by Dave Duncan
Or Skarash.
But she hoped he could not feel the tremor in her hand.
Once in a while she saw other lights flickering beyond arches or down tunnels; rarely she heard distant voices and footsteps. It was all very creepy.
She soon began to suspect that the curiously brash Skarash was leading her around in a circle, up and down, in and out, in a tour of the whole bewildering catacomb, but she was not going to allow yesterday's experience with the pixies to turn her into a nerveless ninny frightened of anything that grew hair on its chin. Her behavior when the centurion blustered had been shameful, but she ought to be able to handle Master Starash no matter how friendly he became. If all he was trying to do was frighten her, then he could tunnel his way back to Arakkaran first. But their two lanterns did make the odd-shaped shadows shimmy in a sinister silent dance.
Something rustled . . . she jumped. Evil take it!
"Just rats, I think," Skarash said, stooping low under a tangle of beams that seemed to have been added as an afterthought to hold up part of the roof. "Or gnomes, which are worse. Every year or two gnomes get in here, and they're the Gods' own pests to get rid of. Mind the cobwebs. This next door is especially tuneful, as I recall."
He was right—it opened with a long, ear-rending scream of agony.
"I first came to Ullacarn when I was ten," he said, leading the way down more stairs. "I thought the desert was the most wonderful place in the world—until I discovered these cellars." High-vaulted and quite empty, the chamber gave his voice an eerie echo. The air was dank, the wall streaked with niter.
"And every year since, Grandsire has brought me along. We kids used to make up . . . Sh!" He stopped on the last tread and turned, staring up at the door they had just come through. "Hear anything?" he whispered.
"No."
He stepped down to the floor, then turned again, looking up at her intently. "Sure?"
He was playing a game, she thought, but she cocked her head and harked. "No."
Skarash frowned and laid down his lantern.
Above her, the door shrieked like a trampled cat, then slammed shut in a reverberating roll of thunder. She leaped, he reached up and caught her. She slammed her lantern against his knee, clawed at his eyes, instinctively banged a knee at his groin, and broke free.
Then she was cowering back against the wall, fighting down a crazy spinning panic, panting madly, with her heart beating inside her head and a vile taste in her throat, hefting the lantern to strike him if he came closer. Enrage them into a mating frenzy, Elkarath had said.
Her knee had missed the tender spot that had worked on the pixie, but Skarash had retreated several paces. He raised a hand to his cheek and then inspected the blood on his fingers.
"Gods, lady! I didn't mean . . ." Even in the uncertain light of the lanterns, his shock was obviously genuine.
She had not screamed, though. She struggled to calm her frantic breathing. She glanced back up at the door. "Kids?"
"Always. The place swarms with them. But—"
He dabbed at his face again, staring at her. Worried.
No mating frenzy, just a cruel practical joke.
Kids! "What exactly did you have in mind?" Inos asked, furious now.
He was blushing, dark in the dim light. "I thought . . . It was only a joke, my lady. I meant no harm."
She shouted. "Explain!"
He squirmed. "We used to do it to the girls. Make them jump into our arms. No harm, really. Just . . . I've never kissed a queen."
A queen. She was not going to let yesterday's escape scar her. She was not going to shy at shadows all her life. Pixies, centurions . . . now she had fallen for a stupid, juvenile, childish prank. Men!
She laid down her lantern with a clatter. "Then let's try that again!"
"What?"
Inos stamped up the stairs to where she had been standing before. "I said let's try that again!"
Wide-eyed, Skarash walked back to his former place also, and then just stared up at her.
"Well?" she demanded, ignoring the pounding of her heart and the wetness of her palms, wishing he would get on with it.
Skarash whispered, "Bang?"
Unencumbered by a lantern, she jumped; he caught her and set her down. Then he took a deep breath and kissed her lips.
Apparently Skarash had not been planning much of a kiss, or else was now frightened to, but she clung tight, closed her eyes, and kept it going, turning it into a long, intimate thing. He wasn't as experienced as Andor had been. He probably had no more experience than Rap had had, but he caught on quickly. And in the end it was she who broke it off.
"Gods!" he muttered. "Majesty! Gods!"
Skarash, she suddenly realized, might possibly be a valuable ally, if she could ever trust him at all. Centurions, pixies . . . she had not panicked. In fact she had withstood that better than he had—he looked much more scared than she felt. Nor had she roused him to a mating frenzy. Apart from a curious shaky feeling, she had come out of that quite well.
"I definitely do like you better as an imp."
Skarash just murmured, "Gods!" again, as if bewildered by impish ways.
"Well, then, let's go."
He nodded dumbly, and picked up the lanterns. Inos accepted hers, and followed him across the cellar floor with her heart still thumping.
She had exorcised the pixies! She had not used some unconscious magic to drive the man mad, but neither had she panicked when he touched her. She had almost enjoyed the kiss. Not quite, though.
And in spite of what Elkarath had said—and what Aunt Kade so obviously feared—she had not been thinking of Azak.
She had been thinking of Rap.
4
Another door groaning open, and another few steps down, and yet another door. Skarash paused. "This one's never used for storage," he said softly. "Except for people. We used to frighten the small fry to death in this one!"
Inos ducked through the doorway after him and then recoiled in disgust. Walls and floor gleamed wet in the lantern's flicker, and drips fell steadily from the low roof. Azak was sitting on the bare stones, an arm raised to shield his eyes from the light. She was horrified—no bedding, no light; damp, foul air. The only furniture was a bucket; the kennel was barely big enough for him to stretch out, and a rusty metal chain connected his ankle to a staple set in the middle of the floor.
"Good morning, my love. Or is it evening?"
"Haven't they fed you? No water? What kind of brutality is this?"
"Standard persuasion." He uncovered his eyes cautiously and peered up at the other visitor, blinking.
"Skarash ak'Arthark ak'Elkarath, Sire." Heedless of his expensive hose, Skarash knelt on the wet stone and bowed his head.
"Sire?" Azak filled a little word with infinite scorn.
Skarash looked up. "A true Arakkaranian, your Majesty! One of your loyal subjects!"
Where had he come from, this serious young man? The prankster had vanished, and the face in the lanterns' glow was hard and intense. Even his voice was harsher, pure southern Zarkian.
Azak shrugged. He moved his feet and the chain rattled. "Then I suggest you demonstrate your devotion by getting me out of here."
"I am honored, Sire!" Skarasb produced the rusty key and reached for the padlock.
"Stop!" Azak barked. "I am not giving my parole to any flea-ridden camel trader!"
"Sire—"
"No! If you came to tell me to behave and promise to be a good boy, then you're wasting your—" Azak broke off in a fit of coughing. "And the same with you," he told Inos hoarsely.
Stubborn ox! Mule! He wouldn't last a week in this tomb. She could feel the damp burrowing into her bones already, and he had been down here all night. Pigheaded idiot!
"Please, Sire?" Skarash begged. "One word?"
"I can spare you a few minutes, I suppose."
"Sire, there are Imperial legions in Ullacarn—"
"There are always . . . Go on!"
Words spurted from Skarash: "Far more troops than I have ever seen, Sire! This is the tenth time I have visited Ullacarn, and I have not seen this before. I arrived not long before you did, Sire, and I haven't had time to investigate properly, but the entire XXth Legion came in last month, and now the van of the XXXIInd is arriving. It's said the emir is under house arrest, and there is talk of rebellion in Garpoon and the Impire is behind it."
"God of Torment!"
"And the IVth Fleet is in port."
Azak looked to Inos, and then changed his mind and addressed the worried-looking Skarash. "You swear this?"
"Aye, Sire! May the Good spurn my soul!"
"Your grandfather put you up to it?"
"No, Sire. I doubt if he even knows. He hasn't been out yet. I mean, I rode into town with the caravan. He . . . well, you know."
Azak grunted and pulled his knees up, clattering rust flakes off his fetters. He leaned his arms on them, and then put his chin on his arms, saying nothing, staring at the lanterns.
"They'll strike Garpoon first, won't they?" Skarash whispered. "Then round the coast . . . one at a time . . . city by city?"
Azak shot a glance at him. "Merchants deal in strategy now?" But there was amusement in his voice.
"Ji-Gon's last campaign—I learned it in school. And the Widow War began that way, didn't it?"
"Yes, it did, Master Skarash. You can't move an army across the desert, so they always come by the coast, one way or the other. Usually from the north, but they have tried the south, too, at times."
"And we djinns never unite until it's too late! Why wait for them to chew us up? Get back to Arakkaran, Sire, and raise the black banner yourself, while there is still time!"
"God of Slaughter!" Azak shook his head in wonder, staring at the lanterns. "It doesn't make sense! They can't move supplies over the Qoble Range in winter. They might come across Thume again . . . the elves'll never let them through Ilrane. Maybe the Keriths? They may be going to try the Keriths again!"
"I don't know, Sire! I'm only a trader."
Azak grunted. "They might take Garpoon now, and make their big move in the spring . . ." He groaned. "What are his terms?"
"None, your Majesty!" Skarash began twisting the key, but the lock proved stubborn. "You are released. No parole."
"What!" Azak looked up at Inos.
Her neck was growing stiff under the low ceiling. "It's true. He says we're going to Hub! He has bought passage for us. We sail in three days."
Azak grunted with astonishment and stared at her, not heeding as the lock squealed and opened. Skarash unwrapped the chain from the sultan's ankle.
Then Azak looked down, and rubbed it. "I am grateful, Master Skarash! Mayhap we can talk later? Meanwhile, I could surely use a bath."
"At once, Sire!" Skarash was on his feet and out the door already with a lantern. His footsteps died away, then loud hinges wailed in the distance. Azak snorted. "Didn't wait for formal dismissal, did he? Weak on etiquette!"
"What else is he weak on? I've never heard him speak like that, and he was playing imp dandy all the way here." Imp lover.
"Skarash? Bah! He's a mimic, the man of a thousand masks. I've watched him trading. He'll make a great merchant. He shows what you want to see, says what you want to hear."
Kisses you when you want to be kissed.
So Skarash could never be trusted. Did Inos have any allies at all? She took the lantern and backed out of the tiny cell. Azak followed, then straightened to his full height with a groan of relief. He rubbed his back.
Reconciliation! She said, "Azak, I did not use occult power on you! I swear it."
He peered down at her for a moment, then shook his head sadly. "No. If you had, it would have faded, wouldn't it? Unless you're a full sorceress it would have gone away in the night?"
"Yes."
"It didn't! I am still quite hopelessly in love with you."
That, to her surprise, was a huge relief. Perhaps she also had wondered. Perhaps she was starting to return his love.
Perhaps that was why he had chosen to spend the night in the cellar. She turned away quickly and headed for the stair, hoping she could find a route out of the labyrinth.
"I shall be glad to see daylight again," Azak growled behind her. "I don't like caves . . . but what is this tale of sailing to the Impire?"
"I don't know. It's what Elkarath says. It may be just a lie, to keep us from trying to escape."
"Or Rasha may have sold us both to Olybino. You to be puppet queen of Krasnegar, me to be returned to Zark as traitor."
"Traitor?" She stopped and looked up at him. "You?"
His expression was bleak. "You heard Skarash. It is coming, as we suspected. Always when the Impire invades, we djinns unite and throw them out again. If we did it sooner we could keep them out, but we always do it eventually. Eventually a supreme leader raises the black banner. I am the obvious candidate."
"Er . . . of course."
"And if the warlock of the east has laid a loyalty spell on me?"
She nodded, horrified once again at the dark workings of sorcery. Azak might be in greater danger than she was.
She started up the stairs, with her shadow dancing on the wall beside her. "You should take Skarash's advice. Find a ship bound for Arakkaran as soon as you can."
They were through the door at the top before Azak said, "No. I shall stay with you. I care more for you than I do for Zark, or Arakkaran, or anything."
Again she halted and spun around to look at him in wonder. "This is madness!"
"Yes. But love always is, isn't it?"
"Your kingdom? Your sons?"
"I would give away my kingdom forever if I could just kiss you just once."
She could find no answer to that.
To the seas again:
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by.
Masefield, Sea-Fever
NINE
They also serve
1
With rain dribbling down his neck and only two hours of daylight left to reach Puldarn, Ulynago thumped the reins and bellowed at his team. Ahead of him the ancient highway ran like a beam of gray light through the black woods, straight for the notch in the trees on the ridge ahead. Had he been able to see back over the load, the view behind would have been just about identical; traffic was almost nonexistent in this weather. He'd met none since Thin Bridge, just outside Tithro.
On the bench at his side, Iggo slumped and nodded, two-thirds asleep. No man ought to be able to sleep in such a downpour, but Iggo wasn't very much awake at the best of times.
In Puldarn there was hot food and beer and a certain well-padded waitress. Ulynago was a man of simple tastes.
Until four years ago, he'd been a legionary. He'd seen no real fighting, but he'd cut up a few rebellious gnomes in his time. Revolting gnomes, the legions called them—gnomes were always revolting. Joke! Good sport, though, gnomes. He'd struggled his way up to centurion near the end of his term. Then there had been better opportunities. He'd retired with a lot more than his official requital, enough to buy his wheels and hooves, back home in South Pithmot where he'd been raised. And he'd hired as swamper, Iggo who was big and stupid—stupid enough once to tackle a drunken troll and a lot stupider afterward. An ideal helper, who couldn't always remember when he'd been paid.
So everything was just as the Gods ordered, except for this Evil-take-it rain. Ulynago hoped the wet wouldn't get into his wheat, good northern wheat that had come all the way from Shimlundok, destined for rich folks' fine bread. The damp would do it no good, and him no good, therefore. The merchants would try to chew him down on the price.
With no warning, he forgot the wheat. He had a different problem—the horses breaking step, trying to slow to a walk. What the Evil? The wagon rocked. He yelled and pulled out his whip. He cracked it. It made no difference. Something had spooked them, they were fighting the
weight, all on the wrong feet. The rig twisted. Hastily he grabbed the brake. Iggo lurched forward and awoke with a bellow of oaths.
"Shut up and get the blades!" Ulynago yelled.
"Wha's'matter?"
With a few lurid additions, Ulynago explained that he didn't know. The rig clattered to a halt. The horses stood and steamed in the wet, but all calm as jelly pudding. Silence. What the Evil?
Ulynago thumped reins again. Ears twitched . . . nothing more. God of Madness! The horses were all staring at the trees just ahead. He felt the hairs on his spine rise. Who would hijack a load of wheat? Of course he did have eighteen gold crowns in his moneybelt. If men were behind this, what had they done to his team?
He rose and peered back over the load at the highway behind—bare rock, shining in the wet, running straight and empty as far as he could see in the rain mist. He didn't like these parts. Too close to dragon country, but one whiff of dragon would have put the team in Puldarn by now. Not dragons.
A man stalked out of the trees ahead and headed for the rig.
With a roar, Ulynago tried to rouse the team again, and again nothing happened. Grinding out a mixture of army oaths and teamster technicalities, he shook water off his hat, took up his sword, and jumped down. Then he saw that the newcomer was only an elf. The tightness in his gut eased a lot—he could handle elves. Only one? Iggo's boots thumped down on the other side of the wagon.
Ulynago headed for the elf. He certainly was no threat—unarmed, just a kid in fancy blue and green, all soaked and smeared with grass stains. Hard to tell with elves, so he might be older. He was striding . . . elves usually pranced. Odd sort of elf.
They met beside the lead pair, with the point of Ulynago's sword at the brat's midriff.
"Who the Evil are you? What you do to my team?"
"I'm truly sorry about this," the kid said, looking at him with eyes that sparkled green and blue like his clothes. He was ignoring the blade.
"Sorry about what?"
"This."
Lying flat on his back, Ulynago could feel the rain falling straight into his eyes. The sky was fall of wildly gyrating trees. He thought back to when something like a ballista had impacted the point of his chin, all of five or six seconds ago. He was still holding his sword. No one had ever gotten by his guard like that before. No helmet. His head had hit the stones . . . God of Torment!