“Ten knots in this wind or I’m an elf,” Gathmor muttered. ”Then you’ll have to dress like one,” Rap said.
He himself was dressed like an elf and trying not to notice. Krasnegarians expected protection from cold in winter and gnats in summer; they despised short pants and sleeveless shirts. Rap scowled down at the multihued arms on the rail before him. Whoever heard of an elf with scrapes and bruises? The conical absurdity on his head was even sillier than the forester cap Ishist had given him—and a lace collar! Even if he was standard gold all over, he still would not suit magenta and peach. With his arms and face and legs bearing bright rainbow reminders of the brawl in the Enchanted Glade and even more of the jailers’ persuasions, he was not a likely elf at all, and certainly not a beautiful one.
Quip’ was. He was much more interested in his new outfit than he was in the view from the deck. The first real clothes he had ever owned, he said, and he was overcome by their glory. He’d chosen them himself: turquoise buskins cross-laced in silver, shorts and blouse in chrome red and sulfur yellow, with floral overlay in seed pearls and cornflower blue stitchery. He had lace everywhere, even on his pants, and his cap kept blowing off because of its oversize ostrich plume, which was green.
And yet, amazingly, it all very nearly worked. Without the green feather, it might have passed. At least five minutes had gone by since he’d asked Rap if he liked the effect—really liked it—so the question was about due again. Quip’ was the most glorious thing in port at the moment, and yet still the most insecure.
A little way aft stood a group of another six brightly clad passengers. Whatever the traditions said, the elvish community of Noom was not going to gamble its entire wealth on Apprentice Quip’rian. He was Nearest Kinsman and therefore official escort, but someone reliable must keep an eye on him. The leaders seemed to be Mistress Fern’soon, director of the city art gallery—who looked about twenty and was a grandmother—and Sir Thoalin’fen, who was chief choreographer for the South Pithmot Ballet and had danced for the imperor’s grandmother in his youth. His face sagged slightly over missing teeth and a milky sheen dulled the opal fires of his eyes, but elvish skin never wrinkled, elvish hair never turned from spun gold to silver. A stooped or pot-bellied elf was unthinkable. Not fair, Rap thought. One day Thoalin’ would drop dead of sheer old age, and he would still look no older than Rap, the real Rap.
Lord Phiel’ had sent his warmest wishes, but etiquette did not allow him to be present, and he must return to Hub anyway, to prepare for the celebrations of the imperor’s birthday.
The legionaries pacing the quay would be making sure that the agreement was being honored. Likely the lictor had a man or two on board as well.
A grand landau drew up alongside, bearing a strikingly beautiful and obviously wealthy lady, so engrossed in a passionate farewell to her gentleman companion that she had not realized she could be seen from the deck. When the tearful embrace ended, Rap saw to his astonishment that the man in question was Andor.
What could possibly have brought him?
Yet Andor it was, and he strolled gracefully up the gangplank, following his sea chest. Andor’s hose would never wrinkle, no breeze ever dare ruffle his hair. Without a glance at Rap, he headed for the group of elvish worthies.
Ten minutes later, though, the lovely but slightly bewildered Fem’soon found herself presenting Sir Andor to Master Rap’rian and his . . . er, friends. Formal courtesies were exchanged,
Andor trying to conceal his distaste at the welts, puffy eyes, and swollen lips.
And as he allowed Fem’soon to draw him away to better company, he muttered out of the comer of his mouth, “Later, in my cabin. Sagorn has news for you.”
Even that intriguing word could not distract Rap from the excitement of the imminent departure. He went back to watching the preparations.
“She’s a beauty,” Gathmor muttered, and he was not studying women.
“Yes, Cap’n, she’s all that.”
“No disrespect to a fine ship, lad, but she even outclasses Stormdancer. ” He was comparing a racehorse and a donkey, but then his own admission upset him. He turned his face away, as if to hide tears from a seer.
“Infernal feather!” Quip’rian grumbled as the wind snatched his cap yet again. “Should I have chosen a smaller plume, do you think, sir?”
“No. That one suits you,” Rap said. “It adds dash!”
“Oh, do you think so? Really think so?” The gold of Quip’s cheeks turned coppery.
“This beats clearing plates, does it not? It doesn’t?”
Quip’ swallowed hard. “I had to go on the harbor ferry once.”
“And?”
He shuddered. “You’ve never been on a boat before?”
“Oh, yes. And ships.”
Quip’ gave him a tortured, puzzled glance. “You don’t get sick, sir?”
“Quip’!” Rap protested. “I keep telling you—stop calling me `sir’! I’m not much older than you are.”
“But you’re so much more . . . worldly! Experienced. Manly.”
“You’ll get there soon enough. And no, I never get seasick.”
“Really? I thought elves always did. I did. Horribly.”
In the harbor? “It’s all inside your head,” Rap said airily. Then he began to wonder how deeply his own head had been penetrated by Ishist’s magic. A sorcerer who enjoyed practical jokes might find seasickness a real belly laugh.
The gangplanks were being hauled in. The other elves were heading for their cabins. Quip’s edginess was increasing rapidly.
“I may not be able to carry out my escort duties if I get seasick, sir—I-mean-Rap’.”
Rap tried his encouraging smile. Could even occult mastery overcome seasickness? “Don’t worry about it. It’s only a formality. I’m not going to jump overboard.”
The idea of jumping overboard made Quip’ shudder and alloyed his golden face with silver. “You’re frightfully brave!”
“No, I’m not.”
“But you’re going to Lith’rian! A warlock! He may cut off your head. ”
“I don’t think he will,” Rap said with all the confidence he could display, wishing he could use occult mastery to convince himself as well as he could others.
“Then you really want a war? The Clan’rians against the Clan’nilths? And of course all the allied clans will come in, or most of—”
“I hope not that, either! I’m sure a warlock can find a way around the problem, Quip’. I’ve nothing against Phiel’nilth. I chose him by pure chance, or maybe by good luck. I’ve nothing against his clan. I just need to see Warlock Lith’rian very urgently, that’s all. I was told that this was the easiest, quickest way to do so.”
The elf’s big opal eyes seemed to grow even larger, flickering amethyst and pearl. “But why?” he whispered.
Rap wanted to watch the cables being cast off, but he decided he was going to have to talk at the same time, to give his Nearest Kinsman some sort of explanation. He deserved it, for Rap’s actions had grossly disrupted his humdrum, insignificant existence. Some people were not made to hear the trumpets. Quip’rian would always be a lapdog, never a wolfhound.
And Rap himself was another. This mad pilgrimage had never been his choice. All he had ever wanted was to aid Inos by warning her of her father’s illness. Now where had it got him? Had Andor and his gang not interfered, Rap would be driving a wagon now, bringing in the harvest at Krasnegar. Or he might be an assistant factor, charging to and fro on a pony and tallying supplies.
And who would be reigning in the castle? Kalkor?
Rap pulled his mind back to Allena and the worried youth beside him. Gathmor had dashed off to haul on ropes with the sailors, unable to stand idle any longer.
“Why? Because of a lady.”
“Oooo!” Quip’ sighed deeply. “Truly? All this for an affair of the heart? How wonderful!” His eyes misted.
“A little more than that. . .”Leaning his elbows on the rail, Rap started to explain. The elf pulled off his cap for safekeeping and then leaned at his side, listening in open-mouth fascination.
Rap began at the beginning, in Krasnegar. He did not mention that he had become an elf only recently—that was much too complicated. Indeed, he managed to keep almost all the magic out of it, especially his own, but he did have to include Rasha, Ishist, and Bright Water.
Even in that abbreviated form it was a very remarkable tale, yet the most remarkable thing about it was that young Quip’ obviously believed every word. He sniffed, then sniveled, and finally openly wept, not even seeing the sails spreading out above him, pink in the sunset glow. Nor did he notice the gentle motion of the ship as Allena turned majestically toward the harbor bar. And when Rap at last straightened up and concluded with, “And that’s where you came in,” the elf blinked bronze-rimmed eyes at him and—being speechless with emotion—then tried to embrace him.