Margaret Weis - Heroes And Fools

“We’re players,” Daev said finally, and added, “I think you knew.”

The man nodded. “I think you also make and sell books.”

In the back of the wagon, Frenni shifted. Daev took his hand off his sword to wave him back, then grabbed it again quickly. “We’re not scribes. Wouldn’t making books require scribes?”

“I hear you have a new machine, better than any scribe.”

Kela clutched her dagger handle and said tightly, “Have you been looking for us?”

The stranger said, “I’ve been following you. I’m surprised I was ahead of you. I must have passed you in the night, but I’ve finally found you.”

Daev, giving up, stood and drew his sword. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

“My name is Samael.” He threw back his cloak and drew something with a single swift motion.

Daev braced to parry, then realized that he was fending off a metal scroll case.

Samael laughed his crazy laugh again. “I want you to print my book.”

They rode along together, Samael sitting on Kela’s left and Daev on her right. Once Samael threw his hood back, they were both surprised to see that he was only in his late twenties, older than they but hardly the seasoned warrior they’d feared he was. Samael said anxiously, “Will my cart be all right back there?”

Kela unscrewed the scroll case. “The hitch I made should keep it balanced, and we’ll tow it.” She slid the scroll out carefully and unrolled it. “Are these recipes?”

“Sort of.” He smiled at her. He had very light blue eyes and a pleasant smile that contrasted sharply with his tanned face. He pointed to the headings:

To be loved.

To fall in love.

For confidence.

To be nigh-invincible in battle.

To be brave.

To produce fear.

To be attractive.

Daev, reading over her shoulder, said dubiously, “All these work without magic?”

Samael shrugged. “Some of them simply change people’s attitudes. Others. .” He pulled a powder from one of his many vest pockets. “Watch.”

He tossed the powder against the wagon wheel. There was a loud bang and a flash of flame.

Daev quieted the horses as Frenni poked his head out and said admiringly, “Can you give me some of that?”

Daev said courteously and hastily, “Samael, this is Frenni, and we’d really rather you didn’t give him any.”

Kela, immersed in the scroll, said in fascination, “Do these powders work the same every time?”

“If you mix them exactly right.” For the first time Samael sounded anxious as he said, “Will you print my book?”

Before Kela could say anything, Daev drawled, “I’m not sure. It’s a great expense to print and sell even short books such as yours.”

“I don’t have much money.” Samael gestured behind them to his cart. “If you sell the book, I can sell the powders from the recipes, and then I could pay you-”

Kela said suddenly, “We thought you were older when you were walking.”

Samael grinned at her. “I try to look older on the road. Keeps people away.”

“We saw the scroll at your belt,” Daev said thoughtfully. “It looked like a scabbard. I thought you were a veteran of campaigns.”

Kela went on quickly, “Daev, could he act in your new play? You said we needed one more person-”

“You wouldn’t have to pay me,” Samael broke in. “I’d do it in barter for your printing the book-”

“And he could help with the sets, and you know he could turn that flash powder into a stage effect-”

“All right. As long as he can learn to act.”

Kela looked admiringly at Samael. “He can play the lover. I’m sure he’d be perfect.”

“Ah,” Daev said, startled. He dropped the subject and stared ahead, brooding.

“Is something wrong?” Samael asked politely.

“Mmm? No, everything’s fine for now.” Daev played with the reins restlessly. “But if you found us by tracking the books we’ve sold, who else could?”

Palak nicked his cape around himself and his bundle as he descended the dark, stained stairs. Why, he thought petulantly, does he do these things underground?

It was a real concern for him. As leader of the Joyous Faithful Guard, he would have preferred that every penitent confess as publicly as possible, not in chains somewhere far from the people who would be encouraged by repentance.

He knew the answer to his question, though. This man was underground because he liked to do his business underground. No one had ordered him to come up because they were all more than a little afraid of him.

Even Palak, fanatical as he was, hesitated at the iron door before rapping on it and calling out, “Tulaen.”

A voice said calmly, “I’m with a penitent. Wait.”

Palak, sitting on the bottom step, wrapped part of his cape around his head, put his hands over his ears, and waited for the screaming to stop. It took longer than he thought strictly necessary, but he wasn’t about to interrupt.

The calm voice said, “All right.” The door opened, and Palak faced a large, bald man with a drooping mustache. “I’ll be right with you,” the man said.

Palak came in. Tulaen had washed his hands in a bowl and was drying them, looking thoughtfully at the dead woman. Palak glanced at all four corners of the room rather than looking at the woman.

Palak said, “What is it that is attractive about this work? Is it the joyous moment when, in tears, they confess?”

“Not really. I can postpone that indefinitely.”

“Ah.” Palak considered. “What did you do before you came here?”

Tulaen’s face clouded over. “I lived with a family. I think it was my family.” He shook his head. “Well, there’s no bringing them back.”

Palak swallowed and changed the subject tactfully. “Tulaen, I’ve come to offer you an opportunity to advance the Faith.” He waited for a nod or a meaningful look. When none came he went on nervously, “There was a young cleric named Daev. .”

“I heard,” Tulaen said neutrally. “Wrote books, didn’t he? Heresies. He should have been burned alive at the stake, but he’s disappeared.” He shook his head. “Very sad.”

“Well,” Palak went on hurriedly, looking into the empty, patient eyes of the torturer, “we have evidence that he’s alive.”

“Evidence?”

Palak raised the bundle he had been carrying and slapped it on the table, tugging the cord undone. He lifted the books one at a time, reading the titles angrily. “The Dangers of Fanaticism. Medicine: Is it More Effective than Prayer? Oh, here’s a nice one: 7s Truth Absolute?”

Tulaen picked up the bottom book and leafed through it. “Follies of the Faithful, Illustrated. Nice drawings.” He held it open for Palak. “Tell me, how can that look like you and like a swine at the same time?”

“I want you to find him and kill him, quickly,” Palak snapped.

Tulaen gestured to the dead woman. “I don’t kill quickly.”

Palak looked automatically, then looked away in spite of himself. “Granted. Just be certain you kill him. An entire faith falls if you fail.”

“More importantly, I fail.” Tulaen regarded Palak. “I promise you, I won’t.” He stuck out a huge palm. “Pay up front.”

“Shouldn’t you come back and prove to me you’ve done it?”

“My word is good. No one has doubted me before.” He smiled gently at the dead woman, then back at Palak. “Do you really want me coming back?”