The Tritonian Ring and Other Pasudian Tales (16 page)

             
Vakar sighted the walls and towers of the metropolis as he came around a bend. The outer wall was circular like that of
Amferé
but on a vaster scale. Like the lofty towers that rose behind it, it was built of red, white, and black stones arranged in bands and patterns to give a dazzling mosaic effect. The bright blue Euskerian sun flashed on the gilding of dome and spire and tourelle, and flags bearing the owl of Tartessia flapped lazily in the faint breeze.

             
Vakar thrilled at the sight of buildings of three or even four stories, though he would have enjoyed it more if he had not felt obliged to look back down the river every few minutes to see if the sinister black galley were rowing up behind him.
For the Baitis was fully navigable thus far, and Vakar was sure that with his supernatural methods of tracking, his enemy would soon be breasting the current in pursuit.

             
When he had passed the inspection of the guards at the
city gate and had found quarters, Vakar asked where the house of Kurtevan the magician was to be found.

             
"You wish to see Kurtevan? In person?" said the innkeeper, his jaw sagging so that Vakar could see the fragments of the leek that he had been chewing.

             
"Why, yes. What is so peculiar about that?"

             
"Nothing, nothing, save that Kurtevan does not cultivate the custom of common men like us. He is the principal thaumaturge to King Asizhen."

             
Vakar raised his bushy eyebrows. "That is interesting, but I too am not without some small importance in my own land. Where can I find his house?"

             
The innkeeper told him, and as soon as he had washed and rested Vakar set out with Fual in the direction indicated. They got lost amid the crooked streets of one of the older sections of the city, and asked a potter, who sat in his stall slowly revolving his tournette:

             
"Could you tell us where to find the house of Kurtevan the magician?"

             
The man gave them an alarmed glance and began turning the tournette rapidly, so that the piece grew under his fingers like magic. Thinking that perhaps the fellow had not understood his broken Euskerian, Vakar laid a hand on his arm, saying:

             
"I asked you where to find the house of Kurtevan, friend. Do you not know, or did you not understand me?"

             
The man muttered: "I understood you, but not wishing you ill I forebore to answer, for prudent men do not disturb the great archimage without good cause."

             
"My cause is my own affair," said Vakar in some irritation. "Now will you answer a civil question or not?"

             
The Tartessian sighed and gave directions.

             
"Anyone would think," said Vakar as he set out in the direction indicated, "
we
were asking the way to the seven hells."

             
"Perhaps we are, sir," said Fual.

             
The house of Kurtevan turned out to be a tall tower of red stone in the midst of a courtyard surrounded by a wall. With the handle of his dagger Vakar struck the copper gong that hung beside the gate. As the sound of the gong died away the gate opened with a loud creak.

             
Vakar stepped in, took one look at the gate-keeper— and involuntarily stepped back, treading on Fual's toe.

             
"Oi!
"
said Fual. "What—"

             
Then he too caught sight
of the gatekeeper, gasped, and turned to flee, but Vakar caught his clothing and dragged him inside. The gatekeeper pushed the gate shut and stood silently facing them. He was silent for the good reason that he had no head.

             
The gatekeeper was the headless body of
a
tall swarthy man, dressed in a breech-clout only, whose neck stopped halfway up. Skin and a sparse growth of dark curly hair grew over the stump, except for a couple of obscene-looking irregular openings that presumably represented the thing's windpipe and gullet. A single eye stared out of its chest at the base of its neck. Its broad bare chest rose and fell slowly. A large curved bronze sword was thrust through its girdle.

             
Vakar looked blankly at this unusual ostiary, wondering how to communicate with one who lacked ears. Still, the thing must have heard the gong. Vakar cleared his throat uncertainly and spoke:

             
"My name is Vakar, and I should like to see Kurtevan."

             
The acephalus beckoned and led the way to the base of the tower. Here it unlocked the door with
a
large bronze key and opened it, motioning Vakar to enter.

             
Fual muttered: "Perhaps I should stay outside, sir. They seem all too willing to admit us to this suburb of hell
...
"

             
"Come along," snapped Vakar, nervously cracking his knuckle-joints.

             
He stepped inside. The setting sun shot a golden shaft through the wall-slit on the west side of the tower, almost horizontally across the room in which Vakar found himself. As his eyes adapted to the gloom he made out
a
lot of furniture gleaming with gold and precious stones, but the gleam was muted by quantities of dust and cobwebs.

             
Evidently, Vakar thought, headless servants did not make neat housekeepers.

             
He stood in a great circular room that took in the whole of the first floor of the tower, except for a spiral stone staircase that wound up to the floor above and down to some subterranean compartment below. There was nobody in the room; no
sound save
the frantic buzzing of a fly caught in one of the many spiderwebs. Overhead a grid of heavy wooden beams crossed the stonework from one side to the other, supporting a floor of planks. Vakar tried in vain to see through the cracks in the planks.

             
"Let's try the next floor," he whispered.

             
Holding
his
scabbard, Vakar tiptoed over to the stair, followed by Fual wearing a stricken look. Up he went, though a stair to him was still a somewhat mysterious newfangled contrivance. Nothing barred his way as he came up the curving stair to the second floor. Here, however, he halted as his swift-darting glance caught the outlines of a man.

             
The man was sitting cross-legged on a low taboret with his eyes closed. He was a spare individual with the face of an aged hawk, and wrapped from head to foot in the typical black Euskerian mant
l
e. The cloak was however made of some shiny fabric that Vakar had never seen. The man's hands lay limply in his lap.
Before him stood a small tripod supporting a copper dish, in which burned a little heap of something.
A thin blue column of smoke arose steadily from the smolder. Vakar caught a whiff of a strange smell as he stalked towards the still figure.

             
Vakar froze as the man moved, though the movement was the slightest: a minute
raising
of his head and the opening of his eyes to slits. Vakar had an uncomfortable feeling that if the eyes opened all the way the results might be unfortunate.

             
The man spoke in perfect Hesperian: "Hail, Prince Vakar Zhu of Lorsk; Vakar the son of Zhabutir."

             
"Greetings," said Vakar without wasting breath asking Kurtevan how he knew his name.

             
"You have come to me to seek that which the gods most fear."

             
"True."

             
"You are also fleeing from one Qasigan, a Gorgonian priest of Entigta—"

             
"A Gorgon?" said Vakar sharply.

             
"Yes; did you not know?
"

             
"
I guessed but was not sure."

             
"Very well, there shall be no charge for that bit of information. However, for the other matter, what are you prepared to pay for this powerful agency?"

             
Vakar, who had expected this question, named
a
figure in ounces of gold that amounted to about half the total value of his trade-goods.

             
The old man's hooded eyes opened a tiny crack further. "That is ridiculous. Am I a village witch peddling spurious love-philtres?"

             
Vakar raised his bid; and again, until he was offering all his wealth except barely enough to get him back to Lorsk.

             
Kurtevan smiled thinly. "I am merely playing with you, Vakar Zhu. I know the contents of that scrip down to the last packet of spice, and had you thrice that amount it would not suffice me. I am chief thaumaturge by appointment to King Asizhen, and have no need to cultivate common magical practice."

             
Vakar stood silently, frowning and pulling his mustache. After
a
few seconds the wizard spoke again:

             
"Howsomever, if you cannot pay my price in gold and silver and spice, it is possible that you could recompense me in services.
For I am in need of that which trade-goods cannot buy."

             
"Yes?" said Vakar.

             
"As all men know, I am the leading wonder-worker of Torrutseish and receive the king's exclusive custom in the field of thaumaturgy. That, however, is but half the practice of magic, the other half comprising the divinatory arts. Now the leading seer of the city, one Nichok, receives the king's patronage for oracles and prophecies and visions. I would add that art to my own practice."

             
Vakar nodded.

             
"I have composed a beautiful method of doing so, except that it requires the help of a strong man of more than common hardihood. Briefly, it is this: my rival Nichok lies most of the
time in a trance while his soul goes forth to explore the world in space and time. If I could possess myself of his body while he is in one of these trances, I could seal it against the reentry of his soul, and by threatening to destroy this body I could force Nichok's soul to divine for me as long as I wished."

             
"You wish me to steal this body for you?"

             
"Precisely."

             
"Why me?" said Vakar warily.

             
"Because the men of Torrutseish are so imbued with fear of us of the magical profession that none would dare let himself
be
involved in such a
coup-de-main.
Moreover your slave has, I believe, some authentic knowledge of the theory and practice of larceny and could help you."

             
"Suppose that fear is well founded?"

             
"It is, to a degree. But this task, while admittedly dangerous, is by no means hopeless. Were I Nichok I could give you the precise odds on your success.
As it is I can tell you that they are no worse than pursuing a wounded Hon into its lair.
As your friend Qasigan will not arrive in Torrutseish before tomorrow night, you have ample time."