Wrapped and billowing, Angilki was leaning against the storm. He very rarely addressed any of his retainers except Odlepare, and he could have identified none of the others by name, but even in near darkness the iron brace on his right leg made a postilion recognizable. The king was waving a finger under his nose and, while most of his angry bellowing was muffled by the high collar pulled over his face, enough was audible to convey his meaning.
“Evil-accursed carelessness!” he bleated. “Serious error . . . grave inconvenience . . . dismissed without notice . . . no references . . . your job to look for hazards . . .”
Despite the cold and his already drenched condition, Odlepare was fascinated. He had never seen the fat fool so aroused before, and there seemed to be an excellent chance that the dismissed postilion would retaliate with a right hook to the jaw, or some equally appropriate demonstration of lese majesty. But no, alas! Modern youth was sadly lacking in the nobler virtues—the man merely cowered back in dismay, accepting the destruction of his livelihood without a murmur. How disappointing!
Angilki ended his tirade. With a final bellow that was probably “Odlepae!” he spun on his heel, stormed around the back of the immobilized coach and straight into the pothole, falling prostrate and hurling a deluge of icy, muddy water over his secretary.
12
“You do yourself proud, uncle!” said the newcomer, glancing around the hall. Having just come in from a very dark and moderately stormy night, he was screwing up his eyes against the lamplight.
Krushjor flinched. He could, of course, reply that this was a very modest mansion by Hubban standards, but the raider would probably not believe him. ”It is our national embassy—would you want the Impire to believe that Nordlanders are barbarians?”
“Yes,” Kalkor said, without hesitation. “This sort of decadence disgusts me.” He scowled at the marble pillars, the soft rugs, the chintz-covered chairs.
“It is customary,” Krushjor insisted uneasily.
“It is revolting.”
The thane was still wearing only his leather breeches and boots. Dagger and broadsword hung at his belt. He was soaking wet from the rain and ought to be chilled to the marrow, although he did not seem so. With a practiced eye for value, he chose the richest rug and wiped his muddy boots on it.
The embassy staff had been lined up to receive the noble visitor. Most of them were jotnar, and even they looked apprehensive. The imps among them were obviously terrified as the killer strolled down the line, deadly blue eyes inspecting them.
Krushjor was wishing he had not dressed himself up in local finery to greet his nephew. Probably Kalkor believed that fine clothes were decadent also. He would never comprehend that in Hub a handshake was worth a hundred fists. ”Would you care for a hot bath?”
“No.”.
“Then may I present our embassy staff ?”
“No. At least, not most of them. I want a meal, with red meat and strong wine. I want a room with a straw pallet. And . . .” The raider looked over the staff once more. “Are any of these women your daughters, Uncle?”
“No.” Krushjor felt himself tense, and hoped his dangerous nephew would not notice.
He did, but he misunderstood. The sapphire eyes twinkled with sudden amusement. “You are wiser than you look. Very well—I shall have that one and that one.”
“But . . .”
“Yes?”
Krushjor gulped. “I am sure they will feel honored. “
“I don’t care what they feel,” Kalkor said. “Send in the meal as soon as it is ready. Them and the wine now.”
13
The innkeeper had insisted that the room would sleep seven. So Azak had paid for seven, but five tatty pallets pretty much covered the whole floor. A single lantern dangled from the sagging ceiling, smoking and guttering, stinking even worse than the heaps of sodden, horse-saturated garments by the door. There was no other furniture. Inos had folded her bedding into a thick bundle and was sitting on it, pouting at the ratholes in the wainscoting opposite, while Azak was leaning back against the wall, legs straight. The other three all sprawled full length, still gnawing desultorily at the last of the rolls and smoked meat. No one could find energy enough for talk. Rain beat steadily against the casement, and a draft whined somewhere. Downstairs the tavern patrons were into rousing chorus already. They would sing half the night away, but they would not disturb Inos’s sleep.
The ride through Ilrane had been hard, a physical torment of uninterrupted riding. In the Impire danger had added a new element to the strain, while Azak had set the same brutal pace, racing from post to post as if he were an imperial courier, bribing the postmasters to give him the best horses, paying penalty for what he had done to the last lot. Day after day of unending pounding, and now also rain and gales and winter cold. The effort needed to keep a horse cantering through sleet and near darkness was enough to kill a woman all by itself.
Ranchland and farmland, city and town—the Impire had flowed by in wet and gloom without Inos appreciating any of it. This style of traveling was not a beneficial exercise that one grew accustomed to. It was an ordeal to bleed one’s strength, to crumble mind and body to ruin.
Every night she was convinced that she could take no more of it. Every morning she somehow found the strength to clamber on a horse again and ride one more league.
Then another. And another . . .
Azak knew what he was doing, though. Talk of war was everywhere: tales of djinn atrocities and provocations, imps in Zark being molested, maidens abducted and hidden away in vile seraglios, needing rescue. Much the same stories had been used a hundred times before, about djinns or dwarves or elves as politics required. There were other slanders that could be dragged out when needed to justify war on other races, fauns and trolls and merfolk and anthropophagi, who could be depicted as subhuman. The legions would march in the spring, but the taxes were needed now, so the people must be prepared.
In Zark Azak was conspicuously huge, in the Impire a giant. He could have dyed his face and hair, but not his eyes. The civilian population was hostile—several times he and his company had been booed in cities, and once almost stoned, while the military reacted to djinns like dogs to cats. On the highway they would give chase, and half the postmasters refused to do business with the enemy until they had obtained permission from a centurion, or at least an optio.
Six or seven times a day Inos had found herself ringed by armed men with twitchy sword arms and hate in their eyes, but so far the elves’ document had been respected. She had no idea what was in that imposing forgery, for Azak kept it to himself, but it cowed the average centurion like a blaze of dragons. Yet one or two had clearly remained suspicious, and that reluctance to believe was becoming more and more evident as the travelers neared Hub. Here in the center, even a common sword-banger would likely be better educated and more sophisticated than his provincial equivalent. Sooner or later some smart young legionary was going to take the strangers in for questioning, and then the wasps would be in the jam. The post inns offered a wide range of board, from sumptuous to squalid, and Azak invariable accepted the cheapest. He had plenty of gold, he just wanted to avoid notice. His strategy was likely sound, for djinns in the dining rooms or public baths would have attracted attention and hostility. Each evening he hired a common sleeping room, bought food, and kept his company out of sight as much as possible. Wise, perhaps—but the wretched living conditions were doing nothing to improve Inos’s state of mind.
“Two days to Hub,” Azak said suddenly, and she jumped, realizing that she had been almost asleep. The other three men exchanged glances. Then Char sat up stiffly. “Majesty . . .” He stopped at the look he received. “I beg pardon—Master Kar.”
“Better! And you are about to be presumptuous. Well, go ahead and get it over with!”
Char flinched and looked at the other two as if to see if they were still with him. “We were wondering . . . why do we stay on the Highway? Surely we would be less conspicuous if we—”
“—traveled overland,” Azak said. “By the lanes and byways?”
“Yes . . . Kar.”
“Because strangers off the beaten track are rare and therefore conspicuous. We should seem furtive, hence suspicious. Because only the Great Ways have horseposts, so we should have to buy livestock of our own, and half a day of this would kill them. Because time is short and we must travel by the fastest route. Do you question any of those points?”