by Dave Duncan
“Friend Rap, I owe you an apology.”
Rap gulped and burst out, “Oh, no, sir!” and forgot the your Majesty.
The king did not seem to notice. “No one had ever told me about your mother's skill, or I should surely have guessed after your first exploit on the causeway. Perhaps I should have trusted my daughter's judgment more, too.” He looked ruefully at the Other Man.
The Other Man was not helping Rap's edginess at all. He was elderly and tall and white-haired. He had a large curved nose and very glittery, deep-set blue eyes, and he stood as motionless as the furniture alongside one of the tables, a long-fingered hand resting on it. He wore a long robe like the king's, but dark brown, and he had done nothing but study Rap since he came in. If sorcerers ground herbs in mortars, then Rap was the next herb. This vulture-eyed sentinel must be the Doctor Sagorn that Inos had described—the one who had lied to her, or, else was a sorcerer. And if he wasn't a sorcerer, he had still lied.
The Other Man smiled slightly in reply to the king and returned to staring at Rap. Rap looked away.
“Well, what reward can we offer?” the king asked. “What can we do for a young man who performs such a miraculous act for us?”
“Nothing is necessary, Si—your Majesty.”
The king smiled thinly. “I insist on rewarding you.”
God of fools!
“Then I should like to be one of your Majesty's men-at-arms, Sire,” Rap said hopefully.
The king frowned, glanced at the Other Man, and stroked his beard. “You're a little young yet . . . and I'm not sure that that would be a very good idea anyway, Rap. You are going to find that some men resent your abilities, you know. By forcing you to reveal them in public, Factor Foronod and I have done you a grave disservice. Sword practice is dangerous enough without grudges and jealousies creeping in . . . although you would then have the ability to defend yourself, I suppose. Is there someone you especially want to maim?”
“No, your Majesty!” That was a horrible thought.
“Then why do you need to be a man-at-arms?” The king seemed puzzled.
Rap stammered.
“Dragons, Sire?” murmured the Other Man. “For rescuing beautiful maidens from?”
“I should have thought of that!”
Rap suspected he was blushing. They were laughing at him.
The king turned serious again. “Can you read?”
“No, your . . . Sire.”
“I think you should learn, Rap. Both for your own sake and . . . and for your future queen, if you plan to remain in her service.”
Now Rap was certain that he had blushed, from hair roots to belly button, and he could only nod.
“Well, that takes care of two hours a day.” The king chuckled. “I think I shall appoint you as assistant to Foronod—serve him right! I shall tell him to teach you some of his cares and worries. You will learn a great deal about the palace and the town if you do nothing but follow him around—and I am sure that he will find more than that for you to do.”
There was nothing to say then except “Thank you, Sire.”
Then the royal eyes met Rap's and seemed to drill right through. “I think you are an honest man, lad. A queen of Krasnegar . . . even a sly old king . . . can always use an honest man's loyalty, and especially so if that man has useful knowledge, also.”
Rap gulped and nodded. “I shall be proud to serve, sir—Sire.”
But he wondered whether he was pleased or not. He felt that he had hoped for something a little more manly than factoring.
“In another month or two, we shall see again.” The king was wandering toward the window once more. “Now, I am sure that your mother warned you carefully, and you are fairly safe here in Krasnegar, but remember to guard your secret. It is common knowledge now. There can be evildoers even in Krasnegar.”
“Sir—Sire—I have no secret.”
The king frowned at him and looked to the Other Man, who shrugged. The king came back to the hearth and eased himself stiffly into a big chair. “Then how do you perform your wonders?”
“They . . . they just happen,” Rap said.
“Your mother did not tell you a word?”
Rap shook his head. “No, your Majesty.”
“How long have you been able to do these things?”
“That day I got my chance to drive a wagon,” Rap explained. “That day was the first time . . . er . . . Sire.”
The king looked again at the Other Man and said, “Sagorn?”
The old man was smiling. He had an old man's smile, thinning the lips without showing teeth. His lower jaw seemed to slide up between the clefts that flanked his mouth, closing tight like a trap. Not a comforting smile—sinister. “When Foronod asked you if you could find the trail, you asked why—or so I am told. Why did you ask why?”
“I don't know, sir. It seemed important.”
Doctor Sagorn nodded in satisfaction. “It was the importance that was important, I think. You don't like using your power, do you?”
“No, sir!”
Again the gruesome smile. “So you suppress it. You only do it, or think you can do it, when it matters a lot?”
Rap puzzled about that. He did not want to know that the king kept his crown in that big chest, at the bottom, under the fur rug, and he had just about convinced himself that there he was only guessing. The first time on the causeway he had desperately wanted to do a good job of driving the wagon—that had certainly been important to him. “Perhaps that is so, sir. Then you mean I have always had it?”
“Since it was given you, certainly,” the king said. “And it must have been your mother who gave it to you.”
“But . . . like my nose, your Majesty? Or my brown hair?”
The king shook his head.
Rap was bewildered. “I thought maybe it was something I was growing into, like shaving.”
“Or holding hands with pretty girls?” The king smiled—almost grinned. “Oh, that was not fair! I am sorry, my young friend. Just a joke! Forgive me! I think what you are growing into is responsibility—serious matters, where such powers can be of use to you. I am told you have an uncanny knack with horses, also.”
“That I don't mind, Sire.” Rap risked a smile of his own.
Sagorn made a sniffing noise. “He can call mares away from a stallion.”
The king looked up, startled. “You jest!”
The old man gave him a curiously cryptic glance. “So I was informed by a certain minstrel who, quite typically, had lost his horse in the hills. Master Rap saved him. Then, not wanting to interrupt his lunch, he broke up a herd by shouting.”
The king looked from Rap to Sagorn and back again several times. “Rap,” he said, “I am almost more impressed by that than what you did last night! Has this minstrel returned, also, then? I should like to hear the story.”
He looked to Sagorn, who hesitated.
“No, Majesty.”
The king started angrily, then turned to Rap. “I understand that you had two helpers. One was a stableboy?”
“Ylinyli, Sire. He is known as Lin.”
“I must thank him, also, then. The other was a stranger?”
“A gentleman, Sire,” said Rap. “He told me his name was Andor.”
The king's jaw clamped shut and he nodded, as if he had suspected as much. He glared again at Sagorn. “Why has he come?”
The old man seemed almost as angry, but very careful. “I could not stop him, could I?”
The king looked furious now. “The minstrel?”
Sagorn nodded and the king turned to Rap. “I repeat what I told you before, lad. Guard that secret of yours—it may easily be worth more than your life!”
Rap wondered how he could guard something he did not have, but the king had not finished. “And in particular, watch out for that Andor man, He is as warm as sunshine and as slippery as ice. I shall have to lock up every maiden in the kingdom if he is around.”
Rap was very confused now.
Why could the king not simply order the man away? True, the ships had gone and a journey by land at this time of year would be dangerous in the extreme. But a king was a king, was he not?
This king sank back stiffly in his big chair. He grimaced, as if in pain, and pressed his fingers against the lump in his side. What lump? Stop prying!
“Sire?” the Sagorn man said.
“It's all right,” the king muttered, although his forehead was shining wetly. “Tell Master Rap about the words. Warn him of the dangers. He does not seem to know, and who better to tell him than the learned Doctor Sagorn?”
There was more to that remark than there seemed to be. The old man flushed angrily.
“With pleasure, your Majesty!” He turned to Rap. “Have you never heard of the words of power?”
“No, sir.”
Sagorn shrugged. “All magic, all power, comes from certain words. There are a great many of them; no one knows how many. But they are what gives sorcerers their abilities.”
Rap's jaw fell open. “You are not saying I am a sorcerer, are you, sir?” Horrible thought!
“No.” The old man smiled slightly and shook his head. “But you must know at least one word—and an unusually powerful one, because to be a seer normally requires more. It takes at least three to make a sorcerer. I think that the words may be growing weaker. Were I to set up in public as a sorcerer, I should want no less than four. Inisso, however, had but three.” He glanced at the king.
“Never mind that!” Evidently the spasm had passed, for the pain had left the king's face. He glowered angrily.
Sagorn bowed slightly, ironically. “As your Majesty wishes. One word, Master Rap, does several things, but mostly it enhances natural talents. You obviously have inherited a knack for animals from your faun ancestors, and the word has raised it to occult proportions. Your mother was reportedly a seer. We asked the seneschal about her. He says that she could foretell events—when a girl would marry, or the sex of babies. Can you do such things?”
Bewildered, Rap shook his head.
“Can you sing? Dance? What are you good at?”
“Horses, sir, maybe. Good with horses.”
“You did not know that the king would summon you today before you were actually told?”
“No, sir.”
“You wanted to be a man-at-arms. Have you ever had fencing lessons?”
“The sergeant tried me out, sir, with a wooden sword.”
“Were you good?”
Rap's face grew warm again. “He didn't seem to think so.”
Sagorn exchanged nods with the king. “Then we must assume that you know only one word, and the skill you displayed yesterday must be another natural talent in you, although what it is in other people I am not sure—sense of direction, perhaps. Some people never get lost. Or just good guessing?” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “After all, foresight is just a sort of guessing.”
The king interrupted. “The jotnar have legends of men they call farsighted, able to pilot boats through shallows, or fight in the dark.”
“Ah!” Sagorn looked pleased. “I had forgotten that! So it may be that he gained some talent for farsight from his father, and again the word has magnified it greatly.”
He paused, looking quizzically at Rap, who nodded, although all this sounded very confusing. Yet his mother had told him once that his father had been a good pilot—and he had walked home in the dark a hundred times, she had said, before at last he fell off the dock.
“So one word makes you a sort of genius in your own field. But even one word can do other things, as well. It makes its owner an effective sort of person. Successful. Lucky. Very hard to kill, they say.” He glanced momentarily at the king.
Lucky? That settled it, Rap thought—he did not have a word.
“Tell him about two words,” the king growled.
Sagorn raised an ironic, shaggy eyebrow, then again he bowed and turned to Rap. “Not all the books agree, you understand? Words of power are not discussed openly, and there is much that even I have not been able to discover, in a long lifetime of searching. But it seems that with two words you start to get somewhere. Knowing two of the words makes an adept. Not a true sorcerer, but someone who can do almost anything—anything human. If you knew two words, young man, then one lesson would be enough to turn you into a swordsman, as you desire. Or an artist, or a juggler. Normally the true occult powers like farsight start to come only with a second word. Do you understand?”
“Not very much, sir. Do you mean like spells? I didn't say any spells to call the horses or find the causeway.”
The old man shook his head impatiently. “No, no! You do not say these words. You only have to know them. They are passed down from generation to generation as the most precious thing a family can own. They are usually told only on deathbeds.” His eyes wandered back toward the king.
The king was gritting his teeth again. “So you see why we think you know one of the words of power, Rap?”
“The minstrel, Sire!” Rap said. “He asked me!”
The king managed a twisted smile. “Any man who can sing like Jalon is automatically suspected of knowing a word. Any supreme talent like . . . any genius . . .” He broke off, took a deep breath, then grunted at Sagorn, “Tell him of the dangers.”
Sagorn kept his eyes on the king, but spoke to Rap. “The words resist telling—they are hard to say. You truly do not remember your mother telling you hers?”
“No, sir.”
“Yours is undoubtedly stronger than most,” the old man muttered, but his attention was still on the king. “Perhaps it is making you forget that you know it, although I have never heard . . .”
The king uttered a groan and writhed suddenly. His hand was pressed to his side and now sweat dribbled down his ashen face.
“More of the cordial, Majesty?”
Holindarn nodded without speaking, the old man turned and went to a corner table. He returned bearing a glass and a tall vial full of some smoky green liquid. Rap rose from his chair, feeling out of place. Sagorn caught his eye and nodded.
Rap bowed and backed toward the door.
He was outside before he realized that he had not been told of the dangers.
2
Next morning Rap found Foronod standing with a group of other men on the shingle in the sunshine. The snow had almost gone. He waited patiently on the outskirts until the others had all been assigned tasks, then stepped forward in his turn. His only greeting was a nod. Although he looked as if he had not slept since the night of the blizzard, the factor made no comment on that affair at all, merely rubbing his eyes and listening in silence as Rap explained the king's command.
Then the silver mane nodded. “Can you read?”
“No, sir. But I am to learn.”
“It will have to wait, though. Ready to start helping me now?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I'm told there's a whale beached on Tanglestone Point. I need to know if it's fresh enough to harvest. Take a good horse.”
Tanglestone would be a long ride. Rap took Firedragon, returning that evening weary and content, having achieved what he set out to do. And even Firedragon, had he been gifted with speech, might have reported enjoying the outing. It had been years since any other man had attempted to ride the stallion. No one else ever succeeded in staying on him very long, but Rap he never minded.
Three weeks later, Rap and Foronod fought their way through a blizzard, following the last caravan to cross the causeway. The big one had come at last and Krasnegar was now closed for the winter . . . or, as the inhabitants put it, the world was cut off.
The two rode in weary silence through the town. Foronod halted at the foot of a long flight of steps. He slid stiffly from the saddle and handed his reins to Rap. “Tomorrow, then,” he said, and headed off on foot—to family and warm bed, to a long rest that no one had earned more, and possibly even to a hot bath.
Rap took the horses to the castle stables, wonderin
g where he would go afterward. Dim and warm and rankly smelly, the stables themselves were more home to him than anywhere else was now. Cobbled floor, rough plank walls, shabby untidiness . . . they all offered a welcome familiarity, but after so long out of doors he also felt oppressed by being confined. He felt as if those walls were leaning over him whenever he turned his back—and there was always a wall behind him. He rubbed down Foronod's mare and was still working on his own pony when old Hononin appeared out of the shadows as if one small patch of darkness had just decided to solidify. He looked grumpier and surlier than ever.
He grunted a sort of greeting.
“It's good to be back, sir,” Rap said.
Another grunt. “Is it? Where are you living now?”
“I was wondering the same.”
Neither said the obvious—that Rap was too old for the boys' dormitory. It might even be full, anyway. But a factor's assistant would presumably be paid more than a stableboy, and perhaps almost as much as a driver. Rap had not asked.
“I shall find lodgings in the town, sir.”
The little man scowled and snatched the wisp from Rap's hand. “I'll finish this; you look beat. You know the garret next the drivers' office?”
Rap nodded, surprised.
“It's been cleaned out. There may even be a bedroll in it. A man could stay there until he found somewhere better.”
“Thank you, sir. That was kind of you.”
Honinin just grunted.
Krasnegar might be battened down for the winter, but the factor still had much to do, and much of that he could delegate to his new apprentice. Rap was partly diverted by his morning lessons in the arts of reading and writing and summing, squeezed unhappily into a desk at the back of a schoolroom filled with children who giggled and found him an amusing giant. He chewed his knuckles, ruffled his hair, and wrestled with the mysteries of knowledge and the vagaries of a quill pen just as stubbornly as he had battled Firedragon.
