Into the thinking kingdoms - Alan Dean Foster [5]
“Knowledge is a necessary prerequisite of good governance, my man.”
“Ignoring the will of the people is not.” Again the pole was jiggled, the long, thin wisp of a line punctuating the surface with small black twitches.
“It’s a dangerous thing for people to have too much will.” Stepping closer, Hymneth knelt directly behind the man so that he could feel the warm breath of the Possessed on his own dirty, exposed neck. “It makes them restless, and upsets everyone’s digestion. Much better simply to live and enjoy each day as it comes, and leave the matter of willing to another.”
“Like you.” Still the man did not flinch, or pull away. “Go ahead—do your worst. It can’t be any worse than the rest of my luck this morning.”
“My worst? You really do think ill of me, don’t you? If you were more worldly, my man, you’d know that I’m not such a bad sort, as absolute rulers go. I have no intention of doing anything to you.” The front of the helmet turned slightly to the right. “Fine boy you have there.” Reaching out a mailed hand, Hymneth ruffled the child’s hair. The expression on the face of the six-year-old was of one torn between uncertain admiration and absolute terror.
For the first time, the fisherman’s granite resolution appeared to falter ever so slightly. “Leave the boy alone. Deal with me if you must.”
“Deal with you? But my man, I am dealing with you.” Reaching into a pocket, the necromancer removed a small stoppered glass vial. It was half full of an oily black liquid. “I will not trouble you with the name of this elixir. I will tell you that if I were to sprinkle a couple of drops of it onto this fine stalwart young lad’s hip, it would shrivel up his legs like the last overlooked stalks of summer wheat. They would become brittle, like the stems of dried flowers. Walking would cause the bones to splinter and shatter, causing excruciating pain no doctor or country alchemist could treat. Then they would heal, slowly and agonizingly, until the next time he took a wrong step, and then they would break again. And again and again, over and over, the pain as bad or worse with each new fracture, healing and breaking, breaking and healing, no matter how careful the young fellow strove to be, until by adulthood, if he survived the pain that long, both legs had become a mass of deformed, misshapen bony freaks useless for walking or any other purpose except the giving of agony.”
His helmeted face was very close to the fisherman’s ear now, and his commanding voice had dropped to a whisper. The man’s face was twitching now, and several tears rolled down his stubbled cheek.
“Don’t do that. Please don’t do that.”
“Ah.” Within the helmet, a smile creased the steel shrouded face of Hymneth the Possessed. “Please don’t do that—what?”
“Please . . .” The fisherman’s head fell forward and his eyes squeezed tight shut. “Please don’t do that—Lord.”
“Good. Very good.” Reaching over, the warlock ran a mail-enclosed forefinger along the young boy’s cheek. The little lad was quivering now, manfully not crying but obviously wanting to, shivering at the touch of the cold metal. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it? I’m leaving you now. Remember this encounter with pride. It’s not every day that Hymneth the Possessed stoops to converse with one of his people. And be sure to respect my departure appropriately.” The silky voice darkened ever so slightly. “You don’t want me to come back and talk to you again.”
Straightening to his full, commanding height, he returned to the chariot and stepped aboard. “Let’s go, Peregriff. For some reason the ocean doesn’t hold its usual cheer for me this morning.”
“It’s the woman, Lord. The Visioness. She preys on your thoughts. But her misgivings will pass.”
“I know. But it’s hard to be patient.”
Peregriff ventured an old soldier’s smile. “The time spent in extended contemplation will make the eventual resolution all the more agreeable, Lord.”
“Yes. Yes, that’s true.” The sorcerer put a hand on the older man’s arm. “You