Emperor and Clown (38 page)

“God
of Mercy!” the old man whispered. “Master Rap, he was quite right. No one must
use power on him, but ... But if you do feel that you can take this risk, also,
then I shall be even more in your debt than I am already, and Gods know, I owe
you my life!” His eyes were hot with shame, but a hint of challenge burned
there also.

Might
as well be hanged for a horse as a pony, Rap’s mother had always said.

Sorcery!
“How does that feel, Shandie?”

The
prince gasped and looked at him in wonder. “Thank you, sir!” A tear trickled
down his cheek. “You’re quite welcome, and please don’t call me `sir.’ What
else is worrying you?”

“Nothing,
Rap! Nothing. I feel very good now, thank you.” He squirmed happily, enjoying
the feel of it.

Rain
drummed on the roof and streamed across the big windows. Water flew out in
sheets from the wheels and flared under the horse’s hooves. A platoon of
hussars was clearing the road ahead, and another brought up the rear, but the
crowds had long since fled in search of shelter, and there was little traffic.

The
imperor had sensed Rap’s worry and was waiting to hear.

“Shandie,”
Rap said, “I think there is something else bothering you.” Even his occult
senses could not explain the strange haze around the boy. It wasn’t magic, but
it certainly wasn’t healthy.

“Well...
Nothing!” The boy cowered back, fearful.

“Tell
me!”

“Well
... It’s just ... just that I’d like a spoonful of my medicine now. But I can
get it as soon as we get to the palace!” he added guiltily.

Rap
felt the imperor react to that. The old man seemed even more shocked than
before.

“What
sort of medicine?” he barked.

Shandie
turned even paler. “It makes the pain better. Moms gives it ... But I can take
it myself when I want to.”

“God
of Slaughter!” the words came out softly, but the skeleton face flamed with
anger, like a fever. “Can you explain, Sire?” Rap asked, still puzzled.

“Some
sort of habit-forming elixir. It’s been done before.” The old man paused, then
muttered, “It diminishes the acuity of higher intellectual functions.”

Rap
didn’t know such big words any more than young Shandie did, but he could read
the meaning behind them: It rots the mind!

Knowing
now what he sought, Rap probed gently until his sorcerous instincts found the
trouble. Tricky! He reached in and ... wiped.

Shandie
jumped. “Oo!” he said. “Ouch! Oh, it’s gone! I don’t feel scratchy-twitchy
anymore!”

“Gods
be praised!” Emshandar said. “Shandie, you must never let them give you that
medicine, never again. You mustn’t take it yourself, either! Can you promise me
that, soldier?”

“Yes,
sir. I don’t like the taste. It just made the hurt go away, and the
scratchy-twitchy feeling. And Rap’s cured that, too, now. It won’t come back,
will it?”

“I
don’t think so,” Rap said, gently mopping up the last traces of the addiction.

The
old man leaned back with a sigh, looking older than his realm. He smiled
gratefully at Rap, but he was clearly running out of strength again, and their
private chat would have to wait until he was stronger-and probably until
Shandie’s sharp young ears were not so close. Rap could grant occult strength,
of course, but he was not sure if power used like that would leave a hangover.
It might be dangerous.

Besides,
Rap had a problem of his own. He could barely remember the last time he had
eaten. “Are you hungry, Sire? I’m famished!”

Emshandar
IV was probably not accustomed to such audacious questioning, but his thin lips
smiled tolerantly. “Yes, I’m famished, too.”

Shandie
brightened.

The
coach was very well sprung, and the roads were smooth. Eating would be no
problem.

“Do
you both like chicken dumplings?” Rap asked.

Not
much more than a year ago, King Holindarn of Krasnegar had summoned a certain
oddly gifted herdboy to his study for a confidential chat. How grand those
royal quarters had seemed to that callow lad! How clumsy and awkward he had
felt amid the grandeur of books and soft armchairs and peat fires on sunny
days!

All
those would seem rustic and quaint to him now. Now he could see that Holindarn
had been no more than an independent landowner, ruling a self-styled kingdom
smaller than the imperor’s Opal Palace on its hill. He had been a good man,
though-better than almost anyone Rap had met in his long journeyings since. Few
indeed were the inhabitants of Pandemia who had seemed worthy of admiration:
Gathmor, in his rough way, and the sailorfolk of Durthing, of course; but who
among the leaders and the gentry? The Lady Oothiana in Faerie, of course.
Ishist, the filthy little sorcerer, perhaps. Holindarn’s sister, certainly. And
maybe, just maybe, this Imperor Emshandar himself. Time would tell ... maybe.

Emshandar
had obviously felt safer as soon as he was back in his private quarters and had
arranged for them to be guarded by men known to him. His next priority had been
a bath.

So
Rap had asked Shandie to take him on a tour of the palace, and they had soon
discovered a common love of horses. Having begun with the stables, they ended
by spending the afternoon there, leaving no time for artwork or ornamental
gardens or Architecture of Historical Significance.

Now
they had returned to the Imperial chambers, where the ossiferous old man was
still being primped and tonsured by teams of fussing valets; all the while
grumpily demanding this special servant and that old retainer, and growing ever
more furious as he discovered their absence. A big man once, still as tall as
Rap; likely a soldier in his youth; strong ruler of a mighty nation for over
thirty years, brought down by long sickness until now he could barely stand
unaided ... small wonder he was ill-tempered! Perhaps curing his illness had
been a doubtful mercy.

And
now three attendants were swathing him with elaborate care in an enormous
length of soft purple fabric, adequate to have made a sail for Stormdancer. Of
course it needed no special tailoring to accommodate his shrunken form, as a
doublet and tights would have done, but as far as appearances went, it was
quite the silliest garment Rap had ever seen.

Lounging
sleepily on a silk-embroidered chair in a corner of the imperor’s great
bedchamber, he watched the performance tolerantly and was amused at how little
he was moved now by genuine grandeur, by brocade and tapestry and priceless
works of art. Holindarn’s peat fire on a sunny day-now that had been
impressive)

Knowing
he was about to die helped deaden his emotions, of course. His premonition was
a monstrous choking horror that he was finding ever more difficult to ignore.
Some terrible danger was bearing down on him, and yet he could find no escape
from it. He considered fleeing on foot, and he even pondered the possibility of
transporting himself by magic to Dragon Reach, say, or Krasnegar-and those
options seemed to make no real difference. Just drifting along with events
seemed to be the least painful course available to him, and he was resigned to
doing only that.

Perhaps
he was suffering from too little sleep or too much stress, but the jotunn
temper still seethed through his veins, threatening to lash out in madness
whenever he let the warlocks drift across his thoughts, or brooded on Gathmor’s
senseless murder or the abuse inflicted on little Shandie.

The
boy was stretched out on the great four-poster bed, chin in hands, occasionally
popping a nervous question to his grandfather or the mysterious sorcerer. By
defying the Protocol and working his wonderful cures., Rap had made himself a
very big hero to the boy. However little he felt like a hero, he knew how
boys-especially fatherless boys-needed men to emulate. Shandie would have found
few worthy of his admiration in this cesspool of intrigue.

Poor
Shandie. Poor Gathmor. Poor Inos.

Gathmor,
why did I not make you stay by the sea? About this time yesterday, Rap and
Darad had delivered the sailor to his last rites. It had been a very private
service, but each of the sequential set had come in turn to pay his respects.
Even Andor had been almost sorry. Sagorn had spouted philosophy and Thinal had
wept, but Jalon had sung a soul-melting seamen’s lament that would echo in Rap’s
heart until the day he ...

Don’t
think about that.

Don’t
think about Inos, either.

“Grandfather?”
Shandie whispered, with a sidelong glance at Rap.

“Uh?”
the imperor said, scowling at his teeth in a mirror held for him by a trembling
valet. “Grandfather . . . Fauns are all right, aren’t they?”

“Oh,
yes. I suppose that will have to do-bring my sandals. What? Fauns? Of course
they’re all right. Why wouldn’t they be?”

“Well
... I mean, I know imps are all right, but Moms says that jotnar are murderous
brutes, and gnomes are dirty, and goblins are cruel. Thorog says elves are all
right. And fauns are all right, too, aren’t they?”

His
grandfather twisted around and frowned. “Who’s Thorog? Never mind. I think your
mother has been filling your head with some odd ideas. Master Rap, tell him
about fauns.”

Shandie
turned a worried gaze on Rap.

“I
don’t know much about fauns,” Rap said with a shrug. “I’ve hardly met any. My
mother was a faun. My father was a jotunn.”

“Oh.
I’m sorry! I mean I’m sorry I said-”

“That’s
all right. I’ve met some really horrible jotnar, like that Kalkor I killed
today. Killing is bad, but he deserved it. I know some good jotnar, too. And
one of the best men I know is a gnome. He smells horrible, but he’s a loving
father to his children and a very powerful sorcerer. Ythbane is an imp, isn’t
he?”

“Er
. . . yes.” Shandie meant sort of, so he knew, somehow. How?

“There
are good imps and bad imps, Shandie. There are good jotnar and bad jotnar. Same
with all of us. Some of us increase the Good and some of us, I’m afraid, seem
to increase the Evil. We just try to do our best, most of us.”

Shandie
nodded solemnly. Rap thought again of last year’s herdboy, and what his
reaction would have been had he been asked to deliver a lecture on ethics for
the heir to the Imperial throne.

By
the time Emshandar demanded wine brought and lamps lit, and dismissed his
valets, Shandie had laid down his head and fallen asleep, tiny as a doll on the
great bed.

Emshandar
struggled to his feet and hobbled toward a comfortable chair near Rap. It was
only a few paces away, but he swayed and grabbed at a bedpost to steady
himself.

“Son
of a gnome! Leave me alone, will you?” he shouted, feeling Rap’s occult touch
on him. Then his anger faded to shame. “My pardon, Sorcerer. I know you meant
well.” He stood for a moment, studying the sleeping boy, his skull-like
features melting into a worried smile. “Were it not for him, I believe I would
ask you to put me back as I was before! But I should like to deliver his
inheritance to him, if that be possible.” He bared his teeth like an aging
watchdog, too stiff to fight, too proud not to try.

He
lurched over to the chair and sank into it, gasping with weakness. He poured
wine with a trembling hand.

“I
am sure your Majesty will feel stronger in a few days.”

“We
don’t have a few days! Now you will take wine with me. I have questions.”

Already
the miserable day was drawing to a close, rain still dribbling over the great
windows. Rap accepted a crystal chalice, changed its contents to water, and sat
back to be cross-examined.

“How
long have you been a sorcerer?” the imperor asked brusquely.

“Since
dawn this morning, Sire.”

“Burning
turds!” The haggard old man stared, then sipped wine thoughtfully. “So we could
claim that you were ignorant of the Protocol?”

“Not
a chance, your Majesty. I’ve met Bright Water several times, and Zinixo, and
Lith’rian, too.”

The
old man grunted, raising his white brows in astonishment. “Have you indeed? So
they know of you, and you knew the risk. Then I suppose my next question is,
why did you do what you did today? No mundane in all Pandemia has more power
than an imperor, yet I can offer no reward a sorcerer would need. Why did you
heal my sickness?” He pursed his lips over teeth that seemed much too large for
the sunken face.

Rap
applied a quick magic to smother a blush. “I lost my temper, Sire.”

“Gods’
bottoms!” The old man began to laugh, a great braying fit of laughter quite out
of keeping with his emaciated appearance. “Well, you are an honest man, if not
a wise one.” Still chuckling, he refilled the goblets. Rap began to talk. He
outlined the story as briefly as he could, leaving out only the dread fate he
had seen waiting for him in Hub.

The
windows were dark when he had finished, and Emshandar was staring at him blearily.
Rap wondered if he should have detoxified his wine, also.

“There
are no precedents!” the imperor muttered. “We’ll have to meet the wardens, and
tonight, if the dwarf really predicted the meeting. But I can’t deny that you
are in grave danger.”

Before
Rap could bring himself to mention that other awful danger, the old man sighed
and went on. “It is very rare for the Four to appear in public. Decades may go
by without even the imperor meeting them all together. For many centuries my
predecessors have kept a secret journal of their dealings with the wardens, to
guide their heirs. There are shelves and shelves full of these great tomes, and
no one ever has time to read them all. I read over the last couple of dynasties
and gave up. I’ll introduce Shandie to them when he’s older, if I’m spared. But
I can’t recall anyone ever using power on an imperor or his family. That’s
about the only provision in the Protocol that absolutely everybody is aware of!”