But then, what did he want to do with himself, whether for a normal span or all eternity?
He knew what he did not want. He did not want to kill anybody else. Counting the various guards and others, as well as his intended targets, and adding in the four he had killed before reaching camp, he had drawn Wirikidor seventeen times, and seventeen men had died on its blade. That was too many. If peace actually came, he did not intend to draw Wirikidor again.
He did not want any sort of adventure any more. He had had quite enough of that, first with his three months in the wilderness and then with his five assassinations. He wanted to settle down quietly somewhere, with a place of his own and perhaps a family. Not a farm — he had no interest in working the soil and was not fond of tending animals. A shop, perhaps — he knew nothing of the mercantile trades, but they seemed appealing.
His head hurt. He reminded himself that he was still a soldier and that the war was still going on, as it always had. The war would probably be going long after he was dead, even if he lived to a ripe old age. The promise of living forever was still too new and too incredible to accept, after living all his life in the sure knowledge of his own mortality, so he ignored it for the present.
He would be a soldier until he had served his full thirty years if the war went on. He would be forty-six when he was finally discharged, just over twice his present age. That was hard to imagine. Some men were still strong and healthy at that age — General Anaran was fifty or so, but was said to be still in perfect condition. Valder might be equally lucky and emerge still vigorous, ready to start a new career. The army usually offered such men promotions or other incentives to re-enlist, but Valder told himself that he would never be so foolish as to be swayed by such blandishments. He would go and open a shop somewhere, dealing in wines, perhaps. He could leave Wirikidor in a back room and forget about it. Even just working for some wealthy merchant might be enjoyable; every civilian business was always short of men, since the army got first pick.
He had been taking orders all his life — first from his parents and then from his officers. Taking orders from a merchant could be no worse, and he would have none of the risks or responsibilities of running his own business.
On the other hand, he was getting tired of taking orders from anybody and he still had two dozen years to serve. There was no knowing what he would be like at forty-six. People change, he decided, including himself.
He had just reached this profound conclusion when the tent flap swung open and Kelder entered.
Startled, Valder swung his feet to the floor and sat up. Before he could rise, Kelder said, “Don’t get up yet.”
Valder stopped where he was, looking up at the self-proclaimed spy.
“May I sit?” Kelder asked politely.
Valder gestured at the empty cot opposite, and Kelder settled on it. Valder was puzzled; he had assumed when he first saw Kelder that his rest was over and he was going to be sent out to kill another northerner, but in that case, he would ordinarily have been summoned either to Kelder’s tent in Camptown or Captain Endarim’s near the dragon pens for a briefing. He was not sure what to think now; this change in the pattern might mean anything. He tried to decide whether he dared protest again that he did not want to be an assassin; after he had been successful on his missions no one had taken his claim seriously any more.
They had no idea what it was like, alone and terrified in the enemy’s camps and cities, knowing that the only way he would be brought back was if he either completed his task or was seriously injured. He was no hero; he hated the thought of pain and carried out his assassinations as quickly and efficiently as he could so that he could go home that much faster.
Kelder knew his views, but had still sent him out repeatedly. He decided there was no point in rehashing the matter.
“I was beginning to wonder what had happened to you,” he said instead.
“I was away,” Kelder replied. “But now I’m back. I have your new orders.”
“What new orders?”
“From General Gor. I told him about you, and he thinks you’re being wasted here, killing sorcerers and administrators.”
Valder was unsure whether that was good or bad. Much as he hated what he had been doing, it was always possible that what General Gor had in mind for him would be even worse.
He suppressed a slight shiver at the thought of General Gor thinking about him at all. Gor commanded the entire land-based Ethsharitic military west of the Great River’s basin, after all; he was one of the four or five most powerful men in Ethshar, along with General Anaran and General Terrek and Admiral Azrad, and perhaps whoever was the current civilian head of state.
“What,” Valder said at last, “does General Gor have in mind?”
“I wouldn’t presume to guess General Gor’s thoughts, Valder — and I wouldn’t say, even if I did. However, your orders state that you’re to be transferred from General Karannin’s command to General Gor’s personal staff, effective immediately, with the same title and position. It seems to me — though this is strictly a guess, and I’ll deny ever saying it — that our illustrious commander has no objection to your current services other than the choice of targets.”
“More assassinations, then?”
“I would think so.”
“What if I refuse?”
“Don’t be silly, Valder. That would be treason; you know that.”
“But damn it, Kelder, I don’t want to be an assassin! It scares me half to death, and I hate killing people — I get sick to my stomach.”
“There are times when I don’t like being a spy.”
“I wouldn’t mind spying as much, I don’t think. Couldn’t I do that?” “Oh, maybe you will; I can’t say. I’m just here to give you your orders and get you safely to Gor’s headquarters on the coast. It’s too late tonight; we leave at dawn.”
“But...” Valder’s objections trailed off.
Kelder smiled ruefully. “I sympathize, Valder, honestly. You have no choice, though. That hermit trapped you for life when he enchanted your sword; we can’t possibly allow something like that to remain unexploited.”
Valder glared resentfully at Wirikidor where it hung at the foot of his bed.
Kelder stood up and pulled the tent flap open. “We leave at dawn,” he said.
Valder watched him go, then lay back, hoping that somehow dawn would not come.
Dawn came on schedule, however, and they departed.
Valder was startled by the transportation provided. They rode no horses, used no levitation spells; instead, Kelder led him to a small lavender tent in the magicians’ circle, empty save for a rich tapestry that seemed stupendously out of place in a military camp. It hung from a crossbar nailed to the rear tentpole, its ornately fringed lower edge dragging in the dirt, and depicted a seascape seen from a stone rampart.
Kelder calmly walked directly into the tapestry, pulling Valder in after him.
To his astonishment, he found himself standing on the seaward battlement of General Gor’s coastal fortress, Kelder at his side. The salt air washed into his nostrils, and he realized for the first time how accustomed he had become to the stench of General Karannin’s camp, compounded largely of sweat, dust, and cattle. The sun was rising behind him and pouring out across the sea, lighting the wave crests with gold.
He turned around, expecting to see an opening back into the little tent, but instead he saw the upper court of the Fortress.
“Now, that tapestry,” Kelder remarked. “That’s a twelfth-order spell, and it took a very good wizard a year to produce it, but it does come in handy. They carefully avoid changing this section of the ramparts so that it will keep working. It has its drawbacks — you’ll notice that it only works one way and that we had to leave the tapestry behind. It will be shipped wherever it’s needed next. I wanted to get you here immediately, and there simply isn’t anything faster, so I requisitioned the tapestry; nobody else was using it just now, so I was able to get it.”
Valder was still staring about in amazement at the solid stone of the Fortress, trying to convince himself it was not a dream or illusion. “Oh,” he said. Then a thought struck him. “Why did you wait until dawn, if the tapestry works instantly?”
“Because the tapestry depicts this spot just after dawn, of course. We’d arrive at dawn regardless of when we left, and I prefer a good night’s sleep to several hours in some wizardly limbo. We could have entered the tapestry at any hour, true enough, but we would not arrive here until the hour the tapestry showed, regardless of
