by Dave Duncan
“Nordland?”
“No, I don’t think so. It has a dwarvish feel to it, I think. So Dwanish, rather than Nordland. Not jotnar, but… God of Fools!” He fell silent.
If evil was indeed brewing in Dwanish, then she knew of one likely suspect. “Zinixo?”
“Maybe. What makes you think so?” His voice was guarded.
“Just a guess. You didn’t kill him, did you? And he has reason to hate you.” Warlock Zinixo had been the most powerful sorcerer in the world, except for Rap. And also crazy as a drunken bat. “Who else fits as well?”
“No one. That’s a good point. No, I didn’t kill him. Do you suppose that was the error the God mentioned?”
“No idea. What did you do to him?”
“I thought I made him harmless. I can’t believe even Zinixo could represent this much trouble, I don’t understand, dear, but for Gods’ sakes, stay away from dwarves until I get back!”
“I don’t think any dwarf has set foot in Krasnegar in the last hundred years. All right, so you’re going to Hub. You’ll be back in a day or two, promise?”
“I’ll try. That’s all I can promise.”
She would have been content with that. Would she be happier with a husband who didn’t do his duty as he saw it?
She watched in dismay as he strode over to the treasure chest. A real sorcerer had no need for gold! How much use was a large sparrow size sorcerer? Zinixo was not the only danger waiting out there for King Rap. Any sorcerer might choose to make him a votary, and there were hundreds of sorcerers in Pandemia. Two of the wardens, Lith’rian and Olybino, might still have grudges to settle. Raspnex should be grateful and friendly, but who would ever trust a dwarf, or a sorcerer?
He gave her a hug and a kiss, dry-lipped in the cold.
“Be careful, my darling!” he said. “I swear I’ll return as soon as I can.”
“You be careful, too. Give Eigaze my love. And the others. All except Andor, of course…”
Rap left her the lantern, for sorcerers needed no light. He opened the magic portal, letting warm southern air swirl out like steam. He stepped through and was gone from Krasnegar.
Gather ye rosebuds:
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And that fair flower that blooms today,
Tomorrow will be dying.
— Herrick, To Virgins, to Make Much of Time
NINE
Unhallowed ground
1
Aquiala, the Duchess of Kinvale, was entertaining a dozen or so friends to dinner. She remained unaware of the man who had just stepped out of a wall upstairs, but she would not have been surprised, for she knew of the magic portal.
Rap took a minute to catch his breath, then began peeling off his furs. Kade’s private sitting room was dark and musty. As a tribute to her, it had been left exactly as she knew it—a well-designed, tastefully furnished lady’s parlor, worn a little shabby. Her last knitting still lay on a table beside her favorite chair, but she would not have approved of the stuffiness, or the dust. She would have thrown open the drapes and windows and summoned the housekeeper to inspect the twigs in the grate, a sure sign that crows were nesting in the chimney pot.
From time to time Rap and Inos would slip away to Kinvale to attend a dinner party or a ball, although not so much of late, he realized. Was that a sign of age creeping up on them? Kade had acted as the royal purchasing agent, and now Aquiala filled the post. The neighbors knew Inos of old, but none was aware that she had become queen of Krasnegar, or would recall ever hearing of Krasnegar. She was understood to be a princess of some minor frontier kingdom who had married a reclusive local gentleman of faunish descent.
To a Hubban aristocrat, Kinvale would seem quaint, rustic, and old-fashioned, a remote backwater of impire. By local standards it was huge and luxurious. Rap thought it absurdly pretentious or even decadent, but he tolerated it because Inos liked to visit and because he enjoyed Aquiala’s good humor and rare common sense. She also threw great parties.
He sensed a fine fall night beyond the walls. The storms of Krasnegar were five hundred leagues away, beyond the mountains and the taiga. The obscene world-size threat still loomed in his premonition, terrifying and impossible to ignore.
What now? A sorcerer could move himself bodily without the need of a magic portal or any other physical contrivance, but such brute-force sorcery was very conspicuous. He would rattle the ambience over half the world. He would draw attention to himself, to Kinvale, and to the magic portal behind him.
He scanned the shadow-plane of the ambience for signs of power at work. He felt nothing, but he was not sure what his range was now. Common sense suggested that he move to a safe distance before using any large-scale sorcery.
The dinner party obviously had some way to go yet. He could summon the duchess with an occult nudge, but he saw no need to disturb her evening. There was writing paper on the bureau. He scribbled a brief note: “Stole a horse. Back in a few days. Inos sends love. Rap.” Aquiala would discover the door unlocked and find the message.
He strode to the door and reached for the handle.
Uncertainty prickled his scalp.
The ambience was extraordinarily quiet. He had not visited Kinvale as a sorcerer since his wedding day, and that was seventeen years ago. He did not know how much of Pandemia he could read from here, but surely as far as Shaldokan, which was a good-size city and must contain a few genuises or adepts, if not a mage or two, or even a sorcerer. They might all be abed, of course.
Or not.
Feeling absurdly self-conscious, as if he were breaking the work rules of some arcane sorcerers’ guild, he took up the key that lay on the bookshelf and unlocked the door like a mundane. Then he hurried along the corridor to the servants’ staircase. Farsight told him where the inhabitants of the house were—being almost undetectable, farsight was safe to use. He had to hide in an alcove while an elderly cook dragged her aching feet up to bed. He masked himself briefly with an inattention spell as he passed the door of the butler’s pantry. When he reached the stables, he used a jab of sorcery to open a locked door.
He required more power to soothe the horses’ alarm, but still not much. He enjoyed the feel of their jumpy, inquisitive, juvenile minds, their simple worries and conceits. It was just like old times. He had missed his rapport with horses more than almost anything. He selected a young chestnut gelding that had more spirit than most of the others, and he decided to use bit and bridle, to avoid drawing attention to himself when he arrived at Hub. Horse and rider crossed the yard and out through the gate in misty silence, then broke into a canter.
Long ago. Rap had stolen horses in Krasnegar and set off with Andor on an adventure that had taken them to the ends of the world. He hoped that this little jaunt would be a great deal briefer than that one. He wished he could foresee his return.
The night was dark, so he needed to keep using power on his mount, persuading it that it could see where it was going. He muffled its hooves when he passed by houses. Those sorceries would be more detectable than his farsight, but still minor. Yet he must be conspicuous in this strangely still ambience.
Where was everybody?
Once upon a time, he had driven a carriage from Hub to Kinvale in a few hours. It was a matter of manipulating the ambience, simple enough for a sorcerer to understand, but impossible to describe to a mundane. He might not achieve quite that travel time now, but on horseback he could surely be at the capital within a day or so.
An hour or so away from Kinvale, he could have used sorcery without attracting attention to the magic portal. But he didn’t. He had still not picked up one flicker of any other power at work. Until he did, he was not going to swim against the tide.
He reined the gelding back and prepared for a long night’s ride.
Every city within reach of the sea had walls around it, although jotnar probably found them more of a compliment than an impediment. An hour after sunrise. Rap’s moun
t trotted through the gates of Shaldokan.
He chose the best-looking livery stable and arranged for his horse to be returned to Kinvale. He wrote a discreet note to Aquiala, asking her to notify his family that he might not be home for Winterfest.
He had still not detected any power at work—none at all. Something was seriously awry with the occult in this corner of the Impire. Unless he was willing to run afoul of whatever was responsible, he would have to stay mundane himself.
By the time he had eaten a hearty breakfast at the inn next door, the markets were open. He outfitted himself in the current style of gentlemen’s sportswear and strolled down to the ferry.
On the far side of the river, a milestone outside the posting inn told him he was 693 leagues from Hub.
Fortunately it was a nice day. He hoped the weather would hold up for the next month, but at this time of year that was not exactly probable.
2
Three weeks before Winterfest, an unprecedented snowstorm descended on Hub, ignoring loud complaints from the inhabitants. Snow in even minor quantities was rare in the capital and unheard of so early in the winter.
As Ylo handed her up into the carriage, Eshiala lifted the hem of her cloak with care. It was a full-length miracle of ermine, destined to show every speck of dirt. It already glistened with tiny snowflakes, although she had walked only a few paces down the steps. She settled herself on the scarlet cushions and tucked her hands in her muff so Ylo would not notice their tremor. They trembled almost all the time now.
Ylo sank gracefully onto the seat opposite as the door was closed. He was in uniform, wolfskin cape and shiny breastplate, dazzlingly handsome as ever.
A whip cracked, harness jingled, and the coach lurched forward. She tried to peer out the window so she need not meet his grin, but the flying snow obscured everything.
“The weather should not be so cold so early,” she remarked in what she hoped was a steady voice. Her heart raced, and there was a horrible tightness in her throat. She had no idea where she was being taken, or what was going to be demanded of her. Shandie had said to be ready after lunch, that was all.
“Nor you!”
“Nor I what? What does that smart remark mean?” she snapped. He was throwing her off balance already.
“How do you know it’s smart if you don’t know what it means? I meant that you are too young to be so cold all the time. Ah! I see I have brought some color to your cheeks.”
“You are very impertinent,” she muttered, knowing that scolding him was useless.
“I can be much worse. Give me one small smile and I’ll stop.”
She tried to mock him with a simper. It suddenly became a real smile. She found Ylo’s cheerful cheekiness very hard to resist, when everyone else was always so formal with her, even… Never mind that line of thought! There was no denying that she enjoyed his company now, outrageous though he was. This was their fourth private conversation in two months, and she was ashamed to realize that she was looking forward to it. Ylo always seemed to care what she was thinking. No one else… Never mind that, either!
“You have the fairest smile in the Impire, Eshiala.” He sighed. “But your gaggle of goslings seemed unusually morose today, I thought. None of them even pinched me.”
“They are annoyed that they can’t come and don’t know where I’m going.”
“Good. Give them something to think about.” He crossed his arms, grinning again.
It was very hard to ignore that debonair smirk. How wonderful it must be not to feel worried all the time! How wonderful to sleep without nightmares.
“You’re not going to have the pleasure of my company for very long this time,” he said thoughtfully. “Let’s get out the thali tiles quickly, and I’ll win the crown jewels off you.”
“So—where are we going?” she asked.
“You don’t know?” He looked startled, and that must certainly be the first time she had ever managed to startle Ylo.
She shook her head. “I should have asked, I suppose.”
“Great Gods! Doesn’t he tell you anything at all?”
“Not much,” she admitted, feeling disloyal.
“We’re going to a rehearsal, that’s all.” Ylo scowled into silence.
She relaxed slightly. “Rehearsal for what?”
“One of two things. You do know that the imperor’s still in a coma?”
She nodded. She also knew that she was not pregnant as she had hoped a month or two ago. State funeral, coronation, all the rest of the horrors—they could not be long delayed now. The terrible prospect hung over her like a headsman’s ax, day and night. Shandie seemed almost as worried as she did, although likely for other reasons.
Ylo said, “The Impire can’t function without a head. Even Shandie admits that. He’s going to wait two more days at the most. Then he’ll apply for a regency.”
She felt her nerves all tighten up together like a string bag, with her heart inside it. She avoided his gaze, sure he would have noticed.
“On the other hand,” he said, “the old man may die first. In that case, Shandie is proclaimed imperor and we have the funeral.”
She nodded, wiping the window with her fingers and pretending to look out. They were still within the palace grounds. “And coronation.”
“No. The coronation comes after the official mourning, perhaps as long as a year. Coronations take planning, and no one can remember the last one. But there will be the enthronement.” He frowned again. “The funeral won’t be so bad. You’ll be veiled.”
“I expect so.”
“Masses of black crepe! I’ll stand in for you, if you want. No one will notice!”
She tried to look shocked at such macabre humor, but the absurd idea was reassuring, and a smile escaped before she could stop it.
“The enthronement will be held on the day after the funeral,” Ylo said. “In the Rotunda, of course. If Shandie becomes regent, then there’s a briefer ceremony, but much the same sort of thing. That’s what we’re rehearsing. In either case, the wardens must confirm his authority in the Rotunda.”
She closed her eyes to mutter a silent prayer. Gawking courtiers were bad enough, but sorcerers…!
Ylo sighed. “You honestly have nothing to fear, Eshiala! You always look regal and gorgeous, whatever you may be feeling. Listen, I want to make a suggestion. Do you know Countess Eigaze?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You probably haven’t met her yet. Her husband’s been recalled. He’s going to be a consul. Ionfeu’s a pompous old stick, but trustworthy. One of Shandie’s men. His wife is a very pleasant lady.”
Were there such women in Hub?
“She was a friend of my mother’s,” Ylo continued. “She’s a friend of almost everyone! You’ll have two maids of honor at the ceremonies, of course. I assume your sister will be one?”
“I suppose so.” Shandie had not mentioned this.
“Then choose Eigaze as the other. You’ll like her. She twitters and she’s starting to look her age, I’m afraid, but she’s a lot sharper than she pretends.”
“And trustworthy?”
He nodded solemnly. “Pour your heart out to her if you want. She doesn’t gossip!”
“I don’t believe it!”
“Well, of course, you don’t tell her about us, but —“
“Don’t even joke about it!” she shouted, and at once clapped a hand over her mouth, aghast. God of Madness!
She had startled Ylo again, she thought. “You mean you want it to be serious?” he asked quickly, but his easy smirk was a cover for something much deeper. Probably satisfaction.
She stuffed her hands in her muff again to hide their trembling: “That sort of rumor can start very easily!”
“Yes,” he said, looking glum. “We don’t want rumors, do we?”
“Ylo!” she said. “I do enjoy your company, I admit. I don’t have many friends and you cheer me up. But please stop making jokes about… about anything mor
e than that!”
He stared at her so intensely that she felt color pour into her face again and had to look away. “I am happy to be your friend for now. Princess,” he said softly. “But you are irresistibly beautiful. Come daffodil time, I will be your lover, I swear it.”
“You are very unkind!” she muttered.
“I shall be very kind and very gentle.”
“If I tell my husband of this —“
“I will not hit the ground this side of the Mosweeps! But I have told you many times what I intend. Why have you not complained to him before now?”
She bit her lip and did not answer.
The carriage was bouncing to a halt. Ylo said, “Emine’s Rotunda, your Highness.”
3
Emine’s Rotunda was the heart of Impire, the center of the palace, of Hub, of the world. It was so ancient that its exact age was uncertain, but the flagstones in the corridors were hollowed into gutters by the uncountable feet that had walked them in three millennia.
Eshiala had visited the Rotunda once before, when Shandie had taken her on a sightseeing tour of the palace. Then it had been deserted, a huge echoing emptiness. Now there were scores of people bustling around, some standing in groups, others hurrying to and fro, and yet their presence only made the vast place seem even larger. They were as insignificant as ants, the murmurs of voices lost in a frozen timelessness.
Overhead, the high fretted dome wore a dark cap of fresh snow. Around the sides, the glass still admitted light, but it was the gloomy gray light of a winter afternoon, diffuse and sunless, and even those panes had snow heaped on their sills.
Ylo brought her in by the north entrance. Emerging from the entry tunnel behind the White Throne on its one-step dais, they had to walk around that to gain a complete view of the great arena. They stopped to stare around, looking for Shandie.
There was no one at all near the Opal Throne in the center. From the base of its steps the points of the four-colored Imperial star ran out in the mosaic of the floor to the four thrones of the wardens. Outside those, in turn, the bowl of seats rose almost to the base of the dome. They were empty at the moment, but the sight of them reminded her how many eyes would be watching her performance. She shivered, pulling her white cloak tighter.
