A Man of His Word

by The Complete Series 01-04 (epub)

  “Gathmor said he paid forty-six imperials for me and the goblin,” Rap murmured. “If I save all I can, how long would it take me to pay it off?”

  “With interest, about thirty-nine hundred years.”

  “Oh—that soon, you think?”

  “Be realistic, Rap! If you were Gathmor, would you let you go? Your farsight’s beyond any price to him. He loves his ship, he’s responsible for his crew—he isn’t going to let you go.”

  The faun sighed and fell silent.

  His farsight talent made him unique, of course, and yet it was a freakish thing. Stormdancer had not needed it since his first voyage. His subsequent trips had been hard work, with too much rowing and not enough sailing, but completely uneventful.

  And the lad had more to him than just an occult knack. He had the makings of a very fine sailor. He was competent and trustworthy. He never complained or picked fights. He did whatever he was told to do as if he were grateful for the opportunity. Even without his farsight, he was not a man Gathmor would readily let slip away. Almost all the unattached girls in Durthing were giving serious thought to the big faun, too,

  “They say,” Ogi remarked, “ that happiness is pretending you always wanted what you’re getting.”

  Rap chuckled, but he kept his gaze on the flames.

  Ogi began to feel worried. If the kid was out of sorts, then tonight’s operation might turn into a disaster. Before he could explore that possibility, Rap spoke.

  “You’re an imp. Why d’you live among these maniacs?”

  Ogi twitched nervously. “I suggest you don’t say that word too loud, friend. And you shouldn’t ask questions like that here.”

  “Oh! Sorry! Didn’t think.”

  “It’s all right with me. I’ll just tell you to mind your own business—”

  “But a jotunn would knock my head off,” Rap finished. “That’s what I meant.”

  “And you don’t need to ask anyway. The only possible reason a nonjotunn would live here is that it’s pleasanter than the imperor’s jails. Come on, lad—it’s a great life! Space and freedom! Women? You don’t get women in jail unless you’re real rich. Enjoy it!”

  None of which was true in Ogi’s case. He had never fallen afoul of the law, and he lived in Durthing simply because he loved the sea and loved being a sailor. Trouble was, the only possible explanation for that was much harder to talk about than a criminal past would have been. He knew his grandfather had died when jotunn raiders razed Kolvane; his father had been a posthumous baby. Although the family would never discuss the matter, and although Ogi himself was impishly short and broad and swarthy, he was quite certain that he must be one-quarter jotunn. To say so would greatly boost his standing in Durthing and among Stormdancer’s crew, but it would increase his risks, too, and the kidding would never end. Ogi was not enough of a jotunn to find such matters funny.

  “But they are maniacs,” Rap muttered. “Kani’s still after me to go pick a fight with someone. Why, for the Good’s sake? I’ve shown I’ll defend myself!”

  Ogi began flipping fish over with the point of his dagger. He hadn’t meant to raise the matter yet, and the kid wasn’t close to drunk. “Well, there’s a difference, Rap.”

  “What sort of difference?”

  He passed the wine. “Here—you’re not drinking your share! Yes, you’ve had a couple of fights. But they don’t really count.”

  Rap put the jar down on the ground beside him and fixed a cold gaze on his companion. “Don’t count? Why not?”

  The carp were done. Feeling his mouth watering already, Ogi began scooping them onto the platters with his dagger. At least he need not look his friend in the eye while doing so. He hoped they would still be friends tomorrow.

  “You know the standings round here, Rap. Lowest are the nonjotunn, like me. Especially me, ’cause jotnar rank imps just barely above gnomes. Then the part jotunn, like you. Fauns are quite well thought of, actually—probably because they’re so pigheaded that they never know when they’re beaten—and you’re almost jotunn size, so you rate just below pure jotunn.” He waited, but got no comment. He worked more on the fish. “And then they have their own levels. Tops are the Nordland-born, like Brual—”

  “And Kani’s a third-generation southerner and hates himself for it. So? So what are you getting at?”

  “Well, I know a couple of guys decided to try you out. You did very well, too, but Dirp is a third-generation exile, like Kani, and old Hagmad is a second, and neither is much thought of as a fighter. Besides, they were just playing.”

  “It didn’t feel like play,” Rap growled. “It bloody hurt!”

  Ogi had scraped the griddle clean. He had no option but to hand Rap his platter and meet his eye.

  “Tell me the worst,” Rap said sourly. “I’ve lost my appetite already.”

  Ogi sighed. “You want them off your back? Well, then, you’ve got to have a punch party with a full-blooded, Nordland-born jotunn. One of the good ones.”

  “Oh, great! I used to think Gathmor was bad—”

  “I’m not finished. You’ve got to pick the quarrel, not him. Your fight, see? And you’ve got to make him mad. Really mad! We can’t settle for just a playful testing to see what’s in the uppity faun mongrel. You bait him till he’s one man-eating, homicidal, kill-crazy jotunn, who really wants to smash you. Then—no mercy! You beat him to a jelly.”

  “You lost me right at the end there.”

  “I’m serious, Rap. Eat up. More important—drink up! you’re new. They give new boys time, but you’ve got your rower’s arms now. You’re looking sort of ready, so you’re going to be measured soon. Today? Tomorrow? Best to pick your own match, right? The important thing is to try for the highest standing you can possibly hope to hold on to. In the end that’ll mean a lot less pain and blood than if they’re all using you for practice on the way up.”

  Rap laid the platter aside and crossed his arms. “What’s your part in this?”

  This was where Ogi could give the kid some good news. He spoke with his mouth full. “Important! I found out who Verg and that crazy Kani had picked out for you: Turbrok! Or even Radrik! Gods! They’d have gotten you maimed or killed.”

  Rap put his elbows on his knees and scowled sideways at his companion. “And you won’t?”

  “Hope not. This fish is delicious. Try it—you need the strength. No, I took over, and you can trust me. Sure, I’ve been setting you up, Rap, I admit, but I know what I’m doing.”

  Well, he was three-fourths sure he did.

  “Setting me up?”

  “Who suggested you take the charming Wulli to the dance?”

  Rap straightened, taut and furious. “You told me she wasn’t anyone’s girl! So did she!”

  “Yes, well, she would. They do, here. But what I said was right, so far as I know. No engagements or understandings. How far have you got with her, by the way?”

  “Mind your own Evil-begotten business!”

  “Awright! But the previous dance she went to with Grindrog. He’s been at sea, so he hasn’t squired any ladies since.”

  Rap groaned. He had turned pale, understandably; in fact his face held a sort of greenish tinge in the fire’s dancing glow. “So he’ll assume I’m muscling in?”

  “Well, you are, in the way things are done here. Grindrog never dropped her, you see. His choice, never hers. And of course, she’s pure jotunn, and you’re not. Mongrels aren’t allowed near—”

  “Bastard! But I should’ve thought of that, at least. God of Liars! You did set me up, you sneaky bunch of bastards! And I really don’t like her much. She’s all ‘Yes, Rap,’ ‘No, Rap,’ without an original thought in her head.”

  Wulli was a mouth-wateringly sweet kid, about sixteen, with the sort of face and body that the sailors called a shipping hazard—breathtaking, in fact. No male jotunn would worry at all about her mental processes, pro or con.

  “Maybe Grindrog doesn’t like her either. But that’s irrelevant.”


  “Petrel? He’s bosun on Petrel?”

  “Right. Don’t let your meal get cold—”

  “About twenty-four, twenty-five? Twice my size, with a cast in one eye and his nose pushed over to the right? That one?”

  “That’s him.”

  “And Petrel just berthed. I suppose there’s no chance that he might not find out?”

  “None whatsoever,” Ogi said complacently. “Kani’s making sure he gets the news right away, as soon as she beaches, while all his crewmates are still around to sympathize.”

  Rap picked up his platter absentmindedly and began to eat, staring into the fire again. “I’ve saved up about half an imperial, Ogi. It’s on the rafter over the hammock. You and Kani are my best friends, and I’d like you to share that. My boots are worth—”

  “Oh, shut up! Do you think I’d do that to you?”

  Rap glanced seaward. “Someone’s coming now. He’ll be here in a minute. Yes, it’s Kani, running. Coming to tell you that the trap’s set? So out with it—what’s the ploy?” He seemed to be taking this better than he had done a moment before.

  “The ploy is Grindrog. He’s rated ninth or tenth in Durthing.”

  “You can have one boot, and Kani the other.”

  “Shut up! Listen—Grindrog hasn’t fought in over a year now! He challenged Rathkrun himself. Rathkrun put him to sleep for a week.”

  Rap gulped, as if swallowing fish bones.

  “But,” Ogi said triumphantly, “ he hasn’t picked a fight since! Now I happened to notice him baiting a hook, last time he was in port. He held it right up here, on his left. Real close. And he’s right-handed!”

  Rap chewed in thoughtful silence.

  “Rathkrun kicked his head about quite a bit! Rap, I don’t think he can see worth a cod’s ankles! I’ve been watching him. He trips over things. He slobbers when he talks. And if you get him mad enough tonight, he’ll be fighting in the dark.”

  “That’s cheating!”

  Absurd! If the kid thought like that then he wasn’t old enough to be allowed out alone, certainly not in a jotunn community—and yet Ogi had half expected that objection.

  “That’s partly why we snared you. You’ve got to go down there and drive him so wild that he’ll try to fight a seer in the dark. If he loses his jotunn temper, then you’ve got him.”

  “Or the other way,” Rap said calmly, chewing, gazing levelly at Ogi—who was beginning to find that steady stare unnerving.

  “You’ve got your shoulders now. Rap. You can deliver.”

  “It isn’t going to work. Not for long. Everyone knows I have farsight, so if I win I’ll get a daylight challenge real soon, and you’re trying to rank a mule above hundreds of purebred jotnar … But I suppose the main thing is to live through tonight, isn’t it?”

  He had some good points there, but tomorrow could look after itself. “Right. Just get him so mad he can’t wait to get at you.”

  “If I said that Wulli told me he couldn’t get it up for her, not even once … that would do it, wouldn’t it?”

  Ogi’s forehead broke out in sweat at the thought of what that accusation would do to a drunken jotunn. “Just about. You may have her father to worry about tomorrow, but he’s pretty old.”

  Rap threw his platter aside and wiped his mouth, as if he had reached a decision. Ogi held out the wine jug, but he shook his head.

  “I’d rather be sober.”

  “Oh, you’re weird! Sober, for Gods’ sake? Fight sober? Jotnar think that’s unmanly. That’s worse cheating than using far-sight!”

  In silence, Rap stood up and stretched. Apparently he’d accepted his destiny. Ogi had expected a much longer argument, and he began to wonder if this was a trick and the faun was planning to disappear into the woods. He certainly did not look like a tyro preparing to fight one of the top killers in Durthing.

  Sounds of smashing shrubbery heralded the approach of Kani.

  “You’re taking this very well,” Ogi said uneasily.

  Rap smiled, humorlessly. “It’ll be a pleasure.”

  “Oh?” Ogi was dumbfounded.

  The kid stepped closer, eyes glinting in the firelight. “What Wulli told me about Grindrog was something different. I’d have been tempted anyway, if I’d thought I had any chance at all. Now you say I have, and you’ve trapped me, so I have no choice. Fine! Friend Grindrog deserves to have his head kicked a few more times. And other things.”

  Ogi opened his mouth and then closed it again.

  “But we’ve got time to kill, haven’t we?” Rap said gently. “I’d like to borrow some heavier boots from someone, and we must let Grindrog do his drinking and meditate on his troubles … mustn’t we?”

  Suddenly, somehow, the faun had hold of Ogi’s shirt and was twisting it, hauling him right up off his seat and higher, up on tiptoe. And smiling. The first big smile all night. Not a cheerful smile, all teeth and much too close to Ogi’s nose.

  “How much?” Rap demanded. “How much are you going to make if the faun mule beats the blind champion? Or is the blindness just a worm to hook me?”

  “No, Rap. I really think he’s almost blind. And I was just about to talk about your share of my … our winnings … and—”

  “And I may have time for a practice bout or two first!”

  Rap, of course, was half jotunn. It just didn’t show, usually.

  It showed now.

  Ogi should have thought of that sooner.

  The fist at his throat was choking him. His knees began to quiver. He could smell that jotunnish anger. Imps fought best when they had numbers on their side, and he was no great bruiser. He’d brawled a little when he first arrived, because he’d had to, and he was hefty enough, but usually he just groveled. Few jotnar in Durthing would even bother to jostle an imp.

  “You and Kani and who else in this?”

  Hefty or not, now Ogi had been lifted right into the air. The faun was holding him up one-handed, holding him close enough to stare right into those big faun eyes, and they were full of jotunn madness. He should certainly have thought of this possibility.

  “You and Kani and who else?”

  “Verg,” Ogi said with some difficulty.

  “I’ll start with you, then—practice the jelly thing.”

  Ogi muttered a silent prayer to every God in the lists.

  Kani burst into the circle of firelight, so breathless he could hardly speak. Obviously he had more on his mind than the proposed Rap-Grindrog contest, for he did not seem to notice the confrontation in progress. He gasped, pointed back over his shoulder, gasped again.

  He said, “Orca!”

  “What?” Rap released Ogi, who dropped and staggered backward. By the time he had recovered his balance, Rap was gone in the darkness, the sounds of his progress through the shrubbery already growing fainter.

  “Rap! Wait! that’s, that’s suicide!” The noises continued to move away. “Rap, we have no weapons!” But obviously shouting was not going to stop the faun.

  Orca?

  Far, far more frightened now than he had been by the thought of a beating from Rap, Ogi took off after him, leaving the winded Kani to follow as best he could.

  If he dared.

  4

  At the Oasis of Tall Cranes, Inos achieved the impossible.

  It started when Azak smiled to her as he strode by.

  A smile from Azak was a fearsome sight. It displaced large quantities of copper-red hair. Since leaving Arakkaran he had let his beard grow in full, and it was a very full beard indeed. With his hook nose and scarlet djinn eyes, with his great height and unshakable arrogance, Azak was not a person easily overlooked.

  For a moment Inos stood and watched him go, heading for the camel paddock, stalking along in his voluminous desert robes, one ruddy hand resting on the hilt of his scimitar. She sighed. Azak ak’Azakar was a problem. His proposals of marriage were becoming more frequent and more insistent every day, as the long journey neared its end. His logic wa
s impeccable and his arguments unanswerable. Only sorcery could ever put her on the throne of her ancestors, the throne of Krasnegar. Only the wardens were permitted to use sorcery for political ends, and the Four would be much more likely to approve her petition if she had a competent husband at her side. Especially if he was a strong and proven ruler already. Like Azak.

  A match foretold by the Gods.

  The only flaw in this plan was that she did not feel ready to accept Azak as a husband, despite his obvious qualifications on all counts; despite the command of a God. She could not imagine him surviving the boredom of a Krasnegarian winter; and if the wardens refused to uphold her claim, she would then be faced with the alternative of being sultana of Arakkaran. That would not be the same thing at all.

  As he vanished into the roaring melee of unloading camels, Inos returned to her immediate task, which was helping Kade erect the tent. Kade was waiting patiently, regarding her niece with faded old blue eyes—and a glimpse of those eyes could sometimes startle even Inos now, so accustomed was she to seeing only djinns around her.

  “First Lionslayer seems remarkably relaxed,” Kade said.

  “Oh, I’m sure it takes more than a few brigands to frighten Azak … Now, which way is the wind blowing?”

  But as the two of them set to work with practiced skill, Kade’s comment began to bubble in Inos’s mind like yeast in a beer vat. For weeks the women of the caravan had talked uneasily of the dangers of the Gauntlet. Here at the infamous Oasis of Tall Cranes, they were right in the middle of it, and most of them were visibly jumpy. The lionslayers’ wives muttered discreetly about their husbands’ ill temper, for the lionslayers were red-eyed in more ways than one, standing watch all night and riding camel all day.

  But Azak had been smiling?

  Well, why not? No matter how the rest of the party had fretted, Azak had remained quite untroubled by the promised perils. Chuckling into his red bush of a beard, he had pointed out that Sheik Elkarath had traversed the Gauntlet many times unscathed. And of course Inos had known what he was hinting—that the old sheik could never be endangered by mere mundane bandits.