Serpent's Silver (6 page)

Besides, he had the feeling that his astral time was about used up. There was a feeling of waning, of diminishing, that gave him warning.

But he made himself pause to look at the huge cauldron where the flopears were melting down silver. Even as he looked, one came bringing an armload of what seemed like featherlight serpentskin. The flopear mounted the wooden steps of the scaffold and dumped the armload into the silver soup. There was a puff of steam. Another flopear stirred the broth with a huge ladle.

“Boo!” Kian cried impulsively.

The flopear almost dropped the ladle. He teetered for a moment at the edge of the soup, in danger of falling in. He recovered his balance and looked frantically around. “Who spoke? Who said?”

Kian willed himself back, away from the connected valleys. Back to where he had started.

In a moment he was in the camp again. He zoomed from face to face, trying to see how many he almost recognized. There were several that would have been a previous part of his life, with pointed ears.

Then he was back at Jac’s tent and inside and lying on the bearver hide. He struggled to sit up, to open his eyes. He managed.

“Gods,” Jac said, looking at him somewhat wild-eyed. “I thought you were dead for certain.”

“Not dead, just near,” Kian said. As rapidly as he could, he told the bandit leader what had happened.

“And you’re certain he said Rowforth is making a pact with the flopears?”

“I told you what I heard.”

“If that’s true, there isn’t much time. Zotanas could be mistaken, and I hope he is. But if he makes a pact, Lord, old Rowforth will end up bossing all the Seven Kingdoms with them.”

Kian wondered whether Rowforth could be that bad. Then he considered that this man had been the one ultimately responsible for sending beautiful maidens to the flopears for sacrifice. Could any ruler possibly be worse?

“If we can rescue my father, perhaps he can help. I’m not sure how, or maybe he can go back to Earth and get Earth weapons. Lasers, flying devices—they might help.”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about. But if you think your father can help us defeat Rowforth, then we’ll rescue him. Only that won’t be easy. The serpent people aren’t like ordinary mortals. They have magic—the ability to stop a fighting man in his tracks with just a glance. That’s only one of their talents.”

So Kian had discovered. “But there has to be a way!”

“I’ll grant you that. And with your ability to spy, just maybe we’ll find it. To start with, we can’t actually face flopears. If we try it, they stare at us and we’re helpless sticks. That means we’ll have to steal your father from them some way, and that won’t be easy. From what you say, they can even detect you in the astral state.”

“Yes, but only when I spoke, I think. When I was silent they didn’t know I was there.”

“But you didn’t keep your mouth shut. Thanks to that, they may now know what to watch for.”

Kian was chagrined. Jac could be right.
Damn!
he thought.
If only my brother Kelvin were here! He’s the hero of prophecy, while I’m just an accident!

It occurred to him that he had never felt less confidence in himself in his life.

Chapter 6

Going, Going

King Phillip Blastmore of Aratex chuckled happily with his own cleverness, and moved the black queen across the board. “Check.”

Melbah, pudgy and squat and so wrinkled of face that it resembled a badly cured animal pelt, looked up. Her rheumy eyes seemed to focus not on the board but on his artificially darkened little mustache. It was as though she did not even have to glance at the board.

“Well?” Blastmore demanded. He felt like jumping up and down. “You concede?”

“Oh, King,” the witch inquired in her creaky, wispy voice, “do you wish to win this game, or do you prefer for Melbah to demonstrate her strategy?”

“Demonstrate your strategy,” he said challenging. But it was a bluff. He had a feeling that he knew what she was going to do, and he didn’t like it. Melbah was Melbah, and she had been surprising him for all of his fifteen years.

“Then this is what I will do.” Leaning over the board, eyes still focused on him, she puffed up her cheeks so that the wrinkles faded to mere patinas and blew out a stream of breath so foul that it staggered him. He heard a thump, and when he finished blinking his eyes he saw his black queen on the carpet.

“I’m afraid that’s not permitted, Melbah,” he said. “You can’t touch a piece except to move it in the designated way.”

“You say this is an ancient game of war. In war all things are fair.”

“Well, yes. But—”

“I did not touch your queen. I only sent air to remove her from the battle.”

“It’s still not permitted.” He sighed. Melbah had such a one-track mind. Yet who else was there for him to teach this game to?

“Then perhaps another strategy,” Melbah said. She pointed a finger so knobby it most resembled a dead twig from an appleberry tree, and the black queen burst into flame. Within a couple of sharply drawn breaths it was only a charred piece of wood on the carpet.

Blastmore blinked. “Really, Melbah, you should not have done that. Now that the roundear has left, who will duplicate it for me?”

“No problem.” Melbah snapped her fingers and the piece on the floor became uncharred painted wood. “This time illusion. In battle to save your kingdom, real.”

“That certainly does make an impression,” Blastmore said. The old hag had to be insane, but her magic was formidable. It had been a whim to teach her St. Helens’ game—a whim whose price turned out to be endless frustration.

“Or,” Melbah continued, “if the markers you call men were really men and threatened the kingdom…” She picked up a vase of flowers and tossed them on the carpet next to the queen. Just as he was wondering what she was up to, she sloshed water on his side of the board. As he hastily left his chair the water spilled across and dripped on the floor, carrying with it a wash of black pawns.

Blastmore stood over the board and contemplated the prevalence of white chess pieces. He picked at a pimple on his right cheek and pondered what to say.

“I agree,” he finally said. “That would win a battle. But this is a game.”

“Yes, game.” Melbah moved her hands in a circle above the board and the board began to shake. One by one, the black pieces were jolted off while the white pieces remained. When all of his pieces except the king were gone, and he was surrounded by white chessmen, the shaking stopped.

“Game finished now,” Melbah said.

“Yes, finished.” In fact, he wished it had never started. He should have known how she would act. But he exercised kingly discretion, and complimented her. “You did well. So well that we will not have to play again.”

“Good! Game pieces not needed here. Melbah can direct forces without.”

“I’m sure you can, and have.” Poor Melbah must think chess an aid to magic warfare. Not that her magic was of the sympathetic kind. Or maybe it was. He had seen her cheeks puff out and a great wind rise. He had seen her eyes glow like coals before there was a fire. Perhaps if one understood it correctly, all magic used similar principles.

Melbah stood up. “I go now to my quarters. Your general is coming.”

“He is? How do you know that?”

Melbah laughed. It was an awful sound; “cackle” was not adequate to the description. He watched her swirl of dark skirts as she seemed to drift rather than walk across the floor. By the time he had blinked and reblinked she was gone, apparently vanished from the room and possibly the palace. It was the way she always exited. He never had quite pinned down the exact nature of it. Certainly it awed others; he had almost no palace staff, because ordinary servants tended to be too frightened of the witch to function properly. Fortunately he didn’t need many, by the same token: Melbah could do almost anything that needed doing.

He sat there for a moment, rearranging the chess pieces as if for a game. The black ones were scattered across the floor, forcing him to reach and collect tediously. He wished that he had not had that falling out with St. Helens. He had really enjoyed the roundear’s companionship, especially his wonderful stories about an unlikely world called Earth. He thought again about the way the big man had shown up asking for something called sanctuary, and the way he had paid for it by making himself a friend. In all his life, St. Helens the roundear had been his only friend.

True, when he was a child he had had playmates. But when he became angry with them, as he concluded in retrospect he too frequently did, Melbah had arranged for things to happen to them. By the time he cooled off, it was too late; they were gone. Then there were his parents and his sisters and brothers and all his relatives. Things had happened to them, one by one, and not by his design. The kingdom of Aratex just seemed to be experiencing a wave of misfortune that never became overwhelming. He would have been more inclined to wonder about this, if it had not coincidentally worked to his advantage.

So there had been servants and courtiers and soldiers in diminishing number—and Melbah. Mainly there had been Melbah. She was bad company, but there was something about her, she was always there when he needed someone. As with the attempted chess game just now: he had wanted someone with whom to play, and she had played—in her fashion. At least it hadn’t been boring.

But in the past, when he had somehow been unhappiest despite his improving material position, St. Helens had shown up. The big gruff man had seemed to like the young prince for himself, and they had gotten along fine. Sometimes when misunderstanding threatened, Melbah had assisted; nothing had happened to the roundear. Blastmore had suspected that she was responsible for the roundear’s existence. Then he had decided that St. Helens was too complex to be her creation, but that she tolerated the friendship for her own reasons. He did not question this, because he valued the man’s company too much. St. Helens might be big and rough and crude, but he was real; no need to worry about him being involved in any conspiracy. St. Helens always said exactly what he thought, and his remarks about the, as he put it, “ass-kissing” courtiers were delightfully on target. If Blastmore wanted a candid opinion, St. Helens would give it, not worrying or even caring much about possible offense. Even about Melbah herself—though there the man had had the caution to lower his voice before calling her a “bag of excrement.” The actual term had been unfamiliar, but the context had clarified it.

Now St. Helens was gone, and depression had returned. Blastmore’s one hope was that soon he would be of an age to marry. He was viewing some of the young ladies of the court with increasing interest. Melbah never let him get really close to any of them alone, but once he got to marry one, it could get really interesting. At least he would have good company again.

The chessboard whirled before him as he sat staring at it, waiting for the general Melbah had promised. Sometimes he got these dizzy spells when he thought of St. Helens and how much the big man had meant to him. They had gotten along so well. If he had asked the man about women, he was sure to have had a crude but pertinent answer—exactly the kind he craved. St. Helens had given so much and asked for so little: just food and sleep and safety. “I know what it is to be lonely, lad. I know,” he had said.

But then the roundear had started paying attention to what Blastmore did and what Melbah did and to all who came and went about the palace. He began asking questions. Suddenly, unexpectedly, St. Helens had become angry with him.

“It’s not right, the condition of your people, lad. It’s all that old bag’s influence! You’ve got to stand up to her! You’ve got to rule on your own!”

“But how, St. Helens? How?” He had been genuinely baffled, for this was the first time anyone had said anything like this to him.

“I’ll tell you how, lad!” St. Helens’ big fist had smacked into his own palm. “First of all, you’ve got to realize that she’s just a person. She might know some good conjurer’s tricks, but let me tell you, I’ve seen some pretty clever performances back on Earth. She’s got the people scared of her, and for good reason. You’ve got to undo some of that! Let people bring you gifts because you’re their monarch and they love you. Don’t force them to bring tribute or face ruin at the hands of your witch. A good king can rule wisely and well and have everything. A wise king doesn’t have to worry about enemies. Tell your tax collectors to ease up on people. Sometimes a man can’t pay and sometimes he doesn’t want to pay. If he really can’t pay, you have to try treating him so that he can.”

Blastmore shook his head. It hadn’t surprised him that when he did nothing about the tax collectors or Melbah, his friend had disappeared. He remembered seemingly unconnected episodes of the past, when there had been murmurings among relatives about policy and taxes, and then those relatives had suffered misfortune. Getting a glimmering of the way of it, he had been smarter with St. Helens. He had had the man followed and watched. He had forbidden Melbah to harm him. “Let him alone and things will be as before,” he promised her. “He can’t harm us. He doesn’t have your power.”

“That is true,” the witch had replied. “But still, roundears do bear watching.”

“I’m having him watched,” he reminded her. “If he tries to do harm I will learn of it, and then I will give you instructions.”

“You will give
me
instructions?” She seemed amused, and not as displeased as he might have imagined. “Very well, when he causes trouble, you give me instructions.”

Blastmore knew he was young, but he was not as young as he once had been, and he had taken the trouble to learn as much of the way of things as he could. He knew that he was the last of the royal line; if anything happened to him, there would be no help for it but revolution, because the people were incapable of selecting a new monarchy without violence. Melbah would be their first target. So it was in her interest to keep him safe. After all, he hadn’t countermanded her tax policy; he knew the value of wealth, and the advantage of keeping the peasants poor. He wished St. Helens hadn’t chosen that particular case to argue. The man had assumed that Blastmore was ignorant of the ways of the tax collectors, and it would have been awkward to disabuse him. But now it was time to begin asserting himself with Melbah, knowing that they were in agreement anyway. He needed to prepare for the time when they might not be in agreement.

Now, raising his eyes from the chessboard, he found General Ashcroft standing in front of him. A tall man with heavy eyebrows, he had always appeared as if conjured by Melbah’s magic. The general was her man, Blastmore knew. He was making it a point to know the identities of all her men, just in case.

“Your Majesty,” General Ashcroft said. “Following your specific orders, I have kept track of the roundear known as St. Helens. As you know, he tried to stir up sedition and create rebellion in various parts of the realm. Each time, following orders, Melbah has thrown the fear of magic into those he appointed leaders. A tornado, a fire, a groundquake, a flood—and rebellion dies before it’s born. All who foolishly still opposed your policies have died, with the exception of St. Helens, who was allowed each time to escape.”

“That is well,” Blastmore said. How clever of him to have thought this out. It hadn’t even been Melbah’s suggestion, though he knew she gladly dealt the punishments. It was like a chess game, leaving an avenue for the opponent to escape a trap—an avenue that led to a worse trap. “And now?”

“Now, Your Majesty, the Roundear has left Aratex’s borders.”

“What?” Blastmore could hardly believe his ears.

“He has recrossed the river into Rud. He has heard reports that his daughter is now married to the Roundear there. It is believed by my agents that he has gone to this Roundear of Prophecy to get his aid and perhaps also help from the king of Rud.”

“Against me? Against Melbah?”

“Do you wish to send assassins?”

Hmm. Assassinate the Roundear of Prophecy, and that would stop St. Helens from seeking his help. But possibly St. Helens wasn’t bent on mischief, and besides, Blastmore had so enjoyed his stories and his chess. He had hoped that after some experience with the degenerate rebel elements of the kingdom, St. Helens would recognize the need to keep them down, and would have a change of heart. That might still occur. Suddenly he had an inspiration.

“I want him followed in Rud. When this is practical I want him captured, taken across the river into Aratex, arrested, and brought here in chains.”

The general nodded, saluted, and departed.

There, he thought with a satisfied smile. This was going to fix everything.

*

Kelvin regretted having the Crumbs and his sister along, long before they reached the capital and the site of the old palace. St. Helens was like a lizard that changed its coloration to suit its background. Not only did he soothe them with his rough charms, he also won their respect. When he wasn’t talking to Mor about the battles that had been fought on Earth, he was imparting knowledge to Lester of what Earth was like. If he wasn’t reciting bits of Earth poetry to Heln—who seemed to like it in spite of herself—he was delighting Jon with accounts of something called Women’s Liberation. “We need that here,” Jon said at one point. Trust her to pick up on this. As roughnecked as ever, despite her late-found femininity, she had just demonstrated her prowess by downing a distant game bird. As she put her sling away Lester rode for the bird. Kelvin stayed and listened, trapped here regardless of his preference. “I never did see why men should have all the fun.”