by Dave Duncan
Efflio could do nothing about his wheezing, but he did not intend to tolerate the ill manners of a pair of common porters. He had been taken unaware the first time the queen had sent a carrying chair for him; he had thus had to endure the effects of what jotnar regarded as a sense of humor all the way to the castle. He had been jeered at and insulted; he had been rocked and bounced to establish whether he was prone to seasickness; he had been stranded at a saloon halfway up a steep staircase until he agreed to buy a round of beer.
That had been the first time. Since then he had traveled with more dignity. He had a lifetime of experience in handling jotunn louts. Young ones were easy, no matter how big they were.
“There’s been a mistake,” he said, and held out his cup to Mistress Sparro for a refill.
“Huh?” Silver said.
“I am expected at the palace shortly. Major Domo Ylinyli was supposed to send a sedan chair and two men. There has been an error, obviously.”
“What’djer mean?” Red demanded.
“Men. Not boys.”
With no visible effort, Silver took the front of Efflio’s doublet in one hand and lifted him to his feet. “Don’t get smart, Fatso!”
“Somebody should.” Efflio sat down again. “We agreed we needed men and he sends boys. We agreed we needed imps and he sends jotnar. Oh well, the queen can manage without me, I’m sure.”
“Another muffin, Captain?” Mistress Sparro said calmly, offering the plate.
“Imps?” Silver said, looking bewildered. “What’ju want imps for?”
Efflio paused with his hand poised over the muffins. “So I can get there before midsummer.” He looked up in exasperation. “Off with you both! Tell Ylinyli to be more careful next time, and close the door quietly.”
“We was told to carry you to the palace!” Red said stubbornly. “Silver penny apiece.”
“You couldn’t.” Efflio sighed. He leaned back and stared up at the two giants — Silver’s woolen cap was actually touching the ceiling. “Listen, sonny! In the Impire there are lots of sedan chairs, see? They’re all over the place in the cities, and they are always carried by imps! Imps can run, you see. Jotnar don’t have the wind for it.”
Silver said, “Wotchermean, wind?”
Red said “Run?” with a hint of caution — that one might discover he had a spark of intelligence if he wasn’t careful.
Efflio took a sip of tea. “I mean that a couple of impish bearers from Hub, say, or Shaldokan, would run that chair back up to the castle in a few minutes. You northerners make good sailors, and I agree you’ve got muscles to spare, but you don’t have the wind that imps have. Not for running with a burden. It’s a knack. I don’t plan to spend all day in a carrying chair while you two lumbering hulks stagger around. Tell Ylinyli I stayed home.” Wheezing contentedly, he took another muffin.
Red was suspicious. “Vark and Zug never said nothing about running!”
Efflio had no idea which pair they had been. He laughed. “Of course not! They wouldn’t!” He smirked at Mistress Sparro. “Remember me telling you? The jotnar who tried to run?”
“Oh, yes!” Mistress Sparro sniggered. “Was that one of the ones who fainted on Whalers’ Steps?”
“And the one who kept throwing up. I did warn them that jotnar shouldn’t try to run with a load like that, but no, they thought they could do as well as imps…”
Silver’s wispy mustache bristled with fury; pale-blue eyes burned. Again he lifted the captain bodily to his feet, and this time he stooped, so that they were nose to nose. “Get your coat on, Imp! We’ll show you running!”
“Oh, don’t give me that!” Efflio protested. “You young jotnar think you’re tough, but I’ve seen what happens, and you’ll never —”
Silver raised him off the floor, still one-handed. Tea slopped. The kid’s face was scarlet with anger. “Get your coat on or you go without it!”
* * *
Red and Silver did very well, the best pair yet. They made a fast trip, and neither had breath to mar it with jokes about the captain’s asthma. Had it been physically possible for two men to run all the way up Krasnegar carrying a sedan chair with a fat old sailor in it, then they might have been the first to do so. Alas, they collapsed simultaneously at the top of Royal Wynd. Efflio left them crumpled on the ground and embarked on an easy stroll to the palace gate. At that point, their breathing was a great deal louder than his.
2
“Rank profiteering, that’s what it is!” Foronod screeched, thumping a fist on the table. His decrepit old jotunn face was flaming red, his skimpy silver hair awry, as if it were trying to stand on end. He was drooling in his fury.
The old man was past it, Inos thought sadly. He contributed nothing to meetings now, but he was a Krasnegarian monument, the nearest thing the kingdom had to an elder statesman; to dismiss him from her council would be unthinkably unkind.
“And what you propose is outright robbery!” Across the table, Mistress Oglebone was becoming even redder, swelling ever larger and more pompous as the discussion grew more heated. She was blustering, but for any imp to face up to the old factor was an unusual display of courage and conviction. “One quarter the stock at the usual price means one quarter the income, and the merchants will starve!”
“Starve?” Foronod sprayed the word. “Live off your fat, you oversize pigs!”
“Councillors!” Inos hammered with the whale’s tooth that served as gavel at meetings of the state council. Candlesticks shuddered, dribbling hot wax.
The resulting silence presented an unfortunate opportunity for Havermore to intervene. “Indeed, your Majesty, honorable ladies and gentlemen, I think our first moral duty here is to consider the poor, who certainly may starve, or freeze, or being faced with the choice may, in the way of our less fortunate brethren…” The old bishop could be counted on to blether for at least ten minutes, but perhaps that would give everyone else a chance to calm down.
The council was discussing the price of peat.
Looking along the length of the long table, Inos reflected that her advisors were growing old and predictable. She needed some new faces, with some youthful spark and fresh ideas. She had made few appointments since she first came to the throne, and even the youngsters she had added at that time were showing their years now — Kratharkran, for example. Then he had been a gangly, muscular young giant, vigorous and restless. Now he was a stolid human walrus, who made chairs creak when he squeezed into them. She could not wait for the oldest to die off; she must expand the council again. It could use at least another six members. Young ones. She would ask Rap…
Another idea that must wait for Rap’s return.
“And who’s to pay for that?” yelled Oglebone, her substantial bosom heaving with outrage. The bishop had just suggested a distribution of free peat to the poor.
The council had split along the usual lines, imps versus jotnar. Although he was an imp the bishop was an outsider, from the Impire, and should have been able to conciliate the two factions. His blundering efforts usually just antagonized everyone.
And this time there was good reason for the division. The imps were largely drawn from the tradesmen and merchants, with Oglebone their leader. The jotnar represented artisans and fisher-folk, all of whom — being jotnar — were hopelessly short of money so late in the winter, and especially this winter, with the cost of fuel rising faster than smoke. Farther down the agenda the price of credit lurked like a hungry bear. It would certainly provoke allegations of usury and demands for royal decrees.
Rap had warned months ago that fuel would run short, and the weather had been harder than usual, if that was possible. The cold at Winterfest had been the worst in memory. Some children and old folk had frozen in their beds. Foronod and Oglebone were both shouting now, and others joining in.
Inos gritted her teeth. This was when Rap would have intervened with some quiet, sensible suggestion. She hammered again. Nothing happened. “Councillors!” She was ignor
ed. She rose to her feet and hurled the whale’s tooth clattering along the length of the table, scoring a strike on the fourth gold candlestick. Lin caught it just before it fell over.
“Quiet!”
Shamefaced silence. Inos sat down again, seething. “The next person who speaks out of turn will be evicted from this meeting!” She glared around, meeting every eye in turn and watching their owners cower before her royal fury. That was Rap’s old sorcery at work, she supposed, but she was almost mad enough to throw a few subjects into dungeons.
A hand rose at the far end. Peering around the flames, she recognized the junior member of the council.
“Captain Efflio?”
“I have a couple of questions, ma’am, if I may?”
The old seaman had not spoken a word so far. The few times she had noticed him, he had been watching the fracas with amused tolerance. He was an outsider, and a newcomer, and he usually made sense on the rare occasions when he chose to intervene. She hoped he was going to do so now. “Certainly.”
“We have been given figures on the reserves of peat remaining and average monthly consumption. Obviously that will change as the weather warms up. If we had some more detailed numbers, we could assess the situation better. And how about previous years? Are there records? Do we have any idea of the normal requirements between now and springtime?” He paused, wheezing. “And, finally, are there no alternatives? I seem to recall seeing quantities of driftwood along the mainland shore, outside the bay.”
“Driftwood?” Foronod bellowed scornfully.
The logistics of winnowing driftwood from pack ice and dragging it back through a subpolar night would be nightmarish. The present situation might be serious enough to justify the effort, but at the moment driftwood was a monstrous irrelevancy. If the council took off after that, it would never be seen again.
But Efflio continued serenely, “And I note that the next item on the agenda is the Timber Moot. I realize that the purpose is to acquire building lumber, but trees do burn, ma’am. Surely we can negotiate supplies of firewood from the goblins?”
The Council’s sudden silence spoke volumes. Why had no one else thought of that? It had been Rap’s idea to appoint the crafty old sailor to the council, and Inos breathed a silent word of thanks to him, wherever he was.
“We are grateful for your observations, Captain! The goblins will trade the shirts off our backs, I am sure, but we may have to pay the price. I appoint you a committee to investigate the reserves of fuel — peat and all possible substitutes — and estimate the town’s needs. Co-opt whoever you want to help you.”
Efflio wheezed louder. “I’m not as mobile as I should like, ma’am.”
“Send the guard. They have nothing better to do.” Inos heard a sniff of protest from Sergeant Oopari on her left, and ignored it. “Lin will find you a room in the palace if you want. You have my authority in the matter, Captain. Report to our next meeting.”
She pressed on quickly. “Let us discuss the Timber Moot, then. We’re a month past Winterfest already. A week or so from now the goblins will arrive. In the king’s absence, whom do we send to trade?”
The room went very still.
“Well?” she said. “Can anyone here speak goblin?”
Even stiller. Foronod could, she knew, but probably not well and not for a long time. In any case, he was far too frail to struggle across the ice-packed causeway. He obviously knew that, or he would have volunteered by now.
The continuing silence surprised her, though. Goblin was not truly a different language, just a dialect, more a matter of primitive grammar and barbarous pronunciation than of vocabulary. As a child, she had played at speaking pidgin goblin with her friends, probably not very accurately. She would have expected someone in the room to know it.
“Then we shall have to appoint an agent. Nominations?”
The door creaked behind her. She felt a cold draft on her spine — and yet that was impossible. Everyone else was looking to see who had the unprecedented temerity to interrupt a meeting of the royal council.
She peered around the back of her chair. Kadie stood in the doorway, her face as pale as a jotunn’s.
Oh, Gods!
Inos jumped up and scanned the table. Who? Who could she trust with the imp and jotunn still breathing fire at each other? Technically her deputy was probably Bishop Havermore…
“Captain Efflio? Take the chair, please, until I return.”
The old sea captain blinked at her in astonishment. “Me, ma’am?”
“And see that all the blood is mopped up afterward!”
That raised a laugh. She swept out to discover what the disaster was.
3
It was Gath, of course.
He was being borne in on a stretcher, a footman at his head and the head groom at his feet. Two cooks and a chambermaid flustered around uselessly. The procession was apparently bound for his bedroom, but that would be icy at this time of day.
“To the parlor!” Inos snapped. Her heart was beating in her throat; she wanted to scream at the top of her lungs.
Gath was limp, apparently unconscious. Walking alongside, she took one of his hands. “Gath?”
Nothing happened. His knuckles were bloody and swollen, but his face was unmarked except for a red swelling on his chin. He had apparently suffered no more damage to his teeth. Then she saw a dribble of red creeping out from we golden cockscomb of his hair. She always had nightmares about head injuries.
From the look of his hands, his assailant or assailants would be well marked.
Excellent!
God of Mercy, stand aside! This had gone on too long. This time she was going to wreak vengeance. This time someone was going to pay, and if the culprits were too young to be punished she would flog their fathers instead.
She looked at Kadie’s pale terror and forced a motherly, queenly, reassuring smile.
“Looks like he lost this one, doesn’t it?”
Kadie sniveled. “He’s hurt bad!”
“Can’t be sure. It may be no worse than a headache. Someone’s sent for a doctor?”
“Yes. I’m sorry I broke into your meeting, Mom.”
Inos could not recall the last time she had not been “Mama” or even “ma’am” to Kadie. She put an arm around her daughter’s shoulders as they walked — and those shoulders were not far below her own now.
“A year ago — maybe even six months ago — I’d have bitten your head off and burned you at the stake afterward. Now I knew right away you must have a very good reason. You did exactly right.”
Kadie swelled a little. She deserved the praise. She had probably been the only one around brave enough to interrupt the queen in her council meeting. All the usual authorities had been in the meeting themselves, people like Lin to whom Kadie would normally defer in an emergency. Inos made a note to find out exactly what had happened. There ought to be an alternative chain of command, and she had never thought to create one — and now she didn’t need to, of course. From now on everyone would rely on Kadie.
“Go back there, please. Knock, enter, and ask Captain Efflio if Sergeant Oopari can come here.”
Kadie swelled even more. “Of course, Mama!” She marched off, too dignified to run.
And here was the parlor. Inos hurried ahead, threw the door wide and went to the sofa. Pret the footman took the other end and they pushed it close to the hearth. This was Gath’s fourth beating, they were well practiced.
Fourth and perhaps the worst. Poor, gentle Gath, who never used to get in trouble, who’d never had an enemy… His prescience should have warned him. Perhaps the insight had come too late, perhaps he’d been too proud to run away. Not all bad things were avoidable, he’d told her.
The bearers laid the stretcher on the floor. Before Inos could intervene, they took Gath by legs and shoulders and swung him up onto the couch. He uttered a groan, then choked and said something that sounded like “No more stairs, Mom!”
“Clumsy dolts!” I
nos raged. “More peat! Blankets. Hot water. Towels!” Servants fled.
She stared at the youthful form draped on the sofa. He looked longer every time. He was growing incredibly fast, at least a fingerlength since Rap left, his clothes bill bankrupting the kingdom.
She pulled a sleeve over her hand and wiped his forehead. He opened his eyes slightly. “Not stairs, Mom!” he muttered. He grimaced and seemed to fade away. She would have expected more bruises if he had been thrown down stairs.
Then Kadie was back, accompanied by a scowling Sergeant Oopari — a tallish imp, graying now, and permanently worried by his responsibilities.
“Do you know who did it?” Inos demanded.
Kadie shook her head. “I wasn’t there. Jotnar, not imps, I’d say.”
“Why?”
“’Cause he doesn’t look like he’s been stomped.” Kadie showed her teeth.
True. Inos shuddered as she thought of a pack of impish brats cornering their victim, starving wolves pulling down a caribou. That would be the next stage, and she was not going to allow it to happen. Meanwhile, this had already gone too far. “Sergeant! Find the culprits and put them in the cells.”
Oopari was a cautious soul. “If it was a fair fight, ma’am?”
“I don’t care if it was one five-year-old gnome and Gath started it! Lock ’em up! And tell me about it tomorrow.”
“Yes, ma’am!” The sergeant’s eyes gleamed. He’d wanted those orders the last time and Inos had held him back. He spun around and strode off without another word.
She knelt down. “Gath! Wake up!”
Nothing happened. Oh, Gods! Her anger chilled before a winter blast of fear. Head injuries! She peered at his ears and saw no trace of bleeding there. She tried to inspect his eyes. The lids flickered at her touch and his lips moved.
“Can’t hear you,” Inos said. “Speak up!”
He clutched at her. “No!” he mumbled. “Fire! Smell fire.” He began to struggle. “Fire, Mom!”
She pushed him down. “No, that’s only the peat on the hearth. Just relax. The doctor’ll be here in a minute.”