'What is it?'
'Nutmeg.'
'Don't put any in mine,' said Gorn. 'I don't like it.' 'As you wish,' said Valarkin.
He had already dosed Gorn's drink. He was not afraid that Gorn would remember anything, thinking him rather half-witted: in truth, Gorn was just a bit slow, and, at the moment, rather drunk.
'Ready?' said Gorn.
'Ready,' said Valarkin.
They carried trays out to the High Table. By now all the guards had left the hall. Morgan Hearst, the man Valarkin feared and hated most of all. was asleep with his head on the table. They set refreshments down in front of the revellers, who began to eat and drink.
Prince Comedo was the last person at the table to see what was on his bread and butter: he did not notice until he had eaten half of it. His face lost colour. He staggered to a corner and disgorged everything in his stomach in a roar of vomit. The laughter from those at the table went on as if it would continue forever.
'A toast." said the wizard Garash. steadying himself against his mirth. 'A toast to the vigorous appetites of those of the Favoured Blood.'
'I'll drink to that,' said Jeferies, tears of laughter in his eyes.
Everyone drank to it, except Prince Comedo. He turned the ring on his finger that would take him back to the silence and safety of the green bottle, but nothing happened: the bottle was too far away for the ring to work. He stalked off to find Blackwood and the green bottle: he could not bear to stay and face the laughter. Gorn picked up Comedo's goblet as if he would drain it.
'You've got an appetite like a pig,' said Valarkin.
'Me?' said Gorn, pausing.
'Yes, you,' said Valarkin.
It was dangerous to say it, but Valarkin thought a second goblet of poisoned wine might well kill Gorn -and he wanted no dead bodies to proclaim that people had been poisoned. He just wanted everyone to go to sleep.
Gorn set the goblet down with great care. He rose from the table as if to teach Valarkin a thing or two. But found he did not feel well. He sat down again, blinking.
T don't feel well,' he said.
As Valarkin had predicted, shortly the small dose of poison put all into a deep sleep. He smiled at their comatose bodies. So much for all those proud men who flaunted their egos as if they were lords of time and space: they were fools, and he had gained the upper hand effortlessly.
Valarkin crept to Phyphor's side and slipped his hand under the wizard's cloak. He withdrew the lead box which bore the null sign of the dead zero on its lid. The box was heavy in his hands. 'You!'
Valarkin wheeled. Hearst was staring at him with bloodshot eyes.
'You! A drink! A drink for a fighting man!'
'My lord,' said Valarkin, putting down the lead box and hastening to obey. He gave Hearst the goblet which had been intended for Prince Comedo.
'My name is Hearst and Hast is called my sword,' said Hearst, his drunken tongue half-crippling the Estral he was speaking. 'My name is Hearst and Avor sire was mine, and yes my sword is Hast, and there was a dragon, a dragon once, and I held the breach at Enelorf.'
He drained the last of the wine. Then swayed, slipped sideways and collapsed bonelessly on the floor.
Valarkin recovered the heavy lead box again. The hellmouthjaws leered at him. Hearst had seen him with the box! What now? Kill him? Every moment spent standing there was dangerous: someone might come into the hall and discover him. First things first: dispose of the mad-jewel.
If Valarkin could have snaffled all the red charms worn by the wizards and the fighting men, the castle would have been his to control. He could have set himself up as a prince, a monarch, a warlord. But try as he might, Valarkin had not been able to think of any safe way to secure all the red charms: sooner or later he must run up against a man who was still fighting fit. He was not prepared to run such risks. What he was doing was dangerous enough.
Outside, he scuttled through the shadows under the cold starlight. The Golem's Eye, burning sullen red, reminded him of Hearst's bloodshot eyes; he shivered.
He came to the castle well, which plunged down into darkness. Opening the lead box, he took out the mad-jewel. Then dropped it into the well. Nobody would ever find it there. Morning would find Prince Jeferies and all his retainers witless, helpless, their castle uninhabitable until the mad-jewel exhausted its strength.
The expedition, deprived of the magic by which it had planned to overcome Heenmor, would have no choice but to turn back. They would return to Castle Vaunting, where Valarkin would live comfortably as Prince Comedo's ring-bearer. There would be no more of this hideous life of mud, leeches, hills, swamps, constipation, diarrhoea, danger, fatigue and merciless laughter.
Valarkin threw the empty box into the well and crept back to the Great Hall. Now he would swallow a pinch of cauchaumaur, and sleep away the night with the others. But what about Hearst? Hearst had seen him with the box that held the mad-jewel! True, thanks to the cauchaumaur, he would wake from poisoned sleep with his memories blurred, confused and entangled with nightmares. But what if he remembered the crucial scene with clarity?
– Kill him!
Yes, that was the only way.
Valarkin, softfoot and trembling, stole through the shadows toward his victim. How to kill him? What weapon to use? In sleep, Hearst twisted; his face contorted; he bared his teeth then hissed: 'The lopsloss! The lopsloss! It's coming!'
Valarkin looked around wildly. But of course there was only the halclass="underline" only shadows and sleeping bodies. He knelt beside Hearst.
'Stormguard,' muttered Hearst.
Valarkin's fingers tightened round the hilt of Hast. He began to ease the weapon from its scabbard. Suddenly Hearst sat bolt upright. His eyes, blood-red, intense with fury, glared at Valarkin. He gripped Valarkin by both arms, fingers nailing themselves into the biceps.
'The Stormguard!' shouted Hearst. 'The Stormguard! They've broken! They've broken! They're running!'
Then his grip relaxed and he sank back to the floor, his eyes closing slowly. Valarkin backed away slowly on his knees, trembling, trembling. His biceps still hurt.
'Alish,' said Hearst. Then, louder: 'Alish!'
His shouting would rouse the whole castle. Kill him now? Easy to say, but what if one of Comedo's men, roused by his shouting, burst into the hall while Valarkin was driving a blade home into Hearst's body? Valarkin remembered an old battle-cry out of songs and legends: victory to the brave. From his own thoughts came the dry rejoinder: and life to the cautious.
He crept back to his place at the High Table and downed his pinch of cauchaumaur. The last thing he heard before nightmare claimed him was Hearst's anguished cry: 'Alish! Not now, not now!'
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Silently, without a cheer or a shout, without a smile or a laugh, the expedition rode out across the drawbridge of the High Castle. Alish surveyed the wreckage of the Collosnon army: corpses bloated and rotting in the sun. A week had been wasted in the High Castle while he and Hearst interrogated each and every man about the mad-jeweclass="underline" discovering nothing.
As the expedition went past, flies rose from dead soldiers. Doubtless the dead had thought they had an easy duty: to starve out the High Castle by siege while the invasion swept west into Estar and then, perhaps, south to Dybra, starting on the road for the rich lands of the Harvest Plains. They had not known they would meet their doom when magic made their strength and courage useless.
Alish remembered the working routines of that methodical butchery. He took no joy in the sight of rotting corpses, or in his memories of slaughter. At least the blood and bones would feed this poor soil, which could always grow enough potatoes to supply the castle with vodka, but never enough to flesh out the thin faces of the common people.
At least the challenge ahead was clean and honourable: to hunt down a wizard of power and evil and kill him. And after that, if Alish could command the death-stone and lead armies south in conquest, any collateral casualties would be pardoned by his purpose: to right the ancient wrong and exterminate all wizards.