by Dave Duncan
“Your name is Rap, right?” he asked suddenly. “And you were the guard, also!”
“Yes, sir. I usually work in the stables, not on the gate. You were correct when you said that I must be new to it. You were the first stranger I ever challenged.” He had also been the last. Thosolin had bounced Rap straight back to his post and then bawled him out thoroughly, telling him to stand there and look pretty and challenge nothing short of a gang of armed pirates in future.
“I'm not surprised you work in the stables,” Jalon remarked, licking fingers, “with that kind of ability. Tell me about yourself.”
Rap shrugged. “There is nothing to tell, sir. My parents are dead. I work for the king. I hope to stay in his service and be a man-at-arms one day.”
Jalon shook his head. “I can tell from your face that there is more to it than that. I do not mean to be personal, but your nose does not come from Krasnegar.”
However it was meant, that remark seemed personal to Rap.
“You have brown hair,” the minstrel added thoughtfully. “The Kransegarians are either lighter or darker than you. Even if they are of mixed parentage, they are one or the other. Gray eyes? So your parents came from far away. From Sysanasso, I would guess. You're a faun.”
“My mother, sir. My father was a jotunn.”
“Tell me!” Jalon chewed a pheasant leg and fixed his strangely dreamy blue eyes on Rap, although there was certainly interest in those eyes at the moment.
Rap did not see that it concerned the man, but Jalon was a friend of the king and was therefore due respect from a servant of the king.
“My father was a raider, sir, one of a crew that roamed far to the south. Slavers. They found good trade selling their captives. My mother was one, but my father took a fancy to her and kept her. Later he settled in Krasnegar and became a net maker.”
Jalon nodded thoughtfully. “Was he captain of the ship?”
Rap shook his head. “Just a crewman, sir.”
“And what happened to him?”
This was none of any minstrel's business! “He broke his neck.” Rap did not hide his bitterness. Maybe it would shame the man out of his curiosity.
It did not. “How?”
“He fell off the dock one night. Perhaps he was trying to swim, but the harbor was frozen solid—he was drunk. I am not of noble birth, sir!”
Jalon ignored the sarcasm. “It wasn't him, then.”
He sat in silence for a moment, pondering. Rap wondered what that last remark had meant.
“And your mother, this slave who was not sold with the others . . . was she the common property of the whole crew, or just of your father?”
“Sir!”
Jalon smiled apologetically and then stretched out to lean on one elbow while he ate. “Put up with me for a moment, friend Rap. I am not good at this sort of thing. I know others who would do it better. But I sense something here . . . I have traveled widely and I have heard tales and seen sights that you have not. I have been to Sysanasso. It is hot and jungly and unhealthy. Fauns have wide, rather flat noses, and brown skins—browner than yours, mostly—and they have very curly brown hair. So your hair is a compromise.” He grinned. “Or an argument?”
Rap smiled as politely as he could manage and said nothing.
Far away, Firedragon whinnied. Sunbeam replied, and Rap swung around and shouted at her. She seemed to sigh regretfully and went back to grazing.
Jalon was amused. “Fauns have the reputation of being very good with animals.”
“That explains me, then.”
The minstrel nodded. “All the keepers in the imperor's zoological gardens are fauns. So are many hostlers.”
Rap had talked about fauns with sailors, but he had never heard that before. “What else can you tell me about them, sir?”
Jalon wiped the neck of the bottle and passed it. “They are supposedly peaceful, but dangerous when roused. Wouldn't be human otherwise, would they?” He smiled. “People like to label people. Jotnar are always said to be big and warlike, but look at me!”
“Yes, sir.” No one could have looked less warlike than this slight, flaxen-haired minstrel.
He cleared his throat awkwardly. “That's understandable, too. I don't usually mention it in this part of the world, but there's elf blood in my family. When I'm near Ilrane, of course, I apologize for my jotunn part. I can't pass as an elf, though.”
Rap had never met an elf. He'd heard they had unusual eyes.
“So there's nothing wrong with a little outcross!” Jalon said in an unusually firm tone.
“No, sir.” Rap sipped sparingly at the wine. He didn't care for wine. If there was nothing wrong with being a halfbreed, then why was the minstrel going on and on about it? Perhaps he thought he was putting Rap at ease by mentioning his own elvish descent. “Fauns?” Jalon muttered. “Oh, yes . . . they have very hairy legs.” He glanced at Rap's protruding ankles and then grinned at his angry flush. He began musing again, almost to himself. “Krasnegar is a hard place to live, but no worse than Sysanosso, I suspect. How old were you when your father died?”
“About five, sir.”
“You don't need to 'sir' me all the time, Rap. I'm only a minstrel. Punch me on the jaw if you want to. What happened to your mother then?”
Rap scowled at the question. He twisted around to look at the horses. Firedragon was grazing, and apparently play had not resumed yet. “The king took her into his household, and she was found to be a fine lace maker. I suppose she had been making the nets my father sold. She died of fever about five years later.”
Jalon rolled back on his side and stared at the sky. “No brothers or sisters?”
Rap shook his head, then said, “No.”
The minstrel pondered for a few minutes. “What sort of a person was your mother?”
“Loving!”
“I'm sure she was, Rap. You won't tell me any more?”
“Sir, there is nothing to tell!” Rap was very close to losing his temper, and that awareness would only make him lose it faster. Jotnar had notorious tempers, and he was half jotunn, so he tried never to let himself get really mad about anything.
Jalon sighed. “You did not ask how I knew your name.”
No, he hadn't. “How did you?”
“Why, yesterday it was being shouted all over the palace. There was a terrible row in the royal family. A week or so ago some idiot wagon driver apparently crossed the causeway at high tide—which is impossible, of course. It seems that the king had ordered him to leave the island and he had taken the orders a little too strictly for his own safety.”
Rap's heart sank. He had hoped that his foolhardy escapade might have escaped notice, but of course Lin was a blabbermouth, and the crew of the fishing boat must have seen.
“It wasn't high tide!”
Jalon ignored the interruption. “The king blamed the hostler, who delayed the man by requiring him to take a wagon, instead of just putting him on a horse as the king had expected. The hostler probably meant no harm, but the result was that the man did expose himself to . . . certain dangers. The word 'miracle' was being tossed back and forth.”
Rap groaned.
“It was only yesterday that Princess Inosolan got wind of the affair. She scolded her father royally. In fact, I have seldom heard such a tantrum.”
“Oh, Gods!” Rap muttered. Why in the world would Inos have done such a thing? Then he said, “Gods!” much louder, and jumped to his feet.
Firedragon was moving his herd toward the top of the hill, heading west. It would be a long chase to cut him off now . . . unless he was still within earshot? The wind was behind Rap, so it was worth a try. He cupped his hands and bellowed. For a moment nothing seemed to happen, but he kept calling, choosing the horses that responded best. He was just about to give up, leap on Bluebottle, and give chase—knowing that the pursuit might last for days—when the herd faltered. Two mares split away and headed for Rap. Outraged, Firedragon rushed after them to restore d
iscipline.
Now Rap switched his attention to the other side of the herd. Already they were almost too far off to recognize, but he thought he could identify some and he began calling them. By the time Firedragon had recovered the first pair, three more and a foal had departed.
For a little while the battle continued, the stallion roaring with fury as he pounded back and forth across the hillside, trying to bully his charges back on the right track, Rap calling them away again as soon as his tail was turned. Then the stallion swung to stare at this puny and audacious rival and even at that distance he could be seen to be dancing with rage, head down, teeth bared, tail arched. He bellowed a challenge and began a long, long charge.
Rap began to worry. He would rather face an angry bull than a mad stallion. At first he let the horse come, for the confused herd had ended its milling and begun to follow, but when Firedragon had covered about half the distance and was showing no signs of second thoughts, Rap decided that he had better try to do something. If he couldn't, then herdman and minstrel would have to beat a very fast retreat.
“Firedragon!” he roared. “Cut that out! Go back! Back!”
Would it work? The stallion was very responsive to Rap, usually. He held his breath. Then the attack faltered. Firedragon veered away, bouncing and cavorting in frustrated fury. In a few minutes he seemed to calm down, then went cantering back to his herd. And apparently he had given up his attempt to sneak away over the hill. The horses seethed around briefly, then slowly settled down to eating once more. Bluebottle and Sunbeam had been watching with interest. Deciding that the show was over, they, too, went back to cropping the summer grass.
Rap rubbed his neck, for his throat felt raw. He sat down again to find Jalon staring glassily, his lunch forgotten.
“Thirsty work,” Rap said, uneasy at that wide blue gaze. “May I have another sip of that wine, sir?”
“Have the whole bottle!” Jalon continued to gape for a while, then added, “Why do you bother shouting? You didn't believe they could hear you at that distance, surely?”
Rap considered that question while he drank. Not understanding it, he decided to ignore it. “Thank you.” He put down the bottle and resumed his lunch.
After a long silence the minstrel spoke, but in a whisper, although the hills were empty of people as far as eye could see. “Master Rap, would you consider sharing?”
“Sharing what, sir?”
Jalon looked surprised. “Your secret. What lets you do that . . . and cross the causeway when apparently no one else would even have tried. My singing is of the same essence.”
Rap wondered if soft brains were a necessary qualification for minstreling. He could see no connection between singing and causeway crossing, and very little resemblance to horse calling. This Jalon was a fine bard, but any man who let his horse wander away from him unintentionally in this country had clearly lost a few nails somewhere. Perhaps it went even farther than that. He might be a total lunatic.
“I call the horses' names, sir. They all know me and they trust me. I admit I wasn't sure about calming the stallion . . . he does sort of like me, I think. The causeway story must have been exaggerated. The tide was coming in, but there was no danger.”
“So you can call mares away from a stallion?” Jalon nodded ironically. “Of course. You can journey where others can not. Kings are reprimanded for their treatment of you? Princesses want you to hold their hands . . .” He suddenly seemed depressed. “Is there anything I could ever possibly offer that would persuade you to share with me? I have wider resources than are presently apparent.”
“Sir?” Rap could make no sense of the conversation at all.
The minstrel shrugged. “Of course not! And why would you trust me? Would you be so kind as to call Sunbeam? I have far to go before dark.”
Rap hoped the man would not try to ride his horse until then. He would lame her for certain. But that was not Rap's affair. He called Sunbeam over and adjusted her girths again and replaced the saddlebag. “I thank you for a fine lunch, minstrel,” he said. “May the Gods go with you.”
Jalon was still looking at him oddly. “Darad!” he said.
“Sir?”
“Darad,” repeated the minstrel. “There is a man called Darad. Remember the name. He is very dangerous and he will learn of you.”
“Thank you for the warning, sir,” Rap said politely.
Not just nails—the man was missing a few shoes, as well.
5
All things include
Both the Evil and the Good.
Inos repeated that sacred text a hundred times, but she still could not find the good in seasickness. It had to be totally evil. She desperately wanted to die.
The cabin was cramped and loathsome. It was smelly and dirty and dark. It went up. It went down. It rolled and it pitched.
For two days she lay and suffered abominably. Aunt Kade was infuriatingly immune to seasickness, and that fact helped Inos no more than her aunt's twittering attempts to cheer her up.
In the beginning was nothing. She sought help in religion, there being no earthly help in sight except hopefully a shipwreck and fast drowning. The Good parted from the Evil and the Evil parted from the Good. Just as she had so promptly parted from the mouthful of soup she had been persuaded to try. The world is created in their eternal conflict. Certainly there was an eternal conflict going on inside Inos.
On the third day she began to feel a little better.
At times.
But not for long.
The slightest change in the motion of the ship and she was back in total evil again.
But there must be some trace of the Good in seasickness, for the sacred words said so. Perhaps it was humility. Fat, twittery Aunt Kade was a far better sailor than she was. Meditate on that.
The God had said there were hard times in store, but she had never dreamed that times could be so hard as these. Only we have free will, only humankind can choose the Good and shun the Evil. What choice had she ever made that had landed her in this?
Only we, by finding the greater good, can increase the total good and decrease the total evil in the world.
Start by abolishing seasickness.
Slowly life began to seem a possible option again. Slowly Inos started contemplating her future in Kinvale. Her father had gone there once, as a young man. He had promised that she would enjoy herself—year-round riding there, he had said, and good parties. Even Jalon had spoken well of life in the Impire, although he did not know Kinvale itself. Perhaps, she thought in her better moments, perhaps it might be bearable. It was only for a year, after all.
On the fourth morning, she awoke feeling ravenous. Aunt Kade was not in her bunk. Throwing on thick wool sweater and slacks, Inos prepared to meet the world again. Now she could accept that there was indeed a small good in seasickness—it felt so marvelous when it stopped. Greatly comforted that her religion had not been discredited, she headed for the deck.
She was horrified. The world was a heaving grayness. There was no sky, no land, only hilly green-gray water dying away into haze in all directions. The ship had shrunk. It seemed so pathetically tiny and cramped, a little wooden box under a cage of ropes and dirty canvas, riding up and down over those gray hills. The wind was icy and cruel and tasted of salt . . . not even a seagull.
Two sailors stood talking at the back of the ship, and there was no one else in sight. She felt a stupid wave of panic rising and suppressed it. The rest of them must be around somewhere, and Aunt Kade, also. She started toward the two sailors, discovering that walking on a rocking ship was not as easy as she had expected. The wind whipped her hair and made her eyes water, and she finally reeled up to them, grabbed the rail they were leaning on, and blinked tears away.
The tall one was holding the wheel and regarding her with interest displayed on those parts of a craggy, weatherbeaten face not totally concealed by silver-streaked whiskers. The other was extremely short, squat, and unbelievable in pants and
a huge fur jacket . . . bareheaded, filmy white hair mussed beyond recognition by the wind, cheeks burning like bright red apples and blue eyes shiny with happiness.
“Inos, my dear! I am so glad to see you on your feet again.”
Inos, looking around in horror at the featureless desert of water, was beyond speech.
“You will need a jacket, dear,” her aunt said. “The wind is quite chilly.”
Chilly? It was an ax.
Kade beamed encouragingly. “We are making excellent time—North Claw in four days, the master predicts. The air will be warmer when we reach Westerwater.”
Inos' teeth began to chatter. “I think I need some breakfast.” She hugged her arms around herself. “Perhaps they would have something down in the kitchen?”
“Galley, dear. Yes. Of course you must be starved. Let us go and see, then.”
“No need for you to come,” Inos said, “if you are enjoying yourself.”
“Of course I must come.”
“Of course?”
Aunt Kade assumed her most prim expression. “This is not Krasnegar any more, Inosolan. I am your chaperone and I must look after you.”
A terrible suspicion washed over Inos's mind. “You mean that you don't let me out of your sight from now on?”
“That is correct, dear. Now let us see if we can find you some breakfast.”
The ship sailed on, but Inos' heart sank . . . all the way to the bottom of the Winter Ocean.
There were worse things in store than seasickness.
Southward dreams:
The hills look over on the South,
And Southward dreams the sea;
And with the sea-breeze hand in hand,
Came innocence and she.
Francis Thompson, Daisy
THREE
Clear call
1
“Why doesn't something happen?” Inos demanded in an urgent whisper.
“Why should anything happen?” Aunt Kade replied.