Sword Play (17 page)

The whole mansion, in fact, was lit with candles from one end to another, and the mage reckoned only powerful shield spells kept the place from igniting. There was not a spot anywhere that wasn’t decorated with triple-thick gilt or bright paint or some mural of great deeds and fantastic beasts and sorrowful romances. There were layers of curtains, tapestries, and paintings, as well as crystal and silver chandeliers, stuffed beasts and monsters, and items and oddities from the world over. And this fantastic palace, he reminded himself, was only one of several owned by his host, Tyralhorn the Archmage, who was in turn only one of several in this city of Anauria, a High City second only to Most-High Karsus. Lady Polaris herself owned two palaces here and others elsewhere, as well as her “country cottage,” what she sometimes called the vast floating castle of Delia, where Candlemas was steward. The highest archmages of Netheril pursued mainly magics and excitement, but somehow wealth and property seemed to stick to their fingers in their search.

And the entirety of this mansion—every candlestick and bauble and self-emptying golden chamber pot—existed to impress other archmages, in a vast unending quest of competition to be the largest, richest, and gaudiest.

Sometimes Candlemas found himself wondering why the archmages sought to surround themselves with ever more gewgaws and gadgets. Yet he knew, if he had the chance to do the same …

” ‘Mas, you came! How wonderful!”

Breezing toward him came Sysquemalyn. She wore a vast flowing gown in all the colors of the rainbow, yards of silken material that sprouted from her shoulders and trailed behind her, even sweeping in an arch behind her head of piled and bejeweled red hair, yet managing somehow to leave both breasts nearly bare. Oohing and ahhing, she circled Candlemas and twitted him about his fine clothes, a short brocade toga that crossed one shoulder and hung behind him and breeches of silk, hand-painted with interlaced flowers, and worn with red leather shoes. “My, my. You won’t want to mix your stinky potions in those clothes! Were they to catch fire, you’d be days getting the flaming remnants off! And look at your lovely hand! So much nicer than the last one!”

Giggling, she caught his left hand and kissed the hairy back, but Candlemas yanked it away. He’d had a serving girl grind powder and mix makeup to disguise the lighter color of the new skin, hoping no one would notice, for if they did, the knowledge that Sysquemalyn had shorn off his arm would get around. One thing all the bored archmages collected avidly was gossip.

“Don’t mock me,” the mage growled. “This hand keeps me awake nights for itching. And you cheated in removing it, I’ll remind you. Just as you cheated siccing that Hunt on my barbarian! He’s supposed to survive tests of strength, but that was outside the rules!”

“Oh, come now!” Sysquemalyn, smiling at a young mage who pranced behind a jutting green codpiece and little else, patted her hair into place. “We all know that the only rule about magic is that there are no rules.”

“But there are wagers, and honest bets require honest players. But you—”

“Honest?” The mage objected loudly. “You had him escort a traveling party of delegates! And sent him a raven for a familiar!”

“The merest buffer because I knew you’d cheat!”

“So,” countered Sysquemalyn, “we’re left wondering who cheated first. Which just adds to the game and makes it more diverting. We never know what will happen next. I haven’t had this much fun in years, so let’s not quit now. I’ve got something absolutely devilish planned for your barbarian. But excuse me, dear ‘Mas, I must prepare for my entertainment. The Great White Cow—excuse me, Lady Polaris—commands, and I obey. Ta ta!”

Grumbling, Candlemas realized it was probably Sysquemalyn who had dragged him here. Somehow the chamberlain had offered Lady Polaris an entertainment, and her ladyship had accepted, then commanded Candlemas also to attend. Why, he didn’t know. But as he sweated in the heavy clothes and simpered and smiled at his superiors—which included nearly everyone present—he wished he were home in his workshop.

There were entertainments going on everywhere, in gardens, drawing rooms, the front lawn, and even on the roof. Some were wrestling contests or fights to the death between slaves hoping to win their freedom, some were ancient plays and some were new ones, anything to keep the bored archmages diverted for even a moment. But Sysquemalyn’s entertainment was rumored to be something spectacular, something new, and everyone buzzed about what it might be. So even Candlemas joined the throng jamming the largest drawing room, though he stood at the back wall as befit his station.

Lady Polaris swept onto a low dais at the front of the room, white hair and dress glistening in the reflected crystalline light. To polite applause, she announced she had commissioned one of her cleverer charges to produce a work that she herself had dreamed up. The archmage bragged about her cleverness; then she sat in the front row to see just what she’d commissioned.

Without any sign of Sysquemalyn, her entertainment began.

There was neither curtain nor light bank, but somehow the room went dark. Then, about head-height on the dais, a window into nothing opened, dropped, and became a door. From the door stepped a handsome man, as naked as a baby. Sketching with his hands, the man described more circles, and each opened into another window. From one he drew cloth to wrap himself. From another, a shining sword. A third window opened onto a sylvan glade, complete with waterfall, and this window the man tugged open until the water of the pool spilled over the lip and gushed onto the dais, then the floor, only to disappear. At this trick, the company of archmages oohed like children watching fireworks.

In the glade, the man met a woman, equally naked. He retrieved for her a bolt of cloth and wrapped it about her slender form. Arm in arm, they crossed the stage and stepped into a sunny desert. The audience could feel the warm wind and scent of cactus blossoms waft over them, and oohed again.

At the rear, Candlemas found himself oohing and aahing along with the rest. Then he shook his head, wondering how Sysquemalyn had contrived these tricks. Typical entertainments were a blend of illusion, sleight-of-hand, distant events viewed magically, and performances by hired actors. Certainly all these elements mingled here, but there was much more magic involved, and he was piqued that he could identify little of it.

As he’d guessed it might, the story soon turned tragic. An archmage entered the story, took a fancy to the beautiful woman, and demanded her. The hero resisted, so the girl was spirited away. Journeying through ever-increasing settings—twisted tubes of stone, empty expanses like black glass, tangled forests where the trees attacked, and so on—the hero suffered fear and sorrow, then gained a boon companion only to lose him tragically. The girl, who spurned the archmage’s advances, was brutally tortured, both physically and then spiritually, tricked into thinking she’d killed her lover when he entered her room by night. Soon the girl died and spiraled into a pit of hells, each more fearsome than the other. Despairing, the hero killed himself, then flickered through his own hells, drawing gasps and guffaws from the jaded audience. In the end, the lovers were united only to be incinerated in a pit. But the archmage, taking pity on the misguided and headstrong humans, resurrected them as two ash trees at opposite ends of the sylvan glade, yearning to interlink branches, but never quite achieving it.

Finally, the scenes were whisked away, and only Lady Polaris was left standing there to bask as the audience roared and cheered and applauded. They demanded she take a bow, which she did, smile gleaming. But Candlemas did not linger. Mopping his brow and yanking at his collar, he staggered past servants and spectators until he reached fresh air at a back door.

Of course, he told himself, the moral was clear: mere humans must never defy the whim of an archmage, lest they be racked in every hell imaginable. The audience of archmages had, naturally, loved it.

But where, Candlemas asked himself over and over, had Sysquemalyn gotten those magics? And how had she manipulated them?

And most importantly, could she really control them?

In the morning, which Sunbright was moderately surprised to see, the orcish commander took pains to paint a smeary red hand on a curl of birch bark, with his own mark, a tiny red spider, in the corner. This, he explained, would be a safe-conduct to get them past later patrols as they approached Tinnainen. “And fortunate you will be to gain audience with the One King, honored be his name. Once you listen to him speak, you will throw off your doubts and join our glorious cause. Maybe soon, I’ll see the two of you commanding patrols!” With a gurgly laugh, he waved them along the road and up into the next reach of forest.

Barely had they passed the first few trees, though, before Sunbright flung the red-painted pass by the side of the road and scanned the woods to either hand. “I reckon the south side will—”

Greenwillow cut him off. “What are you doing? Are you mad?” She bent and retrieved the pass, blowing chaff off the wet paint.

“What?” Sunbright snapped back. “Me mad? You don’t believe that chip of bark will protect us, do you?”

“Of course I do! That orc might be starry-eyed and dense as an oak tree, but he’s honest enough. And he’s empowered to issue passes, and now we’ve got one! So we don’t need to skulk through the woods anymore, and so lose time. We can hie straight to Tinnainen.”

“Listen to yourself!” Sunbright waved his hands in frustration. “An honest orc? Orcs can’t be trusted, starry-eyed or not! Nor can most ‘civilized’ men, for that matter.”

“Nor any men at all, say the elves. Think, frost-brain! We failed to slip past an orc patrol this far from Tinnainen. The closer we get, the thicker the patrols! We can’t skulk any farther through the woods. Furthermore, if we tried and got caught, we’d likely be executed as spies. So we have no choice but to march down the middle of the road—as we’ve every right to do, after all—with this pass pinned to my breast.”

“Save yourself the trouble!” Sunbright grabbed his hair, pulling on his topknot. “Just prop your sword in the road and put that against your breast! Better to fall on your own sword than go down to a dozen hacks from bloodthirsty orcs.”

“I won’t argue,” And with that, Greenwillow spun about and tramped off down the road. Sunbright called after her, then yelled, then swore, and finally trotted to catch up.

He waved his hands at the openness above and to either side of them. “I still say this is stupid.”

“Save your breath for walking, human.”

Their new status as legal delegates to the One King was tested about noon. Climbing a steep road, they ran into a patrol of orcs coming down the ruts. Human and elf froze and waited nervously, Greenwillow’s hand clearly showing the pass.

The five orcs pulled abreast of them, then shuffled around until Sunbright felt the hair on his neck and arms rise. He anticipated his last sensation would be the back of his skull caving in. But one of the orcs snatched up the chip of bark, studied the spider mark, then gruffly handed it back. Snarling at the others, they passed on without a word.

Sunbright let out a long breath.

“Now do you believe me?” Greenwillow glared with gray-green eyes.

“Yes. You were right and I was wrong. But glory to Garagos, being a diplomat is harder than being a fighter!”

And so they traveled for two more days. They slept two nights in the woods and, when closer to the city, spent one night at an inn. The place looked perfectly normal, for all that orcs and orcish men hung around outside sipping weak ale and bragging crudely of their conquests, sexual, battlefield, and otherwise. Inside, the human proprietor and his wife maintained business as usual. Too usual, in fact. They conspicuously acted as if nothing were wrong and there weren’t a horde of orcs within spitting distance. Attempts to draw them into conversation went nowhere, and all the time they displayed smiles so tight Sunbright thought their faces would crack. But the elf and barbarian bought a passable meal and good brown ale, the harvest having just passed, and slept on pallets on the common room floor.

So it was that, finally, they came within sight of Tinnainen. It occupied a high plane almost devoid of trees, and the rocky road wended right to its front gates. Another road crossed the main one, and past the city steeper foothills gave way to distant mountains. In this direction, Tinnainen was the first or last city along the road, a fairish size but tiny compared to Dalekeva, yet it served as a market for whole communities scattered through the mountain range. Again, there was a small town surrounding the gray-walled city, which by fresh paint and new stonework showed it had been reinforced for defense, with catapults and ballistae on the largest flat-roofed building.

In the distance, crofters’ homes were scattered in fertile pockets, but there was no farmland to speak of, for the land was stony and broken. It was sheep and goat country, and the smell of the pens by the roadside swept Sunbright up in a wave of nostalgia that almost smothered him. Too, the weather reminded him of home, for it had turned colder at this higher elevation, and clouds meshed and clashed over the mountains, churning the sky first blue and then gray. A shrill wind came and went, sucking around his bare legs. He couldn’t help think that Talos, god of the tempests, was telling him to go back, go back.

The gates stood open and were thronged by orcs who largely ignored the traffic. In such a small city, everyone would know everyone, even the occupiers knowing the occupied. But the guards perked up quickly enough when the two strangers approached. Greenwillow showed her pass, explaining she desired an audience with the One King. Sunbright watched the traffic, which consisted mostly of humans going about their business. The people of Tinnainen, as in many small communities, resembled one another in sporting narrow, pointed jaws and beetling brows. But they seemed content enough with the orcish army occupation, buying and selling and gossiping. From a tavern Sunbright heard the sound of men singing, and occasionally a woman’s voice joining in. It can’t be too cursed a place, he found himself thinking, but he would still have liked to question one of the locals for a few minutes in a quiet corner.