“I’ll get you out, too!” Rap protested, gingerly rubbing his bruise.
Even the silvery trail of moonlight was enough to show the goblin’s skepticism. “How?”
“I’ll go and get a horse and a rope. I know where the stables are. ”
Little Chicken scowled. “Two horses, maybe?”
He thought he could outwrestle a horse? He might be right, although he knew little about horses.
“Isn’t room on the path for two,” Rap said. “I’ll toss the rope in to you. You tie it around yourself and turn your back. When the horse moves, you won’t have time to undo the knots.” Giant goblin teeth showed in a sneer. “Break rope!”
“I’ll yank you out before you have time to break the rope! What’s the matter, you scared?”
“Don’t trust you.” Again he moved as if headed for bed. “I’m sorry,” Rap said. “I thought we were friends and buddies right now, or I wouldn’t have asked to be put in your cage. You won’t trust my word that I’ll come back for you?”
The goblin was still standing there, his back turned. “No.”
“I’ll have a lot more chance of escaping from the island if you’re still helping me. You must see that!”
Silence. Obviously Little Chicken was tempted.
“I’m going to try to stow away on a ship. If I can reach the mainland, then I’ll head for Zark, to find Inos. But you might be able to knock me on the head and carry me off to the northlands. You never know your luck. You certainly can’t do that here in Faerie.”
Slowly the goblin turned around. He stared hard at Rap. “You promise to come back with horse and get me out?”
“I swear.”
Little Chicken grunted. “Suppose I try what you want. Suppose you break both legs, and the spell isn’t thin, like you said. Suppose you land in it, not through it?”
“Then I’ll probably go insane. You’ll be able to listen to my screams all night long.”
“Real men don’t scream!” The goblin stepped forward and grasped the back of Rap’s belt. “Feet first, faceup?”
“Good a way as any, “ Rap said, and was immediately hoisted into the air. Fingers like ropes tightened around his left ankle.
He held himself rigid. He watched treetops rush by against the moon-washed sky. Little Chicken hurtled along the path, bearing Rap overhead like a javelin. When the aversion spell stopped him, he threw, and Rap went soaring onward, feet first.
He felt a spasm of unspeakable horror, but he was through the magic before he could even cry out.
He did not break his legs, although he did twist an ankle, the same one he had injured before. He also collected an assortment of scrapes and bruises while rolling to a stop in a bush. He rose, dusted himself off, and tried a few steps to make sure he could walk. Then he looked back at the goblin, who had retreated away from the barrier.
“Thanks!” Rap said. “Guess it worked. I’ll be back, I promise. ”
One way or the other . . .
Limping as fast as he could bear, he headed for the stables he had seen near the main gate. Proconsul Oothiana, the dwarf Raspnex, the warlock himself . . . and there might be many other sorcerers around the palace grounds, Zinixo’s votaries.
He shunned the paths, cutting across-country, staying close to patches of woodland whenever possible, and also close to the many shielded buildings because what blocked his farsight must block sorcerers’ farsight, too. The wind was rising, and clouds scudded through the moonlit sky. Far off to his right lay the town of Milflor, its dying cooking fires a scattering of fallen stars. To his left was the hogback of the headland. Beyond that lay the ocean, and the mainland, and Zark. And Inos.
He was only one man, moving in darkness in a very large area. He thought he would reach the stables safely, but they might well be guarded, and to steal one horse in the middle of the night would panic all the others unless he used mastery. Mastery might be detected if there was another sorcerer awake somewhere. Even if he could pull off the horse-thievery, he would then have to cross the palace grounds again, back to the jail. Only when he had done all that would he be able to make tracks for the harbor.
Common sense said he should forget the goblin and head straight for the docks. He resisted the temptation. He planned to live to an extreme old age, and that meant he must live with his conscience for a long time yet. He had promised to return.
It was a very long shot, and yet he was beginning to feel hopeful again. A word of power made its owner lucky, Sagorn had said. His luck was holding so far, for he was almost at the stables. He came around the corner of a shielded building, heard a voice, and dropped flat in the grass.
Farsight found no one to explain the voice, but it did tell him that there was a local circle of shielding a short way in front of the building. The sound seemed to be coming from there, at the edge of one of the major roads. After a moment, when there was no outcry, he raised his head cautiously and took a look. As he suspected, the speaker was Proconsul Oothiana, her white robe glimmering in the moonlight.
She was standing on a grass verge between the pavement and an ornamental flower bed. She had her back to him, and she was speaking in low, rapid tones to a man. All Rap could see of the man was that he was tall, and wearing a military helmet, and holding a spear.
Oothiana could not detect Rap with farsight while she was inside that shielding. He certainly ought to vanish before she emerged, but . . .
But why would these two hold their conversation out here in the middle of the night, and why had the sorceress cast an occult shield around them? It overlapped half the width of the roadway, but it enclosed nothing except the two people.
A word of power made its owner lucky. Was this curious opportunity somehow important?
The moon sailed majestically into a cloud, the parkland sank into darkness. Faunish common sense went down to abject defeat before a harebrained nosiness that would have shamed an imp—Rap began to wriggle forward through the dewy grass. He aimed for some of the shrubbery on his side of the road, across from the sorceress. When he reached it, he rose on hands and knees in the dark and crawled around until he was as close as he could get to the strange conversation. He lay down and watched, straining his ears to catch the words.
She was talking about him! Describing how she had caught him. He had not expected that. It made him realize that he was eavesdropping on a private conversation. He felt even worse when she made some nonsensical comments about his manners and his courage. And then the moon found a gap in the clouds, the darkness lifted, and Rap’s hair rose on his scalp. Proconsul Oothiana was speaking to a statue.
It represented a warrior leaning on a spear, and the helmet Rap had noticed earlier was all it was wearing. One arm was raised high to clutch the spear; its head was bowed, its shoulders drooped in a stance of weariness and defeat. That was curious, because all the others Rap had bothered to look at had depicted arrogance and triumph. They had all been set on high stone pedestals, while this one stood on a low plinth, no higher than a herring box; and only this one had occult shielding around it.
Why should a sorceress be telling a statue about Rap? Andor had mentioned talking statues that would predict the future, just as magic casements and preflecting pools did.
Then the lady got to the part about Bright Water. Somebody whistled in astonishment, and scorpions danced on Rap’s skin. “I bet that upset the mole!” said a deep male voice.
“He was almost too furious to be scared, I think!”
“That would be historic!”
“He thinks she’s in league with the other two, ganging up on him.”
“Ha!” the statue said. “Our esteemed master thinks everyone is ganging up on him.”
“But why would she have sent them to Faerie? That’s trespass!”
“I don’t know.” The statue straightened, suddenly tall, rubbing its back with its free hand as if it ached.
Rap dropped his face into the grass. Oothiana still had her back to him, but the statue was staring over her head in his direction—assuming that talking statues could see, of course.
“Can’t you think of anything?” Oothiana cried. “If you can come up with some good ideas, then he’ll realize that you’re valuable to him—”