Emperor and Clown (18 page)

Lia’
glanced around. Azak was edging his horse toward them. She kicked in her heels.
“Let us walk awhile, Inos. Our mounts will grow chilled if we keep them
standing.”

Inos
put the mare into motion and rode at her side, still puzzled.

“You
are indeed on your way to the Impire,” Lia’ said. “By noon tomorrow you will
cross the border. We can take you by unguarded ways, and we can furnish you
with documents that should carry you safely after that-no one but a border
official knows what a real passport looks like. Your weapons will be returned
to you, although you will be wise to keep them hidden. All will be done as was
promised.”

“So?”
Inos said. The rest of the company was following, but a trio of elves had moved
in behind her to cut out the djinns. This little chat had been carefully
planned.

The
elf looked at her with challenge. “Is this what you truly want, child? There is
an alternative.”

“Which
is?”

“No
elf can resist beauty, in any form. It was the damage to your face that won
Amiel’s support, and, through her, the favor of ... other people. Important
people.”

“I
think you are no nonentity yourself, ma’am.” Lia’ smiled. “Never mind what I
am. Elves revel in fancy titles and laugh at them also. What matters is that
the warlock of the south is an elf. He is greatly honored by his people. We
fear him, of course, but we also admire him and what he has done.”

The
trail wound back into trees again, and both women twisted to take a final look
at the iridescent glory that was Valdorcan. Then it had vanished.

“Lith’rian
spends much time at his own enclave, Valdorian. It is on the far side of
Ilrane, but still closer than Hub. If you wish, then that could be your
destination.”

“He
would heal me?”

“I
am certain he would.” The opal eyes flickered viridian and cobalt.

“And
my husband’s curse?”

The
childlike face grew bleak. “It was decided that this offer would be made only
to you.”

“I
see.” Temptation) Was this some sort of a test? “Azak is not the sort of person
who readily gains sympathy from an elf,” Lia’ remarked snidely.

“He
is a remarkable man,” Inos insisted, “and a fitting ruler for a harsh land.”

“And
a fitting husband for a well-born lady?”

“You
presume far, ma’am.”

Lia’
laughed halfheartedly. “Forgive me, that was vulgar! But you puzzle us,
Inosolan. Why did you ever marry that boor? You did not yield to manly
caresses, for his lips would burn you. I do not think you are a witless child
to be bewitched by muscles and ruthlessness. So why? Not merely to share a
throne, for a Sultana is no more than a housekeeper.” Receiving no response,
she pressed harder relentlessly. “They, say that the God of Love plays dice
with our hearts: Do you love Azak ak’Azakar, Inosolan?”

No.

Inos
did not speak.

She
was thinking of Rap.

Why
had the not seen earlier what the God’s words had meant?

Too
late, too late!

“He
is a barbarian, Inos.”

He
tortured my lover to death, the man who loved me, who crossed the world to help
me.

She
gulped at the thought. “If I accept your offer and seek out Lith’rian, then
what happens to Azak?”

“We
shall give him the choice-he may return whence he came, or proceed to the
Impire. But I suspect he would be betrayed to the Imperial military.” Inos
glared at her companion. “You are ruthless yourself, my lady.”

Lia’
nodded sadly. “Elves often are. It surprises people, sometimes. Even ourselves.
But we agreed to help you only. And now I want your answer.”

“One
more question. Would Lith’rian restore me to my kingdom?”

“I
have no idea whatsoever.” Elves cared nothing for politics outside their own
convoluted affairs. Inos looked back. Azak was glaring at her. The positions of
the horses suggested that he had been trying to edge forward and the three
elves were deliberately blocking him.

He
killed the man who loved me.

Kade
was hostage for her return to Arakkaran.

She
thought of a lifetime with Azak. She tried to think of what a life with Rap
would have been like; her throat tightened and her eyelids burned. Too late,
fool, too late!

She
had a word of power. How much did that interest the warlock?

She
had made solemn promises to the Gods that she would be a wife to Azak.

She
had promised her father ... but the Impire had dealt her kingdom away like an
unwanted kitten. And she hoped that she had standards of her own. What would
her father have said?

Or
Rap, for that matter?

“I
am Azak’s wife,” she said. “I will not betray him.”

Lia’
shook her head sadly. “Spoken like a fool-or an elf. Or a queen, I suppose. It
is what I expected. May the Gods bless you for it.”

“You
seem worried, Uncle!”

“Worried?
No, not at all! Me worried? Absurd! Why should I be worried?” Ambassador
Krushjor tossed his silver mane in the wind and folded his arms and leaned
against the rail as if he had never known worry in his life. A jotunn on the
helmsman’s deck of a longship was in his natural element and should be as
carefree as a dwarf in a diamond mine or a gnome in the town dump.

Of
course his nephew, Thane Kalkor, was utterly insane, but that was quite normal
for a jotunn raider. All the truly successful thanes had been mad as rutting
sea lions-sanity would distract a man when he should be concentrating on his
killing and raping. Mindless cruelty and destruction were by definition done
for their own sake, without logic or reason. Meanwhile fifty or so brawny
jotnar were rowing Blood Wave up the languid waters of the Ambly, and Krushjor
had come to make a courtesy call, which meant he must spend a few hours at
least in the madman’s company. Both were large men, and the sailor holding the
steering oar was even larger, and the platform was very small. Krushjor felt
strongly disinclined to jostle his maniacal nephew.

And
his maniacal nephew kept smiling at him with his inhumanly bright blue eyes, as
if he could read every thought in Krushjor’s head. Every time he moved--to wave
his contempt at the crowds on the bank, or study the position of the naval
escorts-he seemed to settle back a fraction closer to his uncle. He must be
doing it deliberately. What happened when the imaginary chip fell from his
shoulder?

The
sun shone. The silver ring wound and twisted. Two imperial war galleys kept
pace ahead, four more astern. As the procession turned each bend, staying as
close as possible to the inside curve where the current was least, great crowds
of imps swarmed on the shore, running like ants, waving, jumping up and down
and cheering. They were not cheering this impertinent intruding jotunn pirate,
only the accompanying honor guard of the Imperial navy-which was polished and
scrubbed and armed to the armpits, and also completely outclassed.

Kalkor
was playing with them. Time and again he would snap an order to the coxswain to
up the stroke. Then Blood Wave would leap forward as if to overtake. The
vanguard would move frantically to cut her off, and usually become hopelessly
entangled in doing so. Then Kalkor would rein in his crew and let the Imperial
navy straighten itself out again. His men were barely sweating-they could have
rowed figureeights around the escorts for him had he wanted. The day before,
the choleric Imperial admiral had tried putting four ships in the van and two
astern. Kalkor’s feints had put half the flotilla aground within an hour.

Not
in centuries had a raider progressed so far up the Ambly, perhaps never, even
in the troubled times of the VIIth Dynasty, or the XIIIth.

The
shores were lined with civilian traffic-barges and cargo boats, galleys and
gondolas, all shooed aside to let the fleet pass by. Their crews watched the
procession in sullen silence. Behind them the orchards and hopfields were
golden; rows of peasants bent with their sickles, reaping corn, not looking up
at all.

Krushjor
had pulled an oar in a longship in his youth, as had most Nordlanders. He’d
been good enough to become a thane, leading a few raiding expeditions of his
own then, taking out boatloads of his more promising youngsters to season them
in the ancestral traditions of rape and pillage, for all jotnar learned in
their cradles that if they ever grew soft, the Impire would be all over them
like fleas.

Officially,
he was still Thane of Gurtwist, his realm kept safe under the aegis of the Moot
while he served abroad. Thanedom came partly from birth and partly from
prowess. To become a thane required three things, the wags said-bloodlines,
bloodthirst, and bloody luck. He’d done all right, but he’d never intended to
make a lifelong career out of rape and pillage. Indeed, he’d been returning
from his farewell tour when he’d gone after a tempting merchant ship and in the
skirmish had received a very ill-placed sword cut. He’d made his way home to
Gurtwist before it began festering, but for a month or two thereafter the Gods
had seemed very anxious to weigh his soul.

In
the end his recovery had been complete except for one small detail, a lingering
defect that would not interfere with pillaging but disqualified him totally for
the other half of the profession. Had that disability become generally known,
he would have been a ruined man, and likely a dead one soon. As a ruling thane,
he would not have been able to hide his shortcoming for long, but a need for a
new Nordland ambassador to the Impire had come along at the opportune moment.
Krushjor had engineered his own nomination, accepted with a proper show of
reluctance, and sailed away to live with the enemy. He was safer there, for no
one in Hub took notice of his private life, nor cared anyway.

So
to travel on a longship again brought back happy memories of his violent, lusty
youth. Compared to Kalkor, though, he had never been more than an amateur.
Times were relatively peaceful now, and raiding wasn’t what it once had
been-men might be allowed to flee if they left their valuables behind, and
women were often spared if they submitted pleasingly. Kalkor was a throwback to
the Great Days, to legendary raiders like Stoneheart, or Axeater, or
Thousand-Virgins.

He
was mad beyond question, if sanity was to be judged by the behavior of other
men. But mad in exactly what way? Why had he plunged himself and his crew into
this impossible trap? When the first letter had arrived, Krushjor had been
certain that it was some sort of a joke, or an elaborate subterfu actually He
had been aghast when his nephew had actually accepted the safe conduct and put
himself into the enemy’s power. The old man dearly wanted to know why and also
to know what might be expected of him personally-but anytime he drew near to
the topic, his nephew would smile, and the madness would sparkle up in his
blue-blue eyes, daring Krushjor to ask that one impertinent query. And Kalkor
himself was certainly the only man aboard who knew the answer. A thane’s crew
never questioned.

Why,
for another matter, did he have a goblin on board? A goblin was hardly less
likely than a silo, or a tannery. But the goblin was there, rowing with the
rest, his black hair and khaki skin making him conspicuous among so many
blonds. He seemed tiny in that company, and yet he was handling his oar with
apparent ease.

“It’s
so tempting!” Kalkor sighed. He was staring at a wide water meadow, completely
covered with gawking imps.

Krushjor
could see more temptation in the city that lay behind the mass of spectators.
It was unwalled, of course, here in the heart of the Impire, and its old stones
and planks were sun-worn, mellowed by centuries of peace.

“They’ve
left the town unguarded, you mean?” His nephew raised pale eyebrows in mockery.
“Have you forgotten, Uncle? Imp towns are always unguarded! Guarding requires
courage, remember? No, I was just wondering what would happen if we made a
feint at that crowd-drew our swords and faked a landing. How many would be
crushed in the panic, do you suppose? Care to lay a wager?”

His
eyes danced with merriment, but there was a crazy longing there, too. Perhaps a
week or two without the smell of blood was beginning to sap his selfcontrol.

“The
imps would put so many fine-feathered shafts in us that we’d look like a
poultry market. And they’d claim you’d broken the truce.”

The
madman’s eyes gleamed even brighter. “But Nordland would never believe them.
Would they risk a war?”

“Yes,”
Krushjor grunted, trying to seem impassive. Kalkor sighed and leaned back
again, surreptitiously nudging him a fraction closer to the edge of the deck
space. “And I should be deprived of my great ambition.”

“Which
is?” The question slipped out. before the older man could stop it.

“Why,
to see the City of Gods, Uncle!” Kalkor smiled at him mockingly. “Don’t the
imps have a saying--’See Hub and Die!’?”

If
that was what he wanted, he was going to be satisfied. What else did he plan to
do beforehand? And whom did he want to take with him?

Iron
hooves thudded, iron-rimmed wheels thundered.

Less
than a year ago, the sunniest summit of all Rap’s dreams had been to become a
wagon driver, but the limit of his ambition had been a rickety dray loaded with
peat and salted beef. He could not have imagined a vehicle one-quarter so grand
as this opulent coach, .with its cunning suspension wrought of dwarvish steel,
with its gilt trim and glass windows and all those shiny carriage lamps. He
certainly would never have imagined its team of six giant bays pounding along
the imperor’s highway at a pace that snatched the breath from a man’s lips. To
be the coachman on such a wonder would have seemed a dream of ecstasy to that
lonely rustic lad of Krasnegar.