An Ill Fate Marshalling

8

Year 1016 AFE; Michael's Journey

After he had viewed the dead assassin and questioned the injured general, Michael went walking in the park surround­ ing Castle Krief. During two long circuits he reviewed everything he knew, thought he knew, and suspected. His memory was virtually perfect. He seldom had to consult the small staff he employed to keep records.

A finger pointed. It was a shadowy finger, and its thrust lay in a strange direction. He had no evidence harder than intuition. He couldn't take that to the King.

He had a good idea where evidence might be found. If it existed at all.

He didn't return to the castle. He thought his best course would be to disappear. He had to handle this personally. It was that touchy. It would be best if nobody knew a thing till he had something concrete.

He walked into the city, to an apartment he seldom used. The owner lived on the premises. He was a veteran and a reliable man. His connection with Michael Trebilcock was a secret shared with no one else. He would gather the neces­ sary resources and equipment. Michael would begin his journey there.

Trebilcock had made up his mind while questioning Liakopulos. There was no point searching for the assassins. There was no cross-contact between his people and their masters. He would have had prior warning if there were.

He was that sure of his organization.

He assumed the guise of a post rider. Two days later he crossed the border into Tamerice. Two days later still he reached the home of a wartime acquaintance, a merchant named Sam Chordine. They traded favors regularly.

Michael's system was based on the trading of favors and his ability to convince people that what he wanted was right and necessary.

Chordine laid on a spread, though it was the heart of the night. He asked no questions till Michael was thoroughly stuffed, and then only, „How long has it been?"

Michael belched. „Sorry. Right after Palmisano?"

„No. Must have been later than that. I remember you in the Gap."

„Then in Ravelin, sure."

„Yeah. I remember. King Bragi's coronation."

Trebilcock grinned. „Don't bring that up. Just remember­ ing makes my head hurt. I'm still finding out things I did that night."

„I'm not too clear after the crowning. I remember you and that chunky friend of yours—Karal, was it?—trying to take me some place called the Fat Man's."

„Aral. Aral Dantice. You didn't go. The King had to have Prataxis bailed out." Michael chuckled at the memory. „You haven't seen scorn till you've seen it on the face of a Rebsamen don."

„What brings you to these parts?"

„Wish I could say just a friendly visit, but that'd be a lie. Put on a few pounds, haven't you?"

„A few too many. I don't get much exercise. Business is too damned good. I can afford to eat stuff I like. And that's what I've been doing. What do you need?"

„You have anything going into Hammad al Nakir? Headed for Al Rhemish?"

„We run a train through the Pylons every week. Luxury goods. You want to send something in, or bring something out?"

„Somebody. Me."

„Uhm!" Chordine closed piggish eyes and pursed thick lips. Michael waited. After a time, Sam asked, „Any point me asking why?"

„You can ask. I won't guarantee I'll answer."

„That's the way of it, eh? All right. I'll see what I can do. I do hire people sometimes. Megelin's men don't take much notice."

„I appreciate it, Sam."

„You'll pay for it, too. Old Sam will come collecting someday."

„Seems to me you're one up on me already."

„That spot of business with the woman? Hardly the same thing, Michael."

„It was a lot of trouble convincing her she should move west instead of having a talk with your wife, Sam. She squealed and squawked all the way. My man nearly ended up getting hung. Not to mention the expense."

„Seems as how I recall footing that bill, Michael." Chordine grinned. „But thanks anyway. I suppose we're even if I help you."

„Till your next girlfriend finds herself in a family way."

Chordine picked through the wreckage atop the table, snatching tidbits overlooked first time around. „Hope you're in a working mood, boy. You'll have to do your share. And you'll have to come back out with the same caravan."

Michael closed one eye and raised the opposite eyebrow. „You've got a heart as black as Hell's gate, Sam."

Chordine responded with mock surprise. „Me? What on earth do you mean?"

„I read you like a book. Right now you're figuring how many weeks pay for a guard you'll save. Once I'm out of sight, you'll wring your hands in glee."

Chordine responded with a huge, deep chuckle. „And run down to my strongroom and worship my sacks of gold. So it goes, friend Michael. So it goes. I'm getting fat in more ways than one. Let me show you your room again. Anything you need? I have a little scullery maid you'd find tasty. Not too bright, but what the hell? She makes up for it with enthusi­ asm."

„We'll see, Sam. Don't send her. Just let our paths cross. We'll see what course nature takes."

„You're a man after my own heart, Michael. A man after my own heart. Explain to me why I ever did a fool thing like get married. Common sense told me to stay away from that damned altar, but would I listen? Hell no. Had to have that woman, and that was the only way. She acted like she was sitting on a gold mine. I've been paying gold rates ever since. For pyrite. If I was young and single like you, you bet your sweet ass. ..."

„How are your kids?" At war's end Chordine had had seven, including two sets of twins. All daughters.

„Ah, Michael, they're my despair. They'll be the death of me. A man has eleven daughters, and the older ones blooming, every rogue in a thousand miles darkens his door. What's the world coming to? Don't the young think about anything else? It got so bad I hired guards to protect my little string of pearls. What happens? I have to run the damned guards off."

„You should have hired amazons."

„Yeah." Chordine grinned. „Plump little gals about five feet tall. Redheaded and randy."

Michael smiled. „Think I'll turn in, Sam. Let's solve your family problems tomorrow."

Trebilcock liked Chordine—in small doses. Waiting for the caravan would have driven him to distraction had he not diverted himself with the scullery maid. Chordine's older daughters did not make the waiting easier. They shared their father's appetites, and were not the least bit shy.

He sighed relievedly when he joined the southbound caravan.

At his request it travelled more briskly than was custom­ ary, or good for the animals, all of which carried skins of wine. Wine brought a premium in a land where it lay under religious interdict.

The drink was bound for Megelin's crowd. Chordine got it past customs by paying a nominal „contraband tax," which found its way into the purses of the inspectors. The train entered Hammad al Nakir a day ahead of schedule, and reached Al Rhemish three ahead. Michael figured that would give him three extra days to poke around.

He had been into the desert on occasion, but never to its capital. His first glimpse stunned him.

Al Rhemish lay at the bottom of a great craterlike bowl surrounded by broad, barren vistas. After all that waste, it was a shock to crest the ringing hills and see so much green.

Al Rhemish itself stood on an island surrounded by a shallow lake. One stone causeway connected the holy city to the mainland. The inner slopes of the bowl boasted citrus orchards, pastures, olive groves, and countless little truck farms. An irrigation canal began at the wall's highest point and spiralled lazily down to the lake, making three complete circuits of the bowl.

Michael stopped and gaped. He mopped sweat from his sunburned face. He was an unnaturally pale man. His fairness served him poorly in the broiling desert sun.

„Keep moving," the master caravaneer growled. „Look all you want after we get there."

„Where does the water come from?"

„There's an aqueduct comes down from the Kapenrungs. El Murid built it. In my father's time this was desert too. Megelin wanted to bust up the aqueduct. He wanted to wreck everything El Murid did. The priests said they'd put a curse on him. His generals said they'd desert him." The caravaneer indicated a stand of monuments on the bowl's far rim. They were barely discernable from where Michael sat his horse. „He did start wrecking the Stellae of the Immortals, but Beloul and El Senoussi made him stop."

„What were they?"

„Obelisks. Graven with the names of people who died for El Murid's movement. They surround the graves of his wife and son. They say there's another stand at Sebil el Selib called the Stellae of the Martyrs."

„Uhm." Michael urged his mount forward. He knew most of this already, of course, but hearing or reading about the wrack of history was not the same as actually seeing it. He remained beside the caravan master down the long slope to the causeway. „Any suggestions?" he asked.

„Not many, son. I don't know what you're up to. I'll tell you this. Keep your head down. And watch what you say. These people aren't very tolerant. Megelin is running scared. He doesn't have much popular support anymore, so he comes down hard on critics. Try to mind the law. They don't accept ignorance as an excuse. Guess that's a holdover from El Murid's time. That old boy was a tough nut."

Michael had heard his King reminisce about the El Murid Wars. He admired the idealistic El Murid of twenty-five years ago. He was himself too young for clear memories of those days. „It's a pity the man went mad," he said.

The caravaneer's eyebrows rose. „El Murid? He was always batty. What you mean is, it's a pity he got hooked on opium. That's what ruined him. Yeah. He wasn't all bad.

Not for the desert. Too bad he wanted to convert the rest of the world."

They reached the causeway. Michael saw fish in the water below. On the island side, some of the landscaped inlets still survived, with their patches of water lilies and the tiny, colorful gardens surrounding them. Many of those gardens had become weed patches. Stately homes, in a unique blend of western, desert, and Imperial architectures, spotted the waterfront. Michael supposed they had belonged to the Disciple's more influential followers, and had fallen into the hands of Megelin's when El Murid had been driven from the holy city.

„You're in here pretty regular. What's your estimate of Megelin's survivability? Where will he be going the next few years?"

The master smiled thinly. „Son, you've asked me that question six different ways the last couple days. Why don't you just back off, make up your mind to ask what you want to know, then come at me with that? Ain't no guarantee I could answer, or that I would if I could, but this beating around the bush ain't getting you nowhere. Be cautious with them. I'm on your side."

Michael considered that while the caravan cleared the causeway and began wending through snaketrack streets. „All right. I came to find out a couple things. Most of it I can get by observation. One thing I need to know for sure is if a mysterious wizard, maybe named Lord Norath, has at­ tached himself to Megelin."

The caravan master turned slowly. He studied Michael through narrowed eyes. „Lord North."

„I heard one brief mention from a friend. A panicky mention, maybe three months back. Then nothing. Just a protestation about having a too active imagination."

„I see."

A sudden chill ran down Michael's spine. The master had changed. He had become cold and remote.

Had he made a fatal mistake?

After a time, the caravaneer said, „Son, don't ever say that name. I've never seen any such person. Neither has anybody else. Like you say, a few months ago there were rumors. They stopped. Bam! People who said that name tended to disappear. Maybe no such man exists. But if he does, it's safer to pretend he don't."

„I see." Trebilcock relaxed a little. His hand drew an inch farther from the hilt of his sword. „Back when there were rumors, did anybody say where the creature does his non-existing?"

The caravaneer smiled. „You're getting the knack. Best not to talk about it at all, though. And now you've named the name, best you don't show your face on the street at night. That's when the talkers disappear."

„Then there's no night life here?"

„I didn't say that. There's plenty for them as haven't said a certain name, or don't care who sits the Peacock Throne. Those as stands against Megelin also have a way of disap­ pearing."

„Nice trick. Would you say there's a hint of wizardry in the air?"

„Me? No. I wouldn't say anything that foolish. If there was, it might come down on me."

Michael smiled. He now had most of what he wanted. And he could have learned it in Tamerice. If only he had thought to ask his questions there!

What he wanted to know now, though, he could learn nowhere but here. What was the connection with Liakopulos? The learning process looked more dangerous than he had expected.

„Does Sam's place here have a room with doors and locks? I assume the men sleep in a barracks."

„They do. You'll have to ask Mister Chordine's brother if you want locks. He runs the show here." The master guided the caravan into a side street, and soon into a staging compound of vast size. It was structured as a small fortress, with only one gate penetrating its twelve foot adobe walls. Stables lined the walls inside, and in the center of the compound stood several three-story buildings, back to back, like a group of men facing out toward their enemies. Michael went and presented his letter of introduction to Sam Chordine's brother.

Three days passed. Michael learned almost nothing. The people of Al Rhemish were tight-lipped and grim. They spoke to one another less than they did to foreigners. Most vigorously pretended that their King did not exist.

Michael saw little evidence of Megelin's presence, other than the ubiquitous fear. Few Royalist soldiers patrolled the city. They seemed unnecessary. Then, too, Megelin's army was still scouring the wastes for El Murid's followers. The little Michael heard indicated the King was having no luck. Hammad al Nakir was vast. There were too many places where guerrillas could hide. The Scourge of God had proven that a generation ago, during El Murid's sweep to power.

Night had fallen. Michael lay on his pallet, staring at the ceiling, wondering how he could penetrate the veil sur­ rounding Norath. One candle wanly lighted his room. He thought he heard a creak from the tower stair. He rose quietly, made sure his door was secure. It was a massive thing of thick oak planks. Only a battering ram could break it down.

The door was fine. He turned to the window, which was sealed by heavy shutters. He had rigged them so he could fling them open if he had to make a hurried exit. They, too, were secure. He returned to his pallet.

The stair creaked again. He took hold of his sword, rested it across his chest.

Michael Trebilcock continuously amazed his friends with his lack of fear. The emotion was alien to him. He only vaguely understood what others felt because his sole touch­ stone with terror was stagefright. When asked to speak before a group, he choked. That was the deep-down essence of his secretiveness. He avoided uncomfortable moments by keeping his secrets and remaining unavailable.

He just plain hated explaining.

His door creaked. He lay still, waiting. Something fum­ bled at the outside latch. Michael smiled. That would do his visitor no good. The door had to be opened from within.

The fumbling stopped. The door creaked under tremen­ dous pressure. Michael's eyes widened slightly. „What the hell?" The timbers crackled. Bits of adobe fell from around the door frame. The whole thing seemed ready to go. Michael rose and opened the shutters, studied the darkness outside.

Something had disturbed the animals stabled along the south wall. Caravaneers with lamps and torches were calm­ ing them. Elsewhere, the compound was as peaceful as a graveyard.

He had a grim suspicion. He went to the door. The pressure had withdrawn. He sniffed, caught a hint of animal odor. A thin smile crossed his pale lips.

He had put it together right. There was a Lord North and his true name was Magden Norath. The Escalonian rene­ gade had survived Palmisano.

Trebilcock had smelled that odor at Palmisano and a dozen other battles. It was the scent of savan dalage, a monster of the night, created in the laboratories of Ehelebe by Magden Norath. They were almost indestructible, and incredibly savage and powerful.

He backed away from the door, mind whirling. This news had to be gotten to the King. It cast light on half the mysteries plaguing Kavelin. Megelin was under the spell of the Escalonian. Only Norath could have created the men who had attacked Liakopulos.

Why? a little voice asked. And that he could not say. There was nothing between the general and the sorcerer to warrant murder. There was nothing between Megelin and Liakopulos.

He could guess, but he dared not guess aloud. His friends would not want to hear his suspicions. And the suspected would try to kill him if they thought him too knowledge­ able.

Whatever, the King had to be alerted to the darkness lurking in Al Rhemish.

The caravan would not leave the holy city for another week. Could he survive that long? With the savan dalage stalking him? With someone sufficiently irked by his pres­ ence to want him destroyed? He doubted it. He had to make other arrangements.

He looked into the compound again. The caravaneers had gotten the horses settled down. They were standing around scratching their heads and cussing.

Something hit Michael's door. The oak planks exploded inward. He glimpsed a dark shape wriggling through. He swung his sword in a two-handed stroke, felt it bite deep.

He hurled himself backward, over the sill of his window.

As he fell, the building reverberated to a shriek like that of a tiger-sized tomcat. Trebilcock twisted, managed to land on his feet and one hand. He twisted an ankle, but not severely. He hobbled toward the astonished caravaneers. „Torches!" he gasped. „Get those torches up. They hate the light."

He heard the whump of a great weight hitting ground behind him. He did not look back. Nor did he turn when he heard claws tearing the compound soil, gaining fast. He seized an oil lantern, whirled, and flung it at a darkness streaking out of the darkness.

The savan dalage twisted aside. The lantern missed its snout, smashed against its shoulder. Michael seized a torch.

The caravaneers scattered—except those rooted in fear.

Trebilcock flung himself forward, reached for the turning beast, touched it with the torch.

The oil caught. Fire spread along a lean, ebony flank. The beast howled. The stables turned riot. The horses began kicking down their stalls.

The savan dalage forgot its mission. A third of its long, hard body ablaze, it streaked across the compound. It reached the roof of the stables with a single powerful bound. It vanished over the wall.

Michael sat in the dirt with head bowed, panting. He felt around for his sword. A thin smile crossed his lips. „Well, you survived their first try, me boy."

The caravaneers gathered round him. „What the hell was that?" one asked.

Michael looked up into eyes grown huge and faces grown waxy with fear. „Where were you during the wars?"

Another whispered the name. „Savan dalage. Here."

Michael raised his left hand. Someone helped him up. „Let's get those horses settled. It's gone. It shouldn't be back tonight."

He might not have to worry about it again, he thought. Norath might take another approach next time. The most logical would be to arrest him.

He had to get the message out quick. There was only one way. He would have to contact one of his local agents, a man no longer reliable. Obviously, Norath had found him and turned him, and had used him to send soothing reports to

Vorgreberg. The man would have to be turned back, if only for a minute.

Darkness still ruled Al Rhemish when Michael roused his former agent. Dawn was barely a threat when he killed the man and took to the streets again, hoping he could swim the lake and vanish into the desert before Norath found his trail.

Survival was a wan hope, he thought as he eased into the cold water. It depended on his message getting through, and his remaining at large long enough for his friends to invent a way to save him.

The air was hot already. It would be a miserable day to be afoot in the desert. He drank all the water his stomach would hold, and filled the wineskin he had taken from the agent he had retired. Then he started up the slope of the valley, picking a few ripe fruits as he went. His boots sloshed with every step. He was going to develop one hell of a crop of blisters.