“If you refer to your celebrated chicken dumplings,” Sagom said quickly, “then I testify to your expertise.”
Shandie made some tactful, noncommittal comment. Ylo noted traces of amusement on the faces of Sir Acopulo and the Jarga woman. The alternative would be another meal conjured up by the warlock, and dwarvish cuisine was notably lacking in both flavor and quantity. At noon Raspnex had produced meager portions of watery gruel and hard black bread.
If the little man detected the implications, he gave no sign. He was slumped back in the shabbiest armchair, which was so much too large for him that his oversize boots barely hung out over the edge. He seemed to be lost in thought, making raspy noises as he scratched at his curly gray beard.
The six men were grouped in an irregular circle in the deckhouse. The sailor sat back by herself in a corner, showing no evidence that she had stood watch for almost a whole day and night. She was a sorceress, of course. Ylo wondered what sort of meal a jotunn would favor. He decided that the portions would be generous, but her taste would likely run to some sort of disgusting boiled fish or seal flipper soup.
Darkness had brought a change in the weather. The ship rocked at anchor, and sleet pattered on the deckhouse roof. Mundane sailors could not travel in such weather, and the sorcerers had decided not to risk drawing attention to themselves by doing so.
King Rap had observed the reaction to his offer. Smiling wryly, he rose and walked over to a table, balancing easily against the roll of the floor. ”How about a little wine first?” He picked up a dusty flagon that had not been there a moment before, and pried off the seal. Then he began to pour, and each time he tilted the flagon, a crystal goblet appeared to catch the flow.
He began handing the drinks around. Only the dwarf declined, being suddenly in possession of a foaming tankard of beer, which would be more to his taste.
Ylo decided that sorcery was handy stuff. The saloon was sleepily warm, and bright with an occult light that had no detectable source. When he had gone out on deck a few moments earlier, he had discovered that the light did not show out there at all. Now he accepted a goblet of wine, reflecting that he had never before been served by a king.
“Excellent, sire. Valdolaine?”
“Valdopol, the seventy-two,” the faun solemnly said. He tried a sip from his own goblet and pulled a face. “No, it tastes more like the ninety-four.”
“I would have sworn it was Valdoquoon sixty-seven,” Doctor Sagorn stated firmly.
The sorcerer picked up the bottle again and peered at it. “By the Power of Evil, you are absolutely correct! Now, how could I have made such a mistake? ” Shaking his head sadly, he headed back to his chair.
Ylo had already registered that the king of Krasnegar had a sense of humor. He wondered why the ancient scholar would join in the foolery. He could hardly be such a complete ignoramus about wine, for the excellent vintage the faun had produced tasted nothing at all like sickly sweet Valdoquoon. But then the old man was a mystery all around. Why was he still here? Why had he not gone ashore with Eshiala and her companions? He was much too frail for the kind of wild adventuring that must he ahead.
“Too much wine means too little sense,” Acopulo remarked in his usual sanctimonious tones. “I assume we are about to hold another council of war?”
“I assume the same,” King Rap said, stretching out his long legs—jotunn legs, not faun legs. “If anyone knows the answer, will he please speak up clearly?” He raised expectant eyebrows at the little man.
Acopulo declined the honor with a pout. He had been very subdued ever since he learned that Sagorn was an occult genius. He was outclassed and would not be enjoying the situation.
Ylo himself had no illusions of being a tactician. He looked around the rest of the group. This expedition was beginning to feel like one of those elimination games children played. Thirteen had escaped from the Covin. Lord Umpily had gone first. Now another five. And then there were seven.
King Rap’s question remained unanswered. He quirked a sad smile and asked another. “The problem is to recruit sorcerers to our cause. How do we spread the word of our new protocol? No suggestions?”
The dwarf scowled at him under his bushy gray brows. “You could issue a proclamation.”
“Thank you, not today!” the king said hastily. “And if you plan to, please give me warning.”
The warlock bared quartz-pebble teeth in refusal and took a long draft of ale.
The two scholars perked up.
“Proclamation?” Sagorn asked, ice-blue eyes gleaming. The faun chuckled and seemed to sink back deeper in his chair. “When one of the Four dies, how do you suppose the others find a replacement?”
Even Shandie roused from his reverie to look interested. Acopulo and Sagorn exchanged glances.
“Promote a votary?” the jotunn suggested, but his craggy face showed that he expected to be corrected.
“Sometimes,” the king admitted. “But it’s not a popular solution, as you can guess—wardens tend to look down on sorcerers who get trapped that way. And sometimes there is no vacancy to fill, as when Zinixo overthrew Ag-an. Usually the remaining three issue a proclamation; they call for volunteers. Then the in-fighting starts! It’s quite simple. In mundane terms, if you want to spread news you slip a groat to the town crier, right? And he shouts the word all around. Same principle.”
He frowned, rubbed his forehead, and took a drink.
“You mean you could just, er, shout?” Shandie said disbelievingly. ”And all the sorcerers in the world would hear you?”
“I’m not strong enough. Three wardens together can cover all of Pandemia. Raspnex alone might do most of it, at least as far as the stronger listeners were concerned.”
Everyone looked to the dwarf, who pulled a truly gruesome dwarvish scowl. ”And the Covin would be on me like a cat on a rat.”
“Ah!” Shandie nodded sadly. Of course there had to be a catch.
The sailor wench spoke up from her comer. “If he had some other sorcerers to protect him, he could probably survive long enough to pass the message.”
Raspnex turned his big head to glower at her. “If you can’t make sense, stay silent. Suicide is an offense to the Gods! I don’t plan to try it and I certainly wouldn’t ask you to.”
The big woman flinched at the reprimand and looked away. The warlock was not being very consistent. The previous night he had sacrificed several votaries in making his escape. No one seemed inclined to comment, though, least of all Ylo.
Then the faun said, “It would solve all our problems, but I can’t see that a proclamation would work. You might get out a word or two, but the Covin would blast you before you got farther than that. It would need an army to protect you, and an army is what we don’t have. Pity.”
When the big man spoke like that, there seemed nothing more to say.
The wind must be rising. The ship was pitching harder, and the creaking noises were growing louder. A vessel with three sorcerers aboard should be safe enough, shouldn’t it? The king of Krasnegar caught Ylo’s eye and raised an empty glass meaningfully. Ylo rose and fetched the bottle. To his surprise, it was full. He went unsteadily around the group, refilling goblets, and it was still full when he laid it down. He wondered if he could ask for it, to keep as a souvenir.
Shandie stirred, preparing for business. “I like your new protocol, Rap. I like it a lot.”
“Yours, sire.”
“No, yours. Even if we did not have Zinixo to worry about, it would be an improvement on the old one. If I could ascend my throne tonight, I should summon the wardens and urge them to adopt it. It would make a better world!”
The faun smiled bashfully. “Yes, I think it would. As the countess pointed out, sorcery could become a force for good.”
“The key to it is the ban on votarism, of course,” Shandie said. ”Do you suppose such a reform has been suggested in the past?”
“And rejected?”
“Yes.”
“Probably.” Rap chuckled. “Then if we can pull this off, Zinixo will have done us all a favor!”
Everyone was carefully ignoring Raspnex.
“Good frequently comes from evil,” Acopulo remarked primly.
“I know Olybino fairly well,” Shandie said, “as much as a mundane can ever know a warlock. He would not willingly give up his occult minions, I am sure. Under your new order, he would soon be demoted by a stronger sorcerer.”
“That’s better than what Zinixo might do to him.”