A spark blazed in Nepanthe’s eyes, a mote of fire that could easily become anger. “And for that they call him a fool?” The anger waxed, spread from her eyes to her brow. “Why?”
Rolf’s manner made it obvious he wanted to be elsewhere. He hemmed and hawed, shuffled, glanced at ceiling and floor, mumbled something inaudible.
“Captain!” Nepanthe snapped. “Your reticence displeases me!” Then, in a more kindly tone, “When was the last time I punished a soldier for expressing an opinion, or for carrying bad news?”
“I can’t remember, Milady.”
“If you think carefully,” she whispered, looking toward the window, “you’ll remember all punishments have been for breach of discipline, not for performing duties which discomforted me! Now, speak up! Why do the people laugh when this man praises me?”
“They despise you. Milady.”
A cold wind seemed to blow through the room. Indeed, swift-coming clouds in the north promised a winter’s storm.
“Despise me? But why?” There was a hint of hurt behind her quiet inquisition.
“Because you’re whom you are,” he replied gently. “Because you’re a woman, because you’re in power, because you overthrew the King. Why do men despise their rulers? For all those reasons, and maybe more, but mostly because you’re from Ravenkrak, get of the old foe, and because the ousted Councilmen, that you foolishly freed, keep inciting them.” The cold wind sighing round the Tower, down off the Kratchnodians, seemed as much spiritual as real. Chilling.
Would the reverberations of the Fall never cease? llkazar was dust, but echoes of the fury of her collapse still beat upon her scattered grandchildren. The shadowy wings of hatred still drifted across their lives like those of searching vultures.
The people still roared below.
“Tell me, Rolf-honestly-aren’t the people better off since I came here? Aren’t the taxes lower? Don’t I care for the poor? Haven’t I replaced a corrupt, lazy, indifferent government with an incorrupt, efficient, responsive one? Haven’t I repressed the crime syndicates that were almost a second government before I arrived?” She shuddered, remembering ranks of heads on pikes above the city gates. “What about my subsidies for trade with Itaskia and Prost Kamenets?”
“All true, but such things don’t mean much to fools, Milady. I know. I was raised here. Your reforms have won support among the small merchants, the artisans, especially the furriers, the guildsmen, and the more thoughtful laborers. All the worst victims of the old government and syndicates. But most of the people refuse to be fooled by your chicanery. And the rich, the crime-bosses, and the deposed Councilmen, keep telling them that’s what it is. And, irregardless of programs, you’re a foreigner and usurper.” He grinned weakly, trying to make light of the matter.
But the cold still filled the room.
Nepanthe eased Rolf’s nerves with one of her rare smiles. “Foreigner, ergo, tyrant, eh? Even if their ingrates’ bellies are full for the first time in years? Well, no matter. Their opinions don’t concern me-as long as they behave.”
She thought for a moment. Rolf waited silently, ignoring the pain his remarks had caused. Finally, she said, “I remember the words of an ancient wise man, in one of the old scrolls at home. He wrote, ‘Man is wise only when aware of his lack of wisdom,’ and went on to point out that the masses are asses because they’re ignorant to the point of knowing they already know everything worth knowing.”
Rolf said nothing in response, seemed unusually thoughtful-perhaps because she was being unusually verbose... She jarred him back with a change of subject.
“Does this man make a habit of talking about me?”
“No, Milady. It’s something different every day and, begging your pardon, always something idiotic. Far as I know, this’s his first political venture, though it’s hardly controversial.”
The cold wind blew, gathering strength with time.
“Give me some examples.”
Rolf, back on safe ground, relaxed, chuckled, imparted a bit of high nonsense. “Just yesterday he claimed the world is round.”
Nepanthe, who knew, was startled into wary curiosity. “Another example!”
Without a chuckle, Rolf hurriedly said, “The other day he claimed the sun was just a star, only closer. Skaane, the philosopher, challenged his claim. They had a real madman’s debate, with Skaane claiming the earth revolves around the sun...”
“What’d he say the day before that?”
Rolf could maintain only a minimal air of sobriety. “Something religious, something about every seventh rebirth of the soul being into the animal with a nature most closely approximating the individual’s. His donkey, he claims, is Vilis, the last King of Ilkazar.”
A ghost of a smile played across Nepanthe’s lips. “Go on.”
Rolf grinned. He had remembered an excellent example. “Well, the earth’s changed shape since last week. Then it was a big boat floating on a sea of Escalonian wine, the vessel being propelled by a giant duck paddling in the stern. He was drunk that day, which’s maybe why he saw the universe as a sea of wine.”
Another of those rare smiles broke across Nepanthe’s face. “Bring him here!”
“Milady, they’d storm the Tower if we stopped him now!”
“Well, wait till he’s done.”
“Yes, Milady.”
She crossed the chamber to a northern window. The snow-topped Kratchnodians loomed in the distance. The north wind muttered, threatening snow.
Saltimbanco recognized the importance of Rolfs appearance the moment he came out the Tower door. Five minutes later his mad speech rolled to a hilarious conclusion. In a quarter-hour the street before the Tower was empty, save for his donkey and collection box. The box was overflowing.
Rolf asked the fat man into the Tower. Insides all aquaver, Saltimbanco followed. He reached Nepanthe’s chamber puffing and snorting like a dying dragon. His skin had reddened, his face was wet with perspiration.
Nepanthe’s door stood open. Rolf entered without formality. “The man whose presence you requested, Milady.”
Turning from the north window, Nepanthe replied, “Thank you, Captain. You may go.”
“But...”
“You said he was harmless.”
“Yes, but...”
“I shall scream most loudly if I need your help. Begone!” He went.
Nepanthe faced her visitor, said, “Well?” When he didn’t respond, she said it again, louder.
Saltimbanco hauled himself out of the wonder the woman had loosed upon him. She was beautiful, with raven hair and ebony eyes, a fine oval face-did he detect a hint of loneliness and fear behind the frown-lines he had more or less expected? He was amazed. The woman wasn’t the aging Harpy he had anticipated. Getting on thirtyish, maybe, but not old. His innocent eyes insolently examined her body. He suspected this might be an assignment less unpleasant than expected.
At that point her voice drew him back.
“Yes, woman?” Playing his role to the hilt, he bowed to no nobility, accorded no superiority.
“Teacher, who are you?” she asked, granting him the title of learned honor. “What are you?”
An unexpected sort of question, but practice on the street enabled him to provide an answer that said nothing at all while sounding expansive.
“Self, am Saltimbanco. Am humblest, poverty-stricken disciple of One Great Truth. Am wandering mendicant preaching Holy Word. Am One True Prophet. Also Savior of World. Am weary Purveyor of Cosmic Wisdom. Am Son of King of Occult Knowledge...”
“And the Prince of Liars!” Nepanthe laughed.
“Is one face of thousand-faceted jewel of Great Truth.”
“And what’s this great truth?”
“Great Truth! Hai! Is wonder of all ages unfolding before sparkle in great and beautiful lady’s eyes...”
“Briefly, without the sales chatter.”
“So. Great Truth is this: all is lies! All men are liars, all things of matter are lie
s. Universe, Time, Life, all are great cosmic jokes from which little everyday falsehoods are woven. Even Great Truth is untrustworthy.”
Nepanthe hid her amusement behind a hand. “Not original-Ethrian of Ukazar, five centuries ago-but interesting nevertheless. Do you always follow your creed, tell nothing but lies?”
“Assuredly!” He reacted as though his honor were in question.
“And there’s one of them.” She laughed again, realized she was laughing. It stopped, was replaced by wonder.
How long since she had laughed for no better reason than because she was amused? Could this fat man, who was hardly as foolish as he pretended, also make her cry? “Why do you preach such strange things?” Saltimbanco, thoroughly frightened behind his mask of unconcern, thought carefully before replying. A little half-truthful misdirection would be appropriate now. “Numerous be numbers of men who think me no more than big-mouthed nonsense pedlar. Hai! The bigger fools they. They come, enjoy show, eh? Also, after show, many come to poor fat idiot, give him monies to help protect self from self. Great Lady, think! Many people in throng before Tower this day, eh? Maybe three, four, five thousand. Maybe one thousand take pity on moron. Each drops one groschen-one puny groschen, though some give more-into basket watched over by very sad and hungry-looking donkey belonging to cretinic purveyor of preachments. Self counts up swag. Have now ten kronen and more, one month’s wages. Goes on thus, every day of year. Self, being frugal, suddenly am as wealthy as wealthiest laugher at imbecilic preacher. Hai! Then self is laugher! But silent, very silent. Men are easily angered to kill.”
Saltimbanco chuckled at his fooling those who thought him a fool, then realized he was growing too relaxed. He was revealing his penchant for the accumulation of money. Fear-wolves howled in the back of his mind. He was a professional, yes, but never had learned to banish emotion in tight situations. He did hide it well, though.
“Do you like having people mock you?” “Hai! Self, am performer, no? Multitudes laugh at fat one, true. No joy. But this one is known to enjoy gold thuswise wrested from unwrestable purses. Crowd and Saltimbanco are even, for fools we have made of one another.”
Nepanthe turned back to the north window, studied the storm brewing over the Kratchnodians. Then she whirled back, startling Saltimbanco from a moment of drowsiness.
“Will you take supper with me this evening?” she asked. Then she gasped at the temerity of her action, unsure of what she had done, or why. She only knew she enjoyed the company of this honestly roguish, outwardly jolly, inwardly frightened man. Perhaps there was a feeling of kinship.
While they stood staring at one another, the first snowy tendrils of the storm began whipping around the Tower. She ran to close her windows.
Saltimbanco did dine with the woman that evening, and accepted a further invitation to escape the storm by staying the night. He and she spoke at great length the following day, which eventually led to another dinner invitation, and that to another request that he stay the night. The day following that Nepanthe offered herself as his patron. Apparently prideless, Saltimbanco accepted instantly and quickly moved in-donkey and all. The chambers assigned him were next to Nepanthe’s, which caused talk among her servants. Try as they might, however, even the most prying could discover nothing improper resulting from the arrangement.
FOUR: How Lonely Sits the City
Loves torn from him, Varth grew bitter. He decided to pursue a course that had long been in his mind. Once the harvest was in, he visited his priestly teacher, engaged the man as agent in the sale of the farm. The money, with that left him by Royal, he buried near the river. Then, carrying a few belongings in an old leather bag, he moved into Ilkazar.
Soon there was another beggar among the city’s many, this one brighter, studying, studying-yet unseen, for no one spared an urchin more than a glance. He grew lean and ragged with time, and wiser.
Still he remained silent: and strange. Older persons grew uneasy in his presence-though they never knew why. Perhaps it was his cold stare, perhaps the way the corners of his mouth turned upward in a ghost-grin, revealing his canines, when the future was mentioned. There was something in his gaze which made adults look away. He seemed a hungry thing thinking of devouring them.
However, his strangeness attracted waifs like himself.
They treated him with respect and awe their elders reserved for the Master Wizards and King-and a king he soon became, of a shadow empire of beggars and thieves who found his mastery profitable. Looking like a small, skinny idol, he held court in a corner of Farmer’s Market, by his directions gifted his followers with unprecedented wealth.
But those followers, no matter their admiration for his leadership, found Varth’s nighttime undertakings disquieting. He often wandered the Palace District, studying the castle of the King, or the homes of certain powerful wizards. And he never missed a witch-burning, though his attentions were seldom for the condemned. His eyes were always on the black-hoods, and the wizards who came to see “justice” done.
What justice this? In a city made great by magic, ruled by magic-no matter the King’s disclaimers, his policies, and those of the Empire, were determined by manipulating sorcerers-why should there be witch-burnings? What power had the witch that so terrified the warlock?
There was an ancient divination-Ilkazar, from King to lowliest beggar, had rock-hard faith in necromancy-which promised city and Empire would fall because of a witch. The Master Wizards reasoned that a dead sorceress could do little to fulfill the prophecy. Therefore, summary execution was ordered for any woman even mildly suspect (or with some bit of property a wizard wanted-for all a witch’s property went to her finder).
Varth, with earnings from his beggar empire, went to certain wizards and bought knowledge. In the guise of an eager, voiceless child, he wrested many secrets from many sorcerers. They found him an amusing anomaly among the young, having fallen, like men less wise, into the habit of classing children with other small pets, as sometimes amusing, sometimes bothersome, but never, never interested in matters of weight. They were old men, those wizards, and had forgotten what it was like to be young. Most men did. And so, during his visits, Varth became privy to secrets that would have been kept carefully hidden from older men.
From wizards, and from priests whose interest had been stimulated by the reports of his old tutor, Varth received an unusual education. He nearly laughed the day he learned of the divination that had caused his mother’s death. He later learned that she had died to provide a covetous sorcerer with a ready-decorated home, and King Vilis with escape from problems personal, political, and financial.
Someone discovered him weeping one night. Thenceforth he wore a new name: Varth Lokkur, the Silent One Who Walks With Grief. He became an actor, this Varthlokkur. Using pity for his dumbness, he bent strong men to his will. Wizards taught him. Priests took him to their hearts. He made his followers want to aid his secret purpose. They were certain he had one. He became one of Ilkazar’s best-known children, and one of its most intriguing mysteries.
One day some priests got together and, hating to see the boy’s mind wasted, decided to sponsor his education. But when they went to tell him, he was gone. He had chosen twelve companions and departed the city. Where had he gone? Why? The priests were disturbed for a while, but soon forgot. There had been something unsettling about him, something they preferred not to remember.
Lao-Pa Sing Pass lay two thousand miles east of Ilkazar, the only means of crossing a huge double range of mountains, the Pillars of Ivory and the Pillars of Heaven. To the west lay city-states, small kingdoms, and the sprawling Empire of Ilkazar. To the east was Shinsan, a dread Empire feared for its sorcery and devotion to evil. Butting against the western slopes of those mountains lay the fertile plains of the Forcene Steppe, ideal for grazing. But the nomads shunned it. Too near Shinsan...
From Lao-Pa Sing, on a spring day many months after Varthlokkur had abandoned Ilkazar, a child of twelve came riding. He was no native
of Shinsan. His skin was western white sun-browned, not the natural amber of the east. On his face expressions fought: horror of the past and hope for the future. Free of the pass, the boy halted to make certain he still bore his passport to freedom. He drew a scroll from his saddlebag and opened it, stared at words he couldn’t read:
To King and Wizards of Ilkazar:
My wrath will burn, and I will kill you with the sword, and your wives shall become widows and your children fatherless.
It was signed with a featureless oval sigil.
The message stirred little interest in Ilkazar. There was some grumbling about the audacity of the sender, but no fear. The messenger didn’t name the country whence he came.
A year later, another youth, eyes haunted and riding as if fleeing a devil, bore:
The King and Wizards of Ilkazar, who falsely judged the woman Smyrena:
They have sown the wind and shall reap the whirlwind.
This was signed with both the null and a stylized mask of death. It caused more thought than had its predecessor, for the messenger admitted he came from Shinsan. The records were examined, the story of Smyrena exhumed. Her son hadn’t shared her fate! There was apprehension, and talk about the old prophecy.
But nothing happened and all was soon forgotten-till the year ended and a third messenger came. Then others, year after year, until King and wizards believed. They bought assassins (even the power of the wizards of Ilkazar could not breach the necromantic shield about Shinsan), but the blades went astray. No man was fool enough to enter Shinsan.
Riches do not profit in the day of wrath.
There were twelve signs beneath the twelfth message, each a promise. King and wizards tried to convince one another that their powers were sufficient to the threat.
In the thirteenth year a young man departed Shinsan, eyes almost as haunted as those of his predecessors. He crossed the Forcene Steppe, paused at Necremnos on the River Roe. He found llkazar’s legions in the city and on the Steppe to the East. The Empire had grown during his absence. Necremnos was a “protectorate,” the protection accepted as an alternative to bloody, futile war. Ilkazar, with its combination of magic and military excellence, was irresistible.