The Prophet of Panamindorah - Complete Trilogy Page 17

  “Why else would scholars be slavering over it? We’ve got hundreds of drawings of Gabalon!”

  “But none by an eyewitness. Yes, I want to see the book.”

  * * * *

  “It is wonderful, isn’t it?” burbled the librarian. “Incredible condition for being so old.”

  “Incredible.” Syrill leafed through the small, brown volume. “Who is the author?”

  “Someone named Archemais,” said the librarian. “He wrote his name both in the old pictographs and the phonetic. We’ve no record of him in our archives, and some scholars suspect the name is a pseudonym for the great travel-writer of the high wizard period, Artanian Lasa. The author of this book claims to have produced both the illustrations and the text—a feat few shelts could have managed at that time. From his sparse use of the phonetic and what we know of the pictographs, this book is a travel guide to Selbis in the height of its power.”

  “Impressive,” said Syrill in a voice that clearly indicated it wasn’t.

  Corry had to admit that the book did not look like something to get excited over. It was about the height of his hand, with a plain leather cover, similar to many other volumes in the library. The pages were slightly yellow, written mostly in the old picture language. He read some of the text to himself, but found only a very technical discussion of Selbis in the time of Gabalon—its economy, geography, law, sewer, prisons, courts, etc. Corry wasn’t sure exactly what he had hoped to find, but this wasn’t it.

  The illustrations were not much better than the text, just map after map of Selbis. Even the picture of Gabalon was disappointing. It showed a man in loose trousers, shirt, boots, and cape. He had flowing dark hair. One hand rested on the hilt of a long sword, and a dagger hung in his belt. Corry studied the picture minutely while the librarian babbled. There’s nothing familiar about it, he decided at last. He just looks like a man. That could be me when I’m grown.

  Syrill seemed to have the same thought. “I suppose Gabalon didn’t sleep alone,” he muttered, glancing from Corry to the picture. “Probably had all kinds of shelts in his bed. You could be some great great grandson, Corellian. He looks kind of like you.”

  Corry snorted. “As easily as you could, Syrill.”

  “Nah, I’m not tall enough.”

  Corry thought the library itself far more interesting than the book. The complex of buildings were at least ten times the size of Laven-lay’s library, full of the rich aromas of leather and ink and illumination paints. Furtively, Corry slunk away. He’d been rambling happily for an eighth watch when he rounded a corner and came face to face with Laylan. His hat with its long wolf tail looked oddly out of place in this establishment of culture. “I’ve come to see this famous book,” he said. “Any idea where I could find it?”

  Corry grinned. “I’ll show you. Syrill is probably ready for me to rescue him from the librarian.”

  Syrill stood in the same place when Corry returned, hunched over the pages. “Have you learned all the hidden wisdom of Panamindorah yet?” whispered Corry.

  “Getting there. I just noticed something interesting. See anything familiar?”

  Corry looked down and saw that they were back to the drawing of Gabalon.

  “No. Syrill, are you still trying to make him my sire?”

  Syrill smiled. “Seriously, Corellian. Look closer.”

  Corry obeyed, but he still didn’t see anything new.

  “That’s Gabalon?” Laylan was staring at the drawing.

  Syrill glanced at him. “You see it, too?”

  Laylan bent close over the page. Corry realized that he was holding his breath.

  Syrill began to chuckle. “Nice, eh? Fitting.”

  Corry was lost. “What are you talking about?”

  Laylan looked at the librarian. “You’re sure this is Gabalon? You’re positive?”

  The scholar looked uncomfortable. “Well, we’ve no documents to compare it with, but the author claims it was drawn by an eyewitness, and his accounts match—”

  Corry heard the sound of claws clicking against stone and turned to see Shyshax come round a bookcase. He sighed with relief when he saw the shelts. “Laylan, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  Laylan’s attention remained on the book. “The details, the weapons—the artist saw them too?”

  “Laylan?” Shyshax nosed his leg.

  “Yes,” said the librarian. “Funny you should mention it. This book reveals an interesting story behind that dagger he’s wearing. Supposedly, the gates of Glacia, the city of the Unibus, where made of one solid pearl, and when Gabalon attacked the city, he—”

  “Laylan—”

  “Not now, Shyshax!”

  “—broke the gates and set some of the pieces in the dagger. He took the blade and stone in the pommel from—”

  “Laylan!” Shyshax jumped up impatiently, “someone is trying to kill me!”

  Laylan turned his full attention to his mount. “Shy, I told you to stay out of the wine.”

  The cheetah growled. “I’m not drunk! Twice today strange things have happened. A stone came loose from a roof and smashed into the street not five paces from me. Only moments ago someone tried to push me off a bridge, and now I think someone is following me.”

  “He’s right,” said Corry suddenly. “About being followed, I mean. Last night after you talked to me on the bridge in Port Ory, Shyshax, I saw a lion and a leopard follow you away. I thought then it looked odd.”

  Laylan sighed. “The Filinians haven’t forgiven you, I guess. I’ll talk to Meuril about it. You’d better stay with me from now on.” He glanced at the picture one more time. “I’ve got to go see Chance and tell him that—” He stopped, then tapped the picture with his index finger. “That’s it. That—is—it!” Then he was running from the building, Shyshax at his heels.

  Corry looked at the picture again and at last he saw what they were talking about. The large dagger Gabalon wore at his hip was familiar.

  “Unicorn gold,” sniffed the librarian, who apparently resented being interrupted. “Legends say that the base and core of a unicorn’s horn is made of gold that has peculiar qualities, some of which survived in Gabalon’s dagger.”

  Corry grinned. He had seen that stone before—bathed in moonlight and nestled in black fur. “I remember now, Syrill. It’s Fenrah’s dagger.”

  * * * *

  Chance stood by a window in his tower chamber, watching the throngs of merrymakers. He used to enjoy these festivals, but lately snickers followed him wherever he went. Only a few moments ago, a street minstrel had dared to sing a particularly insulting version of “The Prince’s Magical Gallows” right in the royal plaza. The minstrel had been a wood faun and likely didn’t know he was under the window of the prince in question.

  Chance had sat on his windowsill and listened, and when he’d heard enough, he added a well-placed arrow to the feather in the minstrel’s cap. The crowd had ended laughing at the minstrel, who fled, leaving a puddle on the stone. Chance, however, did not miss the looks they shot towards his window as they dispersed. They despise me, he thought. And now they fear me. They laugh or they fear, but there is nothing in between.

  He thought of his father. If the minstrels were singing insulting songs about Barek or Martin or Galen, he’d have it stopped. Someone would bleed for it. But for me...he probably laughs along with the rest.

  Bastard. He might as well have the name tattooed on his forehead. The older he got, the less he looked like the other princes. His father had bastards aplenty. They received honors and lands. Ah, but he was different. He was the queen’s bastard, and that was shameful—the more so because everyone pretended not to see it.

  Chance clenched his fist. If only they would open their eyes, they would see he was Shadock’s son. Everyone knew that Jubal had favored the wolflings in the war. Chance had never favored wolflings. He killed them at every opportunity, was jealous for the pride of his city, but it did not matter. All the court saw wa
s his golden hair.

  Chance put down his bow. If he hung onto it, he knew he would shoot another minstrel and not through the cap this time. He went into his study and picked up his violin. Now there was music. Why did the street minstrels have to sing at all? Words only got in the way. He went back to the window and started to play. Chance played for a long time, one melody after another, played until he could not hear the festival outside or the minstrels or the voices of the nobility.

  Suddenly the door flew open. Chance whirled, his hand dropping automatically to the sword he always wore. “Laylan. You might try knocking.”

  Laylan was panting. Somehow he’d put his hat on backwards. The wolf tail hung in his eyes, which were glittering with excitement. “Chance, I’ve found it. I know where the Raiders are hiding!”

  Chapter 12. A Rendezvous Arranged

  Certain events in history resemble a stone dropped into a pool. The stone sinks into oblivion, yet the ripples go on.

  —Archemais, A Wizard's History of Panamindorah

  “Some pages are missing.” Corry pointed to a ragged edge along the gutter of the book.

  “No, it’s in perfect condition. We examined—” The librarian stopped. “Well...how odd.”

  Syrill was looking, too. “Looks like someone filched from your treasure.”

  The librarian sputtered. “That...that is not—” He stopped. “I was called away briefly—”

  “By whom?”

  “A lioness wanted access to our old Filinian records.”

  “Well,” Syrill patted the deflated scholar on the back, “don’t worry. It will probably hit the black market and turn up in some library in the wood within a year. When it does, I’ll have it sent to you.”

  “Do you remember what was on those pages?” asked Corry.

  The librarian frowned. “Only maps of Selbis.”

  On their way back towards the palace, Syrill insisted they stop to participate in the ancient spring dances. In order to provide more room for dancing in their crowded city, the cliff fauns had built terraced platforms in the main plazas. The highest of them rose several stories off the ground. The best dancers performed at the top where all could watch their liquid twists and turns, while the more awkward fauns danced on the lower levels. Musicians sat everywhere and every which way, differing in talent as much as the dancers.

  Syrill went to the top level and soon forgot about Corry. After embarrassing himself sufficiently to be certain that he was not going to remember how to dance, Corry found a place along the edge of the top platform with other bystanders. He was on a level with the third story of buildings, hardly more than a long stride from the balcony of the nearest. Up here, Corry could see far out into the crowded streets, over the rooftops and beyond beneath the brilliant moons. They’ll all be full tomorrow night. He was just making himself comfortable on the boards, when he saw something that made him stand up again. On the balcony walkway of the building opposite, a figure emerged from a door and ran towards him. She was cloaked and hooded, so that it took him a second to recognize Capricia. The fauness stopped directly across from him. She was so close, he could smell her light perfume, made pungent with sweat. Capricia glanced over her shoulder, then back towards the dancers. Her eyes focused on him.

  “Corellian?” she asked in a shouted whisper.

  “Yes, what’s wrong?”

  “I’m in trouble.” Her glance took in the shelts behind him, and Corry turned too, but no one was paying attention to them.

  “What sort of trouble?”

  Capricia hated to show fear. He could see her working to calm herself. “I need you to do me a favor.”

  “Come up here,” invited Corry. “We can talk.”

  “No.” She paused. “Meet me in Port Ory at sunrise tomorrow.”

  “Where?”

  “What hotel did you stay in last night?”

  “The Unsoos: by the river, red carpets, silver—”

  “Yes, Syrill likes that one. Meet me on the roof. Alone.”

  “But can’t I at least—?” Too late. She had gone back the way she came. He could see lights somewhere inside the building and surmised that a party was going on there too. On the balcony one story below, a snow leopard emerged like a shadow from the direction Capricia had come. Ounce. He was following her that night in Port Ory, too. The leopard stopped once, glanced back, then disappeared inside the building.

  Corry stood, debating. I should try to catch her, tell her about Ounce.

  Then someone pushed him off the platform.

  Chapter 13. The Stone is Tossed

  The delicate scent of flowers, the freshness of dark earth, the cool of shade, and the warmth of color are the hallmarks of Danda-lay’s gardens. They are the most peaceful places in the world.

  —Lasa, Tour the Sky City

  Corry’s hands flew out instinctively, and he managed to catch hold of two bars of the railing of the balcony on which Capricia had stood. He could feel his fingers slipping. Someone was shouting behind him, and the next moment hands grasped his legs from below, and fauns he didn’t recognize hauled him onto the lower balcony. They were all patting him and making sure he wasn’t injured and saying things like, “Well, that was a near miss” and “No more wine for you, young sir!”

  Turning, Corry saw Syrill leaning over the edge of the dancing platform.

  Someone just tried to kill me. Corry had felt no fear while hanging from the balcony, but now he began shaking all over. Someone tried to push me over the edge. Looking down, he saw that, even from this story, the ground was deadly distant. “There, there,” an old fauness was guiding him to a bench. “Have a sit, and then go back to your room and lie down. I always said they should put railings on those platforms. A few shelts fall every year.”

  I didn’t fall. I was pushed.

  Several moments passed before Syrill was able to bull his way through the press up to the balcony. By the time he arrived, Corry was sitting alone. “Corellian, are you hurt?”

  Corry shook his head. “Someone pushed me, Syrill.”

  Syrill didn’t seem to hear. His face was pale. “Come on. Let’s get you back to the room.”

  The long walk back to the palace helped Corry to calm down, and by the time they reached the room, he was no longer shaking.

  “Syrill, someone tried to kill me!”

  “I know,” muttered Syrill.

  “Did you see who did it?”

  “No. There were all kinds of creatures up there—cats, fauns, alligator shelts—”

  “Centaurs?” asked Corry.

  “I don’t remember seeing any.”

  “Syrill, someone is trying to do something to Capricia. I had just finished talking to her when they tried to push me off. I think it may have happened because I was talking to her.”

  “Capricia?” Syrill’s head came up sharply.

  “Yes, she told me she was in trouble and that I needed to meet her tomorrow on the roof of the Unsoos at sunrise. She was afraid to talk in the plaza, and now I can see why. After she left, I saw Ounce following her.”

  Syrill’s expression turned black. “I told her to stay away from them! Now they’re...they’re blackmailing her, perhaps. Or worse. If Capricia were to die, Lexis could perhaps maneuver a more cooperative or more stupid faun onto the throne. And if he were to hold her for ransom, Meuril would give practically anything.” Syrill began to pace. “Did she say anything else?”

  “She said to come alone.”

  “Hmmm... Do you know how to handle a sword, Corry?”

  “A little.”

  “Ever against a cat?”

  “No.” Or a centaur, either.

  “Would you be offended if I offered to come with you?”

  “No, I’d be relieved, but Capricia—”

  “Listen: you go tomorrow just as she said. I’ll take a walk of my own, earlier. Then I might just happen to drop by the Unsoos. If you get into any trouble, yell.”

  Corry smiled. “Thank you,
Syrill.”

  * * * *

  Corry slept fitfully that night. In his dreams, he was being attacked by an enormous blood-red centaur. It had wings like a pegasus, and all he had to fight with was a unicorn’s horn, which kept shrinking until it was no longer than a needle. He woke to the sound of Syrill’s voice. The faun was standing by the bed, fully clothed. A single candle burned on the bedside table. The drapes were still drawn, and no hint of light came from around their edges.

  “I’m leaving now, Corellian.”

  Syrill hadn’t been gone more than a few minutes when Corry started out of the palace. When he reached the courtyard, the water clock told him it was only a half past the second night watch—almost two hours until dawn. He passed a few merchants preparing their shop fronts. Corry could see lights in a few windows, and one or two street vendors were setting up in the pre-dawn chill. Corry could smell bread and pastries baking, but he still felt alone.

  When he reached Port Ory, he found that a thick fog had risen from the river. Street lanterns and lighted windows inhabited fuzzy halos of brightness surrounded by dense gloom. Corry was glad he had left early. The Unsoos sat on the bank of the Tiber-wan, and he passed it three times in the fog before he recognized it. By the time he found the door, the sky had brightened to a pearl gray, and the mist had sunk so that he could at least see the outlines of roofs above his head. Corry opened the door to the foyer and stepped into total blackness. “Hello?”

  No one answered. They ought to keep some kind of light at the front desk. Is there no night clerk or watch shelt? Corry waited uneasily for several minutes, but when he heard no sound from the room and his eyes had adjusted enough to catch the glint off the banister, he let go of the door and groped his way to the stairs.

  Click.

  Corry stopped, heart pounding. He had distinctly heard the sound of a key turning in a lock. It came from one of the rooms, he told himself. It’s just a guest locking his door. But he knew better. The sound had come from the main door. Almost running, he bounded up the stairs, flight after flight until he came to the top. Corry pushed open the door to the roof and stepped out into the deer garden.