“Tell me about Lith’rian.” He saw at once that his guess was wrong—the old man answered without hesitation.
“Phaw! He succeeded to the blue throne in the first year of Emthar’s reign, sixty-eight years ago. Almost nothing is known of his background, but he is said to have been born on Valdojif, not on Valdorian itself. The Clan’ jifs are a sept of the Clan’rians, the senior clan in the Eol Gens. He is naturally a hero to elves in general, and the Clan’rians in particular. He is High War Chief, a post of extreme honor, rarely granted, and equivalent to overlord of the whole gens—not that such honors are worth much to a warlock, I suppose. His age is unknown, and of course inestimable, as he is both a sorcerer and elvish, but it seems that he was chosen by Umthrum herself as her successor, and she told him her words on her deathbed, so I would guess he was around eighteen or twenty then—”
“Why would you guess that?”
Sagorn snorted. “Most sorcerers and sorceresses turn strange as they grow older, and Umthrum was at least two hundred. She was also a merwoman.”
“Oh.”
“I see.”
“. . . selected from all races, and noted for their—”
“I understand!” Rap insisted, feeling distaste that had nothing to do with seasickness. “How do you remember so much?” The old man sneered. “Training and practice, of course. I have an eidetic memory—I can recall a visual image of anything I have ever seen, or any page I have ever read. I should have thought that such an ability would lie within the powers of an adept.”
“Would it, though?” Rap had not thought of that, and again felt a small tremor of premonition. No, a thrill of premonition. Somehow that scrap of information was important, and he was certainly overlooking something. An adept could master any human skill—why not memory? He had best go to his own cabin and do some thinking. And these uncanny premonitions . . . were they a sign of a developing foresight talent? Or only imagination?
His mother had been a seer.
He still had not discovered what ill tidings Sagorn was hoarding. “Do you think the warlock will aid me?”
“I have no idea.” The old man’s manner implied that he did not intend to find out, either.
“How long until I reach Valdorian?”
Sagorn shot a worried glance up at the window glass. Water was dribbling in around the edges. “If you can predict even where we shall be tomorrow, you are much more than an adept. You must know Allena’s schedule. Malfin—”
“I know we are not expected in Vislawn for at least four weeks. I almost wish I’d not listened to Ishist’s crazy ideas. I could have walked to Hub a lot sooner.”
Sagorn bared his teeth in contempt. “So you may not have been quite the free agent you hoped? See why you should consult me before undertaking such rash actions?”
Once Rap would have felt anger at the old man’s jibes. Now he was merely saddened by the petty spite that bred them.
“I understood that a serf could not walk up to the door of a warlock’s palace and demand to see him.”
“I have friends in Hub who could have arranged an audience.”
“Quickly?”
“Maybe not right away,” the scholar admitted. “So this way may be quicker in the end?”
Sagorn nodded reluctantly. “Oh, once you reach Erane, you will be rushed to Valdorian. I have no doubt of that. The finest procrastinators in the world are Dwanishian customs officials, but elves run a close second, and they dislike strangers wandering around Ilrane. An elf who has uttered the Sublime Defiance, though—he’s a matter of state! You’ll be shipped like ice, posthaste.”
“So how long?”
Sagorn shrugged. “Sixty leagues, maybe. A hard day’s ride on good horses.”
Sixty leagues in a day? While Rap was digesting that astonishing scrap of information, Sagorn rose stiffly to his feet. Balancing unsteadily, he closed the deadlight over the scupper. “The question may be moot, you know. We are hove to now, but we cannot have left Noom Bay yet. Our situation is perilous.” He sat down again, probably more heavily than he had intended.
Evidently he was enough of a jotunn to recognize the dangers of a lee shore.
A steward reeled along the passage, jangling a dinner bell. “I do not think I shall essay the journey to the dining room,” Sagorn muttered. ”And Andor would have no appetite. Jalon, perhaps, would appreciate a good meal, and the crew knows none of us by sight . . .”
“I still hanker after that roast pork,” Rap said. Time to go, and therefore time for a direct offensive. “I am curious about your motives, Doctor. And your friends’. Andor and Jalon and Darad all shook my hand. Each of them agreed to help my quest in return for my promise of help afterward. You and Thinal I have not asked yet. But I was very surprised to see Andor embark on this ship. Fidelity is not Andor’s favorite sport.”
The old man flushed. “He harbors delusions of weaseling your word of power out of you somewhere on the journey.” Rap shook his head.
The sage scowled. “We may not accompany you all the way to Vislawn. The schedule calls for stops at Malfin and Dal Petr and—”
“No. Andor is not overendowed with courage, either. He would not risk any sea voyage without very good reason, and he would run a thousand leagues to stay away from a warlock. Must I conclude that Ishist bound all five of you with a compulsion to accompany me to Lith’rian?”
Sagorn paled. “Certainly not!”
“Then the obvious question is, what else did your friend in Noom tell you?”
Sagorn snarled, baring yellow teeth. “You are growing too smart for your own good, young man! Here it is, then. Inosolan is dead!”
No!
Cognizant of his own face, Rap was certain he had shown no reaction, and Sagorn’s obvious disappointment confirmed that. “Who says so?” Rap asked stonily. No! No! No! “Emshandar. He so informed the Senate when he advised it of the Krasnegar matter.”
“And who told the imperor?”
“I don’t know.”
Sagom was not lying. His unnamed friend would have had no reason to lie. Months ago, on the night when Rap had seen Inos somewhere in the desert of Zark, at least three of the wardens had known where she was, and at least two of them had been planning to snatch her away. If Hub thought she was dead, then something had gone wrong . . . Rap fought against a screaming sense of despair, but he thought his premonition was helping him. Something in this tale rang false. “I don’t believe it.”
Sagorn’s book began to move. He grabbed for it too late, and it slid swiftly to the end of the bunk. Losing interest, he leaned back and sneered at Rap.
“As you grow older and wiser, you will discover that one’s first reaction to distressing events is often one of rejection. The mind just refuses to believe, at first, and the emotions rule. But this news is hardly unexpected. In a day or so, you will come to accept it.”
“And then?”
“And then you will see that your quest has been terminated. It has become impossible. Under the agreement you made with the others, you are morally bound to help us now. I call on you to share the second word with us.”
Rap said nothing, thinking furiously.
Sagorn frowned. “True, that was not spelled out exactly. My associates failed to establish reasonable terms with you. But you are certainly under an ethical obligation.” He was not nearly so confident as he was trying to appear, but Andor’s decision to board the ship was now explicable.
Ishist had told Rap to trust his premontions. “I don’t believe it,” he repeated stubbornly.
“Faugh! You are being childish! She may have died the very night the sorceress abducted—”
“She was alive when we were in Milflor.”
“How do you know that?” roared Sagorn. “Never mind! I want to know who told the imperor.”
“Then go to Hub and ask him!”
“Who holds the power? Him or the Senate?”
Sagorn’s eyes narrowed. “Ten years ago—even five years ago—Emshandar could make the senators dance jigs in their nightgowns. These days . . . who knows?”
“So Krasnegar was an annoying problem for him. It was easier to find a solution without Inos, maybe, so he . . . simplified it?”
Sagorn laughed mockingly.
It sounded weak even to Rap, but he persisted. “A young queen in distress, and legionaries had already died to help her, and Emshandar wanted to give her kingdom away to the thane, but the senators might have—”
“Wishful thinking!” And yet—”The imperor may have been lying!” Yes! said premonition. Closer! Closer! Or was that only wishful thinking also? Oh, Inos!