Emperor and Clown

by Dave Duncan

  "Now look!" Rap held up a mirror. There was her face — pale, but stern, not terrified and bewildered as she felt it should be. Her honey-blond hair sat in waves that might have come straight from the hands of one of Hub's expert coiffeuses, and an emerald tiara sparkled on it. The gown showing through her open coat was much more ornate than it been when she put it on, glittering with scrolls of seed pearls and sequins. Obviously Rap had his own ideas of how a Queen of Krasnegar should look, but he might be able to judge the local thinking better than she could. Yes, not bad!

  And something else . . . Not majesty, surely? Regality? She could not place it, but she could believe at she was looking at a queen. Was she doing that, or was he?

  "Rap! This tiara belongs to Eigaze! I borrowed it for the imperor's ball —"

  "No, you've got one just like hers now." The mirror disappeared as inexplicably as it had come. "Coronation present from me. I've got the weapons when you ask for them. Now go in there, Queen Inosolan, and claim your inheritance!"

  She nodded dumbly. Then their eyes met.

  "Give me one little kiss? Just one?"

  His efficient, businesslike expression faded to one of agony. "Oh, Inos!" he whispered. "Not even your fingers."

  She closed her eyes. "You're going to explain this to me, you know," she said. "What you're afraid of. I won't stand for it!" When she looked again, he had turned to open the door. She took a deep breath and raised her chin.

  As the door swung open, she was assaulted by heat, and tumult, and a reek of cheap beer. The big room was dim, yet fogged by smoke from the oil lamps. Below the rough-plank ceiling, dozens of men were standing in groups or slouched at tables, yammering away in rowdy voices.

  She strode past Rap and headed for the brightest spot she could see. A man jumped up from his seat as she approached and wandered off without noticing her. Rap's arm was there when she reached for it; she raised her skirts with her other hand and stepped nimbly up onto the stool.

  The racket spiraled down into sudden stunned silence. All eyes were on her. Pale faces staring, golden heads and silver. This was a jotunn watering hole, but there were imps present there, also, and perhaps that was a good sign. She must unite the factions, but surely adversity would have already drawn them closer than before?

  Men at the back scrambled to their feet to see better.

  "The princess!" a voice said in awe, and others picked it up: "The princess! The princess! . . ."

  "The queen!" shouted another in the far corner, and again there were some echoes. A few fists banged on tables. Then silence. She thought the light was brightening around her and dimming elsewhere. Her mouth was parched. No, it wasn't —

  "I am Queen Inosolan. I have returned to claim my realm!" She dared not pause there in case someone started to scoff. "I bring weapons and I call for you to take up arms in my name and wreak vengeance on the jotn . . . on the invaders!"

  Rap threw a massive bundle onto the table with a mighty metallic crash. A sudden tug at her waist told Inos that she now wore a sword. She reached under her coat and drew it.

  She flourished it overhead and the blade struck the ceiling so hard that the hilt almost slipped from her fingers.

  "Who is with me?"

  The longest two seconds of her life . . .

  "By the Powers, I am!" a high-pitched voice cried. A young jotunn sprang to his feet a couple of tables away. He was very lanky, his blond hair almost brushing the ceiling, his face bright pink from too much beer.

  Kratharkran, the smith, prompted a voice inside her ear, but she knew Krath. How he had grown!

  "Mastersmith Kratharkran, you are welcome! I appoint you leader here. Issue these weapons, and bring your squad to the bailey. I shall meet you there with others. The raiders are all gathered in the Great Hall, and we are going to kill them!"

  "Aye!" Kratharkran roared in a squeak absurdly ill suited to his size. Others jumped up, also, and then stools were falling all over the room, boots clumping.

  "Gods save the queen!" Kratharkran piped, and a chorus echoed him, "Gods save the queen!"

  Rap had gripped her wrist again. She jumped down, and her sword miraculously — and fortunately — vanished as she did so. Invisible hands steadied her when her coat caught on the stool. Rap pulled, and she headed for the door as a great drunken clamor of shouting and falling furniture filled the room behind her.

  She was out in the passageway and running, being towed by Rap.

  "Beautifully done! Oh, beautiful!" he shouted back at her.

  "You did it, not me!" She laughed aloud, and he turned his head to smile at her.

  Then he flung open the door of the Southern Dream and dragged her inside before she could draw breath. The ceiling was even lower, the light even dimmer, and most of the clustered heads around the tables were dark. Well, imps should be even more willing to kill jotnar, although it might take more of them.

  Again she was up on a stool; again the light seemed to draw in around her. She had her speech ready — too ready, for she began almost before there was silence. "I am Queen Inosolan. I have returned to claim my realm . . ."

  The same crash of weapons from Rap, the same shocked silence . . .

  Longer . . .

  Freezing, horrible silence!

  Impish Krasnegarians were less easily aroused than their paler-skinned countrymen. Her new euphoria sank into dread. She saw her tiny amateur rebellion being stomped to bloody pulp by those ruthless young professionals up in the castle. She saw her own armed jotnar victorious but turning on the imps in civil war. She saw all kinds of disaster.

  "What, cowards?" she shouted. "I have fifty jotnar behind me. Will none of you come also to avenge your sisters and your daughters?"

  Muttering . . .

  Hononin the hostler, to your right, said the invisible guide.

  "Master Hononin? Where is your loyalty?"

  The wizened old man clambered to his feet, more bent and wrinkled even than she remembered. His eyes glinted angrily at being thus singled out. "I am no fighter, Princess."

  "Queen!"

  "Queen, then." He looked unconvinced.

  "And neither am I, but I am Holindarn's daughter, and I am not a coward! Sometimes we must all stand up for the Good."

  "You bring another army like the last one?"

  "I brought no one, but I offer you blades. Now, do the imps hide under beds and let the jotnar have all the swords?"

  "No!" a few timorous souls somewhere said uncertainly.

  "Well, then . . . " Hononin's angry old eyes settled momentarily on Rap, and paused. Inos wondered what message might be passing there, or what sorcery in use. Then his gaze flickered around the room, and the bent shoulders straightened. "When you put it like that, ma'am, I wouldn't mind spitting a couple of those young brutes myself."

  Inos's head swam with sudden relief. She swayed on her perch and felt her shoulders being steadied. "I appoint you leader, then. Bring your men to the bailey with the others! Revenge!"

  A shout of "Revenge!" sprang up, but she thought she heard a few of "Gods save the queen!" also. Then she was on her way to the door again.

  "Even better!" Rap crowed, hauling her along the alley. She was breathless, soaking wet inside all her cumbersome garments. He almost dragged her up a long flight of stairs to the Sailor's Head.

  That was where she first noticed women present, and she added a new command: "Women come, also, and attend to the girls those animals stole! They must be rescued unharmed!" And there it was the women who started the shouting.

  The Golden Ship . . .

  The King's Men . . .

  The Three Bears . . .

  She had never realized how many saloons Krasnegar had. She made a note to tease Rap about his experience with them all. And they were not a third of the way up the hill yet.

  Then he pulled her into a side corridor and stopped. "Listen!"

  She listened — a deep roar, far away, like surf or continuous thunder. It was all around them. Th
e town had come alive like a stirred anthill.

  "The men of Krasnegar!"

  "Rap! We've done it! We've done it! No, you did it."

  "It was you," he said softly.

  It was the weapons, mostly. Even an adept should not be this effective, and she suspected he'd put a sorcery on her, a majesty. But he gave her no time to ask.

  "Fasten your coat! Some of them are ahead of us. We've got plenty already, and they'll collect more. Ready?"

  Shock!

  Again, cold and dark like hammerblows . . . She gasped and clutched her coat over her chest. "Rap! You didn't give me time!"

  "No time!"

  They were standing at the postern gate again, and he was staring back across the drift-filled yard, awash with moonlight. A narrow track across it had been trampled clear by many feet, leading from the mouth of Royal Wynd, the covered way that connected castle and town. A wider opening in the walls marked the start of the wagon road, but that would be filled with snow, abandoned until springtime. Yet now it showed a flicker of light, the same yellow glow that shone on the undersides of the drifting vapor clouds rising from every chimney.

  "Gods!" Rap said. "The whole town's coming!"

  And Inos could hear the singing — there was an army fighting its way up the street, and probably another coming up the covered walks. She tried not to think of the dangers, of people being crushed. She had started a revolution and must pay the price, whatever it turned out to be.

  Her teeth started to chatter.

  "Sorry!" Rap murmured absentmindedly, and at once she was cozy warm all over, from ears to toes. He was still clad in only the simple pants and half-unbuttoned tunic he had worn indoors in Kinvale. His boots and shirt were thin, southern wear, his head was bare.

  It was the postern that was bothering him. For eight months of the year the castle gates stood closed, drifted shut by thick snow. Only the little postern gate stayed open always, just wide enough for a man or a horse. An army could not pass through such a slot.

  Rap stuck his head inside and peered around, then came out again. "Evil-begotten nuisance, this shielding," he mumbled. Again he studied the far side of the court. "If the raiders wake up in time and can get here to hold this door, then I'll have to show my hand. I think I'd rather do it this way. Come on!"

  He pulled her back along the snowy track a few paces. Even as he did so, she heard the gates creak. Slowly, noisily, and occultly, the two great flaps began to swing forward, crunching mountains of snow ahead of them. When they stood about halfway open, Rap released them.

  "That should be enough," he said. "I wonder if anyone will ever think to ask who opened the castle?"

  The noise of singing was louder now, the chimney smoke was glowing brightly overhead. A line of lights came into sight up the hill — men bearing torches, twenty or more abreast, floundering through the snow, cursing and stumbling. They were being propelled by the rank behind them as inexorably as Rap had moved the gates, and that rank by more behind it. The steaming mass advanced up the hill as irresistible as moving pack ice. Any man who fell was going to be trampled, but those first brave leaders were having the worst of it. The rest were finding easier going, and the singing came from them. Another mob suddenly erupted from Royal Wynd, a darker company against the snow, men without torches. They continued to pour into the courtyard, and now the main mass was at the top of the road.

  "Come on!" Rap took Inos's wrist again, and they ran before the advancing horde — through the barbican, past the guardroom door, into the bailey. Her father had fought a losing battle every winter to keep the bailey as clear of snow as was practical, but this year no one seemed to have tried very hard. She floundered through drifts as Rap pulled her over to the armory steps.

  "Stand up here!" he said. He was not even panting; his stupid boots were probably full of snow. "Here they come — hold this!"

  Somehow Inos found herself teetering on top of a wall and clutching a monstrous torch, hissing and spluttering, with leaping flames as long as her arms. It was so heavy she almost dropped it.

  Before she could complain, the archway flickered and rumbled. With swords shining in the light of their torches, with their feet crunching on the hard-frozen snow, with voices raised in defiant song, the men of Krasnegar stormed into the bailey.

  Inos felt her heart swell and tears prickle at her eyes. She had summoned her people, and they had rallied to their queen! Her speech was ready on the tip of her tongue as the vanguard reached her perch. She raised her flaming brand in a heroic gesture and cried out, "My loyal subjects —"

  The army went right by her without an upward glance. Nothing she could say was going to be heard anyway. Echoes boomed from the walls as the bailey filled up with roaring men, their leaders already past the kitchen quarters and the stables and the wagon sheds, advancing remorselessly on the Great Hall. More and more poured past Inos, the forgotten leader.

  She peered around for Rap and found him below her, in the corner between the steps and the armory wall. He was doubled over, helpless with laughter. She could not recall ever having seen Rap laugh like that. She hurled her torch down at him in fury.

  "Idiot! There are people being killed in there! Do something!"

  He sprang up beside her as nimbly as a grasshopper. He had stopped laughing, but the old familiar half grin curled around the corners of his mouth. "You want me to call them back to listen to your harangue?"

  "No — of course I was wrong! But let's get in there!"

  "Right," he said cheerfully, and moved them both to the Throne Room. Shock!

  It was a good vantage point. The revelers in the Great Hall had just awakened to their peril. There was shouting and confusion. The jotnar were pulling on helmets and sword belts — even clothes in some cases. The orchestra wailed into silence. Then the great doors crashed open and a foam of swords and smoking torches rolled into the hall, the crest of a tidal wave of men.

  Inos hauled off her thick coat, discarding mitts and boots in the same flurry of movement. "Shoes!" she demanded.

  "Just like that? How about some proper respect?" But Rap ensorceled shoes onto her feet. They pinched her toes.

  The young jotnar were no cowards and as trained fighters they knew how to deal with a trap. Hastily forming a wedge, they charged the invasion, but they were too late to take the door. Servants, musicians, and girls all fled screaming from the developing battle, and the only place that offered even temporary shelter was the Throne Boom. Behind them the Great Hall rang with clashing swords. Men howled curses and roared defiance. Tables and benches went over, dishes rolled and smashed; bodies were falling on top of them.

  The first naked girl to arrive was Uki, the miller's youngest. Inos threw her coat to her and scrambled up on a chair, raising her arms in welcome to the rest. The panicking mob stumbled to a halt, staring in disbelief.

  Voices cried, "Inos!" and "The princess!"

  "I am your queen, and Krasnegar is liberated!"

  Their replies were hardly audible over the hubbub of battle out in the hall. Inos waved an arm at the door to the stairs. "The room above here is warm!" she yelled, hoping Rap would take the hint. "Women upstairs!" The closer girls heard her and raced that way. The rest followed, piling up in the entrance in a squirming mass of bare flesh. The men, including Rap, watched the performance with interest.

  Inos was more concerned with the fight beyond the arch. She could see blood, shockingly bright in the flickering torchlight, and men were going down. No one had armor. But sheer weight of numbers was starting to carry the day, and the citizens were roused now, even imps screaming jotunn war cries back at the retreating brigands. In a moment it would all be over.

  She lifted her skirt and leaped from the chair. She ran for the throne, trusting her court sorcerer to follow. As she jumped up on the scarlet cushion, she wondered what her father would have thought of all this. She hoped that Kade was right, and he would have been just a little bit proud of her now.

  The tid
e of battle died out as one last half-naked jotunn was hacked down almost at her feet by three imps simultaneously. The shouting in the hall was fading, although a huge multitude outside still bellowed its eagerness enter.

  Rap was with her, standing alongside the throne. She reached out and tousled his hair. There was frost on it. "Bell?"

  At once the great bell of the castle boomed.

  "Gods save the queen!" a voice cried. Others began to pick it up in refrain: "Gods save the queen!" Boom! "Gods save the queen!"

  Boom! went the bell in the distance.

  Bloody swords were being waved overhead — dangerously. Pale faces and brown faces were grinning at her in a dazzling sea of faces. But her troubles were only beginning. Somehow she must gain control over this beast mob she had roused. They had swords. Most of them were reeling drunk — if not from beer, then from excitement. There had been few weapons in her father's kingdom. If imp and jotunn fell out now, there would be a much greater bloodbath.

  She held up both arms for silence, and the noise began to dwindle.

  But not fast enough. "Quieten them, please," she said softly, and a hush fell.

  "If there's a body near you, and it's one of the Nordlanders, please drag it out and throw it over the north battlements!" That command brought a brief cheer and some turbulent movement within the throng. "Help the wounded over to the fireplace!" She wondered how many of her followers had died in the last few minutes, and decided not to mention those. "I am Queen Inosolan, and I claim this throne by right of inheritance!"

  Another cheer, not quite so loud.

  "Money!" she whispered.

  "Money?" Rap echoed, looking up at her in astonishment.

  He had told her himself that there was no money left in the town. She could not guess how the people were surviving without it — by some form of barter, presumably.

  She peered over the nearby faces, and the only one she recognized was the old hostler. He was small and stooped, with both hands in his pockets, but his gnarled old face was grinning at her. Evidently he had given his sword to some younger man, but he was honest and respected.