Then Azak looked down, and rubbed it. “I am grateful, Master Skarash! Mayhap we can talk later? Meanwhile, I could surely use a bath.”
“At once, Sire!” Skarash was on his feet and out the door already with a lantern. His footsteps died away, then loud hinges wailed in the distance. Azak snorted. “Didn’t wait for formal dismissal, did he? Weak on etiquette!”
“What else is he weak on? I’ve never heard him speak like that, and he was playing imp dandy all the way here.” Imp lover.
“Skarash? Bah! He’s a mimic, the man of a thousand masks. I’ve watched him trading. He’ll make a great merchant. He shows what you want to see, says what you want to hear.”
Kisses you when you want to be kissed.
So Skarash could never be trusted. Did Inos have any allies at all? She took the lantern and backed out of the tiny cell. Azak followed, then straightened to his full height with a groan of relief. He rubbed his back.
Reconciliation! She said, “ Azak, I did not use occult power on you! I swear it.”
He peered down at her for a moment, then shook his head sadly. “No. If you had, it would have faded, wouldn’t it? Unless you’re a full sorceress it would have gone away in the night?”
“Yes.”
“It didn’t! I am still quite hopelessly in love with you.”
That, to her surprise, was a huge relief. Perhaps she also had wondered. Perhaps she was starting to return his love.
Perhaps that was why he had chosen to spend the night in the cellar. She turned away quickly and headed for the stair, hoping she could find a route out of the labyrinth.
“I shall be glad to see daylight again,” Azak growled behind her. “I don’t like caves … but what is this tale of sailing to the Impire?”
“I don’t know. It’s what Elkarath says. It may be just a lie, to keep us from trying to escape.”
“Or Rasha may have sold us both to Olybino. You to be puppet queen of Krasnegar, me to be returned to Zark as traitor.”
“Traitor?” She stopped and looked up at him. “You?”
His expression was bleak. “You heard Skarash. It is coming, as we suspected. Always when the Impire invades, we djinns unite and throw them out again. If we did it sooner we could keep them out, but we always do it eventually. Eventually a supreme leader raises the black banner. I am the obvious candidate.”
“Er … of course.”
“And if the warlock of the east has laid a loyalty spell on me?”
She nodded, horrified once again at the dark workings of sorcery. Azak might be in greater danger than she was.
She started up the stairs, with her shadow dancing on the wall beside her. “You should take Skarash’s advice. Find a ship bound for Arakkaran as soon as you can.”
They were through the door at the top before Azak said, “ No. I shall stay with you. I care more for you than I do for Zark, or Arakkaran, or anything.”
Again she halted and spun around to look at him in wonder. “This is madness!”
“Yes. But love always is, isn’t it?”
“Your kingdom? Your sons?”
“I would give away my kingdom forever if I could just kiss you just once.”
She could find no answer to that.
To the seas again:
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by.
Masefield, Sea-Fever
NINE
They also serve
1
With rain dribbling down his neck and only two hours of daylight left to reach Puldarn, Ulynago thumped the reins and bellowed at his team. Ahead of him the ancient highway ran like a beam of gray light through the black woods, straight for the notch in the trees on the ridge ahead. Had he been able to see back over the load, the view behind would have been just about identical; traffic was almost nonexistent in this weather. He’d met none since Thin Bridge, just outside Tithro.
On the bench at his side, Iggo slumped and nodded, two-thirds asleep. No man ought to be able to sleep in such a downpour, but Iggo wasn’t very much awake at the best of times.
In Puldarn there was hot food and beer and a certain well-padded waitress. Ulynago was a man of simple tastes.
Until four years ago, he’d been a legionary. He’d seen no real fighting, but he’d cut up a few rebellious gnomes in his time. Revolting gnomes, the legions called them—gnomes were always revolting. Joke! Good sport, though, gnomes. He’d struggled his way up to centurion near the end of his term. Then there had been better opportunities. He’d retired with a lot more than his official requital, enough to buy his wheels and hooves, back home in South Pithmot where he’d been raised. And he’d hired as swamper, Iggo who was big and stupid—stupid enough once to tackle a drunken troll and a lot stupider afterward. An ideal helper, who couldn’t always remember when he’d been paid.
So everything was just as the Gods ordered, except for this Evil-take-it rain. Ulynago hoped the wet wouldn’t get into his wheat, good northern wheat that had come all the way from Shimlundok, destined for rich folks’ fine bread. The damp would do it no good, and him no good, therefore. The merchants would try to chew him down on the price.
With no warning, he forgot the wheat. He had a different problem—the horses breaking step, trying to slow to a walk. What the Evil? The wagon rocked. He yelled and pulled out his whip. He cracked it. It made no difference. Something had spooked them, they were fighting the weight, all on the wrong feet. The rig twisted. Hastily he grabbed the brake. Iggo lurched forward and awoke with a bellow of oaths.
“Shut up and get the blades!” Ulynago yelled.
“Wha’s’matter?”
With a few lurid additions, Ulynago explained that he didn’t know. The rig clattered to a halt. The horses stood and steamed in the wet, but all calm as jelly pudding. Silence. What the Evil?
Ulynago thumped reins again. Ears twitched … nothing more. God of Madness! The horses were all staring at the trees just ahead. He felt the hairs on his spine rise. Who would hijack a load of wheat? Of course he did have eighteen gold crowns in his moneybelt. If men were behind this, what had they done to his team?
He rose and peered back over the load at the highway behind—bare rock, shining in the wet, running straight and empty as far as he could see in the rain mist. He didn’t like these parts. Too close to dragon country, but one whiff of dragon would have put the team in Puldarn by now. Not dragons.
A man stalked out of the trees ahead and headed for the rig.
With a roar, Ulynago tried to rouse the team again, and again nothing happened. Grinding out a mixture of army oaths and teamster technicalities, he shook water off his hat, took up his sword, and jumped down. Then he saw that the newcomer was only an elf. The tightness in his gut eased a lot—he could handle elves. Only one? Iggo’s boots thumped down on the other side of the wagon.
Ulynago headed for the elf. He certainly was no threat—unarmed, just a kid in fancy blue and green, all soaked and smeared with grass stains. Hard to tell with elves, so he might be older. He was striding … elves usually pranced. Odd sort of elf.
They met beside the lead pair, with the point of Ulynago’s sword at the brat’s midriff.
“Who the Evil are you? What you do to my team?”
“I’m truly sorry about this,” the kid said, looking at him with eyes that sparkled green and blue like his clothes. He was ignoring the blade.
“Sorry about what?”
“This.”
Lying flat on his back, Ulynago could feel the rain falling straight into his eyes. The sky was fall of wildly gyrating trees. He thought back to when something like a ballista had impacted the point of his chin, all of five or six seconds ago. He was still holding his sword. No one had ever gotten by his guard like that before. No helmet. His head had hit the stones … God of Torment!
Somewhere Iggo yelled, just once. Then a clatter of metal struck the roadway, and a muffle
d 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 th
e back of the room.
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.
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