“Who was in that vision?” Rap shouted.
“A boy, he said. A young jotunn. We think—”
“Gath!”
Eigaze nodded, concern scrolling lines in her face. “We assumed it was Gath. He has jotunn coloring, doesn’t he?”
“He is only a child!” Rap said. “He is not a sorcerer! What use can Gath be to Shandie? What possible help?”
Eigaze shook her head, distressed. Her husband handed Rap the goblet.
He took a long draft and then started to cough. It ran through him like molten iron. “He is . . . only . . . only a child!” But he would not remain a child for long. The War of the Five Warlocks had lasted for thirty years. Rap looked around despairingly. Tiffy was slumped in his chair, too inebriated to follow the conversation. lonfeu was pouring another glass of the potent liquor, Eigaze rubbing her plump hands in turmoil, with her unfastened cloak hanging loose about her.
Not Gath!
“I will not give up my son!” Rap shouted. Bong!
“But . . .” Eigaze seemed to make an effort. She straightened her thick shoulders. “You must talk to his Majesty, er, your Majesty!”
“Yes, I must. Can you take me to him?” Rap fought down his bone-breaking weariness. Shandie had been imperor only a few hours. He would be frantically busy tonight.
She nodded, chins flapping. “I only came home to collect some clothes and things. The warlock said that he—Shandie—must leave the city. He said Hub is not safe. What did he mean, do you know?”
“I have no idea.”
“Oh!” She looked to her husband for guidance. He shrugged and offered her the goblet, but she shook her head. “What his Majesty seems to be planning is that the impress and their daughter will go into hiding. He—Shandie—will stay here and fight whatever is threatening. Unless he goes to Krasnegar . . . ”
“He can’t fight sorcery,” Rap said. “If the Protocol has failed, then he is no longer immune to sorcery. In fact, he will be the most likely target.”
“The imperor?”
“Of course. A sorcerer who controls the imperor will run the world. The imperor’s immunity was the very heart of the Protocol.”
Husband and wife exchanged glances of dismay. The bent old proconsul moved to his wife’s side and put an arm around her. “I think you must advise him, your Majesty. He will listen to you, I am sure.”
Rap nodded. “Can you get me to him?” he asked again. “Oh, he is not in the palace,” Eigaze said. “I told you—I only came home to pick up some clothes. We are going to go and meet him directly.”
“Meet him where?”
“At a private house in the southern part of the city.”
Rap’s premonition jabbed at him like a bony elbow. “Whose house?”
“Doctor Sagorn’s.”
Rap nodded soberly. It made sense. It had a ring of inevitability about it.
“You have time for a hot bath and a change of clothes, Sire,” Eigaze said firmly. “You’ll catch your death of cold! I shall get a bag packed. And we can nibble something in the coach . . . If you’ll forgive me for saying so. Oh dear! The family is always accusing me of trying to mother people.”
“Mother?” Rap smiled gratefully. “It’s been along journey. I could use some mothering right now, my Lady. Mother me all you want! Then we’ll go and talk with Shandie.”
But he didn’t know what good he could do. He had come too late.
Or else the millennium had arrived a little early. Bong!
Wild bells:
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night,
Ring out, wild bells and let him die.
—Tennyson, In Memoriam
ELEVEN
Strait the gate
1
When Centurion Hardgraa planned an expedition, it was well planned. Eight horsemen cantered up Acacia Street and halted at the steps leading to the Sagorn residence. They had brought a packhorse laden with axes and sledges. Hardgraa would gain entry if he had to cause an earthquake.
As had been arranged, only Ylo accompanied Sir Acopulo up the stair, leaving their escort waiting tactfully in the road. The night was white. Snow swirled along the canyon between continuous high buildings, reducing visibility to a few paces. Temple bells fouled the air with their obscene din. No lights showed. Had he come alone, Ylo would have worried for his safety in this shabby, rundown area, but with an escort comprised of Hardgraa and five cedar-size Praetorian Hussars, he was as safe as he could ever be. The doorbell jangled mournfully somewhere in the bowels of the house. The imperor’s political advisor huddled beside him in his snowcapped hat and cape, small and miserable, not speaking.
Ylo shivered. Snow melted around his toes and stuck to his eyelashes, yet he felt buoyed up by a bizarre excitement. The imperor is dead, long live the imperor, the Protocol is overthrown, the world is in chaos, and isn’t this all thrilling? He floated, as if he had been drinking steadily for hours, but he was totally sober. Nobody came.
“Once more!” he said cheerfully, tugging again at the rope. Again the bell tinkled, mocking the distant tolling from the temples. A man could learn to hate bells very quickly.
Chains and bolts clattered. A shaft of light flashed out over the snowy step as the door opened a crack. The slender, palefaced man who peered out was short for a jotunn, no taller than Ylo himself. His torso was encased in a tattered smock liberally smeared with multicolored paint like exotic bird droppings; an incongruous black skullcap perched on hair of silvery-gold.
Ylo saluted. “Have I the honor of addressing Master Jalon, celebrated artist?”
“Er, yes?”
“We wish to speak with Doctor Sagorn.”
“He is not home.” The jotunn was staring at Ylo’s wolf-head hood with dreamy wonder.
“That’s too bad,” Ylo said, preparing to throw his shoulder against the door if it began to close, “because we come on behalf of the imperor. My friends are prepared to search the house.”
Sudden alarm sparked the little jotunn’s attention, his pale eyes meeting Ylo’s for the first time. “You can’t do that!” His voice rose to a squeak. “You mustn’t!”
“We We can. We will.”
“But I am very busy! I am composing an ode to the imperor’s memory and must not be interrupted.”
“You can do whatever you like, as soon as you have brought us to the good doctor.”
“But . . . You don’t understand!” Jalon wailed. He was quite the least assertive jotunn Ylo had ever met. Most would have broken his jaw by now.
“Be quiet, Signifer!” Acopulo snapped. “Master Jalon, I am an old friend of the doctor’s, a former student. It is imperative that I speak with him.”
The artist opened the door wider and raised his lantern to shed light on the priestly imp.
“Oh, yes! Of course. I remember you.”
“I don’t believe we have met.”
“Well . . . perhaps not.” Jalon sighed. “Do come in, then. I shall inform Doctor Sagorn.”
“One of our friends will accompany us,” Ylo said, beckoning. Hardgraa came trotting up the steps.
They all moved into the entrance hall. Jalon closed the door, but when he reached for bolts and chains, the centurion held out a thick hand to stop him. ”My companions will guard your privacy!”
Jalon curled a lip at him nervously, but did not argue. Bearing the lantern, he led the way through what seemed to be a pantry, up a short and narrow staircase with squeaky treads, emerging in the center of an odd-shaped hallway. The house was a ramshackle collection of alterations and renovations, ad hockery gone wild.
The room to which he took them was spacious, but the ceiling cornice showed that it had been carved out of an even larger chamber. The clammy-cold air stank of dust, the unused hearth was piled high with litter. Two candles stuck in bottles on the table shed a meager light over papers, bottles, and dirty plates. Books and more papers lay scattered around on armchairs and all over the floor. A single window in one comer was covered by shutters festooned with cobwebs, obviously not opened in years. Boards showed through the threadbare rug.
“This is the quietest place in the house,” Jalon muttered apologetically. “If you will wait here,” he added, “I will tell the doctor.”
“I’ll come with you!” Hardgraa said. “No! No! You mustn’t!”
“Oh yes I must!”
“Wait!” Acopulo peered curiously at the artist, who was becoming more obviously agitated by the minute. “Explain why you do not wish to be accompanied.”
“It . . . he . . . I mean, I shall have to explain carefully. He . . . he is old and rather difficult. Give me a moment and I’m sure I can persuade him. ” However inexplicable, Jalon’s distress seemed genuine enough.