So to travel on a longship again brought back happy memories of his violent, lusty youth. Compared to Kalkor, though, he had never been more than an amateur. Times were relatively peaceful now, and raiding wasn’t what it once had been—men might be allowed to flee if they left their valuables behind, and women were often spared if they submitted pleasingly. Kalkor was a throwback to the Great Days, to legendary raiders like Stoneheart, or Axeater, or Thousand-Virgins.
He was mad beyond question, if sanity was to be judged by the behavior of other men. But mad in exactly what way? Why had he plunged himself and his crew into this impossible trap? When the first letter had arrived, Krushjor had been certain that it was some sort of a joke, or an elaborate subterfuge, actually. He had been aghast when his nephew had actually accepted the safe conduct and put himself into the enemy’s power. The old man dearly wanted to know why and also to know what might be expected of him personally—but anytime he drew near to the topic, his nephew would smile, and the madness would sparkle up in his blue-blue eyes, daring Krushjor to ask that one impertinent query. And Kalkor himself was certainly the only man aboard who knew the answer. A thane’s crew never questioned.
Why, for another matter, did he have a goblin on board? A goblin was hardly less likely than a silo, or a tannery. But the goblin was there, rowing with the rest, his black hair and khaki skin making him conspicuous among so many blonds. He seemed tiny in that company, and yet he was handling his oar with apparent ease.
“It’s so tempting!” Kalkor sighed. He was staring at a wide water meadow, completely covered with gawking imps.
Krushjor could see more temptation in the city that lay behind the mass of spectators. It was unwalled, of course, here in the heart of the Impire, and its old stones and planks were sun-worn, mellowed by centuries of peace.
“They’ve left the town unguarded, you mean?” His nephew raised pale eyebrows in mockery. “Have you forgotten, Uncle? Imp towns are always unguarded! Guarding requires courage, remember? No, I was just wondering what would happen if we made a feint at that crowd—drew our swords and faked a landing. How many would be crushed in the panic, do you suppose? Care to lay a wager?”
His eyes danced with merriment, but there was a crazy longing there, too. Perhaps a week or two without the smell of blood was beginning to sap his selfcontrol.
“The imps would put so many fine-feathered shafts in us that we’d look like a poultry market. And they’d claim you’d broken the truce.”
The madman’s eyes gleamed even brighter. “But Nordland would never believe them. Would they risk a war?”
“Yes,” Krushjor grunted, trying to seem impassive. Kalkor sighed and leaned back again, surreptitiously nudging him a fraction closer to the edge of the deck space. “And I should be deprived of my great ambition.”
“Which is?” The question slipped out. before the older man could stop it.
“Why, to see the City of Gods, Uncle!” Kalkor smiled at him mockingly. “Don’t the imps have a saying—’See Hub and Die!’?”
If that was what he wanted, he was going to be satisfied. What else did he plan to do beforehand? And whom did he want to take with him?
10
Iron hooves thudded, iron-rimmed wheels thundered.
Less than a year ago, the sunniest summit of all Rap’s dreams had been to become a wagon driver, but the limit of his ambition had been a rickety dray loaded with peat and salted beef. He could not have imagined a vehicle one-quarter so grand as this opulent coach, .with its cunning suspension wrought of dwarvish steel, with its gilt trim and glass windows and all those shiny carriage lamps. He certainly would never have imagined its team of six giant bays pounding along the imperor’s highway at a pace that snatched the breath from a man’s lips. To be the coachman on such a wonder would have seemed a dream of ecstasy to that lonely rustic lad of Krasnegar.
Well, now he was a mage and there was nothing to it. It was not unpleasant, though. It did keep a man from brooding, maybe.
Usually Gathmor sat up on the box beside him, but this was the last leg of the day’s progress, so he was clinging on at the back as if he were the genuine footman his fancy livery denoted. Gathmor still dreamed vain dreams of revenge on Kalkor. He had agreed to stain his face and hair, and he was short for a jotunn. He had even removed his beloved floorbrush mustache, to seem more impish. Rap could have dissuaded him from coming, at least for a few hours—for long enough to have left him behind at Ollion, by the sea where he belonged, but Rap had been reluctant to use mastery on a friend, and he hated himself for his stupid scruples. He did not know what awaited Gathmor in Hub, for his foresight would not work on anyone other than himself, but at least nothing could be more improbable than finding Kalkor there.
Rap was driving now with his eyes shut, because evening was coming and the ruddy western sun hung unpleasantly close to dead ahead. The wide pavement stretched toward it as straight as an arrow, flanked by neat hedges to restrain the cattle. Good dairy country, this. Earlier he had seen forest and near desert and desolate swamp; he had caught faint glimpses of the snowy Qobles, far to the south. Now the hills were green—impossibly green for so late in the year. The trees were mostly bare, and the harvest gathered, yet the herds could still graze their fill, and to a Krasnegarian that seemed very odd.
Everywhere he saw prosperity: white farms and great mansions, villages and big cities. The Impire rolled past as if it would never end, rich and safe and powerful.
And yet . . . out of sight of casual travelers on the Great East Way, behind the nearest hills, the wealth grew more patchy. There were hovels there, whose inhabitants wore rags. And when the highway rolled through the hearts of great cities, then behind the great-fronted buildings—in the back streets and alleys—a seer could find slums and misery without much searching. The Impire was more than he had ever dreamed, and considerably less than it thought it was. The world had certainly grown in the last year.
How would humble little Krasnegar seem to him now?
On the sumptuous padded benches inside the coach, Princess Kadolan and Doctor Sagorn chatted pleasantly together, saying nothing of any importance, so far as an eavesdropping mage had noticed. When she arrived at her destination, her companion would be Andor, though. Sir Andor would have been mentioned in the letter the courier had borne on ahead in the morning, so it would be Andor again tonight.
It didn’t always work, of course. A few times they had lodged at post inns, especially when they had first left Ollion, but the princess had spent a lifetime entertaining guests at Kinvale. She was acquainted with hundreds of the Imperial nobility, and as she drew closer and closer to Hub, so more and more of them lived within reach of the Great East Way, or their relatives did. They welcomed her like long-lost kin, they feasted her and tried to make her linger. Failing in that, they wrote introductions to others ahead, their own friends and relations. They sent couriers to warn of her coming. Kade was proceeding in royal style from mansion to mansion. The straw pallets and pottery bowls of the inns had given way to silken sheets and golden plate.
Her coachman and footman boarded with the servants, of course, and that suited both of them. As far as Gathmor was concerned, that also suited Princess Kadolan, but she kept trying to persuade Rap to play a grander role. A postmaster expected to provide postboys along with his horses, she said. She would gladly hire such men to drive her equipage. Then Rap could be her secretary, perhaps, or a Sysanassoan prince on vacation, if he wanted. She appreciated now that he was capable of faking anything, of fooling anyone, and yet she still cherished dreams of taking him in hand and polishing him up to be a fitting consort for Inos. Rap had politely declined. When she had grown more pressing, he had gone stubborn on her again. His premonition would not let him be happy, but he was less miserable when he was being as near to his real self as possible.
A courier of the Imperial mail went galloping by and vanished into the sunset. Rap pulled out to overtake two lumbering wagons. Traffic was always heavy on the Great Way. That morning a whole legion had trudged by, five thousand solid young men bound eastward to the wars, singing a rousing marching song with their heads held high and their eyes glazed.