Emperor and Clown

by Dave Duncan

  But it didn't go anywhere. He was doomed, and she would just have to adjust to married life. Her husband could touch her now and obviously intended to do so immediately —

  As Azak put a hand on her shoulder, Inos flinched but did not look around. The signal her eyes were sending to Rap became a plea for help and rescue, even while she continued to shout insults at him.

  "You always were a blundering chucklehead! Gullible, Rap! That's what you are! You never would think out what other people really wanted. You always accepted anything anyone said and took it at face value . . . No one else could ever possibly believe for one minute that the wardens would ever punish anyone for killing that Kalkor horror! In fact, that's obviously what Warlock Zinixo meant last night and the reason why they wouldn't listen to the regent then, because they wanted you to go ahead and kill Kalkor. But you couldn't see that! Oh, no! You had to go and slap them in the face by meddling with the imperor and no one's allowed —"

  "You don't know what you're talking about! Wardens eat sorcerers!" She hadn't been to Faerie and she didn't understand the politics.

  "Eat them?" Inos said blankly, stopping her tirade to breath a little.

  "They give their words to a votary and then kill them. Do you think they're going to pin a medal on me?"

  She pulled free from Azak's grip and lurched at Rap in fury, trying to pound at him with her fists. "Then what are you waiting around here for? Go away, you idiot! Run! Run!"

  He took hold of her wrists and she was helpless. No sorcery required. He lowered his hands so she was pulled against his chest. "It won't do," he said softly.

  She looked up at him in dismay. "Not do why? What?"

  He shook his head: too long to explain. Her face was very close to his. Red lips. Green eyes, full of fear and longing. Scent of roses.

  And then he became aware that people were staring at him expectantly. The imperor in his chair was peering along an avenue of people. He wanted Rap.

  Rap released Inos reluctantly. He'd been really enjoying that last bit. He walked over to the old man.

  Emshandar had been tall for an imp. His bones were still large, but now his flesh was so wasted that the dusky, spotted skin hung limp. His neck looked like a fishnet hung on a hook to dry, and his face had fallen in around his teeth. Streaks of white hair hung limply from his scalp. The nose was a knife blade, yet there was fire in the eyes still, and Rap had not put all of that there. Even huddled under a wool rug the old man bore an aura of authority.

  Behind the beaming faces surrounding him, most of the courtiers were in a state of panic. All their fine calculations had been spilled in the mud by the unexpected sorcery. Who was in charge now? How long would this remission last? How long till the old man died anyway? His daughter-in-law, who was now the regent's wife, was standing very close, trying not to be visibly ill, trying to keep her usual pout turned up in a smile.

  It was very satisfying — and yet very unsatisfying, too, because when Rap had been a mundane he had hated the way the sorcerous seemed to play games with ordinary folk. Now he was starting to do it himself. He'd been a sorcerer only a few hours.

  He sank to his knees on the grass by the imperor's toes. "Your Majesty?"

  "It seems that we have been ill for several months, and today you healed us with sorcery. Is that correct?"

  "It is, Sire."

  The dark old eyes were filmy, but as shrewd as any. They appraised Rap carefully and then flickered vaguely over the watchers and listeners. He wanted to know why, and he wasn't going to ask; not here, not now.

  He brought his attention back to Rap. "We shall reconvene this meeting in warmer and drier climes. We can command the rest —" Yet the old fox knew that his authority was now far from settled. "— but you can only request!" He glanced up. "Marshal Ithy?"

  "Sire?"

  "How many legions will you need to bring in this man?"

  The soldier was a hard man, and a worried one, but he had a sense of humor. "More than your Majesty can readily muster, I fear."

  "We fear the same. Sir Sorcerer, will you graciously agree to ride with us in our own coach?"

  He wanted a private chat, of course, but his eyes were also saying that there were mundane means to undo what Rap's sorcery had wrought. He was vulnerable. He wanted protection! That seemed very amusing, when Rap considered it.

  "I shall be greatly honored, Sire. I am at your Majesty's service."

  "Are you, indeed?" The imperor was relieved. "Very well! Consul?"

  With murder in his heart and a smile on his face, Ythbane said, "Me, Sire?"

  "You. Sorcerer Rap will accompany us in the great coach. We require everyone else here to attend us in the Emerald Hall an hour before sunset. Yourself we may summon sooner."

  Ythbane bowed, but Rap could not understand how he expected his face to deceive anyone at all.

  As Rap rose to his feet, he saw one person who was in no doubt how he felt about the imperor's recovery. Squeezed between his mother and the side of the old man's chair, the little prince was gazing at his grandfather with a joy so great that he had even forgotten his own pain. The pinched features were still mantled to Rap's occult senses by that mysterious, unholy cowl, but there could be no mistaking the boy's relief and happiness. He sensed Rap's gaze, looked up at him in alarm — and ventured a wistful little smile of thanks.

  And Rap's temper flashed up again. Someone must pay for what had been done to that child!

  5

  The great coach was great indeed, emblazoned in bright enamels and gold fittings. It had big windows of clear crystal draped with muslin; the door carried the Imperial arms picked out in gems; the interior was upholstered in purple silk. Four stalwart Praetorian Guards supported a canopy over the imperor's chair as he was borne to this stupendous vehicle, and others lifted him in. Rap did not know which impressed him more, the coach itself or its eight white geldings with their jewel-encrusted harnesses and shiny plumes. If he was going to his funeral, as his aching premonition suggested, then he was certainly going in style.

  Everyone stood back to let him enter also, and Ythbane was not the only onlooker whose inner thoughts were plotting that funeral. Rap moved toward the door, then swiftly detoured in two long strides to snatch up the little prince.

  The boy gave a squeak of alarm. His mother and the regent began to react, and were momentarily frozen by sorcery. Rap swung the lad up high, stepped up on the footboard, and stood him inside.

  "I think this one also, Sire!" He followed the boy in.

  The Imperial eyebrows swooped down, and a haze of color suffused the parchment face. "You presume far, Sorcerer!"

  "Suffer me this, Sire. I have reasons! Sit, lad."

  With a worried look at his grandfather, the boy eased himself onto the seat opposite. The old man frowned as he registered the awkward movements. Then he shouted for the door to be closed, ignoring the angry faces peering in.

  Rap settled at the prince's side and gave him a friendly grin that had a trace of occult reassurance included. "I ought to know your name, your Highness, but I don't."

  "Shandie," the lad whispered. "I mean, Emshandar like Grandfather."

  "A great name, then!"

  "They call me Shandie, mostly."

  "I'm Rap, but you can call me Rap."

  The lad sniggered and wiped rain from his face. He began to relax, beaming excitedly at the imperor.

  Harness jingled, the coach rocked smoothly off along the road. Ythbane was glaring after it, and other faces besides his had lost their fake cheerfulness also. Rap brought his attention back to his illustrious companions and the opulence of his surroundings — ivory door handles, gold lamps. Humble old Krasnegar seemed very far away now.

  The old man adjusted the lap robe that had been tucked around him, clearly planning his first question. Rap spoke first.

  "Shandie, I'm going to heal those bruises for you, but first I want you to let your grandfather see them."

  The lad blushed scarlet,
then just as quickly paled. "You mustn't use magic on me . . . er, Rap. I'm family!"

  "Well, I've already bent the Protocol pretty badly, and I don't suppose one boy's battered butt will make a great deal of difference to the history of Pandemia."

  Shandie giggled at that and looked to the imperor for guidance.

  "Let me see!" The Imperial visage was stern. When Shandie stood up, turned, and pulled down his breeches to show the awful welts, stern became menacing.

  "Who did that?"

  "Ythbane," the boy whispered, making himself decent again and sitting down faster than he had intended. A wince of pain escaped him.

  "Boars' blood!" the imperor roared. "Why?"

  Shandie cringed. "I was fidgeting at the ceremony last night . . . I didn't know I was, honest! And then I turned around, 'cause I thought I shouldn't have my back to the warlock. But Ythbane said I was wrong." He sniffed.

  "God of Mercy!" the old man whispered. "Master Rap, he was quite right. No one must use power on him, but . . . But if you do feel that you can take this risk, also, then I shall be even more in your debt than I am already, and Gods know, I owe you my life!" His eyes were hot with shame, but a hint of challenge burned there also.

  Might as well be hanged for a horse as a pony, Rap's mother had always said.

  Sorcery! "How does that feel, Shandie?"

  The prince gasped and looked at him in wonder. "Thank you, sir!" A tear trickled down his cheek.

  "You're quite welcome, and please don't call me 'sir.' What else is worrying you?"

  "Nothing, Rap! Nothing. I feel very good now, thank you." He squirmed happily, enjoying the feel of it.

  Rain drummed on the roof and streamed across the big windows. Water flew out in sheets from the wheels and flared under the horse's hooves. A platoon of hussars was clearing the road ahead, and another brought up the rear, but the crowds had long since fled in search of shelter, and there was little traffic.

  The imperor had sensed Rap's worry and was waiting to hear.

  "Shandie," Rap said, "I think there is something else bothering you." Even his occult senses could not explain the strange haze around the boy. It wasn't magic, but it certainly wasn't healthy.

  "Well . . . Nothing!" The boy cowered back, fearful.

  "Tell me!"

  "Well . . . It's just . . . just that I'd like a spoonful of my medicine now. But I can get it as soon as we get to the palace!" he added guiltily.

  Rap felt the imperor react to that. The old man seemed even more shocked than before.

  "What sort of medicine?" he barked.

  Shandie turned even paler. "It makes the pain better. Moms gives it . . . But I can take it myself when I want to."

  "God of Slaughter!" the words came out softly, but the skeleton face flamed with anger, like a fever.

  "Can you explain, Sire?" Rap asked, still puzzled.

  "Some sort of habit-forming elixir. It's been done before." The old man paused, then muttered, "It diminishes the acuity of higher intellectual functions."

  Rap didn't know such big words any more than young Shandie did, but he could read the meaning behind them: It rots the mind!

  Knowing now what he sought, Rap probed gently until his sorcerous instincts found the trouble. Tricky! He reached in and . . . wiped.

  Shandie jumped. "Oo!" he said. "Ouch! Oh, it's gone! I don't feel scratchy-twitchy anymore!"

  "Gods be praised!" Emshandar said. "Shandie, you must never let them give you that medicine, never again. You mustn't take it yourself, either! Can you promise me that, soldier?"

  "Yes, sir. I don't like the taste. It just made the hurt go away, and the scratchy-twitchy feeling. And Rap's cured that, too, now. It won't come back, will it?"

  "I don't think so," Rap said, gently mopping up the last traces of the addiction.

  The old man leaned back with a sigh, looking older than his realm. He smiled gratefully at Rap, but he was clearly running out of strength again, and their private chat would have to wait until he was stronger — and probably until Shandie's sharp young ears were not so close. Rap could grant occult strength, of course, but he was not sure if power used like that would leave a hangover. It might be dangerous.

  Besides, Rap had a problem of his own. He could barely remember the last time he had eaten. "Are you hungry, Sire? I'm famished!"

  Emshandar IV was probably not accustomed to such audacious questioning, but his thin lips smiled tolerantly. "Yes, I'm famished, too."

  Shandie brightened.

  The coach was very well sprung, and the roads were smooth. Eating would be no problem.

  "Do you both like chicken dumplings?" Rap asked.

  6

  Not much more than a year ago. King Holindarn of Krasnegar had summoned a certain oddly gifted herdboy to his study for a confidential chat. How grand those royal quarters had seemed to that callow lad! How clumsy and awkward he had felt amid the grandeur of books and soft armchairs and peat fires on sunny days!

  All those would seem rustic and quaint to him now. Now he could see that Holindarn had been no more than an independent landowner, ruling a self-styled kingdom smaller than the imperor's Opal Palace on its hill. He had been a good man, though — better than almost anyone Rap had met in his long journeyings since. Few indeed were the inhabitants of Pandemia who had seemed worthy of admiration: Gathmor, in his rough way, and the sailorfolk of Durthing, of course; but who among the leaders and the gentry? The Lady Oothiana in Faerie, of course. Ishist, the filthy little sorcerer, perhaps. Holindarn's sister, certainly. And maybe, just maybe, this Imperor Emshandar himself. Time would tell . . . maybe.

  Emshandar had obviously felt safer as soon as he was back in his private quarters and had arranged for them to be guarded by men known to him. His next priority had been a bath.

  So Rap had asked Shandie to take him on a tour of the palace, and they had soon discovered a common love of horses. Having begun with the stables, they ended by spending the afternoon there, leaving no time for artwork or ornamental gardens or Architecture of Historical Significance.

  Now they had returned to the Imperial chambers, where the ossiferous old man was still being primped and tonsured by teams of fussing valets; all the while grumpily demanding this special servant and that old retainer, and growing ever more furious as he discovered their absence. A big man once, still as tall as Rap; likely a soldier in his youth; strong ruler of a mighty nation for over thirty years, brought down by long sickness until now he could barely stand unaided . . . small wonder he was ill-tempered! Perhaps curing his illness had been a doubtful mercy.

  And now three attendants were swathing him with elaborate care in an enormous length of soft purple fabric, adequate to have made a sail for Stormdancer. Of course it needed no special tailoring to accommodate his shrunken form, as a doublet and tights would have done, but as far as appearances went, it was quite the silliest garment Rap had ever seen.

  Lounging sleepily on a silk-embroidered chair in a corner of the imperor's great bedchamber, he watched the performance tolerantly and was amused at how little he was moved now by genuine grandeur, by brocade and tapestry and priceless works of art. Holindarn's peat fire on a sunny day — now that had been impressive!

  Knowing he was about to die helped deaden his emotions, of course. His premonition was a monstrous choking horror that he was finding ever more difficult to ignore. Some terrible danger was bearing down on him, and yet he could find no escape from it. He considered fleeing on foot, and he even pondered the possibility of transporting himself by magic to Dragon Reach, say, or Krasnegar — and those options seemed to make no real difference. Just drifting along with events seemed to be the least painful course available to him, and he was resigned to doing only that.

  Perhaps he was suffering from too little sleep or too much stress, but the jotunn temper still seethed through his veins, threatening to lash out in madness whenever he let the warlocks drift across his thoughts, or brooded on Gathmor's senseless murder o
r the abuse inflicted on little Shandie.

  The boy was stretched out on the great four-poster bed, chin in hands, occasionally popping a nervous question to his grandfather or the mysterious sorcerer. By defying the Protocol and working his wonderful cures, Rap had made himself a very big hero to the boy. However little he felt like a hero, he knew how boys — especially fatherless boys — needed men to emulate. Shandie would have found few worthy of his admiration in this cesspool of intrigue.

  Poor Shandie. Poor Gathmor. Poor Inos.

  Gathmor, why did I not make you stay by the sea?

  About this time yesterday, Rap and Darad had delivered the sailor to his last rites. It had been a very private service, but each of the sequential set had come in turn to pay his respects. Even Andor had been almost sorry. Sagorn had spouted philosophy and Thinal had wept, but Jalon had sung a soul-melting seamen's lament that would echo in Rap's heart until the day he . . .

  Don't think about that.

  Don't think about Inos, either.

  "Grandfather?" Shandie whispered, with a sidelong glance at Rap.

  "Uh?" the imperor said, scowling at his teeth in a mirror held for him by a trembling valet.

  "Grandfather . . . Fauns are all right, aren't they?"

  "Oh, yes. I suppose that will have to do — bring my sandals. What? Fauns? Of course they're all right. Why wouldn't they be?"

  "Well . . . I mean, I know imps are all right, but Moms says that jotnar are murderous brutes, and gnomes are dirty, and goblins are cruel. Thorog says elves are all right. And fauns are all right, too, aren't they?"

  His grandfather twisted around and frowned. "Who's Thorog? Never mind. I think your mother has been filling your head with some odd ideas. Master Rap, tell him about fauns."