The Ninth Talisman (15 page)

“That's something I'm usually good at,” Lore said, managing a smile—the first one Sword had seen on his face since arriving in Winterhome.

“Well, these aren't about ancient history or old stories, I'm afraid.”

“I can guess what one of them is, then,” Lore said. “You want to know why I'm here, working with the Wizard Lord.”

“Yes. That's the obvious one, certainly.”

“Well, what he told you is true. About three years ago he tracked me down to ask whether his plans violated any of the limits the Council placed on him, and whether anyone had ever attempted them before, and if so, why they failed.”

“I can see why he would ask you, and why you would answer, but to come and live in his palace and stand at his right hand seems . . .” Sword groped for the right word.

“Compromising?” Lore suggested.

“More or less, yes.”

Lore shrugged. “He had
many
questions, and I wanted to keep an eye on him. Remember that the Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills committed crimes that went undetected for five years; I don't want anything like that to happen again. If this one goes mad, we want to know immediately, don't we?”

“I suppose we do.”

“And frankly, if you listen to him—doesn't he sound half-mad, sometimes? When he came to me with his schemes for clearing roads and building a community atop the cliffs and draining the southern marshes, I thought he was on the verge of raving. I thought at least one of the Chosen should keep a close watch on him, and he
asked
me to, so here I am. And sometimes I think he
has
gone mad, and other times I think he may be the greatest man to ever live in Barokan, and every day I learn a little more about him.”

Sword nodded slowly.

“But whether
you
should stay, whether you should have accepted his invitation to visit the Summer Palace—well, I'm not so sanguine about that. You aren't an advisor by nature, Sword; you're a fighter. I really hope there won't be any need for fighting. And if he decides to find a use for you, well, if you have a mallet, you look for a peg.”

“You have a point,” Sword acknowledged. “But I want to see more of him, and judge him for myself. As you say, he does seem slightly mad—and I don't trust Farash, either; as long as he's here . . .”

“What
happened
between you and Old Boss, Sword?” Lore asked, interrupting. “I don't remember anything you said about it, and we both know what that means.”

“It means I didn't tell you the truth,” Sword said. “I didn't tell you much of anything, really. I didn't directly lie to you, that I recall.”

“Lying by omission is still lying, isn't it?”

“Maybe,” Sword said. “I'm really not sure of that.”

“Whether it is or not, I'd like to know what happened.”

“Ask
him,
then; he might even admit it.”

“That's hardly a satisfying response.”

“Well, it's what you're getting, for the moment; I'm just not ready to tell you more yet. Maybe soon.”

“It wasn't just that he was careless and overconfident, was it?”

“No.”

“Do you think you'll
ever
be ready to tell me?”

“Oh, probably. Just not yet.”

“I answered
your
question.”

“Confirming what our friend Artil had already told me, yes. Thank you. And I do have another question.”

“Oh?”

“The Wizard Lord asked me to talk to the Beauty about his plans.”

“Ah. And he told you I'd refused.”

“Yes.”

“And you want to know why.”

“Yes.”

Lore contemplated Sword for a long moment, then said, “I'll trade.”

Sword sighed. “I thought you might say that.”

“And?”

“And I'll do it. Why did you refuse?”

“Have you forgotten the effect the Beauty has on men?”

“No, but . . .” Sword paused.

To some extent, he
had
forgotten the effect she had on men who were not somehow protected from her magic. While she was the most beautiful woman in the world to anyone, himself included, she was even more than that to ordinary men. She was irresistible, a creature whose appearance could cause a man to forget everything else, whose merest whims were commands as long as she remained in sight. Even men who would not otherwise take an interest in women were drawn to her. Women tended to be overcome with envy at the sight of her.

The Chosen and to some extent the Wizard Lord were immune to her magic, though her natural charms were enough that Sword, Lore, Bow, and even Old Boss had found themselves maneuvering to get close to her, listening to the sound of her voice as if it were music, and staring at her without meaning to. Other people could fend off her powers by wearing or carrying
ara
feathers, which blocked or weakened most forms of magic, but most men would be overwhelmed by her presence. That was why she lived alone in Winterhome, where the customary garb for women effectively concealed her charms.

“She couldn't come to this palace,” Sword said.

“No. The guards and staff would fall to pieces at the sound of her voice, or if she took the scarf from her face. And before he would permit her into his presence, the Wizard Lord would insist on having her searched, just as you were, to make sure she wasn't planning to stab him with a hidden knife—after all, that was how the Dark Lord of Kamith t'Daru died, with a Beauty's blade in his chest. But who could
do
that? Who could search her safely and effectively? So she can't come here, and can't speak directly to the Wizard Lord; her refusal to see
him
was just common sense.”

“He could talk to her through an animal.”

“I think he may have tried that. If so, it didn't work. I suppose she refused to talk to him.”

“But why won't
you
see her?”

“What good would it do? She won't come out of hiding, and she isn't going to kill him without the cooperation of the rest of the Chosen.”

“But what
harm
would it do?”

Lore took a moment before replying. “I don't think you see, Sword, just how precarious my relationship with the Wizard Lord is. Helpful and enthusiastic as I may be—and I am
not
always all that enthusiastic—I am still one of the Chosen, the group charged with the right and the responsibility to kill him if he exceeds his bounds. I don't want to bring him bad news. I don't want to argue with him. I don't want to do anything to remind him of what the Chosen are chosen to do. If Beauty were to sway me and convince me that the Wizard Lord is doing something wrong, what would my choices be? I could tell him that he must abandon his cherished plans, and he would attribute it not
to my own good sense, but to the Beauty having seduced me into a conspiracy against him. Or I could refuse to return here, and he would see that as a sign, once again, that the Chosen are coming to remove him. Neither of those is an attractive option.”

“Is he
that
worried about the Chosen?”

“Yes.”

“But why would she sway you?
You
know far more about his plans than
she
does!”

“It might be that I am too close to them to see flaws that she will notice. Remember also that my perceptions are skewed by my magic—I remember everything I am told that is true, but I can forget lies. That means that sometimes, I remember the good and true parts of someone's plans and forget the errors and deceptions. Oh, it's not common, and I try to guard against it, but it can happen, and it can give me an unjustly favorable impression of a situation.”

Sword stared at him for a moment. “I never thought of that,” he said at last.

“There's no reason you should, but I live with it every day. All of us among the Chosen have our difficulties, some more subtle than others—poor Babble lives with a constant flood of voices she can't shut out, Beauty must shut herself away from other people, those are obvious, but
I
live with the knowledge that I may be misjudging people because I remember them as more truthful than they really are. The Leader can't trust anyone else's assessment of his decisions—or rather,
her
decisions, now—because her magical persuasiveness makes them much too prone to agree with even the stupidest blunder. And I sometimes think Bow sees everything as a target. I suppose you must have your own problems, though I confess I don't know what they are.”

“I'm not sure I do, either,” Sword replied. “But still, suppose the Wizard Lord's plans do
not
have any flaws that Beauty has noticed. What then?”

“Subtle again. Why, then the Wizard Lord would expect her to help him, to serve him in convincing others to cooperate with him. And I think it's very obvious how she could do that, if she wanted to.”

“Simply by asking them and smiling, in most cases,” Sword said.

“And what would happen if she refused to do this?”

“The Wizard Lord would assume she actually opposed him and was preparing to remove him.”

Lore nodded and held up a finger. “Exactly. You have come to understand the man's mind, as I have. And
would
she agree to help him by seducing his opponents?”

“No. Never.” Sword knew Beauty better than to think she would ever do such a thing; she would never use her magic for anything but its intended purpose of aiding in the removal of a Dark Lord.

“Very good. You understand
her
mind, as well.” Lore lowered the admonitory finger. “And besides, Sword, I don't want to see her. It would be an exercise in frustration. I like her, and I'd like to know her better, but that isn't going to happen.”

“Oh.” Sword felt like an idiot for not having considered that, but then another thought struck him. “But why isn't it going to happen? I'm too young for her, but
you're
not. You're a little older than she is. And you're one of the Chosen, so her magic isn't an insurmountable issue.”

“Sword, we traveled together for months, remember?”

“Yes, and Bow demonstrated that he was a boor she wanted nothing to do with, and she and Old Boss didn't get along very well, but I didn't notice
you
having any great problems.”

“You didn't notice any great successes, either.
You
were the only man among the Chosen she found attractive, your youth notwithstanding. And yes, I know that part of that attraction may have
been
your youth, and the reputation that goes with your role, and that the attraction wasn't enough to overcome the difference in your ages, but really, Sword, don't you think I'd have seized on even the
slightest
hint that I might have a chance with her, once you were gone?” He shook his head. “She isn't interested in me, and to go to her as the Wizard Lord's messenger and errand boy would not help, and I would prefer not to put myself through that particular form of humiliation.”

Sword was not absolutely convinced that Lore's assessment of the situation was correct, but he had no coherent evidence or argument to the contrary to present. He had not seen any sign that the Beauty had any interest in the Scholar, and he had to admit it was a rational enough reason, when combined with the rest of it, to refuse to talk to her.

And the rest of it, the whole discussion of what might come of such a conversation, suddenly struck home.

He
had said he would talk to the Beauty, and almost everything Lore had said about the possible outcomes applied to him, just as it did to Lore.

But no, he corrected himself; he had not said he would talk to her. He had said he would need to think about it.

But if he went back to the Wizard Lord and said he would not talk to her, the Wizard Lord would want an explanation. Lore had refused, and had apparently not explained why . . .

“What did you tell Artil?” Sword asked. “When he asked you to talk to her, I mean.”

“I said it wasn't my place.”

“He accepted that?”

“What could he say?”

Sword considered that. He suspected that if he tried the same thing, and said that after thinking about it he felt it wasn't his place, the Wizard Lord would not appreciate it—especially since he might well know that Sword had spoken with Lore; he hadn't made any attempt to keep this conversation a secret.

He would suspect conspiracy. That would not be good.

And furthermore, Sword realized, he
wanted
to speak to the Beauty—not as the Wizard Lord's advocate, but just for himself. He wanted to see her again, and hear her voice, even if they could never be more than friends and compatriots.

“That's my side of the bargain,” Lore said, interrupting Sword's thoughts. “Now for yours.”

“Oh,” Sword said. He paused and looked around.

They were alone at the door of the throne room; the passage was empty, the throne room deserted.

“Come in here,” he said, “where we won't be heard.” He took Lore by the sleeve and pulled him into the throne room.

“The Wizard Lord could be listening anywhere, you know, through a spider or a mouse,” Lore pointed out. “We don't have the Seer to warn us here.”

“Yes, well, I already told
him,”
Sword said. “But I don't want rumors running rampant.”

“Ah.” Lore glanced around as the two of them took up a position in the center of the great empty room, well away from all walls, doors, and windows, as well as the dais and throne.

Sword leaned close and whispered, “I should have noticed something much sooner, but do you remember when we reached the Dark Lord's tower, and Babble was wounded, so you and Seer and Beauty took her to the wagon to be tended?”

“Yes, of course.”