Sagorn stared up at her unwinkingly. He had draped a woman’s robe over himself, and did not seem to be wearing very much under it; his scrawny arms were bare. “You are either a very brave woman or a very foolish one, Kadolan. You are suggesting something that is absolutely impossible.”
“What happened to your devoted friendship for Master Rap?”
“Tell me the word, and I will get him out of that cell. I swear!”
“No, Doctor. I shall tell it to the stableboy or no one.”
Tension crackled in his voice. “Why, for the Gods’ sake?”
“Because I think you are sent. You are the answer to my prayers.” Suddenly the strain won, and her temper flared, as it had done perhaps three times in her adult life. She shouted. “Now, which is it to be? Do you help me, or do I yell for the guard and turn you in?”
His jaw dropped. “This is utter madness, Kade!”
“I mean it! I shall scream for the guards.”
“But I cannot take you myself! I should certainly have to call Andor to help, and anything he can’t handle will need Darad. They will know what I know, and Gods know what they will do.”
She nodded. “It will be a very interesting journey. Try to find something to fit in that closet there. There are some ancient masculine garments. Now, if you will excuse me for a moment, Doctor?”
Heart thundering wildly, she headed back to her bedroom.
2
Kadolan had not dressed herself faster in fifty years, yet all the time she was doing so, she was thinking of Sagorn’s warning about Darad. Sir Andor, of course, might very well try to charm her into babbling her word of power to him now that he knew of it, but the words themselves were supposedly proof against magic, and Andor without occult amplification she thought she could rebuff.
Come to think of it, last year his talent had challenged hers head-on at Kinvale, and she had held the field.
But Darad! When that monstrous man had attempted to abduct Inosolan, it had been Kadolan who had thrown the burning oil on his back. All the other injuries and indignities he had suffered thereafter had stemmed from that, and she could not believe that the slow-witted jotunn killer would be prone to ready forgiveness. If Sagorn needed to call Darad, then her little expedition was going to sink without trace, and she with it.
She hesitated at the door. “I am ready, Doctor.”
“Would that wrapping a turban were as easy as bandaging!” he said. ”Have you any small implements?”
“What sort of implements?”
“Little knives or hat pins.”
“Hat pins, Doctor? In Zark? Really!” But she went and fumbled among her things, and remembered the tray by the bed, which yielded a fruit knife. Then she jumped as Sagorn strode in, bedecked in the loose garments and flowing cloak of Zarkian nobility. They were dark, but the light would not yet admit what color—green, probably. There was a strong odor of must about them and his turban was crooked, but anyone close enough to question such details would have much more pressing queries about his pallid jotunn face.
She bobbed a curtsy. “I congratulate you on your tailor, Doctor.”
He chuckled. “I couldn’t have asked for better, could I? If words of power bring good luck, then perhaps these are a good sign. Our luck is holding.”
He accepted the little knife, and a few pins, and a buttonhook. He declined a shoehorn and a belt buckle. “Lead on, Highness,” he said. “And may your God of Love be with a pair of old fools.”
Kadolan found that remark in very poor taste, and decided he must be nervous. She led the way down the corridor, being as quiet as possible. She was somewhat nervous herself, truth be told. She tried to remember that she was doing this for Inosolan, who surely deserved a little luck at last.
Three words made a mage. A mage could cure wounds and sickness, and burn scars, certainly. If only she could have more faith in her own word of power! Even if all the words had started off equal—whenever and wherever they had started off—then some must have become greatly weakened since, diluted by too many sharings. Perhaps they even wore out from too much use, and the one she knew was centuries old, one of Inisso’s.
The corridors were stuffy, bitter-scented with dust, and still hot from the day. Massive XIVth Dynasty statues stood in rows along the walls—too valuable to throw away, too ugly to be wanted.
She tiptoed past the room where four maids slept, and another where the housekeeper snored. Then her feet brought her to the outside door, and a thin slit of light showed below it. This was as far afield as she had been since Inosolan’s wedding night.
Sagorn went close to the door and very gently tried it. Then he stooped to whisper in her ear.
“Locked or bolted?”
“Locked, I think,” she breathed back. “Guards, outside?”
“Likely.”
She thought he would give up then and turn back, but he merely nodded. He was barely visible, for the window was small and the little vestibule dark. It smelled strongly of beeswax.
“Thinal, then. Hold this sword handy.” Sagorn drew the blade, and she took it gingerly and stood close as . . .
As the figure beside her seemed to collapse to half size, and there was the imp youth she had seen once in Inisso’s chamber of puissance. As then he was comically bundled in vastly oversized clothes. He put up a hand to straighten the turban, which had slipped sideways during the transformation. His dark eyes were little higher than hers, and near, and they glittered. For a moment he just seemed to be studying her, as if trying to find traces of magic in her. Without looking, he reached in a pocket and brought out the fruit knife. It glittered also.
“Princess?” His voice was so soft that he seemed to convey the words without any sound at all. “Princess Kadolan! What’s for me that I help you give away a word of power when there’s needier bodies to hand?”
Kadolan’s scalp pricked at his revelation of the occult. Sagorn had guessed her secret, and whatever he knew, all the others knew also, including this little felon. She held the sword, but she had no illusions of being able to hold him off if he tried to take it away from her. He was a fraction of her age, doubtless well versed in back-alley athletics. He could probably best her with nothing but the fruit knife. She had not been prepared for Thinal.
“Well?” he said, still soft as gossamer. “What’s my gain if I risk my life for you?”
Did he want her to offer him payment? He could steal all the wealth he might ever want. Her tongue felt dry. “Not for me. For Inosolan.”
“I give no spit for Inosolan! Would she risk her life for me?”
Kadolan could not think of a plausible reply. Then his teeth gleamed also.
“You need me!” He sounded surprised. “Even if you could twist me to call any of the others, they’d be useless. Only I can climb from the balcony. Only I can open this door! You all need me!” He grinned more widely.
“What do you want?”
“The word. Now! Then I’ll go tell Rap.”
“You expect me to trust you?”
“You got no choice, lady!” Even that minuscule whisper was filled with brazen glee. How often had this guttersnipe ever felt important to anyone, or had power to bargain?
“No. I tell the word to Rap or to no one. It is too frail a word to divide further.”
He shrugged, maybe. “Then I’m gone. The whole idea ‘is moonshine anyway. It’s dawn already.” He headed back toward the corridor.
“Stop!” Kadolan said, as loud as she dared. “Or I scream!” She raised a fist as if to thump on the door, hoping a cat burglar could see better in the dark than she could.
He stopped and turned.
“Guards?” she said. “There are guards just outside. I will call them.”
“Stupid old baggage!” He took a pace toward her, and she half expected to feel Darad’s hands on her throat.
“What about Rap?” she said desperately. “So Inos wouldn’t risk her life for you—would he? For a friend?” It was the wildest guess of her life.
“Of course not! Well, not unless . . .” His voice changed. ”But I suppose he’s just about crazy enough to . . . In Noom, when Gathmor . . . If . . . Oh, crap! You would have to say that, wouldn’t you?” Thinal stepped past her to the door, did something with the fruit knife, and the lock clicked . . .
Andor snatched the sword from Kade’s grasp and thew open the door, reeled through into brilliant lamplight, and stopped, swaying and blinking. Kade followed—and recoiled.