Faery Lands Forlorn

by Dave Duncan

  "This was the opportunity his Greatness revealed to me," Azak said, as if explaining to a small, none-too-bright child.

  Inos tried to imagine Kade balanced precariously high on the vertiginous hump of a camel. She groaned. "How long?"

  The old man shrugged his pillowed shoulders. "If we effect our escape, well, three months, usually."

  "Three months?" Bewildered, Inos stared at Azak. "You are willing to be gone for three months?"

  "That should get us to Ullacarn." Azak was certainly amused. "The fastest road between two good ports is never by camel."

  "I usually cross the Agonistes by Gaunt Pass," Elkarath said, "head north through the Central Desert to visit the emerald mines, and then south along the Progiste foothills. Sometimes it takes less time, sometimes more."

  "Hub is much farther, of course," Azak added.

  They were mocking her, but she was thinking only of three months on a camel. Oh, poor Kade! Still, the desert on a camel could be no worse than the taiga on a horse—could it? And Rasha would never look for them in the desert unless she realized just how crazy they all were.

  "As I said," the sheik added, having the same thought, "your aunt's presence may aid us. Knowing she is with us, the sorceress may look less keenly at camels."

  Inos knew exactly how Kade would look at them. She would beam bravely and insist that she had always wanted to cross a continent on a camel. "Where is Ullacarn, exactly?" she asked in a small voice and saw Azak registering satisfaction, as if her ignorance were just what he had expected. The sheik was fingering his rings again.

  "Almost due west, on the Sea of Sorrows."

  The other side of Zark, then. "So what is at Ullacarn?"

  "Nothing. From there we can sail."

  "To where?"

  "To Qoble," Azak said irritably. "That is in the Impire. Then by land to Hub, and the Four."

  This was crazy! Three months on a camel, and then more months to Hub? The Krasnegar problem would be long solved by then. The wardens would dismiss her appeal as nothing but a historical curiosity. Maybe Kade's instincts had been right, and Rasha, whatever her failings, had been Inos's best hope. Three months!

  It was too late to back out. Inos herself might just slink back to the palace and hope to escape punishment by pleading ignorance and the folly of youth, but Rasha would certainly find some spiteful torment to inflict on Azak for trying to deceive her, and the sheik might suffer even worse penalty for aiding him.

  God of Madness!

  Kade was always accusing her of being headstrong. What had she gotten herself into this time?

  And then Inos caught a tiny nicker of a wink from Azak. It was so out of character that for a moment she thought she had been mistaken. But of course! He was doubling his tracks again. Elkarath was yet another blind alley, like the donkey.

  "It will be an interesting experience," she said graciously.

  A ruddy-skinned boy of about six came running in across the grass. He flashed a wide-eyed glance at Azak, ignored Inos, and fell on his knees before the sheik, bowing a head haloed in curls that flamed as if new-wrought in copper. Elkarath reached out and tousled them affectionately.

  "Well, Hope of My House?"

  The reply was so breathless as to be almost one long word. "Greatness-my-father-bids-me-tell-you-that-all-is-prepared!"

  "Good!" Elkarath raised an elbow, and Azak moved to help the old man rise. "We shall be on our way."

  The boy had sprung to his feet and was staring up at the tall sultan with awe. "You a real lionslayer?"

  Azak put fists on hips and looked down sternly. "I am."

  "Where's your sword, then?"

  With a movement almost too fast to see, the big man snatched the front of the lad's robe and raised him at arm's length, so that their eyes were level. "Who dares question me?"

  "Let me down!" The boy stopped squirming when he realized that he was going to wriggle himself out of his clothes; already his legs were visibly longer. He clutched at the big hand supporting him and grinned. "How long can you hold me up like this?"

  "I can stand it as long as you can. Hours and hours."

  "I'm going to be a lionslayer when I grow up! And kill brigands!"

  "Grow up? Tall and strong like me?"

  "Taller! Stronger!" But his breathing was becoming labored, and his face growing redder by the minute.

  "This tall, maybe?" Azak effortlessly swung him overhead and hung him on a tree branch. He squealed, and his grandfather—or more likely great-grandfather—bellowed with laughter and asked him what he would do now.

  Inos rose, marveling at this new, strangely playful Azak. How could anyone trust a man who changed roles so easily? How could she trust this Sheik Elkarath, a total stranger who never looked anyone in the eye? That curious shiftiness made him seem like an invisible man, as if she could not see him at all.

  Months on a camel? Or not? She must just hope that Azak had indeed winked at her, that he did have another coil on his rope, a better plan than three months on a camel. She looked up to find him glowering at her, his arms folded, his face shadowed again by his kaffiyeh. The wind playing in the boughs overhead sent bright coins of sunlight dancing over him like a glory, and for a moment he seemed larger than human. Deadly. Cruel. Ruthless. And honest as a djinn. How could she have dreamed of trusting him? He could abandon her if she became inconvenient, or sell her off to a slaver.

  She had no hold over him at all.

  "Having second thoughts, your Majesty?" a soft voice asked.

  Inos turned to look at the old sheik. He was plump, but it was only the contrast with Azak that had made him seem small. He was actually quite large, although stooped. For the first time she saw his eyes, red like a rooster's comb, shrouded in wrinkles, but as clear as the eyes of a child. Penetrating.

  Inos raised her chin. "Of course not!" She had vowed to play politics from now on, and politics required taking risks.

  And surely the risks were worthwhile in this case? This was the opportunity of a lifetime! She would experience the sort of wild escapade found only in the poets' romances—caravan to Ullacarn!

  A woman of royal birth had no right ever to expect such an opportunity. A shiver of excitement ran through her, all the way to her toes and fingers. Adventure! Never since Yggingi's cohorts closed in around her had she felt truly free, and suddenly that oppressive aura of captivity fell away like breaking shell. Sensing escape at last, her heart began to pound with joy.

  She grinned mightily at Azak. His scowl melted into a menacing smile. The big man smiled as he did everything else—deliberately, fearlessly, and very well. He must be feeling the same sense of release, even more strongly than she.

  "I will show you the desert, lady!" he said. "And teach you to love it."

  "You can try!"

  They laughed simultaneously. How strange!

  "Come then," the sheik said with a contented smile. "Let us depart." He gestured for Azak to precede him, and the sun flashed a dazzling rainbow of flames from his jeweled hand.

  3

  Like a wreck on a reef. Rap was still slumped on the bench overlooking Milflor harbor. He hoped that his ankle would start feeling better soon, or that he would find the manliness just to walk on it anyway. Or that he might think of something else to do. The sun was really cooking him now, and it wasn't near noon yet.

  He had an infuriating hunch that he was overlooking some means of escape.

  The bench would easily hold seven or eight people, and from time to time others had approached as if intending to sit.

  After a glance at the tattered and battered young man sitting there, they had all just wandered on by.

  Gathmor's lack of interest in him as either labor or merchandise had been alarming and unexpected. To have been thought worthy of a punch party was quite a compliment, though—he must have grown. If he had been in a fit state to accept the invitation and had endured the ensuing battering well enough, he might perhaps have been considered worth h
iring.

  Or enslaving. Everyone knew that jotnar traded in slaves. Why should that not be true in Faerie?

  Father, where are you now that I need you?

  He must find a way off the island soon. He could not survive in the town without Thinal, nor in the jungle without Little Chicken. He wondered if the Thinal gang had survived, and which of them was presently in being, but he had no intention of going in search of Emine's statue. He was going in search of Inos.

  Except he didn't know how to swim, and now he couldn't even walk. Failure! He was a failure.

  He was very hungry and very thirsty and the sun was cooking him. He stared glumly at the line of ships moored along the dock. None resembled in the slightest the fat little cogs that plied to and fro between Krasnegar and the Impire. He wanted to study all the various craft in detail, but his farsight wasn't working as well as usual. It made his head hurt more.

  Gathmor's Stormdancer he should avoid. He would have to try all the others and hope to find one that needed an extra hand. He might be selling himself into slavery, but it seemed to be the only way he would ever reach the mainland. Staying here was going to result in slavery at best, with death a likely alternative.

  What would a ship's captain say to a man who crawled up the gangplank on his hands and knees and asked to be hired?

  How was he ever going to get to Zark to help Inos?

  There had to be a way!

  4

  The courtyard was small and dusty. Camels were much bigger than Kadolan had realized, and she pressed back in a corner, half resigned to being knocked over and trampled before she left this place. High stone walls and a blazing sun made it very hot and bright; it was extremely full of camels. Their smell was overpowering, their continual bellowing intolerable.

  Fiercely whiskered men in swishing robes were leading camels, loading camels, cursing and beating camels. The camels bellowed back at the men and displayed mouthfuls of large yellow teeth. When she had arrived, an hour or more ago, great heaps of merchandise had been scattered over the ground; now they had been attached somehow to the camels, making the beasts wider and even more threatening. Kadolan had been happy at first to sit in a shady nook and watch all this fascinating activity, for it was a most unusual experience, but now there was no shade left, and almost nothing to sit on or hide behind.

  Except, of course, camels. Madness! Inosolan, dear Inosolan!

  Midnight messages, disguises, secret underground passages!

  Still, although she would not admit it except to herself, Kade was rather enjoying all the nonsense. Undoubtedly Queen Rasha must be behind it all, but if it amused her and amused Inos, there could be no harm in playing along with whatever they thought they were doing.

  Having had a day to think the matter over, Kadolan had now decided that the idea of forcing Inosolan to marry a goblin was quite absurd. The imperor would never agree to such an abomination. The wardens, surely, were cultivated, civilized people who must know that goblins were vicious savages. They would never condemn an innocent girl to such a fate. Rasha herself had suffered at the hands of uncaring men. No, it had all been some sort of a bargaining ploy, obviously, not intended to be taken seriously.

  Hrunnh!

  Kadolan shied at the roar and looked up into the thick-lashed eyes of a very tall camel and into a mouth full of amber tusks. Feeling like a rowboat being molested by a galleon, she eased away along the wall. If the brute wanted the corner position, she would not argue.

  The black bedsheet in which she had been wrapped was quite a comfortable garment. Although it made her feel conspicuous, in fact it must be having exactly the opposite effect, for all the women she could see were similarly garbed. But her ankles ached with all the standing, and the smell was making her nauseous. Moreover, her face and hands had been dyed with some sort of berry juice. It had left her with a nasty, sticky feeling, and it seemed to be attracting more than her share of the flies. There was no shortage of those.

  "Aunt!"

  Kadolan swung around and was surprised to see that the young woman beside her had green eyes, very unusual in . . . "Inos!"

  The green eyes twinkled. "I fear you have made an error, ma'am. I am Mistress Hathark, the wife of Seventh Lionslayer."

  "Oh? Well, if you say so, dear."

  The newcomer peered around at the swirling mob of people and camels, having trouble because of the cloth hooding her face. Then, apparently reassured that no one was listening, she said quietly, "You are still my aunt, of course, but they are planning some other name for you. Did you have a pleasant journey?"

  Nothing of Inosolan was visible except her eyes, but her voice gave her away. She was feeling guilty and wanted reassurance.

  "A most interesting experience, dear."

  "You always did want to visit Hub, didn't you?"

  Hub? That seemed very unlikely. "Certainly. Is that our destination?"

  Inosolan bent close. "We are going to appeal to the Four!" she whispered dramatically. The words were barely audible over the roaring of the camels.

  "That will be nice, dear."

  Green eyes registered relief. "I am sure a ride on a camel will be highly educational. You always did want a ride on a camel, didn't you?"

  "An appetite easily sated, I am sure."

  "Er, yes."

  "Inos," Kadolan said gently, "you do not seriously believe that her Majesty is unaware of this escapade, do you?"

  Her niece flinched. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean that she is a sorceress, that's all."

  "Oh!" Inosolan sighed with relief. "You didn't discuss it with her, or see her as you left, or . . . or anything?"

  "No, dear. I followed instructions, and had a most curious journey through several very evil-smelling tunnels with some very unlikely-looking guides . . . But, no. I was just wondering how you could possibly expect to outwit anyone with Sultana Rasha's abilities. That's all."

  "Well, we have help. I think we've escaped—will escape. I'm tired of being a prisoner! I am going to go and do something. Going to recover my kingdom! Aha!"

  A very tall man had emerged from behind a camel at Inosolan's side. He was almost as anonymous as she was, in dirty-looking robes. An enormous sword hung at his side.

  "Aunt, may I present my husband? He is a lionslayer. I understand lionslayers have no names, only numbers. He is Seventh Lionslayer."

  "Fifth, now," Azak growled. "I am looking for Fourth. He has a slight squint, I believe." He stared all around, peering between the camels and over everyone else's head.

  "What will you do with him when you find him?" Kadolan inquired uneasily.

  The big man's red eyes fastened on her menacingly. "I shall persuade the poltroon to hasten at once to Sheik Elkarath and grovel before him, confessing the defects and shortcomings he has hitherto concealed."

  Nonplussed by that, Kadolan turned back to her niece. "Did you say 'husband', dear?"

  A flush appeared around Inosolan's green eyes, under the berry-juice stain. "We shall be sharing a tent, of course, but I can explain—"

  "No one," the sultan said loudly, "has ever complained that I snore!"

  Inosolan glanced nervously at her aunt and sniggered. Kadolan sighed. Whatever nonsense they were planning, these youngsters were certainly convinced that they were outwitting the sorceress.

  Then Azak said, "Ah!" triumphantly, and stalked off into the melee, shouldering smaller men aside.

  "It's all right, Aunt," Inos said hastily. "Really, it is. I am quite safe with Azak! I'll explain as soon as we get a moment alone. He really did slay a lion, too—on his thirteenth birthday! So he tells me."

  "I'm sure he did."

  "You can trust me."

  "I'm sure I can, dear."

  "I haven't forgotten your eight-year-old Prince Whoever-he-is. I'm not making eyes at Azak, honestly I'm not!"

  "No, dear, I'm sure you're not."

  Obviously Inos had not yet noticed the way Azak looked at her.

 
Dawn of nothing:

  One Moment in Annihilation's Waste,

  One Moment, of the Well of Life to taste,

  The stars are setting and the Caravan

  Starts for the Dawn of Nothing—Oh, make haste!

  Fitzgerald, The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam (§38, 1859)

  EIGHT

  Magic shadow shapes

  1

  Rap had sunk into a stupor. The sound of hooves on the flags roused him enough to glance behind him with farsight. Instantly he twisted around for a proper look at the procession advancing along the harbor road. The man in front was obviously a groom or a guide of some sort, and the four persons behind him were just as obviously rich visitors—a fat, balding man in front, an even fatter overdressed matron behind him, and then two overweight daughters.

  They were riding hippogriffs.

  A rush of memory sent his mind skittering back to a gloomy garret on icy winter nights in Krasnegar, with the debonair Andor suavely describing the great world to his wide-eyed young friend. In telling of Sagorn's visit to Faerie, claiming it as his own, he had mentioned his ride on a hippogriff. Of all the tall tales he had told in those yarn-spinning sessions, that had been the only one that Rap had wanted to disbelieve. He loved horses so much that he had been revolted by the idea of a half-horse monster. But obviously hippogriffs were real, and now he was seeing them with his own eyes.

  And they were splendid. The one in front was black as midnight, its head and neck shaped like an eagle's, but as large as a horse's. Its beak was a fearsome scimitar, its golden gaze ferocious. The taloned forelegs could have torn a man in half, and they paced in strange silence, while the hooved rear feet clopped loudly on the cobbles. The great wings were folded back, shrouding the riders' legs, and the feathers shone like jet. The second mount was a snowy gray; the other three were bays of various shades.

  Entranced, Rap squinted, striving to squeeze the blurring out of his vision. As horses, these would have been beautiful creatures, and the daunting raptor heads made them magnificent. Unconsciously he reached out with his farsight and stroked the sable plumage of the lead mount. The hippogriff would feel nothing, but Rap could sense the texture of the feathers—hard, yet silken soft.