The Starfollowers of Coramonde (6 page)

“No, come in.
I hungered for early-morning silence before the day’s obligations. They are
bringing Midwis before me today, a thorny problem, one of the Legion-Marshals
who went against me. He’s been decorated half a hundred times, and his battle standard’s
heavy with ribbons of valor. His family’s influential as well, and at the very
last he renounced the conspiracy. I can neither deny him some measure of
clemency, nor let him go unpunished. A twisty dilemma.”

“You’ll think
of something.”

“May it be
so. Tonight will be little less busy. A famous poet will be here. Court will be
crowded and last late.” He sat on the top step of the dais. “Gil, do you
remember Freegate, in my exile? Reacher brought in that prestigious harper, but
you and Duskwind were tipsy. You insisted the poor man come with the two of you
to the kitchens, and teach the scullions to dance? What music was that?”

“A slide. A
Kerry slide.”

“Oh yes,
slide.” Springbuck chuckled. “The courtiers were quite astonished.”

“Yeah, but
Katya liked it. And it was the only time I ever saw Reacher dance.” Gil, too,
chortled.

“And in the
end, didn’t that harper add it to his repertoire? Aha, and offer you both
places with his company?” He burst into mirth again.

Gil sobered,
nodding to himself, speaking so the other could hardly hear. “We had ourselves
some times, then.”

He went up
the dais and plopped down on the throne, one leg dangling nonchalantly over its
arm. Springbuck was no longer shocked at such irreverence.

“Gil, I
should like to hear your version of what happened last night with Brodur. He’s
mending nicely, by the way.”

Recounting
the incident at the White Tern and the séance, the other became strained and
brittle. There was anger, curbed violence, just beneath the surface of him. As
he spoke, he felt with his forefinger the scar on his forehead.

When he’d
heard it all, Springbuck said, “A foolish idea. You could have died, you
idiot!”

“Sue me. I
just tried for a lead on Bey. How was I supposed to know we’d be set up?”

“I did not
mean going to the White Tern, though that was no stroke of genius either. I
meant using the Dreamdrowse. It could easily have been poisoned; Bey’s traps
are subtlety itself.”

“Gabe would
have spotted it if it had been a hotshot. Besides, I figure it was worth it.”

“Ah,
marvelous epitaph! ‘He figured it was worth it.’ Splendid!”

“Hey, take it
easy. Don’t be such a hardcase.” There was a tray of food and a pitcher set out
on a small table. Gil poured them each a stone mug of lager. “Here, put some money
in your meter. What I did doesn’t matter. Bey does.” He drew breath for the big
question. “How many men can you spare me?”

Springbuck
took a long bowie knife from beneath his robes and toyed with it. It had been a
gift from Gil, a genuine Hibben, and had left that mark in the wood of the
throne.

“Have you
considered this in detail?” he finally asked.

“What’s to
consider? I got through to Dunstan. Gabe felt it too. She thinks he’s at a
place called Death’s Hold, an old hangout of Bey’s.” He pointed vaguely
southwest. “It’s thataway, on the coast of the Outer Sea. I’m going. Do I get
men, or not?”

Springbuck
put the tips of his fingers together and pressed them to his lips. He avoided
the American’s glance, racked between commitment to his friend and duty to the
suzerainty.

He spoke into
the little steeple of fingers, resenting what he must say. “Had I left that
Legion under you, when first you returned from the Dark Rampart, you would have
taken it back into the mountains, would you not? Hearing Van Duyn’s news, you’d
have had us all depart for the Highlands Province, is that not true also? But
this morning you are of the persuasion that Death’s Hold is the place. Gil, my
very hold on Coramonde is in jeopardy. Subject-states threaten to fall, not one
by one but in rows. Where you would have been wrong the first time, and the
second, how can you ask me to squander a Legion I need so badly? Every man
under arms is crucial.” He faltered, then met the American’s glare. “Had you
not returned with that Legion when you did, I’d have dispatched orders to its
Marshal.”

Gil whitened,
the scar and powderburn standing out vividly. “All right, Coramonde’s in
trouble; so are you. Where do you think it’s coming from? Bey, where else? Nail
him and you settle all your hassles right there and then. Are you too dumb to
see we have to get him for your sake too?”

“Which
Yardiff Bey?” the
Ku-Mor-Mai
shouted back. “The one in the Dark Rampart?
In the Highlands Province? Death’s Hold? I dare not be prodigal with what loyal
units are left me. If you were in command you’d say the same.”

The American
lost hold of his bitterness. “You’re going to do nothing while Bey and his
people chip away at you? When are you going to learn to take the first swing?
Are you scared to go after him for a change?”

Both knew
they were on their way to irrevocable words. Springbuck was first to avert it.

“Yes, I am
afraid. I fear for Coramonde, and myself as well. Everything I ever learned
about the sorcerer makes me wary. He can do more damage with a lie than most
men could with a regiment at their back. He draws out that ductile gullibility
in all of us. You’ve deceived him, because you used tricks of war altogether
new here, but he never makes the same error twice. Never. I am afraid this
fresh spoor is one more trick. There are uncounted lives hinging on this; I
cannot divert Coramonde’s remaining manpower, not on such tenuous grounds.”

Gil, too,
pulled back, ashamed. The
Ku-Mor-Mai
was right; in his place Gil would
have been just as cautious; the man in charge had to be. He scratched his
cheek, and thought.

“Springbuck,
I’m sorry. You had it straight, I had it garbled. I never meant you’re, y’know,
a coward.” He sat down alongside the other. They knocked mugs.

“It’s funny
about Dunstan, he was so full of contradictions. He’d be so placid, introverted
really, until he flew into one of those berserkergangs. I took it into my head
that somehow he was like a key to the Crescent Lands; if I could understand
him, it would clarify everything for me here. And when he began hanging out
with us, when he’d learned how to laugh, I felt this Chinese Obligation.”

Gil drew
himself back to the present. “Springbuck, it was so clear, Dunstan in Death’s
Hold. You’d have believed it too.”

The son of
Surehand shook his head. “I believe you as much as myself. I trust not my own
senses either, where the Hand of Salamá is involved. What’s needed is proof.”

Gil jumped
up, pacing the thick carpet. “Proof? All right, now we’re clicking. You want
hard evidence, I’ll get it.”

He broke off.
“Do you still think you’ll have to go south, against Shardishku-Salamá?”

“I am
uncertain. The question is whether or not I will be able to. Coramonde’s
upheavals continue.”

“But if we
take Bey out of the picture, it’ll take pressure off you.”

“Past all question.”

“So when I
find Bey, be set to move fast. The next problem’s how to get to Death’s Hold.
What’s the normal route?”

The
Ku-Mor-Mai
rubbed his jaw. “Most trading fell off during the thronal war, but the Western
Tangent is open. I would be dubious of traveling with merchant convoys, though;
insecure. An alternative suggests itself. You might go south with Andre
deCourteney.”

“Andre? Why’s
Andre going south?”

“To bring the
sword Blazetongue back to its rightful owner, as I told you he would. He insists
Blazetongue has important consequences in the struggle against Salamá. He and a
small party are leaving within days,”

“How many?”

“A minimal
number. He, too, knows no men can be spared, but requires few. There are a
number of borders between here and Veganá, where he’s going. Foreign
governments would respect Coramonde’s letter of transit, but they’re hardly
likely to permit a large armed force to enter their territories. Andre wants no
regular soldiers; he could not take enough to guarantee safety, only enough to
insure conspicuousness.”

Gil had
missed that angle. He saw now that any large group would make travel harder.
“Smart. But would Andre go out of his way and check out Death’s Hold?”

“Not before he
delivers Blazetongue. He is adamant. But he is as eager to break and hinder Bey
as you are. If you accompany him, he will probably be more than ready to
investigate Death’s Hold afterward.”

Gil sorted it
out. If he couldn’t use a large escort, the next best thing was Andre
deCourteney. No one in the Crescent Lands had a more formidable constellation
of skills and experience.

“Okay, quit
shoveling. It’s a deal. Where’s Andre? I’ll give him the pitch.”

Andre
deCourteney had appropriated Yardiff Bey’s abandoned sanctum sanctorum, at the
summit of Earthfast, to examine its contents and learn what he could from them.
He still hadn’t replaced the door that had been bent back on its hinges by the
reptile-man Kisst-Haa.

Gil knocked
on the frame, and went in to find the wizard at a puzzling piece of apparatus.
The American sat on a bench to watch. The room was filled with jars, bottles,
scrolls, astrolabes and star charts. Blazetongue, the huge onetime Sword of the
Ku-Mor-Mai,
rested against the bench.

“I have plumbed
a riddle here, I think,” Andre said, “but it has generated another. Behold.”

He lit a
flame under each of two retorts. The liquids in them boiled, one forming a
yellow gas, the other a red. Opening two petcocks, he let them blend. A faint
orange mist rose from a nozzle at the top of the equipment.

“Now, see.”
He held a piece of parchment into the orange flow. It was old, with a ragged
edge as if it had been ripped from a book.

Andre fanned
the sheet in the orange vapor, which began to peel a covering from the
parchment in flakes. Soon there was a little snowdrift of them on the
work-table, and a page-within-a-page was revealed. Andre held it up proudly.
Gil politely applauded.

“Andre, I
thought science projects are Van Duyn’s line.”

“This is of
interest to me because it was important to Yardiff Bey.” He held up the binding
from which the page had come. It was richly embossed, encircled by a wide
metallic strip. A thick, raised seal was impressed on the strip, filled with
runes and sigils, in wax the color of burgundy. Bey had apparently removed the
pages somehow without disturbing it.

“This is the
cover from Rydolomo’s
Arrivals Macabre,”
Andre explained. “It survived
the Great Blow. There are not more than two or three copies in existence;
Rydolomo was an arch-mage and premier thinker. Bey is, by appearances, under
the impression Rydolomo left some in one of his books. The sorcerer
circumvented its guardian seal somehow.” The page he held was blank, but Gil
understood. Somewhere, a book of Rydolomo’s had something Bey coveted, hidden
within.

A servant
appeared at the door frame. Andre went, and accepted a blanket-wrapped bundle.
It was a baby, a chubby girl.

“Recognize
her? She’s the one we brought back from the Infernal Plane, the one the demon
Amon had been holding.”

Gil inspected
her from a distance, not used to children. Andre began tickling and chucking
her under the chin, making senseless, happy sounds. “Isn’t she the charmer? Oh,
come on, Gil; say something to her.”

“Goo,”
offered the American solemnly. “Why’s she here?”

“Reacher
brought her from Freegate. I believe she’s tied in with all this, the endeavors
of Bey and the Masters. I wanted her here while I go through Yardiff Bey’s
things, to see if there are correlations.” He put her in a makeshift bassinet,
a dry-sink. “But now, what brings you up here?”

Gil jabbed a
thumb at Blazetongue. It was a long, imperial-looking weapon, its blade chased
with inscriptions and enchantment. “I’ve been elected. I’m going to Death’s
Hold, but first I’m going with you to Veganá.”

“Your company
will be welcome; we share common goals beside Veganá. As to Blazetongue, there
are some things I could tell, and one thing for certain I cannot. I do not have
the spell that makes the blade burn, as Bey and Strongblade did.”

“Well,
Springbuck told me the rest. Too bad; that would be a handy trick to have.” His
eye fell on
Arrivals Macabre.

“Delivering
Blazetongue is a job that has wanted doing for a long time,” the wizard assured
him. He went back to playing with the child, chuckling at her giggles.

“Your sister
and I both think Bey is in Death’s Hold. Are you interested in seeing?”

“After
delivering Blazetongue? Hmm, yes, if evidence points to it. First, I must think
it through. Speaking of the Hand of Salamá, Bey’s sword Dirge is there on the
chest.”

Gil spied it,
a shorter sword than Blazetongue, with a vicious, runcinate blade. The sorcerer
had dropped it in his fight with Dunstan. Terrible properties were attributed
to it. It occurred to Gil that it might be linked to Bey’s magic; weapons and
owners had strange affinities here.

Andre was
still fussing over the baby. Gil picked up the binder of
Arrivals Macabre,
feeling its ancient weight.

“Andre, do
you think we’ll find Bey?”

The wizard
didn’t turn. He bounced the child, answering, “You will have your moment with
Bey. The hatred is mutual, and in both your destinies.”

Hearing it
cut Gil to the bone. His hand closed angrily on the binder. The rough edges of
the seal rested under his fingertips.

“What kind of
crack’s that, Andre?” His nails had detected a slight give in the seal’s edge.
Unthinkingly, framing his next words, he dug at it. The outermost corner gave
way with a minute pop, but Andre somehow heard.