The Sword of the South Page 27

  The red-haired man, for instance. What was he? Certain points could be eliminated, for he was certainly no wizard! Training in the art let traces behind which literally could not be eradicated, however deeply someone might have tried to hide them. Even a working which hid them from the object of the spell himself couldn’t hide those traces from anyone who knew what to look for, and the Council of Carnadosa most certainly did. The stranger’s surface thoughts had been probed—fleetingly, to be sure; one was wise to expose one’s interest no more than absolutely necessary in anything or anyone in Wencit’s vicinity—and no whisper of sorcery had been found.

  Yet there was something deep within him, something that whispered of danger, and the amnesia was ominous; it prohibited deep probes, for who could read blank pages? But somewhere under that blankness was iron. The man held a ominous capability which simply couldn’t be assessed, and that was…bothersome.

  The cat-eyed wizard drummed on a chair arm, wondering which fool had wiped the stranger’s mind. Probably a lesser lord had stumbled upon a link to Wencit, acted in panic, and now dared not own the deed for fear of the Council’s response to his bungling. It almost had to be a Carnadosan, assuming it was the result of the art. There was no way to be certain that it was, and it was certainly possible the red-haired man had fallen afoul of one of the handful of gray wizards or warlocks of Norfressa rather than a Carnadosan. But that comforting possibility struck the cat-eyed wizard as unlikely, and he was profoundly leery of fortuitous coincidences where Wencit was concerned. One thing the Council did know, however, was that the one wizard in all the world who couldn’t have done it was Wencit of Rūm.

  The wild wizard had been monitored for over half a thousand years, ever since the Council of Carnadosa had rebuilt from the ruins of strafed and devastated Kontovar. For the last hundred years, since the cat-eyed wizard had assumed leadership of the Council, the old wild wizard had been monitored literally hour by hour. Oh, there’d been occasional instances when he’d slipped away, like that unfortunate affair with Tremala in the Empire of the Spear. One simply couldn’t drive a scrying spell through Wencit’s glamours on those occasions when he had cause to bring them to full strength, but those occasions had been few and far between, and in all the time he’d been watched, Wencit had been near no one who even resembled the young stranger. That really left only one of the Dark Lords, and the smallest threat might have led some of the less hardy among them to destroy a man’s mind. Few realized it was wiser to leave such alone to see how Wencit would use them, for Wencit was a past master of every trick, a consummate practitioner of deep laid strategies and careful misdirection. He’d certainly demonstrated that clearly enough over the centuries. In fact…

  The drumming ceased and the cat eyes narrowed. What if the stranger had no hidden significance? Suppose Wencit had simply recognized the obvious potential beneath his amnesia—amnesia which might, however unlikely it might appear on the surface, be entirely natural—and enlisted him as a useful man who could also act as a smokescreen?

  The cat-eyed wizard examined the thought carefully, for Wencit was no fool. He couldn’t know of the cat-eyed wizard’s existence—too many precautions guarded against that!—but he knew the Council of Carnadosa survived, and he must also know it watched him like a hawk. That was the reason he’d so often resorted to the tricks of the stage conjurer, using misdirection to cloak his true intent. It was entirely possible that was what he was doing this time, as well—using this Kenhodan to divert attention from his true objective.

  The notion was attractive, but it would be unwise to credit Wencit with too much duplicity. Better to conclude that the redhead wasn’t a presently active threat except inasmuch as he was in Wencit’s company. Mark him as an unknown and watch him. Eliminate him if the chance came, just to be safe, but nothing about him presently justified actions which might tell Wencit that the cat-eyed wizard himself existed. Or, for that matter, the extent to which the wild wizard’s normal glamours had been penetrated by the Council’s most recent workings.

  But if that dealt with Kenhodan, what else might Wencit be up to? The hradani could be dismissed; when the time came, Bahzell would die, even if the Dark Lords must feed a thousand warriors into his blade first. Champions of Tomanāk made deadly foes, yet there was a limit to how much of their deity’s power they could channel, how close an embrace with the divine any mortal could sustain. In the end, against a foe prepared to spend however many lives it might require, even one of Tomanāk’s Swords must fail at last. And just as Bahzell would die when the time came, the same for Leeana. She was a handsome wench, who might please a man for quite some time, but the war maids were…stubborn, and any woman who wed a hradani was beneath contempt. No, when the time came for Bahzell to die, his loving wife would die with him.

  Actually, their daughter was far more interesting than they. The Dark Lords had never understood the mage power, for it was unknown in Kontovar and the Council had been able to study it only at secondhand. Yet they’d learned it was incompatible with sorcery. Like oil and water, they couldn’t be mixed—yet Wencit had done just that, or something like it. How? And why?

  The why might be easier. Apparently the old man was actually fond of the little bitch. Well, bad cess to them both! The cat-eyed wizard had no use for bastard breeds. At best they were tools, and if Wencit thought otherwise, he was a fool.

  But if affection explained why, “how” was more disturbing. Of course, Wencit was the last surviving wizard trained by the Council of Ottovar, which meant—by definition—he was also the best trained wizard alive. But that wasn’t the answer. The cat-eyed wizard had sensed the strength the old man had expended, and the feel of it had been…different. On the other hand, there were no current wild wizards in Kontovar, and this might be simply another inexplicable manifestation of the wild magic. Perhaps the wild magic could mix oil and water, however briefly. Not that it seemed very useful. The effort had nearly killed him—would have killed him if he’d set his wards a shade less well. Not even he could defend himself from the edge of coma.

  But the very depth of the danger he’d courted indicated how much he was prepared to risk for the brat. Indeed, it was of a piece with the threat he’d leveled against the Council seventy years ago when he’d returned Malahk Sahrdohr to it, stripped of his gift, with the promise to strafe Kontovar afresh, even at the cost of his own life, if the Dark Lords ever made another arcane attempt against Leeana Hanathafressa. That had shaken the Council—even the cat-eyed wizard, however little he cared to admit it—to the bone. Perhaps the promises he’d made, the dangers he’d courted, to keep Leeana and her daughter alive were simply the whims of an old, old man who must surely recognize that not even wild wizards lived forever. Perhaps his brain truly was softening, becoming a slave to his need for love in his dotage. But perhaps there were other reasons, as well. The unknown potentials of the mage power meant Gwynna must be approached carefully, but she must also be watched closely, if only for her potential as bait. Indeed, there were many reasons to remember young Gwynna. A young mage might be best for study, especially if she might also prove to be the long-sought chink in Wencit’s armor, as well. The cat-eyed wizard smiled. It might even prove a pleasant game on its own merits, if she grew into the beauty of her mother.…

  He shook off his daydreams. He’d worn his list of enemies smooth with study, and always it came back to Wencit. He was the true enemy. He always had been, and it must be assumed that he knew more than he showed.

  Yet what could he know? He hadn’t visited Kontovar since the Fall, and even the best scrying told little at such distances. He undoubtedly knew a great deal about the Council, but he couldn’t have learned of the cat-eyed wizard’s birth without tripping the Council’s alarm spells. Besides, he’d made no effort to measure the cat-eyed wizard’s strength, which proved his ignorance. Not even Wencit could be so confident as to feel no need even to test his decisive opponent-to-be!

  That, after all, was the Counci
l’s current purpose: to test Wencit. The wild wizard was old. He might be the best trained wizard alive, but there was a limit to the wild magic he could still channel. It would be foolish to underestimate him, but equally so to overestimate him. When his power went, it would go quickly, and the Council must not frighten itself into timidity if the major threat had decayed into impotence.

  It had taken years to convince the others to test Wencit, until he’d pointed out that they need not approach the old man directly. Once he’d discovered the sword’s continued existence and where it lay hidden, the die had been cast and Wulfra had been recruited and groomed for her role.

  If she slew Wencit with his and the Council’s subtle backing, good. Of course, it was far more probable that she would die, but that was also acceptable, for when she clashed with Wencit, the cat-eyed wizard would watch. Even if she perished, her struggle would reveal Wencit’s current capabilities—and though her death would be a minor inconvenience, there were other Norfressans with her aptitude for the art. Her position as a noble made her useful, but it could be lived without. Even the loss of the sword, while regrettable, would be an acceptable price for the information he stood to gain.

  He nodded in satisfaction. His plan was sound, and decades of labor would pay off soon. Whatever the outcome, he would be better informed—and thus stronger—when the true game finally began.

  He chuckled and set aside his wine glass to amble off to bed. They were all puppets—even Wencit—dancing to his bidding. It was especially amusing to watch the wild wizard, particularly since the prophecy proved the cat-eyed wizard’s line couldn’t fail of its final destiny. His house would triumph in the end, whatever else might happen. True, there was enough ambiguity that one could never be quite sure when they would triumph, so it was possible—however unlikely—that he himself would perish without seeing it happen. But he’d already provided his own heirs, just in case, and the possibility of failure was what made life challenging enough to be worth living.

  The cat-eyed wizard slept soundly that night.

  * * *

  Kenhodan watched red light filter through the upper branches of the Forest of Hev and pondered.

  He knew no source for the music he’d played, nor did he understand his own words to Wencit. The riddle of what he was remained, yet his restless night had brought him an unexpected peace.

  He yawned and stretched. Gods! He’d gotten some rest, but he felt as if someone had tried to remove the damp by hammering him out to dry. He poked up the fire and considered letting the others sleep, but Bahzell’s instructions had been firm.

  He watched the smoke rise, and his eyes strayed to his harp case. He wanted to touch it again, yet he dared not. He turned his thoughts away from it, delving into the depths of his own mind, reaching for the exalted terror the harping had brought, but it wasn’t there. His eyebrows rose in surprise at its absence and he turned his thoughts still further inward…only to stiffen as they stopped with an almost physical shock.

  He rose to his full height, eyes wide with astonishment. There was a barrier in his mind! It hadn’t been there last night…or had it? He blinked, testing his memory, laying mental hands on every event since Belhadan, and all of them were there, open to his touch. He’d lost nothing of the new, yet that featureless wall seemed to seal off some inner core, and that was all the more unsettling because, as far as he knew, there was nothing inside that barrier.

  He squatted again, adjusting the kettle. The music. It had to have been the music. Wherever it had come from, it had done…something deep within him. Was that why Wencit had told Bahzell to let him play? Had the wizard known this would happen?

  That was a disquieting thought, yet the more Kenhodan pondered it, the more convinced he became that Wencit must have known. So it followed that the wizard had wanted it to happen…whatever “it” was.

  He considered himself carefully in the dawn and found, rather to his surprise, that much of his gnawing uncertainty had vanished. That strange internal wall was the first change since he’d realized he had no memory, and it lent him a sort of strength, like tangible proof that there truly was something at the very heart of him, for if there was something more than emptiness within him, someday he might truly regain his past. He cherished that thought for a long moment, then snorted in amusement as he realized he felt relieved—almost buoyant—to find part of his mind locked against his own entry. It should have frightened him, but even an enigma, it seemed, was better than mere emptiness.

  He shook himself, somehow certain this was something he shouldn’t discuss even with Wencit. Partly because he was confident Wencit wouldn’t have explained it to him even if he’d asked. Whatever made it necessary to conceal his own past from him was unlikely to have simply disappeared overnight. No, he had no choice but to continue as he’d begun until the wizard gave him a positive sign. It might be frustrating, but he’d acquired a certain familiarity with frustration. A little more of it wouldn’t kill him.

  He snorted again, then nodded to himself and shook Bahzell’s shoulder gently.

  The hradani’s snores broke instantly and one eye opened.

  “No rain today,” Kenhodan told him.

  “Aye, I’d expected as much.” Bahzell stretched. “I was after smelling a dry dawn last night, and I’m thinking it owes as much to Tomanāk as to Chemalka, lad.”

  “And why might that be?” Kenhodan asked suspiciously.

  “Why, only that it never rains on the days I fight.” Wencit stirred behind them and Bahzell glanced at him. “Except, of course,” he added hastily “for those times as I’ve been harnessed up with armies or wizards.”

  Wencit was still again, and Bahzell glowered. Was the wizard really awake or not?

  “So you expect a fight today? You think they’re still with us?”

  “Some of them, any road. I’m thinking they’ll have marked our trail well enough, and they’ll have guessed where it is we’re going, but they’ve no notion how this trail’s after getting there. They’ll not want to give me long unseen, for they’ll know as how they’ll not find us again if ever once they’re after losing us. It’s been two days, lad, but there’s some at least as are back there in the mud trying to mark our trail.”

  “Then wake Wencit and let’s be off!”

  “Before breakfast?! Lad, lad! Let’s not be panicking over a few assassins! We’re well ahead, unless they’ve been and sprouted wings. I’m thinking we’ll take it slow and easy to the stream; then they’ve leave to be catching up with us and welcome. Not that what if they’ve the sense of the Purple Lords, they’ll not do it. Still and all, we can always hope, and in the meantime, it’s making and eating a good breakfast I’ll be, thank you, while you’re after feeding the horses.”

  * * *

  Rosper greeted the same dawn. In fact, he’d awaited it impatiently, begrudging every second. His irritated pacing had filled the night, and when the sun finally rose, he greeted it with a killing grin.

  He used his toe liberally as he roused his men. They rolled out slowly, but whiplash orders soon had them moving briskly, if not precisely with joy. They watched him covertly over their hasty meal, but he hardly noticed. Instead, he ate nothing, pacing in a fervor of eagerness, and one or two men exchanged unhappy looks. Assassins killed coldly; the fire in Rosper’s eye struck them a doubtful augury of success.

  Yet no one cared to argue with him in this mood. He drove them to mount, and each dog brother chose his toughest horse—horses refreshed by their night of rest and unaware of the cruel usage awaiting them.

  Rosper mounted in turn and rose in the stirrups. He surveyed his men once more, then swung his arm, launching them against their prey, and the eight men pressed down the trail in a spatter of mud.

  They would meet today. Rosper felt it—almost tasted it. Whether by stealth or frontal attack, he would mark them down today. Sunlight pricked through the trees, brilliant rays of light turning mist into pooled gold under the branch canopy’s darknes
s, but he paid scant heed to their beauty, except to lean from the saddle to search for signs of his quarry’s passage.

  * * *

  Chernion breakfasted in a sunny parlor while the others saddled fresh mounts. Then the Guildmaster paid for their lodging and horses and the five of them vanished down the high road.

  Chernion had accepted, during the night, that sending Rosper had been a mistake, but tears mended no fences, and whether Rosper succeeded or died was in his own hands. All Chernion could do was reach Sindor quickly. If Rosper rode in on Bahzell’s heels, so much the better; if he was dead, Chernion would need as much time as possible to prepare.

  The assassin’s horse sensed his rider’s impatience. Although Chernion used neither spur nor whip, the gelding pricked to ever greater speed along the arrow-straight road. The Guildmaster’s men glanced at one another, then set spurs to their own mounts as the quintet pounded south.

  * * *

  Baroness Wulfra faced the day with renewed confidence, her night fears soothed by enthusiasm and new plans. Worry still hovered under the surface of her thoughts, but now it urged action, not fear.

  Her defenses must be strengthened. Doubling the physical patrols was no problem, but arcane measures required more thought. Still, she knew she could strengthen the trap and alarm spells in her fortress. It would cost the lives of a few more special prisoners, but that was what they were for, after all.

  But first, breakfast. An empty stomach was a poor beginning to a day of sorcery. Not that Wulfra ever wanted for energy or appetite—or appetites, for that matter. She allowed herself a small smile as she summoned her maid, for there were certain perquisites for one who was both noblewoman and sorceress. Like that new guardsman. She was certain he’d enjoy his new duties as he helped her begin the day properly.

  Her small smile grew. She’d lived a sorceress and a baroness; she would die that way, if die she must, but for today life was good.