Into a Dark Realm (16 page)

“In the history of those people, twelve worlds have come under
their dominion. Of these, five were inhabited by other races. In each case, that world was completely cleansed of its native race: today every animal down to the lowest insect, every plant, every form of life, is from the Dasati homeworld: Omadrabar.”

Pug recognized the name from his own note to himself, but said nothing. He wanted to meditate on why he must not only do this nearly impossible thing, but go to the very heart of the most dangerous threat faced by his own world.

“I take your caution,” said Pug. “The Dasati are fearsome and deadly.”

“Implacable, my friend. You will never get one to speak with you, let alone negotiate. So, I must first tell you that to survive for more than a few minutes on Kosridi will be a far more difficult undertaking than merely preparing your bodies to endure the state of life on that world.”

“Vordam has touched on the subject,” said Pug. “He likened it to throwing straw on a flame.”

“More like a combustible oil,” replied Kastor. “Analogy aside, let us argue that you have been trained to endure the state of existence, but you still must survive the Dasati. To do so will require magic of staggering proportion, for you will have to appear Dasati in every imaginable way, not only in likeness, but to senses beyond your own. For example, they can see your body heat, as I can, and you burn brighter than they do. So many details must be considered, down to your body odor and the pitch of your voice. Moreover, this spell must endure not for mere minutes or hours but for weeks, perhaps even months. In addition you must learn their language, culture, and behavior in order to blend in. And you must be of sufficient importance to avoid…” He threw up his hands. “It is impossible.”

Pug regarded him. “I think not. I think you know how we can do such things. You just don’t see the profit in it.”

“Not true. For this training I shall demand a price which would appall a king on your world.” He narrowed his gaze. “Vordam would not have sent you had you been without means to pay such.”

“I can provide payment,” said Pug.

Nakor said, “I am curious. What manner of payment?”

Kastor said, “The usual. Metals of value: gold from your realm is especially useful given its nonreactive qualities. Silver for the opposite reason. Certain gems, again for their utility as well as beauty. Like many other races, we enjoy items that are unique, or at least distinctive, objects of art or curiosity.” He looked at Nakor and said, “Most of all, I prize information.”

“Reliability and improbability,” said Nakor.

“Yes,” agreed Kastor. “You understand.” He looked at Magnus. “Do you?”

“Probably not,” said the younger magician, “but I am my father’s son, and I go where he goes.”

To Bek, Kastor put the same question. “And you, young fighter. Do you understand?”

Bek just grinned, and Pug was struck by how young he looked at times. “I don’t care. Just as long as I can have fun. Nakor said this would be fun, so I’ll go with him.”

“Very well,” said the Ipiliac, rising. “We begin at once. Before anything else, we must conspire to find solutions for a myriad of problems, but none so pressing as your ability to breathe the air of Kosridi, drink its water, and keep your life’s energy inside your bodies.”

He motioned for them to follow and led them through the beaded curtain. In the rear of the building they discovered a hallway that led to a much larger building: a warehouse filled with row upon row of shelves.

After passing through the warehouse, he led them into a hallway with doors on either side. At the end of the hall he indicated two doors, one at each hand, and said, “Here you will stay. Within the hour I will return with several drafts, potions, and powders for you to ingest. Without these you will soon sicken beyond anyone’s ability to help you. Despite these measures, you must be prepared to endure great discomfort for many days to come. When you have been fully acclimatized to our world we will begin on four courses of action: we shall
prepare you for your journey to the second realm, which will seem as if you’re starting the entire process over again; we shall begin a reorganization of thought so that your understanding of magic will allow you to practice your arts of magic; we shall begin your appreciation of the Dasati, their language and beliefs, and how to contrive to be like them, so that they will not kill you; and we shall come to fully understand why you are undertaking a task of such monumental stupidity.”

Saying nothing else, he departed, leaving the four men alone in the hall. After a moment, Pug opened one of the two doors, indicating to Magnus that he should join him, and left Nakor and Bek to enter the other.

After two weeks, the food began to taste normal to them, and the air smelled sweet. The bouts of stomach cramps, coughing fits, malaise, and sudden sweating passed. Kastor had arranged for a series of instructions from an Ipiliac magician, a being named Danko who instantly fascinated Nakor and who seemed to reciprocate the little gambler’s interest. After an exercise had been concluded, the two would wander the city, Bek trailing behind, while Pug and Magnus considered other problems to be anticipated.

Taking advantage of the others’ absence, Pug and his son sat talking about the one question Pug had yet to explain to anyone’s satisfaction: why had they undertaken this journey?

He said, “Truth to tell, son, I do not know.”

Magnus sat on a sleeping pallet, his legs crossed beneath him, and smiled. “Mother would rejoice to hear such an admission.”

Pug had weighed for months whether to tell his family about the notes from the future, but caution always prevented it. He sighed. “I miss her more right now than I can tell you, son. I’d endure one of her tantrums just to hear her voice.”

Magnus smiled broadly. “I can only imagine what you’d hear if she heard you call them tantrums.”

Pug laughed. Then his face returned to an expression of concern. “Magnus, all I can tell you now is that I know it is imperative we
travel to the Dasati homeworld, to the very heart of their empire, and that we must do it via a particular world—where I suspect we shall find the cause of these incursions into Kelewan and the origin of the rifts—and then we must do whatever we discover needs doing to save our world and Kelewan.”

“But what I don’t understand is why should we be at risk at all? The Talnoy is safely contained in the Assembly and no more rifts are troubling Midkemia. Why not destroy the Talnoy? Tomas’s memories of the Dragon Lords say they are not impervious to all harm. Or at least remove it to some other place, perhaps a deserted world?”

Pug sighed. “I have considered all that, and more. If we can learn anything valuable from the Assembly’s study of the device it is worth the risk. I am unwilling to disturb any of the Talnoy still hidden from the Dasati by the wards in Novindus. If need be, the Assembly can remove the Talnoy back to Midkemia via a rift to our island, and your mother knows what must be done should that be necessary.”

Magnus stood up. “Let us go for a walk. I feel the need for a change. My stomach no longer bothers me and this room has become confining.”

Pug agreed and they left the merchant’s quarters. They were expected to be there at sundown when Danko was due to join them for another exercise in magic. Nakor’s observation about “stuff” in this world behaving differently had proven apt; once the Ipiliac magician had begun his tutoring, Pug quickly recognized that everything in this realm followed different laws of behavior and required new rules of operation for magic to work. It was, as Pug had observed after the first lesson, like learning a new language.

In the plaza they encountered another of the Ipiliac festivals in progress. Pug had been amused to discover that these people had many such events, some commemorating holy events or dates of historic significance. This one seemed to have something to do with food, as small cakes were being thrown to the crowd from those in the procession.

Pug snatched a muffin-sized confection out of the air and nibbled
it. “Not bad,” he observed, handing half to Magnus, who held up his hand to decline the offer.

They walked the plaza, venturing a little way down the main boulevard, still amazed at the scale of the Ipiliac city. Buildings rose up a dozen stories, all smoothly faced with matching stone. There was nothing of this city that remotely resembled any human city that either father or son had visited, none of the slapdash construction seen in the Kingdom, nor the accommodations to the weather seen in the Hotlands of Kesh, where houses were squat dark havens from the day’s heat; nor Kelewan, where buildings were uniformly painted white to reflect the sunlight, and manors were built with wood and paper, sliding walls to accommodate breezes, and many fountains and pools.

Down one side street a small parade approached: a woman of wealth riding in a sedan chair carried by burly—by Ipiliac standards—bearers. Magnus and Pug stepped aside as the regal woman passed, bedecked in what could only be called a provocative fashion: a slender girdle studded with jewels from which hung the lightest of skirts, leaving very little to the imagination, and a top consisting of complex beadwork which shifted and moved with tantalizing glimpses of bare skin beneath. Her black hair, the most common hue among these people, was piled high on her head and gathered in a ring of gold, falling down the back of her head like a horse tail, and she wore gems on every finger.

As she moved on, Magnus observed, “This acclimatization we are undergoing has an interesting effect, Father. I found that female attractive.”

“They are a handsome race, once you get used to their alien appearance,” observed Pug.

“No, I mean attractive in a way that I might find a human woman arousing. Which is strange.”

Pug shrugged. “Perhaps, perhaps not. I found the elf queen to be beautiful by any standard, yet it was not a genuine physical yearning; but Tomas was smitten long before he transformed into what he is today.

“Maybe it has something to do with the changes we are subjecting ourselves to, or maybe it is merely a case of your having a more encompassing view of beauty than your father.”

Magnus said, “Perhaps. I wonder who she might be. Were we in Kesh, I would think she was a member of the nobility or a minor royal. In Krondor, a courtesan to some man of wealth.” He shook his head in resignation. “Here? Can we learn enough about the Dasati in…anything approaching a reasonable time to survive a visit to their world?”

Pug sighed. “I think I can say with some conviction we will, but as to how I come to believe that…” Once again he wondered about telling his son about the messages from the future. “Let us say I believe this journey is less dangerous than it looks.”

Magnus was silent for a minute, then he said, “You have to stop treating me like your son, Father. I am, and have been for years, your most gifted student. I am nearly as powerful as you or Mother in several skills, and I suspect I may someday outstrip you both. I know you’re trying to protect me—”

Pug cut him off. “If I was trying to protect you, Magnus, I’d have left you back on the island with your mother and brother.” He looked around, as if trying to frame his thoughts and choose his words carefully. “Don’t ever claim that I’m trying to protect you, Magnus. I’ve kept silent a dozen or more times when you’ve gone in harm’s way and every fiber in me screamed to send someone else. You may be a father someday and when you are you’ll understand what it is I’m saying. If I merely wanted you to be safe, you wouldn’t be here.”

“You lost a brother and sister you never knew, but I lost children I loved as dearly as I love you and Caleb.”

Magnus stood with his arms crossed and stared down at him, and for an instant Pug saw his wife in his son, both in his stance and expression. At last Magnus sighed. He looked Pug in the eye and said, “I’m sorry, Father.”

“Don’t be,” said Pug, gripping his arm. “I appreciate your frus
tration. There isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t recall my own as I grew into my power, and I will remind you that your growth has been far more easy than my own.”

Magnus smiled warmly. “I realize that.” He knew that his father had struggled while training under his original mentor, the old Lesser Path magician Kulgan, because at that stage in his life, Pug had been a natural adept of the Greater Path, a distinction which was no longer significant, but had very much been so when he was a boy. And after that came four years spent as a slave, then another four training with the Assembly of Magicians on Kelewan. By comparison, Magnus’s training had been positively idyllic.

“Still,” continued Pug, “it remains to be seen exactly how we are going to survive the coming journey.”

A voice from behind, speaking unaccented Keshian, said, “Exactly the question you should be asking.”

Pug and Magnus had not noticed the speaker approach, so they both reacted quickly, assuming positions that could only be called defensive: weight distributed evenly, knees slightly bent, and hands near the daggers in their belts. Neither felt competent enough to attempt a magical defense yet.

“Be at ease. If I wished you dead, you would both already be dead,” said the speaker, a tall Ipiliac with the most human-looking face either had seen so far, made so in part by deep-set eyes and a heavy brow of bushy black hair. He wore his hair down to his shoulders, another unusual feature among these people as most men trimmed theirs at the nape or higher. His face was lined, suggesting his age to be past his prime, but his eyes were alert, his gaze scrutinizing, and his bearing and clothing could only be called a warrior’s: quilted gambeson jacket, a crossed leather harness bearing several weapons, and breeches and boots, suggesting he was a rider.

“I am Martuch,” he said calmly. “I am your guide. I am of the Dasati.”

M
iranda threw a vase.

Exasperation overcame self-control and she needed to vent her frustration. Instantly regretting the act—she liked the simple but sturdy pottery—she reached out with her mind and stopped the ceramic vessel scant inches before it reached the opposite wall, preventing it from shattering. She willed it back to her hand and replaced it on the table where it had stood a moment earlier.

Caleb entered just in time to witness the display. “Father?” he asked.

Miranda nodded. “I miss him, and it makes me…”

Caleb grinned, and for a moment she saw her husband’s smile. “Impatient?” he offered.

“A wise choice of words,” she said. “Is there news?”

“No, not from Father or Magnus, nor do I expect any soon. But we do have a message from the Assembly requesting your appearance at your earliest convenience.”

Miranda did a rough calculation in her head and realized it was midmorning on both worlds, for the uneven days caused long periods where midafternoon on one would be the middle of the night on the other. “I’ll go now,” she told Caleb. “You’re in charge until I return.”

Caleb held up his hands. “You know many of the—”

“Magicians don’t like it when you’re in charge,” she finished. “I know. And I don’t care. This is your father’s and my island, and that makes it your island when we’re not around. Besides, Rosenvar is still in Novindus with the Talnoy, Nakor and your brother are with your father, so that means you will just have to cope with any petty annoyance that comes along. If a dispute arises, settle it, or at least postpone resolution until one of us is back.

“Besides, my son, I may not be long on Kelewan.”

“I can only hope,” said Caleb.

As his mother walked away, she turned and said, “Any word from the boys?”

Caleb shrugged. “They don’t have the ability to communicate quickly, Mother. I’ve asked a couple of our agents in Roldem to keep a watch when they can, but how much trouble can they be in surrounded by an entire university of La-Timsan monks?”

“You are in
so
much trouble,” said Zane.

“So much,” echoed Tad.

Jommy shot them both black looks as he stepped out onto the practice floor. The students were training with swords, and while Jommy knew how to club a man with the hilt, cut his throat after kicking him in the groin, and every other dirty trick Caleb had been able to teach him, this was tournament sword fighting, with rules, a Master of the Sword to observe they were followed, and his opponent was Godfrey, Servan’s closest ally, and from the way he held his weapon, he was no stranger to the practice floor.

Jommy tugged at the tight collar of his jacket as the Master of the Sword motioned for the two opponents to come together at the center of the floor. The rest of the class watched quietly, all of them under the supervision of half a dozen monks.

The Master of the Sword spoke just loudly enough for his voice to carry over the muttering of the boys without yelling. “This practice is to demonstrate the counterstrike.” He turned to Jommy and said, “As Godfrey is the more experienced with a sword, you shall launch an attack. You may choose any line, high, middle, or low, but light or no contact only. Is that clear?”

Jommy nodded and returned to where his two foster brothers stood. Tad handed him the helmet, a basket face-mask sewn to a cloth back. He lowered it over his head and took the starting position.

“Start!” commanded the Master, and Jommy hesitated, then launched a high blow, attempting as best he could within the rules to take Godfrey’s head off.

Godfrey easily beat aside the strike, extended his arm, and delivered a hard touch to Jommy’s chest; then as he withdrew his sword, with a flick he struck the only exposed part of Jommy’s body, the back of his hand.

“Ow!” Jommy shouted, dropping his sword, to the obvious delight of the other students, who laughed loudly.

“Pick up your sword,” the Master said.

“He did that on purpose,” Jommy said accusingly as he knelt to pick up his weapon.

Godfrey removed his helm and grinned at Jommy with contempt.

With disdain, the Master of the Sword said, “It’s a poor swordsman who accuses an opponent as a means of disguising his own shortcomings.”

Jommy stared for a long moment at the Master of the Sword, then said, “Right. Let’s do it again.”

He removed his own helm, walked to Zane and handed it to him, ran his hand through his damp hair, then nodded once as he retrieved his headgear. Putting the helm back on, he turned to face Godfrey.

Tad said, “I don’t like that look.”

“Remember what happened the last time we saw it?”

“That tavern in Kesh?”

“Yes, where that soldier said that thing to the girl—”

“The one Jommy had taken a liking to?” Tad finished.

“That’s the one.”

“That wasn’t good.”

“No, it wasn’t,” agreed Zane.

“This can’t be good,” said Tad.

“No, it can’t,” agreed Zane.

Jommy walked to the center. The Master said, “Again,” and directed the two combatants to their positions. “On the last pass,” he said to the observing students, “this lad”—he pointed at Jommy—“overextended his attack, putting himself off balance, off line, and leaving himself open to a simple beat from his opponent’s sword, which put him further off line and left him open for the counter-blow.” He glanced at the two opponents and said, “Begin!”

Jommy came in, exactly as he had last time, repeating every move until the moment when Godfrey beat aside his blade. Rather than extend his arm fully, Jommy circled his blade around Godfrey’s so his hilt was inside the other boy’s, forcing Godfrey to try his own circling move, attempting to catch Jommy’s blade, and again force it to the outside.

But instead of making another circle, Jommy raised his blade as if saluting, an unexpected move that caused Godfrey to falter. That was all the time Jommy needed. But instead of retreating a step to give himself room and reestablish his right-of-way, required before a touch could be claimed, Jommy just cocked his elbow and drove his sword hilt into Godfrey’s face with as much force as possible.

The practice helms were designed to ward off a sword’s tip or edge, not withstand a full-on blow from an angry youth of considerable size and strength.

The face-mesh folded and Godfrey went to his knees, blood flowing from under the mask. “Foul!” cried the Master of the Sword.

“Probably,” said Jommy. “But I’ve seen worse in a fight than that.”

The Master of the Sword looked at the senior monk in attendance, Brother Samuel, who managed to control any impulse to laugh that visited him. A solder in the Army of Roldem before receiving the call to La-Timsa’s service, Samuel was in charge of the students’ martial training. Jommy, Tad, and Zane had taken an instant liking to the man, and he seemed to enjoy their rough-edged approach to the subject. While the three boys might be far behind the others in matters of history, literature, philosophy, and the arts, it was clear their previous “education” had included a fair amount of hand-to-hand combat and swordplay. They might not be duelists, but they were fair brawlers. Brother Samuel tilted his head and arched his eyebrows, as if to say to the Master of the Sword, “You’re in charge: you deal with it.”

“This is the
Masters’ Court
!” he said, as if that explained everything. “These lessons are to perfect the art of swordsmanship.”

“Then I won,” said Jommy.

“What?” The look on the Master of the Sword’s face was one of incredulity.

“Certainly,” said Jommy, putting his own helmet under his right arm so he could gesture with his left hand.

“That’s outrageous!” shouted Servan.

Jommy took a deep breath, and in a tone used by those talking to little children or very stupid adults he said, “I
knew
you wouldn’t understand, Servan.”

To the Master of the Sword he said, “My opponent was trying to establish a line of attack that would make me step back while trying to disengage his blade, correct?”

The Master of the Sword could only nod.

“So, if I did that, he’d have pushed my blade to the outside and lunged, and unless I was a lot faster than him—which I’m not—he would have touched me and I’d have lost. Or he would have beaten it to the inside, made a quick follow to reestablish his line and probably get right-of-way before me, and another touch. One more touch, he wins the bout.

“On the other hand, if I punch him in the face, and he can’t win off a foul, we have to start again, and maybe this time I win.”

“This is…” Words seem to fail the Master of the Sword.

Jommy looked around the room and said, “What? Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to work after a foul?”

The Master of the Sword shook his head. “The bout is finished. I declare Godfrey the victor.”

Still nursing his bloody nose, Godfrey hardly looked the winner. He glared at Jommy, who merely smiled at him and shrugged.

Brother Samuel instructed the boys to change back into their uniforms: today’s lesson was over. Servan whispered something into Godfrey’s ear while the injured boy glared at Jommy.

Brother Samuel walked past each boy in the class in turn, offering an observation or two on their fighting styles, and when he got to the three boys from Sorcerer’s Island, he said, “Tad, well done. Quickness is a good advantage. But be a little more cautious in trying to anticipate your opponent’s next move.” He looked at Zane and said, “You need to anticipate more. You’re too cautious.”

Then he looked at Jommy and said, “I’d never take you to a tournament, boy, but you can stand on my left at the wall, anytime.” He winked and walked away.

Jommy smiled at his foster brothers and said, “Well, it’s nice to know someone appreciates my better qualities.”

Zane looked past Jommy to Servan and Godfrey. “He may be the only one.” He dropped his voice. “You’re on your way to having a couple of very powerful enemies, Jommy. We’re not always going to be at university and a relative of the King may have a very long reach.”

Jommy sighed. “You’re right, but I can’t help myself. It’s like those Bakers’ Boys down in Kesh—bullies just make me want to start cracking heads. Probably comes from being the smallest lad in my family.”

Tad’s eyes widened. “You were the smallest?”

“Downright puny,” said Jommy as he pulled his uniform tunic
on over his head. “My older brothers, they were big, strapping fellows.”

Zane looked at Tad. “It boggles the mind.”

“Come on,” said Jommy as he finished dressing. “We need to get back to the others.”

The students followed Brother Samuel back to the university, where they returned to their other classes. For the three boys from Sorcerer’s Island, that meant returning to the modest study room put aside for them in which to meet their tutor, Brother Jeremy, who was attempting to give them a fundamental grounding in mathematics. Zane took to it naturally and couldn’t understand why Jommy and Tad seemed to have such difficulty with something he found surprisingly simple.

After two hours of math tutoring, it was time for the evening meal, a meal that was conducted in silence, as the students dined with the monks, and occasionally one of the priests of La-Timsa. Breaking fast and the midday meal were noisy and as lively as a hall full of boys could be, but the only sounds to be heard during the evening meal were the clatter of dishes being moved around the table, and the sound of knives and spoons against crockery.

Jommy couldn’t speak, but nothing prevented him from nudging Zane, who in turn nudged Tad. Jommy indicated with a slight tilt of his head that someone special was sitting at the head table. The man was a tall, older cleric: from his robes a priest of some important rank. His eyes seemed fixed on the three boys from Sorcerer’s Isle. The cleric’s stare made Jommy very uncomfortable and he quickly dropped his gaze to his plate.

At the end of the meal, the students had specific duties until their free hour before they turned in, but rather than go to the kitchen where they were required this week, the three boys were approached by Brother Stephen. “Come with me,” he said, turning his back and walking away without waiting to see if they followed.

The boys followed the Proctor until they reached his office. Entering it, they found the cleric who had sat at the head table, waiting.
He motioned for them to shut the door; then he sat behind Brother Stephen’s desk. He inspected each boy in turn, then finally said, “I am Father Elias. I am the abbot here at the university. While it may not appear such, this school is, in fact, an abbey.

“You three have managed somehow to get on the wrong side of some very powerful people. I’ve been fielding many inquiries about you, including one from a deputy to the King himself, regarding the reasons why you’re here, why a Keshian noble of considerable influence with the Emperor and his brother would sponsor you, and a host of other, difficult and awkward questions. Suffice it to say I’ve had some very annoying exchanges of messages over the few weeks since you’ve arrived.”

Jommy looked about to speak, then remembered he wasn’t permitted to without permission. The abbot saw this and said, “You have something to say?”

“Yes, Father.” He fell silent.

“Then say it, boy.”

“Oh, well, then…” Jommy began. “Father, we didn’t come here looking for trouble. It was waiting for us when we got here. I don’t know if it’s just one of those things, or if someone decided it was fair game to start in on us before we’d even set foot inside this building, but the truth is we’d have rather walked in, made ourselves known to Brother Kynan, and obeyed the rules as best we could.

“But Servan has decided to make it his life’s work to make our every day miserable, and while I’m inclined to be easygoing, I just don’t see how I can ignore this for…however long it is we’re supposed to be here.”

“How long you remain here is one of the things we’re going to talk about.” The abbot’s dark eyes narrowed slightly as he studied each face. “Tell me what you were told to expect here?” he asked, directing the question at Jommy.

Jommy said, “Father, truth is, we weren’t told very much, just that we were to come here from—”