Faery Lands Forlorn

by Dave Duncan

  "So you didn't fool him?"

  "Not for an instant. He demanded to know who I was and what I was doing. So I told him."

  "What happened then?" Inos asked, bracing herself for some more horrors, dreading that now she would hear of some final fiendish experience that had completed Rasha's hatred of men.

  "He sat down and laughed until he cried."

  In the silence that followed, Inos felt goosebumps rising on her arms and she hugged herself against the playful teasing of the wind, rich with the scents of night flowers. Two adepts in a palace, and one of them the sultan? She must not let her suspicions congeal into thoughts lest her face betray her. Which one did she trust less—Azak or Rasha?

  Rasha just sat and brooded.

  "They used a slow poison on him," she said at last. "They weren't sure about the magic, you see, but there had always been rumors in Arakkaran, and they wanted to give him time to pass along whatever he had. At best they hoped for a single word."

  And the old villain had bequeathed both his words to Rasha instead of Azak, the obvious successor. Rasha had then been a full four-word sorceress. But what had Rasha been to Zorazak? Friend? Occult companion? Or much worse? How long had she lived in the palace after the sultan discovered her, and had she used her sorcerous wiles to make the old man bequeath her his words of power? Inos wondered if she dared ask any of those questions and vacillated between them like a donkey between hay piles—and in the end she got to ask none of them.

  A soldier stood on the welcome mat.

  5

  On one particularly bad afternoon at Kinvale, Proconsul Yggingi had cornered Inos between a spinet and a hydrangea and delivered an interminable sour-breathed lecture on military insignia. She recalled only that the color of the helmet crest was important; white for a centurion and so on. Purple for the imperor himself, scarlet for the marshal of the armies—who else but one of those two would wear a cuirass inlaid with the Imperial star in gold and jewels?

  There were more gems inset in his greaves and the hilt of his short sword, but the helmet now being tucked under that muscular arm bore a crest that looked more like spun gold than dyed horse bristles.

  She was on her feet and did not recall rising. Rasha was lounging back at ease on her divan, but yet she was watching the newcomer tautly. He had already saluted her. By removing his helmet he was making the visit unofficial, informal. He was smiling.

  He was tall for an imp, square-jawed, dark-eyed, and astonishingly young. Teeth flashed as he glanced around the big dome and made some complimentary remark to Rasha. Black curls.

  He looked solid, not in the least transparent.

  Then he seemed to notice Inos for the first time and stopped speaking in midsentence. His bright eyes widened in wonder.

  Corny, yes, but still effective when well done.

  "You are Inosolan?"

  Inos curtsied low. When she rose, he bowed—gracefully, of course. No absurd Zarkian flourishes, either; just a good, solid, Imperial bow. Rasha had said he was old, but he didn't look old. Bronzed and lean, and sparkling eyes . . . even Andor would not have competed with him in looks.

  Or youthful charm: "They told me you were a great beauty, ma'am, but I was making allowances for the usual exaggeration. All imps cherish romantic ideals of royalty. Queens are wonderously beautiful by definition!" He grinned. "You redefine the standard!"

  Marvelously done, with just enough humor to carry it off.

  Evil take it, but she was blushing like a child!

  "Your Omnipotence is most gracious."

  He chuckled. "No, I'm genuinely impressed, and it takes a lot to surprise a warlock." He seemed to tear his eyes away from her in order to address Rasha. "You did us all a favor, mistress, when you rescued Queen Inosolan from that rabble. God knows what might have happened!"

  "I know exactly what would have happened," Rasha said coldly.

  The warlock lifted eyebrows that reminded Inos of a poem about ravens' wings. "Yes, I'm afraid I do, too. Well, we are grateful for what you did. And we must certainly undo the damage, and see justice done and her Majesty installed on the throne of her fathers."

  He turned back to Inos and gave another long sigh of wonder. "Tomorrow is Blossom Day in Hub and the Blossom Ball in the Opal Palace. The imperor will be there. Everyone will be there! Consuls, senators, the aristocracy of the Impire. And you will amaze them all! Queen Inosolan, would you wear that gown for the ball tomorrow and do me the very great honor of letting me escort you to the Blossom Ball?"

  Inos stammered. She was being bribed. Flattered. Seduced. She must remember that he had no more right to look youthful and handsome than Rasha had. But he was making her heart pound, and she recalled how Rap had been unmanned by the sorceress. Unwomanned? It didn't feel like being unwomanned. He made her feel very womanly. Charm! Even his renewed grin seemed to admit what he was doing to her, a naughty-boy, isn't-this-fun grin. She must remember Kade.

  He held out a hand.

  She took a step. Another. Remember Kade. He's not a boy. He's old. Remember Kade. Remember Kade . . .

  "That will do for now!" Rasha said.

  Cold bath!

  Inos stopped, feet frozen to the floor. Her hand was stretched out to the warlock's, the fingers almost touching.

  The warlock shrugged. "Something wrong, ma'am?" he asked the sorceress, while flickering a hint of a wink at Inos.

  "You forgot to leave some coppers on the dresser."

  He pursed his lips disdainfully, yet he did not lose his amusement. "Then by all means let us discuss what reward we can offer. The Four always repay debts, usually manyfold!" He smiled apologetically to Inos. "Do please be seated, Inos. You don't mind if I call you Inos? I'm sure this won't take long."

  By the time Inos had returned to her couch and adjusted her train, a seat had appeared behind Warlock Olybino—a chair like crystallized sunbeams, a throne raised on a dais, with sculpted gold ablaze on arms and back, encrusted in rainbow jewels. Inos had never seen its like, even in picturebooks or paintings. She wondered what it weighed, and if it was real, and whether the floor would support it. Everything else in the great dome seemed suddenly dull and shabby. In one lithe movement, the warlock stepped up backward and sat, placing the crested helmet on his lap, smiling down at the two women.

  Puzzled, Inos glanced at Rasha and caught a hint of a sneer. What had she said about Olybino knowing no more strategy than a pigeon? The throne was wrong! Did warlocks forget how to handle defiance?

  Rasha had hardly moved since the warlock arrived. She conveyed ease and yet wariness, like a watchful cat. "That looks like a very uncomfortable seat. I can recommend a good physic for piles, if you feel the need."

  His smile faded to sad reproof. "Perhaps you do not understand the situation, mistress? We are talking justice here! We do not buy and sell queens, or kingdoms! You are not bargaining in a bazaar for a poke of dried dates."

  "And you are not dispensing judgment in Emine's Rotunda."

  He frowned. "Take care that I do not!"

  Inos sensed a pompous man trying not to bluster.

  Rasha sat up suddenly. "Enough of this nonsense! I have the girl, and you need her!"

  "Need?" He shook his head and favored Inos with a brief glance of what-does-she-mean perplexity.

  But Inos knew what Rasha meant. Help had its price. She was going to be sold! Kade had been wrong, and she had been right! Rasha was no friend. Rasha was a whore and thought like a whore. And what mattered except price when these two evil old sorcerers wanted to bargain?

  "Need, mistress? I am a warlock. I need nothing."

  The sultana snorted. "You need protection from West!" Her polished accent was starting to sound scratched. "You and the elf can't handle him. You can't count on Bright Water to keep the peace, because she doesn't always find her mouth with the spoon these days. You dare not antagonize the imperor by losing those men in Krasnegar, and you can't solve the Krasnegar problem without her!" She jabbed a fingernail
in the direction of Inos.

  Raven wings swooped low—the warlock scowled. "What strange rumors have you been hearing, mistress? I need no protection from Warlock Zinixo! Young West is doing splendidly. I've been giving him pointers. He's an apt pupil, and grateful. South doesn't like him, but that's to be expected. Everyone knows you don't invite elves and dwarves on the same evening."

  Rasha yawned. "Meet my price, or go away. I can peddle my wares elsewhere."

  Peddle my wares! Inos shivered with an urge to unsheath claws and slash with them. How dare this phony old strumpet speak of her like that!

  The warlock smiled slyly, narrowing his eyes. "Besides, even if I suggested restoring the girl to her homeland, how could we be sure of Bright Water's cooperation? Her agreement is essential, for it is a jotunn matter, and in her sector. Her feet do not always point the same way these days, as you said, and she has always had a soft spot for butchers like Kalkor. It's her goblin blood."

  Rasha shrugged. "Let her choose the husband. He will have to be neutral, and she must have hundreds of relatives scattered around."

  Olybino nodded, suddenly thoughtful.

  Inos did not believe it. "What!" she shouted. "Marry me to a goblin?"

  "Quiet!" Rasha snapped, without looking away from the warlock. "They're all the same color in the dark, dearie, and no one's going to let you go back home without a husband."

  "Such a waste," Olybino muttered. "But intriguing! Yes, it might just work!"

  Married to a goblin? Inos felt sick. At least the Krasnegarians would unite to oppose that—and yet their resistance would be useless against the Four. And her only option would be to kill herself.

  "Definitely a possibility," the warlock said. "And your price, Mistress Rasha?"

  "The red palace, of course," Rasha said.

  "Impossible!" Olybino roared. In one fast move he donned his helmet, sprang from the throne, and landed nimbly back on the mat. The throne and its dais vanished at his back. "Completely impossible!" He put his fists on his hips and somehow seemed to swell, grow thicker, older, larger. He no longer resembled the urbane military officer who had sipped tea in Kinvale drawing rooms. Now he was much more like the rough soldiers Inos had known on her journey through the forest—dangerous, ruthless. He glowered, huge and menacing, embodiment of the Imperial legions, the armored bullies of all Pandemia. "Think again, sorceress!"

  Rasha was on her feet, also, although Inos had not seen her move. The room seemed to shimmer, like water approaching the boil.

  "That is the price, Warlock!"

  Olybino hunched his shoulders, glaring. "Fool! It is inconceivable."

  "Then I keep the girl, and Kalkor will have your cohorts and—"

  "Let him! Do you think it matters? Pondague was a penal posting. They are the scum of the army, they had deserted their post, and the imperor will be well rid of them. Jotnar or goblins, it does not matter. And who cares about Krasnegar, anyway? It was never of any importance—as you would have realized, had you known any Imperial politics at all!"

  "Begone!" Rasha screamed.

  Just for a fraction of an instant, Inos thought she saw them as they were: old, squat, ugly—Rasha short and fat, Olybino paunchy and balding . . .

  Lightning flashed, thunder roared.

  And the lights went out.

  6

  The sun, which had completed its daily rounds in Zark some hours before, was now winding up in Faerie, also. Already bird headed for nest and bee sought hive. Night beasts stirred from their slumber, while welcome shadows crept outward from the edge of the jungle and spread across the fields . . .

  Hugg was a troll and therefore not nearly as stupid as he looked. He was not especially bright, either, but he knew he had laid his supper on the dirt beside him only a moment before. Now it was gone. While he thought about that, he linked his fingers together around a coconut and cracked it. Munching the pieces, Hugg came to the firm conclusion that he had been robbed. That meant he would get nothing more tonight except probably a beating for losing the bucket. He had brought his meal to the edge of the field so he could sit in the shade. He had not seen the thief out in the open, but there were bushes behind him.

  Hugg rose, reared to his full height, and turned around. Trolls' ears and noses were much more acute than those of most other men, and their strength let them move through thick jungle faster than almost anything else. They could also do so in eerie silence if they wished, despite their size and ungainly appearance. In fact, trolls were unsurpassed as woodsman, and the wind was in his favor.

  He put his head down and lurched forward like a charging behemoth. He did not bother with stealth, because he could tell that his quarry was still in motion, bearing the precious lunch bucket farther away all the time. Furthermore, he had not removed his clothes, and they caught and tugged and ripped on thorns and branches. Stripped, Hugg could have slid through the undergrowth as silent and unscathed as a fish in water.

  Under the lowering rain clouds of their native valleys in the Mosweeps, trolls haunted forests of perpetual gloom. Although their doughy hides were durable as pigskin, they were very susceptible to sunburn, and any good overseer knew enough to provide his trolls with a complete covering of clothes. It was an extra expense, but trolls were worth it.

  Hugg was twenty-four years old. When he was fourteen he had wandered into a village to trade some bright stones for a chisel. Trolls were much given to erecting massive edifices of raw masonry among their jungle-quilted hills, usually choosing a site that straddled a stream, so that they could have running water in every room. A troll might spend years on such a construction and then just walk away from it before it was complete, only to begin another two or three valleys over. Hugg had begun to feel restless and unsatisfied with the tower his parents were building. He had decided to go off and begin work on one of his own rather than continue to help on theirs. Perhaps, when he had completed two or three rooms by himself, some wandering trolless would come along to help. Meanwhile, the first thing he needed was a chisel, one of those shiny bronze ones and not the junky steel kind that rusted away in a week or so.

  Ever since conquering that part of the Mosweeps fifty years earlier, the Impire had been striving to gather the inhabitants out of their dark, damp forests into specialty designed model villages, hoping to civilize them and keep an eye on them and encourage them to increase their numbers. Out of the trees and into one of these villages wandered Hugg. He was at once arrested for indecent exposure and for not possessing a permit. He did not know what a permit was. He did not know why clothes were necessary. He explained patiently that he would cover himself until he departed if that was required, but normally he never saw anyone except his own reflection; and in the forest, cloth or even leather would certainly rot away to pulp within a few days. He did not understand why his offer was not an acceptable compromise.

  Nor did he understand the courtroom proceedings, short and simple though they were. He was sentenced to two years' hard labor and led off for a three-week introductory course in the value of docility. His bright stones had been taken from him, but they were not mentioned in the court records.

  Ever since the reign of the Impress Abnila, slavery had been illegal in the Impire; but the army had to find some way to cover the cost of its occupation of the Mosweeps, and graft was as widespread and inevitable as weather.

  As soon as Hugg had learned to do exactly what he was told as fast as possible and never to speak unless spoken to, his place of confinement was changed from Hamlet 473 to the town of Danqval, and from there he was marched in an ever-increasing brigade of other convicts down to the market in Clamdewth.

  Later he and a few others enjoyed a brief sea voyage, Hugg having an oar all to himself on the basic principle of two men or one troll. He arrived at last at a plantation somewhere to the north of Milflor and was then provided with a chance to escape, which he did.

  They always did.

  He was run down with hounds and horses and give
n a lesson that left him ever after with a slight limp and a ringing in one ear. Even trolls could learn from that sort of teaching, and they healed quickly. Never again did he try to escape.

  At twenty-four, Hugg was still there. He did not know that he should have been shipped home after two years. Had he known that, and asked for an explanation, he would have learned that his file had been mislaid and he must pen a formal petition to the marshal of the armies, in Hub, as his area had been under military rule at the time of his offense. But he did not ask, and no one told him, and nothing would have changed anyway.

  He dug and tilled and harvested; he chopped wood and bore burdens as he was told. He grew to be the largest and strongest troll on the plantation, and no one ever stole his supper.

  Following the scent and unmistakable sounds of flight, Hugg plunged through the trees and bushes, smashing and breaking and even uprooting as required, heedless of his own noise or the damage to his clothes. After a few minutes, he realized that there were two or three persons ahead of him and he remembered old stories of headhunting fairyfolk. Perhaps he had been rash, therefore, but he had never heard of any natives coming near the plantations, and the fugitives were obviously running away as fast as they could. That was good, because their scent was not troll scent, and therefore he could outrun them in this undergrowth. Furthermore, if they were running away they were probably unarmed, and then he would not hesitate to accept odds of three to one, or perhaps even four. Trolls were placid by nature, but they could be roused to anger like anyone else. Hugg enjoyed his daily bucket of slop. He intended to win it back.

  He heard a few loud oaths ahead of him, a couple of shouts, and knew from the sounds that his pursuit was to be contested. Two kept running—still carrying his meal, doubtless—but one had turned back to challenge. A moment later Hugg crashed through a dense wall of shrubbery and saw him. He was a husky youth, but shorter even than the average imp, and half the size of a troll. In the dappling shade of the branches, he seemed a very odd color. He smelled strange and his eyes were curiously angular. He was standing in a half crouch, holding out his hands and waiting for Hugg with a big toothy grin.