So here he was back in Krasnegar. It had not changed at all, although the harbor was busier, this early in the season. Purely on spec, he had brought a cargo of hemp, with some idea that it might be profitable. He had also brought Bithbal.
Bithbal and Krushbark had become enemies at first sight. Jotunn tradition prohibited brawling at sea, although in this case it had barely succeeded in keeping the peace between those two. Now that Sea Beauty was safely tied up, they were preparing to adjourn their hostility to a convenient tavern. At least one of them would be carried back to the ship unconscious. Then they would both feel happier and would work together better in future.
The early morning rain was just ending. As the two big men marched down the plank, Efflio was not at all surprised to see the faunish king approaching along the quay. He suppressed quivers of unease at the memories of sorcery, but he noticed that he had started to wheeze already.
The king trotted up on deck, accompanied by a young jotunn. The boy looked at Efflio and inexplicably blushed twthe roots of his spiky hair.
“Good morning, Cap’n,” the king said.
Efflio bowed. “Good morning to you, Sire. . . And to you, your Highness! Why, you’ve grown about two cable lengths!” He might as well put the king in a good mood. That sort of comment always pleased fathers.
The faun swelled proudly. “Hasn’t he? He’s going to make me look like a gnome when he’s full grown. Who was that sailor we passed? He seemed familiar.”
“Bosun Krushbark, Sire? Or Purser Bithbal?”
The king shook his head, looking puzzled. “Don’t recall the names. The second one? I’m sure I met him once, a long time ago. He didn’t seem to know me . . . Never mind. No more horses?” He smiled menacingly.
“No, your Majesty. I brought a cargo of rope.”
King Rap grinned mysteriously at his son, who grinned back shyly. “What made you think we would want rope?”
Efflio leaned comfortably against the rail and prepared to enjoy the trading. If an imp could not outhaggle a faun, then he was definitely due to retire. ”The Dwanishian border has been closed, by order of the imperor.”
“So rope is cheap just now?”
He was not supposed to know that! “So the dwarves would be very interested in buying rope, Sire.”
“We have no trade with the dwarves.” The king leaned against the mast. The boy settled himself on a bollard, watching his father with the doting gaze of a pet dog.
“But you trade with goblins,” Efflio said.
He shivered at the long stare the king gave him. “You are a perceptive man, Captain.”
“Thank you, Sire.”
“I’ll think about it. The crown might be interested in acquiring your cargo, as you presumed.”
That sounded very promising! Efflio wondered how best to open inquiries about taking up residence. He must be discreet, obviously. He might be expected to swear fealty to the throne of Krasnegar: He’d never been a great imperial patriot, but . . . “He wants to stay here,” the boy said.
“You keep out of this!” his father snapped. “Just saving time, Dad. Sorry.”
Efflio uttered a nervous wheeze. Was the son a sorcerer, also? “Indeed, your Majesty, he is correct. I have been thinking of retiring for some years . . .” How had the kid known that?
“Our winters are long, you know.”
“But your hearts are warm. This seems a very friendly little town. I can’t manage hills, but I thought I would look around for some comfortable lodgings close to the docks.”
The king nodded thoughtfully. “I know of several widows who could use a little extra income and might appreciate a lodger for company. You would have money, of course?”
If the rope sold and Bithbal bought the ship as planned, then Efflio would have plenty of money. Normally he would have denied the fact vehemently, but now he nodded. He was inclined to trust this strange ruler, this sorcerer-faun-king. He was beginning to feel quite excited at the prospect.
“I’ll give you a couple of names,” the king said, “but you’re not to say I sent you!”
“Not if you do not wish it, Sire . . . Why not, though?” The faun smiled faintly. “Because they’ll do it to please me and that wouldn’t be fair.” He scratched his tangled hair thoughtfully. “You know, Cap’n, a well-traveled, knowledgeable man like yourself might be a valuable voice on our royal council. Would you be interested? There is a small honorarium, of course.”
“That would be a very great honor, Sire!” Efflio said, astonished. Such an appointment would also add some interest to his retirement and let him meet the most influential citizens—merchants, for example. He wondered how large the honorarium would be.
“Then I suggest you apply for resident status.”
The sailor thought unhappily of the rapacious bureaucrats of the Impire. ”I require a permit?”
“Oh, no. Just my approval, or my wife’s.” The king laughed and held out a hand to shake. “Like this! Welcome aboard! But if you are going to remain with us, Captain, then why dispose of your cargo through a middleman? You could set yourself up as a merchant and trade the rope to the goblins directly.”
Efflio whistled his longest, loudest wheeze yet.
“Oh, you wouldn’t need to do the negotiating yourself if you preferred not to.” The faun’s gray eyes twinkled. “Although there would be a commission. And of course you would have to store the merchandise. I can rent you some space in one of the royal warehouses at very reasonable rates.”
“Most generous of your Majesty!”
“Think about it! I expect you would feel more comfortable with your life savings in the form of goods in storage than in a bag under the mattress? There is a token tax, of course, to cover the upkeep of the royal fire brigade.”
The twinkle had become quite sinister. This was certainly one faun who was no pushover at haggling. The cash price of hemp had obviously dropped appreciably in the last few minutes.
The king chuckled and straightened up. “Come and dine with us tonight, Cap’n. Gath, here, can bring the chaise for you, or I can. And you can tell us all the news of the Impire.”
3
Evidently the warm hearts of Krasnegar were not its only attraction for Captain Efflio—he enjoyed its warm beer, also. Awash with mulled ale, he was assisted back to his ship around midnight by the king himself. A couple of crewmen took him in hand and steered him off to his cabin, their attitude suggesting that they had done this many times before. Still, Rap thought, he was a pleasant enough old rogue.
The sun had dipped out of sight, but the sky was still blue and there were still some people about. Work never stopped in summer. Gulls, waves, and people were always busy.
Rap drove the chaise slowly up the long winding hill, letting Patches take it easy. He needed time to think and time for the blustery salt air to clear his head. Time to think over what he had heard that evening.
Dragons! Lith’rian had been known to use his dragons before, for elves could be surprisingly vindictive. In his long reign as South, he had loosed them three or four times. But to turn them against East’s legions! Olybino must have had an apoplectic fit.
When Rap had known those two warlocks, they had been reluctant allies. Lith’rian had been contemptuous of the pompous imp and his glorified visions of war; but Lith’rian was contemptuous of most people. Alliances within the Four were always shaky.
The imperor would have been deeply shocked, also, but Emshandar was reputedly almost senile now. He would have died years ago had Rap not cured his sickness.
That had been a violation of the Protocol and perhaps even the error that the God had mentioned. Had Rap warped the course of history by extending the old man’s life? Or had he merely established a dangerous precedent? The Four had acquitted him on the charge of wrongful sorcery, and somehow he thought a world-shaking failure should be something more significant than that trivial kindness.
Efflio had brought other ominous news also—jotunn raiders shipwrecked in a freak storm and trolls raiding in the Mosweeps. Those were only the stories that had reached to distant Krasnegar. What else was happening that Rap did not know of?
The key to all this was Shandie, he decided. The boy he had known briefly was a celebrated soldier now, destined to be imperor very soon. He would know as much of current events as anyone, and he should be told the rest. Rap had a moral duty to advise the prince of the Gods’ prophecy. He ought to write a letter.
By the time the chaise was clattering over the cobbles of the bailie, though, he had realized that a letter would not do it. He had no idea where Shandie was. A letter would vanish in the labyrinth of the Opal Palace, or fall into the wrong hands.