Robert Hughes - The Power and the Prophet

But it wasn’t eyes that had been watching him, ever since his head broke the surface of the reservoir.

The living fortress had noted his appearance, and had been reporting his progress to its master ever since.

—He is sleeping in a crevice at the base of this fortress, it told the powershaper.

Flayh chuckled and said, “Don’t disturb him. I’m certain he needs his rest.”

A change had come. Pelmen slipped through the nearly deserted streets of Ngandib and considered it.

He had, at long last, wholly committed himself to the battle. Not that he’d shirked his responsibilities before—he had just been bound by his friendships to limited courses of action. But one by one, his friends had been separated from him. Serphimera was missing; Rosha was missing; Erri was in hiding; Bronwynn was under pressure from a rival sorcerer well out of his reach; and Dorlyth was lost to him forever. These things had created in Pelmen both a terrible loneliness and an exhilarating fury.

Pelmen did not anger easily; he was far too powerful to permit himself that luxury. But when his wrath was finally kindled, a new aspect of Pelmen’s personality emerged. It was so fearsome even to himself that he’d spent a lifetime trying to bury it. When his rage came, it was not with heat and passion—and their consequent foolishness. Rather it was cold, critically calculating—cunning. Now Pelmen was enraged. And in Flayh he had finally found a foe who demanded he unleash his every resource.

How to get at the man! He gazed up at the bleak towers of the fortress, his eyes blazing. He glanced around at what had been a cheerful, bustling city and silently railed at Flayh for what he’d done to its people. That shaper’s mean spirit dominated these Man’s as totally as his frowning fortress dominated their plateau, and Pelmen was struck once again by how quickly people yielded control of their lives. His deepening bitterness reflected itself in his hard expression. Was the High Fortress watching him? He wasn’t close enough yet to hear its conversation.

Was Rosha inside? Pelmen scolded himself for wasting a day searching the roads by air. If he’d gotten to the top of the Down Road in time he could have stopped the young warrior on his way up! When he’d finally had the good sense to fly here to the city, it was evidently too late. He’d watched the same sordid scene repeated again and again at the top of the road, as Admon Faye’s so-called guards had seized and abused one upward-bound traveler after another. But Rosha had never appeared. Pelmen had been forced to conclude that Rosha had already been subdued and arrested by the time he’d arrived.

Was he wrong? Had Rosha never intended to penetrate this place and steal the third pyramid? Was he even now bound for some other place? Chaomonous, perhaps, to aid his bride against the sinister Terril?

Pelmen fervently hoped that might be the case, but it didn’t change his resolve. He was going to get inside this castle and he was going to do it without the aid of magic. He was going in the simplest, the most inobtrusive way,

the way so many terrified Mari citizens had gone in before him.

He was about to be arrested.

“Look, mates,” a voice behind him said, slimy with cruelty and malice. “Someone’s paid us a call.” Rough hands seized him under the arms while others smacked the sides of his head, and his legs were booted out from under him. One thug held him up by grabbing a handful of his hair; as he struggled to regain his feet, fists pummelled his stomach and groin. Moments later he disappeared into the black maw of the High Fortress of Ngandib. It all went according to plan.

He’d gambled that Flayh took little interest in the private entertainments of his bodyguards. This policy of arrest and abuse of local citizens was certainly unrelated to any security need. Pelmen knew the High Fortress was alive. In the event of attack it would simply notify its master, and Flayh would deal with the problem magically. Pelmen really didn’t know why Flayh kept this garrison of thugs and bullies around—

unless it might be that he preferred having such a dangerous collection of men under his thumb rather than out in the woods, possibly conspiring against him. In any case, no one seemed to notice as the three cutthroats who had abducted Pelmen dragged him down into a dark corner of the fortress and prepared to beat him.

He used no magic, save that sleight-of-hand variety he’d learned in his years onstage. Powershaping would attract the attention of the castle, and that was the last thing he wanted. Even so, the three thugs thought themselves bewitched as this cowering peasant turned suddenly into a savage. Pelmen slipped a dagger out of one man’s belt and back in between two of his ribs. There was a single grunt and gush of blood, but by the time the other two realized its source, their own throats had been slashed open. Pelmen left them behind, gasping and wrestling upon a suddenly sticky floor. Killing did not come easily for him, but he always did what was demanded. He doubted if the world would miss this trio.

He did not sneak through the hallways. Nothing would have attracted attention to him so quickly.

Instead he shuffled along, looking like a bored slave. No one stopped him. He drew no stares. He didn’t fear being identified by men.

But what about the fortress? Was it watching him? Despite the care he’d taken not to use his power, could the fortress

somehow sense Pelmen’s exceptional abilities? As he moved through the corridors, he turned his ears to hear the creaks and pops in the masonry and woodwork that formed the words of castle-speech.

Occasionally he lightly touched the walls, checking for condensation that might indicate the High Fortress was engaged in some difficult act of shaping of its own. He strained to smell meaningful scents, monitored the temperature of the air on his cheeks, pressed all his senses to analyze his surroundings while maintaining an expression of careless incompetence. Still, the castle said nothing. That greatly disturbed him. He’d expected to hear a steady stream of invective from the fortress, since any act of shaping was excruciating to a living castle. He knew that made no difference to Flayh and was certain that the small sorcerer was up in his tower, just as busy as ever. Why wasn’t the castle screaming?

Since he was already in the upper dungeon, he explored it quickly. It was empty. This did not surprise him, knowing the mentality of slavers. Why keep prisoners? It was too much bother to feed them and watch over them. It was much simpler either to enslave them or kill them. Of this Pelmen was certain—the slave pit of this castle would be filled to capacity.

Was that where Rosha was? No. A man like Rosha was far too dangerous to enslave. He would be killed outright. Pelmen gritted his teeth and pressed on, determined to tour the upper levels.

He found the stairway to the royal tower unguarded. Where were these slavers? He’d expected to encounter at least a few along the way! Of course, this lapse in security was understandable in one sense. Why should anyone want to assassinate a king who already slept like the dead? Pelmen shuffled to King Pahd’s door, listened for a moment, then stepped inside. The room was empty, except for Pahd, and the king never saw him. As usual Pahd mod Pahd-el was fast asleep.

Sleep was Pahd’s great passion. He preferred it to eating, to drinking, or to lovemaking. He could sleep in any position and through any event. He’d also developed the feigning of sleep into a high art, to discourage those fools who tried to pry him from his bed. Only one thing had consistently been able to lure him from the sack, and that was a promise of challenging swordplay. Pelmen wondered if even that could excite him now. The king slept in self-defense to avoid having to face the tragedy his laziness had brought upon his nation and his family.