by Dave Duncan
Shandie reined in. “I’ll do it,” he said, and jumped down into the bog. The shaggy pony was a walking swamp and balked at letting him lift its leg. There was indeed a rock in the little shoe, as he discovered when he had cleaned the foot enough to locate it. By the time he slopped his way back to the wagon, he was coated in mud from collar to toes. He thought he detected a gleam in the gray faun eyes looking down at him, and wondered if he had just been manipulated into making a certain adolescent’s day.
With much whip-cracking and horrible sucking noises from the wheels, the wagon began to move again. Shandie hoped the dwarves had some dry shelter in mind for the night. They had been known to pitch camp in worse terrain than this.
“Let’s hear some more of your ideas.”
“Sir!”
“I mean it! You talk for a while.”
Gath squirmed, then said, “Well, Moon Baiter says that just because the Covin is all-powerful doesn’t mean that every loyalty spell has that much power in it. So if we—our sorcerers, I mean—can corner one of theirs by himself, they may be able to free him if they all act together. And if they’re lucky the Covin won’t hear them. Warlock Raspnex said he’d sooner drop plate armor in chapel service, sir, but he admits it may be possible.”
“It’s not a comfortable prospect,” Shandie agreed, amused at the breathless telling.
“If we could get them into a shielded building, like that cottage at Kribur where we met with Death Bird and the general—then it would be safe, wouldn’t it?”
“But we can’t count on them being so stupid.”
“No, sir.”
“Can you suggest any other plans?”
Gath chewed his lip for a minute. “I gotta question.”
“Let’s have it, then.”
“Why walk into their lair at all, sir? Why not just write them a letter?”
“It’s a very good question!” Shandie said, thinking that it was an unexpectedly cold-blooded one from a fourteen-year-old. “I did write letters to Caliph Azak. I might have tried it here, too, except events sort of swept me up and brought me. And dwarves are just about as stubborn as fauns… What’s wrong?”
“I’m part faun!”
The young pup had actually clenched his fists! His faun part would matter greatly to him, of course, especially now.
“Nothing wrong with that and nothing wrong with being stubborn,” Shandie said. That was not much of an apology! Could it be that his all-over coat of mud was rankling him a little? “Anyway, the Directorate knows the warlock by sight and will certainly listen to him. They may be impressed by having an imperor ask for help. Or they may throw me in a dungeon, of course. We’re even thinking of having your mother accompany us. Krasnegar isn’t quite a neighbor, but it’s a sovereign state. That’s our plan, and we know it’s about as safe as lion shaving. If you’ve got a better idea, then I’d love to hear it.”
Gath thought for a while. “I know what my dad would do, sir.”
“You do? What?”
“He’d ask my mom.”
Shandie choked back a laugh lest he hurt the boy’s feelings yet again. “Your dad’s a smart man, Gath,” he said.
So much for advice and consultation! Well, it had helped pass the time.
4
Shandie was not the only member of the caravan to brood. Inos had more than enough troubles of her own—Kadie abducted by goblins. Rap off in Gods-know-where, inexplicably failing to report on the magic scroll, her kingdom neglected and likely tearing itself apart. Compared to those worries, the possibility that she and her son were heading into disaster tended to sit near the back of her mind.
Nevertheless, she was aware of the problem. She and Gath had become very close on this strange pilgrimage, and she soon heard all about his chat with the imperor. It taught her nothing she had not already known. Being the only woman in the group, she had a unique status. Few men of any race would resist a chat with an attractive woman once in a while. Like Shandie, Inos had passed time by talking with the sorcerers—Wirax and Frazkr the dwarves, Moon Baiter the goblin, Warlock Raspnex. The other goblin, Pool Leaper, was only a mage, but he was the youngest of the group, and a rarity—a goblin with a real sense of humor. He had told her more than he perhaps realized. Among all living mundanes, probably only she had ever visited the occult plane of the ambience, because Rap had taken her there once when he was a demigod. She knew every bit as much about sorcery as the imperor did. And she was not going to allow Gath to be used as bait.
Her friendship with Shandie was a matter of convenience. Neither sought real familiarity, and their respective responsibilities as monarchs would have made that impossible anyway. She admired his self-control, but it made him too cold and humorless for her taste. She resented very strongly his reluctance to discuss business with her. It was an attitude she had seen carried to absurdity in djinns, and she knew that goblin women were no better than slaves, but it was not normally an impish trait. She would have expected better of the imperor himself. The idea that a famous warrior might be intimidated by women never entered her head.
As the convoy drew closer to Gwurkiarg, it also drew near to the Dark River itself. It was in flood, bloating over the landscape like a dirty lake, spotted with ice floes and tree trunks from the mountains, plus many squat barges and lug-sailed boats emerging from winter shelter. Near the capital the towns were more numerous—some of them knee-deep in water and stinking of mud. At night the sky was blotched with the fires of foundries, while the smoke-dulled days were clamorous with the sounds of mills and wagon wheels and metal shops. The dwarves’ was an ugly land, as humorless and prosaic as its citizens, devoted like them to business and profit, devoid of soul.
In the Impire spring was proclaimed by the arrival of swallows and in Krasnegar by geese. The news was brought to Dwanish by mosquitoes. Inos was heartily sick of living under canvas. Common sense would have suggested that the travelers seek shelter within some of the many houses and other buildings now available, but Sergeant Girthar continued to order camp pitched every night. Presumably dwarvish householders demanded rent and dwarvish travelers refused to pay it. Mud and mosquitoes and tents were an unholy combination.
Men came and went within the convoy. Part of the armed escort was relieved and replaced. Old Wirax went off to visit his family, promising to catch up later. Saturnine government officials arrived to tally the loot, which they persisted in doing even when the wagons were on the move.
Halfway through a particularly unpleasant day, Inos learned that she was now in Gwurkiarg, capital of Dwanish. She was not impressed. The road was deep in mire, and cramped between unending rows of stone buildings whose doors opened right on the street; there were no pedestrian sidewalks or gardens. The convoy was now merely part of a continuous line of carts creeping into the city, matched by another line creeping out. At intersections they knotted up in chaos.
Gwurkiarg had a mysterious reputation. Few non-dwarves were ever admitted—perhaps because the inhabitants were ashamed of the noise and the smell. Having almost no timber, they burned black stuff they mined, which made their chimneys smoke horribly. Hour by hour, hundreds of melancholy ponies fouled the streets. The skyline of drab slate roofs was unbroken by domes or temple spires; the largest building in the city, she had discovered, was the Treasury, and most of that was underground.
The day was gray and rainy.
When evening brought it to a merciful end, Sergeant Girthar pitched camp in a muddy wasteland apparently reserved for the army’s use. The gloomy buildings enclosing it might be a notorious example of urban decay or the heart of uptown Gwurkiarg—Inos neither knew nor cared. She was much more interested in the sight of Shandie in conversation with a couple of strangers. Jotnar were not inconspicuous in dwarfdom.
She slopped over through the mud and took up position at his elbow, waiting expectantly. He reacted with a formality she considered absurd, considering that they both resembled shipwrecked scarecrows.
“Yo
ur Majesty, may I have the honor of presenting his Excellency the Nordland Ambassador to Dwanish, Thane Kragthong of Spithfrith?”
The jotunn was huge and broad, almost as large as Krath, who won the Krasnegar weight contest every year now. He was swathed in leather breeches and a fur shirt that bulged open to expose an equally furry belly with a noteworthy overhang. He wore a sword, a shiny steel helmet, and high boots. His silvery beard was long and forked, and although he was well into middle age, he looked capable of entering a castle without using the door.
“An honor, your Majesty!” He bowed—slightly. Thanes came in one flavor, male, and queens regnant were an absurdity.
“The honor is mine, Excellency!” Willfully mischievous, Inos thrust out her hand.
He barely spared it an icy glance. To kiss her fingers would be unthinkable and a jotunn handshake was a test of strength and resistance to pain, not a greeting that could be offered a woman. The ambassador’s sea-blue eyes were perhaps less bright than they had been in his youth, and well padded now in fat, but they could still register devilry. Too late she realized that a thane would not be outmaneuvered so easily.
“Nay, let us not stand on formality, kinswoman!” His great hands shot out and lifted her bodily, folding her into a crushing bear hug. He then kissed her, with considerable fervor. There was a beery odor to his mustache and his beard tickled. By the time her feet were allowed to return to the ground, she knew that she had been outflanked, outmatched, and outsmarted, and Shandie was probably fighting off an urge to roll on the ground and gibber.
She staggered back, gasping to regain her breath. “Kinswoman?”
The ambassador was rearranging his beard with an expression of great satisfaction. “We are distant kin. If you want details, then I confess I shall need to wait for my skald to return from Nordland.” The old man smirked. “Thane Kalkor, of blessed memory, was a second cousin of mine.”
Ah! “Then my great-great-grandmother Hathra comes into it somewhere.” Inos bore a lingering grudge toward that ancestral lady and the relatives she had towed into the family tree. The royal house of Krasnegar had other, older connections with the aristocracy of Nordland, but most of those would have been forgotten by now had it not been for Hathra. “I confess I was not aware of you, kinsman. I am sure I have many other worthy and noble relatives whom I could not list either—but I do not mourn Thane Kalkor. My husband did the world a favor there. Nor do I mourn his loutish half brother, Greastax.”
Her candor earned a frown from the snowy eyebrows. “It may be that we shall journey to Nordland together, kinswoman. If so, then you must learn discretion. To speak such words in the hearing of the present thane of Gark or any of his brethren would compel bloodshed.”
Inos had just been outflanked again. “Truly said, kinsman! I shall guard my shrewish female tongue more carefully in future.”
“It’s all right in private,” the thane said mildly. “I admire a woman with wit.” He grinned down at her triumphantly.
She decided the battered old colossus was considerably sharper than he looked; she might even learn to like him, provided he let her win a point or two sometimes.
“And the ambassador’s daughter. Mistress Jarga,” Shandie said. He must have noticed the byplay, but he was diplomatically not reacting.
Jarga bowed, also. She was shorter than her father, but still half a head taller than Inos, raw-boned and weather-beaten; she wore leather breeches and jerkin.
In Shandie’s account of the escape from Hub, Jarga had been the name of the sailor who…
“Kinswoman!” Inos said. “Jarga? Then you must be—”
“I had the honor of meeting your husband, ma’am,” Jarga said quickly. Her ice-blue eyes were alert with warning.
“I am very grateful for the help you gave him on that occasion,” Inos replied swiftly. There were mundane dwarves around, but none close. Was it possible that the ambassador did not know his daughter was a sorceress? She did not seem very much younger than her father, and probably wasn’t.
“Master Raspnex will be here in a moment,” Shandie said. “He is seeking a suitable site for our discussions.”
“Then I shall depart,” the ambassador rumbled.
Shandie looked startled. “You would not rather—”
“I think you will talk of things I prefer not to know.” The big man was hiding a smile in his silver beard. “At least, not know officially. Jarga may care to remain and reminisce with her old friend the warlock.”
And that was that. If the thane wished to leave, obviously only sorcery or a small army would dissuade him. Shandie went along, escorting him to the edge of the camp, while Kragthong moved through the dwarves like a gander in a chicken run.
“Sailors have superstitions about the occult,” Jarga remarked wryly.
That was true, and Inos knew what sort of sailor he must have been. How many more bloodthirsty demons did she have in her family? Thanes were killers by definition.
Dismissing the doubtful past, she brought her mind back to the future. What was to be discussed at this meeting? Jarga had been one of Raspnex’s votaries. If the old dwarf was honoring the new protocol, then she had now been released and was a willing helper. She was also free to be a traitor, of course. Meanwhile, the ambassador had made an interesting comment—
“Your father will escort us to Nordland?” Inos inquired cautiously.
“That depends on many things, ma’am. Will the local authorities allow you to leave? Will the usurper catch us? And timing is important. We shall be pressed to reach Nintor by Longday, and there is no reason to visit Nordland except to attend the moot.”
Inos shivered. “I have never been to Nordland, but I have seen Reckonings fought”
Jarga sighed. She gazed over Inos’ head, and for a moment seemed to stare intently at something far off. “I never have,” she said harshly. “I could go—I am a thane’s daughter. To attend the Nintor Moot has long been an ambition of mine.”
Her bony jotunn face had turned hard and melancholy, stirring prickles of the uncanny on Inos’ scalp.
“Then why do you not do so?”
The sorceress blinked and lost her preoccupation. She glanced down at Inos with a wintery smile. “Even a thane’s daughter may not set foot on Nintor unless accompanied by her husband, and he must be a full thane. There are limits to my ambition, lady!”
Inos grinned. “Your father might tell you to guard your tongue!”
Jarga dismissed the grin with a scowl. “He does not take his belt to this daughter anymore! But come, ma’am, there goes the warlock.”
“Is this to be a council of war?”
“So I understand, ma’am.”
“Then I think I want my son present.”
“That might be very wise.”
Grr! Obviously the jotunn sorceress had been told more than the mundane queen had. Angrily, Inos went off to find Gath.
* * *
That decision proved to be an error. Gath was not to be found and when she went in search of the meeting itself, everyone of any importance had disappeared, also. Eventually she tracked them down, in one of the nearby cottages. The room was tiny, and now crammed with people. Two men had to move before she could even squeeze in through the door, and others stood in front of the tiny windows, blocking the light. She made out Jarga’s pale hair, and then—to her intense annoyance—Gath’s, also. There was nowhere left to sit, so she stood where she was, head bent under the low ceiling.
An elderly dwarf was speaking, and the others’ respectful silence showed that he was someone of importance. All she could see of him was a while beard.
“… remain in session at least two more weeks. Everyone is very anxious to head home at this time of year, you understand. Crops to plant. Rivers open.” He coughed. “But of course we shall certainly spare time to hear an address by the warlock of the north.”
Raspnex’s guttural voice came from roughly the same direction. “Who else? Suppose we produced, oh,
let us just assume that the new imperor was passing by and wished to convey his respects? Would the Directorate agree to hear him?”
“If he was brief.”
Inos felt a sort of silent chuckle shimmer through the group, but no one laughed aloud. There were complex politics at play here. The Nordland ambassador was going to be told what had transpired, but did not wish to attend in person. Superstition was only an excuse; he had other reasons. The imperor was present, but not officially, because officially he was a prisoner of war. That assertion would declare the imperor in Hub an imposter. There was a lot of deniability about. Dwanishian politics were notoriously labyrinthine at the best of times.
“And what of the queen of Krasnegar, were she here?” Raspnex inquired.
The old man sighed. “If the proctor insisted her topic was important, the directors might stay for her opening remarks. She would find herself addressing an empty hall very shortly, though. We have no business dealings with Krasnegar, you see.”
“Could you arrange for such a session without announcing who the guest would be. Proctor?”
There was a long pause. Inos was thinking furiously. Dwanish was ruled by the Directorate, and the proctor was the current presiding officer, so that white beard belonged to the ruler of the realm, as much as there ever was one. The two goblins were standing together off to her right. Frazkr was probably present somewhere; Gath and Shandie and Raspnex certainly were. Who the four or five others were, she had no idea. If any of them was a spy for the Covin, surely Zinixo would not be able to resist such a catch?
“You frighten me,” the proctor said, as if his thoughts had followed her own. “Even if I convene a secret session, suppose the usurper learns of your presence? He may smite the hall with thunder.” Clearly he was well aware of the situation.
Raspnex spoke harshly. “He would prefer to take us alive, I think. But is Dwanish prepared to submit already? Will you tender your allegiance with no struggle at all? Before he even threatens?”
