Empire of the East Read Free

and spoke. “It was a quotation, Lord Ekuman, nearly word for word. From this—which is either a fable or a history of the Old World, I know not which. I will translate.” Elslood put back his wizard’s hood from his bush of silvery hair, cleared his throat again, and read out in a firm voice:
    â€œSaid Indra to the demon Namuci, I will slay thee not by day or night, neither with the staff nor with the bow, neither with the palm of the hand nor with the fist, neither with the wet nor with the dry.”
    â€œIndra?”
    â€œOne of the gods, Lord. Of lightning…”
    â€œAnd of Elephants?” Sarcasm bit in Ekuman’s voice. Elephant was the name of some creature, real or mythical, of the Old World. Here in the Broken Lands depictions of this beast were to be seen in several places: stamped or painted on Old World metal, woven into a surviving scrap of Old World cloth that Ekuman had seen, and carved, probably at some less ancient time, upon a rock cliff in the Broken Mountains.
    And now, somehow, the Elephant had come to be the symbol of those who called themselves the Free Folk. Far more important, a referent of this symbol still existed in the form of some real power, hidden somewhere in this land that refused to accept Ekuman as its conqueror—so the Satrap’s wizards assured him, and so he believed. By all surface appearances the land was his, the Free Folk were only an outlaw remnant; yet all the divinings of his magicians warned him that without the Elephant under his control his rule was doomed to perish.
    Still he was not really expecting the answer that Elslood gave him:
    â€œPossibly, Lord, quite possibly. In at least one image that I have seen elsewhere, Indra is shown as mounted on what I believe to be an Elephant.”
    â€œThen read on.”
    The ominous tone was plain in Ekuman’s voice; the wizard read on quickly: “‘But he killed him in the morning twilight, by sprinkling over him the foam of the sea.’ The god Indra killed the demon Namuci, that is.”
    â€œHum.” Ekuman had just noticed something: Indra–Ardneh. Namuci–Ekuman. Of course a power of magic could reside in words, but hardly in this simple transposition of syllables. The discovery of the apparent verbal trickery brought him relief rather than alarm. The old man, unable to strike back with effect, had still managed to work some subtlety into a dying threat. Subtlety was hardly substance, even in magic.
    Ekuman let himself smile faintly. “Fragile sort of demon, to die of a little sea-spray,” he commented.
    Relieved, Elslood indulged himself in a light laugh. He leafed through a few more pages of his book. “As I recall the story, Lord, this demon Namuci had kept his life, his soul, hidden in the sea-foam. Therefore was he vulnerable to it.” Elslood shook his head. “One would have thought it a fairly clever choice for a hiding place.”
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    Ekuman grunted noncommittally. At the sound of a step he turned, to see Zarf entering the Presence Chamber. Zarf was younger and shorter than Elslood and also resembled far less the popular conception of a wizard. Judged by appearance, Zarf might have been a merchant or a prosperous farmer—save for the toad-familiar, which rode now under a fold of cloak at his shoulder, all but invisible save for its lidded eyes.
    â€œYou have already finished looking at the old man’s body? It told you nothing?”
    â€œThere is nothing to be learned from that, Lord.” Zarf tried to meet Ekuman’s gaze boldly, then looked away. “I can make a further examination later—but there is nothing.”
    In silent but obvious dissatisfaction Ekuman regarded his two magicians, who awaited his pleasure standing motionless but otherwise quite like children in their fear. It was a continual enjoyment to the Satrap to have power over people as powerful as these. Of course it was not by any innate