On a muggy afternoon five days before midsummer. Rap emerged from the Way and strolled across the clearing toward Thaïle's cottage. Before he reached the steps, the pixie came around the side of the house, carrying a bundle of washing. She advanced to meet him, so he stopped where he was and waited for her.
As usual, she wore a long striped skirt and a white blouse; today it was sleeveless. She was barefoot. As usual, he found himself reacting in odd ways to her intent golden gaze. At times she seemed a striking young woman—beautiful, in fact. She wore her hair too short and her figure was almost boyish, but that was true of most of the pixies, for they were a gracile race. He could appreciate her womanhood. Then, suddenly, he would find himself thinking of her as a mere girl, less than half his age and barely older than his daughter. Not yet seventeen, Kadie had told him. But she had borne a child; she had suffered its death and the death of her lover. She was probably the most potent sorcerer he had ever met—Thaïle was an enigma, and he felt clumsy and unsure of himself in her presence.
She dropped her bundle almost at his feet. "You are welcome to the Thaïle Place, goodman." Her voice was musical, her expression solemn.
He smiled and bowed. "I am Rap of the Inos Place, and I come in peace."
If she recognized his attempt at humor she ignored it. "Kadie is washing her hair."
"I think you are lying, Archon."
"Yes." She knelt and began spreading clothes out on the grass, to dry in the summer sun.
Rap sat down to watch. She was not hard to watch.
"Well, this is a chance for us to speak without her."
"Yes." Thaïle continued to deal with the washing. "Be patient. So many months of torment are not discarded easily."
"Is it just me, or all men?"
"All men. From the time she was stolen away from her mother until I rescued her, she did not speak to a single woman. Now she distrusts all men." The golden eyes glanced swiftly in his direction. "It will pass; give her time."
He sighed. "Gladly. But you understand that it is hard for a loving father to find his daughter spurning him."
"She does not spurn you. She weeps because she treats you badly."
His throat knotted. Oh, how he needed Inos! "Tell her not to weep. I love her, and will wait." He had the rest of his life to wait, a prisoner in the Accursed Land. "I forgive, always. I hope my visits do not upset you, also, Archon?"
For a moment the pixie did not reply, but she was almost finished spreading out the laundry. He never knew how to speak to Thaïle. Normally she made him welcome at her Place when he called. She seemed genuinely fond of Kadie, and for that he was immensely grateful, but he knew now that Thaïle was damaged, too. Her husband and baby had been slain in cold blood by the very College she was forced to serve. She must know why. She must know the fate that awaited her, and that knowledge itself would be enough to unhinge anyone. Widow and bereaved mother, Thaïle, also, was an ill-used child.
She adjusted the last sleeve and then sat back on her heels to face him. He thought of a butterfly resting on the grass.
"You do not distress me, your Majesty. Kadie and I complement each other. She has no cause to trust men; I have no cause to trust women."
He winced, feeling awkward and inadequate. "I did not mean to hurt. Please bring Kadie to visit the Rap Place sometime. Take her there, perhaps, when I am absent, and let her see it. Tell her that it is a replica of a house I lived in once in Durthing, on Kith, when I was much the same age you are now, Archon. I was lonely and friendless myself in those days."
"You are lonely and friendless now?"
He nodded. "We live in hard times. Trouble should become easier to handle as we are older, but by then we know that the world is not cruel, only indifferent, and that hurts even more. Give Kadie my love. Tell her I will wait, and I understand."
The child face was remorseless, hardened by burdens beyond its years. "Do you? Can any of us ever understand the sorrows of another?"
"That is what love is for, Thaïle."
She turned away, scrambled to her feet, and walked off in the direction of the cottage.
"Be sure to tell Kadie that I love her!" Rap called. Finding himself alone, he rose and headed back to the Way.
He told the Way to take him to the Meeting Place. He had no desire to go home. After many months of traveling, he had a roof to call his own again, but it was not one he cared for. He had been granted a pleasant site for it, in a dell with a few spindly trees, close to the sea to placate his jotunn half. He had set to work creating a replica of a log cabin he had inhabited once in his youth. The occult tumult he had thereby caused had brought him assistance in the shape of Archon Toom, who had completed and furnished the cabin for him in a twinkling and had also added all sorts of useful magical contrivances that Rap would never have thought of. Knowing four words of power, he was technically still a sorcerer, but his abilities were feeble indeed.
After four days in Thume he was frustrated to frenzy. His war against Zinixo might continue, but he could not know of it. More likely it was just fading away into futility. The Covin was winning by default and he was completely powerless to do anything about that.
The change in Kadie distressed him beyond measure. His haughty, assertive little girl had withdrawn into timidity, and he could not reach her. He fretted about Inos and Gath and even Shandie, all carried off captive to Dwanish. At best they lingered there in a dwarvish jail; at worst they would have been betrayed by some spy of Zinixo's. He worried also about Krasnegar, vulnerable to the Almighty's spite. At times he even found himself worrying about Tik Tok, and then he knew he was going crazy.
Vegetation around him grew lush as he neared the Meeting Place. Thume was more strange than he had ever dreamed. The manner in which sorcery had been organized and domesticated was a marvel that went far beyond anything he had envisioned for his new protocol—magic as a public service, overt, available, and useful. Yet even here the Evil had penetrated and perverted the Good, for Thume could be viewed as one enormous jail. It seemed to exist only to conceal itself. The pixies' lives were regulated and constrained to serve the College, and in the end all effort turned around upon itself and the College did nothing but defend its own existence. It could murder a baby in the name of love.
The pixies themselves were a shy, solitary people, ingrown and reclusive. Almost he could compare the whole race of them with poor Kadie, as if the War of Five Warlocks a thousand years ago had blighted all pixies in the same way her ordeal with the goblins had blighted her. They denied the world. They sat out the dance, and that philosophy was no more comprehensible to Rap the king than it would have been to Rap the sailor, stableboy, or wagon driver.
He sauntered out into the Meeting Place: flowered parkland, lawns, and picturesque lake. He cared little for the oddly skewed architecture of the little cabanas, but the overall effect was pleasant enough—if you liked playgrounds. He came here every day to sit on a bench and watch the swans and hope someone would stop and talk with him. No one had done so yet. Even sorcerer pixies were too shy, too alarmed by this inexplicable "demon" who had been allowed to violate their sanctuary. If he tried to initiate a conversation, his victims would gibber at him. Sometimes they would just vanish like soap bubbles. Perhaps in a few years someone would bid him good morning, or something equally daring.
No, he was being unfair. He had forgotten the two archons, Toom and Thaïle. Thaïle he pitied beyond words; he admired her, also, for her strength and her gentleness to Kadie.
Toom was entirely different. Toom was a solid, genial man of around his own age, slow and deliberate in the manner of a peasant farmer. He even had dirt under his nails. Toom had called on Rap a couple of times, to inquire after his needs. He had conducted the guest around the College, answering every question with apparent frankness. Rap suspected that Archon Toom had been assigned to him as jailer, but the man was informative and helpful.
Perhaps a dozen pixies now inhabited the Meeting Place. Conversation had stopped, though, while the golden eyes studied the intruder. No one sat alone, available for friendly advances.
He frightened them! He had come to Thume looking for allies in a war. What use these delicate folk in a war? They were porcelain people, soap bubbles. They made him feel overlarge and lumpish; he must seem even more so to them. To press his attentions on them seemed cruel. He must just give them time to adjust, like Kadie. Time? Only five days until Longday. If Armageddon came to Pandemia then, did Thume survive?
He continued walking, telling the Way to take him to the Library. He would find a book of Thumian history and carry it back to his Place and try to read . . .
"King Rap? Do I intrude upon your meditations?"
Archon Toom strolled at his side, peering cautiously up at Rap with guileless golden eyes.
"No indeed, Archon! I welcome company."
"Ah. I apologize for my comrades' incivility. I hope you will make allowances for a thousand years of custom?"
"Gladly. I appreciate the honor of your hospitality."
"The Keeper's hospitality," Toom murmured in his plodding, deliberate speech. "And Archon Thaïle's, of course. There is a prophecy about the Chosen of the Chosen One, you see. But no matter. I wonder if you would spare a little time for a discussion. On a matter of some importance to us?"
Already the Way was leading them out into the forest.
"Time," Rap said with a laugh, "is one thing I have in excess. Gladly, Archon, gladly!"
A matter of importance? He still had enough premonition to sense a major turning point. Something was about to happen.
In a few minutes. Rap and Toom arrived at the Raim place, a simple cottage in a grove of willows, close by a stream. Archon Raim himself came hurrying out to greet the visitors, buttoning up his shirt. Toom spoke the ritual greeting; Rap picked up his cue and followed suit.
Raim was little older than Thaïle, a comely youngster, husky by the standards of the dainty pixies. He offered chairs under the trees, he laid chilled mead and a dish of sugared fruits on the plank table. With obvious pleasure he introduced his good-wife Sial, who was even younger than he was, and of course a mundane. Rap sensed that their relationship was a very recent innovation, for they glowed at each other like honeymooners. She blushed and stammered, departing as soon as she decently could, and Raim smiled after her with eyes of gold.
Rap sat back, crossed his ankles, and waited to hear what a matter of some importance might be. His admittance to the Accursed Land was a violation of an ancient tradition; such things did not happen by chance in a society of sorcerers. If he could be of use to the College, then perhaps he would have some scope for bargaining. Of course these two could drag every thought out of his head if they chose, but the use of power seemed to be restricted by custom and good manners in the College. The Keeper would not likely put much stock in etiquette, though, and the Keeper might have instigated this meeting.
The archons inquired after his welfare, and Kadie's. They asked about his journey and means of travel. They frowned when he told them of the dragons and the elves' intransigence. They revealed nothing.
Surprisingly, it was the older, stolid Toom who first grew tired of trivia and came to the point. He flexed his thick peasant fingers, as if longing for the feel of an ax or spade.
"I understand, Goodman Rap," he said cautiously, "that it was you who cut off the supply of magic some years ago?"
"It was. Many years ago."
The archons exchanged glances.
Young Raim said, "There is no chance that whatever you did could be reversed?"
"Why should you want to see it reversed?" Rap asked coldly.
"Oh, I don't!" Raim protested, fumbling with his crystal goblet. "It's just that the dwarf Zinixo has assembled a worldwide monopoly of sorcery. In the past it was the wardens' ability to draw on Faerie for additional words of power that prevented anyone ever doing that"
"So in a sense I am responsible for what has happened," Rap admitted. "But I have very few regrets. I should do the same again, I think. The farming of the fairies was an unthinkable atrocity."
The archons stumbled over each other's words in their haste to agree.
"I was merely inquiring," Raim explained awkwardly, "because I should not like to think of the Almighty, as he calls himself, ever being able to draw on that prime source, also. I was just hoping for that reassurance."
Oh, he was, was he? Or did the archons—at least these two—not share the Keeper's absolute reliance on Thume's immemorability?
"I do not believe that even the Covin can recover what I removed." Rap reluctantly concluded that he must take them into his confidence if he hoped ever to be taken into theirs. "As I understand what you told me, Toom, when the Holy Keef established the College, she moved it to another Thume."
Toom nodded. Then he nodded again, seeing the connection. "That is so. We exist side by side with the real world. The two lands are similar in big things—rivers and mountains, and so on. When Keef made the duplicate, the two would have been exactly the same, down to individual leaves and flowers. Except for the people, of course. You see, the new Thume was uninhabited until she moved her followers here. Now, after a thousand years, they have grown apart. Trees and so on have changed in different ways. The copy is no longer exact, you see."
Rap saw. "I did the same with Faerie. I moved the fairy folk to a land of their own, where they would be left in peace, not slaughtered like animals. I believe I located all of them, both free and captive. Unlike Keef, I then severed the connection."
Toom smiled, apparently pleased. "And by now the two lands will have diverged so far that no sorcerer would be able to locate the replica? Not even Zinixo and his gang!"
"That is my belief," Rap agreed, "and my hope. Even if he catches me and forces me to explain what I did, I do not think the fairies can be recovered." He eyed the two men thoughtfully. "You agree?"
They agreed. They did not seem disappointed, either, which was a relief.
"More mead, your Majesty?" Raim said, offering the bottle. He was young enough to enjoy playing host to a king, even a very minor king in exile. "That is good news."
Perhaps it was, but it had not been the main business of the meeting.
For a few minutes the three men sat under the dappled shade of the willows while only the brook disturbed the silence. Archons were the rulers of Thume, but they apparently lived very simply. The Raim Place and the Thaïle Place were humble abodes. Gold and jewels were irrelevant to sorcerers, multitudes of slaves unnecessary. Yet Thaïle washed clothes; Raim made his own furniture. As a king who detested pomp and liked to groom his own horse, Rap thought he approved.
This time it was Raim who spoke up. "You are familiar with the occult protection around our land?"
"In a general way," Rap said. "I have never met its like, though."
"The barrier could only have been created by a demigod, for it requires powers beyond sorcery. It is a form of shielding, of course, concealing our use of power, yet more than that. Not quite an aversion spell, for that can be felt. Not a conventional inattention spell, because the existence of the land cannot be denied. The maps would not fit! No, it is mostly a matter of irrelevance. Everyone knows that Thume is here. No one cares. They know that it is empty, and they know it offers nothing of value."
Curious to discover what provoked this admission. Rap prompted: "And it works most strongly on those with the strongest power?"
Raim frowned. "I never heard that!"
"I do not think so," Toom said. "Not directly. But those who have great power are accustomed to certainty. They tend to reject what they cannot sense for themselves. The ignorant will accept Thume more readily, you see."
Sagorn had been willing to believe in Thume!
Rap felt as if he were playing a part in one of Kadie's romantic dramas. His next line was obvious. "But sometimes people do enter. What then?"
"Imps are notoriously nosy," Toom agreed with a sigh, "and djinns rapacious. Mostly imps, though. We archons detect them—that is our function. If the matter is serious, the archon alerts the Keeper. He or she decides and usually . . . deals with them." He paused uneasily. "Keepers, you see, have, er . . . take a long-term view."
What he meant was that they had few scruples. If every minute was a torment, a struggle against pain and magic overload, if life itself was a coat of fire, the foibles of mere humans would soon start to seem trivial.
"Keepers tend to be ruthless?"
"Er, well, yes."
Raim intervened. "We all do our duty. A few months ago, a party of djinns crossed into my sector, hunting goats. Her Holiness told me to evict them, so I sent them troubles with mountain lions. One was badly clawed, another broke a leg running across a rock slide. This is why Thume is known as the Accursed Land." He grinned with boyish glee. He had enjoyed the sport.
"Keepers are their own laws," Toom said soberly. "Some have allowed whole armies to pass through Thume unmolested. Others have put shipwrecked mariners to death. The uncertainty is part of the mystery, you see."
"No one has ever been allowed to remain," Raim added, "until now." His gold eyes twinkled at Rap.
And Rap was at a loss. He could not tell if this conversation was as innocent as it seemed, or if the two archons were deliberately passing the stranger a message they dared not speak directly. Perhaps he was merely more worldly and cynical than they, jumping to unintended conclusions, or perhaps there was a scent of mutiny in the air. Delicate and childlike we may seem, they were telling him, but pixies have a strong sense of territory, which makes us ruthless toward trespassers. That observation let a man leap easily to a very interesting conclusion. The Keeper has refused to participate in your war against the Covin, but she will feel otherwise if our own borders are violated. Was Rap supposed to make that jump? Was he expected to go one jump farther There is a way you can provoke such an invasion? Surely not!
"You trust this boundary spell to deflect the Covin?"
Both archons nodded.
"Even knowing that Zinixo will live for centuries? Even knowing that he may leave a successor as powerful as himself to rule for more centuries after him?"
Again two nods, less vigorous.
"I am delighted to hear it," Rap said dryly. "What exactly was it that you wished to discuss?"
Toom's plain face registered uneasiness. He passed the question to Raim with a meaningful glance.
"The caliph."
"The caliph? And what is my old friend Azak up to?"
Astonishment! Dismay! Both men spoke at once.
Rap threw up his hands, remembering that he was dealing with an alien culture, was speaking a language that he had been given by Thaïle's sorcery, and was therefore liable to cause accidental misunderstandings. "I expressed myself loosely. My wife was married to him once. I have met him a couple of times. We are not on terms of affection, though. Frankly, I consider him a bloodthirsty barbarian."
The archons nodded their agreement vigorously.
"Caliph Azak," Raim said, "is presently set on invading the Impire. He is leading an army of about sixty thousand along the northern coast."
The population of Krasnegar was about five thousand. Rap whistled, trying to hide an amusement he knew he should be ashamed of. "Into Thume?"
"Into Thume."
Thume had a problem! "And the Covin is watching?"
Raim nodded glumly. "So the Keeper says."
Still Rap struggled against a smile. The outside world was a threat the pixies were warned against from infancy, and it had few worse horrors to offer than a djinn army. A djinn army would worry jotnar, let alone pixies. There was something oddly funny about so terrible a danger threatening so peaceful a people, like a lion squaring off against a rabbit. It would not be funny, of course, if Thume did not have the Keeper to defend it. The rabbit was armed.
But this was the millennium, and perhaps the joke was over.
"I comprehend your concern," he said cautiously. "If you cause the army to disappear, then the Covin may wonder why and start to investigate? And if you just leave it alone—"
"We cannot just leave it alone," Toom growled. "The coast is inhabited. That is where the mundanes live, in the real-world Thume."
"You could—well, the Keeper could—transfer the entire army to this Thume, or some other plane altogether?"
"The caliph's own sorcerers would certainly notice, and likely the Covin, also."
"So you must turn it back," Rap said. He thought that was obvious, but their reaction showed there was another possibility. "I have missed something?"
The archons exchanged uneasy glances.
"The Keeper . . ." Raim said. "I mean, we. We are considering the possibility of a, er, natural disaster." He refilled the three goblets and then drained his.
Toom cracked his big knuckles. "An artificial natural disaster, you see."
Rap maintained a skeptical silence. He had not yet fathomed the distribution of authority in the College. Possibly there was no fixed role, and it varied over the years. The archons seemed to do the day-to-day work of running the College and guarding the borders. The Keeper kept watch on the Outside—that much she had told him herself—but the Keeper must also have the last word in any disagreement Even eight sorcerers in unison could not stand up to a demigod, any more than a mage could resist a sorcerer, or a demigod defy the Gods. The Gods Themselves must obey the Powers.
"There is a lake in the mountains," Raim muttered. "A very large lake. There is a valley leading down to the coast"
That made no sense to Rap. "I am sure Azak is too experienced with desert campaigning ever to pitch camp in a dry riverbed." Even in Krasnegar flash floods were a hazard in the hills after summer storms.
"A landslide," Raim said. "A minor earth tremor could drop half a mountain into that lake."
Rap shuddered and took a drink.
They were waiting for him to comment. "So the djinn army, or a fair chunk of it, would be washed away by a tidal wave? An inland tidal wave! Don't you think the Covin might be just a teeny bit suspicious of this fortunate coincidence?"
Neither archon replied. Neither was looking at him.
He wondered if the Keeper was aware of this twitch of mutiny within her ranks. Or had she set this up? Somebody was having an attack of conscience—who? To wipe out an army with sorcery was a throwback to brutality not seen since the War of the Five Warlocks. And obviously it might alert the Covin.
"What you are telling me, gentlemen," he said—trying to omit any inferences about what they might not have said but had tried to imply—"is that your precious border spell may not be adequate protection if anything draws the Covin's attention specifically to Thume? Zinixo himself is insanely suspicious, right? You are also saying that you cannot stop Azak's army without using substantial sorcery, one way or another. Even if you just let him pass through, the Covin would lose track of him and wonder where he had gone. Have I summarized the situation accurately?"
Toom nodded. "We are not practiced in such matters."
"Nor am I. I assume that you are about to ask me to wander over and kill the caliph for you?"
Their shocked expressions were answer enough. Apparently the idea had not occurred to them.
"We merely wished to pose the problem," Toom protested, "and see if you had any suggestions to make. Your experience has been different from ours."
"I'll not argue that," Rap said. "Have you considered an assassination, though?"
"He has sorcerers in his train to protect him."
"They may be as afraid of the Covin as you are."
Toom pulled a scowl that seemed oddly unsuited on his naive pixie face. "We are not afraid! The Covin does not know we exist and never will. The Keeper has assured us of this."
"Oh, of course," Rap agreed. "Absolutely. Assassination?"
The archons exchanged worried looks. If they conferred in the ambience, though, they managed to conceal their talk from Rap. They seemed almost more upset by the idea of a single cold-blooded murder than they had been at a massacre of an entire army. Murder was personal, massacre beyond comprehension.
Raim said, "What good would assassination do? The army would just elect a new leader and continue its march."
Rap hesitated, but decided not to argue the point. He could try to explain to the pixies that djinns elected their leaders by elimination and that a new caliph would probably race back to Zark to stamp out a hundred rebellions. Even if the archons could understand that, though, Rap must then concede that the army might tear itself apart in the election. The losing half rampaging out of control into Thume would be even worse than the whole sixty thousand with Azak in charge. Cancel assassination.
He ran his hands through his hair, pondering aloud. "That does suggest the right sort of answer—what you want is a purely mundane solution, using no sorcery at all, or very little. If Azak caught a fever, for example. But that isn't too likely, is it? Not to order. How far away is he?"
"Not very."
Rap took a sip of mead. What was his interest in this? The Covin was his foe—not Azak, not Thume. He wanted the College and the Keeper to throw their weight into the battle against Zinixo, and this situation might well trigger an attack on them that would force their hand. But the idea of a djinn army ravaging the pixies' peaceful land was appalling. Djinns would be bad enough by themselves; if Zinixo fired them up to slaughter, they would destroy everything in their path. Rap could not just sit back and let such a disaster happen without trying to help somehow. He could not live with himself if he allowed that to happen. Why was he so cursed with scruples?
Not that he could do very much, but perhaps he could try. The prospect of action was enticing. If he did achieve anything, then the Keeper would be in his debt. Whereas, if he refused to help . . . Could this be some sort of test?
"You think Azak will camp within your death-trap valley tonight? I assume the lake is within the occult border and the irresistible campsite just outside?"
Raim nodded—and grinned, looking very boyish again. "The Keeper warned me you might be smarter than you look."
"I certainly hope so," Rap said. "Could the Keeper cloak me in a similar spell?"
The youngster blinked gold eyes in astonishment. "Her Holiness can do anything she wants, I suppose."
"Then let me go and call on Azak tonight."
Both archons flinched.
"And what can you say to him?" Toom demanded.
Not much! "I could tell him to turn back, without saying why. He may heed my advice, because he knows me. If he won't, then you can still drown him. I could try dropping a discreet hint to his tame sorcerers, also. What have you got to lose?"
"Everything," Toom said glumly. "What if his sorcerers have already been perverted by the Covin? I can't see the Keeper taking such a risk."
Raim uttered a sinister laugh. "Unless she appointed him an appraiser."
"What does an appraiser do?" Rap demanded, not sure that he wanted to hear the answer.
"Spies for the Keeper. But if he is discovered, then he bursts into flames."
The sheep station lay in the hills west of Castino, in eastern Qoble, under the beetling spires of the front range. It probably saw very little excitement between one century and the next, so Hardgraa had felt no compunction in taking it over for a day or two. There was nothing at the station itself; it just happened to provide a suitably large establishment at a strategic midpoint on the charts, and the owners should feel honored that the imperor needed it. Not that there was an imperor at the moment, but they weren't to know that.
In the hills the nights were evilish cold even close to midsummer. Some lowly legionary had been told to light a fire, and legionaries were expected to display zeal, so the blaze that roared in the hearth would have roasted twin oxen. Nobody wanted to stand close to it. The cool end of the room was packed with metaled men and the other almost empty. The candles stood tall and fresh, although dawn was not far off.
Feeling frowsy after a mere hour's sleep—the first in two nights—Hardgraa paused in the doorway to glance over his squad. They would not have described themselves that way. Most of them were centurions, with a few optios and a couple of signifers who knew the quarry well by sight. The ineffectual Tribune Hodwhine was present, and nominally in charge. Two more tribunes were out in the field, supervising the sweep, and they were real soldiers, not aristocratic jellyfish.
For a group so giddily honored by rank, this one was singularly failing to live up to the standards of the XIIth. Shandie would have stalked around the room like a jaguar, ripping stripes. If Hodwhine knew his job, he would be slamming down on the yawning, the slouching, and those unshaven chins. A man should not waste time sleeping if his armor needed cleaning, either.
Hardgraa could not interfere in those matters, but everyone knew who was really in control. He marched into the room and a ripple ran through it, turning heads and stopping conversations. Here was the imperor's man. Legate Ethemene had assigned three cohorts to this man's personal command, purely on the strength of his reputation as Shandie's chief of security. He wore the imperor's four-pointed star. One man who had displeased him had been flogged to bare bones in front of the legion. He had their attention now.
He nodded perfunctorily to Hodwhine and snatched himself a tankard of coffee from the mess table. Then he turned to the crowd around the chart table and centurions backed out of his way to make room. He knew by the shape of their silence that there was something new. It couldn't be capture, or he would have been told at once. A good sighting, then. His eyes scanned the green chalk marks that represented sightings, the red marks for his troops. There had been no additions since he went off to catnap. There had been deletions.
He tapped a thick finger on the paper. "The cherry orchard didn't pan out?"
"A priest," Hodwhine said at his back, "and his bishop's wife, would you believe it?"
Just for once, Hardgraa let his sense of humor out of its cage. A priest and a bishop's wife? No wonder they had tried to evade questioning! Yes, that was worth a smile, and of course the smile was being noticed. "An unfrocked priest, sir? Would that be an instance of a little bit of good in every evil, or a little bit of evil in every good?"
"Depends," Hodwhine said quickly. "Depends how good the goods are, I'd say." He'd probably been tutored in witty rejoindering.
Hardgraa let the chuckles fade away while he continued to study the chart. The deletion was not enough to explain the new sense of expectancy—not in this exhausted group at this hour of the night. They knew something he did not. Nevertheless, the pattern was clearer now. Without the priest the sightings clustered better. Almost he could feel that the chalk marks were footprints and he was some great sharp-eyed raptor soaring over the foothills of the eastern Qobles, tracking his prey.
You run. Master Ylo. You try to hide. Master Ylo. You double back and circle, Ylo, but you can't shake me. Do you feel my breath on you now, Ylo? Can you hear my claws on the rock?
"He's going east," Hardgraa said. "He'll cross the Angot road about here. Then . . . Then we've got him, haven't we!" He leaned across, but the light was too poor to be certain. "There's no trails marked through the mountains there, are there?"
"No, sir," said the optio at that corner of the table.
Hodwhine coughed. "Oh, Centurion?"
Hardgraa turned. "Sir?"
"Letter here for you," the tribune drawled. "Came a little while ago. Imperial post from Angot."
So that was what was new! Hardgraa accepted the packet and glanced over the inscriptions. The seal was intact. "Thank you," he said, and tucked it away in his pouch.
"You're not going to read it?" Hodwhine said, frowning.
"I have read it, sir. I mean I've got the message, sir. That's Ylo's hand."
The annoyance on the tribune's face showed that he had known that. One of the signifers must have identified the writing.
"Posted in Angot," Hodwhine said sharply. "Addressed to you at the barracks; forwarded here. Posted in Angot, Centurion, yesterday."
"Yes, sir. That's the message."
The tribune colored. "Centurion!"
"Look!" Hardgraa barked, and turned back to the table. He pulled out his dagger and used it as a pointer. "They're here. Within a league, they're here. One of these fruit farms, likely. And we're all round them, and they must know that now. There's the road to Angot."
"So he slipped by us!"
"No, sir. He did not slip by us. He chose a woman heading down to Angot and slipped her one of his smiles to post a package for him in Angot. That's what he did, sir. That's the message, sir—Here I am, come and get me! But it's a lie, sir. He's not in Angot. He's here. Right here!" Hardgraa slammed his dagger into the chart and left it standing there.
Hodwhine bared his teeth. "Read the letter!"
Hardgraa almost shrugged. They must all have been speculating for an hour on what it said, and it didn't matter. "Yessir." He pushed out of the group and marched over to stand beside the inferno on the hearth—alone, with every eye in the room watching him. Only then did he pull out the package and break the seal. The heavy parchment crackled as he opened it. He expected to see cipher, the code that Shandie had used within his personal staff, the old "handful of men" he had trusted: Hardgraa himself. Lord Umpily, and Sir Acopulo, Prince Ralpnie, later Ylo . . .
To his disgust, though, the letter was in clear, its text a shameful breach of security.
Signifer Ylo (retd.)
to
Centurion Hardgraa, assigned to the XIIth:
Greetings!
We were friends. If the Covin has enslaved you, then I am truly sorry. If you are still your own man, then how can you imagine that our former leader would ever have put any consideration at all ahead of his child's welfare? He always maintained that every individual should have the right—
There was a lot more. Hardgraa tossed the thing into the fire and walked back to the table. He switched to the northeast corner of the chart and, when space had been made for him, he was looking across at a red-faced, glaring tribune.
"Horse piss, sir. The only message was the Angot post seal, and I told you how he did that." Putting the letter out of mind, Hardgraa turned his attention back to the maps.
Got you now. Libertine Ylo! Always knew your lechery would be the death of you. Acopulo said you'd go to the Evil crotch first.
"We can move up here, checking every house, and drive him over there. Then he'll be pinned between the mountains and—"
And Thume. Why did that not feel right?
He looked up, searching the ring of faces until he found the local expert. "Optio? What's in Thume?"
"Nothing, sir."
"What sort of nothing?"
The youngster looked alarmed. "Just trees and stuff, sir. Nobody lives there. I mean, nobody ever even goes there!"
"That's all right then," Hardgraa said. He glanced at the tribune to make sure he was conscious, or as close to it as he ever got. "You can concentrate forces now, sir. We'll pin him between the mountains and the Thume border. Bring up the VIIth Cohort to close off this sector. Then . . . Optio, is this river fordable?"
"The Brundrik, sir? I suppose so. But there's nothing on the other side . . . sir?"
Hardgraa was about to ask what sort of nothing, and realized he'd asked that before. Gods, but he was tired! And he'd have to head out at first light. Two days more. Pretty-boy Ylo, and I peg out your hide! Maybe he could steal a few more hours' sleep. Still, there was something wrong, somewhere, he just knew it.
"Why does nobody ever go there?" he demanded.
"Where, sir?"
"Across the Brim-thing River. Into Thume?"
"Well—There's nothing there, sir." The optio was clearly at a loss, as if Hardgraa's question made no sense.
It did, didn't it? He thought it over carefully and decided it was the sort of question that usually had an answer.
He leaned his hands on the chart and glared at the youngster. "What would happen," he said in his most menacing tones, "if I ordered you to ford that river?"
The optio's chain mail jingled. "I'd-d-d ob-b-bey, sir."
"And what would happen to you then?"
"Dunno, sir. An uncle of mine did it and came back mad as midges, sir. Know of a fellow went hunting and got his face clawed off. Most don't come back, sir."
"Why didn't you tell me about them sooner?"
"I—I dunno, sir."
"Mmph!" Hardgraa looked for the tribune, but he'd wandered away somewhere. He selected a centurion instead—good man, been at Highscarp. "Tiny, line up some elvish trackers, will you? If the target should make a break for it into Thume, we'll have to follow."
To the ends of the earth. Lecher Ylo. To the ends of the earth!
To advance up a valley without controlling the heights was normally rank folly, but sometimes a man had no choice. Short of winching everything—including the camels—up sheer cliffs, the caliph had to come this way. He had interrogated his scouts closely and had even ridden ahead to see for himself, escorted only by the horse cavalry of Fifth Panoply. He had returned satisfied. The sides were too steep for a charge, too high for an archery attack. The upper end was closed by a sizable lake, and there would be a steep climb up a tributary valley on the morrow, but that could be managed. Furkar reported no evidence of sorcery at work, except for the Covin's continuing surveillance. Azak set a guard on the exit and moved his main force into the valley for the night. It was an excellent location. The floor was level and wooded, with a stream providing the first adequate water the army had seen since leaving Quern.
Following his custom, the caliph rode around as camp was set up, inspecting, criticizing, and acknowledging the cheers of his troops. Arriving back at his own quarters, he observed that the seraglio wagons had been arranged to form an enclosure by the stream, with the gaps between them curtained to keep out prying eyes. A ring of armed men surrounded this silken bivouac, all standing with their backs to it and ignoring the shrill squeals emanating from within.
So his women were enjoying a bathe? Azak told his bodyguard to stand down and ducked through the draperies to enjoy the view. At his appearance, of course, they all prostrated themselves. The sight of seventeen bare bottoms in the air was intriguing—sixteen? One woman had merely turned her back and sat down. That one was a wench of a different color, of course. He signaled to Nurkeen that the festivities should continue, and he continued to watch with approval as the girls began showing off for him; all but that one, who remained where she was. Her defiance intrigued him far more than all the juvenile gymnastics of the others. He began to feel quite aroused. Inosolan was the only woman who had ever humiliated him. Tonight he would administer another rebuke.
At sunset Nurkeen informed Inos that she was his Majesty's first choice for the evening. Somehow Inos had expected that. She braced herself to endure more hurt, more humiliation. She had absolutely no way of escaping the constant surveillance, and she could acquire no weapon. Her only satisfaction would be to minimize Azak's enjoyment, and so far her success in that direction had been nonexistent. In Quern she had struggled and he had overpowered her. In his tent, two nights ago, she had remained completely passive, so he had thrown her around. The end result had been the same either way—he was just too big, too strong. She could win no points in this game, except to conceal her fear and distress.
She might refuse to obey the summons, of course, but then she would just be carted to his tent bodily, like a parcel. Or he might even come and abuse her before the rest of his women. That would be no answer. When she had been suitably adorned and perfumed, she set off submissively with Nurkeen and an honor guard, walking into the night.
Someday, by all the Gods, he was going to pay for this!
The journey was short. Even in her all-enveloping wool robe, she shivered in the sudden chill of a desert night. Camels bellowed in the distance, and she could hear the thousands of men and horses—but she heard those every night. Scenery she had seen only rarely since her imprisonment. Steep mountains framed the valley; the sky over them was afire with stars. Odors of sage flowed down from the hills to blend with the smoke of innumerable fires. Thume, she recalled, was always beautiful. The evil at its heart was human.
The caliph's tent was very large. The guards remained outside; Inos entered with Nurkeen. Azak was not there. The interior was opulent, with bright-hued rugs and silk hangings, warmed by braziers and lit by lanterns attached to the many poles. Thick quilts had been piled for the royal bedding, and a meal spread out on a cloth nearby. There were damask cushions and two solid chests for documents; no other furniture.
"Give me your robe," Nurkeen said. "His Majesty will return shortly, I expect. Warm your hands." Filmy red eyes peered out over her yashmak. "I suggest you strive to please him this time, and avoid unpleasantness."
Inos said nothing.
The old hag departed, leaving her standing there, garbed only in a swirl of obscenely transparent gauze. Her face was still purple from his last wooing; her shoulder still hurt.
As soon as the tent flap fell, Inos stepped over to the display of food, seeking a weapon. She found nothing more dangerous than a small silver spoon, not even a knife for peeling grapes. She eyed the braziers, but they were cunningly crafted of fretted bronze. If they fell over, the coals would not spill. She might contrive to set the tent on fire, but that pettiness would not harm Azak and he had a million cruel ways to retaliate.
Shamed by her fear, vulnerable in her state of undress, she settled cross-legged in a corner and wrapped herself in a quilt.
She had to wait a long, nerve-wracking time. That was probably deliberate. Eventually, though, she heard hooves outside, and gruff Zarkian voices. Then he entered, throwing off his cloak. He wore his usual green—loose trousers and shirt. Across his wide chest the emerald baldric of Arakkaran glittered like a river of green fire. That alone would purchase her whole kingdom, and he was liberally draped with other jewels. When she had first known him, he had preferred to sport the sash as a belt, wrapped many times around his waist. It would not go many times around now. He seemed larger every time she saw him, for he had added beef to his great height. He would be almost a match for the largest jotnar in Krasnegar, even Kratharkran. He was not sporting any weapons. Azak, unfortunately, had brains.
His big hands sparkled with rings—they would add to the pain when he struck her, and she had no doubt he would strike her. There was white now in his red beard. There was blood in his red eyes.
"Take off that quilt!" he said, seating himself beside the food.
She dropped the quilt.
He reclined on one elbow, spreading himself out along the cushions like a basking walrus. He began to eat, stuffing food in his mouth one-handed without seeming to notice or care what it was, barely taking his eyes off her.
What had she ever seen in the man? Once she had been sorry for him, she recalled. Once there had been hints of greatness, where now remained only pride and cruelty and debauchery. She remembered wise old Sheik Elkarath prophesying what happened to a sultan who trod the red road of war. In those days Azak had loomed above Arakkaran like a human thunderstorm—dangerous, frightening, but also awesome, full of menace and might and potential. Now he was a blood-soaked tyrant, glutted on twenty years of battle. Now—as she knew only too well—he was physically repugnant, gross and disgusting. She had not felt clean since he first laid hands on her.
Unfortunately, although he now held no appeal for her at all, the reverse was not true. His lusts had more to do with power than sex, although he enjoyed that, also.
"You have worn well," Azak mumbled. "Come and sit there." He pointed to the floor just across from him.
Steeling herself not to tremble, Inos rose and did as she had been told.
"Pour me wine."
She poured. Each tiny obedience ranked as a defeat, and yet each itself seemed too small to justify provoking violence. How far would she pander to his demands? Soon he would tell her to strip. Would she go that far without compulsion? She did not know.
He leered. "More cooperative tonight? Speak. Amuse me."
"I have nothing to say to a turd like you."
His eyes narrowed. "Revenge is very sweet, Inosolan."
I am sure it will be.
The tent flap moved in the background. For a moment she wondered about that, then decided it must just be the wind.
"I have waited twenty years for my revenge," Azak said, still chewing. "And I find it exquisite. Now, stand up and dance for me."
"I cannot dance that way."
He chuckled and reached under one of the cushions. He brought out a coiled whip and laid it on the rug for her to see.
"Dance."
Light gleamed on the oiled leather of the thongs. Shivering, unable to take her eyes off that awful threat, Inos clambered to her feet.
Rap put a strong arm around her and became visible.
Inos wondered afterward why the shock did not kill her on the spot, but it didn't. She grabbed him in a bear hug—tight, ever so tight, burying her face against his neck. Rap! Solid, breathing Rap! His clothes were still cold from the wind outside, and he smelled faintly of horse. He was panting.
"Oh, Rap! Darling! Rap! Rap! Rap!" She mumbled incoherently into his collar, only gradually becoming aware of the fire in her shoulder.
"It's all right," he said hoarsely. "Safe now."
Safe? Sorcery? Wondering, she stole a look at Azak. He was frowning, peering around the big tent as if he had lost something or forgotten something, but he was clearly oblivious of her and Rap.
"He can't hear us?" she whispered. Obviously he couldn't.
Rap did not answer. He was shaking convulsively. She looked up at his face.
The gray eyes were unfocused, his lips white and curled back from his teeth. She had seen that expression often enough in Krasnegar, that kill-crazy jotunn look. Rap was half jotunn. That explained the trembling and the odd breathing. He was a hound straining on a leash. Oh, Gods! His left arm was clasping her, but his right was between them, and she guessed that he was holding the hilt of a sword.
Die, Azak! You die now, you bastard! No? Why not?
Azak heaved his great bulk to a sitting position. He fumbled with his fingers, muttering angrily.
"I want to kill him," Rap croaked. His eyes bulged. "I've got to kill him. Promised I wouldn't. I must kill him! I want to cut him in slices! Wretch! Scum! How can I kill him, Inos? Tell me how I can kill him!" He was almost sobbing.
"What do you mean?"
"He can't see me!"
God of Madness! Suddenly Inos saw worse things than Azak. Rap could not kill a man who couldn't see him. Must not be allowed to kill a man who couldn't see him! The memory would drive him crazy. In a fair fight, yes. Even an execution. But to stab a blind man was murder, and cowardice. A jotunn could not kill like that, and Rap could not. After so many years she knew her man. He would never be able to live with his guilt if he violated his own ethics. It was from Rap that Kadie had inherited all her romantic notions, not from her mother.
Gods have mercy! Inos would have to break the news, tell Rap about Kadie and the goblins . . . Well, Rap himself was the immediate problem, still crazy-trembling in an agony of frustration. His teeth were chattering. She must stop him.
She must somehow save Azak, whom she wanted to die.
Ask for the sword? Do it herself? No, she couldn't do it now, either. Simple death was too good for Azak. He must know how and why he died.
But Rap was here and nothing else really mattered. She hugged him even tighter and kissed his cheek.
"Oh, my darling! How did you ever find me?"
Staring hatred at the caliph. Rap licked his lips. "Didn't. Just luck. C-c-came here . . . t-t-talk with that slime!"
Azak lurched to his feet. Rap hauled Inos aside, and the huge djinn stormed past them without a glance. At the end of the tent he ripped aside the drape that concealed the privy. Baffled, he wheeled around and strode back again, grinding his teeth. He seemed to know that he had lost his victim, but not how.
Suddenly Rap's grip tightened and his eyes searched Inos's face urgently. "He hasn't . . . I did get here in time, didn't I?" Fury quivered on the brink of explosion again.
"Just in time!" she said quickly. Just in time this time. The truth could wait. "You came to talk with him?"
"Get'm to turn back."
"Why?"
Rap opened his mouth and closed it. Then he glanced sideways at her, and she saw that something was distracting the bloodlust.
"Better not say here. The results might be dramatic."
Again Azak stamped by, again fumbling with his fingers.
Eek! "Rap! Those rings! He has magic rings. One of them will summon Furkar! His sorcerer." She had seen the truth ring in action and the women had mentioned the other. Perhaps there were more tricks, too.
"Let him!" Rap snarled. "Sorcerers won't—Ah!"
The tent flap rose and fell.
The young man who had entered was tall and sinister in a trailing black kibr. A black kaffiyeh framed his face, and red djinn eyes gleamed in its shadow. He glanced around the tent without registering Rap or Inos, and then inclined his head perfunctorily in the direction of the fuming caliph.
"You summoned me. Majesty?"
"I did! I tried calling you earlier, too. Where were you?"
The newcomer must be the sorcerer himself, Furkar, if only because anyone else would be cringing in terror before the caliph's rage. He was showing no expression at all. "I was inspecting the route we must take out of here tomorrow."
"That is my job. You handle the sorcery and I'll do the rest." Azak stalked over to the two wooden chests and sat down.
The sorcerer remained undaunted. "This place makes me uneasy. And I warned you not to use that summoning while the Covin may be listening."
Azak glared. "This is important. Did you see the dispatches?"
"No."
"Trouble in Shuggaran. And other places."
The younger man had not moved since he entered. He still stood just inside the door. He was a talking pillar. "As soon as your back is turned? Only to be expected. I trust you are not feeling faint-hearted?"
Azak's face turned even redder than usual. "No. But I was a fool to leave the Prisoner alive. He is a risk. I want you to go back and kill him."
Furkar raised coppery eyebrows. "And how am I to travel to Dreag?"
Azak ground his teeth. "The dwarf still watches?"
"Day and night. I remind you that it is not you that interests the Covin. It is me and my associates. I would have to travel by horse, so you might better send one of your assassins. He would go faster."
"I just may do that, then."
"And if you persist in using those sorcerous trinkets I shall either take them from you or gather up my votaries and depart." A faint hint of a sneer curled Furkar's lip, but his tone remained deadly calm.
"I don't think he's lying," Rap muttered. "Looks like the Covin hasn't got him yet."
Azak choked, growled, and beat his fists on his knees.
"Will there be anything more, your Majesty?" Furkar inquired sweetly.
"Yes. That jotunn woman was here. She must have escaped when my back was turned. Have the camp searched for her."
"I hear and obey, Mightiness." The sneer became more pronounced.
"Doesn't like being ordered around like a flunky, does he?" Rap remarked cheerfully.
Azak stood up. "Go! And tell Nurkeen to send me another. One of the fat ones."
Furkar turned and disappeared out the flap without even a pretence of a bow. Azak stood up and cursed at length.
"Any idea what all that was about?" Rap inquired loudly.
Inos felt a wash of relief. The killer glare had faded. Rap was still enraged, extremely dangerous, but he was rational.
"Yes," she said. "Did you say you wanted Azak to go back home to Zark?"
The caliph had been rummaging in one of the chests. He slammed down the lid and sat on it to begin pawing through a tangled sheaf of documents.
Watching him intently. Rap growled low in his throat "I want him dead! But I can't just kill him. Yes, back to Zark."
"The sash is the answer!" Inos said. "The Prisoner they mentioned is his son Krandaraz. The women talk of him. He almost overthrew Azak some years ago. He's supposedly being held in secret somewhere, to be released if Azak dies. That's how he keeps his other sons in line."
Rap's gray eyes had turned to her as she spoke. Now they began to gleam, seeing where her logic led. "Krandaraz must be quite a lad!"
She would have given half her kingdom for that smile. "He must be. The others daren't move as long as he is alive."
With a muttered Gath, Azak threw his papers over his shoulder in a blizzard. He unfastened his emerald sash and tossed it on top of the other chest.
"How obliging!" Rap murmured. He urged Inos forward and they approached the caliph.
Azak pulled off his turban, revealing a hedge of red and white hair around a bald crown. He set to work on his shirt.
"Getting ready for the fat one," Inos said. "I think I'm flattered, but I'm not sure." She was babbling. The sight of the caliph's bulging, red-furred torso was bringing back nightmares.
"Any idea where this Dreag is?" Rap asked, edging closer to the glittering baldric on the chest.
"No."
"Well, I expect the—I mean, I expect certain friends of mine can find it. Thank you, dearest. You've solved the problem. Oh, yuuch! disgusting, isn't he?"
Azak had removed his boots. Now he rose and dropped his pants, sitting down to pull them over his feet.
Rap felt Inos' shiver and bared his teeth. "Hang on to my hand. It's time to deal with this vermin. By the way, do you recognize the sword?"
As she stepped clear to give him room, he drew a slim rapier and flicked it a few times.
"No. Oh! Rap!"
"It's Kadie's. I borrowed it for the evening. She wasn't any too willing to lend it to her dear papa!" His gray eyes were shining with pleasure now. "She's safe, Inos."
The tent swayed. The lanterns dimmed briefly.
"You all right?" Rap cried, steadying her.
She nodded. To faint now, after all this? Never! "Yes. Oh, yes! That's wonderful!"
KadieKadieKadie! Kadie safe!
Rap started to turn to Azak and then looked back at her hesitantly. "Gath?"
"Gath went off on his own to the Nintor Moot."
"Oh." His face ran through a whole bazaar of emotions—surprise, disapproval, confusion, alarm, and then pride. "Well! Nintor? On his own? Did he just? Tell me later. Hang on."
He reached out with the rapier and lifted the emerald sash of Arakkaran from the chest. It writhed, an angry snake of green light. Azak twisted around and stared blankly at the empty space. He gave the impression of a very puzzled man—not sure what he'd seen or what he should see or why it mattered.
"There! Always wanted one of these." Rap draped the sash around his neck like a scarf. "Give Krasnegar a bit of class." He bared his teeth. "Now . . . We'll leave a note explaining that the sash has gone to Dreag. I plan to write it in blood—Azak's blood. A fairly serious flesh wound is required, I think. Somewhere appropriate. You want to do it, or shall I?"
"You do it, darling," Inos said. "Husband's privilege. But give it an extra twist from me."
After all the potent sorcery Rap had been throwing around, Inos expected the escape from the djinn camp to be a simple matter. Things did not happen quite that way.
Azak's agonized screams brought a mob of guards pouring in. The big man roared like a camel as he stumbled to the door, clutching his groin and trickling blood between his fingers. He vanished into the horde of brown-clad family men in tumult and commotion. Revenge suddenly felt nauseating.
The first problem was the message. There was plenty of blood, but it soaked into the rugs and even the stains were not all within easy reach, especially as Rap was hampered by the need to stay in contact with Inos. By the time he had scrawled a few words with his finger on the back of a discarded dispatch, the guards were carrying Azak over to the bed, while still more men blocked the doorway. The racket suggested a huge crowd gathering outside.
A rapier had no cutting edge. Rap stabbed repeatedly at the side of the tent, cursing as it billowed, unable to make even a hand hole. One of the fearsome guards brushed against Inos and leaped back with a yell, reaching for his sword. Then he stood and gaped all around in bewilderment while his companions demanded to know what was wrong and he could not remember. Everyone seemed to be shouting at once, and Azak was still screaming.
Furkar had arrived, but he was standing back and watching with a cruel sneer, making no move to assist.
Inos made a fast grab for a dagger tucked in a guard's sash. As she made contact, he caught a momentary glimpse of the intruders and in turn made a grab for her. She stabbed at his hand; he fell back, yelling in terror. She swung around and slit the fabric with one long slashing stroke.
Rap yelped gleefully and pushed her out through the gap. She caught her foot and pitched headlong, remembering just in time to throw the dagger away lest she fall on it. In consequence she crashed heavily onto the grass, wrenching her swollen shoulder. Pain flashed like red flame, driving every other thought from her mind. Icy panic followed. She had escaped from Azak's tent, and Azak was injured, and what on earth was she going to do now? The hue and cry was in full spate already. There were tens of thousands of men all around her and they would all be hunting her. Yells from inside the tent told her that the gaping rent had been noticed.
Then strong hands grasped her to help her up and she remembered that Rap was here, also. Oh, good!
Rap set off at a run, dragging her through a darkness full of trees. She stumbled barefoot over the rough and prickly ground. Her garments were nothing to keep out the cold of the night, and the undergrowth seemed determined to strip even those from her. The camp was in an uproar, men running everywhere, and the only light came from the stars and the camp-fires.
"Had a pony," Rap shouted. "Can't get to it. Can hear horses over here somewhere." He was swinging the rapier like a cane, striking men out of his way like weeds and leaving a trail of near hysteria. He was also blundering through a multitude of branches and shrubs, cursing continuously. Gauze tugged and ripped as she followed.
"You can't see?" Inos said. "Can you do something about my shoulder? Why don't you just zap us out of here?"
He did not seem to hear her, but in a moment he came to a halt and lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her palm.
"Have you still got the dagger?"
"No." She was panting. She was too old for this wild adventuring.
"Then hang on to me. Don't want you to get lost."
In the dark her fingers fumbled at his neck. She felt the prickly coldness of the emerald baldric. A fortune in itself, it was also the title deed to one of the richest states in Zark, and Azak had redefined it as the symbol of the caliphate. As loot, it was a fair start for a career in theft. She felt she had earned it, though. Her feet were slashed to ribbons and her shoulder was lashing her with sickening waves of pain.
What was Rap doing? He was bent over something, muttering angrily.
"Can't you see?" she asked again, shivering as her sweaty skin cooled.
"No. Daren't use sorcery."
"By the Powers! What have you been doing all night, then?"
"That's different. Not me."
What was the use of having a sorcerer for a husband if he couldn't even see in the dark? Then the huge dark shape right in front of her uttered an ear-splitting whinny and she realized that Rap was fumbling with the tether.
"Got it!" he said. "Up!" He lifted her onto the horse's back. Hooves clumped the pebbles. He tried to scramble up after her and almost pulled her off.
"Who's there?" demanded a harsh voice close by.
"No one," Rap said. "Umph!" He was aboard. "Lie flat!"
Either he used occult mastery on the horse, or else his faun gift for animals was enough by itself. The beast took off through the night like an arrow, as if the Evil itself were after it, hooves thumping up the valley. Inos sprawled forward, head alongside its neck, clutching its mane with both hands and trying to favor her bad arm. Rap was on top of her, crushing her, clinging madly. Half the jeweled sash was between them, and with every bounce his weight drove it into her back. Branches caught in her hair and slashed at her legs. It was the wildest ride she had ever known; wilder even than the time she had demonstrated her riding skills for Azak and the princes, long ago in Arakkaran. Time and again she thought they were both about to slide off and crash to the ground. Time and again their steed stumbled and recovered, whinnying with terror. Whatever Azak had been planning for her could hardly have been worse than this.
Fires rushed by. Men were shouting everywhere, and camels roaring. The horse could not understand that it was invisible and silent—it was past caring anyway. Unsuspecting soldiers were smashed aside like puffballs as it thundered through the camp. Then the woods were dark and deserted. The exhausted mount began to slow.
With no warning the trees ended, the slope reversed, and the horse clattered and slithered down a shingled incline. It came to a shivering halt.
Rap straightened. Inos straightened. She felt as if she had been dragged behind on a rope, the whole way. Her shins and feet had been whipped raw. Overhead whirled the stars, and before her—more stars. For a bewildering moment she thought the world ended there, until she realized that they stood on the verge of a huge dark lake, reflecting the sky.
Rap slid to the ground and helped her down and held her. She would have fallen without that support.
"All right?"
"No, I am not all right!"
"Fussy! Never satisfied. What's bothering you now?"
"Let's start with my jewel-encrusted spine."
He chuckled and hugged her tighter, even as he applied sorcery. Her pains eased and were gone. She sensed her tattered veils solidifying into warmer, more modest wear, soft wool. Shoes clutched her feet. Relief! Wonderful, wonderful sorcery!
She clung to him, hearts beating together. "Oh, Rap! Lad, I have never been so glad to see anyone as I was to see you tonight."
"I should hope not!"
He kissed her. There was no passion in the embrace—that must wait for later—but there was love beyond measure. Rap, oh. Rap!
After a while he said, "And I to see you. The Gods were good to both of us tonight."
That did not sound like the Rap she knew, but she was not about to disagree. In the background the horse splashed its hooves into the lake and began drinking noisily. Far away down the valley the camels still roared.
"Oh, how I missed you!" Rap said. "You can't imagine."
"Yes, I can. I know exactly."
He squeezed her again. "I have never understood how I came to deserve you."
"The honor is mine, all mine. And Kadie's all right?"
She detected the tiny pause, the hesitation. "Physically she's all right. The goblins didn't hurt her, but she had a very long, very hard ordeal. And then . . . you know what happened to the goblins, at Bandor?"
"I heard."
"She saw it. She hasn't quite recovered yet. She needs her mother."
"Take me to her, then."
"In a minute." Rap stepped back, still holding her hands. "Gath went off to the Moot, you say?"
"We were in Urgaxox. The word was that it would be a war moot. We decided it would be useless to go, and far too dangerous, but Gath—"
"Who's 'we'?"
"Shandie and I—"
"Shandie! Shandie's all right? He's still with you?"
"Gath saved him from the goblin—"
"Kadie told me."
Of course! She thought of all the things that had happened since she parted from Kadie, then decided they could wait. "The last I heard, about a week ago, the imperor was in a jail back in Zark. Warlock Raspnex is there, too, I think."
Rap uttered a disbelieving bark of a laugh, almost a cry of despair. "A warlock in jail?"
"As far as I know. Gath hitched a ride on a longship going to Nintor." She steeled herself to ask the question that had tortured her for weeks. "Rap, does Gath know you killed Thane Kalkor?"
This time the pause was longer, more worrying. "I think he does, but he can't know all the implications. You don't mean he hitched a ride with Drakkor, do you?"
"I don't know who he hitched a ride with. He dreamed it up all by himself."
"But why?"
"Because he thinks you're dead. To help your cause. To be worthy of a father he loves and admires and mourns."
Rap made a strangled, choking noise. His face was a blur in the night. "Midsummer! The moot's held at Midsummer, and the evil begins then."
The God had told him he must lose one child. She felt her nerves beaten raw, and a hundred years old. "How is the war going, Rap?"
"Poorly. Tell you everything tomorrow."
"Take me to Kadie."
He sighed. "I'll try. I just hope this will work." He raised his voice, calling into the night. "Archon, we are ready!"
Everything vanished at once: the stars and the starlit lake, the sounds of the horse, and the cold.
* * *
The air was like steamed towels wrapped around her head. It reeked of earth and rotting leaves. Inos sensed thick jungle, drippy and likely dark even in daylight. In the night she could see nothing at all. Rap's arm was around her.
"There's a door just ahead," he said. "The side door. It's level ground."
She let him ease her forward.
"Where is this? Where are we?"
"In Thume. This is the heart of it, the holy of holies, the Chapel." He sounded displeased, as if he had hoped to be somewhere else.
Ancient hinges groaned. She saw something—not truly light, but a different quality of darkness. Rap went first, ducking his head for the archway, and she made that out. She followed.
The inside was vast and blank and still almost dark. In one corner a bluish gleam fell on a group of people, but even they were indistinct, and the rest was all shadow. She could not see where the light was coming from. It seemed like moonlight, but there was no moon. The air was much cooler than it had been outside, and musty like old attics, yet the floor was clean, not heaped with leaves or bat droppings. She walked forward at Rap's side, clutching his hand, that strong, familiar, welcome hand.
Nine people—she counted them—kneeling in a row with their backs to her. They had left a gap in the middle, four on one side, five on the other.
"Who—"
"Sh!" Rap squeezed her hand tightly.
What God was worshipped in this chapel?
They reached the gap, and Inos saw that there was a tenth person present, beyond the glow, a dark, hooded figure standing alone in the corner, holding a long staff. Her scalp prickled. Whatever or whoever that was, it was not a God, for she had seen a God once, and yet the nine seemed to be praying to it. What manifestation of the Evil was this?
And then, to her astonishment. Rap knelt, also, tugging on her hand. Dumbfounded, Inos obeyed. She could never have imagined Rap kneeling to anyone. Even to the Gods he knelt reluctantly.
A voice came from the venerated figure beyond. It sounded like fingernails scratching on pottery, almost too quiet to be heard, even in this enormous silence. It might, just possibly, be female.
"You have proved yourself a friend to Thume, Rap of Krasnegar."
"Thank you. Holiness," Rap said with what sounded like genuine humility. "I think the caliph will depart and take his army with him. He will not be riding a horse, though."
"You did well not to kill him."
"I surprised myself." There was a hint of a more normal Rappish humor there.
The nine worshippers made no sound. Perhaps they were merely stuffed replicas of worshippers. None of them had stirred since Inos entered. Her heart hammered unnaturally, an ache in her chest.
"We have brought back a trophy of war," Rap said softly. "We almost brought two. This one should be delivered to somewhere called Dreag, in Zark, and given to the prisoner who is kept there, and he should be freed. He is what draws Azak away."
"Leave it here when you depart," the rustly whisper said.
"I informed Azak that it would be delivered to Dreag."
"Indeed?"
"And my word is important to me."
Stubborn faun!
"But not to me." The woman, if it was a woman, spoke again, before Rap could argue further. "The threat will suffice. You have earned your sanctuary. We are grateful."
He growled. "Holiness, there are several sorcerers with that army, and it seems the Covin—"
"They do not concern us!" The voice was no louder, yet it seemed to echo through the great hall. Again Inos felt her scalp prickle.
"But, Holiness—"
"Silence! The war does not concern Thume. The Covin does not. We will never let ourselves be drawn into the affairs of the Outside. I said you have now earned the sanctuary that had previously been freely given you. Your help was freely given, also, was it not? You did not bargain."
"No," Rap admitted angrily. "But—"
"No buts. You and your loved ones may remain here, in a haven safe from the storm without. That is recompense enough. It is recompense indeed."
The dark figure had gone.
Rap snarled and hurled the jeweled sash clattering across the floor. He sprang to his feet. Inos jumped up, also, wary of his rage.
"Who was that?" she demanded, and then realized that the rest of the congregation was rising from their obeisance. So they were alive!
"That was the Keeper!" Rap said, as if pronouncing an obscenity. He drew a ragged breath. "These, dear, are the titular rulers of Thume, the archons. Archon Raim, my dear wife, Inosolan, the exiled queen of Krasnegar." He was certainly making no effort to conceal his bitterness.
"Allies?" Inos said, peering at the indistinct form of the man presented. All she could make out were the oddly angled eyes. Memories of her last visit to Thume crowded in on her like wraiths and she edged closer to Rap. "Just friends, ma'am," the pixie said. He sounded young. He seemed stocky. "There is someone who should speak with you first, though."
Inos said, "Who?" and felt a hand touch her arm.
Kadie said, "Mama?" in a small, uncertain voice.
* * *
As mother and daughter persisted in their tearful embrace, Rap turned away.
"Archon Toom," he said harshly, "why is it that women weep when they are happy?"
"I don't know, your Majesty," old Toom said, peering at him curiously. "Why do you?"
Manly foe:
Give me the avowed, erect and manly foe;
Firm I can meet, perhaps return the blow;
But of all plagues, good Heaven, thy wrath can send,
Save me, oh, save me, from the candid friend.George Canning, The New Morality