Mother Aegypt and Other Stories Part 5

"That thing's poisoned you," he stated.

"No," said Mallet thickly. "Scorpion hiding in the firewood. Maybe. And we didn't see it."

There was a tiny noise, like the m.u.f.fled chime of a bell. Smith glanced over to see that the image had indeed turned its head, was looking straight at Mallet now. Mallet raised his eyes too, looked into the statue's bright eyes.

"Scorpion," he repeated. "S'all."

The chime came again. The statue was raising its arm, the one with the tambourine, slow but unmistakable.

"Mallet," said Smith, very quietly, "Let's get out of here."

"What?" said Mallet. "Nothing there. Nothing to be scared of. It's just the play of the light."

"Mallet, the d.a.m.n thing's moving right now."

Mallet said nothing else. He leaned over and lay down, as though he were tired, and his breath began to rattle in his throat.

Smith got up, edged his way around the far side of the fire, and caught hold of Mallet's leg.

"Come on," he whispered. Mallet didn't reply. He dragged Mallet a few feet and realized he was dragging dead weight; Mallet stared up sightless, and now Smith could see that the livid swelling had spread all the way to his throat.

Smith let go; Mallet's leg dropped like a sandbag. Smith looked over at the statue. It smiled still. Was it moving?

He backed away crouching as he went, not taking his eves off the statue, into the running shallows until water rushed over the tops of his boots. He felt around for a rock. Here: his hands told him he had hold of a good one, the size of a melon, water-smoothed and flat on one side. He hefted it experimentally. Then he lifted it over his head and pitched it at the statue.

It landed with a crash, and the distinct sound of breaking pottery The fire leaped up, bright, s.h.i.+ning on Mallet's dead face.

Smith walked up the bank slowly, but nothing happened. He squelched around the perimeter of the fire. Picking up a long branch from the pile of firewood, he levered the rock to one side.

The image of the saint lay in pieces. It wasn't gold after all, only gilded; though the gears and springs inside it, all its subtle mechanisms, shone like something precious.

Smith poked through it with the stick. Here was the little gla.s.s reservoir, shattered, leaking green venom now, and here was the clever tube that had sent its charge of poison up into the hollow dagger.

Here was the lead weight in the base, where the pulleys had anch.o.r.ed that moved the golden limbs. Was this a switch, here, cleverly concealed? Had it been jostled in the rout, or when it had fallen over? What were these characters, inscribed to either side of it? Did they spell out, in fabulously archaic Briscian, BLESS and CURSE?

Or merely ON and OFF?

The face had been cracked open, and both blue stones knocked loose. Smith prodded them each a safe distance from the rest of the debris, and bent and slipped them into his pocket. He pushed the rest of it into the coals, adding more wood to the fire. Then he went back to his blanket and sat down, and pulled off his wet boots.

For a while there were strange popping and chiming noises from the fire, and every so often the flames leaped up in peculiar colors. The wood lasted until morning.

He walked all the way to Deliantiba to see if he could find a buyer for the stones, but the jeweler he consulted laughed in his face. He was kind enough to show Smith a case of real aquamarines; then he showed him foil- backed paste stones, and invited Smith to judge for himself what he had.

A girl in a public house admired them, so he gave them to her in exchange for a plate of fried fish.

Desolation Rose.

Everyone knows that if a woman goes out on Winter's Eve, and makes a fire in some wild place where G.o.ds walk, Fate will notice her. She'll huddle beside that fire, waiting: and, some time before dawn, a G.o.d will come.

In the morning, the woman will not be the same.

It isn't always good, what happens beside that fire. Sometimes, when morning light comes, there's a dead woman lying in the wilderness. Maybe only a few and closely gnawed bones.

Even, sometimes, a woman comes away alive but raving mad: hair white overnight, tangling the flowers together forever, her hands restless.

But sometimes a woman walks home having given and taken, having got something in a secret bargain. Sometimes a woman comes back smiling in secret; nine months later a child of amazing destiny is born.

It's how the G.o.d deals with the woman that makes the difference, and he deals according to what he finds waiting at the fire.

Fearing the unknown, most women stay in their beds on Winter's Eve, or beside their own hearth fires, where no cold hand is likely to come reaching in the night. But, now and then, a girl grows to womanhood restless-hearted. Maybe she yearns after an eternal something she can't put a name to; maybe she is in dreadful need; maybe she's bored, or just too silly to know better. Whatever the cause, one Winter's Eve, out she'll go: and it's another one for the storytellers.

The Yendri, in their forest bowers, knew this custom. The Children of the Sun in their cities knew it.

It was known to the Master of the Mountain and to his blessed wife, the Saint of the World, and to their very mixed bag of children. Especially and personally, it was known to Lord Ermenwyr, their third son.

39 The mage Ermenwyr was wise, cunning and controlled. He was not madly magical, like his brother Eyrdway; not n.o.ble and spiritual like his brother Demaledon. He was a man of craft, prudent, deeply cautious. By careful stratagems he worked his will, and sorceries rather than feats of arms. He was not a coward, exactly; but if argument or lies could do the trick (he reasoned), why put on all that heavy armor?

Still, he had a weakness, this subtle man. He was incautious in one thing: Lechery.

He was a ladies' man, was Ermenwyr! His beard was combed, perfumed; his sorcerer's robes were cut with style and elegance. He was small of stature but well-made and handsome, and his manners were oil-smooth and charming when he wanted them to be. When he wasn't brewing careful spells or plotting politics or studying his investments (and sometimes even then) he was attempting to slip into some lady's bed. Successfully, as a rule.

But he never stayed long in a bed once he'd got in, seldom came back to one he'd tried. He was faithless by inclination.

Ermenwyr was often sent down alone from the Master's mountain, into the lands below: he'd spy for his father, conducting that business with cold- hearted skill, or do his own shady deals. Once, on such a journey, he was benighted on a dark road as a storm broke fearfully.

His brother Eyrdway would have laughed, dancing between the lightning bolts; his brother Demaledon would have plodded on bravely through the rain. But fastidious Ermenwyr had a horror of catching cold. So when he saw a light in the darkness he hurried toward it, shouldering through black dripping leaves, pulling his cloak close.

Crack cried the wet sky, and purple lights danced above the wet trees, and the wet sorcerer waded up to the gate of a vast wet house. It was high- walled and frowning, but the gates were rusty: only one lamp flared above the wall. Clearly it was some place fallen on bad times.

Ermenwyr wondered-briefly-whose ancient house was in the middle of nowhere; more, he wondered what he had to do to get someone to open the door. He hammered at the great gates without getting any response. The rain soaked him. Finally, at a barred grate, he saw two pale faces peer out.

Someone with a thin sad voice called: "What do you want?"

Ermenwyr called: "Shelter!" thinking that folk were certainly suspicious in these parts. "I beg only a dry place beside your fire! In High G.o.d's name, let me in!"

At last the sad voice replied: "In High G.o.d's name, then." The two faces disappeared from the grate.

A long while later he heard slow footsteps, stumbling up behind the gate. It creaked open a little, and he saw three hands straining to push. He got his fingers round it too and pulled it with all his wiry strength, and slipped through nimbly as a weasel going down a hole.

The gate crashed to behind him, and he stood in a rainy courtyard. Flash, lightning blued the world: standing before him were a man and a girl. The girl was beautiful. The man was hideous. Half his face was gone, only a ropy ma.s.s of scars where it had been.

Ermenwyr wheezed with exertion, and said: "Thank you. Where is your fire, good people? I must get dry."

"You can come in, but I can't guarantee you'll get dry," muttered the man. He turned and shuffled through a dark doorway. The girl followed. Ermenwyr hurried after, watching the girl's lovely back.

Deep they went into the dark house, through narrow stone corridors, through echoing rooms that dripped rain. At last they came to a bare room where a tiny fire struggled on the hearth. It threw dim red light on no carpets, no tapestries, no cus.h.i.+ons nor chairs. Rain hissed in the chimney.

"Ahem! What a fine cheerful fire," said Ermenwyr, being a good guest. "But it will never dry my cloak, you were right about that. I'll build it up for you."

He gestured, and the fire blazed up as if fed with seasoned wood. Smiling, for he was proud of the effect, he turned to his hosts. But they weren't staring in open-mouthed admiration; they had drawn together and regarded him with weary resigned faces, the beauty and the horror alike.

"Ah-do not be surprised," he said anyway.

"We're not," said the man.

After a discomfited pause, Ermenwyr added meaningfully, "For, you see, I am a powerful sorcerer."

"Yes," said the girl. "We'd guessed."

"Yes. Well." Ermenwyr was taken aback. He looked about the room. He saw only a leaning table, bearing the remains of a paltry meal. A torn curtain hung across a broken window, flapping in the wind, letting in the rain.

His hosts wore raiment that had once been fine, but was now worn to threadbare cobwebs, through which Ermenwyr saw that the girl was lovely indeed: but as sad music is lovely, or the twilight. The man looked worse. Not only half his face was gone; half his body was maimed, one arm missing, one leg crooked.

Ermenwyr, trying to make the best of an awkward social situation, cleared his throat and said: "I don't suppose you see sorcerers very often, out here."

The girl trembled but the man laughed, a dreadful long rusted laugh.

"Oh, we've seen our share of sorcerers. We've seen more sorcerers than most people! So, what have you come to inflict on us?"

Ermenwyr was taken aback at this, and stammered: "I mean you no harm at all, man! Who are you, and what is this place?"

The man drew himself up, as far as he was able.

"Sir, we are the last of what was once a n.o.ble house. We were the Aronikai, governors in the city of Brogoun. My brother was the lord, but he made terrible enemies: a.s.sa.s.sins. Sorcerers. Politicians. They were powerful, inventive in their revenge, and they have wasted us. One by one we have been slain or exiled, ruined or driven mad. This ruin was the least of our properties: but here we hide, my niece and I, in its dead hulk, and I am more ruined than the house. We alone are left of the Aronikai.

"You would think, sir, that this was enough revenge; but someone ensures that we grow ever poorer.

The trees in the orchard died, the game hereabouts has fled, the well's dry. Some vigilant mage tightens the screw daily and kills us by inches. You, maybe."

"Not I, sir, on my honor as a lord's son!" Ermenwyr protested. "And my father is a powerful lord indeed. As your guest, I will protect you."

He cast about him with his bright mage's eve, and perceived a sullen hating Presence that watched.

Whatever it was, it recognized the son of the Master of the Mountain, and withdrew its influence under his cold scrutiny.

The girl said, in her voice as sad as violets, "If you're not lying, we'll have one night in peace. Last night a pack of wolves howled beyond the wall until sunrise. The night before that an army of rats fought in the walls for hours. This morning a hailstone fell from a clear sky, right through our last whole window.

You see how it is."

She said it simply, straightforward: she had learned that to complain is to send a message written in invisible ink to a blind man.

Ermenwyr turned his expression of greatest benevolence to her.

"My dear child, have no fear; I am respected and honored in my profession. See now! I can summon cheer even in this dank abode."

He flexed the muscles of his glittering mind, and the room was filled with good things. There were cus.h.i.+ons and carpets and a cloth spread with a glorious feast, and many bottles of fine wine. It was all illusory, but Ermenwyr was not only boasting for effect when he claimed prowess as a sorcerer: it was the very best illusion. Every sense was fooled and gratified by his display.

His hosts cried out and ran to partake of the repast: hot bread, roasted meats and fowl, fruit melting-ripe. There for an hour they were a little happy, dining in comfort as Ermenwyr poured wine and regaled them with traveler's tales.

It is a curious fact that illusory food satisfies better than real fare, and illusory wine intoxicates faster than real vintages. Ermenwyr was particularly solicitous in refilling the gla.s.s of the n.o.ble uncle, who shortly lay snoring on illusory cus.h.i.+ons before the fire.

This suited Ermenwyr perfectly, of course (he had already decided on his own treat), and he turned his attentions to the girl. He didn't care that she wore rags; he could see her pale skin peeping through like stars through clouds. He didn't care that she sat sad and dignified as a figure on a tomb; his design was to warm that marble.

"Now, my dear," he purred, "you've told me nothing of yourself, not even your name!" He made to pour her more wine; but she set aside her gla.s.s.

"No, thank you, my lord," she said. "I am a little drunk. As for my name: I was Golden Rose of the Aronikai once, but now I am Desolation Rose."

"Desolation Rose!" Ermenwyr exclaimed, and drank her health from his own gla.s.s. "Truly an original and beautiful name, though not so beautiful as its bearer."

She smiled bitterly.

"My name will be my death, and my beauty will last only until our enemies find a way to wither it. My poor uncle was handsome, once. Do you know what they did to him?"

"Something dreadful, obviously. But please, don't make yourself more sorrowful. Be safe with me, lady! Steal delight, while I stand guard against despair. Shall we not be thieves of felicity together, tonight, though tomorrow brings another bleak day? Why your enemies may even withdraw if I take you under my protection."

Desolation Rose shook her head. "They won't. You don't know them. Tomorrow something will die under the floor, or a black fungus will begin to grow in the pantry, or another corner of the house will collapse. Every morning, a new and miserable surprise."

"It sounds perfectly dreadful," sympathized Ermenwyr, hitching himself closer. She stared at him thoughtfully.

"I suppose, even now, you might be some agent of theirs," she said, "come to sharpen pain by giving us this brief respite. I don't care if you are. Anything you do to us will only bring us closer to the end of our sufferings. Tell that to your masters, if they are your masters, and tell them we still spit on them."

This sort of talk was not very conducive to a seduction, so Ermenwyr decided to abandon subtlety.

"I am no enemy of yours, Desolation Rose, on my life. Won't you make the night sweet with me, here upon the hearth? For I tell you truly, you are the loveliest girl I've seen in weeks, and I feel sincerest desire for you. Such beauty and such bravery too, is worth gold. Let me pleasure you here, and give you a rich gift. Your uncle sleeps soundly."

Some fine ladies would have gone white with shame, and some red with anger. Desolation Rose only looked him in the eye and said: "If I thought I could benefit from lying with you, I'd do it, make no mistake. But I've a reason to keep my maidenhead; and since you've made me such a kind offer, I'll tell you what it is."

She said, "I mean to go out Winter's Eve and present myself to the G.o.d. As I am a virgin, I'll beg him in trade to save our poor house. And if the sacrifice is not acceptable to him and he kills me, at least our enemies will lose a victim. My uncle can't last long, alone. So our torment will end."

Ermenwyr sighed and cursed the fate benighting him among the Children of the Sun, a race for whom the vendetta was an art form.

"You're foolish, Desolation Rose, but you have a brave heart. All the same-Winter's Eve is only a few nights away. Will you end your life so soon, never having known bliss? Where is it written that the G.o.d demands only virgins? Won't he be just as impressed by your laudable sense of familial piety?"

But Desolation Rose said, "I must make the best offering I can, and my maidenhead is all I have left.

Thank you all the same."

"Well, may the G.o.d reward you," said Ermenwyr sullenly. They settled down some distance from each other, and soon Desolation Rose was asleep.

Ermenwyr, though, lay awake, still desiring her very much and musing to himself how he might have her.

In the morning he got up, thanked his hosts and pushed on, leaving them a purse of gold. The gold was real enough; he was crafty but he wasn't cheap.

As Ermenwyr left the pitiful House of the Aronikai behind him, he heard a howling in the woods, as if glad wolves were let off some leash; and a flock of carrion crows rose from the trees where they had waited, and went back to perch on the crumbling battlements.