A Handful of Men: The Complete Series

by Dave Duncan

  “Partly”

  “Only partly, your Majesty?” The scholar sneered. He was a highly improbable jotunn, but he had all his ancestors’ contempt for cowardice.

  Rap opened his mouth and then closed it again. Both he and Raspnex had assumed that to do what Olybino had just done must lead to instant capture. The imp had found a way to evade capture and force the Covin to kill him. Even if Rap had thought of that technique, would he have had the courage to throw his life away for the cause? He did not have enough power anyway, but he was not sure enough of himself to say so to Sagorn.

  “So now your work is done?” the jotunn remarked, glancing at the sails and adjusting course as if he had been a sailor all his days. “The sorcerers of the world have been informed. I thought you were about to summon them all and start the battle. What stopped you?”

  “Dragons.” Rap sighed, clambering painfully to his feet.

  “Dragons?” The scholar lifted snowy eyebrows.

  “The dragons are still returning to Dragon Reach. If we had started a battle, the Covin would have released its hold over them and they would have scattered over all Pithmot.”

  “Ah. Then I apologize for doubting you.”

  “Don’t bother.”

  Rap felt foul and hypocritical. He had always regarded the warlock of the east with contempt, despising his absurd posturing and his idealization of war. But in the end Olybino had given his life for a cause. He had probably not fully believed in that cause, but he had been true to his own ideals of duty and courage.

  And Rap? How was he at duty and courage? He might well have missed the best chance he would ever get of overthrowing Zinixo. Yet only a fool let himself be goaded into battle on unfavorable terrain, and Dreadnaught was certainly that. Had the meld revealed itself, Zinixo could have just blasted the old tub out of the ocean. When did caution become cowardice?

  When did setback become disaster?

  There could be no doubt that the Covin had carried the day. The legions and goblins had been exterminated, the warlock destroyed, and perhaps even now sorcerers were streaming into Hub to enlist

  The emotions were all wrong, yet the logic felt right. Rap glanced down at that inexplicable word tattooed on his arm. Some sorcerous instinct was still telling him that his decision had been correct, even without the dragon problem. There was a piece of the puzzle still missing.

  The time was not yet ripe.

  It would come soon.

  Possess the field:

  If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;

  It may be, in yon smoke concealed,

  Your comrades chase e’en now the fliers,

  And, but for you, possess the field.

  Clough, Say Not the Struggle Naught Availeth

  The Living God

  To my daughter Jenni,

  who most

  reasonably points out

  that she has never had a

  whole book

  dedicated to her alone

  and who most

  certainly deserves one,

  this book is belatedly

  and lovingly

  dedicated.

  PROLOGUE

  The ancient house was hot in the summer night, holding the heat of the day behind windows long sealed. Its many rooms and corridors were stuffy and airless, smelling again of dust as they had before the visitors had come. They had all gone now, the visitors. The people had departed, lords and ladies, maidservants and manservants. Fireplaces had cooled, doors had been locked again, stillness had returned. For barely half a year the house had been a dwelling and now it was a tomb once more, a monument to its own long past.

  The old woman wandered the halls and passageways, needing no more light than the beams of summer moonlight angling down from dusty casements. The Voices were upset tonight and her antique bones could not rest.

  “What ails, Ghosts?” she called. “Why do you fret?”

  No words answered. No wind rattled and wailed tonight, but the little creaks and groans told how the old house was cooling after the long, hot day, and in those tiny sounds she heard the Voices complaining.

  “I do not understand!” she cried. “Speak louder.”

  Pale blue light made angular puddles on the floors. Rafters settled, beams creaked.

  Again she called out. “He is gone. He stole away his lady, as you said he would. He took her away, and her child, also. They escaped. The others have departed. Those who came later asking questions have departed, too. There is only me. What ails, Ghosts? You can speak now.”

  Clicks and creaks and tappings…

  “Danger? Is that it, then? He is in danger, or his lady? Speak louder. The child? Her child? What is her child to him?”

  The old woman stood in darkness beside a patch of moonlight, her head cocked, straining to hear.

  “What danger? That one they called Centurion? He is the danger? The one I shut in the cellar? I never trusted that one. Yes, you told me to beware of that one. Nasty, violent man. Shut him up in the cellar, we did, and let them escape.”

  Tap. Creak.

  Suddenly she cackled shrilly.

  “Child? Another child? Well, that’s different, isn’t it? That’s what love brings, isn’t it, children?”

  Chortling, she turned and wandered back the way she had come, slippers shuffling on the threadbare rugs.

  “Nothing you can do about it, Ghosts. Nothing I can do. They’re far away now, Ghosts. Have to handle the danger by themselves, won’t they?” She chuckled hoarsely. “Another child! Well, what would you expect?” Floorboards creaked as she shuffled to the stairs.

  “Going to be a problem, that one, isn’t it?” she muttered.

  ONE

  Still pursuing

  1

  “Faster, Ylo!” Maya urged. “Make horse go faster!” She sat on Ylo’s lap, jiggling the reins ferociously. As the traces were firmly gripped in Ylo’s strong hands, also, the big gray was probably unaware of the divided leadership. It certainly did not care. It plodded doggedly, not even flickering its ears, stoically fulfilling the role the Gods had assigned it. Every second day it would haul some traveler’s rig up the hill. The next day it would haul another one down. Nothing about that to puzzle a horse. Not even Ylo’s skills would make it go any faster, either, even had he wanted it to.

  Huddled in the fur cloak she had not worn in months, Eshiala watched the byplay with heavenly contentment. She, at least, was in no hurry. Days like these could go on forever and she would never tire of them. For the last hour the road had been winding gently upward through a dense mist, so that almost nothing was visible except the well-fitted stones of the road itself, built centuries ago by the legions and still in perfect order. Wiry grass along the verge glistened with dampness and a few ghostly bushes lurked beyond that like predatory wraiths in the fog. Once in a while now she glimpsed ragged remains of the winter’s snow. Summer came late to the highlands of the Qoble Range.

  “You promised me beautiful scenery when we reached the pass,” she teased.

  Ylo flashed her a smile. They stopped her heart, those smiles of his, those bright dark eyes, those long lashes. He could say more with a smile than all the poems of all the poets of the Impire. “I said you had never seen anything like the view up here. Well, you still haven’t, have you?”

  “True!” She laughed.

  “And admit it, you are floating in clouds, yes?”

  “Yes!” she said. “Very true.”

  “Well, then!”

  “Faster!” Maya demanded.

  “Poor old horse!” Ylo said sternly. “He’s having to pull all of us up this great, long hill. He’s working very hard. He’s an old, old horse, that’s why his hair’s turned all white. You ought to get out and walk, so he doesn’t have to work so hard, you great heavy lump!”

  That was a mistake. Maya decided she did want to get out and walk, and argued when he would not let her. She was very good at arguing. At times she behaved as if she was the rig
htful-born impress of Pandemia — which she was, even if Pandemia was no more aware of that than the child herself. How about a birthday party, Ylo suggested, and a cake with two and a half candles…

  They had seen very little traffic all morning, but now hooves clanked on the stones behind, coming fast. Eshiala turned and peered back through the little window. In a moment a ghostly rider materialized out of the mist, gray on gray, solidifying into color as he approached, scarlet cloak and gold-plumed hat. He swung out to pass the phaeton without slowing down, cantering on ahead, fading as swiftly as he had come, the cloud soon muffling the sound. He had been an Imperial courier, and the fact that he had been only cantering, not galloping, showed how hard the hill was on horses.

  She stole a glance at Ylo and thought she detected a hint of a frown. A hint of danger? She said nothing. Something had worried him back at the inn that morning, although he had denied it. She thought he had recognized someone. She would not pry. She would let nothing ruffle her happiness.

  It would end soon enough. In a day or two they would be in Gaaze, and what happened then she dared not think.

  She was in love, hopelessly in love. Twenty years old, a widow with a child, and she was as heartsick as an adolescent. However guilty she felt that she should have found such happiness through Shandie’s death, the world turned for her with the beating of Ylo’s heart. She would lie at night with her head on his chest, listening to that solid, comforting beat.

  He was a hero. The army had voted him honors no signifer had received since the previous dynasty. He was a duke by right, although not in law. Shandie had admitted that he had never had a more honest, hardworking aide than Ylo. He was even-tempered, everlasting fun, and good company. He was blindingly handsome, blessed with a perfect complexion very rare for an imp. He was tireless in bed, enormously virile and skilled, able to coax rapture from her body as a musician could pluck music from a lute.

  He was a notorious rake, as faithless as a weasel.

  She had known. She had let him steal her heart, knowing he would break it. He had not broken it yet. He had done what he set out to do — he had taught her what lovemaking should be, and he had brought her safely to Qoble. In another week or so they would arrive at Gaaze, and then the long journey would be over and Ylo would leave her. That had been the bargain, although never put into words.

  No, she was in no hurry.

  “Aha!” Ylo said. Shadowy buildings were congealing out of the fog. There was a seasonal post at the top of the pass, where weary horses could be replaced. Tomorrow, doubtless, the old gray would plod its way down again, to one side or the other, pulling some other vehicle.

  “You go back to your mother now, Princess.” He passed Maya across.

  “Do you suppose the food is edible here?” Eshiala asked, adjusting her too-heavy daughter on her lap.

  “Probably nothing much. Why don’t you buy a snack while I’m changing horses, and we’ll eat by the roadside somewhere.” He pulled his hat brim down to shield his face.

  That was an odd gesture for Ylo, who was well aware of his good looks. It was as if he was frightened of being recognized.

  2

  Despite her sincere belief, Eshiala was not a widow. Far off to the northeast, in Guwush, her husband bounced around unhappily on the roof of a stagecoach. On one side of him a dealer in raw silk lamented endlessly on the ridiculous prices gnomes expected for their produce these days; on the other a minor Imperial bureaucrat expounded on the impossibility of collecting all the new taxes Hub was demanding to fight the current war. At times they gave up hope of winning any sympathy from Shandie and debated with each other as if he were not there, between them.

  The three of them were right at the back, which was the worst place to be, and the motion nauseated him. This was gnome country. The coach was crowded, yet not one passenger was a gnome. If gnomes had any reason to travel, they were required to do so in wagons, by themselves. Raspnex was sitting at the front with another dwarf, a dealer in ironware. All the rest were imps. The driver, of course, was a faun.

  Shandie wondered how Inos was doing, crammed inside with the other women. She was probably even less comfortable than he was.

  The road wound through darkly forested hills, but at least it was flatter than it had been the day before, without the steep inclines that had required the male passengers to dismount and walk. After a day of dust and wind and summer sunshine, they were heading toward some very unfriendly-looking rain clouds. He felt in dire need of a hot bath and fresh garments, but apparently he was about to receive a cold shower first. The knowledge that he could travel on horseback twice as fast with half the discomfort did nothing to improve his mood. He could recall being very impressed as a child by Inos’ horsemanship, and he had no doubt that she could still control a horse superbly, but Raspnex could not. Dwarves fell off horses unless they were tied to the saddle. Besides, the coach fare included the cost of the necessary armed escort.

  “Nasty stretch this!” the tax collector bleated, eyeing the sinister woods crowding in on either hand. “Been quite a few ambushes near here.”

  Shandie uttered a noncommittal grunt that would not have shamed a camel.

  “Disgraceful!” the silk merchant agreed. “Don’t know why the army doesn’t clean out those rebels once and for all.”

  Shandie could have asked him how. He could have mentioned that he had slaughtered ten thousand gnomes near here less than three years ago. He did not. He had invented a vague cover story about representing a syndicate of Hubban investors looking for opportunities in undeveloped land; it allowed him to be tight-lipped about his plans and background. If he tried to explain that it was precisely because this area was infested by gnomish partisans that he had come here, then his companions would report him to the legionaries of the mounted escort.

  The XXVIIth had always been an inferior outfit. Even so, this contingent inspired him with disgust. They were a sloppy bunch. He would dearly enjoy taking them in hand for an hour’s drill. Two hours would be even better; then he could skin them completely.

  For a moment he toyed him with the absurdity of marching over to the leader at the next stop and introducing himself. “Good evening, Optio. I am Emshandar the Fifth, by the grace of the Gods imperor of Pandemia, not to be confused with the imposter presently occupying my throne and claiming to be myself. I am your authentic commander in chief. Now tell me, has this bronze always been green or did you paint it like that for some reason?…”

  Another hour ought to bring the coach to Yugg, if there was no ambush in the meantime. From what Shandie could recall of Yugg, it had nothing to commend it except that it marked the unofficial border between the rule of law and areas held by rebels — or between Occupied Guwush and Free Guwush, depending on one’s point of view. It had a fort with an Imperial garrison. Undoubtedly Oshpoo’s forces would have agents in Yugg.

  The first problem was going to be making contact with them. They would very wary of any imp. The second problem would be staying alive afterward.

  Without slowing, the coach went rumbling through a hamlet. The huddle of squat cottages glowered at the passing strangers with tiny windows under their heavy thatch. They were obviously gnome dwellings, so small that imps would have to crawl on hands and knees inside them. They seemed deserted, but that would be because the inhabitants preferred to sleep during the day and work at night. For a moment the passengers held their noses, and then the coach was through the little settlement, back in forest again.

  Such were the joys of Guwush. Despite the Impire’s best efforts, it never managed to do much to improve the place. The parts it did not control were even worse, of course, with most of the population living in burrows, but to see squalor like this on a main Imperial highway was very depressing.

  Shandie could not shake off a question Inos had posed that very morning, just before entering the coach. It had been bothering him all day. If gnomes preferred to live like that, she had said sweetly, then why should
they not be allowed to do so? Fortunately no one else had heard her, except perhaps Raspnex. In Hub it would be ranked as heresy. In the army the idea would be treason, cause for court-martial if spoken aloud. But by definition the imperor himself could never be guilty of treason, could he? If the imperor decided that the Guwushian war was bleeding his treasury white and the best way to solve the partisan problem was just to go way to solve the partisans be the government, then nobody in the world could argue with him. Except the Senate, of course, and the most of the clergy and the army hierarchy and all the aristocrats who had acquired title to estates in Guwush and likely other groups that would surface in due course.

  Well, fortunately Shandie was not required to make such decisions at the moment. Being an outlaw did have its advantages.

  He was still thinking about the matter when he noticed that Raspnex had twisted around and was staring back at him, peering between the much taller impish passengers. His ugly face was screwed up in a curiously agitated expression. There were too many people between them for conversation. In a moment the little man rolled his eyes and turned away again to face the front.

  In his shabby dark clothing he looked like a retired mineworker, but he was a potent sorcerer, warden of the north. A dwarf rarely displayed emotion like that. What could he have detected that had so upset him?

  3

  A one-horse chaise, a stagecoach, and a longship…

  Father yet to the northeast, Blood Wave II surged over the cold green sea, propelled by the rhythmic swing of her oars, rising and falling in steady beat, with the grace of a gull’s wings. Half the crew rowed, most of the rest were asleep under the rower’s feet. Onward to Northland.

  Stroke.

  Gath and Vork were crammed in together on one bench, pulling the same oar. Thane Drakkor himself had the helm, and he was keeping a steady eye on those two recruits. He had very bright blue eyes, very deadly eyes, killer’s eyes.