by Dave Duncan
“It’s done!” Frial wiped her eyes and tried to stand up. Her brother held her down.
“Wait, love,” he said. “You’re shaky still. It isn’t your Watch. Thaïle will do fine, I’m sure. We don’t need to worry about Thaïle.”
Fancy Vool talking like that! She felt guilty at having thought poorly of him for so long. He did care.
“Yes,” she agreed, striving to relax. Old Grammy had passed on her word of power and gone to the last weighing, and the Gods would find much good in that kindly old soul, and very little evil. Her balance would join the Good, and… and… and Frial was weeping, which was silly and not like her. She ought to be concerned for her daughter, who had just had a shattering experience. But Vool was right; Thaïle was fourteen now, and a young woman, really, not a child anymore.
It would be all right. There was nothing to worry about. No one in their family had shown any real Faculty for generations, she reminded herself sternly. Of course she did have Feeling, and Gaib had a wonderful gift for green things. But those were details, just talents. Everyone had some sort of talent, even if it was only for worrying. Nothing directly to do with Faculty.
They would have to wash the body now, and gather all the relatives for the wake, and…
Terror! Now what? Something new… Awful.
“Mother! Mother!”
Thaïle raced out of the cottage and came hurtling across the glade, long arms flailing for balance, close-cropped hair awry. Even at that distance, Frial could see the pallor on her face. She cried out and tore loose from her brother. She sprang up and ran to meet her daughter.
They collided into an embrace hard enough to knock the breath out of both of them. The child was sobbing, almost screaming. Hysterical. Terror and agony…
“Thaïle! Thaïle! What’s wrong?”
The thin body was shuddering with pain. Stricken young eyes huge with terror… “Can’t you Feel it?”
“Feel what?” Frial shouted. All she could Feel was her daughter’s own freezing dread, so close.
Thaïle turned to stare at the towering ramparts of the Progistes. “Death! Murder!”
“What’s wrong?” Vool demanded, arriving in blustering incomprehension. “What happened? What’s wrong?”
“She’s Feeling something!” Frial said. “Tell me! Tell me!”
“Thousands of men!” Thaïle cried. “Pain and death! A battle? Yes, it must be a battle. Oh, Mother, Mother! So much death! So much hate, and suffering!”
She buried her face in her mother’s shoulder, shaking uncontrollably. Frial and Vool gazed at each other in horror.
If Thaïle was truly Feeling a battle, then it must be beyond the mountains. Outside, far away.
There were never any battles in Thume.
May the Keeper defend us!
Frial could Feel nothing at all.
Blow, bugle!
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
— Tennyson, The Princess, IV
TWO
Youth comes back
1
The well-named Battle of Bone Pass came three days after Karthin, and this time the outcome was never in doubt. The djinn army was cut into three portions and then systematically butchered, the caliph himself being wounded and many of his best generals slain. The legions herded away seven thousand prisoners, and no one counted the dead heaped in the wadis.
Pandemia was very big, and the Impire comprised more than half of it. Imperial couriers traveled faster than anyone else in the world, yet reports from outlying areas took weeks to reach the Opal Palace in Hub.
Sorcery was instantaneous. That same evening Warlock Olybino materialized in the imperor’s bedchamber and smugly told him the good news.
Many times throughout his long reign, Emshandar had been given secret tidings by one or other of the Four. Knowledge was power, and no one knew it better than he. He had often used such covert information to great advantage in the eternal ferment of Hubban politics, and only very rarely had he ever gone public with it before the mundane reports arrived—a good conjurer never shows all his pockets.
This time he made an exception. A man who will not see ninety again cherishes every minute the Gods grant him. Emshandar could not afford to wait a month or two. He considered holding off until his golden jubilee, just three weeks away, but even that seemed rash at his age. At dawn he summoned the Senate, and at noon had himself carried to the Rotunda to give it the news in person. He would not have been surprised to learn that it was the last time he would make such an appearance; he would have enjoyed the occasion anyway.
One of the main reasons the Impire had prevailed for three thousand years was that the imps were united and their enemies were not. Other peoples tended to fight among themselves, a habit the Impire encouraged and exploited. The djinns were even worse than most. Throughout history, the emirates and sultanates of Zark had squabbled like starving rats and thus been easy pickings whenever the imps felt an itch to loot and oppress someone.
Back in 2981, one of the petty kings had proclaimed himself caliph and set out to change the ancient pattern. Many others had tried in the past, but this caliph had turned out to be a military genius. He had succeeded where they had failed, welding the innumerable principalities into one ominously coherent and hostile state. No one doubted that when he had finished making himself overlord of all djinns, he would carry the black banner of Zark against the Impire. The caliph’s ever-growing power had shadowed the closing years of Emshandar’s reign like a rising thunderstorm.
Gaunt and stooped, palsied but triumphant, the imperor proclaimed his victory from the Opal Throne. He went on to predict that Bone Pass had broken the power of the upstart forever. The caliphate would collapse within weeks.
The senators cheered the old fox as they had not done in a generation, and ordered the bells of the Impire rung for three days. They almost carried a motion conferring the tide of “the Glorious” on Shandie, but the imperor interrupted to announce that of course he would bestow a dukedom on Proconsul Iggipolo. The Senate took the hint and dropped any idea of honoring the commander of the XIIth above his fellow legates. Subsequent speakers were careful not to mention Shandie at all.
Which pleased his grandfather.
There was no need to give the lad any highfalutin ideas!
2
In the ensuing days the sound of bells rippled out from the center, bearing the glad news to every corner of the Impire and eventually to lands beyond. By summer word of Bone Pass had traveled even as far as Nordland, in the far northeast. The jotnar had already made their contribution to the Year of Seven Victories, when a group of thanes had expanded the usual spring training into an ambitious looting expedition up the Winnipango and run into the XXIVth Legion by mistake.
The survivors badly needed an easier foe to restore their morale. Those who had not participated must demonstrate that they had not stayed home out of cowardice. Word of the caliph’s downfall caused them all to raise their flaxen eyebrows and contemplate the prospect that the defenses of Zark might now fall back from their recent regrettable efficiency. Not much was said, but several longships began loading supplies and an ominous buzz among the steadings told of axes being sharpened.
By the time the harvests were ripening in the south, word of the Battle of Bone Pass came even to the other end of the world, to the tiny kingdom of Krasnegar in the far northwest, on the shores of the Winter Ocean. There was nowhere more remote than that.
It was brought there by a Captain Efflio, master of a grubby little cog named Sea Beauty. Although jotnar were far better sailors than imps could ever hope to be, they could not compete with them in business, so the coastal traders of the Impire were often owned by imps. Usually there would be jotnar among the crew—never too many, though, lest they be tempted by ambition.
Efflio was elderly, lazy, and asthmatic, but shrewd, even by impish standards. He was also a fair sailor
, a trait he could reasonably assume was due to some jotunn blood in his veins, for any family that had lived for long within reach of the sea was likely to have had unfortunate experiences with raiders.
Having delivered a cargo of garlic and onions to the city of Shaldokan at a good profit, he wheezed his way along the docks to the nearest impish tavern and began eavesdropping on conversations. Within the hour he picked up word of a potential hire. Some rural duchess wanted some horses shipped to a place he had never heard of. Her agent was having trouble arranging the matter, because livestock was about the most unpopular haul on the four oceans. The garlic had already made Sea Beauty detectable for two leagues downwind, so Efflio had little to lose in that regard. He also knew that the secret of transporting animals was to starve them to within an inch of their lives—what doesn’t go in can’t come out. He set off in search of the broker.
Two days later, when he was almost ready to sail, he summoned his bosun, Krushbark, who stood half as tall again as he did and was very anxious to raise anchor before some of his recent shore activities caught up with him.
“Gnomes,” Efflio said sadly.
“What about ’em, sir?” Krushbark inquired through bruised lips. He was blinking blearily down at the captain as if there were too many of him on deck. His eyes had a heraldic appearance, sea-blue irises set in very red whites.
“Someone will have to muck out the hold,” Efflio explained, taking it slowly and not speaking any louder than necessary. The duchess’ agent had been very insistent that the horses arrive alive, so they would have to be fed something in the next month. “I tried to hire some gnomes to do that. Gnomes don’t like cold places, and they won’t sign on when I tell them we’re headed north.”
The bosun thought about that, then rubbed his eyes with fists like tree stumps.
The captain tried again. “You want to tell the lads they’ll have to muck out?”
“Gnome work!” Krushbark said. “Gnomes don’t mind that sort of work.”
“But no gnomes will sign on.”
“Ah.” Krushbark ran fingers through his mop of barley-colored hair. “Gnomes! How many did you want, sir?”
“Two should be plenty,” Efflio said patiently.
“Gnomes,” Krushbark agreed. “Two gnomes.”
“Good man,” said the captain.
An hour or so later the bosun came back on board with a couple of gnomes under each arm. He’d brought extra, he explained, because he hadn’t been sure how hard a gnome should be hit. Efflio made no comment about additional mouths to feed—gnomes were easily satisfied, and he preferred not to argue with his bosun unless he had to.
Sea Beauty set sail at once.
3
It was late in the season for a journey to Krasnegar, but the Gods were lenient, and the cog made fast time. She encountered no ice. She lost no gnomes, and only two of the horses. The crew fared well then—especially the gnomes, who were willing to eat everything from the shoes up.
One sparkling morning with a fair breeze blowing, Sea Beauty sighted her destination. For days she had skirted a low, treeless land, a barren plain bereft of inhabitants or landmarks. The island peak of Krasnegar jumped up over the horizon so unexpectedly that Captain Efflio felt it should have shouted, “Boo!” As more and more of it came into sight, he began to feel very uneasy. Eventually his qualms grew strong enough that he ventured to climb the mast for a better view, a feat he had not attempted in the last ten years.
Then he could no longer doubt. He had been here before! The great rock like a slab of yellow cheese, the spiky black castle on top, and the little town running down one face—they were unmistakable. He had been second mate on Champion at the time. That had not been yesterday, nor the day before either, but even so he should have remembered the name or recognized the description. He never forgot a port he had visited, never! At the very least, no matter how long it had been, he should not have forgotten that landmark rock.
He remembered it now, of course… vaguely… a humble little outpost, despite its imposing castle. It was home to both imps and jotnar, which was very unusual, and an independent kingdom—probably remaining so only because neither thane nor imperor could see anything in it worth stealing. A nonentity of a place.
Nevertheless it was set all by itself in the bleak north, where there were no other good harbors. Why was it not better known and more talked about? Why had he forgotten it so completely? Not just him! Back in Shaldokan, he realized now, there had been surprisingly few people able to give him directions to this place, or tell him much about it.
Like all sailors, Efflio disliked any hint of the occult, and this uncanny anonymity certainly smacked of sorcery. He had heard tell once of something called an inattention spell that could produce such effects.
Wheezing nervously, he had barely started his descent before he detected a change in the creaking of the mast. To add to his alarm, then, he saw that the bosun was coming up after him. Efflio tried to shout at the dumb ox to belay that, but he had no breath left for shouting—or climbing back up to the crosstrees, either. So he stayed right where he was, wishing he had replaced the rope ladder the previous summer, when the hands had first begun griping about its condition.
A few moments later the jotunn arrived behind him, feet a rung or two lower. He wrapped an arm around both mast and captain and peered over his shoulder. A passing gull shrieked in derision at the sight.
“Krasnegar!” Efflio whispered, having trouble making any sound at all with his face being squashed against the ropes.
He felt the bosun’s porcine grunt before the sound emerged beside his ear.
“You ever been here before?” he asked.
“Dunno,” the giant said. “The dock looks kinda familiar.”
The captain could not make out any details of the harbor yet, but jotunn long sight was notoriously sharp.
“And what’s that?” Krushbark demanded, pointing seaward with his free arm and causing the mast to creak ominously.
“Fishing boat?” Efflio wheezed. By squinting hard, he could just make out a tiny speck in the far distance, bobbing on the long green swells.
“With kids in it?” the bosun demanded.
No imp could resist a mystery. By holding his next tack, Efflio had little trouble in closing on the dory. Then he hove to and studied the curious sight.
The cockleshell was indeed manned by two children, and it was barely big enough for both of them. The girl was an imp and the boy a jotunn. Normally that combination would suggest abduction and rape, but they were too young for that—twelve or thirteen, perhaps. Moreover the girl waved cheerfully, seeming undistressed. The boy just kept rowing. The tiny boat rode up and down over the swells.
Efflio had been a father in his time. He might very well be a grandfather by now—he had no way of knowing, having lost touch with his various offspring years before. He thought of himself as a kindly man, as long as kindness came cheap enough, and he did not enjoy the idea of these two waifs being blown away into the wastes of the Winter Ocean.
Furthermore, although the boy’s ragged shirt and pants were unremarkable, the girl’s green gown was a fine garment, lady’s wear. Something shone very brightly in her hair. There might be a reward. There might even be salvage, although the little dinghy was not worth much. Efflio decided that his duty was to rescue this strange expedition.
“Throw them a line!” he ordered.
An absurd argument then developed. The boy stayed silent, leaning on his oars, while the girl refused the line, shouting that she did not want to be rescued. The sailors, having their orders, insisted.
Eventually the child yielded. The boat was pulled in; the two children climbed a rope ladder to Sea Beauty’s deck, and the dory was hauled aboard. The ship heeled over to the starboard tack, resuming her voyage to Krasnegar.
The girl came stamping aft to where the captain was watching, the boy trailing behind her. She was very angry. Her dress was a gorgeous thing of sea-green
silk, now somewhat marred by salt water and fish scales, and perhaps a trifle small for her. If that miracle on her head was what it seemed, then it was worth a fortune. Those pearls around her neck couldn’t possibly be real, could they? Efflio began to think more seriously of salvage. The day might turn out to be more profitable than most.
“Why did you interfere?” she demanded shrilly, eyes flashing. Her dark hair had been pinned high on her head, but it was now falling loose. The tiara had slipped to one side. She was gangly and flat-chested, but she already had the self-confidence of the stunning beauty she would be in another two or three years.
The boy was taller and heavy-looking, the sort of flaxen-haired jotunn brat that could be found by the score in any port in Pandemia. In two or three years he would be sprouting like a sunflower. Typically, he was scanning the ship and ignoring the people.
“First tell me who you are!” Efflio said.
The child tossed her head, and the wind shook more of her hair loose. “I am Allena the Fair, and this is Warlock Thraine.”
Efflio remembered the ballads his mother had sung to him when he was a child. The mate and the helmsman and a couple of others were listening, and grinning. Feeling strangely nostalgic, he bowed.
“I have the honor to be your Majesty’s most humble servant, Admiral Efflio, Master of Sea Beauty and Lord of the Winter Ocean. Allena the Fair, obviously. I ought to have recognized your Majesty at once. But Warlock Thraine was a pixie. Are you sure this one isn’t an imposter?”
The boy did not seem to hear; the girl pouted. “A great sorcerer can look like a jotunn if he wants to!”
“That’s true,” Efflio agreed. “But a jotunn who claims to be a pixie in disguise is definitely not to be trusted! Are you quite sure he is Warlock Thraine, your Majesty?”
