A Handful of Men: The Complete Series

by Dave Duncan

  He realized eventually that the distance on the ground was much more than five leagues. The roads were thick with drifts and freezing slush, and they were mostly very dark. He set his teeth and prepared to face the worst night of his life.

  * * *

  Dawn found him close to the Gold Palace, already within the five hills that defined the ancient center of Hub. His toes were frozen, his feet chafed raw by wet boots, his ankles aflame. He wished he could cut off his legs at the knee.

  Rain had started to fall, turning snow to slush and mud.

  The time had come to choose a destination. When he had returned to the capital the previous summer as a widower, he had sold his home and moved into Oak House, residence of the prince imperial. To return there would be to capitulate to Zinixo. He had many acquaintances who would take him in, but none he would trust not to mention his presence. If Legate Ugoatho had been bespelled by the Covin, then the Praetorian Guard was hunting for Lord Umpily, and the Guard had many excellent informers within the aristocracy. It was aristocracy.

  Inevitably, Umpily decided to find himself a rooming house. There were many of those around the palace, patronized by provincial officials when their duties brought them to the capital. Many of them were comfortable, even luxurious. As soon as the sun was up, he chose one with a vacancy sign in a window, and invented a vague story about luggage delayed by the snow. He had gold, and gold solved all problems.

  He ate a large breakfast of roast venison and brussels sprouts followed by rolls and honey, and felt better.

  Common sense said that he should now catch up on his sleep. By evening, the events in the Rotunda would be general knowledge, and he would be able to find out everything he wanted in the nearest saloon. Common sense said that to enter the Rotunda would be disaster.

  The magic scroll remained unchanged. Shandie had not yet read the message. That was unfortunate, for he might guess what his agent in Hub was planning and forbid him to take such an absurd risk. Umpily would welcome those orders!

  Yet he was an imp — left to himself, he could not bear to stay away.

  His first requirement was a toga, and that was not hard to find. A couple of bed sheets might have sufficed, but his new landlady was impressed to learn that her boarder was invited to the enthronement, and she had a nephew in the drapery business. Fortunately, Umpily had practiced with his valet only a few days before. He was confident he could wrap himself adequately.

  With the capital in its present turmoil, transportation proved harder to arrange. Again his landlady proved resourceful, although the fee quoted would have purchased the vehicle and its horses outright in normal times, and probably the coachman as well, at least for a night or two. Another nephew, probably.

  And then it was late arriving. Having had no chance to rest at all, Umpily found himself swathed in fine white flannel, sitting on the edge of his bed, eating a few precautionary ham and cheese sandwiches with a dry mouth. He was shaking, but how much from fatigue and how much from terror he could not tell. He was a listener, a talker — not a man of action! He had never considered himself a coward, merely cautious, but he had few illusions about being a hero. No matter how often he reassured himself that all eyes would be on the performers and none on the audience, he did not believe a word of it. Some of those Praetorians had eyes in the back of their helmets. Sorcerers could see around corners.

  But he was too much an imp to stay away.

  Then his jumpy gaze lighted on the magic scroll, lying where he had put it on the mantel. He rose and shuffled across the room in his ill-fitting ornamental sandals. The vellum bore a note in Shandie’s writing: Am advised that imposture more probable than illusion. Your information invaluable. Take no unnecessary risks. E.

  Hooves splashed in the street outside the window, wheels rumbled. The rain was growing heavier.

  Should he take the scroll with him or not? If he was apprehended, he might still have time to dash off a warning note. On the other hand, Raspnex had warned him that a sorcerer would see the spell on it. Discretion prevailed. In a shaky hand, Umpily wrote. Going to attend enthronement. Will leave this behind. He tucked the scroll under his pillow and went out to the coach.

  The landlady and her household had assembled to applaud their distinguished guest. With one aim and both shins bare, he felt completely ridiculous. Shandie, he remembered, hated togas with a passion, and now he saw why.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, his undistinguished common cab came to a halt at the end of a long line of splendid carriages waiting to enter the palace gates. The coachman tapped on the hatch. “What name, my lord?”

  Only then did Umpily realize that he would not be admitted to the Rotunda without an invitation. He was completely unqualified for such deceitful business. A real spy would have foreseen this! Panic stabbed in his bowels like a sword.

  “Praetor Umphagalo.” That was the name he had given at the rooming house, the name of a minor official he had met once in Pithmot. It satisfied the driver, who closed the hatch again, but it would not convince the guards without some credentials to back it up.

  Sweating, Umpily peered out the window. Already his cab was solidly locked in by others, and to order the driver to break out of line and head home for a forgotten invitation would attract attention and probably investigation — there were scores of guards standing around with nothing much to do.

  Right ahead of him, though, was a splendid eight-horse equipage with outriders, ducal insignia, and a senatorial pennant. He knew every duke in Hub, more or less. With the speed of desperation, Umpily opened the door and stumbled down into ankle-deep slush, almost falling in his haste. Pausing only to thrust a gold imperial at his astonished driver, he splashed forward to the grand carriage, dodged past a surprised outrider, and rapped on the door.

  “Lady Humilio!” he cried to the astonished face at the window. “Now my day is made! You don’t mind if I join you?”

  The occupants of the carriage certainly must mind, for they were already packed in like eels in a jug, but they were too polite to say so. There were six of them in there already, including the ancient Senator Oupshiny, whose equipage it was. Muttering greetings and confusing explanations, Umpily squeezed his bulk inside.

  No guard would question a senatorial carriage.

  “My lady!” Umpily chirruped, leaning against the door and trying not to sweat. “You look bewitching in that chiton. My lord! And your Eminence, you are well?” Old Oupshiny, of course, although he was older than the Inspire, was married to the impress’s sexy sister. “Your dear wife? She will be one of the participants, of course?” It was odd that Ashia was not present, though, or that the old relic wasn’t with her…

  “Eh?” the old man shouted, reddening. “Wife?”

  Ripples of shock seemed to shake the carriage. After a lifetime in society, Umpily knew a major blunder when he saw one — or made one, although that was extremely rare. Not having a clue what was wrong, he changed the subject at once, squeezing a corner of his bulk onto the tiny space that had been reluctantly cleared for him. “I should be quite happy to stand, my lord, thank you, except that I have contracted a swelling of the ankles, as you may notice. The doctors suspect inadequate nutrition due to —”

  “Wife?” a couple of voices muttered. The carriage lurched forward and stopped again.

  “Thought you’d been posted to Guwush, eh?” the old senator bellowed.

  “Guwush, your Eminence?”

  “That’s what we heard, wasn’t it, Utha?”

  “It was indeed. Secret mission for Sh— for his Majesty.”

  “Just a blind,” Umpily said cheerfully. His head was starting to spin. He had only been gone two days…

  “And what can you tell us about the prince?” Lady Humilio whispered conspiratorially.

  “Prince?”

  “His cousin! They quarreled? I mean, why else would Emthoro have rushed off to Leesoft even before the funeral?”

  Umpily flapped his m
outh like a landed fish. “I really mustn’t betray confidences, my lady…”

  “What were you yattering about my wife?” demanded the senator. “Can’t believe you’d even remember her.”

  “You misheard me, Eminence!” God of Liars assist me! “Not your wife…” He began to babble.

  The carriage lurched forward and stopped again.

  * * *

  When the distinguished party reached the door of the Rotunda, Umpily descended first and handed down the ladies. He helpfully collected all the invitations and passed them over in a wad. He gave Lady Humilio his arm as they paraded along the corridor. When they reached the crowded clamor of the Rotunda itself, he excused himself with vague explanations that of course he must find his proper place in the ceremony. He squirmed away through the throng. The hall was already packed, and yet still cold as a root cellar. No one else there was sweating as he was.

  The huge round hall was mercifully dim, most of the great dome still cloaked with snow. He tried not to remember that sorcerers could see in the dark as well as in sunlight. A few of the crystal panes were clear, and icicles hung perilously from the fretted stone ribs, dripping water onto the seated throng. Once in a while one would fell and shatter on the floor. Nearby onlookers would laugh nervously.

  Umpily bustled around to the southeast quadrant where he would have a good view of the throne. He picked out a couple of ancient earls, persuading them that his allotted seat was right between them. They both knew him by sight, and they were both too deaf to attempt much conversation. Soon he was so packed in by the crowd that he did not think even Zinixo himself could extract him. Safety in numbers… His terror began to subside a little.

  The Opal Throne was turned to the south, facing the Blue Throne, so this was —

  Five thrones?

  Five thrones!

  Umpily had witnessed four of those thrones being blasted to rubble by the warden of the north. Now they were restored completely, exactly as before. He shivered so hard that one of his neighbors demanded to know what was wrong.

  Nothing was wrong. That was the problem.

  * * *

  The guests crammed in until there was no room to breathe, and still they kept coming. Gradually their body heat began to warm the Rotunda, and icicles crashed down more frequently. Some provoked ominous cries of pain, but the press was too great for the casualties to be removed. Only the circular space in the center stayed clear.

  An hour or more drifted by. Umpily felt sick and faint with apprehension. Then a trumpet blared a fanfare, and the congregation struggled to its feet. The participants came marching in from the north door, dividing into two lines as they paraded around.

  Shandie!

  Yes, it was Shandie, in a purple toga. For the coronation he would arrive in plain white and don the purple as part of the ritual, but today he wore purple. It was Shandie to the life, a nondescript imp with a spotty complexion.

  Eshiala! Gorgeous in her purple chiton, leading the far line…

  Shandie hated togas, Umpily remembered. He had sworn he would wear uniform instead. And had Eshiala ever smiled with such confidence?

  Umpily sat down slightly ahead of the elderly earls, gaining a little more of the bench than he had held before. His brain was gyrating wildly. It couldn’t be Shandie. It certainly was Shandie. Every mannerism. After all these years, he could not be mistaken.

  It couldn’t be. Shandie was somewhere on a ferryboat, or perhaps already in his chosen bolthole on the far side of Cenmere. Or was this the real imperor, and that whole, horrible adventure had been a hallucination? That was much more likely.

  Worse — when the new imperor stood by the throne and raised Emine’s ancient sword to strike the buckler. Warlock Lith’rian materialized on the Blue Throne to acknowledge him with a cryptic elvish smile. Then the troll, witch of the west. Then north — Raspnex! There was the dwarf himself, squat and bearded in a white toga, his bare arm thick as something hanging in a butcher’s.

  Nothing was wrong.

  Umpily wrestled with physical nausea. Had he been deceived? Had those mad adventures with dwarves and fauns all been illusion? Surely it was easier to believe that than to assume that all this was faked?

  There was nothing wrong. Everything was going just as it had been described in the briefings and rehearsals… except that Prince Emthoro was missing. And Duchess Ashia, the impress’s sister, was missing also.

  And so was he. Peering carefully through the gloom, he established beyond doubt that the group to which he had been assigned in the rehearsals did not contain a bogus Lord Umpily.

  He couldn’t be there, of course.

  He was in Guwush.

  True avouch:

  barnardo

  How now, Horatio! you tremble and look pale.

  Is not this something more than fantasy?

  What think you on’t?

  horatio

  Before my God, I might not this believe

  Without the sensible and true avouch

  Of mine own eyes.

  Shakespeare, Hamlet, I, I

  FIVE

  Stormy clouds

  1

  “Uomaya?” Shandie said. “I don’t think my mother would have appreciated having her name put on this old tub.”

  She certainly would not have approved of her imperial son being an outlaw within his own impire, either, but the situation presented opportunities —

  “Very appropriate, I’d have thought,” Ylo said airily.

  The imperor shot him a disbelieving glare, then nodded reluctantly. “That’s good! Keep it up. And I’ll try to respond. I haven’t ever had much experience at banter, though.” He sounded almost wistful.

  It would do no harm to learn, maybe. Baiting Shandie would be an unfamiliar amusement — how far dare Ylo take it?

  “I have an imperial edict on that? An unlimited, open-ended pardon for all sedition, misprision, and lese majesty?”

  Shandie’s smile was ominous. “Revocable retroactively.”

  “That’s not bad for starters,” Ylo admitted.

  They huddled together on the upwind side of a very smelly fishing boat. The lout at the rudder would not be able to hear, and did not look intelligent enough to understand anything anyway. The rest of the crew — both of them — were inside the tiny cabin and out of sight. Probably they were disputing how they would divvy up the largesse brought by these unexpected passengers.

  Emshandar’s death had almost shut down the fishing business, although the storm had probably helped. White Impress had fared far to the west and used up a whole day in search of smaller craft to carry the outlaws on the next leg of their insane quest. Acopulo had gone first; then the king of Krasnegar and the inexplicable Master Thinal. Now she had released the last of her fledglings and vanished into the mist, bearing warlock and sorceress away to whatever mysterious business they had planned but would not discuss.

  Yesterday’s rain showed no signs of diminishing; indeed the weather was going from horrible to ghastly. The clothes King Rap had provided included warm cloaks, but they would not keep out the bone-chilling damp. Ylo was trying not to shiver.

  Shandie was visibly edgy, which was very unusual for him. Now he was obviously trying to make cheerful conversation. Last night’s message from Umpily had depressed everyone, even the sorcerers, and the news that an imposter had been chief mourner at his grandfather’s funeral must have been an especial blow to the rightful imperor.

  Ylo, by contrast, was starting to feel quite cheerful — or he had been until he noticed the motion of the boat and the stink of the fish barrels. For the first time in months, even years, he need not worry about paper piling up on his desk every time he went outside to breathe fresh air. A couple of carefree weeks in the saddle might be a very pleasant vacation, he had decided. The sooner the better.

  Cheerful conversation, then… “To be honest,” he said, “I find I am looking back on White Impress with nostalgia, sire.”

  “Me,
too. But you must stop giving me titles. We need new identities. Who am I?”

  Ylo had foreseen this. “You’re certainly not a farmer or a weaver. Your haircut’s military and your talk aristocrat. You’re tribune of the first cohort, XIVth Legion.”

  “Why aren’t I in Qoble, then?”

  “Dispensational leave. Your father was created marquis of Mosrace last summer. You’re going there for a family Winterfest.”

  “Good. And you?”

  “I’d better be your brother, so we can use the same excuse.”

  “Why aren’t we traveling on the highway?”

  “Well, if anyone dares ask us, we’re detouring to visit old friends.”

  “That’s not bad at all! Outlawry has not spoiled your ability to be a resourceful aide.”

  Ylo ignored that obvious flattery. “I’m your signifer. We’re both bachelors.”

  “Yes, that’s very good! Our names?”

  “Er… Yyan and Yshan.”

  Shandie adjusted his hood and peered hard at Ylo through the drizzle. No one had ever accused him of being stupid, except possibly where women were concerned. “Your brothers?”

  “Yes, your… Yes, Yshan.”

  For a moment the imperor studied Ylo’s face as if he had not done so for a while, and wanted to renew his memories of it. Then he nodded sadly. “Yshan, then! I’ll take that name as an honor.”

  “He would have been very proud to lend it to you.” Then Ylo wondered if that was true — Yshan had been one of the last of the family to die, and even his patriotic fervor must have flagged a little near the end. There were reliable reports that he had been racked.

  Shandie said nothing more for a while. Perhaps he knew the truth behind the gruesome stories.