“Then you’ll have to dress like one,” Rap said.
He himself was dressed like an elf and trying not to notice. Krasnegarians expected protection from cold in winter and gnats in summer; they despised short pants and sleeveless shirts. Rap scowled down at the multihued arms on the rail before him. Whoever heard of an elf with scrapes and bruises? The conical absurdity on his head was even sillier than the forester cap Ishist had given him—and a lace collar! Even if he was standard gold all over, he still would not suit magenta and peach. With his arms and face and legs bearing bright rainbow reminders of the brawl in the Enchanted Glade and even more of the jailers’ persuasions, he was not a likely elf at all, and certainly not a beautiful one.
Quip’ was. He was much more interested in his new outfit than he was in the view from the deck. The first real clothes he had ever owned, he said, and he was overcome by their glory. He’d chosen them himself: turquoise buskins cross-laced in silver, shorts and blouse in chrome red and sulfur yellow, with floral overlay in seed pearls and cornflower blue stitchery. He had lace everywhere, even on his pants, and his cap kept blowing off because of its oversize ostrich plume, which was green. And yet, amazingly, it all very nearly worked. Without the green feather, it might have passed. At least five minutes had gone by since he’d asked Rap if he liked the effect—really liked it—so the question was about due again. Quip’ was the most glorious thing in port at the moment, and yet still the most insecure.
A little way aft stood a group of another six brightly clad passengers. Whatever the traditions said, the elvish community of Noom was not going to gamble its entire wealth on Apprentice Quip’rian. He was Nearest Kinsman and therefore official escort, but someone reliable must keep an eye on him. The leaders seemed to be Mistress Fern’soon, director of the city art gallery—who looked about twenty and was a grandmother—and Sir Thoalin’fen, who was chief choreographer for the South Pithmot Ballet and had danced for the imperor’s grandmother in his youth. His face sagged slightly over missing teeth and a milky sheen dulled the opal fires of his eyes, but elvish skin never wrinkled, elvish hair never turned from spun gold to silver. A stooped or pot-bellied elf was unthinkable. Not fair, Rap thought. One day Thoalin’ would drop dead of sheer old age, and he would still look no older than Rap, the real Rap.
Lord Phiel’ had sent his warmest wishes, but etiquette did not allow him to be present, and he must return to Hub anyway, to prepare for the celebrations of the imperor’s birthday.
The legionaries pacing the quay would be making sure that the agreement was being honored. Likely the lictor had a man or two on board as well.
A grand landau drew up alongside, bearing a strikingly beautiful and obviously wealthy lady, so engrossed in a passionate farewell to her gentleman companion that she had not realized she could be seen from the deck. When the tearful embrace ended, Rap saw to his astonishment that the man in question was Andor.
What could possibly have brought him?
Yet Andor it was, and he strolled gracefully up the gangplank, following his sea chest. Andor’s hose would never wrinkle, no breeze ever dare ruffle his hair. Without a glance at Rap, he headed for the group of elvish worthies.
Ten minutes later, though, the lovely but slightly bewildered Fern’soon found herself presenting Sir Andor to Master Rap’rian and his … er, friends. Formal courtesies were exchanged, Andor trying to conceal his distaste at the welts, puffy eyes, and swollen lips.
And as he allowed Fern’soon to draw him away to better company, he muttered out of the corner of his mouth, “ Later, in my cabin. Sagorn has news for you.”
Even that intriguing word could not distract Rap from the excitement of the imminent departure. He went back to watching the preparations.
“She’s a beauty,” Gathmor muttered, and he was not studying women.
“Yes, Cap’n, she’s all that.”
“No disrespect to a fine ship, lad, but she even outclasses Stormdancer.” He was comparing a racehorse and a donkey, but then his own admission upset him. He turned his face away, as if to hide tears from a seer.
“Infernal feather!” Quip’rian grumbled as the wind snatched his cap yet again. “Should I have chosen a smaller plume, do you think, sir?”
“No. That one suits you,” Rap said. “It adds dash!”
“Oh, do you think so? Really think so?” The gold of Quip’s cheeks turned coppery.
“This beats clearing plates, does it not? It doesn’t?”
Quip’ swallowed hard. “I had to go on the harbor ferry once.”
“And?”
He shuddered. “You’ve never been on a boat before?”
“Oh, yes. And ships.”
Quip’ gave him a tortured, puzzled glance. “You don’t get sick, sir?”
“Quip’!” Rap protested. “I keep telling you—stop calling me ‘sir’! I’m not much older than you are.”
“But you’re so much more … worldly! Experienced. Manly.”
“You’ll get there soon enough. And no, I never get seasick.”
“Really? I thought elves always did. I did. Horribly.”
In the harbor? “It’s all inside your head,” Rap said airily. Then he began to wonder how deeply his own head had been penetrated by Ishist’s magic. A sorcerer who enjoyed practical jokes might find seasickness a real belly laugh.
The gangplanks were being hauled in. The other elves were heading for their cabins. Quip’s edginess was increasing rapidly.
“I may not be able to carry out my escort duties if I get seasick, sir-I-mean-Rap’.”
Rap tried his encouraging smile. Could even occult mastery overcome seasickness? “Don’t worry about it. It’s only a formality. I’m not going to jump overboard.”
The idea of jumping overboard made Quip’ shudder and alloyed his golden face with silver. “You’re frightfully brave!”
“No, I’m not.”
“But you’re going to Lith’rian! A warlock! He may cut off your head.”
“I don’t think he will,” Rap said with all the confidence he could display, wishing he could use occult mastery to convince himself as well as he could others.
“Then you really want a war? The Clan’rians against the Clan’nilths? And of course all the allied clans will come in, or most of—”
“I hope not that, either! I’m sure a warlock can find a way around the problem, Quip’. I’ve nothing against Phiel’nilth. I chose him by pure chance, or maybe by good luck. I’ve nothing against his clan. I just need to see Warlock Lith’rian very urgently, that’s all. I was told that this was the easiest, quickest way to do so.”
The elf’s big opal eyes seemed to grow even larger, flickering amethyst and pearl. “But why?” he whispered.
Rap wanted to watch the cables being cast off, but he decided he was going to have to talk at the same time, to give his Nearest Kinsman some sort of explanation. He deserved it, for Rap’s actions had grossly disrupted his humdrum, insignificant existence. Some people were not made to hear the trumpets. Quip’rian would always be a lapdog, never a wolfhound.
And Rap himself was another. This mad pilgrimage had never been his choice. All he had ever wanted was to aid Inos by warning her of her father’s illness. Now where had it got him? Had Andor and his gang not interfered, Rap would be driving a wagon now, bringing in the harvest at Krasnegar. Or he might be an assistant factor, charging to and fro on a pony and tallying supplies.
And who would be reigning in the castle?
Kalkor?
Rap pulled his mind back to Allena and the worried youth beside him. Gathmor had dashed off to haul on ropes with the sailors, unable to stand idle any longer.
“Why? Because of a lady.”
“Oooo!” Quip’ sighed deeply. “Truly? All this for an affair of the heart? How wonderful!” His eyes misted.
“A little more than that …” Leaning his elbows on the rail, Rap started to explain. The elf pulled off his cap for safekeeping and then leaned at
his side, listening in open-month fascination.
Rap began at the beginning, in Krasnegar. He did not mention that he had become an elf only recently—that was much too complicated. Indeed, he managed to keep almost all the magic out of it, especially his own, but he did have to include Rasha, Ishist, and Bright Water.
Even in that abbreviated form it was a very remarkable tale, yet the most remarkable thing about it was that young Quip’ obviously believed every word. He sniffed, then sniveled, and finally openly wept, not even seeing the sails spreading out above him, pink in the sunset glow. Nor did he notice the gentle motion of the ship as Allena turned majestically toward the harbor bar. And when Rap at last straightened up and concluded with, “ And that’s where you came in,” the elf blinked bronze-rimmed eyes at him and—being speechless with emotion—then tried to embrace him.
Rap used his occult agility to dodge the embrace, so Quip’ draped himself on the rail again until he could control his tears.
“It’s beautiful!” he sobbed. “The bards of Ilrane will sing of it for centuries! Oh, Rap’! That’s the loveliest story I ever heard! Throwing your life away to help the lady you can never hope to marry!”
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.”
“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.
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