by Dave Duncan
The end of the line was near. It would come into sight in another few minutes. Then Drakkor could beach his ship. The cheering swelled as Blood Wave swept past some allies.
“Nobody’s booing,” Gath said. “Your brother seems to be the popular favorite.”
“Do not be calling him my brother!” the giant growled. “Not here!”
“Sorry.”
“And they will cheer his killer if he dies. But Drakkor is not the only one in danger, I am thinking.”
The wind was chill and laden with salty spray. Clad only in breeches like everyone else, Gath was already having trouble persuading his teeth not to chatter, but the implications of those words made him feel much colder.
“You, you mean?” he asked hopefully.
Thewsome chuckled ominously, still studying the island. Boards and ropes creaked… “Where is my world expert in sorcery? Are you not being aware of the problem?”
Gath had been thinking of little else but the problem for days now. The danger was much like the danger he and Mom and Warlock Raspnex and the imperor had faced in Dwanish, but there were differences. The trickery that Mom had dreamed up then would not work twice. He hoped Twist could think up an equally effective strategy, because he couldn’t.
“You mean the Covin sorcerers are going around turning all the others into votaries like themselves? Ganging up on them? You may be enslaved as soon as you step ashore!”
And him, too.
Seeming deep in thought, the giant scratched a dragon tattoo half hidden by the hairy mat on his chest. “Is not happening that way, though! I am not hearing any sorcery at all — which is why I keep reminding you not to use your prescience. The island is quiet as a grave.”
It might be quiet in sorcerous terms, but in Gath’s world the cheering was waxing louder and a small army of men had started running along the shore. It was heading for the place where Blood Wave would beach, gathering mass like a snowball as it went.
Mention of graves made Gath feel even colder. Perhaps the damage was done, and every sorcerer already ashore had been bent to the will of the Almighty. Best not to worry about that possibility! “Is the Commonplace shielded?”
Now Thewsome turned to look at him with Twist’s pale eyes. There was no hint of a smile in them, though. “It is.”
“So…” No, discard that idea… “That’s good, isn’t it? If war breaks out in there, then the Covin itself can’t interfere!”
“Shielding is only as strong as the sorcerer who made it,” Thewsome remarked softly, “but likely you are being right”
“If the odds are on the Covin’s side already, then the case is hopeless,” Gath continued. To think he had hated schooling back in Krasnegar! Here the penalties for mistakes did not bear thinking about. “We’ll lose. So we must just hope the odds are on our side, and we’ll win the battle in the Commonplace.”
“What battle?” Thewsome shrugged the obscene pictures on his shoulders and went back to watching the shore. Somehow he had implied disappointment, that Gath was overlooking something.
“But when we all come out again… ?”
The giant said nothing, merely scratching a few more tattoos. That was not the problem, then, or not the worst part of it.
“If all the sorcerers come in disguise,” Gath suggested wildly, “then you can’t tell which ones have loyalty spells on them! And we agreed that you probably can’t rely on knowing them anyway?”
Thewsome nodded, waving a vulgar finger at some man ashore. What had he seen that Gath had not? The best way to get answers was to ask questions, Dad had always said.
“Then how do you tell the good guys from the bad guys? How do you tell the sheep from the wolves?”
“Ah! Well, my lad, one way is that sheep mill around in herds and wolves run in packs.”
Was there a difference between a herd and a pack? Cold fingers closed around Gath’s heart. Oh, God of Horrors!
“Twist! What happens at the Moot Stow if the thanes vote for war?”
Twist-Thewsome looked down at him with approval, baring yellow teeth in flaxen beard. “Then they choose a leader. If needs be, the candidates fight it out at the Place of Ravens. But once a leader is chosen, then all the other thanes do homage to him.”
“Is it possible for a sorcerer to lie to another sorcerer?”
“Not usually.”
Gath shivered. His teeth chattered briefly. Then he brought them under control. “Homage can be done to a deputy, can’t it? An agent?”
The giant nodded.
“Was that why you let me come?”
“Whatever do you mean, Atheling? You came because you wanted to.” Thewsome uttered a gruesome jotunn laugh. Then he gripped Gath’s arm, and his fingers went all the way around. He squeezed painfully. “Will you do it? Are you man enough?”
This was Dad’s war. Here was Gath’s part in Dad’s war. He had chosen it himself, even if he hadn’t known he was doing so. This was what his craziness at Urgaxox had brought him to! He had no one to blame but himself. He straightened up and forced out the words, his knuckles white on the gunwale.
“No, I’m not man enough, but yes, I’ll do it, if it will help.”
“It is the only way I can think of, Atheling.”
“Then of course I’ll do it.”
“It is dangerous!”
“I said I’d do it!” Gath shouted angrily.
That was how to tell the sheep from the wolves — set a trap.
With him as the bait.
3
Inos came along the Way in the evening sunshine. A whiff of sea tang and a muted rumble of surf told her she was approaching the Rap Place. As she emerged from the trees she was greatly relieved to see Rap himself stretched out on one of the ugly purple lounges. He sprang up to greet her and they hugged.
“Funny,” she murmured into his neck. “I think I missed this more than anything — just being held.”
He grunted. “Well, it’s a start. Sit down and let me make you a drink.”
She sank down wearily, wondering if she was too old for all this wild adventuring or just unaccustomed to the Thumian climate. “Something stunning.”
“Elvish brandy?” He gave her a crystal beaker the size of a small bucket. She needed both hands to hold it.
“You were always generous,” she muttered. “I said stun, not kill.” It was cool and delicious and not elvish brandy.
Rap perched on the edge of the chair beside her and smiled happily.
“Kadie?” she said.
He glanced at the cottage. “Stretched out cold on our bed. I don’t think she slept all night.”
“Not much, anyway.” Inos took another draft and eyed him over the rim. “I wish I understood why you can’t heal her!”
He shrugged. “I can heal bodies. Souls belong to the Gods.”
“You cured me!”
He turned his face away as if to study me trees. “Not really,” he muttered.
“Rap!”
“Well… I did hurry your own healing along a little. You’re a strong, mature woman. You knew that what Azak wanted was to hurt and humiliate you, so you fought back against that. To recover was to defeat him, right? I just helped. Kadie’s problem is much worse, much deeper. What would you have me do — take away her memories? People are made of their memories, darling. Personalities are, I mean. I daren’t meddle in that. I might turn her into a mushroom.”
He ran his hands through his hair. “Besides, she’s right to be worried about her friend, isn’t she?”
Inos made a noncommittal noise. Friendship was one thing, obsession another. She laid the drink on the table beside her so she was free to squeeze Rap’s arm. “I’m sure you’re doing all you can, love.”
“How’s the impress?”
“Better. She’s a strong woman.” For a twenty-year-old who had been through several consecutive hells, the girl was a marvel.
Rap nodded, staring at nothing.
Inos said, “Prin and Baz
e are sweet.”
“Yes.”
“Rap? Is she pregnant?”
He nodded again.
Inos took another drink and thought yet again about Shandie. Having now met Eshiala, she could understand his infatuation. The impress’ beauty was every bit as incredible as he had claimed, but he had never been a sensitive or understanding husband. How would he react to her now that she carried another man’s child?
“I suppose that’s a fairly small problem really, isn’t it?” she said. “With the world at stake, what’s one more little bastard? Even an Imperial bastard. Minor problem.”
So was Kadie. Tomorrow was Longday. None of them mattered compared to that, not Eshiala or Kadie or Rap or Inos.
“How’s your day been?”
Rap shrugged. “Frustrating. The Way won’t always do what I want it to. I can’t reach any of the archons’ Places I know of. I can’t find any trace of the Chapel, and I think Kadie tried for the Thaïle Place a hundred times. Mostly I’ve been following her around in circles, keeping an eye on her.”
“Any news of the Covin?”
He sighed. “The djinn army’s back where it was four days ago. If it advances tomorrow, it’ll enter Thume before midday.”
“How’s Azak?”
“Don’t know.”
“His sorcerers may have cured him?”
“If they weren’t frightened of the Covin, they might. Or Zinixo may have done so. Or he may have died. I have no idea.”
“We should have killed the bastard,” Inos muttered, “when we had the chance. Him and his whole murdering horde.” She saw Rap wince. Why? What did he know about Azak that he wasn’t saying? “Dragons?”
He brightened. “That’s interesting! Apparently they’re restless, but not going anywhere. They rise, circle, then return to their nests.”
“So why is that interesting?”
“Because either something is troubling them, or the dwarf suspects something.”
“He always suspects something! Such as?”
“I think,” Rap said, “that some of the anthropophagi must be still at large. Zinixo’s frightened to raise the dragons in case he triggers a trap or something. Or else the worms themselves sense the trap — they’re not entirely mundane, remember.” He ran fingers through his hair again. “All right! I’m clutching at straws. It just seems indecisive, see?”
Zinixo was notoriously indecisive, but let the man dream. And how had he learned all this if he hadn’t been able to reach the archons?
“What else did the new Keeper tell you?”
Rap shot her an admiring glance. “She was here. Not twenty minutes ago. Briefly.”
“How is she?”
“Can’t tell with demigods.”
“Did Kadie know?”
“Kadie was asleep.”
Mm. “Is Thaïle going to be more cooperative than her predecessor?”
“She will be, I think. If the Covin has noticed Thume, then she has no choice.”
“So what else did she say?”
“Not a great deal.”
“Darling, after all these years you think I don’t know when you’re being evasive?”
He chuckled. He swung his feet up, stretched out beside her on the pallet, and proceeded to kiss her at length and with great attention to detail. Inos began to appreciate that the Thumian climate might have certain advantages after all. It was several more minutes before he gave her a chance to speak.
“That was wonderful,” she said breathlessly. “And I shall cooperate fully at the first suitable opportunity. But we were talking business. No!” She pushed his busy hands away from her buttons. “Rap, I mean it!”
“Later!”
“Now! What were you not telling me?”
“The new Keeper has appointed a replacement archon.”
Inos studied his face for a moment, as it was all she could see — he was almost on top of her already. “I thought archons were exceptionally potent sorcerers?”
“She says she wants experience and counsel.”
Idiot! “You accepted?”
“You think I had any choice?”
“Yes.”
“I accepted.”
She could tell nothing from his smile. So he was worried sick and using sorcery not to show it.
This was Midsummer Eve. There might be no more chances.
“I’ve never had an archon make love to me before,” she said. “Can you make sure we won’t be interrupted?”
Rap said, “Yes,” huskily.
Inos reached for his buttons.
4
It was Midsummer Eve, and the Imperor was hosting a garden party. Anyone who was anyone was there. No one who was anyone was not. Someone who did not wish to be there was there. That one could see everyone, and he could also see some ones he was not supposed to see, sorcerers who were not one person but two. Skulking unobtrusively in the shadows between two fuchsias near a buffet table, Lord Umpily nibbled fervently on a heap of canapés and cursed his double vision.
Orchestras droned. Crowds strolled on the lawns below swaying rows of lanterns strung on cables; couples danced on a dance floor laid out in the Rose Garden. Bonfires hurled fountains of sparks into the summer night. There would be fireworks later. It was all very convivial.
Caviar, stuffed olives, peeled grapes, lark tongues on ginger crackers… Umpily ate convulsively. He knew he should go more slowly, to make the spread last. At this rate he would soon empty the plate and have to go back for more, but somehow his fingers insisted on staying busy. His teeth could barely keep up with them.
A globular moon was rising behind the willows. The lanterns strung over the lawn burned brighter now, reflecting the jewels and finery of the multitude strolling below them.
He returned a nod and a smile as the Countess of Somewhere wandered by his place of concealment. He stepped back a pace.
One partridge wing, two frogs’ legs, three turtle eyes… he really ought to slow down!
He really ought to parade around and let himself be seen. Once he had done that, he could safely depart, and if anyone inquired he could claim to have been present.
For three weeks he had skittered amid the shadows of the court like an overweight cockroach. Somehow he had managed to avoid the fake imperor and impress, but it was impossible to stay away from sorcerers. The Opal Palace was stiff with sorcerers, as if the Almighty had moved the entire Covin in with him. To mundane eyes they were always unexceptional — footmen, female domestics, miscellaneous flunkies — but to Umpily’s occult double vision their true selves showed, weedy youths or ancient crones or anything in between. Almost every race was represented: imps, elves, fauns… and dwarves. Possibly one of the many dwarves he had seen had been Zinixo himself, but not likely so, for none had resembled last year’s vision in the preflecting pool.
Lobster, smoked oysters, blue cheese, pistachio and curry — he continued to cram the succulent morsels into his mouth, chewing and swallowing convulsively, hardly aware of the flavors. When he had emptied the plate, he promised himself, he would saunter off across the lawn and mingle with a few hundred guests, greet a few dozen by name. And then scarper.
Oh, no!
Oh, yes! The imperor and impress! The royal party had just emerged from the throng, heading in his direction — Shandie and Eshiala, escorted by a fawning mob of senior courtiers. The impress was recounting some witty tale and the sycophants were hanging breathless on her words. At her side, Shandie was listening with a tolerant smile, nodding graciously to the bowing, curtseying onlookers as he strolled by. She wore a stunning white crinoline, glittering with pearls, and a diamond tiara that could almost rank as a crown. He was in uniform, bronze flashing under the lanterns. They were a fairy-tale couple.
They were total illusion. Prince Emthoro and Duchess Ashia stepped in their footsteps and occupied their same space. He looked drunk, eyes blurred and rolling, unshaven, bedraggled. She was a frump, her hair tangled and unkempt. She seemed to b
e laughing hysterically, but making no sound.
And behind them?
Who or what was that vague misty darkness at their heels?
Umpily could guess. His enchantment was not powerful enough to penetrate the Almighty’s invisibility but was seemingly catching hints of it. The Almighty would certainly detect his awareness, his terror. In moments he would be unmasked as the spy he was! Terror!
Still clutching his plate of canapés, Lord Umpily spun around and crashed away through the shrubbery.
* * *
He did not run very far before a biting pain in his chest brought him to a halt. He thought he was having a heart attack. It was either that or severe heartburn, and he had always had an excellent digestion. Just an attack of nerves, hopefully. He sat down on an ornamental urn at the side of the road and drooped in misery, waiting to see if he would die.
In the distance, the orchestras played on. Faint echoes of jollity drifted through the summer night. The moon crept up the sky and the air cooled.
He could not stand any more of this cat-and-mouse existence! To have evaded the Covin’s notice for three whole weeks was a miracle; he could not expect the Gods to favor him that way forever. He must flee to some safe refuge as soon as possible. Trouble was, he had been trying to think of such a sanctuary for three weeks and so far he had come up with an utter blank.
Eventually the urn’s unsuitability as a seat impressed itself upon his awareness. He realized, too, that he was for some reason racked by a terrible thirst. Also there were people wandering around in his vicinity. Lovers, perhaps. Inquisitive visitors. Guards, maybe. Possibly even sorcerers, although the Covin would not need to send out scouts in the flesh if it wanted to know what was going on. That was an unnerving thought in itself. By sitting here alone, he was behaving suspiciously.
With a private moan, he heaved himself to his feet, discarded the empty plate he had been clutching all this time, and began to walk. A sedate, purposeful stroll would attract no especial attention. He was a bona fide resident of the palace; he could walk where he wished. A gentleman could always claim to be going to the gentlemen’s room.
