Perilous Seas

by Dave Duncan

  Somewhere Iggo yelled, just once. Then a clatter of metal struck the roadway, and a muffled thump.

  An elf? A skinny, good-for nothing, yellow-bellied, pantywaist elf? Then other voices . . . There were more of them. Sounded like jotnar. Ulynago tried to rise, and everything went very black.

  Some time later be discovered he was lying under the wagon, out of the rain, with the bench cushion under his head. Iggo was beside him, snoring. The highwaymen were long gone.

  He wondered why jotnar would have sent an elf.

  And to the end of his days Ulynago never understood why they'd taken only three of his horses and only one of the eighteen gold crowns in his moneybelt.

  2

  'Twas the fourth hour of the night, and things were heating up in the Mainbrace Saloon. Bithbal could hear the threat notes under the mind-wrenching roar of conversation. He could smell anger through the fog of oil fumes and yeast. Even the dim flicker of lamplight was enough to show the shiny red faces starting to change color, and some deep primitive sense of battle was crawling over his skin like ants, telling him the time was near for action. He fingered the sap in his belt. All those blond jotunn heads shining in the gloom—how many would he bloody tonight?

  Bithbal was twenty-two, tow-haired and big, even for a jotunn. He'd skipped ship here in Noom when he'd discovered what a bouncer could earn. The chance to fight every bleeding night and even get paid for it had been irresistible, sheer jotunn rapture. After six months, he was a veteran. He'd swallowed his pride enough to take up using a blackjack when the odds got impossible otherwise, and he'd had the front of his pants armored. He'd been hurt and healed and been hurt again almost daily, but he'd never bounced less than eight in a single night's work, even when his arm was broken, and his record was thirty-seven. He loved his work.

  Now he thought he might just have time to sell one more round of beer. He headed for the cage and thrust in the money he'd collected for the last lot, watching to make certain it went in his tally pot so he'd get his share of the take. Then he hung a dozen horseshoes of sausage over his elbow, hefted a full tray of steins, and went weaving off into the roar and the dark and the crowd. With hard-earned skill he held the tray high on his sore left hand, whipping off the beer and taking money with his right. There was no wasted conversation in that din, and no one had smiled seriously for some time.

  Checking faces as he went, he felt a tightness growing in him, a thrill of pure joy somewhere down around his bladder. Yes, it would be a bone grinder tonight. There was a good sprinkling of imps for tinder, and the jotnar were well up to standard. He'd learned to spot difficult ones, and tonight they were all over the room. He'd never seen so many obvious hard cases. Oddly, it usually wasn't the real toughs that raised the anchor, but once they got going they soon became the survivors, so they were the ones he had to remove afterward, before they started on the furniture. The furniture was solid bronze, all bound to the flagstones, but sailors enjoyed a challenge.

  He emptied his tray and headed for the door. Krat and Birg were there already, for it was the safest place to watch the early stages, and the most strategic. You worked inward from the door, usually. God of Battle, but there were some big ones around tonight! And yet . . . and yet somehow the tingle in his gut was not throbbing like it used to, couple of months ago, even. Was it possible that a guy could get tired of fighting? Not scared, just bored? Or just need a night off once in a while? Missing the sea, maybe?

  Leaning back against the wall, Bithbal folded his arms and thus managed to jostle his broken fingers. He winced. That had been done two nights ago, and the buzzing in his right ear . . . four nights ago, or was it five? It wasn't showing any signs of quieting down.

  There was a whaler in town looking for hands.

  He smirked at Birg and Krat on the other side of the doorway, and they winked back to show they were ready and eager. The room was rocking like a lugger in a nor'wester—not long now. He wondered where it would start. The big part-djinn over in the far corner was sure to be irresistible to someone.

  Then the doors flapped open, and closed. Three men.

  Holy Balance!

  One of them was bigger than anything else on two feet, a middle-aged jotunn, big as a troll—weird tattoos all over a punchbag face. A jotunn wearing forester garb? In garish colors like a namby elf? God of Blood! Bithbal revised his opinion of where the action was going to start. His scalp prickled, and he wished he was a little farther from that very spot—for the newcomers were just standing there, in a patch of good light. The noise level was falling rapidly as they gained attention.

  And the one on the far side, near Birg and Krat . . . another jotunn, with a sailor mustache, and dressed up in the same sort of frippery! What was this—mass suicide? That one had the twitchy-shoulder look they did when they first hit port and were ready to fight anything.

  The shouting had almost stopped. Men at the far side of the room were reeling to their feet to get a better view, rubbing their eyes and looking again. Some who had been almost at each other's throats were exchanging grins of incredulity and anticipation. Any moment now . . . Bithbal began planning his retreat. Tough was good, but being trampled to death could seriously hurt a man.

  Then the third newcomer turned to him and smiled.

  In six months' hard service, Bithbal thought he'd seen everything possible in the Mainbrace, but an elf was new. A three-way suicide pact? He wondered if elf blood would dry in the same brown-black color as the rest of the floor.

  "Excuse me," trilled the elf. "There wouldn't be any tailors' shops open at this time of night, I suppose?"

  So his many-colored finery was dirty and Little Precious wanted something prettier to wear? There was a strong smell of wet horse about him, detectable even over the odors of beer and sweat.

  "Not a chance!" Curious . . . elves and their shiny curls usually made Bithbal's knuckles itch like crazy, but this kid had a winning sort of wry grin.

  "It's just that my friends feel a little conspicuous."

  "Sonny, if you want my advice—"

  "Yes, I do. I don't suppose a tailor would have the big one's size in stock anyway." The elf frowned. "Should have thought of that! Well, what I really need is an elf saloon."

  "Elf saloon?" The ringing in Bithbal's ears must be getting worse. "You didn't say 'elf saloon'?"

  "Don't elves—I mean, aren't there any drinking establishments for elves?"

  "Not here," Bithbal muttered, aware that the whole room was silent as a crypt now. Even to be seen talking to an elf hereabouts was plain stupid. You could hear blood pounding. You could hear fists clenching. "Never see elves near the docks."

  "Near where, then?"

  "Dunno. Theaters, maybe?"

  "Direct me . . . quickly!" The elf's eyes twinkled in sea green and sky blue. Lamplight flashed where the metallic gold of his hair peeked out from under his cutesy cap.

  "Dunno," Bithbal repeated dumbly. He was streaming sweat. The Mainbrace was going to explode into full riot from a standing start. He could smell it coming. This poor elf kid would be stamped flat for starters, and Bithbal for associating with him. He wondered why he didn't just turn the brat around and boot him straight out the door. Krat and Birg would handle the two jotnar. But he just said, "Sonny . . . for your own good, please go away. Quickly."

  "First tell me where I might find an elf saloon."

  Bithbal could not even imagine an elf saloon. "Go west to the square, then nor'west and veer starboard at the fork and up the companionway, then bear west again to the temple and tack northerly about three cables' length, there's theaters around there. Best I can do, sir."

  Since when had he ever called an elf sir?

  "Thank you. Come, guys."

  The elf turned on his heel.

  His companions started to turn, also, very obediently.

  Someone whistled at the back of the room.

  The two jotnar spun around to see who had whistled at the back of the room.
r />   A chorus of whistles, then . . .

  . . . but Bithbal did not really see what happened then. The door closed behind the strangers and the room erupted in deafening booms of mirth. Bithbal stared across at Krat, who was laughing, and Birg, who had turned as pale as pack ice.

  So maybe Birg had suffered the same delusion he had.

  Sensing the customers' change of mood, the waiters all hurried over to the cage to get more beer, and Bithbal never did ask Krat to tell him exactly what had really happened.

  What he thought he'd seen was the two jotnar leap forward to start the rumble. And then . . . then it had seemed as if the weedy elf boy moved even faster and took both of them from behind, by the scruffs of their necks . . .

  And stopped them in their tracks?

  . . . turned them around?

  . . . and pushed them out the door ahead of him?

  God of Madness!

  When he eased his bruises into bed around dawn, Bithbal discovered that he was strangely unable to sleep. He soon decided that his buzzing ear must be worse than he'd thought, and might even need a little peace and quiet to heal.

  He pulled on his boots, slung his bindle on his shoulder, and departed—by way of the window, as he was slightly behind in the rent. He swaggered along the harborfront till he found the whaler that was hiring. The bosun offered a hand to shake and Bithbal won, so they took him on. He made his mark in the log and sailed with the tide.

  Sailor Bithbal lived to a fair age, but he never again dropped anchor in Noom. And he never again had anything to do with elves.

  3

  The two legionaries still gleamed in the torchlight like bronze statues, flanking the entrance to the Enchanted Glade. With a sigh of relief, Arth'quith tiptoed back around the corner to the inner vestibule, silent on opulent carpet.

  He had been afraid that the boors might have slipped away while he was busy with the guests, not watching. And they were boors, too! They had come an hour early in the filthiest armor he had ever seen, and they had eaten four meals apiece while his already overworked staff polished it up for them. Parasites! But of course they expected to be stroked like everyone else, and at least he had not had to shell out money for them. The senator had thrown in guards as part of his contribution. Big, impressive types, too, if your taste ran to imps, or beef. Arth'quith's did not, but the apes were a sensible and necessary precaution.

  He winced at a twinge of dyspepsia. The doctors had warned him to avoid excitement, but an artist must pursue his art.

  Arth'quith gazed lovingly into the main dining room—only his third night in business, and every table filled! Gold plate reflecting blazing chandeliers . . . the finest elvish orchestra in Noom serenading discreetly in the corner . . . sumptuously dressed women dancing with rich, fat men. Mostly imps, alas. It was a tragedy that so few elves would ever be able to afford his prices. Odors of the best food in all South Pithmot Province mingling with heady flower scents. Fine fabrics, shiny wood, damask like fresh snow on the tables . . .

  All his life Arth' had dreamed of owning his own restaurant, an establishment of class and taste. How proud Mother would have been of what he had achieved! With the theater crowd here now, there was not a vacant seat in the house.

  Of course he had been forced to take in an imp as business partner, and of course the inkstained little grub had turned out to have more needy relations than a queen termite, but an artist could not be expected to soil his mind with such sordid matters as money. And enlisting the senator as silent partner had been a shrewd move, too, however much it offended one's sensibilities. All the best people in Noom were showing up because the senator had come on the first night.

  The future looked very secure. The senator would dine here every few days when he was in town. That was the arrangement, and it would cost him nothing, no matter how large his party. The quality would always be unsurpassed—Arth'quith himself would see to that, implacably. He had studied impish customs in Hub itself. He had trained in Valdolyn and Valdopol and even Valdofen, been instructed in high cuisine by Loth'fen herself. Father would have wept with pride to see the Enchanted Glade.

  The decor was a miracle in pink and gold.

  The orchestra ended a gavotte and struck up a minuet. It was time for the host to begin mingling discreetly with the diners.

  Something went clang out in the street—a collision of carriages, perhaps.

  The lictor's guests were returning to their seats. Arth'quith must make a good impression there, too—perhaps send over a couple of bottles of the Valdoquiff? Or even the Valdociel?

  Another muffled clang . . .

  Arth'quith felt more twinges from his despicable innards and a sudden trickle of iced water down his backbone. He wheeled round and headed for the entrance.

  An elf came around the corner. God of Trees!

  Arth'quith shied like a startled foal and stepped in front of him. "May I be of assistance, sir?"

  The elf raised an eyebrow. "I don't think so." He was just a youth, and his clothes were disgusting. He stank of . . . of animal!

  This time Arth'quith's ulcers clenched hard. "Have you a reservation, sir?"

  "I have quite a few," the yokel remarked calmly, peering over Arth'quith's shoulder at the assembly, "but I also have instructions. This seems to be a likely place."

  "Sir, I regret we are full this evening. If you do not have a reservation—"

  Round the corner came—a jotunn!

  And another! A giant! A monster!

  Hot knives stabbed into Arth'quith's abdomen, twisting. He felt defiled. Those two metallic noises he had heard from the entrance . . .

  "Is this some kind of shakedown?" he screamed. "Because I would have you know that the lictor himself—"

  The youth smiled faintly at him, and he forgot what he had been about to say.

  "Whom would you select as the most important elf present?"

  "Imp-important?" Arth'quith stuttered.

  "Elf. Important elf?" The lad was staring across the room. "Who's he?"

  Reluctantly Arth'quith turned to see where the insolent finger pointed. "That is Lord Phiel'. The others with him—"

  "He is an important person?"

  "Lord Phiel'nilth? He is Poet Laureate of the Impire!"

  "Excellent. Excuse me."

  With astonishing agility, the lad slipped past Arth'quith, and before he could move to follow, a fist like an alligator's jaws closed on his shoulder. The smaller jotunn stepped close and snarled, "Be silent!" through his revolting walrus mustache.

  And the smelly young elf in the bedraggled workclothes went stalking across the floor toward the table where Lord Phiel'nilth was holding court among his admirers.

  It was pure disaster.

  4

  Never before in her life had Inos known such a headache, a genuine eye-popping, suicide-provoking bone-splitter. It might be due to the bright sunlight, although she ought to be used to that and she was shaded by a fringed canopy. It might stem from the continuous tooth-jarring rattle of wheels on stone as Skarash played at being charioteer when he was only driving a one-horse chaise. The most likely cause was just simple frustration.

  Kade was back at the couturier's again. Azak had gone spying. Feeling her head starting to ache, Inos had asked Skarash to take her for a drive in the fresh air and show her some of the sights. She had not expected chariot races.

  This was her second day in Ullacarn, and she was being torn apart by too many questions chasing too little information. Should she try to escape from Elkarath? If she believed his story, he was going to send her on to Hub, and that was where she wanted to go, to appeal to the Four. But Elkarath was certainly capable of lying, and whether he served Rasha or Olybino, Inos was not likely to have much freedom of action in Hub if she was still controlled by any one of the three of them.

  And how could she escape anyway? Even if she could avoid the mage's farsight, there was still Skarash hovering everywhere, and Imperial guards. Worse still, in Ul
lacarn she had no friends, and she had no money. Azak's gold had been taken from him. Stealing mules in the desert had been easy compared to the problem of stealing horses in a big city and then evading pursuit. Moreover, the only possible way to travel from Ullacarn to the Impire was by ship, and Inos could not imagine Kade and herself as stowaways.

  Money was the worst problem of all. The sheik was being incredibly generous. Skarash would offer to buy anything that caught her eye, price no consideration. But he would certainly demur if she asked for actual gold to use for bribes and disguises.

  Had Rasha already sold Inos to Olybino? Had Elkarath actually been East's votary all along? The answer to those two questions seemed to be no. If she belonged to the warlock, then she would be magicked to Hub in no time. That much at least seemed clear—Rasha was still in control.

  Ullacarn was admittedly a fair city. Most of its streets were straight and wide, typical of Imperial planning and completely unlike the chaotic alleys of Arakkaran. A few patches of ramshackle native construction still lingered here and there like unhealed wounds, including the ancient House of Elkarath itself, but all these old slums were scheduled for demolition in the near future, to be replaced by modern, more sanitary construction.

  So Skarash had told her.

  "How do you feel about that?" she had asked.

  "Do you want my imp answer or my djinn answer?" Which was an answer. Even Skarash seemed out of sorts today. Around his grandfather he was submissive and self-effacing. For Azak he played stern patriot, for Kade dutiful escort, for Inos flippant playboy and now charioteer. The day before he had never missed a step, but that morning he had fumbled a few times, displaying the wrong face or having to change voice halfway through a speech. Either he was attempting too many roles at once, Inos thought, or something new was worrying Master Skarash.