by Dave Duncan
“You would like to be there to watch, of course.”
“I would enjoy few things more.”
“And volunteer to help?”
“Why not? You have caused me enough pain in the past.” Now it was Rasha who shrugged, and the gesture seemed to involve her whole body. She turned her gaze of languid contempt on Inos. It felt like impudence from a girl so young.
“I offered my help and you spurned it. Now you have been disinherited. You are a homeless refugee.”
Woe! So it was true. Skarash might have been lying, but a sorceress had no need to lie.
“Your help seemed to involve marrying a goblin,” Inos said, keeping her words slow and level.
The sorceress slid around, so the post was behind her. “If you just keep your eyes closed, honey baby, they’re all much the same. Some are heavier than others, some hairier, some hurt more. That’s all.”
“I can hardly keep my eyes closed all the time.”
“You have never had them open! You are a fool.”
Inos felt no anger, only apprehension. “It would seem that my kingdom was disposed of without my presence being necessary. In that case, your help would have been no help. There never was any way you could put me on my throne—the Protocol forbade it.”
The sorceress’s eyes flashed in fury.
Inos did not wait for a comment. “I appreciate that you had good intentions, your Majesty. Now I humbly ask that you return my aunt and myself to Krasnegar, where you found us.”
Rasha laughed hard scorn, like hail. “I may keep the dog as payment for services rendered, though? How about compensation for the votary I have lost because of your stupidity? No, Inosolan, you forfeited any claim on me when you fled from my city.”
Her city? Azak growled wordlessly.
“You organized that whole affair!” Inos shouted, and at last she began to feel anger. “It was all your idea, and—”
“It was your idea, kitten. I did not put it in your head. And had my sorcery not prevented him, that slab of brawn on the floor there would have had you with child by now.”
Fury! How dare this slut speak such lies? Inos took a very deep breath—
“Be silent, or I shall make you silent. He cannot look at you without half choking on his lust.” Rasha chuckled softly, and shivers ran down Inos’s spine. “No, we shall keep you here. We shall teach the royal parasites how to be useful. Your aunt we shall put in the sculleries, scrubbing floors. And you—you I shall assign to one of the guards. I have one picked out already. He has unusual tastes in recreation.” She was watching Azak as she spoke.
Oh, Gods! She had found another way to torture him, by torturing the woman he loved. Inos felt her hands start to shake and clasped them behind her. She would suffer to make Azak suffer. Every humiliation inflicted upon her would be reported to him so that he would be humiliated also. He might even be forced to watch.
Silence. No one spoke.
Then the sorceress jeered at the man on his knees before her. “And you, Wonderstud? Let me give you some disappointing news.”
Azak’s eyes narrowed, but he still did not speak.
Rasha straightened up and laid hands on hips, thrusting her dainty chin forward in a curiously inappropriate gesture. “It is true that Elkarath’s allegiance has been turned, so Olybino broke my spell. Possibly he does have more power at his disposal than I do, for he has votaries to aid him. But I did not put my full power into the spell—sorcerers almost never do, for this very reason. I still have power in reserve, and he can’t know how much. More important, I am in my stronghold.” She waved both hands high, triumphantly. ”Why do you suppose sorcerers build towers? The whole palace is shielded, and it will take enormous power to defeat me here. If he sends in votaries, I may turn them. If they blast their way in, then the entire complex may be razed by the energies released. Think again, Pretty Man.”
Azak studied her for a moment and then said quietly, “And did the warlock of the east spell me, also?”
Rasha hesitated, and Inos sensed that the tension had somehow changed.
“Not that I can see,” the sorceress remarked cautiously. He sighed deeply. That news would be a great relief to him. “Let me up, please.”
Please?
Rasha’s smoldering eyes widened a fraction. “Rise, then.” Azak rose, rubbing a bruised knee. He drew himself up to his full height and crossed his arms. “On your promise to behave yourself, your Majesty . . . I invite you to my wedding, three days hence.”
Inos gasped. Rasha’s face blazed with fury at such defiance. Before she could speak, Azak repeated softly, “Your Majesty.”
It was the royal title she coveted. For a moment the silence seemed to grow unbearably, then Rasha said warily, “And what of the curse? She will char in your arms.”
“I humbly request that you lift it, as your wedding present to us.”
Humbly? Rasha made an effort to recover her disdain. “Lift it for all women, or just for her?”
There was unholy bargaining going on, and Inos groped to catch all the floating threads of it.
“All would be preferable, of course, but just for Inosolan would be acceptable.”
Inos cried, “Azak!” and stopped, stunned. From him, this was an unbelievable declaration of . . . of love?
And surrender.
He could have offered nothing more, not even the whole of his realm.
Rasha’s eyes glinted in a slow smile that chilled Inos’s blood. “Only three days?”
Azak was as taut as a bowstring, his face unreadable. “Seven days might be more seemly,” he said hoarsely.
She stepped close and looked up at him in challenge. “And until then?”
“As you wish.”
Horrors crawled on Inos’s skin as she watched Rasha’s slow smile of triumph. With delicate fingers, the sorceress unhooked her yashmak and let it fall, then raised her face to be kissed. Her appearance might be soft and youthful, but the open lips were too eager for any pretense of maidenly innocence.
But Azak knew all about that. He took her in his arms and kissed her.
She can inflame any man to madness he had said once. When the long embrace ended, he was breathless, and his alwaysruddy djinn complexion burned red as a furnace. He kept his eyes on the seductress’s, and did not look at Inos.
Then Rasha changed. The young beauty shrank and aged, reverting to the hideously battered, squat old woman whom Inos had glimpsed twice before. The jewels and filmy gauzes became a dirty brown wrap, her hair a gray tangle, the silken skin shriveled and wrinkled.
Having to bend farther this time, Azak kissed her again. Inos looked away, until she discovered she was staring at the contorted bodies of obscene sculptures.
Elkarath had known: “If he would only compromise! Bow the knee just once. Say the words she wants to hear.”
And when the second kiss ended, Azak continued to clasp the sorceress in his arms. He lifted his lips from hers just far enough to speak—softly, but without hesitation. “Inosolan, you have seven days. Go and prepare our wedding.”
“Seek to find the Good,” They had said, “and above all . . . remember love! If you do not trust in love, then all will be lost.” Without a word, Inos turned and fled from the chamber. Rasha had won.
Female of the species:
When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,
He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.
But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant, tooth and nail
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.
— Kipling, The Female of the Species
THIRTEEN
Out of the West
1
“Nice little place they’ve got on the hill there,” Gathmor shouted.
Holding tight to the gunwale, Rap leaned sideways and peered under the sail at the great white and green city—rich and beautiful, seeming strangely cool in the blazing sunlight.
&n
bsp; “Not bad,” he yelled, knowing that the wind might steal away his words before they reached back to the tiller. “Be a brute to heat in winter.”
The headlands slipped away on either hand as the Queen of Krasnegar raced into the harbor. There could be no doubt where this was, for the blot on the chart now lay directly on the name of Arakkaran. If Inos was living in that incredible palace, that shining wonder of domes and towers and spires, then she must be finding it very comfortable. Rap thought briefly of jungle and galley benches, of jotunn raiders and dragons and the nightmare journey now ending, and he felt an absurd twinge of envy.
Idiot! Where did stableboys live like queens? Nowhere. Never. And he had seen her in a tent, anyway.
Now the voyage was over, the time for action was at hand. He turned to Jalon, who was spread limp on the gratings amidships, covered with a length of salt-caked canvas. That was the only place aboard where anyone could even hope to sleep, where the boat’s unending mad leapings would not shake a man’s teeth out and bounce him until he was black and blue all over. A true storm raised a great swell, but the occult local squall that powered the Queen had lacked enough fetch to change the existing waves much, so the sea had remained relatively calm. Shrouded in flying spume, the boat had skipped and bounded over the crests in a strange unholy motion, all the way from Vislawn. “Belay the wind, pilot!” Rap shouted.
Red-eyed and haggard, Jalon fumbled for the pipes. He had worn them on a thong around his neck ever since Gathmor had asked what would happen if they fell overboard.
“I hope I remember the tune!”
“If you don’t, we’re going to wreck a lot of shipping!” Queen and her rigging were seemingly indestructible, but other craft were not. All over the bay, frightened men were hauling in sail as the freak storm roared in from the Spring Sea, turning silver water to lead and blowing a fog of spray. No one would notice one small unfamiliar boat in this sudden turmoil. The minstrel began piping the gentle strains of “Rest, My Beloved,” and the wind faltered, then began to subside. Jalon had played that song only once on the journey, after Rap’s nagging had led him to summon a typhoon so hectic that both crew and cargo had been in danger of being hurled overboard.
Rap ducked under the sail and knelt on the baggage in the bow, being tossed up and down and soaked by spray. He had not been dry in two weeks. He peered anxiously at the huge city ahead. His plans were vague in the extreme—find Inos, yes, but how? The palace alone was bigger than all of Krasnegar, or Durthing. Arakkaran was twice the size of Noom or Finrain, the only real cities he knew. He saw much shipping tied up along the waterfront, but less activity than he would have expected in the streets. The hour was too late for siesta and too early for serious drinking.
And this was not the Impire. The laws and those who made them might frown on visitors with no credentials and no patron. There would be jotnar aplenty in a port of this size, but a faun would be a rarity, and an oversized faun with goblin tattoos round his eyes was a conspicuous freak.
The boat settled lower in the water as the wind continued to drop. For the first time in two weeks the haze lifted, and the Queen sailed in clear sunlight. Rap crawled back below the sail, to find Jalon stripping off his clothes.
“You’ll not be wanting me, Rap?” he asked apologetically. “You can manage the pipes if you need them?”
“Of course.”
“Darad?”
“Yes, I think so. And, Jalon—thanks worlds!” Rap thumped the slim minstrel on the shoulder and won a grin. Once again, as in Dragon Reach, Jalon had revealed surprising tenacity. He could have departed at any time, just by wishing, yet he had stayed to endure two weeks of vicious battering and sleeplessness, cold and wet and salt sores, danger and boredom. He might not be a pureblood jotunn, but even Gathmor now conceded he was made of the right stuff.
“My pleasure!” The minstrel smiled through his stubble, wincing at the salt cracks in his lips. “I’m planning a romantic ballad about you, Rap, for the elves. And a saga for imps. Maybe a battle song for jotnar?”
“I hope not!”
“Don’t be surprised! Go with the Good.” Jalon shook Rap’s hand, and the Queen of Krasnegar wallowed as Darad’s great bulk replaced him. A whiff of spray blew over the naked giant and he roared like a sea lion in springtime. ”Might have dressed me first!” he complained, and spread his wolflike leer.
“Welcome aboard! Your clothes are in there.” Rap pointed at a bundle. He turned to the red-eyed, bristle-faced Gathmor. “See anything odd about this town, Cap’n?”
Gathmor narrowed his eyes and stared. “Like what?”
“Bunting? Streets quiet?”
“Public holiday?” Gathmor said, nodding. “Maybe. Celebration?”
Rap felt a twinge of premonition. He glanced at the bundle of swords.
“What we do now, sir?” Darad was busily hauling on pants vast enough to furnish the sails of a galleon. So far the boat’s cargo had supplied everything her crew had needed, down to the last needle. Obviously Lith’rian must have perfect foresight, and Rap worried constantly over what else the warlock might have foreseen—some event too close to call.
“I think we dock.” Rap pondered. Yes, he was learning to trust these twinges of his, this evidence of his adepthood. “And then . . . then I think you two stay and guard the boat. I’ll go ashore and ask someone what all the flags are for.”
H
2
Inos had been ready for hours, or so it seemed. Her gown was heavy and hot; she had wandered out on the balcony—to be alone, to enjoy the cool breezes, to stare down unseeing at the jeweled city and the blue enamel of the harbor. How brightly colors glowed under a tropic sun! How black the shadows. How very black.
Yet today the hard edges were softened by a curious and inexplicable mist, through which she saw another city—a smaller, drabber, shabby town under a grayer sky, by a harbor that most of the year was a white plain. She still had not quite adjusted to the certainty that she would never return there, although that possibility had been obvious ever since the sorceress stole her away. The good folk of Krasnegar might never know what had happened to their princess. And she might never learn what had happened to them.
May they find happiness. May I.
A swirl of dust in her face brought her back to harsh reality. Palm fronds thrashed and danced; something tugged at her veils. As if to match her mood, a sudden squall had blown in from the Spring Sea, turning the lucent bay an umbral shade and shooing all the little boats before it like frightened ducklings. Inos circled carefully and swept back into the room.
It must be almost time for her to go down. The Gut would be here any minute, Prince Gutturaz who was to escort the bride. He was Azak’s oldest surviving brother, and a portly man.
Organizing a wedding in Zark had turned out to be quite easy. Inos had merely told Kar what she wanted, and Kar had done as he pleased. Then Azak had ordered it all changed. Finally Rasha had rearranged the whole plan. Not difficult at all.
Almost the only decisions Inos had been allowed to make for herself had concerned her gown, and those choices had been held to within extremely narrow limits, decreed by tradition. Now she was swathed in enough lace to drape every window in Krasnegar, enough pearls to ransom a warlock. Pearls were a Zarkian symbol of virginity. She wondered if the oysters believed that.
She paused to scowl at herself in one of the innumerable mirrors that had infested her apartment, crowding it like a bazaar—hanging mirrors, freestanding mirrors, square, round, and oval mirrors. There she was, scowling everywhere, the human iceberg. At the moment she still had her veils raised, but when they were down she could not be distinguished from an iceberg, not even by experts. The room was packed with icebergs. She could have left her hair in curlers and painted her face blue and no one would ever notice under all this.
“Ah, there you are, my dear,” said a familiar voice. “You look charming.”
Inos preferred not to turn around in case she tangled he
r train, so she located a Kade reflection and spoke to that.
“I do not look charming! I do not look at all! If we left this gown on the dressmaker’s dummy, and wheeled that into the hall instead of me, then I think the iman could marry it to Azak without anyone noticing.”
Kade fluttered, and for a moment Inos thought she was going to suggest that they do just that, but Kade would never be so unkind. Instead she said, ”Well, every land has its own ways, dear. And weddings are always very traditional.” With a satisfied nod at this insight, she turned away to consult a mirror, smiling politely to her reflection as if thinking it needed reassurance also.
Kade was almost invisible herself, bundled in rolls of a heavy gold cloth that did not suit her complexion; it must also be even hotter and heavier than Inos’s wedding gown. Only the lower part of her face would be veiled for the ceremony, as mature male Arakkaranians could apparently be trusted not to riot at the sight of Kade’s eyes.
She thought Inos was making a terrible mistake. She had said so when Inos had told her the news, a week ago.
Hot words then; cold words ever since.
Even now, Kade was visibly fretting, unhappy about the match, unwilling to upset Inos on her wedding day, aware that it was too late to stop the avalanche anyway—every word of that was written in her eyes and the set of her mouth.
Inos contrived to turn around without knotting herself. “Do you remember Agimoonoo?”
Kade blinked and then said, “Yes?” uncertainly.
“It was just after I arrived at Kinvale. She announced her engagement to that fat customs official. Remember?”
“Yes. I remember.”
“I said some nasty things, as I recall. That he was odious and sneaky. That she didn’t love him. That she was only marrying him for his money and because her mother was insisting.” Inos smiled. “That was before you taught me to be more discreet, Aunt. But at least I just said them to you, not to anyone else.”
Kade bit her lip. “What about her?”
