Swords: 08 - The Fifth Book Of Lost Swords - Coinspinner’s Story

The Fifth Book Of Lost Swords

Coinspinner’s Story

By

Fred Saberhagen

Copyright Page

The Fifth Book of Lost Swords : Coinspinner’s Story Copyright (c) 1989 by Fred Saberhagen

Cover Art : Harry O. Morris
 

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

Please purchase only authorized electronic editions.

Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

Tor paper edition: ISBN: 0-812-55286-5

Electronic edition

JSS Literary Productions

ISBN: 978-1-937422-02-8

The Ardneh Sequence

Empire of the East series

The Broken Lands

The Black Mountains

Changeling Earth
/
Ardneh’s World

( three titles also published in a heavily-revised omnibus form as
Empire of the East)

The Book of Swords

The First Book of Swords

The Second Book of Swords

The Third Book of Swords

The Book of Lost Swords

The First Book of Lost Swords: Woundhealer’s Story

The Second Book of Lost Swords: Sightblinder’s Story
 

The Third Book of Lost Swords: Stonecutter’s Story

The Fourth Book of Lost Swords: Farslayer’s Story

The Fifth Book of Lost Swords: Coinspinner’s Story

The Sixth Book of Lost Swords:
 
Mindsword’s Story

The Seventh Book of Lost Swords: Wayfinder’s Story

The Last Book of Lost Swords: Shieldbreaker’s Story
 

Ardneh’s Sword

Swords Anthology

(original invitational anthology edited by Fred Saberhagen)

An Armory of Swords

Blind Man’s Blade. . . . . Fred Saberhagen

Woundhealer
. . . . .
Walter Jon Williams

Fealty
. . . . .
Gene Bostwick

Dragon Debt
. . . . .
 
Robert E. Vardeman

The Sword of Aren-Nath
. . . . .
Thomas Saberhagen

Glad Yule
. . . . .
Pati Nagle

Luck of the Draw
. . . . .
Michael A. Stackpole

Stealth and the Lady
. . . . .
Sage Walker

Chapter One

      
“I swear to you, most royal and excellent lady,” declared the handsome and distinguished visitor, “I solemnly pledge, most lovely and farseeing Princess, that if you can save the life of my Queen’s consort and end his suffering, her royal gratitude and his—not to mention my own—will know no bounds.”

      
Princess Kristin sighed. Over the course of the past two days, she had already heard the same statement a score of times from the same man, sometimes in very nearly the same words, sometimes in speech less flowery. Now once more she forced herself to attend with courtesy and patience to the representative of Culm.

      
As soon as the distinguished and handsome visitor had concluded his latest version of his plea, she turned half away from him, trying to frame her answer. Over the past two days she had endeavored to give the same reply in different ways. This time the Princess began her response in silence, with a gesture indicating the view beneath the balcony on which they stood.

      
Below the Palace, sloping away toward the sea, rank on rank of the neatly tiled, multicolored roofs of Sarykam gleamed in the bright sun of summer afternoon. Halfway between the Palace and the harbor, the mass of crowded buildings was interrupted by a tree-lined square of generous size, which held at its center the chief White Temple of the city. This structure, a pyramid of stark design and chalky whiteness, contained among other things two shrines, those of the gods Ardneh and Draffut.

      
Of greater practical importance to most people was the fact that the pyramid also contained, within a special coffer, the Sword called Woundhealer.

      
Today, as on almost every day, a line of people seeking the Sword’s help had begun to form before dawn in the Temple square. Now in the middle of the afternoon that line, easily visible from the Palace balcony, was still threading its way into the eastern entrance on the harbor side of the white pyramid. The line was still long, and new arrivals kept it at an almost constant length. The people who made up the line were suffering from disease or injury of one kind or another. They were the ill, the crippled, the blind or mad or wounded, many of them needing the help of nurses or close companions simply to be here and join the line. Some of the sufferers had come from a great distance to seek Woundhealer’s aid.

      
Even as the Princess gestured in the direction of the white pyramid, a pair of stretcher-bearers, lugging between them an ominously inert human form, were being ushered by white-robed priests toward the front of that distant queue. The priests of Ardneh who served this particular Temple were accustomed to making such decisions about priorities, thus assuming momentarily the role of gods. From the balcony there was no telling whether the body on the stretcher was that of a man, woman, or child. The Princess thought that no more than a minimum of protest would be heard from those whose turns were being thus preempted; she could see that today’s line was, as usual, moving briskly, and no one in it should have to wait for very long.

      
Meanwhile, the most recent beneficiaries of the power of the Sword of Healing, many of them accompanied by their relieved nurses and companions, were emerging in a steady trickle from the Temple’s western door. People who only moments ago had been severely injured or seriously ill, some even at the point of death, were walking out healthy and whole. From experience Kristin knew that their bandages and splints would have been left in the Temple, or were now being removed and thrown away. Stretchers and crutches, indispensable a few minutes earlier, were now being cast aside by vigorous hands. Only a few of those who had just been healed still needed help in walking, and to them strength would return in time.

      
For the Sword of Mercy to fail to heal was practically unheard of. As a rule every supplicant who limped or staggered or was carried into the eastern entrance of this White Temple soon came walking out, with a firm step, from the western exit. Today, as usual, some of the cured were waving their arms and shouting prayers of gratitude audible even to the two watchers on the distant balcony.

      
The Crown Prince Murat, tall emissary from the land of Culm, having gazed dutifully upon the distant scene as he was bidden, chose to ignore whatever inferences the Princess had meant him to draw from the sight. Instead he promptly resumed his arguments. “If, dear princess, it is a matter of some necessary payment—”

      
“It is not that,” said Princess Kristin quickly, turning back to face her visitor fully. Kristin was about the same age as the Crown Prince, in her early thirties and the mother of two half-grown sons. But she looked a few years younger, with her fair hair, blue-green eyes, and fine features.

      
She said to her eminent guest: “When you paid your own formal visit to the White Temple yesterday, Prince Murat, no doubt you noted that most of those who benefit from Woundhealer’s power do make some payment in the form of offerings. These funds are used to maintain the Temple and to pay its priests and guards. Others who benefit from the Sword are unable to pay; and a very few refuse to do so. But none are denied treatment on that account. If your Queen’s unfortunate consort can travel here to Tasavalta, the powers of the Sword of Healing will be made available to him under the same conditions.”

      
“Regrettably that is not possible, Princess.” In the course of his brief visit Murat had already offered this explanation at least a hundred times, or so it seemed to both of them, and now it was his turn to repeat a statement slowly and patiently. “A condition of nearly total paralysis afflicts the royal consort, combined with the most fearful arthritic pain, so that even the movement required to go from one bed or one room to another is a severe ordeal for him. An overland journey of more than a thousand kilometers, only half of it on roads, is, as you can appreciate, quite out of the question. Ten kilometers would be impossible.”

      
“Then I am truly sorry for him. And sorry for your Queen, and for all her realm.” And it seemed that the Princess was speaking her true feelings. “But I am afraid that the Sword stays here, in Tasavalta. That is my final word.”

      
A silence fell, broken only by the occasional noise, a rumbling cart or a raised voice, rising from the thronged city below. Kristin half expected her visitor to raise yet again the point that sometimes the Sword was taken out of the city of Sarykam, and carried on tour in a heavily guarded caravan that visited the outlying portions of the realm, bringing healing to those unable to reach the capital. If he did choose to raise that point again, she had her previous answer ready: Woundhealer was never allowed to go outside the borders of the realm. Her patience held; she could sympathize with Murat, though she would not yield to him.

      
But the persistence of the Crown Prince, not yet exhausted, this time took a different tack. He said: “Still, the journey to Culm and back with the borrowed Sword could be quickly accomplished by my troop—accompanied, of course, by any number of representatives you might choose to send with us. Our mounts are very swift, and we are now familiar with the way. My master’s healing once accomplished, the Sword could be on its way back here the very same day. Within the hour. I would be willing to pledge my honor to you on that.”

      
The soft urgency of his voice was unexpectedly hard to resist. But Kristin still said what she had to say. “I understand your arguments, Prince. I am willing to believe that you mean your pledge, and I respect it. But once your realm found itself in possession of such a treasure as Woundhealer, convincing arguments would soon be found as to why the Sword should stay there, as a policy of national health insurance.”

      
“No, Princess, I must—”

      
“No, Crown Prince Murat, your request is quite impossible to meet. The Sword of Love stays here.”

      
Before the Crown Prince could devise yet another argument, the conversation was interrupted. The door leading to the balcony, which had been standing ajar, burst open violently, and a small form came running out.

      
Startled and angry, the Princess turned to find herself confronting the younger of her two sons, who at ten was certainly old enough to know better than to behave in such a way.

      
“Well, Stephen? I hope you have some just cause for this interruption?”

      
The boy, as sturdy as his father had been at the same age, though somewhat darker, was flushed and scowling, evidently even angrier than his mother. But now he drew himself up, making a great effort at self-control. “Mother, you once said that I should tell you at once if I knew of anyone practicing intrigue within the Palace.”

      
“And I suppose you have just now discovered something of the kind?” It was easy to see that the Princess was not inclined to accept the alarming implication at face value.

      
“Yes, Mother.”

      
“Well?”

      
Stephen drew a deep breath. His anger was cooling, and now he seemed reluctant to go on.

      
“
Well?
”

      
Another deep breath. “It’s my tutor, Mother. I believe he is about to come to you with false stories concerning my behavior.”

      
And indeed the Princess, raising her gaze slightly, discovered that very gentleman now hovering inside the balcony door, irresolute as to whether he should match his pupil’s daring and interrupt what looked like a state conference, simply to defend himself.

      
Sternly Kristin ordered her younger son to go to his room and wait there for her. The command was delivered in an incisive tone that allowed no immediate argument; it was obeyed reluctantly, in gloomy silence.

      
Then the Princess silently waved the tutor away, and turned to apologize to the ambassador for the interruption.

      
The tall man smiled faintly. “I have two children of my own at home. Youth needs no apology. And a fiery spirit may be an advantage to one who is born to rule. Indeed I suppose it must be considered a necessity.”

      
“As are self-control, and courtesy; and those virtues my son has yet to learn.”

      
“I’m sure he will acquire them.”

      
“You are kind and diplomatic, Murat.” The Princess sighed again, quite openly this time, and spoke for once unguardedly. “I wish his father were here.”

      
There was a pause. It was common knowledge that Prince Mark had spent no more than ten days at home during the last half year, and that the timing and duration of his next visit home were problematical.

      
Murat bowed slightly. “I too wish that. I had looked forward to meeting Prince Mark. His name is known and respected even in our far corner of the world.”

      
“Not that my husband would give you any different answer than I have given, on the subject of loaning out the Sword of Healing.”

      
The visitor bowed again. “I must still be allowed to hope that the answer will change.”

      
“It will not change.” After a pause, the Princess added: “If you are wondering about my husband’s absence, know that he is in the service of the Emperor; he is the Emperor’s son, you know.” In the minds of many, the Emperor was a half-mythological figure; and that a prince should believe he owed this legend service was an idea sometimes hard for outsiders to grasp.

      
And sometimes even the Princess, who had never seen her mysterious father-in-law, found the situation hard to understand as well.

      
The Crown Prince said: “I was aware of Prince Mark’s parentage.”

      
Suddenly Kristin heard herself blurting out a question. “You don’t—I don’t suppose that any news has come to you recently regarding his whereabouts?” A month had now gone by in which no winged messenger had brought her news of her husband. Unhappily, this was not the first time such a period had elapsed, but repetition made the stress no easier to bear.

      
“I regret, Princess, that I have heard nothing.” Murat paused, then made an evident effort to turn the conversation to some less difficult subject. “Young Prince Stephen has an older brother, I understand.”

      
“Yes. Prince Adrian is twelve. He’s currently away from home, attending school.”

      
Again there came interruption, this time more sedately, and welcome to both parties. It took the form of a servant, announcing the arrival of the other members of the Culm delegation. These folk had been sight-seeing in the streets of Sarykam this afternoon, and some of them had visited the White Temple down the hill.

      
And now good manners required that the Princess and her companion come in from the balcony, to join the Culmian visitors and other folk inside the Palace.

      
One of the junior members of the Culmian delegation was Lieutenant Kebbi. This was Murat’s cousin, a redheaded, bold-looking, and yet unfailingly courteous youth, who now showed his disappointment openly, when he heard that the Princess was standing fast in her refusal to loan out the Sword.

      
Lieutenant Kebbi looked as if he might want to raise an argument of his own on behalf of the Culmian cause. But Kristin turned away, not wanting to give the impetuous youth a chance. None of the arguments that she had heard so far, and none that she could imagine, were going to sway her, sympathetic as she was.

      
Others still importuned her. At last, beginning to show her impatience with her guests’ pleading, Kristin demanded of them: “How many of my own people would die, while the Sword was absent from us?”