The web of wizardry (8 page)

This time there was no laughter, and the chieftain glowered at Danaer's challenging tone. "Get down from there! We will learn if you are a Destre-Y. Put off that lit sword and draw knife!"

Danaer threw his leg over the roan's withers and dropped to the ground. His boot knife was already in his hand, and he kept the chieftain at bay while he unbuckled his sword. Then he took the message from his tunic and put it into the cheek strap of the bridle. "That is to be given to Siirn Gordt te Raa, whether I live or die . . ."

"Let us see if your knife is as bright as your tongue, lit!"

They circled cautiously, blades pointing. Danaer jabbed an elbow into his horse's flank and it shied into the crowd, buying him room to maneuver. This contest must have a quick ending. On every side rose cries of derision, aimed at him. A wave of hatred washed over Danaer.

Abruptly, he swung his mantle hem wide, into the chieftain's face, then put his foot behind the man's knee. It was a gamble on his greater height and weight, a successful one. They tumbled to the dust and struggled furiously for the advantage.

As they fell, the tribesman's knife slashed open Danaer's arm but did not hinder him. In the next minute he gained the position he sought, sitting astride his opponent's chest, his blade against the other's throat. "A second? Or is this besting enough, warrior?"

"Harshaa!" The crowd's hostility changed to a roar of deUght in such fighting skill. "He is no lit, not and handle a knife so!"

"Let him up, soldier." This was a new voice, very deep and masculine and quite close.

Boots straddled the fallen chieftain's head, and Danaer lifted his gaze to look into the craggy face of a man more than a half-arm taller than he. The giant was breathing heavily, swelling the barrel chest beneath Destre shirt and a black and gold vest and mantle.

Black and gold, and a man of such a size—this could only be Gordyan, the notorious personal bodyguard of Gordt te Raa.

Slowly Danaer stood up. The newcomer appeared no smaller from that angle, and Danaer noted that the people had become very still. The tribal chieftain leaped up, panting, his knife out for another attack. Before he could strike, Gordyan seized him by the nape and threw him back to the dust. It was as though he had chastened an unruly boy.

"They say you have a message for the Rena?" Gordyan asked coldly. "The Siirn Rena is most interested in this message from Nurdanth. Bring your paper, and that fair roan." With that, the big man turned and waded into the mass of onlookers.

After a bit of open-mouthed wonder, Danaer hastily retrieved his helmet and caught up his reins, running in Gordyan's wake. The man plowed through the mob of people, parting them with his immense bulk and daunting presence. Taking double steps to keep up with the man's long stride, Danaer ripped a tag of cloth

from his mantle and with his teeth and good hand bound the crude bandage around his wound to staunch the blood. Now and then he tripped on rough ground, threading his way through tents and camps and trying to remain within escort distance of Gordyan.

He had known, in theory, the expanse of Siank Zsed. But now he began to comprehend the folly of his mission. It had been only the will of the goddess that had allowed him to get this far. If Gordyan had not come to fetch him, he would not have come out aUve. The Zised was made up not only of clan tents but of tribal councils of awesome size. Household pavilions and fattening pens and makeshift warehouses held the Zsed's vast properties. Danaer was overwhelmed by the extent of it all. Now he saw Siank Zsed in the flower of its strength and himself as a midge thinking to plague this monster. Not courage but rashness had guided him, as desperation had made the General send him on the errand.

The tents increased in grandeur as Gordyan proceeded to the center of the Zsed, the area reserved for the Siim. Here were the best water and grazing for the Siim's people and herds. The ground rose gradually, and Danaer followed Gordyan toward the Mghest point of the encampment. They approached a veritable palace of a tent, with golden hangings marking the many entryways. More warriors guarded the pavilion. Here odors of food and the warm scents of earth and grass and clean water overcame the common stench of human and animal offal and dung-chip smoke Which filled the lower Zsed. Somewhere close by there was music and singing and happy voices.

The guards glanced at Danaer, gauging him, as befit warriors, protecting their Siim. Just as Gordyan reached the curtain at the main tent, he stopped so short that Danaer nearly collided with him. "Now, this message." He grasped for the paper wedged in the roan's bridle. Danaer was faster, holding the General's letter tightly. It had become his safe conduct. "Your pardon and your favor, but I have sworn to deliver it only into the hands of the Siirn."

The big man glared down at him, his jaw thrust out

belligerently. At last Gordyan grunted assent, gestured for Danaer to wait, then ducked out of sight behind the golden hangings.

Gordyan reappeared, to bid him enter the tent. As Danaer brushed past him, the giant growled, "That message should be of much importance, lit."

The pavilion was lit by costly oil lamps and tapers, and the luxury of its furnishings—caravan booty of the best—made Danaer blink. The interior tent walls were tapestries; cushions and tables and chests were of the finest make, fit for a lord's castle. Yet this was but an entranceway, not the quarters of the Siim and his people.

More guards attended curtained doorways. Like those outside the tent, they were heavily armed against any invasion of the Siirn's privacy. And like those of Gordyan, their garments were vivid with the black and gold colors of the Siim Rena, the leader of all Destre-Y.

"Here, soldier." Gordyan pulled aside drapes. Each compartment was more dazzling than the one before, and more brightly lit. At a final portal, curtained in silver threads, Gordyan slowed his pace, pausing, some of his rough manner replaced with subdued respect. He indicated that Danaer should precede him, then thrust back the drape and a raven-hued gauze beyond it.

They had arrived at the Zsed's heart. Rich fabric peaked into a high roof, and red and green joined the black and gold among the furnishings' colors. There were many plump cushions and booty chests and a number of carven tables inlaid with gems. One of these was set with wine and meat, and a darkly handsome man sat at the table, enjoying a late meal.

He had laid aside his mantle, baring his black hair. His sleeves were turned back that he might better rub the power-giving fat of his eating on his flesh. The man did not deign to look up when Danaer and Gordyan entered.

A woman sat beside him; not so forbidding as her companion, she smiled and rose to greet the Siirn's

bodyguard and the soldier. "Ah! This is the messenger you promised us, Gordyan?"

"True it is, and I grant him that he fights well, army though he be."

Danaer watched the big man sidelong, intrigued by the change in Gordyan. The deep voice had softened and the brute strength was caged. There was even a slight stammer in his words, more than warranted by uncertainty of phrasing. Gordyan's gaze did not stray from the woman but devoured her as a man might the sight of the goddess's image.

"So, you fight well, soldier?" she asked teasingly. "What else do you do?"

"My lady, I have a paper from the hand of General Nurdanth, for Sovereign Gordt te Raa."

"That is a most charming accent, soldier," the woman said. "Now I have placed it—^Nyald. We have not heard good news of Nyald Zsed these past years, I fear. What is your name?"

"Danaer, of the clan of Tlusai."

He was trying not to stare boldly at her. The woman's dialect was as outland as Danaer's own, though of northern, not southern, extraction. Her silken brown hair was tied back simply from a fine-boned face, and her eyes were cave-dark, as black as a moonless night. A warrior woman, she wore shirt and breeches and vest, but those emphasized her slender body. A half-skirt and bejeweled tola-belt about her hips marked her bound to a man, and of high caste among the Destre. Despite that, she looked over Danaer frankly, from helmet to sword to boots, then shook her head, bewildered by the contradictions in his dress. As she did, the eiphren suspended upon her high brow sparked with green fire in the light of the tapers. This was a woman out of the ancient tales, one who seemed to radiate a sexuality as old as humanity, and she was most adept at using her femaleness as a weapon.

A servant rushed into the tented chamber and set down a tray of confections. The woman gawked ingenuously at Danaer. "Why, he is a soldier! Gordyan did not joke about that, Lasiirnte."

Lasiirnte? Princess of the Azsed?

Danaer's emotions reeled. Had he been talking so casually with Lasiirnte Kandra, ruler of the Ve-Nya tribes, consort of the Siirn Rena?

"Bring wine, for later, Esbeti," Kandra said.

With a sigh, the man at the table pushed away the remnants of his meal and at last regarded Danaer. His face was a mask that revealed nothing, but his dark eyes cut holes through Danaer's hard-bought confidence. This was Gordt te Raa, chieftain of the Vrastre from Deki on the River to the Plains-of-No-Ending beyond Barjokt. He could command the death of an army scout—or an army—^by no more than a nod and a word.

"Gordyan tells me that you bring a letter from Nur-danth," Gordt te Raa said. There was little patience in his manner and voice. Reluctantly, Danaer delivered the now somewhat soiled paper, then stepped back to his place and waited apprehensively.

Danaer was impressed to see that Gordt te Raa needed no scribe to translate the scrawling. This was a rare Destre who could read, and he pored over Nur-danth's message thoughtfully. "Your General speaks well, on paper. But dare a Destre trust a lord of The Interior?"

Uncomfortable in this new role of emissary, Danaer said, "Siirn, the General is a worshipper of Peluva, but his honor is that of a tribesman, by all accounts. He is not one who will lie. And I am instructed to assure you that his message comes in good faith as well from Royal Commander Malol te Eldri and from King Tobentis."

A nasty laugh answered him, echoed by a loud guffaw from Gordyan. Only Kandra restrained her bitterness, glancing sympathetically at Danaer. Gordt te Raa lost his momentary amusement. "I can believe in the honor of Nurdanth, for it is fabled. And perhaps we may trust this other lord, this Malol. But King Tobentis? Never! And I see you share our opinion, though your oath to the army makes you hold your tongue."

Danaer squirmed inwardly, fairly struck. Tobentis

was the sovereign who clauned his service, but courtiers and palace politics were poor guides to governing the vast diversity of Krantin.

The Siim was staring at the message paper, drumming his fingers along the broken seal. "According to this, I must meet this Royal Commander Malol, and soon."

Involuntarily, Danaer gasped. How very important had been the message, and his mission! He had supposed Nurdanth was sending a truce proposal or begging a safe conduct for an army caravan. But this . . . ! Gordt te Raa, scourge of the Vrastre, and Malol, commander of the armies which had so long fought the Destre-Y and their Siirn—meeting in conference! There was no precedent, not since the times before Ryerdon crossed the river.

"Malol will come to a council of the tribes, at a place of our choosing, and he will bring an entourage of no more than three." Gordyan listened attentively, gauging the interest of his chieftain. The Siirn went on with grudging admiration. "He has much courage, this Malol, to put his life in my hands thus."

Danaer seized the opportunity to praise one of the army's best. "Ai, it is said Malol fears only his gods and will not quake even before the ICing."

"And you imitate him, do you not?" Gordt te Raa's eyes now shone with good humor.

"He does that, Rena," Gordyan agreed. "I saw this troopman teach one of our hot-bloods a lesson in knifing. He could have carved the man's gullet, had he the will to do so."

"Indeed? Perhaps the besting will sharpen the chastened warrior's alertness," Gordt te Raa said. "Soldier, it speaks well for this Malol to offer to come to a Destre council. But it took far more heart to ride into my Zsed alone, at night, and in that uniform."

"I was ordered to ..."

"We both know that there are soldiers who desert the army's ranks, given such an order."

Danaer did not clutch at honors beyond his due. "1 was chosen because I am Destre-Y. The General

and my Captain hoped I might be able to reach you the easier than . .. than an unbeliever."

"And the goddess has smiled on you, Azsed," Lasiirnte Kandra reminded them. She wove the divine symbol of Argan in the air, and the men murmured piously.

Gordt te Raa leaned back, examining Danaer once more. His expression was less grim than earlier, but still made the scout most wary. "Argan uses us all, and she has brought you here. A strange warrior, this, a rider of Nyald Zsed—in the army of Krantin. Have you ever pursued your tribesfolk to their deaths, soldier?"

It was a question Danaer dreaded. "At times I have fought Destre-Y, but rarely. Nyald Zsed was ruined by plague and war before I came to manhood. There were not many left to kill. I have killed far more lit brigands, those who eluded the justice of the lords of The Interior. That has been my duty for some seasons."

Gordt te Raa nodded, seemingly satisfied. Gordyan's hand had been resting upon his belt knife, ready to strike down the soldier if his answer had displeased the Siim. Now a grin spUt the big man's craggy face. "La ben da, warrior! Well it would be to see an lit brigand trapped by the likes of you, and you wearing the army's badges!"

"This news of war in the east," Gordt te Raa cut in. "What do you know of that?"

"General Nurdanth is consulting with his sorkra, and they keep him informed on the battles—"

"Sorkra? Nurdanth has wizards at his command? La! Sorkra! And what say these sorkra-y? What of these rumors of some foreigners in white garb who seek to overthrow the islands?"

"The news is most bad; the sorkra tell us that Jlandla Hill, an important Clarique fortress, has fallen to these invaders. They call themselves Markuand, and they do not cry out in pain or death. They overcame the Clarique through black sorcery as well as by numbers and arms ..."