Watt-Evans, Lawrence - Annals of the Chosen 01 (19 page)

Before Breaker could reply, the thin man held
out his hand and said, "Call me Lore."

Breaker released the Seer's hand and turned
to look at this other person.

He was midway between Breaker and the Seer in
height, his dull brown hair pulled back in a tight braid, his face tanned but
not heavily so; Breaker could not guess his age, though he was sure that it
fell, like his height, somewhere between the Seer's and his own. His eyes were
a soft brown, and reminded Breaker of the puppy one of the bargemen had brought
along two summers back; unlike the Seer he was smiling, though his grin seemed
a bit tentative.

He wore a long, many-pocketed vest over a tan
blouse and brown denim pants—practical garb, appropriate for most
circumstances. And his grip was surprisingly firm.

"You're the Scholar?" Breaker
asked. The man's healthy color, cheerful expression, and sensible clothing
hardly fit the stereotype of a man devoted to learning.

"I am. I understand you're from Mad Oak
in Longvale?"

Startled, Breaker nodded.

"Is the Mad Oak still standing?"

"Yes, it is; it almost got me when I
left."

"As bad as ever, then? A shame. And is
Flute still in mourning?"

That was more than startling, that was
astonishing. Breaker glanced at the Seer, then said, "No, he's done grieving.
When I left he was courting Brewer's sister Sugar Cake."

"Lore, that can wait," the Seer
interjected before the Scholar could ask any more questions. "We have more
urgent concerns."

Up until then, everything they had said and
done had been consistent with simple curiosity, a desire to meet their new
compatriot—but "urgent concerns"? That did not sound so benign, and
the Old Swordsman's words came back to him.

Breaker glanced around, and realized that at
least a score of the residents of Tumbled Sheep were staring at the three
Chosen. The guide who had brought him from Dog Pole was standing a few feet
away, making a point of
not
staring.

That was hardly surprising; after all, seeing
even one of the Chosen must be fairly unusual, and to have three of the eight
gathered here, and to have one of those three speaking of "urgent
concerns"
..
.

Breaker swallowed. These people knew what the
Chosen had been chosen for; they would undoubtedly be guessing what could
gather three in one place, and probably guessing one thing.

Breaker hoped that obvious guess was wrong,
but he remembered the Old Swordsman's suspicions. The old man might have been
right—and if so, then Breaker would need to do something about it. He might
have to become the killer his mother had feared he would be.

The old man had tricked him—but it didn't
matter. He was here now, and he had accepted his role, regardless of whether he
had been deceived about its nature.

"Should we be speaking out here in the
open?" he asked.

"No," the Seer replied immediately.
"Just a moment." She turned to the guide, pulled something from a
pouch on her belt, and thrust it into the guide's hand. He opened his hand and
counted the coins.

The Seer did not wait for the guide to total
up his pay; she took both Breaker and Lore by the hand, one on either side, and
led them across the porch and into the building.

It appeared to be a public house, or perhaps
an inn; there
were several tables, dozens of
chairs, and a row of barr
els along one wall in the main room, but the Seer led them quickly past
that and down a corridor. She found the door she wanted and opened it, ushering
the two men into a small room where a narrow bed stood against either wall, a
night-stand at the head of each bed, a pitcher and basin on each nightstand.
There were no other furnishings, but a large rucksack stood at the foot of one
bed, and shutters were closed over the window, leaving the room only dimly lit.

"Sit down if you want," the Seer
said, gesturing at the nearer bed. "You must be tired after the long
walk."

Breaker didn't
argue—he
was
tired,
and hungry, as well. He sat and reached for the pitcher.

It held a modest amount of water; he poured
it into the basin, then rinsed his hands and splashed a little on his face
while the Scholar settled on the other bed and the Seer placed herself between
them.

"Now," she said, "let's speak
frankly."

"About what?" Breaker asked, wiping
his face.

"About the Wizard Lord, of course.
You're traveling around Barokan looking for information about him, aren't you?
You're on your way to visit him, to see whether he might need to be
removed?"

Breaker shook his
hands dry, then turned to face her. "How is it," he asked, "that
you two know so much about me and my home and my
intentions, when I know nothing about
you?"

The Seer and the Scholar exchanged glances.

"I'm the
Seer"
the Seer said. "I
always
know who
and where all the eight Chosen are, and where the Wizard Lord is, and whether
he's watching us. Which, I am pleased to
say, he is not, just now. He's eating his
supper, and not worrying about us."

"I wish / were eating supper,"
Breaker muttered to himself.

'They'll be serving here in half an
hour," the Seer replied. "We'll eat then."

That was heartening news. "I still don't
understand how you know these things," Breaker said.

The Seer gave him a look, one he had gotten
from his mother on occasion, a look that clearly meant he was being stupid.

"I'm the
Seer"
the Seer repeated. "It's my magic—I know where all Chosen are just
as you know how to use a sword."

"I had to
learn
to use a
sword," Breaker protested. "How do you learn knowing things you can't
see?"

The Seer scowled at him. "All right,
fine—it's not the same, but it is my magic, as one of the Chosen. I always know
where the nine of us are, and more or less what condition we're in, though I
usually have only a vague idea what we're all doing. And sometimes I see other
things, as well. So I know who you are, and where you've been. Is that clear
enough?"

"I suppose it
is," Breaker
conceded. Then he turned to the Scholar. "But how do
you
know about the Mad
Oak, or about Flute?"

"That's
my
magic," the Scholar explained. "I learn things—and I don't
forget them. I never forget a true story,
any
true story.
It's not just the
old tales and legends I remember, it's
all
the stories I've ever heard, and it doesn't matter whether it's how the
first three Chosen slew the first Dark Lord, or how a girl from Mad Oak almost
ran away with a guide from Willowbank, but changed her mind
at the last minute
when she realized he was so scared she could smell it."

Breaker blinked. "Oh." He frowned
as he thought this over. "Only true stories? Do they have to be entirely
true? I mean, what if someone gets a few things wrong?"

"I remember the true
parts
of every story I hear, but I can forget the lies and exaggerations and
embroidering. For some stories that doesn't leave much—with made-up stories
sometimes I only remember what the tale told me about the author, and not a
word of the story itself
." He smiled. "It's not a very useful sort of magic as a
general thing, but I enjoy it."

"But you said the first three Chosen
slew the first Dark Lord—my mother said there were eight Chosen, just as there
always are, and the Dark Lord killed six of them."

The Scholar shrugged. "Your mother was
wrong. There were only three then—the Swordsman, the Seer, and the Leader. The
Dark Lord killed the Leader, and the other two survived. The Council of
Immortals chose a new Leader, and added the Beauty after that. Your mother
probably only heard that two survived, and assumed that meant six had
died."

"How do you know
it was my mother who was wrong, and not
your
version of the story?"

"Because I'm the Scholar. It's my
magic." "But. . ."

"How do you know what your opponent is going
to do before he does it?" the Seer interjected.

"Oh, because you can see his muscles
tense, and his eyes adjust, and his weight shift," Breaker said.

"And how do you know how to see and
interpret those signs, and do it so quickly that you can counter every move?
Have you had years of training to learn this?"

Breaker was at a loss for a moment, then
yielded. "All right, it's magic," he said. "But I still think my
magic makes more sense than yours."

"It's more like ordinary human skills,
certainly," the Scholar agreed. "My magic was created hundreds of
years later than yours, when the wizards of the Council had learned greater
subtlety and finesse."

Breaker resented the
implications in that, but before he could think of a reply the Seer said,
"Fine, that's all settled, then—you appreciate each other's magic. Now,
could we get down to business?"

"I assume,"
Breaker said, "from your summoning me here, and saying we had urgent
matters to discuss, that the Wizard Lord has done something unfortunate. I
haven't heard anything about it; everyone I've spoken to seems satisfied with
him. Still, he must have done
something.
What is it? When did
it happen?"

The Seer and the Scholar exchanged glances.

"It's not that simple," the Scholar
said.

"It started years ago," the Seer
said. "About five years ago, in the third or fourth year of the Wizard
Lord's reign. I saw him kill several people—not with my own eyes, but with my
magic. I couldn't see any details, but I
knew
he had
killed people—I didn't know exactly h
ow many, or who they were, but he had killed.
I could feel it. So I went to the Leader and told him—that's my job, after all.
And I spoke to two wizards from the Council of Immortals, as well. And they all
asked me to please not say anything about it yet— there was no point in
starting a panic if the Wizard Lord was behaving himself, and no reason to warn
him that he was discovered if in fact the Chosen would have to remove him. So I
didn't say anything more, and then Boss came back and told me that it was all
right, that the Wizard Lord had merely been doing his job, wiping out a group
of rogue wizards who were organizing to overthrow him and destroy the Council.
These wizards supposedly intended to set themselves up as overlords of Varagan
. . ."

"Of what?
" Breaker
interrupted.

"Varagan—oh,
Barokan. In my native tongue we call it Varagan. At any rate, the Wizard Lord
said that he had killed a group of rogue wizards, and of course that's
his
job, and Boss and the Council had investigated and it was all in or
der. So that was
fine, and I didn't worry about it anymore. The Wizard Lord had done his job,
just like in the old songs. The next time I saw Lore, here, I told him about
it—I thought he should know, as one more item for his collection of facts and
stories. And then we went our separate ways, and I forgot about it for
years."

Breaker glanced at the Scholar, who shifted
on the bed and grimaced.

"And then last year old Blade went
looking for a replacement—the Old Swordsman, I mean. I knew he was doing it,
and I knew he found you and trained you, and I didn't think much of it; he
wasn't a young man, in fact he was the oldest of us all by a few years, and if
he wanted to pass on the talisman and retire, that was his business. I wanted
to say farewell, though, and wish him well, so I met him on his way home to
Dazet Saltmarsh this past spring, after he had lost the duel and you had
become the new Swordsman. We chatted a bit, and then went our separate
ways—but he mentioned that he had some doubts about the Wizard Lord. He knew he
could speak freely to me, since I always know when the Wizard Lord is
listening, so he told me that it wasn't anything specific, and that he'd told
you about his worries, as well."