A Handful of Men: The Complete Series

by Dave Duncan

  The burning black gaze moved slowly around the group. Again the men bowed or saluted and Lady Eigaze curtseyed. No one spoke.

  “Thank you,” Shandie said. “Thank you all. Now we must decide whether we should take Raspnex’s advice. My wife and child, obviously, must be moved to safety. I don’t think that is an option for myself at the moment, so soon after my accession. I am disinclined to run from an unknown danger, anyway.”

  “Highn… Your Majesty?” Umpily was looking more upset than anyone. At Shandie’s inquiring glance he blurted out what he had told Ylo earlier: “I did see a vision in the pool, Sire! I saw a dwarf sitting on the… on your throne! Not the warlock. A man I have never met, but certainly a dwarf.”

  Fury flickered in Shandie’s eyes, but his voice came out very low. “Why didn’t you say so sooner?”

  “I didn’t believe my eyes. Or the pool. I thought it must be malfunctioning!”

  “You’re a fool!”

  Umpily cringed and hung his head.

  “The pool is beginning to seem very critical,” Shandie said. “I wish I could test its reliability. Ylo, you were shown a beautiful woman. Does she exist? Have you met her yet?”

  “I have seen her, Sire. She exists.” Ylo met the imperial stare without flinching. He did not look at anyone else—especially not at Umpily, or… or the impress. Gods!

  “That is encouraging,” the imperor said stonily. “Acopulo, you saw an image of the celebrated Doctor Sagorn.”

  The little man frowned like a benevolent priest trying to cope with a dire sin. “I did make some inquiries, Sire, and apparently the sage is still alive, incredible though that seems. I was even told his address, but when I went calling I was refused admission or information.”

  “When was that?” Shandie barked.

  Acopulo flinched. “A week or so after our return to Hub.”

  “And you have not tried again?”

  “No, Sire. Pressure of business put it out of my mind.”

  “I seem to be surrounded by professional cretins! Who did you speak to?”

  “An enormous jotunn, Sire, of forbidding aspect. Surly… and very intimidating.”

  “I can be more intimidating! Lady Eigaze, you know what we are discussing?”

  The countess was attempting to make friends with Maya, who was clinging tightly to her mother, burying her face in the black gown and not responding.

  Eigaze turned at once to the imperor. “I have no idea, your Majesty, but young… your signifer mentioned that you were interested in the town shown in this painting.”

  “I am. Several of us visited a magic pool and were granted visions. Mine was of that place. Where is it?”

  “Krasnegar, Sire. A remote little —“

  Shandie rarely gestured at all, but now he slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand like a third-rate actor demonstrating inspiration. “Krasnegar! Of course! Why didn’t I think of that!”

  He thumped his thigh with his fist. “Idiot!” he muttered. “I apologize for calling you gentlemen names. I have been moronically stupid myself. And of course you are related to Queen Inos, ma’am?”

  “Distantly, Sire, but yes. She saw this painting when she was here and pointed it out to me. Jalon apparently knows the place. He must have put it in this picture for artistic effect. I can’t believe the ship had ever been near there.”

  Shandie shook his head, as if still unable to believe his own stupidity. “I saw a youngster, a jotunn boy. I even thought he reminded me of someone—and of course it was Rap himself! It must be his son, I should think. A jotunn son of a faun? Well, it could be. He’s half jotunn himself—I remember him telling me that.”

  “They do have a fair-haired son, Sire, Gathmor. He must be… fourteen, I should think, or thereabouts.”

  “I would have guessed older,” Shandie said, “but jotnar are big, of course.”

  The men were exchanging uneasy, angry glances, all except Ionfeu, who was frowning darkly.

  “May I inquire?” Acopulo asked.

  “Rap the sorcerer!” Shandie snapped. “The faun sorcerer! You remember… twenty years ago? The one who killed Warlock Zinixo and cured my grandfather?”

  Ah! Heads nodded in understanding. Ylo had been about four years old at the time, but he had heard the stories often enough.

  Countess Eigaze was much too much a lady ever to break into a conversation by coughing. She did so by some sort of social sorcery, perhaps a special way of blinking. Suddenly everyone was looking at her. “Begging your pardon, Sire, but his Majesty did not actually kill the warlock.”

  “He didn’t?”

  Her chins wobbled as she shook her head. “The imperor… Inos told me that your grandfather had told her that Master… er, King… Rap had told him that he did not kill the dwarf. But he didn’t say what he had done with him. Or to him.” Hushing, she fell silent as her audience worked their way through the syntax.

  Then everyone looked at Umpily, who had seen a dwarf sitting on the Opal Throne.

  “I never met… saw… Warlock Zinixo,” he mumbled. “So I don’t know.”

  “Well!” Shandie said, as if things were becoming a great deal clearer. “Now we know what the pool was trying to tell us, don’t we?”

  Acopulo scowled as he always did when he could not see an answer. “We do?”

  Shandie smiled thinly. “The sorcerer… He married Inos, so he is a king now. King Rap was very kind to me. I was only ten or so, and I remember thinking that he was the most wonderful man I had ever met. I shall always be grateful to him, for that was the worst time of my life. And he is without doubt the most powerful sorcerer in the world. Grandsire told me once that all four wardens together would not dare a contest with the faun.” He laughed aloud. “I suppose I would have thought of this eventually? Idiot I am! Obviously the preflecting pool was telling me to seek out his aid again! Whatever Warlock Raspnex was jabbering about tonight, the answer is to call on Master… King Rap. That does sound foolish doesn’t it—King Rap? But Rap’s a wonderful man, a kind and honest one. He will help, I’m sure!”

  Legate Ugoatho cleared his throat. “Where is this place? In Sysanasso?”

  “Er, no,” Shandie said vaguely. “In the far north, I believe.”

  “Krasnegar’s somewhere up in goblin country,” Acopulo muttered. “Seems to me that Doctor Sagorn once mentioned having visited it. One of the very few places where imps live outside the Impire. And jotnar, also?”

  “Very far north,” Eigaze agreed. “The land road goes through Pondague, goblin country. It can be reached by sea, though.”

  The Praetorian frowned. “With respect, Sire—you are not considering traveling there yourself?”

  “I may have to!” Shandie was still holding the scroll of vellum. He tapped his other palm with it thoughtfully. “That may be the preflecting pool’s message. Acopulo, I think you should make another effort to locate your old master. He may have valuable advice to offer. Where does he live?”

  “In Hub, Sire. In the southern districts. At least that was the address I was given. Near the Temple of Prosperity.”

  Ylo and Eigaze stared at each other in astonishment, but it was the Impress Eshiala who said, “Not seven, or nine, Acacia Street by any chance?”

  5

  Dark had long fallen when Rap rode through the gates of the Epoxague estate. Inos still exchanged letters with Eigaze—umpteenth cousins too far removed, they called each other. Eigaze was elderly now, but still hale. Even if she was absent at the moment, there would be a dozen other relatives to choose from. Imps were fanatical about family ties.

  Not a light showed, but a sorcerer’s farsight could not be deceived by closed drapes. Moreover, a single set of hoofprints in the snow on the driveway implied that someone had come home within the last hour or so.

  Rap did not bother to hitch his mount, for poor Auntie was as weary as he was. He left her standing while he plodded up the marble steps.

  The tolling bells were a c
onstant torment, like toothache. No wonder the Hubbans were all crazy, if they had to put up with that cacophony very often. One temple was unpleasantly close and its overpowering Bong! rolled over all the background noise with an inevitable monotony. He found himself counting seconds, waiting for it.

  The ubiquitous magical devices continued to crackle quietly in the ambience, and now an occasional flicker of active sorcery had joined them, as if the imperor’s death had released some curse or other. There was still far less occult activity in the capital than normal, but Rap was relieved to detect any at all. At least some of the sorcerers had taken cover; they had not all been killed or abducted.

  He risked a glance at his premonition—and slammed down his defenses again instantly. It was closer, much closer, in both time and space. Now Hub itself was infected by that inexplicable, looming evil. He shuddered with a panicky sense of urgency, inner voices urging him to flee.

  Down in the servants’ quarters, heads had turned as the doorbell jangled among the dozens of bells set high on the kitchen wall. A footman rose resignedly from his dinner and straightened his coat. Rap tugged the rope again angrily, but that foolishness merely made the man slow down, rather than speed up. He strolled leisurely to the stairs, having no idea how near he was to having his powdered wig burst into flames.

  Holding a lantern high, he peered out disapprovingly at the bedraggled, unescorted visitor. By that time Rap had established that Eigaze was not home. Ignoring the multitude of servants, he had counted only three people in the whole great mansion, which seemed very strange so close to Winterfest. The residents were all male. The invalid in the bed must be the ancient senator himself, and he was either asleep or unconscious. Last summer Eigaze’s letter had reported that he was in his dotage and bedridden, but apparently he still clung to life. A very large man was slouched in an armchair in a library, drinking steadily. A younger man lolled in a bathtub upstairs. Rap recognized neither of them.

  “The countess is not at home,” the footman reported.

  “Then tell whoever’s in charge that the king of Krasnegar is here!”

  The door closed with a thud.

  The temple bell went Bong! loudly.

  Fortunately a quick stab of mastery was not a very conspicuous use of sorcery—as a general rule, people could be manipulated much more easily than objects.

  The footman hauled open the door and bowed low. “If your Majesty would graciously care to enter, I shall inform his Honor immediately!”

  Better! A little obsequiousness was just what Rap needed after so long on the road. He stepped inside, pulling off his cloak in a shower of snow. “See that my horse is attended to at once. Who is his Honor, by the way?”

  “Lictor Etiphani, Sire!” The footman’s face did not reveal his disapproval, but it was obvious to a sorcerer.

  Great Gods! Rap watched in disgust as the flunky hurried off to report to the obese lush in the library. Eighteen years ago, Tiffy had been a glamorous, willowy hussar with a notable lack of chin. Now he had a plurality of chins. He peered up blankly at the news of the visitor. Several seconds passed before understanding came and his rubicund face suddenly paled. He had only just struggled out of his chair when Rap was ushered in to drip on the expensive rugs.

  “Your Majesty!” The gross man attempted to bow and staggered instead. He was very tall for an imp—taller even than Rap—and he had inherited his mother’s tendency to stoutness, or absorbed it from bottles, mayhap. “Yes, by the Gods, it is you, isn’t it?”

  Rap had not expected to be recognized, as he had been invisible during most of his stay in Hub, but of course Tiffy must have seen him at the imperor’s ball, the fateful faun sorcerer who had danced with Queen Inosolan all through one magical night. How very long ago that seemed!

  “It is indeed an honor to meet your, er. Honor,” Rap said wearily, extending a royal hand to shake. “And of course I extend my condolences on your sad loss today.”

  Lictor Etiphani was clearly not at his best—sorcerers were rare and unwelcome guests. “Um? Losh? Oh, yes, Emshandar. Evilish pity, of course. Er, do sit down, er, Sire.”

  “Actually, I really need a hot bath and a change of clothes, Tiffy. Excuse the informality, but Inos always calls you that when she speaks of you.”

  Tiffy’s face seemed to swell and become even redder than before. He cleared his throat several times. Bong! went the temple bell, audible even in here. “She still speaks of me?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Oh! And how is Inosh?”

  “She’s very well. Home with the children, of course.”

  “Beautiful woman, er?”

  “Just as gorgeous as ever. And your dear mother?”

  “Mother?” Tiffy glanced longingly at the near-empty decanter beside his chair. “Can’t I at least offer you, er, a drink? Saying farewell to Emshandar, you know, Shire.”

  “After that bath you promised me,” Rap said firmly, “and please call me Rap.” He would be charitable and assume that the drinking had been provoked by the imperor’s death. Not being an imp, he couldn’t appreciate the scale of the bereavement. “Your mother?”

  “Oh, Momshie’s fine. Went to the palace for some sort of ritual, you know. Hours ago. Can’t think what’s keeping her. Terrible business, er, what?”

  The looming premonition at the back of Rap’s mind seemed to twitch closer.

  “What business?”

  “Well… Actually it’s a big secret, you know. Not supposed to…” Tiffy hiccuped. “Wouldn’t know about it at all, except for Ephie. Praetorian Guard. He wash in the Rotunda when it happened.”

  Ephie must be the spotty youth in the bathtub upstairs and also the hoofprints on the driveway, a cousin, perhaps, or a nephew.

  “Sworn to secrecy, you know,” the lictor added. “Warlocks?”

  Sodden clothes and all, Rap sank down in an expensive chintz-covered armchair, which tried to engulf him like a soft bog. He risked another jab of power.

  Tiffy began talking faster than he had ever spoken in his life. “They were rehearsing the enthronement when the news came of the imperor’s death and of course that meant that Shandie I mean Prince Emshandar was imperor right away…” He rattled on furiously about Warlock Raspnex and Witch Grunth and exploding thrones, then collapsed back in his chair like a falling tree. He bounced once and stared in bewilderment at his visitor.

  Bong!

  Rap wiped water from his face while the awful story sank in.

  God of Murder!

  What in the name of Evil was Raspnex doing? Even with Grunth to help him, he should not be able to overcome Lith’rian and Olybino. Why had the other two warlocks not intervened? How many dwarves did it take to overthrow the Protocol?

  Who was on what side?

  And why confirm Shandie as imperor anyway?

  Rap could think of no force capable of subverting the occult order of the world, except perhaps the army of votaries Bright Water had assembled during her centuries of rule. They should have been released from enslavement when she died. That was what normally happened. Had she somehow passed on her great array of power to Raspnex? Why on earth would she?

  Even that theory seemed farfetched, for Olybino and Lith’rian must wield fair-size factions of their own.

  Was Raspnex fronting for his nephew, Zinixo?

  Why, by the Powers, had Rap not come to Hub months ago, when he first heard of the dragon attack in Qoble? God of Fools!

  “Thatsh why you’re here, isn’t it?” Tiffy muttered. “Shorcerer. More trouble, so you’ve come back. Should have realized.”

  “Yes, in a way,” Rap agreed sadly. Where was that amiable young man who had wooed Inos so devotedly? Dead, or just lost somewhere inside the blubbery mass in that chair?

  “You going to shave Sandie, like you saved his grandshire?” Tiffy asked hopefully.

  “Save him from what?” Rap smiled a sorcerer’s sinister smile, and that ended the questioning. He wouldn’t admit to this butter
tub that he did not know who was threatening, or why, or even what. Nor that he was only a shadow of the sorcerer he had once been. Regretfully he said farewell to that vision of hot bathwater and dry clothes. “But I must talk it over with your parents.”

  “Told you, Momsiesh not here!”

  “Her coach is just turning into the driveway. I assume that’s your father with her?”

  An expression of nausea spread over Tiffy’s flabby face. He was not happy in the presence of sorcery.

  Bong!

  Rap watched with farsight as the count and his wife climbed the steps and were admitted. He saw the footman tell of the visitor, saw the exchange of startled glances. Despite her bulk, Eigaze was capable of a fair turn of speed. With her cloak unfastened but not yet discarded, she raced along the hallway, her husband in pursuit.

  She burst into the library. “Rap!”

  Rap was on his feet by then. “Lady Eigaze!” He braced himself as she rushed at him and clasped him in a bearhug as if they were old friends. She bussed his cheek. They had never spoken before, but he was family, Inos’ husband, and to an imp that was sufficient.

  Then she peered up at him, anxiety burning on her motherly, globular face. “A business visit, of course! How is Inos?”

  “Fine when I left. And the children. Yes, a business visit. And I fear I have come too late.”

  Then he had to be introduced to the count, who was also a proconsul now, of course. He was a quiet-spoken, wry-smiling man, with a bad stoop.

  Formalities attended to, Eigaze took charge. “Why, you’re soaked!” Her eyes took in the decanter and her son’s unfocused condition. She bristled. “Tiffy, you idiot, didn’t you even have the common courtesy to —“

  “I just got here, ma’am,” Rap said hurriedly. “Tiffy was telling me about the events in the Rotunda. You were present, I assume?”

  “It was ghastly! How did… Oh, Ephie, of course! Then you know about Warlock Raspnex and what he told Shandie?”

  “I believe so.”

  She shook her head, dewlaps wobbling. “Well, it’s wonderful that you’re here. Shandie… I must stop calling him that! The imperor had pretty well decided to go to Krasnegar, but now you’ve come, so he needn’t, and that’s just wonderful!”