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 landfalls 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
Emperor and Clown
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days, by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Keats, Ode to a Nightingale
ONE
Naught availeth
1
Of all the cities of Pandemia, only Hub had no legend or history of its founding. Hub was a legend in its own right, and history was its creation.
Hub had always been. It was the capital of the Impire, the mother of superlatives, the City of the Gods. It sprawled along the shores of Cenmere like a marble cancer.
Alone among all the dwelling places of mankind, only Hub had never known sack or rape or the ravages of war. Forever it had lurked in peace behind the swords of its legions and the sorcery of the Four. Hub was graced by the spoils of a thousand campaigns and nourished on taxes extracted from half the world. Slaves in forgotten millions had died to build it, priceless artworks had crumbled and weathered away in its halls and gardens to make space for more.
It was the best and worst parts of a hundred cities, melted into one. Its finest avenues were wide enough to march a century abreast; its darkest alleys were slits where half a legion could have vanished without trace.
Hub was grandeur. Hub was squalor. Hub gathered all the beauty of the world and offered every vice. Its wealth and population were uncountable. Year in and year out, by ship and wagon, food poured into Hub to feed its teeming mouths, yet the humble starved. Hub exported war and laws and little else but bodies — especially those in summer, when the fevers raged. The rich imported their wine from distant lands, but their servants drank from the same wells as the poor, and they infected their masters.
All roads led to Hub, the imps boasted, and in Hub the greatest ways led to the center, the five hills, the five palaces. The abodes of the wardens, the Red, the White, the Gold, the Blue — beautiful but sinister, these were secret places, masked and buttressed by sorcery, and few went willingly to those. In their midst, highest and greatest, shone the Opal Palace of the imperor, seat of government and all mundane power.
To the Opal Palace came glory and tribute and petitions and ambassadors.
And to the Opal Palace came also, each in its own time, all the problems of the world.
At the center of Pandemia, Shandie thought, is the Impire. At the center of the Impire is Hub. At the center of Hub is the Opal Palace — although that isn’t quite true, because it’s too near the lake to be really in the center — and at the center of the Opal Palace is Emine’s Rotunda, and at the center of the rotunda is me.
Am I, he amended hastily.
And that wasn’t quite true, either, because the exact center of the great round hall was the throne, and he was standing one step down from the throne, on Grandfather’s right.
He must not move. Not a finger. Not a toe. This was a very formal occasion.
And Moms had warned him: Ythbane was running out of patience with Shandie’s continual fidgeting at state functions. Princes must know how to behave with dignity, Ythbane said, not twitch and shuffle and pick their noses on the steps of the throne. If he couldn’t learn how to stand for a couple of hours, at least he would be stopped from sitting down for the rest of the day. Not that Shandie had ever picked his nose on the steps of the throne. He didn’t think he really fidgeted enough that any of the audience could see. He didn’t think he’d earned his last few beatings, but Ythbane had thought so, and Moms always agreed with anything the consul said. And Grandfather didn’t even know who Shandie was now.
Grandfather was on his throne, so he was the center of the rotunda, and the palace, and the city, and the Impire, and the world. From the sound of his breathing, he was asleep again. Moms was on his far side, also on the first step; but she had a chair to sit on.
Dad had stood here once, he remembered. Where he was. Moms didn’t talk about Dad now, not ever.
Keeping perfectly still would be much easier if you could sit down to do it. Shandie’s knees were shaking. His left arm was a torment of fire ants from staying bent, holding up his toga. If his arm fell off, would that be counted as moving?
Ythbane would probably beat him anyway.
He was still sore from last time.
Grandfather snorted and snuffled in his sleep. Lucky Grandfather!
One day I will sit on that throne, and be Imperor Emshandar V.
Then I will kill Ythbane.
That was a wonderful thought.
What else should an imperor do? First, have Ythbane’s backside beaten — right there, on the floor of the rotunda, where the fat delegate was still kneeling, reciting his nonsense. In front of the court and the senators. Shandie caught himself about to smile, and didn’t.
Then be merciful a
nd cut off his head.
Second, abolish these stupid, stupid togas!
Why should formal occasions require formal court dress, togas and sandals? No one wore them any other time. What was wrong with hose and doublet and shoes? Or even tights, which were the latest craze. Ordinary people never had to wear these ridiculous, scratchy, uncomfortable bed sheets. Sane, ordinary people hadn’t worn things like these for thousands of years. Oh, my poor arm!
Abolish togas, that was certain.
And abolish all these dreadful formal ceremonies!
Why bother with them? Grandfather certainly didn’t want them — he’d been weeping when they’d brought him in. The birthday homages had just started, too. They would be going on for weeks. What sort of a way was that to celebrate a birthday, even a seventy-fifth?
A birthday was one day. That’s what the word meant. Birthday!
Shandie’s tenth birthday was just a month away, and he was going to have a one-day birthday. Mostly awful ceremonial, too, but a party with some other boys if he was good, Moms said.
The toga was hot and heavy. Sunlight blazed down from the windows in the high dome, casting his shadow at his feet — but he mustn’t look down.
The fat delegate from wherever-it-was came to a stuttering end at last, obviously as relieved as Shandie. He bent forward to place his offering beside the other offerings, then crawled back a pace and touched his face to the floor. Everyone looked up at Grandfather, and Shandie froze. Even his eyes. Don’t blink while Ythbane is watching!
Grandfather was supposed to say something then, but all Shandie heard was another half snore.
As a consul, Ythbane stood at the head of the line of toga-clad ministers, nearest to the imperor. Shandie could feel those hateful eyes washing over him, looking for signs of fidgeting, but he stared rigidly across at the empty White Throne and did not breathe. Little tremors crawled over his scalp. If his hair stood on end, would Ythbane call that fidgeting?
A Man of His Word Page 117