II
The Grand Bastard’s Sword
The Month of the Bear had begun when Jorian reached the house of Rhithos the smith. In the foothills of the Lograms, all the leaves of the hardwoods had now turned to brown and scarlet and gold, while on the higher slopes the evergreens retained their somber, dark-green hue. Beyond these green-clad ridges looking black beneath the overcast, clouds half-hid the white peaks of the central chain. A rain of red and yellow leaves, slanting down through the gray autumnal air and rocking and spinning in their fall like little boats on a stormy sea, drifted athwart the clearing where stood the house of Rhithos the smith.
The smith’s house was larger and more substantial than one would expect for the dwelling of a solitary man. It had a first story of mortared stone and above it a half-story of logs, with a high-peaked roof. Besides the main house, a one-story extension or shed, at right angles to the main axis of the building, contained the smithy. Thence came the clang of hammer on anvil.
At the other end, against the house wall, stood a large wooden cage. Huddled in the cage was an ape-man from the jungles of Komilakh, far to the southeast. Near the edge of the clearing rose the stone curbing of a well, whence a young woman was drawing water. As Jorian arrived with his crossbow on his shoulder, she had just raised a bucketful by the windlass and was resting the bucket on the curb preparatory to emptying it into the jar. Across the clearing from the well, a tethered ass was munching hay.
As Jorian started across the clearing, the girl gave a startled movement, water slopped out of the bucket. Jorian called: “God den! Let me give you a hand with that, lass!”
“Who are you?” she said, still poised on the edge of flight.
“Jorian son of Evor. Is this the house of Rhithos the smith?”
“Aye. We’ve heard you were coming, but we expected you many days ago.”
“I got lost in the damned woods,” said Jorian. “With this blanket of cloud I could not find myself again. Hold the jar whilst I tip the bucket!”
As he poured the water, Jorian looked the girl over. She was tall—within a hand’s breadth of his own height—and had a mane of black hair. Her features were a little too coarse and irregular to be called pretty, but she was still a striking, forceful-looking woman with fine gray eyes. She said, in a rather deep, harsh voice: “No wonder you got lost! Rhithos maintains a confusion spell over all the land you can see from here, to keep hunters and woodsmen out.”
“Why?”
“For the silvans. In return, they fetch us food.”
“I thought I glimpsed a little fellow with long, hairy ears,” said Jorian, carrying the jar towards the house in the girl’s wake. The ape-man awoke and growled at Jorian, but a word from the girl quieted the creature.
“The spell was supposed to have been lifted to let you in,” continued the girl. “But one cannot turn off a spell as neatly as snuffing a candle. You have nice manners at least, Master Jorian.”
“Na, na, we former kings must keep up our good repute.” Jorian broke into his rustic Kortolian accent. “And sin a be no king the now, a needs must swink for ma supper.”
The girl opened the door to a large room. Scrolls, crucibles, and magical instruments were scattered about on tables, chairs, and benches. The house furnished solid rustic comfort, like the hunting lodge that Jorian had inherited from his predecessors as King of Xylar. The floor was of wooden planks. Weapons hung on the walls, skins of bears and other beasts carpeted the floor, and decorated cushions bestrewed the benches.
The girl led the way along a passage to the kitchen. Jorian staggered as he hoisted the jar to the counter beside the sink.
“What ails you?” asked Vanora sharply. “Tell me not that the weight of that jar has unmanned a strapping fellow like you!”
“No, my dear young lady. It’s just that I haven’t eaten in three days.”
“Great Zevatas! We must remedy that.” She rummaged in the bread box, the apple bin, and elsewhere.
“What shall I call you?” asked Jorian, setting down his crossbow and his pack. “It seems not meet to refer to one who has saved one’s life as ‘Ho, you!’ ”
“I haven’t saved your life.”
“You will have, when you get me something to eat. Well?”
“My name is Vanora.” As Jorian looked a question, she added: “Vanora of Govannian, if you like.”
“I thought I knew the accent. Is Rhithos your father or uncle?”
“He, a kinsman?” She gave a short, derisive laugh. “He is my master. Know that he bought me as a bonded maid-of-all-work in Govannian.”
“How so?”
“I had stabbed my lover, the worthless vagabond. I know not why, but I always fall in love with drunken louts who mistreat me. Anyway, this oaf died, and they were going to chop off my head to teach me not to do it again. But in Govannian they let outsiders buy condemned criminals as slaves, provided they take them out of the country. If I returned to thither, they’d have my head yet.”
“How does Rhithos entreat you?”
She set down on the counter a plate bearing a small loaf of bread, a slab of smoked meat, a wedge of cheese, and an apple. Standing close to him, she said: “He doesn’t—at least, not what you’d call ‘entreat.’ So long as I obey, he pays me no more heed than a stick of furniture—not even at bedtime, for he says his magical works require celibacy. Now he’s in his smithy, fiddling with Daunas’s new sword; won’t put his head out of the shed until supper time.”
She looked up at him from close by with half-opened lips and swayed so that her full breast rubbed gently against his arm. He could hear the faint whistle of her breathing. Then his eyes strayed to the laden platter.
“If you’ll excuse me, Mistress Vanora,” he said, reaching around her, “what I need right now is food, ’ere I drop dead of starvation. Where would you like me to eat it?”
“Food!” she snapped. “Sit at yon little table. Here’s some cider. Don’t gulp it down; it has more power than you would think.”
“I thank you, Mistress.” Jorian bolted several large mouthfuls, then cleared his mouth long enough to say: “Do I understand that Rhithos is making a magical sword for the Grand Bastard?”
“I can’t linger for light talk, Master Jorian. I have work to do.” She strode out of the kitchen, the heels of her boots banging.
Jorian looked after her with a smile curling his stubbly new beard. Now what, he thought, is she angry about? Is it what I suspect? He ate heartily, drank deeply, and wandered back into the cluttered living room. Here Rhithos the smith found him hours later, rolled up in a bearskin on the floor and snoring.
###
The faint sound of the opening door roused Jorian. As the smith entered his house, Jorian scrambled to his feet and bowed.
“Hail, Master Rhithos!” he said. “Your servant is humbly grateful for your hospitality.”
The smith was shorter than Vanora, who entered after him; but he had the widest shoulders Jorian had ever seen. The huge hand on the end of his long arm had a grip that made even Jorian wince. The face under his tousled gray hair was seamed and wrinkled and brown, and out of it a pair of heavy-lidded, cold gray eyes looked without expression.
“Welcome to my house,” rumbled Rhithos. “I regret that your arrival was delayed by a trifling misfunction in one of my protective spells. Vanora tells me you arrived half-starved.”
“True. I exhausted the provender I had with me and sought to kill some game to replace it. I’m not altogether incompetent with the crossbow; but not so much as a hare did I see.”
“The silvans must have driven the beasts out of your way. They guard them from hunters—not for sentimental love of the creatures, but to hunt themselves. Sit down there, Master Jorian. For the evening you may take your ease, although tomorrow I shall find ways for you to earn your keep whilst you tarry here.”
As Vanora poured wine, Rhithos continued: “Now tell me how you got into this strange predicament.”
“It began five years ago,” said Jorian, glad of a chance to talk after the long silence of the forest. “But I must go back further yet. My father was Evor the clockmaker, who passed his last years in Ardamai.”
“Where is that?”
“A village of Kortoli, near the capital. He tried to apprentice me in the making of clepsydras. But my hands, while steady enough on bridle, sword, plow, or tiller, proved too big and clumsy for such fine work. I mastered the theory, but the practice eluded me. He save up at last, albeit not before I had traveled with him to several of the Twelve Cities where he had contracts to install water clocks.
“Next, he apprenticed me to Fimbri the carpenter, in Ardamai. But after a month Fimbri sent me home with a bill for all the tools that I, not having yet learned to control my strength, had broken.
“Then my father apprenticed me to Rubio, a merchant of Kortoli. This lasted a year, until one day I made a bad error in adding Rubio’s accounts. Now Rubio was a bitter and hasty man, and things had lately gone badly for him. So he took his rage out on me, forgetting that in the year I had been with him I had grown from a stripling to a youth taller than he was. He laid into me with his walking stick, and I took it away and broke it over his head. It only stunned him; but I, thinking I had slain the man, fled back to Ardamai.
“My father hid me until it transpired that Rubio was not seriously hurt. Then he got me into the house of a childless peasant, one Onnus. He told me that, if I moved my draughtsmen aright, I might inherit the farm, since widower Onnus had no known kin. But Onnus was a skinflint who would try to sell the squeal of a pig when he butchered it. He worked me sixteen hours a day and nearly starved me. At last, when he caught me sneaking off from work to spark a neighbor’s girl, he laid into me with his horsewhip. Of course I had to take it away from him—”
“And flog him with it?” said Rhithos.
“No, sir, I did not. All I did was to throw him headfirst into his own dungheap, so hard he came out the other side, and went along home.”
Warmed by the wine, Jorian became gay, speaking rapidly with animated gestures. “My poor father was in despair of finding a livelihood for me. My older brothers had grown up to be good, competent clockmakers, and my sisters were married off, but what to do with me? ‘If you had two heads,’ quoth he, ‘we could charge admission to see you; but you’re only a great, clumsy young lout, good only for clodhopping.’ So we bethought us of Syballa, the local wise woman.
“The witch put herbs in her pot and powders in her fire, and there was a lot of smoke and nickering shadows with nothing visible to cast them. She went into a trance, muttering and mumbling. Then at last she said: ‘Jorian, my lad, meseems you’re fit only to be either a king or a wandering adventurer.’
“ ‘How so?’ quoth I. ‘All I want is to be a respectable craftsman, like my dear father, and make a decent living.’
“ ‘Your trouble,’ she went on, ‘is that you are too good at too many things to push a plow handle or to sweep the streets of Kortoli City. Yet you are not so surpassingly good at any one thing that it is plainly the work wherefor the gods intended you. For such a one, if he be not born to wealth and rank, the only careers are those of adventurer and ruler. Betimes the one leads to the other.’
“ ‘How about soldiering?’ said I.
“ ‘That is classed with adventuring.’
“ ‘Then soldiering it shall be,’ I said.
“My father sought to dissuade me, saying that I had too much brains for so routine a career, which would prove nine parts insufferable boredom to one part stark terror. But I said my brain had so far availed me little and set out natheless. Kortoli rejected my application; I think Rubio must have put in a bad word for me.
“So I hiked to Othomae and joined the Grand Bastard’s pikemen. For a year I marched back and forth on the drill ground while officers bawled: ‘Slant pikes! Forward, ‘arch!’ We had one battle, with a Free Company that thought to sack Othomae. But the Grand Bastard routed them with a charge of his newfangled lobster-plated knights on their great, puffing plow-horses, so that no foe came within bowshot of us foot. At the end of my enlistment I agreed with my father that the mercenary’s life was not for me.
“When my time was up, I wandered into Xylar. I arrived on the day they were executing the king and choosing his successor. I suppose I had heard of this curious custom from my schoolmaster, years before; but I had never been to Xylar and hence had forgotten it. So, when a round, dark thing the size of a football came hurtling through the air at my face, I caught it. Then I found to my horror that I held a human head, freshly severed so that the blood ran up my arms. Ugh! And I learnt that I was the new King of Xylar.
“At first, I was in a daze as they clad me in shining raiment, plied me with delicious food and drink, and chose beautiful wives for me. But it did not take me long to learn what the catch was—that after five years I, too, should lose my head.
“Well, there are always more garments and food and drink and women to be had, but if a man loses his head, he cannot grow another. After a year of going through the motions of kingship, as old Grallon and Turonus instructed me, I resolved to escape from this gin by fair means or foul.
“The first method I tried was simply to sneak out and run for it. But the Xylarians were used to this and easily caught me; a whole company of the army—the so-called Royal Guard—is made up of men expert with the net and the lariat, whose task it is to see that the king escape not. I tried to enlist confederates; they betrayed me. I tried to bribe my guards; they pocketed my money and betrayed me.
“The third year, I essayed to be so good a king that the Xylarians would relent and change their custom. I made many reforms. I studied the law and strove to see justice done. I studied finance and learnt to lower taxes without weakening the kingdom. I studied the military art and put down the brigands who had gathered around Dol and the pirates that had been raiding our coast. I don’t mind admitting that battles fill me with trepidation—
“Who joys in the galloping destrier’s gait?
Not I!
Who’s happy to ride with a pot on his pate?
Not I!
Who loves to bear on his body the weight of iron apparel of mail or of plate,
And seek in a bloody encounter his fate?
Not I!
“Who yearns to thrust with the sword and the spear?
Not I!
Or draw the goose-feathered shaft to the ear?
Not I!
Who’s filled by the clatter of battle with fear,
Preferring a peaceable flagon of beer,
But lacks the astuteness to bolt for the rear?
“Tis I!
“But the thought of the ax dismayed me even more, so that I ended by making these evildoers fear me even more than I feared them.”
“Whose verse did you quote?” asked Rhithos.
“A certain obscure poetaster, night Jorian of Ardamai. But to continue: At the end of the year, all agreed that King Jorian, despite his youth, was the best ruler they had had in many a reign.
“But would the Xylarians change their stupid law? Not for anything. In fact, they posted extra guards to make sure that I did not escape. I couldn’t go for a ride, to hunt or to chase bandits or just for pleasure, without a squad of lariat-men from the steppes of Shven surrounding me lest I make a break for freedom.
“For a time I was in despair. I abandoned myself to the pleasures of the flesh—to food, drink, women, and all-night revels. Hence, by the end of my fourth year, I was a fat, flabby wreck.
“I caught cold that winter, and the cold grew into a fever that wellnigh slew me. Whilst I was raving in a delirium, a man appeared unto me in a vision. Sometimes he looked like my father, who had died that year. I had been sending my parents ample money for their comfort but durst not invite them to Xylar, lest I have a chance to escape but be unable to take it lest my parents be held as hostages for my return.
“Sometimes the man in the vision seemed to be one of the great gods: Heryx, or Psaan, or even old Zevatas himself Whoever he was, he said: ‘Jorian, lad, I am ashamed of thee, with all thy gifts of mind and body, giving up in the face of a little threat like the loss of thy head. Up and at them, boy! Thou mayst or mayst not escape if thou try, but thou wilt certainly not if thou try not. So what hast thou to lose?’
“When I got well, I took the vision’s words to heart. I sent away all the women save my four legal wives, to whom I added a fifth of my own choice. I trained in the gymnasium and the tilt yard until I was more fit than ever. And I read everything in the royal library that might possibly help me to escape. I spent a year in training and study. And ’tis easier for an eel to play the bagpipes than for a man to train and study at the same time. When you train, you’re too spent to study of evens; and when you study, you find you lack the requisite time for training. I could only do my best.
“Reasoning that, if the gods had in sooth condemned me to the life of a wandering adventurer, I had best be a good one, I studied whatever might be useful for that career. I learnt to speak Mulvani and Feridi and Shvenic. I practiced not only with the conventional arms but also with the implements of men beyond the law: the sandbag, the knuckle duster, the strangler’s cord, the poison ring, and so on. I hired Merlois the actor to teach me the arts of disguise, impersonation, and dialectical speech.
“During the last year of my reign, also, I gathered a squad of the most unsavory rogues in the Twelve Cities: a cutpurse, a swindler, a forger, a bandit, a founder of cults and secret societies, a smuggler, a blackmailer, and two burglars. I kept them in luxury whilst they taught me all their tricks. Now I can scale the front of a building, force a window, pick a lock, open a strongbox, and—if caught in the act—convince the householder that I am a good spirit sent by the gods to report on his conduct.
“As a result of these studies, I have become, one might say, a good second-rater in a variety of fields. Thus I am not so deadly a fencer as Tartonio, my former master-at-arms; nor so skilled a rider as Korkuin, my master of the horse; nor so adept a burglar as the master thief Enas; nor so learned in the law as Justice Grallon; nor so efficient an administrator as Chancellor Turonus; nor so fluent a linguist as Stimber, my librarian. But I can beat all of them save Tartonio with sword and buckler, and out-ride all save Korkuin, and speak more tongues than any save Stimber, and so on.
“Through my readings, I learnt of the Forces of Progress. One of my predecessors had closed the College of Magical Arts and banished all magicians from Xylar, and his successors had maintained this prohibition—”
“I know that,” growled Rhithos. “Why think you I dwell up here in the wilds? To escape the net of laws and regulations that the Cities fling about the student of the higher wisdom. True, in none of the other Twelve Cities is the law so stringent as in Xylar; but in all of ’em are rules and licenses and inspectors to cope with. To the forty-nine Mulvanian hells with ’em! Go on.”
Jorian: “Hence the only such practitioners in Xylar are mere witches and hedge-wizards—furtive lawbreakers, eking out a shadowy existence by amulets and potions and predictions, half of ’em fake. After I had tried several local witches of both sexes, with unpleasing results, I got in touch with Doctor Karadur, who came to Xylar as a holy man and as such beyond reach of our law. My escape from the scaffold was his doing.”
“Karadur has his good points,” said Rhithos. “Were it not for his foolish ideas and impractical ideals—”
A scratching at the door interrupted the smith. Vanora opened it, and in bounced an animal. With a start of surprise, Jorian saw that it was a squirrel the size of a dog, weighing over twenty pounds. Long, black, glossy fur covered the beast. It chirped at Rhithos, rubbed its head against his leg, and let him scratch it behind the ears, and trotted out to the kitchen.
“My familiar, Ixus,” said Rhithos. “The body is that of the giant squirrel of Yelizova; the spirit, that of a minor demon from the Fourth Plane.”
“Where is Yelizova?” asked Jorian.
“A land far to the south, beyond the equatorial jungles south of Mulvan. ’Tis only in recent years that daring mariners from Zolon have sailed thither and returned the tale to tell. Ixus cost me a pretty penny, I assure you. Some of my colleagues prefer that their familiars possess the bodies of beasts of the ape kind, because of their dexterity. I, however, demur. In the first place, these animals are delicate, easily destroyed by cold; in the second, being near kin to mankind, they have minds of their own and so often escape the control of the spirit.” The smith spoke in a coldly controlled voice, without expression of face or of tone. Now he addressed himself to his dinner.
“You were saying about Karadur?” said Jorian.
“Only that he is full of ideals that, however appealing to the emotions, are impractical in the real world. The same applies to his faction.”
“I heard there was a difference of opinion. Could you explain your point of view?”
“His faction, which call themselves the Altruists—”
“Or White Faction, do I understand?”
“They term themselves and us the White and Black Factions, respectively; but we admit not the distinction. ’Tis but their own pejorious usage, to bias the case in their favor. To resume: these self-styled Altruists would fain release the secrets of the arcane arts to the vulgus, broadcast. Thus, they say, all mankind shall benefit from this knowledge. Every man shall have a warm back and a full belly; he shall enjoy a passionate youth, a teeming family, and a hale old age.
“Now, were all men as conscientious as we of the Forces of Progress, who must study many years and give up some of life’s choicest pleasures to master our arts, who are straitly examined by the senior members ere being admitted to our fraternity, and who are bound by dreadful oaths to use our knowledge for the good or mankind—were all other men so sternly trained and strictly admitted to this arcanum, then might something be said for the Altruists’s ideal.
“But as you have seen, Master Jorian, not all men are so minded. Some are stupid, some lazy, and some downright wicked. Most of ’em choose their own self-interest over that of the general; most of ’em elect the pleasure of the moment over what is good for them, and theirs in the long run. Loose this deadly knowledge on such a feckless rabble of fools, knaves, and lubbards? As well put a razor into the chubby fingers of a toddling wean! There are men who, possessing the fellest spells, would not scruple to use them to blast an entire city, if by so doing they could burke a single personal foe. Hence to this proposal are we Benefactors adamantinely opposed.”
However emphatic his words, Rhithos never raised his voice, speaking in the same expressionless monotone. There seemed to be something mechanical about him, which reminded Jorian of the legend of the mechanical servant that Vaisus, the divine smith, had made for the other gods, and of the troubles that ensued when the clockwork man wanted to be ranked as a god, too.
“What of your current project?” he said as they finished their repast.
“ ’Twill do no harm to tell you, since it will be finished in three days at most. It is the sword Randir, which I am forging for the Grand Bastard. When the spells that go into its tempering are complete, it will cut through ordinary armor like cheese.
“The trick, I may say, is to apply the spells during the tempering stage. Some apply them earlier, during the initial heating and forging. Most such spells, however, are wasted because the heating and pounding nullify them.
“But tell us of your escape. What price did Karadur exact? Despite his hypocritical piety, I know the old didderer would not work so taxing and risky a magical opus without a price.”
“Oh, he said that your Forces of Progress demanded that I go to the capital of Mulvan and there seek out an ancient coffer called the Kist of Avlen, said to be filled with portentous spells from olden times. Karadur then wants me to lug this box back to the Goblin Tower of Metouro, where, I understand, your society is to hold a great Conclave.”
“Aha! Now it comes out. If he told you that the order as a whole demanded this thing, he lied, or I should have heard of it ere now. It is his own faction, the so-called Altruists, who lust after this chest in order to force us Benefactors to accede to their mad proposals. How do they enforce this command?”
“By a geas that gives me a frightful headache and nightmares if I keep not on the road to Trimandilam. I have tested this spell and know that it works.”
“I might have guessed. But continue, good sir, with the tale of your escape.”
While telling of his abortive execution, Jorian silently cursed himself for a rattlepate. He had wrongly assumed that Rhithos was in on his project for the then of the Kist of Avlen, or at least that there would be no harm in telling him about it. Now it transpired that Jorian had involved himself in strife between the two factions of the magicians’ fraternity. Rhithos might well try to put sand in the works. Jorian’s wine-loosened tongue had betrayed him, and not for the first time.
Jorian got what little comfort he could from the thought that his indiscretion was also partly Karadur’s fault. The old wizard had managed to give Jorian the impression, without actually saying so, that his whole society was behind this raid and not merely his own faction. Jorian sighed at the thought that even Karadur, despite his lofty talk of purity of morals and ethics, was himself not absolutely beyond all forms of perfidy and deception.
Rhithos listened without expression to the rest of Jorian’s narrative. At last he said: “Bravely done, good my sir. Now let us to bed, for there will be plenty to do on the morrow.”
###
Jorian spent most of the next day eating, resting, and taking a much-needed bath in Rhithos’s wooden tub. He watched Rhithos holding the blade Randir by its tang wrapped in rags, for the hilt had not yet been attached. The smith repeatedly heated the blade to cherry red. Then he laid it on the anvil and struck it, now here, now there, to take the least curvature or unevenness out of it.
A day later, Jorian had fully recovered. He helped Rhithos with the sword, holding with pincers the ends of the wires wound around the grip, polishing the blade and the silvered brass knuckle-guard, and otherwise helping to give Randir its final touches. He turned the crank of the grindstone as the smith administered the blade’s preliminary sharpening.
The imp Ixus hopped about the smithy, fetching and carrying to Rhithos’s orders. It chattered angrily at Jorian and bared its squirrel’s chisel-teeth at his leg until a sharp word from the smith subdued it.
“He’s jealous,” said Rhithos. “You had better go out and help Vanora. I am about to put a minor spell on the hilt and prefer to do so alone.”
Jorian spent some time in chopping wood, hauling water, kneading dough, and weeding the garden without winning more than a few curt words from the girl. He tried flattery and stories: “Did you ever hear,” he said, “about the great wrastle betwixt King Fusas of Kortoli and his twin brother Fusor? This king, you see, was a great athlete—almost as great as Kadvan the Strong in Xylar, with the additional advantage that they didn’t amputate his head after five years. I have never heard of a headless athlete who was worth a piece of mouldy straw in a contest.
“Well, Fusas wanted to put on a grand celebration to mark the five hundredth anniversary of the polis. Of course, he cheated a little, for that there was a gap in this fine history, when for several years Ardyman the Terrible of Govannian united all the Twelve Cities under his rule, but the Kortolians thought it more seemly to ignore this break, and who shall blame them?
“Being himself a mighty man, King Fusas thought to please his folk by staging, at the climax of the celebration, an athletic contest between himself and another man. Now, the king’s favorite sport was wrastling. But that presented a problem. For, you see, the king thought it bad for his royal dignity to be worsted in such a public contest. On the other hand, if his opponent were warned in advance to lose, the word might leak out, or the other man might too patently let himself be thrown. At best this would give a dull show, and at worst it might cause the king to be jeered, even worse for the royal dignity.
“Belike the king could match himself against a man so much smaller than himself that he were sure to win in any case. But again, the people would see their king flinging a mere shrimp of an opponent about and would jeer him.
“So King Fusas took counsel with his wise man, the wizard Thorynx. And Thorynx reminded Fusas that he had a twin brother, Fusor, living a quiet life in a small country house in the hills of southern Kortoli—or as quiet a life as one can lead when surrounded by spies and informers watching for a chance to denounce one for plotting to seize the throne from one’s brother. Luckily for him, Fusor—the younger of the twain by a quarter-hour—was of a retiring disposition. He cared for little but fishing and so never gave the informers any suspicious acts to report upon.
“Now, said Thorynx, Fusor and Fusas were identical twins and therefore a perfect match as wrastlers, albeit Fusor might be in better physical trim as a result of the simple outdoor life he led, not having papers to sign and lawsuits to judge and banquets to eat and balls to keep him up late. So let him be brought to Kortoli City and there wrastle with Fusas at the climax of the festival. Both would be clad identically, so that the viewers could not distinguish them. Whichever won, it would be announced that King Fusas was the winner, and who should gainsay it? Then Fusor could be sent back to his country house with a handsome gift to keep him quiet.
“And so it was done. Prince Fusor was fetched to Kortoli City and lodged in the palace for a month preceding the festival. And at the high point of the celebration, a grand wrastle it was, with the king and his brother rolling over and over on the mat in a tangle of limbs and grunting like a pair of boars at the same trough. And at last one of the twain pinned the other and was declared the winner. He was also declared to be the king.
“But no sooner had they returned to the palace and passed out of the view of the thrones than they burst into a furious quarrel, with shaken fists and menaces. Each, both winner and loser, claimed to be King Fusas and, since they looked just alike and were clad in the same purple loincloths, there was no easy way to tell which spake sooth.
“First, the chancellor tried by questioning them separately about the affairs of the kingdom, But each claimant readily answered the questions. It transpired that Fusor—whichever of the twain he was—had made the most of his month’s residence in the palace to familiarize himself with such matters, whilst his royal brother had been occupied with training in the gymnasium for the bout.
“Then the chancellor asked Thorynx if he had any ideas. ‘Aye,’ said Thorynx. ‘I can settle the question. Give each claimant a sheet of reed paper and let him write an account of the last time he went in unto Queen Zeldé, with full particulars. Then show these two screeds to the queen and let her say which is that of the true king.’ For, unlike the southern tier of the Twelve Cities, the Kortolians do not allow even lanes to take more than one lawful wife. It must be the Mulvanian influence that leads you southrons to permit such liberty.
“Anyway, so it was done. The queen glanced over the two writings and forthwith declared that one was true and the other false. So the one she had declared the true king was restored to his crown and throne and dignities, whilst the other, still indignantly protesting his royalty, was beheaded for high treason.
“That had been the end of it, save that many years later, when the king had died and the aged Queen Zeldé was on her deathbed, she confessed that she had wantonly chosen the wrong screed—that penned by Prince Fusor and not that by King Fusas.
“ ‘But grandmother!’ cried the young princess to whom she made this avowal. ‘Why did you ever do such a wicked thing?’
“ ‘Because,’ said Queen Mother Zeldé, ‘I never liked that pig Fusas. His breath smelt bad, and when he made love he was always finished before I had even begun to warm up. I thought that by trading him for his brother I might get somebody more to my taste. But alas! Fusor proved identical with his brother in these as in other respects.’ And so she died.”
Vanora, however, remained scornful. “You’re a fearful braggart, Master Jorian,” she said at last. “I’ll wager you cannot do one half the feats whereof you boast.”
Jorian smiled ingratiatingly. “Well, any man would wish to put his best foot forward with an attractive girl, now wouldn’t he?”
She snorted. “To what end? You are not even man enough to enjoy the fruits of gallantry, unless you are first stoked with enough victuals to sate a lion.”
“I could show you—”
“Never mind, sirrah, you don’t appeal to me.”
“I am wounded unto death, as by one of the silvans’ poisoned shafts!” cried Jorian, clasping his heart and pretending to faint. “What else would you like me to demonstrate?”
“That lock-picking skill, for example. See you the door of yonder cage?”
Jorian approached the cage. The ape-man, an exceptionally ugly one covered with short, grizzled hair, growled at him. Then, as Vanora came up to the bars, she extended a hand through them. The ape-man took the hand in his own and kissed it.
“A real gallant, this Komilakhian!” said Jorian, examining the lock. “What does Rhithos keep him for? He does not work the creature, as he does the squirrel, and the beast-man must be fed. What’s the purpose?”
Vanora had been speaking to the ape-man in the latter’s own clucking, hissing tongue. She said: “Rhithos means to use Zor here in the final stage of the making of the sword Randir. The concluding spell calls for thrusting the red-hot blade through the poor creature and leaving it there until it has cooled; then its edge is tested by striking off Zor’s head. The spell should properly be performed with a human captive, but Rhithos assures me ’twill work as well with Zor, who is at least halfway to humanhood and is less likely to embroil us with vengeful kinfolk than would a man.”
“The poor halfling! Zor seems to like you.”
“More than that; he’s in love with me.”
“How do you know?”
“Look at him, stupid!”
“Oh, I see what you mean.” Jorian fumbled in a small pouch, pinned to the inner side of his breeches, and brought out a short length of stout, bent wire. “I think this will take care of Zor’s lock. Hold the cage door.”
He inserted the wire into the lock, felt about, and twisted. The bolt clicked back.
“Beware!” said Jorian. “Zor might—”
Instead of helping Jorian to hold the cage door shut, Vanora stepped back and uttered a word in Zor’s language. With a roar, the ape-man hurled himself against the door. He was even heavier and stronger than Jorian, and the force of his impact was irresistible. Sent staggering back, Jorian caught his heel and sat down in the dirt, while the door flew open and Zor rushed out.
“Stop him!” cried Jorian, scrambling to his feet. But Vanora only stood with fists on hips, watching complacently as Zor raced off into the woods and vanished.
“You did that on purpose!” cried Jorian, scrambling up. “By Zevatas’s brazen beard, why—”
“What’s this?” barked the voice of the smith as Rhithos emerged from the smithy. “Great Zevatas, you’ve enlarged Zor! Are you mad, man? Why should you do this to me?”
“He was showing off his skill at picking locks,” said Vanora.
“Why, you teat-sucking idiot—” raved the smith, shaking his fists. It was the first time that Jorian had seen the man express emotion of any kind.
“I like not to blame a woman, sir,” said Jorian, “but your young lady here did suggest—”
“I did nought of the sort!” screamed Vanora. “ ’Twas your own self-conceit that drove you to the deed, despite my remonstrance—”
“Why, you little liar!” said Jorian. “Dip me in dung if I don’t spank your—”
“You shall do nought of the sort, sirrah!” roared Rhithos. “Look at me!”
Jorian did, then belatedly tried to snatch his gaze away and found that he could not. The smith held up something in the palm of his hand—whether a gem, a mirror, or a magical light, Jorian could not tell. It glowed and sparkled with a myriad of rays. The very soul seemed to be drawn out of his body as he watched in stupefied fascination. A corner of his mind kept telling him to tear his gaze away, to resist, to strike down the smith and flee; but he could not.
Closer and closer came the smith; brighter and more confusing came the sparkle of lights. The world around Jorian seemed to fade and vanish, so that he stood in empty space, bathed in flickering, coruscating lights of all the known colors and some unknown ones.
“Hold still!” said the smith, his voice toneless again. Jorian found himself unable to move at all. He felt the smith’s free hand searching his clothing. His dagger was taken, and his purse, and then the smith extracted the money belt and the little bag of pick-locks.
“Now back!” said the Smith. “Back! Another step! And another!” He continued until he had Jorian backed through the door of the cage.
Dimly, Jorian heard the door clang and the lock click. The dazzle faded and he was in Zor’s cage.
“Now,” said Rhithos, “since you have robbed me of Zor, you shall take his place.”
“Are you serious, Master Rhithos?” said Jorian.
“You shall see how serious I am. I shall be ready to cast the final spell tomorrow, and in that spell you shall play a vital role.”
“You mean you intend to temper the blade by skewering me with it and testing it on my neck?”
“Certes. The poets will sing of this blade for centuries; so, if it’s any comfort, Know that you die in a noble cause.”
“By Imbal’s brazen balls, that’s unreasonable! Whilst I own to some small blame in Zor’s escape, no civilized man would deem my blunder capital offense.”
“What are you or any other man to me? No more than insects to be trodden down when they cross my path. What is important is the perfection of my art.”
“My friend,” said Jorian in his most winning tone, “were you not better advised to send me to Komilakh to fetch you back another man-ape? You can assure my return by one of your spells, like that which Karadur’s colleagues have laid upon me. Besides, how shall I seek the Kist of Avlen—”
“Your faction seeks to put this Kist to some foolish use, so better you did not live to carry out your quest. Besides, the next twenty-four hours are astrologically auspicious, and such a favorable conjunction will not recur for years.” The smith turned to Vanora. “Meseems, girl, you’ve been talking too freely with our guest, or he’d not have known so much about the making of Randir. I shall have somewhat to say to you later. Meanwhile, back to your chores. Leave this lout to contemplate the fruits of his folly, for even this meager pleasure will not long remain him.”
“Master Rhithos!” cried Jorian in desperation. “Faction or no faction, to slay the servant of a fellow member of your fraternity will bring troubles upon you. Karadur will avenge—”
The smith snorted, turned his broad back, and marched off to the smithy. Vanora disappeared. Overhead, the blanket of thick, gray cloud seemed to press closer than ever, and the clearing seemed darker than could even be explained by the heavy overcast. Bare branches stood up like withered black hands against the darkling sky.
Jorian felt a brooding tension, as he sometimes did before a heavy thunderstorm. He paced nervously about the cage, trying his muscles on the bars and hoisting himself up by the bars that formed the roof. He poked in vain at the lock with his thick, hairy fingers.
Later, when the light dimmed, Vanora passed the cage with a jar of water.
“Mistress Vanora!” called Jorian. “Don’t I get anything more to eat?”
“To what end? Tomorrow you’ll never need food again—at least, not on this plane of existence. Better to spend your time making peace with your gods and forget that bottomless pit of a belly.”
She passed out of sight. Presently she was back, thrusting a loaf of bread and a crock of water through the bars.
“Quiet!” she whispered. “Rhithos would take it ill if he knew I wasted his victuals, as he’d say. As ’tis, he’s like to stripe my back for telling you about the sword spell. He never remembers a favor or forgets an injury.”
“An unlikeable wight. Can you get me out of here?”
“At eventide, when he’s absorbed in his spells.”
“I thought the final spell came tomorrow?”
“It does; this is but the penultimate cantrip.”
###
The smith ate early and returned to his smithy, whence presently issued the sound of a drum and of Rhithos’s voice raised in a chant. The shadows seemed to deepen about the shed even more swiftly than elsewhere. As full darkness fell, curious sounds came forth—croaks unlike any made by a human voice, and other noises unlike anything Jorian had ever heard. Now and then the voice of the smith rose in a shouted command. Strange lights of a ghastly bluish radiance flickered through the cracks between the boards of the shed. Jorian’s skin tingled until he felt as if he could jump right out of it. He wanted to explode with tension.
Vanora, a blur in the darkness, reappeared at the bars of the cage: “T-take this!” she whispered, extending a trembling hand. “And drop it not, lest it be lost for aye in the mud.”
It was the pick-lock with which Jorian had opened the case door earlier. “You dropped it when Zor escaped,” she said, “and Rhithos marked it not when he took the rest of your gear.”
Jorian felt for the keyhole on the outer side of the lock plate and inserted the wire. His hand shook so that he could hardly find the hole. Manipulating the wire from inside the cage proved awkward, but after some fumbling the bolt clicked back. He put away the wire and opened the door. Another blue flash lit up the smithy.
“Here!” said Vanora, thrusting something cold into his hand. It was the hilt of his falchion. “You must slay Rhithos whilst he is sunken in his spell.”
“Couldn’t we just flee to Othomae? Your smith is no mean wizard, and I crave not to be turned into a spider.”
“Faintheart! You’re no gallant cavalier, ardent for a fight at whatever odds, but a common, calculating kern, weighing pros and contras as a moneychanger weighs out grains of gold dust.”
“I’ve never claimed to be a gallant cavalier. These gambols affright me silly.”
“Well, play the man for once! Rhithos will be weakened by his spell-casting.”
“I still like it not; I do not enjoy killing people without necessity. Why can’t we just flee through the woods?”
“Because the instant Rhithos learns of our escape, he’ll cast a spell to fetch us back, or send his demons to herd us hither like sheep. And back we shall be forced if we’re within five leagues of his house. Even if that fail, he’s allied with the silvans, who at his command will fill us with their envenomed arrows. Since flight were fatal, there’s nothing for it but to kill him, and that right speedily.”
Jorian hefted the short, curved blade. “This is not an ideal utensil for the purpose, especially as he’ll have that great brand Randir ready to hand. With this butcher’s tool, I shall need some defense for the left hand. Give me your cloak.”
“You mean to get my one good garment all hacked and slashed in the fray? I will not! Oh, you villain!” she cried as Jorian shot out a long arm and wrenched the cloak from her shoulders. He whipped the garment around his left arm.
“Now you be quiet!” he whispered, as he glided towards the shed.
Rhithos had closed the shutters over the windows of the smithy. The louvers of these shutters were also closed, lying flat against one another like the feathers in a bird’s wing. One louver, however, had been broken at one end and sagged from its socket at the other. Jorian put his eye to the narrow triangle of light.
Within, the anvil had been moved to one side. Where it had stood, near the forge, three pentacles had been drawn with charcoal: one large flanked by two small. Rhithos stood in one small pentacle, Ixus in the other. Six black candles, at the apices of the triangles of the main pentacle, shed a fitful light, to which a dull-red glow from the banked fire in the forge added but little. The sword Randir lay in the center of the large central pentacle.
In that circle, also, stood something else, although Jorian could not quite make it out. It was dark and wavering, like a misshapen cloud, man-high and man-wide but without any definite limbs or organs. A pallid glow, like a witch fire or a will-o’-the-wisp, flickered through the thing from time to time.
Rhithos was waving a sword and chanting. Ixus, facing him across the large circle, beat time with a wand.
“His back is to the door,” breathed Vanora. “You can thrust it open and sink your blade in his back with one bound.”
“What of that spirit in the pentacle?”
“ ’Tis not yet wholly materialized; interrupt the cantrip and ’twill vanish. Come, one swift stab—”
“Not quite what a gallant cavalier would do, but—come on?” Jorian stepped to the door. “Does it squeak?”
“Nay. Hating rust, Rhithos keeps the hinges oiled.”
“Then grasp the knob and open, gently.”
She did as he bade. As the door swung silently open, Jorian took a short running step. One long bound would sink the falchion in Rhithos’s back, to the left of the spine and below the shoulder blade . . .
But Jorian had forgotten Ixus, who stood facing the door. As Jorian started his spring, the familiar screeched and pointed. Without turning his head, the smith bounded to one side. As he did so, he kicked one of the six candles. The candlestick went clattering one way; the candle flew another and went out. The cloudy thing in the large pentacle vanished.
Jorian’s rush carried him through the space where Rhithos had stood and across the main pentacle. He tripped over the sword Randir, staggered, and almost trod on Ixus, who dodged and went for Jorian with bared chisel-teeth.
Jorian struck at the hurtling, black, furry body just before the teeth reached his leg. The blow hurled the giant squirrel against the forge, where it lay, twitching and bleeding. The blow had cut it nearly in half.
Rhithos recovered from his leap. He stepped back to the main pentacle and snatched up the sword Randir. By the time Jorian had turned from his blow at the familiar, the smith was upon him, whirling the sword in great full-armed, figure-eight cuts.
Rhithos’s wrinkled face was pale in the candle light and sparkled with drops of sweat. He moved heavily and breathed hard, for his sorcerous operation had taken its toll of his strength. Nevertheless, so vast had been that strength to begin with that Jorian found the man, even in his fatigued condition, all he could handle and a little more.
Since the smith’s blade was nearly twice the length of the falchion, Jorian was tempted to fall back before the onslaught. But he knew that, if he did, the smith would soon corner him. Therefore he stood his ground, catching the blows alternately on the falchion and the rolled-up cloak.
At first the blows came so fast and furiously that Jorian had no time for a return cut or thrust. The smith seemed determined to squander his remaining strength in a whole-hog effort to beat down Jorian’s defense by sheer weight of blade and fury of attack.
Soon, however, age and exhaustion slowed the smith’s windmill assault. As he parried one slash with the cloak, Jorian sent a forehand cut at Rhithos’s chest. The tip of the falchion slit Rhithos’s tunic and pinked the skin beneath.
Gasping, Rhithos fell back a pace. Now he fought more craftily, in proper fencing style, with his right foot forward and his left arm up and back. Since Jorian had to use his left hand, he employed the two-hand stance, facing directly forward with feet apart and knees slightly bent. The two were well matched. As they advanced, retreated, feinted, thrust, cut, and parried, they circled the main pentacle.
Jorian found that now he could fight an adequate defensive fight against Rhithos, but the other’s length of blade kept him out of reach. When he tried to close, Rhithos’s long blade licked out in a thrust at his exposed right arm. The point caught the fabric of Jorian’s sleeve and tore a small rip in it. For an instant, Jorian felt the cold flat of the blade against his skin.
Around they went again. Both breathed in quick pants, watching each other’s eyes. Jorian accidentally lacked over another candle, which also went out.
Now the smith seemed to have gotten his second wind, and it was Jorian who was beginning to tire. Again and again the smith sent thrusts and slashes at Jorian’s right arm. Jorian avoided these attacks, but by narrower and narrower margins.
In the course of their circling, the smith once more had his back to the door. Vanora, who had been hovering in the background, stepped forward with the sword that Rhithos had been holding when first attacked, and which he had dropped. It was not a fighting weapon but a magical accessory—a straight, thirty-inch blade with little point and less edge, of well-polished soft iron, with a smooth ivory grip and a cross-guard in the form of a copper crescent. Practically speaking, it was useless for anything but spells and evocations.
Nonetheless, Vanora took the weapon in both hands and thrust the blunt point into Rhithos’s back. The smith started, grunted, and half-turned. Instantly, Jorian closed with him. He whipped the tattered end of Vanora’s cloak around the sword Randir, immobilizing it for an instant, and drove his falchion into Rhithos’s chest. He jerked out the blade, thrust it into the smith’s belly, withdrew it again, and slashed deeply into Rhithos’s neck.
Like an aged oak, Rhithos swayed and crashed to the floor. Jorian stood over him, gasping for breath. When he could breathe normally, he took a rag from the pile that lay near the forge, wiped his blade, and sheathed it. He tossed the bloody rag on the banked forge fire, where it smoked, burst into flame, and was quickly consumed.
“By Imbal’s bronzen arse, that was close,” said Jorian. “Lucky for me he was already spent from his sorcery; I misdoubt I could have handled him fresh.”
“Are you all right?” said Vanora.
“Aye. I’m relieved to see he has real blood inside him. From his cold, mechanical manner, I wondered if he’d prove to be full of cogwheels and pulleys, like one of my father’s water clocks.” He picked up Randir, squinted along the blade, and cut the air with it. It was a handsome, single-edged, cut-and-thrust sword with a basket hilt. “It won’t have magical properties, since we broke into the spell. Still, a pretty blade. Do you suppose he has a scabbard for it?”
“He doesn’t make his own scabbards but orders them from an armorer in Othomae. But one of those in the main hall might fit.”
“I’ll try them. Fit is important; nothing so embarrasses a hero as to confront a dragon or an ogre and find his sword firmly stuck in its scabbard. I do not suppose we need fear the law here?”
“Nay; there’s none, save as each can make his own. Both Xylar and Othomae lay a claim to these hills, but they never send officers hither to sustain their claims or enforce their statutes.”
With the toe of his boot, Jorian stirred the body of the giant squirrel. “I’m sorry to have slain his pet. It did but defend its master.”
“ ’Tis well you did, Master Jorian. Otherwise Ixus would have told the silvans, and they would have slaughtered us in reprisal for their ally’s death. As it is, they will learn of Rhithos’s demise soon enough.”
“How?”
“By the nullification of the confusion spell, whereby he’s kept woodsmen out of their territory. As soon as some hunter wanders into this demesne—and now is the hunting season—they’ll come running to this house to learn what ails their sorcerer.”
“Then we had best start for Othomae forthwith,” he said.
“First we must gather our gear. I shall need a cloak; your set-to has reduced mine to tatters. One of the smith’s will serve.”
Taking three of the remaining candles, they returned to the house. Jorian said: “I do not think it were well to start such a journey on empty stomachs. Can you whip up a meal whilst I collect my belongings?”
“All you think of is food!” said Vanora. “I could not down a crumb after all this excitement. But you shall have what you ask. Linger not over it, for despite the darkness we should put as much distance as we can betwixt ourselves and the house by dawn, when the silvans begin to stir.” She busied herself with the fire and the pots.
“Do you know the trails hereabouts?” asked Jorian, watching her. “I have a map, but on such a starless night ‘tis of little avail.”
“I know the way to Othomae. We go thither every month to sell Rhithos’s swords and other ironmongery, to take orders for more, and to purchase supplies.”
“How do you carry the load?”
“The ass bears it. Here’s your repast, Master Eat-all.”
“Aren’t you having anything?”
“Nay; I told you I couldn’t. But now the damned tyrant is dead and good riddance, we need not drink cider.” She poured a flagon of wine for Jorian and another for herself and drank hers greedily.
“If you so bitterly hated Rhithos,” said Jorian, “how is it that you never fled from him?”
“I told you, he had spells for fetching back runaways.”
“But if you set out directly the old spooker fell asleep some night, by dawn you’d be beyond the range of his spells. And you say you know the trails.”
“I couldn’t traverse these woods alone at night.”
“Why not? The leopard will not attack if you put up a bold front.”
“I might meet a serpent.”
“Oh, come! The serpents in these hills are neither venomous, like those of the lowlands, nor huge, like those of the jungles of Mulvan, but small and harmless.”
“Natheless, I have a deathly fear of all snakes.” She gulped more wine. “Speak you no more of the matter; the mere thought of a serpent turns my veins to ice.”
“Well then, shall we bury the smith?” asked Jorian.
“Indeed we must, and hide his grave, lest the silvans see his body lying in the smithy.”
“Then we must needs do it tonight, albeit the scoundrel deserves it not.”
“He was not a wholly wicked man, in the sense of doing that which he knew to be wrong.” She hiccupped. “Though I hated his bowels, I would do him justice.”
“He’d have murdered me for convenience in his swordmaking, and if that be not a villain, I shudder to think of the crimes that would arouse your disapproval.”
“On, people were nothing to him. All he cared for was his swordsmith’s art. He had no lust for wealth, or power, or glory, or women; his consuming ambition was to be the greatest swordmaker of all time. This ambition drove him so hard that all other human feelings were squeezed out, save perhaps some small affection for Ixus the imp.” She drank heavily again.
“Mistress!” said Jorian. “If you swill thus on an empty stomach, you’ll be in no shape to march through the woods.”
“ ’Tis my affair, what I drink!” shouted Vanora. “Tend your business and I’ll tend mine.”
Jorian shrugged and addressed himself to his food. He did well by a rewarmed roast, another loaf of bread, half a cabbage, a fistful of onions, and an apple pie. He asked, “Why did you turn Zor loose?”
“For one, the creature loved me—and cursed few there have been who did. I include not all the lustful young men like yourself, who prate of love but only seek to sheathe their fleshy poniards. So it grieved me to see Rhithos sacrifice him to his mad ambition.
“For another, I—I took pleasure in thwarting Rhithos, to gratify my hatred. Lastly, because I wished to escape. Had Rhithos not died, I had spent my life here. He was as lively company as a granite boulder. The years of a wizard are not as those of a common man, and he might have survived me, old and shriveled. I durst not attack him myself, even in slumber, because the imp would have warned him; I durst not flee, for the reason I’ve given. So, thought I, I’ll stir up strife betwixt these twain, and whichever win, I may escape in the confusion.”
“You’d not have cared if I—a harmless stranger—had perished in this strife?”
“Oh, I hoped you’d conquer, if—if only because I should have gained no pleasure from your death. But if you’d lost,” she shrugged, “that had been nought to me. What has the world of men done for me that I should bear them that all-embracing, indiscriminate love the priests of Astis counsel?” She gulped more wine.
“By Astis’s ivory teats, you’re frank, at least,” he said, wiping his mouth. “I do not think we need wash these dishes, since we purpose to abandon the house. If you’ll tell me where Rhithos keeps his shovel, I will bury him and his pet.”
“On—on a peg to the right of the door of the smithy, ash—as you enter.” Her voice had become blurred. “He wasn’ a mos’—most particular man, with a peg for each tool, and woe betide the wretch who returned one to the wrong peg!”
“Good! Collect your dunnage whilst I perform this task.” Carrying a candle, Jorian went out.
Half an hour later he returned, to find Vanora sprawled ungracefully on the floor, with her skirt up to her middle and an overturned flagon beside her. He spoke to her, nudged her, shook her, slapped her, and poured cold water on her face. Her only responses were a drunken mumble and a rasping snore.
“Damned fool woman,” growled Jorian. “We’re in such haste to flee the silvans, so you must needs get potulated!”
He stood scowling and thinking. He could not set forth without her, since he did not know the way. He could not carry her . . .
He gave up, stretched out on a bench, and pulled a bearskin over himself. The next thing he knew, dawn was graying the windows. He was being aroused by Vanora, who was showering moist, slobbery kisses upon him, breathing hard, and rumbling with his garments.
As the sun rose, they stepped out, closing the doors of Rhithos’s house and smithy. Jorian wore the sword Randir in a scabbard from Rhithos’s living room. He also bore a dagger of Rhithos’s make: a deadly affair, with a broad, cubit-long blade and a catch that prevented its coming out of its sheath unless one pressed a stud. The pommel was no gaudy gem but a simple ball of lead. When held by the sheathed blade, the weapon made a handy bludgeon in case one wished merely to stun a foe.
Jorian also carried his crossbow, and under his tunic he wore a vest of fine mesh mail, also looted from Rhithos’s house. Feeling as if he could knock an elephant down with his fist, he expanded his huge chest and said: “We shall have to take our chances with the silvans. Perhaps they won’t soon discover Rhithos’s disappearance. But I don’t care.” While loading provisions on Rhithos’s ass, he burst into a threshing song in the Kortolian dialect.
“What are you singing about?” snapped Vanora. “You’ll rouse every silvan within leagues, with that big bass voice.”
“Just happy, that’s all. Happy because a’ve found ma true love.”
“Love!” she snorted.
“Couldn’t you feel a little love for me? I’m head over heels in love with you, wench. And you did give me your all, as they say.”
“Rubbish! The fact that I needed to be well futtered after long deprivation has nought to do with love.”
“But, darling—”
“Darling me no darlings! I’m not the woman for you. I am just a drunken slut with a hot cleft, and forget it not.”
“Oh,” he said, his exalted mood punctured.
“Get me to a city and buy me some decent clothes, and then if you want to talk of love, I don’t suppose I can stop you.”
Jorian sighed, and his broad shoulders dropped. “You’re nobody’s sweet little innocent honey-bun, I will grant. I’m a bigger fool for loving you than Doctor Karadur was in trusting Rhithos. But there it is, damn it. Let’s say a prayer to Thio and go.”