1: The Traveler Returns

 

Some harsh words had been spoken the previous summer, the first time I lodged at the inn. Nothing serious, milords, just a minor misunderstanding—a small imbalance on the slate. A trivial sum, truly!

I admit that appearances were against me. My taste for shortcuts has been misinterpreted before. When the hour for my departure dawned—it was slightly before dawn actually, but I am by nature an early riser—I chose the swiftest route.

I was in a hurry, being bound that day for Gilderburg, a city many hard leagues away. Moreover, I feared I might disturb the other guests if I went clattering down the stairs. Only when I was halfway across the vegetable patch did I realize I had forgotten to pay my bill. The house door would still be locked, so I resolved to leave the money on the hostler's desk in the stable.

That was the only reason I approached the stable. Why else would I do so? I had no horse lodged there!

The trouble arose because the innkeeper, Fritz, motivated by unseemly greed, had rented out even his own quarters the previous night. He had chosen to sleep in the hayloft overhead, from which he had a clear view of my window.

The stable door gave me a little trouble. Then it swung open, freely and quietly on well-oiled hinges. I stooped to lift my bundle, and when I straightened up I was exceedingly surprised to discover myself facing what appeared to be a haystack.

 

I have often been complimented on my expertise in animal husbandry. I am well aware that general practice is to put the livestock on the ground floor and the fodder in the loft. It is a technical matter of getting them up ladders. In this case I could not see why Mine Host Fritz might have reversed the normal filing system. Then I realized that what I was seeing in the chill predawn light was Mine Host Fritz himself. He had no shirt on, which is what had confused me. When I tilted my head back, I discovered his face, higher up.

There can be something very unwholesome about blue eyes. Jaws of that magnitude are better left unclenched.

Instinct warned me that there could be a misunderstanding brewing. I explained carefully, using short sentences and speaking distinctly.

Another problem then arose, concerning the house tariff. I do not deny that it was posted in large letters on the taproom wall, a list very detailed and well lit. No one could claim that the inventory of services offered was incomplete or the scale of charges ambiguous. was an inn of the highest standards. Though small, it offered quality personal service most welcome to experienced and sophisticated travelers such as myself. Within its range, it was one of the finest hostels I had ever graced with my custom, and one I fully intended to recommend heartily to the numerous fellow wayfarers I meet upon my travels—as I repeatedly assured the innkeeper. However, being a stranger in the Grimm Ranges, I had mistakenly assumed that his prices were posted in Nurgic dinars.

 

To my astonishment, Fritz informed me that Gilderburg thalers were specified at the bottom of the notice. I explained that every time I had been looking in that direction the previous evening, Fritz himself had been drawing ale from the left-hand barrel, directly underneath. The vital postscript must have been obscured by his shoulders. True, that was a remarkable coincidence, and most men would not have blocked my view, but Fritz was not most men—only about three of them, hammered into one.

Of course I had funds enough to cover my tab, had the amount been calculated in Nurgic dinars.

That was the truth of the matter, milords. Alas, the oaf chose to disbelieve me!

Do not be too hard on him! Large as he was, Fritz was young for his responsibilities. Even an older, more experienced man might have misconstrued a situation of such manifest ambiguity. He was perhaps a little coarse in his language. He might have used more tact in the way he disassembled my bundle, pronouncing my spare garments to be useless rags and strewing them in the mire of the stable yard. Finesse is not to be expected in the young. But he resisted overt violence, which must have been a great temptation for one of his size.

Pretty much resisted it, that is. He carried me by my right ear over to some distant outbuildings, and there presented me with a monstrous ax, more fittingly sized to his thews than mine. He indicated ten or eleven tree trunks and where they should be stowed when cut into hearth lengths. And then he whistled up an animal I had seen the previous day and at first assumed to be a full-grown bear. It was a dog.

Its name was Tiny, but even by Fritz's standards that was inappropriate. Tiny, Fritz assured me, would keep me from leaving—ever, under any circumstances—until its master gave it the correct password to release me. Tiny was an excellent guard dog, the innkeeper added, its only fault being the killer frenzy that came upon it when it tasted blood.

While I mulled the implications of that subtle innuendo, Mine Ex-Host stalked away to prepare breakfast for his guests. Tiny ran a tongue like a black doormat over a picket fence of white teeth and lay down to plan my dismemberment.

The sun rose about then, promising a hard day, or perhaps several hard days. I began with a few lusty blows of the ax, continuing until I judged young Fritz would be engrossed in other pursuits and hopefully out of earshot.

I think I mentioned that I am not without knowledge in the ways of our four-legged brethren? Pausing to catch my breath, I edged closer to the corner of the woodshed. Tiny raised a forest of hair down the entire length of its back, rumbling a growl I found strikingly reminiscent of the earthquake that threw down the walls of Atlambaron. Clearly the beast was expressing a warning that I should not progress any farther. Fortunately I was already close enough for my purposes.

To be explicit about my next actions might bring a blush to sensitive cheeks, so I shall wash over the details. Suffice it to say that I rendered said corner of the aforementioned woodshed of immediate interest to the dog. When I had finished, Tiny rose and came across to inspect my labors, its manner indicating a clear belief that it might not know much about firewood, but it did know about that. Tiny came, in short, within reach. When it turned away to initial my signature, I stunned the brute with the back of the ax.

I missed breakfast and lost my bundle, but I sold the ax for six Gilderburg thalers in the next village, so I came out well ahead on the exchange.

That, as I said earlier, had been in the summer. Now winter was setting in.

I had come to the Volkslander in search of the ending of a certain story and had failed to find it. The experienced collector of tales learns to accept disappointment and will not let it discourage him. Somewhere, someday, I would pick up the trail again—in bazaar gossip, a chance remark upon the highway, a tale heard in an alehouse, or perchance a legend recounted in a monastery. Meanwhile, warmer climes called me, for my way of life can be arduous in cold weather.

Three possible routes south were available. I could take ship, although the season was late. I might seek out a caravan following the amber road and accompany it as far as the salt rivers, but the wild children of the steppes were being gruesome again. All in all, it seemed safest and easiest just to venture a recrossing of the Grimm Ranges. The way is strenuous, but extremely scenic.

My sojourn in the northern marches had not been entirely fruitless. My repertoire of stories had been well rewarded. I left Luzfraul on a sunny, frosty morning, mounted on a sprightly bay mare, journeying in the company of a convivial band of merchants bound for the misty valleys of the Winelands. Our conversation sparkled like the ice crystals on the grass of the verge while we climbed through the foothills.

I gathered some trivial tales for my collection, granting others in return, as is my wont.

We lunched well, seated on the bank of a joyous cataract, resting our mounts and making the crags ring with our laughter. The peaks above us wore their winter finery, white and pure in the sunlight. Scenery can be overdone, of course.

By afternoon the sky was taking on a menacing leaden hue, an unfriendly wind was tugging at our cloaks, and we had entered into the forest's dark domain. We passed few habitations, only the lonely cottages of woodsmen or charcoal-burners. We debated stopping and taking shelter at one of these, but rasher counsels prevailed. We decided to push on in the hope of crossing the pass before the weather turned on us—or turned at all, because nothing is more fickle than mountain weather.

Alas, it was not the elements that brought disaster upon us! We were set upon by one of the many bands of brigands that too often haunt such wild places. They were ragged, hairy, and ferocious—desperate, ruthless men who would have been more than a match for my genteel companions even had we not been outnumbered, which we were, hugely.

Although I am not without skill at swordplay, I was without sword that day. In any case, I have always preferred subtle stratagem to bludgeon brutality. Ambush may succeed where mere impetuous resistance will not. As my horse reared in terror, I reached up and caught hold of an oak branch fortuitously overhanging the road. I hauled myself up, drew my dagger, and waited to drop on the first marauder who came within my range.

I did not expect to escape attention for long, because the trees were bare of leaves. But I did.

I watched in silent horror as my companions were odiously murdered, their goods sequestered, their corpses stripped.

Soon it was too late for me to achieve anything other than gallant suicide. In short order the outlaws drove off the baggage train, leaving only naked bodies behind.

Now I was in a difficult situation. The brigands had headed south, deeper into the ranges. They would go no faster than I, for many of them were still on foot. I had no desire to catch up with them to explain that they had overlooked me in their massacre.

My only logical course of action was to retrace my steps northward in the hope of finding one of those woodcutters’

cottages. Already the first flakes of a winter storm danced amid the boughs.

Having waited awhile to make sure the desperadoes would not return, I scrambled cautiously to the ground, said a sad farewell to my erstwhile friends—together with a heartfelt apology that I lacked the means to grant them decent burial—and set off alone through the forest, whistling to keep up my spirits.

There are numerous tales of trolls and evil spirits preying on wayfarers in the Grimm Ranges. I have never spoken with a man who had met any himself, although that does not 12

 

 

 

 

prove that the stories are false. I encountered none that evening. What I did meet was a mountain blizzard, the likes of which have killed more travelers than all the trolls ever spawned. In pitch darkness, flying snow is not white, it is black. It insinuates into every crevice of a man's clothing, it weighs down his cloak and shoulders, soaks his skin, fills his boots; trickles, freezes, and blinds. I should certainly have wandered off the road had it not been flanked by dense woods. I followed the path by bumping into trees.

But where were the cottages? Gradually I was forced to conclude that either I had staggered right by them without noticing, or else I had lost my way. Several routes lead up to the pass, and I might easily have taken a wrong fork. I had no guarantee that there would be any shelter at all on this road.

The night grew colder, the wind stronger, the drifts deeper. I never plague the gods with prayer, since omnipotence requires no advice, but that night I fully expected to greet them in person. I reached the last stage of endurance, the stage of promising myself a rest after fifty more paces and then fifty more, knowing that if I ever stopped, I should never rise again.

Suddenly, to my great relief and astonishment, a light blazed up ahead of me. A moment later it shrank and vanished, but I was not discouraged, knowing that a shutter blown open in the wind would not be allowed to remain open for long. What mattered was that there was a dwelling within reach, and it was inhabited. Surely no one would refuse hospitality to an honest traveler on a night like that?

 

I plowed through waist-deep drifts, guided eventually by chinks of light. I stumbled at last to the door and fell against the handle. The latch lifted. The door flew open and I through it. I reeled into a crowded room, accompanied by a hurricane of wind and blowing snow. Thus, not exactly unobtrusively, I returned to inn.

 

 

 

2: A Challenge Accepted

 

As inns go, milords, is not large. Being the only habitation of any sort for many leagues along the Gilderburg route, it rarely lacks for custom. Curiously, the fickle weather is more its ally than its enemy. In winter, wayfarers may be forced to remain in residence for days at a stretch.

The previous owners had died less than two years before, of pestilence—a professional hazard for those who associate with travelers. The business was now owned and run by their two children. Fritz I have already mentioned. He may best be described as an ill-tempered blond brute of unnecessary size.

His sister, though—almost do words fail me! Few women have ever bewitched me as Frieda had, upon our very brief acquaintance the previous summer...

I hear you sigh, miladies? You roll your eyes at my masculine ways? Ah, but hear me out.

Yes, of course Frieda had youth and beauty. One word from her would turn men's heads, and two their wits. She was as blond as her brother, tall for a woman, as tall as I. Her golden hair hung in two long braids. Her eyes were shining fragments of summer sky, her cheeks ripe peaches, her lips promises of Paradise. She was slim and light on her feet, and although her heavy homespun country dresses and voluminous aprons fought hard to hide all evidence of the figure they concealed, no man would doubt that beneath them further excellence would match the perfection of her face.

I will admit before you ask that she was accomplished in feminine skills—the house was sweet-scented and clean, the fare mouthwatering. A few weeks of her cooking would have induced obesity in grass snakes.

I do not deny that men too often judge women by such trivia, but I insist that in this case they were merely seasoning. Believe me, miladies, in my life upon the road I have met beauties by the thousand and good cooks by the hundred. One or two who were both, even. It was neither her physical charms nor her rabbit Wellington that endeared her to me, truly!

Frieda was not merely attractive and accomplished, she was also a wit. There is a rare combination indeed, in woman or man. How many humorists do you know who are truly likable?

She could return jest for jest, quote for quote, pun for pun, quip for banter, and the melody of her laughter lingered long in the memory. That first evening she bested me in barroom jocularity, greatly delighting the other guests and much surprising me. Yes, it does happen, milords, but rarely without my connivance. In Frieda's case I did not submit; I was outclassed. Nay, I was conquered! Alas, my flirtation was its own reward. I am certain no other man in the tavern fared better.

Mayhap I came closer than most did, for Fritz's evident animosity toward me waxed steadily stronger throughout the evening, long before the next morning's misunderstanding about Nurgic dinars. When Frieda came to sit beside me on the bench, the knuckles of his gargoyle fists whitened like hens’ eggs. Unlike his sister, Fritz had no sense of humor at all. He consistently failed to appreciate my efforts to include him in the conversation, although everyone else did.

This may be an opportune moment, milords, to describe the taproom of the inn, for it features largely in the course of my narrative.

It occupies most of the ground floor. Visualize, if you will, four sturdy walls of fieldstone, their thickness exposed in the deep embrasures of the windows—all of which were then firmly shuttered, of course. The front door is of ancient, massive oak, studded with nails. An open plank stairway against the opposite wall leads up to four poky guest chambers, and the owners’ attics above them. A third wall is largely occupied by a great stone fireplace, and the fourth contains the way through to the kitchen, partially blocked off by a bar counter of solid timbers.

At the time of which I speak, three hogsheads of beer stood in back of the counter, only the middle one being truly potable. Shelves over the barrels were laden with the coarse brown pottery of the region: cups, dishes, steins. Alongside those hung the tariff board I have already mentioned. Its stylish black letters had doubtless been painted by some wandering scribe in years gone by, in return for a night's lodging, or perhaps just a slab of venison and a flagon of ale.

The decor was simple. Heads of elk, mule deer, and mountain sheep mounted on the walls testified to the inn's hunting clientele. A battle-ax and two-handed sword hung on the chimney were somewhat less explicable. Below them, a mantelshelf held bric-a-brac: a battered military helmet of antique design, a nodule of rock crystal, a small brass vase, a few clay figurines, an hourglass, a hand-carved music box.

Tasteful oil paintings and elegant sculptures were absent.

Dry fern fronds covered the flags of the floor. The high beams were smoke-stained, and the communal board table in the center of the room was shiny black with the grease of generations. By day, two long benches flanked it and two high chairs stood by the hearth. That bitter night the benches had been pulled close to the fire, also. The copper ewer on the hob emitted tantalizing odors of yeast and spices. The evening meal had been tidied away, the spit and its succulent burden removed, although a scent of roast meat still hung in the smoky air. A single lantern swayed over the counter, but the roaring pine-log fire provided more light.

The occupants clustered near the heat while their shadows danced in the cold corners. Storm winds wailed in the eaves and rippled the ferns on the floor. The atmosphere was creepy; yet on such a night, deep in the heart of the unfriendly ranges, this was a very welcome haven.

More! A haven not merely welcome but necessary, for Death waited outside in the forest.

The absence of a dog was ominous.

As might be expected, my dramatic entrance provoked consternation. I was lifted bodily and borne to the fireplace.

Once it had been established that I had no companions left in adversity outside, the door was forced closed and latched again. In a babble of sympathetic chatter, my snow-laden cloak and hat were hauled off, my jerkin and singlet and boots, also. Stripped down to my shift and trews, I was quickly enveloped in a rough blanket.

I caught a glimpse of the person doing the enveloping and yanked a corner over my head. I was not quick enough. Her limpid blue eyes widened as she recognized me.

“Idiot!” she whispered.

I have known more affectionate greetings, but in this case the word was a warning and therefore probably well intended.

I hunched down to warm myself before the blaze, and the company resumed its places around me, all jabbering at once.

“Innkeeper!” The voice was male, hearty and boisterous.

“Surely your new guest will welcome a stein of mulled ale?” I thought I knew the speaker, but I did not look up.

“He is no guest of mine!” replied a voice I had no trouble identifying. “And I prefer not to have my blanket soiled.”

My cover was yanked away, leaving me crouching in wet undergarments in the brightest part of the room. My eyes streamed as warmth began to penetrate my hands and feet and face. I shivered with such intensity that I could barely twist my head around to squint up at the barely-haired giant.

“Ho!” the first voice boomed. “Do you not realize that your tavern is honored to shelter the renowned Omar, the celebrated trader of tales?”

I knew him then, a merchant I had met more than once upon the road. His name escaped me for the moment—and when I did hear it, it was not the name I had known him by before. Indeed, several of the persons present in the Hunters’

 

 

Haunt that night were already known to me, and not all of them by the names or stations they were then professing.

“The celebrated thief,” young Fritz replied. “He is a freeloader. He tried to steal a horse. He killed my dog. He gains no shelter here, my lord.”

Voices rose in protest and were drowned out by the merchant's booming laughter. “Hold! Curb your impatience, mine host, while we clarify the legal aspects of the matter. To drive out a supplicant upon such a night as this is to send him to his death.”

“My pillow will remain dry,” the young monster retorted.

I confess that discomfort made me testy. “Boy,” I snapped. “I notice that your attempts at a mustache remain largely theoretical, but if you continue to grow at your present rate until you reach manhood, then you will have to acquire a kennel with greater headroom.”

Fritz growled and reached down with hands like plowshares, intent on evicting me from the premises.

“Hold, I say!” the merchant roared. “There need be no haste, for we are all confined here until morning at the earliest—with the possible exception of Omar, that is. State your grievance, innkeeper.”

The giant released me and straightened. “Theft, my lord!

He departed without paying his reckoning. He stole my ax. He killed my dog.”

“Specifics?” the merchant said, hefting a foaming tankard.

“What is the exact amount he owes you?”

“Fifteen thalers.”

“Twelve,” Frieda said in the background.

 

“Plus three for the ax!” her brother roared.

“Twelve?” the merchant repeated. “Why, he must have treated the entire house, all evening long!”

“He did,” Fritz said grimly.

That was a vile exaggeration! Three or four rounds, no more.

The merchant beamed. He was a corpulent man of middle years, swathed in soft furs and shiny leathers. He glittered: tings on his fingers, jeweled buckles on his boots, and a gold chain looped across his breast. His face glowed red in the firelight, lit from within by good food and much ale. The fact that he occupied one of the two chairs by the fire showed that he outranked or outriched the rest of the company. Even the pouches under his eyes might be stuffed with gold. He was the sort of man who enjoyed life hugely, especially if the enjoyment did not come at his own expense.

“But perchance he has returned tonight repentant, intending to settle his debt? If he does so, and pays in advance for whatever else he now requires—plus a small compensation for insult, perchance—then you can hardly refuse to accept, can you?”

“I can, sir! We have no empty rooms and the table is cleared. In any case, this vagrant has no gold.”

A few voices twittered in alarm. The storm wailed angrily in the eaves and chimney. Door and shutters rattled.

“Well, Omar?”

I sighed and went back to studying the glowing logs in the fire. That morning I had left Luzfraul with five or six thalers concealed in my saddlebags. I still had a few coppers in my pocket. The robbers had taken everything else. I did not think my sad story would influence the innkeeper even if he believed it, which he wouldn't.

“The entire business was an unfortunate misunderstanding,” I said.

The background chorus murmured disapproval.

The merchant chortled, almost choking on his mirth, as if this were no more than he had expected. “Well then, that cloak? With a sable collar! Those boots, the dagger, the hat

... not everyone's choice of style, perhaps, but good stuff nevertheless. I should say that fifteen thalers might be a fair estimate of their worth. Take those, mine host, and call the former matter settled.”

“It is a good cloak,” Frieda's voice said.

“Stolen, doubtless. Who would want such a hat?”

“You would turn him out in his shirt?” a scandalized female voice demanded. “On such a night?”

Right on cue, the wind rattled the door again and blew smoke from the fireplace.

“Ah!” the merchant said. “The future has yet to be debated, my lady. We are still trying to settle the past.”

I have talked myself out of tight spots in the past. Tonight I should need to talk myself into one, and I was still too muddled by the aftereffects of the cold to concentrate my mind.

“The affair of the dog is a matter of blood!” Fritz proclaimed.

He was still standing directly behind me. I mused on the possibility of grabbing his belt and tipping him over my head into the fireplace. I have known warriors who could have done that. I did not think I could, though. He would probably crush me. Even if I succeeded in bouncing his skull on the hearth, I would just make him cross.

“Wergild?” the merchant mused. “It is time for a legal ruling on this matter. Advocate?”

Everyone turned to peer at someone on one of the benches. I twisted around also and observed a mousy man in a clerk's black robe and biretta. As he was about as far from the fire as it was possible to be, he obviously lacked status.

His complexion was sallow, but little of it was visible within his collar, which he had turned up against the chill.

He squeaked. “Oh, I am not qualified—”

“You are more qualified than anyone else present,” the merchant boomed, his fat hands clasped on his paunch. “I am sure you can cite some legal precept on the topic. Now, how can Omar settle the matter of the dog?”

“Wergild is hardly ... Although I do believe that dogs have been classed as companions in some instances.” The notary chewed his lip for a moment, wrung his hands, screwed up his eyes and then muttered, “I recall a precedent where the plaintiff attested that the defendant had maliciously and with prejudice—”

“God of my fathers preserve me! Spring will be here before we know it. How much for the dog?”

“If memory serves me, the total judgment in that instance came to thirty thalers, being comprised of—”

“Making a total of forty-five,” the merchant said with satisfaction. “And let us assume another five for tonight's board and room. Friend Omar, we judge that you need to tender fifty thalers to our host, or he will be entitled to confiscate your outer garments and toss you out in the storm in your present apparel. How do you plan to settle the bill?”

He handed up his empty stein to the landlord, who hastened off to refill it. I was relieved not to have him looming at my back, for I had been half expecting a boot in the kidneys. The merchant leaned back and beamed at me, ruddier than ever, wiggling thick black eyebrows like signal flags.

My own face felt hot from the fire, and my thighs were steaming. I turned around to warm my back. Still on my knees, I surveyed the congregation. As I said, several of the faces were familiar to me, but few of the names that later emerged. For simplicity, therefore, shall list the spectators by the stations they professed that night.

The portly merchant occupied the chair to the left of the fireplace. On the bench at his side sat a striking young lady who claimed to be his wife. Her apparel was almost as rich as his: a green satin gown, hat and cloak of ermine, assorted jewels and precious metal. When I had last seen her she had been dancing on a table—wearing earrings, only earrings and nothing but earrings. As she was so obviously talented at playing diverse roles, I shall refer to her here as the actress.

She was trying to keep her distance from her other neighbor, a hunched, miserable, undernourished young man in threadbare doublet and hose. His hair was lank, his expression woebegone, and his nose a boiling furnace. Every few minutes he would wipe it on his sleeve. He sneezed repeatedly. I knew him for a second-rate minstrel, but I obviously need not worry about him singing tonight.

The end position on that bench was occupied by the majestic Frieda, staying well back from the fire as a good hostess should. Recalling our innocent flirtation and merrymaking on my previous visit, I wondered if she would stand up for me against her brother. It seemed unlikely, unless she was a dog-hater.

On the other side, the fireside chair was occupied by an elderly dowager, almost invisible inside a full-length cloak of lush sable and an elaborate hat that descended in folds to her collar, mercifully concealing her hair and neck. Her hands were tucked away in a matching muff. Hideous patches of rouge on her cheekbones merely drew attention to their angularity and the crumpled parchment of her face, speckled with age spots.

Next to her sat a tall, spare man. Observing the scuff marks of chain mail on his brown leather jerkin and the way his silver hair was cut short for comfort below a helmet, I deduced him to be a soldier. Besides, he wore a broadsword.

He had the eyes of a hungry eagle. Whether he was traveling alone or was the dowager's escort I could not immediately determine. He was past his prime, but still a man to be taken seriously.

At his side sat a younger woman, whose coat was of faded cloth, too light for the climate. Her face was hidden from me by her bonnet. Her downcast gaze and simple attire suggested that she was the dowager's maidservant. The moth-eaten clerk was next to her.

 

 

So there was the court assembled: merchant, actress, minstrel, Frieda on one side; dowager, soldier, maid, and notary on the other.

Giant-boy Fritz returned, squeezing through between the benches to deliver the merchant's stein. Then he stood back a pace, looking huge in the firelight and glowering at me. My mouth watered at the thought of a draft of ale, or even some food, but I was not about to beg.

Not openly, anyway.

“My honorable friend,” I said—meaning the merchant, although my sarcasm might not have been appreciated by all my listeners—"has been quick to judge a case on the basis of inadequate information. As I tried to explain, my disagreement with our host was due to a misunderstanding.

The true facts must be determined by a proper tribunal of law. Until such time as that can be arranged, the universal dictates of hospitality and the edicts of the gods require that a benighted wayfarer be granted shelter from the storm. I shall be quite content with a place by the fire and the chance to roll up in my cloak, once it has had a chance to dry. Of course, a crust or two of bread and—”

“Out!” Fritz roared, who was standing in the background with his arms folded like tree trunks felled by a hurricane.

“You may roll up on the doorstep if you wish. I have taken precautions to improve the locks on the stable and sheds.”

“One admires a man who knows what he wants,” the merchant observed, complacently wiping foam from his fat lips.

 

 

“Surely on such a night this would be murder?” the dowager rasped.

“It would indeed, milady,” I agreed, smiling gratefully at her. “And I fear you would all share complicity in the misdeed.”

“Would we, though?” the soldier sharply asked, speaking for the first time. “What lord would judge us? In whose domain is this inn located, innkeeper?” Trust a soldier to worry about such trivia! “To whom do you pay your taxes?”

“Taxes, Captain?” Fritz's eyes widened in disbelief.

"Taxes?" Being the only one on his feet, he dominated the group like a bull in a chicken run.

The leather of the old campaigner's face wrinkled in something resembling a smile. “Then who gives you protection?”

Fritz raised a fist like a stonemason's mallet.

“Long may you trust it, lad,” the soldier muttered.

“Notary? Whose writ runs in this land?”

The clerk twitched nervously. “An excellent question, Captain! The free city of Gilderburg does not claim jurisdiction this far into the Ranges, and I doubt that the cantons to the south do.”

“No-man's-land, then?”

“I do believe that the principle of terra nullius would apply, yes.”

“If no lord rules,” the merchant murmured, “then we ourselves must be the law?”

The clerk mumbled, unwilling to commit himself aloud to such an outrageous idea, but then he nodded.

 

 

“Out, scum!” Fritz said. Yet he made no move from his place at the back of the group. He was enjoying the charade—and he was certainly not alone in that.

“The situation is tragic,” the merchant proclaimed. “Has no one any helpful suggestions?”

The actress frowned at me, creasing her pretty brow. She probably remembered our previous meeting. She was certainly not going to mention it, and she would not prejudice whatever influence she had on her paramour by pleading my case.

“Well,” the soldier mused, “I do feel that thirty thalers seems excessive for a mere hound. With respect, innkeeper, a silver crown would replace the beast.”

“I was exceedingly fond of the dog, Captain,” Fritz said narrowly.

“Oh, I daresay! I have felt affection for animals myself. But if it is your feelings that are wounded, rather than your money pouch, then how can gold compensate you?”

“What are you suggesting, sir?” A sinister gleam lit the pale eyes; his lip curled menacingly.

“Were it me,” the old warrior said reflectively, “I should rather seek satisfaction with a horsewhip. The exercise would assuage my grief better than money would.”

“Oh, an excellent suggestion!” the merchant said heartily.

“Do you not agree, Goodman Fritz?”

“The idea has merit, Your Honor. You think, then, that I should flog him before I throw him out?”

 

 

“I strongly recommend you proceed in that order. See, Omar, how your situation improves? We are now down to a mere twenty thalers.”

“Nay!” Fritz was leering again. “You added five for tonight's lodging, and he is not going to get that. So just the original fifteen. Settle now, thief, and then leave.”

“Just fifteen!” the merchant marveled. “Such a trivial amount. Why, my darling fritters that much away in a morning's shopping! Don't you, dear?”

The actress simpered. “You are so generous to me, my love.” She leaned over to cuddle him and place a kiss.

My back was well roasted now, but I feared to move farther from the fire, lest once I began I might find myself continuing indefinitely. The howling of the storm was even louder than before. The entire building seemed to tremble beneath it, the shadows around the walls gibbered at me. I needed a brilliant preserving inspiration, but my normally quick wits remained stubbornly torpid.

“And we agreed that fifteen was the value of his cloak and boots,” the merchant mused. “So our host can go fetch his horsewhip directly to settle the remaining matter of the dog

... Have I overlooked anything, Trader of Tales?”

“Entertainment,” I suggested. “I normally expect compensation when I regale a noble company, and you have certainly been enjoying yourself at my expense.”

His eyes seemed to darken. He pursed his thick lips like slabs of raw steak. “Indeed. Perhaps the price of a stein of ale before you depart would he only fair.”

 

 

“I have a suggestion,” the dowager announced in her croaky voice. Everyone looked respectfully in her direction.

“My lady?” the soldier murmured.

“Is not this Omar reputed to be the finest storyteller in the world?”

“Others have made that claim, ma'am,” I said hurriedly,

“but never I.”

The eyes peering at me were like amber in milk. “Do you deny it?”

“I cannot venture an opinion!” I shifted to ease my back farther from the heat. “I cannot listen to myself narrate in the way I can others. I have no basis for comparison.”

“Surely audience reaction provides such a comparison? But no matter. I shall certainly not venture up those stairs to an ice-cellar bedroom while this storm lasts. I shall remain here!

I expect many of us feel that way.”

“Indeed!” the merchant said thoughtfully, but his hand slid to his companion's thigh. “I suppose this is the warmest place. You propose that Omar be allowed to spin us one of his yarns, milady?”

She chuckled, a noise like snakes moving in dry leaves. “I propose a contest! After all, we have another professional here with us this evening.” The crone pulled a bundle of bony fingers from her muff and aimed one at the minstrel.

He flinched. “I am in no condition to sing for you tonight, my lady, much as I...” He doubled over in a massive sneeze.

“No, we do not expect you to sing, troubadour. But if I permit our host to add a stein of mulled ale to my account, could you manage to tell us a story, do you think?”

 

 

He brightened greatly. “Most kind of you, ma'am!”

She smiled, covering her paucity of teeth with the same shriveled hand. “And then Omar can try to top your tale! The rest of us shall be judges.”

The old hag knew how to brandish rank and authority; no one was going to oppose her very seriously. I decided that perhaps she was not quite as poisonous as she looked. My life expectancy had just increased by a half hour or more.

“This is a most promising proposition, ma'am,” the soldier said. “But the night is young yet. Why do we not extend the contest?”

She eyed him suspiciously. “What have you in mind, Captain?” I decided that they were acquainted and thus he must be in her hire. I had trouble visualizing a woman of her antiquity on horseback; of the men present, only he could be her coachman.

“Subject to our host's agreement, ma'am, I suggest that all seven of us tell a story. After each one, the Omar man will be required to better it. We shall vote on each pair.”

“Ah! Spoken like a strategist! And if he fails?”

“As soon as he fails, then the contest is over. The rest of us can repair to bed, leaving our host free to work out his grief over the dead dog and thereafter evict Omar from the house, as is his right.”

The dowager nodded graciously. “Is that agreeable to you, innkeeper?”

Only in the crocodile swamps of Darkest Arinba have I ever seen a grin to match the one the big lummox now wore as he thought of all the food and drink he was going to sell that night. “Whether he leaves now or at dawn will matter little, ma'am. These storms often last for days. As long as it is agreed that he must leave.”

“And you accept these terms, Omar?” asked the soldier.

I could not read the message in his eye, if there was one.

“Certainly not,” I said.

The shutters wailed. Nine frowns looked down at me.

Ah, the impetuosity of youth! Fritz was the first to speak.

“I think I will dispense with the horsewhip, Captain. Bare hands would be more fitting. I am always reminded of poor Tiny when I hear the crunch of breaking bones.” The oaf had no native humor at all; he was just playing up to his betters.

“Your choice, lad. Omar, have you a counterproposal?”

I was unworried by the prospect of seven story duels, but I could think of several improvements to the rules, the most obvious being that I should be allowed to depart safely and with a whole skin if I succeeded in besting all of my opponents. However, this happy ending would require that Fritz abandon his blood feud, which meant someone would have to buy him off. Only the merchant and the dowager had that kind of wealth, and neither seemed likely to make such a commitment.

But the festival surely could be spun out till dawn, and who knew what the gods might send with a new day?

“I have no quarrel with the contest,” I said, “but my journey was hard. I am hungry and thirsty. More important, I am inadequately dressed. To expect me to tell a convincing tale in my present costume is manifestly absurd.”

“Beggars cannot be choosers,” Fritz said.

 

 

“And honest men do not gloat!” Frieda declaimed, jumping up at his side.

He turned to look at her, first in astonishment and then with a flush of anger. She gave him no chance to speak, wagging a finger under his nose. Big woman though she was, she seemed small alongside him.

“You have very little cause to strut, brother! You were the one who set your dog to guard a man and then armed the man with an ax! I suppose you think it was your cleverness that brought him back here and threw him on your mercy? I say it was the gods’ justice. And I say that I will not see a man exhibited undressed. This is a decent house. You go straightaway upstairs and fetch some clothes for him!”

I had an ally. Indeed, I probably had at least two, for the old soldier had contrived to postpone my execution by several hours.

Fritz began a protest, but his sister planted both hands on his chest and pushed. She could not have moved him an inch had he put up any serious resistance, but he let himself be urged in the direction of the stair. With an angry growl, he went thumping up the steps.

Frieda ran around the counter, snatching the lantern from its hook as she went by and disappearing into the kitchen.

From my lowly place on the floor, I surveyed the audience.

The dowager was inscrutable, the soldier quietly amused, the little lady's maid shocked, the mousy notary disapproving.

The stringy minstrel had apparently failed to notice the byplay, lost in thought as he worried over the story he would tell. The actress flickered me a hint of a wink and the merchant raised his woolly caterpillar eyebrows in cynical admiration.

Frieda was the first to return. She came bustling over to me, bearing a wooden platter loaded with white cheese, yellow butter, fat onions, and two thick slabs of her own rye bread, which I remembered well from my previous visit. I sprang up. I did not accept the offering, although my mouth ached at the sight of it.

“The gods will repay your kindness, friend,” I said, “but I cannot. Nor will I risk being the cause of dissension in this house.”

“Why this sudden repentance? Here—eat fast!”

But already heavy steps overhead announced that Fritz had begun descending the ladder from the attic. I glanced meaningfully at the dowager. “Her ladyship proposed this encounter and undertook to fortify her champion in advance

... were she also to accept responsibility for this wonderful gesture of yours, so that I might enter the lists similarly prepared, then trouble could be averted.”

The old harridan glowered at me. Fritz's legs were coming into view on the stairs before she nodded agreement.

He reacted with a bull roar of rage when he saw my repast, but was cut short by explanations. He scowled at his sister to show he could guess whose idea it had been. He went off to amend the dowager's bill.

I donned the serviceable trousers and padded doublet he had brought. Of course they were grotesquely large for me, but the pant legs covered my toes and would keep my feet warm—I could see no chance of having to run anywhere that evening. I turned back the sleeves in cuffs that reached almost to my elbows. I was cumbersome as a turtle, my face disappearing into my collar whenever I tried to sup.

What matter? Aromatic mulled ale was distributed from the jug on the hob, and several of the others chose to refill their tankards at the same time, which somewhat restored our host's temper. I found a place on the bench next the notary, and proceeded to enjoy my meal as I have rarely enjoyed anything. Frieda resumed her previous place opposite, with Fritz squeezing in beside her. This meant that the two of us were unpleasantly close, our knees almost touching across the gap, but he seemed able to contain his desire for violence. Vengeance is always sweetest in anticipation.

At last we were all ready and naught could be heard but the banshee wailing of the storm and possibly my immodest crunching of onions.

“You may begin, minstrel,” the dowager said graciously.

“And begin by introducing yourself, so we know who you are.”

The minstrel sneezed four times in quick succession and dragged a slimy sleeve across his nose. “My lady,” he said in a painful croak, “my name is Gwill, son of the Gwill who was troubadour to the Count of Laila. My father, may the gods cherish his soul, apprenticed me to Rolfo, a minstrel of renown in the Winelands. My master treated me with kindness and schooled me in his craft according to the oath he had sworn my father. He trained me to perform upon the lute and cithern, taught me diverse lays, romances, and ballads. At his behest, I was accepted into the troubadours’

guild in Faima. Storytelling is not my usual—”

 

 

“What are you doing in the northern marches?” the crone demanded sharply. From the way she was peering, I realized that her eyesight must be poor. In that light, she would be almost blind.

The youth's face twisted in a wry smile. “I ventured to the Volkslander in the hope of taking service with some noble lord.”

“And why didn't you?”

“Alas, ma'am, I was not quite so ready for the big, wide world as I had hoped. The day I reached the free city of Gilderburg, when I was still walking around with my head back, marveling at the fine buildings, I was hailed by an elderly lady. She was bent over on her staff and heavy laden with a bundle. She timorously asked if I would be so kind as to carry it upstairs for her.

“In the Winelands, young men are expected to extend such courtesies to the elderly, and indeed to all the gentler sex. I shouldered her load gladly and proceeded into the dark alley she indicated. I took about three steps before I awoke lying in the filth with a lump on my head. My assailants had taken my lute, which was most precious to me, having been my father's, and had stripped me of all my money and even my garments, except the few I had left behind at my lodgings.

There was no sign of the old woman. I have heard it suggested that her disappearance shows she was one of the gang, and I had fallen into a trap, although even now I find that hard to believe.

“All my subsequent efforts have failed to recoup my fortunes. Discouraged, and loath to face the winter in these colder climes, I am making my way home again to the Winelands.”

He paused, but no one commented.

“If it please you, I shall tell you now the Tale of the Land of Many Gods.”

I almost choked on my feast in my efforts not to laugh. He could hardly have made a poorer choice. I did not then realize what had moved him to choose that story, nor where it would lead me that night.

 

 

 

3: The Minstrel's Tale

 

Gentle lords, fair ladies, may my tale please you. Tonight you have requested a story of me and your whims are my command, but her ladyship did not specify whether my narrative be sad or merry, frivolous or edifying, romantic or bloody. Having regard to my own plaintive health, the inclement disposition of the elements, and the pending sad demise of one of our number, I am moved to relate a tragedy.

Music is the keel of my craft, yet tonight I must strive to move you without its aid. My voice must walk, not dance.

Bear with me, I pray you, as I seek in stumbling fashion to follow the footsteps of a great tale-teller of yore. His name, curiously, was the same as that of one of our present company. Omar, he was called, or Homer in other dialects.

The name is common enough, and it may well be that sundry poets and narrators have borne it through the ages, in many lands, among many peoples.

The particular Omar of whom I speak was renowned as court storyteller for a certain king of Hilgamthar, a land far to the east, and served him well in that capacity for long years.

It is said that one day, when this Omar was very old and near to death, a certain princess, a granddaughter of the king, came to him as he sat in a garden. With vestments of snowy silk floating about her, with golden tresses shining around her head, she flitted through the trees like a butterfly borne on the summer wind. She was young and beautiful and merry, and her retinue of maidens trooping behind her in a sparkle of rainbow hues were young and merry as herself and many nigh as beautiful.

Omar was seated on a low wall by a pool of golden carp, under the shade of a willow, in the late afternoon. His beard was white, his countenance sad, and he spoke no word of greeting to the princess, but merely continued to study the play of sunlight on the scales of the fish in the deep waters.

“Omar!” the royal maid said. “We are bored. We wish you to tell us a story.” So saying, she sat down eagerly, cross-legged upon the grass, and all her retinue sat down around her, whispering excitedly at the prospect of hearing a tale from the great teller.

Omar sighed. “Highness! If you are bored in your youth and the clear light of summer, then how ever will you bear life when you are aged, when the wind is cold and frost blights the bloom? Come not to an old man for tales of what may have been, Princess, but go straightly and enjoy life as it should be—immediate and passionate and precious. Seek out joy and love and merriment, and do not trouble one who can barely remember those.” So saying, he returned to contemplation of the golden fish.

“Omar!” the princess retorted, in a voice she had learned from her mother. “You flaunt a royal command! Tell us a tale, a wondrous tale. Tell us a tale that you have never told before.”

Again the old man sighed. “There is only one tale that I have never told, sweet princess, and it is one I never wish to tell.”

 

 

Alas! Now the princess and all her maidens became most exceeding eager to hear the untold tale of Omar, chiding him for letting himself grow so old with yet a tale untold, lest it should be lost forever upon his death. With much importuning, with tears and tantrums and teasing, they at last persuaded the bard to tell them the story. Having extracted their promise that they would then depart and trouble him no more, he began, and he told them the Tale of the Land of Many Gods.

Far away to the west and long ago lay the Land of Seven Cities. It was known also as the Land Between the Seas, or the Smiling Land, or the Land of Many Gods. Warm oceans washed its shores to east and west. Dense jungle flanked it on the south and stark white ranges on the north. Three great cities stood along the western coast of the land: Kylam, Jombina, and Lambor. Three lined the east: Damvin, Ilmairg, and Myto. There was also Uthom in the Middle.

The people of the land were a cheerful and industrious folk, much given to music, dancing, and argument. Their women were skilled at spinning and dyeing and weaving, but spurned tailoring. Both sexes delighted in draping their bodies and limbs in sashes of contrasting hues and patterns. The resulting motley might be as demure or immodest as the wearer chose, and could be swiftly shifted from one to the other as circumstances required.

Rich and poor, men and women, town and country, the people of the land were renowned for their stubborn self-reliance.

 

 

The sons of cities were doughty sailors, trading to far countries. The sea, they said, made men hardy and tenacious.

The peasants drew obstinacy from the land itself. It was everywhere hilly. Villages of red-tiled, white-walled cottages nestled within little valleys among orchards and olive groves and smallholdings. Men who work their own humble plots of earth develop ways of thinking that seem quite foreign to the hired laborers of great ranches or paddy fields. Furthermore, the fertile soil was watered by copious rains. Rivers and canals obey the miserly whims of kings, but the gods bestow rain equally on all men. Such profligacy may have helped incite the people of the land to their peculiar notions of equality.

Obstinate ... but the people were frugal and obedient to their gods. Thereby they flourished. Surprisingly, by and large, they flourished in peace. The why of this was long pondered but too late understood.

A lack of horses was one reason. Sheep grazed the sunlit uplands, mules and bullock flourished on the flats. Horses did poorly. Having few horses, the land had no knights, no cavalry, no castles. Warfare, when it happened, was a clumsy affair of farm boys on foot throwing spears and then walking home to tend the crops again. It brought no profit and little glory, and was generally regarded as very foolish.

From time to time two cities might draw into dispute and others take sides in the argument, but because the seven were roughly equal in size, they tended to divide into evenly matched alliances. The larger group was rarely strong enough or stable enough to oppress the smaller.

Furthermore, the ruling families of the seven cities exchanged daughters in marriage as readily as they exchanged birthday greetings. Every ruler was related to all of the others. Any hotheaded young king who stepped beyond the bounds of family decorum would find legions of fearsome aunts and uncles descending on him and admonishing him severely.

But the real reason for the long peace of the Land Between the Seas was that it had so very many gods. Every family cherished its own god. Families might rise and fall, but none ever turned away from its household deity, and the gods in turn looked after their children.

The gods’ names were very ancient, so that whatever meanings they might once have had were now lost: Voxkan and Graim and Dralminth, for example. The people were named after them. Merchants from other lands might smirk in their beards when they traded with Upright-tree of Voxkan, Shining-helmet of Graim, or Fair-pearl of Dralminth, but the natives of the land saw nothing amusing in the practice, for that was how it had always been done.

Had the Land of Many Gods continued to prosper as it did in those days of yore, then I should have no tale to tell except directions on how to reach it. Alas, this was not to be.

Karzvan was the god of the ruling family of Uthom in the Middle. Old tradition claimed that Karzvan meant “mighty,”

but there was no written evidence to support this belief.

Perchance he was not as mighty as he had been, or perchance the burden of centuries had made him inattentive to his duties, but it came to pass that a certain king of Uthom in the Middle grew old without heir.

His name was Brazen-horn of Karzvan, and one day he came to the tastefully appointed shrine in the palace where the image of the royal god abode. The image was very ancient, cunningly carved from a jade of the deepest green in the form of a grasshopper some two hands high. It stood on an altar of fretted marble, surrounded by jewels and precious trinkets that members of the family had donated over the years. This day Brazen-horn knelt and made offering in proper style of a pearl of unusual pink hue, one he had hoarded many years for just such a need. Then the king lamented in this wise:

“Most Holy Father Karzvan, hear my prayer! I am weary of years and my strength flags. My dear wife is barren and like to remain so. I have spoken to you on this matter oftentimes before, and you have chosen not to send us a miracle, so I accept that this be your will. I am loath to put her aside and take another wife, and I fear now that the substitution would be equally fruitless—barring miracles, that is. So it would seem that I must die without issue. My city will be left without a ruler, Most Holy Father, and you without worshippers to praise you and bring offerings.

“I have examined most carefully the lineages of my family and the ruling families of the other six cities. I have nephews and great-nephews uncountable, yea, aunts innumerable; uncles, nieces, and cousins to the farthest remove, but I can find no stripling whom I could adopt as my successor without stirring up serious dispute among his relatives and the other five cities. Grant me your divine wisdom upon this matter, I pray you.”

After due consideration, the god replied. “My son, you have appraised the situation precisely. Loud-thunder of Maith is a malleable young man, but his brothers-in-law are jealous of him, and notoriously impetuous. Sweet-waters of Jang is a hothead, Pillared-virtue of Colim a libertine. And so it goes.

Harken, therefore, and do as I say. Summon the people of our city to an assembly, and bid them choose eight persons of wisdom and integrity, who shall be your ministers for the next twelve months. Then let them rule in your name. Whatever edicts they lay before you, no matter how ill-considered, sign without demur.”

“I hear, Most Holy Father,” quoth the king, “but I fail to understand. I have reigned with your blessing for nigh on threescore years; my skill and sagacity are widely praised, although of course I make no such claims myself, attributing all goodness to your guidance. My wits, at least, continue to function. Surely eight amateurs—lesser nobles or perchance even commoners may be selected, for you know how folly flourishes when folk flock in large numbers—surely these eight will make a truly festering cacophony of running the government?”

Of course the god did not answer, for gods never explain.

So Brazen-horn arose and went and did as he was bid. The people were surprised, but obedient. They elected eight representatives and he appointed them his ministers. As he had predicted, they squabbled and blundered and raised taxes, but all in all they did not do as badly as he had feared they might.

At the end of the year, Brazen-horn returned to his god and again made sumptuous offering in proper form. He said a prayer or two concerning certain medical matters and then got around to asking what he should do next about the government.

“Same again,” the god said. “Have the people elect another eight, or the same eight if they prefer. They will learn, and their delegates will learn, also.”

Although Brazen-horn was now convinced that God Karzvan had taken leave of his senses, he again carried out his orders, and the second year things went a little better.

The people learned that they could grumble without being disloyal, because the ministers were not beloved kings above reproach, but only rather stupid people like themselves, probably even more stupid. The ministers discovered that office had undoubted advantages, but they knew they would not be reelected unless they governed well, so mostly they tried their best. Each kept watch that none of the others got away with more than he did, and this kept corruption within limits.

Several years went by. Brazen-horn of Karzvan died. He was mourned, but not greatly missed, for the government now ran without him. The people continued to elect their magistrates; the magistrates continued to want to be reelected. There was grumbling and argument, but the unsatisfied knew they had only to wait another year until they could throw the rascals out, and even if they did not throw the rascals out, they felt better for having had a chance to try. Merchants and farmers and artisans were raised to high office, and the laws they made naturally tended to favor merchants and farmers and artisans. Trade flourished. Great buildings transformed the city.

With his dying words, Brazen-horn had begged his ministers to take care of his family god, for now Karzvan had no surviving children to bring him offerings and speak his praise. Of course each of the magistrates had a household god of his own. To take home another would certainly provoke trouble, so after some debate the eight decided that the whole city should adopt the orphaned god—after all, it was he who had made it possible for them to hold office and enjoy the perquisites they were enjoying, although none of them put the matter quite so crudely as that.

Thus Karzvan became civic god of Uthom in the Middle and accepted its people as his family.

Soon the people of the other cities began to take notice.

They wondered why the inhabitants of Uthom in the Middle were citizens while they were only subjects. They wondered why they were being taxed to install marble bathtubs in the palace when Uthom in the Middle was building public toilets.

They wondered why they had to guard their tongues while the citizens of Uthom in the Middle were free to utter any slander imaginable, and often did, especially at election time.

The royal families noticed, also. The aunts and uncles met and agreed that they ought to impose a king again on Uthom in the Middle to end to such dangerous experimentation. The vote on that was unanimous. There remained only the question of which prince should be the one imposed. Years of discussion failed to reduce the number of candidates to less than six.

Even the gods noticed. They observed that Karzvan resided in a grand public temple instead of a poky little shrine somewhere in the back of a palace. They observed also that he had thousands of people bringing him offerings and speaking his praise.

City after city demanded the right to elect magistrates.

King after king discovered to his astonishment that his family god supported the idea. Some kings resisted. Alas, struck down by public violence or sudden fever, they all died young and childless. Others complied, but thereafter they sank rapidly to the status of ceremonial puppets, allowed to do nothing more significant than cut ribbons and read speeches written by their ministers.

Soon all the cities were functioning democracies and each had a magnificent temple. Sometimes now the land was referred to as the Land of Seven Gods.

The new regime worked well for a while—not an especially long while or an especially short while ... a while that might seem long to men and short to gods, perhaps. When the grandsons of the grandsons of the first magistrates were selflessly serving their respective cities, trouble arose on both shores of the Land Between the Seas.

To the west, Kylam had been growing steadily larger and richer, taking trade away from its neighbors, Jombina and Lambor.

 

 

To the east, the harbor at Damvin was silting up. Business fell off, year by year, going instead to Ilmairg and Myto.

The magistrates of Damvin consulted their god Oliant, but the god was singularly noncommittal about silt. The magistrates ordered a new and larger temple built, to house a new and larger image of Oliant, who was always portrayed as a seated, potbellied man with a bear's head. The harbor continued to silt up. Other magistrates were elected. They ordered special offerings to the god, more frequent festivals in his honor, continuous chanting to entertain him, fresh wreaths hung about his neck daily. There was no visible improvement in the state of the harbor.

As the next elections grew closer and the magistrates of Damvin more worried, they were visited by a man who gave his name as Black-hair of Lusitair. He wore odd-colored motley and spoke with a funny western accent. There was something furtive about him; he insisted that the meeting be held in a private house, after dark. Even then, he seemed strangely reluctant to get down to business.

“Your Honors,” he said eventually, glancing over his shoulder and edging forward in his chair, “here in the east, one city grows poor and two grow rich. On the other coast, the reverse applies. Two dwindle and one waxes.”

“What of it?” demanded the current chairman, Honest-servant of Girb.

“Not so loud!” Black-hair whispered. “Now we all know that magistrates come and go. Some are good, some bad. Some are clever, some honest. By and large, though, it seems likely that all cities must have about the same run of luck in their officials, does it not? Over the long term, that is?”

His audience exchanged worried glances. Then they all leaned a little closer. Honest-servant murmured, “Continue!”

“So just possibly the varied fortunes of a city may depend upon the competence of its god? Over the long term, I mean.”

“Well...”

“Yes?”

“Carry on.”

Black-hair squirmed, then drew a deep breath. “It has come to my attention, Your Honors, that the cities of Jombina and Lambor are seriously considering taking action against the puffed-up, degenerate, greedy hyenas of Kylam!”

“What sort of action?” asked Shining-morning of Haun, who was not quite as bright as the other seven, although his honesty was never questioned.

“Oh ... stealing its ships, throwing down its docks, burning its warehouses, looting its treasury, possibly abducting its leading merchants and seamen. I speak figuratively, of course.”

“Of course,” the eight agreed quickly.

“Now the brave citizens of Lambor and Jombina are confident that their righteous cause will prevail, if the two of them act together—and act soon, before the rapacious carrion-eaters of Kylam grow any fatter. However, the assistance of a third ally would certainly be advantageous in maintaining investor confidence.”

“But how would that help us?” Shining-morning inquired.

 

 

“What he means is,” Honest-servant said, and paused to consider the matter. “What we need to know is, how would a theoretical third ally, if there were such a party, benefit from the humbling of Kylam?”

“Well,” Black-hair muttered, shifting even farther forward and glancing over his other shoulder, “while most of the, ah, compensation could be divided equitably between the two principals, there is one asset in Kylam that is indivisible.

Neither would want the other to have it, you understand, and yet neither would wish to leave it where it is, if you follow me.

But both might be willing to see it removed to some distant location where its potentially beneficial influence could not prejudice their respective interests.”

Seven magistrates just pursed their lips thoughtfully, but Shining-morning said, “Huh?”

So it came to pass, a few weeks after this conversation, that three hurriedly gathered armies converged upon the unfortunate city of Kylam. Its ships were stolen, its docks thrown down, its warehouses burned, its treasury looted, and its leading merchants and seamen were carried off into slavery in a far country across the western ocean. The panther image of Jang, its god, was borne in triumph to Damvin and installed in the great temple. Oliant was removed to a very small temple on a back street and forgotten.

The other cities of the Land Between the Seas were shocked by this outrage. They waited to see what would happen.

What happened was that a series of heavy storms caused a certain tributary to burst its banks and permanently change its course. The flow of water in the Damvin River was increased and the silt washed from the harbor.

Then all the cities began building walls, training armies, importing weapons and horses, and generally preparing for war.

Preparing for war, as was well known in other lands but perhaps not then in that one, is usually a self-fulfilling precaution. Soon the people of the Land of Seven Cities were learning the joys and sorrows of sieges, looting, crop-burning, slavery, slaughter, and wholesale rape. Famine, pestilence, and excessive taxation followed.

The surviving population of Kylam, feeling bereft, made a daring midnight raid on Jombina and bore its god Colim home in triumph. The army of Jombina advanced on Myto, demanding that it deliver Holy Maith into its hands.

How long this might continue, only the gods knew, and perhaps not even they.

One god who did not approve was Karzvan of Uthom in the Middle.

“This,” he told the assembled magistrates of his city one day, “has got to stop!”

The eight bowed their heads to the floor in consent. They were already on their knees, so even the oldest were able to participate in the maneuver. Karzvan's temple was one of the more splendid, if not the most splendid, in the whole Land Between the Seas. It had marble pillars and a very impressive granite floor. Karzvan himself was now almost as tall as a man, although the greenstone from which he was now carved was not as lustrous as pure jade, nor the artistry as subtle as before. His left mandible was slightly shorter than his right, for example. But the offerings heaped around him were beyond reproach.

“Half the revenues are being wasted on weaponry,” the grasshopper said petulantly. “My new east portico is taking forever. I have no desire to find myself removed by force to a damp maritime climate. Is it not obvious that someone will have to take charge?” He did not wait for an answer. “Is it not obvious that Uthom in the Middle is destined by its unique location to be the premier city of all the land? And I to be its premier god?” he added, in case the magistrates were lagging behind his revelation.

“Verily it is so,” the current chairman said.

“Then we need to take charge,” the god continued. “As we cannot trust any of the other gods, I mean cities, to cooperate in realizing our grandeur, we shall have to look farther afield.”

Woe, woe! My tale has grown dark, and now it grows darker. Instructed by their civic god, the magistrates of Uthom in the Middle sent out emissaries to the Horsefolk.

Beyond the ice-clad peaks, through perilous passes, lay a land of grassy steppes, where dwelt a savage race of nomad herders. I would have mentioned them sooner had there been any need. Since the world was young they had wandered in small tribes, savage and barbaric and much too intent on their own blood feuds to bother with the civilized lands of the south.

 

 

Now it chanced that a leader had arisen among them, and his name was Hannail, who was later to be Hannail the Terrible.

Even as a young man, barely bearded, he became known as a fierce fighter, one whom the Horsefolk termed a drinker of blood. One day he rode alone far into the mountains. He was being pursued, his shaggy pony was lame, and he was near to death from hunger and cold, for he wore only the leather trousers of his people, inadequate garb for the high country.

He came at last to a stony slope, below a high cliff, and observed above him the mouth of a great cave. He dismounted and led his horse up the scree to inspect the opening, hoping it would provide safe refuge for the night.

The wind was in the north.

Before he could enter, a great voice spoke to him out of the cave, saying, “WHOO ARE YOU?”

His mount shied. He struggled to hold it, and the two of them slid some way down the slope. When he had brought the beast under control again, he led it once more up to the cave, although every hair on his carcass had risen in fear.

“I am Hannail!” he proclaimed.

“Hannail of WHOM?”

“Hannail of no god,” the young man replied. “I slew my father and uncles and their god cast me out. Now my brothers and cousins pursue me to kill me.”

“I am HOOL,” the voice said. “Bow down and worship MEEE and take MEEE for your god, and I shall make YOU ruler over AAALL the Horsefolk.”

 

Hannail laughed joyously and fell on his face, worshipping Hool and taking him to be his god evermore.

“It is GOOD,” the god replied. “Now sacrifice your mount to MEEE.”

Hannail was benighted in a barren land, without food or water, or any transportation other than his faithful pony, but he drew his sword and cut its throat, offering it to Hool and smearing blood on his forehead in the way of his people.

Shortly thereafter his brothers and cousins rode up and surrounded him as he stood defiantly before the cave, making no move to take up his sword or bow.

“Prepare to die,” they said, and some of the less subtle among them added, “painfully.”

“Harken to me first!” Hannail replied, and he told them of his new god and how Hool had promised to make him ruler over all the Horsefolk, and he praised the power and cruelty of Hool.

His brothers and cousins scoffed and demanded that the god confirm these events, else they would proceed to flay the outlaw as custom demanded.

So Hannail called on the god to witness. At first there was no response, but he did not waver in his faith, continuing to call out the praises of Hool, even when his captors threw him down and began to rip the skin from his body. Then the wind shifted back to the north and the god spoke again from the cave.

“Behold Hannail, my chosen one,” the god said, “WHO I SEE is steadfast. GO where he leads. Slay WHOM HEEE

DOOMS. Destroy AAALL other gods and worship only HOOL.”

 

 

Then all the brothers and cousins fell on their faces and swore to worship Hool and obey Hannail, his chosen one.

They took out the little images that all the men of their people carried with them; they smashed their previous gods.

They knelt to Hannail and demanded that he lead them wherever he chose.

All that Hool had promised came to pass. None could stand against Hannail. Before his first sons took wives, he ruled all the Horsefolk and there was no other god among them but Hool. Then Hannail was yet a man in his strength, a drinker of blood, and he could find no enemy on the steppes.

Then it was that the emissaries of Uthom in the Middle came through the passes and sought audience with the leader of the Horsefolk.

“Hear the words of Holy Karzvan,” they said. “‘My city is destined to be premier city of the seven, and yet the six defy me. Send your fierce young men on their horses to chastise the upstarts in my name. My messengers bring gold, and you may also take home with you all the loot you can carry from the six. Their youths will be your slaves, their maidens your pleasure, without limit or mercy. Spare only Uthom in the Middle.'”

When the messengers had spoken and Hannail had seen them put to death—that being his custom—he rode off alone, up into the mountains, to the sacred cave. There was no temple there, no priests, no image, for Hool was a stern god, requiring his people to worship him without the help of such frippery. Only a gravel of white bones upon the slope showed that this was the home of a god.

 

 

Hannail waited on the barren slope for several days, until the wind was in the north, for by now he knew that his god preferred it so. Then he knelt and told the words of the emissaries to Hool.

“It is GOOD!” Hool replied, louder than Hannail had ever heard him. “Take your fierce young men and GO into the Land Between the Seas and despoil it. THROW down the seven gods of the seven cities and let the people raise NO

other gods in their place. Start with the one in the middle, whatever it was. BEEE terrible.”

Overjoyed at these commands, Hannail hurled himself prostrate on the cold sharp stones. “Holy Father, I shall make the dogs worship you by night and by day forever!”

“No!” Hool said. “If YOU make them worship MEEE, then they also will be my people. Torment them in my name if you like, make them fear ME by all means, but do not let them make me their god. YOU are my chosen one. I give my solemn promise that your SEED shall RULE the Land Between the Seas as long as the sun MOVES.”

And so it was.

Hannail of Hool became Hannail the Terrible. He led the Horsefolk through the passes. He came first to Uthom in the Middle and laid it waste, smashing Karzvan himself to green gravel, which he scattered in the cesspits. Then he worked his way around the coast, razing Kylam, Jombina, Lambor, Damvin, Ilmairg, and Myto, also, although not necessarily in that order. The Land of Seven Cities became a land of no cities. The Land Between the Seas was filled with lamentation from coast to coast, and the Smiling Land smiled no more.

 

 

The Land of Many Gods became at last a land of no gods at all.

Thus spoke the Omar of old, Omar of Hilgamthar, of whom I told you.

When Omar had done, the princess sprang up in a terrible rage and said that that was the worst story she had ever heard, and subversive.

“That is why I have never told it before,” Omar replied patiently.

But the princess was not comforted. She ran weeping to her grandfather the king, with her retinue of maidens weeping behind her. All trying to speak at once, they told the king of the terrible tale that Omar had related. The king agreed that it was a wicked story, casting aspersions upon the motives of gods. He banished Omar from the court and the old man was seen in Hilgamthar no more.

Gentle lords, fair ladies, may my words have pleased you!

 

 

 

4: Interlude

 

The minstrel's tale was followed by a thin and bewildered silence within the taproom. The wind howled mockingly in the eaves and the forest beyond. Smoke puffed from the fireplace.

The dowager was nodding in her chair. On the other side the hearth, the actress had her head on the merchant's shoulder. She was probably very uncomfortable, but that was her business. Of course it was.

Nearer to hand, Frieda's head rested on Fritz's shoulder. It was a larger shoulder, although doubtless much firmer, and regrettably she seemed quite content, with her eyes closed.

He caught me looking at her and scowled dangerously.

The note I had discovered in the rye bread was now in my doublet pocket. I had not yet had a chance to read it.

The red-eyed, red-nosed minstrel tilted his stein in the hope that there might be a drop left in it, or that someone would notice that there wasn't. His voice had failed almost completely by the end. He looked ready for early burial. If a fever cart happened by, it would accept him as he was, without argument.

I gave him a smile of thanks, although it was an effort for me. Had he really thought I needed help like that? I noted a cynical glint in the soldier's eye and knew he was thinking the same.

 

 

“If you believe you can better that tale, Master Omar, then I suppose you may begin,” he said cheerfully. The company stirred.

“It was certainly a curious choice,” the notary murmured at my side. “Interminable exposition with a regrettable absence of uplifting moral.”

The dowager's old eyes opened in a flurry of wrinkles. “We should not prejudge!” she snapped. “Refrain from comment until we have heard the response. You may proceed, Master Omar.”

“The fire needs stoking, my lady. Innkeeper, give the minstrel a stein of spiced ale and put it on my bill.”

Fritz glared at me and his knuckles whitened. Then he rose to attend to the hearth.

“Put it on mine,” the merchant said. “The poor devil surely needs it.”

Good for old Moneybags-Under-the-Eyes! The minstrel croaked his gratitude.

“Perhaps a cup of your herbal tea, hostess?” the dowager said. “You, child?”

“Oh, yes, thank you, my lady.” Had the maid no name of her own, or had her mistress never bothered to learn it? Her coat was thin and coarse-woven. I had not heard her speak before, and had rarely glimpsed her face, for the brim of her bonnet concealed it. I suspected she was cold. Perhaps she just did not get enough to eat.

The merchant ordered ale for himself and his wife, or supposed wife. The notary fumbled unobtrusively in his pouch and then said perhaps half a flagon of the small beer—a thought to make me shudder.

Frieda had gone to make the tea, her hand brushing my shoulder as she went by. Fritz was keeping careful watch on us, even as he tended to his duties. I fingered the note in my pocket—his pocket, actually, as it was his doublet I wore.

What message had his sister passed to me? The gaiety and humor she had displayed on my last visit were sadly absent.

Could a few more months of living with the boor have depressed her spirits so, or was she merely worried about my chances of surviving the night?

I wished I could do something to brighten her life. As my old friend the Blessed Osmosis of Sooth used to teach the Faithful, the devil you know may be a lot less fun than some of the others. There was more to it than that, I think, but I forget what.

“Hannail the Terrible begat Nonnil,” I remarked. “Nonnil begat Grosail the Gruesome. Grosail—”

“We are not ready!” the dowager snapped. She was obviously in a very snappish mood, and understandably so after the minstrel's performance.

“I wasn't actually starting,” I said. “Just laying a base. The Land Between the Seas made a sort of recovery. The cities were sad wraiths of their former glory, of course.”

“Cannot we have a tale set in a more salubrious environment?” the notary whined.

I beamed at him. “A tragedy must be met with a tragedy, or how will you judge between them? Kylam, fifty years later... Can you imagine fifty years of rule by the Horsefolk barbarians? Horrible, pale-haired monsters!”

Fritz happened to be going by at that moment with the big copper jug. For a moment I thought he was going to stun me with it. Frieda shot me a warning glance, as if to tell me that he was serious in his threats to kill me—but I knew that already.

When all was settled again, with wood on the fire and my audience waiting, I began.

“I am Omar the Trader of Tales, but you know that. What was the Gwill's formula?—'Gentle lords, fair ladies, may my tale please you'? Hear, then, the Tale of White-thorn of Verl.”

 

 

 

5: Omar's Response to the Minstrel's Tale All night long, White-thorn had been helping tend the wounded, the bereaved, the lost children. At dawn she slipped away and went home through the empty streets and the dim, cold light. As she climbed the stairs to her room, every creaking tread seemed to cry out in the silent house. She had sent the servants away the previous evening, for the home of Morning-star would certainly be burned before this day was out, and anyone found in it would die.

It was a modest house in a modest street, not far from the docks. For half a century no citizen of Kylam had dared display wealth. The Horsefolk overlords ruled by terror. Any native who raised his head higher than other heads lost it; his goods were confiscated, his womenfolk despoiled and likely murdered, also.

She went first to her father's room. The bed was tidily made, his favorite clothes still hung in the closet, his brushes lay on the dresser, and yet already the chamber seemed abandoned and haunted.

From the secret panel above the bed, White-thorn took out the least loved of the family heirlooms, a small and thin stiletto, razor sharp, crafted in some far-off land. It had belonged to her great-grandmother, so her father had told her, but he know no more of its history. He did not know if it had ever been used. The faint encrustation on its blade might or might not be poison. Today she might discover if that family legend was true.

 

 

She crossed to her mother's portrait. Golden-bough smiled down at her daughter as she had always smiled at her, for as long as White-thorn could remember. She looked very little older than White-thorn herself now. She had not lived long after that picture was painted, just until the afternoon she had run afoul of a band of Horsefolk thugs in the street. They had raped her on the cobbles and then killed her, while the people of Kylam hurried by unseeing. The atrocity had been a political statement, a demonstration of superiority. Golden-bough had merely been the first attractive woman the brutes had encountered after receiving their orders.

Faint childhood memories twisted in White-thorn's heart like skewers. “Good-bye, Mother,” she whispered. “You understand. I hope I shall be worthy of your memory.”

She rose on tiptoe to kiss the portrait. She had done that only once before, the night Sea-breaker had asked how she would feel if his father came to call on her father to negotiate a marriage union between their two houses. The betrothal had followed, but the wedding had been delayed by the revolution. Where now was Sea-breaker of Kraw? Facedown in the red pools of Mill Creek? Or buried on the field alongside Morning-star of Verl and so many, many others?

Back in her own room, White-thorn washed and brushed out her hair. Shivering, not entirely from cold, she took thought to the clothes she would wear. Under the rule of the Horsefolk, the people of the Land Between the Seas—especially the women—had learned to dress in public both modestly and unobtrusively. Only in the privacy of their homes had they dared sport the traditional styles of their ancestors, brilliant motleys leaving limbs exposed. In the last few weeks they had joyfully returned to the old ways, and the streets had flowered again with color and beauty. Now the brief spring of the revolution had withered and barbarian winter returned.

She began with one of her favorites, a swatch she had woven herself from the finest wool obtainable, a cloth as sheer and light as thin cotton, in scarlet and emerald. She draped it over her left shoulder. The hems fell below her knees. She spread it out on the bed and ripped a third from its length.

For her right shoulder she chose a silk that had belonged to her grandmother, copper blossoms on a ground of peacock blue. She discarded half of it, then wound a golden sash around her waist, spreading the hanging ends of the other cloths to form skirts.

She donned her silver slippers, her great-grandmother's onyx earrings, the pearl necklace Sea-breaker had given her to mark their betrothal. She must not think of Sea-breaker.

She knew her father was dead. She would not abandon hope for her love. There had to be some reason to go on living, and a highly speculative vengeance was not enough.

Only then did she dare look in the mirror. Her heart pounded, her breath came in nervous gasps. Bare arms, bare legs, breasts barely covered—she would not have appeared before her father like this, and certainly not before Sea-breaker, not until their wedding night. Even by her own standards she was flaunting herself shamelessly, and barbarians would react with fury. So be it, shame was the least of her worries now. She would bait the trap with her own body.

One thing more—she concealed the stiletto in her waistband.

White-thorn descended the stairs and entered the hall, striving to hold her head high and walk calmly. Some of her remote ancestors had owned proper halls, great halls, halls capable of seating dozens. This one had been crowded when the eight leaders of the resistance had met in it.

The little alcove above the hearth was occupied. Every home in Kylam and the whole Land Between the Seas had an alcove above its central hearth. Once the household gods had lived in those niches. Then the Horsefolk had come and smashed all the gods they could find. Only the empty spaces had remained as memories of lost freedoms. That niche had been empty all White-thorn's life, except on special occasions when her father had banished the servants, locked the doors, and brought Verl out from his secret place to worship him.

When his daughter had reached the end of her childhood, he had presented her to the god, and thereafter they had worshipped Verl together.

A month ago the gods of the Land Between the Seas had returned to their places again. Verl stood in his now, the niche that was his by ancient right, a small white dove. He was not very lifelike or beautiful, just a pottery image of a bird. One eye was a small black stone and the other an empty hole. His legs and feet were fashioned of twisted wire and he had lost a couple of toes. He was very old, a thousand years old or more. He was White-thorn's family god and she loved him.

She sank to her knees and bowed her head. On the fireplace before her lay a sword and a golden chain, both encrusted with black bloodstains.

“Most Holy Father, hear my prayer. I have no offering to give you—”

“You offer your life,” a whisper said. “Can any god ask more? You always called me ‘Mother’ before.”

White-thorn smiled through sudden tears. “I am head of the family now. I thought that ‘Father’ was more apt.”

“Whichever you prefer,” the dove murmured, her voice soft as a distant purr among rocks. “You are the last of my chicks, at least for now, and that is all that matters. Anyway, who can tell a father pigeon from a mother pigeon except another pigeon?”

“Holy Mother, then,” White-thorn said gratefully. “Give me courage to do what I must do.”

“I cannot give you courage, my child. You already have as much and more as any of your ancestors, and I have known your family for nigh threescore score summers and winters. I am proud of you, as I am proud of Morning-star, who came to me two days ago in honor. None in your line ever stood higher than he.”

White-thorn fought back a sob. “I have no offering, Most Holy Mother. I ask leave to remove this one.” She laid her hand upon the odious chain.

The god sighed. “It will increase your danger mightily.”

“And my chance of success?”

 

 

“That, also, yes. So take it with my blessings.”

White-thorn lifted the chain. It was heavier than it looked.

It chinked and was odiously cold in her fingers. She laid it beside her on the rug. “And your sacred person, Lady? Shall I return you to your hiding place?”

There was a silence. Then the god sighed. “I am only a very small divinity, dear one. I can see but a very little way into the future. I know not if you will live or die today, but I do know this house will not stand tomorrow. Even your scullery maids know that. So wrap me in a plain rag and take me with you. Give me to a stranger and bid him keep me safe until the time is ripe. He will understand.”

“Stranger?” White-thorn cried, looking up in shock at the little image. “To guard our household god? And which stranger?”

“It must be so. A foreigner. You will know him when you meet him. Hurry, child! The time for sacrifice draws nigh. The barbarians are dousing their fires upon the hills.”

White-thorn shivered convulsively. She felt her bones melt with fear. She thought of the smiling picture on the wall upstairs.

“Courage, last of my chicks!” the dove purred softly. “Be brave and you may not be the last. Be brave and we may have vengeance.”

* * *

 

Draped in a drab cloak of heavy wool, clutching her two small bundles, White-thorn hurried to the palace. The sky was blue already; sunlight glinted on the chimney pots and the tiled roofs of Kylam. The wind wafted a tang of the sea along streets still shadowed. Dogs wandered aimlessly, seeming puzzled by the silence, the absence of people. The docks would be different. There would be crowds at the docks, crazy, panic-ridden multitudes. Children weeping, adults screaming.

Two days ago, the battle at Mill Creek.

Last night, the fires of the victorious Horsefolk upon the hills.

Today began the vengeance.

Kylam would die first, because it was closest and because a magistrate of Kylam had raised the banner of revolution.

Uthom would be last. There was nowhere to run to from Uthom. So the vengeance would begin in the ports: Kylam, then Jombina, and all the others in their turn. Quite possibly Vandok would divide his forces, sending half to ravage the east while he dealt with the west. Why should he not? There was no opposing army left in the field. The land lay helpless before his wrath. Naked and defenseless and spread-eagled on the ground...

White-thorn came into the plaza and still saw almost no one. One ancient beggar was huddled in a corner of the steps, at his usual post. He had always been there, for as long as she could remember, a beggar so blind as to be invisible to everyone else. Was he puzzled by the silence? Had nobody told him? Or was he just aware that, with no one's chances much good, a blind beggar's must be hopeless? She wished she had brought some money. It would do no good lying at home, and it might have let the old man die happy in his sudden wealth.

She did not approach the beggar. She hurried up the steps to the shining pillars.

There was no doubt where the fury would begin. This was the only truly notable building in the city. Vandok would start here, where his father had died.

Once it had been the temple of Jang, in the days before the Damvinians had stolen him away to be their god. For a short while it had been the temple of Colim, when Kylam had managed to steal the baby god from Jombina. Then the barbarians had come and there had been no more gods. The temple had served as the governor's palace ever since. On the dread occasions when the king came over the mountains to enjoy the sport in his southern domain, it had sometimes served as royal palace, also.

“If they would only stay!” Morning-star had mourned to his daughter many times. “If they would just settle down and reside among us, then we could civilize them! A generation, perhaps two, and the Horsefolk dwelling amongst us would be indistinguishable from the natives. Hannail was too clever, or his god was. One or other of them saw the danger. So they send their sons to torment us, but then they call them back to marry within the tribes, dispatching a new contingent to afflict us afresh. The Land is not a vassal state, it is a deer forest!”

Climbing the great stairs, White-thorn realized that she had lost her fear. It would return later, probably much greater. Fear of death, fear of pain. Fear and pain were certain, death probable. Do not think of it! Think of vengeance. Think of Father, dying bravely on the field of battle. Many people had told her he had died gloriously, but she did not believe that death could ever be glorious, or anything but horrible, no matter how it came. So he had not died gloriously, and she could not imagine him dying any way but bravely.

She strode through the portico and into the basilica itself.

It was a high, cold, sterile place, although there were fine carvings on the ceiling still. The Horsefolk had long since smashed all the ornamentation they could reach, and any soul or majesty the hall might once have possessed they had banished with their atrocities. Men and women had starved to death in cages in this hall, been burned in this hall, been mutilated, humiliated, butchered. Raped.

The throne had gone—it had been dragged out less than an hour after the rebels had declared it a chopping block, and Morning-star himself had cut off King Grosail's head on it. An oaken council table had been installed instead, and the magistrates had met there every day, while the people had trooped in by the hundred, to stand around in silence and watch, marveling at the restoration of their liberties, the freedoms their grandparents had described.

She stopped in surprise. She had expected the hall to be as empty as the streets, or at least she would have expected to hear voices. But there were many people present. Four or five sat at the table. A score of attendants waited on them. A hundred or more stood around among the pillars in somber silence. They were watching the sun set, the brief flame gutter.

 

 

She saw bandaged stumps, men on crutches. Even children had been brought to witness the end of the momentary dream. So not all the citizens had fled to the hills or the ships.

She hesitated, studying the group at the table and identifying the surviving leaders of the resistance. Old Pure-valor of Faro was there, bent and white-haired. High-endeavor of Kalint, his arm in a sling and his head bandaged

... He was one who had told her that Morning-star had died gloriously. Even a couple of new widows she recognized in the background. Defeated, bereaved, wounded. A lump rose in her throat. The human rubble of Kylam.

Those men would certainly stop her carrying out her intent.

Suddenly her knees began to shake. The fear came rushing back. As long as her ordeal had been inevitable ...

But now perhaps it might be avoided ... Was hope harder to bear than doom? ... Ridiculous! She straightened her shoulders. But how could she manage to evade these ghouls, these watchers over a corpse?

Whatever were they doing here?

“Waiting for terms,” said a voice at her side.

Realizing that she must have spoke aloud, she glanced at the speaker. Then she took another look.

He was a man of middle height, of middle years—slim, confident, neatly groomed. His short beard was striped with gray. His hair was curly, flecked with silver, also, and cut oddly short There was nothing special about his face, and yet...

 

 

“They expect Vandok to demand the surrender of the city,”

he said, regarding her intently.

“Will he?” she asked.

“I don't think so. I think he'll come and take it.”

“And burn it.”

“Certainly.”

What was it she sensed about him? His eyes were grayish, which was rare in the Land Between the Seas. He was the only man she had seen in weeks without a sword or at least a quarterstaff. There was an unfamiliar timbre to his voice, and a faint odor of the sea clung to him. He wore salt-stained sailors’ breeches and a open-fronted shirt that had once been fancy. Now it was faded and threadbare; half the embroidery had fallen out. A bundle wrapped in a grubby blanket lay at his feet.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“A wanderer, my lady.” He seemed puzzled by her, or just very curious. He had the same alert confidence that her father had ... had had.

“You come at an evil time, traveler. You should not linger here.”

He shook his head and smiled. There was something reassuring about his smile, and yet something unfathomably sad in it, too. “I am by way of being a connoisseur of bad times, milady. There was a battle, I hear. I missed the battle.” He frowned. “Most odd!”

“Why so?” She wondered why she was wasting time talking.

 

 

“Oh, my timing is usually better. The gods arrange ... No matter. Who are you?”

“A woman of the city.”

He raised his eyebrows. “A lady of the city. Pray tell me.”

If he could see how she was dressed under her cloak, he would not think her a lady. “White-thorn of Verl.”

His eyebrows rose higher. “Morning-star's daughter?” He bowed low. “You, especially, should not linger!”

“I have a duty.” Why mention that to a complete stranger?

A stranger! Who else but this man?

She held out one of her bundles, awkwardly clutching her cloak tight with her other hand. “I was told to give you this.”

He cocked his head in surprise, but not with the astonishment she would have expected. “Told by whom?”

“Verl.”

“Ah!” The man accepted the wrapped form of the god with care. “And what is in it?”

“Verl. She ... He said to tell you to return her when the time was ripe.”

“No time? No place?”

“No.” It sounded so crazy that she wondered if the stranger would think her unhinged.

He did not seem to. He looked down at the tiny package, clutching it with both hands. A group of men came running into the hall and hurried over to the table. Other people were trooping out. The stranger stood like a pillar in the midst of the confusion and ignored it totally, as if the little bundle he held was the only thing of interest in the whole city. “He or she?”

 

 

“Whichever you prefer.”

“She will not speak to me, though?”

“Only to members of her family.”

The stranger frowned. “Offerings? How do I care for her?”

“She would not accept offerings, either, I think. Not from a stranger. Perhaps sprinkle a few grains of corn once in a while

... to show her that she is not forgotten?”

The stranger nodded solemnly and tucked the god away in his shirt. It hardly made a bulge. “Next my heart,” he said. “I will return her when the time is ripe. You have my word.” He studied White-thorn with gray eyes strangely bright. “And what road do you travel now, my lady?”

A fit of shivering convulsed her. She pulled her cloak tighter yet. “Please go, sir! Take care of Verl.”

“White-thorn!” a familiar voice shouted.

She cried out, spun around. Sea-breaker! He came hobbling toward her, leaning on a staff, swinging it urgently.

There was a blood-caked bandage around his head and black stubble on his face, but he was Sea-breaker, and he was alive. The staff fell to the tiles as his arms went around her.

Within his embrace she felt the stiffness of the stiletto in her sash.

“I never doubted,” she lied, snuffling against his shoulder.

That was the trouble with very tall men.

“Your father ... you know? Of course you must know!

Dearest, he died gloriously. I saw. The elite of the barbarian—

”

“I heard. You're hurt.” She was going to hurt him much, much more.

 

 

“I twisted my ankle running away. Oh, my darling! I went to your home—”

“You bandage your head because you have twisted your ankle?”

“Only a scratch. An arrow ... my skull is armored, don't you know that? It bounced off. If only we'd had proper armor and weapons, things would have been so different! Come, my darling, there is little time.”

“No,” she said.

He relaxed his embrace so he could see her face. “No?

What do you mean— no? There is a ship. The captain's an old friend of ... He promised to wait an hour, and the hour must be almost up. The crowds at the dock ... Quickly!”

“No.” She resisted as he tried to move her, holding her cloak tight. “Beloved, this hurts, but I cannot come.”

People were shouting. In some confused corner of her mind she had absorbed the message. The horde was coming.

Vandok was advancing with his army. At the gates. No terms...

The crowd had begun streaming from the basilica, jostling past her. She saw terror-stricken faces, saw tears, heard the screams of panic. But mostly she just saw the pain and shock in Sea-breaker's eyes. He bent to recover his staff. Again he tried to urge her, and she fought free of his grasp. Bless that ankle! If he had the use of both hands, he would carry her off bodily.

He shouted at her. She backed away, eyes blurred with tears. She tried to explain that she loved him. He kept talking of the ship waiting. There was no way to explain. She urged him to go. Again and again she said that she would not.

Sea-breaker lost his temper eventually. Obviously his leg pained him more than he would admit and the blood on the bandage came from no slight scrape. He had found a ship for them, deliverance, he had found her, and now she was refusing him ... Of course he lost his temper.

When the tears left her eyes, she was alone in the hall.

She dropped her cloak around her feet and felt naked.

Worse than naked. Stepping out of her sandals, she walked forward along the deserted basilica to the paperstrewn table.

Past it, to the dais at the end where the throne had stood.

The dried blood there had never been cleaned away.

She unwrapped her second bundle and took out the chain.

Grosail's blood was on that, too. She started to hang it around her neck and thought better. Vandok might just choke her with it.

Sounds drifted in from the plaza. She turned to face the door.

A movement in the shadows behind the pillars caught her eye. She was shocked to see the stranger standing there, watching, his bundle at his feet.

“Go!” she shouted.

He did not answer, for at that moment the Horsefolk rode in.

Vandok was younger than she had expected. He sat his great horse as if he were part of it, stating at this unexpected committee of one. His followers halted behind him, a score of armed horsemen. For an age nobody spoke.

 

 

Younger than she had expected, and certainly taller, broader. The golden chain dangling athwart his chest proclaimed his kingship, but even without it, there would have been no doubt who led this company. Other than the chain and a headband to hold back his flowing hair, he wore only the buckskin trousers of his race. His mustache was thick and curved down to the line of his jaw, but it was almost invisible now in golden stubble of beard. He looked altogether hard, as if graven out of oak. Sword and bow and quiver hung at his saddle.

“They say he is the worst of the brood,” her father had told her when the news came. “But we should have expected that.

They say he bears a striking resemblance to Hannail himself.”

Morning-star had counted on half a year to prepare.

Vandok had granted him less than a month. He had emerged clear victor from the blood storm that followed the death of any Horsefolk king, trampling over four older brothers. Like a whirlwind gathering leaves, he had swept up the tribes and rushed through the passes before the snows came. Less than a month after his father's death, he had burst upon the Land Between the Seas, very much as his great-grandfather had, fifty years ago.

Fury burned in his pale eyes as he observed the blackened chain in the woman's hand, the stains on the floor at her feet.

He must know whose blood that was. He could probably guess who she was. She resisted an urge to feel for the hilt of the stiletto. He would come for her himself. He must! With his men all watching him, he must!

But Vandok did not.

 

 

He gestured. Four men sprang from their saddles and rushed to her. Fingers of iron gripped her so hard that she cried out. One man took the chain and carried it to the king.

He stared down at it for a long moment before he accepted it and added it to the one he already wore. Only then did he slide from his horse, and at once the rest of his followers did so, also.

Still he did not come to White-thorn.

He gave orders. His voice was quiet, unhurried, and he used as many gestures as words. Men scattered to explore the building, to examine the refuse on the table, to lead the horses over to a corner, out of the way.

White-thorn stood helpless in the grip of three men.

Amazingly, none of them had yet discovered the knife. There were fingers around her wrists—so tight that her hand was going numb—and more crushing her upper arm. Boots pinned her bare toes to the floor. There were fingers twisted in her hair, pulling her head back. But no one had yet found the knife.

There had been treachery, she saw. More Horsefolk warriors were bringing in captives: Pure-valor, High-endeavor, Oath-keeper. The resistance had been betrayed.

Fair enough! The resistance had betrayed the Land, by failing.

It had promised freedom and delivered only greater suffering.

Finally, Vandok turned his attention to the woman. He strode toward the dais, but he stopped several paces away and studied her.

“Your name?”

 

 

She tried to speak, but her mouth was dry as salt. The men holding her arms twisted them almost out of their sockets. She gasped at the pain and managed to whisper,

“White-thorn of Verl.”

“Louder!”

She repeated her name.

Vandok smiled. “Strip her.”

The cloths were torn from her body. The stiletto clattered to the floor.

Vandok laughed. One of the men kicked the weapon away and another removed the rags. A third snapped her necklace and then callously ripped away her earrings. She bit back a cry of pain.

Only then did the king himself step up on the dais and come to stand before her, very close, a killer beast reeking of horse, of woodsmoke and sweat, of weeks in the saddle. He looked down contemptuously at her as she stood naked and still held helpless in the warriors’ cruel grasp. He was very tall, very broad, hard as furniture. She shivered at the hatred she saw in his eyes. Had she ever known what hatred was, what ruthless meant? Hope had died. Oh, Mother!

“Did you really think I would be so easy?” he said. “Your father killed my father—here? Right here?”

She nodded.

He fondled her left breast. Grinning, then, he squeezed it until he wrung a scream from her. He turned to survey the hall, the leering warriors, the prisoners. The place was filling up. He had a large audience.

“What should I do with the rebel's spawn?” he demanded.

 

 

The Horsefolk roared out the predictable answer.

“On the floor,” Vandok said. “Right where those bloodstains are. Bring the captives close. The punishment begins now and they shall watch.”

He looked down at White-thorn, smiling as he untied his belt.

 

 

 

6: The First Judgment

 

“Gentle ladies, and ah ... fair lords was it? Anyway, may my tale have pleased you.”

No one was nodding this time. The dowager glared at me, the patches of rouge showing like wounds on her sallow cheeks, her eyes milky with age. The merchant and the old soldier were equally disapproving. The actress pursed her lips and shook her head reproachfully. The little lady's maid seemed to be weeping, hands clutched to her face, but I could not be sure, because of her bonnet.

“Tush, child!” the dowager said. “White-thorn did not die, Master Omar, did she?”

“Eventually, of course. Not that day.”

“Then I think you should finish your tale more appropriately!”

“But I don't know how she did die! You surely do not expect me to make it up, do you? Vandok raped her in public.

He probably intended to kill her, but then changed his mind and decided to make a statement by abusing Morning-star's daughter in all of the seven cities. I really cannot say what his thoughts were. I know he took her on to Jombina with him and on an apple cart in the marketpl—”

“Stop!” the old hag barked. “This is not a fit subject for genteel company.”

“Then I take it you vote against me, milady?” I said sadly.

“I wonder if anyone will grant a dying man a drink?” The fire was sinking again, and the shadows creeping in on us.

 

 

Perhaps the storm was not quite as loud as before, but that was still killer weather out there.

The silence was pregnant, slightly.

The soldier coughed. His weathered face was scrolled with fine wrinkles, roads on a map. A map of a long and probably full life? Had I been at liberty to select a playmate from among the company in that beery taproom, then Frieda would have won hands down, with the actress a close second. But had I wanted a staunch companion at my side in a tight spot, that old campaigner would have been the only choice. Well, for real mayhem perhaps Fritz with a battle-ax...

“The stranger?” the soldier said. “The one who took the god? You did not tell us his name. Do you know who he was?”

“Yes, Captain. But that is another story.”

The actress shrilled a girlish laugh. “Naughty Master Omar is playing a very old game with us!”

I flicked my brows in a short of shrug: We all know that story!

“Very well,” the dowager said. “Let us decide whose tale was the better.”

“If I have a vote, my lady,” the minstrel muttered hoarsely, “then I cast it for Master Omar.”

“I'm not sure that is quite proper. Let us go around the circle. Burgomaster?” She beamed her much-wrinkled lips at the merchant. The proposed procedure would give her the final voice.

The fat man pouted and glanced at his companion. “You are more conversant with the arts than I, my dear. You cast both our votes.”

 

 

“Oh, Master Omar's tale was quite shocking, of course.”

The actress studied my expression blandly for a moment, knowing that I was well aware of the arts with which she was most conversant, and hence was capable of telling much more shocking tales than that one. “But I do believe it was better told, so let us say he won the first round.”

The minstrel had already voted. Frieda smiled faintly at me, Fritz scowled predictably.

“The decision is far from easy,” I said, “but on the whole I vote for me.”

The notary shifted on the bench, turning to frown at me.

“How long ago was all this?”

Why in the world did that matter? “About two hundred years ago, I suppose. Perchance a little more.”

“I found both tales inappropriate. I decline to vote.”

The maid said nothing.

“I believe I shall vote for Master Omar,” the soldier growled. “As the lady says, he is playing an old game with us, but I am not quite ready for bed yet. He may do better as the night goes on.”

“Then I have a majority!” I had not been seriously worried.

The minstrel had thrown that round. “Does no one wish to buy a flagon for the winner?”

No one duly volunteered.

Fritz rose and strode forward to throw more wood on the fire. I fingered the mysterious note in my pocket but left it there. The giant hefted the copper jug from the hob, looking around hopefully. Still no one wanted to buy. He returned to his seat, wearing a surly pout that would not endear him to anyone.

“So who shall be next to tell us a story?” The dowager crouched in her chair like a long, furry, black caterpillar. Or a spider, perhaps.

“Oo!” The actress clutched her hands together excitedly and looked to her benefactor for support. “Do you think, dearest? ... Do you think that little me could dare? ... Will you let me try, beloved?”

“Go ahead, my sweet dove.”

“Oh, very well!” she said, letting him talk her into it.

I gathered up my flagging wits. Fritz had started to smile, which was very bad news, but he could count as well as I could.

With her cute rosebud lips and her feather-duster eyelashes, the actress could collect all the men's votes merely by reciting a recipe for borscht—not that she was likely to have set eyes on a recipe in her life. I could not imagine anyone voting against the minx, except perhaps the dowager.

And hence her maid, of course. Moreover, the company was growing sleepy. Regardless of the merits of the tales, the contest might terminate without malice, just through inattention. The instant the tally went against me, Fritz would demand his due.

I had not meant to kill his accursed dog! Had I known he was so fond of it, I would have dragged its body off into the forest before I left. That way he would never have known what happened and would have been saved distress.

 

 

“Let me see,” our new narrator began in her childlike tones. She adjusted her snowy ermine cloak over the green of her gown. “I have to start by saying who I am, right? Well, my name is Marla. I was a foundling, abandoned one bitter winter night nineteen years ago on the doorstep of the convent of the Goddess of Purity in Luzfraul, so I can tell you nothing about my family, except that they must have been of noble blood, because the blanket in which I was wrapped had a crest embroidered in one corner in silver and gold thread.

Alas, the blanket was later stolen, and by the time I grew up no one could remember what the insignia had been.

“I was raised in the convent, of course. I was just about to take my final vows, when—goodness, it must be four or five months ago now!—poor Sister Zauch received really terrible, terrible news! Her dear brother, the only relative she had left in the world, was dying! Well, Sister Zauch was very old herself, so Mother decided to send me along with her on the journey, to care for her. And so I came out into the big world like a frightened little chick peering out of its nest for the first time.”

If this was just her introduction, then her story was going to be spectacular.

“And there in Schlosbelsh, I met dear Johein and we fell in love at first glance, didn't we, my beloved?” She turned to the merchant.

“We did indeed, light of my life.”

The fevered minstrel on her other side stared at me with a very odd expression: eyes bulging within their red rims, lips pressed white. Fists clenched? Was he about to have a fit?

 

 

Ah, but then I recalled that the entertainments provided in the establishment where I had first encountered the lady also included music. Young Gwill might very well have performed there, at the Velvet Stable. Not for gold, of course—he would have been given his pay in trade. Such houses usually reward their artists that way, singers, musicians, storytellers ... so I have been told. Gwill might know the lady more intimately than I did, but he had certainly not met her in a nunnery.

The self-named Marla was gathering self-confidence like an avalanche entering adolescence. “I'm going to tell you a much nicer, more romantic tale than Omar's! Gentle lords, fair ladies, may my tale please you! Did I get that bit right, dearest?”

“You're doing wonderfully, rosebud.”

Nineteen? She was twenty-five if she was a day. Her name was not Marla, she had never been near a nunnery in her life, and she had tattoos in unmentionable places.

 

 

7: The Actress's Tale

 

When King Vandok had shamed White-thorn before the city leaders and his own men, he had her taken away under guard to his camp. The rest of the day he spent in looting and despoiling Kylam. It was all horrible! Houses were burned and people killed all over the place! I shall spare you the dreadful, terrible details.

That night he had White-thorn brought to his tent, and again he lay with her. He made love to her several times against her will. He was so big and strong that her struggles were useless!

All the next day she was kept prisoner, although her guards were not cruel to her, because they knew she belonged to the king. In fact, they brought her lots of food to eat and nice clothes to wear. They told her how beautiful she was, even in adversity.

And the next night again, the king summoned her and took his pleasure of her. Again she straggled in vain against his terrible strength, but he did not deliberately hurt her. He was just irresistible!

The next day he led his army on to Jombina, and there he exhibited her in the marketplace in chains, to show that the daughter of the man who had led the revolution was now in his power. She wore a simple black dress and no jewelry, but she looked so beautiful that everyone who saw her wept!

Vandok sent her back to the camp and that afternoon he came himself to visit her, and brought her some beautiful clothes he had looted from the city, and some rich jewels.

She knew they were stolen, but she decided to wear them because she feared that if she angered him, he would just be even nastier to the poor people of the city. She could smell the burning houses!

That night she was brought to his tent again, but she was very beautiful in her beautiful dress and all the lovely jewels.

He told her so!

“I have known many beautiful women,” he said, “but none more lovely than you.”

She saw that he was clean and freshly shaved and much better dressed than before, in a silk robe, so he looked more like a king. He was a very handsome man, with his long shiny hair and his thick gold mustache and his bright blue eyes. He insisted she dine with him, and later he undressed her very gently and patiently and when he finally clasped her against his hard, muscular chest, all tickly with golden hair, she began to fear that she might start falling in love with him, because she had never lain with any man before him, and it is very difficult for a woman not to fall in love with the man who makes love to her for the first time, even if she hates him!

Of course, if she loves him to start with, it is quite impossible!

I don't mean that White-thorn had forgotten the man she truly loved, Sea-breaker, or how she had parted from him in anger, because she had not dared tell him that she was going to try to kill the king of the enemy. She hoped that Sea-breaker had escaped to a fair land across the ocean and that he would be happy always.

 

 

The next day the king led his army on to ... to the next city. When they arrived, he rode up to the coach in which White-thorn was riding and said, “My lady, I am going to show you to the people here, also, but I want you to ride at my side on this beautiful white horse, and I want you to wear beautiful clothes and I have brought many even more beautiful jewels for you to wear, and they will all weep to see that you are helpless in my power, because you will be so beautiful.”

“Oh, Your Majesty,” White-thorn said, “I beg you not to shame me by making my people think that I have betrayed them. I beg you to put me back in chains, so that they will know I am your helpless slave!”

The king frowned, but then he agreed to do as she asked, and he had a golden chain made and hung around her neck and he held the other end of it. So White-thorn rode on the beautiful white horse through the city, and she wept bitter tears to see their suffering! And all the people saw how beautiful she was, and how helpless in the king's power, and they all wept, too! And even some of the Horsefolk soldiers wept, she was so beautiful, and so helpless in the power of the strong king!

That night she came to his tent and he jumped up and kissed her. “Oh, beautiful Princess White-thorn,” he said. “I have conquered all this land and everything in it belongs to me, and all the people must do whatever I say, but you are the most precious to me, because you are so beautiful and so brave. I want to bring peace to the land by making you my queen and uniting our two peoples.”

 

 

Then White-thorn wept.

“Do not weep!” the king said. “I want to see you smile, because you have never smiled at me. Why do you weep when I offer to make you queen over all this land and the land of my savage people, also?”

White-thorn wanted to tell him that she could never love him, big and strong and so handsome though he was, because she loved another man and would always love him, even if she never saw him again, but she was afraid that the king would then be angry with her and take out his rage on the poor people.

“Your tears move me greatly,” the king said. “I will not force you against your will ever again. Will you lie with me from choice, of your own free will?”

Then White-thorn dried her eyes. “Your Majesty,” she proclaimed, “if it will bring peace to my land and stop my people suffering, then I will do whatever you ask of me.”

“This is not enough,” the king sternly said. “You must truly tell me that you love me as a man, because I love you as I have never loved any woman.”

But White-thorn did not answer him, because we ladies cannot bear to tell lies.

So the king called for his guards and had White-thorn taken back to her own tent. And while she was lying there, all alone, staring at the darkness and wondering whether she should marry the king to bring peace to her people, she heard a strange noise. And then the flap of the tent opened and a man came in.

 

 

She opened her mouth to scream, and a voice in the darkness said, “Is that you, my beloved? Is that White-thorn, who is ever in my dreams?”

And White-thorn knew the voice and her heart almost leaped out of her breast with joy, and she said, “Yes, that's me. Truly are you Sea-breaker, my only love?”

“I am Sea-breaker,” the man said, “and I have risked death to come and find you and rescue you.”

Then White-thorn jumped up from her bed—I forgot to mention that she was still respectably dressed because she had been too unhappy to remove her beautiful gown and all her beautiful jewels—and she embraced Sea-breaker, and he was even taller and stronger than the king, and she loved him more than life itself and she thought how wonderful it would be to have Sea-breaker make love to her every night, well, almost every night, I mean, instead of Vandok.

“Tell me, my darling,” she said, “how you came here in the middle of the camp of the fierce Horsefolk?”

“It is a sad story, my love,” Sea-breaker answered. “When I left you, I went down to the docks to board the ship that would take me away to safety, and then I could not bear to go, for I knew that life without you would not be worth living.

So I told the captain to sail without me, and I went back to look for you. But the fierce Horsefolk had taken you away before I got there, and they were burning houses and killing people. I fought several of them, killing them all, but I could not find you.

“Then the enemy army rode away to Jombina and I followed, with some loyal friends. We learned that you were the king's prisoner and we made plans to rescue you, but it has taken us all these long days to find a way. Now we have a ship waiting, which will bear us away across the seas to safety, so that you and I can be married and live happily ever after.”

“Then let us go at once,” White-thorn said, “because truly you are the only man I have ever loved, or will ever love, and King Vandok is a horrible man.”

Then they went out of the tent, but the night was all bright with flaming torches, and King Vandok stood there with hundreds of his fierce warriors all around.

“Who is this intruder?” he cried.

“I am the White-thorn's true love,” Sea-breaker shouted, and drew his sword.

“Then you must die,” the king said, “because I also love her and I will let no other man have her!” And he drew his sword, also.

Then the two of them fought, Sea-breaker and King Vandok, while White-thorn watched in horror, praying to the gods that the man she hated would not kill the man she loved, and all the fierce warriors stood around and watched, also.

The king was a famous swordsman, who had slain many men and fought many battles, but Sea-breaker was more than a match for him. Their swords clashed and flashed in the torchlight, and they leaped about, while all the warriors watched, amazed at seeing such swordplay!

Then the king paused for a moment to catch his breath, panting with his exertions so that the sweat gleamed on his heaving chest. “Truly, Sea-breaker,” he said, “I have fought many great swordsmen and killed them all, but never one like you!”

“That is because I am fighting for the woman I love!” Sea-breaker replied. And he was very cool, and not puffing hardly at all!

Then they fought again and at last Sea-breaker struck the sword from the king's hand and put the point of his own sword at the king's heart.

“Now I will kill you!” he said, “because you have shamed my beloved.”

“Then all my fierce warriors will kill you in turn and her, also,” said the king. “White-thorn, if you will tell me that you love me, then I will spare his life and let him go.”

“I cannot tell such a lie,” Princess White-thorn cried. “I love only Sea-breaker, and if you kill him, then I swear that I will kill myself, also. Maybe you can watch me now, but you will not be able to watch me always, and one day I will manage to kill myself, or else my heart will just break and I shall fade away and die.” And she threw her arms around Sea-breaker.

“Alas!” the king said. “It is I whose heart is breaking! I love you, also, because you are so beautiful and because you are braver than any woman I have ever known. White-thorn, I can deny you nothing. Go, then, with this brave swordsman of yours, and may the gods make you happy.”

So the king let White-thorn and Sea-breaker leave the camp, and they galloped away to the ship, and sailed off across the ocean together.

 

 

I hope I have pleased you, gentlemen? My tale, I mean.

And ladies, of course.

 

 

 

8: Interlude

 

I felt sick to my stomach.

The merchant was beaming proudly. His wife sat with downcast eyes, smirking under her lashes.

Young Gwill was doubled over, face in hands. Judging by the heaving of his shoulders, he was being racked by some powerful emotion.

Frieda's face was expressionless, while the great oaf beside her grinned like a rabid timber wolf.

The dowager had arranged her web of wrinkles into an approving smile; the old soldier looked stunned, as if his sword had melted in the midst of a battle; the maid wept tears of joy. I had not seen her face properly before. She was surprisingly pretty and I might have believed that her fine-drawn features denoted sensitivity and intelligence, were she not now so obviously overwhelmed by all the romantic rubbish.

Vandok had been one of the bloodiest killers in the history of mankind. Compared with Vandok, even his great-grandfather Hannail had been a baby bunny. At least Hannail had sacrificed only animals to Hool.

“That is absurd!" I howled. “That is pigswill! You made that all up!”

The actress looked hurt. “You mean you will swear to the truth of every word you told us before, Master Omar? You really know what thoughts passed through the head of a woman two hundred years ago?”

 

“A little poetic license is one thing, but—”

“I do not recall,” the dowager said, “that we specified anything about truth? Entertainment was all that we required.

Thank you, Mistress Maria, for an inspiring tale. We all enjoyed your story ... Didn't we?”

The minstrel raised his head. Tears streamed from his swollen eyes. “It was an unforgettable performance, my lady,” he croaked.

“As I recall the legends,” the soldier muttered, “White-thorn did gain her revenge in the end, so she must have escaped, surely?”

“Yes,” I snarled. “But I never heard tell of how she escaped.”

“Well, now you did,” the actress said triumphantly.

“It demonstrates—” Gwill sneezed. “—how light may be shed on truth in the most ast—” He sneezed again. “—onishing places.”

“It does indeed,” I said. “In time all veils of ignorance and deceit are stripped away.”

The actress glared as she appraised our threat; her rosebud lips drew back to show sharp little teeth. I smiled, and Gwill tried to, but his nose and eyes were running too hard. There was no way she could ever explain away those tattoos. Quite literally, she must keep her husband in the dark, pleading the modesty of the nunnery, refusing to disrobe with the light on. He would not remain burgomaster of Schlosbelsh very long if it became known that he had married a whore.

 

 

Ignorant of our unspoken conversation, he hugged her with a fur-draped arm. “A wonderful story, and beautifully told, my cherub! How about some wine to celebrate your success, my little honeycake? Innkeeper, have you wine?”

Fritz was on his feet in an instant. “Indeed I do, my lord! I have some excellent red from the vineyards of the monks of Abaila, and white from the slopes above Poluppo. Sweet and new, my lord, stored in a cool place.”

Ha! In those northern lands, and especially in remote rural taverns, wine tended to be both very old and very sour, long past its best. Down in Furthlin, the vintners had discovered a way of sealing wine in glass bottles so it would often stay fresh for years, but the secret had not yet found its way anywhere close to . The bulge of the merchant's belly suggested that he was more familiar with beer than wine.

Not to be upstaged, the dowager demanded some fruitcake. Frieda hurried out to attend to that, close on her brother's heels. I rose and shuffled over to the fireplace to refill my stein from the copper jug. I wanted to inspect the note in my pocket, but I was conscious of many disapproving eyes on me.