“A heavy cost,” commented Tchwee. “I begin to grasp your plight. But you say you were once equal to your foe. How was your struggle made ruinous?”
Prince Bifalt clenched his fists, holding tight to his resolve. “When I spoke of ‘theurgy,’ I could have chosen a different word. It is ‘sorcery.’ Our foes have sorcery. We do not. Our foes bring terrible forces against us, fires and pestilences, earthquakes and lightnings. We have only rifles. And our rifles are too few. They cannot counter sorcery.”
“Strange,” put in Alleman Dancer. “Do you say terrible forces?” He glanced at the monk. “I did not know the Cult of the Many worships gods whose powers are used to determine the outcome of wars.”
The Prince wanted to ask—to demand—Gods? Do men worship sorcerers? But Tchwee silenced the carnival owner and forestalled Prince Bifalt with a commanding gesture.
Again the interpreter leaned close to Set Ungabwey. Although the caravan master did not turn his head or speak, Tchwee nodded an acknowledgment.
To Prince Bifalt, he said, “Your straits are dire indeed. Who is your foe?”
“It is Amika,” answered the Prince bitterly, “a realm on Belleger’s northern border. Their attacks have been relentless for so long that their causes have become meaningless. We know the source of their enmity, but we do not know why it endures. We only know that we can no longer withstand it.”
“You explain much,” offered Flamora. “Your dilemma wrings my heart.” Her limpid gaze suggested sincerity. “So many brave men slaughtered. Strong men. Worthy men.” Then she frowned delicately. “But you do not explain your presence here. How can an attempt to cross this cruel desert win survival for your people?”
Prince Bifalt allowed himself to sigh aloud. He suspected that answering her would be a mistake; but he saw no alternative. Sweating under the lanterns, he replied as if he were sure of himself.
“Among our people, legends speak of a storehouse of knowledge. Perhaps it is a library. Perhaps it takes some other form. But if it exists—if the legends are not mistaken—it lies among the mountains to the east. Now we seek it. There we may learn how to prevent our doom. We have no other hope.”
To his surprise, his words seemed to strike his audience like an insult—or a threat. For a long moment, no one spoke. Tchwee appeared to consult with the caravan master again, although Set Ungabwey betrayed no response. The five advisers remained motionless, held by suspense. Prince Bifalt felt he was in the presence of issues and dangers too great for him. He could not gauge them. He hardly dared to breathe.
Then Suti al-Suri said in a tone of disgust, “Lead arrows,” and the moment passed. Alleman Dancer shifted one of his pillows. The devotee of Flesh whispered to Amandis in her foreign tongue. A flick of Set Ungabwey’s eyes called for more wine. One of the young women rose to fill his goblet and assist him.
While she served the caravan master, the monk surprised Prince Bifalt further by bowing his forehead to the floor. Then he resumed his unassuming posture, head lowered, gaze shrouded.
With a loud rumble, Tchwee cleared his throat. “Prince of Belleger,” he declared, “you have answered. Now you will be answered. Ask what you wish.”
Prince Bifalt’s opportunity had come. He felt its pressure beating in his chest. He wanted to ask where the caravan would take him: a natural question, perhaps an innocent one, but wasted. He would not recognize any name the interpreter might mention. He did not know the world. And he had a more urgent question. It might lead him to the revelations Belleger required.
Enunciating each word with a soldier’s precision, he began.
“Master Ungabwey, I hope to understand how you travel with such ease. You have many scouts. Their numbers tell me that you face dangers, but I cannot imagine what danger threatens you here. Brigands cannot prey in this desert. Hostile war parties cannot. The wasteland itself protects you. Only sorcerers can harm you in this region.
“Yet in Belleger we know scouts are useless against sorcerers, who can strike at any distance and remain hidden.” Carefully, he skirted the edges of falsehood. He had learned that other theurgists did not share the limitations of Belleger’s former Magisters—or of Amika’s. “How, then, is your trek made easy? How is your train kept safe?
“I can think of no explanation, Master Ungabwey, except that your scouts are only needed in other lands. They serve no vital purpose here. Here you are warded by sorcerers.”
The silence that followed was more fraught than the previous moment of tension. Tchwee knelt, completely still, at the caravan master’s side. He did not appear to breathe. Flamora’s lips shaped prayers. Amandis allowed the Prince to see knives in both hands. The monk startled him by gazing at him directly. Even Set Ungabwey’s daughters shifted anxiously on their pillows.
“A man once bitten by a snake,” drawled the Wide World Carnival’s owner, “sees a snake in every shadow.”
Alleman Dancer did not continue. A glance from Tchwee made him close his mouth.
Prince Bifalt heard a weapon unsheathed behind him. Instinctively, he reached for his rifle, then drew back his hand, empty. His muscles tightened, anticipating the stroke of a cutlass. He was not fast enough to stop Suti al-Suri from killing him where he sat.
The lanterns seemed to shed an unbearable heat.
Abruptly, Flamora laughed, a chiming sound like the tinkle of a fine bell. “If you are able to find the library of your legends, how will you use the knowledge you seek?”
Without pausing for thought, Prince Bifalt replied, “We will reduce Amika until its people must surrender or die.”
His words hung in the air as if they had assumed a life of their own. Inwardly, he cursed himself. He had said too much; revealed too much. His anger and fear had outrun his caution.
A moment later, he heard Set Ungabwey speak for the first time. The caravan master’s voice was a crooning falsetto, as if he customarily spoke only to soothe small children. Nevertheless, it was distinct; even implacable.
“The knowledge you seek,” he pronounced, “is the knowledge of sorcery. You will wield it against Amika. We cannot help you.”
He did not speak again.
Shocked beyond bearing, the Prince retorted, “You are their allies! You help them against us. You want Belleger destroyed!”
He expected murder for his accusation. He expected Suti al-Suri’s cutlass in his back, the devotee of Spirit’s dagger in his eye. But he did not move, despite his yearning to snatch up his rifle. His shock was too great. Sorcerers who intended to use him had sent the caravan to snatch him and his men back from the edge of death. How could he be refused? How could his search fail now?
Even an Amikan born and trained might not kill a sitting Bellegerin who did not defend himself.
However, he was not attacked. Instead, strangely, Set Ungabwey’s advisers relaxed as if they were content; as if questions Prince Bifalt did not understand had been answered. Smiling with an air of sadness, the interpreter rose to his feet.
Towering over the caravan master’s guest, Tchwee said firmly, “You are mistaken, Prince. We know nothing of Amika. We do not travel there. And we do not join wars. If we cannot aid you, we will not stand in your way. You are welcome among us. Your men are welcome. You will remain, or you will depart, as you choose. Seek the library of your legends if you wish. Remain among us, be our guest, and go where we go—if that is your desire. In either event, no hand will be raised against you.
“This audience is ended. Suti al-Suri?”
At once, the chief scout slapped his cutlass back into its scabbard. “Come, Prince.” His tone sounded forced. “Dancing waits. Wine. Maidens. Pleasure. Then sleep.” He gestured toward the door. “Come.”
Fuming with consternation, Prince Bifalt reclaimed his weapons and stood. What else could he do? We will reduce Amika— He should not have said that. It was a mistake. He had revealed too
much. But he had no idea how to amend his error. Shamed by his failure, he made no pretense of politeness as he left the carriage.
But he did not return to the bonfire. He was who he was. In the darkness of full night, with the light of high flames on his face, and the noise of instruments, dancers, and carousing onlookers in his ears, he waited for Set Ungabwey’s advisers to follow his departure.
As they descended the steps, he did not acknowledge the monk, or the women devoted to Spirit and Flesh, or the carnival owner. He ignored the chief scout’s urging to move on. But when Tchwee emerged, Prince Bifalt dared to grasp the huge interpreter’s forearm.
Outfacing the grin of a man who could have broken him with one blow, the Prince demanded, “Your gift of tongues. You speak all known languages, and others as well. You even know mine. And you appear to know your master’s mind. Is that not sorcery? Do you deny you have dealings with sorcerers? Do you deny you are a sorcerer yourself?”
Tchwee frowned. “A man once bitten—” he began. Then his expression cleared, and he laughed. “Yes, Prince,” he answered through his amusement, “I deny it. Like the name I have given you, my claim to ‘speak all known languages’ is a convenience. The truth requires more explanation.
“My gift is for the study of languages. I have learned how they are formed, and why. This enables me to acquire new tongues when they are needed. But I cannot shake the earth, or bring down fire, or see from afar. There is no sorcery in me.”
Prince Bifalt did not relent. “Yet you are fluent in our tongue. You heard it before Suti al-Suri found us. You must have. He speaks only fragments himself. If you do not know Belleger, you must know Amika. Or you must know merchants who trade with Amika. Belleger has no trade. Otherwise, how can you speak with us?”
He meant, How have you been turned against us?
But his challenge did not touch Tchwee. Laughing again, the interpreter replied, “I know your language, Prince, because I have heard you speak with your men. I learned it from you.”
“What of that carnival mountebank?” protested the Prince. “What of Flamora?”
Still chuckling, Tchwee countered, “How can I tell? Perhaps they have encountered traders, as you suggest. Their travels are many. If you persist in this query, you must ask it of them. I have no answer to give you.”
Then he turned away, freeing his forearm easily, and leaving the Bellegerin to boil alone.
Prince Bifalt knew no expletive or curse adequate to express his frustration—or his fear that his father would be ashamed of him. Old pain had taught King Abbator patience. Burning to prove worthy of his father’s trust, the Prince had not learned the same lesson. When Suti al-Suri urged him toward the bonfire again, he only complied because he did not know what else to do.
He could not imagine when or how the interpreter had overheard his conversations with Elgart and Klamath.
On the blanket where he had left them, the Prince found the guardsmen. The plates of food had been taken away: the flagons of wine remained. To Prince Bifalt’s bitter eye, it was plain both Klamath and Elgart had drunk too much to remember his implied command. If he had not returned, they might not have thought to look for him for hours.
Although they greeted him with blurred voices, they had not lost interest in the activities around them. The reflections of flames were keen with excitement in Klamath’s eyes, and he watched the dancers as if nothing else existed. Elgart’s attention was more divided. The bonfire’s flames gleamed on his scar as he, too, studied the maidens dancing. He and Klamath had been away from women too long. But he also kept his head cocked to the music, and his hands tapped his knees, repeating the complex rhythms of the dance.
Prince Bifalt swallowed an impulse to reprimand his companions. He had instructed them to act like guests. And not many years ago, he would have done as they did. He understood their fascination. Clad in garments as graceful and enticing as silk, and seen by firelight under the black sky, the young women seemed almost mystically alluring. They whirled and scampered and sprang high as if they were carried along by ecstasy. And their partners, mostly young men bare-chested, moved with the fluid suddenness and strength of deer. They spun the maidens, tossed and received and exchanged them, followed them as avidly as courtship. As for the music: tambourines, cymbals, and hand-thumped drums drove the melodies of strange stringed instruments and shrill flutes, their harmonies both unexpected and urgent, inspiring abandon.
Many of the caravan’s travelers shared Klamath’s and Elgart’s appreciation. Beyond the ring of blankets—most still occupied—a throng of onlookers had gathered, scores or perhaps hundreds of teamsters, drovers, laborers, performers, tradesmen, merchants, families: folk from six or eight or ten distinct lands, some simply pleased to watch, others plainly yearning to join the dance if they could learn the steps or match the rhythms.
Among so many people, the Prince was alone, isolated by the darkness on his spirit. He had failed to learn where he was, or where he was going, or where the library might be. He had failed to win any aid for himself, or for Belleger. Amid the clamor and frenzy, his fear and disgust felt universal. They included the whole caravan and all the doings of the travelers. He did not speak to his comrades as he resumed his seat between them. Finding his flagon full, he drank deeply. Then he propped his elbows on his knees, held his head in his hands, and tried to think.
His plight was impossible. It had been impossible from the start. At every stage along the way, he had misjudged his choices. And here, where he had expected to find hope, Belleger’s needs—for help, for knowledge, for sorcery—had been flatly denied. Remain or depart? As he chose? All well and good. A fine speech. But how could he choose? He did not know where the caravan had been, or where it was going. He had no idea where to look for the Repository of the sorcerers—and no way to reach it without food and water, which only the caravan could supply.
And that was not the end of his difficulties. He felt certain now that Set Ungabwey and his counselors treated with sorcerers. The Cult of the Many. Gods. Spirit and Flesh. The caravan master was protected by them, or was in communication with them—or was one of them himself. As were others. Tchwee. The monk. Amandis. Flamora.
Sorcerers wanted him alive. Yet they—or others—did not want him to locate them? None of them would help him save his people?
He drank again.
Nothing made sense.
A maiden spun herself out of the dance to stand before Klamath. She extended her hand. Trembling with eagerness, he accepted it. The musicians played more loudly. She whirled him away. In a moment, the Prince lost sight of him.
Well, why not? Prince Bifalt could think of no reason to deny Klamath any pleasure the rifleman craved.
He peered at his flagon. It had been refilled. More sorcery: no one had approached him.
This wine was a different vintage. It had a peculiar aftertaste. He took one swallow. Then he took another. He could ignore the aftertaste.
Abruptly, Elgart reached a decision. He rose to his feet, strode away toward the musicians.
They appeared to understand him without words. One of them handed him a set of drums like small pots overturned and bound together. Seating himself among the players, he held the set between his knees and began to pound the leather drumheads with his palms. Prince Bifalt could not tell whether Elgart kept time with the music, but other drummers nodded their approval.
A fine speech. Your men are welcome. Klamath and Elgart could make places for themselves in the caravan. Unlike Captain Swalish, Camwish, Nowel, and too many others, they would live. Set Ungabwey might allow them to serve as guards. If they did not forget their rifles—or surrender them—
The Prince drank again. He had no place here. His father’s command, and Belleger’s need, and his own nature ruled him. For this one night, he would drink and sleep. In the morning, he would buy or beg supplies, if not from Suti al-Suri,
then from one of the many merchants. Then he would head toward the mountains. If sorcerers wanted him alive, they would provide guidance in the same way they had provided the caravan. What else could he do?
A more subtle man might have elected to remain with the caravan for days, if necessary, asking questions until he gleaned something useful, even if the answers he received were only scraps. Flamora might be receptive. And Alleman Dancer might be too self-assured to keep silent. But Prince Bifalt was not that man.
His flagon had been filled again. He continued to drink. The aftertaste was becoming pleasant.
From among the flurry of the dancers, a young woman left her partners and drew near. For a moment, she twirled alone in front of the Prince. As she moved, the blazing of the bonfire outlined her form through the flow and float of her attire, a shape as desirable as sunrise after a bitter battle. Then she stopped. Her breasts rose and fell with every breath. Gazing at him, she extended her hand.
Prince Bifalt avoided her eyes. He did not take her hand.
Frowning uncertainly, she sank to her knees. She was near enough to touch his face, although she did not. Instead, she extended her hand again. Her gaze was moist with invitation. It promised more than dancing.
Rather than accept her clasp, he gripped her wrist and drew her closer. He wanted to grip her hard enough to wring truth from her slender bones. “Tell me,” he rasped: the hoarse vehemence of a man who felt intolerably thwarted. “Where are you from? Where are you going? Do you know sorcerers?”
She turned her face away. Her whole body shied from him. She tried to break free.
He tightened his grasp. “Answer me,” he demanded. “I need sorcerers. I need their books. Tell me where to find them.”
He thought he heard her whimper.
At once, two men came to her sides. They were young and strong. Sweat streamed from their naked chests. Anger glared in their eyes. They showed the Prince their clenched fists.