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Chapter 13
Pantelleria I
 

"Service, honor, faith, obedience. Justice tempered only by mercy; mercy tempered only by justice."

It's never easy, not that that matters. What matters to me is that it's rarely as simple as it sounds.

How can I be of service?

—Gray

Gray kept the rucksack with him, tied to the saddle before him.

Most of his own gear was still aboard the Vergent, back at Punta Karascia. It was silly, really. The rucksack was every bit as safe there, in his cabin, as it was here, as Lieutenant Carothers had put two Marines on guard at his door.

Gray had thought of leaving the Khan there, for obvious reasons, but had decided against it. He was not coming as a pauper begging for alms, but as a creditor, demanding payment, after all, and it wouldn't hurt to remind his debtor that he had ways of insisting, if necessary.

His mouth tasted of sand and his eyes were constantly stinging; the late afternoon wind blew hard, reminding him that the Arabs had called the island "Bent el Rhia"—"the island of the wind"—although other reminders were all about him, and he hardly needed to have the point driven home.

What plants there were on the side of the boastfully named Montagne Grande were small and twisted brush, only a few leaves spared by the winds. Down by the shore, the stunted trees were planted in sconces, protecting them from the winds; there was no such cover up here.

The castle at the top of the hill rose above him, close. Too close. Strange.

Either he was getting patient with age, or it had only taken an hour or so to make his way up the hillside. Which shouldn't have been so very strange, as the Montagne Grande was but a mile, as the crow flies, from the Punta Karascia, and even with all the twists and turns that the road took up the hill, it could hardly have amounted to more than twice that.

Still, the other two times he had visited the castle, it had taken the better part of a day to ride those one or two miles, as though the Wise preferred to keep himself more separate from the rest of the world than mere geography would allow.

That boded for a polite reception, if not necessarily a friendly one. It certainly meant that the proprietor was not intending to bar his entry.

As though in response to that thought, a gout of steam ushered forth from one of the cracks in the hillside, filling his nose with its hellish, sulphuric reek. It startled the small brown mare he had hired at the port into rearing, and it took all the horsemanship he had to remain on her back, and settle her back down.

Most other men, he thought, would probably have been thrown, but he hadn't been, quite.

Most other places he would have put this down to mere coincidence, but he was less disposed to see it here, both in the timing of it, and in it not quite having thrown him. It felt like a warning.

His hand itched for the feel of the Khan.

No, it was more than that. Both his hands did—the one that was gone even more than the one that remained. He brought his stump up to eye level. Very strange. He could feel himself moving his missing fingers, and the urge to scratch the itch of his absent palm was maddening.

But it was gone. He had long since accustomed himself to learning that absent parts of him could hurt just as much or more than the aches and pains of his body.

He was perhaps a hundred yards from the crest of the hill when the road began to lengthen in front of him; the castle seeming to grow just a little farther away with each of the mare's steps.

He pulled the reins, stopping the horse. "If you think that you can discourage me," he said, quietly, "then you're wrong. If you think to refuse to admit me, then think also on the possible consequences, and think on them carefully."

He let his fingers drop to the Khan's hilt.

So. The Wise is being shy, eh? Shall we see just how well it can hide from the two of us?

"If necessary," he said, deliberately speaking aloud, "we shall. I hope that it won't be necessary."

I've killed many a thing. Men, women, children, darklings, and deodands. Cities and cattle—but I've not yet killed one of the Old Ones. Perhaps today's the day.

"I hope not," Gray said. He kicked the horse into a slow walk, and while the road ahead didn't seem to shorten, it didn't lengthen, either.

Things had changed. The last time he had been here, the gates to the castle had stood open. This time, they were closed. Last time, the marching of phantom boots had sounded above his head, along the ramparts, and torches burned from their mounts in the walls.

Not this time. The massive gates stood closed, and the only sound in his ears, save from the snorting of his horse at the hitching post, was from the wind.

He stood in front of the gates. "Open them or not, as you please," he said.

Slowing, silently, as though turning on impossibly well-greased hinges, the gates swung open before him, and he walked quickly inside, and down the short road toward the keep.

Black was waiting for him, over on the steps to the keep itself.

As before, he was dressed in a mockery of the clothing of the Order—no silver piping along the cuffs, no sign of the Cross, no medallions laced into his boots.

If anything, he should have looked younger than he had last time; there was only a trace of graying of the hair at his temples, and his beard was a solid, inky black. His fingers toyed nervously with the slim stick that he always carried, and it was, still, the only weapon he displayed.

But, still, he looked older; there were wrinkles around his sunken eyes, and he seemed to be having trouble with his right hand.

"Hello, Gray," he said. "I'd say that you're welcome, but that would be a lie."

"I'm not here for welcome," Gray said. "But for repayment of a debt. Partial repayment."

"Ah." Black's smile was thin. "And with the threat of unleashing the Khan on me if I don't pay? And with no promise that there will be no further demands?" He tilted his head to one side. "That hardly seems just, all in all."

"It hardly seems just that Bear died saving your life, or whatever passes for life with you."

Black shook his head. "I seem to remember you—and he, and Cully—rejecting my pleas for aid and succor. Cully only came to follow Niko; you only came to my aid to follow Cully, and Bear only to accompany the two of you."

Gray nodded. That was true enough. "But, nonetheless, because we did that, you lived, and Bear died."

"True enough." Black sat down on the hard stone steps. "Then what would you have me do? Leave my island, and help you find what you seek?"

"Could you?"

"Hardly." Black toyed with his wand. "I'm old, Joshua, and hurting. I doubt that I'll ever recover, not fully, from the damage that those live swords did me, and even before that, I'd not dare leave my island—I haven't, since the end of the Age, when I was somewhat more . . . vigorous." He rose easily, giving the lie to talk of weariness. "Walk with me," he said.

The path around to the keep cut through the well-manicured grass on a broad curve that brought them underneath a sextet of apple trees, ripe with fruit. Wolf reached up and plucked two, then took a bite out of one, and offered the other to Gray, who declined.

"Oh, well," Wolf said, from around his mouthful. "Worth a try, I suppose." He dropped the other apple from his hand; it disappeared before it reached the ground. "What is it that you want, Gray?"

"I thought you could read my mind."

Wolf shrugged. "Well, yes and no. It would be more accurate to say that I can read your soul, but that's not quite right, either, and I know that you wouldn't believe me if I told you all of what I see there, so let's leave that be, for once. What is it that you want, Gray?"

"I want to know where Cully is."

"And you think I'd see that?"

"Are you saying that you can't?"

There was some permanent connection between the Wise and those who had visited him—or her, or them, or it—on Pantelleria, and Cully had been here several times; there had been enough of a link for Wolf to have contacted Cully—and Bear, and Niko, and Gray—when he had been attacked, and more: there had been enough for the Wise to have brought them here, in his final extremity.

"The trouble with you humans, Gray, is that you insist on making simple things complicated, complicated things simple, easy things difficult, and difficult things easy." He took another bite of the apple. "That said, it was sensible of you to come to me, rather than chasing about for Cully, hoping to pick up his trail. He can be devilishly hard to find." Black grinned. "And most fortunate, all in all—he's headed this way, and should be pulling into port shortly. A few days or so. And if that's all you have to ask . . ."

Gray didn't hear what the Wise had to say; he had turned, and was walking quickly toward the gate.

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Framed

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Contents

Chapter 13
Pantelleria I
 

"Service, honor, faith, obedience. Justice tempered only by mercy; mercy tempered only by justice."

It's never easy, not that that matters. What matters to me is that it's rarely as simple as it sounds.

How can I be of service?

—Gray

Gray kept the rucksack with him, tied to the saddle before him.

Most of his own gear was still aboard the Vergent, back at Punta Karascia. It was silly, really. The rucksack was every bit as safe there, in his cabin, as it was here, as Lieutenant Carothers had put two Marines on guard at his door.

Gray had thought of leaving the Khan there, for obvious reasons, but had decided against it. He was not coming as a pauper begging for alms, but as a creditor, demanding payment, after all, and it wouldn't hurt to remind his debtor that he had ways of insisting, if necessary.

His mouth tasted of sand and his eyes were constantly stinging; the late afternoon wind blew hard, reminding him that the Arabs had called the island "Bent el Rhia"—"the island of the wind"—although other reminders were all about him, and he hardly needed to have the point driven home.

What plants there were on the side of the boastfully named Montagne Grande were small and twisted brush, only a few leaves spared by the winds. Down by the shore, the stunted trees were planted in sconces, protecting them from the winds; there was no such cover up here.

The castle at the top of the hill rose above him, close. Too close. Strange.

Either he was getting patient with age, or it had only taken an hour or so to make his way up the hillside. Which shouldn't have been so very strange, as the Montagne Grande was but a mile, as the crow flies, from the Punta Karascia, and even with all the twists and turns that the road took up the hill, it could hardly have amounted to more than twice that.

Still, the other two times he had visited the castle, it had taken the better part of a day to ride those one or two miles, as though the Wise preferred to keep himself more separate from the rest of the world than mere geography would allow.

That boded for a polite reception, if not necessarily a friendly one. It certainly meant that the proprietor was not intending to bar his entry.

As though in response to that thought, a gout of steam ushered forth from one of the cracks in the hillside, filling his nose with its hellish, sulphuric reek. It startled the small brown mare he had hired at the port into rearing, and it took all the horsemanship he had to remain on her back, and settle her back down.

Most other men, he thought, would probably have been thrown, but he hadn't been, quite.

Most other places he would have put this down to mere coincidence, but he was less disposed to see it here, both in the timing of it, and in it not quite having thrown him. It felt like a warning.

His hand itched for the feel of the Khan.

No, it was more than that. Both his hands did—the one that was gone even more than the one that remained. He brought his stump up to eye level. Very strange. He could feel himself moving his missing fingers, and the urge to scratch the itch of his absent palm was maddening.

But it was gone. He had long since accustomed himself to learning that absent parts of him could hurt just as much or more than the aches and pains of his body.

He was perhaps a hundred yards from the crest of the hill when the road began to lengthen in front of him; the castle seeming to grow just a little farther away with each of the mare's steps.

He pulled the reins, stopping the horse. "If you think that you can discourage me," he said, quietly, "then you're wrong. If you think to refuse to admit me, then think also on the possible consequences, and think on them carefully."

He let his fingers drop to the Khan's hilt.

So. The Wise is being shy, eh? Shall we see just how well it can hide from the two of us?

"If necessary," he said, deliberately speaking aloud, "we shall. I hope that it won't be necessary."

I've killed many a thing. Men, women, children, darklings, and deodands. Cities and cattle—but I've not yet killed one of the Old Ones. Perhaps today's the day.

"I hope not," Gray said. He kicked the horse into a slow walk, and while the road ahead didn't seem to shorten, it didn't lengthen, either.

Things had changed. The last time he had been here, the gates to the castle had stood open. This time, they were closed. Last time, the marching of phantom boots had sounded above his head, along the ramparts, and torches burned from their mounts in the walls.

Not this time. The massive gates stood closed, and the only sound in his ears, save from the snorting of his horse at the hitching post, was from the wind.

He stood in front of the gates. "Open them or not, as you please," he said.

Slowing, silently, as though turning on impossibly well-greased hinges, the gates swung open before him, and he walked quickly inside, and down the short road toward the keep.

Black was waiting for him, over on the steps to the keep itself.

As before, he was dressed in a mockery of the clothing of the Order—no silver piping along the cuffs, no sign of the Cross, no medallions laced into his boots.

If anything, he should have looked younger than he had last time; there was only a trace of graying of the hair at his temples, and his beard was a solid, inky black. His fingers toyed nervously with the slim stick that he always carried, and it was, still, the only weapon he displayed.

But, still, he looked older; there were wrinkles around his sunken eyes, and he seemed to be having trouble with his right hand.

"Hello, Gray," he said. "I'd say that you're welcome, but that would be a lie."

"I'm not here for welcome," Gray said. "But for repayment of a debt. Partial repayment."

"Ah." Black's smile was thin. "And with the threat of unleashing the Khan on me if I don't pay? And with no promise that there will be no further demands?" He tilted his head to one side. "That hardly seems just, all in all."

"It hardly seems just that Bear died saving your life, or whatever passes for life with you."

Black shook his head. "I seem to remember you—and he, and Cully—rejecting my pleas for aid and succor. Cully only came to follow Niko; you only came to my aid to follow Cully, and Bear only to accompany the two of you."

Gray nodded. That was true enough. "But, nonetheless, because we did that, you lived, and Bear died."

"True enough." Black sat down on the hard stone steps. "Then what would you have me do? Leave my island, and help you find what you seek?"

"Could you?"

"Hardly." Black toyed with his wand. "I'm old, Joshua, and hurting. I doubt that I'll ever recover, not fully, from the damage that those live swords did me, and even before that, I'd not dare leave my island—I haven't, since the end of the Age, when I was somewhat more . . . vigorous." He rose easily, giving the lie to talk of weariness. "Walk with me," he said.

The path around to the keep cut through the well-manicured grass on a broad curve that brought them underneath a sextet of apple trees, ripe with fruit. Wolf reached up and plucked two, then took a bite out of one, and offered the other to Gray, who declined.

"Oh, well," Wolf said, from around his mouthful. "Worth a try, I suppose." He dropped the other apple from his hand; it disappeared before it reached the ground. "What is it that you want, Gray?"

"I thought you could read my mind."

Wolf shrugged. "Well, yes and no. It would be more accurate to say that I can read your soul, but that's not quite right, either, and I know that you wouldn't believe me if I told you all of what I see there, so let's leave that be, for once. What is it that you want, Gray?"

"I want to know where Cully is."

"And you think I'd see that?"

"Are you saying that you can't?"

There was some permanent connection between the Wise and those who had visited him—or her, or them, or it—on Pantelleria, and Cully had been here several times; there had been enough of a link for Wolf to have contacted Cully—and Bear, and Niko, and Gray—when he had been attacked, and more: there had been enough for the Wise to have brought them here, in his final extremity.

"The trouble with you humans, Gray, is that you insist on making simple things complicated, complicated things simple, easy things difficult, and difficult things easy." He took another bite of the apple. "That said, it was sensible of you to come to me, rather than chasing about for Cully, hoping to pick up his trail. He can be devilishly hard to find." Black grinned. "And most fortunate, all in all—he's headed this way, and should be pulling into port shortly. A few days or so. And if that's all you have to ask . . ."

Gray didn't hear what the Wise had to say; he had turned, and was walking quickly toward the gate.

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Framed