III
The Silver Dragon
Rhuys’s tavern, The Silver Dragon, stood just off the main square of Othomae City, behind the Guildhall. The main taproom accommodated six tables, each flanked by a pair of benches, while to one side a pair of curtained alcoves served as private rooms for patrons of quality. Facing the entrance was Rhuys’s bar, a counter with four large holes in the marble top, each closed by a circular wooden lid with a handle. Below each hole hung a cask of one of the cheaper beverages: beer, ale, white wine, and red wine, each with its own dipper. Choicer drinkables stood in a row in bottles on a shelf behind the taverner.
To the left of the bar, as one entered, was the door to the kitchen; Rhuys would have his wife cook dinner for patrons who ordered in advance. To the right were the stairs leading up to the dormitory and the three private bedrooms that the tavern rented. Rhuys himself occupied the fourth. Several oil lamps shed a soft yellow light about the room.
Although he bore the same name as a former King of Xylar, known as Rhuys the Ugly, Rhuys the taverner was not really ugly. He was a small, wiry, seedy-looking man, with thinning, graying hair and pouched eyes. He leant his elbows on the bar and watched his few customers. There were only five, for the morrow was a working day and few Othomaeans were out late that night. In addition, a huge, gross, porcine man sprawled in a corner.
The door opened, and Jorian and Vanora came in.
Jorian, looking worn from his fiftnight’s hike from Rhithos’s house, approached the counter.
“Good even,” he said. “I am Nikko of Kortoli. Has a Doctor Ma—Mabahandula left word for me?”
“Why, yes, so he has,” said Rhuys. “He was in today, saying he’d be here right after the supper hour; but he has not come.”
“Then we’ll wait. We have given our ass in charge of your boy in the back.”
“What will you have?”
“Ale for me.” Jorian looked a question at Vanora, who said: “Red wine for me.”
“Have you aught to eat?” said Jorian. “We’ve come a long way.”
“Plenty of bread, cheese, and apples. The fire is out, so we cannot cook a hot repast for you.”
“Bread, cheese and apples will do fine.” Jorian turned away to lead Vanora to one of the tables.
“Master Nikko!” called Rhuys. “Have you a permit to carry that hanger?” He indicated Jorian’s sword, the hilt of which was now attached to the scabbard by a wire. The ends of the wire were crimped together by a small leaden seal bearing the two-headed eagle of Othomae.
“They gave me one at the city gate,” said Jorian, waving a piece of reed paper. “I’m a traveler on his way to Vindium.”
Of the other customers, two men were drinking and arguing in low tones. Jorian and Vanora leisurely ate and drank. Other customers came and went, but the pair in the corner continued their dispute.
Long after Jorian and Vanora had finished their supper, the other pair were still at it. One of these men raised his voice in anger. Presently he stood up, leaned over the bench, shook his fist, and shouted: “You son of a eunuch, you will cheat me of my commission, will you? Any man who so entreats me has cause to rue his deed! I have warned you for the last time! Now will you pay me my share, or—”
“Futter you,” said the seated man.
With a shrill squawk, the standing man hurled the contents of his mug in the other’s face. Sputtering, the other man tried to rise and reach for his dagger, but his robe had become entangled with the bench. While he struggled and the standing man screamed threats and denunciations, the huge, stout man in the corner caught Rhuys’s eye. Rhuys nodded. The stout man lumbered to his feet, took three steps, picked the standing man up bodily by the slack of his garments, strode to the door, and tossed the man into the street. Brushing his hands together, he returned to his seat without a word.
Vanora gave the stout man a long look as she said to Jorian, “I wonder they did not notice the Grand Bastard’s name on your sw—”
“Hush! Don’t mention that. When I get a chance, I’ll have it filed off.”
She waved to Rhuys to refill her glass, asking Jorian: “What is this title of Grand Bastard? It does not sound like a real tide. I’ve heard of the Grand Duke and the Grand Bastard, but none has ever explained it to me. Which rules Othomae?”
“They are co-rulers. According to Othomaean custom, the eldest legitimate son of the late Grand Duke becomes the new Grand Duke and hereditary ruler of the kingdom in civil affairs, whilst the eldest illegitimate son of that same late Grand Duke becomes the Grand Bastard and hereditary commander-in-chief of the army. Since the Othomaeans set great store by legitimacy, the Grand Bastard knows that ’twould avail him nought to try to seize the civil power, for none would then obey him.”
“What a curious way to run a country!”
“The Othomaeans set it up long ago, so that no one ruler should become too powerful and oppress his subjects. Now, Vanora, you are not going to get drunk again, I hope?”
“I’ll drink what I please. How are you going to steal this Kist in Trimandilam?”
“That’s for Karadur and me to decide when we get there. The plan for the nonce is for me to make up to the serpent princess.”
“Serpent princess? What’s that?”
“An immortal—or at least monstrously long-lived—being who is a luscious princess by day and a gigantic serpent by night. Karadur tells me she has the disconcerting habit of changing shape and devouring the poor wight who has just been making love to her, as I shall have to do.”
She banged her mug on the table. “You mean, after giving me sweet talk of love all the way from Rhithos’s house, you knew all the time you were going to try to seduce this—this snake-woman?”
“Please! I have no choice in the matter—”
“You’re just another lying prick-hound! I should have known better than to listen to you. Farewell!” She started to rise.
“My dear girl, what in the name of Zevatas’s horse is there to get so excited about? Surely you do not make an idol of chastity—”
Furiously, she replied: “I should not much have minded your flittering a proper human dame; but a snake! Ugh! Goodbye! That looks like the kind of man I understand!”
She staggered over to where the stout man sprawled and sat down beside him. The man’s little piggy eyes opened, and his thick lips wreathed themselves in a smile through his stubble. Jorian followed her, saying: “Pray, Vanora, be reasonable!”
“Oh, hold your tongue! You bore me.” She turned to the ejector. “What’s your name, big man?”
“Huh? My name?”
“Aye, handsome! Your name.”
“Boso son of Triis. Is this fellow bothering you?”
“He won’t if he knows what is good for him.”
“Who are you, fellow?” growled Boso at Jorian.
“Nikko of Kortoli, if it is any concern of yours. This young lady was with me, but she is her own woman. If she prefers you, I might question her taste but would not thwart her choice.”
“Oh,” grunted Boso, settling back in his corner once more. But Vanora burst out: “He is not Nikko of Kortoli! He is Jorian son of Evor—”
“Wait!” said Boso, opening his eyes and jerking upright once more. “That makes me think of something. Let me see . . .” He peered up through narrowed lids. “Not Evor the clockmaker?”
“Aye; he’s told me many a tale of his sire—”
With a roar, Boso heaved up out of his seat, stooping to fumble for the two-foot bludgeon that lay at his feet. “So you’re the son of the man who cost me my livelihood!”
“What in the forty-nine Mulvanian hells do you mean?” said Jorian, stepping back and laying a hand on his hilt. When he tried to draw, he realized that he could not because of the peace wire threaded through the guard.
Boso bellowed: “I was chief gongringer of Othomae, and a damned good one! My helpers and I sounded the hours in the city hall tower and never missed a stroke. Twenty years ago—or was it ten? No matter—your perverted father sold a water clock to the town council, and there it stands in the tower; going bong, bong with its wheels and levers. Since then I’ve had to live by odd jobs, and life has been hell. I cannot beat your fornicating father to a pulp, but you’ll do!”
“Boso!” said Rhuys sharply. “Behave yourself, you stupid lout, if you want your job!”
“Bugger you, boss,” said Boso and went for Jorian with his club.
Unable to draw the sword Randir, Jorian had hoisted the baldric over his head and now gripped the hilt of the scabbarded blade in both hands. As Boso lumbered forward like an enraged behemoth on the banks of the Bharma, Jorian feinted at his head. As Boso raised the bludgeon to parry, Jorian poked him in the midriff with the chape on the end of the scabbard.
“Oof!” exclaimed Boso, doubling up and giving back a step.
Since Jorian and Boso were by far the two largest men in the room, the remaining customers crowded back to the walls to get out of the way. Cautiously, the two combatants advanced and retreated in the space between the two rows of tables, which was too narrow to permit them to circle. Every time Boso tried to close to bring his bludgeon into range, the threat of the scabbarded blade drove him back.
Boso made a determined lunge; Jorian whacked him above the ear. The blow knocked him sideways, but he recovered. His little eyes blazing with rage, he stepped forward and aimed a terrific forehand swing.
The bludgeon whispered through the air as Jorian jerked back; the end of the club missed his face by the thickness of a sheet of parchment. The force of the missed blow swung Boso halfway around. Before he could recover, Jorian stepped forward and to the left and brought his knee hard up against Boso’s back, over his right kidney. As Boso staggered, clutching for support at a table top, Jorian, now behind him, slipped the loop of the baldric over Boso’s head. He tightened the strap around the ejector’s neck, twisting it with all the strength of his powerful hands.
Boso opened his mouth, but only a faint wheeze came forth. Eyes popping, he stamped and kicked and waved his arms, trying to reach the foe behind him. But his arms were too short and thick. He plunged and staggered about the confined space, dragging Jorian with him, but Jorian’s grip never loosened.
Boso’s struggles weakened as his face turned blue. He clutched the edge of a table, then slid to the floor.
The door flew open, and several people crowded in. One was Karadur, with his long, white beard and bulbous turban. With him was a tall, gray-haired woman in a shabby black gown. After them came a squad of the night watch: four men armed with halberds and an officer. The latter said, “Master Rhuys! We heard there was a disturbance. Who is that? What has befallen?”
“That is Boso, my ejector—my former ejector, that is. He picked a fight with this customer and got thrashed!”
“Was he alone to blame?”
“As far as I could see, he was.”
The officer turned to Jorian. “Are you fain to submit a complaint against this man?”
Vanora had pulled Boso’s head up so that it lay in her lap, and she was tricking a little wine down his throat to its normal hue. As Jorian hesitated, Karadur said: “Do not—ah—send the fellow to prison, Jorian—”
“Nikko.”
“Of course; how stupid of me! Do not send this poor fellow to prison. You have chastised him enough by strangling him nigh unto death.”
“How do I know he’ll not set upon me with that club as soon as he gets his breath back?”
“You must disarm him by your kindness. Remember, the best way to destroy an enemy is to make him your friend.”
“All very pretty. I suppose next you’ll want me to find him another job.”
“A splendid idea!” Karadur clapped his old hands together. To the officer he said: “I think, sir, you may leave us without a formal complaint.” Then to Rhuys, “What is this man good for, save as an ejector?”
“For nought! He is too stupid,” said the taverner. “If some big building construction were underway, he could carry a hod; but there is none just now.”
The gray-haired woman spoke: “I can use one of thick thews but weak wits. Besides gardening and household tasks, he can protect me against those ignorant oafs who betimes raise the cry of ‘witch!’ against me, notwithstanding that I am a fully licensed wizardess.”
“I have not had the pleasure of meeting you, madam,” said Jorian. “I am Nikko of Kortoli.”
“And I, Goania daughter of Aristor.” She leaned over and shook Boso’s shoulder. “Get up, man!”
Boso and Vanora climbed unsteadily to their feet. Goania said sharply: “Do you understand, Boso? You have lost your post here.”
“Huh? You mean lost my job?” wheezed Boso.
“Certes. Will you work for me for what Master Rhuys paid you: sixpence a day and found?”
“Me work for you?”
“Aye. Must I repeat the terms?”
Boso ran a hand over his chin with a rasp of stubble. “Oh, I guess it’s all right. But first, I’ll just knock the pumpkin off this fornicating clockmaker, who goes around putting honest workmen out of their jobs.”
“You shall do nothing of the sort! Sit down and calm yourself.”
“Now, lady! I don’t let no woman tell me—”
“I am not a lady; I am a wizardess who can turn you into a toad if you misbehave. And I say there shall be no more quarreling. We are all friends, henceforth.”
“Him? Friend?”
“Verily. He could have sent you to prison but chose not to, thinking you more useful out than in.”
Boso glowered at Jorian, spat on the floor, and mumbled under his breath. But he let Vanora lead him over to the far side of the room, where the girl soothed and comforted him while he drank beer and fingered his sore neck.
Jorian, Karadur, and Goania sat in the opposite corner. Jorian asked Karadur, “Where in the forty-nine Mulvanian hells have you been, man? We have been here for hours.”
“I obtained access to the Grand Ducal library,” said Karadur, “and became so—ah—absorbed in reading that I forgot about time. But you look as if you had had a hard time of it, lad. You have lost weight—not that you could not afford to lose a little.”
“I have had a hard time; had to kill Rhithos—”
With sharp exclamations, the other two bent closer. “Keep your voice down, Master Nikko,” said Goania. “I know your true name but think it unwise to utter it here, unless you wish the taverner to set the Xylarians on your trail. Tell us how this calamity came to pass.”
Jorian told his tale. “So we hiked to Othomae on the trails Vanora knows, and here we are. The ass is stabled in the rear.”
“What sort of traveling companion did the lass make?” asked Goania.
“Oi!” Jorian rolled his eyes. “She once called herself a drunken slut with a hot cleft—begging your pardon, madam—and I fear she did but speak the truth. Since she makes no bones about her love of fornication, I besmirch no lady’s name in telling you. Daily we quarreled and made up. Nightly she demanded that I dip my wick, and then she’d taunt me by boasting of some former lover who, she said, could stroke three to my one. When I was king, I flatter myself that I kept five wives happy; but now I could not satisfy one. She’s careless with her contraceptive spells, too. Altogether—well, I own I am the world’s greatest fool for railing in love with the drab, but there it is.”
“She hardly sounds beguiling, from what you say,” said Goania. “Why should you, who have known the pick of a kingdom, love so cross-grained a hussy?”
Jorian scratched his new beard. “A land of painful pleasure. There’s something about her—a blunt honesty, a forceful vigor, and an intelligence that, were it but cultivated, could hold its own with learned doctors . . . When in a good humor she can be more fun than a cage of monkeys. And when is love controlled by rational calculations? But the last few days have well-nigh cured me. I made a little verse about it, which she did not like at all:
“O lady fair,
Why must you be
So sharp with me,
When all can see
For you I care?
I’m not aware
That nagging me
And ragging me
Is how to be
My lady fair.
If handsome is
As handsome does
(The saying was),
Then cease to buzz
And sting and whiz.
Or else, beware!
If like a flea You pester me,
You shall not be My lady fair!”
“Only wellnigh cured, said you?”
“Just that. If she came hither now and pleaded and flattered, promising to be sweet and land and to stay sober, and begging me to keep her with me throughout my journey, I should be her pliant slave again, though I knew her promises to be so much straw. Thank Zevatas, she seems to have found someone more to her taste.”
Goania glanced towards the corner, where Boso and Vanora had fallen into drunken slumber, the girl’s head on the man’s shoulder. “O Karadur, you had better get the lad out of Othomae forthwith, ere the wench change her mind. Know you any member of our order in Vindium?”
“I stayed with Porrex on my way to Xylar, last year. A delightful colleague—so kind and considerate.”
“He is also tricky; beware of him.”
“Oh, I am sure so good a man is to be trusted, as far as one can trust anyone in this wicked world. I had a chance of witnessing his kindness and generosity at first hand.”
Jorian asked, “Why can’t you perform a divination to find the results of our intercourse with Master Porrex?”
Goania shook her head. “The practice of magic introduces into the lifeline of the practitioner too many factors from other planes and dimensions. I can divine somewhat of the luck of a layman like yourself, Master Nikko, but not those of Doctors Karadur or Porrex.”
“Well then,” said Jorian eagerly, “tell me what lies before me!”
“Give me your hand. When and where were you born?”
“In Ardamai, Kortoli, on the fifteenth of the Month of the Lion, in the twelfth year of King Fealin the Second, about sunrise.”
Goania examined Jorian’s palm and thought silently for a moment. Then she held her goblet so that she could see the reflection of one of the lamps in the surface of the wine. With her other hand she made passes over the vessel, moving her fingers in complex patterns and softly whispering. At last she said: “Beware of a bedroom window, a tinkling man, and a tiger-headed god.”
“Is that all?”
“It is all I see at this time.”
Familiar with the vagueness and ambiguity of oracles, Jorian did not press the wizardess for more detail. Karadur spoke, “And now, madam, or ever I forget, have you that which you promised me?”
Goania felt in her purse and brought out a small packet. “The Powder or Discord—pollen of the spotted fireweed, gathered when the Red Planet was in conjunction with the White in the Wolf. Blown into any group of men, it will cause them to bicker and fight.”
“Gramercy, Mistress Goania. This may prove a mighty help in Trimandilam.”
Jorian: “With the Xylarians hunting us, I would not try to walk to Vindium. We can afford horses, and we can lead the ass with our little baggage.”
“No horse for me!” said Karadur. “A fall from so tall a beast would break my old bones like flowerpots. Get me another ass, instead.”
“An ass would slow us.”
“No more than the one you already have.”
“So be it, then. When does the horse market open tomorrow?”
###
The folk of Vindium City observed their harvest festival, the Feast of Spooks, by dressing up as supernatural beings and dancing in their streets. Since the day was a holiday, masked Vindines began to appear in their costumes well before the early autumnal sunset. Before the dinner hour, they paraded the streets, admiring one another’s costumes and trying to guess which notables were concealed by especially ornate and costly garb. The livelier events—the parade, the dancing and singing, and the costume contest—would come later.
Arriving at the West Gate while the sun was still a red ball over the tilled fields of Vindium behind them, Jorian and Karadur halted at the gate for questioning. Then they rode on into the city, Jorian on the elderly black he had bought in Othomae, Karadur riding an ass and leading another. The main street, Republic Avenue, sloped gently down from the West Gate to the waterfront. They passed the Senate House, the Magistracy, and other public buildings, wherein the austere Elainness of the classical Novarian style was adulterated y a touch of florid, fanciful Mulvanian ornateness.
Porrex’s dwelling, said Karadur, was near the waterfront, so thither they threaded their way through swarms of gods, demons, ghosts, ghouls, skeletons, witches, elves, trolls, werewolves, and vampires, and some clad as supernatural beings from Mulvanian legendry. Mulvanian influence showed in Vindium not only in the architecture and the costumes but also in the swarthiness of the people. When one reveler, dressed as the war god Heryx, hit Jorian’s horse with a bladder on the end of a stick, Jorian had much ado to keep the beast under control.
They took a room near the waterfront, stabled their animals, and sought out the dwelling of Porrex the magician. Porrex lived in a rented room above a draper’s shop.
“Come in, good my sirs, come in!” cried Porrex at the head of the stair. He was a short, round, bald man with blue eyes almost buried in fat. “Dear old Karadur! How good to see you again! And your companion—tell me not, let me guess—is Jorian son of Evor, former King of Xylar! Come in, come in. Sit down. Let me fetch you a drop of beer; that is all I have in the place.”
The room was small and sparsely furnished, with an unmade bed, a rickety chair, a table, and a small bookcase with a few tattered scrolls in the pigeonholes and a few dog-eared codices on top. A couple of chests along the wall and a water-stained drawing of the god Psaan driving his chariot on the waves of the sea completed the meager appointments. A single candle inside a small lanthorn with glass windows shed a wan illumination. When silence fell, the patter of mice in their runs could be heard.
“My name, sir,” said Jorian, “is Nikko of Kortoli. Who told you otherwise?”
“My dear sir, what good should I be as a diviner if I could not ascertain such simple facts? But, if you prefer to be known as Nikko, then Nikko you shall be.” Porrex winked. “I grieve that I cannot receive you in a palace, with feasts and dancing girls; but my business affairs have not prospered of late as is their usual wont. Hence, I must retrench. This condition, I assure you, is only temporary; within a month I shall get some new clients, who will put me back among the rich. Meanwhile, I live as I can, not as I would. But tell me of your affairs. I take it that Master Nikko is fain to put a goodly distance between himself and Xylar?”
“Not exactly,” said Karadur, sitting cross-legged on the bed. “Know you that project that we Altruists have mulled for several years?”
“You mean to lift the Kist of Avlen? Ah, now light dawns! You are on your way to Trimandilam, hoping with the help of this mighty youth to effect this righteous expropriation. Well, strength to arms and stealth to your feet! You two have no engagements for dinner, have you?”
“Nay,” said Karadur. “We hoped you would give us the pleasure—”
“Indeed, indeed I will! Would that I could entertain you in style, but at the moment my purse contains exactly one farthing. When my new contracts are signed next month, I shall repay you a hundredfold. Let us go to Cheuro’s; there one need not order the meal in advance. What do you purpose to do for Mulvanian money?”
“How mean you?” asked Karadur.
“Oh, have you not heard? Since you left Mulvan, the Great King has promulgated new laws about money. Only Mulvanian coins may be accepted by his subjects. All foreigners entering the land are made to give up their foreign money and precious metal in exchange for coin or the realm. The rate of exchange, however, is murderous; the traveler loses half the value of his coins. If he fail to turn in all his foreign gold and silver and is later caught, he is put to death in various ingenious ways, whereof being trampled by the king’s elephants is one of the simpler.”
“That is a nuisance,” said Karadur. “We had thought ourselves well provided, but if the King of Kings is going to rob us of hall our funds—”
Porrex cocked his head and winked. “I might be able to help you in this matter. There are, naturally, those to whom an ounce of gold is an ounce of gold, and what matter if it bear the head of Shaju of Mulvan or Jorian of Xylar? Such persons smuggle foreign money into the empire and Mulvanian coins out—at the risk of their heads—to sell abroad at a premium. Or they coin Mulvanian coins—not base-metal counterfeits, but gold pieces—themselves. One can, with the right connections, buy enough of such coins, at a more favorable rate of exchange, to tide one through one’s visit to mighty Mulvan.”
“Do King Shaju’s folk let one bring Mulvanian coins into the empire at face value?” asked Jorian.
“Indeed they do; for the endeavor of their government is to get all their coins into the empire and keep them there. In sooth, if their policy did not make such smuggling profitable, it would not occur in the first place. But Shaju’s treasurer is obsessed with monetary leories, which he must put into effect willy-nilly, no matter if they cut athwart the grain of human nature. Wait here and help yourselves to the beer whilst I sally forth to see if the man I know can be found.”
When Porrex had vanished, Karadur said, “Have you still your hundred Xylarian lions, my son? Methinks we should change them as Porrex proposes.”
“All but two or three, spent on the road hither. But I prefer to confirm Doctor Porrex’s statement before entrusting any money to him. I mean, his assertion about this new Mulvanian law.”
“Oh, surely so kind a little man, and a member of my virtuous faction, were trustworthy—”
“Mayhap, but I still prefer to ask. Wait here.”
Jorian in his turn went out. He soon returned, saying, “Your little butterball of a wizard is right. I spoke to several knowledgeable folk—taverners and the like—and they all confirmed what he said.”
“I told you we could trust him. Here he comes now.”
Porrex reentered the room. “It is all arranged, gentles. My man awaits without. How much have you to exchange in gold or silver? Copper and bronze count not.”
Jorian had ninety-seven lions and some silver; Karadur, much less gold but more silver. Porrex did some calculations on an abacus.
“I can get you forty-two and a half Mulvanian crowns for that,” he said. “That is deducting a mere sixth part for the broker’s commission, compared to half at the border. If you will let me take this money downstairs; my man does not care to be seen . . .”
Karadur handed over his purse without demur, but Jorian held his. “You may change his money that way,” said Jorian, “but I want to see your Mulvanian gold first.”
“Oh, certes; it shall be as you say, dear lad. Wait.” Out went Porrex again. This time he was gone somewhat longer. Karadur said: “His gold speculator must be as suspicious of letting his money out of his hands as you are, Jorian.”
“Better safe than sorry.”
There was a clatter of feet on the stair, and Porrex came back in with another man. With a beaming smile, Porrex cried: “Fortune is with us tonight! Let me present my dear old friend Laziendo. These are Doctor Karadur and Master Nikko, of whom I told you.”
Laziendo was a rather small man, a little older than Jorian, bronzed and swarthy, with a sweeping mustache. He bowed formally to the travelers and gave them a charming smile.
“Master Laziendo is supercargo on one of Benniver Sons’s ships,” continued Porrex. “He sails tomorrow and was searching for somebody with whom to celebrate his last evening ashore. Now you need not buy my dinner; friend Laziendo insists upon treating us all.”
“The pleasure will be all mine, fair sirs,” murmured Laziendo.
“Now,” said Porrex, “here is your gold, Doctor; and here is yours, Master Nikko. Count it. If you will now give me yours, O Nikko . . . Laziendo, old boy, would you be so good as to step out and hand this sack to him who waits in the shadow below? It were not well for me to climb these stairs so often. Good! Whilst he is out, gentles, I must find masks for us, lest we be pestered by drunken revelers for not being in costume.”
Porrex rummaged in a chest and produced four devil masks with staring eyes and scowls and fangs. Jorian examined several square Mulvanian gold pieces, with the crowned head of Shaju or of his father on one side and an elephant trampling a tiger on the other. Then he took the mask that Porrex gave him and adjusted the string to fit his head. Laziendo returned, saying: “It is done, fair sirs. Allow your servant to lead you to Cheuro’s. We shan’t need lights, the town being illuminated for the festival.”
###
Located on Republic Avenue, Cheuro’s was a much larger establishment then the Silver Dragon in Othomae. At the door, a one-legged beggar accosted the four. Porrex fumbled in his purse and handed the man one small copper coin. Karadur said: “If that was your last farthing, O Porrex, what will you eat on after we have departed?”
Porrex shrugged. “I suppose I shall raise a loan on one of my remaining books, which my forthcoming new contracts will soon enable me to redeem. This way, gentles.”
The main dining room had a clear space in the middle for entertainers. The dinner was excellent, the wine sound, and the naked dancing girls supple. As the table was cleared, Laziendo said: “If we kill time here for another hour, our foreign guests will see the parade by merely stepping out the front door. It passes in front of Cheuro’s. Stay, fair sirs, and try some more of Cheuro’s liquors. Since Vindium is the busiest port on the Inner Sea, we get the best vintages from all over.”
Porrex yawned. “You will excuse me, I pray, dear friends; the years have leached away my capacity for late hours. I am sure that Master Laziendo can show you the delights of our city. Good night.”
When Porrex had gone, Jorian asked Laziendo, “We seek the road to Trimandilam, and you should be able to advise us of the best way thither.”
Laziendo stroked his mustache and smiled. “Why, this is a stroke of good fortune! I sail tomorrow on the Talaris, a gaggle of slave girls for Rennum Kezymar and marble, copper, wool, and miscellaneous cargo for Janareth. The deck will be a thought crowded until we discharge the lassies at Rennum Kezymar, but I’m sure we can find room for you. From Janareth you can ascend the Bharma by river boat to the capital.”
Jorian asked about fares and said: “What is this Rennum Kezymar, and why are you taking slave girls thither?”
“The name means ‘Ax Castle’ in the dialect of Janareth. It is a small island off the mouth of the Jhukna, ruled by Mulvan. A couple of centuries ago, the then King of Kings chose it as a home for retired executioners.”
“What!”
“Aye, and with good reason. Be an executioner never so gentle and pleasant and virtuous in his private capacity, people still care not to befriend him. Hence the Great King found he had many headsmen, too old to swing the ax or knot the rope or turn the windlass of the rack, living in misery despite their pensions, because no man would treat with them. Betimes the locals would not even sell them food, so that they starved to death.
“Rennum Kezymar was then but a barren islet, good only for a winter pasture for the flocks of a few shepherds. It bore the ruins of an ancient castle, built many centuries back, in the time of the Three Kingdoms. The king had the castle rebuilt and gathered his executioners there, and there they have dwelt ever since.”
“If they are old and retired, what need have they for young slave girls?” said Jorian. “As well go tilting with a lance of asparagus.”
Laziendo shrugged. “To fetch and carry, peradventure. Some have wives, but of their own age. In any case, my duty is but to play sheep dog to these girls and deliver them to the destination averred in the manifest.”
“What of the land route from Vindium to Trimandilam?”
Laziendo held up his hands. “Fair sirs! Although the map shows a road from here to Janareth along the coast, as a practical matter, it’s plain impossible.”
“How so?”
“Because an easterly spur of the Lograms follows the coast for nigh a hunared leagues. The road is a mere track, winding up and down precipices, crossing swift mountain torrents like the Jhukna by swaying bridges of rope, and here and there ceasing entirely where a landslide has destroyed it. Besides which, the coastal country swarms with brigands and tigers. Nay, rather try to steal the emerald gold of Tarxia than essay this route!”
“Is not that coast under the rule of the mighty King of Kings, who maintains such fine roads and swift postal service?”
“Aye, but all these amenities you’ll find in the interior, within a few score leagues of Trimandilam. The emperor neglects the borderlands—I think designedly, lest some invader take advantage of such improvements. In any case, better that you should go on my ship. This voyage is late in the season, but its very lateness, while it augments the danger of storms, lessens that of piracy.”
“I thank you for your warning,” said Jorian. “We may visit your ship early on the morrow to book passage. Tell us how to find her.”
Laziendo gave directions and added: “Excuse me, fair sirs; all this wine necessitates a visit to the jakes. I shall return.”
Jorian and Karadur sat over their flagons so long that sounds outside and the actions of Cheuro’s other guests implied that the parade would soon begin. At last Jorian said: “Is that fellow playing a jape on us? Wait here.”
He went through the kitchen door, to be confronted by a fat cook.
“Aye,” said the cook. “I saw such a man as you describe, a half-hour past. He went straight through and out the back, without stopping at the jakes. Why, is aught amiss?”
“No, nothing’s wrong,” said Jorian. He returned to their table, muttering: “The vermin has bilked us; slithered out and left us to pay the scot. Well, thank Zevatas we have the means.”
“Speaking of which,” said Karadur, “our host has in his eye the look of a man about to tender his bill.”
Jorian pulled out his purse, which held a few of the Mulvanian crowns, the rest being stowed in his money belt. He shook out one and almost dropped it.
“By all the gods!” he whispered, eyes wide. “Look at this, O Karadur! Keep your voice down.”
Jorian held out the object, which was no Mulvanian golden crown but a square of lead of the same approximate size. Hoping against hope, he dug into the purse and brought out several more coins—all of which turned out to be leaden slugs.
Karadur stared in horror, then frantically clawed at his own purse. His gold had likewise turned to leaden squares. His mouth sagged open.
“That’s the bastard you wanted us to trust!” hissed Jorian furiously. “Goania warned us he was tricky; and now, by Imbal’s brazen balls, you know what she meant! I could have lived comfortably on that pelf for years!”
Tears rolled down Karadur’s wrinkled brown cheeks. “True. It is all my fault, my son. I knew of that deception spell, too. I am a useless old dodderer. Never will I trust a strange man again, however fair and upright he seem.”
“Well, how in the forty-nine Mulvanian hells shall we get out of here? If we try to walk out, there will be a fracas, and the watch will pitch us into the Vindine jail, where the Xylarians will presently discover me and request extradition. And ’twere easier to make pies out of stones than to wheedle credit from this Cheuro.”
“Go along, my son, and leave me to take the blame.”
“Don’t talk nonsense. I cannot assail the Mulvanian Empire singlehanded, so we must fight our way out together. Oh-oh, here comes Cheuro now.” Jorian hastily swept up the slugs.
Cheuro leant his fists upon the table. “Have you gentlemen enjoyed your repast and entertainment?”
“We surely have, sir taverner,” replied Jorian with a jovial grin. “I’m only sorry that our companions had to leave early. How much do we owe you?”
“Two marks and six. May I serve you a round on the house?”
“Delighted! Let me see, we should finish the evening with something special. Have you any of that liqueur they brew in Paalua, called olikau? Betimes we get it on the western coast.”
Cheuro frowned. “I know the drink to which you refer, but I know not whether I have a bottle.”
“Well, do us the kindness to make sure, whilst we reckon who owes what to whom.”
When Cheuro had gone back to his bar, Jorian whispered, “What magic have you for us now? I’ve gained us a little time. How about an invisibility spell?”
“That calls for lengthy preparations, with far more apparatus than we have to hand. Furthermore, it does but make one’s flesh and bone transparent, not one’s raiment. Hence one must either go about nude—which the coolth of the present weather renders impractical—or present the arresting sight of a suit of garments walking about with no one inside it. Moreover, to see in this condition, one must exempt one’s eyeballs from the spell. But let me think. Ah, I have it!”
Moving quickly, the old magician produced a wallet divided inside into many compartments. From several of these pockets he withdrew pinches of powder, which he sprinkled into his empty flagon. He stirred the powders with his finger and placed the mug on the floor between his feet.
“Be ready to cry ‘Fire!’ ” he said.
“Hasten!” said Jorian. “Cheuro is coming back, and without his Paaluan liqueur.”
Karadur mumbled as he raced through a spell, while the fingers of his two hands fluttered through figures on the tabletop, like the legs of a pair of agitated brown spiders. When Cheuro was halfway from the bar to their table, there was a hiss from the flagon. A tremendous cloud of thick, black smoke billowed up out of it, surging up against the underside of the table, spreading out in all directions, and hiding the table and the two travelers in its ever-widening billows.
“Fire!” cried Jorian.
There was a clatter of overturned benches and running feet, as the other customers stampeded towards the entrance. Jorian and Karadur snatched their masks and cloaks and joined the throng. Since smoke now filled the room, they waited until the jam at the door had cleared and so got through without being squeezed or trampled.
Outside, they lost themselves in the crowd, which had lined up along Republic Avenue to watch the parade. As they walked away from Cheuro’s, they passed a fire company running the other way. In the lead came the fire engine, a wooden tub with handles at the corners and a large pump rising in the middle. Eight stalwarts carried the engine by its handles, and after them pelted the rest or the company, bearing buckets with which to fill the tub from the nearest fountain.
“Let’s make for Porrex’s room,” said Jorian. “If I catch that knave, do you counter his spells whilst I turn him inside out.”
Porrex’s door stood open, and his room was dark and quiet. Jorian got out his flint and steel, struck sparks into tinder, and lighted a piece of taper. The light showed the room to be not only empty but also stripped. The bed, the bookcase, the chair, the table, and the chests had vanished. A mouse whisked out of sight.
“That’s the spryest removal I have ever seen,” said Jorian. “He’s cleaned the place out.”
“Not quite,” said Karadur, grunting as he stooped to pick up the little glass-sided lanthorn. “They forgot this. Aha me! The candle seems to have burnt all the way down. With a proper candle, I might do something yet.”
“Let me look in the cupboard,” said Jorian, stamping on a roach as it raced across the floor. “Here we are, two usable candle stubs. What have you in mind, esteemed Doctor?”
“There is a spell, and I can remember it, which causes the light of a candle or similar source to pierce all disguises. Now leave me to my thoughts, my son.”
Karadur took an eternity, it seemed to Jorian, to remember his spell and then to cast it, with a pentacle and chants and passes and powders burning in a broken saucer from the same cupboard. The candle flame in the lanthorn writhed and flickered as if blown upon by unseen lips, though no air stirred in the room. Faces seemed to form and dissolve in the smoke. Karadur, exhausted, had to rest for a time after the spell had been wound up.
“Now,” said Karadur, picking up the lanthorn, “we shall see what we shall see.”
###
Along Republic Avenue, the Vindines still stood deeply ranked, awaiting the parade; for this procession, like so many others, was late in starting. Wearing their demon masks, Jorian and Karadur walked slowly along the edge of the crowd. As Karadur held up the lanthorn, both peered at the faces of the crowd. Where the light of the candle fell, it seemed to Jorian as if the costumes and masks and false beards became almost transparent—mere smoky shadows of themselves, through which the Vindines’s features stood out clearly.
They walked and walked, up one side of Republic Avenue westward and then down the other towards the harbor. Jorian looked at thousands of faces, but nowhere did he see that of Porrex or that of Laziendo. As they ambled towards the waterfront, Jorian heard band music, coming from the west and growing louder.
“Here they come,” he said.
A group of men in the uniform of the Republican Guard, wearing shiny silvered breastplates and bearing halberds, walked down Republic Avenue, shouting to clear the street. Now and then they poked some laggard spectator with the butts of their weapons to hasten him.
As Karadur held up the lanthorn for another look at the crowd, Jorian’s eye was caught by a little knot of men without masks or costumes—men in dark, plain garb, with a burly, self-confident bearing. One glanced at Jorian, stared, touched one of his companions, and spoke out of the side of his mouth. Recognizing the man, Jorian said in a low, tense voice: “Karadur! See you those fellows in black? My Royal Guard. Their leader is a captain who twice caught me when I tried to flee Xylar. Across the street, quickly!”
Jorian plunged through the crowd, dragging Karadur after him. They came out on Republic Avenue in the midst of the guardsmen clearing the street. The band music grew louder, and over the heads of the guardsmen Jorian saw the leading units of the parade, with flags and silvered weapons.
Some guardsmen shouted angrily as Jorian and Karadur zigzagged through them and plunged into the packed mass of spectators on the other side. Jorian, being tall enough to see over the heads of most Vindines, looked back. The knot of men in black were pushing through the spectators on the far side. When they debouched on the avenue, however, they were blocked by a group of guardsmen. There was argument, lost in the growing noise. Arms waved; fists shook. The guardsmen roughly pushed the men in black back into the crowd and threatened them with their halberds. Then the parade arrived.
Gilt and tinsel flashed in the warm fight of thousands of lamps, lanthorns, tapers, and torches. Bands brayed; soldiers tramped; pretty girls, riding on ornate floats, threw kisses to the crowd.
Jorian and Karadur did not wait to enjoy the spectacle. With a brief backward glance, they set off briskly down a side street. Karadur muttered: “The parade will hold them up for a little while, at least. What I cannot understand is this: How did these men recognize us in our masks?”
“If you don’t understand it, I do,” said Jorian. “We forgot that the rays of this little magic lanthorn would have the same effect upon our own disguises as on others.”
“Ah me, I grow senile, not to have thought of that! But whither away, now? We are moneyless in a strange city, with your keepers searching for us.”
“Let’s find Laziendo’s ship and hide in a nearby warehouse. If Laziendo appear, I shall know what to do. If he come not, we’ll board the vessel, which is going our way.”
Hours later, the parade had ended. The costume contest had been held, with prizes for the most beautiful, the most elaborate, the most humorous, and so forth. The soberer citizens had returned to their homes; the less sober raced and reeled the streets of Vindium City, yelling and singing. There was much hasty, hole-and-corner adultery, as husbands whose wives had grown fat and shrewish, and wives whose husbands neglected them for their trade or craft, sought excitement or comfort with strangers. As the lights of the city went out one by one, the late-rising crescent moon shed a wan illumination in their place. A fog crept softly up the streets from the harbor.
Jorian and Karadur huddled in a warehouse near the Talaris’s dock. The warehouse was supposed to be guarded, but the watchman had left his post to join the revelry. Piles of bales and boxes bulked dimly in the darkness. Jorian whispered: “That’s what we get for trusting one of your fellow spookers. I’ll swear by Zevatas’s brazen beard: It’s the old fellows like you who are supposed to be cautious and crafty, whereas the young springalds like me are trusting and credulous and easily put upon. But here we seem to have the opposite.”
“Could we not appeal the Vindine Senate to protect us from your Royal Guard?” replied Karadur. “Surely they do not wish harmless visitors kidnapped out of their proud city!”
“Not a chance! Othomae might have protected us, but Vindium is allied with Xylar against Othomae, glad to turn us over. The Twelve Cities are forever forming and breaking these alliances, so that yesterday’s implacable foe is today’s staunch ally and contrariwise. Like one of those courtly dances, where you trade partners with every measure.”
“You Novarians need an emperor to rule the turbulent lot of you, to stop you from wasting your energies in cutting one another’s throats. We have a saying: Get three men from the Twelve Cities together and they will form four factions and fight it out to the death.”
“Rabbits will chase wolves or ever the Novarians submit to such an overlord. Ardyman the Terrible once tried it, but he did not long abide. Besides, there are virtues in a group of squabbling little city-states, over against a big, monolithic empire like yours.”
“To what advantage are your eternal, cruel and destructive internecine wars?”
“Well, each of the Twelve Cities is small enough so that a man feels that what he does matters. So our people take a lively interest in creative effort and in their respective governments. In Mulvan, the state is so huge and so rigidly organized that the individual feels lost and powerless. So you let Shaju and his like do as they please, be they never such idlers or debauchees or idiots or monsters. Now, in the Twelve Cities we have all kinds of governments—kingdoms, duchies, republics, theocracies, and so on—and if somebody invents a new and better one, all the others are eager to see how it works and whether they should consider imitating it.”
“But if only there were a supreme ruler to stop your fighting and direct your energies into constructive channels—”
“Then we should soon be just like Mulvan, with the supreme ruler directing all these energies towards the enhancement of his own power and glory.”
“But at least we have internal peace, which is no small boon.”
“And what has Mulvan done with its internal peace? From all I hear, your customs and usages and beliefs are exactly the same as a thousand years ago. Why think you the Twelve Cities so easily routed the vast army that Shaju’s sire, King Sirvasha, sent to conquer them? Because the Mulvanians still rely upon the weapons and tactics of the days of Ghish the Great. So our cavalry made mincemeat of your scythed chariots, whilst our archers swept your slingers and darters from the field. Compare unchanging Mulvan with the Twelve Cities; consider what in the last century we have accomplished in the arts and sciences, in literature and drama, in law and government, and you will see what I mean.”
“All very well, if one deem such material things important,” grumbled Karadur. “I suppose it is partly a matter of age. When I was young, such turbulence and change appealed to me, also; but now I find safety and stability fairer to contemplate. Mark my words, my son, some day one of the Twelve Cities will call in the hordes of Shven to help it against its neighbor, and soon you will find a Gending cham ruling all of Novaria. Such things have happened before.”
“But at least—” Jorian broke off, listening. There were footsteps and a murmur of talk outside. Jorian pulled Karadur behind a pile of bales.
Two persons entered the warehouse. From their sizes, Jorian took them to be a man and a woman, although the predawn light was too dim to tell any more. The man was speaking: “. . . here we are, fair mistress. Your servant will find you a comfortable bed amongst all these piles of cargo, I swear; for there is scant romance in doing it standing up . . . Ah, here we are, my sweetling: a pile of new sacking, just the thing for—unh!”
The final grunt followed the thud of the leaden pommel of Jorian’s dagger on the man’s skull. The man fell heavily to the stone floor. The woman was drawing her dress off over her head and so could not see what had happened. She completed her disrobing and stood for three heartbeats naked, holding the dress in her hands. The light was now strong enough for Jorian to perceive that she was a comely wench. A mask, which she had just dropped, lay at her feet.
Seeing her lover lying prone on the pave and Jorian’s huge, shadowy form behind him, she uttered a thin little scream, fled out the door with her dress in her hands, and vanished into the fog. Jorian turned over the body and pulled off the mask.
“I was right,” he said, squatting beside the body. “It was Master Laziendo, may dogs devour his vitals. I knew his voice. Let’s hope the wench does not set the watch upon us.”
“Is—is he dead?” quavered Karadur.
“No, his pate’s only dented, not cracked, and his heart beats strongly.” He looked up. “I have an idea that may save our hides. Can you sell a horse and a brace of asses?’
“I have never done horse trading, but I suppose I could.”
“Then hie you to our room to fetch our gear and to the stable where our creatures dwell. Tell the stableman you wish to sell. It’s early, but with luck he will know a couple of buyers ready for a quick bargain. The horse is worth at least two Mulvanian crowns or the equivalent, and the asses a quarter or a third as much apiece. Since it is a forced sale, you will have to take less, but at least do not accept the first offer.”
“And you, my son?”
“I must bind and gag this rascal to keep him out of circulation until we have departed. When life stirs aboard the Talaris, I shall board the ship and see what my flapping tongue can do.”
###
Two hours later, the risen sun was burning off the last wisps of fog, and Water Street was awakening. Carrying Jorian’s pack and crossbow, Karadur snuffled across Water Street to the dock where the Talaris lay. The ship—a one-sticker of moderate size—was lively with longshoremen loading last-minute cargo, sailors handling ropes, and a dozen comely young slave girls chattering like a flock of starlings. Jorian stood at the rail, leaning on his elbows as if he had no cares. When Karadur climbed the companionway, Jorian helped him down, murmuring: “How much did you get?”
“One crown, two and six for the lot.”
“I could have done better, but we cannot be choosy. Let me present you. Captain Strasso, this is my friend, Doctor Karadur of Trimandilam, of whom I told you. Doctor, pay the captain ten marks for your passage and board to Janareth.”
“Glad to have you aboard, sir,” growled the captain. “Remember: no spitting, puking, or pissing from the weather rail! And no garbage on deck, either. I keep a clean ship. Get your girls out of the way, Master Maltho; we are about to shove off.”
Later, when Vindium was small in the distance and the ship was heeling to the pressure of the wind on the striped triangular sail, Karadur and Jorian ate breakfast in the tiny cabin they occupied in the deckhouse aft. The cabin hummed with the splash, splash of the stem-cutting waves, the gurgle of water against the hull, the creak of the ship’s timbers, and the thrum of wind-quivered cordage. Karadur asked: “What in the name of Vurnu’s heaven have you done, my son?”
Jorian grinned. “I found paper and ink in the warehouseman’s desk and persuaded Master Laziendo to pen a note to Captain Strasso, saying he’d broken an ankle during the Feast of Spooks, and would the captain please ship his friend Maltho of Kortoli—an experienced commercial man from the Western Ocean—in his place?”
“How could you compel him to do that?”
“There are ways.” Jorian chuckled. “I also found nine of our missing Xylarian lions in his purse and repossessed them. Porrex must have given him ten for his part in the swindle, and he’d spent one on his lady love. Of course, he denied all, if not convincingly. What most infuriated him was my cutting his fine velvet mantle into strips to bind him. He didn’t lack courage, for he called me all sorts of foul names with my dagger at his throat. But he wrote the note, which was the main thing.
“Captain Strasso didn’t much like it, but he did not wish to lose a day’s sail by going ashore to rout Benniver’s Sons out of bed to demand another supercargo. And when Belius, the slave dealer, arrived with his twelve little lovelies, I signed for them without a qualm.
“Now, forget not my new name: Maltho of Kortoli. I thought Nikko and Jorian had worn out their usefulness. Which philosopher said, ‘The best equipment for life is effrontery’?”
“Were it not wiser to give your origin as some western land, like Ir? You claim you’ve sailed those waters.”
“Not with my accent! I can ape some of the others with fair skill it I try; but that, methinks, were a little too much effrontery for our own good!”