When Goania called, they came back to find Malgo standing blank-faced. The magical cords that had bound him now dangled harmlessly from the fist of the wizardess.
"Give your command, Jorian," said Goania. 'Take not too long about it."
"Malgo!" said Jorian. "Wilt obey my command?"
"Aye, sir," growled Malgo.
"Then you shall leave Othomae City forthwith, travel east to Vindium, and take ship as a deckhand for the Kuromon Empire, or the Gwoling Islands, or Salimor, on whatever ship thither bound has a berth open. Do you understand?"
"Aye, sir. Can I stop back to my room to get supplies for the journey?"
"Aye, but without needless delays. Now go!"
Like a walking corpse, Malgo shambled out the door and into the night. Jorian said: "By the time the command loses power, he'll be well on his way to the Far East. Once aboard ship, 'twill avail him naught to change his mind. If he survive the voyage, he could not get back in a year, by which time I hope to be elsewhere."
"Can I dress your wound?" said Goania.
"Nay, it is but a scratch. Betwixt my thick skull and Doctor Karadur's best turban, I have nought worse than a slight headache. And thanks for saving my life, Boso."
Boso scuffed his shoe. "Oh, that was nought. You once saved mine, when we fell into Lake Volkina. Besides, you said you liked my cooking."
On the way back to the inn for the second time, Jorian told Margalit: "It is strange. I've fought with Boso thrice—not mere words, but twice with fists and once with swords. It started when he learned I was the son of the man who built Othomae's chiming municipal water clock, thus ending his job as the city's gong ringer.
"Either of us might have killed the other, for he has the thews of an ox. I thought he hated me. At the same time, I did drag him out of that lake when the Goblin Tower fell; and now he saves me from being chopped up like kindling."
Limping from her fall, Margalit said: "I once read in the Aphorisms of Achaemo that one should treat every friend as if he might some day become an enemy, and every foe as if he might some day become a friend."
Jorian grinned in the darkness. "Good worldly advice. But I don't think I could imagine you as my enemy, Margalit."
Chapter Eight THE MARSHES OF MORU
IN THE MONTH OF THE DRAGON, JORIAN RECEIVED AN UNsigned letter, in Kerin's hand, reading: the fish has swallowed the hook. As soon as they could gather their gear, Jorian, Karadur, and Margalit set out. Karadur and the girl, the latter in the masculine attire she had worn to Mount Aravia, rode in a cart with a canvas top and two large wheels, drawn by Filoman the mule. Jorian had spent many weary days in training the balky animal to obey the reins and was not altogether satisfied with the results.
Jorian himself rode a new horse, Cadwil, of better quality than the late Fimbri. When a storm blew up, Jorian crowded into the cart and led the horse behind the vehicle.
Short of the Xylarian border, Jorian took a side road that led southwesterly through the forest, clad in the dense green foliage of late summer, toward the Marshes of Moru. When the road petered out to a mere track, he halted, tethered the animals, and left Margalit in charge. He also left her his crossbow with instructions for its use. He was pleased to find that she, unlike most women, was strong enough to cock it.
Jorian and Karadur set out afoot. They followed a copy of a map from the Grand Ducal archives and Jorian's memory of the country from his flight through it nearly three years before. Flies buzzed round their heads; Jorian slapped one that bit him in the neck. The woods resounded with the metallic song of cicadas.
At the time of Jorian's previous visit to this area, Rhithos the Smith had laid a confusion spell on the forest around his house. He did this as a favor to the Silvans, the aboriginal inhabitants, to keep hunters and woodcutters out of their woods. In return, the Silvans furnished Rhithos and Vanora, who was then his slave, with food. But when Rhithos had tried to kill Jorian in order to put a spell on a magical sword he was making, Jorian killed him instead. So the spell was broken.
They had been walking the trail for an hour, going slowly because of Karadur's age, when Jorian jerked his head back as something whispered past him. The sound ended in a sharp tick. Jorian saw a dart sticking in a tree beside the trail; he pulled it out. The point had been smeared with some sticky stuff.
"That must be the doing of the Silvans," said the Mulvanian. "It is doubtless poisoned."
"I thought they dwelt leagues farther east, in the vicinage of Rhithos's house?"
"Nay, they range widely through the forest belt north of the Lograms."
"But why should they shoot at me?"
"You slew their ally the smith. We had better get back to the wagon—"
Another whisper, and another dart struck another tree, this time behind them.
"Get down!" said Jorian, throwing himself flat on the trail. "Are they warning us, or are they merely bad shots?"
"I know not," said Karadur, lowering himself more slowly.
Jorian had already started to crawl back along the trail. Another dart struck his leather jacket; he snatched it out.
"They seek to slay us, forsooth!" he said. "There goes one of the losels!" A small, hairy, naked form with pointed ears and a tail flitted among the trees. "And me without my trusty crossbow! Canst work a spell to get us out of this?"
"If they would stop shooting blowguns at us, I could effect another confusion spell. It is a simple magical operation."
"O Silvans!" roared Jorian, rising on his elbows. "We are friends! Come out and let us talk!" He ducked as another dart whizzed past.
"Crawl faster!" he growled, wriggling along the trail past his companion.
"I cannot keep up with you!" panted Karadur.
"If I could get close enough to seize one… Look you," Jorian whispered. "I'll pretend to be hit and dying. Do you likewise."
A dart flew at Jorian's face, but a twig deflected it at the last instant. "Ai!" screamed Jorian, thrashing about as if in his death throes. Behind him, Karadur made similar noises and motions. Then both lay still.
After what seemed a long wait, a rustle in the greenery announced the forest folk. Three appeared on the path, with blowguns made from canes. When they stepped closer, Jorian bounded to his feet and threw himself on the nearest one. Since the little fellow was only waist-high to Jorian, he was easily overcome.
The other two leaped back, squeaking in their own tongue. As they raised their blowguns, Jorian put the blade of his knife against the captive's neck.
"Don't shoot, if you want your friend alive!" he shouted.
Whether or not they understood the words, the two hesitated. Karadur came up behind Jorian and spoke in the twittering tongue of the Silvans, who answered. Then they lowered their weapons.
"What say they?" asked Jorian.
"They say they shoot all 'big folk' who trespass here. Since their friend the smith was slain, their woods are overrun with our kind."
'Tell them you will put on another confusion spell if they will leave us alone."
"I was about to do so." Karadur and the Silvans conferred further.
The Mulvanian gathered twigs and started a small fire on the trail. From one of the many internal compartments of his wallet he took a pinch of powder and sprinkled it on the blaze, intoning words. The vapors made Jorian, holding his captive, sneeze.
"They say," said Karadur, "that you may release their fellow now without fear."