"What shall we do with this?" he said, holding up the crown of Xylar. "It would fetch a pretty stack of lions."
"Never, my boy!" said Karadur. "If aught would betray you, that surely would. Show it to any goldsmith or jeweler or money-changer within a hundred leagues, and with the speed of a pigeon's flight the news would fly to Xylar."
"Why not melt it down ourselves?"
"We have no furnace or crucible, and to seek to buy such things would direct suspicion upon us almost as surely as the crown itself. Besides, so ancient a golden artifact ought to have subsumed spiritual qualities from its surroundings, which could prove useful in making magic. It were a shame to destroy these qualities by melting."
"What, then?"
"Best we hide it here with your discarded garments. If circumstance favor, you can recover these articles some day. Or, belike, you could compact with the Xylarians, your head for directions to find their crown. I thought you had money hidden on your person?"
"I have; one hundred golden lions, fresh from the royal mint, in this belt inside my breeches. Any more would have sunk me to the bottom of the Marsh of Moru. But one can always use a little more."
"But that is a sizeable fortune, my son! The gods grant that no robbers hear that you bear such wealth upon your person."
"Well, as things stand, there is no good place where I could bank the stuff for safekeeping."
'True. In any event, to seek additional gain from this crown were not worth the risk. And now I must trim your hair ere darkness fall. Sit here."
Jorian sat on the tree trunk while Karadur went over his head with scissors and comb. He repeatedly warned Jorian to stop talking, but the former king could not be stilled for long.
"It grieves me," said Jorian, "to have robbed my people—my people that was, I mean—of all their fun: the beheading, and the coronation, and the scattering of largesse, and the contests at running and shooting and wrestling and football and hockey, and the singing and dancing, and the feast."
"Followed, I doubt not, by a most wicked and sinful orgy of drunkenness and fornication," said Karadur, "so you may have accomplished some good despite yourself. You can always change your mind and go back." He worked around Jorian's right ear.
"Na, na. I'm satisfied with things as they are. And the gods must approve my course, or they'd not have let me travel so far along it, now would they?"
"Your argument were cogent if you assumed that the gods concerned themselves with single mortal beings—a point the philosophers have hotly disputed for thousands of years. Methinks the main factors in your escape were my thaumaturgy, reinforced by my moral purity; the favorable aspect of the planets; and your own strength and mettle. But he who seeks a single cause for an event would more easily trim a flea's whiskers. And, speaking of which, I must needs abate that monstrous mustache."
"You would jealously rob me of every vestige of my youthful beauty, you old villain!" grinned Jorian. "But the drowning man who seizes a log cannot be fussy about the quality of the wood. Proceed!"
The ex-king's flowing mane had now become a bristling brush, nowhere longer than a finger's breadth. Karadur trimmed the mustache closely, as he had the hair.
"Now," he said, "let beard and mustache grow out together, and none shall know you."
"Unless they noted my height, my weight, my voice, or the scar on my nose," said Jorian. "Can't you cast a spell to lend me the semblance of some slender, flaxen-haired stripling?"
"I could, had I not already cast two spells today. But it would accomplish nought, for such illusions last only an hour or two at most. You will meet none between here and the house of Rhithos the smith but an occasional hunter, charcoal-burner, or lonesome cotter. And what good would your disguise do then?"
"It might hinder them from putting the judiciary of Xylar on my track."
"Aye; but suppose you appeared as a stripling and then resumed your true shape before their very eyes? That, if aught, would arouse suspicion."
Jorian pulled a large, leathern wallet out of the canvas bag, and out of the wallet produced a loaf of bread and a piece of smoked venison. He ate heartily of both, while Karadur contented himself with a modest morsel of bread.
The wizard said: "You must bridle that voracious appetite, my boy."
"Me, voracious?" said Jorian with his mouth full. "By Franda's golden locks, this is but a snack for one of my poundage! Would you think to keep an elephant on one honey-bun a day?"
"Base material appetites were meant to be subdued; and, anyway, those victuals must needs last you until you reach the smith's abode, where they await your coming. Dig deeper and you shall find a sketch map, showing the trails thereunto."
"Good, albeit I already know the country hereabouts, from chasing brigands through it. Dol lies not a league hence."
Karadur continued: "They say Rhithos has a niece or daughter, on whom rakish young oafs like you cast lustful eyes. Avert yours from her, for every sensual sin makes my magical tasks more difficult."
"Me, sensual?" said Jorian, raising an eyebrow. "With five ravishing young wives, what need have I for venery? Dip me in dung, but I shall enjoy a respite—although I shall miss the toddlers climbing all over me. But let us speak of this Rhithos the smith. What gives you such confidence that he'll not betray me to the Xylarians? A man could turn a pretty penny by putting them on my trail."
"Sirrah! No initiated member of the Forces of Progress would be so base as to betray the trust of another member!"
"Natheless, you once implied that this Rhithos belongs to the faction opposed to yours. And my five years as king, if it has taught me nought else, has taught me not to trust any man over much."
'True that he is of the Black Faction, or Benefactors, and so would keep the mighty powers of magic mewed up within our guild; whilst I, of the White Faction, or Altruists, would fain spread it abroad to aid the toiling masses. But, howsoever we quarrel amongst ourselves, we close ranks in dealing with the world outside our learned order, and I am as sure of Rhithos' honor as of my own."
"Judging from the names of your factions, you're all as pure as spring water. Still and all, from what I saw of men during my reign—"
Karadur laid a bony brown hand on Jorian's knee. "You trusted me perforce in the matter of saving your head, my boy. Trust me likewise in this."
"Oh, well, you know what you do," grumbled Jorian. "Holy Father, let me thank you now for saving my worthless head."
"You are welcome; but, as well you know, you shall yet earn that head."
Jorian grinned slyly. "What if I find a wizard to work a counter-spell, nullifying that which you and your fellow-sorcerers have so unscrupulously put upon me?"
"There is no such counter-spell. I warn you that the combination of our spell with that of some bungling outsider bids fair to be fatal. The geas was laid upon you by the leader of our faction, Vorko of Hendau, and can only be lifted by him.
"Now, forget not: One month from today, we meet at the—ah—the Silver Dragon of Othomae; then on to Trimandilam to fetch the Kist of Avlen; and lastly to the Conclave of my fellow-adepts in the Goblin Tower of Metouro. We must not tarry, for the Conclave meets in the Month of the Pike."
"That should give us ample time."
"Nay, but unforeseen events oft spoil the most promising plans. First, howsomever, we must get to Othomae."
"Why shouldn't I wend thither with you, instead of wandering through the wildwood?"
"Because the Xylarians will be watching the roads for you, and you need time to let your whiskers grow. Rhithos knows of your coming, so you can tarry there for a few days to rest and replenish your provisions."
"I shall be there, if no calamity befall. If I be late, leave a message for me with the taverner, under a fictitious name."