Hunting the White Witch

  The jerdat commander reined in his gelding and the fifth of a jerd pulled up immaculately behind him, spectacle perfected at a million practices in the drill yard.

  In the way of such things, the press was sidling off from me, leaving me space to greet official wrath alone.

  Shining in his bronze, the jerdat took in the scene. He was near my age, my man’s age at least, and constructed in a manner to please his women. Finally he thought he might speak to me.

  “You, sir—are you the cause of this disturbance?”

  “You, sir, are the cause of it, not I.”

  Plainly, he did not care for my answer.

  “Express yourself afresh, sir.”

  “Gladly. You have ridden your troop headlong into a peaceful gathering, thereby creating something of a riot. I hope I make myself clear.”

  The jerdat nodded, as if an assessment he had privately formed of me was showing itself as accurate.

  “Be good enough to tell me your rank and your blood.”

  “I am a foreigner to Bar-Ibithni.”

  “Yet you talk like a Masrian. Well. And your rank?”

  “I am a king’s son,” I said.

  At that he smiled.

  “Are you indeed, by the Flame. Well, then, and what is this foreign princeling at, stirring up a mob of Hesseks?”

  “I am a healer,” I said, “among my other powers.”

  “You dress mighty fine for an amputator of warts. I’m wondering if you’re a thief’s son rather than a king’s. Maybe I should offer you a night of entertainment in the Pillar jail.”

  Supremacy, once established, must remain constant, and I could not afford to let these soldiers best me in public. I was weary, too, and he riled me. I watched his face smiling, and I watched it alter as I let the slender bolt of light from my arm, which had been itching with it, into his plated breast.

  He almost toppled down, but, rare horseman that he was, he kept his seat while the animal itself neighed and danced with fear, rolling its eyes between the silver blinkers.

  The crowd stood, huge-eyed.

  The soldiers broke ranks and started a rush at me, but the jerdat checked them with a shout.

  White-lipped, he accused me with the truth, “A magician!”

  I said, “Order the people home; they will go. I am done with my work for today.” At that there were wild entreaties on every side. I held up my hand and got silence, as normally only a fifth of a jerd would get it.

  “I said, for today I am done. There will be other days. Captain,” I added, not taking my eyes off him. “I cede the matter to you.”

  The crowd fragmented at the urging of the jerdiers, and bubbled away over the lawns of the Grove. There was no violence, and few lingered between the trees to molest me, afraid the soldiers would chastise them.

  The jerdat and three of his subalterns sat their horses at the perimeter of the grass while this went on, below the enclosure with the tiger in it. Their mounts, schooled to beasts as they were schooled to an assortment of terrors, were stony-still as the red cat prowled and growled above. Presently the captain rode back over to me. Obviously, the blow still pained him and he was half stunned, but he meant to have it out with me.

  “You have dishonored me,” he said. “Not content with that, you did it before a mix rabble off the Amber Road, and before my own men.”

  “And what had you in mind for me?”

  He said, “If you’re a stranger to the city, I must ask if you know the code of the Challenge?”

  I said, “A challenge to what?”

  “To combat, you and I.”

  “Ah, warrior matters,” I said. “Do you think you can match me?”

  “If you will abide by the code. You claim to be a king’s son and appear at least to be a gentleman. I will take so much on trust, for redress I will have, magician.” Shaken as he was, he lost his control, and rasped out at me with his eyes burning, “By Masrimas, you shamed me, and must give me something!”

  “If I refuse?”

  He smiled, reckoning he had my weakness, and not far off at that.

  “Then I will personally see to it that the whole city understands, sir, that you are afraid to meet me, doubting your powers. Which will do your trade no good, I promise you.”

  “Assume I accept. That thing I did I can do again. What weapon can enable you to best a sorcerer?”

  “If you have any honor, you will observe the code of combat and use only the weapon that the code permits—a sword. If you prefer jackal’s tricks, you may find me more ready. I, too, have had priestly training.”

  A feature I had noticed casually a moment before now disconcerted me. Despite his Masrian coloring, his eyes were blue, and I recalled hearing that this was a mark of the Hragon kings.

  “You had better tell me who you are,” I said.

  He said steadily, “You guess already, by your face. It makes no odds. I am the prince Sorem, son of the Emperor. And the challenge still stands.”

  “You must think me mad,” I said, “to invite me to kill the heir.”

  “I am not the heir,” he answered coldly. “My mother is his former wife, and he has cast her off. You need expect no trouble from that quarter—I am not in favor. I will see you have safe conduct besides, if you harm me. If. Don’t worry too greatly on that score. You will hear from me inside the month.”

  He turned the horse smartly and rode off, the column of men falling in behind at a parade trot.

  Glancing about, I saw Kochus’ face and nearly laughed.

  “Courage, man. I am to fight, not you.”

  He gabbled something, saying it would likely make my fortune if I slew this superfluous prince who was out of favor. All the princes constantly warred with each other in the citadel and out of it. The heir himself, nervous of his future, as most heirs have cause to be, would find means to reward me for Sorem’s death—one less threat to his throne. As for the Emperor, he had fathered too many to keep count, had grown obese with age, and cared only for the tricky adolescent boys he took to his bed, and then, the tale went, could do little with.

  This chat of the imperial court, which seemed much removed from my own destiny, bored me. I was only astonished at the twist to the afternoon’s work. Besides, there was a disturbing element in Sorem, something that recalled to me my own self as I had been, still was, perhaps—hotheaded and young and out of temper with my life. (I wondered idly if the cast-off second wife was ugly, that she had been cast off. It seemed to me the woman who mothered him had had her share of beauty, for you saw it there in him. But no doubt the years had dealt unkindly with her. It put me in mind of Ettook’s krarl, of Tathra, of all that wretchedness I had thought left far behind me.) Regarding his commission in the citadel, the jerdat captaincy, it was probably a bone thrown to Sorem in better days. It was apparently not uncommon for the royal house to place its princes in the army, the ancestry of the Hragons being a military one. Yet he handled himself well and was an excellent horseman. He had mentioned a priest’s training, too. Maybe all these things were fruits he had plucked for himself. His men were loyal to him, you could not miss that. He had used what came to hand, and used it well enough, but his birthright must have been gall rather than honey to him, such crowds before him, and such crowds looking on to see if he would fall, to mock him when he did. No wonder his pride was raw. Hearing of a Hessek mob in the Grove, he had come out like a young lion for action. Finding me, he felt his gods had set him another test. He would kill me if he could. I had no option but to deflect his purpose. And it irked me.

  3

  When I left the Grove, the sun was low, sinking brick-red behind the piled roofs, into the distant western marsh.

  Bar-Ibithni took on a new color in the sunset, a feverish, sullen glow of burning lacquers and dyed plaster walls. In the high prayer-towers of the Palm Quarter, the F
lame priests sang out their hymn to Masrimas’ fiery sun.

  A man loitered by the wall of the Grove. When he saw me he bowed and touched his fingers to his breast, the Masrian greeting to a religious leader.

  “Illustrious sir, my master has sent me to entreat you to visit him. His house is your house, he will give you anything you desire, if you can cure his agony.”

  “Which agony is that?”

  “It is a rock, holy one, above his bladder.”

  Phoonlin, the rich merchant Lyo had promised, was gambling on me after all.

  I said I would go with the man, Phoonlin’s steward, no less, and told him to conduct me.

  If any were watching for us, a fine reassurance it must have been for them to observe, sauntering up the street, one tall young dandy surrounded by a crew of three villainous and overdressed ship’s officers and six filthy and crazed-looking Hesseks. Small wonder if they had barred the gates against us; yet they did not.

  The house, situated in the fashionable area, was as close to Hragon’s Wall and the Palm Quarter as it could get. A mansion of stucco and tiled gables, it lifted itself on heavily gilded columns carved to resemble palms, out of a garden court of black sculpted trees. Here the hot afterglow was fading in a narrow strip of pool. A lion fountain of white stone stared down into the water; it had a woman’s breasts and the wings of an eagle, and through its bearded lips, pursed as if to whistle, jetted a glittering string that created the only movement and the only sound in the quiet.

  No lights had been lighted in windows of the mansion.

  A veiled figure opened the door and pattered away ahead of us on little naked pale feet.

  The steward asked if my servants would remain below, and took me upstairs to the second story. Here, as we waited for the girl to return, he said, “Forgive the lack of light, sir. It is my master’s whim.”

  “Why?”

  He seemed embarrassed.

  “It has something to do with the Old Faith,” he said. “I beg your pardon. We thought you to be a devotee of the Hessek order.”

  “Do I seem a priest? I’m not. But this is a Masrian house.”

  “Partly, sir. But when a man is desperate, he will turn anywhere. And if you are not of the Masrian canon yourself—”

  “I am a foreigner,” I said. “Tell me about the Old Faith.”

  Before he answered, something went through my brain, some intimation, a memory of talk on the ship. The Old Faith. Darkness as opposed to the clear light of the Flame, the sun and the torch symbols of Masrimas, something arcane and occult, a mildewed dust from the tomb of ancient Hessek.

  “Myself,” he said sturdily, a fellow who felt his sense and his reason affronted by the persisting doubt in his bones, “myself, I don’t credit such superstition. I, too, have Masrian blood, and if I incline to any god, it would be the Flame-Lord. That’s clean. For the other, it’s rife in the old city over the marsh. Bit-Hessee . . . . Did you know, not even a jerdier will go there after sundown?”

  “Give me a name for this god of the Hesseks. I thought they worshipped the ocean or some such.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, “but it’s not a god. It’s a—an un-god. I’d rather keep quiet. I’ve said too much. You understand, my master Phoonlin turned to the idea in desperation, and he doesn’t grasp the fundamentals of it. I’ve heard them say you must be pure Hessek to do that . . . . Here’s the girl coming, sir.”

  He broke off, and the veiled servant ran up on her white mouse feet, and whispered that the master bade me enter.

  It was now very dark. I went in at another door and stood in shadows. I made out breathing, harsh from pain and excitement—or was it fear? I read his fright, glimpsing him with the inner eve rather than my sight, a fat man wasted to his skin, a blade of pain in his side, death on his mind.

  “Be calm,” I said. “I am the sorcerer Vazkor, and I have come to heal you.”

  There was a lamp on a stand. I crossed to it, opened the glass panel, and put my hand in, letting the energy rise gently from me, as I had learned to do, enough to heat the wick and set it burning. Phoonlin caught his breath. The flame shot up, scattering lights about the walls as I closed the glass on it.

  Now I could see him. He lay in a chair, blinking at me. The curled wig was threaded with silver, and there was a silver fringe on his robe and great rings on his fingers, but his face was naked. He would sell me everything, I could see, for an hour without pain. Here was my wage.

  “I have tried several,” he muttered. “All failed. I wasted good cash on them. You, too, perhaps, in spite of your trick with the lamp.” He glared at me with dismal rage. “You’re just a boy.”

  “It is your discomfort that makes you forget yourself,” I said. “So I will relieve you of it, and then we shall do business.”

  The minute I put my hand on him, I felt the stone, “saw” it through my palm, like a black knot in a white branch. I thought, This I will leave you for today. Only the hurt I will take, till I have what I want.

  Rich Phoonlin became rigid. He gripped the sides of his chair, and paused, to be certain.

  “It has—gone—” he said. His face was full of entreaty.

  “You are not yet cured,” I said. “That’s for tomorrow, if you’ll pay my fee.”

  He sighed and shut his eyes.

  “Even for this,” he said, “I would reward you. By the Flame, how sweet it is. If you can make me well, you may name your price.”

  I had questioned Kochus briefly concerning the merchant, and was well primed.

  “I name my fee now. Ten balances of gold, to be weighed at the market rate; fifteen of silver. Also a brief interest in your business dealings, corn and vineyards, I think, and pearls. I ask only enough to provide me an adequate income while I am in the city, say twenty percent of each current measure, vat and gem—at the market rate, of course.”

  “You dog,” he said. “Do you judge me that wealthy? You will batten off my blood, like a parasite, will you? What right have you to ask this of me?”

  “As much right as you suppose you have to live. Choose.”

  “You’ll ruin me.”

  “Death would do it more thoroughly than I,” I said. “I will return tomorrow; you may tell me then if my terms are to be met.”

  I felt no pity for him, trying to keep hold of his life and his hoard at once. It was not my time for pity, at least, not for men such as Phoonlin.

  * * *

  Torches burned along the front of the Dolphin’s Teeth, in funnels of blue and yellow glass. Inside the vestibule and corridors, I passed no one who did not stare.

  The story had got around, as was to be expected. They had heard everything, the episode with Gold-Arm, the hours as healer in the Grove, the jerdat-prince turning tail with his two hundred men. What would the sorcerer do next?

  The sorcerer went to his apartment. Here I was presently disturbed by Kochus, coming back from his supper with a frightened face.

  “Charpon, Lord Vazkor,” he blurted, his eyes darting nervously. He was about to betray his master to me, and the thought scared him almost as much as I did.

  “What of Charpon?”

  “It’s the ship, the Vineyard. The Hesseks say he means to get aboard tonight, very late, and sail with the dawn tide. That he means to tell you nothing. The other seconds are to be with him, and all the crew he can gather up so fast. The oar-slaves are still aboard. I hear he’s sent them starting rations—the meat and wine they’re given before a voyage.”

  I let Kochus rattle on, explaining this and that to me, Charpon’s foolishness, his own willingness to serve me, how dangerous it had been for him to go against the master and bring me the news. I did not want to lose the ship and did not mean to. Charpon, who seemed almost deliberately to have set himself to be a thorn in my side, had reached his terminus. The only way to stop him and surely end his
trouble to me was to kill him.

  Having decided that, then I must face the other thing, that I did not want to kill him, or any man for that matter, not in that one infallible way I had, by use of my will. This was no ethic or moral stigma. It was pure fear. I feared the Power in me. At such times as I feared it, I felt some demon had possessed my brain, the sort of dichotomy that would drive me from my wits. So now I shirked it.

  I sent Kochus out, thanking him, and he slunk away to the bed of Thei, furtive with his anxiety not to appear furtive.

  Long-Eye, who crouched at my door immobile as a wooden sentinel, I called in. I told him of Charpon’s plans.

  Before I need say anything else, Long-Eye said to me, “I follow Charpon and kill him.”

  “He won’t be alone,” I said.

  “No matter. All Hessek men reverence Lord Vazkor, before Charpon.”

  “You know I could do this myself,” I said, goaded by the bizarre guilt of it. “Don’t you question that I ask you to manage it for me?”

  He gazed at me blankly. Gods were inscrutable. He looked for nothing else. He slipped away into the night without another word.

  He saved me in the sea from my death, that man; I sent him to his own.

  * * *

  I sat before the purple window till dawn rained indigo through the black, and red through the indigo, and the birds sang softly in their cages.

  It had not been a night for sleeping. I had thought, Is it now he kills Charpon, or now? Maybe the Hesseks adhered to their master after all. Maybe judging Long-Eye a robber, they have killed him instead, perverse jest to round off this lunacy. For it is foul, it stinks. If a knife must be used, why not my knife? I have slain a man before, I suppose. This is delegated murder.

  Eventually, a knock. The door opened, and I jumped to my feet as if it were I who awaited the executioner.

  It was not Long-Eye, but one of the Hesseks, who promptly groveled, obeising himself hands over face.