I have access, said the voice, to the vaults of your memory, not to mention the contents of your character. It took on a distant tone. Which scarcely bear mentioning. Fulferin stands in a better category.
“Fulferin,” said the thief, “hangs in a Vandaayo net, and soon will be simmering in a pot—not a category aspired to by men of stature.”
His legs straightened and he found himself stepping outside of the willow. “Wait!” he said. “You’ve already lost one beast of burden to the Vandaayo. If you lose me, do you think you can seize one of the man-eaters to—”
Fulferin, said the voice, is no beast of burden. He is a devotee, a disciple. He knows the rite that will restore my name.
“And yet he is on his way to dine with the Vandaayo. Which tells me that at least one of you was in too great a hurry.”
His legs stopped moving. You have a point, said the voice. Speak on.
“Is Fulferin necessary?” said the thief. “If it is only transport you require …”
Fulferin is indispensable. Only he is versed in the ritual.
“So I must rescue him from the Vandaayo?”
I have said that it is an imperative.
“Why? For what do I risk my life?”
For matters beyond your ken. Issues sublime and surpassing.
“God business,” Raffalon guessed. “You’re some kind of worn-out deity, probably reduced to a single devotee. And you’re not even able to keep him out of the stewpot.”
Fulferin must not stew.
“What can you do to prevent it?”
Send you.
“But I am unwilling.”
A problem I must work around.
“Which brings us back to the question of terms.”
Raffalon sensed from the silence in his head that the entity was considering the matter. Then he heard, Speak on, but hurry.
He said, “You want your devotee rescued. I want to live.”
Fair enough. I will endeavor to keep you alive.
The thief’s legs started moving again. “Wait!” he said. “Mere survival is not enough!”
You do not value your own existence?
“I already had it before I met you. If I am to risk it on your behalf, that is surely worth some compensation.”
Again he had the sense that the other was weighing the matter. Then he heard, What had you in mind?
“Wealth—great wealth—is always welcome.”
I have no command over gross physicality, said the voice, only over certain attributes of individuals as they relate to the flow of phenomenality.
“You mean you can’t deliver heaps of precious goods?”
Not even small quantities.
The thief thought, then said, “What ‘attributes of individuals’ can you alter? Strength of ten men, ability to fly, impermeability to pointed weapons? All of those would be useful.”
Alas, none are within my ambit.
Raffalon realized it might be better to come at the question from the supply side. “What exactly can you offer?”
My powers, said the deity, are in the realm of probabilities.
“You mean you make the unlikely likely?”
Say rather that I can adjust the odds, as they affect a selected person.
Raffalon brightened. “So you could fix it so that I could win the Zagothian communal lottery?”
I will be honest, said the voice. In my present condition, I could at best reduce the odds from millions-to-one against to thousands-to-one.
“But still against?”
Yes.
“So, essentially, you’re a god of luck but only in small things?”
At present, my potency is reduced. Fulferin is going to assist me in restoring my powers.
“If he survives,” said the thief. Then a thought occurred. “You weren’t very lucky for him.”
He had not invoked my help. He acted from … I suppose I must call it enthusiasm. Besides, I must conserve my strength. The box assists, by acting as an insulator.
Raffalon thought briefly, then said, “I will summarize. You wish me to risk my life, in circumstances in which a bad outcome would be particularly grisly and painful. In return, you will make sure that, along the way, I do not stub my toe or lose my comb.”
In a close-run contest, I can tip the balance in your favor.
“Me against a half dozen hungry Vandaayo does not meet my definition of close-run.”
These are, said the deity, the only terms I can offer.
“You control my body. Can you not at least alter it?” Raffalon touched his prominent nose. “Perhaps make some part smaller?” He clutched another organ. “Or make this more prodigious?”
I control only certain interstices within your cerebrum. They generate a field that I can enhance.
“And only,” said the thief, remembering, “when my flesh touches your image.”
No. Once I alter them they remain altered for all time.
“I suppose it’s something,” the thief said. “Still, it is not the best bargain I have ever made.”
It is the best I can offer. On the other hand, I do not need to offer it. I can compel you, as long as your flesh touches my portal.
“Portal?”
“The wooden eidolon.”
“I see.” Raffalon brushed aside the willow withes and stepped into the clearing, crossed to the trail. He saw more spots of blood, presumably Fulferin’s. “If your devotee survives and completes the ritual you spoke of, your powers will increase?”
Oh, yes. Manyfold.
“What, then, of the Zagothian lottery?”
You would win something.
“Every time I bought a ticket?”
Every time.
The man stepped onto the trail. “And this small luck would apply to my other endeavors?” He could think of past occasions when a slight nod from a god of fortune would have been useful, including one desperate flight that had led only to a lengthy term on the contemplarium’s treadmill.
You would have to rescue Fulferin so that he can fulfill the requirements of the rite.
“Then that,” said Raffalon, “must be our bargain.” He pointed his still-prominent nose in the direction of Vandaayoland and followed the trail. After a few steps, he said, “Perhaps you would be more comfortable traveling in your plush-lined box?”
No. You might then decide not to keep our bargain.
Their mission having been successful, the Vandaayo did not set themselves a grueling pace. Nor did they watch their back trail, the chances of anyone’s wishing to be on the same path as six of their ilk being far too slim to warrant even a glance over a green-mottled shoulder. So it was that, toward late afternoon, as Raffalon descended a slope into a narrow valley, he saw through the trees a motion in the greenery on the other side of the declivity. The part-men marched steadily up an incline that zigzagged up and out of the valley. At one switchback in the trail, the thief saw the band pause and transfer their pole-slung burden from one pair of bearers to another.
Raffalon had a rough idea how far it was to Vandaayoland and did not think that the man-snatchers could cross the border before nightfall. He thought it probable that they would stop before dark; this part of the forest had become uninhabited after Olverion’s final misjudgment and the large predatory beasts that now roamed free had no compunctions against dining on wereflesh.