by Dave Duncan
Rap took a hard look at that last statement.
"Huh? I'm not planning on throwing anything away."
"Well, I suppose Lith'rian . . ."The elf looked up, puzzled. "I mean, lots of clan wars have been fought for much less. The War of the Bad Apple, for instance. People sometimes forget that we elves can be ferocious when we choose, bloodthirsty as jotnar when necessary."
"I've heard that."
"And we can never resist suicidal last stands . . . but not in this case!" He had come to a decision. "No, it's much more satisfactory if the warlock puts you to death. Poignant! Heartrending!" He dabbed at his eyes with an apricot silk kerchief.
"Um. Do you suppose other elves would feel this way about the most appropriate choice?" Lith'rian, for one.
"Oh, yes! I can quote you all sorts of idylls. Rap'! You can't want to go back to being a stableboy, not after all this? You can't expect the princess to marry a . . . a nobody! It's so much more romantic you die, sending her your final word of—" He choked, and more tears flooded down his cheeks. "— final word of love!"
And two words of power to the warlock for his trouble? Ishist had never denied that Rap was going into danger; he'd made no guarantees.
"And what happens to Inos in this libretto?"
"She dies of a broken heart."
Rap felt a little better. Inos was much too practical to do any such thing, either to mourn a childhood friend or yet to satisfy all the bards in Ilrane. "Does she die on her throne, though?"
Quip' shook his head, so overcome again that he reached out his arms, and this time Rap let himself be hugged, self-consciously patting Quip's back as he buried his face on Rap's shoulder. He soaked it before he could sob out what he wanted to say. "That's the saddest part of all!"
"It is? Why?"
"Because . . . because it's all in vain, of course! Because Lith'rian can't . . . can't . . . can't help Inos!"
Rap grabbed his arms and straightened him up. "What do you mean can't? He's a warlock!"
Nods, gulps, sniffs . . . "Yes. But she's in Zark. That's east! Lith'rian's South. He can’t interfere!"
"He can champion her cause among the Four!"
"Oh, Rap', Rap'! Even an elf won't start that sort of a war just for a girl. I mean, a civil war between clans . . . we have those on the boil all the time. But all of Pandemia . . . Warlocks and dragons and things . . . No, no, no!"
"How would you know?" Rap snarled, wanting to shake him.
"Oh, but I am sure! Ilrane's south. Lith'rian's been warlock for seventy years, and a good one for elves—he keeps the dragons away. Inos's kingdom's in North's sector. And jotnar are North's, also. The legions are East's, and Inos is in his sector. South isn't going to get himself involved, Rap'! Or West, either. I mean, that's obvious!"
"That wasn't what Ishist told me.”
"But he's only a gnome, you said!" Quip' wailed. "You know how sneaky gnomes are!"
Perhaps Ishist's sense of humor was even more macabre than Rap had yet suspected.
"You can't trust a gnome, Rap'!" Quip' was staring at his friend in horror. "You mean you truly expected that Lith'rian would let you live? After all this? You're trying to trap a warlock! You can't expect a warlock to let you get away with it?"
South could be ruthless, Ishist had said. How many people even knew that he'd married his unruly daughter off to a gnome? If that one secret alone was jealously guarded, then what was Rap's life worth?
"No, Rap'," Quip' said resolutely, straightening his narrow shoulders. "It's wonderful and beautiful and people will weep for you for hundreds of—"
He gaped up in sudden horror at the clouds of canvas overhead.
Allena had reached the harbor mouth. She bobbed eagerly, rolling in a new motion, preparing to dance with the long swell beyond. Apparently Quip'rian only now realized that she had even left the quay. His eyes went to the shiny blue-green sea all around, the leaping white breakers on the bar, and the gathering dusk above the distant towers of Noom.
Before Rap's fascinated gaze, his face turned swiftly from gold to lead, and then to the exact shade of green found on old tarnished copper. He spun around, doubled himself over the rail, and lost everything he had eaten in the last five years.
Moaning of the bar:
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea.
Tennyson, Crossing the Bar
ELEVEN
Rushing seas
1
Rap offered to help Quip' to his cabin, and ended by carrying him most of the way. Having made him as comfortable as it was possible for a man to be while convinced he was about to die and the sooner the better, Rap then went off in search of Andor.
Allena was pitching seriously now, with a longer, slower motion than the galley or the longship had ever shown, adding a sort of lurching, flying sensation on the crests of the waves. She had a pronounced roll, also, and the wind must still be rising, for the crew was already shortening sail.
As he waited along the corridor, he noted that every elf on board lay as prostrate as Quip', proving that the elvish compulsion to do things in style included even seasickness. Impish passengers were now succumbing also.
Locating Sagorn stretched out on a bunk, reading, Rap knocked and called his name, and was told to enter.
Allena had forty-two staterooms for first-class passengers on her upper deck. Rap's cabin was far aft, and one of the best; Andor's was near the bow, smaller and plainer. Although it would barely qualify ashore as a large closet, it was still larger and more pleasant than Stormdancer's cubicles, or the cell Rap had so recently shared with Gathmor. Floral drapes fringed the scuttle, the rug was thick, the woodwork and brass all gleamed. Two bunks were hinged to the forward bulkhead. The aft side held a mirror and a shelf with space below it for the occupant's baggage. With the upper bunk hooked back out of the way, the old man was lounging comfortably on the lower, his long, pale shanks protruding from a powder-blue gown. Andor's lady friend would have paid for that.
Rap folded his arms, leaned back against the door, and waited.
Sagorn had been holding his book close to his nose, catching the last dregs of daylight from the scuttle; now he closed it on a finger and regarded Rap with his normal sour disapproval.
"Why did you not consult me?"
"About what?"
Sagorn clenched his lips in exasperation. "About everything! My evaluation of the gnome sorcerer. The significance of uttering the Sublime Defiance. The choice of victim. You blundered into Noom like a herd of charging behemoths."
"I seem to have blundered out again much as planned."
"After being battered to a pulp several times."
Rap shrugged. He still had aches he hadn't catalogued yet, and that gesture had discovered more of them. "I'll survive."
"You are extremely fortunate not to have any broken bones."
"I have nine, mostly fingers, but they seem to be healing very quickly."
The old man's mouth shut with a click of teeth. After a moment he said, "So that is within the powers of an adept?" A spasm of envy and longing crossed his face.
For a few minutes the two stared at each other in mutual obstinacy. Sagorn's face was against the light, but of course Rap could make out every cleft and wrinkle. The old man certainly looked younger and healthier since Ishist had restored him—a pity the sorcerer had not done something about his disposition.
Again Sagorn was first to break the silence, and with a slash of nervy sarcasm. "You are practicing being inscrutable?"
"I'm trying not to use mastery on you."
Sagorn flinched. He marked his place in the book with a piece of ribbon, and then laid it on the bunk beside him. That gave him a moment to gather his wits, of course. He was pathetically readable now, and certainly plotting something. "Are you succeeding?"
"Apparently. You haven't been very helpful so far."
&
nbsp; "I took a considerable risk on your behalf, in Noom."
"Your decision, not my request."
"Ha! Repartee is also within the powers of an adept?"
Ripple!
"What was that?" Rap cried, looking all around.
"What was what?"
"I felt something." Yet the ship continued to pitch and roll as before. The sailors on deck were showing no alarm.
"What sort of something?" Sagorn demanded irritably.
"I'm not sure." Rap wasn't even sure how he'd felt whatever it was. Neither noise nor motion, not in his ears or bones or skin. Nor could he tell from which direction it had come, but he was sure he'd felt something—it had been faint, but real. He shivered at the uncanny touch of premonition, but it said important, not notably dangerous. He disliked these strange new talents.
Sagorn dismissed the problem with a sneer. "Nerves!"
"Perhaps. Tell me of this risk."
"I called upon an old friend, a scholar and something of an authority on Imperial politics. We have not met in thirty years."
"Why was this a risk?"
"Because I do not wish to be denounced as a sorcerer. I have not aged thirty years in those thirty years." His aquamarine eyes flickered with sudden amusement.
"And?"
"And neither had he!"
Rap chuckled. "Embarrassing for both of you."
"Quite! He is still much the same as ever he was. With the assistance of your gnomish friend, I may even look younger now than I did then. But my friend made me welcome, and we had a long gossip. He belongs to a very large and powerful family. He is its expert on political affairs and, I suspect, its strategist for meddling in them. He was exiled to Noom by Emthar and liked it so well that he never petitioned for leave to return. Yet he keeps a very steady finger on the pulse in Hub."
"Inos? Krasnegar?"
"He knew of Krasnegar." Sagorn thinned his lips in the callous smile that always reminded Rap of an animal trap. He waited, teasing. When he failed to win a reaction, he said, "The imps withdrew, as I predicted they would. There is much scandal over the cost. Many men were lost."
"I don't think I mourn." Rap cared little for goblins, but Imperial troops were worse, and they had started the hostilities. Their occupation would leave the little town with bitter scars—women violated and their menfolk killed or maimed in trying to defend them, property looted or destroyed. Those troops had been the dregs of the Imperial army. It was better not to know.
More interesting than the news itself was the implication of sorcery at work. Clearly whatever occult protection Warlock Olybino had tried to provide for his legionaries' retreat had been successfully blocked, either by Raspnex, the dwarf disguised as a goblin, or by Bright Water herself.
"The Marshal of the Armies has used the affair to justify some much-needed housecleaning." Sagorn sneered. "Long overdue! The high command is a swamp of toads. He is rushing the crack XIIth Legion north, because goblins have been raiding in Northwest Julgistro, coming over the mountains! He has other problems, too. Revolt has broken out in Farther Shimlundok—the usual dispute with the dwarves and access to the Dark River, of course—and half of Guwush is in flames, also. Absolutely nothing will rouse the Senate more than any hint of mere gnomes defeating Imperial troops. That is anathema to—"
"So what happened in Krasnegar after the imps left?" Rap had heard Bright Water tell of the goblin raids, months ago, and the rest did not interest him.
The light was failing swiftly now. Sagorn was nearly invisible to Rap's eyes, but farsight said he shrugged. "Who knows?"
"The wardens, of course."
"Quite. But you are the only mundane I have ever heard of who goes around chatting with warlocks and witches as an everyday affair. Of course you're not a mundane, are you?" Again the hurt and envy showed for a moment. Sagorn considered that he, not Rap, deserved to be the adept.
"And what are the imperor's plans?"
The crabby old jotunn detested being questioned and would normally have turned stubborn then. Probably Rap was using mastery whether he liked it or not, because he got an answer.
"Warm soup and a soft bed, I imagine."
Rap studied the familiar cynical sneer and said, "Bad news?"
"Emshandar's health is failing rapidly, it seems. Pity! He was a good man . . . relatively speaking. He will be missed." Sagorn scowled, as if regretting this admission of sympathy. "But the Impire goes on regardless. His advisors have found a solution, of course."
"Tell!"
Reluctantly the old man came to the point. "Rumor—and it is only rumor—says that the Privy Secretariat has put out feelers to Nordland."
"Compromise?"
"Of course. Ironically, it seems that neither side has ever spared much thought for Krasnegar in the past. Might that be some lingering trace of Inisso's work, do you suppose? The Impire's bureaucrats have always just assumed it to be some sort of client state or protectorate; the thanes seemed to have looked on it as jotunn territory. It was never worth a raid by either side, anyway. It has some commercial value, because of the trading, but it is still not worth a war."
"If everyone agrees to behave logically."
Sagorn shrugged, as if unwilling to admit that Rap himself could be so logical. "The Impire's proposal is thought to be this: Duke Angilki shall be recognized as king, but stay where he is, measuring carpet and hanging drapes as usual. The actual authority will be in the hands of a viceroy, ruling in his name."
"Kalkor, I suppose?"
The old man waved a frail white hand. "Whoever is nominated—meaning chosen—by the thanes' moot. It could be Kalkor if he wants it, but why would he? Possibly even a local, like Foronod. In effect, the Impire is saying that Nordland can have Krasnegar in all but name. It may rule as long as it doesn't claim a victory. The chart makers will still color it Imperial . . . And please don't kill any more people than you have to, or you'll curtail our supply of fur collars."
So Inos would be dispossessed?
"The wardens must have approved this proposal?"
"Certainly. Only Olybino could have held back the legions from a full invasion of goblin territory. That is not on the table."
Inos bereft of her kingdom would no longer be a queen and . . . Rap recoiled in horror from the thoughts that lay along that road. Were she not a queen she would be free to marry a hostler, or a common sailor. What sort of selfish monster was he? He would not even consider the possibility.
Meanwhile, there was the problem of what Sagorn was hiding. He was gloating, so it had to be bad news.
Stewards were approaching, working their way along the corridor with a rack of lighted lanterns, knocking on doors to offer them, together with respectful warnings about the dangers of fire on a ship.
Overhead, the sailors were again shortening sail, while the timbers and cables groaned with the strain of the sudden storm. Certainly the captain would have never left port had he foreseen such roaring weather. Again Rap felt a crawly sense of premonition, as if he were overlooking something obvious.
Now the stewards had reached the cabin, two youngsters finely attired in white livery. As the taller of the two raised knuckles to tap, Rap turned and opened the door. He held out a hand for one of the little lanterns, and said a premature "Thanks!"
The fair-haired boy offering it just froze, his mouth hanging open as he gaped at Rap as if at something emerging from a graveyard by night. His already light-skinned face turned pale as parchment. His equally blond companion seemed equally dumbfounded.
Amused, Rap put a finger to his lips. "Sh!" he said. "I'm a jotunn in disguise. Don't tell anyone."
The boys blushed scarlet. The first quickly passed over the lamp, and the other found enough voice to say, "Will you be dining this evening, sir?"
Polite male jotnar? What was the world coming to?
But Rap had some prison hollows to fill yet. "I shall certainly be dining, and my friend here, also. What's on the menu?"
Exchanging
renewed glances of amazement, the stewards rattled off a list of dishes that made his mouth water. Stormdancer had never been like this.
"Sounds good," he said. "If I asked for a double helping of the broiled pork, done rare and extra greasy, I imagine the chef could oblige?" Chuckling, he closed the door on them, still thunderstruck. He hung the lantern on a hook in the beams, where it swung crazily.
Sagorn was smiling sourly at the foolery. "The first-class dining room? What do you know of the gentry's table manners?"
"I think those should be within the powers of an adept." Rap had eyes; he could copy what he saw done.
Finding that life standing up was becoming too strenuous, he stepped across to Andor's sea chest and sat down. The sly old scholar was certainly hiding something. It was time to do some prying.
"Tell me about Lith'rian." He saw at once that his guess was wrong—the old man answered without hesitation.
"Phaw! He succeeded to the blue throne in the first year of Emthar's reign, sixty-eight years ago. Almost nothing is known of his background, but he is said to have been born on Valdojif, not on Valdorian itself. The Clan'jifs are a sept of the Clan'rians, the senior clan in the Eol Gens. He is naturally a hero to elves in general, and the Clan'rians in particular. He is High War Chief, a post of extreme honor, rarely granted, and equivalent to overlord of the whole gens—not that such honors are worth much to a warlock, I suppose. His age is unknown, and of course inestimable, as he is both a sorcerer and elvish, but it seems that he was chosen by Umthrum herself as her successor, and she told him her words on her deathbed, so I would guess he was around eighteen or twenty then—"
"Why would you guess that?"
Sagorn snorted. "Most sorcerers and sorceresses turn strange as they grow older, and Umthrum was at least two hundred. She was also a merwoman."
"Oh."
"She maintained an extensive entourage of handsome young—"
"I see."
" . . . selected from all races, and noted for their—"
"I understand!" Rap insisted, feeling distaste that had nothing to do with seasickness. "How do you remember so much?"
