Emperor and Clown (22 page)

“About
two-thirds of it is shielded. I suppose the rest of it was added in later, but
the original was the work of a sorcerer.”

For
once Andor was at a loss. Then he laughed uneasily. “Our lucky word at work?”

“Certainly,”
Rap said. “You probably owe your lives to it, because all of you jostle the
ambience at times. It’s always seemed like a miracle that you have escaped
detection for so long ... so, here’s the miracle.”

“Gods!
We do? Then you will show me which parts are safe before you leave?”

“Gladly.”

Andor
shrugged, visibly unnerved by the news. Then he again headed for the stair,
holding the lamp high and offering his arm to the princess. In silent consent,
Rap and Gathmor moved to opposite ends of the same trunk and hefted it between
them, leaving the other for a second trip.

Settling
in was a brief process. Andor assigned bedchambers to everyone; the other men
delivered baggage and then brought buckets of water from the pump in the
cellar, which was itself ankle-deep in runoff that day. Cleaned up and
refreshed, the visitors gathered in the main drawing room and discovered that
their host was no longer Andor.

Long
and gaunt in a silvery robe, Sagorn was leaning against the mantel and
surveying the room with the supercilious sneer that meant he was displeased. He
was wearing a black skullcap, an affectation Rap had not seen on him before.

The
chamber was large but sadly in need of cleaning: the fireplace full of ancient
ashes, tables thick with dust, shelves festooned with cobwebs. Rap did not know
how much detail the others could make out in the gloom filtering through the
grubby windows, but the smell of dirt was unmistakable and the princess’s
expression unusually bleak. Sagorn himself was making no move to light the
candles.

He
nodded to Gathmor as he entered, the last to do so. “Take a seat, Captain.”

“Think
I’ll stand.” The sailor folded his arms and scowled. The princess had perched
on a straight-back chair. Rap had let himself sink into a cushioned divan, to
see if it was as soft as it looked. It was, but smelled unpleasantly of mildew.

“I
assume that Andor called you so we could have a strategy meeting?” the princess
said.

Sagorn
chuckled cynically. “Only partly. Our fastidious friend was shamed by the
quarters he had to offer you. He decided that as it had been my idea to bring
you here, I ought to take the blame.” He raised a hand to forestall her denial.
“And he was right! I apologize wholeheartedly, ma’am. I had failed to notice in
the last few years how neglected the place has become. I tend to become lost in
my studies, you see ... The house is a disgrace.”

“Well,
we shan’t hurt for a day or two,” the princess said cheerfully. “What do you
propose we do now?”

“Food,
I suppose,” Sagorn said. “And information. How real is this war? Has Inosolan
arrived in Hub, and have her djinn companions? They may have been forced to
turn back, you know. What of Krasnegar? What rumors of the Four? And we might
try to ascertain which of your friends and relations are in town, ma’am. The
same for my political cronies. When we have answers to those questions, we
shall have more questions to answer!”

“And
how can I help?”

“I’m
not sure! There are taverns not far away where Thinal can often pick up gossip.
Andor can visit some of his acquaintances.” His raptor eyes swung around to
look at Rap. “Our mage should be able to gather news by occult means.”

“Only
by eavesdropping,” Rap said. “But that’s safe enough.”

“And
mastery. If Andor can worm out secrets, I’m sure you can.”

“I
suppose so,” Rap said unhappily.

“You
might interview a legionary or two. And the captain . . .” Sagorn eyed Gathmor
doubtfully.

Gathmor
sneered. “The captain stays home and makes things shipshape. Filthy, lubberly
crew you are!”

“Then
I shall be cook and homemaker,” the princess said.

“Ma’am-”

“No,
truly!” She beamed up at him, amused. “I love cooking, and I very rarely get
the chance. But I can’t produce a meal from an empty larder.”

All
eyes went to the darkening windows. The markets would be closing, or closed.

“This
place is shielded.” Rap had just discovered he was ravenous. “How about chicken
dumplings?” He was remembering a very special treat his mother had made for him
maybe twice or three times in his childhood, the best thing he had ever tasted.
With his occultly flawless memory he could recall that taste exactly, and his
mouth was suddenly watering like the weather. It was the nicest sensation he’d
known in days. Maybe, just once in a while, it was good to have powers beyond
the mundane.

“Of
course!” the princess exclaimed. “You can make food appear by magic, like Sheik
Elkarath did!”

“Oh,
yes. I’m not sure what happens afterward, though. We may all wake up very
hungry in the night.”

“Well?”
Sagorn snapped. “Why stop with such plain fare? I am sure her Highness would
prefer, say, fricassee of pigeon breast in truffle and caper sauce.”

“Anything
at all,” Rap said. “If you let me know what you want it to look like, I’ll
produce it. But it’s going to taste like chicken dumplings.”

Along
every great highway of the Impire, the horse posts were numbered. In her letter
to Senator Epoxague, therefore, Inos had suggested that Post Number One on the
Great South Way would be a suitable place to meet. She knew the road would go
that far, but she had no idea where it went within the city. What she had not
anticipated was just how large a staging post could be.

The
letter had been borne on ahead by the next passing courier, and a message to a
senator was sure to receive dispatch treatment. Azak had set a gentler pace
thereafter-to be less conspicuous, perhaps, or to let the letter arrive and
produce results. That night the innkeeper had called in soldiers to inspect his
suspicious guests, but the elvish passport had worked again. Inos kept
expecting it to fail.

And
at noon the next day, it did.

South
Post Number One was huge, enormous. Not only the Great South Way began here,
but the Pithmot Way also, and a spur of the Great East Way. Here the
stagecoaches and the Imperial mail began and ended their runs. Here private
travelers arriving could turn in their posters, then hire cabs for transport
within the city; the outgoing could rent mounts or whole equipages of horses and
coaches and servants. Halls and yards and paddocks and stables sprawled like a
small township, bustling with couriers and messenger boys and porters and
ostlers and cutpurses. There were a thousand horses there, and almost as many
people, all seemingly milling around in the rain, all shouting. Wheels rumbled
and splashed. The air was thick with the smell of wet horses. There were also
soldiers.

Inos
had not foreseen the difficulty of meeting someone she did not know, and who
did not know her, because she had expected a far smaller place, and never such
a turmoil. For two days she had been dreaming of a friendly family senator
appearing to provide hospitality and protection, and perhaps a little sane,
cultured relaxation after half a year of mad adventure. He might very well have
answered her plea and come to the rendezvous, or sent someone in his place, but
how could they locate each other? She had not dared mention that she was
traveling with four djinns.

They
had turned in their horses and recovered their original deposit. They had left
that office, and now they were outside in the rain and Azak was leaving the
next move to her, scowling ferociously but saying nothing as the minutes
crawled by and she stared this way and that way and wondered where on earth to
go first. Horses and travelers milled past, and then--from all sides like
wolves emerging from a forestlegionaries closed in with drawn swords.

Followed
by her four djinn companions, she was escorted indoors and then up a somber
staircase to a room that already contained a tribune, a centurion, and one
unremarkable civilian. About a dozen legionaries filed in with the captives,
and spread around, still holding naked blades. There was one table and no
chairs. The door was then closed, and bolted.

Fear
throbbed at her temples; the forgery had been exposed, the senator had betrayed
her. The deliberate overcrowding of the room was designed to add to the stress;
she felt she could hardly twitch without contacting an armored torso. They were
all around, eyes too close. She could smell the leather and the polish and the
men’s breath.

The
tribune leaned back against the table and read over the passport. Then he
regarded his five captives with satisfaction. “This is very good work,” he
said. “A very good fake.”

“No,
it isn’t,” Azak replied.

The
tribune smiled and handed it to the civilian, who was young, balding and
bookish-an inoffensive little man, obviously dangerous, else he would not be
there. He carried the document over to the window and peered at it, holding it
almost at the end of his long nose. “Yes, very fine,” he concluded. “Elvish,
almost certainly.” He continued to study the penmanship.

The
tribune turned his patient smile on Azak. He was a short man, and middle aged;
surprisingly old for a soldier. His face and arms were swarthy, weatherbeaten,
but he could afford an expensive uniform, the bronze inlaid with gold. His dark
eyes glinted brighter than his helmet. “Now the truth?”

“You
have the truth,” Azak replied evenly.

“The
persons named in that forgery have never heard of you.”

“Of
course not. I’m coming, not going.” Azak had not blinked, but Inos felt her
heart sink another notch. Obviously every spy and every doubting official along
the Great South Way had sent in a report. A tidal wave of reports must have hit
Hub, all at about the same time. The authorities had merely let the suspect
strangers complete their journey, right to the gates of the capital. Now they
would be examined to find out what they were; taken apart in the process if
necessary.

The
tribune looked Inos up and down. “Uncover your face!”

For
ladies to wear riding veils was not unusual, but normally they removed them
indoors. Inos took off her hat and pulled the veil free of her collar. She was
so filthy she could barely live with herself. I am the long-lost Queen of
Krasnegar, in the far northwest of Pandemia, and my large, equally
evil-smelling companion is my husband, sultan of a powerful state in Zark, in
the extreme southeast. We are here to meet with a prominent member of the senatorial
order. What else would you like to hear?

The
tribune nodded, as if he had just confirmed what had been reported. “Not djinn,
not pure anything. Part elf and part what?”

“No
elf. Imp and jotunn.”

“Who
branded you, and why?”

“That
is my business.”

He
shrugged, as if the point were of no import. “You are consorting with djinn
spies, traveling under forged papers. Worse may befall you than that.”

“It
is not yet noon,” Azak remarked calmly. “What of it?” asked the tribune.

“We
are to be met here by an important person at noon. I suggest you restrain your
curiosity until then, Tribune.”

The
tribune folded his arms. “Do I really look so gullible? You can gain nothing by
insulting me.”

“If
you truly believed that our credentials were false, you would have dragged us
away in chains long since. My authority is unusual, I admit, but that is not
your concern. just wait until noon. I cannot guarantee that your questions will
be answered, but you will be stopped from asking any more of us.” Azak folded
his arms also.

He
was filthy and travel-worn, and a red-hairy thigh was visible through a tear in
his breeches, but the Sultan of Arakkaran knew all there was to know about
intrigue. He was probably right-the tribune was still not quite certain. Djinns
were fair game at the moment, or very soon would be, but the war was not yet
official. There could be diplomatic moves underway still, and the man was smart
enough to know that.

It
felt like already past noon to Inos, although the weeping gray sky made the
point debatable. It felt like past time for the senator to show up if he was
coming. He might be out of town, and her letter still on its way to wherever he
was. He might have thrown it in the fire as a fake. He might have turned it
over to the secret police, and this tribune might be just playing with her by
not mentioning it.

Had
she not persuaded Azak to let her send that letter, then their case would be
hopeless. If someone did not answer the letter very soon, then their case was
hopeless anyway.

“Any
doubts, Scrivener?” the tribune asked.

“Oh,
none at all,” said the young man. He tossed the roll of vellum on the table.

“Right.”
The tribune spoke to the centurion. “Search them.”

The
centurion sheathed his sword and signed to two men to do likewise. They
advanced on Azak, who glared but offered no resistance while the men poked and
peered. They clinked his bags of gold on the table, they relieved him of two
daggers and a couple of thin knives Inos had not known about.

Then
Char, Varrun, and Jarkim were given the same treatment.

The
tribune eyed Inos thoughtfully. “Are you carrying any weapons or documents?”

“None.”

“You
swear this by the God of Truth?”

“I
do.”

“Very
well. Now, we’ll start with that one.” He nodded at Char.

The
two legionaries grabbed Char’s hands, spun him around, and slammed his face
into the wall. Then they held him there. Azak took a step forward and was
stopped by a hedge of swords. The centurion threw a heavy punch at Char’s
kidneys and kicked his ankle. Inos shut her eyes.