Another of the shadowpeople squirmed through the stones bearing a mask. Yes. Himaggery’s. Ragged about the upper face as her own had been.
“Gamelords,” she cursed to herself. “Did it hurt him as it hurt me?” Knowing even as she said it that it would, that it already had. “He will not understand,” she whispered. “Oh, Chamferton, pray you have tight hold upon him!”
Once more she held a mask in the flowing water, feeling the foul sliminess of it soften into jelly before it vanished. The shadowpeople observed this closely as they talked it over among themselves, and Mavin knew that they were resolving to steal others of the Faces now that they knew what to do with them. Not now, though. Now was time for sleep. She had not the energy to do more tonight.
They climbed the stones behind the falls and found a softer bed among the trees. There was no fire tonight, but she lay pillowed and warmed among a score of small bodies, sleeping more soundly than she had upon the Ancient Road.
She was wakened by a startled vacancy around her, a keening cry of panic which dwindled at once into shushed quiet. There was hot breath on her face. The pombi face which stared down into her own had a broken strap in its mouth and an expression of sad determination in its eyes. She struggled out of dream, trying to remember the words of exhortation.
“Come out, Arkhur,” she said at last, still struggling to get her eyes fully open. The pombi shape shifted, lifted to its hind feet, solidified into the figure of Chamferton, the strap still in his mouth.
He spat it out. “I lost him. Last night, not far from here. He screamed as though he were wounded, and then dashed away into the trees. The strap broke. I thought of going after him, but it was too dark to trail him and I knew you might need me here.”
The first thought she had was that she should feel relieved. She had wanted to be away from the Fon-beast – wanted not to be responsible for him. Now he had gone, and the matter was settled. Except, of course, that it was not. Her eyes filled with tears which spilled to run in messy rivulets down her face, puffy from sleep.
“He ran because he was wounded when one of the shadowpeople chewed his mask from the pole. I didn’t know that’s what would happen, but it did to me as well.” She lifted her hair from the sides of her face to show him. “The masks are spiked to the poles, and the little people couldn’t pull out the spikes, so they chewed the masks off. We’ll have to find him, Chamferton, but it must wait a little. There is Game here against you and Himaggery and me. You were right that we need you here.”
She led him to the cliff’s edge. They lay there, peering down at the encampment, and Proom’s people, puzzled but reassured by the pombi’s disappearance, came to lie beside them, waiting for whatever came next. “I don’t know how many times they’ve questioned your Face in the past, Wizard, but they intend to question it every day from now on. More often if they can.”
“They can’t,” he said flatly. “And I doubt if any of the questioning done while I was in the valley will deprive me of life. I feel stronger than when I last saw this place, the strength of anger, perhaps, but nonetheless useful. Now what is to be done?” He began to list.
“First – to get my own Face down from that obscene array. Second – to eliminate one Dourso, and his allies if necessary. Third – to find Singlehorn. Can you think of anything else?”
“Harpies,” said Mavin. “I have some cause to think they are dangerous. Pantiquod brought plague to Pfarb Durim, many years ago. Her daughter Foulitter tried to kill me when I was here last. And Pantiquod has threatened me.”
“Harpies,” he said, as though adding this item to his list. “The first thing I need is my wand. We have no strength to oppose Valdon and his men until I have the wand. Dourso has probably hidden it somewhere in the fortress.”
“He has given it into the keeping of Foulitter,” she said. “Look beyond the largest pile of stones, against the trees. See where she struts about there. Look on her back when she turns. See! That is the wand. He gave it to her so that she might question certain of the Faces. I caught them at it when I came here first.”
“The fool! To set such a thing in a Harpy’s hands. They would as soon turn on him as obey him!”
“He has some hold on one of them,” Mavin said. “Pantiquod flies free but her daughter’s in some kind of durance. He told me he would hold her for some time yet.”
“Still a fool. He learned a few words, a few gestures, and fancied himself a Wizard. What he learned was only thaumaturgy, gramarye. Children’s things. Well, even children’s toys may be dangerous in the hands of a fool, so we must go careful and sly. I need that wand.”
Mavin forced herself to move. She wanted nothing to do with the Harpies, but something had to be done. She made a long arm to touch Proom and tug him toward her, pointed at the Harpy, moving back from the cliff edge to mime the stork-like walk, the bobbing neck, the head thrown back in cackling laughter. The shadowpeople took this up with great enthusiasm, becoming a flock of birdlike creatures almost instantaneously. She pointed out the wand, then pretended to have one such on her own back, removing and replacing it. Finally, she led them off through the trees. Chamferton had time to grow bored with the view below him before she returned.
“Come on,” she said. “We need simple muscle, and all of it we can get. The shadowpeople will lead her into a kind of trap, but they are not big enough to hold her.”
The plan had the virtue of simplicity. If the Harpy were typical of her kind, she would pursue any small creature with the temerity to attack her, which Proom or one of his people would do. They would flee away, and the Harpy would follow.
“They’ll try to get her when she’s alone, not with Pantiquod. It seems the shadowpeople aren’t particularly afraid of them one at a time, but they don’t want to tangle with two or more. At least that’s what I think all their lalala-ing was about. Proom is down there behind the biggest pile of stones. The others are scattered in a long line leading to that rockfall. The tricky part will be at that point. The shadowman will drop down into the rocks. Then another one will show himself halfway up the slope, then another one at the top. If they time it right, it should seem to be one small person the whole time. She can’t walk up that slope, but if she’s angry enough, she should fly to the top, at which point they’ll lead her between these two trees. Then it’s up to us, Wizard. Proom left us a knife, and some rope…” She said nothing about her nausea, her revulsion.
“Rope if we can,” hissed Chamferton. “I’ve a use for her alive. But knife if she starts to scream.”
Mavin nodded her agreement. From their hiding place they could see between leafy branches to the valley floor. Mavin sharpened her eyes, not really Shifting, merely modifying herself a little, to catch a glimpse of Proom – she thought it was Proom – perched near the edge of the stones. The Harpy was prodding at some bit of nastiness on the ground nearby. Pantiquod had wandered toward the tents. There was a scurrying darkness, a darting motion, and the Harpy leaped into the air like some dancing krylobos, screeching, head whipping about. Proom had bitten her on the leg. Mavin could see the blood. A palpable bite, a properly painful bite but not one which would cripple the creature.
No! Not cripple indeed. She strode toward the stones, head darting forward like the strike of a serpent, jaws clacking shut with a metallic finality. On the cliff top, they gasped; but she had missed. A small furry form broke from cover and fled toward the cliff. The Harpy crowed a challenge and sped after it.
The shadowman fled, darted, dropped into hiding. From another hidey hole not far away, another form popped up and fled farther toward the cliffs. The Harpy strode, hopped, struck with her teeth at the stones, hurting herself in the process so that her anger increased.
“Watch now,” hissed Mavin. “They’re coming to the cliff.”
The quarry disappeared into a cleft between two large stones wet with spray. The Harpy thrust her head into the cleft, withdrew it just in time to see her prey appear briefly halfway up the slo
pe, fleeing upward. It turned to jeer at her, increasing the Harpy’s frenzy. She danced, clacked her jaws, spread her wings to rise in a cloud of spray and dust. The quarry on the slope disappeared, only to reappear at the top of the cliff.
“Get your head down,” Mavin directed.
They could hear Foulitter’s approach, the whip of wings and the jaws chattering in rage. A furry shadow fled between the trees, and the Harpy came after. As she passed between the trunks, Mavin and Chamferton seized her, Mavin holding tight to the wings as she tried to avoid those venomous teeth – without success! The serpent neck struck at her, and the teeth closed on her hand. Fire ran through her, as though she had been touched by acid or true flame, and she cursed as she slammed the striking head away. Chamferton thrust a wad of cloth between the teeth and threw a loop of rope about her feet which he then wound tight around the wings. When he had done, they stepped back breathlessly. The Harpy glared at them with mad yellow eyes, threatening them with every breath.
“She will kill us if she can,” said Mavin, gasping, cradling her hand; it felt as though it was burned to the bone.
“She would,” agreed Chamferton. “If she could.” He took the wand from its case, drawing it from among the coils of rope. “If you watch me now, you must promise never to…”
“Oh, Harpy-shit, Wizard! Oath me no oaths. I’ve seen more in your Demesne recently than you have. I am no chatterbird and you owe me your life. So do what you do and don’t be ponderous about it.”
“Did she bite you?”
“Yes, damn it, she did.” Mavin stared at him stupidly. “How did you know?”
“Because you suddenly sounded Harpy bit. We’ll take care of it before you leave – must take care of it, or you’ll die. Harpy bite is deadly, Mavin. But you’re right. I have no business demanding secrecy oaths from one who has saved my life. So go or stay as you like.”
She was curious enough to stay, not that she learned anything. She could not concentrate because of the pain in her hand, now moving up her arm. All she saw was waving of the wand, and walking about in strange patterns, and speaking to the world’s corners and up and down, and sprinkling dust and sprinkling water, at the end of which time he removed the rag from the Harpy’s mouth and turned her loose. “You are my servant,” he told her in a voice of distaste. “My unworthy servant. Now you will serve me by giving me the name of one of those you have questioned down below – the name of any one.”
The Harpy answered in a toneless voice without pause, “I have questioned Rose-love of Betand.”
“Very well,” said Chamferton. “When you next hear the words ‘Rose-love of Betand,’ your servitude is over and you have my leave to die. Do you understand?”
The Harpy nodded, its pale, pendulous breasts heaving. “When I hear the words ‘Rose-love of Betand,’ I have your leave to die.”
“And you will die then,” said Chamferton. “Quickly and without pain.”
“And I will die then,” agreed the Harpy. “Quickly and without pain.”
Chamferton turned away from the empty-faced creature. “The first thing I must do is obtain my own Face.” Turning to the Harpy, “Go to my Face, Foulitter. Pull the silver spike which holds it to the pole, gently, with your teeth. Bring the Face to me here.”
Without a sound the Harpy walked away to the cliffs edge and dropped from there on quiet wings to the regiment of pale poles on which the Faces hung. To Mavin, accustomed to the constant cluck and keraw of the Harpies, this quiet evoked more foreboding than sound might have done.
“Is she completely at your command?” Somehow she still doubted this.
“Completely. Though nothing would have put her completely at my command unless she had attempted to injure me first – or had succeeded. There is a rule of Wizardry called the Exception of Innocence. We are not allowed to bind the will of one who has never done us ill or attempted it. It is somewhat inconvenient at times.”
“I can imagine it would be,” she rasped, glad she had done the High Wizard Chamferton only good. “And what of those who have actually helped you, aided you?”
“No true Wizard would be so unmannerly as to enchant one such,” he replied with a smile. It was an ominous smile, for all his appearance of grave, childlike stubbornness. Still, she took it as sufficient encouragement to ask a further question.
“You said something earlier about Dourso having learned only thaumaturgy, gramarye – children’s things. Does that mean such things are not the Talent of Wizards?”
“Such things are not. Such things are mere tricks, like the Faces. They are dependent upon a particular place, perhaps a particular time. Did Dourso tell you about the lake? About the nexus here? Blame my stupidity that I bragged to him about it, crowing at my discovery. The crux of the thaumaturgy lies with the lake, with the forces around it. I chose my Demesne because of the forces which are here, not the other way around. Away from this place I am no more or less Wizardly than any of my colleagues. Only this place – and that arrogant aerie built halfway to the clouds – gives me the name ‘High Wizard’.”
“How did you ever learn to … to do things. Make the Faces. Or bind Harpies. Or whatever?” It was hard to think through the pain in her arm, but she doubted that Chamferton would often be so patient with questions.
“I have speculated about that,” he mused. “It is my theory that the forces of the place desire expression. That they, themselves, are my tutors, suggesting to my dream-mind what I should try or do.” He gave her another of those quick, ominous looks. “You have said you are no chatterbird, Mavin, and I rely upon that. I do not want half the world of the True Game camped upon my steps, attempting to learn what I have learned, or – worse – finding out and using it to make more pain and tragedy in this world.”
She returned him an enigmatic smile. She had already given him her word; it was not necessary to give it again. Besides, the sound of wings returning drew their eyes to the cliff edge where Foulitter now perched, her teeth broken and bloody around the silver spike and limp Face she carried. Arkhur took it without a word, carrying it to the stream where he pressed it deep into the chill water to let it dissolve, shuddering slightly as he did so.
“I think the shadowpeople intend to remove more of them,” Mavin remarked, more to break the silence than for any other reason.
“It won’t be necessary,’ he growled with sudden determination, shuddering again at the feel of the slimy tissue under his fingers. “There will not be any left after today. I have decided that because a thing can be done is not always reason enough to do it.” He rose from the stream, face pale, a small muscle at the corner of his eye twitching again and again. “Do you have any idea whose Faces he has taken down there? Dare I hope they are mostly villains? Gamesmen Ghouls, perhaps? What of that one the Harpy named? Rose-love of Betand?”
Mavin shook her head, almost sorry to tell him the truth. “I think it unlikely they are Ghouls and villains, Wizard. Rose-love is one of the old women Himaggery brought from Betand, a story-teller. I overhead Dourso say he had taken her Face and killed her doing it. Her sister still lives at the aerie – or did when I was there half a season ago. She, too, is full of old tales. Neither of them were Gameswomen. They were merely … people.”
“So Dourso has taken Faces from peaceful folk, pawns, perhaps even goodly Gamesmen, Healers and the like?”
“I would not doubt it,” she agreed.
“And some of them have lost life, perhaps much life. Some, like old Rose-love, may have lost all life. Whatever is done must seek to set that right. Certainly whatever is done must not put them at further risk. Ah well. I have my wand. I can do what must be done. However, there is a counter spell, and it may be that Dourso has learned it. His understanding is not great, but his sense of power and treachery are unfailing. If he has learned it, then the Faces would be caught between my power and his, possibly injured or destroyed, and their owners would suffer even more.”
“But you have the wand!”
/>
“The counter spell would not require a wand though perhaps he does not know it. Would you risk that?”
Mavin thought of the Faces as she had seen them first in moonlight, unconscious, taken from who knew what persons abroad in the world. “No,” she admitted. “I wouldn’t risk hurting them any more. Not if there were some other way.”
“We will think of some other way. Perhaps we can lure Dourso away from here, back to the aerie, leaving me here alone for a short time…. Yes. Back to the aerie with Valdon. Hmmm. Let me think on that.”
He strode away toward the cliff top, ignoring the Harpy half crouched there, her nipples almost brushing the ground. The Harpy’s face was not unlike those on the poles, blind and unaware, yet full of some enormous potential which was almost palpable. In this case, the potential was for evil, thought Mavin, turning her back on the creature, trying not to vomit at the sight of her. Her arm throbbed and she was full of pain and hunger and annoyance. Waiting on another to take action was foreign to her nature, and she fought down her irritation. She should be away from here, searching for Himaggery.
“Searching for Himaggery,” she snarled. “I have done nothing else since first arriving at Pfarb Durim.”
A tug at her leg made her look down into Proom’s face, wrinkled with concern. Was she sick, unhappy, miserable? Poor Mavin. What would Mavin do now?
“I’m hungry,” she announced, rubbing her stomach and miming eating motions. “Let’s have breakfast.”
He was immediately ready for a feast, slipping away full of song to summon the others. It was not long before they had a fire going, hidden behind piled stones, with chunks of mushroom broiling. Someone had brought in a dozen large, speckled eggs. Surprisingly they were fresh, probably purloined from some farmyard. When the High Wizard finished his solitary walk and sought them out, they were fully engaged in breakfast with little enough left for him.