Perilous Seas (33 page)

“Then
its owner may starve, and his children, too.”

The
jotunn grimaced at such sissy sentimentality. “Thinal?” Darad said
triumphantly.

“I
suppose so,” Rap said sadly. If Thinal was willing to help, then he could
steal the price of a ticket in Noom as easily as he had done the same thing for
Andor in Milflor. Come to think of it, Rap probably could do those sorts of
things himself now. He would just have to hope that whoever was chosen to
support the cause could afford the honor.

The
gnome was watching, scratching things out of his beard, and leering.

“What
do you advise, Ishist? “ Rap asked, trying to feel trusting.

“Oh,
sea! Your biggest problem isn’t getting there, wherever you go. You need
to worry more about getting in to meet Lith’rian. An audience with the
Imperor might be easier to arrange than a private chat with a warlock. “

“If
I used my powers right outside his gates? He’d sense me just like you did
when I sent the dragon away. “

“The
guards will be votaries. They’ll turn you to stone before you can blink. “

Rap
gulped.

“Besides,”
Ishist added, “Hub’s dangerous. Other wardens, and would-be
wardens. You’ll be safest to stay in South’s sector.”

“Advise
me, please,” Rap said, as he was expected to. “There’s one
sure way. Would only work for an elf, though. “

“Yes?”
Rap said cautiously. He distrusted a sorcerer’s sense of humor on
principle, and Ishist’s in particular.

“I’d
have to make you look elvish. It would be a low-power sorcery. It won’t
fool Lith’rian, of course, if you get to him; or any other full sorcerer.
But otherwise you should pass.”

“And?”

“And
you can get taken right to Lith’rian. “ The old man chuckled. “Express.
“

Rap
watched his own cheeks redden under the challengehis new reversible farsight
could be a disconcerting ability. “That’s the fastest way?”

“Yes.
“

“Then
go ahead! Make me look elvish. “

The
stubble that had collected on Rap’s face since he left Durthing fell off
like cottontree fluff. His skin began to turn yellow-and not just on his face.
His eyes ... he watched in astonishment as they grew larger and somehow tilted,
as the gray of his irises developed the opalescent sparkle of the purebred elf.
The skin change had almost reached his toes. His hair was curling and taking on
the metallic golden luster-even his body hair, he noticed uneasily. His legs
were shedding as his chin had. And were Little Chicken here, he could no longer
call him “Flat Nose.” His tattoos were gone.

Then
it was done. In a vague way, Rap was still Rap, but he was an elvish Rap-about
the same height as before, but slimmer, slighter. Better looking than before,
of course, but an ugly elf.

His
robe shimmered and faded away, revealing snug-fitting jerkin and long trousers,
of the same delicate leather as his boots, and colored bright green and blue.
He did not remember putting those on. A matching forester’s cap fell from
nowhere and settled lightly on his shiny golden curls. He fingered an elvish
ear thoughtfully.

He
sniffed, and realized his sense of smell had returnedwoodsy scents of wet loam
and leaves, plus the powerful stink of the gnome beside him.

“Gods!”
Gathmor said, horrified. “You look just like an elf! Even your eyes.”

“Yes,
I know.” Rap’s voice was higher pitched, and somehow sweeter. “It
may take some getting used to.”

Ishist
chuckled, greatly pleased with himself. “You needn’t be so worried!
Everything’s still there, it just looks different. The hair will grow
back afterward. Don’t be tempted to try anything, sailor. He looks elf
and feels elf, but he’s still got his strength. And he’s still an
adept. “

Gathmor
pouted. He must have felt tempted.

“I’ve
put a year’s limit on it, lad, “ the sorcerer said. “You’re
going to Lith’rian of your own free will, understand? That’s still
the case. But if no one takes the spell off, it’ll fade in a year. And
you others-I think you’d better be dressed the same, at least.”
Robes vanished, foresters’ leathers appeared on Gathmor in red and
yellow, green and white on Darad. Caps and all.

The
sight of the mighty-thewed Darad in such clothing was not one to be taken
lightly, Rap thought, and realized how much he had already adapted to the ways
of sorcery. Gathmor hadn’t--he swore under his breath, and squirmed.

Rap
said, “Explain how this gets me to the warlock, Ishist.”

The
gnome’s black eyes twinkled. “There’ll be lots of elves in
Noom. In the Impire they’re usually artists of one sort or another. They
can’t compete in business with imps, and they profess to despise
fighting. They sculpt and sing and so on. Pick a big one. “

“Big
one?” Rap repeated warily. “Important. A chief elf in a group of
elves. “

With
a strange sensation that this conversation was somehow familiar, Rap said, “Then
what do I do?”

The
little old man cackled. “Then you punch him on the nose. “

Like
the rest of the House of Elkarath, the cellars were a jumble of mismatched
levels and shapes-innumerable separate constructions that had grown together
over the ages like some gigantic family whose members could never agree on
anything. Most of the vaults were stacked high with merchandise, and much of it
could be identified by smell alone: brandy and vinegar and turpentine in kegs;
hides and cedar planks in stacks. But the dimness also held mysterious bales
and barrels and baskets; ingots, crates, and flagons; urns and ewers and
hampers. And shadows! With one hand comfortingly gripped by Skarash, and the
other holding her lantern high to watch for uneven footing and low beams, Inos
told herself very sternly that queens were not frightened of shadows. Or dust.
Or rats, if rats there be.

Or
Skarash.

But
she hoped he could not feel the tremor in her hand. Once in a while she saw
other lights flickering beyond arches or down tunnels; rarely she heard distant
voices and footsteps. It was all very creepy.

She
soon began to suspect that the curiously brash Skarash was leading her around
in a circle, up and down, in and out, in a tour of the whole bewildering
catacomb, but she was not going to allow yesterday’s experience with the
pixies to turn her into a nerveless ninny frightened of anything that grew hair
on its chin. Her behavior when the centurion blustered had been shameful, but
she ought to be able to handle Master Skarash no matter how friendly he became.
If all he was trying to do was frighten her, then he could tunnel his way back
to Arakkaran first. But their two lanterns did make the odd-shaped shadows
shimmy in a sinister silent dance.

Something
rustled ... she jumped. Evil take it!

“Just
rats, I think,” Skarash said, stooping low under a tangle of beams that
seemed to have been added as an afterthought to hold up part of the roof. “Or
gnomes, which are worse. Every year or two gnomes get in here, and they’re
the Gods’ own pests to get rid of. Mind the cobwebs. This next door is
especially tuneful, as I recall.”

He
was right-it opened with a long, ear-rending scream of agony.

“I
first came to Ullacarn when I was ten,” he said, leading the way down
more stairs. “I thought the desert was the most wonderful place in the
world-until I discovered these cellars.” High-vaulted and quite empty,
the chamber gave his voice an eerie echo. The air was dank, the wall streaked
with niter.

“And
every year since, Grandsire has brought me along. We kids used to make up . . .
Sh! “ He stopped on the last tread and turned, staring up at the door
they had just come through. “Hear anything?” he whispered.

“No.”

He
stepped down to the floor, then turned again, looking up at her intently. “Sure?”

He
was playing a game, she thought, but she cocked her head and harked. “No.”

Skarash
frowned and laid down his lantern.

Above
her, the door shrieked like a trampled cat, then slammed shut in a
reverberating roll of thunder. She leaped, he reached up and caught her. She
slammed her lantern against his knee, clawed at his eyes, instinctively banged
a knee at his groin, and broke free.

Then
she was cowering back against the wall, fighting down a crazy spinning panic,
panting madly, with her heart beating inside her head and a vile taste in her
throat, hefting the lantern to strike him if he came closer. Enrage them into a
mating frenzy, Elkarath had said.

Her
knee had missed the tender spot that had worked on the pixie, but Skarash had
retreated several paces. He raised a hand to his cheek and then inspected the
blood on his fingers.

“Gods,
lady! I didn’t mean . . .” Even in the uncertain light of the
lanterns, his shock was obviously genuine.

She
had not screamed, though. She struggled to calm her frantic breathing. She
glanced back up at the door. “Kids?”

“Always.
The place swarms with them. But--”

He
dabbed at his face again, staring at her. Worried. No mating frenzy, just a
cruel practical joke.

Kids!
“What exactly did you have in mind?” Inos asked, furious now.

He
was blushing, dark in the dim light. “I thought . . . It was only a joke,
my lady. I meant no harm.”

She
shouted. “Explain!”

He
squirmed. “We used to do it to the girls. Make them jump into our arms.
No harm, really. Just ... I’ve never kissed a queen. “

A
queen. She was not going to let yesterday’s escape scar her. She was not
going to shy at shadows all her life. Pixies, centurions ... now she had fallen
for a stupid, juvenile, childish prank. Men!

She
laid down her lantern with a clatter. “Then let’s try that age!”

“What?
“

Inos
stamped up the stairs to where she had been standing before. “I said let’s
try that again!”

Wide-eyed,
Skarash walked back to his former place also, and then just stared up at her.

“Well?”
she demanded, ignoring the pounding of her heart and the wetness of her palms,
wishing he would get on with it. Skarash whispered, “Bang?”

Unencumbered
by a lantern, she jumped; he caught her and set her down. Then he took a deep
breath and kissed her lips. Apparently Skarash had not been planning much of a
kiss, or else was now frightened to, but she clung tight, closed her eyes, and
kept it going, turning it into a long, intimate thing. He wasn’t as
experienced as Andor had been. He probably had no more experience than Rap had
had, but he caught on quickly. And in the end it was she who broke it off.

“Gods!”
he muttered. “Majesty! Gods!”

Skarash,
she suddenly realized, might possibly be a valuable ally, if she could ever
trust him at all. Centurions, pixies ... she had not panicked. In fact she had
withstood that better than he had-he looked much more scared than she felt. Nor
had she roused him to a mating frenzy. Apart from a curious shaky feeling, she
had come out of that quite well.

“I
definitely do like you better as an imp. “

Skarash
just murmured, “Gods! “ again, as if bewildered by impish ways.

“Well,
then, let’s go. “

He
nodded dumbly, and picked up the lanterns. Inos accepted hers, and followed him
across the cellar floor with her heart still thumping.

She
had exorcised the pixies! She had not used some unconscious magic to drive the
man mad, but neither had she panicked when he touched her. She had almost
enjoyed the kiss. Not quite, though.

And
in spite of what Elkarath had said-and what Aunt Kade so obviously feared-she
had not been thinking of Azak.

She
had been thinking of Rap.

Another
door groaning open, and another few steps down, and yet another door. Skarash
paused. “This one’s never used for storage,” he said softly. “Except
for people. We used to frighten the small fry to death in this one!”

Inos
ducked through the doorway after him and then recoiled in disgust. Walls and
floor gleamed wet in the lantern’s flicker, and drips fell steadily from
the low roof. Azak was sitting on the bare stones, an arm raised to shield his
eyes from the light. She was horrified-no bedding, no light; damp, foul air.
The only furniture was a bucket; the kennel was barely big enough for him to
stretch out, and a rusty metal chain connected his ankle to a staple set in the
middle of the floor.

“Good
morning, my love. Or is it evening?”

“Haven’t
they fed you? No water? What kind of brutality is this?”

“Standard
persuasion.” He uncovered his eyes cautiously and peered up at the other
visitor, blinking.

“Skarash
ak’Arthark ak’Elkarath, Sire.” Heedless of his expensive
hose, Skarash knelt on the wet stone and bowed his head.

“Sire?”
Azak filled a little word with infinite scorn.

Skarash
looked up. “A true Arakkaranian, your Majesty! One of your loyal
subjects!”

Where
had he come from, this serious young man? The prankster had vanished, and the
face in the lanterns’ glow was hard and intense. Even his voice was
harsher, pure southern Zarkian.

Azak
shrugged. He moved his feet and the chain rattled. “Then I suggest you
demonstrate your devotion by getting me out of here.”

“I
am honored, Sire!” Skarash produced the rusty key and reached for the
padlock.

“Stop!”
Azak barked. “I am not giving my parole to any flea-ridden camel trader!”

“Sire-”

“No!
If you came to tell me to behave and promise to be a good boy, then you’re
wasting your-” Azak broke off in a fit of coughing. “And the same
with you,” he told Inos hoarsely.

Stubborn
ox! Mule! He wouldn’t last a week in this tomb. She could feel the damp
burrowing into her bones already, and he had been down here all night.
Pigheaded idiot!