George Martin - Rogues

Not even small quantities.

The thief thought, then said, “What ‘attributes of individuals’ can you alter? Strength of ten men, ability to fly, impermeability to pointed weapons? All of those would be useful.”

Alas, none are within my ambit.

Raffalon realized it might be better to come at the question from the supply side. “What exactly can you offer?”

My powers, said the deity, are in the realm of probabilities.

“You mean you make the unlikely likely?”

Say rather that I can adjust the odds, as they affect a selected person.

Raffalon brightened. “So you could fix it so that I could win the Zagothian communal lottery?”

I will be honest, said the voice. In my present condition, I could at best reduce the odds from millions-to-one against to thousands-to-one.

“But still against?”

Yes.

“So, essentially, you’re a god of luck but only in small things?”

At present, my potency is reduced. Fulferin is going to assist me in restoring my powers.

“If he survives,” said the thief. Then a thought occurred. “You weren’t very lucky for him.”

He had not invoked my help. He acted from … I suppose I must call it enthusiasm. Besides, I must conserve my strength. The box assists, by acting as an insulator.

Raffalon thought briefly, then said, “I will summarize. You wish me to risk my life, in circumstances in which a bad outcome would be particularly grisly and painful. In return, you will make sure that, along the way, I do not stub my toe or lose my comb.”

In a close-run contest, I can tip the balance in your favor.

“Me against a half dozen hungry Vandaayo does not meet my definition of close-run.”

These are, said the deity, the only terms I can offer.

“You control my body. Can you not at least alter it?” Raffalon touched his prominent nose. “Perhaps make some part smaller?” He clutched another organ. “Or make this more prodigious?”

I control only certain interstices within your cerebrum. They generate a field that I can enhance.

“And only,” said the thief, remembering, “when my flesh touches your image.”

No. Once I alter them they remain altered for all time.

“I suppose it’s something,” the thief said. “Still, it is not the best bargain I have ever made.”

It is the best I can offer. On the other hand, I do not need to offer it. I can compel you, as long as your flesh touches my portal.

“Portal?”

“The wooden eidolon.”

“I see.” Raffalon brushed aside the willow withes and stepped into the clearing, crossed to the trail. He saw more spots of blood, presumably Fulferin’s. “If your devotee survives and completes the ritual you spoke of, your powers will increase?”

Oh, yes. Manyfold.

“What then of the Zagothian lottery?”

You would win something.

“Every time I bought a ticket?”

Every time.

The man stepped onto the trail. “And this small luck would apply to my other endeavors?” He could think of past occasions when a slight nod from a god of fortune would have been useful, including one desperate flight that had led only to a lengthy term on the contemplarium’s treadmill.

You would have to rescue Fulferin so that he can fulfill the requirements of the rite.

“Then that,” said Raffalon, “must be our bargain.” He pointed his still-prominent nose in the direction of Vandaayoland and followed the trail. After a few steps, he said, “Perhaps you would be more comfortable traveling in your plush-lined box?”

No. You might then decide not to keep our bargain.

Their mission having been successful, the Vandaayo did not set themselves a grueling pace. Nor did they watch their back trail, the chances of anyone’s wishing to be on the same path as six of their ilk being far too slim to warrant even a glance over a green-mottled shoulder. So it was that, toward late afternoon, as Raffalon descended a slope into a narrow valley, he saw through the trees a motion in the greenery on the other side of the declivity. The part-men marched steadily up an incline that zigzagged up and out of the valley. At one switchback in the trail, the thief saw the band pause and transfer their pole-slung burden from one pair of bearers to another.

Raffalon had a rough idea how far it was to Vandaayoland and did not think that the man-snatchers could cross the border before nightfall. He thought it probable that they would stop before dark; this part of the forest had become uninhabited after Olverion’s final misjudgment and the large predatory beasts that now roamed free had no compunctions against dining on wereflesh.

He closed the distance between them until he could hear their grunts and panting breath ahead of him, a turn or two in the trail. As dusk began to settle, he heard different sounds and crept forward to find that the path crossed another in a clearing. Here the Vandaayo had stopped and were now gathering wood for a fire and bracken for sleeping pads. Fulferin, still wrapped in the net that had captured him and trussed to a pole, lay inert beside the track.

Raffalon established himself behind a tree and observed as the part-men built themselves a good fire. They settled themselves around it, squatting or sitting cross-legged in a circle. They had been carrying capacious leather pouches from which they now drew gobbets of rank-smelling meat and bottles of fired clay. The sounds of tearing flesh and gurgling liquids were added to the crackle of the flames, followed by grunts and belches and the occasional growl when one Vandaayo paid too much attention to another’s victuals.

Dusk became darkness. At a sound from the other trail, the part-men became alert. They put down their uneaten meals and stood up, watchful. A moment later, they relaxed, though only slightly, as a second party of Vandaayo emerged from the forest, carrying their own pole-slung contribution to the ritual feast.

Greetings were exchanged—or at least that was what Raffalon thought the spate of grunting signaled. But he noted that the two groups did not mix, and that the party he had been following did not lapse into complete relaxation as the newcomers began gathering fuel for a second fire and leaves for their own beds. Indeed, two of the first arrivals left the communal blaze and went to squat beside poor Fulferin, while the other party put their own captive as far from the new camp as the clearing’s size would allow.

The last light was now fading from the leafy canopy above the thief’s head. He watched the proceedings as the newcomers made their own rough supper and the two groups settled for the night, each arranging its sleeping positions on the far side of its fire from the others, so that between the two hearths was a wide space of trampled grass that was clearly no-Vandaayo’s-land.

“Hmm,” the thief said to himself. After watching a little longer, he withdrew deeper into the forest, out of pointy earshot, and spoke softly to the small deity. “I am going to need both hands.”

He felt the hand that held the deity rise and find its way to the open neck of his tunic. A moment later, the little piece of wood tumbled down to rest against his stomach. The voice in his head said, As long as some part of me touches some part of you, I will remain in control.

The thief’s curiosity was piqued. “Are you actually within the wood?”

I am where I am. The eidolon opens a … conduit between there and here. Now, please get on with the rescue.

Raffalon shrugged and went farther back along the trail until he came to a place where he had crossed a small watercourse. He knelt and put his hand into the water, feeling along the stream bottom, and found what he needed. He rose and looked about. Fifty paces away, a lofty, well-leafed tree arched over the stream. He went to it, fished in his wallet, and drew out a stout knotted cord connected to a grapple. He threw this up into the branches and, luck being with him, it caught securely on the first cast.