Clear call:
I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied.
— Masefield, Sea Fever
FOUR
Thousand friends
1
The king’s face was pinched and straw-tinted, his beard visibly grayer than it had been only a few months before. The wrists protruding from the sleeves of his heavy blue robe were as slender as a boy’s. He was restless, unable to settle, shifting from window to hearth and back, clutching his right side and keeping his jaw clenched much of the time.
Rap sat very straight on the extreme edge of a thickly padded leather chair and felt more uncomfortable than he could have believed possible. He was the owner of the largest and most obvious pair of hands in the Powers’ creation and he did not know what to do with them. He was wearing his best, which was in truth but his better, for he possessed only two doublets and they were both too small for him. His boots were clean, after he had worked a whole hour on them, but he was sure that his Majesty would smell horse. He had shaved and scrubbed and he had plastered his shaggy brown hair down with egg white, which was what he thought his mother had used on it sometimes; but he still probably stank of the dogs who had shared his tent for the last month. Thinking of the dogs gave him an unbearable desire to scratch. The sky was blue beyond the windows. The wagons were rolling again and the storm had faded with the tide.
When the king had thanked him—for that was why he had been summoned—Rap had mentioned the sunshine. His efforts had all been in vain, unnecessary. His Majesty had said that it did not matter, that it was the attempt that counted. Krasnegar should be just as grateful to him as if he had indeed staved off a famine. Now the king seemed to be having trouble finding words, or deciding whether certain words should be said. “Master Rap,” he began, then paused again. “Is that your real name, or is it short for something?”
“It’s my name, Sire,” Rap said automatically, then remembered that this was his king he was addressing. Before he could say more, the king continued.
“I received letters on the last ship.” He paused to look out the window. “Inosolan and her aunt arrived safely at Kinvale.”
Rap did not know what to say and was afraid that his face would be turning red. “Thank you, Sire.” Hononin had told him he should say Sire sometimes instead of your Majesty always. Next time would have to be your Majesty, because that was two Sires in a row.
“I thought you would like to know,” the king muttered. He swung around and walked back to the fireplace. The king’s study was a very intimidating room, bigger than the dormitory that Rap had shared the previous night with six boys. It was fortified with lumpish leather furniture and books, haunted by shadows, made warm by the glowing peat in the fireplace and by wool rugs on the floor, a brown and gold room. There were tables littered with papers, piled or rolled or loosely scattered. Maps hung on the wall, mysteriously inscribed with script incomprehensible to Rap. A massive iron-bound chest in the comer contained many things, including the king’s crown . . . angrily Rap told his mind to stop prying.
The fire impressed him most, though. To squander precious peat so early in the winter with the sun yet shining outside was a truly royal luxury. He found the room very warm—that must be why he was sweating—and yet the king kept returning to the fireplace as if he were chilled inside his voluminous robe, his deep-blue robe with its gold piping. The aimless prowling of that big, bundled man hinted of a bear at bay, cornered, and the dogs closing.
“Friend Rap, I owe you an apology.”
Rap gulped and burst out, “Oh, no, sir!” and forgot the your Majesty.
The king did not seem to notice. “No one had ever told me about your mother’s skill, or I should surely have guessed after your first exploit on the causeway. Perhaps I should have trusted my daughter’s judgment more, too.” He looked ruefully at the Other Man.
The Other Man was not helping Rap’s edginess at all. He was elderly and tall and white-haired. He had a large curved nose and very glittery, deep-set blue eyes, and he stood as motionless as the furniture alongside one of the tables, a long-fingered hand resting on it. He wore a long robe like the king’s, but dark brown, and he had done nothing but study Rap since he came in. If sorcerers ground herbs in mortars, then Rap was the next herb. This vulture-eyed sentinel must be the Doctor Sagorn that Inos had described—the one who had lied to her, or else was a sorcerer. And if he wasn’t a sorcerer, he had still lied.
The Other Man smiled slightly in reply to the king and returned to staring at Rap. Rap looked away.
“Well, what reward can we offer?” the king asked. “What can we do for a young man who performs such a miraculous act for us?”
“Nothing is necessary, Si-your Majesty.”
The king smiled thinly. “I insist on rewarding you.”
God of fools!
“Then I should like to be one of your Majesty’s men-at-arms, Sire,” Rap said hopefully.
The king frowned, glanced at the Other Man, and stroked his beard. ”You’re a little young yet . . . and I’m not sure that that would be a very good idea anyway, Rap. You are going to find that some men resent your abilities, you know. By forcing you to reveal them in public, Factor Foronod and I have done you a grave disservice. Sword practice is dangerous enough without grudges and jealousies creeping in . . . although you would then have the ability to defend yourself, I suppose. Is there someone you especially want to maim?”
“No, your Majesty!” That was a horrible thought.
“Then why do you need to be a man-at-anus?” The king seemed puzzled.
Rap stammered.
“Dragons, Sire?” murmured the Other Man. “For rescuing beautiful maidens from?”
“I should have thought of that!”
Rap suspected he was blushing. They were laughing at him.
The king turned serious again. “Can you read?”
“No, your . . . Sire.”
“I think you should learn, Rap. Both for your own sake and . . . and for your future queen, if you plan to remain in her service.”
Now Rap was certain that he had blushed, from hair roots to belly button, and he could only nod.
“Well, that takes care of two hours a day.” The king chuckled.
“I think I shall appoint you as assistant to Foronod—serve him right! I shall tell him to teach you some of his cares and worries. You will learn a great deal about the palace and the town if you do nothing but follow him around—and I am sure that he will find more than that for you to do.”
There was nothing to say then except “Thank you, Sire.”
Then the royal eyes met Rap’s and seemed to drill right through.
“I think you are an honest man, lad. A queen of Krasnegar . . . even a sly old king . . . can always use an honest man’s loyalty, and especially so if that man has useful knowledge, also.”
Rap gulped and nodded. “I shall be proud to serve, sir—Sire.” But he wondered whether he was pleased or not. He felt that he had hoped for something a little more manly than factoring.
“In another month or two, we shall see again.” The king was wandering toward the window once more. “Now, I am sure that your mother warned you carefully, and you are fairly safe here in Krasnegar, but remember to guard your secret. It is common knowledge now. There can be evildoers even in Krasnegar.”
“Sir—Sire—I have no secret.”
The king frowned at him and looked to the Other Man, who shrugged. The king came back to the hearth and eased himself stiffly into a big chair. “Then how do you perform your wonders?”
“They . . . they just happen,” Rap said.
“Your mother did not tell you a word?”
Rap shook his head. “No, your Majesty.”
“How long have you been able to do these things?”
“That day I got my chance to drive a wagon,” Rap explained.
“That day was the first time . . . er . . . Sire.”
The king looked again at the Other Man and said, “Sagorn?”
The old man was smiling. He had an old man’s smile, thinning the lips without showing teeth. His lower jaw seemed to slide up between the clefts that flanked his mouth, closing tight like a trap. Not a comforting smile-sinister. ”When Foronod asked you if you could find the trail, you asked why—or so I am told. Why did you ask why?”