Look back on the day, it’s for ever lost
Stare into the night, where things confound
The web stretches empty, wind keening
In threads of absent songs
– (Song Of) Old Friend, Fisher Kel That
Voluminous in wonder, but, be assured, terse in grief. Consider the woodsman standing facing the forest, axe in hand. In a moment he will stride forward. Consider now the first line of trees, rooted, helpless against what comes.
The seep of trickling water round roots does not quicken, The sweet warmth of sunlight on leaves does not blaze into urgent Maine, The world and its pace can-not change. What is to he done? Why, there is nothing to be done. The woodsman swings his axe with blinding speed and splendid indifference, and he hears not the chorus of cries.
Is this fancy worthless? For some, perhaps many, it must be. But know this, empathy is no game.
Twist back time. Dusk still gathers, but it is early yet and so it is a weak gath-ering. A lone rider draws up on a ridge overlooking a mining camp. Up here the sun’s light remains. Dust streams gold and nothing wants to settle. In the shadowy pit below figures seethe back and forth.
He is finally seen. An old man works his way up the path. A runner hurries to the main building squatting atop a levelled heap of tailings.
It begins.
‘Another guest? Come for the boy? What’s so damned special about that boy?’ But Gorlas Vidikas wasn’t much interested in any answers to those questions, especially since this runner was in no position to explain much of anything, having been sent direct from the foreman. He rose and pulled on his cloak, then collected up his fine deerskin gloves, and set out. Would he have the pleasure of killing yet another fool? He dearly hoped so.
Was it that pompous old bastard, Coll? That would be ideal, and who could say, maybe the ghost of Lady Simtal would stir awake at the man’s last gasp, to howl her delight at this most perfect vengeance, this long-awaited conclusion to the vile treachery of her last fete. Of course, that was mostly Hanut Orr’s business, and maybe Shardan Lim’s as well, but Gorlas welcomed the sudden unexpected currency he would reap in reward for killing at least two of the old conspirators.
Coil’s death would also leave open a seat on the Council. Gorlas smiled at the thought as he climbed the slatted wooden steps up towards the ridge where it wound behind and above the main building. Humble Measure would offer up his own reward for such a thing, no doubt one that would make the gratitude of Hanut and Shardan seem like a pauper’s grudging gift. He had a sudden, odd image then of a half-dozen such paupers-beggars and worse- gathered in some abandoned building, squatting on damp earth as they passed round a pathetic slab of grainy bread and a mouldy lump of cheese. And, as he looked on like some unseen ghost, he had the sense that the circle was somehow… incomplete.
He shook himself then, dispelling the scene, and found that he had halted just below the landing, one hand on the rail at his side. At that last moment, as the image burst apart, he thought he had caught a glimpse of something-a corpse twisting beneath a thick branch, the face swinging round to meet his own-then gone.
Gorlas found his mouth unaccountably dry. Had some god or spirit sent him a
Vision? Well, ii something or someone had, it was a poor one, for he could make no sense of it, none at all.
He tugged on his gloves and resumed the climb, emerging out into the blessed sunlight where everything was painted gold. Yes, the wealth of the world was within reach. He’d never understood poor people, their stupidity, their lack of ambition, their laziness. So much within reach-couldn’t they see that? And then how dare they bitch and complain and cast him dark looks, when he went and took all that he could? Let them fall to the wayside, let them tumble underfoot. He was going where he wanted to be and if that meant pushing them out of the way, or crushing them down, so be it.
Why, he could have been born in the damned gutter, and he’d still be where he was today. It was his nature to succeed, to win. The fools could keep their resent-ment and envy. Hard work, discipline, and the courage to grasp opportunity when it presented itself-these were all the things most people lacked. What they didn’t lack, not in the least, was the boundless energy to complain. Bitterness was a waste of energy, and, like acid, it ate the vessel that held it.
As he came round the curve of the ridge he saw at once that the man awaiting him was not Coll. Nor, Gorlas realized, was he a stranger.
The young man (well, they were of the same age, but not.in Gorlas’s eyes) saw him approach and slowly dismounted, stepping round the horse and positioning himself in the centre of the path facing Gorlas.
‘She was not foolish enough to send you here, was she?’
‘You know me, then.’
Gorlas smiled. ‘I watched you once, only a few days back, from across a street. You looked guilty, did you know that? You looked like a coward-what is your name? I want to know your name, so I can be precise when I tell her what I’ve done to you… and your corpse.’
The man stood unmoving, arms at his sides. ‘I am not here for Challice,’ he said.
‘If you want to think it was all your idea, fine. But I should tell you, I know her well-far better than you. She’s been working on you, filling your head-she’s pretty much led you here by the hand, even if you’re too thick to realize it. Of course, she probably didn’t want anyone too smart, since a clever man would have seen through her deadly scheming. A clever man would have walked away. Or run.’
The man tilted his head slightly. ‘What is the value of all this, Gorlas Vidikas?’
Gorlas sighed, glanced back at the foreman, who stood watching and listening-yes, something would have to be done about that-and then faced the man once more. ‘Since you’re too much the coward to actually tell me your name, I will just have to slice off your face, to take back to her as proof. Look at you, you’re not even wearing a sword. Foreman! Do we still have Murillio’s rapier? I forget, did that go back with him?’
‘Not sure, sir-want me to go and look?’
‘Well, find the waif a sword. Anything will do-it’s not as If he knows how to use it in any case. And hurry, before we lose the light and the mob down there gets bored waiting.’ He smiled at the man. ‘They’ve got bloodthirsty of late-my fault, that-’
‘Yes, about Murillio…’
‘Ah, is that why you’ve come? The duel was fairly fought. He simply could not match my skill.’ *
‘Where is the boy?’
‘So he’s the reason you’re here? This is getting difficult to believe. The child’s not some orphaned prince or something, is he? Rather,
‘Was?’.
‘Yes. He’s dead, I’m afraid.’
‘I see.’
‘So, still interested?’ Gorlas asked. ‘Of course, that’s not really relevant any more, because I want you to stay. I suppose you can try to run, but I assure you, you’ll be cut down before you get astride that fine horse-a horse I will welcome in my stables. Tell me, are you a better duellist than Murillio was? You’ll have to be. Much better.’
The foreman had gone halfway down the trail before yelling instructions, and now a youth was scurrying up cradling a sword-not Murillio’s, but some-thing found in one of the workings from the look of it. Thin, tapered to a point that was slightly bent. Iron, at least, but the patina was a thick crust over the blade’s spine, and both edges were severely notched. The handle, Gorlas saw as the foreman-breath wheezing-delivered it, wasn’t even wrapped.
‘Sorry about the lack of grip,’ Gorlas said. ‘But really, you should have come prepared.’
‘How did it feel,’ the man asked, ‘killing an old man?’
‘The duel was fair-’
‘Agreed to the death? I doubt that, Vidikas.’
‘I dislike the lack of respect in using my last name like that-especially when you won’t even tell me your
