“Need a line if you want to stay up here, Father,” the man boomed cheerfully.
A huge green wave came frothing over the side and buried the men to their waists—more like chest—deep in Acopulo’s case. It swept his feet away, and the big sailor steadied him. Then it departed.
God of Mercy!
There was nothing to see but grayness. After a moment he decided that fog and twilight were merely solid rain. It was hard to tell where the sea ended and the air began, apart from a few frothy wave-tops like roofs all around. Star of Morning tilted again and seemed to surge straight up. “Where are we?” he screamed.
“See those rocks yonder?” The jotunn pointed a long arm. “No. I can’t see a thing.”
“Landlubber eyes!”
The ship plunged downward. Another wave came roaring across the deck, interrupting the conversation.
“Did you see the lights, then?” the jotunn yelled in Acopulo’s ear. He was young and apparently enjoying himself.
“No.”
“Pity. Real pretty sight, dragons.” Acopoulo screamed, “Dragons?”
“We’re about two cablelengths off Dragon Reach. Here, we’re going up again. Now look.”
Rain and spume battered Acopulo’s eyes, and he saw nothing. “We’re in danger?”
“Well, they don’t fly over water, usually. Course we’re getting awful close. They can sense the iron in the ship. Thazz what brought ‘em. ‘Spect that’s why they’re blowing so much fire.”
How far was a cablelength? Not very far, Acopulo thought. And dragons, while they ravened after any metal, were especially drawn to gold. What had brought them, he suspected, was the heavy moneybelt around his own waist.
“What’s going to happen?” he shouted in the next momentary lull.
“I dunno,” the youngster said. He shrugged, and the resulting tightening of the binding almost cut Acopulo in half. “She’s dragging her anchors, so we’ll likely hit the rocks soon. She’ll break up quick in this sea. If not, then we’ll go aground when the tide ebbs, and the dragons’ll get us. ”
Acopulo looked up in horror at the cheerful grin. “Aren’t you frightened?”
“No.” The sailor pondered for a moment and then added, “If I warn’t just a dumb jotunn I might be, I s’pose.” This sudden insight seemed to wont’ him more than the dragons themselves.
“I think I want to go back to my cabin.”
“Good idea. I’ll help you. And, Father? . . .”
“Yes?”
The lad looked around as if to make sure that no one was listening and said apologetically, “Pray a bit when you get there, will you?”
Doubt and sorrow:
Through the night of doubt and sorrow
Onward goes the pilgrim band,
Singing songs of expectation,
Marching to the Promised Land.
— B. S. Ingemann, Igjennem Nat og Trcengsel, translated by S. Baring-Gould
FOUR
Remedies refusing
1
Woggle lay on the Great West Way, four days’ ride from Hub. It was a nondescript place, famous only for the Warlock’s Rest, reputed to be the best post inn in the Impire. It offered well-stocked stables, a famous cuisine, luxurious bedchambers, and a wide variety of services to go with them. No one knew why Woggle should be so favored, although there was a theory that outbound wealthy travelers often needed a break after four days’ travel. If they did, then the Warlock’s Rest could pander to all their wants. It was even rumored to possess a fair library.
Books were not uppermost on Ylo’s mind as he wandered into the premier dining room. Wenches were. The sun had not yet set, but he had decided to treat himself to an early night for once. The king of Krasnegar had reported taking seven weeks to ride from Kinvale to Hub, but he had done it in less than four.
Almost. He would still need a couple of days to reach the capital, were he going there, and he had not quite reached Kinvale before running into the goblin problem. So add another week—he had still set a pace that the Imperial post would be hard put to equal. He was pleased with himself, and utterly determined never to try it again.
He accepted a table by the window and demanded attendance by the wine waiter. The Gods knew he had earned a little civilized decadence! In the sleepy red tinge of a spring evening, the gardens were afire with golden daffodils. Of course! The preflecting pool had prophesied that Eshiala would be his among the daffodils.
A buxom damsel shimmered by, smiling hopefully. He considered her thoughtfully and then shook his head. She departed with a pout. A decrepit old wine waiter came tottering over in her place. He beamed at Ylo’s extravagant request for a flagon of Valdolaine, and must have passed word quickly backstage, for the next charmer to float into Ylo’s field of view could not have been a day over fifteen. This time he was seriously tempted to nod, but again he declined. These were the professionals. He would find an amateur just as good and get what he wanted for free.
He picked up the menu and then laid it down again, letting his eyes wander over the big room. It was early yet, with few diners in attendance. On the way in he had observed quite a few soldiers and a sizable number of couriers. He thought he had detected an air of concern, a gravity unsuited to such surroundings. His breakneck progress had long since outrun the news of the goblin invasion, of course, at least as far as the civilian population was concerned. The government and the army must be aware of it, and the secret could not be kept very long. Wheels would be spinning madly. He had noted a substantial increase in the postal traffic going by him on the road in the last week; the choice of mounts had deteriorated. It could be only a matter of days now before the imperor broke the news to the Senate, and then the dam would burst with a vengeance. Travel would become almost impossible as the panic took hold. He had cut it very fine.
The wine arrived, deliciously cool at this time of year. Ice houses were rarely effective past early summer in Hub. One more day in the saddle would bring him to Yewdark. And then what? Possibly the wicked had located the impress, of course, and stolen her away. He had no way of knowing except to go and see. The imperor who would make the dread announcement in the Rotunda would not be Shandie, although everyone would assume he was. Zinixo and his Covin knew better, and they knew about the goblins, but only Ylo himself knew the knot the Gods had tied with those two threads.
He was still surprised how much he mourned Shandie—a fine soldier who would have made a great imperor. He had been an inspiring mentor for Ylo, and in those later weeks on the road their relationship had mellowed into something very close to friendship. That had been another ironic twist of fate, because neither of them had been the sort of man who opened his heart to another. Indeed, that had been an alarming development, and it might have led to serious complications. Ylo suspected that by Rivermead he had been having genuine scruples about seducing Eshiala—why else had he procrastinated so long?
No matter now. The Gods had rolled Their dice, the goblins’ arrows had chosen one of the two fugitives, and the other had escaped. Pray that Shandie had died at once!
Again Ylo reached for the menu. Again he looked away, this time to stare out at the twilight and the daffodils. For some strange reason he kept thinking of the king of Krasnegar, that cryptic, practical, self-sufficient faun. With his narrow, rustic morality, he had disapproved of Ylo’s intentions. What would he say now? Would he not agree that a girl so young who had already seen so much tragedy in her life was deserving of a little joy? She was a sleeping princess awaiting the true lover’s kiss to awaken her; a butterfly still locked in the cocoon and in need of liberation.
He could awaken, he could liberate. Her release would be his glad duty.
Married women were usually easier, being less afraid of accidents. The unmarried were more sporting, more of a challenge. He had no experience with freshly bereaved widows. In this case, he must begin by breaking the news of her widowhood. That would make things tricky. Eshiala did not seriously love her husband, of course, but she would expect to mourn him. She might feel so guilty at not being heartbroken that she would convince herself she was. No matter how genuine—and they would be genuine—his offers of consolation might be declined at first. He had never met quite this situation before.
It would take time to wear down her defenses, at least a week. Not much longer, though, because the daffodils were already past their best, and he had an occult promise on that.