The Thunder King (Bell Mountain) (27 page)

“If they let us get that close!” said Helki. “Pray we don’t find them waiting on those hills in front of us.”

Ryons had another long day of trekking, and by now he believed he was at last drawing near to Obann.

For one thing, the countryside was crisscrossed by lanes and country roads, the smaller ones deeply rutted by farmers’ carts. He passed through peach and apple orchards, passed by cornfields and wheat fields—all left untended for fear of the enemy. Having lived all his life among nomads, he didn’t think to wonder what would happen to people who’d been kept from harvesting their crops. The apples were in season and he had as many as he wanted, and Cavall caught a fat woodchuck for their meat.

As they hiked along early that afternoon, Ryons munching on an apple, through a landscape dotted with farmhouses and barns, they encountered the one thing Ryons longed to see above all else—another human being.

It was an old man with a long white beard, bald-headed, clad in a pair of work-stained overalls, sitting on a white rock at a crossroads. He looked up when Cavall barked at him. Ryons waved to him, and he waved back.

Ryons hurried to meet him, feeling like he’d run into an old and much-loved friend: that’s how lonely he was. It didn’t occur to him that his Obannese wouldn’t be good enough to be understood, or that the man might not speak Tribe-talk or Wallekki. He hungered for the sound of a friendly human voice.

He was amazed when Cavall trotted on ahead of him, stopped in front of the old man and wagged his tail ecstatically, and received a pat on the head and a ruffling of his ears. “He must be as lonely as I am!” Ryons thought: still, it was a surprising thing for a dog like Cavall to do.

“Hello!” Ryons cried. The old man smiled at him.

“Hello to you, young fellow. That’s a fine dog you’ve got here. A fellow needs a dog like him, if he’s going to go tramping all around the countryside.”

Ryons stared. The old man spoke to him in just the dialect of Wallekki that he was used to, and spoke it perfectly. It was the last thing he’d expected.

“Please, sir,” he said, “can you tell me the way to the city of Obann?”

“You’re already on the way to it, my boy. Just keep going as you’re going, and you’ll get there. It’s just across the river, another two or three days’ walk for you.”

Ryons gulped. “I didn’t know there was a river! Will I be able to cross it?”

The old man twitched his shoulders—not quite a shrug. “There was a ferry service,” he said, “but that’s not working anymore, not since the Heathen surrounded the city. They took all the boats, too. You won’t be able to find one.

“But I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you, my boy. When the time comes for you to cross the river, you’ll cross it in style.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“You’ll see. It’s no use my telling you just now, King Ryons.”

Ryons’ jaw dropped. “How do you know who I am?” he cried. “And who are you?”

“A servant of the Lord,” the old man said, “like you.”

“A prophet?”

“I suppose you could say I was a prophet. If you knew the Scriptures better, I suppose I might say more. But prophet’s good enough for now.”

“What’s your name?” Ryons asked.

“Son, you don’t really need to know that, do you?” the man said. “Now, hadn’t you best be moving on? You’ve got a whole afternoon’s worth of walking to do. And while you walk, you ought to say your prayers. For God is pleased with you.” He bent down and scratched Cavall behind the ears. The big dog grinned and wagged his tail.

“Well, then, I’ll be going,” Ryons said. “Thanks, sir. I wish we could talk some more.”

“Someday we will,” the old man said.

Ryons took a few tentative steps down the lane, then turned to wave good-bye. The man waved back. Ryons broke into his regular stride and went farther; but he wanted to see the old man one more time, so he stopped and turned to wave again.

The man was gone. The land was flat and open, there was nowhere to hide—but he was gone as if he’d vanished in a wink. Cavall looked up at Ryons and whined.

“I guess if we went back and looked for him, we wouldn’t find him,” Ryons said. “But at least we’re on the right road to Obann, and God is watching over us. Let’s go.”

Lord Gwyll addressed the nation’s oligarchs in the assembly hall. Only half of them were present, leaving many empty seats. These men had been in Obann at the beginning of the siege and couldn’t get out. The absentees were in their own towns and cities and couldn’t get in.

Around him on the dais sat the rest of the ruling council. Lord Davensay sported a shining coat of mail: outdoors in the sunshine, it would dazzle the eye. It was not the kind of armor any sane soldier would take into battle; but then Lord Davensay was no soldier. He was a rich enthusiast. The governor-general had to suppress a grimace every time he looked at him, but Gwyll was more tolerant. “The day will come,” he thought, “when we’ll need all the enthusiasm we can get.”

“In conclusion, my lords,” he said, “we look forward to the fall and winter with a good confidence in our supplies and in the morale of the populace. Nevertheless, we should devote those months to carefully planning some way to break the siege, or at least interrupt it. We do have two or three plans already in the works—but of course I’m not yet free to speak of them.”

In truth there was only one such plan, and Gwyll had but little faith in it. Lord Ruffin had ordered the city’s engineers to study the feasibility of digging a tunnel that would pass under the enemy’s siege-works and allow a surprise attack to be made on his machines and supply wagons. Gwyll doubted the city could spare the manpower for such a major project, but there was no arguing with the governor-general: Ruffin’s mind was set on it.

The oligarchs cheered Lord Gwyll’s report, voted to retain all the members of the council in their posts, and then went home to their townhouses for dinner. Gwyll and the others adjourned to their private meeting room.

“A very fine speech, Lord Gwyll,” Judge Tombo said. “But do you really think those barbarians will be able to keep up the siege through the winter?”

“Because we’re so tightly penned up in this city, my lord, I can’t send out spies,” Gwyll said. “I have no way to know how well-prepared the Heathen are, so we must plan for the worst. We must expect them to keep up the siege.”

“Well, that’s only good sense,” Tombo said.

Gwyll wondered what was wrong with Lord Reesh. The First Prester had hardly said a word all day, and he didn’t seem to be listening, either. He looked defeated, Gwyll thought.

“I don’t see how they can keep it up at the rate we’re killing them,” Lord Davensay said. “Every time they come against us, we smash them. I wish I knew how many we’ve killed. It must be rather disheartening from their point of view. Why don’t you pray a plague down on them, Lord Reesh, and put them out of their misery?”

Reesh looked up from slumping in his chair. “Maybe if they see you, my lord, they’ll all just run away,” he said; and everyone laughed but Reesh himself.

Tombo took a gentle hold on his friend’s elbow. “Are you all right, First Prester?” he asked. “You look as though you ought to go to bed.”

Reesh smiled at him—a very feeble smile, Tombo thought.

“You’re still invited to supper, if that’s what’s troubling you, Judge,” Reesh said. “I’m just tired, nothing more.”

“Then I’ll see you in a little while,” Tombo said, and with his own hands helped the First Prester into his carriage.

Once back at the Temple, Reesh summoned Gallgoid. A good servant, Gallgoid, he thought, “never questions anything I bid him do.”

“Is all prepared for Judge Tombo’s supper?”

“All, Excellency. I saw to it myself.”

“I want it to be the finest supper that he’s ever eaten here,” Reesh said, “every morsel exquisitely prepared.”

“The chef understands, First Prester.”

“Ah … good. But do you understand, Gallgoid?”

It was not the sort of question Lord Reesh normally asked his underlings; but just now he found himself very much wanting to know what Gallgoid thought.

“My lord, I understand perfectly,” said the assassin. “Everything you do, you do for the good of the Temple. But this one thing you do for your friend.”

“Make everything ready, then,” said Reesh, and dismissed him with a wave.

Tombo hardly had time to talk over his dinner; he was too busy enjoying it. There were truffles, snails in garlic butter, delicate little squabs, and the very best of Reesh’s wine. For a fat man, the judge liked dainty dishes. But he did comment on the dessert.

“My dear man—it’s almost too beautiful to eat!”

It was a model of Tombo’s own house, made of fine and brittle crystal candy with jellied fruit, chilled, packed inside it. But eat it he did. Only when he’d finished did he lean back in his chair and sigh.

“I’ve grown too old for women, Reesh,” he said, “but to tell you the truth, if the most beautiful wench in Obann invited me into her bed, I wouldn’t get up from your table!”

“Hardly an apt metaphor to set before a clergyman, my lord.”

“Oh, you mustn’t mind me!” Tombo let out a belch, too lazy to suppress it. “Dear me, where are my table manners? I think the wine’s gone to my head—I do feel just a wee bit tiddly. But it is hard to stop drinking it.” He reached for his glass, but then let his hand fall back without it. He giggled. “I say! What about that outfit poor Davensay had on today? He must have paid a pretty penny for it! And him not knowing one end of a sword from another.”

“Ridiculous,” Reesh agreed.

“You know, I’m worried about you, old boy,” said Tombo. “You don’t seem to be yourself today. I don’t think I saw you touch a mouthful of this delicious food. Anyone would think you were about to kill yourself!” He laughed at the absurdity of the thought. “But it’s not good for you, all this fasting. A man’s got to keep up his strength.”

“Your friendship is better to me than buttered snails or wine,” said Reesh. “I hope you know I’ve always treasured it.”

“Sentiment, my lord? Now I’m really worried! But never mind—I’m sure you know I feel the same. A pair of wicked old men, that’s us.”

He prattled on for a little longer, then fell asleep in his chair. He snored at first, then stopped. Quite a bit later, Gallgoid came in and felt his pulse.

“He’s dead, my lord. And I would say, from the look of him, that he had an easy passing, just as you wished.”

Reesh nodded. “You’ve done well, Gallgoid. He relished every forkful, and your poison was gentle indeed. Thank you.”

“He was an old man, Excellency,” said Gallgoid, “and you’ve spared him from sharing in the anguish of the city when it falls. Saved him from a violent death.”

“It’s your city, too,” Reesh said.

“My lord, I serve the Temple, as do you. My way of service is to carry out your wishes. It’s all I know, and all I wish to know. Where you are, First Prester, there is the Temple. I can live without my city,” Gallgoid said, “but without the Temple, I am nothing.”

It was well said, Reesh thought. “Send a message to Judge Tombo’s household,” he said, “and tell them that their lord is dead. And then to Prester Orth, that he must give the funeral oration. Tell him I want him to exercise the full power of his eloquence.”