by Dave Duncan
“'Sawright,” Inos murmured, and closed her eyes again. Let the Covin hunt all it wanted!
“The second thing is, we have company, much company.”
Seasickness took a step backward. Eyes flicked open again.
Jarga’s worried face swam into focus. “They may wish only to establish who we are.” She neither looked nor sounded convinced. “You will have to stand up, my lady.”
Before Inos could explain how utterly impossible that was, cold logic stilled her tongue. Dwarves at sea would be as commonplace as whales in a desert; goblins even more so. Her blond hair would look jotunnish at a distance, and a ship of this size would have a better chance of passing a hasty inspection if it had two hands on deck instead of only one. What could they do about her green face, though?
“Help me up,” she said.
Truly the Gods had cursed her.
It had been common knowledge for years that the caliph would launch a war against the Impire as soon as he had united all Zark under his banner. Even back in Urgaxox, the markets had known of his sudden interest in chartering shipping. The imposter imperor had withdrawn forces from the eastern shores, giving him his chance. So now the war had come, and Inos had fallen right into it. All around her, the sea was spiked with sails. Few of them resembled Imperial vessels. Most were Zarkian dhows, lateen sails slanted like the wings of gulls. This could only be the caliph’s navy, on its way to Ollion and invasion.
“How could you let this happen!” she croaked.
Jarga shrugged impassively. “They have our wind. They are faster.”
“I apologize. My remark was unjust.”
“Come aft, my lady.”
As Inos reeled aft behind the sailor, she saw that some attempt had been made to give Northern Vengeance the looks of an ordinary fishing vessel. Very smelly nets were heaped around the deck, and every cask and barrel aboard was in evidence. But where was the mythical crew? At least half a dozen flaxen-haired giants were required immediately.
Frazkr yielded the wheel to Jarga and hurried below, leaving the two women alone. The panes of the cabin skylight were open. No question that the rest of the motley crew would be standing directly under it, attending very carefully to whatever transpired on deck.
The vessel bearing down on them was many times their size, and resplendent. Her two triangular sails curved to hold the wind like a lover’s hands, white against a sapphire sky. The high stem gleamed in gold and many colors, while the long pointed bow cut through the blue-green sea with flashes of foam. She had a bone in her teeth and she was closing relentlessly on the tiny ketch. She represented danger, but she was a magnificent sight.
All the other vessels in view must be her allies. There was nowhere to hide, for the coast was a vague brown line dirtying the southern horizon. Above it and very close to invisible, distant peaks peered through the haze, pale ghosts of mountains. Inos knew that range of old, although she had never seen its northern limits before. Those were the Progistes, and west of them lay Thume.
She swallowed the vile taste in her mouth. “The Covin is still watching?”
“Yes, my lady.” Clutching the wheel in her big hands, Jarga eyed the dhow appraisingly.
It was obvious why the Covin would be watching: The caliph’s fleet had put to sea. Zinixo would want to know where it was headed, and what sorcery might be aiding it.
“Then we have a choice,” Inos said bitterly. “We can escape the djinns at the cost of falling to the Almighty. Or you and I can look forward to a career in a seraglio. Which fate do you choose, Jarga?”
“I will take the djinns.”
“I suppose I will, too.”
The dhow was only a few cable lengths away now, but her bowsprit was still aimed at the ketch. Amid the elaborate carvings and gilding on her prow the name Arakkaran was inscribed in angular Zarkian lettering. Still she came! Did she not flaunt her finery like a vain harlot, she might be suspected of planning to ram. But she was beautiful.
Inos realized with a shock that her nausea had gone. Could that be from fear? Or was it from anger? For the first time in her life, her jotunn half had prevailed at sea. Yes it was anger, but not directed at the dhow.
How dare the Gods play such tricks upon her? Rap, were he here, would make one of his blasphemous remarks about Their taste in irony, and for once she would agree with it. Nineteen years ago he had rescued her from vile captivity in Arakkaran — well, almost rescued her — and now the Gods were spitefully throwing her back in again. She was still east of the mountains, technically in Zarkian waters. Women in Zark had all the rights of dairy cattle.
What of her male companions? What cruel end awaited them? Raspnex and the other dwarves might choose death over the Covin, but the goblins had no reason to do so. If they loosed their powers to escape the djinns, Zinixo would pounce on all of them.
Suddenly Jarga spun the wheel. Northern Vengeance came about, spilling wind from her sails. In a few minutes she was hove-to, and Arakkaran, having matched her maneuver, was drifting close. Scarlet dolphins, blue gannets, and golden squids writhed on her sides amid weeds and stylized waves. She towered over the smaller craft, and she bore some complex banner at her masthead. Red Djinn faces peered down under white turbans.
“She must be the flagship!” Inos said, but Jarga was staring, lost in wonder of this glorious floating palace.
A line snaked down. Jarga ran to take it, snapping at Inos to hold the wheel. At the last possible moment fenders fell into the gap and the two vessels came together with a gentle bump. Like a shower of apples from a tree, a dozen sailors leaped down, thudding bare feet on the ketch’s deck. Clearly Arakkaran was a well-run ship, no mere showpiece.
After months of consorting with dwarves, Inos had forgotten just how big men could be. They wore white breeches and white turbans with nothing between. Shiny scimitars flashed at their waists; ruddy skin rippled over muscles and red eyes gleamed with amusement as they registered the sex of the two crew members present.
Their leader swaggered aft to confront the women. White teeth shone in his red beard as he sneered.
“All alone? What sort of craft is this?”
“We are simple fishing folk, Mightiness,” Jarga mumbled, with a most unjotunnish humility. “We mean no harm.”
“Nor we. Indeed we shall brighten your lives considerably! Go aboard.” The big man gestured to a rope ladder, which had just unrolled itself down the dhow’s side.
Somebody yelled a warning overhead and a barrel crashed to the deck. It exploded on impact, spilling black fluid everywhere. At once the djinns began throwing nets on the mess.
“Pitch!” Jarga cried.
“Pitch.” The officer glanced contemptuously at the open skylight. “We are about to torch you. The ladder will be removed in a few minutes. Stay and fry if you prefer.”
The expression in Jarga’s blue eyes caused his hand to jump to the hilt of his sword — she was very nearly as tall as he, and jotunn. Inos stepped between them and pushed the woman toward the ladder. Jarga went reluctantly. Passing the skylight, she called out, “Abandon ship!”
Feet drummed on wood as the men hurried up the companionway.
Minutes later, when Arakkaran came under way again, Northern Vengeance was already a smoking inferno upon the sea, sails and rigging dissolving in yellow flame. The eight prisoners huddled together on the dhow’s deck under the amused and puzzled gaze of at least fifty huge djinns. In the bright light of the open sea, their eyes were the color of dried blood.
Inos had never seen a finer craft. Every scrap of brass shone like gold. Every plank was waxed and gleaming, every cable smooth and new. Bright-hued lacquer traced out exotic carvings on any surface that did not need to be flat. This, she supposed, was Azak’s doing. He was a perfectionist. If Azak built a fleet, it would be the finest fleet the Gods had ever seen.
She glanced at her companions. Jarga seemed to be in a trance, bewitched by the splendor of the dhow. The dwarves just glowered, out
of their element. The goblins were shifty-eyed and jumpy; Shandie’s face was almost as green as theirs. Raspnex was imprisoned in his self-imposed cocoon.
The imperor was too ill to think, and all the others must be concentrating mightily on not using sorcery within the occult inspection of the Covin. With her newfound sea legs, Inos was in better shape to cope than any of them, but a woman was no more than a domestic animal to djinns. Nothing she said would be heeded, even were it credible: I am Queen Inosolan of Krasnegar, this is the imperor, and may I present Warlock Raspnex…
The cordon opened to admit a portly man of middle years. He was weather-beaten, his unfastened blouse displayed grizzled chest hair. The blouse, his turban, and his voluminous pants were blue; he wore a jeweled scimitar and ornate shoes. He could be assumed to be the captain.
“A motley catch!” he boomed in the metallic accents of northern Zark. His red-and-white brows rose ever higher as he inspected that catch.
Inos turned away from his arrogant gaze and her eye was caught by a movement up on the poop deck. Her heart stopped in its tracks. She stared in disbelief. It could not be! That was nineteen years ago, woman!
“By the beard of the caliph, what are these two?” the captain demanded. He addressed the question to Wirax, the oldest male.
“They are goblins, eminent sir.”
“Goblins? Got a bad case of seasickness, have they?” The unjustified mirth this remark generated in the onlookers confirmed that the speaker must be the commander.
But the one up on the poop? The young one leaning on the rail and staring down at the play? Exceptionally tall, even for a djinn… impossibly wide shoulders and narrow waist… a nose like an eagle’s beak, face weathered to a rosewood red, and an arrogance to face down Gods… green clothing.
He was far too young, but the likeness was uncanny.
“Your names?” the captain barked. He was clearly puzzled now. He had probably never even heard of goblins before. “And stations, if any.”
“Jarga, sir, master of Rosebud.”
“Frazkr, iron founder.”
“Yshan, merchant,” Shandie mumbled.
“Inosolan, widow.”
But Inos was distracted, wrestling memories. That huge young man wore green, royal green! Which of them? They had all seemed so alike in their childhood and she had never paid them much heed anyway.
And none of them had ever seen her face!
The litany of names and lies had ended. No wiser for it, the captain scowled. “And what business brings goblins and dwarves and the rest of you to the shores of Zark?”
Wirax launched into a wild tale of seeking opportunities for mining ventures. As the noble lord was doubtless aware, goblins were exceptionally skilled at detecting ore bodies… But the goblins were becoming steadily more nervous. Any minute now, Inos thought, young Pool Leaper would crack. He would unleash magic and the watching Covin would swoop down on the ship. Then everything would be lost. Better the djinns than Zinixo, but how could she justify or explain that to the goblin?
What was his name, that arrogant prince on the poop? That prince who looked so astonishingly like his father? Like his father had been, twenty years ago. The oldest. Name! Name! Name!
“I don’t believe a word of it!” the captain roared, ending Wirax’s fantasy. He turned away. “Throw the men overboard and give the women to the crew.”
“Wait!” Inos shouted. She had it! And that one had seen her face! “Prince Quarazak!” she called. “We have met before, your Highness!”
A beefy djinn at her side lifted a fist to silence her, and stopped as her meaning penetrated. All eyes swung to the dandy on the poop deck. Inos expected a summons, but he reacted exactly as his father would have done — instantly and dramatically. He vaulted over the rail and landed on the main deck like a giant cat. Then he stalked forward and sailors backed in haste out of his path. He stopped in front of Inos and stared down at her with deadly red eyes. Like his father, he wore his beard trimmed to a narrow fringe; it was darker than she remembered Azak's, though.
“Not likely. I have never had a woman as old as you.”
No one laughed, because the remark was not intended to be humorous. The only female faces he would have seen since his childhood would have been those of his daughters and his concubines. Perhaps daughters. Daughters were failures.
Inos was familiar with the attitude and did not let it distract her. “You bore a golden chain on a cushion. When the ceremony was interrupted I lifted my veil. You saw me.”
The red eyes widened and the young man seemed to grow even taller. His reckless intervention had landed him in a confrontation so unpredictable that it might cause him to lose face before the crew and the ship’s officers, but his composure did not waver. His response was calculated and prudent. “What name do you go by now?”
“I am Inosolan of Krasnegar. You know where we met. And you know who my husband is.”
That last he might not know, if he was not in his father’s confidence, but the rest he did. Oh, yes, he knew. He had been only eight years old, but he would not have forgotten the day his father married the foreign queen. No one who had been present in that hall would ever have forgotten the battle when one lone horseman overcame the entire palace guard.
He looked over the captives, the goblins in particular. Then he made an instant decision, just as his father would have done. He turned to the captain, who somehow contrived to grovel without moving a muscle.
“Strike my flag. Signal my brother to raise his. Break out of line and set course for Quern.”
“Aye, Prince Admiral!”
“Send the woman to my cabin. Put the rest in irons until I decide what to do with them.” With that, Admiral Prince Quarazak ak'Azak ak'Azakar of Arakkaran, oldest son of the caliph, spun on his heel and stalked away.
Inos was roughly shoved after him, knowing that now she must play a part as she had never played before.
5
In Thume, on a snoozy summer afternoon about a week and a half before Longday, Kadie and Thaïle were lounging in the woods, weaving baskets. It was not, as Thaïle had explained, necessary to weave baskets. Weaving baskets was no great feat of artistry or skill. The finished product would be singularly useless in the College — it was just a pleasant way to spend an afternoon.
Kadie was perfectly happy to weave baskets with her friend. She was quite content to do anything in Thaïle’s company. She knew she would never have woven baskets in Krasnegar, even had suitable withes been available. In Krasnegar she would probably have denounced the whole procedure as an idiotic waste of time; she might have gone so far as to describe it as peasant’s work and thus provoke a sermon from her mother, but in fact it was a pleasant way to pass a hot and sticky afternoon.
Facing her, Thaïle sat on a mossy root, legs crossed within her loose skirt of gold and brown, sandals lying nearby, discarded in the grass. Her white lace halter was very nearly transparent and she wore nothing under it. She seemed like part of the woods themselves, a wild flower.
Kadie wore identical garments, except that the stripes on her skirt were gold and a green that Thaïle said matched her eyes. It was very suitable costume for a deserted forest on such a day as this, but the blouse would cause a revolution in Krasnegar — she tried to imagine Papa’s reaction and thoughts failed her. The mind boggled, whatever boggling was.
Poor Papa! How she had enjoyed teasing him! Never again would she be able to outrage him. Never again would she smell burning peat, or run panting up the interminable stairs of the castle, or lick snowflakes off the end of her nose — a trick that always annoyed Gath, who couldn’t. Oh, Gath! He and Mama had gone off with the imperor, never to be seen again. Probably never to be heard of again. Thaïle could not help, for she did not know what had happened to the king and queen of Krasnegar, or to Gath. The Keeper might know, because the Keeper knew everything, but apparently no one ever asked questions of the Keeper. Nasty old witch! Papa had never come to rescue his du
tiful, beautiful daughter from the goblins, so he was probably dead, just like Thaïle’s baby and husband. The world was cruel. Blood Beak was dead; Death Bird and all the goblins were dead. The legions had been burned up by the dragons…
“You all right?” Thaïle asked softly.
Kadie sniffed. “Oh, yes! Quite all right. Perfectly all right. Nothing wrong. Well, my fingers are a little sore, maybe.”
Thaïle laughed and threw her half-finished basket over her shoulder. “Then forget about the footling baskets!” Her big gold eyes sparkled.
“But I want to! I want to be able to make them round and smooth and even, like you do, and not all lumpy and squished.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me!” Kadie said crossly. “You’re so good at everything and I’m so hopeless!”
“I expect there are lots of things you can do that I can’t. Not without using sorcery, at least.”
“I don’t know any. And even if there was something I could do, then it would be a Krasnegar thing, a princessy thing, and those things aren’t going to do me any good at all here in Thume. I’m no good for anything here!”
Thaïle pushed her feet out of the hem of her skirt and scrabbled over on her hands and toes, gangly as a newborn colt. She sat down next to Kadie and put an arm around her.
“Berry brain!” she said softly. “Of course you’re good for something! You’re company for me. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Kadie!”
“Really? Truly?”
“Really! Truly! I have no friends, no family. I can’t make friends with the other archons, I just can’t! Not anyone here. I miss Leéb horribly! I know why the Keeper and the archons and the College did what they did, even if I can’t tell you. And yet I can’t help blaming them. You’re the only one who doesn’t remind me of Leéb, and I really, truly think I’d go mad if I didn’t have you here with me.”
Kadie blinked a few times. Then she wiped her cheeks with a finger. “I feel a fool, weeping all the time like this.”