Faery Lands Forlorn Book II of A Man of his Word Dave Duncan
About this book . . .
Inos, the late king’s daughter, had been kidnapped through the magic casement even as the Impish legions overrunning her tiny kingdom were storming the castle tower. Now she was a prisoner in a desert land ruled by a dockside whore with a talent for magic and a passion for politics. She little dreamed that the loyal stableboy Rap had jumped through the casement after her. But no one really knew how the magic worked, and Rap found himself not in a desert, but in the steaming jungles of Faerie — half a world away from Inos!
Rap was determined to rescue his beloved queen, and nothing could stop him — not even the monsters and headhunters of Faerie, or the paranoid machinations of an evil sorcerer…
ONE
Behind the veil
1
Eastward from the bare crags of the Agoniste Mountains, the land fell off in scabby ridges and gullies, sere and drab. Rare oases like green wounds pitted the valleys, but otherwise that desolate country was fit only for antelope and wild goats, watched over by buzzards drifting in the thin blue sky. Below the hills, a roasted desert stretched away to meet the surf of the Spring Sea.
In the main, the ironbound coast of Zark was as deadly and inhospitable as the interior. Yet, at long intervals where some trick of the landscape caught the nourishing sea wind or cool springs gushed from the rocks, life erupted in abundance. There the soil yielded crops of uncountable variety. The people dwelt there, on islands encircled half by ocean and half by desert. Whereas in other lands the earth spread its generosity widely, in Zark it hoarded all its goodness into these few green enclaves, like rich emeralds knotted on a string.
Richest of them all was Arakkaran, a narrow land blessed with twisting valleys of deep soil and legendary fertility. Its wide bay was the finest harbor on the continent. Many trade routes met in its markets, depositing wealth there in heaps to be fondled by the soft-fingered merchants: dates and pomegranates, rubies and olives, costly vials of perfume, intricate rugs, and the silver fish of the sea. From distant lands came gold and spices, elvish arts and dwarvish crafts, pearls and silks, and merfolk pottery unequaled in all Pandemia.
The city itself was beautiful and ancient. It was noted for its cruelty, and for fine racing camels. It boasted of a history written in blood. Near the close of A-Gun’s Campaign, the young Draqu ak’Dranu had turned back the Imperial legions at Arakkaran, and there they won their revenge nine centuries later under Omerki the Merciless. During the Widow War, the city had withstood a siege of a thousand and one days.
From the loud and overscented bustle of the markets, it climbed by slope and precipice, in a tapestry of nacreous stone and flowering greenery. Trees had wedged in every unused crevice, hanging welcome shadow over steep alleyways and winding stairs. On the crest of the hill, celebrated in many ancient stories, the Palace of Palms was a marvel of domes and spires and towers, graced with lush parks and exotic gardens, as widespread in itself as many a respected town.
Throughout recorded history, a sultan of Arakkaran had ruled in that palace. There had been many sultans; their names and deeds were uncountable as the shells of the beaches. Some had held sway over half of Zark, while others had barely controlled the docks. A few were celebrated for justice and wisdom; many had been despots of a savagery to make the Gods recoil. No single family had ever dominated for long, no dynasty prevailed; old age had rarely troubled them.
Whatever he had been—warrior or statesman, tyrant or scholar, poet or giver of laws—every sultan of Arakkaran had invariably been renowned for his ferocity and for the number and beauty of his women.
2
From the dark cold of Krasnegar, Inos stumbled through a curtain of jewels into blinding light and a heat that took her breath away. Her willful feet carried her several paces farther before she felt them returned to her control.
But Rap and Aunt Kade were in danger—without even pausing to take stock of where she was, she spun around and rushed blindly back to the drape.
There was nothing there to stop her except many dangling strands of gems, flickering and tinkling in the breeze. A moment earlier she had passed between the strings with no trouble at all, but now she bounced off, stubbing her toe and almost falling. From this side, apparently, the curtain was as impenetrable as a castle wall. Yet it still shimmered and. rippled. Infernal sorcery! She thumped fists on it furiously.
“Anger will not help,” said a harsh male voice behind her. She wheeled around, screwing up her eyes against the glare. He was big, as tall as a jotunn. His pale-green cloak billowed and danced in the breeze, making him seem even larger. Yet in a moment she could make out his ruddy-hued face, and the thin line of red beard framing it. He was a djinn, therefore. Of course.
Under the cloak he wore voluminous pajamas of emerald silk, but she doubted he had just climbed out of bed. The scimitar hanging at his side, for example, its hilt glittering with diamonds—not a comfortable sleeping companion. The miscellaneous gems scattered from his lofty turban to the curled-up toes of his shoes, and especially the wide cummerbund of solid emeralds encircling his waist . . . no, those were not believable bed wear. And no matter how slim he was, that incredible belt must be excruciatingly tight. It was a wonder he could breathe in it.
His face was thin and intense, his nose aquiline, and his eyes hard as rubies. He was not very much older than herself. The size of him! Those shoulders . . .
The arrogance! He was enjoying her inspection. Whom had he intended to impress?
“Your name and station, wench?”
She drew herself up, miserably aware of her ruined leather riding habit, bloodstained and filthy; aware also that she must be haggard with fatigue-eyes like open sores, hair in yellow tangles. “I am Queen Inosolan of Krasnegar. And you, lad?”
Her insolence made fires flicker in his crimson eyes. Her head would barely reach his shoulder, and that emerald sash alone would buy her whole kingdom, even if the gems did not go all the way around him.
“I have the honor to be Azak ak’Azakar ak’Zorazak, Sultan of Arakkaran.”
“Oh!” Dummy! Had she expected him to be a cook or a barber, dressed like that? The diamond medallion on his turban was worth a fortune in itself. Remembering in time that she was wearing jodhpurs, not skirts, she bowed.
The young giant studied her disapprovingly for a moment. Then he swept an expansive gesture with a large, red-brown hand and doubled over as if to touch his turban to his knees, making Inos wince. Obviously that emerald cummerbund was not tight at all-his waist really must be that narrow, and his back was even broader than she had suspected. He flicked himself upright again as if such gymnastics were no problem at all, but she could not tell if they were a compliment or a mockery.
Sultan! Rasha had claimed to be sultana, and this lad was far too young to be her husband. Of course that was assuming that Rasha was what she had seemed when she had first appeared in the tower-middle-aged and thick-bodied. There had been an even more revealing glimpse later, when Sagorn had replaced himself with Andor. Startled by the occult transformation, Rasha had momentarily become an ugly old woman. The svelte maiden image would have been the illusion, obviously. Sorcerers lived a long time, but most likely this very tall and youthful sultan was Rasha’s son, or grandson.
A surge of exhaustion closed over Inos like a dark wave. She was in no state to deal with sultans, or sultanas, or sorceresses. And then the jeweled drape tinkled. Inos spun around as Aunt Kade came through. Kade! Short and plump and blinking watery blue eyes at the brightness, but oh, how welcome!
“Aunt!” Inos hugged her fiercely.
“Ah, there you are, dear!” She sounded tired, but quite calm. She seemed blissfully unaware of her disreputable appearancerose and silver gown all stained with tea, bedraggled snowy hair fluttering in the hot breeze.
Inos took a deep breath and forced herself to display suitably ladylike behavior. “How nice that you can join us, Aunt! Let me present you . . . the Princess Kadolan, sister of my late father, King Holindarn of Krasnegar. The sultan . . . er. . . ”
“Azak!” snapped Azak.
“Sultan Azak.” Inos was not at her best at the moment. “Your Majesty!” Aunt Kade curtsied, with no perceptible wobble. She was again demonstrating her astonishing durability. The sultan frowned, registering aristocratic surprise at these two waifs appearing in his domain. When he clenched his jaw, the fringe of red beard rippled. Of course he could not possibly be as stupendous as he thought he was, but Inos decided she would go so far as to class him as noteworthy. Again making his curious gesture, he bowed to Kade—deeply, but less deeply than before. Then he went back to staring at Inos.