“He won’t!” Vork squealed.
“He does,” Gath said sadly, wishing it wasn’t so. “He laughs a lot, but he does. He’s leaving very, shortly.”
The redness spread all over Vork’s baby face. “I’m coming with you!”
Yes, he was. “It may be dangerous,” Gath warned. “Didn’t sound like your dad’s friends with Drakkor.”
“He’s my kinsman, too! Besides, only thanes get challenged.”
“I know that. You’re sure?”
“Sure I’m sure!”
Gath grinned. There was no use arguing, because this was how it happened. ”All right. Come on then. Pier Twelve! Let’s go, kinsman!”
4
The worst part of war was the waiting. No one should know that better than Emshandar the Fifth, by the grace of the Gods rightful imperor of Pandemia, lord of the four oceans et cetera et cetera, former proconsul, former legate, former tribune. Yet, while waiting to do something was bad enough, as he knew from a score of battles, waiting to do nothing was even worse.
Shandie had taken a brief stroll along the levee and was now heading back to the ship. Half the town was underwater, and he was familiar enough with the dreary place that he had no desires to investigate it further. It breathed unhappy memories. Just to be back in the Impire, his Impire, was a strangely unwelcome sensation. Even the sight of legionaries brought a lump to his throat. They should be springing to attention and saluting, and instead they ignored him totally. They all bore the hourglass symbol of the XIVth Legion, which was both curious and infuriating. The XIIIth had been stationed at Fort Agraine. Someone had moved the XIIIth into Urgaxox, the IVth and VIIIth out. Somebody was tampering with his army, and if it wasn’t the odious dwarf it must be Cousin Emthoro, who was almost as odious and an idiot besides.
Shandie had worked with the XIIIth during his days in Guwush. He passed a tribune he thought he knew, but no one would recognize him. Anyone who saw the imperor walking around the docks of Urgaxox dressed as an artisan would assume he was a hallucination.
Besides, every man was busy keeping watch on the Nordland longships. As well they might! Even civilized jotnar on trading ships were unpredictable and dangerous. The undomesticated variety was about as trustworthy as hungry white bears, and uncommonly evident in town at the moment. Fifty men to a longship . . . the army’s records showed that one longship was at least equal to a maniple, two hundred men, odds of four to one. More than once a single longship crew had bested a whole cohort, ten to one. Those records were locked in a vault in Hub, as secret as fear of death could make them.
The sight of so many blond heads naturally brought Shandie’s thoughts back to the Nintor Moot. According to the ambassador, as many as fifty thanes might attend, although only a score or so were of much importance, meaning they could outfit more than one longship. The longships drawn up on the beaches might number over a hundred—five thousand men, the equivalent to a legion. No, thank you. Were Shandie ever to take on the men of Nordland, he would want much better odds than even. When the war horns sounded; there were plenty more where those came from, too.
The Nintor Moot was an experience he would give a hand for. Very rarely in history had foreign visitors been invited to the moot and even more rarely admitted. A couple of his remote predecessors had attended, although not as reigning imperors. For an outsider to be invited was incredible good fortune, and especially when the invitation came from an ambassador, who could provide the diplomatic immunity other thanes could not. Heading along the pier, back to Gurx, Shandie slavered at the thought of going to Nintor.
Alas, Nintor would be suicide, not just for him, but for any of his companions, also. He had come to that conclusion days ago, and it became more obvious every time he thought about it. Whoever went to the thanes’ moot would be snatched by the Covin. He had not said so yet; no one had, but he was sure they were all just waiting for someone else to break the ice. They all dreaded the reaction such prudence would provoke from Thane Kragthong. Despite his peaceable retirement occupation as Nordland’s ambassador to Dwanish, the big man was still a fearless, bloodthirsty raider at heart. He had enough battle stories to freeze a salamander. The old rogue must be relishing the thought of the thunderbolt he would release when he asked the moot’s indulgence to hear the imperor, or even the female thane of Krasnegar: Outrage! Uproar! He would spurn the danger, and spurn those who considered danger.
Shandie climbed the plank—and dodged. A huge airborne mass hurtled toward him, with two brawny blond giants clinging underneath, slithering across the deck, sweating and cursing. How much they were guiding it and how much it was towing them was not clear. They crashed into the side and their dangerous burden swung free, out over the pier and the wagon waiting. They rushed off, bare feet drumming on the planks. The cargo was being unloaded. Jotnar worked as fiercely as they fought, hurling the ironware into nets, running instead of walking, hauling ropes, all in a frenzy as if every second counted. The dwarvish officers watched in saturnine silence, doing nothing to help.
The hatch covers had been piled near the bow. Inos and the warlock were using them as a bench, sitting side by side in the morning sun. They were an ill-matched pair. The dwarf was garbed in black mineworker clothes, shabby and well-worn. Only his broad nose and gray-agate eyes showed between his bristly beard and the brim of his hat. He had his boots planted on the deck and his troll-size hands on his knees, and he gave the impression he was going to stay there until the mountains washed to the sea.
The seat was too low to be comfortable for Inos. Her knees stuck up and she was leaning back on her arms, but she was laughing at something and sunlight lit gold highlights on her honey-blond hair. No longer young—yet still a striking woman, neither imp nor jotunn. Such mixtures were usually awkward misfits, but in Inos a man could see possibilities the Gods had overlooked when They made the standard races. A very remarkable woman, Queen Inosolan! She was accustomed to getting her own way and did not see why she must change her habits just because she no longer ruled all she surveyed. She could flash from guile to fury in seconds; stab to the heart of a problem like a rapier; juggle humor and flattery with logic and a line of invective that would embarrass a centurion. Her arms and legs protruded from sailor’s breeches and jerkin. Such garb for a lady was utterly bizarre, and yet she was obviously a woman to be reckoned with. Shandie had learned at last not to underestimate her.
Her smile of welcome flashed emerald and ivory. He knelt down in front of her and sat back on his heels. That made his eyes about level with the dwarf’s.
“Any news?” he demanded.
Raspnex scratched at his beard. He had been staying out of sight for the past few days, holed up in his cabin as if sulking. “Nope. Too slaggy much power around, is all. This place is giving me the shivers.”
“It’s natural they would watch for us here. It’s the front door to Dwanish.”
“You didn’t see Gath anywhere, did you?” Inos asked, sitting up.
Shandie shook his head.
She frowned. “Apparently he went off with Vork. I hope they’re not getting into mischief.”
“He’s fourteen!” Raspnex snorted. “At fourteen mischief is an obligation.”
“Vork’s fifteen.”
“Worse.”
“How about sixteen?” Shandie asked.
“Sixteen is better. By then at least you know what sort of mischief they’re after.”
Inos and Shandie exchanged winks. The dwarf’s dry humor was rare as raw diamonds, but equally worth collecting.
With oaths, cracking of whip, and much squeaking from axles, the loaded wagon moved away. The shirtless giants drooped for a moment in sweaty silence and the dwarves tallied their records. Then another, empty, wagon rolled up and the whole noisy business started again.
Shandie got down to specifics. “How do you two feel about the Nintor Moot? Inos?”
Green eyes studied him carefully for a moment. “Crazy. If Rap’s been taken, he’ll have told them he suggested it to you. Even if he hasn’t, it’s just too obvious.”
“I agree,” the warlock growled.
“So do I,” Shandie admitted, surprised that there was to be no argument.
Inos said, “The trick we pulled on the Directorate won’t work twice.”
Pause. “No, it wouldn’t,” Raspnex said.
“What would happen,” Shandie asked, “if you did try the same trick again and they caught you? I mean, if you projected yourself into the future and they were waiting for you there?—Then, I mean? However you put it.”