James Enge: This Crooked Way

"No golem has a mind," Morlock observed. "A limited set of responses can be incorporated into any life-scroll."

"A difference that is no difference, sir. What does it matter to me whether they really have minds or not? If they seem to have minds, my social instincts will be satisfied."

Morlock thought this unlikely, but did not say so. "Then?"

"The trouble is that, since I inscribed their life-scrolls, nothing they say or do can ever surprise me. You see? The illusion that they have identities collapses. My social instincts are not satisfied. Frankly, it's dull."

"Then. You would have me make a new set of lifelike golems, at least some of whose responses you will not expect."

"In an unthreatening and even charming way. Play fair, now."

"I can't undertake to provide charm," Morlock said. "We can rule out danger, insubordination, and incivility."

"Very well. I'm sure I can trust your esthetic instincts. Also, you must show me your method of constructing their eyes."

Morlock nodded.

"The question arises, `What can I do for you?' I take it that mere gold will not …? No."

Morlock shook his head. "I understand the Sarkunden garrison still runs scouting missions into the Kirach Kund," he said, naming the mountain pass to the north of Sarkunden.

"Ye-e-es," Charis said slowly.

"I can't remain in the empire, as you know. I can't go west-"

"No one goes into the Wardlands."

"In any case, I can't. I dislike Anhi and Tychar, and therefore would not go east."

"You intend to cross the Kirach Kund!"

"Yes. It is done from time to time, I believe."

"By armed companies. Nor do they always survive."

Morlock lifted his wry shoulders in a shrug. "I have done it. But I was once taken prisoner by the Khroi and am reluctant to risk it again."

"The Khroi take only prey, never prisoners. You will excuse my being so downright, but we live in the Khroi's shadow, here, and we know something about them."

"They made an exception for me, once. They may not make the same mistake again. It would be better for me if I knew what the imperial scouts know-what hordes are allied to each other, which are at war, where the latest fighting is, where dragon-cavalry has been seen."

"I see." Charis's face twisted. "I have never meddled with strictly military matters before. It will strain my relationship with the garrison commander."

Morlock lifted his crooked shoulders in a shrug. "You could hire a number of human servants. If-"

"No!" Charis shouted. "No people! I won't have it!" His nostrils flared with hatred; he neglected to move his eyebrows expressively.

"Very well," he said at last. "I'll get you your news. You make me my golems." And they settled down to haggle over details.

On the appointed day, Charis strode into Morlock's workroom, unable to disguise his feelings of triumph. "Oh, Morlock, you must come and see this. Say, you've been cleaning up in here!"

A shrug from the crooked shoulders. "My work's done. I hope you like your golems."

"They're marvellous. I'm so grateful. One of them speaks nothing but Kaenish! And I don't know a word!"

A smile was a rare crooked thing on Morlock's dark face. "You'll have to learn, I guess."

"Wonderful. But come along to my workshop. The guardsman will be along presently, and I badly want to show you this before you depart. Oh, do leave that," he said, as the other began to reach for the sword belt hanging on the wall. "You won't want it, and there's no place for it in my room."

They went together to Charis's workshop. Body parts fashioned in clay of various shades lay scattered all over the room. There was a positive clutter of arms on the worktable-Charis had mentioned to Morlock at supper last night that he was "on an arm jag," and now it could be seen what he meant.

Charis worked by inspiration, crafting dozens of arms or legs, for instance, as the mood took him, getting a feel for the body part and creating subtle differences between the members in the series. In the end he would construct golems like jigsaw puzzles out of pieces he had already made, and improvise a life-scroll that suited the body. His other skills as a sorcerer were quite minor, as he freely admitted, but his pride as a golem maker was fully justified.

So far, though, irises had defeated him. In everything else he had proved a ready pupil to Morlock, even in the manipulation of globes of molten glass, a difficult magic. But creating the fan-ring assemblies of paper-thin sheets of gem had proved the most challenging task of Making he had ever undertaken.

His latest efforts lay on the worktable, two small rings of purple amethyst flakes, glittering among the chaos of clay arms. He watched anxiously as the other bent down to examine them.

"Hm." A hand reached out. "An aculeus, please." Charis quickly handed over the needlelike probe. The skilled hands made the artificial irises expand, contract, expand again. Finally the maker's form straightened (insofar as it ever could, Charis thought, glancing scornfully at the crooked shoulders), saying, "Excellent. You should have no trouble now making lifelike eyes for your golems."

Charis sighed in relief. "I'm so glad to hear you say so. Really, I'm deeply in your debt."

A shrug. "You can pay me easily, with news from the pass."

"I'm afraid that would hardly cover it," Charis said regretfully, and pushed him over, onto the table. The clay arms instantly seized him and held him, a long one wrapping itself like a snake across his mouth, effectively gagging him.

Charis carefully swept the artificial irises off the table into his left hand and, moving back, commanded, "Table: stand."

The table-shaped golem tipped itself vertically and, unfolding two stumpy human legs from under one of its edges, stood. Its dozens of mismatched arms still firmly held Morlock's struggling form.

"I'm sorry about this-I really am," Charis said hastily, in genuine embarrassment. "When push came to shove, though, it occurred to me that my relationship with the garrison commander simply couldn't take the strain of fishing for secret military information. You've no idea how stuffy he is. Also, I'm not convinced the news would be as useful to you as you think, and you might hold a grudge against me. You've given me so much, and I'm afraid-that is, I don't like to think about you holding a grudge, that's all. So this is better-not for you, I quite see that. But for me. Guardsmen!"

From a side door three imperial guardsmen entered, the fist insignia of Keepers of the Peace inscribed on their breastplates. They eyed the inhuman golem and its struggling victim with distaste and fear.

"Have it let him go," the senior guard directed. "We'll take him in."

"Are you out of your mind?" Charis exploded. "This man is the most powerful maker in the worlds, and a dangerous swordsman besides. If you think that he is going to quietly walk between you to his place of execution, you-Look here: let's not quarrel. You'll get your reward whether you bring him in dead or alive. I simply can't risk his surviving to take revenge on me, don't you see? Cut his head off here. That's what we agreed. Don't worry about the golem; it was made for this purpose."

"They say Ambrosius's blood is poison," one of the other guardsmen offered quaveringly. "They say-"

"Gentlemen, it is your own blood you ought to be concerned about," Charis remarked. "This man is lethal. He has been condemned to death by the Emperor himself. You have him helpless. I've paid you well to come here, and you'll be paid even better when you bring his head to your captain. What more needs to be said?"

The senior guard nodded briskly and said, "Tervin: your sword."

"Hey!" shouted the junior addressed. "I'm not going to-"

"No. I am. But I'm not going to use my own sword. I paid a hundred eagles for that thing, and I don't want it wrecked if his blood eats metal, like they say. Your weapon's standard issue. Give it to me."