The Swordbearer - By Glen Cook Page 0,74

personal violence."

"There is. I suppose they handle that sort of informally. With butcher knives. Or, in an old, almost decadent society like this, poison. They probably figure it's gauche to actually go stab somebody."

They found themselves a room in a quiet quarter where outlanders seemed to congregate and mellow one another's strangeness by their numbers. Rogala said, "Somebody's bound to realize who we are. Maybe we ought to change our appearance a little. Any suggestions?"

"I'll settle for changing mine with a good hot bath."

"A complete toilet will be a good start. Go see if the landlord has a pair of scissors."

An hour later Rogala had trimmed his vast black beard to a ghost of its former glory. Gathrid grinned, said, "Your tenants are going to have to find new quarters."

"Eh?"

"Old fairy tale. King Thrushbeard. He had a beard so gross birds nested in it."

"Oh. I know the motif." The dwarf grinned back. "I didn't realize you had a sense of humor, son."

"Haven't had much chance to exercise it, have I?"

"Yeah, well. For a while now. We'll just take it easy till they find us. You want the bath first? I warn you, when I get done with that water you'll be able to walk on it."

After their baths they exchanged haircuts and donned new clothing purchased for them by the landlord's son. They sized one another up. Gathrid said, "Whatever became of Theis Rogala? They might never find us."

"What happened to that skinny kid who woke me up? You've turned into a man, son. They won't recognize either one of us."

Their newfound anonymity lasted the day. During it Gathrid enjoyed a triumph over Daubendiek and Suchara. He managed to leave their room without arms.

"I think you're tempting fate too much," Rogala growled. They were loafing at a sidewalk cafe, watching traffic pass, occasionally exchanging a few words with citizens and other outlanders. Many of the latter were more bizarre than they.

Aarant had offered an argument similar to Rogala's when Gathrid had asked his help overcoming the Sword's control.

"If Mulenex's bullies stumble across us now, we're deader than a wedge, and not a damn thing we can do to stop it."

"You don't look all that terrified."

"Oh, I am. Petrified. I'm just a good actor." He signaled for a waiter.

"From what I've seen, I think I could be comfortable here," Gathrid observed. Dusk was closing in. A quaintly attired lamplighter was at work across the street. The afternoon had stolen away on them. "Just lying around like this. It's been a hundred years since I've relaxed this way."

"Uhm. Or a few thousand." Something wistful touched the dwarf's voice.

Aarant claimed that Rogala was more open and emotional than he had been during the Brothers' War. Even so, Gathrid knew next to nothing about the man's true age, his origins or his background. Or what had damned him to serve Suchara.

"It would never last, would it? Got to be rich to loaf here. We don't have the pocket money. Nor the temperament. Even Heaven would get dull for such as us."

"That might be true," Gathrid replied sourly. Much as he despised his fate, it was becoming part of him. He was becoming one with it. Being Swordbearer seemed less and less a cosmic imposition.

News from the east had not yet reached Sartain in reliable form. That there had been a big battle between Nieroda and the Mindak was common knowledge, but no two accounts agreed as to site, outcome, or the part the Great Sword had played. The battle at the Karato and that at Kacalief had become confused. And as to the disappearance of Kimach Faulstich, they had outdistanced that news entirely.

Sartain was little concerned with happenings in faraway places. It had excitement enough at home. The contest for the Fray Magistery had the whole city on tenterhooks.

Balloting had begun. Each tally shifted more and more in favor of Gerdes Mulenex. Bookmakers were giving odds that he would receive the requisite majority in the next poll.

The citizenry were not pleased, but neither were they afraid. While occupied by Klutho Misplaer the Raftery had impinged on their lives not at all. They could foresee no potential danger from any successor. Elgar had far more effect on everyday life.

His were the laws that ruled their days. His were the dreams that shaped the Queen City. His was the voice to which people listened.

"Much as I hate the idea," Rogala said, "we'd better announce ourselves tomorrow. We can't let Mulenex's play for the Raftery go unchallenged."

"Uhm."