Robert Hughes - The Prophet of Lamath

Now this brightly feathered creature began to beat the air in strong, swift strokes, rising up the face of a sheer mountain cliff. A road crisscrossed that rock wall, carved of the stone itself. It was the major thoroughfare of the King of the High City, known to most as the Down Road. It was heavily trafficked this morning. Those passing downward looked in considerably better spirits than those who trudged up, for the road was certainly one of the steepest in the world.

But the blue flyer ignored the Down Road, shooting ever higher with each powerful stroke, until at last she topped the cliff. She flew above a broad plateau that stood some five thousand feet above the valley floor. Below was Ngandib, the High City, capital of the Maris. It was a beautiful sight, or would have been if the bird thought in such terms, for the city had that slightly wild flavor of the people of the highlands, and its architecture reflected a heritage rich in magic. Ngandib-Mar had been the dwelling place of shapers for as long as the city had stood on this spot. No one knew how long that had been, since the Maris had little use for history. Their only concern was for now.

Though the traffic on the Down Road was heavy, it appeared deserted in comparison with the bumping and pushing and selling and stealing going on in the marketplace. No one noticed the flyer as she passed over, her small black eyes seeking everywhere for the landmarks Dorlyth’s falconer had impressed upon her mind. Her flight took her over most of the city, for the citadel of the King was in the center of the table land, while the main city rimmed its eastern edge.

The palace stood on a mesa, carved from living rock by an extremely powerful magician in times long forgotten. Its parapets rose another six hundred feet above the plateau itself. It was inaccessible, except by a cavelike entrance cut into the rock at ground level. One had to enter the castle from inside, by climbing a closely guarded flight of stone steps.

Yet with a flick of its tail and flash of feathers, the blue flyer soared even above the pinnacle of the King’s own tower, looking for a place to alight. This was her destination; having reached it, she felt at last the urgent need for rest. She finally spied the picture Dorlyth’s falconer had planted in her mind—a window in the tower with a large blue circle painted around it.

She flew through that circled window, and joined a line. For others had sent messengers to Pahd mod Pahd-el, the High King of Ngandib. And since no one in Pahd’s court did anything very quickly, the messengers tended to stack up. All these flyers were tired and hungry, and now they set up a chirping that must wake every sleepy head in the tower. At last a barefoot servant came padding across the straw-covered stone floor, his mouth wide in a yawn. He was not particularly gentle in his handling, but he did finally slip the cylinder of parchment off the flyer’s leg, and the bird followed the others to a trough filled with seed. They belonged to no one in particular, these birds. They simply were servants to men, flying wherever they were told to fly. Yet it was a rare man who truly appreciated this wonder.

Dorlyth’s message had been the last one to be removed, which was fortunate. It became the top missive in the stack.

The pile of letters changed hands several times until it reached that golden tray for its final trip into the King’s chambers.

“Your messages, Sire,” the serving lady said, curtseying before his Majesty, Pahd mod Pahd-el.

He was the fourteenth Pahd mod Pahd-el to rule Ngandib, if anyone cared about such things. Pahd certainly didn’t.

Nor did he care about his mail. His answer was a low snore, and a few grunts and groans as he rolled over in bed, turning his back on both the lady and her tray. The serving woman had expected this, and she placed the tray on a small table and tiptoed out, just as happy not to wake him. If he did wake, he would just send her after something. This would give her another hour to sleep.

“You mean you’re not up yet!” screamed Pahd’s mother as she powered her way through the door. The noise blew Pahd out of bed, just as it had done all his life. Chogi lan Pahd-el was built like a bulldog. Her bark was bad and her bite was much worse. Nothing could make Pahd get out of bed except his mother, but his mother always could.

“Of course he’s not up yet, he’s never up by noon.” This was the voice of Sarie lan Pahd, Pahd’s own lan, or wife.

Between the two of them, these women made Pahd’s life miserable. At least, he thought he was miserable. He couldn’t be sure. He was constantly asking them if he were.

“I have a headache—” Pahd began.

“Of course you do, dear,” Sarie soothed. “You always have a headache in the morning.”

“Shouldn’t I go back to sleep?

Maybe it will go away—”

“No, you’re not going back to sleep!” Chogi belted out, grabbing the covers off the bed, wadding them into a large ball and tossing them into the comer. “You want me to get up, Mother? Is that it?” Chogi didn’t answer him. Instead she sat on the bed, picked up the mail, and began to sort through it. Sarie pulled Pahd to his feet.

“It’s a beautiful day,” she was saying as she pushed him toward the window. “Isn’t it?”

“Is it?” Pahd asked, looking out. He blinked at the harsh sunlight and stumbled quickly back into the room. “What do you think, Mother?” he asked.

“I think you need to have your head examined,” she muttered without looking up.

“Didn’t we already have my head examined?” Pahd asked his wife, and Sarie smiled sweetly. “Yes, dear, we did.”

“Ah, I remembered. And what did we decide?”

“We decided you need more exercise!” the young woman exclaimed brightly, raising Pahd’s hands above his head.

“We did?” he murmured absently.

“We did! What would you think about taking a nice ride through the city?”

“We—we could,” Pahd said, “but on the other hand, we would have to get dressed—and that would take the afternoon—and by the time we were ready to go it would be getting dark, and—”

“Then how about some practice in the armory? You need some, you know—”

“I—I could, but I’d have to get dressed, and get out the sword, and notify the swordmaster, and—”

“Give up on him, Sarie,” Pahd’s mother said. “He’s not worth the effort. There’s a message here from Dorlyth mod Karis.”

“Dorlyth?” Sane asked. “Isn’t he the Lord who knows the sorcerer well?”

“Yes, he’s Pelmen’s friend,” Chogi replied. “We sent that ugly slave master—who now?”

“Admon Faye, wasn’t that it?” Sarie offered. “That’s the name. We sent Admon Faye to him to try to find Pelmen.”

“Why are we trying to find Pelmen?” Pahd inquired with moderate curiosity. His mother moaned at his question and buried her face in her left hand.

Sarie smiled bravely, patiently, and put her hands on her husband’s shoulders. “We decided you need a court magician, remember? We had a long conference with the advisors and the local Lords of the Confederacy and decided we would invite Pelmen to be your personal powershaper, remember?”

“We did?” Pahd asked. “Yes, dear,” Sarie answered, forcing herself to smile her brightest, cheeriest smile. “And we asked this Admon Faye to locate him, and sent nun to Dorlyth, remember? And then he told us that he had heard Pelmen was in Chaomonous, having been sold into slavery by the King there.”

“Really? Why would Pelmen let them do a thing like that, if he’s a shaper?”

“Give up, Sarie,” Chogi advised tonelessly, mulling Dorlyth’s message over in her mind.

“We explained that, don’t you remember? That Pelmen isn’t a magician in Chaomonous.”