Perilous Seas (38 page)

“Lith’rian,
of course. You knelt in his shadow.”

Well,
a warlock could create gold to order. If he wanted to. “I get taken to
Lith’rian for judgment?”

The
elf nodded, looking sorely puzzled again. “Then what?”

“Then
he judges, of course. If he decides you were wrong to spit on the Nilths, then
he sends your head to Valdonilth.”

“Literally?”

“In
a gold bucket is the tradition.”

“And
if he doesn’t? If he thinks I was right?” Quip’rian sniffled
loudly. “Then you’ve started a war.”

Either
the execution scheduled for noon was postponed or there was a last-minute
change of cast, because arguments over the elvish affair continued all day in
the lictor’s office. Rap watched the crowd there grow, but for
information on what was being said he had to rely on Quip’rian.

The
young elf was a loose ball in the game. The ancient rituals gave Nearest
Kinsman a major role in all proceedings, but senior Imperial officials
preferred not to discuss confidential financial matters in the presence of a
trainee waiter, so they sent him off to attend Rap.

A
short time in the cell was enough to make him nauseated, palsied, and likely to
faint. At that point Rap would suggest he go and gatecrash the meetings again,
and after some shouting for the jailers, he would be released. In an hour or
so, someone would notice him in the lictor’s office and toss him out
again. Then he would force himself back down to the dungeon to report to Rap,
for he had an elf’s compulsion to perform duties conscientiously.

He
told all he could, but young Quip’, while he was sensitive and willing,
was clearly neither well educated nor especially intelligent, and he had no
inklings of finance or politics. He did report that the entire elf community of
Noom was involved now, rallied around Lord Phiel’nilth. If the
distinguished visitor chose to regard the insult paid him as an honor, then he
must be given every assistance. Arcane rites had an undeniable appeal for
elves.

The
imps were seemingly divided between those who saw the practical advantages of
accepting compensation, and those who insisted that the law must be
upheld-meaning that the two culprits should be disassembled as soon as
possible, in public. Rap began to suspect that the contest was unfair, that the
elves were outmatched in the bargaining, caught between two grindstones that
opposed each other to a common purpose. As the day wore on, Quip’ was
gasping out numbers even Gathmor could not comprehend.

And
certainly the negotiations were only possible at all because the patron lord
whose name Rap had invoked was a sorcerer. Lith’rian’s credit was
infinite.

Of
course Lith’rian himself must be still unaware of all the good things
being done on his behalf. The imps proposed leaving the felons to marinate in
jail for a few weeks while a message went to Hub. The elves insisted that the
rituals must be followed exactly, and Rap should be sent immediately to Lith’rian’s
enclave, the sky trees of Valdorian.

And
the warlock was not available to sign and seal. Bankers could advance the
necessary funds upon suitable security, but all bankers were imps, more or less
by definition. Few elves were wealthy, and Quip’ reported that every elf
in the city was having to mortgage all he owned to provide the necessary bond.
Rap glumly concluded that an agreement might be attainable when the last groat
was pledged, and that did seem to be what happened.

Just
after sunset, Quip’rian and a jurist came down to the cells and joyfully
informed Rap that he was to be sent to Ilrane, to be judged by the ancient
ceremony he had invoked.

Rap
stayed on the floor. “How about my friend?”

“Noon
tomorrow, I’m afraid.”

Rap
used some nautical expressions that neither Quip’ nor jurist would have
met before. “Both of us or neither, “ he added, in case of
misunderstanding.

The
exhausted negotiators upstairs were just starting to leave when a horrified
Quip’rian came rushing up to break the news. The bargaining started all
over again.

It
went all night and most of the next day. Rap would not leave his cell
voluntarily, so he was hauled out bodily and dragged before the lictor. He was
warned that this was his last chance to avoid a terrible death. He refused to
accept better treatment than his fellow felon. As he had spent a whole day and
night in the dungeons, his mere presence could contaminate even the largest of
rooms. He was quickly returned whence he came and thereafter the visitors came
to call on him, speaking through the judas hole.

Elves
came, pleading both the impossibility of fitting a jotunn into the traditional
ceremonies and their inability to raise any more money. The jurists came,
muttering that the procedure was highly improper and if word got out then it
would have to be stopped. The lictor himself, the families of the injured,
representatives of the city ... all came to argue and beg and be turned down.
He was denied food and water. Two stalwart jailers came with boots and other
hard things. Still Rap refused. He wasn’t certain just what leverage he
had, but apparently he must travel voluntarily, and both ancient ritual and underhand
dealing had now gone so far that they had taken on a life of their own and
could not be reversed. So he did have leverage, somehow. The graft seeped
steadily upward until it reached the praetor himself, and then the cost rose
enormously. By now, of course, the imps knew that they had stumbled into a gold
mine, and the elves were hopelessly trapped.

When
the first round of appeals failed, they all came back and tried again,
including the two jailers.

Rap
stopped talking altogether.

He
knew he was being crazy. He was tormented by the thought that he was breaking
his word to Ishist, but he could not bring himself to desert Gathmor.

He
could have used mastery to convert the visitors to his cause, but that use of
power might alert any sorcerer in town and the goodwill would evaporate soon
after they left his presence; so he tried not to, although he did ease the
beatings a bit. Even Gathmor started telling him he was crazy.

Rap
told him to shut up, he wasn’t helping much.

One
elvish worthy called him a stupid troll, and another a brutish jotunn. The imps
said he was being as stubborn as a faun. Quip’rian broke down and wept,
then explained apologetically that he always reacted to the smell of blood like
that. And he had not slept the last two nights. None of them had.

When
the second round of visits failed, everyone came round a third time.

In
the end they all just succumbed to exhaustion, and Rap had won.

They
also serve:

...thousands
at his bidding speed,

And
post o’er land and ocean without rest;

They
also serve who only stand and wait.

Milton,
On His Blindness

Moaning Of The Bar

Late
afternoon, and the fine harbor of Ullacarn was teeming with ships, a
magnificent sight. Kade loved ships-sailing on them or even just looking at
them. That was the jotunn in her, of course.

In
her brief stay she had seen only a tiny part of the city, but she had certainly
approved of that much. Bouncing along in an open carriage with Inos and
Frainish, she had almost wished that she were staying longer, to see more. The
streets were wide and clean, the many parks overflowed with flowers. The
natives were djinns, and yet they all dressed in impish style in public, and
with their height and slender build they mostly looked very good in it, better
than the heavyset imps themselves ever could. Kade had long since noticed the
same thing about the jotnar in Krasnegar, for while she herself had inherited
jotunn coloring from her so-entangled family tree, her figure was as impish as
imp could be. Still, she must not let the Gods think she was ungrateful or
unmindful of Their many blessings. After all, she had viewed Ullacarn tinted
with magic gold and filtered through draperies of silks and laces, velvets and
poplins; to linger might let realities dispel the illusion. No, it was time to
go. Time to board Dawn Pearl and sail away.

Time
to head for Hub! Kadolan said another small silent prayer of thanks. Her
instincts still insisted that Inosolan would have been wiser to have remained
in Arakkaran, under the sultana’s protection, but ancient knots could
never be untangled, and a chance to visit the Imperial capital was a most
uplifting prospect.

Inosolan
was hunched in the corner of the carriage, morosely ignoring even the exciting
dock sights and the harbor view. A pity she had not yet learned to let the
future wait. That was a lesson that only age could teach.

Frainish
was almost falling out in her excitement. Frainish was very young, a descendant
of Sheik Elkarath, and had been sent along as lady’s maid. The personable
and deferential Master Skarash would also accompany them, as far as Qoble. The
sheik had been very kind, no matter who his ultimate master. Inosolan really
should have been more gracious when saying farewell.

And
now the ships were very close, as the carriage jingled along the quay. Frainish
was twittering questions, making Kadolan rack her old brains to try to answer.
Caravels and dhows were easy, but she could not remember the difference among a
galley, a galleon, and a galleas. What splendid vessels, though! Vastly larger
and more beautiful than the little cogs that had carried her so many times
between Krasnegar and Shaldokan.

As
Kadolan was still trying to parry the child’s questions, the carriage
clattered to a halt alongside a ship that was very large indeed. It must be
their destination, for here was Skarash, pulling down the step, offering a
helping hand. So this beauty was their vessel, Dawn Pearl, and the noisy mill
of people around the gangways was clear evidence that departure was imminent.

She
let Skarash guide her through the throng, as he could see over heads much
better than she could, while she kept an eye on Frainish, who was short enough
to disappear completely in such a crowd. Inosolan could look after herself.

Kadolan
caught a glimpse of Azak’s head above the surging sea of shoulders. His
face was surly and enraged. Then Skarash made room for her to step forward, and
she was already at the gangplank. She paused halfway up and peered back,
regardless of the line of persons following her, locating Azak’s red head
again. He was the only djinn who towered over the crowd like a jotunn sailor or
a troll porter. The imps present seemed squat by comparison. Inosolan was
beside him, within a squad of legionaries. Azak was probably being awkward. He
had been in a bad mood ever since the day the soldiers had beaten him, and
although Elkarath had cured his broken bones and bruises on that occasion, he
had probably incurred no thanks. Azak was one of those people who enjoyed
making things difficult for themselves, and thus for everybody else, as well.
That sort of behavior Kadolan could never comprehend.

Realizing
suddenly that the vulgar shouting was being directed at her, she resumed her
progress up the plank with suitable dignity. She stepped through a doorway into
Dawn Pearl. Galleon or galleas, it was easily the largest ship she had ever
boarded.

She
was astonished by her stateroom, large and luxurious beyond anything she could
have imagined on a ship, with a proper bed instead of bunks, with real windows
along the aft wall. Plump, elderly ladies would only get in people’s way,
so she decided to wait there, knowing that Inosolan would find her. She sent
the excited Frainish off in Skarash’s care to explore, and to watch
departure from the deck. Unpacking could wait.

Meanwhile,
she could indulge herself in an inspection of the fittings, admiring the shiny
woodwork, the ingenious catches on cupboard doors, and the drawers that would
not open if the ship rolled. Porters knocked and entered with baggage and departed.
The room was still not crowded, even then.

Eventually
she pulled a deliciously comfortable chair around to face the great windows and
settled into it with a sigh. She kicked off her shoes and prepared to enjoy
just watching the harbor.

A
few minutes later the door opened and then thumped closed. Inosolan stalked
across to the window in silence. Feet were running overhead, voices calling
out, blocks squealing. Already the ship was drifting away from the quay. Dawn
Pearl leaned slightly as the wind began to catch her sails. Inosolan had not
said a word yet.

“Where
is his Majesty?” Kadolan inquired.

Good
guess-Inosolan turned around and scowled. She wore a full dress of cool
emerald-green silk with half sleeves and a low neckline. She had let her hair
grow during the past few months, and now it was coiled high on her head below a
pearl tiara. She was as beautiful as a poet’s dream of maidenhood. Her
expression of suicidal sulks would have shamed a six-yearold being sent to bed
without supper.

“Down
in what they call Gnome Quarters. In irons.”

“That
doesn’t seem like a very wise choice.”

Inosolan
turned her back and told the window, “He refused to board and demanded
leave to appeal to the emir. The imps ran him up the plank at swordpoint, of
course.”

The
noises outside continued; a thoughtful silence settled into Kadolan’s
stateroom. It would be interesting to see what happened to Azak when Dawn Pearl
reached Angot. The journey on to Hub would mean a long trip by stage, over the
Qoble Mountains and then across much of Shimlundok Province. Skarash swore he
was going no farther than Angot.

Would
there be magic waiting for them in Angot? Or was there magic on board already?
Would Azak be shipped in irons all the way to the capital? It hardly mattered
at the moment. Kadolan bent to find her shoes.