A Man of His Word

by The Complete Series 01-04 (epub)

Then the doors opened.

  The ornate bar shattered in a cloud of flying splinters. The doors were hurled open, blasted open as if struck by a tidal wave or a thunderbolt. They flew back on their hinges and their impact with the walls battered every ear a second time. Echoes rolled unending.

  The golden chain slid unnoticed from the cushion to the floor. Every eye was turned on the tumult in the entrance.

  And in through the doorway came … the hindquarters of an enormous black horse.

  Out of the West:

  O, young Lochinvar is come out of the West,

  Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;

  And, save his good broadsword, he weapon had none,

  He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.

  So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,

  There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

  Scott, Lochinvar

  FOURTEEN

  Tumult, and shouting

  1

  For a long, breathless moment the whole congregation was frozen in place, from Rasha and Azak down to the tiniest princeling, fascinated spectators of the battle raging in the doorway.

  If that horse was not Evil himself, it was one of his brothers, yet the man on his back was handling him with the precision of an artist’s brush—Azak himself could not control a mount like that. Whole cohorts of family men were striking and slashing at the intruder, but man and horse together held them off. The rider’s sword danced like a silver mist, first on one side, then the other. Blades clamoring in unbroken carillon; the stallion whirled and clattered on slippery marble, but his hooves and teeth and bulk were part of the fight, and if he really was Evil, then the family men would be treating him with much greater care than they were trying to extend to the stranger.

  The audience leaped to its feet in a crash of falling chairs, and those nearest the doors began to push away.

  One guard stopped a full rear kick, and reacted much as the doors had. A chakram whined through the air like a deadly sunbeam, but the intended victim flicked it aside with his sword, parried a thrust on his right, slashed down an assailant on his left, deflected a lance. Bodies lay in disarray outside the room and were starting to pile up inside, as well. Another man screamed and dropped his sword, then toppled over, even as the horse slammed into two more, spilling them aside. The rider ducked a second chakram, and airborne death flashed across the hall over the heads of hundreds of people. Horseshoes screeched on marble …

  “Hold!” Rasha’s voice rang out with the power of a bugle.

  The battle stopped. The spectators froze again. So did the combatants.

  Cautiously the rider backed his horse out from the petrified forest of his assailants. Satisfied that they were no longer dangerous, he turned the stallion and let him prance forward, high-stepping up the aisle. His passage dragged a ripple through the congregation, as heads turned to watch—Inos could see only faces beyond him, only turbans in front. More faces emerged from behind pillars.

  The newcomer slid his sword back into its scabbard still bloody; he pulled an arm across his forehead.

  The horse was indeed Evil, greatest of the midnight stallions that only Azak might ride, the pride of the royal stables. He was shivering and foaming, rolling eyes and baring teeth. His hooves clicked and skittered on the slippery stone, yet the shabby-looking rider had him in perfect control. He reached the space before the dais. Now all the audience was behind him, all faces.

  Inos did not even dare look at Azak to see how he was reacting to this sacrilege, and she was staring in growing disbelief at the intruder. This was sorcery.

  Then she saw that Evil bore no harness, no saddle.

  Bareback! She had only ever known one man who—

  Not again!

  She surged to her feet, hindered and unbalanced by the weight of lace. She staggered, steadied, stared at the bashful little half smile, the ludicrous raccoon tattoos, the unkempt tangle of brown hair soaked with sweat. No! Impossible! He was dead! She swayed, the hall darkened. Again? The sun had not set yet; wraiths did not haunt in daylight. She had gone mad. She was hallucinating.

  Then the intruder leaned forward, swung his leg, and dropped to the floor at Evil’s side. He staggered, steadying himself against the steaming, heaving black flank. His clothes were filthy and soaked and blood-spattered. He was convulsed by his efforts to breathe, pumping air in and out in harsh gasps as loud as those of his horse. Sweat trickled down his face, and every few seconds he would wipe it with a brawny bare forearm.

  Nevertheless he squared his shoulders and straightened. He bowed unsteadily to Inos. His glance wandered between Azak and Rasha a couple of times. He stretched his tattoos slightly at the sight of Azak’s finery, then chose Rasha and bowed to her. And finally to Azak.

  The hall was filled with a silent, staring multitude, and still no one had spoken a word. The loudest noise in the room was the intruder’s breathing.

  “The faun!” said Rasha. “How interesting.”

  Again Rap smiled faintly, his usual diffident little smile that …

  No! No! No!

  “That faun is dead!” Inos shouted. “This is foul, cruel sorcery. Queen Rasha? Is this your doing?”

  The green-shrouded sorceress shook her head, and Inos could not tell if that was anger or amusement glinting in those ruby eyes. And Azak … Inos quailed. Never had she seen such fury. Veins bulged on a scarlet face. He quivered, holding himself in by precarious power of will. The state wedding was a shambles, pomp had become farce, and no sultan of Arakkaran had ever been so shamed before his court.

  “It is sorcery,” Rasha said. “But not mine. Who are you?”

  “I’m Rap, ma’am.” He panted, then continued. “There are some wounded men out there. I may even have killed a couple. I hope I didn’t—”

  “Leave them!” Azak roared. “It will be a kindness.”

  Rasha shrugged. The petrified guards at the door thawed back to life. Seeing the orderly discussion in progress at the dais, they began shamedly sheathing their swords and stooped to tend their wounded.

  The audience seemed to shimmer in doubt and uncertainty. Then chairs scraped and clattered as the guests resumed their seats.

  “Rap is dead!” Inos shouted … screamed? “You can’t be Rap!”

  He smiled up at her wistfully, then patted the mighty foam-spattered shoulder beside him. “Master-of-horse and sergeant-at-arms both?”

  Oh, Gods! Inos felt her knees start to buckle, and then Kade was at her side, holding her. Oh, blessed Kade! She clung tight. Rap? Not dead? Really Rap?

  Idiot Rap! Maniac Rap! He’d fallen into the power of some sorcerer, and was being used to disrupt Azak’s wedding, and, and … Except that this whole monstrous disaster had a horribly Rappian sort of feel to it. Just the sort of thing …

  “Whose work is this?” Azak asked hoarsely, of Rasha.

  She shrugged again. “Speak, boy.”

  Rap was gazing witlessly at Inos. “Are you married?” he asked in a very small voice.

  “Yes,” she said. “No. I mean—”

  “Oh.”

  Was that all he could say? Returning from the dead? Disrupting a solemn occasion of state? Turning her whole world upside—Oh, that was nonsense! It couldn’t be Rap. Not the same Rap. Not all the way from Krasnegar in less than half a year.

  Azak reached for his scimitar, but Rasha held out a hand, warning him not to draw.

  Rap licked his lips. “I bring a message to Queen Inosolan.”

  “From whom?” Azak roared.

  “From … from … I don’t seem able to be answer that, your Majesty.”

  A handsbreadth of blade emerged before Azak was again stopped by Rasha. “He’s been blocked, but it’s very shallow. There …”

  “Thank you!” Rap said politely. “From Warlock Lith’rian, your Majesty. Majesties.”

  Azak hissed in surprise.

  “Let us hear this message, then,” Rasha said.
r />   Why was she so poised? Her eyes were gleaming, but her fingers were relaxed, and there was no air of anger or alarm. Her calm was astonishing. She was behaving like … like Kade, or someone.

  Inos hugged Kade a little tighter, and felt the hug returned. She could not take her eyes off Rap. Her cheeks felt wet and she had no idea what her face looked like, so it was fortunate that no one could see it anyway. Except Rasha, of course.

  And Rap. Oh, damn!

  He was deeper, broader than he had been. And more confident. Manly. Not big like Azak, or a jotunn, but bigger than an imp. Or a pixie. Why did she think of pixies? Ugly flat noses?

  Rap on a white horse in her dream. When had she dreamed that? Several times, maybe.

  “His Omnipotence said I should come and tell Queen Inos—”

  “Silence!” Azak drew his sword all the way.

  “Put that back,” Rasha said brusquely, “ If you go against the faun, he’ll cut you to confetti. In fact …”

  Azak’s scimitar vanished, and Rap’s sword, and Kar’s, also. The whole hall was disarmed then, for the wedding guests bore no weapons. The horse shivered into motion, clattering around and heading for the door, where the platoon of the family men fidgeted in baffled rage—and likely in fear, knowing that Azak’s vengeance would be bloody. They parted to let Evil leave. In a moment the doors closed as the last of the shamed and discredited guards followed the horse out.

  By now the ceremony should have been long over, the guests on their way to the wedding feast. The light from the high windows was fading, and blushing, spreading blood on the vaults and pillars. Shadows drifted in like vultures coming to a massacre.

  The departure of the horse left Rap looking small and lonely. He stood on the floor; the others were all on the dais, two steps up.

  “Better,” Rasha said.

  “He wants a good rubdown,” Rap agreed, folding his arms as if relieved of a worry.

  “I meant … Well, speak up, Master Rap. The message?”

  “That message will be delivered in private!” Azak snapped. “And messages to my wife come to me first.”

  Rap stretched his tattoos again at that and looked quizzically up at Inos. “Are you truly married, your Majesty, and did you do this of your own free will?”

  Her mouth was full of sand. “Yes. And yes.” Of course her choices had been limited, but she would not admit that now. A stableboy would not understand politics, of course. All Rap would see in Azak at the moment would be glittering riches. And big male animal.

  What Rap thought did not matter at all.

  Azak growled in fury. He took two strides back to the middle of the dais, snatched up the gold chain where it had fallen, and stamped over to Inos. She bowed her head in acceptance and he dropped the necklace over it. Then he marched back to the edge of the platform. “She is certainly married now, and if you address one more word to her, I will have you broken on the wheel.”

  Rap pursed his lips and shrugged. He had almost stopped panting and he seemed to be accepting the situation, accepting that he had arrived too late.

  Too late for what!

  “The warlock’s message?” Rasha said calmly.

  “He told me to tell Queen Inosolan to … to trust in love.”

  Inos recoiled as if she had been struck, and again Kade’s arms steadied her. She pushed them away angrily. How dare he burst into her wedding like this! How dare he throw such vicious slurs! Yes, she had kissed him when they were children together; now he had turned her wedding into a circus and a bloodbath, and he wanted to lecture her about love?

  Recklessly she threw up her veil and turned to face Azak, fearing she might be as pale as the lace enshrouding her. For her he had groveled before the hateful sorceress. Why else, if not for love?

  “I have always trusted in love,” she declared loudly. “And I still do.”

  He nodded in grudging satisfaction. “So the message was unnecessary, and we may now deal with the messenger.”

  Oh, Rap! Idiot Rap!

  “Gutturaz!” Azak said loudly. “Lead our honored guests to the feast. And send in the guards.”

  The big prince rose and bowed. Chairs scraped again as the congregation rose.

  “I am staying!” Inos said firmly.

  Azak glared, but did not overrule her. Gutturaz hesitated, for the rehearsals had not covered these events. Improvising, he gestured respectfully for the iman to precede him, then held out an arm for Kade. She shook her head, staying close to Inos. Pouting, the fat man beckoned the trainbearers to follow him and strutted off down the steps. Rap stepped aside and watched the dignitaries file past, heading along the aisle behind the tottering cleric. Front-row princes began streaming after. Only the soft-smiling Kar remained on the platform, and Azak, and the three women.

  “Azak, my …” Inos stopped, and tried again. “My lord, this man is a very—”

  Azak shot her a glare of disbelief and turned away.

  “Wait, though,” Rasha said. Her voice was soft, yet it came clearly over the noise of shuffling feet. “He may not have been entirely a free agent, your Majesty. I detected a trace of a compulsion there.”

  “I don’t care if he doesn’t know his ears—”

  “Hold! I think there is another message, my dear.”

  My dear? How dare she! How dare she claim that throne, give orders to the sultan, set herself up as tyrant, and especially dare talk to Azak like that!

  Azak frowned. “Lith’rian?”

  Rasha nodded, studying Rap, who had flinched at the word “compulsion” and was now glancing uneasily from face to face as if he had only just realized his danger. Had he truly expected Azak to let him live, after this?

  The swift tropical sunset was over. People, faces, chairs, even the Great Hall itself, all were fading away into shadow. Yet there was no doubt that Rasha was pleased about something—exultant, even. Rubbing her hands, she advanced down the steps toward Rap, who backed away a pace and then stopped, staring at her apprehensively.

  Apprehension became horror. “No!”

  “Yes,” said Rasha. She chuckled. “I think Warlock Lith’rian was sending me a message also. Or a gift!”

  “This is not the time or the place!” Azak spoke as if he were leading his army in cavalry drill.

  “It is the only time and place, my dear.” Rasha did not look around. “I was told once that this faun knew a word of power. Obviously that was an understatement, or he has learned more words since. He is at least a mage, and possibly a sorcerer.”

  “Just ’n adept,” Rap muttered. He was clearly worried now, the whites of his eyes shining like moons amid the dark blotches of tattoo.

  “You would say that, of course.” The sorceress floated nearer, her deep-green robes now turned to black in the gloom. “But we saw you at work. An adept holding off the whole palace guard? Hardly! I have been an adept; I know what is possible!”

  The hall was half empty now, the commoners starting to follow the princes. The indistinct figures of the family men in their brown uniforms were slipping in through a side door, and forming up.

  “What are you getting at?” Azak demanded sharply.

  “Our alliance, darling, remember? Our pact against Olybino.”

  Inos gasped.

  It was like shutting a finger in a door—blinding pain but also a deafening howl of injustice; an internal voice screaming that the Gods should never allow such things to happen. Was that what Azak had really wanted from the sorceress? Was that why he had whored for her all the last week? What coin had he accepted for his services—freedom from the curse so he could marry Inos, yes, but also an occult alliance for the coming war against the Impire? Suddenly Inos saw herself as part of a package, something thrown in by a merchant to make a sale of something else. A pretty ribboned basket hiding an unsavory purchase. Azak, what did you promise? What were you really planning?

  Betrayed!

  Rap was still protesting that he was only as adept.

  “P
erhaps sorcerer is unlikely,” Rasha conceded. “Even warlocks have limits on their generosity. But you are certainly too strong for a mere adept. A mage, I judge.”

  “He is meant as a replacement for Elkarath?” Azak asked, stepping down from the dais to join her. Imperceptibly Rap had been backing away, and Rasha stalking him. The last guests were filtering out the big doorway beyond a wasteland of empty chairs like the stumps of a ravaged forest.

  “Perhaps. Obviously the elf has turned against East, as I predicted. Olybino is a failure, and elves despise incompetence. Also, I think this faun as been sent to me as protection.”

  “Protection?” said Rap and Azak together.

  Inos took a step forward and Kade pulled her back. “No, dear!” she whispered.

  She was right, of course—to plead with Rasha on Rap’s behalf would be a disastrous error. Rasha did not approve of women having tender feelings toward men, any men.

  “Protection! East has threatened to bespell me. Lith’rian is suggesting a defense, you see? This gift-faun is going to start making himself useful by telling me one of his words.”

  “No!” Rap cried.

  “Most certainly.”

  “Four words is the limit!”

  “Indeed? If your words give you that sort of lore, then you are certainly a full sorcerer. Else, who told you so?”

  Rap stuttered and said nothing.

  “I don’t believe in that limit!” Rasha said. “At least it is worth a try, even if I gain nothing.”

  “Your sorcery can’t get my words out of me!”

  Rasha chuckled. “No?”

  He screamed, doubled over, then toppled heavily. Inos felt her feet start to move, and Kade’s hand tighten on her arm. The day they had arrived in Arakkaran, Rasha had tortured Azak just like this.

  Rap curled up small, writhed, straightened, spasmed, thrashed as if every muscle was being convulsed by cramps. He did not scream again, but he gurgled, and somehow more noise would have made the spectacle less horrible. Nauseated, Inos tried to look away, and couldn’t. She clenched her teeth in the effort not to cry out. To appeal to the sorceress would be as bad as appealing to Azak. Rap! I can’t help! Anything I do will make it worse!