In this case, though, the victim was to be the heir apparent. That solemn, solitary fifteen-year-old would not forget such a humiliation in a month, or even in years. Umpily dropped a word of warning and the prince avoided the snare. He was grateful, and also sharp enough to realize that next time he might not be so lucky. Within days, that intense, stick-limbed boy took over Umpily in a strange and almost undefinable partnership. He acquired a mentor and advisor with a subtle grasp of palace politics; Umpily obtained a patron twenty-five years his junior, and also a purpose. For the first time in his life, he learned about loyalty, given and taken. He became as much a confidant as that lonely boy possessed, and thereafter he guarded the lad’s trust as he had never cherished anything before.
He had watched that shy, awkward youth turn himself into a leader of men by sheer strength of will. He had given what help he could, although he knew it had been small. They had never been close, though—no one was ever close to Shandie, not even his cousins. Umpily himself had an enormous galaxy of acquaintances, and no friends.
When Shandie arrived at manhood and embarked on a military career, Umpily expected an end to their collaboration, but the prince would not hear of it. He needed eyes and ears within the palace, he said. Later, when he rose to legate, he summoned his chief spy to join the government-in-waiting that was growing up around him.
Thus military life caught up with Umpily in middle age. For five years he lived in the field. He heard the animal screams of men disemboweled, saw earth turned to mud by boys’ blood. The aging fat civilian came to know more of high-rank military thinking and the true working of an army than most soldiers ever did. He especially understood the value of reliable intelligence. He knew that shrewd commanders would sooner be blessed with first-rate information than first-rate troops. He appreciated that scouting was the most dangerous job in the army and a scout’s career the shortest.
He could see, therefore, that the odious task he had been given in this present crisis was vital, and yet he could not quite shake a memory of the time Shandie had sacrificed a thousand men to entrap a horde of gnomes. Highscarp had been a brilliant victory, but would those two lost cohorts have thought so?
Still, today Umpily had no choices to make. The roads were impassable and he was a long way from the palace. Scouting must wait for the thaw. He could concentrate on the other half of his duties.
If there was any way out of this sorcerous disaster that had befallen the Impire, it lay with the revolutionary proposals made by the king of Krasnegar. A most interesting man! Umpily smacked mental lips at the impact the past two days’ events would have on his memoirs. That future posthumous publication would hold even more importance for scholars than he had ever dreamed—the forging of the second protocol, an epic chapter in the history of the Impire! He might even see it published in his lifetime.
But the new protocol would remain a dream unless it could be implemented. Somehow the proposals must be advertised, so that all the sorcerers still at liberty could rally to the cause. Logically the first people who should be informed were the missing three wardens—Grunth, Olybino, Lith’rian.
Grunth seemed unachievable. Trolls were a race of solitary barbarians. She might very well have reverted to isolated savagery, heaving rocks around in sodden jungle. Umpily had not the faintest notion how to establish contact with the former witch of the west.
Lith’rian would be easiest. He must be down in IIrane, elf country. He might be avoiding his ancestral enclave of Valdorian, but surely he could be reached somehow. Umpily was on first-name terms with many distinguished elves, and no elf would ever completely sever the ties that bound him to his sky tree. Ancient Lord Phiel’nilth, for example, Poet Laureate of the Impire—he would do for a start.
Umpily’s planned letter to Valdonilth proved surprisingly hard to compose. The first few drafts read like the ravings of a maniac. By the time he had achieved a satisfactory text, he was ready to ring for a waiter and order a light lunch of turnip soup, roast pheasant and lentil mash, accompanied by a dry white wine and followed by some surprisingly savory cheese.
Refreshed by that and guided by his first letter, he dashed off three more letters, to other prominent elves.
He took a brief break, then, to ease his aching back and the cramp in his fingers. He rang for candles, for the brief winter day was failing. He noticed that a warm wind was turning the street below his window into a morass of slush. A few carts were creaking by—and the bells had stopped at last.
That was worth reporting. He unrolled the magic parchment. It was blank, as he had expected it to be, for Shandie’s message would have faded as soon as it had been read. He wrote out an account of the new developments, remembering this time to add the day and hour.
Then he turned his mind to the Olybino problem. The warden of the east was an imp. He might be hiding somewhere in Hub itself, or he might be anywhere in the Impire. He had been a warlock since before Umpily was born, and Umpily had no knowledge at all of the man’s family or background.
Women, though . . . Olybino had always had an eye for the ladies, and several of them had flaunted the notoriety. The warlock had often been generous to them when he had tired of their company—generosity came easy when one could make gold with a snap of the fingers. Was it not possible that he might have taken refuge with one of his recent lady friends?
Mistress Olalpa was a logical first choice. She had appeared from nowhere in Hub only a few months since. She was young, vivacious, voluptuous, and dripping in wealth. She had never concealed the source of her good fortune. Umpily wrote a carefully phrased letter to Mistress Olalpa. Of course Zinixo might have tracked her down, also, and might even have tracked down Olybino himself, but that was a risk that could not be avoided—the warlocks Umpily sought might be dead men already. Against that danger was the possibility that some of their votaries might have survived at liberty and might hereby learn of the new protocol: He certainly had nothing better to do with his time.
The day was ended. Water dripped steadily from the eaves. And the bells had stopped! Why had he not realized the significance of that blessed release sooner? The state funeral must be over. People were getting around the city now, obviously. He should seek out some news, and where better to start than in the taproom downstairs?
He donned his cloak and headed for the stairs, clutching his packet of letters. He ran into the landlord in the hallway. The surly fellow was in a much better humor now that his customers were returning. Besides, he had learned that this guest was a willing source of bullion. He took the letters and promised to send a boy to the post without delay. With less enthusiasm, he agreed that Umpily could withhold full payment until he had seen the receipts.
Clutching a foaming tankard of beer, Umpily began edging his way around the saloon, eavesdropping on the conversations of fish merchants, porters, and storekeepers. He learned nothing new, although he heard some mention of the sorcerous battles he had witnessed. Rumor fell short of truth, for the damage was being attributed to freak lightning caused by the storm. He was too early.
He adjourned to the public dining room for a hearty repast of Cenmere sturgeon, pork cutlets with sage stuffing, roasted spareribs in yam sauce, two bottles of wine, and three different types of cake. There was a fourth cake available, but he didn’t like the look of it.
Then he returned to the bar to try again, and found what he wanted at once—indeed, he could hardly have missed it. A large audience had gathered around a single speaker. Artisans and tradesmen parted respectfully to let the gentleman move in.
Emitting strong odors of horse and wet garments, a poxy-faced youngster was propped against the bar, earning his tipple with an eyewitness account of the imperial funeral. It sounded genuine. He was a skilled raconteur, spinning out his tale and generously allowing many of his listeners a chance to buy the next installment. The glittering procession seemed to be leagues long—bands, ambassadorial delegations, representatives of half the legions in the army, senators and assemblymen and aristocrats. Umpily began to wonder whether the old man would be safely underground before the teller fell down himself.