"Chaos?" Greenwillow was shocked into speech. "People farm the land and trade! Rarely do they fight, and there are no plagues that I've heard of!"
"The chaos of the heart and mind, then," continued the commander. Most of his soldiers didn't listen. Obviously they'd heard this speech before, many times. But a couple of the men followed the arguments as if memorizing them. "And the chaos wrought by the Neth."
"The Neth? You'd challenge the Neth?" asked Greenwillow. Sunbright elbowed her sharply, a signal not to antagonize their host.
"Aye, we would. The day has come for a new order, a new way of doing things-especially about the Netherese. But this new order can be achieved only through the imposition of a strong authority, a wise but absolute ruler. A broad broom cleanses the land. See what the One King has wrought already: orcs and men and even elves sitting and discoursing peaceably by a fire."
The last was pure moose dung, thought the barbarian. If he and the elf had their way, they'd have topped three hills by now. Only the threat of superior numbers kept them still. And any argument founded on a lie, he knew, would just form a bigger heap of lies.
But to keep the man-orc talking, Greenwillow asked, "Please, tell us more about this One King."
As if she'd plucked her finger from a dam, a torrent of words spilled forth from the zealous commander. The One King was all-wise, for he could see into the past and future, and into other parts of the world. He knew the minds of men and orcs and elves and Netherese. He'd lived a long time, studying in his youth, suffering to seek knowledge in the far reaches of the world, meditating on high, rocky crags until the snow came to his chin, questioning the wisest of the wise. And, learning at last all there was to learn, he'd come to understand the world and how its ills might be corrected… once he gained the cooperation of every living thing.
Cooperation! The barbarian wanted to spit. More, he wanted to leap up and smite off this smug bastard's head. How could anyone be so dense as to surrender himself to a tyrant who'd either have your "cooperation" or else boil you alive? It was madness! But a frightening madness, if this king's rantings could inspire such fervent loyalty in a pack of hideous orcs that they bypassed fat human farms and camped by night in the open road lest their campfire ignite the fields. This One King must be as persuasive as Selune, She Who Guides. Or more so.
Seething, disputing everything in his head, though wisely not aloud, Sunbright bore the twisted arguments like someone staked on an anthill. And eventually the orcish commander ran out of steam, yawned, and excused himself. Unrolling his blanket, he insisted Greenwillow and Sunbright pass the night here, "safe," for he would post a guard. Quietly, the two agreed and unfurled their blankets.
But in the bustle, Sunbright hissed, "How could you stand to debate that lunkhead? He's as loony as a moon maid!"
"Hush!" snapped Greenwillow. "Any fact about the One King is another arrow in my quiver. You can never know too much about an enemy. I'll take first watch."
"Agreed." The camp would have two posted guards and one unposted one, for the barbarian and half-elf would keep surreptitious watch themselves. As he settled down, Sunbright eased Harvester into his blanket alongside him. He did that every night anyway, but this night, he drew the naked blade and slept against that.
And dreamed of orcs and elves and humans dancing around a maypole. They were singing gaily, naked except for garlands of flowers around their necks and brows. Impaled atop the pole was Sunbright's head, eyes staring in disbelief.
Candlemas scratched the back of his left hand, which had finally healed, although it itched as if fiends cavorted under the skin. He then scratched his neck, which was confined in a high stock of red leather that gouged the underside of his chin. He hated fine clothes and parties, for both were invariably uncomfortable. And the room was hot from hundreds of bodies and a thousand candles.
The whole mansion, in fact, was lit with candles from one end to another, and the mage reckoned only powerful shield spells kept the place from igniting. There was not a spot anywhere that wasn't decorated with triple-thick gilt or bright paint or some mural of great deeds and fantastic beasts and sorrowful romances. There were layers of curtains, tapestries, and paintings, as well as crystal and silver chandeliers, stuffed beasts and monsters, and items and oddities from the world over. And this fantastic palace, he reminded himself, was only one of several owned by his host, Tyralhorn the Archmage, who was in turn only one of several in this city of Anauria, a High City second only to Most-High Karsus. Lady Polaris herself owned two palaces here and others elsewhere, as well as her "country cottage," what she sometimes called the vast floating castle of Delia, where Candlemas was steward. The highest archmages of Netheril pursued mainly magics and excitement, but somehow wealth and property seemed to stick to their fingers in their search.
And the entirety of this mansion-every candlestick and bauble and self-emptying golden chamber pot-existed to impress other archmages, in a vast unending quest of competition to be the largest, richest, and gaudiest.
Sometimes Candlemas found himself wondering why the archmages sought to surround themselves with ever more gewgaws and gadgets. Yet he knew, if he had the chance to do the same…
" 'Mas, you came! How wonderful!"
Breezing toward him came Sysquemalyn. She wore a vast flowing gown in all the colors of the rainbow, yards of silken material that sprouted from her shoulders and trailed behind her, even sweeping in an arch behind her head of piled and bejeweled red hair, yet managing somehow to leave both breasts nearly bare. Oohing and ahhing, she circled Candlemas and twitted him about his fine clothes, a short brocade toga that crossed one shoulder and hung behind him and breeches of silk, hand-painted with interlaced flowers, and worn with red leather shoes. "My, my. You won't want to mix your stinky potions in those clothes! Were they to catch fire, you'd be days getting the flaming remnants off! And look at your lovely hand! So much nicer than the last one!"
Giggling, she caught his left hand and kissed the hairy back, but Candlemas yanked it away. He'd had a serving girl grind powder and mix makeup to disguise the lighter color of the new skin, hoping no one would notice, for if they did, the knowledge that Sysquemalyn had shorn off his arm would get around. One thing all the bored archmages collected avidly was gossip.
"Don't mock me," the mage growled. "This hand keeps me awake nights for itching. And you cheated in removing it, I'll remind you. Just as you cheated siccing that Hunt on my barbarian! He's supposed to survive tests of strength, but that was outside the rules!"
"Oh, come now!" Sysquemalyn, smiling at a young mage who pranced behind a jutting green codpiece and little else, patted her hair into place. "We all know that the only rule about magic is that there are no rules."
"But there are wagers, and honest bets require honest players. But you-"
"Honest?" The mage objected loudly. "You had him escort a traveling party of delegates! And sent him a raven for a familiar!"
"The merest buffer because I knew you'd cheat!"
"So," countered Sysquemalyn, "we're left wondering who cheated first. Which just adds to the game and makes it more diverting. We never know what will happen next. I haven't had this much fun in years, so let's not quit now. I've got something absolutely devilish planned for your barbarian. But excuse me, dear 'Mas, I must prepare for my entertainment. The Great White Cow-excuse me, Lady Polaris-commands, and I obey. Ta ta!"