A Man of His Word

by The Complete Series 01-04 (epub)

  Oh, why didn’t they get on with it?

  With a funny little thrill of fright, Shandie thought about pretending to faint. Then he’d get carried out! Ythbane would beat him raw, of course, but then Moms would let him have lots of medicine. Be worth it, maybe, for the medicine.

  Pay attention.

  The jotunn was … Well, he sure had muscles. And he wasn’t as fishy-white as most of them — browner. His hair looked very pale, even for one of them. Moms said they were murdering brutes, and this Kalkor looked mean enough to kill anything with his bare hands, but he did have muscles, and he was bare from the waist up so he could show them off. He wasn’t hairy and tattooed like the ambassador and his followers. Disgraceful to come to court dressed like that! He didn’t look very humble, either. Of course jotnar didn’t, usually.

  Unexpectedly catching those blue, blue eyes on him, Shandie looked away quickly and stared at the White Throne. This was a north day, of course.

  Pay attention!

  “The ambassador never had authority to waive my claim to Krasnegar, Highness.” Kalkor had a very creepy sort of smile — a nasty sort of smile.

  “But a Reckoning? That seems a very barbaric custom to us. Thane.” Ythbane was using his lead-him-into-a-trap voice.

  At Kalkor’s side, the duke-king nodded vigorously. Even standing still before the throne, he was having trouble balancing on his crutch and keeping his toga from unraveling.

  The raider was as relaxed as a cat on a cushion. “Written agreements seem very decadent to us, your Highness. Two men who need to write down what they have agreed to obviously do not trust each other.”

  “Then why not settle your differences with King Angilki here in amicable conversation and discussion, and bind your agreement with a handshake?”

  Kalkor did not even glance at the fat man beside him. “If I shake his hand, he’ll have two casts to worry about.”

  In the background. Ambassador Krushjor guffawed, and his men followed his lead.

  Behind Shandie’s shoulder, Ythbane sighed. “Well, the Impire is not directly involved, as we have said.” He was speaking loudly, so the senators would listen. “King Angilki is our loyal subject only as the imperor’s cousin of Kinvale. He does no homage to us for Krasnegar. I repeat — we are merely offering our good offices, as friendly neighbors to both sides.”

  The jotunn laughed so harshly that Shandie jumped. “Of course, of course! And in a minute or two you’re going to have some perfectly marvelous idea to suggest, aren’t you? I can hardly wait.”

  The Senate rumbled with disapproval.

  There was a pause, then, until Consul Humaise leaned forward and whispered something in King Angilki’s ear.

  “Er, what?” King Angilki said. “Oh, yes! Look, Kalkor —”

  The jotunn whirled on him. “Thane, to you!”

  The fat man almost fell over. “Er, Thane. Yes. Thane!”

  There was another pause. He seemed to have forgotten what he was going to say, or even that he had been going to say anything.

  Kalkor smiled his creepy smile at Ythbane again. “Strange friends you have, your Highness.”

  Ythbane chuckled, very softly, and Shandie felt his insides quiver. He usually heard that noise when he was on the writing table.

  “We are confused. You cannot seriously propose a duel between yourself and the king, when he has a broken ankle?”

  Kalkor folded his arms, and for the first time dropped his smile and scowled. “I can’t seriously propose a duel between me and that slug at any time. This isn’t what I expected! But it seems to be what I’m stuck with. No, we allow the respondent to name a champion.”

  “Your Majesty?” Ythbane said.

  Angilki looked blank for a moment, and then said, “Oh? Me? Er, yes?” His face was very red and shiny, and there was a vein pulsing in his forehead. He wiped his face with his toga.

  Ythbane spoke slowly, as if prompting a child. “Thane Kalkor is willing to allow you to name a champion to fight in your stead. The outcome will settle the fate of the kingdom. That is right, is it not, Thane? The loser loses on behalf of himself and his heirs forever?”

  Kalkor’s amusement returned. “Of course. You mean he actually produces heirs?”

  “But if King Angilki nominates a champion, then we assume that you have the right to name one also?”

  The jotunn shrugged. “I never have and never will.”

  “Well, then.” Ythbane had switched to his close-the-trap voice. “We are sure neither side wants a war, and a personal duel is much less bloody. We suggest that you accept, King Angilki.”

  “Oh. Right! Yes, I accept!” The fat man nodded vigorously, which was fun to watch.

  “A Reckoning?” asked the thane.

  “A duel in Nordland fashion,” the regent agreed.

  Thane Kalkor flipped his head in a curious gesture. For a moment Shandie did not believe what he was seeing, and probably no one else did, either, but there was spittle on Angilki’s cheek.

  “By the God of Truth,” the thane proclaimed, “I say you are a liar, by the God of Courage a dastard, by the God of Honor a thief. May the God of Pain feed your eyes to the ravens, the God of Death give your entrails to swine, and the God of Life nourish grass with your blood. The God of Manhood shall support me, the God of Justice spurn you, and the God of Memory will lose your name.”

  In the ensuing silence, the duke raised the hem of his toga and wiped his face. He seemed almost stunned.

  Ythbane laughed, then. “How picaresque! Your victim may now name his champion?”

  “I advise it.”

  Everyone looked to Angilki. “Ah. Yes? Well. My champion? Let’s see, it’s a short name …” The king’s face seemed to redden even more. Maybe he was feeling scratchy-twitchy, too? Shandie could feel the shaking coming on, and his mouth was so dry he could hardly bear it.

  Consul Humaise whispered something in Angilki’s ear again.

  “Ah! Yes. I call on, er, Mord of Grool … to be my champion!” The king dragged an arm across his forehead and leaned harder on his crutch.

  The audience rumbled with astonishment and excitement.

  Kalkor shook his head in disgust. “I can guess, with a name like that.” He pouted sourly at the regent. “Do we get to see the champion now, your Highness, or will you unveil him in the morning?”

  “In the morning? Is that not rather soon? The arrangements —”

  Kalkor folded his arms again. “There is no room for discussion. You agreed to a Reckoning, and so we are bound by the rules of a Reckoning. Disputes are usually taken to the Moot on Nintor, but I can’t imagine your fat friend going there, and he has accepted the challenge. Failing that, by the rules of Reckonings, the battle must be held at noon on the day after the challenge, and on the closest suitable piece of ground … Do I hear his champion arriving?”

  A thunderstorm of laughter roared from the senator’s benches, and even from the commoners’. Shandie risked a sideways glance at Ythbane, who had his head turned away, and then farther yet, past him, until he could see the west door and what was causing the laughing. A troll was coming in, wearing armor. Its heavy, shambling tread seemed to shake the rotunda. Shandie had never been really close to a troll before, and this one seemed much bigger than most. Even two steps up, he wasn’t level with its muzzle. It was even taller than Thane Kalkor, although jotnar were supposed to be the tallest race of all. Its low-slung arms were as long as a horse’s legs. It had a helmet like a coal shuttle.

  He, not It!

  The troll stopped beside Angilki and boomed out over his head, “You called me, Majesty?” He knew his lines better than the king did. The whole Rotunda rocked with mirth and sheer delight — senators, nobility, commonality — and the noise seemed to swirl around and around like a wave in a teacup. Heralds thumped their staffs for quiet. It eluded them for longer than Shandie could ever remember. He wished he could laugh, too. He was shivering.

  Kalkor had been waiting in to
lerant amusement, like a grown-up humoring children. He obviously did not think that the laughter was directed at him. “Mord of Grool, I presume?” he said, as the tumult finally died away. “If you come in second will your orphans and widow be able to collect?” He was smiling a really happy smile now.

  “The king’s champion is acceptable, then?” Ythbane said, and again the hall bubbled with laughter.

  “Oh, yes. A close relative is the normal choice, and I can see the resemblance.”

  “You still do not wish to name a champion of your own?” The regent’s question raised more titters.

  “No. I expected something like him. Of course he must dress properly.”

  “Perhaps Ambassador Krushjor can loan us an expert to see that all the proprieties are observed?”

  “I am sure he can.”

  Shandie’s hands were quivering like a bird in a net, and his head was thumping. If the ceremony didn’t end very soon, he would pretend to faint and take the beating. He was twitching so badly now that Ythbane must have noticed, so it would be pants down again tonight anyway. He might as well fake a faint and save himself any more of this. Very, very soon!

  Kalkor had turned to face Angilki, who quailed. “We meet tomorrow, then!”

  Angilki shuddered and licked his lips. “Yes.”

  “And you are aware of the Ultimate Rule, aren’t you?” Kalkor asked, and a strange silence settled over the Rotunda as subtly as an overnight snowfall.

  “Wha … What rule?”

  The jotnar turned his blue smile on the regent again. “A Reckoning is a mortal challenge. Either challenger or respondent must die, regardless of who does the fighting. Champions may alter the odds, but not the stakes.”

  Angilki uttered a strange bleating sound.

  Ythbane’s voice came out hard. “You mean that if you can beat the troll, then you get to kill the king, also?”

  Kalkor snapped his fingers.

  Ambassador Krushjor flushed scarlet, but he strode forward. “That is indeed the Ultimate Rule, your Highness. Obviously, it is the only fair way to stage a mortal challenge when substitutes are allowed.”

  “A duel between willing warriors is one thing,” Ythbane said, “but a cold-blooded —”

  “You both agreed to the rules!” Kalkor roared.

  Even his great bellow was almost lost in the surging anger of the audience. King Angilki made the strange noise again, but probably no one farther away than Shandie heard it. The heralds were thumping their staffs again. Shandie’s head was thumping, too. Crimson-faced, King Angilki had come to the edge of the steps and was shouting at Ythbane. No one was looking at Shandie, so he risked wiping the perspiration streaming down his face. What in the names of the Gods would Ythbane do to him if he threw up beside the Opal Throne?

  But then Angilki stumbled backward and crashed to the floor, and lay still.

  Silence, stunned silence.

  Oh, good! Maybe now they would stop all this silly ceremony and Shandie could go and beg Moms to give him some of his medicine.

  5

  “And that about sums up my day,” Senator Epoxague said. “No … One other thing. The duke seems to have suffered a serious seizure. The doctors are concerned.”

  “Oh, dear!” Eigaze wrung her fat hands.

  “I am sorry to hear it,” Inos said. “Rough seas are not his waters. He asks only to fish his own little pond and be at peace with the world.”

  “I believe that!” The senator was well preserved for his age, dapper and quiet, and unusual only in that he wore a small mustache, a rarity among imps. He was a small man, yet he radiated power in an astonishing way. There were always six or eight people in attendance on him, but they kept their distance as if he were surrounded by an invisible fence. He had shown no visible surprise at finding his drawing room occupied by a supposedly dead relative and a djinn sultan. He had merely settled into his favorite chair and listened attentively to a brief summary of their problems, without comment. Then he had reported on the events at court.

  “And now,” Inos said, “I expect you would like to hear my story in more detail?”

  He shook his head. “First a quick supper. After that we shall be joined by some other people.” He smiled. “And then you may talk till dawn, I warn you!”

  Inos returned his smile gladly. The knots in her nerves were starting to unravel. This magnificent house had a strong flavor of Kinvale about it, which might be Eigaze’s influence, or just the style of the Imperial nobility, but was soothing in either case. Eigaze had furnished a respectable wardrobe for her shipwrecked relative at incredibly short notice and, best of all, had borrowed a skilled cosmetician from a neighboring duchess. The burns still showed, of course, but now everyone could reasonably pretend that they didn’t.

  Azak, at her side, was rigid, and so far he had been silent. Now he said, “So this Kalkor dies tomorrow at the hands of the troll?”

  Epoxague flashed him an appraising glance and rubbed his mustache with one finger. “That, of course, is the plan. Gladiatorial combat was outlawed by the present imperor’s father when I was a boy — I can only just remember seeing one — but it is common knowledge that such things continue in private. This troll who goes by the name of Mord of Grool is the accepted current champion. His handlers were very pleased to accept a match with only one man, even a notorious fighter like Kalkor. Mord will take on four imps or two jotnar, sometimes.”

  Inos broke the silence. “Then why is there any doubt?”

  Epoxague sighed. “There were rumors … Gods know who starts them! But the talk was that Duke Angilki’s seizure was more than mundane.”

  Inos shivered. “The wardens?”

  The senator shrugged. “Perhaps. To use sorcery within Emine’s Rotunda, so close to the throne … that would be either an act of the Four, or of a total madman.”

  “Kalkor? You are saying that Kalkor is a sorcerer?”

  “I am saying nothing. It is only rumor. But Angilki was probably about to withdraw from the contest, and Kalkor seems to want the battle. That man is either quite mad to come to Hub, or else he has a means of escape that the regent has not counted on.” Epoxague smiled grimly as he rose from his chair. “Or both?”

  The lamps burned late that night in the Epoxague mansion. Inos had not been introduced to all the people present. Some were undoubtedly relatives, others must be political cronies and advisors. At least one was a marquis, but nobility was of much less weight in Hub than in the rest of the Impire. What counted in the capital was influence, and a senator had plenty of that. Epoxague held several hereditary titles, but he did not bother to use them, and he dominated all the others present. They sat in rows and listened in silence. A few were women, and Eigaze was there, near her father.

  Surprisingly, so also was the chinless young tentpole they all addressed as Tiffy, who had turned out to be Eigaze’s eldest son. Out of uniform he seemed even younger and cheekier, and at dinner he had attempted to flirt with Inos in flagrant defiance of Azak’s murderous glares — conscious of her ravaged face, she had been grateful for his efforts. Like the rest of the company, he now listened in deferential silence.

  The senator sat in front, occasionally sipping at well-watered wine. Inos and Azak had been placed on a sofa facing this formidable audience, and Inos talked.

  She told the whole story, in as much detail as she could recall. She even told things that Azak had never heard — about the magic casement, and Rap, and the prophecies. She told of the curse, which he had forbidden her to mention. She did not mention her own word of power, which she was beginning to think was a myth. On only one point did she fudge the truth, and then she thought she saw the senator raise his eyebrows a fraction, as if he could hear the difference, like one off-key string in an orchestra. Rap, she said, had died of his wounds. To brand Azak as a murderer would be betrayal, and she had sworn to be faithful to him.

  Azak was still and silent as a marble statue. He was seeing the enemy in its lair, som
e of the most powerful people in the Impire, and she knew it must be a climactic experience for him. Whether he was impressed or disgusted she could not tell, but Azak understood the ways of power, and he must be noting and learning. A wise man knows his enemy.

  The room was large and opulent. Crystal mirrors and fine porcelain gleamed amid fine furniture, and yet there was a patina of age on everything; the rugs were starting to show wear and the ceiling friezes were yellowed above the sconces. This was not the sparkling-new decor of Kinvale nor yet the sunlit splendor of Arakkaran; this was old wealth, sure of itself, long established and deeply rooted in the governance of the greatest state in Pandemia.

  Finally she came to the end, her throat sore with talking. She took a long drink. The candles had burned low. Her scabbed face throbbed, and she feared that the paint had started to flake off it, in which case she must look like a gargoyle. Perhaps in time she would learn to live with disfigurement.

  It would not be easy, though.

  “I think I have only one question,” the senator said. “When exactly did your father die? On what day did this sorceress abduct you?”

  “I’m not sure,” Inos said. “We had been traveling the taiga for weeks, and I’d lost track of time. Azak? When did I arrive in Arakkaran?”

  “The day after the Festival of Truth. I believe you honor the same day, your Eminence.”

  Epoxague nodded. “Any other queries?” he asked. Although he did not turn, the question was obviously addressed to the audience at his back.

  Silence.

  At last Tiffy spoke up. He was by far the youngest, and his intervention was therefore so unlikely that he must have been rehearsed beforehand. “How closely is her Majesty related to us, Grandfather?”

  Tension reared — silent and invisible, and yet so palpable that Inos thought the candles flickered.

  Epoxague stroked his mustache. And then he said, “Not as close as his Grace of Kinvale — but close enough.”