by Dave Duncan
Rap sensed a challenge. "You do? I mean . . . Oh! Fire chick?"
Lith'rian's eyes danced in rainbow colors and he nodded.
"You were the fire chick?"
"No, but I used it. They have odd properties, dragons. Useful, sometimes. Couldn't let Bright Water go into that nest of tunnel rats without support. And you mustn't take anything she said then too literally. You do see why she betrayed Inos to the mole though?"
Of course elves liked dwarves no more than dwarves liked elves, and Rap sensed unsteady footing ahead. "No, my lord."
"It's perfectly simple," Lith'rian said snappily. "We're stuck with that dweller-under-rocks as a warlock, but we can't have him thrashing around on his own, threatening everyone, so we have to educate him into a few alliances. Allies can keep him under some sort of control, right? So Bright Water offered him Olybino's head on a plate, see? And the way that nervous meat-herder thinks, if you give him an opportunity, he at once suspects it's a trap and goes in the opposite direction. The same with Inos—Bright Water said I'd stolen her from the Rasha woman, but of course Rasha was merely hiding her from Olybino—the witch had predicted that, because only a woman can forecast how a woman will think, so she was waiting ready to track Inos—and that let her give the mole a chance to steal Inos away from me and from Olybino's sector and offer her to the imperor as a bribe for support or else to reveal the supposed plot to Olybino and try to bribe him and either way he'd think he had gained an ally, either East or Emshandar. Follow?"
"Er . . . What went wrong?"
"Olybino did, of course. Idiot! He cut the knot by telling Emshandar that Inos was dead, so the plan unraveled. Then Inos herself went and escaped from the Rasha woman's votary, and he had to use so much power to get her back that Olybino's locals tracked him down and he captured her, only she wasn't any value by then except a negative value as an embarrassment. He didn't kill her, so now she's back in Arakkaran. It's all perfectly simple."
Any less simple and Rap's head would fall off. "Yes, my lord."
"She's in danger though," Lith'rian said sternly, "in danger of making a terrible mistake. You must warn her."
"Me, sir? I mean, your—"
"You." The warlock sighed. "Quip' was right about some things, lad. Arakkaran's in East's sector. I daren't interfere."
"But—"
"But nothing. You've already met two of them—which would you say was crazier? And the fourth, Olybino, is a fool, a pompous, frightened fool. He is being stupid, but if I meddle in his affairs then he may get much stupider. Things are too dangerously poised. I mustn't give West a real ally!" He waved an expressive hand in an inscrutable gesture.
Rap said, "Oh!" His hopes spiraled down into endless dark. How could he help when a warlock daren't?
"You will have to do it," Lith'rian said firmly. "Or try, at least. I can give you help, but time is desperately short."
"Yes, my lord."
Gathmor came hurrying back with a bundle of dowel and hemp under his arm just as the little boat slid to a stop directly below the watchers, its sail hanging limp. The three youngsters gazed up with big expectant grins.
"Make it fast, sailor," the warlock said impatiently, and Gathmor began bending the lines to a convenient cleat.
"What exactly am I to do?" Rap asked, feeling both alarmed and suspicious. He had never liked being rushed into things.
"Do what the God told Inos to do—trust in love!"
"Yes?" Rap said nonconmuttally.
"And go and remind her of those instructions! Minstrel, you can play one of these?" Lith'rian held out a rack of silver tubes to Jalon, who had at some point begun to take an interest in the proceedings. Where the pipes had come from, Rap had no idea.
Jalon's dreamy blue eyes widened. "Of course. They're faunish, but I've used them."
"Do you know 'Swiftly Comes the Dawn'?"
Jalon pouted. "A Dwanishian melody on Sysassanoan panpipes?"
"Barbaric, I admit."
"But I expect I can come close enough."
"Good. And 'Rest My Beloved'?"
"That's worse—but, yes."
The ladder clattered down the side, and the boys began scrambling up.
"We're going in that?" Gathmor protested. "Square sail? The mast's set too far forward. It'll do nothing except run before the wind."
The warlock chuckled. "But this boat always has a following wind! Don't pull faces, sailor. Sometimes magic serves the Good. So you must steer and Master Jalon must whistle the wind. 'Comes the Dawn' for more wind, 'Rest, My Beloved' for less. Any questions?"
The three boys tumbled over the side in fast succession, panting, grinning, and clustering excitedly around Lith'rian. He flashed them a smile and tousled their curls.
Rap had been peering down at the bundles in the boat.
"That long package—swords?"
"Of course."
Rap looked distrustfully at the warlock, the man who had given his daughter to a gnome.
"I'm an adept. I can learn to play those two tunes. I can certainly steer a boat. The other two needn't—"
"No! No!" Lith'rian's juvenile face took on the soulful expression that Quip' had favored. His eyes misted. "Don't you see? The three of you, hastening to Arakkaran . . . jotnar aiding a faun . . . that's beautiful! That's much more romantic than just one."
"Course it is." Jalon tucked the panpipes in his belt and clambered over the rail.
"Just try and stop me," said Gathmor with all his old menace. "Everything we need is there . . . er . . . my lord?" Perhaps he still did not know who the elf was, but he had recognized his authority.
"You'll find a chart in the big chest. There's an inkblot on it, somewhere. That's you."
The sailor tried not to pull faces again.
"And, Captain . . . a prophecy. Veer south of the Keriths. If you go to the north you wreak havoc on the shipping there, and if you try to go through The Gut, you certainty run aground. You know about merfolk! Remember that, whatever else they are, they are also madly jealous. The men have fast knives."
"Troublemakers!" Gathmor agreed. "Had 'em around Durthing a few times. Always brought bloodshed." He followed Jalon down the ladder.
"The Gods be with you, Master Rap," the warlock said. "Waste no time."
Still feeling that he should be arguing, Rap took hold of the rail and swung up a leg.
Gathmor had the tiller already and the sail was spread. The tiny craft rocked as Rap settled on the thwart amidship, next to Jalon, who grinned childishly and raised the pipes to his lips. At the first haunting notes, a shadow of ripples rushed over the waters, and the sail swelled.
"What's her name?" Gathmor demanded. He looked up to ask the elf, but already there was open water spreading between the large craft and the small.
"Call her the Queen of Krasnegar," Rap said between his teeth.
"So be it. May the Good go with her."
A stronger gust rocked the boat. Palms on the shore bent and thrashed.
Ripple? The world steadied again at once.
That one had been faint, but Rap had felt it—either because he was learning to, or because the power had touched him personally. His arms and knees had turned from gold to brown in front of his eyes. He gasped in agony, and then his shirt burst open in a shower of buttons, his pants ripped across the seat. Jalon stopped trilling on the panpipes to join Gathmor in great bellows of stupid, raucous laughter. The boat rocked with their mirth. Idiots!
All the same, it was with real relief that Rap inspected his own familiar faunish face again, flat nose and goblin tattoos and all. It had never been much of a face, but he was glad to have it back.
He grinned at the very pink Jalon, and then at Gathmor. "Lay a course for Arakkaran, Cap'n!"
"Aye, sir!"
"Look!" Jalon pointed.
Quip'rian was waving from Allena's deck. Beside him stood the elvish Rap—and Jalon, and Gathmor. All four waved. Rap raised his hand in farewell, and then turned his face to the se
a.
Rushing seas:
One port, methought, alike they sought—
One purpose hold wher'er they fare;
O bounding breeze, O rushing seas,
At last, at last, unite them there.
Clough, As Ships Becalmed
TWELVE
Female of the species
1
Morning sun sparkled on the great harbor as Dawn Pearl crept slowly toward her berth. Inos stood on deck with Azak on one side of her and Kade on the other, studying all the bustle and the astonishing variety of shipping—very much as she had wanted to study it that other morning, months ago, when she had been lumbered with the odious baby Charak. Now she was much less interested, for the bright hopes of that memorable day were tarnished. Spoiled! Crumbled to ruin. She dared not look at Azak, for his feelings must be as dark as her own. They had gambled and lost, and they still lacked even the tiny compensation of knowing for certain who had won.
Even the medley of scents was oddly familiar to Inos—the fish stinks of a harbor and the flower scents of the city. She felt far more like a returning resident than she would have expected, or wanted. The shining palace on the hill was a derision, a marble jail waiting to take her back, a sarcophagus. She was draped again in the despicable chaddar of humiliation, a recaptured fugitive.
"Look!" Kade exclaimed. "On the dock. Isn't that a reception party?"
It was indeed, and Inos had detected it long before Kade had. Azak had probably seen it even earlier, for he had the falcon vision of his race. Neither of them had commented.
"Led by Kar," Azak murmured.
Inos could not see that yet, but it would be a welcome sight for Azak. If the devoted Kar still lived, then no other prince had seized the title of sultan. And that thought made Inos realize that Azak must have feared for his life since he learned Dawn Pearl's true destination.
Who had told him, or when, he had not said, but he had been released from the brig as soon as the ship cleared Brogog, the last port before Arakkaran. Gaunt and grim, he had spoken very little since. He was dressed again as a prince, all in green: trousers, tunic, cloak, and turban. Inos did not know where he obtained those. Likely they had been slipped aboard by Elkarath's women, as it must have been they who had smuggled the Zarkian costume for Inos and Kade into the baggage. The whole cruel buffoonery had been very well planned.
Azak had hardly spoken. She did not know how he felt about her now. Was he still in love with her? She could not read his thoughts.
But Azak was returning as sultan, and apparently his throne was still secure. His lack of jewels and scimitar would be soon rectified if the efficient Kar was in charge of the welcome.
Welcome? Public reception . . . they were not even to be granted the grace of an unobtrusive entry into the city. There would be bands and a parade. Rejoice!—the sultan returns!
Mockery.
Inos turned away from the sight of the band and the assemblage of princes. She glanced around her to confirm that the chests had been brought up and that all was ready for disembarkation. Dawn Pearl would leave on the same tide.
Well! Over there was the shrouded form of little Frainish, who had been so chagrined to discover that she was coming home to Arakkaran instead of venturing forth to Angot. But at her side stood Skarash, inscrutable again in the flowing robes of a Zarkian merchant. Well, well!
Master Skarash had supposedly disembarked at Torkag. No one had seen him since, so no one had been able to question him. And here he was back? Either this was more sorcery, or he had been plying the sailors with gold to keep him hidden. There was one way to solve that question.
Inos strode across the deck and accosted him. "Master Skarash?"
He raised his chin and continued to stare at the harbor, arms folded, ignoring her. He was being a djinn again, and djinns did not speak to other men's wives, or pretended wives.
"I was hoping for a farewell kiss," Inos said.
He twitched. Garnet eyes flickered toward her, then away again. His Adam's apple lurched, but he did not speak.
"If I tell Azak about that episode," Inos said, "then he will kill you now, with his bare hands."
Again the hard swallow.
"I shall count to three, then I tell him how you forced your kisses on me in the cellars. One!"
"Go away!"
"Not until I have some answers. Two!"
Frainish was wide-eyed above her yashmak. Skarash did not look around, but gems of sweat gleamed amid the pink stubble on his lip. "What do you want to know?" he whispered.
Inos had already gained one answer—Skarash was not a sorcerer. "Whom do you serve?"
"My grandfather, of course."
"And whose votary is he?"
He licked his lips. The dock was very close now, Kar and the dozens of other princes clearly visible, all loyally smiling. The band lurched into the clamorous discords of the Arakkaranian national anthem.
"Warlock Olybino's."
Aha! "Since when?"
Skarash turned a furious, frightened gaze on Inos. "Since the night we reached Ullacarn. The centurion . . . You saw! That was the warlock himself!"
"Yes, I know. So your grandfather did serve Rasha when we left here?"
He snarled at her. "Yes, and now he doesn't, and it's all your fault!"
"Mine?"
"You escaped from Tall Cranes. He had to use so much power to find you and get you back that the warlock found him! You spoiled everything, Inosolan! Now go away!"
"I am not quite satisfied. So it is not Rasha's will that brings us back here. Does she know we are coming?"
"Yes. I think so. She must if they do." He waved at the quay.
"And why are we coming?"
Skarash's ruddy face was all shiny with fright. He glanced momentarily over at Azak, and then back to Inos. "He is watching! Please go away!"
"Not until you tell."
"The wardens do not need you! The Krasnegar problem has been solved. You are nothing, Inosolan! Nothing!"
She flinched. Yet somehow it was almost a comfort to have one's worst suspicions confirmed, the uncertainty laid to rest. Now the fairer hopes could be discarded and put away. Now Krasnegar could be forgotten, for whoever ruled there in future, an ex-queen would not be allowed to return. Other alternatives could be examined, and Inos could start to make some plans. The hurt . . . The hurt could wait.
"So why bother to send us back?"
Skarash looked longingly at the dock, as if wondering if he might leap to safety and disappear into the crowd. Then he sneaked another glance across at Azak, and paled at what he saw.
"As a message to Rasha. She is nothing, also! Olybino is the stronger—he broke her loyalty spell. Grandsire was her votary and now is his. He can enslave Rasha also!"
Aha! again.
"Please, Inos!" Skarash whispered. "Have mercy! You are killing me. He is still sultan of this city and Grandsire is not here to shield me."
Inos hesitated, then nodded. "I shall not forget the kiss," she said sweetly. Let him worry about what that meant! She spun around in a swirl of hems and stalked back to the glaring Azak, picking her way between ropes and baggage and hurrying sailors.
Things were a little clearer now.
"Well?" Azak demanded. There might be hint of twinkle in his scowl, making Inos wonder how much he had deliberately been aiding the interrogation of Skarash.
"Rasha knows we are coming. Olybino has sent us back as a threat—his sorcery is stronger than hers. She is in danger herself now."
"Gods of the Good!" The tall young man's face broke into a wide smile.
But Rasha was still a sorceress, and she would be waiting in the palace.
2
Nothing!
All during the bowings, the prostrations, the speeches of welcome, that dread word kept echoing to and fro in her head.
You are nothing, Inosolan!
As the band played and the procession moved slowly up the long and hilly road to the palace, she s
at with Kade in a decently screened carriage, accompanied by two anonymously shrouded women whose presence stifled conversation completely.
She thought about being nothing. If her kingdom had gone and she was nothing, then surely she had been nothing before? Inosolan had always been nothing. Krasnegar had been everything. Bitter taste.
The crowds were not cheering for her—they could have no idea who was inside that opaque little oven bouncing by on its unsprung axle. They knelt with their faces in the dust and they cheered their sultan on his big black horse. They were shouting Azak! Azak! Azak! but it sounded very much like Nothing! Nothing! Nothing! to Inos.
Now she need not worry about Krasnegar. Now she was free to consider the alternatives. There were not very many to consider.
She had no assets. She knew no trade. Her needlework was scandalous, her lute playing pained the ear. Who ever heard of a female hostler, or a cook who could catch the dish but not prepare it? With a royal title she had been useful timber for matchmakers like the dowager duchess of Kinvale. Without it, she might make a governess or a dancing instructor. Or she might marry a rich, fat merchant who hoped to rise in society and needed guidance in gentility.
Of course she had one asset. Doubtless she could soon acquire the skill required to use it to its best advantage; but that road led down to the pit that Rasha had known, the bog from which almost no one but Rasha had ever escaped.
Nothing!
If her father had told her a word of power as everyone believed, then she had mistaken it. So far she had displayed no signs of being an occult genius at anything.
Why had the warlock been so cruel as to send her back to Zark? Anywhere in the Impire would have been better for an unattached female with no skills, no title, no money, no friends.
She might have one friend, but one she was not certain she wanted. And she was not even sure of him any more. Since being released from the brig, Azak had not said he loved her. Was it she he had thought he loved, or only the romantic myth of a beautiful, dispossessed queen? What had he dreamed of—being her husband, or being king of Krasnegar? If he still wanted her, could she ever want him?