by Dave Duncan
The sailor scowled blackly, recognizing that he was in the presence of the occult.
“She’ll make good time in this, won’t she?” Rap said. “If she stays afloat, that is. Skipper says Malfin’s straight upwind, but we can tack. And if you’d care for a wager, Cap’n, I’ll lay odds we won’t see Malfin on this trip.”
Gathmor scowled. “I don’t bet against you, not ever. But Prakker’ll just heave to again as soon as he’s clear of Noom Bay.”
“Sure you don’t want to bet?” Rap said cheerfully.
He glanced over at the minstrel, who was quietly fingering out a tune and frowning.
“You’ve been to Ilrane, haven’t you?”
Jalon shrugged without looking up. “Andor mostly. I was just there a few hours.”
“Tell me about the sky trees.”
“Andor told you once,” Jalon said, still twanging quietly.
“But you’ve got the artist’s eye and the poet’s tongue.” Even Darad might have seen through such thick-buttered flat tery, but Jalon didn’t. He laid the lute beside him, put his hands under his flaxen head, and stared up at the beams. For a long minute he was silent, then he sighed. “They’re glorious, utterly breathtaking. Like crystal artichokes.”
Gathmor rolled his eyes at Rap and made a scornful noise. Jalon had once admitted to Rap that he was part elf, and this seemed a logical time to mention the fact again, but he didn’t. He might have forgotten having done so already, or he might be reluctant to inform Gathmor. “No, truly. They’re not really trees, they’re some sort of mineral growth.”
“How big?” Rap asked.
“Huge. Lots are a league high, some of them more than that, with their tops all covered in snow. Valdobyt Prime was said to be so high there wasn’t enough air at the top of it to breathe. It got knocked down by some sorcerer or other thousands of years ago. I’d give you a ballad or two about it if I could fix this E string.”
“Artichokes?” Rap said. “A league high? Come on, be serious! ”
“Should have been able to see ‘em from Kith,” Gathmor snorted, equally disbelieving. But Jalon was lost in remembered bliss.
“Oftentimes the clouds hide them. It can take days to climb up from the ground to where you want to be.. That’s how I got called—Andor was exhausted. I would never’ve left, I think, except that his hosts knew him and not me; never mind that tale . . . Each leaf is sort of like a hand. Think of hundreds of crystalline hands all sprouting from a common trunk, except you can’t see much of the trunk itself. There’s usually a little lake in the palm, and the fingers feather ‘way out and up, into branches of crystals, and they branch more, and finally make petals like a mist of stained glass and butterfly wings in the distance. All day the sun strikes through them in all the colors you can imagine and a few you can’t, and the clouds float by in pearly fires.”
“Where do the people live?” Gathmor said, always practical. ”They build houses around the lakes, or higher on the slopes, in among the trees. There’s real trees and grass, and flowers of course. Can’t have elves without flowers around! Little fields. Each leaf is a separate village. You go from one to the other up long ladders or in tunnels winding up through the rock. The sky trees are the most beautiful thing in the world,” Jalon said with unusual firmness. “No wonder elves love beauty so much.”
Gathmor rubbed his eyes. “I think I’ll catch some sleep.” Rap hid a smile. “Good idea. Any chance you could borrow a cape and a hat for me, Cap’n?” He would have to spend time up on deck to hold the skipper on course. Already he thought he could detect the wind being altered to react to the ship’s new course.
If all else failed, he would just have to explain to the master that the warlock of the south wanted him, Rap, delivered to Ilrane as soon as possible; but he thought Lith’rain might regard that as cheating. Presumably he was not going to all this trouble just to steal Rap’s word of power, so Rap must have some interest or value, and just maybe that meant he was a pawn in the Krasnegar struggle, and in that case the game was still on, and Inos was still alive.
This rationalization was a tapestry of moonbeams, but it was enough to keep him from brooding, except when he remembered he was trying to outguess a man who had married his daughter to a gnome.
Or when he wondered if the unseen hand belonged to Bright Water, needing Rap in order to fulfill Little Chicken’s destiny. Lith’rian was the witch’s ally.
Nevertheless, Rap would guide the ship to Vislawn as best he could. The rest of the time he would lounge in his wonderful cabin. He had eaten a very fine breakfast. Never before in his life had he lived in luxury like this.
And he had a whole new pastime to savor. With his new eidetic memory, he could call up detailed pictures of Inos from their childhood together—Inos riding, Inos running, dancing, laughing, playing, running. Next to actually having her there, it was the best thing he could imagine.
3
It was at some undefined time during the second day that Inos opened her eyes to find Kade standing over her, regarding her with concern, white hair tousled around wind-flushed face. Beyond the scuppers lay blue sky and sea and white birds—and waves. Inos closed her eyes again swiftly.
“I was hoping . . .” Kade said softly. “The wind has died almost completely.”
“So have I.”
Kade was not to be discouraged. “I did bring a little—”
“If you mention food or drink or . . . yecgh! . . . soup . . . I will start all over again,” Inos said firmly. She heard a faint sigh and a fainter clink of china.
Then vague noises suggested a chair being pulled up. She opened her eyes just as Kade sat down beside the bed. “Please, Aunt? Leave me. Maybe tomorrow?”
But Kade was descended from a long line of kings, and at times she could be implacably stubborn. Regrettably this looked like being one of those times.
“There is something you should know,” she said firmly.
“Tell me then.” Get it over with.
“I did try to tell Azak, but I was not allowed near him.” How would he be doing, down in the bilge? Azak swore that he loved the sea, and yet djinns were usually reluctant sailors. Inos wondered how Gnome Quarters smelled, and instantly wished she hadn’t. She grunted noncommittally. She had too many worries of her own. He was a big boy and could look after himself.
“So I’m going to tell you,” Kade said firmly. “This ship is not going to Angot.”
Inos turned her head quickly on the pillow—too quickly. “It’s not?”
“Not when it’s heading south it isn’t! I may be old but I’m not stupid.” Princess Kadolan very rarely lost her temper. This must be one of those times, also.
“You’re not old,” Inos said automatically as she tried to comprehend the stunning news.
“Despite the calm sea and gentle breezes, this is not the Sea of Sorrows. We’re in Kerith Passage.”
“Then where are we going?”
“I have spent the last day and a half trying to find out! The crew and the officers are being extremely unhelpful. Frainish doesn’t know—she was told she was going to Qoble—and I seem to be the only passenger capable of maintaining an upright posture.”
“Arakkaran?” Inos whispered. It would have to be Arakkaran.
“Arakkaran, yes. I just visited the cabin of an elderly priest. He didn’t want any fish chowder, either, but he did admit that he’s on his way to Githarn, and expects the ship to call at Torkag, Brogog, and Arakkaran.”
Seasickness did not promote clear thinking, any thinking. The planks in the ceiling had a very wavy grain pattern, and if Inos looked at them for very long, the waves started rippling. Don’t look, stupid!
“You are still convinced that your centurion was the warlock?” Kade demanded.
“Yes. Yes, even his eyes. Certainly his voice. And not even a mistake. He wanted me to know—he was laughing at me.” Her aunt tapped a shoe on the rug several times. “Well, I don’t understand! If we were still Rash
a’s prisoners, I could see why we might be on our way back to Arakkaran, but I don’t understand why the warlock of the east would send us there. I mean, either he wants you as queen of Krasnegar, or he doesn’t want you at all, or I shouldn’t think he would anyway.”
That was not an unusually muddled speech for Kade, but in her insubstantial condition, Inos needed time to think it through. “I agree,” she muttered at last.
“So, if you were right in thinking that the warlock stole us away from the sorceress, then it would seem that the sorceress has stolen us back again!”
At the moment it didn’t matter all that much. “What does Skarash say?”
“Master Skarash,” Kade said crossly, “is being a jotunn.”
“Jotunn?”
“He’s wearing sailor clothes, consorting with sailors. The one time I managed to get a word in with him, he was attempting sailor jargon in a broad Nordland dialect—a very bad imitation of Nordland dialect.”
“And what did he say?”
“That was debatable. I couldn’t understand him, and when I used a much more authentic Nordland accent on him, he obviously couldn’t understand me and wouldn’t admit it.”
Inos made a mental note to find that story funny when she recovered her health and sense of humor. Trader Skarash must know the truth of the matter. If Azak were around, he could choke it out of the sleazy little twister.
“I don’t know. How long?”
“We shall be in Torkag within the hour, unless the wind fails completely.”
Inos roused herself enough to reach out and give her aunt’s hand a sympathetic squeeze. “And you’re not going to get your longed—for visit to Hub, are you?”
“Apparently not this time.” Kade set her lips angrily.
And back in Arakkaran she would not get to wear all the fine clothes she had picked out. That would be hurting, too.
When Allena made landfall near the many mouths of the Vislawn River, the wind dropped as if cut down by an ax. The sailors were beyond being surprised by anything the weather did on this voyage. They hoisted more sail and began the cleanup chores that inevitably followed a storm. Spreading all the canvas she could carry, Allena came in nobly on the morning tide, nudged along by a faint breeze over mirrored waters. Real ship and reflected glory floated together between the wooded islets like dancers in embrace.
Rap and Jalon were leaning on the rail, admiring the scenery, the weather, the white-sailed fishing boats, the glimpses of picturesque buildings in the woods. After being called by Sagorn on the first night, Jalon had put off calling any of the others to replace him until it was too late, because he was known to the crew. Rap did not care, as he preferred Jalon’s company anyway, but it was surprising—three days of anything were usually enough to bore the minstrel to frenzy. Fortunately he had discovered a sailor who knew a song cycle that he did not. He had spent his time in learning it and working out improvements.
Rap was feeling thick-eyed and draggy from lack of sleep. As an adept, he could talk almost anyone into almost anything, but not for long. For the first three days and nights on Home Water, he had barely slept at all. Later he had done better as he gained authority and as the sailors concluded that he must be a sorcerer, since he could either control the winds, or at least predict what they would do next. Tacking when he advised not to, for example, had been enough to put the ship in irons every time. Any attempt to head for Malfin had been frustrated; the road to Vislawn had been open. Had they realized the true limits of Rap’s power, they would have thrown him overboard.
And now there was nothing to do except lean on the rail and admire the bobbing gulls and fine morning.
“God of Marvels,” Jalon remarked softly. “Do my old eyes deceive me?”
Twitching out of his drowsy reverie, Rap twisted around and saw that an elf had just come out on deck. Right behind her came another. “We must be getting close to the city,” he agreed.
“This is the city.”
Ribbons of sunbright water snaking between green islands? Pole boats and a few barges? “Where?”
“Here.” Jalon waved vaguely. “Elves would rather look at trees than buildings, although the buildings they hide would be flaunted by anyone else. We’ve been sailing through uptown Vislawn for the last hour.”
Rap hauled himself properly alert by the scruff of his mental neck and scanned around. True enough, there were little timbered houses and quaint shops hidden everywhere. Very few were more than one story high, and only boathouses and a few storage sheds could be reached directly from the waterfront. Allena was easing slowly past a white-sand beach where a halfdozen golden children were splashing and shrieking. Hidden in the trees behind it was a pottery, of bright-enameled woodwork and glittering tiles. Its tall chimney curved in an impossible spiral.
“How many islands?” Rap asked.
He should have known better—Jalon looked totally blank at the question. ”Lots. Why?”
Sagorn would have quoted the exact number. “Never mind. If we don’t reach our berth soon we’ll have to anchor. The tide’s about to turn.”
Jalon chuckled. “Then they’ll ask you to whistle up some more wind. ” He went back to his dreamy gazing at the scenery. Ripple!
Gods!
Rap grabbed the rail tight and told his heart to calm down. He’d been half expecting that ripple, but just because a guess proved right did not stop it scaring a man out of his wits. It had felt just like the first one, the ripple that had startled him when he was talking with Sagorn, but this time he’d made it out more clearly. The whole world had shimmered—sea, islands, ships, buildings—in vision and farsight both, as if he’d been viewing a reflection in a bowl of water and someone had tapped the side of the bowl. It had lasted only a fraction of a second, but that was long enough to be scary. Nor had he sensed where the ripple had come from, although he could guess.
More elves were emerging. The imps had mostly gained their sea legs by the third day of the voyage. Elves apparently never did, and Rap’s unique ability to function was assumed to be merely one more proof of his sorcery. On this millpond channel, though, old Sir Thoalin’fen could strut around in silver and sea green. Fern’soon was displaying her gorgeous legs below an extremely daring burgundy wrap. Grandmother or not, she was a lovely girl! Jalon’s golden jotunn hair was a faded washrag compared to elvish curls.
And finally came Quip’, still pale, but resplendent in rose and peacock blue.
He paused in the companionway door rather unsteadily, glancing around until he located Rap. Registering great relief, he walked over to join him, adjusting a saffron cap topped with a scarlet plume. When he was still a few paces off, Rap bowed. Jalon was lost in a trancelike contemplation of a barge being poled past and did not notice, but Quip’ stopped dead, suddenly worried.
“Why’re you bowing to me, Rap’?”
“Because I don’t think your name is Quip’, your Omnipotence.”
Ice! For a moment Rap felt more frightened than he could ever remember feeling before in his life. Then the opal eyes twinkled, and the elf stepped to his side, laying hands on the rail. His physical appearance did not change in the slightesthe stayed shorter than Rap and much slighter, and he still looked no older than fifteen. But he was a different person.
Had there been a hint of a ripple there, or was it just Rap’s teeth trying to chatter? Or was he shying at moths now?
Still in Quip’s husky treble, Lith’rian said, “Tell me?”
Rap found some saliva and said, “I’ve learned how to control my memory. There was no one clearing plates near Lord Phiel’nilth when I made my challenge.”
The elf chuckled and shook his head sadly. “How the tiny flaw can spoil the great design! Well done, Master Rap! Anything else?”
“He denied it, but I think the dragonward must have some way of communicating with the warlock of the south.”
“Yes, he does; a magic scroll. Whatever he writes on it can be read on its mate in Hub. Its a v
ery small magic and the drakes don’t seem to mind. That’s all?”
“I got seasick a few times. I wasn’t sure that you . . . I mean, I wanted to see if Quip’ was all right.”
Quip’s cabin had not been on the ship, and the harder Rap had searched for it, in person or by farsight, the more violently his insides had protested.
The elf pursed his lips. “If you got close enough to feel nauseated, then you’re a remarkably determined young man—you’d dug through three layers of . . . But we knew that about you, didn’t we?” He chuckled. “And that reminds me, I must give Captain Prakker back his cabin!”
Ripple!
Lith’rian stiffened, staring hard at Rap. “You felt that!” Rap nodded nervously. “Yes, your Omnipotence.”
“You’re only an adept! Reading the ambience? What else can you do?”
Rap listed the talents he had discovered, and they all seemed very insignificant compared to the powers of a warlock. But he had felt a ripple when the bogus Quip’ departed and also when he returned a few minutes ago, and now he had felt Lith’rian remove the spell from the undiscoverable cabin. The elf looked impressed, but certainly not pleased.
With his eerily boyish appearance and voice, Lith’rian was somehow even more intimidating than Bright Water or Zinixo. “I jumped to Hub, and that used a lot of raw power. I came back the same way. And just now I was very close to you. Can you feel this? Or this?”
Rap shook his head.
The big opal eyes flickered from blues and greens to red and orange. ”Your sensitivity isn’t very high, then. But even so! Very few mages can feel disturbance in the ambience. Some sorcerers can’t, or do it poorly. I recall no precedent for an adept being able to do it at all.”
Rap forced himself to meet the warlock’s glittering gaze and saw a nasty sort of appraisal in them. “What does that mean, your Omnipotence?”
“It means that you have some surprising abilities. That’s all.” It mattered though, obviously. So did other things. “Inos, your Omnipotence?”
“She’s well.”