Robert Hughes - The Power and the Prophet

She glared up at him, paused for a moment to let her words soak in, then went on: “It’s all temper with you, isn’t it? Just like Dorlyth. Oh, you’re all nobility and responsibility in the planning stages, but when the pressure starts mounting and the fear takes over, then impulse wins again, doesn’t it? Well, go back and stick that little fat person, whoever he is. Then some of your fear might go away, and you can concentrate on how stupid you are!”

Rosha stood flatfooted and slightly stooped, his mouth open, his wide eyes blinking. When it seemed she’d finished, he closed his mouth and swallowed. Then he turned his back to one of the alley’s walls and squatted against it. After a moment, Mar-Yilot repented of her ferocity and knelt beside him. She didn’t apologize—after all, she’d only spoken the truth—but she did reach out to put a hand on his knee.

“Are you all right now?”

It seemed a long time before he responded. When he did, he sounded remarkably controlled. “Yes, I believe I am.” He turned his head then to look into her eyes. “My Lady,” he breathed softly, “is there ever a time… do you ever grow out of responding to stress like a child?”

“I don’t know,” the Autumn Lady murmured; she gave him a slow, sly smile. “I’m not that old yet.” She nodded down the alley. “Who was that?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Rosha said, and she was convinced he meant it. “Apparently your husband and my wife will be here by morning. We wait until Flayh marches out his tugoliths before we go in?”

“That seems wisest, doesn’t it? Unless you want to get flattened against the flagstones? I’ll drop my coverage of you as soon as we set foot inside. When that castle starts whining, we’ll both be discovered immediately. You just sprint up the stairs. Get as high up as you can as quickly as you can. I expect to be otherwise engaged.”

“What are you planning to do?”

The question surprised her. “Plan? I don’t plan. You never plan a shaper battle. That’s the easiest way to get killed.”

“No plan?” Rosha frowned. “Then how do you fight?”

“By impulse—” Mar-Yilot started to say, then stopped herself as she saw his quick grin. Chagrined, she smiled too, then said, “All right. You fight like a child—all reflex and fury and imagination. As I said, I haven’t grown out of it either.” A raucous laugh rolled around the comer, and the auburn-haired woman turned her head lazily toward it. “Perhaps,” she suggested, “we could lure him away. I’m sure he wouldn’t be the only man murdered in this drunken city tonight.”

“It isn’t necessary,” Rosha said shortly, putting Pezi out of his mind. “We’re near the stable entrance.

Shall we wait here until dawn?”

Mar-Yilot nodded. “That should be soon,” she mumbled. Then she peeked around the comer. “Hmm,” she grunted. “Your fat enemy just passed out beneath the table. Get back,” she added quickly, then looked at Rosha to explain, “There are several slavers coming this way.”

They hid and watched as three slavers approached the table where Pezi had danced.

Pezi was dimly aware of voices above him, but was feeling too relaxed to pay them any mind. He knew he really ought to get up, but it was just too comfortable here. He’d spent the night moving from one celebration to another, clearing each table of leftovers before moving on to the next. He couldn’t remember when he’d had so much fun. There were no dogs out here in the city, no slavers in evidence—and, first and foremost, no cursed tugoliths. He’d been able to put his troubles behind him and simply enjoy himself. Now he wanted only to be left alone to sleep. The cobblestones beneath his head were hard, but they were far preferable to—

“There you are!” roared a boisterous slaver as a pair of his comrades tossed the table aside. Pezi’s eyes flew open in time for him to see the bucketful of ice water dropping onto him, but not in time to jerk aside. His blue and lime tunic was soaked through. Moments later it was frozen. Pezi couldn’t move. The three brigands each grabbed a part of him—one seized him by the nostrils as if intending to rip his nose off—and hoisted him onto his feet. They booted him in the backside, and he had the choice of moving his legs or diving face first into the cobblestones. He walked, his fat thighs flapping against the frozen material of his leggings. It was excruciating.

“Where were you, Pezi?” one slaver asked in mocking concern. “We were worried about you!”

“Especially your friend Admon Faye,” a second man added. “He sent us out here to find you.”

“It’s a wonder you didn’t freeze to death,” the first man went on.

“How could he freeze?” the third asked. “He’s pickled from the inside out!”

The three rogues each punctuated their comment with a shove; thus Pezi made quick progress toward the entrance of the stable. When he saw the large doorway yawning before him, he started resisting.

“No!” he pleaded, shivering. “I don’t want—”

“Afraid of the tugs? But they’re your friends, Pezi.”

“They’ll eat me!”

“Not until you thaw out,” the first slaver cackled as he kicked Pezi through the door. The fat merchant tumbled into the straw. He stumbled to his feet just as Thuganlitha raised his giant head and turned to look at him. Pezi squalled in terror. Despite his frozen legs, he outran the brigands to the staircase. He raced upward with amazing speed for a fat man. But when he reached the topmost stair, he stopped dead. Admon Faye was blocking his way.

“Hello, Pezi,” the grotesque slaver said pleasantly. Then he clucked his tongue. “Where were you?” he scolded. “I thought I’d made it clear that all slavers were confined to the High Fortress?”

“I’m no slaver,” Pezi rumbled, his teeth chattering.

“Ah, that’s right. But you are a member of the castle security force, and a most important member of Lord Flayh’s war cabinet. How could we make responsible decisions without our esteemed tugolith handler to advise us?”

“Me? You’re the only one who can handle them!” the round-bellied merchant protested.

“Nonsense. Who brought them here? Who shepherded them through the wilderness? Who guided them past the dragon? Who led them into battle?”

“Please, Admon Faye, I’m freezing to death, can’t you—”

“But of course. General Pezi. Go don your battle dress and get ready to lead your charges once more into the fray.”

“What?” Pezi wailed.

“We missed your counsel, but we naturally needed to make some decisions. The slavers will remain here to protect the High Fortress. King Pahd will distribute his forces throughout the city. You will lead the battle beasts down the mountain and retrieve them for us when the carnage is done.”

“But I can’t do that! They’ll go mad! They’ll wind up trampling me!”

“There is that possibility,” Admon Faye admitted sadly.

“No! I won’t do it!”

“Be sensible, Pezi. Someone has to do it. The only people they know are you and me. Since I’m needed here in the High Fortress, that leaves only you to lead them.”

“I’ll—I’ll get shot with an arrow!”

“Don’t be ridiculous! These brave invaders will all be far too busy running to discharge any arrows.”

“I’m not going to do it!”

Admon Faye sighed. “Very well.” He gestured to the three slavers who had brought Pezi in. “Throw him over the rail.”

“I’ve reconsidered!” Pezi said quickly as three pairs of hands grabbed him. “It’s actually quite an honor…”

The ugly slaver smirked. “I knew I could count on you in our hour of need.” Admon Faye turned his back and brushed past Tibb, who had stood quietly behind him watching this little drama unfold. Pezi’s stricken gaze met Tibb’s; hoping for some look of encouragement, he rolled his eyes meaningfully.