Rap had already been over this, but Andor could not recognize the truth when he heard it. He expected every man to be as devious as he was.
“There’s no great secret.” Rap tried to look as innocent as possible, and thereby provoke the greatest possible suspicion. “I want to talk to trolls. When I’ve done that, I’ll go and appeal to the anthropophagi. I’ll try not to seem too appealing to the anth—”
“Wild trolls or tame trolls?”
“Both or either.”
Andor looked exasperated. “Wild trolls are as solitary as comets and about as hard to catch. You could spend a lifetime rummaging that haystack and never prick your fingers once. So you must be planning to use sorcery, and yet you insist that the Covin will hear you if you do!”
“Hunch, remember?”
“Bah! The Covin’s back in Hub, isn’t it?”
“The Covin is probably just about everywhere now,” Rap admitted. ”Zinixo must have caught most of Bright Water’s votaries, and she had ‘em scattered all over. He won’t collect all his forces into Hub, because that would be a risk. He must have agents in place just about everywhere, spying for him. The more he knows, the more he’ll suspect he doesn’t know, of course.” Andor was not happy to hear that, and still not trusting.
“I think you’re holding back on me, Rap! You can’t hope to find a wild troll in your lifetime, and the brute wouldn’t know its next-door neighbor anyway, let alone the address of the nearest sorcerer.”
“Which leaves tame trolls.”
“What can they know? Even if there is an escape conspiracy working, and even if it does employ sorcery, why would the present slaves know anything about it? If they did, they’d be gone!”
“Maybe,” Rap admitted. “But now’s the time to find out. Look there!”
Far off across the fields, a wagon was moving through the spring mud. There were no oxen or horses between the shafts, and no driver. The motive power was a human being.
“A troll?” Andor said, peering against the sun.
“Must be.” Rap was confident enough that he did not risk using farsight.
“So what are you planning to do?”
“Go and talk to him. See if he knows anything about the ones who escaped—who helped them, especially.”
“Rap, Rap!” Andor shook his head pityingly. “What do you expect to learn?”
“Trolls are a lot smarter than they like to make out!”
“Even if they are, this is an illegal conspiracy you’re talking about. You just ride out from town in your fancy clothes, and he tells you all about it?”
“Er, good point,” Rap agreed. Of course a sorcerer could apply compulsion to win answers. If the Covin had agents in the district, that use of power might be detected. Worse, though, it would require Rap to apply the sort of people mastery he so despised in Andor. “What are you suggesting?”
Andor’s brilliant smile could make the icy Mosweeps look in need of polishing. “Start at the top, of course. Those roofs above the trees there are probably Casfrel itself, right? Let’s go and accept their eager offers of hospitality. If the manager doesn’t know a lot more than his slaves do, I’ll eat my hat—feather and all.”
He did want to help, apparently. Rap risked a quick glance of farsight. The troll pulling the wagon was a pubescent girl. “It’s worth a try,” he agreed.
“Come on, then!” Andor kicked his horse into a canter.
2
Casfrel was an extensive and prosperous plantation, and its station was as large as a village. Andor rode brashly in through the main gate, with a debonair wave to the astonished legionary standing guard. The road wound uphill between barns and cottages, barracks and storage sheds, until it arrived at the main villa, which was an imposing, sprawling mansion. There he dismounted and flipped the reins to a servant.
“Inform Tribune Uoslope that Prince Rapiboy and Sir Andor have arrived,” he said, and strode up the steps with an amused faun at his heels.
The staff needed some time to locate the manager, and when he at last appeared he scowled suspiciously at these unexpected visitors. He was a stocky man with gray hair and a prominent paunch, a typical retired soldier, distrustful of well-dressed civilians from Hub and scornful of royal fauns. His broad physique was combined with narrow views. He glowered at Rap as if assessing his ability to muck out stables. If he expected a Sysanassoan accent, he would be disappointed; Rap could not fake that without using sorcery.
Faint tremors of power rippled the ambience before Andor even opened his mouth. “. . . truly cannot understand why our letters did not arrive, Tribune . . . of course the capital is still in a ferment over the imperor’s death—never saw such confusion! Even the High Command itself . . . not as well organized as it used to be, I’m afraid . . . told you were the man to help us . . . The countess sends her warmest regards, naturally . . . Had our business not been so urgent . . .”
It was a magnificent lesson in virtuoso chicanery. Rap could not tell how much information his accomplice had obtained in advance from his pillow-talk espionage and how much he was ad-libbing on the strength of his host’s reactions, like a charlatan fortune-teller. Whatever his secret, it worked. Tantalizing glimpses of gossip from the capital, rumors of scandal looming in the army, hints that the futures markets in agricultural produce were heading for a sharp readjustment . . . Andor promoted himself into the minor nobility and Rap to an obscure royal house in Sysanasso—traveling incognito, of course.
Uoslope melted before their eyes. In minutes he was beaming and gruffly making statements that always seemed to turn into questions: “Casfrel’s got a reputation for hospitality, right? Better than those fleapit hostelries, mm? Daresay you’ll appreciate a hot tub after your journey, what?” He asked for confirmation that the road was in terrible condition, that the evilish speculators were ruining the farming business, and that he did not know what the world was coming to.
On that point, Rap thought, he was certainly correct. Hot water in a marble tub was undoubtedly welcome.
The guest rooms were airy dreams of silk, polished wood, downy pillows, and arched windows displaying breathtaking vistas.
As the setting sun tinted the mountains peach and salmon, Rap found himself sitting on a terrace, nursing a goblet of chilled elvish wine. The gibbous moon silhouetted spiky cactusy shrubs on the hills. Closer, whitewashed walls still radiated heat from the day, tame pigeons strutted on the flagstones and red-tile roofs, while a small orchestra played out of sight nearby. This farmer lived in much greater luxury than the king of Krasnegar did.
Andor was still demonstrating the quintessence of guile and duplicity. The scoundrel’s motives were visible now even to a dumb rustic faun—Tribune Uoslope’s two daughters were striking beauties. Their dark hair shone like stars, they had donned their best white dresses in honor of the visitors. They were luscious and virginal, but they wore far too much jewelry. They were overdressed rural innocents, spellbound by this urbane gentleman who had dropped into their sheltered lives from the highest circles of Imperial society. That was the idea.
Neither of them was much older than Kadie. Watching Andor’s maneuvering, Rap felt depressingly fatherly and protective. It seemed very unfair that life involved growing old.
The sixth member of the group was Mistress Ainopple, the tribune’s wife. She was a withered, mousy creature, who seemed to live in terror of her husband. Apparently the senator who owned Casfrel was her uncle, which explained a few things.
Once in a while Andor would turn his charisma on her, oozing compliments on her household and beautiful daughters. She became flustered, stuttering as she tried to simper. “So hard to bring up Nya and Puo properly in such a remote situation . . . Must try to take them to Hub soon . . .”
“Indeed you must, ma’am,” Andor responded. “For if word of such beauties ever reaches the capital, then half the eligible young men of the Impire will be flocking here to call on them.” Blushes all round.
“But if your musicians are up to strumming a dance tune after dinner, ma’am, then I shall certainly insist on the honor of treading a measure with each of them, for I never dreamed that this remote land would hide ladies who outshine anything I have ever seen in the palace itself.”
It was sickening. It was as effective as a battle ax to the skull. Andor’s mastery worked on men as well as it did on women, and he had extracted Tribune Uoslope’s fangs completely. The brusque overseer who had greeted the visitors with surly suspicion was fawning like a kitten over them now. Rap could have done as much himself, easily. Ironically, he would probably have had to use a lot more power to produce the same effect, because his heart would not have been in it. Hypocrisy came naturally to Andor.