Rap had killed guards, invaded the palace, disrupted the royal wedding, stolen Evil, made Azak look foolish. Any one of those would be a capital offense in Arakkaran.
“Azak!” She fell to her knees.
His face darkened in fury. “What is this man to you, Sultana?”
“Nothing! Merely a childhood friend and a loyal retainer of my late father’s. May not I ask this small favor as a gift from you upon this, our wedding—”
“Silence! Do not begin your married life by incurring my displeasure, wife. In Zark it is unseemly for a married woman even to know another man by name, let alone take his part against her husband’s wishes. Princess Kadolan, conduct your niece to the royal bedchamber.”
Inos choked, speechless. She . . . she could not even find thoughts adequate, let alone words. The man she needed was the Azak of the desert, the lionslayer, but she did not know how to summon him in the place of this city tyrant.
“Majesty?” Kar strolled forward, his usual small smile just visible in the dancing flicker of the torches.
Azak grunted.
“Your Majesty, if this man truly was sent as a messenger by Warlock Lith’rian, then putting him to death might possibly be unwise. His arrival has rid you of the sorceress who was both a burden to you and who seemed destined to become an Olybino votary. His Omnipotence of the South may have foreseen these events.”
Azak grunted again.
“At least take counsel on the matter, Sire. Be not hasty.”
“Keep a mage prisoner?”
“No, impossible. But if he is a mage you cannot put him to death, either. The attempt might incur his enmity.” Kar chuckled softly. “He claims to be only an adept. It should be possible to detain an adept, and I think these honest fellows here may be willing to attempt so dangerous and difficult a task as a token of their desire to be reinstated in your favor. A small recompense for their poor showing this afternoon?”
That was quite a speech, Inos thought gratefully.
Azak seemed to agree. “Very well. Captain, you will see that this prisoner is kept in close confinement, guarded at all times. He must not be allowed to speak, or he will subvert you, and you will use the thickest chains you—”
Rap moved like a streak. He spun on his heel, took two steps, and jumped. The archers were hopelessly late, and only one even released his shaft. It flashed across the semicircle and buried itself in a torchbearer, who toppled backward without a sound.
At first, few of the guards seemed to understand where their prisoner had gone. Then they heard the clatter of boots on marble behind them as Rap landed, already running, barely visible in the dark. He hurtled toward the door, a faint blur of motion like a cheetah.
But there were guards on the door, also, and he skidded to a halt before their line of swords. Inos heard him start to say something, and the swords seemed to waver. Then the rest of the family men arrived in a charge and engulfed him in a heaving mass of bodies. Even then, for a moment it seemed like a fair fight. Men screamed, others hurtled through the air. But the odds were too great. The struggle ended. The hitting and kicking did not.
Inos clapped her hands to her ears and screamed, “Stop them!” at Azak.
Azak merely shrugged, but the guards may have heard her, for they stopped. They brought Rap back facedown between eight men, two to a limb, and with a cap stuffed in his mouth so he could not speak; but he was probably unconscious anyway. His head dangled limply, dribbling blood on the floor, black in the wavering torchlight.
“Satisfactory!” Azak boomed. “Take whatever steps you deem necessary, Captain!”
Inos felt her heart twist. She did not know how to deal with this Sultan—Azak. Anything except abject humility infuriated him. If she could only call forth the solitary Azak of the desert, the one who had laughed and cracked jokes . . . him she might move, when they were alone together. So if she could keep Rap alive for a few days, perhaps she could do something.
“My lord! They will kill him!”
“Not quite!”
She was still on her knees; she raised clasped hands in supplication. ”No bloodshed! At least promise me that!”
Azak scowled furiously. “Very well! Captain, you will shed no more blood!” He glanced over the whole troop, and his voice rose to include every man. “But none of you can imagine anything worse than what will happen if he escapes. Nothing at all! Do I make myself clear?”
The captain saluted, his face grim and hateful. He must be thinking of the sons by whom he was sworn, and what Azak was capable of doing to them. They all must.
“Princess Kadolan!” said Azak.
Kade stumbled forward, eyes wide and staring above her yashmak.
“We gathered here to seal a marriage. Escort the sultana to the royal quarters.” He glanced down coldly at Inos. “Your women will be waiting to prepare you. You may expect me shortly.”
2
Clunk!
Huh? The jotunn opened his eyes and shivered.
He was lying in the bottom of a boat, under a hard, damp cover, and a sky sickly pale with dawn. Stiff? Gods! He hadn’t felt like this since the time he’d been sixteen and lipped Rathkrun and Rathkrun had told him he was ready for his first real lesson and given it to him, all over, inch by inch.
Rathkrun was dead. And the old man. And Wanmie and the kids.
Shiver. Clunk! Plip!
Something bounced off the boat’s side and hit the water. Gathmor heaved himself up with a groan. He hadn’t meant to go to sleep. Tyro trick! Fall asleep on watch? He deserved to have all his teeth kicked out. Other craft rocked gently all around, misty in the uncertain light. Shiny water, mist, sky bright . . . A faint hail: “Krasnegar!”
That was the password. He peered shoreward, but the sea ended just before it got there. The boat must be visible, though—against the light?
Gathmor groaned again. Gods! Black and blue from two weeks of battering in this Evil-take-it elven magic tub. “Durthing!” he yelled, the countersign.
Feeling as if his joints had all frozen and that when he forced his aching, quivering limbs to bend he must be cracking ice, he reached for an oar, made it ready, rose. Queen rocked in protest, then lurched forward as he hauled on the cable. Up came the little anchor, dripping silver and breaking the stillness with an absurdly loud clatter when he threw it down. None of the other craft was showing signs of life yet. A dog howled somewhere northward, in the city.
One-oared he paddled the boat shoreward. Without her magic, she was a wallowing cow, a hulk, but a few strokes were enough to bring him within sight of the man waiting on the beach. Gray-on-gray, the shape wasn’t big enough to be Darad. It was that sleazy, glib-spoken imp, Andor. Well, Darad had warned him that any of them was possible. Couldn’t promise they’d call him back, he’d said. Crazy, Evil-begotten magic! Andor was too slippery.
Come to think of it, it had been that Andor who’d talked him into buying the faun in the first place. All his fault! Be a real pleasure to pound him a little, make something more manlike out of that pretty face. Due for a little exercise, and the imp would be a good warmup. Except he’d just call Darad—no satisfaction there.
Queen grounded with a scraping sound. Andor splashed out to her and tossed in a pair of boots and a string bag; then he pushed and simultaneously clambered over the side, all with an agility that produced grudging surprise in Gathmor. His mouth was watering at the sight of the bag.
“Hot loaves, Cap’n! Fresh from the oven. Not quite done yet, but they’ll do. Too early for much else.” Andor settled on a thwart and peered around for something to dry his feet with.
Gathmor wondered where the boots had come from—they weren’t Darad’s. He leaned on the oar, poling the boat until he was out of his depth. Then let her drift while he sat down and reached for the savory bag. “What news?”
Andor shook his head somberly. “It’s all bad.”
“Tell me anyway. I’m a big boy now.”
“The faun went berserk. Whole city’s twisted in knots.”
“What sort of berserk?” Gathmor mumbled, tearing off hunks of warm dough.
“Apparently he broke into the palace, stole one of the royal horses, rode from one end of the grounds to the other, and then busted into the actual wedding with the entire guard in pursuit.”
The sailor grunted admiringly. Great kid, the faun. Half jotunn, of course.
“Crazy!” Andor removed his cloak and distastefully wiped his feet on the lining.