by Dave Duncan
“Well, you’re going to send me to him. I’ll ask then.”
The old man shook his head gently. “If I send you, you won’t ever get to see him. Not in person. You’ll be thrown in the vaults like a rent payment, until needed.”
“But. . .”Rap stared incredulously. “Oh—you mean I just promise to go and ask the warden for help? You’d trust me?”
“That’s it. No spells. No sorcery.”
Could Rap even trust himself to obey such an order? Warily he said, “An oath made under duress isn’t worth much. Do I have any choice?”
“That’s the whole point, lad—I’m giving you a choice.”
He wouldn’t have much of a choice if he’d made a promise, would he? Not unless he reneged, of course.
Ruthless when balked. “You’re steering pretty close to the rocks yourself, aren’t you . . . Ishist?”
The gnome smiled into his nauseating beard and waited. He wasn’t telling the whole truth, though, or else he was testing, somehow. Qr wanting Rap to think those things. Or just lying, and planning to spell Rap anyway.
But Rap would much rather be his own man than a puppet, or at least think he was—and that spooky internal nudging was registering approval again. “Then I promise to go and find your master and ask him to help Inos—if you’ll tell me how, and you promise not to . . . to mess about with my mind.”
Ishist chuckled. “Typical faun! Always convinced his own ways are best.” Abruptly he slid down off his chair.
Rap rose from his, and clasped the tiny hand being offered, having to bend slightly to do so. “I promise,” he repeated. “And I.” For a moment a veil seemed to lift from the little gnome—a small, ugly, filthy old man, girt with enormous occult power, but just a man doing his best in a hard job, living in the style of his people, caring for his children, deeply in love with his wife. It was not his fault that his race ate carrion. Then the odd moment had passed, and he was a sorcerer again, even if his head was barely higher than Rap’s elbow.
He examined his own hand, which Rap had just released. “That’s two,” he remarked softly. “You and Athal’rian.”
“Two?”
“Touched me.” He looked up with a cryptic gleam in his black button eyes. “Few day men will shake hands with a gnome, Rap. Even fewer would think a promise made to a gnome had any value at all. But you . . . I think you’re a man of your word.”
The splendour falls:
The splendour falls on castle walls,
And snowy summits old in story . . .
O sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
— Tennyson, The Princess
EIGHT
To the seas again
1
“There is something very aesthetic about bacon and eggs,” Kade said. “The meld of shapes and colors, perhaps? Or is it because I associate it with childhood? Or winter mornings in Kinvale?” She dabbed her lips with her napkin and sighed like one who could eat nothing more.
Kade was in ecstasy. She had slept in a bed with real linen sheets. She had been granted hot water for washing, and promised a hot tub later in the day. A maiden who was probably one of Elkarath’s innumerable granddaughters or greatgranddaughters had shampooed her hair and curled it for her afterward quite expertly. The matronly Nimosha, who was one of his daughters or granddaughters, had produced a gown of almost Kade’s size, in almost the current fashion, and had asked if it would suffice until Kade herself could have the merchants bring around better, and of course that could be arranged to happen right after breakfast. Then Kade had eaten bacon and eggs, and with silver cutlery instead of fingers.
The two ladies had consumed their leisurely breakfast in the sheik’s personal dining hall. The hour was late enough that everyone else was feverishly occupied elsewhere.
Like all the other chambers they had seen so far, the room was tiny, with only six chairs squeezed in around a table, and the rest of it taken up by a grotesquely awkward sideboard. The furniture was old and rather ugly; being the property of a merchant, even a wealthy merchant, it lacked the ducal opulence of Kinvale. But it was Imperial furniture. Bacon and eggs were an Imperial dish, and Kade’s rather overlong dress was an Imperial garment. The casement was closed, but the voices that drifted up from the street were Imperial voices. And she was going to summon Imperial dressmakers.
Kade was floating on pink clouds.
Inos was gritty-eyed and slack-shouldered from lack of sleep. Flocks of impractical ideas for escape thundered around inside her head like a riot of startled seagulls, but none of them would come to her hand. Realizing that she was being poor company, she now laid her plotting aside for a moment to find some tactful way of dealing with the bacon-and-eggs question—for the real reason Kade liked bacon and eggs had nothing to do with esthetics and was merely that she enjoyed anything soaked in fat and grease.
At that moment the door was, firstly, tapped briskly and, secondly, thrown open to reveal a young man already swooping a low bow. He straightened up, adjusted a snowy lace cuff very slightly, and flashed a dazzling smile. ”Mistresses, I am at your service! Guide and fearless protector! Poet, troubadour, humble slave!” Then he stepped into the room and bowed again.
Inos blinked hard and exchanged a bewildered glance with Kade. This was either Skarash or a twin brother.
Skarash was one of the sheik’s many grandsons and one of his favontes. But Skarash had been a solemn, surly youth in his late teens, and Inos had never thought of him as dashing before. In all the weeks since leaving Arakkaran, he had neither smiled nor spoken ten words to her, although that was admittedly correct Zarkian behavior toward a woman.
Now he was decked out like an imp, in silver-buckled half boots and hose of sea green, in puffy silken breeches and a white shirt with innumerable ruffles—a very tall, slim-waisted young man with a mop of copper curls flopping cutely over his forehead. Without his straggly ginger beard he seemed somehow older and certainly better-looking. His cheeky, toothy grin was pure imp.
So was the way he lifted Inos’s hand to kiss. Kade was rightit was nice to be back in the Impire.
“Good morning, Master Skarash.”
“A magnificent morning! Beautiful weather outdoors, beautiful ladies indoors. The Gods are generous.” He bowed again. Skarash could not match Kinvale standards in polish and finesse, but he was certainly coming much closer than any other djinn Inos had yet met. He babbled like an imp.
“What is your pleasure for this magnificent day? Grandsire thought you might care to visit the shopping district—there is no real bazaar here. Or just go sightseeing? Ullacarn is famous for its flowers.” His garnet-red eyes twinkled at Inos.
Kade and Inos exchanged more glances of surprise.
“I would enjoy seeing the stores,” Kade said wistfully. ”Mistress Nimosha mentioned a couturier’s establishment on this very street, I think?”
Skarash laughed loudly. “She also mentioned it to Grandsire, and he bit her ears off! He said that for apparel I must take you to Ambly Square, where the rich ladies go.” He produced a washleather bag and jingled it suggestively. “I have never known him eager to spend money before, but he threatens I shall eat every groat I bring back. So you will have to help me, and see it all gets spent.”
Inos felt cold fingers of suspicion stroke the nape of her neck. What was the mage up to now? “His hospitality brings honor on his house. Are there by chance some conditions attached to such bounty?”
The impudent smile on Skarash’s face did not fade or flicker by one eyelash. ”He did mention that he would enjoy a word with your gracious self before we set out. Possibly you might put that question to him in person?”
So there were to be strings. Unbreakable strings, most likely. Would Inos feel bound if she gave her parole? A promise made under duress might not be as binding as one freely made, but then she would likely be given the option of staying in a cell . . . and that thought reminded her of Azak.
“Firs
t Lionslayer is still in the dungeons?”
“One dungeon. Actually, it’s only a subcellar, but it’s too damp to store anything of value.”
“May I visit him?”
“Certainly! Mistress, I assure you again that your slightest whim is my life’s desire.” Skarash opened the door and held it. Inos rose. Kade cast an indecisive look at the puffy rolls and the peach preserve. “I don’t much care for dungeons. I think I’ll wait here for you, dear.”
“Shall I have more tea sent in?”
“No, that’s not necessary,” Kade said, “I’ve certainly finished eating.” She sat well back in her chair and tried to look innocent.
The corridor outside was narrow and twisting and uneven. The whole edifice was like that, a maze of low ceilings, peeling plaster walls, and uneven floors—a conglomeration of umpteen buildings, altered and connected and rearranged. “To the left, Inos,” Skarash said softly.
Inos stopped and met his eye. “You know who I am? Why I’m here?”
He smirked, stepping close to avoid a woman passing with a load of laundry. He stayed close, looking down at Inos with a twinkle and a scent of rosewater.
“Of course! I’ll call you Hathark if you wish, but it’s almost as bad as Phattas.” His voice had lost the djinn harshness, and his gestures were impish. Could this be sorcery?
“You are strangely changed from the surly young man I knew in the desert.”
“Here we are in the Impire. When in Hub . . .”
“ . . .do as the Hubbans tell you?”
“Correct.” He took her arm, holding it tight. “This way. And remember also, I am a merchant. I always try to please, especially beautiful ladies. I give whatever you want to receive.”
Was a flirtation what she wanted? Skarash seemed to be heading that way like a stampede of camels. But it would be fun to try a little banter again.
“The alteration is an improvement, I think. Which do you prefer being—imp or djinn?”
He grinned, and slid his arm around her. “With you, an imp.” Again they had to make way for passing baggage, and this time he contrived to crush Inos into a corner. “Djinns can’t peek down a girl’s cleavage very often,” he added, doing so and licking his lips.
Inos placed a heel threateningly on his instep. Her borrowed dress was admittedly tight across the bosom, the neckline strained. She recalled that not so very long ago she had worried about putting padding in her clothes.
And then—but only then—she remembered the pixies. Her heart leaped into her throat. Sudden tremor. Man, too close. Hands. Eyes.
“Something wrong?” Skarash said.
“No!” Mouth dry, skin damp. She struggled to control her breathing. Flirt was not rape! She must not give in to this now or it would haunt her all her days. Could she remember how to flutter an eyelash? “Not at all. I expect I am merely overcome by the sight of a shapely male calf, after being deprived so long.”
He gulped, and was djinn enough to need a moment on that one. Inos raced ahead, sternly not thinking of pixies. “I could almost believe that the change in you was due to sorcery.”
“Sorcery? I know nothing about sorcery,” Skarash said solemnly. But the rosy eyes seemed to change color slightly, and what they said was, Nobody else knows anything about that, and if the mage chose me to be your guide it was to make sure that there is no loose talk about sorcery.
Elkarath had mentioned that Skarash was the one entrusted with laying out the first magic carpet. He had been standing guard outside the door when the second arrived with its passengers. He was very likely the Chosen One, the heir who would receive the words of power when the sheik died.
“Just a joke,” Inos said.
He nodded as if satisfied, and they continued along the bustling corridor, then down yet another winding staircase, the sixth or seventh Inos had met already. The noises that infected the whole house were growing louder. “We have to go through here anyway, and Grandsire wants that word with you.” Skarash opened a door and ushered Inos into the largest open space she had yet seen in Ullacarn.
Obviously it was the business area of the House of Elkarath, and with the annual caravan having arrived only the previous day, disorder and tumult were rampant. Light poured in through three open doorways, each large enough to admit a six-horse wagon, but the air was so thick with dust that Inos began to sneeze at once, and her eyes to water—so Skarash considerately put his arm around her again, guiding her between the highpiled clutter of barrels and bales and boxes. The odor of cloves and cinnamon and caraway was intoxicating, but the whiff of camel and horse was undeniable also. Porters and wagoneers and customers milled to and fro, arguing and shouting over the din, loading and unloading, taking and bringing.
The legionaries standing by the doors were a surprise. Outside in the fiery sunshine the busy street was thronged with people, all of them apparently imps: ladies in bright gowns, with unveiled faces; many men, and even woman, with their heads uncovered—although persons of quality wore fancy hats, of course. Sudden nostalgia snatched Inos’s breath away.
With eyes streaming and nose tingling, she found herself arriving at a short flight of steps, leading up to a platform. There, in a large chair behind a long table, sat Elkarath, writing with one hand, fingering his beard with the other, an oasis of calm amid the hubbub, quietness within the racket. No sheik now, within the Impire, he was merely Master Elkarath the merchant, yet imposing enough in a bulky scarlet robe and a gold skullcap. Great ledgers stood stacked beside him; clerks rushed in and out through other doors, or merely hovered, waiting for his attention. Here the master could oversee the loading and unloading, the trading and tabulating.
Grateful that she need not raise skirts, for her hem was well above her ankles, Inos climbed the worn wooden treads, assisted of course by the willing hand of Skarash.
“You may have to wait a moment, Mistress,” he muttered in her ear. ”That one looks important.”
Elkarath was rising stiffly to greet a visitor, a legionary. The white horsehair crest on his helmet denoted a centurion. “Why soldiers?” Inos murmured, stepping back to where she would not impede the swarming clerks. ”What has the army to do with merchants?” There were at least a dozen helmets in sight, all with black or brown crests.
“Guards,” Skarash said, moving close. “This stuff is worth a fortune.”
“And who would steal it?”
“The army might.” He chuckled at her glance of surprise. ”Watch Grandsire closely. There!”
A leather bag passed unobtrusively from merchant to centurion.
“Graft?”
“Of course.”
Hands were being shaken across the table now, and the centurion saluted.
Inos let her attention wander over the bustling throng on the lower level. ”Red hair? Obviously most of these men are djinns?”
“At least half of them are relatives.”
“Then why dress like imps?”
Skarash showed his teeth in a snarl. “Believe me, having red hair is bad enough. Dressing like a barbarian is asking for trouble.”
“Is Ullacarn part of the Impire, then? I thought it was an independent city-state.”
“Only on paper. An Imperial protectorate, allied by treaty. But there are legionaries here. Lots of them.”
Oh! Like that, was it? There were legionaries in Krasnegar now, or there had been the last time Inos had heard.
Skarash said, “You’ve been noticed.”
Elkarath had resumed his seat and was beckoning. Inos picked her way across the platform, between the dodging, hovering flunkies. The centurion was still standing there, but as she approached he removed his helmet to show that his visit was now social. He was inspecting her with brazen approval, but she had been away from imps long enough to notice the swarthy, pocky complexion, the thick waist and narrow shoulders. Short by djinn standards . . . but handsome enough in his shiny bronze. More muscle than fat, dark wavy hair. Not bad.
“Mistre
ss Hathark!” Elkarath boomed. His voice and manner had changed dramatically also, although not as much as his grandson’s. “You slept well, lady?”
Had he been spying on her insomnia? Inos donned one of Kade’s witless social smiles. “Never better, thank you, sir! I was weary from the journey.” She wondered if a curtsy was appropriate, and compromised with a dainty bob. The centurion’s eyes were still peeling her, and she wished her dress were just a little more Zarkian, or not quite so stretched in places.
Elkarath nodded to her bob, without rising. “Skarash will see you have everything you need, Mistress. May I present Centurion Imopopi?”
She bobbed agan, the imp saluted.
“Your first visit to beautiful Ullacarn, ma’am?”
Inos felt an odd twinge of indecision. She was not sure what she was supposed to say. Elkarath would hardly have explained that she was a refugee queen from a kingdom at the other end of the world. On the other hand, his deceits were his own problem, and she needed information as a fish needs water.
“Yes, it is. Indeed I am a newcomer to this part of the world.” That should have led the conversation toward Krasnegar, but Elkarath moved to block it. “Mistress Hathark and her party will not be staying long. They are merely passing through, on their way back to Hub.”
They were? Why would Rasha . . . had Inos then been sold already? Was she to be delivered to Olybino in Hub? What use trying to escape if she was bound for Hub anyway, or was this a trick?
Before she could question, Centurion Imopopi laughed harshly, and Inos felt her skin prickle as if in premonition of something wrong, but she had no time to analyze, for he was speaking to her.
“I shall not venture to praise Ullacarn if you are familiar with the city of the Gods, ma’am. You had best not linger long, though. The season is late. The passes will be closing soon.”
“Passes?” Inos fished frantically for geography that had momentarily slid down behind the back of her mind.
“The Qoble Range, of course.” Why did his voice bother her? ”You are not from Hub originally, though?”