Faery Lands Forlorn

by Dave Duncan

  "What need has a warlock for mundane guards?" Rap shouted.

  "Curb your tongue, faun, or I'll tie a knot in it."

  A wooden stair wound up the outside to connect with a wide observation gallery, silhouetted against the weirdly dancing light. Rap followed the thump of the dwarf's boots up the steps, watching the occult barrier approach as he had done in Inisso's Tower in Krasnegar. Then his head broke through, and the rest of the palace had gone.

  The upper level was one large room, whose walls were merely widely spaced wooden panels; they held up the roof but made no clear distinction between the interior floor and the deck of the surrounding gallery. The wind blustered through unhindered. Sleeping bats hung within the high cone of the roof, and the rafters were heaped with ancient birds' nests. Faded rugs and wicker furniture lay scattered around in no particular pattern, together with some other buzzing, twitching things that Rap preferred not to inspect.

  The wavering light came from overhead lanterns on long chains, swinging wildly in the gale. Even very ordinary-seeming chairs were gifted with many sinister shadows, writhing like black spiders in the golden glow on the floor. Tree branches outside seemed to fade in and out of the night.

  Raspnex headed for Oothiana, who stood before one of the larger wall panels, apparently examining a picture. She had unfastened her hair, and it surged and rippled in the wind, like a black flag. So did her white gown. Rap tried not to stare at that as he followed the dwarf across to her. He was foolish to be so scrupulous, really, for no one's clothes held secrets from his farsight; yet he found those delicate curves sketched out in white fabric far more enticing and disturbing than crude certainty could ever be. He was learning how to control his power when he needed to, by diverting it to other things and away from places he should not pry, but that wasn't always easy.

  Little Chicken stood at the proconsul's side, bare-chested, arms crossed, and greener in the dim gold light than Rap had ever seen him. He was probably enjoying the cold. His angular eyes narrowed when he saw Rap, his lip curled in silent contempt.

  "Any luck?" Raspnex demanded.

  Oothiana turned. She looked weary. "Some. The palace is shielded." She glanced at Rap, but her face gave away nothing.

  The thing she had been studying was not a picture but a large mirror in an intricate silver frame. It had a dark, oily look to it that Rap disliked, but it seemed no more sinister than some of the other odd things, such as the potted plant that kept making finger-snapping noises, or the fairy statue that farsight said wasn't there at all.

  Raspnex pulled off his ugly cap and stuffed it inside his flannel shirt. He rolled down his sleeves, meanwhile glancing thoughtfully around the room. Rap wondered what he was studying.

  "Votaries don't put up shielding, usually," the dwarf said.

  "Of course not."

  No love lost there.

  Rap bowed to her. "Your Highness."

  Her face remained expressionless. "I'm only an excellency, Master Rap."

  "Beg pardon, your Excellency." He bowed again. "May I congratulate your Excellency on the quality of your jail?"

  This time he earned a faint smile. "Are you an expert?"

  "I have seen enough jails that I never need see another." Rap bowed again.

  "But you tried to leave."

  "I hope you understand that I meant no discourtesy, ma'am."

  She turned away from him and glanced around the room.

  He shrugged. Well, he had tried. At least she knew now that he bore her no grudge, and he thought she would care about that.

  "I'll tell him we're ready," Raspnex said. He marched across to another section of wall, which surprisingly contained a completely unnecessary door. It was massive, embellished with intricate carvings and inset with golden hieroglyphics. The dwarf pulled it open, walked through, and thumped it heavily behind him.

  He did not appear on the balcony beyond.

  Feeling an unpleasant shiver run down his back, Rap said, "Huh?"

  "Magic portal." Oothiana took a deep breath. "Leads to Hub. Rap, all I can tell you is to be polite, very polite. He takes offense easily. Come."

  She walked over to a couch and sat down. Something about the way she did it prompted Rap to go and sit beside her, surprised by his own presumption. It was ages since he had sat close to a beautiful woman. He could not remember doing so since he had held hands with Inos, the night Jalon had sung in the castle hall, back home in Krasnegar. There must have been others in the early winter, when he had been factor's clerk eating in the castle commons. He could not recall them, though. Only Inos, long ago.

  In a manner suggestive of a cat staking out a mousehole, Little Chicken selected a chair close to Rap. He leaned back, smiling hungrily. Rap ignored him and inspected the room again, wondering what the two sorcerers had been studying so oddly. His farsight was starting to pick up odd shimmers that his eyes could not explain.

  "Dwarfs don't like luxury," Oothiana said.

  "What? I mean, I beg your—"

  "Warlock Zinixo can have anything he wants. He can make sand into gold, or sugar lumps into diamonds. But he grew up with shabby, old things, like most dwarves do. It's just their way. He's not comfortable with . . . with comfort. He likes dead leaves around."

  She must have thought Rap was inspecting the furniture, which was lumpish but comfy. Only now did he notice spots where the wicker was worn and stuffing protruded from cushions; it had all seemed fine to him. And of course there were low heaps of dead leaves in every cranny; this place was more outdoors than in. Bird droppings aplenty, too.

  "There were no dead leaves where I grew up, no leaves at all." He started to smile at her, but she was close, and he found himself too much aware of her smooth round breasts. Angry, he looked away and struggled to keep his farsight under control.

  Oothiana did not seem to mind. "And not much else but leaves where you grew up, Master Goblin? Or pine needles, I suppose?"

  "Who's coming?" asked Little Chicken, looking surly.

  "Warlock Zinixo, warden of the west. Address him as 'your Omnipotence.' Don't lip him, or he'll make your guts rot."

  The goblin's eyes widened, becoming more triangular in the process.

  Rap's nerves were too taut to stand the ensuing silence. "I met Legate Yodello, ma'am," he said, blurting out the words and regretting them at once.

  Oothiana seemed to glance around the room again, inspecting . . .

  He gulped. "I'm sorry. I mean, I don't think he deserves—that."

  She regarded him coldly. "He was the one who killed the fairies."

  Rap nodded. "But I think he did it for . . . for a good reason, ma'am."

  "What reason could justify torture and murder?"

  "I—I don't know," Rap said miserably.

  "He did it for me, is what you mean. Yes, he did." She sighed and looked away. "And maybe he wanted to save the other fairyfolk. He says he did, and I believe him." She paused, picking at the fabric of her dress where it curved over her knee. "You've guessed what happened? The warlock had been hunting for wild fairies. They're very rare now, but eventually he discovered that village. He ordered me to have the inhabitants brought in. I told the legate, of course. Except I didn't—didn't give him quite the right orders. That was my second mistake. I hadn't put the right loyalty spell on him when I appointed him, and I didn't tell him to do the job himself. I told him to send someone to do it."

  After a moment, Rap said, "How did that matter?"

  "He obeyed my exact orders, of course. He had no choice there. He sent his best maniple and put his best centurion in charge. But then he went along himself. He was just able to avoid my intent without actually disobeying my words. Somehow he convinced himself that he was acting in my best interests. It was an astonishing feat—he circumvented a binding spell. He couldn't give any contrary orders, but the centurion was only bound by an oath, not by sorcery, and he wasn't going to interfere with anything a legate wanted to do. So Yodello tried to win four words
for himself. He thought the fastest way would be to flog children to make their parents tell. He got three before the warlock arrived."

  Silence fell, while she continued to worry the threads of her gown. Rap had found three bodies; the parents, dead from telling their secret names. No children had died, therefore, at least not then.

  "Arrived mad?"

  "Very, very mad." As if realizing how she was fidgeting, Oothiana pulled her hand away from her knee and folded her arms.

  "It was a stupid plan anyway!" she snapped. "Even if he had learned four words and become a full sorcerer, he would never have been able to defy the warlock. Sorcerers as strong as the dwarf are historical freaks. Oh, Yodello might have managed to break free of my binding, but he'd never have broken the one on me. And he'd have had to face the warlock eventually. It was a crazy dream."

  It had been the sort of mad risk a man might take for the woman he loved, and for his children. Rap decided he could almost forgive the crime Little Chicken had uncovered in that jungle hamlet. Almost. What was being done to Yodello himself could never be forgiven.

  Again the sorceress glanced around the room. Why were there mundane legionaries guarding this building? Who else was in here? Invisible guards?

  The magic portal opened a crack, slashing a sliver of brighter light across a rug so threadbare that boards showed through it in spots. Rap's heartbeat speeded up disgracefully. For a moment nothing more happened. Then the door swung wide, revealing a brief glimpse of a book-lined chamber with a fire crackling in a grate. A blast of air swirled through, and the door slammed shut by itself.

  Silence again . . . except that the tension had just doubled, or tripled. The warlock was now present, and Rap no longer doubted that there were more bodyguards around than he could see.

  Little Chicken looked puzzled. Oothiana was tense, staring straight ahead. The wind stirred the trees with a dry, insectile sound.

  Then a voice spoke out of the air beside Little Chicken, and he jumped. It was the deepest voice Rap had ever heard, even deeper than Raspnex's.

  "Goblin! Tell me what you know about Bright Water."

  Little Chicken's eyes stretched wide, and he glanced all about and then licked his lips. Even his tongue seemed an odd color in this light. "Nothing," he said shakily, "your Omnipotence. Not seen her. Not heard of her, until Flat—the faun—told me about her."

  "Tally your ancestors."

  The goblin stammered, then rattled off his forebears for a dozen generations.

  Silence fell again, but Rap was not surprised when the voice addressed him next, from somewhere just in front of him.

  "How did you escape, faun?"

  Rap explained.

  There was no answer, no further question. Oothiana was still as a statue, not revealing the warlock's position with her eyes.

  Why should the most powerful sorcerer in the world bother to play such tricks?

  Then the sepulchral voice spoke again, from farther away.

  "In the morning we'll give the goblin three fairies. Have you picked out three older men, as I ordered?"

  "Yes, your Omnipotence," Ootniana said.

  The unseen warlock grunted. "Good. I'm tired of having them die without speaking. Too many suicides, too. It's inefficient. That woman I was burning—has she recovered her wits yet?"

  "Not yet, Omnipotence."

  "Exactly! It's too slow. This way we'll get three words quickly."

  There was no hint of regret in the voice, and yet the implications were enough to freeze Rap's blood. Little Chicken had his mouth open and eyes wide, stunned by the idea of a woman being tortured.

  "So you'll have a goblin sorcerer!" Rap shouted. "What do you do then? You planning to torture words out of a goblin?"

  Oothiana started, shooting him a look of warning.

  Suddenly the warlock became visible. He had the same heavy build as his uncle, but his clothes were even shabbier—moth-eaten, and frayed at the knees. He was young and his shortness made him seem younger, yet his hair was as gray as the older dwarf's; his colorless, unbearded face looked like stone freshly quarried. He stood in front of Rap, studying him with a look of cold dislike, nibbling at a hangnail. By repute, he was the most powerful sorcerer in the world. He could have been a farmhand, or a gardener's boy.

  He took his finger from his mouth. "No. I don't plan to torture anything out of a goblin. I shall bribe him." He grinned teeth like white pebbles. "We both know what he wants, don't we? And I can keep you alive as long as I want while he satisfies his ambitions."

  Little Chicken had apparently worked out what was involved. He grinned at Rap, also, gloating.

  Rap failed to restrain a shudder. "Then he'll kill you, too!" he told the goblin.

  Little Chicken laughed gleefully. "Don't care!"

  "There!" said Zinixo. "That's all arranged, then." He spun on his heel and began pacing the room, gnawing his hangnail and thumping the dusty floor with heavy boots. Goblins, fauns, legionaries, fairies, legates—this dwarf's indifference to other people was even nastier than Little Chicken's deliberate cruelty. At least Little Chicken regarded agony as an honor and had been prepared to endure it himself when Rap bested him. Obviously Zinixo's world held no one of importance except Zinixo.

  After a moment, Oothiana said, "I found Arakkaran, Omnipotence. There's shielding around the palace."

  Zinixo ignored her. Little Chicken was still beaming happily. Rap wondered how many invisible guards were present in the room, and what he would have to endure to satisfy the goblin, and why the magic casement had not done a better job of prophecy.

  The warlock stopped his pacing. He put his back against a wall panel and let his gaze jerk to and fro around the room. "What's keeping them? This isn't some sort of trap, is it?"

  "I'm sure it isn't, your Omnipotence," Oothiana said soothingly.

  "They're ganging up on me!" His voice was an octave higher already, and rising.

  "No, Sire! I expect—"

  The dwarf jumped and spun around as the door flew open, but it was only Raspnex returning. He bore a long roll of fabric like a blanket draped slackly over his shoulder. He closed the door firmly.

  "Well?" the warlock yelled. "Out with it, Uncle!"

  "She's coming."

  "Ah!" Zinixo looked around. "Ready? If she tries anything, strike at once! Blast the whole building if you have to."

  Oothiana and Raspnex nodded obediently. Perhaps the unseen others nodded, also.

  "Let her come." Zinixo wiped a sleeve over his forehead; he flexed his thick shoulders as if readying himself for a tussle.

  Raspnex threw down his bundle in the middle of the room and kicked it. It unrolled and became a small oblong rug; an oddly shiny one, glittering in the dim golden glow of the lamps.

  Both dwarves backed away a few paces. For a moment no one spoke, and Rap sensed tension coming to a boil. Oothiana was kneading her hands together and the warlock chewing fingernails again. The older man had crossed his arms, but he was wary, also. He remained standing.

  For a few moments the only sounds were the distant surf, grinding the coast with ageless hunger, and leaves skittering thinly in the wind. Rap was becoming inured to magic; the most incredible sorceries now seemed quite commonplace to him, and he was not at all surprised when a faint shimmer appeared above the little carpet and quickly solidified into a tiny woman.

  Had he not been expecting Bright Water, though, he might not have recognized her. On the two occasions he had met her before, her garb had been a goblin woman's long buckskin gown, but now she wore a frilly white dress, short and sleeveless. It glittered in a thousand dewy rainbow twinkles of sequins or perhaps gems, but it was also rumpled and soiled. Below the brief, flared skirt, her bare legs were fleshless as a crab's, ending in incongruous boots. Her dusky arms and shoulders were scraggy and gnarled, her chest flat and leathery. In absurd contrast to her goblin-khaki skin, her hair shone a brilliant auburn, lush and youthful. It had been piled high on her head and pinne
d there with combs of ivory—and apparently some time ago, for the coiffure was falling apart, and stray wisps and tresses tumbled loose. The effect was ludicrous, as if a crone had turned herself into an adolescent to go to a ball and then changed only partway back. Judging by the hair and the dress, the ball had been over for days.

  Strangest of all, a pale-pink flame burned upon the hag's humped left shoulder. It flickered, changed color a few times, and congealed into the shape of a small, crouching animal. But it was still glowing and Rap's farsight could detect only a vague, fuzzy presence and an odd sense of something alive.

  "Well!" the warlock shouted. "And what is the witch of the north doing with a dragon?"

  Bright Water wheeled around to look for him. The light on her shoulder brightened and seemed to grip harder, as if afraid it might fall off.

  "A gift!" she shrilled. "Isn't she lovely? Precious, I call her, a present from Lith'rian."

  The uncanny sense of madness unsettled Rap. Zinixo, however, merely thumped his fists onto his hips and leaned forward, the better to scowl at her.

  "How sweet! I never heard of South giving away dragons to anyone. Did this exceptional gift seal some secret agreement?"

  "Oh, no!" The old woman cackled. "No, no, no! He knows I like them, that's all. I've had fire chicks before, well before your time, sonny. Just hatchlings. Can't keep them very long, you know! Haven't got big enough shoulders!"

  She shrieked another cackle of amusement and reached up to stroke the luminescence as if it were a kitten. It turned a warm blue—and Rap felt a strange purr. That wasn't farsight; that was his empathy for animals. Apparently the flame was alive, or enough alive that he could hear its feelings, but the sensation was bitter and alien, like a metallic taste in his mind. He shut it out.

  But he could not shut out the stories he had heard about dragons and metal, and there must be metal around this bizarre summer house. Nails, lamps . . . he glanced up at the wind-stirred lanterns, and they certainly looked as if they were made of gold, or at least trimmed with it. Gold was worst of all; all the tales warned about the terrible things that happened when dragons found gold.