The Return of Kavin (14 page)

“All men may die wiser than they began, if they wish,” the dragon said. “But we must move about our work, man; the time grows shorter. The being called Ess must not open his gate, and you shall prevent him; you must steal the Egg of Fire.”

“From the Imperial House?”
Hugon stared. “Why not the Emperor’s crown, too, while we’re about it?” He glanced at Thuramon, and then at Kavin; both of them seemed gravely calm. “You mean all this, then?”

“You have wisdom, in the warlock Thuramon,” the dragon said. “I shall give him a little more wisdom than he has, in a moment. And you have… luck.” He stared at Kavin. “You will need that, Kavin… called Lucky Kavin once or twice in the past.” The eyes turned to Zamor. “You have strength… of several kinds. You shall have more strength, but be very wary of how it is used; it can kill you as well as aid you. And last, you…” He looked at Hugon.
“For you, the tools of your trade; a thief’s tools.
You will use them well, I think.” The dragon’s head lifted.
“Arastap!”

The old man came forward, and waited.

“Take these others to the sea gate, and give them those things I prepared for them,” the dragon said. “Instruct them in their use while I speak a while with Thuramon privately. Go, now.” The dragon looked toward Fraak, on Hugon’s shoulder. “You also, small one… but if you wish, you may return to us whenever you desire.” Suddenly, the great dragon uttered a rumbling musical phrase, and Fraak answered it with one of his own.

Arastap beckoned. “Come,” he said.

They followed, leaving Thuramon. The old man led them silently through the same halls, down to that stone quay where their boat lay tied. There two other old men waited, carrying objects in their hands.

Arastap took something from one of the others, and held it in his own hands, turning it over with a low chuckle. He looked at Kavin.

“Luck,” Arastap said, his voice echoing in the stone vaults overhead. “There’s no need to instruct anyone in the uses of luck. Luck you’ve had, Prince; this will give you better. You know
her,
I think… you gave her a name, once.” He held out a tiny ivory figure, a woman’s form. Kavin took it, and stared at it where it lay in his palm.

“I know her,” he said, quietly. He put the ivory figure into his pouch, silently.

Arastap had taken another article—a broad leather belt, very dark with age, with a huge metal buckle. The buckle was of silver, also age-filmed, with tiny odd figures twisted in strange designs upon it. On the rim of the buckle there were two small jeweled studs.

“Put this on,” Arastap said, handing it to Zamor. The big man did so, and waited.

“Touch the buckle,” Arastap said.
“On the left, and on the right… there.
If you press the left, the belt becomes… effective. The
right,
and it ceases to work. Now, before you try, listen.” His voice became harshly earnest. “There is nothing of true magic in that belt, only art. What it gives you is taken from your own flesh and bone and blood; if you use it overmuch, you will die, withered and old before your time. For every moment that you use it, it is as though a day of your life is taken from you. Never forget that.”

Zamor looked down at the belt, his mouth tight.

“I don’t know if I like this gift,” he said.

“You’ll need it,” Arastap told him. “But when you’ve made use of it, if you’re wise, you’ll toss it into the sea. Now, the
manner of its use… press
the left stud.”

Slowly, with reluctance, Zamor did so. He waited, but nothing seemed to have happened; he looked at Arastap.

“Now, be very careful,” Arastap said. He indicated a heavy iron post, one of several that were set into the rock along the stone quay to serve as bollards for the lines of boats.

“That post,” Arastap said. “Take hold of it, and draw it up.”

Zamor looked at it, and his teeth gleamed in a grin.

“Are you out of your wits?” he asked. “That? Man, I’ve the muscles I grew while I pulled that damned oar, but… come, you’re joking.”

“Go on,” Arastap said, impatiently.
“But carefully, now.”

Zamor shrugged, and bent to grip the iron. His hands clamped, and his broad back straightened… and with a stony shriek of protest, the iron post began to rise as he pulled. He let go, and stared down at it with a look of total surprise.

“Why, the thing must have been weakly set…” he said, but Arastap shook his head.

“Look, there, where your hands held it,” Arastap said. Zamor stared down at the iron. It was indented with the marks of his fingers, deeply.

“Great Snake!” he said in a low voice.

“That post has been set most firmly these nine hundred years,” Arastap told him. “Now, press the right stud. Good. Listen, once more. That which you wear is most dangerous, to you as much as to any other. Use it only when you must, and never keep it active for long. Not only will it draw away your strength if you do, but you may slay someone without intending to do so with a mere touch. Or other evil things may happen, if you forget.”

“By the Nine, Zamor,” Hugon said, grinning, “Think. You’re with a wench, and give her a friendly grip round the waist, and there you stand, with the two halves of her at your feet.”

“Ugh, but you’ve an unpleasant turn of mind, brother,” Zamor said. He stared down at the buckle uneasily. “I’d as soon keep this elsewhere…” He began to open it.

“Better to wear it,” Arastap told him. “If another took it, you’d wish you had kept it close.”

Zamor shrugged and let the belt remain, though he did not look pleased.

“Now, your gift…” Arastap said to Hugon; he held up a flat leather pouch, like a book, and opened it, showing Hugon what it held. There were several small metal tools, a curiously shaped metal bottle, and other things which Hugon could not identify.

“Wait, now,” Arastap said as Hugon reached out to take the pouch. “Each tool has its use, here. Now, these… they will open any lock you will find, I think. Put this rod so… I think you already know the simpler lock picks of your world. But this is more complicated.” He took out a tiny metal bottle, small enough to fit into his hand; once more, he turned toward the luckless iron post. “Watch me.”

He directed a thin stream of something like a clear liquid, circling the post. A moment later he tapped it gently; the post fell, like a cut tree.

“That’s even better than your magic knife, Hugon,” Zamor said, admiringly.

“Now,” Arastap said, replacing the bottle. “This.” He drew out an object that seemed to be a small mirror; it glowed and flickered as he held it up. “Let any man look at this, so…” He held it before Zamor’s eyes. “And now…”

Hugon stared at Zamor, and then at Arastap. “What’s this?” he snapped. “You’ve done something to him!”

Zamor stood, his eyes widely blank, staring ahead of him; his hands limply at his sides, frozen.

“He will recover within an hour or two, of his own accord,” Arastap said. “But since we’ve little time…” He slapped the big man’s face lightly several times. Zamor’s eyes suddenly snapped into focus, and he grunted, angrily.

“Hold your hand, old man!” he growled, his hand going to his sword. “What…”

“No, he meant no harm,” Hugon said, grinning.
“Merely a trial of one of these most marvelous tools.
Are there more, Arastap?”

“One more thing,” Arastap said. “This.” He held up what seemed to be a reel on which a fine pale hair was wound. “This is a rope; hook one end this way, to your belt, and cast the other where it may catch… as you see, there’s a hook. Now, it will hold the weight of ten men your size, though it seems to be so thin.”

He closed the case, and handed it to Hugon.

“No thief in your world has ever been so well tooled; be wary, man,” Arastap said.

“Why?” Hugon asked. “Does this gift also carry such dangers as Zamor’s belt?”

“All that Zamor may lose, with strength, is his life,” the old man said, somberly. “Or another’s, perhaps. But you may lose much more. You may gain all the wealth you need, or more, with those tools, man.”

“What would be lost by that?” Hugon asked, wonderingly. He fingered the leather case with a grin.

“I say to you what I have already said to your friend,” Arastap said.
“When the task is done, if you live… cast that into the sea.
He who once used it should have done so.”

“Did he come to a bad end, then, the former owner?” Hugon asked.

“He did,” Arastap said. “He died old, rich, and much respected. But that was long ago, and doubtless his soul has passed through enough lives to remove the memories of that one.”

Hugon stared at him, and rubbed his knuckles against his chin.

“There are times when I almost think I understand you,” he said. “Do you understand him, Fraak?” he addressed the dragonet on his shoulder.

Fraak chuckled. “No, but he is a nice man. He told me a secret!” Fraak emitted a pleased chortle, and flapped.

“Oh, what secret?”
Hugon asked.

“Can’t tell!”
Fraak sang.

“Certainly,” Hugon agreed. “Otherwise, it would be no secret… ah, here comes our warlock at last.”

Thuramon emerged from the gateway and came down the quay toward them. His face seemed very pale, and his eyes deep; he walked slowly.

“Well, now, Thuramon,” Kavin said, going to him. “We’ve all received our proper tools… were you given wisdom enough, just now?”

Thuramon stared at him, and then at the others, with an odd look.

“Wisdom?” he said. “Oh, yes. Yes, I learned… quite enough.” He was silent for a moment. “More than I wished to know, I think. Well… we must go. We shall start for the western shores, and the Imperial City, as soon as I have instructed my servants concerning my house.” He spoke absently, almost as if speaking to himself; moving toward the boat, he climbed down, with Kavin’s aid. Zamor and Hugon followed, taking the oars.

Arastap stood watching, his figure growing smaller on the quay as the boat moved out toward the open water into the brightness of day. The city
lay
ahead, a glitter of white wall and rooftops and the thin black lines of masts, on the horizon; Zamor and Hugon began to pull steadily. Overhead, three dark specks wheeled slowly in the sky, and a distant bugling note came through the air.

SEVEN

“And so my poor friend Barazan lies at the bottom of the cold sea, does he?” Izzanash, Justiciar of the Imperial Revenues, peered myopically at Gwynna, fingering his thin beard. He looked, she thought, somewhat like an otter regarding a hen. But she nodded, and dabbed lightly at her eyes with a perfumed kerchief.

“Yes, my Lord Izzanash,” she said, allowing her full lower lip to tremble just a shade. She had noticed that this was always one of her better effects. “And I am alone, and unprotected…” She directed a large-eyed look at Izzanash. “Only by the favor of the gods did I manage to return to Mazain, through so many terrible dangers… and as I told you, my lord, I care nothing for wealth. My late husband’s palaces in the city, the lands he held in the south…”

Izzanash’s tongue touched his lips, thoughtfully.

“…
his
personal treasure,” Gwynna went on, watching the Justiciar. “So much gold… I am only a woman, and I am sure I know nothing of accounts and the managing of vast estates. If I knew a man of wisdom and honesty, who could do it all for me… but I am of foreign birth, and know few, except the lords of the Emperor’s court… so, perhaps it would be as well if I simply allow my husband’s relatives to divide the estate among themselves, as they desire.” She shot another look at the Justiciar. “If only a little could be kept for me, as his widow… a few jewels, and enough to live on.”

“No, no, of course not,” Izzanash said hastily, squinting. She
was
really an extraordinarily handsome young woman, he thought.
And a widow… and, as she said, so… unprotected.
Izzanash felt quite fatherly, in a way. At the same time, he began to calculate the precise difference in their ages; and remembered that his old acquaintance Varmaz the merchant had married a young wife only recently.
A young wife without any special dowry, either, Izzanash recalled.

“But the laws are more than clear on this,” Izzanash said, and ventured to pat Gwynna’s hand reassuringly. “All of your late lord’s wealth must go first to his wife, of course, since there were no children… I assure you, my lady, the matter can be settled with dispatch. Of course, should you wish, in pure kindness, to make certain settlements on some of these relatives who have raised this issue…
”
He shrugged, spreading his hands. “While they deserve nothing, considering their avarice, it would be easier to do this. Now, if the Illustrious himself should sign an edict confirming you as the heir of the estate…”

“Oh, but the Emperor couldn’t be troubled with so small a matter!” Gwynna said, widening her eyes. “With all these terrible things happening, the rebellion… he has too much to burden himself with as it is, I’m sure.”

“I happen to be, ah, quite close to the First Lord, Chancellor Paravaz,” Izzanash told her, smiling thinly. “In many ways, my lady, my connections with the Imperial Court are very good. Mmm… yes.”

“And you are well known to be a man of great honesty… skilled in the law and in…” Gwynna stopped, and looked at Izzanash with an expression of delicate panic. “Oh, no, I must not! I cannot ask a man so important and so busy…”

“To handle your affairs, my lady?”
Izzanash said, rubbing his hands together. “But of course!”

Gwynna beamed at the Justiciar, and he basked in the glow as they settled the details. He would steal whatever he could, Gwynna thought, as they arranged their agreement. But she would have nothing to concern herself about in matters of the great estates that Barazan had left. If I could give them all away for a few feet of the lands of Armadoc again, she thought…

“…
it
is true that the rebellion may cause us all much difficulty,” Izzanash was saying. “The lands your husband held in Quenda… they’re now in rebel territory. But as soon as the Emperor has crushed this villainous sedition, all will be well.”