Magic Casement (38 page)

Rap
took a few deep breaths of the frigid air, welcoming the familiar salty tang of
the sea and the distant crackling of the tide wrestling ice. Then he turned to
his companion. He had made this offer at the end of the forest, but he would
try once more.

“I
release you, Little Chicken. You have paid any debt you owe me many times over.
Go back to your people. “

“I
am your trash,” said the stubborn whisper from the darkness. “I
look after you. “

“You
can’t help me here! I am in grave danger, but you cannot help, and you
will be in danger, also. Go, with my gratitude.”

“I
look after you. Later I kill you.”

So
the Gods had still not given the signal. Rap shrugged unseen. “You nay
have to be quick, if you want to be the first. Come on, then.”

He
began to run. When they reached the causeway itself, though, he was forced down
to a walk, steering entirely with his farsight, and at times Little Chicken had
to hold his shoulder to stay with him in a heavy, dense dark like blankets.
They were halfway across before Rap remembered bears. This was a bad time for
them, but now he had so much trust in his farsight that he was certain none lurked
in the vicinity.

It
had been a bad winter. Below the ice there had been much damage to the
stonework, although no one else could have known. Somewhere behind them in the
moors, the imp army was camped. Rap had stayed a couple of days ahead of it all
the way, and the journey had been far, far worse than his trip south. While the
cold had been less severe, the snow had been deeper and stickier, the winds
stronger. Worse yet, Rap and Little Chicken had traveled as heralds of
disaster, croaking ravens prophesying war. The imps had burned every goblin
village within reach of the road. Had the warnings not flown ahead of them,
they would undoubtedly have massacred the inhabitants, also. The people of the
first village had died, all of them, from patriarch to newborn. Inos’
journey back to her homeland had been marked by pillars of smoke, by women and
children fleeing out into the wasteland, by precious foodstocks pillaged, by
unprovoked and unnecessary rampage. The leader of the imps, the one with the
fancy helmet, was certainly an utter madman. What he sought to gain, Rap could
not guess, nor why Inos had allowed it. He could only assume that she had been
powerless to stop the destruction.

The
wagon road to Pondague had been sealed behind her, for in future the goblins
would brook no travel on it. No force less than a full army could traverse the
taiga now. No more would trains amble north in summer with supplies. Krasnegar
would suffer and its way of life become harder even than before. Madness!

Only
once had Rap and Little Chicken departed from the trail. They had made a wide
detour around Raven Totem, sending the words of warning by goblin messengers,
running double shifts to catch the army again on the far side.

And
now he was home. Rap emerged from the travail of the causeway onto the dock
road, dark and deserted, swept clean by the wind. He swung up the bar on the
gate. Those gates would stop white bears, but not impish legionaries. Once
inside he began to trot again, out of old habit, with Little Chicken and
Fleabag at his heels. Dawn would come in an hour or so. Soon the town would be
stirring. He headed for the nearest stairway.

What
did the imp army want of Krasnegar? Did it come to put Inos on her throne and
defend her against the jotnar, or did it come to loot? Would it treat the town
as it had treated the goblin villages? Certainly it could not be stopped short
of the castle itself, and there would not be enough food in the castle to
withstand a siege. Indeed, a former factor’s clerk could guess that there
would not be even enough food in the city for an additional two thousand hungry
men. The crops and the grain ships were months away yet, the wagon road
impassable.

Rap
scanned each corner and branching carefully. In Krasnegar the law said that
horse thieves were to be hanged.

He
had planned to bring the horses back. He had expected to return with a grateful
Inos, heir presumptive or already queen. Most of all, he had been mesmerized by
Andor.

Andor!
Rap could not think of Andor without baring his teeth. What that sorcerer had
done to Rap was bad enough, but he had also used his power on Inos, and that
was unforgivable. She would have been as helpless to resist Andor as Fleabag
was to refuse Rap himself.

An
early riser emerged from a doorway two corners ahead. Rap took cover in a
doorway and waited, puffing gently, hearing Little Chicken doing the same
beside him, and Fleabag’s noisy pant.

“You
run good, forest boy,” Rap whispered. Little Chicken grunted quietly, but
angrily. Rap smiled into the darkness. Goblins were not accustomed to stairs.

The
town man vanished into another door and Rap set off again, his companions
following the tap of his moccasins on the cobbles and steps. He had spent many
hours planning this return, thinking while running, wondering whom he would
seek out, reviewing all those childhood friends who had turned aside when he
had demonstrated occult powers. His final choice had surprised him greatly.

He
was approaching the castle. He could, if he wanted, run right in through the gates,
for no guard was ever posted there, except in summer when there were strangers
in town. Krasnegar had sheltered too long behind the diplomatic skill of its
king, a skill buttressed by a word of power.

If
Holindam was still alive to tell Inos that word, would it serve her in the same
way? Rap had not thought to wonder what change the word would produce in Inos.
What was her great talent? Not diplomacy! Gaiety? Zest? Beauty?

Perhaps
beauty. He would never forget her as he had seen her in the forest, unexpectedly
sprung from the child he remembered to glorious woman, a slender wood nymph in
a malachite cloak, with hints of golden hair inside the hood, green eyes
shining in her winter-pale face. He wept himself to sleep with that memory.
Inos with her beauty augmented by magic would be a goddess. She was close
enough now.

And
so he thought again of Andor, baring his teeth. He had plans for Andor that he
had never thought he could have for any man. Almost, Rap could think of turning
him over to Little Chicken.

They
stopped in an alleyway by a door and waited for their hearts to slow and
breathing to calm. Nothing like a few months’ running to put a man in
shape, even for running up Krasnegar.

Rap
scanned, sensing the small apartment of two rooms and a kitchen. There was a
communal toilet on the other side of the alley, behind Rap. The owner was up
and dressed, kneeling by his fireplace. His wife and children had died years
ago, in the same pestilence that had killed Rap’s mother, and he had
lived alone ever since. Rap had never been invited into this tiny home; he knew
no one who ever had.

He
tapped.

Hostler
Hononin looked around in surprise and then heaved himself to his feet. His feet
were bare and his shirt hung down unfastened over his pantaloons and hose. His
face was weatherbeaten, lumpy, and wizened, and his stoop thrust his head
forward aggressively. The tangle of gray curls around his bald spot was still
rumpled by sleep; he appeared even more surly than usual as he padded over to
the door.

“Who’s
there?” His voice was loud enough to make Rap jump. Rap tapped again,
reluctant even to whisper his name.

The
little man scowled, then opened the door a crack-it had not been locked-and
light jumped in Rap’s face, dazzling him. “Oh, great Gods, boy!”
Hononin recoiled. “By the Powers! Rap!” He was stunned. Then he
pulled the door wide. “Quick! Come in before anyone sees you! And who the
hell is this?”

Then
they were all inside and the door closed. Hononin choked and put a hand over
his mouth.

“Sorry,
sir. It’s bear grease. It keeps the cold out.”

The
old man looked him over, then the others. Fleabag sniffed suspiciously at him.
Little Chicken was staring around the little room, his odd-shaped eyes
stretched by alarm and clasutrophopia.

“Did
you tell her?” the hostler mumbled, through his fingers. “She’s
coming. Tomorrow.”

As
his eyes adjusted to the light, Rap glanced curiously around the room. He had
been gone so long that furniture seemed very strange to him-the table and two
wooden chairs in the middle, and a big, overstuffed chair near the fire, with
its insides falling out. Crude sketches of horses hung on the bare plank walls.
One candle in a bone candlestick threw a wavering light over a heap of old tack
in one corner and a small bench with saddler tools. A threadbare rug... Cozy
enough in its way, though.

The
old man nodded. “Good.”

“He’s
still alive?”

“So
they say.”

Rap
breathed a deep sigh. That was what he had wanted mostthat she be able to say
good-bye.

Hononin
retched again and backed away. “You stink like you’ve been bathing
in the honey pit. I’ve got some soap somewhere I’ve been saving.
Ever used soap?”

“Once
or twice, sir. “

“Use
it good. Need hot water. Get those rags off. “ He headed for his kitchen
and soon a loud clanking told that he was working the pump. Rap began unlacing
and instantly Little Chicken had knocked his hands away and started doing it
for him. Rap knew better than to resist; his last attempt had given him a
sprained wrist.

Hononin
returned with a bucket and stopped to stare at this valet service. “Who
the hell is he?”

“He’s
a goblin, sir. “

“I
can see that, idiot! And what are all those marks on your face? You gone
goblin, too? Burn those rags-they’ll help heat the water, and maybe get
the stink out of here. His, too. You undress him now or does he do it himself?
You’ve grown, lad. You leave any spare clothes behind in that room of
yours? No, they wouldn’t fit you now anyway. I’ll go and see what I
can find.”

“This
is good of you, sir,” Rap said, naked now and bundling up his buckskins.

“Damn
sure it is! You’ll hang certain if Foronod finds you. So you stay here
and get cleaned up. Here’s the soap. Use it all. Filthy putrid pair, you
are. And a lousy wolf. You didn’t bring them back, did you?”

He
meant the horses. Rap shook his head. “Pity. Might’a let you off
with a flogging.”

Hononin
thrust feet into boots. He grabbed his doublet from a peg, banged the door, and
was gone.

It
was a long while before the old man returned, and faint gleams of daylight were
leaking in around the curtains. People paraded up and down the alley, greeting
one another in Rap’s native tongue and making his heart ache with it.

A
long while... but it took all that time to remove the grease, even with soap
and sand and hot water. Little Chicken resisted and argued, complying only when
Rap explained that the smell would be investigated, and then the townsfolk
would find Rap and kill him.

For
the first time since Winterfest, Rap found a mirror. His own face was a shock
to him, the face of a stranger. He did not think it was a boy looking back at
him as he wielded Hononin’s razor against some quite impressive stubble;
illogically, he was pleased by the stubble and yet disgusted to see how furry
fauns’ legs could be when they were not smeared with grease. They were
not the legs he had departed on. These were hairier and much thicker, while his
face was hairier and thinner.

Fleabag
had discovered Hononin’s breakfast and eaten all of it except the butter,
which Little Chicken had rescued. He wanted to smear Rap with it.

Then
the hostler thrust his gnarled face around the door to warn his guests that he
had a lady with him; but the guests already knew that and had taken cover in
the bedroom. So he tossed a bundle of clothes in at Rap and went back to the
front room to wait until they appeared. That took time, also, as Little Chicken
would neither let Rap dress himself nor listen to an explanation of how hose
worked. Little Chicken was going to be a large liability in Krasnegar.

At
last Rap was ready and could go in. He had already identified the
visitor-Mother Unonini, the palace chaplain. Rap knew her, but they had never
spoken. Under a trickle of morning daylight, she seemed as forbidding as
midnight.

She
was a tall, stern woman in her black gown, sitting as straight as was possible
in the overstuffed chair by the fireplace, her hands folded in her lap. She
returned a nod to Rap’s clumsy bow and looked him over without revealing
her conclusions.

“Eat
first, talk later.” The hostler pointed to the table. Rap had already
scented the hot loaves and his mouth was watering. Bread! He sat down and began
to gorge. In a few minutes Little Chicken came in and scowled horribly at the
sight of a woman with her head bared. Mother Unonini flinched at a man with his
shirt open-which was not the goblin’s fault, for all the buttons had
already popped off. Rap managed a two-dialect introduction with his mouth full.

Little
Chicken did not approve of bread, but he was hungry, also. He helped himself to
a meal and sat on the floor to eat it. The hostler chuckled and took the third
chair.

“Perhaps
you can eat and listen, though. “ The chaplain had a hard, masculine
voice. “I shall bring you up to date first, Master Rap, and then...”
She frowned. “I do not care for nicknames. What is that short for?”

“Just
Rap,” said Rap.

That
was not strictly true, for his real name was a great, long incomprehensible
chant that he never used. He supposed it was a Sysanasso name. “Never
tell your real name to anyone,” his mother had said when she had told it
to him, “because a sorcerer may learn it and use it to do you harm.”
He had believed her then, of course, because he had been only ten or so at the
time, and ten-year-olds believe most of what their mothers tell them; but now
he knew much more about sorcerers, and he could see that that had been only
another of his mother’s strange superstitions, like a south wind bringing
rain. His friends would have laughed at such a name, though, so he had never
told it to anyone, even Inos.