It occurred to Candlemas that these were the same imperious words he'd flung at the cowering delegates. Not that he felt any sympathy for them. The world was a hierarchy of lords ruling underlings. The trick was to ascend high and fast, and so have more underlings and fewer lords.
Mopping his guised brow, the wizard told of the advancing horde, the rape of Tinnainen, the threat to Dalekeva, the ambitions of an empire-building One King, and the rest, excepting the weird magic-blanketed area. Lady Polaris looked increasingly petulant, but at least she hurled no more bolts. At the end she said only, 'Yes, yes. Handle it as you see fit. That's why I empowered you. Oh, and one more thing.'
Uh-oh, thought the wizard.
'Somewhere in that neck of the woods, or so I'm told by someone who lusts for it, is a book. It's very big, they say, and has a ruby set into the cover. Or a pearl. It's chock-full of ancient lore from a race of nonhumans. Stone people or spirits, or some such. It might prove an amusing read. Fetch it.'
The palantir went black.
Horror-stricken, Candlemas stared at the blank black ball. He muttered over and over, 'Fetch it? A mystery book lost in hundreds of square leagues? Fetch it? Just like that?'
The delegates of the Beneficent Traders' Guild of Dalekeva had been waiting nervously, and now their unease got a huge boost. Whitefaced, the prissy nobleman stamped into the room hard enough to dent the marble floors.
There was no wasted time now. Candlemas planted his feet before the delegates and pronounced, 'I have gained audience with Lady Polaris. You, all of you, will journey hence to Tinnainen, seek audience with this usurper, the One King, and demand he send word of his immediate submission to Netheril. Don't return without it.'
That the delegates were stunned barely described their reaction. One screamed and fell to his knees. Another gargled until he clutched his chest and collapsed. Two swooned. The rest babbled like rabid weasels, pointing fingers and hurling blame, while the bodyguards hollered resignations or demands for higher pay.
Candlemas swung on his heel and strode from the room. To the guards, he ordered, 'Drag this lot to the magic portal and shove them through. See they're dumped in the village of, uh, Augerbend on the River Ost. They can walk from there. Oh, I almost forgot.'
He swung back to the room, where the delegates were still crying and gibbering, and shouted, 'There's a young barbarian named Sunbright in the village! Take him with you!'
Striding away, Candlemas, as was his wont, reviewed that decision too. The hell with Sysquemalyn's foolish bet for now, and the hell with gathering rumors. There was no time for games. Candlemas had to get that damnable book with its pearl- or ruby-studded cover for Lady Polaris, and soon. She hated to be kept waiting-if she even remembered issuing the order later. That was another damnable quality of hers! But perhaps this would work out well. Rather than go alone, Sunbright could journey with this pack of cannon fodder as a buffer. When not slaying orcs or whatever, he could be easily shunted hither and yon to search for the book. The boob would do whatever the raven recommended, after all.
So it might work out fine, if all these clucks survived long enough.
And himself, Candlemas.
Briefly he thought of what he'd told that little girl, how he admired her father, keeper of the dovecotes. Perhaps Candlemas could assume his disguise, if all failed. When Lady Polaris flew shrieking through the halls, Candlemas could happily shovel pigeon shit.
That's what it all was, he sighed. Shitting. Shit fell from the privies of the archmages onto him, and he in turn shit on the lowly groundlings. Somewhere was the lowliest groundling of all, he thought, who collected all the shit of the world on his or her head. He wondered if they were ever happy.
One day's walk from the village of Augerbend, Sunbright was settling onto his camp bed, blissfully unaware of the machinations happening high over his head. He knew only that he was pleasantly tired after walking a dozen miles that day and bringing down a brace of wood ducks for his dinner.
He had his usual small banked fire, reflecting off a fallen oak this time. This would be his last camp, he supposed, for tomorrow he would enter a real village. He'd never visited one before, had been only to markets erected in fields on the edge of the tundra, where his people traded meat and hides and beaten copper ornaments for salt and iron and cloth and other provisions. Rengarth warriors did not venture far into the lowlands except for cattle and spouse raids. So as for this place, he didn't know what to expect. For the thousandth time, he wished he had a companion, even a dog, to travel with him. Truth to tell, the brawny barbarian was a bit shy. And with everything so new…
A twig snapped, and as quick as thought Sunbright was off his blanket and behind the log with sword poised. He readied to spring, for he reckoned that the closer he got to civilization, the more dangerous the woods would be, not less. But this clumsy visitor would probably only be the podgy Chandler.
No, definitely not.
A woman tiptoed into his camp. Her hair was long and tawny red, the color of the fire. She wore nothing but a simple shift, the soft cloth washed and worn so much it had taken her shape, thin enough so Sunbright could see every curve as she stood by the fire.
Peering first at his empty bedroll, then at the darkness around her, she quavered, 'Hello? Hello, is anyone here? I'm lost and need help.'
It couldn't be true, thought Sunbright. Her plight had 'trap' smeared all over it. So he surprised himself by calling, 'Where are you from?'
'Oh!' The girl jumped, startled. She tiptoed, barefoot, to the fallen oak and peered over it. 'Oh, there you are!'
Sunbright felt foolish aiming a sword at the girl. But his childhood had been filled with horror stories of mysterious women who accosted wandering men. Silkies, they were called, or dryads, water sprites, nymphs, succubi, and other names. Invariably they cozied up to a man, then visited him with some unspeakable death: turned him inside out, changed him to a frog, drowned and ate him, planted insect eggs into his paralyzed body.
As the girl leaned over him, the shift gaped open revealingly. She shivered. 'I'm nearly frozen! I was bathing in the river, and some boys from the village stole my clothes. I had to wait until nightfall to return home, but I lost my way in the dark. Can you…' Her voice trailed off as he continued to stare at her.
A likely story, thought Sunbright. She had to be a night hag, a harpy, a killer. He couldn't be this lucky. He kept his sword ready, but felt himself melting under her warm green gaze. He knew he should tell her to leave, but some traitorous part of himself replied, 'I'm a stranger here and don't know the way to the village. But if you'd like to share my fire…'
She smiled gratefully and sank down on his camp bed of boughs and blanket.
Now what? Sunbright wondered, standing. Would she grow fangs and red eyes? Would he have to lop off her head?
'Would you sit beside, me?' The girl looked up at him, her green eyes pleading. 'I'm still cold.'
Sunbright felt his knees turn to water. This was magic, for sure, but perhaps only normal man-woman magic. He tried to answer, but only croaked like a frog.
'What?' she breathed. Her eyes were soft, her lips moist. 'I can't hear; you'll have to come closer.'
Twisting a surprisingly strong hand into his bearskin jerkin, she pulled his face downward. His legs failed, and the rest of him followed, collapsing on the camp bed next to her. She bent over him and placed her mouth on his.
She's not cold, the barbarian thought groggily as he gave himself up to her eager ministrations. Not cold at all.
And this was bound to be better than dying in combat.
Sunlight stabbed into his eyes, and Sunbright sat bolt upright on his blanket. He'd overslept.
Rubbing his eyes, he simultaneously searched for his sword, his possessions, and the girl. The first two were where he'd dropped them, the last gone without a trace. No, there was one trace, for her delicate footprints showed in the scalped dirt around the dead campfire.
'But that doesn't make sense,' he wondered aloud. 'Either they suck your soul or lift your purse.' But
