The Ninth Talisman (13 page)

“I mean alone with each of you. No guards, no servants, and your word that you will not use your magic or any devices you may have built into this place to eavesdrop when I speak to the others.”

The Wizard Lord considered that for a moment, then beckoned to one of the guards, who stepped forward.

“Swordsman, this is Azal ori Tath, the captain of my guards,” the Wizard Lord said, as the guard came to the table.

Sword nodded an acknowledgment.

“Captain, you heard him?”

“Of course.”

“What do you think?”

The captain eyed Sword judiciously, then said, “If he will strip naked, and enter your presence wearing only a garment we provide, and in a place of our choosing where we are sure no weapon has been hidden, and if you go armed, then I think the risk is acceptable.”

“My word that I will not harm him is not sufficient?” Sword asked. “No, it is not. Not when my master's life is threatened.”

“I mean him no harm,” Sword said.

“Then you should have no objection to the terms.”

“Oh, I'll accept the terms,” Sword said with a sigh. “I just think it's a good bit of unnecessary trouble. After all, you surely don't force
everyone
who comes near him to follow such rules!”

“You are not ‘everyone,' ” the captain said. “You are one of the Chosen.”

Sword nodded. “Indeed, I am. Very well, then. After dinner, then?”

“A time will be arranged,” the Wizard Lord said. “More beer?”

The time was arranged, as promised, and that evening Sword was summoned from his chamber. Since he knew what was expected he wore only a simple robe and carried nothing with him but the silver talisman that gave him his status as the Chosen Swordsman—he could not safely leave that behind. If he were to be separated from it for more than a few minutes he would become ill, as he knew from unhappy experience.

The search for hidden weapons was distressingly thorough. The talisman was found and deemed sharp enough to be a potential weapon, but Sword was able to convince the guard accompanying him to let him carry the talisman and leave it on the floor just outside the door, where it would, he hoped, be close enough to satisfy the
ler
while distant enough to not threaten the Wizard Lord.

At last, that done, he was escorted into a small, bare room where he found the Wizard Lord waiting.

The Wizard Lord was sitting in the only chair.

“I'm afraid you'll have to sit on the floor, or stand,” he said apologetically. “The captain feared you might use any other furniture as a weapon.”

Sword sighed, and settled cross-legged to the floor near the door, tucking his thin white robe under him. “If I really meant to harm you,” he said, “I could use my bare hands, or twist this robe into a garrote.”

“I have a knife,” the Wizard Lord said, “and of course my magic.”

“I could take the knife away from you and gag you with the robe—but Artil, I mean you no harm. That I tell you these possible methods, and thereby give up any element of surprise, should tell you as much.”

“It is your sacred duty to kill me should you think I am unfit to be
the Wizard Lord,” Artil replied warily. “I think it only reasonable to take precautions.”

“Of course. But honestly, I
don't
think you're unfit, and I do believe you when you say you would choose abdication over death.”

“I don't particularly want that, either.”

“I wouldn't expect you to. Honestly, though, I don't want to harm you or force you to abdicate.”

“What else could you want to discuss privately with me? After all, Sword, we don't know each other; we've met just twice before today. What connection is there, other than your duty as one of the Chosen? And what could that be, except my removal?”

“Oh, this is another matter entirely, though I won't say it's completely unrelated.”

“And what would that be?”

“Farash inith Kerra.”

“Oh?” The Wizard Lord leaned back in his chair, looking puzzled.

Sword sighed. “Wizard Lord—Artil—do you know
why
Farash is no longer the Leader of the Chosen?”

“I know that the events surrounding my predecessor's death . . . well, no; I don't. I asked him, of course, but he said that you had found him negligent in his duties, and he had agreed to give up the role in consequence, but he had sworn not to discuss it further.”

“He swore no such oath to me. He hasn't explained further because he did not want to tell lies when Lore was around, and he didn't dare tell the truth.”

The Wizard Lord frowned uneasily. “What are you saying?”

“I am saying that Farash inith Kerra, Leader of the Chosen Defenders of Barokan, was a traitor. He had allied himself with the Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills and deliberately sabotaged our actions. He convinced us to let the Thief refuse her role, he led us to the Dark Lord's refuge with no plan or preparation, he did what he could to demoralize and delay us, he conspired with the Dark Lord to ensure that the Speaker was wounded so that half our team stayed behind to tend to her, and finally he lured Bow and myself into traps in the Dark Lord's dungeon. I was able to free myself with my magic—you will forgive me if I don't give the details; I may need that trick again someday—and
take him and the Dark Lord by surprise. I slew the Dark Lord, as you know, and I forced Farash at swordpoint to promise he would relinquish his role in the Chosen.” He sighed. “It did not occur to me to wonder what he would do after that, and I could never have guessed he would become your advisor. I would have thought that seeing one ally killed before his eyes would have discouraged that.”

As Sword gave this speech, Artil's eyes first widened, then narrowed to slits. He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “He . . . he
betrayed
you?”

“Yes.”

“But . . . but why?”

“Because he had made an arrangement with Galbek Hills. Working together, they would capture as many of the Chosen as possible, hold us prisoner so that we could neither use our magic nor pass it on, and then, with the seven of us out of the way, the two of them would rule Barokan as if it were their personal plaything, enslaving the population. Farash had already used his magical persuasion as the Leader to enslave his home town of Doublefall—he told me he had a palace there, and a harem.”

“But he . . . Did he really? Have a palace, I mean?”

Sword shrugged. “I never saw the palace or the harem, but I heard him conspiring with the Dark Lord, heard him admit to his crimes, heard him suggest that he and I should join with the Dark Lord's successor—with
you
—to rule Barokan.”

“He did? And you—you clearly rejected his proposal, but then why didn't you kill him? Surely, you had sufficient reason!”

“It was not my place. I am chosen to defend Barokan against evils committed by the Wizard Lords, not against the other Chosen. I thought that with his magic gone he would be harmless, and . . . and I don't
like
killing. It's wrong. Sometimes it's necessary, but it's still wrong.”

Artil tugged at his lower lip and stared at Sword. “So that's . . . Farash is your one enemy, that you mentioned earlier? The one whose life you spared?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

The Wizard Lord sat back in his chair and stroked his pointed beard. “That's very interesting,” he said. “Very interesting indeed.”

“Wizard Lord,” Sword said, “of all I have seen since leaving Mad Oak a few days ago, the single thing that most worried me was that man standing by your shoulder on the dais. The roads are a surprise and I fear they may yet have unforeseen consequences, the Summer Palace troubles me because it is outside your proper domain in Barokan, your alliance with Lore is against all tradition, and I wonder why you have so many guards and such elaborate defenses, but that man's presence is the only thing that has genuinely frightened me and made me doubt the sincerity of your good intentions. I fear that even without his magic, he has a persuasive tongue and can mislead you.” He spread his empty hands. “And I sit here defenseless before you because I
do
believe your intentions are good, and that you wish to rule Barokan wisely, long, and well, and for that reason I felt I had no choice but to warn you.”

“He may have changed, you know,” the Wizard Lord said thoughtfully. “He may have learned a lesson from the failure of his previous conspiracy. He may have seen that there's more to be gained from good than evil, that it's better to be loved than feared.”

“He may,” Sword agreed. “But I doubt it.”

“And I don't blame you. You did well to tell me this privately; I appreciate your trust.”

“Thank you.”

“Was there anything else?”

Sword hesitated. “I'm not sure. I feel as if there is more I should say, as if I should tell you that I have many reservations about the roads and palaces, but I can't think just what I want to say, and in any case I don't need to do that here in private—and I think you already know it, really, even if I don't say another word.”

“I think I do,” the Wizard Lord said. “I understand your concerns, I do. I'm upsetting systems that have been in place for seven hundred years, and we have no way to be sure that my new systems will be better. I know that, and I see why it worries you, but there is a saying among the fishermen of the Western Isles—a net can snag on the rocks, a snagged net can capsize your boat and pull you under, but if you don't cast the net, you don't catch fish. Sometimes you need to take a chance,
and see if it works. If it doesn't, well, you learn what there is to be learned, you clean up the mess, and you go on.”

“I hope you're right, Artil.”

“And you'll come with us to the Summer Palace, as one of my advisors? Perhaps you could give some of my guards lessons in swordsmanship.”

“I could,” Sword replied, uncertainly. Something was nagging at him about the Summer Palace, but he could not quite think what it might be.

“And—I have another favor to ask, and I ask it now, in private, so that you can refuse it if you wish without word spreading everywhere.”

“What is it?”

“I told you that the Beauty refuses to speak with me. Could
you
speak with her on my behalf, and tell her what I'm attempting? Give her your honest impression. I want
all
the Chosen to understand the situation. I'll be sending envoys to the others, but the Beauty—I think
you
should speak to her.”

“Because no man but another of the Chosen can do so without being overcome by lust, and women are prone to envy?”

The Wizard Lord smiled crookedly. “No,” he said. “Nothing so devious.”

“Then why?”

“Because she trusts you.”

“Oh.” That caught Sword off-guard, but he could not deny its accuracy. The Beauty did not trust anyone but the other Chosen, that was true enough. “Why didn't you send Lore? He's been here for some time, after all.”

The Wizard Lord grimaced. “Years. But he refused.”

Sword blinked. “Oh,” he said. That was puzzling; why would the Scholar have refused? He had spent months in the Beauty's company, six years ago, and they had gotten along well enough. She trusted him, Sword was sure.

Well, Lore presumably had his reasons. They weren't Sword's. Sword certainly had no objection to seeing the Beauty again. Quite aside from the fact that her role was that of the most beautiful woman in the world, and any man would enjoy looking at her and listening to
her voice, he had found her pleasant company. Even with the male Chosen she had been reluctant to let anyone see her or get too close, but in the time they had spent together she had gotten over that to some extent, and he felt as if he had indeed gotten to know her well. She had been cautious, but brave and quick to act when it was called for. She did not waste words, and when she did speak her words were always sensible. Sword had briefly thought their friendship might become something more, but she had put an end to that by pointing out the eighteen-year difference in their ages.

Eighteen years—that meant she must be forty-four or forty-five by now. It was probably time for her to pass her role on to a younger woman.

That was up to her, though.

“I'll need to think about it,” Sword said, “but I can probably do that.”

“Good! Good!” The Wizard Lord clapped his hands together. “Well, is that it, then? Are we done?”

“I think we are,” Sword said. “Shall I leave first? Is that what the captain advised?”

“I believe it is,” the Wizard Lord said. “Back the way you came, to recover your clothes.”

“Of course.” Sword rose in one swift and graceful motion, and bowed to the startled Wizard Lord.

“You moved so
fast!”
he said, clutching at the arms of his chair.