The Lady of the Winds

  by Poul Anderson

  Originally published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, October-November 2001

  Poul Anderson’s first appearance in our pages was in April of 1951 — issue number 6 of this magazine, to be precise. In the intervening years, he has penned a book or thirty; the most recent of which is Mother of Kings. Now here we are at issue number 600 and the master is still spinning out lovely yarns for our entertainment. This new one gives us a bard by the name of Cappen Varra (whom some of you have met before, perhaps in the Thieves’ World books edited by Robert Asprin and Lynn Abbey) and one pickle of a predicament.

  The Lady of the Winds

  by Poul Anderson

  SOUTHWARD THE MOUNTAINS lifted to make a wall across a heaven still hard and blue. Snow whitened their peaks and dappled the slopes below. Even this far under the pass, patches of it lay on sere grass, among strewn boulders — too early in the season, fatally too early. Dry motes blew off in glittery streaks, borne on a wind that whittered and whirled, its chill searched deep. Westward, clouds were piling up higher than the heights they shrouded, full of darkness and further storm.

  A snowdevil spun toward Cappen Varra, thickening as it went. Never had he known of the like. Well, he had gone forth to find whatever Power was here. He clutched the little harp with numbed fingers as if it were his courage. The gyre stopped before him and congealed. It became the form of a woman taller than himself.

  She poised utterly beautiful, but hueless as the snow, save for faint blue shadows along the curves of her and eyes like upland lakes. The long, tossing hair and a thin vortex of ice dust half clothed her nakedness.

  Somehow she seemed to quiver, a wind that could not ever come altogether to rest.

  “My lady!” broke from him in the tongue of his homeland.

  He could have tried to stammer on with wards heard in this country, but she answered him likewise, singing more than speaking, maybe whistling more than singing: “What fate do you seek, who dared so to call on me!”

  “I — I don’t know,” he got out, truly enough. “That lies with my lady. Yet it seemed right to bring her what poor gift was mine to offer.”

  He could not tell whether he heard scorn or a slight, wicked mirth. “A free gift, with nothing to ask in return!”

  Cappen drew breath. The keen air seemed to whip up his wits. He had dealt with the mighty often before now — none such as her, no, but whatever hope he had lay with supposing that power makes for a certain way of feeling, be it human or over-human. He swept his headgear off, holding it against his breast while he bowed very deeply. “Who am I to petition my lady? I can merely join all other men in praising her largesse and mercy, exalting her name forever.”

  The faintest of smiles touched her lips, “Because of what you brought, I will hear you out.” It ceased.

  Impatience edged her voice. The wind strengthened, the frosty tresses billowed more wildly. “I think I know your wish. I do not think I will grant it. However speak.”

  * * * * *

  HE HAD MEANT to depart from Sanctuary, but not so hastily. After some three years in that famous, infamous city, he remembered how much more there was to the wide world. Besides, while he had made friends high in its life, as well as among the low and raffish — with whom he generally felt easier — he had also made enemies of either kind. Whether by arrest on some capital charge or, likelier by a knife in some nighted alley, one of them might well eventually make an end of him. He had survived three attempts, but the need to stay ever alert grew wearisome when hardly anything remained here that was new to him.

  For a time after an adventure into which he fell, rescuing a noble lady from captivity in another universe and, perhaps, this world from the sikkintairs, he indulged in pleasures he could now afford. Sanctuary provided them in rich variety. But his tastes did not run to every conceivable kind and presently those he enjoyed took on a surprising sameness. “Could it be that the gods of vice, even the gods of luxury, have less imagination than the gods of virtue and wholesomeness?” he wondered. The thought appalled.

  Yet it wakened a dream that surprised him when he recognized it for what it was. He had been supposing his inborn restlessness and curiosity would send him on toward fresh horizons. Instead, memories welled up, and longing sharpened until it felt like unrequited love. Westward his wish ran, across plains, over mountains, through great forests and tumultuous kingdoms, the whole way home to Caronne. He remembered not only gleaming wails, soaring spires, bustling marts and streets; not only broad estates, greensward and greenwood, flowerbeds ablaze, lively men and livelier women; he harked back to the common folk, his folk, their speech and songs and ways. A peasant girl or tavern wench could be as fair as any highborn maiden, and often more fun. He remembered seaports, odors of tar and fish and cargo bales, masts and spars raking the sky, and beyond them the water a-glitter beneath a Southern sun, vast and blue where it reached outward and became Ocean.

  Enough remained of his share of Molin Torchholder’s reward for the exploit. He need not return as a footloose hand-to-mouth minstrel, showman, gambler, and whatever-else, the disinherited and rather disgraced younger son of a petty baron. No, if he could get shrewd advice about investments — he knew himself for a much better versifier than money manager — he would become a merchant prince in Croy or Seilles at the very least. Or so he trusted.

  Summer was dying away into autumn. The last trader caravans of the year would soon be gone. One was bound as far as Arinberg. That was a goodly distance, well beyond the western border of this Empire, and the town said to be an enjoyable place to spend a winter. Cappen bought two horses, camp gear, and supplies from the master. The traders were still trading here and did not plan to proceed for another week.

  Cappen had the interval idle on his hands.

  And so it came about that he perforce left Sanctuary earlier than intended.

  * * * * *

  CANDLELIGHT GLOWED over velvet. Fragrances of incense, of Peridis’s warmth and disheveled midnight locks, of lovemaking lately come to a pause, mingled with the sweet notes of a gold-and-diamond songbird crafted by some cunning artificer. No noise or chill or stench from the streets outside won through windows barred, glazed, and curtained. Nerigo, third priest of Ils housed his newest leman well.

  Perhaps if he visited her oftener she would not have heeded the blandishments of a young man who encountered her in the gaudy chaos of Midyear Fair and made occasions to pursue the acquaintance. At least, they might have lacked opportunity. But although Nerigo was not without vigor, much of it went in the pursuit of arcane knowledge, which included practices both spiritually and physically demanding. Today he had indicated to Peridis, as often before, that he would be engaged with dark and dangerous powers until dawn and then must needs sleep in his own house; thereafter, duties at the temple would keep him busy for an indefinite span.

  So she sent a note to Cappen Varra at the inn where he lodged. It went by public messenger. As she had made usual, her few servants retired to a dormitory shed behind the house when she had supped. If she needed any, she could ring a bell. Besides, like servants generally in Sanctuary, these cultivated a selective blindness and deafness.

  After all, she must shortly bid her lover farewell. It would probably take a while to find another. The might never find another so satisfactory.

  “You have asked about some things here,” she murmured. “I never dared show you them. Not that you would have betrayed me, but what you didn’t know couldn’t be gotten out of you, were he to become suspicious. Now, though, when, alas, you are leaving for aye —” She sighed, fluttered her eyelashes, and cast him a wistful smile. “It will take my mind off that, while we rest before our next hour of delight.”

  “The wait will not be long, since it’s you I’m waiting for,” he purred.

  “Ah, but, my dear, I am less accustomed than I… was… before that man persuaded me hither.” With gold, Cappen knew, and the luxury everywhere around, and, he gathered, occasional tales and glimpses of marvels. “Let me rest an hour, to be the readier for you. Meanwhile, there are other more rare entertainments.”

  A long silken shift rippled and shimmered as she undulated over to a cabinet of ebony inlaid with ivory in enigmatic patterns. Her single curious modesty was not to be unclad unless in bath or bed, Having nothing else along, Cappen gratified it by resuming blouse and breeks, even his soft shoes. When she opened the cabinet, he saw shelves filled with objects. Most he couldn’t at once identify, but books were among them, scrolls and codices. She paused, considering, then smiled again and took out a small slim volume bound in paper, one of perhaps a dozen. “These amuse me,” she said. “Let me in turn beguile you. Come, sit beside me.”

  He was somewhat smugly aware of how her gaze followed him as he joined her on the sofa. Speech and manner counted most withe women, but good looks helped. He was of medium size, slim lithe and muscular because hitherto he had seldom been able to lead the indolent life he would have preferred. Black hair, banged over the brow and above the shoulders, framed straight-cut features and vividly blue eyes. It also helped to have quite a musical voice.

  She handed him the book. He beheld letters totally unfamiliar, laid it on his lap and opened it. She reached to turn the pages, one by one.

  Plain text mingled with lines that must be verse — songs, because it seemed the opening parts were under staves of what he guessed was a musical notation equally strange. There were pictu
res too, showing people outlandishly clad, drawn with an antic humor that tickled his fancy. “What is this?” he wondered.

  “The script for a rollicking comedic performance,” she answered.

  “When done? Where? How do you know?”

  “Well, now, that is a story of its own,” she said savoring his attention. He knew she was not stupid and wanted to be more to him than simply another female body. Indeed, that was among her attractions. “See you, Nerigo’s wizardly questings go into different worlds from ours, alike in some ways, alien in more. Different universes he says coexistent with this one on many planes, as the leaves of this tome lie side by side. But I can’t really understand his meaning there. Can you?”

  Cappen frowned, abruptly uneasy. “Much too well,” he muttered.

  “What’s wrong? I feel you go taut.”

  “Oh, nothing, really.” Cappen made himself relax. He didn’t care to speak of the business, if only because that would spoil the mood here. It was, after all, safely behind him, the gate destroyed, the sikkintairs confined to their own skies.

  And yet, raced through his minds that gate had been in the temple of Ils, where the high flamen made nefarious use of it. He had heard that, subsequently, the priests of the cult disavowed and severely discouraged such lore. They could have found themselves endangered. Yet search through the temple archives might well turn up further information. Yes, that would explain why Nerigo was secretive, and stored his gains in this house, where nobody would likely think to search.

  “He only lusts for knowledge,” Peridis reassured. Her tone implied she wished that were not his primary lust.

  “He does not venture into the Beyond. He simply opens windows for short whiles observes and when he can, reaches through to snatch small things for later study. Is that so terrible? But the hierarchy would make trouble for him if they knew, and… it might strike at me as well.”

  She brightened. “He shares with me, a little. I have looked with him into his mirror that is not a mirror, at things of glamor or mirth — I have seen this very work performed on a stage far elsewhere, and a few more akin to it. True, the language was foreign to both of us, but he could discern that the story for instance concerns a love intrigue. It was partly at my wish that he hunted about until he found a shop where the books are sold, and cast spells to draw copies into his arcanum. Since then I’ve often taken them out when I’m alone, to call back memories of the pleasure. Now let me explain and share it with you as well as I’m able.” Heavy-lidded, her glance smoldered on him. “It does tell of lovers who at last come together.”

  He thrust his qualms aside. The thing was in fact fascinating. They began to go thorough it page by page, her finger tracing out each illustration while she tried to convey what understanding she had of it. His free arm slid behind her.

  A thud sounded from the vestibule. Hinges whined. A chill gust bore smells of the street in. Peridis screamed. Cappen knew stabbingly that the bolt on the main door had flung back at the command of its master. The book fell from their hands and they read no more that night.

  A lean, grizzle-bearded, squinting man, clad in a silver robe, entered. At his back hulked another, red-skinned, seven feet tall, so broad and thick as to seem squat, armed with steel cap, leather cuirass, and unfairly large scimitar, Cappen did not need Peridis’s gasp to inform him that they were Nerigo and a Makali bodyguard.

  The woman sprang to her feet. As the bard did, the little volume slid off his lap. Almost without thinking, he snatched it and tucked it down his half-open blouse. A bargaining counter — ?

  For an endless instant, silence held them all.

  When Nerigo then spoke, it was quite softly, even impersonally. “I somewhat hoped I would prove mistaken. But you realize, Peridis, I cannot afford blind trust in anyone. A sortilege indicated you were receiving a visitor in my absences.”

  She stepped back, lifting her hands, helpless and imploring. Nerigo shook his head. Did ruefulness tinge his words? “Oh, fear not, my cuddly. From the beginning, I knew you for what you are. It’s not rational to wax angry when a cat steals cream or a monkey disarrays documents. One simply makes provision against further untowardness. Why should I deny myself the pleasure that is you? No, you will merely be careful in future, very careful. If you are, then when I want novelty you shall go your way freely, unharmed, with only a minor spell on you to lock your lips against ever letting slip anything about me or my doings.”

  Cappen heard how she caught her breath and broke into sobs. At the back of his mind, he felt a burden drop off himself. He would have hated being the instrument of harm to her. Not that she had been much more to him than frolic; yet a man wishes well-being for his friends. Besides, killing beautiful young women was a terrible waste.

  Hope flickered up amidst his dismay. He bowed low. “My lord, most reverend sir,” he began, “your magnanimity surpasses belief. No, say rather that it demonstrates in actual incarnation the divine benevolence of those gods in whose service you so distinguish yourself. Unworthy though I be, my own humble but overwhelming gratitude —”

  Nerigo cut him off. “You need not exercise that flattering tongue which has become notorious throughout Sanctuary,” the sorcerer-priest said, now coldly impersonal. “You are no wayward pet of mine, you are a brazen intruder. I cannot possibly let you go unpunished; my demons would lose all respect for me. Furthermore, this is an opportunity first to extract from you everything you know. I think especially about the eminent Molin Torchholder and his temple of Savankala, but doubtless other bits of information can prove useful too. Take him, Yamen.”

  “No, no, I beg you!” Peridis shrieked, but scrambled aside as the giant advanced.

  If he was hustled off to a crypt, Cappen knew, he would welcome death when at last it came. He retreated, drawing the knife at his belt. Yaman grinned. The scimitar hissed forth. “Take him alive,” Nerigo called, “but I’ve ways to stanch wounds once he’s disabled.”

  Cappen was no bravo or brawler. Wits were always his weapon of choice. However, sometimes he had not been granted the choice. Thus he went prepared. His knife was not just the article of clothing and minor tool commonly carried by men. It was razor-honed, as balanced as a hawk on the wing. When in his wanderings he earned some coins by a show of prestidigitation, it had often figured in the act.

  He poised, took aim, and threw.

  A hoarse, gurgling bellow broke from Yaman. He lurched, dropped his weapon, and went to his knees.

  Blood spurted. The blade had gone into his throat below the chin. If Nerigo wanted to keep his henchman, he’d be busy for a while. Mainly, Cappen’s way out was clear. He blew Peridis a kiss and darted off.

  A yell pursued him. “You’ll not escape, Varra! I’ll have you hounded to the ends of the Empire. If they’re Imperial troopers who find you, they’ll have orders to cut you down on sight. But first demons will be on your trail —”

  By then he was in the vestibule, retrieving his rapier and cloak whence he slipped forth into the street. Walls and roofs loomed black along its narrowness. A strip of stars between barely gave light to grope by.

  Oh, lovely gloom! He kept to one side, where the dark was thickest and there was less muck to step in, and fled as deftly as a thief.

  What to do! tumbled through his head. The inconspicuous silver amulet hanging on his breast ought to baffle Nerigo’s afreets or whatever they were. It protected him against any supernatural forces of less than divine status. At least, so the wizard who gave it to him years ago had said, and so it had seemed to work on two or three occasions since. Of course that might have been happenstance and the wizard a liar, but he had plenty of worries without adding hypothetical ones.

  Equally of course, if such a being did come upon him, it could seize him or tear him apart. Physical strength was a physical quality. Likewise, for human hunters.

  Yes, Nerigo would have those out after him, while messengers sped north, south, east, and west bearing his description to castles, cantonments, garrisons, and watchposts. Once he had aroused the indignation of his colleagues, Nerigo would have ample influence to get such an order issued. Cappen’s connections to Molin were too slight — how he wished now that he hadn’t thought it best to play down his role in that rescue — for the high priest of Savankala to give him asylum and safeguard across the border. Relations between the temples were strained enough already.