A line of armed legionaries encircled the building, all standing stiffly to attention in the salty wind. The centurion saluted the dwarf, who stumped by him without a word or glance.
“What need has a warlock for mundane guards?” Rap shouted.
“Curb your tongue, faun, or I’ll tie a knot in it.”
A wooden stair wound up the outside to connect with a wide observation gallery, silhouetted against the weirdly dancing light. Rap followed the thump of the dwarf’s boots up the steps, watching the occult barrier approach as he had done in Inisso’s Tower in Krasnegar. Then his head broke through, and the rest of the palace had gone.
The upper level was one large room, whose walls were merely widely spaced wooden panels; they held up the roof but made no clear distinction between the interior floor and the deck of the surrounding gallery. The wind blustered through unhindered. Sleeping bats hung within the high cone of the roof, and the rafters were heaped with ancient birds’ nests. Faded rugs and wicker furniture lay scattered around in no particular pattern, together with some other buzzing, twitching things that Rap preferred not to inspect.
The wavering light came from overhead lanterns on long chains, swinging wildly in the gale. Even very ordinary-seeming chairs were gifted with many sinister shadows, writhing like black spiders in the golden glow on the floor. Tree branches outside seemed to fade in and out of the night.
Raspnex headed for Oothiana, who stood before one of the larger wall panels, apparently examining a picture. She had unfastened her hair, and it surged and rippled in the wind, like a black flag. So did her white gown. Rap tried not to stare at that as he followed the dwarf across to her. He was foolish to be so scrupulous, really, for no one’s clothes held secrets from his farsight; yet he found those delicate curves sketched out in white fabric far more enticing and disturbing than crude certainty could ever be. He was learning how to control his power when he needed to, by diverting it to other things and away from places he should not pry, but that wasn’t always easy.
Little Chicken stood at the proconsul’s side, bare-chested, arms crossed, and greener in the dim gold light than Rap had ever seen him. He was probably enjoying the cold. His angular eyes narrowed when he saw Rap, his lip curled in silent contempt.
“Any luck?” Raspnex demanded.
Oothiana turned. She looked weary. “Some. The palace is shielded.” She glanced at Rap, but her face gave away nothing. The thing she had been studying was not a picture but a large mirror in an intricate silver frame. It had a dark, oily look to it that Rap disliked, but it seemed no more sinister than some of the other odd things, such as the potted plant that kept making finger-snapping noises, or the fairy statue that farsight said wasn’t there at all.
Raspnex pulled off his ugly cap and stuffed it inside his flannel shirt. He rolled down his sleeves, meanwhile glancing thoughtfully around the room. Rap wondered what he was studying. “Votaries don’t put up shielding, usually,” the dwarf said. “Of course not.”
No love lost there.
Rap bowed to her. “Your Highness.”
Her face remained expressionless. “I ‘m only an excellency, Master Rap.”
“Beg pardon, your Excellency.” He bowed again. “May I congratulate your Excellency on the quality of your jail?” This time he earned a faint smile. “Are you an expert?”
“I have seen enough jails that I never need see another.” Rap bowed again.
“But you tried to leave.”
“I hope you understand that I meant no discourtesy, ma’am.” She turned away from him and glanced around the room. He shrugged. Well, he had tried. At least she knew now that he bore her no grudge, and he thought she would care about that.
“I’ll tell him we’re ready,” Raspnex said. He marched across to another section of wall, which surprisingly contained a completely unnecessary door. It was massive, embellished with intricate carvings and inset with golden hieroglyphics. The dwarf pulled it open, walked through, and thumped it heavily behind him.
He did not appear on the balcony beyond.
Feeling an unpleasant shiver run down his back, Rap said, “Huh?”
“Magic portal.” Oothiana took a deep breath. “Leads to Hub. Rap, all I can tell you is to be polite, very polite. He takes offense easily. Come.”
She walked over to a couch and sat down. Something about the way she did it prompted Rap to go and sit beside her, surprised by his own presumption. It was ages since he had sat close to a beautiful woman. He could not remember doing so since he had held hands with Inos, the night Jalon had sung in the castle hall, back home in Krasnegar. There must have been others in the early winter, when he had been factor’s clerk eating in the castle commons. He could not recall them, though. Only Inos, long ago.
In a manner suggestive of a cat staking out a mousehole, Little Chicken selected a chair close to Rap. He leaned back, smiling hungrily. Rap ignored him and inspected the room again, wondering what the two sorcerers had been studying so oddly. His farsight was starting to pick up odd shimmers that his eyes could not explain.
“Dwarfs don’t like luxury,” Oothiana said.
“What? I mean, I beg your—”
“Warlock Zinixo can have anything he wants. He can make sand into gold, or sugar lumps into diamonds. But he grew up with shabby, old things, like most dwarves do. It’s just their way. He’s not comfortable with . . . with comfort. He likes dead leaves around.”
She must have thought Rap was inspecting the furniture, which was lumpish but comfy. Only now did he notice spots where the wicker was worn and stuffing protruded from cushions; it had all seemed fine to him. And of course there were low heaps of dead leaves in every cranny; this place was more outdoors than in. Bird droppings aplenty, too.
“There were no dead leaves where I grew up, no leaves at all.” He started to smile at her, but she was close, and he found himself too much aware of her smooth round breasts. Angry, he looked away and struggled to keep his farsight under control. Oothiana did not seem to mind. “And not much else but leaves where you grew up, Master Goblin? Or pine needles, I suppose?”
“Who’s coming?” asked Little Chicken, looking surly. “Warlock Zinixo, warden of the west. Address him as `your Omnipotence.’ Don’t lip him, or he’ll make your guts rot.” The goblin’s eyes widened, becoming more triangular in the process.
Rap’s nerves were too taut to stand the ensuing silence. “I met Legate Yodello, ma’am,” he said, blurting out the words and regretting them at once.
Oothiana seemed to glance around the room again, inspecting . . .
He gulped. “I’m sorry. I mean, I don’t think he deserves—that.”
She regarded him coldly. “He was the one who killed the fairies.”
Rap nodded. “But I think he did it for . . . for a good reason, ma’am. ”
“What reason could justify torture and murder?”
“I-I don’t know,” Rap said miserably.
“He did it for me, is what you mean. Yes, he did.” She sighed and looked away. “And maybe he wanted to save the other fairy folk. He says he did, and I believe him.” She paused, picking at the fabric of her dress where it curved over her knee. “You’ve guessed what happened? The warlock had been hunting for wild fairies. They’re very rare now, but eventually he discovered that village. He ordered me to have the inhabitants brought in. I told the legate, of course. Except I didn’t—didn’t give him quite the right orders. That was my second mistake. I hadn’t put the right loyalty spell on him when I appointed him, and I didn’t tell him to do the job himself. I told him to send someone to do it.”
After a moment, Rap said, “How did that matter?”
“He obeyed my exact orders, of course. He had no choice there. He sent his best maniple and put his best centurion in charge. But then he went along himself. He was just able to avoid my intent without actually disobeying my words. Somehow he convinced himself that he was acting in my best interests. It was an astonishing feat—he circumvented a binding spell. He couldn’t give any contrary orders, but the centurion was only bound by an oath, not by sorcery, and he wasn’t going to interfere with anything a legate wanted to do. So Yodello tried to win four words for himself. He thought the fastest way would be to flog children to make their parents tell. He got three before the warlock arrived.”
Silence fell, while she continued to worry the threads of her gown. Rap had found three bodies; the parents, dead from telling their secret names. No children had died, therefore, at least not then.