A Handful of Men: The Complete Series

by Dave Duncan

  “What’s going to happen?” he shouted in the next momentary lull.

  “I dunno,” the youngster said. He shrugged, and the resulting tightening of the binding almost cut Acopulo in half. “She’s dragging her anchors, so we’ll likely hit the rocks soon. She’ll break up quick in this sea. If not, then we’ll go aground when the tide ebbs, and the dragons’ll get us.”

  Acopulo looked up in horror at the cheerful grin. “Aren’t you frightened?”

  “No.” The sailor pondered for a moment and then added, “If I warn’t just a dumb jotunn I might be, I s’pose.” This sudden insight seemed to worry him more than the dragons themselves.

  “I think I want to go back to my cabin.”

  “Good idea. I’ll help you. And, Father?…”

  “Yes?”

  The lad looked around as if to make sure that no one was listening and said apologetically, “Pray a bit when you get there, will you?”

  Doubt and sorrow:

  Through the night of doubt and sorrow

  Onward goes the pilgrim band,

  Singing songs of expectation,

  Marching to the Promised Land.

  B. S. Ingemann, Igjennem Nat og Trngsel,

  translated by S. Baring-Gould

  FOUR

  Remedies refusing

  1

  Woggle lay on the Great West Way, four days’ ride from Hub. It was a nondescript place, famous only for the Warlock’s Rest, reputed to be the best post inn in the Impire. It offered well-stocked stables, a famous cuisine, luxurious bedchambers, and a wide variety of services to go with them. No one knew why Woggle should be so favored, although there was a theory that outbound wealthy travelers often needed a break after four days’ travel. If they did, then the Warlock’s Rest could pander to all their wants. It was even rumored to possess a fair library.

  Books were not uppermost on Ylo’s mind as he wandered into the premier dining room. Wenches were. The sun had not yet set, but he had decided to treat himself to an early night for once. The king of Krasnegar had reported taking seven weeks to ride from Kinvale to Hub, but he had done it in less than four.

  Almost. He would still need a couple of days to reach the capital, were he going there, and he had not quite reached Kinvale before running into the goblin problem. So add another week—he had still set a pace that the Imperial post would be hard put to equal. He was pleased with himself, and utterly determined never to try it again.

  He accepted a table by the window and demanded attendance by the wine waiter. The Gods knew he had earned a little civilized decadence! In the sleepy red tinge of a spring evening, the gardens were afire with golden daffodils. Of course! The preflecting pool had prophesied that Eshiala would be his among the daffodils.

  A buxom damsel shimmered by, smiling hopefully. He considered her thoughtfully and then shook his head. She departed with a pout. A decrepit old wine waiter came tottering over in her place. He beamed at Ylo’s extravagant request for a flagon of Valdolaine, and must have passed word quickly backstage, for the next charmer to float into Ylo’s field of view could not have been a day over fifteen. This time he was seriously tempted to nod, but again he declined. These were the professionals. He would find an amateur just as good and get what he wanted for free.

  He picked up the menu and then laid it down again, letting his eyes wander over the big room. It was early yet, with few diners in attendance. On the way in he had observed quite a few soldiers and a sizable number of couriers. He thought he had detected an air of concern, a gravity unsuited to such surroundings. His breakneck progress had long since outrun the news of the goblin invasion, of course, at least as far as the civilian population was concerned. The government and the army must be aware of it, and the secret could not be kept very long. Wheels would be spinning madly. He had noted a substantial increase in the postal traffic going by him on the road in the last week; the choice of mounts had deteriorated. It could be only a matter of days now before the imperor broke the news to the Senate, and then the dam would burst with a vengeance. Travel would become almost impossible as the panic took hold. He had cut it very fine.

  The wine arrived, deliciously cool at this time of year. Ice houses were rarely effective past early summer in Hub.

  One more day in the saddle would bring him to Yewdark. And then what? Possibly the wicked had located the impress, of course, and stolen her away. He had no way of knowing except to go and see. The imperor who would make the dread announcement in the Rotunda would not be Shandie, although everyone would assume he was. Zinixo and his Covin knew better, and they knew about the goblins, but only Ylo himself knew the knot the Gods had tied with those two threads.

  He was still surprised how much he mourned Shandie—a fine soldier who would have made a great imperor. He had been an inspiring mentor for Ylo, and in those later weeks on the road their relationship had mellowed into something very close to friendship. That had been another ironic twist of fate, because neither of them had been the sort of man who opened his heart to another. Indeed, that had been an alarming development, and it might have led to serious complications. Ylo suspected that by Rivermead he had been having genuine scruples about seducing Eshiala—why else had he procrastinated so long?

  No matter now. The Gods had rolled Their dice, the goblins’ arrows had chosen one of the two fugitives, and the other had escaped. Pray that Shandie had died at once!

  Again Ylo reached for the menu. Again he looked away, this time to stare out at the twilight and the daffodils. For some strange reason he kept thinking of the king of Krasnegar, that cryptic, practical, self-sufficient faun. With his narrow, rustic morality, he had disapproved of Ylo’s intentions. What would he say now? Would he not agree that a girl so young who had already seen so much tragedy in her life was deserving of a little joy? She was a sleeping princess awaiting the true lover’s kiss to awaken her; a butterfly still locked in the cocoon and in need of liberation.

  He could awaken, he could liberate. Her release would be his glad duty.

  Married women were usually easier, being less afraid of accidents. The unmarried were more sporting, more of a challenge. He had no experience with freshly bereaved widows. In this case, he must begin by breaking the news of her widowhood. That would make things tricky. Eshiala did not seriously love her husband, of course, but she would expect to mourn him. She might feel so guilty at not being heartbroken that she would convince herself she was. No matter how genuine—and they would be genuine—his offers of consolation might be declined at first. He had never met quite this situation before.

  It would take time to wear down her defenses, at least a week. Not much longer, though, because the daffodils were already past their best, and he had an occult promise on that.

  But it would take time.

  Which was the main reason he had decided to have an early night—he was horny as a herd of giraffes, and urgency always blunted finesse.

  “There you are, darling!” said a seductive voice. A slender hand came to rest on his shoulder.

  He looked up inquiringly. Oh, yes! Delicious. “Darling?”

  “I beg your pardon, my lord! I mistook you for someone else.”

  Ylo clasped her hand and rose smoothly to his feet. “You found the right man for your needs!” He turned on his handsomest smile.

  2

  The next day a spring storm came roaring in off Cenmere to rattle the casements of Yewdark.

  The following morning the weather was even worse, stripping all the petals off the daffodils.

  By midaftemoon the God of Spring had repented of Their juvenile tantrum. The rain stopped, the wind dropped, and the clouds rolled away to uncover the sun. That evening Eshiala saw swallows swooping over the gables, the first outriders of summer. Tulips were coming into bloom, but the daffodils had definitely gone.

  * * *

  Dinner was a quiet affair, as always, although the Great Hall would have seated hundreds. Proconsul Ionfeu presided—bent and si
lver-haired, an Imperial aristocrat in the finest tradition, a truly gentle gentleman. Tonight he talked of noteworthy elvish poets he had met in his time, quoting their more memorable lines.

  His wife was fat and apparently as scatter-brained as the hares that danced their mad spring rituals in the meadow outside. Not so!—her wits were much sharper than she normally allowed them to seem, and a large heart beat within her copious bosom. Three months ago Countess Eigaze had taken a very fragile impress into her care and cherished her with affection, concern, and good common sense. Eshiala had developed an enormous respect for Countess Eigaze, and real gratitude.

  Centurion Hardgraa was his normal gruff self, perpetually uncomfortable in such exalted company. In that respect he had Eshiala’s most sincere sympathy. He contributed little to the conversation, but he listened and she knew that he understood. He was as fanatical as the count, after his fashion, but his loyalty was to Shandie and Shandie’s heir, not to the Impire itself.

  Maya was asleep upstairs, tended by a nursemaid.

  And the impress? The grocer’s daughter? Here she was merely the wife of the fictitious Lord Eshem, but she suspected that even the servants knew she was both more and less than that. She was an exile, an outlaw, a fraud, but yet also a much healthier, happier woman than she had been at court. Of them all, only she was totally happy at Yewdark.

  Three months at Yewdark? Nearer four! Where had the time gone? And the daffodils gone, also! Ever since the first green buds had opened their golden hearts, Eshiala had been haunted by thoughts of Ylo and the prophecy he claimed to have seen in the preflecting pool. Now the moment had passed. Did that mean she had another year to wait, or had the prophecy been disproved? Or else that dark-eyed libertine had been lying his head off to her, which was far more likely.

  “May I suggest that we move over to the fireplace for coffee?” the count inquired. Receiving no argument, he ordered candles and the coffee. The sun was just setting. The fire smoldered, an unnecessary token. In a few more weeks the evenings would be warm enough for sitting outdoors.

  As she settled in her favorite chair by the fieldstone hearth, Eshiala saw that more than coffee was brewing. The count was distracted, and even Eigaze showed less than her usual good humor. If the centurion was aware of the problem, his leathery features would never reveal the fact. He brought a stool forward and sat stiff-backed as always. He distrusted comfort.

  The coffee tray was brought by little Mistress Ukka herself. Warmer weather had done nothing to improve her choice of apparel. She still seemed more clothes than person, a shapeless sack of threadbare, well-patched garments. Even indoors, she wore three overcoats and cloaks, with several gowns under them, showing at hems, cuffs, and collars. Her eyes peered out blearily between innumerable sagging wrinkles, just as her face itself peered out under a shabby wool cap and numerous woolen shawls. She muttered and mumbled to herself as she bustled around like a runaway laundry hamper.

  But she departed at last, still speaking to anyone except the people actually present.

  Eigaze sighed as she poured from the silver coffeepot. “Two more chambermaids tendered their notice this morning.” Eigaze almost never complained about anything. Seeing bright sides was her specialty. If the world came to an end, she would applaud the welcome reduction in petty crime, or something. Was Ukka this evening’s problem?

  The count’s permanent stoop made him lean forward even when sitting, conveying the impression that he was desperate for his coffee. “It’s not just her meddling, is it?”

  His wife passed his cup over. “Not at all. She nags and pesters them all the time, but she’s very good at her job, and they appreciate that. They can make allowances for her age, or at least the older ones can. No, it’s her constant nattering about voices.”

  Eshiala decided that there was more to worry about than Ukka. This was just preliminary chatter.

  Ionfeu shook his head sadly. “She’s convinced them the place is haunted?”

  “Or that she’s mad. Half of each, I think. Cake?”

  “I have heard no supernatural voices. Thank you. I have seen no wraiths. Has anyone?”

  Everyone murmured denials. The great house was a spooky place, but there had been no reports of hauntings, except from Ukka herself.

  “I don’t know what we can do about her, my dear. Excellent coffee! She’s been here half a lifetime. We can hardly throw her out in the hedgerows.”

  “I have tried to retire her,” Eigaze agreed. “Three times now. She pays no attention at all, just goes on running everything.”

  A brief silence was broken by one of Hardgraa’s rare flashes of humor, delivered poker-faced as always. “The army would transfer her to Guwush.”

  Ionfeu smiled thinly. “I don’t know that even the gnomes deserve that! You must just continue to pray, my dear, that one day she will collapse completely under the weight of her wardrobe. Where does she find all those garments?”

  “I pray for the patience not to brain her with a warming pan,” Eigaze remarked mildly. “In the attic. More cream, anyone? Honey?”

  No one wanted more cream, or honey. The count twisted his head around stiffly, inspecting the hall to confirm that the domestics had withdrawn. Now he was going to get down to business.

  “Ma’am,” he said to Eshiala. “Centurion.” Evidently his wife already knew what was coming. “We have been here almost four months. So far Yewdark has served us well as a sanctuary. The Covin has not discovered us, the neighbors have been discouraged.”

  He meant that Maya was safe, of course. This lonely exile they had all accepted so willingly had no purpose except to protect the child upstairs.

  “However, I foresee a problem.”

  Hardgraa nodded. “The grounds?”

  Ionfeu raised his silvery eyebrows to acknowledge the hit. “Indeed! They are a jungle, as you know. Years of neglect. And spring is coming. Were we what we pretend to be, we should have done something about them already.”

  With a steely glance, the centurion deferred to the impress. She did not see any difficulty. “Can we not just hire gardeners?”

  “That would be the logical procedure, ma’am. But it will require a small army of them, at least at first.”

  “Oh. Money?”

  “Money,” the old man agreed uncomfortably. “We did as we were instructed. We hired servants and set out to live the normal life of country gentry. We live modestly and try not to attract attention. It was what his Majesty wanted. Unfortunately, this establishment is draining our resources at a very alarming rate.”

  Eshiala had never had to worry about money in her life. Her parents had lived simply, within their means. Her mother had been a frugal homemaker, her father a practical merchant. They had never hankered after luxuries they could not afford. They would not have regarded Yewdark as modest, although now they might. Ever since the prince imperial had wooed and won their daughter, gold had poured into their lives like a spring flood.

  The count’s embarrassment was mirrored in his wife’s face. These two would never have had to fret over money, either. An odd glint showed in the centurion’s eye, but he did not comment.

  “More coffee, ma’am?” Eigaze said. “The real problem is not money as such, you understand. Everything we possess is at your service. The problem is getting money. Honey? We could write to Tiffy and he would bring us gold in a wagon.”

  Now Eshiala understood. “And bring the Covin also?”

  “We fear so,” the count said, squirming to ease his crooked back. “We must assume that our household is watched—all our houses, for we have several—and our relatives, also. We can think of no safe way to tap our resources, my lady, much as we are eager to do so.”

  Sometimes Eshiala wondered if she really believed in that mysterious army of sorcerers. If it did exist, it had proved strangely inept at finding her. Perhaps Zinixo did not much care about the imperor and his family. The Impire seemed to be surviving very well without them.

  The
centurion laid his cup on a nearby table, the fragile china incongruous in his powerful fingers. “The fault is mine, my lord. I inspected the supplies the warlock had provided. I did not think to estimate our requirements.”

  The proconsul shook his head impatiently. “You could not be expected to know them. Nor, I regret to say, would the warlock.”

  He meant that Raspnex was a dwarf, and a dwarf would live a lifetime on what an impish aristocrat spent in a week. Raspnex probably thought he had made ample provision. Shandie knew nothing about domestic expenditures—logistics of armies and whole impires were his expertise. Even the king of Krasnegar, who had not been directly involved, would not be familiar with finances of this kind. Eshiala felt a surge of anger at herself for not foreseeing the problem, but she was no more to blame than any of them.

  “It seems very ironic.” The count sighed. “We elude a legion of sorcerers and now we face being defeated by something as mundane as cold cash.”

  “There is no use worrying about what we have done or should have done,” Eigaze said firmly. “The problem exists. What we must do is find a solution.” Common sense was another of her strong points.

  Hardgraa waited for someone else to speak, then said, “Art? Those pictures? Silverware?”

  “Possible,” the count agreed. “But the servants will chatter, the neighbors will hear of it, and who is to sell them for us? If you ride into Faintown with a wagonload of art, Centurion, you will be accused of theft. You might dispose of a piece or two at a pawnshop, but not very often. The normal procedure would be to summon a dealer from Hub… That risks attracting attention and starting gossip. We have no legal right to be here, remember. I agree with your suggestion, but it is a limited one, if you see.”

  The soldier nodded impassively. “I’d like some time to consider the matter, if I may.” He was speaking as Shandie’s chief of security, but he must be feeling sadly out of his depth battling a matter of household finance.