The Cursed Read online

  "That's enough," she said, cutting him off. "What else did I sign while I was away?"

  He listed a dozen other forgeries. She had been busy! She could fault none of his decisions, except that he had obviously settled a few personal grudges. Well, he had earned that.

  "What about the other thing I mentioned?"

  For the first time, a faint smile touched his juvenile face. "You gave me no orders that I recall, Madam President."

  "No, I didn't."

  But she had dropped a hint—an extremely subtle hint that only a mind as sharp and tuned as Ching's would have caught. What she had suggested had involved both Shoolscaths and Jaulscaths. Since earliest times, it had been known that a seer within range of a mind reader was in mortal danger of revealing the future. To trick a Shoolscath into such a meeting was about the most dastardly crime possible in Raragash. The Shoolscaths were the largest group of Cursed and they would tear the perpetrator to ribbons. If Labranza were directly implicated, all her authority would not defend her from the consequences. In a community that included over fifty Jaulscaths, denial would be useless.

  She had barely dared hope that even Ching's loyalty would prompt him to take such a risk. She had not really expected him to survive the attempt if he did.

  "I spoke with a certain Shoolscath, Madam President. He confirmed that the long-awaited Renewer is now due. A new empire will arise."

  Seven curses! It was true! Labranza's world crumbled before her eyes. She drained her goblet in one draft, and prompted a fit of coughing.

  Ching took her glass from her and went to refill it again, continuing in his soft voice: "The Shoolscath was not lying. He has shown no signs of deterioration so far."

  "There was a... a witness present?"

  "I told you he was not lying."

  "This was the a'Noig man you mentioned earlier?"

  "Yes, Madam President. He has not many years left, but he is still rational. He is excited that he will live to see the coming of the new order."

  Labranza stared up at him. He couldn't lie to her! How could a man of his age not have one single trace of a line on his forehead? But he was not lying. "And the, ah, witness is discreet?" There was the worst danger—Jaulscaths could not keep secrets. Even with all the training the Academy could give them, they could not keep secrets for long in Raragash.

  "I sent her along on the Nimbudia mission, Madam President—on your authority, of course."

  Ching had succeeded beyond her wildest hopes. In the ensuing silence she thought he was gazing oddly at her—almost pleadingly. If he was hoping for a word of support or praise, he ought to know better by now.

  "Did you learn the name of the new emperor?"

  "A Zarda name, Madam President. Bulion Tharn."

  It meant nothing to him, of course, but Labranza sagged back on the cushions. Fatigue and wine together made her head spin. Now this incredible news about that fat old farmer... the Curse of Poul on him!

  She had never ordered an assassination, although she strongly suspected many of her predecessors had. It was just too temptingly easy. A freak accident, a sudden sickness, an inexplicable attack by a trusted companion... who could ever suspect that the Academy was involved? So very few even knew it existed! She could think of a dozen Cursed she could send to Tharn Valley to snuff this flame before it burned down her world. The moment Tharn himself died, Shoolscath a'Noig would lapse into imbecility. Beautiful!

  She would think about it tomorrow. She wriggled down into the cushions and lifted her legs up on the divan, glancing thoughtfully at Ching. He blushed under her gaze, pink patches seeping into the dark-honey skin over the prominent cheekbones. Hair and skin—he was the same color all over, slim and smooth. His honey eyes were clear as a child's.

  He turned away and went to the table. "Food, Madam President?"

  "Maybe later. That's enough business."

  He swallowed and picked up the folder he had never needed to open. "Goodnight then, Madam President. Welcome back." He waited.

  "No."

  He turned and eyed her warily, making sure he was not mistaking her signals. "No?"

  "You haven't finished."

  His expression did not change. He laid the folder carefully on the table and began to remove his clothes.

  Ching made love as diligently and efficiently as he did everything else. He never babbled romantic nonsense or pretended he was anything more than her servant, even in bed. Labranza did not care whether he enjoyed himself or not—he was there to please her. He was good at that.

  34

  Seven days after his wedding, Bulion Tharn prepared to cross the Flugoss and enter Wesnar. Poul was rising into a clear blue sky, yesterday's rain only a memory. He hoped that was a good omen.

  The expedition had camped on one of the many islands that divided the channel above Tolamin. A copse of spindly trees provided good cover, but the ground had been damp and his back ached abominably. Apart from that annoying reminder of his age, though, the journey had amazingly gone well so far.

  It was thirty years since he had made his one and only visit to these parts. Then he had not forded the river. He had ridden across the bridge at Tolamin. It had been a scary trip, with makeshift log structures spanning wide gaps in the old Imperial arches, but he had passed over without wetting a hoof. The world had decayed since those days.

  He stood within the trees and stared at the water—broad and shiny, but fortunately at its midsummer low. He had sent Ulpion and Thiswion ahead to scout the far bank. They had managed to cross without having to swim their horses, but then they had vanished into the woods and it was past time they reappeared. If that was merely another island, of course, they would have to confirm that the far channel was also fordable. There might be several more channels, all of which would have to be investigated. That must be what was taking so long.

  They were both good lads—Thiswion one of Mogion's grandsons, Ulpion one of Thilion's. Bulion's own brood was the largest of the three and much better endowed with sons. He had been careful to bring representatives of the other two lines along, because Himion was always finding excuses to grumble about favoritism. The old scoundrel was probably conspiring against Brankion already. If the clan continued to grow at its present rate, he might succeed in splitting it apart, and that would be a tragedy.

  Thiswion Harbo was twenty, lanky, and father of two girls. He was also the best archer the family had, and the nearest thing to a redhead. On both counts he took after his father, Bogir Garbon, who had died before he was thirty, a real loss. Bulion had never managed to persuade Tilim to remarry—another loss. Ulpion was as good a horseman as there was in the valley, but at twenty-five he had sired only three children, and two had been miscarriages. His wife was too highly strung.

  They were good lads and their wives were both with child, so there would be no missed conceptions while they were gone. But why the fates were they taking so long?

  In the trees behind Bulion, other members of the expedition were saddling horses, striking tents, preparing to move on. Already the raw farmers were picking up some military smartness. Most of the credit, strangely enough, belonged to the big Awailscath woman from Bad Cove, Vaslar Nomith. Wraxal Raddaith was a far superior soldier, without doubt, but the Muolscath had no interest in training his companions. Vaslar had made her influence felt even before she arrived at Tharn Valley. Taking offence at some remark of Jukion's, she had snatched up a stick and told him to draw his sword. She had disarmed the big ox in seconds and given him a thorough hiding. Since then, the men had been demanding fencing lessons from her at every available moment. One or two of them were making real progress—Ulpion and Polion, especially. She had taught everyone the rudiments of campaigning, from picking campsites to packing horses efficiently. The family was going to benefit from this excursion.

  Gwin's idea, he reminded himself.

  The travelers had not spoken to a soul since leaving the valley. They had given the remains of Tolamin a wide berth t
he previous day, since the Wesnarians were known to have thrown down the bridge. Jasbur and Ordur reported that there were still people living in the ruins of the city, but they had also talked of famine and warring gangs there. Most of the outlying farms and hamlets were deserted, sacked in the war. The inhabitants, if any, had hidden from the strangers, and the strangers had not lingered to hunt for them.

  The west bank should still be prosperous. Wesnarians were friendly and hospitable, good Zarda stock all of them, or at least they had been thirty years ago. On the other hand, the lands between the Carmines and the Giants were not known as the Cockpit for nothing. Mokth, Nurz, and Wesnar met there, and fought there. The ruling power changed, the names of the kingdoms changed, but the same bloody story had been retold a hundred times—before, during, and after the empire.

  Bulion shifted his weight and a spike of pain lanced into his back. Curses! He had thought it would pass once he was out of bed and moving around, but instead it was getting worse. It was a reminder of age, that's what it was—a warning that he was too old to go cavorting around on un-Tharnian escapades like honeymoons. Rich load of nonsense it was: making love on the ground, washing in cold water, sleeping in damp blankets. He should take his bride home to a warm bed. If the others noticed what was ailing him, he was going to hear a lot of sniggering remarks on the subject.

  Harness jingled, shrubbery rustled, hooves plodded. Wosion limped over, leading Star. He looked up at his father with a quizzical expression, but he made no inane remarks along the lines of, "Taking-a-long-time-aren't-they?"

  What he said was, "Been a long time since you and I came this way, hasn't it?" He smiled wryly.

  Bulion eased his back unobtrusively and grunted agreement. "I was a lot younger then than you are now."

  "And I was younger than Polion." Wosion leaned an arm on Star's saddle, favoring his twisted leg. "Don't recall I ever thanked you! It took me a long time to see that you were right, and I'm truly grateful. Just thought this was a good time to say so."

  "No need. My thanks to you for becoming such a good pastor. We don't need to say such things."

  Bulion turned away to look over the river again. Thirty years ago he had been dragging a devastated and rebellious adolescent to Veriow for training. Wosion had been bitter at the fates. Bulion had told him he could make a pastor even if he couldn't make a farmer. He had insisted, with much more confidence than he had felt. He had gone away, abandoning his crippled son among strangers. It had been years before he could forgive himself for his harshness. Now was much too late for thanks. The time to say thanks had long gone, and so had the time for asking forgiveness. It was over and things had turned out for the best. Things often did, thank the fates.

  "Can we make Veriow today?" he said, for want of a better topic.

  "Doubtful. The cart slows us."

  And at least four after that to Raragash? "How long will you need to check your calendar count?"

  Wosion chuckled. "About two minutes."

  What did it matter anyway? Only Wosion himself cared whether the family's records were exact or not. If the year 99 had fifty-two weeks and 100 had fifty-three, but they were supposed to be the other way around—what the fates did it matter, except to Wosion and his interminable auguries? Auguries made poor epitaphs, Gamion had always said. A pastor could judge a day auspicious or inauspicious as he wanted.

  But now was hardly the time to say so. He had wanted to come along for old times sake. He was more than welcome, and how could his father have refused him anyway, remembering that other time?

  Wosion broke the silence. "I'm told the Jaulscaths may bring trouble in Nurz."

  "What sort of trouble? That is a stupid question, isn't it? I mean, why especially in Nurz?"

  "Jasbur says it's more populated than Wesnar or Da Lam. We may not be able to bypass all the towns and villages. But she also says that Raragash has some sort of understanding with the authorities, so we may be given a special escort. Nurz knows all about Cursed refugees heading for Raragash, she says—Raragash being technically within its borders."

  Mm? Before Bulion could assimilate that information, Ulpion emerged from the trees on the far bank. He waved a white cloth.

  "There he is! All clear!" Bulion moved too quickly, and another jolt of pain made him gasp.

  His son gave him a suspicious look, wrinkling his long nose. "You all right?"

  Bulion caught his breath. "Yes, I'm all right! Take your party over."

  "Perhaps you should talk to one of our Ivielscaths."

  "I said I'm all right!"

  Wosion shrugged. "Yes, father." He turned and beckoned.

  Bulion watched Wosion ride across the shingle and into the water, leading the first contingent, starting with the two Ogoalscaths from Bad Cove—the elderly Shard and the youngster, Tigon. He braced himself for trouble as they passed, but nothing untoward happened. Last night one of the campfires had suddenly shriveled from roaring blaze to cold ashes. The night before that, a chorus of bird song had erupted in the trees in pitch darkness. When Zanion had reached Bad Cove, he had found the supposedly starving Cursed gorging on a pod of whales that had stranded themselves on the beach. Strange things happened around Ogoalscaths.

  Niad and Polion followed. The girl's golden bunches protruded under the brim of her man's hat, flapping up and down with every step her horse took—absurd, but charming. Polion grinned excitedly at his grandfather. He lacked Wosion's long nose, but otherwise he was startlingly reminiscent of that other adolescent of long ago. That one had not been grinning. Bulion resisted the temptation to ask if his grandson was enjoying this jaunt more than his excursion to Bad Cove.

  Next came the two Awailscaths from Raragash. They were changing. The Ordur man was less imbecilic, less flabby. The woman was slimmer, apparently younger. Her complexion was smoother, her hair darker and almost lustrous.

  Bulion peered up and down the river. There were some ruined cottages upstream, obviously abandoned long ago, but he could see no signs of present life. Niad was having trouble with her horse. Polion was helping her. She regained control. Soon the party emerged from the stream and vanished into the trees. Bulion turned and saw Wraxal watching him. He nodded, and the soldier came striding over.

  "You want to bring up the rear, or scout another route downstream?"

  "Water's low. If it's all right here, it should be all right there." The Muolscath was as icily objective as always. Bulion had put him in charge of the three Jaulscaths, he being the only person who could bear to approach them. What passed between him and the Jojo woman in the night could only be guessed at, but the mind-readers would have been an impossible problem without Wraxal. They had to be kept at least a hundred paces away from everyone else—especially from Tibal Frainith, who was terrified of them.

  Wraxal turned to go and Bulion impulsively said, "Wait!"

  The soldier stopped and waited impassively. He did not seem curious in the slightest.

  "My wife mentioned that you helped her out with the sale of the hostel?"

  "I did."

  Bulion ground his teeth. He was ashamed to discuss this, but worse shame drove him on. "How?"

  Other men might have shown surprise at the question, but not Wraxal. "She had told her agent to accept the highest offer and send her the papers to sign. Normally that would not be adequate—she should have returned to Daling and signed before notaries. I advised her to draw up her instructions again, and I countersigned them for her. I am still a senior officer in the guard, so that made the document official. The money will be held in the temple, pending her instructions."

  Fates take Dalingians and their Cursed rigmarole laws! "Your uncle told me that the hostel might not be hers to sell."

  Wraxal shrugged. "Then the transaction would be invalid. She seems to think it is, though." He obviously did not care, one way or another. He would not care if it was his own fortune that was being discussed.

  "How can a man like you judge what people are thinking?
"

  "My judgement is not clouded by emotion. At the moment, you are embarrassed and probably ashamed. This is an illogical reaction to news that your wife's financial situation has been safeguarded. Obviously you believed my uncle and thought your wife was lying to you. You may also fear that she will soon tire of you, so you would prefer to keep her poor and have a hold over her."

  Bulion moved incautiously and his back exploded again. Pain restrained him from saying what he had been about to say. He took a deep breath. "Thank you."

  "For what?"

  "Oh... For telling me. Why don't you go and get the Jaulscaths across the river?"

  "I was going to. You told me to wait." Wraxal turned and stalked away. He was about as likable as week-old fish.

  Tibal Frainith was leaning against a tree, thumbing through a book. He closed it and slid it into a pocket of his smock, smiling unabashedly. "Yes, I was eavesdropping. You know how nervous I get where Jaulscaths are concerned."

  Was that all he had been listening to? Why would a Shoolscath ever bother to pry? He would at once forget whatever he had just learned. Trying to understand how such a mind worked gave Bulion a headache.

  At the moment the baggage train came trotting through between them, guided by Zanion, Jukion, and Vaslar Nomith. There was something different about the big woman, but she had gone by before Bulion could put his finger on it. Perhaps she was starting to change like the other two Awailscaths. If it involved her turning back into a man again, she would be... he would be... Oh, the heck with it!

  Bulion watched as they crossed. Things were going better than he had dared hope. He returned his attention to the lanky Shoolscath.