by Dave Duncan
Raspnex’s stocky image flickered into view in the ambience, smirking. “He’s not as stupid as I thought, that imp.” He meant Shandie, of course.
“He’s in love,” Rap replied. “That explains everything. You going to go and take a look around?”
“Might as well do it from here. Nobody’ll notice with all that din going on.”
There was no mundane din. Water slapped sleepily at the pilings of the jetty, and ropes squeaked. Far away a temple bell tolled, audible only when the wind veered a little, muffled by the drifting snow. Big fluffy flakes were flying and the short winter day was already drawing to a close, the sun a white disk above the trees.
Nor did the warlock refer to occult noise. All day the ambience had been creepily silent, as Rap had noticed every time be had emerged from the shielded deckhouse. Probably Zinixo had ordered the Covin to do nothing except listen and keep watch. There was still no sorcery active, but a quick scan showed Rap what the warlock had already detected — a strong outpouring of grief off to the east. Proconsul Ionfeu had said that the village of Moggly lay about half a league away in that direction. Probably the entire population was attending a memorial service for Emshandar, because the emotion rose and fell in unison. That would explain the bell, too, and it would serve to muddy the Covin’s vigil.
“If you think you can risk it.”
“Certainly.” Raspnex’s image brightened — or became louder, for there were no exact words to describe the ambience. Either way, he was much less conspicuous than Rap would have been in surveying the big house in the trees.
In the slow-moving world of mundanes, Shandie was still discussing his change of plan with his subordinates. Sailor Jarga headed for the deckhouse, her work done for the moment.
“You will have to be Lord Eshern,” the imperor told Hardgraa.
The centurion pulled a face. “I’m not a very convincing lord, sire.”
Shandie smiled. “Perhaps not — although you will be before I’m done with you! I’m planning to make you at least an earl. The housekeeper knows Proconsul Ionfeu, though. I’d better ask his Omnipotence to change the name on the title deed.”
“They don’t need to produce Lord Eshern himself,” Ylo said. “Why not let her Majesty be Lord Eshern’s wife, and keep his fictitious lordship out of it?”
Astute young fellow. Rap thought.
Shandie nodded. “That’s very good! They probably won’t ever need to produce the document anyway, and that way if they get any awkward questions, they can always refer them to the imaginary Lord Eshern. Excellent! I’ll go and tell them.”
“What can you make out?” Rap asked.
“One old woman cooking supper,” the dwarf said. “Huge, fancy place. More rooms than the crystal mines of Traz. Sort of comfy, though.” To a dwarf, “comfy” meant “well worn.” “No tracks in the snow. It was shielded, once upon a time.”
“That could be useful!”
“No. It’s threadbare. It’ll muddy things a little, I suppose, if they start a house-by-house search.”
“Even Zinixo can’t try that unless he already has a rough idea of where they are,” Rap protested, and hoped he was right.
Lord Umpily had been led to believe that White Impress was heading north, to the far shore. When, inevitably, he was apprehended by the Covin and his loyalty turned, he might divert attention away from the vicinity of Hub. On the other hand, he might not.
For the thousandth time that day. Rap pondered the impossibility of fighting a whole army of sorcerers. He could not imagine a more hopeless task. On the other hand, he could not imagine any way to avoid it under the present circumstances. If duty and remorse did not impel him to make the effort, then the need to defend Inos would. She also would be on the dwarf’s list of foes, just because long ago she had foiled his attempt to murder Rap. There could be no truce with such a madman. There was no defense except attack.
On the ineffable plane of the ambience, Raspnex twitched, or flickered, or flared — he registered surprise.
“Something wrong?” Rap demanded.
“Something odd. Looks tike the old woman’s expecting visitors.”
“Impossible!”
“She’s lit a fire in the great hall, and candles, too. Ah!”
“Ah what?” Rap said crossly. The temptation to use his own farsight was almost irresistible.
The dwarf chuckled. “Maybe the place is haunted, at that! There’s something… Two somethings!”
“Ghosts? Wraiths? Can sorcerers see ghosts?”
“Never have before, but there’s sure something there. They’re hiding from me… Nothing serious. Can’t corner them without using real power. Forget them. They’re harmless.”
“You’re sure?”
“Quite sure.”
Rap hesitated. If anyone mentioned wraiths to Shandie, he would balk at leaving his wife and child here, and the fugitives’ hunt for safe refuge would have to start again from scratch. Every hour they spent on Cenmere increased the risk, for Zinixo must know by now how they had escaped, and his minions would be scanning the lake for suspicious ships. A vessel that showed to vision and not farsight would definitely class as suspicious.
Wraiths were old wives’ tales, weren’t they? Rap had never seen one or even heard any convincing stories of them. On the other hand, nobody was more hard-headed than Raspnex, and if he said there were ghosts at Yewdark, there probably were. How would the impress and her companions feel if they discovered they had been tossed into a sanctuary that contained ghosts?
“We’d better warn them,” he thought uneasily.
“No! There’s no danger. Here — look.” The warlock opened his mind, so that Rap could see through his vastly greater powers.
It was an astonishingly trusting thing to do, especially for a dwarf. It was also an eerie and unpleasant experience. The soul of a dwarf was alien, cryptic, and cold. It was chilled by lurking threats and connotations of stone — ramparts and bastions and dim-lit tunnels. The world seemed much darker and less friendly to Raspnex than it ever had to Rap; it was filled with hard edges and stern duty; it lacked cheer or comradeship. Its values were grim, practical, and unimaginative.
Trying to ignore this uncanny discernment. Rap inspected the ramshackle old mansion. As the warlock had said, it was a sprawling edifice, much of it in poor repair, dusty and deserted, although still furnished. Faint residues of ancient shielding blurred his view here and there, but nowhere was it strong enough to defeat the warlock’s farsight. Once this rambling chateau would have been a glittering palace, but wind and weather had gnawed it ragged, and the erstwhile jeweled gardens had rioted into tangled wilderness. A couple of very cluttered rooms in the basement were obviously in use, and there an old woman was boiling a pot on a stove.
Upstairs in the main hall, a fire crackling in the great hearth had not yet consumed all its kindling. Dust covers had been dragged off chairs and piled behind a sofa; candles had been set out and recently lit, although the sun had not set yet. Obviously the housekeeper expected visitors. As Raspnex had already remarked, the long driveway was cloaked in untrodden snow, so she could have received no mundane warning.
And somewhere, something else… The sense of awareness was faint, barely detectable. Amusement? Expectancy? In the rafters? Then, as Rap tried to draw near, eagerness became alarm, and the presences vanished. A moment later he realized that they had moved somewhere else. He could chase them all night and never discover their true nature. He detected no evil intent — in fact, almost no intent at all, almost no intelligence. Just disembodied emotion, lost memories, dead hopes.
He pulled back to his own mind with relief, and the chilly winter evening became warmer and friendlier again. Hardgraa, with professional caution, was unpacking the baggage and inspecting everything the warlock had prepared: food and gold and spare garments. The women were emerging from the deck-house.
“Weird!” Rap said. He wondered if Yewdark was a Zinixo trap, and discarded the id
ea at once. The man’s mind contained no humor whatsoever. If he knew where the fugitives were, he would strike at them instantly, and with all his power. Practical jokes and simulated ghosts were not dwarvish, and certainly not Zinixo.
“But harmless.” Raspnex had already dismissed the wraiths as being of no practical importance.
“I think so. There isn’t enough power there to do anything. Just a sort of yearning. Is that how you see it?”
“See them, you mean, I think there’s two. But nothing to worry about.”
“The sisters that Ylo mentioned? Can sorcerers survive death?” Once Rap had been a superlative sorcerer; indeed he had been more than a sorcerer, a demigod. In those days he would have known the answers to such questions.
“Dunno. I don’t intend to try.”
“You will go and inspect this place, your Omnipotence?” Shandie asked.
“We already did,” the dwarf said, gesturing up at Rap with a horny thumb. “One old woman, no visitors, and enough space to lose that kid of yours a hundred times a day.”
Shandie turned to Rap.
Choking back a few lingering misgivings, Rap said, “It looks ideal. The only problem might be if the neighbors get nosy.”
“Country gentry?” Shandie shook his head. “Snub one of them once and they’ll all stay away forever.” He spun around to Hardgraa. “Ready to go, then?”
“Yessir.”
“I think I’ll come with you and see you all settled.”
“No, you won’t!” the warlock snapped, with typical dwarvish tact. “The more footprints you put in that snow, the more suspicious this place will seem. They’re grown-ups, imp. They don’t need you to wipe their noses for them.”
The imperor’s expression did not change, and only a sorcerer could have know what that self-control cost him. He turned to Ionfeu.
“Proconsul, no family had served our house more loyalty than yours these many generations, yet none of our forbears ever placed greater onus upon yours than that we now place upon you and your dear wife. We charge you both to guard and cherish your impress and the princess imperial, bidding you protect them in this hour of danger as if they were of your own blood.”
The bent old aristocrat straightened as well as he was able. “Sire, your trust honors us beyond words. I swear that the well-being of your wife and child is as safe in our hands as it could be in any.”
Apparently moved beyond words, Eigaze attempted a curtsey on the slippery, snowy deck.
“And you, Centurion,” Shandie said, “for many years have guarded our person well. Now we give into your charge those whom we value dearer yet, and we do not doubt your dedication to their welfare.”
Hardgraa saluted, his eyes filling with tears. Rap was impressed. He would never fully understand the strange bond between imps and their imperor, but he could see that Shandie did. He knew how to use it, too.
But then the imperor turned to his wife, and was suddenly at a loss for words. He opened and closed his mouth several times before he blurted out, “My dearest! It may be a long time before we meet again. May the Gods be with you.”
“And with you, sire,” she muttered. “I fear you travel a hard road, and a long one. Maya, say bye-bye to Daddy.”
“Bye-bye,” the child echoed, not understanding or caring much.
As Shandie stooped to hug his daughter, Ylo stepped forward into the midst of the silence. Bowing, he took Eshiala’s hand and raised it to his lips.
“Crocuses in springtime,” he said softly. “Light without shade.”
Apparently the imperor did not hear the words, nor notice the sudden flush on his wife’s cheeks.
But Rap did, and he broke his personal code of ethics by reaching into the woman’s mind to find the reason. It was a poem, probably elvish, and Ylo had misquoted it.
Daffodils in springtime,
dancing, eager,
light without shade,
like lovers.
4
Why could she never be happy? Why did she feel so guilty? Had the myriad Gods Themselves in all Their glory knelt before her, each granting her a wish, she could not have dreamed of an arrangement better than this.
True, she was soaked to the knees by the snow and Maya was a dead weight in her arms, fretful and difficult. But she was free of the court, free of pomp and ceremony, free of playing at being impress. The old count and countess — wallowing gamely through the drifts ahead of her — were dears. She had found sanctuary. No one could be more reliable than Hardgraa. She would not have to fight off Ylo by day, or submit to her husband’s attentions by night. As far ahead as she could see, she had no worry except Maya, and her daughter was her joy and most welcome duty.
White Impress had sailed away into the cottony snow. The path was, as Eigaze had said, steep. In places the trees had shielded it, but mostly it was thickly drifted and very hard going. Even Hardgraa was having trouble under his load. All four adults were sweating and gasping out puffs of steam in the bitter air.
But obviously Yewdark was big, and isolated, and private. Eshiala could not have invented so wonderful a refuge, a personal paradise.
Eventually the path emerged from the woods and vanished into a tangle of thorny bushes that had once, perhaps, been a rose garden. Straight ahead was the great sprawl of the house itself, inscrutably gray in the drab winter evening, crouched under its burden of snow. Its innumerable windows were dark, the walls furred with ivy. The only touches of color were the tall orange chimney pots, one of which trailed a welcome banner of smoke.
“There!” The countess had paused to catch her breath. “It’s delightful, isn’t it?”
“Lovely,” Eshiala agreed, wondering what her parents would think of such a mansion being left to decay while lawyers argued over its corpse. “See the pretty house, Maya?”
“These thorns will be tricky, ma’am,” Hardgraa growled. His craggy face was flushed and shiny from his exertions, for he was bowed under an enormous pack.
“I think we can go around them,” the proconsul said, head thrust out like a turtle’s, as usual. “Let’s try that way. Front door’s round there.”
He was right. A few minutes’ easy walk brought them to wide steps, leading up to the main door. It was open.
Hardgraa grunted. He slipped out of the straps and dropped his burden to the ground. He was dressed in civilian clothes, but he bore a legionary’s short sword, and now he drew it.
“Centurion!” Ionfeu exclaimed.
“Don’t like this, my lord! Smoke? Door open?”
“Obviously no one has trampled this snow.” The old man gestured at the untrodden white.
“But it looks like we’re expected!”
“Nonsense!” the count snapped. “There’s no danger here! Come, my dear.”
Nevertheless, Hardgraa went by him and strode ahead, leaving his bundle where it lay. Eshiala followed the unsteady old couple. By the time they had reached the entrance, the centurion had vanished inside. The others paused for a moment in front of that ominous dark opening. Before any of them moved, a figure emerged from the shadows within, advancing to meet them.
She was short, and round, and her wizened face peered out from a strange collection of clothes. In one tiny, gnarled hand, she brandished a five-branch candelabra, flames dancing faintly in the daylight. Filmed old eyes blinked blindly at the sun. “Where is he?” she shrilled.
The newcomers stopped in astonishment. Maya screamed and buried her face in her mother’s collar. Eshiala herself could not hide her twinge of alarm. Eigaze had mentioned an elderly housekeeper, but had given no warning of this apparition. She was swathed in innumerable misassorted garments. Ball-gown lace trailed around her boots, overlain by gowns of wool and taffeta of many colors, the inner layers revealed at neckline and cuffs; there must have been at least six of them, and three or four cloaks over them, at least two with fur collars. Her head was draped in several shawls, capped by an incongruous antique hat, a man’s hat topped by an ostr
ich plume. A wide sash tied around her in an enormous bow made her look like a badly wrapped parcel.
“Wrong!” she exclaimed, waving the candelabra. “Wrong, wrong, wrong!”
“Mistress Ukka!” Eigaze exclaimed. “You remember us, of course? And —”
“Where is he? They said he was coming!”
The countess fell back a step, colliding with her husband. “Who was coming? I mean, who said?”
“The voices said!” The crone peered around suspiciously. “The duke! Duke Yllipo? Where is he?”
The newcomers exchanged uneasy glances. How could this ancient hag in her hermitage have possibly known about Ylo? It must be coincidence, surety? Ravings? Eshiala wondered what had happened to the centurion, although he was likely just exploring the warren.
“Oh, he is probably still in Hub,” Ionfeu said. “The property has changed hands, weren’t you informed? The imperor deeded it to —”
“The imperor is dead!” Ukka exclaimed, and cackled. “Good riddance! Bloody-handed old bastard!” She fell silent for a moment, her wrinkles writhing in amusement. Then the urgency returned. “But they said he would be here, said he was coming at last.”
“You are mistaken…”
Then the old woman’s uncertain gaze seemed to light on Eshiala for the first time. She opened her mouth, displaying a few rotted pegs of teeth. “Ah! It is you!”
“Who? I mean, me?”
“His love!” cried the housekeeper. “The Promised One!” She flung the candlestick away and fell to her knees in the snow before the impress.
5
“It’s my turn to be cook,” the king of Krasnegar announced. “But I should warn you that there is only one dish I ever manage successfully. Anyone object to my trying?”
