by Dave Duncan
"Why you?" she demanded. She could not take very much more of this. No more at all! She chewed knuckles again, fighting down a crazy urge to scream. She was a princess and at least half jotunn and she must behave accordingly. But perspiration was pouring from her, and the foul air was making her head thump, and she had never done anything more violent in her life than fly a hawk.
Inos! She was doing this for Inos! The thought seemed to steady her.
But Jalon also was teetering on the brink of panic. His teeth clattered again briefly, ending with a click as he clenched his jaw. Then he began to whimper. "I can't! He's crazy! Impossible!"
Kadolan had no idea what plan Sagorn's brilliance had devised. She knew only that a hundred family men would be pouring down those stairs any minute. There was just no time! She tried the argument that had worked so miraculously on Thinal.
"Please, Master Jalon! Try! For Rap's sake?"
The whimpering stopped in a gulp.
"Yes. For Rap! You're right!" The minstrel brought himself under control with an effort that Kadolan heard more than saw. He put his head out of the doorway, cleared his throat quietly, and then shouted. She almost dropped her dagger from shock.
"Hey! Kuth! Look at this!"
It was a Zarkian accent. It was the voice of the dead man. It was perfect mimicry.
A muffled query . . . then a clearer one, as someone inside came to the grille. "Who's that?"
Jalon moved back a step. "It's Arg, stupid. Who else would it be? Come and see this, for Gods' sake."
"See what?" The unseen Kuth was suspicious.
A lesser artist might have overdone it; Jalon knew when to stop. He went away, by becoming Darad, who crouched low, sword at the ready.
The bolt scraped. The hinges groaned. Kuth put his turbaned head out. "Come on, Arg — you know the rules. Five in here always. You want me to go see something, then you gotta come here and — "
Darad went. Gritting her teeth and brandishing her dagger, Kadolan followed — out one door, in at the other, and don't fall over the corpse, into the painful brilliance of the lamplit cell. The heat and stench struck her like a flood of boiling sewage, the stink of men and oil smoke, and excrement, and also a sweet rank rottenness that was worst of all.
The gamblers had been sitting on a rug at the far end of the room. Three were still scrambling to their feet, drawing their swords. Another had perhaps been already upright, for he was charging forward as Kade came in, and she saw Darad's blade twist into his belly. It didn't kill him, but the sound he made showed that it hurt. And right in front of Kade, where she must be careful not to trip over it, was . . .
That was where the awful smell was coming from. Naked, spread out like a chained butterfly, swollen, twisted, blackened flesh rotting alive . . . Could he possibly be still alive? Mercifully unconscious, of course.
Then she saw that Darad was backing. The cellar was just wide enough for three men abreast, and three men were what he faced. They all had scimitars. Two had drawn daggers also. They stepped over their screaming, writhing companion and continued to advance in line abreast. They were all stooping because of the low headroom, and Darad's size was a handicap now.
In the romances Kadolan had read in her younger days, more action-related than those she preferred in her maturity, heroes were always taking on three or four villains at once. They held one off with a sword, another with a chair, and likely put the rest out of the fight with a kick. Rap had used chairs against Darad.
There were no chairs in this cell. There was a rug, with some cushions, and there were two dying men on the floor, one of them fastened there. And one swordsman could not handle three unless he took them by surprise.
Kadolan remembered that she was carrying a dagger.
A dagger was very little use against a sword, and Darad was back almost as far as Rap, with nowhere else to go. She changed her grip, stepped to the left, and threw the dagger with all her strength at the man on that side. She would never have gotten in a second blow with it, anyway.
Even if the family men had registered that she had a blade, they might not have guessed that she would throw it, or could do so under that roof. At that range she could not miss, and yet she almost did. The blade struck the man's shoulder and fell, but it distracted him, which was all the assistance Darad needed. He battered the center man's sword aside, feinted at the Right-hand face, lunged before Center could restore his guard, slitting his sword arm from wrist to elbow. Then he parried Right-hand's attack and riposted with a cut across the face. The wounds gave his opponents pause. Left-hand was still clutching his shoulder; Darad ran a sword into his heart and then took him by the belt. As the other two lunged simultaneously, he used the body as a shield against Center, while he parried Right-hand with his blade. Then he threw the body at Center and riposted under Right-hand's guard. The rest was just a matter of tidying loose ends.
Satisfied he had won, Kadolan turned her face away. Out beyond the doorway, on the far side of the anteroom, the stairway entrance glowed bright. Someone was coming!
She slammed the door shut — boom! — and struggled with the great bolt until it grudgingly scraped home. Through the grille she heard boots on the stairs.
Then she turned and dropped to her knees beside the prisoner and whispered, "Master Rap?"
Darkling way:
She hurried at his words, beset with fears,
For there were sleeping dragons all around,
At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears.
Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found;
In all the house was heard no human sound.
Keats, The Eve of St. Agnes
THREE
Best-laid scheme
1
The aurora had faded, the lights, the blazing stars. The trumpets and meadowlarks had fallen silent, the dark returned.
Darkness and silence — deeper now, because he could hold the pain away altogether instead of only partly. Lately he hadn't been able to do very much about the pain, because his will had been sapped by weakness and creeping death. Now he could banish all feeling, shut out everything. That was good. Much better.
Now he could make himself die.
Ironic, that! She'd told him a word of power. He'd recognized the feeling, the glory. So he was a mage. A mage ought to be able to make himself die. Sink down. Deeper. Darker. Colder. Peace.
She was Princess Kadolan, Inos's aunt. He wished she would stop shouting in his ear like this.
He wished whoever was doing all that hammering would stop, too.
Sagorn, also, fretting and pacing. Let the old scoundrel think his way out of this one.
He squashed out his hearing, closing his ears. Peace. He couldn't see, of course, after what they'd done to his eyes; but he didn't need eyes. And the princess's pleading kept sliding through, also. Annoying.
All those djinns outside the door, with swords and axes, it was almost like being back in Krasnegar, with the imps trying to break their way into the chamber at the top of the tower, except this was a cellar under a cellar. A cave, not a tower. Other end of the world. Everything upside-down. Funny. That was what all the noise was. He could stop that.
But why bother?
That was what Inos's aunt was shouting about. To make him stop the djinns. Telling him he had power now.
Power wasn't the problem.
Will was the problem.
He didn't want to.
Inos was married. Married by her own choice. She'd been angry with him when he broke up the wedding. Not that it had been all his fault. Lith'rian had planted the idea — he could see that now. Big joke to an elf, that. Probably that was why. He ought to resent that and want revenge on the warlock. But who could ever get revenge on a warlock? And it didn't matter all that much. He would snuff himself out like a candle-flame and then he wouldn't have to care anymore.
Care about Inos.
Why shouldn't she marry if she wanted to? Big, chunky fellow. Rich. Royal. G
ood-looking. Everything a queen would want. Everything he wasn't. Lost her kingdom, didn't matter. She'd found another. A bigger, better, brighter place. So Inos was happy and didn't need him, had never needed him. He needn't have bothered coming.
Poor old Krasnegar.
But he could still feel the ax blows, even if he had corked his ears and turned his hearing off. Nuisance. Annoying. Disturbed a man when he was busy dying. Could stop the djinns if he wanted. Too much effort.
All that way he'd come, and he needn't have bothered.
How did a mage snuff himself? Oddly difficult.
Words didn't want to be lost? No, one of them didn't. The other two were shared and didn't mind. Interesting — his mother's word was all his own, then.
Could make Sagorn open the door, though. That might be easiest. Just a command to the old man to pull the bolt, and then they'd all be quiet and let him die in peace. Not long. The old rascal wouldn't like it.
Too bad about Inos's aunt. Nice person. Well thought of in the castle. Polite to the staff. Real lady. Pity to see her here, all frantic and dirty. Maybe best just to pull the roof down and kill them all. Or snap the bolt himself and let the djinns in.
Now what was she screaming about? Inos?
Inos hurt?
He'd missed the thought. Could pry for it. Bad manners. Not nice thing to do, poke in someone's mind. Ask her to repeat that? Yes, he'd do that.
Couldn't talk with his tongue all cooked. Heal his tongue, then? Not hard. Turn his hearing on again, take the corks out?
Too much bother.
Door wasn't going to last much longer. Then they'd all let him have some peace.
Inos. Happy. Husband and kingdom and children. Good. Want Inos to be happy.
Hurt? Injured?
Ask her to say that bit again? She'd stopped shouting. Weeping? Poor lady. What about Inos? Inos hurt?
Have to cure his tongue. Uncork his ears.
So.
"What about Inos?" he asked. "Hurt?"
A sort of gasping noise from Princess Kadolan . . .
"Her face has been burned, Master Rap. It's going to be terribly scarred. She isn't beautiful anymore."
That was very bad! Terrible! Anger!
He cured his eyes and opened them, so she would know he was listening.
Too late, the door was falling.
Take away the door. Put a wall of rock there. Good, that had stopped the djinns — let's see them knock holes in that!
Rap frowned up at Princess Kadolan. "Tell me about Inos," he said.
2
For a few minutes, Kadolan just stood and watched the miracles happen. Then she realized that she was no longer looking at a broken, rotting carcass. It was almost back to being a young man, and he was wearing nothing but caked blood. She turned away, only to find that Sagorn was also staring, completely spellbound. She nudged him and gestured; he scowled; she insisted.
They walked to the far end, stepping carefully over the sprawled corpses until they reached the rug, still sprinkled with dice and coins. He gave her a hand and steadied her as she settled herself on a cushion. Then he sat beside her, but he faced himself toward the mage. Two old fools . . . but maybe they'd win out yet.
The doorway was filled by a wall of masonry, black like the walls of Inisso's castle, and quite unlike the adjoining local rock, which was reddish. The family men had been balked for a while, but their quarry was entombed, and the flickering lamps were steadily fouling the air. There was no obvious way out of this crypt, yet she kept telling herself not to worry, because the sorcery was on their side now. Things were going to be different.
Sagorn coughed repeatedly. Once he frowned and looked up, and when she followed his gaze, she saw a tiny aperture in the rocky roof. She had felt a faint draft earlier and guessed that there must be some ventilation, yet a child could not climb through that small chimney. Still, it was better than nothing. It might explain why the guards had sat at this end of the room, or perhaps the prisoner had been put by the door so they would look him over every time they came and went. It didn't matter. She was too weary to care.
"Ought to put out the lamps," Sagorn muttered. "Just leave one." But he did not move. His face was haggard, the clefts in it deeper than ever, and his skimpy hair was plastered in white streaks. The blood on his garments had dried, but his hands and the folds of his neck were blood-streaked. Kadolan must look as bad herself. It had been a very close-run thing. Reaction was setting in, and she felt older than the witch of the north.
Then Sagorn exclaimed in wonder and she turned to see that the faun was sitting up and had his hands free. He pulled the rusty fetters off his ankles as if they were made of taffy. He glanced at his audience; Kadolan averted her eyes again quickly.
In a moment, though, he came walking over, and he was fully dressed — boots and long pants and a long-sleeved shirt, the sort of rustic homespun garments a stableboy would wear in Krasnegar. He was clean, and the stubble had gone from his face; but he still had the idiotic tattoos around his eyes, and his brown hair was tangled like a gorsebush.
Rasha had changed her appearance to suit her mood. Kadolan felt confident that Master Rap would regard that sort of deception as beneath his self-respect. He must have power in plenty, or he could not have achieved the wonders she had already witnessed, but he would not tamper with the truth. She might soon have to admit that the Gods knew what They were doing.
He bowed clumsily to her. "I am greatly in your debt, ma'am." He stammered and blushed. "A woman . . . lady . . . having the spunk . . . I mean —"
"It was the least I could do, Master Rap. I feel responsible for much of what has happened."
His eyes widened. They were clear gray eyes, very innocent looking, but she sensed that he was using more than a mundane self-control to keep his face from revealing his thoughts. His calm was uncanny — no man could recover so quickly from such an ordeal. "You, ma'am?"
She nodded wearily. "I'd rather not go into it now."
"Of course, ma'am." He frowned and waved a hand at one of the bodies. "How many died altogether?"
She glanced at Sagorn, who said, "Eleven."
Rap pulled a face. "God of Mercy! I'm not worth that!"
Could he be serious? "You don't think they deserved it? After what they did to you?"
He shrugged. "It wouldn't be the ones who deserved it who died, would it? The Gods are rarely so tidy. And besides, I started it! I killed three, they told me. And wounded more. I can't blame them too much for wanting to get even." He shook his head sorrowfully.
He seemed to be sincere — but who could tell with a mage? She did not know this boy. She must just remember that Inosolan had chosen him as her friend, and unconsciously as more than friend; and the Gods had confirmed her judgment. Who was Kadolan to question now?
"Can you get us out of here, Master Rap?"
"I have no idea! I haven't been a mage long enough to know what I can do." A faint hint of smile tugged at the corners of his big mouth — whatever Inos had seen in him, she had not chosen him for his looks.
He frowned and glanced around. "The djinns are bringing sledges. Persistent lot, aren't they? I suppose I can put the door back and make them stand aside to let us pass . . . This is rather like the night we had the imps after us, isn't it?" His eyes strayed to Sagorn, whom he had been ignoring. "And this time I did become a mage!"
Sagorn smiled cynically, but he could not conceal his dislike. "This time you had no choice."
Rap ignored the barb; he looked upward. "I think — I can stretch that air hole. Would you mind climbing a ladder, your Highness?"
"I'll climb a greasy pole if it will get me to a bathtub."
He twitched, instantly apologetic. "I can remove the blood, ma'am. If you want."
"I'd rather do it with hot water, thank you."
He nodded, then stared at the hole in the roof again, for longer. It widened imperceptibly until it was a shaft, and there was a bronze ladder stretching down to
the rug.
"I'll go first," he said. "I need to work on the top a bit more." He went scrambling up the rungs and disappeared.
Kadolan looked at Sagorn, who was scowling but failing to conceal his amazement.
"An efficient young man!" she said.
The sage nodded. "Oh quite! A very efficient young man. A very stubborn one, too."
"What does that mean?" She struggled to rise, feeling her weariness like a wagonload of marble on her shoulders.
"I mean that Master Rap always does exactly what he wants to do, and no one can ever talk him out of it. And now no one can stop him, either."
3
The original chimney had been much too narrow to have been dug by mundane hands. Obviously it was the work of some long-ago sorcerer, who had modified a natural cave to make the dungeons, just as Rap was now modifying the wormhole into a manhole. The rock wasn't too hard to do, because it was just reshaping; the bronze ladder was really difficult. After a couple of fathoms of that, he switched to spruce, and wood was much easier to produce, somehow.
He'd wondered how it felt to do magic, and now he knew. He couldn't have explained it, though. Can a man explain how he saw, or how he made his muscles work in the right order when he was running? Describe green. Or pretty. Stop your heart for a minute. Magic was like those. It just was. It was possible, so he could do it. Just wanting . . .
Well . . . he could do some things, and now he was trying to do an evil lot of things all at once, and he hadn't even had a chance to practice with some simple lessons. Basic cursing and frog transformations . . . There were different levels to magic, too. His broken bones and poisoned flesh, his eyes and tongue — he'd cured those, but they weren't really cured. In part he was keeping them cured, just as he was keeping his clothes in existence . . . and halfway up his new ladder, he realized that he had relaxed his control over those wish-garments, and they weren't there anymore. He made a mental note to dress himself again when he got to the top, then ignored the problem. The ladder, likewise, was going to flicker out of existence as soon as he took his mind off it, although the bronze would last longer than the wood, as some compensation for being harder to create in the first place. The wall that was blocking the djinns . . . and the shaft would shrink back to its original size, so he'd better keep that firmly in mind while Inos's Aunt Kade was inside it!