out the window facing north, she finally found a visible wrongness. The sky glowed away toward the north wall. The glow steadily brightened. She knew what it was. Fire. But what flames they must be! To cause such a widespread glow, the fire must be beyond all control. Her apprehension increased. She turned to the clothing set out for the morning.
She had just finished dressing-and was cursing a broken fingernail-when the knocker at her door sounded.
“Enter!” she called, certain she sounded terrified.
Rolf came in, face grim.
“Well?”
“Bad news, Milady.”
“I’ve seen the fires. What’s happening?”
“An attack. Hillmen bandits have crossed the wall. There must be a thousand of them, killing, plundering.”
Nepanthe frowned. What the devil?
Rolf continued, “The troops are fighting well, under the circumstances.”
“Rolf, I don’t want to call you a liar, but... well, we both know none of the hill tribes are that big. Hardly any could muster a hundred warriors, counting cripples, old men, and boys. Fighting well under what circumstances?”
“Perhaps I exaggerate, but I’ll swear there’re more than five hundred. I saw at least a dozen tribal totems. They’ve got some kind of overall warchief.
“The circumstances are these: your enemies here have joined the bandits. They’re attacking us from behind. Our partisans are attacking them. It’s absolute chaos. I can’t keep civil order and defend the city both.”
“When did it start?”
“Three hours ago, Milady.”
“Why wasn’t I informed?”
“There seemed no need at first. Then I didn’t have time.”
Faintly, the roars of fighting and fire reached Nepanthe’s ears. Furtive shadows raced through the streets below her window, some away from, some toward, the stricken quarter. “The hillman warchief, did you see him? What did he look like?” Unreasonably, she was certain what Rolf’s answer would be.
“Tall, thin, dark of skin, face like a hawk’s, eyes that look like you can see Hell’s fires burning through them. He’s not a hillman, northman, or Iwa Skolovdan, nor a westerner. A southerner, I’d guess. From the deserts. I heard his name, but can’t remember it. They called him wizard.”
“Varthlokkur!” Nepanthe spat, freighting the name with anger and fear.
“Milady?” Rolf frowned. He had heard the name before. Where? Ah. The old chanson, The Wizards of Ilkazar. But that made no sense. That Varthlokkur had lived hundreds of years ago.
“For years I’ve dreaded that name, Rolf.” Her spirits sagged. She became a lost, frightened little girl, “What can I do? Why did Turran leave me alone? He’d know what to do.” She wept. It had been a long time since she had. Then she grew hysterical, began raving.
Awed, distressed, and uncertain how he should react, Rolf ran to Saltimbanco’s apartment.
The fat man wakened with a long-winded, flowery curse in which Rolf’s hopefully illegitimate children were damned for generations.
“Mocker, shut your goddamned mouth and listen!” He drew back, ready to slap the fat man.
Saltimbanco considered the grim face above him, and the name that had been spoken. “What happens?”
“Haroun’s here. Early. He’s outnumbered, but I’ve confused things so much he can’t help but win.”
“Self, assume this is plan.”
“Yes. But when I reported the attack and described Haroun, the woman got hysterical, started raving about Varthlokkurs, Fangdreds, El Kabars. You better quiet her down, or she’ll blow the whole operation...”
“Self, am acknowledged master of hysterics-soothing. Am also one distressed by naming of secret names. Mocker is dead...”
Moments later, Saltimbanco burst into Nepanthe’s apartment, seated himself with her in his ample lap, began comforting. He tried to discover what lay behind her collapse, but failed. She had regained control.
“Self,” he declared suddenly, rising abruptly, catching her just before she hit the floor,
She had just finished dressing-and was cursing a broken fingernail-when the knocker at her door sounded.
“Enter!” she called, certain she sounded terrified.
Rolf came in, face grim.
“Well?”
“Bad news, Milady.”
“I’ve seen the fires. What’s happening?”
“An attack. Hillmen bandits have crossed the wall. There must be a thousand of them, killing, plundering.”
Nepanthe frowned. What the devil?
Rolf continued, “The troops are fighting well, under the circumstances.”
“Rolf, I don’t want to call you a liar, but... well, we both know none of the hill tribes are that big. Hardly any could muster a hundred warriors, counting cripples, old men, and boys. Fighting well under what circumstances?”
“Perhaps I exaggerate, but I’ll swear there’re more than five hundred. I saw at least a dozen tribal totems. They’ve got some kind of overall warchief.
“The circumstances are these: your enemies here have joined the bandits. They’re attacking us from behind. Our partisans are attacking them. It’s absolute chaos. I can’t keep civil order and defend the city both.”
“When did it start?”
“Three hours ago, Milady.”
“Why wasn’t I informed?”
“There seemed no need at first. Then I didn’t have time.”
Faintly, the roars of fighting and fire reached Nepanthe’s ears. Furtive shadows raced through the streets below her window, some away from, some toward, the stricken quarter. “The hillman warchief, did you see him? What did he look like?” Unreasonably, she was certain what Rolf’s answer would be.
“Tall, thin, dark of skin, face like a hawk’s, eyes that look like you can see Hell’s fires burning through them. He’s not a hillman, northman, or Iwa Skolovdan, nor a westerner. A southerner, I’d guess. From the deserts. I heard his name, but can’t remember it. They called him wizard.”
“Varthlokkur!” Nepanthe spat, freighting the name with anger and fear.
“Milady?” Rolf frowned. He had heard the name before. Where? Ah. The old chanson, The Wizards of Ilkazar. But that made no sense. That Varthlokkur had lived hundreds of years ago.
“For years I’ve dreaded that name, Rolf.” Her spirits sagged. She became a lost, frightened little girl, “What can I do? Why did Turran leave me alone? He’d know what to do.” She wept. It had been a long time since she had. Then she grew hysterical, began raving.
Awed, distressed, and uncertain how he should react, Rolf ran to Saltimbanco’s apartment.
The fat man wakened with a long-winded, flowery curse in which Rolf’s hopefully illegitimate children were damned for generations.
“Mocker, shut your goddamned mouth and listen!” He drew back, ready to slap the fat man.
Saltimbanco considered the grim face above him, and the name that had been spoken. “What happens?”
“Haroun’s here. Early. He’s outnumbered, but I’ve confused things so much he can’t help but win.”
“Self, assume this is plan.”
“Yes. But when I reported the attack and described Haroun, the woman got hysterical, started raving about Varthlokkurs, Fangdreds, El Kabars. You better quiet her down, or she’ll blow the whole operation...”
“Self, am acknowledged master of hysterics-soothing. Am also one distressed by naming of secret names. Mocker is dead...”
Moments later, Saltimbanco burst into Nepanthe’s apartment, seated himself with her in his ample lap, began comforting. He tried to discover what lay behind her collapse, but failed. She had regained control.
“Self,” he declared suddenly, rising abruptly, catching her just before she hit the floor,
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