by Dave Duncan
“Not for that, but a lot of people like cats around to…” Why did people like cats around? “They like cats.”
“We like cats, too!”
“Not in the same way. And the dogs, also.”
“Dogs we don’t meddle with if they don’t meddle with us.”
“Good. But leave the cats.”
“Oh, very well! I’ll tell the others. What should we do with the money, King?”
“Hang on to it until you have a problem.”
“What problems can gnomes have?” the little voice asked.
Before Rap could think of an answer, the gnome had gone. Nothing remained except a hint of a something in the air. Pity about that! Gnomes were fine people once you got past that. Rap had explained washing to them and they had promised to consider the matter—next summer or the one after. Certainly not in winter. Still, there were some day folk in Krasnegar not a whole lot better.
What problems could gnomes have?
What problems could a king have?
Sorcery, maybe.
He was starting to feel sleepy. He rose and began to pace through the echoing gloom of the castle. His castle. King Rap of Krasnegar! Even after all these years, he could not adjust to that. When the imperor wrote, he hailed Rap as his royal cousin.
Royal sorcerer.
He hated being a sorcerer and always had. He hated being able to manipulate people, or seeing people as toys, and to a sorcerer they were nothing more. Inos had destroyed his power once, but it had returned in part. He was not all-powerful, as he once had been, but he was still a sorcerer.
So he had found a way out. He had cast a magic shield around himself, like the invisible shield Inisso had cast centuries before over the whole castle. His powers were contained, then. He could neither sense with them, nor use them.
Of course no sorcerer could cast a spell too strong for his own powers to break, but Rap had restored his power only three times. Once for the twins, once for Eva, and tonight for Holi… He savored the thought again—new son, new joy.
And while the women had been washing the baby, he had put himself back in his bottle. Now he was mundane once more, a mundane king. Perhaps it was the memory of that brief glory that was making him so restless now.
Being a sorcerer was dangerous, of course. The use of power rippled the ambience and the greater the power used, the greater the distance at which it could be detected. The wardens, or indeed any more powerful sorcerer, might hunt down the user and imprint him with a loyalty spell. Over the years, the four wardens had all acquired votaries to serve them—Bright Water had dozens of them. Many sorcerers chose not to use their power for that reason, and probably many of them hid within the same sort of cloaking spell as Rap did. He had not invented anything new.
But the ethics of sorcery bothered him far more than the dangers. If he could ease his own wife’s torment in childbirth, then why not other men’s wives’? Why not cure the sick, repair fire damage, heal wounds? Why not reform the drunks, raise the dying, warn the sailors of the storm?
Why not be a God?
Where would it end?
And why stop at Krasnegar?
Once he had been offered a wardenship. He could have been warlock of the west, mightiest of the Four, judge and ruler of all Pandemia, greater even than the imperor. He had declined the honor, a decision he had never regretted.
That was a path that had no sane ending. Wardens lived for centuries, running the world for their private comfort and amusement. Fortunately he no longer had that option. He was not the demigod he once had been. Inos, oh, Inos! My love, my queen!
He had arrived at a door he almost never visited. So that was what was on his mind?
Why not? On impulse, he opened it. It creaked.
The little chapel was icy cold, but not quite dark. A smear of snow lay unmelted before the other door, blown in through invisible cracks by the arctic wind. On the table at the far end, a single lamp glimmered. The other lamp beside it was dark. One window showed a faint trace of moonlight; its partner was opaque and always black… the Good and the Evil—the Powers, whom even the Gods must serve.
He was not a praying man; not religious. He joined in the ceremonies Inos insisted were required of sovereigns, but only by going through the motions. He never opened his heart to the Gods. The one time he had spoken with Them, the discourse had not been amicable.
Amused to think how astonished his wife would be, he stalked up the aisle until he had passed all the pews and stood before the table. It was covered with a splendid silk cloth, he noted. Inos spent a fortune on such trivia, for some reason.
He went down on his knees. So much happiness! He bowed his head. Thanks! he thought. That didn’t feel quite right, somehow. Self-conscious, he said aloud, “Thank you.” A notable occasion! He had probably not spoken a true prayer to the Gods since his mother died.
“About time,” a male voice said.
He overbalanced with shock and almost fell, steadying himself with a hand on the floor. He caught a momentary glimpse of bare feet blazing in splendor, bright as the sun and yet without heat, and then his eyes closed in watery agony. The image of those feet was still there on the insides of his eyelids, and he could still sense the brightness before him.
“You summoned me?” Anger mingled with his fear.
“Perhaps. Or you felt repentant. At least you came to give thanks, not demand favors. You came because you were happy, not because you were in need of something. We appreciate that. Be happy while you can, King Rap.”
“Oh, of course!” he snapped. “You can’t bear to see a mortal being happy, can You? Tonight my heart is overflowing, so You have to come and spoil it!”
He heard a sigh and when the voice spoke again above him it was female, sadly tuneful as an old lament. “Time and advancement have not improved your disposition. Can you not give Us the benefit of the doubt just for once?”
He squirmed, unable to think of an answer to that divine rebuke. He looked up, shielding his face with his hand and trying to open his eyes a hairsbreadth. Useless—one glimpse of that stabbing brilliance made them flood with tears. Yet the rest of the chapel was dark, untouched by the glory.
When the Gods spoke again, They were still in Their female aspect. “Why do you not use your powers to help your people, King Rap? Why do you not divert storms from Krasnegar, fill the larders single-handed, stamp out disease? You could make your town a paradise.”
Had the Gods been eavesdropping on his thoughts?
“Is that Your command to me?”
“No. But We demand an answer.”
“Because… Because I think I would produce a nation of idlers and degenerates! I should end up doing all the work and probably gain small thanks for it in the end, when everyone began taking my blessings for granted.”
After a moment he added, “People value happiness by what it costs.”
“Would they understand if you explained that to them?”
“Probably not,” he admitted. “But I think they would not be happier, in the long run. I really do have their own good at heart, I think.”
Then he saw that mortals should not argue with Gods.
“And so it is with Us. We also must sometimes act or decline to act, from motives that you may not comprehend.”
“I am sorry,” he muttered.
For a moment the chapel was silent and he wondered if They had gone. He shivered as the cold bit through his garments. The floor was hard and cold on his knees.
“Then try to understand now. We bring a warning. You will have to lose one of the children.”
No! No! No! Something seemed to grip his throat until he thought he would choke. “Which one?”
“It would be even more unkind to tell you that.” A long sigh seemed to drift around the chapel like a lost soul.
“I suppose it would. But why tell me anything at all? Just to torture me? If I wanted to know the future, I could use my powers—foresight or premonition.” At th
e moment all he could see was the green afterimage inside his eyelids. His eyes still hurt.
“But you do not use those powers! And in spite of your efforts to remain ignorant, you have already sensed the approach of evil.”
“The year 3000?”
The voice became stern again and male, dark with overtones of power and duty. It thundered, yet it woke no echoes in the little chapel. “That is part of it. The times were vulnerable and you blundered, Rap.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you! You interfered with the order of the world and because the millennia were poised, the consequences will be grave beyond imagining. Already the fabric trembles.”
Rap had a low opinion of the Gods, but did he believe They would lie to him? Yes, he decided. They might if it suited Their purpose. Not all Gods served the Good. Or if they did, the distinction was not always evident to mortal eyes.
“What must I do?” he demanded angrily. He wanted to curse Them and he did not know how to curse Gods.
“Nothing,” They said. “There is nothing you can do. You erred, and the least cost of that error must be one of your children.”
“Take me! Take me instead.”
“That may be necessary, also. The penalty may be much, much greater than We said. We cannot save you from the price of your own folly.”
“Tell me what I must do! Anything! Anything!”
“Nothing. You will have happy days for a while. Cherish them as mortals should. And when the sacrifice is needed, try to understand that good intentions are never an excuse. Godhood is not all joy. Rap. Power brings sorrows as well as joys. You know that.”
“Tell me!” he screamed.
This time there was no reply. The Gods had gone. Rap stayed there until he was almost frozen, begging on his knees or prostrate on the icy flags, but They did not return. The chapel stayed silent except for the echoes of his sobs and the wailing of the wind, and all his happiness had shattered into dust.
5
The year of victories was almost over; Ylo was carrying a white flag.
In three more days the world would celebrate Winterfest with dancing and feasting. He was walking to his death with a madman.
This should be a time of peace and merrymaking, but the God of War was still reaping. Many, many men would die before the year did.
Madness! Suicidal madness…
The light was failing and the rain had not let up all day; fine, cold, pitiless rain that fell straight down and soaked into everything. The air was gray. Thin mud made the trail treacherous underfoot, slapping up with every step, and Ylo was actually glad of his wolfskin hood, for the first time in… how long?… ten or eleven months? It must be that long since he had become signifer to this maniac, and this was the first time he’d truly appreciated the furry absurdity as a rain cover. As a sunshade, fine—he’d often been grateful for it as a sunshade. As a girl attractor… well, it did help there. And now it made a good waterproof, except that it smelled bad and seemed to weigh as much as it would if it still had a wolf in it.
The hillside was tufted with shrubbery and little copses, sinister, misty patches that might hide a hundred armed warriors and probably did. He held the flag in one hand and a lantern in the other, a yellow eye within a fuzzy corona of rain. Reflections sparkled from puddles as he led the prince imperial deeper and deeper into his own trap.
Ylo was convinced it was a trap. Back at the camp he had actually dared question his orders—an Imperial soldier did not do that very often and live. Madness to go alone to the rendezvous, he had said. The heir to the Opal Throne had no right to risk the future welfare of the Impire by such insane rashness.
A lesser man might have chopped off his head for insolence, but not Shandie. He had just shrugged and said quietly that it would be madness to trust anyone else in such circumstances, but elves spurned treachery once they had given their word. He had also said that Centurion Hardgraa would accompany him if Ylo did not want to. That had settled the matter, of course, as he had known it would.
And so here the two of them were, slithering and sliding down this Evil-spawned path across this doom-haunted hillside, heading for a vague speck of lamplight and a parley.
Somewhere over the ridge behind them the legions shivered in their sodden bivouac—eating cold food, huddling inside wet clothes; and no doubt cursing fluently and vowing that someone was going to pay for this.
Somewhere over the ridge ahead was an elvish army, probably doing all the same things and swearing all the same oaths.
Somewhere off to the right but invisible, the Qoble Range reached snowy ramparts to the roof of heaven. Doubtless the peaks would be a spectacular sight when the rain stopped, for those alive to see it.
And somewhere in the neighborhood lay the border between Qoble and Ilrane. Every few centuries the boundary moved. Qoble was a fragment of the Impire cut off by the mountains. A winter road around the western end of those mountains had been a priority of the imps since before history. Many times they had spilled a sea of blood to get one, but they had never been able to hold it for long, because the elves prized this miserable little tract of land, also, for aesthetic reasons.
On the maps the gap between the Nefer and Qoble ranges was marked as Nefer Moor. Perhaps it had been open country when it was named, but now it was mainly dense forest. Wooded terrain favored the nimble elves over the cumbersome legions, and yet all these weeks of marching in the rain had brought success at last. Shandie had cornered the elves brilliantly. This time they could not escape. The history texts listed seven Battles of Nefer Moor; the eighth would be a rout.
Rain and falling darkness and cold and mud.
“Is that a light ahead, or just mud in my eye?” Shandie asked at his back.
“It’s a light, sir.” The bait in the trap.
His tone must have revealed his thoughts, because Shandie said, “You still don’t believe we can trust them, do you?”
“No, sir. I might trust them with anyone else, but you’re too valuable.”
A chuckle. “I’m worth more to them alive than dead, Ylo. One thing you must never do in warfare is create causes! Understand what I’m getting at?”
Ylo said, “No, sir,” just as his foot slid on the slick grass and he flailed wildly off balance. He steadied himself with the flagstaff, feeling a dozen new trickles of icy water launch themselves down his skin. His sandals were sodden.
“This is just a sordid little border squabble,” the prince said. “Politics and nothing more. The elves know that. But if they kill me, I become a martyr. They rouse the whole Impire to fury! Ilrane would be overrun from one end to the other. Worst thing they could do.”
No one had ever accused elves of being logical before, so far as Ylo knew. And what if they took Shandie hostage?
“Why negotiate at all?” he asked. “You’ve got it all now! You’ve nailed their ears to the chopping block!”
The prince actually laughed, as if he were on a summer stroll, not a funeral march. “The second-best time to negotiate, Ylo, is when you know you can win. Gives you a chance to get it all for free. That’s why we’re here.”
That wasn’t what his commission required of him, though. Ylo had decoded those orders and he knew that they demanded stern measures. That was a nice way of saying that the imperor wanted a massacre or two. Take no prisoners! Teach the slanty-eyes a lesson! Emshandar would emphatically not approve of a parlay when the enemy was helpless.
Ylo couldn’t say that. Shandie was a considerate and long-suffering commander, but Ylo could hardly throw the man’s own orders in his face.
“What’s first-best time to negotiate?” he asked.
“When you’re certain to lose. Then you may salvage something, right? And that’s why they’re here!”
“Think they’ll surrender…” Ylo asked, and added, “sir?” as he realized he was questioning a proconsul.
“I hope so. They should!” Shandie sighed. “I just hope they haven’t gone into one of their
suicidal sulks, that’s all.”
The elves’ lantern was clearly visible now, sitting on a stump in an open glade. Two men stood beside it. How many hundreds lurked in the undergrowth, all around?
Ylo turned aside from the path, trudging through the long wet grass toward those two still figures. Tall and slim, they looked like boys, both bare-headed, with elvish curls shining in the rain as if they wore golden helmets. One of them held a white flag. Neither seemed to be armed.
Indeed, only one was wearing armor under his cloak and only chain mail at that. In the murky evening light, the colors of their garb were muddied and indistinct, but undoubtedly more somber than elves’ usual riotous display.
This was a strange setting for a historical meeting! Ylo might feel proud of having a part in it, were he not so accursedly wet and cold. He strode to the stump and laid his lantern beside the other. Then he backed off a pace and planted the staff in proper military style. Shandie stood at his side. The elves watched in wary silence. Lit from below, their faces were cryptic masks of beaten gold, their oversize eyes sparkling in the ever-changing hues of opals.
Ylo had known a few elves back in Hub, long ago. He hadn’t liked them much, although he had nothing really specific against them. There was no way to tell an elf’s age, which was always disconcerting. They tended to be artistic people, absurdly impractical, but they could fight when they wanted to. History was littered with the bones of impish generals who had underestimated elves. He hoped Shandie was not going to be another.
The elf in the armor raised his hand in greeting. “Welcome, your Highness!”
The voice was high and sweet. Gods! A woman! Ylo glanced at her companion and decided that one was male.
“Greetings to you,” Shandie said harshly. He removed his helmet, to be on equal terms with the opposition. He wiped his face with a wet arm. “I am Proconsul Emshandar, Governor of Qoble, Legate of the XIIth legion.”
“I am Puil’stor, Sirdar of the Army of Justice, President of the Council for the Emergency, War Chief of Aliath Gens, Deputy Syndic and Presenter of Aims of Stor Clan, Exarch of Aniel Sept.”