by Dave Duncan
“As I recall Raspnex,” Rap said, “he sounds like a major rock slide at close quarters. Would you permit me to jog your memory?”
He saw the horrified expression that darkness was supposed to hide, but the old count’s voice was quite steady as he said, “By all means do so, Sire.”
The amount of power needed was infinitesimal, little more than the charm dispensed by a fairground hypnotist. Minds were easy to influence.
“Good Gods!” the count said. “I… Bless my soul! Er… Would you consider quoting me a price on reviving the rest of my memories, also, your Majesty?”
“I’m not sure you’d thank me. Everything might be a little too much.”
“Yes… I see the danger.” Still blinking, Ionfeu chuckled uneasily and again tried to make himself more comfortable on the bench. “What Warlock Raspnex said before he vanished was, ‘Now flee, Emshandar! Take your wife and your child and begone, for the city is no longer safe for you. The Protocol is overthrown, and Chaos rules the world!’ That’s it exactly!”
His wife smiled uncertainly at him and fumbled for his hand to squeeze. “And then the four thrones all exploded as if they’d been hit by thunderbolts,” she said, “simultaneously! Whatever message that was supposed to convey, I do feel it was expressed with rather vulgar intensity.”
“Thank you,” Rap said grimly, although he had learned little new. Without the Protocol to control the political use of sorcery, the world would become a place of nightmare and horror.
The carriage rumbled to a halt alongside the others. A bronze-clad arm reached up to open the door.
2
The willow Hussars in their dandified uniforms stood smartly at attention, but a sorcerer could sense their aura of sulky disapproval. Even more then the foul weather and slummy neighborhood, they resented being under the command of a non-Praetorian. Centurion Hardgraa’s shiny bronze breastplate bore the lion insignia of the XIIth Legion. That had been old Emshandar’s outfit and young Shandie’s, also.
The centurion was a gnarled hulk of a man, who glared with dark suspicion at the stranger. His nose had been broken at least once, and the thick torso under his armor bore many old scars. When Rap was introduced, however, his ugly face at once broke into a wide grin. He saluted sharply. Apparently he had brains to go with his bulk, as was to be expected of a prince’s bodyguard.
“The imperor will be delighted to learn of your arrival, your Majesty,” he rumbled.
“And I shall be happy to renew our acquaintance, Centurion. No, forget the pomp; just lead the way.”
Radiating approval of this practical approach, Hardgraa offered the countess an arm to steady her on the snow-laden steps. The newcomers climbed to the front door. Rap could sense the occupants of all the adjoining houses and even those across the street — most of them now abed, some still sitting around, mourning — but the Sagorn residence was masked from him by its shielding.
The narrow street was cramped into a gorge by continuous façades of buildings, whose regularly spaced doors and windows implied that the interiors were more or less identical. This was far from the case, however. Sagorn’s dwelling had been extended in all directions at some remote time in the past, stealing rooms and corridors from all its neighbors, so that now it was a complex labyrinth on many levels, a maze of stairways and corridors and oddly shaped rooms. It had entrances on other roads, also.
Halfway up the steps, Rap risked a brief glance at the future. The impact was so intense that he doubled over and almost fell. He slammed his defenses shut again, appalled at the scale of the looming disaster. The distant evil he had sensed for weeks had now infested the city. It was everywhere — perhaps that had been the rumbling of sorcery he had detected earlier. Despair screamed at him that there was no way to resist the tides of history. Every nerve twitched with the need to flee, although he knew of nowhere safe to hide. For a moment he shivered in near panic.
He thought of Inos, and the children, and Krasnegar, calling up their likenesses in his mind’s eye. He thought of the God’s censure, and warnings. If he was somehow responsible for this impending catastrophe, then he had a duty to fight it, however hopeless the struggle might seem.
He squared his shoulders and continued on up to the door.
Still shaky, he passed through the shielding. The outside world vanished from his farsight, and he saw only the convoluted interior of the warren itself. The present occupants were all huddled into a room on the floor above, and the rest was deserted.
As he followed his companions up a narrow, creaking staircase, he noted that the place was in no better shape than it had been eighteen years before. If anything, it was even shabbier and more untidy. Each of the five bachelors who inhabited it in turn seemed content to leave housework to the others.
Still, the security of occult shielding gave him a great feeling of relief and safety. For the first time in weeks he could relax the rigid control he had been holding over his powers. Just for starters, he banished his own physical weariness, and then he unobtrusively eased the painful inflammation in the backbone of the old count climbing slowly ahead of him. Sorcery brought ethical burdens, but it could also be a blessing.
He heard himself being announced as he followed the others into the crowded room. It was a pigsty of a place, stuffy and dimly lit by wavering candles, and there were only three chairs for, now, eleven occupants. The window was tightly shuttered, the grate heaped with litter.
He had no trouble recognizing the imperor, although he was merely a young man in doublet and cloak, with nothing remarkable about his appearance. Physically, the puny little boy had grown into a nondescript adult, cursed with unsightly acne like so many male imps. Royal responsibilities had expanded his psyche, though. A sorcerer could pick him out immediately as a man worthy of notice, one who burned brighter. He was staring at Rap with his mind racing, weighing risks and probabilities and possible deceptions.
“Rap!” he whispered. “Really Rap?”
Rap said, “My, Shandie, but you’ve grown! I’ll bet you can’t wriggle through that transom into the Imperial Library anymore.”
“Ah, Rap!” The imperor strode forward and enveloped his old friend in an embrace of welcome.
Yes, this was a worthy young ruler and trained warrior — he was cautious, yet he could make fast decisions. Even as a child, he had possessed charm. Rap was reassured. If he could like the new imperor as a person, that would make cooperation easier in whatever trouble was brewing.
On the other hand, by remaining in his capital, Shandie was ignoring the warnings of a warlock, and that was plain pigheadedness, whatever Raspnex’s motives had been. Rap would have to pound some common sense into the imperial skull, and quickly. He had no mundane authority to wield. He detested the thought of using sorcery to impose his will on other people, although in this case the stakes might be high enough to justify even that obscenity.
Little Princess Uomaya was asleep in her mother’s lap. Impress Eshiala did not attempt to rise; regarding the newcomer gravely, she held up fingers to be kissed. She was very young, breathtakingly beautiful, and terrified out of her wits. She was concealing that fact totally from everyone else.
Rap bowed, kissed, murmured polite greetings. Did Shandie not realize that his lovely wife was teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown? Gods! Who would want to be a sorcerer? Whatever evil was rending her was more than the handiwork of a single stressful day, though, and it would have to wait.
There was something oddly familiar about her face. Perhaps it was just the perfection of classical beauty, and yet Rap had a strange hunch that he had seen her before somewhere. She had certainly never visited Krasnegar. Kinvale, perhaps? She was not the sort of woman a man would forget meeting.
He turned to greet Sagorn. In a room full of imps, the old jotunn towered like a spruce tree in a bramble patch, a head taller than anyone else. His rugged face was winter pale and twisted in a familiar sardonic sneer, ice-blue eyes glinting below an incongru
ous dusty skullcap that sat awry on his thin silver hair. The deep clefts framing his mouth were as marked as ever. His robe was shabby and in need of a wash; he wore nothing under it. He seemed no older than Rap remembered, but that would be because Rap’s own sorcery had put much of the last eighteen years out of his reach.
Shandie’s associates were waiting. The strengths and weaknesses of the new imperor’s most trusted confidants would reveal much about his judgment and ability. The first was a well-dressed fat man, beaming nervously at the renowned sorcerer. Instead of presenting him, Shandie began to pontificate about returning to the palace.
Not likely! Not only might that move be suicidally dangerous, but it would envelop them all in a swamp of courtly pomp and protocol, and Rap had no intention of enduring any of that rigmarole. Granted, Shandie had been born to the purple, and the king of Krasnegar was only an erstwhile stableboy with a knack for magic, but even with his sorcerous abilities pruned to a stump of what they once had been, in the present circumstances he must still be the senior partner. He would have to convince Shandie of that as soon as possible.
“This is an excellent place for a confidential meeting,” Rap said firmly. “The building is shielded against sorcery. It is one of the most private locales in the city, and I vouch for Doctor Sagorn’s discretion.” He noticed the old jotunn’s frosty eyebrows shoot upward at that remark. “No, let us discuss the problem here before we go anywhere else.”
The imperor glowered. “Very well. However, we may not need quite so large an audience.”
The fat man’s face sagged like warm butter. Rap was amused at that telltale reaction — and still determined to have his own way. He thrust out a hand. “My name’s Rap.”
Shandie capitulated. “I have the honor,” he said icily, “to present Lord Umpily, our chief of protocol.”
Umpily beamed, agog with excitement at these untoward events. Imps were notoriously inquisitive people, but he clearly had the trait in excess. Whatever his official title, he was more likely Shandie’s chief of intelligence, the imperial gossipmonger.
“Sir Acopulo, political advisor…” The next aide was a diminutive, wizened man with a priestly air to him. His eyes were as bright as a bird’s. Sensing a sharp mind there, Rap tentatively assessed him as the strategist of the group.
Then came a strikingly handsome youngster in armor, bedecked with a signifer’s wolfskin cape. His grip was firm, his manner confident, his smile faultless. Rap chided himself for being prejudiced — good looks were not necessarily a drawback in a man, and Signifer Ylo was entitled to his self-esteem if he was at once a military hero, the sole survivor of his clan, and a trusted confidant of the new imperor. Face and physique had not won him all that.
As he turned away, idly wondering how the unscrupulously handsome Andor was wearing his years now, Rap detected a sudden wash of fright. The youngster’s cheerful smirk hardly wavered, yet something close to guilt had flared up in Signifer Ylo, some remembered secret he did not want to reveal to a sorcerer. His heart was thumping at twice its former beat.
For a moment Rap was sorely tempted to pry… Ethics! he reminded himself. To dig into another man’s thoughts was a despicable abuse of power.
And that, evidently, had completed the introductions, for he had reached Centurion Hardgraa, picketing the door like a granite monolith. Hardgraa he had already met.
Eight men, two women, and a sleeping child.
Time to get down to business.
Time to deliver the useless warning be had brought too late.
The doughty Countess Eigaze was still standing, and that would not do. “Do be seated, my lady,” Rap said. Ignoring more imperial frowns from Shandie, he arranged the company, with the women and old Sagorn on the seats.
The imperor settled on the arm of his wife’s chair. His manner was chilly, but he was tolerating the upstart, although he must know that Rap was baiting him a little. Would he be willing to listen to reason, or would he flare into an autocratic rage? He had already flouted a warlock’s warnings, so what argument would convince an accomplished warrior that he must flee from his city immediately? How could anyone persuade a newly succeeded monarch to give up his throne and run?
Rap leaned back against the fireplace and surveyed the room. They were wary, all of them. Now what?
“I bring no good tidings,” be said. But that was not quite true, for things could be worse. “The only cheerful news I can give you is that I detect no magic on any of you — no loyalty spells or occult glamours or any abominations like that. I can’t be quite certain, because a better sorcerer could deceive me.”
“You are modest, your Majesty,” Sagorn said acidly.
“No, Doctor. I admit that I had great powers once, but not now. I’m not going to try to explain that at the moment. Perhaps never.” Seeing that the old jotunn did not believe him, Rap turned back to the imperor. “I shall do what little I can, Shandie, but magically it will be very small. If you are expecting me to solve things, then you will be disappointed.”
“I see,” the imperor said. He was not convinced either, although he was trying to hide his doubts. He did indeed expect Rap to solve things.
Well, Rap was not going to use sorcery to persuade them. “I do not even know the name or nature of the enemy. Does anyone?”
“Sir Acopulo?” Shandie said. “You are our advisor in such matters.”
“Speculation upon insufficient data is invariably hazardous. As a working hypothesis…” The little man looked like a priest, but he sounded more like a schoolmaster. His ideas of warden behavior seemed improbable even to Rap, whose experience of the Four would let him believe almost anything of them. Sagorn was making no attempt to conceal his mounting skepticism, and eventually his disdainful sneer registered on Acopulo.
“It fits the facts!” he snapped, glaring.
Shandie asked for a second opinion, and the jotunn went on the offensive.
“It fits a judicious selection of the facts, Sire. As a student, Acopulo was always selective in his use of evidence, and I see he has not changed. The last news we had of the wardens, Lith’rian was hurling his dragons at Olybino’s legions. They were at each other’s throats! Now we are to regard them as allies?”
Scholarship was an uncommon calling for jotnar. Sagorn was an unusual jotunn, but not so unusual that he lacked belligerence, and now he was obviously intent on exterminating the unfortunate imp with traditional ruthlessness. The tongue was mightier than the ax, that was all.
Little Acopulo bristled. “That is your only objection?”
“It is the least of them.” Sagorn sneered. “Granted that the Four often squabble, you have failed to explain why this disagreement is so much more virulent than all others in three thousand years — so dire that it required desecration of the Rotunda. You did not explain the dwarf’s prophecies and warnings. You did not explain why King Rap has come from Krasnegar. And you have most certainly failed to explain why, after a thousand years of extinction, a pixie should reappear now, and to his Majesty.”
“Pixie?” Rap exclaimed. Shandie had met a pixie?
“A possible pixie,” the imperor said, smiling at a sorcerer’s surprise. “On my way back to Hub, I broke my journey at a post inn in the Wold Hills. An ancient crone appeared to me, but not to my companions. From my description, Doctor Sagorn believes that she may have been a pixie.”
Rap shot a glance at the old rascal and saw glitters of satisfaction in the faded blue eyes. Sagorn would not have admitted how much he had been guessing. His knowledge of pixies was probably limited to what Kadolan had told him in a conversation on board Unvanquished, beating up the coast of Zark one blustery morning eighteen years ago — Rap himself had been down in the hold with the ship’s gnome, but eavesdropping nonetheless. Inos and her aunt had narrowly escaped being murdered in Thume, and it was odd that… Holy Balance!
Relying on the shielding to keep out the overweening world disaster, Rap risked a peek with premonition — ye
s, he was on to something. Inos had mentioned her adventures in Thume a few times, but he had never paid much attention. How odd! He had never visited Thume on his solitary sorcerous travels.
He had never really thought about Thume at all!
Perhaps he could only keep it in mind now because he was inside a shielded building. Obviously the defenses were enormously powerful, and perhaps even selectively aimed at sorcerers. Remembering the amount of power he had needed to renew the inattention spell on tiny Krasnegar, he was appalled at what would be required to cover a land as large as Thume.
No inattention spell would endure a thousand years without renewal!
Shandie was still relating how he had gone to Wold Hall and consulted the preflecting pool. Rap had heard most of the story from Ionfeu and Eigaze: Lord Umpily had seen a dwarf sitting on the Opal Throne itself; Acopulo had seen Sagorn, which was why the imperor was here now; young Ylo…
Young Ylo was starting to sweat again, his face locked in a meaningless smile. Obviously Signifer Ylo knew some curious secrets, although this might be the same one that had upset him earlier. Young Ylo had seen a vision of a beautiful woman.
Impress Eshiala was clenching mental teeth, also… Oh?
Who would ever be a sorcerer?
They were both young. She was a beautiful princess, he was a handsome hero — there was only one secret they might share. Rap sighed and put the matter out of his mind. He couldn’t solve all the problems of the world, and he certainly was not going to pry into this one with Shandie present.
The imperor had ended his tale. “So I think I saw your son,” he added. “I feel that I should apologize, somehow, but of course it was by no choice of mine.”
“You did see Gath,” Rap admitted, “and he saw you! It may even have been the same night, but it doesn’t matter whether it was or not. He had a brief vision of a soldier; we didn’t realize it was you until about a month ago, or I would have come sooner. I fear I should have come a year ago, for I was warned then that the end of the millennium was brewing trouble.”