The wardens scrambled to their feet and moved away. They chose a location beyond the Gold Throne, where Umpily could not see them very well. But that did not matter, because the dwarf had turned his smirk on the mundanes.
“Welcome back to Hub, Emshandar!”
“May the Gods rot your guts!”
Zinixo was too triumphant to be displeased. He probably welcomed Shandie’s show of resistance. “And your wife’s beauty was not exaggerated! I shall enjoy making her acquaintance.”
Shandie opened his mouth again and was apparently, struck dumb.
“Your understudies have begun to find their tasks onerous,” the dwarf continued teasingly. “But we can dispense with understudies from now on, can’t we? Come and pay homage, Emshandar!”
Umpily could not suppress a whimper when the rightful imperor hurried forward and mounted the two steps to his own throne. As Shandie knelt to the usurper occupying it, Umpily closed his eyes.
Utter disaster!
“And dear Rap!” the hateful, sepulchral voice said. Umpily opened his eyes. Shandie had finished his public apologies and protestations of future obedience. He had returned to the floor and was gazing up at the Almighty with starry adoration.
Zinixo had lost interest in the imperor. His manner implied that he had left the best till last.
“Will you plead with Us, King Rap? Plead for mercy? Plead for a quick death, relatively speaking?”
“It would be a waste of breath!” The faun did not seem to speak loudly, but his voice filled the hall. He was not dressed like a king. His garments were commonplace workman’s garb, bedraggled and muddy; his hair was a tangle. He had his feet apart and his arms folded; he held his chin high. He looked like a king.
His wife, in a white blouse and a green skirt, was a queen born. Her haughty gaze dismissed that upstart on the throne as unworthy of serious consideration. Consciously or not, the youth at her other side had adopted the same defiant, folded-arm stance as his father.
Again Zinixo rubbed his hands. “Will you plead then for your wife or the people of Krasnegar?”
“Never.”
Umpily shivered. How long could a prisoner defy a captor as ruthless as Zinixo? What price would the king be willing to pay for his pride?
“Indeed? Then let Us see how your son moves you. Come here, brat.”
The jotunn boy began to walk forward. He shot a look of horror back at his father, but he did not stop walking until he stood before the Opal Throne. There he spread his feet, folded his arms again, and raised his head to stare up at the dwarf. The Almighty leaned forward. “We are going to kill you. Slowly.”
There was a moment’s pause. Then the boy said, “With the throne. Go ahead, toad.” And he spat on the steps.
The Rotunda buzzed with anger.
Umpily was speechless. He was speechless mostly because his mouth was as dry as a mummy and his tongue had shriveled to ashes. There was an excellent reason why spitting was a sign of contempt—only a very brave man could spit in the face of danger.
“You have foresight!” the dwarf exclaimed.
“A little,” the kid admitted. “Prescience.” The husky adolescent voice was almost as steady as his father’s had been. “And what do you foresee?”
“About five minutes left now. After that—I don’t know.” Zinixo chortled. “Well, you will find out! This morning you predicted that your father would squash Us like a bug. Now you are going to plead with him to beg Us for your life.”
“Never!” But the word lacked the conviction his father had given it.
The boy’s legs collapsed under him. He sprawled to the floor and rolled over on his back. After a moment, he turned his head to look to his parents. The king and queen of Krasnegar each had an arm around the other and were watching the drama in silence.
The Opal Throne floated off its dais, carrying the Almighty. When it was directly over the young jotunn, it stopped. A dozen trolls could not have lifted that great monolith, but it hung rock steady in midair, less than an arm’s length above its spread-eagled victim.
It began to settle downward. Slowly, very slowly. Inexorably. Gradually the boy disappeared from Umpily’s view.
A minute.
Umpily could hear himself whimpering. He knew his tears would surely betray him, but he was past caring.
Two minutes.
The throne must be almost on the boy’s chest—it was hard to believe that there was still room for a living body in that gap. Only one hand and a wrist showed now. The boy himself had said five minutes. He had overestimated.
“Well, dear Rap?” The dwarf’s soft question seemed as loud as trumpets in that dread silence. “You still have your powers, such as they are. Will you stop his heart to spare him an agonizing death?”
The king of Krasnegar said nothing.
“You had better start pleading soon!” The dwarf seemed annoyed, as if his enjoyment was less than he had hoped.
“I shall never ask favor of you!”
“Inosolan, then? Will you not try to persuade your son to plead with his father to plead with Us?”
The queen said nothing, but she glanced sideways at her husband as if puzzled by his silence.
“Oh, well!” Zinixo growled. “Juice time.”
The throne sagged down another inch. A faint gasp came from under it . . .
“Stop!” a shrill voice screamed. All eyes swung around in astonishment. “Monsters! Do you not see that you serve the Evil?”
To his unspeakable horror, Umpily realized that he was on his feet, waving his arms, and that was himself he could hear yelling hysterically. “To crush an innocent boy? You are all guilty! Atrocity! Throw off his foul compulsion! He is evil, evil, evil
Something lifted him bodily, sucked him through the air, and dropped him stunningly on the floor in front of the throne. He sprawled helplessly, winded, dazed. Zinixo peered down at him in furious disbelief.
“Who . . . ? Well, well, well! It is the blubber man himself! Who removed your loyalty spell, worm?”
Umpily raised his face from the stone. His nose hurt like the torments of the cursed and was probably bleeding. Under the throne, the boy was trying to twist his head around to see what was happening.
“Well?” the dwarf thundered.
“Olybino,” Umpily mumbled. Oh, his nose! And his knees! And what crazy impulse of honor had ever moved him to try to be a hero? He struggled to rise and only managed to get his elbows under him.
“Olybino!” Zinixo screeched. “You have been spying on Us all these last three weeks? Foul slug! We shall devise an especially lingering . . . Or were you volunteering to take the brat’s place? You have left it too late! There is no room for one of your size!”
He smiled, showing his pebbly dwarvish teeth all around the
Rotunda. His massed minions roared with obedient laughter at their leader’s wit.
A quiet whisper came from under the throne: “Thanks for trying, sir.”
Umpily gulped: “Couldn’t let you steal all the heroism, lad. You’re doing great!” Funny—he felt better. He really did. Clean again. He glanced around and saw Shandie staring at him with a very perplexed expression. He knew what it was like to be under a votary spell . . .
The laughter had faded away.
“We shall leave the mundane snoop for later,” the dwarf announced. ”It would be a shame to waste so much tallow—turn him into a candle for the coronation, perhaps? But now . . . King Rap? Your last chance to save the brat!”
Umpily looked in horror at the faun. Everyone looked to the faun.
In silence, he sank to his knees. His wife joined him as calmly as if they were in a chapel service.
From under the deadly throne a muffled voice shouted, “Dad, no! Mom! Don’t!”
“We do not plead with the madman, Gath,” the king said. He raised clasped hands. “I direct my prayers to the Gods! Unworthy as I am, and acknowledging my past sins against Them, I call on Them now. God of Rescues, save us, I beg You!”
Zinixo seemed disconcerted. He frowned. “There is no God of Rescues!”
“There is now!” said a new voice.
The sun dimmed. Three thousand voices screamed in pain, six thousand hands covered eyes to shut out the wondrous glare.
A real God stood within the Rotunda.
God at War.
There saw she direst strife; the supreme God
At war with all the frailty of grief,
Of rage, of fear, anxiety, revenge,
Remorse, spleen, hope, but most of all despair.
— Keats, Hyperion II, I 92
THIRTEEN
The game again
1
Zinixo had shriveled into a knot in the depths of the Opal Throne, leaving nothing of himself visible except boots and shins and forearms. The king and queen of Krasnegar were already on their knees; the little princess imperial buried her face in her mother’s skirt. Everyone else tried to kneel to the God.