The Ninth Talisman (24 page)

Startled by Sword's speed, the messenger reacted awkwardly, bringing the sword down far too late to stop a second jab.

Then Sword's stick swung clear, tapped the back of the sword simply for emphasis, and struck at the messenger's right leg, tapping hard just below the kneecap.

The sword moved, but the stick had already gone, sliding down past the messenger's hand and wrist, tapping him on the inside of his right elbow.

“You forgot the throat,” Sword said, as he brought the beanpole up and around and under the messenger's chin.

The messenger stepped back, sword flailing. Sword made two more quick jabs to the belly, one from below and one from above, then went for the left knee.

“Wait!” the messenger said, finally managing a parry that delayed Sword's strike at his left elbow for perhaps half a second. That startled the Swordsman; the messenger was faster than he looked. Ignoring the request, Sword did not wait, but finished his second series with a slash across the messenger's throat that would undoubtedly leave a mark.

“Blast it!” the messenger said, trying unsuccessfully to counter.

The messenger was very quick, and now that he had focused on the action he had a knack of moving in ways Sword did not expect; presumably the
ara
feathers dangling from the back of his head helped
with that by blocking his spirit from Sword's magic. As a result the third series of touches took a few seconds longer, but the end was never in doubt. Sword finished it off with a flourish by touching the messenger on each cheek, then whipping the stick around his wrist and knocking the sword from his hand.

Then Sword straightened up, his beanpole raised in salute, as the disarmed messenger stared at him.

“How did you
do
that?” the young man demanded.

“Practice,” Sword said. “Or magic, if you prefer. Now, what's this message?”

The messenger blinked at him. Clearly, there could be no further question that this was the man he had been sent to find. He hesitated, clearly unsure whether to retrieve his sword, then decided it could wait.

“The Leader of the Chosen wants to see you.”

Sword grimaced and tossed the stick aside. He had been afraid of that. “Oh, plague and ague,” he said. “You're sure?”

“Well, yes,” the messenger said, startled. “Of course. I'd hardly say so if I weren't.”

“You're certain it was her, and not some fraud?”

“Absolutely. Who could make a mistake about such a thing?”

“You'd be surprised,” Sword said. “What does she want, then? Has the Wizard Lord done something terrible?”

“She didn't tell me,” the messenger said. “I mean, she didn't explain why; she just said I should come to Mad Oak and fetch you. Tell you that she's in Winterhome and wants you to meet her there.”

Sword snorted. “It's the Wizard Lord, of course—what
else
could it be?”

“I don't know,” the messenger said.

An unpleasant thought struck Sword. He had been avoiding the traders in the village square, and the merchants in the pavilion, so it was entirely possible he had missed some important news—or perhaps this message
was
the news. “Is it still Artil?” he asked.

“Is what still what?”

“Is Artil still the Wizard Lord?”

The messenger blinked. “I . . . I believe that's the Wizard Lord's name, yes. I don't really know, I always just called him by his title. . . .”

“He hasn't died and been replaced in the past year?” Sword demanded.

“I . . . um . . . no, not lately,” the messenger said, obviously confused by the question. “Not for years, not since you killed the Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills.”

“Then what's he done? Carried off unwilling young girls, or buggered the wrong priests? Slaughtered a town or two, as Galbek Hills did? Please don't tell me she thinks there's something unforgivably wrong with building roads and bridges, or killing monsters.”

“I don't know,” the messenger said, a trifle desperately. “Really. She just told me to fetch you.”

“Damn,” Sword said. He turned to look at the ox, waiting patiently in the traces. He sighed again. “Let me finish up here,” he said. “I'll meet you at the pavilion this evening, and we can leave in the morning.”

The messenger hesitated, then nodded. “Thank you,” he said.

Sword nodded back, jerked the plow free, and returned to his work. The messenger stood watching silently for a moment, then turned and left, looking greatly deflated.

When Sword arrived at the pavilion the sun was low in the west and Younger Priestess was lighting the lanterns, murmuring a quiet invocation to the
ler
of fire and light as she did so. A few traders sat along the west wall, their goods displayed on cloths laid on the plank floor, talking quietly among themselves; no customers were in sight. A young couple sat on the terrace bench by the south door, heads bent toward each other, the man whispering in the woman's ear. Sword did not recognize them immediately, and guessed they were travelers of some sort.

The messenger in the green-and-gold robe was nowhere to be seen.

Mildly puzzled, Sword leaned on the terrace rail, looking out over the valley, wondering where the man was. That bright cloak of his ought to stand out almost anywhere.

The far ridge was vividly green in the late-afternoon sun, and seemed to sparkle with gold; Sword was unsure whether that was
ler
moving among the trees, or merely a trick of the light. The Eastern Cliffs were a dark line in the distance, the sky above them intensely blue, and he remembered those vast plains atop them. He leaned out and peered to the southeast, wondering whether he could spot the
Summer Palace from this distance. He never had yet, but he kept thinking it should be possible.

Then he heard a rustling and shuffling, and he turned, hoping to see the messenger's bright cloak. Instead he saw that the couple from the bench had risen, and were walking toward him. He turned to greet them, then blinked.

The young man was the messenger. He had removed his gaudy robe, rearranged his hair, and dressed himself in plain linen and brown leather, and had somehow acquired a female companion, but now that he was upright, his face no longer hidden, Sword recognized him.

It was more than just the change of clothing and position, Sword realized; the man had shifted his stance, the way he held himself, the shape of his shoulders and angle of his neck. Sword remembered also how the young man had moved during the earlier display of swordsmanship. A suspicion began to stir, and Sword quickly reviewed certain roles. He glanced at the woman, then back to the man.

He was still not entirely certain, but Sword bowed to the couple as they drew near. “The Thief, is it?” he asked.

The young man bowed in return. “Indeed,” he said quietly, with a quick glance around the room to see that no one else was listening. “They call me Snatcher.”

Sword turned to the woman. She had a round face, and was just a little on the plump side; her hair was cut square at her shoulders, dark and straight.

“And this would be—the Seer, perhaps? Or the Leader?”

The Thief turned his head, waiting for his companion to reply. For her part, the young woman studied Sword's face intently before saying, “The Seer.” Her voice was soft, and not entirely steady.

“That seemed the most likely,” Sword said. “You would know where I am; the Leader would not. So you were sent to find me—but why was it the Thief who came to the fields alone?”

He had addressed the question to the Seer, but it was the Thief who replied, “She thinks I'm the braver of us.”

“It takes courage to speak to me?”

“Indeed it does. You are something of a legend, after all, as the man who slew the Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills. It was you who demanded
that our predecessors yield up their roles among the Chosen, and whose demands were all met, for reasons we don't understand. You would seem to have something more to you than merely the ability to wield a blade.”

Sword took a moment to absorb that, then looked at the Seer.

She turned her eyes away.

Sword did not press the issue; instead he asked the Thief, “Why are you here at all? Why did she not come alone?”

“I was afraid,” the Seer murmured, before the Thief could reply.

“She doesn't go anywhere alone,” Snatcher added.

“But why you? Why not a hired guide? There are plenty of them eager for work.” Now that roads connected so many places, the old guides were no longer really needed simply to get a person safely from one town to the next, and their knowledge of the displaced local
ler
was useless, but many of them were still escorting travelers along the high-ways, serving as guards and advisors.

“She doesn't trust anyone but the Chosen.”

“And you were available, while Bow was not? Or Lore?”

“Lore is once again at the Summer Palace, and she doesn't trust Bow. Boss is busy in Winterhome, Beauty doesn't like to travel, and I suspect Babble, wherever she is, is too busy listening to the voices to be any use.”

Sword had not intended to bother asking about the female Chosen; he knew that many women didn't like to rely on other women to protect them, though he did not entirely understand that attitude. He glanced at the Seer, whose eyes were still turned down and away.

He did not bother asking why she distrusted Bow; he remembered enough of the Archer's past behavior to see why she might not. “Then everyone else is already gathered for whatever this mysterious purpose is?”

“Five of us are; not you or Lore or Babble. We'll be fetching Babble next.”

Sword leaned back against the terrace railing and asked, “Why?”

The Thief and the Seer exchanged glances. “Why what?” the Thief asked.

“Why are we gathering? Has the Wizard Lord done something terrible?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Then why are you here, asking me to go to Winterhome?”

Snatcher cocked his head. “Because Boss told us to,” he said.

“And is that reason enough? Has she told you why she wants us to attend her?”

A trace of a smile appeared on Snatcher's face. “You haven't met her, have you?”

“No.”

“Then perhaps I'll just suggest that you might want to. Purely out of curiosity. And
she
wants to meet
you.”

Sword frowned and looked at the Seer. “Do
you
know what's going on?”

“We came to bring you to Winterhome,” she murmured. “You're the Chosen Swordsman; we want you to help us.”

“That doesn't answer the question.”

“It's what I know.”

Frustrated, Sword began to wonder if he had been too hasty in believing this pair to be the new Thief and the new Seer. When last the Chosen had been gathered there was no doubt about why, and the Seer had been only too happy to explain that the Wizard Lord had killed several people, and had lied about who they were. This pair seemed determined to keep their reasons to themselves.

Could these two be impostors, trying to lure him somewhere?

But who would want to do that? No, they were probably just who they claimed to be, but young and inexperienced. They had obeyed the Leader without thinking.

But she might have told them something, or the Seer might know something herself. “Has the Wizard Lord killed someone?” he asked the Seer. Part of her magic was that she would
know
whether he had, just as she always knew where in Barokan all the Chosen were, and where the Wizard Lord was.

She lowered her gaze again and shook her head. “Not yet, that I can see,” she whispered. “Not himself.”

Sword stared at her for a moment. It was not the actual words that swayed him, but how she said them.

“All right,” he said. “We'll leave in the morning. You can sleep here in the pavilion, or in my mother's loft, whichever you prefer.”

Both of them chose the loft.

Sword had intended to introduce them to his mother and siblings honestly, but the Thief forestalled that by pushing forward and bowing over his mother's hand as she stood in the kitchen door, studying the unexpected new arrivals.

“I am delighted to meet the famed White Rose,” Snatcher said, in an unctuous tone completely unlike either the pompous messenger or the quiet young man he had been heretofore; Sword saw that the little man had straightened himself up, thrown back his shoulders, and adopted an entirely different stance. “I am Desrem dik Taborin of Spilled Basket, come to fetch your honored son to aid us.”

White Rose cast a sideways glance at Sword, but before either of them could speak the Thief continued, “We have a problem with bandits, you see—a problem beneath the notice of the Wizard Lord himself, busy as he is with other matters in his home in the Summer Palace, and we thought the Chosen Swordsman might be able to help us.”