Zinixo stopped dancing. He gripped Oothiana’s face in both hands and pulled it down to kiss. Then he released her and spun around to face the oval glass, which had become a mirror again.
“Now, the girl!”
Alarms rang in Rap’s aching head. This vile little monster was not going to get his hands on Inos! Except that there was no one who could stop him. Not Rap. Not that big man with the sword. He must have been a guard, and there would have been other people in that tent, as well. Queens did not travel alone in the desert.
But before Rap could force his muddled brains to work, someone or something did stop the warlock. He turned back to scowl at Oothiana. “You agree?” he demanded, although she had said nothing.
She shook her head.
Apparently the dwarf valued her judgment. He pouted up at her and said, “Explain!”
“The witch said that South had stolen her away from East—”
“From the sorceress, she said.”
“Well, before East could steal her from the sorceress. South did. And in East’s sector. Why?
“They’re allies, you mean?”
“Yes, Omnipotence. And that so-convenient votary? It doesn’t ring true, even for an elf.”
“You think North was lying?” His stony face darkened.
The proconsul nodded. She seemed to have relaxed her magic, because she was looking drained and exhausted. Haggard, even. “She made friends with you tonight, but she may be trying to make trouble for you, too. If you snatch the girl from East’s sector, he isn’t going to like it.”
Zinixo guffawed. “But I’m going to have him staked out on the anthill! And he tried to kill me,” he added angrily. Getting no response, he said, “Tell me what you think!”
The sorceress ran fingers through her hair, pushing it back. She took a minute to gather her thoughts. Rap’s head was clearing, too. Bright Water had apparently gained what she wanted, Little Chicken, and she had given up nothing of her own, merely a chance to spy on Warlock Olybino. She could spy on him herself at the same time, with her own votaries, so she hadn’t lost anything very much, and the dwarf didn’t seem to have thought of that. Had Oothiana?
“You’ve done North a favor,” she said, “for what it’s worth. The elf’s your big trouble. He always will be. I think you should woo East. You’re going to know his votaries, or some of them. He’s the weakest of the four of you, isn’t he?” When the warlock nodded, she said, “Well, then he would value an alliance with you, because you’re stronger than either of the others. Don’t make him mad. Woo him!”
“Isolate South!” The dwarf showed his teeth. “Very good! And we still don’t really know what the yellow whoreson was doing when he gave North that dragon. Tell East where the girl is, you think?”
“No, Sire. No yet, anyway. He’s promised her to the imperor, so he must be hunting for her. But wait and see what happens. Find out who does control her. If South really does steal her away from East’s sector, then their alliance will surely be over! Play a waiting game. Knowledge is power.”
Zinixo thought about it, then nodded reluctantly. “All right. We’ll wait and see.” Abruptly he headed for the magic portal.
“Master!” Oothiana said. “What do I do with the prisoners?”
Faun and goblin caught each other’s eyes. They, also, were interested in the answer to that question.
The warlock scowled at Little Chicken, then at Rap. “We have to send them back to the mainland.”
“Buy passage for them, then?”
He shook his big head vehemently. “Why waste money? They’re healthy-looking types. Send them down to the docks in the morning and sell them to a galley master. Be sure you get at least ten gold imperials for each of them. What happens after is their problem.”
And with that. Warlock Zinixo hauled open the magic portal and went back to Hub. The door slammed behind him.
The others all relaxed with audible sighs.
A load of weariness fell on Rap like an avalanche. It had been a very hard night!
So he was going to be a galley slave after all?
Back to the mainland. Then what? A lifetime chained to an oar? Or Raven Totem and a terrible death? Or Zark and Inos?
There had been a man in her tent.
3
For once the cool sea breeze had failed in Milflor. Muggy air stuffed throats like wool and although the sun was barely above the spiky roof of the Gazebo, it was brutally roasting the docks already. Noontime was going to be hell. Sailors and slaves, merchants and porters—all dragged their feet as they slouched about their business. All cursed and sweated and wiped and panted. Even the sea gulls seemed to have deserted their usual hunting grounds. No one was moving fast.
Rap certainly wasn’t. Fettered at ankle and wrist and neck, all chained together so that he was doubled over, he walked with his hands between his knees. He was very close to being naked. The sun scorched his bare back, flagstones broiled his bare feet, and the anklets took more skin with every step. He would not have Oothiana around to mend him any more. She had repaired his bruises when she put him back in the jail, and that had not been very long before dawn. She had also put a compulsion on him so he could make no more escape attempts, but he could hardly blame her for doing that. He had liked Oothiana. She deserved better than to be slave and plaything for the warlock.
And she had talked Zinixo out of kidnapping Inos.
At last Rap had a chance to inspect the ships tied up in Milflor. He had shuffled half the length of the docks and would likely have to shuffle all the way to the end, and then partway back. If he went too fast he lost more skin; if he went too slow he got hit with a sword, and even the flat of a sword could hurt.
He was doing better than Little Chicken, though. The legionaries had comrades to commemorate, and they knew of only one goblin in Faerie. Every few minutes their victim would be pushed too hard, or just tripped up, and would crash to the roadway in a wild jangle of chains. Then two men would kick him until he scrambled up again. The dull-faced young tesserary was not merely encouraging his men in this entertainment, he was taking his turn with the others. Rap’s heart jumped into his mouth every time, for if Little Chicken lost his temper, he would tear those chains off like spiderwebs and hold another massacre. Fortunately he was very eager to be put on a ship and was therefore willing to endure the indignity. The physical pain he would be accepting as an honor.
There were galleys and there were sailing ships. The latter were impressive, for the tide was in and their freeboard put their decks high above the roadway. Some were large as floating castles, grander than anything Rap had ever seen in Krasnegar—vast ornamental wooden palaces, colorful, intricate, and strange. Their luxury cabins would have honored monarchs. In most of them the lesser passengers’ deck was an overcrowded slum, while the crew’s quarters below them were a prospect to nauseate maggots.
But the galleys interested him more at the moment. They were much smaller, narrow and low, and generally cleaner, because galleys were entirely reserved to the rich. A galley needed an enormous crew for its size, all of whom would have good appetites. Galleys could carry very little paying cargo, but they were the safest vessels in the doldrums of the Nogids.
Most of the galleys he saw were little more than open boats with a row of cramped passenger cabins standing along the centerline. They looked top-heavy and would be unmanageable in any sort of crosswind. The rowers must sleep on their benches, or on bare planks.
Letting his farsight roam the harbor was much more entertaining than staring down at the flags or his own dusty, blood-streaked feet, or Little Chicken’s, or the soldiers’ boots. Whatever the future held, he would not regret leaving the baleful land of Faerie. Even slavery could be accepted for a while, if it moved him closer to Inos.
There had been a man in her tent. He had thought about that when he should have been catching some sleep in the fag end of the night. He had concluded that there were so many possible explanations for wha
t he might possibly have seen that he must just forget the whole incident. It was none of his business anyway. Inos was his queen, and he was merely her loyal subject, nothing more. Even if she chose to create a public scandal, it would be none of his business. He could not imagine Inos creating a public scandal—not, at least, that sort of public scandal—but she was certainly entitled to do so if she chose.
The big man with the sword might even have been the mage Bright Water had mentioned, assuming that the witch had spoken any truth at all. Inos could no more keep a mage out of her tent than Lady Oothiana could refuse to serve the disgusting warlock.
Forget about the man in the tent.
Rap had escaped from goblins, from imps, and now from a warlock. That was the most surprising escape of all. And why should sailors be any different? Once on the mainland, he would escape again and start walking.
There was no such thing as slavery in the Impire. The legionaries were seeking a ship’s captain willing to transport two convicts back to the mainland. It was an interesting fable, but in practice the sailors inspected the alleged convicts as carefully as old Hononin scrutinized a horse—poking, pinching, peering in their mouths and eyes, lifting their slaves’ loincloths to check for disease or mutilation. The ship’s destination was irrelevant and never mentioned. These convicts would sail to the ends of their lives, or until they reached a land where marketing of people was less overregulated.
The bidding was a farce. How much to ship them, then? the bored tesserary would ask. The sailor would name a price. The soldier would automatically tell him it was too low, he must charge more.
He would write down the final offer, and then move on to the next berth to offer his wares again. In time the parade would return to the highest bidder. It was going to take all day, likely.
But suddenly Rap’s chin was grabbed in a horny hand and twisted up until he was staring into pallid blue eyes above a silver floor-brush mustache.
“You heal quickly, halfman.” Gathmor was wearing more than he had done the previous day, but he was still bare-chested, crude and dangerous as a white bear.
“I had help, thir.” Of necessity, Rap spoke through clenched teeth.
“Still want to be a rower?”
“Yeth, thir.”
“How many fingers am I holding out on my other hand?”
The jotunn’s voice was low, his other hand was behind his back, but when Rap hesitated, his thumb found the pressure point below Rap’s ear and squeezed mercilessly.
“Three, thir,” Rap said as tears of pain sprang unbidden into his eyes.
“Now?”
“Two, thir.” He was released.
“What was all that about?” the tesserary asked, not caring much.
“That goblin really mess up half a century coupla days ago?”
Rap could not see the speakers’ faces, but he heard the change in tone. “Where did you hear that lie, sailor?”
“Saloon gossip. Did he?”
“There was a riot.”
“I heard otherwise. How much for them both?”
“You bid on a contract to—”
“Come with me.” The jotunn led the tesserary aside for serious talk. Gathmor’s eyes would have told him that Rap’s injuries had been cured by sorcery, but how had he learned that Rap had farsight? A sailor with occult farsight would be invaluable. And he seemingly knew that this goblin could outrow anyone—if he chose to, of course. Gathmor was remarkably well informed.
Rap edged his feet around and twisted his head sideways to see how the bribery was coming along. Another man was blocking his view. He was dashingly dressed in the loose clothes that the rich affected in such warm climes, but they were superbly cut and were being worn with supreme élan. A broad-brimmed hat shadowed his handsome bronzed face, a rapier dangled rakishly at his hip. He flashed Rap a smile of snow-white teeth.
In the first surge of his fury. Rap tried to straighten. He paid for his error with more skin from wrists and ankles. Had he not been chained, he would have attacked, for this was the monster who had used foul occult mastery to deceive Inos. Hatred made Rap tremble. He could imagine nothing in the world more pleasurable than grinding that pretty face into the street.
His second emotion was a stab of fear. Where there was Andor, there could be Darad.
“Hello again, Rap.”
“What’d you want?”
Andor’s smile became tinged with sadness, or possibly pity. “Thinal thinks you’re lying. Rap.”
“What?”
“Thinal’s very good at detecting lies, you know. Best of the lot of us. He thought you were lying when you said you didn’t know your word of power. Not nice to lie to your friends, Rap!”
So Andor was still after Rap’s word, and if Rap was now capable of telling it, then Darad could be called to encourage the telling and arrange the unfortunate consequences.
Andor watched Rap’s reaction, and his smile grew even wider. “Rowing is fine exercise! Better even than running, I’m told.”
“But you won’t be trying it.”
“Er, no.” Andor sighed regretfully. “I’m often told that my hands are one of my best features. But I’ll be in Cabin One. Do drop in for a chat sometime. Ah … Looks like your fare has been paid. Well, see you on board, old buddy. Bon voyage!”
4
Andor led the way along the quay. Rap followed, with Little Chicken hobbling behind him, and the sailor bringing up the rear; having just paid out much good gold for two healthy thralls, Gathmor was taking no chances on losing them before they even reached Stormdancer.
A thrall with farsight, an occult slave … to sailors. Rap was beyond price. Shuffling along in his awkward trussed posture, he lamented the irony of his new situation. Minutes ago he had been congratulating himself on escaping from Faerie. Faerie was a good place to escape out of, but what had he escaped into?
What chance would he ever have of escaping from sailors who knew of his occult talent? A pilot who could see in fog, in the dark? The crew would guard him like a chest of rubies, the most precious thing aboard.
So the sailors wanted his talent, but Andor was still after his word of power. Perhaps Rap had been unfair in his attitude to Thinal, for whatever his suspicions, the little alleyrat had at least refrained from calling Darad. Andor was not so picky. The gentleman had fewer scruples than the thief.
And Little Chicken wanted his hide. Having been hailed as a king by a coven of sorcerers, the goblin saw himself as nobody’s trash now. Now he was the worst danger of all. Given a fraction of a chance, he was going to toss Rap over his shoulder and lay course for the taiga, for Raven Totem and his destiny.
Bystanders on the Milflor dock saw a gentleman and a sailor escorting two convicts, and they paid slim heed. What Rap saw was three jailers escorting him. He wondered which one was going to get him.
He wondered if they might all kill one another off and leave him free to go.
Of it they might end up with one-third apiece.
Then he was following Andor down the plank to Stormdancer’s deck and a future as a galley slave.
Dead yesterday:
Ah, fill the Cup:—what boots it to repeat
How time is slipping underneath our Feet:
Unborn Tomorrow, and dead Yesterday,
Why fret about them if Today be sweet!
Fitzgerald, Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam (§37, 1859)
TEN
Water willy-nilly
1
The helmsman’s deck aft was very tiny and presently crowded. Still clattering chains, Rap was handed over to Kani, a wiry young fellow with the hopelessly battered face of a jotunn who couldn’t fight well. That was not his only surprising quality. His sea-blue eyes twinkling happily through a straggling mop of silver-blond hair, his lopsided, gap-toothed grin was half hidden by a matching mustache, and yet he chattered like a purebred imp.
He began by shaking Rap’s hand crushingly—a noisy and awkward procedure because of the chai
ns—and thereafter he just kept talking. Wind’s from the west, unusual, he said as he set to work removing Rap’s fetters, be underway in an hour. What’s that round your eyes? he asked. Makes you look like a raccoon. Ever done any rowing? Is that other one really a goblin? Heard of them, never seen one. Are you left-handed or right-handed? Can’t row bare-assed like that, get you some decent gear. Grab some chow from that basket if you’re hungry and come along and meet the lads. And as soon as Rap was unshackled, Kani led the way into the chaos of a hot, dim, and very crowded tunnel.
On one hand the walls and doors of the passengers’ cabins stood taller than a man. On the other, shade awnings slanted steeply down to the ship’s side, ending barely high enough to clear the heads of men sitting there. More air and light could have struggled in from both ends of this awkward gut, had not it been so completely packed with bodies: men on benches, men on the baggage between the benches, men sitting or kneeling in the gangway, men walking and standing and passing bundles and bags around. In all there were at least forty sailors scrambling about in the narrow space, and it was dark and hot and unpleasant, filled with odors of men and ancient spills of every fluid the human body could produce.
Bewildered by the friendly reception. Rap followed Kani as best he could, banging knees and elbows, stubbing toes, squeezing past people, and clambering over oars and benches and stacks of supplies, all of which were being crammed into completely inadequate storage below the seats. And Kani was continually introducing him, so he must cling greedily to his treasure of victuals with his left arm, while at the same time trying to smile convincingly as his right hand was deliberately juiced by the boisterous grips of professional oarsmen.
At times he found himself squashed breathless inside a pack of six or seven sweaty sailors while someone or something important went by. One of these close encounters put him nose to nose with Kani, who peered through his dangling flaxen thatch and exclaimed, “You’ve got gray eyes! Never saw a faun with gray eyes.”
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