The Ninth Talisman (10 page)

Sword had never gotten a very clear understanding of how the local priesthood operated, or whether there was a secular government in Winterhome at all; he had been concerned with other matters when he visited the town before. He was fairly certain that there was no king or archpriest who could have ordered the building of such a palace, though.

And that presumably meant that the Wizard Lord, the Lord of Winterhome, had built it.

That was normal enough in itself. Each Wizard Lord was expected to construct, or oversee the construction of, a fortress or mansion of some sort, to indicate his mastery of the land's resources. Every Wizard Lord for seven hundred years had built himself a castle or palace or tower.

Sword had never seen one like this, though. It was certainly nothing like the stronghold of the Wizard Lord's predecessor; that had been a
small, crude tower in the Galbek Hills, far to the southwest. This one was larger than any of the ruins or converted palaces Sword had encountered elsewhere. It was, in fact, immense, perhaps the largest single building Sword had ever seen, dwarfing even the temples and pavilions that dominated some towns; it was as big as three or four of the guesthouses put together. Gray stone walls rose to various heights, the central block as high as five stories above the plaza. Broad wooden eaves extended out on all sides, and several elaborate doors and gateways, and dozens of windows, pierced the stone in elegant patterns. The doors and shutters were painted red, the frames black; some were further decorated with painted flowers and carved, gilded rosettes.

It would seem the Wizard Lord of Winterhome did many things on a grand scale, not just build roads.

And it would appear that Sword would not need to ask directions if he wanted to visit the Wizard Lord; that palace was hard to miss. Sword picked up his pace and marched down the last few yards of street and across the great plaza, dodging the crowds and wagons, aiming his steps toward the largest and most ornate of the several doors.

Heads began to turn and eyes to follow him as he made his way toward the palace gate. He was not the only foreigner in sight, by any means, and his white shirt and brown leather pants were not especially distinctive, but he
was
the only man around with a sword on his hip, and the only man marching alone toward the palace.

Two guards were waiting with lowered spears when he reached the door, and a dozen or more of the Host People were staring. “Hello,” he said cheerfully to the guards. “I'm the Chosen Swordsman, and I'd like to speak to the Wizard Lord, if I might. Is he in?”

The guards exchanged glances. “He's here, but I don't know if he'll want to see you right now,” one of them said.

“I believe he's expecting me. Could you tell him I'm here?”

The guards looked at one another again, and then the one on the right said, “Wait here.” He opened a door and stepped inside—not the big, ornate door, but a small, very plain one to one side. He had to maneuver carefully to get his spear through the opening, and he left the door slightly ajar behind him.

Sword waited, and in a moment the guard reemerged, once again angling his spear carefully.

“I've sent a messenger,” he said. “We should have word soon.”

“Thank you,” Sword replied. He looked around.

Several Host People were still staring at him. The heavily bearded men wore baggy black tunics and long, loose breeches, tied tight at wrists and ankles, while the women were hidden in huge tentlike garments, with scarves wrapped around their faces; that made it hard to tell one from another, and Sword was not sure whether he had ever seen any of these people before.

He probably had not. He had not been in Winterhome for years, and had met few of the Host People even then.

The weather was warmer than when Sword had been here before, much warmer, so many of the men did not have their hoods pulled up to hide their hair and faces, and the women wore gauzy summer scarves rather than the heavy woolen winter ones, but they were still all covered from head to toe in black fabric. Telling the local men apart could be challenging. Identifying the women was impossible, and that was quite deliberately. The garments were designed to hide the women from the visiting Uplanders in the winter, so as to pose as little temptation as possible for their bored young men.

The Uplanders were not here, but up on the plateau, far away; Sword was mildly surprised to see that the Host People women still hid their faces so carefully. He wondered whether they stayed so thoroughly covered in summer's full heat. Judging by the thinner scarves, he guessed they made some concessions to the climate but remained largely concealed.

The palace guards wore uniforms cut much like the Hostmen's clothing—loose-fitting garments with baggy sleeves and legs, but bound tight at wrists, elbows, knees, and ankles to keep the excess fabric from getting in the way. The difference was that their tunics were bright red, rather than black—though the breeches and garters were all black.

There were a lot of guards, Sword thought. He had only seen one Wizard Lord's home before, and the Lord of the Galbek Hills had only had half a dozen serving maids staffing his tower, no guards at all—but the Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills had been dangerously insane. He had
feared that any male servants would be seduced by the Beauty into turning on him, and had instead relied on magic and treachery for his defense, rather than guards.

Sword knew that previous Wizard Lords had had guards; he had just never heard any clear numbers. Perhaps it was perfectly normal for a Wizard Lord to have a dozen guards at the doors to his palace.

The small door opened, and a short man leaned out. “Swordsman?” he said.

“I'm here,” Sword replied, straightening.

“Come in, then. The Wizard Lord is eager to speak with you.”

The guards stepped aside, and Sword followed the man inside.

The little door opened into one corner of a broad hall. The grand entrance that Sword had originally headed for also opened into it, but was barred tight at the moment. Woven rush mats covered the stone floor; a few tapestries broke up the monotony of the long white plaster walls. Light came from a few scattered windows, and much of the hall was in shadow. The interior was pleasantly cool after the uncomfortably warm square.

“This way,” the man said, beckoning. He was short and thin, with brown hair and a loose white tunic bound at wrists and elbows with black garters, and Sword wondered whether that was his usual garb, or whether he was a Hostman who wore a white tunic at the Wizard Lord's insistence, or whether he had taken up the garters after arriving here, in an attempt to adopt local custom.

He led Sword around a corner into a corridor, then through a gallery, and into an antechamber where more guards waited. There they paused.

“You'll have to leave your sword here,” the short man said apologetically. “And any other blades or weapons you may be carrying.”

“I haven't come to kill him,” Sword protested.

“Nonetheless, I'm afraid we must insist,” the man said. “You are a man appointed by the Council of Immortals to hold the power of life and death over the Wizard Lord; surely, you'll understand that he prefers to take a few precautions before meeting with you.”

Sword hesitated.

“You are free to refuse, of course, but in that case I'm afraid the Wizard
Lord will not speak to you in person. If you feel you
must
speak with him while armed, he can arrange to converse through a proxy—perhaps a cat?”

Sword remembered the miserable whimpering of the hound in Beggar's Hill after the Wizard Lord had released it. “That won't be necessary,” he said, reaching down to unbuckle his sword belt.

Besides the recent exchange with the present Wizard Lord through the innkeeper's dog, Sword had spoken with the Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills through animal intermediaries several times—a rabbit, a raccoon, an ox, a crow, and others, including a cat. The memories were not pleasant ones, and besides, he knew that serving as the Wizard Lord's proxy was not a pleasant experience for the animals involved, either. Their throats were not designed to produce human language, and their
ler
were not meant to be constrained in such a fashion. He therefore preferred not to deal with this new Wizard Lord that way.

Giving up the sword was not really a problem; after all, the
sword
wasn't magic;
he
was. He had the talisman of his office, the Talisman of Blades, safely tucked away in a hidden pocket, and as long as he had that, he could wield any swordlike weapon better than anyone else alive—a stick or knife would serve, if no sword was available. He was never truly unarmed.

He wasn't foolish enough to
say
that, though. He tugged the sword belt free.

One of the guards stepped forward to accept the sword as he removed it. “Handle it carefully,” Sword said.

“Of course,” the guard said, bowing.

The little man bowed as well, then opened another door and gestured for Sword to precede him.

Beyond the door was the Wizard Lord's throne room.

Sword had seen throne rooms before, in various temples, although the Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills had not bothered with one. He had not, however, seen anything as elaborate as this. Gilt and red enamel were everywhere, and every vertical surface seemed to have been carved, painted, or both, the bright colors gleaming in the sunlight that poured in through two high rows of clerestory windows.

Sword looked up at the windows far above, then around at the ornate
furnishings in amazement, until his gaze fell on the dais at the far right end of the room. The man formerly known as the Red Wizard, now the Wizard Lord, sat in an absurdly elaborate red-and-gilt throne on that dais, smiling happily at Sword.

Sword recognized him immediately. His face was unchanged by the six years since they had last met, his straight black hair was still worn long and loose, and he was attired in similarly gaudy red robes, trimmed with green and gold embroidery. His ears were still adorned with gold rings, his throat with a cord bearing several talismans, and the same staff he had carried when he first visited Mad Oak stood propped against the side of the throne.

There were several guards and clerks scattered around, but only three men on the dais. The Wizard Lord was on the throne at the center, the other two standing to either side and slightly behind—and to his astonishment, Sword recognized both of them.

Just behind the Wizard Lord, at his right hand, stood Lore, the Chosen Scholar, in his usual garb of brown leather and white linen.

And behind the Wizard Lord's left shoulder stood a third man Sword knew instantly—the former Leader of the Chosen, the man who had betrayed the Chosen in a conspiracy with the Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills, the man Sword had ordered to pass on his talisman and title or die.

“What are . . .” Sword began, as he stopped dead in his tracks. Then the words stopped, as well, as he realized he did not know what he wanted to say first.

“Sword!” the Wizard Lord called. “How good to see you! Come over here where we can talk without shouting!”

It took a surprising effort to force himself to move, but Sword managed to put one foot in front of the other and approach the throne. At last he stood before the dais, on a vividly red carpet at the foot of two low steps.

“Wizard Lord,” he said.

“Call me Artil,” the Wizard Lord said.

Sword's mouth opened, then closed.

“I understand you wanted to speak with me,” the Wizard Lord said.

“I . . .” For a moment, Sword struggled to make sense of what he
saw, to find words to express his confusion, but then he gave up and resorted to his original plan. “Yes,” he said. “I wanted to ask about some of these projects of yours.”

“Which ones?”

Sword was still too discomposed for subtlety. “The roads. And the Summer Palace.”

The Wizard Lord smiled brightly at him. “Do you like them? How are the roads working out up in Longvale? I haven't heard much from that direction yet. Are there many traders out there?”

“I . . . am not sure yet. I have heard of caravans, but not seen any. And I have some doubts about the wisdom of disrupting the natural order.”

Artil's smile broadened. “The
old
natural order, you mean. We're making a new one, but it's just as natural, or it will be when it's done. Really, there's nothing untouchable about the old ways; we've been meddling with
ler
for centuries with our priests and magic. I'm just doing it faster, and in a more organized and useful fashion.”

This response threw Sword even further off his stride, and his next words were chosen almost at random. “I suppose you are putting the guides out of work.”

The Wizard Lord waved that aside. “Not really,” he said. “They just don't need to work as hard. They can still carry messages and merchandise, much as they always have.”

“And it's been hard on some of the priests.”

The smile dimmed. “I hope not
too
hard; I know there were some headaches and the like, and I do regret causing anyone such discomfort. Has there been anything worse up in Mad Oak?”

“Well . . . yes.”

The faded smile abruptly vanished, replaced with a look of honest concern. “What's happened?” the Wizard Lord asked.

“Oh, nothing
really
bad,” Sword admitted. “Some queasiness. Bad dreams, specters, soured milk, a few kegs of ruined beer.”

“Is it . . . will it pass? Could your priestesses say?”

“They thought it would,” Sword said. “There was already some improvement when I left.”

“But then that's nothing, surely, compared with being able to walk to Willowbank in what, a few hours?”

“Half a day,” Sword said.

“Half a day, then. Isn't that worth some discomfort, then? A little inconvenience? And it
will
pass, I'm certain. I'm sure the milk and beer and dreams will all be back to normal within a year.”