Faery Lands Forlorn

by Dave Duncan

  The aged and portly prince on her left was panting out an interminable tale about a dagger, a rockslide, and some unfortunate goat he had slaughtered long before she was born. A much younger one on her right was continually edging too close, fingers straying. Stars were appearing in the darkling sky.

  Idly Inos swung her riding crop on her right and felt a gratifying impact. "Incredible!" she murmured to the left as the narrator ran out of breath on the stairs. That was wrong! Fascinating! had been next on her list. She must keep them alphabetical, and not be so gauche as to repeat herself. Still. . . not long now. The procession took off along flat ground, and the goat killer picked up his tale again. Fingers moved in again.

  At last the Gods were merciful, and she reached the entrance to her quarters. Guards sprang to attention, eyes wide at seeing such an escort. The door opened on an unobtrusive signal. Inos turned and smiled at all the princes.

  "Your Royal Highnesses, my thanks! Till tomorrow?"

  Fifteen or sixteen royal turbans swung forward in salaam. Inos bowed in turn, suppressing a whimper of agony. Then—divine mercy! She was inside and the great door thumped shut.

  She leaned back against it as a tidal wave of questions broke over her. She was facing what seemed to be the entire female population of Zark, all jabbering excitedly, with Zana vainly trying to restore order. But of course these were merely the late Prince Harakaz's women, all eager for news of the day's miracle.

  For a moment Inos felt a great surge of annoyance. She wanted a bath and a massage, perhaps some food, and then lots and lots of sleep. She did not want to recount her life story! Then her annoyance gave way to pity. And it was oddly flattering.

  She raised a hand, and the babble died down to a few wails from bewildered babies. "Later?" she said. "Yes, I did go hunting with the princes. But later, please! After I've had a bath and changed, I'll tell you all about it!" She smiled as sincerely as she could manage and tried not think about a long evening ahead.

  With excited promises of hot water and food ringing over a renewed clamor, Inos limped off behind Zana in search of Kade.

  Their way led through a chain of rooms, and then outside, to a high balcony. Flocks of gaudy parrots soared by, screaming mockery. The sky was a canopy of cobalt suede hung over the Spring Sea, and a couple of earlybird stars shone above the ever-dancing palms. Down in the bay, the white sails of dhows and feluccas glided toward their roost like ghosts of owls.

  Nibbling dates and holding a book at arm's length in the fading light, Kade was reclining on a sumptuously overstuffed divan. A frosted carafe of some cold drink stood on a table beside her, and the very sight of it made Inos's mouth ache.

  Every joint screamed as she sank wearily—and very carefully—onto the cushions at her aunt's side. She was suddenly aware that she had not thought about Father all day. Nor Andor.

  Zana was already pouring something musical into a goblet. Kade disposed of the book and smiled with eyes like winter sky. "Had a good day, my dear?"

  Inos made a guttural croaking noise and drank. Oh, glory! Ice! Cold lemonade! What sorcery was this? "Marvelous! And terrible. I feel like bread crumbs—dried out and mashed up. But I do think I made an impression, Aunt."

  "I'm sure you did."

  Zana tactfully floated away.

  Gods give the strength, Inos thought. But she had certainly treated Kade rather cavalierly that morning.

  "I'm sorry if I took you by surprise, Aunt. You know me—impetuous! It just seemed like a wonderful opportunity to, er, meet the local gentry."

  "You always were good with birds, of course."

  Inos almost choked on her second draft of the miracle elixir. "You saw?"

  Kade nodded. "Her Majesty showed me in the looking glass—just a few minutes, while you were riding out. Did you catch anything worthwhile?"

  Inos's hawk had reduced one unfortunate rock dove to blood and feathers, but that might not be what Kade meant.

  "Nothing of any importance." About to mention that the chase would resume in the morning, Inos changed her mind. "Patience is the mark of the successful hunter, Father always said." She began tipping a third cool draft into her internal desert.

  Kade was not amused, obviously. Her niece had been behaving in unladylike fashion. "When I was having tea with her Majesty—"

  Inos spluttered again. Memories of Kade's pompous little tea parties at Krasnegar and the awesome dowagers' rituals in Kinvale blended into an image of her aunt sipping tea with a djinn sorceress, and together provoked a typhoon of coughing. As soon as she could breathe she said, "Then you have made better use of your day than I have!"

  "Possibly. She showed me many things in her looking glass." Kade sighed as if she were discussing the latest outrage in dress styles. "I really had never conceived how useful sorcery could be! Imagine—here we are, in faraway Zark, and yet she could show me what was happening almost anywhere! Kinvale, for instance! We saw the duke supervising the bedding out. It's springtime in Kinvale. Yes, a looking glass is a wonderful device. Everyone should have one!" She considered her own words, then amended them. "Persons of quality, of course."

  "And Krasnegar?"

  Her aunt's face darkened. "We didn't . . . We were too late. The funeral must have been held yesterday."

  Inos blinked, and nodded. "And the imps?"

  "They're still there. They look as if they're settling in to stay." A rare expression of anger showed on Princess Kadolan's normally convivial face. "They've turned the great hall into a barracks! They're using merchants' stores as stables!"

  Inos leaned back against the cushions, wincing. If Arakkaranians used smaller bathtubs, they could fill them faster. Raucous parrots swooped by again.

  "And what happens now? When does Kalkor arrive with his jotnar? What—"

  "I could hardly cross-examine her Majesty!"

  "Of course." Inos sighed. Kade would keep the tale going all evening.

  "Queen Rasha did confirm what we suspected, though. She can't just evict the legionaries for you. Only the warlock of the east is allowed to use sorcery on Imperial soldiery."

  That closed off one path to sanity. "I see. And a warlock is stronger than a mere sorceress?"

  Her aunt cleared her throat warningly, her we-may-be-overheard noise. "Their respective strengths would not matter, dear. Any sorcerer breaking that rule incurs the enmity of the Four combined. That's part of the Protocol."

  "But the thanes can still use force, when they arrive?"

  Kade pulled a face at the thought of violence. "Oh, yes. Force is mundane. No rules apply. I mean, that's what force means, doesn't it? But while the imp soldiers are the domain of East—Warlock Olybino, of course, is an imp himself—similarly, jotnar are reserved to the warlock of the north, and she's a goblin. I mean the warden happens to be a witch at the moment, Bright Water. Not all jotnar, just the Nordland raiders."

  Inos had never heard her aunt lecture on politics before. It was a staggering development, but it must mean that she had won the confidence of Queen Rasha. She had therefore put her day to much better use than Inos had; no wonder she was so pleased with herself! However muddled the telling might be, the facts would be correct, for although Kade believed that well-bred ladies should appear scatterbrained, she could apply her wits well enough when she wanted to. Then the significance sank in.

  Inos sat up straight, heedless of her aches. "You mean that imp versus jotunn means one warden against another?"

  "Well. . . not just any common brawl, dear, but if the Nordland fleet clashes with the Imperial army, that does seem to be one possible result. Seapower and landpower. The sultana says that this has happened very rarely since Emine set up the Protocol, only once or twice in all history. It could involve the wardens. It could even split the wardens, two against two. That apparently can produce all kinds of disasters. The jotnar aren't there yet, of course. It may be a long time before their ships can reach Krasnegar. Queen Rasha says she could disperse any other army with no trouble�
�a good blizzard would not be difficult to arrange, she says. But in this case she dare not try to influence either side; not the imps there now, nor the jotunn raiders if they come. They're both out of bounds for her. Like dragons, she said."

  "God of Turds!"

  "Inos! Really!"

  "Sorry. But this is awful! This is terrible! Remember when Andor brought the news to Kinvale, about Father? We talked? We wondered if the town would accept me? We thought neighbor might quarrel with neighbor. Then the imp army moved in, and it wasn't just neighbor against neighbor, it was thane against proconsul, raider against legionary, Impire against Nordland. Now you tell me it's warlock against witch?"

  "It may come to that," Kade said cautiously. "The Four may not even be aware of the problem yet, of course."

  "Who would win?"

  "Impossible to say, apparently. Bright Water is very old, and . . . unpredictable, I'm told. Olybino is quite young by sorcerer standards, her Majesty says, but he has a bad temper and may do foolish things on impulse."

  "That's wonderful news! Just wonderful!"

  "And the other two may side with one or the other."

  "Or split? Bad, bad, bad!" Inos noticed Zana hovering in the doorway, meaning that her tub was ready. But baths now seemed much less important than they had before. An account of the occult politics of the Impire—of all Pandemia—was very important indeed. Even Doctor Sagorn had complained how hard it was to obtain information about magic; the sorcerous did not normally take the mundane into their confidence. Kade had won a tremendous victory! The information could not be confirmed, but what reason could a sorceress ever have for lying?

  "Tell me about the other two wardens?"

  Kade nodded almost imperceptibly to show she had been expecting the question. "Both warlocks. South is an elf, Lith'rian. Queen Rasha was, er, rather disparaging about . . . about elves. Usually there are two witches and two warlocks, but West died about a year ago, and a warlock took her place. Zinixo, a young dwarf. An extremely powerful sorcerer, the sultana says, and something of an unknown quantity."

  "Died?"

  "Was killed."

  Inos thought for a moment. There was must be more, but her aunt was apparently reluctant to volunteer any of her own conclusions.

  "So what does her Majesty recommend?"

  "She suggests we wait and see, of course. The imps may flee. The jotnar may or may not come. Hub may or may not interfere—the imperor, the Four . . . Meanwhile, we are welcome guests. She has invited me to visit her again tomorrow, and of course you—"

  "I am going hunting again tomorrow."

  There was still quite enough light to show Kade's disapproval. It would probably have shown up in total darkness. "How many other ladies will be there?"

  "None, I expect."

  "Inos, you are being very unwise! Very! Even in the Impire, a lady would not go hunting without some female companionship. Here in Zark they have even stricter—"

  "It's all right, Aunt. I'm one of the boys now." Gingerly Inos started to rise.

  "I am quite serious, Inos! Customs differ, and you have no idea what sort of impression you may be making."

  "So they won't invite me to their dinner parties again, you mean?"

  "So they may think you a complete wanton!"

  What exactly was an incomplete wanton? How could she possibly get into trouble going hunting with a gang of princes? "What did the sultana think?"

  Point to Inosolan.

  Kade pursed her lips. "She was amused," she admitted. Rasha, of course, while a queen and a sorceress, was emphatically not a lady, and Kade must be having trouble reconciling that discrepancy.

  "What is Rasha's interest in my . . . our affairs? Just aiding a poor defenseless woman?"

  The question sprang another warning cough. "I'm sure that's part of it. The best hope, of course, is that cool heads will prevail. Surely Krasnegar is not worth a war to either the imperor or the thanes. The Four may simply agree to put you properly on your throne. That would be the status quo, as near as possible."

  So Inos was a pawn in a much vaster game than she had ever dreamed. If the warlocks themselves were involved, then anything might happen. Krasnegar might be melted down, or moved to Zark, or turned into chocolate pudding.

  Krasnegar! She was homesick for Krasnegar!

  She drained the last of the lemonade and pushed herself painfully to her feet. She certainly had enough to think about while she soaked.

  This day's madness:

  Yesterday This Day's Madness did prepare;

  Tomorrow's Silence, Triumph, or Despair:

  Drink! for you know not whence you came, nor why:

  Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.

  Fitzgerald, The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam (§74, 1879)

  THREE

  Some little talk

  1

  "No people?" Thinal said. "You're sure about no people?"

  "No, I'm not sure!" Rap retorted. "It's right at my limits. I'm sure about the huts. I don't think there are any people. None on the path, anyway. And what choice do we have?"

  It was late afternoon on their third interminable day. The sandy bays had followed one another without respite, some broad, some narrow, but all of them devoid of streams or rivers. The castaways had survived on coconut milk and a few meager sips of rainwater caught on leaves in the frequent showers, but they were all weakening fast. They needed food and, above all, they needed drinking water—copiously and soon. They needed rest and shelter. Little Chicken was furious that these woodlands were so unlike his home forests. In the taiga he could have survived indefinitely with no tool but fingernails; here his survival skills were little better than Rap's.

  The scanty and unfamiliar diet had made all three of them ill. Thinal was close to collapse, and his feet were raw. At times he had allowed Little Chicken to carry him, and then they had moved faster, but even the brawny goblin was failing. His moccasins were worn away by the abrasion of the sand, his ankle was swollen, and obviously only his contempt for pain was letting him walk at all.

  Rap's boots were no great advantage. He had torn strips from his loincloth to bandage his blisters, but then he had merely developed other blisters in other places. Walking on sand was worse than running in snow; his legs ached in every muscle and joint. The shallows provided firmer going, but sand and sea-water together were agony on raw flesh.

  At least the westering of the sun let them walk in the palms' dappled shadow, but high tide had driven them up into shingle and shell banks at the top of the beach, with every step real torment for the imp and the goblin. And then Rap's farsight had solved the strange problem of where the rain went. The lushness of the jungle proved that rain was frequent; the absence of streams seemed inexplicable. Snapping out of an exhausted daze, he had realized quite suddenly that there was a river a short distance inland, paralleling the coast, a river that was capturing all the rainfall. A river meant fresh water and it must join the sea somewhere, although here it was unreachable, shut off by undergrowth as thick as hay bales.

  And then, as he forced his farsight out to the limits of his range, he had detected a path, a narrow strip of bare reddish soil winding through the trees. One end opened on the beach just around the next headland, the other lay on the riverbank. There were buildings there.

  "Tell about huts," Little Chicken growled. He was becoming surprisingly proficient in impish.

  "Just huts." Rap's head was aching with the effort. "Eight or nine of them. In a half circle. And some things made of poles. Little buildings, thatched . . ."

  "Headhunters!" Thinal wailed. "Fairyfolk are headhunters!"

  "What choice do we have?" Rap said again.

  Thinal glared at him, his foxy features sour with pain. "You don't have any. But I do."

  "You promised."

  "Then I'm un-promising! You get me into danger, Master Rap, and I call Darad! I said I'd warn you. I'm warning you now." It was astonishing, really, that the little guttersn
ipe had endured as much as he had.

  "Okay!" Rap said. "You've done very well. More than I would have expected. You stay here, and we'll go ahead and scout. If it's safe, we'll come back and get you."

  Thinal looked around the beach. Not much of it was visible at high tide, with the waves surging almost into the palms. No food. No water. No company. "I'll come," he said grouchily. "But I'm warning you—if anyone's head's going to decorate a pole, mister, it ain't going to be mine."

  2

  "People?" Thinal whispered, almost bumping into Rap as he stopped on the path.

  "There's nothing alive in the village except chickens," Rap said. "And nothing moving in the jungle." He wasn't quite lying, but he hated even being devious. "Look behind that bush."

  Thinal just stared mutinously where Rap was pointing; it was the goblin who pushed in and parted the leaves. Rap already knew there was a dead dog there, with an arrow in its hindquarters. It must have dragged itself away to die.

  Snorting angrily, Little Chicken pulled the shaft from the rotting, buzzing carcass. He returned to the path. Thinal whimpered.

  "It's a long arrow," Rap said. "Fairyfolk are small, aren't they?"

  Thinal shrugged, but Rap was sure Andor had told him that fairies were black-skinned and little taller than gnomes. Long arrows would need long arms, surely. The point was made of iron, sharp and barbed. "It's like what the legionaries carry, isn't it?"

  "Don't know," Thinal said. "Darad would."

  "How far, Flat Nose?" Little Chicken asked.

  Rap squared his shoulders. "Just around the next bend. Come on." He resumed the painful monotony of moving one sore foot in front of the other, leading the way.

  Once there had been a dozen huts in the village, clustered in the shade at the perimeter of a clearing, but four of them were ruined, probably burned. The poles that had puzzled him at a distance were scaffolds for drying nets; a Krasnegarian should have recognized those. He could also make out wickerwork privies and chicken coops, a couple of boats—and a well. The thought of water was making every cell in his body scream.