Emperor and Clown

by Dave Duncan

  Meanwhile there was nothing to do but run as fast as he could.

  He did not always manage to stay mundane, even after he'd left the palace. Legionary patrols challenged him periodically, a lone man running the streets at night. In the narrower ways, ill-defined shadows moved as if to close in on him, action before query. Each time he just drew an inattention spell over himself and ran on unhindered.

  He tried not to think about Inos.

  Poor Inos! How his lustful thoughts had confused her! Being a mage was a hateful thing. But if the wardens took the curse off her husband, she would soon be safely back in Arakkaran, embarking on the life she had freely chosen before Rap had blundered in. In time she would forget him.

  He thought instead of Kalkor. He unbottled the rage that had foamed inside him for hours, letting hatred fuel his running. The pains came, in his legs first and then a burning in his chest, but he thought of Kalkor and his anger gave him the strength to run on.

  The faun in him went away. The jotunn ruled alone, riding his soul, ranting and rousing. As fatigue and exhaustion built, so did the bloodlust. He had never lost his temper since his childhood except once — almost — in Durthing. That burst of fury had frightened him, but it had still not taught him what a jotunn rage could be. Now he felt it in its full adult form for the first time. It was wonderful, irresistible, intoxicating. He might regret this after, for as long as he might live, but now that did not matter. Nothing mattered.

  Blood and destruction and satisfaction . . . only those.

  By the time he drew near to the northernmost of the five hills and the shielded mystery of the White Palace, milky dawn was seeping into the watery sky. Traffic was picking up in the city, populating the rain-swept streets with carters and early-rising apprentices. Any he spoke to answered his questions willingly and swiftly, and eventually he found one who could direct him to the place he sought.

  It was a big ramshackle building in its own well-wooded grounds, a relic of prosperity within an area that was sliding into slumhood. Men and even families came and went, but the owner of this property was immortal.

  If Rap had guessed wrongly, and his quarry slept on the longship moored in the lake, then he was a dead faun.

  He went over the wall of the Nordland Embassy faster even than any cat could have managed, into a once-fine estate that had been allowed to sink into forest, unattended. There were no dogs — true jotnar detested them — and dogs would have been no problem anyway. The problem was Kalkor. Breaking into the Opal Palace had been less risky than this, because there was a sorcerer in here somewhere, and merely touching his mind with farsight might awaken him.

  Dragging his aching feet through the sodden shrubbery of abandoned garden. Rap began to probe the big house ahead. Already a yellow streak marred the eastern skyline, below the rain clouds. Even a thane was not likely to oversleep on a day he must fight a mortal duel.

  Farsight drew a blank in the great bedchambers, but a Nordlander might spurn those as decadence. Rap switched his attention to the back, the former servant quarters, and there he soon found Thane Kalkor already awake, and busy with a recreation from which he would not be easily distracted. He might well go back to sleep afterward.

  So Rap could concentrate on his main quarry. More swiftly now he continued scanning, room by room. There were surprisingly few people in the great sprawling mansion. The crew of Blood Wave would mostly be sleeping aboard, of course, not trusting the imps.

  He finished the rooms. Nothing. He tried the cellars. Blank. Then the attics. Likewise.

  Despair!

  Failed! By the time he could reach the lake, the sailors would be awake. Fool! Fool! He had guessed wrong.

  He stood in the cold rain and earthy-scented shrubbery and faced the unpleasant truth that Kalkor was going to chop him to pieces. His only recourse now was to try to sneak into the house and try to kill the thane while he was distracted. Sneak up on a sorcerer, mm?

  And then he registered a collection of decaying wooden sheds and outhouses around the back of the house. There! In the woodshed. Of course.

  It could not have been easier. He trotted around and found the door ajar. He sent a wakening nudge ahead of him, to where his quarry lay on a moldering old rug on the bare dirt, with a rag tied around him as a token garment. He would have chosen this place of his own free will, loving the temperature and the smell of wood.

  As Rap entered he sat up and stretched. Even a full-grown timberwolf might have envied his yawn.

  "Hello, Little Chicken."

  The goblin squinted at the shadow in the doorway. "Flat Nose?"

  "Yes." Rap sank down gratefully, cross-legged on the dirt, still panting. Weary, weary! He ached all over, but especially his legs. Amid the high-heaped firewood there was barely enough space for him; he was knee to knee with the goblin. But it was good to get out of the rain at last, and good to sit.

  "You come to visit an old friend?" Little Chicken's angular eyes glinted with satisfaction. He scratched himself busily. "Or you want something, maybe?"

  Rap's fury had refined itself now to pure purpose, his mind was icy clear. "Yes. Need something. You know, in an odd way I'm glad they didn't get their goblin stew."

  "I think I know why you're glad. Flat Nose!" The goblin chuckled, gloating a little. "Thane told me you'd come."

  Oh, he had, had he? Rap checked quickly, and Kalkor was still at it, heedless of his intended victim trespassing.

  "We'll get to that. I'm really curious — how did you escape?"

  Little Chicken pointed to a scar on his thigh. "Put an arrow in me, took me prisoner. They'd eaten their fill that night. No room for goblin."

  "So they kept you to fatten you up?"

  Once Rap had been afraid of Little Chicken and his monstrous ambitions, but that was over now. The goblin could save Rap's life or condemn him to death this day, but that was the limit of his power at the moment. True, the wardens had foreseen a great future for him, and Rap had assumed that it involved ruling Krasnegar. A mage's insight, plus the smattering of news and rumor he had collected in Hub had shown him how wrong he had been. Now Bright Water's interest and help were understandable. What lay in store for Little Chicken was something quite unrelated to Krasnegar, but it did involve Rap and the third prophecy.

  "They tie you up or cage you?" Neither would detain a man with the goblin's occult strength.

  The big tusks flashed again. "Caged me. I let a day or two go by and then left. Lots of jungle on the wet side of the island . . . Took a woman along to do the cooking." The ugly khaki-hued face was just as easy to read as anyone else's.

  "What was her name?"

  "Couldn't work my tongue hard enough," Little Chicken said offhandedly. "I just called her 'Woman' and she did what she was told."

  "How did she feel about this?"

  The goblin shrugged. "Seemed happy. After the first couple of days, said she wouldn't run away, so I could leave her untied at nights." He leered. "Good man for her! Strong!"

  All the time Rap had been a sailor, living in Durthing, the goblin must have been hiding out in the Nogid jungle, letting his wound heal, tended by the girl he had stolen. There were a lot of things he wasn't saying, though.

  "And then you sailed away and left her?" No, that wasn't right . . .

  "Paddled a tree trunk across to next island. Woman said we could get to another imp fort after six, seven islands."

  So Little Chicken had gone hunting his destiny and she had chosen to go with him. He wasn't lying about her feelings; the anthropophagous woman had genuinely fallen in love with her goblin kidnapper. Likely he had treated her as well as he had been able, for women were useful. Was it possible that Little Chicken had ever done anything so ungoblinish as to fall in love? On the verge of taunting him with that, Rap suddenly drew back.

  "Bad current," the goblin said. "Big storm came."

  "I'm sorry to hear that." A mage could sense the real sorrow under the pose of indifference. How strange! How
sad!

  The rest of the tale came easily. Heading westward again in Blood Wave, Kalkor had encountered a log floating in Dyre Channel with a near-dead goblin on it, but that was exactly the sort of freakish coincidence that words of power could produce, and of course the goblin knew a word, also. Kalkor must have seen his own destiny then, for he had known of the three visions in the casement. That must have been when he had conceived his mad expedition to Hub.

  "So he forced your word of power out of you, and that made him a sorcerer?" Rap asked.

  Little Chicken flushed olive at the insult. "You know goblins better than that! He was a sorcerer already. Didn't need it!"

  That was good news, maybe. Little Chicken's word had come straight from a fairy. No one else shared it — yet. A strong word.

  Rain drummed on the roof of the shed and dribbled through leaks. Again Rap scanned the house. Kalkor had finished what he was doing and seemed to be asleep again. The woman lay at his side, sobbing in silence. Elsewhere men were starting to stir, though. Even jotnar might feel the chill of this clammy morning and decide to light fires. He must be quick.

  Little Chicken stretched again. "Why'd you agree anyway? I saw. Didn't use magic on you?"

  "No. Not directly." Of course Kalkor could have changed Rap's mind as he had changed the regent's, but that would not have been playing the game the way he wanted it played.

  "How then?" the goblin asked. "You're stubborn as a mother bear, Flat Nose. I know."

  Despite his fury and grim purpose, Rap chuckled. "Well, thank you, Little Chicken!" Those awful weeks in the forest had faded in his memory until he could look back on them with something like nostalgia. Oh, the innocence of youth! He had not been a mage in those days. "Remember Gathmor?"

  The goblin nodded, visible now as a gray shape in the dawn. "He was on the longship with you, then? Thought it sounded like him."

  "He was a good man. Little Chicken. He came to Hub with me."

  The angular eyes widened in understanding. "Yes, good man . . . What did Kalkor throw you yesterday?"

  Rap shuddered. "His heart. It was still beating."

  The goblin thought about that, then shook his head. "Bad way to kill a man. No honor." He had strange ideas about good ways to die, but it was a tribute.

  "I must kill Kalkor!" Rap said. His fury flickered into flame, making his hands shake.

  Little Chicken shrugged. "He said you'd come here, wanting my word."

  "Will you share it with me?"

  "No." The big fangs showed again. "Nice being strong."

  "You'll still be plenty strong if you share it."

  The goblin shook his head. "How many you got already?"

  "I'm not saying."

  "And I'm not telling." He brayed an unexpectedly strident laugh. "You can't magic a word from me, Flat Nose. What else you going to try?"

  Rasha had inflicted pain on Rap and then threatened to use it on Inos, but neither of those techniques would work on the goblin. If his anthropophagous lover had lived . . . but Rap could not injure an innocent woman, no matter what his hatred.

  That left persuasion, or threat. "If Kalkor kills me, then you don't. You can't take me back to Raven Totem if he's held up my head at the Reckoning."

  Again the goblin chuckled. "That's what he said you'd say. But if I do tell you, then you're a sorcerer. So he said. Can't torture a sorcerer."

  If Kalkor knew that Rap was already a mage, then he was taking an astonishing risk in leaving the goblin's word lying around unattended, as it were. Either he was insanely confident of his own sorcerous prowess, or he knew something Rap had not thought of.

  The wardens, maybe? Nordland raiders were Bright Water's prerogative; the witch of the north might intervene to defend Kalkor against sorcery.

  Or perhaps he had foreseen this entire meeting and knew for certain that the goblin was not going to share his word of power. Rap dared not use farsight.

  He checked again and the thane had not stirred from his pallet. Possibly Kalkor was just relying on a word's reluctance to be told — Little Chicken had never been cooperative, and now he was enjoying being obstinate and forcing Rap to beg. Quite likely Kalkor also was sleepily enjoying the fruitless struggle as he rested alongside his most recent victim.

  Rap's jotunnish blood was racing. The trembling in his hands had spread all the way to his shoulders. His anger needed a victim, and if he couldn't make the young goblin cooperate, he would certainly kill him. Perhaps that was the outcome Kalkor had foreseen? That would amuse him.

  "If I promise?"

  "Promise?" the goblin scoffed. "Promise to let me slay you? A sorcerer? Won't work, Flat Nose. Just have to trust the Gods."

  "I want to kill him," Rap said, beginning to feel desperate, "for Gathmor. And this is my only chance. Tell me your word of power, and I swear that I'll fulfill your prophecy. I'll come back to Raven Totem with you and let you kill me."

  The goblin fell silent, but Rap could see the start of indecision in his ugly face.

  "What about the woman? You fixed her burns."

  "She has another chief. I told you she was a chief's daughter and must marry a chief."

  "Won't take her?" Little Chicken looked disbelieving.

  "No, I won't take her. She chose that one."

  "Not doing this for her?"

  "I told you — I'm doing it for Gathmor. Kalkor's death won't help Inos."

  The goblin shook his head. "Don't care. Won't tell you my word, Flat Nose. Tell me yours and I'll kill thane for you. Then take you back to Raven Totem."

  Rap was struggling to keep his teeth from chattering with fury. The despicable green runt had no idea how close he was to death. "Tell me or die! I swear I will kill you, Trash! Gods spurn my soul, but I'm going to kill you."

  The angular eyes flashed. "Not trash now!"

  But his looks didn't support his words. Rap quickly reached for memories. He had never untangled the intricacies of the goblins' custom, but he could do that now.

  "I say you're still my trash, goblin!"

  "Not trash! Saved you from the imps in Milflor!" Again untruth registered to a mage's insight: taut neck, sweat-filmed skin, speeding heart. Little Chicken was lying.

  "No, you didn't! They didn't intend to kill me, and I'd have gotten away without your help! And I called you back when you attacked the soldiers. You disobeyed my order, so what you did didn't count!"

  Little Chicken was tense with rage, but he wasn't denying the accusations. Rap chuckled as he saw his guesses scoring.

  "So you're still my trash! But Kalkor's going to kill me today unless you share your word with me. You can save my life this time! Then you won't be trash any more; really not."

  The goblin pouted, considering. He looked up slyly. "Then I get to kill you — very, very slow?"

  "I'll endure as long as I can. Longer than anyone ever has."

  It was a gruesome promise, but a meaningless one. The white-fire destiny was going to destroy Rap first, probably before the day was out. He wasn't going to survive long enough to see Raven Totem again.

  "You swear, Flat Nose?"

  "I swear it by any God you want."

  "I think you're a man of your word, Flat Nose." The goblin grinned and licked his lips. "Much honor! I'll do it! I'll tell you my word."

  2

  Rain drummed mercilessly on the sodden tent, seeping through seams to drip onto Rap's head, puddling around his feet. He could hear the spectators slithering on the slick mud of the bank outside, but the crowd was much smaller today and would see little of the contest through the driving mist that obscured the field — much of which was already a silvery marsh. Thunder rumbled overhead in clouds thick as mud. The magic casement had predicted the conditions exactly.

  The magic casement had arranged the whole thing.

  That was what magic casements did! Much more than just prophesying, they warped the flow of events to serve their owners' interests. Just who the Krasnegarian casement regarded as its owner
was yet an unsolved mystery, but apparently not Kalkor, for it had already destroyed him as surely as it had destroyed Inos's great-grandfather. Rap had told Kalkor of the duel and Kalkor had contrived to make it happen for his own amusement, but he would never have thought of it without the casement's prompting.

  The casement had trapped him. He would never reign in Krasnegar now, because he had used power on the regent to force the second Reckoning. That was a violation of the Protocol and must bring retribution from the wardens. No matter what the outcome of the duel, Kalkor would die.

  Some things were very obvious to a sorcerer!

  Rap had seen the bitter truth just after his visit to Little Chicken, but it made no difference to him, for his jotunn bloodlust was still an agony in him. He would avenge Gathmor's death at any cost at all. It was not a task he could leave to the wardens' justice — he himself must make Kalkor pay, or die trying. He could barely remember his father, but his father had been a jotunn, descended from generations of killers, and that jotunn blood pumped now in Rap. He was not doing this for Inos. Officially he was her champion, as the casement had suggested, but in his own mind he was fighting to avenge a friend, most callously murdered to gratify the raider's whim.

  Blood!

  He slumped on a low stool and wished his bones were not so heavy, his muscles so throbbingly painful. He was keeping himself mundane, and suffering for it, out of some strange perverse desire for misery. He had not slept at all in the night, and little the night before.

  A smelly length of bearskin lay heaped on the wet grass beside him. Opposite, on another stool, sat an ancient jotunn whose name had not been offered. In his overlong red robe, he held a great battle-ax across his lap and was busily running a whetstone along its edge, although it was already sharp enough to split gossamer. A horned helmet and a battered bugle lay at his feet.