Everyone stood back to let him enter also, and Ythbane was not the only onlooker whose inner thoughts were plotting that funeral. Rap moved toward the door, then swiftly detoured in two long strides to snatch up the little prince.
The boy gave a squeak of alarm. His mother and the regent began to react, and were momentarily frozen by sorcery. Rap swung the lad up high, stepped up on the footboard, and stood him inside.
“I think this one also, Sire!” He followed the boy in.
The Imperial eyebrows swooped down, and a haze of color suffused the parchment face. “You presume far, Sorcerer!”
“Suffer me this, Sire. I have reasons! Sit, lad.” With a worried look at his grandfather, the boy eased himself onto the seat opposite. The old man frowned as he registered the awkward movements. Then he shouted for the door to be closed, ignoring the angry faces peering in.
Rap settled at the prince’s side and gave him a friendly grin that had a trace of occult reassurance included. “I ought to know your name, your Highness, but I don’t.”
“Shandie,” the lad whispered. “I mean, Emshandar like Grandfather.”
“A great name, then!”
“They call me Shandie, mostly.”
“I’m Rap, but you can call me Rap.”
The lad sniggered and wiped rain from his face. He began to relax, beaming excitedly at the imperor. Harness jingled, the coach rocked smoothly off along the road. Ythbane was glaring after it, and other faces besides his had lost their fake cheerfulness also. Rap brought his attention back to his illustrious companions and the opulence of his surroundings—ivory door handles, gold lamps. Humble old Krasnegar seemed very far away now.
The old man adjusted the lap robe that had been tucked around him, clearly planning his first question. Rap spoke first.
“Shandie, I’m going to heal those bruises for you, but first I want you to let your grandfather see them.” The lad blushed scarlet, then just as quickly paled. “You mustn’t use magic on me . . . er, Rap. I’m family!”
“Well, I’ve already bent the Protocol pretty badly, and I don’t suppose one boy’s battered butt will make a great deal of difference to the history of Pandemia.”
Shandie giggled at that and looked to the imperor for guidance.
“Let me see!” The Imperial visage was stern. When Shandie stood up, turned, and pulled down his breeches to show the awful welts, stern became menacing.
“Who did that?”
“Ythbane,” the boy whispered, making himself decent again and sitting down faster than he had intended. A wince of pain escaped him.
“Boars’ blood!” the imperor roared. “Why?” Shandie cringed. “I was fidgeting at the ceremony last night . . . I didn’t know I was, honest! And then I turned around, ‘cause I thought I shouldn’t have my back to the warlock. But Ythbane said I was wrong.” He sniffed.
“God of Mercy!” the old man whispered. “Master Rap, he was quite right. No one must use power on him, but . . . But if you do feel that you can take this risk, also, then I shall be even more in your debt than I am already, and Gods know, I owe you my life!” His eyes were hot with shame, but a hint of challenge burned there also.
Might as well be hanged for a horse as a pony, Rap’s mother had always said.
Sorcery! “How does that feel, Shandie?”
The prince gasped and looked at him in wonder. “Thank you, sir!” A tear trickled down his cheek. “You’re quite welcome, and please don’t call me `sir.’ What else is worrying you?”
“Nothing, Rap! Nothing. I feel very good now, thank you.” He squirmed happily, enjoying the feel of it.
Rain drummed on the roof and streamed across the big windows. Water flew out in sheets from the wheels and flared under the horse’s hooves. A platoon of hussars was clearing the road ahead, and another brought up the rear, but the crowds had long since fled in search of shelter, and there was little traffic.
The imperor had sensed Rap’s worry and was waiting to hear.
“Shandie,” Rap said, “I think there is something else bothering you.” Even his occult senses could not explain the strange haze around the boy. It wasn’t magic, but it certainly wasn’t healthy.
“Well. . . Nothing!” The boy cowered back, fearful.
“Tell me!”
“Well . . . It’s just . . . just that I’d like a spoonful of my medicine now. But I can get it as soon as we get to the palace!” he added guiltily.
Rap felt the imperor react to that. The old man seemed even more shocked than before.
“What sort of medicine?” he barked.
Shandie turned even paler. “It makes the pain better. Moms gives it . . . But I can take it myself when I want to.”
“God of Slaughter!” the words came out softly, but the skeleton face flamed with anger, like a fever. “Can you explain, Sire?” Rap asked, still puzzled.
“Some sort of habit-forming elixir. It’s been done before.” The old man paused, then muttered, “It diminishes the acuity of higher intellectual functions.”
Rap didn’t know such big words any more than young Shandie did, but he could read the meaning behind them: It rots the mind!
Knowing now what he sought, Rap probed gently until his sorcerous instincts found the trouble. Tricky! He reached in and . . . wiped.
Shandie jumped. “Oo!” he said. “Ouch! Oh, it’s gone! I don’t feel scratchy-twitchy anymore!”
“Gods be praised!” Emshandar said. “Shandie, you must never let them give you that medicine, never again. You mustn’t take it yourself, either! Can you promise me that, soldier?”
“Yes, sir. I don’t like the taste. It just made the hurt go away, and the scratchy-twitchy feeling. And Rap’s cured that, too, now. It won’t come back, will it?”
“I don’t think so,” Rap said, gently mopping up the last traces of the addiction.
The old man leaned back with a sigh, looking older than his realm. He smiled gratefully at Rap, but he was clearly running out of strength again, and their private chat would have to wait until he was stronger—and probably until Shandie’s sharp young ears were not so close. Rap could grant occult strength, of course, but he was not sure if power used like that would leave a hangover. It might be dangerous.
Besides, Rap had a problem of his own. He could barely remember the last time he had eaten. “Are you hungry, Sire? I’m famished!”
Emshandar IV was probably not accustomed to such audacious questioning, but his thin lips smiled tolerantly. “Yes, I’m famished, too.”
Shandie brightened.
The coach was very well sprung, and the roads were smooth. Eating would be no problem.
“Do you both like chicken dumplings?” Rap asked.
6
Not much more than a year ago, King Holindarn of Krasnegar had summoned a certain oddly gifted herdboy to his study for a confidential chat. How grand those royal quarters had seemed to that callow lad! How clumsy and awkward he had felt amid the grandeur of books and soft armchairs and peat fires on sunny days!
All those would seem rustic and quaint to him now. Now he could see that Holindarn had been no more than an independent landowner, ruling a self-styled kingdom smaller than the imperor’s Opal Palace on its hill. He had been a good man, though—better than almost anyone Rap had met in his long journeyings since. Few indeed were the inhabitants of Pandemia who had seemed worthy of admiration: Gathmor, in his rough way, and the sailorfolk of Durthing, of course; but who among the leaders and the gentry? The Lady Oothiana in Faerie, of course. Ishist, the filthy little sorcerer, perhaps. Holindarn’s sister, certainly. And maybe, just maybe, this Imperor Emshandar himself. Time would tell . . . maybe.
Emshandar had obviously felt safer as soon as he was back in his private quarters and had arranged for them to be guarded by men known to him. His next priority had been a bath.
So Rap had asked Shandie to take him on a tour of the palace, and they had soon discovered a common love of horses. Having begun with the stables, they ended by spending the afternoon there, leaving no time for artwork or ornamental gardens or Architecture of Historical Significance.
Now they had returned to the Imperial chambers, where the ossiferous old man was still being primped and tonsured by teams of fussing valets; all the while grumpily demanding this special servant and that old retainer, and growing ever more furious as he discovered their absence. A big man once, still as tall as Rap; likely a soldier in his youth; strong ruler of a mighty nation for over thirty years, brought down by long sickness until now he could barely stand unaided . . . small wonder he was ill-tempered! Perhaps curing his illness had been a doubtful mercy.