“That is encouraging,” the imperor said stonily. “Acopulo, you saw an image of the celebrated Doctor Sagorn.”
The little man frowned like a benevolent priest trying to cope with a dire sin. “I did make some inquiries, Sire, and apparently the sage is still alive, incredible though that seems. I was even told his address, but when I went calling I was refused admission or information.”
“When was that?” Shandie barked.
Acopulo flinched. “A week or so after our return to Hub.”
“And you have not tried again?”
“No, Sire. Pressure of business put it out of my mind.”
“I seem to be surrounded by professional cretins! Who did you speak to?”
“An enormous jotunn, Sire, of forbidding aspect. Surly . . . and very intimidating.”
“I can be more intimidating! Lady Eigaze, you know what we are discussing?”
The countess was attempting to make friends with Maya, who was clinging tightly to her mother, burying her face in the black gown and not responding.
Eigaze turned at once to the imperor. “I have no idea, your Majesty, but young . . . your signifer mentioned that you were interested in the town shown in this painting.”
“I am. Several of us visited a magic pool and were granted visions. Mine was of that place. Where is it?”
“Krasnegar, Sire. A remote little—”
Shandie rarely gestured at all, but now he slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand like a third-rate actor demonstrating inspiration. “Krasnegar! Of course! Why didn’t I think of that!”
He thumped his thigh with his fist. “Idiot!” he muttered. “I apologize for calling you gentlemen names. I have been moronically stupid myself. And of course you are related to Queen Inos, ma’am?”
“Distantly, Sire, but yes. She saw this painting when she was here and pointed it out to me. Jalon apparently knows the place. He must have put it in this picture for artistic effect. I can’t believe the ship had ever been near there.”
Shandie shook his head, as if still unable to believe his own stupidity. ”I saw a youngster, a jotunn boy. I even thought he reminded me of someone—and of course it was Rap himself! It must be his son, I should think. A jotunn son of a faun? Well, it could be. He’s half jotunn himself—I remember him telling me that.”
“They do have a fair-haired son, Sire, Gathmor. He must be . . . fourteen, I should think, or thereabouts.”
“I would have guessed older,” Shandie said, “but jotnar are big, f course.”
Tfe men were exchanging uneasy, angry glances, all except Ionfeu, who was frowning darkly.
“May I inquire?” Acopulo asked.
“Rap the sorcerer!” Shandie snapped. “The faun sorcerer! You remember . . . twenty years ago? The one who killed Warlock Zinixo and cured my grandfather?”
Ah! Heads nodded in understanding. Ylo had been about four years old at the time, but he had heard the stories often enough. Countess Eigaze was much too much a lady ever to break into a conversation by coughing. She did so by some sort of social sorcery, perhaps a special way of blinking. Suddenly everyone was looking at her. “Begging your pardon, Sire, but his Majesty did not actually kill the warlock.”
“He didn’t?”
Her chins wobbled as she shook her head. “The imperor . . . Inos told me that your grandfather had told her that Master . . . er, King . . . Rap had told him that he did not kill the dwarf. But he didn’t say what he had done with him. Or to him.” Flushing, she fell silent as her audience worked their way through the syntax.
Then everyone looked at Umpily, who had seen a dwarf sitting on the Opal Throne.
“I never met . . . saw . . . Warlock Zinixo,” he mumbled. “So I don’t know.”
“Well!” Shandie said, as if things were becoming a great deal clearer. “Now we know what the pool was trying to tell us, don’t we?”
Acopulo scowled as he always did when he could not see an answer. “We do?”
Shandie smiled thinly. “The sorcerer . . . He married Inos, so he is a king now. King Rap was very kind to me. I was only ten or so, and I remember thinking that he was the most wonderful man I had ever met. I shall always be grateful to him, for that was the worst time of my life. And he is without doubt the most powerful sorcerer in the world. Grandsire told me once that all four wardens together would not dare a contest with the faun.” He laughed aloud. “I suppose I would have thought of this eventually? Idiot I am! Obviously the preflecting pool was telling me to seek out his aid again! Whatever Warlock Raspnex was jabbering about tonight, the answer is to call on Master . . . King Rap. That does sound foolish doesn’t it—King Rap? But Rap’s a wonderful man, a kind and honest one. He will help, I in sure!”
Legate Ugoatho cleared his throat. “Where is this place? In Sysanasso?”
“Er, no,” Shandie said vaguely. “In the far north, I believe. ”
“Krasnegar’s somewhere up in goblin country,” Acopulo muttered. ”Seems to me that Doctor Sagorn once mentioned having visited it. One of the very few places where imps live outside the Impire. And jotnar, also?”
“Very far north,” Eigaze agreed. “The land road goes through Pondague, goblin country. It can be reached by sea, though.”
The Praetorian frowned. “With respect, Sire—you are not considering traveling there yourself ?”
“I may have to!” Shandie was still holding the scroll of vellum. He tapped his other palm with it thoughtfully. “That may be the preflecting pool’s message. Acopulo, I think you should make another effort to locate your old master. He may have valuable advice to offer. Where does he live?”
“In Hub, Sire. In the southern districts. At least that was the address I was given. Near the Temple of Prosperity.”
Ylo and Eigaze stared at each other in astonishment, but it was the Impress Eshiala who said, “Not seven, or nine, Acacia Street by any chance?”
5
Dark had long fallen when Rap rode through the gates of the Epoxague estate. Inos still exchanged letters with Eigaze—umpteenth cousins too far removed, they called each other. Eigaze was elderly now, but still hale. Even if she was absent at the moment, there would be a dozen other relatives to choose from. Imps were fanatical about family ties.
Not a light showed, but a sorcerer’s farsight could not be deceived by closed drapes. Moreover, a single set of hoofprints in the snow on the driveway implied that someone had come home within the last hour or so.
Rap did not bother to hitch his mount, for poor Auntie was as weary as he was. He left her standing while he plodded up the marble steps.
The tolling bells were a constant torment, like toothache. No wonder the Hubbans were all crazy, if they had to put up with that cacophony very often. One temple was unpleasantly close and its overpowering Bong! rolled over all the background noise with an inevitable monotony. He found himself counting seconds, waiting for it.
The ubiquitous magical devices continued to crackle quietly in the ambience, and now an occasional flicker of active sorcery had joined them, as if the imperor’s death had released some curse or other. There was still far less occult activity in the capital than normal, but Rap was relieved to detect any at all. At least some of the sorcerers had taken cover; they had not all been killed or abducted.
He risked a glance at his premonition—and slammed down his defenses again instantly. It was closer, much closer, in both time and space. Now Hub itself was infected by that inexplicable, looming evil. He shuddered with a panicky sense of urgency, inner voices urging him to flee.
Down in the servants’ quarters, heads had turned as the doorbell jangled among the dozens of bells set high on the kitchen wall. A footman rose resignedly from his dinner and straightened his coat. Rap tugged the rope again angrily, but that foolishness merely made the man slow down, rather than speed up. He strolled leisurely to the stairs, having no idea how near he was to having his powdered wig burst into flames.
Holding a lantern high, he peered out disapprovingly at the bedraggled, unescorted visitor. By that time Rap had established that Eigaze was not home. Ignoring the multitude of servants, he had counted only three people in the whole great mansion, which seemed very strange so close to Winterfest. The residents were all male. The invalid in the bed must be the ancient senator himself, and he was either asleep or unconscious. Last summer Eigaze’s letter had reported that he was in his dotage and bedridden, but apparently he still clung to life. A very large man was slouched in an armchair in a library, drinking steadily. A younger man lolled in a bathtub upstairs. Rap recognized neither of them.