The Red Wolf Conspiracy Part 6

The Merchant's Polylex: 5,400 Pages of Wisdom 13th Edition

"You will remember the number thirteen," said the Mother Prohibitor. Then she ripped out the page. Greatly confused, Thasha watched her tear it into many pieces and drop them into the bucket with the dying catfish. "Have you seen a Polylex Polylex before?" the woman asked. before?" the woman asked.

"Lots of them," said Thasha. "My father has--"

"The newest edition. Of course he does. Every sailing man of means owns a Polylex Polylex, if he owns any book at all. It is a traveler's companion--an encyclopedia, dictionary and history of the world, written and rewritten over centuries and published anew every twenty years. What are you thinking?"

Thasha blushed. "I'm sorry, Your Grace. My father says the Merchant's Polylex Merchant's Polylex is full of rubbish and rot." is full of rubbish and rot."

The Mother Prohibitor frowned, so that her eyebrows met like crossed knives. "This particular copy is rare. Some would call it priceless. Keep it near you--and read it now and again, girl. Decide for yourself what is rubbish, and what is gold. Now put it away, and show me that hand of yours."

Thasha knew which hand she meant. The old woman turned it palm-up and traced the old wound with her fingers. Thasha's mind was a-whirl. Why would the Mother Prohibitor make her such a gift when she had barely dodged disgrace? Why were they talking at all?

"Somewhere in the Polylex Polylex," said the Mother Prohibitor, "you will find a legend from the old kingdom of Nohirin about another girl with a wounded hand. She was called Erithusme, and she was born without fear. She laughed at earthquakes, crawled under elephants' feet, ran into burning fields to admire the flames. But on her sixteenth birthday the king of Nohirin came with his warriors and took her away to the north of that land, a place of ice-sheathed mountains, and ordered her to enter a high cave and fetch out what she found there.

"The king knew well what she would find: a magical weapon called the Nilstone, one of the great horrors of history. None knew whence it came. Out of the gullet of a dragon, said some. Fallen from the moon or a wander-star, others claimed. But all agreed that it was evil. The king's own great-grandfather had hurled it into the cave, and for a century no one who ventured within had returned alive. But fearless as ever, Erithusme went in, braving pits and ice-weirds and darkness, and at last she found the Nilstone.

"It lay surrounded by frozen corpses--all the men the king had sent before her, slain the instant their fingers touched the cursed device. But when the girl lifted it she felt only a tiny pinp.r.i.c.k on her hand. And when she took it from the cave she was possessed of powers beyond any mage in Alifros. With a word she scattered the king's army; with a snap of her fingers she called up a gryphon to bear her away. For three years Erithusme flew from land to land, working magic such as none had ever seen. Here she quelled a plague; there she made springs flow where sandstorms had raged the day before.

"But all did not go well. She stoppered a volcano, and three others exploded nearby. She drove the old king of Nohirin from power, and nine evil princes fought for his throne, begging her aid to slay one another. And she found that the stone had begun to burn her palm where she held it. Confused, Erithusme flew to the sacred isle of Rappopolni, and entered the Dawn Temple there, and knelt before the high priestess.

"Extending her hand, she said, 'I can work miracles; why can I not heal this little burn?' The priestess replied: 'Because even you, my daughter, are not entirely free of fear. No man or woman can be. Through fear the Nilstone is poisoning you, and turning your good deeds to ruin. Your choices are but two: cast it away and become yourself again, or keep it and die.'"

The Mother Prohibitor still held Thasha's hand. Thasha waited, barely breathing.

"A legend," the old woman said at last. "And a warning, for some. You may look up the ending in your spare time. Now then, my other gift is a reminder. A Lorg Daughter is never alone. On the path you are doomed to tread, one of us at least will be near you. Remember, Thasha: in dire need you may call upon her; she cannot refuse. Now I must work. Is there anything you would ask me?"

Thasha blinked. To her amazement, she felt like crying. "My P-Promissory Tree, Your Grace. Must I kill it, with my own hand?"

Every girl entering the Lorg planted a cherry tree in the Promissory Orchard, which filled half the compound and was now in radiant bloom. Dropouts had to uproot their saplings and chop them to bits.

The Mother Prohibitor looked at her for a silent time. Then she raised her hand and made the sign of the Tree over Thasha's head.

"It has taken root, child," she said at last. "I think we must let it grow."

She turned her back without another word. Thasha left the hatchery, nearly blubbering. She loved them! Which was madness! She couldn't wait to be gone. Was it possible the old woman realized that kindness would hurt longer than cruelty as a parting gift? Or was she, Thasha, so plainly ugly inside that she saw even peace gestures as attacks?

Did they know her better than she knew herself?

Almost running, she made her way through the Great Hall. Earlier that day she had sent her belongings by coach, and made her goodbyes, which were bitter. The few friends she had told Thasha she was abandoning them. Could she deny it?

At the gatehouse the ward-sister let her into a small changing room. Alone, Thasha dried her eyes and untied her bundle of clothes. She laughed: there were the man's shirt and breeches, and even the longsh.o.r.eman's cap. She had worn all these to the gate two years ago, in protest at her banishment. They were a little snug now.

When she had changed, she stepped out of the room and surrendered her school cloak.

"I'll keep it safe for you," said the ward-sister.

This was taking ceremony too far, Thasha thought. But she bowed her thanks, and the woman unlocked a small door in the fanged gate, and Thasha stepped out, free, into an exquisite summer evening and a breeze off the Ool.

She took three happy steps--and froze. A thought struck her like a boot to the shins.

She walked back to the gate. "Ward-sister!" she called. "You say you'll keep my cloak safe? What for?"

The woman looked over her shoulder. "Don't be obtuse, child. For wearing."

Thasha drew a deep breath. "Yes, Sister, for wearing. I apologize for my imprecision."

"Quite so. Good night."

"Sister, please, I meant to ask, who who are you keeping--" are you keeping--"

"Whom!"

"Whom, whom, yes," said Thasha, squeezing her eyes shut. "Whom "Whom are you keeping it for?" are you keeping it for?"

"For whom is preferable, of course. Whatever is the matter, child--are you ill? We shall keep it for you." is preferable, of course. Whatever is the matter, child--are you ill? We shall keep it for you."

"But I'm not coming back."

The Sister clucked impatiently. "The letter from your father's, your father's ... from the Lady Syrarys announces quite plainly his request for your temporary removal from--"

"Temporary!" shouted Thasha.

"With the aim of improving your manners, no doubt!" snapped the ward-sister. "Three feet beyond the gate and she starts interrupting! May the Angel forgive you! A charwoman's girl would know better, but not the amba.s.sador's daughter, no, she--"

"Amba.s.sador!"

"Miss Thasha, you are screeching my words back at me like a circus macaw! For the last time I bid you good night!" good night!"

Thasha ran as she had not run since fleeing the constable, the leather pouch under her arm. All the bright life of Etherhorde--laughing boys in a fountain, old men throwing knackerb.a.l.l.s on a close-trimmed lawn, a sourdough heat from the baker's door, Nunekkam flutes in the shadows like whistlers in a cave--all this she barely noticed despite two years of longing for it. Suddenly the evening made a horrid kind of sense. They meant to send her back! Thasha knew it had never happened before: the Accateo Accateo did not grant leaves of absence. It had to be her father. Only he could be influential enough to challenge seven centuries of rust-rigid practice. did not grant leaves of absence. It had to be her father. Only he could be influential enough to challenge seven centuries of rust-rigid practice.

Eberzam Isiq was a retired admiral, commander of not just a ship but a whole fleet that had swept down the Chereste Coast five years ago, from Ulsprit to a place called Ormael. What was it all about? Killing pirates, some said. Killing rebels, traitors to the Imperium, said others. Her father had just chuckled and said it was a matter of opinion.

But everyone seemed to agree that it had been a mighty victory, and that her father was the hero of the campaign. At banquets, fat dukes and generals pressed their wine-sour lips to Thasha's cheek. Such an elegant girl! Eberzam has the G.o.ds' own luck! Such an elegant girl! Eberzam has the G.o.ds' own luck! They said her father would make Prefect of Etherhorde one day, or perhaps governor of one of the greater Arquali territories. It made little difference to Thasha. All she knew was that her father had come back wounded--struck in the head by a fragment of cannonball--and that his illness began shortly thereafter. They said her father would make Prefect of Etherhorde one day, or perhaps governor of one of the greater Arquali territories. It made little difference to Thasha. All she knew was that her father had come back wounded--struck in the head by a fragment of cannonball--and that his illness began shortly thereafter.

He was better now, or so the letters from Syrarys claimed (Eberzam himself had written just twice, on her birthdays). But an amba.s.sadorship? That meant sailing beyond the Empire, didn't it? And why send an old warrior across oceans to speak for Arqual?

Obeying a sudden impulse, Thasha crossed the road, climbed a low fence and dropped into Gallows Park. It was darker under the park's old oaks and conifers, but it would save her five blocks. She ran downhill, barely glancing at the famous wishing-well (some girl was always crying there, ostentatiously), or the melted iron lump that was a monument to the Heroic Blacksmiths, or the glowing webs of the torch spiders luring moths into the trees. At last she reached the Ool, flanked here by a ruined wall left over from days when bandits still dared to cross the river into Etherhorde. A few fishermen crouched among the gloomy stones. Otherwise the park looked deserted.

If it was her father who wrote to the Lorg, Thasha decided, it was Syrarys who put the pen in his hand. Every year they were together her influence over the admiral grew. And although she had never spoken of it, Thasha was all but convinced that Syrarys was behind the decision to send her away in the first place.

How long had they told the Sisters she would be gone? A month? A week?

I'll change his mind, she thought. I have to, I I have to, I-- "Pah! Too easy!"

An arm caught her broadside across the chest. From the corner of her eye she saw a tall man step through a gap in the ruined wall. The arm that had stopped her slid to her throat and jerked her toward the gap.

No time to think. Thasha drove an elbow into the man's side, twisted out from under his arm and flung herself backward and away. Her fists were raised to strike him again. But she was off-balance, winded by his first blow. Some root or stone caught her heel, and she fell.

Instantly the man was on her. A knee pinned her legs to the ground. A dagger! In the fastest act of her life Thasha flailed at the blade as the man stabbed downward. But she was not fast enough. It was over, and she'd barely felt it. The knife was buried to the hilt in her chest.

"Dead," said the man. "Dead for a five-penny sweet."

One shock chased another: she was still breathing, she felt no pain, she appeared unharmed. Strangest of all, the face of her attacker belonged to a friend.

"Hercol! You monster!"

"You are quick," said the man, "and stronger than I recall. But carelessness trumps both speed and muscle. It is one thing to scurry through a park at night, another to do so with your mind in a fog."

"I was so anxious to get home."

The man's eyebrows rose. "If you dare make excuses to me." me."

"No excuses. I'm sorry, Hercol, I failed. May I get up now?"

The man lifted a hilt without a blade from her chest, then rose and helped her to her feet. He was a slender, elfin-eyed man in middle years, with unruly hair and somewhat threadbare clothes. Now that he was no longer attacking her he a.s.sumed a cordial air, folding his hands behind his back and smiling fondly. Thasha looked at her chest: bits of a glittering something clung to her blouse.

"Sugar knife," said Hercol. "A very popular candy. Boys across the city play with those foul things, more's the pity."

"I never thought my first fight would be with you."

"Be glad it was."

Hercol Stanapeth was her old dance instructor, from the days before the Lorg. But Thasha had learned (from certain military cousins) that he also taught fighting--that he was, in fact, from Tholja.s.sa, where princes the world over sent for bodyguards. The cousins whispered of great deeds at arms, long ago, but Hercol would not speak of his past. He also refused to give her fighting lessons, until she began paying bullies in the street for black eyes and b.l.o.o.d.y noses. She did not fool him with this tactic, but she did convince him of her desire to learn. His price: strictest secrecy, even from her father. If there was no law against training girls to hit and kick and use knives, it was merely because such an outrage had not occurred to anyone.

"Let us be off," he said. "Even I do not linger here after dark."

They set off along the Ool. Bats skimmed low over the water, feasting on flies. In the south the countless stars that made up the Milk Tree were starting to wink above the hills.

"My letters reached you?" Thasha asked.

Hercol nodded. "I commend your decision, Thasha. The Lorg is an abomination. And of course I am happy to see you myself. What's that you're carrying?"

Thasha handed him the leather pouch, now slightly muddied. "It's just an old Merchant's Polylex Merchant's Polylex. The Mother Prohibitor just gave it to me. She told me a strange story from it as well, about a girl called Erithusme and her Nilstone."

"She spoke to you of the Nilstone!" said Hercol sharply. "I dare say you won't find mention of that in the Polylex." Polylex."

"The Mother Prohibitor said I would," said Thasha. "But don't worry, I know the book can't be trusted. And this one's the thirteenth edition, so it's completely out of date."

Hercol's hand froze. "You mean of course the fourteenth edition. Or the twelfth?"

Thasha shook her head. "The thirteenth. I saw the t.i.tle page, before the Mother Prohibitor tore it out. Why she did that I can't imagine--she said it was one of the most valuable books in the school."

"The most valuable, I should think. And the most dangerous. Put it away." He handed it back to her. most valuable, I should think. And the most dangerous. Put it away." He handed it back to her.

They walked on, Hercol frowning slightly. At last he spoke again.

"You're right, of course. A normal Polylex Polylex is a hotchpotch: the work of brilliant explorers and charlatans, geniuses and frauds, all bound together in a single volume. The newest version, for instance, declares quite seriously that Tholja.s.sans cannot be harmed by Tholja stingrays. Trust me, we can. is a hotchpotch: the work of brilliant explorers and charlatans, geniuses and frauds, all bound together in a single volume. The newest version, for instance, declares quite seriously that Tholja.s.sans cannot be harmed by Tholja stingrays. Trust me, we can.

"But the thirteenth Polylex Polylex is an entirely different matter. Each book is written by the Ocean Explorers' Guild, which is an ancient club of sailors and businessmen here in Etherhorde. His Supremacy the Emperor is their honorary president, and approves each new is an entirely different matter. Each book is written by the Ocean Explorers' Guild, which is an ancient club of sailors and businessmen here in Etherhorde. His Supremacy the Emperor is their honorary president, and approves each new Polylex Polylex before it is sold. No one took the book seriously until a century ago, when the thirteenth before it is sold. No one took the book seriously until a century ago, when the thirteenth Polylex Polylex was written. Its editor was a man named Pazel Doldur. He was the brightest historian of his time--and the first in his family ever to go to school. They were poor folk: his father and elder brother joined the army because no one starved in uniform. Both were killed in mountain campaigns. Afterward his heartbroken mother sent Doldur to the university, on 'gold the Emperor pays to widows and mothers,' she claimed. As I say, he was brilliant, and studied hard. But his mother soon grew ill and died. It was only decades later, when he was starting work on the was written. Its editor was a man named Pazel Doldur. He was the brightest historian of his time--and the first in his family ever to go to school. They were poor folk: his father and elder brother joined the army because no one starved in uniform. Both were killed in mountain campaigns. Afterward his heartbroken mother sent Doldur to the university, on 'gold the Emperor pays to widows and mothers,' she claimed. As I say, he was brilliant, and studied hard. But his mother soon grew ill and died. It was only decades later, when he was starting work on the Polylex Polylex, that Doldur learned she had given her body to lords and princes in the Emperor's court, night after night, in exchange for his school money. Her disease came from one of those men."

"How perfectly ghastly!"

Hercol nodded. "Doldur lost his mind with guilt. But he devised a brilliant revenge. It took many years, but he transformed the Polylex Polylex into an honest book: honest enough to shame all the wicked men alive, his Emperor included. It told of slave profits and deathsmoke peddlers. It revealed the existence of the Prison Isle of Licherog--imagine, there was a time when no one knew of the place! It told how merchants buy children from the Flikkermen to work in factories and mines. It named the ma.s.sacres, the burned villages and other crimes of war that kings had worked so hard to make their subjects forget. into an honest book: honest enough to shame all the wicked men alive, his Emperor included. It told of slave profits and deathsmoke peddlers. It revealed the existence of the Prison Isle of Licherog--imagine, there was a time when no one knew of the place! It told how merchants buy children from the Flikkermen to work in factories and mines. It named the ma.s.sacres, the burned villages and other crimes of war that kings had worked so hard to make their subjects forget.

"All this he hid, in bits and pieces, within the usual five thousand pages of flotsam. And the Emperor never noticed. Perhaps he never read a word. In any case, he quickly gave Doldur his blessing. The thirteenth Polylex Polylex was copied and sold. was copied and sold.

"The scandal tore this Empire apart: others did did read carefully, you see. Within a year, Doldur had been executed, and nearly every copy of his book tracked down and burned. Merely to speak of a thirteenth edition was dangerous. To be caught with one was punished by death." read carefully, you see. Within a year, Doldur had been executed, and nearly every copy of his book tracked down and burned. Merely to speak of a thirteenth edition was dangerous. To be caught with one was punished by death."

"Death!" cried Thasha. "Hercol, why on earth would the Mother Prohibitor give such a book to me me?"

"A fine question. Twenty years have pa.s.sed since I last heard of someone caught with that book. An old witch, I believe. On Pulduraj."

"What happened to her?"

"She was tied to a dead mule and thrown into the sea."

Thasha stared at the innocent-looking pouch. "I knew knew they didn't like me," she said. they didn't like me," she said.

They crossed the footbridge over the old millers' ca.n.a.l. Hercol touched his closed fist to his forehead, as she had seen him do at the center of other bridges: a Tholja.s.san custom, he had told her, but what it signified he would not say.

After a few minutes the words burst out of her: "What should I do with this blary thing?"

Hercol shrugged. "Burn it. Or read it, learn from it, live with the danger of possessing it. Or take it to the authorities and condemn the Mother Prohibitor to death."

"You're a big help."

"Moral choice is not my sphere of instruction."

Thasha's face lit up suddenly. "Hercol! When can our fighting lessons start again?"

Hercol did not return her smile. "Not soon, I'm afraid. Much is happening in this city, and for good or ill I have become a part of it. The fact is I must leave you in a few minutes, and before that I have something to say. Something it were best you told your father, and soon."

He led her away from the river and into a dark stand of firs. Stopping by a large tree, he crouched low and motioned for her to do the same.

"Your family is being watched, Thasha," he whispered. "The admiral, the Lady, Nama and the other servants--now you as well. Somehow they knew you were leaving the Lorg tonight. If one good thing came of your rash plunge into this park, it is that you lost your watcher. You very nearly lost me."

"Watching us? Why?" Thasha was astounded. "Is this about what the ward-sister mentioned? An amba.s.sadorship?"

Hercol shook his head. "Don't ask me to speculate. And the fewer people you speak to about your father's business, the better. Come now, if you tarry longer they will know you met someone in the park."

They rose and walked on, fir needles crunching underfoot. Ahead, the glow of fengas lamps pierced the trees.

"Hercol," said Thasha, "do you have any any idea who they are?" idea who they are?"