Talisman

Larry Niven, Dan Girard

Produced by calibre 0.6.40

TALISMAN

by Larry Niven and Dian Girard

The stranger swung his baggage off his horse's back, patted the animal on the side of the neck, and handed the reins to the stablehand. Old Kasan was rarely interested in people; he barely glanced at the stranger. Slanted eyes, round face with a yellow tinge .

Kasan led the animal to an empty stall and gave it food and water. Now, the beast was a puzzler. It suffered his ministrations with an air of strained patience. Its tail ended in the kind of brush usually seen on an ass. Kasan fancied that its look was one of tolerant contempt.

"An, horse, you underestimate me," Kasan said. "I won't be tending other people's horses forever." Horses did not often mock Kasan's daydreams. This one's nicker sounded too much like a snicker. "It's true! Some day I'll own my own rental stable-" And Kasan fondled the beast's ears and mane, as if to thank it for listening.

Under its shaggy forelock he felt a hard circular scar.

He told Bayram All about it when he went in for lunch. "It's a unicorn. The horn's been chopped off. What kind of man would be riding a disguised unicorn?"

The innkeeper said, "Sometimes I wonder why I put up with your stories, Kasan."

"You can feel the stub yourself!"

"No doubt. At least don't be bothering my guests with such tales." And Bayram All set a tankard of ale next to Kasan's midday cheese and bread. Kasan opened his mouth to retort, noticed the ale, and kept silent.

And Bayram All took counsel with himself.

Strange beasts like the one munching hay in his stable were often found in the company of strange men. The traveler might be a sorcerer though they were rare these days. More likely he was a magician on his way to Rynildissen. Bayram had seen the man carry two heavy bags up to his room. It would be interesting to know what was in them, and if it would be worthwhile to lighten them a little.

Bayram All never robbed his guests. It was a point of honor. He preferred to leave the work and any possible danger to a professional. He looked around the crowded common room. It was smoky and odorous with the scents of cooking and human bodies. There was much laughter and spilling of wine. Unfortunately, most of the light-fingered brethren present had hasty tempers and were too quick to pull a knife. Bayram would not have violence in his inn.

Across the room his small pretty wife, Esme, was struggling to carry a huge frothy pitcher of ale. Two men were pushing and shoving each other for the honor of carrying it for her. Just beyond them, leaning back on a rough bench with her shoulders against the wall, Sparthera was laughing and yelling at the two combatants.

Sparthera. Bayram All grinned broadly. The slim young thief was just what he had in mind. She was daring without being reckless, and had no morals to speak of. They had made more than one bargain in the past.

He pushed his way across the room, pausing to grab up the pitcher his wife was carrying and slam it down in front of a customer. He knocked the combatants' heads together, sending them into hysterical laughter, and sent Esme back to the kitchen with a hearty slap on her firm round backside.

"Ay, Sparthera!"

The thief laughed up at him. She was finely built and slender, with a tangled mass of tawny hair and high firm breasts. Her large hazel eyes were set wide over a short straight nose and full red lips.

"Well, Bayram All, have you come over to knock my head against something too?" She hooked her thumbs in the belt of her leather jerkin and stretched out a pair of lean leather-clad legs.

"No, little thief. I wondered if you had noticed a certain stranger among my guests."

"Oh?" She had lost the smile.

Bayram All sat down on the bench next to her and lowered his voice. "A smooth-skinned man from the East, with bulging saddlebags. His name is Sung Ko Ja. Old Kasan says he came riding a unicorn, with the beast's horn cut off to disguise it."

"A sorcerer!" Sparthera shook her head firmly. "No. I'd as soon try to rob the statue of Khulm. I don't want anything to do with sorcerers."

"Oh, I hardly think he's a sorcerer," the innkeeper said soothingly. "No more than a magician, if that. A sorcerer wouldn't need to disguise anything. This man is trying to avoid drawing attention to himself. He must have something a thief would want, hmm?"

Sparthera frowned and thought for a moment. No need to ask the terms of the bargain. It would be equal shares, and cheating was expected. "All right. When he comes down to the common room for dinner, or goes out to the privy, let me know. I'll go up and look around his room."

It was several hours before Sung Ko Ja came back down the stairs. The sun was just setting and Esme and her buxom daughters were beginning to serve the evening meal. Sparthera was sitting at one of the small tables near the kitchen door. Bayram All brushed by her with a pot of stew.

"That's the one," he whispered. "With the slanted eyes. His room is the third on the left."

Only Sparthera's eyes moved. Around forty, she thought, and distinctly foreign: round of face, but not fat, with old-ivory skin and dark almond eyes, and the manner of a lord. He seemed to, settling in for dinner. Good.

Sparthera moved quickly up the stairs and along the hail, counting doors. The third door didn't move when she pushed on the handle. She tried to throw her weight against it, and couldn't; somehow she couldn't find her balance.

A spell?

She went along to the end of the hall where one small window led out onto the first story roof. Outside, a scant two feet of slippery thatch separated the second story wall and a drop to the cobblestones in the stableyard.

The sun had set. The afterglow was bright enough to work in perhaps not dark enough to hide her? But behind the inn were only fields, and those who had been seeding the fields were gone to their suppers. There was nobody to watch Sparthera work her way around to the window of the magician's room.

The narrow opening was covered with oiled paper. She slit it neatly with the tip of the knife she always carried, and reached through. Or tried to. Something blocked her.

She pushed harder. She felt nothing, but her hand wouldn't move.

She swung a fist at the paper window. Her hand stopped jarringly; and this time she felt her own muscles suddenly lock. Her own strength had stopped her swing.

She had no way to fight such magic. Sparthera hung from the roof by her hands and dropped the remaining four feet to the ground. She dusted herself off and re-entered the inn through the front.

Sung Ko Ja was still eating his meal of roast fowl, bread, and fruit. Bayrain Ali was hovering around with one eye on the magician and the other on the stairs. Sparthera caught his eye.

He joined her. "Well?"

"I can't get in. There's a spell on the room."

The innkeeper's face fell, then he shrugged. "Pity."

"I want very much to know what that man has that he thinks is so important." She bit one finger and considered the ivory-skinned man dining peacefully on the other side of the room. "He Doesn't have the look of the ascetic. What do you think? Would he like a woman to keep him warm on such a cold night?"

"Sparthera, have you considered what you're suggesting? My inn's reputation is important to me. If I offer, you'll . . . well. You'd have to do it."

"Well?"

"The one time I myself made such a suggestion, you nearly cut my throat."

"That was years ago. I was . . . it had been . . . I'd only just thrown that damned tinker out on his ear. I didn't like men much just then. Besides, this is different. It's business."

Bayram An eyed her doubtfully. She was dressed more like a young boy than a woman. Still, the magician was a foreigner. Probably all of the local women looked odd to him. Bayram shrugged and pushed his way across the room.

Sung Ko Ja looked up.

The innkeeper smiled broadly. "The wine is good, eh?"

"Drinkable."

"And the fowl? It was young, tender, was it not? Cooked to a nicety?"

"I ate it. What's on your mind?"

"Oh, noble sir! The night will be cold, and I have a girl. Such a girl! A vision of delight, a morsel of sweetness . .

Sung Ko Ja waved an impatient hand. "All right. So she is everything you claim she is. How much?"

"Ten."

"Too much. Six."

Bayram All looked stunned, then hurt. "Sir, you insult this princess among women. Why, only last week she was a virgin. Nine."

"Seven."

"Eight and a half."

"Done. And bring me another bottle of wine." Sung tossed down the last few drops in his tankard and paid the innkeeper. Sparthera was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs. He looked her over briefly and then started up the stairs, carrying his fresh bottle of wine. "Well, come on, girl."

He stopped at the door to his room and made a few quick gestures with his left hand before he pushed it open.

"Why did you do that?" Sparthera asked in girlish innocence.

"To raise the spell that protects my room. Otherwise I couldn't let you in, my sweet one." He laughed softly and burped.

Sparthera stopped in the doorway. "If you have a spell on this room, Docs that mean I'll be locked in?"

"No, no. You're free to come and go-as often as you like." He chuckled. "Until the dawn light comes through that window at the end of the hail and relinks the spell."

She entered. The low bed-hardly more than a pallet-held a strawfilled mattress and bedding woven from the local cotton and wool. There was wood stacked in the small fireplace grate and flint and steel lay next to a single candle in a holder. The magician's saddlebags were sitting on the floor by the bed.

Sung looked up at the small window where Sparthera had slashed out the paper and frowned. A cold draft was coming through the opening.

"I'll light the fire, shall I?" Sparthera asked.

She hurried to start a small blaze while Sung, swaying slightly on his feet, considered the open window. Best that he be distracted. She asked, "Is it true that you're a magician?"

He smiled. "There is only one sort of magic I have in mind at the moment."

Sparthera hid her sudden nervousness behind a smile. "An, but did you bring your wand?"

The flickering firelight threw their shadows on the wall as Sung guided her to the narrow bed. What followed left Sparthera pleasantly surprised. For all his smooth skin and foreign ways the stranger proved more than equal to other men she'd known. He was considerate almost as if she were paying, not he. Even if nothing came of this venture, the evening hadn't been wasted.

Two hours later she was beginning to change her mind.

They were sitting up on the straw-filled mattress, sharing the last of the wine. Sparthera was naked, Sung still wore a wide cloth belt. He had opened one of his bags and was showing her a variety of small trinkets. There were birds that chirped when you tightened a spring, a pair of puppets on strings, flowers made of yellow silk, and squares of bright paper that Sung folded to look like bears and fish. He was very drunk, and talkative.

"The immortal Sung and his family rule in the land of the Yellow River, a mountainous land far to the east. I was head of the family for twenty years. Now I have abdicated the throne in favor of my son. But I carried away some magic. Watch: I put a half-twist in this strip of paper, join the ends, and now it has only one side and one edge . . ."

Sparthera was restless and bored. She had come upstairs expecting to deal with a magician. She had found a cheap toymaker who couldn't hold his wine. She watched his strong agile fingers twisting a scrap of paper into a bird. . . and wondered. His forehead was high and smooth, his face a little too round for her taste, but undeniably good to look on. It was hard to believe that he could be a complete fool. There must be more to him than cheap toys and bragging and a way with women.

He was rummaging in his bag again and she caught a glimpse of gleaming metal.

"What is that? The box?"

"The pointer. The key to Gar's treasure. A gift to set me on the road."

"Gar's treasure. What's that?" It sounded vaguely familiar.

"It's a secret," Sung said, and he closed that saddlebag and reached across for the other. And while he was turned away from her, Sparthera pulled a twist of paper from her hair, and opened it, and shook white powder into Sung's half-empty goblet.

She didn't use it all, and it probably wasn't needed. Sung was on his back and snoring a few minutes later, long before the drug could have taken effect. Sparthera watched him for a few cautious minutes more before she reached into the saddlebag.

She drew out a silver box. There were pieces of jade and carnelian set in mountings on the lid and sides.

She was half-afraid that a spell sealed this too, but it opened easily enough. The inside was lined with faded crimson velvet, and all it held was an elongated teardrop of tarnished bronze. There were tiny silver runes inlaid along the length of the dark metal.

Sparthera picked it up and turned it this way and that. It was thicker than her forefinger and just about as long. A conical hole had been drilled nearly through its underside.

The box was worth something; but was it worth angering a magician? Probably not, she decided reluctantly. And it certainly wasn't worth killing for, not here. Bayram Ali would never allow such a thing. She would have to flee Tarseny's Rest forever . . . and Sparthera bad none of the tourist urge in her.

The same applied to Sung's cloth belt. She had felt the coins in it when they made the two-backed beast, but it was no fortune.

Sung surely ought to be robbed. It would do him good, make him less gullible. But not tonight. Sparthera dropped the pointer in its box, closed it, and was reaching for the saddlebag when she remembered.

Gar had been Kaythill's magician.

And Kaythill was a bandit chief who had raided the lands around Rynildissen City, a hundred years ago. He had lasted some twenty years, until the King's soldiers caught him traveling alone. Under torture Kaythill had steered them to some of his spoils. The rest? A wagonload of gold and jewels had been stolen by Gar the magician. Kaythill and his men had been scouting the countryside for Oar when the soldiers trapped him.

Of course the King's men searched for Gar. Some vital pieces of military magic were among the missing treasure. There bad been rewards posted, soldiers everywhere, rumors. . . and Gar's treasure had grown in the telling, had grown into legend, until it reached Sparthera via her father. She had been . . . six? It was a wonder she remembered at all.

And this trinket would point the way to Oar's treasure?

Sparthera dressed hurriedly, snatched up the silver box and left the room. She hesitated in the hall, looking first at her trophy and then back at the door. What would he do when he woke and found the box missing? She had only seen him drunk. A magician sober and looking for lost property might be an entirely different matter.

She pushed at the door. It opened easily. He hadn't lied then. She could come and go as she pleased-until dawn.

Sparthera hurried down the stairs and out of the inn. It was nearly midnight and there were only a few jovial souls left in the common room.

None saw her leave.

Patrols rarely came to the Thieves' Quarter of Tarseny's Rest; but in the Street of the Metaiworkers they were common. Sparthera went warily, waiting until a pair of guards had passed before she began throwing pebbles at a certain upstairs window.

The window came alight. Sparthera stepped out of the shadows, showed herself. Presently Tinx appeared, rubbing his eyes, looking left and right before he pulled her inside.

"Sparthera! What brings you here, little thief? Are the dogs finally at your heels and you need a place to hide?"

"How long would it take you to copy this?" She opened the box and held out the bronze teardrop.

"Hmmm. Not long. The lettering is the hard part, but I do have some silver."

"How long?"

"An hour or two."

"I need it now, tonight."

"Sparthera, I can 't. I need my sleep."

"Tinx, you owe me."

Tinx owed her twice. Once, for a pair of thieves who had tried to interest Sparthera in robbing Tinx's shop. In Sparthera's opinion, robbing a citizen of Tarseny's Rest was fouling one's own nest. She had informed on them. And once she had worked like a slave in his shop, to finish a lucrative job on time; for Sparthera was not always a thief. But Tinx had had other, more pressing debts, and he still owed Sparthera most of her fee.

The metalworker lifted his hands helplessly and rolled his eyes to heaven. "Will I be rid of you then?"

"Finished and done. All debts paid."

"Oh, all right then!" He sighed and, still grumbling about his lost night's sleep, went back inside to light some candles and a lantern to work by.

Sparthera prowled restlessly about the tiny shop. She found means to make tea. Afterward she prowled some more, until Tinx glared at her and demanded she stay in one place. Then she sat, while Tinx sawed and filed and hammered until he had a bronze teardrop; gouged grooves in the surface; pounded silver wire into the grooves; polished it, compared it to the original, then held it in tongs over a flame until tarnish dulled the silver. He asked, "Just how good are your client's eyes?"

"I don't really know, but by Khulm we're running out of time!"

"Well, what do you think?" He handed her copy and original.

She turned them swiftly in her hands, then dropped the copy into the box and the original into her sleeve. "Has to be good enough. My thanks, Tinx." She was already slipping through the door. "If this works out ." She was down the street and out of earshot, leaving Tinx to wonder if she had made him a promise. Probably not.

She stopped inside the front door of the inn. A moment to get her breath, else the whole inn would hear her. Then upstairs, on tiptoe. Third door down. Push. It swung open, and Sparthera swallowed her gasp of relief.

The magician was still asleep and still snoring. He looked charmingly vulnerable, she thought. Sparthera pushed the box into a saddlebag, under a tunic. It cost her a wrench to leave it, but far better to lose a trinket worth a few gold pieces than to face the wrath of an outraged sorcerer. Sparthera had bigger fish to fry. She tiptoed out and shut the door. The first gray glow of morning was showing through the window at the end of the hail.

Sparthera stayed out of sight until she saw Sung mount his odd shaggy horse and start off down the King's Way to Rynildissen. He seemed unsteady in the saddle, and once he clutched at his head. That worried her.

"Khulm bear witness, I did go easy on that powder," she told herself.

She found Bayram All counting money at a table in the common room. He looked up at her expectantly.

"Well? What did you find?"

"A few toys. Some scraps of colored paper and an old silver box that isn't worth the trouble it would get us."

"No money?"

"Coins in a belt. He never took it off. There wasn't much in it . not enough, anyway."

Bayram All scowled. "Very intelligent of you, dear. Still, a pity. He left this for you." He tucked two fingers into his wide cummerbund and fished out a pair of silver coins. "Perhaps you've found a new calling. One for you and one for me, hmm?"

Sparthera smiled, letting her strong, even white teeth show. "And how much did he pay you last night?"

"Six pieces of silver," Bayram All said happily.

"You sold me so cheaply? You're a liar and your mother was insulted on a garbage heap."

"Well. He offered six. We settled for eight."

"Four for you, four for me, hmm?"

He looked pained. Sparthera took her five pieces of silver, winked, and departed, wondering what Sung Ko Ja had really paid. That was part of the fun of bargaining: wondering who had cheated whom.

But this time Sparthera had the pointer.

On a bald hill east of the village, Sparthera took the bronze teardrop from her sleeve, along with a needle and the cork from one of Sung Ko Ja's bottles of wine. She pushed the base of the needle into the cork, set it down, and balanced the pointer on the needle. "Pointer! Pointer, show me the way to Oar's treasure!" she whispered to it, and nudged it into a spin.

Three times she spun it and marked where it stopped, pointing north, and northwest, and east.

She tried holding it in her hand, turning in d circle with her eyes closed, trying to feel a tug. She tried balancing it on her own fingernail. She studied the runes, but they meant nothing to her. After two hours she was screaming curses like a Euphrates fishwife. It didn't respond to that either.

Sitting on the bare dusty ground with her chin in her hands and the pointer lying in the dirt in front of her, Sparthera felt almost betrayed. So close! She was so close to wealth that she could almost hear the tinkle of golden coins. She needed advice, and the one person who might help her was one she had vowed never to see again.

A faint smile crossed her face as she remembered screaming at him, throwing his bags and gear out of the tiny hut they shared, swearing by the hair on her head that she'd die and rot in hell before she ever went near him again. That damned tinker! Pot-mender, amateur spell-caster, womanizer: his real magic was in his tongue. She'd left her home and family to follow him, and all of his promises had been so much air.

She'd heard that he lived up in the hills now, that he called himself Shubar Khan and practiced magic to earn a living. If he cast spells the way he mended pans, she thought sourly, he wouldn't be of much use to her. But perhaps he'd learned something . . . and there wasn't anyone else she could go to. She stood up, dusted herself off, bent to pick up the bronze teardrop.

The sky was clouding over and the scent of rain was in the air. It matched her dismal mood.

What about her vow? It had been a general oath, not bound by a particular god, but she had meant it with all her heart. Sometimes vows like that were the most dangerous, for who knew what wandering elemental might be listening? She leaned against Twilight, smoothing his tangled mane and staring out over his back at the rolling foothills and the mountains beyond. Life was too dear and Oar's treasure too important to risk either on a broken vow. She took her knife from its sheath and started to hack at her long tawny hair.

Shubar Khan's house, hardly more than a hut, was both small and dirty. Sparthera reined her horse to a halt before the door. She looked distastefully at a hog carcass lying in the center of a diagram scratched in the hard dry ground.

She had sworn never to speak his name, but that name was Tashubar.

She called, "Shubar Khan! Come out, Shubar Khan!" She peered into the dark doorway. A faint odor of burning fat was the only sign of habitation.

"Who calls Shubar Khan?" A man appeared in the doorway and blinked out at her. Sparthera swung herself down from Twilight's back and lifted her chin a little arrogantly, staring at him.

"Sparthera?" He rubbed the side of his face and laughed dryly. "Oh, ho. The last time we saw one another you threw things at me. I think I still have a scar somewhere. You wouldn't care to see it, would you? An, well, I thought not."

He cocked his head to one side and nodded. "You're still beautiful. Just like you were when I found you in that haystack. Heh, heh, heh. I like you better with hair, though. What happened to it?"

"I swore an oath," she said shortly, wondering a little at what passing time could do to a man. He had been a good thirty years old to her fourteen when they met. Now she was twenty-six, and he was potbellied and sweaty, with a red face and thinning hair and lecherous little eyes. He wore felt slippers with toes that turned up, and five layers of brightly striped woolen robes. He scratched now and then, absentmindedly.

But he still had the big, knowing hands, and strong shoulders that sloped up into his neck, and hadn't he always scratched? And he'd never been thin, and his eyes couldn't have shrunk. The change was in her. Suddenly she hungered to get the matter over with and leave Shubar Khan to the past, where he belonged.

"I've come on business. I want you to fix something for me." She held out the piece of bronze. "It's supposed to be a pointer, but it Doesn't work."

A small dirty hand reached for the pointer. "I can fix that!" Sparthera spun around, reaching for her knife.

"My apprentice," Shubar Khan explained. "How would you fix it, boy?"

"There's a storm coming up." The boy, hardly more than twelve, looked at his master with sparkling eyes. "I can climb a tree and tie the thing to a branch high up. When the lightning strikes-"

"You short-eared offspring of a spavined goat!" Shubar bellowed at him. "That would only make it point to the pole star-if it didn't melt first -and if it were iron instead of bronze! Bali!"

The boy cringed back into the gloom of the hut, which was filled with dry bones, aborted sheep fetuses, and pig bladders stuffed with odd ointments. There was even a two-inch-long unicorn horn prominently displayed on a small silk pillow.

Shubar Khan peered at the silver runes. He mumbled under his breath, at length. Was he reading them? "Old Sorcerer's Guild language," he said, "with some mistakes. What is it supposed to point at?"

"I don't know," Sparthera lied. "Something buried, I think."

Shubar Khan unrolled one of the scrolls, weighted it open with a couple of bones, and began to read in a musical foreign tongue. Presently he stopped. "Nothing. Whatever spell was on it, it seems as dead as the gods."

"Curse my luck and your skill! Can't you do anything?"

"I can put a contagion spell on it for two pieces of silver." He looked her up and down and grinned. "Or anything else of equal or greater value."

"I'll give you the coins," Sparthera said shortly. "What will the spell do?"

Shubar Khan laughed until his paunch shook. "Not even for old time's sake? What a pity. As to the spell, it will make this thing seek whatever it was once bound to. We're probably lucky the original spell wore off. A contagion spell is almost easy."

Sparthera handed over the money. Oar's treasure had already cost her far too much. Shubar Khan ushered her and his apprentice-loaded down with phials, a pair of scrolls, firewood, and a small cauldron-to a steep crag nearby.

"Why do we have to come out here?" Sparthera asked.

"We're just being cautious," Shubar Khan said soothingly. He set up the cauldron, emptied a few things into it, lit the fire the apprentice had set, and handed the apprentice the bronze teardrop and one of the scrolls. "When the cauldron smokes, just read this passage out loud. And remember to enunciate," he said as he grabbed Sparthera's arm and sprinted down the hill.

Sparthera looked uphill at the boy, "This is dangerous, isn't it? How dangerous?"

"I don't know. The original spell isn't working, but there may be some power left in it, and there's no telling what it might do. That's why magicians have apprentices."

They could hear the boy chanting in his childish treble, speaking gibberish, but rolling his R's and practically spitting the Ps. The clouds that had been gathering overhead took on a harsh ominous quality. The wind came up and the trees whipped and showered leaves on the ground.

A crack of lightning cast the entire landscape into ghastly brightness. Shubar Khan dove to the ground. Sparthera winced and then strained her eyes into the suddenly smoky air. There was no sign of the boy. Thunder rolled deafeningly across the sky.

Sparthera ran up the hill, heart thumping. The top of the crag was scorched and blackened. The iron cauldron was no more than a twisted blob of metal.

"Ooohhh!"

Shubar Khan's apprentice pulled himself to his feet and looked at her with huge eyes. His face was smudged, his hair scorched, and his clothing still smouldered. He held out a blackened fist with the bronze piece still in it.

"Did, did . . . did it work?" he asked in a frightened croak.

Shubar Khan retrieved the pointer and laid it on his palm. It slowly rotated to the right and stopped. He grinned broadly and patted the boy heartily on the shoulder.

"Excellent! We'll make a magician of you yet!" He turned to Sparthera and presented the pointer to her with a bow.

She tucked it inside her tunic. "Thank you," she said, feeling a little awkward.

Shubar Khan waved a muscular red hand. "Always pleased to be of service. Spells, enchantments, and glamours at reasonable rates. Maybe someday I can interest you in a love philtre."

Sparthera rode back down the mountain trail with the bronze teardrop tucked in her tunic, feeling its weight between her breasts like the touch of a lover's hand. Just above Tarseny's Rest she reined up to watch a small herd of gazelle bound across a nearby hill. Someday she would build a house on that hill. Someday, when she had Oar's treasure, she would build a big house with many rooms and many fireplaces. She would have thick rugs and fine furniture, and there would be servants in white tunics embroidered with red leaves.

She spurred her horse to the crest of the hill. Down below were the river and the town, and across the valley were more hills, leading away to distant mountains.

"I'm going to be rich!" she yelled. "Rich!"

The echoes boomed back. "Rich, rich, rich!" until they finally whimpered into silence. Twilight nickered and pulled at his reins. Sparthera laughed. She would have many horses when she was rich. Horses and cattle and swine.

She could almost see the hoard trickling through her fingers in a cascade of gold and rainbow colors. Money for the house and the animals and a dowry.

The dowry would buy her a husband: a fine, respectable merchant who would give her fat beautiful children to inherit the house and the animals. Sparthera took a last lingering look at the countryside before she swung herself back into the saddle. First, find the treasure!

She cantered back into town, put Twilight into the stable behind the lodging house, and went to her room. It was a tiny cubicle, with a pallet of cotton-covered straw and some blankets against one 'wall. Rough colorful embroideries hung on the wattle and daub walls: relics of the days at home on her father's farm. Another embroidery was thrown across a large wooden chest painted with flying birds, and a three-legged chair with flowers stenciled on the back stood in one corner.

Sparthera uncovered the chest and threw open the lid. It was packed with odds and ends-relics of her childhood-and down at the bottom was a small pouch with her savings in it.

She opened the pouch and counted the coins slowly, frowning. The search might take weeks or months. She would need provisions, extra clothes, and a pack animal to carry them. There wasn't enough here.

She would have to borrow or beg an animal from her family. She grimaced at the thought, but she had little choice.

It was a four hour ride to her father's farm. Her mother was out in the barnyard, feeding the chickens, when she rode in. The elder woman looked at her with what might have been resignation.

"Run out of money and come home again, have you?"

"Not this time," Sparthera said, dismounting and placing a dutiful kiss on her mother's cheek. "I need a horse or an ass. I thought maybe father had one I could borrow."

Her mother looked at her distastefully. "Always you dress like a man.

No wonder no decent man ever looks at you. Why don't you give up all those drunkards you hang around with? Why don't you . . ."

"Mother, I need a horse."

"You've got one horse. You don't need another horse."

"Mother, I'm going on a trip and I need a pack horse." Sparthera's eyes lit with suppressed excitement. "When I come back, I'll be rich!"

"Humph. That's what you said when you ran off with that no-good pot mender. If your father were here, he'd give you rich all right! You're lucky he's in the mountains for a week. I don't know about horses. Ask Bruk. He's in the barn."

Her mother tossed another handful of grain to the chickens, and Sparthera started across the dusty barnyard.

"And get yourself some decent clothes!"

Sparthera sighed and kept moving. Her next-older brother was in the loft restacking sheaves of last season's wheat.

"Bruk? Have you got an extra horse?"

He looked down at her, squinting into the light from the open barn door. "Sparthera? You haven't been here for two months. Did you run out of pockets to pick, or just out of men?"

She grinned. "No more than you ever run out of women. Are you still rolling Mikka in her father's hay ricks?"

He climbed down from the loft, looking a little glum. "Her father caught us at it twelve days ago and now I've got to trade the rick for a marriage bed and everything that goes with it." He was a big man, well muscled, with a shock of corn-colored hair, dark eyes, and full sensuous lips. "Lost your hair, I see. Well, they say that comes of not enough candle-wick. Find yourself a man and we'll make it a double celebration."

Sparthera leaned against a stall and laughed heartily. "Caught at last!

Well, it won't do you any harm, and beds aren't as itchy as piles of hay. You ought to be glad. Once you've married you'll be safe from all the other outraged fathers."

"Will I though? They may just come after me with barrel staves. And I hate to cut short a promising career. Oh, the youngest daughter of the family in the hollow has grown up to be . . ."

"Enough, Bruk. I need a horse. Have you got an extra one?"

He shook his head. "Twilight pulled up lame, did he?"

"No. I'm planning a trip and I need a pack animal."

Bruk scratched his head. "Can't you buy one in town? There are always horse dealers in the market square."

"I know too many people in Tarseny's Rest. I don't want them to know I'm taking this trip. Besides," she added candidly, "I don't have enough money."

"What are you up to, little sister? Murder, pillage, or simple theft?"

"Oh, Bruk, it's the chance to make a fortune! A chance to be rich!"

He shook his head disgustedly. "Not again. Remember that crockery merchant? And the rug dealer? And that tink-"

"This time it's different!"

"Oh, sure. Anyway, we haven't got a horse. Why don't you steal one?"

This time it was Sparthera's turn to look disgusted. "You can't just steal a horse on the spur of the moment. It's not like a pair of shoes, you know. You have to do a little planning and I don't have the time. You'd never make a decent thief! You'd just walk in, grab it by the tail and try to walk out." She pulled at her lower lip. "Now what am I going to do?"

They both stood there, thinking. Bruk finally broke the silence. "Well, if you only want it to carry a pack, you might make do with a wild ass. They break to a pack saddle pretty easy. There are some up in the foothills. I'll even help you catch one."

"I guess it's worth a try."

Bruk found a halter and a long rope, and led the way across the cultivated fields and up into the hills. The landscape was scrubby underbrush dotted with small stands of trees. There were knolls of rock, and one small stream that ran cackling down the slope.

Bruk stopped to study a pattern of tracks. "That'll be one .

spends a lot of time here, too . . . yup, I'll bet it hides over in that copse. You go left and I'll go right. We'll get it when it comes out of the trees."

They circled cautiously toward a promising stand of small trees. Sure enough, Sparthera could hear something moving within the grove, and even caught a glimpse of brownish hide. A branch cracked under Bruk's boot, something brown exploded from the cover of the brush, and Bruk yelled, swinging the loop of his rope.

"Get the halter! Watch out for its hooves. Yeow, oooof!"

The animal whirled, bounced like a goat on its small sturdy legs, and managed to butt Bruk in the middle. Bruk sat down heavily while Sparthera made a frantic grab for the trailing end of the rope.

The little animal, frantically trying to dodge her groping hands, was braying, whinnying, and making occasional high-pitched whistling noises.

It was the size of a small pony and had a long silky mane that almost dragged the ground. Its tail was thick, muscular, and held up at an angle. It had two ridiculous little feathery wings, about as long as Sparthera's forearm, growing Out of the tops of its shoulders.

Bruk staggered to his feet as Sparthera managed to catch and cling to the rope. He launched himself bodily at the beast, grabbed it around the neck, and threw it off balance. It fell heavily to one side, where it kicked its small feet and fluttered its tiny wings to the accompaniment of an incredible cacophony of hoots, whistles, and brays.

Sparthera clapped her hands over her ears and yelled. "That's no wild ass! What on earth is it? Some sort of magic beast?"

Bruk was busily fitting his halter on their uncooperative captive. "I don't know," he panted. "I think it's half ass and half nightmare. If a sorcerer dreamed it up, he must have been drunk."

He stood back and let it scramble to its feet. It lowered its head, pawed the ground savagely, lifted its tail, and jumped with all four feet. The maneuver carried it forward perhaps two paces, its little wings flapping frantically.

Sparthera burst out laughing, doubled over with mirth. When she recovered enough she stared at their captive and shook her head. "Do you think it can be broken to carry a pack?"

"Let's get it down to the barn and we'll try it with a pack saddle."

Getting the wingbeast down the hill was a production in its own right. It bolted, tried to roll, then dug its feet in like the most obstinate of jackasses. Finally, tired, irritated, and covered with grime, the three of them made it to the barnyard.

They managed to get the saddle on its back-after Sparthera had been butted and trampled and her brother had been dumped in the watering trough-and stood back to watch.

The small animal bucked. It turned, twisted, flapped its ridiculous little wings, and rolled in the dust. It tried to bite the saddle girth and scrape the saddle off against the fence. It kicked its heels and brayed. Just when they thought it would never quit, it stopped, sides heaving, and glared at them.

The next day it accepted a ripe apple from Sparthera, bit Bruk in the buttocks, and managed to bolt into the house, where Sparthera's mother hit it on the nose with a crock of pickled cabbage.

Sparthera was losing patience. It was all taking too long. Had Sung Ko Ja discovered her trick? Was he searching Tarseny's Rest for the woman who had stolen his pointer? She had told Bayram All that she was visiting her parents. Someone would come to warn her, surely.

But nobody came, that day or the next; and a horrid thought came to her. Sung Ko Ja must have followed the pointer far indeed. Even without the pointer, he must have a good idea where the treasure lay. He might have continued on. At this moment he could be unearthing Sparthera's treasure!

It was three days before the winged beast gave up the fight, trotted docilely at the end of a rope, and accepted the weight of a loaded pack saddle. It even gave up trying to bite, as long as they kept out of its reach. Sparthera named it "Eagle."

"It would be better called 'Vulture!" Bruk said, rubbing at a healing wound. "It's smart, though, I'll grant you that. Only took the beast three days to realise it couldn't get rid of that saddle."

"Three days," Sparthera said wearily. "Bruk, for once you were right. I should have stolen a horse."

She rode back to town leading the wingbeast along behind. It took her half a day to buy provisions and pack her clothing. In late afternoon she set out on the King's Way, holding the bronze pointer like the relic of some ancient and holy demigod.

She was expecting to ride into the wilderness, into some wild, unpopulated area where a treasure could lie hidden for eighty years. But the pointer was tugging her along the King's Way, straight toward Rynildissen, the ruling city of the biggest state around. That didn't bother her at first. Rynildissen was four days' hard riding for a King's messenger, a week for a traveler on horseback, two for a caravan. And Oar's band had done their raiding around Rynildissen.

The King's Way was a military road. It ran wide as a siege engine and straight as an arrow's flight. It made for easy traveling, but Sparthera worried about sharing her quest with too much traffic. She found extensive litter beside the road: burnt-out campfires, horse droppings, garbage that attracted lynxes. It grew ever fresher. On her third afternoon she was not surprised to spy an extensive dust plume ahead of her. By noon of the next day she had caught up with a large merchant caravan.

She was about to ride up alongside the trailing wagon when she caught a glimpse of an odd shaggy horse with a tail like an ass. There was a figure in bulky Eastern robes on its back. Sung!

Sparthera pulled her horse hard to the side and rode far out over the rolling hill and away from the road. She had no desire to trade words with the smooth-faced magician. But what was he doing here? The caravan was protection from beasts and minor thieves; but the caravan was slow. He could have been well ahead of Sparthera by now.

He didn't know the pointers had been switched! That must be it. The seeking-spell had been nearly dead already. Sung had followed it from far to the east; now he was following his memory, with no idea that anyone was behind him.

Then the important thing was to delay him. She must find the treasure, take it, and be miles away before Sung Ko Ja reached the site.

All day she paced the caravan. At dusk they camped round a spring. Leaving her horse, Sparthera moved down among the wagons, tents, oxen and camels. She avoided the campfires. Sung Ko Ja had pitched a small red and white striped tent. His unicorn was feeding placidly out of a nosebag.

Stealing a roll of rich brocade was easy. The merchant should have kept a dog. It was heavy stuff, and she might well be spotted moving it out of camp, but she didn't have to do that. After studying Sung's tent for some time, watching how soundly Sung slept, she crept around to the back of the tent and rolled the brocade under the edge. Then away, hugging the shadows, and into the hills before the moon rose. Dawn found her back on the highway, well ahead of the caravan, chuckling as she wondered how Sung would explain his acquisition.

When she dug the pointer out of her sleeve, her sense of humor quite vanished. The pointer was tugging her back. She must have ridden too far.

After a hasty breakfast of dried figs and jerked meat Sparthera started to retrace her path, paralleling the King's Way. Days of following the pointer had left painful cramping in both hands, but she dared not set it down now. At any moment she expected the bronze teardrop to pull her aside.

She was paying virtually no attention to her path. At the crest of a smooth hill, she looked up to see another horse coming toward her. Its rider was a smooth-faced man with skin the color of old ivory, and his almond eyes were amused. It was too late even to think of hiding.

"Oh ho! My sweet little friend from two nights ago. What brings you onto the King's Way?"

"My hair," Sparthera improvised. "Cosmetics, There's a witch-woman who lives that way- " She gestured vaguely south, and gave him her best effort at a flirtatious smile. "-and I find I can afford her fees, thanks to the generosity of a slant-eyed magician."

"Oh, dear, and I had hoped your lips were aching for another kiss." He looked at her critically. "You don't need to visit any witch. Even shorn, you are quite enchanting. You must share my midday meal. I insist. Come, we can rest in the shade of those trees yonder"

Sparthera was afraid to spur her horse and flee, He might suspect nothing at all; else why had he joined the caravan? She turned her horse obediently and rode to the shade of the small grove with him, trailing the wingbeast behind at the end of its halter. Sung slid easily from his unicorn. He still didn't seem dangerous. She could insist on preparing the food. Wine she could spill while pretending to drink. She swung down from her horse- Her head hurt. Her eyes wouldn't focus. She tried to roll over and her head pulsed in red pain. Her arms and legs seemed caught in something. Rope? She waited until her head stopped throbbing before she tried to learn more.

Then it was obvious. Her hands were tied behind her; a leather strap secured her ankles to one of the shade trees. Sung Ko Ja was sitting crosslegged on a rug in front of her flipping a bronze teardrop in the air.

Bastard! He must have hit her on the head while she was dismounting.

"Eight nights ago I noticed that someone had cut the paper out of my bedroom window." he said. "I woke the next morning with a foul taste in my mouth, but that could have been cheap wine, or too much wine. Last night some rogue put a roll of stolen dry goods in my baggage which caused me no end of embarrassment. I would not ordinarily have thought of you iii connection with this I confess that my memories of our time together are most pleasant. However," he paused to sip at a bowl of tea. "However, my unicorn, who can whisper strange things when I want him to, and sometimes when I don't-"

"He speaks?"

The unicorn was glaring at her. Sparthera glared back. Magician or no, she felt that this was cheating, somehow.

"Such a disappointment," said Sung Ko Ja. "If only you had come to my arms last night, all of this might be different. You sadden me. Here you are, and here is this." He held up the pointer. "Why?"

She looked at the ground, biting her lip.

"Why?"

"Money, of course!" she blurted out. "You said that thing was the key to a treasure! Wouldn't you have taken it too, in my place?"

Sung laughed and rubbed his fingers over his chin. "No, I don't think so. But I am not you. It may be this was my fault. I tempted you."

He got to his feet. He tilted her head back with one hand so he could look into her eyes. "Now, what's to be done? Swear to be my slave and I'll take you along to look for Gar's treasure."

"A slave? Never! My people have always been free. I'd rather die than be a slave!"

Sung looked distressed. "Let's not call it slavery then, if you dislike it so much. Bondage? Binding? Let's say you will bind yourself to me. For seven years and a day, or until we find treasure to equal your weight in gold."

"And if we find the treasure, what then?"

"Then you're free."

"That's not enough. I want part of the treasure."

Sung laughed again, this time in pure amusement. "You bargain hard for one who has been pinioned and tied to a tree. All right. Part of the treasure then."

"How much of it?" she asked warily.

"I take the first and so is most valuable items. We split the rest equally."

"Who decides?"

[?]"Sung Ko Ja will nfl' OLd i ii '~pile the !L111 nuing treasure into two heaps, You choose which heap you want"[?]

That actually sounded fair, "Agreed:'

Ah but now, it is my turn what are you going to swear by my little sweetheart? I want your oath that you'll offer me no harm, that you'll stay by my side and obey my commands. until the terms of the agreement are met."

Sparthera hesitated. It didn't take a magician to know how to make an oath binding. Even nations kept their oaths . . . to the letter, and that could make diplomacy interesting.

She could be making herself rich. Or she could be throwing away seven years of her life. Would Sung hold still for a better bargain?

Not a chance. "All right. I'll swear by Khulm, the thieves' god who stands in the shrine at Rynildissen. May he break my fingers if I fail."

"You swear then?"

"I swear."

Sung bent down and kissed her heartily on the lips. Then he set about freeing her. He set out tea while she was rubbing her wrists. There was a lump on her head. The tea seemed to help.

She said, "We must be very near the treasure. The pointer led me back the way we came . . . straight into your arms, in fact."

Sung chuckled. He fished the silver box out of his saddlebag. He opened it, took out Sparthera's counterfeit bronze teardrop, hesitated, then dropped it on the rug. He stood up with the genuine object in his hand.

Sparthera cried, "Stop! That's-" Too late. Sung had flung the genuine pointer into a grove of low trees.

"I'll keep yours," he said. "It's only for the benefit of people who think a box has to contain something. Now watch."

He pressed down on the silver box in two places and twisted four of the small stone ornaments. The box folded out flat into a cross-shape with one long arm.

"You see? There never was a spell on the bronze lump. You took it to a spell-caster, didn't you?" Sparthera nodded. "And he put some kind of contagion spell on it, didn't he?" She nodded again. "So the bronze lump sought what it had been a part of. The box. It's been in there too long."

Sung pulled the faded red lining off of the surface. Underneath, the metal was engraved with patterns and lettering. Sung stroked a finger over the odd markings. "It looks like a valuable trinket on the outside. No casual thief would just throw it away. I might have a chance to get it back. But a magician turned robber would take the pointer, just as you did."

She'd had it in her hands! Too late, too late. "When can we start looking for Gar's treasure?"

"Tomorrow morning, if you're so eager. Meanwhile, the afternoon is growing cold. Come here and warm my heart."

"Sung, dear, just how cl . . ." Sparthera's words trailed off in surprise. She had walked straight into Sung's arms. She had behaved like this with no man, not since that damned tinker. Her voice quavered as she said, "I don't act like this. Sung, what magic is on me now?"

He pulled back a little. "Why, it's your own oath!"

"I feel like that puppet you showed me! This isn't what I meant!"

Sung sighed. "Too bad. Well-"

"I don't mean I won't share your bed." Her voice was shrill with near-hysteria. "I just, I want power over my own limbs, damn you Sung!"

"Yes. I tell you now that binding yourself to me Docs not involve becoming my concubine."

She pulled away, and turned her back, and found it was possible.

"Good. Good. Sung, thank you." Her brow furrowed suddenly and she turned back to face him. "What if you tell me different, later?"

She might have guessed that Sung's answer would be a shrug. "All right. What was I trying to say earlier? Oh, I remember. Just how close is the King's Way? We don't want that caravan camping next to us. Somebody might get nosy."

Sung agreed. They had moved a good distance down the King's Way before they camped for the night.

In the morning Sparthera saddled Twilight and loaded Eagle while Sung packed his gear on the unicorn. The wingbeast caught his attention.

"Where did you get that creature?"

"Near my father's farm. It was running wild. I think it's some sort of magic beast."

Sung shook his head sadly. "No, quite the opposite. In my grandfather's day there were flocks of beautiful horses that sailed across the sky on wings as wide as the King's Way. He rode one when he was a little boy. It couldn't lift him when he grew too big. As time went on the colts were born with shorter, weaker wings, until all that was left were little beasts like this one. I used to catch them, when I was a boy, but never to fly. Enchantment is going out of the world, Sparthera. Soon there will be nothing left."

It was a mystery to Sparthera how her companion read the talisman.

It looked the same to her, no matter which way he said it pointed. Sung tried to show her when they set off that morning. He set the flattened-out box on the palm of her hand and said, "Keep reading it as you turn it. The runes don't actually change, but when the long end points right, the message becomes 'Ta netyillo iliq pratht' instead of 'tanetyi lo-"

"Skip it. Just skip it."

In any case, the pointer continued to lead them straight down the King's Way.

They reached an inn about dusk, and Sung paid for their lodging. Sparthera watched him setting the spells against thieves. Sung was not secretive. Quite the contrary: he drilled her in the spells, so that she would be able to set them for him.

Though he had freed her from the obligation, the magician seemed to consider lovemaking as part of their agreement. Sparthera had no complaints. The magician was adept at more than spells. When she told him this, she expected him to preen himself but Sung merely nodded.

"Keeping the women happy is very necessary in Sung House. How much did I tell you about us, that first night?"

"You were the immortal Sung. You abdicated in favor of your son."

"I was bragging."

"What were you? Not the stablehand, I think."

"Oh, I was the immortal Sung, true enough. We rule a fair-sized farming region, a valley blocked off by mountains and the Yellow River. We know a little magic-we keep a herd of unicorns, and sell the horn, or use it ourselves-but that's not what keeps the farmers docile. They think they're being ruled by a sorcerer seven hundred years old."

"The immortal Sung."

"Yes. I became the immortal Sung when I was twenty. My mother set a spell of glamour on me, to make me look exactly like my father. Then I was married to Ma Tay, my cousin, and set on the throne."

"That's . . . I never heard of glamour being used to make anyone look older."

"That's a nice trick, isn't it? The spell wears off over twenty years, but of course you're getting older too, looking more and more like your father, magic aside. When I reached forty my wife put the glamour on my eldest son. And here I am, under oath to travel until nobody has ever heard of Sung House. Well, I've done that. Someday maybe I'll meet my father."

"What happens to your wife?"

"She took my mother's place as head of the House. It's actually the women who rule in Sung House. The immortal Sung is just a figurehead."

Sparthera shook her head, smiling. "It still sounds like a nice job. and they didn't throw you out naked."

"No. We know all our lives what's going to happen. We think on how we'll leave, what we'll take, where we'll go. We collect tales of other lands, and artifacts that could help us. There's a little treasure room of things a departing Sung may take with him."

He leaned back on the bed and stretched. "When I left, I took the pointer. It always fascinated me, even as a boy. I collected rumors about Gar's treasure. It wasn't just the gold and the jewels that stuck in my mind. There is supposed to be a major magical tool too."

"What is it?"

"It's a levitation device. Haven't you ever wanted to fly?"

Sparthera's lips pursed in a silent 0. "What a thief could do with such a thing!"

"Or a military spy."

"Yes . . . and the Regency raised hell trying to find Gar's treasure.

But of course you'd keep it yourself?"

"Or sell it to one government or another. But I'll fly with it first."

That night, cuddled close in Sung's arms, Sparthera roused herself to ask a question. "Sung? What if I should have a child by you?"

He was silent for a long time. Long enough that she wondered if he'd fallen asleep. When he did answer it was in a very soft voice. "We would ride off into the mountains and build a great hail, and I would put a glamour on the child to raise up a new House of Sung."

Satisfied, Sparthera snuggled down into the magician's arms to dream of mountains and gold.

They woke late the next morning, with the dust of the caravan actually in sight. They left it behind them as they rode, still following the King's Way. "This is ridiculous," Sung fretted. "Another day and we'll be in Rynildissen!"

"Is it possible that this Gar actually buried his loot in the King's Way?"

"I wouldn't think he'd have the chance. Still, I suppose nobody would look for it there. Maybe."

Around noon they reached a region of low hills. The King's Way began to weave among them like a snake; but the silver box pointed them steadfastly toward Rynildissen. Sung dithered. "Well, do we follow the road, or do we cut across country wherever the pointer points?"

Sparthera said, "Road, I guess. We'll know if we pass it."

And road it was, until the moment when Sung sucked in his breath with a loud "Ab!"

"What is it?"

"The talisman's pointing that way, south." He turned off, guiding the unicorn uphill. Sparthera followed, puffing the wingbeast along after her.

The unicorn seemed to be grumbling just below audibility.

Now the land was rough and wild. There were ravines and dry creek beds, and tumbled heaps of soil and stone. They were crossing the crest of a hill when Sung said, "Stop."

The unicorn stopped. Sparthera reined in her horse. The wingbeast walked into Twilight's haunches, got kicked, and sat down with a dismal bray.

Sung ignored the noise. "Down in that ravine. We'll have to try it on foot."

They had to move on all fours in places. The bottom of the ravine was thick with brush. Sparthera hesitated as Sung plunged into a thorn thicket.

When she heard his muttered curses stop suddenly, she followed.

She found him surrounded by scattered bones, and recognized the skull of an ass. "The pointer reads right in all directions. We're right on it," he said.

A pair of large stones, brown and cracked, looked a bit too much alike. Sparthera touched one. Old leather. Saddle bags?

The bag was so rotten it had almost merged with the earth. It tore easily. Within was cloth that fell apart in her hands, and a few metal ornaments that were green with verdigris. Badges of rank, for a soldier of Rynildissen. In the middle of it all, something twinkled, something bright.

Sung had torn the other bag apart. "Nothing. What have you got?"

She turned it in her hand: a bright faceted stone, shaped like a bird and set into a gold ring. "Oh, how pretty!"

"Hardly worth the effort," Sung said. He worked his way backward out of the thicket and stood up. "Diamonds have no color. They're not worth much. You see this kind of trinket in any Shanton jewel bazaar.

Give it here."

Sparthera handed it over, feeling forlorn. "Then that's all there is?"

"Oh, I doubt it. We're on the track. This was just the closest piece. It must have been part of the hoard, or the talisman wouldn't have pointed us here. Even so . . . how did it get here? Did Gar lose a pack mule?"

He opened out the pointer. With the bird's beak he traced a looping curve on the silver surface. "There. The talisman is pointing true again. There's still treasure to be found."

They climbed back uphill to their steeds. The King's Way was well behind them now, and lost among the hills. They were picking their way across a nearly dry stream bed when Sung said, "We're passing it."

"Where?"

"I don't know yet." Sung dismounted. "You wait here. Sparthera, come along-" and she realized he'd spoken first to the unicorn. He picked his way carefully up a vast sloping spill of shattered boulders: leg-breaker country. At the top, panting heavily, he opened the box out and turned in a circle.

"Well?"

Sung turned again. He spoke singsong gibberish in what might have been a lengthy spell; but it sounded like cursing.

"Are you just going to keep spinning?"

"It says all directions are wrong!"

"Uh? Point it down."

Sung stared at her. Then he pointed the talisman at his feet. He said, "'Ta netyillo-' Sparthera, my love, you may be the best thing that ever happened to me."

"I am delighted to hear it. My shovel's still on the horse. Shall I go for it?"

"Yes. No, wait a bit." He started walking, staring at the talisman. "It must be deep. Yards deep. More. Forget the shovel, there must be a cave under us." He grinned savagely at her. "We'll have to find the entrance. We're almost there, love. Come on."

They trudged down the hill, trying to avoid twisted ankles or worse. Sparthera paused to catch her breath and caught a blur of motion out of the corner of her eye. It was headed for the animals. "Sung! What-"

Twilight whinnied in terror. He tossed his head, pulling loose the reins Sparthera had looped over a bush, and bolted downhill. The unicorn had splayed his front feet and lowered his head, as if he thought he still owned a spear. The winged packbeast, filling the air with a bedlam of sound, was bounding rapidly away in two-pace-long jumps, tiny wings beating the air frantically.

Sung let out a yell and charged up to the top of the ravine, swinging a heavy branch he'd snatched up on the way. Sparthera clambered up beside him, swearing as she saw her animals heading off across the landscape. There was a loud wailing sound that put the wingbeast's efforts to shame, and then silence. The thing had vanished.

"What was that!"

"I don't know. I'm more interested in where it went. Keep an eye out, love." Sung pulled his sword from the pack and wandered about the shattered rock.

Sparthera's nose picked up a heavy musky animal odor. She followed it, heart pounding, knife in hand. They were too close to the treasure to stop now.

The odor was wafting out of a black gap in the rocks, less than a yard across. Sung clambered up to look.

"That's it," he said. "It's not big enough, though. if we crawled through that, the thing-whatever it is-would just take our heads as they poked through. We'll have to move some rocks."

Sparthera picked up a heavy boulder and hurled it away. "I feel an irrational urge to go home."

"I can't go home. Let's move some rocks," said Sung, and she did. The sun had dropped a fair distance toward Rynildissen, and every muscle in her body was screaming, before the dripping, panting Sung said, "Enough. Now we need torches."

"Sung. Did it . . . occur to you . . . to let me rest?"

"Well, why didn't you . . . oh." Sung was disconcerted. "Sparthera, I'm used to giving orders to women, because I'm supposed to be the immortal Sung. But it's just for show. I'm also used to being disobeyed."

"I can't." She was crying.

"I'll be more careful. Shall we rest, have some tea?"

"Good. Offer me a swallow of wine."

"That's not-"

"For Khuim's sake, Sung, do you think I'd go in there drunk? It's in there. I know it. I kept waiting for it to jump on me. Don't you have a spell to protect us?"

"No. We don't even know what it is. Here-" He turned her around and began to massage her neck and shoulders, fingers digging in. Sparthera felt tensed muscles unravelling, loosening. It was a wonderful surprise.

She said, "It must have half-killed the Sung women to let you go."

"Somehow they managed." She barely heard the bitterness; but it did bother him.

It was dark in there. The late afternoon light only reached a dozen paces in. They stepped in, holding the torches high. There was a rustling flurry of motion and a loud whimpering cry. If one of them had run, the other would have followed. As it was, they walked slowly forward behind Sung's sword and Sparthera's dagger. The cave wasn't large. A stream ran through the middle. Sparthera noted two skeletons on either side of the stream, lying face up as if posed- Another cry and a scrabbling sound. Something huge and dark moved just outside the perimeter of light. The animal odor had become sickeningly strong. Sung held the light higher.

Off in a corner, something huge was trying to pack itself into a very narrow crevice. It looked at them with absolute panic in its eyes, pulled its long scaly tail closer under its legs and tried fruitlessly to move away.

"What in the world is it?"

"Nothing from this world, that's certain," Sung said. "It looks like something that was conjured up Out of a bad dream. Probably was. Gar's guardian."

The creature was partly furred and partly scaled. It had a long toothed snout and broad paddle-like front paws with thick nails. There was a rusted iron collar around its neck, with a few links of broken chain attached. Now its claws stopped grinding against rock, and its tail came up to cover its eyes.

"What is it trying to do?" Sparthera whispered

"Well, it seems to be trying to hide in that little crack."

"Oh, for the love of Khulm! You mean it's scared!"

The beast gave a long wailing moan at the sound of her voice. Its claws resumed scratching rock.

"Let it alone," Sung said. He swung the torch around to reveal the rest of the cave. They found a torn and scattered pack, with the remains of weevily flour and some broken boxes nearly collapsed from dry rot. Two skeletons were laid out as for a funeral. They had not died in bed. The rib cage on one seemed to have been torn wide open. The other seemed intact below the neck, but it was still wearing a bronze helmet bearing the crest of a soldier of Rynildissen; and the helmet and skull had been squashed as flat as a miser's sandwich.

Aside from the small stream that ran between them, and assorted gypsum deposits, the cave was empty.

"I'm afraid the Regent's army got here first," Sung said.

Sparthera bent above one of the bodies. "Do you think that thing did this? Did it kill them, or just gnaw the bodies? It Doesn't seem dangerous now."

"It probably wasn't all that scared in the beginning." Sung was grinning. "Gar must have left it here to guard the treasure, with a chain to keep it from running away. When the Regent's soldiers found the cave, it must have got the first ones in. Then the rest piled in and pounded it into mush. Conjured beasts like that are practically impossible to kill, but did you notice the scars on the muzzle and forelegs? It hasn't forgotten."

"I feel sorry for it," Sparthera said. Then the truth came home to her and she said, "I feel sorry for us! The treasure must have been gone for years. Except-the talisman led us here!"

Sung walked forward, following the talisman. He stopped above the skeleton with the flattened skull. "'Ta netyillo-' Yes."

He reached into the rib cage and came up with a mass of color flickering in his hands. Sparthera reached into it and found a large ruby. There were three others besides, and two good-sized emeralds.

Sung laughed long and hard. "So, we have a greedy soldier to thank. He ran in, saw a pile of jewels, snatched up a fistful and swallowed them. He must have thought it would come out all right in the end. Instead, Gar's pet got him." Sung wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "Fate is a wonderful thing. Here, give me those."

She did, and Sung began tracing the curve on the talisman, one jewel at a time. She said, "They wouldn't have left a talisman of levitation."

"No, they wouldn't."

"And this stuff isn't worth nearly my weight in gold."

Sung stiffened. "The pointer! It's pointing into the wall itself!" He got up and began moving along the wall.

Sparthera grimaced but said nothing.

Sung called, "Either it's cursed deep in there, or there's another cave, or . . . why do I bother? It's pointing to Rynildissen."

"Maybe other places too. There was a war with Sarpuree, seventy years ago. We lost, so there was tribute to pay. I don't even have to guess where the Regent got the money to pay for it all. He may have sold most of the treasure."

"Humph. Yes. And if there were any decorative items left, they could be spread all through the palace. And some of the soldiers probably hid a few little things like that diamond bird. Even if we were crazy enough to rob the Regent's palace, we'd never get it all. It's the end of our treasure hunt, girl."

"But you said . . . Sung! How can I ever win my freedom if we don't go on?"

"Oh, we'll go on. But not looking for Oar's treasure." Sung scooped the jewels into his pocket and handed her the little diamond bird. "Keep this as a memento. The rest . . . well, I've thought of opening a toy shop in Rynildissen, maybe."

"A toy shop?"

Sung frowned. "You don't like toys, do you?"

"Everybody likes toys. But we're adults, Sung!"

"Girl, don't you know that human beings are natural magicians? I think it's hereditary. The magic was always there to be used . . . but now it isn't. And we still want magic. Especially children."

"Those toys aren't-"

"No, of course not, but they're as close as you're likely to get these days, especially in a city. Toys from far places might sell very well."

She was still angry. Sung reached to run his fingers over the tawny stubble on her head. "We'll live well enough. Come kiss me, little thief. Seven years isn't such a long time."

Sparthera kissed him; she couldn't help it. Then she said, "I wondered if a diamond bird could be your talisman of levitation."

Sung's eyes widened. "I wonder . . . it's worth a try. Not in here, though." He took the bird and scrambled up scree toward the cave entrance.

Sparthera started after him. Then, holding her torch high, she looked up. The rock tapered to a high natural vault. It looked unstable, dangerous. Something . . . a bright point?

Compelled, she continued climbing after Sung. But the diamond trinket (she told herself) was no flying spell. She'd been wrong: no soldier would have stolen that. It would be treason. By staying here she would be working in Sung's best interests (she told hersell scrambling up the rocks). There was no point in shouting after him. If she were wrong, at least he wouldn't be disappointed (she told herself, and at last the pull of her oath lost its grip).

Sung was out of sight. Sparthera scrambled back down and set to work.

The soldiers had taken all of their equipment before they turned the cave into a crypt for their brethren by pulling down the entrance. They had taken armor, but left the crushed helmet that was part of one corpse. They had taken the metal point from a snapped spear; but a three-pace length of shaft remained.

Sparthera dipped a piece of cloth into the stream, then into some of the mouldy flour scattered on the rock floor. She kneaded the cloth until it had turned gooey, then wrapped it around the broken tip of the spear. She climbed scree to get closer to the ceiling, and reached up with the spear, toward a bright point on the cave roof.

It stuck. She pulled it down: thin gold filigree carved into a pair of bird's wings, about the size of her two hands. It tugged upward against her fingers.

"Lift me," she whispered. And she rose until her head bumped rock.

"Set me down," she whispered, and drifted back to earth.

No castle in the world held a room so high that she could not rob it, with this. And she waited for the impulse that would send her scrambling out to give it to Sung.

Sung was bounding downhill with his arms flapping, one hand clutching the diamond bauble, looking very like a little boy at play. He turned in fury at the sound of Sparthera's laughter.

"I've found it!" she called, holding the golden talisman high.

And as Sung ran toward her, beaming delight, Sparthera gloated.

For the instant in which she flew, Sparthera's weight in gold had been far less than the value of the paltry treasure they had found.

She might stay with Sung long enough to take back the jewels, or at least the wings. She might even stay longer. If he were right about the toy shop . . . perhaps he need never learn that she was free.