Chasers of the Wind

6

The Nabatorians entered the village early in the morning.

The first riders appeared on the road that led to the Gates. Sixty cavalry galloped down the central street and gathered next to the inn, which they quickly turned into something resembling an army headquarters. They threw the four lodgers out on their ears, but the foursome acted intelligently and did not rebel or offer resistance of any kind. The innkeeper, pale from terror, shoved the gold coins into his pockets with trembling hands and, faltering, mumbled about how happy he was to have such welcome guests. The remaining soldiers were quickly quartered in the nearby houses. They did not cause any harm to the villagers and they were remarkably civil. They didn’t murder, they didn’t rob, they didn’t rape the women, and they paid for all services without fail. It was obvious that they would be there for a long time, and there was no sense in plundering and filching that which had become their own anyway.

Toward dinnertime, a squadron of infantry appeared on the road. Eighty men, maybe a hundred—the villagers didn’t count. They too conducted themselves well, obeying the commander of the cavalry in everything and quickly dispersing among the cottages. Half of the warriors were armed with axes and they began to cut down trees. The commander was planning to build a small outpost and barracks along the road.

The loggers were conscripted to help the soldiers, but they proved to be too proud and foolish to work for outsiders. They brandished their axes instead. On the officer’s orders, three of the ringleaders of the riot were hung and a further two were drowned in the river as a warning. These executions had a sobering effect on the remaining loggers, and no further problems arose with the wood-fellers—they industriously felled timber for the future stronghold. The logs were transported to the standing stone with the help of horses. It was there that the commander of the Nabatorians intended to raise a fort that would seal off the road to the Gates of Six Towers.

One day a soldier found a bottle of moonshine hidden by the locals. He got plastered and began hassling the thatcher’s wife. The thatcher would not stand for it and punched the attacker right in the face. The soldier grabbed his sword, and the peasant, his pitchfork. The patrol arrived and disarmed the men, and the commander passed out a heavy sentence on them—they would both be hanged. The soldier, for not carrying out his orders; the thatcher, for daring to raise a hand against a soldier of Nabator.

Almost all the inhabitants of the village were rounded up for the execution. The men frowned and clenched their fists but they didn’t do anything stupid; their women restrained them. Many of the women cried, fearing that soon retribution would befall all the villagers. However, their fear was not justified. None of those assembled were harmed. Standing by the gallows, the captain read off a declaration written by the Nabatorian King to his new subjects, which stated that the villages and cities occupied by the glorious army of the allied forces of Nabator and Sdis would rest under the auspices of His Majesty until the end of time. All who lent support to the army and took the oath of fealty to His Majesty would be granted permission to live in peace, to work and not pay taxes over the course of the next ten years. It also promised that the punishment for offering resistance to the valiant army of the Nabatorian King, for aiding the enemy soldiers of the Empire, or for any other transgressions against the crown would be death.

The execution took place. There were no further deaths.

“It won’t work. Not today, anyway. There are patrols. And sentries on the outskirts. We’ll have to stay.” Layen had come to this distressing conclusion.

She had just returned from outside and was telling me the latest news. I was listening while I secured an arrowhead to a narrow shaft. A few other provisions were spread out on the table. Next to them were eight already completed arrows. Near at hand was an unstrung bow. As distinct from the straight longbow (a bow that is composed of a single piece of material, usually wood) that I had used on our last job, this was not as big and long-range. It was a composite bow (a bow made of three materials: wood laths, horn, and sinew. Since it is a recurve bow, the tips of the limbs curve away from the archer when the bow is strung), smaller than the other. But in capable hands, it was at least as dangerous a weapon as its big brother. And without undue modesty, I can attest that my own hands are sufficiently capable.

“We’ll try to leave at night.”

“That’s unwise. These first days they will be on the alert. But when they realize that the peasants aren’t going to run off, they’ll stop guarding the borders of the village. We need to wait.”

“Layen, we can’t wait. It’s a miracle you’re alive after yesterday.”

“I was careless. A mistake I won’t repeat.” She angrily flipped her braid over her shoulder. “Are you afraid of our new guests?”

“Somewhat,” I replied reluctantly. “I’m more afraid of what that little captain said. An alliance between Nabator and Sdis. Do you realize now how they managed to capture the Gates?”

“I’m not an idiot,” she said, smiling crookedly. “Necromancers. And the Damned that have stood behind them for the past five hundred years.”

“It’s unclear what they want here.”

“The Empire used to be their country. They decided to pay it a visit.”

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you.” The latest arrow was ready and I set it next to the others. I searched for a new arrowhead and chose a broad serrated one. “You, my lady, may be in danger.”

“I scarcely think that the former Walkers will come here searching blindly.”

“And I think that a week ago no one would have thought they would decide to come into the Empire at all. I don’t know what the Damned want in our country. But it’s dangerous here now. We must stick to our original plan and head for Al’sgara. Joch has a debt to pay.”

“What’s that matter? A war is coming.”

“Giiyans always need money. The assassins won’t stop coming until we take care of the client.”

Layen shook her head. She understood my point, but she still questioned it.

“You’re as stubborn as a herd of thickheaded donkeys, Gray. We won’t be able to handle it.”

“And you put too much hope in the mercy of Melot, Weasel. As a general rule, trouble falls on one’s head unexpectedly.”

I could see that she wanted to growl at me, but she curbed her temper. Over the course of the years spent living together, she had come to realize that my reaction to that would be to dig my heels in and do as I wished. So she curbed her outburst and smiled soothingly.

“Let’s wait until evening, dear.”

“Let’s,” I agreed easily. “But nothing will change. We’re lucky we live on the outskirts. Otherwise we’d have to let some of these scum into our house.”

I took the news that the Gates had fallen and that enemy forces had encroached upon the Empire calmly. Of course, at first I hadn’t believed it. But I saw the Nabatorians with my own eyes and that meant they had somehow managed to pass through the Boxwood Mountains. That could only be done through the Gates, and it was unlikely that the garrison of the citadel had let their enemies pass through out of the kindness of their hearts.

As a matter of fact, I didn’t care at all who ruled. Whether it was the Emperor or the Damned, it was all one and the same to me as long as they did not harm me or my sun. If they let us live in peace then everything would be as it should. And all the rest, their private squabbles and jockeying for position—it was absurd. Who needed it? Other than storytellers whose only dream was to turn the reckless deeds of the latest dead “hero” into the next mawkish legend?

“Well, look who it is,” sighed Layen, glancing at the window. “All you have to do is think about rubbish and there it is.”

I saw that Mols’s foursome were entering the yard.

Weasel narrowed her eyes dangerously.

“Should I send them off?”

“No,” I replied to her quickly. “Let’s see what they want this time.”

Bamut and Midge were standing at the gate, while Whip and Shen walked up to the porch. We met them on the threshold.

Seeing us, Whip asked complacently, “How’s your health, Layen?”

“Since when are you so solicitous?”

“Since Mols asked me to conduct you safe and sound to Al’sgara. I’m making money on you.”

She laughed grimly. “An honest answer. I didn’t expect that from you.”

He shrugged his shoulders serenely. “We came here on business. The Nabatorians took away the inn for their ‘perpetual use’ and asked us to leave while we were still whole.”

“I marvel at their kindness. If we were in their place, we’d string up the outsiders. From far off you look like spies.”

“Melot spared us from the Gaunt Widow. We decided not to wait around until they recalled us. Their commander, regardless of his youth, is a brute.”

“And they took all our damn horses away, the bastards!” Bamut said with a malicious grimace.

I tossed my utak up into the air and caught it by the handle. Toss. Catch.

“What do you want from us? We can’t give you back your horses.”

“Can we lodge here?”

Layen and I didn’t even exchange glances.

I don’t trust them.

Neither do I, Ness. But they could turn out to be useful if we decide to leave.

It’ll be simpler without them. With them we’ll have to grow eyes in the backs of our heads.

It will be easier to get out of the village with them. Then we can try to get rid of them.

She had a practical way of thinking. She never hastened to abandon useful things. A smart woman.

We can’t try to get rid of them. Either we do it or we don’t. Are you sure you can deal with all of them, dear?

Yes.

All right, we’ll do as you say. But first let’s try to escape without their help. “I don’t see any weapons on you,” I said, glaring at our uninvited guests.

“They told us to surrender them. Bamut got in a spot of trouble for his concealed crossbow.”

“Good. You can stay that way. You can use the southern half of the house. The entrance is in the backyard. I hope you won’t cause us any trouble.”

I attached threatening overtones to the last words.

“There won’t be any trouble,” Whip hastened to assure me. “Do you intend to stay here long?”

“We’re toying with that question,” I replied ambiguously.

“Just a thought for reflection. Today a Nabatorian patrol tried to stop two riders who were heading for your village from the direction of Al’sgara. From the conversation I heard, they put up quite the fight. They had to be shot down with crossbows, but they still managed to take down four soldiers. They were serious lads.”

“Are you telling us this for the good of our souls?”

“Just that daring fools are being drawn to Dog Green recently. We all need to get cracking. Even the Nabatorians will let someone slip through sooner or later. Or they’ll go after the villagers. I don’t trust their benevolence.”

“We’ll think about it.”

“As you will. Think on it. We’ll wait a day or two and then we’re out of here.”

“But what about your money?” asked Layen mockingly. “Would you really leave us here?”

“Money is good, of course, but life is far more precious. I lose my appetite near Nabatorians. And if our troops come suddenly then there will be such a stew that getting out of the cauldron might be difficult.”

“Only time will tell how it all turns out,” replied Layen. “Dinner is not for a while. Since you’re staying here you can fill the water barrels out by the shed.”

“So now I’m hired out to work around the household?” said Midge indignantly.

“Consider it payment for your lodging. Oh, and by the way, give me the knife.”

“What knife?” he snarled immediately.

She smiled. “I would never believe that the Nabatorians could take it away from you. If you want to live here then you have to do it under my rule. And I say no concealed knives.”

Midge frowned, about to start an argument. Whip scowled darkly at him. The diminutive assassin cast a dissatisfied glance at his commander but submitted to the unspoken order. He pulled his weapon of choice from under his jacket. He dropped it at my feet.

I picked it up.

“You’ll get it back when you leave. Don’t forget about the water. He who works, eats.”

Pork did not agree with the people around him. He thought that the arrival of the Nabatorians was a mighty fine thing and terribly interesting. Until now the village idiot had never seen so many armed men in one place.

He reckoned half of them were knights. Yeah. Also, he’d never seen anyone hanged before. And that had been very informative and entertaining. A thwack, and they began to so amusingly twitch their legs and croak. Then their tongues popped out and turned dark blue like a dewberry. Pork loved dewberries. They were sweet, just very prickly. It hurt. He should offer a prayer to Melot so that he would drive away all the thorns from the bushes and then Pork could gobble up the yummy little berries to his heart’s content.

And also, those hanged men, or rather just the soldier, had wet his trousers when he was already dead. He was probably scared of going to Melot and the Blessed Gardens. What an idiot. Yeah.

It was too bad, of course, about the thatcher. He never bothered Pork…. But then it was stupid that the people in the village said that the Nabatorians were despicable. They’re not despicable at all. They showed the loggers right away who was boss now. They gave it to them good, and they quickly became quiet as mice. Now they were chopping away at the forest so hard that chips were flying. They probably don’t want to be hanged. To turn blue and have their tongues pop out. And they don’t want to be drowned in the river. The soldiers are kind. And their commander is kind. And smart. Direct, like Pork himself. Yes. He’d instantly realized that the loggers were evil when Pork complained that they had ripped his shirt. And the commander had laughed and said he would punish them. Later. Somehow. He really wanted to watch them be punished. That’s far more fun than watching cows graze. Yeah.

The Nabatorians were not evil. And those who said so were idiots. Pork would go and tell his friend the commander what the people thought of him.

In the beginning he hadn’t hoped that the soldiers would become his friends. They seemed frightful and horribly mean. They pushed him about when he started telling tales about knights, but then they realized that he was very, very smart, and they began to talk to him. They were pleased to joke with him and they laughed so very, very much. They were happy to see him and they always asked when Pork would become a knight. They even promised to give him the biggest real sword and to teach him how to use it. Until then they told him to practice with a stick. He chopped down a whole sapling, imagined that it was a sword, and went off to rout old Roza’s turnips. You wouldn’t believe how she railed at him! She nearly threw her cane at him. And when he told her that the commander himself had given him permission she began to curse him, calling him a stupid idiot. Just who that old hag was calling an idiot, Pork wanted to know. But tonight he was going to tell Captain Nai all about the repulsive old crone. Let him know all about her. And then he’d hang the old slut together with the loggers. So that it wouldn’t be boring. And Pork would watch and laugh at the evildoers.

The cowherd suddenly remembered that it would be very difficult to hang the loggers now. He had seen them being chopped up into little pieces with his own eyes. It was the day before yesterday. Pork, as always, had been grazing the damned, lazy cows in the same old place not far from the standing stone. Or more accurately, the cows had been grazing themselves and he had been watching them build the wooden fort. It was a real fortress, even though half the stockade hadn’t been set yet. But they had already managed to build a tower, and an actual archer was sitting on it watching the road! He could shoot anyone he wanted. And he’d hit them, too. They were brave, these archers. And really good shots. Almost as good as Gnut from the village, just not one-eyed.

So anyways, there were the loggers and a few soldiers with them, building the fort, and just who do you think popped out onto the road from Al’sgara? Imperial soldiers. About forty of them. They were all on horses, screaming, waving their weapons around. They started hacking away at anyone they could get their hands on. Pork was actually horrified—they were cutting down both the loggers and the soldiers! They didn’t even bother to sort out who was good and who was evil. They needed to kill the loggers! But they could befriend the Nabatorians. They could meet in the evenings, chat about weapons and virgins, drink the innkeeper’s shaf. His shaf was so tasty! Every day now the Nabatorians treated Pork to it and then they laughed when his legs gave out. But he didn’t have any hard feelings against them. No. He understood that it was all in good fun. Plus, they were going to give him a sword soon. It wouldn’t do to get in a fight with them.

But the wicked Imperial soldiers didn’t get away alive. The commander of the village rode to the rescue with his soldiers. And every solider had an archer with him. They jumped down from the horses, and how they started to fire! Hoo-wee! And the one who was still sitting in the tower helped. Wow, how they rained down arrows on them all! They killed so many. Uh-huh. And those they couldn’t, the riders cut down. As they should. Serves them right. And the villagers considered them friends. What idiots, right?

Pork watched as the Nabatorians inspected the bodies of the dead men. They took their horses, weapons, money, their beautiful boots. That was the most interesting of all. He wanted to do that, too. Except that no one called him over to the dead men. So all the spoils fell to others.

And then Pork recalled the other dead men. The ones in the forest glade. The ones killed by the fearsome carpenter. They probably still had all sorts of money and other pretty things. He could keep them for himself or trade them in for tasty food. Oh, yeah. And Pars, who looked so kindly on the outside, had killed those strange men just as fast as the Nabatorians had killed the swift troop of Imperial soldiers. It was good that Pork never thought to tell anyone what had happened. Then others would have taken everything away from the dead men and kept it for themselves, and Pork would be left holding the bag. What a smart boy he was after all!

The half-wit had a goal. He decided to lay hold of the belongings of the dead men and so, leaving the cows in Melot’s care (after he diligently prayed to him), he headed for the forest. He had to walk far, through the entire village. Pork was afraid that his father would see him and then he’d really be in trouble. But he was lucky. No one stopped him.

In the forest, Pork began to have doubts.

What if someone else had found the wonderful dead men and robbed them? What then? He’d be going there for nothing. He wouldn’t have any of those useful things or tasty treats. And what if the dead men had gone off somewhere?

The closer he came, the more terrified he became. The stories that the miller’s son told him last summer came back to him. All about how dead men can come to life, how they crawl out of graveyards and gobble up anyone who dares to walk past them at night. And even if you didn’t walk, but ran instead, they’d just chase you down and then gobble you up. During one especially chilling story, L’on had sneaked up on Pork, grabbed him by the shoulder, and barked. The half-wit soiled his trousers from fear and stuttered for a week. And everyone had laughed and called him Rotten Turnip.

His nose was hit by the foul odor of decay and the idiot realized that the dead men hadn’t gone anywhere. He saw the glade, the bodies that had been fairly devoured by the vultures and ravens, and an outsider, who was attentively inspecting the corpses. The fetid air and the thousands of flies fighting over the carrion didn’t seem to bother him at all.

Pork nearly started crying from disappointment. He was too late! Now that man would take everything! All the money and everything else. He’d lost his sweets and his wealth! The vile bastard!

The man was standing with his back to Pork. He was tall. Broad in the shoulders. There was something strange about the black staff he held in his hands, but the half-wit couldn’t figure out what it was. The man was dressed in a long, white hooded robe, cinched at the waist by a wide black belt, on which hung a formidable curved sword.

Oh, yes, it would be bad to argue with him. He had a weapon. He’d be sure to use it to cut off his head if you asked him to share his spoils.

Frustrated, Pork whined softly, smearing tears across his dirty cheeks with his fists.

The stranger had excellent hearing. He instantly turned sharply and peered at the bushes where the cowherd was hiding. His rival’s face was concealed by the hood and all Pork could see was a dark opening. When the cowherd saw the darkness under the hood, he felt pierced to the bone by the man’s gaze, and he experienced a fresh onslaught of terror. He pressed himself into the ground and held his breath, hoping that the stranger wouldn’t see him.

But he didn’t think of turning away. He just stood there and watched. Pork’s heart felt like it was about to burst out of his chest from terror. He regretted that he’d come here at all. He’d rather be herding cows. Better them than these treasures. He’d lived without them so far, and he could live another hundred years without them. Right now the half-wit wanted only one thing—for the creepy man to leave.

He slowly began to crawl backward, and instantly the man in white began walking quickly in his direction. Now Pork could see that the head of his staff was carved out of a piece of black stone in the shape of a skull. The cowherd froze, horror-struck.

“Come out,” ordered his rival, as he stopped in front of the bush. “I won’t cause you any harm.”

Pork didn’t dare disobey. Squeaking from fear, trying not to look at the man who was talking to him, he wormed his way out into the glade. For a fraction of a second the man regarded him, and then he removed his hood from his head.

He didn’t seem horrifying and ominous anymore. He was a bit older than Pork. He was tanned, with black hair and high cheekbones, refined features, handsome brown eyes, and a neatly trimmed beard.

The stranger was looking at the half-wit with curiosity but without any ill will.

“Are you from the village?”

Pork nodded hurriedly, trying to show how nice he was.

“Do you know what happened here?”

Another nod. He wasn’t about to lie.

“Who killed them?”

“Pars the carpenter.”

“And did he kill these two as well?” The man pointed at the two bodies nearest him.

The cowherd wrinkled his brow, trying to remember. Then he shook his head no.

“No, no. Those two were already dead when Pars came running to help his wife.”

“His wife? Was it she who burned their heads?”

“I don’t know,” said Pork truthfully. “I didn’t see.”

“Interesting,” muttered the stranger as he pensively stroked his staff with his fingers. “Do you know where this woman lives?”

“Yeah. Here. Not too far.”

“Will you show me the way?”

Pork nodded in agreement and then hiccupped in surprise. It seemed to the half-wit that the skull on the staff was grinning at him.

We couldn’t leave Dog Green the day that Mols’s foursome waltzed into my home. The Nabatorians, for all their amiability, vigilantly guarded the ways out of the village. The nocturnal attempt undertaken by Layen and me to escape into the forest nearly ended in disaster. Two ambushes, plus the frequency of patrols, plus the watchers on the towers and the fields lit with bonfires put a wrench in our plans. We had to return. We ran into Whip in the yard. He was not in the least surprised by the return of his hosts, armed and geared up for travel. He only chuckled meaningfully, took a bite out of his turnip, and, without saying a word, headed for the section of the house allocated to our guests, all the while whistling a soft tune.

Throughout the following days I was sullen and mean. And only Layen, who had long since gotten used to such fits of petulancy, could calm me. I felt like a wolf ready to snap at anyone who got in his way. Idleness threw me off balance. Beyond all that, I had a sense of impending disaster and it made me feel like an animal caught in a snare.

Whip tried not to get under our feet too much. The others also conducted themselves more quietly than the water under the grass. Even Shen and Midge stopped squabbling, though that was all they did the first evening. Now they had concluded a sort of temporary truce—they were ignoring each other’s presence. Our guests saw us twice each day, at lunch and at dinner. We all kept our silence, quickly ate the proffered food, and then retired. And Midge, despite his grumbling, took it upon himself to fill the huge barrel by the shed with water from the well. But no one really objected to his taking the initiative.

A week after the arrival of the Nabatorians, Whip decided to have a little talk with us. “We’re leaving in a couple of days.”

At that moment I was morosely dragging my spoon through my soup and I asked mockingly, “You planning on prepping in the meantime?”

“Yes. I need to clarify the patrol routes and the shift changes.”

“I can tell you that right now.”

“Then what’s stopping you?”

“The desire to live a long and happy life.”

“I see,” he muttered and then fell into thought for a long time. Eventually, and for some reason looking at Midge while he did so, he asked, “There’s no chance?”

“Well, there’s always a chance.” My tone was still derisive. “But you won’t get out quietly. That I guarantee. But fighting your way through isn’t very sensible. Not right now, at any rate.”

“Why can’t you just go through the forest?” wondered Shen.

“And what then? The only road to Al’sgara is here. It’s forest for leagues around. And beyond that there are swamps. The Blazogs have tried to dam it, but you can’t get through. The only feasible path is the highway. And they are watching it.”

“And yet we’ll risk it. Staying here any longer is too dangerous.”

“As you wish,” I said, shrugging my shoulders apathetically.

“Are you afraid?” Shen asked tauntingly. Whip hissed at him in warning, but the healer didn’t bat an eye.

Contrary to the expectations of all those present, I did not get angry and just said lazily, “I’ll tell you what, kid. On the day I fall for such an idiotic trick, you can demand a hundred sorens from me. If, of course, you don’t lose courage.”

Midge brayed with delight that his antagonist had been so readily handled. He slapped his hand on the table. But before Shen had time to come up with a scathing rejoinder, he was interrupted.

“Damn…. We have a guest!” warned Bamut, who had been sitting by the window all this time, carving a silly little man from a wooden block.

Seeing who was entering the courtyard, Layen’s face went whiter than the stranger’s cloak and she swore obscenely.

“Nobody move. Be calm,” I said, picking up a hatchet from under the table.

“He’s alone,” marveled Midge.

“Midge, stay quiet! I have no desire to scrape your intestines off my ceiling. Whip, put a muzzle on him. And on that milksop, too.”

Shen didn’t get offended at the term “milksop;” more than that, it seemed that he didn’t even hear it. He was just as pale as my sun. Midge changed his tune slightly and asked in a plaintive tone, “Will somebody tell me who this guy is?”

“Just stay quiet, okay?” Even the perpetually composed Bamut was starting to get nervous. “We can leave out the back.”

“What’s the point? He’ll still sniff us out,” said Whip with hopeless anguish. “The bastard pinned us down! We’ve really stepped in it now! What does he want here?”

“We’re about to find out.” Layen flicked away a strand of blond hair that had fallen in her eyes and went out to meet the necromancer.

They watched each other for a second. Layen hoped that she looked sufficiently frightened.

The necromancer was young. No more than twenty-five. But judging by his staff, he was a master of the Fourth Sphere (after they have graduated from the Sdisian magical academy, competent mages enter into the Spheres of Mastery. The highest Sphere is the Eighth). For such an age, that was exceedingly high. That means that the boy is talented, obviously. Layen tried to choose her actions wisely, knowing that the most important thing was that she not overact her role. And he’s undoubtedly intelligent. He could cause us a lot of problems. How unfortunate that he came! What if this sorcerer is also a Seeker (bearers of the Gift who are able to detect the spark in other people)? Did he catch the scent of my Gift?

She bowed quickly, hiding her eyes so that the White would not read anything in them. Quickly, swallowing her words, she began to chatter, “What brings such a fine gentleman to our home? Do you wish to place an order? Please don’t worry, good sir, everything will be made to your specifications, whatever you like. Just ask anyone, they’ll tell you the best carpenter in the village lives here. Why, just last year, at the fair, the one they put on at El’nichi Ford, there—”

“Be silent,” the visitor interrupted her calmly. He’d obviously lost all interest in her. Now he was looking around the yard searchingly. “I was told that Ann and Pars the carpenter live here.”

Layen’s heart beat painfully.

“You were shown the right path, good sir,” she replied obsequiously, privately wishing that she could disembowel the damned chatterbox who led him here. “That’s us.”

“I want to see them. Urgently.”

“I’m Ann. My husband’s in the house.”

Tenacious brown eyes searched her face. Thick, black eyebrows crawled upward in surprise. Suddenly the necromancer chuckled. “Either you’ve been deceiving me, or you’re smarter than you seem.”

Layen tried to maintain her subservient countenance. She decided not to look at the Sdisian any longer. She was afraid her eyes would give her away.

“Lead me inside!” he said sharply, not waiting for an answer.

“Please, please,” she said in a rush. “I invite you in, good sir. We always welcome guests to our table.”

The necromancer entered the house and saw the five men. He snorted.

“You have quite a lot of husbands.”

“I’m her husband,” I responded calmly as I got up from the table. “And these are our kinsmen. Come in, have a seat.”

“Guests do bless a home, after all.” The Sdisian shifted the curved sword hanging from his belt and sat down at the table. “You, carpenter, sit down as well. Don’t wait on me. Do you know what I am?”

“I do.”

“And your kinsmen?” He pronounced the final word with a smirk.

“They know.”

“That’s good. That means they won’t do anything stupid and they’ll save me from the effort of destroying your hut. Mistress, I seem to recall you promising to feed me. I’m hungry from the road.”

A few minutes later a bowl of hearty chicken soup, a slice of black bread, butter, an onion, a jug of sour cream, and a mug of cold mint shaf appeared before him.

The sorcerer ignored the others and began to eat. Everyone was silent. Bamut continued to carve his ridiculous little man as if nothing were amiss, but he was betrayed by the sweat on his brow and a certain nervousness in his movements. I could see he was agitated; the hand holding the paring knife was shaking slightly, and every once in a while he gouged into the wood a little deeper than he should. Shen and Midge were sitting by the stove. The first had put on a bored countenance and looked like he was trying to see the sky through the ceiling. The second, having finally realized who it was that had come to visit them, laced his fingers together and began muttering under his breath—whether prayers against evil magic or curses, I do not know.

I chewed my bread listlessly. My wife and I exchanged glances and she indicated I should be quiet. Layen didn’t know whether or not the necromancer could hear our mental conversations, and she did not want to find out.

“You’re quite a good cook,” said the unwelcome guest as he pushed the empty plate away from himself. “Sit.”

She hesitated; then she walked over to the table and sat down opposite the sorcerer. Next to me.

“I heard that in the forest, not all that far from here, someone was killed. Do you know anything about that?”

“No, kind sir.”

The necromancer smiled and nodded. It was hard to tell if he believed her or not.

“Some very strange murders they were,” he said. “Two corpses left among the others. You would think the poor souls had stuck their heads in a furnace. But of course, you haven’t heard anything about that, either, have you?”

“We rarely go into the forest. Melot be praised, we haven’t seen any corpses. And there’s been no talk of them in the village,” I replied.

“I was not talking to you!” His brown eyes flashed angrily. “So, Ann? Do you know anything about these poor men?”

“No, kind sir.”

“Don’t lie to me,” he warned her.

“I’m telling the truth,” said Layen.

All of a sudden I remembered Pork. He’d seen us. We should have drowned that gossiping idiot in the river while we had the chance! What possessed us to let the tattletale live?

“Look at me.” That same deceptive blandness could still be heard in the sorcerer’s voice. “In the eyes.”

She harnessed her willpower and did as he asked. The necromancer looked at her for a long time. Intolerably long. I tensed my muscles, ready to turn the table over on this wretch if I had to.

Suddenly the Sdisian started laughing.

“You have a talent, girl.” It was almost ridiculous to hear the word “girl” from a man far younger than she. I saw that my sun was biting back a caustic retort that was just begging to slip through her lips. “You lie skillfully. Or are you not lying?”

“I have no reason to lie. Why would I dare deceive you?”

“Oh, yes! That would indeed be very… imprudent of you. Lying won’t do you any good. You should know that. And you know what? I believe you. What would such a good housewife like yourself be doing in a forest glade with the deceased?”

The necromancer was obviously mocking her. He knew. He knew that she had been there, or he had sensed the remnants of her magic. Was such a thing really possible?

But for some reason he continued his game.

Whip casually tucked his legs underneath him so he’d be in a better position to jump on the sorcerer’s back. I comprehended what he was doing, but unlike him I relaxed and put my hands on my knees, closer to my utak.

“Where do your kinsmen come from?”

“From Al’sgara,” Shen said softly.

The White broke forth into a happy smile as if he and the healer had turned out to be compatriots.

“A fine city. Beautiful, so they say. My brothers and I plan to take a look at it in due time. A very interesting place. Many from Al’sgara possess the Gift. Do you have it, Ann?”

“No, kind sir. I’m not from that city.”

“Too bad.” Then he kept talking, as if reasoning with himself. “You don’t seem like a Walker. Perhaps an Ember? But I don’t feel your heat. What are you? A prodigy? If so, how did the Seekers miss such power?”

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about, kind sir.”

“Perhaps you don’t understand.” He didn’t bother to argue. “And perhaps you do. Alas, I can’t really tell. It’s heartbreaking, you know? So we’ll just have to continue this conversation later. In the presence of another… person. I’m going to tell him all about you today. You should be flattered by the honor.”

He stood up from the table, walked over to the door, and turned around.

“I will return with new questions, and it would be best for all of you if you prepared answers that will satisfy me. I’d be upset if I had to destroy a family circle so dear to my heart. The one I’m waiting for will arrive soon. And in the meantime, I’ve arranged some reliable protection for you so you won’t feel the need to run away in fear. See you soon, Ann.”

The sorcerer walked through the gate at an unhurried pace. He closed the latch securely behind himself. The five Morts who were waiting there for him shifted.

“Guard the house,” said the necromancer offhandedly. “Keep an eye on the humans. No one is allowed to leave. If they try, bring them back. But don’t maim them. And don’t even lay a finger on the woman. I need her intact.”

Ann seemed intelligent and not at all timid. The Sdisian admired that in people. She had lied, of course, when she said she hadn’t been in the forest. The beating of her heart gave her away. But when he’d mentioned the Gift, it was as if she didn’t have a clue. There was no indication she was lying. It was a pity he wouldn’t be able to sense her power unless she invoked it.

It’s possible he could deal with this himself, of course. He could easily torture her if it came to that. But he was fearful of making a mistake. If Ann died, and her ability with her, the Superiors (the title of sorcerers of the Eighth Sphere) would not be pleased. So he had to ask for help. The sorcerer didn’t like it, but he had no other choice. The command was crystal clear—if a person possessing the spark is found, they must be reported immediately.

Using the end of his staff, the Sdisian traced an undulating line in the dirt, which had been baked hard by the intense heat. He finished off his design with a triangle; then he spoke a short summoning incantation. A Herald wove itself from the meager shadows, spat angrily, received its instructions, and melted away. It knew whom to search for and what it had to convey.

Now all he had to do was wait.