The White Rose

  The men Tracker faced received reinforcements. He retreated. From up top someone sped arrows down. But I did not think he would make it. I kicked at a man who had gotten behind him. Another took his place, leapt at me …

  Toadkiller Dog came out of nowhere. He locked his jaws in my assailant’s throat. The man gurgled, responded as he might have if bitten by a krite. He lasted only a second.

  Toadkiller Dog dropped away. I climbed a few feet, still ‘trying to guard Tracker’s back. He reached up. I caught his hand and heaved.

  There were awful shouts and screams among the imperials. It was too dark to see why. I figured One-Eye, Goblin, and Silent were earning their keep.

  Tracker flung up past me, took a firm hold, helped me. I climbed a few feet, looked down.

  The ground was fifteen feet below. The windwhale was going up fast. The imperials stood around gawking. I fought my way to the top.

  I looked down again as someone dragged me to safety. The fires in Rust were beneath us. Several hundred feet below. We were going up fast. No wonder my hands were cold.

  Chills were not the reason I lay down shaking, though.

  After it passed, I asked, “Anybody hurt? Where’s my medical kit?”

  Where, I wondered, were the Taken? How had we gotten through the day without a visit from our beloved enemy the Limper?

  Going home I noticed more than I did coming north. I felt the life beneath me, the grumble and hum within the monster. I noted pre-adolescent mantas peeping from nesting places among the appendages which forested parts of the whale’s back. And I saw the Plain in a different light, with the moon up to illuminate it.

  It was another world, spare and crystalline at times, luminescent at others, sparkling and glowing in spots. What looked like lava pools lay to the west. Beyond, the flash and curl of a change storm illuminated the horizon. I suppose we were crossing its backtrail. Later, deeper into the Plain, the desert became more mundane.

  Our steed was not the cowardly windwhale. This one was smaller and smelled less strongly. It was more spritely, too, and less tentative in its movements.

  About twenty miles from home Goblin squealed, “Taken!” and everyone went flat. The whale climbed. I peeked over its side.

  Taken for sure, but not interested in us. There was a lot of flash and roar way down there. Patches of desert were aflame. I saw the long, creepy shadows of walking trees on the move, the shapes of manias rushing across the light. The Taken themselves were afoot, except one desperado aloft battling the mantas. The one aloft was not the Limper. I would have recognized his tattered brown even at that distance.

  Whisper, surely. Trying to escort the others out of enemy territory. Great. They would be busy for a few days.

  The windwhale began to descend. (For the sake of these Annals, I wish part of a passage had taken place by day so I could record more details.) It touched down shortly. From the ground a menhir called, “Get down. Hurry.”

  Getting off was more trouble than boarding. The wounded now realized they were hurt. Everyone was tired and stiff. And Tracker would not move.

  He was catatonic. Nothing reached him. He just sat there, staring at infinity. “What the hell?” Elmo demanded. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he got hit.” I was baffled. And the more so once we got him into some light so I could examine him. There was nothing physically wrong. He had come through without a bruise.

  Darling came outside. She signed, “You were right, Croaker. I am sorry. I thought it would be a stroke so bold it would fire the whole world.” Of Elmo, she asked, “How many lost?”

  “Four men. I don’t know if they were killed or just got left.” He seemed ashamed. The Black Company does not leave its brethren behind.

  “Toadkiller Dog,” Tracker said. “We left Toadkiller Dog.”

  One-Eye disparaged the mutt. Tracker rose angrily. He had salvaged nothing but his sword. His magnificent case and arsenal remained in Rust with his mongrel.

  “Here now,” the Lieutenant snapped. “None of that. One-Eye, go below. Croaker, keep an eye on this man. Ask Darling if the guys who ran out yesterday made it back.”

  Elmo and I both did.

  Her answer was not reassuring. The great cowardly windwhale dumped them a hundred miles north, according to the menhirs. At least it descended before forcing them off.

  They were walking home. The menhirs promised to shield them from the natural wickedness of the Plain.

  We all went down into the Hole bickering. There is nothing like failure to set the sparks flying.

  Failure, of course, can be relative. The damage we did was considerable. The repercussions would echo a long time. The Taken had to be badly rattled. Our capture of so many documents would force a restructuring of their plan of campaign. But still the mission was unsatisfactory. Now the Taken knew wind whales were capable of ranging beyond traditional bounds. Now the Taken knew we had resources beyond those they had suspected.

  When you gamble, you do not show all your cards till after the final bet.

  I scrounged around and found the captured papers, took them to my quarters. I did not feel like participating in the conference room post-mortem. It was sure to get nasty-even with everyone agreeing.

  I shed my weapons, lighted a lamp, picked one of the document bundles, turned to my worktable. And there lay another of those packets from the west.

  Chapter Nineteen: BOMANZ’S TALE

  Croaker:

  Bomanz walked his dreams with a woman who could not make him understand her words. The green path of promise led past moon-eating dogs, hanged men, and sentries without faces. Through breaks in the foliage he glimpsed a sky-spanning comet.

  He did not sleep well. The dream invariably awaited him when he dozed off. He did not know why he could not slide down into deep sleep. As nightmares went, this was mild.

  Most of the symbolism was obvious, and most of it he refused to heed.

  Night had fallen when Jasmine brought tea and asked, “Are you going to lie here all week?”

  “I might.”

  “How are you going to sleep tonight?”

  “I probably won’t till late. I’ll work in the shbp. What’s Stance been up to?”

  “He slept a while, went and brought a load from the site, pottered around the shop, ate, and went back out when somebody came to say Men fu was out there again.”

  “What about Besand?”

  “It’s all over town. The new Monitor is furious because he didn’t leave. Says he won’t do anything about it. The Guards are calling him a horse’s ass. They won’t take his orders. He’s getting madder and madder.”

  “Maybe he’ll learn something. Thanks for the tea. Is there anything to eat?”

  “Leftover chicken. Get it yourself. I’m going to bed.”

  Grumbling, Bomanz ate cold, greasy chicken wings, washing them down with tepid beer. He thought about his dream. His ulcer gave him a nip. His head started aching. “Here we go,” he muttered, and dragged himself upstairs.

  He spent several hours reviewing the rituals he would use to leave his body and slide through the hazards of the Barrowland … Would the dragon be a problem? Indications were, it was meant for physical intruders. Finally: “It’ll work. As long as that sixth barrow is Moondog’s.” He sighed, leaned back, closed his eyes.

  The dream began. And midway through he found himself staring into green ophidian eyes. Wise, cruel, mocking eyes. He started awake.

  “Pop? You up there?”

  “Yeah. Come on up.”

  Stancil pushed into the room. He looked awful.

  “What happened?”

  “The Barrowland … The ghosts are walking.”

  “They do that when the comet gets close. I didn’t expect them so soon. Must be going to get frisky this time. That’s no call to get shook up.”

  “Wasn’t that. I expected that. That I could handle. No. It’s Besand and Men fu.”

  “What?”

/>   “Men fu tried to get into the Barrowland with Besand’s amulet.”

  “I was right! That little … Go on.”

  “He was at the dig. He had the amulet. He was scared to death. He saw me coming and headed downhill. When he got near where the moat used to be, Besand came out of nowhere, screaming and waving a sword. Men fu started running. Besand kept after him. It’s pretty bright out there, but I lost track when they got up around the Howler’s barrow. Besand must have caught him. I heard them yelling and rolling around in the brush. Then they started screaming.”

  Stancil stopped. Bomanz waited.

  “I don’t know how to describe it, Pop. I never heard sounds like that. AH the ghosts piled onto the Howler’s barrow. It went on a long time. Then the screaming started getting closer.”

  Stancil, Bomanz concluded, had been shaken deeply. Shaken the way a man is when his basic beliefs are uprooted. Odd. “Go on.”

  “It was Besand. He had the amulet, but it didn’t help. He didn’t make it across the moat. He dropped it. The ghosts jumped him. He’s dead, Pop. The Guards were all out there … They couldn’t do anything but look. The Monitor wouldn’t give them amulets so they could get him.”

  Bomanz folded his hands on the tabletop, stared at them. “So now we have two men dead. Three counting the one last night. How many will we have tomorrow night? Will I have to face a platoon of new ghosts?”

  “You’re going to do it tomorrow night?”

  “That’s right. With Besand gone there’s no reason to delay it. Is there?”

  “Pop … Maybe you shouldn’t. Maybe the knowledge out there should stay buried.”

  “What’s this? My son parroting my misgivings?”

  “Pop, let’s don’t fight. Maybe I pushed too hard. Maybe I was wrong. You know more about the Barrowland than me.”

  Bomanz stared at his son. More boldly than he felt, he said, “I’m going in. It’s time to put doubts aside and get on with it. There’s the list. See if there’s an area of inquiry that I’ve forgotten.”

  “Pop …”

  “Don’t argue with me, boy.” It had taken him all evening to shed the ingrained Bomanz persona and surface the wizard so long and artfully hidden. But he was out now.

  Bomanz went to a comer where a few seemingly innocuous objects were piled. He stood taller than usual. He moved more precisely, more quickly. He began piling things on the table. “When you go back to Oar, you can tell my old classmates what became of me.” He smiled thinly. He could recall a few who would shudder even now, knowing he had studied at the Lady’s knee. He’d never forgotten, never forgiven. And they knew him that well.

  Stancil’s pallor had disappeared. Now he was uncertain. This side of the father had not been seen since before the son’s birth. It was outside his experience. “Do you want to go out there, Pop?”

  “You brought back the essential details. Besand is dead. Men fu is dead. The Guards aren’t going to get excited.”

  “I thought he was your friend.”

  “Besand? Besand had no friends. He had a mission … What’re you looking at?”

  “A man with a mission?”

  “Could be. Something kept me here. Take this stuff downstairs. We’ll do it in the shop.”

  “Where do you want it?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Besand was the only one who could have separated it from the junk.”

  Stancil went out. Later, Bomanz finished a series of mental exercises and wondered what had become of the boy. Stance hadn’t returned. He shrugged, went on.

  He smiled. He was ready. It was going to be simple.

  The town was in an uproar. A Guard had tried to assassinate the new Monitor. The Monitor was so bewildered and frightened he had locked himself in his quarters. Crazy rumors abounded.

  Bomanz walked through it with such calm dignity that he startled people who had known him for years. He went to the edge of the Barrowland, considered his long-time antagonist. Besand lay where he had fallen. The flies were thick. Bomanz threw a handful of dirt. The insects scattered. He nodded thoughtfully. Besand’s amulet had disappeared again.

  Bomanz located Corporal Husky. “If you can’t do anything to get Besand out, then toss dirt in on him. There’s a mountain around my pit.”

  “Yes, sir,” Husky said, and only later seemed startled by his easy acquiescence.

  Bomanz walked the perimeter of the Barrowland. The sun shone a little oddly through the comet’s tail. Colors were a trifle strange. But there were no ghosts aprowl now. He saw no reason not to make his communication attempt. He returned to the village.

  Wagons stood before the shop. Teamsters were busy loading them. Jasmine shrilled inside, cursing someone who had taken something he shouldn’t. “Damn you, Tokar,” Bomanz muttered. “Why today? You could have waited till it was over.” He felt a fleeting concern. He could not rely on Stance if the boy were distracted. He shoved into the shop.

  “It’s grand!” Tokar said of the horse. “Absolutely magnificent. You’re a genius, Bo.”

  “You’re a pain in the butt. What’s going on here? Who the hell are all these people?”

  “My drivers. My brother Clete. My sister Glory. Stance’s Glory. And our baby sister Snoopy. We called her that because she was always spying on us.”

  “Pleased to meet you all. Where’s Stance?”

  Jasmine said, “I sent him to get something for supper. With this crowd I’ll have to start cooking early.”

  Bomanz sighed. Just what he needed, this night of nights. A house full of guests. “You. Put that back where you got it. You. Snoopy? Keep your hands off of stuff.”

  Tokar asked, “What’s with you, Bo?”

  Bomanz raised one eyebrow, met the man’s gaze, did not answer. “Where’s the driver with the big shoulders?”

  “Not with me anymore.” Tokar frowned.

  “Thought not. I’ll be upstairs if something critical comes up.” He stamped through the shop, went up, settled in his chair, willed himself to sleep. His dreams were subtle. It seemed he could hear at last, but could not recall what he heard …

  Stancil entered the upstairs room. Bomanz asked, “What are we going to do? That crowd is gumming up the works.”

  “How long do you need, Pop?”

  “This could go all night every night for weeks if it works out.” He was pleased. Stancil had recovered his courage.

  “Can’t hardly run them off.”

  “And can’t go anywhere else, either.” The Guards were in a hard, bitter mood.

  “How noisy will you be, Pop? Could we do it here, on the quiet?”

  “Guess we’ll have to try. Going to be crowded. Get the stuff from the shop. I’ll make room.”

  Bomanz’s shoulders slumped when Stancil left. He was getting nervous. Not about the thing he would challenge, but about his own foresight. He kept thinking he had forgotten something. But he had reviewed four decades of notes without detecting a flaw in his chosen approach. Any reasonably educated apprentice should be able to follow his formulation. He spat into a corner. “Antiquarian’s cowardice,” he muttered. “Old-fashioned fear of the unknown.”

  Stancil returned. “Mom’s got them into a game of Throws.”

  “I wondered what Snoopy was yelling about. Got everything?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Go down and kibbitz. I’ll be there after I set up. We’ll do it after they’re in bed.”

  “Okay.”

  “Stance? Are you ready?”

  “I’m okay, Pop. I just had the jitters last night. It’s not every day I see a man killed by ghosts.”

  “Better get a feel for that kind of thing. It happens.”

  Stancil looked blank.

  “You’re sneaking studies on Black Campus, aren’t you?” Black Campus was that hidden side of the university on which wizards learned their trade. Officially, it did not exist. Legally, it was prohibited. But it was there. Bomanz was a laureate graduate.

  Stancil gave one
sharp nod and left.

  “I thought so,” Bomanz whispered, and wondered: How black are you, son?

  He pottered around till he had triple-checked everything, till he realized that caution had become an excuse for not socializing. “You’re something,” he mumbled to himself.

  One last look. Chart laid out. Candles. Bowl of quicksilver. Silver dagger. Herbs. Censers … He still had that feeling. “What the hell could I have missed?”

  Throws was essentially four-player checkers. The board was four times the usual size. Players played from each side. An element of chance was added by throwing a die before each move. If a player’s throw came up six, he could move any combination of pieces six moves. Checkers rules generally applied, except that a jump could be declined.

  Snoopy appealed to Bomanz the moment he appeared. “They’re ganging up on me!” She was playing opposite Jasmine. Glory and Tokar were on her flanks. Bomanz watched a few moves. Tokar and the older sister were in cahoots. Conventional elimination tactics.

  On impulse Bomanz controlled the fall of the die when it came to Snoopy. She threw a six, squealed, sent men charging all over. Bomanz wondered if he had been that rich in adolescent enthusiasm and optimism. He eyed the girl. How old? Fourteen?

  He made Tokar throw a one, let Jasmine and Glory have what fate decreed, then gave Snoopy another six and Tokar another one. After a third time around Tokar grumbled, “This is getting ridiculous.” The balance of the game had shifted. Glory was about to abandon him and side with her sister against Jasmine.

  Jasmine gave Bomanz the fish-eye when Snoopy threw yet another six. He winked, let Tokar throw free. A two. Tokar grumbled, “I’m on the comeback trail now.”

  Bomanz wandered into the kitchen, poured himself a mug of beer. He returned to find Snoopy on the edge of disaster again. Her play was so frenetic she had to throw fours or better to survive.

  Tokar, on the other hand, played a tediously conservative game, advancing in echelon, trying to occupy his flankers’ king rows. A man much like himself, Bomanz reflected. First he plays to make sure he doesn’t lose; then he worries about the win.

  He watched Tokar roll a six and send a piece on an extravagant tour in which he took three men from his nominal ally, Glory.