by Dave Duncan
Inos choked, speechless. She . . . she could not even find thoughts adequate, let alone words. The man she needed was the Azak of the desert, the lionslayer, but she did not know how to summon him in the place of this city tyrant.
"Majesty?" Kar strolled forward, his usual small smile just visible in the dancing flicker of the torches.
Azak grunted.
"Your Majesty, if this man truly was sent as a messenger by Warlock Lith'rian, then putting him to death might possibly be unwise. His arrival has rid you of the sorceress who was both a burden to you and who seemed destined to become an Olybino votary. His Omnipotence of the South may have foreseen these events."
Azak grunted again.
"At least take counsel on the matter, Sire. Be not hasty."
"Keep a mage prisoner?"
"No, impossible. But if he is a mage you cannot put him to death, either. The attempt might incur his enmity." Kar chuckled softly. "He claims to be only an adept. It should be possible to detain an adept, and I think these honest fellows here may be willing to attempt so dangerous and difficult a task as a token of their desire to be reinstated in your favor. A small recompense for their poor showing this afternoon?"
That was quite a speech, Inos thought gratefully.
Azak seemed to agree. "Very well. Captain, you will see that this prisoner is kept in close confinement, guarded at all times. He must not be allowed to speak, or he will subvert you, and you will use the thickest chains you—"
Rap moved like a streak. He spun on his heel, took two steps, and jumped. The archers were hopelessly late, and only one even released his shaft. It flashed across the semicircle and buried itself in a torchbearer, who toppled backward without a sound.
At first, few of the guards seemed to understand where their prisoner had gone. Then they heard the clatter of boots on marble behind them as Rap landed, already running, barely visible in the dark. He hurtled toward the door, a faint blur of motion like a cheetah.
But there were guards on the door, also, and he skidded to a halt before their line of swords. Inos heard him start to say something, and the swords seemed to waver. Then the rest of the family men arrived in a charge and engulfed him in a heaving mass of bodies. Even then, for a moment it seemed like a fair fight. Men screamed, others hurtled through the air. But the odds were too great. The struggle ended. The hitting and kicking did not.
Inos clapped her hands to her ears and screamed, "Stop them!" at Azak.
Azak merely shrugged, but the guards may have heard her, for they stopped. They brought Rap back facedown between eight men, two to a limb, and with a cap stuffed in his mouth so he could not speak; but he was probably unconscious anyway. His head dangled limply, dribbling blood on the floor, black in the wavering torchlight.
"Satisfactory!" Azak boomed. "Take whatever steps you deem necessary, Captain!"
Inos felt her heart twist. She did not know how to deal with this Sultan-Azak. Anything except abject humility infuriated him. If she could only call forth the solitary Azak of the desert, the one who had laughed and cracked jokes . . . him she might move, when they were alone together. So if she could keep Rap alive for a few days, perhaps she could do something.
"My lord! They will kill him!"
"Not quite!"
She was still on her knees; she raised clasped hands in supplication. "No bloodshed! At least promise me that!"
Azak scowled furiously. "Very well! Captain, you will shed no more blood!" He glanced over the whole troop, and his voice rose to include every man. "But none of you can imagine anything worse than what will happen if he escapes. Nothing at all! Do I make myself clear?"
The captain saluted, his face grim and hateful. He must be thinking of the sons by whom he was sworn, and what Azak was capable of doing to them. They all must.
"Princess Kadolan!" said Azak.
Kade stumbled forward, eyes wide and staring above her yashmak.
"We gathered here to seal a marriage. Escort the sultana to the royal quarters." He glanced down coldly at Inos. "Your women will be waiting to prepare you. You may expect me shortly."
2
Clunk!
Huh? The jotunn opened his eyes and shivered.
He was lying in the bottom of a boat, under a hard, damp cover, and a sky sickly pale with dawn. Stiff? Gods! He hadn't felt like this since the time he'd been sixteen and lipped Rathkrun and Rathkrun had told him he was ready for his first real lesson and given it to him, all over, inch by inch.
Rathkrun was dead. And the old man. And Wanmie and the kids.
Shiver.
Clunk! Plip!
Something bounced off the boat's side and hit the water.
Gathmor heaved himself up with a groan. He hadn't meant to go to sleep. Tyro trick! Fall asleep on watch? He deserved to have all his teeth kicked out. Other craft rocked gently all around, misty in the uncertain light. Shiny water, mist, sky bright . . .
A faint hail: "Krasnegar!"
That was the password. He peered shoreward, but the sea ended just before it got there. The boat must be visible, though—against the light?
Gathmor groaned again. Gods! Black and blue from two weeks of battering in this Evil-take-it elven magic tub. "Durthing!" he yelled, the countersign.
Feeling as if his joints had all frozen and that when he forced his aching, quivering limbs to bend he must be cracking ice, he reached for an oar, made it ready, rose. Queen rocked in protest, then lurched forward as he hauled on the cable. Up came the little anchor, dripping silver and breaking the stillness with an absurdly loud clatter when he threw it down. None of the other craft was showing signs of life yet. A dog howled somewhere northward, in the city.
One-oared he paddled the boat shoreward. Without her magic, she was a wallowing cow, a hulk, but a few strokes were enough to bring him within sight of the man waiting on the beach. Gray-on-gray, the shape wasn't big enough to be Darad. It was that sleazy, glib-spoken imp, Andor. Well, Darad had warned him that any of them was possible. Couldn't promise they'd call him back, he'd said. Crazy, Evil-begotten magic! Andor was too slippery.
Come to think of it, it had been that Andor who'd talked him into buying the faun in the first place. All his fault! Be a real pleasure to pound him a little, make something more manlike out of that pretty face. Due for a little exercise, and the imp would be a good warmup. Except he'd just call Darad—no satisfaction there.
Queen grounded with a scraping sound. Andor splashed out to her and tossed in a pair of boots and a string bag; then he pushed and simultaneously clambered over the side, all with an agility that produced grudging surprise in Gathmor. His mouth was watering at the sight of the bag.
"Hot loaves, Cap'n! Fresh from the oven. Not quite done yet, but they'll do. Too early for much else." Andor settled on a thwart and peered around for something to dry his feet with.
Gathmor wondered where the boots had come from—they weren't Darad's. He leaned on the oar, poling the boat until he was out of his depth. Then let her drift while he sat down and reached for the savory bag. "What news?"
Andor shook his head somberly. "It's all bad."
"Tell me anyway. I'm a big boy now."
"The faun went berserk. Whole city's twisted in knots."
"What sort of berserk?" Gathmor mumbled, tearing off hunks of warm dough.
"Apparently he broke into the palace, stole one of the royal horses, rode from one end of the grounds to the other, and then busted into the actual wedding with the entire guard in pursuit."
The sailor grunted admiringly. Great kid, the faun. Half jotunn, of course.
"Crazy!" Andor removed his cloak and distastefully wiped his feet on the lining.
"Did he stop the wedding?"
"No. But he blasted the sorceress somehow. Burned her up like a ball of tallow."
"How?"
"I've got no idea, and no one I talked with has, either."
"How'd you find all this out?"
"Just asked!" Andor flashed
perfect white teeth in a perfect brown face. Gathmor grinned back—silly question! Who could resist that smile?
For a moment the imp chewed at a loaf. The sky was flaming in red and gold, and the mist lifting from the sea in patches. Other craft were coming into sight. Voices and bumping sounds drifted over from them, and a baby began to cry in one of the closer. Then Andor was ready to speak again.
"My associates helped. Thinal got us over the wall. I talked with a few of the witnesses. 'Most everyone was too shaky or drunk to question much, and Darad dealt with those that weren't. Wasn't dangerous with the sorceress gone."
"So the lady's happily married and the faun had his journey for nothing?"
"Married," Andor said. "Not happily, I suspect. Thinal broke into the royal apartments—"
"No!"
"Near as no-matter! He goes loony if there's jewels around, and that palace has sacks of them, enough to call him like a blowfly to a dead horse." Andor casually reached in a pocket and pulled out a glittering handful that had to be more wealth than Gathmor had ever seen in his life.
"Here, you can have 'em. These were just his warmup, sneaked on the roof. He located the sultan's window, and he was almost down to the balcony when out came the sultan himself." Andor was grinning again. "At least he was very big, and loaded with gems; don't know who else it could have been, not there. And he started pacing. He marched up and down for an hour, with Thinal hanging on a vine right over his head." The imp laughed. "The little scrounger hasn't been so scared in fifty years! He wet his pants three times and was waiting for the djinn to notice the smell."
Gathmor guffawed, then frowned. "What's a man doing walking around on his wedding night?"
"Not what's he supposed to be doing on his wedding night, there's a sure bet! And even more interesting was the sound from inside."
"What sound?"
"Weeping."
Gathmor grunted again. You'd never catch a jotunn letting his bride weep at a time like that. Keep 'em busy, that was the secret.
"So where's the faun?"
"In jail. Still alive, though. Surprisingly."
"How'd you know that?"
Andor wrinkled his nose and chewed for a minute, as if reluctant to continue. The vapors had all dissolved away. The sun burned as a golden blaze on the sea between the headlands, making the great palace shine as if lighted from the inside, bright against a distant backdrop of flushed mountains and a still-dark sky.
"The dogs," Andor said. "The horses. Remember he told us about the beatings he got in Noom? Said he could suppress the pain?"
"As long as he could stay awake."
"Right. Well, all night the dogs and horses have been raising the Evil, all over the palace. Not all the time, but in spurts. You don't want this last one, do you?"
"No, you have it." Gathmor was still hungry and had been eyeing that last roll. He wondered why he should suddenly have an attack of politeness now, at his age.
"Grooms and dogboys are going crazy," Andor said. "Everyone is. They're blaming it on the sorceress, or demons she summoned, or came to mourn her . . . I think it's Rap's doing."
"Why'd he do a thing like that?" The sun was warm already.
"I don't think he means to, but every time he loses control of the pain he sets off the livestock. You see?"
Gathmor felt a stab of horror. "What pain?"
Andor didn't answer for a moment, avoiding the sailor's eye. The boat rocked on a slow swell, gradually drifting away from the shore as the fisherman's wind awakened. The harbor was stirring. All over the great bay, sails were rising.
"He's in a Zarkian jail," he said at last. "Just leave it at that, mm?"
"No. Tell me."
"The wheel."
"What in Evil is the wheel?"
"Well, I gather they didn't use a real wheel, just the floor. They staked him out with chains. Then they smashed his bones with an ax handle."
The boat rocked in silence. Gathmor stared idiotically at his companion, unable to believe what he had heard.
"I even talked with one of the guards who'd helped," Andor said softly. "Then I handed the conversation over to Darad. That's one less, if it makes you feel any better."
The sailor's hands were sweaty, and there was a pain in his throat. He was surprised to realize that he hadn't even been swearing. How could men treat a man like that? Chained down? Unbelievable! Filthy djinns!
"I don't understand," he muttered. "He's an adept. He should have been able to talk them out of it. Gods! Talk them into letting him go, even."
"He can't talk. He'll never talk again."
"How?"
"Red-hot iron."
For a moment Gathmor seriously believed he was going to lose his breakfast. Then the fit passed. He wiped his forehead. "What do we do now?" His mouth was dry and cloacal.
"There isn't one thing we can do!" Andor shrugged sadly. "Not a thing. He'll certainly be dead in a couple of days. He was given to the guards he'd shamed, see. And he'd killed some of their . . . I can't believe even an adept can heal that kind of damage, and I expect they'll be watching for healing and work him over again if it starts."
He paused, as if inviting Gathmor to argue. Gathmor didn't.
"We go home, sailor. We provision the boat and head for the Impire. I've got gold . . . you can keep those baubles I gave you. I'd prefer we head north, to Ollion, but Qoble will do me if you want to go back west. Let me off somewhere civilized, you keep the boat. I'm sure Jalon will give you a lesson on the pipes if you ask him, and you'll be a rich sailor in no time, if the magic lasts." He sighed. "Ah, civilization! Fine wine in crystal, tasty food on gold plates, smooth women on silk sheets."
Gathmor felt a drowning sensation and tried to struggle. "Never! Leave a shipmate? There must be something we can do!"
Andor smiled sadly, holding the sailor's eye. "'Fraid not. I've got powers beyond most men's, and I've never met a man I'd rather have at my side in a tight spot more'n you, Skipper. But we're still just a couple of vagabonds really."
Gathmor shook his head fiercely. "Desert a shipmate? You think you can talk me into that? After what he risked for me in Noom? Think your damnable charm will convince me of that?"
"I wouldn't use charm on you, Gath," Andor said crossly. "Pretty girls, yes. All the time! But never my friends. And my eyelashes won't work on the palace guard. They're a tough bunch—I'd never try more than two at a time. I'm sure I couldn't bedazzle three. You think I can just walk into the jail and carry Rap out with me? Two of us couldn't carry him anyway, the state he must be in. Two of us can't fight a sultan and his army and his people. There's a war coming, so I hear . . . No shame in giving up when a job's impossible, Cap'n. That's just plain sanity."
Gathmor groaned.
"A sailor knows that," Andor said. "You furl your sails in a storm, right? And no one calls you a coward. This is the same thing. It's hopeless."
Trouble was, he was right.
"I like it no more than you do, Cap'n. Even Rap can't expect a witch to fly in the window every time he wants one—and you and I shan't be needed if one does. Even if we could get him out of the dungeon, he'd just die on us anyway. The wheel's not torture, it's a slow execution. He's as good as dead now. Two more deaths won't solve anything."
Very convincing, was Andor. Logical and clear thinking. A sound, honest man for an imp, and no shirker—he'd been around the palace in the night, and that had not been a mission for a coward.
"I suppose this was what Lith'rian foresaw when he said it was too close to call?"
"It isn't too close now," Andor insisted. "The girl's married and bedded, and in Zark she'll stay that way. Her kingdom's been divided between her enemies. The wardens have lost interest. The sorceress is dead and the faun as good as—the sooner the better for his sake. He tried and he failed! It's as simple as that."
"I guess so." Gathmor sighed. He glanced around and checked the wind. All the way around to Qoble was a fair voyage, but of course they could make l
andfalls on the way this time. They needn't take on stores for the whole trip. "I suppose so," he repeated.
"Ever been to a theater, sailor? Tragedy in Three Acts? That's it! The curtain fells and the play's over. The audience dries its eyes and goes home and gets on with real life."
"I suppose." Gathmor smiled to show his acceptance. "And I suppose I'm lucky to have you here to stop me doing something crazy. Just feels like there ought to be more, somehow."
Tumult, and shouting:
The tumult and the shouting dies;
The captains and the kings depart.
Kipling, Recessional
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1991 by D.J. Duncan
Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media
ISBN 978-1-4976-0642-5
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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