A Man of His Word

by The Complete Series 01-04 (epub)

  And certainty the negotiations were only possible at all because the patron lord whose name Rap had invoked was a sorcerer. Lith’rian’s credit was infinite.

  Of course Lith’rian himself must be still unaware of all the good things being done on his behalf. The imps proposed leaving the felons to marinate in jail for a few weeks while a message went to Hub. The elves insisted that the rituals must be followed exactly, and Rap should be sent immediately to Lith’rian’s enclave, the sky trees of Valdorian.

  And the warlock was not available to sign and seal. Bankers could advance the necessary funds upon suitable security, but all bankers were imps, more or less by definition. Few elves were wealthy, and Quip’ reported that every elf in the city was having to mortgage all he owned to provide the necessary bond. Rap glumly concluded that an agreement might be attainable when the last groat was pledged, and that did seem to be what happened.

  Just after sunset, Quip’rian and a jurist came down to the cells and joyfully informed Rap that he was to be sent to Ilrane, to be judged by the ancient ceremony he had invoked.

  Rap stayed on the floor. “How about my friend?”

  “Noon tomorrow, I’m afraid.”

  Rap used some nautical expressions that neither Quip’ nor jurist would have met before. “Both of us or neither,” he added, in case of misunderstanding.

  The exhausted negotiators upstairs were just starting to leave when a horrified Quip’rian came rushing up to break the news. The bargaining started all over again.

  It went all night and most of the next day. Rap would not leave his cell voluntarily, so he was hauled out bodily and dragged before the lictor. He was warned that this was his last chance to avoid a terrible death. He refused to accept better treatment than his fellow felon. As he had spent a whole day and night in the dungeons, his mere presence could contaminate even the largest of rooms. He was quickly returned whence he came and thereafter the visitors came to call on him, speaking through the judas hole.

  Elves came, pleading both the impossibility of fitting a jotunn into the traditional ceremonies and their inability to raise any more money. The jurists came, muttering that the procedure was highly improper and if word got out then it would have to be stopped. The lictor himself, the families of the injured, representatives of the city … all came to argue and beg and be turned down. He was denied food and water. Two stalwart jailers came with boots and other hard things. Still Rap refused. He wasn’t certain just what leverage he had, but apparently he must travel voluntarily, and both ancient ritual and underhand dealing had now gone so far that they had taken on a life of their own and could not be reversed. So he did have leverage, somehow. The graft seeped steadily upward until it reached the praetor himself, and then the cost rose enormously. By now, of course, the imps knew that they had stumbled into a gold mine, and the elves were hopelessly trapped.

  When the first round of appeals failed, they all came back and tried again, including the two jailers.

  Rap stopped talking altogether.

  He knew he was being crazy. He was tormented by the thought that he was breaking his word to Ishist, but he could not bring himself to desert Gathmor.

  He could have used mastery to convert the visitors to his cause, but that use of power might alert any sorcerer in town and the goodwill would evaporate soon after they left his presence; so he tried not to, although he did ease the beatings a bit.

  Even Gathmor started telling him he was crazy.

  Rap told him to shut up, he wasn’t helping much.

  One elvish worthy called him a stupid troll, and another a brutish jotunn. The imps said he was being as stubborn as a faun. Quip’rian broke down and wept, then explained apologetically that he always reacted to the smell of blood like that. And he had not slept the last two nights. None of them had.

  When the second round of visits failed, everyone came round a third time.

  In the end they all just succumbed to exhaustion, and Rap had won.

  They also serve:

  … Thousands at his bidding speed,

  And post o’er land and ocean without rest;

  They also serve who only stand and wait.

  Milton, On His Blindness

  TEN

  Moaning of the bar

  1

  Late afternoon, and the fine harbor of Ullacarn was teeming with ships, a magnificent sight. Kade loved ships—sailing on them or even just looking at them. That was the jotunn in her, of course.

  In her brief stay she had seen only a tiny part of the city, but she had certainly approved of that much. Bouncing along in an open carriage with Inos and Frainish, she had almost wished that she were staying longer, to see more. The streets were wide and clean, the many parks overflowed with flowers. The natives were djinns, and yet they all dressed in impish style in public, and with their height and slender build they mostly looked very good in it, better than the heavyset imps themselves ever could. Kade had long since noticed the same thing about the jotnar in Krasnegar, for while she herself had inherited jotunn coloring from her so-entangled family tree, her figure was as impish as imp could be. Still, she must not let the Gods think she was ungrateful or unmindful of Their many blessings. After all, she had viewed Ullacarn tinted with magic gold and filtered through draperies of silks and laces, velvets and poplins; to linger might let realities dispel the illusion. No, it was time to go. Time to board Dawn Pearl and sail away.

  Time to head for Hub! Kadolan said another small silent prayer of thanks. Her instincts still insisted that Inosolan would have been wiser to have remained in Arakkaran, under the sultana’s protection, but ancient knots could never be untangled, and a chance to visit the Imperial capital was a most uplifting prospect.

  Inosolan was hunched in the corner of the carriage, morosely ignoring even the exciting dock sights and the harbor view. A pity she had not yet learned to let the future wait. That was a lesson that only age could teach.

  Frainish was almost falling out in her excitement. Frainish was very young, a descendant of Sheik Elkarath, and had been sent along as lady’s maid. The personable and deferential Master Skarash would also accompany them, as far as Qoble. The sheik had been very kind, no matter who his ultimate master. Inosolan really should have been more gracious when saying farewell.

  And now the ships were very close, as the carriage jingled along the quay. Frainish was twittering questions, making Kadolan rack her old brains to try to answer. Caravels and dhows were easy, but she could not remember the difference among a galley, a galleon, and a galleas. What splendid vessels, though! Vastly larger and more beautiful than the little cogs that had carried her so many times between Krasnegar and Shaldokan.

  As Kadolan was still trying to parry the child’s questions, the carriage clattered to a halt alongside a ship that was very large indeed. It must be their destination, for here was Skarash, pulling down the step, offering a helping hand. So this beauty was their vessel, Dawn Pearl, and the noisy mill of people around the gangways was clear evidence that departure was imminent.

  She let Skarash guide her through the throng, as he could see over heads much better than she could, while she kept an eye on Frainish, who was short enough to disappear completely in such a crowd. Inosolan could look after herself.

  Kadolan caught a glimpse of Azak’s head above the surging sea of shoulders. His face was surly and enraged. Then Skarash made room for her to step forward, and she was already at the gangplank. She paused halfway up and peered back, regardless of the line of persons following her, locating Azak’s red head again. He was the only djinn who towered over the crowd like a jotunn sailor or a troll porter. The imps present seemed squat by comparison. Inosolan was beside him, within a squad of legionaries. Azak was probably being awkward. He had been in a bad mood ever since the day the soldiers had beaten him, and although Elkarath had cured his broken bones and bruises on that occasion, he had probably incurred no thanks. Azak was one of those people who enjoyed making things difficul
t for themselves, and thus for everybody else, as well. That sort of behavior Kadolan could never comprehend.

  Realizing suddenly that the vulgar shouting was being directed at her, she resumed her progress up the plank with suitable dignity. She stepped through a doorway into Dawn Pearl. Galleon or galleas, it was easily the largest ship she had ever boarded.

  She was astonished by her stateroom, large and luxurious beyond anything she could have imagined on a ship, with a proper bed instead of bunks, with real windows along the aft wall. Plump, elderly ladies would only get in people’s way, so she decided to wait there, knowing that Inosolan would find her. She sent the excited Frainish off in Skarash’s care to explore, and to watch departure from the deck. Unpacking could wait.

  Meanwhile, she could indulge herself in an inspection of the fittings, admiring the shiny woodwork, the ingenious catches on cupboard doors, and the drawers that would not open if the ship rolled. Porters knocked and entered with baggage and departed. The room was still not crowded, even then.

  Eventually she pulled a deliciously comfortable chair around to face the great windows and settled into it with a sigh. She kicked off her shoes and prepared to enjoy just watching the harbor.

  A few minutes later the door opened and then thumped closed. Inosolan stalked across to the window in silence. Feet were running overhead, voices calling out, blocks squealing. Already the ship was drifting away from the quay. Dawn Pearl leaned slightly as the wind began to catch her sails. Inosolan had not said a word yet.

  “Where is his Majesty?” Kadolan inquired.

  Good guess—Inosolan turned around and scowled. She wore a full dress of cool emerald-green silk with half sleeves and a low neckline. She had let her hair grow during the past few months, and now it was coiled high on her head below a pearl tiara. She was as beautiful as a poet’s dream of maidenhood. Her expression of suicidal sulks would have shamed a six-year-old being sent to bed without supper.

  “Down in what they call Gnome Quarters. In irons.”

  “That doesn’t seem like a very wise choice.”

  Inosolan turned her back and told the window, “ He refused to board and demanded leave to appeal to the emir. The imps ran him up the plank at swordpoint, of course.”

  The noises outside continued; a thoughtful silence settled into Kadolan’s stateroom. It would be interesting to see what happened to Azak when Dawn Pearl reached Angot. The journey on to Hub would mean a long trip by stage, over the Qoble Mountains and then across much of Shimlundok Province. Skarash swore he was going no farther than Angot.

  Would there be magic waiting for them in Angot? Or was there magic on board already? Would Azak be shipped in irons all the way to the capital? It hardly mattered at the moment. Kadolan bent to find her shoes.

  “Stubborn idiot!” Inosolan muttered.

  “His own fault.”

  Inosolan had done very well, really. For months in the desert she had kept the sultan at arm’s length without ever seeming to hurt his feelings or rouse false hopes. That was no mean feat of balance. Now Kadolan was a little worried that the relationship was starting to change in some way she had not defined. The terrible events in Thume had shaken everybody. Azak had nearly died, Inosolan had almost been ravished. Things had been different since then, attitudes altered, values reassessed. Perhaps Ullacarn, as a return to civilization, had helped the change. Azak in imp clothing had been a shock—certainly to Kadolan, and probably to Inosolan. He had not been a barbarian any more.

  It might be better for everyone concerned if he did complete the rest of the journey in chains, all the way to Hub. Inosolan could sit inside the carriage and that dangerous young man could be strapped on the roof with the baggage.

  Kadolan rebuked herself for unworthy thoughts.

  “Well, this is true luxury,” she said. “Is your stateroom as magnificent as this?”

  “I haven’t looked.”

  Respectably shod again, Kadolan pushed herself to her feet. “Then let’s go and have a look now, and then go up and—”

  Inosolan swung around and glared at her. “And have a nice time, I suppose?”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, it’s easy for you! I’m on my way to marry a goblin. I’ve been captured by a warlock, and from the way he looked at me, the goblin may very well be going to get me as secondhand goods. Azak’s down in the bilge, and I hate ships, and I’m a lousy sailor—”

  “And you sound like a spoiled child.”

  “And I—What? You don’t get seasick!”

  “Are you seasick now? Is seasickness what is bothering you?”

  Inosolan made a snorting noise and stalked toward the door.

  And Kadolan felt a rush of anger. “Answer the question!”

  Inosolan stopped and spun around, her mouth open in shock.

  “You are still behaving like a spoiled child,” Kadolan said—having gone so far, she would have to continue. “You are not married to a goblin at the moment. You are not being importuned by any warlocks that I can see. You are, in fact, about to enjoy a voyage in royal luxury on the finest ship I have ever seen, across the Sea of Sorrows, an expanse of water renowned for its fair weather and good sailing. You are likewise going to continue on the journey of a lifetime, through some of the world’s finest scenery and across half the Impire to Hub itself, where you will very likely be granted royal honors and all the hospitality of the Imperial court. If you do believe that you are going to be married to a goblin—and I personally find the idea so absurd that I cannot take it seriously—then I suggest that you attempt to appreciate the good things that are happening at the moment, instead of making yourself miserable all the time brooding over a future that may never happen.”

  “Absurd, you said?” Inosolan was pale with fury. “Absurd?”

  “Absurd.” Kadolan sighed, wishing she had kept her annoyance safely bottled up. “I’ve told you before. The principle of compromise is to find something, or someone in this case, which … who … is equally acceptable to both sides. A goblin, I think, would be equally unacceptable to both sides. All four sides, really: you, and the citizens, and the Impire, and—”

  “You didn’t see that warlock—”

  “No, I didn’t, and I’m not certain you did.”

  Inosolan drew a deep breath, but before the angry torrent could flow, Kadolan added, “ He might have been Rasha.”

  “Rasha? That’s crazy!”

  “I don’t see why it’s any crazier than what you say, though. A warlock can change his appearance, but so can a sorceress. You met someone who upset you. You claim you knew the voice, but I am sure his Omnipotence of the East is not so stupid as to disguise his face and forget his voice. You say he cured your headache, but that could have been a result of shock. In fact, the whole episode may even have been a delusion promoted by Elkarath. You agree?”

  Inosolan shook her head, wide-eyed. “You’ll go mad it you start thinking like that.”

  “Exactly,” Kadolan agreed. “That’s why I try not to. I’m sorry I was rude, dear. Do let’s go and get some wind in our hair. You’re going to die, you know.”

  “I am?” Inosolan gaped—and then suddenly smiled, still pale. “We all are, you mean?”

  “Exactly, dear. Eventually. We just mustn’t brood about it. Now, let’s go. After you …”

  2

  Whether he looked like an elf or a faun, Rap was still much the same divided boy who had hung around the harbor in Krasnegar whenever he hadn’t been hanging around the stables. Almost nothing could ever thrill him more than actually boarding a ship, and the Allena was a very splendid ship, a luxury four-master—square-rigged on the two foremasts and lateen on the aft—and she was the grandest, cleanest, most breathtakingly beautiful thing Rap had ever seen. When possible, elves traveled as they did everything else, in style.

  He spared a few admiring glances for the bustling harbor of Noom, which had been dark and deserted when he first arrived in town. He admired the variety
and the volume of the shipping, the cutters and dhows and junks and caravels and a dozen other types, and he marveled at the hubbub and bustle of one of the great ports of the Impire, gateway to the Dragon Sea and half of Pithmot. He was impressed, almost embarrassed, by the comfort of the little stateroom assigned to him on Allena. But mostly he just stood on deck and gazed longingly in every direction at once.

  He wondered if passengers were allowed aloft. Unless someone chained him down, he was going to explore Allena from stem to stern and keel to royals as soon as she sailed. Of course he could talk anyone into anything now, and the temptation to use mastery was going to be irresistible in this case, however much his conscience might grumble. Yet the expression on Gathmor’s still-mangled face showed that he was not going to sit in his cabin and knit, either. Likely all Rap need do was stay close to the sailor, and he’d find a way.

  Playful white clouds scudded across a wondrous blue afternoon. The tide was running, the wind rising as evening approached. Seabirds shrieked among the masts and rigging, tangs of tar and fish mingling with the heartrending smell of the eternal sea itself. Jotnar and imps and trolls and even a few elves jostled along the dockside; porters trotted up and down the gangplank, loading the last few stores from the bakeries and markets of Noom. The crew was almost ready to cast off. Rap was on his way to Ilrane, Lith’rian, and—please Gods!—to Inos. Yet even that thrill could barely compete with the sheer joy and excitement of just boarding a great ship.

  “Ten knots in this wind or I’m an elf,” Gathmor muttered.