Perilous Seas (40 page)

And
Rap himself was another. This mad pilgrimage had never been his choice. All he
had ever wanted was to aid Inos by warning her of her father’s illness.
Now where had it got him? Had Andor and his gang not interfered, Rap would be
driving a wagon now, bringing in the harvest at Krasnegar. Or he might be an
assistant factor, charging to and fro on a pony and tallying supplies.

And
who would be reigning in the castle? Kalkor?

Rap
pulled his mind back to Allena and the worried youth beside him. Gathmor had
dashed off to haul on ropes with the sailors, unable to stand idle any longer.

“Why?
Because of a lady.”

“Oooo!”
Quip’ sighed deeply. “Truly? All this for an affair of the heart?
How wonderful!” His eyes misted.

“A
little more than that. . .”Leaning his elbows on the rail, Rap started to
explain. The elf pulled off his cap for safekeeping and then leaned at his
side, listening in open-mouth fascination.

Rap
began at the beginning, in Krasnegar. He did not mention that he had become an
elf only recently-that was much too complicated. Indeed, he managed to keep
almost all the magic out of it, especially his own, but he did have to include
Rasha, Ishist, and Bright Water.

Even
in that abbreviated form it was a very remarkable tale, yet the most remarkable
thing about it was that young Quip’ obviously believed every word. He
sniffed, then sniveled, and finally openly wept, not even seeing the sails
spreading out above him, pink in the sunset glow. Nor did he notice the gentle
motion of the ship as Allena turned majestically toward the harbor bar. And
when Rap at last straightened up and concluded with, “And that’s
where you came in,” the elf blinked bronze-rimmed eyes at him and-being
speechless with emotion-then tried to embrace him.

Rap
used his occult agility to dodge the embrace, so Quip’ draped himself on
the rail again until he could control his tears. “It’s beautiful!”
he sobbed. “The bards of Ilrane will sing of it for centuries! Oh, Rap’!
That’s the loveliest story I ever heard! Throwing your life away to help
the lady you can never hope to marry!”

Rap
took a hard look at that last statement.

“Huh?
I’m not planning on throwing anything away.”

“Well,
I suppose Lith’rian . . .” The elf looked up, puzzled. “I
mean, lots of clan wars have been fought for much less. The War of the Bad
Apple, for instance. People sometimes forget that we elves can be ferocious
when we choose, bloodthirsty as jotnar when necessary.”

“I’ve
heard that.”

“And
we can never resist suicidal last stands ... but not in this case!” He
had come to a decision. “No, it’s much more satisfactory if the
warlock puts you to death. Poignant! Heartrending!” He dabbed at his eyes
with an apricot silk kerchief.

“Um.
Do you suppose other elves would feel this way about the most appropriate
choice?” Lith’rian, for one.

“Oh,
yes! I can quote you all sorts of idylls. Rap’! You can’t want to
go back to being a stableboy, not after all this? You can’t expect the
princess to marry a ... a nobody! It’s so much more romantic if you die,
sending her your final word of-” He choked, and more tears flooded down
his cheeks. “-final word of love!”

And
two words of power to the warlock for his trouble? Ishist had never denied that
Rap was going into danger; he’d made no guarantees.

“And
what happens to Inos in this libretto?”

“She
dies of a broken heart.”

Rap
felt a little better. Inos was much too practical to do any such thing, either
to mourn a childhood friend or yet to satisfy all the bards in Ilrane. “Does
she die on her throne, though?”

Quip’
shook his head, so overcome again that he reached out his arms, and this time
Rap let himself be hugged, selfconsciously patting Quip’s back as he
buried his face on Rap’s shoulder. He soaked it before he could sob out
what he wanted to say. “That’s the saddest part of all!”

“It
is? Why?”

“Because
... because it’s all in vain, of course! Because Lith’rian can’t
... can’t . . . can’t help Inos! “

Rap
grabbed his arms and straightened him up. “What do you mean can’t?
He’s a warlock!”

Nods,
gulps, sniffs . . . “Yes. But she’s in Zark. That’s east!
Lith’rian’s South. He can’t interfere! “

“He
can champion her cause among the Four!”

“Oh,
Rap’, Rap’! Even an elf won’t start that sort of a war just
for a girl. I mean, a civil war between clans . . . we have those on the boil
all the time. But all of Pandemia . . . Warlocks and dragons and things . . .
No, no, no!”

“How
would you know?” Rap snarled, wanting to shake him.

“Oh,
but I am sure! Ilrane’s south. Lith’rian’s been warlock for
seventy years, and a good one for elves-he keeps the dragons away. Inos’s
kingdom’s in North’s sector. And jotnar are North’s, also.
The legions are East’s, and Inos is in his sector. South isn’t
going to get himself involved, Rap’! Or West, either. I mean, that’s
obvious! “

“That
wasn’t what Ishist told me. “

“But
he’s only a gnome, you said!” Quip’ wailed. “You know
how sneaky gnomes are!”

Perhaps
Ishist’s sense of humor was even more macabre than Rap had yet suspected.

“You
can’t trust a gnome, Rap’!” Quip’ was staring at his
friend in horror. “You mean you truly expected that Lith’rian would
let you live? After all this? You’re trying to trap a warlock! You can’t
expect a warlock to let you get away with it?”

South
could be ruthless, Ishist had said. How many people even knew that he’d
married his unruly daughter off to a gnome? If that one secret alone was
jealously guarded, then what was Rap’s life worth?

“No,
Rap’,” Quip’ said resolutely, straightening his narrow
shoulders. “It’s wonderful and beautiful and people will weep for
you for hundreds of--”

He
gaped up in sudden horror at the clouds of canvas overhead.

Allena
had reached the harbor mouth. She bobbed eagerly, rolling in a new motion,
preparing to dance with the long swell beyond. Apparently Quip’rian only
now realized that she had even left the quay. His eyes went to the shiny
blue-green sea all around, the leaping white breakers on the bar, and the gathering
dusk above the distant towers of Noom.

Before
Rap’s fascinated gaze, his face turned swiftly from gold to lead, and
then to the exact shade of green found on old tarnished copper. He spun around,
doubled himself over the rail, and lost everything he had eaten in the last
five years.

Moaning
of the bar:

Sunset
and evening star,

And
one clear call for me!

And
may there be no moaning of the bar,

When
I put out to sea.

Tennyson,
Crossing the Bar

Rushing Seas

Rap
offered to help Quip’ to his cabin, and ended by carrying him most of the
way. Having made him as comfortable as it was possible for a man to be while
convinced he was about to die and the sooner the better, Rap then went off in
search of Andor.

Allena
was pitching seriously now, with a longer, slower motion than the galley or the
longship had ever shown, adding a sort of lurching, flying sensation on the
crests of the waves. She had a pronounced roll, also, and the wind must still
be rising, for the crew was already shortening sail.

As
he walked along the corridor, he noted that every elf on board lay as prostrate
as Quip’, proving that the elvish compulsion to do things in style
included even seasickness. Impish passengers were now succumbing also.

Locating
Sagorn stretched out on a bunk, reading, Rap knocked and called his name, and
was told to enter.

Allena
had forty-two staterooms for first-class passengers on her upper deck. Rap’s
cabin was far aft, and one of the best; Andor’s was near the bow, smaller
and plainer. Although it would barely qualify ashore as a large closet, it was
still larger and more pleasant than Stormdancer’s cubicles, or the cell
Rap had so recently shared with Gathmor. Floral drapes fringed the scuttle, the
rug was thick, the woodwork and brass all gleamed. Two bunks were hinged to the
forward bulkhead. The aft side held a mirror and a shelf with space below it
for the occupant’s baggage. With the upper bunk hooked back out of the
way, the old man was lounging comfortably on the lower, his long, pale shanks
protruding from a powder-blue gown. Andor’s lady friend would have paid
for that.

Rap
folded his arms, leaned back against the door, and waited. Sagorn had been
holding his book close to his nose, catching the last dregs of daylight from
the scuttle; now he closed it on a finger and regarded Rap with his normal sour
disapproval.

“Why
did you not consult me?”

“About
what?”

Sagorn
clenched his lips in exasperation. “About everything! My evaluation of
the gnome sorcerer. The significance of uttering the Sublime Defiance. The
choice of victim. You blundered into Noom like a herd of charging behemoths.”

“I
seem to have blundered out again much as planned. “

“After
being battered to a pulp several times.”

Rap
shrugged. He still had aches he hadn’t catalogued yet, and that gesture
had discovered more of them. “I’ll survive.”

“You
are extremely fortunate not to have any broken bones.”

“I
have nine, mostly fingers, but they seem to be healing very quickly. “

The
old man’s mouth shut with a click of teeth. After a moment he said, “So
that is within the powers of an adept?” A spasm of envy and longing
crossed his face.

For
a few minutes the two stared at each other in mutual obstinacy. Sagorn’s
face was against the light, but of course Rap could make out every cleft and
wrinkle. The old man certainly looked younger and healthier since Ishist had
restored him-a pity the sorcerer had not done something about his disposition.

Again
Sagorn was first to break the silence, and with a slash of nervy sarcasm. “You
are practicing being inscrutable?”

“I’m
trying not to use mastery on you.”

Sagorn
flinched. He marked his place in the book with a piece of ribbon, and then laid
it on the bunk beside him. That gave him a moment to gather his wits, of
course. He was pathetically readable now, and certainly plotting something. “Are
you succeeding? “

“Apparently.
You haven’t been very helpful so far.”

“I
took a considerable risk on your behalf, in Noom.”

“Your
decision, not my request.”

“Ha!
Repartee is also within the powers of an adept?” Ripple!

“What
was that?” Rap cried, looking all around. “What was what?”

“I
felt something. “ Yet the ship continued to pitch and roll as before. The
sailors on deck were showing no alarm. “What sort of something?”
Sagorn demanded irritably. “I’m not sure. “ Rap wasn’t
even sure how he’d felt whatever it was. Neither noise nor motion, not in
his ears or bones or skin. Nor could he tell from which direction it had come,
but he was sure he’d felt something-it had been faint, but real. He
shivered at the uncanny touch of premonition, but it said important, not
notably dangerous. He disliked these strange new talents.

Sagorn
dismissed the problem with a sneer. “Nerves!”

“Perhaps.
Tell me of this risk.”

“I
called upon an old friend, a scholar and something of an authority on Imperial
politics. We have not met in thirty years.”

“Why
was this a risk?”

“Because
I do not wish to be denounced as a sorcerer. I have not aged thirty years in
those thirty years. “ His aquamarine eyes flickered with sudden
amusement.

“And?
“

“And
neither had he!”

Rap
chuckled. “Embarrassing for both of you.”

“Quite!
He is still much the same as ever he was. With the assistance of your gnomish
friend, I may even look younger now than I did then. But my friend made me
welcome, and we had a long gossip. He belongs to a very large and powerful
family. He is its expert on political affairs and, I suspect, its strategist
for meddling in them. He was exiled to Noom by Emthar and liked it so well that
he never petitioned for leave to return. Yet he keeps a very steady finger on
the pulse in Hub.”

“Inos?
Krasnegar?”

“He
knew of Krasnegar.” Sagorn thinned his lips in the callous smile that
always reminded Rap of an animal trap. He waited, teasing. When he failed to
win a reaction, he said, “The imps withdrew, as I predicted they would.
There is much scandal over the cost. Many men were lost. “

“I
don’t think I mourn.” Rap cared little for goblins, but Imperial
troops were worse, and they had started the hostilities.

Their
occupation would leave the little town with bitter scarswomen violated and
their menfolk killed or maimed in trying to defend them, property looted or
destroyed. Those troops had been the dregs of the Imperial army. It was better
not to know.

More
interesting than the news itself was the implication of sorcery at work.
Clearly whatever occult protection Warlock Olybino had tried to provide for his
legionaries’ retreat had been successfully blocked, either by Raspnex,
the dwarf disguised as a goblin, or by Bright Water herself.

“The
Marshal of the Armies has used the affair to justify some much-needed
housecleaning.” Sagorn sneered. “Long overdue! The high command is
a swamp of toads. He is rushing the crack XIIth Legion north, because goblins
have been raiding in Northwest Julgistro, coming over the mountains! He has
other problems, too. Revolt has broken out in Farther Shimlundok--the usual
dispute with the dwarves and access to the Dark River, of course-and half of
Guwush is in flames, also. Absolutely nothing will rouse the Senate more than
any hint of mere gnomes defeating Imperial troops. That is anathema to-”