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 Ullacarn 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 chan
ge voice halfway through a speech. Either he was attempting too many roles at once, Inos thought, or something new was worrying Master Skarash.
The sightseeing had been a mistake; her headache had grown worse. Now, thank the Gods, she was on her way to pick up Kade and go home; if she lived that long. The wheels rat-tatted on the cobbles, shooting bolts of fire from her eyeballs, and the chaise lurched and rocked down the hill, scattering pedestrians and pack animals alike, swerving around on one wheel between wagons and carriages. Spectators roared in anger and shook fists. Dogs barked and horses shied. Dwarves with hammers beat on her brain like an anvil.
Skarash being charioteer … the two hussars sent along to guard Inos had objected to his fast driving. Mainly they’d just been throwing their weight around, hassling a rich djinn. So Skarash had challenged them to a race down the Way Imelada, the steepest, narrowest, nastiest alley in the city, so far as Inos could tell. He was going to win it, too, if it killed her.
Ullacarn was a flatter city than Arakkaran, or Krasnegar, but it did have the Way Imelada, and it did have a palace on a hilltop. The emir was rumored to be under house arrest, Skarash had said. There must be a strong anti-Impire faction in the city, so perhaps Azak could enlist some secret allies among the local djinns.
In three days? And why would the enemies of the Impire aid a sultan who wanted to go to Hub? More like they would see him as a traitor and push a scimitar through him; and the problems of a refugee queen from the far northwest would interest them not at all. Bury that idea.
Or bury Inos! The chaise skidded around a corner on one wheel, narrowly missing a cart laden with vegetables.
And now the way ahead was flatter, wider, and packed with people. Skarash was screaming warnings, cracking his whip in the air. Inos clung tight and tried closing her eyes, but that did not help much. Every jolt flashed flames inside her head, and they just seemed brighter when she had her eyes closed. Somewhere behind the bouncing chaise came the two horsemen, but Skarash had outwitted them right at the beginning by getting them to agree to give him a few paces’ start, and ever since then they had been unable to find a place clear enough to overtake. Unless he killed someone, he was going to win the race.
Yesterday Azak had escorted Inos; today he had gone off on his own. He had reluctantly agreed to wear impish costume while in Ullacarn, for otherwise he would be conspicuous and might find himself harassed by the soldiers. As always, he had gone full measure. He had shaved off his beard and had his hair cut to impish shortness; it was coppery and lighter than his beard. In hose and breeches and ruffles, he was a sight to catch every female eye in town. Suddenly the idea of Azak in Kinvale or even Krasnegar was not quite so hard to imagine—but that was another problem altogether.
The chaise lurched extra hard and skidded and swung sideways. Inos muttered a prayer and clung tighter. Then she heard yells of triumph close by and opened her eyes just as the hussars went thundering past. Ambly Square was right ahead.
“You lost! “she said.
Skarash dared not turn to look at her yet, but he grinned. His face was bright scarlet and shiny with perspiration, his hair flew loose, and his plumed hat had vanished completely. He was obviously very pleased with himself. “Of course I lost! You think I’m crazy enough to win?” He was still hauling on the reins to slow the horse.
Two minutes later he brought Inos safely, if not soundly, back to the couturier’s door. He began passing gold to the hussars, along with his congratulations. He was still being a trader, still giving what was wanted.
The couturier’s establishment was a grand house on a grand square. Djinn servants came hurrying to lead the horse to the mews, and Skarash again flashed coin as he demanded that the hussars’ mounts be taken, also, to be walked and rubbed down. Then he gave Inos his hand to help her descend, followed by his arm to mount the wide stairs to the door. He was puffing and still excited from the race. He could have won had he wished, so losing was a double victory for him.
Inos fought for concentration through the thumping surf in her head. “Master Skarash?” she murmured as big white doors swung open before them.
“Yes, my beloved?” he replied softly.
Inos ignored that. “I have relatives in Hub. My aunt knows many people there. I was wondering if we might write letters to forewarn them of our arrival?”
They stepped together into a hallway richly furnished, although possibly at secondhand, for the rugs and draperies seemed mismatched. Inos started toward the room where she had left Kade, but the footman was leading the way across to the stairs, so Kade must have moved.
“Letters?” Skarash mused. “There would be no point at the moment, would there? No ship is due to sail before Dawn Pearl, so you would merely be paying to send mail on the same vessel as yourself. When we reach Qoble, of course, then the case may be different. You may not wish to travel at the posts’ pace then.”
“You will be accompanying us?” For a moment that surprise even cut through the headache.
Skarash smiled innocently. “Only as far as Angot, to deliver some messages for Grandsire.”
So Elkarath was not going! Yet how could he risk sending his prisoners off unaccompanied? Winds were fitful. Even if Dawn Pearl had no preliminary landfalls scheduled before Qoble, the Gods might arrange one. Rasha would not dare withdraw all occult restraint—what did that hint about Skarash?
Then Inos was being ushered into a room where Kade was preening before a pier glass. She spun around and beamed. “Ah! Did you have a pleasant journey, my dear? Do sit down and advise me. These pearls are such a problem.”
Inos set her face in a rictus of smile and sank onto a chintz-covered chair. The draperies were rich purple velvet, the rugs soft and thick, in a discordant mauve. The furniture was an odd assemblage.
Kade, of course, was exultant at the thought of journeying to Hub. All her life she had wanted to visit the capital. She had almost attained her ambition twice, and each time something had come up to prevent her leaving Kinvale.
Kade, in a sense, was being as deceitful as Skarash. Having played the role of desert nomad for months, enduring hardship and discomfort without complaint, she had now reverted to being a brainless Kinvale lady, totally engrossed in gowns and frippery. Well, if she enjoyed the procedure, she had certainly earned it, even if it was only a comfortable sham.
“What do you think of this string?” she inquired. “Or this one?”
The impish assistants fussed and exclaimed around her, delighted to have a customer with such exquisite taste and such impressive wealth. Of course pearls were plentiful in Ullacarn, on the shores of the Sea of Sorrows. Despite her worries and her pounding temples, Inos was impressed by the glowing heaps being displayed.
“Why not take both, your Highness?” Skarash suggested. “And the stomacher, also?”
“You really think so?” Kade said, seeming tempted. “And what about earrings and brooches? Look at these, Inos!”
Inos murmured appreciation and offered opinions, and then reluctantly moved to a chair before a mirror so that she also might try on clasps and brooches encrusted with fine pearls. Skarash encouraged and applauded, flaunting wealth and pressing the noble ladies to buy whatever they fancied. The clerks murmured and enthused.
Inos’s head continued to throb, but even while she babbled about settings and matches and sizes, her mind went on wrestling with the main problem, rejecting this whole charade as being unbelievable. There just was no reason why Rasha should be sending her prisoners off to Hub. The promised voyage to Qoble must be a feint to keep them happy while something else was planned.
But what could three penniless, friendless fugitives do in an unknown city? They could not pay their fares on a ship, they could not bribe guards, or sailors. They seemed to have no option except to play along with the pretense until such time as Elkarath revealed the sorceress’s true plans.
“And you should see the lacework!” Kade exclaimed. “Do you remember those lace cuffs—no, they
were before your time, my dear. I had a pair of lace cuffs that moved from gown to gown for ten years at least, until they were dishrags. Lace was so expensive in Kinford! And here they have lace like I have never seen. Collars and cuffs—”
“The best lace comes from Guwush,” said Skarash, the trader in him emerging briefly. He began describing how the gnomes harvested silk from forest spiders, and then went into technicalities of quality and grading.
Half an hour or so later, Inos could rise thankfully to her feet, prepared to leave. The sun was near to setting, and the thought of lying down on her lumpy little bed in the House of Elkarath was heavenly. Kade had shamelessly frittered away a fortune, but seemed content at last—dear Kade! She had earned it. The assistants were hastily wrapping all those riches, and Skarash was counting out gold as carelessly as if it were millet.
Kade caught Inos’s eye briefly.
Inos blinked and looked again, but the odd expression had vanished and her aunt had turned to ask about alterations to the turquoise tea gown.
By then Inos understood. Right under her eyes, Kade had solved one of the problems. The fugitives might not have gold, but they now had an enormous supply of valuable earrings and brooches and pins. For bribery, at least, those might do as well.
Three in a one-horse chaise were cramped, and although Skarash did not indulge in any more chariot races, he seemed to have picked up an inexplicable sense of urgency. The streets were crowded with homebound workers, and he fretted impatiently, muttering under his breath.
Inos considered him out of the corner of a bleary, pain-filled eye. Jumpy or not, he had been flirting all afternoon, at every chance. Dare she attempt to seduce Elkarath’s grandson from his loyalty? Would she ever trust anything this devious young man promised? If he were indeed the Chosen One, he would be crazy to risk losing his chance of inheriting such powers just for a mild flirtation, for Inos had no intention of going any further than that. If he was indeed going to be her guardian on the ship, then he might already have been granted occult powers, and thus he might already know what she was thinking—and a flirtation would get out of hand very quickly. She decided not to pursue the matter … pursue Skarash. The way her head was thumping, she was not capable of producing even one winsome smile, anyway.
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