'Sell the horse. Ask thirty silver bits, but don't take less than twenty.'
'We cannot sell a beast into slavery!' Jace objected.
Vandien looked at her despairingly, and turned to Chess. 'Perhaps I should be telling you to look after your mother. Do what you can, Chess, and what you must, to stay alive. Remember to come to the Gate at least once every night. You will?'
Chess nodded once, and looked up in awe at the beast he led.
'Don't worry about him. He'll obey you perfectly, as long as you don't ask him to work. He'll love your mother. They'll get along well.'
'You think me an ungrateful fool, Vandien, but -'
'The night slips away, and the Gate goes with it. If I fail, we can talk all day about what we think of one another. If I succeed, it won't matter. Be careful.' Vandien could take no more of it. He stepped up silently to claim his cloak from the saddle.
'Take your waterskin also, and fill it before you go,' Jace urged him softly.
'Your land has no water?'
'It is not safe for you to drink. It will affect you ...'
'I've a brass-lined stomach, friend. Water in strange lands has never given me the cramp or flux.'
Jace shook her head impatiently. 'It's not that. The water in our land flows to us from the hills of the Limbreth. With it flows wisdom and peace. You would lose your determination if you drank it. You would begin to see the higher goals you might set for yourself. No outworlder has ever passed the first stream without drinking from it. Its call is said to be undeniable. No one is ever unchanged by it. After the second bridge, you never need fear the stranger. That is how our saying goes. The peaceful water of the Limbreth quenches their fiery thoughts and hot lusts. It brings to the surface whatever sweetness is hidden within. They become enlightened and seek the Limbreth, to be cured forever of restless ways and dissatisfied hearts. Then they are given a task that is to them a joy, and is to the Limbreth a lasting monument.'
Jace's heart was in her words and her words were worshipful when she spoke of the Limbreth. Chess lifted his face to his mother and his shining eyes echoed the peace his mother spoke of. Not even Vandien was immune to it, despite his quick, hawklike nature. Peace. Contentment. How often had he scoffed at those goals - as Ki had, with her roaming Romni attitudes. What had that old priest called it? Sour fruit.
They had given the priest a ride on the wagon one spring when they overtook him, footsore and weary, upon the road. His wooden chest of healing herbs and potions Ki had lifted into the back of the wagon. Gently she chided such an old man for wandering so far from his kin that cared for him. But all he spoke of was the peace and contentment of poverty and service. There was a joy in binding up the running sores of a beggar, or mixing the potion that lifted delusion from the mad. Ki and Vandien had smiled at one another over his white head. 'Peace,' he had chided them then, 'to you two will always be sour fruit. You long for what you cannot reach, and so you pretend to despise it. You run from the aches in your hearts and the scars on your bodies. I would that I had a potion to cure you, but you are beyond such skills as I have.'
His words had quelled all talk; Vandien had not been disappointed when he left them at the foot of a pass. He and Ki had kept the image of sour fruit, and made it a secret bandying word between them.
Vandien gave his head a shake, aware that they were both staring at him. He could see their secret fear; he would find peace in their world and forget all about them. 'Do not be afraid,' he told them lightly. 'I'm immune to contentment.' He made those words his farewell, lifting the waterskin from the saddle as he went. Let it be a sign to them and a talisman to himself. Once he glanced back. They both were looking after him, holding horse and hawk in their hands. He hoped to the gods they would have the sense to follow his instructions.
He replenished the waterbag at an ancient fountain. Looking down at the moon reflected in the water he promised her never again to drink Alys in a tavern, and to beware of needy strangers. A drop of water from the bag's spout fell back onto the surface; the moon winked at him, knowing well he lied. He slung the bag over his shoulder. This early in the night there were still people abroad in the streets, though not many. Cheerful light issued from many a window or door left ajar in the summer heat. He passed an inn where the sounds of revelry beckoned him. But he went on, threading his way through the unfamiliar streets. Lacking a knowledge of the city's landmarks, Vandien relied on his sense of direction to take him back to the city walls. He soon found himself on a street he remembered. There was the house of the woman who had called him a pox bringer. The flung stones were still scattered in the dusty street. But of the Gate there was no sign.
The gods striding on the walls of the city looked past him in disdain; the heroes went on their heroic tasks. The wall was innocent of any Gate or opening or crack as far as he could see in the gloom. No one was about. Vandien went quickly to the wall, running his hands over it. No cracks, no loose stones to push. The wall was solid. Rapping his knuckles on its thickness did nothing but skin them. The wall emitted no sound, hollow or otherwise.
Stretching to his full if unimpressive height, Vandien ran the tips of his fingers over the wall again. He grimaced to himself in the darkness. It was no better maintained than any other city wall he had been up against, but its basic construction was sounder. The bas relief figures offered little purchase for climbing. But it was not impossible. He did wish he had kept the horse with him. Its back would have given him a place to start his climb from.
Stooping, he unfastened the buckles of his knee boots. Kicking free of them, he stood barefoot in the dust of the street. He flexed his toes and feet in the dust, and rubbed his hands down his shirt to free them of sweat. Once more he stretched and ran his hands over the wall. A kneeling goddess offered him a leg up. He gave a final glance about for guards; the last thing he wanted to do was flee barefoot down these streets with a pack of guards after him. The dusty streets were hot and empty. Vandien started up the wall.
From the goddess's knee he found a grip on her torch. Vandien cursed the unknown artist admiringly. Purchase places were few, and they were shallow, nail-bending, knuckle-scraping ones. His chest dragged against a hero's face, and he wished he had left behind the friction of his shirt. A third of the way up, one foot slipped from its spider-splayed grip and he nearly tumbled back. He heard his knuckles pop and felt a toenail tear. But he did not fall, and after a moment resumed his ascent.
The city had confidence in its walls, or no longer cared. At the top were no jagged potsherds or broken wooden spikes. There was only a wide flatness big enough for a man to lie on. Vandien panted for an instant, then wiped his sweat and the dust from his eyes. He looked over the wall.
Nothing. Well , nothing different from what Ki and he had seen approaching the North Gate. A flat expanse of yellowish plain interrupted by scraggly trees and thorns. Nearly out of eyeshot in the darkness were the humps of houses and low growing masses that indicated a farm kept alive by well and bucket irrigation. Only to the north of the city could one glimpse the far shining band of the river that brought the trade and kept the city alive. During late winter and early spring the river became a flowing plain of water, bringing new soil and fresh life to the farms by it. The long hot summers shrank the river into submission. Farmers that chose to live closer to the city walls rather than endure the annual flooding had to turn to buckets and wells to survive. It was a harsh land he looked down on; Vandien could not imagine calling it home.
He lay flat on the wall and hung his head over. The ground looked hard, the sand and dust blowing across it loosely. There were no marks of a wagon's passage, or any sign of regular passage of folk through a gate. Vandien was perplexed and still as he let the slight dry wind ruffle the damp curls on his forehead and cool the sweat on his back. Over the wall, he conceded, was not the same as through theGate. If only he could find the damnable Gate.
The city streets were still empty. Vandien swung his legs over the side and scrabbled his toes for a hold. His raw toe bumped and he stifled an oath. As he inched his body backwards off the wall, he considered making a light and catlike leap down into the street below. Then he considered lying in the street until morning with a broken ankle, and eased his body a little farther down the wall. He went from having his ribcage hooked on the edge of the wall to hanging by his forearms, and then to a crumbly and wrist-straining hand grip. His feet skidded down the images, rubbing grit into his raw toe and scraping ankles and shins. But at last one toe got a precarious grip on an exposed lip of stone. He braced himself on it and let go with one hand, to ease another questing foot farther down.
But suddenly there was no wall at all beneath that foot: it swung forward into an empty but only semi- yielding space. Finger grips and toenails failed; Vandien fell, back first, in a gut-wrenching downward arc. He landed on a lumpy mass that collapsed under him. He lay still, trying not to be sick. The wind had been knocked
