by Dave Duncan
Bithbal and Krushbark had become enemies at first sight. Jotunn tradition prohibited brawling at sea, although in this case it had barely succeeded in keeping the peace between those two. Now that Sea Beauty was safely tied up, they were preparing to adjourn their hostility to a convenient tavern. At least one of them would be carried back to the ship unconscious. Then they would both feel happier and would work together better in future.
The early morning rain was just ending. As the two big men marched down the plank, Efflio was not at all surprised to see the faunish king approaching along the quay. He suppressed quivers of unease at the memories of sorcery, but he noticed that he had started to wheeze already.
The king trotted up on deck, accompanied by a young jotunn. The boy looked at Efflio and inexplicably blushed to the roots of his spiky hair.
“Good morning, Cap’n,” the king said.
Efflio bowed. “Good morning to you, Sire… And to you, your Highness! Why, you’ve grown about two cable lengths!” He might as well put the king in a good mood. That sort of comment always pleased fathers.
The faun swelled proudly. “Hasn’t he? He’s going to make me look like a gnome when he’s full grown. Who was that sailor we passed? He seemed familiar.”
“Bosun Krushbark, Sire? Or Purser Bithbal?”
The king shook his head, looking puzzled. “Don’t recall the names. The second one? I’m sure I met him once, a long time ago. He didn’t seem to know me… Never mind. No more horses?” He smiled menacingly.
“No, your Majesty. I brought a cargo of rope.”
King Rap grinned mysteriously at his son, who grinned back shyly. “What made you think we would want rope?”
Efflio leaned comfortably against the rail and prepared to enjoy the trading. If an imp could not outhaggle a faun, then he was definitely due to retire. “The Dwanishian border has been closed, by order of the imperor.”
“So rope is cheap just now?”
He was not supposed to know that! “So the dwarves would be very interested in buying rope, Sire.”
“We have no trade with the dwarves.” The king leaned against the mast. The boy settled himself on a bollard, watching his father with the doting gaze of a pet dog.
“But you trade with goblins,” Efflio said.
He shivered at the long stare the king gave him.
“You are a perceptive man. Captain.”
“Thank you, Sire.”
“I’ll think about it. The crown might be interested in acquiring your cargo, as you presumed.”
That sounded very promising! Efflio wondered how best to open inquiries about taking up residence. He must be discreet, obviously. He might be expected to swear fealty to the throne of Krasnegar. He’d never been a great imperial patriot, but…
“He wants to stay here,” the boy said.
“You keep out of this!” his father snapped.
“Just saving time, Dad. Sorry.”
Efflio uttered a nervous wheeze. Was the son a sorcerer, also? “Indeed, your Majesty, he is correct. I have been thinking of retiring for some years…” How had the kid known that?
“Our winters are long, you know.”
“But your hearts are warm. This seems a very friendly little town. I can’t manage hills, but I thought I would look around for some comfortable lodgings close to the docks.”
The king nodded thoughtfully. “I know of several widows who could use a little extra income and might appreciate a lodger for company. You would have money, of course?”
If the rope sold and Bithbal bought the ship as planned, then Efflio would have plenty of money. Normally he would have denied the fact vehemently, but now he nodded. He was inclined to trust this strange ruler, this sorcerer-faun-king. He was beginning to feel quite excited at the prospect.
“I’ll give you a couple of names,” the king said, “but you’re not to say I sent you!”
“Not if you do not wish it, Sire… Why not, though?”
The faun smiled faintly. “Because they’ll do it to please me and that wouldn’t be fair.” He scratched his tangled hair thoughtfully. “You know, Cap’n, a well-traveled, knowledgeable man like yourself might be a valuable voice on our royal council. Would you be interested? There is a small honorarium, of course.”
“That would be a very great honor, Sire!” Efflio said, astonished. Such an appointment would also add some interest to his retirement and let him meet the most influential citizens-merchants, for example. He wondered how large the honorarium would be.
“Then I suggest you apply for resident status.”
The sailor thought unhappily of the rapacious bureaucrats of the Impire. “I require a permit?”
“Oh, no. Just my approval, or my wife’s.” The king laughed and held out a hand to shake. “Like this! Welcome aboard! But if you are going to remain with us, Captain, then why dispose of your cargo through a middleman? You could set yourself up as a merchant and trade the rope to the goblins directly.”
Efflio whistled his longest, loudest wheeze yet.
“Oh, you wouldn’t need to do the negotiating yourself if you preferred not to.” The faun’s gray eyes twinkled. “Although there would be a commission. And of course you would have to store the merchandise. I can rent you some space in one of the royal warehouses at very reasonable rates.”
“Most generous of your Majesty!”
“Think about it! I expect you would feel more comfortable with your life savings in the form of goods in storage than in a bag under the mattress? There is a token tax, of course, to cover the upkeep of the royal fire brigade.”
The twinkle had become quite sinister. This was certainly one faun who was no pushover at haggling. The cash price of hemp had obviously dropped appreciably in the last few minutes.
The king chuckled and straightened up. “Come and dine with us tonight, Cap’n. Gath, here, can bring the chaise for you, or I can. And you can tell us all the news of the Impire.”
3
Evidently the warm hearts of Krasnegar were not its only attraction for Captain Efflio—he enjoyed its warm beer, also. Awash with mulled ale, he was assisted back to his ship around midnight by the king himself. A couple of crewmen took him in hand and steered him off to his cabin, their attitude suggesting that they had done this many times before. Still, Rap thought, he was a pleasant enough old rogue.
The sun had dipped out of sight, but the sky was still blue and there were still some people about. Work never stopped in summer. Gulls, waves, and people were always busy.
Rap drove the chaise slowly up the long winding hill, letting Patches take it easy. He needed time to think and time for the blustery salt air to clear his head. Time to think over what he had heard that evening.
Dragons! Lith’rian had been known to use his dragons before, for elves could be surprisingly vindictive. In his long reign as South, he had loosed them three or four times. But to turn them against East’s legions! Olybino must have had an apoplectic fit.
When Rap had known those two warlocks, they had been reluctant allies. Lith’rian had been contemptuous of the pompous imp and his glorified visions of war; but Lith’rian was contemptuous of most people. Alliances within the Four were always shaky.
The imperor would have been deeply shocked, also, but Emshandar was reputedly almost senile now. He would have died years ago had Rap not cured his sickness.
That had been a violation of the Protocol and perhaps even the error that the God had mentioned. Had Rap warped the course of history by extending the old man’s life? Or had he merely established a dangerous precedent? The Four had acquitted him on the charge of wrongful sorcery, and somehow he thought a world-shaking failure should be something more significant than that trivial kindness.
Efflio had brought other ominous news also—jotunn raiders shipwrecked in a freak storm and trolls raiding in the Mosweeps. Those were only the stories that had reached to distant Krasnegar. What else was happening that Rap did not know of?
&n
bsp; The key to all this was Shandie, he decided. The boy he had known briefly was a celebrated soldier now, destined to be imperor very soon. He would know as much of current events as anyone, and he should be told the rest. Rap had a moral duty to advise the prince of the Gods’ prophecy. He ought to write a letter.
By the time the chaise was clattering over the cobbles of the bailie, though, he had realized that a letter would not do it. He had no idea where Shandie was. A letter would vanish in the labyrinth of the Opal Palace, or fall into the wrong hands.
There was Sagorn, also. The old man was no sorcerer, but he was probably still one of the sharpest thinkers in Pandemia. Rap decided to write to Sagorn instead.
The stables were echoingly empty in summer, with most of the royal herd away cavorting on the hills, but they were always one of Rap’s favorite places in the kingdom, for he had spent much of his childhood here. At one time the horses had been his only friends. Even yet he often came to visit them when he needed peace to think. As he was rubbing down Patches, he considered the possible results of writing to Sagorn, and he discarded that idea, also. The scholar and his sequential companions might be traveling again, anywhere in the world, and a letter to them would be even more likely to be intercepted.
Rap could use sorcery, of course. He had no idea if his remaining powers were enough to fly him to Hub, but he could certainly rattle the ambience enough to attract the attention of the wardens. Now there was a crazy, suicidal idea!
Efflio had confirmed that Raspnex was the new North, which Rap had known for months. Raspnex had seemed like an honorable man once… but to trust a dwarf? In his new post of warlock Raspnex might be much more eager to acquire votaries than he had been in Faerie, when he had just been granted his own release. And Rap, who had once been a demigod, more powerful than any sorcerer in the world, would be no match for Raspnex now.
As he led Patches to her stall, he knew he would have to go in person. He was a king, he knew people in Hub. He could win admittance to Shandie and the prince would surely listen to him, for old time’s sake.
But not yet.
Rap’s place was here, in Krasnegar. The God had implied that nothing was going to happen immediately. The millennium was still more than a year away. A king’s first duty was to his people. Rap must see the harvest gathered and safely stowed. He wanted to keep an eye on Gath, too, and help the boy all he could as he adjusted to his occult premonition. Inos still had her hands full with a half-year-old imp named Holindarn. And little Eva was suffering from lack of attention.
Not now. He would go in the fall.
There would still be time.
4
Hail the conquering hero comes!
There were two heroes. As the prince’s cavalcade roared along the avenues of Hub, the crowds’ cheers were all for Shandie. The soldiers’ salutes were all for Shandie. The flowers were being thrown for Shandie, the bugles played for Shandie. The rarely used Great Gate of the Opal Palace swung open for Shandie.
Ylo knew that, but in his own eyes he was a returning hero, also—and who else’s eyes really matter but one’s own? His transient Qobel fame had faded, as he had known it would. He was only the prince’s signifer and after today Shandie would have no military role to play; he would have small need for a signifer from now on.
So no one was especially noticing Ylo, except Ylo. Three and a half years ago he had left Hub as a virtual prisoner, being escorted south to the barracks of the XXth. Today he returned victorious. By courage and persistence and the grace of the Gods he had triumphed. In his heart, Ylo accepted the cheers as meant for Ylo. Ylo’s horse trampled the flowers first and was first through the Great Gate. Ylo brought Shandie home.
Someone in the chain of command could think. When Shandie had cantered up to First Post, which marked the start of the Great East Way, he found a company of Praetorian Hussars that had been standing by for the last week. As prince and companions attended to their toilet, word sped ahead of them to the palace. It was the first time news of their coming had outrun them.
The Praetorian Hussars would escort the prince through the city no matter what anyone said, but even they could not take precedence away from the prince’s signifer. However much those lofty, dandified young men might hate it, they would have to let Ylo lead them. They were much less worried about the prince’s reputation than about their own.
They provided Ylo with a new standard, its emblems and battle honors wrought in real gold and silver, all polished to exacting Praetorian specifications, until even the wood shone and the metal had almost melted. They had brought experts along to make certain that the signifer was worthy of it, and he was treated like a child about to be put on display—stripped, washed, dried, perfumed, and then dressed again. He was given shave, shampoo, pedicure, and manicure, all at the same time. The effects of three weeks’ continuous riding were soothed away with a massage, so that he would sit straight in the saddle. Someone had even thought to provide the pure white wolfskin that only this signifer might wear. They threw in a jet-black horse to match. When the whole ordeal was over, everything about Ylo was brand new and every eyebrow-hair was in regulation position.
A guardsman cupped hands for his sandal when he mounted. No one had done that for him in years—not since the day he was thrown out of the Praetorian Guard, in fact.
Oh, how sweet it was!
The cheering began before they left the post. Rumors of the prince’s impending return had been circulating for weeks, and the crowds seemed to spring out of the stones. Word spread over the city like a peal of thunder. The demonstration was spontaneous, an outburst of relief. Hub was the nexus of the Impire, responsive to every nerve, tuned to every note and overtone. Hub knew that something was wrong, the center was failing. The old man’s grip had loosened at last. The tiller needed a new hand—and here it came! The aristocracy summoned its carriages and raced to the palace. The populace took to the streets and cheered. Hail the conquering hero!
West they rode, along the huge expanse of the Avenue Abnila, thronged with roaring multitudes, through the City of the Gods, the City of Five Hills. Soon Olybino’s palace came into sight on their right, glittering gold on its eminence. They passed below that, heading for the majestic Opal Palace itself, shining over them all, catching distant glimpses of sinister blue towers to the south and white to the north, the abode of other wardens. And the crowds surged everywhere, like a wild tide.
Ah, but then!
Then, after that ride of a lifetime through the cheering streets, came the march of a lifetime, as Ylo led the prince into the palace.
Fanfares of trumpets… Up the great marble steps… Guards saluting… Along the vaulted hallways… Gentlemen sweeping the floor with plumed hats in low bows… Ladies drooping submissively in curtseys, showing their cleavage and soft, round arms… The measured tread of boots behind him as Shandie followed with his guard…
How very, very sweet!
The Throne Room was the daytime heart of the Impire. Ylo had seen it only once. A few days before his eighteenth birthday, his father had brought him there to present him to the imperor. They had kissed the bloodthirsty old monster’s hand. They had received imperial approval for Ylo to join the Guard. Three days later he had done so. Three months later Emshandar had ground Ylo’s family into dog food.
The Throne Room was larger than most ballrooms. It sparkled with art and high windows and statuary and some of the finest frescoed ceilings ever conceived. Any day the imperor was in residence, a hundred ladies and gentlemen would be found loitering in the Throne Room.
There was a throne there, but it was rarely used, for the big events took place in the Rotunda. The Throne Room was where the everyday scheming was done. The imperor himself would certainly appear there at some point in the day. Important persons with petitions or appointments would await the imperial pleasure here in the Throne Room and not in any dingy antechamber with the common herd. Aristocrats departing or arriving would call to pay their
respects, or just to see and be seen. Anyone without right of access to the Throne Room was no one.
As Ylo marched in, still bearing the standard, he was suddenly at a loss. Far ahead of him stood the throne itself, under a purple canopy, empty. On either hand, ladies and gentlemen were arranged in clumps as if they had been engaged in idle conversation. They bowed or curtseyed as he passed. There was no sign of the imperor. Shandie was at his heels and Ylo was lost. God of Sailors! where did he go from here?
If the prince went one way and his signifer went the other, then his career was over before it had begun.
Off to one side of the throne, though, Praetorian Guardsmen stood rigid, flanking an unmarked door. Saved! Ylo continued on down the length of the great hall, veered past the throne, and came to a halt at last.
It had been an Evilish long journey from Qoble.
An Evilish long journey since he was last in this room.
5
The door opened and the Prince Imperial entered.
The door closed.
A Praetorian tribune was eyeing Centurion Hardgraa and his two henchmen with mortal challenge in his eye. If the interlopers attempted to take up positions by the door, as they would normally do when Shandie was within, then there was going to be a pitched battle. The palace was Praetorian pasture.
“What do we do now?” Ylo whispered out of the corner of his mouth.
“We wait,” came the reply, soft as wind rustling oak leaves. “And ogle the pretty girls.”
“Show me how to do that,” Ylo muttered, but he had spotted a socket close by one of those menacing sentinels. He marched over, set his standard in it, stepped back and saluted. Then he turned away as if he had just gone off duty. Apparently he was on the right track, because Hardgraa dismissed his two subordinates, thanking them for a long ride and a job well done.
