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What might they signify? The Mouser frowningly noted that one of the reds
marked Rime Isle at its Salthaven corner.
At this point the Gray One became aware he had been hearing for some time a
faint but steady whispering roar, like that of an array of monster seashells,
and realized that it was the hollow noise of the treadslave-driven fans that
kept Quarmall from suffocating. It was more than ten years since he'd been
employed here bodyguarding Prince Gwaay and heard that sound, but once one
heard it, one didn't forget.
Then he began to get strange hissing modulations of the soft roar
corresponding with the more vigorous shapings of old Quarmal's lips. They were
like the sinister whispers of vindictive ghosts. The Mouser felt a thrill of
accomplishment when he provisionally identified the language as High
Quarmallese and a surge of triumph when he caught the first indisputable
phrase in that sibilant tongue, "treasure caravans of Kush," while Quarmal
ticked off with his long rod on the map that jungle kingdom far south of the
buried city he himself ruled. Next thing the Mouser knew, he was hearing the
entire dialogue with perfect clarity and comprehension. It seemed like a
miracle, a wondrous witchcraft, despite his high opinions of his own
linguistic skills.
_Quarmal:_ While it is true, dearest Igwarl, son of my loins and heir
of my caverns, that the taking of revenge on injurers and traducers of
Quarmall is the chiefest duty of a Lord of Quarmall, it must never be achieved
at risk of breaching Quarmall's secrecy. That is why the purple points on the
map representing our spies and hidden allies are many more than the crimson
ones, marking our assassins.
_Igwarl:_ So the brave wielders of the knife, revered parent, must always be
outnumbered by the softspeakers and doubledealers?
_Quarmal:_ Not many of my assassins employ the knife. Some steal away
priceless life by poisons sweet as sleep or lulling deathspells fair as a
dream of love.
_Igwarl:_ Why must things never be done forthrightly, as in war!
_Quarmal:_ Ah, the impetuosity of youth. Quarmall tried war and lost, now
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works a surer way. Let me pose you a question. Whom may a Prince of
Quarmall trust in furthering his designs?
_Igwarl:_ You, sire. Not my mother. A brother, never! But he may trust his
playmate concubines, if they be sisters and he has had the training and
command of them.
From his close-buried coign of vantage the Mouser saw the in-blown cords part
as a naked girl entered the long chamber past the toiling treadslave. She was
of Igwarl's age, looked his wiry double, had the same greenish-blond hair
close-cropped, and bore before her like a sword at thrust a slender two-edged
knife as she advanced inexorably upon the unperceiving boy. She moved
rhythmically yet with a limp, favoring her left foot. The expression on her
face was that of a sleepwalker-blank, serene.
_Quarmal:_ What of a sister? Issa, say. She's to be trusted?
_Igwarl:_ Better than lesser playmate concubine -- since she has been like
trained even more carefully.
_Quarmal:_ I am glad to hear so. Look behind you.
Igwarl turned. And froze.
Quarmal let him come to full realization of his plight. The old man's eyes
were as intent as those of a leopard. He held the rod ready in his right hand.
He shook his left hand free from its sleeve and poised it at head level a foot
from his face.
The girl reached striking distance.
Swift as a snake, Igwarl drew a dagger from his belt.
His aged parent rapped his knuckles with the rod and the weapon clattered on
the rock floor.
This second betrayal rendered Igwarl moveless.
Quarmal snapped the fingers of his left hand thrice with measured rapidity,
slipping his spatulate middle finger off his thumb and bringing it down
precisely upon the crevice between his ring finger and his thumb's root
with a crack loud as that of a carter's whip. And again. And yet again.
At the first crack the girl halted her forward movement with her knife a
handsbreadth short of Igwarl's belly and her eyes widened.
At the second crack realization grew in them of the enormity of the deed she
had attempted. She paled.
At the third crack their pupils rolled upward and they fluttered shut as
self-horrified unconsciousness enwrapped her. The knife slipped from her
fingers and dashed on the rock floor. She swayed forward. Quarmal's rod darted
past the bemused boy's shoulder and its brass ferrule took her a handsbreadth
below a point midway between the nipplets of her budding breasts. She winced
shut-eyed and went a shade paler.
"Catch Issa ere she falls," Quarmal directed his son. To his credit
Igwarl managed to comply swiftly enough, supporting her supine slim form with
one arm beneath her shoulders, the other under her thighs.
"Dispose her here," said Quarmal, indicating the narrow table. Igwarl did that
too. The ability to act in crisis with a certain precision and a minimum of
fuss seemed to run in the family, it occurred to the Mouser.
_Quarmal:_ You were not expecting an instructive demonstration.
(Quarmal pointed this out matter-of-factly, almost casually.) Ensconced in our
cavern world, you were not on guard against assault. A sister, no matter how
well trained, is not to be fully trusted if there are those can undercut your
training. To teach you a lesson I entranced Issa to attack you without her
conscious knowledge, then countermanded her before the end.
_Igwarl:_ Your sinister fingers' treble snap? (Old Quarmal nodded.)
What if the countermand had failed to work?
_Quarmal:_ You saw the celerity and sureness with which I used this rod, both
to stay Issa's fall and prevent you from shortening your lesson and wasting
one of Quarmall's more promising female servants.
_Igwarl:_ But what if the rod had failed also?
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_Quarmal:_ Why, there are always more where you came from, youngster.
Do you suppose a father who for Quarmall's good would let your gifted elder
brothers kill each other, would spare you in like circumstance? Besides, my
demonstration was designed to teach you not to trust me overmuch.
_Igwarl:_ You have proven your point, devious parent.
_Quarmal:_ (lifting Issa's left foot to display angry red circles upon heel
and toe) And why this damage and disfigurement to Quarmall's precious
property?
_Igwarl:_ (sulkily) It was needful to correct. Those are not regions normally
seen, contributing to beauty.
_Quarmal:_ A limp's a beauty mark? There was the instep to be considered, not
to mention the armpits.
_Igwarl:_ I bow to your superior wisdom, sire. Impart to me the skill
of enchantment.
_Quarmal:_ All in good time, my son. I must reassure Issa.
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