The Burning City (55 page)

An elk challenged their wagon. They killed it, then wrestled it into the wagon bed. That afternoon they presented it to a loose cluster of a hundred farmers. By nightfall a meat and vegetable stew was ready to serve. A widow told of her late husband's year-long duel with what was believed to be a werebear. Lilac traded children's stories with the old wives' clique. Whandall told the tale of Jack Rigenlord and the Port Waluu woman.

It was a long, lazy time for Whandall. Responsibilities were bounded. At one town Whandall was tempted by a woman's offer. Dream of Flying was lovely by firelight, but he pictured Green Stone wondering where his father was sleeping, and then going to ask Lilac… and he told Dream
that his wife was a powerful shaman and a mind reader too. She said that many husbands were sure of that; he agreed; the moment passed. The next morning he learned that offers had been made to each of them.

A good place to come back to.

On another night Whitecap Mountain told how the town of Fair Chance came to be deserted… and he found that all of the locals wanted to help him tell it. The tale went to babbling, then became a kind of throw-and-catch game…

They dug a pit to trap a mammoth.

They dug it well away from the town. No mammoth would come near dwellings, and if it did, there was no telling what damage it would cause.

They dug it big enough to hold such a beast and deep enough that the fall would kill it, and they covered the pit with redwood boughs and went home.

But before dawn they heard monstrous noise and felt the ground shake. When they spilled out to look, Behemoth itself had wedged its foot in the hole!

Houses were falling as the mountainous beast tried to tear loose. It saw the crowd arrayed to look, and it turned and bellowed at them. Its nose reached out and out, a day's walk long, and flung villagers left and right, windward and lee.

They ran in a tumble of falling houses, and they never came back, said Whitey. Two boys went back to look, another said. The company argued about what they found.

These farmers entertained guests rarely. Wizards were rarer still. They pulled Morth's story out of him, of how he had crossed the continent…

“We were safe at sea when the sea roared and sent a wave under the
Water Palace's
windows. When we reached land there was no shore where men still lived. Making landfall where that monstrous wave had killed so many would not be prudent.

“The
Water Palace
sailed inland. We traveled for many days and ultimately set down at the town of Neo Wraseln, along a southward-facing shore. We rested less than a day before I stole the
Water Palace.”

A murmur rose from the farmers. “Gathered,” Whandall said.

“No, I saved them all! I saw a wave of mist coming out of the ocean, and perceived an iceberg within the mist, and the elemental within the ice. I ran for the ship. I didn't have time to stop for any of the crew. I took it west to lure the elemental away from the town, then north, inland.

“At least I had someplace to go. In a dream I'd seen a tremendous wave smash the old Attic to rubble and roll onto the land, left and right as far as I could see. I recognized the Attic from the mers' description—”

Whandall said, “You sent word. Rordray told me.”

“You'll be thinking I should have guessed the rest? But I can't foresee my own paths. The sinking of Atlantis took me completely by surprise. But I dreamed where Rordray would settle at Great Hawk Bay, and I sailed there. Ultimately they guided me to the Burning City, where magic doesn't work and a water elemental can't survive.”

“And a wizard can't either,” Whandall said, but Morth only shrugged.

On the evening of the twenty-eighth day they camped in reach of a stream narrow enough to step across.

The water elemental had not shown itself since a waterfall followed Morth down Mount Carlem. “It prefers the sea, I think,” Morth said. “Its time within the mountain must have been uncomfortable.”

They had been approaching a range of hills for several days now. Whandall recognized this stretch. They would pass north of those hills. Another eight to twelve days, they'd be home. Now they were close enough to make out the spires that gave the place its name.

At night the Stone Needles glowed with manna, the wizard said, but only he could see it.

They moved at first light, Whandall driving.

Morth stirred. He scrabbled about in the wagon bed. Wrinkled around the eyes, white beard, gray-white hair, until he reached into the cold iron box. Then… well, nothing much changed. The talisman he'd made on Mount Carlem must be fading.

Around midmorning Lilac suddenly gasped, “Behemoth!” and pointed into the Stone Needles. The distant, misty heights ahead and right showed nothing.

Morth's head popped into sunlight. “What are you looking for?”

“I saw him! Behemoth!” Plaintively Lilac said, “I never saw him before.”

Whitecap Mountain, strolling alongside the driving bench because it seemed to make the bison walk a little faster, was looking back down the road. “Wagonmaster, you may want to see this too.”

Whandall stood up on the bench to look over the hood.

Dots in their wake, seven or eight men scattered across the road were watching the bison-drawn wagon. Now two jogged off in opposite directions.

“Could be farmers going about their business,” Whitey said. “Could be bandits. A lone wagon makes a tempting target.”

They were too distant, too slow to be seen moving, but dust in the air showed that they were following the wagon.

“They'll be a while catching up, won't they?”

“Oh, yes. They'll take their time. Sunset. We don't have any food, Morth.”

They couldn't hunt with bandits about.

Whitey asked, “You know something of bandits, don't you, Whandall Feathersnake?”

“Yes, Whitecap Mountain. The first rule is, never separate the wagons or let them be separated.”

“Better skip to the second rule.”

Whandall stood to look back along the road. Men followed, far back and in no hurry. Those others who went jogging off would be bringing reinforcements or weapons or some stored magic, maybe a lurking spell.

“Never make half of a war,” he said. “What do you think? If a Puma wearing a backpack and a man hideously scarred by a mad wizard's tattoo came loping back to meet them, would they run? Could we deal with them before anyone else comes? Kill them, frighten them, buy them off?”

Whitey said, “I think they can probably run almost as fast as you. If I run ahead, it's just me and them. Together we wouldn't catch them before nightfall, and if they've got friends they'd be right there to meet us. And if they sent friends ahead, who would defend the wagon?”

“All right. My third plan is, when they get close enough, I'll take off my shirt.”

“Oh,
that
should scare them… you know, it might,” Whitey acknowledged. “They might have heard of you.”

Morth spoke. “Get me to the Stone Needles before they get to us, then leave the rest to me.”

“That'll be tight,” Whandall said.

“Try.”

By noon the five had become a dozen. Whitecap Mountain drifted into the brush and was gone. Any bandits circling round might meet a Puma where it was least wanted. But a Puma could not attack a dozen farmers!

By midafternoon Stone Needles wasn't ahead anymore, it was a sixth of a circle rightward. The band following the wagon numbered around
twenty. They were close enough that Whandall could make out hoes and scythes and less identifiable farm implements.

There was time to discuss it. If they turned off the path now, despite the rougher ground, it would tip bandits to where they were going. If the bandits broke into a run, attacked short of the Stone Needles, arrived panting and breathless, and fought in daylight—bad practice, but they'd win.

Lilac was driving. Whandall, watching the bandits, heard her say, “I saw it again!”

Morth exclaimed, “So do I!” and Whandall's head snapped around.

Behemoth, blurred by mist and distance, stood halfway up the Stone Needles. Mountains should have collapsed under it. Behemoth was even bigger than Whandall had seen it twenty-two years ago, all crags and angles, as if it had not fed well. Tusks to spear the moon. The shaggy hair that hung down everywhere was snow white, not piebald.

“That's not the same Behemoth,” Whandall said. “There
must
be two. At least two.”

Morth said, “I don't sense a god. Some lesser being.”

It stood steady on legs like buttes, studying the tiny wagon. The long, boneless arm of its nose lifted in greeting or acknowledgment.

Lilac turned the bison straight toward Behemoth.

Whandall watched her do it. She didn't look at any of her companions, didn't invite comment.

Whandall stood up on the driving bench. He stripped to the waist and stood for a time, visible above the wagon's hood, in the near horizontal afternoon light.

The bandits were black shadows well beyond fighting range. Body language showed them in excited conversation, but they were still coming.

Whandall sat down. “I believe you have a family secret,” he said to Lilac. “And that's fine, but does it threaten us?”

She said, “No.”

Whandall let his eyes half close. He could relax for just a little longer.

Lilac said, “But we might be safer if I could tell someone.”

“Speak.”

Nothing.

“Does Whitecap Mountain know?”

“He might. He's of a different family. We haven't spoken of it,” she said. “But I could tell my husband.”

Green Stone jumped as if stabbed. “If you have a husband, I—”

“No! No, Stone.”

Stone collected his tattered wits. “Should I be driving?”

Lilac shook her head violently.

“Green Stone, I believe I should speak for us now,” Whandall said. “Lilac, would you accept my son as your husband? As wagonmaster I can declare you mated.”

“Yes, subject to trivia related to dowry.”

“Before we deal with
that
… are you taking us where you want us?”

Lilac smiled. Dimples formed. She hadn't looked back; she couldn't know exactly how close the bandits were. She was steering straight up into the mountains. “I thought Behemoth might frighten them off.
You
tried that.”

Whandall stood to look back. “Well, they might be slowing down. You have a dowry?”

“It's mostly in goods, of course. We're not wealthy, Wagonmaster.” She described possessions worth the price of a pair of good bison and a one-horn. “If you were to add”—about three times as much—“we could buy a wagon with that.”

“Or I could buy a wagon for Green Stone. If you left him you'd still have enough to live on.”

“But I wouldn't have a wagon,” she said coolly.

On the mountain above, Whandall had marked out an imaginary line. Cross that line and he would be where Behemoth could crush his tiny wagon in one step, but they hadn't reached it yet.

“Our
children
and I wouldn't have a wagon,” she mused.

He said, “Lilac, it's not easy to set a price on your family secret until you describe it. As for the rest, do your other suitors have families so eager as mine? We'll be at Road's End in twelve days or so. You could ask around. The wagons won't return from the Firewoods for another fifty, but you might get some sense of what offers await you. Come to me then.”

He didn't say,
Have you other suitors?
He didn't say,
And we'll see what the one-horns say.

But Lilac was glaring. “Does it strike you that a one-horn might improve
my
bargaining position?”

The truth was, it hadn't. Whandall sensed how much Green Stone wanted to speak. He did not look at his son. “I can mate you under two oaths. One or the other will bind us all, depending on what the one-horns say.”

“Have we
time
for this?”

Big as he was, Behemoth shifted uneasily. The wagon had crossed that imaginary line and was within his range. Whandall stood up for a quick look back. The bandits had stopped in the road.

He asked, “Do you understand the term
glamour?
Appearance altered or enhanced by magic? Some women cast a glamour by instinct, with no
training at all. Others are accused unjustly. It's why lovers don't bargain for themselves if they have family.”

“You know I've cast no glamour! After seventy days' traveling? Look at me!”

Lilac was a good-looking woman, and no illusion, with the road's dirt under her nails and in her hair. If they hadn't all been so afraid of water these past forty days… curse! They'd all have been better traders!

“Suppose I just suggest,” he said, “that mammoths also can cast a glamour. Hugeness is theirs, but they cast an appearance even more vast. Dead, they lose that power. A live mammoth trapped in a pit might seem to be Behemoth struggling to free his foot—”