by Dave Duncan
Thinal said, "Oh, bleeding offal!" He seemed ten years younger than Andor. He was shorter and ugly, yet somehow there was a ludicrous trace of family likeness.
And then the room was crowded. Darad glanced down at the other four and guffawed in triumph. His nose was still crooked and he still wore goblin tattoos like Rap's, but he had all his teeth back. "I knew you'd do it, sir! I knew you'd free us!"
Rap snorted in disgust. "There they are, Highness. The whole gang, together at last. What do you think of them?"
She studied the five ill-assorted men. They were all staring at one another, ignoring both her and the sorcerer. "I think you should take a vote, Master Rap."
He laughed coarsely. "They've gotten what they wanted, haven't they? A hundred years, almost, they've been searching for release. And now look at them!"
She wondered where his anger was coming from. Rap had not been like this on the journey from Zark.
The five men were still gaping at one another, tongue-tied.
"I don't need to take a vote," Rap sneered. "They've got what they thought they wanted — and they don't want it! They had the best of five worlds, each of them, and they didn't know it!
"Well," he added, "I've kept my promise." He rose and began walking to the door.
Darad's wits had been churning along in their tortoise fashion. Now it was he who shouted, "Wait!"
"Something wrong?" Rap asked, halting.
Darad frowned hideously. "Sir . . . Sir, can we talk about this?"
"Talk about what?" Rap looked puzzled.
"You've made your point," Sagorn said acidly. "All these years we've been deceiving ourselves. It wasn't a curse, it was a blessing . . ."
". . . at least," Andor said, "once we gained a word of power it was."
Jalon shouted, "Now you have shown us. We don't want to be separated!"
The others were nodding.
"So you want me to put you back together again, I suppose?"
"We share memories," Sagorn said . . .
". . . it means we've almost become . . . " Thinal added.
". . . like one man," Darad finished.
None of them seemed to realize how they had spoken; they were not trying to be funny.
"It wasn't me who showed you," Rap said. "I'm right, aren't I, when I say that lately you've been switching back and forth a lot more than you used to?"
The five nodded in unison, without looking at him, still unable to take their eyes off one another. Their voices blended in a babble.
"That's so," Sagorn said, apparently to Andor.
"Since we got caught up in his adventures, at least," Jalon told both of them.
"In Arakkaran," Darad informed Thinal.
"The night we rescued'm from the jail, 'specially," the thief agreed, watching his brother.
"But now our word of power is diluted!" Andor complained to Jalon . . .
"All it takes is a little cooperation," Rap said. "A little consideration."
"Put us back, please, Rap?" Thinal said, whining.
"I gave you what I promised!" The sorcerer frowned. Kadolan held her breath.
"Please, Rap?" Jalon's ice-blue eyes glistened with tears. "We'll remember! We'll cooperate!"
"Just a minute, though," Darad rumbled. "You've got to stop the rest of them from keeping me away for years and years. That old Sagorn 'specially. He burrows down into those books of his and forgets all the rest of us!"
Sagorn flushed. "Cognizant now of my advancing years —"
"He's not the one I don't trust!" Andor broke in. "It's him!" He jabbed a finger at his weedy brother. Thinal flinched and looked guilty — but then Thinal would almost always look guilty, Kadolan thought. He almost always was guilty, of something.
"What's he done?" asked Jalon, surprised.
"Nothing!" Andor retorted. "That's what I mean! Why do you suppose he never hangs around? Why does he always call one of us back right away? He's waiting us out, see? In a couple of centuries or less, we'll all be older than Sagorn is now, and then who's going to inherit all our memories and experience? That young guttersnipe, that's who! He's robbing us blind!"
Thinal started to protest. The others interrupted, and in a moment they were all shouting at once. Kadolan looked to Rap and was relieved to see a brief hint of his old half grin flicker wistfully over his mouth as he watched the argument. Then he coughed, and silence fell instantly.
"Well?" he said.
"Please, Rap," Jalon said. "Don't leave us like this! I feel like a turtle out of its shell. We helped you get what you wanted, didn't we, and —"
"What I wanted?" Rap jumped up, blazing anger, and everyone recoiled. "You think this is what . . ." He cooled his fury as slickly as a man might close a book, and Kadolan found that inhuman control even more scary than the inexplicable rage itself.
"Very well," he said quietly. "I can put a time limit on each of you. Would you prefer that?" He glanced around at nodding heads. "You all want to be put back?"
Five heads nodded again.
Darad's clothes collapsed on the floor. Then Andor's . . . Jalon's . . . Only Sagorn was left.
"There you are, Doctor," Rap said harshly. "Operation a success?" Without waiting for a reply, he spun around to Kadolan. "When do you want to go to Kinvale — and Krasnegar?"
"Why don't you ask Inos?" she asked.
"I'm asking you."
She was wary of him in this feverish, bitter mood. She said, "Is there any great hurry?"
He hesitated, his eyes suddenly distant. "No. No, the time is not yet ripe. A week or two more won't hurt much anyway. You want to stay here for Winterfest, don't you?"
"Yes," she admitted. "Inos doesn't, but I do." Eigaze had been raving about Winterfest in Hub. Kinvale's celebrations were nothing by comparison, she said. And there would be no celebration in Kinvale this year, anyway.
"Parties?" Rap said scathingly. "Balls and banquets? Inos always liked parties. Tell her to enjoy them, then! Krasnegar is not much of a place for fine balls."
"They don't matter! We can go anytime."
"Stay for Winterfest! But Inos does want to go home after that?"
"Why don't you ask her?"
"I'm asking you."
"Yes. If you'll help."
He stared at her as if she had suggested something shocking. "Of course I'll help!" he snapped. "It was my home, too, you know!"
Then he spun on his heel, marched across the room, and disappeared out through the door.
Without opening it.
The room seemed very quiet with only two people there.
"Well, Doctor?" Kadolan asked.
The jotunn rubbed his big jaw with a long-fingered hand. "Well what, ma'am?"
"Diagnose our sorcerer for me."
"I am an expert in mundane medicine only."
She gave him her best royal glare. "You can speculate."
"Inos is in good health?"
"Perfect health."
"And what exactly happened when she and Rap vanished in flames?"
"Her recollection seems rather muddled."
"Ah!" Sagorn turned away, and began picking up the clothes left behind by the sorcerer. "I should need more facts."
Kade rose, exasperated. "One reason I came here was to reassure you that the imperor's invitation was an opportunity for you, Doctor, not a trap. But if you continue to misbehave, then I shall call in my hussars to take you to the palace by force — and don't think they won't!"
Sagorn glared. Then he shrugged. "What do you want to know?"
"Your opinion of Master Rap."
"No question. A very obvious hypothesis, at least. He shows all the symptoms of a man enduring severe pain."
4
The rivalry between the great families of the Impire was a bitter and never-ending business, but it peaked every year at Winterfest, when they clashed headlong in an ostentation contest. For months the preparations had proceeded in darkest secrecy — the gowns, the orchestras, the food, the wine,
the entertainment. No expense had been spared, no menial unexhausted.
Rap had told Kade that Inos was to attend the parties. Despite her worries, she trusted him, and she obeyed. As an honored guest of the imperor, a state visitor, she had very little choice anyway. To refuse would have been an insult.
Last year's foolish flirtation with bustles was but a shameful memory. Sanity had returned, bringing laces and ruffles and flounces spread so wide by hoops and panniers that a lady must turn sideways to pass through a door. The favored colors were claret and hyacinth, or salmon for those whose complexions could stand it. Lace and jewels, bows and embroidery, beads and seashells, bouquets and frills — nothing must be omitted in the decoration. Hair likewise must be gemmed and teased, coiled high on a framework until it overtopped even the plumed helmets of the tall hussars.
For men, hose and doublets were out, white silk tights were in. The cutaway coats in bright velvets hung low at the back, but rose high in front to better display the tights, and especially this year's outstanding absurdity, a bejeweled and embroidered codpiece. The exact amount of padding a gentleman employed — on his calves, for example — was a question of taste for him, a matter of concern for his tailor, and a topic for speculation by the ladies.
Life became a continuous procession of balls. The scented invitations drifted into Inos's dressing table like snowflakes. She dragged herself from bed at noon, spent the rest of the daylight hours preparing, and was off to dance the night away again. Who exactly was paying for all this she dared not ask — she had a recurring nightmare that the imperor might play innkeeper and present the slate when she departed, a bill whose final total would amount to more than the gross value of her kingdom.
Queen Inosolan of Krasnegar was unquestioned Belle of the Season. No ball was worth a pinch of parsley if Inosolan did not attend. She was a celebrity because of the events in Emine's Rotunda, and she had an intriguing aura of the occult about her. Rumor linked her with the mysterious faun sorcerer who had rescued the dynasty.
But in addition Inos's dancing was miraculous, her beauty unmatched, her wit devastating. The debutantes spoke darkly of witchcraft.
Few of them could see that it was not wit or grace or beauty that drew the young men to her, but rather her wistful air of tragedy, her romantic melancholy, the haunting echo of a breaking heart.
She received an average of four proposals of marriage a day. At least two of them were always from Tiffy, but she noted five or six young men of quality, almost any of whom might now be ruling in Krasnegar had he chanced to drop by Kinvale a year ago. Too late! Too late!
Every night flew by in a whirl of candlelight and music and handsome soldiers. And when each new winter day dawned, she crept back to the palace and soaked another pillow.
Of Rap she had seen nothing at all. Shandie seemed to be the only person who ever met him now. She sent a message by the boy: "Tell Rap I love him very much."
Next day came the answer: "Rap said he knew that."
Then — "Tell Rap I want to help him."
But — "He laughed and said you were the last one to help him."
And that, inexplicably, was that.
She had two opposing dreads. One was her vague memory of the ambience, that sinister half-world of shadowless nonbeing. She suspected that Rap must be spending much time in it — for he did not seem to be anywhere else — and she had nightmares of his becoming trapped in it, fading away forever from the mundane.
Her other, contradictory, fear came from the magic casement's vision of him dying in the goblin lodge. Was that awful fate now inevitable? Was that what kept him from her? Her great-grandfather had reputedly been driven mad by something he had seen in the casement. Was Rap to suffer the same cruel fate? Why, though, must he shun her? The days flew by and left no answers.
Two nights before Winterfest came the grand finale, the imperor's ball. The guest list ran to thousands, although there were several categories of invitation and the festivities covered many precincts of varying opulence. The main affair alone included twelve ballrooms, seventeen orchestras, a continuing circus of performers, enough fine food to feed all Zark, and a hundred thousand candles. Eigaze had been absolutely right — the Kinvale affair was a child's birthday party compared to this.
Guests and strayed sheep had been pouring in to the capital for days, and they included Princess Imperial Orosea and her husband, the Duke of Leesoft. Shandie vanished squealing into a scrimmage of cousins and stayed there, so that even he saw nothing of Rap anymore.
The great night came, and when his Imperial Majesty took a partner on his arm for the opening promenade, the only lady in the realm he could have chosen was the Queen of Krasnegar. Leesoft and Orosea fell into step behind them.
The tall old man was almost unrecognizable as the invalid Inos had first seen being carried around like a trophy of war. Now his color was back, his face had filled in and become more human. He was stronger than he had been for years, he insisted, and no one doubted that his grip on the Impire was as firm as it had ever been. The Dwanishian dispute was already settled; the legions would be vacating Qoble as soon as the passes opened. The Senate could not have passed the new Succession Act any faster on wheels.
His hair was trimmed short in military style, and he wore a uniform, although it was a designer uniform of kidskin and gold foil, not bullhide and bronze. As was her custom, Inos wore green, and tonight a very talkative sea-green satin that hissed and whispered all the time. The cut of her bodice was as daring as any in the hall — well, almost — and she was perfectly aware that no one outshone her. This was the culmination of the Hubban social season, and of her year. In a brief three weeks she had conquered the capital of the Impire, and tonight was her night. She might go on to establish herself as Queen of Krasnegar, but even if she stayed in Hub she could never hope to retain her present rule as queen of the capital. In another month someone else would reign.
Honors were transitory, youth was fleeting, but this was her night.
Half the young men of the Impire were ready to fall at her feet, and the only man she wanted was not there.
Emshandar smiled approvingly at her as they began the procession. "It never ceases to amaze me," he said whimsically, "how feminine beauty always manages to triumph over the worst outrages that dressmakers can commit!"
Inos granted him a maidenly blush — she was quite good at those now. "Your Majesty is most gracious." She murmured an appreciation of the surroundings.
They paraded forward, acknowledging the smiles and salutes of the company, all of whom would in turn join on the end of the promenade. Emshandar made polite conversation about nothing . . .
"Any sign of Rap?" he asked quietly, his expression not changing.
Inos did not let her reaction reach the hand she rested on his jeweled vambrace. "None, Sire."
The withered old lips smiled sadly. "I commanded his presence! So we see who rules this Impire, don't we?"
More smiles. Nod to the new consul and his pretty wife.
"Do you know Death Bird?" Emshandar muttered. Confidential remarks in Hub were usually made with minimum lip movement.
"No, Sire, I don't think so."
"A goblin, the one Kalkor brought. He has some other name, but the wardens call him Death Bird, for some reason."
Inos beamed at Kade, being squired by Senator Epoxague. "Then I do know him. Rap called him Little Chicken and said he was his slave."
Emshandar was still looking everywhere but at Inos. "Olybino is enraged. He says the goblin has been spying on military training camps, disguised as an imp."
She barely contained an unseemly snigger. "How do you disguise a goblin as an imp? Boil him in strong tea?" She acknowledged Marshal Ithy with one of her larger smiles.
"With sorcery."
"Oh!" She apologized. Then a few implications registered and she broke the rules by looking straight at the imperor and speaking plainly. "That's no behavior for a guest!" Spying, when there was a w
ar on? Goblins and winter together had driven the XIIth Legion back from the pass, the most humiliating setback the Impire had suffered in years. She knew that reinforcements were being sent.
Emshandar's eyes twinkled, even as he nodded respectfully to the widow of a famous senator. "Rap asked permission, and I said he could do anything he wanted. That was my big mistake, you see! I should have excluded this evening from that sufferance." They had reached the orchestra. As lead couple they veered to the right . . .
He chuckled. "I also told Olybino to complain directly to Rap about it if he had worries. That son of a mule went chalky pale and disappeared!"
The first real dance of the evening she had promised to Tiffy, and it was a brisk fandango, designed to clear the floor of older folk. It was also brisk enough to produce a marked list in Inos's coiffure. With a hasty apology to the next promised partner, she headed for the powder room to put things to rights.
As she was returning, sweeping along a dim corridor, she suddenly sensed that he was there.
Rap!
She wasn't sure how she knew, but she was certain.
She stopped and stood still, keeping her eyes lowered. Somehow she located him, in the shadows of a doorway. Minutes seeped by. No one else came, there was no sound except the muffled beat of the orchestra, and her heart was louder than that. But she knew he was there, watching.
Very slowly she raised her head. At first, she dared not look straight at him. It was like meeting a wild animal, a deer or a fox. If she made a sudden move she would scare him away. He would be gone in an instant.
He was as well dressed as any man in the palace, better than she had ever imagined him. Silver-buckled shoes, snowy tights — including a frilly codpiece as outrageous as any young gallant's — ruffled cravat and cutaway velvet coat . . .
And by all the Gods his hair was flat!
Finally she met his eyes — wild, tortured eyes, staring at her with a mute, unbearable longing that twisted her heart. The tattoos were missing.
He had done all this for her, she knew. She could never have conceived Rap dressing up like this, even if he had done it with sorcery.