by Dave Duncan
Defiance! Treason! The blood-soaked old despot would have a homicidal fit. No one had sassed him like that in fifty years. Shandie's trouble, Ylo decided with a yawn, was monogamy. Gods! The man could have all the women he could handle if he chose to, right here in Gaaze. Principle could be carried too far. Much too far. What could possibly be so wonderful about one particular woman?
Heirs were a consideration, of course, and an important one to a future imperor, but Shandie already had a daughter. Another child could wait, surely?
Home life might possibly have some appeal-Ylo had never tried it and had no wish to do so at the moment.
And as for recreation, variety was a large part of it. Why sing the same song every night when there were so many beautiful melodies around to try?
Of course Shandie had political reasons for wanting to be back in the capital. The old man was showing increasing signs of irrationality, and he certainly could not last much longer. But return to Hub was not what the prince was demanding.
Ylo blinked again at the terrible document and read it through again. He glanced longingly at the door to Shandie's office, wondering if he dared go and reason with the maniac. He reluctantly decided that a future decapitation in Hub was worth two immediate decapitations in Gaaze. Shandie would brook such gross insubordination no better than his grandfather did.
The scribbled note at the top was meant for Ylo. It said merely, "Confidential. Transcribe personally."
The final document would be specially sealed and go in its own bag, weighted with lead in case the ship sank. It would arrive unopened in Emshandar's hands. No one else would ever know that his grandson had delivered an ultimatum.
But the old man was almost blind. Personal letters had to be written with a special brush and a special black ink, in huge letters like a poster, a dozen or so words to the page. That was Ylo's job.
So the imperor would know that at least one man was witness to his shame. That was possibly a death warrant all by itself, and if the imperor was aware that the flunky in question was a hated Yllipo, his vengeance would be certain. The letter was Ylo's death warrant, just for reading it.
Ah, duty! The perils of a military career! With a sigh, he reached for his brush and the ink bottle, selected the largest sheet of vellum he could find in his drawer.
Life had been unspeakably hectic in the two months since the XIIth had limped into Gaaze, scorched, filthy, and exhausted. Ylo had been exhausted ever since. With his army disarmed and scattered, Shandie had been faced with the enormous task of refitting it in winter, when the passes were closed, while trying to guard against an elvish counterattack, which fortunately had not materialized. He had rebuilt everything from the bottom up, even as rumors of dragons sparked desertions on an enormous scale. Shandie had worked himself to a shadow and his staff to less than that.
And Shandie slept nights. Ylo didn't, much.
Ylo had his own grand office in the proconsular palace. A side door led through to Shandie's office. The main door led out into a hall where a hundred scribes labored. Unofficially, he was probably the second most powerful man in Qoble.
Oddly enough, he had not been using his power for his own gain. There just had not been time in his life and he had no need for money at the moment anyway. He hoped the wraiths of his more notorious ancestors were not too ashamed of him. Later, when Shandie was installed on the Opal Throne and appointed him praetor of a city somewhere, then he would loot the place and become rich. It was what was expected. It was the way things were done, and all Yllipos were born with a talent for jobbery. Meanwhile, he politely refused all bribes, moving the would-be donors to the bottom of the list. He had created considerable confusion in local affairs thereby, because no one had any experience of dealing with honest officials.
He yawned again.
"Sleeping sickness?" a waspish voice demanded. Little Sir Acopulo was standing in the doorway, pouting like a maiden aunt.
"No, it's just that I was up all night." Ylo displayed his most cherubic smile.
The pout grew to a scowl. "Signifer, you suffer from a complete lack of moral probity!"
"Suffer from it? I enjoy it enormously!"
The scowl became a grimace. "Have you received any mail?"
"Two invitations to balls, one threatening note from a husband, and three thank-you letters, but I think I can handle-"
"Don't play dumb, Signifer. Your performance is much too convincing."
"I don't understand what you mean, sir. " Ylo widened his eyes to indicate bewilderment. Their daily sparring had become a tradition. He suspected that the prudish political advisor took it much more seriously than he did.
"I was inquiring if there had been any mail for me?"
Ylo scratched his head. "Yes, there was something addressed to you ... No, maybe that was yesterday, or the day before." He yawned as widely as he could.
The scholar glared and seemed about to depart. "Try to get more sleep, boy. You're quite confused at times."
"Ah! I recall. The prince asked me to ask you if `Raspnex' is a dwarvish name."
Acopulo's little eyes narrowed. "Why does he want to know that?" He much preferred to converse with Shandie in private and hated reporting through Ylo.
Ylo shrugged, smiled innocently, and waited. The scholar admitted defeat. "Yes, it is."
"Thank you. I'll tell him." Ylo picked up his brush again, as if the conversation were over. He knew it wasn't.
"Why did he want to know?"
"I can't remember. "
"I shall ask him myself, then," the little man said suspiciously.
Ylo smirked. "Go ahead. " Meaning he had not invented the question, of course.
Acopulo snorted and turned to leave. "Trade?" Ylo said softly.
"What does that mean?"
"I answer your question, you answer one of mine?"
"I am always willing to advance your education, as the need is so obvious."
"Mm. I recall now that Lord Umpily had heard a rumor that Raspnex is the name of the new warden of the north."
The little man nodded. "I half expected something like that." Ylo wanted to ask him to prove it, but that would not be politic. "Now, my question! Dwarves and elves fight like dogs and cats. Why would Warlock Lith'rian ever have agreed to accept a dwarf on the White Throne?"
"He may just have been outvoted. "
"But he was strong enough to use his dragons against the legions in spite of the other two! So why would he let them foist a dwarf on him? "
"Bah! He accepted Raspnex in exchange for the dragons, of course. Obviously Raspnex was the price the elf paid to have the others let him chase you out of IIrane. " Acopulo's thin lips pulled back in a sort of smile. "Cheap at the price, maybe?" He disappeared from the doorway.
He was still guessing, though. No one would ever know for certain. Ylo sighed and set to work with his brush.
He put an enormous blot on the third word. He blanked out the first two, tossed the vellum aside, and reached for another sheet.
A tap on the door interrupted him. He looked up and squinted at a young tesserary nervously clutching a mail sack.
"Well, bring it!" Ylo snapped irritably. "I can't read 'em from there! "
The youngster hurried across the big room.
"Sorry, " Ylo muttered, remembering that Shandie never lost his temper, no matter how tired or overworked he was. "Forgive me. You open it and pick out the important stuff. "
Beaming at the honor thus granted, the kid pulled his sword to cut the seals. He unlaced the bag, tipped the contents out on the floor, and knelt down. One by one, letters and reports began lining up along the edge of the desk. Finally the tesserary rose. "There's a lot of others here, Signifer. "
"That's fine, Huff," Ylo said, pleased at recalling the lad's name. "Thanks. That will be all. "
The kid saluted and marched to the door.
Come to think of it, Huil was probably older than Ylo. Ylo just felt old today, that was it.
&
nbsp; Aha! Top priority! His practiced eye picked out the private seal of Princess Eshiala. He grabbed up the package and strode over to the inner door.
The proconsul's office was a small ballroom. Ylo marched across a meadowland of mosaic floor to the desk in the center, where Shandie was in conference with some civic officials. He glanced up, frowning, then smiled as he saw the seal. He muttered his excuses to the visitors and slit open the letter.
Ylo had barely reached the door when he heard a yell and spun around. Shandie the Inscrutable? Shandie the Imperturbable?
"Ylo! Look at this!" Shandie the Inscrutable came racing across the great room, waving his letter, civic dignitaries forgotten. He thrust it under his signifer's nose. "Recall! " he whispered urgently. "See? She says the old villain's recalling me! As soon as my replacement ... It's right here, Ylo! At last!" He thumped his signifer on the back hard enough to make him stagger.
Ylo had never known the prince so excited. "Congratulations, sir. Then that letter to his Majesty . . ."
"What letter?" Shandie was hastily scanning the rest of his wife's news and did not look up.
"Your letter to the imperor threatening ... I mean, asking..."
"Oh that? Burn it, for the Gods' sake! We're going back to Hub, Ylo!" He grinned in triumph.
The news penetrated Ylo's fog-filled brain. Hub! At last! Great!
"My wife!" Shandie sighed. "Did I ever mention that she is the most beautiful girl in the world?"
"I think you did remark on that, sir." A million times. There were a million beautiful girls in Hub. Shandie could certainly have that one, if Ylo could have all the rest.
7
This was going to be a bad one; Gath just knew it. He wasn't sure how he knew it, but he did. Funny thing was, though, that he hadn't been up to anything he shouldn't've.
He couldn't even think of anything in his past that might have caught up with him, except the molasses he and Kadie had spread on the seats in the kitchen staff toilets-but that had been two years back and was long forgotten. He still felt bad about it, though.
The room was dim, full of jumping shadows, lit only by the lantern in Dad's hand and little red worms of glow among the peat. It was cool, too, and smelled of smoke.
Gath went and sat in his mother's chair, while Dad laid the lantern on the high mantel and poked at the fire.
"You sit there," Dad said, waving a hand without looking around.
Gath hated to think of his dad being upset, especially if it was his fault. He knew that other boys' dads beat them, because they'd shown him the welts-Jar and Kliff and Brak. His dad had never struck him once, not ever, but he was the king and he could look very fierce sometimes. It wasn't a beating that was the trouble tonight, just being unhappy. He was sure Dad was unhappy, or would be unhappy soon, although he wasn't sure why.
Over in the corner was the big chest where the crowns were kept. Long ago he'd used to come in here with Kadie and Kadie would pick the lock and they would play at trying the crowns on, but he hadn't done that in a long time. So it wasn't that. Unless Kadie was still doing it. He hoped he wouldn't get asked about that.
He'd done awfully bad in yesterday's spelling test. It might be that.
Or it might be his swollen eye.
Dad flopped down in the other chair. Not fierce, but rather solemn.
"It got punched, sir." Gath didn't have to call Dad "sir." No one had ever told him to, but everyone else did and he rather liked to. Reminded him that his dad was the king. And a wonderful dad, too, of course.
"What happened to ... I can see that. You're going to have a great shiner! "
Gath sniggered. "No, I didn't."
"I can see your knuckles, too, but I don't suppose you punched yourself, did you?"
"It was Brak. "
"Who was it and . . ." The king scratched his hair. It was the only hair in the kingdom untidier than his, Mom always said. "Brak? Redhead jotunn? The blacksmith's son?"
Gath just nodded. He was feeling a little mixed up again. He'd felt mixed up a couple of times this afternoon. Maybe he'd banged his head when Brak knocked him down.
Dad said, "You ought to pick on someone your own size. Not more than twice as big, anyway. Who started it?"
Gath considered the question. Was the one who started it the one who swung the first punch, or the one who called your father a sorcerer?
"Who hit who first?" his father demanded in a royal sort of voice.
"I hit him first. I punched him on the chest. "
"Idiot-stupid place to punch. What had he said?"
Gath didn't want to answer that, but something told him he should. While he was still debating, his father made an impatient noise. "You're not a kid anymore, Gath. This is a man-to-man talk we're having, remember? So, please tell me what he said. "
"He said you were a sorcerer."
"Oh!" the king said, and did not look pleased.
After a moment he said, "Did you ever ask me if I was a sorcerer?"
"Kadie did. When we were little."
"And what did I say?"
"You said that it was a very impertinent question."
"I did?" His father looked happier. "Thank the Gods for that, then. And why should it matter if Brak thinks I'm a sorcerer?"
Gath thought about that. "It doesn't seem to matter much now, Dad, but it did then. It was the way he said it."
His father laughed quietly. "Well, I know you're not the sort who goes around picking fights. Tomorrow ... no, I'm judging the knife-throwing contest in the morning. Before supper tomorrow, we'll go down to the gym and I'll show you a few things."
"What sort of things?" Gath demanded, feeling very excited all of a sudden.
"Did you know I once had a fight with Brak's father?"
"And lived?" Gath said in astonishment. He didn't think Kratharkran the smith had ever actually killed anyone, but he was huge! Maybe Dad really was a sorcerer. Kadie said he was, but Kadie said all kinds of things. Gath thought he might be, but he wouldn't say so, or admit it to Brak and the others.
He was the finest dad in the world, as well as being a king. Gath wouldn't trade him for anyone else's dad.
His dad was grinning, his teeth shiny in the shadow. "Don't recall dying. We squabbled when we were kids, of course, and he always won. But once I beat him fairly in a real stand-up, grown-up, knockdown fight. Once! Now don't go and brag about that to Brak, you hear? Krath would be after me like lightning, and I might not be so lucky next time. But there's a few things I can show you about defending yourself. I know you'll not abuse them. "
He sighed and then added, "Fighting's a pretty stupid pastime, I think. But this is Krasnegar. Now ... that wasn't really why I wanted to talk to you. "
Gath pulled his mind off the prospect of beating Brak. He didn't really want to beat Brak, anyway. But it would be nice to stop him calling Dad a sorcerer.
"I'm very proud of you for what you've been doing, Gath. " Oh, wow! "Doing what, sir?"
"Helping sick people and old people. Why did you decide to do that?"
Gath felt his face going all hot. He'd begun to think he'd been very stupid. The other kids had laughed at him--he'd walked away from several near-fights over that, and after the first few days it had become an awful bore, but of course he hadn't been able to stop then in case the others thought it was because of what they'd been saying. But if it pleased Dad, then he'd keep on, of course. Wonderful!
Now he had to answer the question, and that was tricky. Really he'd thought it would be a good idea to help people because Dad did it sometimes and it was the only thing he could think of that Dad did as a king that he might be able to help with. He'd have to be a king himself someday, probably, so he might as well get started learning, he'd thought. But he didn't want to say so.
"Well, Mom can't just now, with Holi so little."
"Mmph. That's all? Well, never mind. "
The king scratched his head again, as if the conversation was getting difficult. "It could
present a problem, Gath. It's hard to explain. Have you ever heard of-"
"Yes, sir."
"Gath!"
"They're secret words that sorcerers know. And if you can make a sorcerer tell you his words of power, then you become a sorcerer, too. "
"Not bad!" Dad said in an odd voice. "Who told--""Guys," Gath said vaguely. It was one of the things boys talked about, like girls.
He had to wait a bit for the next question, and when his dad spoke it wasn't a question.
"Gath, I'm going to tell you a secret. Quite a lot of secrets. I know you won't tell anyone if I ask you-will you?"
Gath shook his head. He especially wouldn't tell chatterbox Kadie! He didn't understand why his dad seemed so cheerful when he was going to be so unhappy. This wasn't working out right, somehow, although he didn't know how, or why he thought that.
He was starting to feel mixed up again.
"I really am a sorcerer, Gath. When I want to be. Surprised?"
"No, sir. I sort of thought you were. "
His father laughed. "You're a good boy, Gath! All right, it's a long story. My mother was born a very long way from here, in a place called Sys-"
"What sort of seer?" Gath said, excitedly. "Oh, you'd heard that, had you?"
"No, sir."
There was an odd sort of pause, then, until Dad said, "Then why did you ask about your grandmother being a seer?"
"I wanted you to tell me more . . . " Gath had a horrible certainty that he was going to start weeping in a few minutes, which was all wrong for a man of thirteen and a half and would upset Dad, except Dad was really upset about Thrippy, or was going to be upset. Had he said that yet? What was there to cry about anyway? He was ever so mixed up and big guys didn't sob all over their dads' chests ...
"I haven't really told you anything yet, Gath. "
"Sorry, Dad. I'm trying not to. "
"Not to what?"
"Interrupt. Was he a real raider? Did he kill people and burn towns and ... What's the matter, Dad?"
His father was looking awful solemn-the unhappy starting. "I don't know, Gath. You seem to be getting ahead of me." Gath sniffed, feeling a lump starting in his throat. "Ever since this morning, I think."
