caught glimpses of their faces — some as they turned back for a last look at the Fortress, others as they turned to face new directions. Some were smiling, full of life and hope, ready to conquer a piece of the world for themselves. Others seemed worried and uncertain as they left behind the only life they had ever known.
For three days, new-made civilians walked away down the hillside, and for three days, at irregular intervals, soldiers would march up into the Fortress, alone or in patrols or squads or entire regiments, to be made into civilians and join the outward stream. A few were determined to remain soldiers, of course, and the barracks population fluctuated, rather than decreasing steadily.
As yet Gor had done nothing about his announced intention of building a city around the Fortress and its adjoining shipyards, but a ramshackle city was growing up anyway, a city of tents and crude huts. People were arriving faster than they could be dealt with and sent away, and no one wanted to bother finding places inside the walls for all the newcomers. Furthermore, many of the new civilians who descended the hill went no further than the impromptu camps.
Valder had not ventured outside the Fortress for fear he would have difficulty getting back in; his tall, narrow room with its inaccessible window was not much, but he had become accustomed to it and greatly preferred stone floors to dirt. He suspected that, when someone found the time to update accommodations, it would be given to someone more useful in peacetime than himself, but he intended to use it while he still could.
He did find himself spending hours on end standing on the ramparts above the largest landward gate, watching the departing figures and trying to decide whether he actually envied them or not. He made no secret of his time at this post, so he was not surprised when, on the third day after the overlord’s speech, someone called his name.
He turned to see a messenger boy, perhaps twelve or thirteen, standing at the top of the nearest ladder. “Are you Valder of Kardoret, sir?” he called.
Valder nodded.
“I’ve been looking all over for you! The general — I mean, the overlord — wants to see you immediately!”
“General Gor, you mean?” Valder was puzzled. He could think of no reason that Gor would want to see him, now that the war was really over. There were no more enemy officials to assassinate.
Or were there? Perhaps he was to be sent against the stragglers. Stories had come in of encounters with northern forces who were still fighting.
Of course, those who didn’t fight were often butchered by overenthusiastic Ethsharites, even after they surrendered, so Valder hardly blamed those who resisted. Still, he had not thought that Wirikidor’s special talents were called for. Wizards and ordinary soldiers were more practical for such work than assassins.
Perhaps he was to take care of a lingering shatra the wizards could not handle.
“Yes, General Gor,” the boy was saying. “Except he’s an overlord now. Didn’t you hear the speech?”
“Yes, I heard the speech,” Valder admitted as he crossed to the ladder. He wondered what the correct form of address might be for speaking to an overlord.
He followed the boy down the ladder and into the Fortress, through the maze of rooms and passageways, until he found himself in Gor’s office, unchanged by the switch from military to civilian authority.
A secretary leaned over and whispered through his beard, “Address him as ’my lord,’” answering Valder’s unasked question. Apparently the point had come up before.
Gor looked up and said, “Ah, Valder. I would like to speak to you in private.” He rose, crossed the room, and opened a small door in the rear wall, a door Valder had never really noticed before. He gestured, and Valder reluctantly came and stepped through the door into the tiny room beyond. A glance behind him showed him that some of the half-dozen secretaries and aides in the office were at least as surprised as he was at this unexpected secrecy.
Once inside the bare stone chamber, Gor carefully closed and locked the door. The room was small, perhaps eight feet wide and ten feet long, with two simple wooden chairs the only furnishings; Gor seated himself on one and indicated that Valder was to take the other.
Wary, Valder obeyed.
Once both men were seated, Gor wasted no time on preliminaries. “Valder, I don’t know what you had planned to do now that peace has come, but I’d like you to stay on here.”
Confused, Valder stammered in asking, “As a soldier, you mean?”
“As a member of my staff — soldier or civilian, it doesn’t matter. Take your choice.”
“Why? What would I do?”
“Why? Because I think I might find an assassin very useful.”
“An assassin? In peacetime?” Valder was shocked and made no attempt to hide that fact.
“Yes, in peacetime — perhaps more than ever. When somebody gives me trouble now, I can’t just order him hanged, you know; not anymore. I know that there are people who aren’t happy with this triumvirate that Azrad and Anaran and I have set up; by the gods, there are times when we aren’t very happy with it ourselves! Still, it’s better than chaos, and that’s what there would be if we stepped down. That’s what happened in Old Ethshar when it wasn’t clear who was in charge, and it’s not pretty at all — all the small kingdoms fighting over the bones of the old one. I don’t want to see that happen out here in the Hegemony. I’ll use whatever methods I need, whatever methods I can find, to prevent it, and that includes assassination. Wizards can handle some of it, but magic leaves traces, and most magic can be guarded against — just as the northerners tried to guard against it. That sword of yours seems to be an exception, though — you got through in the north where wizards couldn’t, and it would be no different here. Besides, I may need to eliminate a wizard or two, and they have a guild — they’re more loyal to their guild than to anything else, including me or any other mortal, so I can’t often get them to attack each other. I think Wikridor, or whatever its name is, could be just what I need to keep the Wizards’ Guild in line.”
“Wirikidor,” Valder corrected absently.
“Wirikidor, then.”
“Um.”
“Well, man, what do you say? The job will pay well, I can promise you that.”
“Sir — ah, I mean, my lord — I don’t think I can do it. The day you told us the war was over I had been planning to come to you and resign and ask for different duties. I don’t like being an assassin. I can’t take any more of it. It isn’t in me to do this sort of killing. If I hadn’t stumbled into owning this sword, I wouldn’t... well, I wouldn’t have been assassin, certainly.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t like killing! I don’t like danger, or sneaking about, and I don’t like killing. I don’t like blood. When the war was going on, it wasn’t too bad — everybody was doing it, after all, killing or being killed, and there was a reason for it. We were defending ourselves. Now, though, I wouldn’t be killing the enemy, but our own people, just to protect you. I...” Valder suddenly realized that not only was he expressing himself badly, but he was on the verge of saying something irretrievably tactless. He changed direction abruptly. “And besides, the sword is cursed, you know, and is due to turn on me soon if I keep using it. I couldn’t serve you for very long in any case. All I want to do, sir — my lord — is to collect my pay and retire quietly, perhaps set myself up in business somewhere. I’m not interested in fighting or killing or government or politics. I never was. Please, my lord, don’t misunderstand me, but do just let me go.”
He stared hopefully at Gor. The overlord, obviously irritated, had gone from leaning back in his chair to leaning forward, elbows on knees. Now he rose, his hand falling naturally to the hilt of his sword. “You’re sure of your decision?”
Valder rose, but pointedly kept his own hand well away from Wirikidor. “I’m quite sure, my lord. I will not be your assassin.” An odd feeling of confidence seeped into him as he stood facing Gor. Here he was, defying one of the three most powerful men in the world — and he had nothing to fear! Gor could not kill him; Wirikidor would make sure of that. Nor could Valder be demoted or court-martialed, now that the war was over; he was sure that an attempt at military justice against a man who had tried to leave the army peacefully would result in a public outcry Gor could ill afford, and what would demotion matter any more?
Gor seemed to sense Valder’s changed attitude; his own became less certain, less belligerent, and he glanced at Wirikidor. “You won’t speak of this conversation with anyone, I hope,” he said. “I would not appreciate that. Unpleasant things might happen. I can allow you to go in peace, Valder of the Magic Sword, but I cannot allow
