by Dave Duncan
And now it was Eshiala’s turn. How could she solve a problem that had baffled the wily Ionfeu and his practical wife?
“Move to a smaller place? No, of course not.” Shandie and the others might return here, to Yewdark. It had been designated a headquarters, as well as a sanctuary. “Well, why not just let the servants depart? Let them spread the rumor that the place is haunted. We know it’s not. The five of us could live here very cheaply, guarded by rumors of wraiths.”
“It would be an uncomfortable life,” the count said.
“Stranger to you than to me, my lord. My mother never employed more than three servants, usually only two.”
He nodded uncomfortably and did not reply. He had thought of that obvious solution already, obviously.
Eigaze nodded, her various chins pulsing. “It may be the only way out, dear. But it will cause gossip in the district, and we hoped to avoid that. Well, the problem isn’t urgent, is it?”
Her husband shook his head. “Not very. We have gold enough for a few months; enough for a couple of years if all we need buy is food. But I am disinclined to hire a legion of gardeners.”
“If only we could send word to Tiffy!” Eigaze said.
“Let us all think about it.” Hardgraa frowned angrily. He probably felt guilty at having failed Shandie.
3
“Awaken! Awaken!”
The shrill voice slashed into Eshiala’s sleeping mind like a runaway coach and four. She gasped, struggling to make sense of the candle flames whirling in the darkness over her bed. Who? What? Her door had been locked. She always locked her door. It had been one of the first things she had been taught at court.
“He is here!” The bundled apparition was Mistress Ukka, of course, waving a candelabra perilously near the bed curtains.
“Who? Who is?”
“The duke! He has come!”
Eshiala hauled the covers up to her chin and fought her way back to consciousness. “What duke? How do you know? How did you get into my room?”
“Come, lady! He has returned to you as They promised!”
Maya cried out from her cot in the corner.
Duke? The old hag meant Ylo? But if Ylo had arrived, then Shandie must have come, also?
“Get out of my room!” Eshiala snapped. “Now! Go wait in the corridor! All right, darling, Mommy’s here.”
By the time the door closed, Maya had drifted back to sleep.
Heart thumping madly, the impress swung her feet to the cold rug. Moonlight drifted through the window. Ylo returned? The tiny old woman was crazier than the hares, but she had never pulled any stunt like this before. It would have to be investigated.
* * *
Having dressed warmly and confirmed that her daughter was sleeping soundly, Eshiala went out to the passage. Ukka was waiting there, fidgeting, a rotund mass of clothing under five flickering flames. She might have duplicate keys to fit every lock in the house, and no one had ever thought to ask her.
“Now, tell me.”
“The duke—”
“So you said. Where is he?”
“Outside. Not here yet.”
“What? Then how do you know?”
“They told me. The Voices.”
Eshiala relaxed. Ravings, only ravings! Still, she had better investigate. The old hag probably meant Ylo, who was theoretically Duke Yllipo.
“This way, lady!” Ukka shrilled.
“Oh, no!” The impress went the other way. “First we waken the centurion.”
The crone squawked shrilly behind her. “He’s not there! He’s downstairs.” Her candles were following, though.
“How do you know that?”
“Don’t want him. Dangerous, that one.”
“We do want him.”
Hardgraa’s door was open and he was obviously not in the bed. Head spinning, Eshiala demanded to be taken to him. Grumbling, Ukka led the way along the gallery and down the great staircase.
* * *
The night blurred into a series of disconnected images.
At the foot of the stairs, Hardgraa emerged from the shadows, a lantern in one hand and a naked sword in the other.
“She says the duke has returned,” Eshiala explained, eyeing the sword nervously.
“There’s no one around,” the soldier said flatly.
“Where is he?” she demanded.
The old woman raised her shrouded head to peer up at the high rafters. She seemed to listen for a moment. “Out by the gate. He’s hurt, hurt!”
“She’s crazy!”
Eshiala’s heart thundered in her chest. “She’s never done this before, Centurion. We must go and see.”
“I’ll get some men.”
“No!” When had she ever tried to overrule Hardgraa before? “He may not be alone!” That ended talk of servants: Shandie may be with him. She did not speak her next thought—I may not be alone when I go back to bed.
* * *
She wanted to accompany Hardgraa herself, but he would not hear of it. He went and roused the count She knelt by the hearth, trying to blow life back into the embers, shivering with cold and trepidation. The men left. Ukka had vanished. Eigaze arrived and huddled in a chair, swathed in a voluminous housecoat, her hair in curlers. If she said anything at all, Eshiala did not hear her.
Shandie? She was not ready to be his wife again. She needed warning, time to prepare. Or Ylo? The daffodil season was over.
Either way, Yewdark’s precious sanctuary had been violated.
* * *
She barely recognized Ylo. He was covered in mud, and not completely conscious. Hardgraa carried him in over a shoulder and lowered him into a chair. She marveled at the older man’s strength.
“What’s wrong with him?” she demanded, staring at the lolling head, the blurry, unfocused eyes.
“Exhaustion, mostly.” The count deposited two lanterns on the floor without having to stoop. He handed Hardgraa’s sword back to him. “But he’s wounded. Hot water, dear, and cloths?”
“Of course!” Eigaze snatched up a lantern and then squeaked in alarm.
A shrouded figure scurried into the light. It was Ukka, bringing a tray with a steaming mug on it. She sank down by the invalid.
Ylo blinked at her and spoke for the first time. “Food? Oh, Gods, food!”
Eshiala forced out the question, dreading all possible answers. “Where is my husband?”
He peered around to locate the voice.
“Wait!” Hardgraa barked. He grabbed Ukka’s shoulders and lifted her to her feet. “You go to your room now and stay there! Is that clear?”
“The duke—”
“Go away! Stay away!”
Then Ukka had gone. Ylo was spluttering and cursing as he tried to gulp the hot brew, spilling it on himself in his haste.
“Where is my husband?”
He spoke without looking up, between gulps. “He’s dead. The goblins got him.”
* * *
Later… Eigaze kneeling at Ylo’s feet, washing mud and dried blood from his leg. He had screamed when they removed his boots. Something had ripped his hose away from the knee down, and ripped his calf, also.
And even as that was happening, Hardgraa had the point of his dagger at the man’s throat, demanding the whole story.
Dead? Shandie?
* * *
Later still… Eshiala lying in bed staring at the darkness.
Dead?
She was a widow. She was dowager impress.
The two-year-old in the corner was Impress Uomaya I of Pandemia.
4
The day dawned hot and sunny, but Eshiala felt she was moving in a thick fog. The same conversations seemed to take place over and over, always accompanied by cautious glancings around to make sure there were no servants within earshot.
Ylo slept on upstairs and could almost be dismissed as a nightmare that had not happened.
Mistress Ukka jabbered and giggled without ceasing, prattling to all the bewildered do
mestics that the duke had returned, just as the Voices had said he would. Eigaze trailed after her, explaining that the old woman was hallucinating, repeating the agreed story about Sir Yyan, a friend who had dropped in unexpectedly. There was no Duke Yllipo, just a chance resemblance to someone Mistress Ukka had known in her youth.
The pastry cook gave notice.
Even Eigaze could not find a bright side to look on.
The proconsul seemed to have aged twenty years. He was haggard and his hands trembled. He made the same speech several times, as if the words were going around and around in his head and he had forgotten he had already spoken them aloud. “Prince Emthoro, ma’am. The Law of Succession states that the next in line is regent during a minority. We shall have to get word to the prince somehow.”
By the third repetition, Eshiala had her response prepared. “But we don’t know whether he’s at court or not. And the Impire seems to be running itself without Shandie. You’ve been to Faintown. You haven’t heard any rumors of vanished imperors, have you? The Covin must have bewitched the court somehow, mustn’t it? And the army. And the government. They must all believe that Shandie’s still there and in charge, mustn’t they? Emthoro will be as convinced as anyone. How can he ever believe us?”
The bent old man just shook his head like a turtle in despair.
Eshiala herself was haunted by lost futures. She could not stay much longer at Yewdark. Shandie would not be coming to take her back to court. She most certainly could not risk returning to her parents at Thumble. There was no way out.
Hardgraa was another sort of ghost, dark and implacable. He hardly spoke at all, and when he did he had no need to repeat himself. “He went with Shandie as bodyguard. Either he betrayed him or he just ran away and left him. I don’t believe his story yet and when he does tell me the truth, I will kill him.”
“If he betrayed Shandie, why would he come back here?” she demanded.
Hardgraa raked her with a glare of naked suspicion. “You tell me, ma’am!”
* * *
Evening came at last and they gathered for dinner, all five together. The world seemed to steady and clear.
Ylo came in, hobbling and leaning on a cane, with Mistress Ukka fawning all around him, babbling and gibbering. He was still haggard, but his marathon sleep had restored his spirits and his old air of mischief. His face was thinner than Eshiala remembered it, and he needed a haircut. He was weatherbeaten and lean and more startlingly good-looking than ever. The Gods should never make a man so beautiful. He regarded his audience with an amused disdain, especially Hardgraa.
They could not wait until dinner was over, their need to talk was urgent and yet they must fit the conversation into the gaps when the servants were out of earshot—or speak in code.
“I told you everything,” Ylo insisted. “We did what we said. I won’t say where the others went, but… Yshan… and I set off for… the faun’s house. He’d agreed, and told us of a shortcut, at a place called Kinvale. So we headed across Julgistro, staying off the main highways, of course.”
“Tell me some details,” Hardgraa growled. He was sending whole courses back untouched. He still wore his sword, as he had all day.
Ylo shrugged. “Nothing much to tell. We had a little trouble at the beginning, but nothing important.”
“What sort of trouble?”
“Nothing important. Apart from that, we had a good ride. In an odd way, I think we were both enjoying ourselves. It was a vacation.”
“That doesn’t ring true!”
“It is true, though,” Ylo said without losing his easy smile. “He had no army to worry about, only one companion. It was a tough ride with no posts to help, and a physical challenge. You know, he relaxed in a way I’ve never seen him do…” He chuckled, but his unfathomable dark gaze moved to Eshiala and they were not smiling. “We became friends.”
She started. Obviously that remark was meant to mean more than it seemed to, but she could not decide between the possibilities.
Hardgraa had flushed. “I don’t believe you!”
“It’s true, though—fetch a sorcerer. Unexpected in Yshan, I agree. Near Rivermead we came on the trail of a legion on the move. Dust cloud one day, then it rained and we saw the tracks. The locals confirmed it. He couldn’t rest until he’d found out what was going on, so we followed.” Ylo sighed and resumed his meal.
As a hovering footman was removing his plate, Hardgraa barked, “And then goblins?” Cutlery jangled on china.
“Goblins. Suddenly the bushes were stiff with them. Arrows going by like mosquitoes.” Ylo’s smile faded away. “I looked back and saw him go down. The horse fell.”
“So you don’t really know he’s dead!” Hardgraa had been repeating that refrain at every opportunity.
“I hope he was dead.” Ylo seemed intent on cutting his meat. “With djinns or dwarves or even gnomes, I would hope he survived.”
The proconsul’s voice was a ghostly tremor. “Would even goblins kill such a prisoner?”
No, Eshiala thought, they would not kill the imperor himself. Tell me so!
Ylo paused, fork halfway to mouth. “He had no identification on him, sir. As far as I know, in twenty years they have never returned a captive alive.”
Eshiala clenched her fists till they hurt. Please, Gods, let him have died at once!
“And you have absolutely no evidence!” Hardgraa barked.
Ylo chewed for a moment with a hurt expression. “I will have. The news will be here any day now. Go into Faintown and—”
“I’m not letting you out of my sight!”
Ylo shrugged and accepted a refill of his wineglass.
“Even if some raiding band got over the pass, what then?” the centurion demanded.
The contemptuous smile returned. “Oh, this was no raiding band! We were days away from Pondague. At least one legion was marching. The next day the wind changed, and I smelled smoke for two days after that. The night sky was aglow. This is the millennium! This is the Gods in Wrath!”
“And no Shandie!” Ionfeu moaned, forgetting the eavesdroppers.
“And no wardens,” Ylo responded. The other men both flinched.
“But it was not the goblins who injured you?” Eigaze asked hurriedly, hauling the conversation onto safer ground.
Ylo glanced thoughtfully at Eshiala before he answered. She sensed devilry coming.
“No, Aunt. I rode like a dervish down the Great West Way. My troubles began at Woggle. You know it?”
“Of course.”
“The Warlock’s Rest? Dangerous place!”
“Dangerous? Why, we’ve stayed there lots of times!”
“Don’t. I advise against it.”
“But what happened?”
“I got rolled by a whore,” Ylo said blandly.
The countess’s fat cheeks turned scarlet with shock, and crockery rattled at the serving trolley.
Eshiala suspected that the vulgarity was intended for her, although she did not know why. She never could predict Ylo.
“Now I know you’re lying,” Hardgraa snarled. “Those girls are employed by the management.”
Ylo beamed blissfully, as if springing a trap. “This one was freelancing. Charming young miss. She put something in my wine, I think. And she cleaned me out totally. I came to with a head like a butter churn and nary a kerchief to tie around me.”
“You should have complained to the innkeepers. They guard their reputation very closely.” But Hardgraa had merely tightened the noose.
“I was about to, dramatically toga’ed in a bed sheet. At the bottom of the stairs, I almost ran into an old friend of mine, Centurion Hithi. Legate Hithi of the Vth, he is now.” Ylo raised his raven eyebrows in mockery. “Family influence, of course. Fortunately he didn’t see me. I departed by the window.”
“You walked all the way from Woggle?” Eigaze wailed.
“I did. I stole clothes from the next room and was gone. I was rained on, eaten by dogs, and cha
sed by a mad bull. I slept in a hedge.” He sighed elaborately. “But the pleasure of your company makes up for such trivial hardships.”
Hardgraa looked baffled. It was impossible to believe that Ylo would have deliberately put himself into the state of collapse in which he had arrived. His leg had certainly been bitten by something, and the soles of his feet had been raw. He could still barely walk. So part of his story had to be believed, and he knew that. What reason could he have for inventing the rest of it?
Hardgraa thought he knew the answer.
* * *
They moved then to the fireplace to drink coffee. The servants were dismissed, even the odiously attentive Ukka. The scene was an eerie echo of the previous evening, long ago when life had been much simpler. Dust motes glinted in beams of sunlight from high windows; ancestral portraits frowned down through the smoke-stain of decades. There was no fire this time, for the Great Hall was still warm from the day, but the same four persons gathered on the same seats.
The fifth, the newcomer, sprawled back in a soft armchair with his feet up on a stool, and regarded their shocked, worried faces with cynical unconcern. His amusement seemed designed to antagonize them all. He was openly baiting Hardgraa at every opportunity, being little more respectful to the count and countess. He had known about Shandie’s death for a month and thus had had time to adjust, but his attitude was cruelly callous.
He almost ignored Eshiala; his occasional sultry glances seemed to convey no messages, just curiosity. She was disappointed, somehow. She certainly had not wanted Ylo bursting into Yewdark playing passionate lover, but at the moment she could have used a strong, supportive friend. He had always been good at cheering her up. Now she felt that he was laughing at her.
“I was thinking about the preflecting pool,” he said before the count could start the conversation. “I forget how much you were told about it. Aunt.” His dark eyes flickered over Eshiala. He knew very well how much she had been told, but only he knew whether there had been any truth in it.