The Summer Palace (39 page)

Barokan lay spread out before him, green and shining in the morning sun. The trail down the cliffs turned sharply; that was still in deep shadow, so that it almost seemed to vanish, but it was obviously still passable, since the soldiers had made their way down the day before.

But that had been before this new tremor; had the
ler
destroyed the trail, and trapped the Uplanders on the plateau?

The trail was in Barokan, where their power did not extend. Sword crept forward another few feet and looked down.

The trail was still there, zigzagging down the cliffs. Winterhome was visible far below, still deep in shadow, and the path down to it was unbroken.

He glimpsed movement somewhere to his right, and turned.

The cliff was splitting open, a mile or more away; a fissure had appeared, and was widening as he watched.
That
was where the deafening noise came from.

A great chunk of cliff broke free as he watched, and with a tremendous roar it tumbled, breaking apart as it fell, scattering earth and stone—and wood and cloth and glass. The entire piece of land on which the Summer Palace stood was falling down the cliff, shattering as it went, and the palace was being demolished in the process.

The
ler
had ended the intrusion of Barokan's people into Uplander territory.

Sword watched in awe as a thousand tons of stone crumbled.
This
was magic, Uplander magic! Surely, it was just as well that no man had ever learned to control Uplander
ler.

When at last the rubble had come to rest, far, far below the top of the cliff, when the last stone had rattled to a stop, Sword let out his breath, picked up his pack, and started down the trail toward Winterhome.

Sword stepped cautiously through the gate into the plaza and looked around.

The gates were unguarded, which surprised him; he had expected the captain to post a few of his men there to ensure that Farash remained in exile. No soldiers stood within twenty feet of the arch, though.

The plaza beyond, however, was crowded with merchants, soldiers, and townspeople.

As he had half-expected, even now, hours after the quake, while most of the people in the plaza were going about their business, several Host People were simply standing in the square, talking and looking up at the break in the cliff where the Summer Palace had once stood. The palace itself had never been visible from Winter-home, but the gap where it had been was a bite from the familiar curve of the cliff-edge.

A pile of debris—mostly chunks of rock, but also a broken beam, shards of glass, and half an armchair—had been gathered in the center of the plaza, presumably cleaned from the streets. The main mass of stone and wreckage had come down well to the north of town, but outlying fragments had scattered on the way down and bounced into Winterhome.

“Sword,” someone said.

He turned, unsure who was speaking, what sort of reception to expect, and found Boss, Lore, and Snatcher standing there, smiling at him. Boss and Lore looked thin and tired, but happy; Snatcher was wearing the black-and-red livery of the Wizard Lord's servants and had a bandage on his left forearm.

Sword felt himself break into a smile, as well; tired and confused
as he was, his delight at seeing the three of them alive and free was still undeniable.

“I want to hear your version,” Boss said, her smile vanishing.

“Of course,” Sword told her. His own grin widened. Months of imprisonment had not softened her. “Right here and now, or is there someplace private we can talk?”

“I have a place,” Snatcher said.

Ten minutes later the four of them were in the attic of a cabinet-maker's shop a few blocks west of the plaza—this, it seemed, was where the Thief had been living for some time. The furnishings were mostly rudimentary: a straw mattress, a chest of drawers, a single cushion, a pitcher and bowl. A lush carpet, thick and glossy, seemed out of place; Sword supposed it had been stolen somewhere, and was there as much to muffle sound as anything else. After all, it would not do to have the landlord downstairs getting curious about odd noises produced by his tenant's activities.

Sword was fascinated by Snatcher's wardrobe, hung from hooks set in the sloping ceiling, or stacked in neatly folded piles on the floor. There were the black garb of Host People of both sexes, the red-and-black of a soldier, the elaborate embroidered coat of a trader from the southern coast, the simple white cloak and hood of a Winterhome priest, and a dozen other garments from various regions of Barokan, including the appropriate hats, shoes, scarves, and jewelry for each role.

There was also a box of interesting tools just inside the door—knives, pry-bars, corkscrews, pliers, and several devices Sword did not recognize. Snatcher pushed it aside as they entered.

Lore settled on the mattress; Boss sat cross-legged on that surprisingly luxurious rug, and gestured for Sword to take the rather worn cushion. He obeyed.

“I'll fetch something to eat, shall I?” Snatcher said.

“Yes, please,” Sword said. “And something to drink.”

The Thief looked at Boss, who nodded and waved a dismissal.

When the door had closed behind their host, Boss demanded, “So Farash inith Kerra was the ninth of the Chosen?”

“Yes. The Chosen Traitor.”

“He killed the Wizard Lord?”

“Yes.”

“You did not?”

“I did not.”

“And the captain of the Wizard Lord's guard released you, but sent the Traitor into exile in the Uplands?”

“Yes.”

“What happened to the Summer Palace?”

“
Ler
of the Uplands destroyed it. They were tired of Barokanese intrusion into their land.”

“Tell me everything, then—everything that you've done since Lore and I were first imprisoned.”

Sword blinked, took a deep breath, and began.

He had scarcely finished describing his visit to Morning Calm when Snatcher returned with a platter of bread and cheese and a large jug of ale; Boss allowed Sword to take a few bites and one long swig before demanding he continue his tale.

This was the first beer he had tasted in at least half a year; Sword savored every drop.

The light outside the attic's two small windows had faded, and four of Snatcher's candles had burned down to little more than stubs, by the time Sword finally finished his narrative. Every crumb of bread and cheese was gone, and the third pitcher of beer was empty. Lore was yawning visibly, and Snatcher had curled up on the mattress; Sword was unsure whether he was awake or asleep.

“. . . and I heard someone say my name, and there you were,” he concluded.

Boss nodded.

“Now I have questions for you,” Sword said.

“Then ask them,” Boss said.

“Where's Beauty? Is she still alive?”

“We don't know,” Boss said. “She fled Winterhome after the battle, and we haven't heard from her since.”

“Bow is really dead?”

“Yes.”

“How did you get free? Does the captain of the guard know you're out of the dungeon?”

“Snatcher set us free while the Wizard Lord was on his way up the cliff, but yes, we spoke with Captain Azal when he returned with word of the Wizard Lord's death. He had no interest in imprisoning us; in fact, he suggested that once more immediate matters have been dealt with, he and I might do well to confer on how best to replace the Wizard Lord.”

“Will you?”

“Oh, yes. I think the captain and I may work well together.” She smiled, her expression almost smug.

Sword nodded. He knew how persuasive the Leader could be; whatever she wanted from the captain, she could probably get it.

He was too tired right now, though, to wonder what she might want. “Is it true that Farash conspired with Snatcher during your captivity?” he asked.

Boss turned to the Thief. “Snatcher?”

The Thief raised his head; apparently he had not been asleep. “It's true,” he said. “Though I never entirely trusted him, and I never really believed his story of being the ninth of the Chosen. Remember, the magic of the Chosen does not work on the other Chosen.”

Sword turned back to Boss. “Has there been any word from the surviving wizards?”

“No, but I expect they'll turn up once they learn the Wizard Lord is dead. You left his body in the Uplands? With the nine Great Talismans?”

“I left his body,” Sword said. He did not mention smashing the talismans.

“Something will have to be done about that, or someone may try to create a new Wizard Lord.”

Sword met her gaze, but still did not admit what he had done. Instead he asked, “You agree, then, that we are to have no more Wizard Lords?”

“Oh, absolutely! Even if the remaining wizards are capable of creating
one, think about who the candidates are—a handful of wizards who fled and hid, some of the same wizards who chose Artil im Salthir, and chose Laquar kellin Hario before him. We've had two bad Wizard Lords in a row; we don't need a third to know the system has failed.”

Sword nodded. “Those were also the wizards who thought creating a Chosen Traitor, and not only not telling anyone, but making it
impossible
to tell anyone, was a good, smart idea,” he said.

“Well, it worked, didn't it?” Boss said. “The Traitor did his job, and the Dark Lord is dead.”

“Only after the secret got most of them killed,” Sword pointed out. “None of the survivors are fit for the job. Artil was right about that much.”

“Artil was right about a great many things. If he hadn't been such a ruthless, murderous bastard, he might have been the best thing Barokan ever saw.” She shrugged. “I'm still glad he's dead.” She glanced at the window. “You must be exhausted, after climbing down here and then talking for hours.”

“I am,” Sword admitted.

“Well, we can all sleep here tonight, and go our various ways in the morning. Those two have the bed, which leaves the rug for us.” She slid to one side, unfolded her legs, and lay down, leaving room for Sword to lie beside her. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Sword echoed.

He thought, as he lay down, that he would have trouble getting to sleep. There was so much to absorb, so much to think about, so much to plan.

He was wrong; weariness outweighed thought, and he was sound asleep seconds after his head hit the rug.

He was the last of the four to wake in the morning. When he finally opened his eyes he found himself looking at a plate of freshly cooked sausages, their delightful odor filling his nostrils. He sat up quickly, and looked around.

Snatcher was gone. Lore was struggling to brush his hair, which had grown long and tangled during his captivity. Boss was sitting on the cushion, eating sausages.

“Good morning,” she said. “Eat, and then we'll talk.”

He ate, and they talked. Snatcher returned with more food and drink, then departed again.

Eventually, when they had asked each other all the questions that came to mind, and discussed every subject Sword could think of, they left the attic and strolled back to the Winter Palace.

They parted at the door, to Boss's annoyance.

“I would prefer that we present ourselves as a unified group,” she said.

“But we aren't,” Sword said. “Three of us are dead, one is missing, one is in exile, and I, Boss, want little more than to go home and see my family. You and Lore present yourselves as you please, I won't disagree. I'm no leader, nor a scholar; I'm only a swordsman, and the captain has dozens of swordsmen of his own.”

“But—”

“Not to mention,” Sword interrupted, “that Snatcher isn't here, either.”

Boss started, and looked around. Sure enough, the Thief had vanished into the crowd. “That little—”

“Let them go,” Lore said. “With the end of the Wizard Lords and the destruction of the Council of Immortals, the Chosen will be chosen no more. We are relics, Boss. Leftovers. We may find places for ourselves, but we are no longer a team with a unified purpose.”

“And my purpose is to go home and grow barley,” Sword said.

Boss glared at him. “Fine, then,” she said. “Go.”

Sword bowed to her, and turned to go. He had taken just three steps when she called again.

“Sword!”

He turned.

“Thank you,” she said. “Be well, be safe, and live well.”

“Thank you,” he said in return, startled. “And best of luck in your dealings with the captain.” Then he nodded, and turned his steps northward again.

It was more than two years later when Erren Zal Tuyo, formerly called Sword, finally managed to track down the Beauty.