Emperor and Clown

by Dave Duncan

  "I am sure there will be an inn somewhere nearby, Sire."

  With the fat man's luck, though, it would be considerably less comfortable than the coach would be. But of course the fool had insisted on pushing on after sunset. He could always be trusted to push his luck, King Angilki, and he invariably had the worst luck imaginable. Angilki the Unruly. King Angilki the Last. The rain had not stopped since they left Kinvale, and yet every night someone had remarked with regret on the glorious weather that had just ended. Angilki brought winter with him. Very likely the sun broke out as soon as he departed.

  Someone was going to have to go out in that downpour . . .

  It had been the fat capon's fearsome mother who had conscripted Odlepare for this Evil-begotten journey, summoning him to her sickbed.

  "Without proper guidance," she had said, "my son is more likely to arrive in Krasnegar than at Hub. I have decided you are the only one of his regular confidants who can tell east from north."

  Odlepare had resigned on the spot.

  She had bought him back with a promise of a bonus equal to ten years' wages. He had counted every minute of those ten years going by. Accidents and temper tantrums, absentmindedness and endlessly repeated dissertations on the next round of renovations planned for Kinvale . . . He had aged twenty years in the last six weeks. Had it only been six weeks?

  God of Greed, forgive me!

  A rap on the door. Odlepare pulled down a window and recoiled as icy rain slashed in at him. "Yes?"

  The postilion, sodden: "We have a broken spring, Master Odlepare,"

  "His Majesty surmised as much. Have you by chance observed any inns or hostels recently? Even a private establishment of quality?"

  Any of the minor gentry would be honored to provide hospitality for a benighted king — at least until they discovered just how benighted a king could be, The postilion could not possibly be wetter had he spent ten years underwater, so Odlepare need not offer to go exploring himself.

  "There is an inn just across the road, master."

  Odlepare shuddered. This was going to be even worse than he had expected.

  "It's called the Soldier's Head," the postilion added hopefully.

  "And I expect it will smell like it. You had better send someone across to count the bedbugs."

  His humor brought him a black glare, warning him that he had spent the day inside the coach, while the postilion and coachman and footmen had not.

  "There is an inn across the road, your Majesty," Odlepare reported.

  "Excellent. Where is the umbrella?"

  "I recommend a cloak also, your Majesty . . .” It would take more than an umbrella to keep a shape like his dry in weather like this.

  Using all of the interior of the coach. King Angilki the Unwieldy struggled into his voluminous sable overcoat. Odlepare found the umbrella, the door was opened, and the two footmen helped their master to clamber down, while Odlepare attempted to hold the umbrella overhead. It leaped in his hand and then turned itself inside out. By that time he was already soaked and it was too late to hunt up his own cloak. He climbed down, unaided.

  Wrapped and billowing, Angilki was leaning against the storm. He very rarely addressed any of his retainers except Odlepare, and he could have identified none of the others by name, but even in near darkness the iron brace on his right leg made a postilion recognizable. The king was waving a finger under his nose and, while most of his angry bellowing was muffled by the high collar pulled over his face, enough was audible to convey his meaning.

  "Evil-accursed carelessness!" he bleated. "Serious error . . . grave inconvenience . . . dismissed without notice . . . no references . . . your job to look for hazards . . ."

  Despite the cold and his already drenched condition, Odlepare was fascinated. He had never seen the fat fool so aroused before, and there seemed to be an excellent chance that the dismissed postilion would retaliate with a right hook to the jaw, or some equally appropriate demonstration of lese majesty. But no, alas! Modern youth was sadly lacking in the nobler virtues — the man merely cowered back in dismay, accepting the destruction of his livelihood without a murmur. How disappointing!

  Angilki ended his tirade. With a final bellow that was probably "Odlepare!" he spun on his heel, stormed around the back of the immobilized coach and straight into the pothole, falling prostrate and hurling a deluge of icy, muddy water over his secretary.

  12

  "You do yourself proud, uncle!" said the newcomer, glancing around the hall. Having just come in from a very dark and moderately stormy night, he was screwing up his eyes against the lamplight.

  Krushjor flinched. He could, of course, reply that this was a very modest mansion by Hubban standards, but the raider would probably not believe him. "It is our national embassy — would you want the Impire to believe that Nordlanders are barbarians?"

  "Yes," Kalkor said, without hesitation. "This sort of decadence disgusts me." He scowled at the marble pillars, the soft rugs, the chintz-covered chairs.

  "It is customary," Krushjor insisted uneasily.

  "It is revolting."

  The thane was still wearing only his leather breeches and boots. Dagger and broadsword hung at his belt. He was soaking wet from the rain and ought to be chilled to the marrow, although he did not seem so. With a practiced eye for value, he chose the richest rug and wiped his muddy boots on it.

  The embassy staff had been lined up to receive the noble visitor. Most of them were jotnar, and even they looked apprehensive. The imps among them were obviously terrified as the killer strolled down the line, deadly blue eyes inspecting them.

  Krushjor was wishing he had not dressed himself up in local finery to greet his nephew. Probably Kalkor believed that fine clothes were decadent also. He would never comprehend that in Hub a handshake was worth a hundred fists. "Would you care for a hot bath?"

  "No."

  "Then may I present our embassy staff?"

  "No. At least, not most of them. I want a meal, with red meat and strong wine. I want a room with a straw pallet. And . . ." The raider looked over the staff once more. "Are any of these women your daughters, Uncle?"

  "No." Krushjor felt himself tense, and hoped his dangerous nephew would not notice.

  He did, but he misunderstood. The sapphire eyes twinkled with sudden amusement. "You are wiser than you look. Very well — I shall have that one and that one."

  "But . . ."

  "Yes?"

  Krushjor gulped. "I am sure they will feel honored."

  "I don't care what they feel," Kalkor said. "Send in the meal as soon as it is ready. Them and the wine now."

  13

  The innkeeper had insisted that the room would sleep seven. So Azak had paid for seven, but five tatty pallets pretty much covered the whole floor. A single lantern dangled from the sagging ceiling, smoking and guttering, stinking even worse than the heaps of sodden, horse-saturated garments by the door. There was no other furniture. Inos had folded her bedding into a thick bundle and was sitting on it, pouting at the ratholes in the wainscoting opposite, while Azak was leaning back against the wall, legs straight. The other three all sprawled full length, still gnawing desultorily at the last of the rolls and smoked meat. No one could find energy enough for talk. Rain beat steadily against the casement, and a draft whined somewhere. Downstairs the tavern patrons were into rousing chorus already. They would sing half the night away, but they would not disturb Inos's sleep.

  The ride through Ilrane had been hard, a physical torment of uninterrupted riding. In the Impire danger had added a new element to the strain, while Azak had set the same brutal pace, racing from post to post as if he were an imperial courier, bribing the postmasters to give him the best horses, paying penalty for what he had done to the last lot. Day after day of unending pounding, and now also rain and gales and winter cold. The effort needed to keep a horse cantering through sleet and near darkness was enough to kill a woman all by itself.

  Ranchland and farmland, city
and town — the Impire had flowed by in wet and gloom without Inos appreciating any of it. This style of traveling was not a beneficial exercise that one grew accustomed to. It was an ordeal to bleed one's strength, to crumble mind and body to ruin.

  Every night she was convinced that she could take no more of it. Every morning she somehow found the strength to clamber on a horse again and ride one more league.

  Then another.

  And another . . .

  Azak knew what he was doing, though. Talk of war was everywhere: tales of djinn atrocities and provocations, imps in Zark being molested, maidens abducted and hidden away in vile seraglios, needing rescue. Much the same stories had been used a hundred times before, about djinns or dwarves or elves as politics required. There were other slanders that could be dragged out when needed to justify war on other races, fauns and trolls and merfolk and anthropophagi, who could be depicted as subhuman. The legions would march in the spring, but the taxes were needed now, so the people must be prepared.

  In Zark Azak was conspicuously huge, in the Impire a giant. He could have dyed his face and hair, but not his eyes. The civilian population was hostile — several times he and his company had been booed in cities, and once almost stoned, while the military reacted to djinns like dogs to cats. On the highway they would give chase, and half the postmasters refused to do business with the enemy until they had obtained permission from a centurion, or at least an optio.

  Six or seven times a day Inos had found herself ringed by armed men with twitchy sword arms and hate in their eyes, but so far the elves' document had been respected. She had no idea what was in that imposing forgery, for Azak kept it to himself, but it cowed the average centurion like a blaze of dragons. Yet one or two had clearly remained suspicious, and that reluctance to believe was becoming more and more evident as the travelers neared Hub. Here in the center, even a common sword-banger would likely be better educated and more sophisticated than his provincial equivalent. Sooner or later some smart young legionary was going to take the strangers in for questioning, and then the wasps would be in the jam.

  The post inns offered a wide range of board, from sumptuous to squalid, and Azak invariable accepted the cheapest. He had plenty of gold, he just wanted to avoid notice. His strategy was likely sound, for djinns in the dining rooms or public baths would have attracted attention and hostility. Each evening he hired a common sleeping room, bought food, and kept his company out of sight as much as possible. Wise, perhaps — but the wretched living conditions were doing nothing to improve Inos's state of mind.

  "Two days to Hub," Azak said suddenly, and she jumped, realizing that she had been almost asleep.

  The other three men exchanged glances. Then Char sat up stiffly. "Majesty . . ." He stopped at the look he received. "I beg pardon — Master Kar."

  "Better! And you are about to be presumptuous. Well, go ahead and get it over with!"

  Char flinched and looked at the other two as if to see if they were still with him. "We were wondering . . . why do we stay on the Highway? Surely we would be less conspicuous if we —"

  "— traveled overland," Azak said. "By the lanes and byways?"

  "Yes . . . Kar."

  "Because strangers off the beaten track are rare and therefore conspicuous. We should seem furtive, hence suspicious. Because only the Great Ways have horse-posts, so we should have to buy livestock of our own, and half a day of this would kill them. Because time is short and we must travel by the fastest route. Do you question any of those points?"

  Char shook his head vehemently.

  Azak stretched, as if it hurt to stretch. "You don't have the brains you were born with. Now take away those scraps so the vermin don't fight over them all night." He turned to Inos. "Beloved, do you wish to go outside?"

  "No."

  Azak's red eyes swung back to his men. All three scrambled to their feet and headed for the door, Char carrying the remains of the meal. The door thumped shut behind them. Azak twisted himself around, turning his back on his wife. Even he moved like an old man.

  Wearily, aching everywhere, Inos spread out her bedding and then dug in her saddlebag for her jar of elvish unguent. Trying very hard not to wince aloud, she hauled off her clothes and began salving her abrasions, gently massaging the bruised muscles at the same time. Many of her blisters had bled, and even the clean bits were black and blue. She did this every night, and Azak always turned his back. That might be a politeness — for her sake — but more likely he was avoiding the torture of viewing beauty he could not possess. If so, he had not guessed how little allure he was missing at the moment.

  She had never wanted anything in her life so much as she now wanted a bath and change of clothes. She wondered if there were a God of Suppleness, Who might listen to a repentant cripple. She really ought to go to the bathhouse, but Azak would insist on escorting her there, and a djinn hanging around those quarters might well provoke a lynching. She promised herself that she would do it tomorrow.

  "Azak?" she remarked as she smeared.

  "My love?"

  "Where will we go in Hub? You can hardly expect to walk up to the Red Palace and have the warlock ask you in for a cup of tea. These things take time."

  "Some inconspicuous hostelry."

  "I have friends and relatives in Hub. Senator Epoxague is a distant —"

  "No."

  "Kade always spoke very highly of his daughter, and —"

  "No!"

  Useless to argue with the ox. Her head was stuffed with rocks; she could hardly keep both eyes pointing in the same direction. Maybe in the morning she'd try to talk some sense into him. She squirmed to an even more painful position to get at some of the difficult places.

  "Inos, I want your parole," Azak said.

  He had turned around and was watching her, but she was too weary to feel embarrassed. Besides, he was her husband and entitled to look. And her battered brain seemed strangely unable to digest what he had said. "Parole? What do you mean, parole?"

  His face was in shadow, but she recognized the expression. Here we go on the insanely jealous ride again . . .

  "I mean that you will make no approach to these friends and relations, nor —"

  "Gods give me strength!" Inos muttered. She capped the salve jar and pushed it into her saddlebag. "You think I'm planning to desert you, is that it?"

  "You are my wife!" he shouted.

  Yes, that must be what he was thinking. And she recalled the elves' offer, Lith'rian's offer. After a few days' consideration, she had somehow seen as obvious what had not been obvious at the time — that the offer must have come from Lith'rian. Who would dare commit a warlock to anything without his knowledge, or venture to speak in his name? Who knew what a warlock looked like? Inos might even have met him. He might have been one of the riders, possibly even Lia'scan herself.

  What a fool she had been not to accept! By now she would be a pretty girl again, instead of a freak; dancing at balls in Hub, perhaps, while Azak would be rotting in an Imperial jail. That would be a kinder fate than Rap had met in a Zarkian jail.

  She pulled on her filthy nightgown, thinking that her whole life seemed to be a steadily growing mountain of errors, a human trash pile.

  "Your parole!" Azak demanded angrily.

  "Parole?" Inos repeated. She had not told him about the message from Lith'rian. She wasn't going to. She grunted with effort as she reached for the blanket. "I'm your wife. I swore oaths to you and to the Gods. Why should I desert you now?"

  His eyes shone like rubies — not like sane, ordinary-sort-of eyes. "You are in the Impire and have the advantage of me . . ."

  Inos eased herself down on her back, and then had to rise on one elbow again to pull the saddlebag over. She heaved it behind her head as a pillow, and even that was an effort. "You already have my most solemn vows, husband. What more can I say? I am a woman of my word." She sank back with a sigh and pulled the scratchy cover up to her chin. "You can let the three deadly virtues back in
now, if you want. I'm respectable."

  He came scrambling closer and knelt beside her, glaring down menacingly. Mad as a bull camel at mating time? No — it was just that Azak was accustomed to holding all the cards, and here he was out of his element and unsure of himself.

  "You're tired," she said. "Don't get carried away."

  "You will swear your parole! Swear that you will not —"

  Inos failed to suppress a yawn. "Azak! If I wanted to escape from you, and turn you in to the Impire as a spy, and return to my friends . . . do you really think it would be difficult?"

  He bared his teeth in fury. He actually had a hand on his dagger, too. It would be funny if she wasn't so beat.

  "Swear, or I shall tie you to the saddle, and tether . . ."

  "Oh, don't be so silly! You're my husband and I'm stuck with you. If I wanted my freedom, darling, all I need do is scream. In the postyard. In the streets. Even right now." She yawned again, enormously. "Help me, sirs, these wicked djinns have taken me prisoner and are dragging me off to their den of lust. I haven't done that, have I? I don't mean to. Now can I go to sleep, please?"

  It was likely only a moment, but when Azak spoke again his voice jarred loudly, as if she had already slid over the lip of sleep.

  "You are right," he said, "and I am wrong. I apologize."

  Amazing — historical! "Mm? Well, don't be surprised if it happens again some time." Sleep . . .

  "This senator? Would he truly be willing to help, or would he turn us over to the imperor's torturers?"

  "Don't know if he has any torturers," Inos mumbled. "Not officially. Of course Epoxague will help. I'm a relative, sort of."

  "I am not!"

  "Yes, you are. They'll be thrilled to discover they have a sultan in the family. The nobility always stand by one another. Unless they actually catch you plotting treason, yes, they'll help."

  "Then tomorrow you will send a letter and set up a rendezvous."

  "Yes, dear. Tomorrow. Now may I sleep?"

  Several ways: