by Dave Duncan
H
5
The visitors stood while Athal’rian departed with her brood, sent away by an angry-looking Ishist. The table vanished abruptly, and so did all the chairs except the sorcerer’s.
Obviously the time had come to talk business. Rap walked forward, aware that his two companions were following closely and leaving everything to him. He was an adept, and they were relying on him to save them. But he was also the cause of their danger, for he had used power against a dragon. He had violated the Protocol that had ruled Pandemia for three thousand years.
He stopped before the foul little sorcerer, who was lounging back in his high chair and picking his teeth with a slender bone. The seat was so much too big for him that his muck-laden bare feet stuck straight out. His bulging black eyes were unreadable.
Gruffly the gnome said, “Thank you, Master Rap. I’m grateful.”
That made no sense at all! Rap had done nothing to earn the sorcerer’s gratitude—it must be a trick. Yet why should a sorcerer need to use tricks?
“For what, my lord?” Then Rap remembered that he was not supposed to give the gnome titles. But apparently it did not matter, for Ishist just shrugged inscrutably and switched his gaze to the two sullen jotnar.
Rap knew how hard this must be for them. They had grown up around gnomes. All the towns and cities in the Impire had gnomes to keep down the vermin and deal with the garbage, and all large ships carried one or two, but there had been none in Krasnegar. He had not met gnomes until he was an adult, and then he had merely filed them away in his mind as another race of people new to him, like fairies or trolls. Gathmor and Darad, humbly waiting to hear their fate from this squat and squalid old ragamuffin, must be feeling as if a mongrel dog had suddenly ascended the Opal Throne and started barking orders.
Come to think of it, Ishist did rather resemble a pug dog, with his pop eyes and upturned nose, with the bloodstained cake of hair around his mouth and all those teeth he was picking.
With a shiver of fear, Rap realized that the sorcerer might still be reading his thoughts.
The ugly old man flipped his toothpick away and scratched reflectively at the hairy bulge protruding above his belt. “Sailor, you are an innocent mundane caught up in occult matters that do not concern you. You are free to go.”
Gathmor scowled, shot a glance at Rap, and said, “I’ll wait for my shipmate.”
“As you wish.”
“No!” Rap said. “For the Gods’ sake, Cap’n—”
“I’m staying.” Gathmor folded his arms and set his jotunn jaw, looking every bit as stubborn as man could be. He stepped back a pace and scowled. Rap saw that argument would be useless, and was again miserably aware that he had led the man into this danger.
The gnome’s jet eyes had moved to Darad. “We’ll handle the gold problem next. Call Thinal.”
Darad grunted in shock and looked reproachfully at Rap.
“He didn’t tell me,” Ishist said. “If I have to force the change, I may hurt you.”
The threat worked. Darad’s gown crumpled toward the floor, uncovering Thinal within it. He bent his arms to stop it falling off him completely. Then he just stood there, staring at the gnome in terror. He was bare from the elbows up, hugging himself, and gradually turning pale all over. As usual, he was unshaven and ratty-haired. His teeth chattered with a curiously metallic clink.
Somewhere a dragon roared, and then another.
Thinal choked, worked one hand free of the overlong sleeve, and spat something into it.
“Pass it over.”
Another roar, closer. The little thief shuffled forward with the folds of his robe tangling around his feet. He thrust the gold into the sorcerer’s hand, then backed away quickly. Ishist flipped the coin; it rose in a gilded flicker and never came down. The dragon roars died away.
The sorcerer glared very sourly at Thinal for a minute or two. “You have unpleasant ideas about gnomes, guttersnipe. I’m tempted to . . . but then I don’t like scroungers skulking around my castle, so it’s mutual. Call Andor.”
Thinal had just time for a quick nod before he vanished, not having spoken a word. From his point of view he had made a fast escape, which was all he would care about.
Andor raised the gown and adjusted it properly on his shoulders, somehow transforming plain homespun into elegant mens wear in the process. He was clean, freshly shaved, washed, combed. He bowed.
“The honor of meeting the famous dragonward—”
“Quiet!” The gnome wrinkled his pug nose, causing the entrenched dirt around it to writhe and flake. He glanced at Rap.
“They get worse all the time. Do you want them around, or shall I not bother?”
Rap was befuddled again. “My lord?”
Ishist shrugged and told Andor, “Call Sagorn, then.”
Andor stiffened. “Your Omn—”
“One more word of flattery and I turn you into a troll.”
“But the old man is—”
“I know. Call him.”
Andor’s mouth opened, then he nodded in understanding. He vanished.
Sagorn’s face was the color of wood ash, a shade only a jotunn could ever be, and then only when close to death. He swayed as if about to fall. Before Rap could move to catch him, the sorcerer did so, with magic. The old man steadied. Color flowed back into his cheeks, his eyes flipped open. In a moment he took a deep breath and straightened. His face took on a healthy glow and even seemed to swell, becoming less gaunt and haggard than before. Suddenly Sagorn looked about ten years younger, and fitter than Rap had ever seen him.
He stared at the gnome for a long moment, as if waiting for the transformation to reach completion, or perhaps to see if there was more to come. Then he bowed.
“I am truly grateful, Sorcerer. It feels as if you found every ache and hangnail.” His voice sounded stronger, too.
Ishist scratched at his beard, digging stuff out of it. “I found a few problems you didn’t even know about. Tumors, for example.”
Sagorn bowed again, and there was an ironic amusement twinkling in his pale-blue eyes. “I thought the prophecy of the dragon signified my death, but it seems to have brought me a new lease on life. I admit I have been prejudiced against gnomes, Dragonward, but I shall regard them differently after this.”
The gnome grunted skeptically. He turned his gaze on Rap. “Sorcerer,” Sagorn said hastily. “There is another—”
“No.” Ishist scowled horribly at him. “First of all, I just tried, and I made no impact at all. Your Orarinsagu must have been enormously powerful—it’s much too strong for me. You’ll need a warlock or a witch, likely. And second, that would make five of you around underfoot, and your word of power would be shared six ways. So, no.” He switched his attention back to Rap again.
“You have demonstrated power within South’s sector, boy. By ancient custom, your words belong to him.” He waved a black thumb at Sagorn. ”His, also, of course.”
“I used mine first in the north,” Rap said cautiously.
Ishist nodded. “Yes, and in West’s sector later. It’s very odd that neither of them imprinted you with a loyalty spell. If they did, I can’t find it. But you’re an odd case all round, lad. Neither of them could foresee you, could they?”
“I don’t think Zinixo tried, but Bright Water said she couldn’t, my lord.”
“Ishist,” Ishist said softly, showing his myriad teeth in a smile.
“Ishist.”
“That’s better! You’re an adept, and we sorcerers must stick together! But if Bright Water tried and failed, then I certainly won’t succeed. You’re the first person I ever met that I can’t foresee, though. All I get is a sort of white blur. It hurts! Did she explain?”
“No.”
“I wish I had a preflecting pool handy . . .” The gnome sighed and leaned back to stare up at the ruins of what had once been a magnificent roof. For a moment nothing moved except wraiths of dust, swirled across the floor by eddies of
wind. A dragon rumbled in the distance.
Ishist straightened, as if reaching a decision. “Take a seat.”
One of the vanished dining chairs magically reappeared at Rap’s back. He sat down obediently, aware the Sagorn and Gathmor had been left standing, wondering why the old gnome was favoring him so much over them.
“I’m imprinted, Rap,” Ishist said. “You understand that? A votary. Most sorcerers get trapped by their warden sooner or later—it’s why so many of them try to become wardens themselves, instead. Whenever a warlock detects magic at work in his sector, he’ll try to track it down and lock it up with a loyalty spell. He may not do anything more about it than that . . . depends how many words and votaries he has already and what his needs are. I’m dragonward for Warlock Lith’rian, and very happy in my work. Perhaps he spelled me to enjoy it. I don’t know, but it feels like worthwhile employment, and the quarters are ideal for gnomes.” He leered.
Rap smiled, also, thinking of the ancient heroes who had built this enormous redoubt and how appalled they would be to see it now.
The bottomless black eyes fixed on him. “And I’m happily married.”
Was that happiness also a spell? “I can see that, Ishist.” Rap spoke as matter-of-factly as he could manage. “And Athal’rian seems to be very happy, also. I’m sure you love each other and you’re proud of your family. They wouldn’t be my choice of children, and I would not be happy living here, but my tastes are different—not better, just different . . . That’s the best I can do,” he added uneasily. Who was he to pass such judgment?
The gnome chuckled, glancing briefly at Sagorn and Gathmor. “It’s a lot better than most can. Yes, she’s happy. Misses her family sometimes. Her father hadn’t been around for five years or more, but he turned up a few months ago, in a hurry, one evening. Needed a fire chick. None of my business why—he’s the boss. He brought it back the next day. That’s the only baby dragon that’s left here in years. It was Lily you met.”
He waited, giving Rap time to think. The fire chick could hardly have been a gift or a bribe if it had been returned the next day.
So despite what Bright Water had told Zinixo, she must be in league with Lith’rian.
“What exactly does a fire chick do to magic?”
Ishist smiled nastily. “All magic gets unpredictable around all dragons, young or old. You’re only an adept, so Primrose ought to have charred you to ash yesterday, yet you almost drove her out of her wits. Poor thing was gibbering when she got back here! On the other hand, the occult fence across the Neck has been there for thousands of years, and all the greatest sorcerers in history have worked on it, yet the worms just seem to eat it. They throw off their bindings sometimes and fly over water. I don’t know why Bright Water wanted a fire chick, or why Lith’rian loaned her one—but I expect they had their reasons.” His button eyes twinkled.
Bright Water had been around for centuries, and must know all the tricks there were to be known. Zinixo, of course, was new to the warlocking business and . . . Rap saw that his reverie was causing the gnome to smirk approvingly. They were on the same track.
“Why can’t you foresee me?”
“That I don’t know either.” For the first time the gnome seemed to hesitate. He turned to look at the jotnar, and they both spun around without a word and walked away. When they reached the nearest window, they stood and stared out at the unworldly scenery, sage and sailor chatting cozily side by side, while the wind ruffled their hair and tumbled the flow of their gowns. Ishist’s somber eyes came back to Rap.
“Tell me about this God who appeared to Inosolan.”
Rap frowned. He had almost forgotten that. He could remember sitting on the floor with Inos, holding her hand, in among the old gang and all the dogs, and listening to Jalon singing. In retrospect, that had been the last evening of his childhood.
But that moment had come later, after she’d told him about the meeting with the God. “I just know what Inos said. They didn’t say which God They were. They told her to try harder. I think that’s all.”
The gnome shook his head. “There’s more. Try harder!” His eyes seemed to grow even larger, and blacker, and deeper, and shinier.
“They said the king would give her many gowns. She was excited about that, but upset because—”
“They said more.”
Rap leaned back in his chair and stared up at the w rafters and fretted roof. ”That she must . . . trust . . . remember . . . remember love! Trust in love!”
He started, as if he had been dozing and had heard a loud noise. “What did I just say?”
“Nothing much.” Ishist showed his pike teeth. “But be sure to mention the God to my master when you meet him. He may know already, of course. ”
“How?”
The gnome sat up straight and scratched vigorously. “Even warlocks are very careful around the Gods, friend Rap. Gods rarely manifest so close an interest in human affairs, but when They do, then sorcery is nothing! The power of the Gods is unlimited. That could be why you . . . but I’m just guessing. I have to send you to my master, you understand? I have no choice in the matter. ”
“I understand.” Oothiana had said much the same.
Ishist eased forward on the seat so his legs dangled over the edge. “But I do have discretion in how I do it. I’m his agent, not just a trained dog. If I had a magic portal, or even a magic carpet, then I could transport you at once to Hub, or to his home on Valdorian—he spends more time in Ilrane than he does in the Blue Palace. But sorcerous paraphernalia like that is tricky stuff around dragons. They might wreck the rest of the redoubt trying to get at it. So we haven’t got any.” He blinked solemnly. “Then how . . .” But that was none of Rap’s business.
Apparently it was, though. “How does he come visiting? Just by sorcery. A magic device like that casement of Inisso’s . . . such things are handy, but they can never be stronger than the sorcerer who made them. They’re quicker, often, and easier. And another of their advantages is that normally they don’t make so many ripples. Sheer brute power is as subtle as a thunderstorm. It attracts attention, and all sorcerers are cagey, secretive people. When Lith’rian came here twice in two days, he rattled the ambience something awful. Took me weeks to get the livestock calmed down.”
Rap began to feel more hopeful. Perhaps he was not going to be enslaved right away.
Ishist regarded him with quiet amusement. “And he’s a lot better than me. I might .magic you partway to Hub, at least, but I might well start a stampede in the process, and that could lead to a major disaster, if they got over the fence. So you’re going to have to walk. Your two friends will go with you, of course.”. He glanced at the two jotnar by the window, lost in admiration of the bleakly alien scenery. Rap’s future was concealed from the sorcerer, but he had not said that theirs was. Rap decided not to ask.
“Now,” Ishist said softly, “I must decide how to send you. I could use a compulsion, like the one I used to bring you here. Less urgent, of course, but I can give you an irresistible command to go to Lith’rian.” He smiled gruesomely. “Or I could put the loyalty spell on you myself; not as strong as he could, but strong enough. I can make you want to go to Lith’rian, to serve him.”
Cold fingers of horror touched Rap’s heart, and he shook his head vigorously.
“You would be happier,” the gnome said mockingly. “You’d be doing what you wanted to do.”
Just like the once-lovely Athal’rian, besotted with a gnome? Such power was obscene, perverting its user as much as his victim. Yesterday Rap had become an adept and in minutes had found himself using mastery on Andor.
“I . . . I should prefer just to obey an order, my lord.”
He knew that the sorcerer knew what he was thinking, but the little man did not seem to take offense. He cocked his head at Rap. “You want to help Inosolan, don’t you? That’s your aim: to put her on her throne?”
“To serve her as a loyal subject. That’s all.” Rap�
��s farsight told him he was blushing like a child.
Ishist chuckled gently. “Mmm? All? You can’t do it alone, you know. Fauns like to go their own way, but even an adept can’t find one mackerel in all the oceans, Rap.”
Zark . . . but he did not know that Inos was still in Zark, even. She might have heeded his warning and fled. Or not. Or one of the wardens might have abducted her, or the sorceress recovered her. He had a terrifying vision of all Pandemia stretched out endlessly before him, and himself spending his whole life wandering from place to place, searching for Inos.
Put like that, his dream seemed bootless. “I suppose not.”
“You can’t fight the Four! No one and nothing can fight the Four. Except the Gods.”
“No,.” Rap said. He was a fool.
“So my advice would be to go and ask Lith’rian to help you.” For a moment Rap was speechless. Ask help from a warlock? Common sense had hysterics at the idea. Yet he also felt an odd shivery prickle of excitement. Was that some sort of occult ability of his own, or was the sorcerer playing tricks on him? Or imagination? Baffled, Rap said, “Would he?”
Ishist shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. It would be dangerous for you, of course. The sorcerous normally stay well away from warlocks, and you’re an adept. He may just give your words to someone else and kill you out of hand. I don’t know where Krasnegar fits in his current political strategy, but elves . . . They’re funny folk. They put style before substance. They admire qualities—beauty, wit, grace, elegance. Lith’rian might just be amused enough by your presumption. That would be like him. He can be generous beyond all reason, and he’s ruthless when he’s balked.”
The shadow of Athal’rian fell across the conversation. Ishist frowned, then continued. “But he enjoys a good joke. He admires courage, too. I’d say he’s about your only hope, being realistic.”
