by Dave Duncan
Rasha whirled around toward Rap and held out her arms. “Take it back!” she yelled. She staggered forward, and he lurched away in horror. Smoke poured from her wrists, lighted by the red glow of her hands. She tried to speak again and the words were lost in an animal howl as her sleeves exploded into flame, followed at once by her headdress.
The sorceress blazed then, a human bonfire illuminating the hall and the royal party on the dais and the terrified faces of the close-bunched guards, whose eyes reflected her brilliance like the eyes of a wolf pack peering from a forest. Sparks and smoke roared up to the arches of the roof. Inos saw the glare through her eyelids; she gagged at the vile stench of burning hair and cloth.
The fire dwindled, the light faded into darkness, but the screaming continued, and Inos opened her eyes again to see. Rasha was still there. Her clothes and hair had burned away, but she herself seemed to be fighting back, hanging on to her mortal existence by some supreme act of will or sorcery. There was no fakery or pretense now, no tall queenly stature or maidenly beauty, only a grotesque roly-poly figure of hairless flabby skin, staggering around and keening with a shrill thin note that froze the ears. And the whole of that hideous figure shone like a lantern with an internal pink light, brightening the gloom of the hall.
Inos wanted to run to Rap, and could not bring herself to release Kade. The two of them hugged and shivered together. The guards were backing away down the aisle.
Again Rasha tried to appeal to Rap, holding out her arms in supplication. Again he refused her. She tried to speak, and every word burst from her mouth as a spout of white fire. She wheeled around in search of someone else to aid her, and her eyes lit on Azak.
Except that she had no eyes now. Where they should have been were two dark shadows in the blaze that was the front of her head. The shape of her skull was visible, shining through her flesh, and when she spread her arms toward Azak, the bones were visible also, burning white-hot inside her.
She tottered forward, one unsteady step at a time, all the way to the dais. Azak advanced to meet her, holding out a chair as if she were a dangerous animal he must keep at bay. He halted at the top of the steps, barring her advance.
Again she tried to speak, whimpers mingled with vomits of flame like a smith’s furnace. Inos could feel the heat; she thought she made out a few words—”Help,” maybe, and “Sorcerer,” and perhaps even ”Lover,” but that could have been imagination. The inside of Rasha’s mouth was hotter than a potter’s kiln.
She put a foot on the first step, and managed that, then swayed as she tried for the next. Azak was standing his ground against the heat, all his jeweled finery sparkling like a dew of blood, his face contorted in revulsion, but the chair he held extended before him was starting to smoke as Rasha neared it.
“No!” he shouted. “Go away! Monster!”
The Rasha thing raised its face to the sky and uttered one last, loud, ear-splitting howl of despair, and the word was clear: “Love!” It came out as a long jet of white fire squirting upward, and that cry of resignation seemed to burst the mortal bubble. The strangely resistant flesh exploded into flames, and for the second time the sorceress blazed as a bonfire—hotter and brighter than before, as her very substance burned away in a roar of sparks and fire. Azak dropped his shield, covered his face, and backed away.
For a moment the skeleton alone remained, standing on the first step, miraculously balanced, and every bone shone hot as the sun. Then it collapsed, even as it also was consumed in an upward rush of flame and ash.
The hall was plunged into silence and darkness. Inos could see nothing except a greenish afterimage of a skeleton and the stone glowing briefly red where its feet had rested, two faint footprints fading fast. The marble cracked like thunder.
“Bring those lights!” Azak roared, and the family men sprang to life. Two of the torchbearers hurried forward to brighten the scene.
Eyes recovered slowly, but soon Inos could make out the night sky framed in the high arches, their stone traceries speckled with stars, the faint curve of vaulting. Within the dancing yellow glow on the floor, nothing remained of Sultana Rasha but a stain of lime on scorched marble and a cracked step. And a nasty, burned smell.
“She’s dead,” Rap said in a thin voice. “Quite dead. I felt her die. I felt my power come back!” He walked forward and peered at the step.
“Free!” Azak threw back his head and bellowed the word so the echoes boomed. He brandished fists in the air. “Free of the harlot! Free to be sultan at last!”
“I thought she was to be your aide-de-camp?” Kar muttered the question so softly that Azak likely did not hear him.
But Inos did, and it confirmed what she had suspected. Rasha would have been in charge of occult defense in the coming war. Azak had bought two sultanas. Gone, now, all gone . . .
Azak gestured, and the family men hastily advanced, then spread out in a cordon in front of the chairs. He pointed at Rap. “Bowmen! If that man speaks one word without my permission—shoot to kill.”
With six arrows aimed on him at point-blank range, Rap shut his mouth and kept it shut. He tucked his thumbs in his belt and rolled his eyes ironically at Inos. He looked much happier than he had a few moments ago. But of course—Rasha was dead and Elkarath had not returned, so far as Inos knew. Whether he was a mage or only an adept as he claimed, Rap was senior sorcerer in Arakkaran. Her brain struggled to accept that idea. Rap?
“I have a couple of questions, prisoner!” Azak barked. “Azak!” Inos pulled away from Kade and hurried across the dais, her train rustling heavily after her.
Azak turned to face her, glaring. He put hands on hips. “You dare to plead for this felon?”
“I certainly do!” Inos snapped. “He is no felon. He rid you of the sorceress, didn’t he?”
“No. She rid me of herself.”
“Then you need a replacement advisor in occult matters. I will vouch for Master Rap’s loyalty. He is honest and trustworthy.”
“Loyal to whom? No, I shall have no hateful sorcery within my kingdom. He dies!”
Rap had killed guards, invaded the palace, disrupted the royal wedding, stolen Evil, made Azak look foolish. Any one of those would be a capital offense in Arakkaran.
“Azak!” She fell to her knees.
His face darkened in fury. “What is this man to you, Sultana?”
“Nothing! Merely a childhood friend and a loyal retainer of my late father’s. May not I ask this small favor as a gift from you upon this, our wedding—”
“Silence! Do not begin your married life by incurring my displeasure, wife. In Zark it is unseemly for a married woman even to know another man by name, let alone take his part against her husband’s wishes. Princess Kadolan, conduct your niece to the royal bedchamber.”
Inos choked, speechless. She . . . she could not even find thoughts adequate, let alone words. The man she needed was the Azak of the desert, the lionslayer, but she did not know how to summon him in the place of this city tyrant.
“Majesty?” Kar strolled forward, his usual small smile just visible in the dancing flicker of the torches.
Azak grunted.
“Your Majesty, if this man truly was sent as a messenger by Warlock Lith’rian, then putting him to death might possibly be unwise. His arrival has rid you of the sorceress who was both a burden to you and who seemed destined to become an Olybino votary. His Omnipotence of the South may have foreseen these events.”
Azak grunted again.
“At least take counsel on the matter, Sire. Be not hasty.”
“Keep a mage prisoner?”
“No, impossible. But if he is a mage you cannot put him to death, either. The attempt might incur his enmity.” Kar chuckled softly. “He claims to be only an adept. It should be possible to detain an adept, and I think these honest fellows here may be willing to attempt so dangerous and difficult a task as a token of their desire to be reinstated in your favor. A small recompense for their poor showing this afternoo
n?”
That was quite a speech, Inos thought gratefully.
Azak seemed to agree. “Very well. Captain, you will see that this prisoner is kept in close confinement, guarded at all times. He must not be allowed to speak, or he will subvert you, and you will use the thickest chains you—”
Rap moved like a streak. He spun on his heel, took two steps, and jumped. The archers were hopelessly late, and only one even released his shaft. It flashed across the semicircle and buried itself in a torchbearer, who toppled backward without a sound.
At first, few of the guards seemed to understand where their prisoner had gone. Then they heard the clatter of boots on marble behind them as Rap landed, already running, barely visible in the dark. He hurtled toward the door, a faint blur of motion like a cheetah.
But there were guards on the door, also, and he skidded to a halt before their line of swords. Inos heard him start to say something, and the swords seemed to waver. Then the rest of the family men arrived in a charge and engulfed him in a heaving mass of bodies. Even then, for a moment it seemed like a fair fight. Men screamed, others hurtled through the air. But the odds were too great. The struggle ended. The hitting and kicking did not.
Inos clapped her hands to her ears and screamed, “Stop them!” at Azak.
Azak merely shrugged, but the guards may have heard her, for they stopped. They brought Rap back facedown between eight men, two to a limb, and with a cap stuffed in his mouth so he could not speak; but he was probably unconscious anyway. His head dangled limply, dribbling blood on the floor, black in the wavering torchlight.
“Satisfactory!” Azak boomed. “Take whatever steps you deem necessary, Captain!”
Inos felt her heart twist. She did not know how to deal with this Sultan—Azak. Anything except abject humility infuriated him. If she could only call forth the solitary Azak of the desert, the one who had laughed and cracked jokes . . . him she might move, when they were alone together. So if she could keep Rap alive for a few days, perhaps she could do something.
“My lord! They will kill him!”
“Not quite!”
She was still on her knees; she raised clasped hands in supplication. ”No bloodshed! At least promise me that!”
Azak scowled furiously. “Very well! Captain, you will shed no more blood!” He glanced over the whole troop, and his voice rose to include every man. “But none of you can imagine anything worse than what will happen if he escapes. Nothing at all! Do I make myself clear?”
The captain saluted, his face grim and hateful. He must be thinking of the sons by whom he was sworn, and what Azak was capable of doing to them. They all must.
“Princess Kadolan!” said Azak.
Kade stumbled forward, eyes wide and staring above her yashmak.
“We gathered here to seal a marriage. Escort the sultana to the royal quarters.” He glanced down coldly at Inos. “Your women will be waiting to prepare you. You may expect me shortly.”
2
Clunk!
Huh? The jotunn opened his eyes and shivered.
He was lying in the bottom of a boat, under a hard, damp cover, and a sky sickly pale with dawn. Stiff? Gods! He hadn’t felt like this since the time he’d been sixteen and lipped Rathkrun and Rathkrun had told him he was ready for his first real lesson and given it to him, all over, inch by inch.
Rathkrun was dead. And the old man. And Wanmie and the kids.
Shiver. Clunk! Plip!
Something bounced off the boat’s side and hit the water. Gathmor heaved himself up with a groan. He hadn’t meant to go to sleep. Tyro trick! Fall asleep on watch? He deserved to have all his teeth kicked out. Other craft rocked gently all around, misty in the uncertain light. Shiny water, mist, sky bright . . . A faint hail: “Krasnegar!”
That was the password. He peered shoreward, but the sea ended just before it got there. The boat must be visible, though—against the light?
Gathmor groaned again. Gods! Black and blue from two weeks of battering in this Evil-take-it elven magic tub. “Durthing!” he yelled, the countersign.
Feeling as if his joints had all frozen and that when he forced his aching, quivering limbs to bend he must be cracking ice, he reached for an oar, made it ready, rose. Queen rocked in protest, then lurched forward as he hauled on the cable. Up came the little anchor, dripping silver and breaking the stillness with an absurdly loud clatter when he threw it down. None of the other craft was showing signs of life yet. A dog howled somewhere northward, in the city.
One-oared he paddled the boat shoreward. Without her magic, she was a wallowing cow, a hulk, but a few strokes were enough to bring him within sight of the man waiting on the beach. Gray-on-gray, the shape wasn’t big enough to be Darad. It was that sleazy, glib-spoken imp, Andor. Well, Darad had warned him that any of them was possible. Couldn’t promise they’d call him back, he’d said. Crazy, Evil-begotten magic! Andor was too slippery.
Come to think of it, it had been that Andor who’d talked him into buying the faun in the first place. All his fault! Be a real pleasure to pound him a little, make something more manlike out of that pretty face. Due for a little exercise, and the imp would be a good warmup. Except he’d just call Darad—no satisfaction there.
Queen grounded with a scraping sound. Andor splashed out to her and tossed in a pair of boots and a string bag; then he pushed and simultaneously clambered over the side, all with an agility that produced grudging surprise in Gathmor. His mouth was watering at the sight of the bag.
“Hot loaves, Cap’n! Fresh from the oven. Not quite done yet, but they’ll do. Too early for much else.” Andor settled on a thwart and peered around for something to dry his feet with.
Gathmor wondered where the boots had come from—they weren’t Darad’s. He leaned on the oar, poling the boat until he was out of his depth. Then let her drift while he sat down and reached for the savory bag. “What news?”
Andor shook his head somberly. “It’s all bad.”
“Tell me anyway. I’m a big boy now.”
“The faun went berserk. Whole city’s twisted in knots.”
“What sort of berserk?” Gathmor mumbled, tearing off hunks of warm dough.
“Apparently he broke into the palace, stole one of the royal horses, rode from one end of the grounds to the other, and then busted into the actual wedding with the entire guard in pursuit.”
The sailor grunted admiringly. Great kid, the faun. Half jotunn, of course.
“Crazy!” Andor removed his cloak and distastefully wiped his feet on the lining.
“Did he stop the wedding?”
“No. But he blasted the sorceress somehow. Burned her up like a ball of tallow.”
“How?”
“I’ve got no idea, and no one I talked with has, either.”
“How’d you find all this out?”
“Just asked!” Andor flashed perfect white teeth in a perfect brown face. Gathmor grinned back—silly question! Who could resist that smile?
For a moment the imp chewed at a loaf. The sky was flaming in red and gold, and the mist lifting from the sea in patches. Other craft were coming into sight. Voices and bumping sounds drifted over from them, and a baby began to cry in one of the closer. Then Andor was ready to speak again.
“My associates helped. Thinal got us over the wall. I talked with a few of the witnesses. ‘Most everyone was too shaky or drunk to question much, and Darad dealt with those that weren’t. Wasn’t dangerous with the sorceress gone.”
“So the lady’s happily married and the faun had his journey for nothing? ”
“Married,” Andor said. “Not happily, I suspect. Thinal broke into the royal apartments—”
“No!”
“Near as no matter! He goes loony if there’s jewels around, and that palace has sacks of them, enough to call him like a blowfly to a dead horse.” Andor casually reached in a pocket and pulled out a glittering handful that had to be more wealth than Gathmor had ever seen in his life.
<
br /> “Here, you can have ‘em. These were just his warmup, sneaked on the hoof. He located the sultan’s window, and he was almost down to the balcony when out came the sultan himself.” Andor was grinning again. “At least he was very big, and loaded with gems; don’t know who else it could have been, not there. And he started pacing. He marched up and down for an hour, with Thinal hanging on a vine right over his head.” The imp laughed. “The little scrounger hasn’t been so scared in fifty years! He wet his pants three times and was waiting for the djinn to notice the smell.”
Gathmor guffawed, then frowned. “What’s a man doing walking around on his wedding night?”
“Not what’s he supposed to be doing on his wedding night, there’s a sure bet! And even more interesting was the sound from inside.”
“What sound?”
“Weeping.” Gathmor grunted again. You’d never catch a jotunn letting his bride weep at a time like that. Keep ‘em busy, that was the secret.
“So where’s the faun?”
“In jail. Still alive, though. Surprisingly.”
“How’d you know that?”
Andor wrinkled his nose and chewed for a minute, as if reluctant to continue. The vapors had all dissolved away. The sun burned as a golden blaze on the sea between the headlands, making the great palace shine as if lighted from the inside, bright against a distant backdrop of flushed mountains and a still-dark sky.
“The dogs,” Andor said. “The horses. Remember he told us about the beatings he got in Noom? Said he could suppress the pain?”
“As long as he could stay awake.”
“Right. Well, all night the dogs and horses have been raising the Evil, all over the palace. Not all the time, but in spurts. You don’t want this last one, do you?”
“No, you have it.” Gathmor was still hungry and had been eyeing that last roll. He wondered why he should suddenly have an attack of politeness now, at his age.
“Grooms and dogboys are going crazy,” Andor said. “Everyone is. They’re blaming it on the sorceress, or demons she summoned, or came to mourn her. . . I think it’s Rap’s doing.”
