by Dave Duncan
Lord Umpily had never been much of a dancer. He spent most of the evening near the buffet, sampling every dish in the celebrated Ishipole cuisine and gossiping to his heart’s content. The talk was mostly inconsequential scandal—pillage and rape were indecorous topics for social conversation—yet he could sense the brittle nerves under the paint and glitter. Almost every man he spoke to would put a small feeler eventually—had he heard any reliable news? Always he would sigh quietly and confess that he had not.
The rumors told of such widespread destruction that no one could believe them any more.
Chandeliers glittered, orchestras serenaded, and death was denied. Outside, the wretched thousands huddled. Somewhere in Pithmot, the goblin horde continued its unspeakable rampage.
Umpily completed a mild verbal sparring match with elderly Marquise Affaladi, who was accompanied this evening by yet another in her ongoing collection of stalwart Hussars, this one even younger and larger than most of his many predecessors. He did not seem capable of speaking in complete sentences, but that would not be a necessary part of his duties.
Umpily headed back to the buffet in search of another taste of the peppered eels, or possibly the sumptuous lark tongue pate, or—
“My lord?”
He stopped, aghast. She was incredibly beautiful, a vision in nacreous silk and a blizzard of diamonds. Her daringly low gown, her gems, her coiffure . . . She outdid every woman he had seen in the hall. Her face and figure would move mountains.
He had heard no announcement, no anthem—but the visit was unofficial, of course. He doubled over in the deepest bow he could manage. “Your Majesty!”
Eshiala laughed gaily as she bobbed her head in acknowledgement. “It has been a long time, my lord!”
“Er . . .” Suddenly he was speechless. When had he last seen the impress—the genuine impress?
“Taken any interesting boat trips recently, Umpy?”
Umpily said, ”Awrk!” He felt his face blossom as red as any beetroot ever grown. Oh, what a fool he had been to be so deceived by the faun and the evil warlock!
The impress laughed again at his anguish. She seized his hand. “Come! Shandie is blathering to a lot of stuffy soldiers and senators. Let’s you and me dance!”
He had not danced in years. He must not refuse an imperial command. Gibbering and sweating in panic, he let himself be led to the floor through a forest of astonished faces. He had no idea what music was being played or what the correct steps were. He was going to make an enormous fool of himself in front of the entire court. From the gleam in those lovely eyes, Eshiala knew that. She turned to him expectantly. He glanced wildly around to see what the correct hold was—
The orchestra wailed into dissonance and stopped. The dancers stilled in an angry murmur.
Then the imperor came into view over the crowd, holding up his hands for silence. He must be standing on a table. He was beaming that familiar but so-rare smile that brightened his nondescript features like summer sunshine on a rocky mountain.
“Eminences, Excellencies . . . and all the rest of you!” He laughed, and everyone laughed, bewildered.
Dukes and lesser nobility bristled at the insult. Umpily could hear the insidious thought throbbing through the hall: His grandfather never used to behave like this!
“I have some news! Good news!” A cheer.
“Tonight I met with the wardens . . .” A tumultuous cheer!
Umpily joined in, although his head was suddenly spinning. Had not the Four been deposed? The Almighty reigned in their place! What was Shandie playing at?
He was still grinning and nodding, waiting for a chance to be heard. Again he raised both arms, and the noise thinned.
“The goblins have been brought to bay at last! . . . Warlock Olybino has given me his word . . . Tomorrow they die!”
Chaos.
The impress was frowning darkly, tapping her fan against her rosebud lips. Umpily felt quite certain what that frown meant—she had not been informed in advance of the announcement and perhaps not of the news itself. As if to confirm his suspicion, she plunged off through the crowd without a word, heading toward the imperor, although he had vanished down into the throng. Voices were rising in the Imperial anthem, but the cheering was drowning it out.
Limp with relief that he had been spared humiliation on the dance floor, Umpily peered around to locate the nearest source of alcohol. Everyone else had had the same idea. He directed his shaky steps back to the buffet instead, thinking that a mouthful of something sweet might settle him a little. He almost ran down a very large elderly lady in blue satin. He muttered an apology—
Countess Eigaze!
The last time he had seen her she had been wrapped in a warm cloak on a tatty old ferryboat in a snowstorm on Cenmere. Six months ago.
For a moment that seemed to last a whole winter, they stared at each other. She had aged years. Her hair had turned to silver; her face sagged like hot wax.
She inclined her head, chins bulging. She murmured, “Lord Umpily,” almost inaudibly.
“My lady!” At last, he bowed, but he never took his eyes off hers.
“Good news, is it not?” she said, a little louder. “About the goblins?”
“Very, my lady.” Still they stared.
The air reeked with unasked questions: How do you feel now about that delusion we shared? What did you tell Shandie when you came to your senses? Do you have bad dreams, much?
The countess shrugged her pillow shoulders. “Gods save the imperor.” She almost made it sound like a question.
“Amen!”
She nodded again, grimly, and turned away.
For any guest to leave while the imperor was present would be an act of gross disrespect.
A little air would be permissible in case of faintness, though. Umpily reeled out through the great doors, past the petrified Praetorian Guardsmen standing guard. The big antechamber was just as bright and hot as the hall, although the roar of voices behind him faded a little. He was moving in a daze. His head pounded as if he was being suffocated. Why had Shandie invoked the name of the Four, when he himself had told Umpily that they had been deposed—that they were, and always had been, servants of the Evil?
The men’s room!
He pushed through the door. As it closed, the din died away into a subterranean mutter. There was no one else present. He sank down on a chintz sofa and tried to relax, to think, to stop himself shaking. He did not understand!
He could never speak to anyone of the Almighty, but Shandie could. He had done so—he had told the truth to Umpily. Was it possible he also was limited, that he could not tell the world at large?
It still made no sense. If the legions scored a significant triumph in the promised battle, then why in the Gods’ names give the credit to the evil Warlock Olybino, warden of the east?
The Almighty ruled now, did he not?
Noise billowed briefly as the door opened at his back. Still, it was certainly good news that the goblins had been cornered at last. The atrocity stories drifting in from Pithmot . . .
There was a sword in front of his eyes.
With a startled yelp, Umpily cowered back in the sofa. Two Praetorians stood before him. They were large, intimidating young men. They were staring at him with very cold eyes; and one of them had his sword out.
Had his sword at Umpily’s throat.
“You will come with us, my lord,” the other said. “If you give us any trouble, you will die.”
4
Praetorian guardsmen did not draw their swords when arresting unarmed fat old men—Umpily knew that from experience. As he tottered to the door, he realized that this was no orthodox arrest. If the imperor wanted him, he had only to ask. If the impress was still intent on that dance, she might just possibly send a guardsman instead of a footman, but no sword would be drawn unless he resisted. There was something very far wrong here. He paused, holding the handle. The men were right behind him.
“Who ar
e you?” he demanded in a disgustingly quavery voice, addressing his remarks to the lacquered carvings of the door itself. “Where are you taking me?”
“Someone wants to see you.”
“Who-Oooo!” Something sharp had just penetrated one of the tighter portions of his apparel. He yanked the door open.
The cheering was still in progress. The guards he had seen earlier were still standing by the entrance to the hall. For a moment he considered shouting to them, but he was hustled across to another door before he found the courage, and through into a pantry. Then it was too late. Another door at the far side brought him to a servants’ stair.
“Down,” said a voice at his back. He went down, into shadow and then near darkness, hearing the slithery slap of military sandals behind him. His captors were laden with armor, but he knew he could never outrun them, even on the flat. He would break his neck if he tried to do so on a stair. When he could no longer see anything, a heavy hand settled on his shoulder and urged him along.
His captor’s night vision seemed to be infinitely better than his. They took him belowground, through deserted cellars, back up a barrel-loading ramp, and out into an alley behind the Ishipole mansion. He expected a coach or even a horse, then, but instead he was hustled across to another, low door and into what seemed to be an unused stable. It had a musty, deserted smell. Uneven cobbles snared his feet. He stumbled through the dark, guided by the iron grip on his shoulder. He thought he sensed solid objects near his path; he felt cobwebs on his face.
The fingers bit tighter. “Stop!”
He stopped. The hand was removed.
He jumped as another voice spoke in front of him, a woman’s voice. “Very good,” it said. “That’s him. Let’s give him some light before he shakes himself to pieces.”
A lantern flickered into dim life overhead.
He was, as he had guessed, standing in an ancient, abandoned mews. The stalls were piled with litter and many of the partitions had collapsed. The center was still more or less empty, containing only a group of four ladder-backed chairs that looked new and might have come from any kitchen, but the shadows all around were full of mysterious shapes and comers. Anything could be lurking out there. Cobwebs hung like draperies.
The woman was unknown to him, of indeterminate age, wearing a dark cloak and a hat that shadowed her face.
“Be seated, Lord Umpily,” she said, and took one of the chairs herself without looking at him.
He sat down quickly. The two guardsmen were already heading back to the door.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “No one. Be silent.”
The door clicked shut. He assumed that its hinges had been well oiled recently. Still the woman did not look at him, sitting as still as a statue. He shivered in the clammy cold, fervently wishing he had made better use of his time in the men’s room. He could think of no reason why he should be abducted like this, right under the imperor’s nose. He knew no state secrets now. He was comfortably wealthy, but there had been hundreds of much richer people at the ball.
Sudden horror—they had been able to see— in the dark! How had the lantern been lit? “Sorcery!” he whispered. “Be silent!”
So he was silent, thinking shivery thoughts of sorcery. The evil wardens had not been apprehended yet, so far as he knew. The fake Shandie was still at large, and so was the sinister faunish king of Krasnegar. He had assumed that they had fled to distant lands. Could it be that they still lurked around the capital?
Hooves and wheels clattered outside to a halt just a brougham, from the sound of it. Then the door rattled, and opened. This time it creaked a little. Then it closed.
Two figures advanced very slowly into the muddle of light under the lantern. One of them was the taller of the two fake guardsmen. He was supporting a small man in civilian clothes, who leaned on a cane and shuffled his feet. His head was bent with age, only thin silvery hair showing. His breath rasped with effort. The hand clutching the cane was a bunch of twigs. The woman rose and helped the guardsman lower the old man onto a chair. They remained standing.
Umpily was not sure his legs would support him, so he stayed where he was. This ancient newcomer must be the person who had summoned him. He did not look as if he would live to the end of a long conversation. Yet, old and frail as he was, he commanded the assistance of sorcerers! For a few moments he remained hunched over, panting hard and loud. At last he raised a face eroded by unthinkable age and peered blearily at Umpily.
“Good evening, my lord!” His voice was a breathless croak.
“Good evening, er, sir.” Umpily thought his own sounded virile and confident by comparison.
“Forgive my unorthodox invitation.” Wheeze. ”Ah-you do not remember me!”
“No.”
The old man chuckled, and the chuckle became a hacking fit of coughing. The woman bent to steady him, seeming alarmed. Eventually he recovered, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He gestured. The guardsman stepped back a pace, and the woman returned to her chair.
“Well, we have met several times. Perhaps this will jog your memory?” The shriveled carcass began to swell. Years fell away like snowflakes. He grew large, and larger yet. His nondescript clothes shimmered into bronze armor, arms and legs bulged with enormous muscle. Silver hair darkened and then vanished under a golden-crested helmet. The ladder-backed chair creaked under the weight of the giant warrior who now inhabited it.
Looking about a hundred years younger, Warlock Olybino leaned back and crossed his legs—and smiled menacingly at Umpily.
“Better?” he boomed.
Umpily’s teeth were chattering so hard he could not speak.
The warden glanced across mockingly at the woman and then around at the guardsman, who now seemed a mere weed by comparison. “Considering the trouble he went to in trying to find me, he seems curiously overcome!”
“I cannot break his bonding, Omnipotence,” the woman said. “I tried.”
“Well then, we shall all have to try together, won’t we? Can’t leave him laboring under delusions! Ah, there it goes.”
Sudden comprehension—stroke of lightning! Umpily doubled over and buried his face in his hands. Oh, what a fool he had been! How obvious it was now!
Nothing broke the silence except the hiss of the lantern hanging from the rafters.
“Well, my lord?” said that sonorous bull voice. “Which one seems like the real imperor now?”
Umpily groaned. “The one on the boat!”
“And who was that popinjay cavorting upstairs awhile ago?”
“Emthoro!”
“Right you are!” The warlock chuckled.
Slowly Umpily forced himself to look up at the mocking smirk on the face of that virile young warrior.
“And which one is the real Olybino?” he asked—and was at once petrified by his own audacity.
The giant scowled menancingly. Then he shrugged his great shoulders. ”The one who came in, of course. This place is shielded. There were many shielded places in Hub a few months ago. The Covin is now dismantling those shieldings so it can watch everything that transpires in the city. There are very few sanctuaries left now.”
“So you never left the capital?”
Olybino smiled sadly. “I had nowhere to go. I was a Hubban born and bred.”
“You got my letters?”
“I heard of them.” Again that dangerous scowl. “To have allowed any of them to reach me would have been dangerous.”
He gestured again. The guardsman spun around and stalked away; the door clicked shut behind him.
Umpily sneaked a glance at the enigmatic woman, but her face was still curiously masked by shadow. He wondered if she was using sorcery to keep him from seeing her clearly. She might even be someone he knew. This little meeting would be a very deadly conspiracy if the usurper ever learned of it.
Olybino uncrossed his great legs and crossed them the other way. “I am dying.”
“Dying, your Omnipotence?”<
br />
“You heard.” His voice echoed like funeral bells. “I am more than a hundred years old. I had expected another hundred at least, but that is not to be. If I use sorcery or even magic to keep myself alive, I will be detected. Soon there will be no shieldings left.” His expression was stony now, revealing nothing.
“I am sorry,” Umpily whispered. He had never much cared for the warden of the east with his juvenile soldierly posturings, but he would not wish death on anyone, and this was a particularly cruel death. “Can you not flee from the capital as the others did?”
“I am too frail to travel.” The words seemed ludicrous on the lips of that brawny colossus.
“Not even by boat?”
The warlock stared hard at Umpily for a moment, and then shook his head. ”Your concern is touching, fat man—unexpected! Nevertheless, I assure you I have considered all options, and I can see no way out. My one resolve is never to fall into the hands of that cave-dwelling runt. I will not give him the satisfaction.”
“He is around, then? I have not seen him.”
“Oh, he is around! He was in the hall tonight, pulling Emthoro’s strings.”
Umpily shivered and at the same time felt sweat break out all over him.
Olybino snorted. “Do you not think the prince by himself could have done a better job of playing imperor than that preposterous performance?”
The night was growing stranger all the time. To cross-examine a warlock was an experience utterly beyond belief, but Umpily’s curiosity was burning him like a rash and Olybino seemed willing to answer his questions. There was the matter of what was going to happen to Umpily himself after this meeting ended—but that was a concept too terrifying even to think about. He rummaged hastily through all the queries flitting around in his head and found a safer one.
“Why did he mention . . . I mean, why did he have the prince mention—the wardens tonight? If there is to be a great victory—”
“To discredit me!” the warlock growled. His face did not change, for sorcerers could control their appearance as mundanes could not, and yet a timbre of fury rang in his voice. “You skipped a couple of questions, my lord. First you should ask why he has allowed the goblin obscenity to persist so long. Then you ask why he is doing what he is doing to stop it.”