“It wouldn’t work,” Wencit disagreed with a headshake. “Oh, the plan’s good enough, but an illusion requires a focus. I couldn’t project one that complex more than a league or two from me without something to tie it to, and that’s not far enough to do us much good.”
“What sort of focus would you be needing?” Bahzell asked intently.
“Almost anything would do in a pinch, but a living mind is best. An illusion feeds on itself, in a way; if someone at its heart can see it about him, his perception of it becomes part of the spell and helps maintain and reinforce it for other observers.”
“Does it now?” Bahzell murmured, and Brandark straightened with a jerk.
“Bahzell-!” he began sharply, but the Horse Stealer silenced him with a raised hand, never taking his own eyes from Wencit.
“Suppose you were using me for this focus of yours. I’m thinking I could be leading them a merry chase while you and Brandark saw Zarantha home.”
“No!” Brandark ignored the look Bahzell gave him and shook his head fiercely. “You’re not sneaking off without me, Bahzell!”
“Oh, hush, now! Where’s the point in risking more than one when there’s no need at all, at all, to be doing it?”
“If you’re bound and determined to be the hero in some stupid ballad, then I’ll be damned if I let you hog all the glory for yourself!” Brandark shot back in something much more like his normal tone. “And what sort of bard would miss the chance to write the ballad from the inside, anyway?”
Bahzell started to reply, but Wencit cut him off.
“It’s a generous offer, Bahzell, but I don’t think you realize what you’d be letting yourself in for. You’ve trouble enough without borrowing mine, and not just from dog brothers.”
“Do I, now?” The Horse Stealer cocked his ears at the wizard. “And just what else might it be that’s following after me?”
“I can’t say for certain.” Wencit paused, and he seemed to select his words with care when he continued. “You’re in a . . . pivotal position just now. I realize you haven’t decided to accept an, ah, offer you were recently made, but certain other powers know it was offered. They’re determined that you won’t accept it, and I expect them to take rather drastic steps to insure you don’t.”
“D’you know,” Bahzell said almost meditatively, “I’m thinking you’re knowing entirely too much about me for my peace of mind, Wencit of Rūm.”
“I’m a wizard. Wizards are supposed to know too much for other people’s peace of mind.”
“Are they, indeed? D’you suppose that might be one reason they’re after being so popular with other folk?”
“No doubt. But that doesn’t change facts, and the facts are that even without me or Zarantha along, you’re going to draw entirely too many enemies after you, wherever you go. There’s no point adding my troubles to yours.”
“I’ll grant you that, but that’s not to be saying there’s reason to be adding my troubles to yours , either. If they’re after knowing we’re together, then all we’ll do by staying so is to bring both our enemies down on all of us,” Bahzell argued. “I’ve given my word to see Zarantha safe home, and I’ll not be doing that if they’re pulling us all down and taking her back again. No, Wencit,” he shook his head. “Best to give them a target they can be seeing while you get her back to her father, and I’m thinking they’ll find me a mite hard to catch-aye, or to be doing aught with if they do run me down!”
“You,” Wencit said testily, “have a skull of solid rock!”
“It’s been said before, and no doubt with reason, but that’s not to say I’m wrong, is it now?” The Horse Stealer held the wizard’s glowing eyes steadily, and it was Wencit who looked away with an angry jerk of his head.
“Right or wrong, you’re not sneaking off without me,” Brandark repeated. Bahzell glared at him, and the Bloody Sword glared right back. “If Wencit is going to rely on stealth to avoid enemies, then he won’t need anyone to watch his back in a fight, and you will.”
“Brandark, I’m not wishful to see you dead,” Bahzell replied quietly, “and from all Wencit’s saying, this is my trouble, not yours.”
“I’ve had a little hand in getting you into it,” Brandark shot back. “Remember the cave? If I hadn’t been with you, you still might not even know what’s going on, in which case these bastards wouldn’t be chasing you. Besides, you need looking after. If I let you wander off without my guidance to keep you out of trouble, I’d never sleep soundly again.”
Bahzell opened his mouth, then shut it with a sigh as he recognized the fundamental hradani stubbornness in Brandark’s expression. The Bloody Sword snorted with an edge of triumph, then looked back at Wencit.
“And as for you,” he said, “it’s time you stopped thinking of reasons we shouldn’t do it and started considering how to do it most effectively.” Wencit blinked at the asperity of his tone, and Brandark snorted again. “For one thing, how long will you need to get enough of a start to make it impossible for them to find you?”
“I can’t make it ‘impossible,’” Wencit said mildly after a short pause. “All I can do is make it difficult.” Brandark frowned, and the wizard smiled briefly. “I take your meaning, though. Give me two or three days of clear travel, and I can make the target area so wide it would take a special miracle for them to spot me.”
“All right, then.” Brandark gave a satisfied nod. “Cast your illusion using us as the focus, but set it to vanish or dissipate or whatever the Phrobus it does after three days. When it does, they’ll realize we’ve split up, but they can’t be certain exactly when or where we did it. They’ll have to divide their efforts to look for both of us-and when they do, they’ll probably split back into factions. The ones who want you and Zarantha will pull out to hunt for you and leave us alone, and the ones who want Bahzell and me will go on chasing us and leave you alone.”
He gazed at his companions with an air of triumph, and Bahzell and Wencit blinked at one another as they realized he was right. The best they could hope for was to divide their enemies’ attention, and Brandark’s suggestion was clearly their best chance to do just that. Silence lingered about the campfire, broken only by the background howl of the storm, and then Wencit sighed.
“All right. I don’t like it, but I’ll do it.”
Chapter Thirty-one
The treeline along the southern horizon had first appeared early that morning; by the time Bahzell and Brandark stopped at midday, it was clearly defined and far darker.
“Think we’ll make the woods by nightfall?” Brandark asked as he dismounted and stood rubbing his posterior.
“Aye.” Bahzell was rummaging in a pack saddle, but he looked up to squint at the trees. Wencit had provided them (by means Bahzell preferred not to consider too deeply) with the finest maps he’d ever seen. Unless his reading of them was sadly mistaken, that was the Shipwood, straddling the Spearmen’s border with the Purple Lords, and he was relieved to see it. Four days had passed since they parted from Wencit and Zarantha, and he’d been privately certain they’d never make it this far without being overtaken by someone .
It helped that the snow had melted so quickly after the blizzard. Indeed, Bahzell’s northern-bred weather instincts were a bit affronted by how rapidly it had vanished, not that he meant to complain. The hard freeze had lasted long enough for them to get free of the marshes, and if the soggy, mucky sod of the plains made less than pleasant hiking, it was infinitely preferable to horse belly-deep snow.