"
‹The off-stage side.›
"Huh! What did they think when you disappeared?"
‹They were reminded of my reputation as a wizard.›
Macurdy frowned thoughtfully. "I wonder how good they are at hand-to-hand combat."
‹I do not know. I watched them drill just once, when the Cloister was at Ferny Cove. They drilled with practice swords, appearing to be very quick and highly skilled.›
Macurdy considered what he'd planned for the evening, and how it would affect Vulkan. The boar had eaten a whole lamb the night before in Asrik. "Do you want to wait around here?" he asked. "Or slip out through the gate? Or what?"
Vulkan heaved himself to his feet. ‹I will accompany you,› he said. ‹Cloaked. This environment is not without hazards for you, too, particularly considering what you are contemplating.›
Macurdy went to his sons' company orderly room. Their company, he learned, was outside the wall, training. The desk sergeant notified the company commander, who sent an orderly to take Macurdy to watch them. Afterward, the captain added, the marshal was welcome to eat supper with his sons' squad, or with himself.
After arranging with his sons to spend part of the evening with them, Macurdy ate supper with the captain, questioning him about Guards training, and what he knew of Tiger training.
After eating, he was taken to his sons' barracks. Together they went outside, and began a leisurely walk along the grassy margin of the street. Grinning, they told him they both had breeding duty that evening at nine.
"You like that, do you?" he asked.
"Oh yes," said Ohns. "It's our favorite."
"What do the women think of breeding duty?"
"They like it too, except for Tiger breeding. Tigers are rough, they say, and show no respect. Often they hurt them."
"Do you breed the same ones all the time?"
"It varies," said Dohns. "So far we've been assigned to breed members of three clones. I'll bet anything that if you asked, they'd schedule you in, too."
Nonplused by the suggestion, Macurdy didn't respond. Instead he broached his real interest. "Are Guardsmen trained in hand-to-hand combat? Without weapons?"
"We train in both wrestling and blows," Ohns said.
"Are you good?"
"Very good." Ohns grinned again. "Would you like to test me? We've both wondered how good you are."
Macurdy accepted the challenge, and they stepped onto a lawn, where he took off his belt pack. Ohns fronted off with him, and began to feel him out. Macurdy was more direct. He feinted, drew a countering move, and slammed the young man to the ground with a simple hip throw. Afterward he had them demonstrate Guards wrestling techniques on each other, stopping them now and then with questions. He soon had a sense of the overall style.
"What about the techniques for blows?" he asked. "Could you demonstrate those? Not on each other. Show me the drills you do."
After a few minutes, and more questions, he knew as much as he felt he needed. "What about Tiger training?" he asked. "Does theirs go beyond yours?"
"They don't train much in hand to hand," Dohns answered. "Guardsmen can be assigned to embassies and craftworks, and to protect property and personnel, we have to be able to control people without killing them. Tigers fight only to kill, and train endlessly with weapons. Though they do wrestle each other for fun and exercise; we've seen them."
Afterward they demonstrated their wrestling techniques on each other. And again on their father, who played the role of an untrained antagonist.
When he'd left, the youths walked together to the breeding dorm, in the pleasant Eight-Month evening. "Blessed Sarulin!" said Dohns. "Did you feel his strength? His hands are so strong, I thought he was going to crush my arm with his fingers. I must be black and blue where he gripped me! I wonder if he has any idea how strong he is."
Ohns nodded thoughtfully. "And quick. I'd never have believed it."
Macurdy ate a light breakfast the next morning in the Guards command dining room. There he sat beside General Grimval, answering questions about the Ozian system of training. Afterward he returned to what was commonly referred to as the Dynast's Palace, though its official name was Executive Hall. There he sat briefly in the shelter of Vulkan's cloak, and talked with the boar about his plan. It was not explicit; he'd have to play things by ear. But he had a definite idea of what he hoped to accomplish.
It seemed reckless to Vulkan, but he didn't say so. Macurdy would have many decisions to make, and no doubt some would have to be bold in the extreme. To argue now could weaken his confidence and resolve. And at any rate Macurdy had done what he could to prepare.
Half an hour after lunch, they walked together to Tiger headquarters. At the stoop he was stopped by a scowling sentry, who demanded to know his business.
"My business is with your commanding officer," Macurdy answered, and stepped onto the stoop as if to walk past the man.
The Tiger flushed at the insolence, and stepped between Macurdy and the open door. There was not twelve inches between the two men. "He is away from the Cloister," the sentry said.
Macurdy's tone was casual but absolute. "Someone's in charge here," he said. "I'll speak with him."
"Private!" called a voice.
Inside, the sergeant major had overheard them, and from his desk could see a situation developing. During Quaie's War, he'd been in the Tiger platoon guarding Omara's healing coven, and recognized Macurdy. The sentry too should have known him. Word of his arrival had spread throughout the Cloister. But the sentry was young.
"Yes, Sergeant Major!" the sentry called back. It was difficult talking to someone behind him while this foreign pile of shit was pushing his face at him.
"Let him in. I'll speak with him."
Reluctantly the sentry stood aside, and Macurdy entered. "Thank you, Sergeant Major," he said. "I appreciate your help; I don't know your regulations." He gestured toward the stoop and its sentry. "If I bent them, my apologies."
The sergeant major ignored both thanks and apology. "In Colonel Bolzar's absence," he said, "Subcolonel Sojass is in charge. Before I interrupt him, it is necessary that I know why you want to speak with him."
Macurdy nodded. "Yuulith is in danger of invasion from across the Ocean Sea. I've been traveling through the Rude Lands, looking at their armed forces, and their effectiveness. The Tigers have a reputation which I presume is well deserved. But I need to see for myself."
The sergeant majors jaw set. "Be seated," he said. "I will inform him." He got to his feet and disappeared into an adjacent room. Macurdy could hear voices through the closed door, but couldn't make out the words. A well-knit, pre-adolescent boy sat near a corner of the room, watching and listening. A Tiger cadet pulling orderly duty, Macurdy supposed, and wondered what the boy made of an outsider coming here. After a long minute, the sergeant major reappeared, again closing the door behind him.
"Subcolonel Sojass is busy," he said. "I can have you taken to a company drill field."
He stood waiting for Macurdy's response.
"Thank you, Sergeant Major. I'd appreciate that."
The sergeant major sat down, and jotted a note. "Thessmak!" he said as he wrote. The boy got sharply to his feet and stepped to the desk. The sergeant major finished writing and handed him the note. "Take Marshal Macurdy to Captain Skortov's company. Give the note to the captain."
"Yes, Sergeant Major!" the boy snapped, then turned to Macurdy, who got to his feet. They left at a brisk walk. Macurdy got the impression the boy would have preferred running.
Twenty minutes later they were outside the wall, at a drill field divided into squares of perhaps forty yards on a side. Four platoons were there, drilling with short spears in a thin haze of dust. Their swift forceful movements seemed choreographed. An officer paced by each platoon, circling it, watching. Barking brief orders at intervals of a few seconds, the platoon responding without pause.
Macurdy was impressed. Their drill was faster and sharper than the spear drill of Ozian Heroes, if less exuberant. Whether they'd be more formidable in battle, he didn't know. Stronger, certainly, and no doubt more tightly disciplined.
It occurred to him that he hadn't fought for years. He hoped he wasn't biting off more than he could chew.
The cadet took Macurdy to the company commander, a chiseled-faced captain who watched the drill from a flat-topped mound, a grassy command platform. After speaking to the captain, the boy handed him the note. Frowning, the captain read it, then green eyes unreadable, looked at Macurdy. His aura, however, showed no hostility. "I am Captain Skortov," he said. "What do you want to see?"
"I'm seeing some of it now. I'd also like to see how strong these Tigers are. Feel their strength in personal combat."
Something flashed behind Skortov's eyes, and the Tiger smiled. Without a second's hesitation he shouted an order, a booming, effortless bellow. The whirl of activity stopped at once, each man turning toward Skortov, spear butt by his right foot in what Macurdy would have called "order arms."
"We have a visitor," Skortov bellowed, "come to watch you train. He is the Lion of Farside. He led the army that defeated the ylver in the Battle of Ternass, and destroyed the evil and treacherous Quaie in single combat." He turned to Macurdy, but spoke so the company would hear. "What do you think of their drill?" he asked.
Macurdy was caught unprepared by Skortov's praise, and hoped he wouldn't blow it. Looking at the Tigers, he matched the captain's bellow. "I am impressed. They are very good, as I expected."
Skortov spoke to his Tigers again. "He asked to see how strong you are. He wants to feel your strength in personal combat. Corporal Corgan! Come up here and show him!"
The Tiger who strode toward the mound was taller and huskier than most of them. "Do not use magic," Skortov murmured to Macurdy. "It would offend the men, and hurt your reputation."
Macurdy heard, but did not respond. No magic. What would these men make of the jujitsu Fritzi had sent him off to learn? Technique or magic? If he didn't use the skills he knew, this might backfire on him. He watched Corgan climb the low mound, the Tiger's aura reflecting anticipation and utter confidence. And a smoldering hostility that surprised Macurdy. Meanwhile the interest of the company was so strong, Macurdy's aura vibrated to it, a feeling new to him. Corgan stopped not four feet from him, glowering in his face as if to intimidate.
"You will wrestle," Skortov instructed them. "There will be no blows struck, no choking, no gouging of eyes, no attempt to break or dislocate bones. The purpose of this is for each of you to discover the strength of the other." He stared meaningfully at Corgan. "Is that understood, Corporal?"
"Understood," Corgan growled.
Skortov turned to Macurdy. "Agreed?" he asked.
"Agreed."
Belatedly, Macurdy wished he knew if there was a standard opening to bouts like these. Skortov waved them back till they stood ten feet apart. Macurdy didn't focus on Corgan's eyes or feet. He had the knack of taking in the entire opponent. Then Skortov's callused hands clapped loudly, and the two men closed.
Corgan was direct. He grabbed at Macurdy, who grasped the Tiger's sleeve and shirt front, and threw him with a basic leg throw. He heard Corgan's loud grunt and stepped back. That'll give him something to think about, he thought.
Corgan was on his feet quickly, his hostility transformed to hatred. However, though his intention was no less, his confidence was bruised. He closed again. This time Macurdy used none of the judo throws he'd learned. For a moment they grappled, feet wide and braced-and Macurdy discovered he was the stronger. He raised Corgan off his feet, and as he did, the Tiger drove a fist into his ribs. Macurdy slammed him down, landing on top, and for a wild minute they struggled on the ground. Then Skortov's voice shouted "Up!" and Macurdy felt Corgan's grasp relax. He relaxed his own, and both of them got to their feet. Skortov waved them apart again, then stared meaningfully at Corgan.
"This match is wrestling, not blows!" he bellowed. "Do not forget again! You will disgrace us!"
Then he waved them together. This time Macurdy didn't meet Corgan's embrace. Instead he feinted another leg throw, converting Corgan's reaction into a hip throw that ended with the Tiger's arm behind his back. Held there by Macurdy, who applied enough pressure to let him know he could dislocate his elbow if he wished. He expected some kind of cry from Corgan, but when there was none, he let him go and backed away.
Now the hatred in the Tiger's aura showed wildness as well. When Skortov waved them together, Corgan loosed a straight left that struck Macurdy in the face, sending him staggering backwards. Then the Tiger was on him with lefts and rights, and suddenly it was over. Macurdy stood bleeding from cheek, nose, and mouth. Corgan had rolled down the grassy mound, coming to rest in the trampled dust of the drill field. After a moment the Tiger rolled over and tried to get up. He made it to his hands and knees, but no further.
Skortov bellowed another order. Two grim Tigers strode to Corgan, jerked him roughly to his feet, and manhandled him away. Then the captain turned to Macurdy, took his wrist, and raised his arm in victory. There was no cheering, and for a moment Macurdy thought they disapproved. Then he shook off his fog and looked out at the company. There were no grins, but neither were there scowls. Their auras reflected approval.
"Company," Skortov bellowed, "continue your drill!"
They did, less smoothly than before, as if thrown off stride by the distraction. Pleased but rueful, Skortov looked at Macurdy. "Corgan has no particular reputation as a skilled brawler," he said. "I chose him because of his reputation for strength. And because he feels he has a grudge against you."
"Grudge?"
"The story is that the runaway, Varia, had been your wife on Farside. And that she ran away to return to you. Corgan had sentry watch when she escaped from the barracks. He was put on punishment for months, and blamed you for it."
Now Skortov grinned. "I presumed you would win," he said. "I was along in Quaie's War."
Still bleeding, Macurdy left the mound and, at the road, called Vulkan to him. Invisibly they walked together to the river, where Macurdy washed his damaged face in water that not long before had been snow on some high slope. Then he stripped, and washed the blood from his U.S. Army fatigues. After spreading them on a bush, he and Vulkan lay beside it in the sun. It took a minute to get the proper mental focus, then Macurdy used his healing skills on his face. When he'd finished, they napped.
That evening they ate with Amnevi. The swelling in Macurdy's face was gone, and the lacerations and abrasions almost entirely healed, but some discoloration remained. His explanation was brief. He had, he said, told a Tiger officer he'd like to test himself against a Tiger.
Amnevi's brows rose. "What was the outcome?" she asked.
"I'm surprised you haven't heard by now. I won. Decisively." He told her then of Corgan's hatred, and its roots.
"Hmm," she mused. "I find myself not surprised at your victory, though why you should want such a test is beyond my imagining. Well. Your legend is not unknown here. This will add a page to it." She paused. "And to Varia's."
It was then he told her why he was there-of the threat of invasion from across the Ocean Sea. Of his dream and A'duaill's, of Vulkan's premonition, and his own experience in Hithmearc. And Cyncaidh's story of the two strange ships. He expected, he said, to raise an army when the time came.
He put it more strongly than he had to most of the Rude Lands rulers. As he supposed, she'd heard much of it before, from Liiset, via courier. She wished him well but promised nothing; he supposed it was as far as her authority allowed.
Besides, Sarkia could easily die tomorrow-today for that matter-and who knew what Idri would do when she took over? Not cooperate with him, that was certain.
The next morning, Vulkan, fully visible, trotted out the Cloister's main gate with Macurdy on his back. They were on their way to see the King in Silver Mountain, the last royalty Macurdy would visit on that round.
22 The King in Silver Mountain
Macurdy had never heard a description of the royal residence in the Silver Mountain. He'd assumed most dwarves worked underground, and probably lived underground, but the palace?
The road, being paved with bricks of stone, was even better than the road through Asrik. It was cut into a forested slope above a rowdy mountain stream, and ditched on the uphill side. Numerous brooklets, springs and seeps fed water into the ditch, to pass at intervals beneath small stone bridges. It seemed to Macurdy the prettiest road he'd seen in two universes.
After an hour or so, he came to a stone post with 2 MILES carved into it, without saying to where.
The last half mile was the floor of an upper valley. Here the road was magnificent, paved with squared and fitted flagstones, and flanked on both sides with a row of monster white pines taller than tulip trees. The most slender of them was nearly five feet through, their mighty trunks rising like columns eighty feet or more to the lowest branches. Macurdy's practiced eye made them well over two hundred feet tall; they'd have looked at home in Nehtaka County.
Then he topped a rise, and the avenue through the trees widened, funnel-like, still flanked by great pines. This provided a broader view of the "where," a hundred yards ahead: an entrance into the mountain itself, and beyond a doubt the royal residence. It was surely the grandest entrance in Yuulith. So grand, the landscaping-mossy lawns, sculpted yews, beds of rhododendron, arbors overgrown with roses-went nearly unnoticed.
A section of precipitous mountainside had been carved away, leaving a polished-polished!-vertical face a hundred feet wide and a hundred high. The entrance itself had been cut into that, and fitted with massive double doors, each ten feet wide and fifteen high. As Macurdy drew nearer, he found the massive doorway fittings faced with gold, and magnificently detailed with intertwined serpents and leafy vines. From among the leaves peered carven tomttu, birds, and small animals, as if they lived among them. The doors themselves were plated with polished silver and gold, intricately and imaginatively ornamented. It would be easy, Macurdy told himself, to spend a day sorting out the patterns, and finding things one had missed.
The guards were large and powerful dwarves in their prime. Even bare-headed (which they weren't) and barefoot (which they were), they stood five feet tall, or close to it. Stripped they might have weighed one hundred sixty pounds of muscle. Their splendid silver helms reached higher than Macurdy's shoulders. Their knee-length hauberks and seven-foot spears shimmered with dwarven magic, and no doubt their swords as well, when unsheathed.
He was expected. Amnevi had sent a courier ahead for him. He was detained just long enough to dismount and formally identify himself. Vulkan was escorted down a side path to a stable out of sight in the forest, escorted with the respect due a dwarf friend. Then one of the great doors opened smoothly and silentLY, and an attendant emerged to lead Macurdy inside.
There they walked down a high narrow colonnade, its polished granite columns carved from the mountain itself. Flames danced and swayed in open oil lamps wrought of silver, but Macurdy smelled no smoke. The place seemed ventilated, with circulation driven by some mechanical system. Or possibly magic. And the lamps were not the only source of light. At intervals, white light flooded from apertures overhead, leaving Macurdy to speculate about systems of mirrors relaying daylight from somewhere above.
The colonnade led to a large waiting room, where an usher took custody of him. From there Macurdy was taken down corridors less grand, to a guest room not large but well furnished. All it lacked was windows. The bed was more than large enough, large though he was. On a heavy oak table stood a bowl of grapes and two platters, one with apples and pears, the other with a loaf of dark and pungent rye bread, a knife, and a wheel of cheese. A pitcher of cool water stood beside them, and a bottle of red wine, with glasses. On another table was soap, a towel, a silver wash basin, and a pitcher of warm water.
"His Majesty's aide will be here shortly," the usher said. "Ye may want to refresh yerself." Then he bowed and left.
Before Macurdy had left the Cloister, Amnevi had told him his appointment with the king would probably be on his third day there. Even royalty couldn't expect a first-day audience. Half an hour later, however, His Majesty's aide knocked on the door. His Majesty, he said, would see him later that afternoon. "Meanwhile yew've time for a nap," he added. "I'll have ye wakened for your appointment." Then, seeing the surprise on Macurdy's face, he explained: "Yew've been named dwarf friend, for rescuing a trade embassy from highwaymen. Perhaps ye'd forgotten. It carries with it certain privileges."
Macurdy remembered well enough. But when Kittul Kendersson Great Lode had dubbed him dwarf friend, he'd thought it was between himself and Kendersson's party, from the Diamond Flues, the better part of a thousand miles west. Seemingly Kittul had spread the word. And apparently a dwarf friend was deemed a friend to all dwarves, regardless of where.
"Meanwhile," the aide continued, "there are things ye should know. About the king himself, and the protocol of his court." Finn Greatsword, he said, was very ancient, even for a dwarf: he'd already lived 337 years, and ruled for the last 179 of them. During his reign, the dwarves in Silver Mountain had much increased the wealth, and without increasing the precious metals they dug. What Greatsword had done was increase the base metals taken from the mountain and refined-copper, tin, antimony, and others in varying quantities. But especially iron.
All the better grades of pewter were spun in Silver Mountain, and the better weapon-grade steel was forged there. The very finest swords were dwarf made. They were expensive, of course. When enhanced with spells by dwarven masters, they were especially expensive, and the dwarves were particular about to whom they sold enchanted blades.
Macurdy showed the aide his saber. "It's not dwarf made," he said, "but it carries a dwarven spell."
The aide peered intently at it, then passed a hand along its blade, not quite touching it. "Indeed," he said. "The spell's not one of ours, but excellent nonetheless." He concentrated. "From the Diamond Flues. Yes."
"Kittul Kendersson Great Lode spelled it."
"Kendersson! Excellent! A pity, though, to waste a Kendersson spell on a blade not dwarf made."
Macurdy felt a twinge of resentment at the aide's arrogance, and it showed in his voice. "It happened on the road, and it's all the blade I had. It served me well in more than one fight."
"Of course, of course. I have no doubt. With old Kittul's spell on it, it would. But on a dwarven blade, and applied during the forging…" The aide's gesture finished the thought. Before he left, he asked Macurdy for custody of the saber. " 'Tis in need of polishing," he said, "and yew'll not need it here."
"My thanks," Macurdy told him, his voice still tinged with annoyance. "But my purse is too thin."
The aide shook his head. "For yew there'll be no cost, dwarf friend. Courtesy of the Mountain and His Majesty."
Macurdy realized the value of the offer. Anyone with a little coaching and the proper tools could put an edge on a sword. But few swordsmen could produce the edge a professional polisher could, and a professional greatly improved a blade's appearance. Reputedly even its temper, though Macurdy was skeptical. Professionals with a reputation, however, charged more than many swordsmen could pay. And dwarven masters of almost any craft were said to be the best.
The lesser audience chamber was small, perhaps twelve by twenty feet. Near the far end, Finn Great-sword, the King in Silver Mountain, sat on a throne not merely golden, but of actual gold. The twenty-inch dais on which it stood was clothed with furs. As were the walls; a king's ransom in furs. As instructed, Macurdy approached to a short line, eight feet in front of His Majesty, and stopped.
Finn Greatsword had always been bulky, and his years had not shrunk him. He still looked formidable, though his large hands were gnarly with arthritis. His once-golden beard was white, shot with pale yellow and parted in the middle, the halves braided, and resting on his thick thighs. His spadelike teeth were almost brown with age, but they seemed all to be there.
"So yew are the Lion of Farside." The deep guttural voice issued from a barrel chest, to rumble out a wide mouth.
"I didn't give myself the name," Macurdy answered.
"Of course not. Twas the ylver gave it to ye. I've heard the tales, including those of the Diamond Flue clans. And I'm told of yer reason for coming here. However, we do not divulge our strength at arms, even to dwarf friends."
He examined Macurdy, then seemed to make a decision. It was, Macurdy realized, done for effect; the dwarf king already knew what he was going to say. "But to yew," Greatsword rumbled, "to yew I'll tell more than I would most others. Every dwarf lad is trained for years, in sword, crossbow, spear and poleax, and in tactics above- and below-ground. As well as in the skilled trades by which we earn our way in the world. We start as boys. The use of both weapons and tools are as natural to us as breathing.
"But I keep no army. Guards, yes, but no army. If I need an army, I send the war torch through the mountain, or such part of the mountain as I choose, and all who see it rush to arms, and to the proper mustering hall."
He paused, eyeing Macurdy with interest. "And now I'd like to hear the tale you bear, from yer own mouth."
Macurdy repeated the story, his delivery well practiced by now, and the dwarf king seemed to absorb it all. Macurdy finished with the usual comment: "Nothing may come of it. Dreams are most often just that: dreams. A great boar's premonitions are more worrisome, but it's possible they foreshadow nothing more than the grandfather of storms, sweeping in to ravage the coast and the lands behind." He gestured. "As for the strange ships- Who knows where they came from? Still, considering everything together, they're food for thought, and worth our attention."
The king's large head nodded. "When I was a lad, and books still were copied by hand, King Harlof the Fearless bargained with the eastern ylver over a particular ruby their emperor coveted. Part of the exchange was books, ylvin books, and one of the books told of the Voitusotar. And the terrible sickness that grips them on the sea."
He paused, his old eyes glinting. "Of course, who knows what herbs they may have learned to brew since then, or what sorceries. Eh? For that was twenty centuries past, or more.
"But the same book described the perils found here, in what they called Vismearc." He leaned forward intently. "And suppose-suppose they do invade, rich as they are, and powerful. They know about us, here in the Mountain-know about us and are warned. Tis in the book! 'Most terrible of all,' it calls us. 'Short of leg but long of arm… bodies of stone… the strength of giants… no concept of mercy.' "
He shook his head. "If they come, they'll avoid trouble with us. And we are an ancient lineage. Even as individuals, our lives are far longer than the ylver's and the Sisters', and yer own. We watch dynasties come and go; they sprout like mushrooms after rain. Allies become enemies, and enemies allies. Tyrants are thrown down. Unlikely princes become statesmen, and are succeeded by handsome fools."
He paused, leaning forward again, eyeing Macurdy intently. "And we trade with them all. If the Voitusotar come, they will not trouble us. They will trade with us. If they come."
He sat back. "Is there aught else you'd care to say?"
Macurdy shook his head. Nowhere else had he arrived with greater hopes, and no one else had brushed him off like that. They will trade with us! He left more than disappointed. He left with a bad taste in his mouth.
The next day he was given a tour of diggings, great screening rooms, forging rooms. He inspected jewels being cut and polished, beautiful vessels being made of silver and gold. Heavy dwarven jewelry. And began to appreciate why some people-human, ylver, dwarves-put such value on them.
But some things he was not shown, and he missed them. Things that made the Mountain livable-the ventilation and drainage systems in particular.
On the third day, Macurdy ate breakfast with the aide who'd briefed him. From a fur, the dwarf drew a well-worn scabbard-Macurdy's-and laid it on the table. Macurdy picked it up, and from it drew his old Ozian saber, now beautifully polished, looking better than new. Then the dwarf brought forth another, in a splendid silver scabbard set with gemstones, and held out the hilt to Macurdy. "Draw it, dwarf friend," he said. "It's yers. Draw it and tell me what ye think."
Macurdy drew it. It shimmered awesomely with magic, and felt like an extension of his arm. "Blessed God," he whispered. "I never knew there were weapons like this."
"Spells were laid on it at every stage of its forging. It's the best we could do in two days. We could have done little better in any case. His Majesty wishes ye well. If the Voitusotar do arrive, he says, he sees in yew the best hope of the tallfolk. Yew and yer great boar."
Half an hour later, Macurdy was on Vulkan again, riding down the avenue of pines, reciting what he'd seen and learned. He'd decided the King in Silver Mountain was not as bad as he'd thought.
‹He's not,› Vulkan agreed. ‹He sees things from his own viewpoint. And there was wisdom in those words that annoyed you.› He paused reflectively. ‹But he does not appreciate what Yuulith would be like, ruled by the Voitusotar. I am not sure that you and I do, fully.›