The Hunter's Haunt Read online

  They could not live on Ven's daily earnings, not even with what Juss now contributed. They had almost starved when their parents died. All the family possessions had been lost in the fire the authorities had used to cleanse the Godless Quarter of pestilence. In those days Ven had been too young to earn a man's wages, although he had been big for his age. They had survived because Ven could earn money fighting. He had started with boys' matches, the preliminary events to titillate the spectators and start the bets flowing. Now he fought in main events. Sometimes he won as much as two or three silverfish in an evening.

  "He has never been seriously hurt yet!" Juss said firmly, knowing that he was speaking to an empty room. But what would happen to the two of them if he ever was seriously hurt?

  The thought was terrifying. Without that extra money the brothers would be forced to give up their home and move into squalid communal quarters. Without it there could never be little presents for girlfriends or hope of marriage. The only alternative would be crime of some sort—Flower's gang for Juss, worse for Ven. Sadly, an honest living for a laborer in Algazan was not a living.

  Men did get seriously hurt at the fights, even died sometimes. Ven himself had once knocked out an opponent's eye and had refused to fight for months after that, although he had been promised real gold if he could manage to do it again.

  Already on his knees, Juss spun around to face the box. He touched his head to the floor and said, "Holy Father Kraw, please look after Ven tonight and keep him safe!"

  "I cannot."

  Juss straightened up slowly. Even more slowly, he looked around the room. What he saw was what he expected to see, and it was more frightening than a gang of the Children of Wuzz would have been. Nobody. Four walls, two mats, one box … everything as it should be.

  It might be one of his pals in the tenement playing tricks on him, but it had not sounded like a boy's voice. No, nor even Intrepid's new baritone that he was so proud of when it worked right.

  "Who spoke?" Juss quavered.

  "I did."

  It sounded like a very large voice, a huge voice, but a great way off. Juss suppressed a frantic need to race downstairs to the urinals.

  "Who a-a-are you?" he asked the empty room.

  "I am Kraw, your god."

  Juss's forehead hit the floor with an audible bump. His teeth chattered wildly and his skin went cold all over.

  "Why are you frightened?" the voice inquired, sounding amused. "I am your god. You are my son. You have nothing to fear from me, nothing at all."

  "You … You never spoke to me before!"

  "You never spoke to me when we were alone, that's why. Besides, now you are old enough to understand. Almost old enough, anyway."

  Juss sneaked a look with one eye. The big black tooth was just the same as always. He had half expected to see a misty dragon shape around it, or something, but there was just the tooth. "Why don't you speak to Ven?"

  "Because he is not mine," the god said patiently. "You are mine. Only you can worship me and I will speak to no other."

  "But Ven is my brother!"

  "He is your half brother. You are Sure-justice of Kraw. I am Kraw, the god of your father and his father and very many fathers before them. I suppose I would not be too angry if you referred to yourself once in a while as Sure-justice of Verl, although you had better not make a habit of it. Verl was your mother's god. She has no other children left but you two, so I would not mind sharing you with her. A little of you, that is. Once in a while," the god rumbled, sounding less certain.

  A very misty light dawned in the boy's befogged brain. "Our mother? She was married to another before my father?"

  The god sighed. "In a manner of speaking. Your father knew that Cold-vengeance was son—"

  "What?"

  "Ven, you little goose! His real name is Cold-vengeance. Sea-breaker knew that he was not his father, but he accepted him. I did not, so tell your half brother—"

  "Why not?"

  The dragon rumbled ferociously. "Juss! You do not interrupt gods. Especially when they are explaining. Gods do not like explaining."

  Juss had his nose on the floor again.

  "Now," said the god, "where was I?"

  "You were—"

  "Yes, I know, Juss! The question was hypothetical. Tell Cold-vengeance that he must not to try to worship me. Tell him gently. He can call himself Cold-vengeance of Verl if he wants."

  "But where is his god, Verl, then? Our mother's god?"

  "Very far away, but I think safe."

  "I don't understand!"

  Kraw chuckled. Even at a very great distance, a dragon chuckle was not a laughing matter, and Juss felt a cool breeze chill his skin.

  "Bring the book, Sure-justice."

  Juss obeyed quickly.

  "Turn to the end. Now back up a few pages—until I say to stop …"

  Juss sat on the floor with the book spread open on his legs, and apparently Kraw could read even from where he was on the box, although the light was fading fast from the little room. The pages of the book were not numbered, but the god told Juss how to find the passage he wanted, and then had him read it, prompting him when he stumbled over a word. The handwriting was very bad near the end of the book. Juss had avoided it in the past for that reason, and also because the story was so sad. It began cheerfully enough, with Morning-star raising the banner of freedom and chopping off King Grosail's head on his own throne. Then it grew darker.

  The room grew darker and the story grew darker: the failure of the revolution, the terrible vengeance of Vandok, White-thorn … Some of the details were gruesome. Ven never let Juss read bits like those.

  "That will do," the god said at last. "You have heard of Morning-star before."

  "Yes, Father." Juss slid the heavy book off his shins with relief.

  "And how do the people feel about him?"

  A boy who rarely knew a full stomach found political affairs of faraway lands to be of very marginal importance to his life. He had not listened much. "Some of them curse him?" he said uncertainly. "Others say we need another Morning-star to stand up and try again?"

  "Very good, Sure-justice! The story in that book is not complete. Morning-star's daughter escaped."

  "Good!" Juss grinned to hear that. The brutality bits had made him feel queasy.

  "She escaped here, to Algazan. But she changed her name. Why?"

  "Um. Because some people didn't approve of what her father had done? They might have hurt her?"

  The god chuckled again, and this time the sound was less frightening. "Ah, you are a sharp little claw! But that is what we should expect of a son of White-thorn, isn't it?"

  "White-thorn was … But then Morning-star … My grandfather? My mother? And Ven's?"

  "And Ven's, also. Think, my son! You are clever. You are more clever than Ven. Think before you ask any more."

  Juss sat back and leaned his chin on his hands for a while, unconsciously stating at the god in a way no mortal could have endured without squirming, although dragon teeth apparently do not mind. Juss thought things through in his clever, patient way, until eventually he said, "Why did she name him Cold-vengeance?"

  "Why do you think, my son?"

  "Because he was Morning-star's grandson! So that Ven would lead the next revolution and drive out the Horsefolk and kill King Vandok! Will he?"

  "He can try."

  And why Sure-justice? Suddenly very excited, Juss scrabbled onto his knees so he could touch his head to the floor again. "Most Holy Father, can I help him try?"

  The god sighed. "If you wish to. Frankly, I don't think Ven will get very far without help, and who will help him but you?"

  "It is my fight, also, is it not?"

  "Yes," the god said. "Yes, it is. Are you ready to start tonight?"

  Juss jumped up. His knees trembled but he said, "Yes, Father."

  "Then wrap me in your spare cloth and take me with you. You must go and tell all this to a man who may help you. If he doesn
't, I don't know who will, and your cause is hopeless."

  So Juss wrapped the god up safely and ran down the stairs and out into the city night. He never returned to the Mansion of the Many Gods.

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  10: The Second Judgment

  "That is ridiculous!" the dowager snapped. "That is only half a story!"

  "I promised you a tale of deliverance," I protested. "I cannot tell you what happened next because I don't know. I can guess, roughly, but I never recount mere guesses, only undoubted truth."

  "Well, who was the man he went to?"

  "Even that I do not know for certain. His real name was not divulged to me, only a nickname, lest it put certain people in danger."

  Nine pairs of eyes regarded me skeptically.

  "This was two hundred years ago," the minstrel croaked, fear of the uncanny starting to shine in his swollen eyes.

  I saw that I had been indiscreet. "Forgive me. I meant that the name was not revealed to the person to whom the story was first told, and hence has not been passed down to us."

  "Contemptible!" the merchant growled. The wine had given his flabby face an even ruddier glow than before. "I detest storytellers who leave you dangling over an abyss and demand more money before they will tell you the next episode."

  "So do I!" I agreed heartily. "It is very unprofessional behavior. Unscrupulous in the extreme! However, in this case, I had no choice. I do not know the next episode. Does anyone?"

  There was a long silence.

  I had wagered everything on the hint I detected earlier, in the hope of learning that next episode—I can never resist the opportunity to hear a good tale, and I had been waiting for this one for two … too long. But had it been a hint, or merely a slip of the tongue? If the person in question refused to talk, then I had lost my gamble.

  The old soldier cleared his throat and straightened himself on the bench. "I may be in possession of some relevant information."

  I sighed with relief. "Then I beg you to disclose it. I have wondered about this for a very long time."

  "Fah!" the merchant growled. "The wind has dropped. It is time for godly folk to take themselves off to bed—don't you agree, my little lovebird?"

  His wife smiled automatically and then stole a worried glance in my direction.

  "Take the miscreant, innkeeper," her husband rumbled, heaving himself to his feet with a great effort. "Break every bone in his body for all I care. Come, woman. Duty calls, what?" He chuckled drunkenly.

  Fritz smiled hungrily at me and flexed his hands.

  "How about a little bedtime story?" I suggested.

  The minstrel whistled a few bars of a popular dance tune …

  "Er, beloved?" the actress said, resisting her husband's urging. "I do so want to hear a few more tales, darling! I mean, if the noble captain has something to tell us, it would only be polite for us to stay and listen, wouldn't it? Just one more? Oh, we haven't finished the wine yet! We mustn't waste it, after you spent so much money on it."

  That argument made the fat man pause. With a growl, he sagged back into his chair and reached for the flagon. "A couple of quick nightcaps, then."

  The dowager had been frowning at this discussion with rank disapproval. She turned her basilisk stare on the minstrel and then on me … and finally on the soldier at her side.

  "You wish to engage in this frivolity, Captain? It is hardly the place to reveal anything of a private nature."

  There was a hint there, a nuance about as subtle as a rapier through the gizzard. My belief that he was her hired guard had just been confirmed.

  The old warrior was not intimidated. He nodded curtly, then swung around to fix me with his raptor eyes. He was old but still dangerous—like his leather jerkin, scuffed and worn but still serviceable. Such a man would not wear a sword were he incapable of wielding it. At last he ran fingers over his close-cut silver hair. "Many ancient legends tell of a vagrant storyteller by the name of Omar, a man who turns up in many places and at many—"

  "I have heard them." I gave him my most disarming smile. "Myth begets myth, Captain. Many a rapscallion has taken that name just because of the legends, and thus generated another. I didn't. I was Omar before I was a trader of tales—but mayhap the tradition influenced my choice of career."

  "You do not grow old and then young again, to and fro forever?"

  "I have heard that part of it. It would be hard to make friends when going the wrong way, no? But you should not take such drivel seriously, Captain. Remember, many stories are more convincing when told in the first person. In his tale, Minstrel Gwill told us of one Omar. White-thorn gave her god into the keeping of a stranger who sounded suspiciously like another, yes? Now, were I less firmly corseted with scruples, I might have related that incident as if I had been there, had actually been that man … This is how legends grow, Captain."

  He continued to gaze at me as if I were a prospective battlefield.

  I began to wilt, although I could not remember the last time a mere stare had discomfited me. "Do I take it that the second round of the contest has been decided in my favor?"

  Fritz scowled mightily.

  "Apparently no one is ready to deliver you to justice yet," the dowager agreed, glancing around to see if anyone dared to disagree with her.

  No one did. Gwill flashed me an approving grin in the midst of his sneezing. The maid studied her hands. The notary seemed close to sleep.

  Somewhere outside there was a sudden crack!

  The actress jumped. "What was that?"

  "Frost, ma'am." Fritz glanced at me to make sure I understood the implications. "When the wind drops, the temperature begins to fall. We are very high here. That noise was a tree splitting in the sudden cold."

  Marla said, "Oh!" and took a sip of her wine. Her face went rigid with the effort of swallowing the muck.

  "It is late!" the dowager announced sternly. "I trust you can be quick, Captain?"

  At last he turned his gaze from me, as if satisfied. "I shall be as brief as I can, my lady. I am generally a man of few words, as you know." He reached deep inside his doublet. "All my life, I have been a free sword, a mercenary. I have fought for good causes and bad, although I tried to choose the good whenever circumstances permitted." He produced a small package wrapped in what seemed to be brown silk. "My name is not of consequence … No, to be more truthful, my name was once of great consequence. My father abandoned it, lest he bring disrepute upon nobler members of our house. As a youngster taking up the profession of arms, I became known by a foolish nickname, 'Tiger.' I did not disavow it, of course, and it stuck. I am a toothless old pussycat now, I fear, but still remembered as Captain Tiger in some parts.

  "Perhaps my constant companion here may have encouraged the practice, although very few persons have ever seen it." He held out his hand with the cloth opened upon it, and upon the cloth lay a small carving, little larger than one of his own big thumbs.

  We all leaned forward to peer at this gem. It seemed to be carved from amber, for it glowed in the firelight. It had no stripes, of course, and yet the shape was undoubtedly that of a tiger, prone, but with its head raised as if some noise had just roused it from sleep. The eyes were inset with tiny green gems. In the right market it would have brought a man comfort or even luxury for the rest of his days. I, for one, was seized by a fierce desire to reach out and touch it.

  The actress was the first to speak. She seemed awed, and I did not think she was dissembling. "Is that one of these gods we have been hearing about?"

  "In these parts I would call him a mascot, my lady. His name is Bargar. He is not the original, of course. When my father, being the youngest of many brothers, set off to find his fortune in far lands, the original Bargar foretold that he would never return to the ancestral hearth, and permitted a copy to be made."

  "Does it … talk to you?"

  The leathery old man smiled noncommittally and wrapped the amber tiger away in its cloth. "I have lived a
long life for a professional soldier, my lady. My good fortune has been remarked on more than once."

  Whatever his merits as a warrior, he certainly had the makings of a teller of tales. Even the fat merchant, sprawled back in his chair like a rolled-up quilt, was blinking attentively.

  The tiger was returned to its secret abode. Another tree trunk cracked in the forest like a sharp stroke of thunder, and this time I heard a faint echo from the cliff across the valley. The soldier gestured for Fritz to refill his stein and the innkeeper jumped to obey.

  "As to the matter Master Omar was narrating … Many years ago, I had occasion to visit my father's homeland, and naturally I called upon the current head of the family to pay my respects. At first I was regarded with some suspicion. When I produced my little Bargar, of course, I was welcomed with joy and great hospitality. I was even presented to the original Bargar—and yes, he spoke to me! It was a very moving experience."

  With a superb sense of timing, the soldier paused then to take a swallow of ale. He chuckled. "My so-splendid relations found me a rather rough companion, I fear. I did not fit well into their balls and banquets, and my conversation was more direct than they favored among themselves. But I struck up a friendship with a couple of the younger sons, who took me off hunting. That was more to my taste, and more to my abilities, also. We got along famously then.

  "Our journey led us eventually to the ancestral home itself, a moldering old pile now lost in the woods. There, one night, I was shown some rather curious documents."

  I sat up straighter.

  Captain Tiger noted the movement and smiled drolly. "May I offer you a stein of ale, Master Omar?"

  I accepted gratefully. Fritz went to draw it—a rather skimpy measure. Having teased us enough, the old rogue resumed his story.

  "One of my … cousins, I suppose they were … the younger of my new friends, anyway, was indiscreet enough in his cups one night to remark that, for all their airs and graces, for all their titles and orders and ribbons, my grand relations were every one descended from a mere soldier of fortune like myself. He found that fact inexpressibly amusing. At least, that night he did. Eventually he went away to some distant attic and returned with a very decrepit wooden box. It was Algazanian work, ibex and cheetahs … no matter.