Mm. “Is Thaile going to be more cooperative than her predecessor?”
“She will be, I think. If the Covin has noticed Thume, then she has no choice.”
“So what else did she say?”
“Not a great deal.”
“Darling, after all these years you think I don’t know when you’re being evasive?”
He chuckled. He swung his feet up, stretched out beside her on the pallet, and proceeded to kiss her at length and with great attention to detail. Inos began to appreciate that the Thumian climate might have certain advantages after all. It was several more minutes before he gave her a chance to speak.
“That was wonderful,” she said breathlessly. “And I shall cooperate fully at the first suitable opportunity. But we were talking business. No!” She pushed his busy hands away from her buttons. “Rap, I mean it!”
“Later!”
“Now! What were you not telling me?”
“The new Keeper has appointed a replacement archon.”
Inos studied his face for a moment, as it was all she could see-he was almost on top of her already. “I thought archons were exceptionally potent sorcerers?”
“She says she wants experience and counsel.”
Idiot! “You accepted?”
“You think I had any choice?”
“Yes.”
“I accepted.”
She could tell nothing from his smile. So he was worried sick and using sorcery not to show it.
This was Midsummer Eve. There might be no more chances.
“I’ve never had an archon make love to me before,” she said. ”Can you make sure we won’t be interrupted?”
Rap said, “Yes,” huskily.
Inos reached for his buttons.
4
It was Midsummer Eve, and the Imperor was hosting a garden party. Anyone who was anyone was there. No one who was anyone was not. Someone who did not wish to be there was there. That one could see everyone, and he could also see some ones he was not supposed to see, sorcerers who were not one person but two. Skulking in the shadows unobtrusively between two fuchsias near a buffet table, Lord Umpily nibbled fervently on a heap of canapes and cursed his double vision.
Orchestras droned. Crowds strolled on the lawns below swaying rows of lanterns strung on cables; couples danced on a dance floor laid out in the Rose Garden. Bonfires hurled fountains of sparks into the summer night. There would be fireworks later. It was all very convivial.
Caviar, stuffed olives, peeled grapes, lark tongues on ginger crackers . . . Umpily ate convulsively. He knew he should go more slowly, to make the spread last. At this rate he would soon empty the plate and have to go back for more, but somehow his fingers insisted on staying busy. His teeth could barely keep up with them.
A globular moon was rising behind the willows. The lanterns strung over the lawn burned brighter now, reflecting the jewels and finery of the multitude strolling below them.
He returned a nod and a smile as the Countess of Somewhere wandered by his place of concealment. He stepped back a pace.
One partridge wing, two frogs’ legs, three turtle eyes . . . he really ought to slow down!
He really ought to parade around and let himself be seen. Once he had done that, he could safely depart, and if anyone inquired he could claim to have been present.
For three weeks he had skittered amid the shadows of the court like an overweight cockroach. Somehow he had managed to avoid the fake imperor and impress, but it was impossible to stay away from sorcerers. The Opal Palace was stiff with sorcerers, as if the Almighty had moved the entire Covin in with him. To mundane eyes they were always unexceptionalfootmen, female domestics, miscellaneous flunkies-but to Umpily’s occult double vision their true selves showed, weedy youths or ancient crones or anything in between. Almost every race was represented: imps, elves, fauns . . . and dwarves. Possibly one of the many dwarves he had seen had been Zinixo himself, but not likely so, for none had resembled last year’s vision in the preflecting pool.
Lobster, smoked oysters, blue cheese, pistachio and curry-he continued to cram the succulent morsels into his mouth, chewing and swallowing convulsively, hardly aware of the flavors. When he had emptied the plate, he promised himself, he would saunter off across the lawn and mingle with a few hundred guests, greet a few dozen by name. And then scamper.
Oh, no!
Oh, yes! The imperor and impress! The royal party had just emerged from the throng, heading in his direction—Shandie and Eshiala, escorted by a fawning mob of senior courtiers.
The impress was recounting some witty tale and the sycophants were hanging breathless on her words. At her side, Shandie was listening with a tolerant smile, nodding graciously to the bowing, curtseying onlookers as he strolled by. She wore a stunning white crinoline, glittering with pearls, and a diamond tiara that could almost rank as a crown. He was in uniform, bronze flashing under the lanterns. They were a fairy-tale couple.
They were total illusion. Prince Emthoro and Duchess Ashia stepped in their footsteps and occupied their same space. He looked drunk, eyes blurred and rolling, unshaven, bedraggled. She was a frump, her hair tangled and unkempt. She seemed to be laughing hysterically, but making no sound.
And behind them?
Who or what was that vague misty darkness at their heels? Umpily could guess. His enchantment was not powerful enough to penetrate the Almighty’s invisibility but was seemingly catching hints of it. The Almighty would certainly detect his awareness, his terror. In moments he would be unmasked as the spy he was! Terror!
Still clutching his plate of canapes, Lord Umpily spun around and crashed away through the shrubbery.
He did not run very far before a biting pain in his chest brought him to a halt. He thought he was having a heart attack. It was either that or severe heartburn, and he had always had an excellent digestion. Just an attack of nerves, hopefully. He sat down on an ornamental urn at the side of the road and drooped in misery, waiting to see if he would die.
In the distance, the orchestras played on. Faint echoes of jollity drifted through the summer night. The moon crept up the sky and the air cooled.
He could not stand any more of this cat-and-mouse existence! To have evaded the Covin’s notice for three whole weeks was a miracle; he could not expect the Gods to favor him that way forever. He must flee to some safe refuge as soon as possible. Trouble was, he had been trying to think of such a sanctuary for three weeks and so far he had come up with an utter blank.
Eventually the urn’s unsuitability as a seat impressed itself upon his awareness. He realized, too, that he was for some reason racked by a terrible thirst. Also there were people wandering around in his vicinity. Lovers, perhaps. Inquisitive visitors. Guards, maybe. Possibly even sorcerers, although the Covin would not need to send out scouts in the flesh if it wanted to know what was going on. That was an unnerving thought in itself. By sitting here alone, he was behaving suspiciously.
With a private moan, he heaved himself to his feet, discarded the empty plate he had been clutching all this time, and began to walk. A sedate, purposeful stroll would attract no especial attention. He was a bona fide resident of the palace; he could walk where he wished. A gentleman could always claim to be going to the gentlemen’s room.
He brooded as he wandered, not noticing where he was headed. Some considerable time later, he realized that his feet ached and he had arrived at Emine’s Rotunda, its great dome gleaming in the moonlight. He had never quenched that thirst, which now thrust itself back into his attention. His throat was a fiery desert.
He glanced around dubiously. There were few buildings close to the Rotunda, and most of those were unfamiliar to him. They were all dark, too. But the door of the Rotunda itself was open, and a faint glow. showed through it. Most probably there were workmen toiling there, installing the new seating for the coronation, or something. He knew the building well, including its many cloakrooms and antechambers.
He plodded up the steps and went in. The light came from a discarded lantern just inside the door, standing on a stack of timber beside some sacks of what seemed to be plaster. He could hear no sawing or hammering anywhere. The workmen had most likely slipped away to steal a look at the imperor’s garden party. Taking the lantern, Umpily went in search of water. He found some in the first room he tried and enjoyed a long, refreshing drink.
Then, moved by a vague curiosity to see how the alterations were progressing, he wandered farther into the great warren. Craftsmen’s supplies were piled everywhere: stone slabs, rolls of fabric, lumber, ladders, mysterious barrels. When he reached an entrance to the main auditorium, the Rotunda itself, he was much annoyed to discover it locked against him. He backtracked, detoured along more cluttered corridors until he had reached the next quadrant, and there he tried again. This time the great door swung open at his touch. His lamp flickered twice and died.