lifted it into the cart. As before, there were no other human workers to be seen. Zoltan felt his scalp creep faintly. All right, some kind of magic was at work here. He should have realized it yesterday; he would have realized it if he hadn't been exhausted and half-starved when he arrived.
The great wizard Karel had told him that it was easy to tell good magic from bad, provided you could get a good look at all of the results. The results here, as far as Zoltan could see, were anything but bad.
It didn't seem right to simply ignore the situation. Straightening up to stretch his back, Zoltan remarked: 'Seems to me awfully unlikely that two people could manage to run a farm this big without any help.'
The man grunted, lifting a big pumpkin into the cart. 'Can always use some help.'
'But you don't really need any?'
Still appeared to be faintly amused. 'Laddie, I live in the real world, and I expect to work. Long as there's work here, I expect to get it done. My share of it, anyway.' He rapped the load beast on the rump, getting it to move along.
Zoltan didn't push the subject any further. Maybe there were kinds of beneficial magic that were spoiled if you talked about them.
As he and Still were returning to the house for their noontime meal they were both surprised to see a traveling wagon, with two riding-beasts in harness, parked on the grass immediately in front of the house. The animals were lean and worn, as if they had been hard-driven. Two people, a middle-aged couple in clothing that had once been expensive but was now worn and stained as if from a long journey, were standing beside the wagon, talking to Mother Still. The goodwife had evidently just come out of the house because a kitchen towel was still in her hand.
She turned her head and called out cheerfully: 'Father, Zoltan, we have more visitors!'
The newly-arrived man and woman looked around. Zoltan saw that the man was holding an elaborate leather sword belt and scabbard out in front of him, supporting it awkwardly in both arms, as if he did not quite know what to do with it and was ready and eager to give it away. A large black hilt projected from the scabbard.
Now the man, still holding out the black-hilted weapon and its harness, approached Zoltan and the farmer. When he came closer Zoltan could see that he looked as worn as the team that drew his wagon.
'Your good wife here,' the visitor said hoarsely, 'doesn't understand. We have been commanded to bring this weapon here. So here it is. It's your problem now.' And he thrust the weapon toward Still with a commanding gesture.
Still, however, was in no hurry to accept the present, but stood with arms folded as if he did not yet understand what this was all about.
Zoltan was now close enough to the black hilt to get a very good look at it, and he could feel his scalp creep. He had been allowed, once or twice, to enter the royal treasury in the Palace at Sarykam, and he had seen Swords before. The white symbol on the hilt of this one was a small, winged dragon.
'You've got to take it.' The man from the wagon sounded agonized. He shook the sword belt at the farmer so that the massive buckle jingled faintly. 'We've put up with all we can. You people must be wizards, warriors, something. You'll know what to do with this. I've been assured that you won't hurt us. I'm only a trader, myself. My wife is only my wife.'
'Why do you bring us this weapon?' Still asked, sounding suddenly not so much like a farmer. 'Wasn't just by chance you came here, was it?'
'No. No. Because of him. He drove us to it.' The visitor looked around, as if hopeful of being able to see the person he referred to, but not really surprised when he could not. 'I mean the little old man. A little old wizard. In peculiar clothing, as if he were made up for some part on the stage. He's been driving us crazy, hounding us for days and days. He wouldn't accept the Sword himself when I wanted to hand it over to him. Oh, no, wasn't able to carry anything himself, he said. I wasn't about to argue with him, not after the way he picked up the road under our wagon and shook it like a clothesline. So he told us where to find the Sword and made us dig it up and bring it here. And now it's yours, because I'm giving it to you whether you want it or not.' And the man glared at Still and Zoltan with a courage obviously born of desperation.
'Little old wizard, hey?' Still grimaced as if he found that description distasteful. And very puzzling. 'Did this feller tell you why we were supposed to get a Sword?'
The man's arms, holding out the sword belt, sagged with exhaustion. 'He said we had to bring it here because Prince Mark needed it. I suppose he means Prince Mark of Tasavalta, that's the only one I ever heard of ... and someone here would take the Sword on to him.'
Still continued to take thought. He stroked his chin, almost like a rustic considering an offer for his pumpkins. Almost.
'It's taken us weeks to get here!' the man holding the Sword agonized.
'Prince Mark needs it?' Zoltan asked.
The visitor, with new hope, switched his attention to Zoltan. 'Yes! That's what the wizard tells me!'
'Then I will take it to him.' And Zoltan reached out for the Sword. He had handled weapons before, but still somehow the weight surprised him; no wonder the man's arms were tired.
The man babbled with gratitude; his wife, in the wagon, urged him to get in and drive. 'Let's get out of here!'
But they were not to be allowed to leave that quickly. Goodwife Still had them in charge now. They could, and did, protest that they wanted to depart at once, but protesting got them nowhere. Visitors to this farm could not be allowed to go away hungry-that was some kind of a law. And besides- this was undeniable-their team needed attention. 'See to the poor animals, Father!'
Mother Still led the couple, who were still muttering objections, into her house.
Zoltan stood holding the Sword in its belt while Still, who had already started to unharness the team, paused to watch him.
Zoltan's right hand smothered the white dragon. The sheath, wherever it had come from, was beautiful. But then its beauty, that of merely human work, was eclipsed as the bright blade came slowly out of it.
Seeing the Swords in the Tasavaltan treasury was one thing, but drawing and holding one was something else.
After a few moments Still asked him: 'You'll be taking that to your uncle, then?'
Zoltan nodded.
'Reckon you're grown-up enough to do your duty, if you be grown-up enough to see what it is.'
CHAPTER 12
MARK raised his right hand abruptly, and the dusty, weary column behind him reined in, some of the animals stumbling as they came to a halt.
The single, small shape in the late morning sky, approaching from dead ahead, was not one of their own Tasavaltan scouts returning. Already it was possible to see that the set of the wings was wrong for that.
It was one of the reptilian enemy scouts. But this one was not content to circle high overhead and observe.
The creature flew straight for Mark, and from an altitude of about fifty meters-so close that stones and arrows were on the verge of being loosed at it-it dropped something, a 'small packet that came plummeting down almost at the feet of the Prince's riding-beast. In the next moment the messenger was spiraling upward to a safe altitude, where it drew wide circles in the sky, as if waiting to see how the communication it had brought might be received.
'Why do the bastards always use reptiles?' Ben asked of no one in particular.
'Because,' said the chief magician, 'reptiles have a certain affinity for demons.' He gestured to an assistant.
' 'Ware poison, Highness! Let me look at that present first!' The aide cried out and in an instant had swung down from his mount and carefully taken charge of the object that had been dropped. It was a small leather packet, not big enough to hold much more than a folded sheet of paper.
When all due magical precautions had been taken and the packet was opened, the contents proved to be exactly that. And when the folded paper was opened, it revealed a neatly lettered message.
Salutations to Prince Mark, from an old acquaintance:
I am prepared to trade Swords with you. Yours for mine, Woundhealer for Shieldbreaker, even up, fair and square. Consider that it is impossible for you to overtake me now, and that we should both benefit from such a
