Of course he had been forced to take in an imp as business partner, and of course the inkstained little grub had turned out to have more needy relations than a queen termite, but an artist could not be expected to soil his mind with such sordid matters as money. And enlisting the senator as silent partner had been a shrewd move, too, however much it offended one’s sensibilities. All the best people in Noom were showing up because the senator had come on the first night.
The future looked very secure. The senator would dine here every few days when he was in town. That was the arrangement, and it would cost him nothing, no matter how large his party. The quality would always be unsurpassed—Arth’quith himself would see to that, implacably. He had studied impish customs in Hub itself. He had trained in Valdolyn and Valdopol and even Valdofen, been instructed in high cuisine by Loth’fen herself. Father would have wept with pride to see the Enchanted Glade. The decor was a miracle in pink and gold.
The orchestra ended a gavotte and struck up a minuet. It was time for the host to begin mingling discreetly with the diners. Something went clang out in the street—a collision of carriages, perhaps.
The lictor’s guests were returning to their seats. Arth’quith must make a good impression there, too—perhaps send over a couple of bottles of the Valdoquiff? Or even the Valdociel? Another muffled clang . . .
Arth’quith felt more twinges from his despicable innards and a sudden trickle of iced water down his backbone. He wheeled round and headed for the entrance.
An elf came around the comer. God of Trees!
Arth’quith shied like a startled foal and stepped in front of him. “May I be of assistance, sir?”
The elf raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think so.” He was just a youth, and his clothes were disgusting. He stank of . . . of animal!
This time Arth’quith’s ulcers clenched hard. “Have you a reservation, sir?”
“I have quite a few,” the yokel remarked calmly, peering over Arth’quith’s shoulder at the assembly, “but I also have instructions. This seems to be a likely place.”
“Sir, I regret we are full this evening. If you do not have a reservation—”
Round the corner came—a jotunn! And another! A giant! A monster!
Hot knives stabbed into Arth’quith’s abdomen, twisting. He felt defiled. Those two metallic noises he had heard from the entrance . . .
“Is this some kind of shakedown?” he screamed. “Because I would have you know that the lictor himself—” I The youth smiled faintly at him, and he forgot what he had been about to say.
“Whom would you select as the most important elf present?”
“Imp-important?” Arth’quith stuttered.
“Elf. Important elf?” The lad was staring across the room. ”Who’s he?”
Reluctantly Arth’quith turned to see where the insolent finger pointed. ”That is Lord Phiel’. The others with him—”
“He is an important person?”
“Lord Phiel’nilth? He is Poet Laureate of the Impire!”
“Excellent. Excuse me.”
With astonishing agility, the lad slipped past Arth’quith, and before he could move to follow, a fist like an alligator’s jaws closed on his shoulder. The smaller jotunn stepped close and snarled, “Be silent!” through his revolting walrus mustache.
And the smelly young elf in the bedraggled workclothes went stalking across the floor toward the table where Lord Phiel’nilth was holding court among his admirers.
It was pure disaster.
4
Never before in her life had Inos known such a headache, a genuine eye-popping, suicide-provoking bone-splitter. It might be due to the bright sunlight, although she ought to be used to that and she was shaded by a fringed canopy. It might stem from the continuous tooth jarring rattle of wheels on stone as Skarash played at being charioteer when he was only driving a one-horse chaise. The most likely cause was just simple frustration.
Kade was back at the couturier’s again. Azak had gone spying. Feeling her head starting to ache, Inos had asked Skarash to take her for a drive in the fresh air and show her some of the sights. She had not expected chariot races.
This was her second day in Ullacam, and she was being torn apart by too many questions chasing too little information. Should she try to escape from Elkarath? If she believed his story, he was going to send her on to Hub, and that was where she wanted to go, to appeal to the Four. But Elkarath was certainly capable of lying, and whether he served Rasha or Olybino, Inos was not likely to have much freedom of action in Hub if she was still controlled by any one of the three of them.
And how could she escape anyway? Even if she could avoid the mage’s farsight, there was still Skarash hovering everywhere, and Imperial guards. Worse still, in Ullacarn she had no friends, and she had no money. Azak’s gold had been taken from him. Stealing mules in the desert had been easy compared to the problem of stealing horses in a big city and then evading pursuit. Moreover, the only possible way to travel from Ullacarn to the Impire was by ship, and Inos could not imagine Kade and herself as stowaways.
Money was the worst problem of all. The sheik was being incredibly generous. Skarash would offer to buy anything that caught her eye, price no consideration. But he would certainly demur if she asked for actual gold to use for bribes and disguises.
Had Rasha already sold Inos to Olybino? Had Elkarath actually been East’s votary all along? The answer to those two questions seemed to be no. If she belonged to the warlock, then she would be magicked to Hub in no time. That much at least seemed clear—Rasha was still in control.
Ullacarn was admittedly a fair city. Most of its streets were straight and wide, typical of Imperial planning and completely unlike the chaotic alleys of Arakkaran. A few patches of ramshackle native construction still lingered here and there like unhealed wounds, including the ancient House of Elkarath itself, but all these old slums were scheduled for demolition in the near future, to be replaced by modern, more sanitary construction. So Skarash had told her.
“How do you feel about that?” she had asked.
“Do you want my imp answer or my djinn answer?” Which was an answer. Even Skarash seemed out of sorts today. Around his grandfather he was submissive and self-effacing. For Azak he played stern patriot, for Kade dutiful escort, for Inos flippant playboy and now charioteer. The day before he had never missed a step, but that morning he had fumbled a few times, displaying the wrong face or having to change voice halfway through a speech. Either he was attempting too many roles at once, Inos thought, or something new was worrying Master Skarash.
The sightseeing had been a mistake; her headache had grown worse. Now, thank the Gods, she was on her way to pick up Kade and go home; if she lived that long. The wheels rat-tatted on the cobbles, shooting bolts of fire from her eyeballs, and the chaise lurched and rocked down the hill, scattering pedestrians and pack animals alike, swerving around on one wheel between wagons and carriages. Spectators roared in anger and shook fists. Dogs barked and horses shied. Dwarves with hammers beat on her brain like an anvil.
Skarash being charioteer . . . the two hussars sent along to guard Inos had objected to his fast driving. Mainly they’d just been throwing their weight around, hassling a rich djinn. So Skarash had challenged them to a race down the Way Imelada, the steepest, narrowest, nastiest alley in the city, so far as Inos could tell. He was going to win it, too, if it killed her.
Ullacarn was a flatter city than Arakkaran, or Krasnegar, but it did have the Way Imelada, and it did have a palace on a hilltop. The emir was rumored to be under house arrest, Skarash had said. There must be a strong anti-Impire faction in the city, so perhaps Azak could enlist some secret allies among the local djinns.
In three days? And why would the enemies of the Impire aid a sultan who wanted to go to Hub? More like they would see him as a traitor and push a scimitar through him; and the problems of a refugee queen from the far northwest would interest them not at all. Bury that idea.
Or bury Inos! The chaise skidded around a corner on one wheel, narrowly missing a cart laden with vegetables.
And now the way ahead was flatter, wider, and packed with people. Skarash was screaming warnings, cracking his whip in the air. Inos clung tight and tried closing her eyes, but that did not help much. Every jolt flashed flames inside her head, and they just seemed brighter when she had her eyes closed. Somewhere behind the bouncing chaise came the two horsemen, but Skarash had outwitted them right at the beginning by getting them to agree to give him a few paces’ start, and ever since then they had been unable to find a place clear enough to overtake. Unless he killed someone, he was going to win the race.