He turned to face across at the White.
Why was he waiting like this? Was he scared, a little, maybe?
Ythbane struck the sword against the buckler and produced a dull Clank! Shandie felt a surge of disappointment. He’d expected a bright, ringing Clang! that would echo away for a long, long time. No wonder the sword and buckler were both so battered-looking, if every imperor in three thousand years had bashed them together like that.
Then came a long hissing sound from all around the rotunda as the audience drew in its breath. A lady was sitting on the White Throne.
Well! She wasn’t so old! Moms looked older’n that. She wasn’t green, either. About the same middle-brown shade as Shandie himself; maybe a little yellower. Floor-mat color, coconut. Her hair was black, and coiled up on top of her head. She wasn’t beautiful, certainly, but not ’specially ugly. There was something odd about her chiton, though. It sort of glowed a bit, and the folds were kind of misty, as if the cloth were flowing fog. It made Shandie woozier, so he looked away.
Ythbane saluted with the sword. If Bright Water did anything, Shandie missed it, because when his eyes went back to the White Throne, it was empty again.
A rumble of disgust came from the old senator. From several old senators, from the sound of it.
Ythbane had turned to the east now, and Shandie instinctively froze. He could only see the back of the Gold Throne, anyway.
Again the Clank! of sword on buckler, and Warlock Olybino answered the summons immediately. Shandie saw the gold-crested helmet over the back of the Gold Throne.
Moms sighed and relaxed. Two was enough, he remembered. Ythbane had been confirmed as Imperial regent by the Four. Well, that wasn’t much of a ceremony!
The senator grunted angrily. “Disgusting! A mongrel! Can’t think what the wardens are thinking of!”
But that wasn’t right! Shandie knew. Court Teacher had told him — all the wardens came for was to show that the candidate hadn’t gotten there by sorcery and wasn’t a sorcerer. As long as he’d succeeded by mundane means, they didn’t care if he’d used an army, or poison, or anything. He had Emine’s buckler and sword, and he wasn’t a sorcerer, that was all. Very rarely in all history had the Four refused to recognize a new imperor or a regent.
Ythbane saluted. The warlock rose and responded, and was gone again. Shandie rubbed his eyes. It was hard to believe that you’d seen something — someone — when they weren’t there any more and you hadn’t seen them going away.
Now Ythbane strode round to the back of the Opal Throne. South was an elf. Shandie had not seen any elves around court for so long that he could hardly remember, except for a few dancers and singers, and they’d all been very young. No grown-up elves, except maybe Lord Phiel’nilth, the Poet Laureate, and he didn’t seem very old, either.
The other two wardens would certainly come now and make it unanimous — that’s what he’d been told. It wouldn’t matter if they didn’t. Ythbane was regent now, and poor Grandfather was going to die soon, and Shandie mustn’t think about that, or he might start crying and future imperors mustn’t, not ever, ’specially in public. He would really get beaten for that, and he’d deserve it, too.
There was a man sitting on the Blue Throne. A boy? He didn’t look very much older than Thorog, and no taller. Could that be Lith’rian himself, or had he sent a grandson or someone in his place? Maybe elves looked like that no matter how old they were? He was wearing a toga, and an odd blue one, like folds of captured sky. His golden skin and golden curls were sunshine in that sky, and his smile was brilliant. His face was very bright and his eyes were … odd. Elvish? Thorog’s eyes were sort of slanted like that, big and queer. Shandie’d never thought of that before.
With gold skin and hair like that, an elf really ought to be warlock of the east, so he could have a throne to match. That was a funny idea! And a red-skinned djinn to be West, and a jotunn North, ’cause jotnar were so pale. How about South? No blue skin, but blue hair — a merman? That would be much tidier, and he’d arrange it when he got to be Emshandar V.
Ythbane had saluted. The boy rose in a graceful shimmer and bowed very low to him. Shandie’s Deportment Teacher would have loved to have seen that! That was how a toga should be worn, too. The audience murmured appreciation — and then surprise, as the warlock sank down on his throne again, leaning back and crossing his ankles as if preparing to stay a while. His smile seemed even more rakish than before.
The regent hesitated. The elf waved a hand in a carry-on gesture and then crossed his arms also. He was smiling, perfectly at ease. Why not? Whoever would beat a warlock if he misbehaved? And the great Warlock Lith’rian looked as devilishly mischievous as any cheeky upstart page at the moment.
Ythbane was so obviously at a loss that Shandie wanted to giggle. Then the regent moved around to face west. Clank!
Silence.
And more silence …
“So he’s only got three!” the old senator muttered.
Still nothing had happened, Ythbane facing the Red Throne, and the Red Throne remaining stubbornly empty. Warlock Lith’rian put a hand in front of his mouth to smother a graceful yawn.
“Elves and dwarves!” the senator muttered. “It’s not the merman, it’s the elf, mm?”
Ythbane gave up. With a guarded scowl at South’s obvious enjoyment, he stamped around to the front of the Opal Throne and sat down. Shandie was watching Lith’rian, and he vanished at the exact same instant. The audience rose to its feet and cheered the new regent.
After the cheering came the speeches, and they went on a long time, and Shandie wished it would all stop so he could go and take a mouthful of medicine, because he was starting to feel scratchy-twitchy.
8
At the top of the slope the foremost riders were reining in. Here the trail emerged from trees, onto a grassy ridge. Gratefully Inos reined also, and slowed her sleek bay mare to a walk and then a halt. Its breath blew white in the high air, and she felt the wind chilling her heated skin. She looked out over yet another garden landscape: fields and farms and lakes, glowing in evening sun. All of Ilrane seemed to be one great picturebook.
She had ridden with an Imperial army across taiga and tundra in winter. She had crossed the Central Desert on a camel in summer and the Progistes Range on a barrel-ribbed mule. Yet she had never known a ride like this one. Four days of almost uninterrupted canter … horse after horse, in relays … meals snatched in the saddle, and brief, brief nights when she had lain like a stone in straw or under a blanket in some cedar-scented attic … Every bone ached, and she was raw from hips to ankles. Elves did nothing by halves.
The only good thing about her numbing daze of exhaustion was that it blanked out any chance to brood on her terrible error.
Then she saw what had caused the halt. Very far off, beyond the hills, a pinecone shape stood faint against the sky. One side gleamed brilliant, sparkling, the other was blue with the haziness of great distance. It was the closest she had yet seen a sky tree. Even fainter, beyond it, shone peaks that must be the start of the Nefer Range.
“Valdoscan,” said a voice.
It was Lia’, the leader of this strange expedition. In her trim silvery leather riding clothes she seemed no older than Inos herself, and yet two nights back she had mentioned her grandchildren. Only her obvious fatigue hinted now at her true age. Then Inos remembered her full name — Lia’scan.
“Your home?”
The girl — woman — smiled wistfully and cupped a hand to the brim of her cap to see better. “Indeed! I was not born there and have visited it but rarely … but every elf belongs to a sky tree, as a bee belongs to a hive.”
“Some day I should love to see a sky tree.”
“Few indeed are the nonelves who have ever visited one. But if that is your wish, Inosolan, then it may be so.”
Startled, Inos paused to think. She looked over the rest of the company. In Elmas the elves had agreed to help after all — help her. And they had no
t merely granted the visitors right of passage, they had escorted them posthaste, although they had rejected Azak’s private army, limiting him to three men. He had chosen Char, Varrun, and Jarkim, sending Zana and the rest off with Gutturaz to find their way back unscathed to Zark and the coming years of glory — or so it was to be hoped.
Inos and the four djinns rode unarmed, while their elvish escort bristled with shiny swords. They might be slight, but they all moved like hummingbirds. Half of them were women. They rode like swallows on the wind. Azak was still more sulky than grateful.
“My lady,” Inos said, “I don’t think I understand. We are on our way to the Impire, are we not?”
Lia’ glanced around. Azak was edging his horse toward them. She kicked in her heels. “Let us walk awhile, Inos. Our mounts will grow chilled if we keep them standing.”
Inos put the mare into motion and rode at her side, still puzzled.
“You are indeed on your way to the Impire,” Lia’ said. “By noon tomorrow you will cross the border. We can take you by unguarded ways, and we can furnish you with documents that should carry you safely after that — no one but a border official knows what a real passport looks like. Your weapons will be returned to you, although you will be wise to keep them hidden. All will be done as was promised.”
“So?” Inos said. The rest of the company was following, but a trio of elves had moved in behind her to cut out the djinns. This little chat had been carefully planned.
The elf looked at her with challenge. “Is this what you truly want, child? There is an alternative.”
“Which is?”
“No elf can resist beauty, in any form. It was the damage to your face that won Amiel’s support, and, through her, the favor of … other people. Important people.”
“I think you are no nonentity yourself, ma’am.”
Lia’ smiled. “Never mind what I am. Elves revel in fancy titles and laugh at them also. What matters is that the warlock of the south is an elf. He is greatly honored by his people. We fear him, of course, but we also admire him and what he has done.”
The trail wound back into trees again, and both women twisted to take a final look at the iridescent glory that was Valdoscan. Then it had vanished.
“Lith’rian spends much time at his own enclave, Valdorian. It is on the far side of Ilrane, but still closer than Hub. If you wish, then that could be your destination.”
“He would heal me?”
“I am certain he would.” The opal eyes flickered viridian and cobalt.
“And my husband’s curse?”
The childlike face grew bleak. “It was decided that this offer would be made only to you.”
“I see.” Temptation! Was this some sort of a test?
“Azak is not the sort of person who readily gains sympathy from an elf,” Lia’ remarked snidely.
“He is a remarkable man,” Inos insisted, “and a fitting ruler for a harsh land.”
“And a fitting husband for a well-born lady?”
“You presume far, ma’am.”
Lia’ laughed halfheartedly. “Forgive me, that was vulgar! But you puzzle us, Inosolan. Why did you ever marry that boor? You did not yield to manly caresses, for his lips would burn you. I do not think you are a witless child to be bewitched by muscles and ruthlessness. So why? Not merely to share a throne, for a sultana is no more than a housekeeper.” Receiving no response, she pressed harder relentlessly. “They say that the God of Love plays dice with our hearts. Do you love Azak ak’Azakar, Inosolan?”
No.
Inos did not speak.
She was thinking of Rap.
Why had she not seen earlier what the God’s words had meant?
Too late, too late!
“He is a barbarian, Inos.”
He tortured my lover to death, the man who loved me, who crossed the world to help me.
She gulped at the thought. “If I accept your offer and seek out Lith’rian, then what happens to Azak?”
“We shall give him the choice — he may return whence he came, or proceed to the Impire. But I suspect he would be betrayed to the Imperial military.”
Inos glared at her companion. “You are ruthless yourself, my lady.”
Lia’ nodded sadly. “Elves often are. It surprises people, sometimes. Even ourselves. But we agreed to help you only. And now I want your answer.”
“One more question. Would Lith’rian restore me to my kingdom?”
“I have no idea whatsoever.” Elves cared nothing for politics outside their own convoluted affairs.
Inos looked back. Azak was glaring at her. The positions of the horses suggested that he had been trying to edge forward and the three elves were deliberately blocking him.
He killed the man who loved me.
Kade was hostage for her return to Arakkaran.
She thought of a lifetime with Azak. She tried to think of what a life with Rap would have been like; her throat tightened and her eyelids burned. Too late, fool, too late!
She had a word of power. How much did that interest the warlock?
She had made solemn promises to the Gods that she would be a wife to Azak.
She had promised her father … but the Impire had dealt her kingdom away like an unwanted kitten.
And she hoped that she had standards of her own. What would her father have said?
Or Rap, for that matter?
“I am Azak’s wife,” she said. “I will not betray him.”
Lia’ shook her head sadly. “Spoken like a fool — or an elf. Or a queen, I suppose. It is what I expected. May the Gods bless you for it.”
9
“You seem worried, Uncle!”
“Worried? No, not at all! Me worried? Absurd! Why should I be worried?” Ambassador Krushjor tossed his silver mane in the wind and folded his arms and leaned against the rail as if he had never known worry in his life. A jotunn on the helmsman’s deck of a longship was in his natural element and should be as carefree as a dwarf in a diamond mine or a gnome in the town dump.
Of course his nephew, Thane Kalkor, was utterly insane, but that was quite normal for a jotunn raider. All the truly successful thanes had been mad as rutting sea lions — sanity would distract a man when he should be concentrating on his killing and raping. Mindless cruelty and destruction were by definition done for their own sake, without logic or reason. Meanwhile fifty or so brawny jotnar were rowing Blood Wave up the languid waters of the Ambly, and Krushjor had come to make a courtesy call, which meant he must spend a few hours at least in the madman’s company. Both were large men, and the sailor holding the steering oar was even larger, and the platform was very small. Krushjor felt strongly disinclined to jostle his maniacal nephew.
And his maniacal nephew kept smiling at him with his inhumanly bright blue eyes, as if he could read every thought in Krushjor’s head. Every time he moved — to wave his contempt at the crowds on the bank, or study the position of the naval escorts — he seemed to settle back a fraction closer to his uncle. He must be doing it deliberately. What happened when the imaginary chip fell from his shoulder?
The sun shone. The silver river wound and twisted. Two imperial war galleys kept pace ahead, four more astern. As the procession turned each bend, staying as close as possible to the inside curve where the current was least, great crowds of imps swarmed on the shore, running like ants, waving, jumping up and down and cheering. They were not cheering this impertinent intruding jotunn pirate, only the accompanying honor guard of the Imperial navy — which was polished and scrubbed and armed to the armpits, and also completely outclassed.
Kalkor was playing with them. Time and again he would snap an order to the coxswain to up the stroke. Then Blood Wave would leap forward as if to over-take. The vanguard would move frantically to cut her off, and usually become hopelessly entangled in doing so. Then Kalkor would rein in his crew and let the Imperial navy straighten itself out again. His men were barely sweating — they could have rowed figure-eights
around the escorts for him had he wanted. The day before, the choleric Imperial admiral had tried putting four ships in the van and two astern. Kalkor’s feints had put half the flotilla aground within an hour.
Not in centuries had a raider progressed so far up the Ambly, perhaps never, even in the troubled times of the VIIth Dynasty, or the XIIIth.
The shores were lined with civilian traffic — barges and cargo boats, galleys and gondolas, all shooed aside to let the fleet pass by. Their crews watched the procession in sullen silence. Behind them the orchards and hopfields were golden; rows of peasants bent with their sickles, reaping corn, not looking up at all.
Krushjor had pulled an oar in a longship in his youth, as had most Nordlanders. He’d been good enough to become a thane, leading a few raiding expeditions of his own then, taking out boatloads of his more promising youngsters to season them in the ancestral traditions of rape and pillage, for all jotnar learned in their cradles that if they ever grew soft, the Impire would be all over them like fleas.
Officially, he was still Thane of Gurtwist, his realm kept safe under the aegis of the Moot while he served abroad. Thanedom came partly from birth and partly from prowess. To become a thane required three things, the wags said — bloodlines, bloodthirst, and bloody luck. He’d done all right, but he’d never intended to make a lifelong career out of rape and pillage. Indeed, he’d been returning from his farewell tour when he’d gone after a tempting merchant ship and in the skirmish had received a very ill-placed sword cut. He’d made his way home to Gurtwist before it began festering, but for a month or two thereafter the Gods had seemed very anxious to weigh his soul.
In the end his recovery had been complete except for one small detail, a lingering defect that would not interfere with pillaging but disqualified him totally for the other half of the profession. Had that disability become generally known, he would have been a ruined man, and likely a dead one soon. As a ruling thane, he would not have been able to hide his shortcoming for long, but a need for a new Nordland ambassador to the Impire had come along at the opportune moment. Krushjor had engineered his own nomination, accepted with a proper show of reluctance, and sailed away to live with the enemy. He was safer there, for no one in Hub took notice of his private life, nor cared anyway.
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