Ripple!
“What was that?” Rap cried, looking all around. “What was what?”
“I felt something.” Yet the ship continued to pitch and roll as before. The sailors on deck were showing no alarm. “What sort of something?” Sagorn demanded irritably. “I’m not sure.” Rap wasn’t even sure how he’d felt whatever it was. Neither noise nor motion, not in his ears or bones or skin. Nor could he tell from which direction it had come, but he was sure he’d felt something—it had been faint, but real. He shivered at the uncanny touch of premonition, but it said important, not notably dangerous. He disliked these strange new talents.
Sagorn dismissed the problem with a sneer. “Nerves!”
“Perhaps. Tell me of this risk.”
“I called upon an old friend, a scholar and something of an authority on Imperial politics. We have not met in thirty years.”
“Why was this a risk?”
“Because I do not wish to be denounced as a sorcerer. I have not aged thirty years in those thirty years.” His aquamarine eyes flickered with sudden amusement.
“And?”
“And neither had he!”
Rap chuckled. “Embarrassing for both of you.”
“Quite! He is still much the same as ever he was. With the assistance of your gnomish friend, I may even look younger now than I did then. But my friend made me welcome, and we had a long gossip. He belongs to a very large and powerful family. He is its expert on political affairs and, I suspect, its strategist for meddling in them. He was exiled to Noom by Emthar and liked it so well that he never petitioned for leave to return. Yet he keeps a very steady finger on the pulse in Hub.”
“Inos? Krasnegar?”
“He knew of Krasnegar.” Sagorn thinned his lips in the callous smile that always reminded Rap of an animal trap. He waited, teasing. When he failed to win a reaction, he said, “The imps withdrew, as I predicted they would. There is much scandal over the cost. Many men were lost.”
“I don’t think I mourn.” Rap cared little for goblins, but Imperial troops were worse, and they had started the hostilities.
Their occupation would leave the little town with bitter scars—women violated and their menfolk killed or maimed in trying to defend them, property looted or destroyed. Those troops had been the dregs of the Imperial army. It was better not to know.
More interesting than the news itself was the implication of sorcery at work. Clearly whatever occult protection Warlock Olybino had tried to provide for his legionaries’ retreat had been successfully blocked, either by Raspnex, the dwarf disguised as a goblin, or by Bright Water herself.
“The Marshal of the Armies has used the affair to justify some much-needed housecleaning.” Sagorn sneered. “Long overdue! The high command is a swamp of toads. He is rushing the crack XIIth Legion north, because goblins have been raiding in Northwest Julgistro, coming over the mountains! He has other problems, too. Revolt has broken out in Farther Shimlundok—the usual dispute with the dwarves and access to the Dark River, of course—and half of Guwush is in flames, also. Absolutely nothing will rouse the Senate more than any hint of mere gnomes defeating Imperial troops. That is anathema to—”
“So what happened in Krasnegar after the imps left?” Rap had heard Bright Water tell of the goblin raids, months ago, and the rest did not interest him.
The light was failing swiftly now. Sagorn was nearly invisible to Rap’s eyes, but farsight said he shrugged. “Who knows?”
“The wardens, of course.”
“Quite. But you are the only mundane I have ever heard of who goes around chatting with warlocks and witches as an everyday affair. Of course you’re not a mundane, are you?” Again the hurt and envy showed for a moment. Sagorn considered that he, not Rap, deserved to be the adept.
“And what are the imperor’s plans?”
The crabby old jotunn detested being questioned and would normally have turned stubborn then. Probably Rap was using mastery whether he liked it or not, because he got an answer. “Warm soup and a soft bed, I imagine.”
Rap studied the familiar cynical sneer and said, “Bad news?”
“Emshandar’s health is failing rapidly, it seems. Pity! He was a good man . . . relatively speaking. He will be missed.” Sagorn scowled, as if regretting this admission of sympathy. “But the Impire goes on regardless. His advisors have found a solution, of course.”
“Tell!”
Reluctantly the old man came to the point. “Rumor—and it is only rumor—says that the Privy Secretariat has put out feelers to Nordland.”
“Compromise?”
“Of course. Ironically, it seems that neither side has ever spared much thought for Krasnegar in the past. Might that be some lingering trace of Inisso’s work, do you suppose? The Impire’s bureaucrats have always just assumed it to be some sort of client state or protectorate; the thanes seemed to have looked on it as jotunn territory. It was never worth a raid by either side, anyway. It has some commercial value, because of the trading, but it is still not worth a war.”
“If everyone agrees to behave logically.”
Sagorn shrugged, as if unwilling to admit that Rap himself could be so logical. “The Impire’s proposal is thought to be this: Duke Angilki shall be recognized as king, but stay where he is, measuring carpet and hanging drapes as usual. The actual authority will be in the hands of a viceroy, ruling in his name.”
“Kalkor, I suppose?”
The old man waved a frail white hand. “Whoever is nominated—meaning chosen—by the thanes’ moot. It could be Kalkor if he wants it, but why would he? Possibly even a local, like Foronod. In effect, the Impire is saying that Nordland can have Krasnegar in all but name. It may rule as long as it doesn’t claim a victory. The chart makers will still color it Imperial . . . And please don’t kill any more people than you have to, or you’ll curtail our supply of fur collars.”
So Inos would be dispossessed?
“The wardens must have approved this proposal?”
“Certainly. Only Olybino could have held back the legions from a full invasion of goblin territory. That is not on the table.” Inos bereft of her kingdom would no longer be a queen and . . . Rap recoiled in horror from the thoughts that lay along that road. Were she not a queen she would be free to marry a hostler, or a common sailor. What sort of selfish monster was he? He would not even consider the possibility. Meanwhile, there was the problem of what Sagorn was hiding. He was gloating, so it had to be bad news.
Stewards were approaching, working their way along the corridor with a rack of lighted lanterns, knocking on doors to offer them, together with respectful warnings about the dangers of fire on a ship.
Overhead, the sailors were again shortening sail, while the timbers and cables groaned with the strain of the sudden storm. Certainly the captain would have never left port had he foreseen such roaring weather. Again Rap felt a crawly sense of premonition, as if he were overlooking something obvious.
Now the stewards had reached the cabin, two youngsters finely attired in white livery. As the taller of the two raised knuckles to tap, Rap turned and opened the door. He held out a hand for one of the little lanterns, and said a premature “Thanks!”
The fair-haired boy offering it just froze, his mouth hanging open as he gaped at Rap as if at something emerging from a graveyard by night. His already light-skinned face turned pale as parchment. His equally blond companion seemed equally dumbfounded.
Amused, Rap put a finger to his lips. “Sh!” he said.”I’m a jotunn in disguise. Don’t tell anyone.”
The boys blushed scarlet. The first quickly passed over the lamp, and the other found enough voice to say, “Will you be dining this evening, sir?”
Polite male jotnar? What was the world coming to?
But Rap had some prison hollows to fill yet. “I shall certainly be dining, and my friend here, also. What’s on the menu?” Exchanging renewed glances of amazement, the stewards rattled off a list of dishes that made his mouth water. Stormdancer had never been like this.
“Sounds good,” he said. “If I asked for a double helping of the broiled pork, done rare and extra greasy, I imagine the chef could oblige?” Chuckling, he closed the door on them, still thunderstruck. He hung the lantern on a hook in the beams, where it swung crazily.
Sagorn was smiling sourly at the foolery. “The first-class dining room? What do you know of the gentry’s table manners?”
“I think those should lie within the powers of an adept.” Rap had eyes; he could copy what he saw done.
Finding that life standing up was becoming too strenuous, he stepped across to Andor’s sea chest and sat down. The sly old scholar was certainly hiding something. It was time to do some prying.