A Handful of Men: The Complete Series

by Dave Duncan

  “Extremely careful!”

  “Sh! They’ll hear us!”

  Ashia gave her an odd look. “You are looking forward to having him back, aren’t you?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Gods save me! Don’t try to lie to me, darling. Oh, you poor thing!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean!” Ashia sighed. “I don’t know… I did give you a demonstration once. I can’t do any better than I did then, I’m sure. Didn’t it help?”

  “It… That sounds like Maya coming.” Eshiala had no need to be reminded of that horrible afternoon when she had spent two disgusting hours behind a drape watching her sister, naked on a bed with a stalwart young hussar. She had never been able to bring herself to do any of those grotesque things, and certainly never would. She was certain that Shandie would be terribly shocked if she even tried. That had been just a few weeks after her marriage; ironically, she had probably already been with child by then.

  Ashia ignored the diversion. “Any more word on when he arrives?”

  Eshiala repressed a shudder. “No word. He will outrun his news, I expect.”

  Her sister gave her a careful, pitying stare. “I wonder if he’s the one who needs the lessons? Let’s hope he picked up some finesse from the fair maids of Qoble or somewhere. Now let’s go back in the farmyard and set an example of ladylike behavior for the goslings, shall we?”

  3

  It was troll weather. The countryside was wild and uncultivated. Clouds had been building all day in the west as the seven horsemen sped along the highway. Just before dark brought travel to a halt, their destination post inn came into view in the far distance—and at that moment the skies exploded. By the time the weary wayfarers reined in at the door, they were drenched and half frozen. Shandie could not recall being so wet and morose since the night the dragons came.

  The law specified that every post inn must provide at least twelve beds. It did not say how many wayfarers might be packed into each, though.

  As the door opened, the noise and smell together were enough to knock a man over. The tavern was jammed with wet and weary travelers, sitting, standing, eating, drinking, arguing in near darkness. Smoky lamps swung from the rafters, but their only purpose seemed to be to reveal their own presence so that a soldier did not bang them with his helmet. Apart from the rain and a sense of moorland isolation, this could have been any one of the previous sixteen nights. Two more nights should do it.

  Hardgraa went first, his armored menace clearing a trail wide enough for the others to follow. Reaching a corner under a lamp, he thumped a heavy hand on a man’s shoulder and rumbled some cheerful platitudes about patriotism and support for our gallant fighting men. The table was quickly vacated.

  Shandie sank gingerly onto a rough stool, wondering why he so enjoyed doing that when he had been sitting all day. His head still throbbed with the rhythm of hooves, but he kept his helmet on because there was nowhere else to put it. He leaned elbows on the table and watched the rain dribble down his arms. Military uniform was designed to deflect steel, not water.

  Acopulo settled beside him, with a wince of relief, silver hair shining in the gloom. His civilian clothes would have given him better protection from the weather. For the moment there were only the two of them—Hardgraa had disappeared on his usual wary tour of inspection, and Ylo would have gone to arrange accommodation. Most likely Umpily was already deep in conversation with someone, extracting information like a bee sipping nectar.

  “I fear we older ones are holding you back,” Acopulo sighed. He liked to exploit his frail appearance, but despite his prematurely white hair and his sparrow build, he could be tough as rawhide when he wanted. Now he was weary and fishing for a compliment. Shandie assured him that he was at the end of his own tether and quite amazed how well everyone was holding up, especially Acopulo, but he should have remembered how Acopulo had ridden them all into the ground on the dash to Highscarp… and so on.

  Mollified, the political advisor assumed his most censorious priestly voice and went straight to business. “Why have we had no report of dwarf trouble?”

  Shandie gathered up his road-deadened wits. At times the little man behaved as if Shandie were still his peach-faced student, who must be instructed in the powers of logic as well as the political structure of the Inspire. He had now had a whole day to grind his mental millstones undisturbed. Fortunately, he rarely put on this professorial performance in front of witnesses.

  “Is there dwarf trouble?”

  “Certainly. The price of flax has plummeted. Olive oil is cheap as water.”

  “So the Dwanishian border is closed again?”

  “Excellent!” The sly old scholar sounded disappointed. “But why were you not informed, mm?”

  The deduction had not been difficult. When relations with Dwanish were strained, the dwarves cut off the supply of swords. The Impire then blocked sales of strategic materials and a glut forced down prices. The disaster on Nefer Moor had been followed by half a year of peace, but that situation was too good to last.

  Shandie was not going to discuss his grandfather’s actions, even with Acopulo. “I have one for you,” he said. “Umpfly has been picking up more stories of troll trouble down in the Mosweeps—bands of outlaws emerging from the jungle and attacking the villages, killing the defenders, and driving off the inhabitants.”

  “Bah! What you call villages are actually labor camps, the defenders are legionaries, and the inhabitants are serfs, who are delighted to be freed.”

  “They’re slaves, but I’m not supposed to admit that,” Shandie said angrily. “It will be one of the first matters I attend to when… But why this, now?”

  His political advisor drummed scholarly fingers on the table. “It’s very unusual behavior for trolls, I grant you. They’re usually much more placid.”

  “You’ve missed the point, my lord…” Shandie smiled up at the mud-splattered face of his signifer. “Yes, Ylo?”

  “One room with four beds, sir?”

  “Guess who gets a bed to himself? Yes, that’ll do.” Shandie watched the wolf hood vanishing into the mob. A woman smiled hopefully at him, but he shook his head. Two more nights until he was back with Eshiala!

  Umpily’s bean-bag bulk emerged from the throng and squeezed onto another of the stools, sighing deeply.

  “Not a word of complaint!” Shandie warned. “You’ve got more padding than all of us put together.”

  “It’s the padding that hurts!” The chief of protocol twisted his flabby face in dramatic agony.

  This is the last time, Shandie thought. He might never again travel a highway like this, riding the wind with a few friends and a token escort. As imperor, he would take the entire Praetorian Guard with him when he sallied forth from Hub and possibly a regular legion or two, as well. For ten years he had roamed the impire like a bird of prey, but soon he would be chained to his perch. Fatigued and cold and hungry as he was, he felt a perverse nostalgia for a life about to end. And next month he would be twenty-eight years old! Youth had slipped away, squandered on a dozen battlefields and a hundred highways.

  He despised brooding. He turned back to his political advisor. “Trolls?”

  “The operative word in your query,” Acopulo said testily, “was ‘more.’ You said, ‘more stories,’ but I think you meant ‘stories of more incidents.’ Am I correct?”

  “Probably I meant both.”

  “Ah. Terminological exactitude is a prerequisite for apperception, as dear old Doctor Sagorn used to say. So you are asking why trolls should be turning to violence now, at this point in time?” The old man was cross that Shandie might have seen something he had not. He was also tired by a hard day, of course, and he was twice Shandie’s age.

  “I am asking why the culprits have not been apprehended.”

  “Yes, that is worrisome, isn’t it?” Even in the deep shadows, the little man was visibly intrigued at so meaty a problem.


  Umpily had been listening but was not much interested. “The Mosweeps are all rain forest, that’s why! I need beer!”

  “If I know Ylo, beer’s on its way,” Shandie said. “They use dogs to hunt down escaped serfs. Abducted agricultural workers, I mean. The army uses dogs.”

  “It fits with the dragons, doesn’t it?” Acopulo said. “If the dogs were finding the serfs, then the perpetrators would have been found also and stopped. But the attacks continue, so the dogs are being blocked. The army’s being blocked and there’s another hole in the Protocol.”

  A white wolf head loomed over the crowd, which parted to emit Ylo and a buxom waitress almost as tall as he and much thicker. Her fists clutched four foaming tankards like small buckets, displaying arm muscles that would not have shamed a troll. She thumped the drinks down on the table, having to stoop to do so without tipping them. Ylo clapped her on the rump like a horse.

  “Four stews and four more steins to follow, Ootha, my love!” He flashed his smile at her. She simpered and pushed off into the crowd, working her elbows vigorously.

  “Ah, what a challenge that would be!” he said longingly, settling down beside the others. “A wild mare!”

  “How can you even think of such things?” Umpily moaned. His jowls quivered emotionally. “After sixteen hours in the saddle?”

  Ylo wiped froth from his lips, smearing the dried mud around them. He glanced briefly at Shandie to make sure the meeting was informal, then told Umpily, “I’ve thought of nothing else all day, my Lord.”

  “Do you ever?”

  “Only right after.”

  Acopulo seemed to have retreated into thought. Hardgraa and his two henchmen had arrived and commandeered an adjacent table. Ylo was certainly the freshest of them all.

  Shandie sat in limp silence for a while, and his companions took their cue from him. They all knew one another well enough that they did not need to fill every awkward second with conversation. Then…

  “Er, sir?”

  “Yes, Ylo?”

  “I keep wondering… Why you don’t just clear the civilians out and take what you need?”

  “I assume you did that.”

  “I demanded the minimum I thought you might accept. Most legates would have sent me back for seven beds, or even seven rooms.”

  “You underestimate yourself. If you were serving such a man, you would have gotten what he wanted, as you did for me. You judged my wants exactly. One room will do us, because we’re leaving at moonrise. Four hours at the most. We’re also outnumbered twenty to one—why risk a riot?”

  Ylo nodded, but he did not look convinced. Undoubtedly most officers would do as he suggested. Shandie did not want to draw attention to himself, just in case he was recognized. Perhaps Ylo was right and he was making himself more noticeable by being abnormally considerate of the civilians.

  Then the robust Ootha reappeared with four bowls of thick stew, contriving to jostle Ylo as she did so and win another pat. The men rumbled in their pouches for their spoons. The messy stuff was mostly water and vegetables, of course, but better than many such repasts Shandie had known. He made a mental note to congratulate the innkeeper personally.

  Conversation ended completely, but the troll problem remained.

  Warlock Lith’rian had flagrantly violated the Protocol by loosing his dragons to block the army on Nefer Moor; someone was using subtle sorcery to block it in the Mosweeps. Emshandar had refused to let Shandie return by sea, so perhaps he put credence in the persistent rumors of a Nordland fleet shipwrecked on the coast of Zark. Jotnar were the prerogative of the warden of the north. Of course shipwreck was uncertain evidence of sorcery, but it was all beginning to add up.

  Shandie would dearly like to know what game the Four were playing at the moment. His grandfather was the only mundane who might have information on that, and sometimes he did not hear from the wardens for years at a time, or so he claimed. To inherit the throne at a time when the Council of Four was squabbling…

  Ylo had been eating at an incredible rate. He stopped suddenly, with his bowl still half full. “I’m stuffed!”

  Glancing at the others, Shandie saw an amusement he could never quite share. He was a prude, he supposed. “I don’t expect any of us will be done here for at least fifteen minutes.”

  “You will excuse me, then?” Ylo was on his feet and away into the crowd at once.

  “He can’t possibly!” Umpily said, rolling his eyes.

  “Of course he can!” Acopulo snapped. “He set it up. He told the innkeeper that the legate would settle for one room if a woman was provided. The innkeeper would assume that the legate himself… There they go now, up the stairs!” He sounded as outraged as the sort of fussy old priest he so much resembled.

  “I meant fifteen minutes not possibly!” the fat man muttered. He sighed wistfully. “Can he?”

  “Easily. Ylo is my organizer,” Shandie said firmly. “If he couldn’t organize that, I should think less of him, as it obviously matters so much to him.” However much he personally disapproved of the signifer’s promiscuity, he would not tolerate bickering within the group.

  “Lechery will be his downfall!” the political advisor said snappily.

  “Not unless I want it to be!”

  Acopulo muttered a sulky apology and went on with his meal. He had the arrogance of a philosopher. Being convinced he could think better than everybody else, he wanted to do everybody else’s thinking for them. Given the chance, he would guide Shandie to remake the world according to Acopulo’s designs.

  Shandie knew that. He never lacked for willing helpers, but he liked to know their motives.

  To Umpily, power was knowledge and knowledge power. He lacked the will to use it. Power used was power spent—announce an appointment, for example, and you made one friend and a dozen enemies. Unlike Acopulo, Umpily had no reformist agenda. Curiosity satisfied was enough. The fat man was a true imp, now busily finishing Ylo’s meal.

  Hardgraa was motivated by old-fashioned loyalty and honor and patriotism, very unimpish.

  And Ylo? Ylo was motivated by Ylo and only Ylo. Shandie had seen that on the first day, when the lad reeled into his tent, exhausted and out of his mind with battle shock. Offered a chance to escape the living death of the ranks, anyone would have grabbed it without question. But even then Ylo had begun dreaming of his own advancement.

  Shandie had thought to use him, more or less as a signal that he disapproved of injustice. Out of interest, he had scratched and seen the glint of valuable metal. So he had scratched harder and uncovered a huge capacity for work and a superb attention to detail. If Ylo had been proving his worth to clear his family name, then he had succeeded beyond question. He would continue to serve Shandie loyally as long as Shandie would advance him—which was a traditional impish arrangement that worked both ways. It just seemed unfortunate that so likable and talented a man should be so narrow. Ylo cared only for Ylo, as the buxom Ootha was no doubt now discovering.

  And Shandie? What motivated him? His love for Eshiala, of course, but what else? Pride in his inheritance, yes. A dedication to honest, fair government and justice. A sense of duty. A hatred of war… what a dull list! But then he was a dull man, he supposed.

  Thunder seemed to shake the building. The roar of voices faded briefly, frightened horses shrilled in the stable. Gradually the racket picked up again.

  “Moonrise?” Acopulo muttered hopefully. “We shan’t see our horses’ manes before dawn.”

  “It’s only a storm,” Shandie said. “It’ll pass.”

  “Prince Emshandar!” a new voice said and he reached for his sword.

  It was a woman—Shandie relaxed slightly. She faced him, standing directly behind Umpily. She was enveloped in a dark garment, one hem draped over her head as a hood, and in that gloom nothing showed of her face but a glint of eyes. One bare arm protruded, its hand holding the cloak closed at her neck. Her other hand was inside, clasping the cloth tight below the elbow
. The visible arm was old and bony, the skin loose and wrinkled from wrist to elbow. Her fingers were long and knotted with age, yet she stood erect and proud within her shroud of homespun. It seemed to be dry, which was uncanny on such a night. He could tell nothing of what lay within—she might have been clothed in rich silks or utterly naked.

  Conversation buzzed on all around him. Acopulo and Umpily continued eating unaware, and that had to be sorcery.

  “You have the advantage of me, ma’am,”

  “My name would mean nothing to you. Have you heard of Wold Hall?” Her voice was creaky with age and heavily accented, but he could not place it.

  Unheeding, Acopulo finished his sparrow-pecking and pushed his bowl over to Umpily, who began shoveling its contents into his mouth as enthusiastically as a pig at a trough. Shandie’s skin crawled with a sense of the occult. Who? The witch of the west was a troll. This woman was no troll.

  “You are rash to exert your powers around me, ma’am.”

  “I do not fear the wardens.” Her tone implied that she feared something else. “I asked if you knew of Wold Hall?”

  “The name is familiar.”

  “There is a preflecting pool there. It is old and will not work by day, but it should give good counsel in moonlight.”

  He thought her eyes were elvish—large and slanted—but they did not flicker with the opal fires. The skin of her arm and hand was the same leather-brown shade as his own, not the gold of an elf’s. He could not identify her race and that was bothersome. Halfbreeds always favored one parent over the other, yet she was nothing he could identify.

  Already she was turning away, as if her task was done.

  “Wait!” he said. “Tell me more.”

  “Place one foot in the pool,” that curiously alien croak said. “Right foot to see what you should seek; left to see what you must shun.”