He paused, looking into those cold, green eyes. “Does Sheera know this?” he asked. “If, as you say, you aren’t a true wizard—if you haven’t come to the fullness of your power—it’s insanity for you to go against a wizard who’s been exercising his powers for a hundred and fifty years—who’s outlived every other wizard in the world and seems to be deathless. Does Sheera know you’re not even in his class?”
“She does.” Yirth’s voice was cool and bitter in the darkness of the room. “It is because of Altiokis that I have not—and will never—come to the fullness of my power as a wizard. My master Chilisirdin gave me the knowledge and the training that those who are born with a mage’s powers must have. It is that training which allows me to wring the winds to my commanding, to hold you prisoned, to see through the illusions and the traps with which Altiokis guards the mines. But Chilisirdin was murdered—murdered before she could give to me the secret of the Great Trial. And without that, I will never have the Power.”
Sun Wolf’s eyes narrowed. “The what?” he asked. In the language of the West, the word connoted a judicial ordeal as well as tribulation; in the northern dialect, the word was sometimes used to mean death as well.
The misshapen nostrils flared in scorn. “You are a man who prides himself on his ignorance of these things,” she remarked. “Like love, you can never be sure when they will cross your life, will or nil. Of what the Great Trial consisted I never knew—only that it killed those who were not born with the powers of a mage. Its secret was handed down from master to pupil through generations. I have sought for many years to find even one of that last generation of wizards, or one of their students, who might know what it was—who might have learned how one did this thing that melds the power born into those few children with the long learning they must acquire from a master wizard. But Altiokis has murdered them all, or driven them into hiding so deep that they dare not reveal to any what they are—or what they could have been. That is why I threw in my lot with Sheera. Altiokis has robbed us all—all of us who would have been mages and who are now condemned to this half-life of thwarted longings. It is for me to take revenge upon him, or to die in the trying.”
“That’s your choice,” the Wolf said quietly. “What I object to is your hauling me with you—me and all those stupid women downstairs who think they’re going to be trained to be warriors.”
The voices rose to them, a light distant babbling, like the pleasant sounds of a spring brook in the darkness. Yirth’s eyes flashed like a cat’s. “They also have their revenge to take,” she replied. “And as for you, you would die for the sake of the two pennies they will put upon your eyes, to pay the death gods to ferry you to Hell.”
“Yes,” he agreed tightly. “But that’s my choice—of time and manner and whom I take with me when I go.”
She sniffed. “You have no choice, my friend. You were made what you are by the father who spawned you—as I was made when I was born with the talent for wizardry in my heart and this mark like a piece of thrown offal on my face. You had no more choice in the matter than you had about the color of your eyes.”
She gathered the dark veil about her once again, to cover her ugliness, and in silence descended the stairs.
After a moment, Sun Wolf followed her.
A few candles had been lighted on the table near the staircase, but their feeble light penetrated no more than a dozen feet into the vast wooden vault of the orangery. All that could be seen in that huge darkness was the multiplied reflection in hundreds of watching eyes. Like the wind dying on the summer night, the sound of talking hushed as Sun Wolf stepped into the dim halo of light, a big, feral, golden man, with Yirth like a fell black shadow at his heels.
He had not expected to see so many women. Startled, he cast a swift glance at Yirth, who returned an enigmatic stare. “Where the hell did they come from?” he whispered.
She brushed the thick, silver-shot mane back over her shoulders. “Gilden Shorad,” she replied softly. “She and her partner Wilarne M’Tree are the foremost hairdressers in Mandrigyn. There isn’t a woman in the city they cannot speak to at will, from noblewomen like Sheera and Drypettis Dru down to common whores.”
Sun Wolf looked out at them again—there must have been close to three hundred women there, sitting on the worn and dusty pine of the floor or on the edges of the big earth tubs that contained the orange trees. Smooth, beardless faces turned toward him; he was aware of watching eyes, bright hair, and small feet tucked up underneath the colors of the long skirts. Whether it was from their numbers alone, or whether the hypocaust under the floor had been fired, the huge, barn like room was warm, and the smell of old dirt and citrus was mingled with the smells of women and of perfume. The rustle of their gowns and of the lace on the wrists of the rich ones was like a summer forest.
Then silence.
Into that silence, Sheera spoke.
“We got back from Kedwyr today,” she said without preamble, and her clear, rather deep voice penetrated easily into the fusty brown shadows of the room. “All of you know why we went. You put your money into the venture and your hearts—did without things, some of you, to contribute; or put yourselves in danger; or did things that you’d rather not have done to get the money. You know the value of what you gave—I certainly do.”
She stood up, the gold of her brocade gown turned her into a glittering flame, the stiff lace of her collar tangling with the fire-jewels in her hair. From where he stood behind her, Sun Wolf could see the faces of the women, rapt to silence, their eyes drinking in her words.
“All of you know the plan,” she continued, leaning her rump against the edge of the table, her gem-bright hands relaxed among the folds of her skirts. “To hire mercenaries, storm the mines, free the men, and liberate the city from Altiokis and the pack of vultures he’s put in charge. I want you to know right away that I couldn’t hire anyone.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised,” she went on. “Winter’s coming. Nobody wants to fight a winter war. Every man’s first loyalty is to himself, and nobody wanted to risk Altiokis’ wrath, not even for gold. I understand that.”
Her voice rose a little, gaining strength and power. “But for them it’s only money. For us it’s our lives. There isn’t a woman here who doesn’t have a man-lover, husband, father—who either died at Iron Pass or was enslaved there. And that was every decent man in the city; every man who had the courage to march in Tarrin’s army in the first place, every man who understood what would happen if Altiokis added Mandrigyn to his empire. We’ve seen it in other cities—at Racken Scrag, and at Kilpithie. We’ve seen him put the corrupt, the greedy, and the unscrupulous into power—the men who’ll toad-eat to him for the privilege of making their own money out of us. We’ve seen him put such a man in charge here.”
Their eyes went to Drypettis Dru, who had come in with Sheera and taken her seat as close to the table as she could, almost literally sitting at her leader’s feet. Throughout the speech, she had been silent, gazing up at Sheera with the passionate gleam of fanaticism in her brown eyes, her little hands clenched desperately in her lap; but as the women looked at her, she sat up a bit.
“You have all heard the evil reports of Derroug,” Sheera said in a quieter tone. “I think there are some of you who have—had experience with his—habits.” Her dark eyes flashed somberly. “You will know that his own sister has turned against him and has been like my right hand in organizing our cause.”
“Not turned against him,” Drypettis corrected in her rather high, breathless voice. “My brother’s actions have always been deplorable and repugnant to me. He has disgraced our house, which was the highest in the city. For that I shall never forgive him. Nor for his lewdness toward you, nor—”